Gathering Clouds, Chapter 1

  • Chapter 1

     

     

     

     

                     The wolves of Skyrim were fierce predators that hunted both alone and in packs, capable of bringing down even the largest of mammoths. In times of harsh winter, however, when food was scarce, they were not above scavenging and feeding on carrion.

     

                Hunger had clearly taken its toll on this particular wolf. Her fur was matted and discoloured. Her ribs poked out from under her skin. She made a series of wet snaps as she gnawed away at the remains of a Breton, sprawled out in a patch of snow.

     

                The wind shifted, bringing with it another flurry of snowflakes. The wolf lifted her snout, nostrils widening. The scent of man, approaching slowly. The scent of meat. The scent of prey.

     

                Her chops drew back, revealing canines dripping with saliva and chunks of gore, looking for all the world like she was grinning. She abandoned the frozen corpse and started pawing forward slowly, shifting her weight backwards and preparing to pounce.

     

                The scent was almost upon her. The wolf shook in anticipation, a growl escaping her throat. She heard footsteps, boots crunching on new snow. A figure, huddled in a cloak, came into view.

     

                The wolf tensed and pounced, jaws opening wide, already savouring the taste of warm flesh. She would feast tonight.

     

                A flurry of snow; a flash of metal. The wolf feasted on three feet of cold steel.

     

                The wolf let out a gurgle as the figure pulled the sword from her gullet with a grunt. Crouching, he wiped the blade clean on her fur.

     

                ‘A lone wolf,’ Arngrimur called, fingering his beard. ‘I’m guessing that’s what your spell was picking up, Valesse. It was starving by the looks of it. Really now, after walking for half a day all we stumbled across was this?’

     

                A second figure emerged behind him, shivering. A hood hid her face, but Arngrimur could see that her teeth were chattering. A red nimbus swirled around her hands. ‘The blizzard’s letting up,’ the Nord said in a softer tone. ‘We should be able to see our way better now. No need to use up any more Magicka until we make it to Finnur’s Barrow.’

     

                ‘All… all right.’ The nimbus faded, and the Altmer casting it breathed a barely audible sigh of relief.

     

                Arngrimur’s brow furrowed in worry. ‘Are you absolutely sure that the figurine is here? If you’ve come on this trip for nothing – ‘

     

                ‘Please, Arn, give it a rest,’ Valesse let out an exasperated puff of air. ‘I’ve been telling you every half-hour. All the archaeological evidence that we recovered for Tharstan points to this barrow. The old man’s never been wrong before. And,’ she said sharply as Arngrimur opened his mouth, ‘Don’t start telling me that I should have stayed home and rested. I’m here right now, there’s nothing you can do about it and I’m not about to let you traipse halfway across the province on your own.’

     

                ‘It’s sweet of you to worry, but you know as well as I do that I can handle – ‘

     

                ‘– yourself, yes, but unfortunately you can’t handle drink, the lack of drink, drinking in moderation, or any combination thereof. I’m not about to let you waltz around Divines-know-where singing “Ragnar the Red” with your trousers off. Again.’

     

                ‘That was once, just once, and you never let it drop! Besides, you already took all the mead and ale out of my pack…’

     

                ‘You always manage to find more, and I’m willing to bet you have a flask or bottle hidden away somewhere.’

     

                ‘Very well, very well!’ Arngrimur’s shoulders slumped in defeat even as he looked at her with kindly blue eyes, a reluctant smile on his face. ‘You win, as you always do. But please, be even more careful than you usually are. After all, I’ve two people to look after now.’

     

                He patted Valesse on the stomach, where a slight bulge had started to form.

     

                ‘Of course,’ she said, much more gently. She took his hand, bowed her head and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Another six months and the house is going to be so much more crowded… but first things first.’

     

                ‘Aye.’ Arngrimur nodded, and continued walking forward until he reached the body the wolf was feeding on. Stooping, he turned it over.

     

                ‘Hmm… Breton, no armour or weapons. Probably a courier or just some poor lost wretch. Wolf chewed off half his face, but he died much earlier than that. The body’s frozen solid, definitely over a day old. Ah, here, a rip in his tunic. Someone stabbed him through the lungs. Looks like a shortsword. Bandits camped around, maybe?’

     

                ‘A lot of bandits have the habit of camping around barrows to rob adventurers or excavate them themselves. I hope it’s the latter. That should at least help thin out the draugr.’

     

                ‘Mhm. At any rate, if you’ve rested up enough, we should keep moving. The snow’s stopped and we’re almost there.’

     

                There were three men guarding the door. The barrow itself, built on top of a sheer mountain, was quite the sight, the stone arches reaching skywards and almost blotting out the sun from where Arngrimur was standing. He admired the building for a while, then threw off his cloak and turned his gaze to the trio, now staring at him intently.

     

                ‘Good day to you, fine gentlemen!’ He said cheerfully. ‘Might I ask what you’re doing standing out here on such a cold winter’s day?’

     

                The three men did not reply, and instead started muttering amidst themselves.

     

                ‘He looks strong. Muscled arms, thick. Probably knows how to swing that sword, too.’

     

                ‘Iron helm, armour and shield. Banded, I think. Sword is steel, though. Mercenary, maybe.’

     

                The third man spat. ‘Bah. Some sellsword, can’t even afford better armour. One of these days we’ll get someone who’s carrying more than a dozen septims. Ah well. Let’s get to work, boys!’

     

                The three bandits – after all, what else could they be? – hefted their weapons and advanced. Arngrimur drew his own sword and bounced on the balls of his feet, grinning. ‘Haven’t had a good fight in ages!’

     

                He caught the first strike on his shield, then immediately whirled into a crouch, ducking under the second bandit’s mace and slashing low. He took the first bandit’s legs off at the knees and kicked him screaming towards the third bandit, who tripped over and almost impaled himself with his own daggers.

     

                The second bandit snarled, and brought his mace whooshing down at Arngrimur, who sidestepped off to the right and retaliated with a diagonal cut to the face. The bandit leant to the side at the last moment and the blade severed his earlobe instead. Growling, he feinted to the left, then brought the mace up over his head and swung at Arn’s right shoulder. Arn locked his arm and stopped the blow with his sword, flinching at the resounding clang and the weight of the mace. At the same time, he bent his shield arm out and punched upwards, shattering the bandit’s windpipe with the banded rim of his shield.

     

                The second bandit dropped the mace and grasped at his throat, choking, then fell twitching to the ground. Arngrimur turned to face the third bandit, who’d gotten up and was staring, his face pale, at his fallen comrades. He took a scroll from his pocket and unfurled it.

     

                Damn it, Arn thought, and rushed forward. Violet light enveloped the bandit’s arms and Arn gritted his teeth, bracing himself.

     

                Before he could find out first-hand what spell was sealed in the scroll, however, a guttering ball of flame caught the bandit full in the face. The bandit shrieked and started flailing about as his hair smouldered, his head caught fire, and the skin on his face began to blacken. ‘Oh, be quiet!’ Valesse said, and hurled a bigger fireball at him. The explosion melted the snow for twenty feet around, and the third bandit collapsed, reduced to little more than a charred bundle of sticks.

     

                ‘Nicely done,’ Arn said. ‘Though I hope there aren’t many more of them around here.’

     

                ‘Hard luck, then. There’s a large camp just on the other side of this knoll. I’d wager around ten to twenty people were living there. I didn’t see anybody just now, so they must be in the barrow already.’

     

                ‘They’ll most likely be busy exploring the tomb. Well, at least we won’t have to face them all – ‘

     

                The carved iron doors to the barrow opened, and a dozen bandits stepped outside, each carrying a sackload of loot. They stared at Arngrimur and Valesse. Then they stared at the bodies. Then they dropped their sacks. Then they drew their weapons.

     

                ‘– at once.’ Arn said glumly.

     

                They came in an overwhelming rush, and Arn backpedalled quickly, holding his shield high. The bandits were undisciplined and hungry for blood, however, and the line soon dragged out. The fastest bandit let loose a guttural cry as he hacked at him with a war axe, which Arn shoved to the side with his shield. The bandit’s howl faded as Arn ran his sword through his navel, the piecemeal fur armour giving way to the polished steel. So much for the famed Nord battle cry.

     

                Valesse stood at a distance, fire streaming from one hand, frost from the other. The bandits at the furthest end of the line stopped running to bat at the flames, while the ones closer to Arngrimur slowed their charge as ice caked their hands and feet. Arn cut them down with ease, his blade an arc of grey and red.

     

                One of the bandits held up his hand. He was a bare-chested Orc who towered above everyone else, even Valesse. ‘EVERYONE STOP!’ He thundered. ‘SHIELDS UP; RUSH THE WITCH, GO FOR HER HANDS!’

     

                Arn’s lips tightened as all the surviving bandits swerved from him and started towards Valesse. ‘Zun!’ He cried, just as they were about to reach her. There was a great, metallic peal. Eight pairs of shields and swords flew skywards and tumbled down the side of the mountain.

     

                Valesse shot him a grateful look, and Arn saw the signature turquoise glow of her Oakflesh armour spread over her body. He sighed, relieved. Then a shadow loomed over him and he wondered if it was a little early for such a sentiment.

     

                The Orc bandit chief was standing before him, clutching an enormous warhammer. The weapon was taller than Arn even if he counted the horns on his helmet. The head was a massive sphere encircled by three black prongs, shot through with dull streaks of crimson.

     

                A daedric hammer…?

     

                ‘This must be my lucky day,’ the Orc rumbled. ‘I’ve been dying to break this in ever since I found it in those ruins.’

     

                Arngrimur barely had time to utter an ‘oh’ before the chief swung the hammer at his skull. He ducked backwards as quickly as he could. One of the sphere’s prongs just missed his chin, tearing off half an inch of his beard. ‘I needed a shave anyway.’ Arn mumbled, sparing a glance at the straw-coloured hairs scattered in the snow.

     

                The Orc wound his arms back and struck again, this time aiming slightly behind Arn’s head. Blast, Arn thought, and risked a block. The impact jarred every bone in his body, and he felt several tendons pop under the strain. A large dent appeared in his shield.

     

                The Orc cackled, then brought the hammer down once, twice, thrice, following each blow with another. The bandit chief was strong but also deceptively fast. The shield was soon bent almost completely out of shape.

     

                Iron is brittle, Arn realised. Any more and it’ll shatter.

     

                Then he looked up to see the chief stepping backwards, swinging the warhammer back under his right shoulder. He barely had time to notice the change in footwork as the head of the hammer flew forward again, heading straight for his abdomen.

     

                Arn had no choice. He raised the battered shield once more, bracing his sword and right elbow against it as well. The Orc turned his waist in unison with the strike, adding his own considerable weight to the blow.

     

                There was a huge clash of metal on metal, and Arn’s shield broke into pieces. The force of the hammer lifted him clean off his feet, sending him sprawling backwards. His vision swam as he felt his eyes and teeth rattle in their sockets.

     

                ‘Arngrimur!’ Valesse cried as he slid across the snow and came to a stop against a rock, blood seeping from his mouth.

     

                ‘Imawwigrht,’ Arn said thickly. He spat, rolled to his feet and repeated, ‘I’m all right. Bit my tongue. Keep your guard up.’

     

                The Orc was grinning from ear to ear as Arn stumbled forwards towards him again. ‘You’ve got fight in you, Nord. I can respect that. In another life you might have made a fine member of my crew.’

     

                Arn kept his mouth shut and his sword upright as he lunged at the chief, who brought the hammer upwards. Before he could bring it rocketing down, however, Arn lifted his sword upwards horizontally, with his left arm on the flat of his blade, stopping the strike before it could gain any momentum. The Orc blinked, then sneered and pressed downwards. The prongs on the hammer trapped the blade along the blade, keeping Arn from leveraging out of the bind.

     

                The steel sword began to bend, but unlike the iron shield, it did not snap. Even so, Arn began to tremble with strain. The Orc began to chuckle, leaning close enough for him to see the glistening sheen on his face and chest. ‘Did you really think that – ‘

     

                Arn lifted his leg and kicked him square in the crotch.

     

                His boots were tipped with iron. Even Valesse winced.

     

                The Orc’s eyes widened. He fell to his knees, releasing a high-pitched squeal, half warble, half whimper. The daedric warhammer slid from his hands and embedded itself in the snow.

     

                Arn let out the breath he was holding and waited for his hands to stop shaking. Then he picked up his sword and put the Orc out of his misery, decapitating the bandit chief with a backhand slash. The chief's muscles were tense with pain, spraying arterial blood into Arn's face as the headless torso toppled over.

     

                ‘Arn, thank the gods. Are you hurt at – ‘

     

                Valesse’s voice was suddenly cut off, replaced by grunts and dull thuds. Alarmed, Arn turned towards her direction.

     

                Five corpses lay on the ground, three still burning, two riddled with spikes of ice. The remaining men had drawn daggers, grabbed Valesse by the wrists, and were stabbing her everywhere they could. Her Oakflesh was weakening by the second, and they had already managed to wound her. Blood poured from a deep gash on her cheek.

     

                Seeing Valesse bleeding brought Arngrimur’s own blood to a roiling boil. The Thu’um built once more in his belly, and three Words tore from his lips.

     

                ‘FUS RO DAH!’ He roared, and the air rippled before him. The three bandits scattered like sand in the wind, leaving only a trail of ashes in their wake.

     

                ‘Valesse,’ he cried, racing towards her. ‘Please, please for the love of Talos – ‘

     

                ‘I’m fine, Arn. Don’t worry, they only managed to get one hit in, and the Oakflesh stopped most of it.’

     

                Arn exhaled, and the lines faded from his face as he held her in his arms. ‘Thank all the gods above and below. If they’d stabbed deeper, or any faster… You and the baby…’

     

                ‘They did not, and we’re both safe and sound,’ Valesse said, snuggling closer to her husband. ‘So let’s not dwell on that overmuch, hmm?’

     

                The pair stayed in each other’s embrace for a while, until the noonday sun rose above the barrow.

     

                Arn’s smile turned into a scowl as he released her. ‘Now. Did you not hear me at all when I said “I'm all right, keep your guard up”? You didn’t think one lousy bandit with a slightly larger hammer was going to get the better of me, did you?’

     

                ‘How am I supposed to answer that without offending you?’ Valesse said, bemused.

     

                ‘Bah. We might as well check if the bandits looted anything of importance from the barrow. At least we might come out of this with slightly more gold.’ Arn grumbled, and started looking through the contents of the nearest sack that the bandits dropped.

     

                Valesse nodded, then turned around to search another sack. ‘Let’s see here… necklaces set with sapphires and emeralds, a few cloudy garnets, rings of gold and silver, some bottles of ancient Nord mead, the kind that keeps for over thousands of years…’

     

                She paused as she realised what she just said.

     

                Mead.

     

                The sharp tips of her ears quivered, and she heard a most curious sound. A small, muffled pop, and the faint hiss of escaping gas.

     

                Her head swivelled towards where Arn was sitting. He had his back to her.

     

                She marched over to him, grabbed him by his shoulder, and turned him around.

     

                No less than seven empty bottles rolled clinking out of his lap.

     

                Valesse was short for an Altmer, and Arngrimur was tall for a Nord. As a result, she stood at about half a head higher than him. She drew herself to her full height now and bore over him, her green eyes ablaze.

     

                ‘My dear husband,’ she began. ‘How? How? I turn my back for less than a minute and you’ve already drunk seven bottles of millennia-old mead? Is it even humanly possible to survive drinking any more than two in an hour?’

     

                ‘Oh, Valesshe,’ Arn hiccupped with an imbecilic grin on his face, which was now completely scarlet. ‘Lhook – hlook what I fhound. Thish wee toy, in an olhd tohmb of ahll plashes...’ He held up a small figurine of a man in full Akaviri samurai armour, carved out of clay.

     

                Valesse gasped. ‘Arn, that’s the figurine we were looking for! The bandits must have carried it out of the barrow. It looks fragile. Give it here, I’ll ward it with some fortification spells so it won’t break while we take it to Tharstan.’

     

                Arn shook his head, capering and dancing out of her reach. ‘Gotta catch me firsht.’

     

                ‘Sweet Mara, Arn, not now!’

     

                ‘OOHHH THERE ONCE WAS A HERO NAMED RAGNAR THE RED/WHO CAME RIDING TO–’

     

                ‘IF I HAVE TO HEAR THAT INSIPID SONG ONE MORE TIME, I SWEAR TO MARA–’

     

                Valesse chased Arn twice around the mountain, the drunken warrior bellowing scraps of verse at the top of his lungs – which, even for a master of the Thu’um, was impressive indeed. She covered her ears and hoped that the idiot wouldn’t set off an avalanche.

     

                Just as she was about to catch up to him and most likely hamstring him for his trouble, Arn tripped on the bandit chief’s head.

     

                ‘No!’ Valesse yelled. There was a loud crack, and the figurine split in two.

     

                Arn looked at the broken pieces, then tilted his head back to stare at her. ‘Whoopsh.’ He mumbled.

     

                ‘Arn, you fool of a Nord!’ She cried. ‘This is why you never manage to get better gear! And now we’ll have to find some way to get you a new shield as well! This is unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. Tharstan will most probably–’

     

                A vein between her brows swelled and began to pulse. ‘Arngrimur…?’

     

                Arn let out a contented snore as he smacked his lips and rolled over to his side.

     

                Valesse considered setting him on fire, freezing him in a ball of ice and snow and rolling him all the way back home, or just throwing him off the mountain.

     

                In the end, she settled for taking off his helmet, draping a cloak over him, and watching him sleep as she sat down beside him and waited, a tender smile on her lips.

     

     

     

     

     

     

Comments

8 Comments   |   Valric and 7 others like this.
  • Caladran
    Caladran   ·  July 24, 2018
    Time to start reading your story! :) For a moment I thought Valesse was goner. Damn bandits!
  • SpookyBorn2021
    SpookyBorn2021   ·  August 17, 2017
    A bugger, my first comment didn't go through. Anyway, I really liked this chapter Harrow, the fighting was really interesting to read as everyone else seems to have said but I also like the way you rather quickly established the characters, and even ...  more
  • DeltaFox
    DeltaFox   ·  March 18, 2017
    An amazing first chapter Harrow, I really liked the fight sequences. Describing to us every detail and every blow makes you see the fight as if it was happening right in front of me.


    PS. The comment is a little late as I just discover...  more
    • The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      DeltaFox
      DeltaFox
      DeltaFox
      An amazing first chapter Harrow, I really liked the fight sequences. Describing to us every detail and every blow makes you see the fight as if it was happening right in front of me.


      PS. The comment is a little late as I just discovered Roaring Thunder...  more
        ·  March 18, 2017
      Thanks! And don't worry, there's no time limit on reading :D
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  December 14, 2016
    Hehehe. A Nord with drinking problems. What a surprise... xD


    And I absolutely love the combat, mate. Very vivid, clear imagery, thrilling. You know what you're doing there. You're a fellow fencer too? :)
    • The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Hehehe. A Nord with drinking problems. What a surprise... xD


      And I absolutely love the combat, mate. Very vivid, clear imagery, thrilling. You know what you're doing there. You're a fellow fencer too? :)
        ·  December 14, 2016
      Kendo, actually! But I like to think that there's a certain common rhythm behind all forms of combat.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  September 5, 2016
    I like the dividing art. That is new.  :)
    • The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      I like the dividing art. That is new.  :)
        ·  September 5, 2016
      Well hey, everybody else is doing it. Might as well, eh?