.

Keljarn

Proving Honour

Jorrvaskr

Oh, by the Nine, the hangover.

He remembered where he was – Jorrvaskr – and what he was doing here. He'd joined the Companions after getting an offer that was so good he'd be insulting them by even considering it before accepting, and then there'd been mead. Lots of mead. Too much mead. He vaguely recalled Farkas inspecting his axe, and saying it was clearly an Avenicci, Vilkas and Aela asking him things about him, his past, his home, family, and so on.

As he struggled a bit harder to remember, which made his head pound more painfully, he recalled waxing poetic at one point, proclaiming how wonderful it was to be a Nord and to be a free Nord, to find strength on the mountaintops and in the ice cold wind, and all that kind of drunken-passionate tripe he spewed when he was drunk and wanted to emphasize that he was a Nord and not a Breton.

The rest of the night was a complete blank. But judging from the way his head felt, he'd been drinking until he'd fallen over. How he'd made it to his bed, he had no idea, but he didn't think it would have been in a straight line or without falling over.

Where was his bed anyway? It wasn't the inn room, so he assumed he was still in Jorrvaskr, probably in the rooms under the hall. His head pounded in pain, the thumping intensifying with every little movement he made, and his mouth was cork dry. His stomach made slow, lazy tumbles.

He opened his eyes and saw light coming from the opening in the door. Biting the pain in his head, he sat up and put one foot on the ground.

He felt something wet and soft squish under his foot, and promptly, the sour smell of vomit stabbed his nostrils. Ah, crap.

Just to make sure, he felt the other side of the bed to make sure there was no woman in there. Because he wouldn't be the first to wake up next to someone he didn't even remember. There was a reason why jokes about drunk men waking up butt naked in the woods always featured a Nord.

His bed was empty apart from him though, thankfully. He wouldn't have minded waking up after a night of unremembered romance per se, but only if it didn't involve throwing up next to the bed.

He wiped the sole of his foot on his tunic (that was ripe for the pyre anyway) and rose to his feet, his head pounding so hard he had to close his eyes and just hold his hands to his temple for a few minutes. He'd given up on making the morning-after vow to never drink again, but if there was ever an argument against irresponsible drinking, this was it. What misery.

He staggered outside, squinting against the light. Ria, the Breton-or-Imperial girl who'd been so dedicated the day before, whirled around when she heard his door creak further open. "Oh. Good morning. Umm... is there anything I can do for you?"

"Of course not," he joked in a croaking voice. "Don't I look the picture of health?"

She permitted herself a short chuckle, then said, "Things can get a bit rowdy here at the hall. I'm sure you'll get used to it."

"Not sure I'll ever get used to this." This was probably the worst hangover he'd ever had. But then again, didn't all hangovers feel that way?

"I hope I wasn't too annoying last night?" she asked.

"Uh... If you were, it wouldn't have mattered. I don't even remember talking to you."

Her face held a mixture of relief and regret. "Oh. Well, it wasn't important anyway."

"What'd we talk about?"

"Oh just... things. I can be a bit long-winded when I'm talking about why I want to become a good warrior, I think."

He managed a chuckle despite his pain. "Well, if you don't mind telling the story again, I'd like to hear it. When I'm less comatose."

She smiled and nodded. "Alright. I'm sure we'll still be seeing a lot of each other. And um... it may be a bit out of line, but... well, welcome to the Companions."

"Thanks but... why would it be out of line?"

"Well... I'm just an initiate, and you're already an apprentice. Seems weird welcoming someone who's higher up than me."

"Oh, like that. Well, I consider myself the new guy, so no need to worry."

She smiled again. "Okay." She wasn't good-looking, but she had a fire in her eyes, he'd noticed it the day before too, and she was friendly to a fault. He was briefly tempted to tell her the Inner Circle were very close to making her apprentice, but he decided against it. It wasn't his place, much as he liked to give her the good news. "I think you should go see Aela now, she said she had a few more things to tell you."

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

"Might be a good idea to put some clothes on first though."

Oh crap. Looking down at himself, he realized he only wore his loincloth. Of course, he'd used his tunic to wipe his feet. Yeah, the Companions probably weren't all that hung-up on dress codes, but a small degree of decency was probably not a bad idea.

"There should be clothes in your room?" Ria helpfully pointed out when she saw his probably extremely stupid expression.

"Oh. That's good, because the clothes I wore last night..."

She made a sour face. "No. Might be a bad idea to wear those ever again."

There were indeed clothes in the room, some basic cloth and fur garments, but they were good enough. Better than just his loincloth at any rate. Putting them on was quite the ordeal with his pounding hangover, but if he was going to be a Companion, might as well bite the pain. As he tied the laces of the soft leather boots provided for him, he heard a voice from the doorway.

"So. This is our new addition."

He looked up to see a tall and powerfully-built Nord leaning on the door jamb, his arms crossed. He was massive, almost as big as the two brothers, but his head was shaven, and over his left eye ran a wince-worthy scar, the eye replaced by a matte glass orb. Wicked tattoos ran over the sides of his head, and he had two horizontal double-stripes of red war paint on each cheek. "Doesn't look like much from where I'm standing."

"Well I uh, I don't think anyone looks like much when they're battling the worst hangover of their lives." Keljarn didn't know the man, and in situations like these, you never knew who you had in front of you, so always best to stay cautious and not give yourself too much of an air.

The man laughed, which was always a good sign. "Don't worry, milk drinker. We'll make a man out of you eventually."

"Just not today, if it's all the same to you."

Yeah, that had been a dumb thing to say. The man's grin widened and he said, "Especially today. Come on, we've got work to do."

Ah crap, these guys didn't sit around. Keljarn followed the man with the shaved head up a flight of stairs and into the hall of Jorrvaskr. So the rooms were on the cellar level. Not an unreasonable choice if it meant more room for the mead hall, Keljarn supposed. There weren't many people in the hall right now. The only ones he saw were the snippy shield-polisher and Farkas. He must have a head of steel, because he'd drank even more than Keljarn had, and he looked perfectly chipper. When he noticed Keljarn, he bellowed in laughter. "Rise and shine, pup. You look like shit."

"Yeah," Keljarn croaked. "I wager I do."

Farkas held out the bread basket to him. "Breakfast?"

"Ewgh, no thanks. I can't get anything through my gullet right now."

Farkas shrugged and took the bread basket back. "Your loss. So, Skjor, big day today?" That confirmed what Keljarn already thought. This was the oft-spoken-of Skjor.

"I'd say so," the shaven man said. "Time to set out for Wuuthrad. You better come back with that fragment."

"Wait, 'you'?" Keljarn echoed. "You're not coming with?"

The man shook his head.

"And they call me a milk drinker."

"I don't waste time with Initiates," the older man said. "Especially if they've been appointed without my saying so. You prove your worth, and then you can come with me on the real jobs. Until then, you go with Farkas and do whatever he tells you." The unlikeable little wench in the corner grinned when she heard it.

Well, at least he'd be traipsing around with the far more amiable Farkas than with grumpy old Skjor. Still, it wasn't a good sign that he wasn't invited on the big jobs yet. Then again, what had he expected? The instant promotion to Initiate was pretty great already, and it figured that he'd have to prove his worth a bit before being privy to the group's 'real' work. "Fine," he merely said. "I'll just ignore my hangover."

"Ignore it or complain about it, I don't care," Skjor grunted, walking off. "But you better come back with that fragment."

When Skjor had gone out, Keljarn asked Farkas, "What fragment is he talking about?"

"Sit down," Farkas said. "Have some milk, you need it. He's talking about a fragment of Wuuthrad."

"Wuuthrad?" Keljarn asked.

Farkas snorted with a grin, "Damn, son. You're so proud to be a Nord, then you have to know your history. Wuuthrad, also known as the Merslayer, is the battle axe Ysgramor wielded, long ago. You know who Ysgramor was, right?"

"Yeah," Keljarn said. All the memories from the night before weren't driven from him fully. "The founder of the Companions."

Farkas nodded. "Exactly. Guess you can understand why we would want to find the fragments and reassemble it, right?"

"Obviously."

"Well," Farkas explained, "We've located one in a place called Dustman's Cairn, not that far from here. You and me, we're going to get it. Nevermind what Skjor said, we're both going in as allies, you're not like, my squire or anything."

"That's nice of you, Farkas," Keljarn said, meaning it.

"Meh. Anyway, let's head out. You can sweat out your hangover on the road."

"Yeah," Keljarn said, holding his head. "Wish I'd stayed in bed."

"Skjor would have just dragged you out. Let's go."

Dustman's Cairn wasn't that far, only a few hours' walk, and as they went, Keljarn's headache gradually diminished, until it was only a faint throb when they got to their destination. Farkas talked Keljarn's ear off about the Companions, about Skyrim, and everything else. Their walk took them northwest of Whiterun, through rolling plains wedged in between two mountain ranges. The weather was fine in the beginning, a cold wind but the sun shining happily, keeping them both warm. As they progressed, however, it became more and more gray, until, in the late afternoon, there wasn't a single bit of blue sky visible anymore. The first flakes of melting snow began to fall when Farkas stopped and pointed at a cave mouth. "This should be it," he simply said, shrugging off his backpack and taking out the necessary items for cave-crawling. Keljarn did the same, unpacking the oil lantern and filling it, hooking a few pitons on his belt and slinging the rope around his shoulder. Farkas hung a decent-sized pick on a loop on his belt, and hung a small pouch of medical supplies on the other. They were ready to go.

Keljarn lit the oil lantern and nodded. "Ready."

Farkas nodded back. "Let's do this."

In they went, Keljarn having to light the oil lantern almost right away because the cave was pitch dark. "Careful," Farkas warned. "Ground's uneven. Wouldn't want to take a nasty spill before we have a chance to get the fragment."

"No, let's save that for after."

The cave itself was rather narrow, but the footing was mostly manageable, Keljarn only occasionally stumbling and having to lean against the wall for balance.

"Right," Keljarn heard Falnas say. "This isn't a natural cave. Bound to be traps, be careful."

He emerged into a large room, illuminated by phosphorescent fungus, not very well lit, but enough to be able to extinguish the lantern for a bit and save oil. "So what is this then?"

"Pretty sure the fragment was placed in some kind of place of worship," Farkas said, looking around the room. It was hewn out of the stone by human hands, with a high ceiling covered with fungus that gave off a pale blue light. It was icy cold inside the cave, and from everywhere came the dripping of moisture. Farkas' breath left white puffs of miasma.

"That fungus," Keljarn said, "It's not the kind that can take over your mind and make you blind so you have to rely on sound, and you spend your days making clicking noises, is it?"

Farkas shook his head. "You've been reading too many books, friend. I suggest a harmless little pun joke book to get those crazy ideas out of your head."

"Yeah, yeah. There's a lever here," Keljarn said, spotting the rod that stuck out of the ground in an alcove. "Think it opens something?"

"Maybe," Farkas said. "But I think there's an opening right there. Still, it's there for a reason, so pull it."

"You sure?" Keljarn asked. He figured it was always best to look around as much as possible before pulling any levers. It could be a trap, Farkas himself had just said there might be.

But the big man shrugged and said, "Pull it, it's the only way to be sure."

"Alright then," Keljarn said, "but if I'm crushed by a stone, I'm going to reincarnate into a bird and poop on your head."

With a chuckle, Farkas said, "Faint heart never won fragment."

"Yeah, yeah." Nervously, Keljarn pulled the lever.

rrrrRRRRCLANG!

Nine damnit, he knew it'd be a trap! Surprised that he wasn't dead, Keljarn realized that the lever had made a heavy portcullis slam down, trapping him in the alcove. He tried to lift the thing back up, but it wouldn't budge, locked in place by some kind of mechanism.

Farkas' heavy, hoarse laughter came toward him. "Gate trap. Good thing I'm here or you'd have rotted in there."

"Glad you think it's funny," Keljarn grunted. "Now how 'bout getting me out of here?"

"Sure, let me just look for – "

"They fell for it! Get 'em! For the Silver Hand!" came a battlecry from the other side of the cave. Farkas whipped his head around and he and Keljarn saw four or five figures charge in from the cave entrance, hard to see in the faint light of the fungi, but definitely there. Dammit they'd been followed!

"It'll have to wait," Farkas rapped, before launching himself at the attackers.

Five against one, Keljarn thought, he doesn't stand a chance. He's gonna die and then they'll either kill me or leave me to rot!

With a roar, Farkas fell upon the men who ambushed them. In the faint light, Keljarn couldn't see more than dark shapes, but something happened to Farkas. He changed. In a brutal, horrible phantasmagoria of death, Keljarn saw the flashes of human figures being struck down, blood spattering against the walls as their arteries were torn open and their bones broken, their bodies launched against the walls like bleeding, broken rag dolls. Keljarn heard inhuman growling, screams of pain, and the clatter of weapons falling to the ground, and then it was over. Only one person still stood, and as Keljarn looked on, a terrifying demonic shape slowly returned to human.

Footsteps sounded, the sound bouncing off the moist cave walls, as Farkas came back towards him, now bare-chested, his trousers split at the calves and thighs, vertical tears exposing the hairy skin beneath.

"F... Farkas," Keljarn stammered. "What in Oblivion just happened?"

Farkas only chuckled mysteriously. "Five people attacked me, and they died."

"Yes but... but you..."

"But I what?" he asked. Keljarn could see in the faint light that his face was amused. "Don't worry, it'll all become clear, later. When you're a bit more experienced."

"Farkas," Keljarn asked with insistence. "What did you do?"

Farkas gave him an impatient look. "I said it'd become clear later. Now, let's get you out of there." He scanned the wall next to the niche and said, "Aha."

"What, 'aha'?"

With a grin, Farkas raised his hand and pulled the chain hanging from the wall, and the gate mechanism released with a click. They both grabbed the portcullis and pulled it up, making it click back into place again in its open position.

"They had to get the victims out after they were dead, I suppose," Keljarn reasoned. "Not an efficient trap if it's full of dead bodies."

With a nod, Farkas said, "Mm, that's probably the reason, yes. I wouldn't look at the corpses, if I were you."

Keljarn did it regardless, and immediately regretted that he had. The bodies were torn apart, one assassin (or whatever they were) had been disembowelled, his viscera torn from his belly to lie on the stone floor in a black clump. A female had her face literally torn off, and all Keljarn had been able to discern in the bloody mess was the white of two remaining teeth. Whatever Farkas had done, or what he had become, it was something with superhuman, even monstrous strength.

"Farkas, you..." Keljarn breathed, but Farkas merely said, "Later."

They crossed the room and found themselves in a smaller area, where a pedestal sat in the middle. On the pedestal lay a glinting shard of steel.

"There we go," Farkas pointed out. "Only magical steel stays in that condition for so many years."

"Is this the point where you cut yourself and say 'still sharp'?"

Farkas chuckled. "Daedra, no. Just because it's still shiny doesn't mean you can't pick up a nasty infection from it."

Taking a piece of cloth from his pack, Farkas made to wrap the shard in it, but Keljarn stopped him. "There's a reason it's still there. You can tell me this thing has been here for years and years and no one's stolen it yet. Bound to be warded or trapped."

"Mm. It's possible, yes." Farkas paused for a moment, then said, "but we'll never know unless we remove it."

Before Keljarn could stop him the second time, Farkas scooped up the shard of metal and wrapped it in the fabric.

Silence fell, both of them looking around the eerie fungus-lit cavern. Nothing happened.

With a chortling laugh, Farkas said, "Well, looks like you were worried for noth – "

A loud BAM! rent the silence, and then another one. Farkas and Keljarn exchanged a startled glance. "What the..."

Then they saw what had caused the noise: the lids of two upright sarcophagi had flown off, banging against the opposite wall and cracking into pieces.

"Good thing those didn't hit us," Farkas remarked.

"Don't be silly," Keljarn said, gripping his axe tightly. "That's not what they were for, we weren't even close. No, I'm thinking – "

Keljarn was proven right when they saw what emerged from the sarcophagus.

Two figures lurched out from the stone coffins, shambling on their lanky legs. The skin was drawn tight over their bones, and it was stringy and of a sickly pale colour, which looked light blue in the faint light of the fungus.

Their faces were the worst, the lips rotted away, showing dirty, crooked teeth, and the eye sockets empty, black pits above jutting cheekbones.

"By the Nine," Keljarn breathed. "Walking dead?"

"Draugr," Farkas said with a nod, raising his weapon. "Our long-dead ancestors."

"Rising from the grave to protect ancient Nordic artifacts?" Keljarn asked.

"Something like that."

They were slow, but the weapons they bore looked brutal enough. One carried an old, rusted hatchet, and the other wielded a greatsword. The slowly advanced on Keljarn and Farkas, blocking their escape.

"How do we kill them?" Keljarn asked.

"Like you kill everything else," Farkas grunted. "I hope." He licked his lips, flexed his neck and said, "Let's get 'em!"

With a roar, Farkas threw himself forward, right at the shambling figure with the axe. Moments later, Keljarn did the same, his one-handed axe swinging in a wide arc at the draugr holding the greatsword.

Despite their shambling gait, the draugr were surprisingly fast when springing into action, and the walking corpse blocked the axe with the blade of its swords, making sparks spring off the blades. It struck back, whacking a rotten elbow into the side of Keljarn's head. As Keljarn staggered backward, dizzy from the blow, the draugr swung again, and only pure reflex saved Keljarn's abdomen from being split open as he let himself fall backwards, out of the arc of the massive blade. He came down hard on his backside, and the draugr raised his greatsword to split him in two with a powerful downward blow. With a yelp, Keljarn rolled to the side, and the blade struck the rock with a dry crack.

Sweeping his leg, Keljarn kicked both of the undead's legs out from under it, and the creature fell on the ground, bones snapping as it came down. From its prone position, it feebly swung its greatsword at the rising Keljarn, but he side-stepped the clumsy blow easily, and brought his axe down on the creature's throat, making the vertebrae snap and splinter, beheading it in one blow. He hoped that was enough, and it was. The draugr lay still.

He spun around to help Farkas, but there was no need, as Farkas shoved the draugr back with a hard front kick and then brought his weapon down on its collarbone, splitting its torso diagonally down its length with a massive blow, his weapon crunching ribs as it came down, chopping into the creature's body all the way to the abdomen, where it got stuck. He kicked out again, kicking the draugr off his weapon and it fell to the ground, the unlife driven from it.

"Whew," Farkas remarked with a grin. "Pretty spry for their age, huh?"

"Age hasn't done wonders for their body odour though," Keljarn grunted, as he became aware of the dry, dusty smell of decay in his nostrils. "Let's go, be nice to see the sun again."

"The clouds, you mean?"

"Doesn't matter. The sky at any rate."

There were no more traps or ambushes, and they again made their way past the shredded remains of the cowards that had ambushed them. The Silver Hand, they'd called themselves. Keljarn wondered what their deal was, but Farkas had said he'd get everything explained to him in due time, and despite his usually loquacious nature, he didn't reveal anything more, even when prodded.

Keljarn closed his eyes in relief when he found himself under the cloudy, drizzly sky again. It was rotten weather, but at least it wasn't a damp cave filled with bedamned walking corpses.

He felt a hand clap on his shoulder and stumbled from the sudden force.

With a laugh, Farkas told him, "Not a bad job, initiate. Even Skjor will be impressed when I tell him you took on a draugr all on your own. Well, he'll never show it, of course."

"No, didn't peg him for the type to throw me flowers."

"Let's head on back. We've got what we came for, and we're overdue for a bottle of mead!"