Capítulo 24: Old Tales #24
Erik stood at the edge of the Forelhost courtyard, Geri trailing close behind him, the corgi's paws leaving faint tracks in the freshly fallen snow. The biting cold wind tugged at the edges of his cloak, but Erik barely noticed. His gaze was fixed ahead, taking in the sight before him. The courtyard, situated at the top of the mountain, was surrounded by the crumbling remains of ancient walls and weathered battlements.
The snow, thick and untouched except where his future companions had already gathered, lay heavy on the stone, creating an eerie quiet that seemed to swallow all sound.
The entrance to Forelhost loomed ahead, seemingly carved directly into the mountain itself. The stronghold's stone arches and statues were blackened by time, their details worn away by centuries of wind and snow.
Despite their weathered state, there was a palpable sense of dread that clung to the ruins—an ancient power that had lain dormant for far too long. Erik could feel it in the air, the subtle pull of old magic buried beneath the rock. The promise of danger.
As Erik moved further into the courtyard, he quickly took stock of the group assembled before him. Over twenty people stood scattered about the open space, their breath rising in misty plumes. Some were already shifting uneasily, huddled close to the fire pit in the center.
Erik's eyes fell on a familiar face—Marcurio, the Riften-based mercenary who fancied himself an adept of destruction magic. He stood to one side, his orange robes a stark contrast to the white snow around him, arms crossed as he stared up at the ruins with a look of mild disdain. Erik wasn't particularly impressed, though he'd heard the man was competent enough.
Next to Marcurio was a figure clad in a dark cloak, their face hidden beneath a hood that cast deep shadows. Erik couldn't make out much about the man, but there was a sense of purpose in the way he stood—someone used to command, perhaps. Aside from those two, no one else stood out. A ragtag group of sellswords, by the look of it, hired by Maven to clear out the infestation of Draugr.
It had been five days since Erik's meeting with Maven. In that time, he'd fallen into a comfortable routine—extracting knowledge from the lexicon before bed, waking to forge swords and other weapons to solidify that knowledge in his mind, and then venturing into the wilds around Riften to test his growing skills.
The art of smithing had nearly bent to his will; he could feel it. Maybe a day or two more, and he would rival even the finest craftsmen in history. The thought amused him, though not as much as the near-extinction of the trolls, bears, and bandits in the region, all thanks to his hunting excursions.
But the wilderness had grown dull, and the need for a new challenge was becoming a weight on his shoulders. With nothing left to keep his interest, Erik had reached out to Maven, ready to fulfill their agreement. And now, here he was, standing at the doorstep of one of the most dangerous ruins in Skyrim.
Geri, sensing his master's brief pause, trotted up beside him, his small stature almost comical against the backdrop of towering mountains and ancient ruins. Erik glanced down at the corgi, giving a faint smirk. "You ready for this, boy?" Geri barked in response, his tail wagging in excitement, completely unaware of the danger that lay ahead.
Erik chuckled under his breath before turning his attention back to the gathered mercenaries. "Quite the welcoming party," he muttered sarcastically. He wasn't sure what Maven had promised these people, but from the nervous energy buzzing among them, it was clear none of them fully understood what they were walking into.
As Erik approached the group, Marcurio's gaze flicked over to him, recognition sparking in his eyes. "Well, well," the mercenary called out, his voice thick with amusement. "Looks like Maven brought in some extra muscle after all, and she chose the so called wraith no less."
"Don't think too highly of yourself, apprentice," Erik replied evenly, a slight hint of contempt in his tone, coming to a stop near the fire. "I'm here to get the job done, not to babysit."
Erik's gaze swept over the gathered crowd of mercenaries, his frown deepening. They were nothing more than a mismatched collection of sellswords and adventurers, and it was clear from the tension in the air that none of them had any real faith in their success. He took a slow breath before speaking, his voice cutting through the cold like a blade.
"In truth, I had planned to clear this ruin myself," he said, his words deliberately measured, each one dripping with disdain. "But Maven Black-Briar insisted on sending... help." The last word came out like a curse, his eyes narrowing as he stared down the ragtag group. "Frankly, I think you'll all be more of a hindrance than anything else. But since you're here, you'd better pull your weight and earn your keep. If not," his tone grew sharp, cold as the wind cutting across the mountain, "the Draugr inside will be the least of your worries."
Marcurio's scowl deepened, and the tension between them was palpable. "You want to say that again, whelp?" In an instant, sparks of lightning flickered to life in the mage's palm, crackling with barely contained energy. The imperial's eyes blazed with defiance, his body coiled with the threat of action.
Erik, however, remained utterly still, his face devoid of emotion, but his eyes held a cold promise. He didn't need to say anything—his posture made it clear that he was waiting for Marcurio to make a move, daring him to cast his spell. An excuse to kill the arrogant mage would set a perfect example for the rest. If they were going to survive this ruin, they needed to understand the pecking order—and that anyone who questioned his command wouldn't live to regret it.
But the moment didn't come.
A hand suddenly clamped down on Marcurio's shoulder, halting him mid-spell. "Easy, lad." The voice was calm but firm, carrying a quiet authority that commanded respect. "Maven put him in charge for a reason. If you don't like it, you can go back the way you came."
Marcurio hesitated, his lips curling in frustration, but after a tense beat, he let out a scoff and dispersed the magicka from his hand, the crackling energy flickering out of existence. He stepped back reluctantly, still glaring at Erik with open resentment, but unwilling to cross the line.
Erik's icy gaze shifted to the cloaked figure who had intervened. He recognized the voice now, even though it had been years since they'd spoken face to face. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he raised an eyebrow. "Brynjolf? I didn't realize the Thieves Guild take up Draugr extermination as a side business."
With a smirk of his own, Brynjolf lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing his familiar face. The red-haired thief looked just as Erik remembered him—sharp-eyed, confident, and carrying that same roguish charm that had earned him his place in the Guild.
"Oh, we leave that to the Companions," Brynjolf said with a chuckle. "But in a place like this, you'd be surprised how useful a thief can be. Nordic ruins are littered with traps, and you'll want someone to dismantle them before you lose a limb." He winked, adding with a grin, "Besides, I've got an eye for shiny things. Might just find something worth pilfering along the way."
Erik gave a short laugh, the coldness slightly fading from his tone. "As long as you don't slow me down."
Brynjolf's smile widened. "Wouldn't dream of it."
With the tension momentarily diffused, Erik cast a final glance over the group. They were watching him closely now, and it was clear that Marcurio's brief rebellion had only reinforced their wariness. That was fine. Fear was a tool, and as long as they feared him more than what lay inside the ruin, they would follow his lead.
"Good," Erik said, his voice cutting through the air once more. "We head inside now. Stay close, stay quiet, and keep your eyes open. If any of you fall behind or get yourselves killed, don't expect me to come back for you." He shot Marcurio a look that made the man clench his jaw in frustration, but he remained silent.
Without another word, Erik turned toward the entrance of Forelhost. The massive stone doors stood before him, their ancient carvings faded but still recognizable—symbols of power from a time long forgotten. Snow had collected in the crevices of the stone, and the wind howled as if warning them to turn back.
Erik, however, felt no hesitation. He had faced worse than Draugr in his time, and the treasure that lay within these walls was something he intended to claim for himself.
Geri padded up beside him, the small dog's breath visible in the frigid air as he wagged his tail, seemingly unaffected by the looming sense of dread. Erik smirked at his companion before pushing the door open, the heavy stone groaning as it gave way.
The door creaked open slowly, its ancient hinges groaning under the weight of centuries, revealing the dark, cold interior of Forelhost. The first room they stepped into was a small, forgotten foyer. The scent of stale air, dust, and decay hung heavy as the faint flicker of light from a distant brazier fought against the gloom.
On either side of the room were two large braziers, one still burning, casting long shadows across the cracked stone floor, while the other had long since been extinguished, its coals cold and dead. An iron door stood ahead, unlocked but weathered by time, and just beyond it, the faint glow of a fire reflected off the stone floor, accompanied by the unmistakable outline of a corpse lying next to it.
Geri sniffed the air and let out a low growl, sensing something lurking beyond the visible. Erik followed behind, his steps measured as his eyes swept across the room, taking in every detail. The silence here was thick, unnerving even to those accustomed to the dangers of Nordic ruins. He could feel something off—a presence lingering in the shadows, something old, something dangerous.
Without breaking stride, Erik muttered a few arcane words, and the soft glow of a Detect Undead spell illuminated his vision. Instantly, a spectral form shimmered into view near the brazier. It was a Dragon Cultist specter, its twisted, translucent figure lingering by the unlit brazier, perfectly invisible to the naked eye. The wraith remained still, biding its time, clearly waiting for them to lower their guard.
"Stop," Erik commanded, his voice low but firm. The group halted at once, tension rising as their eyes darted around the room, trying to spot the threat Erik had seen.
He raised his hand again, this time preparing a more complex combination of Restoration and Alteration magic. His fingers traced intricate patterns in the air, the energy building within him before he unleashed the spell. With a sharp pulse, a wave of brilliant light flooded the room, radiating out from Erik like the midday sun piercing through a storm. The specter let out a shriek, its form flickering violently as the light seared through its dark essence, forcing it out of the shadows and into full view.
"There!" Erik barked, pointing at the creature as it recoiled. The mercenaries didn't waste a second. Steel rang as weapons were drawn, and they surged forward. Marcurio was the first to react, sending a bolt of lightning crashing into the ghost, its ethereal body convulsing under the magical onslaught.
Two of the other mercenaries followed, their swords slicing through the specter's form as it writhed in agony, unable to defend itself against the sudden assault. Moments later, the ghost dissipated, its anguished wail fading into silence as it was cut down.
The room grew still again, the tension easing slightly. Erik gave a short nod, satisfied. "That was the easy part," he muttered under his breath, his attention shifting to the room once more.
On either side of the room, he noticed two tables pushed up against the walls, cluttered with various items. Dusty scrolls, old books, rusted tools—miscellaneous relics left behind by whoever had last passed through these halls. A brief glance was all he spared them; nothing there was of immediate interest.
Geri, on the other hand, seemed more interested in the violence that had just occurred. The daedric dog's tail wagged eagerly, and he let out a bark of approval, his eyes gleaming with a hint of sadistic pleasure. The small corgi trotted over to the spot where the specter had fallen, sniffing the air and letting out a satisfied huff, almost disappointed there hadn't been more bloodshed.
Erik's gaze moved to the floor just ahead of the next doorway, his sharp eyes catching the telltale outline of a pressure plate half-buried beneath the dust. He said nothing, his expression unreadable as he glanced over it, then turned his attention forward, already moving toward the doorway.
He could see the faint outline of a battering ram mechanism above, cleverly hidden within the shadows of the ceiling, just waiting for some fool to trigger the trap.
But Erik made no move to warn the others. It wasn't his job, after all.
As he approached, Brynjolf's eyes darted to the ground, his thief's instincts kicking in. He stepped forward, his gaze locking onto the pressure plate, and let out a low whistle. "Hold up," he said, stepping in front of the group. "Trap here. Would've made a mess of things if one of you lot triggered it."
With the practiced ease of someone who had disarmed more than his share of traps, Brynjolf knelt down, his fingers working quickly to dismantle the mechanism. There was a soft click, and the trap was rendered harmless, the deadly battering ram above now inert.
Brynjolf stood and dusted off his hands with a smirk. "There. No need to thank me."
Erik raised an eyebrow, offering a curt nod of acknowledgment. "Good work. Now let's keep moving."
Without further delay, he led the group through the doorway, deeper into the cold, dark heart of Forelhost. Behind him, the mercenaries followed, still on edge, but wary of challenging Erik's authority.
Geri, ever vigilant and eager for the next fight, padded along at his master's heels, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, always ready for the violence to come.
Erik and the others made their way through the winding halls of Forelhost, dispatching the spectral remnants of Dragon Cultists with precision and cutting through the last of the traps that Brynjolf expertly disarmed. The ruin seemed to go on forever, each shadowy corner concealing new dangers.
Erik moved with purpose, his eyes always scanning for any sign of treachery or more traps. Geri trotted along beside him, the daedric dog's little legs deceptively agile as they crossed the worn stone floors, its tongue lolling with excitement after each fight.
Finally, they arrived at a wooden door tucked into the western corner of the chamber. Erik pushed it open to reveal a short, vine-choked hall with a staircase leading down.
A dusty burial urn sat against the left wall, forgotten in time, and another wooden door stood at the end. Erik approached it cautiously, the weight of the air growing heavier with every step. He could sense the remnants of dark magic lingering here, the whispers of those long dead still clinging to the stone like a bad omen.
He reached for the door, and it creaked open, revealing a room filled with rows of decrepit wooden beds. The air was musty and stale, the scent of rot and decay permeating the space. Standing in the center of the room was a Dragon Cultist, its glowing eyes narrowing as it spotted them.
Another figure lurked in the northern corner, equally ready for battle.
Before the cultists could utter a word, Erik unleashed a devastating spell, the light from his hands flooding the room. Marcurio followed up with a burst of lightning, and Brynjolf, quick as ever, lunged forward with his blade.
The cultists, though dangerous in life, stood little chance against their combined onslaught. Within moments, the room was still once more, the specters lying dead at their feet.
"Good work," Erik muttered, already turning his attention to the rest of the room. The beds were old, most falling apart from centuries of neglect, but two of them immediately caught Brynjolf's eye as the others began flipping through the old furniture, searching for valuables.
Lying on those beds were two skeletons, their bones brittle and blackened with age. Next to each of them, an empty, charred bottle lay discarded on the mattress.
Brynjolf knelt down beside one of the beds, picking up the bottle and turning it in his hands. "What happened here?" he muttered to himself before lifting the bottle to his nose to sniff it.
Before he could bring the bottle closer, Erik stepped forward and stopped him with a sharp word. "Don't."
Brynjolf glanced up, confused, but Erik's expression was deadly serious. "That bottle contained poison," Erik explained. "Even after all these centuries, the residual scent alone could give you a stomachache—or worse."
Brynjolf's eyes widened, quickly lowering the bottle. "Poison? Then... they killed themselves?" His voice was tinged with disbelief as he looked down at the skeletons, trying to piece it together.
Erik gave a grim nod, his gaze dark as he surveyed the room. "These people were the remnants of the Dragon Cult. After the Dragon War, many of the cultists fled here, seeking refuge. They thought they could regroup, maybe rebuild what they had lost. But King Harald's forces hounded them, desperate to stamp out the last of the cult."
Brynjolf's eyes widened. "King Harald? As in 13th in the line of Ysgmoror and founder of the great Kingdom of Skyrim?"
He stepped closer to the skeletons, his eyes narrowing. "The one and only... in any case, Rahgot, the Dragon Priest who ruled over this place, knew they were doomed. He couldn't afford to let the cult fall into enemy hands. So, he sealed himself in the upper portion of this keep and ordered his followers to commit mass suicide."
"Men, women, children—all of them. He believed it was the only way to hide his existence. When Harald's soldiers finally broke through, all they found were bodies. Hundreds of them. The sight was so horrifying, Harald retreated, assuming everyone was dead."
Brynjolf's eyes widened, alarm creeping into his voice. "Are you telling me there's a Dragon Priest buried here somewhere?"
Erik smirked, the corner of his lips tugging upward. "That's right," he said smoothly, his voice holding a hint of dark amusement. "He's been slumbering for millennia, and if we're lucky, we'll have the distinct displeasure of being greeted by his morning breath."
Brynjolf shook his head, letting out a low groan. "Please tell me you're joking, lad."
Before Erik could answer, Marcurio cut in, his tone dripping with skepticism. "Oh, come on now. Are we really going to buy into this nonsense? A Dragon Priest slumbering in a ruin? This is just some wild Nord superstition," he said, his voice loud enough to catch the attention of the others.
The way he stood, arms crossed and chin raised, made it clear he wasn't intimidated by Erik or the stories.
Erik cast a glance at the mercenary, noting how unfazed Marcurio seemed in contrast to the group of nervous Nords around him. The fact that Marcurio was the only Imperial among them was clearly a source of his bravado.
Erik's lips curled into a dismissive smile, but he said nothing. Words wouldn't convince the man, and soon enough, he wouldn't need to. Marcurio would see the Dragon Priest with his own eyes—and if he was lucky, he might even survive the encounter.
"Believe what you want," Erik said coolly, turning his back on the Imperial and surveying the room once more. "The rest of you, finish looting this place. I want to keep moving."
The others moved quickly, gathering what little remained of value in the ancient chamber, though their nerves were clearly fraying. Erik ignored their whispered conversations, his mind already on the final confrontation ahead. The Dragon Priest Rahgot awaited them, and Erik knew that the deeper they went into the ruins, the darker the magic they'd face.
As the group finished their task and began gathering near the exit, Erik cast one last glance at the skeletons lying on the beds, the empty bottles of poison beside them. They had chosen death, but Erik wasn't about to give Rahgot that mercy. When the time came, the Dragon Priest would face something much worse.
And Erik would be the one to deliver it.
...
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