LotS: Frost Moon Chapter Fourteen - Fool Me Once

  • Fool Me Once

     

    Galmar was three days late. Frustratingly, there wasn’t so much as a whisper about the Jagged Crown, and he dared not bring it up in case the conversation overheard in Windhelm had been a secret. The entirety of the camp was concerned only with guard duty, training, and the ebb and flow of messages brought by Stormcloak couriers.


    The excitement of being in a real Stormcloak encampment had faded fast. His days went like this: Rise at dawn, watchtower duty, training, watchtower duty, bed at sunset unless he was on more watchtower duty. Free periods were scattered in between, but these weren’t anything to write home about.


    It wasn’t that the Stormcloaks were lazy; everyone was always doing something. It was that something usually ended up being about as interesting as a wart on an old woman’s nose. Fascinating from a distance until you got up close and realized you’d seen plenty of warts, what made this one so special?


    On the third day, Reidar groggily rose to the clang of a kitchen ladle on a cast-iron pot, and wondered in a fit of sleepy delirium if he had imagined the entire thing—the trip from Solstheim, the trial on Serpent Stone Island, the ghost wolves—the camp ambiance was so much like the Skaal Village.


    He fell in behind a handful of soldiers, (the presence of the healer Kirsten making him straighten up) yawning so hard his ears popped, and in came the sounds of arrows striking straw targets and bladed edges being sharpened at a grindstone.


    When the crowd thinned and it was his turn to accept the steaming wooden bowl of what he thought was snowberry porridge, his attention was held by the floating chunks of mystery meat.


    “What is this?” He prodded one of the fleshy lumps with his spoon.


    The cook—a taciturn Redguard woman with tight braids—met his gaze sternly.
    “Skeever.”


    Reidar’s lip curled, and he nearly dumped the bowl right back into the cast-iron pot, but the look she gave him (as if she could sense his intentions) would’ve been enough to peel the bark off a tree. Grateful he was flesh and bone and not wood and pulp, Reidar walked off with his bowl, stepping over a misplaced helmet and fallen mead bottle. Don’t they hunt anything edible in this Hold? Eating skeever! Only the truly poor and the truly desperate thought giant, vicious, disease-ridden rats were the right thing to serve for breakfast. Climbing to the top of one of the stout watchtowers that oversaw the tundra, Reidar then leaned his elbows on the railing, eating around the fleshy gray blobs of rat meat.


    We need elk. Rabbit. Even bear meat tastes better than this.


    One of the tamed wolves gazed up at him from the hilly ground the watchtower was built upon, its keen eyes fixed with the same hopeful intensity as a dog. Suddenly reminded of Rakki, Reidar snorted, loaded his spoon like a slingshot and flicked the chunks of skeever meat down to the wolf.
    “You enjoy that, fangface. I’m not eating rat.”


    “You will if we have to go another day of empty stores.”


    Reidar turned to see Arnolf Blood-Plain climb the wide wooden stairs to join him at the watch, the soldier’s countenance made more serious by the horned helmet that settled down low enough it rested almost completely over his brows.


    “What do you mean ‘empty stores?’”


    “Exactly what I said.” Arnolf laid his gauntlets down on the short table already carrying two quivers of steel-tipped arrows, a lantern and a half-drunk mead bottle. He fished a pipe and some kind of herb out of his pocket, then stuffed the contents into the bowl. “The supply cart’s late.”


    “So why doesn’t anyone go hunting?” That seemed like the obvious answer; even when the ashfall from the eruption of the red mountain started piling up on Solstheim, the Skaal still found a way to hunt enough meat to survive each season. They were prepared to walk however far it took, however long it took, if it meant there would be no empty bellies that winter.


    “Tried that.” Arnolf puffed on the pipe, the wisps of dark gray smoke curling up towards the matching sky. The threat of snowfall loomed. “A camp this big, this noisy--you can’t catch much.”


    Reidar snorted. “So? Gather up a few good archers, then go into the mountains over there—” he gestured across the tundra to the jagged mountainside protruding from the earth like teeth “—even if it takes two days, there’s got to be enough elk in there to feed the whole camp.”


    Arnolf shook his head, a noise of disagreement humming from his throat.
    “You don’t know how a camp works, do you? Not every man with a bow in his hands is used to hunting deer, or catching rabbits. Some of us are farmers. Fishermen. Shipbuilders. Blacksmiths. And we can’t spare three men or even one mage to go traipsing through the forests for two days.”


    So then you just rely on carts to bring you food and bandages? Reidar didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t so much damn dependency on a cart full of food when there was a forest right beside them.


    Reidar glanced out over the landscape again, suddenly conscious of the camp’s true purpose. It was a halfway point, wasn’t it? A place for soldiers to stop on their way to a fort or a rendezvous point, to get healing or weapons sharpened if they needed it.


    What was he doing here if the fight wasn’t anywhere near Camp Varglya? And Galmar was nowhere to be seen. Impatient, Reidar turned away from the scenery, scowling at Arnolf. “How often do we get attacked?”


    “Not often.” There was another puff of the pipe, and Arnolf frowned at the horizon as if studying the colors of the distant trees and the shapes the land took.


    The porridge in his belly had fixed his mood somewhat, but any optimism he’d felt a second ago had been forcibly removed by this news. We’re just stuck here like rabbits waiting for spring.


    “So do we just wait for orders? Are we attacking Whiterun? What does Galmar expect us to do, sit here and knit?”


    Humor glinted in Arnolf’s eyes, and he smiled under a thick brown beard. “Don’t worry about Galmar. It’s Hjornskar who gives the orders here.”


    Same damn thing, if they both expect me to do nothing!
    Reidar opened his mouth to argue, but Arnolf tapped the pipe on the table to loosen some of the ash, gesturing with a gloved hand to the Commander’s tent. Hjornskar Head-Smasher had just come out of it.


    “You got a problem? Go take it up with him.”


    Holding the still-warm porridge bowl, Reidar used the excuse of rinsing out in one of the water troughs to get closer to Hjornskar. The officer was speaking to a shieldmaiden and the Redguard with tight braids from earlier; they nodded soberly and moved off, gathering their bows as they went.


    Did he send them hunting? Reidar’s gaze followed the pair as they exited the camp, frowning a little as he saw them head out across the tundra, the mountain at their backs.


    Reidar brushed the water off his hands and walked over, ignoring the awkward introductions (or lack of) from three days past.
    “Hjornskar?”


    Hjornskar raked a hand dark with dirt through his red mane of hair, looking Reidar’s way.


    “What are you going to do about the supply cart? I can hunt. If you can spare two others for a hunting party, we can—”


    Hjornskar cut him off immediately.
    “This isn’t a little village in the Rift, boy. You want to help so badly? Go find me that supply cart.”


    Huh? “Where the hell am I supposed to—”


    “Freidar! Did you find any more ore veins?” Hjornskar walked away, leaving Reidar standing there with a soured expression.


    Find that supply cart. He wasn’t some lackey Hjornskar could just order around, officer or not. It sounded like an impossible task. It sounded like a stupid task, like trying to find scales on a goat; but Reidar couldn’t deny there was a chance here. If he came back with the cart, Hjornskar would start taking him seriously. Even better, Galmar would start taking him seriously. He wasn’t just a common soldier.


    Reidar quickly went back to his tent, nodding briefly to Mitra and Ludvig, who had just come back in from sparring practice. Once there, he fastened on his ebony war axe, shouldered the heavy quiver of arrows, and took the time to string his bow and attach a waterskein to the belt around his waist. Reidar paused. Should he take the shield too? It was going to be a pain to carry so much weaponry with him; but he might need it…


    For what? To use it as a wagon wheel?


    With a decisive snort, Reidar left the tent. He saw Arnolf watching him from the stout tower as he walked right out of camp, iron-studded boots carrying him to the nearest road. Just watch.


    Some of the cocky determination ebbed when he realized there were two possible directions to take—north, back the way they had walked, or east, towards Whiterun. Which city did the supply cart even come from? Was it too simple to think Windhelm?


    “Helena?” He tested out the name on a raven-haired, steel-eyed woman carrying a hefty bale of hay out to the horses.


    “Aye. What do you want?”


    “Which direction do the supply carts usually come from?”


    She paused, lips pursing in thought.
    “North, but sometimes from the east if the snowfall is too thick up there.”


    Great help. Before Reidar could make up his mind to say thank you or not, Helena had already moved on, not caring what he was up to.


    You’d think they’d give more of a damn about when their food stores were going to be replenished.


    It was clear to him now that Camp Varglya had been built right at the edge of Eastmarch’s terrain shift into Whiterun Hold; while the camp itself was built upon and protected by enormous rock and stone outcroppings from the mountains beside it, the rest of the tundra was not so fortunate.


    The landscape looked oddly shaped—hilly and with a scattering of rocks and trees that looked like leftovers from when the world was first being formed—while that allowed him to see farther than he expected to in all directions, his optimism dwindled as he noticed only a few vague suggestions of farmhouses and a windmill no more than a couple arrow-shots from the camp.


    Guess I’ll start there.


    With the windmill as his guide, Reidar put Camp Varglya to his back and set out through the tall grasses. So tall they brushed against his waist and war axe. More than once, his boots made impressions in patches of powdery snow on the way down the overgrown slope, but his boots quickened when he saw a wide stone road winding up through the hills towards Whiterun.


    If a cart had rolled by here, then obviously someone would’ve seen it.


    A dilapidated farmhouse stuck up like an eyesore from the rocky hillside, and Reidar snorted derisively at the broken, lopsided fencing, the gap-toothed roof and the dead or diseased trees surrounding the property. He walked on, moving closer to the windmill that kept up its lazy rotation in time with the clouds scudding across the sky.


    This time a farm, tidy and functional, caught Reidar’s eye as he walked—along with the sight of a horse, cart and rider stuck in front of the little dirt path leading up to the farmhouse.


    Reidar almost broke into a run, noticing the wagon’s lean as though it had broken or lost a wheel, the horse scuffing the stones idly.


    “Agh! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here! My mother, my poor mother. Unmoving. At rest, but too still!”


    A few loose stones rattled against the iron soles of his boots as he came to a rough stop, staring at the strange man who was the source of that screech. Reidar took a few steps back, taking advantage of the large rock formation that had obscured view of the cart from the camp to hide out of the strange little man’s sights.


    Who in Oblivion is that? It looked like a supply cart. But that was no Stormcloak; it was a diminutive man with dark red hair, a weird hat with bells at the end of three long, drooped-over points, and an obnoxious costume of red and black that looked more like handkerchiefs stitched together than anything a sane man would choose to wear. Even his shoes were ridiculous. If he hadn’t seen the cart-driver in Windhelm looking banal and properly dressed, Reidar would’ve suspected this is what all of Skyrim’s cart-drivers looked like.


    He’s a few logs short of a camping fire, but maybe he’s seen something?


    ...but why was he talking about his mother?


    Reidar stepped around the rocks, one hand on his war axe but posture otherwise alert though not hostile.
    “I really hope that’s not the horse’s name.”


    The red-haired man spun around, his face an almost comical exaggeration of frustration, if the intensity of his words didn’t send such a chill up Reidar’s spine.


    “Poor Cicero is stuck. Can't you see? I was transporting my dear, sweet mother. Well, not her.” The jester gestured to the box, a giggle disrupting the flow of agitation. “Her corpse! She's quite dead. I'm taking mother to a new home. A new crypt. But... aggh! Wagon wheel! Damnedest wagon wheel! It broke! Don't you see?”


    Reidar’s confusion turned to morbid intrigue. “A corpse? You’re hauling a corpse in a box to a new…” Well, he’d wanted excitement. He just hadn’t expected it to come in the form of a weird man with bells on his head and his dead mother in a box on the side of the road.


    Before the jester could screech don’t you see? one more time at him, Reidar quickly nodded. “I see what you mean. Listen, er, Cicero, have you seen a cart roll through here? Probably with a couple of Stormcloaks?”


    The jester’s eyes gleamed, his fingers rising to grasp his chin in thought, a hand braced upon his hip. “Hmmmm. Cicero might have seen the cart. Cicero might even know where that cart is right now.”


    Reidar edged closer, still wanting to stay out of grabbing range in case the little mad man lost his mind all the way. “Tell me!”


    “Loreius!”


    “What?” Reidar stared, as Cicero went into another screeching tirade, his pitch rising and falling as erratically as the wingbeats of an injured crow.


    “Vantus Loreius! Go to the farm — the Loreius Farm. Just over there, off the road. Talk to Loreius. He has tools! He can help me! But he won't! He refuses!” Cicero bared his teeth, fists clenching and unclenching as if he’d like to wring the farmer’s neck. “Convince Loreius to fix my wheel! Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. Kindness for kindness!”


    Wary of taking his eyes off Cicero for long, Reidar spared a swift glance up the dirt path to the Loreius Farm--the tidy little homestead and windmill he’d seen on his walk from Camp Varglya.


    Cicero wasn’t giving him much of a choice. With one last scrutinizing glance at the jester, Reidar approached the farm.


    A dark-skinned man, his bald head shining in the overcast sunshine as he bent over a row of cabbages, didn’t notice his arrival. Scattering chickens as he walked, Reidar went right up to the fence.
    “Loreius?”


    Ventus Loreius straightened, sweat dripping from the end of his nose, brown eyes alive with agitation.
    “For the love of Mara, what now?”


    Reidar scoffed in the back of his throat. Who pissed on your crops this morning? … could’ve been the jester.
    “Weird little man needs his wagon wheel fixed. Says you won’t help him.” Not that I blame you.


    “That Cicero feller? Hmph. Tell me something I don't know. Crazy fool's already asked me about five times. Seems he's not satisfied with my answer. You tell him no is no.” The farmer waved Reidar off.


    I need to know what that jester knows! Reidar didn’t budge. “He’ll probably pay you.” Money talked. This man ran a farm; it was a nice farm (as far as farms went) but he hardly looked like he was dining on golden platters and drinking from crystal goblets each night.


    “Pay me? You think this is about money? Have you seen the man? He's completely out of his head. A jester? Here, in Skyrim? Ain't been a merryman in these parts for a hundred years. And he's transporting some giant box. Says it's a coffin, and he's going to bury his mother. Mother my eye. He could have anything in there. War contraband. Weapons. Skooma. Ain't no way I'm getting involved in any of that.”


    “That’s not enough reason for you to help the man and get him away from your house?” Reidar didn’t bother pointing out that only an idiot would hire the most noticeable man in existence to transport illegal goods. That jester was about as subtle as a migraine. He shook his head, hands up as he stepped away from the fence as if the man’s stubbornness was a lost cause. “What do you think he’s going to do when night falls? Sleep in the box with her? He’ll ask to sleep in the mill, or worse, demand you let him sleep inside. But it’s your farm, Loreius. Do whatever you want.”


    If it were up to him, he would’ve fixed that wagon wheel before Cicero could even screech bother and befuddle! Wasn’t so much about hospitality or the ‘kindness of strangers’ as it was keeping the weird things away from his house. If anybody asked him after that if he’d seen anything, ‘no’ is a lot easier to say than ‘yes, I met this jester with a corpse in a cart’.


    Loreius scowled.


    Reidar was slow to depart, nonchalantly scraping mud off of his boots onto a rock. Come on, old man. Help him help me!


    “You bring up a good point. Tell you what…” The farmer glanced down the path to the jester with the cart, before beckoning Reidar closer. “There's a guard, patrols the road that crazy jester is on. He passes by pretty often. You could report the fool. You know, say he's done something against the law. That will at least get rid of him for me. You tell him that jester is up to no good, and he'll deal with it. Then come back here and I'll toss a few coins your way, yeah? What do you say?”


    He’s craftier than I thought! Craftier and a little crooked. “You want me to lie to a guard just so you don’t have to fix a wagon wheel?” Loreius deserved the derisive sneer on Reidar’s face. “Last I heard, asking someone for help five times wasn’t a crime.”


    Cicero was shit out of luck. And so was he. Reidar scowled, moving to scatter more chickens on the path back down to the stone road, wondering how he was going to convince the jester to tell him what he knew.


    Loreius sighed, shoulders loosening.
    “I...I... You're right. You're right. Feller might be nutters, might not. But fact is, he needs help. I turn him away, what kind of man am I, hmm? Look, um…” Loreius rubbed the back of his neck, walking out from among the crops to face Reidar. “Thanks. And I'm sorry for my unneighborly reaction. If you talk to Cicero, you be sure and tell him I'll be down to help soon.”


    Reidar, who had glanced back incredulously, grinned. “I will. You’re not so bad, Loreius.” In a tone of formality, Reidar saluted the farmer with his war axe, the blade edge glinting in the light. “The Stormcloaks appreciate your assistance.”


    He left the farmer muttering about what Ulfric’s army had to do with any of this, and was quick to find the jester again.


    “Poor mother... Her new home seems so very far…”


    Reidar made sure to create some noise as he walked over to Cicero; something told him touching the jester on the shoulder or making any sudden moves would have… weird consequences. Eagerly (and with a note of smugness), Reidar spoke. “I talked to Loreius. He's agreed to fix your wagon wheel.”


    The jester’s face lit up with almost childlike glee. “You... you did? he has?” Cicero leaped into the air and tapped his heels together, Reidar laughing as the merryman danced around him like a real jester. “Oh stranger! You have made Cicero so happy! So jubilant and ecstatic! But more! Even more! My mother thanks you! Here, here. You were looking for another cart, yes? A Stormcloak cart with an orc astride it?”


    “Yes! Have you seen it?” Reidar held his breath, hoping the cart wasn’t stuck in the snow somewhere.


    “Stopped at Nightgate Inn, it did! On it’s way, I dare say. Barring any bloody interruptions!”


    The jester giggled again, and this time Reidar didn’t care. He thanked him, made a solemn nod to the disgruntled guard making his rounds on the road, and began to head in the direction Cicero had pointed out.


    Nightgate Inn, huh? Hope it’s not far.

     

     

     

Comments

9 Comments   |   A-Pocky-Hah! and 8 others like this.
  • SpookyBorn2021
    SpookyBorn2021   ·  August 14, 2017
    This whole chapter was kind of hilarious to be honest, absolutely loved how Reidar dealt with the whole Cicero quest
  • Paws
    Paws   ·  July 27, 2017
    (nah) There is no horse emoji. A goat shall have to suffice. Imagine that goat is a horse, a horse which is chomping. Then imagine I'm that goathorse. That'll give you a sense of where I'm at :p Also, "who pissed on your crops this morning" is gigglesome.
    • SpottedFawn
      SpottedFawn
      Paws
      Paws
      Paws
      (nah) There is no horse emoji. A goat shall have to suffice. Imagine that goat is a horse, a horse which is chomping. Then imagine I'm that goathorse. That'll give you a sense of where I'm at :p Also, "who pissed on your crops this morning" is gigglesome.
        ·  July 27, 2017
      Don't worry, goathorse! There's more Mor'vahka chapters incoming. :P I believe the next 3-4 chapters on my outline have to do with continuing Mor'vahka and Kjeld's tale. I hope you're enjoying it so far!
      • Paws
        Paws
        SpottedFawn
        SpottedFawn
        SpottedFawn
        Don't worry, goathorse! There's more Mor'vahka chapters incoming. :P I believe the next 3-4 chapters on my outline have to do with continuing Mor'vahka and Kjeld's tale. I hope you're enjoying it so far!
          ·  July 27, 2017
        I am! The pacing is perfect, and each chapter has idiosyncrasies suited to the character being portrayed. It's like, when Kjeld is the focus you tend to bracketise things (like they're fleting thoughts), whereas with Reidar you vocalise his thoughts, it's...  more
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  December 28, 2016
    I can see Cicero jumping about with excitement here.


    Food issue? Dump a few Skeever corpses about two thousand yards away. Prey will come to you soon enough. Troll or Wolves.... it's all game. 
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  December 10, 2016
    Skeever and snowberry porridge. Sounds like some crap concoction Albee would come up with and everybody would hate it. And Reidar is a bit of a snot, eh? Oh boy.  Fun to see Cicero again. 
    • SpottedFawn
      SpottedFawn
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      Skeever and snowberry porridge. Sounds like some crap concoction Albee would come up with and everybody would hate it. And Reidar is a bit of a snot, eh? Oh boy.  Fun to see Cicero again. 
        ·  December 16, 2016
      He's a total snot. :P But that's all according to plan~
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  December 10, 2016
    Hehehe, Cicero, never gets old. :D


    And it is interesting to see Reidar in soldier´s life. Foolish young boy. Veterans usually appreciate the few days when they can sit on their arses without fighting, though running out of the food su...  more
    • SpottedFawn
      SpottedFawn
      Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Hehehe, Cicero, never gets old. :D


      And it is interesting to see Reidar in soldier´s life. Foolish young boy. Veterans usually appreciate the few days when they can sit on their arses without fighting, though running out of the food sucks. Those who nee...  more
        ·  December 16, 2016
      Reidar's hell-bound for a trouble few chapters, you'll see! Let's all hope he learns a few lessons before he gets fatally wounded. xD Or turned into a mindless undead soldier. Or eaten by dragons. Or smashed by trolls. Or takes an arrow to the knee. His p...  more