Chapter 9
Just a Little Exploring
"Nothing good ever came from 'just a little exploring.'"-Olfrad the Red, a character in the play Every Sailor's a Fool. Written by Grozak gro-Krakdar and first performed 4E 134.
All the snow in Skyrim couldn't freeze Lianna's heart at that moment. There he was, standing erect and proud, every inch the true son of Skyrim. A charming smile was plastered across his face while his honey-coloured hair, speckled with flecks of snow, blew gently in the wind. His tunic had been washed and his chainmail polished. He looked just as handsome as she remembered, perhaps even more so.
Ralof.
Leaping off the cart before the driver had completely stopped it, Lianna's boots hit the frozen cobblestone road with a crunch. Snow was gently falling as she walked over to her husband. Making a conscious effort not to run, Lianna gave the most smug expression she possessed. "And, who might you be?" she asked in a haughty tone, eyebrow raised. "I have no time for dirty soldiers."
Grinning at her with a smirk that could only be described as wolfish, Ralof spoke. "Fortunately, I am no dirty soldier." The words held an almost regal twist, giving Lianna little tingles in all the right places. His deep blue eyes filled her with so much warmth that she struggled to keep up her flirty facade. "I'm a Nord," Ralof continued, voice filled with confidence, "We are strong and hearty people, who know how to treat a woman right."
"Is that so?" Lianna responded coyly, "Can you back up such a bold claim?" Both Stormcloaks were approaching the other with rapidly increasing steps, each far happier to see the other than their little game implied.
"Of course," Ralof said. With that he grabbed Lianna around the waist and kissed her heartily.
As her husband tilted her backwards, she closed her eyes and savoured his taste, a combination of mead, sweat,and snow. Grasping him by the shoulders, Lianna kissed him back fiercely. As the snow fell around them, the couple continued to embrace, as if there was no tomorrow.
After a moment, lack of air forced the pair to separate. Breathing heavily, Lianna smiled. "I guess you missed me after all, soldier?"
Ralof winked. "What gave it away?" Wrapping his arms around her waist, he rested his head comfortably atop hers while she snuggled into his shoulder. "I missed you," his words were soft and honest.
Closing her eyes and basking in the feeling of being back with her husband, Lianna gave a contented sigh. "I missed you too." The couple stood outside of Windhelm, looking on at that ancient city of kings and revelling in their reunion.
"What do you say we go get a meal and drink, eh? We can rent a room for the night and enjoy ourselves before Ulfric sends us out to battle again." Ralof said happily, pulling his Altmer wife tighter against him. "Rumours suggest we're going to be part of a very special mission soon enough. Before that I want to sleep in a warm bed with a belly full of cold mead one more time." Ralof smiled at her, "I'll even let you pick where we eat."
Lianna laughed. "How can I resist such an offer!" They began walking across the bridge towards Windhelm, arm in arm. "When you said I could pick, does that include the New Gnisis Corner Club?" She smiled warmly.
Every time she was in Windhelm, which was rather often when she thought about it, she always made two stops. One was a visit to her friend Niranye, the only other Altmer who called Windhelm home. They would share tea and gossip, conversation that Lianna relished heartily. The other would be a visit to the Gray Quarter, home of the city's sizable Dunmer population. While she couldn't change the Jarl's policies on the Dunmer, and she wasn't sure she wanted to, the Corner Club served better food and drink than Candlehearth Hall. As a Mer herself, Lianna viewed the Dunmer as cousins and wanted to help them. Perhaps, in time, they would see the error of their stubborness and fully throw their support behind Skyrim's bid for freedom.
Maybe, if a Stormcloak showed them favour, they'd be a little more hospitable to those who have given them so much. If only the Dunmer could see just how generous Ulfric has been to them!
Despite her stubborn insistence that her interactions with the Dunmer were for mere political reasoning, another reason lurked in the back of her mind.
Guilt.
It wouldn't quite go away, the whisper of the guilty conscience that had something to do with her decision to spend time at the Gray Quarter. Spending her septims there always eased that whisper. It was one way she could help the residents of the slum, until the day they would see the light of a free Skyrim.
Ralof sighed, "Fine, the Corner Club it is." His voice carried the tone of a man performing a difficult duty. Like many of her brothers-in-arms, Ralof avoided dealing with the Dunmer whenever he could. Still, he had made a promise.
"You're a good man, Ralof son of Ralgar," Lianna whispered, kissing her husband's rough cheek. His beard tickled her sensitive lips, electing a small chuckle. "I knew there was a reason I married you."
"And here I thought it was my good looks," Ralof said suavely, leading her into the city.
Barely above a whisper, Lianna added, "That too."
Hammel was surprised by how quickly the Barrow doors opened. He'd expected them to hold up to more than one shoulder-rush. But all it took was one ram to slam them aside with an echoing bang.
The noisy entrance made stealth pointless. The four bandits sitting around the cosy fire in the entrance chamber lept from their seats in a shower of playing cards. Their apparent leader, a female Redguard, screamed at the intruders while dropping her hand to her scimitar's handle, "How'd you get here?"
The Orc rising to his feet beside her said, rather sensibly, "It doesn't matter! Just kill them!"
The gap between Hammel and the bandits was roughly two feet, hardly a vast distance. Unfortunately for the bandits, Hammel and his companions were already armed. Swinging both swords in an intimidating fashion, Hammel dashed straight for the Orc, roaring, "Come on! Face me!"
Clob tossed his quarterstaff aside, already preparing a spell, while a Breton bandit rushed him with a drawn dagger. The Redguard spat at Ria, drawing her particularly wicked-looking scimitar. The remaining bandit, a Nord with a warhammer, moved towards Hammel, swinging the weapon over his head with the ferocious promise, "You never should have come here!"
Battle was joined.
The Orcish bandit howled at Hammel, swinging his flail overhead with a vicious crack. Considering the amount of foam gushing from between his front fangs, the bandit had entered the Orcish blood-rage. Despite the more impressive looking warhammer in the Nord bandit's hands, Hammel had fought alongside enough Orcs to know what a berserker was capable of.
Ducking the Nord bandit's first swing, Hammel kicked him, staggering the Nord. The Orc howled, snapping the flail out. Throwing himself aside, Hammel narrowly dodged the spiked ball at the chain's end, feeling its weight scrape across his shoulder. Countering quickly, Hammel jabbed with his left-hand blade. He scored a small cut across the Orc's arm, earning nothing but a dark chuckle.
The Orc bandit struck Hammel across the face with a vicious backhand, throwing him to the ground. Hammel tasted his blood, felt his nose snapping despite the nose guard's best efforts.
Old wounds opening again and again.
Moving in, the Nord swung his warhammer two-handed at the prone Hammel. Rolling aside, he narrowly dodged a bone-shattering strike, feeling the vibrations as steel cracked the stone where his head had been only a moment earlier. Cutting out quickly with his right-hand blade, he landed a small strike on the bandit's knee, driving him back. Rising to his feet, Hammel ducked another strike from the flail, the weapon barely grazing the top of his iron helmet. Diving forward, Hammel stabbed down both swords, impaling the Orc through his right leg.
Snarling with pain, the Orc punched downward, striking Hammel directly in the face. Despite his nose-guard, the blow hurt, snapping his head down. Losing his grip on the right blade, Hammel staggered backward a few paces, his head ringing inside the helmet, leaving the sword sticking out of the Orc's leg.
"I'll crush you like a skeever!" The Nord bandit looked more than willing to back up that threat, swinging his warhammer with both hands. Hopping a single step backwards, Hammel dodged the blow. The hammer connected with empty air, throwing its owner off balance. Grabbing the end of the warhammer with a free hand, Hammel pulled it towards him with an aggressive yank.
Caught off guard by the move, the bandit lost his grip on the hammer, staggering forward with all the grace of a drunken troll.
The Orc bandit chose that exact moment to strike, lashing out with his flail. A human skull met an orb of spiked steel with a sickening crack. The Nord collapsed with a now horrifically misshapen head.
The situation was almost comical. However the Orc failed to notice the humour, his rage having completely taken over his mind.
Yanking the Kiss free from his underarm sheath, Hammel resumed his high guard stance. "Now that it's just us two, I won't tell anyone you surrendered." Holding the Kiss with his lower hand and Imperial shortsword in the upper, he waited for some kind of insulting response.
The Orc just snarled.
All around them, steel on steel rang, accompanied by an inhuman shriek and a crack of lightning. The two warriors ignored it all, their attention focused entirely on each other.
The Orc roared as he charged while ignoring the blade sticking out of his right leg, a wound that would cripple a Breton or Imperial. Snapping his arm, the Orc lashed out with his flail again, this time scoring a hit. Hissing through the pain, Hammel felt a few spikes bite deep into the skin beneath his armpit, bypassing his leather armor and adding more scars to an already impressive collection.
Not wanting his opponent to get another chance, Hammel dived at his adversary, the Kiss held in his outstretched hand. The finely made Dwemer weapon punched through the Orc's fur jerkin. With his hand wrapped tightly around the dagger's handle, Hammel felt something strange happen. The Orc gasped, growing visibly paler as Hammel pushed the dagger deeper into his chest. Simultaneously, Hammel felt the earlier wounds close, flesh regrowing and bruises fading. Even his nose reknit with a painful pop. It felt like he'd just drunk several potent healing potions in rapid succession. He felt renewed, whole, and quite impressed with his new weapon.
The Orc's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed without a sound. Gazing down at the dagger in awe, Hammel said a silent "thank-you" to Ri'saad.
Much appreciated, my friend.
"That's quite the blade you have there." Clob said, stepping gingerly over the steaming remains of his opponent to retrieve the quarterstaff from where he'd dropped it.
Ria nodded, placing her blade back in its scabbard. She looked unharmed, which couldn't be said for her now headless opponent. Ria seemed a better fighter than Aela or Skjor had given credit. "I don't suppose you'd lend it out?" Her words had a wistful tone, laced with her chipper attitude.
"No." Hammel said. "The day I let you borrow this knife is the day I hold an Elder Scroll." Returning the Kiss to its place, he pulled his other blade free from the Orc bandit's corpse.
"What now?" Clob asked, looking at the chamber around them. It was obviously ancient, mostly constructed from stone but with patches of rotting wood. The sorry remains of a few tapestries clung stubbornly to life while several piles of rock sat silently as tribute to the pillars they had once been. A skeever slowly turned on a spit over the fire the bandits had been sitting around, destined to be uneaten.
"Now?" Hammel responded, kicking open the chest sitting next to the fire while hoping for treasure. "We gather up what loot we can, then do a little exploring."
"Clobnak gro-Grogork! Pick up your feet, you little elf!" Uncle Garborz snarled, throwing a rock at him. It struck the boy on the side of his head, tearing open a bloody gash. Stifling his cries as best as he could, Clob did as he was told. Adjusting his pack, Clob picked up the pace but still utterly failed to keep up with his uncle.
"I swear by Malacath, boy," Garborz snarled, spittle flying from his fangs, "I'll bite your other ear off if you don't keep up!" The much older Orc easily outdistanced his young nephew, longer legs and more developed muscle keeping him two full lengths ahead, seemingly without effort. The mountains glared down at him, judging him for his failure to match his uncle's blistering pace.
He hated these training sessions, tramping through the mountains like a pack-mule. It was only ever done to, as his uncle always said, 'toughen him up.' He could be back at the village, studying his texts, and growing his Magika reserves. The village mage spoke to him of his potential whenever he was able to sneak away for lessons. Clob knew he was going to be a powerful mage, that was his calling. But instead of practising magic he was out in the valley, almost crying because of his uncle. An uncle who never hesitated to make it clear how he felt about his magically-inclined nephew.
"My father wouldn't make me do this." Clob whispered under his breath, hand clutched against his bleeding head.
Unfortunately, Garborz gro-Malorg heard him. "But your father isn't here is he? No? He's dead and I'm stuck with you." The words came out of his mouth with the fury of a dozen boars, almost burning Clob with the sheer rage. "Now," Garborz snarled, readjusting his eye-patch, his sole, good eye boring through his nephew. "You're going to keep the pace. Are we clear?"
Clob didn't answer.
"Good, we've got another ten miles to go. Now shut up and move."
Despite the pain in his slender frame and the few salty tears he shed, Clob kept pace. For ten miles he ran, stride-by-stride, with his uncle. When the time came to finally rest, Clob collapsed and immediately fell asleep. Tomorrow was another day of the same treatment, and he had to recover what little strength he could.
"There are three bandits in the room ahead. None of them seem to be aware of us." Clob had been further impressed by his companions' stealth. While he knew Hammel had some experience sneaking, he'd demonstrated it quite sufficiently outside, Ria was an unknown quality. While clearly the loudest of the three, she still moved with enough silence to avoid detection.
Fortunately for Clob, Hammel hadn't pressed him for answers about where he'd learn to sneak. It wouldn't have mattered even if he had, because Clob wouldn't have answered those questions.
"Any mages among their number?" Hammel asked with bow in hand. The prospect of another fight didn't seem to bother him. They had slunk through the tunnels for an unknown amount of time but encountered no further bandits. Clob was faintly aware that they were heading deeper into the earth. The only sign that the surrounding tunnels had been used within this decade was how clear of debris they were. Taking his usual precaution, the Mage maintained his detect life spell, displaying the auras of the upcoming bandits long before they could see him.
"Yes. There is one. Probably a hedge-wizard because he's not giving off a particularly potent magical aura." While still maintaining his detect life spell, Clob cast stoneflesh on himself. Obviously, he had no intention of letting a bandit close enough to strike him, but it never hurt to be prepared.
"Pity. For them." Ria ground out, sounding like a two-septim action hero from Hanburg's Renegades. She managed to maintain her serious expression for a grand total of three seconds before the grimace faltered and Ria's charming smile spilled across her face. Clasping her hand over her mouth, Ria managed to stifle the giggles that involuntarily leaked out.
"Skjor, you are not." Hammel said dryly, drawing an arrow from his quiver. A simple wooden door, already beginning to rot, separated them from the bandits. "Now, if you excuse me, I'm going to knock."
Clob wanted to give slightly more thought to their battleplan, but Hammel didn't give him that chance.
Kicking the door with all his might, Hammel shattered it in a single blow. The door exploded inward in a shower of splinters leaving three stunned bandits. Hammel loosed his arrow at the one in the simple robe, assuming robes meant mage. That bandit didn't manage to draw his dagger before the arrow struck, punching clean through his neck.
Even as their fellow collapsed, the other bandits were moving, pulling crudely made blades off their belts. It made no difference.
Clob took a step forward, speaking arcane words boldly while gesturing. Before the lead bandit, an ugly looking Argonian with a ragged tail, could take another step, Clob shoved his hands forward. A wall of flame leapt from his palms and washed over the bandit. His screams were muffled by the roaring fire, while the other stared in horror as the Argonian practically disintegrated.
"Stendarr preserve me," the Breton managed to breathe out before the arrow took him in the right side of the face and tore his ear off. He managed to block the flow of blood with both hands before Clob burned a hole through his chest with a well-placed lightning bolt. The bandit toppled, his corpse steaming gently and giving off a disturbingly pleasant smell similar to roasting pork.
"That was uneventful," Clob said with a tone implying he'd just ordered a cup of tea instead of barbequing a bandit.
"There can't be many more," Ria commented, looking around the room warily, as if expecting something to spring out of the shadows, "Bandit gangs don't get very large."
"Have you heard of the bandit wars in Free Elsweyr?" Hammel asked wearily, yanking his arrow free from the hedge-wizard's neck. "Some chieftains rallied several hundred of these bastards into a massive horde. The Emperor had to send a full Legion down there to stamp it out."
"You saw some action then?" Clob probed but Hammel didn't answer. Realising that he wasn't going to respond, Clob moved on without further interrogation. "We are finally arriving at the levels where the ancient Nords actually interred the dead. Assuming Farengar's information is correct, after passing through several burial chambers, we should come to the Hall of Stories. Beyond that, will be the central chamber where Denbar the Cruel is interred. He should be buried with the stone. And, assuming once more there aren't more bandits, we should have little trouble recovering it."
"There's more in these tunnels than simple bandits," Hammel said cryptically, stepping over the Argonian's corpse with another arrow already notched, watching the tunnel leading deeper into the Barrow. It was darker than the previous levels they'd explored and far more ominous. The tunnel reminded Clob of an animal's gaping maw. It was far from the first place he wanted to go exploring.
Summoning a floating orb of mage light was child's play for the experienced spell-caster and maintaining it caused very little drain on his magicka reserves. Sending the glow into the tunnel ahead, casting long and evil-looking shadows, Clob said with faux bravery, "Well then, let's find out if anything is down there."
In the deafening silence that followed, Clob was faintly aware of a soft, distant, noise. At first, he thought it might have been the wind, until he remembered how deep they'd come. It hardly seemed possible there could be a fresh breeze within these catacombs. Something else must have made the noise.
"Hey, did you hear that?" Ria commented, clearly discerning the same noise and confirming Clob wasn't hearing things. "Sounds like," she paused, leaning farther down the tunnel and straining her ears against the darkness. "Someone calling for help."
"Whatever that sound is," Hammel announced authoritatively, "It's worth our time. I'll take the lead. Clob, dim the light but keep it active. Ria, watch our backs. There's no telling what might be down here and I don't want to be cut off from escape." Unnecessarily, he added, "It's probably a trap, so be ready."
"I doubt I'll forget," Clob responded, gesturing down the tunnel, "Shall we?"
Leading the way, Hammel descended into the darkness with his bow in hand. Shrugging his shoulders noncommittally, Clob followed him.
"Thank you for your promptness," Galmar Stone-Fist ground out, his voice even rockier than Lianna remembered. Dinner had been lovely and the remainder of the evening, better. But now she was back fighting for the cause and everything was right again. Or, more accurately, she was trying to convince herself it was.
"Our pleasure, Galmar," Ralof responded smoothly, flashing his million Septim smile.
"That remains to be seen," he said gruffly, unfolding the map he carried. Placing it on the table before them, Galmar stabbed a finger at the long road from Falkreath to Winterhold. It was a winding, dangerous journey, where bandits and monsters would be a common sight, not a trip Lianna would have enjoyed. "As you know," Galmar began, wasting no time with pleasantries, "Jarl Ulfric has formed the Helgen survivors into one warband. He believes their combined experiences will make them exceptionally dangerous. This mission is a test of the Jarl's theory, so don't make him out to be a liar." Galmar didn't sound optimistic, but Lianna had never heard him use an upbeat tone for any reason. The closest she'd come to hearing him excited was last spring when he led a raid against a band of Thalmor Justiciars who'd become disconnected from their legion escort. He'd been almost salivating with anticipation before that attack.
"Why am I here, Galmar?" Ralof asked, not unreasonably. It wasn't every day a basic footsoldier was called before Jarl Ulfric's right-hand man. At least he'd washed his face. His hair could use a comb, but convincing Ralof to comb his hair was akin to getting her pa's cow to milk, near impossible.
At least Ralof doesn't kick if you make the wrong pull.
"You're here because I picked you to lead this warband." Galmar said simply. Ralof's eyes went so wide that Lianna was worried they'd fall out of their socket and roll around on the floor.
"Thank-you s-" He began, his voice shaky.
Galmar Stone-Fist cut him off, saving them both additional embarrassment. "Save your gratitude, Ralof," he said, "Doing this mission right will be thanks enough. My reputation is on the line because I personally chose you." Following that revelation, Galmar delivered each individual word with enough force to batter down Solitude's main gates. "Do. Not. Embarrass. Me. Bone-Breaker."
He turned away from the map towards the castle wall, hiding his expression. "I picked you," he began, meaty hands clasped behind his back, "Because, despite your poor choice of wife, you've proven yourself a true son of Skyrim. I was particularly impressed by how you took charge during the chaos of Helgen."
Lianna bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood. Sure, she was used to hearing these comments every day but it didn't make them easier to hear. Many Nords didn't care who her adopted parents were, how she'd be raised, or how hard she fought for Skyrim. All they saw was golden skin and pointy ears, and that was enough for them.
Ralof wasn't pleased by those words either but kept silent, though she saw the inner struggle within. His muscles had tensed and his jaw clasped tightly, tell-tale signs.
"Your mission involves raiding an Imperial caravan." Galmar continued, either unaware of, or ignoring, Ralof's agitation at the insult so casually levelled against his wife. While Stone-Fist was still facing away from them, Lianna knew he could feel every twitch on their faces. She hadn't survived as long as she had without reading unseen cues.
Facing them once more, Galmar jabbed the map with an audible thud. "We are outnumbered in this war. While loathed to perform the action, but seeing little choice, Jarl Ulfric has hired several bands of mercenaries." Galmar spat a wad of phlegm on the floor, speaking the word "mercenaries" like it was the foulest curse he knew. "These damn bastards want their pay, or they'll leave. I'd just as soon let them, but we need 'The Dogs of War' at least. They're bolstering our forces here," he said while tracing a finger around the small camp located in Haafingar Hold, near Meridia's shrine.
"We're low on coin," Ralof pointed out, perhaps feeling like he was supposed to offer input because of his new rank.
Galmar smiled. It was even more unpleasant than Lianna imagined. "That's why we're going to borrow some from the Empire. I'm sure they won't mind."
Lianna nodded coyly, "I'm sure."
"The Imperials will be moving slowly down this road," Galmar said, returning to the route he'd initially highlighted. "They'll have no alternative and, because the gods are Nords, the road is uneven to move quickly. According to our best information there will be at least three dozen Legionnaires and a battlemage, nothing the boys can't handle. What's important is the contents of the three carts they are guarding. Bring them here and we'll decide later what portion goes to the mercenaries." He paused before adding gruffly while looking pointedly at them with arms folded across his barrel of a chest, "Do you have any questions?"
"No Sir." Ralof answered for both of them.
"Good." Galmar was clearly not in the mood for questions. "Go gather your men. You leave tomorrow, midday," Galmar ordered, waving his hand dismissively. "I want to be looking at that gold three days from now. Understood, Bone-Breaker?"
Responding to his new title without hesitation, Ralof saluted, "Understood, Stormblade."
"Good, now make it happen."
They walked out feeling dazed. It wasn't until they were standing in the cobblestone streets, snow falling around them that Ralof finally said, "Did I just get promoted?"
"You know," Lianna responded, "I think you might have."
"Why, in the name of the Eight, are we hiring mercenaries?" Hadvar asked Prefect Quintus Decimus calmly, holding his helmet under his arm. While Hadvar was always happy to be spending time in his friend's company, he wasn't drawn to him the way the other occupant, Legate Rikke, held his interest.
The Legate was everything Hadvar wanted in a woman. She was strong, capable, and able to drink many men under the table. Where others saw hair of stringy black, he saw locks of midnight. Where others might consider her features weathered, worn after years of war, he saw them as treasured and experienced. Where others saw only the soldier, he saw the woman beneath. Unfortunately for him, Quintus seemed aware of this crush and teased him endlessly about it.
Hadvar wasn't sure but he could swear he heard Rikke mutter, "By the NINE," under her breath. Of course the rumour floated around that she still worshipped Talos, almost every high-ranking Nord officer was subject to that lie, but Hadvar didn't put any stock in it. He'd put Talos behind him when the order came. If he, a lowly soldier, had done his duty, how could the Legate do any less?
"We are hiring mercenaries," Rikke answered coldly "So the rebels can't do the same. We know they've already employed three bands." Her battered features hardened, gaze turning to the stack of reports covering her desk. "The Ulfric I know would never stoop to this…"
Not wanting Rikke to divulge anything from the Great War which might embarrass her, Hadvar cut in, "We've determined which three bands they are, right Quintus?"
His friend snapped too, picking up the non-verbal cue. "Oh, right." Pulling out his notes, Quintus cleared his throat before speaking in a crisp voice that rang to every corner of the Castle Dour war room. "We believe them to be, 'The Dogs of War,' 'The Children of the Axe,' and 'The Sons of War.'" He paused for a moment, a rueful look on his face. "These mercenary bands do tend towards the dramatic when it comes to choosing names."
Much to Hadvar's relief, Rikke cracked a small smile. "That they do. Are you positive about those identifications? As Shinji tells us, 'Knowing our enemy is the key to any victory.'"
"We're sure about the Sons anyway," Hadvar said, "We received visual confirmation of Hector."
Rikke raised a single dark eyebrow. "They brought that elephant all the way to Skyrim?"
"You expect Tamriel's most famous mercenary band to go to war without their mascot? It's Hector the War-Elephant!" Quintus looked far too excited about the giant warbeast for Hadvar's comfort. His friend had always been a little bit eccentric. "My niece has a little stuffed toy that looks exactly like him."
"Well, for your niece's sake, we'll spare the elephant," Legate Rikke said with a smile, winking at Hadvar. They both knew Quintus didn't have a niece and the stuffed elephant was more than likely his. Still, Quintus was an exceptional officer, stuffed elephant notwithstanding.
"How goes the search for the Jagged Crown?" The Legate asked after a brief pause, looking at both her underlings in turn. "Quaestor?"
Remembering his newly earned title, Hadvar snapped to attention, "Nothing as of yet Legate, but we still have men on it."
"General Tullius believes this search to be a waste of time," Quintus piped up, his Imperial accent firmly reminding both Nords of his personal opinions. "Why do we need this fairy-tale crown? When the Moot comes around, the Jarls will choose Elisif for High Queen. She's the logical choice."
Rikke leaned onto the table with a sad smile. "Nords aren't as logical as you Imperials, Quintus. We follow our hearts above all else, sometimes to our detriment. This war is proof enough of that."
"General Tullius says Ulfric is nothing but a power-hungry dictator," Quintus parroted again, obviously recognizing who Rikke was referring to.
"Watch your tone," She said grimly, "Ulfric was my friend once." Her gaze fell, "He just made some poor decisions." Castle Dour became deathly silent..
"The crown is needed to help legitimise Elisif's claim," Hadvar began, breaking the awkward silence. "If she held it that would sway the opinions of several more traditional Jarls. With that crown, we might have a very real chance of restoring peace to Skyrim."
"One accessory can do all that?" Quintus, the sole Imperial in the room, said, seeming unconvinced.
"You underestimate the power of image, my friend," Hadvar responded passionately, "The Jagged Crown is a symbol straight out of our great myths."
"You Nords put too much stock in your myths," There was nothing negative intoned in Quintus' words, he merely seemed to be making an observation.
"Aye," Rikke said softly, "That we do."
It was definitely a cry for help.
As they rushed through the tunnels of Bleak Falls Barrow, moving at a hurried but silent pace, Hammel was able to hear the noise more clearly. The words were probably, "Oh gods, help me! It's going to come back!"
"He seems distressed," Clob observed in that same casual tone he reserved for everything that wasn't some new discovery. The Orc was so calm that Hammel's old drill sergeant would have been jealous.
"Being trapped alone in a tomb can do that to a person," Hammel responded phlegmatically. The bowstring felt good under his fingers, taunt but supple. The old Legion design slipped right back into his calloused hand as if it had never left.
They were close now. The screams were strong and clear, giving a perfect trail to follow. Though it wouldn't have been too hard to find the speaker regardless because, like most Nordic tombs, the Barrow was built around a singular tunnel without many branching paths.
They arrived at a massive antechamber, the last room before the actual burial chambers. In times past, the Nords would have used it to wash up, eat a quick meal, or say a few prayers, before visiting the bodies of their ancestors. It would be large enough for plenty of bandits to hide in if they wanted an ambush.
Clob still had his quarterstaff clutched tightly in hand and Ria's blade was drawn.
Good. If he doesn't get a spell off, at least he won't be helpless.
A pair of arches still stood proudly, despite the destruction around them, looking down on those who would dare imply they'd failed in their duties. No bandits came rushing out from beneath them into battle, but the cries of the panicked man were definitely originating from within.
"Arrow formation, just like last time," Hammel ordered quietly, holding up two fingers, jabbing at either side of him. Ria nodded, hefting her shield and swinging her sword. Clob simply nodded, grinding the butt of his quarterstaff into the ground.
"Go."
Dashing into the room, Hammel drew the bowstring back to his ear, ready to fire at the first foe he saw. He was confident he could drop one, maybe two, before he had to draw steel.
No one appeared.
The chamber's sole occupant was firmly held in place in the far doorway, pinned to the wall with what appeared to be giant spider webs. The whole chamber was covered with webbing from the ceiling to the floor. His boots made a squishing sound as he walked. In the corner, where a shrine to Shor would have once sat, was now a pile of giant, cream-coloured, spheres that he took a moment to recognize.
Azura preserve me! They're…
"Eggs," Ria said, struggling to maintain her sense of calm in the face of rising fear and revulsion. "Eggs, for spiders."
He'd figured that out without her help, shockingly enough.
Upon seeing the trio, the webbed man shrieked, "Hurry! Cut me down before it returns!"
Hammel was about to ask what in Oblivion "It" was, when it decided to make its presence known.
Dropping from above and blocking their path deeper into the Barrow, and the unfortunate man, was a monstrous spider. It was easily as tall and wide as a cart. It blinked its many eyes predatorily, venom dripping freely from its mandibles. The spider looked at the trio as if they were no more than a snack, and not a particularly large one.
"Oh my," Clob said with all the emotion of ordering a pint. "We seem to have a small problem."
"It looks that way." Hammel responded, failing to match Clob's tone.
There was a pause as both sides stared at the other. After a moment, Ria piped up, "Would this be a bad time to mention that I really don't like spiders?"