A Cold Land

[Kazahan]

"Let's go down into the town, shall we?"

"No. Khajiit will not be seen with you."

"Listen, cat. You do what we say. If we say go with us down there—"

"You are fools. This one has been here before, and I am not warmly welcomed. To be seen with you will do me no favors, and you will find that you yourselves have made Khajiit's job harder."

The dark furred Khajiit (http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u161/blahblahblahblabbity/Skyrim%20and%20other%20Gaming%20Images/2014-05-13_00010.jpg) glared at the Thalmor standing before him; two wizard agents of the Thalmor Embassy and four soldiers. His chances at winning against them all weren't good; but his chances of escape weren't bad, even with his distinguishing clothing and armor. The elves were likewise wary; the desert dweller was armed to the teeth and claws; literally, as the Khajiit were known to use their claws to tear out the throats of their foes. A bow and a quiver of arrows on his back, and a longsword at his side, and a hide shield with a tell-tale sheen to it all indicated that the cat in front of them was no stranger to bloody work.

"This one has received a letter from the Jarl," the Khajiit said. "Khajiit will answer the summons, and perform whatever task it is he asks. If you have a task, do this. The further you are from Kazahan, the better for Kazahan and Thalmor, yes?"

One of the Thalmor sneered, but already the Khajiit — Kazahan — was disappearing into the shadows. The elves stood straight, and looked down at the town.

"We'll have to kill him," one said. The other nodded.

"I will, gladly, when the time comes."

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

Kazahan waited until the elves had crested the hill past the abandoned tower where he was pretty sure a spriggan had settled in to move toward the town. He hoped the bandits on that road crushed a couple of the soldiers before they were killed. The morbid little town of Falkreath was just as quiet as the last time he'd been here, and he was just as eager to leave now as he had been then. The Nord owner of the general store nodded in his direction; Kazahan nodded back, and entered the longhouse, which was stifling and ill-vented.

Siddgeir, the Jarl of Falkreath, was a younger man, but there was an air of indolent foppery about him that Balgruuf and definitely Stormcloak lacked. He was speaking with his housecarl, it seemed, and so the Khajiit remained back, watching the man and taking his measure. He found him wanting.

[Alecto Mordane]

Smoke from the firepit before the jarl's throne pooled in the arched ceiling of the longhouse, clouding the small windowpanes overhead, where sunlight fell in broken hatches. No doubt the intent was to surround the throne in misty sunlight so as to lend the jarl an air of celestial authority. But Falkreath never got proper sunlight. What meager rays made it through the fog and the rainclouds overhead simply died in the stifling, smoky air and turned everything to indistinct shades of gray and brown. Almost everything, anyway.

Alecto Mordane hunched over the pale green glow of an arcane enchanter in the west wing balcony, a pulsing soul gem in one hand, and a pickaxe in the other. The town blacksmith had given him the pick and a hundred and twenty septims for an enchantment that would cause the earth to yield more ore, a favor for a cousin who worked in the Embershard Mines. There was no such enchantment, of course, but that hardly mattered to Alecto. A simple stamina enchantment would make the fool feel he was getting more work done, a mundane task not worth more than, say, a petty gem and the soul of a cat.

The Breton mage closed his eyes and finished his incantations, and an ethereal glow passed from the soul gem to the pickaxe, where it disappeared into the wood grain. Then he turned to hang the freshly enchanted pick on the wall when he spotted a towering Khajiit standing on the longhouse floor, his thick tail swatting idly at his ankles. Alecto set the pick aside and stepped up to the balcony railing for a better look at the stranger: well armed, roughly groomed, clad in armor that had no doubt seen better days. He might have been one of any number of mercenaries and thugs roaming the countryside, but it was rare enough for a Khajiit to be summoned to a jarl's house unless his paws were in irons, even in a dismal backwater like Falkreath.

Alecto's black robes hissed over the narrow wood-slat staircase as he descended to the stone floor to stand by the stranger. "Can I help you, Khajiit?"

[Kazahan]

Kazahan's eyes slowly turned to the Breton mage, studying him as he had studied the Jarl.

"This one has been summoned to speak with the Jarl," he growled. "And you are not him. I do not desire enchanted stones or amulets. Court wizards charge more than even shopkeepers."

He turned to look back at the Jarl, who was busy tuning out his increasingly frustrated housecarl. Kazahan's brutal confidence couldn't lessen the mage's own self-assuredness. Mages tended to be uppity, and arrogant. It was just hard to tell which ones were deservedly so.

[Alecto Mordane]

Alecto's lips split into a perfectly white smile. "Peace, friend Khajiit. I did not wish to presume. As I recall, the Jarl had sent for warrior to help resolve some... outstanding contracts in the Hold. You look just the type. Allow me."

The mage strode confidently toward Jarl Siddgeir and Helvard, his bare-armed Nordic housecarl, who was still arguing heatedly about the disposition of Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun, and whispered a Calming spell into the air. Helvard's train of thought evaporated, and Siddgeir turned blinking toward his mage. "Yes, Alecto?" he drawled. "What is it that you want?"

"Please pardon the intrusion, my Jarl," Alecto replied. "But it seems your guest has arrived."

Siddgeir leaned in his throne to look past the shimmering firepit and squinted uncomprehendingly at Kazahan. "My guest?"

[Wulthgar Milk-Drinker]

Mead. The Honey-Muse. The flower maiden who giveth and taketh away so many ideas.

Wulthgar blinked heavy sleep from his eyes, his face a grimace as he smacked away the taste of something foul in his breath. The grimace turned to a look of somber concern when he appraised his surroundings. They were not the lumpy mattresses and pillows and the spartan accoutrements of his room in the Dead Man's Drink Inn. Though his spine did detect the familiar presence of uneven straw padding beneath him. Instead of a bed, he lay in a manger, an unwelcome sight to the three head of bovine creatures regarding him with disapproving shaggy countenances and beady eyes.

"Of course. How rude of me. I have interrupted your repast."

Getting the bearing of his surroundings once more, the dwarf discovered a familiar presence adjacent to his person in the form of a trusty metal tankard, still half-laden with Black Briar Mead. The elixir was now unfavorably warm, but it did little to diminish its qualities to lubricate the mind, and so Wulthgar quaffed it eagerly, finishing his ration as he tumbled out of the feeding trough and onto the ground. The cows simply mooed at him angrily.

"I do not appreciate your haughtiness. I have relinquished my station, and you are now free to return to your life's ambition of becoming steak."

Bruised more physically from his fall than of his pride, Wulthgar worked to wipe the mud from his backside before getting his wits together once more.

[Kazahan]

Kazahan proffered the note to the Jarl, who glanced at it, and then back up at him.

"Ah yes. I've heard that you are a good problem solver for some in the Empire, and I have need of someone with... discretion."

Kazahan continued stare at the Jarl, whose smugness didn't lessen. He didn't even shift in his seat. His estimation of the man rose slightly.

"What can this one do... quietly... for the Jarl, hmm?" he asked. The Jarl's smile was oily.

"I have made arrangements with a group of bandits out near Knifepoint Ridge. If you do not know where it is, speak to my steward. She will show you where to find it. They haven't been playing nicely with another group I've made some agreements with at nearby Bilegulch Mine. I want you to go and convince them to do so. If they won't listen..." the Jarl paused and looked the Khajiit in the eye. "Kill them to the last man. And any prisoners they might be holding; they might have heard of the connection between us, and that is something I cannot allow."

"What will Khajiit get in return for his discretion?" Kazahan asked. Siddgeir shrugged and smiled his oily smile.

"Gold," he said. "Lands, perhaps, if you're an ambitious sort. I could use someone like you — if you succeed — often. I could offer you a position as thane."

"Khajiit will take the gold." Siddgeir looked a bit affronted, but soon the expression dropped and he shooed Kazahan away with a negligent wave of his hand. Kazahan turned and stopped by the mage. "This one must speak with the steward."

[Alecto Mordane]

"The fastest way to Knifepoint Ridge?" Alecto said. "Head west until you reach the foot of the mountains, then follow them north until you see the light of a forge. The bandits have occupied an abandoned mining camp in the foothills. Now, if you'll indulge me for just a moment, I may be able to put more gold in your pockets, Khajiit."

[Kazahan]

"This one chose gold as the best option," Kazahan answered flatly. "I am not interested in land or power. Not here."

The mage was a persistent one, though. His interest was up, and a mage's interest was a dangerous thing. But perhaps...

"Tell me what you wish, and then we shall discuss proper payment," he offered, stalking further away from the Jarl's seat.

[Alecto Mordane]

There wasn't much room to escape notice in the dilapidated shack that passed in Falkreath for a baronal estate, but Alecto accompanied the Khajiit to the front of the hall and away from the heady woodsmoke that belched from the firepit.

"It's a trifle, really. You see, three weeks ago I ordered a shipment of books from my colleague in Markarth. Just last week I received word that the courier was ambushed on the road near Knifepoint Ridge - his body was recovered, but the books were missing. I suspect they've hidden them somewhere in the mine, if they haven't used the pages for kindling."

[Kazahan]

"How convenient the books are lost in the same place I must go to complete another task," Kazahan said flatly. "But if this one finds them, he will bring them back to you. Payment... Khajiit will determine payment after the bandits there have been dealt with. Should this prove more difficult, Khajiit will ask for more."

With that, Kazahan left the longhouse and took a long deep breath to clear his senses from the stifling smells and the smoke, only to be greeted by the scents of pig and chicken feces mingling with an almost overpowering pine scent. The overloading of his senses didn't last long, and he stalked past a sty to the west.

The moons were bright and the sky was clear and absolutely glittering with stars. Kazahan paid them no mind; they reminded him of home.

[Wulthgar Milk-Drinker]

The Dead Man's Drink was a place of business for many, and for Wulthgar it was no exception. That being said it was no place to work on unfinished songs. The natural creative process of bumbling over clunky meter and finding rhyming pairs like so many lost socks was occasionally grueling and unglamorous, and certainly resulted in few septims. So instead, Wulthgar returned to the inn only briefly to exchange his tankard for a flagon of ale, taking it and his lute off the premises and towards the one place he might expect a modicum of privacy in Falkreath - or at least privacy among the living.

Perched on a headstone on the outskirts of the cemetary, the diminuitive Nord quaffed a few hefty gulps of ale, and returned to his musical instrument, grinding out the genesis of a new song.

"When Falkreath's Jarl was old and frail, the call went wide and far
Who would carry on old Dengeir's fame
A sharper mind a keener wit to further raise the bar
Young Siddgeir would carry Falkreath's flame"

Wulthgar paused, grimacing at the early stanza, drawing a leaf of paper from his breast pocket and cribbing a few notes on it before trying the line again. Before he could refrain, he noticed a Khajit passing on the road leading from town, and immediately drew a hand across his lute strings, to hush their unfinished blathering.

"Well met, traveler Khajit. Do I detect a sense of purpose glittering in those gold eyes of yours? Off to a hunt mayhaps?"

[Kazahan]

"Mayhaps," the Khajiit responded, pausing his purposeful stride. He glanced at the diminutive bard. "Is there something this one can do for you?"

[Wulthgar Milk-Drinker]

The Nord's eyes narrowed appraisingly, a wry grin appearing as he did so.

"You seem a creature of grim purpose, by the state of your arsenal. I request nothing so sanguine, merely to slake my thirst of gossip. My eyes cannot help but note you travel from good Jarl Siddgeir's longhouse. At the risk of invoking ancient biases, it is a noteworthy occasion for a Jarl to keep a Khajit's company. I may have appraised young Siddgeir too modestly if he maintains such a cosmopolitan court. I would very much like to hear the story, if the grisly intrigues are not incriminating of course."

[Kazahan]

"In that case, this one will have to disappoint you."

Even in the darkening light, the glint of Kazahan's teeth in his amused smile was visible.

"For the tale is nothing if not incriminating. And then Khajiit will have to take care of you as he is going to take care of others. That is an effort I do not want to make."

[Wulthgar Milk-Drinker]

"Your meaning is well-got, friend." The bard raised both palms in a sign of submissive deference. "And your forthcoming reasons for not being forthcoming are likewise. Go in peace, good cat. If the Jarl means to throw his rock and hide his hand, then I shall find something more deserving of my attentions than where such a rock may land."

It was a curiosity nonetheless. Why did Siddgeir need to move a hand unseen? If the reason was a threat to the hold, he had his own guardsmen. If it were something larger than that, could he not call down the legion's aid?

[Kazahan]

"If you are curious, though, the Jarl seems in good spirits," Kazahan said as he stalked away, one clawed hand raised to take his leave. He was gone into Falkreath's dark forests a moment later.

He breathed a sigh of relief at being out of the town; it always struck him as being a morbid little place. He stopped suddenly and looked to his left. Standing there in the bush was a wolfhound, a huge dog with eerily intelligent eyes staring at him. Their eyes locked for a moment or two, before the dog turned and trotted off. Kazahan couldn't quite understand why, but he felt as if he'd been spared of something.

He continued on east, moving fast, but quietly enough that slumbering spriggans and sleeping bears did not notice his passing. He himself didn't want to deal with them; his task was dangerous enough as it was, without their interference.

Night was waning into morning by the time the Khajiit caught the glimpse of his destination in the distance; Kazahan was glad of it, though the further he got from the town itself, the less he minded Falkreath. It was time to do his work.

[Alecto Mordane]

The miner's camp at Knifepoint Ridge was perched on the steep, rocky foothills beneath the Dragontail mountains that separated Skyrim from Hammerfell. It consisted of three wooden shacks and a glowing forge pit surrounded by a winding bailey of logs pointed and lashed together, along with a smattering of deerhide tents and smoldering campfires. There was one path up the hillside that wasn't made of sheer, unforgiving crags of stone, a dusty trail that wound through a series of blind switchbacks. At the top of the trail was a crude watchtower of logs and planks manned by a Bosmer in padded hide and leathers with a strung hunting bow over his shoulders. He watched the path below with ringed and reddened eyes.

"How's the weather up there, Glarast?" a husky Nord woman shouted up from below.

"Damn you to Molag Bal, Kirhire," the wood-elf drawled back. "Where in the name of Obilvion is Lucard? He was supposed to relieve me hours ago."

"Lucard's sick," Kirhire replied, swinging a mace idly from her heavy, sun-bronzed arms. "Says it's bone break fever, from one of the old traps in the mine."

"Bone break fever," Glarast scoffed. "I call it a case of lazy-arse Breton. It'll be terminal if I get my hands on him. When am I getting relieved, then?"

"Soon as Ulmakh says so. Look, relax. We haven't seen so much as a skeever all week. Falx, Jarada, and I, we've got your back."

"So as I wither on my feet and go blind with fatigue, my life rests in the hands of a failed Imperial mage, a skooma-addled Redguard berserker, and a madwoman with a mace."

"You got it, pointy," Kirhire replied with a leer. "Stay there, I'll bring you a mead. You'll like it. It's made of honey, which comes from bugs."

"I hate mead. I hate you, too."

"That's not what you said two nights ago."

Glarast sighed and ground his face into his palm. "Yes it is. I said those words exactly. Any recollection you have to the contrary is likely the result of taking one too many blows to your overdeveloped Nordic skull."

He turned and peered over his shoulder to see her still grinning impudently up at him. "Fine," he said. "Bring me the mead."

"Coming right up, love."

The Bosmer leaned against the rail of his watchtower. "That woman," he said to himself, and, smiling, he fingered the Amulet of Mara underneath his hide shirt.

[Kazahan]

Kazahan trudged up to dirt path leading into the camp at Knifepoint, grunting in annoyance at a fly that buzzed around his ears. Despite the annoyance, he could hear clearly the voice of a Nord woman by her accent, and a clear toned voice that might have belonged to an elf of some kind.

As he turned the last switchback, he saw the wood elf, standing atop the wooden watchtower pull his bow from his back and shout something. Kazahan raised his hands.

"Khajiit comes from the Jarl!" he shouted. "This one is sent by the Jarl! Allow me to speak with your chief!"

[Alecto Mordane]

Glarast leveled the point of his arrow at the Khajiit's heart while Kirhire, already halfway up the steps with a bottle of mead, rushed up to join him and laid her hand on the heavy lever that sat on the edge of the platform.

"The Jarl?" the Nord woman whispered. "I thought Ulmakh said we were done with him."

"Or perhaps the Jarl thinks he's done with us," Glarast replied.

"If that were true, he'd have sent more than one Khajiit," Kirhire said scornfully. She tightened her grip on the lever. "Shall I flush him out?"

"No," Glarast said. "Ulmakh will want to speak with him, and find out Siddgeir's game." He cleared his throat and shouted in a voice the interloper could hear: "Khajiit! Come closer and keep your paws where we can see them. One false move, and I'll ventilate your skull."

Kirhire hefted her mace and galloped back down the watchtower stairs to meet Kazahan. As she did, she bellowed, "Falx! Jarada! We have company!"

A tall, thin Redguard with rings in his nose, eyebrows, and chin looked up from the forging pit where he had been hammering on a shank of glowing steel. At the sight of Kazahan, he laid aside his forging hammer and picked up a jagged orcish greatsword, which he rested on a sinewy shoulder. He was joined by a sallow-skinned Imperial in black necromancer's robes. The three bandits fanned out in front of the Khajiit, eying him as if considering the sartorial potential of his pelt.

"He wants to see the chief," Kirhire said. "Let's take him into the mine."

[Kazahan]

Kazahan's first action was inaction. He waited. He waited until the bandits, still warily eyeing him, turned to lead him to the mine; and then, with a smooth aplomb, slid his longsword from its sheath and shoved it into the mage's back. His attack wasn't without consequence. The archer was pulling away, an arrow nocked but the bow not drawn yet until there was more distance, the Nord woman had her mace in her hand, and the redguard was already building up momentum for a swing to separate his head from his shoulders.

He judged the order in which they now needed to die: the wood elf was paramount with his bow, but farther away, thus making the Redguard his first target. A quick shield bash stopped the building greatsword's powerful attack, and in the opening provided, brought his sword down on the Redguard's head, but missed, the blade biting deeply into the shoulder instead. Kazahan hissed under his breath in annoyance, but kept the man between him and the archer and between him and the Nord; his arm rang up to his shoulder as he blocked an arrow and a blow from the Nord woman's mace simultaneously. The Redguard snarled something about scratches, and tried to heft the greatsword with one arm.

His patience bore fruit a second later, as a quick pivot took him from an open shot to the elf to behind the Redguard again, who dropped with a look of surprise on his face and an arrow lodged between his shoulder blades. Kazahan grunted and ran, sprinting for the cover of the shack where the Redguard had been working on the forge, turning the corner none too soon as an arrow bit into the wood by his head.

He turned the corner and was gone from their sight.

[Alecto Mordane]

"Damn to Oblivion!" Glarast spat as he lowered his bow. Jarada lay motionless and face-down in the dirt. Falx was on his side and gasping as blood pooled freely beneath the wound on his back, and the light of a Restoration spell sparked feebly in his clutching fingers, but it was too little, too late. The Imperial mage shuddered as his last breath rattled in his throat.

"Sodding, mud-sucking, shit-eating son of a mudcrab!" Kirhire snarled as she knelt beside Falx. She didn't bother checking his pulse, as she knew the sight and sound of a man passing through the mortal mists to Sovngarde, or wherever the Imperial's beliefs had him bound. Instead she seized the alchemist's pouch at his belt and dug inside, and was rewarded with a clinking of glass. She pulled out two vials filled with sparkling red potion and tossed one to the Bosmer.

"Let's go skin us a cat," she said.

"Wait!" Glarast protested. "I don't like this. This Khajiit's had some training. He's too fast, too subtle."

"And what am I, a skeever?" Kirhire snapped.

"No, and neither were they," the Bosmer said. "We need to raise the alarm. Round up the whole gang."

"I'm not letting that bastard get away!"

"Damn the stubbornness of Nords!" Glarast put another arrow to his bowstring, wheeled around, and fired into his watchtower. The arrow snapped a cord that had been bound to the lever, and a trap door fell open, spilling a heavy load of boulders and scree onto the path below with a thunderous crash.

"That'll get their attention, at least," he said. "Now, you take the left, and I'll take the right. And be careful."

The two bandits split up and crept to either side of the forging shack, but Kirhire paused by the smoldering pit to pick up the still-glowing spar of iron that Jarada had been working before he died.

[Kazahan]

With a quick breath and check to make sure he wasn't too badly hurt - a little healing potion soothed the ache in his arm from holding the shield against the bashing mace of the Nord - he moved again, hearing the din of the trap the Bosmer had set off and a few voices raised in confusion further in the walled camp.

Wasting no more time, he moved to his right, and turned the corner just as the woman was picking up a red hot bar from the forge. The wood elf was in front of him, and was momentarily distracted. Kazahan took the chance offered, and bull rushed the archer, closing the distance too quickly for him to fire an arrow, but the canny little elf stepped to the side, closer to the large woman who was roaring and brandishing her mace once more.

The Khajiit followed through with his attack, and the archer only had time to pull a shortsword from its place on his hip before Kazahan's steel longsword sliced into him, cutting from his lower left side to his upper right shoulder. He fell, and Nord woman roared in fury, a name falling from her lips as she set upon him with mace and burning iron. He brought up his shield in time, and weathered her mindless assault as best he could, the ache in his shoulder blossoming into a full blown throbbing pain that lanced down his arm and into his fingertips. With one final smashing blow onto his shield, the Nord woman finally stopped attacking, panting, and fell to her knees, an expression of anguish coming over her face when she looked over at the dead spawled form of the wood elf.

Kazahan used his sword to tilt her face up, and placed the tip of the blade against the hollow of her collar bone. A quick downward thrust, and a gagged coughing gasp, and the woman was dead. Kazahan took their unused vials of healing potion and downed them quickly, breathing slow and deep and giving himself some time to allow it to work before killing the rest of the group here.

[Alecto Mordane]

"What was that?"

Ulmakh gro-Urgassh looked up from the dice game he was playing with his two confederates and in the direction of the distant sound of growling stone. The painted Nord on his right grunted and heaved out of his seat. "Sounds like Glarast pulled the rock trap," he grumbled. "It took us ages to set that up."

"Perhaps the gang from Bilegulch decided to inquire about their missing gold," the gray-scaled Argonian replied.

The huge Orc snorted and took a pull from his Emberbrand wine. "Go see if the milksops need any help mopping up their mess," he said. "Yell if you need me."

"Agh, fine," the Nord said, picking up a steel war axe and shield, while the Argonian closed his claws around an iron flail. Ulmakh raised his wine bottle again and spied a shadow moving across the back of the cave wall from the campfire toward the tunnel that led down into the mines.

"And where do you think you're going, Lucard?" the Orc said. "Fever gone already?"

A scrawny Breton teenager with a mop of untidy black hair flinched and closed his arms around a book with black binding and blood-red symbols etched on its cover. "I... I'm going to check the dig," he said. "See if any of the lads is down there. You know, to help."

Ulmakh spat on the cave floor and waved the boy away. "Go on and hide yourself, you worthless coward. I'll deal with you once we've finished our game."

Lucard recoiled like a whipped dog, but he hurried off down the tunnel into the mine. Ulmakh scoffed and took another swig from his wine.

Then he heard shouting - first the Nord's voice, and then the Argonian. And then they both fell silent.

Scowling, Ulmakh stood from the table and put on his horned iron helmet. Then he took up his Elven warhammer - light, fast, and deceptively powerful - and turned to face the door to the camp outside.

[Kazahan]

The door burst in, framing Kazahan with the morning's light. In his right hand was a bloody sword, and his left arm bore a steel shield. He wore no helm.

"Khajiit comes from the Jarl," he growled, stalking into the mine.

The Orc growled, though he seemed to be eagerly anticipating the fight. He hefted the warhammer and charged; Kazahan sidestepped and swung his sword at the back the Orc's neck. Ulmakh shifted and readied his warhammer for another great blow, only to find the Khajiit slamming his shield into his face, followed by three swipes of the longsword, one of which bit into his side through a weak point in his armor.

[Alecto Mordane]

Bleeding from his under his arm and from his large, hooked nose, Ulmakh growled from deep in his chest like a slavering wolf and backstepped to put some distance between himself and his foe. The warhammer was strongest at the end of its reach, where it could swing the fastest and hardest. This Khajiit was nimble on his feet and tricky with that curved blade of his, but that light armor meant that one good blow would end him.

"You're not bad, cat," Ulmakh grunted. "On another day I'd have offered you a spot in my crew. You could have made some real money. No such luck now."

The Orc feinted right, then swept his hammer low through the campfire in the center of the cave, scattering burning twigs and embers in Kazahan's direction. Then he shortened up his grip on his warhammer and brought it down in a whistling arc, driving the Khajiit back through the smoldering debris. The embers didn't bother Ulmakh's iron-soled boots.

[Kazahan]

The sword was long, but not long enough to give him parity with the orc and his warhammer's reach. Kazahan fell back, watching the orc step through the fire with nary a grunt. Kazahan struck forward, staying as close to the bandit chief as possible, and pushing him back into the fire. Even though the heavy armor protected him from direct contact with the flames, the heat and smoke would distract and blind him.

It worked for a few moments. Kazahan struck at will, scoring several small hits on the weaker points in the bandit's heavy armor, while all the Orc could do was yell in frustration. But a timely block and a quick shove put Kazahan off center at the optimal reach for a strike with a warhammer. Ulmakh swung, and Kazahan desperately brought up his shield to block; putting his whole shoulder into the defense. The head of the warhammer burst through the wood of Kazahan's shield; the force of the blow had rattled Kazahan from ear to tail, and all he could do was stare dumbly at the weapon's head for a moment.

The Orc made to pull back and swing again, but the warhammer had got jammed in the shield, and would not loosen. Kazahan, despite being shaken and weakened by the last attack, took his chance. He pulled back his arm with the shield, drawing Ulmakh by his still strong grip on the hammer's haft closer to him. A scream of pain and determination punctuated Kazahan's attack: a thrust underneath the chest piece of the Orc's armor. He was rewarded with a a brief moment of resistance followed by a muffled popping noise, and the sword slid into Ulmakh's gut. Kazahan pushed further and twisted, his sword bursting out of the Orc's back, and bringing him face to face with the large green mer.

"This was a good death," Ulmakh's voice was framed by what seemed to be a brutal grin. Kazahan pulled the sword out of the Orc, who fell to his knees by the fire. Kazahan panted, placing his sword at the Orc's neck and drawing the bloody blade across it. The Orc died seconds later; and Kazahan staggered back to rest against the wall, groping for another healing potion. A quick glance at his shield caused him to toss it aside with a subdued grunt, judging it useless.

[Alecto Mordane]

The cavern was quiet once more. To the back of the cave, behind the ruined fire, there stood a wooden chest with a lock, though that was hardly a barrier to someone skilled with a lockpick, and a table with chairs bearing the remnants of Ulmakh's dice game with his lieutenants and a few small piles of septims. To the left was a winding, sinking tunnel bridged by wooden support beams and leading into the depths of the mine, while to the right was a cage of iron bars walling off a cell of naked rock. Inside were three prisoners in ragged clothes - an Imperial, a Nord, and an Argonian.

"Thank the Nine!" the Nord exclaimed.

"Er, the Eight!" the Imperial interjected. "He's a Khajiit, you fool, what if he's with the Thalmor?"

"He can be with the Lords of Oblivion for all I care," the Argonian said. "Just, please, get us out of here!"

"The Orc has the key to this cell," the Imperial said. "It'll probably get you into that chest, too. You'll help us, right? I have money on the outside. I can see you richly rewarded!"

[Kazahan]

Kazahan rifled through the Orc's belongings, finding the key, and some gold coins, which he dropped into a satchel that hung about his hips. The key he used to open the chest. Within was a hide helmet, which he tossed aside negligently, and a long, straight bladed sword in a black lacquered sheath. This he picked up, but didn't draw it; he simply pulled it onto his shoulder and scooped out the twelve gold septims scattered along the chest's bottom.

Only after he'd looted the dead Orc and the chest did he turn to the cell. It was open in short order, but the Khajiit interposed himself between the three and the door leading outside.

"What do you know of these bandits?" he asked. "Tell Khajiit everything."

[Alecto Mordane]

"What, these bandits?" the Imperial said. "Well, they've been prowling the road to Markarth for months now, but what most don't know is they were set up here by Jarl Sidd--"

[Kazahan]

The Imperial's words were cut off as Kazahan's sword sliced through his neck brutally, causing it to fall to the ground with a dull thud, where it was soon followed by the rest of his body. Kazahan's gaze moved to the Argonian and Nord.

"Tell Khajiit what you know of the bandits. Everything."

[Alecto Mordane]

The Nord glanced down at the headless man and back up at Kazahan's bloody blade. "You know, I can't say I know a thing about them."

"Less than nothing really," the Argonian replied.

"I couldn't even tell you my name."

"I don't even know what province this is, to be honest."

"I don't even speak your language."

The Argonian swatted the Nord upside the head with the back of his leathery hand. "So, can we please leave, now?"

[Kazahan]

"You know nothing? Good, good," Kazahan said, ripping part of the dead Imperial's shirt off and using it to clean his sword. "Do be sure to tell everyone what you do not know, yes?"

He turned, and made his way into the tunnel that led deeper into the mine. He would be thorough, here. Then perhaps he'd get some more work that would keep him away from the Thalmor.

[Alecto Mordane]

The Argonian and the Nord stumbled out of the cell as the Khajiit disappeared into the mines. The Argonian made to dash out the front door, but the Nord laid a meaty hand on his shoulder. "Wait. I'm looting the chest first."

"With what?" the reptilian hissed. The Nord held up a single lock pick.

"And where in Oblivion's plane were you hiding that?" the Argonian asked.

"I've always got one," the Nord said. "And, mate, you don't want to know."

---

The mines grew cold and dark as they wormed further into the mountainside, illuminated here and there by scattered and guttering torches, but the darkness meant little to a Khajiit. Occasionally a tunnel branched off the main trunk, but never very far. Some of the tunnels had collapsed. Here and there were a set of manacles chained to the wall near an iron deposit, likely to bind prisoners by the ankles as they worked the mine.

Farther down still, old and moldering bones littered the floor. From another tunnel opening came flickering candlelight and a trembling voice.

In what was once a burial chamber, its smooth, round walls pitted with alcoves set with skulls, Lucard crouched with the black and red book sitting open before him, candles melted to the stone floor around him, and a complex of curves and lines forming an arcane Daedric glyph beneath him. Scattered around the edges of the floor were more bodies - the carcass of a skeever with a torn throat, an infant frostbite spider with its head crushed, a pair of rabbits freshly torn and bloody. In the young Breton's hand was an iron knife, and covering the floor of the passageway between the mine and the burial chamber were nearly a dozen yawning bear traps.

Lucard's eyes snapped open when he heard movement outside his chamber, and he leaped to his feet, menacing the darkness with his knife. His voice broke when he shouted, "S-stay away!"

[Kazahan]

"This one will do no such thing," Kazahan said, pulling his bow from his back and nocking an arrow. "Please stand still so your death will be as quick and painless as possible, yes?"

[Alecto Mordane]

The moment Kazahan reached for his bow, Lucard flattened himself against the near-side wall. It meant he couldn't see the Khajiit assassin, but if the Khajiit tried moving through the traps, he'd hear it.

"You don't have to do this!" he stammered. "I'm... I'm just an apprentice, I'm nobody! The others, did... did you kill them all?"

[Kazahan]

"Yes. Khajiit had the hardest time with the Orc, but he is dead also. Malacath will be proud of that one."

Kazahan pondered the situation. The dozen bear traps were spaced apart enough that he couldn't clear them in one jump. And apprentice mage was at such an angle that he couldn't stick him with an arrow. He glanced down to where the wall of the mine tunnel met the floor, and picked up a heavy, hand sized stone. He held it over one of the bear traps, and dropped it. It smacked into the mechanism holding the teeth of the trap open, and with a loud metal clang, they snapped shut. Kazahan kept his eyes on where the mage would appear, if he did turn suddenly, and gave a pained gasp, the sound jarring with the emotionless expression in his eyes.

[Alecto Mordane]

Lucard flinched at the cry, but he didn't move. Even if the Khajiit had trapped himself, he still had a bow.

"They're all dead?" the Breton said. "Ulmakh... Orngir... Glarast and Kirhire? All of them?"

He laid his head back against the curved stone wall. And then he began to laugh, until his voice echoed through the whole mine.

"Do you know what this book is, Khajiit?" he asked in a voice dripping with gleeful scorn. "No, of course you don't. They didn't. Even that idiot, Falx, just wanted to destroy it. It's necromancy. Ancient and powerful. You've given me an army. And now you're about to join it."

He peered down at the book still resting in the middle of the summoning circle, and he began to read aloud in a strange and savage tongue. The bony chalk on the floor began to glow with eldritch malice, and then the glow burst into a rapidly expanding ring of green light. When it reached the skeever and the spider, they began to twitch. It passed over Kazahan with no effect, but then it crawled past him back up the tunnel and over the bones of long-dead slave laborers, which began to slide across the tunnel floor and knit together. Two skeletons rose from the ground and lurched toward the Khajiit, one bearing a pickaxe, the other wielding a length of rusty chain.

---

"Well, hurry up!" the Argonian hissed. "That Khajiit will be back here any moment!"

"Look, I've only got one pick!" the Nord said. "I can't afford to break it."

A flash of green light burst from the mine tunnel, and the Argonian wheeled about. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That flash of light just then! Don't tell me you didn't see it!"

"By the Nine, Kaaj, you're imagining things! Now shut up and let me--"

There was a rush of air, and then the Argonian's head bounced off the top of the chest and rolled into the Nord's lap. The Nord turned to see Ulmakh standing there with a great, ragged hole through his middle and a bloody warhammer in his hands. The man screamed and barreled out of the cave faster than he'd ever moved in his life. Meanwhile Ulmakh lumbered off toward the mine, closely followed by the headless Argonian's corpse.

[Kazahan]

"You know, Khajiit knows a secret to dealing with a necromancer's risen warriors," Kazahan said conversationally, picking up the stone and dropping it on another trap further in. This was spaced though, and Kazahan jumped to it. Only one more jump, and he'd make it past the bear traps, with only two or three out of commission.

"Kill the necromancer, and his risen dead are no more," he growled, quickly making the last jump past the bear traps. He dropped his bow, and drew the sword he'd picked up from the chest. He stalked to where the young death mage stood, both swords held loosely at his sides.

[Alecto Mordane]

Lucard shrieked in fear and dove across his summoning circle, scooped up his book, and huddled back against the wall of the burial chamber.

"Just die, you stupid cat!"

With an outstretched palm, the Breton sprayed a gout of flames at his attacker, bathing the opposite wall in fiery retribution. For a moment, at least. Then the flames died with a pathetic spark and a wisp of smoke.

Panicking, Lucard opened his book and blurted out another spell. The skeever and the frostbite spider stirred again, and the skeever raised a hellish cry and leapt at Kazahan's ankles.

The spider chittered and leapt at Lucard, sinking its curved fangs into the side of the boy's neck. The Breton screamed and grappled with the writhing arachnid, but he could not throw it off.

[Kazahan]

A contemptuous swipe of one the swords he held sliced into the undead rodent, and threw it back to smack into the wall. He watched the spider and boy struggle with each other for a moment, before stabbing the looted sword through the spider and into Lucard's neck. The boy choked, his eyes widening, and tears beaded up and out of his eyes.

"Poor child," the Khajiit murmured, shoving his sword forward to completely skewer both the spider and the Breton's throat. "You did not understand what you were doing, did you? And now it is too late."

With a gurgled, pathetic sound, the boy died, and Kazahan turned, seeing the Orc he'd killed not minutes ago standing on the other side of the bear traps. He frowned.

"This is new to Khajiit. Should you not have been released on the mage's death?"

[Alecto Mordane]

Ulmakh stared at Kazahan with glassy, clouded eyes and a drooling jaw. Then, with a sepulchral moan, the Orc lurched forward and stepped into one of the remaining bear traps. The iron jaw closed on his leg, holding him fast, but he still swung his warhammer at the entrance, driving Kazahan further back into the burial chamber.

Another figure shouldered past Ulmakh - an Argonian with a ragged stump where its head ought to have been. It plunged into the chamber with claws scything blindly, followed by a pair of misshapen skeletons wielding a chain and a pickaxe.

From further up the tunnel came the sound of more feet slapping unsteadily against stone - the Nord and the other Argonian Kazahan had killed outside, and more besides.

[Kazahan]

Kazahan kicked the headless Argonian away; the skeletons would be dealt with first, being the most easy to dispatch. He parried the first strike from a pickaxe, driving it into the ground, and swung with his other arm at the chain wielding skeleton, which broke apart and clattered to the floor. Then he turned and swung with both arms at the second skeleton, which nearly exploded from the strike; its bones flew in every direction, hitting both Ulmakh and the dead Argonian ineffectually. The momentum from that blow was turned on the Argonian, who lost an arm to one sword while the other sliced deep into his scaled hide. Kazahan prepared to finish him off when a shriek of dragging metal resounded through the chamber. The Orc was limping towards him, dragging the sprung bear trap.

Kazahan moved in close and began to strike ferociously, swinging both swords with abandon into the undead Ulmakh. If he still stood by the time the others reached Kazahan, things would get more than a bit difficult.

[Alecto Mordane]

Belying its shambling gait, the corpse of Ulmakh twisted its warhammer like a quarterstaff to intercept both blades, then wrenched the butt end of the weapon into Kazahan's stomach, driving the Khajiit backward. Another savage swipe from the head of the warhammer kept Kazahan back from the tunnel entrance.

Another ring of green light pulsed from the book clenched in Lucard's rictus grasp. The Breton gurgled through his punctured throat, climbed to his feet, and and unleashed another fan of flames from his outstretched hands.

When the green pulse reached the bones scattered on the floor, they began to slide together and knit again. One of the skulls rolled toward the headless Argonian and grafted itself onto his shoulders. The chimeric horror hissed and began to rise from the floor, clutching a moldy femur as a club.

The Argonian and the Nord lumbered up the trapped passageway behind Ulmakh, one with an axe, one with a flail. It was about to get very crowded in the burial chamber.

[Kazahan]

The flash of sickly green alerted Kazahan to the next addition to the rising dead party: the mage's flame spell only clinched the suspicion. He snarled in growing frustration, and blocked the Orc's next swing, pushing the warhammer down with one sword while swinging the other through his wrists. The elven weapon clattered to the floor, and Kazahan kicked it away to the far wall. Then he spun, shearing off the Orc's head and kicking that back toward the tunnel, though it became ensnared in a bear trap. Once more he turned to the mage, and more importantly, the book, judging the time he had before they regenerated or attached their limbs back together.

"You are the book that the mage wished for this one to find," he said, ignoring the absurdity of speaking to a book. The Argonian charged, axed raised high to bring down on the Khajiit's head. Kazahan hewed off his hands too, and stuck the other sword through his chest. But instead of withdrawing his weapon, he pivoted pulling the undead lizard man into the mage's magical flame spell, shielding him from them. Using his impromptu shield, he charged the mage, the blade skewering the Argonian piercing him also. Kazahan snarled again, pushing the blade into a crack in the stone beneath them and twisting, pinning the two to the ground. Left with only the blade he'd looted from the chest, he met the Nord's charge, entangling the flail with his blade and gripping his neck with one powerful and clawed hand. The Nord, bereft of a weapon used his fists, but Kazahan ignored the blows, which lacked any real leverage or strength. He dropped his sword and gripped the Nord tightly, squeezing and pulling until the Nord's neck snapped, leaving his head to loll about on his shoulders sickeningly.

A pain flared across his back, and he shifted his weight, throwing the skull headed Argonian across his back and onto the ground. He stomped on the skull, crushing it, and placing his foot on the once more headless Argonian's back, he hacked down into its back, until it stopped moving, its spine severed by his sword.

He panted and pulled out a healing potion in the brief lull he had gained, and picked up his sword. With it, he stalked over to the still skewered Breton and Argonian. The book was flashing green again, but Kazahan merely placed the point of the blade against it, and settled his weight onto it, spearing the book and mage at once.

[Alecto Mordane]

As Kazahan's sword pierced the book, green light burst from the ragged edges like blood from a wound, and a high, unholy shriek shattered the air. Ulmakh, Lucard, and the other restless dead shuddered and convulsed before melting away into piles of ash. The skulls in their alcoves all around the burial chamber opened their hollow jaws and joined the book in its banshee cry, and the mountain itself began to tremble.

Then the shrieking died away, and the pages of the book curled up and crumbled as if burned in a fire. But the tremors only intensified. With an almighty crack, tiny fissures opened up in the floor, then shifted and widened. Dust rained down from the cavern ceiling, followed by rocks and larger boulders. Further up the mine shaft, the wooden supports that spanned the tunnels began to sway and splinter.

[Kazahan]

Pulling the sword up, Kazahan gave little thought for his other sword, still standing in the midst of a large pile of ashes. He simply bolted, idly noting the book was still on his blade. The bear traps were all snapping shut as he jumped over them, rocks falling onto them from the unstable ceiling of stone. All he could do was run, panting with exertion as he stumbled out of the tunnel. The mountain shook once more, and he turned, leaning against the back wall of the chamber where Ulmakh and he had met in combat for the first time, watching as the tunnel collapsed. He stood there for a few moments, before sighing and looking down at the ruined book still spitted on his sword.

The mage will be paying handsomely for an unusable book, he thought. He didn't much care, as it was likely a far better outcome than giving it in pristine condition to the greasy Breton. He shook the sword, watching as the book slowly slid down the blade and hit the floor with a muted thud. Sheathing the blade, he replaced the empty scabbard hanging from his belt with the looted sword, and picking up the book, he left the mine. It was time to return to Falkreath, and claim his dues.

[Alecto Mordane]

A dull, apathetic rainfall had moved in over Falkreath, which simply meant it was Middas morning. Alecto didn't even bother with his hood as he trudged through the mud-soaked streets to the Jarl's longhouse for another monotonous day's work as a court mage in the cesspit of Skyrim's holds. No matter what anyone may have thought, spell-binding was less than spellbinding when it was Mathies asking for a plow to dig deeper furrows, or when that idiot Lod dropped off a shield and simply said, "Make it shinier."

But prospects for the day improved when Alecto pulled open the front doors of the Longhouse to see a battle-worn Khajiit standing before the throne and concluding some sort of business with Siddgeir. A sodden and lumpy sack passed to the steward's immaculate Altmer hands in exchange for a pouch of septims. All parties, it seemed, were satisfied.

Alecto lurked by the stairs to his enchanting laboratory until Kazahan passed his way. "Ah, my friend Khajiit," the Breton mage said. "I'm pleased to see you made it back in one piece. I trust your errand was successful?"

[Kazahan]

Kazahan pulled the book from a pouch hanging from his belt at his back, and handed it to the mage. Kazahan could see the changing of his eyes, a spark of hope and anticipation dulling to a bland dismay. The burned and ruined book with a neat hole punched straight through it was worthless to most anyone unless they wanted kindling.

"Khajiit brought you this troublesome book," he said, standing a bit taller. The state of armor, much beaten and dirtier than last it was when Kazahan had been in the longhouse, perhaps enhanced the dangerous timbre to his tone, or detracted from it. This mage was not one to be cowed so easily, but Kazahan wasn't trying to scare the wizard. He was merely making a statement without words. "This one was unaware that it contained a necromantic spell that would outlast its caster. Such information would have been welcome, and could have contributed to a happier outcome for nearly everyone involved."

[Alecto Mordane]

Alecto didn't even try to mask his displeasure as he took the ruined book in hand, but then he blanched at Kazahan's words. "Its caster?" he repeated. "Who cast it?"

[Kazahan]

“A young boy, Breton by his face," Kazahan answered shortly, shifting on his feet. “He chanted the spell in a language Khajiit has not heard before. Perhaps daedric. It flared with a green light, and the dead kept rising after this one put them down."

[Alecto Mordane]

"Then the tales were true," Alecto muttered, staring at the book, and he tried thumbing through the chatted pages, but they merely crumbled at his touch. He shook his head and laughed darkly.

"It was not Daedric you heard," the mage said. "It was the old language of High Rock. Legend tells of an ancient Breton necromancer of incredible power who, moments before he was seized and beheaded, bound his soul to a book of spells that would reveal themselves only to members of his bloodline. The spell you describe is likely beyond the power of any living necromancer in Skyrim, let alone some milksop living with bandits in a cave. His soul must still have had some potency."

The mage sighed. "Just my luck that there would be one of his descendants in that mine. But then, for all I know, the book wouldn't have given up its secrets to me anyway. I suppose that leaves the matter of your payment."

He reached down to his belt and retrieved the coinpurse Lod had given him for yesterday's enchanted pickaxe. "A hundred septims is more than I'd ordinarily pay for a doorstop. But you've brought me a good report at considerable risk. You are a capable man, Kazahan. I may wish to do business with you again sometime."

[Kazahan]

"Not just the doorstop," Kazahan replied. "But also the effort required to retrieve it and bring it to you. Having to behead, and then dismember an Orc, three Nords, and two Argonians, and two reanimated skeletons multiple times in the process. Two hundred septims."

[Alecto Mordane]

"All part of your service to the Jarl, was it not?" Alecto replied. "If you had brought me the book intact, that would be another matter. Let us say one hundred, and I shall enchant the weapon of your choice with a charm to banish the undead. A fitting compromise, don't you think?"

[Kazahan]

"Killing them once was a service to the Jarl. Killing them twice was the standard service to you. Three times? Four? Such danger was not expected, and that drives the price up. One hundred fifty, and such an enchantment."

[Alecto Mordane]

"A hundred and twenty, plus the enchantment, and once it's done, you could sell your sword for triple its current value, if it suits you."

And that brought it exactly to the sum Lod had paid him for that divines-damned pickaxe.

[Kazahan]

Kazahan nodded, unloading the sword from his shoulder and handing it to the wizard, feeling satisfaction at the outcome of the deal.

"Kahjiit agrees. One hundred twenty septims, and an enchantment to banish undead." The Khajiit took the pouch of coin, and stepped back. "Do not hesitate to contact again should you require this one for such delicate work, yes?"

[Alecto Mordane]

Delicate work, indeed. Alecto took the sword and the ruined book in hand with a slim smile. "I'll return the sword to you within the hour. In the meantime, perhaps you'd enjoy a meal at the Dead Man's Drink? I recommend the Hunter's Hash."

The mage left the sellsword to his own devices and climbed the stairs to his arcane enchanter. He first laid the ravaged book in the middle of the pentagram and studied the reactions of the green crystal ball to see if any magic remained in the book, but it was quite dead. With a shake of his head, he brushed the book off into a pile of spent spell ingredients and then set Kazahan's sword in its place.

The Khajiit was a fool if he thought such an enchantment was worth a mere one hundred septims - the filled soul gem would cost that alone. Alecto drew a pulsing gem from his robes and placed it into the proper sector of the pentagram. It was a common gem, holding, if memory served, the soul of an ice wraith who had surprised him on the way south from Morthal. He might have used a lesser creature like a bear or a saber cat, but he wanted to be certain it could support two enchantments.

One to banish the undead. One to inform him where and when the blade was put into use.

The fey lights inside Alecto's crystal ball swirled as he went about his work.

[Kazahan]

Kazahan did not enjoy his meal. The food was fine, the mead was even sweet, but the silence was grating on his nerves; almost as much as when he'd spent a sleepless night hearing the hunting and mating calls of zahsilisks while guarding a caravan. The few souls within the tavern stared at him or ate and moved in a subdued manner. It annoyed him, and he finished his food and drink and walked down to the longhouse an hour later ten septims lighter, and feeling as if he'd spent an entire day there. He brushed past the guards and entered the dim court, where Siddgeir was lounging in his seat with a bored expression. Kazahan took the steps he remembered seeing the Breton take with the sword, and came up nearly silently to the landing.

"It has been an hour, and Khajiit has returned to finish our business," he announced, as was only polite. "Unless you have more business to propose, hm?"