“You move like a pregnant cow!”
Darian stared at the woman in astonishment. She advanced in staggering lunges, swinging the warhammer as she came. Her face was a mask of fury. You should see
yourself move, he thought.
“Do you think you know me?” Darian asked, stepping back. “If so, you’re mistaken.”
She answered with another grunt and wild swing. A slash across her chest made her drop the warhammer, and another ended her life. Darian sighed. Now her furs were soaked with blood and worse, and carrying the hammer would annoy him. Still, he could ill afford to leave Septims lying in the grass. He braced the hilt across his shoulder and kept walking.
He had joined the Fighters Guild in Chorrol, but they had no work for new meat, as they put it. They did have an extra bow and several bottles of Tamika’s West Weald wine, to which he happily helped himself. The meals he had on the road were spare but merry: ham and cheese sandwich with wine, cheese sandwich with wine, bread with wine. Tonight he would only have wine, unless he made it to Cheydinhal.
Magnus sank in the sky behind him, gilding the grass and trees with light. Darian ignored his itchy sweat and empty stomach and simply enjoyed his surroundings. The tips of turrets appeared over the trees in the distance. Darian smiled. Perhaps someone knew how to cook Redguard cuisine in this city.