CHAPTER 4: The Noble NPC
I crouched beside the goblin mage's corpse, wiping sweat and grime off my brow with the back of my forearm. The bastard had nearly roasted me alive, and what did he leave behind?
A stick.
Well technically, a staff. And more specifically, a staff topped with a glowing red crystal the size of a clenched fist.
I wasn't a mage. I couldn't chuck fireballs or whisper some ancient chant and summon thunderclouds. But if I got out of this cave alive and that was still a pretty big "if" this thing might be worth something. Especially to someone who actually could use magic.
I raised the sword, jammed the tip under the edge of the crystal, and pried.
The staff cracked with a splintering pop as the orb came loose, dropping into my palm with a solid, satisfying weight. It was warm, pulsing slightly, like it still remembered the spell that tried to turn me into charcoal.
I turned it over in my hand, studying the way the internal veins of red light shifted and glimmered. Definitely magical. Definitely valuable.
"Loot secured," I muttered.
I slipped it into my pouch, then paused. Felt the weight shift. The pouch wasn't full, but it was getting there. Three gold, ten silver, handful of copper, and now a murder orb. Not bad for a broke guy who started this adventure with nothing but a stiff shirt and existential dread.
I backtracked toward the chamber where I'd thrown my first sword. The mage I'd impaled was still there, arms twisted awkwardly beneath him, blood pooled around the hilt. I crouched, yanked the weapon free with a squelch, and examined his staff too. Different design, blue crystal, shaped more like a jagged shard of glass.
Same technique. Jam, pry, pop.
Another orb in hand. Colder this time, buzzing faintly like static against my skin. Different magic. Different purpose. Whatever. It was mine now.
I debated taking the staff itself, but decided against it. Too long, too clunky, and I'd look ridiculous carrying around two swords and a glorified tree branch. Besides, I needed both hands free.
I sheathed or more accurately, tucked both swords through loops in my belt, crossing them awkwardly against my sides. One might snap in the next fight. The other was already chipped. But two blades were better than one, and I wasn't about to get picky.
I could still feel the ache in my side, and my arm throbbed where the stone shard had bit into it. But I couldn't stop. Not here.
That last fight had been loud. Way too loud. Those fireballs must've echoed across half the cave system. If there were goblins nearby and of course there were, they'd be coming.
So I moved.
Quick. Quiet. Torchlight dancing along the walls as I followed the winding tunnel deeper. The stone underfoot shifted slightly, less uneven here, like this part of the cave had been shaped more intentionally. Not by nature, by hands. Goblin hands. Tools. Design.
I stayed low, listening.
And then I heard it.
A voice.
Not the hissing, spitting goblin tongue. A real voice.
Male.
Human, I hoped.
It echoed faintly, muffled by distance and stone, but definitely not goblin. The cadence. The tone. It was English. Or maybe whatever passed for English here. Either way, it was a beacon.
I slowed, creeping forward until I reached a ledge overlooking a larger chamber below.
I peeked over.
And what I saw made me blink twice.
A prison.
Crude but functional wooden bars lashed together with rope, wedged into carved slots in the rock. Three cages. One occupied. Inside, a man. Young, maybe my age, blond, wearing what looked like expensive traveling clothes that had clearly seen better days. He paced in the cramped space, shouting toward a nearby goblin.
The goblin stood just outside the bars, robe-clad, another mage. His staff glowed faintly at the tip. Red again. The bastard's head tilted every few seconds like it was trying to understand the man, then grunted something back in its broken snarling tongue.
Communication? Barely.
Miscommunication? Absolutely.
The man wasn't helping. He was waving his arms like a brat who lost his Wi-Fi connection.
"I told you, my father will pay you! He's the high magistrate of Varnemont! Just let me speak with your, your king or chief or... whatever you call the one in charge!"
The goblin hissed and barked something that sounded like a threat. It waved its staff, sparks crackling at the tip.
The man flinched and backed up.
Clearly, they were speaking, but neither had any idea what the other was saying.
I scanned the rest of the chamber.
Two guards stood at the outer perimeter of the prison area, different from the others I'd fought. These weren't naked or half-dressed. These goblins wore full armor, iron or steel, mismatched and dented, but effective. Full helms. Breastplates. Greaves. Shields strapped to their arms. And their swords?
Not bronze.
Iron. Maybe even steel. Cleaner, sharper, better-crafted.
Elite guard types.
And I had to assume that the mage was here as both interrogator and muscle.
I ducked back behind the ledge and crouched, breathing slowly, mind racing.
This was no random patrol. This was an actual operation. A prisoner. A mage. Armed guards. Whatever these creatures were doing, it was organized.
And worse?
I was vastly outnumbered. Again.
Two armored guards. One mage. One human idiot making demands like he was still at a five-star inn.
I clenched my jaw and exhaled slowly.
I couldn't rush this.
I had to be smart.
I crouched behind the ledge, eyes fixed on the scene below like I was watching a strategy sim play out in real time. The armored goblins weren't moving much, just shifting weight from one foot to the other, occasionally growling something low and unintelligible. The mage goblin, though, paced with a kind of erratic, twitchy energy, as if every moment spent not exploding something was an insult to its existence.
The idiot in the cage kept flapping his gums, completely oblivious to how close he was to getting himself turned into ash pudding.
I exhaled through my nose and leaned back, letting the sword rest across my thighs.
Alright. Best-case scenario...
I laid it out in my head:
Three enemies.
One mage. Two armored guards.
One captive. Useless.
Me, with two chipped bronze swords, a pouch of coins, and a half-broken sense of self-preservation.
I'd recovered somewhat from the earlier magical fireworks show. My body still ached, especially my arm, but the pain had faded to a dull background noise, nothing I couldn't fight through. My senses were sharp again, Ki flickering faintly through my limbs, like a pilot light waiting to ignite. I wasn't full power, but I was mobile. Alert. Dangerous.
I figured I could take two out, max, before things went sideways. Three, if I got creative and reckless, which, let's be honest, I was already halfway there.
So I started mentally dissecting the room.
Distraction options? Minimal. No loose rocks above to drop. No noise I could make without instantly drawing aggro. But the cages had straw bedding, flammable. If I still had one of those orbs...
I reached into my pouch. Nope. Still warm, but inert. Dead batteries, at least for me.
So, direct confrontation it was.
I didn't care about the guy in the cage. Not really. He could've been a prince or a potato farmer for all I cared. He was a mouthy NPC with the survival instincts of a goldfish. But the gear those guards had? The swords. The shields. The armor?
That was worth risking something for.
I gripped the sword at my hip tighter.
Alright, Kaizen. Triage the threat.
The mage had to die first. Period. I couldn't afford another spell duel, not when one hit could end me instantly. That little fireball-happy bastard was the problem. He went first.
I could probably take him out with a throw, same as before. If I lined it up right, caught him unaware...
Then I'd have two guards to deal with. One I could maybe stab in the chaos. The other? That'd be a fight. Steel versus bronze. Armor versus peasant clothes.
But I wasn't empty-handed anymore.
And I wasn't that weak either.
My vision drifted back down to the goblins.
The mage was close to the cage now, leaning in and waving its staff while babbling something. The prisoner was still posturing like this was a negotiation.
"I said my father is the high magistrate! He'll pay you handsomely if you just listen!"
God. He was going to get both of us killed.
I flexed my fingers and adjusted my stance. I was still rusty. It had been a long time since I moved like this. Since I fought like this.
A long time since I'd been that guy.
The vanquisher. The whisper in the dark. The one people didn't see coming until it was too late.
It had been a while since I was last the Qahnaarin, the Dragonborn. Not that anyone in this world knew what the hell that meant. But I remembered. The title. The weight. The way it felt to be feared, to be capable. Back then I was the Thane of Flalkreath, Whiterun and Solitude. With my follower and spouse Lydia.
I wasn't there yet.
But I could be.
I glanced up at the countdown still hovering faintly in the corner of my vision.
29:02:39... 38... 37... 36...
Tick-tock.
This was it.
I tightened my grip on the sword.
And I made my decision.