23 Last Seed, 4E 201, North of Whiterun
Ivar peered through his cover, looking down a gentle slope toward a log palisade.
One. Two. Three. Four . . . probably more, but that's all I can see at the moment. One woman on lookout duty, on that platform at the near corner of the palisade. The other three don't look very alert, working on noisy tasks. Chopping wood, butchering that mammoth carcass, maintaining their tools.
These bandits are a little better organized. Seem to have a way to make a living other than just preying on travelers. How well will they fight?
He glanced to the side and nodded to himself with approval. Lydia clearly understood stealth: flat on the ground behind good cover, breathing controlled, and never staring directly at any of the targets. She might be a thane's daughter and the jarl's niece, but her combat training hadn't been neglected.
Ivar made careful hand signals. The two of them slowly elbow-walked back into complete concealment.
"How do you want to do this, my lord?" asked Lydia in a low murmur.
"How is your archery?"
The housecarl gave him a sharp glance, somehow combining deference and wounded pride.
"All right," said Ivar with a small smile. "We're going to ease up again and take a position on top of this hillock. I want you to take the sentry on that platform. I'll take one of the ones working just inside that open gate."
"They'll know we're here, whether we hit our targets or not," she pointed out.
"True. If they're smart, they will stay in their palisade and we fade into the countryside, to come back later. I'm betting they won't be very smart."
Lydia nodded in understanding and set to work.
Ivar spared a moment to appreciate his housecarl, as she prepared her bow and set six arrows point-down in the ground before her. He saw a strong woman, athletic, graceful from many hundreds of hours of training, with bright eyes, strong features, dark close-cropped hair, and a forthright expression.
Never saw many warrior-women in Cyrodiil. This is one Nord tradition I can thoroughly approve. She's not at all a woman to trifle with, of course.
Then he became aware of nothing but the longbow in his hands, the feel of tension in the stave and the string, the arrow in its place, the breeze against his left cheek, the wide silence of the plain for miles around.
Heartbeat slows. Breath slows. Time seems to stretch out. Sight on the target, correct slightly for the distance, correct again for the wind.
Release.
Ivar heard the twang of Lydia's shot a shaved instant after his own. Then he reached for his second arrow, not even looking, watching the flight of his own shot instead. Watching as the arrow struck home exactly between the shoulder-blades of his target, just as the bandit raised an axe over his head to split a piece of firewood. The bandit's body arched backward, the axe falling from nerveless fingers, and he toppled.
Best bow-shot of my entire life, and none but a single housecarl to see it.
The sentry fell backward off her platform, Lydia's arrow through her throat.
Of course, she may not find my shooting all that impressive.
Shouts of alarm, from down in the palisade. Several voices.
Must have been more bandits we didn't see. No surprises there. Time for a real fight.
The bandits proved to be of the stupid variety. They boiled out of the palisade, three of them, four, then five, searching the open country for archers. Spotting Ivar and Lydia, they shouted curses and charged forward.
Only one of them carried a bow of his own. Ivar turned slightly to target this one, and missed. Lydia had more skill, or better luck. The bandit went down with a shaft in his right shoulder, still alive but no longer much of a threat.
Ivar shot, then shot again, and then dropped his bow. He could hear Lydia's sword sing as it leaped from her scabbard. Then a bandit reached the top of their little hill, all foul stink and decayed teeth and wild eyes, a war-hammer already poised to swing.
Ivar interposed his shield – bang! – but stayed light on his feet, letting his enemy's weapon pull him off balance. A slash with his sword opened a wound across the bandit's chest, wide and bloody but not very deep.
The bandit snarled and recovered, swung his weapon again.
This time Ivar got the timing right. Shield held at just the right angle, the war-hammer deflected to slam into the dirt to Ivar's right. Sword already in motion, in a great arc. Spray of blood as the point of the blade tore the bandit's throat out.
Ivar turned in time to see the last bandit go down, with a horrified expression on his face and Lydia's sword in his gut.
All was quiet.
"Nicely done," was Ivar's only comment.
"Thank you, my lord."
"You've fought bandits before."
"More than once." She gave him a grim smile. "My father wasn't pleased when I took up the warrior's trade, but once he saw my commitment he refused to shield me from the consequences."
"Wise man." Ivar looked around. "Come, let's strip the bodies and investigate the palisade. There may be more bandits about, and I want to be halfway back to Whiterun before they learn we've been here."
"Shouldn't we destroy the whole gang before we depart?"
The smith shook his head. "No. Aside from defending the jarl's domain, we're after loot. Gold for our pockets and metal for the forge. We can only take so much, even if you are sworn to carry my burdens."
Lydia looked mutinous, if only for a moment.
"Don't worry, housecarl, we'll be back. The meal always tastes better when you don't try to cram all of it down your gullet at once."
"I suppose so."
Fifteen minutes later, they were on their way home, laden with the spoils of war.