Though the room was crowded, the mood in the Four Shields Tavern was sombre. With the general retreat of Imperial Legion forces from across Skyrim into Haafingar, the Hold's taverns had welcomed an influx of morose soldiers looking to spend their pay before the Stormcloaks put an end to the civil war. Since the Rift had fallen to the rebels, both sides had been massing their forces for the inevitable assault on Solitude. But for whatever reason, Ulfric had lingered in Windhelm, hiding behind his walls and his armies. So the men of the Imperial Legion drank away their nerves for the battles ahead, their shame at the defeats past, their grief at the comrades forever lost. They drank, and shared stories.
Birane Ormax was a Breton from the garrison at Fort Greenwall. He had been the only survivor – he limped into an Imperial camp on the border of the Rift with an arrow through the leg and had ridden a cart up to Dragon Bridge. Every night, some new cluster of drunken legionnaires – some who hadn't yet encountered the Stormcloaks – pressed him to retell the tale of how the Dragonborn had unleashed a dragon on Fort Greenwall and wiped the garrison out. He had been in the same seat for days now, polishing the story until it could have come from the Bard's College.
"Fine," he growled, "It had been a couple of weeks since the couriers started telling us that Alduin World-Eater had been defeated. For a few days the commander couldn't stop the revelry, but once the joy faded, we realised what that meant for us – with the dragons defeated, the truce was off. The Rift was the only Hold loyal to the Empire outside the capital, so we knew we were next. The commander started running extra drills. He doubled the rhythm of patrols, made sure the gates were shored up, everything. We figured we'd see them coming, and we did. One morning, the scouts reported a column of Stormcloaks had crossed into Riften, a day's march away. The commander told the men to get some sleep before the rebels arrived in the evening. At the time, I was annoyed to have been put on guard duty." Birane frowned at his empty tankard. Within minutes, a young soldier from Anvil had scurried to the bar and back to refill it.
"It can't have been much past noon when the first shots were fired. Men on the walls started dropping dead with arrows through their throats. It was like the castle was surrounded by archers, but we couldn't see any! Even with the sun high in the sky, blazing down on every outcrop and rock cluster, there was no-one to be seen. Still, the arrows came, and men were dropping off the walls. We sounded the alarm, but most of the garrison was asleep. I took this arrow through the knee and fell on my arse. I could see the whole castle from up on the watchtower, but I couldn't get up.
"There was a shout from above the gates – someone was running towards the gates. The few surviving archers rained arrows down on whoever it was, but apparently they didn't find their mark, as the gates exploded in flames seconds later. A tall, hulking Khajiit in ink-black armour sprang through the fire, hands wreathed in more flames. He shouted something in an ancient, harsh tongue that seemed to echo against the heavens –"
"The Thu'um!" one of the Nord soldiers exclaimed. There were disapproving noises from around him.
"Yes, apparently. Nothing happened for a while. I mean, nothing magical-seeming. The Khajiit drew his sword and charged into the first soldiers to emerge from the barracks. He seemed to move faster than any of them, with more force and brutality – two fell to the ground headless, another was impaled, and the final soldier received a blast of flame from the assailant's left hand that burnt him to a crisp. Before the bodies had even hit the ground, the Khajiit had turned and was charging towards the stairs in long strides. There was a new sound though. Like the flapping of some great bird's wings. I hadn't encountered a dragon up close before, but I had seen enough of them going around, burning down villages, to know what was next. I figured we were just unlucky – even with Alduin dead, maybe the dragons had started up their attacks again, and we were just the first victims. At least the Khajiit would have to deal with it too. He was on the battlements now, duelling with a soldier who had only just managed to draw his sword in time to avoid the fate the rest of his comrades had received – a slash from the sword and then an unceremonious shove off the wall. He was holding his own, until the dragon's shadow passed over them and the soldier flinched, giving the Khajiit the chance he needed to put a sword through his eye.
"Now, I don't know if you've ever been to Fort Greenwall, lads, but the barracks are off to the left of the gate in a big stone building. Men were trickling out of it in twos and threes, but there must have been dozens still in there – though it was getting hard to tell how many the Khajiit had cut down. He seemed to pause on the battlements and survey the Fort. He shouted those words again – sounded like 'Odaveen' or something, and pointed at the barracks. The dragon swooped down and perched on a tower overlooking the barracks. I swear, everything went quiet. We all knew how many men were in there, how much firewood, how few exits. The dragon seemed to inhale deeply and then…"
Birane fell silent, his face tight. He drained his ale.
"Fire. The bastards didn't stand a chance. The only mercy is that it didn't look like they had time to realise what was happening to them – the beast's breath looked like it was hot enough to scour the whole fort from the inside. Tongues of flame shot out from every door, window, and crack in the stones. At that point it was all over. One of the archers, the brave fool, started shooting at the dragon while it cooked the fort – the Khajiit was on him immediately. He sliced his bow-arm off in one stroke and kicked him over the battlements. The last holdouts were on top of the barracks – somehow, they hadn't been melted by the heat. As the dragon took off to circle the fort, the one who had summoned him stormed over to them, crossing the distance in a few leaps. The stairs were made of wood and were smouldering, and the air around the barracks was shimmering with heat but he didn't seem to care. The men didn't dare take the fight to him – they backed up to the edge of the roof. He laughed. The bastard sheathed his sword and laughed. The dragon was busy roasting some of the survivors on my end of the fort, so the survivors got their courage together and charged. There were about four paces separating them. The Khajiit said three words.
"On the first, Fus. On the second, Roh. On the third, Dah, and his Voice sent them flying away from him, off the edge of the barracks, off the edge of the Fort, to their deaths. And that was it. I was the only soul left in Fort Greenwall. The Khajiit walked over and exchanged a few words with the dragon, and then it took off towards High Hrothgar, then he stole one of the horses from the stable and rode off. I waited a few minutes before dragging myself down after him to haul myself onto a horse – the civil war's been going on long enough that prisoners aren't safe like they used to be – and riding out before the Stormcloaks arrived. The next day, Maven Black-Briar surrendered after only a couple of months in power, and the Rift fell back into the hands of the Stormcloaks."
"And so that was the Dragonborn? The hero of Skyrim?" A Dunmer mage said disbelievingly.
"Yes. The hero of Skyrim is a Stormcloak – and Talos has sent him dragons to help punish the Empire for the Concordat," Birane said bitterly.
The doors swung open and a courier hurried in. When the room didn't immediately fall silent, he rang his little bell.
"Attention, men of the Legion! General Tullius has ordered all men of the Legion not currently engaged in operations to fall back to the city of Solitude! Ulfric Stormcloak and his army have ridden out from Windhelm. That is all."
"Well, children. Looks like you'll get to meet the hero of Skyrim sooner rather than later." Birane drained his pint. "Thanks for the ale." He limped out after the courier, leaving a tableful of suddenly quite sober legionnaires.