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Chapter 4: White Striped Lies
"Claim coincidence all you like. This one is still flattered to be followed all the way to Whiterun." Rasarin's cheeks ached as she forced her false smile to widen.
Marcurio folded his arms across his chest. "Honestly didn't know you'd be here. There aren't many other central, neutral cities with such good weather at this time of year."
"Much like someone this one knows."
Rasarin's eyes sparkled as the mage huffed a sigh and lowered his shaking head. That's one in my favour, you fence-sitting, snarking peacock. She turned back into the warmth of the campfire and resumed stirring the pot of soup. The aroma made her whiskers twitch. Such a mouth-watering blend. Atahbah, you have surpassed yourself.
"That looks ready." Atahbah wiped her hands on her brown apron. She rose from her crouch and smiled, first at the Nordic woman, then at the Altmer. "The evening has a chill to it, no? Come, join us for this meal."
Rasarin grabbed a nearby scrap of cloth and wiggled the pot onto one of the large stones rimming the fire. That should keep any leftovers warm until we're ready.
Because she didn't intend to leave any.
While Marcurio, Svana and Farandomar settled into the circle of warmth, Rasarin offered the first bowl to Ri'saad.
"They had best shelter within the walls tonight," he said, with a nod towards the gate. "And keep your bow close."
Rasarin's left ear flicked. "Did you overhear something more about Helgen?"
Ri'saad slowly shook his head.
"A pity. More will be learned in the morning, this one is sure."
When Rasarin returned to the fireside, she noticed their guests had already begun their meal. Her stomach growled. Atahbah held out another full bowl. "For Khayla, if you please."
Svana looked up as Rasarin passed. "This is very nice. What's in it?"
"Hawk."
Both she and the Altmer began to choke. Marcurio paused, then lowered his spoon.
Two in my favour.
"RASARIN!" Atahbah stood bolt upright and lashed her tail. "This one assures you, it is chicken, not hawk." She stabbed a finger away from the campsite. "Soup. Khayla. Now."
The dark Khajiit was perched on the large boulder at the edge of the camp, where the light from the fire wouldn't hamper her night vision. She accepted the bowl without turning.
"And if Ma'randru-jo chooses not to collect his share, then Ma'randru-jo chooses to go hungry!"
Khayla and Rasarin exchanged delighted grins.
Mirth evaporated in an instant as thunder-that-was-not-thunder boomed across the stars. Rasarin scrabbled for her bow. Steel shrieked beside her as Khayla drew her blade.
What beast—?
A stream of flame illuminated the top of the watchtower in the west, casting the treetops in sharp relief.
Rasarin gulped. If this one wants to stay Thane of this Hold, this one better do something.
"Khayla, stay here and guard the others."
Without waiting for a response, Rasarin leaped from the rock and sprinted towards the watchtower. Ahead, a dark shape thumped onto the ramparts. Bricks and mortar showered down from the spot in large chunks as the dark form lifted itself back into the air. Rasarin shrugged her bow back across her shoulder, barely breaking stride. Broken screams burned into dead air under another curtain of flame.
Silence, then.
Rasarin slowed to a walk. The heavy beat of wings mocked her. Too late. Far too late. One ear twitched backwards, where thudding footfalls approached. It seems this one has reinforcements of one's own. How nice.
Another blast of fire spewed from the dragon, away from the watchtower this time. Rasarin's eyes narrowed as she spotted dark shapes amid the orange light. Something has its attention. Perhaps it is not too late. Not yet. She half-turned to catch the attention of her three followers. "Some still live! Quickly!"
The dragon's body plummeted; a screaming, clawing patch of ink silhouetted against burning scrub. Rasarin flinched at the crunch of impact. She spotted the archer soon afterward—the spikes of Daedric armour impossible to miss, even in the dark.
We could use this veteran's advice.
"We're here to help!" Svana's voice rang clear, a clarion in battle.
The archer's bow vanished. Its owner retreated several steps as the horned helm swung in their direction. Closer now, Rasarin spied the edges of a rough skirt covering what could only have been Daedric greaves. A woman, then.
Decision apparently made, the armoured warrior bolted towards the struggling dragon.
You're right. The battle is not yet won, Rasarin chided herself. To think, I rebuked those two for the same thing last night. Twin flashes of red appeared on her right. At least Marcurio retains his sense.
"Farandomar, head to the right. Spread out a bit," the mercenary instructed. A single icy light popped into existence a few paces away, marking the Altmer's location.
I had better stay close to our new friend. Oh, my poor legs...
Speed—the ally of all Khajiit—brought her alongside their new acquaintance in one rapid burst. The metallic taste of blood, hot on Rasarin's tongue, robbed any words she might have said as she gasped for air.
The Daedric woman recoiled. "No! Go away!" she wailed.
Rasarin's step faltered. She stared at the small figure hidden beneath the Daedric plate. Too small for a grown woman, but surely—?
Ahead, the dragon stilled for the briefest moment; then its corpse began to crackle and jerk. The group slowed to a stop, uncertain.
"Zash! The lights!"
An unnatural darkness smothered the girl's hands; too thick for Rasarin to make out the shape of her gestures. Inky, snapping void coalesced beside the summoner into another—far larger—Daedric figure. The Dremora's slitted pupils met Rasarin's own for an instant. A bolt of fear raced down her spine, setting all her dorsal fur on end.
Hell burned within that gaze.
Before anyone could react to the sudden apparition, lights burst from the dragon's glowing carcass. Rasarin noted the Dremora's unbalanced stagger and ducked. Its ill-placed swing whistled overhead.
"Watch it, Sugar-tail!" she hissed.
The dragon's soul whipped through the group, howling lights tugging at hair and clothes as it sought its defiant resting place. When the gale finally subsided, an awkward silence fell upon the group, leaving only the crackle of burning shrubbery and panting.
Rasarin let the moment stretch a little longer, then tipped from her crouch to sit flat on her backside. "This one has seen stranger things, perhaps."
"You're a child!"
Rasarin winced at Svana's outburst, as the young mage retreated closer to the Dremora. Should have let that silence stand. Now we begin with the problems. She noticed Marcurio trying to catch her eye. This situation required delicate handling, she knew. Lesser daedra frequently turned on their conjurers as they departed the realm, and Dremora?
Always.
The young mage's gauntlets disappeared with twin pops. Her trembling hands could not be hidden from the Khajiit's sharp eyes. A guilty pang accompanied the observation. "I am not a child. Please go away."
"You're very accomplished for your age." Marcurio kept his voice gentle, steady. He made a show of extinguishing the flames surrounding his hands, leaving only the icy glow provided by Farandomar for light. While he addressed the young conjurer, Rasarin noted the tension in his posture. His eyes never left the Dremora's. "Did you use a scroll?"
Another pop; the horned helmet disappeared. The young Breton's unkempt hair had been cut short, but stuck out at odd angles. Sawn off in chunks with a dagger, Rasarin guessed. Dark circles shadowed her fierce eyes. "No. I don't need scrolls. Go away!"
The mercenary's fingers inched into loose fists by his sides. Ready to cast, Rasarin noted. He kept his words low, but quick, as he asked the girl, "Do you know how to banish your Dremora? Do you need me to help?"
Before she could answer, the young mage was hauled backward by the daedric apparition in question. The Dremora stepped in front of her, his sword held low and a snarl on his face. Marcurio's fists began to spark as he dropped into a fighter's crouch—lightning magic, this time. Farandomar's icy light intensified.
"No, thank you," came the squeaked response from behind the armoured bulk.
A horn blasted close by, cutting off further conversation. Rasarin groaned. Irileth had arrived. Now we very much have problems.
"BY ORDER OF THE JARL, ALL OF YOU STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"
Contrary to the command, the Dremora began to edge a retreat, but bumped into the girl behind him. "Move. Run," he muttered.
Rasarin pricked up at the words. That's odd.
The girl's whispered response piqued her Khajiit curiosity further. "One of the archers or mages will spot me. I'm too tired, Zash."
Even more odd. One of Rasarin's ears flicked. Dremora guard their names, and these two know each other. This one will need to ask Marcurio how that could be.
Additional speculation would have to wait, however. Guardsmen ringed the group, cutting off any further opportunity for escape. One excited man shouted, "Which of you is Dragonborn?"
Dragonborn.
Rasarin wrinkled her nose, wracking her brain for anything familiar about the word. Nordic legend; noisy dragon-slayer. She glanced back to the stripped skeleton sprawled across the ground. Eater of dragon souls. But the lights went into—?!
One clawed finger stabbed towards the young conjurer, full of false confidence. "She is Dragonborn." The lie fell from the Khajiit's lips with practiced ease, even as she tried to ignore the startled jolt from Svana, and the slow warning shake of Marcurio's head.
What would you have this one say instead? she mentally snapped at him. 'A Dremora is your 'Dragonborn'!?' They would never believe it.
Irileth shouldered her way through the circle of guardsmen, whose excited voices had begun to rise, each trying to drown each other out in their demands for a Shout. "Enough of this nonsense!" she roared, silencing them back to attention. "The dragon is dead. We must all head back to Whiterun straight away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here." Turning her attention to the group within the circle, the Dunmer scowled from mage to mage, unsure whom to address. "Dismiss the Dremora."
Ohh, bad idea. Rising to her feet, Rasarin spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "Would that we could, Housecarl." Her mind spun, searching for and discarding a dozen excuses in an instant. "The Dragonborn wears a cursed ring. It won't come off, and the Dremora can't be banished." This one's tongue will turn blue at this rate.
Irileth's scowl deepened. "Farengar will no doubt have some complicated thoughts on that matter." She stared hard at the young summoner, who immediately put her hands behind her back. "In my opinion, the loss of one finger is a cheap price to pay to be rid of a daedric curse."
Both the girl and the Dremora snarled.
With no choice but to be escorted, the group picked their way back up the hill to Whiterun. Rasarin continued to study the pair, noting the rest of the group doing the same. Darkness swamped the young mage's hands behind her back, encasing them in gauntlets once more. Satisfied her lies would hold up to casual inspection, the Khajiit turned her attentions to the sliver of moon above.
Curiosity killed the cat, as they say.