Chapter Ten

Gaeolin wiped down his sword, the smell of the blood generating an awful taste in his mouth. Inigo looked on a nearby table, eyeing a flask of glowing blue liquid.

“What… Is this?” He swirled it around. The potion flared with a light not unlike the ‘ghost’ they killed. Gaeolin sheathed his weapon.

“I’ve no idea. Just… Don’t drink any of it.” Gaeolin sifted through a nearby bag. There was nothing but a few bits of insect and mushroom. There were a few books as well, one of which was thinner than the rest, bound by moleskine. The bosmer tilted it open, skimming the slanted handwriting. His expression progressed through curiosity, irritation, and finally settled on something close to pity.

“He’s Wyndelius. That treasure hunter Wilhelm told us about. He was looking for a claw.” He turned to his companion. “It would seem there’s a puzzle door here. Poor fool went mad trying to find the key.”

Inigo scratched at the patch of fur that bristled on his neck. “Well, after two years of living in a place like this, I’d be as nutty as a fruit bat as well.” He jumped as the sound of the muffled thunder rumbled the tomb. “Can we please get out of here?”

Gaeolin nodded, tucking the vial of spectral potion into his bag. Perhaps it would be worth something to someone. The pair began to head back to the entrance. The elf paused, eyeing the still closed door. Something stirred within him, almost begging him to look beyond. In the back of his mind he could hear a voice. It was like a whisper, coming from nowhere in particular. ‘Bo ahrk siiv Drem, Sizaan Kiir.’ He took a few steps, fingers reaching for the iron of the handle.

“What are you doing?” Inigo broke him from his thoughts.

Gaeolin pulled his hand back. “I don’t know. It’s like I need to go…” He made to push open the door. Before he did, he noticed the trap wire. Drawing his dagger, he grabbed the line with care. The rope made a snapping sound as it was cut. With a push the doors opened. Not five feet beyond stood a second set, this time made of wood. His boots splashed in a puddle underfoot.

It was dark beyond the oak doors. Dust rained from the ceiling as the thunder from the storm threatened to bring the very mountain down. Gaeolin strained to see. Inigo’s eyes shone through the shroud of black. He whispered from behind. “There are braziers along the walls. We could light them if you wanted.”

“Stay here for a second.” Gaeolin took a few steps forward, summoning his voice. His eyes flashed as he let lose his power. “YOL!” A wave of dragon fire rushed down the corridor, the unspent fuel in the vessels bursting to life. The glow of firelight began to reflect off of the stone walls. Inigo looked dazed, his eyes assaulted by the sudden brightness.

“You could have warned me…” He blinked several times. “Couldn’t you have just lit them like a normal person?”

Gaeolin shrugged. “Maybe, but I thought it would be faster this way.” The bosmer missed the look he received. He drew his sword, taking in the ancient carvings. Inigo lit a torch in one of the fires. He handed it to his friend as they reached the end of the hall.

“Well…” Inigo stared at their next obstacle. A great stone door, clad in ornate carvings. At its center sat three rings. At the center of these rested a large button. Holes were carved into it, along with the image of a dragons claw. “The aforementioned claw?”

“Yes… It would take forever to get in here without it.” He sheathed his weapon. “I suppose there’s nothing more we can do at the moment. Let’s get the journal back to Wilhelm. Then we can get some sleep and decide on our next move.”

The Inn was a welcome change of pace. It was also mercifully dry. Gaeolin could feel the water running off of him after their dash across the town. As he’d thought, the rain was worse than anything he’d seen this year. His shoes squelched the entire way to the counter. Wilhelm took his cloak to hang by the fire.

“You made it back!” Wilhelm poured them each a drink. “I was afraid you’d been killed by the spirits of the tomb.”

Gaeolin pulled Wyndelius’ journal out of his bag. “We didn’t find a spirit, but we found a dark elf with this journal.”

Wilhelm held out a hand. “Let me see that.” He flipped through the tome, scowling. “It was all just a fabrication by the Wyndelius character? I can’t believe we were so stupid!” He slammed the book down, making the pair of them jump. “Sorry… I’m just ashamed to have been blindsided like this.”

Gaeolin sipped some of his mead. “He was a con artist. It was his business to trick people.” He looked at his reflection in the wine bottle on the counter. “Honestly, I feel bad for him. He locked himself in down there… For all this time Wyndelius was alone. He searched for treasure, but found only the dead, and the cold of a crypt that no one would ever visit. He saw to that by running the townsfolk away from their ancestors. Had he only lain low, someone would have gone to leave an offering, or to pay respects somehow, and he would have been free.”

Wilhelm scoffed. “Maybe free enough to go to jail for grave robbing.”

The bosmer shrugged. “Better imprisoned than to lose your mind. As you read, near the end, he actually thought he was dead.”

“Well, the least I can do is give you something for taking care of him.” He ducked down beneath the bar, returning with a bulky object, wrapped in burlap. “If you won’t take it as payment, consider it a gift.” He removed the cloth, revealing white gold, molded into the familiar shape of a dragon claw. The claws themselves were polished sapphires, shimmering with the light of the fire. Their host held it out to them. Gaeolin tried to push it back.

“No Wilhelm, we can’t accept that. It’s part of your town’s history.”

“My family has held this claw for centuries. My grandfather said it was the key to a power that the heroes of old held in reverence. He told me as a boy, ‘Wilhelm, someday a warrior will prove his worth to you. You’ll know when it’s right.’ I know he meant for me to give this to you. If anyone deserves to unlock this secret, it is you.” He thrust the claw at the elf. “Take it, friend.”

Gaeolin took the bauble, still not comfortable just taking it. “Um… Thank you.” He wrapped it back up, placing it in his knapsack. “Could we please re-rent our rooms. I want to rest before we head out in the morning.”

“Sure thing, I’ll even wave the fee tonight. Sleep well.” With that he made his way to turn the logs on the fire. Inigo stretched with a mighty yawn.

“Well, that was enough for me today. I’m getting some sleep.”

“Goodnight.” Gaeolin remained in his seat, turning the events of the day over.

The words in his head that had called him to the door… They gnawed at his mind. He felt restless, knowing that there was something beyond the stone rings that barred the way. He felt the weight of the claw on his shoulder strap, his hips rebounding the impacts of the bag with each step to his bed. He laid on the furs with a sigh. In the next room he could hear Inigo snoring. He grinned, thinking of the cat’s tail mishap in the dungeon.

He really hated those crypts, and made no secret about it. Honestly, it was unfair to him to take him to them so often. Inigo had reasons to fear the undead. Who was he to make him face these terrors?

Suddenly, Gaeolin felt a cold sweat come on. He felt his heart beat faster, his mind running wild. The restlessness became unbearable. He could have sworn he heard a voice… It was in his head again, though this time he knew not what it said. It made no sense to him, but roused him as if the lords of Oblivion themselves were on his heels.

‘Geinwovahzen… Dez saraan Ni.’

He slid on his boots, quietly gathering his gear. His sneaking skills shone wonderfully as he crept passed his companion’s room without a sound. Outside, the rain had finally stopped, stars shining down through breaks in the clouds above. A cold wind coursed down from the mountain. For a moment, Gaeolin swore he could hear the beating of wings above. He drew his bow, looking up.

There was nothing. Just a glimpse of Secunda, illuminating the village in a magical light. He stalked to the mausoleum, his footsteps splashing slightly in the now much larger puddles. He crouched down, checking behind him to be sure no one followed. He grasped his weapon tighter, swinging the door inward.

‘Fate waits not…’

The Hall of Stories was growing darker, the fires he had lit earlier now casting only the minimal amount of light on Gaeolin as he approached the door. He held his lantern out ahead, it’s small flame casting a comforting glow at his feet. His sword was ready, despite the barrow thus far being barren. He shuddered to himself. The hairs on the back of his neck stood like barbs. The claw door stood before him like a challenge.

Setting down his blade and lantern, he produced the claw from his bag. He turned the ornament over to inspect it’s palm. “Okay… A moth at the top, an owl in the middle ring, and a howling wolf near the center of the door.” He muttered. For lack of a better place, he hooked the talons into the receptacle. The outermost ring resisted the most, the effort of turning it causing the elf to grunt and strain. Slowly it rotated around. The grinding of the stone irritated the ears, and the dust that fell from the wheel’s edge billowed into his face.

Gaeolin coughed, staggering back once he heard the giant tumbler click into place. He unstoppered his waterskin, drinking deeply to rinse the dirt from his mouth. Pushing up his sleeves, he tackled the next disc. This went smoother, rolling more freely with the rubble out from between the outer track. Two emblems passed before the lock clicked into place. The bosmer hooked his fingers into the groove of the last one. It came around, with a satisfying thud. He checked once again, sighing in relief when he found the positions correct. Finally, he pressed in the claw, rotating it to the right first, then coming back to the left.

The hall shook, the once stubborn rings of stone spinning rapidly in their tracks as the anchors holding the slab in place released. A cloud of dust poured forth from the seams of the portal. The fires flickered as dirt cascaded passed him and settled to the floor. Snatching the claw back, Gaeolin retrieved his sword and light. The smell of musty, stale air assaulted his senses. He stepped over the last few inches of the coverstone as it nestled into the floor.

The hallway ahead was even darker than the previous one. To make matters worse, the lantern he carried began to fade, it’s oil running out only a few feet into the darkness. The wood elf hooked the useless lamp onto his belt. He also slid his sword into its sheath, instead opting to swing his bow into use. He knocked an arrow as he sneaked around a bend in the tunnel. He held his breath when a sound fell on his ears.

A guttural growl echoed from up a flight of stairs. Through the darkness shone a pair of ghoulish, blue eyes. The creaking of bones and cracking of ancient skin heralded what he feared. The Wight shambled from side to side, dragging the tip of it’s sword along the floor with a menacing scraping sound. It wandered to the door, dead eyes staring into the void. Gaeolin drew his bow, breath held to steady the shot.

He released the string with a twang. His arrow whisked through the air to impale the draugr’s abdomen. It gasped, the force of the shot spinning it before crumpling to the floor. The eyes grew dark as the unlife fled its shell. Gaeolin stepped lightly, careful to avoid rushing into the room. Something wasn’t right… Candles burned in their holders. They cast an eerie light on the bleak corridors of the tomb. He reached the once mobile corpse, prodding it with the end of his bow. It remained motionless. Setting down the weapon, he searched the creature’s ragged armor. A few, silver Haralds were in a pouch on its waist. He pocketed the coin before making his way onward.

The air grew closer the farther he went into the catacombs. From the depths he heard a mournful howl. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow. He could hear his heart urging him to turn and flee. But the drive to seek out the source of the whispers proved stronger. He pressed on, coming to an open portcullis.

This room held six sarcophagi, sealed by iron lids. Again, defying reason, the braziers burned with faint fires. A pedestal stood in the center of the room, atop a platform of stone which housed two of the coffins. A book was barely visible on the stand in the dim lighting. The elf picked it up, opening it to read the title. ‘2920, Vol. 11 – Sun’s Dusk’. He tucked the tome into his shirt to head on. He was just about to the next doorway, when the gates slid shut, both forward and behind. He turned to the room, his back pinned to the wall.

The lids burst from the sarcophagi, clattering to the floor as their tenants began to rise. Gaeolin was paralyzed in fear. The dead shuffled about, malevolent eyes searching for the fool who disturbed their ward. For a moment nothing happened. Suddenly, one of the monsters turned to him.

“Faaz! Paak! Dinok!” It roared, gesturing with it’s war axe. ‘Pain! Shame! Death!’ Gaeolin drew his sword, knowing his bow would not be useful in these conditions. He blocked the first blow, diverting the greatsword to chip the stone of the floor. As the sparks flew, he rolled away. Another of the corpses followed him. Its features twisted into a grotesque grin.

“Bolog Aaz, Mal lir!” It lunged with a shield strike, raising its sword. Gaeolin began to panic as the other five closed in. He took a breath and shouted. “Wuld!” He rushed passed, but misjudged when to stop. He hit his head on a step as he tripped.

The room began to spin. Gaeolin blinked away the blood that trickled from his forehead. He pushed himself further up the steps. The dead walked slowly, their laughs gurgling in their decomposing throats. He gripped his sword tighter. Raising a hand, he wove his fingers in a last ditch spell. He silently hoped it would work again. “Inigo!”

From a flash of blue fire, the Khajiit slashed with his swords. The draugr grunted in alarm as his blades danced across their dusty flesh. Gaeolin staggered upright. He drove his sword through the back of one of the fiends that made for Inigo.

“You leave him alone!” The cat hissed. His eyes flashed almost as sharply as the ebony and steel edges he brandished about. He grinned, jabbing under his arm to take down the last of the attackers. “You do not have to worry about being ugly anymore!” The zombie uttered a final phrase as it fell.

“Sovngarde saraan…” It slowly eased to the ground, eyes going black in death once more. Gaeolin dropped his sword. His blood dripped to his shoulder, temple throbbing in pain. Inigo knelt beside him, offering a potion. The elf took it in silence.

“Why?” Inigo glared at him. His ears were pinned to his skull, eyebrows furled in anger.

“I don’t know what you…”

“You know damned well what I mean.” He growled. “It was a fool’s errand to come here alone. Why didn’t you wake me? I would have watched your back.”

“You hate these places.” Gaeolin muttered. “I kept dragging you into these crypts, wearing on your last bits of sanity, and for what? My own need for exploration? The mystery? It’s not fair to you. You have been a loyal companion to me, and deserve the consideration of your fears.” He looked to his feet, hating that this conversation was even happening.

Inigo stood, looking down at him. “How long have we been friends, and you still don’t get it?” He put his off-hand sword away, offering his hand. “The truth about loyalty is…” He pulled his friend to his feet. “No matter what you face, or the fears in your path, you’ll still risk it for each other.”

After a few minutes, the pair were delving further into the barrow. Inigo had his swords ready, preferring to let Gaeolin hold up the ranged combat. They passed through an area with a roaring waterfall, running what could only be lake water along a system of canals that cut through the tomb. Another denizen roamed the platform above them. Gaeolin, now fully recovered, placed an arrow in the creature’s eye. It tumbled to the water with a satisfying splash.

“Oh shit…” Gaeolin cursed the set of rotating pillars they found at the end of the stairs. “These must control the bridge.” The drawbridge was raised, cutting them off from the rest of the ruins.

Inigo inspected the pillars. “How are we supposed to find the combination?”

His friend pointed to the doors in the center of the wall. “There might be something in there to help.” They pushed them open, being greeted by a screeching draugr. They both buried their swords in its chest, bringing it down in only a second. It fell onto a pressure plate which sent the room into a rumbling chorus. Four sections of the walls began to spin, each revealing a symbol behind openings that were cut in them. “I see a whale, and a Hawk over here.” Gaeolin called.

“Snake and whale over here…”

Gaeolin rushed back out, spinning the pillar farthest to the right. It locked into place with a rumbling thud. The other three followed, the fourth pillar causing the sound of chains to be heard in the distance. With a crash, the wooden bridge slammed into position. “Okay…” He muttered, “Let’s continue.”

Through more tunnels, down spirals, through pools of spilt oil they journeyed. The pair encountered skeletons and draugr at every obstacle. Just when they were sure they’d cleared out the last of them, the duo entered a vast room. Water filled the majority, with a path leading forward lined with coffins. Inigo yelped as the portcullis screamed closed mere inches after his tail had cleared it.

Skeletal archers rained shots on them as they darted for cover. Their swordsman counterparts roared with unholy voices as they taunted the intruders. The elf fired shot after shot, each blow landing on target. The bone constructs scattered to bits with the impacts. But for each one downed, a draugr rose from its sarcophagus. Inigo slashed with his blade, bashing with his bow in his left hand. When not cutting, he would quickly grab an arrow, shooting of a round before again resorting to swordplay. The battle seemed to be turning in their favor, when at last the final coffin erupted.

A hulking zombie clambered from the tomb, an ebony battle axe in its hands. Flames rolled off of the weapon like the waters of Oblivion. It ground what teeth were still in its head. Taking in a rattling breath, it spoke in a voice of pure hate. “Zun Haal Viik!”

Inigo’s bow was thrown from his hand. Gaeolin had only just dodged the shout, rolling almost over the edge and into the pools below. The elf fired three arrows at once, two striking his target in the shoulder and chest. Inigo hissed in rage, drawing his swords in a flurry. The draugr parried the blows with ease, chuckling through the holes in its jugular. It swung the battle axe with one arm, the fire missing Inigo by less than three inches.

“Roasted Inigo is not going to be served!” He plunged the basket hilt upward, breaking the creature’s balance. With his other blade, he came beneath it’s ribcage. The ebony shredded through the remains of the beast’s heart. It glowered, ready to gouge the cat’s eyes with it’s bony fingers.

An arrow struck through its throat, causing it to stumble backwards up the stairs. Another ripped across the face, and a third and fourth in the haunch and stomach. With a final gurgling groan, the overlord collapsed into true death. Behind it’s sarcophagus, a second drawbridge fell into place, leading them to a shining treasure chest. Inigo dove into the water, surfacing with his bow held high.

“And he thought he could keep us apart!” He cheered to the weapon, obviously delighted to have it back in his hands. Gaeolin could not help but laugh. The sound of the squishing in his boots would preclude any chance of being silent from here on. They opened the chest, dividing the loot between themselves with glee. When he stood, Gaeolin froze.

There, below them across a bridge stood a curved monument. It’s surface was etched in the dragon tongue, the light from the moon shining down through a hole in the roof. He could hear the whisperings again, tendrils of light oozing from the stone like smoke. One set of glyphs began to glow with flames. A strange, wild magic filled the air.

Gaeolin walked down the stairs, eyes fixed on the monolith. A warm breeze blew from the script, his clothes fluttering in response to the power here. He reached out with his mind, eyes suddenly glowing in the same light. He didn’t sense Inigo following close behind. His mind was fixated on the text.

‘Het nok Kopraan Do HELA, Fahdon wah pah Sivaas aar do Kaan. Aal rek siiv Unahzaal praan ko Feykro do Hahnu.’ Here lies the body of Hela, friend to all beasts, servant of Kyne. May she find eternal rest in the Forest of Dreams.

Gaeolin felt Kaan resonating in his soul. Kyne… Not just meaning the goddess, but also nature and all who were a part of it. Though never one for religion, the concept of this word seemed to instill a tranquility in him. He sank to his knees. His heart felt lighter than it had in years. The air tasted a bit sweeter to him.

Inigo waited, unsure of what had just happened. “My friend… Is everything okay?”

Gaeolin nodded, standing up. “Yeah, I’m fine…” He smiled at his comrade. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ve found all there is to see.”