Frik took one look at Krev's face and turned around before heading back the way he had come. Even from that distance Frik could see that any conversation with Krev would quickly turn to the men that they had lost to Soran.
Aenar, Langley, Anja, Balan, Lyra, and Salama. Frik did not include Dyus or Falco, since they had lost that pair while he and Krev had been hunting down the Hagraven and her werebeasts. In the two months since, a steady stream of men and women had flowed from Krev's private army to Soran's more public one. Frik had no doubt that it was not chance that those six particular members had been chosen. The new Subaltern had picked them with his own hand; Frik was certain of it, just as it was Hellina (acting for Soran, or independently, it did not matter which) that had picked Falco and Dyus. Eight of their number; and Frik would not argue that those eight would be sorely missed. The remaining men (there were no longer any women in Krev's band) numbered less than twenty now, and even Frik found them to be an unsavory lot.
But new men (and occasionally women) could be found throughout Skyrim, though they were likely to be just as unsavory as what Krev commanded now. And Soran and Hellina would rob Krev of any men or women of quality who, for whatever reason, were desperate enough to take up Krev's offer for employment and the food (meager as it was) and lodging (in whatever cave or abandoned fortress Krev chose to house them) that came with it. Frik was under no illusions in that regard. Those who stayed were little better than brigands, and that was how Krev (and Frik, if he was honest) liked it. Skyrim was not a land for high morals and ideals. It was a land where the strong survived, taking whatever they liked (be it animate or inanimate) and the weak died. Soran could varnish the facts until his arms fell off, but it would not change the nature of the world in which they lived, and that nature was a harsh one, and one needed to be equally harsh to survive.
But something had changed in Skyrim of late, and Frik need think back no further than that underground castle to remind himself of that fact. Part of Krev's extended bad mood was his wounded ego after he had been stunned into placidity by the spell that the night walker cast on all of them, a spell that Urul's enchanted breastplate, and Terek's enchanted gauntlets had deflected. The glory of that battle belonged to Urul and Terek, and Krev could not abide that. For himself, Frik did not care one jot; not about that, not about Dyus being promoted to Subaltern which, technically speaking, placed him above both Frik and Krev in rank. Frik cared nothing for glory, or rank. He did care about drawing breath a while longer, and living to see another sunrise, and the one after that, and so on, and so forth. And to insure his continued ability to do that, he knew he must be better prepared than he was in the vampire's lair. He would have to spend some of his hard earned (earned, or stolen, but all collected, and safely hidden) gold and either pay that decrepit Altmer Enchanter to fortify his armor and weapons, or find another who would do it. Gone, it seemed, are the days where a man with a stout weapon and a strong arm to wield it (and lacking any conscious to speak of) were all that were needed to survive, and even prosper, in Skyrim. Now a man took his life in his hands if he chose to accost a young woman he came upon in the wilderness because that young woman might, and recently often was, a mage who wielded fire, or ice, or storm. It could even be an illusion cast by some disgusting witch so that she might lure an unsuspecting man into her trap, and onto her sacrificial altar. The world was changing and, in Frik's opinion, not for the better. But one thing had not changed, and never would. A man must look out for himself, first, last, and foremost. Himself, and no other.
For Krev, and the other men who followed him, they would have to see to their own defense; their lives were none of Frik's concern.
Heigen, who owned one of the farms in Heljarchen, was the one speaking, but there was more than one head nodding in agreement as he explained the reason for the purse that sat on the table at which Terek and Salama sat inside the Nightgale Inn.
"It makes regular visits. It attacks my livestock, and those that survive are terrified both day and night."
"They're not the only ones," added Hadring, the owner of the Inn, whose head had been one of those nodding.
The Blacksmith name Farthendas voiced his opinion as well.
"Those of us who stand guard at night and work by day are exhausted."
"You are sure it is the same troll that visits every night?" Salama asked as she looked from one face to another. Terek's lips were about to form the exact same question, but were outpaced by the Dunmer warrior's own sensuous pair. Terek would go to his grave before admitting how much of their journey to this village he had spent imagining how those lips would feel when pressed against his own, but in that moment his mind was entirely on the business at hand. The same could not be said for Salama's.
"How can we say? One troll looks like another in the dark of night."
"They have that in common with other creatures that walk on two legs," "Salama said as she looked at Terek and smiled.
Gods, did she just say what I think she said?
"Does it matter?" a village woman asked.
"It matters if we find it's lair and there are two trolls instead of one," Terek said.
"Or three, instead of two," Salama said, "trolls are not to be trifled with. Fighting them is a serious business."
"That is why we asked you," the Blacksmith said, "you dispatch trolls, do you not?"
"We dispatch many things," Terek said, "trolls and werebeasts and night walkers, with the occasional saber cat and bear for good measure."
And bandits, and brigands, and other beasts that were born as men before life turned them into something else.
"We will look into this, but mark us, if it is more than one troll there had better be another purse just like this one when we return," Salama said in her beautiful dark voice, "otherwise, something else might begin to terrorize your village during the night."
"As threats go, that one bordered on poetry," Terek said afterwards as the pair of Silver Hand traveled southeast from Heljarchen in the direction that the villagers swore was the location of the trolls lair.
"You may not know villagers of this sort well, but I do," Salama replied, "We would risk our lives three times over and they would argue with us afterwards and say we agreed upon a price and they paid that price. They will pay us now because the fear us almost as much as they fear trolls."
"They fear you, I made no threats."
"You would have wasted your efforts. You do not have a threatening face. They fear me because of my dark skin, and the dark tales that they hear all their lives about my race. That is one trait that Nord and Imperial have in common, their fear and mistrust of the Dunmer."
"I do not believe that to be true. I saw several Dunmer in Heljarchen, one of them clearly a warrior. They did not seem to fear her."
"I promise you that they speak ill of her behind her back, however they may act when she is present."
"And you cannot believe that all Nords and Imperials fear you because of your skin. I do not fear you in the least."
"I have eyes, Terek. I see that it is not fear in your eyes when you look at me. At this moment, I see that your face is as red as a beetroot."
Merciful Gods strike me dead, I beg you, he thought as he looked hard at the pommel of his saddle while Salama's laughter rang through The Pale.
"In my defense, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon," Terek said slowly and gently after a moment as his heart raced a mile a minute, "I sincerely beg your pardon, madam, if my actions have offended you."
"Do not go shy on me now, sir. I am no maid to swoon under a man's gaze. And you are quite beautiful yourself; a light skinned, Imperial sort of beauty, but beauty just the same. You are just as exotic to me as I am to you. Perhaps that is part of the attraction we feel for each other."
Terek did not think it was possible for his heart rate to go any higher than it was without killing him. He was mistaken.
"Perhaps," he replied simply.
They continued to ride slowly side by side, each of them focusing their gaze between their horses ears. They could not have known that they were smiling in unison.
"Gods, one troll cannot possibly smell that bad, can it?" Salama asked, backing away and turning her head away from the entrance to the cave, the entrance to the troll's lair that was littered with bones.
"I have never met a troll that did not smell bad, but I admit that this is beyond the pale."
Salama was fanning the air in front of her face in a futile attempt to draw a clean breath when she began to laugh.
"What is so funny?"
"Beyond the pale," she repeated, "The Pale. You intended that as a jest, did you not?"
It took Terek almost too long to understand her meaning.
"Of course I did. I was not sure you grasped my meaning."
Divines forgive my lie, I will do penance at a later date.
"It was artistically carried off," she said just as the pair heard the sounds of approaching horses. The glanced at each other as their hands went to the hilts of their weapons.
"At least we know it is not trolls," Salama said quietly.
It took less than half a minute for the source of the sound to become visible as the pair of riders road around the bend in the path and approached the cave.
Terek and Salama had only recently become full members of The Silver Hand, and still lacked the distinctive armor that more seasoned members wore. That was fortunate in this instance because, unbeknownst to them, the two approaching riders were members of the Companions.
Neither Terek nor Salama had ever laid eyes on any member of the Companions, let alone a member of the Inner Circle, and it would not have mattered if they had. Their horses were tied a short distance away, far enough that the smell emanating from the cave did not disturb them, and the two approaching riders chose to dismount at a point that placed them between Terek and Salama's horses and their owners. If escape had been in the mind of either of them (which it was not), it would have involved passing the man and woman who had just left their own horses and now stood blocking their path.
"Aeri did not hire you," said the Nord woman dressed in ancient armor. She had stripes of green war paint that ran diagonally across her face. At her waist she bore only a dagger. Her weapon of choice appeared to be the bow that she wore on her back.
"You are correct," Terek answered. He kept his hands away from his weapons while he took stock of the man and woman.
She clearly knew how to handle herself. He was six of seven paces away from her, far enough for him to cast his throwing knives before drawing his sword. But it was clear to him by the way she stood, perfectly balanced, seeming completely at ease, that his flying blades would find only air as they passed where this warrior was currently standing. She had the appearance of a cat, poised to spring in any direction, and armed with the reflexes to do just that.
The Nord man dressed in leather armor also carried a bow on his back, and an axe at his hip; but he was not of her element. If he had been the intended target of Terek's knives he would have ended his life never having moved an inch. His eyes already seemed to be made of glass, and the occasional shifts in the wind that carried the stench of the cave away from Terek and Salama carried the strong aroma of brandy towards them, and Terek was convinced that this man was its source.
"A farmer in Heljarchen, and some of his neighbors, engaged us to rid them of this nightly indisposition," Salama added, "who is Aeri?"
"She owns Anga's Mill. Do you know of it?" the woman asked.
"I know of it, and have passed by it, but only from a distance, never having needed lumber," Salama said before turning her head just enough to look at Terek, "that is just west of Windhelm."
"I have never known trolls to travel so far," Terek said, "every creature in Skyrim seems to be agitated of late."
"You are familiar with trolls, and other creatures?" the woman asked him.
careful of this one, Salama thought as Terek was about to answer, something is not right about her.
"We make our living protecting the towns and villages of The Pale in this manner, and we have been quite busy of late. Trolls, vampires, hagravens, werebeasts, they all prey upon the villages in increasing numbers."
"Werebeasts?" the woman asked, "what nature of werebeasts?"
I do not like the sound of that question, Terek thought to himself.
"They are the pets of the Hagravens, or so it seems when we find them together. Werecats mostly, but some werebears."
"You do not encounter werewolves?" the woman asked.
"Yes, but not as pets. And not recently, at least not live ones. We find more dead werewolves than we do live ones these last months."
"Really; do you not find that somewhat odd?"
Does that man even have the power to speak? Salama wondered, he has not uttered a sound.
"We find them in close proximity to dead night walkers. We assume that they do not like each other, and take any opportunity to demonstrate their animus."
The woman finally smiled, and it seemed that the man took his cue from her as his own smile appeared.
"That is certainly true," she said, "what is your name?" she asked Terek.
"My name is Terek."
"Well met, Terek. My name is Aela."