Author's notes – Before we get started I apologize that my chapters have been infrequent. Rest assured, I am still working on this book and have every intention to do so until it is completed. The reason is, lately I've been working on other priorities that simply have to be put before recreation. I'm a father of four, I work a full-time job, and am in the process of starting my own company. These things take a lot of my free time. I enjoy writing this book very much and will continue to do so, but there's only so much time in the day. I thank you for your patience.
There were dozens of them. Whether clad in furs or iron, it didn't matter. He killed them all the same as he charged up the stairs leading to the barrow. Nothing but corpses were left in his wake.
Soon those ahead realized that death was coming and broke, running for their lives. He spared no one. These men were not worth his mercy murderers, thieves, and rapists all.
He felt something stir in him. Something he'd thought or at least hoped was long since dead. He raised one hand, magicka swirling in pale blue tendrils. Chain lightning. The bolt of energy arced from man to man. Their screams, suddenly cut short, echoed in the mountains long after their lives had been extinguished. Their corpses littered the steps of the ancient ruin, blood spilling over every stone.
There were a few archers near the entrance to the barrow that had been taking shots at him during the battle. He walked slowly up the stairs, blood dripping from Chrysamere's tip. They aimed and fired, each in rapid succession. Talion raised his hand, the ward spell deflecting every arrow, sending them clattering softly to the stones before him.
He dashed forward. They tried to run, but his magicka-enhanced legs were too fast for them. He cut one horizontally along the belly, spinning to take the hand, then the head of a second, before sidestepping the third and killing him with a diagonal slash across his chest.
The only one left living was lying on his back, screaming, trying to hold in his guts. Talion left him there to die in the cold snow.
He shoved open the doors to the barrow. They scraped roughly on the stone they had never been intended to be opened again once sealed.
It was dark inside. He cast night vision. His eyes shifted suddenly, illuminating the darkness before him. There was a body surrounded by dead skeevers. It was a few hours old, judging by the look of it.
He saw light ahead and movement. Shadows cast by flickering firelight. He would catch them by surprise.
He ran forward, closing the distance in seconds. He threw out his palm, sending a gout of flame across their makeshift campsite. The furs on their clothes immediately caught fire, engulfing them in flame. He cut their screams short with two quick slashes of Chrysamere.
More came up the staircase four of them responding to the screams of their fellows. Talion gathered the power of air into his fingertip, focusing it to a razor's edge, and with a casual flick of his wrist sent it down the staircase, bisecting the would-be attackers at the waist.
He stepped over the bodies of the dying men, ignoring their pleading calls, as he made his way deeper into the barrow.
Ahead he heard a man talking to himself.
"It can't be so simple. Just a lever?"
There was silence for a moment.
"Eh, what's the worst that could happen?" he said.
Talion watched as he pulled the lever. Suddenly, the platform he stood on was hit from all sides by darts flying out of hidden holes in the walls of the barrow. The man staggered and fell forward, his body seizing before falling still.
Poison, Talion thought.
He entered the room, ready to cast a warding spell, on the lookout for pressure plates or any trigger for an unseen trap.
Above him he saw two engraved images animals. A third was fallen, crumbling on the ground from millennia of erosion. To his left he saw three pillars that looked like they could move.
He chuckled to himself. So simple, he thought.
He spun the pillars to match the images and pulled the lever. No darts flew his way. No spikes emerged from the ground. The door opened, the stone scraping loudly against the floor, hidden gears rumbling from within.
He saw a soul gem sitting in a chalice ahead and took it. It was of lesser quality, but soul gems were valuable especially when filled with the magical energy a trapped soul provides.
He heard soft squeaks behind him skeevers. With his left hand he cast Soul Trap, the violet light engulfing the skeever. He killed it with one swift swing of his sword.
A crack like lightning echoed through the chamber as the skeever's soul was rent from its body, the wisps of light channeled directly into the soul gem. Pure aetherial energy shone from within the gem. He pocketed it.
He wouldn't need it Chrysamere did not require soul gems to recharge its powers but the gem would sell for a decent price.
He used Flames to clear any more vermin that came across his path as he moved through the barrow.
Until,
Ahead he saw spider webs.
He heard a voice from ahead.
"Is that you, Harknir? Bjorn? Please, help me!"
Talion cleared the webs that blocked his way. It was quiet in the hollow. His eyes were peeled for any spiders.
There were egg sacs everywhere, but no spiders.
He looked up suddenly as he heard the snapping of pincers from over his head.
Now he knew why there were no other spiders. A brood mother would have turned on her young as soon as they were born, devouring them just like any other vermin that wandered unknowingly into her hollow.
The spider was massive,
The size of a young mammoth.
"Shit," he said.
He must be quick.
He cast Flame Cloak, then two Runes of Flame right where the spider would land.
He leapt at the creature, Chrysamere shining in his hand.
It happened all at once.
As the spider landed, the runes exploded at its feet. It was blasted off balance. Ears ringing, Talion pierced the thorax of the spider, his flame cloak charring the chitinous exoskeleton of the giant beast and cooking the flesh within.
The foul odor of burnt hair filled the room instantly.
As the spider thrashed, blinded by the heat and pain, Talion leapt away, leaving Chrysamere embedded into the beast's body.
He threw up both hands, and arcs of lightning leapt from his fingers, entwining the spider in a cage of electricity.
Only when the beast was dead its only movements spasms of electrical currents coursing through its body did he stop.
He breathed heavy.
"Hey! You over there! Help me! Please, I'm trapped in here," a man said.
He saw him trapped in the passageway, encased in a cocoon of web. A meal for the brood mother.
Talion retrieved Chrysamere from the beast's carcass, the blade coated with thick green ichor.
"What's your name?" Talion asked.
"Arvel," the man said.
Talion began wiping the blade clean with a rag from his pocket, eyeing Arvel.
"How did you wind up here, Arvel?" Talion asked.
Arvel gulped audibly.
"I—I uh, well," he said with a nervous laugh. "I came into this wonderful artifact. It led me here. A great treasure in store! I would share it with you if you would cut me down," Arvel said.
"A golden claw," Talion said.
It was not a question.
Arvel said nothing.
"I've been contracted to retrieve the golden claw, stolen from the Riverwood Trader last night. A price of five hundred septims has been offered for its return."
"I'll beat it!" Arvel said quickly. "A thousand! Just cut me down! That claw is a key and treasure beyond imagining waits beyond the lock!"
Talion tossed aside the stained rag and walked toward Arvel.
"My mentor, an obstinate old Khajiit, once told me if one is to sell his sword, he must have a code to live by. For why should your employer pay you when you would sell them out the second you were given a better deal?"
He shook his head.
"No, no, no. You've got to have standards," Talion said.
He was standing in front of Arvel now.
"And besides... I do despise thieves."
He pressed his hand to the webs. Flames engulfed Arvel.
He screamed as the flame spread rapidly over his body, turning the thief to ash.
The claw landed softly in the pile of ashes that had been Arvel.
Talion took it, stuffing it into his pack.
That's done, he thought.
Then hesitated, looking down further into the barrow.
"Treasure beyond imagining, eh?" he said to Arvel's ashes. "Well… Lucan never said I couldn't use the claw."
==
Talion cast Magelight. The spell soared down the long, dark passageway, gliding softly by ancient desiccated corpses. None moved.
Talion slid his hand along Chrysamere's blade, imbuing the steel with flame. He held it high, ready to strike.
"Never tread near the barrows," the village elders had instilled in them from a young age. Unlike some superstitions that prove unfounded, the folk of Skyrim know all too well what sleeps in the ancient barrows long-dead servants of the dragons that had ruled Skyrim thousands of years before. The dragons' magic being so powerful that even after all this time, their spells held sway.
Talion breathed softly as he walked, his sword illuminating the darkness, making his way toward his spell of Magelight glowing pale blue in the distance. His ears perked up suddenly as he heard a soft rustle of cloth then another, and another. One after the other, the draugr rose from their long sleep to meet the intruder.
He fell into Raging Sandstorm as blue eyes glowed all around him. They groaned through their rotten throats a harsh, rasping sound as they stumbled in his direction, unsheathing ancient Nordic weapons. Chipped and rusted, but no less dangerous.
Talion's flaming sword spun in his hand. The near-weightlessness of the sword made it easy to flow through the forms. The sword seemed to have been made for Goutfang, its length creating an impenetrable wall of steel and flame around him, parrying attack after attack, sending pieces of his enemies flying in all directions with each swing.
When the last of the draugr fell, the top of its skull clattering to the floor, he found himself surrounded by dozens of corpses not a drop of blood on the stones.
Nothing else rose from the shadows to attack him as he continued through the darkness of the ruin. Yet he never dropped his guard.
After nearly an hour, he came to a stone door. Three images were engraved into the stone. On closer inspection, he realized it was three rings of stone, able to spin independent of each other a depression in the door shaped like the claw.
The lock, he thought.
He looked around the room for any hint of the solution, but there was nothing relevant to any of the images on the door carved into the many friezes on the wall. He idly fingered the golden claw in his pack and felt something carved into the back.
He pulled it out and held it in the light of Chrysamere. He spun the rings of the door, each clicking into place to match the three images carved into the back of the claw.
As the final ring stopped, he set the golden claw into the doorway. He turned it, and the door began to rumble. Dust and debris fell on his head as it receded into the stone floor.
He stepped through into a long cavern, obviously much older than the barrow itself. Bats flew overhead as Chrysamere's light broke the gloom. He raised his hand and cast Magelight. The spell flew ahead and stuck to a large stone sticking out of the ground.
Who knew what horrors had been sealed away in this cavern? But nothing emerged.
He made his way to the light slowly, watching for traps and hidden enemies, Chrysamere at the ready. What he had thought was simply a stone was in fact a lone wall, set aside from the original construction.
As he approached, he felt his heart pulse. Carved into the wall by what seemed to be claws was well, he wasn't sure. He felt compelled to stare into the markings. And as he did, he began to understand them.
"Force," he said aloud.
Suddenly, there was a loud crack behind him. He turned and saw a dark figure clad in ancient armor. Tattered rags hung from its rotting flesh as it rose from the sarcophagus, its eyes pale blue in the darkness.
This one is different, Talion thought. He sensed immense power in the draugr this one was a great lord in life.
Talion raised Chrysamere and adopted Rising Dragon. His blade came up under the draugr's guard, but quick as lightning the draugr deflected the blow before breathing in deep
"Fo Krah Diin!" the overlord shouted.
A wall of icy wind erupted from the overlord's mouth barreling toward Talion. He tried to raise his warding spell, but he wasn't fast enough. He raised Chrysamere by instinct. The blade glowed more brilliantly than before, chasing the darkness of the cavern away.
The shout was absorbed into the blade.
He charged, seizing the moment, years of combat experience taking over. He cut the overlord's hand from its wrist with a rising slash the elemental-infused blade more powerful than before.
He brought the greatsword around, cutting the overlord at the navel. It staggered back. As it raised a hand, Talion concentrated the element of fire to an edge a spell of his own invention. Flame Slash took the head from the overlord's body, instantly cauterizing the wound.
It staggered, then fell, dead to the cavern floor.
Talion breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at Chrysamere.
It absorbs magicka even shouts. Interesting, he thought.
The sword had just saved his life, no doubt. He hadn't expected to encounter that ancient form of magicka in this place.
He should have known.
Damn fool, he thought.
He searched the room. There were always treasures buried in these old tombs.
There was a chest inside. He found a dagger he felt faint traces of magicka coming from it. It was enchanted, alright; only a wizard would be able to identify exactly what sort it held.
He stuffed it in his pack, along with three rubies, a few gold bars, and three large potions. He would need an alchemist to tell him what properties they had. Regardless, it would be valuable.
He took the draugr's axe. It too glowed with power.
Inside the sarcophagus, he found a tablet. As with the Word Wall, it only took a few moments for him to decipher it.
It showed the location of several burial sites spread throughout Skyrim. The names of every interred dragon were etched into the tablet.
Why would these be so secret they would require a protector like that draugr? he thought.
It didn't matter.
This was the real treasure.
A wizard would pay any price to find the lost burial sites of the dragons. The research value alone was priceless.
He threw back his head and laughed.
He was gonna be rich.
==
A secret passage in the cavern had led him out to the slope of a small hillock. He recognized the river. He knew where he was.
He had left a mark on the front door of his father's home. He could have cast a Recall spell and been there instantly, but the night air smelled good, and he felt like walking.
His master had told him not to rely on the teleportation spell too much, as it would weaken his body through disuse.
That morning he had bought a bottle of Honningbrew before leaving the village. He'd intended to share it with his father when he returned home, but the old man was probably already gone to the drink at this point anyway.
So Talion drank deep from the bottle as he walked the road, savoring the quality mead a taste he hadn't had in years.
He took his time, singing loudly in the night. The echoes of his voice sang back to him.
He was in a very good mood.
To the right buyer, that stone was worth tens of thousands enough to buy land, build a farm, settle down.
As he stepped through the archways into Riverwood, he knew something was amiss.
Every window was shuttered, and an orderly line of armored feet had left tracks through the mud of the village square at least thirty of them.
His instincts kicked in instantly. He cast aside the bottle. All mirth fled in a moment.
Chrysamere was in his hand, and a spell of Detect Life cast.
He scoured his surroundings, ready for anything. But there was no large collection of auras shining in the darkness, lying in ambush.
No arrows flew to take him unawares.
He looked to the small shack nestled above the waterfall.
No... he thought.
He gathered magicka into his hands
And cast Recall.
==
Orlin sat in his chair. He'd removed his peg damn thing made his stump itch like all Oblivion. He'd had more than a few bottles. More than his customary amount, even. He supposed he was worried about Talion.
He'd hoped the boy no, man, by the Nine, he would never get used to that would have stayed around a little longer. But he'd always been a wild one, even as a child. Honestly, he was surprised the boy hadn't ended up as a meal for a frostbite spider or a thrall in some Falmer cavern the way he'd roamed around the countryside as a boy.
But he supposed it was his own fault. He'd never set the best example for him. He chuckled to himself.
He turned his head suddenly as a twig snapped outside. He saw shadows move across the window moments before the door came crashing down. He threw his chair back, reaching for his crossbow, bringing it up to fire a bolt into the eye of the first that came through.
The gold-clad Thalmor fell dead to the floor. He threw the now-useless crossbow at the second, who tripped on the body of his fellow, giving Orlin time to rise to his one good leg.
Moving as quick as he could, he grabbed the firepoker, raising it like a sword in front of him as half a dozen Thalmor soldiers flooded into his small shack. They didn't attack merely formed a semi-circle in his living room, raising swords, grim determination on their faces.
Orlin smiled. Even in my twilight years, they know to fear me, he thought.
They made way for another to enter the room. He wore a black hood over his long white hair and a crisp, clean black overcoat with a high collar. He stepped over the corpse of his fellow before the body was dragged outside into the night. Without a word, the elf slipped his gloves from his fingers and lowered his hood.
His face was horrifically scarred the cheek on the left side was nearly gone, exposing his teeth in a mockery of a smile.
"Have a seat," the Thalmor officer said.
He had a wet hiss of a voice a constant reminder of his deformity. It made Orlin's skin crawl.
"I don't think I will," Orlin said through gritted teeth.
The officer did not press the issue but instead took a seat himself.
"I am sure you know my purpose here in your home tonight, Nord." It was not a question.
Orlin said nothing.
"My name is Falanor Valteras. I am a Justiciar of the great Aldmeri Dominion." He looked around the hut with disgust. "I have been sent to this place to hunt down and return to Summerset the murderer known as The Winter Knife."
The Thalmor stared Orlin down for a moment.
"Your son," he added.
He then reached into his coat and cast a dossier onto the table between them.
"Go on, read it. I'm sure, as a Nord, you have no love for me or my kind. You should take great pride in your son's work. I certainly would, if I was in your shoes."
He looked slowly to the stump of Orlin's leg.
"Shoe," he corrected with a soft smile.
Orlin did not reach for the dossier.
"Can't read," he said.
"Of course you can't," Falanor said with a weary sigh.
He pulled the dossier toward himself, flipped it open.
"I'll read the highlights," he said, and began to read.
"Ambushing a supply caravan no survivors. The bodies of the officers were stripped of their skins before being impaled on the roadside. The assassination of a local lord and his wife the couple were burned in their beds while they slept before the manor house was put to the torch. The destruction or theft of millions of sancars worth of gold, precious gemstones, priceless art, and ancient artifacts from the First Era"
Orlin interrupted with a loud laugh. "Was that the one where he sunk all them ships?"
Falanor closed the dossier with a snap.
"Indeed, it was in fact the one where he sunk all them ships," he said, his voice filled with barely controlled rage.
"I don't think I need to continue regaling you with your son's exploits. I think now we can get down to, as they say, brass tacks."
His eyes met Orlin's a piercing stare, as if he were trying to bore into his soul.
"Where is your son? I would very much like to talk to him. You see, in addition to his many crimes, I have a personal score to settle," he said, gesturing calmly to the ruin of his face.
"Dead," Orlin said with a smile.
"Dead?" the officer repeated.
"Aye," Orlin said. "Killed him myself when he told me of all those awful things he did to you pointys."
Orlin's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"See, I'm a loyal Empire man, and I couldn't stand for my own son my flesh and blood being a traitor. No, I could not."
He laughed loud. His laugh filled the room. But it ended as suddenly as it began.
His face became deadly serious.
"How about this, knife-ear: you stop wasting my time, and I'll stop wasting yours. Let's get to the fun part. Because I'd rather get run through by every damn sword in this room than listen to your disgusting fucking voice for another moment."
Falanor rose to his feet with a smile.
"Very well," he said, slowly slipping his gloves back over his fingers.
==
Talion appeared on the front step of his home, momentarily disoriented. He stared around, Chrysamere shining in his hand, his heart racing, breath steady.
No enemies came to meet him.
The porch was slick with blood. The scent of iron clung to the air. He saw the dark liquid spreading slowly from the broken doorway.
He stepped inside.
Half a dozen corpses in gilded armor lay strewn across the wreckage of his father's home. Overturned furniture and shattered ceramic littered the blood-strewn floor.
He saw him thenrun through with elven blades, nailed to the wall. His face was a mass of blood and bruising.
Orlin.
The Dread Blade.
His father. Dead.
He fell to his knees, Chrysamere slipping from his fingers as the tears flowed freely.
"Did you get my message, Winter Knife?" a voice called loudly from outside.
Talion stood, rage boiling in him. He picked Chrysamere up from the blood-soaked ground and stepped outside.
He felt as though he were in a dream no, a nightmare.
Dozens of Thalmor soldiers surrounded the house, swords at the ready, their shields forming a protective ring around the home.
He stood there, staring them down, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword.
"Do you remember me?" the elf asked Talion.
He did not answer. He began to walk slowly toward him, the floorboards creaking with every step.
Talion raised his hand quickly. Purple lightning exploded from his fingertips.
The elf quickly shoved one of his own comrades in front of him the body disintegrated instantly, the ghost of a scream echoing in the night air.
With a smile, the Thalmor officer raised his hand.
In unison, the battalion closed ranks and began marching.
The formation closed in toward him. Talion stopped at the center.
"I remember you," he said. "How could I forget the Butcher of the Temple of Two Moons Dance Falanor Valteras."
There was anger in his voice.
"You killed many of my friends that day."
"Their primitive religion could not be allowed under the new order. The Thalmor will always reign supreme," Falanor said a satisfied smile on his ruined face.
"Had I been there, you would not have survived the day," Talion said through gritted teeth.
Falanor laughed loudly. "Had you been there, you would have been nothing more than one more corpse amidst your furry little friends."
"Did you like my gift?" Talion asked with a dangerous smile.
The elf involuntarily reached for his scarred face, then stopping himself smiled.
"Three impressively powerful flame runes in my carriage. You could say I enjoyed mine as much as you enjoyed yours," he gestured to Orlin's home.
"Then let's settle this," Talion said coldly. "Or will I have to cut through them to have satisfaction?"
He raised his sword, gesturing to the soldiers. More than a few took an involuntary step back.
"Cowards," Falanor muttered in disgust. "Step aside," he commanded.
He stepped into the circle of shields, sliding his blade free of its scabbard.
"I've been waiting a long time for this," the Justiciar said with a smile.
Talion raised his blade.
"Then let's get to it," he said, his eyes filled with malice.
The elf charged in, his blade whistling in the air as it passed in front of Talion's nose.
The follow-up swing would have taken a less skilled opponent's head clean off, but Talion parried it just in time.
He was good. Very good, Talion thought.
He was constantly on the offensive. The sword spun faster and faster in his hand.
Talion met each attack with equal ferocity.
The two — man and mer — were evenly matched with the blade. But Talion still had the advantage. His strength.
Talion caught his sword in a bind, leaning into the steel, his strength forcing the edge down toward that horrifically scarred face.
Falanor laughed. "I didn't train ten years and track you across a continent to die here, Nord," he said, his eyes flashing with glee.
Falanor drew a dagger from his belt and rammed it to the hilt into Talion's side.
Talion clenched his teeth, holding back the scream. Never let pain distract you, Janico had said.
The elf raised his sword and brought it down in a deadly arc. Talion backstepped, barely avoiding being bisected.
"Move aside, you fools!" Falanor screamed, his eyes alive with insane mirth.
He attacked again and again, forcing Talion back further and further as blood flowed freely down Talion's cuirass.
But he wouldn't be killed so easily.
He roared his defiance as he counterattacked, bringing Chrysamere down hard on the elf.
Falanor blocked it, but the strength of the blow brought the elf's sword down biting into Falanor's shoulder, not a mortal wound, but enough to slow him down.
The elf backstepped the follow-up strike.
"Die!!" Talion screamed, his rage boiling over. His vision went red, and he hacked at the elf, who barely stayed ahead of him until Falanor faltered, losing his footing and falling backwards in the dirt.
Talion raised his blade for one final strike, but the elf reached into his coat quickly, throwing something in Talion's direction.
Talion's eyes went wide as two small bronze orbs came at him. They flashed once.
Twice.
BOOM!
The explosion shredded his armor to tatters. He felt his ribs break, the flesh melt like tallow.
The force threw Talion back
Twenty feet
Over the cliffside
And down into the raging waters below.