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

[OverrideB1]

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.

[OverrideB1]

Unlike the other Resdayni fortresses, Lost Kogoruhn had several structures on the broad, ash-littered surface of its top. Each bore deeply carved runes and symbols upon the doors, the original cartouches obliterated and replaced with the new names given to this place of brooding evil by the degenerate cultists of the Sixth House. I realised that I had been slowly backing away from the dark and silent fortress and, taking a deep breath to steady fraying nerves, I drew my crossbows from the top of the pack and carefully loaded them with the silver-tipped bolts. Gritting my teeth, I crunched across the gritty surface and stood before the nearest dome ~ the scrawled marks identifying it as The Dome of Pollock.

Even now, many years later, my mouth turns dry at the memories of my journey through that blighted ruin and I quail at the shadows that flicker in the corner of my memory and I know that, reliving them here, I will loose many an hour of sleep tonight. Still, you deserve to understand and know that which transpired I suppose ~ although the telling of it will cost me dear. If I falter along the way, bear with me.

Pollock’s Dome, ah yes. A miasma of evil hung in that simple round chamber, even though it was occupied by nothing more fearsome than one of the disfigured priests of this obscene cult. My first bolt, poorly aimed by a hand that trembled with fear, struck a sliver of stone from the central pillar as the Ghoul summoned a glowing sphere of lambent purple energy. What the spell was, I never found out: a few quick and steadying breaths had calmed my nerves and the second bolt flew straight and true. With an odd wheezing sound, the Ghoul scrabbled at the bolt that protruded from its left eye-socket before the malformed and horribly vital mind behind that mutated face realised that it was dead.

With a moue of disgust, I scrapped the slimy patch of pestilent skin off the cheek of the Dagoth, desperately trying not to breathe as it squelched unpleasantly into one of the small collection phials I had brought with me. Hurrying from that place, I moved around the fortress until I came to the doorway to Urso’s Dome. Inside this dome I found what I thought was the ultimate horror of this debased cult. Stooped and malformed, a mass of waving tentacles where it’s face had been, the grey-skinned Ascended Sleeper piped a string of bizarre syllables: the resulting blast of magical energy blowing me off my feet as it clipped my shoulder. Staggering, I quickly put the dome’s central column between me and it while I tried to massage some feeling back into my left arm.

Magically powerful the robed and hooded creature may have been, but the deformities wrought upon it by the Corprus made it slow and cumbersome. By moving as quickly as I could, I was able to weave around the central column, using it as a defensive bulwark against the spells before dashing out and burying silver in that transformed flesh. In this manner I was able to slowly wear down my opponent to the point where I was able to drive both blades into that reeking carcass and send the creature howling into the Void. Literally for, as I tore the blades out of that cadaverous form, there came a flash of yellowish light and an unwholesome stench as the Ascended Sleeper seemed to fold in upon itself and vanish.

There is little to tell of the Temple of Fey or the Hall of the Watcher ~ forewarned by my experiences in the other two domes, I went in with magic blazing and swords at the ready, cutting down another Ascended Sleeper in the Temple but finding naught in the Hall. Now the moment I had long feared was here. Having found neither cup nor shield in these ancillary buildings, I had no option other than to enter the darkhold of Kogoruhn itself.

How shall I relay the sense of trepidation that I felt as those heavy wooden doors swing shut behind me, trapping me in the red-tinged gloom? The gut-wrenching fear that assailed me as I crept, quiet as a mouse, through those shadowed chambers? They say the Nords of Skyrim believe there is a place in the afterlife where those who have transgressed are punished: if there is such a place, it must look akin to the warped and corrupted shell of this place. Strange sounds filled the air, moans and other less identifiable noises. Strange shadowy shapes cavorted and gestured obscenely at the edge of vision. And, over it all, a brooding and watchful malevolence ~ oppressive and overwhelming.

Some sinister and brooding corner yielded a dark metal cup, the inside covered in some dark and sticky residue that I dared not examine too closely. In tarnished gold on the outside was the hateful insect-symbol of House Dagoth. Shuddering, I wrapped it in many layers of cloth before burying it deep inside my pack.

Deeper into that ruined and unsanctified ruin I pressed, foregoing the exploration and clearance such a place so desperately needed. And so it was, at the end of some stench-filled corridor, that I came to the Nabith Waterway: a snaking sewer that lay deep beneath the darkened stones and ash-filled wastes above. How far I wandered beside those rippling waters in the stygian gloom I cannot say, what caused the odd ripples and wavelets on that otherwise glossily black surface I have no desire to know. Hugging the wall and wrapped in a cloaking spell of extreme potency, I followed the twisting, turning sewer until I came to a place where the smooth stone wall had been… broken. Deep at the back of the rough tunnel, a solitary door lay flush against the brown and glistening stone. Desperately trying to ignore the chewed and gnawed look of the short tunnel, I pressed my hands against the ice-cold door and swung it open.

The stone tunnel curved gently around and opened out into a three-way junction. To my right was a short passageway that ended in a befouled wooden door. To my left, a red glow suffused the caves and the heavy sulphurous stench of molten rock was thick in the air. There were things moving down there, malformed things, evil things. With a shudder, nerves frayed almost to the breaking point, I bolted down the short corridor and threw myself through the wooden doorway.

The Flame Atronachs that wandered these sulphurous caves were a blessed relief, something a little more familiar after the terrors ~ real and imagined ~ that had dogged my footsteps since entering Kogoruhn. Hacking them down, I came at last to the foulness at the heart of these caverns ~ a Sixth House cult-shrine presided over by another of the deviant priests. The Dagoth fell before my blades before it even knew I was there and I kept hacking at the carcass long after all traces of life had vanished. Finally, exhausted, I straightened and cast my eye about the chamber. There, resting on a stone plinth was a shield that screamed at me with a pure magical tone. I hoped that this was the Shadow Shield for, if it were not, all the gold in all of the banks of Cyrodiil would not make me stay a moment longer. Grabbing the heavy, Dwemeric looking shield, I retreated to the shrine’s entrance and then hesitated. There were… things out there, things I should have never left at my back. Now I had to return through those caves and face them.

Despite my usual reticence at casting any form of translocation spell while underground, I had no qualms about speaking the phrase “Ut locus Ego eram pro Urshilaku,” whilst in the lava caves of the ‘Bleeding Heart’. In fact, I would have kissed an Ogrim if I meant I could get out of here without backtracking through those dark tunnels and blighted rooms. To my relief, the translocation wasn’t as bad as I’d feared it would be ~ although the fleeting sensation of millions of tonnes of rock flashing in front of my eyes was one I wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

“Cup, hide, and shield,” Sul-Matuul said, looking at the tokens I’d placed on the table in his yurt. “Exactly as I requested. You should keep these tokens Clanfriend Vahl, so that when you are once more beset with doubt, they will remind you that brave heart and resolute spirit can accomplish anything. And, as a true warrior, you will be beset by doubts. I would also like you to have this, the belt of my ancestor Malipu-Ataman. It will serve to tell all of the People that you are a Clanfriend to the glorious Urshilaku.

“Now,” he said, gesturing me to sit on one of the scatter cushions, “we shall speak of the Third Trial. I will admit that I do not know what the ‘Moon-And-Star’ is, other than the symbol of Indoril Nerevar and the sacred signs of Azura. However, there is a riddle that speaks of the Moon-And-Star:

CODE

The eye of the needle lies in the teeth of the wind
The mouth of the cave lies in the skin of the pearl
The dream is the door and the star is the key

“I can tell you this, Clanfriend Vahl: this riddle is called the ‘Wisdom of the Tribes’, so perhaps taking council with the other members of Urshilaku will shed some light on the answer. But it grows late, mine is but a humble abode but it would be an honour to me to offer you a place to rest this night.”

I was about to make some comment about returning to Tel Vahl when I realised what was on offer here. And it was more valuable than Ebony. “The magnificence of your residence is more than I deserve,” I replied carefully, “and it would do me greater honour to spend the night here than you know.” As we settled for the night, Sul-Matuul on his side of the yurt, me on mine, I reflected once more on the strange courses of my life. The friendship that Sul-Matuul had offered was worth the weight of the Urshilaku in Ebony ~ to have even one of the Clans closely affiliated with the House, that was wealth beyond counting.