Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel (2 page)

“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.

“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.