The Longest Road – Ch. 4 – 1: Blood in the Dark

  • Celann, the welcoming committee stationed outside of the fort, huffed as he heaved the last of several small crates down the front steps and onto a handcart.  He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, smearing his red hair aside, then unconsciously wiped his hands on his trousers.  The sun had not yet breached the horizon, and the early morning air was clear and cool.  Meeko's breath came out in faint clouds as he stood, waiting patiently in front of the cart.  A heavy leather harness wrapped around his torso, tying him to the cart's handles as one might yoke a horse.

    "Thank you for hauling these crates for us.  They were bound for Morthal anyway, and I thought it a more expedient use of our resources to send them with you," chirped Celann, stretching his shoulders and sighing contentedly.  

    It must be a good life, hacking off the heads of vampires... I thought sardonically.  "It's no problem.  I only hope the horses can carry this much weight," I replied, pushing a smile onto my face.  This Breton couldn't be at fault; he seemed too genuine to enjoy his duty to the Dawnguard.  Valindor's expression, however, was tight and unreadable, and he said nothing as we seized both handles of the cart and aided Meeko in pulling the load back to the cave.

    Golden light shone over the mountains and the last crate was tied to the back of Brelye.  He snorted, stamping his hooves at the indignity of carrying any such burden as if he were a common draft horse.  Which he was, at least for the moment.  Glancing sidelong at my friend, I watch his scowl continue to deepen.

    "You look like you have an earwig chewing on your brains," I commented, attempting to be wry.

    "What is the Dawnguard doing with black soulgems?  That's what's in the crates, in case you hadn't noticed."  The words came out brusque and choppy.

    "Those are black ones?  I wonder if they're meant for Falion."  Valindor nodded grimly.  I knew what black soulgems were and what they were used for, but my experience had come only from old books written in Altmeri.  I had never seen one before, and to have several crates of them strapped to our steeds?  It made me shiver unpleasantly.  Soulgems were behind the bulk of my research, for the "beautiful star" Azura created in the Soul Cairn myth was the Prince's artifact and a soulgem in its own right.  Or so Nelacar revealed to me when I traveled to Winterhold earlier in the year.  I was certain Derk's soul was trapped there, and every step of my journey seemed to confirm this notion in a cavalcade of repeated symbols and loops led me back to the places that both haunted me and revived me.

    "...I don't think we should trust them completely, anyway," Valindor stated with narrowed eyes.  For a moment I stared at him, confused, as I missed most of what he'd been ranting.  Then I realized he was discussing the Dawnguard still.

    "No, we shouldn't.  I didn't like the look of that Redguard.  Too bitter and hardened.  Like a tree that's been sick for too long."

    By late morning, we arrived back at the Riften stables, our horses sweating and tired from their burdens.  I dismounted and approached the carriage driver, who looked sharply at the crates and exhausted steeds.  His face wrinkled in a long moment of contemplation, as if the task were particularly difficult for him to accomplish.  A low mist hung over the city, steam oozing from the lake, no doubt.

    "Need a ride?" he asked at last.

    "I'd like to haul these crates as well as my companions and I to Morthal.  The horses will follow on a lead."

    "Hmm.  I can do that, but it'll cost extra to take the easy roads, add in the potential for robbery along the way, as well as a liability deposit should I, my carriage, or my horse become damaged in any way..." he scratched at his beard thoughtfully, then leaned over the rail to spit near the front wheel, "A hundred thirty septims."

    "Hardly.  My companions and I could take on anything the road throws at us.  Seventy-five."

    This time he ran a hand through his greasy mane.  "All right, you may defend us, but I don't know that you won't cut and run.  You Bosmer are mighty tricky.  A hundred twenty."

    I sighed, wanting to get to Morthal and quit haggling, but for some reason, I couldn't stand to be ripped off by this Nord. "Now you're just being prejudiced.  Ninety."

    "Aye, fine then.  I'll take your word for it.  Hundred and three septims and no lower."  With a nod, I handed him the necessary gold, and clambering off the carriage, he aided us in unloading the horses.  When everything and everyone were in their appropriate places, he clucked his horse into a canter and we started off down the long route to Morthal.

    On the whole, the journey lasted several days; required two efforts to right the carriage; five encounters with hostile creatures and humans, which were easily picked off with our bows from the back of the carriage; and one half-day chase trying to stop Meeko from terrorizing yearling fox.  The weather grew startlingly cold as we ventured through a pass north of Whiterun, coming out into the familiar snow fields of The Pale.  Valindor sat terribly close to me the entire way, the side of his leg practically melded with mine and our shoulders touching.  It couldn't have been helped as there was little room in the cart for anything else, and I can't say I didn't enjoy the contact, though it left me nervous and shivering violently.

    Nevertheless, we arrived in Morthal at the closing of the fourth day, our legs stiff, bottoms sore, and eyes tired of incessantly scrolling countryside.  The carriage driver, who I learned was named Sigaar, unloaded the crates at the head of the road leading into the town, stating he needed to head to Solitude to rest his horse or he otherwise would help us carry our shipment to the recipient.  His gaze kept glancing skyward, checking the sun's position every moment or so as if it would disappear any second.  When he started off down the cobbled road, his horse clattered in a sloppy lope, only too happy to put as much distance between the town and themselves as possible.

    The shadow of that evening on the Wall of Eastmarch came to mind then, and I wondered if such strange creatures of the night had infested this town.  Was that what made Sigaar so nervous?  Or was it the presence of a known mage specializing in conjuration?

    Shrugging off the vague sense of dread, Valindor and I hefted the first crate and waddled slowly down the hill toward the town's only main street.  The Jarl's longhouse slouched on our immediate left, while a long, rickety boardwalk stretched across a partially frozen pond to our right.  A passing guard eyed us warily.

    "We're looking for Falion, does he still live here?" I asked, recalling his tiny hut of an abode somewhere on the far side of town.

    "Aye.  What have you got there?  What does a magic user need with a heavy crate like that?" he asked, creeping up on the crate to peer between the slats.

    "Soulge--"

    "Candlesticks," I sputtered, stamping on Valindor's foot hard enough to make him juggle his end of the crate clumsily.  "For some kind of ritual.  I don't know.  Mages are peculiar in that way," I managed while gazing vapidly at the guard.

    "Careful there, little elf.  Don't want to crush your tiny feet," the guard laughed as if his own joke were the funniest thing he'd heard in ages.  "Wizard's right down the walk.  Sign's on the door.  You can't miss him."  Val scowled at his retreating back, making a goblin face in childish mockery, but his twisted countenance split into a grin when he looked back at me.  We slowly dropped the crate on a small jetty among other supplies, marking it with a stick of charcoal from my pack.

    Night had almost fallen by the time we set the last of the shipment down, sweat freezing on our brows and sticking to the inside of our clothing.  I felt colder than before, in spite of the intense labor, and shivered tiredly out on the exposed docks.

    "Now we only need to find this 'Falion'," sighed Valindor, looking at the buildings scattered around the pond.

    "Oh, that's easy enough," I said, leading the way down the boardwalk to the next house that looked as it did from my memory.

    A new sign hung near the door: an image of two faces on the same head facing opposite ways in a stylized illustration reminiscent of the Hammerfell designs I saw in some shops run by Redguards.  It read:

    Falion

    Teller of Fortunes, Exorciser of Spirits

    No admittance except by appointment.

    "A fortune-teller?  My how low you've stooped, Falion," I grinned as Valindor rapped on the door gently before opening it.  He held it open and gestured inside grandiosely.

    "After you, my dear."  Quirking an odd look in his direction, I preceded him into the dingy house.