15 Heartfire 4E201, Morthal
As the sun rose, Ivar checked his gear, and the horse's tack and harness. Very carefully.
"My thane, it took us two days to travel from Whiterun to Morthal. How are we going to return in one?"
"There's a short cut," said the smith. "Southeast of here, an old pass over the mountains. Trading caravans sometimes go that way."
Although I will not tell you about the haunted ruins in that pass. Or the frost-trolls that have taken up residence there.
"Also," he continued, "we are not going to make the trip. I must make this ride . . . and you may not accompany me."
"My thane!" Fierce and hot, the anger on Rayya's face. "I am sworn to go where you go."
"You are sworn to obey me!" Ivar stopped, and then regained control of his rage. "Rayya, lass, I don't doubt your ability to keep up the pace and watch my back. But on this road, two of us mean twice as much opportunity for something to go wrong. Besides, if I don't make it in time . . . I don't want you so close at hand that you end up my first meal as a blood-drinker."
She obviously hadn't considered that. She opened her mouth to continue the argument, thought for a moment, and closed it again.
"I'm taking nothing but Dawnbreaker," said Ivar. "You have all my armor, tools and heavy gear, the gold and movable treasure. I trust you to get all of that to Whiterun safely. If you find me there, hale and whole, then we continue on as before. If not . . . take it to Falkreath and confer with Nenya, not with the jarl, and all will be well."
"I understand, my thane." Greatly daring, she stepped forward and kissed him lightly upon the lips. "I will not fail you."
He blinked, hesitating, but then the limb of the rising sun appeared above the hills to the east, shining down into the vale of Morthal. He shook his head and vaulted up into the saddle.
"Hyah!" he shouted, and vanished down the road in a thunder of hoofbeats.
The road seemed easy enough at first, well-marked even though an early snowfall had covered everything in white. Ivar shaded his eyes against the sunlight, especially after he had to turn east and ride into the brilliance of the new day.
Cold, crisp air. The sound of hoofbeats on the road. My horse takes a deep breath, great clouds of fog streaming from his nostrils.
He saw no one on the road for miles. Once, off to the right, he heard the guttural roar of a great hunting cat, but the beast had other prey in mind.
Spray of butterflies rising up from the bushes to my left. Such colors, crystal blue and crimson in the sunlight. Tiny mountain flowers, blooming despite the late season and the early snow.
A farmer with his cow, ambling along the road, willing to step aside for a rider in a hurry. Ivar made a double-take, seeing the cow had been painted with lines and swirls of blue woad. He wondered what the farmer was up to, but didn't take the time to stop and ask.
Turn here, up the long staircase to the south, the beginnings of the great pass. More snow. Careful, watch out for patches of ice. My horse, mountain-bred and sure-footed, finds a path even when I can't see it.
The sun vanished behind a bank of high cloud. Snow came down again, big fat flakes, not very quickly. A close-wrapped figure sat beside the path on a broad stone, looking up as Ivar passed. It had a feline Khajiit face. Once more, he couldn't take the time to stop.
The ancient ruins. Old Bromjunaar, once the capital for all Skyrim, back when the Dragon Priests ruled. Strange that they seem to be making a reappearance, if this Miraak is one of their number. Why are they returning? Why are the dragons returning? The Greybeards know, I think, but they haven't seen fit to tell me.
The horse suddenly whinnied, Ivar sensing the beast's unease as it picked its way through the empty streets. A whiff of something rank on the breeze. Frost-troll, Ivar thought, and called up a little more speed.
Can't push the animal too hard, or it will founder before we reach Whiterun, and that's the end of me. Or at least the end of the man named Ivar Ragnarsson.
Can't have that. I haven't finished whatever task the gods set me. I haven't drunk enough wine, savored enough feasts, listened to enough music, read enough books, tumbled enough willing women. Haven't found a life-mate yet, held my daughter's hand or taught my son how to hold a hammer.
The old ruins fell behind. The horse labored up the final slope of the pass, thin air wheezing in its throat. The clouds finally moved on, unveiling the sun. Ivar cursed, as he saw how late in the day it had become.
About noon, and I'm still in the mountains. Yet the beast has already worked hard. More haste, less speed. Half an hour of rest, grass and water from some mountain stream, and he can carry me the rest of the way. Otherwise I'll find myself in some tight spot, walking, with night coming on.
He pulled up, dismounted, saw to his horse's needs. He ate a little waybread, and drank deep from the skin of water, wondering whether it would be his last meal.
Then he heard footsteps, coming up the path from the lowlands ahead. He stood, listening, wary of any encounter.
Two humans, a Nord woman and a Breton man by their looks. They wore dark-colored robes and bore swords. They stopped when they saw Ivar, apparently surprised to find someone so high in the little-used pass.
Finally, the woman waved in gravely courteous greeting.
"Good day, stranger. The mercy of Stendarr be upon you."