Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, folks, this chapter has been giving me fits. Fits, I say! I couldn't find a good place to break it, so it's on the longish side. And although I'm still not happy with it, I'm a lot less unhappy...

Gratitude and dragon cookies to all you who have read, reviewed or messaged me—thank you for the encouragement! I know there are a lot of Skyrim stories out there. Thank you for reading mine.

10: Rumors of Dragons

Joric and his remaining soldiers stripped the Stormcloak camp as they prepared to ride east with Jarl Ulfric. A scout had already been sent ahead for reinforcements from the camp in the Rift. It was rumored, though not confirmed, that General Tullius and his surviving Imperials had retreated to Falkreath.

Like a nightmare, the dragon had vanished. Thorald felt his gaze frequently flick upwards to scan the sky. They all did it.

Stormcloaks struck down tents and packed gear with a fair show of efficiency. The campfire had not yet been doused. Ulfric sat at one of the rough log seats near the fire and beckoned for Thorald to join him. The soldiers covertly watched their jarl while they worked. His words, his gestures, his expressions were scrutinized and committed to memory. History would shape itself around this man. They all knew it.

Of a certainty, Jarl Ulfric was aware of his constant audience. He moved and spoke with deliberation, not precisely performing but not entirely natural either. Is this what it takes to be a king, Thorald wondered. What a terrible burden it must be to have such a destiny. Always having to be on guard, lest some careless word or action bring dishonor to his cause. Did Ulfric ever kick back, relax, drink and sing with his friends?

Thorald suspected he did not.

The jarl asked Thorald to once more describe what happened when he Shouted. Ulfric listened with the same intensity that he brought to everything he did.

"And the words came from your throat almost without volition? Do you know what they mean?" Ulfric's voice sounded rough and scratchy, just like Thorald's felt.

"No," Thorald said. "I know what they do. I saw what happened when you Shouted."

"It was your intention to push the dragon back."

"I had to."

"You had to." Ulfric sat back and gave a small huff of a laugh. "So you did." He regarded Thorald for a moment. "Do you understand what the Voice is?"

"Power?"

"It is magic. An old Nordic magic. Most Nords have the aptitude to learn to Shout, I am told, but for most of us it takes years of study and practice. That you should learn to Shout in your time of need is—" Ulfric hesitated a moment and then his eyes sharpened with decision. "You will not be returning to Windhelm with me," he said. Thorald opened his mouth and then shut it."I need you to ride to Whiterun and warn Balgruuf of this dragon. You are from Whiterun. You may enter his city without causing an affront."

Thorald's disappointment instantly turned to elation. Whiterun! He could try to set things straight with Grelka! He'd tried several times to write her a letter but was never able to make words flow on paper. But if he could see her, surely he could persuade her—he realized the jarl was still talking.

"Balgruuf and I have our differences but I would not see this danger strike him unprepared."

"No." If a dragon attacked Whiterun—Thorald's imagination flashed several grisly scenes from Helgen before he shut it off. Ulfric leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"After you have told Balgruuf what we know of this dragon, ride to Ivarstead and take the Seven Thousand Steps up to High Hrothgar. You must go to the Greybeards."

"The Greybeards?" He'd heard stories of the Greybeards from Uncle Vignar. They lived on Tamriel's highest mountain, the Throat of the World, the sacred place where Nords were created when the sky breathed upon the land. They wore gags because their voices were so powerful, even one of their whispers was deadly. On the rare occasions that they spoke, storms ravaged the land. "They're real?"

Ulfric raised his brows. "As real as you or I."

"I meant—"

Ulfric nodded in understanding. "The legends of our past still live."

"Do they?" Thorald breathed. Ulfric's eyes flashed. Ulfric's conviction was palpable and Thorald felt his own heart lift. After all, he had felt the Shout rip through his body like a living thing. It was magic. What else was possible? "What must I do?"

"You Shouted. With no training, you Shouted. We must learn how this is so."

"I learned it from you."

Ulfric shook his head. "The Words must be taken into yourself, studied and understood at the deepest level before they can be released as a Shout. This is how the Greybeards teach. Yet you can Shout. This demands an explanation that only the Greybeards can provide. You must present yourself to them and ask to be trained."

"You want me to train with the Greybeards?"

"We must learn what you can do. There was a time when the Voice was common with our people. Every war chief was a Tongue or had one in his army and when we went to war, the Tongues were our proudest, greatest weapons. But in the First Era, our armies suffered a horrific defeat against the elves at Red Mountain. The greatest of the Tongues that survived, Jurgen Windcaller, came to believe our defeat was due to misuse of the Voice. He retreated to Kyne's sacred mountain and there he founded the monastery of the Greybeards at High Hrothgar. Since that time, our people stopped using the Voice in battle."

"Is it forbidden?" Thorald asked.

"The Greybeards say the Voice should be used only in times of True Need." Thorald saw a spark of something in Ulfric's eyes—anger or frustration perhaps. "A handful of old men have the power to shake the entire world. They do not act. They sit, high on the mountain, and pray. They do not see what our people suffer. They do not see that the time of True Need is upon us now."Ulfric shook his head. "I studied with them, you know. It's been many a year since I've been to High Hrothgar. A lifetime ago. Three of us went. Will you hear the story?"

"Willingly."

"Three of us would-be heroes climbed the sacred mountain to learn the old ways. Our world was on the brink of war—this was before the Great War, you understand—but even then, we knew that great changes were almost upon us. As the bards say, we stood on the cusp of destiny." Ulfric snorted. Sometimes the bards are right, Thorald thought.

"Three of us climbed the Seven Thousand Steps. Balgruuf, Istlod and I, all of us jarls' sons, all of us wrestling the weight of history that pressed upon us. All of us hoping to surpass the deeds of our fathers. And each other, of course. The bonds of rivalry are perhaps stronger than the bonds of friendship and we were bound by both. Balgruuf, you know. Istlod was Torygg's father and already in line to be our High King."

Ulfric stared into the dying fire. "Istlod's been dead these few years now. His son meant the world to him but he showed his love by denying him nothing, so that Torygg never learned to stand on his own. And now Istlod's son is dead by my hand. We'd never imagined such a thing, back in those days when we bickered like boys and secretly measured ourselves against each other.

"I'm not sure what the Greybeards made of us but they allowed us to stay. The monastery sits high on Kyne's mountain. You can feel Kyne's presence in the winds that sweep down from the mountain's peak. The Throat of the World, they call it. The birthplace of our people.

"Istlod didn't last out the week. High Hrothgar is a cold austere place and the training was difficult and demanding. The Greybeards rarely spoke and they made it clear they found our idle chatter profane. Except for the wind, it was a silent place. Istlod was accustomed to the Blue Palace and all its luxuries, great and small. For me, coming from Windhelm, it wasn't such an adjustment." Thorald chuckled and Ulfric smiled. "In Windhelm, our wealth lies not in gold nor in trade but in honor and tradition. The monastery seemed almost like home to me.

"Balgruuf stayed longer, unwilling to leave as long as I was willing to stay. But in the end he realized what the Greybeards already knew, that he had no aptitude for the training. I did."

"That's where you learned to Shout."

"That's where I learned the few words of the thu'um I was able to master. You—you learned in five heartbeats what it took me years to understand."

"I've always been a good mimic."

"Can magic be mimicked? This is a gift, Thorald. You must go to the Greybeards and they will teach you how to use it."

"What if they turn me away?"

"They won't," Ulfric said flatly. "They can't." A silence rose. "This dragon. It means something, that it has shown up here and now. The Greybeards may know what it means."

"Some of the men say the dragon was sent to save you."

"That makes a pretty story. I am not so vain or foolish as to believe it. You saw what I saw. The dragon would have killed us, if it could." He laughed. "Too bad. If we did have our own dragon, we could certainly find some use for it. But no. It worries me that the scouts have seen no sign of the creature since Helgen. So you must warn Balgruuf. He and I may have our differences but his people must be protected. If you can't get an audience with Balgruuf, speak to his housecarl, Irileth. She is reliable."

"You know Irileth?"

"She fought with us in the Great War. That's when she and Balgruuf became such friends. Finest archer I've ever seen." He smiled. "If I had just one like her, perhaps I could turn the whole situation around in the Grey Quarter."

"When I first came to Windhelm, I was surprised how many dark elves there were. You see them only rarely in Whiterun."

"The dark elves came as refugees when the Red Mountain erupted. All these years later, they are still refugees. I thought they'd go to Solsteim when it was given to them but they stay. They complain but they stay. They want the protection of my walls but won't lift a finger to defend them. They sit in their slum and stew in their discontent but will they do anything to improve their lot?"Ulfric gave an exasperated sigh. "If they think they'd be happier under Thalmor rule, they should see how their kin are treated in Valenwood. I have no patience for them. They say this is not their fight. What that tells me is that this is not their home. They will not commit until they see which side will prevail. If they won't join my army they could at least join the city guard, but they won't even do that. Galmar says we should put the lot of them on a ship and send them back to Morrowind. The thought tempts me."

Ulfric shook his head. "I'm sorry, I digress. You should go. Good luck to you, Thorald. I will not forget the service you have done for me in Helgen. You know the traditional reward for a job well done—"

"Another job!" they said in unison.

"Aye," Ulfric said. "You'd best say goodbye to your family while you can. I think the Greybeards are going to keep you very busy. Time means nothing there, in High Hrothgar. You will see."

The alchemy shop was dim and quiet. A dark pungent concoction simmered over the fireplace, strong enough to make Brynjolf's eyes water, even from across the room.

"You're sure this potion will do the trick?" Brynjolf eyed the unmarked vial.

"If you administer it properly, it will work," Ingun Black-Briar said. She had a strong look of her grandmother, Maven. The same features, close enough, the same steely resolve, but with a lot less command and a lot more crazy. "Mix the entire contents in a drink. The potion has a characteristic sweet taste, so I recommend you mix it into something that will disguise this taste. Mead would be a good choice."

"Black-Briar mead, of course."

Ingun gave him a long emotionless look. No sense of humor. Just like Maven. "The initial reaction should begin to display in about a half hour and will be very similar to a frenzy spell. The subject will become belligerent, irrationally so. When this phase wears off, the subject will become unconscious and will not be able to be roused until the drug is completely metabolized some hours later."

Brynjolf took a moment to digest these words. "That sounds perfect. It won't cause any permanent harm, will it?" He wanted this nosy stranger out of town, preferably without her valuables. If she was humiliated in the process, all the better. He didn't want her dead, especially not if she was associated with the Companions. He just wanted her gone from his city.

"Please let me know the results. I haven't been able to do as much field testing as I would like."

So there's a chance it won't work, Brynjolf thought sourly. With the luck we've been having lately—well, it had just better work.

"I'll let you know," Brynjolf said. "Give my regards to your grandmother."

"My mother."

Brynjolf blinked. "Say what, lass?"

"You will refer to Maven as my mother. She insists." Ingun's voice was expressionless but her eyes were hard and angry. He had just heard some strange whispers about her and her father, Hemming. He heard they had run into trouble in Whiterun—messy, embarrassing, costly trouble—and Maven was seriously displeased. He'd asked Mercer and Mercer had only smirked. So something had gone down. Was that resentment he saw in the girl's eyes?

Brynjolf watched her carefully. It was true enough that Maven had raised both Ingun and Sibbi as her own after their terribly unsuitable mother left. After their mother was disposed of, his mind whispered. And 'grandmother' was such an aging title. But did Hemming go along with this? Probably so. The only way Hemming had ever defied his mother was in his dalliances.

He shook his head. Those Black-Briars, all as crazy as outhouse skeevers. But as long as they had power and they had gold, he supposed they could be as crazy as they liked.

xxx

Rumors of dragons had outraced Thorald to Whiterun. It was broad daylight and the city gates were closed. Like that will keep out a dragon, Thorald thought. He left his horse with the stable boy and girded his loins to knock on the residence door. Before he could do so, Lilith Maiden-Loom, owner of the stable and Grelka's aunt, swept out into the yard. She glared.

"You!" She was distracted at the sight of his horse being led away. "Where did you get that horse? She looks familiar."

"Er."

"Never mind that. You have a lot of nerve, showing your face in Whiterun."

"Is Grelka here? I wish to speak to her."

"It's too late for that, isn't it? And no, she's not here. She left. After what you did, who could blame her, poor girl."

It took an effort not to grind his teeth and a real effort to keep his tone civil. "Where is she?"

Lillith put her hands on her hips. The brackets by her mouth deepened. "I won't tell you."

"What? Why not?"

"She told me not to." With that, she flounced back into her house. He took a step forward, ready to pound on her door. But it was hopeless. She was immune to his sweet-talk and he doubted a dragon could intimidate her.

"Oblivion," he muttered.

The gate guards recognized him and let him in without an argument. Which was good because Thorald was seething. Whiterun seemed just the same as when he left, which perhaps was unsurprising, considering he hadn't been gone all that long. Even if it did seem like a lifetime. His scowl and fast determined pace carried him past old friends and acquaintances but that I-can't-talk-now aura didn't work on his mother. Her mouth opened wide and her market basket hit the cobbles.

"Thorald! You're alive!"

"Of course I am. Divines' sake, don't shout."

"Such dreadful things we've heard."

Thorald drew his mother out of the marketplace and to a sheltered area behind the inn. It took him a moment to disengage from her fierce hug. "I can't stay to talk, I have to see the jarl."

"They said you died at Helgen. That you'd been captured with Jarl Ulfric and all of you were killed there."

"Who said that?"

"Those dung-licking Battle-Borns. Olfrid. And his lout of a son-in-law, Idolaf. Olfrid came right up to my little market stand, told me you'd got what was coming to you, that you were dead with the other Stormcloaks."

Thorald had known Olfrid Battle-Born his whole life. Back when he and Jon ran together, Olfrid had been practically another uncle, distant and stately but not unkind. When had he become so petty and malicious? And where did he get his information? He seemed disturbingly well-informed. Like Vignar, he no doubt had a web of informants but why would he taunt his mother like this? It was pointless and cruel.

"Ma, don't listen to them. Don't talk to them. I've got to go, but tell me, do you know where Grelka went?"

Fralia Gray-Mane sniffed. "That Girl. No. She said she needed a break, was going to take a little trip somewhere. Humph. A break. When your da is working as hard as he is. If anyone needs a break, it's Eorlund. Not that he'd ever take one."

"I have to go."

"Where's your uniform? I really wanted to see you in your uniform. An officer! I bet you look spiffy."

"Spiffy?" Thorald choked back a laugh. "I don't wear a uniform now, I'm on a special assignment. Please don't talk about this to anyone."

"As if I would. Except to your Uncle Vignar of course. Now you come eat supper with us when you finish your little chat with the jarl. I've got a nice roast."

Saerlund had to run to catch up with Wylandriah. Goodness, that woman had long legs. She strode through the busy marketplace like she had it to herself. In a way, she did. On seeing her wizard's robes, most scrambled to get out of her way. They did not make way for him. By the time he reached her he had to wait for her to finish her business with the food vendor.

"You'll have the chickens by tomorrow, Marise?" the mage asked anxiously.

"Six chickens by tomorrow," the Dunmer said. "Do you want them cleaned, plucked and drawn?"

"It would be nice if they were clean," Wylandriah said. "But plucked? Oh! You mean—no, no, Marise, I need live chickens. That's very important."

"You want six live chickens? To take to the keep?" The vendor raised skeptical brows at Saerlund. He shrugged. "I'll have them caged and ready by tomorrow."

Wylandriah beamed.

Saerlund wondered what she wanted with the chickens. If he asked, she'd probably tell him. He decided not to ask. He also wondered how she'd get them to her workroom. He hoped it wouldn't be a repeat of her relocation of the spiders. He wasn't sure Riften was ready for the sight of six unfettered chickens happily marching in a straight line behind their court mage. He certainly wasn't.

"Mother and Anuriel were fussing again about this fire protection system," he said. "How does it work?"

"It doesn't."

"It doesn't work?" What do you mean?" He wondered if it had anything to do with chickens.

"I haven't got the theory completely worked out. It will be awhile yet."

Could she have forgotten? Speaking carefully, he said, "But Wylandriah, the control boxes are all over town. Everyone's been talking about it for weeks. The system cost a bloody fortune. There was a special tax to pay for it." He took in her blank stare with a sinking feeling. "You don't know what I'm talking about. How can you not know what I'm talking about? Anuriel says the system is finished. Except for some fine tuning or something. You know how she gets when she doesn't have any idea what she's talking about and keeps on talking anyway."

"Saerlund. I haven't installed a fire protection system. The cloud siphon won't scale up properly and wait—you say the system is finished?"

"Could Anuriel have hired some other wizard to install it?"

"Without even having the courtesy of talking to me first? When she knew I was working on it? Would she be so discourteous? So unprofessional?"

Maybe, he thought. Probably.

"They didn't even show me the design? Or invite me to the testing?" Wylandriah was getting increasingly worked up. She waved her hands. It was never good when she started waving her hands.

"You know, that's another funny thing," he said. "I don't believe the system has been tested at all. Some of the merchants came asking about that, in fact, and Anuriel put them off."

"How does it work? If someone has stolen my research, I'll—well, I don't know what I'll do. But I'll do it! And they won't like it. Whoever they are."

"I'm not sure how it works. There's a Dwemer pump somewhere down near the cistern. Calcelmo supplied it, so it should be reliable."

"Calcelmo! A Dwemer pump!"

"That's what Anuriel said. I was sure you knew about it. Isn't he your friend? You have all his books."

"I certainly thought he was my friend!"

"But—"

"I thought I knew Calcelmo quite well. He's been of considerable help with my research. And all this time he was going behind my back? And to put in a pumping system?" Her voice rose higher and higher. The people in the marketplace who hadn't already edged away did so now. "I told him that would never work, we don't have the Dwemer technology to make and install the pipes required. And any sort of mechanical heat detection would be ridiculously complicated, and that's not even allowing for thermic drift. He agreed with me—or pretended to. How can people treat me this way? People I trusted! I don't believe it. I just don't believe it!"

"You know," Saerlund said slowly. "I don't quite believe it either."

'Dragon' was the magic word that got Thorald into Dragonsreach for an immediate audience with the jarl. Along with the jarl's brother, his housecarl, his steward and court mage.

"You saw this horror?" the jarl asked. "With your own eyes?"

"It tore down Helgen Keep practically on top of us," Thorald said.

"Where is it now?" Balgruuf asked. "Is it headed this way?"

"I don't know," he had to admit. "We lost track of it once it left Helgen. Someone in Riverwood saw it fly north into the mountains."

"If it is lurking in the mountains, Riverwood is in the most immediate danger," Irileth said. "We should send troops now." The steward began a protest but the jarl cut him off.

"You are right," he said. "Take care of it. I suppose it is too much to hope the beast will fly south to Cyrodiil."

"Did you get a close look at the dragon?" Farengar asked. The court wizard's eyes were avid. "I want to know everything about it."

"I broke my blade on its face."

"If it comes here, how do we fight it?" Balgruuf asked.

"Nothing we tried had any effect," Thorald said. "Arrows bounced off its hide. The wizards hit it with fireballs that did little more than stagger it. Even steel couldn't pierce its skin. It breathes fire. It flies. It's strong enough to pick up a grown man and fly off with him." Thorald shuddered at the memory.

"Perhaps ice spells would work where fire failed," Farengar murmured.

"We need more men in the watchtowers," Balgruuf said. He turned to his steward. "And Proventus, see that the fire brigade is on alert. The cisterns are to be kept full at all times."

"How big is this dragon?" Irileth asked.

"It's as long as this hall. Its wings are like the sails of a war ship. Its head is larger than that." He pointed. In silence they gazed up at the huge dragon skull mounted above the jarl's throne.

"It must have a weak spot," she finally said.

"We didn't find one. But."

"But what?" Balgruuf asked.

"I've been thinking. It seems like if we concentrated on its wings we could force it down to the ground. Seems like the wings ought to be more fragile than the rest. There was total panic at Helgen, you understand. We had no time to come up with a strategy of any kind."

"The archers at Helgen, they used Imperial long bows?" Irileth asked. Thorald nodded. "I'm going to issue crossbows to the men," she told Balgruuf. "Something with more of a punch."

"Regular steel couldn't scratch it," Thorald said. "But Skyforge steel just might."

"If this creature is so fearsome, how did you manage to escape?" the jarl's brother asked. Hrongar, that was his name.

"Jarl Ulfric Shouted at it," he said. "That's the only thing that seemed to affect it." And the main effect was to make the dragon really, really mad, he thought.

"He used the thu'um," Balgruuf said thoughtfully. "So perhaps the Greybeards could stop this dragon."

"Who are these Greybeards?" Proventus asked.

"You've lived so long in our lands and yet you don't know our legends?" Hrongar scoffed. "The Greybeards are the masters of the Voice. They are like the Tongues of old."

"It is little wonder he knows nothing of them," Balgruuf said. "They live apart, and they do not concern themselves with worldly events. Perhaps they could stop this dragon but would they choose to do so? I doubt that. I doubt that very much." He sighed. "How goes your research, Farengar?"

"I have nothing of much real use as of yet," he said. "I have a map of the old dragon burial sites, but until someone can verify them, I don't know if this helps us or not." He turned to Thorald. "I have you to thank for the map, by the way."

"Me?"

"Aye. Do you recall some years ago, you and your young friends traipsed into Bleak Falls Barrow?"

"By Talos, I do." Thorald laughed. "Such a tongue-lashing we got from my uncle. He was furious we had taken Olfina and Grelka to such a dangerous place. As if we could have stopped them. They dragged us up there. Said they needed strong backs to cart off all the treasure they expected to find." He shook his head. "But I don't remember any map."

"But do you remember the curious stone you brought me? The Dragon Stone. My, er, research tells me that it is a map of dragon burial sites."

"I am sure that is interesting, Farengar," Balgruuf said. "But if you could learn how these dragons were killed in the first place, that would be of more practical use."

"Of course, Jarl Balgruuf."

The jarl beckoned to Thorald. "A word in private, if you please." Thorald followed him to one of the side rooms. "I know you are Ulfric's man now but you have done me and Whiterun a service, Thorald Gray-Mane. I won't forget it."

"This is still my home," he said, touched. "I will do what I can to defend it."

"The coming days may test that resolve." The jarl sighed. "But we will speak not of politics but of dragons. There is another thing you could do for me. Would you speak to the Companions, tell them what you know of this threat? Enlist their aid in the city's defense. I thought it would sound better, coming from one of their own, than from me. None of them takes orders well. Especially Kodlak and I've known him for more years than I care to count." He smiled and Thorald smiled back.

"I will." It was a good thought.

"I have great faith in Irileth and my own men but they will fight better, knowing that the Companions stand with them. And you, what are your plans?"

Is there any reason not to tell him, Thorald wondered, and decided there was not.

"I go to High Hrothgar."

"High Hrothgar?" The jarl's brows rose. "Ulfric sends you there? Does he truly think to enlist the Greybeards' aid in this? He, of all men, should know better than that. I have been there, you know. Long ago."

"Jarl Ulfric told me."

"Did he? It is a peaceful place, remote from the world and the monks are very wise. But it is no place for jarls or sons of jarls. The Greybeards believe the thu'um should be used for the glory of the gods and for no other purpose. A noble idea, I am sure. But a jarl is very much a part of this world and the Way of the Voice is not a way we can follow. Ulfric thought he could take the learning of the Greybeards and use it like in the old days. The Greybeards saw this as a betrayal. Why do you go there? Why, at this time?"

Thorald hesitated. "Something happened at Helgen. The dragon attacked me and I Shouted."

Balgruuf stared. "You Shouted? Just like that? You used the thu'um, with no training? And Ulfric heard this."

Thorald nodded. "When I heard Ulfric Shout, I could feel the words in my head. And then I could do it. He said I must go to the Greybeards to be trained."

"Of a certainty, you must go to the Greybeards." The jarl paced a couple of steps. "I wonder what he expects of you. These are not Ysgramor's times. We cannot go back to the simple heroic life Ulfric used to dream of. But he will drag us back if he can." Balgruuf gave him a long look. "He used the thu'um in Markarth, you know. Years ago, against the rebels. They say it was a butchery. A slaughter. The thu'um is not meant for such."

"The dragon Shouted."

The jarl blinked. "It Shouted? It used the thu'um?"

"I could hear it, like words in my head."

"I should have remembered. That is what the thu'um is. It is the language of dragons. The tales say that Kyne taught this language to Nords long ago, to a gifted few who became the Tongues of old. Kyne has touched you once. Perhaps she touches you again." He shook his head. "I do not understand. But yes, go to High Hrothgar. Seek out the wisdom of the Greybeards."

Filthy and tired, Grelka dragged herself into the Bee and Barb. "I'll be staying another night after all," she told the innkeeper.

"You want your same room?"

Grelka nodded. An Argonian innkeeper. It just seemed so strange. She tried not to stare but there was something fascinating about the way the light glinted over the woman's scales. The way they overlapped—could she make armor like that? Her back was aching from the tense, uncomfortable drive back from Shor's Stone. It was worse for Balimund, of course. She had pushed his horses as fast as she dared over the pocked and stony road. Balimund had bounced like a sack of potatoes in the bed of the wagon, wrapped in blankets, sweating and shivering, too ill to moan or complain. Poisoned.

The trip to Shor's Stone had started as a pleasant outing but they arrived to find no ore was ready because the mine had been invaded by giant spiders.

Grelka had strung her bow. Spiders? No problem. They were common in the caves near Whiterun and she had tagged along plenty of times with the Companions, clearing them out.

But she hadn't counted on Balimund. He meant well. He was certainly brave enough and perhaps he had hoped to impress her with his prowess with that big hammer of his. Oblivion take the man! Thorald would never cross in front of her, spoiling her aim. Thorald would have stood beside her, ready to back her up. He wouldn't have charged in like a fool. He wouldn't have ended up poisoned.

He wouldn't have gone into a spider cave without an antidote. He had better armor, too.

Perhaps her irritation was unfair. But now here she was, back in Riften. She thought she had escaped. But she couldn't leave Balimund while he was ill. Once the priests had him patched up, she'd go home. Tomorrow, perhaps, she'd go home.

She turned and almost ran over a man who'd come right up behind her. This being Riften, she checked her coin purse. He had red hair, a red beard, and was a bit scruffy looking despite his nice clothes.

"Excuse me," she said politely and turned away.

"Hold there, lass," he said. "Is your name Grelka?"

"Why?"

"I hear you've been asking around about a friend of mine. Fellow named Mallory?"

"You know him?" So he wasn't just hitting on her after all.

"Let me buy you a drink and I'll tell you what I know. Have a seat here and I'll fetch the drinks. Keerava," he called out. "Two mugs of your best mead."