Chapter 4: Schooling

Only a couple hours into the day and already well on her way to developing a downright rotten mood, Njada marched into the mead hall, slamming the doors shut behind her. The only thing making her feel better at the moment was the prospect of what was waiting for her in the chest next to her bed . . .

She suppressed a justified little grin. Better not let anyone get any whiff of the secret she was hiding. She picked up her pace, yearning to see her treasure again.

"Njada."

She came to an abrupt stop, gnashing her teeth.

Of course!

Turning around, she pasted on something at least resembling a convivial little simper.

Aela was standing at the door, looking less than friendly herself. She hardly ever seemed to crack a smile, that woman. She softly pulled the door close behind her. "I'd like a word with you."

"Uh-huh," Njada said with forced nonchalance.

Shit.

Aela stalked toward her—glide was more like it, as her approach did not make so much as a squeak on the floorboards. She wore a suggestion of a frown, and the way the green warpaint there was flaking bespoke of it being a more than uncommon expression on her.

"What about?" Njada cursed her cracking voice.

Aela stopped right in front of her, locked her gaze with concerned eyes. She breathed out long through her nose. "I am concerned," she said slowly. "About your, ah, behavior lately."

Njada opened her eyes wide. "Oh?" she managed to recover some stability in her voice. "What's the problem?" She did her best to appear surprised, although she obviously was not in the least.

Aela nodded. "Yes. I of course know you for your individual temper, and that's fine as it goes. But it has seemed to go a bit further than that lately. I worry it has started to affect the dynamics of our group. Is there something—" she frowned more deeply, "—troubling you?"

You mean other than your pretentious prattling?

Njada shook her head. "No. I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

Aela the Huntress studied her for a few seconds that seemed to stretch into infinity. "I see," she said then. "Are you sure? Because, as you know, Farkas and I have gone through great pains to keep this group together and functional. Talos knows it is hard work at times, but we've managed. We've kept up the harmony. And I have no intention of letting anyone's personal grievances get in the way of that harmony. Do you understand?"

Her voice was taking on a more and more accusatory tone.

"Of course," Njada said painstakingly, the weight of uninvited guilt pressing on her diaphragm. "Like I said, I'm not sure what you mean." She tried to give her head a shake indicating perplexity, but her accursed cranium felt heavy somehow. Co-operate, you!

Aela swallowed and narrowed her eyes a trifle. "That's what you said. But I'm not sure I quite believe you."

That was as passive a way of saying "you lying sack of shit" as Njada had ever heard. She felt a jolt of indignation.

"Is that so?" she said between clenched teeth.

"Yes," replied Aela, nodding. "And I'm not about to stand here and try to pry out of you what it is that is bothering you." Her voice was winding tighter by the word. "But I will tell you this: either deal with it, talk to someone about it—whatever it takes—or then you work on keeping it better hidden. Cause the last thing this place needs is unchecked personal traumas. Do you understand me?"

She might have just as well slapped Njada across the face. She actually felt her face sting, cheeks getting hotter.

"I don't know—" she started. There just didn't seem to be any place not desperate for her words to go.

Luckily Aela wasn't letting her get any in. "And what's more—" She was officially schooling her now "—you have to remember that we are a group first and foremost. As as it is, you have to work as a part of it. If you can't bring yourself to do that—well, then I just don't know what to tell you."

Yes you do, you'd like to tell me to leave here and never be seen again. Isn't that right, you eerie, hypocritical witch?

"I see," Njada managed.

"Good," Aela said after a pause. "Then I believe we are understanding each other alright?"

"I . . ." Njada deflected the vehement desire bubbling inside her, the desire to argue fiercely. She knew she had no proper argument. Aela—curse her—was perfectly right, of course. She had a habit of that.

"I understand."

There was obviously never a question of whether Aela was even going to try to understand her. This was a one way road, all about putting the underling in her place. It hardly qualified as unfair. It was just . . . bullshit.

Just another day around here.

"Excellent," Aela said, smiling triumphantly. "Now, we're going to go to The Bannered Mare for some meads. I trust you're joining us?"

It wasn't even an offer, really.

"Yes, of course," Njada replied. "I'll just stop and get something from my bunk and I'll be right behind you."

"Good," Aela said, and turned around.

Njada watched the woman's distancing back. "Bitch," she muttered.

Aela stopped in her tracks.

Aw, crap!

She slowly turned to look over her shoulder. "Sorry, did you say something?"

Njada shook her head. "Nope, nothing."

Aela stared her a few chilling seconds, blinking. "Oh, good."

Then she was out the door.

Njada breathed out in both relief and suppressed anger. For a moment she could do nothing but stand there and try not to scream out her frustration. She felt cold and stiff, and it was actually a close thing that she didn't start to shake.

She was hard pressed to admit that in addition to her irritation toward the woman, she was also genuinely scared of her—one of the very people, in fact, she'd go as far as to say that about. Something about Aela's cold wan eyes gave her that undefinable chill of dread. She didn't even need to raise her voice at all to give you the distinct impression she could just tear you to pieces if she so decided.

Njada sighed, and turned to continue on her original trek, when she saw the kid. He was standing in the corner of the room, next to a table with a wet rag in his hand, staring at her.

She hadn't even noticed him there, the quiet little rat-pup.

"What are you looking at?" she snarled.

The boy blinked. "I think it's unfair, you know."

"What?"

"The way she just treated you," he replied. "It's not fair."

"I don't recall asking you to weigh in." She pointed her finger sharply. "Less eavesdropping, more tables-wiping!"

Cub looked surprised. "But I just—"

"Keep you snout out of grown-up business, alright!" Njada said, continuing to walk away.

Hroar hung his head in resignation."Yes, Ma—"

Njada snapped around. "And do not call me 'Madame'!"

The kid was smart enough to keep from responding that time, and—grumpier than ever—Njada marched downstairs.


"Eavesdropping," Hroar muttered, trying to scrub off the bread crumbs crusted onto the tabletop. "Like it's my fault you don't pay attention."

The crud wouldn't budge, as if permanently pasted there with god know how many months' worth of spilled ale and mead, while the dark cloud hanging over his head was getting bigger and drabber. Didn't anyone ever clean around here? What was the purpose of having a maidservant in the first place?

And all the while the cross, disapproving face of Njada Stonearm loomed in front his eyes. It was clear she was only taking her frustration out on him. They were not so different, him and her; both looked down upon and treated unfairly. If only there was some way he could bring her to see it.

He'd of course seen the whole affair peaking out the window, the fight between Njada and Vilkas. And what he'd seen had only served to confirm what he'd already suspected: that this was a special lady indeed. The way she'd moved—so elegant and strong—was like watching an exquisite work of art unravel right in front of your eyes. When she fought, she made it look like dancing.

Clearly she must have been the greatest fighter of them all. How did the others not see it? Were they all blind, or just plain stupid? And why was Aela the Huntress so mean to her? As far as Hroar could see, Njada had done no wrong.

His stomach clenched up with guilt, thinking along those lines. After all, what was he, a mere whelp, to criticize his saviors? What did he claim to even know about them?

Well, perhaps savior was a bit of an exaggeration, but it was clear he already owed them a great deal, simply giving him the chance.

The chance of what, breaking my back trying to cleanse their filth?

He sighed. One way or another he'd have to show Njada—show them all—that he was made of the right stuff. But, as it was, he could not even get these damned crumbs off the table.

He started then, when he heard a clonking sound. Looking up, he saw Torvar, slumping on the same chair he'd been on yesterday, his forearms braced against the table and his dirty hair hanging down in front of his eyes. Hroar had not heard him coming at all, he'd pussyfooted there so silently from nowhere. Like a ghost. And with his face all pallid, he sort of looked like one too.

The man did not look like he wanted to be bothered, so Hroar just kept wiping the table, leaving the crumbs to soak for a minute while going on to wipe underneath all the plates, goblets, and empty bottles.

The man stirred after a minute.

"Could you please make a little less noise?" he rasped.

"Oh," Hroar replied. "Sorry."

He did his best to clean quieter, though he didn't think he'd been making all that much noise in the first place.

"You're a good lad, aren't you?" Torvar said a moment later in his half-whisper.

Hroar stopped. He fought back a sudden terror risen upon those words. He'd heard them many times before.

Grelod . . .

Don't go there!

Like the pain from an old wound, he'd have to learn to leave such things in the past where they belonged.

"Ah, I suppose so, sir," he said uncertainly.

The man snorted, then winced as if the doing so hurt his head. "Sir," he muttered in either amusement or great pain, or perhaps both. "Long time since anyone called me that."

"What do they call you, then?" Hroar asked, feeling like it was probably not the smart thing to do.

The man gave him a long bloodshot look. "I doubt you've ever even heard all the words they call me. I know I haven't. Still . . . " He sniffed, grabbed the full bottle in front of him and took a long gulp. "I'd say I've just about earned them all."

"Oh, sorry," Hroar muttered for lack of anything more eloquent. He went back to wiping the table.

"Not as sorry as I am," the man mumbled. He finished up the bottle with a quick flick of the wrist and went for another one.

After a moment of awkward silence, Hroar was nearly done with the table, hoping he'd be out of the situation soon.

After the third bottle he'd gotten down in a rapid succession, the man once more addressed Hroar.

"Don't ever take up the drink, boy," he said. "She's a tough lover."

Hroar blinked. "Well, I wasn't planning on it."

Torvar studied him, then nodded, lifting the bottle to his lips. "Good." He sipped. "That's good."

But although the man seemed content with that reply, Hroar didn't continue his wiping, but instead lay the rag on the table. "Couldn't you just quit?" he asked.

Torvar's eyes went wide. "Quit? Ha!" He finished his bottle with a shake of his head. "One doesn't simply 'quit.'"

Hroar shrugged. "Why not?"

This time the man looked at him more carefully, as if inspecting whether he was being messed with. But Hroar was not playing with the man. He simply did not understand. It appeared as if the man deciphered as much, because he just shook his head, snorting. Like adults often did when they found what you said ridiculous somehow.

"Boy, when you learn a bit more about the ways of this world, you won't be asking such silly questions no more."

Of course Hroar was not entirely clueless about "the ways of this world". He knew the drink had a strange power to enthrall some, to tie its little finger around them and never let go. Not as long as they lived, at least. But as to why, he'd never understood. Perhaps this man could explain.

At any rate, he was rapidly gaining the upper hand on his initial slump, the beers having invigorated him somewhat. He had now produced a bottle of brandy, and was looking around the table for a clean cup to pour it in. Ultimately he settled for a big swig straight off the bottle. After which he winced, and for a second looked as if he might hurl. But he managed to keep it in.

For a while, Hroar silently watched the man go about his recovery process. "So, why can't you quit?" he asked then.

The man looked up, almost like he'd forgotten all about Hroar standing there. "I dunno. Why can't you stop asking stupid questions?" He barked a dry laugh. "No, I'm sorry. You're a good kid." He took another long drink.

Still not answering the question.

Hroar stirred impatiently. "No, really—"

"You tell me," Torvar interrupted. "Ever felt like you're in the wrong place at the wrong time—everywhere and every time?"

"How do you mean?"

"How I mean," the man said after another swig and wince, "is I happen to have an eye for people, and I think I recognize a little bit of me in you."

"That so?"

Torvar nodded. "That so." He looked hard at Hroar. "Well? Am I right?"

Hroar frowned. "About what?"

The man shook his head, and rolled his eyes. Then he took a longer swig, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Afterwards he grinned at Hroar. "You don't belong here," he said.

Hroar felt as the man had just slapped him. "I don't?"

"No," Torvar said, shaking his head. "And neither do I. And yet," he fanned out his arms, "here we are."

"Yeah . . ." This conversation did not appear to be going anywhere. Hroar started to think he should just make up an excuse and leave the man to his drink.

But Torvar didn't seem to be quite done. "Don't let them get to you, hear me?"

"Them?"

Torvar gestured at the empty room. "The people here. The Companions."

"Get to me? I'm not sure they've tried to—"

"Ha! They'll try, trust me. They will most certainly try. But men like you and me?" he waved his dirty finger between them. "We're ungettoable. Am I right?" He cocked his head back and laughed. "Yeah, I'm right. I know I'm right."

"Okay . . .," Hroar said slowly. "Well, it's been nice chatting with you."

"Huh?" Torvar said, as if he had already forgotten about him. "Oh, yeah. Sure."

At least it didn't seem like he was going to try to engage Hroar again. He was more focused on trying to empty the bottle of brandy. Hroar took that as his cue. He quickly gathered up the remaining crumbs from the table into his hand and dropped them, alongside the rag, into the bucket at his feet, then made to leave.

Torvar called one more time at his back. "Remember: just because we don't belong, don't mean they can just treat us any which way. Am I right?" He laughed. "Yeah, I know I'm right."

Then he went about continuing to get drunker, and Hroar went on to clean the bedroom at the north end of the building.


Muttering a litany of curses, Njada stomped downstairs and toward the sleeping quarters. "'Harmony'," she muttered. "You can shove your harmony right up your ass."

Was there any limit to the woman's dishonesty? Harmony—seriously? All she'd ever done was to stalk around the premises scaring the crap out of anyone who would not comply with what passed for her standards of order and cohesion.

Njada had no proof of it, but she suspected that Aela was the one who originally drove Torvar into spending all his days with the bottle instead of taking part in any missions. It had been months since he'd even last gone on a quest that wasn't to acquire more hooch. Why'd they even keep him around anymore? Njada was sure that it was simply to let everyone know what happened to anyone who wouldn't toe the line. It wouldn't be just out of the group anymore, no—you'd get turned into a laughingstock, an example to everyone. The communal fool to make everyone else feel better about themselves. "Whew, at least I'm not that guy!"

She shook her head in mute rage. And now Aela—and to an extent, Farkas—had gotten everyone all obsessed about catching this Red Viper fellow. And so far the man with the facetious sobriquet had proven to be like a ghost. Whenever they'd gotten a lead on him, it had turned out like the latest fiasco. A bunch of low-level thugs, more cattle for slaughter than adversaries worthy of fighting.

Njada was actually really starting to suspect the man was just a ploy invented by some more-clever-than-average bandit to wipe out competition. The picture of the man—a moderately handsome Nord—spread around for identification could have pretty much been anyone. Or no-one.

Who was he even supposed to be? Some middle-ranking bandit chief up and coming in the underworld. There were persistent rumors going around of him having strong ties to both the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, both of which had been rapidly regaining in strength as of late, and which were actually rumored to have joined forces under shared leadership. This even though the latter outfit had all but vanished since the assassination of the Emperor Titus Mede II.

That in itself had been an ugly affair. Some particularly unpleasant Imperial snoop had been after them for half a year without result. Everybody knew it had been an agent of the Brotherhood, but no one could get to them. If they used to be shady before, they were certainly that nowadays. Yet, everybody feared them more than they ever had.

All and all, with the rampant lawlessness these days, you'd think it was a profitable time to be hunting for bounties. And it was, or should have been; but the efforts of Aela had seen to it that the individual members of the Companions were no longer freely able to take on personal quests. To do so was to risk incurring the displeasure of the highest ranking members. That meant Aela and Farkas, especially the former. This even after all the the talk of the Harbinger not leading them—of no-one actually leading them.

It was all just so much hypocritical hogwash.

The Harbinger, Njada thought, scoffing. Talk about hogwash!

She arrived at her bed. No one else was there in the sleeping quarters, just as she'd hoped. Of course, the Companions had been suffering from insufficient manning—and womanning—lately; yet Aela and Farkas seemed to be suffering from chronic mistrust, not letting any new members join in a long while. It was not like there hadn't been eager souls for it, but no one seemed to be good enough for them.

Njada knelt down and opened the lock of the chest next to her bunk. The loot was there waiting for her. She smiled, picking up the adorned weapon and inspecting it in the light of the oil lamp on her dresser. It truly was a beautiful work of craftsmanship. Though likely quite old, not as much as a dent was marring the surface of the blade. It was almost as if it had never been used, which seemed unlikely somehow. With its perfect balance and magnificent incisiveness, it was practically begging to draw blood. Even a fool could use a weapon like this to her advantage.

A fool, you say?

"Shut up," Njada muttered.

She could no doubt fetch a good price for such an exquisite article, and those gems embedded in the hilt surely wouldn't hurt either. But there was just one problem. The problem begun with the fact that she'd had to hide her loot in the first place. And that was that the Companions had "agreed" to turn all loot acquired during quests communal. That meant no one member was technically allowed to take personal loot. It hardly needed to pointed out that Njada had opposed vehemently implementing such a clause. It was the stupidest fucking bullshit she'd ever come across in her life, and she'd said as much out loud.

Aela had obviously not taken her protesting too well. Keeping her true feelings hidden behind that haughty mask of hers, she'd informed her that the proposition would "of course" be subjected to a vote. Then, with a cold sweep of her eye, she'd taken the number of everyone in the room, asked in a quiet voice, with obvious imperious undertones, if anyone else had an objection. Asked for anyone who did to come up and say so.

No one had.

The gods-damned cowards!

So of course the vote was a walkover, and from thence on everyone was obliged to turn in all loot, and the profit was shared evenly. Njada had marched out after the vote, and though Aela had spared her a scolding that time, it was obvious she did not forget. She'd kept an eye on her ever since, just waiting to get a chance to set her straight.

Well, she'd had her chance today, and she'd taken it. Njada's mood turned back to rotten-ale sour just thinking back to it.

Bitch!

But it didn't matter. Aela—or anyone else for that matter—would never know she'd kept this one to herself. She'd sell it before they got a chance and hide the money. Hell, she'd dig a hole in the ground to stash the gold if need be.

The only problem, then, was that there weren't many people in Whiterun she could turn to. The obvious choice would have normally been Eorlund Gray-Mane; the Companions' masterful smith was always eager to buy anything metal, no matter how lowly of worth. The commonplace objects he'd simply melt for materials for his own collections, the more worthy pieces he'd keep for himself, either for personal use or retail.

But Gray-Mane was a Companion, even if he did not officially belong to the group. If Njada went to him, chances were the honorable old coot would not only refuse to buy it off her, but might also go to Aela about it.

That was a risk she was not willing to take.

Her second option would have been the Warmaiden's, the smithy/store located by the main gate. But the problem there was that Adrianne Avenicci and Ulfberth War-Bear, the couple who ran the place, were also in close relations with the Companions, and knew about the ban on personal loot. They'd also most certainly get suspicious if she approached.

So it was the excact same problem with them as with Gray-Mane.

And that left only one man. One, unfortunately, whose guts Njada happened to vehemently despise, but who was still her only hope. At least if she didn't want to travel out of town to sell, or go to the travelling Khajiit merchants. And neither of those two things was she inclined to do. So she'd just have to swallow her bile.

Njada sighed. Any chance for her mood to significantly improve without some lubrication had now been ground down to its foundations. She dropped the dagger back into the chest and slammed the lid shut. She made sure to lock the thing and then headed upstairs. She wasn't in the mood for socializing, but could sure use a mead or two.

Or ten.


Hroar crashed on his bed, exhausted. Cleaning up after a gang of mead-swilling killers had turned out to be hard work, it had. How in the world swinging a broom and wiping dust could feel like taking on a small army of Draugr was inconceivable to him.

Not that cleaning had been the only task he'd been assigned to. Just as the Companions proper had been off enjoying themselves over mead, the ever grumpier Njada had caught him hard by the shoulder—though being touched by her had certainly been its own reward, even it it had hurt a bit—and told him to go downstairs to dust off the beds once he was done scrubbing the floor of the mead hall.

I'll show you how to properly dust the beds! he'd thought.

Then Njada had frowned, as if reading his mind, and he'd hastily given his meek acquiescence.

"Good," she'd said. "And keep your hands off my stuff!" Then she'd stormed off.

Njada Stormfoot, they should have called her.

After Hroar had been done with that particular grueling task, and as the Companions still had not returned, he'd gone to his room. Now, as he lay there all spent, he couldn't help but wonder if this would turn out like he'd planned after all. Of course it was his first day and all, but no one had said one word about starting his training as a warrior. Had he mistaken, did they only want him for their maid? The prospect was chilling.

Surely that was not the case. They would soon have to interview him, and then they'd know. They would find out that for the better part of a year now, Hroar had practiced a lot with the sword.

Well, with a stick, actually, but the idea was the same.

In any case, he'd gotten good. So good in fact that after a while, nobody at the orphanage had been able to beat him. Nobody besides Runa, that was, but he didn't bear a grudge. She had been his best friend, after all.

Runa . . .

The only thing he'd been jealous of her for was that she had been the only one to actually see the death of Grelod. She'd been right there when the killer had struck, sneaked behind the crone and sliced through her wiry, accursed neck. A lonely witness. She'd kept tight lipped about the whole thing, wouldn't say a word, no matter how much the others had tried coaxing her.

Hroar had been there alongside the rest that night, found her staring at the body, a strange mix of horror, exhilaration, and intrigue in her eyes. She'd looked at them standing there, cocked her head, and said, "Kill one person, and you can solve so many problems. I wonder at the possibilities!"

She'd put it in words what they'd all realized then. And it had changed them for good. Especially her and Hroar. Ever since they'd talked about the future, what they were planning to do. Killing had a place in their plans, however you looked at it. Runa started talking about becoming an assassin, joining the Dark Brotherhood. Hroar had treated such talk with a good measure of disdain. He'd not want to kill someone just because he got paid for it. No, he'd known from thence on he was destined to become a fierce warrior. He'd help rid the world of the cruel and the unjust, so making it a better place to live for the good and the just. The world might just have been rid of one monster, but more work needed doing.

He bit his lip. He could still hear her voice, he could. The voice of Grelod. The screaming, that he had gotten used to in time. But then, in the dark stillness of the sleeping hall, as she'd knelt next to his bed, speaking so softly . . . "Such a good, strong boy."

The only times she'd ever uttered such words.

Then her cold, skeletal hand. Stroking his head. Slithering underneath his blanket. Her revolting touch.

It happened to all of them in turn, that much was clear. But they never talked about it. Ever. Bound by a seal of shame, rendering them mute.

And then she was dead. The happiest day of their little lives.

Hroar closed his eyes, expelling the dark shadow of his memories. He'd kill that witch himself, a thousand times over if he got the chance. But she was gone, never to return.

More villains would come.

He would be there for them.