vapors are cheap, my friend. And so are we—always more of us being born. You’re different—for now.”
“For now?”
“Well, the sump knows you now. So does the ingenium. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a few more of your sort, pretty soon. And when there are enough of you—well, you’ll be cheap, too.”
THREE
When Attrebus, Gulan, and Radhasa arrived at Ione, dawn was just leaking into the sky. It was cool, and the breeze smelled of dew and green leaves. A rooster gave notice to the hens it was time to face the day. The town was waking, too—smoke from hearths coiled up through the light fog and people were already about in the streets.
“It’s not much to look at, this town,” Radhasa noticed.
Attrebus nodded. Ione wasn’t picturesque; a few of the houses were rickety wooden structures faded gray, but most were of stone or brick and simply built. Even the small chapel of Dibella was rather plain.
“It’s not very old,” he said. “There wasn’t anything here at all fifty years ago. Then—well, do you know what that is?”
They had reached the town square, and he didn’t have to point to indicate what he was asking about.
The square was mostly stone, oddly cracked and melted as if from terrible heat or some stranger force. Two bent columns projected up in the middle, each about ten feet high, and together they resembled the truncated horns of an enormous steer.
“Yes, I’ve seen them before—the ruins of an Oblivion gate.”
“Right. Well, when this one opened, it opened right in the middle of a company of soldiers recalled from the south to fortify the Imperial City. More than half of them were killed, including the commander. They would have all died, but a captain named Tertius Ione managed to pull the survivors together and withdraw. But rather than retreat all the way to the Imperial City, he instead recruited farmers and hunters from the countryside and Pell’s Gate. Then he made them into something more than what they were. They returned and slaughtered the daedra here, and when they were done with that, he led them through the gate itself.”
“Into Oblivion?”
“Yes. He’d heard that the gate at Kvatch had been closed somehow by entering it. So Ione went in with about half of his troops and left the rest here, to guard against anything else coming out.”
“It looks like he closed it.”
“It closed, but Captain Ione was never seen again. One of his men—a Bosmer named Fenton—appeared weeks later, half dead and half mad. From what little he said that made sense, they reckoned Ione and the rest sacrificed themselves to give Fenton the chance to sabotage the portal. The Bosmer died the next day, raving. Anyway, Ione was gone for a long time before the gate exploded, and in the meantime his company built some fortifications and simple buildings. Once the gate was gone, it was a convenient and relatively safe place, so a lot of people stayed, and over time the town grew.”
He turned about, spreading his arms. “That’s why I like this Ione. Because it’s new, because it speaks to the spirit of heroism that lies at the heart of each of us. Yes, there are no quaint old buildings or First Era statues, but it’s an honest place built by brave people.”
“And you have a house here?” Radhasa asked.
“A hunting lodge, in the hills just across town.”
“That’s quite a hunting lodge,” the Redguard said when they entered the gate.
Something about the tone irked him, made him feel a bit defensive. It wasn’t that big. It was built on the plan of an ancient Nord longhouse, each beam and cornice festooned with carvings of dragons, bulls, boars, leering wild men, and dancing, longtressed women.
“I suppose after the simplicity of Ione, it comes as a bit of a shock,” Attrebus admitted. “My uncle built it about fifteen years ago. He used to bring me down here, and left it to me when he died.”
“No, I didn’t mean to criticize it.”
And yet, he somehow felt she had been critical of something.
He pushed past it. There were other matters at hand now.
“They’re all here, Gulan?” he asked.
“They are.”
“And the provisions?”
“You had plenty in your stores. More than we can carry.”
“Well, I don’t see any reason to dally, then.”
He raised his voice and spread his arms.
“It’s good to have you with me, my brothers and sisters in arms,” he called out. “Give us a shout. The Empire!”
“The Empire!” they erupted enthusiastically.
“Today we ride to the unknown, fellows. Against something I believe to be as deadly and dangerous to our world as that Oblivion gate down there was when it opened—maybe more so. We’ve never done anything this dangerous; I’ll tell you that now.”
“What is it, Treb?” That was Joun, an orc of prodigious size even for his race.
He settled his hands on his hips and lifted his chin. Then he laid it out for them.
When he was finished, the silence that followed had an odd, unfamiliar quality to it.
“I know there are only fifty-two of us,” he said, “but just below us Captain Ione went into Oblivion with fewer than that and shut down that gate. The Empire expects no less from us—and we are better equipped in every way than he was. Even better, we have someone there, inside this monstrous thing—someone to lead us in, help us find the heart and rip it out. We can do this, friends.”
“We’re with you, Treb!” Gulan shouted, and the rest of them joined him, but it seemed, somehow, that a note was still missing. Had he finally asked too much of them?
No, they would follow him, and this would knit them all the more tightly as a band.
“An hour, my friends, to settle yourselves for the ride. Then we begin.”
But as they dispersed, there seemed to be much furtive whispering.
The grass still sparkled with dew when they reached the Red Ring Road, the vast track that circumscribed Lake Rumare. Across the morning gold of the lake stood the Imperial City itself, a god’s wagon-wheel laid down on an island in the center of the lake. The outer curve of the white wall was half in shadow, and he could make out three of what would—in any other city—be deemed truly spectacular guard towers. But those were dwarfed by the magnificent spoke of the wheel—the White-Gold Tower, thrusting up toward the unknowable heavens.
He saw Radhasa also staring at the tower.
“It was there before the city,” he told her. “Long before. It is very old, and no one is quite sure what it does.”
“What do you mean, ‘what it does’?”
“Well—understand first I’m not a scholar of the tower.”
“Understood. But you must know more than I.”
“Well, some think that the White-Gold Tower—and some other towers around Tamriel—help, well, hold the world up, or something like that. Others believe that before the Dragon broke, the tower helped protect us from invasion from Oblivion.”
“It holds up the world?”
“I’m not saying it right,” he replied, realizing he couldn’t actually remember the details of that tutorial. “They help keep Mundus—the World—from dissolving back into Oblivion. Or something like that. Anyway, everyone seems to agree it has power, but no one knows exactly what kind.”
“Okay,” she replied, and shrugged. “So how do we get to Black Marsh?”
“We’ll come to a bridge in a bit and cross the Upper Niben. From there we’ll take the Yellow Road southeast until we cross the Silverfish River. Then it’s overland—no roads after that except the ones we make.” He grinned at the thought of being in wild country again.
“I wish I knew more about Cyrodiil.”
