Cycle I: Life Is Short in Skyrim

Chapter 5: Simpler Than the Blade

The cold walls of the hallway narrowed into a steep descent, where the stone steps led to a wide, open passage inside the keep. Laira paced as quickly as she could after Ralof, lugging her scavenged sword and shield, while the horse thief creeped a few feet behind her back. When they reached the middle of the passage, the ground suddenly shook as the dragon roared outside the walls, staggering Laira onto her knees. Before Ralof could take another step, he stopped in his tracks, barely dodging the rubble that nearly fell on his head as the ceiling collapsed to the dragon's weight.

With nowhere else to go, he turned left to the nearest open door, and they stumbled upon what appeared to be a storeroom. Braids of garlic and dried herbs hung from a large, iron ring fitted to the ceiling, alongside whole rabbits and pheasants with the skin still intact. A mess of bottles, tankards, and loaves were scattered about the paltry cupboards, and stacks of barrels were tucked away in the corner of the room. Voices came from behind the tall, wooden shelves as a pair of Imperial soldiers moved about, gathering supplies.

The moment Ralof had cast his shadow on the ground, the soldiers immediately charged at him with their sharp, steel blades. Laira raised her shield high in front of her cowering eyes, holding it as close as she could to her body and backing away from the danger. The enemy soldiers, dressed in the same colors as her armor, only seemed ignore her presence. With a blade yet to come her way, she peeked from the corner of her shield, and she watched as Ralof struggle against a barrage of strikes, dodging and parrying stabs and slashes from opposite directions. Meanwhile, the horse thief had disappeared out of sight.

Ralof ducked from the swing of a blade, then he struck a soldier with the handle of his axe. But, he took a kick to the stomach and momentarily staggered towards an empty cupboard. His axe began to dull against the thick leather and iron covers of his opponents' armor. And when Laira saw the edge of a blade cut deep into his arm, spilling his blood, she knew that she couldn't just abandon him. She owed her life to that man. Gathering all her courage, she ignored the knots in her stomach and the numbness in her feet. And she suddenly charged at one of the soldiers with a desperate battle cry, cracking her voice.

The soldier effortlessly blocked her attack with his shield, causing Laira to fall on her back as the weight of her armor pulled her down. He crept closer with his blade, turning his attention to her, vulnerable on the hard ground. But as he was about to strike, Ralof saw his opening and took the chance to make a fatal blow. More blood spilled, then he turned to finish off his other enemy with three swift chops to the Imperial's bare knees and neck.

Laira winced to the sight of more blood spurting onto the wooden posts and pooling on the stone floors. But a twisted sense of relief overrode her prolonged state of shock, grateful for what was left of her quick and shallow breaths. Ralof was right. It was the enemy's life, or theirs. Though she was beginning to stomach the gore, Laira remained cold and pale, as she collapsed in a lumbering pile of armor on the ground.

Ralof stood in front of her, panting heavily, all covered in his blood and sweat. He leaned in and extended his hand to help her up, yet again. Clasping his forearm, she noticed the cut near his bicep, gushing into crimson lines towards his gloved wrist. She took a closer look at the wound as she got up.

"You're hurt," she looked at his chiseled arm, caressing his pale skin near the bright red laceration. Then, her gaze met with his limpid, blue eyes.

"It's just a flesh wound," he brushed it off, taking her hand and moving it away from his injury. "Nothing that a little healing potion can't fix."

"A potion?" Laira repeated as her eyes lit up in excitement, and her eyebrows raised in skepticism. Then again, she shouldn't have been too surprised at the idea of magical concoctions, given that a dragon was wreaking havoc, just outside the keep.

"Aye, Let's see if we could find one in this storeroom. Have a look in those barrels. I'll check over here," Ralof said as he applied pressure to the wound with his hand, and his own blood joined the mix of crimson stains on his fur covered glove.

Laira gave him an affirmative nod as she made her way to the corner of the room, wondering what a healing potion would even look like. She assumed it would be in a pretty, glass bottle, glowing in magical colors like in most movies and RPGs. As she looked through each barrel, she was disappointed to find them all empty, save for the piles of salt lining the bottoms. Then, she was startled by the sound of rummaging from above her head. She saw a head of brown hair ducking under the ceiling, as a raggedy man stood atop an elevated platform, digging through another open barrel in the dark.

"Horse-Thief? Where the hell have you been?" She called him out. Just as she had thought she could count on him, he had snuck away in their time of need.

"Uh…Gathering provisions?" The thief sheepishly grinned at her as he raised a half-filled burlap sack in his hand. The man surely had some nerve, just not of the right kind.

"Then, you'd better share," she snapped at him. "Any healing potions?"

The thief darted his eyes, hesitating for a brief moment. Then, he stuck his hand in the burlap sack, shuffling around its contents, and pulled out a tiny vial in his palm.

"I only got one."

"Really?"

"Already drank the rest. These burns were killing me," the thief said, showing off his uneven, leathery scars that had once been seething, red blisters around his wrists. "Not to mention falling on my face."

Then, he tossed her the vial from a height, without warning. Laira nearly fumbled the catch, juggling the potion in her hands, but she managed to get a grip.

"Next time, give me a heads-up," she complained.

Holding the vial up to the candlelight, she took a closer look. It was made of thick, blown glass resembling dull garnet, topped with a simple cork. There were no labels or any magical afterglow to indicate its purpose, just the same shade of artificial cherry red as the prescription bottles back home.

"Are you sure this is the right one?" She asked.

"It's red, isn't it?" The thief replied in a deadpan tone.

"How's that supposed to tell me anything?"

The thief just shrugged, and he went back to his rummaging. Laira closed her eyes and gave him a sharp exhale before she turned her back against the barrels. Then, she hobbled past the two corpses piled up by the wooden post, just barely able to ignore her lightheadedness at the passing sight. She approached Ralof, who was leaning over the drawer of a cupboard, digging through its bare contents. He scooped up the junk from the drawer, nothing more than a dull kitchen knife and a linen rag, and chucked them at a nearby table in frustration. The utensil clinked against a bottle of wine as it was knocked down towards the rag.

"Horse-Thief found one!" Laira called to him, holding out her arm with the vial in hand.

"He's still here? I thought that coward abandoned us," Ralof grumbled as he slammed the drawer shut. "Just as I was starting to believe he'd turned a new leaf."

"That's what I thought, too. Any luck?"

"No, nothing."

"Here," Laira urged, holding the vial towards him. "I'm not even sure if it's the right one, but he said it was all he got."

"Hmph, like I'd believe that," Ralof scoffed. "But it looks to be the right one."

"Take it. I'll go look for more," Laira said as she pushed the vial closer towards his face, waiting for him to grab it.

Ralof averted his gaze from the vial and studied the caked up blood at the corners of her dry lips. He saw the dark bruising beneath her chin and gently lifted it up with the side of his finger to inspect the injury. Laira let out a soft gasp, startled by his sudden action.

"I can make do without it," he refused the potion. "You need it more than I do."

"But you're bleeding!"

"I insist," he said, putting his hand over her fingers, and he gently pushed the vial in her hand closer to her chest. "The pain will only catch up to you after the rush."

"Okay," Laira reluctantly took the vial, both out of concern over Ralof's injury and apprehension towards the strange substance. Then, she saw the bottle of wine toppled over the knife and the linen. "But let me help you, first."

She grabbed the mishmash items from the table as Ralof stared at her hasty movements. Then, Laira popped the cork off the bottle and brought its lip to her nostrils, scrunching the bridge of her nose to the astringent smell of the strong spirit.

"This'll do," she muttered to herself, and Ralof furrowed his brow in bewilderment.

"Now's not the time for that," he said to the madwoman in front of him.

Then, Laira held the clean rag between the blade of the kitchen knife and her thumb. She took the corner of the rag between her teeth and ripped it into little, white strips. As she started dousing them in the alcohol, Ralof's eyes widened, as her bizarre antics finally began to make sense.

"You're a healer?" He asked, willingly holding out his arm for her, and she gently scrubbed the wound with one of the disinfected strips.

"I just took a few classes in basic first aid. CPR certified and all," Laira shook her head. Then, she rambled on as she carefully wrapped the bandage around his arm. "It's a miracle I even remember anything. Well, my parents wanted me to go to med school, but… Oh, never mind. I'm almost finished."

"I have no idea what you just said, but we could sure use someone like you in the battlefield," Ralof smiled warmly at her. "But you should take care of yourself, too. Go ahead, take that potion and let's get out of here."

Laira blushed at his compliment as she finished securing his dressings. Then, she grabbed the vial she had put aside. She popped the vial open and peeked into its little mouth, eyeing the dark, viscous substance ooze from its bottom to its lip.

"I just drink this stuff, right?" She asked, sniffing the questionable liquid. It reeked of moth balls and stale herbs.

Ralof nodded, though slightly confused at Laira's ignorance, and she hesitantly downed the vial's contents. It was as sickeningly sweet as children's cough syrup, yet simultaneously as bitter as over-steeped tea and stuck to the back of her throat. Oddly enough, she enjoyed the strange and medicinal taste, especially as she felt the visceral pain in her gut slowly begin to dissipate. In time, her lungs began to clear the heavy smoke she had breathed, hacking phlegm traced with black soot, and her shoulders stopped aching from the blunt trauma.

"That…wasn't as bad as I thought," she said in between a few harsh coughs into another linen rag.

"Good. Let's get a move on, then," Ralof urged as he put a hand on the back of her armored shoulder, and they continued down the exit, past the barrels.

There, the horse thief continued to rummage through the containers and piles of hay atop the wooden platform, stuffing all sorts of bottles and foodstuffs into his burlap sack.

"Found everything you need, thief?" Ralof called out as they paced ahead of him.

Startled, the horse thief got down from his station and followed the pair as the ground shook once again. As the three of them continued down the keep, they descended into a harshly bright, underground room. There were no windows, but the bolts of arcane lightning from an ensuing battle flashed against the gruesome devices scattered about. Three large, iron cages stood on one side of the chamber, and a trail of blood led to each of their doors. A slew of heavy, iron weapons, all covered in gore, hung from the racks behind the much larger iron bars guarding the armory on the other side.

At the center, past a stone pillar, a pair of Stormcloak rebels clashed their arms with an Imperial torturer and his burly assistant. As soon as he recognized their colors, Ralof rushed at the torturer with his axe, snuffing the bright lights out of the dark, musty room as his enemy collapsed in a pool of his own blood. But, he was too late, as one of the other Stormcloaks already fell to the ground, jolting erratically into a spastic heap of burned flesh in his own armor. With the other surviving Stormcloak, Ralof attacked the torturer's assistant from the side, while his comrade took the behemoth head-on, dodging the heavy swings of his two-handed battle axe. Laira could only watch as Ralof struck the fatal blow to his opponent's head, while the other rebel managed to get the hulking soldier to keel over, and the giant collapsed to their feet.

"Was Jarl Ulfric with you?" Ralof asked his comrade as he caught his breath and wiped the blood off his axe.

"No, I haven't seen him since the dragon showed up," the Stormcloak replied, sheathing his weapon.

"Then, you'd better join us. We're getting out of here," Ralof said as he rushed to the end of the chamber, stopping before the iron cages. "Wait a second. It looks like there's something in this cage."

He caught Laira's attention, and as she approached, she saw the body of a wizard slouched inside the center cage, frozen in rigor mortis. From up close, Laira caught a whiff of the decay and noticed the mage's dilated eyes. Even after all she had witnessed, she couldn't help but shudder, thinking of how the mage could have met his demise. Ralof noticed that she completely missed the open coin purse at the side of the mage's pockets. It spilled a handful of gold on the cold, metal floor. Ralof shook on the grates, trying to get it open, but to no avail.

"Ah, its locked. See if you can get it open with some picks. We'll need that gold when we get out," Ralof said to Laira, handing her a stack of skinny, metal hooks and rods.

Laira had never picked anything beyond a cheap combo lock in her life. But unable to refuse Ralof's eager stare, she reluctantly took the picks and clumsily stuck them into the keyhole. As she twisted and turned them in random directions, the brittle rods snapped with each futile try.

"Oh, give it here!" The horse thief suddenly approached her, snatching the picks from her hands. He opened the lock with one smooth, effortless attempt and smiled giddily at Ralof.

"Why am I not surprised?" Ralof sighed, staring blankly at the thief. Then, the two of them started grabbing at the valuables scattered around the cage.

"Try to see what else you could find. Anything could be of use," Ralof told Laira, and she rushed from his side as the room gently shook, sprinkling fine gravel at the top of her head.

Laira wore her shield on her back to free up both her hands, and she tried to grab everything she could in sight. She took a half-empty knapsack sitting on a table, and stuffed a nearby black, leather book and some coins inside of it. As she made her way into the barred armory, she hurriedly shoved every bottle, tankard, and book into her sack. Turning around, she saw the rack of gore-stained weapons and was innately drawn to a solitary iron mace that hung on the edge of the display. She reached out to it and noticed its dull spikes were covered in a thin layer of rust, but no blood.

Taking the mace in one hand, she removed it from the rack. Its unexpected weight yanked at her arm, and it hung down like a heavy kettlebell between her staggered feet. Despite its shorter handle, it took both arms for her to lift the mace above her hips. Grabbing it with both hands near the butt end, she held it over her shoulder, swung backwards like a baseball bat. Ralof chuckled at the sight.

"Interesting choice," he said, as he approached her. Then, he studied her form, and spoke again. "Some say that the bludgeon is simpler than the blade."

"Huh?" Laira paused, blinking at him in confusion.

"It requires less technique, but it doesn't mean it's for idiots," he explained, taking her left hand in his calloused grip, removing it from the weapon.

Ralof took her right hand, and he adjusted her grip on the mace, moving her shoulder into a less awkward position. She felt the weight of the bludgeon working her back and core, but it felt more balanced.

"That way, you still have a free arm for your shield," he said as he reached over her shoulder to grab her shield from her back and slid it onto her open forearm. Then, he raised the shield, just beneath her eyes. She looked back into his smoldering gaze from behind the obstruction as her arm grew sore from the weight of her weapon.

"Keep your guard up," he reminded her, peering over the diagonal edge of the kite shield. Then he gently squeezed her upper arms from behind, cueing her to pull her shoulders back. Sudden heat built up around her shoulders, startled by his solid touch. Laira flexed her muscles, trying to coordinate herself to his ideal form.

"Put your chest out, shoulders back," he instructed her. Then, he firmly pressed a gloved hand against the unarmored curve of her lower spine. Just a layer of leather and fur stood between their skin. Then, he breathed another cue unexpectedly close to her ear. "Engage your core."

Laira took a nervous inhale, then she sucked her abs into her stomach, straightening her spine. She swore, that man was more intense than her hot yoga instructor. Ralof lightly cupped his hands beneath her elbows, inspecting her form from the waist up. Then, he wedged his foot between her ankles, dragging it to the side to further widen her stance.

"Feet apart," he said sternly, and he firmly pushed down against her shoulders with each hand, as his knee gently pressed against the back of hers to a soft bend. "And keep your center low."

She took another deep breath in and out, trying to maintain her form. Her muscles began to burn from the weight of the mace and the armor. And when he decided her form was good, Ralof put one hand on her shoulder and one at her hip, gently pulling her torso into a slight twist. He stood at her back, and braced her right arm with his own, grasping the hilt of the weapon.

"Brace yourself, and put your weight into the swing," he spoke, physically guiding her through the motion of the attack, and she felt his breath whisper through the opening at her helm.

As she slightly dropped her shield, trying to go through the motion alone, he firmly lifted her guard arm. He kept the shield level just under her eyes, yet his gaze still pierced her from behind the defense.

"Remember, keep your guard up," he said, taking a step back and drawing his axe.

"Ready?" He asked, flexing back with his weapon. Laira gulped nervously.

"No—GYAAAH!"

Dull metal clashed, as he suddenly charged in for an attack. Laira successfully blocked his strike with her startled cry, pushing her weight onto the shield.

"Good. Now, hit me," he said, arm at the ready. She went in for the swing, and he effortlessly parried the hit with his weapon. Laira slightly staggered back from the recoil of her own strength, while Ralof put his axe back in his belt and gave her a proud grin.

"That'll do. Let's keep moving," he said, grabbing a torch off the wall before leading her into the dark hallway ahead. She followed him, hanging her weapon by the belt. Her breathing began to slow as she walked, coming down from her rush.

The nameless Stormcloak waited for them at the end of the hallway, where locked, iron cells were lined up on each side, carved into the natural cave. Laira could see the old, dry skeletons trapped in the tiny caverns, utterly alone. Most of the cells had been opened. As they walked past the dingy prison, she nearly tripped over the horse thief's back. He was crouched down by a cell door, attempting to pick the lock.

"Wait for me. Just one more," he called to them. "Never know if you'll find something useful under those bones."

Laira just shuddered, and she continued to walk behind Ralof's torchlight towards the looming darkness.

つづく To be continued...