Greg Keyes - Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel

Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Del Rey Trade Paperback Original

Copyright 2011 by ZeniMax Media Inc. ZeniMax, Bethesda, Bethesda Softworks, Bethesda Game Studios, The Elder Scrolls, Oblivion, and Morrowind are trademarks or registered trademarks of ZeniMax Media Inc. in the U.S. and/or other countries. Used under license. All Rights Reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

D EL R EY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-345-53033-2

Cover illustration: Paul Youll

2011 ZeniMax Media Inc. The Elder Scrolls, Bethesda Softworks, Oblivion, ZeniMax, and their respective logos are registered trademarks or trademarks of ZeniMax Media Inc. All rights reserved

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v3.1

Attrebus never saw the thing that cut open his belly and sent his guts spilling out into his arms. It happened in the dark, and the only things he remembered other than the agony was the stink of his bowels and something like rotting gingerand Sul dragging him along, cursing in a language Attrebus didnt understand.

Now the painfor so long the only thing real to himwas fading as his body finally understood it was done.

It was possible he was dead alreadyhe wasnt sure what death was supposed to be like. He hadnt paid that much attention to such things when he should have.

He started, as from a dream of falling, and for a moment he thought he was falling, because all of his weight had vanished. With an effort he opened his eyes, but there wasnt much to see; the air was full of ash, a gray cloud that extended in every direction. He saw his companion Sul a few yards from him but steadily drifting off. Presently the dust would make him a shadow, and then nothing at all.

It was hard to breathe; the gray powder cloyed in his nostrils and mouth. After a few more breaths he realized that soon enough his lungs would fill up with the stuff and that would be that.

It was so hard to care. He was weak, tired, and even if he lived, the things he still had to do seemed impossible. No one could blame him if he quit, could they? Not now.

No one would even know.

And so he drifted, the ash caking his blood-soaked gambeson and hands, enclosing him like a shroud, preparing him almost gently for the moment his heart finally stopped.

In the darkness behind his eyes little sparks appeared and died, each dimmer than the last, until only one remained, fading. In it he saw the face of a young woman, tiny as with distance, and from somewhere heard a vast chorale of despair and terror that seemed to fill the universe. He saw his father on a burning throne, his face blank, as if he didnt realize what was happening to him. The wavering colors expanded, pushing the murk away, and the woman appeared again as his father faded. He knew her features, her curling black hair, but he couldnt remember her name. He noticed she was holding something up for him to see; a little doll that looked like him, but couldnt be him, because it was stronger, smarter, better than he was, made in the image of a man incapable of giving in or giving up.

She kissed the doll lightly on the head and then looked at him expectantly.

And so, beginning to weep, he cracked his dust-caked lips and summoned the air that remained in his lungs.

Sul, he croaked.

The other man was hardly visible, a darker patch in the ash.

Sul! This time he managed to shout it, and pain lanced through him again.

Sul! Now it seemed to thunder in his ears, and everything spun. He thought he saw a sort of orange flash out in the gray, a sphere that appeared, expanded, passed through him, and then went on beyond his sight.

But it might have been the agony, taking him away.

Yet the light remained, the images continued. He saw the doll again, lying near this time, on a little gray bed. Its head was porcelain, and not unlike a hundred such likenesses of himself hed seen over the years. The cloth of the torso was torn open, and the stuffing was coming out. As he watched, huge hands took up the doll and poked the stuffing back in, but there wasnt enough to fill it, so one of the hands vanished and returned with a wad of gray and shoved that in, too, before sewing up the doll with a needle and thread. When all the stitches were made and pulled tight, a knife came down to cut it.

He screamed, as air sucked into his lungs and a thousand pins seemed to sink into every inch of his flesh. He tried to vomit, but nothing came up, and he lay there sobbing, knowing nothing could ever be the same, that nothing would ever seem as bright or clean as it might have once. He cried like a baby, without coherent thought, without shame. A long time he did that, but in the end there remained something so hard and insoluble that it could never be made into tears and drained away. But he could feel the bitterness of it and make it anger, and in that he found at least a shadow of resolve, something he could nurse and make stronger in time.

He opened his eyes.

He lay inside a room like a gray box, with no discernable entrance or exit. Light seemed to filter through the walls themselveshe cast no shadow. The air had a stale, burnt taste, but he was no longer choking, and his chest rose and fell.

He sat up and his hands went reflexively to his belly. He realized then that he was naked, and he saw that a thick white scar ran from his crotch up to the base of his sternum.

Divines, he gasped.

I wouldnt invoke them here, a feminine voice warned.

He swung his head around and saw her. She was as naked as he, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest. Her hair was rosy gold, her skin alabaster white, her eyes twin emeralds. She had the slender, pointed ears of an elf.

Do you know where we are? he asked.

In Oblivion, she said. In the realm of Malacath.

Malacath, he murmured, touching his scar. It was still tender.

That is what he calls himself, the woman said.

My name is Attrebus, he said. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?

You may call me Silhansa, she replied.

How long have you been here, Silhansa? he asked.

Not much longer than you, she said. At least I think not. Its hard to tell, with no sun or moon, only the endless gray.

How did you end up here?

She shrugged. Im not sure.

He paused, to give her a chance to ask something of him if she wished, but when she showed no sign of doing so, he pressed on.

How do you know this is Malacaths realm? Have you seen him?

I heard a voice, and he said his name. Thats all I know. But Im frightened. She paused, and she looked as if she had forgotten something. What about you? How did you get here?

Its a long story, he said.

Please, Silhansa said. Your voice calms me. What brought you to this terrible place?