Author's note: I wrote about a hidden passage in the player house of Markarth in the previous chapter, and that was a mistake on my part. It's a mod I've been playing with, which I kinda forgot was a mod.
With that out of the way, enjoy the chap.
...
Torin frowned, his senses snapping to high alert. His eyes scanned the surrounding trees, the rocky outcrops, the riverbank—searching for any flicker of movement, any hint of an ambush. Echo's continued low growl was the only sound besides the rushing water.
After a tense minute, he was reasonably sure the immediate area was clear of living threats.
Cautiously, he knelt by the corpses. There were two of them. Both were Forsworn, their faces painted with fading blue woad, their eyes staring blankly at the canopy.
The cause of death was brutally obvious: sword wounds. But not the ragged, hacking cuts of a berserker or the desperate slashes of a brawl. One man had his throat slit with a single, clean, deep stroke that had nearly severed the spine.
The other's stomach was laid open from left to right in a smooth, surgical arc that spoke of a blade moving with terrifying speed and precision. Besides the mortal wounds, there were some fresh bruises and scrapes on their backs and shoulders—not from a fight, but from being dragged roughly through the dirt and thorns.
Torin raised his head, his gaze following a faint, smeared trail of blood and disturbed foliage. It led away from the main path, up a narrower, overgrown track that wound into the jagged hills, the heart of Forsworn territory.
His frown intensified. These deaths were too quick, too clean. Looking at the slit throat alone, you might think it was the work of an assassin, a silent killer from the shadows.
But paired with the eviscerated stomach…
No. This wasn't stealth. This was the work of someone so obscenely skilled with a blade that it didn't matter if he was sneaking up on you or facing you head-on. Someone who could carve through defenses and find vital points with casual, effortless grace.
Only one person he'd met recently fit that description.
Qasim.
The guy was a swordmaster, through and through. You wouldn't know it to look at his noble face or listen to his endless sermons, but Torin had seen him move. It was also just like the preachy bastard to go out of his way to drag the corpses off the main trail afterward.
He'd probably muttered something about "showing respect for the departed" or "preventing the desecration of the dead by beasts" while he did it.
It also made sense that he'd clash with the Forsworn. He was after Red Eagle's sword, and the Forsworn saw the ancient Briarheart king as their greatest hero. They'd guard his relics with fanatical zeal.
'Well, whatever,' Torin mused, pushing himself back to his feet with a soft grunt. He brushed the dirt from his knees. Not my temple. Not my pilgrim.
He'd already parted ways with the troublesome Redguard. This bloody business had nothing to do with him.
"Come on, Echo," he said, his voice cutting through the grim silence. "Leave it. Let's go."
He turned his back on the corpses and the blood trail, resuming his walk south along the river, putting the evidence of Qasim's violent pilgrimage behind him. Echo gave one last sniff at the air before falling into step, the forest swallowing the scene of silent, skilled death.
The sun had long since vanished behind the jagged peaks, leaving the world bathed in the deep blues and purples of a Reach twilight when the formidable gates of Dushnikh Yal finally entered Torin's vision.
He paused on the stony path, Echo settling beside him with a soft huff, as he took in the sight.
The stronghold was massive. It wasn't just bigger than its video game counterpart; it was a small, fortified town. High, sharpened log walls formed a formidable perimeter, and the massive wooden gates looked thick enough to stop a mammoth charge.
Watchtowers, crude but sturdy, rose at intervals, their braziers already lit against the gathering dark.
A slow whistle escaped Torin's lips. He'd gotten used to the scaled-up reality of Skyrim—Whiterun was a sprawling trade hub, Jorrvaskr a vast mead hall that could house a small army—but this still took him by surprise.
In the game, Orc strongholds were little more than rustic outposts, big enough for a dozen orcs at most. This place… just from the outside, judging by the smoke rising from within and the scale of the walls, it looked like it could comfortably house a hundred families, not just individuals.
It was bigger than Whiterun had been in the game.
Malacath's bloody fist, he mused, a tribe this big, smack in the middle of Forsworn territory and Nord-held land… they must have some strong warriors, or slick diplomats to survive here...
Shaking off the stray thoughts, Torin knew the protocol. He resumed walking, making sure his approach was slow, deliberate, and that he stayed well within the flickering light cast by the watchtower braziers.
He kept his hands visible, away from his weapons.
Sure enough, the silhouette of an Orc in the nearest watchtower shifted. A deep voice, gravelly and unquestionably hostile, boomed down.
"I don't know what you seek here, human," the sentry called out, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "But strangers are not welcome. Turn your back."
Torin just smiled up at the dark silhouette and gave a friendly wave, though he doubted the gesture was appreciated. "My name is Torin Kodlaksson," he called back, his voice carrying clearly in the crisp evening air. "I am no stranger. Ghorza gra-Bagol of Markarth declared me blood-kin. She said word would be sent to all holds."
The Orc in the tower frowned, the expression visible even from a distance. He let out a low, grumbling groan of annoyance. "Wouldn't know about that," he rumbled. "I'll have to ask the elder." He leaned over the railing, pointing a thick finger down at Torin. "You wait right there. Don't move. Don't take a step closer. Understand?"
Torin just raised his arms in a gesture of peaceful surrender. "I'll be as motionless as a boulder."
The sentry just sneered before ducking back into the watchtower. The wait stretched on, filled only by the crackle of the braziers and the distant howl of a wolf.
Ten minutes later, the gate didn't open, but a new figure appeared on the walkway behind the palisade.
It was a female Orc, looking to be in her forties, her dark hair streaked with grey and tied back severely. She wore heavy furs against the mountain cold, and fierce warpaint slashed across her eyes like scars. She looked even more formidable than the first sentry, though her hostility seemed more measured, more assessing.
She looked down at Torin, her gaze sharp. "Ghorza gra-Bagol did send word of you," she admitted, her voice a low, rolling contralto. "But that does not mean we should swing our gates open for you in the dead of night, Torin Kodlaksson."
She crossed her muscular arms over her chest. "Speak your purpose. And tell me why it is so important that you would come knocking when honest folk are settling by their hearths."
Torin let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle. "It's not that my purpose is so urgent it can't wait for morning. It just took me the entire day to walk here from Markarth." He shrugged, gesturing at the looming stronghold. "With your walls so close, I'd be a fool to sleep in the hills when there's a safe bed nearby. Naturally, I'm willing to pay for the shelter and any trouble."
The Orc woman snorted, a sound of pure derision. "This is not an inn, human. We are not merchants of lodging. Only guests of our tribe are welcome within our walls, and we do not charge our guests for a bed or a meal. It is an insult to suggest it."
She leaned forward slightly, her painted eyes narrowing. "Whether we treat you as a guest or turn you back to the wolves will depend entirely on your purpose in coming here. So speak. And speak quickly."
Torin's smile didn't falter. He met the Orc woman's stern gaze squarely. "Lodestone. Ghorza said you have it, or know where to get it. That's why I came."
The Orc let out a thoughtful hum, the sound rumbling in her chest.
Lodestone. That alone was tempting enough to make her consider opening the gates.
The rare, faintly magnetic mineral was pulled from the depths of their mine in small, difficult quantities. It was one of their most potentially valuable assets, but also one of their most frustrating. Normal traders were deeply reluctant to trek this deep into Forsworn country to deal with Orcs, and the stronghold, in turn, was wary of inviting greedy outsiders into their home.
To make things worse, they had no practical use for the raw ore themselves. They lacked the arcane knowledge to process it into anything useful. It just sat in crates, a treasure they couldn't spend.
But if she let this human in, she'd have to assign warriors to watch him through the night. Good fighters who would grumble about babysitting duty. There was always a risk, however small, when admitting a stranger.
If she went through all that trouble and he ended up buying only a pebble's worth, her son—the hot-headed young chief—wouldn't let her hear the end of it. She needed to be sure.
"How much do you want to buy?" she asked, her voice calm but probing.
Torin's grin widened, showing teeth. "As much as you're willing to sell. A sizable quantity. As long as the price is within reason."
As much as possible. The words hung in the cold air. This wasn't a scholar looking for a curiosity. This was a buyer. A serious one.
The Orc woman paused, weighing the potential gain against the inherent risk. The promise of finally converting that useless, heavy rock into useful supplies—tools, weapons, food, medicine—tipped the scales. She gave a single, decisive nod.
"I'll hold you to those words, boy," she said, her tone making it clear it was a threat as much as a promise. She then turned her gaze downward toward the base of the wall and gestured sharply with her hand. "Open the gate!"
From within, there was a shout of acknowledgment, followed by the heavy, groaning scrape of wood on wood. The massive timber gates began to swing inward, pushed by two burly Orcs on the other side. The female Orc disappeared from the walkway.
By the time the gates were fully open, she was standing in the archway, a solid, imposing figure silhouetted by the firelight from within the stronghold. She gestured for Torin to enter.
"Come," she said. "I'll show you to your accommodations for the night. We can discuss the lodestone and its price come morning, when heads are clear and the forge lights are hot."
...
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