"Hail!" Arnau called.
When no one answered, he guided his horse through the pike barricades, where the road shot under the fort's walls. To his left squatted a thatch building bearing an inn sign. It was poorly constructed and featured a sloppy painting of some kind of animal holing a green shape. The night was dark and calm, the snow clouds finally clearing to show the stars. All around him the stone walls stood silently and emptily. Though the windows of the tower cast a pale, guttering firelight on the courtyard, nothing moved within. Arnau stopped and sat still on his horse for several minutes. He realized how silent the place was. Shivers crept down the knight's spine. This place is dead in a way it shouldn't be.
Turning, Arnau glanced at the top of the tower and started when he noticed the strange, melted shape of the stones--they dripped down the remaining bricks like a dark sludge. That kind of damage could only be caused by magic. Powerful magic. Then, Arnau remembered the songs taught to the bards, new ones relating to some kind of battle in the Pale. How the world opened up to the light of Aetherius and magicka poured into and out of the world. There was something else about an elf, but the Breton had been too busy staring at Lisette to pay attention. Was he, then, in Fort Dunstad? No wonder the property felt deserted.
The sound of sudden footsteps pounded in his ears. Curious, he raised his lantern high, shifting his grip on his spear so he might jab it down toward whatever was charging him. Around a corner sprinted a shape wielding a shield and sword. Its armor jangled and creaked with the stretching of leather and buckles.
"I told you! Come here 'gain and I'd slaughter every last one of you!" It was a woman, at least, and the accented sounded Nordic. She spotted Arnau and made for him, her eyes blazing in fury, straw-colored hair streaming out behind her. The steel of her blade flashed in the light, and Ponks started, snorting and prancing nervously about. The knight held his weapon at the ready, aiming for her shield as he ignored the growing ache in his right arm. It was never meant to be held one-handed like this.
"I'm not your enemy!" Arnau cried, attempting to keep his horse under control.
"Like Oblivion you're not!"
With a cry, she swung her sword wildly. The swing went wide and Arnau blocked it, shoving the blade aside and jabbing the spear-point into her shield. She teetered, off balance from the blow, then fell backwards. Sighing, the Breton dismounted. The woman struggled to her feet, but Arnau's heavy boot clamped the sword to the ground. He raised his weapon to strike once more.
"Go ahead! Strike me down, bandit!" she spat with a twisted snarl.
"I'm no bandit. You need only look in a mirror to find the ruffian you're referring to."
"Ruffian! How dare you associate me with that filth!"
"Then what are you?"
"The wife of a soldier. And I'll thank you to remember that."
Her eyes fairly glowed with anger and, deeper within, sorrow. Gently, Arnau stepped away from the Nord, extending a hand to help her up, which she refused with a chilly glare. "My lady, I'm sorry I-- You looked--"
"Stow it," she said, brushing the snow off her armor. Underneath the leather bands, she wore a wool shirt coated in buckskin. She turned on her heel and stormed through the shallow snow to a gray stone set into the arch that led to the inner courtyard. All the way up the arch were similar stones, each etched with tiny names and dates. At the apex glared a bright line, dividing the sections in two, but sitting in the center of the gash rested one block. It was not this stone that the woman went to, but one further down on the left side. A sprig of flowers lay across the top edge. The wife of a solider, I see.
The knight hesitated, then the cry of a wolf pack rose up over the walls, and Arnau stalked over to the kneeling woman. "Madam, it's very dangerous to be out here alone. I'm on my way to Windhelm. Perhaps I could escort you there?"
"I'm not out here alone, and I'm not leaving."
"Surely there is something I can do for you."
At last, she sighed and made a dismissive gesture towards the inn. "There's a dead man in there. You look like some kind of Vigilant. Go pray for him."
Arnau sheathed his weapon and relented, taking Ponks by the bridle to the hitching post in front of the square windows. Peering inside, he saw the faint glow of a fire and the watery shapes of counters and tables. Nothing moved, but Arnau hadn't really expected anyone else to be inside. He moved to the door and found it locked. Strange. Casting a glance back at the Nord, he pushed magicka into the lock and forced it open. The door, which was painted a uneasy shade of red, opened with a creak. Belatedly, he realized the sign as a red sabre cat clutching a wine bottle.
* * *
This was the first time that Lelynd had ever worn such fine clothing. It was soft and light, but warm, and it daubed him in blues and blacks. The cap, a cobalt linen thing, waved behind him as he moved. Only the Stendarr amulet felt like a familiar weight. What's more, he was clean. His only real complaint was the powder caking his face. Those elf ladies applied much of it to hide the scars on his skin and create new ones. Lelynd couldn't understand why he had to wear such feminine and soft-handed stuff, but when the grinning noble pushed a heavy purse of gold into his hands and told him to run, he didn't ask too many questions.
"Hey! Sir Arnau! Where are you going?"
"Don't talk to anyone. Don't look at anyone. Just run. If you make it to Markarth, you'll double your money." That's what the noble had said, so Lelynd kept his head down and ran harder.
"Wait!"
"Stop him!" roared another voice.
"But Captain Aldis--"
"You heard me. Halt! Jurard, you're under arrest. Stop if you know what's good for you!"
As far as he knew, the beggar had never seen this man named Arnau, nor did he know what he'd don't to attract the attention of the guards. If he thought about it, he supposed it had something to do with that murder in the inn. But it was hard to think while he was running.
The guards stopped following after a few minutes, and the pauper made it beyond the city's farmland. He was in the clear! Stopping, Lelynd clutched his side and wheezed heavily. Then, behind him, there came a deep growl. The Breton turned around, his reactions coming sluggishly. Yellow eyes glared at him before equally yellowed fangs latched onto his arm. With a thump, the coin purse fell to the ground, splitting open and spilling septims into a clinking mass. His balance was upset. Staggering backwards, he flailed and tried to throw off the wolf. Suddenly, his heels met air and he went tumbling down the cliff, taking the beast with him.
When a fisherman reported the body some hours later, Aquillius experienced no surprise. The distraction was done, and the fisherman was easily hushed. Sometimes, it was worth while to be related to one of the heirs to the greatest merchant guild in northern Tamriel. Now, Arnau was considered "missing", and the noble was off the hook for the moment.
* * *
Unfortunately, the inn was just as empty as he thought it was. Boots clustered on the hearth, upright, but ash-coated. The tables bore a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. Peering into a tankard, Arnau saw a blackened crust in the bottom. Above the fireplace twisted a sabre cat head with a wine bottle jammed into its maw. To his left lay a counter covered in a few coins and empty mugs. The mead bottles were woefully empty, and the one the Breton found with fluid in it was completely vinegared.
Wrinkling his nose, he set the drink back on the counter, running his fingers over the deeply scarred surface. Idly, he removed his spear from his back and leaned it against the counter's edge, stretching his shoulders to be rid of that weight. He felt so tired. Behind the counter sprawled a pile of hay and a few hides, which lay sandwiched together and slightly rumpled. That woman's been sleeping here? But there's someone dead downstairs... Shuddering, Arnau plucked a locket standing next to the makeshift bed. Inside was a charcoal drawing of a very prominently-nosed man bearing a severe expression. Frowning, the knight put the locket back where it was and stood.
To his right, a set of stairs descended into the basement. "There's a dead man in there." With a heavy sigh, Arnau headed down the steps to a small, dark apartment. The single room was lit by a few candles, most of which were arranged around a straw bed. A dresser at the end of the bed supported one cluster of lights--it was otherwise bare. The floor, however, lay covered in discarded clothing. Bookshelves containing no books but an assortment of oddments held two more candles, these jammed haphazardly into empty bottles. Wax bled copiously from the guttering stumps. The last glowed beside the bed, illuminating the drawn face of a man.
Without the blood, as well as the knife, Arnau might have mistaken him to be sleeping. In pain, certainly, but sleeping nonetheless. Yet the dagger stood tall out of the body, casting a long shadow like a crucifix. Bottles tinkled as Arnau pushed them aside with his boot to approach the bed. Slowly, he reached out to grip the hilt of the weapon, his eyes on the man's face. He could have sworn the man was sleeping! The metal gauntlet closed around the wood with a clink. Arnau yanked and the knife slid free. Its blade was slick and wet and dark. Revolted, the Breton tossed it aside, where it landed and skittered under a cabinet opposite the bed. For a moment, Arnau paused. He had never been bothered by the dead before. What's wrong with me? He's dead. Pray his last rites and get out of here, Arnau. But even as he extracted the sprig of dried lavender from a pouch on his side, he was sure the man was still breathing. I'll shake him. Just to be sure.
Arnau shook the body. It was cold and stiff and moved more like a stone than flesh. He waited in anticipation, but nothing happened. Sighing, the knight knelt heavily on the stone floor and reverently placed the lavender in the man's hands, arranging them to cover the stab wound. Head bowed, he began to pray.
"Arkay, guide this man's soul to the world beyond. Protect it from the molestations of the Princes. Uphold it to the spirits of the Divines--to Stendarr--so it may pass into Aetherius. Light the way, Stendarr the Merciful, to his murderer so that his life may not be forfeit..."
The knight's voice trailed into a rhythmic murmur. The dim light from the upper room decreased suddenly, and the candles around him guttered until they went out. Arnau smelled the smoke and heavy scent of hot wax before he opened his eyes. He couldn't see the bed in front of him, and the light from the main room seemed very pale and weak. Against all reason, he felt alternately hot and cold, and the body on the bed rustled quietly. Fumbling, the Breton tried to relight his lantern, but no spark of magic or stone would take. Instead, he resorted to cupping a feeble flame in his hands, his magicka rapidly spinning out in the process. He'd never been very good at destruction magics.
A low sound on the bed had Arnau spinning from where he'd turned toward the stairs. The body shifted in the barred shadows cast by his fingers, as if waking from a long sleep, but when the man opened his eyes, they were dead. He stared at Arnau emptily, unseeing. The knight started, reaching for his weapon. It wasn't there. Dismally, he remembered he left it leaning against the counter upstairs. His helmet lay on the floor by the man's feet; he'd taken it off out of respect for the dead. Now, h wished he was wearing it. With another low sound, the man rose from the bed. Distantly, Arnau realized the sound was air being magically forced into his lungs.
Without much else he could do, the knight felt for a spell, holding it in his mind. He'd have to give up light to use it. A deep breath and the light was out. The body lurched in his direction, sensing weakness caused by his lack of sight, and Arnau pushed. The magicka connected with something solid, and a dull thump reverberated somewhere against the far wall. Arnau snatched his helmet from the floor, jammed it on his head, nearly destroyed the lantern relighting it, and took the stairs two at a time. Once on the ground floor, he spotted his spear and seized it.
"You're not very devout," came a clear, Nordic voice.
"Madam, get out of here. There's a risen body in the cellar!"
"I know."
"No, you must--what?"
"My husband is ash, now. It's so hard bein' alone out here. I just want a warm body some nights. The innkeeper's getting old now. Rot in the bones. But you. You're so...vibrant.
"I was wrong. You're no Vigilant. You don't believe, even as you pray you don't believe. Why don't you stay here and believe in me. I could be your goddess."
"You-you didn't. That's-- That's--" Arnau stammered, his normally smooth tongue at a loss for how best to express his disgust.
"We could be lonely together. Aren't you lonely?" she said, approaching him with hooded eyes. The Breton backed away. He couldn't kill her. Not for this, though a dark part of him wanted to. Instead, he made for the door, ripped it open, and staggered into the freezing night. Ponks danced under him as Arnau tried to both push the horse into a full gallop and manage a dignified walk. Eventually, the smell of death decided for him and the horse took off down the road.
Behind him, the woman stood in the doorway filled with dismay. The innkeeper, whose name she couldn't properly remember, shuffled out into the fresh air. His cold arm wrapped around her waist almost too tightly as they watched the stranger go.
Arnau slumped in his saddle, half-asleep and exhausted. By the time morning came, bringing soul-saving sunlight, they were already at the crossroads of Whiterun and the Pale. Windhelm lay no more than a half-day's right ahead. Arnau clung to this thought desperately, lifting Windhelm to shine like a beacon in his head.
Comments
I agree with Vazgen, convincing and well thought out decoys !