Trey in Mournhold, Chapter 8 Options

[treydog]

It was a measure of my desperation that I would even consider going to Helseth for help. I had come to Mournhold seeking blood and vengeance, and I had found them in full measure. I had damaged the Dark Brotherhood so severely that it would take them years to recover. Of course, even I was not so naïve as to believe that I had finished them- evil has a way of showing up around power and wealth, rather like a noxious weed in a fertile patch of soil. But I still hoped to exact my vengeance on their employer, the man whose help I must now seek, King Hlaalu Helseth. My actions had fueled the madness and plotting of the goddess Almalexia- as a direct result, at least seven people were dead. I could no longer pretend that my need for revenge was the most important thing- I somehow had to save the people of Mournhold from their deity. As I look at those words, they seem pompous, especially coming from a stable boy turned thief, turned adventurer. Who did I think I was, to even contemplate such a thing? The answer was simple- I was the only one who could or would do anything. When nobles speak of “the people,” they rarely have any real idea of what that means. To them, the term means a great, undifferentiated mass of faces that look up at them in admiration- or down at the ground in fear. But each face hides a cipher, an unknown, someone whose hopes and dreams are meaningless to the aristocracy. For me, it was different. When I thought of the people of Mournhold, I envisioned Sunel Hlas and Marena Gilnith and their new-found love; I saw Ra’Tesh, endlessly polishing the bar at the Winged Guar. In other words, I saw individuals, not a crowd of people who were somehow less important than me. And I had forgotten those individuals when I entangled myself in Almalexia’s schemes. That much I could see clearly, that it was my responsibility to repair the damage. But how I was to achieve the task was a great mystery. As far as I was aware, there were no books that detailed the approved method for killing a god- or even for curing one of insanity, for that matter. Regardless, I must do one or the other. In my obsession with vengeance, I had given Almalexia the Mazed Band, had brought the ash storm to the city, had fanned the flames of the goddess’ feverish imaginings to terrible heights. Vengeance must wait on justice. I could not do otherwise.

Lest anyone think that I was driven purely by noble purpose, let me quickly state my other reason for seeking any assistance I could secure- I was frightened and revolted by Almalexia’s apparent plans for me. With Salas Valor safely dead, she was already casting about for a replacement- and she had fixed upon me. The words that I had thought, but dared not say, escaped in a muttered hiss as I left the Temple:

“Your last inconvenient lover is dead, and you think that I am anxious to take his place- with his blood still warm on my hands? You may not be god, but you are no longer human, either.”

As for the idea that she believed me to be the reincarnation of Nerevar- I considered the source. She was insane, manipulative, and power-hungry. She would do anything to maintain her place as a deity. A little thing like defying Temple doctrine regarding the Nerevarine would not bother her in the least. As for somehow “recognizing” me as her long-dead husband: nonsense. She had obviously heard about the machinations that had gotten me sent to Vvardenfell in the first place. With Fedris Hler running her spy network, I was not surprised that the “goddess” had discovered the Empire’s plans to set me up as the prophesied hero of the Ashlanders. But I would not go the way of Salas Valor- I had never believed in Almalexia’s divinity in the first place. So it was that I found myself turning to my despised enemy for help- turning to someone who had tried repeatedly to have me killed.

When I entered the Throne Room, Helseth seemed to be in a rare good humor, with a ghost of a smile stretching his normally closed countenance. I wondered briefly how he could be happy with an ash storm raging outside, but dismissed the thought as of no consequence in the current circumstances. When he acknowledged my presence, I gathered my wits and said,

“Sire, I have some rather serious information to report regarding Almalexia…”

Although it pained me to refer to him as “sire,” my background in the stable was useful. After all, “sire” was an equine term, as well as a form of address to a monarch- and I certainly considered Helseth to be a particular portion of a horse’s anatomy. And before I could even begin to explain, the king managed to live up to- or rather, down to- my expectations. Interrupting, he waved an airy hand and said,

“Oh yes, the goddess. I have plans for you regarding the goddess, but first you must prove yourself. You see, Trey, I require all those close to me to be powerful, able to defend me from any adversary. Perhaps you have met my personal bodyguard, Karrod? He is a perfect example: the finest fighter I have met in all my travels, and loyal to me to the death. I met him many years ago, a deaf and dumb child wandering the streets of Wayrest. The boy actually had the audacity to try and rob my stepsister, Elysana. I marveled at his courage, and took him into my employ. When a dog has been beaten, it will lick the hand of one who feeds it even the most meager of scraps. Now he is my most loyal of servants, and one of my most deadly. I wish for you to fight my champion.”

What was it with the leaders of Mournhold? First Almalexia and now Helseth- “Fight my champion to prove yourself.” I felt bad enough about the death of Salas Valor, even though I did not like him or his Temple. But Karrod had never done anything to me and I had no desire to fight him. It was perhaps a measure of the strain I was under that I actually spoke the words that first came to my mind:

“Why should I fight this man?”

Helseth’s brows drew together in a fierce scowl and he rasped,

“Because I am the king and I wish it.”

In a slightly milder tone, he added,

“I have come to know you a bit, Trey. I believe you can be of some use to me. But the plans I have will require someone of great strength or wit. Perhaps both. The time has come for you to prove this to me. You will return here tomorrow, and you will duel Karrod. If you are able to defeat him, we will discuss my plans for you.”

As far as I could see, this was just another way of trying to have me killed, albeit publicly, instead of through assassination. I had no chance of defeating Karrod in anything approaching a fair fight- and there would be no convenient roofs from which to snipe at him in the Throne Room. I would have to think of something else- soon. Every day that the ash storm raged was another day that Mournhold suffered for Almalexia’s pride- and my foolishness.

[treydog]

Yagak’s suggestion that I look for the answer in Radac’s books actually made sense- especially because I had carried every Dwemer text I could find back from Bamz-Amschend. It would be a rare pleasure to find the answer I sought between the covers of a book instead of in a musty ruin filled with creatures that wanted to harm me. With a lightness that had long been absent from my step, I returned to my basement hideaway and pored over all the Dwemer technical manuals I had so carefully hoarded. Besides the book on explosives, I found information on cogs, on pipes, and on general machine maintenance. What I did not find was any mention of weapons or alchemy. Even though I believed I had thoroughly explored Radac’s Forge, perhaps I had missed something. After all, it was a dark and eerie place, and my mission had been to find out about the fabricants. A quick foray in search of the missing book or books should be no problem at all…. Right. The Legion has a famous saying to the effect that, “When the patrol seems to be going exceptionally well, it means you have walked into an ambush.”

Because I expected my return to the Dwemer ruin to be relatively simple, I did not make my usual extensive preparations. I armed myself with the sketches I had made of the passages so that I could go directly to the forge, and also carried the reforged blade with me because I was afraid to leave it lying around. Once I had climbed down the ladder from the Plaza, I was greeted with the assorted clanks, groans, and hisses that inhabited every Dwemer ruin I had ever entered. It seemed normal and natural for Bamz-Amschend, so I did not consider what other sounds all that mechanical racket might conceal. The large entry hall was still empty, save for the bodies of the fabricants and the smashed metal of their opponents. Thus, I made no attempt at stealth or concealment as I opened the door that would take me into the area where the forge rested. The Dwemer dart that thumped into my shield was therefore a very great surprise. I had wondered what mysterious purpose was behind the great Dwemer engines that still ran long after their builders had disappeared. It appeared that at least one answer was to build and repair the guardian machines that patrolled the ruins. I discovered to my chagrin that hallways I had believed safe were once again haunted by mindless constructs which found my living presence objectionable. Without giving a detailed description of every skirmish, suffice it to say I was able to thoroughly test the qualities of my new Dwemer sword before I finally reached the forge. And what I found there was an even greater shock than had been the resurrected centurions.

A phantasmal shape stood in the center of the room, staring abstractedly at the giant, half-completed warrior machine that occupied one corner. Although the figure acknowledged my presence with a brief glance, it made no move to attack. I studied the ghostly presence and realized that it closely resembled the figures depicted in the panels scattered through the ruin. The ears and eyes were definitely elven, but the thick, stiff beard and long robes were unlike anything worn by the elves I knew. Just as I realized that I was looking upon the ghost of a long-dead Dwemer, the specter turned a piercing glare in my direction and grumbled,

“What’re you doing down here? Leave an old spirit to his haunts.”

The fact that he spoke at all was not nearly so surprising as the fact that I could understand him. He spoke in Aldmeris, with some odd inflections, but still quite recognizable. Since he did not seem overtly hostile, I decided that the truth would serve my needs and said,

“I seek the writings of the Dwemer mystic, Radac. I wish to find a way to cause this sword to burn again.”

The specter gave a dusty laugh and replied,

“You want to talk to a Dwemer mystic? Ha! Look, I'm no mystic. Wasn't when I was alive, either. I'm a soldier, kid, plain and simple. Sure, I made weapons for my troops. No secret there. I'm no mystic, though. But you say you want to add fire to that blade?”

This then, was the spirit of Radac himself. Considering that this forge would have held great meaning for him when he lived, that made sense. Gathering my wits, I eagerly repeated my desire to see the blade enchanted with fire. With a shrug, the ghost responded,

“Well, if that's all you want to do...! You don't need a mystic, whelp. I can take care of that for you. We'll need some Pyroil Tar, though. Used to have some around here...but that was a long time ago. You can find it in the lower caves of Norenen-dur, in the Citadel of Myn Dhrur. It's an old ruin far beneath Bamz-Amschend. I swear, no one is happy with a simple blade that cleaves bone...always need the special effects.”

Unsure if I had heard correctly, I queried,

“Myn Dhrur…?”

Radac gestured impatiently and said,

“Deep, deep caves. An old Daedric ruin. Fool Dunmer...worshipping those beasts. I say kill 'em all! Used to be a good spot for all sorts of resources, though. Of course, that was when there were any of us left who needed them! You can find the place through a cave-in at the Passage of the Walker. Take care down there, youngster. No telling what you may run into. You might discover a new way to die. That'd be something, at least. You should be able to find some Pyroil Tar, though. Bring that back to me.”

As it happened, during my search for the Weather Witch, I had already explored the Daedric ruin and been attacked by a fairly powerful Dremora. Among its effects was an ancient bottle containing a peculiar sticky substance that I could not identify. As I did with anything alchemical, I had kept the bottle in the hope that I might be able to divine its properties eventually. Of course, circumstances had prevented that closer study, but the bottle was still taking up space in my pack. After a few minutes of digging, I found it and held it out hesitantly. Radac rubbed his ghostly hands together and chortled,

“Ah...that's the stuff.”

He then took the Pyroil Tar and the sword from me and carefully coated the blade, saying,

“Here, I'll do this. There. There's your sword. Not a bad looking blade, actually. Good luck to you, youngster. Now leave this old dwarf alone. Go!”

As he handed the sword back to me, I could see that it burned with a bright yellow fire. Even though I had completed my task, I was curious about the strange tar and ventured to ask how it had been produced. Apparently, Radac did not have much patience for questions, or perhaps he did not know the answer and was embarrassed to admit it. Whatever the reason, he scowled at me and shouted,

“I've used the tar on the blade, you moron! What do they teach you kids nowadays??? See if you can follow these instructions: Turn around. Place left foot forward. Place right foot forward. Now repeat these steps until you're out of my damn sight!”

With that he floated off to another part of the ruin, leaving me alone in the forge.

So now Trueflame burned again, thanks to Radac’s Dwemer alchemy. And that was all well and good except for one thing- how did I get it to stop burning? Because of the blade’s peculiar shape, I did not have a scabbard that would fit it, and anyway, I wondered if it wouldn’t simply burn through a traditional leather and wood sheath. For the same reason, I didn’t particularly want to just shove the blasted sword in my trousers. This was the sort of thing the adventure stories always conveniently left out. Pursuing Radac to ask for advice did not strike me as likely to be terribly productive, so I would just have to think of something else. On the plus side, I was in a Dwemer forge, which was full of odd bits and pieces of Dwemer metal. After an hour or so, I had put together a makeshift construction from a couple of flat pieces of metal wrapped with strips of leather. It was ugly and also as heavy as Nirn, but it should have good insulating properties- I hoped. I carefully strapped the thing on my back, with the hilt of the sword sticking up over my left shoulder. I had no intention of going into a fight thus encumbered- if I tried to draw the bloody sword from that position I would probably cut off my own fool head. Of course, I wasn’t sure that it would be any great loss if I did. Especially because the next step was to go visit the insane goddess Almalexia and give her the good news that Trueflame had been made anew. I had a gloomy feeling that her response would not bode well for my peace of mind …or my prospects for a long and happy life.

Here Ends Chapter 8