Torin's fist landed on the hooded figure's face with a satisfying crack, forcing him to stagger back several steps. The figure's head snapped to the side, his hood falling back just enough to reveal a flash of pale skin and a trickle of blood from his split lip.
The cloaked man didn't move for a moment, his head still turned away. Then he slowly straightened, raised a hand to his mouth, and spat a mouthful of blood along with two teeth onto the cobblestones.
He let out a low chuckle, the sound wet and mocking.
"And here I thought I'd have to put more effort into provoking you." He shook his head, his grin widening despite the blood staining his teeth. "You Nords are so predictable."
He raised his hands high, his voice carrying across the crowded street.
"Guards!"
Echo let out a low, rumbling growl, her hackles rising, but Torin's eyes merely narrowed as he watched armed men in light armor—the city's guards—emerge from within the crowd and surround them. They moved with practiced efficiency, forming a ring around Torin and Echo, their swords drawn, their faces hard.
Convenient, Torin's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the hooded figure.
"It's like they were waiting for exactly this," he said dryly, his voice carrying no surprise.
The hooded figure merely grinned and stepped back, melting into the crowd that had gathered to watch the commotion. His black cloak swallowed him like smoke, and within moments, he was gone.
One of the guards surrounding him stepped forward, his sword pointed at Torin's chest. He was a tall man with a scarred face and the weary eyes of someone who had dealt with far too many troublemakers.
"For the crime of assaulting a citizen of the kingdom and defiling the king's piece in his land, no less," he declared, his voice flat and official, "you are under arrest." He gestured with his blade. "Come with us quietly, and no one will get hurt."
Torin met his gaze without flinching, his posture relaxed but his eyes cold.
"I am an envoy of Skyrim," he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge of steel. "A guest of Daggerfall and the Queen's chosen champion. That man insulted my honor, and I retaliated as is my gods-given right."
He took a step forward, not toward the guard but to the side, his gaze sweeping the ring of soldiers.
"Even if that were not the case," he added, his voice dropping lower, "you have no authority to apprehend me. It's beyond your station."
The guard's jaw tightened, his sword wavering for just a fraction of a second as he processed Torin's words. His eyes darted to the crowd, then back to Torin, weighing his options.
He's hesitating, Torin noted. Either he's not sure about this, or no one told him how far to push me...
The guard quickly resolved himself, his jaw setting, and raised his voice to address the gathered onlookers.
"That might be the case..." He took a step forward, and the rest of the guards followed suit, their swords raised, their formation tightening. "Then again, it might not be. For all I know, you could simply be lying to get out of trouble."
Another step. The circle closed.
"If you would come with us," the guard continued, his voice carrying a note of finality, "we'd be able to verify your claims soon enough."
Torin scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. He gave the man a casual wave of his hand, as if brushing away an annoying fly."No sooner than an attempt to stab or poison me while I'm in your custody, right?"
He brandished Skaldrfong and struck the ground with the butt of the spear. The impact sent a shudder through the cobblestones, and ice spread outward from the point of contact, a thin layer of frost crackling across the street.
"I don't know what the scheme is, but you'll need more than words if you want me to follow you."
The guard's face darkened. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles white on his sword hilt, and shouted, "You've had your chance to surrender! Attack! Kill him if need be!"
The guards charged—all eight of them, their boots pounding against the cobblestones.
Torin moved fast. His hand wove a quick pattern, and magicka surged through him, settling over Echo's form like a second skin. Ebonyflesh. The spell would make her much harder to hurt.
"Don't kill anyone," he said, his voice calm, almost conversational, as he buried his fist into the first guard to close the distance. The man's eyes went wide as the blow connected with his chest, sending him flying backward into his comrades.
Echo darted past him, rising on her hind legs and throwing her weight into the shoulder of another guard. The man hit the ground with a sickening crunch as his shoulder bone gave way under the force of the impact, his sword clattering from his grip.
Another guard came swinging at Torin with a sword, his blade aimed at the Nord's neck. Torin raised his spear to block, the weapons meeting with a sharp clang, and then struck the man's exposed chin with the blunt shaft of the spear, the spike at the base barely missing the throat.
The guard crumpled, his eyes rolling back.
This continued for a minute and a half. Torin moved through the guards with practiced efficiency, his blows precise and measured. Echo worked beside him, a force of nature, her massive form sending guards flying with each sweep of her paw.
Soon, only one guard remained, standing alone in the middle of the street, surrounded by the groaning forms of his unconscious fellows and a crowd of speechless onlookers.
Torin, flanked by Echo, gave him a flat, unimpressed look.
"The way I see it..." He tilted his head. "You have two options. Join your friends for a nap—" He gestured at the scattered bodies. "—or go to the palace and get someone who can verify my claims."
The guard took one look at his fallen comrades, then back at Torin's cold, grey eyes. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Then, to no one's surprise, he turned around and darted in the direction of the palace.
...
As Count Gautier made his way through the crowd, surrounded by three of his knights in gleaming plate armor, the sea of onlookers parted before him like water before a ship's prow. Following close behind was Qasim, who had heard what happened and insisted on accompanying the count.
They reached the center of the gathering, where Torin stood with Echo at his side, exactly where the terrified guard had said they would be. The unconscious guards on the ground were beginning to stir, groaning in pain as they rolled onto their sides and clutched at their bruised limbs.
Gautier's gaze swept over the scene—the scattered bodies, the frost still clinging to the cobblestones, the unyielding calm on Torin's face. A quick once-over assured him the towering Northman was not injured, though the faint shadows under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. His clothes were still marked by his toils.
He managed to track the stag, fight it, and still had the energy to handle eight city guards, Gautier mused, a flicker of genuine awe crossing his thoughts. More than mere strength, this is persistence.
He nodded his head, his voice steady and deliberate.
"Someone was trying to give Sir Garran an advantage in the upcoming duel, it seems, or perhaps they simply wished to test your skill..." he said, his tone carrying the weight of authority. "Either way, It's a good thing you did not comply."
Torin gave him a dismissive wave, the gesture lazy but pointed.
"I would have been tempted to do just that if I weren't so tired," he said, his voice flat, his eyes cold. "Then, at the very least, I could have punched the right people... people who would have given me much more satisfaction."
His eyes turned to the guards—specifically one that was slowly standing up, his face pale, his expression that of a man who had just swallowed something foul. "Beating these hapless fools gave me none..."
The guard met Torin's gaze, and his face flushed with shame. He looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole, and his eyes darted nervously to Gautier with an expectant, desperate look.
The count sighed, the sound carrying a note of weary exasperation.
"There appears to have been a misunderstanding," he declared, his voice carrying across the crowd. "This fine warrior is a guest of our king, and his mother." He spread his hands, his tone soothing and authoritative. "He is not a criminal to be apprehended, but a champion to be honored. Disperse, all of you."
The crowd murmured among themselves, but obeyed, slowly dispersing back into the city's evening bustle.
Gautier cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the lingering murmurs of the dispersing crowd. He turned to Torin, his expression shifting to something more formal.
"As for the trial we gave you," he began, his voice measured, "may I inquire as to—"
That was all he could say before Torin reached into his pocket, retrieved the horn fragment—smooth, polished, still faintly warm from the stag's touch—and tossed it to the count. It spun through the air, catching the fading light, before landing in Gautier's outstretched palm.
"Don't give me that shit," Torin said, his voice flat, his eyes unblinking. "I know when I'm being watched."
Gautier stared at the fragment in his palm for a moment, turning it over, then let out a low chuckle. He shook his head, a hint of genuine amusement flickering behind his careful composure.
"Shameless as it might be, I do ask for your understanding." He tucked the fragment into his coat pocket. "For everything. I couldn't simply bet the future of my house and the entire kingdom on the sword arm of a—"
Torin interjected, his voice carrying a dry edge.
"A northern brute?"
Gautier merely stared at him, his eyes slightly wide, as if the idea had never crossed his mind. His lips parted, but no words came.
Torin gave him a dismissive wave and a thin smile.
"It's fine. I take no offence." The smile faded into a blank look. "I wouldn't bet my future on the schemes of a slimy, no-good Breton either."
Gautier just stared at him silently for a long moment, his mouth open, the words stuck in his throat. His knights tensed, their hands already reaching for their swords, waiting for the word to lunge. Their master had certainly taken offense for less.
Then, suddenly, Gautier raised his head and let out a loud laugh—a genuine, unguarded sound that echoed across the clearing. The knights exchanged confused glances, their hands faltering.
He shook his head, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
"Are all Nords like you back in Skyrim?"
Torin gave him half a grin, the expression not quite reaching his eyes.
"No. They're not as patient, nor as well-mannered."
Gautier let out another laugh, then shook his head, his composure slowly returning.
"I see." He pocketed the horn fragment and straightened his coat. "But in any case... I must take my leave. We've yet to decide the terms of your duel, after all."
He cleared his throat and turned around, his knights falling into step behind him.
"I will see you again soon."
With that, he left, his figure disappearing into the evening crowd, leaving only Qasim, Torin, and Echo standing in the fading light.
...
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