6-Chapter 7: The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller-
The four mages left the monastery just as daylight began to illuminate the trail down the mountain. Even from the top, they could see Ivarstead through the crisp clear air. The town looked small. The whole of Skyrim stretched out beyond it.
When they reached the bottom, Soran, Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo moved quickly through Ivarstead's lone street to the inn they had stabled their horses at. They were hungry and eager for a break. It was only mid morning yet they had been up for hours hiking down the steep trail from High Hrothgar.
Much was spoken about during the long hike, the quest, Winterhold, and Soran's condition. He had told his friends the truth then; that he was in a desperate state, his mind was worsening by the day and he needed a solution soon.
Already his casting had taken hit and the more complex spells were taking much longer to form.
His iron sharp will and focus, honed over a lifetime, now felt dull. Even as he woke in the morning after a long sleep, he felt like he had been awake for days.
He hated this infernal quest the Greybeards had forced upon him. But if this is what it would take for him to speak to their leader, then so be it. The only respite from the rage and terror gripping his mind was the feeling of gratitude he felt from having his companions so willing to help him.
With their aid this dungeon; Ustengrav, will be easy. It's the journey I'm worried. Skyrims gone to hell with this war, the evil that has been suppressed by the jarls in peace time has been unleashed.
On a normal morning the Ivarstead inn wasn't too popular. But the people all knew one another and the warm sounds of idle conversation filled the building along with the crackle of the hearth fires.
But now the conversations were hushed and even the flames felt tense.
A barmaid stood behind the counter, cleaning a mug in hurried silence while the usual customers sat sullenly at their usual tables. They were all watching the party that had journeyed down from High Hrothgar that morning. Travelers weren't rare here, many came through to take the pilgrimage up the seven thousand steps. But it was rare for them to stay multiple days upon the summit, and word had spread through the village.
The group were obviously magic users. They wore hoods and robes that were well made and intricately patterned. The cloth almost seemed to shimmer in the light if you looked from the right angle. One of the four wore heavy armor over his robes and had on a horned iron helm instead of a hood. But the enchanted fabric was still clearly visible between the gaps in his steel plates.
The Dragonborn and his companions had been watched from the moment they stepped down from the mountain that morning. And now the nosy onlookers got a full view of Soran and Onmund stuffing themselves with their breakfast. They were hungry as hell and in no need of manners. They had been able to make record time climbing down from High Hrothgar by utilizing a new spell that Brelyna had learned. It was a restoration spell which allowed her to heal their fatigue as soon it began, carefully removing lactic acid from their muscles and speeding up cell rejuvenation, but it used lots of resources from the targets body to reduce the magical cost.
In other words; they were all famished.
Despite the inns cold reception the foursome had barged in and ordered food instantly. And they quickly got to eating at a pace that could be considered rude even by the lax standards of the Nords.
Soran and Onmund downed the large bowl of stewed vegetables and goat at an alarming rate. While J'zargo and Brelyna didn't eat at the same pace as their savage companions, they too were is a rush.
With Soran's condition slowly worsening, they were in a race against time. The sooner they left this shitty village, the better.
The horn that the Greybeards had tasked them with retrieving was located deep in the swamps of northern Morthal. And that was a long ways away; normally a four day journey. First from Ivarstead to Whiterun and then around the mountain ranges of central Skyrim to reach Morthal. The latter half was a long and winding march through thick snow and steep terrain, much more difficult than the straight trek a map would have you believe.
But that was the normal route, they were taking a shortcut. Cut right into the center of the mountain range was Labyrinthia, the ancient capital of Skyrim. Thousands of years ago the city had been built to serve as the perfect route from the plains of Whiterun to the swamps of Morthal. But the city was long since abandoned and now its only occupants were bands of frost trolls and powerful draugr. It was avoided by all. The city was simply too dangerous for merchant caravans or ordinary travelers.
Most would turn away at such a threat but the Dragonborn and his three companions were no mere wanderers and Soran was confident they had enough magical firepower to keep the monsters at bay.
After eating they collected their horses from the stables and began their journey to Whiterun. For the first few hours, they rode alongside the snowmelt as it came down from the mountains and gathered into a rushing river. As the cobblestone road dropped further down into the valleys the river swelled and forests bloomed around them. The summer sun shined between the shadows of the evergreen trees and a cool breeze rustled through the leaves. But the mages weren't interested in the beauty of the forests. They watched the skies nervously. Searching for the ever-present threat of dragons.
They hadn't seen sign of them since their encounter in Winterhold, but the thought of them still loomed overhead. Soran had no doubt that if the force behind the returning dragons heard of the reappearance of the Dragonborn, their natural enemy, they would be hunting him. The Greybeards had shouted his name from the mountaintops after all.
But the sky was empty, as always.
The group soon reached a small lake where a second river coming from the other side of the mountain range joined the first. There they took a break on some fallen logs near the waterside where they ate some nuts and dried berries the monks had given them. After a bit, Brelyna stood away from the others, near the horses and the warm glow of healing magic filled her palm.
She was attempting to use the same restoration spell that she had used on her companions earlier; Cellular Respite. It was a complex spell and she had only recently mastered its use on humanoids creatures.
When she pressed the spell into the horses flank she merely grimaced and allowed the spell matrix to fizzle out into nothing.
"Their muscle anatomy is too dissimilar from ours." She told Onmund who had been curious if they could revitalize the horses.
"I could learn to transfer it but it would take a while." She said grumpily, before brightening "Perhaps I will focus on that while we ride."
Truthfully she could use the general form of the respite spell on any creature, living or dead by just flooding the area with rejuvenation magic. But that was magically exhausting. The more complex cellular spell variants used minuscule pulses of magic to target specific functions at a molecular level, enhancing the body's natural healing systems.
The combination of restoration magic with cellular theory was one of the greatest accomplishments to come out of the college of Winterhold and was a point of pride to learn for the restoration students there. But the process was difficult. And the results were oftentimes dangerous in the wrong hands.
"You guys are lucky the horse didn't explode or something. I saw J'zargo do some messed up stuff when he was practicing healing magic on rats in first year." Soran said. Brelyna just raised an eyebrow at him, she knew what she was doing, she wasn't a mere apprentice anymore.
"J'zargo assures you, those were all on purpose."
"Yeah.. sure they were, even when they got your fur covered in rat guts? That some sort of hair treatment from Elsweyr?"
"Yes exactly, this one thinks you should try it as well. It is good for the skin too." Jzargo said smiling.
Soran smirked even as he palmed his face. He had always enjoyed the cats antics, even back in the initiate dorms. At first their relationship was purely academic two magical prodigies sharpening each others skill in casting and lore. Over the years, they grew to be friends. But after Soran left the college he rarely saw J'zargo.
Now Soran could see in front of his eyes the lengths that J'zargo and his other companions would go to help him, risking their lives, facing dragons for Magnus sake!
He looked around at Onmund and Brelyna who were over by the horses still bickering about restoration nerd stuff. Truly he was lucky to have them, they were the only upside on this journey.
The Dragonborn felt his mood lighten but his head was killing him now. Yesterday he had been struck with a terrible headache that lasted hours and he hoped another one wasn't coming on now.
His thoughts drifted towards those damnable monks.
Those bastards, making us risk our lives with their stupid rite. He thought as he ate from their charity.
Even though they left the monastery on bad terms, Soran wasn't petty enough the spurn the Greybeards when they had offered them a few bags of nuts and dried berries to bolster their provisions. And practicality won out as he recalled the monotonous meals from their previous nights on the road.
Besides the obvious snowberries back in Winterhold, the mages did no foraging or hunting and the meals of dried meat and potatoes quickly grew to be lackluster.
The lake was tranquil, undisturbed though Soran could see fishermen on the far shore. As his other companions talked and sat around, Soran meditated once again. Hoping against all odds that this time it would work. Anything to soothe his aching head. But just as with his previous attempts, it was useless.
Like most mages, Soran was familiar with meditation. It was a helpful tool to attune oneself to the local Aetherius, to feel the magic pouring out of the sun and stars.
He in fact knew several modes of meditation, attunement was only one, there were ways to clear your mind, silencing all thought, ways to detect foreign forces intruding into one's mind and countless other mental magics he'd never bothered to study.
He certainly regretted not delving deeper into the subject now. For all his magical knowledge he was flailing in the dark in regard to his mind.
But he could sense that the root of the problem was one he knew well.
His soul.
From the moment he had arrived in Winterhold, years ago, he had scoured the College library for any lore on soul magicks. He had badgered Phinis Gestor with enough questions to be kicked out of the expert conjuration class. And when it was clear that the College could not fulfill his need for knowledge, he left and joined the Falkreath Death Cult. Such was his desperation to free his soul from the clutches of Molag Bal.
Soul magic was not discussed in official circles. It was deliberately suppressed. Due to the vile nature of even its most basic applications.
A necromancer with a base realization of soul magic, could permanently lock a soul into their undead. Trapping it forever. Creating a dead thrall.
A terrible fate for one of the many unclaimed souls scattered throughout Oblivion that were forced into being fodder for necromantic rituals. But this was only the most rudimentary use of soul magic.
The things that could be done by a true master of souls were beyond torture.
There wasn't much to be learned at the College once Phinis shunned him. None of the other professors had stared into the abyss like the conjuration master had, delved into dark place for dark secrets. The only scraps of lore Soran was able to find in the library were complex and obscure, so steeped in metaphors and allegory that even the most dutiful censor would pass it by.
And all entirely useless to his needs.
Once in the death cult his search wasn't much better. The only thing propping up the cult hierarchy was the secret knowledge of the masters. So they were more tight fisted with their teachings than a Thalmor border guard.
He hadn't learned enough to free himself from the vile daedra's clutches. But his time hadn't been completely wasted. Soran had learned some of the basics and he could sense the general state of his soul.
Even with his novice level sensing he could easily feel the massive change that devouring the dragon soul had wrought upon him. Where before his mortal soul had been ordinary besides that damnable tether linking him to Soulharbour.
Now, it felt infinitely larger. Yet he could not feel any trace of the of the dragon Mirmulnir, no ego, no mind, just vague wisps of memories. The essence he had taken was indistinct from the rest of him, all mixed up into one mass of energy and life.
But it was no boon. It felt as if a raging storm was wracking his mind at every moment. Just the presence of his newly empowered soul was enough to destroy him. Like the weight of a massive sun slowly ripping the planets from their orbitals.
The strength of his psyche just wasn't enough to hold back the power of the his engorged soul.
Even as he meditated and focused, clearing his mind of all thoughts, desires, stimuli and outside influence. He could not silence it. As his mind faded away, it's blare became the only thing in existence, the roiling backbone of his being.
'How can one silence their own soul', he questioned fruitlessly. His headache worsened and they mounted the horses once again.
The road continued circling around the base of the mountain, now going up the river that flowed from the other side of the mountain range. Their horses trotted up the slight grade with ease and the party was making good progress. At this pace, they'd make it to the city well before nightfall and would have a couple hours to browse the markets. Maybe he'd check out the Skyforge, the ancient forge operated by Eorlund Grey-Mane who was said to be the best smith in all of Skyrim. Normally his wares were prohibitively expensive, but with the large stash of gold they had scavenged from the smuggler's wagon they could at least take a look.
They also still had a collection of scrolls and artifacts they needed to get rid of. Onmund didn't sell much in Windhelm, there wasn't much interest for magical items there and the prices were lower. But fate was dragging them through Whiterun where the court mage was known for buying up magical items. He was a wealthy man with great power in the city and he considered himself a collector of sorts.
They moved swiftly through the sloping valley, with the rushing river to their right side and the forest to their left. A couple of wolves had come to try and harass the horses but a fireball from J'zargo easily scared them off. Soon the road grew steeper as it led them up a large hill, the river rushed down to their right in a series of pools and waterfalls. When they reached the top and could once again see the horizon, the Towers of Valhiem dominated the view.
The towers were an ancient bridge made of black stone. Two towers sat on either side of the river, connected by a thin arched bridge. It had been built by the ancient Nords thousands of years ago, but it still stood proudly. Though now it seemed that a new group had moved in. Rickety wooden platforms had been built atop the once abandoned ruin. Arrow nests and watchtowers jutted from the stones like thorns. It was shoddy work, and some of the new walkways didn't appear usable at all. Seeming liable to fall any moment.
The road continued onwards, squeezed between the brush of the steep valley side and the base of the ancient bridge. But where the path was most narrow, a barricade had been erected to block the road. It was the same shoddy construction as the rest of the modern work, a mess of sharpened logs stacked and tied together. But it did the job and the road was impassible.
Near the obstruction was a man sitting and stirring a pot above a campfire. He appeared to be the only one there. But only Skyrim's most naive wanderer would think the man was truly alone.
The party stopped as they spotted the roadblock.
"Well that seems like an obvious trap if I've ever seen one." Said Onmund. He was leaning up in his saddle straining to get a better view, the riders had stopped a ways away, alongside the tree line.
"Bandits." Said Soran. "They'll have archers nearby. Ready to pick off anyone who'd make trouble." There were plenty of spots upon the bridge-fort, and in the thick brush of the valley side.
He focused on a word, a concept honed by centuries of cannibalized experience and used his Thu'um to spot the would be ambushers.
LAAS (life)
With a whisper, Soran's world bloomed into ethereal light. The plants glowed a pale green, the skies were white and the he could see the souls of the living as a brilliant crimson. Spots of red swam through the rushing river, and deer and wolves danced through the woods. Scanning ahead, he could see a hazy collection of red silhouettes hidden in the bushes along the left side of the road. And on the right he could see humanoid figures going to and fro throughout the reestablished fort.
"There's a lot of them." Soran said grimly as he let the red lights fade from his eyes. "I can't tell exactly, but there's several in the bushes to the left, maybe 3 or 5, and a whole lot more of them up in the ruins."
Grimaces spread with the news.
"J'zargo can blow their paltry barricade into smithereens with ease!" The Khajiit said confidently. Certainly a couple well placed fireballs could blow up the wooden blockade, especially one cast by J'zargo. He was a skilled enough pyromancer to enhance the explosive aspect of the spell.
But that wasn't the issue bugging Soran; breaking the barriers blocking he road was the easy part. The Dragonborn was confident they could defeat the entire camp if they had too. But the problem was crossing through the bandit territory without the horses being hit by the archers. The riders could cast wards. And mage armor would take care of the rest. But the horses were vulnerable. To cast a ward wide enough to cover both the rider and their mounts would be extremely difficult.
And it was notoriously difficult to transfer an alteration spell like stone flesh onto another target. It could be done with some practice for another human shaped creature, but for something like a horse it would be like learning an entirely new spell.
And despite their expertise, none of the mages had bothered to learn such a seemingly useless spell variant as horse ironflesh.
As Soran explained his plan of approach, three races stared back at him intently, seemingly surprised he could create a solution to their bandit issue so easily. But this was literally what Soran had been doing for a living for the past few years;
Leading travelers along the many roads that had become dangerous with the war's chaos.
"The plan is acceptable." Rasped the cat-man.
"Sounds good to me." Said Onmund.
Brelyna merely nodded along.
"Just follow my lead." Soran said. "Hell if it's a reasonable price, I might just pay them off." He jingled his heavy coin purse with a tired grin and ambled his horse forwards.
"Halt travelers!" The scraggly looking man stood from his campfire to shout at the approaching riders, brandishing his soup ladle at them. They had to halt regardless, due to to the sharpened logs blocking them from continuing.
The man quickly moved towards them.
"This here, is a toll road." He gestured grandly at the mighty ancient monument now covered in ramshackle wood. As he spoke, two men revealed themselves from their positions above, leering down at them from the wooden trusses of the fort.
"I've got ten bowmen pointing at you right now. Why.. we're all around ya. But there's no need to be fearful. We're just looking for a bit of coin for an honest days work." He snickered, scratching his beard.
Soran stared at him silently, he knew the bandit was lying about the number of bows, they only had around five. But more could come from the fort at any moment.
He glanced at his companions. By the near imperceptible shimmer surrounding their robes it looked like they still had several minutes left of their mage armor spell. He could feel his own iron flesh barrier would last him a while more. That would block regular arrows and the thought of these idiots having daedric arrows or Dwemer crossbows was laughable.
So far so good. They had been completely underestimated.
The scraggly man swaggered towards them. From his perspective they looked like heedless travelers. Some wannabe mages, rich though, by the looks of their horses. More flies to be caught in his web.
But in reality, he was the prey, and the true predators were just waiting for Soran's signal.
J'zargo motioned towards Soran, catching his eye and discreetly raising his paw to show a spark of fire briefly shine in his grasp. The cat raised a brow at the Dragonborn, wordlessly asking why Soran was taking so long to attack, but Soran minutely shook his head. Just a bit longer, he wanted to at least hear the offer. Five bowmen was a lot and if the horses were killed this journey would get even more annoying.
Besides, Brelyna and Onmund had gotten rather attached to their steeds. Named them even. No sense having them die if it would only cost a fraction of their newfound fortune.
So he continued watching the highwayman's spiel with cold eyes, wondering how the shakedown would play out. He'd been in this situation more than once during his mercenary gigs and there were big differences between the various bandit groups. In all aspects, power, wealth, morality, cleanliness, everything.
Sometimes they were almost reasonable in their depravity, only asking for a small sum before allowing travelers on their way. Some scrap of honor remained in their hearts. Most of the bandits were ordinary peasants after all, poor farmers who had deserted after being pressed into the Stormcloack or Imperial armies, and they now lived as outlaws to avoid the headman's axe. Sometimes it was better to keep the peace and pass along after paying their fee.
But other bandits, were brutal.
At the mages' lack of movement the bandit grew more confident. A smile showcased his broken teeth barely peeking through a ratty beard.
"Well now!" The man spoke, slowly, as if savoring the words. "It seems you are reasonable folk. It's a simple toll, fifty septims per person. There's four of ya so it'a be... two hundred gold."
Not a cheap price, but not truly outrageous either. Soran was ready to pay. But then the ratbeard took another step forward to get a closer look at the riders.
"Hmmm." He peered at them smugly. "Ya know, y'all folk got some good stuff with ya, nice horses, and a pretty elf girl too, this toll might be a lil too low for yer blood, why don't we just kill ya and take everything."
By the end of the sentence, the bandit's casual voice dropped and his friendly demeanor melted away like it has never existed. But before he could make another sound he was cut off by a Crack! As a bolt of thunder drove into his forehead making his body jump, before it slumped bonelessly to the ground.
Huh..
Soran looked out at his outstretched arm, confused. He had killed the man before he even realized what he was doing. And for a short time he was stunned, sitting dumbly on his horse with his arm still pointing towards the fallen corpse. Numb as the surrounding bandits who were similarly paused by the sudden escalation.
But the mages had been ready.
J'zargo whirled about, firing off a fireball at the archers on the bridge fort before they could ready an arrow. Brelyna stretched out arrow wards blocking the bushes on their flank. And Onmund summoned a wolf spirit that launched itself into the brush.
The two men upon the fort were annihilated. Burned and scattered in a fiery explosion of wood chunks and gore. They left behind only a blackened crater in the walls of the shoddy fortress. The superheated blast wave shook the tower like a bell.
Like rattling a hornets nest.
A second after the Khajiit sent the first spell towards the men on the bridge, he threw two more fireballs aimed at the barricade. They hit moments after the first, sending wooden wreckage flying. Yet the barrier held.
With their surroundings suddenly erupting into spellfire and death the horses went into a frenzy. They were trained for battle with arrows and swords, not sudden explosions of fire. The panicked animals reared up, J'zargo and Soran were barely able to stay on, but Onmund's mount threw him off entirely. And as he fell his leg tangled in the stirrups, wrenching him back, keeping him suspended half on the horse by his now broken ankle.
While they wrestled to stay astride the panicking horses, only Brelyna was unaffected. She had realized the danger moments beforehand and had started feeding calming magic into her horse from a palm on its back. Despite the chaos her horse stood idly, watching a butterfly. Brelyna shifted her arrow ward to one hand, and with the other, shot three green spells towards her companions mounts. All hit with expert aim, calming the horses.
Two arrows flew from the bushes, and bounced off her ward.
With the horses now supernaturally calm, J'zargo continued to scatter the burning blockade with further explosions. But the barricade proved sturdier than expected, and in the meanwhile they were still trapped and vulnerable to the rallying bandits.
Men swarmed down from the tower like angry insects and Onmund was still struggling to get back into his horse as he hung from his now broken ankle.
Soran was quick to shove away his stupor. He turned to the hidden enemies on their flank and removed their main advantage, their stealth.
LAAS (life)
His voice rang out through the valley, and suddenly red specters lit up through the thick brush once more.
Lightning rained down on the would-be ambushers. Even with his current trouble concentrating, Soran could make lightning in his sleep. It was a familiar rhythm of transforming his magic into electricity and directing it to the target. Simple destruction magic like this was second nature to him, he barely had to focus on the structure of the spell matrix; merely on directing it to his target.
He killed one man after the next. In flow, merely turning to the next highlighted silhouette and firing again. Like a weapon. He didn't know their names or faces, only a red blur that dimmed to dusk as they died.
The bushmen were quickly killed, but even as the last one fell, Soran could see the glowing souls of more men coming down from the towers to join the fight.
The path onwards was nearly clear when Onmund had climbed back upon his horse. He focused grimly under the pain of his ankle but he knew from experience that he couldn't simply throw restoration magic upon the injury. The bone was offset and needed to be put in place before it could heal properly. If he didn't do it properly he'd have to re-break it again to fully heal it. He cast a numbing spell around the break and turned to launch an ice spike into a bare-chested man leading the charge down from the tower.
And then the road was clear.
J'zargo shouted out, "RIDE THROUGH!", before throwing by another fireball at the ruined mess of wood for good measure. and they scrambled to leave the bandits ambush as more scraggly men came down from their fort.
The horses clipped by serenely, still under the influence of Brelyna's calming spells and they moved through the burning rubble like they were walking through a meadow. As soon as they were clear of the wreckage the mages spurred them to a sprint.
The riders tried to keep a ward formation active behind them as they rode, but it was difficult on the galloping horses. A single arrow clattered off their magical shield, and then they were free.
They rode out of sight within a few minutes.
They stopped to set Onmund's ankle past the Necromancers stone. Before them, plains stretched nearly to the horizon, only capped off my mountains in every direction.
And in the center of the plains stood Whiterun. Surrounded on all sides fields of wheat and rye that shone gold in the afternoon sun. Interspersed throughout stood smaller groupings of farmhouses and watchtowers.
Many foreigners mistook Whiterun to be the capital city of Skyrim for it sat in the center of the land. But it was a reasonable folly, Whiterun was a greater city than all the other holds, larger than Solitude even, if you didn't count the harbor. While luxuries were brought in through the ports of the imperial capital, the great sweeping plains of Whiterun were what fed the majority of Skyrims people.
It was the agricultural and trading hub for the entire region.
The civil war had split Skyrim in two, and Whiterun was right in the center. The Imperials in Solitude and the Stormcloaks in Windhelm had been consumed by war, and the smaller holds the lay in between had their lands made into battlefields and their people forcefully conscripted. But you wouldn't think of the war when you looked out at Whiterun and the wheat fields surrounding it's high walls. The city was strong enough that both sides; Imperials and Stormcloaks didn't bring the fighting too close. Both general Tulius and Ulfric Stormcloak had attempted to secure a treaty with the city and both were rebuffed. So for now, Whiterun floated on the sea of violence in an eerie peace.
The mages galloped forward to the walls.
They entered the city easily after stabling the horses outside. The men watching the gate were wary, but the College of Winterhold was still recognized here, if only barely, and the gate guards let them in with only a suspicious glare. It was late afternoon by then and the sun had meandered off to the side, leaving behind a cool and pleasant evening. The city was bustling, more populous than Windhelm by far and in better spirits too. They were growing rich off the conflict. Conscripted farmers on both sides led to a decrease in crop yield. And Whiterun was taking full advantage of being the main supplier of food.
They moved to a hunting themed inn and tavern near the entrance of the city, dropping off their supplies and Soran as well, who's headache had only worsened.
The rest went out. Onmund sold the last of his magical stash to the court wizard, bartering away the less useful enchanted gear and scrolls in exchange for four high quality majicka regeneration amulets. Brelyna stopped by the alchemist and stocked up on ingredients she could not find in the wilds, and J'zargo bought fresh food and other supplies for the next leg of their journey.
They spent the night in the city before moving northeast to Morthal in the morning. Soran never saw the Skyforge.