Balanced On the Knife Edge

Chapter 16

Hieronymus had survived great battles, bested men in fights while unarmed, and been assigned to dangerous missions in obscure corners of Tamriel. But he had never seen anything like the skeletons. They had been trapped in the palace for over a week now, but neither their strength, nor the magic that bound them, had waned. Archmage Hannibal Traven himself was unable to disenchant the bones, and in the end they gave up, instead observing the skeletons' behaviour to try and decipher a weakness.

The skeletons tried to slice the wall of the circular chamber with their swords at first, but when the hard stone blunted their blades, they resorted to scraping at it. They clawed at the walls day after day, the wretched screeching echoing through the palace like clockwork. Each night the guards drew straws to see who would have to watch over them.

Then, three days after the prisoners escaped, the skeletons suddenly stopped. The guards perked up, noticing the lack of scraping. The undead soldiers stiffened like statues and collapsed into a heap, bones breaking apart, disintegrating into dust, leaving only rusty weapons and helmets behind. The captain of the guard was called into the room, and surveyed the remains of the skeletons with dismay.

Hieronymus would retire a few years later, when his tireless campaign against the Grey Fox grew too stressful for him. He would never know the secret behind the mystery of the Akaviri soldiers, never know what happened to the Dunmer and the Argonian, the only two people known to have escaped the Imperial Prison.

With an exasperated sigh, Hieronymus called forth one of the guards.

"Sweep up this mess and deliver it to the Arcane University. I'm sure they'll find some use for it."

* * *

Landil gasped with exhaustion, white spots flashing in his vision. He leant against a nearby tree to stop his shaking. He mumbled another healing spell, but it could only staunch the bleeding, and he would need proper medical attention if he was going to make it back to the Summerset Isles alive. The city walls of Bruma wavered in the distance, and he pressed onwards.

What nagged at the back of his mind, though, was the thought that it was all in vain. The Dunmer wench and the Argonian freak had outsmarted him. They were taking the amulet to Pale Pass, and Landil doubted they would make it out alive. If the amulet was returned to its master, it would likely never leave those ruins again.

Landil spat and cursed the divines. Tracelmo would not forgive this mistake, no matter what excuses he gave. That haughty ivory tower mage had no idea how difficult the task was. It wouldn't have been difficult, if that blasted Dunmer hadn't interfered.

Even if Landil made it back to the Summerset Isles, he had no life to return to. In his feverish state he began to fantasise of running away, perhaps starting a new life in High Rock or Daggerfall. But he doubted he would prove any less hapless there. Bad luck had a habit of following him around.

By the time he reached Bruma, he had pulled himself together somewhat. The wound wasn't as deep as it had initially seemed, or at least, it wasn't going to be deadly. He would seek the help of a healer in town, but discreetly, and think about what to do in the meantime.

As he was musing on this, he walked past the stables outside the city, barely noticing the group of Orcs congregating outside it, sharing heated words with the owner.

"Hey!"

Landil turned around wearily. One of them was jabbing a sausage-shaped finger at him.

"Do you know what happened to our horses?"

"I'm afraid I don't. Did you perhaps eat them and forget?"

The Orc snarled at him. Landil knew better than to make such a low blow, but in his current state he felt rather reckless.