15 Heartfire 4E201, Bitter Rock Pass
Now, this is a time to be very cautious.
"Hmm," Ivar said, keeping his tone amiable. He shifted his weight, making himself appear no threat, and let his cloak fall across the hilt of Dawnbreaker on his hip. "Interesting. I don't think I've met any of your Order before."
"You recognize us?" asked the Nord woman.
"I've lived in Cyrodiil most of my life. Hard not to hear of you."
"You don't look well, stranger." The Breton man stared at Ivar. "In fact, you seem bloated with disease. Do you require healing?"
Ivar couldn't keep the sudden flicker of hope from his face. "No, I am not well. What healing do you have to offer?"
"We have simples to cure almost any contagion." The Breton reached for a pack slung over his shoulder, opening it to produce a green-glass bottle. "So long as you swear never to assist the daedra."
I thought it might come to that. Think quickly, Ivar, for your life.
He made his voice smooth as silk. "I am a good son of Skyrim, and one who respects the Divines."
"Then why do you bear a cursed blade at your side?" asked the Nord woman, a quiet threat in her voice.
Damn it.
"This?" Ivar touched the hilt of Dawnbreaker, but made no move to draw. "Hardly a cursed blade. It's saved my life many a time, against draugr and were-kind and even the drinkers of blood."
"I am very glad to hear that," she said, "and yet it is a thing of the daedra. Such powers do not belong in the hands of mortal men. You will hand it over, or find not healing at our hands, but justice."
Thump. Shing. The Breton set his pack on the ground and drew his blade.
Ivar took an instant to measure distances, moved backward slightly, speaking the while to buy time. "Now what justice is this, to deprive a man of his only means of self-defense, out in the wilderness?"
Now the Nord had her blade out as well, her face twisted with anger. "Throw down, daedra-worshipper! Or beg for the mercy of Stendarr, for the Vigilant will have none!"
With a cry, Ivar leaped for his horse.
On most days, he might have made it cleanly. Six hours away from the full course of sanguinare vampiris, he was in no condition to vault into the saddle. He ended up sprawled across the horse's barrel, clinging for dear life.
The horse, startled, lurched into motion.
The Nord woman lashed out with her blade, but by chance the animal blundered into her, knocking her aside and spoiling her stroke.
Ivar strained, pulling a leg over the horse's barrel, more or less falling into the saddle at last.
Whitt. The Breton's sword passed through the space the smith's head had occupied a moment before.
"Hyah!" Ivar shouted, clutching at the reins, and then he and the horse took a steep downward slope in a clatter of stone, one step away from disaster at every instant. Behind them, the Vigilant shouted in frustration and rage.
Divines, I only ask one thing. Please protect this beast from taking a wrong step and breaking his bloody leg.
Someone must have been listening. The horse bellowed in terror, but it remained steady even when the loose stone and scree threatened to ruin its footing. Then it leaped from the edge of a broad shelf of rock, Ivar shouting in his own mortal fear, but the distance turned out to be only a few yards. Slam, the jolt of landing pounded the length of Ivar's spine and rattled his brains, and then the horse ran on good ground once more.
"Go, boy, go!" Ivar shouted, holding the reins but letting the horse run as it wished.
Through a cold mountain stream, the water splashing away from the horse's hooves, a bit of relief for my fever. Up the opposite bank, a mud-crab turning to watch us pass with idiot attention. Level ground in the distance ahead of us, the Whiterun plain at last.
Ivar spared a glance behind him, but saw no sign of pursuit. In the long run, two Vigilant on foot could run down a sick man with a single horse. In the short run, he could evade them. He hoped to be in Whiterun and under the jarl's protection before anyone could catch up.
Assuming they don't simply turn and go back to their original errand.
Bloody fanatics. Read a god's words, listen to his teachings, and then do precisely as they please and call it righteous. Even if that means doing the exact opposite of what the god commanded. Can't even blaspheme like honest men.
Stone gave way to scattered rock, then to scrubland, and then to open tundra. The slope of the land eased, as Ivar rode down onto the plain. Mammoth ambled along off to the right, their giant herdsmen watching as man and horse hurried past at a safe distance.
The sound of air rushing over leathery wings. A muffled roar, off in the distance. Crane my neck, peer into the intolerable brightness of the sky. A dragon, wheeling far up in the air, miles away. Sorry, brother mine, I can't be dealing with you today. Come back again when I'm hale, and can swing a blade.
The sun slowly wheeled through the sky, heading for the western horizon.
Divines, the world is beautiful. I couldn't bear to lose all of this, the brightness and the splendor. To live only in darkness, to feed on the blood of men and women, to huddle amid filth and degradation. To hug hatred and spite to my breast until nothing else remained of me.
Maybe I shouldn't have run from those Vigilant.
Ivar's head pounded. His muscles ached. His blood ran hot with fever. The sun burned on the back of his neck. His horse began to stumble with weariness.
There, in the distance ahead of him: the towers of Whiterun.