Darkening Sky, Chapter 20

  • Chapter 20

     

     

     

     

                    As it turned out, Francesco knew frustratingly little. Galathil prodded him with questions every day on the path back to the Imperial City, both while they rode and while they were resting.

     

                    ‘Who exactly are they?’

     

                    ‘Spies. Assassins. Something more than both, really, but… no one quite knows how to say it.’

     

                    ‘What do they look like?’

     

                    ‘Can’t really say. Apparently they look like Khajiit. Never actually seen one in the flesh.’

     

                    ‘Where are they from?’

     

                    ‘I hear they came to Tamriel from some faraway Eastern land once upon a time. Way back in the First Era. Other than that, no one really knows.’

     

                    ‘Where do they live now?’

     

                    ‘Some village hidden in the mountains. No one really knows.’

     

                    ‘How many of them are there?’

     

                    ‘I don’t know. A lot, I guess.’

     

                    ‘I don’t know’ and ‘No one really knows’ seemed to be popular answers shared by both Francesco and the other senior Penitus Oculatus agent – Galathil learned two days into their trip that his name was Maurus. He was a quieter sort but did chime into their conversation from time to time. Galathil didn’t find out much from him either.

     

                    Still, almost nothing was infinitely better than nothing. As they passed out of High Rock and into the mountain paths of Skyrim, Galathil summed up everything she had found out about the beings known as ‘shinobi’.

     

                    Also called ‘Shadeclaws’. Killers based in the Jeralls. There’s a good number of them.

     

                    This definitely wasn’t an enemy she could take down on her own, but that was all right. She could bide her time. Wait. For now, she needed more information – strengths, weaknesses, things she could turn to her advantage. And I can find out all I need in the headquarters of the Penitus Oculatus. Francesco and Maurus were obviously irrelevant to the larger scheme of things. An officer higher up in the ranks, however…

     

                    The group of them were camped out in a stretch of woods in Falkreath for the evening. Galathil loosened her collar as she sat next to the dwindling campfire. Skyrim wasn’t as cold as she’d expected, and she had grown used to Alessandro’s thick body. Maurus was tending a pot of stew dangling over the flames, and Francesco was off gathering firewood. Skyrim was in the middle of some civil war, and Falkreath was close to rebel territory. The agents had taken off their armour and tunicked uniforms and put on civilian shirts and trousers instead.

     

                    The night was young. Birds were still chirping their twilight songs and torchbugs danced to the chorus, flickering in and out of view. The sky was starry, clear, awash with multicolour northern lights, and the Steed was chasing after a waxing crescent Masser. The venison and mushrooms in the stew mixed with the earthy forest musk and the aroma wafted into her nostrils. The campfire crackled, sending a light spray of sparks into the chill air. Their horses were tethered to a nearby fir and they nickered as they shook their manes. Galathil was almost tempted to relax.

     

                    A cloud drifted over them and the land darkened. She turned to look at the jagged black spine of the Jerall Mountains jutting across the horizon.

     

                    That’s where they are. Are they resting now, even as I rest myself? Resting easy?

     

                    Galathil reminded herself exactly how Yvonne’s head had rolled off her shoulders.

     

                    She would’ve wanted her to move on. To mourn, to grieve, to always remember, but to live a full life afterwards. She would’ve begged her to change her course.

     

                    Galathil gnashed her teeth.

     

                    I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done, shinobi, she vowed. Whatever you are, I’m coming for you. I’m coming for you all.

     

                    ‘What’s with the brooding, Alessandro?’ Maurus asked mildly, looking up from the stew as he gave it a few pokes with a spoon. ‘No more questions for today? You were so inquisitive the first few days.’

     

                    She shook her head.

     

                    ‘If I’m remembering things correctly, you’ve never been to Skyrim before,’ the spectre said thoughtfully. ‘You should take some time to enjoy the sights.’

     

                    ‘All right, sir.’ Her situation was honestly becoming quite risky. From what she had gathered in the brief time she had observed Alessandro, he had been quite the talkative young man. That had worked to her favour when she was trying to get information from the two senior agents, but now that she had nothing more she could think to ask them, she was in a bind – she wasn’t exactly familiar with the patterns of Alessandro’s speech but remaining in long periods of silence obviously wasn’t in character either.

     

                    At the very least she ought to make up an excuse early on. ‘Sorry, sir, but this whole new… deal… with these “Shadeclaws” is a lot to swallow.’

     

                    ‘Hard to imagine, right? I sometimes wonder how much they’ve influenced Imperial history. They’ve been here since the very beginning, and yet so few people in the world know of their existence.’

     

                    ‘Right you are, sir.’

     

                    Francesco returned with a bundle of sticks. He stoked the fire. A few minutes later, Maurus spooned out three helpings of stew. They ate in silence and washed the meal down with diluted Colovian navy grog. Galathil found the stuff disgusting, but her two erstwhile companions gulped it down like water.

     

                    ‘You look tired, Sandro,’ Francesco said gruffly. ‘Feeling ill? You’re a lot quieter today.’

     

                    Might as well play along. ‘I’m just a little under the weather, sir. I’ll be fine.’

     

                    ‘Get some rest, you two,’ Maurus said kindly. ‘I’ll take first watch.’

     

                    Galathil slipped into her bedroll and closed her eyes. Alessandro’s extra layers of muscle and fat almost acted like a pillow in of themselves. In a few moments she was dreaming.

     


     

                    ‘All right,’ Torako called. ‘Ready?’

     

                    ‘Whenever you are, Master.’

     

                    Torako double-checked his wards. ‘I’m all set.’

     

                    ‘Understood.’ Harrow raised a hand and began to circulate positive and negative electric charges in his palm and a fixed point a hundred feet in the air. ‘Commencing experiment number sixty-four.’

     

                    Master and student were situated on a small snowy hilltop a short walk away from the village for safety. Most of Torako’s tools and research equipment had been moved here as well, sitting snugly in a tent a good distance from the hill.

     

                    The subject for today’s experiment was a small pine tree that Torako had magically transplanted into the hilltop. They had to specifically request four large sacks of earth from Jorra’s greenhouse and the gardener had been none too happy about it.

     

                    Harrow touched the tree with a finger and transferred the Yamayubi charge into the tree, then retreated behind Torako’s wards as he shot a lightning bolt into the wood. An instant later, the Finger of the Mountain activated and blasted down into the tree, splitting it in half as the ground trembled.

     

                    Torako’s wards stopped any errant splinters from going through, and after waiting for a few seconds, they ventured out to examine the results.

     

                    ‘The spell tore all the way through the centre of the tree again,’ Torako said glumly. ‘We’re still no closer to replicating the effects of natural lightning.’

     

                    ‘Let’s reexamine our notes on wild lightning, Master,’ Harrow suggested. ‘We must be missing something.’

     

                    ‘Even the Dwemer didn’t know everything about how a lightning bolt forms in the wild. We do know from their scholars that natural lightning strikes are far less lethal despite their immense power, something corroborated by accounts of strikes through the ages.’ Understanding why it was so was the first step to counteracting the danger of using the Yamayubi Raizuki.

     

                    ‘Master, if I may…’

     

                    ‘Go ahead.’

     

                    ‘I propose we head towards lower ground. There is a large lake not far outside Shadeclaw territory and the weather right now creates relatively favourable conditions for thundersnow. We could study natural lightning there.’

     

                    Torako tapped his chin. ‘That’s not a bad idea, but since we’re leaving Mount Furiya, we’ll have to get permission from the Grandmaster.’

     

                    They did, but only for three days. Harrow and Torako arrived at the lakeside by the evening, just in time to catch the blizzard as it blew through the area. A short while later, as night fell, thunder began. Torako began the process of attracting lightning. Luckily enough, there was a decent amount of trees around the lake at this lower altitude.

     

                    That was about the only stroke of luck they hit on. Since the pair were trying to attract live lightning from actual clouds, Torako made sure to only create positive charges – and no lightning bolts formed at all. After a while, he shook his numbed arms and sat down to meditate.

     

                    ‘I need to rest for a moment,’ he said, nodding at Harrow. ‘You can take over if you wish, but be careful.’

     

                    ‘Always, Master.’ The kit began, and for almost an hour there were no results, but just as Harrow was about to take a break-

     

                    ‘I think that spot of cloud up there is responding. Yes, I feel a charge building, it’s – wait, it’s too quick, I can’t-’

     

                    ‘Wards up, now!’ Torako cried, already cursing himself for his lack of foresight. Lightning flashed and a furious despair crushed him down. Even wards that protected one against physical attacks would be of little use against true lightning, and his best student had just guided it all the way down to his body.

     

                    Harrow didn’t even manage to complete his wards. The lightning bolt struck him in midair, following his form even as he tried to dodge by riding lightning himself, tracing a blindingly bright path across his left hand, his shoulders, the outline of his skull and his right hand. A stream of blue electricity broke off from the main arc and streaked into the sword at his hip through the scabbard.

     

                    As the echo of thunder boomed across the lake, Harrow landed on the ground, his hair standing straight up. Miraculously, he was still alive – and unharmed.

     

                    Torako sagged in relief and he raced forward. ‘Oh, thank goodness. By Furiya, we’ve both been so stupid. Wild lightning is an unpredictable element. I could’ve gotten us both killed.’

     

                    ‘It was…’ Harrow remained standing there, a little stunned. ‘It was my electric charge and my suggestion, Master. I take full responsibility for putting you in danger.’

     

                    ‘You were in far greater danger and the final decision had been mine,’ Torako countered. ‘But – ah, I’m just glad you’re all right. We’re stopping the experiment here.’

     

                    ‘I…’

     

                    He’s not seriously about to object? Torako shot Harrow an incredulous glare, and the young elf subsided.

     

                    ‘Very well, Master.’

     

                    Torako shook his head. ‘You realise you almost died right then and there?’

     

                    ‘Yes, Master. But I did not, and more importantly – I didn’t seem to suffer any damage at all. Now if we find out how I managed to do so…’

     

                    ‘I’m not letting you replicate whatever just happened, kit!’ Torako yelped.

     

                    ‘Of course not, Master, it’s too risky,’ Harrow said soothingly. Torako stared at him, suspicious. The boy had become far too good at handling people.

     

                    ‘Well, either way, I think that’s quite enough for today,’ Torako huffed. ‘Before we leave – I saw a bit of lightning break off into a side-splash from your hand and enter your sword. To be expected, perhaps. The specialised alloy used by Tusok-ri is an almost superconductive metal. You should check Sasayaki for damage. I’m certain the blade itself is undamaged, but the hilt, grip and other fittings might not have the same level of enchanted durability.’

     

                    Harrow placed a hand on Whisper and ran his fingers down the grip. ‘Everything seems in order. Just in case, I’ll…’ He pulled on the sword and blinked. Then he pulled harder.

     

                    ‘What the-’

     

                    Harrow loosened Whisper’s scabbard out of his belt and pulled again on both the sword and the sheath. It wouldn’t budge. He tightened his fingers, took a deep breath and tried again, his slender eyebrows narrowing into a deep V as he did.

     

                    Torako watched the cords bulge out of Harrow’s neck and arms and gaped. It shouldn’t have taken any force at all to draw Whisper from its sheath, what with the sword’s frictionless property. In fact, there was a special clasp on the guard designed to keep the blade inside the scabbard. It was off now, and Harrow was obviously pulling with his full strength – which, while still inferior to most Shadeclaws, was quite substantial. But the sword remained stubbornly stuck.

     

                    It took both Torako and Harrow pulling on opposite ends to get the blade to emerge inch by inch. Even with their combined efforts, they only managed to draw it half a foot out of the scabbard before Harrow’s arms weakened and the sheath snapped back onto the sword with so much speed and force Torako actually staggered backwards from the impact.

     

                    ‘What on Nirn-?’ Harrow said wonderingly. Torako started tapping his chin again.

     

                    ‘If I had to hazard a guess…’ he murmured. ‘The lightning mingled with the magic you were channeling across the incomplete ward in your left hand and the residue from your right hand, which you were using to attract the lightning in the first place. Magicka is an ideal conductor, after all, and I could see the electricity arcing from your left hand to your right hand. The side-splash that entered your sword must have carried the magicka with it. Stretch out your senses towards your sword, see if you can confirm my theory.’

     

                    ‘You’re right, Master,’ Harrow said after a moment. ‘I can detect a substantial charge of both magic and electricity swirling inside the scabbard.’

     

                    ‘The scabbard? Not the sword?’

     

                    ‘Yes, it’s very strange. The scabbard is wooden and wood is far from a good conductor, but I can feel a current running through it all the same.’

     

                    ‘The lightning-infused magicka must have spread itself across the inside of the scabbard.’ Torako scratched his head. That was the most logical explanation, but he couldn’t quite understand how something like this had come to pass.

     

                    ‘That seems likely, Master, but it still doesn’t explain why the sword is stuck inside by some inexplicable force.’

     

                    ‘Ah, that part is simple enough. It’s how I deduced my explanation in the first place. I believe you’ve read of the phenomenon as well – magnetism.’

     

                    ‘Oh,’ Harrow nodded. ‘Oh, of course. All electric currents produce an associated magnetic field. And something as strong as a lightning bolt…’

     

                    ‘Exactly. You’ve got the gist of it. Well, I’d get a new scabbard if I were you.’

     

                    ‘Wait,’ Harrow said slowly. ‘Master, you mentioned the extreme conductivity of Whisper’s alloy… so if I just channel a bit of lightning magic into the blade, wouldn’t that make it another magnet, at least temporarily?’

     

                    ‘And that in turn would let it… I follow your reasoning. All right, kit, but be careful. Just a trickle of electricity should do it.’

     

                    Harrow’s fingers sparked and he ran a small current through the blade. It trembled. Then Whisper shot out of the scabbard hilt-first like a javelin from a ballista, flying fifty feet, sixty feet, seventy feet – landing with a plop somewhere in a distant snowdrift.

     

                    The two of them stared at the empty sheath in Harrow’s hand. Torako couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing.

     

                    It took a rueful Harrow almost five minutes to find the sword. Torako was still grinning to himself when he got back.

     

                    ‘Well,’ he chuckled. ‘That’s what happens with opposing poles when it comes to magnets. Apparently electricity and magnetism-’

     

                    The grin faded off his face.

     

                    Opposing poles.

     

                    Electricity.

     

                    Magnetism.

     

                    ‘Kit,’ Torako breathed. ‘I think you’re on to something.’

     


     

                    The weeks had dragged on. Winter was becoming spring – not just over the passage of time, but because they were moving further south as well. The closer they got to the centre of Cyrodiil, the more the white melted off the land, revealing lush green underneath. They were in the Heartlands now, marching out across the last stretch of woods from the Great Forest. Even the air had changed, growing rich and humid, dripping with fertility and promise. Thrushes and finches twittered at them from the branches.

     

                    Galathil crouched next to a stream as she dragged a razor across her lantern jaw. She was already more used to the jawline than the shaving at this point, even if she was just pretending to do it. Magic, after all, was more precise than any razor, and she’d rarely had any reason to use one.

     

                    She dipped her hands into the stream and took a few sips of water before she rejoined the two Oculatus agents at their camp. The spectres were already packing up their bedrolls and pulling up their tent with the efficiency fostered by military life. Francesco produced a spyglass from the folds of his travelling cloak and peered into the distance. The morning was growing brighter as the sun rose, but tenuous vapours were wafting off from certain patches along the ground. It was too light to be called a mist, but it blurred up the horizon all the same. Francesco adjusted the spyglass.

     

                    ‘I think I see the White-Gold Tower. And Lake Rumare… yes, somewhat hidden by that hill three miles out, but that’s the Lake all right. Can’t be more than forty miles away. All right, let’s move. We should be home no later than the evening.’

     

                    They proceeded at a brisk trot for most of the day and actually made it to the Imperial City just after four in the afternoon. Galathil heard the city bells toll when they were only half a mile from the walls.

     

                    Francesco and Maurus lightened with each step of their horses as they approached the city. They rode in through the Market District and Galathil was almost overwhelmed immediately.

     

                    She had expected a broken city, beaten, worn and battered, but the Imperials had already rebuilt in the two decades since the Aldmeri Dominion and the city wasn’t just functioning – it was flourishing. The streets and markets were packed with hawkers’ wares and merchants’ goods and almost every shopfront was open, inviting in citizens and travelers from what seemed like every corner of Tamriel. The capital was still as cosmopolitan as ever. Galathil saw Redguard turbans, Dunmeri capes, Breton suits and Khajiiti scarves all mixed up in an ocean of olive-skinned faces. The Cyrodiil natives themselves were garbed in everything from shirts and tunics to doublets and dresses to the traditional toga of old Colovia. Not a single corner was devoid of colour. They rode past a large bit of painted graffiti with an Altmer performing fellatio on a particularly well-hung horse and Galathil sniggered.

     

                    The smirk dropped off her face as she remembered why she was here.

     

                    In a past life she would have been sizing up the crowds already, looking at the social atmosphere, reading the city’s pulse, searching for a good, high-end but still accessible location to set up shop. Now, though –

     

                    There was only room for one thing on her mind, and it wasn’t making money.

     

                    Gala… you can let me go now. I’ve had a good life… with you in it.

     

                    The fact that it was the last thing Yvonne ever uttered to her and she never even answered her back…!

     

                    Galathil pressed her jaws together until she felt like her teeth were about to explode. Then she took several deep breaths and continued following Francesco and Maurus as they navigated through the city.

     

                    There was nothing romantic about the headquarters of the Penitus Oculatus. No secret hideout accessed by a sewer entrance. No magical portal to some enchanted isle suspended in space. Just three six-storey office buildings plopped down around a large courtyard a quarter-mile down Green Emperor Way.

     

                    They showed their papers at the front gates. Galathil was glad that the spectres were checking – she’d almost forgotten that Alessandro’s surname was Tornarius. Sloppy, girl, sloppy, she chided herself as she dismounted.

     

                    She managed not to gulp too visibly when one of the Oculatus guards approached with a wand. She could sense the arcane energies radiating off the device and knew instinctively what it was meant for. Fortunately, the variant of flesh sculpting she practiced was not an active enchantment and required no magicka to keep up – once she was done, she was done. The wand was passed three times across her body and detected no illusions or other forms of gramarye. She was in.

     

                    Galathil stabled the horses alongside Francesco and Maurus, turned in Alessandro’s saddlebags, and realised she had no idea what an agent was supposed to do next.

     

                    Thank goodness the young man was new. She followed Francesco since he was the superior officer, and it seemed like the right thing to do. They headed upstairs, apparently for a debriefing.

     

                    The agent debriefing them must have been important. His office was on the fifth floor, just one level below the leaders of the organisation.

     

                    Galathil examined the man as Francesco and Maurus made their reports – mostly to distract her from the fact that the two were reporting on how well they’d made Yvonne go down as a murderer. She’d come this far. She couldn’t afford to lose control of her temper now.

     

                    There was a red and gold band around the Imperial’s arm, which meant that he also held rank in the Imperial Legion. If I’m remembering things right, red and gold with two stripes means Quaestor. The agent peered over at them from a desk piled high with documents but still neatly arranged. Sitting at the front of the desk was an etched bronze nameplate reading Lencius Arius Sagittarius. Galathil briefly recalled reading something about the Sagittarius family when she was a young girl fascinated with genealogy. It was a clan of archers. Lencius was young, in the last year of his twenties. His body was lean and wiry underneath his uniform tunic and his face reminded her of a bird of prey’s – sharp, with a curved beaky nose and brown eyes that seemed far brighter with their piercing gaze. It landed on Galathil as Maurus finished his last sentence.

     

                    She gave her account. Technically it was Alessandro’s account, but thankfully, she’d spent an hour or so most every day reading up on his observations on Duke Lambert Jonas’ tax evasion and was about as familiar with them as Alessandro had been himself.

     

                    ‘Good work, Tornarius. I’ve already forwarded your report to the Office of Imperial Commerce. I hear they’re writing up a commendation.’

     

                    Sagittarius gave a salute and all three of them returned it. They were relieved for the day.

     

                    Maurus gave her a pat on the back as he headed out the door with Francesco. ‘Come find us at The Ingot Room if you’re up for a drink, lad.’

     

                    Lencius remained sitting behind his desk, his quill scratching over the bottom half of a paper. He scrawled a large, loopy signature and looked up as he finished, cocking an eyebrow.

     

                    ‘Was there something else, Tornarius?’

     

                    Galathil swallowed. He knows about them. He definitely knows.

     

                    ‘Sir… during my mission, I heard about – well, I’d thought they were just some… urban legend, ghost stories collected by the rank and file, but-’

     

                    ‘Ah.’ Lencius put away the quill and steepled his fingers. ‘You’re here about them.’

     

                    ‘Yes, sir,’ Galathil whispered.

     

                    Lencius went to his window and closed the drapes. ‘I didn’t think it was necessary to brief you since your mission to High Rock didn’t have anything to do with them… but it was Wayrest all the same, and what a mess Wayrest has turned out to be.’

     

                    Galathil waited with bated breath.

     

                    Lencius returned to his desk, running a hand across his stubble as he sighed. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to the tavern? It’s a long story, and you’re weary from your travels.’

     

                    ‘I…’ Her throat cracked and she cleared it. ‘I want to hear it, sir.’

     

                    ‘All right. Pull up a chair.’

     

                    Galathil sat. And she began to listen.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

Comments

2 Comments   |   A-Pocky-Hah! and 2 others like this.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  July 15, 2019
    I agree. I think it’ll all come to a head pretty soon.
  • A-Pocky-Hah!
    A-Pocky-Hah!   ·  July 12, 2019
    For a secret organization, the Shadeclaws are making themselves quite known, huh?