Dragon of the East - Arc 1, Chapter 16

  • Chases-The-Wind

    ~ ~ ~

    A spark from flint striking steel flashed in the darkness of the crypt. Within moments, bright orange flames were dancing atop the bundle of my torch. It was the only one I carried. I doubted it would last until I could reach the Dragonstone.

    The tunnels of Bleak Falls Barrow plunged deeper underground. I did not enjoy skulking through the halls of that forgotten place, decrepit and dust laden. Nothing of the barrow itself brought on my discomfort, despite it being filled with vermin and the deathly stench of preserved bodies.

    I strongly dislike the feeling of being trapped in tight spaces. It makes me anxious. I struggled with this for years as a hatchling. An Imperial scholar who studied the mind once called me something… What was the word he used…?

    Hmm… I believe it was claustrophobic, or something to that effect.

    Candles and fire pits further within shed light flickering flames. The shadows of embalming tools and Nordic sculpture work played tricks on my eyes, appearing to be moving apparitions against the Barrow’s cragged walls. Someone had come through here and lit the path prior to my arrival. I assumed it could have only been the doing of the Dunmer named Arvel, as the two Nords back at the surface had mentioned. He was the one who possessed the ‘golden claw,’ though I still did not know what that was.

    Nature had well begun to overtake the barrow, slowly enveloping man’s craftwork, returning it to the form from which it came. Torchlight glinted off of silvery spider silk. Branching pathways were sealed by rock slides. I made my way down a rickety spiral stairwell of wood, watching rodents and night crawlers scamper at the sound of my footsteps. The barrow itself must have been hundreds if not thousands of years old.

    My anxiety was becoming difficult to cope with. I staved off the onset of fretful feelings by focusing my thoughts on the Dragonstone. Farengar said it was within the main chamber, but he was unable to tell me precisely what it looked like. I only knew that the Dragonstone was a stone tablet. More specifically, a map. I was careful to examine every inch of the crypt I could, overlooking nothing.

    Upon leaving the stairwell, I advanced through a hall. There was a sudden crumbling behind me.

    Rocks clattered to the floor, echoing through the Barrow. I drew Xehtasken free from its scabbard and spun around. It was not a cave-in, thankfully, merely a small dislodging of rock. Perhaps a patch of dirt had given way. There were no other signs of movement, audible or visual. Nothing alive was behind me, at least which posed a threat.

    As I sheathed my sword, a man’s voice called out from further yonder.

    “Is… Is someone coming? Is that you Bjorn? Soling?”

    I hissed under my breath. Quick to smother the flame on my torch, I crept onward down a corridor to find the source of the voice. I stopped at the entrance to a large room and peered inside. A shaft of bluish light filtered down from a hole in the rocky ceiling, revealing particles in the air. Some comfort was taken in seeing signs of the surface. There was a large iron grate on the floor, covering an empty pit. Nearly everything in the room was damaged or destroyed beyond recognition. Shattered pottery and broken stone lay scattered. I could only guess what purpose the chamber once served.

    Standing near the room’s exit was a Dunmer, torch held in his hand as he scoped for signs of trouble. He was pale skinned and slender faced, wearing a set of rough hide garbs. A studded helmet adorned his head and an iron sword rested at his side, along with a leather bag slung over his shoulder. He had no ranged weapons, though I could not discern if he was versed in any arcane arts.

    Still, by all appearances, I had every advantage.

    Deciding it was time I acquired information, I rose from my crouch and came into the open, standing in the shadows on the opposite side of the room. The man jumped at the sight of me, drawing his blade.

    “What!? Who in Arkay’s name are you!?” he cried, his voice carrying a thick Dunmeri accent.

    “Forgive me if I am not inclined to introduce myself. I’ve not the patience for it,” I replied, foul tempered. “You are Arvel, yes?”

    “How do you know who I am?” the Dunmer stammered.

    “The others gave mention of you.”

    “Huh? Why’d they…?” Arvel trailed off, coming to a sudden realization, “Gods, they’re dead! You killed them, didn’t you!?”

     “No, but I imagine they are rather shaken up. They will not be joining us.”

    “Then why’d you come here? For the treasure? You here for it too?”

    “What I seek lies within this barrow,” I said, “and you have the means to help me find it. Am I wrong in this?”

    Arvel spat on the ground. “I ain’t got nothing to say to you, lizard.”

    Slowly I pulled out my crossbow, making sure its clangor was loud as I loaded ammunition.

    “Come now, there’s no need to be so cross,” I hissed, taking aim. “Either way, I’ll not be accepting refusal. You will cooperate.”

    The Dunmer cursed at the sight of my weapon.

    “What do you want from me?”

    “We’ll start with the golden claw. What is it?”                      

    “You don’t know?”

    “Answer the question.”

    Arvel paused.

    “It’s a key. The key to this place. Can’t reach the treasure without it.”

    “How did you come to possess this key?” I asked.

    “Why does that matter?” he cried. I glared at him harshly, gently pressing the trigger of my crossbow. Arvel resigned.

    “We took it from a merchant in Riverwood,” he muttered. “Fool didn’t even know its true worth. Kept the thing on display like some kinda decoration!”

    “Then it doesn’t belong to you, does it?” I said. “Perhaps you’d care to give it to me. I would like to see it returned when this is said and done.”

    “Or what, you’re gonna shoot me?” Arvel goaded. “You won’t get far doing that. I’m the only one who knows how to use this thing!”           

    “That makes no difference,” I bluffed, taking a step forward into the light. “I’ll find what I’m seeking, with or without you. When I do, if you are still alive, you will be free to leave and take whatever you wish that I have no need for.”                                                                                                                                           

    “Sure I will,” Arvel mocked, rolling his eyes. “How dumb do you think I am? I don’t trust you for a damn minute.”

    “Your alternative is to die where you stand. Be considerate of your options.”

    The Dunmer winced. He would not be able to talk his way out of this. Arvel reached into his bag, pulling out the solid gold ornament. It was reminiscent of a dragon’s claw, but disproportional. Three long curved talons jutted from the foot, while a series of carved markings extruded from its sole.

    “Keep the claw in the bag. Toss it to me,” I ordered. “And sheath your weapon.”

    Arvel complied as I moved toward him. With a light swing, the bag sailed through the air. I caught it with my free hand, keeping my weapon raised. I slung the bag over my shoulder. Arvel begrudgingly holstered his sword.

    “Good. Now, since you seem to know more about this place than I, you will be the one to lead. We’ll stop in the event of danger,” I said. “Start walking.”

    The Dunmer scowled, flipping me off as he trudged onward. I kept close behind, hoping beyond all hope that he was not foolish enough to think he could best me. If he tried anything, I would not hesitate to kill him. My survival in this task was paramount.

    Arvel led us further into the barrow. Swirled and spiraled patterns of stonework covered the walls, ceilings, and floor, giving the rock an almost organic appearance. We found ourselves amid ancient catacombs, tall rooms supported by thick stone columns. Corpses of entombed Nords lay in niches along the walls. Some were wrapped in cloth. Others were merely bones. More still retained a thin pasty skin that coated their skeletal frames, adorning what I could only assume were sets of ceremonial armor, made of leather and rusted iron.

    The two of us crept softly through the catacombs. I felt a strong unease, eying the many wall mounted charcoal pits, molded into the shapes of eagle heads peering down at the ground. Their embers illuminated the room.

    “Why are all of these fires lit?” I growled. “Is this your doing?”

    “Of course not,” Arvel scoffed. “They’re probably magic or something.”

    “These flames have no air of magicka. They’ve been maintained conventionally.”

    “That’s nonsense.”

    “Hardly. It is possible that this place is tended to.”

    “By who? Just what are you getting at?”

    “I am saying we–”

    A quiet shuffling sound came from the rear. I spun around, catching the sight of a pair of legs sitting upright from one of the rock-cut tombs.

    “We’re not alone!!” I exclaimed.

    The figure stood. It was none other than one of the corpses, standing as though alive. An insipid whiskery beard lined its emaciated face, frozen in a menacing scowl. The monster reeked of decay. Its eyes began to glow an iridescent blue. My eyes darted around the room as more bodies began to shuffle and rise from their resting places. They each drew weapons of worn, blackened steel.

    These were not zombies in the traditional sense. They are known simply as draugr, Nord warriors cursed with un-death and tasked to guard the many crypts and barrows of Skyrim’s ancestors.

    “What is this!? What’s happening!?” Arvel exclaimed.

    “Hold your ground!” I barked. “Don’t let them surround you!”

    The Dunmer was not inclined to test his mettle in a fight, seeing instead an opportunity to abandon me.

    “Forget it! This is your problem now!” he hissed. “I’m out of here!”

    Arvel took off down the catacombs. I spun back, snarling at the man’s cowardice. I would not let him get away – he could make off with the Dragonstone. As I aimed my crossbow, however, I noticed something behind a column of rock down the corridor. There were a set of metal hinges swung back, only just visible. I looked to the rock tile floor. One of the tiles was raised slightly above the others.

    It pressed down as Arvel stepped on it.                                                       

    “Wait!!” I shouted, outstretching my arm as though to catch the man and pull him back.

    Too late. Upon triggering the pressure plate, the concealed hinges swung forward, snapping from a source of tension like the release of a bow string. They dragged with them a grated wall coated in steel spikes. It slammed into the Dunmer, stopped mid-swing, and began to crank back into place. A grinding and wheeling of unseen mechanics clattered through the room. Arvel’s lifeless body clung to the spikes as would a fly caught in the sap of a tree. Blood drizzled and spurted from his puncture wounds.

    “By the Hist…!” I cursed, reeling in shock.                                             

    Footsteps. I turned around and met the gaze of a draugr approaching with a war axe in hand. I jumped back and fired off my crossbow. Its bolt sank into the draugr’s forehead. It staggered for a moment, before the glow in its eyes faded away, and it fell to the ground. These were no ordinary undead. Attacking their vital points still killed them, as though their organs retained function. Did life still linger in the abominations?

    More were closing in. I withdrew my crossbow, unable to reload it fast enough.

    Xehtasken flashed from its scabbard as another draugr lunged at me with a downward strike. I sidestepped and sliced off the monster’s arm, reaping the penalty for stepping into my range. The draugr’s head rolled on the floor with a second swipe of my blade. Pinning the severed arm down with my boot, I pried the axe from its calcified fingers.

    Armed in each hand, I met my undead assailants with all the fury I could muster. The next draugr swung at center mass with a two-handed sword. I ducked and swayed my momentum toward the attacker in a crouched dive. Xehtasken severed the it’s legs from underneath. Rising, I spun clockwise, glancing aside the blow of another sword with my axe. I snarled and plunged Xehtasken through the aggressor’s bare torso. The draugr staggered back, hilt and pommel protruding from its chest. A third corpse came to attack me. I lobbed the war axe from my left hand to my right, took aim, and threw the weapon. There was a splitting crack as the axe blade split into the draugr’s skull. It crumpled to the floor as I turned back to the other, pressed my boot against its chest, and kicked Xehtasken free.

    Four down. How many remain?

    I started counting.

    Two…  No, three… Four more…!?

    Draugr continued to wake and bear arms. I was outnumbered five to one. Premonition told me there were others to yet to come. I began slowly backing up. The unnerving, guttural voices of the undead mocked me in a foreign tongue, laughing and flaunting their weapons.

    “Bolog aaz, mal lir!”

    “Dir volaan!”

    “Daanik Dovahkiin!”

    Fighting on would be a death march. It was time to flee.

    I whirled and broke into a sprint down the corridor, stepping around the pressure plate that had killed Arvel. The draugr gave chase. As I raced through the catacombs, corpses continued to emerge from the innumerable graves I passed. They rose to stand against the trespasser that disturbed their sleep, wielding swords, axes, clubs and bows.

    I stopped counting after twelve.

    Arriving upon a narrow hallway, I nearly overlooked a tripwire strung across the base of its mouth. I stepped over and dashed down the hall, looking back to see the hoard that pursued me. Those in front were unmindful of the wire, breaking it as they shambled through. There was a brief creaking and groaning before vicious swinging axe blades began to oscillate from slits in the walls. Draugr were cut down as they tried to advance in complete disregard of the danger. Split limbs and dried rotten entrails spilled through the hall.

    For a moment I stopped, thinking that their numbers would be quelled enough for me to confront the remainder. It was foolish optimism. The momentum of the blades began die down, until they merely hung from their pivots. Draugr started skirting past them. I ran.

    This place, this horrid place! It is bent on killing any who enter! Was it all to guard the Dragonstone? A mere map? Or was there something more...?

    The catacombs transitioned into a natural cave formation deeper within. I raced through the cold and damp caverns, filled with glowing mushrooms and babbling groundwater. The sounds of footsteps behind pushed me onward into the unknown. I did not know where I was going. The path was leading somewhere, perhaps the main chamber. A fear that I would arrive at a dead end began to eat at my thoughts. Combined with the anxiety of being trapped underground, I had to fight down the fear welling inside me.

    There came a doorway. I slammed through it, arriving once more in an architectured room. Most of the ceiling had collapsed. Few scattered rock columns remained for support. A large cauldron of fire near the back served as the chamber’s sole source of light. Beyond it was a set of double doors and another draugr, clasping a large battle axe in both hands. Aside from the helmet upon its head that bore curved decorative horns, there was nothing that set it apart from the others.

    No sooner was I proven otherwise. The draugr lowered its weapon in one hand and began to form a swirling ball of frost in the other. A destruction spell. The foe outstretched its arm. I dove for cover as a spike of ice hurdled through the air and smashed into the wall behind me.

    Swearing at this unwelcome setback, I pulled out and reloaded my crossbow, taking a deep breath before charging out of cover. Cerulean light flashed as I cast a ward. The draugr volleyed another icy spear, striking the face of my spell with considerable force, but not enough to break through it. I closed the distance, dropped my ward, and raised my weapon.  With a swift trigger pull the crossbow’s bolt sailed into the draugr’s chest. It staggered back. Xehtasken struck the monster down. There was no more time to waste.

    Thinking quickly, I grabbed the corpse’s weapon and burst through the double doors ahead, using the axe to bar them behind me.

    All was still.

    Eerie silence deadened the hall. Wax candles and pits of glowing coal gave scarce light. A vaulted brick ceiling ran the length of the passage. There were carvings on the walls that rendered surreal images – robed figures carrying sarcophagi and depictions of men and women clothed in eccentric garments, radiating power and magic. They appeared to tell a sequential story, perhaps the chronology of a time long passed. Were I not in a desperate run for my life, I would have perused the walls further.

    Dashing to the other side of the tunnel, I stood before a large, black stone door. Swirling patters of relief work surrounded a circular apparatus, with carvings of three animals descending down toward the centerpiece. It was a disk that bore an image likeness of the golden claw, three holes near the top for each of its talons. Hurriedly, I reached inside Arvel’s bag and pulled out the ornamental key. It sunk into the holes of the disk and pressed it into the wall. The device seemed to function like a tumbler lock. I tried turning the claw with my wrist, rotating the disk in either direction.

    Nothing happened.

    I examined the door more closely. A stone covering hid the lower half of the apparatus. The three animal carvings were set in large rings of stone, offsetting inward as they enclosed toward the center disk. They depicted a moth, an owl, and a bear. A frightening idea dawned on me. I raised my hands up to the topmost ring and tried to rotate it. Sure enough, the ring gave way. A new carving appeared from behind the lower covering. It was another owl. Each ring was the same. They rotated between three interchangeable animals. My stomach sank into my feet.

    The key was not enough. The rings on the door formed a combination lock.

    Draugr bashed against the bared door at the back of the hall, slamming metal against wood. Their uproar was doom to my ears. Had the combination been lost with Arvel? There was no time to test every possible arrangement. I felt a crashing wave of hopelessness. Could I do nothing more than guess? Leave my fate in the hands of luck? I held the claw in my hands, feeling a series of rough extrusions on its underside. I flipped it over.

    There, on its sole, were three carvings in descending order: a bear, a moth, and an owl.

    By the time I fully comprehended what my eyes had seen, I was already sliding the first ring into place. Then the second. Then the third. I could hear wood splinter behind me. The door would not hold much longer. As the final ring rotated beneath my claws it snagged on something, jamming in place.

    “Kaah! No!!” I roared, hammering my fist on the infernal contraption. “C’ee to kaoc’ niihm! Come on!!”

    I pulled out my knife and pried it between the rings, teeth clenched, trying to dislodge whatever it was stuck on. My heart throbbed in my ears like a drum. At last the ring gave way. I spun it into place, scooped up the golden claw, pressed it into the disk, and twisted it back and forth before pulling it free. The rings began to gyrate on their own, aligning their carvings by animal. The stone covering on the door’s lower half sunk into the ground, revealing the full ringed mechanism.

    In spurts of movement the stone door descended, retracting into the floor.

    A crash resounded from the rear. I turned just in time to witness the draugr pouring through. An archer back among the hoard loosed an arrow. There was a sharp, flaring sting as the missile struck beneath my rib cage. I cried out, hurriedly stumbling through the doorway to a large flight of stairs on the other side.

    I was dead. Whatever hope I still had of escaping pursuit ended with that arrow. The slightest exertion brought agonizing pain, razors carving me from the inside. I could not run for long with the wound, nor stop to treat it.

    Yet as I struggled to climb the stairs, the puzzle door began to rise. I looked back. Slowly, surely, it closed shut. There was a brief muffled pounding on rock from the other side. Then nothing. All noise ceased. I breathed in quivering breaths.

    I had escaped.

    I fumbled up the remaining steps in darkness. Reaching the flight’s peak, I hastily dropped my bags and slumped back against a wall. The glow of a healing spell became my light source as I left it idle in my hand. I sawed off half of the arrow’s shaft with my knife and began unbuckling the belt of my chest piece. I took it off, exposing skin, scales and blood beneath.

    The steel arrowhead had managed to punch through my armor, entering deep enough to cause bad internal lesions. Wiping my knife with a cloth, I prepped to use it as a lancet. Field surgery is far worse when performed on oneself by oneself, but I had little choice if I wished to survive. I dug into the wound with my blade, widening the point of puncture, until I could reach in and remove the arrowhead from my body.

    Once the bloody work was finally done, I cast a healing spell on my chest and wiped my hands clean.

    A long sigh heaved from my muzzle. The pain was gone, as were my pursuers. I managed a weak sounding laugh. I thought for certain I was going to die, but it seemed I would have to keep living after all…

    Too exhausted to carry on, I quickly fell asleep.

    AUTHOR'S NOTES

    Once again, for the sake of giving authenticity to Chases-The-Wind, I’ve made up more words and phrases in Jel – though “kaoc’” is in fact an established swear in the language. It's exact meaning is unknown.

    This this instance, the language translates: “Turn, you kaoc’!”

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Comments

11 Comments   |   Fallout Night likes this.
  • SpottedFawn
    SpottedFawn   ·  October 21, 2015
    Nice job with the suspension in this one. I was really glued to my seat for that last part. Those pesky ancient Nordic puzzle doors!
  • Ebonslayer
    Ebonslayer   ·  October 16, 2015
    I thought he was referring specifically to his claustrophobia.
  • Tae-Rai
    Tae-Rai   ·  October 16, 2015
    Sotek said he did have weaknesses....
  • Ebonslayer
    Ebonslayer   ·  October 16, 2015
    Well actually Sotek, he does have another weakness. He can only cast lesser restoration spells not more powerful ones like the greater ward or grand healing.
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  September 3, 2015
     decrepit and dust laden.

    pale skinned and slender faced
    foul tempered

    To hyphenate or not to hyphenate, that is the question.
                “Then why’d you come here? For the treasure? You here for it too?”
    more
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  June 19, 2015
    Nicely done. It's good to see the main character have weaknesses and his own fears to cope with . Having a Hero which has no weaknesses and is master of all just don't sit well to me. I liked the part where Chase decided it was going to be too much facing...  more
  • adds-many-comments
    adds-many-comments   ·  July 26, 2014
    You continue to amaze me sir! Chase is my favourite without a doubt, intresting seeing him almost completely submit to fear, its not often you see your hero lose it slightly. You should be proud of your writing, I hope you are. Anyway great job!
  • Okan-Zeeus
    Okan-Zeeus   ·  May 21, 2014
    I don't know. It's a phrase used by Mere-Glim in the Greg Keyes novels, though no explanation behind it is given.
    EDIT: Actually, I was wrong. The phrase he uses is "What the Iyorth." I had it out of context. Oh well... XD
  • Soneca the Exiled
    Soneca the Exiled   ·  May 21, 2014
    I've never heard the expression: "by Iyorth"
    Part of the Argonian pantheon no doubt, what would be its equivalent in the Cyrodilic pantheon?
  • Okan-Zeeus
    Okan-Zeeus   ·  May 20, 2014
    If I were to write about Bleak Falls verbatim as it is in Skyrim, it would have been unbelievably boring and tedious.
    At first I wanted to add the encounter with the spider, but I decided to remove it because it just seemed unnecessary from a story ...  more