21st Frostfall, 4E 189

This day had rolled over quickly. They sat their saddles revitalized from Delvar's news, and the full night's sleep they'd both gotten. Thraun had hardly begun to drift when Ralof's shout woke him the night before, and after the old trader had gone, Ralof fell asleep quicker than he meant to. Thraun was too tired to stay awake himself, and chanced slumber with his hand clasped firmly on the handle of his sword. Looking back however, Thraun thought that it had been foolish of him to do so.

But now evening had come again, only this time they could almost smell the damp stones of Valtheim in the distance, weathered gray rock splotched with lichen, faded by the eons of sun and wind and rain that had passed them over. They rode with much haste and little care, wishing that the towers would be standing around each bend.

Even though their pace had quickened, Thraun had not yet foregone all caution. Today had been perhaps his most vigilant ride of the journey, eyes always scanning the road ahead as much as his surroundings. His ears heard nothing but the clop clop of their horses hooves as they went, the wind whispering through the tall grass on either side of the road, the rush of the White River over and on, flowing east faster than he dared push his horse. If Ygvir did have spies along this road, they were well concealed.

Clouds had moved in again, blocking the moons and stars alike, welcome cover by Thraun's reckoning. Towers would stand out against a skyline, even on the darkest nights. But two men could seem no more than blurs or bushes to sentries in the darkness. Thraun's stomach churned inside him as the towers came into view. What if the old trader was right? What if the brigands had taken off? What if they had taken Aela with them? If she was lost to him forever, he would never forgive himself.

They were still perhaps a mile off, but it seemed the trader had spoken true: both towers were as dark as the mountains beside them. They rode a bit closer, to where the road diverged into two, one path leading up up a steep hill to their right, the other keeping on to their destination.

"We should head up this way and scout a bit," Thraun gestured to the path leading into the mountains. It appeared to give access to a bluff overlooking the towers, and was speckled with tall pines, good cover especially in darkness. "Then we'll know whether that old man has told us true."

"You sound like the Circle," Ralof chided him. "If we were foolhardy enough to come this far, why stop here?" Thraun was furious as Ralof charged ahead of him. Experience had made him bolder, if not dumber. Perhaps it had done the same to him as well. Then he saw something glimmering off the water while Ralof galloped on oblivious. It looked to be a shooting star, twinkling orange and red as it flew. When Thraun turned to see for himself, he knew it was an arrow aflame, flying in a high arc above the valley. Gods damn that old fucking liar.

It was then Thraun turned back to the towers and noticed the shadows stalking along the bridge.

"Ralof!" he called, but it was too late to stop him. Two-dozen torches lit ablaze between the towers, and then more inside and atop them, and only then Thraun understood their folly. He was still a good bit behind when he saw two men appear before Ralof, blocking the road east. Two more flanked him from the other side of the south tower, and four more filed out from the tower itself. They were all armed; even mounted, Ralof would be hard pressed to beat them back now.

As one of them pulled Ralof off his saddle, Thraun considered charging through the crowd. He could take out most of them in a rush, help Ralof back to his horse and ride out before they knew what happened. Or he might accidentally trample Ralof in the fray, or they could pull him off his own mount and cut both their throats in the bargain. Fighting was too risky now: he would treat with them to whatever end.

Thraun rode to the crowd slowly, one hand holding the reigns steady while the other was half raised in submission. Before he was upon them he dismounted, sending his horse back into the west with a smack on its rump. Perhaps Kodlak or one of the others would encounter it on their way and would understand what it meant. He undid his sword belt and walked towards them with both hands raised. A pair of them who had torches thrust them out in his direction to get a better look at him, their weapons at the ready in their opposite hands. When he was close enough for them to grab, he threw down his sword and dagger, belt and all.

"I yield," he said, not unkindly. He could have laughed. What mercy should he expect from them? He certainly hadn't come to grant them any. Ralof was struggling as two of them tried to bind his hands. He got a knee in the groin for his trouble, and collapsed almost instantly, coiled up and coughing.

"I reckon you've met Delvar then," one of the torchbearers exclaimed with a chuckle. If Thraun were in his place, he might have thought the deception clever too.

"A pity that," Thraun said calmly. "If he'd never ridden west he might've lived longer."

"Don't play coy with us, boy" one of them spoke up. He called him boy, though he appeared to be of an age with Thraun and Ralof. "Who do you think it was that fired that signal?"

"Delvar, must've been," Thraun declared. Just as well; he'd never really expected them to swallow the lie, but he'd rather they though he was a bold fool than a clever craven. Whatever their faults, brigands always seemed to respect strength, and anyone could see just by looking at him that Thraun was strong.

"Very handsome steel you two were carrying," the one who called him boy spoke again. "Better than anything we've got."

"I can see that," Thraun replied smugly. He wanted them to believe he was arrogant. "Are those the best armaments you could steal? Cracking blades and dented shields?"

"I'd hush your mouth if I was you, milord," one mocked him. "We got your fancy skyforge blade, and soon enough we'll have a practical arsenal of 'em, once yer brothers arrive and try to save you. I'll be the first one laughing and the loudest when Ygvir cuts off your head and tosses it down for your Lord Companion. We ought' gut you right here 'n save us the trouble."

"You'll keep silent Torbern, if you want to keep your tongue," the young one spoke up again.

"You may be the boss's whelp Krev, but don't think for a moment that means I'll lick your boots or take orders from you. Keep that in mind, or one day you might find yourself no better off than these two here."

"My father has already lost his eldest son," the one called Krev retorted confidently. "But I'm his eldest now, and a better fit to lead this lot than Reymar ever was. What do you think my father would do when he finds out you've threatened his heir? Might be he takes your tongue anyways. Might be he tosses you from the top of the tower outright. How many would applaud him that, I wonder? My father I may not be, but I'll be damned if I'll suffer defiance from the likes of you. Keep that in the back of your mind before you speak to me again, else your next threat will be your last."

The man lowered his head and entered into the tower grumbling. Krev turned back to Thraun, a peculiar look marking his face.

"You came to kill us all, eh boy?" he asked. There was no anger to his tone or any hint of disgust. There seemed to be no emotion at all to his words, like he'd expected nothing less.

"We had hoped to try," Thraun responded. "To my shame I underestimated a band of brigands. Doubtless, I will not make this mistake again."

Krev smiled, "I share your doubts companion, though not for the same reasons. Take them before my father; he will decide whether we will gain a pair of hostages, or if the river will carry two fresh corpses."

Rough hands clasped Thraun's shoulders and thrust him inside. Two of them had to practically drag Ralof, still reeling and coughing from the bandit's blow. One of the torch bearers sheathed his sword and took up Thraun's gleefully. The tower was dark and smelled of wine and piss and vomit. They must've been expecting retaliation from Jorrvaskr and holed up inside, waiting to take the Companions unawares. It had worked, to some degree; Thraun hoped that the rest of his shield-siblings weren't so stupid. With Kodlak leading them, they weren't likely to fall into such a trap.

They guided him up a ramp outside the tower and threw he and Ralof down through a doorway at the base of the bridge. He saw stairs leading up to another floor above him, and one of the bandits ascended hurriedly. None of them wore much in the way armor, and most of them seemed to be carrying iron over steel. Beggars can't be choosers, Thraun wagered.

Wood creaked to Thraun's right, and where one bandit had gone upstairs, two were coming back down. If that was Ygvir, Thraun saw little of the father in the son. Where Krev was tall and lean with flowing brown hair and a comely, clean shaven face, the man who sauntered down the steps was huge and sinewy, with a big bald moon for a head, and a bush of a beard that grew thick and down past his shoulders, black but fading to gray. He must've been near fifty winters, or passed. Despite his obvious age, his arms were small boulders of muscle, his hands so large they seemed more like bear paws. He almost reminded Thraun of Kodlak, who'd aged similarly well. It was no wonder then that so many followed him; anyone who'd ever gainsaid him was probably already dead.

"Who have you brought me, son, and why would their capture require me to rise from my bed?" he asked with sleep in his voice. It was harsh and deep, gravelly like the rumblings of an avalanche. Krev stepped forward and beckoned behind Thraun and Ralof, who were shoved to their knees.

"Father," Krev said more smoothly. "These prisoners are my gift to you. Two more of Whitemane's dogs."

"How do you know they're companions?" he asked immediately, not even glancing in their direction. If he didn't believe they were companions, they'd likely be killed. If he believed they were companions, they'd likely be killed. Thraun's mind raced with the prospect of his imminent death.

"Delvar sent the signal," his son replied, almost bored. "But if you need more reassurance, look at the maker's mark on this sword and cease your doubts." He took the belt from the torchbearer and pulled Thraun's sword from its scabbard only enough to show the smallest bit of blade. There, just above the guard, Ygvir's squinting eyes inspected the mark: an eagle with outstretched wings, and the characters "GM" on its breast. The initials of Eorlund Gray-Mane, the finest smith of all nine holds.

Ygvir took the blade from his son's hands and unsheathed it, studying its edge closely in the dim moonlight. As he inspected the ripples of the steel, a haunting smile spread across his face, white teeth emerging among the greying hair. "As advanced as steel is from iron, so too is Skyforge steel from ordinary steel," he spoke, more eloquently than Thraun would have expected from a common brigand.

"What ancient magics can be wrought into metal by the coals of that smithy, none can say," he continued, "but everyone knows that Skyforge steel has earned its reputation. That smith of yours seems to know it too, if the cost of each weapon is any indication. Aye, perhaps it's the smith who works the forge who makes such fine weapons. Though if that were the case, one might think it'd be called "Gray-Mane" steel instead." Thraun thought this monologue to be passing queer. He'd never heard such talk from a bandit before; he almost seemed educated.

"We brought them here for your judgement, my chief," one spoke up suddenly. It was the same who'd threatened Krev moments earlier. "I told your boy we should gut these two and send their bodies down the river."

"If my son should require the council of a crofter's bastard, I will tell him to seek you out," Ygvir spat with disgust. "Otherwise, you'll keep your mouth shut and we'll thank you for it." Thraun heard others around sniggering; this was plainly not the first time Ygvir had rebuked the man. He turned back to face Thraun and Ralof for once, pointing the tip of his blade into Thraun's chest. "Interesting that Kodlak should receive my letter, presuming he could read it, and send you to assassinate me. You're two against fifty, and I had you spotted two days past. I warned your Harbinger as much would happen if he defied me. And now, what am I to do with you heedless lads, hm?

"Heedless, you have the right of us," Thraun admitted, downcast. He needed to be doubly cautious with these brigands. Too much flattery could be seen as cowardice, too little could be seen as pride. Either could get you killed. Thraun decided that a bit of truth would service him best, and it was the truth, but Ygvir would rue that he ever listened to what Thraun spoke next. "But it would in turn be heedless of you to kill us."

"OH!" Ygvir cackled. "Perchance you will say why?" Don't balk, Thraun. Not now.

"I yielded to you. I am your prisoner. The gods spurn men who kill their captives without cause."

"Would you have given us such a chance?" Ygvir questioned.

Torbern scoffed, "Give 'em half a chance and they'll put something good and sharp in your belly. Same way the red bitch did with Bennar."

Thruan winced at the mention of Aela, but not obviously enough for Ygvir to notice. "If you yielded, I would have you brought before the Jarl," he spoke honestly. "Your journey may end in the same place, but my way was fairer."

"Yes. Fairer, brighter, and blotted with roses as well. What sort of men do you take us for? Honest and law abiding?"

"You haven't yet killed us. If there is some honor to be found among thieves, I dare hope I've found it."

"More like I've been roused from my bed at a godless hour and my wits have not yet found me. When they do, you'll know." The brute trudged through his men to a table Thruan hadn't noticed, uncorked a green bottle, and quaffed its contents in three swallows. He sighed heavily afterwards and belched loudly, slamming the glass back down on the table. "Only a fool or a craven seeks mercy from those he means to kill." He said suddenly, his face still turned away from them so Thraun couldn't study it.

"Only a fool or a craven seeks his wits in a bottle of ale," Thraun retorted coolly.

"I agree," Ygvir replied, almost amiably. "This is Argonian Bloodwine. Too bitter to enjoy the taste, too strong for a normal man to drink a bottle's worth without collapsing. It's a drink only meant for thinking. And I think there may be some daring to you, yes."

"I've been called brave and foolish more than once," Thraun admitted. "But anyone who ever called me craven did not do so twice." Thraun worried that last had been a bit too bold, but Ygvir only laughed.

"There I have it, then. You're certainly no craven, if you take my meaning. Only a fool would have such a bold tongue in the presence of his captors."

Thraun let himself smirk and be seen doing it, "Many fools before me have lived well and lived long. I don't expect I'll be any different."

Ygvir's geniality vanished as quickly as it had appeared, "Just as many fools die young. We will see to you soon enough. Krev, you are my heir, now that my eldest true born son is lost to me. You've shown some cunning so far; that bit with Delvar may have been clever enough for these whelps, but Kodlak Whitemane is no man's fool. He can't afford to be among rabble such as this. I don't expect our scouts to bring report until overmorrow, but I have no doubt the Harbinger is drawing near. We must ready ourselves for that confrontation. That starts with the fate of these two. What do you say we should do with them?"

Krev regarded each of them briefly. There was great intensity to his gaze, brief as it was. Thraun misliked it deeply; if he had been the one who planned the signal along the road, then there was likely a good deal more guile within him. If Ygvir was the warrior, Krev was the well-honed blade he fought with.

"Much as I would relish murdering these two, I think it would be best to keep them alive for now. They may prove useful in luring Kodlak into our grasp, even more so than the red-haired whore. Once we have the Whitemane in hand, we can use our numbers and position to overwhelm whatever strength he will have mustered against us."

I wouldn't count on it, Thraun thought. Ever since he'd joined the Companions he'd heard the tale of Kodlak and Skjor's triumph over the hundred-and-one Orc berserkers from Dushnikh Yal, who more than two decades ago had begun raiding along the Reachwater River. When they began harrying the northwestern borders of Falkreath, the Jarl at the time conscripted the Companions to deal with them. Thraun's father had still been with them then, Kodlak was not yet Harbinger, and Skjor was still only a whelp. It was in remembering the tale that Thraun realized Kodlak and Skjor had once been as foolhardy as himself, though evidently they had been more adroit than he or Ralof. The three of them ventured west on the fool's errand against twice as many foes as he himself now faced, and returned heroes and legends. That had done ill in improving relations between the races of elves and men in Skyrim, yet still the feat was impressive. No one seemed more impressed than the Orcs, truthfully. Though it seemed all but Kodlak and Skjor had forgotten Wulfharth's part in their triumph; no one ever mentioned him when they told the tale. Skjor and Kodlak weren't the same men, Thraun knew that. Older and slower now to be sure, but he had fought beside the both of them and still knew there was ferocity to be found. Enough to give these fuckers a fight at the least.

"Very well," Ygvir's voice commanded. "Keep them here in the south tower for now. Make sure their hands are bound behind their backs, and set a guard on them. I don't want them chewin' through their bonds like the red bitch."

"Where is Aela?" Ralof blurted suddenly, breaking his silence and betraying his worry. Torbern smirked at that.

"He speaks," Ygvir commented.

"The redhead?" Torbern replied deviously. "Me and the lads have grown fond of havin'er around," a wicked grin grew on his face as the rest of the men began to laugh around him. Thraun didn't like what his tone suggested.

"I've been to visit her every night," he continued eagerly. "I asked her how she'd like to be taken: like a bride or like a whore? She couldn't decide so I took her both ways and more, but alas I couldn't tell which way she liked best. She moaned loud each time, so loud. Oh Companion, you ought to hear how she groans after I leave her. Perhaps tonight you may."

Thraun fumed where he knelt, but he had more sense than to engage him, for it would mean his and his companions' deaths. Ralof was not so cautious or courteous, rushing the man only to be smacked in the face with the pommel of a sword and dragged bleeding back to where he'd been.

"Don't trouble yourself over his bile," Ygvir said calmly. "He only visits her to give her supper. As it happens, I have commanded that any man who molests her will be gelded by mine own hand, their parts tossed into the river with the man to whom they belonged to follow shortly after."

"I bet you'd like to kill me," Torbern went on, ignoring his master's not-so-subtle warning.

"Neither of us would lose any sleep over it," Thraun replied. He was only staring at him with fury in his eyes. All he could do was hate him quietly, or shout obscenities at him if it pleased him, not that it would do any good. His time would come soon enough. Whenever Kodlak arrives, I will kill you with my bare hands if I must.

"Enough of this," Ygvir ordered. "I've given my commands, see to them and return to your beds or your watches. I'll have no more disturbances tonight. Torbern, since you seem to like them them so, you can take first watch over them."

"Why don't we just cut their throats?" Torbern asked, irritated at the order. "They'll just be another pair of mouths to feed." His face was reddening Thraun could tell, even in the dimness of that hall. Ygvir was not the type of man to have his orders questioned. Perhaps Torbern had gotten a sip of that bloodwine, to be running his mouth as he was.

"I've given orders to watch them and make sure they don't kill anymore of my men. I gave no orders to feed them, nor will I," Ygvir replied, more calmly than one would expect. "And the next time you think to question my command, you'll keep it to yourself if you know what's good for you."

"Your son threatened me too," Torbern spat. Where he'd started, there was no coming back from Thraun knew. "Threatened me with papa's vengeance. Well what has ever come of your threats? I'd have taken that red haired bitch the moment we captured her, but you said you'd cut our balls off if anyone touched her. I'd kill these two and laugh while I did it, but you'd rather wait and plan and hesitate. Mark my words, it'll all come back on us for ill. You've gone soft old man, as I can see it. Why should I take orders from the likes of you? Your next one might mean the death of us all."

"You condemn yourself with your own tongue, Torbern."

Ygvir lashed out at his clansman with a savage blow, and Thraun heard the crack of his nose as blood poured out in rivulets to spill onto the floor. None of the other brigands intervened, for their own well being most likely. They simply watched the scene: some turned away, some grimaced at Torbern's beating, others showed nothing at all. Krev was among the latter sort. As Torbern collapsed clutching his face, Ygvir grabbed him by the scruff of his neck with one hand. When Thraun saw his face, it looked more like someone had taken a maul to it than a fist. His nose was a ruin, his lips cracked, bloody, and swollen as well.

Torbern fought a bit less feebly against Ygvir's grasp when he realized where he was being dragged. Thraun heard no pleas for mercy, for which he was grateful. It was bad enough when men talked themselves into misfortune, but it was worse when they begged for reprieve afterwards. He'd seen it before. In an instant Torbern was there, another he wasn't; his body landed with a thud, five and twenty feet or more below the spot where Ygvir was perched.

"I may be old, but even I'm not yet as soft as those stones," he bellowed down at Torbern's mangled body. That was the last Thraun saw of the leader of the Silver Hand that night. No sooner and Torbern struck the ground than men were tripping over themselves to carry out Ygvir's last command. He and Ralof were dragged to a corner of the tower, their hands bound at the wrist behind their backs. Men and women went back to wherever they were before the two fools arrived, and Ygvir went back to sleep. A great aurochs of a woman stood guard over them that night, pacing fore and aft before them in silence. Neither of the companions found sleep that night.

"A tight spot we've found ourselves in," Thraun said lightheartedly to Ralof, who'd been sulking quietly across from him for too long.

"A tight spot I've put us in, you mean," he replied solemnly.

"You or me, it makes no matter. We're both here for the nonce," Thraun tried to be reassuring, though admittedly he could have raged at his cavalier kinsman. But he couldn't blame him either; after all, it was his own rashness that had brought them this far in the first place.

"But it need not have been that way. I'm here because I'm a hot blooded boy and a fool who rode into a trap without thinking. But you? You're here because you wouldn't abandon a friend."

Whatever else, that was the truth of it. When the torches lit across the gap, Thraun was far enough away to have made a run for it. Oh they had archers perched atop their towers, but he was a skilled rider and he doubted their aim under the scarce light of a new moon, especially from such a distance. But Ralof was his friend and wouldn't abandon him, for as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, somewhere around those towers there'd be a freshly mounted blond head on a spike. And he needed to hold on to his friends. He didn't have that many to begin with.