Black Iron Bandit

“By Hjalti’s rotten carcass, take your shot, girl!” The old man had a way of snapping her back to attention, she’d give him that. Gargreth tightened her grip on the handles of her turret. It was one of four massive ballistae that Edja had recently installed on the Dancer’s upper deck, two on either side. With a grunt of exertion, she swiveled the weapon around to line up her shot. Malphenor had beat her to landing the first hit, as was expected. The elf had eyes so keen, she’d seen him hit a leaping fish midair from a dozen meters off. His own harpoon was now embedded firmly in their quarry’s right leg, and you didn’t have to be an expert to tell that the big lizard was none too pleased by it. The dragonbone tips in the arrowheads had been a nice touch, and just about the only thing strong enough to pierce those nasty scales. It was a shame that the resource was too expensive to make whole harpoons out of it.

“Well!” Seastrider didn’t seem too keen on giving her room to think. “Are you going to shoot the damned thing, or were you planning on staring at the damn sky while she burns my ship to cinders?”

“I’m figuring the angle!” she shouted back at him, not bothering to look over her shoulder and ruin her shot. At least Mal had managed to keep the thing anchored in one relative part of the sky for her.

“Well quit your figuring and start fucking shooting!”

“I’m doing it! Try not to piss yourself, will you?” He was right, though. They didn’t have time for her to be hesitating over this. Gargreth might not have had a Bosmer’s eye for accuracy, but she was willing to bet she could crank this damned winch about twice as fast as the scrawny little elf. A heavy thunk, as she felt the wooden mechanism lock into place. Now all she had to do was let it fly.

Gargreth braced herself. She fired.

The javelin thundered through the air, ripping through the thick membrane of the creature’s wing and hooking itself on the skeletal framework. She couldn’t have hoped for better. “Alright! How’s that, old man?”

“You’re a damn gift wrapped in a few hundred pounds of dead weight, that what you wanted to hear? Now put that green arse of yours to work and pull her in!”

Now this, this was the part she was good at. As the dragon shrieked and struggled against her, Gargreth pulled back with every ounce of strength in her frame, wrestling back the crank further and further, inch by precious inch. Growing frenzied now, the dragon launched a molten hot ball of fire at the Dancer’s hull, only for it to crash harmlessly into a wall of ice that seemed to materialize from the very air around them. Their priestess was pulling her weight, as usual. But Lakh-Bo would be tiring fast now, and the old woman’s magic would be growing weaker with every volley she was forced to deflect. They had to get this thing in killing range, and now.

None of them wanted to admit that taking on a target this size might have been a mistake, her least of all, but as the dragon battled back against her and her elven compatriot’s attempts to reel it in, she couldn’t staunch the impending worry that they’d bitten off more than they could chew. Since the outbreak of this dragon crisis, the Golden Storm mercenaries had been at the forefront of the dragon hunting business, Yngve had seen to that. But this latest exploit to assert their relevance was beginning to look like it might be their undoing.

As if feeding on her doubts, the red drake reared back and released another plume of fire. This time however, it wasn’t aiming for the ship. The flames engulfed the metal chain attached to the spear lodged in its leg, and with a jolt the tether snapped. Suddenly, they were back at a disadvantage.

“Blast it all! She’ll make off with both of our damned harpoons, assuming she doesn’t roast us all and leave us for shark bait.” She dreaded hearing the next words that came out of the captain’s mouth: “Get that second chain unlatched, girl. Jari, try to get us out of here!”

The Golden Storm had never abandoned a chase, but Yngve Seastrider wasn’t about to risk lives for the sake of his reputation. But maybe just one life wouldn’t be so bad.

“I can’t do that, captain.” Gargreth could feel her jaw locking up, her fists clenching and unclenching on anxious impulse. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Like hell, you do! You get that damn thing loose in the next five seconds or I’ll drop you off with some pirates like I found your sorry arse!”

She had to grin at that. “Don’t worry. Think I found an easier way for you to get rid of me, if this goes south.”

She pretended not to hear the concern in Seastrider’s haggard old voice. “Goes south? It’s already gone south, you thick-skulled idiot! Whatever you think you’re planning—”

“Get this thing unhooked as soon as I’m over. You hear me, old man?”

“Don’t you even think about it you stubborn—”

She jumped. For a moment she was falling through thin air, before thickly corded muscle stopped her descent. Gargreth’s broad hands wrapped tight around the iron links of the harpoon’s chain, and as soon as she found a decent grip, she was climbing.

“This?! This is your big plan?!”

“The chain, old man! Unhook the chain!”

She didn’t bother looking back at him, and she certainly didn’t bother looking down. There was just her, the dragon, and a few dozen yards of chain between them. Lakh-Bo said that the dragons weren’t wild beasts at all, but warrior-gods, looking for the strongest challenger. Gargreth didn’t know if she was the strongest, but at this point she was definitely the craziest.

It was obvious that her little stunt hadn’t gone unnoticed, either. The dragon was watching her ascent, almost as if it were sizing her up as she climbed. She felt a sudden release of tension, what she could only assume was Seastrider releasing the chain, and suddenly she was swinging freely through the air.

“Thanks for the warning!” she managed to shout back at him, unsure if he could hear over the crashing of the waves and the howling of the wind. Auburn locks of hair whipped at her face like wisps of flame, but it was the imminent threat of dragonfire that concerned her. Sure enough, as she continued to drag herself up towards her target, a near-blinding flash of heat came rocketing toward her. Maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t fully thought this through.

At first, she didn’t register anything apart from the sudden chill. When she realized that she was still alive, and watched the icy barrier dissipate around her, she breathed out a sigh that was equal parts tension and relief. She’d have to remember to thank the old battleaxe, once she finished this.

She was getting closer now, almost within striking range. She must have climbed her way into the old lizard’s blind spot. It seemed to have given up trying to fry her, and was now resorting to raging and writhing around in an erratic attempt to throw her. If she could just hold on, there was actually a chance she could pull this off. She just had to wait for the perfect moment.

The dragon soared higher, higher. Perhaps it was trying to cut off her air supply with the altitude. A warrior-god would certainly be smart enough to think of that. What it hadn’t thought of, however, was the spear jutting through its mangled wing, and the three-hundred-plus pounds of angry Orc throwing it off balance. It couldn’t reach much higher, she guessed. Unfortunately, it didn’t need to.

Oh shit.

Gargreth barely managed to hold on as she felt her chain suddenly jerking away from her. The dragon dove, pulling her down, hard with its descent. She couldn’t let go. Letting go wasn’t just death, it was losing. The Golden Storm didn’t lose.

Again, her opponent redirected, this time racing upward again. She felt an involuntary cry escaped her as the bone and muscle in her arms were suddenly wrenched by the brutal change in velocity. Something was broken, or torn, or dislocated. She could damn well feel that. She held on.

The dragon was slowing down, marginally, giving her just enough warning to guess that it was about to try diving again. She wasn’t going to get another chance, or a better one than this. As the two combatants reached the height of their arc, Gargreth released her grip, letting her own upward momentum send her throttling over the dragon’s head as it turned to descend. For a moment as she flew past its great, reptilian eye, she couldn’t help feeling as if both parties understood what was about to happen.

Well, it was a helluva fight.

The screaming pain in her arms warned her against even attempting to draw her sword. Were this a proper fight, she doubted she’d even have the power left for a killing swing. As she draw the heavy iron blade from its sheath on her back, however, she thanked the gods that gravity would be doing half the work for her. Still, this had to be a clean cut. It wasn’t like she was going to get a do-over. Even with the roaring wind and throbbing pain stealing the air from her lungs, Gargreth did her best to draw in a focusing breath. The Stormlord Sword Dance was a discipline based on precise footwork and keeping one’s balance. She doubted that the great masters had midair combat in mind when they designed it, but then, Gargreth had never been the most orthodox student, anway.

Her breath expelled itself in a primal cry, and she spiraled downward, the lethal edge of her blade biting into scale, then flesh, then the bones in the defeated champion’s neck. She felt something in her arms give out as she forced the cut deeper.

Whenever he did manage to foster contact from the outside, it was a godsend. The story his scouts had just brought him was more than that, however, it was a potential turning point for the people of Armauk-Vras. Dakog, the Black Iron Bandit, his brother, was finally slain. The last, vile remnant of the vengeful plague that once held his people in its grip was at long last extinguished.

With the limited lines of communication he had, Ancath had meticulously followed his elder brother’s exploits. His rampage through Wrothgar, the legend of the Unslain, his disappearance from High Rock and sudden resurgence in Skyrim just a few years ago. His exploits as Bossuet’s henchman had been hard enough on his stronghold’s reputation. This business of banditry, and the murder of a Daggerfall noblewoman, was yet another political blow that Armauk-Vras had not been ready to weather. Indeed, for a time he had felt as if the nightmares brought on by Dakog would never end. But now, after immeasurable disgrace, that chapter of Armauk-Vras’ history was finally being brought to a close. An army of Bretic knights had returned to Solitude, bringing with them news of the marauder king’s destruction. No doubt the clan would be eager to hear of this. There was just one small matter to attend to before he could break the news.

“Rugash,” the chief commanded the guard at his side. “Send for my wise-woman. I must consult with her on these developments.”

“She is here,” an old voice, an all but broken voice, echoed from down the hall as Ziva shuffled out of the darkness. “And she has a request for her chief.”

Ancath nodded down from his throne, silently dismissing his bodyguard. The titan of an Orsimer bowed as he made his exit, leaving chieftain and shaman alone. “How long have you been listening?”

She puffed out a breath of air that escaped her body like spirits from a derelict grave. “Not so long that I heard anything I did not already know.”

The chief frowned. The ways of his people aside, he ill-liked such cryptic speech. “You foresaw this, then.”

“I have seen much,” she responded noncommittally. “He is not dead.”

Ancath’s sharp features softened. Perhaps this final bout of grief was too much for her. “Ziva,” he whispered. “They brought his fortress to the ground. His bandits are scattered like dust.”

“Iron withstands even that which causes stone to crumble. Did they recover his body?”

There, she had him. “A search party is looking for it as we speak. It is only a matter of time before they return with—”

“They will return empty handed; he is alive.”

Wise-woman or not, he had little time for such flights of fancy. “I understand what this must be like for you, but this time there is no dispute. He’s gone.”

“Do not presume to spare my feelings,” she bit back at him, a fire in her eyes that had long been absent. “My son yet lives, yes, and I am as terrified by that truth as you are.”

He opened his mouth to speak, to reprimand her insolence. She ignored him. “They have not killed him, only revealed to him what he truly is. Once he knows, he will return to the place where it all began. He will return, here, and he will be our destruction.”

For the first time since his youth, Ancath of Armauk-Vras tried to push himself to his feet. The shattered limbs beneath him remained stiff and useless, as they always did. He collapsed back into his throne, catching himself gracelessly on his armrests, his fingers gripping the cold stone as if to choke the life from something already inanimate.

“I am the chief of this stronghold.” He could feel an old anger, like a scar torn open upon his breast. “I will not entertain these fantasies. My brother is dead. He is never coming back.”

She met his gaze evenly, unphased by his display. “He is not your brother.”

This was growing more and more absurd. “Do you mean to tell me…?”

“Chief Vorrog was not his father.” Her amber-colored eyes, now gray and milky, seemed to be focused on something distant and intangible. “He is nothing to you but the man who stole your legs.”

He felt tired, suddenly. The anger in him was too heavy, too hungry. The chief slumped in his seat. “What is it you want from me, Ziva?”

“I want you to promise me,” she pleaded. “That you will be ready when the time comes. I will not be here to help you prepare.”

More mysticism, more frustration. “You did not put me through all this to tell me you’re dying on me.”

For the first time since this debate had started, she could not offer him an immediate response. “I must beg my chief’s blessing,” she spoke at last. “To leave this stronghold. There is something I must do. Something you will understand only when the time comes.”

“The wise-woman needs no blessing from the chief.”

She mustered up a simple shrug. “Even so, I wish to have your good faith in this.”

Ancath sighed. “And what if I should tell you that you have none of my faith at all, at the moment?”

Of all things, he had not expected her to smile. “I have advised you for many years now,” the wise-woman said. “And in that time you have become like a son to me. Your mind, Ancath, is sharp as any blade, and I do not expect you to put your trust in the prophesizing of an old, done woman.

“When your mother passed, and you made me wise-woman, I know that it was not a choice borne of any love for me. You thought that by providing for me, you could overcome the vengeance in your heart, and the hatred you bore for my son. I would hope, however, that after all these years you have come to think of me as your friend. For that love you bear me, let me do what I must.”

This was madness, utter madness. But he could not deny her now. “I can give you a carriage and a small entourage. I trust that will suffice for your designs?”

“Hardly anything so extravagant. A horse will do. Preferably a gentle one. I am getting on in years, after all.”

He tried to smile at that. He couldn’t. “What do you intend, Ziva? To see him one final time? If what you say is true— if you truly regard me as your own son —then your final days should be spent here. This is your home.”

Again, she smiled at him. This time however, there was something else in the sobreity of her expression. “I will see him before this is done, yes, but that is not my purpose for leaving. Armauk-Vras is my home, and it cannot withstand his wrath. I must find the one force that can, and send it to you.”

“Why? Why must you? I have envoys at my disposal, ready to ride from here at a moment’s notice. Tell me where to send them, and I will have this force brought to us at all costs.”

“I cannot,” spoke Ziva, mother of exiles, wise-woman of her clan. “She does not yet understand, any more than you. Only I can show her the way, and I must find her before he does.”

“She?” At this point, he may as well have believed anything, even if it meant staking his hopes on an old woman and a single, mysterious warrior. “Where is she now?”