Fan fiction: Black Sacrament

Michael308

Hope you enjoy it, this one has layers of lore for those whose love of Elder Scrolls goes back to Skyrim. Everything ties together...

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me,
for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

~ The Black Sacrament

Windhelm
2E 582


Who the hell makes a doll out of dead parts?

Ragnar stared at the misshapen figure splayed out on the cold, grey stone. To the casual eye it was a corpse; at least the parts of one left behind by the rats. Too small for an adult, not a Nord anyway; it would have been a child, or maybe one of those runt Bosmers.

But this wasn’t a corpse, not a single one anyway. The parts didn’t match. Arms were different lengths, one bicep bearing swatches of leathery orcish skin that did not at all go with the slender bones of the forearm. The left leg looked almost draugr, bones wrapped in layers of overcooked bacon, while the other was decidedly female, and fresh. This thing on the ground was a patchwork, a construct, laced together with catgut and twine.

“I can see hacking a body into pieces to haul it away,” Ragnar said softly, scratching his head, “but who in their right mind drags parts from a half-dozen different corpses to one place, just to stitch them together?” He looked around the night-dark crafting hall, flanked on either side by the dull flicker of orange embers in the forge-hearths. “And why here?”

A grey-haired bear of a man stood quietly in the darkness of the Anvil & Pauldron, the thick fingers of his right hand gently drawing an unconscious circle on the medallion that hung about his neck. It was a talisman of sorts, a symbol of Stendarr held popular among those who enforced the law. As a longstanding Hand of the Thane, Gunther had worn it since the day they had met.

Has it really been ten years? Ragnar was suddenly struck by the swift passage of time. He had been just thirteen, one of a hundred kids trying to survive the carnage of the Akaviri invasion that left half of Windhelm ablaze. Gunther had found him huddled in a burned-out building on the west side of town, wet, cold and hungry, living off what he could steal or scrounge from the bodies of the slain. The Old Man took pity on a reeking alley rat and raised him like a son; raised him to be a good man.

Well, as reasonably good as a copper could be around here, Ragnar thought ruefully. Windhelm was a rough city and sometimes justice demanded a rough touch. But under the Old Man’s tutelage, and through several great tests of patience, Ragnar became a Hand as well, taking his oath before Thane Mera Stormcloak at the young age of twenty-one. That was two years and a dozen scars ago.

“Its gotta have something to do with the games.” Ragnar prodded, unaccustomed to the Old Man’s silence. Even before becoming a Hand himself Ragnar grew up following the Old Man on his patrols. Together they had seen more than their share of graphic violence; murders, knifings, the blood spilled in bar brawls and the occasional havoc caused when a rabid troll came down off the mountain and spread a few travelers like mulch across the frozen ground. But he’d never seen his mentor like this, and the silence was giving him the creeps.

“What’re you chewing on, Old Man?”

Gunther didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the body that lay in a circle of candles. Most were burned out, melted to puddles of wax on the floor.

“This is Tong business.” He muttered the words under his breath, as if speaking them aloud would invoke something.

Whatever concern Ragnar might have felt was shoved brusquely by the unaccustomed chafe of irritation. He had seen evil in his life, plenty of it, but most all of it could be boiled down to what lived in a man’s heart. He had no time for fishwife superstition.

“Tong?” Ragnar blurted, regretting at once the derision in his tone but unable to rein it in. “What, Morag Tong, the whole Dark Brotherhood thing? C’mon Old Man, that’s a fairy tale, a boogeyman. You don’t buy into that crap.”

Gunther tossed a grim nod towards the body. “It has a skull and bones, you can see that. Crack it open and you’ll find more; a heart in its chest, along with… other parts. The candles,” he paused, as if taking inventory, then pointed towards the dagger buried hilt-deep in the curve of ribs. “And that, take that to the herbalist Buca. He’ll tell you the dark stuff on the blade is nightshade. By the Nine it is.”

For the first time Gunther looked Ragnar in the eyes. “In the old country they called this the blár sacrāmentum, the Black Sacrament.” Gunther spit on ground, his weight shifting away as though standing too close to a furnace.

Ragnar couldn't believe his eyes. He had watched the Old Man wade into a furball of knife-wielding thugs and end up the last man standing. This was a side Ragnar had never seen and didn't want to. A flurry of confused curses fell from his lips.

The Old Man drew the black wolfskin cloak tighter around his shoulders, steel-grey eyes scanning the empty crafting hall. In daylight it was a bustle of activity but tonight, with everyone face-down in their mugs in celebration, it was dark, secluded… out of sight.

“Believe what you will boy, but when you’ve walked this life for as many years as I have you see things that come from far beyond the walls of Windhelm, from caves and swamps and dark, awful places. Darkness has a way of latching its claws into a place, making itself home. You can feel it where we stand, right now, in the very stones beneath our feet.”

“No,” Ragnar groused, weary of the mumbo-jumbo, “there’s a reason for this, and its not in an empty armory.” He paced to the south end and peered into the night. The stables were quiet, the abundance of visitor horses producing little more than a steady chorus of chuffs and snorts. Ragnar's eyes tracked upward, to the city wall looming above the stables. There had already been one murder today, up on that wall, a runner in the games struck down by an arrow.

Something was up, and Ragnar was going to find out what.

As if reading the young man’s heart Gunther stepped up and placed a heavy hand on Ragnar’s shoulder. “Let this one go boy. Walk away. Write it off as a stupid prank, nobody will fault you. Let’s you and I go look for stiff drink and soft lasses and not look back. Whatever this is, evil has claimed this place as home. Come back here a thousand years from now and it will still be waiting.” Gunther huffed uncomfortably. “Mark my words.”

Ragnar shook his head and shrugged the Old Man’s hand away with growing anger, pacing instead to the Anvil’s north entrance. He’d never admit it out loud but he loved the Old Man way too much to fight with him over something this senseless, especially with other cops within earshot. But this was a crime, of some sort anyway, and with the Konenleiker going on there must be a hundred different ways it could go badly. Delegates from every district were here for the games, footraces, archery, games of wit, strength and guile. It was a celebration of the defeat of the Akaviri and a turning point for the creation of a new government that would see old rivals join together. Ragnar couldn’t begin to guess how many people didn’t want to see the Nords, the lizards and the Dunmer roll together into one big Ebonheart Pact.

Ragnar's sense of career survival chimed in. A whole lot of eyes would be watching what happened here, important eyes among them. This was not the time to slack off.

He stopped at the northern end of the Anvil and looked left. The banner-draped pavilions outside the Mage’s Guild were empty, beyond that stood the Wayshrine and its occasional shimmer as travelers came and went. But now, even in the midst of the games, that part of the courtyard was empty and quiet, save for the grunts and moans of some drunken Nord tangled up with a couple of barmaids in an abandoned Guild Merchant’s stall. For a moment he considered the Old Man's advice; it was cold and a stiff belt of scotch would do a lot to cut the chill. Then his eyes fell back to the circle on the floor. With a curse he strode across the armory.

To the north was the raised terrace that led to the palace, and that was anything but empty. Guards with torches stood lined up like trees in a forest fire. The terrace was bright, bristling with sharpened steel. Front and center Ragnar could see his boss, Thane Mera Stormcloak, holding vigil as usual from her place at the front doors.

By the Three, does that damn woman never sleep?

Truth be told, Ragnar was proud as hell to serve her. Mera was tough, not one of those milk-drinking bureaucrats who wielded authority from a cozy fireplace in a warm tavern. She stood her watch on the streets, steel on her hip, never more than a shout away from breaking events. Nothing was going to force its way into the palace tonight, with or without a meat-puppet and a ring of candles.

That left northeast, a mixture of private homes and merchants of little import. As late as it was, music and singing still echoed up the dark street, the war-songs of drunken bannermen well on the slurred road to their owners being found in half-naked heaps on the floor come dawn’s first light. There was a saying about Nord celebrations; what happens in Windhelm, stays in Windhelm.

The clink of steel caught Ragnar’s ear, the unmistakable tread of armored feet. His senses suddenly alight, Ragnar strode quickly to the top of the staircase and looked down into a small dead-end alley cluttered with crates and barrels. It looked otherwise empty, but two city guards stood watch on the porch just beyond, with two more sets of plated boots visible further up and yet another pair of guards walking pace in the street. Ragnar waved to Gunther, pointed down at the scene below with one hand and placed his other on the hilt of his sword. The Old Man nodded and took his place at the top of the stairs, wolfskin cloak sliding off his shoulders to leave arms unencumbered.

Ragnar walked down the stairs and straight to the closest guard, his tabard adorned with the great bear crest of Windhelm. A formal security detail, Ragnar realized, noting that all the guards were so dressed. Ragnar’s authority as a Hand spared him the wearing of such frippery, and it gave him domain over anyone who did. It was a power he never hesitated to flex when needed. Pointing towards the high front door with his free hand Ragnar said “Who owns this house and why is it so guarded?”

Like most rank-and-file security guards, this one seemed to have no desire to be on the wrong end of a Hand’s bad temper, but he stammered and looked to his closest companion who in turn tried to act like his partner had just become invisible. Ragnar grabbed a fistful of tabard and yanked the guard nose-to-nose. “I asked you a question.” There was a growl to his tone now, like a dog will give when you reach for his bone. Whatever resistance the guard had, it fell apart.

“His Highness the Skald-King sir,” he pointed frantically up the porch to the front door, further flanked by yet another pair of guards. “He set this up as some sort of temporary court. To meet with the other Pact members.”

"The King?" Stress and anger flared and the growl in Ragnar's voice grew more pronounced. “Like hell he did, we would have been told.”

“I swear it,” the guard quailed, “it was a last-minute thing. They came down off the mountain with the traitor Fildgor in chains, oh, and that newcomer. But they left, well, most of them anyway. They're in the palace now, only General Greatstorm is inside keeping watch over a table full of maps and treaties and things.

Ragnar didn’t like surprises, especially not when they came in groups. First the creepshow at the armory and now this. He looked up for Gunther, surprised when he did not see the Old Man looking down from his overwatch. The hackles rose on the back of Ragnar’s neck, even before the sounds of struggle reached his ear. Releasing the guard he bolted back towards the staircase as a tangle of figures toppled from above, crashing down into the back of the short alleyway with the sound of snapping wood, or maybe bone.

Several guards nocked arrows and drew back on their bows when Gunther staggered out of the darkness, grappling with a figure on his back. The assailant’s arms were wrapped around Gunther’s neck like a python, black-robed forearms buried beneath the tangle of grey beard. Gunther’s hands were latched on those forearms, no doubt fighting like mad to pry them off his neck. Before Ragnar could bark the order to hold, the twang of bows filled the air and arrows streaked through the night.

Ragnar had seen the Old Man move in a fight; in his day he could best half a dozen men his own size. But the years, and a bad knee injury, had taken their toll and of late it was Ragnar, young and strong, who carried the brunt of the day to day brawling. But old habits hold true, old training dies hard, and the instincts of a fighter work in wonderful ways. As the bowstrings thrummed the Old Man planted his weight and heaved, swinging the burden on his back into the path of the incoming arrows. The shafts thudded home, driving the wind from punctured lungs in a wet burst of air. With a guttural growl Gunther shoved the figure back into the alleyway and took two long strides towards Ragnar.

For some people, time slows in a crisis. At least it does for those who tend to survive, and Ragnar was a survivor. In the torchlight he could now see the hand that Gunther clasped to his own throat, blood pulsing between thick fingers.

By the Nine, he’d been cut; cut badly.

The Old Man opened his mouth and blood-red spittle drooled out in streaks down the grey beard. The figure in the alleyway thrashed, struggling to regain its footing despite the arrows sticking from its body. Guards stood frozen in indecision and fear, few really prepared to do more than stand their watch or rattle a saber. The Old Man slumped against Ragnar’s shoulder, the blood-wheeze now loud in his ear. Ragnar saw the moment like a chess board; the fight in front of him, the ad hoc fortress behind him. But a fortress would have bandages, maybe a healing potion. The next move was clear.

“Get him inside and bar the door!” Ragnar transferred the Old Man’s weight to the closest guard, pausing just a moment to watch as the two bolted up the porch stairs. Then he turned, barking once more. “You two, fetch a healer, NOW!”

He turned to those who remained, “You four, with me.” With a growl that was more animal than man, Ragnar turned back to the alleyway, blade in a white-knuckle grip.

Whoever or whatever you are, you are about to be very, very sorry you came here this night.

The group edged forward into the alleyway, torchlight peeling away the darkness with every step.

“There,” a guard blurted, pointing at boots that twitched on the ground. Ragnar raised his sword as he leaned forward. He wanted to look this *** in the eyes as he ended his life, but he was smart enough not to get too close in the process. As the light spilled across the blood-stained figure, Ragnar drove his sword into the heaving chest, twisting the steel at full depth. Then he leaned in...

to gaze into the two eyes he knew better than any others. Tears welled from the steel-grey orbs, now wide with uncomprehension. Teeth welded together in pain, the Old Man looked Ragnar in the eyes and whispered,

“Why?”

The shock hit Ragnar like a thunderbolt, his gaze falling to the blossom of blood that grew where his sword was driven through ribs. The golden medallion of Stendarr dangled loosely against razor steel. Ragnar’s gaze swept up the blade to the handle, and the fingers wrapped tightly around it. Ragnar’s fingers.

A shudder of revulsion crawled up his spine as Ragnar looked back to the Old Man’s face, held tight in the grip of confusion and betrayal. Gunther’s last words drooled wet from bloody lips. “I… I loved you…”

It was all Ragnar could do to fight back the vomit that bubbled up his throat. The world tilted, threatened to give way like a mudslide after a hard rain. For a moment Ragnar tought he would fall, the firm hands of guards suddenly giving support. This isn’t possible. Ragnar’s mind grappled for something, anything. Gunther is inside, I saw him go, saw him…

run up the stairs.

A wave of even greater sickness washed through Ragnar’s guts, an oily nausea fueled by sudden recognition. The Old Man hadn’t run up a flight of stairs in six years, not since the knee. Whoever, whatever, that was, it wasn’t Gunther. Gunther was dead in an alley, killed by my own hand. Killed by his son.

Ragnar’s legs found their strength and he pushed everyone away, turning slowly to look up the font porch stairs. The guards stepped back, sensing in Ragnar a rage that had left the realm of sanity. Two of them shared a glance and bolted off into the night, choosing to risk the justice of the morrow instead of the madness of right now.

Ragnar’s grip flexed on his sword as he climbed the steps and walked across the porch. He reached out, put his palm against the heavy wooden door, and turned to the remaining guards and spoke in a tone devoid of life. “If anything but the General or I come out, kill it on sight.” Then he pushed. As he'd guessed, the door was not barred; with the squeal of an old hinge, it swung open.

Ragnar entered the house, making no attempt at stealth. This wasn't justice, this was vengeance. Besides, it was not much more than a single long room and anyone, anything, waiting inside would have heard him enter.

A case of mead had been smashed in the fireplace, not enough to quench the fire but enough to reduce it to a sputtering glow as a cloying steam rose from the damp embers. Ragnar scanned the room, not surprised to see the body of General Kora Greatstorm dead on the floor, her throat slit from ear to ear. A second body lay dead next to the hearth, the guard that had helped Gunth— Ragnar swallowed hard. The growl rumbled up from his chest; feral, unhinged. “Show yourself.”

“You should have listened to your friend boy.” The voice was Gunther’s, though oddly detatched. "He had the right of it, more than you could imagine."

Ragnar’s breath seized in his chest as the Old Man stepped out of the shadows, emerging from behind a four-paneled screen to the right. The sight grabbed Ragnar’s guts like a clawed fist. “By Akatosh,” he muttered, “what in the Nine Hells are you?”

The Old Man stopped as if surprised by the question, then raised a hand to consider it as one might look at a piece of meat at the market. “Oh this?” As Ragnar watched, the flesh grew unsolid, sagging loose atop an underlayer of scale. The familiar face slid away in heavy strips of smoke, revealing a reptilian visage that stared at him with cold grey eyes from beneath a black hood.

“We call it skin-stealing.” The lizard shrugged, “something I picked up in the Wolk. Its a useful skill when you need to get past a great many guards. One just needs a suitable… donor.”

The sickly tone fanned Ragnar’s rage anew as he drove the sword— nowhere. He blinked, as if slapped across the face, straining now just to force his gaze down towards the hand that still gripped the sword by his side.

“About that.” The lizard spoke with a tone that bordered on apologetic. “A particular blend of mushrooms, you might know them as russula, can be quite paralytic when inhaled as a vapor.” The figure waved a scaly hand at the whisps rising from the fireplace and his voice turned to ice. “It is a weakness of mammals that our kind doesn’t share.”

The lizard pried the sword from Ragnar’s grasp and looked the Nord up and down in appriasal, like examining a new suit of clothes. “Yes. Yes, you will do nicely.”

Ragnar saw the reptile draw a double-edged knife from the folds of his robe. “You must understand, this is just business, I have no desire to die for some cause. I needed the old fellow to get in here, but I need you to get out.”

EPILOG

Windhelm
4E 197


“I trust you find everything in order, M’Lord?”

As Senior Retainer to the Steward of Windhelm, Harald Lothbrük knew damn well that everything was in order. It was his job to make it so. Fresh herbs in the garden, a luxurious basket of food in the kitchen, even a lovely silver platter as a not-overly-ostentatious personal housewarming gift. He looked over the Patents of Ownership, laid out for effect on the heavy oak table, the parchment pages festooned with wax seals and ribbons of different colors, each signifying a different aspect of a royal decree.

This particular decree was a small one on the scale of things, too small for Lothbrük’s master, Steward Jorleif, to leave his place at the side of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. But this foreigner was a great kaupmaðr, a wealthy merchant who’s gold had thus far bankrolled a notable chunk of Ulfric’s Stormcloak Rebellion. An award of property was a common act of gratitude, and a prominent house at the foot of the palace steps was quite a gift indeed. The foreigner certainly looked the part, dressed in the finery of Solitude’s fashion district, as was his lovely wife and young son.

“I understand this is your first visit to Windhelm, M’Lady.” While the merchant reviewed his deed, Lothbrük maintained the level of gracious and intelligent conversation expected from one of his station. A retainer was measured on such things, and impressing a rising political power with one’s knowledge could pay dividends in the days ahead. “If you would indulge me, I might share but a glimpse into the history of this great city.”

“If you look to the west you will see where the great Mage’s Guild of the Second Era once stood. The palace itself is largely as it was then, the site of the legendary Skald-King Jorun’s victory over his brother at the dawn of the Ebonheart Pact."

Lothbrük turned, raising his palms, "This house, of course, is much newer, enjoying many improvements in design over earlier architecture, but it sits on a foundation that dates back to those early days. The very stones upon which we stand were once the floor of a great smithee, where weapons and armor were forged. The two fireplaces,” he gestured to either side of the great room “still remain from that time, nearly a thousand years ago.”

Lothbrük flashed a melodramatic grin at the boy who gazed at him wide-eyed. “There's even a few juicy ghost stories; you could scarcely imagine the things that have happened here over the years.”

From the corner of his eye, Lothbrük could see that the signing was complete, and he deftly disentangled himself from further conversation to scoop the executed documents into an equally ornate leather valise. He produced a heavy ring of keys from his pocket and presented them with polished formality.

“M’Lord Aretino, Lady Naalia and young Master Aventus, I pray this house keep you safe. Welcome to Windhelm.”

###

MornaBaine

Very nice!

Cimadon

Great story!

Rohamad_Ali

Bravo !

Tib

That was great!