20 Last Seed, 4E 201, Bleak Falls Barrow
Ivar knew there would be trouble when he saw the first webs hanging from the walls and ceiling.
Father told me about these. Cold-dwelling spiders the size of large dogs.
Divines, I hate spiders.
"Is . . . is someone coming?"
A voice. Ivar began to move quietly once more. He could move very quietly, for a large man wearing a full suit of steel armor.
"Is that you, Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?"
Good to know some of the names of the ones I've killed, thought Ivar. A man shouldn't go to Sovngarde without leaving even a name behind.
Ivar chopped at another set of webs that blocked his path. Heavy webs, this time. Thick.
"Oh, thank the Divines. Get me down from here!"
Ivar had just a moment to take in the scene: a smallish chamber, the walls almost covered with webs, dry corpses of giant rats and men swaddled in them. A living elf at the far end of the room, bound up so tight he could barely move.
Then a spider the size of a horse dropped down from above, and Ivar found himself fighting for his life.
He survived by concentrating on the fundamentals. Shield held high, to keep the fangs away even if it wasn't much good against long legs with hooked claws. Sword held ready, to slash at a leg or stab at the body. Stand your ground, no matter how much you want to run. Show the enemy your back, and you're a dead man as well as a coward.
Somehow he managed not to vomit in disgust. Talos, I hate spiders!
Finally the monster learned fear, bunching up its legs and backing away. This two-legged prey had proven too hard-shelled and pointy to make an easy meal.
Ivar advanced, waiting for his moment . . . and then stabbed, his steel blade sinking in almost to the hilt.
The spider shrieked, dribbled noxious fluids on the floor, and died.
"Oh, fine job. Now get me down!"
Ivar cleaned his blade with deliberation, watching the elf thoughtfully while he did it.
"Are you deaf, Nord, or just an idiot? Cut me down!"
"There's the matter of some stolen property," said Ivar. "A claw made out of gold. Hand it over."
"What?" The elf shook his head, as far as he could with the webs holding him in place. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"All right." Ivar turned as if to go.
"Wait!" The elf thrashed in his bonds, to no avail. "I have it here. Get me down and it's yours."
The smith turned back to regard the elf. "Glad you saw reason. Just to remind you: I killed the bandits you hired to help you get into this place. I killed the spider that had you at its mercy. You would do well not to play me false."
"Of course, of course."
Ivar went to work. Soon the elf stood freely on the floor, sighing with relief.
"The Claw," Ivar reminded him.
"Of course. I have it right here . . ."
Quick as a flash, the elf reached into a pouch at his side and flung a handful of sand and ashes into Ivar's eyes.
The smith recoiled with a bellow of outrage, shaking his head and pawing at his face.
"You fool," he heard. "Why should I share the treasure with anyone?"
By the time his eyes saw clearly again, the dark elf had gone.
By Talos, I'll have that thief's hide, he thought. Though I suppose it's well he didn't put a dagger in my side while I was distracted.
Muttering darkly to himself, Ivar gripped his sword and shield once more, and moved on.
At first he met no enemies. Then he descended into the crypts, where the ancient ones slept. Some of them, it turned out, slept restlessly.
He soon found that draugr were tough and viciously strong, but rather slow. A stab to the heart or the guts wasn't always enough, but the walking dead could be put down if a man was willing to work at it. Rather like hammering steel into shape.
He found the dark elf in the second chamber of the crypts, a great wound in his belly and a look of terror on his face. A disjointed draugr lay close by, and it wasn't one of the ones Ivar had slain. The smith stood over the body and shook his head. "Well, you may have been a fool and a liar, but at least you weren't a coward. I wonder what your name was?"
A few moments of searching the corpse, and Ivar had his answer. Arvel the Swift, he read in a small journal. The dark elf had stolen the Golden Claw to serve as a key to something called the Hall of Stories. He wrote of fantastic treasure, and the power of the Old Nords.
Ivar tucked the journal into his pack for later study. Then he fumbled through the thief's belt pouch and found the Golden Claw. "Hmm. Pretty little trinket. Wonder how grateful that Camilla wench plans to be for it?"
I should go back now, he thought to himself. No sense disturbing any more of my ancient kinsmen.
He searched the destroyed druagr as well, of course. Waste not, want not.
Then he found it, hanging around the neck of one of the dry corpses that had been walking and swinging a blade at him a few minutes before. A war-hammer pendant, similar to his own.
Strange. Talos is a new god, no more than a few centuries since his ascension. These crypts go back thousands of years.
Talos, best and most mighty, are you trying to tell me something?
After a few moments of consideration, Ivar lifted the hammer-pendant and placed it around his own neck. He tucked the hammer into his tunic, of course. No need to ask for trouble.
Then he continued on, deeper into the crypts.