Chapter Twenty Four

The fields of grass extended away to the east, rolling under the light breeze. He ran from his hiding place, hoping to reach the next set of bushes before his friends found him. Unfortunately, he heard them shout, heading toward him from the stream. Laughing at his luck, Gaeolin tore off toward the stable his father had built behind their house. No one would find him behind the mound of hay for sure. It looked to most people like there was no room between the bales and the wall. 

 He waited, dozing as the sweet scent of hay calmed him. But as the minutes began to pass the smell changed. He felt as if he was going to be sick. It was similar to a time when he’d run across a dead timber mammoth. He covered his face, leaving his hiding place to check the rest of the little barn for the source of the stench. He heard a rustling from the last stall. The stink of rotten flesh was burning in his nostrils now. As he cleared the stall door, he froze.

Two corpses lay in the stall. One a man, the other a woman. Blood stained the hay on the floor. Just as he was ready to call for his father, they began to stir. The woman, face oozing infection and death, reached out to him, her eyes suddenly regaining a small measure of familiarity. “Ga… Gaeolin…” Her voice spluttered and cracked, every movement sending agony across her once beautiful features. He stared in horror. He backed away slowly, torn both by fear and sorrow. His father turned to him, half of his face ripped away from his skull. 

Gaeolin tried to run now. But as he ran to the door, a wall of flames blocked his way. The smoke rolled into the loft. He backed against the wall, calling out to his friends for help. His parents drew closer. His mother had tears in her eyes as her hands found him. She pulled him into an embrace, her husband joining them as the flames closed in on them. Smoke burned his lungs as Gaeolin began to scream.

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“Gaeolin! Wake up! What’s the matter?” Inigo shook him, finally rousing him from his terror. Whatever the dream had been, it was clearly distressing. There were two things that proved this theory. The first was the fear in his companion’s eyes, the second was the dagger he had instinctively brought to Inigo’s throat. The Khajiit held up his hands, never breaking eye contact. “It’s okay… It’s just me. You were dreaming, apparently not a sweet one either.”

Gaeolin lowered his blade. He shielded his eyes from the piercing rays of the sun as it angled through the trees. His breaths came ragged, sweat making him feel as if he were covered in a layer of ice. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to pull a knife on you.” He made to stand, sitting instead when he nearly fell over. 

Inigo sat with him, offering a waterskin. “Do you remember what your nightmare was? You woke me with your screams. I thought for sure we were being done in by a swarm of rabbits with how you were carrying on.”

Gaeolin took the water, feeling as if he’d been without drink for weeks. He drained the skin, shaking it in desperation as the last drop fell from the vessel. His throat felt cracked and dry. “At first it seemed fine… I was just a child again, playing with my friends. But then I hid in the barn… My parents were there, they were dead. They were dead, but they were walking to me. My mother…” He gagged, remembering the feeling of the rotting hands on his neck. “I was burning alive with them when you woke me.” The smell came to the front of his mind, making him run to a tree nearby. He retched, the water and last night’s meal ruining the once untouched snow drift below him. Inigo watched him from the camp, ears pinned in sympathy as he began to build the new fire for the morning. 

Gaeolin held his stomach, the churning and aching worse than anything he’d felt before. Inigo was digging in his pack, tossing him a bit of mushroom and a second waterskin. “Eat that.”

The elf eyed the fungus with apprehension. “I don’t think I can…”

“You can, and will. You’re still sick. That blisterwort will help a bit, at least enough to eat something.” Inigo set up the cooking pot, tossing a few bowls of snow into it to melt. “You know, we should probably think about going to Morthal.”

“Why? Swamp air doesn’t sound too appealing to me.”

“Idgrod may be able to make some sense of your dreams.” Inigo sat on his bedroll. “Don’t you think it more than a coincidence that you start having these dreams so soon after being soul trapped by Potema? Langley has dreams that are prophetic. Maybe these nightmares are a sign.”

Gaeolin nibbled the blisterwort, hating the taste almost as much as he’d imagined he would. “How can nightmares about my past be premonitions? It may just be that I’m thinking about my family too much. I used to have nightmares about them all the time when I was on the run.”

“Or you could be suffering some sort of ill effect after fighting the most terrible necromancer Skyrim has ever known… Really, do you want to take that chance?”

He made no retort, as the argument seemed fairly iron-clad. “Isn’t Langley closer? Wouldn’t he also be a good person to ask?”

Inigo inhaled sharply through his fangs. “He already doesn’t really like you… I don’t think he would react well to your emerging prophetic powers, if that is what they are.”

Gaeolin could already hear the disdain in the ‘scientist’s’ voice. Why would Inigo need him when the dragonbum had all the necessary skills? “True…” He took the bowl of soup offered to him.  “Fine, we’ll go after we get the Lexicon to Farengar.”

The snow glistened in the sunlight as the day progressed. The pines were entombed with ice, needles making a subtle song as the wind bent their branches. The pair trudged through the drifts, having forsaken the road to find the ruins. According to Giraud Gemane, Mzinchaleft was nearby. The sight of a Dwarven lift house made them turn. As they came close, a frost troll rushed from a cluster of trees. Inigo caught it in the chest with an arrow. Gaeolin waited until the last moment, quickly drawing his sword, cutting the beasts jugular in a single motion. 

“What was that?” A voice drifted above the snow. A pair of bandits rose from down a steep hill. They saw the troll, then the travelers. With only a second to react the fight resumed. Gaeolin brought his blade up to deflect the shots they fired. Inigo took one out with an ebony missile. Gaeolin pursued the other as he tried to flee. He scrambled up a rock, desperately looking back to try and avoid the elf. Gaeolin pulled himself up, leaping in front of the marauder to slash his chest. As the nord fell, he twirled the blade, sinking it into his shoulder. 

Inigo caught up with him, kneeling to pick up some arrows that had missed. “Should have guessed there would be others trying to loot this place.” He waited for Gaeolin’s response. “Gaeolin?”

Gaeolin wiped the blood onto the bandit’s armor. He grabbed his waterskin, taking a sip to try and quench the thirst that still raged in his throat. “Sorry… I think this bug I have is starting to get to me. With how valuable most Dwemer equipment and technology is, I’m not surprised we aren’t the first to show up.” He coughed. “Let’s keep moving. I want to get to Whiterun and some more hospitable weather.”

Two more looters fell to their blades near the entrance to the city. Snow that had managed to sneak under the door pushed a considerable distance into the tunnel before starting to melt. Gaeolin held a torch out before them, casting light onto the stonework. Down through the halls, past hissing steam lines and flickering lamps. Ahead, they could hear the clamor of combat. 

A pair of bandits fought two spheres. The metal warriors let out mechanical growls as their blades glanced off of the shields. Gears clicking, the automatons struck down their opponents. Inigo aimed for the nearest one, cutting a steam line fueling it’s arms. It hissed, the other rolling toward them in a frenzy.  Gaeolin brought his sword up to deflect the attacks. The first strike glanced off the steel blade, but the second caught the elf on the shoulder. Gaeolin swore, clutching the wound with his free hand. Inigo dropped his bow in favor of his ebony sword. He jabbed the machine in the eye, kicking the device to roll it away. Gaeolin took his weapon with both hands and drew it up to strike. The edge came down and caught a portion of soft metal tubing. Sparks flew, igniting the gases that emerged from the pipe. Terrible screeching echoed from the walls as the automaton collapsed into itself. 

“Your arm…” Inigo sheathed his sword, going to his friend. Gaeolin staggered, leaning against the wall. His sleeve was soaked, the fabric darkening with blood. “Heal yourself, my friend.”

Gaeolin pulled off his glove, holding it in his teeth as he held the bare hand over the cut. The glow of his spell was faint. Whatever his illness was, it still seemed to be stunting his magic. He squinted, face distorting with effort as he forced the spell. Slowly, the cut began to close. He was growing light headed. As the pain finally stopped, he slid down the wall. “I… I need to sit…”

Inigo went back for his bow, taking a seat on a pile of rubble near his friend. “Maybe you should let me take the lead.”

“For a little while, if you can. I’m sorry. I just feel so weak all of the sudden.” He accepted a wedge of cheese when it was offered. Inigo chewed on his own snack, inspecting the still churning mechanics of the hall.

“The people who built this place had security on the brain.”

“And cold hearts. Mass genocide would have been less demented than what they did.” Gaeolin eyed the robotic soldiers. “If it wasn’t for their attempts to kill me, I would pity the Falmer for their hardships.”

“I’m not all that familiar with their history, to be honest.”

Gaeolin held his sword across his palms, seeing his eyes in the shining metal. “They were elves once… Not all that different from the Altmer. Masterful magicians, amazing architects, and constantly defending their land from the ancient Nords. As their fight deteriorated, they asked the Dwarves for sanctuary. They simply wanted to live.” He scowled. “But the Dwemer always were creatures of… flexible morality. I’ve heard stories of their torture, and how their charges were only allowed to eat the poisonous fungi that grew in the deep caves that served as their lodgings. After time, their sight, and sanity proved the mainstay of their rather hefty rent.”

“Do you think the Dwarves’ disappearance might have something to do with them?”

Gaeolin shrugged. “Maybe. Like I said, the Snow Elves had magics that even the Psijic Order never attained. The demise of a whole race sounds far fetched to me. But as you and I both know, I’m bad with most things mystic.”

Inigo jumped up, stretching. “Well, if you’re ready to head out, I’d like to get this over with. You certainly aren’t getting better down here. And I would rather not be the next victims of such an evil people’s work.” The pair came upon the lift to the lower levels after encountering both more combat, and a rather unnecessary system of locked gates. The lever in the middle of the shaft waited in a pool of light. An unnerving clicking sound below made them hesitate. After testing the platform with a bag of their equipment, they pulled the switch, descending into the dark.  

Unlike the passages before, the bottom of the lift was damp. The lamps on the walls were dark, gases no longer running through the pipelines that had supplied them. Inigo pushed open the door, surprised by the sight that met them. 

A large cavern, towers and bridges standing above an underground lake. Glowing fungus clung to the roof, seeming like a blanket of bright blue stars. He almost commented on the beauty when the grunting of a creature broke the calm. He crouched, seeing the Falmer scuttling along the path ahead. It’s eyes were pale, covered in cataracts that had likely been there since it’s birth. It sniffed, large nostrils flaring in search of something to eat. Gaeolin knocked an arrow, aiming for the monster’s head. 

But the beast sensed them, leaping to the side when it heard the projectile whirl past. It turned to them, drawing it’s own bow in retaliation. The shots missed as Gaeolin rushed forward with a flash of his blade. He buried the length into the stomach of the wretch, pushing it off as the sound of more goblin cries filled the chamber. Two more of the scorned elves ran toward them. Inigo drew Dawnbreaker. The light did nothing to deter the attack, but at least gave them light to fight by. A shaman waved her staff at them, ice flying from it’s end. Gaeolin slashed her throat, cringing as the green blood splattered on his face. The other seemed to realize it’s odds. It ran away from them, climbing to a hole in the wall by a door. It hissed at them, throwing its shield at them before diving down the tunnel. 

They reached what seemed like a courtyard. A long dormant fountain sat with stagnant water in its basin. After dispatching two more Falmer, Gaeolin led his friend through a large set of golden doors. Inside was an almost welcome return to what they had seen before. The lights were working, steam turning large turbines at the edges of the room. Inigo was about to sheathe his sword when they heard it.

Ahead, in the doorway, stood a large archway, a behemoth of an automaton restrained by latched piping. Through some advanced system of magic or mechanics, their presence alerted the guardian. It’s eyes flashed, pipes releasing in a cloud of steam. The centurion was frightening. It’s right arm was a massive hammer, the left, a halberd of golden metal alloy. A device spun madly in its chest as it made to crush them. 

Inigo dodged, but fell to his knees as the machine blew steam at him. Gaeolin ran behind, slashing with all his might at the joints and tubing that supported the terror. It turned, gears seeming to churn in an almost threatening language. It raised the axe hand, ready to squash its foe. 

Inigo had regained his footing, jamming his blade up and into the recess where the core was spinning. He pressed with all his weight, causing the sphere of metal to fly from its housing and shatter against the wall. The centurion seized, steam hissing out from all openings as it crashed into a pillar. Gaeolin nodded to his friend, smiling at how close that fight had been. They found a chest hidden behind the stairs to their right. Inside were a few gems, a few Dumacs, and the lexicon.

Gaeolin inspected it, knowing full well that it was worth every bit of effort to the wizard who sought it. Thin, energized lines of text were etched into its golden surface, almost invisible to the eye. It was heavy too. Heavier than a cube of solid gold should be, at least. He tucked it into his bag with a satisfied chuckle. “Shall we take off now?”

“Yes, let us go.” Inigo led to the door, but stopped when something caught his eye. “Wait… What is that?”

Gaeolin looked where he pointed, seeing a bit of material that look out of place. When they reached the table, he knew it did not belong. It was a claymore, crafted from smooth, polished Malachite. Gold and moonstone accents wrapped the guard and hilt, a pattern not unlike leaves the theme for what was among the most gorgeous of weapons the elf had ever seen. He took hold of it, grabbing the sheath that lay on the floor nearby. “Who would leave something this beautiful behind?”

Inigo thought for a moment. Suddenly, he began pointing and muttering wildly. He bounced in place in a way that made Gaeolin cock an eyebrow. “I know who this belongs to! This is Mjoll’s blade! Grimsever. She was talking about it the last time we were at the Bee and Barb.”

Gaeolin looked back to the sword. It made sense. Mjoll had indeed mentioned exploring Mzinchaleft and how she had lost her sword to its depths. “Well then, I say we return it to her. How about you?”

Inigo smiled. “Indeed! I’m sure she would be happy to have it back.” 

“Who knows,” Gaeolin smirked, “you might even get a date out of the deal.” If he could have blushed, Inigo would have been scarlet. “Come on, you hopeless romantic. We’ll head there after Whiterun.” He belted the Grimsever onto his back and began for the lift out. Inigo tapped him on the shoulder, making him turn.

“Um… How likely do you think the date thing is anyway?”

The elf stared, shaking his head as they began their ascent to the surface with a laugh.