4 Heartfire 4E201, Bloated Man's Grotto
Ivar knew almost at once that he had stepped across a threshold, into somewhere else.
A narrow canyon, cut deep into the mountains, rich with trees and vegetation. Above, a sky full of blood-red clouds, and a moon like nothing Ivar had ever seen before. He half-feared such a moon would set off Hircine's curse, but so far at least his head remained clear.
A campsite, wrecked by some terrible force, the torn bodies of hunters scattered about.
"Has the blood-moon called you, fellow hunter?"
The Khajiit would breathe his last at any moment. Too much of his guts had been spilled into his lap. Ivar crouched close, offered a cup of water and was refused.
"I'm here to rid myself of a curse, that's all."
"Rrr. Perhaps that is for the best. The blood-moon called all of us. Lord Hircine whispered in our ear, promised us great favor if we slew the great beast. Our greed betrayed us."
"Hircine does seem to disapprove of greed," Ivar murmured. "Did you see the beast? What was it?"
"Strong. Stronger than the hunters. Like a monstrous wolf." The cat-man coughed violently, bringing up a gout of blood. "More will come if he lives. Bring him down . . . for the glory . . . of Lord Hircine."
"Hey. You still with me?" Ivar shook the Khajiit gently, only to see him slump bonelessly to one side. "Damn."
Lord Hircine, you play vicious games even with those who serve you. Do you truly wonder why so many men avoid such service?
Ivar moved deeper into the grotto, shaking his head as he encountered more dead hunters. His heart beat strongly, the blood flowed in his veins, the breath was cool and crisp in his chest. His eyes seemed to pierce the blood-tinged darkness. He became less the smith, less the man dedicated to a civilized craft, and more the primitive wishing only to survive.
There, on a great rock outcropping, standing silhouetted against the bloody moon: a shape, like a man but bigger, covered with thick black hair, red pinpoints set deep in the unseen face.
"Never thought I'd see you again." For all the monstrosity of the shadow, the voice remained human.
Sinding.
Ivar nodded. "I've been sent to kill you. Like the others back there."
"Hmm." The beast rumbled, sounding less human for a moment. "I can't stop you if that's what you want. Hircine is too powerful."
"I'm sorry. It's either end you or suffer the same curse . . . and I still want to live among people."
"I understand. I think I knew that it would come to this, from the moment I met you. So be it."
A shift of the light, and the shadow slunk away.
He's probably not going to make it easy for me. Especially if his beast-nature gets the better of him.
Ivar followed, bow and arrow at the ready, moving silently.
The bloody moonlight played tricks on his vision, shadows and light seeming to merge and play together. Ivar walked with his mouth partway open, pulling the night air in to smell and taste. He listened for any sound that seemed out of place.
A sudden stink from upwind, not like dead or rotting meat, more like the piss of a great meat-eating creature.
Ivar took two careful steps, staying in the shadows, bloody light dappling the ground a few feet ahead of him.
His senses extended, out into the night.
A deep growl, seeming to come from off to Ivar's right.
Some instinct warned him. He abruptly turned, to his left, and loosed an arrow.
Thump. A loud, terrible snarl. A massive body crashing through underbrush.
Ivar produced another arrow, set it to the string, drew and released, all in one fluid motion.
Thump.
Then a huge black shape, all claws and fangs and bloody red eyes, erupted out of the shadows not three paces away. Sinding leaped.
Golden light flashed, looking somehow very clean and bright in the blood-moon's shadows.
Ivar went down, the beast's great weight hammering him to the floor of the grotto. Part of his mind expected the terrible agony of tearing claws and fangs. Another part registered the solid sensation in his wrists, telling him that Dawnbreaker had driven home in his enemy's flesh.
Sinding howled his death-agony.
Ivar heaved and rolled aside, getting out from under the beast's mass. Carefully, he rose to his knees and looked back.
The foe still thrashed and screamed, but both agonies became weaker by the moment. Soon the great werewolf that was Sinding lay still, the hilt of Dawnbreaker still standing under his breastbone.
"Well done, my champion."
There in the shadows from where Sinding had attacked, the shape of Hircine: tall, muscular, crowned with horns.
"Those who hunted for the sake of greed have met their fate at the thief's claws. The thief in turn has been brought low by the one man who sought no reward, only to remain as he was. All is as it should be. Or almost all."
Ivar spat, trying to clear his mouth of the werewolf's stink. "You still insist that I . . . skin him?"
"Not at all. You may leave his skin where it is and keep the iron ring instead. I will be well pleased to keep such a champion as you."
"No thanks."
"As you choose. You have asked no reward, other than to continue to live as a man. Yet a reward you shall have, and no obligation binding upon you. Give the beast's skin to me once you have recovered it, and I shall make of it a hame well-suited for a hero. Wear it, and remember the Lord of the Hunt, until the evening comes when you return to me willingly."
Ivar shook his head. Then he reached to his belt.
The hunting knife shone red in the blood-moon's light, in the instant before Ivar began his work.