Chapter Thirteen

Clouds obscured the aurora as Gaeolin and Inigo climbed the steps to the ruins. The bodies of Forsworn littered the stones, arrows protruding from their lifeless husks. The Khajiit held aloft a torch to light their way.

“They did not know who they were messing with.” He said, walking up the stairs to join his friend. “Good shooting. Keep at it, and you might be as good as me one day.”

Gaeolin shook his head. “If you’re so good, why didn’t you help pick them off?”

Inigo just shrugged. “You needed the practice. Anyway, we should get moving. We’re exposed here.” He looked back, seeing the lights waver in the sky. “But it is beautiful…” 

The door was hidden behind a large, collapsed pillar. Inside, the nordic architecture was definitely showing its age. Dead vines clung to the floor. Farther in, snow had managed to sneak its way into the halls. Gaeolin drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders to ward off the cold. They came upon a small gate, it’s lock no longer in working order after untold centuries of neglect. It creaked softly on it’s hinges when opened. The elf took his bow in hand, hearing the shuffling of feet ahead.

The orange glow of firelight only reached a few feet from its source. Gaeolin could hear the faint muttering of two forsworn who were silhouetted against the burning logs. He drew his bow with two arrows nocked, their fletching whistling softly before bringing the pair down. He waited as they fell. They wallowed on the ground for a moment as their blood stained the snow. Thankfully, they were silent, not alerting their comrade on the catwalk beyond.

“Do you think they were lovers?” Inigo asked. Indeed, they seemed to have gone to great pains to lie together as they passed. Gaeolin turned away from them. He couldn’t allow himself to start thinking like that. They passed through the collapsing halls, coming onto a flight of stairs that led up to the bridge. 

A Forsworn warrior stepped out of the darkness just as he reached the top. Sword ready, Gaeolin dodged his initial strike, burying his blade into his stomach.

Across the caged bridge, up a few steps… On and on the wound through shadows and silence. There were ritualistic effigies everywhere. The Forsworn, whoever they were, seemed a brutal organization. One such display bore the head of a spriggan and goat upon deadwood pikes. Though he was no mage, Gaeolin began to sense magical energies. It was as if the very air were trembling. 

They exited the ruins into a massive valley. Through a natural arch, wind driven snows hid the battlements of an ancient nordic stronghold. Inigo’s ears were pinned against his head, his bow ready. “Smells like sweat, sorcery, and tree sap here.”

They sneaked up to a large boulder to get a vantage point. The walls of the redoubt were infested. At least a dozen of the Reachmen patrolled, eyes straining in the sporadic moonlight for intrusion. The only way in seemed to be across a low stone bridge. Well, unless they dare risk a swim in the gelid mountain waters. Gaeolin nocked an arrow, seeking his first target. 

His breath was a thin wisp of mist. It coiled up through the falling snowflakes, dancing in ignorance of the forthcoming conflict. A forsworn crossed the weathered barbican. Leading ever so slightly, Gaeolin held his breath as he fired.

The arrow struck true, shaft only passing halfway through the warrior’s throat. He did not fall immediately, however, and soon stumbled into a group of his peers before finally succumbing. It was enough to raise the alarm. Gaeolin cursed his luck as the forsworn began to pour out across the bridge. He stood, loosing three shots in rapid succession. Inigo ran forward, blades a flurry of death.

“You’re really into arts and crafts, aren’t you?” The Khajiit taunted, lobbing off his opponent’s hand with ease. Gaeolin finished her with a missile to the heart. He then abandoned marksmanship, running along the bridge and into the fray.

Though made from stones, wood, and bone, the Reachmen’s weapons were holding fairly well against forged steel. The wood elf parried, dodged, and rolled several times as an only resort. They fought well for a group so rag tag. One charged him, his sword a literal set of teeth bared to strike.

“Come! Come and face the Forsworn!” He raised the sword, coming down on the flat of gaeolin’s blade with enough force to bring him to his knees. Inigo released a shot, ebony barb skimming the berserker’s arm. While he was distracted, Gaeolin drove his sword through the man’s chin.

Shamans occupied the stairs to the next level of the fortifications. Fire rained down on the intruders as they scrambled to find cover. Inigo’s breaths were labored as they stood behind a fallen pillar. “Not to be negative, but I think we may be in over our heads…”

Gaeolin chanced a peek. “Nah, we can do this! Look,” he pointed at the mages, “they’re concentrating too hard. They aren’t moving from their positions. How good are you with multi shots?”

“Hit and miss.” The cat replied. “On three?” Gaeolin nodded.

“One, two… Three!” They sprung out, each with three arrows in hand. The magicians cried out as the projectiles each landed. Granted, not in vital areas, but it was enough. With their focus broken, they were picked off without mercy. A single archer remained, firing at Gaeolin as the elf flew up the stairs. He snarled as he drew his string. The primitive head ricocheted off of Gaeolin’s sword. By the time the forsworn recovered, Gaeolin had brought him down. As he lay on the ground, clutching his abdomen as it bled, he defiantly spat at his vanquisher.

“Kill one of us… And three more will take their place. The Forsworn… Are unstoppable.” Gaeolin stood over him, expression pitiful as he sank the tip of his blade into the enemy’s heart.

There was silence in the vale. Only the whistling of the wind could be heard amidst the carnage that adorned the fortress. Wiping the blood from his sword, Gaeolin turned to Inigo. “Remind me to learn about the Forsworn someday…” He looked back at the archer. In death, his face somehow seemed noble in its determination. “I’d like to know what they’re so willing to fight for.” He spotted a tent, patched together with mismatched furs. Light poured from it in an ominous way. Inigo led him there, looking in first. He emerged seconds later, wrist to his mouth in disgust.  

“What is it?” Gaeolin asked.

“Look for yourself…” He crouched down as his friend entered the tent.

All musings on the nobility of the Forsworn was cleansed from him when he saw her. From what he’d been told of her appearance, Svega had not been treated well. She had gashes to her arms, her wrists oozing from where she had been bound so tightly. Her corpse was splayed out on the floor, dress tattered and soiled. From the smell, she’d been dead for a few days. From the looks of the scene… That hadn’t bothered the Forsworn men… 

He gripped his sword, ears filling with the sound of his heart beat. He walked from the tent, heading up to the next set of stairs, further into the bastion. Inigo rushed to catch up. “Gaeolin?” He received no answer. Instead he drew his sword, following what his senses could only describe as rage into the keep.

Inside the hall was empty, save for an arrangement of wooden spikes along the wall. Quietly, Gaeolin sheathed his sword. Arrow ready he snuck forward. In the next room they could hear a conversation. There were three voices. Two women, and something else…

“Eiza, I have had enough of your failures.” The voice was so disgusting and harsh, Gaeolin could not identify the gender of the speaker. “With your power, I expected them to cooperate without question. The coven needed new blood.”

“I tried, Helra! They seemed able to resist the illusion far better than I hoped.” Gaeolin and Inigo peek into the room, seeing two witches sitting at a table. At the head stood one of the most disgusting creatures he had ever seen. A woman (or what used to be…) with a shriveled face, covered by patches of wrinkled skin and feathers. Her eyes were like pits of tar, glistening with hatred. She let out a throaty laugh which chilled the blood.

“You’re a disgrace… Rewa would have succeeded. Perhaps not without cost, but without the loss of a sacrifice.”

The second witch smirked in her seat. “When will you learn that true manipulation is the kind that renders your prey helpless? If you had paralyzed her, we could have brought her to the altar all the same.” She sneered. “Instead, you tried to charm her… Convince her to offer herself. He doesn’t need obedience, Eiza. He needs conquest.” 

Gaeolin was about to strike, when Helra spoke. “At least the other still lives. As punishment, you’ll stay down here for the ritual, Eiza. The sacrifice will proceed immediately.” Abandoning caution, the elf leapt into the room. His first shot took Rewa. Eiza fell to Inigo’s sword with only a surprised shout. The Khajiit made for Helra next.

But the hag hissed, vanishing in a vortex of magical power. Gaeolin ripped the door open. He ran up the stairs, barely missing a pressure plate as he went. Inigo struggled to keep up. “Wait, my friend!” He scrambled along as the elf reached the next room. 

Two more witches waited, casting shards of ice from their hands as he skidded into the room. He brought his bow across the nearest mage’s face, shooting her accomplice before she could react. As the other recovered, he drew his dagger, driving it between her ribs to puncture her lung. He turned to inspect the room. Inigo caught up, wheezing at the run up the steps. Gaeolin seemed frantic, trying to find a way up to the sacrificial slab. He spotted the drawbridge a moment later, disguised as a wooden wall. The lever sat next to it in the dark. With a grunt, he kicked it, hearing the wood crash down. He tore over it as Inigo once again followed breathlessly. 

“For the love of the Silvenar! Why?!” Gaeolin cried, having crashed himself into a set of iron Portculli. Inigo panted behind him, grateful for the moments’ pause in spite of the urgency. Gaeolin found the handle to open them, tugging with all his might. As the first gate went up, he climbed. 

Inigo grabbed him by the cloak. “WAIT!” Iron spikes shot out from the wall, the second gate only opening after they struck.  Similar sequence preceded the last at the top of the flight. Inigo pushed him forward. “You’re no good to this woman dead!” He spat. 

They soon came upon a large room, the ceiling high, with a hole fallen in that shone light down on a word wall. Gaeolin put his bow away, mesmerised once again by the light shining from the carved lettering. The moment fell away from his mind. He gazed on the stone to read it’s words.

‘Vegunthar Wahlaan Qethsegol bormahll vahrukt, Hungunthar; Tiid naak Krlaan se Junnesejer kroniid se Dunkreath.’ Vegunthar raised this stone in his father’s memory, Hungunthar. Time-Eater, slayer of the Kings of the East, conqueror of Dunkreath.

Tiid stood out. It remained on his mind, the voice that he was now growing accustomed to speaking in his head. This time, it seemed forceful. ‘Hi piraak ni Tiid. So fen Du Hi.’ Snapping out of his thoughts, Gaeolin ran like one possessed. He yanked open the door, a gust of icy wind heralding the altar’s terrace.  

Helra stood over Algafa, a wicked dagger in her hand. She looked up, the spell she had been casting interrupted by her shock. She realized, cursing in an awful tongue. “You little pest! I thought I would have finished the ritual before you arrived!”

“Back away from Algafa.” Gaeolin had his hand on his bow, ready to draw. “You’re not taking another life tonight.” At this, the Hag cackled, driving the blade into the woman’s chest out of nothing more than cold, pure spite.

Gaeolin screamed, shooting her between the eyes as he leapt over the table. He fell on the monster’s corpse, beating it into an unrecognizable pulp. His face was hot, his heart was sore, and when Inigo finally stopped him, all he could do was stare at the beast. He couldn’t see the vista below, nor the stars in the sky. The wind settled, snow drifting onto his shoulders like ashes of lost hope.

They had failed…