Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
“Think they can hit us from here?” Arnbjorn asked, pulling up on his reigns and patting his horse’s neck gently to keep the beast calm.
Narova squinted out at the nine bandits that had waylaid them.
They were all in a line—all on horseback. The four men on each end had bows drawn, but they were simple, wooden things. Probably stolen from a group of hunters they killed. The bandit’s drawbacks were clumsy and crooked and already starting to waver a little.
“Doubt it,” Narova said. “Gonja and Korman are in a bit of trouble, though.”
The two smugglers were fifty paces ahead. Gonja had turned around quickly to see where the two Dark Brotherhood assassins were, but that was it. Otherwise, they waited.
“Can you hit them from here?” Arnbjorn asked quietly.
Most of the bandits were clad in mismatched pieces of leather or scale armor. Bits of iron and steel on a few of them. One of the Nords towards the middle of the line was wearing the chainmail shirt of a Whiterun Guard and carrying a shield with the yellow horse’s head on it.
Bandits who’d managed to kill a Hold guard liked to keep the armor as proof of the grisly deed. Nord soldiers did not give up their lives easily.
He smiled, and even from that long distance Narova shuddered at the sight of his yellow, broken teeth. Nasty.
The rider in the center of the line was taller by a head than the rest of them. Narova figured him to be the leader. He was clad from head to toe in ebony armor and carrying an Orcish greatsword in his left hand.
It looked like one hand was all he needed to swing that massive blade with plenty of fury.
He kicked his horse forward a few steps.
“Drop your weapons,” he growled from behind his helm. The voice sounded metallic and distant. “And get down from your horses. Might be you don’t die today.”
He sounded like an Orc, although it was hard to tell with the helm on. Everyone sounded the same behind that thick steel. The big bastard was the right size for it, at least.
Arnbjorn sniffed the air. Narova took her left hand off the reigns. Flexed it once and set it lightly on her thigh. Her bow was strapped to the side of the saddle, just a few inches away.
“You’re making a mistake, hamshank,” Arnbjorn called.
A deep, guttural laugh echoed out of the bandit’s helm. “The Brotherhood don’t scare me. A ragtag bunch of nightstabbers is all you are.” He raised his sword, pointing it at Arnbjorn’s chest. “Last chance.”
Arnbjorn just shrugged. “Hope you’re as good as they say you are, elf,” he said softly.
Narova took a deep breath. Felt the wind brushing against her face. Listened to the sound of the bandits’ bowstrings straining under pressure. Let her breath out.
“Now!” Arnbjorn yelled, swinging his hand up to the handle of his warhammer and spurring his horse forward.
Narova pulled her bow free with her left hand at the same time she yanked two arrows out of her quiver. Notched them both.
She was lucky. The two archers on the right side were aiming for her and Arnbjorn. She wasn’t worried about them. The two on the left were lined up on Gonja and Korman, but they flinched as Arnbjorn burst forward. Hesitated just a second.
That was all Narova needed.
Her two arrows shot through the air with a gentle whisper. Like the sound a hawk makes during a dive. Her first arrow caught one archer—an Argonian—in the shoulder, and he spun to his side and shot the man next to him in the neck. That one died before he hit the ground or got his sword halfway out of the sheath.
Her second arrow punched straight through the other archer’s mouth, but not before he got a shot off at his target.
The smuggler yelped with pain and fell off his horse but Narova didn’t see where he got hit—she was already notching a third arrow and turning to the other two archers. Their shots whisked harmlessly overhead as she drew back. Leveled her aim.
Her shaft plunked one archer in the center of his chest. Knocked him off his horse and killed him.
The last bowman was fumbling with a second arrow when he died. Straight shot through the throat.
Arnbjorn had burned down half the distance between the rest of the bandits. His animal howl filled the plain, making the wind sound like a child’s bitching in comparison.
Three of the surviving bandits headed towards Arnbjorn—one of them with an arrow in his shoulder. The one with the Whiterun shield moved towards Korman, who had produced a three-headed flail from his saddle and begun swinging it wildly over his head.
The leader held his ground. Waiting. Watching.
Everyone was too close together for Narova to take more shots with her arrows. And they’d just slide off the ebony armor of the big one. Her dagger was no good from horseback, either.
Time to put those lessons with Festus to the test.
Narova vaulted off the back her saddle and landed silently on the soft earth. Placed both palms on the soil.
Focus. She told herself. There is no reality. There is only you.
Narova felt every hair on her body stand up. The slightest tingle in the tips of every finger and toe. And a warmth deep in her chest.
Then she disappeared.
The world was different when you were invisible. Wispy and thin. You were still there, but you were somewhere else, too—straddling two worlds without putting your full weight down on either side.
Narova moved forward on silent feet. Heading right at the leader. She saw his visor panning, searching for her. Wondering where the little elf had gone to.
Look harder, Orc. Narova thought.
She had only gone a few paces when Arnbjorn met the first of the three bandits. He was a Redguard with jet-black skin, an iron breastplate, and a curved scimitar that he was waving around wildly.
Arnbjorn’s hammer surged into his chest with a sickening crunch. The Redguard was rocketed out of his saddle and thrown backward in a careening ball of broken metal that landed twenty feet behind the horse and tumbled five more into the shallow water.
Narova had never seen a man killed like that. Not by a human, anyway.
That’s because he’s not human. Not all the way, at least.
The other two yanked their horses to the sides when they saw their friend’s swift demise, but the Argonian that Narova had shot couldn’t quite get clear in time. Arnbjorn swung his hammer across his body and hooked the bandit across the neck, hard enough to break it and pull him off his horse.
Arnbjorn turned to face the one rider that escaped. As soon as his back was turned, the leader spurred his horse and headed towards Arnbjorn.
Clever bastard. But I have a few tricks of my own.
Narova quickened her pace, taking long, quick strides across the ground. Even at a full sprint she didn’t make a sound.
The leader rode fast for such a big man. Cutting down the distance between himself and Arnbjorn in just a few short seconds. He came up on the left and pulled his blade back, prepared for a menacing arc of death.
Probably had enough strength to cut old Arnbjorn in half with that thing.
The bandit was just about to start bringing his sword forward when Narova leapt into the air—holding her dagger in a reverse grip. She’d need all the strength she had to punch through the mail beneath his armor.
She landed on the back of his saddle and pressed her left hand into the side his helm so his neck twisted and exposed a small space between his gorget and pauldron.
Narova stabbed him three times, lighting fast. She felt herself rematerialized—no longer invisible—then she felt his body go slack and the sword drop from his hand. The horse veered off to the left as he leaned on the reigns.
She was about to hop off the back of the horse and let the dead man ride off into the distance when something went wrong. His body didn’t slack off the rest of the way. It tightened again. A new strength coming from nowhere.
Then he twisted around and pulled her off the horse.
They crashed to the ground in a clump of mud and leather and metal. Rolled over each other a few times, pushing all the air out of Narova’s lungs. The bandit wound up on top. Narova felt her body sinking into the earth under the weight of his armor.
She raised her dagger and stabbed a few times, but couldn’t find a space in the armor. Her blade glanced off his shoulder and chest harmlessly and then he clamped her hand down with a mailed fist.
There was blood leaking out of his neck. With his free hand he wrenched off the ebony helm.
Not an Orc. He was the biggest Khajiit she’d ever seen. Massive. His face was battered and scarred and ruined.
“Close, elf,” he hissed, blood coming out of his mouth. “But not enough.”
He raised an enormous fist up in the air—so large it blotted the sun, casting that cool shade over her again. Narova relaxed her body and waited for the end. One blow was all it would take. Simple. The only thing that pissed her off was that she hadn’t gotten to kill that bastard Sujava yet. Or have sex with Arnbjorn. Those would have been good things.
And then the enormous cat’s head was gone. It was just neck and body and a wavering arm.
An impossibly high geyser of blood shot out from his neck. A deluge of hot, sticky blood poured down on Narova’s face and body. Burned her eyes and filled her mouth. The cat-body withered and crumpled on top of her.
Gasping, she pushed it off and rolled away. Stood up and wiped her eyes as best she could.
Blood dripped from every part of Narova’s body.
Arnbjorn was leaning against his hammer a few strides away, smiling.
“Now there’s a pretty sight,” he said.
Korman and Gonja were walking up to them. Korman’s flail was deep red and covered with bits of brain and bone. Narova could see the remains of the bandit in the Whiterun armor behind him—nothing left but some meaty pulp and a few shards of the yellow shield scattered around.
That one’s got some skills, too. Narova thought. Got to keep an eye on him.
Gonja had an arrow stuck through his right hand, and was grimacing from the pain. The only one who’d managed to contribute nothing to the situation.
Narova ran a bloody hand through her hair and picked her dagger out from beneath the cat’s corpse. A large crater of blood was already forming. Narova wiped the blade clean in the grass and sheathed it.
“I need a bath,” she announced.
“Oh?” Gonja said, grinding his teeth. “Well I need someone to get this fucking arrow out my hand!”
Korman sighed. “I’ll make a fire,” he said.
Not a talker, that one.
Arnbjorn kicked the cat corpse once, as if to make sure it wouldn’t spring up and give them one last bout of trouble.
“Biggest fucking Khajiit I ever saw,” Narova said.
“Not a Khajiit,” Korman said over his shoulder. “Ka Po’ Tun.”
As if that explained everything.
“On the bright side,” Arnbjorn said. “We’ve got plenty of fresh horses to make Solitude.”