21-Arngrim: 13th Heartfire, 201 pt2

The gate opened into an old corridor. Antrim could hear the whispers and rustling of the other prisoners congregating in the chamber. Some were excited by the violence, but others sounded angry. Looking back he could see them edging forward.

He went through the gate and swung it shut. Looking through the bars he smiled, Borkur was stumbling to his feet. Arngrim placed his hand on the key and turned it. Everyone heard the click. He held up the key for everyone to see and threw it behind him. Borkur screamed obscenities as Arngrim walked into the darkness.

“Hello, I wasn’t expecting company.”

Arngrim stopped. The room was little more than a bulge in the corridor, but a man was seated on a crude bed on one side while an object resembling a table lay on the other side. A single candle provided light to show a scattering of papers.

“I would have tried to make things more presentable,” the man waved his hand in the air, gesturing to the crude furniture, “But there is not much to work with, as you see.”

Arngrim flinched as the man appeared in front of him. He considered the tattoos, pulling at the strands of his beard.

“Well well, look at you. They have turned you into a wild beast, and left you here to go mad. So my fellow beast, what do you want with me? Answers about the Forsworn, or a little revenge for some killing?

Arngrim endured the examination in silence. He heard a whisper in the silence, “Hjalti…”

“You have much to answer for, Madanach.” Arngrim growled.

“Do I?” He smiled, “and what about you? What gives you the right to involve yourself in my affairs, kill my people? Was it worth your efforts?”

An animal growl escaped Arngrim’s throat. He could hear the screams and clanging behind him.

“You are one of us now. A slave. The boot of the Nords stepping on your face.” He paused and offered his hand. “Maybe if you understood that, I could help you.”

“Help? Me? I don’t want your help!” His knuckles whitened. “I remember you from all those years ago. We crushed your uprising. We trapped you and your rebels in these caves. I was there. My blood-brothers lay down their lives to end you.”

Madanach half-smiled. “Ah, but the axe never fell. Your friend Thonar stopped it. He wanted a force at his beck and call.”

Arngrim’s eyes widened. Madanach bowed his head.

“And I have been. It was humiliating to send my followers to do his dirty work, but I could be patient. I could wait until Thonar trusted he had me under control”

His face grew fierce. He leaned towards Arngrim, quivering.

“This was our land! We were here first. Then you Nords came and put chains on us, burnt our temples and forbade us from worshipping the Old Gods! But some of us refused to bow. We knew the Old Gods would leads us back to our own kingdom.” Spittle fell from his lips. “This is who we are. The Forsworn. Criminals hunted in our own lands. But we will cut a bloody hole in the Reach until we are free!”

Arngrim felt the names etched in his skin, burning. He felt the presence of the ghost at his side and saw the dim outline of a blade held out to him. He reached out took the blade.

Madanach’s stopped his tirade, gasping at the ghostly sword that appeared in Arngrim’s hand, wreathed in pale fire. Before he could recover, Arngrim drove the sword through his chest.

“I don’t care. Everyone I knew is dead. My family, clan. Because of you.” He smiled, remembering them. “They would like to meet you now.”

Arngrim sat on the bed and watched the pool of blood reach his feet. He heard the clanging grow more desperate. He looked down at his chest, fingers tracing over the names carved in his skin.

“I’ve done my time.”

20-Arngrim: 13th Heartfire, 201 pt1

The buckets sloshed their contents over the floor. Grown men struggled against each other, trying to get their hands and faces into the slop first. The guard looked on from the other side of the gate, smiling.

Arngrim knelt among the other men, shoving for space. But his hands didn’t reach for the ‘food’. He kept his eyes on the gate. He was still the newcomer. Still healthy, with fat to burn and more days yet to be lost without food. His old companion Grisvar, paused his frantic work to look across at Arngrim, hands and face smeared by slop.

“Better get stuck in.”

“I’ll last”

“Not for long”, he shoved back at another prisoner. “Everyone starves eventually.”

“No plans to stay.”

Grisvar stopped and stared, slack mouthed. “No one escapes Cidhna mine.”

Out of the corner of his eye Arngrim saw the movement he’d been expecting. A guard and prisoner passing each other at the gate. The prisoner was Borkur, a savage beast of a man that was the terror of the other prisoners. He proudly walked bare chested though the mines, scars marked his survival from many attempts on his life. He flashed an evil grin at every opportunity, teeth looking like they came from a slaughter fish, filed to points. But this terror moved furtively. Arngrim saw the flash of papers being passed between hands.

The guard stepped away from the gate, closer to one of the rare torches scattered in the mine. He glanced down at his hand, allowing Arngrim to see the scrap of folder parchment there. He remembered the scrap he had found in the murderer’s room in the Warrens of Markarth, the note which had sent the man to take the life of Margaret.

Broker sauntered away through the tunnels, acting untouchable. Antrim stopped his pretence and rose, following after. Behind him Grisvar nudged a number of other prisoners and they exchanged looks. Excited whispers spread among the prisoners as they watched Arngrim stalk after Borkur.

Arngrim walked through the older, empty tunnels of Cidhna mine, always keeping Borkur just within sight. He stopped at a darkened tunnel, barred by a rusting gate. A figure stretched an arm through the bars to take a note from Borkur, then disappeared into the deeper darkness. Borkur then turned and saw Arngrim approaching. The beast grinned and took position blocking entrance to the gate, arms crossed, chest out, and teeth bared.

Arngrim walked closer. “Let me pass.”

“Shoo old man.”

Knees scarred, left thigh a puckered mess, weak. Hands locked under elbows. Too used to intimidation.

“Let me pass Borkur.”

He chuckled and tapped a row of short scars on his chest. “See these? One for each man I’ve crushed with these hands”. He crossed his arms again, confident. “You wanna join ‘em?”

“One for each man. Huh.” Arngrim took off his shirt, revealing the runes and symbols covering his body. “Thats nice”.

Borkur’s eyes darted between the numerous tattoos. They widened as he understood their significance.

“You’re Askelde? Shi…”

The fist smashed through Borkur’s jaw. He staggered, reaching an arm back for balance. Arngrim slammed his knee into his thigh and drove him to the ground. As his head came to chest height, Arngrim bashed it against the gate. Broker’s eyes rolled back.

Arngrim searched the rags covering Borkur and pulled out an old key. It fit. The gate clicked open.

19-Arngrim: Memories, 176

The dim morning light showed a bleak site. Arngrim knelt, shivering in the chill dawn. He reached over the ashes of the pyre, hands searching for the last wisps of warmth. The grey clouds echoed the grey ashes before him. He placed a leather bag by his side and opened the flap. Slowly he leant forward, breathing the fine motes kicked up by his movements, collecting handfuls of dust in his bag.

“Whats doin?”

Arngrim paused, ashes falling between his fingers. He looked over his shoulder at the questioner.

“I gather the remains of my brother”

He turned back to his slow work, sifting out the fine ashes from the dirt and larger fragments.

“Needin’ help?

“No”.

The younger man, Gunnar, stepped away and sat on a fair sized rock. He took out his sharpening stone and axe, ran a finger across the edge, then began his morning ritual sharpening the blade. Arngrim’s shoulders tensed, but he continued his work without a word.

Patches of light shone across the underside of the clouds, the sun fighting to be seen. Gunnar sat motionless as Arngrim finally sat back and run his hands, dusted grey with ashes, through his hair. The ground was mostly cleared now, only streaks of dark grey soil and blackened wood remaining.

“Done?”

“No.”

“What’s next? Need help?”

Arngrim’s face was covered in ash, streaks ran from his eyes to his chin. His lips pulled up into a scowl.

“No.” He blinked and thought more. “Make a fire.”

Gunnar just nodded. Placing his axe on the ground, he uncurled from his rock and stood, stretching his back. He scratched his chin, hoping once more to feel the first hairs of the beard he would one day grow. Walking down from the rocky hilltop and between scattered trees, he stuffed his pockets with twigs and moss. When he came to a dead tree he broke down the branches, gathering as many as he could carry. 

Arngrim looked on is silence as the campfire was carefully constructed. Gunnar concentrated on laying out the wood just so. A tent of wood protecting the tinder underneath, surrounded by a ring of stones. He looked up, searching the watchful face for any signs of approval, but the face remained stone-like. Ducking down, ashamed at his own need for approval, Gunnar leant in to light the fire.

The clicking of the flint rang out clearly. Each time he could feel the weight of Arngrim’s eyes even more. Finally a spark held and he leant in close and shared his breath with the glowing specks. He felt a surge of joy as the tiny spirit breather and stretched its hungry fingers into the surrounding twigs and moss.

Arngrim nodded and waited as the fire grew. Kneeling before the fire, skinning knife in hand, he looked lost to Gunnar’s eyes, unsure how to continue. The older man pulled his shirt over his head, revealing skin covered in a riot of images and words. Gunnar’s eyes followed the scars which formed runes and outlined shapes. Wolf, Fox, Snake, Eagle, Whale, and many others figures he could recognise ran across the skin revealed. 

Arngrim examined himself, raising arms and pulling at skin. Finally he stopped, tracing his fingertip across the skin on his side, where his ribs moved with each breath. Satisfied, he held the blade over the fire until it glowed. It cut a line in Arngrim’s flesh. He balanced the blade on a stone, placed his hand in the bag, and covered the red line with ash. Then he took a breath and gripped the knife again.

Gunnar winced with the sound of the hot blade, and the smell of burnt flesh.

“What… what are you doing?”

“Remembering my brother.” Arngrim’s breath caught. “Keeping his name alive.”

Gunnar looked again at the runes, and realised each one must spell out a name. He frowned until he realised that someone else had cut the runes into Arngrim’s back. He tried to count them.

“So. If I die you will keep my name?”

Arngrim stopped and turned. Gunnar unconsciously held his breath until his chest began to burn, waiting for the answer.

“You need to make your name first.”

18-Arngrim: 12th Heartfire, 201

It’s cold in here. The freezing air runs its fingers over clothes like a demented lover, reaching under to skin and sucking the heat away. Nothing to see. No real light except a dim grey ambience that reveals nothing but stone, dust, and damp wretchedness.

Feet shuffle forward. Soles burn with cold. The crunching sound of loose stones underfoot. A foot knocks over a bucket and the owner cried out in pain. The clatter of wood echoes. The man kneels down and tries to adjust the rags covering his feet, tries to protect himself against the cold. Every shifting rag reveals more dirty skin. There is not enough to provide real warmth.Hands reach across the ground, shards of stone drawing blood as he reaches for the bucket. Damp rope welcomes them, drawing even more warmth away.

The torchlight pierces the darkness like a murderer’s knife. Eyes squint at the brightness. A dozen men start to shuffle towards the light, but no salvation awaits them here. Tools are handed out to calloused hands, and the rough line of wretched creatures follow the flame into once dark passages. Tortured rock is revealed in the light, mutilated by countless men. 

How long does a shift last? There is no real measure of time for the men digging in darkness. No matter if sun or moon rises outside, they hold no sway over these men who have forgotten the open sky, these men who dig under the mountain. Do they count strikes against the rock. Too many to count. Until their muscles begin to burn? That is a constant companion. Until chests labour to drag in the next breath? Until hearts drive only pain?

Between the coming and going of the light?

Until it ends.

The guard just stands there, waiting. He causally mounts his torch on a rough bracket, and settles adjacent the wall to watch the wretched dig. He has no whip and stands silent. These creatures have a harsher driver than any lash or shout. The gnawing pain of hunger drives them. The promise of food sustains them. This many buckets of ore. That many mouths to feed. Two numbers that define their existence. One number ever rising as the other slowly falls. With each shift another surrenders to despair.

Despair and hopelessness. The only things well fed and satisfied in this hole.

Arngrim wormed his way forward in the narrow tunnel. There was no room to swing a pick here, only to jab and pull the rock apart. Every joint, every bone was filled with pain. Eyes that had long ago wept their last tear trying to search out the a glimmer against the dark stone.

The next man lets out a faint whimper. The sound of a pick clattering on rock grabs Arngrim’s attention. He reaches back and lays a hand upon the fallen man’s chest. The heart flutters weakly. The chest sinks slowly as the his last breath escapes. Voices are raised, questions asked. Arngrim moves quickly now, pulling tattered clothing from the still warm body and hiding it against his own skin. But other hands reach out when the light comes closer and drag the body away.

Arngrim watches the body being passed into shadows. Another wretched figure comes forward to take its place. As the rhythm of metal against stone begins again, he furtively wraps the rags around his feet and hands. Keep your head down, do the time. Arngrim drives the pick into the wall, grunting, imagining the flesh of the Forsaken under his fists.

17-Arngrim: 11th Heartfire, 201

Gold speak louder that steel. Thats what his father always said, and it had proved true once more. His pouch bounced against his hip, finally empty of the gold he had stolen. Instead it should have burned like a fire with the truth it contained.

The path wound up the side of the cliff, stairs and bridges reaching up to the sky, and left Arngrim exposed to everyone in the canyon. He wanted to run all the way up to tell the suspicious Reachman what he had found, to tell his that they were close to finding the hidden King of the Forsaken. To tell his that they would soon take vengeance for all the dead. But he kept to a walk, watching out for the guards.

Half way up, Arngrim and the guard eyed each other as they passed on the narrow bridge. The waterfall thundering down close enough to spray them both. A young man full of anger and false bravery, eager to show his dominance on someone weaker. He scowled at the old man in patchwork furs, and the chipped axe at Arngrim’s waist. 

The words were nearly drowned by the waterfall “Careful old man. You don’t want to get in trouble”.

Arngrim’s hand tightened on his axe. He nodded politely and waiting until the guard turned a corner, then spat on the ground. What made Markarth like this. Living buried in tombs, in fear of attackers, but able to wake up every day and say ‘lets go provoke someone today’.

Something was sick here, and Arngrim now knew where that sickness lay. Madanach, once king of the Forsaken.

Arngrim stopped at a stone bench, giving his knees a rest. No one paid him any mind. He dug into his pouch and pulled out a wrinkled note. It still smelt of the warrens, of sickness and desperation. Arngrim fondly remembered the crowd of ragged people trying to help him while scrabbling for the coins he threw. One clever girl had picked the lock and took him into the room of Margaret’s killer.

The note had almost leapt into his hand.

He traced the runes and slowly sounded the out. ‘You have been chosen, go to the market, you know what to do. M”

Margaret had been staying at the inn. Probably he could have found clever ways of getting information, but the easiest way was to ask the innkeeper which room she had stayed at. Watching his eyes almost pop at the sight of a gold ingot was also worth the price.

Going through her belongings was painful. Imagining her expecting to come back. The little notebook had been harder to find. So many words scratched into such a small space. Most of the words he could’t put together, but enough to make his stomach sick. Words like ‘watched’, ‘suspicious’, ‘followed’. Margaret had come to Markarth with money, and been pulled into it’s sickness. Then she’d been killed by it. 

The climb up to the temple was tiring, so many stairs. But all was quiet. The passage through the mountain’s peak was empty. In this busy city, that worried Arngrim. His fellow investigator was supposed to meet him inside, but from the moment the doors swung open and the smell of blood hit him, Anrgrim knew it was over.

Before he could draw his axe, the many guards had thrown him to the ground. Boots dug into his face and back. The pain and blood made it hard to focus on the faces above him.

“We tried to warn you, but you were determined to get in trouble.

Arngrim tried to struggle free, but hands end him tight. The face sighed.

“Now there are people to silence, deaths to blame on you. Work work work. You don’t appreciate the effort.”

“But the Forsworn. Madanach. He’s behind this!” Arngrim coughed and tried to wipe away the blood with his shoulder.

“Not to worry. You will have plenty of time to make new friends in Cidhna. I’m sure they will love to talk to you.”

16-Arngrim: 10th Heartfire, 201

The cliffs rose up to the sky. People hurried about their day along stairways and roads carved into the walls, while other looked down from stone bridges. The market square of Markarth was a bustling hive of activity in the ancient canyon city. Stall attendants called out to passers-by, all lying about how their wares were the finest in the land. Arngrim kept a tight grip on his axe as he stalked through the crowd, glaring at anyone who dared come too close. All these people made it difficult to breath. The guards were watching though, whispering to each other about the savage walking their streets.

The crowd parted for one woman, dressed richly, moving as if she were alone in the markets. Arngrim couldn’t help but stare. Blue eyes like chips of ice, evaluating everything. Steps deliberate, but moving with a grace that must be born of years of training. She was a warrior born, but dressed as a merchant. 

Their eyes met briefly.

Arngrim looked down and busied his hands with the merchant’s wares in front of him. His face grew warm.

“I think it looks a little fragile.”

Arngrim looked up straight into her eyes. “What?”

Her eyes looked down. She reached out and took the necklace from his hands. Her fingers lightly brushed his. She ifted the necklace and held up at her shoulders, smiling broadly.

“Don’t you think it would look better on a more feminine neck?

Arngrim barely noticed the necklace. 

“So what do you think?”

He looked up at her smile and felt his mouth go dry.

“Its quite all right. I find most people here are more interested in the contents of my purse than in me,” her eyes seemed to twinkle. “It is nice to meet someone with another opinion on the matter.”

Arngrim frowned and looked around. “Who?”

She laughed, “that would be you.”

He felt his cheeks start to ache. Rich women didn’t pay attention to old men dressed in rotting furs. Well, actually they did but ran away. This was… different.

“You really need to relax,” she said, touching the hand gripping his axe. “No one is looking to kill you, although they will try everything to take your money.”

He resisted the urge to rub his cheeks. “You are from here?”

“Oh no, I came up along the Karth road a few weeks ago, it was such a…”

Arngrim let the words wash over him. He felt strange, not uncomfortable, but different.

A whisper from the crowd “Hjalti”.

Arngrim felt something change. As the woman haggled with the jeweller he scanned the crowd. Something was wrong. But he couldn’t see what was coming when everything screamed ‘wrong’ to him in the city.

“I’m Margaret, whats your name?” she held out her hand to him.

He looked down at the hand. His fingers burned as they touched. Looking up he saw her face express shock.

The man looked normal walking past. Perhaps he tripped and bumped Margaret. Arngrim caught a flash of a knife in the man’s hand. He let go of her hand and reached for his axe as the man locked eyes with him.

“The Reach belongs to the Forsaken!”

The guards came like a pack of wolves. The man falling under their blades, screaming curses at all Nords. Arngrim stared, mouth open. Margaret lay on the stones, blood slowly reaching out between the cobbles.

15-Arngrim: 9th Heartfire, 201

Arngrim wrestled with the bedsheets. Every creak jolted him awake. Eydis had looked at him with shock before ordering him to the river to wash. He had demanded to sleep in the same bed, supposedly in the room that Tiber Septim had slept. Now he doubted his resolve.

He reached out, gently touching the rusted sword he had brought all the way from Deepwood Vale. Something must be important about it, as it would probably break at the whisper of battle. Arngrim scowled and started counting the stains on the roof, trying to get to sleep.

Relaxing his body didn’t seem to help, nothing felt right. He pulled the sheets tight and rolled on his side, letting his back take the brunt of the cutting wind. Better. He reached up and tried to adjust the bundle of clothing trying to pass itself off as a pillow.

He frowned. 

Wind?

He sat bolt upright and his eyes showed him something very different from the run down inn. Snores came from the piles of fur around him, with the occasional face peeking out. Scores of campfires were scattered over the rocks, with shadows of movement at some. Arngrim stood and tried to take it all in. Cold points of light shone in the sky above, and in the distance he could see massive walls carved in the side of a mountain. Markarth City.

“You came.”

Arngrim recognised the boy standing beside him. The ghost from the inn. But here he stood shivering against the cold, breath steaming the night air.

“Ah. Yes?” He looked around. “Where is this place?”

“The gates of Markarth, before the final battle for the Reach.” The boy pointed at the walls. “The savages have holed up in there, protecting their King. Tomorrow, we drive them out.”

Arngrim muttered, “that didn’t work out.”

The boy turned to face Arngrim. “You promised you would make me your sword brother”

“Yes. So you keep saying.” Arngrim felt the sword at his side. He drew it, bright and sharp, and held it out to the boy.

He smiled as he took the sword with both hands. “It will be glorious. Bards will wing our names, and children will cry out to hear the tales of our bravery!”

Arngrim’s eyes begun to sting. 

“Call, and I will be at your side Hjalti. Your crown is our fury, which will be the storm that wipes the Reach clean.”

“No, its not going to be like that. You don’t understand…”

“No, you don’t understand.” The boy’s eyes bored into Arngrim’s soul. “Go to the city and dig out the evil. Find those responsible, and drive them from our home.” 

He pulled Arngrim close until they stood face to face.

“We have waited too long.”

Arngrim sat up, soaked in sweat. He could hear Eydis moving in the next room. He looked down to where he had placed the sword. Only an impression remained in the mattress.

“Well boy, we’ll see if you can really fight.”