The Tale Of Sudhendra Vahl: Mad Gods, Being the ninth chapter... Options

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The first things I wanted to do this morning were to put some of my recently acquired funds into the Bank of Vvardenfell; I also wanted to deliver the Amulet of Infectious Charm to Louis Beauchamp. To that end, I opened a portal after breaking my fast and stepped though into the dusty streets of Ald’ruhn.

“The amulet,” Louis gasped when I handed the twinkling charm over to him. He listened with a distracted air as I relayed the fate of the missing airship: somehow I think the loss of the craft and its crew was of secondary importance to him. He did, however, pay me two thousand Septims for recovering the amulet and finding out what had happened to his aircraft.

From there I returned to Tel Vahl where, reluctantly, I donned the uniform of the Legion before opening a portal to Ebonheart. Captain Carius had informed me that Varus Vatinius has issued an instruction that I am to report to him. The Imperial Dragon was easy enough to find, he was the ill-favoured Imperial that I’d seen at the side of the Duke Dren when I applied for my construction contract ~ the one with a low opinion of Telvanni honour.

“So, the Telvanni returns,” he sneered when I crashed to attention in front of him and snapped off a salute. “Finally decided to get on the winning side, eh?”

When I made no response to his barb, he snorted and said, “you’ve turned out to be a decent soldier Telvanni, and several commanders speak quite highly of you. Do right by me and I’ll make sure that you get what you’re due.

“Now then,” he continued, “I have a job for you. Until a day or two ago, the Lord’s Mail was displayed in the Cult Shrine here. Somehow somebody got in and stole it ~ none of the guards saw anything. Take the key to the Shrine and see what you can learn. Bring me the Lord’s Mail and I’ll give you a promotion.”

My first step was to visit the barracks, housed in the lower levels of Fort Hawkmoth. Most of the guards were unwilling to talk to me but one; a Redguard by the name of Sader was disposed to talk. He told me that Furius Acilius had recently been passed over for promotion and had gone AWOL. I hardly thought it coincidental that Furius Acilius had gone missing two days before the Lord’s Mail vanished. I took a look around Acilius’ quarters but, apart from a scribbled comment about Vatinius that make me smirk, there was nothing of any interest.

Both of the Troopers assigned to the Shrine snapped to attention, clenched fists crashing against their cuirasses as they saluted me. Despite my time with the Legion, that was one thing I still hadn’t gotten used to. The door to the Shrine clicked open and I stepped into a fairly typical Imperial Cult Shrine. Multi-denomination tapestries hung from the walls ~ except for behind the altar, where a rich green and gold tapestry depicted Julianos. There were the usual sacred objects on the altar, a small silver platter for collecting donations and a large silver chalice. The green and gold cloth that covered the cold stone block confirmed that this was a Shrine devoted to Julianos.

I understood why the Imperial Cult adopted this multi-denominational style in Morrowind but I missed the majesty of the individual Shrines that I remembered from my travels around the Illiac Bay. Not that I was particularly moved by the idea of the Divines any more ~ the things I had experienced in my time here had seriously undermined my faith in the religion of my childhood. Shaking off the melancholia that my childhood memories always seemed to induce, I returned to the task at hand.

There were no windows in the Shrine, nowhere that somebody could have clambered in and stolen the artefact. The heavily reinforced door couldn’t have been broken down without attracting the attention of people nearby. Nor had I missed the flare of magic when I’d inserted the key into the lock ~ such locks (requiring both mundane and magical means to open them) were extremely rare and notoriously difficult to pick. And, given that Furius Acilius was, by all accounts, a career soldier it was unlikely that he’d have the skill to pick such a lock.

Something had been tugging at my subconscious while I examined the door. Turning I surveyed the small, austere chamber. A close-fitting door and no windows… So, where was the breeze that was fluttering the edge of the tapestry nearest the door coming from? The wall behind the wall hanging looked solid enough but a quick chant of “Ostendo sum” soon revealed the truth.

The flare of reddish-purple light settled along the outlines of the hidden door, a loud click denoting the fact that the unlocking spell I’d just read from the scroll had done its work. The heavy stone door creaked open to reveal a small stone cell barely big enough for me to get into. The floor of the cell was covered with dried mud; the rough reed mat that covered it caked with the stuff. Since there was no obvious other exit, I placed my hand against the back wall of the cell and pushed. There was a click and a large section of stonework moved backwards to reveal a dark opening.

The muddy floor of the cave left me in no doubt that the thief had used this secret way into the Shrine and that it would take someone who knew Ebonheart extremely well to have known of this hidden access ~ someone like, let’s say, a career soldier who’s been stationed at Ebonheart for years and has, for the sake of argument, recently been passed over for promotion.

The dimly illuminated tunnel meandered through the rock coming, at last, to a meeting place where three other passageways met. With a shrug, I turned to my left and pressed on down the rocky passage. I had gone barely a hundred paces down the tunnel when I was confronted by a snarling legionnaire. He wasted no time on words, the Imperial broadsword already sliding from the scabbard at his waist as he rushed towards me.

The crash of steel on steel echoed through the cave as I blocked the scything blow Acilius aimed at my head, the impact making my arm quiver. I retaliated, pushing his sword up and away with the Blodskal and slashing the heavy blade inwards. He danced back a step, bringing in his broadsword to deflect the blow. Now it was my turn to back-pedal in order to avoid his upward cut.

We eyed each other warily for a moment, each taking measure of our opponent. Acilius was strong but lacked finesse ~ like so many in the Legion he relied on his training and had no… style. With a grunt, he proved my point, slashing in a powerhouse blow that would have done serious damage if I hadn’t blocked it. My return blow scored a mark across his cuirass. Gripping the sword tightly, he aimed a series of vicious overhead blows at me, forcing me backwards.

Sensing, rather than seeing, that he’d changed his grip on the hilt, I swung the Blodskal downward, the greater mass of the Nordic blade knocking the broadsword from Acilius’ hand. I had barely registered that I’d disarmed him when a thunderous punch to the face drove me backwards. I blinked, my vision blurred from the blow, and saw him stoop and pick up his sword again. I gave him no time to prepare.

“Never,” my sword crashed into his upraised blade with a force that made my arm shudder.

“Hit,” I blocked his blow, the blades singing as they crashed into each other.

“A,” his steel blade shattered as I smashed the Blodskal down on it as he raised it to block the blow.

“Lady!” I finished, driving the point of the Nordic blade into the Imperial’s throat and slamming him back against the wall.

Rolling Furius Acilius over, I undid the silver clasps that held the glittering cuirass in place. The armour came off after a few minutes struggle and I held the heavy, padded cuirass up to examine it. It was made of some dark metal and appeared to be overlapping scales. The edges of the armour were decorated with fine gold scrollwork. That was not, however, what kept me there holding the heavy armour. Visions of combat danced in my head, snatches of scenery that I almost recognised, the crash of steel on steel and the screams of the dying mingled with the triumphant cries of the victors.

Shaking myself all over, I looked at the armour and licked my lips. The overwhelming urge to put it on and just… well, take charge had faded. With a shaky sigh, I placed the cuirass on a rock and opened my pack. Handling the scaled Lord’s Mail as little as possible, I dropped it into my pack. A careful exploration of the caves revealed the rest of Furius Acilius’ belongings ~ a sack containing a couple of hundred Septims, a pair of pauldrons made of the same dark, scaled metal, and a glass-bladed sword. My exploration also revealed a water-filled passageway that led to a door. This egress opened out onto a small sandy beach at the foot of the cliffs: above me loomed the bulk of the castle and keep. It must have pleased Acilius to have stolen the Lord’s Mail and, quite literally, hidden it under the noses of those he felt had cheated him.

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Yestere’s journey along the Foyada Bani-Dad had little of interest. Basically, if you’ve travelled along one Foyada, you might as well have travelled along them all. What had made the journey tiresome was the silence, silence in which one’s mind could turn over and sift everything that it has learned, and everything that it fears.

Still, the pair of sorceresses that I’d found in the caverns of Ibar-Dad had provided a more than welcome distraction and, after I’d dealt with them, Ibar-Dad made a suitable resting place for the night. Before departing the cosy hole this morning, I’d looted it of everything I considered valuable ~ a thousand Septims, an apprentice scroll that taught the spell Dedres’ Masterful Eye, a shield, and a helm. I say a shield and a helm in such an insouciant manner: they were both extremely unique artefacts.

The silver-coloured shield was decorated in such a manner as to appear to be a widely grinning face and it bore deep and ancient magics woven into its fabric. It had been hanging on a wall inside a crypt deep inside Ibar-Dad, the door bearing the simple inscription ‘ELEIDON’. In the same crypt I had found a Daedric helm: according to the tattered note that had been stuffed inside it was The Face of Inspiration. Quite what the helm was supposed to inspire was uncertain ~ unless it was nightmares.

As I tramped across the barren and desolate beach, giving Assurnabitashpi a wide berth, I realised that bore no gift to present to the Ashlanders of the Urshilaku Camp. However, the spartan landscape gave me an idea. “My pardon,” I said to the warrior who’d been watching me slither down the ash-covered dune west of the camp, “but I would like to make you a gift.”

My heart pounded as the Ashlander looked at the large Kwama egg I was extending towards him. Then, with a brief flash of white teeth, he took the egg from my hands and said, “What do you do here, N’Wah?”

“I wish to speak to Sul-Matuul,” I replied, puzzled by his use of the word I had come to view as an insult. When the Ashlander had spoken the word, it had the ring of a title rather than a pejorative word. I had a couple of heartbeats to wonder if there was, perhaps, a different meaning to the word before the Ashlander replied.

“You will need to speak with Gulakhan Zabammund,” he said, “and he will decide if you are worthy to speak with Sul-Matuul.” With some ill-grace, obviously feeling he had discharged his obligation for the gift by giving me the information that he had, the warrior pointed out Zabammund’s yurt. My heart pounded as I walked towards the Gulakhan’s tent, I had little that would make a suitable gift for such a powerful figure.

“I have had dealings with N’Wah before,” Zabammund said when I confessed that I was uncertain what would make a suitable gift, “although few that are so polite. I usually accept a gift of gold from them; a… what do you call it? Ahh yes, a bribe.” Well, at least he was refreshingly forthright I thought as I gathered some of the heavy 100-Septim pieces from my purse and offered them to him as a gift.

“Please, be seated,” he said, indicating a low cushion. Gingerly lowering myself into it as he effortless folded his lanky frame into a sitting position on another, he asked the question that I had been dreading. “And what may the champion of the Sul-Matuul do for his gracious visitor?”

Deciding that beating around the Trama Bush would be a waste of time with this Mer, I stated, quite baldly, “I wish to be tested against the Nerevarine Prophesies.”

“You!” he exclaimed, wide-eyed. “You wish me to believe that you are the Reborn?” His booming laughter masked my gasp of surprise; ‘Reborn’ was the title that Elvil Vidron had claimed for himself in Suran, a title that had set the whole weight of the Temple against him. The true nature of the stakes I was playing for suddenly became apparent to me ~ if even a whisper of this got back to the Temple my life expectancy would be that of a Mud Crab in boiling water.

“You are serious,” he said, leaning forward to stare at me. “These are matters that are too deep for a simple Mer such as myself. Go, speak to Sul-Matuul ~ tell him that Zabammund sent you. Leave now, N’Wah.”

I scrambled to my feet, unsure whether the Gulakhan was eager to get rid of me because the matter was too important for him or because I had offended him. As I quickly thanked him for his time and left his yurt, I heard him sigh, “That I should live in such times.”

Sul-Matuul was even less amused by my explanation of why I was there, scowling at me as his hand dropped to the hilt of his knife. I stood my ground, unmoving even when he stalked around behind me. Having circled me, he returned to the skin-strewn chair and sat in it. Still glowering at me, he said, “I am uncertain how to proceed. There is an air about you that I cannot identify, quite apart from the stench of the settled people. My heart says I should gut you where you stand for your effrontery, yet my spirit tells me that you may be more than… the others.

“I am unqualified,” he said, passing a hand over his face, “to test you against the prophecies N’Wah, only the Wise-Woman may do that. But one not of the People may not speak to the Wise-Woman. A quandary, to be sure.” I sat, quietly, awaiting whatever decision Sul-Matuul would make. Finally, he spoke again. “My father’s spirit haunts our burial place. Go there and return to me with the bow of Sul-Senipul, Bone-Biter. When you have done this thing, I will name you Clanfriend of the People. Then you may speak to the Wise-Woman of the Tribe and she may judge you.”

Sul-Matuul gave me directions to the Urshilaku Burial, which lay close to the camp but deeper into the trackless wastes of the Molag Amur. “Travel along the edge of the sea until you come to a cairn, raised by the People many generations ago. From there, strike south through the Ashland. There you will find the door to the Urshilaku Burial.”

The directions proved to be excellent. I followed the shoreline to the east until I discovered a moss-covered pile of stones. Turning south, I headed into the desert of the Molag Amur, eventually discovering the door to the burial site on the southern facing slope of a small hillock.

The nondescript door and the gently sloping tunnel that led down into the Urshilaku burial chamber didn’t prepare me for the sight that met my eyes when I got further inside. I couldn’t help but cast nervous glances at the mummified, armed, and armoured, figures that sat, ancient and dignified, atop the pillars that lined the entrance tunnel. I could feel it in my bones, this was a place of unquiet dead and the proximity of so many dead and preserved bodies was a reminder that, proof against all disease and ageless I might be, but there was no protection from the skilfully wielded blade, the dagger in the night, or the poisoned cup.

Up ahead, the passageway narrowed and, as I approached this bottleneck, I could hear the faint splash of water. Pausing, I looked around, noticing the two massive rocks that formed a natural bridge high overhead. The splash of water seemed to be coming from up there. Muttering the cantrip “Aer Amo Calx “, I rose up into the air, pirouetting as I arced over the stone bride and coming to rest of the solid stone just as the spell collapsed. I had been correct, directly in front and directly behind me were two pools of water, along with the entrances to two caverns. Eager to explore, I headed towards the cavern directly in front of me.

The rats were of no consequence, and I gazed at the chamber. Hewn from the grey rock, this almost-circular chamber was dominated by a large stone obelisk, the tool-marks still visible on the shaped and smoothed sides after the Gods alone knew how many centuries. Arranged around the rock was a series of small pools ~ over each pool was an ossified skull, presumably the last remains of various Urshilaku warriors. The stink guided me to the food the rats had been surviving on, the rotting remains of a female adventurer.

The chamber opposite was virtually identical, only lacking the decaying corpse and with a trio of aggressive skeletal guardians instead of a couple of rats. The crushing blows I dealt them shattered bone and broke them into pieces. Three I could just about deal with ~ these were obviously not Summonings but were some form of reanimated creature of the sort you often find in tombs.

Returning to the lower passageway, I pressed deeper into the caves, arriving at last at a large chamber that was partially filled with water. Opposite me was a simple doorway, blocked with a warped and slightly rotted wooden door. The large, open, water-filled gap between where I was standing and the lip of rock that led to the door was deceptively narrow. I quickly realised that, if you failed to make the jump, the sides of the water-filled pit were far too steep to clamber up. Without magic, or a potion, you would be condemned to a slow and lingering death, treading water until exhaustion set in, and then drowning. My admiration for the deviousness of the Urshilaku rose a notch.

Floating across the gap, I glanced down and saw that there were, indeed, several sets of rusting armour and bleached bones residing in the bottom of the pool. With a grin, I probed the door blocking my way with a great deal of care, nodding in satisfaction as I located the tiny, needle-sharp pins on the underside of the handle. No doubt they were coated with something decidedly unpleasant. Telekinetically pulling the door open, I entered the chamber beyond.

Another sloping tunnel, this time free of any watchful dead, sloped downwards. As I made my slow and careful way down it, I became aware of the soft lapping of water from up ahead. Slowly, the shape of the large chamber ahead of me became visible, the dancing flames of the torches set into the walls reflecting from the dark, still water that lapped at the brink of the passageway I was in.

Large stones, flat-topped, offered an inviting path across to the small rocky outcropping opposite me but I was not fool enough to believe that it would be so easy. Once more taking to the air, I floated effortless across the water, taking a moment above each stone to push the point of Chrysamere against the flat surface. My paranoia was soon rewarded ~ as I put the point of the blade on the edge of one stepping-stone, the whole stone flipped over. That would have put a serious crimp in anyone’s day.

From here, I had a choice of two directions. Once more casting the levitation cantrip, I floated to my right. Ahead, a row of round rocky stubs rose out of the water, bordering the entrance to another part of the cavern. Inside the bowl of this second chamber, there rose another of those stone plinths and, seated on top, was a mummified body. The glint of metal from the figure, plus the sweet song of powerful magic, drew me closer and I drifted across the water and upwards until I was level with the corpse.

Clasped between its withered hands was a long sword, the glittering blade undimmed by the passage of time. It was from this that the magic sang. Quickly I probed the blade, receiving back an odd sensation of nullity. As I examined it on the astral plane, I was scrutinising it on the physical level. There were runes etched into the blade, partially obscured by the clasped hands of the figure, runes that read “…GEBANE”. I realised what my magical probe had revealed, this was the Mage-Bane Blade, a sword imbued with a powerful spell of silence that would still any magic-user’s tongue. With trembling fingers I reached out to take it…

And stopped, my outstretched figures a hair’s breadth from contacting the blade. Skeletal guardians, the eerie sensation of being observed, the pit trap, the rotating stone, the poison needles… It was all too neat. I cast my mind back to the entrance, the silent figures with their armour and weapons ~ nothing too ostentatious, just enough to draw a greedy adventurer in with the promise of greater treasures. Then the traps, cunning and devious ~ but oh so obvious to any seasoned adventurer. And then this, the Mage-Bane, one of the most sought after blades of all time. Any mage would pay a fortune to possess it, secure that he would never be on the receiving end of its baleful spells and knowing that he could stop any rival dead in their tracks. And here it was, on display for any brave enough, or foolish enough, to venture so far. Ripe for the taking.

Floating back out of the chamber, I quickly tested a nearby rock for stability and ~ finding it safe ~ I touched down. I drew my bow and took careful aim. The first arrow missed its mark by several feet, the second by less than a foot. The third was the charm, flying straight and true and ricocheting off the hilt of the artefact. As the sword slipped from long dead fingers, there was a grinding noise as, almost faster than you could blink, the round stone stubs rose out of the water to become very effective prison bars. With a smirk, I reached out telekinetically and took the sword from the water where it had fallen. Whoever had designed this place had never anticipated that a Telvanni would venture inside.

The door at the end of the other chamber opened up onto the most astounding sight. I found myself at the edge of a steep drop; dozens of feet below me water foamed and surged against needle-sharp rocks. To my left, a narrow stone passageway wound up the outside of the chamber ~ in the centre of which was a massive stone spire. Water crashed from ledges and protruding rocks, roaring down into the churning foam at the base of the rock. Niches cut into the rock walls and the face of the massive stone mountain that, in defiance of all common sense, rose from the centre of the chaotic pool. More of the watching dead filled these alcoves and I fancied I could hear the Spirit-Tongues, a faint susurration of sound whispering and moaning, even over the roaring water.

Unnerved by the sight, I clambered up the water-slicked rocks to the first of what would prove to be a series of doors. The small series of interlinked stone chambers behind the door, known as ‘The Fragile Burial’, were eminently defensible and mercifully free of the dripping water that is present in so many of the other burial areas. In short, it would make an excellent place to spend the night.

This post has been edited by OverrideB1: Aug 21 2005, 10:16 PM