Trey in Mournhold, Chapter 9 Options

[treydog]

Chapter 9

The makeshift carrier I had built for the sword seemed light as a feather compared to my footsteps as I made my way to the Temple and the High Chapel where Almalexia waited. She cast her other-worldly gaze upon me and asked in that cool voice,

“Have you forged the blade of Nerevar? Does it burn with the flame of righteousness?”

It was in my mind that what it burned with was the essence of Dwemer alchemy, but I decided not to say so as I uncased the blade and showed it to the goddess. She levitated upward and spun about in her delight as she proclaimed,

“The blade is reforged! Our time has almost arrived. There is but one obstacle that stands in our way, though it pains me to believe it is so. Sotha Sil. I cannot count the times I have fought by the Magician's side. It was he who stood with me the day I fought in Mournhold and banished Mehrunes Dagon to the depths of Oblivion. It was Sotha Sil who was able to delve the mysteries of Kagrenac's tools, and raise me to my rightful station. Now, though, the Tinkerer has become unstable.”

I found it interesting that she admitted that her “divinity” was actually the result of Sotha Sil’s meddling with these “Tools”- whatever they were. And if the source of his power was the same as Almalexia’s, I was willing to believe that he had become unstable. Of even more significance for my immediate purposes was the fact that this was just the sort of information Helseth had asked me to uncover. Therefore, I pursued the issue, inquiring as to the goddess’ reasons for being concerned about Sotha Sil. Her voice became distant, as if she contemplated things only she could see or recall.

“Once, Sotha Sil was like we are, the Lord Vivec and I. He spent time among these mortals, instructing them, counseling them, protecting them from harm. He may have loved them more than any of us, though I know not why. It has been many years since any have seen the Sorcerer, though. Many more since he took initiates into his service. I believe he grew weary of mortal imperfections, and retired to his Clockwork City, where he reshapes life, and some say the very world, into an image he finds pleasing.”

After a pause, she continued,

“His lair is as puzzling as the mind of the Sorcerer himself. Ever-moving, ever-changing, its levers and gears responding to its master's will alone. It is here he performs his profane experiments, aided by his magic and tainted by his madness. I have suspected for some time that the Lord Sotha Sil had entered Sheogorath's realm. His visits have been more and more infrequent, and punctuated by violent fits of anger. He began to speak of the fall of the Tribunal and the return of the Old Gods. But Sotha Sil is not a Seer; he is a Maker. He shapes the Here and the Now, while only I have been privy to what is to come. I know this...he is no longer the man he once was.”

It was disconcerting to hear Almalexia speak at such length and so frankly, when her pronouncements were normally cryptic. In one way, it was as if I was hearing one side of an argument that had raged for many years; in another way, it was as if she felt compelled to unburden herself of all her fears and suspicions, but had found no one in whom to confide. And yet, even if her words were true, they still seemed carefully crafted to show her in the best light. For example, the phrasing about “violent fits of anger” was such that it could apply to either Sotha Sil or the goddess herself. And Galsa Andrano had told me that Almalexia had changed, had become angry and vengeful. Even as I contemplated the implications and undercurrents, Almalexia seemed to reach a decision. She straightened herself and brought her gaze back from whatever distant sights she had considered. Her voice harsh with emotion, she said,

“He is completely mad. It was his creations, these Fabricants, that attacked my city. This once great man is now a danger to Mournhold and to all of Morrowind. He must be stopped, Trey.”

She looked at me steadily and continued,

“I believe it is your calling to stop Sotha Sil's mad schemings. I do not know that he can be reasoned with, Trey, but it is possible. If he cannot be, you must end his life. Though the idea saddens me, it is best for Morrowind...and it is best for him, as well. You have the power to do this. The Trueflame can kill a god, if wielded by one of noble intent. Steel yourself, Trey, and do what must be done. I will send you to his Clockwork City now, if you are prepared. Good luck, Nerevarine.”

[treydog]

The sleep refreshed me, although it did nothing to reconcile me to the strangeness of the Clockwork City. The rumbling passage of the rolling trap reminded me to be cautious as I opened the next door. What I found was yet another domed chamber, but this one was different. Set in the center was a smaller dome, with conduits or tubes that snaked upward to the ceiling. It was also connected to the rear wall by a low metal corridor. The smaller dome was apparently accessed by a pair of sliding doors, but no amount of effort on my part could force them open. Just as I turned to search the room, a rumbling noise came from the overhead tubes, and something appeared to be traveling through one of them. The doors to the dome cycled open, and I started forward, only to find myself face to face with a fabricant. I had not conjured my magical bow, so I had to fumble Trueflame loose from my back while trying to dodge the bites and jabs of the mechanical beast. When the sword was free, I fought back and dispatched the creature. Meanwhile, the doors had closed again. I had seen a second set of doors at the rear of the chamber from whence the fabricant had emerged, so I knew that this was the way out. A quick search of the room revealed a pair of switches, which seemed to control the functioning of the small dome. What followed was a great deal of turning switches and an even greater amount of curses as fabricants continued to appear and exit the machine. Obviously, its purpose was to manufacture the mechanical guards. At last, fortune smiled upon me, and I was able to get through the inner doors and into the next room of the complex. The two hulking fabricants that greeted me proved that my triumph was a mixed blessing.

I fought my way through them, as well as several of their more agile brethren, but otherwise found only more stairs, more sparks, and more echoing emptiness. At last, I came to a doorway which gave access to still another dome. This chamber had no floor, only a pool of seething, molten rock. A platform stretched around perhaps a third of the circumference, but did not extend to the door on the opposite wall. In addition to the terrible odor of the place, there was a cacophony of sound- rather like a concerto for swamp creatures and the souls of the damned. The noise was almost enough to drive me from the room, but I finally covered my ears to diminish the sonic assault and looked for some means to cross. My eyes fell on a lever that sat at one end of the gallery, and I hastened to it. My efforts to move the lever were in vain, though- the steamy air of the chamber had rusted the mechanism shut. My first thought was a wish that I had some type of oil to penetrate the corrosion. That idea gave rise to another, a memory that I carried several vials of the fluid from the larger fabricants. While it would likely do nothing to ease the movement of the switch, that material would provide me a momentary burst of strength. Some three or four doses of the viscous liquid enhanced my muscles sufficiently to move the stuck lever and triggered a great mechanical creaking as a bridge unfolded and spanned the chamber. I did not hesitate, but left the terrible chorus of noises behind me and crept through the opposite door. I basked in the blessed silence, which was soon broken by the scrabble of fabricants rushing to attack me.

Although I was successful in defeating them, the constant attacks wore upon me and made it difficult to stay alert. While it is a matter of only a few words to describe my progress through the Clockwork City, the events themselves took many hours. I had brought along tools to repair my armor and potions to restore my health, but it was much harder to relieve the emotional strain. The inscription upon the next door I found did nothing to improve my mental state. In angular Aldmeris characters, the sign proclaimed the “Dome of the Imperfect.” For some reason, that sent a chill through me, as if someone had trodden upon my grave. I wondered what it meant, especially in Sotha Sil’s strange view of the world. Perhaps “imperfect” referred to all living things, creatures that aged and fell to disease and decay. Perhaps it was a storehouse for the creations Sotha Sil found lacking in some way. Or possibly… the best way to find out would be to open the door and find out for myself.

True to the inscription, the room was another dome. It was empty save for two great metallic statues that flanked the opposite door. At first, they appeared to be some sort of Dwemer centurions, but a closer look revealed that they were more refined. And the faces were definitely more Altmer than Dwemer, with high foreheads and narrow, beardless chins. How long they had stood in this place was impossible to say, but an arm had fallen from the statue on the left and lay upon the floor. It was another indication of the neglect and abandonment that permeated the Clockwork City. Moved by my boundless curiosity, I began to cross the floor to study the statues more closely. And as I did so, the right-hand statue groaned to life with a hiss of steam and fixed me with glowing red eyes.

My avid interest in the metal constructs had not diminished my alertness, so I was able to dodge the crackling ball of energy the centurion hurled at me. As was always true in a fight where I was over-matched, my first thought was to escape. The door through which I had entered was too small for the massive mechanical creation. Unfortunately, it had also locked behind me after I entered the dome. The crash of a metal fist striking the floor reminded me that I did not have time to fiddle with the lock, and I dove to the right and rolled to my feet. If I could not get through the door, perhaps I could still stay away from the machine. It quickly became clear that no one had maintained the device, for its movements were slow and accompanied by the creaking of tortured metal. On the other hand, the dents it made in the floor and walls, not to mention its pitiless red eyes, were fair warning that I could easily become a smear of Breton-flavored jelly if I wasn’t careful. Backing away, I shouted the invocation boghu tromhad, bringing to my hands the comforting presence of the magical bow. It seemed unlikely that iron or steel arrows would have much effect upon the magical machine, so I selected missiles enchanted with fire spells. I had some notion that the flames might ignite whatever lubricating fluid remained to the guardian, adding to the damage caused by the arrows themselves. To my dismay, the first few simply bounced off the head and torso, leaving little more than small pocks in the metal.

As I ducked the swipe of a huge fist, I tripped over something on the floor. Turning, I saw that the obstacle was the missing arm of the other centurion, the one which had not come to life- at least not yet. Inspiration came to me then- I realized that the centurion’s weakness was its joints, rather than the armored chest and head. At the same moment, I understood that the machine that sought to kill me was the “Imperfect” referred to in the inscription. It must have been Sotha Sil’s attempt to create a new form of life that was proof against the ills that assailed mortals. And it seemed equally probable that he had realized that it was a failure- thus the name. And that was all well and good, but did nothing to prevent the machine from trying to kill me. I therefore began to concentrate my arrows on one of the knee joints, all the while staying out of reach and evading the occasional shock spell. The effect of my change in tactics was not instantaneous, but I could see that the creature was being slowed by the arrows hammering at the joint. Better still, as I had hoped, occasional flames licked at the fluid leaking around the knee. At last, the right leg locked completely and the centurion sprawled full-length upon the floor. The shock of that fall knocked me from my feet as well, and I thought it must have been felt in Cyrodiil.

As the guardian glared at me with its red eyes and struggled to push up with its arms, I dispelled the magical bow and drew my longsword. Unconsciously mirroring the hallucination I had experienced in the throne room, I carefully moved behind the steaming, fallen giant. A quick leap carried me onto the centurion’s back and I gripped the sword with both hands, then plunged it straight into the metal body. The arms stiffened once more and then collapsed. The eyes grew dim and there was a final hiss of steam, a mechanical death-rattle, and the Imperfect was no more.