Chapter One: Bearing Witness
The horse was overloaded and tired, stumbling along the path toward Dawnstar. Thank goodness it was daytime, and they should be at the Windpeak Inn before dusk. He hoped his timing had been right. With any luck, there would be a Khajiit caravan camped outside the town, and he would be able to cash in some of the junk he'd picked up before both he and the horse collapsed under the weight.
It had been a good job. One more for the practiced hand of Gjord Glassfist, he thought to himself. I'll have to raise my rates. A group of gold miners working out of Dawnstar had hired him for a preventative strike. Cave; Falmer infestation, recently established; narrow entrance not practical for a massed assault; clear the bastards out before they took a fancy to the newly opened mine across the ridge. Most sellswords would have passed up the contract. It had words like ambush and suicide written all over it in the invisible script that only an experienced fighter can see. But he'd remembered his father's advice, No equipment is too expensive if it saves your life, and sunk every last gold piece of his savings into boots with the strongest stealth enchantment he'd ever seen or heard of. Seven thousand motherless septims. At the time, handing over all that cash to the grinning Breton he'd bought them from had been just slightly less painful than cutting his hand off. Now, he was looking at double or triple profit, even if he passed on reselling the boots. As always, his father had been right.
What would his father have done about the girl?
He glanced back at his overburdened horse. She was tied on its back, trussed up like a sacrificial goat, hands tied to the saddle as well after the third or fourth time she'd tried to get free. With a blanket roped around her, there wasn't much to be seen, but she was young, dark-haired, pretty in a grim way...and dead set on killing him. Or as a second best, killing herself. He'd only managed to capture her because she had been unlucky, missed her footing, and knocked herself silly on a wooden mine prop. Without that bit of luck, she'd probably have had his head. She wasn't blind like the Falmer; the boots hadn't fooled her.
The one swing she'd taken at him with her ax had gone through a hardwood strut as thick as his wrist as if it hadn't been there. And if he hadn't jumped back just in time, he wouldn't have been there either. He shook his head, remembering.
Oh, just kill her, a voice whispered to him. Here and now. She isn't any use to anyone. She won't ever be a servant, or a whore, or a farmer's wife, or a sellsword like you. Just a danger. Until someone puts her down. Mad dog. You can't cure a mad dog, only kill it.
But he was stubborn, all the Glassfists were, and his father had told him over and over again that even a sellsword didn't kill the helpless. Sure sign of a coward, his father had said. He'd missed his chance if a quick sword stroke was the best solution. What could he do with her now?
She's insane, it occurred to him finally, that's the way to think of it. The Falmer have taken her mind. What's her name, that mage in Dawnstar? the one who keeps on saying that violence is always the worst way to deal with a problem? The mad are the business of mages and priests. That's where she can go.
