The sun was starting to set, casting fire all about the sky between the dark iron of the clouds. As always in the Reach, the wind was keening, whipping the rough grass around the way Jorwen hated. Even so, he’d been crouching in the grass and moving quiet as a cat in it through two wars and countless odd jobs besides. White-Eye hadn’t moved in what seemed like hours, same with Thrice-Pierced. The only movement was his lips, sending a dark stream of tobacco spit onto the dirt. “Those are Reachmen, alright.” White-Eye handed the spyglass over to Jorwen, “Odd sight. What do you make of ‘em, Red-Bear?”

Jorwen grabbed the spyglass and put it to his eye, squinting into it, looking about the camp the Reachmen’d put up in a clearing near the road. He couldn’t see much through the screen of trees, but he could see that they were Reachmen. Covered in mail and more furs than a puffed-up Thane trying to make himself look like he wasn’t from Morthal or some other backwater town. Some of them were covered blue in tattoos and all of them battle-hardened by the looks of them. “Aye, Reachmen. Think they’re fixing for an ambush on a peddler or maybe one of our supplies coming in from Markarth.” He had to fight the fear from his thoughts that his wife or daughter would be among the next unlucky travelers on the road, but why would they? Jorwen told them to stay behind Markarth’s good walls. As he kept looking his eyes snagged on one and he brought his little circle of vision back onto the one he thought he recognized. “Couldn’t be.” He muttered but with every second his eye stayed on the man, the feeling of recognition came on stronger. “No.” He sighed, just couldn’t be.

“What?” Thrice-Pierced asked, holding his hand out for the spyglass. Still, Jorwen had it to his eye and he was trying to remember where he’d seen the man who’d caught his attention. “What?” Thrice-Pierced asked again, voice getting short and growly.

“What is it?” White-Eye asked, the eyebrow above his blinded grey eye going up in curiosity.

“Nothing. Think we can take them without spilling too much blood? Barely got the number on them but we can surprise them.” Red-Bear said, tossing the spyglass over to Thrice-Pierced.

“You’re the one I hear all them stories about ambushes and raids about. Reckon if you think so, I’m inclined to agree.” That didn’t sit too well on him. He didn’t want lads’ lives all hanging on his say-so. Could be his say-so was what’d get them killed and a family missing a son or sons missing a father.

“Fuckin’ Reach bastards, skin ‘em all and burn their fuckin’ homes.” Thrice-Pierced muttered, face screwed up with scorn as if scowling enough at them would make them all drop dead.

“Well, I think if we can persuade them off their little hill... You know, give them something to think about.” White-Eye said. These were men fixed on doing some dark work come morn and some unfortunate soul cursed with making the mistake of being there would get his throat cut by Reachmen. Needless to say, none of the folk they were spying on needed his doubts.

“Aye, we’ll give ‘em something to think about, alright, the fuckers.” Thrice-Pierced spat. He was one for spitting, was Thrice-Pierced.

“No.” Jorwen shook his head.

Thrice-Pierced had a look like Jorwen had pissed on his boots instead of appealing to reason. But that was folk from Windhelm for you, always fixing to fight. Especially Thrice-Pierced. “How many Nords you think they gutted and ate, huh? You fine with that, Red-Bear? Getting soft, eh?”

“Coming from a man named Thrice-Pierced, you’d think you’d have learned your lesson the first time.” Jorwen grumbled. “Besides, you probably had scores enough to settle with some of them.”

“Difference is, at least they’d be dying right. Ending the feud in the circle, not like whatever the Reachfolk gave them.” He spit again and licked some juice from his lip, “Fuckin’ shame is all.”

“Fixin’ to charge are you?” Thrice-Pierced reared his ugly head White-Eye’s direction, “Maybe we’ll find you a cliff to charge right off of. Until then, I’m taking Red-Bear’s word. Don’t need advice on fighting from a man named Thrice-Pierced.”

“Reckon we’d do more good for Daelin and Ashav to sit pretty right here and keep an eye on them. We only move if they look like they’ve caught the scent of some travelers or some such. Aye?” Jorwen said. 

“Aye, Chief.” They both said. He was happy his name still held some weight, at least to the grey-heads and folk who knew what they were about. Not like the fresh-faced new-beards angry about being stuck at the rearguard, not knowing how lucky they were to be far from the front.

“Just a fuckin’ shame is all.” Thrice-Pierced was mumbling as he handed back the spyglass to White-Eye.

“Just go down there, hero.” White-Eye smirked, “We’ll tell your wife you loved this road so much you just had to die for it.”

“Fuck off, White-Eye.” Thrice-Pierced looked away and spat, shaking his head.

“Shit.” White-Eye whispered, all gape-mouthed. “There’s some dumb peddler trying to shave some hours off of a trip.”

“Fucker shouldn’t have been late, then.” Thrice-Pierced spat, hands working into fists, ready to go.

Jorwen whistled something that sounded like any other bird around and out of the grass came a lean, short man. The only thing showing in the shadow of his hood was his dented chin and scarred mouth. “What’s to do, Chief?” He smirked with his missing teeth. Cleftjaw. Quietest man in Skyrim.

“Tell the others to get off their asses. it’ll be weapons, quiet as the wind.” Jorwen said, no excitement to be doing bloody work after all these years.

Cleftjaw nodded, “Right y’are, Chief.” Quick and quiet as a tadpool through water, he disappeared through the tall grass again. “Well? I said weapons.”

At that, White-Eye and Thrice-Pierced brought out their tools, quick and as familiar around them as a tailor with his needle. Their blades were clean as their faces were dirty, Thrice-Pierced held his axe like a lover and his face was as if it was one, all his own. White-Eye was checking the edge of his sword with a thumb, a heavy frown on his face. Steeling his nerves. Jorwen was doing the same, checking his shield over and the seax sheathed at his side. Checked his knives and then his big blade. Satisfied, they looked to each other and started their way towards their camp. “Nice night for it, eh?” Thrice-Pierced said, smiling like a man who’d got just what he wanted on his name-day.

“If you say so, you mad fucker.” White-Eye muttered. Jorwen knew how he felt.

* * *

They’d made it back after a bit of excitement. A few hours away from camp, you’d think it’d be a welcome thing to get a break but fate has a knack for muddying the water all up. Jorwen’s ass hurt and his back ached, didn’t get any type of good feelings after a scrape, especially at this age. All Thrice-Pierced did was nag and whine about the aches in his joints even after getting just what he wanted. Send three old warriors out to do a young man’s job. Probably if they had Cat-Kicker with them it would’ve turned out far differently, but they didn’t, and they were all the better for it. They parted ways with shaken hands and nods, people already pestering him about torn pants or a leaky tent. The camp was all bustle and he was in no mood for any of it after the night he had. All he wanted to do was read his wife’s letters for the hundredth time and get some real sleep. It wasn’t long before a thin-bearded lad scurried up to him and told him they were forming up for some speech in a couple hours.

On his way back to his tent, some Altmer asked him if they’d found anything. Jorwen just shrugged and patted his blade resting on his shoulder, pommel in his palm and point in the air. “Might’ve.” Not better at all for it either. Still had blood on his sleeve. Slowly, the hours passed and he’d read his wife’s letters by candlelight after shooing Maduras off for the hundredth time. Now, he heard people scuffling and running and walking to gather around Ashav and his closest men, and woman. Jorwen fell in with them and listened to what Ashav had to say. Talk of an offensive, he was sure he could hear Thrice-Pierce’s smile widening far enough to rip his cheeks right apart. “Fucking nonsense.” Jorwen’s lip curled in contempt for the plan. Ashav must have been desperate, or hiding stupidity well all this time.

“Right about that.” White-Eye had found a place next to him, shaking his head. Men of his and White-Eye’s experience rarely found themselves rushing to the fight. Always seemed to catch themselves in one. He remembered Aelfgar telling him, what felt like a century ago, that the battle’s never over for folk like them. Told him once you get your palms bloody it’s hard to wash them clean again. He heard them call for volunteers for scouting and a din of hissing whispers went up around. Young lads egging each other on to volunteer, old folk whispering about they wanted nothing to do with scouting. The first to raise his hand was the altmer from before. He looked to White-Eye and the old soldier just shook his head. Maybe he should’ve agreed with White-Eye, but then he got to thinking maybe he’d save a few lives lending his experience to the scouting party, make sure there weren’t any traps, no ambushes.

“Fuck.” His wife had always said he had a knack for being his own worst enemy. Maybe she was right. Slowly, his hand crawled up towards the sky and he swallowed, the words coming up like burning bile, “I’ll be your second man.” And some turned to look at him, maybe wondering what use a giant could be at scouting, others taking solace the Red-Bear would be scouting for them.

Somewhere in the crowd Thrice-Pierced laughed. Ashav nodded, “Good man.”

“Now why’d you go and do a thing like that?” White-Eye murmured, looking at him as if he’d volunteered to have his head hammered down by a smith.

“You know what.” Jorwen’s hand returned to his side and he had a face that looked like he’d stepped waist deep in a pool of shit. “I’ve no fucking idea.”