A Cold Land

[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?"