Chip reported in to Farkas and took his payment. It occurred to him that he was making more than he would have working for his father in the Thieves Guild, and he was using skills he felt comfortable with in order to do it. It hardly seemed a fair comparison; but then, people had pushed him for years to follow in his Da’s footsteps and he didn’t care to. It was a satisfying feeling to be making money on his own merits.
He wandered back down the long hall of Jorrvaskr’s living quarters, following in the wake of several other Companions. It was approaching meal time, and everyone was gathering upstairs. He’d just reached the top of the stairs when Aela, standing just beyond the landing, spied him and waved him over.
“What is it?”
“Skjor was looking for you, earlier,” Aela said.
“Oh? What does he want?” Skjor, like Vilkas, had seemed to view him with not much more than disdain. He couldn’t imagine a reason the older man would want to speak to him.
“He didn’t say, but you’d better not keep him waiting. There’s probably something I could find for you to do, but best check with him first.”
“Ok, I will.” Chip nodded to Aela and then turned to look around the hall for Skjor. Damn shame. I could definitely get behind having Aela find me something to do. He started forward and nearly ran into Kodlak, who had preceded them up the stairs and then stopped; and Chip, distracted as he was, hadn’t noticed.
“Oh, excuse me, sir,” he said, flushing.
Kodlak smiled. “Not sir. I know you’ve heard me telling some of the others that very thing.” He sighed. “Ah, when you get to be my age, you’ll come to miss the smell of blood.”
Chip felt the hair on his neck rise. It had been such a completely incongruous thing for Kodlak to say, completely unrelated to the meal, or the fact that Chip had just bumped into him. Yet it felt like an unspoken admission that yes, Kodlak knew what he was and was undisturbed by it. He couldn’t imagine what might have prompted this statement.
Kodlak peered at him intently. “Being a Companion means living such that your shield-brothers and sisters would proudly say that they fought at your side. Glory in battle, and honor in life. Deal with problems head on; leave the whispers and sneaking to the gutter rats who can’t fight for themselves.”
For a moment, Chip’s temper flared. His own father was an expert at both sneaking and whispers – but he was also an entirely competent fighter, to hear his uncles speak of it. Did Kodlak know not only who he was, but who his father was? The reference to rats might well suggest that he did.
What is he trying to say? Chip wondered, feeling his heart start to beat faster. This is important, but why? What’s going to happen next?
“Like most of this band,” Kodlak continued, “I found this family after losing my own. I traveled the length and breadth of this land learning all I could of the sword and the axe. I was just a boy, but I had the fire of a man in my heart. Eventually, my body caught up to my spirit.”
Chip’s mind was racing, and so was his heart, faster and faster. He was distressed, somehow, by Kodlak’s words. Was he being asked to give up his own family to be a part of this one? Could he even bear to do such a thing? Was he…
And then he looked at the windows. The only light coming in was cold, and thin; white light rather than the warm yellows of sunshine. It was still dark – very dark – and his heart was pounding.
My gods. It can’t be.
“I’ll… be back as soon as I can, Kodlak. I have to go!”
Chip ran in a panicked dash to the back door of Jorrvaskr and out into the training yard. It was too brightly lit, too exposed; but the pounding in his chest and ears was getting louder and he had to hide, somewhere, before…
He felt the first pang of pain begin to seize his body and dashed for the only place he could see that might conceal him. There were old sentry alcoves along the city’s ancient walls and one of these was just off Jorrvaskr’s training yard. He stumbled into its darkness, as far out of sight as he could, and then the change seized him. He howled internally as bones reshaped themselves and flesh gave way to fur; and a moment later he howled at the sky from a red-coated muzzle.
No! Chip cried from deep inside his wolf form. No, this is wrong! I can’t be a werewolf in the city! Change back! Change back!
But the wolf peered ahead, from side to side, testing the air. It smelled people. It smelled prey.
Meat.
No! No! We can’t eat the people in the city! They’ll kill us and there are too many of them! Besides, some of these are friends! Change back, before it’s too late! I’ll get some raw venison and eat it for us, afterward, but change BACK!
The wolf whined, and took a few tentative steps forward.
“You’re as good as dead!” came a voice from the left, just around the corner of Jorrvaskr. The wolf’s hackles stood up and it dashed right, making for the shadows on the other side of the mead hall. From inside his alternate form Chip shrieked.
Change back! Change back!
Whether it was the confusion of being hunted in the city or having its alternate consciousness screaming at it, Chip would never know; but the werewolf finally stopped short in the deepest of the shadows. It whined, loudly, like an ordinary dog being disciplined. And then the pain took both of them once more, leaving Chip breathless from having experienced it twice in such a miniscule period of time.
He straightened from the hunched position he’d ended up in, gasping for air and snarling at the same time, looking around to see where the threat might have come from. There was nobody about. He took a few steps forward, toward the stairs that led up to the Skyforge, and rested his forehead against a hand he placed on the rocks.
Why did that happen? What did Kodlak say to me that triggered that, or was it just Hircine’s whim? I might have been killed out here!
As he slowly got control over himself he realized another thing. He’d been able to revert form on his own. It hadn’t been effortless; but he’d had control over his own body, to some extent. The first time it had happened, he’d thought “change back” but hadn’t been convinced there was a connection between that desire and the outcome. This time, there was no question. He was slowly gaining control over his own transformations.
Maybe that’s what Kodlak was trying to tell me, without saying it in so many words. My body and my spirit have not been a match, so far. Eventually my body will catch up.
He paced the shadowed pathway beside Jorrvaskr for a few moments, calming himself and making certain that nothing was going to give away his recent panic. Then he made his way back around to the front doors and back into the hall. His stomach growled loudly and he grinned.
Yes. Meat.
Skjor was just standing up from the table, having finished his meal, when Chip approached and tapped him on his arm. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Let’s step over here.” Skjor led him to the far side of the room, near the stairwell and, sadly, away from the very rare piece of beef that had Chip’s inner wolf drooling. Once they were out of earshot of the rest, Skjor turned to him.
“Your time, it seems, has come.”
“What does that mean?” Chip asked nervously. Am I in trouble for going wolf out in the yard? Did someone turn me in? Am I going to the dungeons?
“Last week, a scholar came to us. Said he knew where we could find another fragment of Wuuthrad. He seemed a fool, to me, but if he’s right the honor of the Companions demands that we seek it out.”
Chip fought to keep from sighing audibly. He wasn’t in trouble! But he was confused.
“And Wuuthrad is…” He cringed slightly at the look of disdain that took Skjor’s face, and looked around the room to avoid meeting Skjor’s eyes. His gaze lit on the odd plaque just beside them, over the stairs, and he suddenly remembered a time when Harald had given him the same scathing look. Harald knew all about all the old Atmoran people and things, at least moreso than Chip did, and he’d said…
“Wait! It’s that old battleaxe, right? The one Ysgramor supposedly carried!”
Skjor snorted. “I’m glad to know you aren’t completely ignorant of your own culture, whelp. We’re the descendants of Ysgramor’s Five Hundred Companions, after all. Wuuthrad’s been in fragments for a very long time now, and if we can find those fragments, well… It’s a matter of honor.”
“And I’d be honored to retrieve it!” Chip cried out, realizing just as soon as he heard his words how ridiculous he sounded. He was mortified, and felt his face flushing.
“There’s a fine line between respect and bootlicking, new blood,” Skjor said dryly. But the look in his eyes was more one of amusement than anything else.
Yes, I know. I’m young, and foolish. But I’m Hircine’s own champion, and I can do this.
“But I like your spirit,” Skjor continued. “We’ve decided this will be your trial.”
Chip frowned. “Trial? Like Aela was talking about? She said she had a trial after she’d been hunting with her father for some time.”
“Right. Do well, and you’ll be counted among the Companions. Farkas will be your shield-brother on this venture. He’ll answer any questions you have. Try not to disappoint, or to get him killed.”
Chip blinked. I thought…I already was one of the Companions, based on talking to Faendal. Alright, I’m confused.
“Ok, sure, but…”
“What is it?”
“What does it mean? To be counted among the Companions?” So far I’ve heard something different from everyone I asked, and apparently I didn’t have the right answer yet.
“I wish more of our ranks asked such questions. I see the Companions as a kind of family.”
Well, I’ve certainly heard that before.
“I’ve battled next to every man and woman here, and would trust anyone here with my life. Which is more than I can say for the milk-drinkers who raised me. I learned the ways of the blade in the Great War and nearly lost my life outside the Imperial City. I came home to Skyrim when it was all over, but I wasn’t much good at anything but fighting. Wandered around as a blade for hire, and a damned good one, too. The money was good, and the women were good, and the drinks were good. I was lucky the Companions found me. Now there’s a reason to be fighting.”
Chip nodded slowly. “I… seem to get the same sense from everyone. I’m glad you feel a part of something, now.”
“The honor of my brothers and sisters is worth more than coin. Of course, the money is still good. And the drinks!” He grinned and snagged a cup of ale from the tray old Tilma was carrying, and returned to the table.
Chip made his way to the table and slipped quietly into one of the empty seats. He truly was hungry, and he’d promised some good meat to his inner werewolf. It was all he could do to keep from grabbing it with his hands and growling as he wrestled it down his throat; but he was in the end able to contain himself and eat quietly, like a normal person, while he thought.
Do I really want to do this? It almost seems as though they’re expecting me to somehow give up all my other connections to become a part of this group. But I already have a family. I love Ma, and Qara. Da is a bit of a mystery to me sometimes, but I know he’s proud of me, he’s said so. And Uncle Dar and Uncle Roggi are the best. Maybe my family doesn’t do things the same way everyone else’s does, but they’re mine.
He ate, and worried, and pondered. He’d told Skjor that he’d be happy – no, honored – to retrieve the fragment of Wuuthrad. And he’d get to spend some time with Farkas, which sounded like fun. But he was worried.
Chip felt as though someone was watching him, and looked up to see Vilkas, at the far end of the table from him, staring. Vilkas smirked, and went back to his meal.
Chip’s temper flared.
That bastard was just sitting there waiting for me to try to back out of this. He doesn’t think I can do it. He talks a big story about honor, but what he’s really interested in is the coin! At least my Da is honest and straightforward about his interests in being a thief. He doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not.
Sneer away, tightass. Your brother and Hircine’s champion are going to go do this thing and get that fragment of Wuuthrad! And you can choke on it!
He stood up and walked over to Farkas, tapping him on the shoulder. “So, Farkas!” he said, perhaps a bit too loudly. “You’re going to be my shield-brother?”
“So I’m told. I hope you’ve readied yourself,” Farkas rumbled. “I’ll watch you to see if you’re honorable. If you are honorable, I can call you brother. Let’s see if you impress.”
Chip couldn’t help himself; he chuckled. “Ok, I’ll do my best.” He cast a furtive glance toward the end of the table and saw Vilkas raise one eyebrow without looking at them. “So where are we headed?”
“Dustman’s Cairn,” Farkas said. “Out to the west. Just follow the road north from the old fort and you’ll run right into it.”
Chip nodded. I guess I’m going to go prove my honor. Might as well. I already had to prove my archery skill.
“Ok, I’ll meet you out there.”
“Don’t delay.”
The road didn’t actually run right into Dustman’s Cairn, but into a different barrow. Chip discovered that the hard way, when several cranky skeletons came out from either side of the barrow’s center. They took no effort at all to stop; one arrow each and they disintegrated into their constituent bones. But once they were down, a coffin in the central niche dropped its lid and a draugr, glowing red and emitting fiery sparks as it moved, came out to attack. Chip was still deep in the shadows, and was used to being stealthy. He fired two arrows in quick succession, but still the draugr approached. He frowned and tsk’d, and shot one final arrow to bring the ancient man down.
And then he heard Farkas, chuckling from the top of the nearest hill that he’d passed by on his way to the barrow. He stood up, shaking his head.
“Very funny, Farkas. Ok, so I missed the spot. Where’s the entrance, down inside?”
“Yeah,” Farkas said, his voice edged with good humor. “Nice job on the draugr, by the way. We’ll have a chance to fight more inside.” He descended the stairs into the round entry chamber, and Chip followed, grinning.
There was nothing special about the barrow’s entry chamber. A nicely-carved hallway at the bottom of a short flight of stairs led into what looked like a ceremonial area, with a ritual table and several long benches in its center and a burial niche on each wall. One such coffin had opened, and its former occupant lay motionless atop the fallen sarcophagus lid. Farkas harrumphed.
“Looks like someone’s been diggin’ in here. And recently. Tread lightly.”
Chip nodded. “I always do, Farkas. That’s how you catch animals unaware.”
The passage just beyond the first room was in much less fine repair. Some of the old support columns had shifted and fallen at odd angles, along with a fair amount of the surrounding stone. It was this Farkas had referred to, judging by the pickaxes left near the doorway. Whoever had done the work, though, had cleared enough rubble to allow passage around the corner and down the next set of four or five steps. There was a motionless draugr at the foot of those steps, and another dogleg to the left.
“Be careful around the burial stones,” Farkas rumbled from behind him. “I don’t wanna haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back.”
Chip looked back to see Farkas with his greatsword at the ready and nodded. He was always careful – or at least usually so – but it was interesting to see the amount of attention Farkas was giving this venture. He clearly took his job as observer and shield-brother seriously. There was a set of iron doors past the landing. They’d been opened, and that had Chip’s alarms going off as well. When he moved forward, it was as slowly and silently as he could manage.
Sneaking rats be damned, Kodlak. I’m not here to get killed, honor or not.
Through the doors was a burial space of the type Chip hated to be in. It was essentially a huge chamber, but separated into four or five separate areas by thick pillars that also served as burial niches for upright coffins. They were particularly dangerous spaces, because one couldn’t see around all the corners and draugr could emerge from around any of them. Indeed, as soon as he was wholly into the room one such draugr shuffled out from the right, snorting, and Chip unloaded an arrow into it. The problem was that he also heard a second draugr, off to his left somewhere. He just couldn’t see it.
The first draugr didn’t go down. Chip backed away from it, preparing another shot, only to have Farkas rush into the room on one side of him and the second draugr shuffle into the battle from the left.
“Come on!” Farkas shouted at the first draugr, engaging it. Chip snarled. There was no space to take a safe shot from where he now stood, and the second draugr was approaching Farkas’ back. He swapped his bow for his blades, and started to rush for the battle when the first draugr, already badly wounded, resorted to its backup weapon.
It Shouted.
Chip understood what it had done; he’d certainly heard his uncle Shout more than once over the years. The problem was that he hadn’t expected it, and the force of it knocked him sideways. He struggled to regain balance, but finally made it to the second, much weaker draugr that had come into the battle. He slashed at it, finding it not too difficult a target. Farkas, however, was still hammering away at the first draugr, and Chip worried he might be in trouble. He took a step forward to join that battle and was hit from behind by a blast of flames.
Another one?
“Is this what you want? Huh?” Farkas snarled at the first draugr, which Shouted at him once more, seemingly oblivious to Chip’s presence. He took advantage of that to strike as hard and as fast as he could with both blades, slowly circling around behind it while its attention was on Farkas. He finally got the last blow, and sneered in satisfaction as the blade Grabber took what little life energy the draugr had left; but then jumped as he heard Farkas screaming in pain.
“It burns!”
Farkas had run around one of the support structures to face two more draugr, one of which was wreathed in flame like the one Chip had shot in the barrow outside. It was doing its level best to fry Farkas in his armor.
The next few minutes were nothing short of terrifying. Chip did his best to get behind the flamethrower, but it seemed to have retained more intelligence than the other and constantly turned to shoot fire at whichever of them was nearest. Chip struck as fast as he could, but his short blades weren’t meant for sustained close-up battle, and behind them Farkas’ energy was clearly flagging, as well. Chip felt himself burning beneath his light armor and found his way around one of the corners, barely enough ahead of the flames to heal himself just a bit before turning to see – much to his horror – Farkas down on one knee farther into the chamber.
“No!” he yelped. The adrenaline of the situation propelled Chip out from the flames and back toward the entry stairs. He grabbed his bow and one of Hircine’s arrows, turned, and shot wildly back into the battle zone. The wolf that stepped out of the ball of conjuration magic ran heedless into the flames and began attacking the draugr; and that gave both Chip and the slowly-recovering Farkas time to step in with their blades once more and finish the creature off.
Chip whirled to scan Farkas. “Are you alright? I thought we were both goners, for a minute!”
Farkas grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I’m good. Potions always at hand. It just got ahead of me for a minute there. Let’s keep moving.”
“Ok. Give me a second.” Chip found one of the weaker healing potions he’d carried along and drank it. He hadn’t been badly injured, but burns hurt and the potion helped a great deal. Then he continued around the periphery of the confusing chamber, at last finding its exit at the back, where a simple wooden door nearly disappeared in a quiet corner.
Beyond the door was a ramp, down to a mostly-ruined landing room. Its exit, an arched doorway to the right, opened into another large chamber. This one had braziers elaborately carved with animal heads, flanking a half-flight down. There were wooden supports on either side of the stairs, and a partially-destroyed wooden observation gallery floor, all overlooking an open space with a raised central platform. There were niches around the walls, most with raised iron gates. The passage out was behind a lowered gate. In spite of its being mostly overgrown, and its appointments scattered to the floor or ruined, it was clear even to Farkas what the room was.
“Old Nord sacrifice place,” he rumbled. “Be careful around here. Let’s look for a way to open the bars.”
Chip nodded, and started to his right, scanning the contents of the shelves and tables on that side, looking for hidden pull bars or levers. There wasn’t much to see: some very old, brittle pottery, a goat hide that threatened to disintegrate when he touched it; and, on the table, some old embalming tools. He shook his head. There was nothing like a handle near the closed gates, either; and the nearest niche to that had collapsed inward, burying anything useful that might have been there. Some color caught his eye. In the next niche from the collapsed one, there was a short cabinet with a few brightly-colored potion bottles on top. When he entered the space he found that there was also a lever, quite prominent from within the niche but carefully placed so as not to be obvious from the main chamber.
“I think I might have found it!” he called to Farkas, and then flipped the lever from left to right. He immediately heard the clang of the old iron gate moving; but when he turned to look, he found that it hadn’t been the exit gate that had moved. It was the one enclosing the space he was in.
“Damn!” he growled. “I didn’t even notice the gate in this doorway!” He stepped back to the lever and changed its position, but it didn’t move.
“Um, Farkas?” he called, silently berating himself for being an idiot. I’m usually better than this! For a long moment there was no reply, and he felt a faint stirring of panic. There was absolutely no way for him to get out from inside this niche. Then he heard the quiet crunching of Farkas’ heavy boots on the floor, and the dark-haired Nord was peering at him through the bars.
“Now look what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Farkas said with a grin.
“Funny,” Chip snorted.
“No worries. Just sit tight and I’ll find the release.”
“Good, because remember, you don’t want to be carrying me back to Jorrvaskr on your…”
Chip stopped short as he caught movement in the chamber behind Farkas. Farkas heard it too: he whirled, saying “What was that?”
Two or three people – bandits, to Chip’s eye – came into the chamber. A male Imperial voice said “Time to die, dog. Your mistake, Companion.”
Chip growled. So did his inner wolf. They know who Farkas is and they’re specifically out to get him.
“Which one is that?” a woman asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” a Nord replied. “If he wears that armor, he dies.”
“Killing him will make for an excellent story,” the woman answered, a sarcastic edge to her tone.
What can I do? Chip wailed silently. I can’t shoot through these bars; all I can do is wait and hope…
“None of you will be alive to tell it,” Farkas growled. He sheathed his sword.
Then, as Chip had hoped would be the case and had expected to see, sometime, in some situation, Farkas transformed. His growl was deeper than that of any wolf Chip had ever seen; and the transformation was quick. When it was done, there was a huge, sleek, black and grey werewolf where Farkas had stood. It absolutely radiated power. Chip could do nothing but pace, and whine, and growl, wishing he could be there as well and yet not knowing whether he could control his own transformations well enough to change here, under pressure. For all he knew, he would just be in the way.
The battle was short, and bloody. All of the bandits attacked at once, but the werewolf simply snarled and slashed, and all of them went down as though they were nothing at all. Chip stood and stared, stupidly, his mouth open.
The power! I’m not even close to that strong! He must be ancient, to be that powerful.
The werewolf cast him a brief glance and then ran left, out of Chip’s field of vision. As brief as the glance had been, Chip couldn’t help but note the intelligence in the silvery-blue eyes that he recognized from Farkas’ human form. This was clearly still Farkas. He hadn’t somehow disappeared into his alternate form; he was completely in charge of himself as a werewolf.
Chip was still a bit shaken, and definitely awe-struck, when the gate rose before him. He stepped out into the carnage that had been four bandits and shook his head. He reached down to examine a peculiar blade that one of the bandits had dropped; but when he touched it, it burned his hand horribly. He snatched his hand away, hissing, and unconsciously brought his fingers to his mouth, blowing on them to cool them off. He stood again, and glared angrily at the dead bandit.
“I hope I didn’t scare you,” Farkas said, returning to his side.
“No, no, not at all, Farkas,” Chip mumbled, falling over his words. “I’m just…amazed.”
“It’s a blessing that’s given to some of us. We can be like wild beasts. Fearsome.” He grinned at Chip.
It occurred to him that this was why his fellow Companions thought Farkas was stupid. He put things in the simplest possible terms, and his good nature lent itself to being unbothered by almost everything around him. They probably think he’s too dumb to worry about danger. It’s not that. He’s confident and he just doesn’t let things bother him.
But it’s about time we got this straightened out between us.
“I know, I know what it is, Farkas,” he said. “I’m simply … I don’t have the right word … amazed at how strong you are.” He stared directly into Farkas’ eyes to be sure he had the man’s attention. “Surely you recognize what I am, as well? You have to know. I could tell you were a werewolf by your scent the first time I met you. I know I’m nowhere near your level of strength but… even my uncles said I smelled like wet dog.”
Farkas nodded. “Of course I know, whelp,” he said with an unconcerned smile. “So do some of the others. But you’re right. I’m a lot stronger than you are. Older, too. I’m guessing you haven’t had this for very long. A few weeks, at most.” He paused for a moment and chuckled. “Bet you have red fur.”
Chip blew out a breath and pulled a hand down over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s red. I don’t really blend in too well as a werewolf. Does… everyone in the Companions know about all this?”
Farkas shook his head. “Oh, no. Only the Circle has the beast blood. It’s a secret to everyone else. But you still have to prove yourself to be a Companion. Eyes on the prey, not the horizon.”
“I know, I know. But… wow, Farkas,” he said, not quite knowing how to express what was going on in his mind.
“What is it?”
“It’s so good to be able to tell someone what’s happened to me and not worry that they’ll think I’m crazy. Or lock me up the way they did poor Sinding.”
“Oh. I heard about that. Poor guy got on the wrong side of Hircine.”
Chip marveled again at how very much opposite to stupid Farkas was. He shook his head. “And what about these people?” He poked at one of the bodies with his foot. “Who are they?”
“They call themselves the Silver Hand. They’re bad people who don’t like werewolves. So they don’t like us, either.”
In spite of himself, Chip laughed. “Yeah, that would follow. I guess we’d better keep moving, then.”
“Yeah. Still got the draugr to worry about. Oh, and don’t get in the way of those silver weapons. They hurt a lot. The vampires don’t like them, either.”
Chip nodded, feeling a lot like a puppy next to his elder-statesman shield brother, and headed for the exit.
I guess Da and I have something else in common, after all.