Three things happened almost at once.

Faendal stopped and looked down at the trail of footprints they had been following. “These go right up to the steps of the barrow,” he said, a grave tone clear in his voice.

The wind seemed to die down slightly, reduced from a blowing gale to a rough breeze.

A soft thump to her immediate left made her look down, and she saw the shaft of an arrow sticking out from the deep snow to the side of the trail at an angle.

She barely had time for the realisation to break over her before Faendal, who must have heard it too, grabbed her and pulled her, slipping over the snow, behind him. From either side of them, Hadvar and Sven drew their swords and threw themselves to the head of the group, their shields up.

Over the wind, a voice carried to them – its words lost, but its meaning clear: it was time to fight.

The skeleton of the barrow arched upwards from a black stone plateau, up to which a wide, steep staircase led. At its crest, three figures stood. Through the mist, she saw the one who had fired the arrow – their arm thrown back to pull another from a quiver. The other two, one which wielded a shield and a brutal looking club, and the other two-handing an enormous sword, easily the size of her, began to stalk down the steps.

In response, Faendal dragged her into a crouch behind Hadvar and Sven, and slipped his hunting bow from his shoulders.

Despite their fearsome appearance, the bandits didn’t stand much of a chance.

The four fighters broke into a run and shields crashed into wood, metal, fur and flesh. An arrow whizzed past Faendal as he nocked his own, aimed for a split second, and then released it up and into the wind, out of sight. She watched as the bandit with the bow staggered then crumpled to the floor.

A roar from the bandit with the huge sword was cut short as Hadvar shrugged off a blow to his shield and plunged his short sword into the man’s poorly armoured side.

Faendal nocked another arrow, aimed, and sent it cleanly into the final bandit’s neck as Hadvar and Sven surrounded him. With the wind picking up, Faendal showed his true skill with a bow.

“Come on,” Hadvar shouted, and he and Sven broke into a run, heading for the stairs. Faendal grabbed her shoulder and guided her over the dead two.

The steps were covered in snow, and she clambered up them on all fours to avoid slipping.

The top of the plateau opened out, and they were greeted by the gurgling not-quite-dead archer.

“I am sorry, my friend,” Hadvar said, and she watched as he flipped his sword into a backwards grip and stabbed it down into the bandit’s chest, who shuddered and went still. “It is a poor death, to die of the snow,” he said. “Let us get inside.”

All three kept their weapons ready, heads darting this way and that. She expected an arrow to come flying out of the mist, or from around a corner of one of those enormous skeletal pillars, and so kept her head down and her body against Faendal’s.

The entrance to Bleak Falls Barrow was as grand and foreboding as it deserved to be. Two double doors, more like gates, towered above them. They were crafted of a black metal. Onto their surfaces, symmetrical carvings of what looked like armies or crowds stood below swirling fires or winds.

Where the doors met each other, two massive, round handles hung. Hadvar and Sven threw their bodies against the right-side door, and it shifted with the grinding of stone on metal, and weathered hinges.

“Inside!”

Faendal pushed her forwards and she slipped into the narrow gap that had been opened. He followed her, and then Sven and Hadvar slipped through. Hadvar grabbed an identical handle on the inside of the door and pulled. The door banged to a shut, cutting off the tendrils of wind that threatened to chase them in.

For a brief moment, quiet fell among them, and she looked around the space in which they now found themselves.

The chamber was as high, if not higher, than the doors. Its ceiling had been carved into the mountain, arcing above them like a semi-circular tunnel. At seemingly random intervals, natural stone pillars had been left, holding the space open. Rubble lay all around them, and perhaps halfway down the tunnel, a gaping hole looked as though it had been blasted into the roof, exposing the snow and freezing outside air.

She shivered.

At the other end of the tunnel, a warm, orange light flickered across the walls of the tunnel.

“A fire,” Faendal whispered to the group, and held up his hand for silence.

After a moment, a voice spoke. Again, its words were taken by the echoes of the space, and by the outside weather determined to come inside. She looked around at the others to see grave faces. Hadvar shrugged his shield into a more comfortable position and motioned for them to follow him.

In the relative quiet, she suddenly became aware of the thumping dim of her heart in her head. She tried to slow her breathing, taking fewer, deeper breaths, and found her fingers had made their way to the cautioned safety of Hod’s dagger.

She blinked away the memory of the bandit’s eyes clouding over in death.

Faendel silently drew an arrow from his quiver and pulled it across his bow. Another voice responded to the first, but it was still out of earshot. Their view to the campfire and its patrons was blocked by one of those irregular stone support pillars. She was surprised they hadn’t heard the group enter, with the slamming of the huge doors. Or perhaps they thought it was one of their own coming in from the cold outside.

Either way, they didn’t live long enough to find out. Hadvar and Faendal skirted the pillar. With a grunt and the clatter of metal, Faendal’s arrow found its unsuspecting target, and Hadvar rushed forwards, out of her sight. A second later, he called out to Sven and her.

“It is safe,” he said, his voice echoing off the stone. “For now.”

She breathed a sigh, relieving some of the tension that gripped her entire body, and stepped out of a crouch she hadn’t realised she’d entered. Her foot hit something and she looked down – and she cried out.

At her feet lay the furred body of another bandit. They were face down on the cold floor, clearly dead. As her eyes traced over the ebbs and flows in their clothed layers, she saw dark red splotches of blood, and a gaping hole in their side that looked as though it had been bitten out of them by a large creature.

“Infighting, perhaps,” Faendal said, appearing silently at her side, and she jumped, again.

“Oh! Faendal. I’m sorry.”

But he wasn’t looking at her. His expression was dark. “We should not have come here.”

The campfire was large, and the heat was welcome. As she neared, the warm glow on her face was almost enough to distract her from watching Hadvar and the boots of one of the dead bandits disappearing out of the glow and into the gloom beyond. She collapsed onto her knees before the crackling logs and closed her eyes for a brief minute.

Sven stood close by, fidgeting, and his gaze followed Hadvar.

A few uncomfortable looking bedrolls were scattered about the stone floor around the fire, which was surprisingly clear of debris. A few barrels and chests stood off to one side. “Empty,” Faendal’s dull voice answered her eyes’ question before her mouth could catch up.

The daylight streaming in from the hole in the roof grew dimmer.

“Here,” Faendal said, and dropped a bundle of furs at her side. She tugged off a glove and reached out for it, running a hand across the indulgently soft grey surface. “This will keep you warmer than that cheap rag.” But her fingers touched something wet, and she withdrew her hand to find it slick with red.

She stared at her hand for longer than a moment.

“Put it on. You’ll need it,” Faendal said, as he watched her.

“Oh- okay,” she said, and unravelled it. It was long and thick and gorgeously warm. When she drew it over her shoulders, it hugged her neck, and she shivered.

“It came from a winter sabre cat. Treat it with respect,” Hadvar spoke, reverentially but not unkindly. “Indeed, these bandits must have been skilled hunters, or wealthy.”

Faendal scoffed and unravelled a similar cloak for himself, his a vibrant ginger-brown.

“Did you see those other bodies?” Sven spoke when the group was all together, but the other two ignored him; Faendal was lost in a vacant stare, looking into the firelight. Hadvar, however, looked to her.

“So,” he said. “This Dragonstone. Where do we find it?”

“I- I don’t know,” she said. Now that they were actually in the barrow, she didn’t know what to do next. In her desperate confidence, she hadn’t actually thought this far ahead. Perhaps, deep down, she’d never expected them to get this far in the first place. But she dredged up her memories and thought back to Whitrun’s wizard’s instructions. “Farengar told me it would most likely be found in the main chamber.” She looked around. “This is a big room, I guess we should get looking.”

“No.” it was Faendal who spoke, not drawing his eyes away from the fire.

“Excuse me?”

“This is not the main chamber.”

“Okay…” He didn’t continue straight away, and Sven was the next to speak.

“Oh, out with it, elf. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can return to the love of my life.”

But Faendal didn’t rise to the jab. Instead, he looked towards Hadvar, who met his gaze and sighed. “You must have travelled far, my friend, to know the histories of my people.” Hadvar looked to her and shook his head. “We must venture deeper into the barrow. I have no idea how big this place will be when we do, but I am sure we will find what you are looking for.”

“How big? You mean the tunnel goes further into the mountainside?”

“I’m afraid so,” and Hadvar pointed past her. She turned to see his meaning. In the back wall of the massive room, she saw a single doorway – tall and wide. It was open, bearing no doors, and revealed nothing but blackness beyond.

She gulped involuntarily.

Faendal snapped back to the present. “Hadvar, did you search the bandits to see if any of them have the claw?”

“I did. That old thing is too big to be in any of their pouches or bags. There must be more of them.” As he spoke, Hadvar looked to the doorway. “We would be wise not to sit here much longer, I think.”

“I am in agreement,” Faendal said. “But I’m unsure whether any of this is wise.” He gestured up to the hole in the ceiling. Through it, the grey sky was still visible, but less so than earlier. As she looked about them, she realised it had gotten significantly darker while they had been sat. The shadows had crept closer. Had they really spent an entire day climbing the mountain to get there?

“Ah, Faendal, I understand your meaning, but if we go back, we may lose the claw. And surely they will reinforce the place by tomorrow, if we were to return.” Hadvar shifted into a squat, close to the fire.

“What is this speak, Elf?” Sven piped up. “We just arrived here, we cannot leave already!”

“This speak is in the interest of you keeping your life, bard,” Faendal said, with subtle venom. “How much food did you pack?”

Sven blinked at him, then patted his sides. “I have a loaf of bread, and some cured meat.”

“Enough to last you several days?”

“Several days?”

“Yes, bard. Have you any plan for if our torches die and we get stranded in the darkness? What will you do if you are separated from us?” Faendal spoke in rhetorical questions.

“These ruins are dangerous, Faendal, but we are all aware of that. We came here with an important task to-“

“An important task?” Faendal cut Hadvar off. “This man,” he pointed to Sven. “He is here to woo a lady. And her,” he pointed to her, and she felt heat in her cheeks. “As much as I care for her, and I do,” he said nodding to her. “We do not even know her name – neither does she. And we are here to find an ancient object at her direction. Does this not concern either of you? Would you throw your lives away so hastily?”

The four sat in silence as Faendal’s words rang off the stone around them.

“So, what would you have us do, friend?” Hadvar said.

“I would have us rest. I will find us something to eat, and we will wait until morning to proceed. Post one of you on watch,” he pointed to Sven and Hadvar. “Take turns sleeping. If there are more bandits deeper in the barrow, chances are, they will stumble into traps, or-“

“Traps?” Sven said.

“Or they will return here with the claw, at which point we will take it for ourselves. They have nowhere else to go, and we would be stupid to enter there unprepared. Undoubtably, these bandits will be.”

Hadvar took a deep breath and regarded Faendal for a moment.

“We can’t wait any longer,” she spoke, and all three of them looked at her with a mix of surprise and frustration.

“Girl, listen-“ Faendal said, but she held up a hand.

“Please, just listen to me,” she said. “Two days ago, I was told to do this. Three days ago, I barely escaped as an entire town was burned around me. I saw- I saw,” and she realised she was crying. Her mind cast back to the flashes of rough memory – the faces of a family watched as the prison cart trawled past; the child called out in an inquisitive voice. She had run through that house, minutes later, as its ceiling collapsed around her.

“I saw so much death,” she said, through a thick throat. “I don’t know what this tablet will do. I don’t know much. But I do know we have a lot of people relying on us to get it back, and the sooner we do, the better. That dragon could be burning the city while we sit here. I-“ But she had to stop, as a spike of pain ruptured across her skull and her memories clouded once more in dark green fog.

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When she looked up, Faendal nodded to her. “You make a good argument,” he said. “But I do not like this. We are putting ourselves at great risk.”

“We understand,” Hadvar said, and stood. “But we have a duty to fulfil.”

“Thank you, everyone.” But somewhere deeper, in the depths of her soul, another reason tugged at her heart, latched on with fishhooks and drew blood. She needed this – she needed to follow the path that had been laid out before her. Maybe it would lead her to answers.

In unspoken agreement, the four of them checked themselves for cuts, bruises, and weapons. She traced a finger over the crafted handle of her dagger - the metal was cold against her finger – before she pulled her gloves on.

Faendal found some firewood. Pulling a several long sticks from the pile, he wrapped cloth, leather and fur, looted from the bandits, around their ends. He handed one to each of them, and she watched as Sven and Hadvar tucked the makeshift torches into their tunics and belts – wherever they would fit.

“It’s going to be dark in there,” Faendal said, holding his over the campfire until the flames caught the rags and settled at its end. She did the same, watching as the fire spread.

Faendal lead, this time, holding his torch ahead of him as he approached the doorway. The firelight revealed thick spiderwebs that lined the tops of its arches. As he stepped through, the light revealed stairs leading further down.

“Keep quiet, and if you see any light other than ours, prepare for a fight – but do not let your flame go out. We do not want to get lost in here.”

With the weight of an entire city on their shoulders, she followed Faendal into the darkness, silently willing that this was not a huge mistake.

--

To say that the passageway they entered was dark was to say the ocean is deep. Walls of blackness crushed in around the torchlight. Rotting wooden beams and strange urns and wall carvings and tree roots crept into their vision and swiftly retreated back into the unknown beyond. They walked in a column, with Faendal taking the lead, Sven just behind, and Hadvar taking the rear. Sven and Hadvar kept their weapons drawn, so she took the responsibility of holding the second lit torch and stood between them.

With each step, they listened. The tiniest sounds made her jump and gasp – pebbles sent skittering across the floor; a foot colliding with unseen rubble or ancient plantlife; a rumble from somewhere far off, perhaps deep within the barrow.

The tunnel they walked down curved overhead like the entrance hall, but was much smaller, with space for perhaps three people to stand side by side. Small crevices and chambers branched off to dead ends either side of them, but Faendal maintained the direction that the tunnel took them. It wound this way and that, leading them past a cave-in, ornate brass burial urns and shelves that held violent looking tools and knives, or perhaps offerings for the dead. They passed a rack of bowls and parchment and, to her surprise, a red potion bottle, similar to the one she had in her pouch. This one, however, was clearly older, and was covered in layers of dust. She reached out a hand to pick it off the shelf, but Hadvar gripped her shoulder suddenly from behind, and she jumped to a stop.

“We do not take from the dead,” he said, in a voice without edge, but with authority nonetheless. She immediately felt a sense of guilt and embarrassment that lingered in her cheeks.

That feeling subsided when Faendal rounded a corner and shot a warning look back at them. The column stopped and she held her breath, listening out for whatever Faendal had seen.

She saw he was deliberately holding his torch around their side of the corner, she guessed in an effort to conceal as much light as possible from whatever he was looking at.

“Bandits?” Sven spoke in a whisper.

Faendal nodded and held up a single finger.

He watched for several minutes, and they stood still. A frown grew on his face, and then something dawned on him. There was a clatter of something heavy and metallic – loud in the awful quiet – and something else scraped and groaned in response.

Then, a bloodcurdling scream. It echoed off the walls around them and she squeezed her eyes shut. It took all her resolve not to drop the torch to the floor and cover her ears.

A hand landed gently on her shoulder, as Hadvar tried to reassure her. In that moment, her appreciation for him blossomed. This man, who had thought her a criminal less than a week earlier, comforted her in the pressing darkness of this horrific place. She hoped with every delicate fibre of her heart that they would make it out alive so she could thank him.

When the death throes of the unseen bandit finally died to a strained gurgle, Faendal signalled to them to follow, and he rounded the corner.

Down some steps, they entered the room in which the bandit lay - dead at its centre. With a white-knuckle grip on her knife, and Hadvar close at her back, she held her torch higher so to see whatever had inflicted his condition.

“It’s a trap,” Faendal said, calmly.

“A trap? Where?” Sven said.

“Calm yourself. We won’t activate it. See here?” Faendal held his torch lower, and something glinted with metal. She and Sven stepped closer with tentative steps to see that, on the floor, embedded in a plinth, stood a large, old lever, constructed from that same dark metal as the doors at the barrow’s entrance. Across its surface, lines had been engraved, criss-crossing this way and that, reflecting the torchlight at odd angles.

“Stendarr’s mercy, he was killed by arrows.”

“Poison darts, in fact. See how there are no feathers in them? Not a pleasant way to die – the Ancient Nords had strong knowledge of poisons.”

She stepped round Faendal to look at the dead man. Indeed, thick wooden shafts stuck out from his fur clothes. She didn’t dare look at his face.

He had collapsed on the plinth, next to the lever. She followed his body and the direction that the lever’s handle pointed to see a metal gate, closed and blocking their way forward.

“Faendal, my friend,” Hadvar spoke, a curiousness to his voice. “What are these?”

She turned to see Hadvar examining three alcoves, embedded into the left wall. Within each, a small pillar stood. She stepped forwards, carefully studying each space she placed her foot, to get a better look.

“Ah,” Faendal said, also walking over. “Sven, wait there. Do not set off anymore traps.”

Sven grunted in reply, but didn’t argue back.

“These,” said Faendal, “are part of the puzzle. The trap was sprung because our dead companion answered incorrectly.”

“Answered what incorrectly?” Hadvar said.

“The puzzle. We need to position these three pillars in the correct combination before we pull that lever, and the door will open.”

“And if we get it wrong?” Said a nervous Sven.

“Well, what do you think, bard.”

“There are markings on these pillars. Look,” Hadvar guided Faendal’s torch over to the first one, and sure enough, a metal plate had been attached to its front. The marking shown on the front depicted the coiling shape of a snake.

She held her torch above the second pillar, and saw a nearly identical metal plate, this time showing what looked to be a whale. “There’s one on here, too.”

“Indeed,” Faendal said, and held his torch high. “There must be a clue to the puzzle in here, somewhere.”

At this, Sven scoffed, and they turned back to look at him. “What, elf, you think my ancestors would have hidden the answer to their puzzle in the same room as the puzzle?”

Faendal sighed and dipped his head. “Bard, unlike yours, my claims of adventure far and wide are not false. I have read and heard many stories of your ancestors – they were very good at many things, but keeping people out of their tombs using wit was scarcely one of them. That job was typically reserved for the blades of battle-axes.”

To everyone but Sven’s relief, Faendal’s claim turned out to be true.

Hadvar and Sven sheathed their weapons and instead drew their torches, lighting them from hers and Faendal’s. They scoured the room looking for any evidence that may help them to understand the puzzle.

After a few minutes, from a platform that stood above the closed gate, Sven called down to them: “Elf, I may have found the answer to your puzzle.”

Faendal looked up at the bard, piercing him with an expression of smugness that could be felt even through the darkness of the room. “And does this answer happen to be in the same room as us?”

Sven hesitated before saying: “It may do.”

Sven held his torch above two other metal coverings that had been built, not inconspicuously, into the wall. One showed a snake; the other, a whale.

“There are three pillars, and only two answers,” Hadvar said.

“There must be a third one somewhere,” Faendal said. “Check the rubble over there.” He pointed to the corner of the room, and Hadvar walked over to it.

After some scuffling sounds, and a demand for Sven to hold his torch, too, Hadvar stood up with a huff. “Another snake symbol.”

With the help of Hadvar, Faendal rotated each pillar until it showed the symbols they had found: snake, snake, whale.

“Who should pull the lever?”

“My vote is with Sven.”

“Elf! That is rude.”

“Calm down, bard, I will do it.

“No,” she said, and the three looked at her. “It should be me. I got us into this mess, it’s my responsibility.”

The three looked at each other, and then back to her.

“My friend,” Hadvar said, diplomatically. “You have a great responsibility to the city of Whiterun. I have very little waiting for me outside of this gods’ cursed place, allow me.”

“Hadvar,” she said, trying to suppress a sudden tightness in her chest. “Please don’t speak like that about yourself. You have a family who loves you.”

But Hadvar flashed her a smile. “I have a family who would be proud of me if I died serving my people.” He stepped up to the plinth and dropped his torch to the ground. In the dim light, she saw him reach down for the lever with both hands. He grunted and pulled it back with seemingly considerable effort. There was a metal clunk, and everyone held their breath.

With a sound of a clunking metal chain, located somewhere out of sight, the gate shuddered and then shifted upwards, opening slowly.

Hadvar let out a sigh and wiped his brow, picking up the torch once more.

“Well,” he said. “That is a relief. You owe me a mug of ale, bard.”

They stepped through the doorway once it stopped clunking. She half expected it to slam shut behind them, but it remained open. The room beyond had a much lower ceiling. It was populated by more natural stone pillars, and seemed to extend a ways beyond them to the left. At its end, a wide stone table stood, built into the wall. Faendal stepped up to it while Hadvar leant around the pillars to the left.

She followed Faendal up a few small steps which brought them even closer to the ceiling, and something twinged within her, filling her senses with a sudden claustrophobia. Who knew how many tonnes of mountain stood above them, held up by nothing but the ancient chiselling of the stone support pillars.

In the centre of the table, two things stood – a book with a peeling leather cover, and a strange, stone beaker that held an angular stick of iridescent crystal.

“Hm.” Faendal mumbled, and reached out a hand to hover above the crystal. “A soul gem.”

“A soul gem?”

“Yes. Used to hold the captive souls of those recently killed. It has many uses for wizards. Sadly, something or someone must first die.”

“Wait. You’re saying someone’s soul is trapped inside this crystal?”

“No. This one is not strong enough to hold the soul of a person. For that, you would need a black soul gem – something you would rarely find in a shop. This could hold the soul of a creature – perhaps a wolf, or a goat.”

“Okay,” she said, nervously and unconvinced, this revelation that souls were capturable and even commercial making her feel deeply uncomfortable.

“As far as I can tell, this gem is empty,” Faendal said.

“How can you tell?”

“It is a lighter shade than it would otherwise be.”

“Right. So, what would a wizard need the soul of a goat for?”

“Or a person.”

“Don’t remind me of that.”

“Enchanted weapons, or items. It is quite a common practice in Skyrim, and very handy for adventurers. Though, not as common as in other parts of Tamriel. The Nords value their untainted steel.”

“So, are you telling me I could be killed and have my soul stuck in a crystal, until some wizard or adventurer decided to put me into – what – a sword?”

“I suppose so,” he said, and she looked between the crystal and him with horror.

“Friends,” Hadvar called, his echoing voice breaking the silence and returning her awareness to the situation they found themselves in.

Faendal, Sven and herself walked through the spaces between the pillars to find Hadvar stood above a round opening in the floor of the room. Into it, wooden stairs spiralled downwards, disappearing into black.

She clenched her jaw.

“Oh- oh gods, please have mercy,” Sven muttered to himself, the fear in his voice clear. Even Faendal seemed to hesitate. How deep did this place go?

“I will lead the way, my friends,” Hadvar said, and took a step onto the first wooden step which creaked beneath his foot.

Something, in the darkness below, chittered in response.

The four of them froze. She became acutely aware of the loudness of her shallow breathing. Fear gripped her torso and threatened to tear sanity from her brain. Something was alive down there, and it did not sound human.

Hadvar steeled himself, bringing his shield to bear, and standing in the way of the stairs so anything that came up would have to pass him. Faendal tossed his torch onto the ground by the opening, pulled his heavy shield from his back, and drew his sword. Sven whimpered.

They listened, and listened, and then they heard it – the sound of many, pattering feet on wood. Hadvar tensed, ready for the unknown foe to reveal itself.

Out of the darkness, a shape lurched upwards. It was a small animal of some sort, and it bounced off Hadvar’s shield. He bellowed a battle cry and swung his torch around and down, bludgeoning the thing once, twice, and then it stopped moving.

“Skeevers,” Faendal said, and two more of the horrible creatures scurried up the stairs and met Hadvar’s shield. They hissed and squealed, the noise raucous and terrifying in the small echoey space. Faendal thrust his sword downwards and impaled one of the creatures from behind. Hadvar beat the third until it stopped moving.

They stopped again, heavy breaths in the dark, and waiting for more. But no more sounds reached them.

Hadvar braved a glance back to Faendal and then her. He nodded. “I think we’re safe.”

Faendal let out a sigh and sheathed his sword. He shouldered his shield and reached down for his torch, composing himself.

“I will go down first,” Hadvar said, and nodded a reassurance to her.

“Hadvar,” she said. “You are braver than I.”

“And braver than the bard, I would reckon,” he said and laughed a single “Ha!”

Sven did not retort.

The staircase was as tight as it looked, and she cringed as the old wood creaked with each step she took.

Down, down, down they went, until Hadvar announced he had reached the bottom. “It continues on,” he said, waving his torch through a doorway at the bottom. They entered another low-ceilinged chamber, this one opening out wide, filled with more shelves, unlit metal brasiers and dominated by a large stone table slab at its centre. The walls were draped with slick, white spiderwebs that clung to the corners and suspended candles in the air. The shelves here were also filled with strange looking tools and wraps of moth-chewed linen.

“Look at this,” Faendal said, and guided her to the table in the centre. On it lay an odd assortment of things: worn candleholders, crude tools and more knives, and even a couple of strange, ornate, metal bowls, rusted with neglect. But her eyes landed on the object Faendal wanted her to see – a roll of white paper, surprisingly clean and devoid of dust in the otherwise dingy space.

“A spell scroll,” he said, and reached out to pick it up, but stopped when Hadvar clattered the butt of his torch against the stone, and shook his head. “Ah, my apologies Hadvar, I mean no disrespect. I am simply delighted to find something so special in all this … well, neglect.”

“Are you a mage, Faendal?” Hadvar asked. “Do you know what magic this scroll holds?”

“I do not,” Faendal said. “But she might.” As he spoke, they both turned to her.

“A witch? I have to say, you have been awfully quiet about your skills up until now.” Hadvar’s voice was not accusatory, but she couldn’t help but feel put on the spot.

“I- I don’t think I’m a witch,” she said. “I don’t know anything about magic.”

“Well, with Hadvar’s approval, maybe we can find out.” Faendal looked to the Nord as he spoke, and she saw Hadvar’s jaw clench and unclench in the flickering of his torch. He nodded, pensively.

Faendal picked up the scroll with delicate hands and held it out to her. “Place your hand onto it.” She did as he instructed, a shudder of nerves passing through her as she did. “Do you feel anything?” She touched the parchment – it was strangely soft and delicate to her touch. She let her finger press onto its surface for a few seconds. They all stood in silence.

“I can’t tell. What should it feel like?”

“I am unsure,” Faendal said. “It should feel like … magic.”

She concentrated on the point where her skin met magic parchment. She closed her eyes and paid attention to the sensation within her fingers.

But she felt nothing.

She opened her eyes and retracted her hand. She remembered that flash of magical lightning back in Helgen, during their escape. It had felt so alive. So powerful. She had felt it through the walls and in the air, and tasted it in her saliva.

No such sensation did the magic scroll before her offer.

Faendal placed the scroll back on the table, exactly as he had found it. “Shame,” he said. “No magic, no weapons – it truly is a mystery to me how you have ended up in this position.”

And then someone shouted.

Her blood ran cold and the four of them whipped round to face the source of the noise. It came from deeper in the barrow, from the gloom ahead of them. Hadvar’s hand went to his sword hilt.

“Is anyone there?” The shout came again, pained and broken in pitch, and Hadvar shared a glance with Faendal. This was no threat but a plea for help. “Bjorn? Soleen?” The man shouted.

Hadvar took the lead again, striding ahead, his torchlight illuminating the cracked walls of the passage ahead of them. She followed close behind, with Faendal and Sven.

“What do we do? What is the plan?” Faendal was hissing, but Hadvar hsd already rounded a corner ahead of them.

The blue light of a night sky met the orange of their torches, and she stopped in her tracks. What could only have been moonlight shone rays through two doorways that stood in front of them. One was covered with vines, the other with layers upon layers of thick, spiderweb. Hadvar held his torch against the webs and some of the strands ignited, burning away. But the material was surprisingly resistant to the flame, and he passed his torch back to Faendal and drew his sword.

“I’m in here! I’m in here!” The voice shouted, now, tinged with desperation.

“It could be a trap,” Faendal said.

“Then we will spring it,” Hadvar said, and hacked at the tough web. Sticky strands fell away as he cut and cut. Faendal looked back to Sven, who shifted uneasily on his feet, and then to her. She nodded to him and tried to look confident. If there was going to be another fight, she would stay well out of the way, for everyone’s sake.

Hadvar’s sword cleaved through the final layer of web, and he pushed through with his shield.

“Where are you?” He said to the room beyond. “Where are-“ and then he stopped.

“Hadvar?” Faendal said and stepped through the doorway. “Hadvar, take your-“ and he stopped too.

“What?” Sven said in a shaking voice. “What is it elf? This had better not be another jest.”

She moved to step through the doorway, just in time to see an enormous black shape drop from the high ceiling, throwing blue-grey shadows across the room as it briefly blocked the source of the light – a circular crack in the roof.

The unknown man screamed in horror, and her jaw dropped with disbelief.

The creature fell heavily from the high ceiling and landed with a sickening crunch. Eight, long legs extended outwards, and it rose ten-to-twelve feet above them. Fangs glistened in the glow of their torches, and a ring of black eyes watched them.

The giant spider lurched towards them and Faendal shoved her backwards, into the passageway they had come through.

She heard the creature land and squeal. Stumbling to her feet, she peered through the second doorway – the one covered by vines – and she could make out the horrible thing moving away from the room’s entrance. The light of Faendal’s torch guided it one way, while Hadvar shouted at it from another angle.

At the edges of the fight, under the cascading moonlight, she saw walls lathered in layers and layers of thick web, amongst which, dark objects hung – some suspiciously human-shaped – mummified and restrained fast.

White, oval eggs clustered in the corners of the large chamber, and were suspended from the ceiling. Each was easily the size of herself.

The sight made her sick.

At the far end, she spotted the creature’s latest victim, and the source of the screaming – a man was suspended in webs against the far wall. “Don’t let it eat me! Keep it away!” He screamed and screamed as Hadvar and Faendal kited the spider around. She watched it make a lunge at Faendal, and she gasped, but he dextrously spun out of its way and thumped it with a torch that simply bounced off the thing’s thick, armoured legs. Hadvar slashed another leg with his sword, which seemed to have more purchase, and the creature shrieked.

The spider lashed out with a clawed leg, and this time, Faendal was not prepared. It caught him in the chest and sent him sprawling on his back.

“No!” Sven cried from her side, where he had also been watching, and threw himself into the room.

“Sven! Wait!” She called after him breathlessly and chased him around the doorway. But he had already lunged into the room and charged headlong at the spider which was turning to face Faendal.

She watched as Sven threw his torch at the spider and drew his sword. He cried out and swung, but the creature anticipated him and lashed out again, knocking the sword from the bard’s hands. Sven stumbled to a stop as the spider regarded him.

And Sven froze.

Hadvar shouted at him to move, but he stood stock still, immobilised by the spider’s glare.

What happened next turned her stomach.

A cry died on her lips and turned to a retch as she watched the creature rear up and spray a congealed mass of white substance at Sven. The spray instantly covered and enveloped him, and he screamed. In the moonlight, she saw steam rising from his shield, his clothes, his skin, as the mix of acid and web corroded him, and stuck him to the spot.

And then the spider lunged at him. She saw it as if it was in slow motion – the weight of the giant creature ripped Sven’s torso from his legs, and in a spray of dark red, it bit two enormous fangs down, piercing his back and shoulders, and instantly ingested his head.

She turned and vomited.

With a bellowed war cry, Hadvar threw his shield down, sprang forwards and jumped, gripping his sword in two hands. He plunged the blade down, into one of the creature’s many eyes, and it jerked, screaming in its own, caustic voice.

Faendal shook himself out of his stunned state and rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the spider’s stampeding legs. He pulled his bow from his back and let loose one arrow, then another, and another. The first bounced off, the second found purchase in a fleshy part between scales, and the final pierced yet another of the creature’s eyes.

As the thing writhed, it threw Hadvar from its back, and she watched as he went flying into the wall, colliding painfully with it, and lodging himself in the web.

But it didn’t matter. The spider was no longer paying attention to either of them. It spun and stumbled in circles, lurching one way and then the other. It reared up and squealed a disgusting cry, and Faendal let loose one final arrow into its unarmoured underside – an unmissable shot.

The huge beast collapsed onto the ground, its legs splayed out at its sides, dead. The bloodied, corroded, decapitated torso of Sven still fizzed and steamed, lodged in its fangs.

Faendal collapsed to his knees, his bow clattering to the ground, his head in his hands. “Bard…” was all he said.