Chapter 3
Windhelm was a frustrating city to travel within; the ancient stronghold city, the City of Kings that had formerly been protected by impregnable stone defenses, had been ravaged over the centuries to the point that when modern urban development reached the ruin, of which only the Palace of the Kings remained, it had proved a difficult but promising canvas. Promising, because it was a clean slate; difficult, because of the frigid river that separated the narrow stretch of land where the city rested from the surrounding area. But the challenge was accepted, and Windhelm was rebuilt around the Palace, covering the peninsula and stretching far longer than it was wide. The Long City was a common, and certainly appropriate, nickname. And this was why Windhelm was frustrating; one's destination was either a few blocks north or south, or it could be a relatively great stretch east or west.
"Well, here it is. The Snow Fox," Malborn announced, cutting the engine in his luxurious black coupe and pulling Tacitus from his own thoughts about Angi, who had pecked the normally all-business detective on the cheek the night before and had kept pecking at his thoughts ever since. "Bundle up, my friend, we're only walking to the door but Windhelm will freeze you solid two steps out of the car." Tacitus buttoned up his red leather overcoat, pulled his maroon fedora down on his skull, and exited the long, sleek machine made up of swooping strokes and rare materials. The two men raced through the freezing mid-afternoon air, headed for the club that Malborn had suggested as a starting point in the search for Kurt Alissen.
Relieved to escape the cold, the pair began to remove their winter garb and take in the scene; a darkened room furnished, like any club, with tables and chairs, and plush booth seating lining the walls. A bar interrupted the booths near the center of the right wall, and a stage, illuminated by spotlights, sat empty opposite the door. The room was populated sparsely, and one figure stood out relatively easy among the two o'clock crowd.
Tacitus led Malborn nonchalantly toward the bar, where the figure leaned on an elbow. "I thought I was the one showing you around this place," Malborn said quietly. "This is an old friend," the Imperial replied,"one that didn't end up hating me." Tacitus sat on a barstool next to the huge Redguard dressed in all black.
"Hey, Farth," he said as if he were running into a regular sight. "Hey there-" came the unsuspecting response. A short pause went by, then Farth turned and hugged Tacitus tightly.
"Tacitus!" His deep voice boomed gleefully. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for answers." Tacitus noted the smell of liquor on his old friend. "This is Malborn." Farth happily greeted the Bosmer, then got down to business. "So, what kind of answers?"
"You hear about the Khajiit who was killed a few days ago? Well, I'm working that case."
"You're-" Farth caught himself and lowered his voice. "You're a cop, coming in here? That's not the best idea."
"Yeah, well, don't go yelling it around and it shouldn't cause a problem. Now I should ask, what are you doing here?"
The Redguard rolled his sleeve back and revealed a tattoo of a vertical diamond with a circle in the center. "A shadowmark," Malborn whispered.
"Farth, you're not-"
"Listen, Tacitus, I know you're a cop and all, but it's really not that bad; the name of the Guild is really just a source of misunderstandings nowadays. And it's not like I'm robbing anyone, I just help collect debts and that kind of thing, part time."
Tacitus laughed incredulously. "You're too big to be a pickpocket anyways." He sighed. "I'm not here to arrest you, Farth. I just need some help with a bit of information. There's a man named Kurt Alissen who has some kind of dealings with the Guild. I need to know either where I can find him or where I can find out what I need to know about him. Can you help me?"
Farth glanced over at the stage. "Yeah, sure, but remember what I said about being part time at the Guild? I've gotta play, man. Then I'll see. Hey, Jorn!" He called to the bartender. "Get these guys whatever they ask, on me!" Jorn nodded.
"Well, Jorn, I'd like just something to munch on if you'd be so kind," Malborn said.
Farth had taken his place on stage, sitting to the right side at a grand piano. A beautiful, tanned brunette walked out in a red silk dress and stood in front of a microphone. Farth began to slowly tap out an ancient tune. The woman started to sing in her rich mezzo-soprano croon.
"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart..."
~~~
"Good show," Tacitus said as Farth returned from the stage.
"Thanks. Now I guess you want me to call my man?" Tacitus nodded. "I'll just be a minute," Farth replied.
"That was quite beautiful," Malborn remarked. "So was the song."
"Hey," Tacitus said with a scowl, "we're working."
"You're working," the elf replied. "I'm here of my own volition."
"Yes, well, Farth's only going to be a moment- here he is now."
"Alright, the place is on Bear's Tooth Street. It's townhouse 27. You'll leave my name out of any official papers you have to file, right?"
"Yeah, you got it. Just do me a favor and lay off the booze, okay? This is advice coming from a friend."
"Yeah, whatever. Take care."
~~~
A pair of officers in a black-and-white squad car rushed through the streets of a snowy Windhelm, heading for Bear's Tooth St. A call from Tacitus saw that they were dispatched from the police station nearest that address, eight blocks away, and they were assigned to keep the informant safe until the Detective arrived.
The squad car turned a corner, and one of the officers recognized the townhouse halfway down the street. An unfamiliar car was parked out front. Fearing some danger, the driver floored the squad car. As they approached, a figure became visible slowly walking out of the front door. He was dressed in all black robes, an unusual sight. An arcane glow from his hands reflected on the frost-coated brick of the house's front steps. The man raised his hands to chest-level, forced them together, then released.
A miniature blizzard shot forth from the man's hands, connected with the pavement ahead of the fast-approaching car, and seemed to grow like a parasite. The car drove right into the magical flurry, which spread into the front wheels and axle of the car, locking up the steering and leaving the rear tires spinning freely. The car flew along wildly, catching on a curb and violently flipping onto its roof. It took the officers inside a few moments to crawl weakly from the wrecked vehicle and take shelter behind it; strangely, the attacker allowed them this time to attempt to gather themselves. The men were then quick to send a hail of bullets back at the mage, taking turns between their barrage and cover, though this did little to help their situation. The man seemed to know just when to throw up a ward to harmlessly catch the bullets.
One cop fell to the ground with a spear of ice through his shoulder, prompting his partner to take his place; this only put the second man in position to bear the delayed effect of the ice spell, which was to explode into dozens of razor-like shards which would pierce his lower legs. This brought the man down next to his comrade, whose blood had begun to freeze, and sent his gun skittering along the pavement.
Frantic, shivering from both the cold and shock, the man tried to pull himself over to the weapon, which lay just beyond the shelter of the upturned vehicle. One pull. He looked back at his legs and saw that they were quickly being overtaken by frost. Another pull. He was nearing what was, due to his injury, the point of no return. Yet another pull. He could just see around the car; feet were walking his way. One more pull, and a lunge for the handgun.
The man found himself on his back, his own pistol pointed between his eyes and the robed figure's knee on his chest. For a moment, they stared at each other, the policeman trying desperately to pierce the shadow of his attacker's hood, but finding himself only able to see clearly the figure's red eyes. In a flurry of desperation, he went for the gun pressed to his forehead; unsurprisingly, this failed. But what was surprising was that he was not dead. The mystery man had pinned his arms, and pulled back the hammer on the revolver, letting the cop live a little longer. Only a little; the robed man squeezed the trigger, and the tense body fell limp.
The killer turned and headed for his car, and was met by a similarly-dressed figure from within the townhouse, who took the wheel and sped the pair away.
~~~
"Gloves on," Tacitus cautioned as he and Malborn approached the scene where two police lay dead. It was evening, and in the glow of the streetlights that dotted the sidewalk, the two bodies were vaguely visible in the shadow of the nearby wrecked squad car. They stopped to look at the corpses, and it was apparent that whoever did this had used frost magic, at least before one of the cops had been finished off with his own weapon. Tacitus dreaded the thought of what this boded for the interior of the small townhouse, but he had to walk up those slick stone steps and push open the slightly ajar door. The criminals had not forced their way in; one of them was an expert lockpick.
The front room was a living area, with a cheap couch and end table across from the still-burning hearth. A few displaced items, a crooked picture frame on the bare walls, a broken vase, all signs of a struggle; they pointed upstairs. Tacitus motioned for Malborn to follow him up. The narrow stairwell led to a relatively minuscule hall which forked in the directions of the bedroom and study. No lights were on, and Tacitus preferred to let the scene stay as untouched as possible, so as to better allow for accurate speculation of the events which had transpired, so he flicked a candlelight spell up into the air. The study door was open a crack, and what presumably was the bedroom was shut, so the Imperial chose the study.
The small room, cramped with walls of filing cabinets in alphabetical order, was surprisingly neat; neater than the rest of the residence, Tacitus pointed out. "Except for the bloody sacrificial murder."
The yet-unnamed informant lay in the center of the room, his limbs splayed about at awkward angles, face mangled and swollen from numerous bashes and tears from what must have been some kind of jagged or barbed mace. His button-up shirt was open, and the same symbol of the horned skull that Tacitus had seen in Markarth was carved into the man's chest. "Gods..." Malborn said, stepping over the pool of blood surrounding the corpse, Tacitus in tow. "Here's all the A's. Adenvald, Agruer, Akran... Alissen! This folder's quite thin... There's only a couple papers in here; looks like this one's a statement of a major deposit by this Kurt to Arana. And this one's a letter. Dear Miss Adlain, began Malborn. Your royalty, in advance. We at the Guild wish you the best, and hope that our haul from the 'cat's cradle' in comparison with this payment makes you feel robbed. It's what we do best. And then there's just a shadowmark. I guess Kurt is just a name on an account." The Bosmer continued to leaf through the folder.
"They certainly haven't hit Anai's house yet," Tacitus said. "There will be police there for at least another few days."
"And here is a stock statement for Anai Manufacturing. Looks like 'Kurt' is almost majority owner, but this statement is four months old! Tacitus, how much would you like to bet that if we head back to my house and look over the blown-up shots of Arana's records we won't find a newer statement of stock sale to guess who?"
"I don't like those odds," Tacitus remarked. "Come on, let's call the police so we can get out of here."
~~~
"Does it always rain here?"
It was raining in Markarth, yet again, and Tacitus was back in the City of Stone. Rain pelted the squad car where he sat with Deputy Ferris Raydari, a fresh-faced Breton who had gotten a message to the Imperial in Windhelm: that he knew where to look for dirt on the MEC, and every other cop in the city either had his pockets lined or throat slashed, and subsequently would not do what needed to be done to find the truth.
"We have our fair days, yes," Ferris chirped in the thick High Rock accent of his parents. "You're just catching us at the wrong time, see. Shall we go?" Tacitus nodded, and the two men stepped out into the rain. Under his tan trench coat, Ferris carried a peculiar jointed lock High Rock handgun and an antique war axe - carrying ancient styles of blades being quite common - and he had conveyed that he was ready to use them. The two left the car in the streets of Old Markarth, parked outside an original home which the MEC purportedly used as their archives. The building's title was in the MEC's name, but nobody had ever been seen visiting it - at least not during business hours.
Ferris produced an odd-looking Dwemer key and inserted it into the keyhole of the large metal doors. The lock clicked open, and the duo stepped inside, closing the door behind them.
The house would have looked normal, was it not outfitted with the things of whoever had owned it ages before. Dwemer gas lights still burned, pots and pans were stacked on shelves, there was even a fresh dinner sitting on crude wooden plates. "Looks almost like someone centuries just got up and left. Question is, how can everything still look like new?" Tacitus asked.
"This... This can't be! Everything pointed to this being the archive where the MEC keeps things they never want to see the light of day! What-" the Breton was interrupted by a loud noise from deeper within the house. "Wait, did you hear that?" Both men took of running, bursting through the door that led further in. It was dimmer when they found the stairs which led even deeper.
This brought them to yet another door, which appeared to be unlocked; however, both men's efforts to push through were useless. "What in the gods' names... We need to get help, something's not right here!" Ferris led Tacitus back up to the entrance, only to find that it too would not budge. "Gods, what's happening?"
"Weak. He's weak. You're strong. Crush him."
"Did you hear that?" Tacitus asked grimly.
"I heard nothing. Come on, give it another try."
Tacitus took the door's handle and yanked, but still the door was fixed. The voice returned, deep and malevolent; it sounded like the embodiment of pure evil. "No. Kill him. Crush his bones. Tear at his flesh. You will kill," the voice boomed, "or you will die!" The household furnishings had begun to float.
"I heard that!" Ferris exclaimed. No sooner was his body wracked with a painful spasm. "Gaaah! No! I won't!" Despite his words, Ferris drew his axe, clearly putting every ounce of willpower into resisting whatever was controlling him. Slowly and shakily, he raised the axe; when he brought it down, he was still fighting.
Tacitus watched in horror as the Breton fell to a knee and let out a guttural cry; in an act of defiance against whatever force wished him to kill Tacitus, he had sunken the blade deep into his thigh. Slowly, he removed the weapon from his flesh, raising it again and this time smashing it into the house's stone floor. He scraped the weapon along and gritted his teeth. "Make.... It... Fast." He growled through a clenched jaw. "Stop... This."
Tacitus did not relish what he had to do, but the fact that he was freeing this noble policeman from such pain offered some consolation. He drew his nine millimeter pistol and shot Ferris in the head. "All right! Now what do you want, you sick bastard!"
"Good. Yes. Your reward is waiting for you, mortal. Further down."
Mortal? Tacitus thought. What have I stumbled on? The sullen Imperial proceeded down the stairs, this time finding that the formerly blocked door now opened freely. It led to a small subterranean cavern, at the end of which lay an ebony altar emblazoned with a horned skull, same as the one cut into the dead informant back in Windhelm. Atop the altar lay a rusted mace.
Tacitus decided to play along with this evil being's game. He stepped up to the altar, and suddenly a cage of jagged metal spikes sprung up around the Detective. "Fool!" Bellowed the voice. "Did you think Molag Bal, the Lord of Domination, would so easily reward you? What do you see from that little cage? Speak."
Molag Bal? That explains all the imagery of horned skulls. Tacitus thought. He was about to speak when he realized, He thinks I submitted to him when I killed Ferris! Getting out of here should be easier than I thought.
"I see a rusty mace... My lord," Tacitus observed.
"Rusted. Dry. There was a time when this mace dripped with the blood of the feeble and the worthless. But a Daedric Lord has his enemies, and my rival Boethiah had her priest desecrate it. Left it here to decay. Until you came."
"So... You want revenge?"
Bal's voiced lowered to a demonic low growl. "Revenge? No. I want submission. I want the priest who did this to bend his knee and give me his soul. He comes by to perform Boethiah's insulting rites at my altar, but he's been missing. Captured and bound. Left to rot. Save him. Let him perform his rite one more time. And when he does, we will be waiting for him." The cage retracted. "Now take my mace. It is the only way my domain on Mundus can extend beyond this shrine."
Tacitus was up to the living room of the house when Bal's voice invaded his consciousness once again. "You think I cannot see your true motives, human?" The daedra bellowed, "You carry my mace; you carry with you my presence! If you will not bow to me in this life, you will in the next!"
Just then, the lock on the front door, which Bal had opened, clicked shut. The door leading into the next room also locked, and the air in the house began to heat up. "You will bow, or you will die!" The temperature was increasing rapidly, so much so that the stuffy air began to shimmer. Tacitus was perspiring profusely. He threw off his trench coat, then his suit jacket. He had to loosen his tie. Is this it? He wondered.
"No. I will not bow! Deputy Ferris did not bow!" With steeled resolve, Tacitus pulled his pistol out once again and began to shoot at the lock of the door. The metal was denting, but the pistol could only do so much.
"Ha! You think your mundane little toy can save you?"
"No, I don't," the Imperial said with a weary grin, before he drew the rusted Mace of Molag Bal and attacked the door. His forceful swings were furthering the work his bullets had done, but the end seemed far out of sight. The heat was becoming unbearable, and the Mace seemed to radiate sheer agony. "No!" Molag Bal screeched. "No, no, no! You will submit yet!" Tacitus believed he might indeed cave if the heat and pain became any worse, but in one final fell swoop, the Dwemer doors bursted open, and Tacitus was thrown into the evening rain. This time, he was grateful for the refreshing downpour. Glancing back into the house, he saw that the heat had dissipated. He let the Mace roll out of his hand to the stone street, and he hurried to pick up his coat and jacket. He walked off into the night, headed for a phone where he could let the Markarth PD know that they needed to draw up a warrant to investigate the MEC.
