Chapter 20
Spare the Rod
Liethlri was not sure if she would explode with anger or simply cry. She could feel her eyes burning red at the names and insults thrown at Aleron and his friends, her friends, by Faldil and Lord Geldiir. But then when they would speak of how she had worried and perhaps even betrayed her own kind for the troubles of men, she felt a sadness which was unequalled by anything except the sorrow she felt at the thoughts that she had actually lost Aleron forever.
"You have betrayed us all, Liethlri! You left this sacred realm to simply follow along some mongrel and his pack on a wild, nonsensical pursuit of...nothing! Dragons be damned! Our people have no need to be a part of the foolish prophecies of men! We have been at each other's throats for thousands of years, and you simply run off to join them," Faldil yelled from atop a small pedestal beside her father's throne in the council chambers.
Liethlri looked up at Lord Geldiir, as if he would reel Faldil's fury back in, but she was to receive no help from her father on this day it seemed. Faldil began to continue his rant, but Liethlri stood from her penitent knee before her father's throne and pointed a finger at her still-betrothed.
"Faldil, that is enough! Even though I have wronged this realm and my father, you still speak to your captain, and the daughter of your lord no less!" Her eyes were burning coals. "I, like you, am not old enough to ever remember a time when men and elves were at war until now, and therefore neither are you! I sought to help my fellow people of this world in a cause which is all too real!"
Geldiir put up a hand and silenced both young elves. He then motioned for Faldil to sit once more, and put a hand over his chin as if he was considering what he would say next. Finally something came to him.
"Why did you return, my daughter," he asked, as if there was no other way to ask that question than to simply put it as it was.
When asked, Liethlri took a step backwards and twisted her face with a slight bout of concern. She herself had not truly thought much about it, or at least had not thought about how she would answer that question if asked.
"Um...my lord...I..." she stammered.
Geldiir cut her off. "Did you realize your love for the Ranger was all for nought?"
With that Faldil's eyes widened and he looked quickly back and forth between Geldiir and Liethlri. He stood and folded his arms across his chest. "Liethlri, is this true? You are in love with that man? That Beast," Faldil questioned heatedly.
Liethlri turned her eyes away from him and stared at the floor, not knowing what to say. Instead she decided to lie.
"No, Faldil, father. I am not in love with the Ranger. I simply sought to aid him in his quest, as it is a noble venture to which I feel all races of this world would be impacted if it should fail," she said, finally looking back up at Geldiir.
"My daughter, to be an emissary of this realm to the race of men is not your place. You are the captain of the guard, and the one who shall succeed me at my end. Nothing more," Geldiir replied, knowing full well that his daughter had lied to him. However, he did not pursue it anymore, lest Faldil become even more irate over the situation. "Now, return to your chamber, and be glad I am not taking any more extreme action against you for violating my trust in you."
With that Liethlri knelt once more and turned to leave the council chamber. She opened the large wooden doors and made her way down the carved hall of the massive tree. Once outside she climbed the steps which wrapped around the giant trunk and made her way across the swinging footbridge to her chambers at the top of the next one, over looking the small garden to the north.
Her father must not have been completely furious at her return, as he had one of his servants bring a steaming bath to her room, with fresh salts and oils giving off a fragrant perfume of flowers and fresh rain.
After placing her weapons and gear items in their appropriate places, she sat down in a chair beside her bed and began readying herself for her bath. It would be nice to bathe in warm water as opposed to a frigid stream, and to not have to be worried about Garrik watching her from behind the trees.
She began by unlacing the long, leather bracers that went from her wrists nearly to her elbows, and then did the same to the leather breastplate she wore, laying them both on her bed to place in her wardrobe after her bath. Her tunic was the easiest article of clothing to remove, being held on by no more than a series of a few buttons from her navel to her breast. It fell to the floor around her feet, and she sat down in the chair as she slid off her brown leather breeches and her boots in one fluid motion.
For a moment she was inclined to sit there, naked, letting the night breeze waft in from the balcony and gently blow over her skin. It was somewhat bittersweet. It was like a breath of relaxation, for finally being home, but then after a few moments it became cold and worrisome. The chill forced her to not only wonder once more about Aleron, but to also feel once more the icy sting of Faldil's anger and that of her father.
Liethlri leaned back in the chair and brushed up the side of the side of the tub with her toes, sliding them across the top edge, while she held her forehead in her hand and simply sat there in thought.
"Did I make a mistake? Was I too rash about all this? What if he needs me; if I left too soon? Damn it all! Damn it all to Oblivion and back!" She took her foot down from the tub and stamped in on the floor.
Even with those thoughts and regrets in her mind, her desire for a bit of comfort won out, and she slid down into the warm, inviting water of her bath. Before submerging herself completely she untied the thin, leather ribbons holding her braids in place, and let her long hair cascade over her shoulders and down into the water. Once her hair was down she submerged her entire body, letting herself stay under for a little longer than she normally would have, letting the calming, soothing water surround her face. It was as if this was the first time she had been truly clean in quite awhile.
Rubbing the oils and soaps across her body, she tried as best she could to relax and keep dragons, Rangers, and the outside world off her mind. She tried...but it was no use. Perhaps it was simply because of the anger demonstrated towards her by Faldil and Geldiir upon her return, but she immediately began to feel guilt for leaving Aleron and her new friends in such a rash spur of the moment.
But then again her completely torn mind began to toss up other thoughts and interject them at all the right moments to keep her as indecisive as possible. "Why would the Rangers need a companion such as me? They're just as quick and precise with a bow and blade as I am...if not more," she thought, being unsure if that made her feel better or worse.
Trying as hard as she could she was finally able to take her mind off the troubles of the world for a few moments. Even though her thoughts were still of Aleron, she lay there in the water relaxing, letting her mind drift back to the loving moments they had shared together. Although before long she found herself becoming somewhat regretful. She began to wonder what would've happened if she had in fact stayed in Elvenwood like he had requested.
But those thoughts were mostly useless now.
Just as she was about to get out of her bath and ready herself for bed, a knock came at her chamber door.
"Yes," she called.
"It's Faldil," came the reply from the other side of the door.
Liethlri sighed, and leaned her head back against the wall of her tub. "Come in," she called. "It's open."
When Faldil entered the room Liethlri turned to face him. A smile came across his lips as he saw his betrothed naked in her bath water, a few foamy patches doing their best to obscure just enough to leave the true nature of her perfect figure to the imagination.
"I apologize for my behavior earlier. I was simply upset at your running off the way you did," Faldil said, remorsefully, as he dropped to a knee beside her bath tub, his fingertips playing in the surface of the water.
Liethlri sighed. "I was simply doing what I saw as right at the time."
Faldil looked up and into her hazel eyes. Liethlri glanced away at the last second before he began to speak. "Liethlri...what your father said, about the Ranger? Do you have some sort of feelings for this...man? This Beast," Faldil asked.
"He is not a Beast. I can assure you there are few kinder men in this world," Liethlri quickly replied, still looking away.
"Few kinder men? Do you mean that in such a way as to refer to the actions of their race as a whole, or do you mean that as in..." Faldil pried further, obviously curious and still unnerved at the thoughts of Liethlri's heart possibly belonging to another.
"Faldil stop it," Liethlri commanded, yet with a soft tone to her voice, so as to not spark another argument. "I will not be running off again in search of this Ranger, or to take part in the affairs of men. Now please, can we lay the issue to rest?"
"I...I am sorry, milady," Faldil said. "But do you promise me?"
"Promise you what," Liethlri inquired, looking up and slightly concerned herself.
"Do you promise me that you will not run away from here, from me, ever again," he asked, leaning across the edge of the tub to embrace her wet, naked shoulders.
Liethlri forced out a smile as Faldil's arms wrapped around her. "...I promise," she said with a slight pause.
As Faldil hugged her, her eyes shot towards the moon behind the flowing curtains to her balcony. Her eyes became sad and ridden with a hopeless gaze of sorrowful longing.
Chapter 21
A Stroke of Luck, or Lack Thereof
Legate Titinius stood in front of the small campfire on the side of a rocky hill, somewhere within the borders of the Reach. The hill, he believed was referred to as Norman's Hill, and as he looked out over the rocky, scrubbily grassed slopes and fields below, couldn't help but notice what an ideal fighting position it would be.
"It would be an ideal position if I actually had an enemy to fight," his mind fumed. For the last week and a half he and his small detachment of horsemen had ridden across the slopes and valleys of western Skyrim, seeking out the elusive pack of Rangers that were supposedly operating in the region. Marcus was beginning to think the assignment completely folly, and even beginning to wonder if the reports received by General Tullius were any more than sensationalized tales being told by locals seeking to find comfort in the daring deeds of a fabricated folk hero.
"Good morning, my friend," Steelius Octavius said from underneath his cloak as he approached Marcus. He gnawed at a piece of salted pork from his saddlebags, obviously wishing it was something else.
"Good morning. If one could call it that of course. It would appear we're in for another day of rain and fog," Marcus replied, looking up at the grey sky and down at the mist still hanging in the lower lands.
"Eh, I'm afraid so. Wouldn't mind if we could make Rorikstead tonight myself. Get us a few soft beds and some warm food. I know the lads would appreciate it," Steelius said, finishing off his hardened strip of pork. He expected Marcus to reply instantly, but when it took him a few moments, Steelius spoke further. "What are you thinking, brother? Something troubles you, I can see it."
Marcus sighed and turned to face his dear friend. He gave a look around them to both sides, making sure none of his other men were listening. "Steelius, we have been through many an engagement, you and I, yes?"
"Yes, I suppose we have," Steelius replied with a hint of curious concern in his voice.
"Well then tell me, brother, do you feel as if we are truly out here to any real end? There is a war going on with these Stormcloaks, bastards, and I want to know if you feel as if we are actually playing any part in seeing this war to its end," Marcus said, his hands crossed over his chest and looking back over the crest of the hill.
Steelius took a step forward to stand beside Marcus, and he too gazed out over the rocky landscape. "No, brother. I do not feel as if we are being used by General Tullius to the full strength of our abilities. But then again, we are soldiers, and as such we are to follow orders without question."
"And if those orders are pure nonsense, or bear no real fruit," Marcus quickly replied.
"Then we are to follow them all the same," said Steelius, who then turned back to the dozen or so horsemen making ready for another day's ride. He held a hand out in their direction, and Marcus turned to look at them. "Marcus, these men, your men, would follow you in the bowels of Oblivion itself, regardless of what orders came down from on high. You are their captain, as you are mine, and even though we may question what comes from Tullius and the like, never once have we questioned you."
Marcus sighed and smiled at his friend, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. "I thank you, my brother. I..." he began to say before something behind Steelius caught his eye. It was a black rider, sitting tall in the saddle atop a jet black steed, slowly walking up the hill towards the cavalry encampment.
His first impulse was to have his men brought to arms, but instead he and Steelius walked in the general direction of the rider, and waited for him to approach. A few of them men had taken notice, and the few with bows had taken them in hand, waiting to see what should unfold.
"Halt! Identify yourself," shouted Steelius over the mist that was slowly making its way up the slopes of the hill.
The rider stopped and pulled the hood down from atop his head. When he did, Marcus' blood chilled, as it was the unmistakeable face of a vampire hiding beneath its shadows. The vampire smiled at the men, its fangs clearly able to be seen, even from a distance. "My name is Valtieri," the vampire called. "I am in the service of your General Tullius, and I bring news which may aid you in your endeavors! May I approach your humble camp?"
Marcus looked at Steelius, and quickly glanced back at his men before turning back to the vampire. "You may approach, vampire! But keep your hands clear of your weapons, and surrender your horse unto my men," the legate thundered over the growing fog.
Valtieri smiled and even made a slight bow in the saddle before dismounting and leading his horse the remainder of the way on foot. Marcus eyed the thing cautiously, but not so much as Steelius who had a firm grasp on the hilt of his sword.
"Legate...Titinius, I believe," Valtieri inquired as he handed his horse off to one of Marcus' men and then turned to face him.
"Aye. What is your business this far into the Reach, vampire? Do you follow us," Marcus demanded, courtly, of Valtieri.
"No, Legate Titinius. However, I come from the north bringing news which will aid you in your hunt for the elusive Ranger, Aleron Emeric," Valtieri replied.
"And why do you find us now to tell us this," Marcus inquired further.
Valtieri smiled. "Legate, I know that General Tullius has tasked you with finding and eliminating this Ranger. However, I too have an interest in seeing this Aleron wiped from the world. My reasons, however, are purely sporting and academic, but I am prepared to offer you a trade."
"A trade? A trade for what...assassin," Marcus replied, noting Valtieri's equipment and simply his demeanor.
"Your powers of observation go unequalled, Legate Titinius," Valtieri dug. He noticed Marcus' top lip quiver, but went on. "I propose a trade in which you give me the rights to hunt down one Aleron Emeric for my own pleasure, and reap the rewards thereof, in exchange for the location of his band of followers. Former Rangers themselves, all of them."
Marcus became curious all of a sudden. Tullius had mentioned the Ranger having followers, but he had took that to mean no more than the average peasant-folk who saw his deeds as daring and exciting. This proposition intrigued his warrior spirit greatly, for Marcus knew a band of Rangers, regardless of how small in number, could put up an extremely hardy fight. But it was not his lust for battle that made him begin to think. It was the idea that if he could fell Aleron's support base, that he would have effectively won the fight against this lone people's champion, and could return to fighting the real war; the war against the Stormcloaks.
Steelius had heard the conversation just as well as Marcus, and gave his legate a nod of approval. Marcus turned back to the vampire.
"Mr. Valtieri, you said? I shall not inquire as to what you meant when you referred to your own hunt for the Ranger as sporting and academic, but I would very much like to know where his followers are hiding."
"And if I tell you this, you relinquish your claim to Aleron's head," Valtieri asked.
Marcus turned back to Steelius who nodded once more. "Yes. It would be a deal," the legate said to the assassin.
Valtieri smiled his cunning, vile smile once more. "Then I should tell you that the Rangers are hiding in their old headquarters, beneath the inn in Falkreath; Dead Man's Drink, I believe the name to be."
"Well I thank you for this information. But I regret to inform you I have no idea as to the whereabouts of their commander," Marcus said, his voice perking up.
"Worry yourself none at all, legate," Valtieri said. "For I crossed paths and had a decent conversation with the young fellow but three days back. But now...I must be off. I have come too far out of my way already to bring you these tithes," Valtieri said unto the somewhat shocked faces of the Imperial cavalrymen as he reached out for his horse.
The vampire slung himself into the saddle with the swift yet careful ease of an experienced rider, and turned his mount sharply away and down the hill into the foggy vales below. Marcus and Steelius looked at one another for a moment before Marcus looked at his few horsemen.
"Mount up! Leave anything that can be spared. We ride for Falkreath at once," he said, walking towards his own horse which was yet to be saddled.
Steelius followed him.
"Marcus! Marcus," he shouted to his friend's back. His commander finally turned.
"What is it, brother? We must make haste this day."
"I beg of you that we take our time in this, Marcus. We must not charge into a den of Rangers with no plan other than to kill them all. You and I both know that they are much to cunning for such a plan to succeed."
Marcus threw his saddle atop the blanket atop his horse. "Steelius, I understand this. And I will think of a plan on our route down from this place. If they are as small in number as we are led to believe, then we need no worry about them observing our movements until we are close."
"But, brother, I simply beg of you to be cautious. Do not let our desire to be rid of this menial task be our undoing," Steelius pleaded with his friend.
"Steelius," Marcus said, having already saddled his mount and climbed atop. "You have followed me all these years. Trust me as you always have, my brother. We shall see this engagement through just like any other."
...
The weather outside of Falkreath had turned out to be rather nice that day, and Mihal was enjoying the bit of sunshine which had been poking through the clouds for the majority of his day. His duty was simply that of a guard, a way watcher, on the western road leading into Falkreath, in the direction of Markarth.
Mihal had found a small pool, one which he liked to sit by whenever it was his turn at the guard. It was just off the road, a few dozen yards or so, but surrounded by tall hemlocks and pines, with a few rocks to completely obscure him from view of any passersby. There was tiny stream that trickled down off the mountain and into the pool, its cool waters pure and clear as silver glass. He often liked to stare into them, looking at not only his own reflection, but thinking about her.
Liethlri.
His mind was consumed by her. He wasn't sure what it was, but ever since he had seen her for the first time in Ivarstead she had been all he could think about. Of course there were some difficulties, and his duties as way watcher were nice in that it gave him a chance to cool down when he became frustrated at the situation.
Liethlri was Aleron's, and from the way it looked, Aleron's she would remain. She was not a Ranger, and no woman had ever bonded herself to another in the old ways since sometime before their dissolution. But nevertheless Mihal knew that Liethlri would remain bonded to Aleron for as long as she desired, and more than likely see him as no more than a child until the end of all things.
Even with his desire for her, however, Mihal had not yet let it go beyond more than a few glances and a kind-hearted compliment or two. What ate at him, however, was the way she had looked at him in the few waning days before she left in the night without a word. They had shared a few fireside talks with one another in the early hours of morning, and when the conversations would begin to take a serious turn, regarding things such as love...and even lust, Mihal saw a look in her eyes that he felt was meant for Aleron, yet soaked it up for himself entirely.
For Mihal looked somewhat like Aleron, albeit slightly younger. Of course Aleron had aged very well, looking 20 when he was a year or so over 80. Mihal on the other had was a mere 20-something. He was still a child in the eyes of most who knew or paid attention to the aging process of the races of former elven stock. He was a Breton, like Aleron, who's parents had also been Rangers, both his and Shamus' mother and father, as opposed to simply Aleron's father.
He was of roughly the same build, less than six feet tall, but muscular and agile. He had silky black hair which reached down barely passed his shoulders, and framed a face of barely-traceable dark stubble and sky blue eyes. He often wore a brown mask under his green cloak and hood to hide his rather boyish face. But aside from that he appeared much as any Ranger would or should. His dark green tunic was covered by a leather gambeson of a lighter brown, and he wore a brown, quilted undershirt that was topped just over his hands by a pair of ornately stenciled leather bracers. Upon his legs were dark green, almost black breeches, covered from the knee down by dark boots and boiled leather shin guards that came up to his knees.
Upon his back he had a simply leather knapsack, just as the other carried, but instead carried a much longer bow of dark-stained ash. Mihal was an archer well before he was any sort of swordsman, and kept a hearty supply of elven-made arrows in a quiver of the same stenciled leather as the bracers upon his forearms. At his waist was a belt with a few assorted pouches around, but then on his left side playing host to a small short sword which he did use on the occasions when fighting hand to hand was the only option.
Mihal looked at his reflection in the pool, his face covered by the mask, constantly feeling ashamed of his youth. Granted he hoped to look like Aleron when he himself was 80 years old, but at this point in his life, youth meant ignorance and a lack of experience. In his mind it was a miracle at all that he had even been allowed to join the band of Rangers in Falkreath. Had it not been for Bairain taking he and Shamus in after the deaths of their parents during the purges, he knew no where he would be.
Trying not to dwell on things too much, he leaned back on a rock and plucked at the petals of a flower in the sunshine. It really was a beautiful day, and he enjoyed being out of the hideout. Bairain had taken more of a liking to him than Shamus for some reason, so therefore he was able to get more or the desired duties around the hideout.
Traffic on the road had been slow for the previous two days, which he thought was odd, as the weather had broken. Granted it was still rather chilly, as it was nearing the end of the year, but he would've assumed to see more riders and carriages out and about. The only thing of real interest he had seen, however, was a small patrol of Stormcloak scouts that had come out of the forest and onto the road for a few mere moments before disappearing once again into the trees on the other side.
Mihal had laughed at them under his breath, and the way that they attempted to sneak through the woods. He heard them from a long ways off, and had plenty of time to get out of sight before they passed. He'd even gone so far as to nock an arrow, just in the off chance that they ended up being Imperial troops. Scouts on both sides of the war hardly deserved such a title in his opinion, with marauding foragers being a more appropriate title, he thought.
At one time or another, especially before the Rangers had fallen out of favor with the Imperials, troops given the title of scout were a little more light on their feet and precise in their work. They were actually given some training in woodcraft and were decently adequate at their jobs. Now, however, the war was taking a toll on both armies, and commanders were sending anyone within their ranks with even a basic knowledge of tracking or shooting ability into the woods and villages to make off with whatever sustenance the could scrounge.
As he sat there against his rock, playing with more flowers and enjoying the beautiful day, the hair on his neck stood on end. His attention shot towards the road and through the brush. Something was coming along the road in the late afternoon sunlight; riding hard.
He pulled his mask tighter around his face and retrieved the bow from his back. Creeping through the trees, he came to within yards of the road, and found a large fallen tree to hide behind. He squinted, peering down the road to the west, waiting for whatever it was to round the bend about a quarter mile ahead. It felt like ages that he waited, his fingers on the bowstring, but finally a group of Imperial riders rounded the bend, never slowing, and pounding up the road towards Falkreath with all their might. Their horses snorted and cried out, and their spurs and reins whipped at their flanks.
Mihal counted 14 in total, with a towering legate at their head. He looked important, to say the least, with a wolfskin draped over his broad shoulders. The riders passed in a flash, and without thinking into the action at all, Mihal rose from behind his tree and drew back an arrow at the last rider in line.
Just as he was about to release, a rough hand grabbed the bow, and another tightly gripped around his mouth. He had no clue who it could be, and a sudden jolt of panic overtook him as he was thrown to the ground, the air exploding out of his lungs and into the tight hand of his unknown assailant. He struggled for a moment after hitting the ground, seeing stars as his head had bounced off the dirt beneath him.
When finally he was hauled to his feet an instant later, he found himself face to face with none other than Aleron. Mihal's now painful eyes scanned his superior and noted that the older Ranger looked much the worse for wear. His tunic and breeches were somewhat tattered, and his face was bruised beneath his hood. He could hear a slight wheezing in Aleron's breath, and immediately realized that he was injured, and more than likely had done nothing to alleviate his pain when he had slammed Mihal to the ground.
"You would see yourself killed for a wild shot in the back," Aleron asked, sounding painful and irritated.
Mihal didn't really know what to say. "I...I assumed them to be fair game."
"Aye, fair game. It would do you well, young one, to pay closer attention to your targets and your surrounding," Aleron said sternly. Mihal could tell Aleron was not angry with him, and that it was in fact a poor decision on his part. He had not considered any sort of escape route when deciding to take on over a dozen rather elite-looking Imperial cavalrymen on his own.
"I am sorry, my lord. But why are you here, if I may be so bold? I found your parchment saying you were going north."
Aleron knelt by the log and caught his breath. He was definitely in pain. "I was. But there were...complications with my task. I came back via Rorikstead and caught word of a supposed Imperial raid on a hideout of Rangers in Falkreath. I see that now to be true."
"A raid? We must warn the others," Mihal said, jumping up, but then being swiftly grabbed back down by Aleron.
"Stop. It will do us no good to charge into their trap head on. They assume we are all cowering in our little cellar, so we should let them," Aleron said. "Who else watches the roads?"
"Lycaon is astride his horse in the hills north of town. Bairain, Garrik, Shamus, and Fredra are still in the hideout," Mihal said after thinking for a moment.
"Damn," Aleron cursed. "Where is Ralof?"
"I do not know. Bairain had sent him out to go hunting this morning, and I do not know if he has yet returned."
"Aye. Well we mustn't waste anymore time. Go find Lycaon, Mihal. Fly, and meet me in the graveyard outside of town," Aleron ordered. Just as soon as the words had passed his lips he was gone into the trees once more.
Mihal stood and hopped over the log, his adrenaline pumping through his veins and his mind abuzz with excitement and even a touch of fear. A fight was surely coming, and he hoped he could find Lycaon before it was too late.
...
As darkness began to descend upon the graveyard, Aleron had drawn his bow and was leaning against the gravestone of his father. From there he could hear shouts and raised voices from inside town, and he could see the torchlight illuminating sword-bearing shadows along the town's wooden walls.
An hour or so had passed since he had met with Mihal, and still no sign came of him nor Lycaon coming down from the north. A carriage passed by, heading towards town, the majority of its flat surface holding a large iron cage resembling a jail cell.
It was as if the purges were happening all over again.
With no support from his still-free comrades apparent, Aleron had no choice but to wait where he was. Another hour or so passed by, and the torchlight began to die down. He began to hear what he thought were familiar voices shouting into the dark, but then his stomach churned as he heard the screeching slam of the iron cage atop the prison wagon.
Horses were mounted and six or seven of the Imperial cavalry thundered back out of town, more than likely heading for Solitude. Their commander, who Aleron assumed was the man at the head, draped in a wolfskin, was wasting no time in retreating from this part of the province which was in no way completely sided with the Imperial cause.
After half an hour, the prison wagon emerged from town, following along the same path, and Aleron did his best to see who was inside. He noticed Fredra right off, and it did his heart some good to see that Liethlri was not among the captured. The remaining horsemen staggered out on either side of the wagon, escorting it up the road, and into the foreboding night.
"Damn," Aleron cursed under his breath. "Where in Oblivion are you, Mihal?"
He could waste no more time. Taking off his knapsack he found his parchment and quill, and quickly scrawled out a note which he left speared atop the iron fence surrounding the grave.
"Mihal, Lycaon,
Old Brotherhood Sanctuary. Bring horses.
-Aleron"
It was a simple note, but hopefully they would get the message. After repacking his things, he pulled his hood up once more and ran off, back through the forest, attempting to cut off the shackled caravan.
...
The winds had shifted and brought in a terrible host of black storm clouds. The stars were completely obscured behind them, and the leaves of the tall trees had turned upside down, showing their silver underbellies as Aleron glided through the the glens and towards the spot he would make his ambush.
It was a rather secluded portion of the road, and for good reason. The locals claimed the presence of an ancient Dark Brotherhood sanctuary to be something of legend that hid within those particular reaches of the forest, and as such did their best to avoid the area altogether. The sanctuary's existence, however, was all too true, and Aleron had chosen the location simply because it was the only definable spot near Falkreath he could think of at the time. He was unsure if Mihal knew exactly where to go, but if he had done as he was told and found Lycaon, the pair should be on his heels shortly.
"You should make haste, my son. Your willingness to become a whore for these dragon-worshipers has nearly led you to forsake your friends. Fly, my child," said Hircine's cold voice in the back of his head as he painfully cleared a small thicket of underbrush in a single bound from the top of a stump.
Aleron ignored Hircine for the time being, but let the Beast take hold to a certain extent. He could feel his muscles begin to engage and a surge of raw, dark strength enveloped a large portion of the pain within him and made his legs carry him faster and faster. For the majority of the time he ran for the rendezvous he was off the ground, instead scampering across the dead trees and fallen limbs of the forest's thick understory. He still held his bow in his right hand, but used his left to help vault himself across rocks and swing from the few wild vines he passed.
Ahead he could see the forest begin to thin out as it neared the road and the usually unnoticed cutout in the rock below the road. He made one final bound out of the trees and rolled across the ground and into the high grass just off the road. Once he stopped, however, he realized how tired and in how much pain he truly was.
"But pain is for later," he reassured himself as he made ready for the fight to come. "Pain..." he winced, "...is for later."
...
The rain was coming down steadily when the small prison caravan finally rounded the bend near the Brotherhood Sanctuary. Aleron knew that he was in no danger of one of the assassins happening upon the fight which would soon unfold, and even found himself wondering if there were an occupants within the sealed cavern at all. If there were they would more than likely hide in the shadows of the forest until it was all over, not wanting to risk becoming involved in anything not a part of their contracts.
There was a slight rustling in the woods on the far side of the road, and with an instant, quick flash of lightening Aleron was able to see two hooded and cloaked bowmen creeping through the rain. It appeared the Mihal had found someone, whether it be Lycaon or Ralof, however, he did not know.
The caravan was moving slowly through the rain. He was sure that the cavalrymen, and too the drivers of the wagon, were just as uncomfortable as the prisoners inside. Their torches had been snuffed out by the storm, with the ones that had been secured to the sides of the wagon still steaming. As they neared Aleron retrieved an arrow from his quiver and nocked it into place.
He waited.
He let his instincts become in tune once more and began to mentally judge the right time to strike. Several blasts of lightening and thunder crashed through the rainy night as the caravan neared him, nearly parallel in the muddy road. Aleron had chosen his mark.
As soon as one bolt of lightening had split the air, he rose from the high grass like a shadow and drew back his bowstring. He aimed at the driver of the wagon, and as soon as the accompanying thunder rocked the trees, he let fly.
The arrow whistled through the rain, and in mere seconds found its own mark in the side of the driver's head. However, the arrow did not stop with just the driver, as it went nearly all the way through and punched into the skull of his companion, pinning them together atop their seat.
Horses began to wail and rear up under their masters, and more arrows flew into the stunned riders from the opposite side of the road. Aleron began to hear the yelps of the cavalrymen that had been hit in the soft spots of their armor, and with each flash of lightening he saw more and more arrows impale their bodies and snap in half on the ground as they fell from the saddle.
Aleron did his best to use the storm to his advantage, even going so far as to use it to play mind games with the now frantic soldiers who were dismounting and preparing for a fight. Each time the lightening would hit he used the resulting flashes to move to a different location in the grass. It made it appear as if there was an entire band of troops engaging the caravan, and kept the Imperials shouting and firing their own arrows blindly into the chilly rain. He shot several more arrows, some of them hitting the same soldier twice, until finally he had moved close enough to the road to begin engaging them head on.
Returning his bow to his back, he drew his sword, its blade gleaming with a flash of stormy light, and rushed through the increasingly heavy rain and into the fray. His captured comrades were shouting and frantic inside their cage as he jumped from the grass and brought his sword down across the neck of a surprised soldier.
When his first victim had dropped, he looked up to choose another target, but as he did so an Imperial had made him and barreled through to mud in his direction. Aleron raised his sword, and deflected a crushing blow as his heels slipped in the soft mud of the road. The Imperial's footing had been solid, and he raised his sword to strike again, letting out a large snort of visible breath from within his helmet which covered his entire face.
Aleron raised his own sword once more, deflecting another blow, and sending the Imperial's off to the side. When he had done so he spun low on his heels, using the slick ground to his advantage, and bringing his blade slashing across the soldier's exposed midsection. Another lightening strike allowed him just enough time to see the poor man's entrails flowing out from underneath his breastplate, and when the night darkened once more, Aleron thrust his blade forward, ending the soldier's misery and letting him fall face-first into the muck.
On the other side of the wagon, the fight sounded to be equally fierce. He heard Mihal's young voice yelling and cursing as his blade clanked across the cold steel of the Imperials. Lycaon must had been his partner, because he could hear a reel of bellowing curses after the unmistakeable thud of a fist hitting flesh.
Aleron did his best to drown out the curses and cries of his brothers still encaged, but just as he was about to round the wagon, his attention shot back down the road. Two riders were thundering hard towards him, one baring a spear and the other brandishing a sword high above his head. Aleron slipped as he tried to brace himself, but all of a sudden, a light went off inside his mind.
"Fus Ro Dah," he shouted, thunder now exploding from his own lungs, it visibly rolling forth into the night. When the thin cloud of raw energy hit the two horsemen, both man and beast were sent toppling backwards, men off their horses, and beasts crying out as they tumbled onto one another.
The Ranger felt a warm burst of energy within him, it was exhilarating. All of the captured Rangers in the wagon immediately fell silent, but Aleron kept his focus and ran down the road towards the men he had just felled.
They tried to stagger to their feet, the one who had been carrying the spear being the first up. Aleron had been focused on the other, and without thinking, drew his hunting knife and hurled it towards the one already afoot. It went end over end two or three times before colliding with the man's face, impacting perfectly within the slight gap of the front of his helmet. The rider still on the ground was stunned, and as soon as he turned to look up at the charging Ranger before him, found his head completely separated from his shoulders, and rolling down into the ditch beside the road.
All was silent back at the wagon.
Aleron turned to see Mihal and Lycaon still standing, and once he made sure it was them, dropped to a knee atop the dead body of the Imperial at his feet. His lungs wanted to explode, the shard of bone still sticking in them now completely unable to be ignored. His arms ached, and he felt droplets of blood and rain running down his cheeks. He tried to catch his breath, but it was all for nought, and eventually toppled over in the mud, gasping for air.