Of Wolf And Man -Part Two
That damned cocktail of memory and dream was a rotten way to wake up. In my bones I could tell there would be no sleep, not even a mockery of rest for me tonight. So be it; I cracked my eyes open, and sure enough, it was still well before sunrise. Tonight's dream wasn't even accurate. When Pa told me he wanted to pack us all up, I turned and ran off, thinking somehow a nineteen-year-old farm boy could hunt down the Silver Hand and avenge my mother. Nineteen years after I bolted, I might actually be able to make that a reality.
Dawn found me packed and ready to go. Eirid waved goodbye, but no one else was awake yet, so I slipped out quietly. A few hours on foot, and then I would take a carriage from Windhelm to Whiterun. Eyes open for danger, I headed for the pass.
Windhelm came into view at last, and as I made my way down the last stretch of road before the city, the wind picked up, biting and full of chill teeth. Wrapping my fur cloak tight over my shoulders, I made my way to the stables. Immediately, I noticed the absence of the carriage. The stable master informed me that the carriage left earlier in the day with a few travelers and should be back in a day or two.
Faced with the option of waiting or walking, I chose something warm to eat and drink while I made up my mind and headed into town. The Candlehearth Hall was as nice an inn as anywhere in the province, with good food, warm beds and friendly people. I ordered a bowl of stew and a few bottles of mead to wash it down, then took my repast upstairs to a table by the fireplace.
A Dunmer bard played softly in the back corner, her voice sweet and full of sorrow. I listened while I ate, enjoying her strong voice and skilled playing. She wasn't the best bard I'd heard, but she clearly loved her craft. The stew was excellent, so I headed back for another helping. While waiting to get my bowl refilled, a loud voice and the bang of the door upstairs echoed through the inn. The innkeeper handed me my bowl with a wink and a smile, sliding an extra loaf of crusty bread over the counter with it.
"Strong lad like you needs to keep his strength up. Here you go, handsome."
My eyes hit the floor as I turned away with my food, feeling the heat of a blush warming the tops of my cheeks. I never knew how to take it when women flirted with me. A part of me assumed they were being mean-spirited, teasing me in a roundabout fashion. The scar that ran across the bridge of my nose and under my eyes wouldn't ever be pretty, and I could always feel the gaze of women lingering on it, always hear the sly whispers.
The other part of me knew that ladies were drawn to me. I've been told I have beautiful eyes. I rarely looked in the mirror other than to shave, and I knew the clear, pale blue is attractive, but the rest? Best not to spend to long worrying at it.
A hard shoulder slammed into mine as I carefully carried my bowl back up to my seat. Hissing quietly through my teeth, I fought the impulse to drop the stew as the steaming contents washed over my fingers. "Pardon me," I mumbled, but received nothing in return. Some people just have no manners.
I made it back to my seat with no further incident and could finally suck the gravy from my scalded fingers. Settling back down, I smiled to the pretty bard, Luaffyn.
I was the only one upstairs right now, so it felt as though the lady sang just for me, her fiery gaze holding mine. The song lifted and dipped, her voice holding me captive. She wasn't just singing to fill the quiet; she sang because she loved her music and she had an attentive audience.
Someone stomped up the stairs, swearing and belching, an unwelcome counterpoint to the lovely moment I was enjoying. Luaffyn's voice dropped in volume, and I noticed her gaze flit nervously to the Nord who had just dropped himself down nearby, still speaking volubly to his companion.
I sighed-it had been a nice moment. I nodded encouragement to Luaffyn, but she finished her song and switched to a small wooden flute.
The presence of the two rude and unsurprisingly drunk Nords helped me make up my mind. I took my bowl downstairs and purchased a few supplies from Elda, then headed back upstairs intending to drop a coin or two into Luaffyn's cup before heading back out.
"Damn gray-skin, no one here wants to listen to you whine on. Why don't you take your little flute and play for the rest of your filthy breed?"
I came to a halt on the stairs, listening, feeling the blood that swiftly heated into a boiling rage. How dare they?
"This is the only way I can earn coin-" she protested.
"Do it somewhere else, gray-skin."
"Miss Elda says I can play here-"
"You not listening, bitch? Get out; you're not wanted."
I found myself right behind them a moment later, "Quite to the contrary, I was enjoying the music. Perhaps you could apologize to the lady; I'm sure you didn't intend to insult her when she is only doing her job."
"You an elf lover, arsehole? I can say any damn thing I want to her, pretty-boy." He squinted up, then rose from his chair to face me, a belligerent grin on his unshaven face.
Breathing deep I fought back the impulse to throttle the lout right there. "I was merely suggesting that you allow the bard to continue without further rude interruptions."
"So I'm rude, eh? Well this is Skyrim, and I'll say anything I want. Skyrim belongs to the Nords, not gray-skins or girly, Breton elf lovers. Got a problem with that?" He stepped up close to me, and his rancid breath washed over me, smelling like a month-old tankard of ale.
"You've clearly already had a few, and I have no wish to fight a drunk bully," I tried to reason with him. "Just leave the bard alone; she's harming no one."
"I could take you in my sleep! Have at you!" The man's fist went up to wobble around his chin. It was almost funny, except for the malice that burned in his eyes and the presence of his somewhat less inebriated friend directly behind me.
"Rolff, take it outside," warned Elda from the stairwell. "If you trash my inn one more time, you're banned for good. It won't matter that you're the brother to the jarl's right-hand man. I'm tired of you harassing my customers."
Rolff shrugged and pushed his way out the door, closely followed by his friend. I pulled on my gauntlets, dropped a few coins into Luaffyn's hand, then followed them out, hoping to avoid a confrontation. I didn't want to explain to the guards–
A fist rocked my head to the side, crunching painfully into my jaw, and I tasted blood. Son of a–I rolled with the punch and spun around to find Rolff grinning at me, advancing with his fists up again. Furious with myself for letting my guard down, I blocked the next few blows he pitched my way, which seemed to infuriate him as he watched his fists go sliding past my body.
He launched himself wildly at me, so I stepped to the side and stuck out a foot. He tripped over my boot and sprawled in the gray slush, cursing. His friend decided to enter the argument, but one or two punches and he backed away, nursing a new black eye and split lip. While my back was turned, Rolff picked himself from the ground, then rounded on me once more, swearing profusely. Sick of the game, I absorbed a few hits, then hit him with a flurry of powerful blows that finally drove him to the ground.
By this time, the guards had shown up and were moving in. "Break it up, we'll have no brawling on the streets. Do we need to lock you all up?" One of the guards looked me over suspiciously.
"Rolff, is there trouble?" he asked while squinting at me.
"Nay, just settling a little dispute like men. We're finished." He picked himself up and surprisingly smiled at me. "Well fought. I respect a man who will back up his beliefs with action. I suppose I can tolerate the bard a bit longer." He clapped me on the back like we were old friends and walked off.
"Best move on, stranger," offered one of the guards. I decided that sounded like good advice and shouldered my pack, headed for the gates. I flexed my jaw; it was going to hurt a bit, but I'd live. One of these days I'd learn to keep my mouth shut when trouble reared its ugly head. Truthfully, I doubted that would ever happen.
If I stuck to the roads, it was about a two-day walk to Whiterun. I picked up the pace and headed south, peering through the flurries of snow that periodically drifted down. Minor delays and inconvenient ambushes by inept bandits aside, I made good time and was able to talk the owner of a small farm into letting me bed down in the barn in exchange for an hour of chopping wood. I chopped for two hours, then stacked it, before collapsing on my bedroll. Any hope of physical exhaustion bringing a deep restful sleep flitted away as I tossed and turned. Sometimes the guilt just won't be shut out.
Nineteen years later, and I still beat myself up because I wasn't there when the Silver Hand found and mutilated her-cutting off her arms, legs, and head then planting them in the garden with the beans and carrots. I discovered later that if I had been there, I would have been overwhelmed myself and likely joined my mother in an early grave. That matters little; a part of me would always whisper that maybe it might have saved her life if I had been there.
These thoughts followed me into the fitful sleep that finally settled over me.
Carefully, I duck through the brush, keeping my eyes open for any sign of the men I track. I've been trying to pinpoint the location of their hideout for a week, but I know I'm close. I peer in the direction of the trail I've been watching for the last day, trying to make out any details. The slightest crunching of a leaf behind me is my only warning; suddenly I feel the cold point of a blade at my back.
"Nice and slow, now; stand up with your hands out," rasps the man holding the blade. "What you think you're doing nosing 'bout, huh? You wouldn't be thinking 'bout robbing us, would you?"
My mind racing, I try to cover, hoping for an opportunity to get away or overpower him. "No, I heard there were bandits nearby and I'm just looking to stay out of their way. I'm not here to steal."
"Why you out here in the first place? Answer quick and true!" I feel the point of the blade press a little harder. Thinking furiously, I say the only thing I can think of that might prolong my life and further my hopes of revenge.
"I – I'm here to join the Silver Hand! A monster killed my mother and I heard that the Silver Hand hunt and kill them! I want to be a werewolf hunter."
"Well that may be, or it might not be. I'll let the boss decide what to do with you. Down to the trail and no sudden moves or I'll run you through, no questions."
I find myself being herded down to the trail, then we turn and follow it a few hundred yards before encountering another man, a lookout, crouched near a cave entrance.
The guard turns aside and spits out a large wet gobbet of something, then says, "What's this, then, catch a thief sniffin' about?"
"Says he wants to join, but he was nosing in the bushes trying not to be seen. I say let the boss sort him out."
"Sounds proper. Here boy, let me 'ave a look at ya." The other man stands and ambles my way, picking his teeth. He gives the man behind me a signal, and before I can form a question, a blinding pain overtakes my senses and all I see is blackness.
I wake with a pounding headache. I try to touch the back of my head but find I can't reach; iron manacles hold my arms to the sides. The pain in my head is extraordinary, both pounding behind my eyes and piercing needles of it radiating from the back of my skull.
Further investigation tells me my ankles are also bound tightly, chained to a simple loop of steel driven into the floor. I am a captive of the Silver Hand. My surroundings tell me a little of what I'm probably in for. Worktables drip blood, gory tools are scattered about, chains with tufts of fur still clinging to them hung from the walls, and flanking the passageway up to the surface are two spikes, each with a severed werewolf head impaled on it. Barred cells nearby have live, snarling werewolves pacing in them, eyes burning with fury.
One look around is enough to fill me with horror, and I never want to see the atrocities before me again. But I am forced to kneel, in dreadful agony, and either close my eyes to the horrors I can see and let my imagination run wild or keep my eyes open and try to find a spot on the wall that isn't flecked with dried blood.
My throat is parched and the pain in my head is only growing worse. I wait and silently lament not being more cautious. I can't tell how long I'm made to kneel, but finally voices ring out nearby, and soon there are several people looming tall over me.
A gloved hand lifts my chin, and I find myself gazing into the hard stare of a middle-aged Nord woman. The lines on her face frame her scowl of displeasure, but her muddy brown eyes light up a little as she examines my features.
"You're a pretty one, aren't you? I might let you live just because you're handsome." She gives a short rasp of laughter, then turns to one of the men nearby. "Get answers, but leave his face alone."
The questions fly one after the other after that, and if I don't answer quickly enough, I receive a kick to the side, a savage blow to the kidneys, back, legs; whatever will cause the most pain.
"Why are you spying on us?"
"Do you consort with werewolves?"
"Where are the others? Tell me where the werewolves are!"
In spite of it all, somehow I stick to my story. I don't even know why; they will probably kill me soon anyhow, now that I've seen their hideout. I realize how foolish it –no, I was-to rush away from home as I did.
The beating continues until I can barely think; then without warning it stops. Through a haze of agony I regard my captors, unsmiling brutes all of them.
"He's not giving us much. You want us to hurt him more or let him stew a bit?" one of them asks.
"Let him stew in one of the cages for a bit. I'm expecting a few of the others back any time now," indifferently replies the woman who seemed to be in charge. She exits the stinking chamber, leaving me alone with the brutes. I am unchained from the floor and thrown into a small cell, empty but for a molding pile of straw. Laughing to each other, the men lock the bars behind me and leave me, shivering, bleeding and bruised. My throat is still dry and raw, but my captors clearly give not one skeever's shit about my comfort.
Exhausted, humiliated, overwhelmed by grief and fear, I shove myself into the corner of my cell and try shut it out, wrestling within myself—all the ifs and maybes and should-haves assaulting my battered mind, preventing rest for my equally battered body. Eventually my mind gives up and blanks out, for a short time.
The squealing of the iron hinges as the gate to my cell opens jerks me awake once more.
I would like to take a moment here and sing the poorly worded praises of a woman who exemplifies the word "Awesome." Wendy is my editor. I wish I could pay her with monies and not internet cookies. She is ruthless and kind all at the same time, and my stories would be worthy of the recycle bin at most if it wasn't for her support. She is a wonderful writer and author, and I humbly suggest that if you have not already, go read her stories here- Whisper292
Don't forget, your comments and reviews are the only payment I get for writing these, so if you like it, please leave a few words or clicky-click the fave button! Cheers,
~Pyreiris
