The College of Winterhold's underground was bitterly cold all year round.
The four of them walked forward with torches held high.
The first stretch of the Midden was relatively safe. There were only a few wandering skeletons—no doubt some apprentice's abandoned experiment—which Onmund chopped down as he went.
"These structures are ancient. Might be Second Era work," Brelyna said, her voice scattering into the darkness beyond the flickering firelight. In the distance they could hear the underground river running, and the dull thunder of a subterranean waterfall.
"Maybe before the Great Collapse, the Midden was still part of Winterhold," Onmund said as he walked at the front, his stride easy and relaxed.
The others nodded. "Very possible."
Soon, they reached a hall. It was wide and empty, a space that could easily serve as a meeting place.
Onmund took off his helmet with a careless flourish and said to Skyl, "See? There's nothing dangerous here. We didn't need to be this careful at all."
Skyl scanned the room. The three mages were all looking at him as if to say: you really overdid it.
He nodded. "All right, let's use this hall as our starting point. Spread out and search the surrounding area. Clear out anything that's here. If anything happens, fall back immediately."
"I'll go look for the Atronach Forge. I won't be long," Brelyna said.
"Beyond here it's just more dead things," Onmund added, striding forward. "I'll send them on their way."
J'zargo said he would stay behind to protect Skyl.
"Go help Onmund," Skyl told him. "Make sure he doesn't run into trouble."
The three of them headed out, one after another.
Once they were gone, Skyl cast Invisibility on himself and padded quietly after them.
…
Onmund passed through the hall and reached a sunken cellar without meeting anything along the way. He called back the way he'd come:
"J'zargo, come have a look at this."
No answer.
"Master J'zargo?"
Still no answer.
The glow of his magical candlelight was no match for the dungeon's age-old silence. The miserable stone floor was soaked with damp. The air was so cold it felt like it could freeze his lungs solid. An underground river gurgled past somewhere out in the dark; aside from that, there wasn't a sound.
Onmund frowned. Maybe J'zargo had gone down a side passage. The layout of this place was complicated. He'd marked every branching hallway he passed, so he wasn't worried about getting lost in this oppressive darkness.
It was so quiet his soles itched.
"Ahem."
From time to time he coughed a couple of times, as if hoping the darkness would answer.
Water was seeping from the ceiling and had pooled into a little pond in the cellar. Onmund splashed through the shallow water and pressed on.
He pushed through a rotting wooden door. Beyond it lay a wide ice cavern, the thick ice glowing with a beautiful pale blue. It was as if the air had turned into warm tropical seawater.
In reality, it was freezing.
Hissss—
Onmund snapped his head around. He'd heard it clearly: the sound of a snake's tongue flickering. But there were no snakes in northern Skyrim. Only one kind of creature made that noise.
Ice wraiths. They were like crystal serpents, completely transparent, floating in midair, and their breath was cold enough to freeze liquor solid.
Onmund's eyes went wide. In the magical light he counted no fewer than ten ice wraiths—more than enough to wipe out a squad of elite soldiers.
Stay calm. Don't move yet.
Onmund slowly unstrapped the shield from his back and began edging away step by careful step.
The ice wraiths didn't attack immediately. They forced him to back toward the depths instead.
A cold wind blew across the nape of his neck. Onmund turned his head, stiff as a board.
Behind him loomed a Wispmother, radiating a killing chill.
"Run!" Skyl's shout echoed out of the darkness.
A fireball streaked in and blew apart the cluster of ice wraiths. Heart pounding, Onmund ducked behind his shield and charged forward, the breath of the ice wraiths and the Wispmother's howl falling away behind him. He quickly made it back to the flooded cellar.
But Skyl was nowhere to be seen.
Boom!
The distant roar of a fireball exploding rolled out from the ice cavern. The fight was still going.
There was only one explanation.
Master Skyl was holding the pursuers off for him.
Gritting his teeth, Onmund sprinted back. He saw Skyl at once—one hand raised in a powerful ward, the other flinging fireballs. That small, straight back was all that stood between the onrushing storm of ice-blue spirits and the way out.
"Hang on, I'm coming!" Onmund raised his shield and cast another Firebolt, trying to cover Skyl's retreat.
"Get back! Find Maryon and J'zargo. You can't hold them!" Skyl switched spells. With a flick of his wrist he traced a line of fire behind him, and a roaring wall of flame leapt up, cutting Onmund off. At that same moment, the Wispmother hurled an ice spear that shattered Skyl's ward, ripped through his robe, and tore through the boy's body.
"No!"
The ice spear slammed into the ground, pinning Skyl in midair. He hung there like a bird with its wings snapped, his head thrown back, sorrowful eyes peering through the fire to meet the despair on the Nord mage's face.
"Onmund… go…"
"Never!" Onmund roared with all the fury in his Nord blood. The College might see him as an unappreciated mage, but he was still a Nord—a son of Mother Skyrim. In any battle, you did not expect a brave Nord to retreat a single step.
He charged straight through the deadly heat of the Wall of Flames, his sturdy oak shield smashing one ice wraith apart as he plunged into the swarm.
Fire flared from his hands, but the ice and frost howling around him were like a winter storm from the farthest north. Onmund felt the cold sinking into every part of him. His magic could not hold against so many ice wraiths.
He glanced back toward Skyl's body.
The skin of his hands and feet cracked and bled from the cold, his very marrow seemed frozen—but the confusion and grief in his heart were worse.
Was this it?
The brightest new star of the College, buried here?
The flames in his hands grew weaker and weaker.
His shield arm failed him. He pitched forward.
Through the stabbing haze of pain and cold, in a vision glazed over with ice, he saw the Wispmother's mournful form drifting toward him.
Monster… I will never… forgive your… sins…
From somewhere deep inside, strength surged up. Onmund's hand found the axe at his belt. With a battle cry that tore his throat raw, he sprang up from the ground, weapon raised high, and brought it crashing down on the Wispmother.
Crack!
The pallid shell that bound its dead soul split. With a shivering shriek, the deadly foe blew apart into ash.
The swarm of ice wraiths fled into the dark ice and vanished.
Onmund's mouth twisted into a ragged grin as he slowly sank to his knees. He forced his stiff neck to turn. Ice cracked over his collarbone with a horrifying crunch.
He had to look back.
Just once. Divines, just let me see Skyl. Let him be breathing again. If not, even in Sovngarde I'll never rest easy.
There was no body of a young mage behind him—only a portal blazing with deep blue light.
A humanoid shadow stood in the gate, watching Onmund. Only a silver-white outline was clearly visible.
In those brown-gold eyes there seemed to be a hint of sly amusement.
The shadow's lips moved.
With the last of his fading consciousness, the Nord listened hard to catch the words.
"Well done. Welcome to the Tower of Tomes—my plane of Oblivion, my realm…"
What… does that mean?
Onmund's thoughts shattered, and he slipped into unconsciousness.