A/N: Here's the next chapter. Hope you like it! Also, I'm looking for anyone familiar with the Elder Scrolls series to beta for the story. Also, just so you know, the main character does NOT like Ulfric Stormcloak, so she will be insulting him quite a bit. This does not reflect how I feel about him; this is simply how I feel a Khajiit would view him, seeing as how the Nords treat their race.
Chapter 2: The Ambush
I searched the small valley where Esmond said he was going, and found no trace of him other the familiar scent of one of my werewolves, faint but never-the-less imprinted on my mind. The fact that his presence does not accompany it makes dread settle in the pit of my stomach.
Upon searching the small valley, one thing I do find, though, is a Stormcloak encampment; not much of a challenge to locate, when you have a bunch of Nords crammed into a small valley, they're bond to make some noise. I watch the camp for a moment from a tree-covered hill nearby, and my lips curl into a snarl at the sight of so many arrogant racists in one place.
Having already searched the area, and finding Esmond absent, I settle down on my hill to rest-I've been running all over the countryside since leaving Whiterun almost ten hours ago, and even though my wolf body has amazing stamina, I'm emotionally worn. Making war plans, finding my pack under attack, and having one of my family members MIA in such a short period of time will do that to you.
I lay down to rest my paws, and not five minutes later, my head is up and I find a low growl rumbling unbidden from my chest. Strolling through the camp, dressed in fine clothes and flanked by guards, looking one hundred percent the high-and-might king he thinks himself, is Ulfric Stormcloak.
I perk up, knowing trouble is not far behind. I might be young, but I've been around the block a time or two. I wait for another hour or so, letting my mind drift back to Whiterun. I wonder if I could hire the Companions out to watch the Whiterun werewolves...
At the end of said hour, Ulfric is socializing with some of the camp officers, off in the corner where he hopefully can't do any damage. Something snaps me from my thoughts, and it takes a second for me to realize what it is-someone, several someones, actually, crashing through the forest near the camp. At first I'm inclined to ignore it-whatever the Stormcloaks are doing, it's no concern of mine-but then the wind shifts, and I catch Esmond's scent.
I'm on my feet in an instant. Before I've even realized that I'm moving, I running, letting instinct take over as the wolf in me flows through the forest and it's obstacles with rapid speed and silent murderous intent. I skid to a halt, hidden in the bushes on the edge of the camp, when the group making so much noise stumbles straight into the cent of the encampment.
Being chased through camp, looking exhausted, scared, and very bloody, is Esmond in his human form.
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to jump in then and there and rip the entire rebel unit to pieces.
He is quickly tackled by one of the three soldiers chasing him. A murderous mix between a snarl and a growl rumbles from my throat, but it goes unheard over the ruckus of the Stormcloaks trying to pin and subdue my packmate, who is fighting tooth-and-nail to escape.
"Well, well, what do we have here?"
Of course, Ulfric has to choose then to saunter up. Esmond isn't stupid; I've told them stories of Ulfric and the powers his Shout has, and he wisely falls still.
"We found him by the pond, sir." says the leader of the group, jumping up to face the Jarl. His lackeys roughly flip Esmond over and jerk his hands behind his back. The rope gets cinched down so tight that I can smell blood, making my vision flash red and bringing another snarl. It, too, goes unheard.
"We have reason to believe he's an Imperial spy." the leader continues, oblivious to the fact that every second that passes makes me more and more likely to rip his throat out.
It's only after a second that I register his words. Spy? Imperial? Hah! Like anyone from my pack is stupid enough to join up for the Stormcloaks or the Imperials. Not that either faction would let them join; only one of my Wolves is a Nord, but has no love for the rebels, so theirs no chance of anyone tagging along with the Stormcloaks. As for the Empire, well, almost all of us have had bounties on our heads at one time or another, and I doubt they let criminals in.
"Spy, eh?" Ulfric rumbles. I gotta give it to him, I might not like him much, but that voice of his is something else. On the other hand, his tone can only be described as sinister. "Get him to the interrogator. Find out what he knows. He is free to kill him when he's done."
"Yes, sir." the soldier says, almost merrily. The Yarl waves his hand in dismissal and stalks back to the table he'd been sitting at, while said soldier grabs Esmond-hands now tied behind his back-by the hair and jerks him to his knees. "To Rundi it is, then."
Anther snarl leaps from me, this time drawing a glance from a couple people. I instantly go stock-still, and after a moment the few people go back to there business. The lead soldier's gaze lingers on the bush concealing me, and behind him, Esmond's head come's up slightly. One of his eyes is black and swollen shut, several bruises mark his face, and his jaw and nose are broken, and the latter is sporting blood all over his face. Not to mention multiple cuts and gashes.
A stab of pain goes through my heart; in that moment, the thing I want most in the world is to run to him, wrap him in my arms and protect him. And, just as strong, I need to kill every single Stormcloak who dare's lay a hand on him-the more bloody, the better.
Esmond must see something, or maybe he just senses my presence, but I see hope light in his pain-clouded eyes. My protective emotions rise to the surface, threatening to take over, and I mercilessly squash them back down. These emotions, maybe they come from being an alpha, maybe they're just mine, but either way, over teh years I've learned to control them.
I will get you out of this, I think. I swear.
In the mean time, I can work on the more violent part of my urges. I already have one name: Rundi. Now, to find out the name of the lead soldier.
They drop Esmond off at a tent on the edge of the camp. I shift back to my Khajiit form-and I might add, after almost twelve hours as a wolf, my legs feel wobbly and unbalanced underneath me. I quickly use magic to summon my armor- thick leather with light metal plating, matching boots and gauntlets, and a metal helmet shaped like a wolf's head. A second spell brings me my sword, bow and dagger (all Orcish, crafted by Nekesh, my Orc pack-mate.) . As soon as I'm dressed, I scale a tree to get a better view of the camp.
By this time, Esmond is being wailed on, something I try to ignore, seeing as paying any real attention to it will only lead to trouble. Ulfric and his officers still sit around their table, drinking ale and gambling. Fitting; I doubt they could do much else. Around camp, off-duty soldiers stand or sit in small groups and chat. A couple cook dinner over a large fire in the center of camp, and two others work a make-shift forge not far away.
That's what I do for the remainder of the day. Watch the rebels, plan Esmonds rescue, nibble on some rabbit meat. At some point I fall asleep in my tree, and I awake several hours later. My head quickly snaps in all directions, taking in the camp, making sure nothing's happened to Esmond.
Other than being unconscious and tied to a chair in the interrogator's tent, he's safe. I wait another until nightfall, at which point Ulfric says good-bye to his companions and slips into the biggest tent in, located squarely in the middle of camp. Two soldiers stand guard outside the door.
I silently slip from the tree and sneak around the edges of camp, sticking to the shadows. Barely any sound penetrates the still night, from me or the usually-loud forest, and it puts me on edge. The sooner I get Esmond and get out of here, the better.
Since the interrogator's tent is in the top-right corner of camp (really its the north-east corner, but being in the tree has me oriented in a left-right format) so I get within ten yards of it while still remain firmly in the grasps of the woods. I glance around, making sure the the east-end guards, another ten yards away, have their backs to me, and then using a little bit of werewolf-senses to make sure nobody else is in the general area.
I dart from the bushes to the shadow the back of the tent throughs on the ground, my eyes on the guards. They take no notice-I'm actually a fairly skilled sneak, thanks to some time in the Thieves Guild that I don't care talk about these days. I make my way around the edges of the tent, pausing when I come to the entrance. I take one last glance around before slipping in, letting the flap fall closed behind me.
Esmond sits, still tied to the chair, in the middle of an other-wise barren room. His held lulls at an uncomfortable angle, unsupported as he sleeps-that is, if he's asleep and not unconscious.
"Oh, Esmond." I breath as I creep closer, taking in his raggedy state. Besides the injuries on his face I noted earlier, sevral new, puckering welts have been added to his once-handsome face-by Rundi, no doubt. As my eye's travel over the rest of his body, my blood boils to see that it has received similar treatment; his bare torso is more purple than skin-colored, and I'd wager to guess he has several ribs broken. From the unnatural angles of his legs, they too are broken, and quiet savagely.
Oh, the Stormcloaks will pay for this.
I light-foot it to behind his chair and draw my dagger. Whoever tied his hands wrapped a thick rope around his wrist several times before actually tieing it, and as I start to saw the rope with my knife I realize that it's going to take quite a while to get through them.
My suspicions are right, and after almost five minutes I'm barely halfway through the bonds. My heart hammers in my chest, as I am keenly aware that every second this takes puts me in more danger of being caught and, more importantly, puts Esmond in danger of not being rescued.
After several more tense minutes, the rope finally falls from his wrists. I glance to his face, but throughout this whole process he has not awoken. Worried, I walk around and kneel directly in front of him. After a couple seconds of studying his face, I reach up check his pulse.
I almost have a heart attack there and then.
For a second I'm not able to detect any signs of life, but then there's a slight thump against my fingertip. Relief surges through me, along with a whole new wave of worry.
My hands quickly alight with a healing spell, and I wave my hands over his face, taking great care in healing the many cuts and bruises there, before moving down his torso. I'm working on his ribs when he finally comes to.
"Shima?" he whispers groggily.
"The one and only." I respond softly, flashing him a gently smile for a second before going back to my work.
"Ooo, that feels nice." he groans, head lulling back as he closes his eyes.
"Oh, snap out of it." I hiss. "How the hell did you let yourself get captured by the Stormcloaks?"
He shrugs. "Maybe I was bored."
I scowl at him, letting the spell fade from my hands. His eyes snap open as he frowns acusingly down at me.
"We will discuss this later." I grumble after a second, finishing up my first-aid by healing his legs. My cat-ears pick up a slightly unsettling grinding sound as the bones pop back into their natural places.
"Let's go." I say, hopping up. Esmond rises to his feet, swaying slightly, before tumbling forward. I catch his arm and pull him upright again.
"Looks like you aren't quite the healer after all." he mumbles against my ear.
"Oh, shut up and lean on me." I say. He doesn't make any move to do as he's told, but doesn't protest when I drape his arm across my shoulders, holding it in place with one hand and using the other to guide his hips towards the door. We slip out and turn to go around the side of the tent, intending to get back to the cover of the forest.
Thats when chaos erupts.
The surrounding forest lets loose a battle cry, causing alarmed Stormcloaks to stumble from their tents as Imperial soldiers pour into the camp.
The bulk of the Imperials meet the very unprepared Stormcloaks around the cooking fire, cutting through them with ease. I stare in grim satisfaction as rebel after rebel falls, blood spurting from gruesome and mortal wounds.
I don't even realize that I've stopped to stare until one of the soldiers point his sword at me.
"There! They're trying to escape!" he bellows. I curse as five or six soldiers disentangle themselves from the main massacre and charge towards me.
"Dammit!" I hiss. I shove Emond roughly towards the forest. "Get out of here. I'll hold them off for as long as I can."
"What? No!"
"Get back to Markarth. If I'm not back in a week, tell Kjor that he's the alpha." I continue, ignoring his protest and turning to the oncoming soldiers. I draw my sword and hold it at the ready in my right hand, my left alighting with a fire spell.
"I'm not leaving you here to die!" Esmond explains.
"I said leave." I snarl over my shoulder at him, eyes flashing bright amber. He stares at me for a second, and I can see he's fighting the urge to obey-I am his alpha, after all, and it's instinctive for him to listen to me. I turn back to the soldiers and let loose a stream of firing, stopping most of them short and engulfing two unlucky fellows.
"Be careful." Esmond says form behind me. Then I hear him stumble away into the safety of the forest.
The soldiers are on me seconds afterword, and I hack and slash my way though them, lighting them on fire and impaling them while they're distracted. I stand, panting, as the last soldier from the group backs away, fear flashing across his eyes.
I risk a glance at the center of camp, to find that the battle-or should I say massacre-has ended. The handful of survivors have their hands raised above their heads, and the Imperials move among them, disarming them and tying their hands.
"G-g-guys! We've got a fighter!" the soldier in front of me shouts to his friends. I watch as the entire Imperial host, who had previously forgotten about me, turn in my direction. I fix my embe eyes on the soldier as rage rolls through me, silently promising his death.
On some silent signal, the rest of the Imperials stalk closer, swords drawn, leaving only five men back to continue to disarm the Stormcloaks. They quickly make a semicircle in front of me. For a minute, none of us moving, each waiting for the other to attack first.
"Com'on, then!" I snarl, eyes darting around the circle. Movement to my left catches my eye, and I block the mace that is driven forcefully down at my head. The Imperial wielding it gives me a look of surprise before I engulf him in flames. He screams in pain and stumbles back, giving me the opportunity to drive my sword through his neck. I twist the blade and yank it free. The motion pretty much rips his throat out. He slumps to his knees, dead, and I kick his body over.
I glare around the circle, making it clear without ever speaking that they will share this fate.
But they haven't kept this war up this long without bravery, and all at once the majority of the hoard attacks, slashing maces and swords. A combination of Khajiit instinct and werewolf speed kick in, and I weave my way effortlessly through the Imperials, countering blows and brutally dealing fatal injuries, ending miniature battles in one exchange before spinning off to another one, a deadly and graceful dance with thirty-some partners.
As what I assume is the fifteenth person falls to Orcish steel and flames, some of the rebels back away from the main fighting and draw bows. My dance becomes less and less graceful as I dodge arrows and once or twice use a burnt and bloody, but still very much alive, Imperial as a human shield.
Though I fight well, my stamina starts to fade as exhaustion takes over. My opponents sense this, and several attack me at once.
Then it happens; as I block a strike from a mace I feel the bite of steel in my shoulder, and as I whirl and spout flames at my assailant, a shield bashes into my ribs. I stumble and fall to a knee, throwing myself to the side to avoid the longsword blade that sinks several inches into the ground where I just was.
Finally, knowing I'm spent, and knowing there's no chance of escape, I do the last thing I know to do: take as many of them with me as possible. With the last of my strength I jump away from the main group, raise my sword over my head and drive it into the ground, focusing every last bit of Destruction magic I can through the blade. It buries itself in the ground, a ring of fire exploding out from it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I just barely glance the Imperial as he brings the hilt of his sword down on my head.
As the world goes black, I am dimly aware of the agonized screams of burning soldiers and the grim smile that forms on my face.
The very next thing I'm aware of, before any of my other senses have returned, is the sound of hooves clopping against the road.
Why am I still alive? I was certain that the Imperials would execute me. I did, after all, single-handedly kill off half their soldiers. That certainly permits death.
As my other senses return, I look around groggily. I'm sitting on a wagon, hands bound in front of me, as the caravan of prisoner wagons leisurely winds its way through a forest.
"Look who's finally awake." a Nord voice says. My gaze snaps to a Stormcloak sitting on a bench across form me. At seeing who it is, my ears lay back and a snarl forms on my lips.
It's that lead soldier. I had hoped he wasn't one of the survivors. Of course he is; couldn't have anything good happen in my life, now could we?
"You were trying to cross the border to, weren't you?" he continues. 'Nope, but feel free to keep thinking that.' I think. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that theif over there."
"I wouldn't say walked in to. I actual fought worth a damn." I mutter. Either the Stormcloak doesn't here me, or he ignores the comment.
"Damn you Stormcloaks!" a man to my right, the thief, curses. Finally, a man I can agree with. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they weren't looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now."
Oh, please. If these nit-wits can catch you, you would've never made it to Hammerfell, I think. But then again, here I am, so I keep my mouth shut.
"You there." he says, turning to me. "You and me shouldn't be here. It's these bloody Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
"Well we're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."
I glare daggers at the Nord. How dare he act like we have anything in common?!
"And what's his problem?" the theif continues, nodding past me. My head snaps to the left, and I let out a growl as I see who it is. Still dressed in his rine blue robes, gagged and bond, is Ulfric.
Of course they had to sit him right next to me. They don't want him to live, after all.
The image of the Yarl sentencing Esmond to the interrogators tent flashes through my mind, and my lips curl back to reveal the canines of a werewolf, not a Khajiit. From the look on Stormcloak's face, my eyes are flashing ember.
With a primal werewolf roar that sends fear shooting through the nobleman's eyes, I launch myself at him, sending us both tumbling off the back of the carriage.
