Chapter 26
At first glance, the inside of the cave is bare and deserted. It doesn't look like the other clansfolk were close enough to the entrance to overhear Lydia's fight. As they cautiously delve further inside through snaking corridors, they don't encounter any signs of human habitation except for a few bone charms dangling from the ceiling and the occasional scrap of discarded cloth or tanned hide lying on the ground. The air smells like mildew and smoke.
They're about a full two minutes into the cave before they come across their first obstacle. Any number of things could've been waiting for them within the damp interior, but what they find isn't quite what they were expecting.
"Eh? Who's there? Rodulf? Is that you?"
As they emerge into a constricted chamber, they're greeted with the sight of an old man sitting in a wicker chair facing away from them, leafing through a leather-bound book in the scant light provided by a nearby candle. Its wavering flame sends shadows dancing unpredictably across the unhewn stone walls.
The man is wearing piecemeal iron plate armor and has a sheathed sword resting by his side. When he speaks, he twists around to stare at them. His eyes are shrouded by a milky white film.
He's blind. A watchman that's blind. What in the…
Mull releases his tight grip on his sword and peers more closely at the pages of the man's book.
…And the book is completely blank. What in Oblivion is he even doing with that? You've got to be freakin' kidding me.
Lydia and Torgen share an incredulous look.
"Y-yeah," Mull manages to choke out.
The man frowns, his wrinkled face becoming even more so. "What was all that ruckus about, boy? You'd best not be messin' around with the girl again. You know my nephew wasn't none too pleased to hear about that business last time. You're walking on thin ice as it is."
"It was nothing. Don't worry about it."
"…Are you alright, Rodulf? Your voice sounds odd. You ain't sick, are ya?"
Aw, shit. "No, I'm fine. There's nothin' to worry about…" Mull trails off.
Torgen suppresses a groan and squeezes the bridge of his nose.
It's not my fault I've never been any good at bluffing.
"I… hmm…" the man mumbles uncertainly. He raises his voice. "Algarr! Clovis! Come 'ere for a minute!"
"Aye, what is it?" a man shouts impatiently from further inside the cave.
"You might want to-"
The old man is cut off – literally – when Torgen blurs into action and buries a dagger into his throat. His eyes go wide and his mouth gapes, revealing yellowed and missing teeth. His gnarled hands grasp weakly at the slick blade as he chokes on his own blood.
"Ulfr! What is it?! You damned rheumy-eyed old fool."
Two more clansmen, one of whom is the previous speaker, enter the room through a passageway on the far side just in time to see Ulfr breath his last and topple sideways from his chair.
"Wait, who… oh, you bastards!"
The two newcomers snarl and palm their weapons, an axe and a short spear. Mull, Torgen, and Lydia hastily do the same.
Torgen again seizes the initiative and charges the spear-wielder with his heavy mace poised to strike, leaving the axeman for Mull and Lydia.
Mull darts forward and tries to stab the axeman up through his ribs, aiming to skewer his lungs or heart and end the fight before it can begin.
The man deflects the thrust and retaliates with a backhanded swipe. Mull ducks beneath the razor-sharp weapon and backpedals out of reach as Lydia squeezes around him to flank their opponent.
Meanwhile, Torgen trades a handful of blows with the spearman before shearing through the wooden haft of the long weapon with his mace. The clansman curses as he throws aside the spear's splintered remains and draws a knife. After that, he doesn't stand a chance. Torgen uses his mace's superior weight and reach to reduce the man to a state resembling ground beef.
There isn't much room for maneuvering in a narrow cave like this. It's all about who can kill the other man faster. No fancy footwork. No easy avenues of retreat. It's a vicious method of fighting, but all the more brutally efficient as well.
Mull and Lydia redouble their combined assault on the axeman. The housecarl deflects a blow with her shield and slashes at the man's legs while Mull takes front and center, trying to occupy the majority of his attention.
He deftly intercepts several more swings of the axe, though he probably looks like a fool as he prances back and forth to avoid the clansman's heavier attacks.
Fortunately, he doesn't have to keep it up for very long. On her third strike Lydia manages to cut through the man's calf, dropping him to one knee. Mull doesn't hesitate to step forward and decapitate him, leaving the cavern walls stained red with arterial blood spraying from his truncated neck. His head rolls listlessly across the floor, his jaw working open and closed.
Torgen shakes bits of gore from the flanges of his mace as he watches intently for any movement deeper inside the cave. He relaxes when none is immediately forthcoming. "That wasn't too bad."
"We're one room in. Of course it wasn't too bad," Mull points out. "And I wouldn't say it went smoothly."
The older bandit grudgingly acknowledges him with a wordless grunt. He pauses to swipe a coin purse from the dead blind man.
As they continue onwards, the cave system is increasingly shrouded in darkness. Scant illumination is provided only by the occasional candle, torch sconce, or untended log fire steadily dwindling to embers. The trio are more than happy to take advantage of the deep shadows, plodding silently through moss-floored passages while prepared to spring out at potential enemies. Well, as silently as they can manage.
"Lydia, be quiet! You sound like a damn troll!"
"…I'm doing my best, my Thane." The girl's voice is strained as she concentrates on moving slowly, placing each step with exaggerated care. Even so, each footfall echoes resoundingly in the confined space of their subterranean route. Each moment produces an assortment of jingling and scraping from her chainmail and shield. Each breath seems louder than it ought to be. The fact of the matter is that Lydia simply isn't a stealthy individual.
To say the least.
In all fairness, she isn't properly equipped for this kind of cloak-and-dagger stealth. She's wearing her customary chainmail hauberk with a broad belt and steel-plated leather cuisses protecting her thighs and knees, a 'bottom heavy' armor configuration designed around shield usage. It's good for keeping her alive and kicking in a fight, but it's also cumbersome and clunky.
But there's more to it than her chosen panoply. Even the most heavily-armored warrior can act with discretion if they know what their doing. There's an art to sneaking, and Lydia just doesn't have the knack for it. Plain and simple.
After admonishing his housecarl for the third time, Mull finally reaches his limit. He stops and holds out a hand to the girl. "Lydia… hang back for a while. Follow twenty or thirty paces behind us."
Her blue eyes blaze angrily in the darkness. "I snuck up on the clansfolk outside the cave perfectly fine," she tersely replies.
"Exactly, it was outside. There was wind and a lot of other background noise. It hardly counts."
She opens her mouth to continue arguing.
"Consider that an order."
With scrunched brows, she accepts the unambiguous command and trails to a halt, watching unhappily as Mull and Torgen continue without her.
The two men soon encounter another clansman alone in a stalactite-ceilinged chamber, busily mixing alchemical ingredients in glass vials and heating them inside a small cast-iron oven.
The man's distraction makes it a relatively simple matter for Torgen to dispose of him. He doesn't even bother to use his mace or dagger, opting instead to pick up a lumber-axe lying on a nearby crate and splitting the man's skull from behind. He collapses forward onto the oven, scattering colorful flowers and clumps of fungi in his death-throes.
After rejoining them and assisting in a perfunctory search of the room, Lydia uncovers a wooden chest with iron bindings concealed beneath a waist-high stone ledge. Mull crouches in front of it, locates a keyhole, and pulls out his new lockpick and torque wrench. I haven't gotten many opportunities to pick locks recently. Let's hope I'm not too rusty.
"Wouldn't it be easier to use this?" Torgen raises his pilfered lumber-axe.
Mull inserts the tools into the lock with practiced efficiency and begins carefully manipulating the tumblers. "That would be too loud. Also, I bought these in the city a few days ago and I'd like to see how well they work." He presses an ear against the side of the chest, near the lock, as he continues working. "I've always had a knack for this sort of thing. I was born under the Tower stars, if you're one to believe in all that celestial gibberish."
"Huh. I'm pretty sure mine are the Steed stars. That's Midyear, right?" He shrugs. "In all honesty, I never understood the point of all that star sign stuff." He faces Lydia inquisitively. "What're yours, princess?"
The housecarl gives him a venomous look before pretending to inspect a pair of patched hide boots sitting on a crude wooden nightstand. "…The Lover stars, I believe."
Torgen grins lasciviously. "Ooh. That's sexy."
Lydia groans. "Just… shut up bandit, or else I'll have my father hang you by your entrails from the city gates. His one remaining arm is all he'd need to deal with the likes of you."
"Hiding behind your old man, huh? Do all housecarls do that?"
She growls like a sabrecat.
After absently listening to another half-minute of their inane squabbling as he continues to work, Mull releases a long breath through his nose, signaling his satisfaction with his larcenous efforts. "And… there it is." The chest emits a loud click and he lifts open the lid. Its corroded hinges squeal in protest.
"What've we got?" Torgen eagerly inquires, diverted from his banter by the promise of something valuable.
Straight to the point, as always. "Let's see. Twenty septims give or take, a purple potion of some kind, some refined leather strips, and… uh, this." The last object is a book with a blank forest-green cover. He flips it open and skims through the first couple of pages. "'An Explorer's Guide to Skyrim' by Marcius Carvain, Viscount of Bruma. Could be interesting."
"There's a copy of that text in the Jarl's library," Lydia speaks up. "My Thane, it may be contain useful information since you aren't a native of Skyrim. It would enable you to learn more about the province's geography."
"I think we'll leave the scholarship to you, princess," Torgen interjects with a teasing wink. "That's more your cup of tea. We ask the questions and you give the answers."
Lydia crosses her arms and huffs, eliciting a chortle from the fair-haired man. "We should continue. Enough time has been wasted here already."
"Agreed. Let's get going." Mull rises to his feet, returns his lockpicking tools to his pack, and tosses the book to Torgen, who catches it one-handed and quickly stows it.
"What am I, a pack mule?" he asks good-naturedly.
"Yes," Lydia mutters under her breath. Torgen's grin widens.
-x-
It isn't long before the trio notice the ceiling of the cavern beginning to rise higher and higher above their heads, outpacing the increasingly steep gravel floor crunching beneath their boots. Stalactites the size of a full-grown man hang precipitously in tight clusters, like the spears of Shor's shieldmaidens poised to claim the souls of the valorous fallen. Fleshy pink and white mushrooms protrude from nooks and crannies in the uneven walls pressing closely on either side.
By now they've ascended a considerable distance in terms of elevation. The tunnel is on a constant upwards slope, nearly to the point that stairs are needed. In several places they're forced to scale from ledge to ledge using handholds in the walls, most of which are worn smooth from previous use. Once more Lydia fails to maintain subtlety and is ordered to hang back, much to her displeasure.
Not far ahead and above, it looks like the cave might be growing somewhat wider, though it's difficult to tell in the gloom. They aren't carrying torches or any other source of light for fear of giving away the element of surprise, so they're forced to navigate mostly by feel in the grey uncertainty of these sunless grottos. It makes for slow going.
They advance cautiously, eyes strained to the utmost just to see in front of their own feet. When they draw closer to the end of this narrow section of the passageway, they slow down and bunch together. Mull orders Lydia to rejoin them with a sharp gesture, takes the lead of their little group, and warily glances around a shallow corner.
The cavern opens up into a fairly sizable room, not much wider than your average tavern's common room but at least two stories tall from floor to ceiling. On the opposite side, a steep pathway spirals up the walls a good twenty or thirty feet, forming a sort of natural stone staircase. Three clansmen are lounging around a crackling fire in the middle of the chamber, talking animatedly and laughing amongst themselves. Another two are seated on the upper path with their legs dangling over the edge. Mull identifies the sinuous shape of a recurve bow cradled atop one of their knees, though he can't tell if it's strung or not. He thinks it might be, as there's also a quiver of arrows propped against the archer's thigh.
There's no cover of any kind in this room, so the clansfolk above will be able to rain arrows down on them with impunity if they emerge into the open. On top of that, there's also a wolf of all damn things laying at the feet of one of the men by the fire, a huge animal with fur colored so dark that it's almost pitch black.
It must be domesticated. As Mull watches, the animal raises its head and sniffs the air. It bares its fangs, though the clansfolk don't seem to notice.
He mutely curses and flattens himself back against the wall. This doesn't look good. They have the advantage of high ground, so an ambush will be practically impossible to pull off without getting us turned into pincushions. And the wolf will make things even more complicated. He needs to think of a plan.
Unfortunately, he doesn't have any good ideas this time around. He could try to make some noise and lure one or two of the clansfolk away, but that's unlikely to work because of the wolf. And if that isn't an option, then the only viable alternative is to charge in there and start killing.
He considers cutting their losses, turning around, and leaving so he can avoid having to deal with this latest conundrum. They could return to Whiterun with the information they've gained of the Watch's layout and sell it to the Jarl along with the heads of the clansfolk they've slain.
But they've already come this far. By his current count, half a dozen enemies are dead by their hands. If there are five in this chamber, then this is probably the last or second-to-last group before reaching Iron-hand. That's assuming Lydia's estimation of a dozen clansfolk was accurate, of course, which isn't a guarantee.
Still, they haven't yet encountered anything they can't handle, and he really wants the Jarl's gold. Avarice isn't an easy thing to ignore.
He restrings his bow, which is a little tricky to maneuver in the tight confines of the cave, and nocks an arrow. A few more gestures steer Torgen and Lydia into position and give them a vague idea of what he wants to do. He doesn't dare speak aloud in such close proximity to their opponents.
He takes a few seconds to get himself psyched up for what he knows will come next. He feels the usual fear, accepts it, and shoves it aside. Fight hard. Fight dirty. Fight mean. Watch for weakness. Make them pay for it. He clenches his teeth in mimicry of the clan's pet wolf.
Once his companions are fully prepared, he takes a deep breath and raises his bow. He steps out from behind their cover, aims as quickly as he can manage, and releases his arrow. The crack of his bow echoes loudly from the innumerable angular surfaces inside the cave.
The wolf looks directly at him just as the arrow pierces its sinewy chest, sinking into its heart and staggering it backwards. It's practically a miracle that the creature hadn't already alerted its masters to their presence before it was too late. Sometimes you just get lucky.
The beast feebly struggles as the five clansfolk watch its death with confused hesitancy. That confusion turns to alarm and anger when Lydia and Torgen charge into the room with Mull following a few steps behind, hurriedly readying another arrow.
Torgen sprints ahead to engage the three clansmen near the mortally-wounded wolf while Lydia hefts her roundshield, eyeing the archer on the upper pathway as she rises to her feet and flexes her bow – which is indeed already strung. Mull curses as he notices the second clansman up there is also wielding a bow. Two archers. Shit.
One of the clansfolk at the campfire – a young girl – scrambles to her feet and dashes for the sloped walkway. Mull can't get a good shot on her due to Lydia and her shield being in the way. The clansgirl mounts the walkway and races to the top in a matter of seconds.
Mull snaps off his arrow at the girl as she ascends the walkway, but he rushes the shot and misses by a wide margin. He curses himself as he repositions and retrieves his next arrow. The girl ducks into a dim opening, likely a continuation of the cave system, and vanishes from sight.
Two arrows whistle towards Lydia from above. One glances harmlessly off of a jutting stone shelf in a brilliant burst of sparks while the second projectile pierces into the housecarl's shield with a muted thump.
Meanwhile, Torgen succeeds in taking down one of his two remaining opponents when he embeds his stolen lumber-axe into the man's collarbone, pulverizing his upper ribcage and the critical organs underneath. It's a good kill, but the other clansman takes advantage of his preoccupation to attack.
This is a tall one-eyed man clad in a boarskin pelt with the boar's head draped over his left shoulder, tusks and all. He looks like a leader of some kind. With a glance from the corner of his eye, Mull wonders if he's Iron-hand.
The clansman viciously swipes at Torgen's arm with a short-hafted slashing spear, forcing him back and separating him from his axe still buried deeply in the dead man's torso. He lunges again, opening a line of weeping blood across Torgen's left shoulder. The blonde Nord backpedals with a snarl and yanks his mace free from his belt.
Two more arrows whizz through the air, forcing Mull to duck behind Lydia's shield. We might be in trouble. He briefly contemplates trying to use his Dragon Shout to even the odds, but considering how it affected him the first time at the watchtower, that probably wouldn't be the best idea. He doesn't want to render himself exhausted and mute in the middle of a fight like this. Besides, they're underground at the moment. If there's a possibility of a Shout causing a cave-in, that isn't a risk he wants to take.
Still, he needs to do something to tip the scales here or else they could be overwhelmed by the archers. He indulges himself in a moment of poignant regret for rushing too quickly into this situation before stuffing it down beneath a layer of cold stoicism. This is already a shitshow. Might as well lean into it.
"Lydia!" he stage-whispers harshly in his housecarl's ear. "Help Torgen. I'll distract the archers."
Her eyes widen in disbelief. "But, my Thane-!"
"Just do it!"
Their older comrade is struck again, this time across his stomach. It looks like his rawhide cuirass absorbs the worst of the blow, but he still staggers backwards while panting heavily. His opponent is certainly no amateur with that spear. Mull isn't sure how much longer Torgen can last.
Lydia gives him a glare that's both worried and furious before raising her shield, deflecting yet another incoming projectile, and bounding toward their beleaguered companion. With his cover now gone, Mull fires off another arrow of his own and again misses his targets, though only by a hair's breadth this time. One of them ducks into cover, spooked by the close call.
With that, Mull throws aside his bow and sprints headlong across the room. He feels another arrow tickle his skin as it hisses mere inches from his neck and impacts against the stone wall to his right, sparking brightly. With his bow abandoned and sword drawn, he reaches the spiraling walkway and dashes upwards as fast as he can, arms pumping and calves burning from his desperate exertion. If he can't get to the archers before they put an arrow in him, then he'll be as good as dead in the open like this.
The further of the pair shoots an arrow that Mull avoids by twisting violently to the side, arresting his momentum. The closer archer uses the opportunity to draw an axe from her belt, leaps towards him, and delivers a fast overhead swing.
Mull sloppily deflects the attack with his blade and chops viciously at the attacker's flank. The clanswoman tries to dodge by leaping back, but she isn't quite fast enough. Mull misses her torso but still manages to bury his blade into her knee with a disgusting squelch.
The clanswoman screams as Mull violently rips his sword away, causing even more damage and slickening the stones beneath their feet with blood.
His victim topples toward the edge of the natural stairway and the open air beyond, but Mull sees the archer beyond preparing another arrow. His only potential source of cover is about to fall away from his grasp. He can't let that happen, so he darts out a hand to desperately grab the front of the wounded woman's tunic. Don't go anywhere. I still need you.
He yanks the woman between himself and the second archer just in time to intercept his arrow. The projectile digs into the clanswoman's upper back, provoking yet another round of screams.
As the second archer howls with rage, Mull shoves the wounded woman back towards the edge of the pathway and lets go. She plummets at least twenty feet before slamming into the ground. Her tortured wailing is cut off by a sickening crack of shattered bone.
While he's looking down there, he notices that Lydia and Torgen have already killed the one-eyed clansman, now lying on his back next to the dead wolf in a pool of gore. Torgen is sitting on a chair with a pained grimace while Lydia hastily wraps a strip of blood-soaked linen around his stomach. He must've been hurt worse than he originally thought.
They're both startled by the sudden impact of the falling woman and worriedly peer up at Mull. He ignores them, his focus returning to his final enemy who's now opted to discard his bow in favor of a warhammer and shield.
"You're gonna die for that! Damn you!"
He utters a foul curse. I'm not equipped to deal with a weapon like that.
Lydia cries out to him, her tone laced with fear. "My Thane!"
"Take care of Torgen," he shouts down to her. "I've got this handled." I think.
His opponent enters into melee range and swings the warhammer overhead while holding his shield low to protect his thighs. The clansman has every advantage in this confrontation – high ground, reach, weight, and physical size. If Mull is going to win, at least one of those needs to change.
Being positioned at a lower elevation than his opponent, Mull's most direct way to turn this confrontation in his favor is to target the clansman's lower body to upset his balance. The shield is what's preventing him from doing that.
He scrambles aside, dodging a ponderous swing of the warhammer. Then another, and another, the weapon whooshing dangerously through the air with enough mass behind it to pulverize his bones through his lamellar. He can't block the damn thing with his sword since the disparity between the weights of their weapons is so great. If he takes a direct hit, he'll be left in bad shape.
The clansman advances, constantly forcing him to give up ground. This ledge is too narrow to properly maneuver. Even if Lydia were to join him, they wouldn't be able to both bring their weapons to bear against this man at the same time. He can't wait for help to come. He needs to deal with this clansman himself. Despite it almost certainly being a bad idea, he decides to go on the offensive.
He steps forward, rams his shoulder against the clansman's shield, and simultaneously deflects a swing of the warhammer by intercepting the haft of the weapon with the flat of his blade, leveraging to prevent the clansman from making full use of its prodigious weight. Now off-balance, the clansman tries to backpedal up the slope.
Committing to his gamble, Mull dives for the warhammer and grabs the head of the weapon with his free hand. He plants his feet and gives it a hard yank. His opponent makes the mistake of refusing to let go, instead rearing back to strike him with the rim of his shield.
In doing so, the clansman leaves his abdomen open. Mull brings up his sword, still clutched in his right hand, and drives it into the man's stomach. It doesn't pierce very deep – he couldn't put much force behind the thrust due to his uneven footing – but it's enough to cause a distraction. That's all he needs.
As the man gives a pained yell, Mull twists and wrenches both the warhammer from his grasp and his own sword from within his stomach. In doing so, he sends the clansman tumbling head over heels down the pathway.
His opponent crashes into the wall at the bottom of the incline and lands in a tangled heap at Lydia's feet, who has now finished with Torgen and is on her way to offer assistance in violation of his earlier command. The clansman survives the fall – his agonized whimpering and grasping hands are a good indicator.
After ensuring the clanswoman who escaped at the beginning of the fight isn't anywhere to be seen, Mull tosses aside the warhammer and descends to ground level, sliding down a short ledge to stand by Lydia's side.
The housecarl hoists her sword to finish off the man. She glances at him, sky-blue eyes gleaming with equal parts discomfiture and determination.
But before either of them can do anything, the clansman produces a dagger from somewhere within his furs and leaps for Lydia's throat, crying out gutturally in a moribund attempt to avenge his compatriots.
Instinct honed by long years of training seize control of Lydia's body. Her sword blitzes forward and shears through the clansman's unarmored chest like a knife through butter, arresting his wild lunge. He slumps back to the ground and the dagger falls from his nerveless fingers to clatter against naked stone.
Lydia stares impassively at the deceased man before firmly removing her blade, studiously ignoring the spurt of blood that comes with it. She cuts away a relatively clean a portion of his clothing and sets about dutifully cleaning her sword.
Mull had barely had enough time to react himself. The housecarl moved much faster than he could've. There's that iron will of hers, coming back to say hello.
As they breathe heavily and regain their bearings, Mull drifts to the middle of the chamber to take a look at Torgen. The man has used his only healing potion to treat his stomach wound, which looks to have bled profusely even after Lydia's ministrations. As for the cut on his shoulder, it's swathed in a simple cotton bandage and nothing more. The untreated injury might hamper his effectiveness if they run across an enemy with any true skill, but that's a risk they'll have to take. They don't have many healing potions left. Torgen's face is pale and his movements are stiff, but he tenaciously insists that he's good to go.
A part of Mull was excited to get back into the swing of things. This isn't too different from fighting rival bandit gangs or waylaying Imperial caravans back in the southlands all those months and years ago. Has it really been that long already? If nothing else, it's been nice to leave behind all the Thane and Dragonborn bullshit for a couple of days, Lydia's presence not withstanding.
But now that he's here in the thick of it, surrounded by the familiar stink of sweat, loosed bowels, and spilled blood, he only feels deep-seated weariness. He wonders if this is what being a jaded old man must feel like. He quickly finds that he isn't fond of such introspection.
He kneels down to examine the dead bandits and the wolf. As before, the man with the boarskin and one eye looks like a leader, even with the indignity of an early death. "Is this Iron-hand?" he asks Lydia.
"I don't believe so. He doesn't match the descriptions I've heard. Iron-hand is not so old, and nor does he have only one eye as far as I'm aware. He is also of greater stature."
He grumbles unintelligibly. It was a longshot, but you never know.
As they speak, Torgen rises from his chair and trudges tiredly over to the clansman he killed with the lumber-axe. He grasps the weapon and tries to yank it from the dead man's bifurcated flesh.
Instead of coming free, the wooden haft of the axe cracks and breaks off from the iron head, leaving it buried inside the man's chest. "Piece of junk." Torgen tosses away the haft with a look of disgust and hefts his mace to his good shoulder instead.
Now that he's gotten a good look at it, Mull realizes the older man's flanged mace is an ancient Nordic weapon. He failed to notice that before. Torgen must've scavenged it from Bleak Falls Barrow.
"You still have one of those old things?"
Torgen wipes some blood off of the macehead and returns the weapon to his belt. "Aye. I'm hanging onto it until I can get my hands on something better. Another axe maybe. Hopefully better than this one." He idly kicks the offending clansman.
"You know how to use it?"
Torgen seems affronted. "Of course I do! I've never cared for all that fancy sword-work you and the princess are so fond of. Weapons like this are simpler. You hit something till it's dead, then hit it another few times to make sure. I'm an expert at that."
Mull snorts. "I won't disagree with you there."
"As a matter of fact, when I was a younger man, my clanbrothers and sisters had a special nickname for me. 'Torgen Bonebreaker.'" The old bandit huffs wearily. "I've never been good for much else. Although that isn't a bad thing to be good at, if you ask me."
Lydia rolls her eyes, but Mull pats the man's good shoulder in a rare show of empathy. Some motivation will do him good. He looks like he needs it. "You think you can get up there?" He points to the summit of the spiraling path above them.
Torgen scoffs derisively. "I'm no milk-drinker, boss. Give me a little credit. A climb like that is nothing to a Nord."
"If you say so." He grabs the final clansman killed by Lydia, rolls him out of the way, and waves for Torgen to get moving.
The older man only makes it halfway up the ramp before he's huffing and puffing like an angry bull.
Trailing behind Torgen and not deigning to comment, Mull stoops to take the dead warhammer-wielding clansman's shield as he passes. It's a targe made of laminated wood with a particularly heavy boss in the middle, resembling the checkered face of a meat pounder. It's a good thing the clansman hadn't managed to bash him with this thing. That would've hurt.
When they reach the top of the ramp, Torgen, gingerly lowers himself to the ground and groans, his hands hovering over his abdomen. "That healing potion helped, but godsdamn," he complains. "I still feel terrible."
Mull stops beside him and holds out the pilfered targe. The older man gives him a questioning look. "This'll pair well with your mace. Take it, if you think you can use it with your shoulder being scratched up."
Torgen scoffs and snatches the shield. "Aye, I can use it. Give it here." He wraps his fingers through the hardened leather strap on the back of the shield and turns it back and forth as he familiarizes himself. He tests the iron boss with the pad of his finger and nods with satisfaction. "Not bad. I like it."
"Good to hear." Mull leaves the wounded man to inspect his new acquisition and descends back to the bottom of the chamber, checking on Lydia as she finishes rooting through the bandit's belongings for anything useful. He double-checks and discovers that she's left behind about a dozen septims, an ornate moonstone dagger embedded with sapphires, and a bone-carved whale totem that could fetch a decent price with the right buyers. He raises the items and calls out to her. "What about these?"
She frowns. "Surely eliminating Iron-hand is more important than a few trinkets and loose change. Should we not focus on first finding and slaying him? We could return for these lesser items afterwards."
"Loot is loot, girl," he grouses as he stuffs the coins, dagger, and totem into his bag. "You take what you can whenever you find it. We'll worry about the details later. If it looks like it could be valuable, even only a little, then I want it."
"…As you say, My Thane." Her frown doesn't go away, but she snoops around more thoroughly from then on.
She wouldn't make a very good bandit. Though that shouldn't be a surprise.
He continues to dig through the clan's belongings, picking up a few more knickknacks as he goes, before stumbling across a cache of armor and weaponry concealed behind a stack of rotting crates. Most of the items are of such poor quality that he's willing to ignore them – which is saying a lot – but two things catch his eye.
The first is a one-handed axe with a bearded blade. It's small enough that it won't unduly burden him, the steel isn't too rusty, and a few exploratory swings inform him that it's a well-balanced weapon. He could throw this with respectable accuracy in a pinch.
He stuffs it into his belt behind the small of his back where it won't get in the way. There's no such thing as being overprepared.
The second item is another shield, this one a full-sized roundshield similar in form and function to Lydia's. It's painted blue and white in quarters, a fluid design with curves rather than fully symmetrical. A smooth steel boss protrudes from the center.
After a moment of consideration, he takes the shield and affixes it to his left arm. His forearm fits snugly in the outer strap. He hefts it, testing its weight, and nods. It's heavier than the targe, but that's okay. This'll do. I'm not going through a fight like that again without a shield.
As strange as it might sound, he's never been particularly fond of shields. He readily admits that they're extremely useful for both blocking projectiles of all kinds and effectively defending oneself from melee weaponry. There's a reason that professional soldiers and legionaries almost always carry one.
On the flip side, a shield can be cumbersome and unwieldy as he's already seen with Lydia. His philosophy has always been that they're a situationally useful piece of equipment. If he knows he's going into a big battle with plenty of space to move around and arrows flying all over the place, then he'll happily carry one. If it's simply a fight however, something smaller and quicker than a full-fledged battle, then he'd rather stick with only a sword, axe, spear, or what have you, and forego the shield. As with all things, they present advantages and disadvantages.
In a fight like they just experienced, a shield would've been incredibly convenient. He's on the verge of berating himself for not thinking to bring one along just in case. In hindsight, it would've made things a lot easier.
If they're still going to confront Iron-hand somewhere in this cave, then he thinks having a shield will be worth the trouble even if it makes stealth and mobility more problematic.
Lydia gives him a curious glance as he marches past her with the shield hanging from his arm and axe stowed behind him, but she doesn't offer comment. Instead she dutifully follows after him as he scales the spiraling pathway to the top of the chamber once more.
Somewhere ahead, Iron-hand awaits them. And so does my hard-earned gold.