Trendil's story part 43 - The Usurped Patrol
Entry posted by jfraser in Trendil's Story
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The one bright side of the calamities that had befallen the Stormcloaks – the loss of Company E, the lack of reinforcements since they had not procured the Jagged Crown, their missing second-in-command – was that their manpower was low enough that even Company D had to start taking patrols. It was a relief to get out of the city, even though it put Marcus in daily close quarters with Jaunty, who he grew to hate more and more with each passing day.
It started with the restrictions on Marcus’ daily sword practice, which Jaunty forbade the moment he saw them (“You are an archer! If you still need more practice, work on that!”). Marcus tried to get around this command by getting up early, while Jaunty was still asleep (their patrols never got moving until the sun was well up and stopped well before sundown; this made for a fairly short day in these mid-autumn weeks) but, as before, Jaunty had his spies, so the loophole was shut down.
Jaunty very nearly lost his head when he tried to take the swords from Marcus. This probably would have led to a fight with the entire company and a sudden violent discharge from the Stormcloaks, but Privy, Jaunty’s second in command, talked the fop out of it (“He might need swords if an enemy gets too close.”)
The salt flats stretched out in every direction, a blinding white wasteland beneath a pale sky. Marcus trailed behind the company as they marched (well, more like ambled – they were Stormcloaks, after all, and from Company D, at that, so there was nothing akin to “marching” going on in their vicinity, beyond, perhaps, ants in some nearby ant hill). He held his bow in loose hands, his swords strapped across his back. The monotony of the flats made him restless and his mind drifted to memories of another life, another body, and a certain battle on these very plains.
He laughed a little at himself. He had warned Bent about patrolling this area, some weeks ago, but, of course, nothing had come of it – at this date last time, she and Bent and the rest had barely been sworn into the Stormcloaks. They were still nearly three months away from that fateful day; the day she had faced her first…
“Dragon!”
The word sent a jolt through Marcus and he swiveled his head. Sure enough, the familiar form of a dragon was screaming out of the west toward the also-familiar partially built house. Without hesitation, Marcus dropped his bow and started to run forward, swords already half out of their scabbards. At last, his time had come! He would take on the dragon, just as Trendil had before, and prove himself. Even Jaunty would have to…
“Marcus!” The officer’s voice cut through the clamor. Jaunty was resplendent in his tailored armor, his hair oiled and his face set in a permanent sneer. “Get back with the archers. You’re not a frontline fighter. I don’t want you anywhere near that thing.”
Marcus glared at him, frustration boiling over. “I can help! I’ve done this before!”
Jaunty’s eyes narrowed. “You can help by following orders.”
“I…”
“You’re an archer because I say you’re an archer. You want to play hero, do it on your own time. Today, you follow orders.”
“But…”
Marcus was interrupted by a boom, so loud it rattled his teeth. Or maybe they just hurt because he was grinding them together in frustration. In the near distance, the dragon’s wings froze mid-flap; it seemed to hover in the air for a moment, then it hurdled to the ground. The impact shook the flats, and just like that, the fight was over.
Sure, there was still a little to do - the beast thrashed, tail lashing, claws gouging the earth. Squads A and B rushed in, swords flashing, while Marcus watched, helpless. A woman with dark hair dressed in fur armor held the dragon’s attention, doing something – probably a shield spell – whenever the dragon loosed its flame while the others hacked at the beast. A sandy-haired woman – Holo, Marcus remembered, the wife of the crafty khajiit who had trapped the dragons last time - drove ice into its side. The dragon roared, flopped, then fell still, and Marcus had to acknowledge how impressive the takedown had been. Even she and her Company at their strongest would have been hard pressed to match that time.
Jaunty nodded, his face smug. “See? Sometimes the best thing you can do is stay out of the way.” He sauntered toward the remains of the dragon, presumably to take full credit for the kill, and Marcus bit down the retort he so longed to verbalize and began to turn away, but then stopped and turned back.
He watched as the strangers – now that the dust had settled, Marcus saw three more, two orcs and a human in College Mage robes – talked with Jaunty and the khajiit. There was something familiar about the dark-haired woman, but her face had been turned away, so he couldn’t…
Then she turned and started walking toward the building with the orcs, the mage, and Kra’aft and Holo, and Marcus’ heart skipped a beat. It was one of his sisters; he was sure of it. Probably Aithne, although why she was dressed like the orcs and not in College robes, he could not guess. He called out to her but was too far away to be heard, so he started running toward the building, only to be stopped once again by the returning Jaunty.
“I see you are still full of energy. That’s good! And I have more good news for you – you get to use those swords after all! Get over to the dragon and chop off its head. We’re going to bring it back to Windhelm.”
“I will in a moment, first I need to…”
“What you need to do is follow orders or I’ll have you put in chains! You’ll spend the rest of the war in prison! You are on your last warning, Cuss!”
Marcus thought over his options. Killing Jaunty would solve one of his problems but would create several more, beginning with the follow-up necessity of killing the rest of the company, who would surely not take an enlightened view of the situation. The only other option was galling but, really, the only one he had.
As he turned and made his way toward the dragon, he tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that it wouldn’t have really mattered had he been able to talk to Aithne - it wasn’t as if he was free to go with her, nor did he have any useful information to give her. Whatever else he had managed to do in this iteration of Skyrim, making progress on his primary tasks was last on the list of accomplishments.
Needless to say, his halfhearted attempts at self-consolation served only to deepen his depression. Not for first time, he cursed himself with bitter breath for choosing this path. Not for the last time, he vowed to find a way to make it work anyway.
Edited by jfraser
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