Chapter Thirty-Three
Intense preparations were made for the final journey. The group was certain that whatever waited for them beneath Damlzthur was going to provide a most compromising situation. For a full week after the agreement, the group traveled all across Skyrim, making sure every end was covered, every loose end tied.
They started with a journey towards Markarth. Along the way, they made a stop by the Lord’s Stone to receive its blessing, one of protection against physical and magickal forces. Next, they stopped in Morthal where Falion gathered everything he deemed necessary including scrolls, potions, filled soul gems, and the like. While standing in his shack, and resting before continuing to Markarth, S’maash spoke.
“Master Falion?”
“Hm?” Falion replied while sifting through reagents at his alchemy table.
“I have heard you have spoken with the dwemer, but it sounds unbelievable. Is it true,” S’maash asked.
The rest of the group, while cramped for the moment, perked up to listen. “It is. You understand, the dwemer no longer reside in Tamriel. Like traveling to Moonshadow, one can move from plane to plane in a dream-like state. I call it astral projection.
“So you see, I have never physically carried on a conversation, but I have seen them and their world. It can be difficult to ground oneself in dreams, but if accomplished, many things can be discovered,” Falion explained.
“Curious. Anything that can help with our current quest,” Zolara asked.
“Not particularly, no,” Falion began as he stuffed food and drink in his pack. “But observing them through the mist of dreams has given me an understanding of their reality.”
“I can scarcely believe this. Uncle Calcelmo would have given anything to meet the dwemer. Now, I may do this for him,” Aicantar commented.
“I’m ready. We can continue to Markarth,” Falion said.
The group traveled back to the cart and back onto the road. Along the way, Falion provided a bit of conjuration training to everyone, S’maath included, though he did not truly pay attention. Zolara was absolutely jubilant when he mastered the summon flame thrall spell, an incantation allowing the conjuring of a flame atronach, yet bypassing the natural pull of Oblivion. In short, the atronach stayed until it was defeated or banished from Tamriel by spell.
It was night when they reached Left Hand Mine, just outside the walls of the city of stone. S’maash saw Colville standing guard. He was no longer wearing his blue, steel, Blades armor. They nodded to one another, but no words were spoken. S’maash felt a small pang of guilt and wondered if Colville knew what had taken place. But it was needed, friend.
Upon entering Markarth, Aicantar rushed to Understone Keep. The group split, and the dunmer brothers stayed at the Silver-Blood Inn for a few hours while the mages followed Aicantar. The inn was alive with music, food, and good spirits.
“Two mugs of ale, please?” S’maath called. The brothers sat at the counter and joked about the trip to Damlzthur. “Now, remember, alits can be very dangerous,” he added, snickering.
“You’re an alit,” S’maash rebutted.
Upon the culmination of merriment, and forgetting their worries, the brothers were met by the remaining group. “We’re all set,” Brelyna said.
“Good,” S’maash replied.
Their next stop took them by Whiterun. S’maash explained that as court wizard, he owed allegiance to Thorald and needed to speak to him. Everyone cherished his loyalty and sense of duty.
The sun was high, and it warmed their skin when they arrived. S’maash left the group and made for Dragonsreach. Inside, he approached the Jarl and provided a recounting of his quest.
“Aye, come back alive or don’t come back at all, S’maash,” Thorald said, half in jest.
The elf then stopped by his room in the palace to pick up more supplies, which included bone meal and powdered, mammoth tusk. He had plans to stop in Riften, and speak to Balimund about improving their equipment, and knew those specific ingredients were required to improve his new armor. Finally, they continued into Riften. It was dark when they arrived and Zolara had a suggestion.
“Haelga’s?”
S’maash laughed openly while Brelyna scowled. The unspoken joke was lost on S’maath.
“What is it,” he asked.
“He wants to bed a woman before we go,” she answered.
S’maath smiled and shook his head. Zolara rubbed his claws together briskly.
“We might not come back. The least we can do is die with smiles on our faces,” the argonian contended.
When he left to find someone for the night, Brelyna looked to the others. “You two aren’t going?”
“Too much on my mind, honestly,” S’maash said.
“You must have someone back home,” Brelyna said to S’maath.
He met her eyes. “No, but I have met someone I would like to spend some time alone with.”
“Oh,” she asked.
The others remained silent for a second. “Perhaps, myself, Aicantar, and master Falion can busy ourselves with discussion if the two of you would like to go for a walk,” S’maash suggested.
They all split once more. While S’maash and his group spoke of the dwemer and other lores, Brelyna and S’maath spent some time walking around Riften. They all met at the Bee and Barb to sleep away their final hours in town. At daybreak, they sought out Balimund, who was working at his forge.
“Welcome back. Looking to protect yourself or deal some damage,” he asked.
“Would you mind working on our equipment? We’re on a journey back to Morrowind and need to be in the best condition possible,” S’maash explained.
“You’ve been a good friend to me. That means something,” Balimund answered.
It took only a couple of hours for the smith to improve everyone’s weapons and armor. S’maash paid him for his services. They shook hands and reminisced for a moment; it had been a long time ago that the dark elf showed up looking for menial work.
“This is it,” S’maath addressed them as they made their way out of Riften. “Now, we travel beyond the mountains into Morrowind. From there, we’ll move into Nishwal, south of Silgrad Tower, and hire a silt strider back to L’Thu Oad. I’ve made this trip a few times as it is, so I know the best path through the mountains.”
It took nearly a full day of hiking through slightly dangerous terrain. Along the way, they encountered some sabre cats and bears, but nothing overly powerful. Zolara practiced his flame thrall spell. That alone was enough for most of the wild animals of Skyrim. Late at night, they reached the town of Nishwal.
It was a rather modest town. Other than homes and small shops, the only, prominent structure was a temple. Few dark elves still worshipped the Tribunal, and the small factions were often belittled. For that reason, and others, Nishwal was not home to very many.
Only a quick rest ensued, and finally, S’maath purchased a silt strider ride back to L’Thu Oad, explaining they could rest more along the way. Several hours later, the brothers were home, only that time with new friends. A nostalgic sadness crept into S’maash’s heart when they arrived outside the modest house.
“Make yourselves comfortable. I’m going to see Rosoleola and the others,” he said to the group.
“Aye. I will stop by the Reyda Tong as well,” S’maath added.
The remaining members conversed among themselves while taking advantage of Ilteriel commodities. A cold wind had moved into Morrowind as it was rather late in the year, and the fire within brought unto them great comfort.
S’maash endured stares as flashes of recognition during his stroll. With his helmet removed, everyone recalled the mowhawk haired youth, who was constantly in trouble with the elders of the quaint town. He smiled and nodded to them before entering the mages’ workshop.
Naturally, the shop was as he remembered it; nice wooden walls, carpeted flooring, torches and braziers casting flickering shadows. Beyond the entry was the corridor leading to
the arcane enchanter, and off to the right, the stairs leading to the alchemy room. S’maash found Rosoleola as he had left him, bent over an arcane enchanter.
“Master,” S’maash said.
“Hmm?” Rosoleola asked in his gruff voice.
As he turned, a moment of confusion brewed within the altmer’s eyes. Then, he realized who stood behind him. He laughed heartily.
“And here I thought you left us all behind,” Rosoleola said.
S’maash replied, smiling, “I did, but I am back to say I found what I was searching for.”
“Oh,” Rosoleola inquired. The dark elf pulled a seat up to the anchanter—he knew his old master had no intention of delaying his work—and the young lad recounted his travels. “My, my…I never dreameded to see the day you would change the direction of magickal knowledge,” Rosoleola commented.
The old wizard stood fully erect. Like all altmer, he was very tall. A look of pride momentarily passed over his face, but his age and stress soon bent him over again.
“You’re going back to Damlzthur? I told you once, there’s nothing but death and ash down there,” he said.
“I’ll tread over death and ash to reach the center of Mundas and restore life to Tamriel.”
“Heh, you’ve grown, that’s for certain.”
“Tell the others, especially that argonian, to kiss my blue butt. You were, are, the only one I ever respected. I want you to know, I’m doing this in part because you taught me well, so well, that I was able to discern that knowledge, which has been hidden from our eyes,” S’maash spoke, sincerely.
“Well, I thank you for those kind words. S’maash, when you return, stop by one, last time. It would bring this old, high elf some comfort to know that his student has stared death and ash in the face and lived to tell about it,” Rosoleola said, reverently.
With that, S’maash nodded and took his leave. It was very late in the evening by the time he made it back home. His party was already waiting. They were all set to leave for Damlzthur.
“Excellent, I shall lead us to the dwemer ruin,” S’maath announced.
It was a long journey by foot. The group walked all night. They had decided to rest only when absolutely necessary. By the following evening, they arrived at the great door leading into the ancient city.
“Here we are,” S’maash said.
They pushed through and entered. Voices had to be raised in order to speak over the clatter of dwemer machinery.
“Now, can we rest? I have a cramp in my tail,” Zolara complained.
“Aye, let us break for a moment,” Brelyna said.
They set up camp just inside the ruins and slept for a short time. Once everyone woke, ate, and readied themselves, the group followed S’maath. The warrior led them right to the large doors, the doors before the spiraling, stone path reaching down towards the bubbling lava. They scrutinized the walkway; there were no rails, although the path was butted up against the wall, and such a heat welled up from below, they had trouble breathing.
“Goodness,” Aicantar started. “It appears to lead into the lava.”
“Perhaps not. We won’t know until we reach the bottom,” Falion added.
“If we can reach it,” Brelyna said, furrowing her brow.
S’maash and S’maath made eye contact. “We will reach it,” S’maash vowed.
He took the lead, the others following single file. They walked carefully down the stone spiral, constantly circling left. The closer to the bottom they reached, the hotter it was. Save the argonian, they perspired profusely. After moments, the wavering heat and orange light obscured their vision to some degree.
The path did not appear to end at the lava, but instead traveled beneath it. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be any way to advance.
“I can swim pretty good,” Zolara said. “But I don’t plan on lava diving today.”
Furrowed brows and frowns creased everyone’s faces. S’maath shrugged.
“What now?”
“There…there must be something here we’re not seeing,” S’maash said.
“It is possible,” Aicanter said, but trailed off. The group observed him as he walked up the ramp. The altmer then started pounding the side of his fist against the wall while he kept one, pointed ear pressed against it. The others followed suit, although they had no idea what it was they were doing. “Aha,” Aicantar cheered.
“What,” Falion asked.
“This part here sounds hollow. Someone, help me to find a hidden seam, so we might remove some form of panel or sliding stone,” Aicantar explained.
S’maath gingerly pushed him aside, took the great sword from his back, drew it to his hip, and rammed the blade right into the wall. It sank in a ways as the group gasped, but when he pulled the blade out, chunks of stone fell away, revealing a turn handle. S’maath smiled and pulled it.
“Handled…get it?” he joked.
Zolara chuckled, but the others did not join in his mirth. The turning of the handle forced such a groan from the old ruin that it reverberated through the groups’ bodies. Then, the lava started to drop. Inch by inch, the bubbling liquid lowered, thus revealing a new, steamy path for them to traverse.
Further down the ramp they traveled to a small bridge leading off to the right. An entrance shrouded in darkness sat before them. Like a mouth carved into the stone, it invited the group to whatever lay beyond. Brelyna casted candle light and they entered.
It was little more than a short passage to a round, stone door lined with dwarven metal. S’maash touched it carefully; it was surprisingly cool. He pulled it open, and they entered.