"So I've heard you two are the best swords in Whiterun?"
Adaliah and Wynn turned from the bar, where they were immersed in ale and the vivid retellings of old adventures. A burly, severe-looking Nord woman stood, arms crossed, before them. She was clad in well-worn Imperial armor, and a small war axe hung at her broad hip.
"That depends who's doing the speaking," replied Wynn wryly, "Through, if you ask me, the best of anything are never so cheap as to be bought in an alehouse - with two obvious exceptions." Catching Adaliah's eye the old man muttered, "Mead and whores". Adaliah suppressed a chuckle.
The woman was not charmed. "Am I to understand that you are not the mercenaries I'm searching for, then? Or is your living so comfortable that you can afford to offend your clients?" Her eyebrows drew together piercingly.
Adaliah snorted into her tankard, earning herself another glare from the woman. Wynn always did the talking, always chose which jobs they accepted, and he had, indeed, lost a few with his barbed tongue.
"I certainly am most selective in my clients, madam," he quipped, "For...what it the saying... 'Better an empty pocket than a full grave'?"
"Yes!" the woman cried, exasperated, "But are you, or are you not, the reputed mercenaries Adaliah and Wynn?"
"Certainly, madam. At your service." Wynn smiled good-naturedly.
Their client looked puzzled but was lost for words. To spare her a further tongue-lashing from Wynn, Adaliah asked for her name.
"Rhawn," she replied, "Of Winterhold."
"Please join us, Rhawn of Winterhold," the old warrior said, suddenly business-like, "And we can discuss terms."
"It doesn't seem overly complicated", remarked Adaliah into the darkness. A long evening of storytelling, ale and fistfights had left her with a pleasant buzz and a heavier coin purse, but she wasn't yet sleepy.
Wynn stirred groggily in the bed across the room. "Yes, Liah, that's true. However, I can't help but feel suspicious of the whole affair. Maybe it's just my mind starting to go..." Adaliah rolled her eyes. Despite his mid-sixties age, she had never met anyone sharper than Wynn.
"It seems to me", he continued, "That the job is simple. So simple that Rhawn should have been able to manage it herself. Did you see her armour? Well worn, expertly cared for - we have not been hired by an amateur."
"We're cleaning out a bandit nest," said Adaliah, "Perhaps she fears their numbers?"
"She's an Imperial officer; she has numbers. Why would she come to us? Waste her own coin? And we're not even to do the job alone, we're offering her assistance." It was very dark, but Adaliah imagined him stroking his short grey beard thoughtfully.
"Well, we are quite reputed," she said with a grin. Wynn gave a watery chuckle which, within minutes, turned into snores as deep and loud as a cave bear's.
They met Rhawn of Winterhold, as agreed, outside the gates of Whiterun at dawn. The city's people were only just beginning to stir: Belethor's assistant chopping wood for the day, and Adrianna of Warmaiden's waking her forge. Their client was already there, waiting for them, but they were very surprised to find that she was not alone: two men stood near her, one a tall Nord warrior, the other a shrivelled cat-mage.
"Greetings, milady Rhawn," called Wynn as they approached. His tone was pleasant, but Adaliah noticed his sudden tension.
"Greetings, mercenary Wynn," Rhawn replied, "I trust last night's ale will not hinder our mission today?"
Wynn grinned wickedly, "A true Nord spends nights with an ale in one hand and a woman in the other, yet rises at dawn with steel in hand."
Rhawn scowled and turned away. "Allow me to introduce my companions: Tristan of Falkreath, and the mage Septhis."
Adaliah and Wynn nodded at the men. The first was very tall and lean, with a shaved head and face. Like Rhawn, his Imperial armour bore signs of frequent use. The mage was an elderly, stooped Khajiit, whose thick robes did not conceal the hump of his shoulders, nor his impatiently twitching tail.
"Pleasure," said Wynn airily, "Though I can assure you, Liah and I can handle this job without further assistance."
"They are my personal companions; they travel with me", Rhawn said firmly. Adaliah and Wynn exchanged a glance; Wynn's brow was furrowed. This mission was clearly not in their control. But, finding no argument against an additional two fighters, he asked no more questions, and instead began to chatter at the Khajiit Septhis as the group made its way to the stables.
"He doesn't talk," the tall warrior, Tristan, interjected, "Septhis can't speak our tongue." The Khajiit bared his upper teeth in agreement.
"Interesting," said Wynn lightly, "And yet, he understands?"
"Yes. I think he's simply too old to learn how to make the sounds of our language."
"You're never too old to make a change", said Adaliah, and Wynn smiled at her.
Their destination, the ruins of Helgen, was a day's ride away following a winding mountain path. As they made their way across the foothills of Whiterun Hold, Adaliah found herself riding near Tristan, who asked her friendly questions about life as a sellsword and the various jobs they'd taken on.
"I've often thought the work might suit me", he confessed, looking bashful.
"I'm sure your family would not much like your being away all the time", she replied.
"Oh, I'm not married. I was caring for my mother in Morthal until last year, when she passed, so I've been thinking of trying odd jobs since then. Now that I can travel, you know..." There was a pause as his voice trailed off.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, but it was her time. She lived a good life."
Adaliah smiled politely. She was practicing the art that Wynn knew so well: of always seeming open and pleasant, however suspicious one was.
Tristan changed the subject. "Is the old one - Wynn - a relative of yours?"
"Not by blood," she said carefully, "But he is like family."
He nodded. "I can understand that. Rhawn is like family to me, too. We served in the Legion together during Ulfric's rebellion."
Adaliah wondered about his not being married - he was easily ten years older than she- but thought it rude to ask. Instead, she remarked, "I am at a loss as to what she wants in Helgen. I thought the place was a ruin since that dragon attack".
"I truly don't know," Tristan shrugged, "She was quite quiet about the whole thing, which makes me think that it's Legion business. But I do know she lived there, years ago."
She pondered that, wondering what Wynn would make of that new information.
"So you grew up in Whiterun?" Tristan asked, ignorant of her distraction. Adaliah tensed at the question - caution, she told herself, always caution.. for her safety and Wynn's too...
"I travelled here from High Rock a little at a time, doing mercenary work". The lie, Wynn said, was always best obscured with a little truth. "I met Wynn fighting some trolls near Riften".
"Really? I've only once met a troll, and thank the divines my pa was there to fight it off..."
Adaliah laughed and allowed the conversation to follow these less dangerous paths as the sun rose high in the sky.
Hours later, after a quick meal in Riverwood, the group found themselves on the steep, forested trail to Helgen.
"We make camp here until nightfall," Rhawn ordered, and the company tied off their horses in the forest, a little off the path. Septhis cast a flame wall spell on the ground, and they all gathered around it's roaring warmth.
"So, Commander, enlighten us as to our grand battle strategy," smiled Wynn, stroking his beard.
Rhawn's eyebrows contracted severely. "We raid by dark. There is no reason to discuss details at this time."
"With respect, madam, you hired us for our expertise," Wynn interjected, "It's what you're paying for. Adalaih and I can provide valuable insights when it comes to raiding bandits".
There was a long pause, and Septhis let out a choked meow. With what appeared to be an immense effort, Rhawn grit her teeth and said tensely. "Very well, mercenary Wynn and mercenary Adaliah. How would you approach this offensive?"
Wynn's plan was a simple one, tested and true, one they had used on many jobs in the past. At dusk, Adaliah, Wynn, and Septhis would stealthily approach the town walls. There was sure to be activity on the walls, and if they were lucky, they would hit the changing of the guard. Using arrows and magic, the three would eliminate as many guards as possible without being detected.
"And then?" Tristan's eyes were bright and attentive.
Wynn laughed, "And then we all charge in, watch each other's backs, and pray it doesn't all go to Oblivion!"
Rhawn frowned. "There is sure to be a bandit chief, one that is skilled, deadly and most importantly, in command. If we could kill him - "
"No chance, madam," said Wynn flatly, "This isn't the Legion. He isn't in command right now; he's inside with his gold and his wenches."
Rhawn opened her mouth to argue, but Tristan cut her off. "Let's do it their way, Captain. You hired the best, after all." She looked at him a long moment, then nodded in surrender. Wynn winked at Adaliah. For all his sarcasm and bravado, his manipulative prowess never ceased to astonish her.
Adaliah crept through the woods with practiced silence. No birds, nor wolves, nor human ear could tell of her movement. The sun was setting on Helgen, the mountains awash in rose and gold.
Suddenly, Adaliah held out her arm to stop Wynn in his stealthy tracks. She pointed to a bandit she had spotted atop the shoddy wooden wall: a man in an iron helm patrolled back and forth, carrying an axe in one hand and a bottle of ale in the other. A second guard was barely visible, father down the wall, but was too far away to see clearly.
She carefully knocked an ebony arrow and, after a nod from Wynn, let it fly. It whistled faintly as it split the night, but the bandit did not notice until it pierced his breast and he toppled forward. His companion, noticing a disturbance, hurried closer to investigate, but as soon as he was within range, Wynn silently conjured his destruction magic and incinerated his target in an explosion of flame.
"They might have heard that," hissed Tristan as he and Rhawn approached from behind. But the town remained dark and still, and together the company passed through the open gates .
The ruins, blackened by dragonfire, were crumbling and decrepit, but the old town showed signs of habitation. Salted meat hung drying on the rack and an alchemy table was visible along the interior walls, as was an active forge and bellows. Bandits and thugs, unaware of the intrusion, were scattered around, mostly drinking and gambling, but all were armed. Adaliah aimed her bow once more and managed to bring down two more, but as Wynn loosed a Firebolt spell, their comrades finally realised the danger and charged.
Blood rushed in Adaliah's ears as she drew her daggers. When a large, steel-clad she-bandit swung her warhammer at Adaliah with a cry of "Skyrim belongs to the Nords!" she was ready: she pounced, getting under the woman's guard, going for the throat. After drawing blood, she spun away, and the bandit was consumed by a fire spell of Wynn's.
Around the clearing, chaos reigned. Septhis sent shock spells knifing through the air like flashes of death, and Rhawn and Tristan battled mightily with a pair of orcs beneath the walls of the keep. The bandits were well-armed and fierce, but it was clear that none would match the combat prowess of herself and Wynn. When Adaliah dove and slashed, Wynn warded off incoming blows. When he struck out with sword or with fire, Adaliah covered his back. They attacked, retreated, killed with beautiful synchronization; death danced circles around them but they could not be caught themselves. A fierce laugh tore from Adaliah's lips as foe after foe fell before them.
When none were left to stand in their way, they ran, sweating and shaking with the heat of battle, to join their companions. "The chief," Adaliah panted to Rhawn, "Where would he be?"
"Probably under the keep" cried Rhawn, leading them to a previously unnoticed cellar door beneath the ruined tower. The five of them slipped below, and found themselves in a dark, eerily silent stone tunnel.
"Is anyone hurt?" barked Wynn, casting a Magelight on the cold wall. Septhis was working a healing spell on his arm, which was badly burnt. Tristan held his hand to his forehead, which bled steadily down his face.
"Nothing - just a scratch," he said with a forced smile when he saw Adaliah looking.
"Nothing serious," Rhawn confirmed, glancing around, "The chief is probably down this corridor somewhere."
They crept along, their stealth hindered by Tristan and Rhawn, who bumped and clanged. However, they encountered no one, just empty beds and the charred corpses of skeevers.
"I have a bad feeling about this," muttered Tristan. Septhis' tail was fluffed up in apprehension.
"Look!" hissed Adaliah.
An doorway, ajar, from which poured forth warm, flickering firelight.
"The chief's chamber!" whispered Rhawn, "I'll go, he must be dealt with quickly-"
"Liah will go" interrupted Wynn firmly, then turned to her. "As quickly as you can, little one. Be safe."
Adaliah nodded and drew her bow. She noiselessly peered into the room - the bandit chief, there, standing before the fire! His back was to the door - too easy! She slipped into the chamber, smoothly drew her bow and fired. The shot pierced the back of the chief's neck; he hit the mantle and fell backwards, belly up on the goatskin rug.
She made a small noise of satisfaction and stepped forwards to search his body - one of the many perks of being a mercenary - before the stopped short. Something was wrong.
The neck, skewered by her ebony arrow, was not bleeding: no hot red gush, no smell of rust and salt, just the rotting stench of death. The bandit's cloths were black with dried, hardened blood, hours old. And his shirt was torn across the stomach where a sword has pierced his flesh.
"I've been waiting here for hours, lass. What took you?"
Adaliah jumped, dropping her enchanted bow with a metallic clatter. She knew that voice. Her eyes searched the shadows.
And there, reclining like a king on the dead man's bed, red hair tumbling about his roguish face, was Brynjolf of the Thieves' Guild.