The Sword Remembers

4E 201 | Mid Hearthfire | Day 1 in Skyrim

The first bandit stared at the line across his chest as if it belonged to someone else.

Then blood opened it.

He fell into the mud.

The others hesitated only long enough to become angry.

Two rushed her together. Tsukihana turned the first sword aside, stepped beneath a mace, and cut the attacker's forearm before driving her shoulder into his chest. The road was slick. Her left boot shifted half an inch.

Her master would have struck the back of her leg for that.

The ground kills more swordsmen than enemies do.

The mace wielder pressed forward. Each blow carried enough force to splinter wood. Tsukihana gave ground, not from fear but because her body had forgotten the punishment of real combat. Months of travel had dulled endurance that technique could not replace.

An arrow struck her upper arm.

Pain burned white.

The bandits cheered.

Tsukihana tore the shaft free before the archer could draw again. The mace descended. Instead of retreating, she stepped inside its arc.

Second Moon: Falling Blossom.

Her blade crossed the man's throat. Momentum carried him past her before he collapsed.

The wounded swordsman came from behind. She heard the scrape of his boot, turned, and cut once. His weapon hit the road without the hand holding it.

The remaining bandits lost their courage.

"Monster," the archer whispered.

Tsukihana's eyes hardened. "No."

He loosed another arrow and missed. Then he ran with the survivors into the trees.

She did not pursue.

The forest slowly reclaimed its sound.

Tsukihana cleaned her blade, sheathed it, and crouched beside the driver. She closed his eyes with blood-stained fingers.

"I'm sorry."

Hooves approached before she could search the wreckage.

Five riders emerged through the mist. At their front rode a blue-furred Khajiit with amber eyes and a bow across his back. Behind him came a young Imperial scholar overloaded with satchels, a broad-shouldered warrior in dark armor, a brown-haired woman studying the battlefield with immediate professional interest, and another rider keeping watch on the trees.

The Khajiit raised both hands. "This one would like it recorded that he is not responsible for any of this."

Tsukihana stood. Her hand returned to her sword.

The brown-haired woman dismounted and looked at the arrow wound. "You need a bandage."

"I will manage."

"You are leaking."

"I noticed."

The scholar stared at the dead with a mixture of horror and fascination. "Did she do all of this?"

"Most of it," the woman replied.

The Khajiit placed a hand over his chest. "Inigo. Archer, traveler, and occasional source of excellent judgment."

"Frequent source of noise," the armored man said. "Kaidan."

The scholar offered an awkward bow. "Lucien Flavius. Pleased to meet you under circumstances I would not describe as pleasant."

"Remiel," said the woman with the bandages. "Take these before pride finishes what the arrow started."

Tsukihana did not take them.

She looked once toward the road the carriage had been following and began to walk.

Each step drove heat through her arm and shoulder. The world tilted at the edges, but Falkreath lay ahead. She would not lie in the mud waiting for strangers to decide what she was worth.

Behind her, tack creaked.

"She is stubborn," Lucien said.

"Very," Remiel answered.

Inigo's voice followed with quiet amusement. "This one likes her already."

They kept their distance, yet they did not leave.

High among the trees, a figure in a pale wooden mask watched the wounded ronin limp toward Falkreath. When the riders passed beneath the branches, the figure turned and disappeared without disturbing a single leaf.