Of Wolf And Man -Part Three
Whiterun came into view, the tall roof of Dragonsreach breaking the low horizon of the plains. As I hiked along the White River, a number of overly bold mudcrabs fell to a few well-placed sword blows, and their souls vanished into the soul gems I carried. The sabre cat that came after me a few moments later required some actual magic, but the ice spear I hurled and impaled it with slowed the cat enough for me to quickly dispatch it.
It took a while to skin the animal and harvest the teeth, claws and eyes, but it was worth the effort. Finally on the road again, I made good time. The guards at the gate waved me through without comment, only briefly looking my way before facing outward once more.
Inside, the clanging of iron and the gusty sound of a bellows being pumped greeted my ears right away. To my right, Warmaiden's, run by an enterprising, and surprising, couple. Making my way over to the forge, the smith cast an appraising eye over my gear and raised an eyebrow.
Wiping sweat from her brow, and in the process smearing soot over her face, Adrianne shook her head.
"Suppose I still won't be able to convince you to swap your pauldron and harness for a bit of real steel, will I?" she asked, a smile lighting up her face.
"You know I prefer to be less encumbered. Maybe some other time. Have any good blades I might be interested in, though?"
"Check inside; I'm sure Ulfberth can help you find what you're looking for. If not, let me know. It's good to see you again, Philip. You're brother is making quite a name for himself here in town. I can see the family resemblance."
"I understand he's living somewhere nearby; can you point me to his house?"
"Just up the street, next house on the right. Can't miss it."
"My thanks, I'll let you get back to hitting things," I jested to the lady smith, and I took my leave. A moment later, the strident ringing of her hammer once again filled the afternoon and followed me inside. Ulfberth War-Bear was a genial man in spite of his name and fierce appearance. He gladly showed me the newest pieces crafted by his wife, extolling the virtues of each as I examined them. A beautifully made ebony dagger caught my eye, and I enjoyed a few moments of haggling with the big Nord before we settled on a price. I tucked my prize away and exited, looked to the right, and sure enough right next door was a small house.
I knocked on the door, wondering if Sullevan would look much different, if he'd matured at all, any number of things. A stunning woman in steel answered the door, suspicion written plain across her face. She examined me, her eyes narrowed.
"You must be one of the brothers, right?" she said without any further greeting.
"Ah, yes, I suppose. Is Sullevan here?"
She blinked at me as if I had asked an impossibly stupid question, then smiled a little. "No, I imagine he's getting his ass beat up at Jorrvaskr."
"Ah, I see. Are you his . . .?"
"Housecarl. I'm Lydia."
"Housecarl?" I asked, confused.
"The Dragonborn is a thane of Whiterun. I am sworn to his service."
"I see," I said again, feeling embarrassed. I could tell there were many things Sulle didn't bother to tell me in his infrequent letters. "Should I wait here, or do you think it's okay for me to seek him up at Jorrvaskr?"
"You can wait here, but there is no telling when or if he'll be back tonight. Your best bet is to find him up at the mead hall."
"Thank you, Lydia, you have been most helpful." I bowed and moved up the street, dodging the numerous people in the market square. A few moments later I ascended the stairs of Jorrvaskr to hear shouts and the ringing of swords, and I rounded the backside to find the source.
Two men stripped to the waist sparred with practice blades. One was my brother, dark haired, mischievous twinkle in his eye, taunting smile on his face. The other was a lean, hard-muscled Nord with raven hair and a scowl of displeasure on his face.
"No, you give yourself away every time you adjust your weight for your strike, and your footwork is atrocious. Pay attention, whelp," growled the Nord to my brother.
Sullevan winked at the man and said in a suggestive tone, "I love it when you call me whelp. Take me now!"
A peal of raspy laughter rang out and drew my attention from the now fuming Nord and my brother to the only other person out back, who was sitting on the covered porch at a table. Doing a quick double-take, I realized that the two strangers must be brothers as well.
"You gonna take that from him, brother?"
Well, at least I had that part right.
"That's not all he'll take from me, Farkas!" crowed Sulle as he batted away a flurry of furious blows, retreating across the yard with a wide, smug grin.
"Well, I can see you're still an insouciant prat, Sullevan," I called out, striding forward. "Our father will be so proud of you!"
Three pairs of eyes swiveled my way, appraising me with the hard gaze of experience. Sullevan cast his practice blade aside and leaped forward, nearly barreling me over with an enthusiastic, sweaty hug.
"Philip! I take it you got my letter?"
I nodded and pushed him to arms length, hands on his shoulders to look him over. "You look well little brother, but something is different-" abruptly I knew. His eyes met mine and I realized he knew as well. Damnation. Could things get any weirder?
"So you're the older brother, huh?" came the voice of the one my brother called Farkas. He came to my side, smiling amiably enough. "I hear you're a battlemage."
"Aye, that I am, more of a spell-sword these days, really. I'm Philip, Sullevan's older brother."
The man my brother had been sparring with walked over and extended his hand, which I took and squeezed. As his bright, silver-gray eyes met mine, I realized just how much weirder things were about to become. Unless I was happily mistaken, Sullevan shared my curse, as did both of the towering Nord brothers before me.
Now that I was paying attention, I could smell the moon-blood, and it curled up into my sensitive nose, awakening that which slumbered within my soul.
"I'm Vilkas, of the Companions. Welcome to Jorrvaskr." Divines above, how many of the Companions are werewolves? I thought to myself as they led me inside.
* * *
The food was excellent and mead plentiful. The main hall of Jorrvaskr was warm, brightly lit, and quiet conversations turned into arguments then fistfights in moments, only to be resolved moments later without any apparent hard feelings. Sulle filled me in on recent events while we ate.
Farkas took a seat nearby, engaging in conversation with a pretty imperial while Vilkas sat across the table from Sulle and me, pretending to be reading; but I could tell he was paying more attention to Sullevan and me than the book.
In contrast to how he seemed at first, Sulle sobered quickly when he told me of his recent adventures, how he came to be Dragonborn, surviving Helgen when few had, and becoming a Companion. Troubled, I said little, just took it all in and let my brother talk.
A wrinkled little old lady kept my tankard full, giving me an affectionate little pat on the cheek each time. Finally I ask my brother, "Is she always like that?"
"Who, Tilma? Yeah, she's great like that. Cooks, keeps the place clean, stitches us up when we have a busted head. I think she likes you."
Not sure what to make of this, I sipped my mead, thoughtfully studying Vilkas. The man had a certain edge to him that made me mildly anxious. His blood boiled within his veins, hot and full of rage; his wolf spirit prowled near the surface at all times, ready to break free. Carefully controlled by an iron will and tempered by intelligence and focus, this man was dangerous.
And apparently involved with my brother if I was reading the signals correctly. Brother, what have you gotten yourself into?
Later, the two brothers-who I learned were in truth twins-Sullevan, and I headed down to his house, Breezehome. Lydia greeted us politely and retired for the night, and we made ourselves comfortable around the large fire.
"So tell me about the Silver Hand," I began, eager to hear everything.
"Well a month or two ago, I took the blood. No use lying to you; I know you know. Later the next day, two other members of the Circle and I went into Gallows Rock to eradicate an encampment of them. The Companions have a bit of a blood feud with the Silver Hand, you see. Skjor, one of the senior members, was slain, and since then we have seen numerous attacks on our numbers out in the wilds. They grow bold, but they are desperate. I'm hoping to be able to wipe them from the face of Nirn and memory before any more people I care about are cut down."
"That's fine and well, but do you have a plan?" I asked. Vilkas gave an approving sound and nodded my way.
"That's why I have you and Vilkas here. Between you two, we should be able to come up with a battle plan. Aye?"
Farkas rumbled his assent, Vilkas nodded again, and I shrugged. "We'll need maps, numbers, supply lines, all the information you have on them."
Sullevan grinned and pulled a packet out of his knapsack. "Aela has kindly supplied me with all of Skjor's old information. I think this will be most useful." We all gathered into the light to see what we could come up with. Late into the night we plotted and planned, until weariness forced us all to our beds to seek a few hours of fitful sleep.
* * *
The next day found us all back at Jorrvaskr, but not for long. Sullevan was called downstairs for a meeting with the Harbinger, Kodlak Whitemane. He came back up, downcast and scowling.
"What?" asked Vilkas with concern when he saw my brother's face. "What is it?"
"Kodlak sends me out on a mission. Seems he didn't care for me and Aela wreaking a little havoc with the Silver Hand after Skjor. Wants me to fetch something for him, regain my honor or some such nonsense."
"I'll go with you, brother," I offered. It would be nice to travel with Sullevan again and get reacquainted with him.
"While I would enjoy that, Phil, I must go alone. I should only be gone a few days, and Kodlak said you may stay here if you wish. If not, Breezehome is your home as it is mine." He turned away and strode out, tailed by Vilkas. I didn't want to intrude on whatever sort of tender goodbye might be happening between my brother and his lover, so I sat down at the long table, uncomfortable. Farkas came over and settled his huge bulk into the chair next to me and poured us both a drink. We sat in silence a while before the big man cleared his throat.
"I wouldn't worry about your brother too much. He knows how to handle himself. I was his shield-sibling during his trial, and that man knows how to swing a sword!"
"While good to hear, I will worry regardless. He's my little brother."
"Vilkas is the same way. Always worrying about me, getting on my case because I'm reckless. I'm not reckless, though; he just thinks that. You remind me of him, except you smile more. Say, could you show me some of that battle magic sometime?"
Farkas and I chatted, exchanging stories until lunchtime. After the midday meal, we all filed out to the yard. We took up practice blades of smooth wood, and while Farkas and I squared off, Vilkas turned his attention to the younger members of the Companions, ruthlessly drilling them until they were sweating rivers and barely able to lift their weapons.
Unlike Vilkas, Farkas was huge. Both were tall and muscular, but where Vilkas was lean, Farkas practically ripped the seams of his tunic every time he swung, his muscles were so powerful. A straightforward man, Farkas hit hard, every strike crunching into my shield with shattering force and deliberation.
I deflected another blow and slipped to the side, panting. My thoughts of being able to wear him down were quickly dispelled; apparently the man had infinite reserves of stamina, and furthermore knew better than to waste his energy with wild swings.
"Gods above, you hit hard!" I grunted as he swiveled my way and lashed out again. Damn, he was fast too! I fell back, knowing I was over-matched without using magic, and something told me I shouldn't even contemplate that.
He pulled his next strike and dropped his heavy practice sword onto his shoulder, biceps bulging impressively. "Skjor says I have the strength of Ysgramor," he said with a wide smile.
"Ah, I thought Skjor was ah, well-"
"Yeah, I know he's dead." I heard a muffled cracking and glanced to the haft of the other man's sword, which had split under the white-knuckled grip he had on it. "It's just habit to think he'll come walking back in someday. I grew up with Skjor; he was like an uncle or an older brother to Vilkas and me."
"He must have been very kind," I offered lamely, not sure what to say.
"Actually he was kind of a jerk sometimes. But family is family, and we rarely get to choose, aye? Most people think my brother is a right prick, and they'd be dead on some of the time. Doesn't make him a bad guy. Just hard to get along with sometimes."
"Aye. So you were raised with the Companions then? Where is your birth family?"
"Dunno, don't care really. I got all I need right here. Besides, it's kind of a long story."
"Tell it to me later if you like; I'll listen."
"Sure. You done getting your arse beat?"
"Assuredly I am. I was going to walk down to the Honningbrew Meadery in a bit; it's been too long since my last taste of their fresh brews. Care to join?" I decided that if my brother was going to be involved with the Companions, I might as well get to know them better, and the best way to get to know a Nord is over a few pints of something honeyed and eye-wateringly intoxicating.
"Sounds good; lemme go change. If you want to wash up, there is water inside. Tilma will see to you." He clapped me on the back and nearly sent me sprawling. Only Vilkas' quick reaction saved me from an embarrassing tumble as he collared me and heaved me up again.
"My brother forgets his strength sometimes. Feel free to shove a fireball up his arse if he does it again." Vilkas had a bemused look on his face as he pushed open the doors to the ancient mead hall.
"I would never dream of doing such a thing. I value my skin right where it is, thanks very much," I retorted.
"Not my fault you skinny Bretons fall like skittles," chuckled the larger of the twins.
* * *
The squealing of the iron hinges as the gate to my cell opens jerks me awake once more. Pain explodes in my body as the blackness deserts me, leaving me to the spasms of my battered muscles and parched throat. My head still pounds, my senses are dull, and my thoughts form slowly. Before I can react to the open bars, another man is flung in with me and the gate slams shut again with an earsplitting clang. The other man struggles to his hands and knees and scrambles for the bars. Shaking them wildly, the man looks about in terror, his eyes wide. "No, no no. This isn't happening, not happening. I'm dreaming. I'll wake up and I won't be here. Wake up! Wake up, wake up . . ." "We share the same nightmare then," I finally manage to croak out. The man jumps as if just noticing me. "Who are you?" he asks, taking in my sad state. "No one important. Just another prisoner," I groan. "Ha, you're another dead man, just like me. We're all dead!" His gaze roams to the pair of werewolves still pacing in their cells across the room. His eyes follow them with an almost morbid fascination. "Why . . .why you say that?" I ask. As if I don't know. "The Silver Hand don't ever let anyone go free once they've been captured." I had already surmised as much. The other man presses his face to the bars, seeking some means of escape. Seeing nothing to free him within reach, he paces in our tiny cell. I painfully fold myself further into the corner and fall back into unconsciousness. Some time later loud shouts, howls, barks and the clang of metal on metal rouse me again. The Silver Hand have returned. Silver-tipped spears are inserted between the bars of my cage, pushing the other man back. He snarls in anger but presses himself against the wall, eyes fixed on the argent points leveled at his chest. Rough hands seize me and pull me out of the cell. I am forced into a chair, bound and given a ladle of water. That cool, stale water is like nectar, and I suck as much of it down as I can before the ladle is pulled away. The leader of the Silver hand, the woman from before stands over me, frowning as she looks me over. Her brown eyes bore into mine, deep scowl on her face."Why do you look so familiar boy? Quickly, answer!" "I'm just a farmer, I swear; I don't know why I look familiar to you! Please, may I have another sip of water?" I receive a sharp slap to the face instead. "You've been lying since you got here, boy. Tell me who sent you and why, and I might give you more water, or even your freedom." She takes my jaw in her hard fist, turns my face side to side, examining my profile. Her eyes sparkle with malice when she turns me to look her square in the face. "I think I see . . . you're that werewolf bitch's get. The one we just did for, aren't you. Oh ho! This is rich. You thought you were going to come in here and get revenge on us for your filthy bitch momma!" She laughs and is joined by the cronies working for her. "Did anyone think to test this little piece of werewolf-shit spawn?" The quiet around her answers and her displeasure wipes away the merriment of a moment before. Suddenly a silver dagger is hovering before my eyes, but I barely see it for the red rage that hazes my eyes, hearing this horrible woman speak that way of my Ma. "Hold him," she orders curtly, and my face and shoulders are pinned by several pairs of hands. Struggling only earns me a sharp jab to the kidney. In a flash of bright metal and searing pain, my testing is done. A burning line runs across the bridge of my nose and half way across each of my cheeks. I feel blood roll down my face and drop off my jaw. My cry of pain and outrage rings around the room, and sets the wolves to snarling and howling again. She turns to someone behind her and pulls a lad of six or seven into view. His little features are contorted into an appalling mixture of delight, malice, and curiosity. "See, Krev, this man here has real human blood. See how it didn't boil up when touched by the silver?" She rests the blade against my cheek, showing how my skin doesn't blister when touched by the silver knife. "He's a real human, but he was raised by a filthy animal and would probably become a monster himself later. And what do we do with monsters?" Appalled I can only watch and listen as this woman gives a child a pointed lesson on hate. The worst part was, I could tell this caring mother guise was all a part of her plan to groom this boy into the next leader of the Silver Hand! My ma was supposed to be the monster, but the woman before me is an appalling example of motherhood. How dare they judge her, take her life! Little Krev showed a gap-toothed smile as he said with glee, "We skin 'em!" "That's my boy! Now run along and finish your dinner." "Mama, I want to see you skin the monsters, though." "Krev, what did mother say?" asked the woman, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Dinner, fine." The boy turned away and stomped out of the room. The leader of the Silver Hand looked back at me and shrugged. "They need a firm hand, otherwise they'll walk all over you. Now, where were we? Yes, it seems you are pure of blood, but as we can't have vengeful sons dogging our every step, back to your nice cozy cell until I decide what to do with you." I am hurled back into the cell, noting as I am propelled in that the other man is being held against the wall with silver tipped spears again. The implications of that sink in quickly. The points are dimpling the other man's skin, smoking hideously. The stench of burning flesh reaches my nose, and my empty stomach heaves in disgust. The man whimpers and gnashes his teeth, pressing himself as far into the corner away from the pain as he can. Finally the spears pull back and we are left alone. Both of us warily push ourselves into opposing corners and try to rest while keeping an eye on each other. Neither of us sleeps deeply.
