Skyrim Fanfiction Series: Nightingale

Ambush in Winterhold

"What are we even doing here? It seems pointless to be aimlessly hiding in the bushes while waiting to trade with a Khajiit caravan, Harbinger." stated Vilkas in his deep, scratchy, heavily accented Nordic voice. His breath carried the lingering scent of sweet mead and ale in the form of a thick, white fog due to the low temperature of Winterhold. "Patience, Vilkas. We need to stay quiet while we're hiding. This will be no ordinary trade with those damned cats," I said, putting emphasis on the word cats. "Those furry, two-faced demons attacked the Thieves' Guild. They somehow robbed the vaults in the Flagon. Nobody has attempted anything like that since Mercer was planning the heist to steal the Eyes of the Falmer," I said as I slipped the dark, enchanted cowl of my Nightingale cloak over my scraggly, matted beard. "Harbinger, I see no reason why I should even be here," Vilkas said in a voice of pure sarcasm. "You are here because I told you I needed your help. You're either going to stay here and help me with my feline problem, or you can walk all the way back to Jorrvaskr alone." That certainly seemed to end his pointless questions. The clacking of hooves crunching through the freshly fallen snow filled the forest. As the carriage drew nearer, I slowly reached back and slipped Wuuthrad from its sheath on my back, which was now covered in the snow that had accumulated over the past few hours. "I am fairly cretain that they're coming," I whispered to Vilkas, who still smelled of honeyed mead. "Aye. It's them alright," he whispered back as he peeked through the thick camoflague of foliage, "There must be about four of them." Khajiit never travelled alone, especially when they knew the Guild was watching them. The crunching of snow grew increasingly louder as the caravan crept along the snow-blanketed road of cracked cobble stones. The roads of Skyrim are ancient, and they often lay weathered and cracked with soil and vegitation peeking through. The carriage of theives from Elsweyr was now right in front of us when it suddenly stopped. "Dar'bil," said a sly, gravelly voice, "do you smell that?" "Mead," replied another voice from inside the carriage. A large, furry paw marked the snow as the driver stepped out. I glanced at Vilkas in despair. He stayed silent, but his expression seemed to say I'm sorry, Harbinger. "Fa'bar, check the bushes for any unwanted visitors," said a new, feminine voice. Fa'bar unsheathed his longsword as he crept to our position. I tapped Vilkas lightly on the shoulder. As Fa'bar drew within mere inches, I screamed a hardy battle cry that Father had taught me at a young age. My arms lashed out while carrying Wuuthrad. The large, ancient steel battleaxe of Ysgramor drew nearer to the Khajiit's whiskered face, which carried an obviously startled expression. Tan fur and dark, red blood marked the snow.