It was a simple enough layout. The slavers clearly had no military background – their camp was just a disorganized mess of tents loosely gathered on the shore. The cove was deep enough that their ship was docked to a rough-hewn pier that appeared to be made of driftwood tied together with knotted rope. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief – trying to get to a ship anchored off the coast would have been a challenge even with a full company at his back.

 

He felt a pang at the thought of the company, not least because those thoughts turned his attention to his former second-in-command. Koren had almost certainly discovered the five Resist Frost potions in his pack by now. Since there was no one there to challenge his fragile male pride, he was sure to use them.

 

Or so Marcus hoped.

 

He shook his head – he needed to focus on the job at hand.

 

“I count about fifty of them, with probably more on the ship,” Petr said. “How are we supposed to ‘take care of’ this many men?”

 

Marcus grinned, but didn’t look at his companion - if he didn’t see Petr’s face, he could imagine it was the old days, with her telling Bent her latest plan and waiting for his incredulous reaction. “Simple. Time to bring back a classic.”

 

“A what?”

 

“Never mind. Hey, did you happen to notice the pride of sabrecats we passed on the way here?”

***

Never again, Marcus told himself some minutes later as he ran for his life. Fortunately, this male body was markedly faster than when he had been a woman – had he still been Trendil, she would now be sabrecat food and her mother would have died of shame.

 

As it was, the head start he and Petr had thought would be enough had been erased in far too few seconds. Fortunately, they got to the camp just before that gap closed entirely.

 

Trendil screamed warnings as he ran straight toward the closest slaver, watching the man’s face contort from confusion to fear, trying to time everything just right. A moment before a collision with the flat-footed bandit, Marcus shifted, diving to one side and rolling. He heard the sabrecat’s roar and the man’s scream as the two met, but spared only a glance at the carnage as he jumped back to his feet and resumed his sprint. The bandit was already little more than ravaged pulp as the cat tore into him; Marcus had been only a heartbeat away from the same fate.

 

Never again. It had been one thing to taunt mammoths and giants – it was easy enough to outpace them (as long as you didn’t step in a prairie vermin’s hole). Sabrecats were on a different speed level entirely. Maybe a nice nest of horkers next time.

 

Marcus and Petr gained the gangplank to the ship at the same time, then paused, wheezing for air, as they glanced back at the chaos that had once been the slavers’ camp.

 

Fifty men against seven cats, and the battle was not close – the men were getting slaughtered. Several of them wavered and broke for the ship, which was when Part Two of the ever-evolving plan presented itself to Marcus.

 

“Quick, onto the ship. Try to look like a bandit.”

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

Marcus smiled as he took out his swords. “I’m going to make sure they keep fighting the cats.”

 

“I…” Petr stopped, apparently thought better of what he had been about to say, shrugged, and staggered up the gangplank while clutching an imaginary wound on his side.

 

Marcus got to work slicing rope. First, the thick ropes that tied the ship to the pier, then the ropes that had been used to build the pier itself, until he felt the dock quiver and begin to skew. He turned, took a running start, and jumped back toward the ship, which had already begun yawing away. He had just enough reach to grasp at the rope that had tied it to the pier, but it was too thick to grip and a moment later, he cursed as he splashed into the water.

 

In this, he was fortunate – the rope was long enough that he was able to reach the trailing edge. As he shimmied up, he found himself thankful that he had not been wearing armor (well, other than his jâr, of course, but that would cause no hinderance to swimming. In fact, the jârs had been the de facto swimsuits for the students of Y̌êz Shûngbo); heavy leather or metal would have dragged him down.

 

Marcus spared a glance back as he gained the deck of the ship. As hoped, the rickety pier had mostly collapsed under the weight of its own shoddy construction, leaving the slavers to the mercy of the cats. A few of the bandits had lept into the water and were swimming with vigor toward the ship, so Marcus sliced the rope he had climbed on the off chance some of them might be strong enough swimmers to reach it, then turned his attention to the ship itself.

 

It was a nice surprise to find it empty save for three crumpled corpses and Petr, who waved a hand. “You just missed the welcoming party! Nice work with the pier.”

 

“Thank you. Sorry I took so long. Is that your blood on your shoulder?”

 

Petr waved a dismissive hand. “It is nothing, just a cut. Ready to see what's down below?”

 

Marcus pulled his swords back out as he nodded. “Let’s finish this.”

 

It turned out the reason there were so few guards was because all of them were busy having their ways with their prisoners. The two layers of belowdecks had been retrofitted to accommodate their newest cargo – dozens of naked women were bound by their wrists to metal manacles bolted to the walls down the length of each side of the ship. Most lay in some form of hopeless protective pose; curled up with knees tucked under chins, facing the walls or sitting up with legs pulled to them, covering themselves as best they could.

 

Those actively being raped were, of course, in much different poses, as decreed by the men who had chosen them for their pleasure. One of those men, dick-deep in a woman’s ass as she sobbed on her knees, her gave Marcus and Petr a dismissive glance.

 

“Still our turn. Get the fuck out. Yer supposed to be on watch.”

 

Marcus was about to respond, but Petr beat him to it.

 

“Brey? Is…is that you?”

 

Marcus frowned at his companion, then followed Petr’s gaze. One of the chained women to their right, a dark elf with dark hair, stirred and glanced up, then squinted. “P…Petr?”

 

Petr took two steps and thumped to his knees beside her. “Yes! Divines, what are you doing here?”

 

“What am I…”

 

“Wait, you know that whore?” The man who had admonished them paused in his labors (though did not pull out, of course) to look back. “I didn’t think…wait. I don’t recognize you. Who are…”

 

That was enough for Marcus. His sword cut through the air, taking the man’s head with it in a splash of blood. He was already moving before the slaver’s body began slumping to the floor. In mere scream-filled (the screams were mostly from the women – the men’s got cut short) moments, the heads of the other rapists joined the first’s.

 

“Find the keys and start unlocking these,” Marcus called back to the still-kneeling Petr. “I’m going to get the rest of them.”

 

Distracted as they were, it was not difficult to finish off the bandits on the ship. Once it was done, Marcus joined Petr in freeing the women then scavenging the ship for clothes, food, and drinks before they all climbed to the upper deck.

 

The ship had meandered a few hundred feet from the shore but was still close enough to see the aftermath of the battle. It was not a pretty sight – blood and dead men saturated the area. The cats were still there, feasting on their prey.

 

Marcus laughed. “I guess we’ll need to find another way back.”

 

“I guess so.” Petr motioned, turning Marcus’ attention his way. “Marcus, I’d like you to meet Brelyna Maryon, an old friend of mine.”

 

Marcus nodded to the dark elf as she said, “I don’t know what fortune led you here – Petr said it was some sort of test? – but I shall be ever grateful for it.”

 

“Did you…” Petr started saying, then stopped and gestured awkwardly. “Did they…”

 

Brelyna rolled her red-tinged eyes. “Rape me? Divines, Petr, just say it. You haven’t changed. No – I was lucky. A lot of Nords have some sort of loathing for my people such that they don’t want to even touch us. Usually that is a sore point in our lives but, it seems, in this one singular instance, it was actually beneficial.” She motioned around. “The rest of these women had it much worse than me.”

 

Marcus nodded. “We’ll get everyone safely to Windhelm.”

 

Brelyna shook her head. “Everyone but me. I’m going to Winterhold.”

 

Petr gasped. “What? You’re still planning on going there?”

 

“Of course. You know it has always been my dream.”

 

“But…”

 

“But what? Of course, the trip will be harder now that I don’t have my horse anymore.”

 

“I’m going with you.”

 

“What? No, you need to return to Windhelm. Didn’t you say this was a trial to get into the Stormcloaks? I don’t want to mess up your chances at your dream.”

 

“It will be fine.” Petr’s voice had grown firm and he gripped Brelyna’s shoulders. “The war isn’t going anywhere and I want to make sure you’re safe. I’ll escort you to Winterhold then join the Stormcloaks with the next batch of recruits.”

 

Brelyna sighed. “I suppose I have to have an escort anyway. And I’m pretty sure you won’t turn out to be a slaver, like the last one I hired.”

 

“That’s how you got here? I wondered.”

 

“Yes. That’s what I get for hiring outside the Mercenary’s Guild, but I didn’t have enough for their fees and I’m already pretty old to be starting out, so I couldn’t wait any longer.”

 

Petr gave Marcus a glance. “Guess only one of us is making it this time. Let Bearmane know, will you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Not that Bearmane would care, Marcus mused as Petr and Brelyna moved off together, still chattering. He sighed as he turned his mind toward other things, such as getting forty-something people off this ship and back to Windhelm. Maybe they could just sail there? He cursed himself for killing all the bandits – some of them would know how to sail this thing.

 

It didn’t matter – the important part was that the trial was complete. Soon he would be back with the Stormcloaks and another step closer being back with Bent. Whether dragons did or did not exist in this new Skyrim, even, he realized with a sort of growing wonder, if the Stormcloaks did not win the war – none of it mattered. Not anymore.

 

Only getting Bent back did.

 

 

 

Next chapter

 

Previous chapter

 

Start from the beginning