As had so often been the case of late, it was already dark by the time Chip approached Jorrvaskr. Concerned about his supplies, he’d done some hunting on the way back from the Reach and had practically inhaled the first deer’s raw meat. He’d also stopped at Hircine’s shrine out in the wilderness, both to pay his respects and to give thanks for the gifts of the bow, the Totem, the ring, and the strength that he felt increasing by the day – not just the Wolf’s strength, but his own.
He hummed quietly to himself as he walked up the steps. It would be good to report in to Farkas and, just maybe, take a few days to rest and enjoy himself. After all, he certainly saw the others doing that often enough. Neither Vilkas nor Farkas ever seemed to be in an urgent rush going to take care of a job or coming back from it.
I could easily kick back with a few tankards of mead for a day or two. Or maybe make a trip to Windhelm to see Harald and…
He thought of the lovely “flower girl” he knew. They liked each other’s company, both in and out of the sheets, and she always made it a special point to greet him when he was in the area. She wouldn’t pass up a well-filled coin purse, and…
Chip frowned. Somehow the idea just didn’t have its usual appeal.
Nah.
He pondered that as he walked through a mostly-silent Jorrvaskr, down past the fragments of Wuuthrad and into the living quarters. It wasn’t that he had lost interest in girls, not at all. It was just that he wanted something – someone – else.
It’s kind of dodgy, anyway, sharing a girl with so many other people. I want someone who is mine. I think. I want someone who…
A vague impression of racing through tall grasses flitted through his mind, but he lost track of it while poking his head quietly into each of the rooms, looking for Farkas. He found his mentor fast asleep in his quarters. Chip looked around for a moment and smiled; for while Vilkas’ room was a true study, piled high with books, Farkas’ space was a miniature mead hall. A bar, behind which was a pyramid of mead barrels, dominated the area. The corner bookshelf held tankards and pitchers, not books. There was even a small keg on a stand next to the bed that looked like an afterthought, tucked behind the door. He had to laugh. He’d never seen Farkas in anything but complete control of his faculties, but this room looked more like it should belong to someone like…
Like what they always say about Uncle Roggi behind his back. I’ve never seen him in anything but complete control, either. Maybe he used to drink a lot once upon a time, who knows. Maybe full-blooded Nords just hold more.
That thought had him nearly chuckling aloud as he gently shook Farkas’ shoulder.
“Hey,” he said quietly so as not to wake anyone else. “I’m back. I’ve taken care of the little problem out in the Reach.”
Farkas stood from his cot and nodded. “I had no doubt that you would. Another job well done.” He reached into the dark space behind his bedside keg and pulled out a coin purse, handing it to Chip. “Your payment is secure, and you have my thanks.”
Chip smiled. “Thanks. You wouldn’t have believed it. The mage wasn’t that much of an issue. I have this,” he said, patting the bow, “and I had some handy poisons.” He grinned. “It wasn’t the mage. It was the spiders.”
He watched as a visible ripple of discomfort traveled up Farkas’ back, though the older man recovered quickly enough.
“Yeah,” he said. “Glad you did that one and not me. I’d rather fight the people, not the creepy-crawlies.”
Chip was about to turn for the door when Farkas said, “Oh, by the way. Skjor was looking for you, before. Talk to him before you do anything else, ok?”
Chip sighed, but nodded his head. “Right now?”
Farkas yawned as he sat back down on his cot and lifted his legs up onto it. “Yeah, I know. But I’m pretty sure it’s important. You’ll get a chance to rest up later.”
“OK, Farkas. I trust your nose for these things. I’ll go find him.”
He frowned as he walked back out into the hallway, and took a moment to snag a treat from one of the tables lining it. He was quietly whining about being sent out again and stopped, startled, when he realized that he’d practically eaten the thing whole. Only a few sticky spots were left on his fingers. He chuckled.
Hungry like a wolf, I guess.
Skjor, like Farkas, was sleeping lightly, but woke at a gentle touch. It didn’t surprise Chip, really; he only barely fell asleep most nights, and it had been worse since becoming a wolf.
“Ahh, there you are,” Skjor said as he rose. He sounded eager, almost excited. It was odd.
“Yeah, I just got back from the Reach. Farkas said you wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” Skjor said, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “I have something a little different planned this time. But it’s not for everyone to hear. Meet me in the Underforge, and we will speak more.”
Chip blinked in confusion. “Um, what the heck is an Underforge? And where would I find it?”
Skjor looked surprised for a moment, and then chuckled. “I forget. You’ve never seen it. Sorry about that. It’s beneath the Skyforge, where Eorlund works.”
“Under… the forge. Of course that’s where it would be. You’d think I might have figured that out myself.”
“Well, not necessarily. The door is well hidden, but I’ll show you the way.”
Chip nodded. “Of course. Lead on.” He stepped aside so that Skjor could pass him. They returned to the central hallway, where much to his surprise Aela was also making her way toward the stairs. Chip followed their quiet passage out of the mead hall and into the training yard.
I wonder what Aela has to do with this. I wonder what I have to do with this, for that matter.
When he made it outside, Aela was just nearing the lighted stairwell that led up to Eorlund’s forge; he followed at a respectful distance. Perhaps the entrance was a trap door and ladder, cleverly hidden behind Eorlund’s workbench, or obscured by the tanning rack or the smelter. But then Aela simply disappeared; and standing beside the spot Chip had last seen her was Skjor.
“Aela is joining us. Once she’s inside, we can follow. Are you prepared?”
Chip snorted.
“Prepared for what? I mean no disrespect, but I have no idea what’s going on. What is this place?”
Skjor crossed his arms and harrumphed. “Here’s all you need to know. Jorrvaskr is the oldest building in Whiterun. The Skyforge was here long before it was; and the Underforge taps an ancient magic that is older than men or elves. We bring you here to make you stronger, New Blood.”
“New Blood, is it?” Chip chuckled. “I guess that’s better than ‘whelp.’”
“Well, you’re one of us now. Even so, you’re still the youngest. Now, let’s move.”
Skjor walked up to the wall and pushed on some portion of it hidden behind the thick overhanging vines. There was a noisy, metallic creak and a section of the wall swung open to reveal a corridor beyond. Chip leapt to follow him, so as not to miss the opening and be left outside.
He froze in place, trying to absorb the overpowering sensations that buffeted him the moment he stepped inside the cavern of ancient stones. The hair on his neck rose. There was magic here, heavy and ominous like that among the stone formations in the Hunting grounds. Several structures, perhaps altars of some kind, hugged the walls. But the two things that drew Chip’s eye were the font, secured at waist-height in a central stone pedestal, and the large, red-furred werewolf standing behind it. His mouth fell open.
Aela!
Skjor smiled, seeming to relax. “I’m glad you came. It’s been a long time since we had a heart like yours among our numbers. That pitiful ceremony behind the hall does not befit warriors like us. You are due more than some calls and feasting.”
Chip approached the font and stared in awe at Aela. She was beautiful as a werewolf: tall, green eyes, with red fur to match her red hair and the scent of a hunter. She sniffed at him and panted, and he smiled.
Yeah. Still way too old for me. She’s pretty, though.
Skjor nodded. “I would hope you recognize Aela, even in this form.”
“I do indeed,” Chip said.
“She’s agreed to be your forebear. We do this in secret because Kodlak is too busy trying to throw away this great gift we’ve been granted. He thinks we’ve been cursed. But we’ve been blessed. How can something that gives this kind of prowess be a curse? So we take matters into our own hands. You must join with us in the shared blood of the wolf.”
Chip looked back and forth between Aela and Skjor uneasily. “I agree. It’s not a curse. Inconvenient, sometimes, but hardly a curse. But… I accepted Hircine’s gift well before I joined you.” Not just his gift. I’m his champion. How do I explain that?
Skjor nodded. “Yes, and that’s intriguing. A Harbinger first received the gift several centuries ago.” He spread his arms and swept the area in front of him. “This place is sacred to Hircine, and draws on the power of the moons. All of the Circle since him have received the gift from a forbear, here in this place, until now.” He peered at Chip and stroked his chin for a moment. “There are other kinds of lycanthropy, so it is rumored. I’ve heard tales that it can be inherited, or directly given by Hircine himself. How you came by your gift we have no way to know and it is not our business.”
“That’s good, because I don’t know how this happened to me,” Chip said. He swallowed as a wave of unexpected emotion washed over him. “I wish I did. It’s good to have some information. Any… information at all. Maybe I’ll figure it out some day. But still, why this ceremony?”
“Because Aela and I believe that this ceremony will make you stronger. Take advantage of the strength of the old magic.”
Aela growled.
“Alright. I’ll do it. It certainly can’t harm anything.” I hope.
Skjor walked around the font and exchanged a glance with Aela, who lifted her huge left arm over the font. Skjor pulled out a lethal-looking dagger and drew it across her wrist. She snarled, but held her wrist over the font as her blood flowed into it; then, with the resilience of the werewolf, her wound closed.
Chip approached the font and leaned over it. He wasn’t wild about the idea of consuming blood directly. His inner wolf, though, whined and squirmed eagerly, urging him onward. He waited for just a moment, absorbing the energies of the place; then he dipped his hand into the fountain and drank Aela’s blood.
Everything went black for a moment. He didn’t quite lose consciousness, he thought, but he was blinded and deafened for long enough that when he opened his eyes and found himself outside the Underforge’s door, he was surprised. He looked down at himself and saw red fur.
I changed? I can’t be out here like this, the guards will kill me!
Run! Run!
He ran a few steps into Jorrvaskr’s training yard. Maybe he could somehow vault the walls and get outside the city? But they were far too tall, even with his added height and leg strength. The skies were beginning to turn rosy, out to the east behind the Velothis, and he would have expected to revert at any moment; but he was overwhelmed by the need to run and to hunt. Worse still, he could hear the clanking of Eorlund’s hammer above. It was early, yet, but if the old blacksmith was up so would others be. He turned back and found the door to the Underforge.
Both Skjor and Aela were gone. He tested the air, though, and caught their scents, heading down a tunnel he hadn’t seen earlier. He followed their trail, excitement rising in him as he explored this new place that worked its way under Whiterun’s walls and ended up in what looked like a ruined tower. A quick hop down would put him just outside the city, near the farms. It was a long enough drop that he wouldn’t be able to jump back up again, but at least he could escape. And run.
As best he could tell, Skjor and Aela had headed east. He started trotting after them, looking up at the still-visible star field behind Dragonsreach, and then back east again as a loud noise caught his attention.
Dragon!
It came floating lazily toward him and began roaring as it neared the crossroads and the meadery. For a moment he hesitated, wondering how he could battle a dragon if it wasn’t on the ground. Then an arrow clattering to the ground at his feet wrenched his attention away from the huge beast overhead. The guards were ignoring the dragon, so far. They were fixated on the werewolf.
Run! Run!
And so he did, on all fours, his head held low as he hurtled through the tall grasses and across the river. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was going but even at this speed he was able to adjust his course to keep in touch with the scent trail left by the two elder werewolves.
Then it went dark again.
He looked around in confusion, having lost some span of time but not knowing how large a span it was. He was on a hillside in the forest, just below the snow line. Uphill a hundred paces or so was an old, ruined fortification. Aela, in her human form, stepped out of the shadows.
“Are you awake? I was starting to think you might never come back,” she said.
Chip squinted up at the sky and frowned. “I was awake for almost all of it, but I see I lost some time after I started to run. What happened?”
“Yours was not an easy transformation, but you’re still alive, so congratulations.”
“I don’t understand. The transformation itself was the easiest I’ve had yet. But then I just… went away for a time. And I don’t remember turning back at all.”
“I’m not certain, but I would expect it had something to do with assimilating the old magic. You were almost as much trouble as Farkas was when he first turned. At any rate, Skjor and I even have a celebration planned. This old tower is Gallows Rock, the base for a pack of werewolf hunters. The Silver Hand. I think you’ve met them before?”
The hackles rose on Chip’s neck and he had to stifle a growl as he remembered the group of them closing in on Farkas at Dustman’s Cairn. The anger boiling up in him was so strong he could almost taste it. “Yes, I have,” he said. “I’d be happy to help get rid of more.”
“Good,” Aela said, nodding. “We’re going to slaughter them. All of them.” She grinned. “They always make such easy prey. Skjor’s already scouting ahead. Let’s go.”
A single open archway pierced what was left of the old fortress’ defensive walls. They headed for that, keeping low to the ground and scanning ahead for enemies. Beyond it was an old tower, its entry before them and stairs leading to a level above, from which a man came rushing at them. Chip raised his bow and prepared to shoot; just as he did so a second figure, a woman, stepped out from behind a wooden lean-to.
He got lucky. The woman startled him and he took his eyes off the man for just a moment, releasing the arrow as he did. But the man had been in motion; he stepped forward into the arrow’s path and it struck him squarely between the eyes. The woman, with a greatsword held high and ready, dashed into the opening beneath the arch. Chip wasn’t aware of having pulled another arrow, but his reflexes served him well and she crumpled to the ground just in front of him.
They spent a few moments scouting the yard and then ran up to check the area above. As they rounded the back of the tower, a blonde Nord wielding a wicked battleaxe ran out from somewhere behind it and attacked, screaming. Chip barely escaped losing an arm by lifting the bow up in front of himself; it blocked enough of the blow to save him. Aela started unloading arrows into the Nord, and Chip grabbed his blades. The man had winded himself with his attack, and had little left with which to defend against being swamped by a Redguard blade attack.
“Not bad,” Aela said. “Not bad!”
“Yeah. I got lucky,” Chip said, healing himself a bit. The battleaxe had sliced him, but not deeply.
“Let’s go in,” Aela told him.
Chip found himself growling when they reached the door; for beside it was a bloody spike, holding the head of a tawny, red-eyed werewolf. “Look at this,” he snarled. “They deserve to die for this.”
Aela looked at him from the other side of the trophy and nodded. “I thought you might see it that way. Let’s get in there, meet up with Skjor, and take care of them.”
It was a typical Imperial ruin inside, with an open area surrounded in rubble, fungus, and crates. Vertical bars blocked the nearby descending staircase, but its pull chain was nearby against a stone support pillar. And next to the chain was another spike, with another dead werewolf’s head rammed down onto it. Chip felt ill.
This was one of us.
Aela snorted. “Look at this! The cowards must have locked the place down when Skjor charged in. You can taste the fear.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, reaching for the chain. “But these decorations tell me it’s right to have a little healthy fear ourselves. Let’s go.”
Once the bars retracted they descended to a dingy, dark room with a cooking spit and two Silver Hand bandits warming themselves near its fire. Chip took his time, trained his bow on the nearer of them, and sank an arrow directly into the base of the man’s skull. The woman rose from her seat and fumbled for her weapon; but Chip had an arrow flying by the time she finally looked in his direction. It caught her in the chest, and she went down.
He turned to speak to Aela and nearly jumped out of his skin. The figure standing there was a Silver Hand Orc wielding a greatsword. He spotted Chip and began a huge, side-sweeping attack, but was interrupted by Aela, who skewered him from behind with her steel blade.
“Thanks for that!” Chip whispered, wiping the sweat from his brow. “That one caught me completely off-guard.”
The passage behind a wooden door led them to a stairwell, at the top of which was a spiked gate, the pressure plate before them controlling it. In the room beyond were at least two more Silver Hand fighters, backlit, making perfect targets. The well-armored, seated man took three arrows to kill, but fell near the table. His companion, though, was another rugged Orc, who rushed them. Chip unloaded several arrows into him; but even though the Orc tripped the spike trap he avoided serious injury and kept coming. The Orc spied Aela and made for her, passing by Chip, who drew his blades and angrily lit into the Orc from behind. Aela didn’t seem especially concerned when the Orc died.
“You ok?” he hissed.
“Yes. Let’s keep moving.”
Just past the body of the first Silver Hand, Chip discovered what they’d been guarding. There were cells here, and in the first was a snarling, silvery-gray werebear.
Chip stopped and stared through the bars at the bear. There was something about it that spoke to him. He remembered talking to the werebear on Solstheim, comparing notes about their fur; and even though the bear hadn’t responded Chip had hoped he was understood. Maybe this one was different, more human.
Chip turned to Aela, who shook her head. “I can’t just leave him in there,” he argued. “I’m picking this lock.” He just knew, somehow, that if he released this werebear it would find its way back outside and then, once in the world again, it would revert form and recover. He had to at least give it that chance, before it ended up with its head on a pike.
The bear’s breathing, so close to his ear, had him a bit unnerved. Two picks broke, then a third; but finally, on his fourth try, the lock clicked and the gate opened.
“There you go, buddy,” he said, backing out of the way. The bear stepped forward to the opening, and for a split second Chip smiled at it, waiting for a response.
The bear roared and came at him.
Chip yelped as the claws sank into him, but managed to swivel around, out of contact, as Aela waded in with her sword. He scrambled over a bale of hay and ran for the stairs and the pressure plate trap, hoping to use it to his advantage. He faced the bear again just as it swatted at Aela; she blocked the blow with her shield, but staggered and went down on one knee. Chip shot once, then decided stronger measures were called for and loaded one of the few remaining arrows he’d crafted on Solstheim.
A black werewolf stepped out of the conjuration to engage the werebear. That gave both Chip and Aela the chance to draw blades and attack it from the sides. In moments the werebear was bleeding heavily; it ran in panic back to its cell. Chip followed, but snarled as two Silver Hand came running around the corner toward them. Leaving the werewolf to finish off the bear, he barreled, screaming, into the two humans.
You caged him up! He lost his mind! You need to die!
The next few moments were a blur. He was too full of fury, too occupied with making his blades fly for intentional thought. When the woman with the bow and blades fell to the floor he rushed back to the werebear’s cage, panting, to stare down at it. A bleak, dismal ache slowly replaced the anger that had propelled him just a few moments earlier. Such a magnificent creature shouldn’t have been just a beast, clawing and slashing even at the person who had tried to help. There had been a man inside this werebear, once.
“He shouldn’t have died,” Chip mumbled.
“There’s nothing we can do for these ones now,” Aela said as they walked past the other cages. “Some of them are more beast than man. Too far gone. Don’t even want to think about what these cretins did to them before they died.”
Chip ground his teeth together as he crossed to the next staircase. Since becoming a werewolf it had been easier and easier for him to find the fires of anger boiling up from within. This was one of those times. Whoever was left in this sorry place was going to wish they weren’t. As if to underscore the thought, two more spikes with werewolf heads affixed flanked the bottom of the stairs, and it took all his self-control not to roar at them.
Chip strode to the wooden door opening right, and pushed it open. As he had expected, the room beyond held Silver Hand members, some on a platform above, and some in deeper corners of the room; but he was in black, in a darkened hallway, and they couldn’t see him. He took grim aim on an Argonian running down the stairs and fired; the Argonian fell. Chip backed up, an Orc ran to the doorway, looked both ways, and then fell dead when another arrow pierced his throat. A woman came running out only to find both Chip’s and Aela’s blades.
“We sure showed them, eh?” Aela said.
It seemed to Chip that she was just trying to make conversation, and he wasn’t interested. He grunted, ground his teeth to keep from saying something he’d later regret, and strode into the now-vacant room and up to the platform on its far side. An Imperial man with terrible aim came out from the shadows at Chip, who snarled, drew out his own bow, and followed him, firing until at last he fell dead. Around the corner, in front of a substantial fireplace, was a Nord woman. Chip advanced on her with his blades, growling.
“Die,” he said, picking up speed and attacking with the Redguard maneuvers his mother and uncle had taught him how to do.
The Nord yelled, “You’re a disgrace to your own kind!” as she dropped to one knee, bleeding.
“Probably,” he hissed, drawing Grabber across her throat. Chip looted her corpse of a few coins and stalked across the room, toward yet another downward staircase.
“We’re getting close now,” Aela said quietly. “Be careful. Their leader is a tricky one. They call her the Skinner. I don’t think I need to tell you why.”
“No. But she’s going to die, too.”
They crept through a small hallway and stopped before a wooden door. Chip readied his bow before opening the door with his foot. Beyond, in what had been the central tower of the old fortification, was a raised platform decorated with green and golden banners and strings of tusks – or fangs, he couldn’t tell which. At the base of the platform, one Silver Hand worked at tanning something, at a rack near the steps. Up the steps and to one side was another rack, with another Silver Hand at work.
Doesn’t matter which one I kill first. They’re both dead. But I think it’s the Skinner up above.
He took his time preparing to strike the foe on the upper level, feeling his anger building, feeling the energy in the blessed bow building until at last he loosed its string. The Skinner stood, groaning but alive, and slipped behind a stone pillar. In that brief time, Chip fitted another arrow to the string and shot at the closer Silver Hand, who had risen to her feet. She fell dead without even making a sound.
Chip followed Aela into the chamber. There were three Silver Hand left there, including the Skinner, and everyone began exchanging arrow fire. One of them – Chip couldn’t tell which – landed a solid hit on his right arm, and he was forced to step back into the hallway to heal himself. He was doing that, and reaching for a supplemental potion, when he heard Aela shout. His head snapped right as a river of flame flowed out of the chamber into the hall, with Aela trying to back out of it…and failing.
I can’t step into that, either. We’ll both burn. But someone else might be able to.
How about several someones?
Once again Chip reached for Hircine’s Totem and placed it. Once again his ears rang with the howling of the multiple werebeasts, the tearing of human flesh, and the screams of those being torn. He tried to move forward, to assist; but the hallways were too narrow and the werebeasts too large. It was all over in a matter of moments. First they slew the Skinner, and then they finished off the sole remaining Silver Hand in the central chamber.
The place suddenly went silent. Chip gathered up the Totem and took the staff that the Skinner had been using to create the flames. Aela ran past him into the center. He was checking another of the bodies when he heard a cry of distress. Dashing into the chamber and up the steps he found Aela staring down at the floor, the color drained from her face.
At her feet was Skjor, bloodied and still.
“No!” Chip cried, moving closer. “Oh no! How?”
“The bastards!” Aela choked out. “He was one of the strongest we had! But… numbers can overwhelm.”
“Yes,” Chip breathed. They’d come close to being overwhelmed themselves; only Hircine’s boon had saved them, if he was being honest. “He knew we were following. I guess he thought that would be enough. Gods damn it. Was this my fault, because you had to wait so long for me to come back to myself?”
“No. He should not have come without a shield brother!” Aela cried.
Chip looked down at Skjor’s tattered body and did well not to howl his grief. Skjor had trusted him, mentored him. Had wanted him to be stronger. Skjor had given him hope that he might be able to learn more about himself. It was far too soon to have lost him.
“We’ll avenge his death somehow,” he murmured, feeling the sting of shock beginning to darken, to turn back to anger.
Aela nodded. “Get out of here. I’m going to make sure we got the last of them, and see if there’s any information to be gotten from the bodies.”She glanced down at Skjor and then looked up at Chip, her eyes glimmering. “You and I have work to do. The Silver Hand will tremble at our sight.”
Chip knelt beside Skjor and touched his face, gently, paying his respects. Then he noticed something; near one of Skjor’s hands was a dagger, gleaming and sharp. He picked it up and examined it closely. It was a steel dagger, but of finer make than any he’d seen before. He looked up at Aela, curious.
“May I take it? To remember him by?”
She nodded. “Skyforge steel. The best steel in Tamriel. Eorlund makes them. Take it. You fight with daggers, and I’m sure he’d like you to have it.”
Chip nodded and rose to his feet. “I’ll carry it in his honor. So, what should I do next?”
“The Silver Hand has been scouring Skyrim for more fragments of Wuuthrad. I’ve heard that there’s a group of them holding a fragment in Redoran’s Retreat. Get out there and take care of them.”
Chip smiled: a grim smile, he was certain. “I’ll be happy to do that.”
He left the old fortress, barely able to keep himself from growling, or from transforming to consume all the bodies on his way out. But Aela needed to search them, and he needed to get west, to bring some judgment down upon the Silver Hand.
