This is Our Home: A Collection of Skyrim Short Stories

Leap of Faith (Ylva)

9th of Sun's Dawn, 4E 198

While I was used to hauling my clients' extra gear, I could never get used to feeling like a common pack mule. Especially when the men who hired me rode aback horses while I carried their things and led their beast by the reins.

"Have you ever fought Forsworn before?" asked Israal, the Redguard man who had hired me back in Markarth. For a self-proclaimed adventurer, he was dressed in fine armor made more of expensive silks than steel. His dark, shoulder-length hair was roped and held loosely by a leather strip at the nape of his neck. He wore no helm, and the only weapon he possessed was a sword with silver and other finery laid into the hilt.

Clients like him were my least favorite: men who strutted around in fine robes, boasting about their daring adventures. They often told of the foes they had slain, the lands they had seen, and—to my disgust—the women they had conquered.

Clients like that were always the first to turn and run the moment trouble arose.

"Did you hear me, Wilma?" my client asked after I had refused to answer his question.

I ground my teeth together. How many times do I have to tell him my name is Ylva? "I've made it a habit to avoid them when l can."

"You're wise to do so. They're fierce creatures, barely more than animals. Wildmen." He sat up straighter in his saddle, hand wrapping around the pommel of his sword. "When we reach their camp, Wilma, you must be prepared for a fight. I won't leave without my heirloom."

"All due respect, why didn't you just hire the Companions? They do things like this all the time."

"Why pay their high price when I can hire you? You're far less expensive than a Companion."

I suppressed a grumble. Maybe I should raise my rates. Then only the serious adventurers would hire my help. "I see."

He chuckled under his breath. "I must admit, you're a cut above the brutes I've had to hire in the past. You're intelligent. For a woman, at least."

If it weren't for the fat coin purse weighing my satchel down, I would have dropped his gear and hightailed it back to Markarth. I reminded myself it was just part of the job, and no matter where I would go, insults would follow me everywhere.

Night had fallen by the time we reached the Forsworn's encampment. It was situated near an ancient ruin labeled Lost Valley Redoubt on my map. Israal instructed me to tie his horse to a nearby juniper bush before we moved in.

"I see sound traps ahead," he whispered to me, drawing his sword. The blade was freshly polished and glistened in the moonlight. I wondered if he was aware of just how bright it was shining, and how it would affect our odds of sneaking in and out undetected. "Be aware."

I nodded and unsheathed my own sword. "I'll take point."

With me in front, we followed the dimly-lit trail leading up the mountainside. Things like bone chimes and tripwires had been set at random intervals along the path, which made navigating the already-rough terrain that much harder. I almost set off one or two of the tripwires, earning a patronizing scoff from Israal.

Some ten agonizing minutes later, we made it into the main part of the camp, where some of the Forsworn were gathered around a small bonfire. They were talking in soft voices, probably to remain undetected from the main road. A few tents made of animal skins were scattered here and there near the fire, and a long table with an assortment of weapons and armor was just in view behind the fire.

"There's my heirloom," whispered Israal, pointing to the table. "That silver helm, it belonged to my great-great-grandfather. It's been in my family for far too long to let some wild vagabonds steal it away."