Mists on the Mountains

Chapter 12: Ill Omens

Chapter 12

Ill Omens

"On the day when the sons of snow do battle amongst themselves and when the children of Ysgramor suffer the curse of Glenmori, the World-Eater's wrath will be turned toward men and mer. Yet hope remains, for the dragon's son will rise up to battle his ancestors. But doom will fall on all, if the son of Akatosh fails."-A mysterious prophecy decoded from the Elder Scrolls. Decoding date, 3E 28. Creation date, unknown.

"And then he tells me, using these exact words, 'I will eat your soul! I will possess your corpse!' And this whole time, he's flailing his arms around like a mummer's puppet!" Hammel mimicked the gestures with his arms, delivering a decent performance Farkas began howling, pounding the table with one hand while clutching his mug tightly in the other. Hammel was recounting his misadventure with Sild the Warlock, his most recent successful contract, much to the bemusement of those listening.

"I'll never understand mages!" Farkas chuckled, his eyes damp with mirth, "If he'd just kept his mouth shut..."

"You'd be worse than dead," Vilkas said dryly. Hammel knew that a good ribbing was likely the highest level of friendship he could expect from Vilkas unless he did something truly impressive. Killing a lone warlock wasn't that.

Hammel nodded. "That's true enough, but you know how these magic types are. They need to put on a show."

Kodlak Whiteman raised his own foaming mug high, "A weakness Greymist was wise to exploit. The mark of a cunning warrior."

"My mother didn't raise a fool, Harbinger."

Skjor cracked a rare smile, "Evidently not."

"How'd you not hear him before the rant?" Farkas asked, snatching a hunk of warm bread from the bowl in the centre of the table. "Ria says you have good ears."

Hammel shrugged. "I'd just stumbled upon the necromancer's lair. Passing a few cells full of bodies and crazed writings is enough to unsettle anyone. The whole castle was one disturbing place." He stopped his ramblings and returned to his story. "Anyhow, this necromancer had the drop on me, I couldn't see him, I didn't even know he was there." Hammel looked down at his mead, "In hindsight, I was damn lucky." The thought about how close he'd been to death, though funny as a re-telling, suddenly distressed him. "Bow out and ready, I'm looking around for this necromancer so I can bag him and complete the contract." He took a long drink of mead, clearing the grime and dust from his throat. Shaking his head, the smile back on his face, Hammel chuckled, "If Sild had kept his mouth shut, I'd never have seen that lightning bolt. Fortunately Sild had to get his word in." Hammel smiled coldly. "He didn't get the chance for a second."

"Well said!" Skjor hoisted his mug to that, a slight smile breaking across his scarred features. "Remind those spell-slingers that an arrow kills them like anyone else!"

"The look on his face when my arrow punched through his throat was priceless." Hammel snorted. "He'd finally realised just how foolish it was to not just melt me when he had the chance." Finishing his tankard, he slammed it upside-down on the table before him.

"That's why I use steel. It keeps me humble, and smart." Farkas said, rubbing the handle of his greatsword protectively. The big man had simple tastes, and seemed to be of a simple mind, but even he wouldn't have been foolish enough to make Sild's fatal mistake.

"Normally, ice-brains, I wouldn't put you and smart in the same sentence," Skjor told Farkas casually, "But compared to this fool, it seems a fair comparison." Everyone laughed, with Farkas bearing the gentle insult with his usual good-graces.

At first, Hammel was surprised how easily the big man brushed it off. But he grew to realise the others meant little by it. To them, it was their way of showing they cared. They were a family, something he had only experienced once before.