His mind was full of shifting images and half thoughts, as if he were back home, touching the root of the City Tree but stronger, stranger, freer. “What happened to me?” he said. “I’m not the same. The trees—” “You hear them now,” she said. “Like I do.” She touched him, and her face changed to an expression of purest wonder. “No,” she said, “not like me. Better—more—it’s like you’re one of them, Glim.” “I’m not,” he said. “I’m me. I’m me.” He fought back the thoughts invading his head. “What happened?” he demanded. “I thought I died. I was sure I died.” He felt at his side, then his face. “Where are my wounds?” There weren’t even any scars. “She did it to save you,” Fhena told him. “To keep you safe.” “Did what?” Glim asked, starting to feel hysterical. “I killed you,” another familiar voice said. “I killed you.” The face was Annaïg’s, but the words made no sense juxtaposed with it. “She did it to save you,” Fhena murmured, laying her hand on his shoulder. “Neither of you is making any sense,” he snarled. “Be calm, Glim,” Annaïg said in their private cant. “Just be still and let me explain.” Annaïg watched Glim’s face as he listened to her, as she tried to explain to him that he was still Glim, still the friend she had grown up with, that she had rescued him, not murdered him. But his face wasn’t exactly the same. It looked younger, which made sense, but there was also a little something different about the shape of it; the same for his coloring, which had more rust in it now. If she had seen this body a few months ago, she would have thought it one of Glim’s brothers, but she wouldn’t have mistaken it for him. But inside, he had to be the same. He had to. Sure, he seemed somehow more distracted than the old Glim, seemed to have a hard time focusing on what she was saying, but surely that was a side effect of the incubation process. To go from a worm to an adult with eighteen years’ worth of memories in a few days had to be a shock. But Glim didn’t come to that conclusion. “You’re saying I’m not me anymore,” he said, in as strange a tone as she had ever heard him use. “I’m a copy.” “No,” Annaïg said. “You have the same soul, Glim. The poison I made caught it before Umbriel could take it away.” Glim scratched at his flesh. “But this isn’t my body. It isn’t even a Saxhleel body. It’s grown from a proform. I’m not—” He jerked to his feet. “This is all I’ve ever been to you, an experimental subject!


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‘Drink this, Glim, you’ll turn invisible, this will let you fly, this will kill you and bring you back to life,’ but not quite right, never quite right!” Annaïg felt as if layers of cloth were wrapped around her, muffling everything, hiding what Glim ought to be able to see, trapping anything she could say that might help in dense warp and weft. “I’m sorry, Glim, it’s all I could think of,” was the best she could do, and she saw now that it wasn’t good enough, might never be good enough. “Listen,” she said, reaching to soothe his spines, “I know this is a lot right now. I know you may hate me. But I need to tell you a few things, about what I’m planning—” “No,” Glim said, jerking away from her touch. “I’ve had it with your plans, with doing things your way. I’m finished with it.” “Glim, listen,” she said, but he turned and stamped from the room. She went after him, but his wet footprints led to the balcony and ended there. She stood looking down at the spreading ripples far below, while Fhena came and stood by her. “Go back to the Fringe Gyre,” she told Fhena. “I’m sure he’ll find you there, if he doesn’t get killed again immediately. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” Fhena nodded and padded silently away, leaving Annaïg staring out at the wonder and madness that was Umbriel. Her locket chimed. She held it up and stared at it for a moment, then flipped it open. Attrebus looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. “Hello,” he said. “How are you?” “As best as can be expected,” she replied. “Look,” he said, “I may not have long. Sul and I think we’ve found a way to get up there. I’m not sure exactly when it will happen or where we’ll be.” “What’s going on?” she asked. “Hierem, my father’s minister—he’s in league with Umbriel. We think he’s been traveling up there and back using a magical portal. We’re hoping when he comes down, we’ll go back up.” The threads about her seemed to tighten. “What can I do?” “We’re going to try to use the sword, as we discussed earlier,” he said. “I’m not exactly sure what will happen then, even if we manage it. But I thought you should know, so you can be ready if—if any chance for escape comes.” “What about you?” “When it’s all over, Sul may be able to take us into Oblivion again.” To her ear, it almost sounded like he didn’t care if he survived. “Attrebus,” she said, “I’m sorry if I seemed angry before—” “It’s okay. I think … I think maybe you had a right to be. I think we might have to talk about that someday.” “Right,” she said. “Someday.” “I’m going to put Coo up now—I need to be ready to fight whenever this happens. I just wanted you to know what was going on.


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If I have a chance to contact you after we get there, I’ll try.” “Do that,” she said. The locket went dark. She took one last look at the vista beyond the balcony and then began striding purposefully toward her kitchen. Hours passed, and Attrebus began to fear that perhaps Vineben was right, and Hierem had no intention of returning to the Imperial City. The wait did provide the time for a fuller exchange of information, but beyond that it was sheer torture. His mind kept trying to return to the feelings Hierem had violated him with, and he feared if he let that happen he would be useless in any confrontation, and so pressed for more conversation when he could. “Arese?” “Yes, Prince Attrebus?” “You say you worked for my father.” She glanced at her companion, but he didn’t give any sort of reaction. She pulled her shoulders back. “I was at one time in his small circle, majesty.” “You have the brand?” She nodded and reached to show him, but he shook his head. “That’s okay. I believe you.” He took a deep breath. “So you knew, then? About me?” “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Prince—” “I’m sure you know exactly what I mean,” he said. She made a little grimace, and then acknowledged with a tilt of her head. “Can you tell me why?” he asked. “Your father—he’s a brilliant general, a cunning emperor. I’ve never known a man so strong. But when it came to you, he always had something of a weak spot.” “Weak spot? My father doesn’t have a sentimental bone in his body.” “I don’t mean that way,” she said. “I mean he had no idea what to do with you. When Hierem suggested you be groomed as a sort of boy hero, I think he was relieved to have some sort of direction. It was a way to keep an eye on you and keep you entertained at the same time.” “Yes, when I was ten, I might see that,” Attrebus said. “But when I was fifteen? Nineteen?” “Sometimes when something like that gets started, it takes on a life of its own. No one saw how far it was going to go, how locked into the role you would be. It’s been ten years since I could talk freely with the Emperor, but I’m sure he was hoping to draw you out of it gradually, marry you, settle you down, prepare you to rule.” Attrebus absorbed that, remembering Gulan saying something about marriage not long before … “I got them all killed,” he murmured. “And I should have known better. I should have seen it myself, but I didn’t want to. And for that, everyone who rode with me—” “Hierem did that, not you,” Vineben cut in. “He’s right,” Sul said tersely. “This is no time for this sort of thing.” His voice softened a little. “Maybe you should do what he suggests—go to your father.


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If I can’t kill Vuhon by myself …” He trailed off. “Then me being there won’t help?” Attrebus finished. “What about all of that about needing Coo?” “I’ll find him,” Sul replied. “I’m not the warrior you are,” Attrebus admitted. “I’ve got no arcane arts. But if I hadn’t been with you in the cave, Elhul would have killed you.” “Maybe,” Sul admitted. “You need me.” Sul was taking a breath to say something else when Attrebus heard a thud loud enough to leave his ears ringing and his stomach threatening to rush up and out of his mouth. He swayed, trying not to lose his footing. It was dark, and someone was standing right in front of him. “Vuhon!” Sul snarled. The Dunmer’s eyes arched in surprise and his mouth opened, but before he had a chance to say anything, Sul had already stabbed him with Umbra; the blade went in deep. Vuhon vented an odd little gasp as Sul yanked the sword out and cut at his head, but the Dark Elf caught the blade with his hand, which burned with a steely blue light. Attrebus swung Flashing at the joint of Vuhon’s leg; the blade struck, but it felt as if he’d hit iron. Vuhon ignored him in favor of striking Sul with his other hand, sending the sorcerer staggering back. Attrebus was making another cut when Vuhon’s eye flicked to him, and suddenly he felt unbelievable cold spike through his body. He lost the timing of his attack, and Vuhon easily sidestepped the blow and caught him by the collar. Then a bellowing Sul smashed into Vuhon, stabbing him again, and they all went out into space. Animal terror passed through Attrebus as the world, the starry sky, and dark Umbriel spun nightmarishly around him. The fall seemed to go on much too long, but in reality he knew he’d only drawn one good breath for screaming before they struck a strangely yielding surface. Fire flashed and he was buffeted away as if by an enormous burning hand. He flailed to get up, but the surface he’d landed on shifted crazily. Then he understood where he was—on top of the glass forest. It was the best name he had for it; it was where Sul and he had arrived on their last visit here. Far below, a great web of flexible, glasslike cables anchored to various buildings along the rim formed a large web suspended over the valley and sump below. From the web, hundreds of smaller tubes grew skyward, branching, and those branches dividing until they at last became a virtual cloud of translucent twigs no bigger around than a little finger—and it was this upper layer they had fallen on. He managed to get to his knees and heard Sul screaming. He’d heard Sul cry out in his sleep, but this was different; it was hysterical, insane in temper. It reminded him of Elhul.


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Sul struck at Vuhon again, but glass coils sprouted up below the lord of Umbriel and raised him above the reach of the weapon. The crystalline forest suddenly pulsed with blue-white light, and Vuhon’s eyes shone with the same radiance. Attrebus felt tendrils grip at his feet, pulling him down, and Sul as well. “You dare to bring that here? You think I’m afraid of that?” Vuhon roared so loudly that the sound shocked against Attrebus’s face. Sul’s only answer was an incoherent screech and a slash at the tubules supporting Vuhon. They shattered, much to Attrebus’s surprise. It appeared to surprise Vuhon, too, as those supporting him collapsed in shards. Attrebus felt a strange hum—it seemed, almost, to be in his teeth—and then most of the cables suddenly darkened. Only those that plucked Vuhon away from Sul’s next attack—and those that held Sul—still shone with unabated light. Vuhon shouted something, and a darkness smote Sul, sending him tumbling back and Umbra flying from his hands. More of the tubules went dark or shone with a sickly violet color. Attrebus, now completely free, struggled toward Vuhon, who seemed drained by his attack on Sul. He got within five unsteady strides before Vuhon seemed to notice him. Attrebus swung hard at his neck, nothing fancy. The sword struck, and this time bit a little. Not much, but it cut the artery. Vuhon slapped his hand over the sudden spurt of blood. Then a glowing cable caught Attrebus by the ankle and another wrapped around his neck. He slashed as best he could at it, but in an instant his sword arm was immobilized as well. The cables passed him away from Vuhon, then began drawing him slowly down into them. Sul was back up. Attrebus saw him glance at Umbra, which lay between him and Vuhon, then back at him. Even from ten yards away, Attrebus could see his companion shaking as if with palsy. “What have you done to me?” Vuhon exploded. “Tell me, or he dies immediately.” Sul took another step toward the sword. “I cut him, Sul,” Attrebus yelled. “He’s weaker. Something’s wrong with him—” The cable tightened on his neck and he couldn’t breathe. Sul took another step. More of the cables pulsed darkly, and Vuhon began backing away. Attrebus saw the fear on his face, because Vuhon knew what he himself knew—that nothing would stop Sul now. Then the cables pulled him down and he couldn’t see anything. All he had to concentrate on was how much he wanted to breathe, and how he couldn’t, would never again. He strained every fiber of his being against the coils that held him, but they still glowed brightly. Above, broken into rainbows by hundreds of strange prisms, he saw what must be Vuhon’s radiant perch. Kill him, Sul, he thought as his muscles began to finally loosen. But then everything around him seemed to shatter and Sul was there. They were falling again.


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This time they hit water, but if it had killed him, he would never have known it wasn’t stone. When Mere-Glim reached the weak end of the bough, he stopped and stared down. He saw the moons both above and below, and for a moment he didn’t care to wonder why or how—it just made sense. Then he reluctantly sorted out that they were over water, a vast body of water. The sea? But no, ahead he saw a great tower in the moonlight, and the vast circle of a city, and he knew—from all of Annaïg’s ramblings—it could only be one place. “What is it?” Fhena asked from behind him. “The Imperial City,” he replied. “It’s huge.” “Yes,” he replied. But he was having a hard time concentrating on the city. Because the trees were loud now—as strong in his mind as the Hist had ever been, except they weren’t telling him what to do; they were singing, a deep and melancholy song. “Can you hear that?” he asked. “The trees?” “Yes,” she said. “Have they always sounded like this?” “Yes and no. Their song changed a few days ago.” “A few days ago? Before or after I died?” “After, I think.” “I dreamed this,” he said. “When I was—before waking, just now.” “You weren’t waking,” she said. “You were being born.” “Annaïg brought me back,” he murmured. “But the trees …” He examined his limbs again, which looked and did not look like those he remembered, and he realized his heart was beating more softly. “She loves you,” Fhena said. “She thought she was doing what was best for you.” Glim knelt and then lay against the bark, closing his eyes, feeling it all turning under him. “It’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t realize before. I shouldn’t have been angry.” Fhena sat down on her heels. “What is it, Glim?” “They shaped me,” he murmured. “Like the Hist. They shaped me to do something.” “What?” He started to tell her, but then felt it, like a sickness in his bones. “No,” he gasped. “Oh, Annaïg, no!” “What is it?” “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got to stop her.” “I’m coming with you, then.” “It’s dangerous,” he said. “It’s no place for you.” “I know where my place is,” she said quietly. “And you need to realize it.” Her gaze caught him and turned something inside of him. “Okay,” he said. “Follow me.”


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Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel SEVEN Hierem appeared and Colin struck from behind, cupping his left palm to the minister’s forehead and thrusting his knife toward the base of his skull. “No!” Hierem shouted. He sounded exactly like the man on the bridge, before Colin had stabbed him. Colin flinched. He dropped the knife and shifted his grip to a choke hold. “What are you doing?” Letine yelled, lifting her own dagger. “No, don’t kill him,” Colin said. “We still don’t know what he was up to. We need to—” “You don’t understand,” Letine said, stepping up to deliver the blow. It never landed. The blade hit something an inch from Hierem’s throat and exploded in a blinding flash of light. Letine shrieked and fell back. Colin tried to tighten his grip, but suddenly Hierem was as slippery as an oiled snake, slithering free of his grasp as if from a child. “You really don’t understand,” Hierem said. Colin dropped and got his knife, but as soon as he touched it, he again remembered the man he’d murdered, and all those corpses by the road, like broken dolls. He took a deep, shuddering breath, but he knew it was pointless. It didn’t matter what happened here today. It didn’t matter what happened anywhere, ever, because in the end there was nothing. He looked at the knife and felt a sob heave up from his chest. Then he slumped down to the floor. “I can’t imagine what you think you’re up to, Arese,” Hierem said, stepping toward the woman. Her eyes looked blind, unfocused. “Colin?” she shouted. “He’s not much use to you, I’m afraid,” Hierem said. “He’s a bit glum right now.” A sharp report rang from the walls in the room, and suddenly something appeared, something shaped a bit like a man but covered in black scales, with three scythelike fingers on each hand. It hopped, birdlike, toward Hierem, and Colin noticed it had sickles on its feet, too—one on each foot. Hierem jabbed his fist at it, and although he didn’t hit it, the thing went flying back into the wall. It bounced up and came back at the mage. “He’s done something to you, Colin,” Letine shouted. “Overcome it!” That was probably true, Colin thought, but it didn’t matter. There was no redemption. His hands were never going to be clean. The daedra attacked again, but this time Hierem failed to deflect it completely; it skittered by, and one of its foreclaws caught the minister across the chest. His robe ripped with an oddly metallic sound, and Colin saw he had on some sort of mail beneath. That had torn, as well, and the mage started to bleed. Snarling, Hierem turned, struck the daedra with his hand, and it collapsed. It wasn’t dead, but didn’t seem to be able to move, as if it suddenly weighed a few extra tons. “Colin!” Letine shouted as something like lightning jagged from her hand and struck Hierem.


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.2

It shivered about the minister and then seemed to reverse itself, knocking Letine to the floor. All Colin could hear now was Hierem’s harsh breathing. The minister examined his wound and shrugged. “So much for assassins,” he muttered. “I should ask why and who sent you, but it doesn’t matter, or won’t soon enough. What concerns me more is where the prince and his companion have got off too.” “Oblivion take you, and your plans,” Letine gasped, trying to rise. “Ah!” he sighed. “Arese! I am so disappointed in you—or should I say proud of you? You found out what I was up to, didn’t you? I thought someone had been in my things.” “It’s the tower,” she said, pushing herself away from him with her hands, trying to get her legs to work. “It’s the key. I didn’t get it until Colin remembered one of the symbols meant ‘echo.’ The White-Gold Tower is an echo of the ur-tower, the first object of our reality the gods created. It’s one of the axes of creation.” Hierem smiled. “Umbriel thinks it can emancipate him from Clavicus Vile, make him free of the prince forever. Possibly it would if I gave him the chance. But I see you know I’ve found another use for it.” He reached into a pocket and produced a cylinder about an inch in diameter and six inches long. He gave it a little shake and it telescoped out to about three feet. It seemed to be a dull reddish black with glowing, scarlet daedric script all over it. Some things matter, Colin told himself. They matter. Hierem pointed the tube at Letine. Colin felt the moment slow down, understanding that when it was over the woman he’d kissed, touched, made love to, was going to be dead. He got the knife, raised it to throw. Hierem must have seen, because he swung the weapon toward him. Colin’s knife went over the minister’s shoulder and spanged into the wall. “You’ve got more spirit than I imagined,” Hierem said. Colin tried to keep his face neutral, but he knew the sorcerer must have seen something in his eyes, because he started to turn as the daedra came on him from behind. Hierem screamed then, as the great curved claws butchered him, but he didn’t scream for long. Feeling a little lighter, Colin slowly came to his feet as the daedra savaged the minister’s body and then vanished. He walked toward Letine, who was coming unsteadily to her feet. He caught her by the shoulder and helped her stand. “Thanks,” she said. She was shaking. “What was he talking about?” Colin asked. “I thought you didn’t find out anything about the—” The knife slipping in under his ribs cut him off. Letine stepped back, leaving him to stare at the hilt protruding from his torso. “What?” he asked, dropping to his knees. Her eyes were wide, her mouth formed an O, and she looked stricken.


She reached for the hilt of the knife, as if she thought she could somehow undo what she had done. “Colin …” she said. Then her expression grew harder. “I’m sorry, Colin,” she said. “Ten years. Ten years!” Fury strained her voice to the breaking point. “I’m owed something. Hierem owes me. And I’m going to collect.” She picked up the rod Hierem had dropped and went through his clothing. Colin didn’t see if she took anything. He kept looking at the knife in him. She paused at the doorway—he couldn’t tell if she was trying to decide whether to finish him off or wanted to tell him something. She did neither—she simply left. He realized he was having a hard time breathing. She had probably hit his lung. Annaïg watched as the poison began to flow from the tree-wine, knowing there was no going back at this point. Whether it worked or not, Umbriel was going to know, and probably sooner than later. Which meant it was time to leave the kitchens. She picked up her bag and threw it across her shoulders, hoping she hadn’t left anything she needed, but not willing to stop and think about it. She wondered if Attrebus and Sul were on Umbriel yet, but that, too, would wait until she was someplace else. She wished she knew where Glim had gone. She was almost to the pantry when she heard the commotion, and when she entered the corridor, she saw Glim in the pantry shaking workers off and trying to reach the corridor, where Yeum and six cooks were lined up, fully armed. “Xhuth,” she muttered. She fumbled in her bag until she found a glass vial and tossed it to shatter on the floor, just behind Yeum. The chef turned, but the yellow cloud had already engulfed her and the rest. As they collapsed, unconscious, Annaïg held her breath and jumped over them. “Glim,” she said, “what in the world are you doing?” “You have to stop it, Annaïg,” he said. He sounded urgent, but there wasn’t any anger in his voice. “Stop poisoning the trees.” “Glim—there is no stopping it. It’s done. I’m sorry, I know how you feel—” “You don’t know anything,” he said. “They just want to go home.” “This isn’t making any sense to me,” she said. “This is it, Glim. We’re out of time. All we can do now is try to escape.” “But—” “We have to get out of here now! If you have something to tell me, tell me while we’re leaving.” She got onto the lift that brought things to and from the Fringe Gyre and activated it, and they began to rise. “The trees,” Glim said. “I understand them now. They changed me so I could help them.” “Help them do what?” “Go home.” “And where is that?” she demanded. “I don’t know—somewhere else. Not Tamriel.


Isn’t that what we want?” “What I want is for all of this to die, Glim.” “I can feel it, too,” Fhena said. “Don’t you understand? If it kills the trees, it will kill all of us—including Glim.” The lift reached the top. “We’d better hide,” Annaïg said. “They’ll be after us soon.” “Aren’t you listening?” But Annaïg’s head was whirling. It was too much, wasn’t it? Could she really be expected to listen to all of this, put up with it? “Just—one thing at a time,” she said. Her locket was begging for attention. In the gray, unnatural mist, Mazgar bent to her oars, feeling the longboat glide through the water. She felt Brenn huddled close behind her, crowded there by the five other soldiers stuffed into the small craft. As unnatural as the concealing mist was the silence. The lack of chatter and even of breathing left her feeling unsettled. Even the water of the great lake bore their passage without so much as a single lap of oar in water. But that could work both ways. When the arrows started falling, she didn’t hear them either, or the screams of those they hit. Her first clue was when a man in the boat ahead of her clutched at a shaft in the side of his neck; only then did she notice the cloud of fletched death swooping down on them. Fortunately, Ram and Dextra were ahead of her, hefting their shields to catch most of the darts coming their way. But while all eyes were turned up, Mazgar felt something seize her oar. She jerked at it, and then the boat heaved up on one side. The wormies were in the water. Ahead, the mist was suddenly incandescent with bursts of orange and azure. So much for surprise, she thought. The boat started to flip, so she jumped clear into the water. To fight the panic being submerged always brought on, she concentrated instead on finding the bottom with her feet, as all around her the upper bodies of wormies appeared, water draining from the cavities in their faces and chests. She set her footing in the muddy bottom and boxed away the nearest before drawing her close-work dagger. Ram, Dextra, Martin, and a Redguard whose name she didn’t know formed a diamond formation around Brennus and started pushing toward shore. She went for their hands first; grab with her left, sever at the wrist with her knife, cut the side of the neck, move on. She was slower in the water, but so—thank Mauloch—were they. She saw Ram had one on his back and cut its arm off at the elbow, ruining its grip, but then another hail of arrows dropped into the water and Ram went down anyway, screaming soundlessly and gripping at a shaft in his sternum. Mazgar felt a pleasant shock, and then the wormies fell away from them, moving off to other targets.


She was relieved—because that meant Brenn was alive—but turned to confirm it anyway. He nodded at her. By the time they reached the shore, the survivors of the first two waves of boats had formed a double line, one to face the enemy coming from the sea, the other looking landward. Sound came back—battle cries, screams of pain, terse orders passed up and down the lines. She found Prossos and he put her in the front line, which suited her fine. She drew Sister, which was more suited to this sort of work. And work it was going to be. She had started the day with five hundred soldiers. Their job was to cross Lake Rumare from the north, there to join with a massive push toward the northwest side of the city. That’s where the enemy was massed most deeply, and lately had begun actively trying to break through the gate that led to the Imperial prison. It was also where Umbriel would arrive, if it continued on the course it was presently following. Now she stood with something between two and three hundred comrades. They looked to be lined up against three times that. Still, they gained ground steadily. The land was pretty flat here, and the archers who had plagued them earlier either seemed to have been dealt with or more likely couldn’t make decent shots with ranks so close. As they pushed forward, their line formed a wedge, to prevent the wormies from outflanking them with their numbers and rolling them up. After that, they settled into a bloody pace. Someone off to her left starting bellowing “General Slaughter’s Comely Daughter” a little off-key, and a few heartbeats later the whole cohort was shouting the response, and it started to feel like a party. A blond man to her right dropped with a leaf-shaped spear pushed all the way through him. She felt a tap on her shoulder and nodded, dragging the wounded man back as an orc half again her size filled the gap. In the empty center of the phalanx, she yelled for a healer, but it was clear Blondie wasn’t going to make it. He knew it, too. “It’s okay,” he managed. “Just be quick.” She nodded and closed his eyes. Then she took off his head with a single blow, followed by both hands and feet. Sometimes they came back, even without heads. She took her ten-minute rest and had a long drink of water while watching the huge bulk of Umbriel draw ever nearer. Brennus fell in with her. “I know that’s hard,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to do it.” “Orders are orders,” she said. “Especially when they make sense.” “I know,” he said. “That doesn’t make it easy.” “How long before it gets to the walls, you think?” she asked, jabbing her tusks toward the flying city.


“Hours,” he said, “unless the Emperor has some tricks to try still.” “I heard from that rat-face, Solein, that they made two more tries to invade by air.” “We’re not supposed to spread it around, but yes, both just as unsuccessful as that first one. But the wall might be a different matter; the Synod and the College of Whispers will give it all they’ve got, you can be sure of that. And they’ve had a long while to prepare defenses.” Mazgar handed him the skin. “I’ll let them worry about that,” she said. “I’ve got my own job to think about.” She clapped him on the shoulder and went back to take her place on the line.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel EIGHT “Attrebus.” He opened his eyes at the sound of the voice and found Sul’s crimson gaze only inches away. He felt stone beneath his back and was soaking wet. Behind Sul he saw a rough, faintly luminescent wall. “Where are we?” he asked. “We fell in the lake in the center of Umbriel,” Sul replied. “This is some sort of cave above the waterline.” Attrebus remembered then. “Did you do it? Did you kill him?” “No,” he said. “Do you think you can walk?” “What happened?” He pushed, shaking water from his ear. “You had him.” Sul didn’t answer, but instead stood and reached an arm down. Attrebus took it and let him half pull him to his feet. “You know more about this place than I do,” Sul said. “Where do you think we are?” Attrebus felt his face flush as he finally understood. “You came after me instead,” he said. “You saved my life.” “I failed,” Sul said. “After all this time—” He broke off. “You were right—something is wrong with him, and it’s no doing of ours. The sword didn’t hurt him much, if at all. It certainly didn’t reclaim anything of Vile’s.” “Annaïg’s poison, then,” Attrebus guessed. “That must be it.” “It seems likely, and that means Vuhon will be trying to stop her, to reverse whatever she’s done.” He turned, and Attrebus saw Umbra was sheathed again. “Wait,” he said. “How were you able to put it away?” “I almost wasn’t,” Sul admitted. “Next time—” “There’s no reason for a ‘next time,’ ” Attrebus argued. “If it doesn’t work, why take the risk?” “I have a feeling about it,” Sul said. “Leave it at that and talk to the girl—we’re wasting time.” Attrebus nodded, pulled Coo out, and flipped open the little door. A moment later Annaïg’s face appeared. “Attrebus,” she said. “Where are you?” “We fought Vuhon. The sword didn’t work, but something’s wrong with him.” “I may have distracted him,” she replied. “Your venom is working?” “It’s doing something. Where are you?” “We fell in the lake in the middle of this place, and now we’re in some sort of cavern just above the waterline.” “You’re in the skraw caves, then.” “If you say so.” “Stay where you are,” she said. “Keep Coo open.” She closed the locket and then turned to Glim. “The sword didn’t work,” she said. “Our only hope is my poison. When the trees start to die, we may get a chance to escape. Fhena can come with us.” “It doesn’t have to be this way,” Glim insisted. She closed her eyes, tired of his persistence. “I need you to go down to the skraw caves and bring Attrebus up here,” she said. Glim’s pupils dilated wide and his fighting musk filled the air. She inched back a little. “No,” he said. “They deserve a chance, too.


You need to hurry.” “I said no,” the Argonian said, in a quiet but firm voice. “Not unless you save the trees.” “I’ve told you, that isn’t possible. Most of the poison is in now—” “If you know how to make the poison, you know how to make the antidote,” he said. She stared at him for a moment, then reached into her pocket and produced a long, stoppered tube. “This is the antidote,” she said. “This is for us, when we’re affected, if we are. It’s not nearly enough to counteract what I’ve pumped into the roots.” “They’re already fighting it,” he said. “If they taste that, they’ll know what to do—they can produce enough antitoxin to save themselves.” “And the lords, and Umbriel,” Annaïg said. “Then the Imperial City is destroyed, and we don’t escape.” “No,” Glim replied, his voice measured. “I’ll help the trees go home and take the city with them.” “You really believe you can do that?” Annaïg asked. “Yes.” She rubbed her forehead. “Go get Attrebus and Sul. Then I’ll give you this.” “I could take it from you,” Glim said very softly. “I’ll throw it, if you try.” “It may be too late by the time I find Attrebus. Give it to me now, and I promise I’ll do as you ask.” “Glim—” “Nn, it’s me.” “Right,” she said. “Weren’t you just threatening to use force on me?” “I’m sorry,” he said. “If you could feel them, like I do … Nn, our whole lives, it’s always been you, your desires, your needs. And despite my protestations, I’ve been happy to be at your side. But this time you have to stand with me. You have to trust me.” She closed her eyes, trying to remember what he was talking about, to a time when everything hadn’t been about suspicion and betrayal and heartsickness, but nothing came, nothing—until, finally, an image. The face of a five-year-old girl with long, curling black hair, and that of a young Saxhleel about the same age, reflecting up from water twenty feet below. She saw their feet, too, perched on the crumbling wall of an ancient, sunken structure. “Let’s jump,” the girl said. “That’s too far down,” the boy replied. “Ah, come on. Let’s do it together.” “Well … fine,” he grumbled. And they jumped. Annaïg opened her eyes, and Glim suddenly remembered her when she was a little girl, how full of everything her eyes seemed to have been in those days. She didn’t say anything. She just handed him the bottle. “Thanks,” he said. He turned to Fhena. “Take her to the hiding place. I’ll be back.” “I’ve heard that before,” Fhena said. Glim slipped the antidote into his belt-pouch and bounded down the trunk, feeling the sickness invade it deeper. He wondered how to do it—if he could simply empty the contents where the roots would find it, or use one of the nutrient injectors the fringe workers used.


In their pain, the trees had become unfocused, distilled to need and demand, and it was all he could do to keep his mind singular enough to be Glim, and not just a part of the hurt and panic. But Annaïg trusted him, and he had to be worthy of that trust now. He would find the prince and his companion, and hopefully by then he would figure it out. The sump felt sick and oily, and he nearly retched when he pulled in his first breath. He surprised a school of bladefish, but they hardly reacted, and instead continued along, unsteadily, as if they had lost half of their senses. He found shattered crystal tubes in the shallows and followed them to their greatest concentration, and then began searching the caves. He discovered them in the third one he tried. The Dunmer saw him first, reaching for his sword before Glim was even out of the water. Then the Imperial turned. “Wait,” he said. “That’s an Argonian. Mere-Glim?” “Yes, Prince,” he replied, making a little bow. “Do you know these people?” the prince asked. Glim noticed a number of skraws on the other side of the cavern. Several of them were armed. As Glim approached, Wert pushed through. “I know them,” Glim replied. “Who are they, Glim?” Wert asked. He looked tired, more jaundiced than usual. “You can leave them alone. What’s wrong?” “I don’t know,” Wert replied. “Hiner and Skrahan dropped dead. The rest of us—it’s like everything is getting sick, all at once.” He coughed, and for a moment Glim thought he would fall. “What should we do?” Glim took several deep breaths, looking at the skraws. His skraws, and in an instant he felt not just the trees anymore, but all of it, everyone, and he knew what to do. He took out the antidote, removed the stopper, and drank it all. Annaïg paced back and forth in the wooden cavity, wishing she had something to do, something to cook with. One minute she’d been in control of everything, and suddenly she didn’t know what was happening anymore. “Glim can do what he says,” Fhena said. “I believe him.” “Of course you do,” Annaïg said. “And maybe he can. But maybe—have you thought of this?—maybe he’s gone crazy.” “No. I can feel it. The trees made him different, and now somehow they’ve changed, too. As if they got something from him as well. They have a purpose for him. Anyway—you gave him the antidote. You must believe.” “No,” she said. “That’s not why I gave it to him.” “I don’t understand. I—” Fhena was interrupted by an odd coughing sound. Annaïg saw the other woman’s eyes dart past her and turned. Umbriel stood there. “It had to be you,” he said. “As soon as I felt your venom, I knew your scent on it.” “Lord Umbriel …” “The trees are fighting hard,” Umbriel said.


“They’ve shunted the poison through the ingenium, poisoning the rest of the city while they try to synthesize an antidote. It will cycle back around to them in time, but by then most of the damage will be done. I don’t know if you meant it to work that way, but it was brilliant; it’s attacking the head first—which means me. I had to absorb Rhel and three other lords just to keep going on in this body, to find the venom’s mother.” “So much for Rhel’s illusion of immortality.” “His illusion was that he was any less a part of me than everything here. It’s an illusion you share. The poison will kill you, too.” “If that’s what it takes to stop you, I’m willing,” she replied. “I see. And yet you have an antidote.” “I don’t,” Annaïg said. “I’m weak,” Umbriel said, his voice beginning to change. “I’m not deaf.” “I don’t have it. I gave it to someone else.” “Possibly,” Umbriel replied, moving toward her. “But you still have it, right there behind your eyes.” “Stay back,” Annaïg said. “Keep away from me.” “We’re almost there,” Umbriel snarled, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. “All we have to do is reach the White-Gold Tower, and we’re free of him forever.” “I don’t care,” Annaïg said. He lunged at her, and she whipped out the invisible blade, slicing three of his fingers off. He barked a harsh sort of laugh and made a fist. He didn’t hit her, but something did, hurling her against the wall and knocking the wind out of her. He held up his hand, and the fingers grew back. His spine seemed to straighten; the lines of his face filled in. “What’s this?” he murmured. “Incredible. They did it.” He looked down at her, his lips curling up in a malicious grin. “It was a nice try,” he said. “Get away from her,” someone else said. At first the voice didn’t sound right to Annaïg—it was too full, somehow, too large. But then she recognized Attrebus striding toward Umbriel, sword in hand. Glim and an ancient-looking Dunmer came with him. “No,” she shouted as Umbriel’s words sorted themselves into sense and she understood. “Attrebus—the sump. The sword didn’t work because his soul isn’t in him—there wasn’t anything to reclaim. Glim! His soul is in the ingenium—” But then Umbriel’s eyes stabbed green fire at her, and every muscle in her body went rigid with pain. Sul snarled in agony, and something erupted into existence between them and Vuhon, something with huge bat wings and claws, but in the shape of a woman. Then Sul turned and ran back toward the way out, grabbing Mere-Glim by the arm. “Wait!” Attrebus said. “You heard her!” Sul shouted. Sul’s monster and Vuhon slammed together. Attrebus could see a dark elf woman dragging the fallen Annaïg away from the confrontation. He stood there, paralyzed. He’d come here to rescue her, hadn’t he?


She was so near … But if he died here, rescuing her, what of the Imperial City? His father? His people? He knew then, in that moment, that he was ready to die trying to save Annaïg—but didn’t have that luxury. So he turned and ran after Sul. He emerged from the trunk of the tree and saw the old man and Glim bounding down a branch. It took him a few seconds to catch up, but the three of them hadn’t gone another thirty steps before they saw figures boiling up the tree toward them. Some seemed human or elven—others were stranger. There were a lot of them. Glim hesitated only an instant before changing direction, climbing from branch to branch with dexterity that was difficult to match. “Don’t we want to go down?” Attrebus asked him as he clambered over one rough bough and reached for another. “Everything takes you down eventually,” the reptile replied. “This is just the long way.” Their exertions eventually brought them to another huge trunk, and as they scrambled up on it, despite everything, Attrebus was struck momentarily still by wonder. They were at the top of the fringe, with the whole mad forest sweeping down and away from them, a massive bent fan. And below that, the Imperial City from high above—as he had never seen it, and indeed he saw only part of it now, because Umbriel’s shadow must already be over the wall. Before them loomed the White-Gold Tower. Whatever Umbriel hoped to do, he was about to do it. “We’re out of time,” Attrebus said. He turned to the Argonian. “You said you could use the trees to take Umbriel out of Tamriel.” Mere-Glim nodded tersely. “Do it now.” “You’ll be trapped here,” the reptile-man said. “If that’s the way it is, then so be it,” Attrebus replied. Mere-Glim nodded, and after a slight pause, knelt and put his face against the bark. Glim could feel the poison dissipating; the trees could hear him again. He felt his self soften and flow around the edges as everything that was Umbriel opened itself to him. He heard the call of return, and with an easy bending of his mind gave it greater voice. Or tried to, but then a spear of pain seemed to drive through him, an absolute command that he acquiesce and fling himself, to break on the lower boughs before falling and vanishing from this world and every other. He rose and took the first step before pushing back against the command, and for an instant he thought he could beat it, push through. But it was ancient, and the trees bent to it from long habit. Annaïg had been right to doubt him. He’d been so sure, it hadn’t occurred to him that the Umbriel could countermand him. Now all he could do was escape with his life.


For a moment it looked as if Mere-Glim would jump into the open air, then he stopped, the stippled lids uncovering his eyes. “I can’t,” he said. “We’re wasting time, then,” Sul said. The three of them sprinted up the bough to where its roots grappled with the stone of the rim, and after a short climb, stood on the edge, in a gap between two strange, delicate buildings of glass and wire. A long cable went from the base of one all the way across the valley; several small buildings hung suspended from it, like lanterns at a festival. From the first of those a second cable ran down to the water’s edge. “There,” Sul said, gesturing at the cable. “That’s the quickest way. It would take forever to climb down there.” “I’ll have to go with you,” Glim said. “You won’t make it to the bottom of the sump without me.” The cable was five feet in diameter, but the footing was still pretty tricky. They were a few yards short of the hanging building when Sul shouted and pointed. Vuhon and several other figures were flying toward them. Sul ran three long steps and jumped; Glim went after him with only an instant’s hesitation. Attrebus followed, wondering how many times he was going to have to fall into the damned thing. Glim smiled as he fell, remembering a long-ago day when Annaïg had dared him to jump with her into the ruins of an old villa. He hit the water feetfirst and let his body relax—become the air, the water, the very shock that tried to slap the soul from his skin. He plunged deep, pulling a train of bubbles behind him that trailed to the broken mirror of the surface above. As their descent slowed, he caught Attrebus and Sul by their wrists and kicked fiercely down, toward the little star he’d always been told to avoid. Now he felt it, the pulsing heart and mind of Umbriel, the core that was the true lord of souls. All other light diminished until at last they reached it. Attrebus felt the pressure against his lungs mount and knew they would never make it back to the surface. He watched the light grow as Mere-Glim pulled them down. When they reached it, he realized that Sul was unconscious, so he did the only thing he could—he drew Umbra from the sheath on the Dunmer’s back and stabbed it into the light. Even as he did so, he felt a rush of absolute rage. He became the blade, the edge, as Umbra drank him utterly in. He was steel and something more than steel, infinitely worse than steel. The thing waving it around and screaming was no longer Attrebus, and soon he wouldn’t be either. The light seemed to explode about them, but he didn’t care anymore. Everyone and everything was to blame.


The pleasure in Hierem’s cell, the lack of it after, the little pains of moving through any day, anywhere were too much to bear anymore. But he knew he couldn’t die yet—only when everything else was dead would he know any peace. The light cleared, and he was lying on the floor, shuddering. Umbra lay a few feet away, as did Sul and the Argonian. They had fallen into a vast nest of polished stone and shining crystal. The air was filled with delicate tones and fleeting incomprehensible whispers, as if motes of dust were excited to speech when light struck them. In the center of the great cavity a translucent pylon rose and met the gently rippling water above and kissed it with light pulsing up from a platform ten feet below, where a thousand glowing strands tied themselves into a coruscating sphere. Sul was sitting up groggily; Glim was staring up at the water suspended over their heads. And through the water, Vuhon came, lightning crackling from his eyes. Sul leapt up to meet him. Blue flame erupted from his open palms and engulfed Vuhon, clinging to him like burning oil. Vuhon staggered back a step, then made a peculiar shaking motion and the fire vanished, replaced by gray smoke. Glim leapt forward, claws raking at Vuhon’s chest. The Dunmer replied with a vicious backhand blow that sent the reptile hurling to the floor. Then he did something that stopped Sul mid-stride; Attrebus didn’t see anything but could feel a crackling on his skin, and the air smelled like hot iron. Sul strained to take another step, then collapsed. “So much for your pointless revenge,” Vuhon muttered. Attrebus looked toward where Umbra lay, trying to drive the terror from his mind, to do what he had to do. “Stop!” Vuhon shouted. Attrebus screamed in despair as he dove for the sword. He picked it up, and as he was drawn into it again, into anguish and horror that would never end, he aimed himself down, at the sphere. Vuhon came after him, quick as lightning. Almost quick enough. Then Umbra struck into the heart of Umbriel, and everything was changed.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel NINE When Attrebus plunged Umbra into the ingenium, Sul heard the Universe scream. The tortured cry rang from every surface, from the air itself, from Vuhon’s gaping mouth. A tongue of white blaze licked out from the ingenium and struck his old enemy, and his body twisted, deformed, grew blacker, hunched, feral. “Umbra,” Sul said. “Umbriel,” the creature snarled, slumping toward him. The flame had thinned, but remained, like a tether. “Why?” “This has nothing to do with you. It was about Vuhon.” “I can cleanse myself of him. I can make you powerful, more powerful than we were. We can still escape Vile.” “No,” Sul replied. “I’m done with this.” “You are not,” the thing snapped, leaping forward. Sul felt fingers as hard as steel close on his windpipe. He struck into Umbriel’s throat, but the creature only squeezed harder. But then Umbra vented one last howl, and the grip softened. The flame snaked back away from his body and into the ingenium as the body went limp. Sul pushed it off him, coughing, sucking air into his lungs. Below, Attrebus was starting to glow and was beginning to distort. Sul glanced at his enemy, which looked like Vuhon again. His chest was still rising and falling. Sul’s hand went to his knife, but he didn’t draw it. Instead he jumped down to join Attrebus. “It’s working,” Attrebus said. But it wasn’t his voice, and the eyes staring out at Sul were the strange eyes of Clavicus Vile. “Let him go,” Sul snapped. “You’re destroying him.” “He made the sacrifice,” Vile said. “You, I think, knew what the price would be.” “It wasn’t supposed to be him.” “Well, things don’t always work out as we plan,” the daedra said. “In coming here, I lifted the restraints around this place. A deal is a deal—you’re free to go.” Sul balled his fist and swung, but Attrebus—or the thing wearing him—was fast. It whipped Umbra out of the ingenium and stabbed him, just under the sternum. It knocked all the wind out of him, and his legs and arms went loose, so he just hung on the blade. Sul turned into himself then, searching for the fury that had driven him for forty years, remembering Ilzheven, the ruins of Morrowind, years of torture and hardship. He felt his heart stop, and opened his eyes, staring at his killer, at Attrebus. It was then that he found what he needed, and it wasn’t anger, or hatred. As if in a dream, he reached out and grabbed the hilt of Umbra and pulled himself up the blade, and with everything left in him he struck Attrebus in the jaw. Attrebus fell back, releasing the weapon. Sul saw his gaze return to puzzled normalcy. “It’s okay,” he told the boy. Then he took one step, fell against the glowing orb, and let go of everything. Light filled him, and coarse, mocking laughter—but then he was gone.


For Attrebus, it was like waking from one nightmare into another. Sul slumped against the sphere, and he and the sword seemed to melt together into a dark smoke with a heart of lightning. “Sul!” “You can’t help him now,” a weary voice said. He looked up and saw Vuhon gazing down at him. With a cry of fury, Attrebus clambered up the wall of cable and wire and stood over him. “I can kill you, though,” Attrebus said. He reached for Flashing. “You might,” Vuhon said. “And you might not. It would be a wasted effort. Vile will have me now no matter what. I can fight him—I had power before I met Umbra, and that he can’t take back—but I won’t last long. But maybe long enough.” “Long enough for what?” “For your friend there to save something of Umbriel,” Vuhon replied. “I don’t understand.” “Clavicus Vile will have the city now. Is that really what you want? He’ll probably just drain it and let it fall on the Imperial City, but knowing him, he may just play in your world for a while.” He nodded at Mere-Glim, who was standing up, wiping blood from his nose. “The Argonian is a part of this place now. He has the power to remove it from this plane.” “That’s what he said. He tried it and it didn’t work.” “Because I became aware of him and stopped him. After all, I have been master of this place for decades.” He looked at Mere-Glim. “Do you feel it now?” The Argonian nodded. “Go, then,” Vuhon said. “The membrane will allow you to pass from this side as well.” Then he turned to face the cloud, which was now twenty feet high and beginning to take on something like a human shape again. His face, so like Sul’s, was set in an expression of quiet determination. “He’s right,” Glim said. “But we have to hurry.” Annaïg felt Umbriel shudder beneath her, and then she was suddenly falling. It lasted only an instant, but it was a terrifying one. “What’s happening?” Fhena asked. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe they made it to the ingenium.” “You mean maybe they’ve destroyed it? What does that mean?” “Well, if the ingenium stops working, I imagine we’ll fall,” Annaïg said. “But then we’ll die.” Annaïg reached into her pocket and produced a small vial. “There is a chance,” she said to Fhena. “If you drink this, you should be able to fly. We might dissolve into smoke, but it’s worth a try.” “But what about Glim? And your other friends?” “We’ll wait as long as we can,” Annaïg said. “But what about everyone else?” Fhena demanded. “I don’t care about everyone else,” she replied. “Come on; let’s get above, so we can see what’s going on.” They climbed up to where they could see Tamriel spread before them. She could see a lake, but the Imperial City wasn’t visible, so it must be beneath them.


Umbriel shuddered again. They sat and waited, while Fhena wept. Umbriel was trembling constantly by the time Attrebus and Mere-Glim reached the hiding place. They found the women outside, clinging to branches. Fhena rushed to Glim, sobbing, as a deeper convulsion quaked the tree. Attrebus found himself staring at Annaïg, wondering what he was supposed to do. He felt as if he was watching everything through Coo now—the fight, Sul’s death, this meeting—all seen from a great distance. He didn’t seem to feel anything at all about any of it. But Annaïg strode purposefully across the shivering branch. “Drink this,” she said. “At least we’ll have a chance.” He took the vial numbly, glad he didn’t have to respond to anything more—emotional. When Annaïg reached Glim, he threw his arms around her and enveloped her in his familiar musk. Something burst in her then, and tears trickled on her cheeks as he stroked the back of her head. “I’m so sorry, Glim,” she said. “About all of it.” “It’s fine,” he said. “You know I love you.” “Still?” “Always.” He held her for a few more heartbeats and then pushed her gently back. “Vile lifted his striction. You’ll be able to leave this time.” Annaïg felt her heart pause. “You mean we,” she corrected. He shook his head. “I’m taking the trees home,” he said. “I’m going with them.” “You can’t,” she said. “What will I …” She broke off and put her forehead against his scaly chest. “What will I,” she repeated. “I. But this is about you, isn’t it?” “Finally, after all of these years, yes,” he replied. “I have people who need me. I have a place that wants me.” “I understand,” she said. “I don’t like it, but I understand.” “I’m glad,” he replied. “It makes it easier. Now, go. I have to do it now.” She wiped her eyes and glanced over at Fhena. “Take care of him,” she said. Then she drank the contents of her vial and turned to Attrebus. “Let’s go,” she said. “What do I do?” he asked. She lifted her arm toward him and spread her fingers. “Just hold my hand,” she said. Colin thought of Anvil, where he had been born, of the docks and the autumn evenings, when the sun painted the sky red and gold and the waves seemed to murmur in a melancholy but somehow contented way. He remembered the fingers of a five-year-old boy, fiddling with a little boat made of reeds. He’d put a lot of care into it, because he knew it had a long journey to make. He glanced down at the stream that wound through the willows toward the sea, but he knew the boat wasn’t ready yet, so he brushed the cracks with pine resin. He remembered his grandmother placing those same little hands on the altar of the great chapel of Dibella. “The gods are good,” she told him.


“They came from an infinite place, but for us they limited themselves and became this world. They are everything we see and touch, everything we feel. And of them all, Dibella is most kind.” And she smiled so beautifully that he wondered if it was really his grandmother at all. He woke on stairs, sticky with blood, laboring to breathe. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious; he hoped not long, because he didn’t have that much time left. Doggedly, he dragged himself to his feet, leaned against the wall, and put one foot in front of the other. He felt oddly stronger, as if the prayer to Dibella had actually been answered in some small way, although he’d never had that talent. But he knew soon enough he was either going to bleed to death or drown in his own blood. Letine must have known or guessed where the stairs were—they hadn’t been on his map. He doubted it was a coincidence that the steps began at a hidden door in Hierem’s chambers; the minister must have been thinking about this moment for a long time. Colin guessed the secret stairway was hidden just below the much broader, higher staircase that led up from the Emperor’s quarters to the summit of the White-Gold Tower. He moved slower now, but knew he couldn’t stop again. He heard her before he saw her, or in fact saw any light at all. She was talking to herself, but he couldn’t make out the words. Presently he encountered a flat surface, and after a little searching found the catch that opened it. He’d expected to be on the summit of the tower, but instead saw a large, low-ceilinged room. Signs and sigils were painted all over the floor, familiar to him from the diagram he’d seen in Hierem’s chambers. Fires of strange colors flickered on some, while arcane objects of various size were on others. Letine stood in the center of the room, what was probably the very axis of the tower. Beyond her, a long, broad window showed him a little sky but mostly a vast rocky surface that resembled a mountain—except it was moving, steadily growing in size. “Come here,” she was saying. “You mean to steal its power,” Colin said, on his knees on the floor. Letine spun to face him, surprise evident on her face. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “I knew I should have …” She started to walk toward him, but seemed to think better of it. “Should have finished me off,” he replied. She shrugged. “I’m usually more efficient. I think I must have let my emotions cloud my judgment this time.” “So you do love me,” Colin said with a rueful chuckle. She took him seriously. “I might have,” she said, “under other conditions. But I know you would have tried to stop me.” “Hierem tricked Umbriel, didn’t he?


He planned to use all of this to siphon off the souls the city collects. And you used me to get it.” “I didn’t know exactly what he was up to,” she said. “Not until a few days ago. Hierem imagined it would make him a god. I don’t know about that. But I do know I’ll have enough power to never be afraid again, to take what I want from this life, this world.” She looked out the window. “It’s almost here, Colin. Once it happens, there is no need for you to die. I can fix your body.” “Maybe,” he said, crawling forward on his hands and knees. “But the things I need fixed, you can’t do a thing about.” “Don’t come any closer,” she warned. “If you’re not right in the middle, it won’t work, will it?” he asked. “What if this isn’t right here?” He reached to move a crystal sphere with silvery wire wound about it. Her eyes rolled back as she started to summon something. He yanked the knife from his chest; blood from his wound gouted onto the floor. He sat back on his heels, cocked his arm, and threw. Letine looked up at the ceiling and took a step back. He thought he’d missed, at first, but then she toppled back and he saw the hilt of the dagger standing from her eye. He sat there, watching her for a moment. The air crackled, and rainbow colors flickered about the construct she lay in. He heard what might have been voices, calling from far away. Outside, the rock face was so near he could almost touch it—then it seemed to turn sideways, before it vanished, leaving behind a boom like a thousand thunders at once. “Attrebus,” he murmured. “Good for you.” He managed to get to the window. It was solid, thick as stone, but transparent. He wondered idly if it was transparent from the other side as well, or if it appeared as stone. He looked out across the city and Lake Rumare, to the green valley beyond, and watched it as his eyes dimmed. He felt the breeze on his face, heard it sigh through the willows. He put his little boat in the stream and watched it carried away, and wondered where it would go, wishing he could be with it, share its adventures. He dipped his hands in the stream and took a breath that went on and on, filling him, at last, with peace. They met up with what was left of the Twelfth Legion a few hours from sundown and pushed the wormies into the wall. They cleared the gate and set up positions to defend it from another siege. Mazgar and Brennus found themselves on the western flank of the action, where little or no fighting was going on.


Umbriel was closer than Mazgar had ever seen it, blocking most of the sky, casting a shadow east that she couldn’t see the end of, the strange light of its soul-stealing filaments dominating her field of view. What would it feel like when she was beneath it? If she grabbed one of the things, would it pull her up? Had that been tried? She heard a commotion off to the west, and Brennus swore. She started to ask what the matter was but then saw. Wormies—thousands of them—were swarming from the west, pushing what remained of the cavalry before them. That wasn’t enough for the gods, apparently—more were pouring from the lake and from the east, as if every single one of them had been called to this one place on the wall. “Why?” she grunted as they hastily tightened ranks. “This is where Umbriel is crossing over,” Brennus said. “So? There’s no gate here to breach.” “Not yet,” Brennus said. Mazgar growled, raised Blondie’s shield, and locked it with her companions on the left and right. The wormies came at a dead-on run, in nothing resembling ranks. They reminded Mazgar of ants, converging on a bit of offal. The first shock slid them back two yards, leaving a pile of the enemy like a low wall before them. But that didn’t deter the foe in the slightest; they scrambled up over each other and tried to run over the line, using the soldiers’ heads and shoulders as steppingstones. They needed spearmen, but those were mostly at the gate, where the main assault had been until moments ago. Mazgar roared her battle cry and sent Sister chopping over her shield. Maggots and putrefaction spattered on her face; she could taste them on her tongue, and like a tide coming in, more and more of them rolled out of the water. “The wall,” she heard Brennus gasp. She had a second a moment later to spare a glance to see what he meant. Their left flank had collapsed, but instead of rolling up the line, the wormies were throwing themselves on the wall, building ladders with their bodies. Above, the sky was bright with eruptions and incandescences, making a strange semblance of daylight that revealed the rotting faces leering at her, making colored jewels of their filmed eyes. Another wave of wormies hit, and they were pushed back almost to the wall itself, and more of them were ignoring her completely now as they tried to join their comrades in their insane climb. The man on her right fell, and as four wormies poured into the gap, she felt a bright and terrible pain in her side. Howling, she swung her shield and decapitated one as she slung it off, then took Sister two-handed to slay other wormies. Above, Umbriel passed over the wall, undeterred. Brennus cried out and fell against her from behind.


With a grunt she swept one arm back, found him, and retreated until his spine was against the wall. A semicircle of blue flame arced out around them, and she braced for the wormies to come through, but they didn’t. More likely they were just going around. It was over. Brennus lay against the stone, heaving ragged breaths. She saw his wound, and felt her heart go cold. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked. “I’ve seen worse,” she replied. “Right,” he coughed. “But I’ll bet this is good enough.” “Brenn—” “I know,” he said. “I know what you have to do.” “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be right behind you.” “It’s been an honor,” he said. “I may have said some things …” “You were right,” she said. The look of surprise on his face almost made her laugh. “About what?” “Children. I would have liked to have done that.” “I hope you know it wasn’t a proposition,” he replied weakly. “Yeah,” she said. The fire was starting to die. “I’ve gotta do it now.” He nodded. She raised Sister, fixed her gaze on Brenn’s throat. Then the sky seemed to crack, and her ears popped before a wind from above slapped her to her knees. Ears ringing, she fought back to her feet. Something had changed. She looked out over the ebbing flames and didn’t see any motion. Wormies were everywhere, piled against the wall as if blown there. But not a damn one of them was even so much as twitching. She lowered her sword. “What do you think happened?” she asked Brennus. He didn’t answer, and when she realized he wasn’t ever going to, she slid down next to him and wept, unashamed, until the sun came up.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. A Del Rey Trade Paperback Original Copyright © 2011 by ZeniMax Media Inc. ZeniMax, Bethesda, Bethesda Softworks, Bethesda Game Studios, The Elder Scrolls, Oblivion, and Morrowind are trademarks or registered trademarks of ZeniMax Media Inc. in the U.S. and/or other countries. Used under license. All Rights Reserved. Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc. eISBN: 978-0-345-53033-2 Cover illustration: Paul Youll © 2011 ZeniMax Media Inc. The Elder Scrolls, Bethesda Softworks, Oblivion, ZeniMax, and their respective logos are registered trademarks or trademarks of ZeniMax Media Inc. All rights reserved www.bethsoft.comwww.delreybooks.com v3.1


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel EPILOGUE Attrebus tapped his fingers on the sill of a high, narrow window in time to the jubilant music drifting up from below. The streets were filled with color and life, the air with delicious scents of roasted meat, fried fish, and pastry. In the wake of the vacance of Umbriel, his father had thrown open the storehouses, flooding the city with food and wine. Across town the arena hosted spectacle after spectacle, and tonight everything would culminate in the Emperor’s appearance and the presentation of the heroes. “There you are, Attrebus,” a strong voice behind him said. “Hello, Father,” he said, turning. The elder Mede hadn’t yet changed into his formal costume, but wore a simple robe over shirt and breeches. He seemed distracted by something, a bit unsure of himself, and that, to Attrebus, was a very strange thing. “I apologize for not seeing you alone earlier,” his father said. “You’re the Emperor, father,” Attrebus said. “I know you have many burdens.” “That’s true. But … I am a father, also. I forget that sometimes.” Attrebus nodded, uncertain how to answer. His father looked away, then took four quick strides and, to his astonishment, took him in his arms and wrapped him in a bear hug. “I thought you were dead,” he said. “I was sure of it. And my entire fault, for encouraging—allowing—the situation to develop as it did. I never meant you any harm, son. Quite the contrary.” “I know that, Father,” Attrebus assured him. “And look at you now,” the Emperor said, stepping back. “A man. A hero.” “I’m not a hero,” Attrebus said. “Whatever all of this has taught me, it’s that I’m not that. Sul was a hero, and Annaïg, and Mere-Glim, and the countless soldiers who died outside of these walls. I was frightened, I made mistakes, at times I wasn’t even sure what I was doing or why I was doing it.” “And yet you did it anyway,” his father said. “What in the world do you think a hero is if not someone who does just that?” “I’m not the man in the songs.” Titus Mede rolled his eyes. “Of course you aren’t. Neither am I. We’re both better than those guys.” “You were the real thing,” Attrebus said. “In a way, perhaps. But you saved the Imperial City, perhaps all of Tamriel.” “You really believe me, then? About what happened?” “You were never the dishonest one, Attrebus,” his father said. “The lies never came from you. It has always been in your character to tell the truth. And in this case, the story is really too fantastical to have been made up. Besides, there were witnesses to the flight of you and the girl from the city. Never fear, tonight you will be given your due. The people will know their prince was their salvation.” “But I thought—” “I’ve had time to think,” the Emperor said. “I’ve changed my mind.


The Synod and the College of Whispers may wish to claim credit for this victory, but I will not let them, not at your expense. Our people will know the truth.” “They shouldn’t,” Attrebus said. His father gave him a curious look. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I’ve never been very interested in politics, Father, but I’ve been catching up these past few days. With Hierem dead, you have a dangerous situation on your hands. You need the support of the council, and to have that you must have the support of the Synod and the College of Whispers. Besides which, those two groups have been at each other’s throats for years—here, they are claiming to have worked together. Perhaps it can be a start to their reconciliation.” “Are you saying I should give them credit?” “Yes,” Attrebus said. “Gods know I’ve gotten the credit for so many things I shouldn’t have—I can stand to relinquish what little I may be due here, if it’s what’s best for the Empire.” His father stared at him for a moment, and Attrebus swore he saw a bit of moisture film his eyes. “You really have returned a man,” the Emperor said. “More than that—a prince.” “Maybe not yet,” Attrebus said. “But it’s time I started trying to fill that role the way it should be—don’t you agree?” “Very much,” his father replied. Annaïg twitched the reins of her dappled gray mare and enjoyed the play of light and shadow in the forest around her. Attrebus rode a few feet away. It was strange to be with him, to see him, and to be silent; when they had known each other through Coo and the magic locket, every moment of contact had been filled with words. The silence went on a bit longer, but inevitably Attrebus broke it. “How are you feeling now?” he asked. “I hardly know,” she replied. “It’s all very strange, isn’t it? To be so afraid.” “Afraid?” he said, sounding puzzled. “I—well, I’m hurt. I grieve for Sul. But I don’t think I’m afraid.” “You are. You’re afraid of talking to me, as I am to you. Strange, isn’t it, after all that time we strove to keep each other’s company, to have a single word between us. And now …” She shrugged. He stroked the mane of his horse. “Things happened to me,” he said. “Things I don’t want to talk about. I thought at first I was broken in a way that could never heal, that the best thing I could do was die. That’s how I felt when we finally met. I didn’t have anything to say to you because I didn’t have anything to say to anyone. And I know you had experiences that—” “Yes,” she said, cutting him off. “And now …” he began, but did not finish. She felt a sort of heaviness in her heart. “Now what?” she said. “I’ve begun to see that one day I will feel human again.


I may never be the same, but I will have something to offer—ah, to someone—if they could be patient with me.” “Someone?” He nodded. “You, of course,” he said softly. “I’ve never learned anyone the way I learned you. I’m not sure what I thought love was before. I’m not sure I can define what I think it is now. But I cannot imagine life without you. I want to know you better and better as the years go by. I just need—patience.” She felt a little smile trying to lift the corners of her mouth, and perhaps it did, a very little. “I’m not a patient girl by nature,” she said. “I tend to rush into things or fall off of them. But if you can be patient with me, I can be patient with you.” And so they fell silent again, and let the music of the forest entertain them. Far away, another man and woman listened to a deeper, stranger music and watched the luminescent films they had named wisperills do their slow, colorful aerial dances, as if welcoming them. The trees hummed and murmured, not as before, but with the strength of the millions that spread out and away in the strange land, whose great boughs supported the island when it could no longer fly and helped settle it deep in boggy ground. Fhena leaned back against Glim and exhaled deeply. “This is a nice place,” she said. “I like it.” “So do I,” he said. “What I’ve seen of it.” “What do you mean by that?” “Only that I don’t know where we are. At first I imagined that we would be returned to Clavicus Vile’s realm, but although I’ve never been there, I don’t think this can be that place.” “Of course not,” she said. “This is where the trees are from, not Umbriel.” “But where is it?” “Home,” she said softly. “Well,” he said. “Now.” “Always.” He smiled, and surrendered for a moment to contentment—after all, it surrounded him. Everyone wasn’t content, of course. Down below, with the lords gone, the chefs and others who considered themselves elevated were doing their best to kill each other. But the skraws and fringe workers were free, and many of them had already left the city to find their livings in the lush world around them. “What do you think that is?” he asked, pointing to a sort of spire near the horizon. “I don’t know,” Fhena said. “A rock? An old building? What about it?” “Tomorrow I think I’ll walk over and find out,” he said. “Fine,” she replied. “But tomorrow.” And she nestled deeper in his arms, and they watched the wisperills dance.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel PROLOGUE Attrebus never saw the thing that cut open his belly and sent his guts spilling out into his arms. It happened in the dark, and the only things he remembered other than the agony was the stink of his bowels and something like rotting ginger—and Sul dragging him along, cursing in a language Attrebus didn’t understand. Now the pain—for so long the only thing real to him—was fading as his body finally understood it was done. It was possible he was dead already—he wasn’t sure what death was supposed to be like. He hadn’t paid that much attention to such things when he should have. He started, as from a dream of falling, and for a moment he thought he was falling, because all of his weight had vanished. With an effort he opened his eyes, but there wasn’t much to see; the air was full of ash, a gray cloud that extended in every direction. He saw his companion Sul a few yards from him but steadily drifting off. Presently the dust would make him a shadow, and then nothing at all. It was hard to breathe; the gray powder cloyed in his nostrils and mouth. After a few more breaths he realized that soon enough his lungs would fill up with the stuff and that would be that. It was so hard to care. He was weak, tired, and even if he lived, the things he still had to do seemed impossible. No one could blame him if he quit, could they? Not now. No one would even know. And so he drifted, the ash caking his blood-soaked gambeson and hands, enclosing him like a shroud, preparing him almost gently for the moment his heart finally stopped. In the darkness behind his eyes little sparks appeared and died, each dimmer than the last, until only one remained, fading. In it he saw the face of a young woman, tiny as with distance, and from somewhere heard a vast chorale of despair and terror that seemed to fill the universe. He saw his father on a burning throne, his face blank, as if he didn’t realize what was happening to him. The wavering colors expanded, pushing the murk away, and the woman appeared again as his father faded. He knew her features, her curling black hair, but he couldn’t remember her name. He noticed she was holding something up for him to see; a little doll that looked like him, but couldn’t be him, because it was stronger, smarter, better than he was, made in the image of a man incapable of giving in or giving up. She kissed the doll lightly on the head and then looked at him expectantly. And so, beginning to weep, he cracked his dust-caked lips and summoned the air that remained in his lungs. “Sul,” he croaked. The other man was hardly visible, a darker patch in the ash.


“Sul!” This time he managed to shout it, and pain lanced through him again. “Sul!” Now it seemed to thunder in his ears, and everything spun. He thought he saw a sort of orange flash out in the gray, a sphere that appeared, expanded, passed through him, and then went on beyond his sight. But it might have been the agony, taking him away. Yet the light remained, the images continued. He saw the doll again, lying near this time, on a little gray bed. Its head was porcelain, and not unlike a hundred such likenesses of himself he’d seen over the years. The cloth of the torso was torn open, and the stuffing was coming out. As he watched, huge hands took up the doll and poked the stuffing back in, but there wasn’t enough to fill it, so one of the hands vanished and returned with a wad of gray and shoved that in, too, before sewing up the doll with a needle and thread. When all the stitches were made and pulled tight, a knife came down to cut it. He screamed, as air sucked into his lungs and a thousand pins seemed to sink into every inch of his flesh. He tried to vomit, but nothing came up, and he lay there sobbing, knowing nothing could ever be the same, that nothing would ever seem as bright or clean as it might have once. He cried like a baby, without coherent thought, without shame. A long time he did that, but in the end there remained something so hard and insoluble that it could never be made into tears and drained away. But he could feel the bitterness of it and make it anger, and in that he found at least a shadow of resolve, something he could nurse and make stronger in time. He opened his eyes. He lay inside a room like a gray box, with no discernable entrance or exit. Light seemed to filter through the walls themselves—he cast no shadow. The air had a stale, burnt taste, but he was no longer choking, and his chest rose and fell. He sat up and his hands went reflexively to his belly. He realized then that he was naked, and he saw that a thick white scar ran from his crotch up to the base of his sternum. “Divines,” he gasped. “I wouldn’t invoke them here,” a feminine voice warned. He swung his head around and saw her. She was as naked as he, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest. Her hair was rosy gold, her skin alabaster white, her eyes twin emeralds. She had the slender, pointed ears of an elf. “Do you know where we are?” he asked. “In Oblivion,” she said. “In the realm of Malacath.” “Malacath,” he murmured, touching his scar. It was still tender. “That is what he calls himself,” the woman said. “My name is Attrebus,” he said.


“Whom do I have the honor of addressing?” “You may call me Silhansa,” she replied. “How long have you been here, Silhansa?” he asked. “Not much longer than you,” she said. “At least I think not. It’s hard to tell, with no sun or moon, only the endless gray.” “How did you end up here?” She shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He paused, to give her a chance to ask something of him if she wished, but when she showed no sign of doing so, he pressed on. “How do you know this is Malacath’s realm? Have you seen him?” “I heard a voice, and he said his name. That’s all I know. But I’m frightened.” She paused, and she looked as if she had forgotten something. “What about you? How did you get here?” “It’s a long story,” he said. “Please,” Silhansa said. “Your voice calms me. What brought you to this terrible place?” “I had a companion,” Attrebus said. “A Dark Elf—a Dunmer—named Sul. Have you seen him?” “Yours is the only face I have seen since coming here,” she said. “Tell me your story, please.” Attrebus sighed. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Balfiera,” she replied. He nodded. “So we’re both from Tamriel—that helps. I’m from Cyrodiil, myself.” He scratched his chin and found a beard. How much time had passed? “Okay,” he said. “I’ll try to explain. Not long ago, a thing entered our world from Oblivion, an island that floats through the air, with a city upon it. Wherever the island flies, all those beneath it die and rise up again, undead. My companion and I were pursuing this island.” “Why?” “To stop it, of course,” he said, understanding how arrogant he sounded, how stupid. “Stop it before it destroyed all of Tamriel.” “You’re a hero, then. A warrior.” “Not a very good one,” he said. “But we tried as best we could. Before I met him, my companion Sul was trapped in Oblivion for many years, and knows its ways. Umbriel—that’s the name of the island—was too far away for us to reach in time—” “In time for what?” “I’ll get to that in a moment,” Attrebus said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but this is a strange tale.” “No stranger than being imprisoned by a daedra prince.” “You have a point there,” she allowed. “To make it brief,” he said, “Sul took us on a shortcut through Oblivion to get ahead of Umbriel.” “Did you stop it, then?” “No,” he said. “We didn’t have a chance. The lord of Umbriel was too strong for us. He captured us and would have killed us, but Sul managed to escape into Oblivion, and brought me with him. But we were lost, far away from the paths Sul knew. We wandered through nightmare places. Just before coming here, we were in the realm of Prince Namira, or at least that’s what Sul thought. Something there did this.” He indicated the scar.


“I’ve been wondering how anyone could survive such a wound,” Silhansa said. “Me, too,” Attrebus replied. “Sul must have gotten us out of Namira’s realm. I remember floating in gray ash, choking to death. Then I woke here.” He didn’t want to think about his dream, much less talk about it. “And so your quest is ended. I’m sorry.” “It’s not ended,” he insisted. “I’ll find Sul, and we’ll get out of here somehow.” “What makes you so determined?” “It’s my people at stake, my world. And there is—someone counting on me, waiting for me. She might be safe, but if she isn’t—” “Ah,” Silhansa said knowingly. “A woman. A lover.” “A woman, yes, but she isn’t my lover—she’s a friend, someone who depends on me.” “But you want her to be your lover.” “I … I haven’t thought about it, and it’s neither here nor there.” “And your friend Sul? He’s driven by love as well?” “Sul? He’s driven by vengeance. He hates Vuhon, the master of Umbriel. I think he hates him more than I can imagine hating anything, and I’ve been expanding my capabilities in that sort of thing lately.” He found himself touching his scar again. Silhansa noticed. “Do you think Malacath healed you?” she asked. “Maybe—if this is his realm I suppose it is possible—but I’ve no idea why. Malacath isn’t exactly known for his kindness.” “You know something about him?” Attrebus nodded. “A little. My nurse used to tell me a story about him. It was one of my favorites.” “Really? Could you tell it? I know little about the daedra.” “I don’t tell it as well as she did,” he admitted, “but I remember the tale.” He paused for a moment, remembering Helna’s singsong voice. He closed his eyes and pictured his bed, and her sitting there, hands folded. For just an instant he felt the shadow of the comfort he’d known then, the innocence that had protected him from the world. “In the bygone-by,” he began, “there was a hero named Trinimac, the greatest knight of the Ehlnofey, champion of the Dragon of Time. One fine day he betook himself to seek out Boethiah, the daedra prince, and chastise him for his misdeeds. “But Boethiah knew Trinimac was coming, and he put on the appearance of an old woman and stood beside the trail. “ ‘Good day, old woman,’ Trinimac said when he came along. ‘I’m in search of Prince Boethiah, to chastise him. Can you tell me where I might find the scoundrel?’ “ ‘I know not,’ the old woman told him, ‘but down the road is my younger brother, and he might know. I’ll gladly tell you where he is, if you will but scratch my back.’ “Trinimac agreed, but when he saw her back, it was covered in loathsome boils. Nevertheless, having said he would, he scratched the noisome sores. “ ‘Thank you,’ she said.


‘You’ll find my brother on the road to your left at the next crossroads.’ “Trinimac went on his way. Boethiah scurried ahead by a shortcut and put on the appearance of an old man. “ ‘Good day, old man,’ Trinimac said, on meeting him. ‘I saw your elder sister, and she said you might know the path to Prince Boethiah’s house.’ “ ‘I do not,’ the old man told him. ‘But my little sister knows. I’ll tell you where to find her if you will only wash my feet.’ “Trinimac agreed, but found the old man’s feet even more disgusting and smelly than the old woman’s back. Still, he had made a bargain. The old man told him where to find the younger sister, and again Trinimac went on—and again Boethiah went ahead, and put on the guise of a beautiful young woman. “Now, Trinimac was dreading the meeting with the younger sister, fearing he would have to wash or scratch something even worse than he already had, but when he saw the beautiful girl, he felt better. “ ‘I met your elder brother,’ he said, ‘and he told me you would know the way to the house of Prince Boethiah.’ “ ‘Indeed, I do,’ she declared. ‘And I will gladly tell you if you will but give me a kiss.’ “ ‘That I can do,’ Trinimac said, but as he leaned forward to kiss her, her mouth opened wide—so wide that his whole head went in, and Boethiah swallowed him in a single gulp. “Then Boethiah took on Trinimac’s form, and made him burp and fart and say foolish things, until finally he squeezed out a great pile of dung, and that was what was left of Trinimac. The dung got up and slunk away in shame, a proud knight no longer. He became Prince Malacath, and all of those who loved him changed as well and became the orcs.” The woman’s eyes had a peculiar look in them. “That was your favorite story?” she said. “When I was seven, yes.” She shook her head. “You people are always so literal-minded.” “What do you mean?” A thought occurred. “You’re Altmer, yes? A High Elf? How is it you’ve never heard of Trinimac?” “I have, of course, heard of Trinimac,” Silhansa said, placing her right hand on the floor, palm up. It seemed to melt and flow into the surface. “What are you—” But Silhansa—still crouching—began to grow, and quickly. And as she grew, she changed; the colors of her eyes and hair faded to gray, her face broadened, became piglike, and tusks emerged. All signs of womanhood vanished, and as she stood, he felt the floor lurch beneath him, realizing that she held him in her palm and was lifting him. The walls of the prison dissolved, and the thing that had called itself Silhansa was now a hundred feet tall.


The hand holding him brought him up to the monstrous face, and the other hand came up, too, presenting Sul, as naked as he and just as captive. “Malacath,” Attrebus gasped. “So you call me,” Malacath said, his voice like beams of wood rending, his breath a foul wind. His eyes seemed empty, but when Attrebus looked into them, crooked things shimmered into his mind and ate his thoughts. Their surroundings had changed, too. Around them rose a garden of slender trees, and wound about the trunks were vines festooned with lilylike flowers. A multitude of spheres moved, deep in the colorless sky, as distant and pale as moons. He heard birds chirping, but it was a doleful sound, as if something with a vague memory of having been a bird was trying to reproduce sounds it no longer felt. “Prince,” Attrebus said, starting to shiver. “I did not mean to insult you. It was only a story I heard as a little boy. I don’t presume—” “Hush,” Malacath said, and Attrebus choked as his mouth filled once again with ash. “I’ve heard enough from you. You don’t interest me. But you, Sul … I remember you. You swore an oath by me once, against your own gods. You’ve slipped through my realm before, without visiting. I am offended.” “My apologies, Prince,” Sul said. “I was in a hurry.” “And yet this time you demand my attention. In my own house.” “Yes, Prince.” The massive lids of Malacath’s eyes lowered over his eldritch gaze. His nostrils widened. “It’s still there,” the prince’s voice ground out, almost below the level of hearing. “This place, this shadow of a garden, this echo of something that once was—you know such phantoms, Sul?” “Yes,” Sul husked. “You loved a woman, and for her you destroyed your city, your nation, and your people.” “I did not mean to,” Sul said. “I only meant to save her life. It was Vuhon—” “Do not diminish yourself. Do not seek to lessen the beauty of the deed.” Malacath opened his eyes and stared at them, and now Attrebus felt as if hot brass was being poured into his skull. “I have healed your broken body, and that of your companion,” he said. “What should I do with you now?” “Release us,” Sul said. “To do what?” “Destroy Umbriel.” “You tried. You failed.” “Because we did not have the sword,” Attrebus managed to gasp through the cloying dust. “What sword?” The air seemed to thicken, and all the hairs on Attrebus’s arms stood out like quills. “There is a sword named Umbra—” Attrebus began. “I know it,” Malacath said. “A tool of Prince Clavicus Vile, a stealer of souls.” “More than that,” Attrebus replied. “The sword was prison to a creature that also calls itself Umbra. This creature escaped the blade and stole much power from Clavicus Vile, and it is that power that motivates Umbriel, the city Sul and I seek to destroy.


We believe that if we can find the sword, we can use it to reimprison this creature and defeat Umbriel.” Malacath just stared at him for a moment, and then the great head leaned toward one vast shoulder a bit. There was something oddly childlike about the motion. “I have heard that Vile is weak, and that he searches for something. I have no love for him. Or any of the others.” He glanced back at Sul, his vast brows caving into a frown. “How I laughed when you betrayed them, turned your homeland into no less an ash pit than my realm. The proud issue of the Velothi, humbled at last. By one of their own. And still there is the curse you made, unfulfilled.” “You can help him fulfill it,” Attrebus blurted. He was shaking uncontrollably, but he tried to keep his voice steady. “You knew who Sul was the minute you saw him,” he went on. “You remember his curse after all these years. You healed us and interviewed me. In disguise. To see what we’re up to. To assure yourself that the curse Sul made all those years ago is still walking with him. That he still craves vengeance.” Malacath’s head shifted again, and behind him vines collapsed and formed into a cloud of black moths that swarmed about them. “There are a few things I have a sort of love for,” the daedra said. “What Sul carries with him is one of those things. So yes, I will help you further. The sword, Umbra—do you know where it is?” Sul’s mouth set in reluctant lines. “How else will you go there if I do not send you?” “Somewhere in Solstheim, I believe,” Sul finally replied. “In the hands of someone who wears a signet ring with a draugr upon it.” Malacath nodded; to Attrebus it seemed a mountain was falling toward him. “I can take you to Solstheim,” the prince said. “Do not disappoint me.” Then both gigantic eyes focused on Attrebus. “And you—if I ever have use for you, you will know it.” “Yes, Prince,” Attrebus replied. The god grinned a mouthful of sharp teeth. Then he slapped his palms together. “It’s real,” Mazgar gra Yagash breathed, staring, fighting the urge to draw her sword. It wasn’t often you saw a mountain fly. She doffed her helmet for a better look. As it passed beyond the tallest birches, she saw how it hung in the sky—an inverted mountain, with the peak stabbing toward the land below. Next, her gaze picked out the strange spires and glistening structures atop the thing, structures that could only have been made by some sort of hands. A forest clung to the upper rim as well, its boughs and branches dropping out and away from it. “Why would you doubt it?” Brennus asked, his hands working fast with pen and paper, sketching the thing. “It’s what we came to see.” “Because it’s ridiculous,” she said.


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.8

“I’ve never heard an orc use that word,” he murmured. “I guess I thought you people believed in everything.” “I don’t believe your nose would stand up to my fist,” she replied. “Fair enough,” he said. “I don’t believe that either. But since I outrank you, I also don’t think you’ll hit me.” He pushed rusty bangs from his face and looked off at the thing. “Anyway—ridiculous or not, there it is. Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?” “Guarding you,” she replied. “I feel so safe.” She rolled her eyes. He was technically her superior, which galled, because he wasn’t a soldier—or even a battlemage. Like most of the wizards in the expedition, his expertise was in learning things from a distance. His rank had been awarded by the Emperor, days before they’d left the Imperial City. But he was probably right—as hard as it was not to stare at the thing, it was their immediate surroundings she ought to be taking in. They were on a high, bare ridge, about thirty feet from the tree line in any direction. The air was clear and visibility good. Up ahead of her, four of Brennus’s fellow sorcerers were doing their mysterious business: chanting, aiming odd devices at the upside-down flying mountain, conjuring invisible winged things she noticed only because they passed through smoke and were briefly outlined. Two others were surrounding their position with little candles that burnt with purple-black flames. They set those up every time they stopped; the candles were somehow supposed to keep all of this conjuring from being noticed by anyone—or anything. Mazgar put her hand on the ivory grip of Sister—her sword—squinted, and licked her tusks. “I make it about six miles away. What do you reckon?” “A little more than eight, according to Yaur’s ranging charm,” Brennus said. “Bigger than I thought.” “Yah.” He put the notebook down and unpacked something that looked like a spyglass but Mazgar figured wasn’t. He peered through it, mumbled gobbledygook, turned a dial on the device, and looked again. He scratched his red hair, and his sallow Nibenese features fell in a frown. “What’s the matter?” she asked him. “It’s not there,” he said. “What do you mean?” she said. “I’m looking right at it.” “Right,” he said. “Bit of a contradiction, I know. And I’m sure it is there, somehow. But all my glass sees is a bubble of Oblivion.” “A bubble of Oblivion?” “Yah. You know, the nasty place where the daedra live? Beyond the world?” “I know what Oblivion is,” she gruffed. “My grandfather closed one of the gates Dagon opened between here and there, back when.” “Well, this is like a gate, but wrapped around itself. Pretty odd.” “Does that tell us how to fight it?” He shrugged. “I can’t think how it would,” he said. “Anyway, the plan is to not fight it. We’re just here to find out what we can and report back to the Emperor.