5 - Western Watchtower
Running across Whiterun Plain, I’m pissed as a stoat. Why’da these things happen to good men like me? All I ever wanted to do was drink and have a good time; now soon’s I start havin said good time all manner’a terrible nasty shit starts happenin, to the culmination my drunk ass runnin from safety and comfort to fight some sodding horrid dragon.
Oh why gods, I’m implorin as I run, then I recall I don’t hardly ever go to church, and I start t’think my gods Talos you’re a sonova bitch.
I’d offered Belethor to come with, but he’d politely declined by slamming the shop door in m’face. Bastard. Just wanted all the mead for hisself. Sigurd mighter obliged, but he’d taken one look at the shop lights spirallin off all that ‘perial steel and dead fainted.
Silvers all around me are howlin for lizard blood; accordingly we’re the back-up group for the blokes failed before us. None of em have horses, all of em have heavy armour, and runnin flat out t’wards the watchtower like that has got to flog a man’s stamina.
Flames to the west and the boys pock up their trot. It’s dark as a khajit’s backside and the bobbin torches make it hard as my giddy legs to run straight. I’m runnin in the wrong direction in that I’m runnin to the dragon at all.
There it is. That squeal like glass on a grindstone n there the bastard is lit up by his own orange flames. He rounds the watchtower in a great sweeping pitching dive and I just know his demonic eyes are on us belting up the lane. He passes over the road fifty yards ahead’a us and the flames pourin like molten snot from his nostrils illuminate the first of many corpses. ‘perial splayed on the earth, her armour so blackened she might be picked for an assassin, cept you never see assassins n I sure as day is holy could see this corpse.
Brings to mind there’s likely plenty more where that came from. I stop short just past the first corpse, because the very last thing I want before I die is to trip on a dead man.
“Go, go!” shouts the Elf before the silvers can stop beside me. She’s told me more than once her name is Irileth. “Into the tower – I want some on the battlement, some on the wall. Kill that beast in the name of the Emperor!”
Off go the silvers. Irileth pauses by my side. “It seems I was wrong to doubt you.” Her cool eyes meet mine. Mage spells meet dragon fire, swords screech against breaking rock. I try to not appear distracted. The world is spinning. “Accept my apology. As remuneration, seeing as you are the sole experienced dragon slayer among us, I hereby grant you access into the watchtower if it is to aid your disposal of this most heinous threat.”
She jogs off. Gee, thanks lady. I’m touched. I’m free to trespass on ‘perial territory providing it helps me be burnt alive? Are you insane?!
For a moment I’m alone with the corpses on the roadside. There’s more of em too, up ahead, piled. Scattered. Burnt and dismembered. So many corpses. Freshly minted silvers are already on the broken tower wall n loosin arrows like they was boys on the schoolyard roof. Dragon swoops down, picks up one n bites him in two. I hear the body splat wet, heavy on the hard-packed earth n it occurs to me this sonova bitch (so I say to myself as I fumble with my pocket n move my feet on account of Nirn being a big ball what keeps on rollin n rollin beneath me n I gotta adjust t’stay on it), this sonova bitch has gone too far. Recalling my sword and my spare bottle’a mead I draw them, n I shake the sword at Fangs there whizzin round the watchtower as I drink.
“Hey you great flying turd!” shouts me, feelin like I’s loud as the sun would be if you pressed yer ear against it. I may have a bottle of mead instead of a shield in my other hand but that’s as good a defence as I ever cared for. “I’ll tell you what yer good for – shit all! I bet your mother says the same!”
I know mine did.
Fangs crests the tower to serve up some fire to the silvers on top. Panic should be racing through me, but I’m angry, real angry. Angry at Margeth n angry at me n most of all angry at these mother fucking dragons constantly causing a man such goddamn trouble!
“Hey! Dickhead! Yeah, you! You old lady’s handbag!”
Is it just me or is the dragon looking my way?
Oh Oblivion. Oh yes it is. Its gleaming yellow eyes a-fix on me. Bloody smart, are these dragons. Smart enough to smell an insult at two hundred yards.
Fangs leaves off pitchin silvers over the parapet in favour of seein to me. He lands between me’n the watchtower in a great rumbling crash, as you’d expect from two tons of leather n bone n real nasty attitude.
He climbs forward on his wing-hands and hind legs. Neck swaying. Twisting side to side so he can better eyeball me. He may not want to look it but he’s hurtin from the arrows picking his flanks n belly n the bursts of mage ice n the small deep axe wounds. I keep walking backwards as he comes towards me, bottle’a mead raised in defence.
“Hey, Fangs,” I tell him, pretty much scared shitless n knowing I was about t’die. Surely if I kept on thinkin that I’d eventually hafta be right. “Heard a rumour your girl left you on account’a your consistently unsatisfactory performance in the lizard nest.”
“I am female,” replies the dragon, in this voice‘d make Ulfric sound coquettish, like the last strong flame from a bed of ash speaking, like rock turned to fire, like the voice alone would boil my blood n pop my skin n melt me right where I stood. She hesitates. “I nonetheless resent the remark.”
“As you would. You’ve got nothin else goin for ya with that old handbag face n now turns out you’re a lousy screw too.”
Fangs gives a seething hiss. I feel the heat of it curl around me. My hand flexes on the Dwarven sword. My pulse is in my stomach, rallying against my drunken bravado.
Except that it isn’t just bravado. It’s something else as well. My feet feel their way over a corpse the spin’a Nirn has seen fit to place in my path.
“Matter’a fact,” I say, “I was speakin to yer mother just the other day n she tole me what a constant disappointment y’are to her. Why can’t she be more like Thorns’s girl, she said. Why can’t she get a proper job and settle down with a nice bloke? At this rate I’ll never have grandchilden-”
That does it. Fangs attacks. As she does her wing-hand snags the corpse n she staggers forward, throwing her neck out for balance. My drunken stagger sidesteps her head by some Daedra-given chance, for the next moment she’s spittin n then roarin flame. But no matter. All drawn out like this? Don’t make it too easy on me, doll.
With all my courage in my throat I jump up onto Fangs’s neck. She roars n bucks but my weight as I jump up n down like you would on an inn table is too much for her to combat, and her neck sinks down until it’s firm against the burnt corpse. I drain the mead bottle before flinging it away, taking up the sword in both hands.
Jump up and-
“Look alive, Fangs!”
-strike the neck blade first, chipping first against spike and then scale, but my weight on the sword drives it down, down into meat, into bone, and finally against the charred steel breastplate of the corpse.
Fangs a course is flailing madly. She jerks n throws me clear. I hit the dirt hard but it’s no worse than being thrown from a yearling foal. Lucky said foals have honed my reflexes to get my dense skull outta the way after a fall; I roll n find my feet n scramble before Fangs’s dying jaws can snap over me.
But that leaves her facing me, and me her, her tongue lolling out as she struggles to keep up her head, but already her strength is pouring out of her as her blood turns the road black, and that light in her eyes is steadily dying.
“You – are – different,” she pants. “But – you – are – not – the – Dovahkiin.”
“No,” I say. I’m not much of anything, really. Though I did just slay two dragons, which is more’n anyone else I know can boast about.
Fangs licks her black lips. “Then – I’ll – be – back.”
And there she slumps, dead. I scurry outta the way’er her sagging corpse.
I’ll be back. What’d she mean by that? Was this a circle of life talk? As in, you’ll bury me here since it won’t do to have a great reeking lizard corpse stinkin up the western watchtower, n then my body will become the grass, and the plains elk will eat the grass...
Somehow I really don’t think so. But then I was drunk, so who knows.
I’m still wrestling my sword from her throat when with a jingle of leather n steel the ‘perials jog down the laneway. There are about half as many as there were going up. I don’t pay em too much attention and don’t think anything is weird until I notice they ain’t makin any noise.
I look around. Irileth n the rest are all gathered round, weapons drawn, watching me.
With the strength of surprise I manage to pull the sword free of Fangs. “What?”
Irileth, heading the ‘perials, holds a hand over her heart. She bows her head. “Hero.” As she drops to one knee, the silvers thump their weapons sharply on the earth. “We are in your debt.”
Hey, hold on a dragon-pickling minute there, girl.
Hero?
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