Chapter 2

Twigs inwardly sighed as he drained his fourth bottle of mead. When the last of the sweet alcohol was gone, he belched and set the bottle down on the table a little too hard, drawing a few stares from other patrons in the inn. He almost lifted a hand in apology, and then inwardly shook his head.

Nope. Not sorry.

Traveling all the way to Whiterun had been a colossal mistake. He'd been assured by nearly every source he knew that if it was brutish, fearless warriors for hire he was after, the Companions were the finest gold could buy.

They were all wrong—about the 'for hire' part, anyway. The legendary warriors did indeed accept gold for tasks, but only heroic, noble deeds: saving a kidnapped maid, retrieving some family's stolen sword, or killing a cave bear stupid enough to get itself stuck inside a home.

He'd spent less than half an hour inside Jorrvaskr before he'd been shown the door. Couldn't hold it against them, really—once they'd turned him down for the third time, he wasn't able to hold back and finally came on to the tall, red-headed woman.

He sighed in remembrance. Now she was someone worth joining up for. Slender but with curves in all the right places, wearing some kind of exotic armor that showed hints and teases of those perfect breasts, and light eyes that pinned him to the wall.

Another man that he hadn't seen had walked up then. An inch or two shorter than the redhead, he wore his long, dirty-blond hair tied behind him, and he was dressed like a bandit that had seen better days; all leather pants and furs around his shoulders.

Twigs hadn't been impressed, but he'd recognized some kind of fire in his eyes when the man had warned him off. Probably he was Red's husband. So he'd walked out to go lick his wounds elsewhere.

That had been an hour ago. He'd opted to skip dinner in favor of getting drunk, and he was working his way there, slowly. The Bannered Mare was a nice enough inn—dry, clean, and warmer than he'd have asked for, with that giant fire blazing in the center of the building.

The innkeep wasn't too hard on the eyes, either. Hulda was her name, and she was friendly to just about everyone, even him. As she walked past him, dragging a cloth fruitlessly over the spotless surface of the counter he was perched at, he slid a few more coins over the wood.

"Another?" she asked him wryly. But she bent over and produced a fifth bottle, uncorking it for him.

"Eh," he grunted, shrugging. "I need it."

"Rough day?"

"I've had worse, but I'm not one for all this talking and negotiating. Starting to wear on me." He stared at the bottle, clinking his thumbnail against it. "Had a few—well, more than a few—men point me in the wrong direction to Jorrvaskr, and I spent a lot of gold and a lot of time getting here that could've been used elsewhere."

Hulda frowned. "What could you possibly need done that the Companions could not help you with?"

Another swig. "I'm in the business of finding things for rich people. Most of the time, they want to crawl around in filthy dungeons and caves that they have no business being in. Fighting is not my strong suit, so I need a few tough, hard-to-scare sons of bitches to take with me."

Both the corner of her mouth and one brow drew up. "Sounds like you're in need of a mercenary, my friend."

He waved his fingers at her. "Mercenaries are more worthless than a dog with no bark. They can fight well enough, but at the first sign of real danger, most of 'em turn tail."

"Whiterun is home to one for hire, if you change your mind." Hulda nodded to her left, toward the door. "Jenassa can be found in The Drunken Huntsman, near the gates. Talented Dunmer, good with stealth and short blades."

"Someone mentioned one here in the Mare."

Hulda leaned over the counter. "Uthgerd can sometimes be up for an adventure or two, but it looks like she's away at the moment."

Twigs followed her gaze to the corner. Hulda seemed to be correct; the tall, stocky woman outfitted in expensive steel plate armor he'd seen for the past couple of nights was not at her usual place.

Instead, a man he hadn't seen before was there. Twigs' eyes lit up as he looked him over like a bull for sale. He was wearing gray-brown leather armor, with a long strap of buckles that crossed the chest of his sleeveless cuirass.

This one would do nicely for the trip he was hiring for. The man was powerfully built, from the rippling muscle of his broad shoulders and arms, to the strapping thighs that strained at the leather of his trousers. He was sitting, but the Nord could tell he'd be tall when he stood.

That was good. He looked strong. Strong men were useful for hacking at enemies that would slow the expedition, and they could also swing a pickaxe and haul rocks for a few hours if need be.

His pale blond hair looked like it could use a wash, and hung down a little past his jaw, which was shadowed in a day or two's worth of beard growth. He didn't look too clean, which pleased Twigs even more. Clean men meant men that didn't get their hands dirty—or bloody.

"Now that is the epitome of the son of a bitch I'm looking for." He lurched forward to come off his stool and almost stumbled.

Hulda reached out to steady him automatically, but her eyes were wide and alarmed. "No, friend, you don't want to bother him. He—"

"Worry not, Hulda." He stood and smoothed his hands down the tunic he wore. "My methods of persuasion are legendary." He winked when he flashed the heavy bag of gold at his hip.

As he walked to the corner, shuffling past the crowd that had gathered for an evening meal, he ran over his pitch in his head. He cracked his jaw and rubbed his lips together, trying to work out the heavy-tongued feeling of approaching drunkenness. Maybe the man wouldn't notice the edge of slurring to his voice over the loud chatter from behind him.

He came to a stop in front of his target, and the man ignored him at first. He was bent forward in his seat now, his elbows resting on his knees, as he looked past him into the fire.

Twigs cleared his throat. When the man rolled his eyes up to meet his without moving his head, he nervously skimmed his hands over the front of his tunic again. There was not a hint of friendliness in the man's ice-blue gaze. Absently, he realized that the man was not exactly young—a line or two creased his forehead and around his eyes.

No worries, he told himself. Young men are either afraid of everything or nothing.

"Good evening," he began charitably. "May I buy you a drink?"

Wordlessly, the man held up the ale he was working on.

Twigs wilted slightly. His normally smooth tongue was failing him as he scrambled to think of something else. "Ah…may I sit?"

"Sit, stand," the man replied in a deep voice, looking past him again. "Makes no matter to me."

Twigs swiftly pulled out the chair and tucked himself into it. He lifted his right leg up to rest across his left knee, and folded his hands over his stomach, looking the picture of comfort as he studied the other man.

"You look like a fellow who'd be interested in making quite a lot of coin," he remarked.

The man, again, didn't look at him. "Gold doesn't interest me."

On the Nord's left cheek, running down from beneath his eye to halfway to his jaw, was a thin, slightly jagged scar. It had healed well, but its placement made it hard to avoid when looking directly at him.

Using that, he switched tactics. "How about adventure?"

Silence.

Twigs' foot moved restlessly. "Maybe you can help me with a problem I have," he suggested. "I visited Jorrvaskr to talk to the Companions today, and those snowberries couldn't help me."

That earned him a glance. Twigs swallowed when the man's gaze swung to him again—something in his eyes made him uneasy. He spoke quickly, trying to brush aside his nerves. "I've been hired by a very wealthy man to form a team for an expedition he wants to undertake. He has recently discovered some old literature attesting to some kind of marvelous, but mysterious, power. Every single man I've talked to has lost all color in the face when I lay out the details of the trip."

The man watched him. "Go on."

Aha! he exulted. "The pay would be enormous, considering the task. The client is offering twenty-five thousand septims per week, with the opportunity for bonuses."

"And where is it he wants to go, for that kind of gold?" the man asked, locking eyes with him as drank from his ale.

Twigs hesitated for only a second. "Blackreach."

"Rich and stupid." The empty bottle was placed on the table in front of him. "No wonder you've scared off everyone you've talked to."

He'd expected that reaction. "Aye, but—"

"Are you aware," the man interrupted, "of the amount of failed expeditions that have delved into Blackreach?"

"Yes, but—"

"Of the same exact make you describe?" he pressed. "Rich men who were seeking things better left untouched?"

"That's the thing, though—"

"Dozens of dead men and women, ripped apart by Dwemer machines, traps, or automatons?" His icy stare bored into Twigs'. "Or worse. Do you know what kinds of creatures make their homes in Blackreach?"

"Do you?" he countered.

A moment passed. The man's jaw clenched once before he answered. "I've been to Blackreach. More than once. Do not question what I've seen there."

A shock thrilled through Twigs, all his irritation vanishing. He sat up straight, his booted foot falling off his knee with a clatter. "You have been to Blackreach?"

"Did I not just say that?"

He ignored the antagonistic nature of the man's reply. "This is amazing. Before my client decided to begin the process of assembling the expedition, he searched Skyrim for living men or women that had personal knowledge of Blackreach." He swallowed, trying to keep his animation to a minimum. Showing too much enthusiasm would scare the man off. "You would be absolutely invaluable to our expedition. I'm sure my client would want to more than double your fee."

"Fifty thousand septims, just for my memories," the man stated wryly.

"Not just for your memories, no," Twigs quickly amended. "You would take the position of captain of the expedition. We were simply hoping to hand that off to the most experienced person hired, but you—you know what you're doing. Where you're going. What to look out for, what to avoid, the best routes through the place."

The man considered him. "I do."

"And…you're willing to go back?" Twigs asked him.

"Don't you have faith in your golden god?" The man's eyes dropped to his coin purse.

"The amount the client is offering is spectacular, no doubt," he admitted, "but is it enough to make you want to return to Blackreach? All accounts we've read of the place end with the absolute conviction that the author will never set foot near it again."

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

"Twigs." He didn't bother holding his hand out.

The man blinked at him. "Your name is Twigs."

He twisted his mouth self-consciously. "It was what my sister called me in my childhood. I was a gangly lad that grew to be a gangly man. Most people caught on to it, so I kept it. The name I was born to was Fuldarr, if you'd prefer that."

The man's eyes swept over him. "I think I'll call you Twigs, after all. Has a certain ring to it."

He smiled. "And your name?"

The way he leaned back and settled himself in his chair made Twigs think at first that he wouldn't answer him. "Aldric."

"Well met, Aldric." Twigs raised his hand to one of the barmaids that passed.

"Get you something?" she asked him, her tone bored.

"Two bottles of Honningbrew Mead." Normally, he would have made a show of asking for the establishment's finest drink, but Aldric had made it clear already that money did not impress him.

Twigs watched her as she sauntered away before turning back to Aldric. "Honningbrew is famous for being the best mead in Skyrim, but it's been so hard to get hold of lately. Whiterun has the largest supply I've seen yet, and it's not priced ridiculously at all."

"Honningbrew used to be located here." Aldric pointed to something over his shoulder. "Just outside the city."

Truthfully, he'd hired a carriage out of Riften and had been asleep when it finally rolled into the city's stables—the driver had had to jostle him awake. "Must've missed that."

The barmaid returned with their order, and waved her hand away when Twigs held up his coin. "We don't charge for him," she said, nodding her head toward Aldric.

His brows shot up. "Free drink? What'd you do to pull that off?"

Aldric sipped before answering. "A few favors here and there." Twigs thought he smiled behind the bottle.

"Huh."

"So, who's the old bastard waving his sack of gold in your face?" Aldric asked.

Twigs sputtered, choking mid-swallow, and hastily raised his sleeve to his mouth. Aldric watched him, face impassive, but with a smile in his eyes. After he had gathered himself, he gave a half-hearted frown to the other man.

"You can drop the act now."

"Act?" Twigs protested weakly.

Aldric waved his hand at him. "The speech, the clothes. You're a rough man, Twigs, and you don't have to act like a polished one for me."

He almost worked up the steam to get offended at that, but then Twigs realized it would be stupid to be insulted over something that was true. Relaxing in his chair, he shrugged while he drank his mead.

"Rough men don't persuade others to be hired," he said. "Professionalism does."

"And a bit of lying." Aldric leaned forward, again placing his elbows on his knees. "How many half-truths have you told so far, trying to garner interest?"

Twigs rubbed his close-shaven head, the stubble scratching his palm. "Too many. All for nothing. The second I mention Blackreach, they leave."

Aldric held up his bottle of mead. His long finger tapped at the paper label. "Are you familiar with the term, 'You catch more flies with honey than vinegar?'"

Twigs nodded.

"You're a salesman. For most salesmen, that is true. You grease the wheel, and it rolls smoothly." He set the bottle down. "But when it comes to getting men—the kind of men you're looking for—you're going to need to use vinegar."

Twigs wasn't sure he understood what he was getting at. "What do you mean?"

"Sellswords, even the dumb ones, can smell the sweetness of your words. It puts them off. If you want them to join you, you have to make them want to prove themselves to you." Aldric sat back again. "Insult them. Talk too loudly near them about how their city is full of cowards pissing down their pant legs, and how it was a waste of time to be there looking for a real man."

It was then that Twigs realized Aldric was, just like him, drunk. He hid it well, but there was a certain cast to his eyes. Once he'd caught on to that, he began to recognize the signs of a chronic drunk who sought some kind of escape—alone, not talking to anyone else, unfriendly.

He held no judgment for men that loved their drink, but there wasn't room for that on an expedition.

Aldric sensed his sudden hesitation. "Something wrong?"

Twigs looked away. "Just enjoying my drink. We'll have to say goodbye to it when we ship off."

"First, I didn't say that I was joining you just yet," Aldric shot back. "And second, I'm not a drunk. I wouldn't go into Blackreach without being stone cold sober, anyhow."

Twigs shook his head. "I didn't—"

"Your face gives too much away," he interrupted. "But you're young. You'll learn."

"Twenty-three isn't young." Twigs finished his mead. "In fact, it seems to be too damn old when it comes to women."

Aldric snorted. "I'll be forty-one in the winter. You're young."

"Forty, eh?" Twigs smiled. "How does that fare with the ladies?"

He suddenly worried he'd said the wrong thing when Aldric's face lost its bit of good humor. "They don't mind."

With the way Aldric looked, Twigs didn't doubt that one bit. He may have been older than what the maids pined for, but Aldric looked like a pirate out of some kind of romance book—handsome, rough, and boorish. Someone that would be rude to them and make them blush with humiliation but still, somehow, get them to take their dresses off.

Twigs was mildly jealous. He was too tall and thin to pull that kind of rakish, dishonorable knight persona. The most he could hope for was a mysterious archer with a tortured past.

That might work well with farm girls…

Aldric broke him from his thoughts. "Given up on seducing me already?"

Twigs gave a start. It had been too long since he'd been with a woman. They were starting to take over his mind. "Oh, ah, no. Do you need to know more?"

"No. I don't need to know more. It's been a long time since I've had a little adventure, son." Aldric pulled himself to his feet. "This may be stupid, and you may all die, but Blackreach is guaranteed to never be dull."

The fact that he didn't include himself in the potential to die did not escape Twigs. "How can you be so confident you'll make it out of there alive?"

Aldric turned to him and gave him the first real smile Twigs had seen from him yet.

"There's only two things you need to know about me: I don't like cabbage, and I'm hard to kill."