Chapter 18: Unbound
1st of Rain’s Hand, 4E 208 | 1:00 p.m. | Lake Rumare, South of the Imperial City
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 1124
This had to be the most outlandish job the Riften Thieves Guild had ever done, not to mention the furthest from home. But it was not that far from the home of the Guild Master. It was not that far from Cheydinhal. But it was neither the distance nor the unusuality of the job that was the most plaguing and time-consuming; it was the sheer amount of money that Penelope thought would be needed to bribe the individuals who needed to be bribed for this.
It had, in fact, been necessary to go on an incredibly risky heist just to amass the money—stealing from Maven Black-Briar’s own vaults. She’d hardly notice the 200,000 septims’ worth of platinum bullion filched from her Bank of Whiterun account—how often did the Jarl of Riften visit Whiterun anyway? Fortunately, in this case, Skirling’s racism would, sadly, work for them: the Jarl of Whiterun would no doubt use it as an excuse to crack down on, really, all non-Nords. At least Redguards and Bretons (besides Belethor, who Skirling had despised for over a decade and continued to humiliate incessantly) still retained rights—the brunt of the jarl’s hatred was on the elves and Cyrodilics.
Surprisingly, the Alik’r mercenaries the Guild was to bribe lowered their price when they knew what the goal was—their leader, Kematu, seemed to know Sjadbek from somewhere and was happy to take the risk for a far smaller sum. The pirate ship was the bigger expenditure, and while they could sail in—and were sailing in—getting out would likely be more efficacious over land, rather than having to sail southward through a rather narrow channel flanked by Imperial naval ships.
The plan was, in theory, straightforward, but the operative question was how simple it was in practice. Ideally the night would be dark and cloudy, rainy but not stormy—and the strong south wind, unusually warm temperatures, and thick cloud deck billowing in the northwest sky were good signs for such a night. With any luck, there would be fog around and before dawn, which would help reduce visibility and give them a valuable edge on any pursuing Imperial soldiers.
And there would be Imperial soldiers in pursuit. In fact, the Guild Master had decided not to let herself or any of her family go on this mission—they felt they might someday need the option of revisiting Cheydinhal. But the Hammerfell sailors and mercenaries had no particular ties to any Cyrodilic municipality, nor did Hadvar or Burdnar or Thrynn or any of the other eleven Nordic stalwarts.
Carius Serenus had not failed his friends, and though he had little knowledge of the plan, was prepared to flee to Skyrim at the first sign of inconvenience or harassment (which would, no doubt, be precipitated by Rodavius Randilus if by anyone). Tonight, Sjadbek would walk.
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1st of Rain’s Hand, 4E 208 | 11:38 p.m. | Imperial City Prison
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 1124
Of course Randilus would want to “pay him a visit,” a term which nearly always meant an additional set of bumps and bruises on his body, and necessitating another round of healing. The mental strain caused by the frequent expenditure of magic vitality was, in many ways, just as bad as the physical damage—magecraft was no free lunch.
Fatigued from healing, Sjadbek stopped the spell after only about five minutes, hardly enough time to repair the damage, and opened his mouth in shock upon realizing that a bruise he’d yet to focus on was disappearing right before his eyes. It took him another several seconds to realize that the effulgent glow that manifested itself during the healing spell had yet to vanish, though he had stopped healing. Instead, it had simply changed locations—not coming from his hand, but from the ground behind him.
Sjadbek turned and looked. The glow was coming from a familiar item, one he’d worn for many a year. An amulet of Stendarr. But how did it get here, and why was it glowing? And, more to the point, the guards seemed not to even notice the artifact was there.
Tenderly, he picked up and put on the amulet. It felt warm against his skin, and its glow intensified. He almost felt it was beckoning him to speak, and thus tentatively asked: “Stendarr?”
“Yes, my child?” came a booming voice from the amulet. There shouldn’t have been a reply. It was, after all, just an amulet. The guards outside the cell did not react, even though it should have been impossible for them to have not heard the sound.
“What do you ask of me?”
“You must once more save Skyrim, not from dragons, not from daedra, but from a threat far more insidious.”
“The Falmer.”
“But not only the Falmer. Those who would seek refuge in Skyrim have found themselves attacked by those who have shown their true stripes.”
Sjadbek wasn’t completely sure, but Stendarr seemed to be referring to the Dunmer under Rolff’s regime and such. “But how am I to do that from in here?”
Stendarr laughed. “Oh, of course I do not expect you to accomplish your missions from within prison walls. You’ll find your salvation is close at hand.”
“How close?”
“About ten feet.”
The response puzzled him until he noticed a slight gleam coming from the back-right corner, behind the fetid waste bucket. In the glorious brilliance of Stendarr’s manifestation through the amulet, it had remained unnoticed by either Sjadbek or his legion of guards. The Dragonborn moved to pick it up—it was a key.
“You must prepare yourself,” Stendarr implored. “As soon as you release yourself from your bindings or exit your cell, you will have until the count of ten, then be returned to the flow of Time, and your status will no doubt draw the ire of the guards.”
No kidding, Sjadbek thought. “Let’s hope luck is on my side, then.”
“You have no need of luck,” replied Stendarr in playful chastisement. “You have my blessing. This amulet a gift from me, that you might fulfill your remaining destinies.”
“Understood.” Sjadbek knelt and bowed his head, then stood back up. “I am ready.” I’ll have until the count of ten as soon as I release myself from the bindings… I should release myself from the collar before the shackles, then. Standing next to the cell door, he tentatively tested the key to see if it would at least fit in that (he didn’t unlock the door, not yet) before releasing himself from the collar.
For the first time in years, Sjadbek Shouted. “Zun—haal viik!” he screamed at the guards, whose weapons clattered to the floor. Sjadbek made careful note of the positions of the arms—two maces and two cutlasses. He’d need weapons fast, and he’d need to deal with the guards. There only appeared to be the four guarding his cell down here. I wonder if…
Decision made, Sjadbek released himself from the shackles, and then made to unlock the cell door. One…. Picking up the two cutlasses, one in each hand, Sjadbek made to sever the guards’ heads before time resumed. It took him all the way until “nine,” but he was by now a rather accomplished swordsman, with Stendarr’s blessing guiding him.
Sjadbek was now returned to the flow of Time, and though all four of these guards were now dead it was only a matter of time before someone else came down or the other prisoners in the cellblock talked (though they seldom did). Judging by the guards’ races, it was between 9 p.m. and midnight, but he had no idea how close it was to the latter.
The guards wore heavy armor, but heavy armor might be better than light armor at this juncture—if he could manage to put on the whole set of the taller Imperial (the guard whose body structure matched his own best) before someone else came down, he might be able to masquerade as a guard and walk out, provided he didn’t have to talk to anybody in his thick Falkreath accent. He’d managed helmet, greaves, and boots fully on, and the cuirass on but not fully secured, before the game was up. The fit, at any rate, was poor.
“PRISONER ESCAPING!” boomed the midnight-to-noon shift replacement of the now-deceased Breton guard, who evidently would have gone off-duty in just a few minutes. Two more guards entered the chamber. It was midnight, the start of a new day at what was somewhere between the 31st of First Seed and the 3rd of Rain’s Hand, and unless he could find a way out of here fast, Sjadbek would die today. His throat was still a bit groggy—he could not Shout again yet, and there would be more guards to come.
Sjadbek prepared himself for Sovngarde, his thoughts turning to the homeland he’d never see again, when the guards suddenly fell into a chaotic frenzy. Though supposedly partners in law enforcement, the three guards turned their maces on each other, battling as though bitter enemies. The Dragonborn did not know why he’d been spared the effect—whether it was the protective influence of Stendarr from the amulet or simply that he’d been slightly out of the spell’s range—but he was grateful all the same.
He knew the route out of the prison by his guided visits to Carius Serenus, the most recent of which had occurred late in Morning Star. What he didn’t know was what had happened to his proper equipment—was it in the evidence chests, and if so, did the key unlock those? Even if it did, how would he find the time to put his armor on in peace? Or maybe Legate Serenus had acquired it somehow, or maybe it was still in the Cheydinhal inn? Ah, well. His armor could wait—but he wasn’t sure how Bjaknir would take to him having lost the scaled helm that had been their family heirloom for, with Bakdur’s arrival, four generations now.
The most important thing now was getting out of Cyrodiil, and definitely the Imperial Prison. As he clanked his way out of the Bastion, guards continued to fight each other, sometimes aiming an arrow or a sword at him that he had to block (though in this case it was more due to the frenzy rather than the fact that he was escaping).
Rain splattered on his “borrowed” armor as Sjadbek arrived at the outside walls of the prison, the exterior gate still open to allow the changing of the prison guard to take place—a changing of the guard that appeared to be fraught mostly with the incoming midnight-to-noon guards killing (and being killed by) the guards already on duty.
The catwalk bridge would, if he chose to take it, lead him into the market district, but the last thing he wanted was to go deeper into the Imperial City. No, all that would do would be to ensure he would be in a large, bustling, difficult-to-navigate city at whatever time it was that the frenzy spell wore off. Sjadbek instead hopped over the ledge of the bridge—and promptly lost his footing on the wet grass, tumbling down the berm. His helmet (well, the guard’s helmet, really), already too loose, bounced off of him as he rolled. As his position stabilized, he felt himself fading out of consciousness, with what appeared to be a platoon of forty or fifty Imperial soldiers approaching, and very un-frenzied.
Well, that didn’t work, Sjadbek thought, and then blacked out.
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Sometime in Rain’s Hand, 4E 208 | Time and Location Unknown
Sjadbek blinked. Images came into focus around him, among the most striking of which was a series of multicolored shapes that the Dragonborn recognized as stained-glass windows. A man in priestly robes stood before an altar, behind which stood a shrine with a familiar horn emblem: a shrine to Stendarr. Was he in a chapel of Stendarr? And if so, which one?
The colors were so vivid—Sjadbek stood transfixed and mesmerized. Guards in an unfamiliar uniform, most of whom had an Imperial, Redguard, or Orcish appearance, suddenly rushed in, screaming something about “it has happened again,” and then leaving as frenetically as they had arrived.
Sjadbek didn’t know what had compelled him to do it, but he found himself heading towards the door of the chapel, opening it—revealing a hellish scene. A city burning—red flames licking the houses and buildings, a blood-red, lightning-cracked sky. It reminded him eerily of the day of Alduin’s attack on Helgen. Bjaknir, Burdnar, and Skelja, the latter carrying an infant Bakdur, rushed to him and bade him “stop them before it’s too late.”
He continued to stand outside of the temple, people running by him in a panicked blur of shirts and breeches. Most of them spoke with Imperial accents—he was somewhere in Cyrodiil, he figured, but where? The ominous sky did not help matters. As he stared toward the exit of the city, the direction most of the people were running, a terrifying edifice planted itself in front of the city gate—an edifice that was itself, if Sjadbek understood it correctly, a gate of a different and far more deadly kind.
A portal to Oblivion, to the deadly daedric realms particularly of Mehrunes Dagon, the second-worst of the Daedric princes, behind only Molag Bal.
But that was impossible, the Nord’s brain protested. The Oblivion gates had been shut through the sacrifice of the Septim bloodline (and with it the Empire) and the efforts of the legendary champion Brantus Scalenius two hundred and eight years ago, at the start of the Fourth Era. They could not reopen without the Dragonfires remaining unlit. But now they were unlit again, weren’t they? There was no Titus Mede III—the previous Emperor had died without issue, and they were once again in a dangerous interregnum.
The flow of crowd traffic instinctively reversed as a monstrous beast emerged from the impossible portal—a massive, three-headed dog (or something along the lines of a dog), with one head bearing the likeness of a Thalmor, another that of a Falmer, and another that of one of the more vile types of dremora. All three mouths were equipped with the fangs of a large snake, and began to chomp down on the slower citizens of whatever city this was. Guards and private citizens alike tried in vain to wage battle against this demonic foe.
“Death to Stendarr!” proclaimed the dremora-face, as the Thalmor-face announced “Talos is but man,” and the Falmer-face declared “Kill! Rip! Maim!” and proceeded to do just that. Seemingly incapable of taking any sort of action but to watch, Sjadbek stared in horror as the beast approached Bjaknir, Burdnar, and Skelja, and prepared its heads to devour them, one apiece.
No… not like this… He had to do something, anything at all….
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4th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 208 | 4:19 a.m. | Fort Alessia, eighteen miles south of the Imperial City, Cyrodiil
“FUS RO DAH!” Sjadbek screamed, bolting upright. Sweat poured down his face and the back of his neck, a function no doubt of the surrealistic and yet deeply disturbing nightmare he’d just have. He clutched desperately at his amulet of Stendarr with icy hands, reassuring himself that it was a dream.
The surroundings were lit only by dim candlelight, and he had scarcely managed to figure that out before he was spoken to. “Sleep well, Sjad?”
The voice was gruff but familiar, belonging to someone he thought he’d probably never see again, at least not for a very long time yet. “Burdnar?” Sjadbek asked by way of confirmation.
“Yeah, it’s me. You’re free and safe. We were worried you weren’t going to make it, you’ve been out for two days already.”
“I’ve been out for two full days?” Sjadbek asked, bewildered.
“It was just after midnight on the second when we picked you up. It’s now… couple hours to dawn on the fourth. Good thing it wasn’t twenty-six days later. What’s four times nine?”
“Excuse me?” Had he heard that last question right?
“What’s four times nine?” Burdnar repeated.
“Thirty-six, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“I was told to ask to make sure you didn’t have any lingering head damage,” he responded. “Nasty tumble you must have taken.”
Sjadbek lay his head back down on the surprisingly fluffy pillow. “If I’d slept well, would I wake up Shouting?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Vaermina has decided to plague my sleep.” At least, he hoped it was just a Vaerminan nightmare. Talos forbid it was a premonition; Tamriel didn’t need another Oblivion crisis and he didn’t need his friends and family torn asunder. “Where are we, Burd?”
“Fort Alessia,” he answered.
This location meant nothing to Sjadbek. “And where is that in relation to something I might know?”
“South of the Imperial City.”
“And why are we going south?”
“Sjad, where do you think they’ll be looking for you?” Burdnar asked. “Mostly on the roads north to Bruma, east to Cheydinhal, and north from Cheydinhal to the Skyrim border. They think they know full well where you’ll be headed.”
“Right.”
“Are you feeling up to travel? If so, we can break camp. We’re still uncomfortably close to the Imperial City. I’d personally prefer to set sail for Taneth as soon as possible.”
“Taneth? Isn’t that in Hammerfell?”
“Aye, lad,” came a second voice, this one with a strong Riften brogue, that sounded also rather familiar. Brynjolf? What in Oblivion—never mind. “A group of pirates. They seemed to know you, and my Guild prefers to work with people it’s dealt with before. The pay was very good—would you believe my wife decided to rob Maven Black-Briar to fund this little excursion?”
“By Talos, Penelope actually stole from—”
“Oh, but we also had to go on a little raid in Cheydinhal, let’s not forget that,” Brynjolf added, lighting a torch. The illumination revealed an opened chest with a glass sword and scaled armor. The helm of the armor had the notches in the same place that his own family helm did—of course, because it was the same thing. “Thought you might want some gear that better suits you than that bucket of tin.”
“My armor,” Sjadbek muttered in relief. The scales of steel over the leather were a welcome reminder of home, a place he was desperate to return to. “I was wondering what had happened to it.”
“Get it on so we can head out,” Burdnar replied. “We’ve got a raid on Southpoint in Valenwood coming up, and I’d bet you’d love the chance to rough up a few more Thalmor in their own backyard.”
Indeed he would like that chance. “Let’s go,” Sjadbek affirmed as he suited up in his old armor. The Dragonborn was back.
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5th of Mid-Year, 4E 208 | 9:10 p.m. | Taneth, Hammerfell
All told, the “we” Burdnar had been referring to comprised a pirate crew of about a hundred stalwarts, mostly Redguards—Alik’r warriors led by Kematu, who had happily repaid Sjadbek’s previous assistance in bringing “Saadia” to justice—a handful of Bretons, Bosmer, and Nords in the pirate crew, plus a platoon of about thirty Nords associated with either Windhelm (such as Burdnar) or the Thieves Guild (such as Brynjolf). This latter contingent especially had been happy to welcome Sjadbek.
The journey out of Cyrodiil was long, arduous, and treacherous. Sjadbek had nearly been re-captured when they docked in Bravil to restock provisions, but the locals were evidently no great fans of official Imperial authority—the count was corrupt and easily bribed by the pilfered Black-Briar gold, and he only spent the night in the Bravil jail rather than being shipped back to the Imperial City.
After that had come the raid on Southpoint, which Sjadbek had happily taken part in and considered the high point of the trip, and not just because it had happened on his birthday. The Thalmor needed to be taken down a peg, and if it took pirate raids to do it, then so be it. Most of the deceased were Bosmer rather than Altmer—this was, of course, Valenwood—but the carving the Redguards had left in one of their cherished trees made sure they wouldn’t easily forget it: Here on this the 29th day of Rains Hand 4E 208 was unleashed Talos the Ninth Divine on the heathens of the Aldmeri Dominion in the form of a brigand raid.
Of course, they had to get into a naval battle with a pursuing ship, but naval battles in a pre-gunpowder age were generally going to be determined, to an extent, by which ship contained the better navigators and mariners. Redguards (and Nords, for that matter) were well-renowned as sailors, and though Bosmer were far superior at archery it didn’t matter if the ship they were chasing was receding from them faster than they could catch up.
Finally, after a harrowing additional month of further travel, including a storm, constant dangerous proximity to Aldmeri Dominion territory, and a port call in Anvil (Sjadbek and Burdnar had remained aboard the ship—and below decks—every minute of that visit), the voyage concluded, and the vessel docked in Taneth.
“It’s nice to be in a country where I don’t have to worry about being killed but by assassins, bandits, and wildlife,” Sjadbek commented as he and Kematu sat down in a tavern near the port.
“Aye, welcome to Hammerfell,” Kematu laughed. “I’ll send Berihmu and Vaata with you.”
“What for?”
“A tribe of twenty-six Nords (they’d lost seven in the Valenwood raid) wandering the plains of eastern Hammerfell… may be mistaken for bandits when trying to enter Skaven or Elinhir along the way. I’d wager you would prefer that not happen. Besides, they have a mission in Elinhir anyway. They will accompany you there, and I take it you’ll not have much trouble between Elinhir and the Skyrim border.”
“Ah. Your hospitality’s much appreciated, Kematu. Here’s to peace between our nations,” Sjadbek toasted, then drank, the Stros M’Kai rum tickling his throat.
“Indeed. We may have had some quarrels in the past, but far better that we fight against the Thalmor than that they take us both over as we fight against each other.”
The prospect was ludicrous anyway, both Sjadbek and Kematu felt as they continued their beverages.
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19th of Mid-Year, 4E 208 | 2:35 p.m. | Three hundred feet west of the Hammerfell–Skyrim Border
Balrik of Falkreath, one of the guards posted to duty at the Hammerfell border at the time, was—like many of the guards save the newer—a veteran of Skyrim’s bloody civil war. He’d taken part in the battle of Riften, and knew full well what Sjadbek looked like.
He just hadn’t seen him with such a huge smile on his face. The Dragonborn approached him and declared, in an accent Balrik was all too familiar with, “I am Sjadbek of Helgen and Windhelm, slayer of Alduin and—regrettably—not of the Dark Brotherhood, at least not yet. May we enter?”
“Just do one thing for me,” Balrik answered. “Shout for me.”
The Voice provided an excellent verification of identity, Sjadbek thought, as he disarmed Burdnar with a single word and handed him back the fallen weapon.
“It’s a pleasure, Dragonborn.”
Sjadbek walked through the gates from Hammerfell, and knelt and kissed the ground beneath him. “I’m back,” he muttered. “Stendarr be praised, I’m finally back.” So what if his final destination was Windhelm, still another seven or eight days away? He was in Skyrim. He could almost taste the cold, freshly brewed mead that would be waiting for him in Falkreath’s tavern when he checked in there.
But he did need to get back to Windhelm—not just to be reunited with his family, but also to take care of the Falmer business Legate Serenus had told him about. Stendarr had granted him a pardon (even if the Imperial regent hadn’t) for a reason, and it wasn’t just to come home.
