Isaac shoved himself through the door of the first building he could see and collapsed onto the floor. Wood, oh, how good it felt under his … well, his everything.
After Windhelm’s enormous metal gates had groaned and clanked shut behind him, he’d been relieved to find that the wind mostly died off. The city’s thick, high walls created a basin in which its inhabitants could crawl around in the narrow streets, safe from being gusted over every few seconds.
And, indeed, Windhelm’s streets were narrow, its buildings tall, and everything was made of stone. It was frigid, unwelcoming stone that sucked the life out of everything around it.
Isaac moaned, his face pressed against the smooth floorboards. He flexed fingers on a right hand he wasn’t sure belonged him. They moved slowly and painfully, but they moved. He placed the hand flat on the floor next to his head and pushed himself up into a kneeling position. He blinked hard, yawned, and wiped his nose – his hand came away wet.
Someone cleared their throat, and Isaac looked up to see three people staring down at him, each plastered with an expression of shock.
“Oh,” Isaac, said and coughed. “Hello there. Sorry, had a bit of a rough day.” He stood on shaky legs, and their eyes followed him.
A woman shook herself out of her confusion and started forward. Her arm went to his and she held him steady.
“Suzanna,” said a shrill voice, “Don’t touch the man, you don’t know where he’s been!”
“Oh, quiet, Elda, can’t you see he’s freezing to death? He needs to lie down.”
“I don’t,” Isaac said.
“I’ll … go check to see if there’s a room free,” said a warmer though still uncertain male voice.
“I’m fine, I’m-“ Isaac tried to remove the woman’s grip from his arm, but as his fingers touched hot skin, she flinched away.
“Ouch! Your hands are cold!”
“I’m sorry! I’m-“
Between the younger woman’s insistence and the elder’s complaining, they bundled him down a low-ceilinged corridor and into a side room.
The younger woman – Suzanna – sat him down on a bed. “Take those wet boots off or you’ll get frostbite.”
The man reappeared and pushed two things into his hands, one hot and one cold. Isaac looked down and saw a bowl of some lumpy steaming broth, and a heavy iron tankard of a dark liquid. He took a swig of the tanker first, and the bitter ale tasted like heaven, and caused him to shiver when he swallowed it.
The man laughed a strong, chesty laugh, and said: “That’s my good man!”
“You’re all crazy!” Said the older woman. She threw her hands up in dismay and walked out of the room.
Isaac blinked and finally took in the scene before him: the room was small – the bed took up one entire wall. Around it stood a floor-to-ceiling wooden cabinet that looked like a wardrobe, and a few smaller shelves and containers. The younger woman who knelt down on the floor in front of him wore braided blonde hair that curled down around her collar and a revealing corset and dress that he was surprised she could bare in such a place. The man stood further back by the door, his arms crossed across a long, quilted coat that buttoned at his centre. A lopsided furry hat sat atop his head, and he looked down at Isaac through a weathered, handsome, bearded face. Both were tall and athletic, and in a lot of ways reminded Isaac of Annekke.
“Don’t mind Elda,” the man said with a friendly, if not concerned, smile. “She’s grumpy at the best of times.”
Isaac blinked and looked between them. “I assume this isn’t charity.”
The man laughed again, and Suzanna spoke instead. “Don’t worry about that now. Warm up. We can discuss that later.”
“Not all of us here in Windhelm think outsiders should be left to die.”
Isaac nodded an awkward thanks. “I’m going to…” he said and gestured towards his clothes.
“Yes, of course,” said Suzanna, and she stood. “Take as long as you need.”
With a bowed head from the man, he and Suzanna left and closed the door behind them. Isaac sighed and looked at the food and drink in his hands. He realised he had no money.
He placed the bowl and tankard on one of the shelves and pulled his boots off – they were soaked through, and he winced as he tried to rub some feeling back into his feet.
Isaac sipped the broth from the edge of the bowl and shivered again as it warmed him. He held it under his chin and inhaled the steam. His eyebrows twitched and his stomach grumbled as his body returned to life.
He finished the soup, mushing the cubes of potato and carrot around his mouth, before he placed the bowl down and grabbed the tankard. He took a large swig of the bitter ale and sighed with relief. Even if he had nothing else, at least he could be drunk.
Between swigs, he tried standing on weak legs, and examined his surroundings. There was a fresh set of clothes – a green tunic and some brown leather trousers in the wardrobe, but he wasn’t sure stealing them would go unnoticed, if they fit him – everyone here seemed to be so damned tall. The other cabinets contained more dusty tankards and wine goblets – nothing of use. Perhaps if he asked nicely to borrow the clothes, he could promise to figure out how to pay them back.
Isaac slowly opened the door and peered out into the hallway. To his left, it continued further into the building before taking a right turn and disappearing around a corner. He thought he could hear the sound of a fire, or something bubbling – perhaps that led to a kitchen. To his right, it led back the way he had been brought – he could see the door he’d pushed himself through. A few benches and more doors lined the corridor, and candles flickered in the dim light. The space was certainly warmer than the outside, and the wooden floorboards underfoot were welcome in contrast to the horrible stone of the city beyond.
Leaving his wet boots by the bed, he closed the door behind him and made for the entrance. A small chamber opened out with stairs leading up on one side and a bar complete with barstools on the other. Elda, the older woman, busied herself arranging what looked to be dried food and brown bottles of ale on a set of shelves.
Isaac cleared his throat and she jumped, and whipped around to him, fixing him with a glare. “Apologies,” he said. “And … thank you for the help.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said and turned her nose up at him. “You only barged into my lovely inn and made a mess of things!”
“Yes, well. I should really thank Suzanna then, shouldn’t I. Where might I find her?”
“Suzanna? Doing the job I pay her for! Speaking of which…” Elda narrowed her eyes at him.
“Ah. Yes. Money.” Isaac clicked his fingers and pointed at her. “You see, I had a bit of an incident with a trader and a lot of fire, and I seem to have misplaced mine.”
Elda at him leered across the bar. “Well, you’d better figure out how to get some more then, before I throw you back out into the cold!”
The inn had two floors and was built into a slope, meaning the rooms were below ground level, and the floor above had doors that opened right out onto the street. Of course, they were kept shut, and whenever someone did walk through them, they did so as quickly as possible to keep the cold out.
The second floor consisted of one long, high-ceilinged chamber that had a fire at its centre, built into a wooden chimney pipe that rose up and disappeared through the curved ceiling. Around it, chairs, cushions, rugs and low tables allowed the inn’s patrons to sit close to the flames, bottles in hands, and warm up after a day working in the snow. Another fireplace lined one wall. It was disused, its basin emptied of coals and wood. Instead, the mantle top was being used as a shelf. On it sat an arrangement of alpine-looking herbs and flowers, a few books, and a single lit candle. The two doorways leading out were built into the opposite wall.
There were other tables and chairs arranged, too. From each end of the room, white daylight streamed in through small glass panes constructed high up where the stone ceiling met stone wall.
A man in a clean, embroidered tunic sat at one of the far tables, his face buried in a book. Another man a table next to him – he wore an impressive set of metal armour, furs spilling from its joints, his balding head sandwiched between too cumbersome, pointed shoulder pads. Both sat separately and alone.
The man with the quilted coat and the hat sat at one of the chairs in front of the fire. He was reading what looked to be a letter written on a scrap of yellowing parchment. On the other side of the chimney, Suzanna swept the floor with an old sweeping brush that was clearly on its last legs – seeming to be causing more mess in its gradual decay than it was tidying.
Isaac walked up next to the man, first. He stepped around the chairs – there were three of them lined up, between which stood a couple of those small wooden tables – and he cleared his throat, giving a little wave to get the man’s attention.
“Hi, there,” Isaac said.
The man looked up from his note, shaking off its message, and said: “Oh, hello there lad. Please, sit.” He gestured to the chair closest to Isaac.
Isaac smiled back. “Oh, that’s okay. I won’t be staying long. I just wanted to say thank you, and I didn’t catch your name…”
“Ah,” the man said, and stood from his chair. As he straightened up, he grew taller than Isaac, and his frame was wide and strong. He puffed out his chest and bowed his head. “Captain Lonely-Gale, at your service. I’m a sailor and used to the cold. I know how unpleasant it can be, and I hate to see people suffering from it unnecessarily. That Elda, she can be a cruel one, you know.”
After the Captain introduced himself, he returned to his seat and thrust the letter into a pocket in his coat.
After a moment, Isaac realised the Captain was looking at him, expectantly. “Oh, my name is Isaac. Pleased to meet you.” Isaac bowed his head, mirroring the Captain’s gesture.
“Isaac. A strange name, that. Where did you travel from?”
“Oh, you know … here, there and everywhere. I’m still figuring out where I’m going. Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find some information? I’m looking for someone.”
“Looking for someone? Well, Windhelm is a busy place, what, with all the Dunmer refugees. I wouldn’t know …” He scratched his chin in thought. “Perhaps the Jarl’s steward can assist you. Well, Jorleif isn’t much of a steward, but I’m sure he knows about prominent people coming in and out of the city.”
No, that wouldn’t do it. Willow was most likely in hiding. Or, depending on how late Isaac was to the party, she at least might not have caused a big enough stir in the area. If Windhelm was busy, she would be harder to find. That being said, a small, sickly-pale teenage girl was going to stand out surrounded by towering, blonde troglodytes, so if she was in the city, there was a good chance someone might have seen her. But who?
“Thanks for the advice, I’ll consider it.” Isaac smiled.
“Do you know your way to the palace? It’s the big building at the back of the city. You can get there by heading north, out of the Inn.”
“Thank you, Captain, but everything looks the same to me here.” Isaac shot him a thumbs up and turned to see Suzanna give up on the brush.
“Hey, I’m heading out, but I just wanted to say thanks for helping.”
“You’re leaving already? Are you sure I can’t interest you in another drink?”
Isaac was sure she pushed out her chest when she said that. “Well…” he said, and she cast her eyes down to her broom. Suzanna certainly was pretty. Her muscles shifted under her ragged bar dress, and she was tall, like most people Isaac had met so far – these ‘Nord’ folk. Like Annekke, she had sharp features, but instead of the dirt from the mine, she wore subtle, pinky-red powdered cheeks. There was an intelligence to her eyes, too, that suggested strong perception and a quick wit. Isaac wondered how, in a world seemingly full of adventurers, someone so akin to them had ended up sweeping floors for a miserable landlord.
“I suppose my boots are still soaked … and I never could say no to a dark beer.”
Isaac returned to the Captain, looking sheepish, holding a tankard in one hand and his boots in the other.
He sat in silence and drank the cold, dark alcohol as his boots dried in front of the fire. When he finally did get up to leave, he felt a buzz in the back of his eyes and a sluggishness in his tongue.
Stepping out into the biting cold, Isaac decided his top priority would be to get some warmer clothes. He rubbed his hands together in spite of the dry air and looked about. He stood in a street that branched off in a few different directions. Ahead of him, a huge wall erupted out of the ground like some great divider, seeming to offer little practical purpose other than to funnel the city’s inhabitants further into its maze of tight pathways. There were few people about, though, which he blamed on the weather – a couple of those armoured, helmeted and fur-cloaked guards stood at junctions in the street or patrolled about. Some wore sword scabbards at their hips while the handles of imposing weapons were strapped to the backs of others.
A few other citizens milled about, too. A person dressed in a bundle of rags stood by a stone brazier, lit with a large fire at its centre.
A raised voice attracted Isaac’s attention. In the other direction, towards the main gate and the front of the inn, stood a group of three people. Two of them were tall men – perhaps Nords, Isaac guessed – while the other was a woman. Even from several metres away, Isaac could make out that smooth, grey complexion – an elf, like Sondras.
One of the men was speaking, his voice raised and his tone angry. Isaac made his way over, and caught the words:
“You come here where you're not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks…”
As Isaac walked around the side of the inn, he saw that the man wore an ugly brown cap atop his head and a dirty leather tunic.
The other Nord stood with his arms crossed and looked down his nose at the elf woman. “Hey,” he spoke up. “Maybe the reason these grey-skins don't help in the war is because they're Imperial spies!" He jabbed a finger towards her.
“Imperial spies? You can't be serious!" The woman spoke in a deep voice, as smooth as untread snow, her outrage on display.
"Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy,” the first man said. “We got ways of finding out what you really are."
“Okay!” Isaac spoke up from behind the two men and made all three of the group jump. They turned to regard him, and the man in the brown hat looked him up and down. “I’m looking for some directions, can anybody help me?”
“Get lost, outsider, before this becomes your problem, too.” The man spat the words and squared up to Isaac.
Isaac smiled. “Oh dear. I’m really just looking to find somewhere to buy some clothes and thought you fine gentlemen, and lady, might be able to help.”
The woman scowled at him.
“Oh, you’re asking for a smack, Imperial.”
“Imperial? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You think you can stand up to me, runt? One hundred septims says I knock you out cold.”
“You’re offering to give me one hundred ‘septims’?” Isaac clicked his fingers. “Sounds like a good deal.”
A horrible, toothless grin stretched across the Nord’s mouth. “Ulfric should’a never let you into the city. Now I’m gonna kick you right back out, along with this pathetic grey-skin bitch.”
Isaac ducked just in time as the punch went flying over his shoulder. He thrust out his arms to shove the Nord back across the slippy, uneaven stone ground, but underestimated the man’s bulk, and the force of his push died against a rock torso.
The man grunted and grabbed Isaac, his thick fingers closing over Isaac’s shoulder in an iron grip. He pulled Isaac into his fist, the punch knocking the wind out of him as it sank into the softer skin under his ribs.
Isaac gasped and launched his forehead into the man’s nose. It was an optimistic manoeuvre as the Nord had several inches on him, and Isaac’s headbutt missed its target and hit the Nord in the teeth. Regardless, it had its intended effect, and the Nord let go of the grapple.
Isaac followed up with a gut-punch of his own, collapsing the Nord over his stomach, before launching an uppercut into his face as it came down to meet his knuckles.
The Nord staggered backwards, a thin trail of crimson arcing through the air, as his hands got confused about whether to shield his face or his stomach.
“Alright! Alright,” the Nord shouted. “You win.”
“That was quick,” Isaac said. He wiped spittle across the back of his numbing fist and spat into the snow. “You can leave this woman alone, now,” he said. “And I’ll take my money, too.”
The man grumbled and reached into a pouch strung to a rope belt around his waist. He rubbed his eyes as he counted out a number of dull gold coins. He upturned the pouch and let its remaining contents spill onto the floor. A countless number of coins jangled across the stone and snow, rolling and bouncing in all directions. The man tried a smirk, but he grimaced and his hand returned to his bloody nose. He placed the coins he’d been counting back in the empty pouch and reattached it to his belt.
Isaac tutted. “Now that’s just bad sport. I guess I didn’t expect any better.”
“You heard what I said,” the man leered at the woman, and then they turned and walked away.
Isaac allowed his composure to drop as he took in several shallow breaths that he’d been holding against the pain in his torso. When the two men disappeared around a corner, he bent over and rested his arms on his knees.
The woman simply watched him, her arms crossed.
“Looked like … looked like those lot were giving you trouble,” Isaac managed, between wheezes.
“Nothing new there,” she said through a scowl. “Most of the Nords living in Windhelm don’t care for us, but Rolff is the worst by far. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Gray Quarter yelling insults at us in the small hours of the morning. A real charmer, that one."
“Well,” Isaac said, and straightened up, the pain receding slightly. “Hopefully he won’t do that tonight.”
“Hardly,” she scoffed. “He might come back worse.”
They stood in silence for a moment as Isaac’s breath returned to normal. He looked down at the scattering of what must have been exactly one hundred gold coins and cursed to himself.
“Well,” she said. “Thank you for defending me. I guess Windhelm has one more none-Nord. Great.” She scoffed. “You can come and live in the slums with us and the Argonians.”
“Rolff – he said you were a spy.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Why did he say that?”
“Hah!” She gave a hollow laugh. "Some of these Nords will come up with any excuse to despise us. Just about anyone who isn't a Nord is fair game for their bullying. You’ll want to watch yourself, starting fights like that. I don’t think the Stormcloaks will be too pleased, seeing Nords getting beaten up in their streets.”
“Noted,” Isaac said, and bent down to start picking up his gold. He patted his side with one hand. Apart from the shallow pocket on one trouser leg that contained the crumpled note for the potion shop, he realised he had nowhere to actually put the gold, and so he collected the coins in his cupped hand. “I take it you live here?”
“In the slum, with my family.”
“Do you know anywhere I can spend this gold? I could do with getting rid of it rather quickly.”
She sighed. “You’ll want Sadri’s Used Wares. Though, he might overcharge you, with you not being a Dunmer.”
“I’m sure we can work something out.”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
“Well, I’m heading that way. I’ll take you.”
“Excellent.”
--
Sadri’s Used Wares was tucked away down a narrow alley against the corner of the city’s outer wall. In fact, it was built directly into it, like a cave. A couple of windows at the front were boarded up with rotting wooden planks, and the door was hanging off its hinges. The woman, who introduced herself as Suvaris, left Isaac there, nodding a cautious goodbye as she turned down another street and vanished into the stone.
Cupping the pile of gold in both hands, Isaac shouldered his way through the shop’s front door, whispering a prayer of thanks that it was a push door instead of a pull.
The interior of the shop was cluttered with an assortment of seemingly random objects, Clothes, tools, animal pelts, old books, some tarnished jewellery, and various other oddities lined a long wooden counter that took up the narrow entrance-space-come-shop-front. A small fire burned in an alcove between slapped together wooden shelves, and a small chandelier ringed with candles swayed gently overhead.
At either end of the room, doorless archways led into other rooms. The flicker of another fire cast an orange glow through one, and the other stood in darkness.
As Isaac carefully pushed through the door and nudged it shut behind himself, a scrawny elf with light grey skin and pointed features looked up from the counter. A shock of wiry black hair stuck vertically upwards, as if he’d been dangled upside down and then flash-frozen.
A pair of deep red eyes studied Isaac, suspiciously. “Welcome to Sadri’s Used Wares,” he said, in a deep, nasally voice that Isaac was beginning to recognise. “Welcome. All my goods are legitimate, which is more than I can say for some!”
Isaac paused in the doorway. “That’s an odd thing to boast about.”
The man, who Isaac assumed was Sadri himself, chuckled. “I’ve scrapped this collection together by whatever means I could. I do some business with the trade caravans, and I've picked up a number of items from adventurers. Every item has a story, which, if you think about it, adds value!”
“Sure, it does. Provided that value doesn’t cause anything to fall apart, or its previous owners to come looking for it.” Isaac presented his pile of coins by dropping them carefully on the countertop. “I need some warm clothes. This place is miserably cold.”
“It is indeed! It is indeed!” Sadri tapped his hand on the counter in agreement, his eyes on the coins.
“What can I get for one hundred coins?”
The man – Sadri – scratched a sharp cheekbone and looked behind him at the shelves. “I procured a couple of cloaks recently,” he said, thoughtfully, and leant over the counter, looking at Isaac’s battered weather-worn boots. “I might have something for those, too.”
He gathered up an array of items from the shelves behind him. He disappeared into the dark archway, returning with some more items of clothing. Onto the counter, he dumped a long, thin cloak, a hooded scarf made from some sort of dark grey animal fur, a small, worn leather backpack, a pair of brown leather gloves, and what appeared to be a fresh pair of boots.
“All this,” said Sadri. “For all that.” He gestured at the coins.
“Can I try the boots on first? To make sure they fit?”
They did. Even the cloak seemed to provide more warmth than he’d first expected.
“Impressive,” Isaac said, pushing the soft hood back over his head. And none of it is stolen at all?”
Sadri’s brow twitched. “Er- Of course nothing in here is stolen. Only a careless, shameful, idiotic fetcher would do something as stupid as to buy pilfered goods...” He trailed off, and his face grew sallow.
Isaac smiled.
“Oh, by Azura, I've made a terrible mistake. I bought a gold ring, and Viola Giordano has been missing a ring that looks just like it."
Sadri clenched his fist and took a deep breath. “You have no idea what they’ll do to me if they find out.” He rubbed a hand across his brow, and Isaac saw his in.
“I could return the ring for you. You know, in return for something else.”
“You could?” Sadri started, but then composed himself. “It's not that easy. She'd go to the Jarl if she knew I was even remotely involved. You have to get it to her some other way.” He shook his head. “Look, it's dangerous, but if you sneak the ring into her house - put in a dresser or something. I will make it worth your while."
“I need some information.”
“Done. Anything I can help with.”
“I need to find someone. Or I need to find someone who can find someone.”
Sadri hesitated for longer than a moment. When he spoke, he lowered his voice, despite Isaac being sure there was only the two of them in the building. “I can help you.”
“Great!” Isaac said. “Now, where does this Viola live?”
--
The Giordanos, it turned out, owned a house in the nicer part of Windhelm – if it was possible for such a place to be considered ‘nice’. Four or five large cottages, made entirely of stone, stood in a semicircle in the back western corner of the city. Each was bordered by a low, stone wall, decorated by a rusty metal lattice. A few sparse bushes sat about in haphazardly arranged plant pots, but the snow saw to it that the place looked about as desolate as a rich district could.
Sadri had informed him that Viola lived in the first big house on the right.
A few guards in chainmail and cloths stood about. They watched him as he walked up the steps to the cul-de-sac.
Okay, he thought to himself. What to do? Above him, the sky was already turning to evening. He could have waited for the sun to dip completely, but then there would have been a higher chance of the homes’ residents returning.
Isaac stepped up to the windowless, wooden double doors of the house and rapped his freshly-gloved knuckles across it three times with a leather-muted conk.
Isaac took a few steps back and looked up at the house. A few glass windows were built into its grey walls, but they were heavily crossed with metal bars, and their glass was frosted and translucent, making it impossible to see through. The house was tall enough to have two floors, so he reckoned there was a chance that, if there was anyone in and they were upstairs, they might not hear him.
Isaac glanced behind him to check neither of the guards had stepped up to watch him, before he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a single, long, thin, metal lockpick. He knelt down and located the door’s keyhole. Isaac pushed the end of the lockpick into the mechanism until it would go no further. Throwing a glance behind him again, he pulled out a second tool – a tension hook – and slipped the thin hooked end into the hole, above the pick.
If anyone walked past, they would see him. He needed to do this fast.
Isaac levered the hook into position and pushed the lockpick into the small space it made. With both firmly inside the mechanism, he turned them, and to his surprise, the lock simply clicked open.
Phew. Isaac blew a quiet sigh of relief and returned the tools to their hiding places in his tunic’s sleeves. He stood, took one last scan of his surroundings, before pushing the doors inwards.
Isaac slipped inside and shut the doors behind him. The entrance hall of the house was big and grand, and seemed to combine into a kitchen and living space towards the far end, with a set of stairs leading up. A huge fireplace stood against one wall, as he expected. Chairs, benches, tables, cabinets – he scanned them all quickly as he crossed the room and went to the stairs.
He removed the gold band from his index finger and rolled it in his sweaty palm. He needed to find somewhere to put it that wasn’t too obvious, but wasn’t too close to the door, either.
He took the stairs at a swift stride. He couldn’t hear any signs of life within the house and all the candles were out, but he moved with light feet anyway.
Upstairs led to bedrooms of equally grand proportions, though he was surprised by the open design of the place, considering the cold of the city. With no fires burning, the house was, indeed, cold. Isaac couldn’t fathom why anybody would choose to live in a place like this.
A corner table, next to a doorway – he spotted his target. It made sense – Viola must have placed the ring on the table as she’d gone to complete an errand or talk to somebody, and simply forgot to pick it back up on her way out. Silly Viola.
Isaac placed the ring on the table and scooted back to the stairs. He descended and saw the large open space between the front doors where he stood at the back of the room.
Isaac’s foot hit the wooden floor off the last step with a dull thud. He sprung forwards in a crouched jog towards the doors.
When he reached them, he stopped to listen – to check whether anyone was outside, approaching. He heard nothing, and pulled one of the doors open a crack. Isaac peeked through the gap and saw an empty path forward.
As quietly as he could, he swung the door open, spun into the cold outside, and pulled the door shut behind him.
Now came the tricky part. Isaac scanned for guards. When he didn’t see any, he crouched and pulled out his lockpicking tools once more. He inserted them into the locking mechanism, and …
The lockpick snapped in the lock.
“Ah,” he said quietly to himself. His heart leapt into his throat. He shot a glance back to the path beyond the garden – it was empty.
Isaac levered the hook under the lockpick and pulled. The broken half of the pick didn’t budge.
“I really don’t need this right now,” he said under his breath. He repositioned the hook under the shard of metal and levered it more gently.
This time, the broken lockpick shifted, and he managed to pull it out of the mechanism. Fortunately, Sadri had given him a few lockpicks, and he inserted a new one into the lock. Taking extra care, he slowly shifted the pick and the hook into the open position, before pulling the lock closed, and locking the door once more.
With shaking hands, he slipped the tools away and stood, turning away from the house.
No guards stopped him on his way out of the cul-de-sac, but he could feel eyes on him as he went.
--
“…and perhaps you should stop stealing from the Nords,” Isaac said, patting the countertop.
Sadri levelled a gaze at him. “I will stop stealing from the Nords when they stop forcing me to steal.” The elf didn’t hold the glare for long, however, as he released a sigh and ran his fingers through his wirey hair. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you! May Azura's Prophecy always guide you to fortune. Here,” he said, and placed a heavy leather pouch, closed with a drawstring, onto the countertop. “Everything I earned from my last shipment. It's yours."
Isaac scooped up the pouch and looked to his belt. He’d attach it in just the way ugly Rolff had.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting that information, too.” Sadri lowered his voice, again, composing himself.
“You read my mind.”
Sadri chewed his lip and studied Isaac with those deep red eyes. “Riften,” he said. “Speak to Brynjolf.”
When he didn’t say any more, Isaac nodded. “And where might I find this Brynjolf?”
“He will find you, my friend. He’ll find you.”
--
The innkeeper led her up a small flight of wooden steps to a decent sized room in the building’s attic. A low double bed made with royal green sheets stood at its centre, and a few small tables, cabinets and a dresser sat around it. Another set of double doors led out to that small balcony space she’d seen coming in. From a couple of plush chairs, she could look out over the fire and the main room below. It was cosy. She could have sat there for hours, staring into the firelight below, but her eyelids were already hanging heavy, and she had a journey to make.
“Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” the innkeeper said with a polite smile.
“Thank you,” she said. “And … apologies about the mess. I could speak to the Jarl about Lydia if-“
“It’s alright. Whiterun’s a Nord city, we’re used to it.” The innkeeper bowed her head and backed out of the room, pulling the doors shut behind her.
The bed was as comfortable as it looked, and as the sounds of conversation and clanking tankards whittled out, sleep pulled itself across her mind like a fur blanket.
She didn’t dream.
She opened her eyes to see white daylight streaming in through a window built into the roof. Beyond her room, she could her a few people talking in muffled voices. She wondered where Lydia had gotten up to.
She stretched and battled with herself to leave the comforting warmth of the bed. It was much nicer than the one she’d stayed in at The Sleeping Giant. Though, the innkeeper had offered her it at a discount, and she didn’t want to overstay her welcome.
She pulled her trousers on and tied their lining tight so they’d stay on. She knitted the tunic closed and gave in to the urge to sniff herself – ugh, wasn’t there anywhere to wash around here?
The soft linings of her boots met her sore feet, and she wrapped the bulky, warm cloak about her shoulders. Underneath, she hooked the satchel over one arm, and it felt particularly light – apart from the diminished pouch of gold, she didn’t really own anything else. She could do with getting another healing potion, she thought.
Her eyes landed on the axe – its silver-steel head gleaming even in the low light where she’d placed it on top of the dresser. What a strange thing it was, to own a weapon. Reasonably, she was never going to be able to wield it. Perhaps it would be better suited in Lydia’s hands.
She broached that conversation as they left the city.
She’d found Uthgerd waiting for her by the fire, still clad in that impressive blue-silver armour. This time, with a huge sword strapped to her back, as well as a few pouches arranged about her beltline. She already had a tankard of what was undoubtably alcohol in her hand, and the fighter looked to her as she approached.
Uthgerd stood and bowed her head. “Dragonborn, it is an honour.”
She cringed a little, inside. “Erm, that’s okay, Uthgerd, you don’t need to address me like that. Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Uthgerd repeated, her voice still brimming with pride.
She looked about the room – the barmaid was sweeping the floor by the front door, and the innkeeper was arranging some bottles and tankards on shelves behind the bar. Lydia was nowhere to be seen.
“Have you seen Lydia?”
“I have not,” Uthgerd said. “I believe she will make an appearance, however. Are you ready to travel?”
“I … I don’t even know where we’re going, Uthgerd.”
“High Hrothgar,” Uthgerd said with reverence. “Atop the Throat of the World. Follow me,” she said, and walked towards the doors.
She followed the fighter. As they passed the barmaid, she shot them a dark glance, before returning her eyes to the floor.
Uthgerd pushed the doors open and daylight streamed in around her. It took her eyes a second to adjust. When they did, she saw the market beyond, just beginning to come to life. They stepped out, down the small set of stone steps that led from the inn’s front doors, and down to the well. A few children were hauling up a bucket of water from it. One of them – a young girl in a long green dress – looked up at them and tapped the other, to get their attention.
“Up there,” Uthgerd said, ignoring them, and pointing a finger up and out, across the sky to one of the huge mountains – the one in the direction of Riverwood, where she knew at its base the sleepy village sat. “On a clear day, you can see the monastery from here.”
She squinted, following Uthgerd’s finger to a point high up on the slop of the mountain. A jumble of rocks and cliffs stood out against the snow, and as a cloud swirled around its side, she could make out an angular formation in the grey and white – a tower.
“High Hrothgar is our destination, and we will need to be prepared. The journey will be long and dangerous.”
Oh good. Why couldn’t it be skipping through mountain valleys and picking flowers again? She wanted to dangle her toes in an ice-cold glacier river and watch deer on the far bank.
Lydia’s sour face appeared. Her armour clanked as she walked up the path towards them, from the direction of the Jarl’s palace.
“Good morning,” she said, and Lydia nodded.
She felt Uthgerd seethe at her side, but the tall fighter restrained herself from starting another fight.
Uthgerd had bought some food supplies from the inn and handed her some bread and dried, charred meat. She offered some to Lydia too. When Lydia declined, Uthgerd said: “Well, you can at least carry the Dragonborn’s supplies for her.”
Lydia scowled.
“It’s okay, Lydia doesn’t need to do that, I’ve got space,” she said. Diffusing the situation. Was this what it was going to be like the whole way there?
“Lydia,” she said, and the Nord’s eyes flicked to her. “I do have something for you, though.” She hooked her hand under the heavy blade of the axe, feeling its cold metal against her palm. She pulled it up and out of the loop on her belt and held it before herself in two hands. “The Jarl gave me this. I’m not a fighter – not really …”
Lydia scoffed, and Uthgerd shot her a warning look.
“So,” she continued. “I think it might be of more use in your hands.”
Lydia regarded her for a quiet moment. “…you would give the axe of Whiterun to me? Do you even understand what that means?”
“Well, I’m not going to be much use with it, so I thought...”
“You thought what? That you would just give the Jarl’s treasure away?”
“Housecarl…” Uthgerd said.
“No, I’m not giving it away. You will wield it for me.” She put her foot down.
Lydia looked from her to the axe and took a pensive breath. She stepped forward and placed an armoured glove on the axe’s handle. She stood for a moment, considering the object, before she nodded and took it.
“Thank you,” Lydia said, somewhat awkwardly.
As the trio headed towards the gate, she heard raised voices. A guard was speaking to two men dressed rather strangely in matching sets of deep red robes that wrapped around cloth leggings and boots, and light leather armour. At their hips, they both wore large, curved swords, with handles adorned with gold, their blades flat and wide.
The guard was speaking: “You’ve already been told you’re not allowed in the city.”
As the trio approached, one of the men made eye contact with her. “You, there,” he said, and the guard looked around, his hands on his hips, his chest puffed out.
Lydia moved to stand between her and the men.
“It’s alright, Lydia,” she said, but Lydia shook her head.
“No, it isn’t. These men are mercenaries – bad ones, at that. They’re nothing but trouble.”
As they moved to walk past, towards the gate, the man called out. “Could we have just a moment of your time?”
“Quiet,” said the guard. “Leave. Now.”
She stopped and regarded the man. He wore a pleasant smile and bowed his head to her.
“We’re looking for someone in Whiterun, a young woman, and will pay good money for information!”
“Who are you looking for?”
“She is a foreigner in these lands. Redguard, just like us,” the man continued.
She released a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
“Turn around the way you-“ The guard tried to interrupt, but the man spoke around him.
“She is likely not using her true name. We will pay for any information regarding her location. We are not welcome here in Whiterun, so we will be in Rorikstead if you learn anything."
“Why are you looking for her?”
The man smiled. “It's none of your concern. All you need to know is that we're paying for information. If that doesn't interest you, feel free to walk away."
Lydia was stood with her arms crossed, looking unimpressed.
“I’ll … keep that in mind,” she said.
The city gates were opened, and the trio walked out onto the parapet that led down to the road and the plains beyond.
Lydia said something under her breath.
“What was that, Lydia?” She said.
“I said curved swords. What a ridiculous idea.”
“I would not judge too quickly, Housecarl. The Alik’r swordsmen are fine warriors. They fight like dancers.”
Lydia scoffed and said no more.
“Who were they?” She asked Uthgerd.
“Alik’r warriors, from Hammerfell. They’ve been pestering the city guard for perhaps a week, now.”
“Why?”
“You heard what the man said – they are searching for somebody.”
“Do you think we should help them?” She glanced at Lydia when she spoke, who walked a few paces ahead of them, but the Housecarl didn’t react.
“A question I have been mulling over for a few days, now,” Uthgerd said, and there was a wistfulness to her voice.
“You mean you know how to?”
“I might, indeed. But I am unsure whether it would be the right thing to do. Perhaps I will come to a conclusion on this journey of ours.”
As they walked down to the main road and turned left, the city of Whiterun rose up behind them, its thatch and stone lit up in the morning sun. Would it still be there by the time they climbed the mountain? Or would they look down from the peak only to see the plains scorched and the city reduced to rubble?
They walked at an ambling pace, following the stream that ran alongside the road, and passed men and women working in fields of what looked to be cabbages and various other vegetables.
Uthgerd talked her through the plan. “To get to our destination, we must work backwards. High Hrothgar is atop the great mountain, and to get there, we must climb the seven thousand steps. They begin in the small village of Ivarstead, which is on the other side of the mountain to us. So, we have two choices.” Uthgerd pointed up the road towards Riverwood. “We can travel up into the hills and through Helgen.”
“Helgen?” She shook her head. “What’s the other choice?”
“I suspected you might say that,” Uthgerd said, and pointed towards the path that ran north – the route Ralof had taken when they had first split up, all those days ago. How long had passed since then? It must have been nearly a week. Had Ralof made it to his destination in that time?
“We can take the valley,” Uthgerd was saying. “When I awoke this morning, I walked down to the stables and asked the carriage driver whether he might take us to Ivarstead. I explained our mission, but the coward said his carriage wasn’t up to the task. Helgen is too dangerous, and the other route is too much of a climb. So, we will have to make the climb ourselves.”
“What do you mean?”
“The eastern road curves around the base of the mountain. It takes us down into the valley, which means we have to climb back up again to reach the foot of the mountain. The path is certainly steep, but it will be no challenge for the likes of us.”
“Have you made this journey before?”
“To Ivarstead? Yes. They had a problem with bears, I took care of it.”
“You took care of a problem with bears?”
Uthgerd smiled down at her. “I did indeed,” was all she said.
When they reached the crossroads, they took the path that led straight on. They crossed a wide stone bridge that led over the river’s tumbling rapids. She glanced upstream, to the pine trees and rocks that she knew concealed Riverwood.
With the sun overhead, the day was surprisingly warm. She shrugged herself out of her cloak and folded it into a bundle in her hands. Neither Uthgerd nor Lydia seemed bothered by the weather, in spite of their heavy armour.
The path took them up onto a ridge that overlooked the plains and the city off to their left. Smoke gently rose from fires and chimneys behind the walls, and the great palace watched over the whole scene. Even from their distance she could make out the sound of a hammer clanking against metal, perhaps from the forge by the gate.
Dry grass and sparse trees climbed the sloping hill to their right, before the landscape morphed into the rocks and cliffs and snow of the mountain proper. The river ran parallel to the road, far below to their left. Rocks rose up like great animals rearing their heads, and a few rabbits darted through the brush here and there.
The road opened out into another great mountain valley, with smaller but no less impressive snowy peaks rising on the far side of the riverbank. The road began to run downhill, then.
Where the valley seemed to end; where the river ran to before it seemingly disappeared over a cliff, a strange structure stood in the centre of the valley. A tower rose up on their side of the river, built at the side of the road. It was made of a dark rock and looked as though it was ready to crumble to pieces. It was similar to the one she had encountered on their way up to Bleak Falls Barrow.
A thin bridge, built high in the air and made of that same stone, connected the tower’s second level with the cliff on the opposite shore, where another tower rose up, even higher than the first. At the centre of the bridge, a thin support pillar emerged from the centre of the river and connected with the bridge, forming a strange sort of cover.
From where they were stood, maybe two hundred metres from the structure, she could make out a few figures walking about the bridge, and one stood on the top of one of the towers.
“Bandits,” Lydia said. “Skyrim is too good for them.”
“Hold your rage, warrior,” Uthgerd said, and put out a hand to stop the Housecarl from striding forwards. “There might be a better way to handle this than with violence.”
Lydia looked at Uthgerd, a flash of annoyance crossing her features.
But Uthgerd pointed to the towers. “Look at the bridge. They will have a great position to fire down at us, should we charge in with swords raised.” She let go of Lydia. “Let us approach calmly, and then we will see what matters unfold.”
Lydia made a show of shrugging her off and continued walking.
As they approached the towers, the sun ducked behind a cloud, casting the valley in late morning gloom. The sound of rushing water reached her ears, and she saw how, at the tower’s base, the river turned into white water and sped up, disappearing over what must have been the top of a waterfall.
At the side of the road, next to a small campfire and an entrance doorway to the first tower, a woman leant against the wall, her arms crossed. She watched them as they approached. The bare blade of a worn-looking sword hung at her belt, and she wore a combination of leathers and furs, so common to the people of Skyrim. Her skin was tanned from the sun, and her face was spattered with paint as though she had attempted to put on a scary visage but had run out of cosmetics halfway through.
Uthgerd and Lydia drew parallel, standing in front of her.
“Halt!” The woman called out when they were within earshot.
She looked up and saw the figure of another bandit watching them from the top of the tower. They were half obscured by the structure’s haphazard defences, and it was difficult to make out any of their details in the sudden gloom.
The three of them stopped just before they could get into proper cover, under the tower. If they needed to, it would only be a short dash, but their side was still exposed to the bridge.
“This here’s a toll road, see?” The bandit woman stepped forward, her hand going to her belt.
She felt Lydia shift. Uthgerd remained still.
“You’re going to have to hand over … say, two hundred gold to pass.”
“I’ll kill you before-“
“Lydia,” Uthgerd said, and stepped forward, confidently. She said to the bandit: “You don’t seem so confident, little warrior. Perhaps you and your friends could let us pass without paying your toll.” Her words were polite, but her tone was fire. “And my sword is mighty larger than yours. Do you think you could stop it?”
“Well … I- I suppose I could look the other way this time…”
“Good woman,” Uthgerd said, and nodded to Lydia, who huffed and relaxed her grip on the axe at her belt.
The bandit stepped back and glared at the three of them.
Lydia, glaring back, was the first to step forward and continue on the path. The other two followed.
The river did indeed turn into a waterfall, which crashed down a cliff and into a rocky bluff below. The path turned steep as it led back down to continue its parallel relationship with the water.
As they descended, she looked out across a landscape that opened up into trees and earthy tundra beyond. In the far distance, she saw more mountains that ringed what appeared to be a vast mountain bowl. Even further, she saw the ground turn from a dry beige to white snow; and beyond, the grey line of the sea.
“Wow…” she said.
“Indeed,” Uthgerd nodded. “Skyrim, for all its dangers, is beautiful.”
When the road reached the bluff, it curled around the edge of a small lake, hidden within the waterfall’s pool. At its centre, a pine tree grew from a small island, surrounded by little rocks. She squinted as she saw one of the rocks move.
“I- I think there’s something over there. Look, on that island.”
Uthgerd and Lydia stopped and looked, and Uthgerd laughed. “Ah, mudcrabs,” she said. “Not to be feared, unless you get too close. They have nasty little claws.”
She watched as the rock sprouted legs and crawled to the water’s edge, dipping what she saw to be a large claw in the water and splashing itself.
“That’s a big crab,” she said.
“To survive in Skyrim, one must often be big and scary,” Uthgerd said, looking down at her, not unkindly.
Lydia sighed. “Of course I get put with the only two people in Whiterun who refuse a fight.”
“Being a warrior is not about taking every fight that comes your way, Housecarl,” the older Uthgerd said. “It is about choosing the right fights - and winning them.”
“What would you know about winning fights? If you’re so wise, why did the Companions kick you out?”
Uthgerd paused for a moment, and she felt the pressure of the air drop.
The sun chose that moment to appear from behind the clouds. The deep forest greens glowed brighter, the trees’ fresh leaves smiling again. The river and the wet rapids’ rocks gleamed. She saw the reds of ripe berries amongst the bushes.
“They kicked me out because I was not wise – I chose the wrong fight,” Uthgerd said, calmly, as though to herself rather than to Lydia. “I misunderstood my duty. I was there for glory when I should have been there for honour. You would do well not to mistake those things, Housecarl. What is your duty?”
“You should have let me kill those bandits, old woman,” Lydia spat, her anger golden in the sunlight. “My duty as a Nord is to rid the world of dangers. They’re trespassers on the Jarl’s land.”
“Perhaps they are,” Uthgerd said. “But what if your Thane took an arrow to the chest? Would that be worth your momentary glory?”
“I … No, I-“ Lydia glared back at Uthgerd. “My Thane needs to learn what it means to live in Skyrim. She must learn to protect herself.” Without looking at her, Lydia turned and continued walking.
Uthgerd sighed. “Do not concern yourself with her, little Dragonborn. She is frustrated.”
“Frustrated? I’m frustrated! What is her problem? She can’t even bring herself to speak to me directly.” She didn’t care if she was within Lydia’s earshot, the woman was being childish. This was ridiculous – they had more pressing matters than picking fights with each other.
They continued walking.
“Are you familiar with the stories of the Dragonborn? I can tell you are not from Skyrim.”
“No, I’m not familiar. I don’t have a clue what’s happening to me or … or what’s going on!”
“The Dragonborn is a warrior of legend, said to be the one to free the world from the tyranny of dragons. They are a hero to all Nords – the pinnacle of honour, duty, strength and wisdom. Do you see why Lydia might not respect you?”
“I do. I understand that completely. I never asked for this – I’m the wrong person for the job, frankly.”
“I disagree.”
“With what?”
“Being a warrior requires more than strength – something your Housecarl seems to not understand. I have strength, and yet I was cast out. I have to live with the mistakes that I made because I did not have wisdom. Sometimes – often - that is more powerful than strength. I think that is what the Dragonborn must have, above anything else.”
“Why were you cast out? Lydia called you a …”
“Child-killer, I know. It sounds bad, and it is.” Uthgerd sighed. “I told them over and over that it wasn’t my fault – an accident. The Companions wanted me to prove my worth, so they threw me up against a young whelp of a lad, hardly old enough to grow his first chin-hairs. I guess they thought a woman wasn't strong enough to hurt him.” She sighed again and didn’t speak for a moment.
They walked in silence. The sound of the river was quieter, flowing gently through rocks and undergrowth to their left. Birds chirped in the pines above them.
“I didn't mean for him to die. I just... lost control. It took me weeks to accept that it was my fault. I lost sight of what mattered – the only thing I proved to them was that I valued victory higher than my duty to protect. Only I am to blame for what happened, and I accept my disgrace.”
“Wow,” she said. “That is … I’m sorry to hear that. But it certainly sounds like you are taking steps in the right direction, now. What you said to Lydia, I think it makes perfect sense. And it sounded very wise.”
Uthgerd stopped walking and turned to her. She placed a gauntleted hand on her shoulder and looked down to her. Uthgerd’s face was weather-worn, her skin tanned and her eyes tired. “Thank you, little Dragonborn. Your words carry more weight than you might think.”
She smiled. “No problem.”
They continued walking. Lydia was some distance ahead of them.
“You never told me your name,” Uthgerd said.
“Ah, well. It’s a bit complicated. I kind of lost my memory and …”
“You cannot recall your own name?”
“No, not really.”
“That is … strange,” Uthgerd said, her frown evident in her voice. “I have heard of strange things happening here in Skyrim. In my time, I have seen many. There might be something at work here, Dragonborn. Perhaps the Greybeards will be able to impart some knowledge upon you.”
“I have wondered the same thing,” she said. “Surely it can’t be a coincidence that I’ve lost my identity and now I’m suddenly crowned the Dragonborn.”
“In my experience, coincidences are indeed rare.”