“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand,” Hadvar said, and stumbled sideways, grabbing onto the wooden railing that led up the stairs to the inn’s porch. He clutched his side with his other hand.
“Because … because you look like you need a sit down, first.”
The front door to the inn burst open, and out rushed Hod, Embrys and Orgnar. When they saw Hadvar, they rushed to help him, despite his efforts to push them away. Hod got his arm under Hadvar’s shoulders, grunting with the effort.
“Hadvar!” Someone shouted. “You’re alive! Hadvar’s alive! Someone, find Alvor! Hurry!”
“Stop it! Get off me!” Hadvar strained against Hod.
“Calm down, boy, what’s wrong? Quick, someone get his family!”
Hadvar stuck out an arm and thrust it towards her. “She,” he said. “She’s an Imperial prisoner!”
Hod looked to her, and back to Hadvar, but Orgnar butted in before anyone else could sow more confusion. “Calm down, Hadvar. Come in and sit down. I’ll get you a mug of ale, and we can talk about this without any fights breaking out, alright?”
Hadvar winced and scowled at her, but gave in to Hod, who was wrestling to keep him still.
Once they got Hadvar into the inn, they sat him down before the firepit. Alvor and his wife, Sigurd, rushed in. At the sight of Hadvar’s hunched, defeated figure, Alvor cried out: “My boy…”
Sigurd set to cleaning his face, and Hadvar winced and eventually took the linen cloth from her to do it himself. Orgnar returned with steel tankards of ale and mead, handing them to Hadvar, Alvor, Sigurd, Embrys – who sat further back from everyone else – Hod, and her. She took the heavy metal tankard in two hands and sipped the bitter drink, watching Hadvar as everyone fussed about him. She was finding it difficult to process the dynamic – had Ralof and Hadvar been childhood friends?
Chairs were pulled up in front of the fire, and tankards were drained, and Hadvar finally spoke. “Where’s Ralof?” The question was directed at her.
Everyone turned to look at her, and she suddenly felt very small.
“He’s … alive.” She said, not knowing what the right answer was, and feeling like she was dancing around a field of primed bear traps.
Hadvar threw back his tankard and dropped it on the ground. Sigurd tutted, but Orgnar bent to pick it up without complaint. “Good,” Hadvar said.
“My boy,” Alvor said, kneeling in front of his son and gripping him by the shoulders. “What happened?”
And she listened as he explained how he’d rushed to help defend Helgen against the undefeatable threat of the dragon.
“But we couldn’t even hurt it. We retreated back inside one of the towers, and it collapsed.” He wiped his brow and accepted another tankard from Orgnar. She noticed Delphine had appeared and was skulking behind the bar, listening in. “And I got separated from the general. I have no idea if he made it out.”
Alvor and Hod exchanged knowing, concerned glances. Two families, separated by war, but still there for each other. It must have been confusing, she thought.
“You’ve been gone for days, my boy. We … we thought you were-“
“Dead. I can imagine. And I’m sorry.” Hadvar patted his father’s arm. “I all but crawled from the rubble of Helgen this evening. Even as I did, I heard the bandits and looters approaching. It took me a long time to get here.”
The room fell silent. The fire crackled, and Hadvar’s head fell forward. “I need to sleep.”
The chairs were rearranged, and tankards were gathered up. Alvor and Hod guided Hadvar out of the inn between themselves.
She retired to her room, feeling a pang of anxiety as she wondered what her next conversation with Hadvar would bring. Now that he was in the village, it would surely be unavoidable. There was a gentle knock at her door, and Orgar pushed his head through.
“I don’t know what you two were arguing about out there, but he won’t come to bother you tonight. You’re safe here. We’ll make sure of it.” He nodded his head and left.
[]
As suspected, Faendal’s plan did not work.
She visited the Riverwood Trader in the morning, making sure to wait until both Sven and Faendal were at work. Being the only two-floor building in the village, it stood out from the rest, even in spite of its humbleness. The ground floor was taken up by the shop. Barrels and shelves full of oddities and common goods. A few fancy books with curling covers sat around gathering dust, left neglected by Riverwood’s preference for clothing, food, travel supplies and the occasional potion, on the rare chance they were stocked.
Like all of the buildings she’d visited so far, it had a firepit, still smouldering away from the previous night. A small, ladder-like staircase led up to the room where Lucan and his sister Camilla lived.
As she walked in, she was buffeted by raised voices, and proceeded to open and close the door behind her carefully.
“I said no! No theatrics! No thief-chasing!” Lucan stood next to the counter, gesturing wildly at a stubborn looking Camilla.
The siblings looked little alike, aside from the fact they were both slight and had dark brown hair. Lucan’s grew in a cropped mop while Camilla’s was tied and braided affectionately. Despite being shipwrecked in rural Riverwood, Camilla had managed to find some basic makeup, and wore a blush and red lips. Camilla was young and beautiful, and based on her surroundings, it made some sense that she’d been caught up in a love triangle, somewhat embarrassing as it was.
At her entrance, Lucan’s eyes darted to the door, and he immediately quietened down. “Er … a customer.”
Camilla looked as though she suddenly remembered she existed, and turned an apologetic face to the newcomer. Though, the effect was marred by the fact she then stomped off, the scowl barely hidden.
“Welcome to the Riverwood trader,” Lucan called, mustering some salesmanship back into his voice, word by word. “How can I be of service?”
“Erm … hello, Lucan.” For a change, she didn’t have to pretend to be at the trader to trade. With her, she’d brought her small collection of potions. “I- well, Faendal said you might be interested in some potions we created. They’re nothing too special, just-“
“Potions are always a help! Provided they work, of course,” he said, and offered a chuckle.
She placed five of the small bottles on the counter, and Lucan picked each one up, turning it over above the gentle light of a candle. As he did, she risked a glance backwards. Camilla had disappeared upstairs. Would it be rude to follow her?
“Hmm,” Lucan said. “These aren’t bad! I’ll certainly take them off your hands. For a fair price, of course.”
After glass and gold have been exchanged, she found herself with a delightfully heavy coin purse, and a chewing sense of anxiety at the trickery she was about to attempt.
“Lucan,” she said, as he turned around to arrange the potion bottles on the shelf behind him. “Would it be okay if I went upstairs to speak with Camilla, for a second?”
“Hmm,” he said, again. “Well, you can try. Maybe while you’re at it, you can convince her to stop being so foolish.”
“Foolish? Did something happen?”
“Well, er- no- yes, sort of,” he said. “We did have a bit of a break in.”
A break in? In Riverwood?
“Thing is,” He continued. “The thieves were only after one thing.” He leant on the counter, his eyes narrowing. “A solid gold ornament, in the shape of a claw. Camilla wants us to go after the thieves, but we can’t do that, we’re just traders.” He shook his head, clearly pained by the situation.
“Ah, that’s a shame.”
After a slightly awkward pause, Lucan said: “But yes, go speak to Camilla. She should be just upstairs. She can probably hear us right now, actually.”
She took the odd ladder-stairs up. Camilla was sat at a small table off to one side. It was a small abode, with two single beds on each side and a few dressers and wardrobes. She assumed the food was stored and cooked downstairs.
As she clambered up, Camilla’s frown turned to her.
“I hope my brother hasn’t sent you here to ‘talk some sense into me’.” Camilla spoke with a posh flourish that she couldn’t deduce the integrity of. Camilla and her brother looked comparatively clean and groomed next to the rest of Riverwood’s inhabitants, but she still wore the same drab kind of dress as the rest of the village’s women. She wondered whether the pair were happy, here, or whether they’d just gotten stuck, like she suspected Faendal had.
“No,” she said and tried a smile. “Not quite.”
Camilla looked unconvinced but at least seemed to redirect her frown.
“I- umm. Camilla – hi. I have a note for you,” she tried. “It’s from Sven.” She felt dirty saying the words, almost rolling her eyes at herself. This was never going to work.
“From Sven?” The frown returned.
“Erm, yes. He told me to give it to you.”
“Oh, yes? Did he now?”
“Yes. Yes he did.”
“My lady,” Camilla said, and she froze at the top of the stairs. Her tone sarcastic, but not without humour. “Sven always delivers his little letters to me himself. Why would he suddenly get someone else to do it for him?”
“Umm-“
“The only other young lady in the village, at that.”
“Er- I don’t really-“
Camilla sighed and put her head in her hands. “My lady, I have a new task for you, should you accept it – though, I suspect if you don’t, someone, and I think I know who, might be rather disappointed.”
“A new task?”
“Yes, dear, I know that Sven didn’t give you that letter.”
“Right. Okay. Well, I suppose there’s no point lying about it.”
“Go tell Sven and Faendal each that I want to see them, round the back of the watermill, just after sundown.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes, both of them. And I want you there too.”
“Me? Why?”
“You’ll see,” Camilla said. “I have a feeling you might like it.”
“Listen, I’m not in the business of ruining people’s love-lives-“
“It’s not a love life,” Camilla said, “if they don’t do anything about it, and spend every day pining after me while thinking up childish new plots to mildly and pettily irritate each other in the process.”
“Okay. You make a good point.”
“I think so, too.” And to her relief, Camilla smiled. “It is nice to have another woman in the village, you know. I apologise if I sounded frustrated, it’s just that I am. And I’m surrounded by these ridiculous brutish men – like my potato-eared brother, for one. If they put half as much energy into doing something useful as they do pestering me, this place would be the jewel of the Empire.”
She laughed, “I agree, actually.”
“I’ll see you at sundown. Though, don’t let me down. I don’t want to stand about in the cold all night.”
“I won’t, Camilla.”
This seemed like a much better plot.
[]
Luring the two lovebirds into the trap proved disappointingly easy. Faendal was the most trusting and, while she didn’t enjoy lying to him about the result of her mission, she did feel he somewhat deserved it.
Sven took slightly more work. She found him taking a break from the mill, sat on the porch of the tiny cottage he shared with his mother. He stood as she approached and gave her a polite bow. “Ah! My lady, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The wannabe bard played his front well.
She’d seen and heard Sven almost every evening in the inn, but they were yet to speak. He was a kind-faced man, fair-haired like many of the Nords she had met, and unravelled his words like each sentence was a fresh poem, to be plucked and served to a wanting lady. She supposed it was unfortunate for him that she was nothing of the sort.
“Sven – hello. We’ve never spoken but I just wanted to say hello while you’re stood still.” It was true that he was on his feet a lot. When he wasn’t working or playing, he was looking after his mother – an elderly woman who had a bitter. One evening, she’d overheard Sven’s mother discussing the dragon – Sven hadn’t seen the thing and dismissed her excited claims. She supposed the news had yet to become common knowledge.
“Ah, yes! But not to worry! You seem to be busy much of the time, bustling about with Gerdur and the likes. Say – didn’t I see you leave the village with Faendal several days past?” He cast her sidewards glance.
“Er- yes, probably. We went out gathering. I’m finding it a little difficult to adapt to Riverwood’s needs.”
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“I’d stay away from him, if I was you.”
“Why? Don’t get on?”
Sven stroked a stubbly chin. “Has he not burdened you with ill stories of me?”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Well, he seeks the favour of my woman.” When he said this, Sven put his hand over his heart, and then bowed his head, in a ridiculous, dramatic gesture.
“Oh- okay, that sounds … bad?”
“Yes, indeed. Very. He won’t succeed, though! He is a journeyed man with interesting tales, I’ll give him that. But I am a trained bard, studied in the ways of wooing words.”
“…right. Okay.”
“Did you know I studied at the Bard’s College in Solitude? A fine city.”
“I heard about your love letters to Camilla.”
“They are poems, my good lady.”
“Right. Poems. Actually,” she said, growing more desperate to move the conversation along. “I came because of Camilla. She told me she wants to meet you, tonight.”
At her words, Sven’s eyes widened, before he could fix his expression in a flash and narrow them at her.
“Is that so? Then why did she send you, and not come broach it with me herself?”
“Sven, have you spoken to Camilla? Confessed your love for her in even the tiniest capacity?”
“Well, yes! My poems-“
“Have you spoken to her in person?”
He fell silent and put on an exaggerated thinking face. “I see your point.”
“Good. Thanks, I think.”
Afterwards, the day dragged. She didn’t bother heading back to the mill, and Faendal was back splitting firewood, demanded by Hod to pull his weight following his recent absences. The weather remained fair, so she spent most of it outside, watching the workers work and the day go by, feeling guilty about her lack of usefulness, but slightly more confident knowing she had done something to help.
Though none of this had led to any progress on her objective, it seemed. Bleak Falls Barrow remained distant, mocking her all the while from the mountaintop.
And Hadvar had yet to appear. Unless he’d emerged from Alvor and Sigurd’s house and gone somewhere else, but it seemed unlikely due to the state he’d been in the previous night.
As evening rolled around, she paid Orgnar the fee for her room, and returned to Gerdur and Hod’s house for a meal. She ate in their quaint front garden, watching the sun dip and waiting for her time to fulfil Camilla’s request. They had a few chickens that liked to wander around the village, often terrorising the ever-inquisitive Stump, and a beautiful, gentle looking cow, covered in long fur from which forked two long horns. Hod had told her that the cow didn’t have a name, and she felt this was very rude. The cow looked at her sidelong through a relaxed, black bead, half submerged in that thick fur, as she munched on the coarse-looking greens of a large bush.
She still didn’t understand why Camilla had requested her there. Was it simply to tie off loose ends? The whole situation had her thoughts tied in knots, and the waiting had been arduous at best.
When it finally came time – as the sun dipped below the mountain peaks once more, and the light faded from the valley – she headed down to the mill at the water’s edge.
When she got there, the trio had already started. Faendal and Sven were arguing and Camilla looked as though she was about to pull her delicately braided hair out.
As she approached, both the men turned and looked her up and down.
“You?” Faendal said.
Sven simply put his face in his palm.
“For the sake of Mara, will you two cease your squabbling for five seconds?” Camilla, it seemed, had finally managed to get a word in. “Do either of you understand why you are here?”
The two men looked from Camilla to her, and back to each other, and then her again.
“You- you lied to me!” Faendal said, and she shrugged.
“I did say you were being pathetic.”
“Oh! Ho ho! The elf admits to his trickery!”
“Sven, dear, shut up.”
“Can someone at least tell me why I’m here?”
“Oh, you mean you aren’t simply here to gloat at my misfortune?” Faendal said.
“I’m here too, elf! This isn’t even about you!”
“Oh really?” Camilla said, crossing her arms. “If you’re so important to me, why has it taken me this long to get you to even look at me?”
Sven looked at the floor and muttered to himself.
“The group can’t hear you, oh mighty bard,” Faendal said. “And you,” he pointed at her, his face becoming increasingly flushed. “I am not happy with you.”
“You asked me to lie in the first place, Faendal.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“Faendal, dear, you’re speaking like a child,” Camilla said.
Faendal pinched his mouth and tried digging a hole in the ground with his glare, instead.
“Now, if you boys are quite done with this ridiculous back and forth, I’ll explain why we’re all stood here.”
There was a brief huff and mutter from each of the men. She stepped closer, too, leaning on the stone structure of the mill, hugging herself against shivers brought on by the night air.
“If you are half the adventurous men you claim to be, you’d have jumped at the opportunity to help with a very obvious problem that I and my brother are having.”
The claw, she inferred. As neither of the men spoke, she assumed they knew exactly what Camilla was talking about, too.
“Thieves broke into our store in the night. They could have hurt me and my brother. They took something of great value to Lucan, and ran to the barrow with it.
“The barrow?” She looked at Camilla, who shot her a sly wink. “What does this have to do with the barrow?” The plot was nearing its conclusion, she suspected.
“Lucan overheard one of the thieves saying something about Bleak Falls Barrow. We assume that’s where they’re camping out,” she continued and looked between the two sulking men before her. “And there’s a rather high chance both of you know about this. Am I correct?”
They both spoke at once, blurting out the beginnings of accusations aimed at each other, then stuttered, then tried again but failed.
“Am I correct?” Camilla said again, and Sven huffed, his bardly grace seeming to have shrunk into the earth.
“I know the barrow.” Faendal said, grumpily. “I’ve been near it a few times, but it’s too dangerous to go on my own.”
“I know what she’s going to say next,” Sven said. “She’s going to imply we should go together.”
Camilla smiled and gestured to both of them as the words were said for her.
“But-“ Sven stuttered. “But, how am I supposed to show my … my love to you when pitted next to this elf? Is this now a competition?”
“Like it wasn’t already?” Faendal said.
“No, I had her wooed.” Sven said, like an indignant teenager who couldn’t own up to his fault.
“I think I will be the judge of that,” Camilla said, reducing Sven to quiet huffing once again. “So, are we in agreement?”
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea. We don’t know how many of those bandits will be up there. And we’ll definitely have to fight.” Faendal looked Sven up and down. “And he’s not exactly a fighter, is he? Look at him.”
“How dare you!” Sven turned on him, and Camilla rolled her eyes so hard she looked as though she was about to fall over. “I’m a proud Nord. I’ve travelled all over Skyrim.”
“Excuse me,” she said at last, and to her surprise, the two men paused their bickering. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.” But she did. She pieced it together before Camilla even explained. Did Camilla know about Dragonsreach?
“Of course, you do,” Camilla said. “Boys, if you do this, you won’t only be helping one pretty maiden in need …” She trailed off, Camilla’s meaning clear, and her heart fluttered slightly for reasons that she’d unpack later.
“Wait,” Faendal said, with real concern in his voice. “Why do you need to go to the barrow?”
“It’s sort of a long story,” she said. “To do with dragons-“
“Dragons?” He said.
“-and a wizard, and the Jarl. I’m not even entirely sure myself, but I’ve not got much else to do.”
“Did you say the Jarl?” It was Sven’s turn to look confused, and she felt she detected a hint of admiration in his voice. Or disbelief.
“I- I did, yes. The Jarl’s wizard wants me to get a stone tablet of some sort from the barrow. It’s all a bit confusing, if I’m honest.”
“Wait, don’t misunderstand my words, but why you?”
“Faendal,” she sighed. “I don’t know. But it’s the only lead I’ve got.” And then she said: “But, I’m not asking you to put yourselves at risk! If there are people there, maybe I can talk with them. Figure something out? It’s not like I’ve got much to lose.”
“No,” Faendal said. “These people are bad news. Skyrim is rife with bandits, and they’d spend no breath negotiating with you. We’ll help.”
“We will?” Sven looked from Faendal to Camilla, and then said: “I mean, we will. Of course we will. How could I have been so blind that I didn’t realise the trouble you were both in? Please, forgive me. We’ll set off tomorrow at daybreak.”
“No, we won’t,” Faendal said.
“We won’t?”
“No, fool, we need to figure out what we’re dealing with, first. At first light, I’ll scout the barrow and the mountain road to get an idea of what we’re facing.”
Sven scoffed. “Oh, you will, will you? And take your chance to finish the deed without me?”
“No, you fool,” Faendal sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I want to do this properly, with as little fighting as possible. And I’ll need your help, loathe as I am to admit it, to pull it off. The more of us there are, the carrion feeders might leave us alone.”
“Well,” Camilla finally spoke, again. “If you two are all made up, I would like to retire to my bed. It’s getting cold out here and I’m sure you do not need me here for organising the logistics.” And Camilla left, both men watching her as she went.
“I suppose we’d all better get some rest, if this is really something we’re going to be doing,” Faendal said, avoiding eye contact with her.
[]
The following morning was a cold one, and mist and fog had formed up the valley, barely pierced by a sharp amber glow.
She was nervous as she got out of bed and threw herself into her work tunic and trousers, in spite of shivering limbs. Had Faendal managed to scout the barrow without being seen? What if he’d been found and captured by these bandits?
He hadn’t, but he’d run into a complication along the way.
“An old tower,” he said, as the three assembled outside his house. He had his bow and arrows shouldered, again, and at his side, a short, battered looking sword. “It’s a watch tower, and they’ve stationed some lookouts there. Even in the fog, there’s no way we’ll be able to pass it unseen.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Well,” he said, as they followed him up to his front door. “There is an alternate road up the mountain that leads closer to the barrow, but it’s on the other side of the mountain, which means we’d have to walk halfway to Whiterun just to get there. If we leave now, it’ll be sundown when we arrive.” He unlocked his door and pushed it open, walking through. She and Sven followed him in. “And the climb will be steep. If the weather turns bad, we’ll have to go back.”
“So, what do you suggest, oh knowledgable hunter of the wilds?” Sven had also geared up, slightly. He wore a pair of leather and fur gauntlets that looked as though they could fend off a sword-blow or two, and he also had a small sword at his side, not dissimilar to Faendal’s. In his other hand, he held an old shield. It was relatively small, but looked heavy, made of wood and covered by a leather tarp.
Faendal went to his table and crouched down. He pulled out a wooden chest from underneath, flipping the catch and throwing the lid back. From it, he pulled another shield, though his was larger and was made of solid looking metal. Carvings and engravings of symbols she didn’t understand ringed and spiralled its front. It was ugly, and looked like it would stop plenty of attacks if it needed to.
Faendal also pulled out a helmet. It was old, rusted in places and worn, as though it had seen a few scrapes. From its sides, the horns of a small animal curved forwards, parallel with the angular eye holes.
“The plan is to walk up to the tower,” Faendal said, lowering the helmet over his face. “See whether they fire any arrows at us, and hope they miss.”
[]
As the trio headed back to the road, Faendal put an arm out to stop her. Ahead of them, arms folded and squinting through bruises, Hadvar blocked their way.
“I heard you were planning on going up to the barrow,” he said. Even from where she stood, she saw the red veins of his bloodshot eyes. He looked from Faendal to Sven, and then to her. “You’re going to get yourselves killed.”
“Let us go, Hadvar.” Faendal wiped his brow with the rugged palm of his glove. “I refuse to believe you care for our safety.”
She knew Faendal was referring to her, rather than himself, and felt a pang of emotion at his coming to her defence.
Hadvar dropped his arms, and for a split second, she panicked. Her heart raced up her throat as she prepared for that uncomfortably familiar sound of smooth, hammered metal grinding together. But Hadvar simply frowned at her. Faendal and Sven glanced her way, too, and she guessed she must have flinched.
“I’m not here to cause more trouble,” Hadvar spoke, his voice softer as though he’d suddenly remembered it was still very early in the morning. “I heard about your trip to the Jarl – it seems you’ve got an important task ahead of you.” He spoke directly to her.
“So, everyone knows about that, I guess.” She tried to sound unimpressed, but her voice came out small and squeaky.
“I- I apologise for my outburst earlier.” The other two men looked between her and Hadvar and remained tensely quiet. She figured news must travel quickly in such a small village. “I was exhausted and angry and-“
“It- it’s okay. I understand,” she said.
“I don’t want you to get yourselves killed. Let me come with you.” For a second, no one spoke, and Hadvar must have taken their surprise as doubt. “I’m well – able enough to assist you up the mountain, at least. And I’ve still got my sword.” He patted the heavy-looking, slightly more ornate hilt at his side.
“Are you certain?” Sven spoke, the disbelief in his voice blanketed by what must have been that bardic training. “Do you not wish to rest, my friend? You must’ve had a tough few days.”
“We need the extra help,” someone said, and she realised it was her.
“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable, girl,” Hadvar said, and bowed his head. “But the wilds of Skyrim are indeed dangerous, and a pack of wolves or bandits might look differently on a group of larger size.”
“Okay,” Faendal said, and let out a sigh that he must have been holding. “You are welcome to join us, soldier. I doubt things are going to go smoothly, anyway.”
“Please,” Hadvar said. “Call me Hadvar. You’re both friends to my family.” He nodded to Faendal and Sven, and then to her he said: “And you, I don’t know, but we have time on road.”
[]
They left Riverwood as the morning mist began to disperse. Instead of heading north on the road that would take them to Whiterun, they took a left turn onto a dirt path that wound around trees and rocky outcroppings and up into the mountains on one side of the valley. The overnight air had frozen muddy ground, granting them an easy and gentle climb. The path was well-worn by travellers’ boots or animal paws and hooves, and the tall grass and sparse shrubbery kept well out of their way.
They passed a small waterfall that trickled rather than crashed, tree stumps colonised by various types of fungi, and bushes with bright red berries that Faendal reached out to.
“Snowberries,” he said, and tossed one into his mouth. “They are good to eat if you get lost and hungry up in the mountains.”
She grabbed the stem of a snowberry bush as they walked near to it and located a berry. It took a surprising effort to pluck the berry from the bunch of stiff leaves, but her gloved fingers finally found purchase and yanked it free. She popped it in her mouth, and it tasted sour. She winced as her tongue rolled the thing back and forth, and her cheeks threatened to shrivel up, but the taste improved as she chewed it.
Faendal led the expedition. She watched as he moved his head one way and then the other, listening out for sounds above the breeze with both pointed ears. He wore his white hair tied back in a high ponytail, ready for action.
Sven, somewhat unsurprisingly despite his vigorous defence of his strong Nord roots earlier, seemed to be sulking at the back. He had his head down, looking at his feet as he gripped his shield and muttered to himself when he occasionally banged it against his sword’s handle. The going wasn’t particularly tough – even in her groggy state, she managed up the sloping path with relative ease, and she was determined not to stop, conscious of the fact the others were carrying considerably more equipment than her.
At some point, Hadvar appeared next to her. She assumed he’d been waiting for a good time to do so, and as Faendal partially disappeared around a rock ahead of them, he spoke up.
“So, girl, I didn’t get your name.” He phrased the question as a polite statement.
“Just call me ‘girl’, I suppose. It’s complicated.”
“Your name is complicated?”
“Not exactly,” she sighed. Was she going to have to do this every time? “I’d prefer to leave it at that, if you don’t mind.” She half expected him to interrogate her further.
“We got off on the wrong foot,” he said, and she was unsure if he expected some kind of response. “I’m glad you managed to escape the dragon. Strange times these are, with the war and now this.”
She monitored his words for threat, but he seemed genuine. Even as they walked, she noticed the bruises on his face turning paler as they healed. His eyes were no longer bloodshot, and he strode forward with purpose. She idly fingered the potion bottle in her pouch.
“The woods and mountains are beautiful this time of year. It’s a shame you have to see them at such a bad time.” He looked across the valley as he spoke, and she followed his gaze. Snow blanketed the sheer ridge, spiked with conifer tips and sharp boulders. To their left, the ground fell away, too, and the thatch rooves of Riverwood became visible through the fog. She could make out the smoke of Alvor’s blacksmith shop, and the firepits belonging to the new guards. “Helgen is that way.” Hadvar pointed to a spot beyond the ridge, and she had to squint to see the stone towers of the place that had almost been her grave. A gentle smoke column rose above the trees – just a hint at the destruction that had taken place. “A cursed place, now.”
As they climbed, hard ground became snow. Intermittent wind attacked her clothes, and she pulled the rough travelling cloak around her arms, though it did little to keep out the daggers of chill.
“Not a great sign,” Faendal called from the front. “This wind might signal a storm, which could be bad if we run into trouble at the barrow.”
“All good back there, bard?” Hadvar spoke over his shoulder, and she looked back to see Sven scowl at them. “No need for the sour face, my boy, we are about to fill your storybook.”
“Yes,” Faendal shot back at them. “Perhaps he will be able to fill it with tales of glory, rather than hopeless love.”
“That is tough talk from the village’s greatest wood cutter! Perhaps, elf, you will be able to win Camilla’s heart with your tally records.”
“Lads,” Hadvar said, laughing. “How about we save your anger for the bandits?”
“What about you, Hadvar? Got a girl up in the lofty heights of Solitude?” Faendal said, and she was unsure whether the question had been a disguised jab at Sven’s stories of the Bard’s College.
“Not exactly,” Hadvar said. “My legion travels often. Smelling of horses and dirty tents makes it a little difficult to muster up any romantic charm.”
“Oh, surely not, soldier. You must have some tales of lusty encounters in the fringes of Foresworn territory.”
“Careful, bard,” Hadvar warned, but with humour in his voice. “You know I am limited in how much I may speak of our time in the Reach.”
“Afraid we might unearth a fateful romance between you and one of those beastly cult women?”
“Now, now,” Hadvar said, and laughed. “Perhaps we should learn more about you, weaver of words. Where are your tales of forbidden love in the capital?”
“I have many, I simply wish to keep them private.”
“Oh, sure you do. That must be why you’re back in sleepy Riverwood,” said Faendal.
“Hey!”
They carried on like this as they walked, and she was glad to feel some of the group’s tension drop away. They passed a pile of flat rocks, clearly not a natural formation. It was about half her height, and from between the layers, the dark, weathered red of a cloak fluttered in the wind.
“A waymarker,” Hadvar said. “The travellers of old left them to guide their fellows through the mountains and tundra. If you get to the north, you will find many more. Much of our land is untouched by man, or at least has not been for a long time.”
The mist drew in tighter, and the path veered further right, following the natural formation of the mountainside. It didn’t take long for the ominous black pillar of the watchtower Faendal had spoken about to loom out of the fog above them. Faendal motioned for them to stop, and they did. Hadvar let out a sigh and leant forwards on his knees, but his face was an expression of focus.
“See, up there?” Faendal said.
“Indeed,” Hadvar responded. “There is no chance of slipping by them.”
She looked at the tower, a black and rugged deformity against the stark white. She thought she saw something move at its peak, but the wind whipped her face in a sudden gust, and she had to blink away tears.
She heard a clink of metal from behind her and turned to see Hadvar and Faendal patting their sides. Hadvar checked the straps on his sword belt. Sven nearly dropped his shield and Faendal whipped round, “Quiet! Let’s not draw any more attention to ourselves than we need.”
Squinting through the gathering clouds, she could make out the visage of a lone tree. It stood at the foot of the dark stone, a solitary reminder of natural innocence surrounded by stark white of snow. Against it, there leaned a single person. At first, she nearly missed them, but as the group walked cautiously forward, she distinguished their brown and tan furs from the frost hardened bark of the pine. With arms crossed, hugging warm clothing around themself, they watched.
“Should we greet them?” Sven asked.
“No. Follow my lead.”
She watched as Faendal, one hand on his sword hilt, looked from the bandit to his footing as he pressed forward, felt for purchase in the increasingly deep snow. She glanced back to a nervous Sven and a confident wink from Hadvar.
The silent staring match continued as the group skirted a rock in effort not to get too close to the tower. The bandit simply watched.
Slowly but surely, the whole group made it round the rock and into the mountain pass beyond. Finally, they began to move away from the tower and further along the rough path. The wind battered them as they turned away from the mountainside into a small dip, flanked either side by sharp rocks that pointed skyward, and more snowberry bushes. Hadvar took the rear of the group, throwing his gaze backwards to make sure they were not being followed.
“There are tracks here,” Faendal said without stopping. “They must be recent, as this snowstorm would have covered them in minutes.”
“What does that mean for us, elf? Should we prepare for an ambush?” Sven tried to muster as much bravery in his voice as possible as he yelled back to Faendal over the wind.
“No, they may have been coming back from a raid - or whatever it is that bandits do.”
“Back where?”
“To the barrow. I told you that there were many of them up here. They must have taken shelter there.”
“I could not fathom why any sane person would enter that place, let alone reside there.”
“You should ask yourself the same question, then, as we need to escape this storm, and I’d reckon that is the only place on this mountain with any shelter.”
The icy wind cut straight through her cloak, now, and even as she pulled it up against her chin, she shook to her core. Her hands grew numb under the soft leather of her. She tried to shout back, but got a gust of wind that took her breath and squealed away with it for her efforts.
One thing was clear: they needed to get out of this storm at any cost.
The pass opened out onto what appeared to be a flat plain of snow. At the edges of her vision, drifts and banks rose and fell, buffeted by the wind, which howled, now. She stumbled as gusts hit her on one side and then the other, but the strong hands of Hadvar gripped her arm and yanked her to her feet.
She looked to him to nod her thanks, but he pointed past her. She turned to see what he was looking at.
Rising above them, tens – perhaps hundreds of metres high – the jagged peaks of the mountain loomed. And crawling out of it like an enormous, spiked worm, its black stone exoskeleton petrified in the storm - the maw of the barrow was revealed.