In the morning, Thaegoth ran into Sonja in the hall of the living quarters. She spoke over his greeting and got straight to the business at hand.
"Why didn't you tell me you'd spoken to the Jarl?" she asked.
Thaegoth had not expected to be found out quite so quickly, but he recovered well, and opened his mouth to ask how Sonja had found out. However, she anticipated him there as well.
"Aela and me went to see him," she said.
"Oh," said Thaegoth, surprised on a new tack now. "She's . . . ?"
Sonja looked towards the Harbinger's door, closed once more. She frowned, unwilling to involve Thaegoth so much when he still hadn't met Aela. "I don't know," she said. She frowned at the distraction and turned her best hard glare back on Thaegoth.
"He said something about politics—about us not getting involved," he said. "I thought you might disapprove."
Sonja had hoped for some seditious motive, a conspiracy to keep things hidden from her, a clue at Thaegoth's criminal past. Instead . . . she softened her glare. "That's what I was told," she said. She looked at Aela's door again. "Seems not to be true."
Thaegoth cleared his throat and prepared to say what he'd wanted to say after his original greeting. "I thought I'd head over to Windhelm, look for recruits in the arena."
Sonja's glare came back. "You've been here barely enough time to catch your breath," she said, "and you want to go running off to fucking Eastmarch? How do I even know you'll come back?"
Thaegoth found his words were coming as quickly as hers. "You talked about being in this for good," he said. "This isn't for me, it's for the Companions."
"You don't get to use us as an excuse, not now," snarled Sonja.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Thaegoth, "were we going to be threatening more chicken thieves with execution today, or did you have something else planned?"
Sonja took a step forward and levelled a finger at him. "Don't you—"
"Don't what?" cut in Thaegoth. "You're a good fighter, Sonja, probably better than I'll ever be. But this isn't a job for two—"
"There are three of us," said Sonja through her teeth.
"Are there?" asked Thaegoth. "Far as I know, you might have made up this Aela to scare off trouble. It's a fine idea, but it's reached its end." He strode towards the Harbinger's door, suddenly intent on wrenching it open. However, before he could reach for the handle, it swung inwards to reveal the Huntress herself. Her eyes were still bloodshot but there was no swaying to her movements, no sense that she might topple into insensibility at any moment.
Both of the other Companions froze. Aela looked right at Thaegoth and said, "If you take the carriage now, you should make it before the next big bout starts."
"You're gonna—" started Sonja.
"I am," said Aela. "Else this place will just get dustier. That what you want?"
Sonja didn't answer—they all knew her response anyway. She looked at the floor for a moment and said, "We don't even know if he'll come back."
Aela shrugged and said, "Then he shouldn't have told us where he was going." She shot Thaegoth a look that told him there would be no safe place for him in Skyrim or beyond if he did decide to skip out on them. Presumably, he thought, she had earned her title of the Huntress.
Aela flicked her head towards the door. "Go," she said. She turned to Sonja. "And tell Thorald to make him a sword that doesn't scream 'I'm an elf'."
On the carriage eastwards, Thaegoth examined the elven blade he had carried for perhaps a week now. Stolen out of a footlocker in an inn halfway back through Cyrodiil, he had no attachment to it, though there was an argument to be made for wielding it. Why should he hide his foreign nature to appease the Nords? Surely it was they who had to alter their ways, they who needed to dispense with their prejudices. He made up his mind then to have a quiet word with Thorald at the Skyforge. He could do with a better weapon, certainly, but there was no need for it not to reflect his ancestry.
After an uneventful journey, the carriage dropped him in front of what was presumably Windhelm—he took it for granted that the driver hadn't driven him to some other city out of silent maliciousness. The sun had vanished behind clouds somewhere on the route and though there was no snow—it still being the height of Skyrim's summer—there was a chill wind in the air that made Thaegoth wish he had invested in some furs before his hasty departure.
He trod quickly across the wide stone bridge that led to the city. The doors were opened for him, but the guard there hesitated for a moment, looking Thaegoth up and down for a moment. Once he was inside, another guard roughly bumped past him, cracking an armoured shoulder against his own leather-clad one. He frowned at the guard's retreating back and wondered if they would treat him so if they knew he was one of the Companions. He rubbed at the forming bruise and turned again as a voice came from nearby.
"First time in Windhelm, friend?" it asked. Thaegoth met the gaze of the speaker: a stout Argonian in worn clothes but with a smile on his face.
"I don't know what I was expecting," said Thaegoth, looking again after the guard, knowing it would accomplish nothing to create a fuss.
The Argonian shook his head. "I have not stopped wishing that we could all get along better," he said. He extended a hand and Thaegoth shook it, feeling the potential for strength in the grip. "Scouts-Many-Marshes," said the Argonian. "Just call me Scouts."
"Is that your real name?" asked Thaegoth, who knew a little of Argonian naming practices.
Scouts shrugged. "It's my name here," he said. He gestured in the direction of a brazier nearby. "You heading to the pit? Most visitors are."
"Yes," said Thaegoth, withholding his purpose for the moment.
"I was heading down myself, if you don't mind . . . ?" asked Scouts.
"Not at all," said Thaegoth. "Lead on. I'm quite lost in Skyrim, I admit. I am Thaegoth, by the way."
Scouts led Thaegoth around the brazier to a gap in the grey stone, a square black hole that descended down who knew how far. Thaegoth leaned over the wooden railing that surrounded three sides, noticing the gate on the fourth.
"The arena is . . . beneath Windhelm?" he asked.
"Only place for it," said Scouts. "Lift just took a group down, should be up in a moment. We call it the pit, round here," he added.
As if summoned by those words, the winch hanging over the hole began to turn and there was a scraping sound that gradually grew louder. Soon enough a wooden platform filled the hole, a ragged Nord man working the lever. He moved over and opened the gate and Scouts moved quickly to enter. Thaegoth followed.
"Could I give you some advice?" asked Scouts, once the lift began to descend and Windhelm vanished out of sight above them. Thaegoth gestured assent, though he wondered if they would descend into darkness. In truth, the above world was only out of sight for a moment before the lift clunked to a halt and a short stone corridor lit by torches appeared before them. Scouts leaned closed to Thaegoth as they stepped off the lift and murmured, "Don't bet."
"Why not?" asked Thaegoth, though he had no intention of doing so.
"Easy to get sucked in," said Scouts, with a tone that spoke volumes.
The arena was indeed revealed to be closer to a pit. A low-ceilinged place—at least for the spectators. Their space was the edges of a square with a wooden railing, looking down a two metre drop of sheer stone to a piece of dirt that sported numerous streaks and patches of dried blood. Perhaps two dozen people were gathered around the railings, watching the single door cut into the wall below. Scouts and Thaegoth found a place to lean on the railing and waited for the first bout to begin.
"Is it true prisoners fight for their freedom?" asked Thaegoth.
Scouts smiled. "True enough," he said. "Though it's not often they make it past the regulars. If you've just been caught for stealing some bread, how do you think you'll fare against them who fight for a living?" His smile faded. "Though there's a bandit on today, or so I hear. Should be interesting."
"How often are there fights?" asked Thaegoth.
"Today'll just be three or four—mostly regulars," said Scouts. "Happens once a week, though you can watch them spar more often. Big tournament first day of every month. Get people from all over for those."
"Anybody . . . particularly formidable?" asked Thaegoth. An obvious question, he supposed, but he was unable to think of a better way to phrase it that disguised his interests. He'd admit the environment didn't seem a fertile field of recruits so far—but he was in no place to judge.
Scouts' eyes widened and he was silent for a moment. "There was someone a few months back—took down everyone like they were just . . . just reeds in the wind. Didn't kill anyone though."
"Who were they?" asked Thaegoth with quick interest. The Companions was a place for such figures, if the stories he'd heard so far were anything to go by.
But Scouts shook his head. "Never took their helmet off," he said. "Full ebony armour! Just complained about the lack of real opponents—sounded like a Hammerfell accent to me, though. Shahvee said she saw them getting on the boat to Solstheim later on."
Thaegoth grunted. He was happy to trek across Skyrim for candidates, but Solstheim was pushing it. Still, he wondered what sort of real opponent this warrior in ebony would find on the island, and said so to Scouts.
"You really are lost in Skyrim, huh?" said the Argonian. "Solstheim's where the Dragonborn went." He frowned briefly. "Not that anybody's brought back a story in a while. Still, it'd take more than that warrior to put a dent in her."
"So I hear," said Thaegoth, marvelling again at the esteem in which the Dragonborn was held. And she had been a member of the Companions! The things they could do with such a warrior, he thought. And how they could use her now. Thaegoth shook his head of such thoughts—he lived in a world without legends, and would have to make do with reality. With Sonja, he thought, catching himself smiling.
It vanished as a Nord man walked out into the pit, dressed in hide armour. Scouts leaned close to Thaegoth and murmured, "That's Benkum. He manages the place, though sometimes you can see him sparring with the others."
This Benkum threw his arms wide and spun in place, looking up at the audience. "Welcome to the arena!" he announced. There were some ragged cheers from above him. "Three fights for you today—each sure to be a nailbiter! First up we have our very own Liesl against a savage orc, cast out from her stronghold—she's been amongst us before, I'm sure you'll give her a warm welcome: Borgakh Steel-Heart!"
Scouts was among those clapping. He grinned at Thaegoth. "Borgakh works as a guard up in Winterhold, really," he said. "She comes down here to make some extra coin."
"You sound like you know her," asked Thaegoth.
"She comes by the Cornerclub after, most times," said Scouts. He looked away. "I've never really spoken to her."
Thaegoth noticed a weasely-looking man making the rounds around the audience, swiftly taking bets, depositing coins and promise-notes into a complicated array of pockets. When he reached them, Thaegoth shook his head and the man moved on, Scouts looking relieved.
The two combatants entered the arena side-by-side, to Thaegoth's surprise. Liesl was a Nord woman with a thin plume of red hair, dressed in hide armour. She carried an iron battleaxe loosely in both hands and there was a streak of dark paint across her eyes. Borgakh had the same pitch-black hair as every orc Thaegoth had met, cropped short. She was dressed in the armour of her people and wielded a matching sword but a steel shield.
Two people who already had jobs, thought Thaegoth. He wondered how content they were with those positions, to be battering away at each other for profit and glory—or patrolling the snowswept coast of Winterhold, in Borgakh's case. Benkum had stepped back from the pair, who now faced each other across the pit.
"Begin!" called Benkum.
"Who would you back?" asked Thaegoth, finding himself strangely drawn to the combatants as they began to circle each other.
Scouts didn't take his eyes off the pit. "There won't be any death," he said. "But . . . Borgakh's the better fighter, though it'll take a while for Liesl to admit it."
"I'll crack you like an egg!" Liesl called suddenly. Borgakh said nothing in response, though something twitched across her mouth.
Scouts was right—although Borgakh was indeed the better fighter, it took many batterings for Liesl to admit it. Her battleaxe clattered off Borgakh's shield repeatedly and left a few dents in her foe's armour, but inflicted no real damage. Borgakh, however, left Liesl with half a dozen cuts. None of them deep, noticed Thaegoth with appreciation, but serious enough that Liesl would probably miss next week's fights. Before that could extend to the next two weeks, Liesl called submission. There were some jeers from the audience, mostly drowned out by cheers for Borgakh.
Thaegoth found himself clapping along with everybody else. There was a balance here, he thought, between not disgracing oneself in the fight, and keeping upright enough to fight again another day. Borgakh exited the pit, followed by Liesl, hiding a limp. Thaegoth watched the bookmaker dish out the returns to the audience and saw the disappointment and anger on the faces of those who had made a loss.
"Nothing like some blood in the dirt!" Benkum was exclaiming. "Next up we have our old favourite, Edorfin"—here there was a smattering of laughter from the crowd—"taking on a surprise fighter: Huki Seven-Swords!"
There were shocked mutterings from the crowd. Thaegoth turned to ask Scouts the meaning of this, but the Argonian was already explaining. "Huki helps run the place," he said, "she doesn't usually fight. Edorfin usually fights Brond—they have a feud. They must be keeping him back for the bandit." He shook his head. "I don't favour their chances against him."
"A feud?" asked Thaegoth. He wasn't feeling particularly hopeful so far, though he hated to return to Jorrvaskr empty-handed. He watched Edorfin and Huki enter the pit and was surprised to see the former was a fellow wood elf, dressed in hide armour with a steel longsword. Huki looked competent enough, despite what Scouts had said about her. Her studded armour was cleaner than her foe's, but her iron greatsword had clearly seen use.
Scouts made a non-committal gesture. "Edorfin and Brond act like they have a feud," he said. "Whether it's for real . . . nobody can agree."
An issue of performance, wagered Thaegoth. Like Liesl's warpaint, or the spin of Borgakh being a stronghold outcast. An edge to the contest, something to give the audience a story to cling to.
Edorfin and Huki proved evenly matched, much to the interest of the audience. Even Thaegoth found himself leaning across the railing. Edorfin offered a quip now and then—"My kid cousin has a puppy can hit harder than that"—most of which made the audience boo him, though Huki remained silent.
Eventually, Huki got Edorfin on his back and pressed the edge of her greatsword against his throat. Half the breaths of the audience stopped, and Thaegoth thought Edorfin's was sure to as well. A thin line of blood appeared under the blade and Edorfin mouthed the word "Submit". Huki removed her sword and strode from the arena under heavy cheers. Edorfin, with hollow eyes, dodged a thrown tomato and hurried after her.
"That was just a taste!" Benkum assured them. "For our final bout we have a real treat for you! Our resident champion, Brond"—here there were cheers—"taking on a bandit, a bandit who needed a dozen guards to restrain her! In a fight . . . to the death!"
"A dozen guards?" murmured Thaegoth. Scouts made an apologetic look. Still, it sounded promising, provided this bandit could survive the pit's alleged champion.
"Won't be a lot of bets on her," said Scouts. For the bandit was indeed female, a Nord dressed in ragged furs and wielding an iron mace. Her ragged brown hair fell around her face and there was dried blood at the left edge of her mouth. Brond was immense, a towering Nord man with a long blonde beard, dressed in hide and wielding an iron greatsword almost as big as he was. Impractically, it seemed already stained with blood. Thaegoth suspected tomato juice.
As the two fighters closed in on each other, Brond spoke. "There are good pit fighters and dead pit fighters," he said. "I been here for years—what do you think that makes me?"
"Don't get ahead of yourself," said the bandit woman, in a voice barely above a growl.
Brond grinned and came at her with a high swing. She ducked it easily, pivoting to avoid the follow-up strike. She snuck a blow at Brond's knee, sending him limping away.
"Lucky," he said, gesturing with his greatsword. "But I got reach on you."
The bandit shrugged. "And once I'm past it?" she asked.
Brond grinned. "No difference," he said. "Steel or barehanded, it's all fighting. I can kill you whichever way you like."
"We'll see," said the bandit.
She came at him and dodged a downward strike, planting one foot on the tip of the blade and swinging a crunching mace-blow at Brond's hands. He saw it coming and dropped his sword, jumping away. The weapon dropped to the dirt and the bandit kicked it to her right against the stone wall.
She swung her mace at Brond's head and he caught its shaft in his gloved hands. The combatants pressed against each other with all their might and the crowd seemed to collectively lean closer. Thaegoth swore he saw the bandit smile. Sweat was breaking out across both of the fighter's brows. The bandit suddenly let go her grip and jumped right.
Brond went sprawling on his hands and knees, still clutching the mace. As he was rising, a grin on his face at holding his foe's weapon, he felt his own sword hack into his back.
"You're strong," said the bandit. "But you're a fucking idiot."
Brond went down onto his face and the bandit hacked again. The crowd had gone silent and Benkum looked like he really wanted to interfere but didn't want to go within range of that sword. Two hacks later, Brond stopped kicking. The bandit, her forearms splattered with blood though there was not a scratch on her, looked over at Benkum.
"I'm free now, right?" she asked. "Or is there someone else you'd like me to kill?" Benkum was looking rather frantically at the bookmaker, gesturing something. "Hey!" said the bandit. Benkum flinched.
"You're free," he admitted. His voice dropped lower and Thaegoth strained to hear him say, "But you won't make it out of Eastmarch alive."
The bandit spat in his direction. She dropped Brond's greatsword and retrieved her mace, then walked out of the pit. Thaegoth flinched himself as Scouts nudged him in the side.
"Best get out of here," said the Argonian. "People who've just lost money aren't fun to be around."
The pair headed for the lift and were in the first load back up into Windhelm. Thaegoth felt himself able to breathe easier back on the surface, though he hadn't noticed the opposite below. Still, there was something oppressing about the city's walls—maybe it was the height, or the colour of the stone.
"Where does that door in the pit come out?" Thaegoth asked. He'd made his decision about who to recruit—there could be no other, not after what he'd seen below.
"Guard barracks, I think," said Scouts.
Thaegoth nodded. "I have to get back to Whiterun," he said, the half-lie coming easy to his lips. "Boss won't like me being away even this long."
Scouts smiled. "Been there," he said. He extended a hand and they shook again. "If you're ever in these parts again, come by the Cornerclub for a drink. Friendliest place in town."
"I'll do that," said Thaegoth, and he was surprised to find that he meant it.
Scouts headed down some stairs to their right, but Thaegoth waited near the doors for a time, waiting to see if the bandit would appear heading for the exit. However, she did not, and the nearby guard grew frustrated.
"If you're going, go," they said, and Thaegoth, wishing to avoid confrontation, went. He found a new waiting spot at the other end of the bridge and so had a great deal of warning when the bandit exited the doors. However, as she reached him, he cursed himself for not using the time to prepare something to say.
"I'm Thaegoth," he said.
"Good for you," said the bandit, glaring at him. She headed past the stables towards the east and he fell into step with her.
"I saw you fighting in the . . . the pit. I was wondering what you were going to do with your freedom," he said.
The bandit suddenly stopped. There was a silence while something worked its way across her way. "Haven't a clue," she said.
"I represent the Companions," said Thaegoth. The bandit stared at him like he'd said he'd been born in the Shivering Isles, so he quickly added, "I'd like to ask you to join our ranks."
"You fucking with me?" asked the bandit. "You know I'm a bandit."
"What's your name?" Thaegoth asked.
"Nebia," she said. "Nebia Furotis."
"Nebia," said Thaegoth. He prepared to say what he hoped was true. "In the Companions we don't care about your past—anyone's past. If you can fight—and I've seen you can—then you can fight for what's right. With us, there is hope for a brighter future."
Nebia was still looking at him with scepticism. "I'm the exact sort you people usually get right to cutting up," she said.
"Well," said Thaegoth, looking at his boots. Thinking of something, he met her eyes again. "What were you arrested for?"
Nebia snorted. "Got sick of my fellow criminals," she said. "Went to turn them in, got arrested instead."
"Were you turning them in for the bounty, or because you wished to see the law upheld on them?" asked Thaegoth.
Nebia stared at him for a while before saying, "Both."
Thaegoth had to grin at that. "Good enough," he said. "Better than me, really," he added without thinking. He extended a hand towards Nebia, noting her raised eyebrows at his last statement. "So are you in?"
Nebia scratched at her chin, seemingly unaware of the faint bloodstains still occupying her hands. "Ah, fuck it," she said. She grasped Thaegoth's wrist. "Yeah, let's give the righteous life a shot."