TIRED, RETIRED - Crying Wolf 3

Wolfskull Cave

“Ugh…”

The necromancer sat up with a groan, rubbing her forehead. It felt like a nasty knot was forming right on her temple. How did that even happen?

She blinked painfully, trying to see. The campfire was still burning, though it was looking low. Why hadn’t they added more wood…?

She turned her head slightly to the right. Oh, that’s why. There was a pile of ash against the wall, faintly glowing with the light of the arcane. Yes, she remembered raising them now.

That jogged another memory, and she gasped, shooting to her feet, wincing as that set her headache off again. She tried to cast a healing spell, but she couldn’t concentrate enough to bring up the magicka. It hurt too much. Was that man still here? Where had he come from? Who was he?!

She leaned against the wall in an effort to keep her feet underneath her.

He just jumped down from nowhere, knocked her flute in the fire, the bastard, and killed them all! Except her, for some reason.

…He wasn’t still here was he?

That thought motivated her to push herself to her feet again. There wasn’t actually another way out of the cave as far as she knew--at least, she never saw anyone who went in not come out the same way, in all the months they’d been preparing the ritual. Which meant that that guy would be coming back, and maybe he wouldn’t like seeing her. She didn’t want to deal with that. She did not.

She hobbled towards the exit, but she didn’t make it very far when the door to the tower creaked open. Terrified, she slowly turned to see who it was and almost collapsed in relief when it wasn’t that bastard.

The orc spellsword the Master hired crept out of the tower, arm pressed against his chest. He looked at her, surprised, then grumbled.

“Great, someone else made it,” he said, sounding strained. He took a shallow breath and waved her over. “Can you take a look at my ribs? Having trouble breathing.”

She shook her head, then stopped because it made her dizzy. “Can’t… That bastard, my magic…” She held up one hand. Healing magic sparked up but failed to sustain itself.

The orc looked at her forehead and winced, which worried her. “Eesh. A concussion? That stinks.” He grimaced, then walked over. “Here, let’s get outta here.”

Arms over each other’s shoulders, holding each other up, they slowly trekked up the passage.

As they approached the supply room, the orc asked, “You’re wearing clothes under your robes, right?”

She nodded, confused by the question. Of course she was, Skyrim was cold. Only a fool didn’t dress in layers.

“Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll ditch the robes at the cave mouth and make our way down to Dragon Bridge and get some healing. You let me talk until your head’s better, but if anyone asks we were attacked by bandits.”

“Uh…?”

They passed into the wider cave. “Can’t go to Solitude. For one I don’t think I can make it uphill, but the Master was convinced Solitude was going to send someone sooner or later. Bet you anything that--”

“That bastard!”

“Yeah, him. Bet he’s a merc sent by the Blue Palace--”

“No! He--!” Words weren’t being cooperative, so she pulled him down behind the stalagmites. He yelled when she accidentally strained his ribs, but she clapped a hand over his mouth to quiet him. His tusks bit into her palm, but it kept him quiet when that bastard dropped into the chamber from somewhere.

He looked around, surprised. “Huh. It lets out here? That would’ve been nice to know, I could have taken the short way.” He looked up the ledge he fell from and whistled.

The skeletons dropped down, carrying a large and shiny rock between them. The one in front got crushed by the boulder and collapsed, and the two mages stiffened when its skull tumbled down the ledge and stopped in front of them.

The interloper cursed and lifted the boulder with one hand. “I don’t know what this is, but it’s clearly some kind of ore.” He frowned and looked deep into the cave. “How old is this fort that an ore vein formed around it?” He shook himself, disregarding the thought, and settled the lode onto his shoulder. “Pull yourself together already.”

They stifled a gasp of alarm when the skull in front of them bounced in place, then hopped over their heads as the skeleton rebuilt itself. It shuddered, clacking its jaw as the lights came back on in its eyes. The two skeleton exchanged a complex handshake with each other while the interloper rolled his eyes.

Then he frowned, and sniffed the air. They held their breath.

The man stepped closer to their hiding place, and the orc could swear that he looked right at them, praying that the darkness they were hidden in was sufficient…

…Until he shrugged and turned back towards the exit, his constructs following him. “Hmph, this place smells like death…”

They didn’t breathe again until they could no longer hear his footsteps, and when they finally relaxed they almost fell over from the sudden lack of tension.

“Okay,” the orc whispered. “Let’s just… wait here for a bit, and then we go to Dragon Bridge.”

“That bastard.”

“That bastard,” the orc agreed.

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Zelda, the Pale

Zelda had worried, after the fact, that she might have overreacted regarding Cicero. The People of Hyrule came in all shapes and sizes, and as the many-times-over ruler of that land she’d met a number of extremely colorful characters.

She recalled Agitha, who would be vaguely threatening when denied access to rare insects. Magda, who was so obsessed with flowers that she viewed them as less expendable than actual people. Tingle, who… well, there was a lot to say about Tingle, and not much of it was flattering. But despite their eccentricities they were all decent, kind people when their fixations weren’t at play.

It would have been horribly tragic for Zelda of all people to assume someone was dangerous based on their mannerisms alone, not to mention rude. So it might have been relieving to know that she was entirely correct in her initial assumptions, if it didn’t mean that she was now traveling with a madman.

All she’d said was that she was heading north and that she expected to stay there for a while, and for some reason Cicero had decided to turn his cart around and follow her. He was pulling the coffin without visible effort and had no issue keeping up with her no matter how fast she walked, and attempts to lose him in the woods or in the snow failed utterly.

She was growing exhausted because she absolutely refused to sleep anywhere near the jester. He didn’t sleep either, and so for the first two nights they had just sat around the fire, staring at each other. Now they didn’t stop for longer than it took to eat--preparing their own meals separately of course. And her mental state was not at all helped by that damnable darkness inside the coffin. Zelda swore it was trying to get in her head.

And the worst thing--the very worst thing of all--is that Cicero would not. Stop. Talking.

“...and then the merchant twirled around, thinking he was being followed. But, happily for clever Cicero, targets so rarely look up, haha! The instant his guard was low once more, the humble jester swung down, down from the rafter and kicked him directly in the spine with a knife between my toes. Oh, the sounds he made! Oh, the blood he bled! Oh, oh, oh!”

He took his hands off the cart, letting it coast on its momentum while he wrung his hands gleefully. “Next, per the contract, Cicero had to plant his head on his wife’s pillow. Sadly, I couldn’t stay to watch her wake up in the morning, but I can only imagine the wonderful screams…”

Zelda’s eye twitched, and not for the first time so did her hands. Her tanto hung from her hip now, and it would be so very easy to kill this madman. On the other hand, maybe it wouldn’t be…

From his rambling, Zelda now knew that this clown was a member of the Dark Brotherhood, a religious order of assassins fallen on hard times. Cicero was currently under the belief that Zelda was a member of the Brotherhood as well, and she wasn’t really in a hurry to disabuse him of that notion. She was confident in her skills, but her strength was lacking. She’d gotten training from Impa in this life, but had never actually had much call to use it; Zelda was slightly ashamed to admit that she wasn’t in peak condition, while Cicero had been hauling a fully-loaded cart designed for a horse without apparent effort--

Zelda frowned as she suddenly remembered something. “Cicero?”

The jester cut off in the middle of his story. “Yes, sister?”

“Didn’t you have a horse when you were stuck at the farm? What happened to it?”

“Oh, the horse. The horse. Yes, the horse. No, the horse. The horse was not mine, no, yes.” He tilted his head, looking briefly confused. “How strange, the horse was. Why would it leave?”

What a strange little man. Zelda opened her mouth to question further, but Cicero cut her off.

“Enough of my stories, Sister! Surely, you have some of your own? Cicero would be delighted to hear them!”

Zelda frowned, thinking. “I am… afraid that I haven’t had any jobs recently. I killed a vampire last month, but most of my time has been spent killing monsters for small villages in exchange for room and board.”

“Truly?” Rather than suspicious, Cicero merely seemed sympathetic. “I understand, I do, I do! Truly our lot have suffered in recent times, but fear not, Sister! Once mother reaches her new home, all will be well again…”

Zelda cast a suspicious look at the casket. The thing in the casket looked back at her, and she shuddered.

Maybe it would be best for Skyrim if this thing never made it to its ‘new home.’

Maybe it would be best for you in particular if you didn’t think that again.

Zelda flinched. Whatever, whoever was in the box was hateful. She turned back to face the road, then something out of the corner of her eye had her looking towards the trees.

“Is something wrong, Sister?”

She stared at the spot. She could have sworn she’d seen a huge black horse with… glowing red eyes, but there was nothing there.

“Nothing.”

They walked together for a while longer, before finally coming to a fork in the road. A sign pointed one way to a Dawnstar, and the other to Winterhold. As Zelda turned to the right, Cicero clicked his tongue.

“Ah, ‘twould seem our paths diverge here, Sister. You have business in Winterhold, hmm?”

Zelda carefully didn’t allow her relief to show as she nodded. “Yes, and I don’t want to put it off any further.”

“Of course, of course! It is wonderful to meet such a respectful Sister, so unlike that nasty, awful woman in Falkreath. Mother was going to go there, but Dawnstar will be better if only to stay close to kind Sister.”

Her eye twitched again. “Indeed.”

“Visit anytime, Sister,” Cicero crowed, already walking down the left hand road. “And when your business is concluded, remember that innocence is life’s greatest illusion!”

Zelda shivered, feeling the darkness recede as the cart moved away. She turned and began walking. Already she was looking forward to a nice long sleep under the stars without the fear of a knife in her back.

…She really needed to tell someone about this. In fact, that needed to be the first thing she did once she got to the city.

Zelda looked over her shoulder one last time to see the jester vanishing into the distance… and then she looked again, alarmed, because the cart was now being pulled by a huge black horse.

As if sensing her gaze, the horse turned its head to look her dead in the eyes. It almost felt like it was sneering at her.

Yes, she definitely needed to warn someone about this.

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Ganondorf, Solitude

“They were trying to what?”

Falk Firebeard gaped at him, mouth flapping as he paled. The mage, Sybille, didn’t look much better.

Ganondorf nodded, solemn. “And I’m afraid they succeeded, as well.”

“Why didn’t you stop them?!” the Steward demanded, only to balk when Ganondorf’s expression hardened and he abruptly remembered that the man was much larger than him.

“I was too late, and the ritual had already begun,” the Gerudo said, scowling. “Potema is powerful enough that even if I had attempted to banish her, it would have taken longer than she needed to escape. I should know, I’ve been on the other side of that often enough…” he muttered to himself.

Falk didn’t hear, instead whirling on the mage. “And why didn’t you warn us about this? What good are those expensive reagents if you can’t foresee the Wolf Queen awakened under our very feet?”

“I didn’t see anything in the cave,” Sybille said calmly. “I will admit that I noticed the necromancers entering the cave for long stretches of time, but there are wild mage covens all over Skyrim. They tend to be so insular as to be harmless or glorified bandits. If I’d known they were summoning Potema of all people--”

Falk sighed loudly, cutting her off. He cupped his hands over his face. When he let them fall again his face was composed and his back was straight. It was a much more dignified man who looked back at Ganondorf and asked, “Well, seeing as you survived, something must have happened. What can you tell us?”

“Of course I survived,” he said, offended. “If she stuck around to fight we wouldn’t have a problem right now. No, the coward flew away, up through the ceiling.”

Falk looked bemused, but Sybille brightened. “So she wasn’t corporeal yet?”

“Barely humanoid, honestly.” Ganondorf rubbed his chin. “I could only just make out her eyes through the glow.”

“That’s actually wonderful news,” the court wizard said, relieved. “It means she wasn’t fully resurrected. A spirit is much more limited in what they can do; most of Potema’s power will be tied up in keeping her tethered to Nirn.”

“So you managed to interrupt it after all.” Falk absorbed that, then nodded. “I apologize for snapping, then. Well done.”

“This Potema must be truly formidable, to inspire that sort of fear,” Ganondorf mused.

“Any resident of Solitude could tell you that Potema was the deadliest person to ever come out of Skyrim,” the Steward confirmed. “Queen of Skyrim, and she wanted to be Empress so badly that she almost destroyed the Empire trying to get there. She raised entire armies of the undead, led by vampire generals.”

Sybille looked away.

“I need to talk to Styrr, the priest of Arkay. He’ll be able to help us start preparing defenses against her if she strikes the city.” Falk paused, thinking. “But I’ll be sure to write a letter of commendation to the General on your behalf. You might not have stopped it entirely, but interrupting that ritual might have saved all of Skyrim, and beyond. You were a hero today.”

Ganondorf blinked. “I--Glad to help?” he said uncertainly. As Falk walked away, Ganon turned to Sybille. “Ah, speaking of armies of undead, how does Skyrim feel about necromancy?”

The mage’s eyebrows raised, and she gave him a considering look. “...Dare I ask why?”

He leaned forward. “I don’t tend to practice the art myself; I find defiling souls disrespectful. Bodies are fine, but souls are sacred. And I have several tricks that might look like necromancy to the uninitiated.”

Sybille hummed. “It is not technically illegal, in Skyrim or in the Empire as a whole. But it is deeply despised by most people, even among mages.” She smirked under her hood. “The fact is that the only necromancers who become famous are the ones who use it for unspeakable acts.”

He took that in with a frown. “So if, hypothetically, I created servants out of skeletons--”

“Was their soul involved at all? If not, then what you’ve done isn’t illegal. But you wouldn’t make many friends bringing them into the city.”

“Blast.” He snapped his fingers. “There go my plans for raising the Legion an undead army.”

Sybille fully smiled at that. “You should offer anyway. Tullius is a pragmatic man, he might allow it. In fact, I’d quite like to be there when you ask; I imagine it would be entertaining.”

Ganondorf laughed. “You know, I think I will!”

“Excuse me?”

They both turned, and then Sybille bowed slightly when a slight young woman approached them from the stairs. Ganondorf couldn’t help but stare, as she looked so much like some incarnations of the Princess that it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t her.

“Lady Elisif,” Sybille said, as a greeting and both to introduce her.

Ganon gave a slight start. He debated slipping into a bow as well, but ultimately decided not to. If he took a knee, he’d only end up at eye level with the Jarl; it would feel like he was talking to a child. He ended up giving her a respectful nod instead. “Jarl.”

Jarl Elisif looked him up and down, apparently impressed by his stature. “Are you the one who cleared out Wolfskull Cave?” When he agreed, she continued. “Falk has already told me about the good deed you’ve accomplished. He was rushed, but he says you’re someone we can trust.”

He stared blankly at her. He turned to Sybille, for what even he wasn't sure, but she had already taken her leave. She was walking away, avoiding the light streaming in from the windows. With no help coming from that direction, he looked back to the young woman. “I… am glad to have your trust, Jarl.” He coughed. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“As it happens, yes.” She eyed the guards by the stairs. One of them wore greaves in the Imperial style rather than the Nordic. In a hushed whisper, she explained. “When my husband Torygg was buried, I made offerings to all the gods… except Talos.”

“Who is currently illegal to worship,” Ganondorf noted. It had taken him a fair while to understand the concept, when Hadvar had explained it to him. Outlawing a god? You might as well outlaw the rain, or the trees. “And as the prospective High Queen, you can’t be seen making the offering yourself.”

Elisif’s expression cracked. “Yes. You understand.” She pulled a small warhorn out of her robes, carved out of a goat’s horn. “This belonged to Torygg’s father. If you would, can you place it before the statue of Talos?”

He took it carefully between two fingers. His face twitched before settling into a blank expression. “...I would be… honored to help your husband rest.” He pocketed the horn. “Any statue in particular?”

“Any will do,” Elisif said, nodding. “Even just a shrine. But Torygg was always partial to a particular statue in Whiterun hold, northeast of the city. It’s a quiet, secluded spot.” She looked off into the distance. “It was always so nice out there.”

The young Jarl was silent for a long moment before suddenly catching herself. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Don’t mention it.” Ganon straightened. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I suppose I need to report to the General.”

“Of course, don’t let me keep you.” Elisif made towards the stairs. “Oh, and--after you’ve made the journey, feel free to visit me. I might have further use of you.”

Ganondorf stared after her, then felt the warhorn in his pocket. A curious feeling washed over him, one that puzzled and confused him. Ultimately he couldn’t identify what it was, so he put it aside for now.

It was time to finally join the army.

---------------------------------------------

Jo’kir, The Throat of the World

Skyrim was a lawless land. Jo’kir could only assume that the war was keeping the guards and warriors of this province from doing their jobs normally, because there was just… so much happening.

First they ran afoul of bandits running an illegal toll racket, then they helped stop a necromancer from uprooting an entire family tree from their tomb. Then they found a troll making a den just outside of Ivarstead--not on the main road, but still a well-traveled path. In Ivarstead itself, Jo’kir got hired to clear out two nearby bear caves, one of which actually was on the main road, and then he followed a rumor and killed a man pretending to be a ghost in Shroud Hearth Barrow.

Truly, the Nords were great warriors. They had to be, in order to make it past childhood.

The Khajiit considered the Sapphire Claw in his hand, as he and Lydia stood atop a cliff overlooking Whiterun’s plains. He wondered if every dungeo--if every barrow was going to have puzzle doors with odd keys. Golldir’s family tomb didn’t, but his family had been using it for generations, they could have easily remodeled and removed it at some point.

Speaking of that, the necromancer had been a frustratingly fascinating opponent. Teleportation! Self-targeting, low cost enough to use multiple times, and with a quick enough casting time that he could use it in battle! What was the man doing graverobbing? Vals Veran could have published his spell and lived the rest of his life in comfort and fame. It’s what Jo’kir would have done.

It had looked and felt like Conjuration magic; likely he was opening a portal into Oblivion and then stepping right back out, but there must have been more to it. Something to keep dremora attention away from him probably. Was it something he developed himself, or a lost magic he discovered?

Jo’kir grimaced. He really needed to get to the College. He needed to do lots of research if he wanted a chance of recreating that spell.

A gasp from Lydia pulled him out of his musing. He looked her way and raised a brow at the awe on her face.

“My Thane, look.”

He looked over the plains again. again, and his eyes widened. For the moment, all the clouds and snow had pulled away, and the whole of Skyrim sprawled out before them.

Dragonreach towered over the plains, the air so clear that Jo’kir almost thought he could see the people in the streets of Whiterun. The forests of Falkreath, the mountains of the Reach, the swamps of Hjaalmarch… and in the distance the Blue Palace of Solitude loomed over the sea atop its stone spire.

“Wow…” The view was almost enough to make him forget the bitter cold wind ruffling his fur.

“You know,” Lydia said, “It is a tradition in my family to climb the Throat as a rite of passage. I can understand why, now. It puts things in perspective, seeing everything from above.”

“...It really does.” It was all so small. Like looking at a series of models. “I wonder if they’ve even noticed I’m gone.”

“What was that? I’m afraid I don’t speak your tongue, my Thane,” Lydia said, pulling her eyes away from the vista of Skyrim.

“Nothing important,” Jo’kir said, waving it off. “The snow is rolling in again. Let us continue before it becomes a blizzard, yes?”

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Ganondorf

General Tullius read over the letter with a grim face. Not that anyone would notice, as it was basically identical to his default expression. Only Rikke could see his incredulity.

He set the parchment aside and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So let me get this straight. I sent you on a simple errand run, dealing with a random citizen’s concerns, under the expectation that you’d be clearing out a skeever den or somesuch, and instead you uncovered and destroyed a coven of necromancers set on resurrecting the most evil woman in the Empire’s history?”

“It certainly seems so,” Hadvar confirmed, when Ganondorf didn’t respond immediately. “Well done, man.” He was clearly enjoying seeing someone else dealing with the Gerudo’s nonsense for once.

“Hmph.” Ganondorf was a little caught in his own head at the moment, otherwise he would have been more amused by the general’s bewilderment. The steward had called him a hero. The Jarl had said she trusted him. No one… had ever done that before.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about it just yet.

“You see?” Hadvar said, bringing him back to the present. “I told you about him, and you didn’t believe me.”

Tullius scowled but didn’t argue. “I’ve also been informed that you dropped an enormous chunk of moonstone with Beirand.”

“The blacksmith, yes.” Ganondorf shifted to a more comfortable stance. “I think I’ll make my sword out of it. And the army can have whatever’s left, of course.”

“A sword for a man your size?” Tullius asked, skeptical. “There might not be any left. Yes, yes,” he said, cutting off both Hadvar and Rikke before they could speak. “I’m convinced. Hadvar, I assume you already have the paperwork?”

The Nord man raised a clipboard. “Aye general, just need a few lines filled in. Name, age, race, that sort of thing.”

Ganondor took the papers and filled in the blank sections. At ‘age,’ he smirked, then handed it back.

Hadvar read what he’d put and gave him a look that said ‘really?’ With a sigh, he crossed out the last two digits on Ganondorf’s age, though not so much they couldn’t be seen. “There’s more, signatures and the like, but it can be done later. All that’s left is to take the oath.”

“Repeat after me.” General Tullius cleared his throat, reciting, “Upon my honor I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire. May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty. Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!”

After rolling the words around in his head, Ganondorf decided they were adequate and repeated the oath back at them. He thought about crossing his fingers, or subtly coughing over the ‘unwavering’ part, but he stopped himself. After all, they were just words. There was no magical binding.

“Alright,” Tullius said wearily. “You obviously don’t need basic training, and at any rate I get the feeling you’d be wasted as part of the rank and file. I’m listing you as an Auxiliary. A sort of… troubleshooter, if you will. Not part of the normal troops.”

He nodded. “Understandable. I won’t have to hold back if I don’t have to worry about friendly fire.”

“Quite,” the general drolled. “Get yourself some armor. You’ll need to have it custom made to your size, so I suppose you’ll have time to… make your sword, as well. Once you’re equipped, Rikke will give you your first assignment.”

Ganondorf nodded, looking towards the woman standing by. “Legate, correct?”

She nodded. “That’s right.” Rikke considered a moment. “If you’re interested, I might have a local issue to give you while you wait for your gear.”

“Oho?”

“Yes. There’s an execution soon, and Captain Aldis is worried there might be an escape attempt. Or if you don’t like guard duty, Ahtar has been complaining about pirates.”

“I see. Spoiled for choice, aren’t I?” Ganondorf said cheerfully. “I’ll get right to that once I’ve found somewhere to bunk.”

“Very well, soldier,” Tullius nodded stiffly. “Welcome to the Legion. Dismissed.”

Ganondorf turned to leave, then stopped as if something just occurred to him. “Oh, right! One last thing; what’s your policy on recruitment in the field?”

Tullius and Rikke blinked, confused. Hadvar’s expression froze--he groaned and let his clipboard fall against his forehead. “Why?” Rikke asked.

“Well, as it happens, I might have a pair of potential recruits lined up already…”