He looked around, disoriented for just a moment until he realized that the horn had brought him back to the same spot from which he’d left, there in the front yard of his cabin. He pushed his hood back off his head and scooted around the side of the cabin to his workshop area, to unload some of the things he’d picked up along the way – pelts, mostly; the armor and weapons he’d taken from the other hunters in Hircine’s realm would go inside. It was sundown, and a beautiful orange hue was beginning to fill in the horizon visible through the gap between mountaintops.
Chip spent a bit of time putting together another batch of arrows. It had become abundantly clear to him that the heavy undergrowth and very dark conditions in the Hunting Grounds would not allow him to fell adversaries with one shot, or even two or three in some cases.
I did well, though, once I got over being afraid. They’re different kinds of things than I’ve ever hunted before, but in the end they’re just prey.
He realized what he’d been thinking as his hands worked almost without conscious direction, securing the fletching to the new arrows as quickly as he could move them. He couldn’t even remember a time when he hadn’t known how to make arrows. While he wasn’t the best fletcher in Tamriel he was surely nearly the equal of most of them. He shook his head at himself and grinned.
Just prey. I guess I really am a wolf these days. It’s a wonder that moon didn’t turn me while I was there in the Hunting Grounds.
He looked up at the darkening sky and thought about it. It was still several nights shy of the full moons; at least it should be, unless time worked differently in the Hunting Grounds. And yet the moons there had been completely full, and blood red.
So they are the moons, but not the same, somehow. Perpetually full, it would seem; and yet they didn’t compel me to turn. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It is Oblivion, after all.
He’d been thinking about traveling to Riften to see his family, or maybe Windhelm, in the event that Harald was home. He felt the need to be in touch with something familiar, and normal; because what had been happening to him in recent weeks was anything but. The moon phase was going to render that impossible, though, for the time being.
They’ll be full here soon, and I will lose at least one night to it. I can’t put anyone I care about in jeopardy of wolf-me, or in the way of people who will try to kill me when I turn. Can’t do it. And I can’t risk turning in a place where there are dozens of other lycanthropes, because I’d be completely outnumbered. So that means I either have to finish what I started in the Hunting Grounds now, before it’s too late, or give up the idea altogether.
He stopped what he was doing for a moment, staring up at the sky. Then he shook his head.
Nope. Not happening. I’m going back in.
He finished the arrows, and went inside to stow the rest of the gear he wouldn’t need right away. He spent some time making more potions, to take the place of those he’d used; in particular, he brewed up some poison. Every little bit of advantage he could give himself would help; a good bow and the best arrows he could make could only be made better with a dash of poison. He studied a book he’d taken from the corpse of one of the human hunters. It was a spell tome, holding the means to summon a wraith like the ones he’d created from Queen Frina’s old staff. It would take almost all of his magicka to cast the spell, but it would save him from needing to carry the staff and that was a good thing. The less weight he had to carry, the easier and more quietly he could move through the undergrowth.
Then he rested, as best he could, until he could stand being in bed no longer. He gathered his things and went outside, fed his animals, and then pulled out the hunting horn, blowing it loudly and feeling its magic surround him once more.
Once the sphere of magical energies dissipated and his eyes had a moment to adjust to the dim, ruddy light, Chip took stock of his surroundings and was pleased to find himself back on the same portal that had received him the last time he’d been here. Not knowing where he was last time had nearly been his undoing.
He crept down the short path to the edge of the ritual shrines’ clearing, extending his senses as far as he could. After all, he’d left several werebeasts roaming the area; even if his conjured wolf had managed to take one or two of them out he knew there were others, and he wanted to be ready for them. He hugged the right-hand side of the area, staying in the shadows of the forest as best he could.
He’d been thinking about his previous trip while his hands had been occupied with arrows. He’d started down the path to the right when he’d first arrived, but then in his panic he’d fled, retreating down the path back toward the shrines.
And I don’t think I returned the same way. Not at all. But there’s only one way to find out for certain. I’ll know once I get down into the path to the right and see whether or not there are lions there. I’ll recognize the landscape. I think.
The moonlight shone at an angle that illuminated not only the clearing and the shrines, but also a fair way down the forested path beyond. There didn’t seem to be anything moving nearby, a reassuring fact that helped him proceed without hesitation and without the pounding heartbeat he’d had on his first encounter with the place. The forest soon closed in on him, though he still could make out the pieces of fallen stone archway that he’d seen before. He crossed over to the left side of the path to stay in the shadows, and kept as low as he could.
He’d gone about half the distance to the fallen stonework when something – not quite a scent, more a sensation of warmth than anything else – caught his attention. There was something in front of the stones. He peered into the darkness so intently that he was afraid his eyes would burst, waiting for his brain to make sense of the limited information his eyes were gathering. It looked like the lighter shades of sparsely-furred, powerful shoulders with a darker strip of heavy fur between them. It was either a werewolf or a wereboar; it didn’t really matter which. While he would prefer not to kill one of his own kind, Chip knew that the creatures here in this domain would not give him the same consideration. He maneuvered his bow out in front of him and applied a poison to it, readying a shot.
Maybe I’m about to poison a stump. That’ll be funny…
He took a long time to line up his shot and calm his breathing to control his aim just as much as possible. He finally released the arrow but continued holding his breath, staying as still and silent as he could while watching the arrow bury itself into the creature beyond. As it grunted loudly it collapsed down and backward, the moonlight catching its enormous tusks and revealing it to be a wereboar.
That’s one.
Chip expelled the breath he’d been holding and was starting toward the corpse when he heard a man calling out.
“Is someone there?”
He swore, silently, and readied his bow again. The poison had done well against the wereboar; it could hardly help but work even better on a much smaller human. He drew the string and waited; motion crossing the path toward the left side revealed the man, but moving much too quickly into the deep shadows for Chip to risk the shot. He held his ground, frozen, waiting for an opening, and finally loosed when the ripples of barely-recognizable shape seemed to move across from the left toward where the carcass of the wereboar lay.
“What was that?” he heard. To his utter dismay, he suddenly found himself facing not one, but at least four adversaries. Fortunately, they were milling about by the dead wereboar and didn’t seem to have noticed him. He found his way to a boulder and climbed up onto it for a bit of height. Any advantage he could give himself was going to be a good enough one.
A quick shot toward the group of moving figures struck one of them: probably another wereboar, he thought, based on the loud grunt. Unfortunately, the figures all turned and made for him; and as they grew closer he could see that there were actually two wereboars as well as two human hunters coming his way.
But Chip had been here before; and he’d kept his eye peeled while making his way along the edges of the canyon this time. He jumped down from the boulder he was on and ran back toward the shrine clearing, and across the path to where he knew he could jump roughly a full body height up the cliff face. Aside from blowing the horn to return home – which he refused to do – this was his best option. As he turned he caught a whiff of blood. He’d done some serious damage to the wereboar, based on how strong the scent was. At least that was one opponent he should be able to take down quickly. He turned back to face the open pathway, and waited for them to appear down it.
And he waited.
Nothing happened.
He could hear the men taunting him to come out, and he could hear the rustling and snorting of the heavy wereboars rushing about in the undergrowth; but they didn’t follow him far enough down the path for Chip to have a shot at them. After several long minutes of waiting, Chip snorted impatiently and decided to use the new spell he’d learned. With any luck, a conjured companion would lure them out of their safe spots into the open.
And then he tsk’d in disgust. He cast the spell perfectly; the wraith appeared, and stared at him, and did nothing. Unlike the wolf he’d used for so long, she did not rush into battle; she simply waited for him to make the first move.
No help for it. I just have to get closer.
He hopped down from the boulder and pushed carefully through the gap between the cliff face and the nearest tree, around to the corner of another large outcropping and forward into the deepest of the shadows. He could barely see anything, and nearly cried out when he walked into the side of another huge boulder hard enough to rip his pants legs and bark his shins.
Damn it, that hurts! Why does it have to be so damn dark in here? Why am I even doing this?
He stood stock-still for a moment, stifling the desire to howl at the pain and listening to the sounds of movement up ahead of him. As he waited, the temporary urge to throw in the towel and go back to his cabin also subsided.
I’m doing this because I have to. I have to prove that I’m worthwhile.
He climbed quietly up onto the boulder he’d just walked into and looked ahead, down the passage once more. There in the distance, between two great trees, he saw a shape. He drew, quietly, and took aim at the dark blob; and as the blob moved to Chip’s left, Chip took one step right and released. He heard the arrow strike its target; there was a loud, very human groan and the shape dropped to the forest floor.
That’s two.
He watched for a moment, expecting the other hunter to investigate the noise. Sure enough, a figure scuttled from left to right across the tiny opening between the trees where Chip could make out anything at all. A few heartbeats later, nothing else had happened; so he lobbed an arrow into the general vicinity of the hunter he’d downed, and watched for a reaction. When nothing appeared, he nodded.
Time to get creative.
He got down from the boulder and dashed across the mostly-open path, just to the edge of the shadows on its far side. Then he swung right, peering down the clear space toward the bodies he’d felled, and searched for the next foe in line. He was not disappointed; he could see both the hunter and another wereboar sweeping back and forth across the area near their dead comrades. The hunter went left, and then back to the right; and as the figure turned once more it met one of Chip’s arrows and dropped.
Three down.
A few moments went by with no further sounds from the wereboar he knew was still up ahead. The moonlight had shifted enough to fully light the path ahead, down which Chip walked. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench of two hunters’ corpses; but he bore the smell long enough to take an unusual yet interesting set of heavy armor from one of them, and some stout arrows from the other.
He approached the semi-upright carcass of the first wereboar he’d killed. Past it, the wereboar he’d been expecting to find was plodding toward its dead fellow. He dabbed a bit more poison on his bow and quickly took aim. The wereboar took the arrow in its heart and collapsed.
“Huh?”
Another hunter emerged from just behind the dead wereboar, battleaxe at the ready, and took approximately five long strides toward Chip before an arrow lodged itself in his heart, as well. Chip blew out a long breath and straightened up.
Five now.
He moved cautiously along the silent path, toward the brighter spaces ahead. There was another, mostly-collapsed archway ahead, with a trilith in the center of the passage. It seemed to him that the triliths marked the entrances to important areas: the landing circle; the shrine clearing; the shared opening to the path that had led him first to the werelions and now toward wereboars; and, most importantly, to the werelions’ grassy field. This almost had to be the entrance to another alpha’s territory.
As he reached the trilith and slowed to a stop between its uprights, Chip saw that he’d been right. And he smelled it, as well; it was clearly the wereboars’ home ground in the forested area beyond. He could see one boar, well ahead of him, and knew there must be many others.
And it’s going to be a real bitch trying to get them, too. Just look at that undergrowth. It’s no wonder we always have tales of great heroes coming to their ends while hunting the wild boar in places like this. No wonder the Rieklings ride boars. These are easily twice the size of those.
He had a perfectly clear shot at the boar he could see. But neither that shot – which struck cleanly – nor the next one actually killed the creature. Chip hissed in frustration, and then heard the not-too-subtle sounds of other boars approaching. He turned and slipped back down the pathway, into the shadows, to wait for another decent opening.
The next very frustrating while was a blur of missed shots as he slid in and out of the heavy brush along the edges of the path. He couldn’t see the wereboars very well, as the patterns of dark fur and lighter skin on their bodies blended in with the moonlight and shadow in the forest. The good part about that, of course, was that they couldn’t see him, either; and they kept traversing the same area over and over until one of Chip’s shots made a lucky hit on what was, judging by the others’ howls, the alpha wereboar.
Chip approached the carcasses, bow at the ready. If he’d taken the alpha, he could potentially just harvest its heart and be on his way. As he moved out into the territory, though, he shook his head.
I can’t do that. There is more prey here and I am the hunter. I need to get them all.
There were two of them, as far across the forest as he could see. He shot at one, which moved just as the arrow reached it. The arrow brought them both rushing toward him; he shot again and struck one, but didn’t wait around to see whether he’d killed it. Instead, he backed down the passage yet again. He could hear movement behind him; but instead of panicking the way he had when werelions had been behind him, he rolled across the open passageway and behind a tree on the other side. From that spot, he was able to turn, get a bead on one of the wereboars, and pick it off with another pair of well-placed arrows.
It was very quiet in the aftermath. But Chip wasn’t sure whether he’d taken down the first of the pair he’d shot from across the forest; in fact, something told him that it was still alive, if injured, and waiting for him. Once more he crept ahead, out into the clearing just beyond the trilith, and into the tall grasses beyond it.
Motion between two of the tall pines drew his attention; but by the time he had his bow raised he’d lost sight of the creature again. This area, like the werelions’ grassland, was essentially a large bowl-shaped box canyon, surrounded by incredibly steep, likely unscalable cliffs which nevertheless provided shade – and cover. He turned right and crept into those shadows, staying next to the walls and looking out into the forestland to find the remaining wereboars.
He spotted the one he’d attacked earlier and shot it. It didn’t go down; not to that arrow or the next, nor the third one which grazed it; and by the time Chip had drawn a fourth arrow the beast was in front of him, slashing at him with dagger-like claws, its tusks far too close for comfort. Chip squeaked, and buried that arrow into the creature’s eye socket. Then he stood, shaking, for a few moments, getting his pulse back to normal as best he could while downing a healing potion for the slashes.
It was dead silent in the woodland, and stayed that way. His close call had been the last of the wereboars.
Chip moved quietly from corpse to corpse, salvaging arrows and taking a few tusks as trophies. He harvested the alpha’s heart. Then he heaved a satisfied sigh, smiled, and trotted through the trilith on his way back to the shrines.
This time, he dropped into a crouch before he reached the central henge, and moved cautiously to the very edge of the cliff face before circling around it. As he’d suspected, there were two werebeasts near the central structure – werewolves, he thought, judging by the smell. But they didn’t seem to take any notice of him, so he carefully pushed his way around the clearing and out the other side of it, toward the shrines.
The wereboar shrine was to the right of the werelion’s. He approached it and grinned. “Time for you to have a bit of decoration,” he murmured as the alpha wereboar’s heart squelched its way down onto the sharp spike. Chip took stock of his situation. He felt much calmer and happier than he had on his first trip here; and in spite of having used far more arrows he’d finished the wereboars in much less time than he had the werelions. However, the armor he had picked up was very heavy, and so were the tusks. Now that he knew how well his poisons worked, and had a sense of how easy it was to travel back and forth to this plane of Oblivion, he had no reason not to approach the next passage as well-equipped as he could be.
He pulled out the horn and raised it to his lips, its clarion call filling the empty space.
“Don’t you give me that, Ulfric Stormcloak! I’m tired of it, and all the rest of your excuses!”
Roggi stopped just short of the throne and sighed, crossing his arms. He’d come to tell Ulfric about the Imperial encampment Chip had run across; but he knew better than to get into the middle of one of these arguments.
At least not purposefully. He certainly had a habit of accidentally coming between the High King and his Queen, either through physical proximity or via the remnants of a history that would not allow itself to be forgotten.
“And what would you have me do, Frina?” Ulfric snapped. “I have the entire province to look out for and our puppet Emperor is of little to no use against Thalmor incursions. I don’t have time to supervise your civic improvement projects as well!”
“Well maybe if you didn’t constantly drive our son away from home, he might be able to help me! He’s young enough to go pull the weeds and remove brush himself!”
Ulfric sighed, a heavy sigh that Roggi recognized as the one that came just before he lost his temper entirely.
She just had to poke at him about his age, didn’t she?
“The boy is weak. He’s been coddled by his mother for too many years. It’s well past time for him to be on his own, Frina. It’s good that he’s gone to Markarth for a bit. Perhaps a little exploration will toughen him up.”
“He’s fifteen, Ulfric. He’s still a boy! I don’t even know what to think of you, anymore.”
Frina threw her hands up in the air and inhaled, in a gesture Roggi had also learned to recognize. It was one her sister Briinda had used, too, and it meant that Ulfric was about to get an earful.
I don’t have time for this. I need to give Ulfric his information and get back to Dar.
He cleared his throat. Frina whirled and glared at him. She was every inch the queen; and she did not look happy in any of those inches.
“Roggi. I don’t suppose you and Dardeh have seen Harald recently?”
Roggi winced internally. She’d never been the same, not since she and Ulfric lost the baby that should have been Harald’s sibling. Both Frina and Ulfric had been gutted by the loss; and even though everyone knew it was nobody’s fault, Frina had somehow gotten it into her mind that Ulfric’s advanced age had created the problem. And Ulfric, having always been a trifle vain, did not take kindly to those suggestions.
“Hello, Frina,” Roggi said flatly. “It’s good to see you, too. I’m doing well, thanks for asking.”
“Roggi…”
“And no, I haven’t seen Harald lately. I have seen Chip, though, and that’s why I’m here. He brought us some news that I thought Ulfric should hear.”
“Of course you did,” Frina said. “Well then, I’ll leave you to it.” She turned and stomped off toward the door that led toward her chambers, leaving both Roggi and Ulfric staring after her.
Roggi sighed. “She’ll never forgive us, will she?” he murmured, looking back up at Ulfric. He looks tired. And he does look old. I never thought I’d be telling myself that. He probably thinks the same looking at me.
“No, my old friend, I don’t suppose she ever will,” Ulfric said. “For a great many things. I wish it were otherwise. Harald does need to find his way in the world, though. At his age I was…”
Roggi smirked. “At his age you were up in the monastery learning how to Shout, Ulfric. Harald’s not Dragonborn and he doesn’t seem to have the gift, any more than I do. But he is your heir, and you really ought to keep better track of him before he gets himself killed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ulfric said dryly.
“I know, I’m living dangerously trying to tell the High King what to do. I should know better.”
Ulfric cracked the smallest of grins at that. “And you will always be able to tell the High King what to do, no matter how old we both get. You know that to be the case. It’s why I’ve been trying to get the two of you to move to Windhelm for fifteen years. So tell me, what’s this news you needed to share?”
“Well, it’s like this…”
“Try to keep it short, Roggi. I know that is challenging for you, but I’m a busy man.”
Roggi laughed. Then he gave Ulfric the news Chip had shared, as briefly as he could. Ulfric’s slight smile gave way to a frown that got deeper as he went on.
“Imperials again. I thought we had that under control. I hope…” Ulfric stopped, clearly deep in thought.
“What is it?”
“I hope it’s not that ridiculous Vici emperor being manipulated by the Black-Briars again.”
Roggi frowned, and shook his head. The latest Emperor was a distant cousin of the former Emperor, in the same family line as the late Vittoria Vici. Maven Black-Briar had tried to extend her influence directly into the heart of the Empire by engaging her business partner Asgeir Snow-Shod to Vittoria, only to have her plans foiled when someone had killed Vittoria at their wedding. Roggi had always suspected Sayma Sendu of the crime based on its timing; but she’d never said anything about it to him.
“Doubtful. Maven’s never been quite the same since Brynjolf…” He stopped as Ulfric held up his hand. “Oh. Sorry.” There was an unspoken agreement amongst all of them, their odd extended pseudo-family, that what Brynjolf did in the course of his business dealings stayed out of Ulfric’s ears. Roggi was fairly sure Ulfric knew what went on in spite of that, but they tried to take care that he could deny knowledge of any shady escapades. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”
“I suspect you’re right, Roggi.” Ulfric sighed. “I suspect that what we all feared is growing ever closer.”
“The Dominion?”
Ulfric nodded. “Well, I can’t thank you for the news, but I am glad that you brought it to me. Now tell me, how is the Dragonborn?”
Roggi lowered his head and closed his eyes for a moment before answering. How is he, Ulfric? He’s ill, and he’s not right anymore, and I fear that I am going to be mourning another spouse someday soon. I don’t know what’s wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it, and I’m terrified I am going to be alone again.
He opened his eyes and smiled up at Ulfric. “He’s doing well. Thank you for asking.”
Ulfric paused for a moment before shaking his head. “Don’t lie to me, Roggi,” he said quietly. “I know you far better than that. He’s still coughing, isn’t he?”
Roggi found himself nearly overcome by the undertones of concern and caring in Ulfric’s quiet question, and could do nothing more than nod in agreement. Finally, he got control of himself.
“Yes, he is. And I’m afraid.”
“Is there anything I can do for you? Either of you?”
Roggi shook his head. “Prepare a nice corner of the dungeon for me to be buried in if he dies, Ulfric. Because I won’t make it very far beyond that.”
There was dead quiet for just a moment. Roggi noted the ever-faithful Jorlief moving quietly away from hearing distance. Jorlief hadn’t approved of the relationship they’d had all those years before, and he hadn’t approved of Ulfric’s welcoming Roggi back into his inner circle; but he was loyal and discreet.
“You will. I command it to be so.” Ulfric’s voice was quiet and warm. “If something should happen to the Dragonborn – to Dardeh,” he said slowly, “I will call you here, to Windhelm, to advise me on all things, as I would have had it for the past fifteen years.”
Roggi stared at him, marveling at the odd turns their lives had taken over the years. He chuckled. “And Frina would never forgive you for it.”
Ulfric grinned, and waved one hand in the air. “She’ll never forgive me anyway, Roggi. I may as well give her a real reason for it.” He leaned forward. “Tell Dardeh that I command him to be well – for your sake if not for his own. And thank you for bringing me the news.”
Roggi smiled. “I will, my lord. And we’ll keep an eye out for Harald.”
He gave Ulfric a half-bow and headed for the door. Just as he was reaching for the handle, he heard Ulfric’s resonant voice shouting.
“Now then. Frina! Woman! Where are you?”
Roggi smiled to himself. Ulfric and Frina’s marriage might be strained, but there was not the slightest shred of doubt in his mind that they loved each other.
Time to get back to Dar.