Chapter 6
He's on the road for three days after his departure from Riverwood, trekking along winding unpaved trails through a range of heavily-forested hills to the town's immediate north. It's rough country, a lonely corner of the boreal wilderness bereft of human habitation. Animals scurry heedlessly among the trees, unconcerned by his presence. Birds chirp and caw from their well-defended nests and high-branched perches. Swift-flowing streams and tumbling waterfalls doggedly navigate the undulating terrain in their relentless search for the White River, somewhere downhill to the east.
In some ways it's nice to be alone again. That persistent tension clouding the air between him, Ralof, and Hadvar is no longer present. There are no more mindless conversations needing to be grudgingly endured. It's just him and the qualities of the natural world.
But in other ways, not so much. For starters, he's stalked by a pack of wolves for the entire first two days. Never an enjoyable situation to be in.
Whenever they wander too close, he stomps around and makes some noise to scare them off, but they never leave him alone for long. Although he isn't unduly worried about being attacked, it's simply common sense to never turn your back on a wolf, and especially not in Skyrim. The wolves here are markedly larger and more aggressive than those of Cyrodiil or anywhere else he's traveled. His initial guess is that it might be because of the war. Wolves are prolific scavengers, after all. Eat enough dead men, and the live ones probably start to smell just as tasty.
He doesn't seriously contemplate killing them unless they decide to attack him directly, which they don't seem willing to do. That would be inviting the entire pack to rush him all at once, and the likelihood of surviving something like that would be prohibitively low.
Every night he suffers from a new slew of nightmares, and he soon finds himself looking forward to reaching Whiterun if only to get an actual good night's sleep. One thing he discovered in Riverwood is that getting hammered is a dependable way to guarantee a dreamless night – though the pounding headaches and awful dry mouth that inevitably assailed him each morning were almost bad enough to dissuade him from his newfound strategy. 'Almost' being the key word there.
The forest begins to thin out during the second day, gradually giving way to patches of drier heathland. Before long, the trees have been completely replaced by meadows of wild grass and open sky. The scouring winds of the high plains soon cause his eyes to dry out and his lips to become chapped.
Around noon on the third day, he crests a steep boulder-strewn ridge to find himself looking down over the windswept plains of Whiterun Hold, free of snow in the tail end of summer – something that will change drastically in the next few months, according to Ralof. Hundreds of homesteads, farmer's fields, and little villages are scattered across the fertile flatlands below him. The glittering ribbon of the White River meanders away in the east on its long journey to the frigid northern seas. Distant mountains shine purple and white in the far distance, their peaks just barely rising above the horizon. It's a breathtaking sight.
However, this vista's most distinctive feature is a sprawling stone-walled city situated on a broad-based hill in the immediate foreground. Whiterun. Damn, that place is big.
From his current vantage, he speculates that the entire town of Riverwood could easily fit within the city walls at least five or six times over. And that isn't even considering the number of people. Riverwood was a spread-out town. This city looks much more dense.
Beyond that, it's difficult to make out many details from this distance beyond an uncountable number of grass-gold roofs peeking above the walls and a particularly large triangular building at the summit of the city's hill. This is probably the third-biggest city he's ever seen after Elinhir and Riften, and he only ever saw Riften from a distance.
He stares at the city for another few minutes before shaking himself out of his stupor and setting off at a downhill trot. Ahead, vast plots of yellow wheat and a colorful variety of other crops draw steadily closer, marking the periphery of the city's expansive pale of settlement. The farther he goes into these townlands, the more people there are out and about. Some are toiling away in their fields, sowing and reaping the autumn crops, while others are tending to livestock in treeless pastures. Quite a few are traveling along the road or the countless footpaths branching away from it with package-laden beasts of burden or covered carts.
These soaring mountains and windy dales of Whiterun Hold are a very different landscape from those Cyrodiil or even Hammerfell. There's a rugged, wild beauty to be found here. The men and woman who pass him on the road often have their impractically long hair braided in a variety of intricate styles, and many carry swords openly. The culture is strikingly different from the Empire's other provinces, less socially refined and with a much greater emphasis on self-sufficiency.
On a superficial level, he finds that he rather likes the Nords, the people of his father's fathers. They're brash, always seem to be in a rush to die like idiots, and are often too loud for his taste, but they're honest and plainspoken as well. Ralof and Hadvar were two good examples. Stupid but friendly. Like dogs, almost. And they say dogs are a man's best friend. There's a scary thought.
-x-
It's late afternoon, rapidly approaching the red-tinted darkness of dusk, when he stumbles across a remarkably strange sight near one of the outlying farms. Not the strangest I've seen this week, though, he thinks wryly. Not even close.
Two young women and a big bear of a man, all armed to the teeth and heavily armored in the case of the latter, are locked in heated battle with what appears to be a rogue giant in the middle of some poor farmer's cabbage field.
This sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.
The giant towers over the three warriors, at least twelve feet of hulking muscle with ashen skin and brown hair braided into innumerable ropey strands. He – Mull is pretty sure the giant is a male based on the bushy beard – is clothed in a crude set of fur-and-bone garments befitting a denizen of Skyrim's barbaric wilderness. His abdomen is girdled by what appears to be the disassembled skeleton of a troll in all its macabre glory, including a fang-festooned skull. White swirling tattoos adorn his arms and torso, standing out against his darker grey skin.
Mull has never seen a giant up close, but he's heard enough secondhand accounts to know that they aren't ever to be taken lightly. He's always planned to avoid confrontation by any means necessary if he were unlucky enough to encounter a hostile one. They're generally known to be peaceable beings, if unyieldingly territorial. That doesn't seem to be the case for this one.
Most of the locals are taking a guarded approach to the unfolding situation. Neighboring farmsteads are rendered silent and lifeless as their denizens bustle into doorways and slam shut window shutters, sequestering themselves in hopes that the fight will stay away from their properties. Given the raw destructiveness of said fight, he can't blame them for their reticence.
This giant appears to be wielding a huge club fashioned from an entire tree truck as his weapon, and to terrifying effect. Clouds of dirt and pulverized cabbage are sent billowing into the air with each full-bodied swing, some of which are only narrowly avoided by the giant's diminutive opponents. They duck and roll with practiced alacrity, running in circles around their huge enemy as they ferret out vulnerabilities like hounds pursuing a cornered boar.
Mull decides against getting involved for the sake of his continued good health, though he readies his new bow just in case. He's spent the last couple of evenings familiarizing himself with its weight and draw, and he has to admit that the quality of its craftsmanship is top notch. It's a nice feeling to finally have a proper archer's weapon back in his hands.
He's content to merely watch as the fight progresses, making himself comfortable as he leans against a stunted apple tree on the edge of the field and fiddles aimlessly with his bow. He notes that the three warriors are displaying some impressive coordination, darting in to attack their opponent like clockwork wherever openings present themselves. They don't look like proper soldiers, but they definitely know what they're doing. He shrugs, reaches into his rucksack, and pops a strip of lamb jerky into his mouth. I don't think they need my help. It'd be rude to stick my nose in their business.
His assessment is proven wrong not even a minute later. One of the women, who appears to be the youngest of the trio, trips over something and falls hard onto her hands and knees. She loses several precious seconds when her sword becomes wedged into the loamy earth and her shield gets trapped beneath one of her knees. By the time she manages to untangle herself and look up, the giant has raised an enormous hide-wrapped foot to stomp her into a bloody pancake. It's obvious what will come next.
It's been a pretty good day so far. Mull hasn't been accosted by any wild animals or overzealous guardsmen, and the road to Whiterun has been well-maintained for most of its length. He'd like for his nice day to continue for as long as possible – but being subjected to the distasteful sight of a girl being reduced to a mound of smeared gore and cabbage would certainly put a damper in it. It wouldn't be any worse than what he saw at Helgen, but that's hardly a good frame of reference. Everything that happened there was objectively horrific, even by his standards. Something similar could be said for the fate suffered by Gunjar, or Rana.
Ah, dammit. Might as well make myself useful. And I haven't even finished my snack… If nothing else, this'll be a good opportunity for him to test the capabilities of his new bow.
With the jerky still sticking halfway out of his mouth, he pushes away from the tree, nocks an arrow, draws, and sights his target with practiced rapidity. It's a fairly long shot, but not anything he hasn't done before. There's a slight breeze blowing in from the west. Aim a bit to the left, and higher also. It's difficult to judge distance on such flat terrain, but with a target this big, I shouldn't worry about overcompensating.
He breathes out, emptying his lungs and bringing his body to complete stillness.
A heartbeat later, he releases.
The bowstring snaps against his bracer like a whip as the projectile whistles away. He was right about it being a well-made weapon. It's more powerful than it looks.
After a tense second of flight, his arrow strikes true into one of the giant's legs – the leg still firmly planted on the ground – just above the knee. It sinks deeply into pale flesh, nearly all the way up to the fletching, shearing effortlessly through tendons and arteries. Not a perfect shot, but good enough.
The giant bellows as he loses his balance and topples backwards, crashing into the earth with such force that Mull can feel tremors even from a good forty yards away.
The second woman warrior, a redhead armed with a recurve bow of impressive size, nimbly leaps onto the fallen giant's chest without any hesitation whatsoever.
The giant swipes with his free hand in an attempt to violently dislodge her, but she ducks beneath the weighty blow, grabs a fur-lined hide armguard encircling her oversized opponent's wrist, and swings herself up onto the lanky forearm in an impressive display of agility. She uses her newfound momentum to leap, twist in midair, and put an arrow straight through one of the giant's eyes, killing him instantly. The woman lands gracefully, completely unharmed, as the giant bonelessly topples backwards onto the trampled remains of the cabbage field, producing another lesser but still noticeable tremor.
Mull is left speechless by the woman's display. The raw athleticism she exhibited in pulling off such a maneuver is frankly incredible. And a little over the top, if you ask me.
He finishes chewing and swallows his mouthful of jerky as he cautiously approaches the scene of the battle, unsure what to make of these three unknown warriors.
The redheaded archer apparently doesn't share his reservations. After confirming the giant is as dead as it looks, she marches straight up to him and extends a hand.
He raises an eyebrow. This woman makes for quite a sight, even for a Nord.
Long tresses of crimson hair hang down her back and splay across her shoulders, sporadically interwoven with an assortment of charms that look to be crafted from bone and amber. Stripes of woad-blue warpaint crisscross her cheeks, accentuating her savage appearance. She's clothed in a form-fitting hide tunic, a skirt, and tight leggings, an entirely unarmored ensemble befitting a scout or a woodlands hunter more than a proper warrior.
His gaze instinctually flickers to her weapons, as it always does with potentially dangerous individuals. In addition to the oversized recurve bow, there's also a long-bladed dagger sheathed at her hip and a platter-sized wooden roundshield with a steel boss slung across her back.
She speaks as she continues holding out her hand, cutting short his examination. "That was some damn good shooting, I'll admit, but we had it handled. Don't you know it's rude to butt in on somebody else's fight? Glory should always be hard-won. You'll find that some people don't like receiving help if they haven't asked for it."
Over her shoulder, he catches a glimpse of the girl with the sword and shield standing a dozen yards away, looking distraught as the big man loudly berates her. "…Right." If that's the sort of 'thank you' I'm going to get, then I don't know why I even bothered.
He takes the proffered hand and winces as the lithe redhead crushes his fingers in a vicelike grip. By the… What in Oblivion are they feeding her?! Her arms are wiry and taut with lean muscle, those of an archer through and through, but her grip strength is about what he'd expect from a burly warrior with arms as thick around as this woman's torso.
She grins at his simultaneous discomfiture and incredulity. The expression displays a few too many teeth. "My name is Aela. Some call me the Huntress."
"Mull," he replies succinctly as he withdraws his bruised appendage and shakes it behind his back, trying to alleviate the soreness. "You're welcome for the help, whether it was appreciated or not."
The woman's grin widens as she looks him up and down in a way that makes him irrationally nervous. He feels like a slab of meat being evaluated by a butcher. There's something about her mannerisms that seems off, somehow.
When she doesn't go away or say anything else, he grudgingly takes the bait. It's obvious that she's fishing for something. "What do you want?" he gruffly asks.
The redhead crosses her arms. Her stormy grey eyes take on a severe glint, like water roiling in a tempest. "Oh? Don't you know who we are? Most people would ask that question a little more politely. We're the Companions of Jorrvaskr."
She pauses, waiting for a response. When none is forthcoming, she almost seems disappointed.
"An outsider, eh? You've never heard of us? We're the most renowned mercenaries in all of Whiterun Hold. The deadliest beast-hunters on this side of the Jerall Mountains. The celebrated successors to Jeek of the River, one of Ysgramor's mighty Five Hundred Companions. We show up to solve problems when the coin is good, like with that rogue giant over there. Now you know."
"Now I know," he repeats, stealing an impatient glance at the city walls in the near distance. "…I don't suppose I'll get a cut of the loot, will I?"
The wolfish grin returns, giving him all the answer he needs.
Typical mercenary. "Fine. You owe me an arrow, though."
Without breaking eye contact, the redhead deftly removes an arrow from her quiver and hands it over, drawing out the action as long as she can. When he takes the arrow away from her grasp, she smirks dangerously.
She's sure a strange one. With a barely-suppressed shudder, he tosses the arrow into his own quiver and steps to the side, intending to walk past her towards his destination. This has been an odd interaction from beginning to end and he already wants it to be over. "I'm heading into Whiterun on urgent business, so I think I'll be on my way."
Aela holds out an arm to stop him. "Oh, is that right? Then I hope it isn't too urgent for your sake. The city gates have been closed to all outsiders for the last few days. No one goes in or out except with the guards' express permission, and that's a difficult thing to acquire."
He internally groans. Of course. Why wouldn't the city be locked down? That's just my luck. He hitches his rucksack impatiently. Hopefully they'll make an exception for someone with a message for their Jarl. Though that's assuming this woman is telling the truth in the first place.
"There's been some worrying news coming up from the south in recent days," Aela continues. "Nobody seems to know exactly what it is, but it must be bad if the Jarl is scared enough to take such drastic measures." She steps in front of him to again block his path. "I don't suppose you might have any insight to offer? We haven't gotten many travelers from the river valley lately. Commerce this year has been slow because of the war."
He glances away and tries to keep his face neutral. If he were in this woman's shoes and learned that a foreigner was bringing a valuable message to the Jarl, he wouldn't think twice about slitting their throat and claiming the reward for himself. Ralof mentioned that the Jarl should be expected to pay messengers handsomely for the delivery of important information. And here I was thinking this would be a quick and easy cash grab. I should've known better.
The woman clicks her tongue. "I might be willing to vouch for you with the guardsmen at the south gate. Our job here is finished anyways." She gestures to the fallen giant. The male warrior has produced a dagger and is currently slicing off its toes, tossing them one by one into a leather satchel held open by the younger girl. "We're about to head back, so you might as well come with us. But I'll expect something in return for my help." The redhead looks entirely too pleased as she says that.
He sneers. "Was saving the girl's life not worth that much to you?"
She frowns, but not with outright anger. Her expression is more of a pout, not at all befitting the image of a Nord warrior-woman. "The whelp could've handled herself. It's only through making mistakes and learning from them that we're able to grow as warriors. Next time she'll do a better job of minding her own feet. And besides…" She smiles enigmatically. "What makes you think I wasn't about to step in myself?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. He suffered from tunnel vision when he saw the younger girl trip and fall in front of the giant. It's a good habit for a bowman like himself, as that hyperfocus can be an invaluable aid in shooting quickly and accurately at a moment's notice, but can also be problematic in other ways. Aela could've pulled a Dwarven ballista out of thin air for all he knows, and he never would've noticed.
With no rebuttal to offer, he instead settles for grumbling indignantly under his breath. "And here I was thinking Nords are supposed to be honorable to the point of stupidity. The one time that would've worked in my favor…"
She laughs aloud. He didn't expect her to overhear his mutterings. She must have uncommonly sharp hearing. "Sorry to disappoint, but some of us are a little more pragmatic than others. So what'll it be? A favor for a favor?"
…I wish I could say no. Obviously she could be lying about the gates being closed, but he doesn't think that's the case. What she said makes too much sense if the news about Helgen really has reached Whiterun. It goes without saying that an entire town being annihilated by a dragon is a big deal. He spent nearly a week dawdling in Riverwood, and a messenger could've easily made the trip in half that time.
So, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he agrees to the strange woman's proposition with what he considers to be a healthy amount of skepticism and hesitancy. "I'd appreciate it, though I have to ask what you mean when you say 'something in return.'"
The woman continues to grin as she turns away and strides purposefully back to her companions. "Soon, but not now. I won't keep you in suspense for too long."
He scowls again at her receding back. That doesn't sound promising. You know, I'm not sure I should call her a gift horse. She's more like a gift sabercat.
-x-
An eclectic collection of traders, merchants, and farmers are assembled before the city's southern gatehouse complex, their countless wares laid out over woven rugs or atop rickety wooden tables for inspection by potential customers. Hundreds of people meander throughout the open-air marketplace beneath the shadow of the walls. Their multitudinous voices coalesce into a low buzz that rises and falls, but never wholly ceases.
Further ahead, the arrangement of the city's stout fortifications is positively serpentine. They slither up and down the hillside and circle back on themselves in a layout that's as puzzling as it is impressive, providing multiple layers of defense and overlapping lanes of fire for the defenders. From here, it looks like there are probably two sets of gates leading into the city, positioned one after the other. There could be even more out of view, though he hopes that isn't the case. That would make gaining entry even more difficult.
As they walk toward the gatehouse, the first merchants they pass are a Khajiit caravan set up on the side of the road. Huh. Those are the first Khajiit I've seen in Skyrim. The strange cat-folk of Elsweyr have their low circular tents arranged in a tight circle around a blazing campfire. For a merchant's encampment, it looks remarkably defensive. Though that isn't unusual. Down in Cyrodiil, people tended not to like them much. I doubt things are much different here. They've come a long way from the southern deserts.
Aela notices where his attention lies. Even for someone as well-traveled as him, it's difficult not to stare at the cat-folks' patterned fur, twitching tails, and expressive ears. "The Khajiit aren't allowed inside the walls even under normal circumstances. Too many of them are smugglers and thieves. They can't be trusted to limit themselves to honest business."
He might think that a little heavy-handed if only he hadn't seen ample evidence of the cat-folks' general disregard for the law firsthand. You'd be hard-pressed to find a race more suited to the larcenous arts.
After the Khajiit, the next several groups of merchants are comprised of men and women with predominantly red and sandy-brown hair, clad in rugged rawhide garments, with their skin covered in swirling blue tattoos. Though they're clearly Nords, they don't look quite like any others he's seen so far. He gives Aela a questioning glance and she readily obliges. She's talkative, especially to a stranger.
"Those are plains clansmen. Nomadic tribes from out west, where the land is too dry to grow crops. They travel here to trade on a seasonal basis." She glares with distaste at one of their number, a heavyset man who shouts something in Nordic so deeply accented and guttural that Mull can barely understand it. "They're a rough sort, even among us Nords. I'd keep my distance if I were you. They might be more trouble than you can handle, útlending," she finishes impishly.
"Útlending, huh?" It takes a moment of contemplation for him to recognize that as the Nord word for 'outlander.' "What makes you think I'm not from Skyrim?"
Aela laughs derisively. "Oh, please. Where do I start? Your hair and eyes are all wrong. Your skin is a shade too dark. Your features are too sharp. Your Nordic is passible at best. You're far too short and scrawny." She does an up-and-down gesture that encompasses his entire body. "Need I go on?"
He grimaces. Alright. That stung a bit. "No, you don't."
"I didn't think so," she smirks.
They continue through the maze of stalls, weaving between arguing vendors and haggling buyers, until the city's outer gates come fully into sight – a pair of huge ironbound doors currently cracked open just enough for two or three people to enter at once, but no more. A group of guardsmen loiter on either side, draped in sheets of gleaming chainmail and armed with tall spears.
The rabble keep a wide berth around the gate, forming a radius of empty space. When Aela breaks free from the crowd, one of the guardsmen raises a hand and beckons her closer.
"Just a second. This is my cue." She pulls ahead, leaving Mull to follow at a more sedate pace. The sword-and-shield girl and the big man trail several steps behind.
As the Huntress strides ahead of him, his attention is drawn to the way she moves. She has the gait of a predator, emphasized by her long legs and constrictive tunic. He doesn't allow himself relax while she's so close. She's trouble waiting to happen. He can feel it deep down.
The mercenaries' positioning both before and immediately behind makes him uncomfortable, since they could turn on him and end his life with impunity before he could ever hope to react. He hasn't survived this long by ignoring dangerous opportunities for other people to get the drop on him, hoping that they'll play nice and leave him alone. You never know what somebody else could be thinking.
With a slight shake of his head, he deliberately tells himself to stop being so fearful of nothing. Paranoia is his natural inclination when there are this many people gathered closely together in one place, but these mercenaries have no reason to harm him that he can imagine. He's no longer among fellow bandits, where those self-preservative thoughts serve a very real and necessary purpose.
The Huntress flashes an object retrieved from within her tunic and the guards willingly step aside, allowing her through the gate without so much as a hitch in her step. Mull and the two other mercenaries stay on her heels and slip between the doors after her.
The guards watch silently as they pass, their helmeted heads swiveling to track their movements. He keeps his eyes forward and does his best to avoid drawing attention to himself.
They continue beyond the gatehouse without incident and begin climbing the road as it winds upwards to the inner gate he saw earlier, convolving through a series of switchbacks designed to make the route into the city as circuitous as possible to better defend against potential besiegers. Mull doesn't know much about sieges and proper warfare, but even he can see the utility offered by this arrangement. The longer it takes an enemy to reach you, the more opportunities you have to stick them full of arrows.
After a while, the redhead slows her pace and returns to his side. Her eyes twinkle with unveiled curiosity. "You said that you have urgent business inside the city. What is it?"
"Any particular reason I should tell you?"
She chuckles. "Maybe not. But I did say I'd only take you through the gates if you gave me something in return. Answering the question should do nicely."
He blinks, nonplussed by her response. That's less than I expected her to ask for. When I pay back a favor to someone, it usually involves doing their dirty work in some way or another. But still, l think saying too much about the Jarl's letter would be a bad idea. I don't want her to stab me in the back for a chance at the reward. Keeping everything close to the chest would be my smartest choice here.
That said, she was right about the lower gate – I doubt I could've gotten past those guards without her. They looked like they meant business. I'm willing to bet they wouldn't have let me inside even if I'd shown them the letter and Gerdur's ring. It's too easy to make forgeries of those types of items, and judging by the sheer number of people waiting outside the city, I think it's a fair assumption that those schemes have already been attempted. It's telling that the guards were maintaining a no-go zone in front of the gate. That isn't normal even in heavily-fortified cities, since there would usually be hundreds or thousands of people passing through the walls every single day. That's what it was like in Elinhir, at least.
We've made it through the first obstacle, but from what I saw earlier it looked like there's another set of walls up here. I hate to say it, but I do think I still need this woman to get me inside the city.
I could lie to her, come up with something trivial, and pass off this message as unimportant. But godsdamn it, I've always been a terrible liar. Aela has the eyes of someone who can see right through a bad bluff. I know 'em when I see 'em. People have been seeing through my bluffs for almost my entire life. I doubt I could fool her even if my life depended on it. I feel that in my gut.
Ah, what the hell. If she could kill that giant at the farm so spectacularly, then I probably couldn't do much to defend myself if she decided to kill me too. News getting out about the dragon attack might cause some issues for the Jarl, but it won't be my mess to clean up. Plus, trying to get her on my good side could be worthwhile if she told the truth about being a member of the Companions of Jorr-whatever.
He keeps his reply as short and concise as he can manage. "…I'm delivering a message from Riverwood to the Jarl of Whiterun. They're requesting more men to defend the town due to the dragon attack at Helgen. If that creature comes for them next, they'll be left in a tight spot." To say the least.
Aela's expression twists into one of poorly-disguised bewilderment before she lets out a bark of sharp laughter. "You don't have much of a sense of humor, do you? A dragon attack at Helgen? Nice try, but you'll need to think of something more believable than that. Everyone knows that dragons aren't… real…" She trails off when she realizes Mull is still facing ahead, his features as rigid as stone. Her eyes narrow. "You are joking, yes?"
"I'm not," he says bitterly. "Trust me woman, I wish I was. But I'm not." He meets her gaze, and whatever she sees there makes her stop in her tracks. "A dragon destroyed Helgen. The entire town is gone. Wiped off the map in a single morning."
"And… how do you know that's true?" the woman asks haltingly. She's deadly serious now, the same as him.
He scoffs. "I was there, that's how. I saw it happen, from the very beginning to when it was all over."
She shuffles uncomfortably. "You could be a liar or a madman." She gives him a long, searching look, then shrugs. "Though my instincts are telling me you aren't. Even as a stranger, you aren't difficult to read. If nothing else, you believe that you're speaking the truth"
"Your instincts' faith in my sanity is appreciated."
"Heh. Helgen destroyed by a dragon. That… that's really unbelievable." Her brows furrow as she starts walking again. "Do you think the Jarl will take you at your word?"
He keeps pace with her. "I don't know. I don't know anything about him. But I'm assuming he's already heard about it, seeing as the city has been closed off."
"That makes sense," she mutters. "Jarl Balgruuf the Greater is a reasonable man, I think. I've only ever seen him in public and have never spoken to him personally. I'm just a lowly mercenary, after all," she says genially. "I doubt he'll have your head removed for being the bearer of bad news, for what it's worth."
"Aye, that's good. Two attempted decapitations in less than two weeks would have to be setting some kind of record."
"I'm sure there's a good story behind that."
"Define good."
Their banter is interrupted when they've nearly reached the end of the meandering road, at the summit of which lies the second gatehouse. One of the four guards standing before the massive oaken doors – fully closed, unlike the previous – takes a step forward and calls out to them. "Halt! The city's closed. What is your business?" His tone is that of city guards everywhere. Indifferent, but with the authoritativeness of someone accustomed to being obeyed on a whim.
Mull instinctively tenses up. Guardsmen are often bored and are paid explicitly to be suspicious of outsiders – it's in their job description, so to speak. They never fail to be trouble. Aela handled the ones at the first gate with somewhat surprising ease, but their role was probably to act as crowd control and little more.
These men in contrast are arrayed in much more impressive sets of armor, scale mail and splinted steel with wheat-gold tabards, and are armed with a greater assortment of weaponry than simple spears. Their faces are craggy and grim beneath their helms. These are unmistakably professional warriors. And professionals are always dangerous.
Aela again pulls out the item sequestered inside her shirt and waves it back and forth. Now that he gets a better look at it, Mull sees that it's an oval token emblazoned with a howling wolf's head hanging from a cord around her neck. He doesn't know its significance, but evidently it means something to these men.
The guard 'ahhs,' with recognition. "The Companions of Jorrvaskr have returned. How went your hunting today?"
"It went well," she replies with satisfaction. "We took down that giant everyone was complaining about and none of us got killed in the process. All in a day's work."
"Very good then. Don't let us keep you. You're free to go on through." His gaze drifts over to Mull. "But who is this with you? I don't think I recognize him. Did you pick up yourselves a new recruit on the way back into the city?"
"Not exactly." Aela pats Mull lightly on the back of his shoulder, gesturing for him to speak. "Go ahead and tell them what you told me."
He steps forward, making a conscious effort to keep his trepidation hidden. "I'm carrying a request from Riverwood for the Jarl's aid," he tersely replies. "You need to let me inside. I've got a letter from the town's folkmoot, here." He withdraws the envelope from within his satchel and fishes Gerdur's ring from the depths of his pocket, presenting both to the guard for inspection.
"Is that so?" the man drawls as he crosses his arms. He barely spares a second glance at the two items. It's difficult to tell through the thick facial hair and low-browed helmet, but it seems like the guard is staring down his nose at him.
Mull belatedly realizes he must look a little rough at the moment due to his three days on the road, in addition to already looking rough by default with his obviously scavenged equipment and battle-scarred features. He recalls one time when Morven said something about his face giving children nightmares. He'd assumed she was calling him ugly – not undeservedly, he reluctantly admitted – but she then hastily clarified that she meant his resting expression often made him look mean, as befitting a bandit. He had trouble deciding whether that was better or worse. At least it's easier to intimidate people when needed. The perks of the trade, I suppose.
The guard continues speaking, bringing him back to the present. "I don't think I need to do anything, do I citizen? Hah, a letter for the Jarl," he mocks. "Why don't you scamper off back to whatever skeever-infested hovel you crawled out of? Whiterun has no need for dishonest vagrants. If you're foolish enough to go about peddling such absurd lies, it won't be long before you have your tongue cut out."
His fingers curl into fists as his expression darkens. He shouldn't have let himself start thinking about Morven. Now he doesn't feel like dealing with this petty shit. "If you have a problem with me, milk-drinker, then say it. Don't stand there and talk shit like a piss-blooded Breton. If that's all you're going to do, then get the hell out of the way. You're wasting my time."
The guard rests a lazy hand on the pommel of an axe hanging from his belt, the unhurriedness of the gesture making it that much more menacing. "I'm wasting your time? Then please excuse me, citizen." His voice deepens into a daunting baritone. "Because it looks like I'm about to waste a lot more of it."
Aela shoves past Mull to step smoothly between him and the guard. "He's with us," she interrupts. "I'll guarantee his good conduct while inside the walls, so just let us pass. Forget this unpleasantness ever happened. If that's a issue, then take it up with somebody at Jorrvaskr. You know where to find us," she cheekily finishes.
The guard's posture simultaneously relaxes and becomes wary. He glances at one of his comrades, a similarly grizzled man who simply shrugs. "They might be mercenaries, but they're a reliable enough sort. I say let 'em in. I trust their word."
"…Aye," the first guard reluctantly agrees. "That's true enough. You and your comrades can all go on through, miss. But you there." He glares daggers at Mull with bright eyes glinting beneath his helm. "If I hear even a single word about you causing any trouble, I'll haul you up to the dungeons of Dragonsreach myself. Don't make me regret this."
Mull grunts scornfully at the man, but still nods in acknowledgment of his warning as the gates slowly grind open. Once again, Aela leads the way while the other two Companions bring up the rear.
As his emotions steadily cool off, he gets down to the inevitable business of berating himself for his foolishness. You can't let yourself get worked up like that, idiot. Getting arrested before you even step foot inside the walls would just be plain stupid. Aela, a stranger, just saved your ass. That isn't something you can ever count on.
On the far side of the gate, they enter a compact stone courtyard ringed by a cloister with Imperial fluted columns. More yellow-clad guardsmen are standing around the perimeter of the courtyard and atop three adjacent towers overlooking the area. Ahead, the city streets are packed with people hurrying in all directions.
As Mull and his acquaintances march across a lowered drawbridge into the city proper, Aela gives him an amused stare and leans over to speak. "You certainly know how to make friends."
He glances back at the gatehouse and exhales heavily, struggling to banish the last vestigial sparks of his anger. "No one has ever accused me of that."
"So you're always that sociable and outgoing?"
"No."
When he doesn't elaborate further, the redhead simply laughs. "Well, we Nords have a penchant for being tactlessly forthright, so I really can't judge."
Mull scans the encircling walls, lingering on a handful of bowmen positioned overhead, and gracelessly changes the subject. "What was that Dragonsreach place the guard mentioned? I've never heard of it." He barely refrains from calling the nameless man something unflattering.
"That's the Jarl's great hall. You can see it from here, actually."
Aela points ahead, to a tall building rising high above the rooftops to the north. He recognizes it as the triangular structure he saw from a distance when the city first came into view.
"There, on the highest hill in the city. It's called Dragonsreach because of an old legend. High King Olaf One-Eye supposedly defeated a dragon called Numinex and imprisoned it inside his fortress, which afterwards became known as Dragonsreach. That was way back in the First Era, so whether it's true or just some ancient myth is up for debate, though the Jarl sure seems to think it was real. He often touts the prowess of his ancestors."
Mull struggles to imagine how a dragon could possibly be contained inside a structure built by human hands, no matter how sturdy. The dragon at Helgen was immense, to such an extent that it could crush a stone Imperial tower beneath its weight by just dropping on top of it. With that in mind, he swiftly concludes that the Jarl must be full of shit.
"You're one of the skeptics, huh?" Aela notices his scowl. "Well, you did claim to have seen a real-life dragon firsthand. If anyone would know, I suppose it might be you."
He nods in agreement and hefts his pack, preparing to go his own way. He has a Jarl to see, and the sooner the better. The sun is already beginning to sink beneath the horizon.
He turns to the Huntress one last time. "Thanks for the help. You saved me from talking my way into a prison cell. That was surprisingly considerate of you." He narrows his eyes, though mostly for dramatic effect. "It makes me think you might have some ulterior motive in mind."
Aela sidles up to him with such grace and economy of motion that it's almost eerie to witness. His fingers instinctively brush against the hilt of his sword. She's tall for a woman, an inch or two taller than himself, and slightly looks down on him.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're a very cynical man. Still, you aren't wrong." She taps the wolf token resting over her collarbone. "The Companions of Jorrvaskr are always looking for new shield-brothers and sisters, but we don't take just anyone. You though, if you're interested… I'd be happy to put in a good word. Your skill with the bow is nothing to scoff at. Not just anyone could've put an arrow into that giant like you did. Trust me when I say that means a lot coming from me."
This isn't quite what I was expecting. Being invited to join a mercenary company within five minutes of entering a new city is yet another unique occurrence for him to add to his growing list. He's speechless for a few seconds, not sure how to respond. "…I'll think about it," he says half-heartedly.
Aela huffs with muted disappointment at his no-without-saying-no. "Ah well. Doesn't hurt to try, right?"
"Uh, e-excuse me." They're interrupted by the young woman with the sword and shield, who has until now kept her distance with the big man. She's a Cyrod, with dark hair and olive skin. She takes a few tentative steps towards Mull as tears of embarrassment gather in her eyes. "My n-name's Ria, and I just wanted to say…" She pauses to sniffle. "T-thank you for… for your… with the… a-and the-"
Aela releases an exasperated breath and slaps the girl on the back of her head. She yelps and clasps her hands over her abused cranium. "Stop humiliating yourself, whelp. Let's get a move on already. We have places to be and things to do. Vilkas will want to see those giant's toes. And you," she says to Mull. "Come by our mead hall sometime. It's Jorrvaskr, just uphill from the eastern market square. You can't miss it. Who knows? You might change your mind."
He hums evasively, shares a mildly uncomfortable look with the big man who hasn't spoken a word to him this entire time, and turns down a side street. "Alright then. So long."
Aela waves as she and her tagalongs dwindle into the crowd. "See you around!"
Hopefully not. For all of her helpfulness, Aela scares him for some reason he can't quite put a finger on. This caginess is a feeling he sometimes gets from unusually dangerous individuals, and he's learned over the years to trust those feelings. They've rarely led him astray. At both of the gates, the guardsmen didn't dare stand in the Huntress' way for long. She commanded a remarkable amount of respect for a supposed run-of-the-mill mercenary. The less time spent around her and her Companions, the better. No question about that.
He shrugs. Regardless, I've now officially made it to Whiterun. Time to do what I came here to do. After all this hassle, the Jarl's reward had better be good.
