The Mage of Morthal #38

As Erik and Isran approached Morthal, the path grew quieter, shrouded by mist and the shadowed outline of trees. They kept a steady pace until, abruptly, a hooded figure stepped out from the side of the road, blocking their path with an upraised hand.

"Halt," the man commanded, his voice calm yet edged with authority.

Erik's gaze sharpened as he felt an unmistakable surge of magicka in the air, crackling around them, making the temperature spike. He scanned the surrounding shadows and caught faint, flickering glints among the rocks and trees—summoned flame atronachs, their fiery forms partially concealed behind the boulders and shrubs.

Erik's hand instinctively moved toward Wyrmspire, his grip tightening on the hilt, but he hesitated, sensing the figure had more to say.

"State your names and your reasons for being here," the man continued, his tone steady but unmistakably laced with a warning.

Erik's brow furrowed. That voice—it had a familiarity he couldn't mistake. Recognition dawned on him, and he raised an eyebrow. "Falion?"

The hooded figure seemed taken aback, stiffening at the sound of his name. A pause stretched between them before the figure reached up, pulling back his hood to reveal his face. In the moonlight, Erik saw the same thoughtful, slightly weary eyes, though they were tempered now with a steely determination that hadn't been there before.

"Erik?" Falion's voice softened, the harsh edge melting into astonishment. The two men studied each other for a moment, each sizing up the other's familiar yet changed face, and then their expressions cracked into bitter smiles.

"You're back," Falion said, his tone equal parts disbelief and begrudging acceptance. "And here I was, thinking I wouldn't see you in Hjalmarch again."

Erik shrugged, his expression unreadable. "I said I'd be back, didn't I? I keep my word." He took another cautious glance around as the heat in the air began to dissipate.

Falion dismissed the flame atronachs with a subtle flick of his hand, and they faded, vanishing in puffs of smoke and dying embers that drifted upward before dispersing into the night.

"What happened while I was away for you to be lurking on the side of the road with your atronachs like some bandit?" Erik asked, eyes sweeping over the deserted path before returning to Falion. "Does it have anything to do with the vampires we encountered on the road to Morthal? They claimed to be Volkihar. Judging by their strength, I'm inclined to believe them."

Falion sighed, his face darkening at the mention of the Volkihar. "It's a long story, Erik," he replied, his voice carrying a weary resignation. "And one best told away from the open road."

At this, Isran, who had remained silent, gave Erik a pointed look. It was a look that said, "It's your call," though his hand remained close to his own weapon, eyes sharp with distrust.

Erik nodded at Falion. "Then let's go somewhere quieter."

Without another word, Falion motioned for them to follow, and the three men continued down the road, leaving the mist-shrouded entrance behind. They kept a measured pace, their horses' hooves muffled against the dirt road as they moved toward Morthal, the dim outline of the marsh town barely visible through the haze ahead.

...

The Moorside Inn was as deserted as Erik remembered, dimly lit and filled with the usual somber silence. Though it provided warmth and shelter from the marsh's oppressive chill, the peace inside was fractured by the off-key singing of Lurbuk, the orc bard, whose gruff voice echoed off the wooden walls like nails scraping glass.

Erik, Isran, and Falion occupied a table at the center of the room, laden with steaming plates of stew, thick bread, and pitchers of mead. Beneath the table, Geri gnawed at a sizable chunk of goat meat, tearing into it with the kind of focus only a daedric dog could bring. Erik took a long swig of his mead, savoring the warmth it spread through his chest, before turning to Falion with a gleam of amusement in his eye.

"So," he said, gesturing to the innkeeper, Jonna, who was busy behind the counter. "The innkeeper is your sister, huh?" A grin crept across his face. "She had quite a lot to say about you the first time I came to visit… though I can't say any of it was exactly flattering."

Falion exhaled, rubbing a hand over his forehead as if to dispel the memory. "Yes, well, to the townsfolk here, I'm practically a demon straight from Oblivion," he muttered, eyes flicking toward his sister with a mix of affection and frustration. "And my sister, she has to keep up appearances if she's going to fit in around here—keeps food on the table, after all."

Erik chuckled, taking another gulp of mead. "That's what you get for practicing magic in a backwater like Morthal," he said, shaking his head. "The Nords here think anything beyond chopping wood or lighting a fire is the work of daedra."

Falion managed a wry smile. "Perhaps they're not far off," he replied, voice low enough not to carry across the inn. "But with their superstitions, it's only thanks to Jarl Idgrod that I haven't been run out of town yet. Or worse."

The moment of shared humor faded, and Erik's gaze sharpened as he set his mug down on the table. "Well, enough pleasantries. Now that we're rested and well-fed, it's time we got to the heart of things. What exactly has happened here in Hjaalmarch while I was away?"

Falion's face grew serious, shadows settling into the creases of his features as he looked between Erik and Isran. "Vampires happened," he said finally, the weight of his words palpable. "A lot of them."

Erik's expression darkened, brows knitting together in confusion. "It hasn't even been three months since I left. Has the warding spell already faded?"

Falion shook his head. "No, the spell is still strong. The vampires are here because of something else…" He trailed off as Isran leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, suspicion glinting in their depths.

"What's this warding spell you're talking about?" Isran demanded, his tone sharp. "And what does it have to do with the vampires?"

Erik leaned forward, fixing Isran with a steady gaze. "Remember that Tyranny of the Sun prophecy I've been telling you about?"

Isran nodded, his eyes sharp and wary. "Aye. I remember."

"Well, we're not the only ones who know about it," Erik continued, his voice dropping low. "Or about the fact that the Daughter of Coldharbour, Serana, is sealed somewhere in Hjaalmarch—along with an Elder Scroll."

Erik paused to take another swig of mead, his eyes darting across the dimly lit inn as though the shadows themselves might be listening.

"Thousands of years ago, possibly right after Serana was hidden away, someone set up a warding formation. Its purpose was to mask the unique blood resonance that ties her to Molag Bal and to keep the Volkihar from sensing her location."

Falion's expression grew thoughtful, while Isran's brow furrowed in confusion. Erik cleared his throat, continuing, "The warding relied on the magicka stored in an ancient summoning circle—probably set by one of the vampires opposing the master of the Volkihar clan. The Problem is, I drained that magicka without knowing its purpose for a certain ritual."

Isran's face darkened, a glint of anger flickering in his eyes. "And yet, this is the first time I'm hearing of it. Seems like that would have been something worth mentioning."

Erik waved a hand dismissively. "I had intended to handle the matter long before the effects wore off. Back then, I had no clue the summoning stones had such a critical role in keeping Hjaalmarch safe from a vampire scourge. And as promised, I returned before the spell's effects could fully fade."

Isran's jaw clenched, but he kept silent, his arms folded across his chest in a tense stance. Erik, sensing the tension, shifted his gaze back to Falion. "But if the spell hasn't weakened—if the resonance is still hidden—why are the Volkihar here? What exactly has changed?"

Falion sighed, rubbing his temples as if weary from the weight of what he was about to say. "The arrival of the vampires in Hjaalmarch, as fate would have it, is indeed tied to your actions, though not to the Daughter of Coldharbour."

Erik's brow furrowed in surprise. "What do you mean? How could they be here because of me?"

With a nod, Falion continued, "They came to avenge one of their own. Apparently, a member of the Volkihar clan had been hiding among Movarth's coven—right up until you, well, obliterated the lot of them."

Erik blinked, taken aback. "That's impossible," he replied, his tone defensive. "There's no way a Volkihar vampire could've been hiding amongst those lowlifes without me noticing. Besides Movarth himself, the rest were mere—" He paused, catching himself as a distant memory came back to him.

He cleared his throat, his tone shifting as he reluctantly admitted, "Well… now that you mention it, there was one vampire in particular. Dressed strangely. But the fool was deep in slumber when I drove my sword through his heart, so I wouldn't have known he was anything special."

Falion shook his head in exasperation, and a bitter chuckle escaped Isran. "Stendarr preserve us. What rotten luck indeed."

Isran turned to Falion with a budding respect in his eye. "Still, to think you managed to pull so much information from a vampire… it's impressive."

Erik nodded, his tone thoughtful. "Aside from a few rare exceptions, most vampires are prideful and arrogant to the core. They'll refuse to say a word that isn't a threat or a curse if you try to subdue them. Surprising you got anything useful out of one."

Falion chuckled, glancing over at the orc bard Lurbuk, who was belting out yet another off-key verse in a deep, gravelly tone that grated like nails on stone.

"Oh, there was no subduing involved," he replied with a wry grin. "The arrogant bloodsucker actually thought he had me cornered. And in his excitement, he sang more enthusiastically than Lurbuk here." He gestured toward the bard, whose latest attempt at a song was just shy of painful.

Erik glanced at Lurbuk and grimaced, wondering if the orc's singing might actually be some kind of spell to ward off customers. Meanwhile, Isran's grim smile broadened. "I told you. Those vermin only open their mouths when they think they're in control."

Falion rolled his eyes, but the amused smirk lingered. "This one was particularly boastful, practically spilling the entire clan's business as he ranted. I picked up enough about their recent movements and intent, but it wasn't until he mentioned Movarth's lair that I realized you were likely the target of their ire."

Erik cleared his throat, leaning back with a casual air. "Well, that's that, I suppose. What became of the vampire after?" He asked, attempting to steer the conversation to a lighter note.

Falion grinned, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Oh, he was reduced to a fine pile of ashes courtesy of three very angry flame atronachs."

Erik chuckled at the image, and even Isran, usually stone-faced, allowed himself a brief smile, his respect for Falion visibly growing.

"Falion, was it?" Isran said, nodding to him with a newfound approval. "I have a feeling you and I will get along just fine."

Falion raised his tankard in a casual toast, taking a long drink before replying, "I'll drink to that."

As the mead went down, Falion turned to Erik, a glint of curiosity and unease in his eyes. "So, what exactly do you plan to do about these vampires?"

Erik sighed, running a hand through his hair as he weighed his words. "Hunting down every vampire prowling around Morthal isn't impossible, but more would just follow." He shook his head and set down his tankard. "Best to stick to the plan. Once I present them with the Daughter of Coldharbour, the Volkihars will have all the distraction they need, and they'll lose interest in Hjaalmarch."

Isran's expression turned stormy at that. Though he said nothing, it was clear he wasn't thrilled about the idea.

Falion glanced between the two of them, catching onto the unspoken tension. He shifted in his seat, wincing a little. "I'm curious about this plan of yours, though something tells me I'd rather not know the details." He managed a half-smile. "As long as the vampires keep their distance from Morthal, I'll consider it a success."

Isran grunted in agreement, his eyes still locked on Erik. "You'll be satisfied, alright," he said, before turning to Erik. "When are we heading to Dimhollow Crypt?"

"As soon as possible," Erik replied, then turned to Falion. "But first, I need to borrow your enchanting table for a few hours."

Falion looked taken aback by the sudden request but quickly recovered, nodding. "I don't mind, but I'm curious—what exactly do you need it for?"

Before Erik could answer, the heavy doors of the Moorside Inn swung open with a dramatic creak, crashing against the wall.

A burly Nord with a shaved head and a thick, proud mustache strode into the room, eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto Erik with a look of profound relief and pride.

"My thane!" the Nord exclaimed, voice booming. His eyes were wide, and his expression positively glowed as he stepped forward, visibly moved. "I heard word from the Jarl's men that you'd returned and came running! I knew you wouldn't forget about me!"

Erik felt a pang of guilt at the man's enthusiasm. He forced a friendly smile, masking the slight twinge of regret. 'I kind of did forget about him…' he mused internally, feeling a little sheepish.

But Validmar didn't seem to notice, his smile so broad it almost seemed to crack his face. With a respectful nod to Isran and Falion, he stood by Erik's side, like a soldier reporting for duty, and in his booming voice that practically echoed through the empty inn, said, "I've defended your home against a great many horkers and mudcrabs! Please tell me if you have any further orders."

...

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