The Song of Deirdre Part I

The Song of Deirdre Chap. 8 - Saarthal

To say that the sun had not yet risen when Tolfdir awakened us on the morning after the bonfire would not be saying much – the sun was seldom seen in Winterhold. Yet it was ungodsly early. The small window in my cell looking out on the courtyard showed a pitch-black sky.

"Rise and shine students," Tolfdir called merrily as he made his circuit of our tower. "We have a big day ahead of us. We're going to Saarthal!"

Saarthal – I tried to dredge the name from deep in my hungover brain as I struggled into my apprentice's robes. Wasn't it some sort of ancient Nord city? I thought it had something to do with Ysgramor and his five hundred brave companions, the ones Aela had told me about in Whiterun. I staggered out to the hall and saw my fellow apprentices gathered around the old wizard.

J'zargo was holding his head as if it hurt as much as my own. "This one needs hangover cure," he said, "but there's no time to make one."

"Now students, we have a wonderful treat in store for us. The chief archaeologist…"

"But I thought we didn't have classes on Loredas," exclaimed Brelyna. Her red Dunmer eyes were even more red than usual. "And it's so early. Doesn't the college plan its field trips in advance?"

"As I was saying, the chief archaeologist at Saarthal just sent word last night that the excavation will be available today for our exploration. We have to seize this opportunity! I'm especially eager to delve into the ancient Nord use of magical wards."

"We should let the dead rest in peace," said Onmund. "Who knows what we'll find down there? What about draugr? Wights? Skeletal walkers? I've heard all manner of powerful beings haunt these ancient ruins, guarding hoards of treasure. We shouldn't disturb them."

I had already faced much in my young life with bravery, yet the mention of draugr turned me cold inside. My father had told me the stories of draugr from Nord legend – corpses that come back to life to guard the treasure hoarded in their barrows, or to walk Skyrim terrorizing the living and dragging the young and innocent back to the land of the dead. There is nothing ghostly about a draugr. It is as real and solid as any mortal. More so, with all trace of soft human flesh wasted away, leaving nothing but rock-hard muscle and sinew stretched taut over bone. And in some places the bone shows through. Its eyes glow with a cold blue light. It remains clothed in whatever scraps of armor it wore to its burial and carries the weapons that were interred with it. When disturbed from its slumbers, it attacks instantly. In addition to its great strength, it possesses powerful magic and spreads contagion with its breath. There is only one way to kill a draugr for good – first by severing its head, then by burning the corpse to nothing but ash.

Suddenly my decision to focus on Illusion and Restoration didn't seem so wise. All the Illusion spells I had learned would be little help, since I had yet to progress to the level where they would work on undead. A stronger fire spell, that's what I needed, or the turn undead spell, but I had neglected to learn either.

"Now, now, let's not let our imaginations carry us away," replied Tolfdir. "The excavation hasn't reached the level of the crypts yet. And these stories of draugr scourges and death lords, they're just that – stories. You have nothing to be afraid of, I'll be with you the entire time, and Arniel Gane is already on his way there to catalog items of a magical nature. No, the only thing you'll have to worry about is an empty stomach. We'll be gone most of the day, so get yourselves a hearty breakfast and pack a lunch. We leave in twenty minutes."

Saarthal was southwest of Winterhold. As cold as it was, it felt good to be outside. The crisp air cleared my head as we walked up toward the snowy pass separating the village of Winterhold from the lands to the west. The contrast to my home in Dragon Bridge, or even the plains of Whiterun, was stark. We were familiar with winter in the mountains of Haafingar Hold, the time when snow blanketed everything and all but the evergreens lost their leaves. All of my favorite flowers died back to nothing, waiting until late in the spring to grow again. And of my bird friends, only the black raven, the snowy owl, and the black-capped chickadee remained. The snow-clad mountains did have an elegant, stark beauty, but within a few weeks of the first snowfall, I would find myself pining for the green shoots of spring and the long, languorous days of summer.