Chapter IV: The Atronach

The den grew warmer with each passing step. The Blade left behind the storage room, limping through a curved hallway. The torches along the walls grew brighter here, maintained more fervently by the hold’s occupants, whoever they might be. The air was less stale. Each limping step was more difficult. Water pooled where the floor met the walls, dripping from the ceiling above. Now and then, he heard the sounds of squeaking, or a draft of wind, but he did not need to draw his sword again. For that, he was grateful.

His exhaustion was almost complete now. His muscles cramped. His throat was so dry it felt like the flesh within had begun to split. Somewhere inside, deeper than his bones, there was a hollowness he knew well. No amount of rest would cure it. The Atronach void within, empty and somehow heavier than everything else.

He would have cursed his stars again, if he hadn’t already done so a thousand times. Any other mage would have regenerated their stores by now. The Atronach, ever watchful of those born beneath its sky, stripped him of this natural boon. In its place, it granted another: a spirit wider and deeper than most; a reservoir of magicka most mages could never hope to cultivate in their lifetimes—not that it mattered now. Even Galerion the Mystic was as mundane as a mudcrab without a source of magicka. The great reservoir was of little use when it was empty.

The hall he’d been following took another hard turn to the right. Hunger scratched at the inside of his ribs, exacerbated by the memory of the starving imp. He’d lost no small amount of blood. At least a half-pint, he guessed. His head swam, as though the weight on his shoulders was felt by another man’s body, the pounding in his temples emanating from someplace else. And yet, it was all here, in one place, bearing down on him with every step. He staggered toward the corner. A long ray of light cast from a source just beyond. He wondered what it was like to starve to death. If there was no escape this way, he was certain to find out.

His thoughts were cut short by the sound of angry voices arguing.

“—done waiting to starve. I say we eat the imp!” Said a gruff voice. It echoed down the hall, originating somewhere around the corner, exploding as though the speaker had just erupted into anger.

“There won't be enough meat on the bones for even a mouthful. Besides, imp-flesh is foul—you wouldn’t be able to stomach it.” Said another. His voice was even, almost relaxed as he spoke. Had it been directed at him, the Blade might have bristled at its needling tone.

“Leave it. He wants to eat the damn thing, so be it. One less spot on our cloth.” Said a third, a woman’s voice, cracked and dry, but still young.

“You mean our haul grows one share smaller,” remarked the smooth voice. “When it kills old Grolog,”

“Quiet. You know that’s not what she means,” said the gruff voice—presumably Grolog.

They lapsed into hushed silence as the Blade edged closer to the light. Smugglers. Privateers. Either their ship had been beached—or sunk—and they’d been here biding their time here till they could hand off their haul. The hold was secure enough—judging by the fact that the latter half was mostly unoccupied. The Blade was sure there must be an exit, somewhere up ahead.

Past the smugglers.

There was no guarantee they'd tale kindly to a stranger in their midsts. Especially not one dredged up from the sea, bearing a symbol of the Emperor's justice.

He came as close as he could without revealing himself. If food was scarce, it made no sense to remain. Something kept them moored here. Their haul? He’d seen outlaws sacrifice more than a meal for less. But that wasn’t it—they could've left one person with the loot, sending the others out for food. Perhaps they couldn’t trust one another. Something is keeping them here. But what?

He could hear the slither of steel on stone from around the corner. “I’ll be back in a little while. Get the spit ready,” said the gruff voice. The Blade heard his footfalls, approaching slowly. They were heavy, with long, upright strides.

The woman’s voice called after him. “If you piss, go further down the hall. I can still smell the rum from last time.” The smooth voice made a remark about Grolog being afraid of the dark.

The shadow approached. It answered the smooth voice with an obscene gesture.

The Blade doubled back, hobbling against the wall as the sound of heavy boots grew closer. He couldn’t fight in this condition, and he’d never outrun the smuggler once he was spotted—not that there was anywhere to run to. He needed to hide. The storeroom was his only chance.

He threw himself against the door, fighting the urge to swear as it swung open loudly. The imp could hear him immediately, resuming its furious battle with the bars of its cage. he hoped it was enough to cover the noice of his entrance. There was barely enough time to hide himself inside one of the empty, rotting crates before the door swung open again. Between cracks in the rotted planks, he could see thick, fur-lined boots trod into view. Their owner was an orc, hoary and bare-chested, with pale green skin.

“Quit yer yammering, beast!” The orc cried. He let his crude, square-headed axe slip from his shoulder.

Hunched over inside the crate, he held his tongue as his burns scraped against the rough wood. The pounding in his head was loud enough he felt certain it would give him away. Something shifted in his side, the pain stealing his breath. It was everything he could do not to cry out and reveal himself. Again he stilled himself, hastily this time, breathing evenly as he could, forcing the pain down with every quivering exhale. The Blade watched as the orc approached the imp’s cage. At the far side of the room, Grolog passed into shadow—footfalls coming to an abrupt halt. The only sound was the incessant struggling of the imp, which seemed to sense its coming doom.

The orc looked back, his upper half obscured by shadow. “What’re you lookin’ at?” He said to the imp. “I’m right here, ya dull creature. You see a rat? Big juicy, delicious rat? Good. Maybe I’ll carve it up too. Damn thing’ll probably have more meat on it anyways.” The imp’s chittering surged. Grolog laughed cruelly in answer.

The Blade willed himself to breathe slowly. A few heartbeats on the draw. A few heartbeats to hold it. A few to exhale—something in his chest trembled against the effort.

He heard the creature’s cage rattle—the orc must have gone for the latch. The imp shrieked. The sound was so sudden, so shrill, that it felt like it would split his skull. He let loose a shuddering breath. A thin, broken sound that was louder than he meant for it to be.

The cage fell to the ground with an echoing crash. The imp, somehow louder than ever before, descended into complete, starving madness. The Blade could see the orc’s silhouette snap straight. The face of his axe caught the dim light.

“That weren’t no rat,” Grolog whispered to himself. “Who goes?” He was walking toward the Blade now, searching the room for the source of the noise. He sniffed once, and again. “You hungry, little rat? Thought you’d try pilfering our little hideout…? You’re burnt. I can smell it.” The orc laughed again, low and menacing. “You tried dancing with our little friend here, didn’t you? You’ve gone and gotten the damn thing all riled up. How long you been in here, little rat? I bet you’re hungry too…”

The Blade reached for his weapon. He might not survive this fight—but the orc would regret bearing no armor. The guarskin creaked as he took hold of the weapon. Grolog heard it.

“There you are,” The orc took a step closer, bringing his axe to bear. He put a boot against the crate, trapping the Blade inside. The imp tugged on the bars of its cage angrily, so angrily the metal scraped across the floor in furious bursts. “Just stay put right there—I’ll make this quick… Teach you about gettin’ lost in places like this…”

The Blade took his ruined sword and thrust it through the wood. Through the orc’s foot.

Grolog howled, falling backwards. The lid to the crate fell with him, along with the Dunmer inside.

”ARGHH! Malacath’s breath—?!”

Before either could react, an explosion bathed them both in fiery orange light. The sound of metal, skittering across the floor as though it’d been thrown by a creature of enormous strength, filled the quiet that followed. The Blade could hear wings beating. A triumphant, baleful shriek accompanied them.

A heartbeat later, the orc was thrown aside—a burst of fire struck him in the chest, launching him up and over the crate. “Bedan! Yllra!—” he had barely time to call for his companions before the imp was upon him, trying to tear a strip of muscle from his shoulder.

The Blade scrambled to his feet, slipping in the soiled hay, cutting his hands on the broken glass that hid beneath it. He threw himself through the door, tripping, falling, scurrying back to his feet. The orc roared. The Blade heard a dull thud. The imp screamed, chittered, and burst into the hall behind him. He was limping as fast as he could now, ignoring his injuries despite their furious protests. Ahead, the firelight danced as two shadows armed themselves. A man stepped past the corner, bearing a blue hood and ruined linen clothes. The rusty sword in his hands half-gleamed in the firelight. Next to him, an antlered Bosmer with a leaf-crusted bow.

“What in Oblivion—?” was all the hooded man had time to say before a fireball struck him in the face. He went down with a bubbling shriek, cut off when his head met the cobbles.

There was a slam and the sound of wood splintering as the door to the storeroom was kicked off its hinges. “I’ll have your ears, Dunmer!” cried the orc, bursting into the hall.

Yllra's bow creaked. The Blade saw her shadow pull the string taut—he counted a single heartbeat, before throwing himself sidelong. The arrow whistled past, striking stone once again. She wouldn't fall for that a second time. The Blade’s ruined sword was in his hand now. Footsteps followed him, coming quick from behind. The imp was squealing with mad delight, its cries wet and bubbling as its wings beat the air. It didn’t follow, instead hanging back to cast spell after infernal spell.

He was on Yllra now. She swung her bow, hard and fast at his head. He caught the blow on his arm, but the orc was behind him, an iron grip seizing the Blade’s shoulders. Both privateers were swearing something obscene, trying to force him down as the imp drew nearer.

The only sound that mattered to him was the hollow swell of fire being cast. The hall grew bright, flooded with the glow of flame. The Blade used every last ounce of strength to tear away from his captors—

—into the path of the imp’s fire.

The Atronach gave another blessing. A fickle blessing. When the stars were kind, a mage born beneath them could siphon magicka from the spells of others; drink them as though they were wine.

Today, the stars were kind.

The river of his soul swelled. He could feel the magicka, flowing through him like lifeblood once more. Only a fraction of his reservoir filled, but it was enough. The great void was gone, for now.

The Bosmer drew a dagger, bringing it down on his collar. His hand went to her face, clutching it as though he’d caught a mace mid-blow, the other fighting to keep her knife buried, keeping her from bringing it down again.

A spell erupted from his hand. She had time enough to scream before the flames welded her throat shut. The Blade opened it, sparing her with the jagged edge of his katana.

The orc roared, slamming a massive fist into the back of his head. The Blade saw the ceiling, illuminated by images of dancing fire, then darkness.

When he woke, the orc was standing over him. The imp was scrambling for Grolog’s throat as he barely held it at bay.

The castaway clambered to his feet, stumbling as far as he could from the brawl.

The bandits’ chamber was little more than an old hall, filled with ruin and debris. Rats—now little more than blackened skeletons, stripped of every morsel of meat, littered one corner of the room. A great fire, fueled with the splinters of ruined furniture and broken crates, adorned the center of the room, an empty spit set above it. The door at the far side was barred, barricaded by sea-worn beams and battered crates.

The Blade let loose a groan that turned into a roar of frustration. He tripped, his body failing, cursing him for punishment after punishment. The knife had fallen out. He bled profusely once more. Now that he knew there was an escape, a chance to complete his mission, he'd found the only hope of survival barred and his strength failing. Sooner or later, either the orc or the imp would prevail, and then they’d come for him.

He steeled himself, using what little fire remained to him to seal the wound on is shoulder. Just get through this door... He pulled away the first beam, falling with it. Lying on his back, he slung a bolt of fire into a rotting crate. It exploded into a shower of ash and splinters.

The orc, still struggling with the imp, cried out. “What are you doing? You’re going to get us killed!”

Before the Blade could heed him, the door shattered open, flinging away the rest of the barricade like the rubble of a burst dam. Beyond, there was only darkness, illuminated by the edges of firelight.

At the threshold, a creature of bone and ragged, mummified flesh stared at them with empty sockets, its ancient skull lolling side to side on a limp, skeletal neck. A claymore, rusted till it was more club than sword, hung tied from its bony hand. It stepped into the room, dragging the evil blade behind it.

The imp seemed to sense what it was first, abandoning its furious assault on the orc, surging for the monster with a shrill, desperate cry.

The skeleton swung its claymore in an upward arc, one-handed, faster than a mortal man could move. The imp was crushed, screeching once before its limp body struck the ceiling. It peeled away, leaving behind a patch of bright blood, before falling lifelessly to the floor. Unbalanced by the sheer force of the swing, the skeleton toppled, landing in a heap of dry bones.

Grolog pushed past without a word, careening into the darkness beyond before the creature could regain its balance. The Blade, limping as fast as he could, followed.

The hall beyond roared with cold winds. Moonlight crept through a high grate, lighting ruined banners of a house older than the Blade could recognize. A throne, seated on a raised dais, sank on one rotted leg. Behind them, the darkness rang with the skeleton’s dry, rasping cry.

“How do we get out of here?” The Blade was limping to the far end of the room. He caught Grolog’s silhouette as the orc pushed the throne from the dais, swearing harshly in Orsimer.

“There’s a mechanism,” he bellowed. “—but Bedan’s the one who found it! I—”

The skeleton shrieked again, causing him to search more frantically. The Blade joined him, tossing aside ruined scraps of lambrequin and floorcloth. He wasn’t sure what they were looking for—until his shin struck solid wood; a lever jutting from the wall at an odd angle. He jerked up hard on the mechanism. The dias lurched in response.

“That’s it! Malacath’s beard, you—” There came the sound of clicking, clacking footsteps sprinting through the darkness. Both barely had time to dive out of the way before the skeleton’s blade came down between them, crashing into the toppled throne with a deafening crack. The Blade landed with one leg hanging from the platform. They were already a few spans into the air, rising quickly.

Grolog was up first, pulling the Blade to his feet with a single, hearty jerk—before pushing him out of the way as the skeleton launched another savage stroke. It swung so hard it spun in a circle, finding its equilibrium at the center of the platform.

The Blade was sure he’d have no chance of covering the distance between them with his broken weapon. The creature was too quick, his injuriess too great to be quicker. There was no choice, he realized, but to unleash the last of his fire. He raised his hands, magicka pooling in his palms—

—before he could cast, the orc hurled himself into the bony creature. It threw its sword in an upward arc. A glancing blow to the side of Grolog's skull. The orc howled, clutching the side of his head. He knelt just long enough for the skeleton—straightening its crumbling spine for another blow—to rise above him.

The Blade’s hesitation was banished. He let loose all his magicka in a pillar of roaring, furious fire. The darkness of the ancient throne room burnt away, alive once more with banners and walls that hadn't been lit in an age. The skeleton was struck in the chest, bones crackling and blackening beneath the force of the inferno. It cried out, once more in that nightmarish rasp, before falling from the platform, into the darkness below.

It reached out blindly as it fell and caught the orc's ankle.

Grolog slipped sideways, pulled by the weight of the claymore as much as the skeleton’s frail frame. He gripped the edge of the platform with brutal determination, pulling himself halfway up before reaching out for aid. His eyes met the Blade’s. One of his ears had been shorn off, the pale glow of bone evident in the growing moonlight. The claymore came up in a wild arc, burying itself deep into the orc’s meaty shoulder.

Still he clung to life. “Dunmer! Aid me—! Gods—please!” The skeleton’s free hand was digging into the flesh of his back, clawing back from the depths to end them both. Its hollow eyes peeked over the platform’s edge, its skull was the same pale shade as the orc's.

The Blade crawled to the edge of the platform, his strength gone at last. The spell had taken everything from him. The effort of fighting took even more. Grolog grasped his hand, desperate to pull himself to safety.

No other choice. A skeletal hand clawed for the platform. The Blade was too weak to fight. With his last gasp of strength, he pulled Grolog forward, just enough to promise safety—to peel his hand from the edge of the platform. Then he drew his sword—

—and buried it in the orc’s neck.

Two dead things fell from the platform.

It was silent after that. The only noise left was the grinding of ancient gears. The dais reached a catwalk above with a crash, shuddering to a halt. Moonlight shone through the bars of an ancient door—Masser and Secunda—the twin moons pale as death. A promise of escape, from Mundus, or from the hold, he could not tell.

He pushed through the door, falling into snow on the other side.

The world was white, untouched by man or mer; so pure the moonlight reflected in it, two tired eyes watching themselves in the world below.

His hands grew numb. The cold settled fast. His clothes were soaked with sweat, blood, and seawater. He crawled for what felt like an hour. He was too exhausted to stand anymore. When he looked back, the entrance to the hold was only a short distance away.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a wolf’s howl.

He looked up. The stars twinkled in silence.

And then he collapsed.