"Keep your eyes on him, brother."

  The level of concern emanating from the man dressed in the full, nordic, steel plate armour shaped into the visages of wolves was almost palpable, and had it been anyone else it could have been described as fear. Of all the emotions that Vilkas knew that his twin brother, Farkas was capable of feeling, fear certainly wasn’t one of them.

  “Since when have you been such an old woman?” Rolling his eyes, Vilkas spared a moment’s glance to his towering hulk of a brother by his side, as he readjusted the straps keeping his vambraces tight to his forearms. “Are you getting soft in your old age?

  “Maybe. But that just means that so are you. Especially if you’re getting so soft in the head that you don’t notice when a man is dangerous.”

  Of all the men in the Companions, perhaps the entirety of Whiterun Hold and beyond, there were few who even came close to matching Farkas in build. Vilkas was average in height and yet he didn’t even come up to the shoulders of his ‘little’ brother. He was the firstborn of the two, and even if it was only a matter of minutes he acted as all ‘older’ siblings did, confidently and assuredly in all matters. It made the fact that he barely even reached Farkas’ shoulders in height all the more incredulous.

  “Dangerous? Him? Maybe to himself, but not to others.”

  With a dangerous creaking of chainmail under pressure, Farkas folded his arms and scowled while looking down on his brother. Such a stance always managed to make him appear even larger than he always was, somehow accentuating the fact that the enormous Nordic warrior had biceps larger than most other men’s thighs. Even his armour, custom built for him at significant cost, protested in the effort of keeping his strength contained. What was truly strange was the way he was acting, his eyes locked on and studying one of the day’s petitioners like an ice wolf alpha, confronted by a male sabrecat.

  Vilkas couldn’t see whatever detail was concerning his brother, watching the new petitioner step forward to the rack of training weapons and look over the collection. Axes, maces, hatchets, picks, hammers and a full assortment of varied blades were neatly arranged along the rack but the man had chosen one of the longer, double edged swords for the testing session. It was very similar to the one that was clasped by Vilkas’ side, a solid, dependable nordic broadsword, but as it was designed to be used in one or both hands as needed, it certainly wasn’t an amateur’s blade. This made the poor attempts to hold and wield it by the man all the more painful to watch.

  "Trust me brother, my nose tells me that you need to be careful."

  "You and your damned nose have gotten us into more trouble than it's worth." Despite his attempts to maintain his quiet, impassive intensity, Vilkas winced as he saw the way the petitioner gripped the sword. His hand wrapped around the hilt like he was trying to wring the neck of a chicken, the wrist locked into place without the flexibility needed for any form of finesse. "I still remember those nights after you ate those juniper berries that you swore smelled perfectly fine."

  If they weren't in front of their shield brothers and sisters, he would have grinned at his giant sibling's discomfort as Farkas’s mind dredged up that particular memory. He knew that Farkas could remember all too well the way he had practically lived on top of a latrine for several days after eating more than his fair share of unripe juniper berries. Since then he hadn't even looked in the direction of any sort of berry or food that contained them, whether they were the likes of pies or even the mead that used to be brewed in Helgen.

  "Still..." From within the giant Companion’s chest came a deep, foreboding growl, a clear sign his inner wolf was lurking just below the surface. "Just... Watch him..."

  Turning to face his soon-to-be sparring partner, Vilkas could agree somewhat with his giant twin. He would be watching the petitioner very closely as he was concerned the hapless fool was going to cut off his own hand or something. Despite the dullness of the blade the petitioner was swinging with all the grace and ability of a half-dead skeever, there was a legitimate cause for concern that he could injure himself somehow. Some of what Vilkas could only imagine as attempts to show off his ‘swordplay,’ left several of those gathered to witness the trials failing to contain their laughter.

  It had been less than two weeks after the dragon attack and the city was yet to recover from the event. The watchtower had been destroyed, almost a hundred of the Hold’s professional fyrdmen had been slain by the beast, which included a sizable number of the Jarl’s personal retinue. Now, it appeared that the Companions were to be left to pick up the slack. Vilkas was no fool, and he knew that Jarl Bulgruff was not one either. After all, you didn’t gain the epithet ‘The Greater’ by leading your people poorly in such troubled times.

  How or why the Harbinger of the Companions, Kodlak Whitemane had agreed to the Jarl’s request for their group to assist in training the city’s militia, Vilkas doubted he would ever understand. He did, however, know that part of the agreement was that the Companions would get first pick of the best among those they were called upon to train. This meant that there had to be a way to determine their suitability which in turn meant that it fell to the likes of Vilkas, Farkas and the Companion’s Inner Circle to test those who sought to be warriors.

  Normally it wouldn’t have been a contest in the slightest. Farriers, farmhands, daytallers, and merchants. These were not the sorts of men and mer who would find themselves gaining membership into the oldest, and greatest collection of honour-bound warriors in all of Tamriel. While many might deride the Five-Hundred Companions as merely just another band of mercenaries and sellswords, no other organisation could claim a five thousand year old pedigree to the first men who had conquered Skyrim alongside the mighty Ysgramor. It was a pedigree that the men and women who claimed a seat in the mead hall of Jorrvaskr guarded very carefully, and ensured that only the truly greatest warriors would join.

  Today however, was not a day of such glories and heroes, and Vilkas was left hissing between his teeth as he mentally calculated the hours needed to train the latest petitioner to be capable of cutting anything more than bread. Especially by the way that his dull edged, iron training sword accidentally bounced off an armoured thigh as he moved towards the waiting Companion.

  "Okay, whelp. Let’s have a look at you. Just like the others, have a few swings at me so I can see your form. Don't worry, I can take whatever you have to offer."

  Feeling and ignoring the eyes of the more experienced companions watching near the mead hall's doors, he gave another calm, measured glance over his sparring partner. Whoever he was, he was strong in appearance, and under the armour had the build of a labourer. Perhaps a mason, stonecutter or even a miner from the Hold’s quarries, but despite Vilkas' words to Kodlak earlier that morning, it wasn't just their arm that made a warrior. It took skill, discipline and technique, which this latest of the morning’s petitioners appeared to have none of the three in any measurable amount. About the only thing that Vilkas gave the man credit for, was his armour. It was a solid, dependable and pragmatic plate, that his experienced eye could see Adrianne’s mark upon. That on its own was a point in his favour. Even for a Redguard, Adrianne knew her armour, and while he would never admit as such out loud, Vilkas believed her skill with forging protection matched Eorlund Grey-Mane; Skyrim’s greatest sword maker’s ability in forging weapons.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  But armour was only as useful as the skill of those who wore it. For those in the Circle, their armour was a second skin, and they knew what blows to let through and which ones to block or parry. There were far too many dead fools in Skyrim who learned the hard way that even ebony armour was useless if your opponent slipped a blade between the plates, or battered their way through it with a hammer, mace, or war pick.

  Judging by the way that the sword was held in an unsteady hand, and his appearance, this latest of the day’s petitioners was born somewhere to the south of the Jeralls. His stance also showed that at some point in his life he had been exposed to Cyrodiilic swordsmanship but it was so terrible that Vilkas guessed that either he had watched a fight once, or had overheard someone talking about it and since tried to emulate it. Whichever way, his grip alone was woeful and Vilkas could see no less than three separate ways he could disarm him. Honour however demanded equal treatment for all and so, wearily, he began the test.

  Shield in hand, straps pulled tight against his armour plated forearm, Vilkas stepped forward as softly as a prowling wolf, his own training sword rapping against the wolf sigil embossed onto the shield’s face. Even in forty kilograms of steel, fur and leather, he was whisper-quiet, but his opponent sounded like someone had thrown an armful of pots down the stairs leading to Dragonsreach. In three heavy, lumbering paces the petitioner stomped forward, perhaps even in an attempt to intimidate before lunging forward with his blade.

  Trying his best not to sigh, Vilkas slapped it contemptuously aside, treating it with as much concern as he would have swatting a fly. The petitioner’s form was pitiful, his technique nonexistent, and while he could feel the rippling strength in the man's arms behind the blow, it had been utterly wasted, and left him flat footed.

  Metal clashed and filled the air with ringing impacts as he twisted away from a backhanded swipe so obvious that his adversary may well have written a letter informing Vilkas of his intent. This was not how Vilkas wanted to be spending his days, especially in not such a glorious time that had begun with the slaying of a dovah of old. Even though he and the majority of Whiterun hadn’t personally witnessed exactly how such a momentous event had unfolded, they had all borne witness to the sight of the handful of survivors returning with the oxcart bearing the creature’s skull. Many of the warriors sent to face it had died, and as far as Vilkas had seen there was only one unconscious figure being carried when they returned, and he yearned for the opportunity to face such creatures in battle. If anyone was able to accomplish such a task it would be the Five Hundred Companions, and especially the Circle with their… gifts.

  All the while he was standing, musing to himself, the petitioner was trying his best to strike Vilkas down. Which said a lot about his lack of skill and ability that Vilkas was able to fend him off without paying much attention at all, and being practically lost in thought. What was truly the worst part? This petitioner was just merely the latest in an almost useless batch of wet-eared milkdrinkers. Only one had impressed him enough to consider her entry into the ranks of the Companions; a young woman who disguised her ability with her beauty, and almost managed to slip her blade around his shield and through his guard. A feat that even some of those within the Circle struggled to achieve.

  Again and again and again, the iron training sword smashed ineffectively against his shield and Vilkas barely even grunted with the effort. Most shield-bearers, and those who fought them knew that you had to get around the protection they offered. An axe was preferable, chopping the metal or wood apart like you would bring the mightiest of pines low, otherwise you had to get around them. His opponent was instead insisting on using his full strength and bodyweight into blows that he must have been hoping would get through the shield. Somehow. There was about as much chance of the petitioner breaking through Vilkas' banded iron shield, as he would have head-butting Winterhold into the Sea of Ghosts.

  Yet another poorly timed and wasteful blow was turned aside and Vilkas moved, sliding his feet across the courtyard with only millimetres between the stones and his boots. Step by step he forced his opponent to follow, keeping the advantage firmly within his grasp and controlling the fight, but other than a handful of parries he hadn't even attacked. Instead, Vilkas pulled his mind away from the interiors of his thoughts, and forced himself to watch as his foe began wearing himself down trying fruitlessly to smash through his shield.

  Even his footwork was appalling. In the space of half a dozen steps Vilkas had almost caused the petitioner to defeat himself by tripping over the cobblestones in the training yard. In any other situation the fight would have been over in the first three moves. Especially against the likes of bandits or the dozens of other dangers within Skyrim’s wilds. Had this fight been for real, and even against the lowliest of outlaws, this petitioner would have ended up gutted dozens of times over; unless they took pity on the poor fool, or succumbed to laughter instead.

  Vilkas however didn't have much in the way of pity in training. He was ruthless and exacting, and as such he could turn even the worst and least skilled whelp into a companion of legend if given enough time.

  The training swords sung as they came together, the petitioner’s being deflected by almost the tiniest of flicks, which left him dangerously overbalanced. Yet again, Vilkas’ opponent had put all of his weight into a thrust that left him wide open for an attack, an attack that Vilkas finally performed now that he had gotten bored. A flicker of movement, a loud crack of metal on leather covered flesh, and the petitioner’s hand sprung open like a dwemer trap as Vilkas slapped knuckles with the flat of his blade. If it had been different and not a training bout he would have left the man missing all of the fingers on his left hand, but instead he had to content himself with leaving his opponent’s sword clattering across the cobblestones.

  Not that he was finished teaching the first of what he assumed would be dozens of painful lessons. He stepped forward with all the grace of a dancer, twisting ever, so slightly before ramming his armour plated elbow into the bridge of the petitioner’s nose.

  Disarmed, knuckles and face already starting to swell, the petitioner lay flat on his back, blinking away tears and shaking his head to clear the starbursts in his eyes, and the blood from his sinuses. Vilkas had never been one for pulling punches, as many of the other testees who had come before him had realised, but it said volumes about this latest of petitioners that he wasn’t unconscious, crippled by the pain, or choosing to lay down. Instead, and in a surprising amount of speed the man had clambered unsteadily to his feet, pressing one hand to staunch his bleeding nostrils while glaring at Vilkas through pain filled eyes.

  “Well, he can take a hit at least.” Vilkas thought to himself, crushing the urge to give a satisfied grin as the dropped sword was dragged from where it had fallen. “And he's not willing to give up, or give into pain either.”

  All around them, the training yard was filled with dozens of witnesses. Some were fellow militia and other petitioners laughing at the latest of their number to be humbled by one of the Circle. Others were the men and women of the Companions themselves, seeing if any of those present may become to be called brother or sister in their futures. The laughter was mocking and grating on Vilkas’ ears, but not entirely unwarranted. Even through the leather gloves it was clear that the man’s swordhand was swelling and making it supremely difficult to grip his sword anymore, and he probably couldn’t see well through the tears of pain filling his eyes. It didn’t seem to stop him though, as he forced his wounded hand into a tighter grip, glaring at Vilkas and staring at him with a confident smile that was totally at odds with his appearance and level of skill.

  Of all the witnesses to this latest failing, there was one and only one who wasn’t laughing at the situation. Farkas had managed to find his usual spot leaning against one of the training dummies on the other side of the training square and for a moment the two brothers met each other’s gaze. The tension in Farkas was obvious, as was the way he was leaning into the straw and wooden dummy to the point where the iron bands and reinforcements were creaking in protest. He had never, ever seen his brother this wary and on edge before. One time, several years before he had borne witness to Farkas beating a mountain troll to death on the slopes of the Throat of the World with nothing more than his bare fists. There was nothing living in all of Tamriel that posed a threat to him, especially given their unique ‘gifts’ shared among the members of the Circle. But here he was, watching every move the stranger made with an expression matching a she-wolf looking out for her litter.

  "You have much to learn pup." Carefully, Vilkas ensured his tone was as neutral as possible to avoid any dishonour on his conduct, or to reveal the amount of disappointment he had in the day’s activities thus far. "But, you might make it."