Chapter 25
The days grow shorter and colder with the arrival of Frostfall, and the year's final harvest swiftly comes and goes. Farmers bustle through the city streets in one last bid to sell their produce, clansmen gather bundles of kindling from the steppe to be burned in thousands of hearths, and common laborers work ceaselessly to properly insulate and otherwise prepare Whiterun's homes and businesses for the unavoidable freezing rain and snowfall. Mull knows he'll need to get on the road very soon if he wants to reach High Hrothgar before the full onset of the harsh northern winter. As Hrongar has said, it might already be too late to beat the snows. Unfortunately the changing of the seasons waits for no one. Their time is limited.
He'd hoped to take on a few contracts and make some money of his own before then. Being financially dependent on the Jarl isn't a state of affairs he wants to continue any longer than necessary, and he needs to keep up appearances as a newly-established mercenary.
Besides, I need some normalcy after the insanity of these last few months. Fighting dragons, becoming a Thane, training with Lydia – enough of that. I need a job. A real one. Give me something I know how to do.
At the moment, there isn't a shortage of available jobs for mercenaries in Whiterun Hold. Lydia informs him that banditry has worsened significantly due to the Civil War and is now more problematic than just about ever before, all the more so with Commander Caius being dead. Some brigands are emboldened outlaws, some are deserters, some are rambunctious clansfolk, and some are simple farmers or tradesmen who lost their homes and have no other alternative.
Dangerous wildlife is also a persistent problem on the high plains, and mercenaries are often hired to hunt down especially problematic beasts. The Companions of Jorrvaskr tend to take the most lucrative of these contracts – and I'm sure Aela has nothing to do with that – but people are always looking for huntsmen to track and kill rabid sabrecats or overconfident direwolves. The pay isn't as good as some of the other available jobs, but it usually isn't as hazardous either.
Point being, there are a few different avenues for Mull to pursue his quest for disposable income. He'll need to choose wisely since he only has Torgen and Lydia to back him up, but this isn't the first time he's done this sort of thing. He's confident in his decision-making abilities, and the… the… the 'Mighty Mudcrabs'… godsdammit, Torgen… are both well-rested and well-equipped.
But before he can look into getting into contact with a potential employer, the Jarl's steward beats him to the punch.
It's only because of Lydia's intercession that he doesn't dismiss Avenicci out of hand when the steward approaches him with a proposal for work on behalf of Balgruuf. It helps that the proffered task is something he believes can be completed in a reasonable amount of time, a few days at the absolute most. Also, the pay is irrefutably good. Much better than what he could make from a few sabrecat skins or bringing in a wanted criminal.
This task is bounty hunting. Specifically, the subject of the bounty is one Hajvarr Iron-hand, the chieftain of a bandit clan dwelling on the eastern side of the White River among the foothills of the Throat of the World. Ever since news of Helgen first reached Whiterun, guard patrols have been concentrated heavily in the populous vale of the White River, putting pressure on men like Hajvarr who previously had free reign to waylay unguarded caravans and pillage remote farmsteads. He grew bolder out of necessity, things got out of hand, and that's where Mull comes into play.
The timing is odd, however. The trip to High Hrothgar is coming up fast, so you'd think preparing for the Dragonborn's forthcoming absence would be higher on the Jarl's list of priorities instead of something seemingly mundane like this. Maybe the minds of Jarls and their advisors are simply unreadable to lesser folk.
But his gut is telling him this might be some sort of test on Balgruuf's part, to see what exactly he's capable of while incentivizing him with a lot of money. Beyond surviving against a dragon, that is. You'd think that would be a pretty good indicator.
He doesn't like the idea of being tested – if he's right about that assumption. It's manipulative, and he's already been jerked around like a collared dog by the Jarl and his lackeys a few times too many. But he ultimately decides it doesn't matter. The siren call of wealth to be had is just too strong for him to resist, even if it's more of the Jarl's gold rather than his own hard-earned income.
He's a simple man. There isn't much he won't do for a sack of jingling coins. Going to fight a dragon? That's one of those things.
Checking out a clan encampment, however… that sounds like something more his speed. At a total of one hundred septims, the bounty payout is nothing to scoff at. That's a lot of gold. Not an egregious amount, but still perfectly respectable.
So be it. Gold is gold, wherever it comes from. The monks of High Hrothgar can wait. The winter snows aren't here quite yet, and there's money to be made in the meantime.
-x-
"There it is. White River Watch."
Mull, Torgen, and Lydia are crouched behind a pockmarked boulder off to the side of a winding alpine trail, silently observing an unfortified collection of thatch-roofed timber huts further up the shallow slope. The rising sun hasn't yet ascended from behind the bulk of the eastern mountains, leaving the surrounding area shrouded in shadow even as the White River gleams brightly in a steep-sided gorge far below.
There isn't any movement visible in the small settlement. It seems to be completely abandoned. They know it isn't, however – Avenicci assured them of that. There are unseen watchers somewhere up there. No doubt about it.
At the top of the incline and on the other side of the settlement, the pitch-black mouth of a natural cavern breaks the monotony of a sheer cliff face, a patch of deeper darkness in the pre-dawn gloom. It's difficult to tell from this distance, but the entrance doesn't appear to be much larger than the size of one or two people abreast.
But looks can be deceiving, and Mull knows from personal experience that superficially small caves can often open up into much larger subterranean spaces. Like these clansfolk, he's also made use of caves in the past. The natural protection and shelter from the elements they can provide is unparalleled.
The rugged atmosphere presented by the barren peaks rising high above them and the general isolation of this location is certainly fitting for a reaver clan hold. The same can be said for a badly decayed body tied to a stake nearby, its naked rotting flesh fully exposed to the elements. It's a gruesome warning for whoever might try to encroach on this clan's territory. Like themselves, for instance.
"It'll be impossible to tell how many clansfolk are up there unless we move closer," says Torgen.
"We have time," Mull quietly insists. "I don't want to rush in there blindly and get caught in the middle of an ambush. Let's take this slow. It looks like there are enough huts to shelter several dozen people easily, and I doubt we could fend off so many at once. Not to mention however many could fit inside that cave."
Torgen drops his pack to the ground, rolls his shoulders, and leans against the boulder. "So what are we dealing with here, princess? Care to bring us up to date on the Jarl's scheme?"
He and Mull both turn to their resident housecarl.
She produces a sheet of parchment from her satchel with a blustery sigh, having expected the question and been prepared ahead of time to answer it. "As you are hopefully already aware, the target of this bounty is one Hajvarr Iron-hand, a bandit lord who has gained substantial notoriety over the past year or so. He's the chieftain of the White River Clan."
"Hmm. 'White River Clan.' Very original."
Torgen chuckles in agreement.
"My Thane, please be quiet and listen. I am still speaking."
Mull subsides with muted grumbling. His counterpart grins at the exchange. Even in the last couple of weeks, the girl has already become much bolder. Their practice duels are probably to thank for that.
"About a year ago, the majority of the White River Clan migrated northwards for reasons not entirely known, though we suspect some sort of internal power struggle took place. As a result, Chieftain Hajvarr has resorted to raiding across the breadth of the river valley and generally making a nuisance of himself in order to compensate for his clan's loss of manpower and to regain reputation. This means we can expect the clan hold to be at least partially abandoned, though not completely despite the lateness of the year."
"What does the time of year have to do with it?"
"The clans move with the changing of the seasons, grazing their flocks in the well-watered highlands during the summer and returning to the warmer grasslands or forested lowlands for the winter. The plains clans in particular are notable for their nomadic ways, emulating those of the giants who make their home upon the mammoth steppe. Most clans have already returned to the lowlands in preparation for the upcoming winter, like those we've seen in and around Whiterun. Unlike the rest, the White River Clan hasn't yet decamped from this stronghold because they're too small and weak, and would be vulnerable to the depredations of others. So, point being, the current population is likely much smaller than this settlement's external appearance would suggest. My uncle's scouts have confirmed as much in the past weeks. My Thane, I wouldn't concern yourself with the possibility of confronting more clansfolk than we can handle at a given time. I would be surprised if there are a dozen left in the entire Watch. That's the reason my uncle and Avenicci presented us with this mission specifically."
Mull grunts thoughtfully. "Still, a dozen could be too many for us. I'm especially worried about going into the cave." He points to the patch of yawning darkness centered on the cliff face behind the silent village. "Fighting through a cave sounds like a great way to get ourselves turned to mincemeat. And for that exact reason, I'm assuming Iron-hand has holed himself up in there somewhere. It's what I would do. I don't know how we can possibly be expected to deal with an entire clan, even if it has dwindled."
Lydia blinks slowly, as if assessing a toddler with whom she's trying to hold a serious conversation. "You're Dragonborn, my Thane."
"So I've been told," he gripes.
She purses her lips at his petulant tone. "What I mean is that my uncle is almost certainly trying to test you. You possess great power. He would like to judge your capabilities for himself. Irileth spoke to him of what transpired during the battle at the watchtower, but he wants definitive assurance of the true scope of your abilities. This may present a challenge to us, but that is precisely the point."
My hunch was right. Lucky me.
"What is there to test? If you're all so convinced that I'm the Dragonborn, shouldn't Balgruuf be worshiping at my feet or something?"
His housecarl glares unhappily, clearly unimpressed by his jump in logic. "I would not deign to speak for the Jarl. His reasons are his own. As a housecarl of Whiterun, I merely act in accordance with the commands given to me by my superiors. It isn't my place to question his decisions."
Mull snorts.
"As I was saying earlier," she continues undeterred. "My uncle can't currently spare the number of men necessary to destroy this clan even in its reduced state. They could hold out against a siege inside their cave indefinitely. We also believe there's a secondary exit somewhere higher up the mountain, as that is often the norm for these mountainside subterranean systems."
"That's just fantastic. And it also doesn't answer any of my concerns."
"We are a smaller, more cohesive fighting force and are thus better able to stage a surprise attack," she bluntly answers. "A large number of warriors dispatched from Whiterun could not hope to approach this place unseen. We, on the other hand, have already done so."
"As far as we know," Torgen corrects her. "They could've seen us coming from miles away and we wouldn't be any wiser. That's a dangerous thing to assume, girly."
"And you know what assuming does," mutters Mull.
"Aye. It gets your ass beat like a horker under a rowboat."
After a moment of silent contemplation, he turns to Torgen and squints, donning his best 'what-the-hell?' expression.
Torgen quirks an eyebrow. "What? Was it something I said?"
"…Yeah. It was."
"Well, what was it? The part with the horker or the rowboat?"
"Both."
Lydia leans against the boulder and groans. "Gods, help me withstand this idiocy. My Thane, this is a matter that should be treated with the utmost seriousness."
"For once, I agree with the housecarl," drawls Mull. "Shut up Torgen."
"Aye, boss."
"Alright, how exactly are we going to approach this?" He catches Lydia's eye. "What do you think? Wipe out everyone? Leave the rest alone and just go after Iron-hand? Negotiate, or start chopping off heads from the very beginning?"
She taps a finger against her sword-pommel as she considers. "First I should ask, my Thane… are the two of you willing to go through with this? Can this man be trusted to attack fellow bandits?"
She inclines her head at Torgen.
"My uncle is unsure of your motives, and that's part of the reason we were sent to this place as I'm sure you've guessed. It's true that you paid away this man's bounty, but now that we're here, I do not wish for either you nor I to become embroiled in a battle without being sure of Torgen's intentions. For you to die from a dagger in the back would be a stain on my honor as a housecarl, to say nothing else of the matter."
Mull fully understands her concern, but he also knows it's unwarranted. He's aware of these things better than most, seeing as he's also a bandit. But that's a discussion he's saving for another time, or never if he can get away with it.
"There is no camaraderie among bandits," he answers. "They've got their friends and their enemies just like everybody else, and them killing each other without a second thought is standard fare. I'm not worried about Torgen flaking out at the last minute." He shoots the Nord a sharp look to make sure, which he returns without any sign of deceit.
Torgen then grins fiercely as he provides the housecarl with his own answer. "It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, princess. That's how we live. You don't want to get eaten? You'd better be the bigger dog."
"I suppose you believe yourself to be one of these bigger dogs, then?"
He smirks. "Exactly. And us big dogs get to do whatever we want."
"…I see." She glances at Mull and perceives he doesn't have anything else to add. "If you are satisfied, then I suppose I must be as well."
Her diplomatic words are undercut by a poorly-disguised grimace.
"Back to your original question – the clansfolk who remain in this place are likely those who are unshakably loyal to Chieftain Iron-hand. We shouldn't presume that they would stand aside without a fight even if confronted by a Tongue. That's if our intelligence regarding the clan's internal fracturing is accurate, which I personally believe it is."
It'd better be.
"If that's the case, then going in with swords swinging from the outset is probably our best option."
"I'm inclined to agree, my Thane."
"Maybe you could use your Voice to scare the clan and convince Hajvarr to come out and play," Torgen suggests.
"Hell no."
Needless to say, he isn't going to willingly subject himself to another several days of muteness in the Temple of Kyne. Danica Pure-Spring was kind enough to furnish him with another one of those disgusting potions for healing magicka burns – for the right price, of course – but she was clear that it's a stopgap measure only, and not a substitute for intensive treatment.
"The only things I've gotten from this 'Voice' are the ability to read dragon-runes and hearing disembodied whispering in my head. Oh, and when I yelled loudly enough at the watchtower, my throat felt like someone stuck a knife in there and filleted it! Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems like Balgruuf sent us here so our esteemed housecarl could see my mystical powers in action. I think she's gonna be sorely disappointed." He glowers at Lydia. "I sure haven't seen anything of the sort so far."
She steadfastly ignores his scowl. "That's why you need to travel to High Hrothgar, to receive the teachings of the Greybeards."
"Yeah, well, I haven't yet and I won't until I'm good and ready. It's a moot point regardless since right now, we're here and we're about to jump headfirst into a fight."
"Does that mean you've thought of a plan, boss?"
"Not yet. That's why I keep you on my payroll. You're the brains of this operation."
Torgen guffaws. "I hope not, for all our sakes!"
While Torgen expresses his amusement a little too loudly for their present circumstances – of which Lydia dutifully and bluntly informs him – Mull busies himself with wracking his brain for the least idiotic method to approach this situation. If Lydia is to be trusted, which isn't a guarantee, then negotiation and intimidation are off the table. Marching straight in there and killing any hostile clansfolk appears to be the best course of action.
Or they could turn around and leave, which he's beginning to seriously consider. It would be the smartest thing to do, Jarl be damned. But now that they're already here, he wants to at least see for himself what they're going up against, and the allure of the promised bounty is a little too much for him to resist. Imagine what he could do with a hundred septims…
He sighs. I guess we're going in then.
They don't know what they're walking into. Staying bunched together isn't viable since that would make them more vulnerable to ambush and reduce their ability to ferret out potential enemies.
I think splitting up is the best way to go. But should we all go separately? Or should only one of us go alone?
His gaze alights on his prickly housecarl, currently giving Torgen a hushed dressing-down for having insufficient situational awareness. He has an idea. A black-hearted and cunning idea, granted, but that suits him just fine.
If your uncle's intention is to test me, then I'll test you right back. Sorry girl. All is fair in love and war.
-x-
Mull and Torgen don't encounter any clansfolk until they've almost reached the entrance to the cave. They're surprised by that. They fully expected to find sentinels concealed among the huts, but there hasn't been any sign of hidden enemies so far, nor of recent habitation.
They peer inside a few of the structures and find them utterly deserted, with only dusty furnishings to prove they ever housed people in the first place. Everything portable has been removed. If they were only here to scavenge for loot, they wouldn't have much to show for it.
After they've navigated through the barren lanes and cramped alleyways of the empty settlement, they halt as a small campsite comes into view in a grassy sward between the houses and the cavern mouth. It acts as a simple but effective guard post, little more than a campfire, a keg of some unknown beverage sitting on a rickety wooden table, drying rack for fish from the river below, and a few other bare necessities.
The arrangement is easy to set up and easy to pack away, presumably to facilitate withdrawing into the safety of the cave on short notice. It's a good setup with that cave so easy to access. I'm almost jealous. This must be why they didn't have any sentries posted further out. If there's trouble, they can just run inside and call it a day.
The campsite has two occupants, a woman seated next to the blazing fire and a man standing guard near the mouth of the cave. Both are clad in an assortment of thick hides and leathers to ward off the wind. The darkness before dawn is particularly chilly. Mull envies the warmth of their fire and their more season-appropriate clothing. Despite his previous experiences, he'd underestimated how cold it can get at these higher elevations. His cloak isn't quite adequate to shield him from the keen northern breeze.
The woman is picking at her fingernails with a knife, or maybe filing them. Her dark hair is braided with feathers and multicolored beads in a style similar to the plains clansfolk he's seen in Whiterun. The man is leaning against the rocky cliff face and taking swigs from a wineskin. He's covered from head to toe in a fur mantle, like he's trying to pass off as some woodland animal. His magnificently bushy and unkempt beard helps sell the image.
Upon sighting the two guards, Mull and Torgen duck behind the wall of a timber hut adjacent to the campsite. Torgen shuffles his feet as he settles into a more comfortable position. "Just the two of 'em?" he whispers.
Mull cautiously inches backwards from peering around the side of the hut. "Looks that way."
"Maybe we were worrying ourselves for nothing."
"I guess we'll find out soon."
Torgen harumphs. "And now we wait. My favorite part."
"That makes one of us."
In Mull's opinion, the calm before an upcoming fight is one of the least enjoyable aspects of being a bandit. Fear is something he always feels in these situations. That never changes. Knowing you're about to be thrust into a kill-or-be-killed situation and having to wait for its arrival is a nerve-wracking experience every single time.
He glances down at Torgen, now sitting with his back against the lumber-framed wall of the hut, stained grey with age. The Nord is doing a good job of hiding his own worry, but Mull knows the signs. His fingers are drumming mindlessly in the dirt. His other hand is clutching his bronze necklace depicting the axe of Talos. The sight prompts Mull to unthinkingly reach for his own pendant.
After a moment, the older man begins muttering to himself just loud enough for him to overhear. "Mighty Talos, father of our fathers, bear witness to this coming battle. Give me the courage to face my enemies with strength and honor. If I fall, may I be raised to the soul-bright halls of Sovngarde to stand before Shor and be gloried among the spirits of my ancestors. You are the fire of the morning. You are the cool of the evening. Guide my hand, oh Ysmir. Bless me with fortitude."
His eyes twinkle with passion. His lips are still drawn and thin, but his nervousness steadily eases as he continues his murmurings.
This is a different Torgen from the one Mull has gotten to know. Fervent and grave, befitting a descendant of the Nord heroes of old.
While the man prays, Mull sets about checking his equipment. He confirms that his arrowheads are appropriately sharp with a few shallow pricks against his finger. He ensures his dagger is easily accessible in its sheath on his belt. He verifies his helm is securely fastened to its strap on his rucksack and properly cushioned by his rolled-up cloak to avoid making unnecessary noise – he's forgoing it for the time being, as he wants to maintain maximal awareness of his surroundings. Protecting your noggin is always worthwhile, but many are the men who've been slain by a lack of peripheral vision.
A few strong tugs tighten his bootstraps. He warms up his muscles by shaking out his arms and hopping lightly up and down. He isn't too proud to admit he isn't as young as he used to be. Pulling a muscle in the middle of a fight would be a disgraceful way to get himself killed.
When that's done and he can't think of other ways to occupy his time, he settles in and nervously waits. He finds himself wishing for Lydia to hurry up and get things started.
Torgen finishes his prayers with a final whispered benediction, releases his amulet, and rises to his feet with grim determination. Then his dignified visage morphs into a ferocious half-smile. The vision of the illustrious sons of Ysgramor has vanished, subsumed by that of a familiar Nord brigand.
"Feel better?" Mull asks the question sarcastically, succumbing to his own anxiety and finding an outlet by undeservedly taunting the man. Torgen merely nods.
"A little. Prayer's an odd thing, isn't it? Asking someone you've never met to make things go your way. The gods don't owe us anything, but we still believe they'll do right by us."
"…Yeah." In all honesty, he isn't sure how he should respond to that. So he doesn't.
After another minute or so of tense silence, Torgen crosses his arms and huffs with impatience. "The girl's taking her sweet time. Why'd you bother having her circle around, anyways? We could just charge in there and be done with it. There's only two of them."
"We could, but we didn't know that when we first decided to split up. There's also the chance they could sound the alarm or somebody inside the cave could hear the commotion. But mostly, I want to see how Lydia handles this. She needs to prove that she's capable."
His fair-haired companion smirks. "A trial by fire?"
"Something like that," he responds with a faint frown.
Just as he finishes speaking, they hear what could be mistaken for the sharp whistling of a pine thrush from the other side of the clansfolk campsite. The man and woman swivel their heads towards the source of the piercing noise.
"Well that was… less than discreet." Mull scoffs ruefully. "It must our signal." Ideally, Lydia would've informed them that she's gotten into position with something a bit less obvious. It was a good idea on her part, but pine thrushes usually aren't that loud. What's done is done.
He quietly nocks an arrow to his bow, shuffles around the corner of the hut, and sights his preselected target. Torgen eagerly hefts his flanged mace, decamps from cover, and starts picking his way through the open swath surrounding the campsite, careful to stay out of both Mull's line of fire and the clansfolks' line of sight. For such a big man, he can move surprisingly quietly when he wants to.
"Was that a bird?" the clanswoman wonders aloud. She climbs to her feet and squints into the gloom, arming herself with a shortsword and a buckler shield lying nearby. Her voice is hoarse, that of a woman who has spent much of her life yelling more loudly than would be appropriate for polite company.
She's ruining her dark-vision by keeping that fire between herself and where she's trying to look. That's a rookie mistake.
"I'm not sure," her male comrade responds as he takes a few tentative steps away from the cave. "I'll check it out. Stay here and keep your ears sharp."
Mull double-checks his aim, exhales evenly, and releases his arrow with a sharp twang. The projectile hisses through the campsite before slamming into the side of the clansman's neck, the broadhead boring deeply into flesh as it tears through his windpipe and major arteries. The unfortunate man jerks sideways from the force of the impact and takes two more unsteady steps before toppling to the ground. His limbs jerk aimlessly as he steadily succumbs to the mortal wound. His fur-clad shoulders and bushy beard are already turning dark as they're soaked with his spurting lifeblood.
"Wh-what in Oblivion!" the woman cries out. She stares in shock for a long moment. "…Rodulf? Are you…?"
Torgen has almost made it to the edge of the encampment when the woman hears him step on a twig. She whirls around and locks eyes with the big Nord.
"…Oh shit!" With that, the clanswoman spins right back around takes off towards the cave.
Torgen tilts back his head and groans loudly before setting off in pursuit. Being spotted like that isn't necessarily bad for their plan, assuming Lydia upholds her end of things and prevents the woman's escape into the cave. Mull wonders if Torgen is simply disappointed at having his stealthy approach ruined so early. Professionals have standards, after all.
He stows his bow, unsheathes his sword, and follows at an unhurried pace. If he keeps shooting arrows at this point, he'll be just as likely to hit Torgen as the woman. Besides, they're trying to herd her, not kill her.
Just as the clanswoman is about to reach the cavern entrance, Lydia sprints out from behind a tall snowberry bush to the left of the campsite on a course to intercept. She leaps in front of the woman with sword drawn and roundshield raised.
The clanswoman tries to skid to a halt, but her momentum carries her headlong into the housecarl's shield. Luckily for her, she already has her own shield in hand and it offers protection from the impact. The collision results in Lydia being pushed back a few paces.
"Get out of my way, bitch!" The clanswoman yells and swings her shortsword at the housecarl's head. Lydia deflects her blow to the side and retaliates with a shield slam, using the woman's own momentum against her.
The clanswoman winces but doesn't back away, instead continuing to attack viciously in disregard for any notion of defense. Lydia blocks several more wild swings of the heavy-bladed shortsword, her shield arm jarring uncomfortably with each hit. She flicks out her own blade whenever she sees an opening, but the clanswoman always manages to block or evade just in time, sometimes with inches to spare.
Despite Lydia having superior armor and weaponry, the clanswoman is fighting with enough skill and desperation to make up for the disparity. The two women engage in a deadly dance as they sidestep, deflect, and parry with dizzying speed.
Not for the first time, Mull reflects that Lydia is a very good warrior. Her movements are swift and her footwork precise. Her sword flashes silver and gold, and sparks flare in the pre-dawn darkness with each ringing strike of steel on steel. However, there's an important distinction between being skilled and actually having the will to kill somebody. Lydia and her uncle both claimed that she slew two bandits during a clan raid on the outskirts of Whiterun the previous spring. He's inclined to believe them, but he also wants confirmation for himself.
Finally the clanswoman makes an irreversible mistake. In her haste to get inside the cave and alert her comrades, she takes a risky swing at Lydia's knee, seeking to immobilize the housecarl and make her easier to dispatch once and for all. In doing so, she leaves herself overextended.
Lydia has no qualms about making her bleed for such a blunder. She steps back, swipes her blade upwards, and severs the clanswoman's right hand at the wrist. The shortsword drops to the ground, still clutched in nerveless fingers.
The woman opens her mouth to scream. Any possibility of her doing so is forestalled when Lydia swiftly and brutally kicks her in the stomach, driving the breath from her lungs. The clanswoman collapses onto her knees, retching painfully. Her weapon lies useless at her side.
Lydia places her sword against the woman's neck in preparation to end her life.
Her opponent looks up with eyes full of fear, gasping desperately for air. "Please don't kill me," she croaks. Her voice is ragged and barely audible. "Please."
The housecarl's fierce expression twists into something deeply uncomfortable. She hesitates, more than long enough for a dedicated enemy to take advantage and turn the tables. But this clanswoman seems to be truly beaten and doesn't act on the opportunity.
"Hmm… not bad." Lydia glances in their direction as Mull and Torgen approach her with weapons held casually, having watched the entire fight from the sidelines. "Not bad at all."
That duel was just as informative as Mull had hoped it would be. His housecarl can fight well against a real opponent in a life-or-death situation. But unfortunately, it isn't over quite yet.
Lydia swallows heavily and scowls at the two men. "You could have helped."
"Aye, we could've," Torgen flippantly agrees as he stretches his arms. "But we wanted to see what you're made of. This was a good opportunity."
The brunette girl directs her full ire towards her Thane. Mull grumbles. Here it comes.
"My Thane, I would appreciate it if you'd place more faith in my abilities. I am your housecarl, sworn to protect yourself and your possessions from any who would mean you harm. Please trust me to fulfill the responsibilities of my position." She glances down at the maimed clanswoman. "It would… make all of our lives easier."
Something in her voice and in her eyes causes Mull's chest to tighten, but he says nothing. This is necessary. That's all there is to it.
Torgen halts next to the clanswoman, kicks away her weapon, and plants his boot on top of her back, pressing her into the bloody earth. She moans wretchedly.
"What're you waiting for?" he asks Lydia.
The clanswoman starts pleading with the housecarl, babbling breathlessly as her strength seeps away.
Lydia's features twist with revulsion and disgust at the pathetic sight. "She's beaten," the girl grinds out.
"Aye." Torgen raises an eyebrow. "And?"
She deliberately lowers her blade while continuing to watch the woman like a hawk, vigilant for any sign of duplicity. "We could tie her up and leave her, and return for her later. She would rot in the dungeons of Dragonsreach as a measure of penance for her clan's crimes against the Hold. Justice would be properly wrought."
The fair-haired man hums thoughtfully. "We could try that, but she'd probably find a way to escape while we're busy clearing out the rest of the Watch. It's better to be sure, and none of us can stay behind to keep an eye on her."
With that, he brandishes his mace in a gesture that causes Lydia to gulp. It's obvious what is expected of her.
"My Thane?" she addresses Mull softly, seeking confirmation. She takes orders from him, not the bandit. Her unasked question hangs heavily between them.
At first he impassively gazes back, projecting rock-solid strength in an attempt to convince her that this action is required.
But then something shifts minutely, and his façade of indifference cracks. His brows furrow in consternation.
"…Lydia," he starts slowly. "You said that you've killed before." He speaks in Imperial Tamrielic to avoid Torgen or the clanswoman overhearing what he's about to say next. Torgen looks confused but doesn't comment.
Lydia flinches at the question. "Yes." Her transition to the language of Cyrodiil is flawless, as he'd expected it would be.
"Were you defending yourself when that happened, or did you attack with intent to kill?"
"I…" She hesitates and lowers her head in shame. "It was a chaotic battle, very different from this. I could taste other men's sweat on my lips and hear their bloodcurdling screams. I was trapped in a frantic mass of bodies being shoved together, and I could barely squeeze myself through the press of warriors to engage the enemy. I caught glimpses of two men as I slew them, but nothing more than that." A glimmer of uncertainty crosses her face. "This, however, is much more personal."
That's all the answer he needs.
He exhales noisily and scratches his chin. "Listen to me…"
She reluctantly looks up.
"You will have to kill. You'll have to intend to kill. If I tell you to deal with someone, you need to do it right. I can't be looking over my shoulder all the time and wondering if you're taking unnecessary risks. Risks like this." He waves at the clanswoman, still immobilized by the weight of Torgen's leg. "I need to know you can handle yourself. If you hold back, you die. If you hesitate, you die. If you're merciful, you die. That's just how it is in this way of life. The sooner you learn that, the better it will be for you."
He expects Lydia to turn away or raise her voice against him. Perhaps she'll insist that this is tantamount to murder or threaten to tattle to her uncle.
Instead, he's surprised as she lifts her chin and meets his gaze unwaveringly. That glimmer of unyielding steel reveals itself in her once again. This is the face of someone who is asking not to be underestimated.
He offers up a small, grim smile. Then I won't, he wordlessly replies.
The seconds stretch on in a silence that's eventually broken by Torgen. "Alright, girl," he grumbles irritably. "Let's get this done."
A long sigh escapes Lydia's lips. She visibly gathers herself and again raises her sword, poised to swing down at her opponent's bare neck. She whispers something under her breath.
The clanswoman whimpers, a pitiable sound like a beaten animal.
It happens with the abrupt swiftness that so often characterizes violence. The sword descends in an argent blur, moving relentlessly as though bearing the indefatigable weight of the moons upon its blade.
The clanswoman realizes mercy isn't forthcoming at the last second and tries to get away. She lurches beneath Torgen's boot and scrabbles in the mud with her remaining hand.
He reaction only serves to worsen her death as Lydia's blade slams into her skull instead of cleanly decapitating her.
The blade sinks deeply into the woman's temple with a wet squelch. Her eyes roll back into her head and she emits a strangled gurgle as she goes limp. She topples forward bonelessly, pulling the housecarl's wedged sword with her.
Lydia plants her foot on the woman's shoulder and wrenches her weapon free, splattering blood and grey matter across the dry grass. Twitching fingers and one last unsettling wheeze are all that mark the clanswoman's passage into the afterlife.
The housecarl glares at her gore-stained sword, then at the gruesome remains of her opponent's shattered skull. Her features go slack as she stares sightlessly, embroiled in the macabre horror of a fellow human being's brutal death. A death brought about by her own hands.
Mull knows exactly what's going through her mind. He's seen it before more than once.
She jumps when a hand touches her shoulder. She reflexively swings her sword, but is stopped by a strong grip around her wrist. Torgen holds her in place with an inscrutable expression. "Hey, princess. You still in there?"
"Oh, um… y-yes," she stammers as she pulls away. "I'm fine. I really am. Just…"
"Don't give up yet. We aren't done here."
"No. We're not," Mull agrees, coming to stand by Lydia's side. He glowers intensely at her, though not with malice or displeasure. This is a point he wants to deeply instill for her sake. "You know you'll have to do that again."
It's good that she can kill even if she doesn't seem to like it. It's excellent, in fact. But this can't be a one and done thing. As a warrior, she must be able to continuously deliver.
She takes a shuddering breath and painstakingly rearranges her features into a resolute mask of professionalism. "I know."
He gazes into her eyes, searching for a certain hardness he's hoping will be there, and nods with satisfaction. It is.
His visage softens slightly. "…You've more than proven yourself. Your uncle promised me that you're a blooded warrior, but I needed to see in person. Now I believe him."
"Why did you test me but not this bandit?" she demands without much heat. She points her bloody sword at Torgen, causing him to eye her warily and take a few steps back.
"Torgen doesn't have to prove anything to me. I've already seen what he can do firsthand." He would've died in Bleak Falls Barrow if it weren't for Torgen, and the reverse can also be said.
The girl subsides, accepting his explanation for the time being.
With the teambuilding thus concluded, he turns and nods to the cave. "Let's get in there. We've got a job to do and money to earn. We've spent enough time out here already. After all that, we'll be lucky if the rest of the clan isn't at least a little suspicious."
Torgen ambles ahead, but Mull pauses as his housecarl refuses to move.
He takes the bait. "What is it?"
"…Should we not bury them?" she tentatively asks.
He follows her gaze between the two dead clansfolk. With an ambivalent shrug, he starts walking towards the cavern entrance without her as his sword swings idly at his side. "I don't see why. The buzzards need to eat, same as the worms."
After another moment's hesitation, her footsteps echo after him.
