Okay, so I will warn any who might get annoyed: I treat bows a bit differently than the game. Much in the same way Bethesda seems to have an odd view of the weights of weapons, they don't seem very knowledgeable on bows either. Or at least, they don't accurately display much knowledge. The worst bow in the game is the longbow, but in truth an English longbow was the best weapon a man could find at a distance, so long as he was standing and strong enough to pull it. The thing fired larger arrows over three football fields. It was just somewhat big and required using your whole body to fire properly. Every other bow in the game is a form of recurve, but one culture rarely used both. Therefore, the hunting bows in my story are just shorter straight bows, having less range but a quicker draw speed. The rest of the bows are pretty much accurately depicted recurves from the game, with the possible exception of whatever the Nordic Bow was supposed to be (some kind of primitive compound, maybe?) Recurve bows were easier to use (though I've heard argument on which is harder to learn) and much smaller, much quicker, therefore they would be more useful in certain situations, as in stealth. Okay, history lesson over.
Also, yes there are references to mountain ranges that don't seem to have names in the game. If anyone knows the name of the range that starts south of Morthal, or the small one just west of Fort Greymoor, I'll gladly change them. For now they are the White Mountains and the Swordhills, respectively.
Thanks to Icebear01 for the follow, and to iain3 for the favorite. Great belated thanks to Y-ko as well for the review.
Missing in Action
The Gray-Mane house overlooked the Gildergreen Courtyard. It was an impressive home, with richly carved woodwork in its high-peaked ridges. Inside, brightly colored carpets and wall hangings, Silver wall sconces and candle holders, and extravagant furnishings told of the history and wealth of the Gray-Mane clan. Fralia Gray-Mane, the patroness of the family, sat in an ornate, lacquered chair in front of the firepit, messaging her temple.
Aleron put a comforting hand on her shoulder, the leanness of age and weary stress making her seem made of elvish porcelain. "What is it you need, good woman?"
"As I said," she began for the fourth time. She seemed, once again, unable to go on. Erik coughed, roughly, and Aleron gave him his most admonishing glare. "I'm sorry," Fralia continued, finally. "It's my son, Thorald. He's not dead, no matter what they say. I know they have him, somewhere."
"She's talking nonsense, man."
Erik had not wanted to come even this far to hear the woman's story. He wanted to be off to Solitude as soon as possible. When they had arrived in the night through the gates of Whiterun, he had suggested waking one of the merchants to get their supplies. This morning, when Aleron stopped at the sight of Fralia Gray-Mane crying into her hands, Erik had nearly stamped his feet in frustration.
"Go and see if the supplies are ready, Erik. I'll speak with the lady." Aleron could not turn away from this woman. He knew those tears; knew those dark, hopeless eyes. Something had been taken from her, in a way that she couldn't understand.
"You'll help me, won't you?" she cried as Erik left, mumbling to himself.
"I don't understand," he tried to tell her. "What do you need help with? Who is your son? Who says he is dead?"
She seemed not to hear him. "Please," she pleaded feebly. "Say you'll help me. My Thorald. My poor Thorald. Will you help?"
He was going to say yes, if only she would tell him clearly what was wrong, when a large Nord with a battleaxe burst through the door that led to the north wing of the house. He was older than Aleron, considerably. White hairs streaked through pale, his head and beard both covered thickly. His voice sounded old, though his face could not have been yet fifty. He held his axe ready to use.
"What's going on, mother? Who is this?"
The old woman looked to her son, then back at Aleron, whose hand had now gone to his own axe, hanging at his belt. A terrified expression distorted her face. "No, Avulstein!" she wailed. "No more killing! Put that thing down!"
Aleron took his hand away from his axe, giving this Avulstein his most unthreatening and apologetic face. The man squinted at him a moment, then glanced at his mother. She was quickly turning from horrified old woman to agitated mother. The big Nord lowered his axe, then hefted it casually to his shoulder.
"How do you know you can trust this outlander, Mother? He isn't even a Nord. Why would he help a Stormcloak?"
She gave him a sympathetic look before speaking. "Why don't you ask him, boy?"
Avulstein nodded, turned to Aleron. "Who are you? Why do you want to get involved in this?"
Aleron took a deep breath before answering. He was not sure he did want to get involved with this, but he was afraid it might be too late not to. "I don't even know what's going on. I saw Lady Gray-Mane, your mother, crying outside. I asked her if there was anything I could do. She told me to follow her here. And now I am trying to puzzle out what she needs."
The big Nord frowned. "I thought so. You have no reason to help us. You won't, once you know what we need. Just leave."
"Avulstein!" the old woman broke in. "Apologize! Tell the boy what we need, before you send him off."
"Fine, mother. Fine. My brother Thorald is a Stormcloak. He was one of the bodyguards for Ulfric Stormcloak. A good man, but the Thalmor took him when Helgen was destroyed. Don't know if I can really believe all that about a Dragon, but… Anyway, the Empire says he's dead, that he died there. But we got message from Galmar Stone-Fist, asking where he is. The Stone-Fist says he made it out of Helgen. Was headed here. He wouldn't desert his cause, which means something went wrong. We thought maybe he died on the way here, but then, a couple weeks later, the Battle-Borns got a message from the Legion, only I saw a Thalmor seal on there. And since then, Idolaf's been givin' me smug looks every day. I know they know something."
Aleron sat down, opposite the fire from where Fralia had been sitting. If the Thalmor had this Thorald, they were torturing him. He thought of how it felt when he lost his mother and father. What if I thought they might be alive? What if I thought they were being tortured?
"What do you need me to do?" he asked.
"We need to know for sure that he's alive, first."
"Yes," Fralia said quietly, almost to herself. "Please."
"You want me to get that Imperial missive?" Avulstein nodded as he took another seat. "How in Talos' name do you think I'm supposed to do that?"
"We need the proof, man. I don't care how you get it."
Avulstein jumped up, grabbing his axe, as Erik walked back in from outside. The big Roriksteader took one look at Avulstein, another at Fralia, a last at Aleron, and then laughed like he'd heard the best joke.
"You must be Avulstein. I was talking to Jon Battle-Born outside the trader's shop. He seemed reluctant to talk about your brother."
Avulstein stalked over to Erik, sizing him up for a fight. "You talked to a Battle-Born!" he raged. "They'll destroy the missive now, if they think we might mean to steal it!"
Erik looked confused. "I don't know anything about a missive. I just wanted to know what was going on, and he seemed to know something. He says your brother's alive. Told me to come see him at the Temple of Kyne after noon. Says he'll have something for me to prove it."
Avulstein Gray-Mane seized Erik the Slayer by the shoulders and embraced him as one might a brother. "Shor's blessing on you, kinsman." The pale-haired Nord wiped a tear from his eyes.
"What does it say, Avulstein?" Frailia was practically bouncing with anticipation as her son read the missive Erik had provided.
Jon Battle-Born had been as good as his word. He had seemed worried about being seen together, but he slipped Erik the piece of paper while they were discussing the dying Gildergreen. What it said made Erik run:
It has come to my attention that inquiries have been made as to the whereabouts of one Thorald Gray-Mane.
It is my duty to inform you that Thalmor agents have taken possession of the prisoner and have escorted him to Northwatch Keep.
I don't think I need to elaborate. It is in everyone's best interest if the matter is dropped entirely. I trust there will be no further inquiries as to this matter.
Gen. Tullius
"I was right, mother!" Avulstein looked ready to tear down the walls of this Northwatch Keep with his bare hands. "The Thalmor have him! Blasted elves! Torturing him, for sure."
Fralia fainted, falling into her son's arms, unconscious.
That cold intensity from before the mine was back in Aleron's eyes. "You mean to go get him out?"
The pale-haired Nord set his mother gently into a chair by the fire. "Yes. I can find at least two others who will go with me. You both have done enough to earn my gratitude for as long I live; but if you want to meet me there, I'll not turn away any help. They're not allowed more than fifteen soldiers in any one fortified place in Skyrim, so the Jarl says, but I don't trust the Thalmor to hold to that."
"Where is this place they're holding him?" Aleron asked.
Avulstein looked dark as he shook his head. He did not know. Erik answered for him, though. "I asked Jon before I left. He says it's northwest of Solitude, along the coast, nearly to High Rock. Only a few days out of our own way, really."
Aleron quirked that almost smile. "We'll meet you in Dragon Bridge in ten days. We can travel the rest of the way together."
"You really should come to see me someday at the temple." Dinya Balu was a pretty Dark Elf, with smoother, kinder features than her race usually possessed. She was friendly, if a bit overzealous. She was diligent in her duties to the Temple of Mara, which was usually a trait Mjoll appreciated; but right now, that trait was making her wish she could dunk the woman in the Canal. "Just because you are a warrior woman does not mean that you cannot appreciate the guidance we give on opening yourself to the right partner for your life."
Mjoll shook her head. "I don't need some man to hold me at night to know Mara's love, Dinya. The world is full of husbands and wives, even in Riften; what the world needs - what Riften needs - is heroes. I can't be that hero for this city if I'm mooning over a man. Besides, it's hard for me to love a man in that way."
"Must it be a man?" Dinya asked, a small smile playing with wide, questioning eyes on her dark gray face.
"I don't like women that way," she replied, laughing softly. "And you know it. You tried, yourself, if I'm not mistaken."
A purple blush shot into the dark woman's face as she looked down. "You are a beautiful woman, Mjoll. And for me, gender matters little."
"Sometimes I wish it were that easy, for me. I wish I could love a soft, pink little Breton girl, but I can't. It seems, under all this armor, under all the scars, I'm too much a Nord woman. Maybe if I find a man I don't think I could bend over my knee. He'd have to be able to bend me over his, really." Mjoll smiled at the thought, despite herself.
The Dunmer woman's face lit up. "Well, then. I'll just have to keep my eyes open for Tiber Septim."
Mjoll laughed as heartily as the priestess. It was good to forget her troubles for a time. There was just so much to drag her down. Aerin was angry with her. He hadn't said anything about her hand. When she'd shown up the next morning nearly missing a thumb, he just asked her if she would need a healer. But he looked at her like a kicked dog, sometimes, ashamed and hurt and angry all at once. This new Thieves Guild recruit was the talk of the Ratway, not Mjoll's apprehension of Sapphire. Apparently the little Wood Elf had been involved somehow in putting the Honningbrew Meadery into Maven Black-Briar's hands. And there was biggest problem. Maven Black-Briar really was poised to become the new Jarl of Riften.
Mjoll had been all over Tamriel, from Morrowind to High Rock, from High Rock to Black Marsh. She had a lot of friends, even if few indeed were close. Rikke, Legate of the Imperial Army and second-in-command to General Tullius in the Skyrim Legion, was more a woman with whom she shared an immense respect; but that respect had gained her enough trust that she had been trusted with information most legionaries would not have been. According to Rikke, Maven Black-Briar would be set up as the new Jarl of Riften as soon as the Legion took control of the city.
Mjoll couldn't bring herself to hope for a Stormcloak victory. She had met Ulfric Stormcloak once, and the man's arrogance far outweighed his impressiveness. He was a hard man, and a good leader. But Mjoll knew, from her short time serving the King of Wayrest, that hard men, even ones who knew how to lead, did not know how to rule.
She would have to leave to leave, if Maven became Jarl. She knew that. She would be shamed by it, by her failure here; but she had faced shame before, and she had come out alive. Shame was like any other wound: sometimes it festered; it always hurt; but so long as it was kept open and clean, it would heal.
Mjoll was startled out of her wonderings by the voice of an Argonian woman.
Her reptilian face looked desperate, as she pleaded with the priestess for a healing potion.
"Please," the Argonian said. "I'm going to lose my job at the fishery. I can kick it, I can. I just need a healing potion to get it out of my system."
Dinya threw up her hands, apologizing. "I'm so sorry, my child. I have no healing potions with me now. If you'll go to the Temple, I'm sure Maramal could find one for you. Mara's love on you, child."
That was a clear dismissal, but the Argonian woman just turned her worried eyes to Mjoll.
Gods, this is a bad idea. She pulled a healing potion from the pouch hanging at her belt. What if they try to poison me again? It didn't matter that it was stupid. She couldn't look this woman in the face and turn her away. Her father told her once that if you couldn't do something smart, you might as well do something right.
As the Argonian woman smiled and reached for the vial, Mjoll pulled back slightly, drawing the woman's eyes to her own.
"Where do you get it? The skooma? Who sells it to you?"
Now the reptilian woman looked struck. She was unsure, afraid of reprisals. "I shouldn't tell… they'll kill me."
Mjoll put on her most reassuring smile, not as damaged as it could have been by the thin scar running down her left cheek. "No one will kill you because of me."
"Okay, okay, I'll tell you. Sarthis Idren. He keeps his shipments in his warehouse, but it's locked. You can't get in."
"I'll find a way."
.
"The Jarl of Riften will see you now." Anuriel's tight smile made Mjoll want to punch her face in. Smug little bitch.
The Jarl sat in her thrown, not lounging like some arrogant king, but straight and attentive. She gave the impression of truly wanting to hear from one of her subjects, and of wanting to help in any way she could. Mjoll supposed that would have made her a great Jarl, under other circumstances. Unfortunately, Laila Law-Giver was attentive not because she was overly magnanimous - though she truly was not arrogant, nor elitist. No, she was attentive because she was stupid; slow witted enough that if she did not try hard, she could not keep up.
Behind the Jarl, chatting with one of Laila's sons, was Maven. She did not look away from Harrald, she had been watching Mjoll from the moment she entered Mistveil Keep.
"Mjoll!" the garishly dressed Jarl beamed. "It has been more than a week since you last graced my hall. What is it that your Jarl can do for- Oh dear! Whatever happened to your hand, child?" Laila had bounded from her thrown at the sight of Mjoll's bandage, her sunset-colored curls bouncing around her heavy gold circlet. Now, she gently cupped her subject's hand in her own like an older sister comforting a younger.
"Just cut myself cleaning a fish, my Jarl. Not even worth a healing potion. Nothing to worry about." There was something in the Jarl's eyes - pain, maybe. Could that be shame? Why? Behind her, Maven gave a wicked smile, eyes locked for a moment with Mjoll's.
Mjoll ignored Maven's triumphal grin, and again addressed the Jarl. "I wanted to ask you if I could be granted access to Sarthis Idren's warehouse on the docks. I believe he is distributing skooma." If anything, Maven smiled deeper. And it looked… approving.
The bitch has no connection to this. She thinks I'm tamed!
Laila smiled at her, then. "Yes. We've known of this for some time. I've sent my guards out there more than twice, but they tell me the place is empty when they raid. You're certainly welcome to try. Of course we keep a key here, as with all the warehouses on our docks." She snapped her fingers at a servant, who then disappeared into the back rooms. "Now, while we wait for the key, tell me again how you got that scar. I doubt I could say it of another woman, but I think it makes you even more beautiful."
.
Leaving Mistveil Keep behind, bouncing the key to Sarthis Idren's warehouse on her palm, Mjoll crossed through the great stone gates that protected the Mistveil Gardens. Ahead, across the Canal, she could see the merchants' square. She needed to get a couple of healing potions; one for her hand, and one in case she should need it in the warehouse.
"Finally wising up, eh?" Maul's gruff voice came from behind her. She turned to see him leaning against the stone wall beside the gate.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you seem to have got it into your head that Maven's business, and her partners', is off limits. Good for you. Maybe you'll survive the year, after all."
Mjoll fumed. "You tell Maven that I wish she was involved in this, somehow. I do what I do for my own reasons. Skooma destroys too many lives. That's all there is to this. I'm not afraid of you, and I'm not afraid of Maven Black-Briar."
"Sure you're not. Tell Sarthis I said 'hi'."
Bastard! I'm not afraid.
The first day, the road from Whiterun was a moderately straight line to the west, through the middle of the Tundra. Miles of flat grasslands stretched out before them as they headed toward the Western Watchtower. Erik and Aleron took turns leading the packhorse - actually a warhorse, which Aleron had named Caddock, after some ancient Breton hero's spear. The beast was carrying enough food and water for the six-day trip to Rorikstead, assorted camp gear, and the weapons of whoever's turn it was to take its lead. Erik supposed Aleron could have bought a cheaper horse, any true packhorse; but when Skulvar Sable-Hilt of the Whiterun Stables had shown them the big black warhorse he said would not let anyone else near it, Aleron had walked right up to the stallion and mounted. His father had been a raiser of horses, it seemed - the first Erik could ever remember hearing of Aleron's family, other than that they were dead - and he was used to shoeing, which put him at an advantage in soothing the agitated ones. Seeing that, and being worried he might not get the beast to trust anyone else, Skulvar had let the animal go for little more than he would have charged them for one of the simple packhorses.
They talked little that first day, mostly of the road ahead and the history of Whiterun Hold, which Erik was surprised to learn was not as much a mystery to Aleron as should be expected. When Erik tried to explain to the Breton of the troubles with the Horme and frost trolls that had all but destroyed the capital city in the late Third Era, Aleron had simply added that those tragedies were not thought to be nearly so devastating as the succession of harsh winters that accompanied them. In fact, there seemed to be little that Erik knew that the blacksmith did not already. Even the geography was nothing he did not know. When Erik asked, all he would say about his knowledge of the landscape was that he had seen a map years ago detailing the holds of Whiterun and Falkreath, right down to accurate distances and notable landmarks.
They rested that night at the Western Watchtower. The guards stationed there said little of interest that night, aside from general camp gossip and some news of Stormcloak troop movements. Most seemed weary of Aleron, who brooded over his food before quickly going to sleep.
Erik was not sure why he was so fond of the Breton. Erik had always befriended men like himself. He liked to laugh and drink and fight, and he chose his friends accordingly. Aleron was not that type at all. To call the man serious would be unfair. Erik had a sense of humor that cracked like a whip, sarcasm and wit sharp enough to make any Imperial jump, dark enough for an Orc. No, serious was not in it. He was distant, angry. Angry at what, Erik had no clue. What Erik found strange was that he did not seem to take his anger out on anyone else. In fact, he was overly polite and helpful. All that anger, he somehow bottled up. He'd seen it released only once, so far, and it nearly frightened him. If a man could be winter in Skyrim and summer in Elsweyr, all at the same time, that was Aleron in battle. Yet Erik already felt closer to this man than he thought he could have to a brother.
The next morning, as they were leaving, one of the guards said something that pricked his interest.
"Watch the skies, travelers. I don't know if I believe those crazy stories about dragons, but I saw something up there the other day that nothing else could explain."
The other guards all turned toward the travelers, to see what they had to say about legends come to life out of the stories. Aleron just turned away, before Erik could tell them that he had been at Helgen, seen a dragon himself. Erik laughed to himself, and said his farewells to the guards. He thought he understood something, then. The Breton didn't like to be the center of attention. That dragon was one of the few things he could get Aleron to talk about with ease. But in front of a group of people, the man practically ran away.
They came to the crossroad near midday. They could see Fort Greymoor to the west, crowned by the Swordhills behind. Greymoor was one of the old fortresses that dotted the landscape of Skyrim, built hundreds of year ago, during the Septim dynasty. Now, it was a bandit camp, and smart travelers kept to the encircling roads.
One road went north, the obvious choice for the fool trying to reach Haafingar. It was the shorter road, to be sure; but two men on foot would never take it alone. That road would take them into the White Mountains, through the Labyrinthian, into Hjaalmarch, cutting more than a day off the longer road. But the Labyrinthian was overrun with frost trolls. A trading caravan would have little trouble, or a military company. Trolls never attacked large numbers of people - not for hundreds of years, anyway. Even groups of four or five mounted warriors had been known to get through alive; but groups of more than ten had been known to fail, as well.
No, the western road was the right choice, even if it meant losing a full day's worth of southward travel, when they were headed north.
As the sun began to set on the second day, just revealing the first glimpse of the closest mountains of the reach, Aleron started looking over his shoulder at the road behind them. Erik fell back to Aleron and the horse.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"We're being followed. Bandits from Greymoor, I think."
"I noticed." Erik looked back down the road. He hadn't really been sure, before. He turned his eyes south, where the Jeralls were dwindling. "Think we should head south, try to lose them in the foothills?"
"We'd be half the night reaching them." The Breton started taking his sword and shield down from Caddock's saddlebags. "Besides, I've only counted five of them."
Aleron finished unpacking the horse, leaving their food and camp supplies in piles beside the road. He started to hand Caddock's reins to Erik, but the tall Nord shook his head.
"You're the better rider. Besides, I don't care what you say, that thing hates me."
Aleron shrugged. The man was right, obviously; but it was also right to offer. "None of them are mounted. Keep that bow on the road. I'll be coming back over the ridge ahead of them. Take out any archers first, or you won't get a chance."
With that, he turned Caddock back down the road, the way they had come. This might be a foolish way to go about this, he thought. No other way to set an ambush with only one archer, though.
He had not gone a mile before he spotted them. They were staying off the road, to either side. He could see five, now - four with swords or axes, one with a short hunting bow - that should make six, overall, if the other archer he'd seen was still around somewhere.
An arrow skidded off the road a hundred feet in front of him. There was the second archer, foolishly on the same side of the road as the first. Aleron kicked Caddock into a run, south toward the other bandits, away from the arrows. He would try to thin this group before drawing them to Erik. Perhaps if he could frenzy them enough, they would charge straight into longbow range without thinking. Caddock knew his business, it seemed. The horse had no trouble charging into the group of three armed men, running one down while Aleron slashed at the head of another. Blood splattered the horse and its rider, from the skull of Aleron's victim. He kept the horse moving, not giving the bandits a chance to take out its legs.
A hundred yards or so past them, he turned and charged the remaining two. As he rode in again, Aleron noticed that Caddock had shattered the leg of the man he'd run down before. He rode right over him as he tried to crawl away. Caddock took a shallow wound to his shoulder as Aleron split the third bandit's head with his axe. As he swung to bring the other group to Erik, Aleron noticed one of the archers drawing her hunting bow from the road, just in range. Before he could get his heels into Caddock, though, an arrow sprouted in the bandit's neck, dropping her to the ground before she could take aim.
Aleron wheeled back around to see Erik now taking aim with his longbow at the second archer, who was trying his best to get in range for his smaller hunting bow. He was too late. The thick broadhead arrow took him in the chest as he started to draw his own bow. The last bandit was running. Not toward Erik, nor toward Aleron; he was fleeing toward the Swordhills. In a moment Erik had another arrow aimed. He missed. Aleron thought of riding him down, before he remembered the slash in Caddock's shoulder.
.
The horse's wound turned out to be less serious even than he'd thought. He made a poultice for the wound while Erik set the camp for the night.
"How many days to Rorikstead, Erik?"
The big Nord looked surprised to be asked. "Ah… four days, still. The road takes us south into Falkreath for another twenty miles or so before it starts to climb north to Rorikstead."
Aleron patted the horse. He was sure Caddock could handle what he wanted, even with the wound. But he worried about what would happen if more bandits caught them on the road. "What if we don't follow the road?"
"What, you wanna go through the Swordhills?"
"Can it be done? We should be able to find Gjukar's Monument once we get out of the hills. From there it should hard not to find the road."
Erik shrugged, thought a moment. "I've never done it. Most people take the road. You worried about more bandits? Don't be. Once we get close enough to the reach, the bandits are too scared of the Foresworn. And the Foresworn don't usually attack travelers on the Whiterun road."
"I've heard the bandits can be bad down near the Jeralls, though."
Erik looked sheepish. "Well, yes and no. They'll find you down there. But as long as you pay 'em, they-"
"I'm not paying bandits."
Erik's gave him incredulous look, but Aleron was not going to change his mind. This country was in civil war, and people taking advantage was to be expected. But Aleron was not going to let it happen to him. "You start paying bandits, pretty soon they organize huge clans, like the Horme. Tamriel will never have a shortage of men wanting to take advantage of other people's weakness. I won't be part of that."
Erik shook his head, looked toward the hills, though they were hardly visible in the darkness. "What's the difference between paying and running?"
"It makes them spread out. If they have to go into the hills to rob people, as well as cover the road, large road parties might fight back, whittle down their numbers. Eventually, the bandits do one of two things: either they disperse, or they come together in strength. If they disperse, great; if they come together, people can avoid them again until the Jarl can send a large enough detachment of guards to kill them all at once."
"You get all that from a book?" Erik asked, smiling.
"That's how the first Titus Mede dealt with a group of bandits along the Black Road when he first took power. He had soldiers building different roads all through the Great Forest, until finally the bandits thought they could take Fort Ash. They took it… for a fortnight. Then they got smashed between soldiers from Chorrol the Imperial City. Historically, it works."
"Hah!" Erik said, slapping Aleron on the back. "Maybe you should be High King. If you want go through the Swordhills, we'll go. But there are worse things than bandits."
"Wolves?"
"Sabre cats."
.
The next day, they left the road. The Swordhills were not as intimidating as Erik had thought would be. They came into view of a giant's camp to the south, and Aleron got his first sight of a Mammoth. If the giants had been impressive, the mammoths didn't look possible. What an ox was to a man, a mammoth was to a giant. It was like watching a house walk around. Other than that, they were coming out of the hills on the fourth morning, in view of Gjukar's Monument, before they saw a sabre cat. Erik sent it away with a broadhead arrow in its leg, and they found the road to the west. And so by the fourth night, they were less than twenty miles from Rorikstead.
By noon the next day, Erik was introducing Aleron to his father.
Mjoll looked in every direction as she crossed the docks. It was a dark night, and she wore a hooded brown coat that should hide her from all but the most wary eyes. But still, it was best to be cautious. She wasn't afraid of Sarthis Idren, or his guard dog, Orini Dral; but she was worried they would get rid of any evidence if they saw her coming. And she knew they were expecting her. There just wasn't any way Maven hadn't thought it too tempting to let her be killed here.
She had waited five days to make her move. If they going to be were expecting her, she would make them wait. Waiting would make them unsure. It would make them more anxious, unfocused; less wary. She chose tonight because she knew they had something that could prove what they were about. She'd watched the warehouse enough to know that they never took normal shipments inside. More legitimate business was handled on the docks, with customers already there. This last shipment, come in on a skimmer piloted by a twitchy Argonian, they took directly into the small warehouse so fast she wondered if she'd seen it right. It was the second shipment like that they'd received. She had been tempted to try and get to the first, but two nights ago they were still too wary. Now, Idren and Dral seemed to be wondering if she'd given it up.
She listened in at the door. There didn't seem to be much going on inside. That was good. If they were dumping contraband already, she would be able to hear it. The key slid into the lock easily. She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. With one last look for the docks, she undid her cloak and let it slide off. The time for stealth was over. With a rush of adrenaline, she pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The place was practically empty. A couple of crates in one corner were all the hope the main floor had to offer for proof of any misdeeds. And they looked as though they'd been there for years. It was obvious the two men had been living here. She was debating whether she should even bother to search them, when she heard a noise. Orini Dral was walking in from a room off to her right, humming some bar song to himself.
Mjoll charged. She needed this to be over quietly if possible - she didn't want Idren getting rid of evidence, or escaping - and that meant quickly. Dral was quick. He was armored in light leather, and he did not even carry a sword. He moved fast enough though; he drew the dagger from his belt and slid aside, dodging Mjoll's battleaxe. She felt pain in her armpit, and the warm, slick feel of blood told her there was a new wound there.
He didn't cry out for Idren. He only spoke calmly. "It's time, Sarthis. You want to see the show?"
Mjoll heard footsteps coming up the stairs around a corner. Sarthis Idren was dressed in full steel plate armor, and he carried an iron greatsword. He stopped just inside the room, and nodded to Dral.
"Maven better have been right about you."
Dral just smiled at Mjoll. "Let's see then, girly."
He started to circle her, staying along the walls. He moved like a snake, clearly on the verge of striking, even when it seemed he was off balance. She swung at him wide, testing his movement. He rolled under the axe, but her quick step back kept him from taking his chance. So you don't like to take chances.
"You can't take too long, girl. Not in that armor. You'll tire long before I do. And besides, if I decide to attack -"
He slashed out at her face, but she took another step back, just barely saving herself from another facial scar. He never stopped smiling at her, his gray face pulling back to his pointed ears and shaved head, making him look like a shark in a feeding frenzy. He was testing her. Slashing here and there. Judging her attacks. He was finding out what she was capable of, forcing her to take a chance.
He slashed again, this time slicing the skin above her right eyebrow. Blood started to poor down, and she would lose the use of the eye soon. It was now or never. She needed to do something he didn't think she could.
She pushed him back with the top of the axehead. She spun, as fast as she could manage. She felt him move, as her back was turned. She dropped, the weight of her armor adding to the speed of the fall. She felt the blade slide off her iron pauldron, as her axe continued its swing, aimed at his knee. He saw it coming, jumped. But not fast enough. The axehead connected at the ankle of his soft boots, sheared through fur and leather and skin and bone like parchment, the momentum of her spin so powerful that the foot was totally severed. Orini Dral came down screaming.
Mjoll planted the axehead into his chest and rolled over him, nearly cutting him in half. Sarthis Idren's broad blade glanced off her backplate as she rolled.
"Die, fetcher!" he screamed at her, as she rose back to her knees.
She blocked his downward swing, and sprung up from her knees to punch him squarely in the jaw. He staggered, and her axehead opened his throat to spray her with deep red blood.
.
One eye closed shut from the assassin's blade, she searched the whole warehouse for evidence of smuggling, of skooma, of anything. The place was not large; it did not take long. Apparently, Sarthis had dumped the shipment before the fight. She was frustrated. The crates clearly had been unused for decades, full of nothing but straw, dust, and dead skeevers. She was near to giving up. There was one room left, downstairs.
It was clearly Sarthis Idren's personal space. His clothes littered the floor, the bed, the dresser shelf. In a corner, though, was what Mjoll was looking for. Three bottles of skooma sat beside a stack of documents laid out on a writing desk. She sniffed at the skooma bottles to be sure, before leafing through the papers. They were all written in some language she did not understand.
That didn't make sense. She had been all over Tamriel. She could read Argonian script, for Stendarr's sake. It must be a cipher of some kind. Aerin can figure this out. Burn me if there's anything he can't. Mjoll took the skooma to give to the Jarl, and the documents for Aerin.
Aleron looked north across the river in contempt. He scratched at his unshaved face, tried to think of when anything had ever been as easy as it should be. He looked to the west, and then the east, then behind at Caddock, waiting impatiently for the men to make a decision. Erik stepped up beside him, the big Nord as long-faced as Aleron had ever seen him. Together, they let out a sigh as they came to an unspoken agreement, staring north with resignation. A stone bridge stretched over the River Hjaal, and on the northern side was a bandit camp.
"There's got to be ten, at least," Erik complained. He was an eager fighter, but two against ten were nearly suicidal odds, and he was not fool enough to think otherwise.
"We're not leaving them here, though."
Erik frowned, as deeply as his face would allow. "No. We're not."
They both knew they could leave the bandits here. They had no real reason to cross the Hjaal, aside from following the road. Skirting along this side of the river would be easy, even with the horse. But they would not leave a camp of bandits less than two days from Erik's home. "We can still head back to gather some guards, Erik. If you want."
"We're not going anywhere." Erik's red mane swayed as he shook his head. "Bandits like these come down into Rorikstead every year. My father used to keep me out of the fighting, even after that Foresworn raid. These bastards are going to see Erik the Slayer now."
The Nord pulled his longbow from Caddock's saddle, and began stringing it. He started humming some Nordic battle song to himself.
Aleron peered ahead at the bandit camp. It was not a thing built in a couple of days; but it was not really a true fort, either. Mostly, it took advantage of two small outcroppings on either side of the road. Stretched between the outcroppings was a wooden bridge, with what was clearly a rock trap ready to crush anyone trying to cross under without permission. To the right, behind the outcroppings, they had seen a building and the tops of a few tents.
Erik stood, finished with his bow, and began shoving arrows into the ground at the river shore.
"You sure you can make that shot?" Aleron asked. He could only just hear the bandits from the wooden bridge laughing at Erik, deriding him. It was more than three hundred paces to the men on that bridge, Erik's targets.
"I don't guess most bows could shoot that far. My bow can. It's all about the length of the bow, and the wood used. This thing's longer than your like to find - which suits me, I might add - and it's made of good yew, got from down Falkreath. I'll take at least one from that bridge."
Erik bent his bow - that was his word, the Nord term for the odd way they drew their bows. Rather than pull back on the string, Erik stepped forward and twisted, using his whole body to bend the bowstring back to his ear. He aimed his shot, arched it high, and loosed.
The laughing got louder from the men on the wooden bridge, but only for a moment. They realized too late that the arrow was aimed true. Distantly, Aleron saw a figure fall from the bridge, and the rest began to scatter.
Aleron looked over to Erik, who wore a satisfied smile, "I told you so," written all over his face. "Who taught you to shoot like that?" he asked.
"My father was an archer in the Legion, during the war. This is his bow, actually."
"Well, here they come."
Across the stone bridge, they could see bandits pouring from the camp. There were seven, Aleron counted. One went down as soon as he stepped onto the stone bridge, a broadhead arrow punched clean through his chest. A third arrow felled another bandit a few moments later. Five on two were better odds. The last arrow sunk into the shoulder of an Orc and knocked him into the water, before the remaining four reached the pair of adventurers.
Aleron was ready when the charge met him. He blocked the first slash at his shoulder, from a Nord woman with an iron sword, then spun while he shoved her aside, letting the Bosmer's axe glance off the backplate of his armor. His own steel axe came down in the Bosmer's knee, eliciting a horrified yelp before Erik's battleaxe was buried in his stomach. Aleron spun again, around Erik, to block the red-headed Nord from another attacker, a stocky Nord with a warhammer. The jolt of the hammer on Aleron's shield seemed to vibrate after it was done, but Erik spun around Aleron; he had split the woman's face with an upward thrust of his battleaxe, and without resting his axe whirled around to behead the stocky hammer-bearer. The last bandit had two long daggers, which he held gingerly. He eyed the travelers warily, looking as though he were about to bolt. He caught a hoof in the head as he backed too close to Caddock. While Erik was finishing him off, Aleron noticed that the Orc who'd been shot in the shoulder was now crawling out of the river. He walked over to the bandit, stomped on his wound. The Orc let out a cry, before Aleron severed his spine at the base of his neck.
"Well," Erik said, breathing heavy. "That was easy enough. Want to bet that wasn't all of them?"
"Let's go."
Riding atop Caddock, Aleron kept a close watch on the wooden bridge, where the controls to the rock trap were left alone. It was not booby trapped. It was run by a lever, meant to be pulled by one of the bridge guards if anyone tried forcing their way through the camp. Once inside the camp, the travelers found that they had only faced half the bandit forces. At least six men stood atop the outcropping to the right. A massive Orc in heavy scaled orichalcum armor stood foremost among them.
"You two can go," the Orc said in a voice like a thunder clap. "I don't want to lose any more men today, and you two don't want to die."
Erik stepped forward, shouting up at the bandits. "You all lost that choice! You leave here, unarmed, or you die here! I am Erik the Slayer, and Rorikstead is under my protection!"
The bandit leader snorted, his wide Orc nose flaring. "I have a mage, and one archer left. I might not lose any more men if I choose to kill you now."
"I'm a Breton, if you can't tell," Erik shouted. "You really think you can kill me before I can get to that mage?"
An Argonian stepped up to the Orc, talking just loud enough for Aleron to make out what he said. "I won't fight a Breton. Magic doesn't work so well on them."
The Orc laughed. "So you take the Nord," he barked. "The rest of us will take down the Breton."
"Sounds-"
Erik's arrow speared through the Argonian's reptilian snout, knocking him down, and at least unconscious, if not dying. The heads of the bandits, who'd all huddled together to listen to the mage, snapped back around angrily, hands going to swords and axes and maces.
The big Orc forestalled them. "Shut up, curs!" To Aleron and Erik, he asked, "So we leave, without our weapons, and we live?"
"And your word not to return," Erik shouted back.
"Ha! Oh sure, you've got my word." The Orc threw down his warhammer, and after a moment's hesitation, his belt knife. The rest followed suit.
Erik bent his bow and aimed at them, some already running east, down the outcropping. "Run," he said. The rest turned and followed those who had already started.
Erik looked up to Aleron and laughed. "Is it just me, or are we really good?"
.
The road ran northwest from the bandit camp, along the river in a near straight line to Dragon Bridge. The great cliffs and falls of the Reach grew less severe the further north they climbed, and the snow more frequent. Aleron wished they could find some way to cut another day off of their travel. He was eager to be done with this whole business.
What had happened to him? He was not this person, this heroic figure striding in to help an old woman in distress. He wasn't the type of man who stormed forts and rescued hostages. He was a smith. He made tools and weapons and armor. He made jewelry and barrel hoops and horseshoes. He was going to die like this. Why didn't he care? It couldn't be that he was trying to impress this Nord. That was absurd. Wasn't it.
A memory popped into his head:
.
Aleron looked up at his older brother. Avenall was brave. He would be a Knight of the Nine one day. He would fight the Thalmor, and they would let Papa worship Talos again. And he would worship Talos. And all the Divines. Avenall loved the Divines. He read his scriptures every day. He even prayed every day. He was brave, and strong, and he was always nice; and always did what was right, no matter what. Avenall was everything Aleron wanted to be.
"I bet there's ogres in there," Avenall said, looking into the darkness of the cave. "We should go get Papa and he'll kill them all. I bet he'll let me come with him."
Avenall was twelve, and tall. He was taller than Mamma. And he could fight with a sword. He and Papa practiced fighting, every morning after the chores were done. Aleron wasn't allowed to have a real sword yet, but Papa said next year he could.
"I can come, too," he told his older brother.
"I don't think so, Aleron." There was no mocking in the older boys tone. He was always afraid for Aleron; his little brother, who was so small. Their mother had made him promise to protect his little brother, and he took it very seriously. "Let's go get Papa."
Aleron didn't want his brother to protect him. He wanted Avenall to think he was brave, too.
"I'm gonna in."
"Don't, Aleron. Papa wouldn't like it. And Mamma will tan my hide."
"I just wanna see one. I can outrun 'em. They're big and slow. I'll just go in far enough to see one."
Aleron trotted into the cave, before his fear got the better of him. Avenall was right behind him, lighting his torch. The cave was narrow at the entrance, and slanted down at a hard angle.
"If we're gonna go down here," Avenall told him, "you gotta let me go first."
The older boy squeezed around Aleron, and went ahead, his torch held out in front of him. It smelled awful down here, like the old butcher's shed.
"Did you hear that," Avenall whispered.
A grunting noise was coming from the cavern just ahead. A low, mournful grunting. They eased right up to the cavern mouth.
"It's an ogre," Aleron said, excited. "Let's look and see him."
Grunt… … Grunt… … Grunt.
Avenall looked back at him. There was an expression there that Aleron knew. It was the same look he would get when Aleron would climb the horse barn, or throw rocks at wolves. It wasn't fear. At least, not for himself. Avenall was never afraid of anything. He was concerned for his brother. He was silly, and funny, and did more dangerous things than Aleron could think of. But he got so serious whenever he thought Aleron might get hurt.
"I think we need to go," Avenall said.
"I wanna see him."
Grunt… … Grunt.
"Fine, but let's be quick."
Avenall poked his head out into the cavern, with his torch. He peered ahead for a moment.
"Can you see anything?" Aleron whispered.
"The light doesn't carry far enough."
Then they heard it.
Grunt…Grunt…GruntGruntGruntGruntGruntGruntGrunt -
A massive pale shape came into the light, grotesque head too small for its giant body, face nearly split in two by a wide mouth, filled with sharp teeth. A hand the size of a pig swung out and knocked Avenall into the side wall of the tunnel.
"Run, Aleron!" Avenall spluttered through the blood gushing out of his mouth, out of his nose, out of his ears. "Please, run!" Tears were falling down his face. "Tell Mamma I'm sorry."
The fist came down on Avenall's head, crushing it into a flat mass of blood and bone.
Through tears that seemed bigger than his eyes Aleron wailed. He rushed at the ogre, and the thing backed away, sniffing like it smelled a predator. It reached out, and Aleron jumped back, afraid. It started to reach for Avenall's foot, to drag him in. It was going to eat him.
Aleron screamed, shouted something at the ogre he couldn't remember. The tunnel started to cave in. Everything went black.
Erik was feeling good about himself. His father really had found some way to keep him out of the fighting every time the bandits raided. Usually, he would protect Sissel and Britte, because Lemkil was likely to offer them up as payment rather than his goods. But this time, he got to give those bastards what for.
He watched the slowly setting sun to the west, painting the snowy mountains of the Rift a thousand brilliant early autumn colors. This was the life for him. He had been worried he might miss his old life, when he left. He had thought maybe he really was more like his mother than his father. But now, he could see that this was what he had been meant for. This was the true life of a Nord.
He dug an apple out of his coat pocket, and turned to give it to Caddock. The animal was fine letting him lead it, but he still didn't think it would ever let him ride. He needed bribes.
"That a boy," he said softly as the huge black stallion inhaled the apple.
When he turned back around, Aleron had collapsed.
He rushed ahead to the Breton, leaving the horse behind. His eyes searched the horizon all around for signs of bandit archers. When he looked down at Aleron, though, he was shocked. The man wasn't hurt. At least, he wasn't injured. He was sobbing. Sobbing like none Erik had ever seen, muttering something to himself.
"What happened?" he asked the Breton. A grown man in full iron armor crying his eyes red was not funny. It was not even sad. With this man, it was frightening. What could do this to him?
"I killed you," Aleron mumbled. "I always said I didn't, but I did. I made you go in there. You didn't want to. You tried to tell me no, but I made you."
"I don't understand, Aleron."
"I'm so sorry, Avenall!" the Breton was trying to scream now, but he didn't have any strength left in him. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know, Mamma! He said he would always protect me. I'm so sorry!" He reached out and clutched Erik's face in his hands. "Avenall, I'm so sorry!"
Mjoll cautiously advanced into the final boiler room of Mzinchaleft. She had quite the bundle of treasures slung over her back, including some nearly priceless soul gems she had dug out of that last storeroom. She was still wary, though. Those spheres could seem to pop out of nowhere.
As she emerged through the last door, she saw it. There, beside a nook that contained a strange mechanism she didn't understand, was giant mechanical man, bigger than the one from Avanchnzel. What's Avanchnzel? Isn't that near Riften? It towered in front of the exit, connected to an apparatus that seemed a halo surrounding it. As she took another step forward, steam started to pour out of the joints that connected the mechanical monstrosity to its halo.
She brought Grimsever out of its sheath. The bright-green hardened malachite blade gleamed in the lights from the braziers around the room. Gods, but she missed that beautiful sword. What? Why would I miss my Grimsever? It's right here.
Her shield came up, and she prepared to defend. This thing was big, but her shield was ebony wood, banded, lined, and embossed with black ebonsteel. The day would be hers.
The big machine lurched forward, swinging an arm that ended in a blade longer than she was tall. She ducked it, and laughed to herself.
"You're too slow," she taunted it. "Useless as a cow in swordfight."
Then, steam came from the machine's vent of a mouth. A lot of steam. Steam so hot she thought she would cook in her armor. She realized she was kneeling, her shield lowering. Where was all her strength going? This metal man was going to kill her.
She had to rush past it. If she could draw it one way, then squeeze through the other, she could get to that elevator at the end of the room.
The steam stopped, and the machine advanced.
Mjoll sprung up from her knees, finding strength for a last desperate run. She dodged to her left, waited for the machine to pivot that way, then sprinted as hard as she could in the other direction. Yes! She was going to do it!
The arm came from out of nowhere. The thing could pivot 360 degrees, it seemed. Swatted like a fly, she flew across the room. She thought she would lose consciousness from the pain she felt already in her ribs. She hit a wall, landed somewhere. More pain. Her chest was on fire. She looked up saw the elevator ahead. At least the thing had battered her toward what she was going for. She tried to stand, to run for the exit. Her leg didn't work. She looked down, and saw why. Her knee was turned at a strange angle. The pain when she tried to turn it back with her hands nearly made her pass out.
The bronze metal man was coming. It was gathering steam for another shot. She had to move. She reached forward and dragged herself toward the elevator. Wait! Where was Grimsever? She'd taken it out. She'd had it in her hand. There was no time to look for it. No time to regain her honor. She had to flee.
She crawled; each drag forward shot lightning bolts of pain through her whole body. The metal man was going to kill her. She could almost reach the elevator lever. She was inside the elevator, then. Would it follow her in here? If it shot that steam, it wouldn't need to. She reached out, grasped the metal lever, and pulled with all her might.
As the Dwemer machinery pulled her toward the surface, she cried. I've lost my honor. My Grimsever, my sword. I ran like a coward. If I had tried to fight, instead of trying to run… I've lost my honor.
.
Mjoll woke sweating. Her blankets were wrapped around her, constricting her chest so that she could only just breathe. She hadn't dreamed that dream in months.
She untangled herself from her blankets, and got out of bead. At the wash stand, she splashed herself with cool water. She turned up the lantern, and looked at herself in Aerin's mother's huge mirror.
She was not a coward. That was not a coward's face looking back at her. She was a Nord warrior, and she had her honor.
Her shoulders ached, up into her neck, down her back. The muscles of her back seemed to spasm. Her breasts felt like weights trying to tug her down. Her knees felt like shards of glass had been embedded in while she slept. She knew she should go back to bed. She needed more sleep. Instead, she wrapped her breasts, threw on her leather jerkin. She found her rough green britches, and slid them on. The plate armor went over the jerkin, the pauldrons on her shoulders. She strapped her leg guards over her pants; she pulled her armored leather boots on, one agonizing foot at a time. Lastly, she tugged her iron strapped gauntlets down onto each hand. She looked again at the reflection in the old mirror. She was not a coward. She was a hero. She would save this city. She would save something. She could do that.
.
The sun was not yet up, the autumn air more than chilly. Mjoll breathed in the cold air, let it fill her lungs with new life. It would be quite a journey. She hoped Aerin could decipher those messages by the time she returned. He would be angry with her. He always was, when she left town; especially if it was for some dangerous adventure. But she'd left him a note, and he could not claim to be her keeper. She smiled at herself. She was proud she'd been able to write it without her hands trembling:
Aerin,
I'm sorry that I didn't discuss this with you, but I decided I must go for a time. Hopefully, I'll be back in a couple of weeks. I've gone to regain my honor. If I don't come back, know that I have nothing but respect for who are. Don't let this city kill that good in you. I am forever your friend.
Mjoll
Avulstein Gray-Mane arrived in Dragon Bridge with Geirlund and Vidrald, two men who owed the Gray-Manes their allegiance. Geirlund was a wiry, dark-haired Nord, with an air about him that said he was stronger than he looked and he knew how to use the battleaxe he carried. Vidrald was as tall as Erik, and as wide as Aleron. Neither spoke much, but both seemed eager enough to get Thorald out of Thalmor hands.
Aleron thought Avulstein was more than eager. They arrived late on the tenth day since leaving Whiterun, and they insisted on leaving the next morning, before the sun rose. The supplies were ready, or near enough, and Aleron and Erik had had a day to rest. So, despite some grumbling from Erik, the company set out along the Solitude road before the heat of the sun could chase the chill out of their bones. Before midday, they were turning onto a northern road, toward Fort Hraggstad.
It was a cold climb into the snow-covered mountains of Haafingar; every step left them more wet and frozen than the last. There was considerable grumbling from the other men, but none of it held any heat. They all knew why they were here. Aleron supposed he knew his own as well, now, but he didn't like them. He had never thought himself fool enough to think he could erase the past, but what else could he call this?
A twinge of shame grew to annoyance in his spine. He glanced at Erik, embarrassed at what had happened before Dragon Bridge; ashamed that he had broken down so in front of the man; but also he was grateful to him. They hadn't spoken much of what had happened on the road, nor had Erik really seemed to want to. Aleron had explained that Avenall was his dead brother, and that he had been responsible for getting him killed. That was as much as his friend wanted to know, and for that Aleron truly was thankful. He could not tell the man why he had broken down; could not tell his friend that he reminded him of his dead brother. In truth, he could not remember when he had even started thinking of the younger man as a friend. He hadn't really had a friend before. It sounded silly, even to think it; but it was true. Eronor, the old Dunmer shepherd at Weynon Priory, had been close, he supposed. But the man was never really more than a sympathetic listener. He liked his sheep, and he liked to talk about smithing. But that was really all he talked about. And once Brother Julius convinced him that Aleron was what others thought he was, the elf had packed up and left, not wanting to sleep near a murderer.
Five days they wound through the mountain passes. The first two climbing through the snow, north toward High Rock. The third day, they started down the mountains, a winding road that kept them close to the northern cliffs the whole way. On the evening of the fourth day, they caught sight of their destination from high above, as the winding road took them close, but from hundreds of feet overhead. Northwatch Keep was not a large fort, but it looked to be well defended. There were six men walking the battlements, and likely a few more in the yard. No telling how many were inside the fort.
On the fifth day, they reached the fort. There was some discussion about waiting till it was dark, but Avulstein argued that there was no telling when the Thalmor might kill his brother, if they had not already. And so, they set out to planning their assault.
There was some confusion at first, as to why the men along the battlements did not carry bows. Aleron explained quickly that they were likely all mages. Any attempt at long range combat would most probably end in a disadvantage to the rescuers. In the end, a plan of diversion and close quarters attack seemed the most likely to be successful.
Aleron and Erik broke off from the group, muttering good lucks and promises to see the others shortly. The plan was simple enough. The two would just walk up to the gates and ask to speak to a superior officer. The Thalmor would not likely find two men a threat to the fort, even if they were wearing armor. When refused, they would make as much of a scene as was necessary, but not enough to get them killed, creating a chance for Avulstein and the other two to attack from the rear gate of the fortress, which was guarded, but not locked down.
As they approached, Erik spoke loudly enough for the front gate guard to hear. "I tell you, Tullius won't like this."
"To Oblivion with that old fool. Someone needs to tell these Thalmor, or they'll get themselves all killed, and then we'll have a real war on our hands." It was good to be as vague as possible, but they did have a general idea of what lie they wanted to tell. By now they were nearly to the guard, who was making little effort to mask his interest in their conversation.
"Tullius should have dealt with Dawnstar long before," Erik was saying as the two reached the guard.
"You approach the property of the Thalmor," the gate guard intoned, self-important as any Altmer could be. "What business have you here? Speak quickly or die!"
"We are messengers from the high queen," Erik informed the elf. "We need to speak with your highest officer."
The gate guard looked at them as if trying to solve a puzzle. After a moment, he said, "Since you offer no official seal, and you come as common bandits, you may leave your message with me. I will not bother the inquisitor with foolishness." He put on a sneer that might have been meant to pass for a smile. "And truthfully, what else comes from Elisif and her little court."
The guards on the battlements took notice of the baiting by the gate guard. Their hands twitched with what Aleron assumed were the readying of spells.
Then they heard a loud, "For Sovngarde!" from toward the back of the fort, and the damn broke. The battlement guards started toward the sound, as Aleron grabbed the gate guard by his helmet and slammed his head into the outer wall until he heard the bones break inside the gold elven metal. Erik's battleaxe was out and slashing through a guard's thin armor before the gate guard had fallen to the ground.
Aleron knew he needed to get up to the battlements. He could hear the guards up there shouting down at the Nords on the other end of the fort. He ducked past another guard coming from within the keep, only slamming his shield into the elf's knee and leaving him for Erik to finish off. It was clear only the battlement guards possessed any skill with magic, but they were enough. Six of them were rushing around, trying to get an angle on where Avulstein, Geirlund, and Vidrald were battling four more guards come from the keep.
He found the steps leading up to the battlements, took them two at a time. At the top of one flight, an Altmer tried to shock him to death with a lance of lightning from his fingers that likely would have killed any non-Breton. He caught the bolt on his shield, but his arm still went numb to the elbow. The battlement guard was expecting that to be all his work, though; and once it was clear Aleron was still coming, it was too late for him. The steel axe bit into the elf's helmet and crushed his face.
The next guard found that fire was more effective, but only really succeeded in making Aleron more angry. Raging at the man, feeling his blood boil - and not from the magical fire - Aleron held his shield high while he severed the elf's toes through his armored boot, before bringing the rear triangular point of the axe into his throat.
Aleron was surprised to see Erik at the other end of the battlements, dodging lightning bolts and fire, all but ignoring magical frost, then taking the head of the third battlement guard. Aleron found the fourth about to send a fireball the size of a hay bale into Avusltein's group below. He did not slash at the elf; he simply pushed him from the battlement, where he landed in an ungraceful heap. Aleron saw Vidrald finish him off, before following Avulstein further into the fort.
The last two battlement guards were attempting to catch Erik in a crossfire of lightning. To their obvious surprise, he jumped from the low battlement onto the stable roof below, and then to a raised platform beside that. Aleron charged the two, catching them off-guard, knocking one from the battlements to the ground below. The other, he chased nearly back to the stairs before he caught him. Bellowing, he struck out with the lip of his shield, pounding in the elf's throat, then gave him a few perfunctory chops of his axe once he was down.
Looking around from there, he could see that the battle outside the fort was done. It seemed no alarm was raised, though. No more men came from within the keep. Surely, though, there would be more inside. He still feel his blood raging.
Erik followed Aleron into the keep, looking behind him to be sure that Geirlund truly was able to move forward. Vidrald had not been. He was alive, but the blow he'd taken to the head was serious. Aleron had muttered something about wishing Julius had been wrong, whatever that meant, while they propped the protesting Vidrald against the outer wall. He said that if he could stand better soon enough, he would follow them, but Avulstein gainsaid him, told him that if he felt better he could ready the boat they'd found at the dock on the northern shore.
Aleron, Erik noticed, was in a fury to make his normal fighting mood seem flippant. All the coldness was gone, leaving only the burning, raging forest fire. He did not look back for the others; he marched on as if alone, cutting down any Thalmor they came across before any alarm could be raised. At one point, he killed two guards, one an obvious battle-mage in flowing, gold-embroidered black robes and a hood, before the others could manage to even think of joining in. All the while, he let out a deep-throated growl at each swing of his axe. Geirlund looked at him wide-eyed, awe of such battle prowess clearly warring with fear of such wrath. Avulstein simply looked around as if hunting.
They came to prisons quickly enough, where, after quickly killing three guards, the group of rescuers came to a locked door. Erik knew Aleron had lockpicks, and that he knew how to use them; but the Breton just walked up and kicked the solid oak door. The hinges strained audibly, but held fast. Unfazed, Aleron kicked the door again, breaking away the lock and nearly taking off the hinges. Erik was sure he could not have kicked that door in, himself, and he was doubtful he had ever met anyone else who could have.
A gout of fire came from inside the room, and even Aleron stepped back.
"This is treason!" an elf voice from inside screamed. "The Thalmor will have your heads on spikes before the year's end, if your Empire doesn't do it for us!"
That was the last thing the elf ever said. Aleron walked in as soon as the fire was gone, threw his shield into the Thalmor Inquisitor's face, and then starting hacking at the man with his axe. He howled as he chopped the elf's body to bloody ribbons; howled in blood-fueled rage that seemed to rise rather than fall with each blow. Until he noticed the chained Nord in the corner of the room.
Avulstein came into view, and Thorald stopped staring at Aleron long enough to take in a ragged breath.
"I thought he was Shor, come to take me to Sovngarde," the man mumbled, as his brother loosed him from his restraints. "Who is he?"
"He's a friend," Avulstein said, with a grateful look to both Aleron and Erik. "Can you walk? We have to get going."
As the others left the room, Erik watched Aleron. The Breton's breathing was deep, but ragged, as if he could no longer contain all that anger.
"Come on, Aleron. We've won here, but we still have to go to Solitude."
When Aleron turned to face him, though, there was a single tear on his cheek. "We saved him."