Two: Another Girl, Another Planet
Rhiannon and Hadvar walked on and reached a junction where a crude wooden signpost pointed to Helgen, to Riverwood, and to Falkreath. They took the Riverwood path, still going downhill into a river valley, and came upon a bend in the road beyond which stood three man-high, carved, stone pillars. Each had a football-sized hole drilled through it near the top.
"These are the Guardian Stones," Hadvar informed Rhiannon. "Three of the thirteen ancient standing stones that are scattered throughout Skyrim. It is said that, if you are favored by the Divines, touching the appropriate stone will bestow a blessing upon you. The Thief Stone, the Mage Stone, and the Warrior Stone. Go ahead, see for yourself."
All three bore highly-stylized outline pictures of human figures. One was a man wearing a cloak, a mask hiding his face, and holding a dagger; another showed what was obviously a wizard; the third was engraved with a man in a horned helmet, a shield on one arm, a battle-axe in the other hand. Rhiannon put her hand on the warrior figure and, to her amazement, the hole lit up and a beam of bluish light shone from it and seemed to sink into her. She felt a rush of power, briefly, and then the light went out. Something remained, however, and she could still feel a sensation of added poise and confidence.
"Warrior, indeed," Hadvar murmured. "I knew it. And you are favored of the Divines. You… what's that?" He started to turn, his hand reaching for his sword, and an arrow hit him between his right shoulder and his neck. The impact spun him halfway around and he dropped to his knees.
Rhiannon had turned at Hadvar's exclamation and she saw him fall. Beyond him she saw a woman, dark-haired and clad in leather and fur, nocking an arrow to a bow. She leapt aside, as the bow came round to aim at her, and took cover behind the Thief Stone. An arrow whistled by and glanced off the pillar.
"You'll be so much easier to rob when you're dead," the woman said, as she took another arrow from her quiver.
Hadvar was out of action and Rhiannon had no bow with which to fight at a distance. She came out from behind the Stone and charged. The woman drew back her bowstring, arrow aimed straight at Rhiannon, but just as she loosed Rhiannon threw herself into a rolling dive. The arrow passed above her and Rhiannon came to her feet, still keeping all the momentum of her charge, and closed to hand-to-hand range. As the archer cast aside her bow, and grabbed for a dagger, Rhiannon slugged her in the stomach and doubled her up.
Rhiannon seized both her opponent's arms and wrenched them up behind the archer's back in an inverted double chickenwing. She cast a quick glance behind her and saw that Hadvar was supporting himself with his left hand to keep himself from falling on his face. His right arm was red with blood and it was obvious that he was seriously injured and needed help. She had to end the fight quickly and she was in a perfect position to use one of her signature finishing moves from the WWE. She lifted the woman until her legs left the ground, forced her head down, and then, without bracing her opponent's head with her legs as she would have done in the ring, slammed her opponent head-first to the ground in the move she called the Dragon Driver.
The archer's head hit the ground first with the full weight of both women driving it down onto the stone flags. An instant later Rhiannon landed on her knees, hard enough to hurt a little, but for the archer the effect was catastrophic. Rhiannon, by sheer reflex, rolled over to grab a leg and hold her opponent in a pinfall position. She recoiled in horror as she realized that she was doing it to someone who was dead or dying. The archer's skull was caved in and her neck looked as if it was broken. Rhiannon picked herself up, managed to suppress the urge to vomit, and rushed to Hadvar.
The armor made it difficult to be sure about the extent of the injury but it looked to Rhiannon as if the arrow had transfixed his trapezius muscle, from back to front, and the bloody arrowhead was sticking out from what must have been just above the collar-bone. There were a lot of blood vessels in that area, Rhiannon knew, and without medical attention it could be a life-threatening injury. A healing potion might well be enough to patch him up – but they had none left.
"What do I do?" Rhiannon had a little knowledge of first aid but her only ideas about arrow wounds came from movies. "Snap off the head and pull it out?"
"Better leave it," Hadvar advised. His face was pale and he croaked out his words. "It might do more damage coming out. The bandit might have some potions."
"I should have thought of that!" Rhiannon scampered back to the body and, conquering her revulsion at the thought of touching it, searched it for potions. She found three bottles; one the same coral pink color as the healing potions Hadvar had found in Helgen; another that was bright green; and the third was a smaller vial, purple in color, with a glass stopper instead of a cork. For the moment she ignored everything else that she'd found and rushed back to her injured companion.
"I found these," she said. "I think this one's a healing potion but I don't know what the others are."
Hadvar looked at the potion bottles as she held them out. "A healing potion, as you thought, but Minor Healing only," he said. "Not powerful enough to deal with a wound like this. But it may slow the bleeding enough for me to make it to Riverwood. The others… the green one is a Potion of Stamina. It would refresh one of us if we became exhausted. The purple…" he paused, and grimaced, "…is skooma."
"What's that?"
"A vile and addictive drug," Hadvar said, disdain evident in his voice. "No surprise that a bandit should possess it. Pour it out upon the soil so that it can do no harm."
"Would a single dose act as a painkiller?" Rhiannon wondered, remembering the medical uses of cocaine and even heroin.
Hadvar grimaced again. "I would rather endure any amount of pain than consume that filthy stuff," he said. "Even taking it once can bring addiction. And any true Nord would rather die than become a slave to skooma."
So, the equivalent of crack cocaine, then. Rhiannon doubted if it really would turn Hadvar into an addict if he used it to kill the pain of the wound but she'd respect his wishes. She stepped off the path and poured the bottle's contents, which turned out to be a white crystalline powder rather than a liquid, onto the grass and scattered it around to minimize the danger of poisoning some grazing animal. She tossed the empty bottle away and then returned to Hadvar.
"How close are we to Riverwood?" she asked.
"A little more than half-way there, I would estimate," said Hadvar. "If leave the arrow where it is, and take the potion, I think I will be able to make it." He took the potion, drank it, and then Rhiannon helped him to his feet.
"We'd better get moving, then," Rhiannon said.
"First, you should retrieve the bandit's weapons, and take her armor too," Hadvar advised.
"Weapons, yeah, but I've got armor," Rhiannon said. The thought of stripping that dead body – the body that she had killed – revolted her.
"You cannot keep wearing the armor of a Legion auxiliary," Hadvar said. "You will be taken for a deserter, or as a bandit – like her – who has slain a Legionary and taken his armor."
"Good point," Rhiannon conceded. She screwed up her courage and managed to accomplish the grisly task without shaking too badly. The dead bandit wore a leather corselet, a fur cape, and a fur kilt. The outer garments seemed to be reasonably clean; the underwear… wasn't, but luckily the kilt had ended up well clear of the messy side-effects of death and she managed to remove the garment without it coming into contact with any… unpleasantness.
"I don't think it will fit," she told Hadvar. "She… wasn't… as big as me."
"My uncle will alter it to fit," Hadvar said, "or exchange it for something more your size. Stuff it into your pack and we will be off."
Rhiannon obeyed, glad that she wasn't expected to change straight away; this didn't seem to be a terribly safe place and she didn't want to be attacked whilst undressed. And she would have liked to go into the bushes for a pee but she didn't dare take the risk. Better to be uncomfortable than to get an arrow in the… back. She collected the dead woman's weapons; a bow, a quiver containing a dozen or so arrows, and two daggers. And then they were on the way again with Hadvar moving slowly and in obvious pain.
"You called that woman a bandit," Rhiannon said. "She was, what, going to kill us and take our stuff?"
"Exactly," said Hadvar. "There are fewer guards to patrol the roads now, as many of those who might have chosen that profession have joined the Legion or the Stormcloaks instead, and bandits and wild beasts take advantage. Keep your eyes open. I had heard rumors that the Embershard Mine has been taken over by bandits and I would guess the rumors are true. It is not far from here and must be where she came from. There may well be other bandits on the prowl."
Rhiannon shuddered. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could take. She was tired, her feet were starting to hurt from walking in boots without socks, she needed a pee, she was getting hungry, and she really, really, didn't want to have to kill anyone else. But there didn't seem to be anything she could do to change things and so she kept walking and looking around for lurking enemies.
"The Jarl of Falkreath Hold is a lazy swine," Hadvar remarked. "A decent Jarl would do something about bandits taking over a mine, even if he didn't have the men to patrol the roads on a regular basis, but Jarl Siddgeir thinks only of comfort and his own profit. Alas that the Empire should be forced to support such a poor excuse for a Nord."
"I still don't understand what the Empire is, or who the Stormcloaks are, and why they're fighting," Rhiannon said, and Hadvar tried to explain it all to her as they walked. She tried to follow the explanation but it was all too much to take in. A treaty banning the worship of a god called Talos – one of the most evil gods in D&D, if she remembered correctly – at the orders of evil elves, a murdered king, a young and beautiful widowed queen, a rebellion, and a province torn apart by a civil war that could have ended that day had the dragon not interrupted and prevented the execution of Ulfric Stormcloak. And of Rhiannon, of course, but Hadvar didn't dwell on that bit.
By the time Hadvar's tale reached a conclusion the path was running parallel to a river and, on the far bank, she could see deer grazing. And then she heard the sound of howling, coming from her side of the river, and the deer raised their heads and moved away.
"Wolves!" Hadvar exclaimed. "Get ready to fight!"
Three black wolves rushed from out of the woods, howling and slavering, and attacked.
Rhiannon tried to keep herself between the wounded Hadvar and the animals but the wolves split up, circled, and came in from different directions all at once. One leapt at her and she managed, as much by luck as by judgement, to meet it with the point of her sword and impale the beast. Its momentum tore the sword from her hand and she was weaponless as another wolf came in from the side.
She tried to block the attack with her left arm, relying on the leather wrist-guard to protect her while she drew a dagger with her right, but as the jaws closed on her forearm the teeth pierced through the leather and into her flesh. She cried out, as pain flared through her, but managed to get the dagger out and stab at its neck. She stabbed, and stabbed again, until the jaws relaxed and the wolf fell lifeless.
At once she whirled to look for the third wolf. It was attacking Hadvar and he was using his shield to fend it off. With his right arm he was trying, awkwardly, to draw his sword but didn't seem able to get a proper grasp on the weapon. Rhiannon threw herself at the wolf, stabbing at its body but with little immediate effect, until it turned on her and she managed to catch it by the throat. She held its snapping jaws back from her face and stabbed it in the side of the neck. Blood spurted, its attempts to reach her grew weaker, and then it went limp.
"Yet again you have saved me," Hadvar said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, and Rhiannon saw that the arrow wound was bleeding heavily once more and he swayed as he stood. His movements in the fight must have caused the embedded shaft to do more damage.
"Not if we don't get to Riverwood soon," Rhiannon said. She felt like crying. Her own arm was bleeding, the blood oozing out from under the wrist bracer, she was now utterly exhausted, and she didn't know how much longer she could keep going.
"I don't think I can carry on," Hadvar admitted. "Go on without me. My uncle can send help."
"I'm not leaving you," Rhiannon said, recovering her resolve. "Suppose more wolves come? Or bandits?"
"If there had been more wolves in the pack they'd all have attacked," Hadvar said, "and we must be within a couple of miles of Riverwood by now."
"Then we can make it together," Rhiannon said. "I'll help you walk."
"Very well," Hadvar said, "but recover your sword first."
"And clean it," Rhiannon said, wearily. "I know." She retrieved her weapon, wiped it and the dagger, and sheathed them both. Then she took Hadvar's good arm, draped it across her shoulders, and helped him to walk on.
It was the longest two miles of Rhiannon's life. It seemed as if with every step she was taking more and more of Hadvar's weight. She remembered the potion that Hadvar had said dispelled exhaustion but it was tucked away in her pouch, she couldn't reach it without releasing Hadvar, and she feared that if she let go of his arm he'd fall and damage himself still more. There was no other course but to grit her teeth and carry on.
At last she saw buildings ahead. Thatched roofs, a stone wall topped by a walkway roofed over with shingles, an archway piercing through the wall where it crossed the road. By this time Hadvar was barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and she must have been taking more than half of his weight, but she coped. In fact she felt a renewed surge of energy at the sight of the destination and, if she hadn't been worried about exacerbating his injury, she would have swung him up onto her shoulders and carried him.
Through the archway – there was no actual gate, making the wall just a little pointless for the defense of the village – and into the settlement itself. The first building on her left had a sign in the shape of a horseshoe hanging outside and the sound of a hammer on metal was ringing out from a covered, open, verandah on the near side. Smoke was rising from something that Rhiannon identified as a forge. She headed directly for the forge and saw a bearded man hammering away at something on an anvil. He noticed her approach, raised his head, and then hastened in her direction.
"Hadvar!" he exclaimed, as he stepped down onto the street and came toward her. "Shor's bones, what has happened?" A child, a girl of maybe ten or eleven, followed behind him.
"He's badly wounded," Rhiannon said. "An arrow…"
The blacksmith's eyes widened as he saw the arrowhead protruding from the wound. "Dorthe!" he called. "Run to the inn and ask Delphine to come. She's better at treating injuries than anyone else in the village."
"Yes, papa," the girl answered, and she ran off along the street.
"We'd better get him inside," the blacksmith said to Rhiannon. "Can you manage?"
Even as he spoke Hadvar slumped so that the only thing holding him up was the arm over Rhiannon's shoulders. The blacksmith hastened to assist her and, between them, they managed to get him up the steps and into the house without touching his injured shoulder.
"Sigrid!" the blacksmith shouted. "We need some help here."
Rhiannon looked around and, at first, didn't see anyone else. The floor was made of crude wooden beams with furs spread over them, the walls were mainly of wood with one stone section containing a fireplace, and there were two beds in the room plus cupboards, a large wooden table, and wooden dining chairs. One bed was a double, one was a single, and both were simple affairs with wooden frames and bases of wood spread with furs. The blacksmith indicated that Rhiannon should take Hadvar to the single bed and he helped her get him sat down on it. She didn't dare lay him down in case that moved the arrow.
"What is it, Alvor?" a woman's voice asked, and Rhiannon looked around and saw a red-haired woman. She had come up a staircase, which presumably led down to a basement, that Rhiannon hadn't noticed at first. "Who is…" the woman, Sigrid, continued, and then she saw Hadvar. "Your nephew? He's injured!"
"I had noticed," Alvor said, dryly. "I want to get him laid down on the bed but he's bleeding like a stuck pig. I thought you might want to put some covers down first. And get some water boiling."
Sigrid at once scooped up a round iron pot and hung it on a frame over the fire. She went to a cupboard and brought out a smock, with threadbare patches visible and sections cut away at the edges, and sliced through it with a dagger. She came over and spread the opened-out smock over the bed behind Hadvar. "Lay him down on his side," she said. "I'll get some cloths."
"Thank you, wife," Alvor said. "I've sent Dorthe to get Delphine. She knows Restoration magic."
"So does Camilla Valerius," Sigrid said, "and the Riverwood Trader is closer than the inn."
"I doubt Camilla could cope with anything this serious," Alvar said. "Hmm. A barbed head. I'm surprised it pierced his mail unless… yes, it looks as if something had damaged the mail already." He turned his head toward Rhiannon. "What happened, soldier? Was there a battle? Has Helgen fallen to the Stormcloaks?"
"It was a bandit who shot Hadvar," Rhiannon said. She was, at last, able to let go of Hadvar's arm and a matter of some urgency, held back for ages, at once asserted itself. "I… can I use your…" she was about to say 'bathroom' in the American fashion, thought of changing it to the English 'toilet', but then remembered the medieval term and finished "…privy?"
"Of course," said Sigrid. "It's out the back, behind the forge."
It hadn't occurred to Rhiannon that it would be an outside toilet but, once mentioned, it made sense. She went back out of the door and managed to find the outbuilding in question. The facilities in question were primitive in the extreme but did include two containers, one holding pieces of threadbare rags and another of vegetable matter resembling cotton wool, that were presumably for… wiping. Once she had finished she set off to return to the house but was brought up short by something in the sky.
It was starting to grow dark by this time – 9:48, according to her watch, which would have been at least five hours after sunset in Philadelphia – and she deduced that she must have traveled across several time zones. As she was trying to come up an explanation for that, and failing, she saw the moon in the sky ahead of her. Or, rather, two moons.
One was smaller than the moon she knew, perhaps half the apparent size; the other was… immense. At least three times as big as Earth's moon, distinctly red-tinged, and with craters and other physical features that were much more distinct and easily visible than she was used to. And she'd seen the 'super-moon' in September and this was much, much, bigger. An optical illusion caused by atmospheric distortion? Maybe, but what about the other moon? She had a horrible feeling that both of them were real.
"I'm on another planet," she gasped. "Mae hi wedi cachi arna i!"* She shook her head. It just wasn't possible. No matter how convincing it looked it had to be an illusion of some kind.
"I saw a dragon!" an old woman, sitting outside a house on the other side of the road to the blacksmith's, called out to her. "My son doesn't believe me, but I really did see a dragon."
Rhiannon looked around, her eyes widening, trying to work out where the hell she could find shelter from a fire-breathing dragon in a village of wooden buildings with thatched roofs. Then it occurred to her that there was no-one in sight who could be the old woman's son and so, presumably, she hadn't just seen the dragon in the past few seconds. "When was this?"
"In the afternoon," the woman answered. "It flew over, high in the sky, and went towards Bleak Falls Barrow."
Rhiannon relaxed. That must have been when they came out of the caves under Helgen and saw the dragon flying away. "Well, let's hope it doesn't come back, then," she said. Casting another puzzled look at the two moons she moved on and went back into the house.
The little girl was back, by this time, and there was another woman present. A woman, clad in a dress the color of faded denim, with steely blue eyes and short blonde hair with slight traces of grey. She and Alvor were both bending over Hadvar.
"When I give the word, pull," the woman, presumably Delphine, instructed. Alvor nodded. "Now!" Delphine snapped out. Alvor tugged the arrow free and, simultaneously, Delphine's hands flared with a bright yellow light that seemed to penetrate Hadvar's body. There was a spurt of blood from the wound and Alvor pressed a folded cloth to the wound. Hadvar cried out and jerked. After a couple of seconds, however, he seemed to relax and his eyes opened. Delphine continued to shine the light on him – without any visible light source – for a little longer and then the light dimmed and went out.
"That's all I can manage, I'm afraid," she said. "My abilities with Restoration magic barely scrape into Apprentice level. You'll have to finish the job with potions."
Alvor took the cloth away. "The bleeding has stopped, anyway," he said, "and he looks better. Hadvar, can you hear me?"
"Yes, Uncle Alvor," Hadvar answered. "I feel much better." He sat up and looked around.
"Take it easy, my boy," Alvor cautioned him. "You were quite close to death, if I am not mistaken."
"He was," Delphine confirmed, "but he's out of danger now. He'll need to rest for a day or two, though."
"Damn it! I have to get to Solitude as soon as possible," Hadvar said.
"I'd like to wash my hands before I go back to the inn, Sigrid," Delphine said.
Rhiannon seized the opportunity. "I need to wash my hands too," she said. "And if someone could do something about the bite wound that would be much appreciated."
"Bite wound? I thought the blood on you was from Hadvar," Sigrid said, as she filled two bowls with hot water.
"Some of it is," Rhiannon said, "but a wolf bit me on the arm."
"I think I have enough magicka left to do a little more healing, if the wound isn't too bad," Delphine said. "Can I see?"
Rhiannon removed the wrist bracer and showed Delphine the bite. By now it was mostly clotted over but was still oozing blood in a couple of places.
"Yes, I can deal with that," Delphine said, and her hands shone with light again.
Rhiannon felt a tingling sensation in her arm, the pain dwindled away to nothing, and the ooze of blood stopped. "Thank you," she said. "Was that a… Cure Light Wounds spell?"
"Healing Hands," Delphine said. "I haven't heard your name for it before but it's quite apt." She went to where Sigrid had put the bowls and began to wash her hands. Rhiannon followed suit and then wiped clean where the bite had been. Her skin, remarkably, was now unmarked. "It might be a good idea to take a Cure Disease potion, when you get the chance," Delphine advised. "You can pick up some nasty infections from wolf bites."
Rhiannon thought of rabies, and septicemia, and shuddered. "I'll do that," she agreed, wondering what a Cure Disease potion was and where she could get one.
"So, Hadvar, what happened?" Alvor asked. "What were you doing on the road to Riverwood? I thought you weren't due any leave for another month. Did the Stormcloaks attack Helgen?"
"Not the Stormcloaks," Hadvar told him. "It was a dragon."
Delphine had been on her way to the door but when Hadvar said 'dragon' Rhiannon saw her stop dead, freeze, and then swing her head to stare intently at the legionary. "I'd like to hear this," Delphine said. "If you don't mind, Alvor, Sigrid."
"A dragon?" the little girl exclaimed. "Did it have great big teeth?"
"That's crazy talk, Hadvar," Alvor said. "You've been listening to old Hilde. There are no such things as dragons."
"That's what I thought," Hadvar said, "until a great black dragon swooped down and laid waste to the town." He related the events of the dragon attack, and their escape, although he skipped some things and skated over others. "You can ask Rhiannon," he finished. "She'll confirm it all. She saved my life at least three times."
"You saved my life too, Hadvar," Rhiannon said.
"Perhaps," Hadvar said, "but it is certain that I would have been killed if not for you. She is an amazing fighter. She slew the bandit with her bare hands."
Rhiannon shuddered. "Don't remind me," she said.
"The Jarl must hear of this," Alvor declared, "One of you must go to Whiterun and tell Jarl Balgruuf. Riverwood is defenseless and we need him to send whatever soldiers he can."
"I must go to Solitude," said Hadvar, "but I can go by way of Whiterun. Taking a carriage from there would be the fastest, and safest, way to travel."
"You will not be fit to travel tomorrow," Alvor said, "and yet the need is urgent. And it should be one who has seen the dragon with their own eyes who takes the news to the Jarl."
Everyone looked at Rhiannon. She felt just like Frodo at the Council of Elrond. Really there was only one answer she could give.
"I will take it," she said, "though I do not know the way."
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
It seemed that socks were unknown in this place. Instead they used footwraps, squares of cloth folded to go around the feet and pad them inside boots, something that Rhiannon had heard mentioned on Time Team but had never seen. Sigrid had to show her how to put them on. And, with them on, her boots would no longer fit. This wasn't a problem, though, for Alvor was able to provide her with a better-fitting pair, of superior quality, in exchange for the ones she had found in the Helgen Keep.
He was just as happy to trade better armor for the Legion auxiliary gear and the armor taken from the deceased bandit; she kept the fur cape. He offered her a steel cuirass but Rhiannon declined, doubting that she'd be able to move freely in it, and so Alvor came up with a lighter alternative.
"I believe this will fit you very well," he said, taking a bodice and skirt from a stand. "The woman who brought it in was very much of your height and build, as I recall. Studded leather is not the toughest of armor, not by some distance, but it will not restrict your movements. Try it. If it does not fit I can alter it, at least partly, for there is no time to tailor it to you as I might wish in other circumstances."
It fit her almost as if made for her. Too well, in a way, for there was no room for the tunic under it and she had to wear it over only her underwear. Even so it was comfortable and, she had to admit, looked good. She would have been happy to wear the leather bodice, and its broad belt embossed with iron studs, as part of casual dress back home. The skirt piece, of leather trimmed with fur and reinforced with more studs, would have looked out of place anywhere except on the set of one of her movies but, in context, was quite pleasing to the eye.
"There's tidy," Rhiannon said, wishing there were full-length mirrors in this primitive place. "Thank you, Alvor."
"You'll need new bracers," Alvor said. The set that had been chewed on by the wolf needed repair but he would take them in trade. "I have a set or two of hide bracers in stock."
"These?" Rhiannon said, picking up a pair that were on display. "They look as if they were made to match the armor."
Alvor pursed his lips and frowned. "That pair bear an enchantment of Minor Smithing, and I had not intended to offer them," he said, but then the frown vanished and he smiled. "But for a lady who saved the life of my nephew, not once but three times, I think I can be generous. Take them, with my thanks, and use the skills housed within them to keep your weapons sharp and your armor strong."
"Skills? They actually teach you blacksmithing, is it?"
"Indeed so," Alvor confirmed, "or hone the skills you possess already."
"Then I can't take them," said Rhiannon. "You'll need them for your work."
Alvor shook his head. "I have another set for myself, with a slightly greater enchantment," he said. "Take them, girl, as a slight repayment of our debt to you."
"Thank you," Rhiannon said again, and she almost hugged the man. The only thing that stopped her was that she'd sensed that Sigrid was hyper-sensitive about other attractive women around her husband; not that Rhiannon was in the least attracted to Alvor, who was a nice guy but too old for her, but there was no sense in annoying her hostess unnecessarily.
"Think nothing of it," said Alvor. "Your bow is a fine weapon, better than the one Hadvar carries, but your sword is a poor piece. And I see you wear an empty scabbard."
"The other sword snapped off in a bear," Rhiannon told him.
"Then I shall find you a pair of steel swords, made by my own hands, and sharpen them to a razor's edge," said Alvor. "The Riverwood Trader should be open by now and Hadvar tells me you have goods to sell there. Do that now, Rhiannon, and I shall have your swords ready by the time you are done."
Rhiannon had reset her watch when she got up, working on the assumption that the mid-point between sunset and sunrise would be midnight, although she wasn't at all confident of the accuracy of her estimate. And that was assuming that this planet had a day-night cycle of twenty-four hours. She had to accept that she was on another planet; a second trip to the privy, after dark, had given her a clear view of the two moons, and a sky devoid of any familiar constellations, proving that the massive size of the larger moon had been no mere optical illusion. By her reckoning, anyway, it was around 8 a.m. local time.
And the shop, indeed, was open. Inside two people, a man and a woman, seemed to be having an argument. They fell silent as Rhiannon entered and the man went to stand behind a counter.
"Sorry about that," he said. He was a thin man of medium height, slightly swarthy in complexion, with a beard trimmed short in a style that reminded Rhiannon of Roman Reigns – although less handsome, with much shorter hair, and far less muscular. "I don't know what you overheard but let me assure you that the Riverwood Trader is open for business and fully stocked. Lucan Valerius, at your service, always ready to help out a prospective customer."
"Uh, good," said Rhiannon. "I have a couple of things I'd like to sell you and some stuff I'd like to buy." She had no idea whatsoever of the purchasing power of the money here and, although she remembered that Hadvar had told her that the robe and the hood were valuable, she had no standards of comparison to go on. "Delphine recommended that I should buy a Cure Disease potion. And some spare healing potions would be good."
Lucan rubbed his hands together. "You're in luck. I just so happen to have both in stock. What do you have to sell me?"
"A… mage robe and a mage hood," Rhiannon said, and laid the items in question out on the counter.
"Hmm," said the shopkeeper, as he examined the clothes. "Only Novice quality, I see. I'll give you a hundred septims for the robe and fifty for the hood."
Rhiannon had no idea whether this was a fair price or not. "Maybe," she said. "Can I take a look around?"
"Of course," he replied. "Take as long as you like."
It didn't take her long to browse the store's rather limited stock. Foodstuffs, herbs, a few weapons, a handful of potion bottles, some drab items of clothing, and a couple of pieces of jewelry. The only thing that really caught her eye was a tiara or circlet, resembling the ones worn by Elrond and Galadriel in The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, that sat on the brow of a dummy head on a shelf. It was golden in color, although she guessed it was gilded rather than solid gold, and set with three large green gems. It would, she decided, look amazing and also serve to keep her hair away from her eyes.
"Ooh, there's lush," she murmured, and then turned to the shopkeeper. "How much is it?"
"That's a Circlet of Minor Archery," Lucan informed her. "I couldn't let it go for less than… two thousand eight hundred septims."
Rhiannon gulped. "I can't afford that," she admitted. All she had was the mage robe and hood plus a total of thirty-nine septims she'd picked up during the escape from Helgen. She didn't have the spell-book any longer; she'd attempted to read it over breakfast and, to her amazement, it had self-destructed and turned into a pile of dust. It had left her with a weird conviction that she would be able to fire electric sparks from her hands, which if it actually worked might be useful, but it meant that it was no longer available to be sold.
"Well, I might be able to come down to… two seven-fifty," Lucan conceded.
Rhiannon shook her head. "All I have is a few coins plus what you give me for the robe and hood," she admitted. "I'll just have to do without."
"Lucan, this could be the answer to our problem," the woman put in. "It's obvious she's an Adventurer type. You could offer her the circlet as a reward."
"That's… not a bad idea, Camilla," said the shopkeeper. "I'll tell you what, lady. You do a little service for us and I'll give you the circlet."
"What's the service?" Rhiannon asked. When she'd played D&D the adventure had started off with the party being asked to kill off rats in a cellar, for which they were rewarded exorbitantly, but that had been the DM's way of introducing them to the system and giving them funds to buy their starting equipment. Real life wasn't going to be that easy.
"We were robbed the night before last," Lucan revealed. "The thief took a few items of little worth – a bottle of wine, a sweet roll, and a small purse of coin that I'd left under the counter – and one other thing. An old Nord relic, in the shape of a golden claw, that we kept as a talking point and a good luck token. I wouldn't have said it was worth all that much, in itself, perhaps four or five hundred septims, but it has a lot of sentimental value to us. Get it back and I'll be happy to give you the circlet, for nothing, as your reward."
"How would I find this thief?" Rhiannon asked.
"We're fairly sure that it was a sneaky Dark Elf," Lucan said. "He came in earlier in the day, looked around a bit, and only bought a wheel of cheese. He asked how much I wanted for the claw but didn't press the point when I told him it wasn't for sale. He must have come back during the night and picked the lock on the door."
"Faendal told me he'd seen the Dark Elf later," Camilla took up the story, "up on the mountain, heading for Bleak Falls Barrow. It must be where he's hiding out."
Rhiannon remembered Hadvar mentioning Bleak Falls Barrow and talking of it being haunted by the walking dead. She didn't believe in the walking dead, except as a TV show, but then she didn't believe in dragons either. The thought of poking around in a place like that didn't fill her with enthusiasm. And, anyway, she had other things to do.
"Sorry," she said, "I have to go on an urgent errand to the… Jarl… of Whiterun. Maybe when I get back…"
Lucan frowned. "Oh, very well," he said. "Now, you mentioned potions?"
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It was shortly after nine, at least by Rhiannon's watch, when she set off for Whiterun. Twin steel swords rode at her hips, she'd tucked a dagger into a boot, and her bow was slung over her shoulder. The knapsack on her back held the fur cape and a lunch, packed for her by Sigrid, of cold meat, bread, cheese, and a bottle of mead. Two healing potions, all she'd been able to afford with her meagre funds, were in her pouch. She must have looked every inch the fantasy adventurer, she thought, although she still felt extremely disorientated and nervous.
At least the sun was shining, the scenery was quite beautiful, and the road ahead seemed straightforward. She cheered up as she walked through the village, crossed a bridge over the river, and took the path she had been told led to Whiterun.
The road ran more or less parallel to the river, sometimes right alongside the water, at other times turning away so that the water was out of sight. In places the river fell steeply, rushing over a series of cataracts, elsewhere running slow and level. Birds sang and butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. It was, in fact, quite a pleasant walk.
And then Rhiannon turned a corner and saw two wolves in the middle of the road ahead. They were tearing apart the body of some small animal, a rabbit perhaps, but released it and looked up as they sensed Rhiannon's approach. She froze for a second and then drew her right-hand sword. The wolves growled and then, to her surprise, ran off up the slope to the left of the road and out of sight.
Rhiannon released breath she hadn't realized she was holding. For a minute she stood still and then walked on. She skirted the dead rabbit, not wanting the wolves to return to defend their prey, and continued around another corner. Ahead of her she could see what must have been the city of Whiterun; a walled town standing on a rocky hill, rising high above a plain, with the towers of a castle visible beyond the walls. It was still quite some distance away, and the details were indistinct, but it was an impressive sight to match, or even outshine, Harlech Castle. She stopped and stared.
A slight noise from behind her made her turn – in the nick of time. The wolves were racing toward her with their teeth bared. Sheer instinct brought her sword up to meet one as it leapt upon her. The blade pierced its chest and it howled, briefly, and collapsed.
The other wolf struck her from the side and knocked her from her feet. She lost her grip on the sword but performed a smooth shoulder-roll and was back on her feet almost instantly. The wolf snapped at where she had been a second earlier and then came in again. Her left-hand sword came out, almost before she realized she was drawing it, and the wolf's jaws closed on bared steel. She delivered a solid kick to its body, drew the dagger from her boot, and stabbed it in the throat.
When both the wolves lay, unmoving, on the blood-stained flagstones Rhiannon stood, panting, waiting for her heart to stop pounding. Eventually she felt calm enough to begin cleaning her weapons. "Alvor could have warned me," she muttered. "That settles it. On the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."
Once her weapons were clean she resumed her journey. Along the road, descending a steep slope in a zig-zag path, eventually reaching a crossroads marked by a wooden signpost. She took the left-hand path, marked by signs saying 'Solitude' and 'Whiterun', and walked on. A small river ran beside this path, flowing in the opposite direction to the way she was walking, to join the larger river near the point where the signpost stood. Beyond it the city walls towered high above the level of the road. On the side of the road furthest from the city she passed two large buildings, only one floor high but broad, with a sign hanging outside. One side was faded and unreadable but the other side bore a picture of a beehive and the legend 'Honningbrew Meadery'.
Beyond the meadery that side of the road was devoted to farmland. Rhiannon saw rows of cabbages and other crops that she couldn't identify; she wasn't a farm girl and, to her, vegetables came from the supermarket. She could recognize the smell of manure, however, and she wrinkled her nose and accelerated her pace.
And then she came into view of something that stopped her in her tracks. In one of the fields three warriors were fighting against…
…a giant. An actual giant, tall enough to make Big Show look like a hobbit. It towered over the human warriors, at least twice their height, and it was waving a club that must have been eight feet long. As Rhiannon watched she saw one of the humans clipped by a glancing blow from the club and sent flying back at least ten feet. The other warriors kept up their attacks, preventing the giant from following up on its successful strike, but it was apparent that they were having to work hard to avoid meeting the same fate.
Rhiannon gulped and unslung her bow. No-one had mentioned giants to her but that very omission implied that giants were not a normal, peaceful, part of the population of Whiterun. It had to be an invader and the humans were defending the farm. She wasn't going to just stand by and watch them die.
Her hands trembled slightly as she fitted an arrow to the bowstring – nocked an arrow, they called it, she remembered – and pulled it back. She'd only ever used a bow at a target, as she had told Hadvar, but the giant wasn't moving around and it was big enough that she was reasonably confident she'd manage to score a hit. Whether or not the arrow would achieve anything was another matter. She took aim, as best she could, and released.
Before the arrow struck home she had already reached to her quiver, extracted another arrow, and nocked it. Maybe she'd inherited instincts from some Welsh longbowman forefather, she thought, surprised by her own reactions. The first arrow hit; the giant roared and turned to face her. She let the second arrow fly and reached for a third.
The giant began to stride toward her, its long legs eating up the distance, closing at terrifying speed. It seemed to hardly notice when Rhiannon's second arrow hit it in the chest, treating it as no more than a pin-prick, but the third hit lower and seemed to sink in deeper. The giant halted, pulled out the arrow heedless of the barbed tip ripping its flesh, and then advanced again. Rhiannon felt like turning and running for her life but a coldly logical part of her brain told her that flight would be pointless. Instead she nocked a fourth arrow and bent her bow again.
The giant's brief halt had given one of the other combatants a chance to catch up. A sword swung, slashing across the back of the giant's legs, and it staggered and tried to turn again. An arrow struck it in the neck, either a lucky shot or one aimed with more precision than Rhiannon could manage, and the giant reeled. Rhiannon's next arrow hit it in the shoulder region, the figure at the giant's feet – a woman, Rhiannon realized – stabbed up at the giant's groin, and then the warrior who had been felled earlier charged back into the fight wielding an enormous two-handed sword. He took a mighty swing at the giant's legs and one leg buckled. The giant toppled and the two sword-wielders fell on it with blades swinging. Rhiannon didn't dare loose again, for fear of hitting the wrong target, but the other archer had no such worries and put a shaft straight into one of the giant's eyes as it tried to rise.
Rhiannon lowered her bow and, at once, felt herself start to shake. She took a couple of deep breaths, managed to get the shaking under control, and then walked forward.
The other archer came to meet her. Another woman, Rhiannon saw, as she drew near. Tall, although perhaps not quite up to Rhiannon's five feet eleven, and with hair almost as flame-red as that of Becky Lynch. She wore armor that looked odd to Rhiannon's eyes; mainly brown leather but with large steel shoulder-plates and wrist guards, with a few smaller pieces of steel armor attached to the leather here and there, and green cloth sleeves. Her leather skirt ended well above her knees, leaving her legs almost bare, and she had three diagonal stripes of war-paint all the way across her face. The overall effect was to make her quite an intimidating figure.
"You handle yourself well," the woman said, in approving tones. "You could make for a decent Shield-Sister."
"Shield-Sister?" Rhiannon echoed.
"Yes, fighting alongside myself and the other Companions," the woman continued. "You should come to Jorrvaskr with us."
The man with the two-handed sword joined them. He was big, six feet three or thereabouts, and looked quite a lot like Roman Reigns; much more so than the shopkeeper in Riverwood had done. He not only had the close-trimmed beard but also the same long dark hair and a muscular development that equaled that of the wrestler. He lacked the tattoos, at least as far as Rhiannon could tell from the parts of his skin visible between sections of his steel armor, but had war-paint around his eyes that made him look decidedly savage. If the blow with the giant's club had done him any harm he didn't show it.
"You look strong," he addressed Rhiannon. "Aela is right, you should join the Companions."
"Uh, who are the Companions?" Rhiannon asked.
"You don't know about the Companions?" the third member of the group put in. She was younger and shorter than the war-painted archer woman, clad in armor that resembled Rhiannon's own but with a mesh of small, overlapping, steel scales covering the bodice. Her war-paint consisted of blood-red eye-shadow and a stripe of red running down from just under her lower lip to her chin. It made Rhiannon think of vampires.
Her voice, however, was cheerful, friendly, and enthusiastic. "They're only the most famous order of warriors in all of Skyrim," the girl went on. "When we arrive, blood is spilled, and our blades sing to the glory of Ysgramor."
"We are brothers and sisters in honor," the archer – Aela? – added. "We show up to sort out problems… if the coin is good enough. I believe you would fit in well."
"Maybe later," Rhiannon said. Joining an order of warriors might possibly prove to be the only career choice open to her, in this place; she didn't have anything like the knowledge of technology necessary to bring about an Industrial Revolution, not without access to Wikipedia anyway, nor did she know how to weave, or thatch, or carry out any other medieval trades. "I have to deliver a message to the Jarl before I can do anything else."
"When you have done that, come to Jorrvaskr and see Kodlak Whitemane," the big man said, as he wiped the blade of his massive sword with a cloth. "If he thinks you are worthy you will be in. I shall speak for you." He slid the sword into a sheath on his back. "For now, though, I think you deserve a share of the coin for this job."
"You're right, Farkas," said Aela. She put a hand into a pouch, pulled out a leather purse fastened with strings, and tipped some coins into her other hand. Her lips moved as she counted. "Here," she said, offering the money to Rhiannon. "A fourth share of what we are to be paid. Fifty septims."
That more than doubled Rhiannon's remaining funds and she thanked the woman sincerely.
"Speaking of pay," said the girl with the vampire-style war-paint, "we should go and collect what we are owed from Pelagia."
"And I need to get to the Jarl," said Rhiannon.
Aela nodded. "Later, then," she said. "Farewell." The three Companions departed in the direction of a farmhouse and Rhiannon continued on along the road.
She caught a whiff of a smell more unpleasant than the manure and, across the river, saw a stream of filthy brown water running down the hill and joining the river. Sewage, presumably, or the waste from a tannery; she resolved never to drink water from anywhere downstream without boiling the water first. A little further on the road forked, one path leading on into the distance and the other heading for the city. Taking the path toward the city led her past a collection of stables, and a stationary cart that looked just like the one in which she had ridden to her execution, and beyond that, on the other side of the path, was a little encampment of dome-shaped skin tents; yurts, perhaps.
She looked over at the tents, as she passed, and saw the inhabitants of the tents building a camp-fire. Nothing unusual about that… but the figures carrying out the work looked odd, somehow, and she diverged from the direct route to take a closer look.
They were cats.
Bipedal, human-sized, cats. Long tails waved behind them and their faces were unmistakably those of felines. They wore clothes but every part not concealed by clothing was covered in fur. She stopped and stared.
One of them noticed her and took a few steps in her direction. It bowed to her, putting a hand – clawed, but otherwise a furry version of a human hand – over its heart in a gesture like Jack Swagger doing his 'We, the people' catchphrase. "Khajiit has wares, if you have coin," it said, in a voice that was very human but seemed to carry a slight undertone of a purr.
Rhiannon realized that she was staring in a way that might well be considered rude. The cat-people weren't attracting attention from the people over by the stables and so must be normal denizens of this environment. Continuing to stare might be considered rude – or even racist.
"Sorry, I don't really have any coin," she managed to say, keeping her voice as level as she could. "Uh, maybe another time." She put her hand to her breast and returned its bow.
The cat-person, who looked like a grey version of a lynx, seemed to smile. "May your road lead you to warm sands," it said.
"And yours," Rhiannon said in return, and turned away. Only in her mind did she add 'and to a cardboard box.'
The outer wall of the city lay just past that little encampment. Banners depicting a highly stylized horse's head hung from the wall and guards patrolled the ramparts. There was no gate as such, however, merely an archway across the path and, beyond it, a large open area with a stream flowing across it crossed by a low wooden bridge. For a moment Rhiannon was puzzled, not seeing the point of walls without a gate, and then she realized that the main wall lay further on and this was just an outwork. The real defenses began with a drawbridge over a deep trench with water at the bottom and, beyond that, another high wall and a set of massive wooden doors that were firmly closed.
Two guards stood in front of the gates. As Rhiannon approached one of them stepped forward to confront her.
"Halt!" he ordered. He wore armor in the same style as that of the Stormcloaks but covered by a light brown tabard instead of a blue gambeson. His face was entirely hidden by a helmet that reminded Rhiannon of those of the Rohirrim in The Lord of the Rings. "The city is closed to strangers while there are dragons about."
"You know about the dragons?" Rhiannon sighed. "I came to tell the Jarl about the dragon attack on Helgen but, if he already knows, I've made this journey for nothing."
"A dragon attacked Helgen?" the guard exclaimed. "How do you know?"
That was a set-up line no-one Welsh would have been able to resist. "I know, 'cos I was there."
The guard looked back over his shoulder, as if seeking his colleague's opinion, and then turned back to Rhiannon. "You're right, the Jarl will want to know about this," he said. Rhiannon guessed that, in fact, the dragon had been seen in flight and the events of Helgen were still unknown in Whiterun. "You'd better go in," the guard continued. "Make your way up to Dragonsreach, at the highest level of the city, and ask for an audience with the Jarl."
Once inside the gates Rhiannon glanced at her watch. 11:45, so the journey had taken her about two and three-quarter hours, and that was including delays fighting wolves and giants. Oh my. That thought triggered a sudden idea. She clicked her heels together three times and muttered "There's no place like home." There was, of course, no result except to cause another pair of guards to look at her curiously.
She moved on, hastily, and the first building she saw was a blacksmith's shop. In Riverwood Alvar's shop had been the first building she'd seen and she wondered if it was the custom here to site smithies at the gates of settlements. Two examples were insufficient to draw conclusions, of course, but it was a thought.
This blacksmith was a woman; good-looking, although in the way that would get her described as 'handsome' or 'striking' rather than 'beautiful', tanned by the sun and lithe of movement. As Rhiannon paused, looking at the smithy, the blacksmith laid down the metal cuirass she was working on and spoke.
"If you're looking to buy, warrior, we have some good pieces for sale. More inside. Or I repair armor and sharpen weapons at very reasonable rates."
"I don't need anything like that at the moment," Rhiannon said, "but if you could point me in the direction of Dragonsreach I'd be grateful."
The blacksmith smiled. "I'd be happy to direct you and I'd like to ask a favor in return. I have made a sword as a gift for Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. It's a surprise, and I don't know if he'll even accept it, but could you take the sword to my father, Proventus Avenicci? He's the Jarl's steward up at Dragonsreach. He'll know the right time to present it to the Jarl. As you are going up there anyway…"
"Of course," Rhiannon agreed.
"Thank you," the blacksmith said, flashing a warm smile. "Next time you need a sword sharpening I'll do it for free. Now, to get to Dragonsreach…"
A minute later Rhiannon was on her way again. She made her way through the streets of what would, in medieval terms, qualify as an industrial district and came to a market square bordered by shops and an inn. Beyond that she ascended a flight of steps, through another internal city wall, and emerged into a circular paved area. A dead tree, surrounded by seating resembling park benches, stood in the center. It would seem to be a perfect place to eat her packed lunch and, indeed, a woman in robes and a hood was sitting there doing exactly that. To one side of the park was an extensive residential district and to the other side was a much more unusual feature. A large building stood atop a rise and it appeared to have a roof constructed out of an inverted Viking ship. It even had the rows of round shields on the sides.
In the same direction, but closer to the park, stood a mighty statue. It represented a warrior in a winged helmet stabbing down with a sword at a coiled, serpentine, dragon. It stood on a plinth about four feet high and rose high above that. Rhiannon estimated that, had she stood beside the statue, she would only have come up to its knees. In front of the statue a man in robes stood, waving his arms, and ranting in the manner of a street preacher. No-one paid him the slightest attention.
And straight ahead the path led to more steps, several flights of them, with water cascading down in a series of mini-waterfalls to each side of the steps and emptying into two large ornamental pools. The overall effect was quite beautiful. The city as a whole reminded Rhiannon of Minas Tirith, but with fewer levels and more spread out, and of course an actual city rather than just a model plus CGI. Although calling it a 'city' was perhaps an exaggeration; based on the number of buildings she could see, from the vantage point of the top of the steps, Rhiannon estimated that the total population was unlikely to be much more than a couple of thousand. Bangor had a population of eighteen thousand and it was one of the smallest cities in Britain.
The castle of Dragonsreach was certainly imposing. It was constructed partly of stone and partly of wood, and might have been vulnerable to siege catapults, but it was up so high Rhiannon doubted this place's armies would possess any capable of reaching it. But a fire-breathing dragon might be another matter.
Once through the castle doors, and into the main hall, Rhiannon was impressed. The interior was like that of a cathedral, with a high vaulted ceiling, brightly lit both by numerous candles and by daylight shining through an opening in the roof. Instead of a cathedral's pews there was a fire-pit in the center of the room and, to each side, long banqueting tables each with a dozen seats. Other rooms could be seen, opening off to the side, but Rhiannon concentrated on the area beyond the fire where several broad wooden steps led up to a throne. The man who sat on the throne was flanked by several attendants and guards. And, above the throne, a dragon's head was set into the wall.
As Rhiannon drew nearer, staring at the dragon's head with some amazement, a woman detached herself from the attendants and came to confront her. When Rhiannon took a proper look at the woman she was so surprised that she nearly dropped the presentation sword that she was carrying, wrapped in cloth, under her arm.
The woman was a Drow.
Not quite as described in Dungeons & Dragons; her skin was a medium shade of grey, rather than jet black, and her hair was ginger instead of white, but still unmistakably a Drow. She drew a sword as she approached.
"What is the meaning of this interruption?" the Drow asked, her voice cold. "The Jarl is in council and not receiving visitors."
Rhiannon managed to stop herself from staring too blatantly and spoke. "I have news from Helgen, about the dragon attack," she said. She would have said more but the Drow immediately sheathed her sword.
"Well, that explains why the guards let you in," she said. "You'd better come forward, then. The Jarl will want to speak to you personally." She led Rhiannon toward the throne.
The Jarl was a man of middle age but lean and looking fit and tough. He lounged on the throne, which was made of carved wood, in a way that made it difficult to estimate his height but Rhiannon judged him to be tall. His clothes were trimmed with gold cloth, a fur cape was spread over his shoulders, and a circlet of gold set with jewels sat on his brow.
"Were you at Helgen yourself?" the Jarl asked. "Did you see this dragon with your own eyes?"
"I was, and I did," Rhiannon confirmed. "Uh, I'm not from these parts and I don't really know how to address a Jarl. Please forgive me if I get the protocol wrong."
"Don't worry about that, girl," said the Jarl. "Just tell me what happened."
"The Imperials were about to execute Ulfric Stormcloak," Rhiannon said, deciding not to mention that in fact it had been her who had been on the verge of execution, "and then the dragon attacked. It killed a lot of people and set fire to most of the buildings. I escaped with a soldier called Hadvar. He took me to Riverwood and his uncle Alvor asked me to come here and tell you about the dragon. He's worried Riverwood might be next and he'd like you to send some guards there."
"Alvor the smith? A good man, solid and reliable, if I recall correctly," said Jarl Balgruuf. He turned to a shorter man, nearly bald and much slighter of build than most of the people Rhiannon had seen, who stood at his side. "Hear that, Proventus? What do you say now? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls against a dragon?"
The Drow spoke before Proventus could reply. "My lord," she said, thereby giving Rhiannon a clue as to the correct mode of address, "we should send troops at once. Riverwood is in the most immediate danger. If that dragon is lurking in the mountains…"
Proventus tried to oppose that idea, giving some political reason that Rhiannon didn't follow, but the Jarl overruled him.
"Enough!" the Jarl snapped. "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."
"Yes, my Jarl," the Drow said, causing Rhiannon to revise her thoughts about how to address the Jarl.
"In that case, if you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties," said Proventus, somewhat stiffly, and the Jarl assented.
"Uh, excuse me, sir," Rhiannon said, as Proventus was turning to leave. "I have to deliver something to you from your daughter." A daughter who, on the basis of this slight acquaintance, Rhiannon would say was twice the man her father was.
"From Adrianne? Ah, yes, I know what it must be," Proventus said. "Come this way." He stopped a little distance from the throne platform and accepted the sword from Rhiannon. "I'll present it to the Jarl at another time, when he's feeling more agreeable," he said in a low voice and then, in a more normal voice, "Thank you. Here, take these few coins, for services rendered." He handed Rhiannon a small purse of coin.
"I have more to say to you, girl," the Jarl called. "Come back over here." When Rhiannon returned he presented her with another, larger, purse. "Well done," he said. "Bringing this news, so soon after what must have been a terrible experience, was a great service to Whiterun. Take this as a token of my esteem. What's your name, girl?"
Briefly she considered reverting to her real name, Cerys Morgan, now that she was away from the WWE but she'd introduced herself by her ring name to enough people that to change now would only cause confusion. "Rhiannon, my Jarl," she said.
"Rhiannon? A Breton name, I would say," the Jarl said. "You're very tall for a Breton girl. Still, no matter. There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable, perhaps, for one of your obvious talents. Come with me to see Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter concerning these rumors of dragons… rumors that are now confirmed as fact."
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Rhiannon's mental picture of a wizard, like that of almost everyone else who had seen The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, was firmly based on Gandalf. Farengar was something of a disappointment. He was clean-shaven, except for bushy sideburns that made those of Bradley Wiggins look restrained, and looked to be relatively young. And he spoke with a slight lisp.
"Farengar," said the Jarl, "I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and give her the details." He turned and went back to the main hall.
"So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" the wizard said. "Oh, yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into an old Nordic ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."
That didn't sound good. "I'll need to know more before I agree," Rhiannon said.
"When we received reports that a dragon had been sighted, and rumors reached us that Helgen had been attacked, I consulted my sources," the wizard said. "I learned of a certain stone tablet, said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow; a 'Dragonstone' that holds a map of dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find the tablet – no doubt in the main chamber – and bring it to me. Simplicity itself."
"Simples!" Rhiannon said, under her breath. She had a nasty feeling that it wouldn't be simple but… Bleak Falls Barrow. That was where Lucan the Riverwood shopkeeper had asked her to go, on the trail of a Dark Elf – Drow, presumably, she realized now – thief, and he had promised her that lush archer's circlet if she recovered his Golden Claw. "I'll do it," she agreed. "What can you tell me about Bleak Falls Barrow?"
"An old tomb, built by the ancient Nords, perhaps dating back to the Dragon Era itself," Farengar answered. "Or do you just want to know where it is? It's near Riverwood, a miserable little village a few miles south of here. I'm sure some of the locals can point you in the right direction once you get there."
"I know Riverwood," Rhiannon said. If she had the geography right she could get to the barrow without having to go to Riverwood first. Then she could find the Drow, persuade him to hand over the Golden Claw – an arm bar should do it, or one of a dozen other submission holds – then find the Dragonstone, take the Claw to Lucan in Riverwood, stay there overnight, and then come back to Whiterun with the stone tablet. Simples. Or not, most likely, but she was sure the Jarl would reward her too and it looked like her best chance to earn enough to support herself for a while. "I'll be on my way."
"Girl… Rhiannon," the Jarl called, as she left the wizard's workshop and re-entered the main hall. "We are about to dine. You may stay and dine with us before you set off, if you wish."
"It would be an honor, my Jarl," Rhiannon said, basing her phrasing on what she'd heard in movies. It would mean she wouldn't even have to eat her packed lunch, and could save that for later, and the castle might even have a decent privy.
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It was when she saw the blood on the snow that Rhiannon realized that she might have made a terrible mistake.
Her guess that there would be a direct route from Windhelm to Bleak Falls Barrow, straighter and quicker than going by way of Riverwood, had proved to be correct. It had required some scrambling up steep slopes, in places, but she'd tackled steeper slopes before, in Snowdonia, and she had coped without too much difficulty. As she neared the barrow it had turned cold, with a thin layer of snow underfoot, but she had donned the fur cape over her armor and pressed on.
And then she saw the blood, staining the snow red, in a wide circle around an indistinct darker lump. She moved forward, cautiously, and saw that the source of the bloodstains was a human body. It had been sliced almost in half.
Almost she turned around and headed back the way she had come. Only the sound of a wolf howling, somewhere in the distance, deterred her. Instead she gathered her nerve and took a closer look at the body.
The dead man was clad in mismatching pieces of armor. A Stormcloak mail-shirt and gambeson, Imperial boots and wrist bracers like the ones she had donned during her escape from Helgen, and a horned iron helmet. Surely none of the soldiers of either army would dress that way, unless in the direst need, and Rhiannon remembered Hadvar warning her not to wear the military gear, once there was an alternative, lest she be taken for a deserter or a bandit. Honest citizens would know that as well as did Hadvar and that implied that the dead man really was a bandit.
Rhiannon took a deep breath. A bandit might have been killed by an internal quarrel within a gang but then surely his killer would have stripped his body. Alternatively, he might have been slain by guards sent by Jarl Balgruuf to hunt down bandits – or by the Companions Rhiannon had met in the farmlands, on a similar mission. That, she decided, was the likeliest possibility. It should be safe to continue on.
A broad flight of stone steps led up from the trail to the building that must be the barrow. At the bottom of the steps she gasped in horror as she almost tripped over a severed head. The body to which the head had belonged lay half-way up the steps. With her heart in her mouth she ascended the stairs and took a closer look at the corpse.
His armor was heavier, an iron cuirass, iron helmet, and iron-reinforced boots, and looked to belong together, but it was rusty and dented in a way she couldn't imagine would be tolerated in any army or city guard unit. Another bandit, in all probability, she decided. A battle-axe lay a few feet down from the body with a severed hand beside it. Whoever killed this man had disarmed him – literally – and then finished him off with a decapitation stroke. She really, really, didn't want to fight the person responsible. But if it had been Aela, or the big man Farkas, or the other girl whose name hadn't been mentioned, then she wouldn't have to fight. And if it had been Whiterun guards then explaining that Jarl Balgruuf had sent her should be enough to defuse any confrontation. She hoped so, anyway.
There was one more body between the top of the stairs and the entrance of the barrow. This one was a woman, in studded leather armor like Rhiannon's own, but her wrist-guards were of Imperial pattern. Or at least one was; the woman's other arm was missing and Rhiannon couldn't see it anywhere nearby. There was a bow beside the corpse, and a quiver on its back; Rhiannon overcame her repugnance at the thought of touching the body sufficiently to take the arrows from the quiver to top up her own supply. She noticed, as she did so, that the blood was still oozing out of this dead bandit's wounds and the puddle around her was gradually spreading.
And then on to the barrow itself. It was much bigger than Rhiannon had expected, a massive domed structure of stone, with a large iron door set into the closest face. She had purchased a tinderbox in Whiterun, and a torch of wood and oily rags, but she didn't expect to need it; the roof of the barrow had collapsed in several places and she guessed that the gaping holes would let in enough light to be able to see. She opened the door, drew her swords, and slipped inside.
Inside there was, as Rhiannon had expected, enough daylight to see perfectly well. The interior was spacious and, apart from some jumbles of fallen rock from the roof, clear of obstacles. And there was a dead body a few paces in from the door. Rhiannon heard a scream from further in and hurried forward. She saw a smallish figure, wielding what was unmistakably a katana, in the act of striking the head from a big man in iron armor. A woman in leather and furs was backing away from the fight, nocking an arrow to a bowstring, and taking aim.
"Look out!" Rhiannon shouted. It wasn't hard to deduce that the katana-wielding warrior was the one who had slain the bandits outside and thus a prospective ally; Rhiannon certainly didn't want him, or her, to be an enemy.
The small figure whirled around, went into a rolling dive that successfully dodged a hastily-loosed arrow, and came up again with the katana swinging. The archer dropped her bow, clutched at her throat, and toppled to the ground with blood spurting from between her fingers. The katana-wielder flicked blood from the blade and faced Rhiannon with the sword in a ready position.
Rhiannon could tell, now, that the person with the katana was a woman. She wore armor of dull brown leather and a hood over her head that kept her face in shadow. The mystery woman was several inches shorter than Rhiannon but that hardly mattered. She was as deadly with that katana as The Bride had been in Kill Bill.
"I'm not a bandit," Rhiannon said, and she sheathed her swords to emphasize the point. "Jarl Balgruuf sent me."
The katana went back into its scabbard. "You're that woman who saved Hadvar's life," the swordswoman said. "Rhiadda, was it?"
"It's Rhiannon," she corrected. She'd heard that voice before, and it had to be someone from Riverwood. Then the swordswoman swept the hood back from her face and Rhiannon's eyes widened with surprise. "Delphine?"
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English meanings of Welsh phrases:
* Mae hi wedi cachi arna i! = I'm fucked!