Dungeon Delving
The night sky was bright from burning buildings, so that the stars could hardly be seen. The wind brought the roar of battle from outside the walls of Whiterun. It was not a sound of men and steel, even if it was; it was chaos, a wave of sound that crashed and receded with the strength of the wind. No voices could be heard. Man was not in that awful sound, only death. Cries from inside the city, whether from wounded civilians or veteran soldiers, all sounded the alike. Individual voices lost identity in such suffering. Pain was universal; it played no favorites.
Erik watched the shadows dance and soldiers run about, while he was stuck inside the walls, part of the final defense of Whiterun, should the Stormcloaks break through.
He and Aleron had planned to spend no more than a day in Whiterun, before returning finally to Riverwood; but when they arrived, Faendal was there, searching out men to work Embershard Mine. A day turned to a week as one thing or another kept them from moving on. Enough workers had been found by the third day; there was never a shortage of men who needed work in a city the size of Whiterun. But after they were found, negotiations had to be finalized. Negotiations that were hotly contested, as the mine was not proven, and thus no profit was certain. All arguments were ended by the fifth day. After that, a storm had rolled in. It did not often snow in the Tundra before winter, but when it happened it was best to stay off the roads. When the storm cleared, there was an army at the gates.
It turned out well that Jarl Balgruuf had finally allowed the Imperials to station a garrison at Whiterun under Legate Quentin Cipius. General Tullius had lied about the nature of the message Aleron had carried to Morthal. It was a very urgent message, indeed, and Erik learned that they were not the only ones to carry it. No less than ten couriers had been sent, or so Legate Cipius claimed. Only two others made it to Morthal.
There was a small battle that first day, just outside the outer gates of Whiterun. The Stormcloaks were turned away, but apparently at great cost to the defenders. The mood in the city turned somber as the siege dug in. Daily attacks were repelled, but nothing that could be called a real battle. The Stormcloaks were testing them, wearing them down. Finally, Cipius agreed to unleash a small force to draw the Stormcloaks into the field once again, this time for a deciding outcome. Erik had watched as Matuk, the Orc he'd seen in Highmoon Hall, charged forward with four other Orcs and a small group of Imperials. That hammer, Volendrung, he'd called it - some prize of Malacath's blessing - was a whirlwind among the Stormcloaks who answered the call. He saw Matuk swat a man a good ten feet through the air with that thing, saw him crush a horse's armored head like an overripe cabbage.
From then, the battle had not stopped. Men died in the hundreds the first day, and the fighting never stopped. Imperial shields formed phalanxes wherever the armies came together. No ground was won on either side. Soldiers holding ground were replaced by others, fresher and fed, to give rest where it was needed. The fighting lulled here or there, but it never stopped.
"The tide is turning!" Faendal shouted as he ran down the steps from the battlement. "The Imperials are pushing forward!"
Aleron had gone to take the elf's place at the battlement, from where he could watch the fighting. Meeko was trying to push through the throng to join him.
"Are the Stormcloaks retreating, yet?" Erik asked the Bosmer. "Do they still fight on? Will it all be over soon?"
"They still fight, the traitors, but I doubt they will for long. Unless they've more in reserve than they should, they're outmatched, I think."
Erik sighed in relief. He'd never really thought of himself as a Whiterun man; but when he'd seen those blue-sashed Stormcloaks outside his hold-capital's gates his anger flared red-hot. No invading army, Nords or not, had the right to attack the ancient gem of the Skyrim Tundra. Finally, it would be over soon.
"I think I might go inside and get a drink, then. To victory."
Faendal followed, bobbing excitedly.
Inside the Bannered Mare, more of the city's last defenders were gathered, already getting drunk. They looked up expectantly at the newcomers, hands searching for swords and axes they'd hoped they wouldn't need.
"The Imperials are pushing them back!" Erik shouted to the room. "Saadia, drinks for me and my elf friend!"
They sat together on one of the benches surrounding the large stone firepit. The Bannered Mare was a beautiful inn, very impressive to Erik's eyes; much more pleasant than his father's drab establishment. Light was everywhere in the inn, from the firepit, from sconces everywhere. Tapestries of medium quality hung on the walls. The tables, benches, and chairs were all of a similarly-patterned carved wood. The serving woman tonight, a beautiful Redguard named Saadia whom Erik guessed was slightly older than Aleron, perhaps in her early thirties, was polite, but not flirtatious. The innkeeper, Hulda, was a solid Nord. She had the look of a woman who would not put up with any mischief in her inn. Tonight, she looked wary, but pleased at the same time to have so many people here.
Saadia brought them their drinks, wine for Faendal and mead for Erik.
"What will you do now," the little elf asked, after he had drained nearly half the cup of wine in a healthy gulp.
Erik laughed. "I've no idea. I set out to be an adventurer, and I've found that just trailing behind Aleron. I suppose I'll stick by him, unless the well goes dry. But that man has some demons I'm not sure I want any part of."
"I think I know what you mean." Faendal frowned. "He came to Riverwood after he escaped from the headsman's axe. I suppose you know that. Alvor got a letter about him once. He showed it to me, after we became business partners - said it was something I should know. The letter said he was a murderer. And a pagan, of all things. This Brother Julius of Weynon Priory said he murdered his own brother."
Another piece of the puzzle that was Aleron clicked into place for Erik. "I don't think he killed his brother," he said. "I think he's had a hard life. If he's a pagan, he has reason."
"He's not a pagan," Faendal replied, shocked. "You think I'd work with some Daedra-worshipper, or whatever they think he is? No, I've heard him pray. He doesn't think anyone hears him, but he prays to Zenithar before he starts work at the forge. He prays that his work brings Alvor wealth. I've only ever seen him pray to Akatosh or Talos, other than that. But to both he prays for strength. He's got some odd views of the gods, but I don't think I'd call him a pagan."
"Well, he's a good man. I know that. But his anger is like a storm. I'm not ashamed to say he frightens me, sometimes."
Just then, another man sat at the bench with them, a thin Redguard with his hair in dark braided rows.
"I don't mean to pry," the Redguard said. "But did you say you're an adventurer?"
Erik smiled, thinking the man wanted to hear his stories. He loved telling stories, loved telling his own even more. "Aye, I'm an adventurer. Why, less than a fortnight ago, I was part of a raid on a vampire lair in Hjaalmarch. A very ancient vampire, Movarth, he -"
"Excellent," the Redguard interrupted. "My name is Amren. I was a soldier myself for a time. Seen my share of battles. I'm retired now, though. I just train folks who want to learn the sword, mostly. I do other work when needed."
That surprised Erik. This Amren didn't look like much of a fighter, even in studded leathers. And he didn't look old enough to be retired. He looked more like a farmer maybe just past him prime. "Well, uh… a drink to adventures and battles, then." He raised his cup, and Amren joined him.
Setting his cup down, Amren went on. "The reason I mentioned adventuring, really, is that I might have a job for you, if you want it."
"I'm interested."
"You see, my father was an adventurer. He wandered around Cyrodiil collecting bounties and the like. When he died, he left me his sword. It's not really anything special, in and of itself; but it means a lot to me. And, uh… it was stolen."
"You want me to help you get your father's sword back?" Erik asked. "That sounds like a noble quest. When are you leaving?"
The Redguard looked sheepish, now. "Well, that's the thing. I can't go, myself. I know where it is; I've spent months tracking down where those bandits went. But if I go, I don't think my wife will be here when I get back. You see, she's the reason I retired. When Saffir got pregnant, I told her my soldiering days were over. It's been tough, and I did have to take mercenary jobs here and there, but always close to home. I don't have much money, but… I can pay you when you get the sword. But me, I've got to keep my wife and child fed."
Erik was confused. If the man couldn't afford to feed his family, how could he afford to hire an adventurer? It didn't matter. Bandits always had plenty of money. They'd gotten nearly five crowns out of Embershard Mine. Surely that would be worth the trip, so long as the sword was still in Skyrim.
"Don't worry too much about my pay. Just pay me what you can, when you can. Where's the sword?"
Amren looked like he was going to cry.
Aleron saw the battle end. The Stormcloaks threw one last charge at the city gate, and when it was repelled they retreated. The Imperials and Whiterun Guards harried them to the river, north and south into the mountains; but eventually the soldiers returned to cheers and adulations from the citizens.
It was getting cold now, with Frostfall's days bringing the true Skyrim autumn. While most of the Nords and natives wore little more than in summer, Aleron was beginning to think he'd never be able to take off the heavy fur cloak he'd donned north of the Hjaal. He expected autumn snows in the mountains, but not here in the Tundra. Not that there was much snow left around the city; thousands of soldiers' feet and gallons of blood stamped down and washed away the white before the city gates. Still, the snow had come as a surprise. He'd always enjoyed snowy weather. It slowed the world down, made it more patient. In County Chorrol, snows didn't usually come until late Sun's Dusk, and only lasted as long as early First Seed at the latest.
He was anxious to be back in Riverwood, though. He would only have a few months there, as even in winter the craftsmen of Hjaalmarch would work quickly to finish the modest home he'd requested on his new land. He'd not even had time to see this land, but Valdimar had told him there were not even any roads that far north into the marchlands. It sounded like a place to finally be left alone - somewhere he might be able to find peace. But for now, Riverwood called to him; the forge called to him. It seemed a lifetime since his mind had been able to rest. He needed that simplicity, that singularity of goal, to keep him sane.
Erik bounded down the steps of the Bannered Mare as Aleron approached, with Meeko trailing. He had mischief in his eyes, or Aleron knew nothing of him.
"Ho, friend!" he called. "I was coming to speak with you. Come, let's have a drink." He clapped Aleron on the shoulder as they met.
Aleron smiled. "You look as though you've had a few already."
"Indeed. But a few won't be enough tonight. I've news."
.
"You're going alone?" Aleron asked when Erik was through. "I think, perhaps, you should sober up before taking this job."
"He was still sober as a priest when he took it," Faendal said, looking slightly tipsy himself. "He's been working on this stupor since then."
"It's just a gambling den, really." Erik was not defensive. It sounded more as if he were trying to impress a pretty woman. "Amren said there's actually only two or three real bandits in the group. You see, these aren't even the men who stole the sword. Cragslane Cavern is just where it ended up - part of some debt."
He owed his own debt to Erik, as much as he had tried to buy it off with a horse. The big red-headed Nord had risked his life not only in accompanying him to Solitude, but in storming Northwatch Keep as well. He'd had no reason to do the first, aside from his own boredom. But the second was pure loyalty, Aleron knew. He'd not wanted to talk the Gray-Manes, much less help them. To him, they were traitors. But he had gone against all that he thought for Aleron.
He sighed heavily, thinking of the forge. "When do we leave?"
.
As it turned out, they left the next morning. They had been ready for travel. They needed only to double their supplies for the longer journey. Erik had argued that eight days should be plenty of time to reach the gambling den; but Aleron thought nine or ten more likely. The map Amren had given them indicated that there were no real roads in that part the Velothi Mountains, and so finding the right cave might be difficult.
Aleron did take the time to meet with the Whiterun apothecary, Arcadia. She was surprised when he asked her if he could use her tools. She agreed, after taking a fee, but she seemed doubtful at best that he knew what he was doing. After she watched him make the first healing potion from the ingredients he'd collected and bought over the last few weeks, though, she was more impressed that a warrior had such deft knowledge of healing herbs. They chatted for a while, about herblore and alchemy, mostly of healing potions, while Aleron finished his work. All-in-all, he had seven powerful healing potions by the time he was done, and an invitation to use the shop's work tools any time he was in town.
The first day on the road was easy going. They set off south and east, toward the White River. On horseback, they crossed the flat ground quickly, reaching the Whiterun Bridge little after midday. They lunched there, a travelers' meal of dried venison and cheese, before crossing and heading on, keeping an eye out for a good place to make camp. The days, sadly, were growing quite short, and it was not smart to go without a fire at night, even so far south of the White Mountains.
Meeko, who had seemed uncomfortable in the crowds and confinement of the city, was once again peppy and exuberant. Aleron often wondered how old the dog was. He couldn't be older than five or six years, not a dog that size with so much fervor. He'd never known any dogs so tall or long, but the great huskies of High Rock were common in northern Colovia, and most were much thicker than the Nordic hounds. They lived shorter lives than did smaller dogs; ten years was good, fifteen remarkable. He thought Meeko seemed to have plenty of youth left, but the journal of the dog's former owner seemed to indicate at least some years.
As they traveled east along the river, the ground steadily rose, even when the river did not. By nightfall, the river lay far below in a deep canyon. They camped close to the road, their fire sufficient to give warmth as well as keep the wilderness at bay. Still, Aleron took turns with Erik watching for wolves or bandits. The watches were cold affairs for Aleron. He walked around their small camp, stamping his feet to try to keep the blood flowing. His heavy wolf-fur cloak did well for his body, but the wet of the snow from days before that would not melt seemed to creep into his feet through his fur-lined boots.
The night passed without attack, and after a short breakfast the group set off again along the road that followed the White River toward Eastmarch. The second day was much as the first, if colder and wetter, as they skirted along in the shadow of the Throat of the World.
Aleron was still amazed when he thought of the size of the mountain. One could not actually see the size of it - it was too large for that - but he could imagine it. It rose up from the already towering landscape of Skyrim to heights unimaginable. Where most of the peaks in the White Mountains and some in the Reach and the Velothis were ever covered year-round with snow, the Throat of the World was permanently covered less than halfway to its summit. At its base it stretched at least fifty miles across. Peering up, he imagined it would take more than a day to reach the summit if you could walk up cliffs as easily cross a meadow.
As evening drew down, looking ahead for some place to camp, Aleron saw a tall black stone tower with a bridge stretched over the White River two hundred feet below, connecting to another tower on the other side. Valtheim Towers, he knew they were called. They were impressive, even in a run-down state.
It was nearly dark when they reached the southern tower. It had an ominous look, close up. And he could see from here that the bridge had no railing. At the entrance to the tower, a woman in dark leathers sat a chair in front of a cookfire. She looked a proper bandit, but she seemed to pay them no mind.
When they were close enough, however, Aleron was surprised as she darted out in front of them. A lone woman armed with a mace, she stood glaring defiantly at two armed men on horseback.
"Wait right there," she told them, holding out a hand. "This is a toll road, see. A toll road. You gotta give up a hundred septims each, and then you can go." Her smile held nothing of mirth or friendliness.
Erik laughed with plenty of both, though. "What makes you think we have a hundred septims, woman. Might as well ask for a hundred Imperial dragons." He laughed again, to show its ridiculousness.
The woman never let her smile slip. "For some the toll is twenty, for some fifty. From the looks of those saddles, and the stock of the horses, I'd say you can afford a hundred."
"We don't have time for this," Aleron said, hoping the woman would leave her game alone if he just rode past her.
She did not. With a howl, she rushed at Aleron's horse as arrows fell just in front of him. Caddock saw her, kicked back, sending her through the doorway into the tower. As quick as he could, Aleron followed Erik as he moved Aslak too close to the tower for the archer's above to have a clear shot.
With the horses secured, the pair moved into the tower with Meeko trailing behind. There was an ironbound wooden chest just inside the entryway; the battered woman from outside was trying to crawl toward it, but she couldn't breathe, and was obviously losing consciousness fast. Aleron stomped the back of her neck to end it, and by luck caught an arrow on the shield on his left forearm.
As he looked to where the arrow had come from, Erik was charging up a steep flight of stairs toward a retreating archer. Aleron followed right behind, and Meeko followed him. Atop the stairs, Erik exited the tower onto a ramp that led up to the bridge.
The archer had notched a second arrow by now, but too late. Erik simply swatted him out of the way with his battleaxe. After that, a barrage of arrows flew at them from the bridge. One found Aleron's shield, and another glanced off of his iron shin guard; Erik, though, caught a glancing shot to his arm that made him nearly drop his axe. Aleron glanced back, and Meeko had not a scratch. That dog has Sheogorath's own luck.
Reaching the bridge level, Erik turned left into another room. Aleron could no longer see the big Nord, but he heard fighting from within. At the entryway, he turned toward the bridge, ducking down behind his large round shield. One arrow grazed his shoulder, but he finally saw the number he was working against. Four archers were on the great stone bridge, two ducking before the pair standing behind. Somehow, Meeko was again unharmed. Perhaps they didn't think him a threat. He let the dog into the room and decided to make for the upper reaches of the tower with Erik.
He spun, seeing a guard port furnished like a bedroom and a stair going further up, where Erik was throwing a bleeding Nord bandit from the upper platform. Aleron followed, and together they ascended to the top of the tower. At the top they found a fine Imperial recurve bow and a few iron-headed arrows.
Erik looked questioningly at the bow as he picked it up and notched an arrow. He gave it a few light tugs to test its strength before aiming it at the men still waiting on the bridge below. His first shot missed, but with nowhere to go but south or north along the bridge, the bandits did not scatter much. The second shot found a bandit's arm, taking him off the bridge and down two hundred feet into the canyon below. Erik smiled and notched another arrow.
Aleron bounded back down the tower steps, hoping to catch any of the bandits running toward the southern tower. One made it to the entrance from the bridge, as Aleron and Meeko were just coming down the last flight of stairs. The bandit aimed his bow and roared, but Meeko jumped from the stairs into the man's throat. The hound was not vicious, and would not eat human flesh. As soon as the bandit's throat was ripped out, Meeko spat the flesh and cartilage out and loped up to meet Aleron still on the stairs. He marveled that the man had been so shocked at the unexpected attack that he hadn't just released the arrow at the dog while it was in the air. Sheogorath's own luck.
.
There was a large sum of copper septims and silver marks in the chest at the southern tower entrance. They divvied the money between them, then set camp for the night inside the tower.
"You know," Erik told him as he took the first watch, "I think I could do this for a long time. You always hear that old sellswords are rarer than diamonds, but I really feel like I was made for this. I'm strong. I'm fast. I'm good with an axe or a bow. As long as I don't go chasing any more ancient vampires who move faster than blizzard winds, I could last for years like this. Become a rich man doing it. Maybe once I'm old I'll settle down and marry. I like kids. And I think the right woman could maybe keep me interested. I've never really had to maintain any kind of romantic relationship with one; it would be like a whole new adventure for my retirement." He chuckled to himself. "My most dangerous journey, eh? Into the mind of a woman?"
Aleron fell asleep to the sounds of the big Nord's musings.
"Mjoll, I've got it figured out!"
Mjoll felt a satisfied smile as she stood up from the reading chair in her room. She felt like dancing down the stairs to hear the news. Aerin had not been angry with her when she returned from the north. He'd simply been happy to see that she was still alive. He had, however, kept a closer eye on her; and he'd doubled his efforts to decipher the documents she'd found in Sarthis Idren's warehouse.
She clapped the young man on the shoulder as she found him in the sitting room.
"I knew you could do it, Aerin. You're the smartest man I know. What's it all say?"
Aerin beamed under the compliment, and scratched at the stubble along his jaw. He'd started to grow a beard, perhaps thinking that she would like it. "Well, most of it is useless. It's just bookkeeping, mostly. We can tell how much of the skooma they brought in and sold, but no names are ever mentioned, just numbers; and we've nothing to check that against. They made payoffs to the Thieves' Guild, and we have the amounts there; but again, no names. Here at the end, though, I finally found something that could lead somewhere. It's a mention of Cragslane. Idren probably figured none of the guards would know what that name means; but I know. It's Cragslane Cavern. That's a gambling den up in the mountains north of Shor's Stone. I marked in on your map already. A dangerous place, but it could be worse."
Mjoll kissed the man on his scruffy cheek. "Truly, you are a wonder, Aerin. I'll go talk to the Jarl. Could you ready my equipment for me? Go down to Elgrim's and get a few healing potions?"
He was still smiling from the kiss. "Yeah, I can do that."
Throwing on her cloak and heading out the door, she told herself that she would have to get a better reign on that. She'd always been very careful not to lead Aerin on. Any time she thought she might be considered to be flirting, she backed away even more than necessary. It was a chore, sometimes, being around men who wanted something from you they would not get. Say what you might of men, Mjoll knew them to be surprisingly patient when it came to women they thought they might woo in time. And the last thing she wanted to do was hurt Aerin. She would make a point of avoiding any physical contact when not necessary for a while.
She headed across Riften's Dryside, the morning sun making the air almost pleasant despite the chill, practically chipper at the news she'd received. Aerin's mark on the map put Cragslane at no more than a three day ride. She smiled at the people of Riften who gave her questioning looks. These days, she did not normally walk the city in less than full armor, but this could not wait. If she could leave by noon, she could walk till nightfall and be halfway to Shor's Stone before needing to rest.
The wide street was bordered on the left by the many houses and estates of Riften's upper and middle classes, while on the left were the Canal and the market district of Dockside. Further on, the manor houses gave way to public buildings. She nearly collided with Dinya Balu as she crossed the Temple of Mara. Giving the gray woman a few septims, she asked her to pray for Mara's protection for her. She passed Asgeir Snow-Shod, poor man, on the way to his home. He looked as though he were taking the news of his sister's death hard; he barely nodded as she greeted him. Surprisingly, she even saw Svana Far-Shield, dressed in what must be her finest clothes. Likely, she was returning from a visit to the dungeons to see Sibbi Black-Briar. Svana was a sweet young girl, not at all deserving of her lot in life. She'd lost her parents, been taken in by that trollop of an aunt, Haelga, and then she'd had the remarkable misfortune to fall madly in love with the most scandalous young man in the city. At sixteen, Sibbi was already a murderer, and one so unashamed that even his grandmother had not been able to keep him out of the dungeons.
Mistveil Keep was a lovely place. It was not a palace, like those of some of the other Jarls, but it was beautiful. It might be the last beautiful place in this city. Its stone was aged, but well-tended. Its walls were strong. It had wonderful gardens that compared favorably to any in Skyrim except those in Solitude.
Solitude, she remembered fondly. Her mother used to take her there, before she and all of Kolgrimstead died. She supposed outsiders found it odd that the northernmost city of Skyrim had some of its mildest weather. She herself had gotten used to considering heat by north and south during her time in Cyrodiil. But here in Skyrim, north and south was only part of the tale. In the center of the continent, Whiterun was cold enough, but dry; comfortable. Markarth was cold and windy, with a strange snowy season. Falkreath was little more than a town, but it sprawled within a surprisingly temperate valley. Morthal, barely a town, was frigid, wet, and serenely beautiful. As a child, she'd been there often enough as well. Windhelm, as she remembered, was a marvel; not only its ancient beauty, but that any city could grow and thrive in the snowy Dragon Mountains. Winterhold lived up to its name. She'd only been there once, but she suspected it was perhaps the highest city in the world; it sat atop a cliff that must measure a mile in height, which fell down to a mountain slope that stopped only at the Sea of Ghosts. She thought the height from Sea to city must be two miles at least. She'd heard of light snows in summer in Winterhold, though she thought that must be a joke.
Here in Riften, however, the weather was perhaps the closest thing to normal that could be expected of Skyrim. It was cold, to be sure; this was still the Jeralls, after all. But the cold was mild compared to most of the country. Like Falkreath, Riften was built within a large temperate valley. Lake Honrich gave the city plenty of water. The rains came year-round, and the snows came in winter. The summers were often comfortably warm. Unlike so much of Skyrim, the Rift even had four distinguishable seasons, if only lightly distinct from one another.
She was admitted an audience with the Jarl rather quickly, despite the mood of the keep. Lately, all the court talk had been of advancing Imperial troops. News had come yesterday that the siege of Whiterun had failed. While only the first real battle of the Stormcloak War, it had been one that would likely determine the final outcome. Thousands of soldiers had died at the gates, so the rumors said. How Ulfric could find victory without Whiterun, Mjoll did not know. Perhaps he meant to try again. She did not really care, except that she wished well for Laila Law-Giver, and did not want the fighting to reach her city. She would not fight, not for a divided cause. She was loyal to Riften, had been for some time now; but all her life she'd been loyal to the Empire. Her mother had taught her that the Empire was the only hope against the Thalmor, and in her travels she had come to believe it. The Bretons could not stand alone forever, no more than the Redguards of Hammerfell. Once, the Dunmer people of Morrowind might have been formidable, protected from all but Black Marsh behind the Velothi Mountains. She had spent time in Mournhold, and had grown to respect the talent and resolve of the Dunmer people. But she knew they no longer had the numbers or resources to stand against the Aldmeri Dominion. Skyrim was no different than any other single country; they could not stand alone.
"Mjoll!" the Jarl exclaimed, bringing her out of her contemplations. "I was so glad to hear that you returned safely from your journey. I must admit, I was worried that you'd left my hold permanently."
Mjoll bowed repentantly. "I apologize, my Jarl. My leaving was not planned. I have good news, however. Aerin and I have found the source of the skooma trade in Riften. The smugglers come from Cragslane Cavern, a gambling den in the mountains along your northern border."
The Jarl looked pensive for a moment, an unfortunate face that did not help Mjoll's opinion that she was a bit slow of wit.
After a quick glance at Anuriel, she smiled back at Mjoll. "I should have no trouble sending soldiers to the northern border. Ulfric and I understand one-another. He fears no betrayal from me. The guards can be ready within a few days, if you would like to accompany them."
Mjoll drew herself up, trying to look impressive. Her simple clothing spoiled the image, though. "I will go today. I've some experience clearing out bandit dens. If any of your guards are ready by the time I leave, they are welcome to come along." She paused a moment. "So long as I have your blessing, that is."
"You have it, Mjoll, our Lioness of the Rift."
As she turned to leave, in the shadows near the door, Maven Black-Briar's enraged face was priceless.
.
She met Aerin at the stables outside the city. The man was thorough. He'd remembered everything: a change of clothes, dried meat, water bags, camping gear, her armor, healing potions, her new shield, and Grimsever. All were being secured into Mista's saddlebags.
She meant to say her goodbyes quickly, but then she saw him.
"Marcurio!"
Coming out of the stables, leading a chestnut Imperial riding horse, was the last person Mjoll ever thought she'd see sharing a grin with Aerin. He wore flowing, layered robes of an almost carroty color, with ornate silver buckles and fastenings, fine fur-lined boots and a smug smile that made her want to strangle him.
He was the strangest mercenary she'd ever known. He was learned, apparently. Young as he was, he claimed to have spent time with the Synod, the College of Whispers, and the College of Winterhold. His knowledge did not stop with magic, however. He also claimed an extensive knowledge of Nordic, Cyrodiilic, and Breton history and religion, as well as a summary knowledge of the Redguards. As far as she knew, his only area of complete ignorance was Dunmer ancestor worship. In most, all that knowledge would have impressed her. Except that he was insufferably arrogant about it. He was the most typical high-born Imperial she'd ever met, and yet he was a sellsword… or, sell-spell, she supposed - he carried no sword, only a dagger.
He spoke to her as he spoke to everyone - that is, he instructed her as an older brother would. "It's good to see you, Mjoll. How have you been?" It's good to see you, little sister. Did you remember your chores this morning?
"What are you doing here, Marcurio?"
"You can't take on a whole bandit den by yourself, Mjoll." You can't reach the top shelf. Let me help you, silly girl.
Mjoll pointedly did not look at Aerin. She knew she deserved this; getting angry with him would only heighten the shame. "Marcurio, I can do this myself. I just waded through a Dwemer ruin full of bandits, automatons, and Falmer. I can handle a couple of smugglers."
His angular Nibenean face, his dark eyes and beak nose and pouty little mouth, looked amused. "I'll wager you let the bandits do most of the work, then picked off the leavings." His smile was so knowing she wanted to spit.
Gods, the man's as clever as Aerin. "I'll be fine. I don't need some rebel mage singeing my neck hairs. Do us both a favor and keep Aerin out of trouble."
"You can't make me stay, Mjoll. Either you let me ride with you, or I follow you. You'd be surprised how woodworthy I can be at need."
He was wrong, there. He could start riding a sabre cat, and she would not bat an eyelash. She knew her own name would be forgotten as soon as she died; but she had known men like Marcurio before. Lleras Sedri, Defender of Mournhold, was a name she knew the Dunmer would remember for a thousand years. Logain Jeanard was no lesser a man. Lleras was a general, the leader of the Mournhold Guard, defending the city as it was rebuilt against attacks from Argonian Retributionists. Logain was the captain of the personal guard to the king of Wayrest. Both men were heroes in every sense of the word. Somehow, she knew Marcurio was of that stock. Haughty and frustrating as he was, she knew that he could do anything he put his mind to, up to and including saving the damned world. Only, she also knew that he never would, unless he felt like it - or if someone paid him a lot of money.
"Fine," she told him grudgingly. "You can tag along. But I'm in charge. You do as I say or I'll leave you tied to a tree."
"As you say, knight-maiden."
Erik had never been this far east. It was strange to see the Throat from the other side. It seemed even bigger.
They had stayed to the road through the last of Whiterun Hold. Coming down from the great canyon, the winding road had taken longer to follow than they'd thought it would. Three full, hard days it had taken them to reach Darkwater Crossing. Wolves had attacked the first night. Erik had been glad of Meeko, then, as he would not have seen the dark-furred beasts until they were nearly on him. All-in-all, they had needed to kill four of the wolves before the other three ran back into the woods. It was beautiful country, the Nimalten Forest. The White River waited at the bottom of their descent into Eastmarch, rushing rapidly as it fell from the western heights.
They'd passed by Fort Amol the second day. The massive stone fort, built an age ago by the Imperials, was in disrepair, but a Stormcloak garrison walked the grounds and ramparts. There had been some detainment there, but Aleron was able to convince the captain that they were not Imperial spies; his knowledge of proper Talos worship had been especially useful. Late in the afternoon of the fifth day out of Whiterun, the group reached the mining village of Darkwater Crossing.
.
"Cragslane isn't just some gambling den, boys." Annekke Crag-Jumper was a hard-looking woman. She might have once been beautiful, but her scarred face was gaunt with age and toil. She claimed to have been an adventurer of a sort, many years ago. Erik could believe it of her. She spoke with an ease and authority of experience that reminded him of Vorstag.
"What do you mean?" Aleron asked. He seemed frustrated, almost angry. Well, furious for any other man.
Annekke seemed not to notice the Breton's mood. "Cragslane's a smuggling hold," she explained. "They bring goods in and out of Morrowind through a pass in the mountains; some of it illegal, like skooma. There's likely to be three or four guards there, not to mention the pit wolves. And the gamblers will side with the smugglers if you attack. Leader of the smugglers is a big brute of a Dunmer they call the Butcher. I think you can guess how he got that name. No, I wouldn't go there with less than five good men."
"It disturbs me that you still know things like that, Annekke." Verner Rock-Chucker was a mild man to have such a formidable wife. His simple belted tunic and frayed leather cap clashed with his status as owner and manager of the rich mine. "Someone less trusting might worry you'd been thinking of taking up a life of danger again."
The woman seemed too old to be traipsing about the wilds looking for action, but then she seemed too grim to be living a village life.
"I just keep my ears open, love. Got to make sure Silgja's safe out there. Cragslane Cavern's just a day's ride from Shor's Stone, after all."
"Aye," Verner said, not looking at all convinced.
To Erik and Aleron, he said, "Found you boys a place to sleep for the night. We've not got a proper inn here in the Crossing, but folks are usually accommodating. Sondas has agreed to take you in for the night. You'll have to sleep on the floor, but there's a fire and good food." After a moment, he added, "He won't ask for anything, but if you can pay him a little…"
"We'll pay him what we can," Erik told the miner. "We should probably turn in now. We'll need a good night's sleep."
"I'll accompany you a bit," Annekke broke in. "I can explain the passes up to Cragslane for you. You'll lose a day or more searching if you don't know what to look for."
.
Sondas turned out to be a Dark Elf miner. He was a gloomy man, but he tried to wait on the pair like an innkeeper. Aleron had to give him an annoyed look before the man stopped fussing over them. They did have to sleep on the floor, but the fire was warm and the food was surprisingly good. Erik had never tasted Dunmer cuisine before, and it was certainly different from Nordic fare. Spicy, thick-sauced, and containing a surprising amount fried vegetables, he thought he might prefer it to the blander Nordic stews or flame-broiled meats and cheeses.
The morning came dry and warmer than Erik had expected. He could see the mountains to the east, where they were headed. He still thought they could make it to Cragslane in the next three days, however doubtful Aleron had been, especially now that they had Annekke's directions.
He started his morning chewing dried venison as he saddled Aslak. The Palomino had been a terrific gift. He seemed even hardier than Caddock, Aleron's black warhorse, and he was far less difficult.
The children of the village chased Meeko about as Aleron shared a few last words with Annekke. Erik noticed the differences between this village and his own. Rorikstead was a farming village, and folks there were not often idle in the morning, even children. Surely some of the children here worked, the older children, carrying stones from the mill in large wheelbarrows. But this early there was not enough to need carrying, and so the children played. He had not had much time to play as a child. In an inn, there was always something to do. He had spent his childhood sweeping floors and emptying chamber pots. True, he had always found time to ogle any pretty women that came to the inn; but that was hardly the same as playing at warriors and bandits with the other boys.
"It's a nice village," Sondas said, breaking Erik out of his remembering. "I've been here a few years. It's more peaceful than anywhere else I've been. I suppose that's partly to do with the isolation of the place." The Dunmer seemed to have something on his mind, but Erik could not begin to guess what it was.
"Aye," he affirmed. "Maybe I'll retire here someday." He smiled to put the man at ease.
"I heard where you're going. The Butcher… you're going to kill him?"
"Aye. If he's there."
The look the Dunmer's adopted could be called hope, but only on that dour face. "Do me a favor, sera. Send me a message when you kill him." He placed the coins they'd left on his table this morning into Erik's hand. "That will cover anything you owe me for the lodging."
"Why?" Erik was intrigued. The coincidence of this Dark Elf having a connection to the man they were going to kill - on top of the coincidence that Annekke happened to know exactly where this Cragslane Cavern was - seemed too good to be true. "Do you know this elf?"
"You may think it strange chance," the gray elf said, as if he'd been reading Erik's mind. "But we Dunmer live long lives; I remember the Septim Empire. We certainly don't all know each other, but most of us who came from Vvardenfell know of each other. When the Nerevarine came to Balmora, I was living next door to the seamstress, Tivela. A beautiful flower, Tivela. Raynil and I worked the Shulk Egg Mine for House Hlaalu. One night I heard a scream from Tivela's house. When I ran to check on her, I was attacked in the dark. He hit me on the head. When I came to, she was gone. But there was a lot of blood. We found her three days later, in an abandoned part of the mine. She'd been gutted, all her organs removed; then cut to pieces. I never saw Raynil again, until a few months ago. Said he was running a gambling den in the mountains. I think he didn't know me."
Erik pocketed the coins. "Do you want me to give him a message before he dies?"
The ride from Riften had been completely without complication. The first day they'd seen a bear, but the beast had run from them. The second afternoon, they reached Shor's Stone.
The mining village was always a welcome site to Mjoll. She thought it reminded her of Kolgrimstead. Also she had a friend in the village, Silgja. A miner, she was the daughter of a woman who'd done much for Mjoll in the past. She'd been able to meet only briefly with her friend, however, as Marcurio started to show a very specific interest in the woman. Mjoll thought she might have never seen a more naturally beautiful woman than Silgja. Her dark hair was her father's; but everything else about her, from her large almond eyes to her long slender legs, was a younger translation of Annekke. And like her mother, the hardship of her chosen profession could not really diminish her beauty. And Marcurio had certainly noticed.
They set off from Shor's Stone early the third day. The ride into the trackless mountains was hard on the Imperial's sleek horse, and so there was much more walking than Mjoll would have liked. The Mistwall Mountains were brown this time of year, and craggy. A veritable maze of earthen walls and spires, one could get lost easily, even with a very good map, if they were not confidently familiar with the area. Mjoll led Marcurio through the maze with ease, knowing what route she wanted and finding it.
They found Cragslane Cavern late on the third day from Riften. From there, things did not go well.
First, Marcurio argued with her as to how the smugglers should be handled. He preferred to pose as a gambler himself, and then signal her to attack by setting fire to whatever crates were inside. It was a foolish plan. The gods knew mages were dangerous, but even a powerful battlemage was not a match for more than three men at one time. Magefire did not ignite wood or flesh easily, unless the target was doused with oil. Certainly she'd seen men struck with fireballs that killed them quickly enough, but those spells, she'd been told, were difficult and tiring for the caster. Also, depending on how far into the cave the fighting started, she would not likely see the smoke of any fire until it was too late.
The second trouble came when Mjoll laid out her plan. She wanted to storm the den quickly, using surprise and overwhelming force to break through the defenses and strike at the heart before any gamblers within could decide what to do. Marcurio disliked this strategy, as it relied too much on what he called unknown variables. As if his plan had not done the same.
Together, they decided that the best course of action was to kill the front guard first, before he could raise any alarm within. Once he was dead, they would wait for whoever came to relieve him, and kill them. With any luck at all, they'd cripple any defenses before the group inside knew what was happening.
Unfortunately, they did not have any luck after all. The cavern was situated at the end of a long narrow passage through the surrounding crags; it could only be approached from the east. And so the decision was made to approach on horseback, where they could close the distance quickly so that no alarm could be given. They'd observed the guard, a wiry Dunmer with a scar ranging out from his mouth on the left side, and he was alone save for the pit wolves kept in cages by the cave entrance.
The problem arose when they found that the guard had a quick-release for all the wolf cages should he be attacked. When their assault came, he sent a pack of ten hungry pit wolves into their midst. Mista held strong, with only a perfunctory rear that came back down on one of the beasts; but Marcurio's Imperial rider was not a warhorse. It tried to dash, then reared and flung its rider. That was fortunate, however, despite the broken leg Marcurio suffered. Four of the wolves followed the horse as after it bolted.
Mjoll, luckily, fared better. After Mista's initial rear, she rode through the horses, Grimsever drawn, and cut down the guard before he could disappear into the cave to warn the others. She tried to reach Marcurio, after he'd gone down, but three wolves surrounded her mount. She tried to keep Mista moving toward the mage, but the horse needed to deal with the wolves. She slashed one badly enough that it limped away down the pass. She cut through the head of another, while Mista stomped the third. When she was able to move forward again, she found that Marcurio had done well, despite the broken leg. Two wolf corpses lay before him, hair burning, but little else to say how they had died.
"Lightning?" she asked, knowing the answer. She'd heard the popping, fizzing sound in the back of her head as she fought the wolves.
"Yes. I think Titus's gone." He didn't sound like a man with a bone nearly breaking through his skin. "If… if you can get me somewhere away from here, just somewhere safer, I can heal this." He gestured toward his mangled left leg. "In time. It'll take a couple of hours, but before morning I'll be right as rain.
Mjoll looked around for Titus, the mage's slender chestnut horse. Four wolves. It was dead. "That sounds good enough. Can you dull the pain long enough for me to move you without making a splint?"
.
Moving Marcurio was simple enough, once he'd dulled the pain in his leg with what he called a rejuvenation spell. Apparently, the dulling of pain was only one of a myriad of uses for it, including sobering drunkenness, restoring energy from lack of sleep, and improving sexual stamina. She dragged him into a small copse of trees where he could not been seen from the den's entrance. She left Mista with him, telling him that if she was killed before he was healed, that he should ride off and bring the Riften Guard.
For herself, Mjoll settled in to watch the entrance from the vantage of a lip above the cave mouth. From that ledge, she could see and hear anyone coming from inside long before they emerged.
The view was beautiful from here. The crag to her left dropped into a hundred-foot cliff wall below. The moons were bright enough that she could see into the distant night, over the Vernim Woods in the hilly east, rising to the Velothi Mountains, into the Cauldron with its geysers and hot springs. She loved this land, Skyrim. How could she have ever lived anywhere else?
Time drew on. No sounds came from within the cave after a while. It seemed whoever was in Cragslane Cavern was staying for the night. She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, feeling the cold from so long without movement. The motion made her pinch her breasts against her armor, though. She hadn't had any time to re-wrap herself with Marcurio always there. She stuck her head into the cave mouth a moment. No one was coming, and if they did, she could kill whoever it was as easy without armor. Marcurio could not see her from here. She had time to rewrap herself.
She removed the heavy iron pauldrons from her shoulders, first, and set them aside carefully, as not to make any noise. She unclasped the iron plates around her body, feeling the pressure release, and felt a sharp pain like a nail being driven into the soft flesh of her left breast. It had been pinched for hours, it seemed, and she knew she would have a tender bruise there in the morning. She set the plates aside with the pauldrons. She pulled her jerkin and her shirt over her head, and set them atop the armored plates. Lastly, she unwrapped the binding around her breasts, and felt the air. The night air was cold, and a wind rode through the pass. She clutched at her breasts, trying to keep the cold wind from turning her nipples to icicles. She shivered violently. Closing her eyes, she stilled her nerves, accepted the cold. Eyes still closed, she lifted to feel the air rushing past the underside of her breasts, across her stomach. She really loved this land. The cold air kept her feeling alive. With a last invigorated shiver, remembering that she should still be watching the entrance, she set to rewrapping.
Aleron crept through the rocky terrain as cautiously as he knew how. He was not surprised that Erik did not take well to sneaking. He was quiet enough standing tall, but his long limbs seemed to want to fold in awkward ways when he tried to stay low.
It had been a rough journey from Darkwater Crossing. Three hard days, and the decision to attack now had been reached by a hairsbreadth. Tired as they were, Aleron thought it better to attack by surprise while they were tired than give the enemy a chance to learn they were there.
They'd come through the mountain passes well, thanks to Annekke's directions. There had been a small incident with a bear, but big as the beast was, it was not immune to Erik's heavy battleaxe.
Aleron had wondered before whether the big Nord would be able to use the large black axe from a saddle. After seeing it done, though, he thought it might work better than his own smaller war axe. Not that he'd ever switch to a two-handed weapon. Erik was lithe enough to make excellent use of the weapon; he seemed too quick to believe of a man that size, so much so that Aleron could not argue with the man's scaled leather armor that left his legs completely bare, without even a cloth covering above the high boots. He himself had been taught to fight in full plate, in the Colovian style. Unfortunately, he'd not seen a set of full plate anywhere in Skyrim. Many of the warriors he had come across in this country used breastplates of various metals. And nearly every warrior he'd seen had plates of steel or iron attached to leather gauntlets and boots. He thought he could see the use in keeping a freer range of movement for the arm above the elbow, especially on the shield arm; but leaving the shoulders bare the way these Nords did was lunacy. He'd nearly lost an arm more than once since coming to this land, forgetting for a moment that he could not simply twist to let a blow glance off heavy pauldrons. Perhaps it had something to do with the Nord affinity for two-handed weapons, but surely they could use something to protect their shoulders.
He stopped dead, transfixed by what he saw ahead of him.
Above the entrance to the cave, haloed before Secunda, the bright white lesser moon, a woman knelt on a ledge, bare above the waist. Her fists holding her breasts to the sky, she looked like an avatar of Dibella. Her eyes closed, her face shining in the light of the moons, Aleron thought she was perhaps the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Her back arched, and she pulled a long breath of air into her lungs, making her round breasts heave beneath her hands. Aleron's heartbeat quickened, and he felt aware as he had never been of anything else.
After what seemed an eternity, and far too short a time at that, she bent to wrapping herself up in a linen binding. She did not become any less beautiful as she dressed. She was serenity and focus incarnate as she finished wrapping, pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and a leather jerkin, and then fastened on her armor, with pauldrons he noticed. When the moonslight caught her face, she seemed a warrior goddess preparing for a ceremony in her honor.
"That, my friend, is a sight I'll not soon forget."
Aleron jerked. It was a sign of his distraction that Aleron hadn't noticed Erik's approach until he was whispering in his ear. The woman on the ledge had noticed, though. None of her focus was gone, but serenity had been replaced by coiled alertness. Her head whipped about, searching for whatever had made noise.
And then another whisper came, from off to the left and behind them.
"Mjoll!" the loud whisper said, translating alarm into the soft sound. "Mjoll! Men in the pass!"
And then everything happened at once.
From inside the cave a torch's light shined, coming toward the entrance.
"You'd better be awake, you squib-kisser," came a gravelly Dark Elf man's voice from inside.
As the torchbearer emerged, the woman on the ledge leaped down, ornate green sword flashing, and cut the elf from the collar of his right side to the armpit of his left, nearly severing his head and arm.
She spun, looking into the pass where Aleron knew he and Erik must be visible by now, and started to stalk forward, the shield strapped to her left arm held up to cover all but her head above her cheeks. It was not an Imperial stance, he noticed, as he put his free hand out and whispered, "Wait." Her sword was not held back for stabbing, as the Legion trained, but rather to the side for wide slashing. His own axe was in his hand, held in a similar manner as her sword, but his shield he left on his back for now.
She gave him a questioning look, or at least that was as good as he could guess with her back now to the moonslight. And then Aleron saw a ball of fire appear in the woods above the crag to his left. He shoved Erik aside, but took the full blast of fire in his chest.
As the blow forced all the air out of his lungs, the fireball consumed it. He struggled on his back for air, gasped as nothing but heat, searing heat, flooded into his mouth, into his lungs. He closed his eyes, tried to concentrate; but he needed air. He needed it or he would die. He didn't want to die. He wanted to know who that warrior woman was. He fought the burning, the desperation. He focused, forced himself to breathe. Finally air came, still too hot and burning his lungs, but air.
He opened his eyes. The woman was standing over him, concern in her marvelous features.
"I think he's alright," she said in a voice like a song, with a lilting accent close to what he'd heard in Morthal.
Erik was there, and a Nibenean man he had not seen before. Erik was holding the Imperial up by the shoulder of his robes. The robes. The buckles, showing symbols for Destruction Magic.
Aleron leaped at the Imperial… or tried to. The muscles in his stomach and chest ached as if he'd been beaten with rods. They wouldn't work right. When he tried to use them, they convulsed and shuddered, then quit.
"For Stendarr's sake, Marcurio! Heal the man!" the Nord woman was beautiful when angry.
Aleron was fine, thank the gods. Erik had been sure the man was dead the moment that fireball had struck him, but apparently Bretons really were hard to kill with magic alone.
"He's lucky," the mage had said. "That fireball would have killed a Nord."
Something else Erik owed the Breton for. The mage hadn't been aiming for Aleron.
"We need to get in there before the sun is up," Mjoll was telling Aleron.
"He's in no condition to fight," Marcurio said.
Erik agreed. Aleron looked paler than normal. And there was none of that usual fire in him. "I don't suppose we can hide what happened last night." He told the group. "But maybe if they know they're under attack, the gamblers, at least, will leave. Could turn into an easy job, with just three or four smugglers in there."
Mjoll just shook her head. "Clearly, none of you have ever dealt with smugglers. They don't care about the cargo. You're not a smuggler for long if you're not willing to leave the goods behind. If they know they're under attack, they'll leave with the gamblers. I intended on doing this alone to begin with, and I'll do it alone now if I have to."
"That's a bad idea," Erik told her. "This Butcher's been on the run for over two hundred years. It's a fair bet he's a good fighter."
Marcurio smiled, and Mjoll looked insulted. Aleron, strangely, regained some of that look of anger and contained violence.
The Breton stood, started to gather his armor. "You're not going in there alone."
There was plenty of argument over Aleron, but no one was willing to try to stop him. In the end, they all realized that was enough of a sign that he could take care of himself.
They made it back to the cave as the sun was just starting to show a red morning in Eastmarch to the north. In the pass before the cave, though, it was still dark. Inside, the long tunnel leading to the gambling den was dark. Erik started to light a torch, but Marcurio just laughed before conjuring some ball of blue-white light. They walked in a line, as not more than one could walk abreast in the narrow passageway. Meeko had been left behind with the horses, as he might do more harm than good in the tight passage. Erik held up the rear, just behind Mjoll.
Somehow, Aleron was first. The mage had grumbled at him, saying it was ridiculous to have to hold the light for someone else; and Mjoll just tried to pull him back, having no more effect than if she were trying to pull a mountain down - perhaps Aleron really was feeling fine. Erik just laughed. They didn't know him. They didn't know that likely, at half strength, the man could chop his way through a battlefield of enemies. Erik had begun to think of that anger as a wave, crashing and crushing anything in its path. Yes, he could survive anything, so long as his anger was up. And it certainly was, now - and something else… Erik could not figure it out. The man was a puzzle.
Once they got close, they could hear the early morning activities of the smugglers and gamblers. Someone was making breakfast; it smelled not too unlike what Erik had eaten at Sondas' house a few nights before. Marcurio let the light die before it could be seen by unwanted eyes. They all followed the sounds from there.
Erik heard the barking of a dog, the snarling of a wolf, and then Oblivion broke loose in the gambling den. Shouts were raised before Erik reached the entrance to the cavern where the residents were. He rushed forward, just behind Mjoll, and when he stepped into the dim light of the den he saw Aleron taking the head off of a Dunmer in a red coat, while Marcurio trained a stream of fire on charging pit wolf. Further ahead, more Dunmer were coming.
Aleron wasted no time finding his next opponent, and Erik noticed with amusement the pause in Mjoll, as she looked at the ferocious Breton, before she herself joined the fight. It seemed to Erik that the battle was over before he even joined. The pit wolf died, as did the almost hairless Dunmer hound, and three gamblers, before Erik ever swung his axe.
Finally, a large elf with particularly dark gray skin walked out of a back room to join the fighting. As soon as he came into view, Erik knew this was the Butcher. He wore a smirk like a crooked tree branch, he had half a nose, and those red eyes glowed through with insanity.
"Raynil?" he asked, trying his best to radiate menace, put the much shorter man off-guard. He'd learned a few things, watching Aleron. He didn't think he could match the Breton's cold fury, but then again, his height likely made up for it.
The elf's smile vanished; one eye twitched.
Quick as that, they were on each other. Erik tried to take the offensive, but the Dunmer was quicker, even in his heavy steel armor. It was a practiced speed, like a dance. The Butcher led, but Erik held his own. He dodged swings of an oddly curved, black-metalled blade, which he thought must be what elves called ebony ore. From what he knew of it, it could shave his ancient steel axe right off the haft.
The Butcher pressed Erik back, then gave ground, only to try to turn Erik away from any help, should those behind him become free. And that was where he made his mistake. The elf clearly knew he had would have to run; even if he defeated Erik, he could not hope to kill all four of the intruders.
The Butcher pushed Erik back one last time, then tried to vault onto a crate that would lead him out into the passageway. Perhaps once, a hundred years ago, he'd been able to make that jump. Not now. He heal caught the lip of the crate, and he came down on his back with his sword knocked clean out of his hand. Erik's axe, which had been shaved here and there by the superior sword, he buried deeply into the Butcher's chest. As the elf died, Erik leaned over to whisper in his ear. "This is for Tivela."
Back in Riften, Mjoll sat watching Erik and Marcurio tell the story of their triumph to the patrons at the Bee and Barb. She drank heartily, knowing that no one would try to kill her tonight. She had an army around her, or as close to an army as she was ever likely to have again. Even Aerin seemed relaxed, playing a game of squares with Ungrien.
Her only source of discomfort lay in the Breton man sitting at the table with her.
She had thought, when she'd first seen him that night in the pass outside Craglsane, that his intensity was a battle-readiness. She had thought so until she actually saw him in battle, that is. What she'd seen inside Cragslane was almost frightening. She'd heard men throw about the terms cold-blooded and hot-blooded, but never had she thought to need both to describe one man at the same instant. It hate could be impersonal, then maybe that would cover it.
Even now, sitting and sipping at the same Cyrodiilic brandy he'd had all night, there was an intensity to him that seemed out of place whenever he spoke. On the rare occasion in which he had anything to say, his manner was almost a mirror of his fighting. He spoke in cold, short politeness that seemed at war with eyes full of intense sincerity, if certainly not kindness.
He was handsome enough, she admitted, once she got past the strangeness of his bearing. His dark, almost black hair was pulled almost wildly into braids at the temples, which were pulled back with the rest into a short tail in the back. His face was a bit soft, compared to the men she liked; though he had a Nord's strong chin. His high cheekbones were narrower than a Nord's, but not sunken. His slightly wide, short nose fit his face well. His mouth seemed pushed forward from the rest of his face, which might have made it pouty if not for the tightness of it. The rest of him was nearly godlike. She'd seen him shirtless when Marcurio had checked him for wounds after the fireball. She usually liked lean Nord men, with long muscles over long limbs. Aleron was not lean; but she had not known men could men could have such large muscles. She'd had to look away after a moment. Men were not supposed to be that beautiful. Those muscles below his stomach, climbing down to…
She started as she realized she was staring at him. She realized it bothered her that he had not noticed her staring; then it bothered her that it had bothered her. He was not so beautiful now, with his shirt on and his face all cold intensity. Besides, he was too short. She thought she might be taller than him; a woman needed to be able to look up at a man.
"So, you live in Riverwood?" she asked, just to give herself a reason for having been looking at him.
He glanced at her, barely seeming to have heard. "Yes. For now. There's a house being built for me in Hjaalmarch, though. I suppose a thane should live in his hold."
A thane? "You're a thane of Hjaalmarch?"
"Yes," was all he said.
He hadn't looked at her since that first glance. As if that matters. Get ahold of yourself, woman! His chest wasn't that nice.
"I've always been fond of Riverwood. Cold enough to feel like home, but beautiful with mountains on all sides."
He glanced at her again, seemingly surprised that she was still trying to make conversation. "Yes. I miss it myself, I suppose. Though I think it's Alvor's forge I miss."
She couldn't help herself. Her eyes lit up. "You're a smith?" He nodded, and she went on. "I wonder if I could trouble you with something."
"You want armor fitted for a woman?"
Now how in Shor's name could he know that?