The Woman with the Voice: Chapter 2

It was the very essence of darkness but it could hardly be called a void. After all, it was not empty. Something hung suspended, black scales a perfect camouflage in its domain. It was motionless yet somewhere within it fragments of consciousness stirred. It began as a whisper, barely audible and the scaly behemoth made no move but the whispers grew more insistent, rising in volume. They spoke in a foreign tongue which at last caused him to open his eyes. And in that instant he realised he was indeed an entity and he had a tongue.

“Wo los hi?”

The voice produced no echoes. How could it when there were no tangible walls? He heard no response but he knew what was needed. He was awake. This was not a dream like the thousand instances before. A grin curled his lip as the realisation grew stronger. At last, with a terrible roar, he leapt forward as the void receded and he flew down into the world that materialized before him, fiery eyes aglow as a series of stone buildings came into his sights.

Brechtje sat bolt upright, the savage roar still ringing in her ears. She sat there for a moment, breathing heavily. She slowly put her hands to her face. They were cold and her palms were covered in a fine layer of perspiration. She didn’t dare close her eyes for a few moments; so certain she would see those terrible eyes again. They were like the dying embers of a fire yet they burned with such intensity that she felt they could kill her with a mere glance.

She got out of bed, her back twinging and crossed the room to stand at the window. ‘A dream, no, a nightmare, that was all it had been,’ she told herself. She looked out of the window at the marketplace below. Outside the vendors were setting up their stalls and she heard the sharp clank of metal being struck emanating up from somewhere outside her field of view. It sounded like the kind of ambient noise heard around a Blacksmith’s. Suddenly she stood up straight as a wave of realisation swept over her. She was late.

She hurried down the stairs, two at a time. Hulda was already awake and was throwing a couple of logs onto the fire.

“Good, you’re awake,” she observed, “I was just about to come up and get you. Better get down to Adrianne as soon as you can. She’s not a patient woman. And here,” she tossed Brechtje a sweet roll, “Take this, it’s going to be a long day and you’re going to need it.”

“Thanks,” said Brechtje as she hurried out the door.

The sunlight nearly blinded her as she exited the building and she put her hand up to shield her eyes. The marketplace was already abuzz with activity. She spotted Ysolda checking out a stall owned by a woman with long dark hair. She gave Brechtje a cheerful wave as she passed. Brechtje smiled and waved back.

She moved swiftly down the main street towards the Blacksmith, taking a bite out of the sweetroll as she went. The sponge was sweet and reminded Brechtje of just how hungry she was. She swallowed the last bite as she reached the Blacksmith. Adrianne was leaning against one of the posts, wearing a dark apron spotted with scorch marks.

“I was just about to go and ask Hulda where you’d got to,” she said as Brechtje approached her, “I had hoped for someone a little better turned out. One without crumbs on her shirt.” Brechtje blushed, brushing off the stray crumbs.

“Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers, follow me,” Adrianne continued. Brechtje followed, feeling uneasy. With Adrianne’s manner it was hard to tell if she had been joking beforehand and unfortunately Brechtje could see no reason why that should be the case.

Adrianne led her to the forge. It was a large stone affair with bellows rigged up next to it on a pulley mechanism and a trough of water next to it.

“I trust you already know how to use a forge,” said Adrianne.

“Yes ma’am,” replied Brechtje.

“We’ve had a few orders come in from the Battle-Borns over the past week,” continued Adrianne, “Blades, helmets, that sort of thing.” She must’ve caught the look of unease on Brechtje’s face for she added, “I want you to handle the orders closer to home. We’ll start you off with something simple. Ysolda came to me earlier, said she needed a new iron dagger, I’m sure you can handle that. All the materials you’ll need are by the forge. I’ll check back in a bit to see how you’re getting on.” With that she turned on her heel and left.

Brechtje donned a pair of thick gloves and picked up a length of iron in one hand, setting one end of it in the glowing forge. She reached for the rope and pulled, the bellows heaving and blowing gusts of air into the forge. After a few minutes the metal grew malleable and she lifted it out onto the anvil. Even with the gloves on she felt the heat radiating out from the piece of now orange metal. She picked up the heavy hammer and began pounding the length of iron.

The heat billowing out from the forge was strong and after barely half an hour had passed Brechtje was wiping stinging sweat out of her eyes. The blade was now more or less finished and after several more minutes she set it down in the trough of water while she went to the tanning rack to fetch some leather, cutting it into strips. She heard voices from the front of the shop and paused a moment to listen.

“Honestly, I swear you get through more swords than the Companions,” said Adrianne, “How did it happen this time?” A second voice, about as low as Adrianne’s but definitely feminine replied.

“I was sparring with Tolfgiir,” the voice replied, “Blocking practice.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do but it’s received a real battering. Maybe you ought to use a wooden sword for this kind of thing,” Adrianne advised.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Brechtje edged forward a little more, peering around the side of the building. Adrianne was cradling a beat up sword in her hands, inspecting the blade. Standing next to her was a woman perhaps an inch taller than her. And Adrianne was certainly not one to be easily rivalled in height. The woman was dressed in the yellow livery of the Whiterun hold and had a now empty scabbard belted at her hip. Her hair was long and dark with a single braid hanging down one side of her face.

Suddenly she turned her head to look in Brechtje’s direction. Brechtje ducked quickly out of sight and scooped up an armful of leather strips, dropping some in her haste.

“Who was that?” the woman asked.

“Who?” replied Adrianne.

“Someone ducked in behind the wall there,” the woman pointed over to the wall behind which Brechtje was stooped, picking up the dropped strips.

“Oh, that’s just the new help, Brechtje I think her name is,” replied Adrianne, “A newcomer from what I understand.”

“Not here to cause trouble I hope,” said the woman.

“I shouldn’t think so, Lydia,” replied Adrianne, “She’s a little scatter-brained perhaps but I see no harm in her. I’d better go see how that dagger’s coming along. I’ll have your sword ready by this afternoon if you want to drop by then and pick it up.”

“Thanks Adrianne,” said Lydia, “I’ll see you later then.” With that she left. Adrianne joined Brechtje by the workbench where she was securing the leather strips, joining the metal blade to the wooden hilt.

“How is it coming along?” she asked. Brechtje showed her the dagger.

“I’ve just finished it,” she replied. Adrianne took it from her and examined it.

“Not bad,” she commented, “Not bad at all. Just needs sharpened a little. Take it to the grindstone and sharpen it up. Afterwards I’ll need you to start work on a leather helmet.”

A couple of hours later Adrianne called Brechtje over from the forge.

“We’re going to stop for lunch now,” she said, “Do you want to join us?” Brechtje followed Adrianne into the shop. There was a table laid out next to the fireplace. At one of the chairs sat a man with a large bushy beard and beetle black eyes. She took a seat next to Adrianne, folding her hands in her lap.

“So, Adrianne tells me you’re the new help,” said the man. Brechtje nodded.

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly. The man laughed, a jovial laugh.

“No need for such formalities, little lady” he said, “Just call me Ulfberth. Everyone else does. Anyway, Adrianne’s been telling me you’ve been doing a good job.” Brechtje smiled. “Ever since this whole mess started, things have been getting more and more difficult.”

“You mean the…Stormcloaks?” Brechtje said hesitantly.

“Exactly,” replied Ulfberth, “Nothing more than a cover-up for a band of troublemakers if you ask me.”

“Who are they?” asked Brechtje. Ulfberth looked at her with undisguised surprise.

“The Stormcloaks?” he replied, “Ulfric’s boys.”

“Whose Ulfric?” asked Brechtje. Ulfberth looked more surprised than ever, as did Adrianne who had taken an interest.

“The Jarl of Windhelm,” she said, “Or rather he was. The last I heard he was captured and taken to Helgen for an execution. The legion will just have to round up the rest of his followers once that’s done.”

“You’re the first I’ve known who didn’t know about this whole thing,” added Ulfberth, “You just drop out of the sky or something?”

“No, I’m new here,” replied Brechtje, feeling uneasy.

“I’ll say,” he said, “Fancy not knowing about Ulfric. Anyhow, they’ve stirred up this whole mess and it’s, well, it’s kept us busy, let’s leave it at that.” Brechtje nodded.



It was early evening by the time Brechtje left the blacksmith. The sun had just set and the first stars were just beginning to appear. She made her way up the hill the Drunken Huntsman stood upon and leant back against one of the wooden posts. Her arms ached a little from the bellows but the weight of the coins in her pocket made it so it hardly mattered.

She sat down on the cool grass and fished in her pocket for the coins. They were large and made of gold, the face of Tiber Septim etched into one side. There were fifteen of them. More than enough for a good meal. She smiled and her stomach rumbled at the thought.

“Eldrindir throw you out or something,” said a voice behind her. Brechtje stood up quickly and turned to see the woman from earlier. She now carried a lit torch and the flames flickered in her green eyes.

“Whose Eldrindir?” asked Brechtje.

“Oh, it’s you, the newcomer,” said the woman, “Brechtje, right?”

“Yeah, and you’re Lydia, right?” replied Brechtje. The woman nodded.

“What are you doing out so late?” she asked, “It gets dangerous after dark, you know. Most people like to be inside before now.”

“Oh, I uhhh, I didn’t know that,” said Brechtje, “I was just…getting some fresh air. Thinking.” Lydia smiled, an amused expression on her face. Brechtje smiled back.

“So, where do you come from?” asked Lydia. Brechtje shrugged her shoulders.

“From the south,” she replied, gesturing vaguely.

“Funny, you don’t look like an Imperial,” observed Lydia, “I thought you might have been from one of the other settlements. Rorikstead perhaps.” Brechtje shook her head.

“No, you from around here then?” she asked.

“Yeah, lived in Whiterun for all, well, most of my life,” Lydia replied. Suddenly she stopped as she heard someone shouting. Whoever they were, they were calling desperately from outside the city walls.

“What’s going on?” asked Brechtje as Lydia drew her sword, taking a few steps forward.

“You’d better get back to wherever you’re staying at,” Lydia said over her shoulder, “Go on.” Brechtje nodded and hurried back in the direction of the Bannered Mare.

She glanced back over her shoulder once. Lydia, it seemed, had sheathed her sword and was now talking to someone. As the two of them began walking back along the road, Lydia leading the way, Brechtje ducked behind the door of the Bannered Mare and watched from the window as Lydia led the terrified looking man up the steps towards the Wind District.