Chapter 33
AN: This one's a big boy.
-x-
As the sun dawns on Skybound Watch, the three travelers rise wearily from their bedrolls and scarf down a spartan breakfast in tense silence.
It isn't much, but food is food, and at least they don't have to eat it cold like last night. They discover a stack of thoroughly dried logs nestled beneath a deerskin tarp, enabling them to kindle a smokeless fire. They're less concerned now about being seen by unwanted eyes with the light of day peaking over the treetops.
Lydia notes that both of her charges seem tired and withdrawn. It would be a kindness to describe the two men as bedraggled, with dark circles around their eyes and their beards matted into greasy tufts. She can empathize. The shrieking of the wind as it careened around the sharp corners of surrounding crags was nigh unbearable, and it didn't relent until shortly before daybreak. That combined with the generally foreboding environment and the unresolved mystery of Skybound Watch's missing inhabitants made for a singularly restless night.
Torgen's comment about undead draugr while they were inside the pass had troubled her greatly yesterday, but it appears her caution was for naught in the end. Restless though it was, at least the night was uneventful.
They've successfully passed through Skybound Watch with only moderate difficulty and Orphan Rock Vale now lies ahead of them. The worst thing they encountered was that disgusting spider, and it's dead by their hands.
She shudders. She's thankful that she never has to worry about that wretched beast or its fetid innards ever again. Or not in the waking world, that is. The nauseating experience will assuredly haunt her nightmares for the foreseeable future.
But out of all these things, what's troubling her the most this morning is her Thane's well-being.
Case in point – she overhears him muttering to himself as he gnaws doggedly into a hard square of manchet bread. "If that guard in Riverwood was right about the Orphan Rock witches being a hagraven coven, then I'm gonna go straight back to the Sanctuary of Kyne and beat the ever-loving shit out of those godsdamn priestesses. We can see what Balgruuf thinks about that."
Her Thane is in an exceptionally bad mood. In addition to sleeping very little, he must also be feeling some measure of anxiety about their upcoming task, which he's made abundantly clear is a needless waste of time in his opinion.
She can't blame him for that, but she doesn't approve of his blatant blaspheming either. Still, she determines it's best to hold her own counsel on the matter.
She's gotten quite good at that in recent weeks. Antagonizing him at a time like this, even unintentionally, would serve no purpose. She wonders how many times now she's told herself that exact same thing.
Too many. Her Thane is a difficult man, often to his own detriment. He's brought her no small amount of hardship and she's sure he will continue to do so for the foreseeable future.
Without warning, as if in response to that unkind thought, her Thane suddenly twitches and looks sharply at nothing. A scowl darkens his face and he curses vehemently under his breath.
She doesn't ask what's wrong. She isn't sure she wants to know.
This isn't the first time she's noticed his unexplained nervous tick. It's a fairly irregular occurrence, though not to the same degree as it once was. He's been doing it more often recently – staring at things that aren't there or jolting suddenly as if hearing words that aren't spoken.
It doesn't bode well. If they're to confront an unknown number of witches today, then they each need to be at functioning their best. Only the gods know how this quest will turn out if her Thane is jumping at shadows every step of the way.
Having apparently satisfied himself that the archaic chamber's dusty corners hold nothing of interest, her Thane returns his attention to his companions and their fire-warmed meal. He's visibly distracted as he speaks to them for the first time since the previous evening. "What exactly will we be dealing with here? I know there's supposed to be a whole coven of witches down in the vale, but what other information do we have? Numbers, layout, magic, blah blah."
Lydia sets aside her waterskin and straightens on her bench. From the depths of her rucksack, she retrieves the documents her uncle provided pertaining to the Sanctuary's mission. "As you've already said, we must consider the possibility that there will be a hagraven present. I believe that should be our foremost concern. Hagravens are reportedly dangerous and cunning foes, and for that reason we would be wise to take the rumors of a hagraven at face value. As I'm sure you already know, they're mages who have changed themselves using foul spells, sacrificing their humanity in return for power. They should never be underestimated."
She doesn't mention there could always be more than one hagraven. If that's the case, then Orphan Rock could very easily become their tomb.
"Alright, what else? Isn't there something we're supposed to recover from the coven?"
Lydia isn't especially surprised that her Thane has already forgotten the details. "As stipulated in the Sanctuary's letter, our objective is to recover an object of immense value. It's an exceedingly ancient artifact associated with Kyne and the purity of nature, or something to that effect. This item is a ceremonial dagger called Nettlebane."
Her Thane scoffs condescendingly. "'Nettlebane?' What sort of name is that? Bane of Nettles, really? I'm not exactly quaking in my boots here."
Torgen chuckles, sharing his amusement. "A drunk horker could've come up with something better than that. It must've been the idea of some milkdrinking priest. I'm willing to bet on it."
"I myself know next to nothing about it," Lydia answers with only a hint of indignation. Surely the divine relics of Lady Kyne shouldn't be disparaged so, no matter how odd their appellations? "I really couldn't hazard to guess why it's called that. But seeing as it's an object of significance to the Blessed Warrior-Wife, I cannot in good conscience condone such irreverence."
"What do you think the Sanctuary of Kyne wants with it? They wouldn't be making such a big deal out of this if it were just another knife." Her Thane's demeanor hardens once more as his levity falls away. Her quip goes ignored.
"Again, I wouldn't presume to know." She bites her lip as she scans through the rest of the document. She's already reread it multiple times, but it never hurts to make sure. "There isn't much else to go on. I'm afraid the details we've been given are rather scarce."
"Scarce, huh?"
He sighs angrily and tosses aside the remaining half of his manchet loaf. He glares into the smoldering fire, as if silently willing it to burn away those who have antagonized him.
"Let me get this straight. They really expected us to risk our lives taking down an entire coven of gods-know how many witches all for the sake of finding some dusty old dagger, just so they can go back to using it for their holy dances or ass-prickings or whatever? Us?" He waves to encompass their three-man group. "We don't even have a mage, for Shor's sake! What in Oblivion was your uncle thinking when he decided to drag us into this?"
"As Jarl, it is his solemn duty to safeguard the Sanctuary and its interests. He essentially had no choice but to offer his assistance, as failing to do so would've been deeply displeasing to the aristocracy's pro-Stormcloak faction. Whiterun's traditionalist Nord clans endeavor to support the Sanctuary of Kyne in all things due to their religious and cultural inclinations, but evidently that only extends so far as they aren't required to delve into their own pockets. The services of qualified adventurers and mercenaries are always expensive. It isn't surprising that they foisted this issue upon my uncle instead."
"Except for us, since as far as I'm aware we aren't getting paid for this."
Lydia inclines her head. "My uncle couldn't spare any of his men to travel this far south, and nor can he risk gaining the ire of the Jarl of Falkreath by trespassing on his territory. We were already set to take this route on our journey to High Hrothgar, so it was his best option at the time to ask for our cooperation with this task."
Her Thane's already rigid expression tightens even further. "'Ask' is too nice of a word."
"Perhaps. But if it's any consolation, I fully expect you'll receive financial compensation of some form or another when we return to Whiterun with the artifact – if not from my uncle, then surely from the Sanctuary of Kyne. High Priestess Danica Pure-Spring is many things, but unreasonable isn't one of them."
"That's debatable," he grumbles. "So all told, what I'm hearing is that this is because of typical bullshit politics."
She grimaces, unable to hide her distaste for the subject. "Yes. Politics. As Dragonborn, is it really so strange that you'd be caught up in these issues? There are already multiple individuals in the Cloud District who've become aware of the Dragonborn's identity despite that information still being kept secret. And those individuals are unfortunately members of the aristocracy, and are thus the very same people who are most heavily involved in our aforementioned politics."
"Wonderful," he bemoans. "The more I hear about this mess, the happier it makes me."
That, I sincerely doubt.
"I've got a question," Torgen garbles around a mouthful of salted pork. "What do you think the witches are doing out here in the middle of nowhere? This far into the highlands, they're completely isolated from all the major settlements. Helgen's the only exception, and I don't think it counts anymore."
Lydia responds, as it seems she's become the dedicated question-answerer for today. That isn't unusual, seeing as these two men are hardly fit for the task, so she really can't complain. "If they truly are a hagraven coven, then that itself is the answer to your question. Those who consort with such vile creatures are not tolerated in Skyrim, as many of us Nords view their practices as a willful perversion of the natural order. The priestesses of Mara are considered by some to be witches, but they espouse benevolence and the importance of familial ties above all else. Hagravens and their ilk do nothing of the sort. They're revered only by the Reachmen, who are themselves a wretched race of cruel barbarians. Their depredations have garnered them the hatred of practically every nation in northwestern Tamriel."
Torgen hums thoughtfully. "I wonder if Skybound Watch was abandoned by the Stormcloaks or smugglers – whoever they were – because of the witches. I don't think anyone would be stupid enough to live this close to a coven rumored to have a hagraven in their ranks. Maybe they cut their losses and pulled out before things could go pear-shaped on 'em."
"That's as good of a reason as any," her Thane agrees. "Or maybe the witches killed them all and carted them off to harvest their organs. Or raised them as undead thralls. Or sacrificed them to a Daedric Prince in exchange for divine favors."
Torgen gives him the stink eye. "You're full of encouragement this morning, aren't you boss?"
"If it's encouragement you want, you'll need to find yourself someone else to work for," he wryly replies. "I'm still deciding if we should leave this problem for some other poor chump while we go on our merry way. My goal is to get to High Hrothgar. The way I see it, everything else between us and Ivarstead is just an extra helping of shit in the slop bucket."
Lydia wrinkles her nose. Her Thane and the bandit never seem to run out of vulgar proverbs and ridiculous puns. She wonders if they covertly convene behind her back to invent new ones solely to annoy her. Knowing them, she wouldn't entirely rule it out.
Aloud, she interjects before her Thane can continue his budding tirade. "If I may be so bold, I would not recommend that course of action. My uncle will be extremely displeased if we don't return with the Sanctuary's artifact, and he would almost certainly view it as a broken oath on your part. A promise made to a man of high standing isn't something that should be so easily thrown aside."
"I don't care," he frankly and unhesitatingly replies. He doesn't even bother looking up as he pokes at the fire with a black-tipped stick.
"…Oh." Her befuddlement is perceptible even to her own ears. She often forgets that not everyone respects her uncle's authority as she does. You'd think she would've learned with her Thane by now, but it would seem not.
Torgen snickers at her discomfort. She glowers at him, but his smile only widens.
Her Thane drops the poking-stick into the greedy flames and throws up his hands. "I just want to get through the vale without being ambushed. We should give up on this stupidity and focus on reaching Steelhead Pass as quickly as we can instead of messing with a coven over a damn knife. It isn't worth the effort, and all the more so if there really is a hagraven."
"If we walk in there and ask 'em nicely, d'you think they'll let us through without a fuss?" Torgen asks with a touch of sarcasm.
"I don't want to risk getting turned into a human torch for the sake of being neighborly," her Thane replies. "We should go in there prepared for a fight but still do everything we can to avoid one. When we reach the east-west road, we'll turn east into the Pass and start putting distance between ourselves and the vale. Then we can call it a day and move on with our lives."
Torgen nods. "Aye, that's probably the smart way to do it. No objections here, so that works for me." He slaps his meaty hands on his knees and rises to his feet. "Well? Are we ready to brave the unknown wilderness of Skyrim?"
Lydia's mind is whirling as she follows suit. She doesn't approve of her Thane's decision, but there's not much she can do about it at this point. She said her piece and her Thane rejected it. All they can do now is live with the consequences, whatever they might be.
Her Thane rubs his face resignedly. "Ready as we'll ever be. Let's get this over with."
After they finish packing up their supplies and putting out the fire, Lydia takes a few minutes to check and doublecheck her weaponry, armor, and medical supplies, as her father has always instructed her to do when faced with the probability of impending confrontation. She swallows her nervousness, doing her utmost to imitate the calm composure of her two companions. She would never admit to such a thing, but she must duly acknowledge their lack of visible fear as a source of encouragement.
While Lydia and her Thane check over their respective equipment, Torgen mutters his usual prayers to Talos with his pendant clutched tenderly against his broad chest. "Just as you vanquished the Snake and conquered death, so too can you conquer our enemies, oh Ysmir." His voice drones constantly in the background, resonant and low, giving a somber backdrop to the proceedings. Despite her Thane's stated intention to avoid a battle, none of them are optimistic enough to assume their passage through the witches' territory will go uncontested.
As she labors over her gear, she notices a loose strap on the back of her Thane's lamellar armor and reaches over to yank it tight.
"Thanks," he grunts.
"Of course, my Thane. If anything, I am remiss as a housecarl for not arraying you in your armor myself. Fulfilling the duties of a squire is one of the addendums of my oath."
He scoffs. "Then I appreciate you being remiss. Leave me some pride as a man if you don't mind."
She bends down to tie off her bootlaces and simultaneously hides a smile.
Once everything else is ready, they decamp from the ancient outbuilding of Skybound Watch and ascend a broad snow-dusted staircase to the top of the ridge that comprises the northern rim of Orphan Rock Vale. For the second time, they quietly absorb the sight of the wooded terrain awaiting them below.
On the far right, a row of jagged mountains is marching away to the south, bounding the western side of the vale. Their peaks shine brilliantly in the morning sun, indicative of heavy snowfall at the higher altitudes. On the left, the Throat of the World rises high into the sky as a sheer cliff face, so steeply that Lydia is forced to crane her neck to gaze upon the full breadth of its magnificence. Much of the upper mountain is veiled in an impenetrable layer of clouds.
She never would've guessed that Skybound Watch Pass would bring them this close to the Throat of the World. This is the nearest she's ever been to Tamriel's highest peak, including their excursion to White River Watch. It's been a constant presence throughout the course of her life, always looming on the southeastern horizon as an eternal reminder of Kyne's grace for mankind, but that's all it ever was. Something distant and remote.
Now, it isn't either of those things. So close…
It goes without saying that her homeland has many mountains, so this usually wouldn't be a meaningful experience for her. But this is the mountain. She pushes away the impulse to reach out and grasp the imposing peak, knowing that such an action would make her appear childish. But still, the impulse lingers. It's beautiful.
She expected great things from traveling to these sacred lands of Kyne, and although they're still far from reaching their destination, the sheer awe she feels at this sight has already exceeded those lofty expectations.
Her awareness descends to the more proximate topography lying between them and the next portion of their route. The heavily-wooded depression called Orphan Rock Vale is swathed in thick fog, giving the locale a decidedly sinister feel. It's far different from the glorious heights of the Throat of the World, and she has no desire whatsoever to enter this forest's shadowed depths. A coward's sentiment to be sure, but one she struggles with all the same.
Her Thane takes the lead, his boots crunching through patches of grass frozen by layers of white frost. Lydia rests her hand atop the pommel of her sword, taking comfort in its familiar weight, before following in his footsteps. The bandit falls several steps behind to take up the rear of their three-man column.
The treeline begins about halfway down the slope of the ridge. The flora is comprised predominantly of conifers as befitting these higher elevations. The dark green of countless pine needles contrasts heavily with the barren greys and whites of the distant landscape.
The mist is thicker here, almost like the vale is a vessel containing the cotton-like haze. As they pass between the first of the tree trunks, Lydia speaks her mind. "Once we enter the vale proper, our visibility will be severely limited."
Her Thane glances back at her and responds with a wordless grunt. After a few seconds, she realizes he must've already arrived at the same conclusion and has thus judged her input to be irrelevant.
Her cheeks turn warm. They're smarter than they look, Lyd, she chides herself. It's easy for her to forget that her Thane and the bandit, despite their generally unimpressive dispositions, are much more experienced in the ways of the world than she is.
Well, in some respects. In others, they truly are idiots. Torgen's mishap at the tavern in Riverwood and her Thane's argument with her uncle are only two examples that spring to mind.
At least in the case of her Thane, she feels an innate obligation to support and guide him. The bandit, on the other hand… no. None at all. He can continue acting the fool until the day he dies as far as she's concerned.
"Hold up." Her Thane's whispered command stops her in her tracks. She habitually scans the surrounding forest but finds nothing out of the ordinary. Their only present company is mossy grey bark, moisture-laden needles, and a blanket of milky white mist. There are no rabbits, nor squirrels, nor other creatures you might typically expect to encounter in a woodland.
Now that she thinks about it, there is a rather conspicuous lack of wildlife. There aren't any birds fluttering between branches in search of their morning worms, as should be abundant in a place like this.
Something cold and ominous crawls down her spine at the realization. That isn't normal. Surely there should be something, chirping birds or even croaking frogs.
By coincidence, her Thane perfectly gives voice to her thoughts. "This place doesn't feel right," he murmurs.
She agrees that this situation seems less promising with each step they take, but she plays the daedra's advocate as much for her Thane's sake as her own. "Either way, we must continue through the vale. We cannot go around, no matter how much we might wish for that option. The harsh terrain of the highlands would be prohibitive."
Her Thane glances back at her, nods, and continues ahead.
She finds herself constantly looking over her shoulder as they walk further into the forest, painfully aware that they could be attacked at any moment. The knowledge that there might be hostile eyes on them without their knowledge is nothing short of nerve-wracking. A sheen of perspiration accumulates on her brow and her sweaty hair whips back and forth as she strives to keep an eye on both sides of their route between the trees.
They continue creeping quietly through dense gatherings of snow-laden ferns and step over networks of gnarled roots. Lydia is sadly the loudest of the trio and soon gains the understanding that speed and stealth are inversely correlated. She can try to move as quickly as her Thane and the bandit, but her movements become louder. She can try to move almost as silently as they can, but she's reduced to a crawl. It's frustrating, especially because she knows there's nothing she can do about it. The thought that she's becoming a liability to her Thane is shameful in the extreme.
Now that they're immersed in the timbered hollow of Orphan Rock Vale, visibility is at an all-time low and Lydia is no longer sure if they're heading in the right direction. She thinks the sun is still to their left, but the thick haze of moisture around them makes it impossible to confirm. Beads of condensation are collecting on the rim of her shield and the interwoven links of her hauberk, growing more numerous with each minute. The land smells of damp mold, sickly-sweet sap, and musty pine.
In these peculiar woods, she half-expects to catch sight of translucent blue lights dancing between the trees as they herald the appearance of a ghostly elf-woman cloaked in rags, a creature out of the stories she was told as a child. A wispmother would be a perfect fit for a denizen of this vale.
That idea is reinforced in her mind when they stumble across the partially decomposed remains of some animal – a deer, she thinks – on the edge of a snowberry grove. All that's left of the creature is its ragged hide, a smattering of gore-stained bones, and lumps of decaying flesh. Oddly enough, it looks like whoever or whatever killed this creature made the strange choice of gutting it and taking the internal organs while leaving behind the adjacent cuts of more valuable meat. Large black flies are swarming the putrid tissue by the hundreds, inundating the area with a low buzz.
"Phew!" Torgen turns his head and wafts away the stench. "That's been there for a while."
"Hopefully the culprit is long gone by now," her Thane murmurs. "It looks like they were digging around in its innards for alchemical ingredients, and I think we know who that would've been. Damn witches. It's a waste of good food, is what it is."
They tread gingerly around the dissected corpse and move on with more vigilance than before.
As the stench of death fades behind them, Lydia starts to smell something else rising to take its place. It's tangy and acerbic like smoke, but there's something different about it that she can't quite put her finger on. The mist is thickening in concert with the smell, steadily being supplanted by a darker haze of grey and black.
Ahead of her, her Thane holds his nose and grimaces. "Gods above. What are they burning?" He pulls up the collar of his tunic to cover the lower half of his face.
Then the odor slams into her like a physical wall. It isn't like regular woodsmoke. It's revolting, like a fire fueled with mammoth dung but worse. It isn't a scent she's familiar with, and she has no idea what it could possibly be.
"I don't know, boss." Torgen turns in a circle as he scans their flanks and rear with his axe ready for action. "What do you think? Should we turn back and save ourselves some trouble?"
"At this point, I…"
Her Thane pauses and nearly misses a step.
She bumps into his back, jostling his pack and quiver. She steadies herself against a moss-covered log and goes to whisper an apology, but he completely ignores her transgression. Instead he cocks his head to the side like he's listening for something, but when Lydia strains her ears, she doesn't hear whatever it is. The only sounds in this forest are the swaying of tree limbs, the rustling of wind through bunches of needles, and her own soft breathing.
Her Thane says something so quietly that she can't make heads or tails of it. He abruptly turns and looks at them appraisingly. He seems more frustrated than before but also more confident. His features are hard, and she notices new wrinkles parting the skin around his eyes.
"I've changed my mind."
He unexpectedly extends a hand and clamps Lydia's shoulder in a vice grip.
"M-my Thane? What's wrong?"
He meets her gaze. His eyes are an ever-shifting shade of dark green, tired and perpetually angry, but also gleaming with a new inner light that she doesn't much like the look of.
"Listen to me. I don't want to be glancing over my shoulder for the next week, wondering if these witches or hagravens are going to jump out of the shadows and carve us up for dinner. Whatever we find out there, we'll kill it before it can kill us. I won't lie to you, I've never fought hagraven cultists and I'm not sure how this'll go down. But I've seen a lot in my time and so has Torgen. We know what we're doing."
"We do?" Torgen asks.
"Yes. We do. I'm not going to run scared while the witches laugh about it behind our backs. The Jarl can have his damn dagger for all I care, and a kiss on the cheek to go along with it. But those witches will die for standing in our way. So, do you have my back?" he addresses Lydia.
"I-I do," she stutters. "I have your back. I swear it."
He holds her stare, searching for something, and then nods. His strange intensity softens somewhat and he relinquishes his grip on her shoulder without another word.
"What brought this on, boss? Do you need to vent some deep-seated anger, or what?"
He doesn't answer. He seems absorbed in his own thoughts, utterly unknown to the rest of them as he spins on his heel and resumes marching with his strung bow ready in his hands.
Lydia and the bandit share an uneasy look in a rare episode of camaraderie. The older man shrugs and they follow after him, but Lydia can't shake her newfound apprehension. Her Thane was correct earlier in stating that something isn't right, but now she thinks that 'something' is him. She's thoroughly alarmed by his odd and uncharacteristic behavior. This doesn't bode well. What has come over him?
A couple of minutes later, just as Lydia is working up her courage to ask what's wrong, her Thane stops again and looks at her. Seeing that she's already preparing to speak, he silently shakes his head and places a finger over his lips.
Then he motions ahead, prompting Lydia to peer into the gloom. She soon makes out a wavering orange light floating faintly behind a row of trees, gently bobbing up and down. Her thoughts first jump back to the legends of wispmothers, causing her heartbeat to quicken with terror. Then she realizes it's only the glow of a torch being held aloft.
That, of course, means they've found the vale's inhabitants. For better or worse.
Her Thane ducks behind a fallen log and she quickly follows his example – or tries to. She cringes as she accidentally crushes a fallen branch beneath her boot. The accompanying snap is magnified in the soundless fog, almost defeating to her ears.
Her Thane shoots her an exasperated glare and she ducks her head, mortified by her sloppy mistake. Open your eyes, Lyd!
To the right is another patch of shrouded orange fire-glow, this one simultaneously larger but less intense. "That's a lot bigger than a torch," Torgen softly comments. "A bonfire maybe. I wonder if that's where they're burning the source of this foul stench." The smoke hasn't abated, and nor has the nauseating smell permeating the trees.
They had a good view of the vale while atop the high slope to the north, but Lydia doesn't remember seeing any signs of a fire. Not even tell-tale columns of smoke. It must've been kindled recently.
"These have to be our witches," whispers her Thane.
Torgen sidles up behind them. "What's your plan?" he asks quietly. "I hope you have one."
Her Thane adopts a persona of cold professionalism as he deliberates. While he's preoccupied, Lydia carefully removes the splintered remnants of the branch from underneath her boot.
"We need to see what we're up against. One of us should sneak over there and take a look." He scowls critically at Lydia, who shuffles uncomfortably, and then Torgen – specifically at his large frame and battle-axe. "And that should probably be me. You two stay here. I'll be back."
With that brusque directive, he rises from cover to inspect their surroundings before taking several soft steps toward the sputtering firelight. Mere seconds pass before he vanishes noiselessly into the mist like a wraith.
Lydia and Torgen sit in tense silence for an indeterminable amount of time, trying to avoid making unnecessary movements or breathing too loudly. The latter is more difficult than might be expected, as Lydia's nerves are swiftly catching up to her. The forest is still oddly quiet, with no rustling wildlife to break the tense monotony.
As she looks around, her gaze is drawn to the erratic movement of something in the canopy above them. Many somethings, actually.
There are dozens of dead crows and mockingbirds strung up beneath sagging branches, twisting lifelessly in the murky wind. Their black eyes are staring sightlessly at nothing, but a foolish part of Lydia's mind insists they're peering into her soul, convincing her of looming danger. She wonders if every single bird in this forest is among the dead, their flesh and plumage reduced to servitude as the macabre totems of a witch.
She finds herself gripping her sword far too tightly and forces herself to relax. She always heard from her uncle's more elderly warriors that the waiting before combat is the worst part of a battle, and though it seemed strange to her at the time, she thinks that she now understands what they meant. At White River Watch, she had very little time to be nervous between each successive fight. She was far too focused on remaining alert and watchful for threats as they made their way through the caverns occupied by Iron-hand's clan. Here however, she can only wait and hope that nothing bad will happen beyond her control.
It takes a monumental effort for her to avoid leaping into the air from abject fright when her Thane suddenly reappears beneath the shadow of a pine tree, padding warily back to their position. Her Thane may not be a particularly impressive warrior, but he's certainly an experienced woodsman if what she's seen so far is any indication.
He settles into a low crouch as he delivers his report. "There are four of them," he mutters. "All women wearing dark robes, so I think it's a safe bet that these are our witches. I didn't see anything that looks like a hagraven, though there might be a fifth person inside a tent in the middle of their main campsite. We'll take out the two over there first." He gestures to where they saw the torch. "Then we'll turn right, follow a belt of high ground, and kill the next two. If there is a fifth, we can deal with them as needed. Bows are our best option even in this fog. There's too much open space around the encampment to do otherwise, and if we leave a single one of them alive, they could fry us with magic in the blink of an eye."
Lydia nods and sets to rapidly stringing her bow while her Thane turns to Torgen. He removes his pack and produces three bottles with a muted clinking of glass on glass, which she recognizes as the potions of magic resistance he'd purchased in Riverwood. "One of these is for fire resistance and the other two are general magic resistance. Take your pick."
The bandit selects one of the blue-tinted magic resistance draughts.
Her Thane looks back and forth between the remaining two, frowns, and tosses the second potion of magic resistance to Lydia just as she finishes stringing her weapon. She fumbles the valuable bottle but manages to avoid dropping it.
"Bottoms up." Her Thane removes the cork on the fire resistance draught, eyes it critically, and downs the entire thing in a single swig. He swallows the concoction with a rictus of displeasure.
Lydia does the same. Her potion is lukewarm and bitter on her tongue, and it takes all of her willpower not to gag. It tastes like the medicines she was forced to take as a child whenever she had a fever or a common cold.
Her Thane wipes his mouth on his sleeve and returns the bottle to his pack. Lydia and the bandit pass along their own, which join their empty brother. "Torgen, stay here and keep an eye on things. Be ready to move fast if something goes wrong. If not, start working your way toward the camp in a few minutes."
The big man casually handles his axe. "Aye."
"Good. Let's go." With that, her Thane reaches into his quiver retrieve an arrow, nocks it to his bowstring, and treads quietly in the same direction as the faint torchlight. Lydia follows in his footsteps, distinctly less quiet but still sufficient to avoid detection. Or so she hopes.
After less than twenty steps, her Thane halts behind a spruce tree on the edge of a small grassy clearing and leans against the trunk, smoothly sinking into the cover it provides. Abiding by his example, Lydia scrambles behind a neighboring fern to obscure her silhouette.
Her Thane gives an imperceptible nod in the direction of the torch, which she can now see more clearly. The torch is held aloft by a young woman on the other side of the glade, standing in what appears to be a narrow game trail. True to her Thane's description, she's draped in an ankle-length robe of ashen grey. The garment is voluminous enough to obscure her physique or whether she's carrying any weapons. A hood hangs from the back of her collar but isn't currently raised. She appears to be preoccupied with picking berries from a thorny bush.
Her Thane whispers so lightly that she barely hears him. "She's yours. I'll take the other on your shot."
Lydia doesn't see 'the other' of which her Thane has spoken, but she resolves to trust in his judgement. Besides, she doesn't dare raise her head for fear of compromising their position.
Her Thane lifts his bow, steadies his outstretched arm against the side of the tree, and draws.
She mimics him, sans the tree. Even without something to stabilize her aim, she still feels confident in her ability to land a killing shot from his distance. The mist might make it a challenge, but there can't be more than fifteen yards between her and her target, and she's been well-versed in the art of archery from childhood in her capacity as a warrior-in-training. It isn't her greatest skill, but she can hold her own.
The bow strains in her hands, eager to wet her arrowhead with blood. The arrow-fletching tickles her jaw. She inhales, holds, and ever-so-slowly allows the air to trickle from her lungs.
Everything else fades away. In that instant, the entire world is comprised only of herself, her bow, her arrow, and her victim.
She releases the arrow with a sharp twang. A second arrow mirrors her own as her Thane fires at his target.
A shrill cry pierces the hitherto silent mist and her Thane utters a vicious curse.
Lydia initially fears her shot had missed, but that fear proves ill-founded when her witch topples against a nearby boulder with the fletching of her arrow protruding from her chest. She scrabbles desperately at the arrowshaft, still alive but badly wounded. However, it wasn't this witch that had screamed.
"What in Oblivion was that?! She should be dead!" her Thane shouts furiously. "Dammit!"
Her Thane hastily nocks a new arrow as Lydia finally catches sight of the witch he'd been responsible for shooting. She's also a woman in a dark robe. Unlike the first, her hood is drawn over her face so Lydia can't tell if she's young or old. She appears to be unscathed and – more pertinently – is holding a crackling ball of purple lightning between her clasped palms. The spell partially illuminates the mage's sharp features beneath her hood. Her lips are stretched into a fierce snarl.
"It looked like a godsdamn purple raven flew out of nowhere and took the arrow in her place," her Thane barks urgently. "It disappeared right after, but there could be more."
That sounds like a defensive familiar. Lydia hasn't had much exposure to the clever-craft beyond what she's learned from Farengar over the years, but she knows a few minor facts. She's aware that familiars are bound daedra summoned by a mage to do their bidding and that they can take many different forms. Wolves, bears, all manner of other creatures, or even as weaponry like swords and axes. Or in this case, a raven to perish in its master's place.
She doesn't waste breath voicing her thoughts, as she's personally more worried about the witch's Destruction spell about to be unleashed on their position. She belatedly realizes her fern isn't going to give her nearly enough protection.
The witch points her hands at them. The lightning grows brighter and the mist flickers eerily, reflecting the light of the spell. Lydia dashes from behind the fern and ducks behind her Thane's spruce tree, pressing against his leg to minimize the size of her profile. At the same time, a bolt of electricity pulverizes the area where she'd been kneeling.
The poor fern is reduce to a pile of cinders and her hair stiffens with static despite her being several feet away. A resounding thunderclap echoes throughout the forest, causing her ears to ring from the loud noise. If the denizens of the camp weren't yet aware of their assault, then they unquestionably are now.
Acting on the hope that there will be a window between that lightning bolt and the next spell, Lydia leaps out from behind cover and looses a second arrow. She fires simultaneously with another projectile from her Thane.
By chance more than skill, both arrows strike the witch in the torso. She topples backwards and doesn't get back up. One of the arrowheads must've pierced her heart or spine.
Is that both of them?! Lydia hastily searches for the first witch she'd shot. She sighs with relief when she sees that the woman is now slumped motionlessly against that same boulder, which is marred by a downward streak of crimson. The wound from her first arrow must've been fatal. She victoriously bares her teeth, caught up in the adrenaline of her success.
Her impromptu and most definitely premature celebration is cut short by a sort of whooshing noise, followed by a deafening bang from the area where they'd left Torgen behind. Seconds later, frantic rustling comes from that same direction.
"Torgen!" yells her Thane.
"They're on to me!" The bandit's breathless voice warbles through the trees. "That was a fireball! I'll be dead if I don't move, so I'm going for the camp!"
Her Thane curses again and takes off at a sprint, pursuing of the receding sound of the bandit's passage through the undergrowth.
Lydia prepares another arrow as she follows, endeavoring to keep him in her line of sight as she crashes through the low-hanging branches of evergreens and dodges around rain-beaten stones. All pretenses of stealth have been firmly abandoned.
Her Thane draws further ahead, and it isn't long before she only occasionally catches glimpses of his dark form darting lithely through the bushes. She grows irrationally afraid that she'll lose him and become disoriented among these rows of unfamiliar trees.
Just as she's starting to panic, she bursts out of a particularly thick patch of brambles onto a narrow dirt path. The opposite side of the path falls away into a muddy ledge overlooking an encampment swathed in fog. A bonfire is burning brightly in the center of a tight cluster of tents, billowing thickly with smoke. This must be the source of the reeking smog that has infiltrated the forest.
She notices the camp is ringed by a sort of natural ditch, like the moat of an Imperial fortress. A toppled log acting as a bridge is spanning across the ditch, still retaining its branches and roots from the day it was felled. It's an ominously defensible location, which doesn't bode well for them at all.
The sound of a bowstring redirects her attention to her Thane posted up to her left. He fires at another pair of black-clad women near the log bridge, both of whom are standing guard with magic glittering around their fingertips.
Torgen emerges into view while the arrow is still in flight, sprinting on a direct course for the witches. They see him too, and Lydia hastily snaps off her own arrow after her Thane's to support his efforts.
Waves of fire and ice wash over Torgen as he ducks, sidesteps, and twirls his axe with practiced urgency, maneuvering closer to the witches while they inundate him with spells. His rawhide and fur clothing is set alight in some places and frozen solid in others, but he doesn't relent.
As she watches, one of the witches leaps aside to avoid her and Mull's arrows only to be blindsided by Torgen's axe and bisected at the waist. Her intestines spill into a steaming heap onto the forest floor while her disembodied legs go sprawling.
The final witch sprays a gout of frost from her palms that fully envelops Torgen in an impermeable white gale, and Lydia swears under her breath as she struggles to prepare another arrow. She won't be able to save him in time. She's still too far away.
But her concern is proven unnecessary when the man emerges from the miniature blizzard with his shoulders hunched and axe held low, taking step after deliberate step towards his foe. Once he's close enough, he suddenly heaves his weapon around with a mighty roar and slams it into the robed woman's side, pulverizing her ribs and sending her tumbling into the trees with limbs splayed like a ragdoll. The man's beard, eyebrows, and clothing are covered in frost and his trembling lips are blue, but he raises his axe in triumph.
Then her Thane cries out in alarm. "Eyes up! We've got trouble!"
Lydia hears a strange noise from the encampment, a wet sickening cackle like an old crone with lung rot.
She catches a glimpse of a stooped woman with pale sickly skin, clawed fingers, and arms festooned with black feathers. The woman – the creature, more accurately – is standing in the center of the camp, ringed by tents and totems and slabs of stone that look suspiciously like sacrificial hörgs. The red light of the greasy bonfire provides a hellish backdrop that magnifies her malevolence.
The hairs on the back of Lydia's neck stand on end and goosebumps crawl across her skin. When she lays eyes on this deformed woman, she feels instant revulsion at the sheer abnormality of her appearance. She could identify such a creature anywhere. A hagraven!
A sizzling ball of flame erupts from the deformed woman's outstretched palms, shooting toward the housecarl faster than her eyes can follow and trailing a thick tail of smoke. She drops her bow and crosses her arms over her face in a desperate attempt to ward off the attack, regretful that her shield is still strapped to her back to facilitate wielding her ranged weapon and thus completely useless.
A wave of searing heat washes over her body, her feet are lifted off the ground against her will, and her entire world is overtaken by blazing agony.
-x-
Mull can only watch in impotent horror as the hagraven's fireball plows into the earth right in front of his housecarl and detonates violently, sending the girl flying backwards.
She crashes to the ground in a smoking heap. She doesn't utter a single sound, not even a mewl of pain.
That guardsman in Riverwood said there could be a hagraven here, and it looks like he was right. Mull curses their ill fortune.
Although he's never seen one of these ugly creatures in person, he's heard more than his fair share of stories detailing their mercilessness and brutality. He can't quite remember where, but he remembers once learning that hagravens' favorite delicacies are fresh eyeballs. He sincerely hopes that's nothing more than a wives' tale.
The hagraven turns to face him with yellowed teeth bared in a repulsive smirk. She's a horrific specimen. Her body is a grotesque amalgamation of sinewy white flesh, jet-black plumage, stark blue veins writhing beneath papery skin, and lank grey hair.
She conjures another fireball in her bloodless palm as she shrieks with guttural laughter, a sound like chalk scraping on stone that no human being could hope to replicate.
Mull knows very little about magic, but he's pretty sure summoning three fireballs in a row should be an impossible feat for most mages.
Torgen shouts from nearby. "Boss! What do we do?!"
"I'll get Lydia, just keep that thing busy!" Mull practically screams as he throws his bow aside and dashes straight for his housecarl, praying to whichever gods might happen to be listening that the hagraven's next spell will miss. It's about all he can do at this point, caught out in the open as they are.
He hears a sonorous fwoom, unmistakably the echo of another spell being fired off.
"Look out!"
A dazzling light blazes to life in the corner of his eye. He dives onto his shoulder and rolls in an attempt to stay as low to the ground as possible while still on the move. The incoming spell – another fireball – lances across his upper back and misses by a margin of inches, leaving a line of scorched leather and charred skin in its wake. It crashes into the trunk of a stubby conifer some ten yards away and explodes on impact, obliterating the lower section of the tree and sending chunks of smoldering wood tumbling in every direction.
The remains of the tree ponderously collapse to the earth. Clouds of sparks scatter into the fog, lighting the forest with a dull amber glow.
Mull scrambles to his feet and runs a few more yards, ignoring the stripe of agony across his back as it pulses with each impact of his boots against the earth. He skids to a halt next to Lydia and reaches for her.
Meanwhile, Torgen charges the hagraven with a fierce battle-cry. The only way to enter the entrenched camp is by way of the log bridge. Torgen bounds across the fallen tree with his axe poised to descend on their avian enemy. As he approaches, the hagraven prepares yet another flame spell.
Mull wraps his arms underneath Lydia's shoulders and drags her behind a nearby rock, swearing viciously all the while. Once they're in cover, he props her up against the cold stone and examines her for injuries.
She's visibly breathing, which is always a good start, but the rest of her isn't quite so good. The front of her chainmail hauberk is glowing orange with residual heat, her clothing is burnt to tatters, the tips of her brunette locks are singed, and her arms are covered in blackened blisters. Luckily it looks like her face was protected from the worst of the magic by her arms, or else she might not have survived.
All things considered, she's really damn lucky. If that fireball had been a direct hit, she definitely wouldn't have survived. Her potion of magic resistance probably helped, but even it couldn't negate something like that. He curses again, incensed that he hadn't chosen to give her the fire resistance draught instead.
He digs though his housecarl's satchel and knapsack, but all of the girl's potions are empty or were destroyed by the fireball's concussive force. He tips over the satchel, allowing the intermixed contents of her smashed vials to spill onto the root-gnarled earth. With no other options, he takes one of his own healing potions from his pack and pours it over the young woman's horribly-scalded arms.
That's all he has time to do as Torgen urgently calls for assistance, his voice cracking with desperation. "Can I get a little help?!"
"Hold on!" He inspects his comatose housecarl one last time before drawing his sword and running back into the fray. Adrenaline numbs the pain of his burn to a dull throb.
Torgen is locked in confrontation the hagraven in the center of the witches' encampment. They're circling around the bonfire, which he now sees is actually an altar that's been set aflame. The source of the fire is a torched hunk of wood approximately the same size and shape as a person, with warped limbs and a blackened head. As he draws closer, he perceives that it's the source of the vale's foul-smelling smoke.
The hagraven continues to throw out a ridiculous number of fire spells, and although he's certainly no expert, Mull assumes it's far more magic than the average man could ever hope to produce in a single battle. Several of the camp's tents and totems have been set on fire.
Torgen dodges and weaves around the spells. His agility is impressive considering his age and physique, but he's already starting to look a little well-done. More worryingly, Mull sees long ragged gashes running down his arms and torso, and matching rivulets of blood dripping from the hagraven's elongated claws.
He dashes across the log bridge, yells from the furthest depths of his lungs, and leaps at the hagraven with his sword raised. The avian creature reacts to his charge by jumping aside, narrowly avoiding a whistling swing of his blade. She retaliates by lashing out with her claws.
Mull deflects the first swipe, but the second one leaves stinging lacerations along his left arm. He growls at the hagraven and she crows tauntingly back.
Having used Mull's distraction to circle around the altar, Torgen comes up on their opponent's flank and tries to eviscerate her with his axe. The hagraven dances out of the way, slashing again her talons and forcing him to back off.
She then whirls on Mull just as he prepares to thrust his sword into her navel. The creature's sudden movement throws off his aim and his blade slips past her ribs as she tries to rip out his throat.
He saves himself by tucking his chin into his chest and twisting away, but he's left with more long burning cuts across his pectoral and left shoulder. He recoils away from the blow. The hagraven conjures a wall of roiling fire behind herself to forestall Torgen and stalks towards Mull with her claws raised menacingly. Her coal-black eyes are twinkling with unrestrained malice.
Behind his approaching adversary, Mull sees a shadow appear in the sputtering flames. Torgen dives out of the fire with his rawhide armor and fur cloak wholly set ablaze. He takes a second to reorient himself and sees that his enemy is facing away. With a ferocious grin, he directs a savage vertical chop at the hagraven's head.
The creature ducks away in the nick of time but can't quite avoid having one of her arms severed at the elbow. A guttural screech rings out as she clutches her bleeding stump, glaring at Torgen with some of the most visceral hatred that Mull has ever seen. More flames blaze to life in her remaining hand, twining hungrily around shriveled fingers.
She doesn't get the chance to use them.
Mull delivers a sweeping slash down the hagraven's back, extracting another scream and sending the creature reeling at Torgen's feet.
The hagraven is silenced when Torgen removes her malformed head from her feathered shoulders with a brutal swipe, his form mimicking that of an executioner. Her decapitated body stumbles a few steps before collapsing at the foot of the fiery altar.
Mull and Torgen share a 'holy shit' look before simultaneously releasing heavy breaths, groaning at their injuries and strained muscles.
The older man falls to one knee. "Shor save me. Killing a hagraven of all things… and we got away with just a few scrapes," he woozily jokes. "Who would've thought?"
Mull doesn't deign to respond. The scratches from the hagraven's claws hurt terribly, and they're probably going to become infected if the unbearable itching is any indication. Just thinking about the filthy creature's talons is enough to make him wince.
He leans heavily against one of the few remaining upright totems and examines the camp. Much of it has been burned to a crisp by the hagraven's fireballs, but there are a few other items that have been left untouched. There's a pentagonal wooden table covered in runes and the bones of various animals, probably a setup used for enchanting. There are also numerous preserved plants and alchemical reagents hanging from clotheslines and drying on racks.
Most noteworthy of all however, is the strangely-shaped bundle of lumber resting on the altar-turned-bonfire, still smoldering from the flames that distributed its oily vapors across the whole forest. He finds upon closer inspection that it isn't a normal stack of wood. "What is that?"
It appears to be a vaguely humanoid and feminine effigy, like a tree that's been carved into the shape of a woman, but the flow of its shapely limbs is too natural and even to have been crafted by mortal hands. Its head is adorned with branching protrusions like the antlers of a mature buck. It's bark-like skin and delicate facial features have been badly marred by the fire, and if it was once a living being, it isn't anymore.
Here in close proximity, he cringes from how awful the fire smells. The stench from earlier definitely originated with this thing.
"That's a spriggan, boss. Or it was," Torgen informs him. "See how it looks like it was grown out of a tree? They're rare, and I've never seen one myself. Folks say they're forest-dwelling servants of Kyne, so I'm guessing it isn't an accident that these witches killed one and stole a relic from the Sanctuary. Maybe they're connected somehow."
He pokes the dead spriggan with his axe. A portion of its ligneous flesh disintegrates as it comes into contact with the unyielding steel axehead.
"I couldn't tell you why it smells so damn bad. The hagraven must've done something to it, some sort of evil witch magic to turn it rancid. There are tales about witches carrying grudges against Kyne's servants for one reason or another. But hell if I know."
Ah. That reminds Mull of the knife with the stupid name, Nettlebane. Now that they're here, they might as well find it and take it with them. Maybe it'll keep Balgruuf from popping a blood vessel when they return to Whiterun with his niece roasted like a duck.
Lydia…
He stands and glares at their surroundings, shrouded in a fog made worse by smoke from the burning tents. "We shouldn't stay here any longer than necessary." He needs to get Lydia up and going so they can vacate the premises. The sooner they're out of this vale, the better. "See if this place has anything worth taking. Find the dagger and hold onto it."
"Couldn't agree more," Torgen concurs. He stretches his arms, cringes from his aggravated wounds, and slowly starts making his rounds through the camp.
Mull doublechecks that the hagraven is dead – yes, its head is off, but with creatures of magic it never hurts to check twice – before cautiously navigating the log bridge and returning to Lydia's location.
"Be sure to harvest the hagraven's claws and feathers," he calls back to Torgen. "Those are rare ingredients in alchemy and can be sold for a lot of septims."
"Will do."
He finds the housecarl right where he left her. Her burnt arms are still cracked and bleeding, but they've recovered somewhat thanks to his healing potion earlier. Steam is rising from her rapidly cooling hauberk, no longer red-hot from the fireball. Her skin is covered in a sheen of sooty sweat.
But what troubles him the most are her strained features, eyes screwed shut, and mouth twisted into a pained grimace. Her limbs jerk this way and that as she thrashes about in some indecipherable fever dream.
"That can't be good," he breathes.
He kneels next to the young woman and places a hand against her damp forehead.
"She's burning up. Godsdammit. Something's wrong with her."
He produces another healing potion, opens it up, and shoves it into the housecarl's mouth, coincidentally mirroring her treatment of himself at White River Watch. The lifegiving panacea flows down her throat unobstructed.
Her cheeks gain color and her burns fade away, but she's still acting distressed in her comatose state. Irrational panic clutches at his heart.
So he gives her another one, and another, and another. The vermilion liquid from three more bottles mixes together in Lydia's stomach, one of which is an expensive potion of regeneration – making for five total – comprising the entirety of his remaining supply. Torgen only had a two or three, and he'll probably need those for his own wounds.
By the time the housecarl has swallowed the last of the concoctions, her physical condition has improved dramatically. Her expression has lightened, her frenetic movements have stopped, and her hot skin has turned clammy. Her eyes even crack open once or twice, though she never regains total awareness.
He recalls that magic and potions can be finicky when it comes to concussions, if that's what this is. He experienced that for himself after the battle at the Western Watchtower. He just hopes this is enough to fix everything that's wrong with her.
He sighs in satisfaction and roughly pokes her abdomen, ribs, and sternum. The young woman doesn't react negatively to his prodding. "Good. You're alright now, I think. So let's find a way to move you."
He pauses to study his housecarl's pale face, sullied with grime and blood. She almost looks peaceful as she lays on her bed of dead leaves and moss.
A twinge of regret resonates in his chest. Dammit. I should've planned this better. I left far too much to chance. It's true that no plan survives the clashing of swords, but still. That's no excuse for a screwup of this magnitude.
It was a moment of weakness, nothing more and nothing less. He knew from the start that the smart thing to do would've been to leave behind Orphan Rock without attacking the coven. It was the obvious choice.
But Mirmulnir… that godsdamn dragon took advantage of him, whispering incessantly from the very instant he woke up this morning, urging him to prove that he deserves to be called one of the dov.
It all started with that dream last night, where he saw the world of an Era long ago through the eyes of Mirmulnir as he soared through the clouds. It wasn't just a vision. He was the dragon, thinking his thoughts and feeling his emotions. He descended on that ancient temple with dignity and self-righteous splendor, taking pleasure in the death of that person who was sacrificed. He laughed at the pitiful attempts of the mortals to win his affections. He looked down on them as insects fit to live at his whims and nothing more.
It affected him in ways he couldn't begin to explain. He felt a little better after breakfast and thought the worst of it had passed, but… he was wrong. Mirmulnir didn't leave him alone.
He whispered, and whispered, and whispered. He whispered of death and flame and shadows and war, urging Mull to show the world why he, as an individual, matters in the grand workings of the Arena. He admonished him for failing to adequately display his power and the strength of his blade.
Those insidious words slowly and steadily wormed their way into his mind over the course of the morning, overtaking his own thoughts and subduing his common sense. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He snapped like a rotten bowstring and the dragon won. Mirmulnir's desires became his own.
Deep down, a part of him was eager to go hunting for those witches and make them bleed for daring to inconvenience him. It's the same part of him that revels in violence and bloodshed, and in bearing witness to the miseries of others. It's the part of him that Morven helped bury.
Mirmulnir isn't at fault for this. The blame lays squarely on his own shoulders, because the ghostly dragon only opened the way for what was already there, hiding and waiting for an opportunity to pounce.
He just wanted to ruin somebody's day, to make himself feel bigger and badder. That's all there was to it. And look how that turned out.
What a stupid reason for this girl to have almost gotten killed, he growls at himself. If she died because of me, Hrongar would mount my head on a wall.
And honestly, he still might. Dragonborn or not.