Chapter 27
The trio continue onwards, following the cavern as it slopes higher. They pick their way through abrupt twists and turns, always remaining watchful for more enemies or potential traps. Mull is especially worried about that clansgirl who ran off. She could pop out from some hidden alcove and attack at any moment. But despite his paranoia, she never materializes.
The walls take on a reddish hue and become more jagged, with numerous outcrops forcing them to move carefully to avoid snagging their equipment on rough edges. The air also grows noticeably colder.
After only a few minutes, they see the beginnings of a bright light twinkling up ahead. The smell of accumulated dust and mildew gradually gives way to the familiar crisp scent of the outdoors. They're rapidly approaching the end of the cave.
"This is likely the upper exit I mentioned before," Lydia announces.
"About time," Torgen gripes. Mull charitably decides not to bring up the fact that Torgen was initially the most enthusiastic about this excursion.
They warily assemble before the exit, waiting for their eyesight to adjust to the glaring light of day. It's late morning now. From what Mull can tell as he carefully peers beyond the exit, the sun appears to be nearing its peak.
Torgen delicately lays aside his rucksack so he won't be burdened by its weight. Mull ensures his dagger is still in easy reach. Lydia doublechecks the leather straps securing her shield to her arm.
With Torgen already in poor shape, they collectively decide that Mull should fight up front with his sword and new shield as much as possible. Having a ranged option is usually good, but only having one reliable frontline fighter – Lydia in this case – is always bad. That's been Mull's experience in the past, and Torgen seems inclined to agree with his assessment.
As they emerge from the cave, they find themselves standing atop a wide shelf of natural stone. A few scraggly trees populate the edges of the shelf and the adjacent mountainside overlooking the White River far below. Further beyond, the distant city of Whiterun sprawls across its shallow-sloped hill, little more than a speck from this far away. The desolate expanse of the high plains stretches to the horizon.
Near the rim of the miniature plateau is a single structure, a sturdy timber hut with heather roofing and a granite chimney emitting a faint trail of woodsmoke. Sitting at a low wooden table in front of the hut, no more than ten yards away, is a man in the final stages of donning an impressive set of steel plate, chainmail, and boiled leather armor.
Standing a step behind him is the girl who ran away at the beginning of the previous fight. She's young, certainly younger than Lydia. She reminds Mull of the archer girl from Torgen's clan at Bleak Falls Barrow in that regard, though her physical appearance is quite different. She sports a tangled mass of auburn hair and a sharp face full of freckles.
However, it's the armored man who primarily captures his attention. The longer he looks, the more intimidated he becomes. This man is a huge specimen even for a Nord, standing taller and boasting a broader chest than Torgen. A massive two-handed sword lies across the table in front of him, for now still sheathed in a richly-engraved scabbard. He exhibits a black mohawk, heavy brows, and a stripe of crimson warpaint running across the bridge of his nose just beneath the eyes. All told, he cuts a daunting figure.
That must be Iron-hand. He isn't too far off from what Mull expected an infamous reaver chieftain to look like.
Upon their approach, the man casually rises to his feet with the greatsword in hand, his unhurried demeanor contrasted by his hawkish gaze trained unwaveringly on the trio of intruders. The young girl moves to his side, produces a recurve bow, and nocks an arrow to the string. Although she looks scared, her aim is trained unwaveringly on Mull. Another archer. Wonderful.
He surreptitiously adjusts his shield to better cover his torso. "Nice view," he calls out. "You two seem lonely up here."
"And who in Oblivion are you?" the man asks conversationally. "I can't say I recognize your faces. We don't usually take kindly to uninvited visitors in our territory." His voice is gruff and self-assured, betraying no hint of consternation whatsoever. It's the voice of a man who has roared commands through the turbulence of a mountain gale, and who has called for the deaths of enemies and allies alike with brutal apathy.
How many men has Mull known who spoke just the same? He isn't sure he could count them all. Innumerable bandits and petty chieftains, the rulers of their own inconsequential little fastnesses and strongholds, men who take what isn't theirs and give nothing in return save for blood and steel.
Torgen smirks, doing his best to match Iron-hand's tough projection even though he's quantitatively outmatched. "Oh, we're nobody too important. We were sent up here by ole' Balgruuf to say hello. You know, courtesy calls between friends and all that."
Lydia holds up their bounty note and reads off the bolded letters inked across the parchment. "By order of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun Hold, to all able-bodied men and women: A reward of one hundred gold pieces will be granted to whomever kills the brigand known as Hajvarr Iron-hand. For crimes committed against citizenry of the Hold and foreigners alike, his life has been deemed forfeit." She folds the parchment and returns it to her satchel with grim finality.
At her mention of the Jarl, Iron-hand smiles with crooked teeth. His eyes flash fiercely. "That yellow-bellied Balgruuf, huh?" He leans over and spits a glob of saliva over the side of the mountain. "I'm flattered that he values my life so highly. A hundred gold pieces," he grunts. "I'd almost be willing to march myself down to the chopping block for that kind of gold."
The redhead girl gives him an anxious look but says nothing.
He continues heedlessly. "Would I be right in assuming the rest of my folk are all dead? Even the blind old man? You should know he's my uncle."
"Aye," Mull replies as he hastily dons his helm. He'd left it off while fighting inside the cave to maintain greater visibility – a tradeoff as always, but one he deemed worthwhile. Blind spots can get you killed in a heartbeat. Out here though, the pros outweigh the cons. He only has two opponents to worry about and the possibility of more showing up is negligible. The only other avenue of approaching this plateau is from further up the mountain, and a quick upwards glance confirms there's nothing above them but barren shale slopes.
Iron-hand draws his massive sword in one swift motion and tosses the sheath back onto the table. "Bah. If they were stupid enough to get themselves killed by the likes of you, then they deserved it." His smile turns feral. "I'm no weakling, not like them. The Warrior-Wife is welcome to have that hearth-cursed bunch of milk-drinkers. Ulfr though… not him. He was my family."
He rolls his shoulders and widens his stance.
"I'll dedicate your maggot-ridden corpses to his name once we're done here. But even if I fail, it goes without saying you won't take me back to Whiterun alive. So let's get on with it, shall we? I don't see a reason to waste the day away."
A real charmer, this one.
"If you insist." Lydia resolutely prepares herself, lowering her posture with sword and shield raised while Torgen and Mull fan out to either side. The redheaded clansgirl draws her bow.
"Lydia, take the girl." He doesn't look back as he gives the order, keeping his gaze trained firmly on Iron-hand as he assesses his movements and familiarizes himself with his armor and sword. He does his best to ignore the vicious smile tugging at the bandit chieftain's face, an expression meticulously crafted with the sole purpose of intimidation.
"My Thane, I-"
"Do it."
Lydia hesitates and her steps falter. Without another word, she alters her course towards the clansgirl with her shield held up protectively. After that, Mull gives no more thought to his housecarl.
Iron-hand glances back and forth between Mull and Torgen, his eyes darting intently as he identifies their equipment in much the same way Mull is already doing to him.
This is a man who knows how to fight. He's incredibly dangerous – Mull can already tell without having exchanged a single blow. He made the right call by sending Lydia to take care of the girl. She's skilled, but her dearth of practical experience could spell her end against a foe like this.
Mull breaths out his worries with practiced ease. He brings his borrowed shield to bear and lifts his sword in readiness to attack or defend. Torgen does the same, though his targe his hardly adequate to do anything against a sword like the one held languidly in Iron-hand's gauntleted fists.
With alarming suddenness, the time for pre-battle scrutiny ends. The redheaded girl's bow twangs, spitting an arrow into Lydia's shield. In the exact same moment, Iron-hand shouts and darts at Torgen with his greatsword already swinging. Given his heavy steel-plated armor and the size of his weapon, the clan chieftain's speed is nothing short of astounding.
Torgen is prepared for the chieftain's assault and sidesteps while raising his targe to deflect the attack. The greatsword's prodigious mass is predictably far too much for the handheld shield and it's battered aside with a piercing clang.
Iron-hand laughs at his paltry attempt. "Is that the best you've got, snowback?"
Rather than waste time trading banter, Torgen recovers and tries to brain Iron-hand's unprotected cranium. Mull steps in to strike with his sword in tandem.
They're thwarted as Iron-hand wraps his fingers around the end of his blade and hefts his weapon horizontally, blocking both attacks simultaneously. He's pushed back by the force of their assault, but his grin never slips from his face.
Mull and Torgen press the attack, cutting and stabbing as they seek to bypass the chieftain's formidable armor, but Iron-hand negates or deflects the majority of the incoming damage using his greatsword and his steel-plated gauntlets and pauldrons. Mull inflicts a shallow cut across the chieftain's left bicep and Torgen bashes his breastplate hard enough to dent the metal, but their efforts are otherwise fruitless.
Then Iron-hand retakes the initiative, no longer content to defend and evade. He brings around his greatsword to split open Torgen's skull, but he manages to bring up his targe in time to turn the potentially fatal blow into one that sends him reeling. He gasps in pain and loses his grip as the shield-shattering impact causes his his targe to fly from his grasp.
Mull slips behind Iron-hand and tries to thrust his blade into a gab between the back of the chieftain's steel cuirass and the mail skirt protecting his pelvis. It's a tried and true strategy for bringing down heavily-armored enemies, but this time he's a hair too slow.
The greatsword cuts a deadly arc as Iron-hand spins on his heel and maneuvers his weapon into an ferocious uppercut, threatening to rip open Mull's flesh from hip to shoulder.
Mull throws himself backwards, but the long blade still manages to catch the bottom rim of his roundshield, throwing it upwards and jarring his elbow. The blow leaves his torso completely exposed to a follow-up.
Luckily, he isn't alone. Torgen charges with his mace at the ready. Iron-hand hears his approach, pivots on a septim, and delivers a brutal roundhouse swing with the intention of taking Torgen's head off.
Torgen ducks beneath the blow and retaliates by trying to smash in Iron-hand's face, but the chieftain deflects the mace with the pommel of his greatsword while simultaneously backing away.
Mull and Torgen regroup while watching their opponent warily. When he's reasonably confident Iron-hand is also using the opportunity to take a breather, Mull spares a glace for his housecarl.
Closer to the hut, Lydia and the clansgirl are engaged in a vicious duel, the housecarl's sword and shield vying against a long-hafted spear. It looks like she's already forced the clansgirl to abandon her bow.
Lydia seems to be holding her own, and even if she weren't, there isn't much that Mull could do for her at the moment. In just the ten or fifteen seconds that have elapsed in this duel against Iron-hand, both he and Torgen were almost killed once each. They'll need to focus down the clan lord together if they want any hope of defeating him.
Mull opens the next wave of hostilities by drawing the one-handed axe he tucked into his belt earlier. He lobs it at Iron-hand, creating an opening for Torgen to attack. The chieftain flings out an arm and deflects the axe with his gauntlet, sending it spinning head-over-haft into a snowberry bush, but the action leaves him vulnerable to Torgen. His mace slams into the chieftain's mail-clad ribs.
Something audibly cracks beneath the site of the impact. Iron-hand snarls and swings his sword several times in rapid succession, each narrowly missing as Torgen bobs and weaves.
Mull tries to enter the fray, but a wide sweeping backhand of Iron-hand's greatsword keeps him at bay for an instant. That instant is long enough for the chieftain to raise his weapon overhead and bring it down with inimitable might onto now-shieldless Torgen, who attempts a desperate parry with his mace as he jumps back.
The blow rips away Torgen's mace. He sharply recoils and grasps one of his hands with a strangled yell. The hand is quickly coated in a sheen of red liquid, and fat droplets rain onto the stones all around his boots.
Two crimson-stained fingers are lying in the expanding puddle of blood. As Torgen catches sight of them, he goes very still and blinks slowly as he struggles to comprehend what he's seeing. The distraction costs him.
Following after the momentum of his greatsword, Iron-hand slams into Torgen with one of his shoulder pauldrons and throws him to the ground. His head slams into the unforgiving granite with a visceral crunch. The former bandit groans loudly but continues to move, refusing to give into the siren call of unconsciousness.
Mull intervenes and tries to skewer Iron-hand in the neck, but the chieftain deftly weaves around the strike and responds with a swift jab. He blocks with his shield and firmly plants his feet, facing off against the chieftain while Torgen scrambles away from the confrontation.
"Sorry kid," the older man sputters.
The apology goes unanswered. He has bigger things to worry about right now.
Iron-hand begins circling like a sabrecat on the prowl, perpetually looming at a liminal distance too close for Mull to be safe from a sudden assault but too far away for shield-bashing or grappling. He's graceful in a hulking, monstrous sort of way. Each stomp of his steel-greaved boots against bare granite is like the booming of distant thunder.
The moment of respite is broken by a lighting-fast horizontal swing of the greatsword. Mull deflects the attack and splintered chunks of his shield scatter away from the impact. He chances a thrust at Iron-hand's head, but it bounces harmlessly off his pauldron as he twists away.
The chieftain brings his greatsword around again, forced Mull duck beneath oncoming death.
As Iron-hand's blade whirrs over his head, he uses the opportunity to jump forward and slam his shield into the man's torso. Iron-hand's armor and impressive body mass negate the worst of the blow, but he still flinches as the injury to his ribs inflicted by Torgen's mace is exacerbated. He roars and retaliates with another pair of crushingly powerful swings.
Mull blocks both attacks with his shield, leaving it in even worse condition than before. However, Iron-hand leaves himself overextended by his enraged assault, and Mull snakes his blade towards the man's throat in another attempt to target his esophagus.
The chieftain sees what he's doing and shifts his weight at the last second, causing the blade to deflect upwards against his breastplate. The tip opens a bloody gash along his jawline. His eyes blaze with mounting fury beneath his bushy brows and he takes the offensive once more.
Mull exchanges more blows with the chieftain, now constantly on the retreat to avoid his heavier weapon. He can't keep this up forever. His shield is little more than a splintered plank of wood strapped to his arm and he no longer trusts it to protect him.
He backpedals furiously as Iron-hand chases him across the stone shelf, growling like a bear and never relenting. If something doesn't change, he'll soon be a dead man.
He stops running and prepares to meet Iron-hand's charge, shield held firm and sword peeking out from behind it. The huge Nord barrels towards him like a falling boulder, an unstoppable force of nature about to flatten him into a pancake.
Once again the greatsword descends. Mull deflects it with his shield held at an angle, redirecting the force of the blow but still causing yet more damage to the laminated wood. He tries to stab Iron-hand directly in the face with a straight thrust, but the chieftain brings up his gauntleted left hand to absorb the attack. The tip of his blade clangs discordantly against the steel gauntlet and bounces away, accomplishing nothing except forcing Iron-hand to slap himself harmlessly in the jaw.
The chieftain snarls and sweeps his arm outwards, knocking aside Mull's sword. He continues forward and slams into him with an armored shoulder, causing him to stagger away from the impact. Iron-hand rears back with his gargantuan blade in preparation for a finishing strike.
As Mull stumbles, his heel catches on something – a tree root, maybe – and he pitches onto his back with an abrupt cry. His sword wrenches itself from his grasp.
He hits the ground and reflexively executes a backward roll over his shoulder, but as he reorients on his knees, he finds himself perilously close to the edge of the stone shelf. His retreat before the chieftain's unrelenting advance has brought him all the way to the far side of the plateau. Behind him the mountainside falls away hundreds of feet to the river valley below.
He returns his attention to his opponent. Iron-hand sneers and hefts his weapon over his shoulder, the perfect picture of self-satisfied arrogance and surety. He has the look of a man who has assuredly won.
Mull is beaten. There's nothing left for him to do unless he wants to try his luck at jumping off the cliff. Iron-hand will cut him in half before he can get close enough to do any damage with his own much shorter blade. Even if he throws his dagger as a distraction, it almost certainly won't be enough. He can't close the distance fast enough for it to matter. He's out of options and out of tricks.
Helplessness swells within him. Terror gnaws at his bones. Rage flickers through his breast as the chieftain towers over him with greatsword poised to end his life, smirking so maddeningly at the promise of his inevitable victory. Mull can't tolerate being looked down on like this, no better than an ant to be quashed beneath a much larger boot.
This is just like Helgen… except for one thing. This time, he isn't truly helpless.
An all too familiar voice thunders in his ears for the first time in weeks, thrashing and screeching and roaring with zealous indignation at this turn of events.
'Are you so meek that you would allow this pitiful joor to strike you down?! What is he compared to you?! He is nothing! He is hardly fit to live!'
Mirmulnir's frenzied wrath invades his psyche, immutable and overwhelming like a landslide.
'But you, Qahnaarin, have power! You must use it! When the world pushes against you, you must push back with more vitriol than ever before! Cast off your mortal trappings and allow your power to well up within you, spilling forth as an unstoppable torrent of destruction!
He feels his own expression shift with a will of its own. Iron-hand falters at the sight, his savage grin giving way to something akin to dread.
Anger and fear roil inside Mull's stomach, flooding upwards with a sensation of indescribable intensity. The caustic accumulation of fury bursts free from his lungs in the form of a full-throated Shout.
"FUS!"
His Voice echoes from the surrounding mountains like a booming thunderclap, audible for miles in every direction. Hundreds of birds take flight from their stony nests and arboreal perches all across the horizon.
Iron-hand is lifted bodily from the ground by a wave of azure force. He tumbles backwards in a mess of clanking armor and flailing limbs.
In this moment, Mull feels powerful. No, not even that. Euphoric. He has encountered death and spat in its face with the power of his Thu'um. He has stomped an unworthy ant beneath his boot instead of the other way around. It's an addicting sensation.
But that visceral satisfaction comes to an end just as quickly. An instant afterwards, his throat suddenly starts to burn horrendously, like he swallowed a molten hot coal. He suppresses a scream and clutches at his esophagus. Viscid blood drools through his clenched teeth and dribbles into his beard. He writhes on the ground as he's immersed in irreparable agony.
Mirmulnir continues to speak, but now his ire is redirected squarely at Mull. 'I leave you to grow under the auspices of your own strength and this is where you find yourself. Squirming as I would expect from an insect, so utterly overcome by the depths of your own iniquities.' The phantasmal dragon scoffs. 'You have not grown as your dovahsil demands of you. You refuse to properly recognize the characteristics of your own nature. As of this moment, you are not yet worthy of the power you wield.'
Mull might deign to respond to Mirmulnir's first communique since the dream atop Dragonsreach in any other situation, but as it currently stands, he simply can't be assed to care. This time the aftermath of using the Voice is much worse than the first. He gets the impression that this Shout was more powerful, but the resultant pain is greater by an equal margin.
Hajvarr Iron-hand unsteadily rises from the ground with a palm pressed against his face and rivulets of crimson streaming from between his fingers. One visible eye glares down at Mull like daedric portent of onrushing death.
With a bitter curse, the man removes the hand and reaches for his sword, revealing his horribly injured visage. His nose was badly broken by the Shout along with one cheekbone and brow-ridge. The skin and flesh on that side of his face droop disgustingly as he bends down and retrieves his weapon.
He straightens his back and wipes the blood from his mouth. "A Tongue, huh? There aren't many of your kind around anymore." His words are badly slurred. Only one side of his mouth moves, the other remaining limp and lifeless.
He leers, revealing teeth now stained a vivid red.
"I'll go down in the skald's annals as the man who slew a Tongue with his own two hands."
Mull fights through the pain to yank his knife from its sheath and rises into a crouch. He knows it won't be enough to properly defend himself from Iron-hand's enormous weapon, but his sword landed a few yards away, too far to dive for. He used his final trump card and it still wasn't enough.
One last time, the greatsword rises.
The impending execution is interrupted as footsteps ring out, drawing louder and closer. Iron-hand frowns and glances to his left just as Lydia sprints into view. She slips behind the chieftain and slashes at his calves.
Iron-hand turns automatically to follow her movements, and whether by luck or intention, he angles his steel greaves just right to absorb the blow. He recoils and retaliates with his greatsword, though this attack is noticeably slower than those that came before it. His injuries are dragging him down.
Lydia lithely dodges the blow but is still compelled to back away by the sheer size of the weapon.
"You've got courage, I'll give you that, or maybe you're just a fool. It doesn't matter. Your head is mine, whore," Iron-hand coughs. He advances, and Lydia cautiously gives ground before the injured but still imposing warrior.
Mull curses. She had one chance to take the chieftain by surprise and she blew it. He's convinced that against a foe like Iron-hand, she stands no chance by herself.
With a voiceless battle-cry, he pushes off the ground and dashes headlong at their opponent. The only thought going through his pain-addled mind is that he needs to give Lydia an opening.
Iron-hand sees Mull coming and hefts his weapon, although he's already gotten too close for the chieftain to slash him with his huge blade. Unfortunately, that isn't all there is to a greatsword.
Iron-hand lunges and smashes his crossguard directly into Mull's forehead. With his blind charge and forward momentum, he has no chance of dodging it.
He goes sprawling right back down to the ground. If it weren't for his helm, he would've almost certainly be killed outright from such a brutal impact, or at the very least rendered a vegetable. As it stands, he's instantly transported into the vaporous realm of unconsciousness.
.
.
"My Thane!"
Lydia sprints into battle once more, but Iron-hand is ready for her this time. He delivers a rapid thrust, promoting her to throw up her shield as she commits to her headlong charge. The greatsword skids along the surface of her shield, angling the blade harmlessly above her head. She readies her own sword to stab deep into Iron-hand's torso, believing that she has him at her mercy.
That trail of thought is brought to a swift end when Iron-hand heaves his armored knee into her solar plexus with a blood-moistened roar. The devastating strike drives the breath from her lungs and sends her crashing to the ground. The granite beneath her doesn't cushion her fall at all.
She gasps for air as she shakily raises her shield, a response to immobilization that has been drilled into her by years of ceaseless training. Only the foolish and unexperienced ever leave themselves defenseless, and especially not when they've been grounded.
She reacts just in time to prevent Iron-hand's massive blade from cleaving her in twain. The shield stops his mighty blow at the cost of being almost completely bisected. It's ripped from her grip as the chieftain yanks his weapon away, and the ruined shield goes spinning off the platform and into the aether beyond.
"You're mine now girl. Believe me, by the time I'm finished with you, you'll wish you were dead. You'll beg for Kyne before the end!"
Her chest heaves as she gazes into the man's cruel eyes. She points her sword at him, willing herself to remain defiant no matter what he might do or say, and the cruelty in his expression multiplies tenfold. She promises herself that she'll go to Sovngarde fighting to preserve her Thane's life is she can. Although she still isn't sure how she feels about serving him, she knows that she'll do whatever she must to defend her honor as a housecarl. That is her foremost responsibility.
But such thoughts are rendered null and void when Torgen staggers up behind Iron-hand, brandishes a dagger, and slams it into a gap between two armor plates protecting his shoulder blades with a hoarse cry.
Their opponent howls with agony and rage as he whirls around. He sends the dagger flying from Torgen's grip with a swift slap and plants a crushing left hook straight into his jaw. The fair-haired man goes down like a sack of bricks.
Iron-hand immediately drops to his knees and straddles Torgen, wrapping his fingers around his throat and doing his utmost to squeeze the life out of him. "I'm gonna kill you, you sorry sack of skeever shit!" he slurs wetly.
Torgen wheezes and frantically tries to pry away the chieftain's grip, but to no avail. His face quickly turns an unhealthy shade of grey.
Still out of breath, Lydia rolls onto her hands and knees. She's completely drained after her fight with the redheaded clansgirl and this most recent encounter with Iron-hand, no matter how brief. She'd like nothing better than to sit here for a while and recover her strength, but that isn't an option.
However, as she gets her feet underneath her, an errant thought crosses her mind.
She could simply allow Iron-hand to end Torgen's life. He's a former bandit, a convicted brigand and an honorless murderer.
She glances at her Thane, still unconscious. He'd never know. Torgen would die and the Hold would be better off for his passing.
Would her father and uncle want her to do something like this? If it's a man like Torgen… then they might. They really might.
But then she hears a strangled gasp from the subject of her deliberation, a sound full of fear and despair, and she physically recoils in disgust. She's revolted to her core that she'd even consider doing such a dishonorable thing. A true Nord would never turn their back on a comrade, no matter the circumstances. Torgen has already saved her own life in this very battle!
Driven onwards by her shame, she takes several unsteady steps closer to the two scuffling bandits, one her ally and one her enemy.
She raises her arms over her head, yells with all the vitriol she can muster, and drives her sword into the preoccupied Hajvarr Iron-hand's neck with every ounce of her strength, severing his spine and shredding his windpipe. The man collapses on top of Torgen and writhes bonelessly as he chokes on his own lifeblood.
Lydia withdraws her blade, plants a foot against the chieftain's steel-plated flank, and rolls him off of her companion. She reaches down and pulls Torgen to his feet with more difficulty than she'd like to admit. He's of much larger stature than herself.
Torgen places a steadying hand on her shoulder and retches nauseatingly. "Thanks for that," he croaks.
"Don't count on my assistance next time," she tiredly harumphs.
He replies with a faint grin. He squeezes her shoulder, limps tremulously over to Iron-hand's table, and plops into his vacated chair with a rattling exhale.
Ignoring the feeble death throes of their mortally-wounded enemy, Lydia urgently strides over to her Thane and kneels beside him. She holds the back of her hand over his mouth. "Breathing. Good."
She gently unbuckles and removes his helm, noting a sizable crack in the dented metal and a matching purple bruise on his forehead, sluggishly weeping blood. She tosses the damaged helm aside and reaches into her satchel.
After rooting around for a few seconds, she withdraws a green-tinted potion of stamina and uncorks the bottle. She forces open her Thane's mouth with a firm grip around his bearded jaw, pours the contents down his throat, and roughly clamps her hand over his lips to force him to swallow. He struggles ineffectually, but his unconscious body eventually accepts the dosage.
Once he does, she gives him a few unforgiving flicks to the chin. He groans, tentatively covers his face, and opens his eyes.
.
.
His vision is hazy at first, a jumbled ocean of blues and yellows and greys all blurred hopelessly together. He squints and places his hand over an extremely bright patch of yellow. After that he doesn't feel the need to squint so much.
His sight gradually refocus. The indistinct image that welcomes him back to consciousness is an incredibly familiar one, a visage he hasn't seen in many moons.
Flaxen hair, freckled cheeks, pale skin, and beautiful blue eyes. His breath catches. It can't be. She's…
"M-Morven?" he chokes out. Though his voice is little more than a winded sigh, he still immediately regrets speaking as his throat pulses with agony.
Eyebrows quirk and delicate lips part in confusion. "My Thane…"
…No. She isn't.
His head drops to the granite beneath him with an audible thump. The hair isn't blonde, but rather a rich brown. Those aren't freckles, they're drops of blood. The nose isn't quite right. The eyes aren't the same dark shade of azure.
"…Lydia." He unthinkingly speaks the girl's name in a barely-audible whisper, and the pain redoubles as punishment for his lack of foresight.
"My Thane, please get up," she says softly. "Torgen has lost fingers. I must ensure your wellbeing before I can tend to him."
That jars him back to reality, tearing through the veil of pulsating pain and bitter memories. His brief recollections of his deceased love fade away, fluttering on the autumn wind.
He groans again and accepts the hand that drags him to his feet. The world spins around him and he clutches his head. A huge sensitive knot has already formed. Hit in the head again? Sai have mercy. I'll be a dementiated old man before I turn forty if this keeps up.
An uncomfortable mass tugs at his left arm, his ruined shield still weighing him down. Noticing the cause, Lydia produces a knife and adeptly cuts away the straps, allowing the shattered mess of wood, leather, and steel to unceremoniously fall to the ground. He allows his housecarl to lead him by the arm away from the aftermath of Iron-hand's demise.
About a dozen steps later, a scratchy voice calls out to him. "Lookin' good there, oh magnanimous Thane."
I very much doubt that. It feels like someone stuffed a bundle of tundra cotton inside his skull. He can barely think straight. Adding to the annoyance is a constant trail of blood flowing down the bridge of his nose, dripping against his moustache and lips with irritating regularity. And of course his damaged throat trumps all the rest, a relentless source of anguish with each ragged breath.
"Do you even know what magnanimous means?" Lydia deadpans.
"No idea." Torgen grimaces, now paler than before. His meager efforts to staunch the hemorrhaging stumps of his two missing digits weren't nearly enough. The pad of linen he'd used as a makeshift bandage is fully soaked through. He's lost a lot of blood.
That looks bad. Mull suppresses a whimper as he unconsciously inhales deeply, further exacerbating his throat. And I feel plenty bad too. Gods dammit.
He pulls his arm away from Lydia and points forcefully to her satchel.
She follows his gaze and looks back to him questioningly. "My Thane, do you wish to use the-?"
He nods sharply, then scowls as his forehead throbs at the sudden movement. A situation like this is why we bought them. Might as well use 'em both.
"Right." The housecarl rummages through her bag and swiftly produces two glass potion vials, each containing a draught of colorful liquid. One is a rich shade of bubbling carmine and the other is dense cobalt blue.
He gestures for her to fork over the blue potion. She hesitates, then deposits it onto his waiting palm.
He raises the vial to eye level and glares into it. The alchemical liquid within swirls hypnotically, shining with an inner light as the rays of the risen sun pierce through its prismoid container. This is a potion intended for healing magicka burns, extremely similar to the disgusting concoction he was forced to drink by Danica Pure-Spring. Though it ultimately cured his affliction, he still hasn't fully forgiven her for that.
This particular variant is somewhat different, being intended for consumption by mouth rather than the repurposed topical sludge he was force-fed last time. Danica Pure-Spring assured him it would work better, though it still won't be an instant fix for the excruciating aftermath of using the Voice.
Without giving himself time to reconsider his actions, he unstoppers the potion, tilts his head back, and drains it in one gulp. It washes down the length of his throat like a wave of fire, searing his innards to cinders. He arches his back and grits his teeth.
"My Thane!" Lydia rushes to his side. She examines him closely as her hands hover over him, unable to see anything wrong other than his previous injuries. "What…?"
He holds up a hand, forestalling her as the surge of anguish gradually subsides.
He works his jaw. The inside of his throat feels thick and phlegmy, and it still hurts terribly. But something is different, if just barely. There was a raw tenderness that no longer seems so debilitating as before.
With some apprehension, he parts his bloodied lips and speaks. "I think…" He winces as pain reverberates within his chest, but he feels elation as well.
It worked! He isn't completely mute this time. He can speak, although it isn't easy. But I'll take what I can get. No complaints here.
"…Are you well?" Lydia tentatively asks.
He represses a laugh. "No." He hands back the empty potion bottle and points to his esophagus. "The Shout… injured me. Potion… was for… that." His voice sounds like two boulders grinding together, rasping and deeply unpleasant to hear, but at least his words can be understood.
He doesn't dare trust this to be a permanent solution. His throat still feels like it's been seared raw and renewed pain flares with each spoken word. For the time being it'll hopefully stave off his muteness, but Danica Pure-Spring was clear that he'll still need to seek additional treatment within the next day or two. Unfortunately.
"Ah." Lydia nods and offers him the remaining potion. "Will you require this as well?"
He waves towards Torgen. "No. Give to him. This should… last… a while. I hope."
The second vial contains a potion of regeneration, provided by Farengar Secret-Fire free of charge at the insistence of Jarl Balgruuf. It didn't surprise Mull that the Jarl would be unwilling to send off his niece to confront a rogue clan without some means of healing major injuries.
High-grade potions of regeneration such as these are not only incredibly expensive, but unbelievably effective as well. They can be used to treat debilitating injuries or in extreme instances reattach lost limbs. Or fingers, as they case may be.
Without further ado, Lydia marches over the Torgen with purpose in her step. Mull follows in her wake.
"How does it look, priest?" Torgen asks sarcastically as he draws closer. "Will I live?"
Mull scoffs as he squats next to the man. 'Priest.' That's a new one.
Lydia readies the potion and examines the two truncated finger stumps. "The cuts appear to be clean. That's a good starting point."
While she plays healer, Mull blearily casts his gaze around the platform. "Where are… the fingers?"
"I have 'em right here, boss. One step ahead of you." Torgen presents his severed index finger.
He grumpily snatches the blood-drenched appendage, gripping it tightly so it doesn't slip from his grasp. "Give." Torgen doesn't have the strength left to argue.
"My Thane, please ensure you don't accidentally mix your own blood with his."
"Got it," he grumbles shortly.
His housecarl unstoppers the potion. "Hold the finger in the correct position, please."
He does as instructed, jamming the raw flesh of the finger's base into its matching knuckle. Torgen flinches heavily.
Once they're ready, dribbles the potion onto the wound. Their patient yelps but retains the presence of mind to remain motionless.
After several seconds, Lydia stops pouring and curtly issues new orders. "Turn over your hand in three, two, one. Now." Torgen flips his palm upwards while Mull guides the finger appropriately. The housecarl drizzles more of the potion onto the reverse side of the wound.
It's difficult to tell due to the copious amount of blood and nearly blood-colored tonic, but it appears that the finger is becoming more securely attached with each passing second. The wonders of alchemical healing never cease to amaze Mull. Unless he's the subject, of course.
They repeat the operation with the second finger and encounter no more trouble than with the first.
When she seems satisfied with her handiwork, the housecarl gestures for Torgen to open his mouth and empties the remnants of the concoction onto his tongue. "Swallow."
He acquiesces, though his face twists like he's taken a bite out of something disgustingly sour.
Lydia and Mull lean in to examine the injured digits. "I think… they look… pretty good."
The housecarl hums in wordless agreement.
Still pale, Torgen leans back in his chair and lets out a long breath. He's shivering and visibly sweating, so Lydia pulls out her woolen blanket and drapes it over him. She also produces a rag to wipe away the blood still dripping from his hand. "Talos save me, that itched like a mammoth in summer. I'm never doing that again."
"If you didn't… get yourself hurt… then it wouldn't have happened… in the first place," Mull snarks. He made it a point to be lenient with the injured man earlier, but now that he feels like a troll-trampled corpse, he can't find it within himself to care.
"Cut me some slack, boss. I feel like I'm about to keel over and die."
"Join… the club."
Torgen rubs his face wearily. "I'm getting too old for this." After a few seconds, he raises his head to give Mull and Lydia and accusatory stare. "Why didn't you tell me she was hiding a regeneration potion? That's an important bit of information, boss. And when did you buy it? Those aren't cheap."
Lydia answers for him. "We decided against informing you because my Thane believed, and I quote, that 'you might swipe them while we weren't looking and sell them for quick gold.'"
"I know you need… the coin for booze," Mull adds.
"Really? I'm hurt that you'd think so little of me. What happened to trust? Honor among thieves?"
"No such thing. And am I wrong?"
"Well…"
"Yeah. That's what… I thought." Really, Torgen has no right to complain. In any other situation, he would've just lost the fingers and that would be that. He's lucky that their benefactor is a Jarl. There's no doubt in Mull's mind that the potions were intended for Lydia's well-being and not their own, but it is what it is.
Instead of answering and possibly incriminating himself, Torgen carefully flexes his newly-healed digits. "Just about good as new." He winces. "But I think the middle one is a bit crooked."
"That's your own fault," Lydia candidly informs him. "And it will be sore for quite a while, so stop moving it around."
He fakes indignation and points at Mull with his uninjured hand. "Wouldn't it be his fault? He was holding it in place."
"Of course not. Now sit still and be quiet. I wouldn't be surprised if the healing leaves you with severe fatigue. Potions of regeneration are powerful in their own right, but they draw their potency primarily from the victim's own body. You should conserve your strength."
Torgen chuckles hoarsely and settles back into his chair.
Mull stands and squints at Hajvarr Iron-hand's corpse, now surrounded by a pool of sunbaked crimson. He again marvels at the bear-like proportions of the huge Nord. He recalls something a fellow bandit once said to him. 'It's a damned sight easier to gut some witless farmer or caravan hand still wet behind the ears than it is to engage a seasoned warrior in a straight fight.' He's never been given a reason to question the veracity of that statement. It still holds true today.
Torgen follows his gaze. "Are we cutting off his head and taking it back, or what?"
Lydia snorts in decidedly unladylike fashion. "Gods, no. I'm sure Iron-hand would be perfectly willing to do such a cruel thing, if the corpse staked at the entrance to the village below is any indication. We, however, must be better than him. He may have been a fugitive and a brute, but no Nord deserves to be needlessly barbarized in such a way."
Mull and the older man share an uneasy look. They wordlessly agree to never tell the housecarl that they've both performed posthumous decapitations. How else are you supposed to unquestionably confirm someone's death or intimidate your enemies?
"Does he have any unique personal effects? If so, then they would likely suffice. Those for instance." She points to the deceased chieftain's hands and forearms, which are encased in a set of engraved steel gauntlets with individually-plated fingers. They're surprisingly intricate for being the armor of a mere clan chieftain, even in comparison to the rest of his armament.
"Huh. I'm almost jealous." Torgen gingerly rubs his bruised jaw with his good hand. "No wonder that punch hurt so much."
Never one to waste time dithering, Lydia walks over to the chieftain's body and again produces her knife from her belt. She slices through the straps securing the gauntlets to the man's forearms and tugs them free.
In the meantime, Mull drifts over to the table in front of the hut on the lookout for anything interesting. A few yards away, near the entrance to the hut, lies the corpse of the redhead clansgirl.
She died face-down against the granite, her hair splayed in congealed clumps around her head to obscure her features. Her fur-and-hide garments are soaked from her trickling wounds, glistening black in the sunlight. Her spear is resting nearby, inches beyond the reach of her lifeless fingers.
This isn't an unfamiliar sight. It goes without saying that he's seen a lot of corpses in his time – even today, in the last hour or so.
The only difference is that this girl couldn't have been any older than Lydia. By his estimation, she was practically still a child.
He's seen and done worse than bringing about the death of a single girl. Much, much worse.
And yet today it still brings him pause, if only for a moment. His traitorous mind imagines Lydia lying there motionless. Or Aela. Or… or Morven.
The briefest flicker of regret reverberates within him.
Like a fire leaping at the arrival of a single spark, a vast presence stirs in the depths of his soul. 'Tell me, Qahnaarin. Why is that so? For what reason do you hold this departed soul in such regard? You have nearly fallen in ignoble battle this day, and yet you still allow yourself to indulge in these petty weaknesses.'
He closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose, ignoring the lessened but still painful tingling inside his throat. Shut up, Mirmulnir.
'Ah. You do not have an answer, do you? The blame for that rests solely with you, for you act without thought. You feel without due consideration. You lack control over your own self. If these faults you cannot overcome, then how can you ever hope to soar above the Tides of Fate? Your wisdom is lacking, Qahnaarin. As always.'
Not willing to engage the dragon in a pointless conversation, Mull tears his eyes away from the dead girl and busies himself with sorting through the plethora of items cluttering Iron-hand's table. Mirmulnir rumbles a few more vaguely accusatory statements but falls silent when it becomes clear that a response isn't forthcoming.
The vast majority of the clan chieftain's belongings are mundane, not valuable enough to garner much interest. There are a few scattered coins of various denominations and a couple of potions, one colored the cherry-red of a health draught and the other a verdant green denoting a stamina draught. He tosses them thoughtlessly into his satchel, scans the tabletop one last time, and pauses as he catches sight of something else.
It's a book lying partially hidden beneath the four foot long rune-etched scabbard that had housed Iron-hand's blade. He pushes aside the scabbard and picks up the tome. Dusting off the worn leatherbound cover reveals it to be in somewhat rough shape, as though it's been used often for a long time. He flips it open and starts reading.
This is a journal belonging to Iron-hand. The first page is scarce, detailing the events of some clan raid in scrawling handwriting, barely legible even to someone as unskilled as Mull. It seems to be fairly generic, as do the next several pages, so he turns the pages faster and faster until he reaches the end.
The final few paragraphs are more engaging, as they contain the detail of the clan's recent weakening that Lydia had mentioned before they entered the Watch. According to Iron-hand, the White River Clan's troubles began with a man called Anjor, one of his subordinates who he killed and staked in front of the stronghold.
I wonder if that's the body we saw strung up at the entrance to the lower settlement.
After that macabre event, a clanswoman named Eisa Blackthorn decided to challenge his authority and perpetrated a split in the clan's ranks. In the end, she convinced a significant majority of the clan to follow her lead and departed for greener pastures. Iron-hand derides them in the text as cowards and snowbacks since many of them didn't want to resort to outright banditry so close to the city of Whiterun. In the end they migrated northwards to the Hjallmarch where they joined the Palemoon Clan.
That's just a brief summary, but Mull frankly doesn't care nearly enough to bother perusing through the entire thing. Still, it's noteworthy information and an additional personal effect that can be turned into the Jarl's steward as confirmation of the bounty's fulfillment.
While he'd been reading, he distantly noticed Lydia walking past him and entering Iron-hand's hut. She now exits after spending less than a minute inside. Mull closes the journal as she shakes her head, answering his unspoken question. Nothing of note has been stored within.
Mull indicates the dead clansgirl with a curt nod. "How was… the fight?"
Lydia's expression darkens. She remains silent for a long moment.
"…I must confess that I didn't want to kill her. She was younger than myself, and… that seemed especially wrong to me. She was frightened and yet still she fought, giving me no choice in the matter. I instructed her to surrender and she refused. I suppose that I simply wish it could've ended differently. That could be said for many things today."
She looks up at him with those clear, guileless eyes, her severe features tarnished by a shadow of melancholy.
"My Thane, does… does this get any easier?"
He pauses, not having expected such a heartfelt answer, and then shrugs. "For some people, yes. They get accustomed… to the killing. I have. But that isn't… always… a good thing. Depends on… the person."
Her frown deepens but she nods, accepting his non-answer for what it is.
She marshals herself and brushes past him, stomping towards a brass-bound chest concealed beneath Hajvarr's table. Just like the previous one inside the cave, Mull had completely missed it.
He leaves her to it and wanders over to his sword lying near the edge of the plateau. He retrieves it and returns it to its sheath. It's in need of a good cleaning, but that can wait until they're back in Whiterun.
He takes one glance at his battered spangenhelm sitting nearby and immediately writes it off as a lost cause. A deep crack is now disfiguring the steel frame where Iron-hand's blow had landed. As far as he knows, that sort of damage is almost always unfixable. The structure of the helm is irreversibly compromised. Survived through a battle against a dragon only to be done in by some asshole clan chief. Sorry, friend. You did right by me every step of the way.
With one final expression of gratitude, he carefully rests the ruined helm atop a gnarled tree stump, giving it a nice view of the scenic lands below, and returns to Torgen's side.
The older man is now occupying himself with somberly examining the chipped remnants of his mace. He's still wrapped in Lydia's blanket and doesn't appear to have moved, so the housecarl must've delivered it to him at some point earlier.
"How… you doing?"
"I've been better." Torgen lays the mace on his lap and rubs his arms in an effort to warm himself. He looks thoughtful, a distinctly odd sight to see on his craggy features. "It's strange being on this side of things, isn't it? Killing the brigands on behalf of the law instead of the other way around."
"…Aye. It sure is."
They wait in companionable silence for a while, listening to the mournfully keening wind and the mutterings of Lydia as she struggles with the locked chest. Mull could break out his lockpicking tools and give her a hand, but he decides against it. She seems like she needs something to occupy herself with.
The housecarl finally manages to force the chest open with her knife, throws open the lid, and groans dejectedly. "Iron, hides, and other miscellaneous garbage." She mutters a oath and rejoins them with only a bronze triskele brooch to show for her efforts.
Torgen opens his mouth to say something rude, but stops when Mull gives him a look. Now isn't the time.
Instead, the older man settles for asking a question. "What'll become of this place? It's a nice holdout. I wouldn't mind setting up shop here, if it were me."
Lydia answers as she idly inspects the brooch, turning it from one side to another. "Now that it's functionally abandoned, the Watch's fate will lie with the Jarl. I cannot speak for him, but I imagine it will be used as a lookout post to safeguard the river valley from Stormcloak incursions. Or perhaps he'll allow a different clan to occupy it in the spring. As a matter of fact, I believe the Darkshade Clan has already been considered for that role. We've received reports that they've been driven out of their previous domicile at the eastern terminus of the White River Gorge, though I don't know the cause. I seem to remember hearing something about an infestation of trolls."
"Do you get many of those around here?"
"More than we'd like," she sternly answers. "These highlands are rife with the beasts."
She starts gathering up the loot, including the items Mull had found in addition to those pilfered earlier inside the cave. Once she's sorted through it all, she stuffs the money, potions, and other trinkets into her knapsack one by one.
"You taking… all of that?" Mull croaks.
"I am sworn to carry your burdens," Lydia blithely replies as she works. "Such is the solemn duty of a housecarl."
Unsure what to say to that, he glances questioningly at Torgen who merely shrugs. The older man rises from his chair with a weary exclamation and saunters over to the housecarl. She ignores him as he watches her stow each item.
Suddenly he stops her with an outstretched hand. "Let me see that."
She freezes at his unusually serious tone, peers warily at the purple potion in her hand, and relinquishes it to the older man.
He unstoppers the bottle and takes a tentative whiff. "Ugh. Aye, that's a frenzy potion alright. I thought it might be from the color. It's a good thing nobody drank this."
"No doubt." Mull has never been stupid enough to consume potions or alchemical ingredients that send the recipient into a berserker rage, but he's seen the results firsthand once or twice. Potions of frenzy are nothing to sneeze at. They can be exceedingly dangerous when used by the reckless or ignorant.
Torgen returns the potion to Lydia with a rumbling sigh. "I was looking forward to looting that cave for everything it's worth, but I don't think that'll happen at this point." He brandishes his hand caked in dried blood. "Too damn tired. I say we take what we've already got and call it a day. Besides, we still have the bounty money waiting for us."
"Agreed," rasps Mull. He can't wait to get his hands on a hundred septims. There's a lot you can do with that amount of coin.
Lydia finishes packing her knapsack and heaves it to her shoulder. "Very well. If that is your wish my Thane, then let's be off."
As they reenter the cave, Mull spares a moment to glance back at Iron-hand's abode. The barest tendrils of smoke are still rising from the chimney, though that isn't likely to last much longer. The dead girl is still huddled where she fell. On the other side of the plateau, Iron-hand's armored corpse looks much the same, unmoving and coated in gore. This is what they've wrought.
He's earned a Jarl's bounty, brought low a fearsome opponent, and survived a close brush with death. All in a good day's work.
And yet as they descend through the dim reaches of the cavern, he can't help but wonder if he truly ought to be feeling this satisfaction. If he hadn't used that Shout against Iron-hand, he would almost certainly be dead. A win is a win regardless of the hows or whys, but still… he doesn't like the idea of having relied so heavily on this newfound and unasked-for power.
If Morven was standing in my boots right now, what would she be doing? She wouldn't be out here chasing down clan chieftains for bounty gold, that's for sure. She'd be doing something meaningful, something more worthwhile than this.
Not for the first or last time, he laments that she isn't here.
But at the end of the day, he is who he is. This is what he does best, and it's about the only thing he's ever been any good at – fighting and killing for coin and for survival. If this isn't what the gods wanted, then they should've picked somebody else for their supposed blessings. Somebody like her.
