This has been revised since its first posting. I would greatly appreciate any feedback from readers, and I will take the time to review anyone's work who asks.
Blood of Akatosh
Dragon Rising
Prologue
He came into the world like any other - through pain and suffering.
.
His mother had been sick for weeks, and the wise woman thought she would lose the baby. The old crone gave her some concoction then, to bring the child out early. It was dangerous, but they all feared she would grow too weak before he came; so she took the birthing elixir in the morning, and they all waited. That night she began.
It was a hard delivery, even as such things go - up until the end, anyway. The mother wailed, and breathed, and wailed. She begged for the thing to be cut out of her; begged for the wise woman to let her die, and save the babe. The wise woman, to her credit, simply ignored the mother's ravings and tried to give direction and encouragement when it was needed. She did complain once or twice that this was the most stubborn babe she had ever encountered. It was many hours before he finally graced the world with his powerful voice.
The father came, with their first child in tow, when he heard the babe cry. He was a small child, even for a Breton, but his father was not surprised at that. His first son had received very little of his Nord blood; and besides, this one was early. They put the babe into his arms, and asked him what the boy's name should be.
"Aleron," he said.
The girl watched as flames consumed her whole life.
The bandits had come to Kolgrimstead in the night. The girl had watched as they cut down everyone in the village. One of them, a big brute of a fellow, had seen her weeping by her brother's broken body, and would have killed her there, but he said she would make a good little toy for the boys. She had told him she was only twelve, but he just laughed at her and said that girls were easier to keep than women - and that she had tits enough for a woman anyway. He had set her aside, tied her to the cart where they put all the other things they were taking away with them
She watched as the bandits played games with her people. They stood in a half-circle around the entrance to the burning inn, stripping and beating Ulfar. The girl had always liked Ulfar. He was a handsome boy, if a bit of a dunce. When he was naked, bloodied, and bruised, they told him he could go… if he went through the inn. The place was an inferno. He tried to refuse, telling them he'd give them anything they wanted. Then one of the bandits, an Orc, started to take down his own pants as the others made to hold Ulfar down. The boy broke free and rushed into the flames. The bandits laughed so heartily at his screams, as he burned alive in that inn.
The girl witnessed a real rape, later. Ulfar's sister Dalla was caught as she tried to run from her husband's farmhouse. She screamed and faught, until the big ugly Nord who was on her stuck a dagger in the back of her skull. When he finished with her, long after she stopped twitching, he threw her in the inn with her brother.
It all rushed past the girl in horrifying slow motion. Time passed.
She sat in numbness, watching the destruction. It was all winding down now, and she figured they would come for her soon - whenever someone remembered she was still there.
It was not a long wait.
The man who had tied her there came back drunk and covered in blood. He untied her, and laughed when she did not try to run. She herself was surprised at how dead she felt. She had always been a feisty girl. Her mother had been training her with a sword since she was only six. But now she had no fire left with which to fight. All that had happened had broken her.
He took her up into the cart, where he threw out enough of the plunder to make room for his intended business. He sat her down there while he disrobed. In his drunkenness, he struggled with his clothes in the dark. When he wore only blood and earth, he pulled her to her feet again. She still could not bring herself to care; she just stared at the flames behind him. He laughed lowly to himself as he clapped a meaty hand under her jaw and forced her to look him in the face. Still, she didn't care. His other hand groped roughly at her breasts, and she felt him stiffen against her belly. He groaned like a beast, and then muttered something she couldn't understand. With both hands he tore off her nightshirt, and she was naked. She tried to cover her young womanhood, but he just laughed again. He would get to that later, he told her.
For now, he forced her to her knees. She knew what he wanted. She sat there, staring at his gross appendage. He pressed it against her face, but she didn't open her mouth. The back of his big fist slammed across her face, sending her down among what was left of the spoils.
And then there it was: the anger she had known should be there. Rage bubbled up inside her like water in a kettle too long left over the fire. It burned in her head like a blade fresh from the forge.
As if opportunity had been waiting on her, the girl felt the handle of an axe under her fingers. She took hold of it, and then turned back to the bandit with a wolfish smile. She did her best to appear defeated, holding his attention with doe eyes as she freed her weapon. The axe had a spike as a balance. She brought it up into his groin, skewering one testicle and tearing the other. A foot of iron ripped into his bowels, and he started to scream. The girl leapt up and grabbed his throat with both hands, silencing him. She dug her fingers into the skin - through the skin. She gripped the tendons and cartilage as blood ran out in gouts over her hands. With all her strength, she tore away; and with his throat came a shower of blood like nothing she could have expected. It sprayed out of the bandit like a geyser, covering her from head to toe.
She just knelt there - for how long, she did not know - naked and covered in blood like a newborn, until finally a voice stirred her.
"Mjoll," her father whispered.
The boy stood over three graves. Two were fresh. He still held the shovel. He was filthy, half-starved, and weeping. He was sobbing, the way only a person who has lost everything that mattered to him in the world could. He pled for answers from the ground, mumbling nonsense in racking sobs. How could it be? What could have taken them so quickly? Where were the gods, to let his parents die like that?
They had been hale and healthy just a week ago. He had tended the horses, as he always had. She had tended the garden. He had sold a horse just last Sundas. They were happy. And then on Tirdas they woke and couldn't keep any food down. They ate, and it all came up in violent sick. Their other evacuations were worse. The boy sent the fastest horse to the Priory, for help. The second day they couldn't rise. Stomach cramps kept them sweating into their bed sheets. They drank what water they could, but still they coughed most of it up again. The third and fourth days were much the same. The boy tried to keep liquid in them, and he prayed as often as he could. The horses went unfed. A fox got into the garden. On the fifth day, she did not wake at all. She slept, barely breathing. He lay beside her, weeping feeble tears, and tried to wake her. The boy waited. There was nothing else he could do now. He prayed to Talos to speed his priests along. On the sixth morning, she was dead. He died soon after. His last words were to tell his boy to be strong, and trust the gods.
Their names had been Tor and Corette. And now they rested beside Avenall, their first son.
The boy finally broke. He threw the shovel at the house - It nearly made it into a window. He sank to his knees, crying out at the world that had abandoned him. He raged and wailed; he pounded the earth until he collapsed into the upended dirt.
After some time, he looked up from his agony. He saw near at hand the woodaxe he had used for years, embedded in an old stump. He was dry of tears now. He had only rage.
The boy stood, refusing to even brush the soil off of his face. Through heaved breaths, he took the axe from the stump. Like a walking corpse, he dragged the instrument of destruction to the front door of Weatherleah. It had been his mother's ancestral home. For hundreds of years, the Jemane's had farmed this land and raised fine horses. The boy swung the axe with all the might he could find. The door buckled, but its hinges held. He dug out the axe and swung again. He was a strong boy, even in this state. The hinges exploded, sending shards of wood everywhere. The door fell.
This felt good. Now for the frame…
.
Hours passed - perhaps even a day or two.
.
Atop the graves, what had once been a fine house now burned high in the night. The boy stood like a sentinel, watching the blaze, axe in hand. Everything that had been Weatherleah was in that fire - well, he had scattered the horses and the cow, and the chickens he had eaten some time before. The walls, the roof, the floor boards, the cabinets and tables and benches, they all smoldered like so much kindling.
The boy's eyes burned from the bright flames. The heat on his face was terrible. It was like looking into Oblivion.
"Aleron!" a voice called from behind him.
He spun, to see two priests of Weynon Priory.
The boy could see the fires of their torches coming down the hillside. The Forsworn, he knew they were called. Natives of Skyrim from long before Ysgramor came, they hated the Nords. The boy had heard that they used to keep to their mountain settlements in the Reach, only raiding close to home; but they had grown bolder since they took Markarth during the Great War, before Ulfric Stormcloak came to drive them out again. How could Rorikstead stand against such a force?
The boy ran to find his axe. He was sixteen now, nearly a man and already bigger than most. Maybe he could kill one or two before they brought him down. It was a simple woodcutter's iron axe, and he found it in the pile of firewood he had been working on yesterday. His father yelled something after him as he headed back, but he ignored it. The old man would beat him bloody, he supposed, even if he survived the raid. But it could not be helped.
They were so much closer when he returned to the western edge of the village. There, Rorik waited with the other villagers, weapons and farming tools all ready to defend this fertile land.
The waiting was brutal. Time drew out like puss from a wound. Slowly the howling war cries and then the thundering of at least a hundred feet grew louder and louder. And finally, with a rush, it began.
The raiding party was at least fifty strong, to go against only fifteen able-bodied Roriksteaders and the six Whiterun guardsmen stationed there. The Forsworn wore little armor, and what they had was made of wood and stone, fur and bone - even their swords and axes. Still, they were warriors. They were savages.
The first that the boy came upon was shorter than he was, and had two jagged swords that he spun about as he advanced. The boy held his axe high, and as the savage came close he brought it down at his head. The man had clearly expected the boy to back away, or try to block the spinning swords. The axe dug into his skull like a rotten log, and he went limp. The boy dug out the blade and spun to meet his next attacker.
There were two of the Forsworn now. One carried a sword, the other had two axes. The axe-wielder was big - even bigger than the boy - while the sword-carrier was a woman. They charged in unison, sword and axes held high, screaming the wrath of their people. Not really knowing what to do, the boy charged, himself, woodaxe held out to the side. As they neared each other, he spun the axe over his head and hurled it at the Forsworn man. The blade buried itself in his chest. The woman was shocked just long enough for the boy to tackle her. On top of her, he grabbed her by the hair and bashed her skull into the ground until he heard it break. Then he sprung up and recovered his axe from the other Forsworn.
The next lost an arm at the shoulder when he missed his swing at the boy's head. The next two after that tried to bully him, rushing and slashing like beasts. The boy was as quick as he was big, though, and they were cut down after he dove out of their way and let them trip over the pig behind him. Another Forsworn woman lost most of her face to her own sword as she misjudged the boy's strength. One even tried to freeze him with magic, but was disemboweled before any real damage could be done.
And then the boy met the leader of this group. He was a massive Forsworn, naked but for a fur skirt, boots and gloves, and a headdress that bore the horns of a great elk. In his chest was a hole the size of a fist, surrounded with blackness spreading out like a sickness. He carried two bone swords, and he pointed them at the boy as he advanced. He mumbled some litany of his faith, and then spread his arms wide, revealing a grotesque fiery abomination where his heart would have been.
The boy was taken aback, and for the first time he hesitated. Rather than charge the big chief, he waited.
When he was close enough, the Forsworn attacked with speed and savagery that seemed inhuman. The axe was an offensive weapon, and not suited for parries, but it was all the boy could do to survive. He struggled to stay alive for what seemed like minutes, dodging and deflecting and retreating, until it seemed he could not hold out any longer. The jagged bones of the Forsworn sword found the boy's flesh more than once, tearing and mangling the skin and muscle beneath.
As what should have been a killing blow swept toward the boys head, an arrow to his shoulder spun him out of the path of the blade. He spun completely around, and landed on his back in the dirt. The Forsworn in the headdress stood over him and laughed. He brought up his swords to deliver the killing blow, but the boy was not done. With both feet, the boy kicked the big Forsworn, throwing him a good fifteen feet into Lemkil's fence.
As the boy got to his knees, the archer who had skewered his shoulder rushed over, an iron dagger in his hand. He dodged the thrusting blade and grabbed the attached arm. He planted his palm into the Forsworn's face with all the force he could manage. The man's face broke in a horrible fashion. As the boy rose to his feet, he finished the archer's skull with his boot.
The big chief's arm was impaled on a fence post. He struggled, growling like a wild animal, but he could not free himself. Slowly, the boy picked up his axe and walked over to the incapacitated man. The Forsworn let out a snarl, and then a cry like a beast. With a roar to drown out his enemy, the boy took off the Forsworn chief's head in one swipe.
He looked around to see that the few Forsworn left alive were quite literally running for the hills. He collapsed then, sitting and leaning against the post that still held the body of his last foe.
"Erik!" his father yelled from the porch of the inn. "Are you alright boy? You've got an arrow in you."
The boy looked at the shaft in his shoulder and started to laugh.