Chapter 8: Lost Cause
"Gods-damned incompetent fool, " Castorius muttered. The sad fact was, though, that while he was certain of that particular assessment being right on the money, he didn't know whether it applied more to Falk Firebeard or to himself.
As it was, the spot marked "Stormcloak camp" on the map given to him by Firebeard told him that right at the moment he should be standing in the middle of the said encampment, having a pleasant conversation with old Ulfric himself. But instead, the briefest of consultations with the actual situation conveyed a sorry vision of a cold, wet, and deeply unhappy Imperial soldier, lost in the middle of shrubs, rocks, and evergreens—ankle-deep in sludge and slush, and rehashing the storage of available curses in his mental repositories.
In his other hand he held the reins of his horse, who showed absolutely no sign of caring one way or another about his concerns.
"That untrustworthy little motherf—"
Castorius' analysis was cut short, as he thought he heard a howling among the trees.
Just the wind.
Oblivion can take the wind!
If there was anything positive to be said, it was that his retreat from Alva's place had been a relatively painless one—despite the fervent attempts of the woman to hinder him, practically begging on her knees for him to find a way of staying the night. And though he generally held in contempt any notion of a person degrading themselves in front of anyone else, he was hard pressed to deny that Alva's beseeching had touched favorably upon his somewhat dented sense of self-worth.
The only way for him to earn his retreat had ultimately been to promise his swift return, and that at that time he'd spend the night, or even several.
It now looked as though it would be completely impossible for him to return to that house again, and indeed he would have to stay as far away from Morthal as he possibly could. It was too bad, for he had really enjoyed Alva's cookery. Among other things.
But life, as they said, went on. Presumably, at least.
Having then put aside any thoughts of his possible demise looming in the near future, Castorius had been in quite a lighthearted mood upon arriving at The Pale. He'd even deviated from his usual ways and whistled a few notes, so much promise had the day thus far shown. Certainly it was a sign of some sort. His attitude had been correct, and he'd set up his intentions in such way that he'd come out of all this a winner. It looked obvious that the fates had great things reserved for a man of his abilities and ambitions. The world was malleable, and would only reward those who set themselves up for success, and would without fail recognize those worthy of its gifts and blessing. Man made, Castorius had been fairly sure, his own destiny.
Well, shit on that, it seemed!
He cursed again. All around him he saw nothing but woods—tree upon tree upon stinking tree! Not the surroundings of his making, to be sure. Certainly not the surroundings of his choice. And not at all how it was supposed to be! He'd turned off the path exactly where the map had indicated he should. He was as sure as he'd ever been of anything that this was the exact spot where the map claimed the Stormcloaks should be found. He was perhaps not the most soldierly of soldiers at the best of times, but he did pride himself on account of his impeccable sense of direction, and on his ability to find any place, no matter how strange the surroundings. If it had only been properly marked on a map accurately drawn.
So the fault was obviously Falk's, Castorius was sure of it. It had to be. The map was of the standard kind, so it was not like to be mistaken. That should have perhaps made him feel better, but it didn't. How was it possible the High King had for a second hand someone so utterly clueless about such a basic matter? Surely Ulfric stood a chance if this was the best kind of help Torygg had to go by.
Gods forbid if . . .
But no—it couldn't be. A cold stab of foreboding chilled Castorius' insides. Could this have been a set-up? Maybe the High King's—or maybe Ulfric's—men were stalking him out here in the trees, just waiting for a clear shot so that they could cleanly and without witnesses take out the supposedly traitorous—
Castorius got distracted by his horse starting to whinny and rear besides him, and had a hard time just to keep control on the reins. "Hold on, you behoofed half-wit!" he scolded the beast. It would have none of it, but instead pulled back so violently Castorius had to let go of the bridle, lest the leather cut into the flesh of his bare hand. The animal reared, almost kicking him in the head, then dashed out, disappearing behind the trees.
"Go on then, you bastard!" Castorius yelled after it.
He had to bury his face in his hands. What made matters worse was that, even though it'd only been an hour from his last meal, his stomach seemed to once again be growling.
"This is not happening," he muttered.
"Grrrrrll!" The stomach replied.
"Oh, just be—" Now, wait just one minute. Castorius' hands dropped. That had not been his stomach. The growl had come from behind him, and unless it was his arse making it, well then...
"GRRRRRRrrrrllll!"
Castorius swallowed and, very slowly, turned around. And, as he did, he found himself face-to-muzzle with a pack of three hungry—and quite formidable—looking wolves. They stood in an arrow formation, heads bent down like they were ready to spring at him at any moment. They were obviously sizing him up, and—apparently judging him to be just-about bite-sized—kept flashing their canines at him, giving out what looked like rehearsal bites of the air.
"Umm," said Castorius slowly, "That's a good doggy, now," with something like diplomatic calm.
Needless to say he did not feel calm in the least.
With that, the wolf at the lead barked at him, causing him to flinch. "Alright, alright! Not a doggy, then. I take it back, I take it back!"
Castorius took a couple steps back, which was all he could until his back hit a tree. Damn this forest, why'd it have to be so full of them!
Against his better judgment, he attempted to reason with the beasts. "Let's take it easy now," he said. "You don't want to do this, as you will find I don't taste—"
The leader of the pack jumped at him, and Castorius squealed like a little girl.
There was a swooshing sound and a sort of dull thud, and the wolf hit him hard, knocking the air out of him and toppling him to the ground.
"Off of me, off!" Castorius screamed in a somewhat less than butch fashion, trying his damnedest to keep those deadly fangs away from his jugular.
It would seem, however, that the beast had no such ambitions left, for out of its skull jutted a feather-fetched wooden shaft. The arrow had clearly killed the wolf before it had hit him, for its face was frozen in a hateful assailant snarl.
The remaining two wolves—a touch inconvenienced by the surprising demise of their leader as they clearly were—still very much seemed to have Castorius on their agenda. They kept advancing with predatory wariness, teeth bared. He fumbled about his belt to unsheathe his standard-issue Imperial sword. So far the only sort of action the sword had seen was Castorius flamboyantly showing off the very impressive, but similarly very useless, fencing-forms from his training to some or other member of the opposite-sex. Those were the only kind of opponents he'd ever truly plunged any sort of fighting weapon into.
His hands suddenly uncooperative, he could not for the life of him unfasten the clasp keeping the sword in its scabbard. The wolves, as if noting their chance had come, chose that moment to make their attack.
Another arrow hummed through the air and found its target in the other wolf's neck. The animal whelped and jumped in the air. Taking a couple wobbly steps, it collapsed on the ground, taking its final deep breaths as blood rapidly seeped onto its gray pelt.
The remaining wolf could no longer afford to discount this new airborne nuisance. It still had its hungry yellow eyes on Castorius, but shifted about nervously, aware that a threat had emerged somewhere on its flanks.
Another shaft flitted by right above the beast's head, drawing an aggravated bark out of it. Yet another hit a stone right next to its right paw. That one finally did the trick, for after a brief moment of reassessing its situation, the animal turned on its paw and started running in the opposite direction.
It was, however, too late for the retreating canine, as its escape was cut short by a group of assailants. It was three men, dressed in brown armor, topped by turquoise capes. "Skyrim for the Nords!" one of them yelled.
Not for the wolves, I take it then, Castorius thought. He didn't feel at all inclined to argue with that at the moment.
The wolf met with its destiny in the form of a Stormcloak sword, cutting its head clean off with a swift, powerful blow dealt by the largest fellow in the group.
After this last of the beasts had been take care of, the Stormcloaks directed their attention to Castorius still sitting on the ground, the arse of his skirts now uncomfortably wet. It only occurred to him at that particular moment how cold his bare legs had gotten in this climate.
He scampered back to his feet as the Stormcloak soldiers approached him. Two of the three wore face-covering masks, but the one who did not might as well have for all the emotion his thoroughly stony face did not show. Suddenly Castorius felt very immediately the Imperial colors on his attire, like he was dressed as lamb-chop at a costume party of carnivores.
Now glad he'd not had time to as much as loosen the sword on his scabbard, he spread his arms in a gesture he hoped conveyed simultaneous non-aggression and gratitude. "Boy, am I glad to see you!" he cried, and rarely before had he felt lie and truth mix as evenly. "You came just in time, too." He offered a greeting hand to the stone-face type at the lead. "I owe you my—"
The Stormcloak's "hello" came in a form of a gauntleted fist cutting Castorius square in the jaw. He was sent back onto his rear.
Castorius shook his head, ears ringing and stars flashing in his eyes. "Now what—"
He got his eyes open in time to see a boot on it way, directed right at his face.
And that was all he saw before everything went black.