"We are the people who must pillage our own land, burn our own ground. We are the scourge of the Nords: The axe that falls in the dark, the scream before the gods claim your soul. We are the true sons and daughters of the Reach." - From 'The Madmen of the Reach: A Defense of the Forsworn,' by Arrianus Arius
The sun beat down at the apex of a clear blue sky as the fields of Rorikstead burned.
Surrounded by the din of his screaming kin, Erik ap Mralki cupped his eyes to protect them from the glare. Far overhead he could make out a reptilian form gliding about on leathery wings, casting a magnificent and terrible shadow over the burning wheat. The smoke hung low and thick around him as he notched another arrow to his father's bow.
"The fire is spreading!" screamed one of his fellow townsfolk.
"It must not reach the village!"
"What do we do?!"
Erik narrowed his eyes and knelt on one knee, bringing the bow up and leading his airborne target as he had been taught. A great screeching cry sent the villagers scrambling for safety. They tripped and tumbled over one another, clamoring for shelter from the creature. Erik stayed where he was.
The monster tucked in its wings to its side, allowing its massive, aerodynamic body to build up speed as it careened towards the ground. Erik stood his ground. He felt droplets of sweat bead and stretch across his forehead; he ignored them, closing one eye to steady his aim.
As it neared the ground the beast unfurled its wings, using their drag to slow its descent, and opened its mouth to reveal a cavernous pit of glistening, curved teeth. It was almost upon him now, not fifty yards and closing quickly. A pair of beady green eyes, utterly alien, their pupils no more than horizontal slits, met his own. He saw its chest expand as it sucked in its breath. Adjusting his aim slightly to the right, he pulled the bowstring back beyond its tested limit, heard the wood creak, felt his arm and shoulder muscles groan in protest, then loosed the arrow.
It struck the beast in the wing at the perfect angle, the jagged tip tearing a gaping hole in the leathery appendage, just as the monster had begun to exhale. The beast's nostrils puffed a cloud of smoke as its breath became a pained cry; the wound, although small, caused it to momentarily dip to the side. It was too close to the ground to correct its flight path: desperately, it stuck out its hind legs and scrabbled at the hard ground to soften the impact, its frantic, thrashing wings utterly askew.
The attempt proved fruitless. Erik had a split second to throw himself out of the creature's way, just barely avoiding a jumble of talons that were as long as his forearm. There was a sickening thump as the beast impacted on the ground: clotted dirt, thrown up by he impact, blocked Erik's vision for a moment. He scrabbled at his face to clear it just in time to see the creature skid right through a thatched hut, disintegrating the building with its unstoppable bulk. It slid to a halt a good ten yards beyond the ruined house, a curved, comet-shaped crater tracing its path through the earth. The villager's screams faltered for a second, then became yells of triumph, but Erik saw the beast begin to stir and knew it was far from dead.
He threw down the bow and reached for his father's old legionnaire sword, thrust haphazardly into a ragged leather belt. He screamed the name of Talos as he yanked the weapon free, no longer caring what Imperial loyalists in the village might say. If only I had trained with the sword as I have with the bow, the cautious, oft-neglected part of his mind thought fleetingly as he closed the gap. But Erik was young and strong and courageous, and ever do the youthful ignore their own mortality.
The monster rolled around sluggishly, a forked tongue lolling about in its open mouth, to see him running towards him. It snapped its head up in an instant and whipped out its nearest wing. Quicker than he could fathom, a bony carapace caught Erik right in the sternum.
Suddenly Erik was flying backwards through the air. He felt all the breath in his body rush out with a pained wheeze; his stomach felt like it had been walloped with an anvil. He struck the ground on his upper back and rolled backwards, heels over head. He felt his ankle twist awkwardly when he came to a stop, but that was the least of his worries; he heaved and flopped like a fish out of water, barely managing to push himself to his knees with trembling arms before falling backwards with the effort. He closed his eyes, curled up into a ball and concentrated on breathing deep; as air trickled back into his system, the spots in his vision began to dissipate. Then he opened his eyes, only to find himself staring into the open maw of the dragon.
Erik did not even have time to think before the beast spat an unforgiving stream of fire right at him. He closed his eyes, feeling the wave of heat roll over him, deafened by the guttural shouted words that he heard accompany the rush of flame. Yet the inferno never reached his body.
He opened his eyes after he felt the heat abate to find an armored human form crouched over him, a huge rounded shield blocking his view of the dragon. He looked up at his savior to see ruby-red eyes staring down at him, peeking through an intricate helmet that crested with the motif of a snarling, serpentine dragon. Erik could tell by the grey-purple hue of his skin, visible only around his mouth and eyes, that he was a Dunmer, one of the dark elves. He wore an elegant set of interlocking armor, steel grey alternating with a shade of dark blue and accentuated with some silvery metal that looked almost a liquid. The armor conformed perfectly to his body: Erik could tell by his pose that it allowed much more flexibility than most heavy plate, while still remaining quite formidable and intimidating. Its streamlined, stylized architecture, engineered towards practicality yet remaining aesthetically pleasing, conjured up the image of some ancient, primal warrior.
"Move, lad," growled the Dunmer, grabbing Erik under the arm and hoisting him upright with surprising strength. The elf hoisted up his shield, which more than three feet in diameter and was decorated in the same style as his armor, and ducked his head behind it, making sure to keep it between the two of them and the dragon. The shield seemed to shimmer and spark in the sunlight, hinting at some enchantment, and Erik surmised that it was coated with a fire-repellant spell.
Whoever he is, he knows what he's doing.
The elf supported Erik with his other arm and helped the young man limp over to the nearest cover, the foundations of the ruined hut. He gestured to a sizable pile of rock and wood and deposited Erik behind it. The young Nord grunted his thanks, incapable of much in the way of speech at that moment.
"Don't mention it. Now stay here," the elf ordered, flashing Erik a toothy grin, "and watch the show."
The elf unsheathed a slightly-curved longsword from his back with a flash of quicksilver and sprinted back towards the beast. Only then did Erik become aware that he was not alone: two more figures, dressed in similar, striking armor, engaged the dragon. One of them dipped and dodged around the beast's left flank, a mace in one hand and a curved sword in the other. Erik placed him as Khajiit, both for his graceful speed and the furry whiplike tail that followed his every move. The other was a very tall man, with long blonde hair that cascaded from beneath his helmet down his back, most likely a Nord. He held a gigantic two-handed battleaxe which he had buried deep into the beast's neck.
The beast screamed in pain and rage, rattling its body like a wet dog and sending the Khajiit and the Nord stumbling backwards. The Nord's axe stayed buried in the dragon's neck. The dark elf had reached his target at this point. He took a swing at the beast's maw, shearing off a tooth. The dragon screeched and lashed out with its long, serpentine neck, pushing the Dunmer back, recoiling its head to spit fire at the elf. For a moment Erik thought he was done for: the flames were so thick that the Dunmer disappeared completely from view. Then the barrage dissipated and the elf crawled out from behind his shield: the enchantment had worn off, it seemed, and much of his armor was covered with soot, but he was very much alive and intact.
Taking advantage of the momentary lull, the beast launched itself skyward, shaking its head and neck desperately to dislodge the axe as it took flight. Droplets of blood, carried by the wind and strewn about by the beast's flapping wings, sprinkled Erik's face. The axe wound must have been quite debilitating, for the dragon's attempts at flight seemed sluggish.
The dark elf stood slowly, sending flecks of blackened soot swirling through the air. He dropped his sword and shield, placing both his hands together in front of his face. Summoned by some inaudible word, a pointed spear of ice materialized in front of him and shot upwards, faster than a crossbow quarrel. It did not have far to travel before burying itself in the gullet of the monster.
The dragon shrieked in anguish. The ice spike was half the height of a man and buried up to its wide, blunt end in the upper jaw of the creature, sticking out of the top of its snout at a grotesque angle, covered in a sheet of blood. The dragon gave one last desperate flap of its wings, straining upward, before arcing in a surprisingly graceful semicircle and thudding to the ground.
The three armored warriors fell upon the downed beast. Erik grimaced as the Khajiit slammed its mace into one of the dragon's eyes, exploding the fleshy orb in a splash of bloody juices. The Nord screamed in fury as he wrenched his battle axe free and buried it deeper in the same place in the dragon's neck. The dark elf hacked and cut away, his elegantly curved blade making raggedy mincemeat of the beast's soft belly. The monster shuddered and slowly succumbed to its wounds, its dying thrashes ebbing away to final, awful twitches before it finally lay still.
Erik forced himself upright, testing his ankle and finding that he could walk without much pain. He loped over to congratulate the three dragonslayers, who talked and laughed amongst themselves.
"Got a little cooked there, Erandur," the Khajiit swiped a paw across the Dunmer's shoulder pauldron, throwing up a miniature black cloud of dust and soot, "Getting slow, are we?" His voice was smooth and deep, the crisp, honeyed accent of Elsweyr coloring his command of the common tongue.
Erandur the elf grinned sheepishly, removing his helmet to reveal a flash of white hair: his swarthy face remained uncolored by the dragon's flame. "Lucky it was me and not you, Kharjo, else you'd have no more fur to speak of."
The Khajiit and the Dunmer turned towards Erik as he approached, but the Nord remained with his back towards him, staring at the corpse.
"That was incredible!" he began, throwing up his hands and very nearly losing his balance.
"All in a day's work," Erandur said, patting the front of his cuirass to dislodge the soot, "We've been tracking with that beastie for the past three days. Tangled with it at its roost at Bleakwind Bluff and followed it northwest. Dragon hunting is a patient man's game, son."
Erik turned back to the corpse. Upon closer inspection, he could make out older wounds: the ragged gash of a sword here, the oozing wound of a spear there, as well as several broken bolts and arrows. They were beginning to fester: Erik could see greenish pus taking the place of dried blood in several places. Suddenly Erik felt a little less brash: his arrow had merely been the latest, luckiest wound. He must have looked crestfallen, for Erandur thumped him on the shoulder.
"Now now, boy," Erandur said, smiling good-naturedly, "It's no mean feat to bring down a dragon, even if he's hurting!" His visage was worn, lined by years of hardship, but still emanated warmth. His voice had a distinctive biting drawl that Erik had come to associate with Dunmer commoners. "It takes great courage and a fair bit of skill to stand up to a wyrm like that and come out alive."
"What's your name, Nord cub?" The Khajiit perked up his tufted ears, his unblinking yellow eyes staring curiously up at him. He had feathery grey fur, mottled with brown spots, and a clever face. He appeared to be smiling, but Erik found his crafty, catlike features hard to read. Rorikstead was made up mostly of Skyrim's more native folk - Nords, Bretons, and the occasional Imperial - so Erik knew only a little about Tamriel's more exotic races.
"I'm no cub," Erik said, puffing out his chest. "I am Erik ap Mralki, of Rorikstead. And you must be the Dragonblades of the Reach. I've heard the rumors of your deeds."
Erandur chuckled. "Is that what they call us these days? Dragonblades? I like it. You Nords and your hero worship."
Erik ignored the Dunmer's friendly barb and took a step forward towards the Nord, who stood surveying the downed dragon. "And I know who leads them. You must be the Dragonborn."
The Nord turned around and smiled; his lips were surprisingly full, his eyes heavily-lashed. He reached up and unbuckled his helmet, letting his long, wavy hair descend nearly to his waist. Erik opened his mouth in surprise to find himself looking into the face of a woman.
"What is it, boy?" she asked, smiling wide, "You don't think a woman could slay a dragon?"
Now that he was close enough to notice them, Erik kicked himself for missing the telltale signs: wide hips and a woman's bust, albeit disguised both by plate and brawn. She was taller than he, taller than most men he knew. He guessed her to be past thirty: her features were sharp, no doubt honed by many years of experience, but still possessed a soft, dignified beauty surprising in a warrior such as she. She had covered one side of her face in stripe of green-blue paint that extended from her hairline to her chin.
"You - you're the Dragonborn, then?" Erik asked, after a moment's pause.
The Nord woman shook her head, still smiling. "They call me Mjoll."
"The Lioness," Kharjo interjected with a hiss, which Erik took to be a catlike chuckle, "They call her that because she has more body hair than this one. It is truth."
Mjoll punched him affectionately in the bicep, their plate clanging loudly upon impact. The Khajiit recoiled in mock pain.
"Mjoll the Lioness?" Erik asked with wonder, "From the bards' tales?"
A pained look flashed over Mjoll's face, soon replaced with a melancholy smile. "I'm afraid so."
"The Dragonborn will be along soon, Nordling," Erandur explained, tactfully changing the subject, "He's to the south, near Fort Sungard, hunting a frost wyrm. Last we heard, anyways."
"Alright, boys," Mjoll said, fixing her battleaxe to her back, "Let's mark the map and get moving."
Erik was a little overwhelmed being in the presence of a folk hero, but it was clear than Mjoll did not plan to indulge his curiosity. Instead, he kept quiet and watched as Erandur reached into a belt pouch and pulled out a tightly-folded wad of paper and a charcoal pen. He began to unfold what must be a map when sounds of a commotion filled their ears.
By this point, the villagers of Rorikstead had emerged from their homes; they rallied to the village well, buckets and blankets clutched in their arms, hurrying to end the blaze that was consuming the village's rich fields.
Mjoll placed a firm hand on Erandur's writing arm, her smile disappeared and replaced with grim determination. Erik gasped and started forward, but a flash of pain in his ankle slowed his pace. He turned to the three armored blades.
"I know you have already slain the dragon," he panted, grimacing in the momentary pain, "but please, help us put out the fire!"
Mjoll nodded and strode forth without another word. Kharjo flattened his ears and followed. Erandur stuffed the partially-folded map back into his belt and ran over to Erik, helping to support his weight.
"Gods damn me, boy," he said ruefully, "Looks like I'll have more soot to shake off before the day's done."
"The Blades as they are, it seems to me, are horribly suited to the act of slaying dragons," the old man said, petulantly, between bites of mutton.
Erik watched as the nondescript Breton woman sitting across from him smiled patiently; she had hardly said a word since the small party of dragonslayers had arrived back from their expedition. Kharjo, leaning back in his chair next to Erik as he filed his long, curved nails, hissed noncommittally. Erandur smoked his long porcelain pipe, staring pensively into the flickering flames of the central fire pit and ignoring their conversation. Mjoll was the only one who met the man's challenge.
"We made quick work of the dragon at Rorikstead," she defended, "As we have with these others."
She gestured to the dragon skulls that decorated the walls of Sky Haven Temple's main hall. They complimented the curved, flowing architecture of the large room rather well. When Erik had first entered the ancient fortress that afternoon, Erandur had mentioned that the Temple had been constructed in the Akiviri style, almost three millennia ago. Erik was no scholar, but he could see similarities between its elegant construction and that of the armor they had worn into battle. The graceful structure was a far cry from the simple, practical Nordic style found in Rorikstead.
The dragon skulls were a later edition, it seemed, slain by the Dragonborn and the Blades and dragged back to be hung as trophies. Light from the firepit danced across their sunken eye-pits, their wide, gaping jaws and their razor-sharp teeth in such a way that almost made them appear to move. There were eight of them in all, bleached white and impossibly clean. Erik wondered how much of a pain it had been to scrub them to such a sheen. As intimidating as the skulls looked, Erik also noticed that there was plenty of wallspace that still needed decorating. They had left the carcass of the newly-slain dragon near Rorikstead, but when he had pressed Erandur to tell him why, the Dunmer had simply shook his head and shrugged off his question.
"Three days spent limping after a wounded beast is not what I'd call quick work," the man snapped back, swallowing his bite of mutton. "Ornate plate and flashing katanas may look fetching in a fight, but they make piss-poor implements for waging war with flying, firebreathing beasts. You were lucky Rorikstead didn't burn to the ground!"
"Easy for you to say, old man," Mjoll replied, offended, "You sit in here all day reading books and looking at that carved wall instead of slaying the damned things."
The old man cackled. He must have been pushing eighty. He was a lanky sack of skin and bones: he was even taller than Mjoll, with wide, protruding shoulders, large callused hands and an impossibly thin frame. Despite his advanced age his body was filled with some manic energy, as if possessed by a mad daedric prince: he jerked about with quick, unpredictable movements as he delivered quipped insults and improvised lectures. His forearms were stained with ink, as were the rolled-up sleeves of his simple furred jerkin. His head was the only part of his body that showed his age: his face was grizzled and gaunt, topped off with a shock of white hair and neatly confined by a well-trimmed silvery beard. His nose was hooked and bent, no doubt broken many a time, and wrinkles dominated every nook and cranny of his visage. His blue eyes, however, remained as sharp as his wit.
"Tell me you don't prefer that axe to any blade because it's long enough to keep you at a safe distance, Lioness," he said, gesturing to Mjoll's axe and pronouncing her title with a mocking ring. "And tell me the same couldn't be accomplished with a nice long spear or a thick crossbow." He paused and turned to Erik.
"As I understand it, you have this young idiot's bow to thank for downing the beast in the first place."
Erik felt his face go flush - he didn't want to get caught in the middle of any dispute.
"We get it, old man," Kharjo interjected, sounding vexed, "We'll start carrying bows, set up target practice-"
"I'm not just talking about training, you furred imbecile, I'm talking about recruiting! To speak nothing of marksmanship, the only one of you lot who knows a couple of spells is a thrice-damned dark elf and a spellsword-for-hire."
The old man paused and looked around the room, frowning, before continuing.
"Speaking of which, where in Oblivion is Marcurio? He and those other two oafs were supposed to have returned by now."
"Last this one heard they were in Dragonbridge," Kharjo replied nonchalantly, looking back down at his claws. "Investigating dragon bounties in lower Eastmarch."
"That's Imperial territory," Mjoll said, looking troubled, "And anywhere that's Imperial territory is Thalmor territory."
The old man shook his head. "Damned mercenaries. Letting their lust for gold trump their common sense. This is what I'm talking about! We can't expect sellswords to throw themselves against dragons without compensation, and Blades don't get paid very well, I can tell you that."
"Benor's no sellsword," Kharjo interjected, his voice calm, borderline disinterested, "And Cosnach will fight anything that moves, be it giant or devil, if he's drunk enough. Say what you will about Marc, but he has fought well for us so far, and even saved this one's life once or twice."
The old man cleared his throat and continued. "Nevertheless. Hiring him was a gamble, one I don't agree with. Next time, you lot ought to try recruiting those that don't shout about and swing their swords to compensate for the pea-sized brains in their skulls. Or go charging into the waiting claws of the thrice-damned elves just to score some Jarl's tax-riddled reward money."
"Enough, Esbern," said the Breton woman, her voice quiet and low. She stood, allowing Erik to get a good look at her. She was of middling height and age. She had long, fair hair that was streaked with grey. She kept it pulled tightly back into a low braid that made her features appear all the more hawkish. Her face betrayed nothing, no sign of any emotion, and even her clothing, boiled leather practice plate over a simple blue tunic, was plain. She looked utterly unremarkable, except for a pair of steel-colored eyes. Erik felt his entire soul laid bare before that piercing gaze.
"So the Grandmaster speaks," Esbern said, smiling slyly. Erik raised an eyebrow. This woman, so utterly unimpressive, Grandmaster of the Blades?
"You speak sense, Esbern," said the woman, holding up her hand in a resigned fashion, "No one disputes your words."
Mjoll's irritated grunt indicated otherwise, but the Breton spoke over her.
"The armor and sword are better suited for wars with men, and not dragons," she conceded, "But there is some value to them still, as a symbol. Every Blade carries an Akiviri katana. This has been the case ever since the ancient Akiviri Dragonguard made the Ember Covenant with Reman Cyrodil. That a Blade might outfit himself with more specific weapons to suit his needs is a matter of common sense."
"Quicksilver-enriched steel lends itself well to enchantment," Erandur interjected, breaking his silence at last, "And the plate moves and bends with ease. The Blades of old were wise to invest in such quality armor."
"I know that. I used to wear some, dammit," Esbern cut in impatiently, grinding his teeth. "Regardless, your tactics must evolve. For every dragon you put in the ground, two more claw themselves up from the earth. The rate of their appearance is unprecedented, and so a new precedent for killing the damn things must be set. As you know, Alduin's return is nigh."
From the way that Kharjo rolled his eyes, Erik gathered that this was a lecture they'd heard before.
"At least find us a good smith next time!" Esbern said, noticing the eyeroll and changing the topic, "Quicksilver alloy is tough to work with, to say nothing of ebony. And no, Mjoll, crafting dagger after dagger will not make you a master metalworker anytime soon."
"Spearheads are no challenge," Mjoll said testily. Erik could already tell that she was the type to let pride interfere with common sense - an affliction held by many Nords, he reminded himself. Then again, from what he had heard she was a hero of sorts: one rarely becomes the subject of a bard's tale without a surplus of pride.
"I've been enchanting armor and shields before battles," Erandur pointed out, "I understand Marcurio has some skill in that arena as well. And your spells have helped, old man, tiresome though they were to implement in the first place."
The Breton woman spoke before Esbern could reply, leaning forward over the long table. "These are stopgap measures. Enchanted armor is useful, but it's not spellforged. I'll give credit where it is due: you lot know how to kill dragons. It's been near to a year since they started to return, and, Gods be good, you've trained hard and killed your fair share since then. But eight in as many months is not enough to turn the tide."
"Delphine speaks the harsh truth," the old man said wryly, "Expansion is our priority. Erik, boy, I hope you're as stout as you look; for better or for worse, you'll be a Blade soon enough. We can't exactly afford to turn you away."
Erik nodded, unsure of how to reply. Esbern cackled again, shaking his head.
"Whether your thick skull is as empty as it seems remains to be seen."
"Lay off the boy, Esbern," Kharjo said lazily, flicking the remnants of a hangnail into the fire, "What of Alduin's Wall? Will you tell us what you know now, old man?"
Esbern sucked in his breath sharply and shifted his gaze over Erik's shoulder. Erik was confused for a moment, then turned and followed the old man's gaze towards the far wall. It was dominated by a massive carving, surrounded with piles and piles of books, scrolls and loose parchment. From that distance, in the half-light, Erik could make out the huge dragon motif that dominated the middle of the memorial, as well as fire - lots of fire. The finer details were partially obscured, but one side of the carving appeared to depict a legion of warriors. The other side, Erik could not make out.
"That is best reserved for the ears of the Dragonborn," Esbern replied, his voice quieter. At that moment he looked his age - an old man weighed down by the hardships of a trying existence in a realm increasingly dominated by war.
"The Dragonborn has returned," came a voice from over Erik's shoulder. It was a woman's voice, with a strange accent. He turned around to see two figures, man and woman, stalking out of the gloom of the Karthspire's tunnel and into the light.
The man was a Nord, and the first thing Erik noticed was the large dragon skull he carried slung over his right shoulder. He cut an impressive figure carrying that great burden, but as he strode closer, Erik could see he was sweating with the effort, using both arms to steady the massive trophy and trying hard not to grimace visibly. Like the others it was bleached white, impossibly clean, looking for all the world as if someone had scooped it neatly out of a dragon's face without disturbing any of the gristle and gore that lined it. Mjoll rose and hurried over, helping him lower the skull to the ground. The others rose to meet him, but Erik hung back a little to watch. The second newcomer, a young woman who dressed strangely, stood apart as well, leaning against the wall in a haughty manner.
One by one, Mjoll, Erandur and Kharjo stepped forward to greet the Nord enthusiastically and embrace him. Erik was struck by his youth: he was a little older than Erik, no more than twenty five, with a boyish smile that complimented a taught, classically Nordic jawline. He had wavy, dirty blond hair that fell slightly past his shoulders, which he had pulled back into a low half-ponytail to keep out of his face. He had decorated his left cheek with two zig-zagged strokes of blue warpaint in the shape of thunderbolts, which stretched over his eye and down to his lips. A scraggly beard, trimmed only ever occasionally, complemented the traveling Nord hero look. His soft green eyes and slight, pointed nose, however, bespoke some other blood, perhaps a touch of Elvish. It was reflected in his physique as well, for he was shorter than Erik, and leaner too. He wore a simple scaled coat, reinforced with hardened leather and strips of steel over his arms and thighs. He had dyed it the signature dark blue that colored the other Blade's armor, and evidently reinforced it with a layer of fur. A bandolier slung over his right shoulder evidently helped to secure a Akiviri katana to his back, the hilt of which looked a little dilapidated.
Erik couldn't help but notice how the three Blades gravitated towards him, and it did not take long to understood why. He had a lopsided grin that dominated his whole face, a smile Erik found immediately trustworthy. The way he shook their hands, hugged them close, and laughed at their words seemed utterly genuine. He had all the makings of a legendary hero - a troubled youth, blessed with a mysterious power, predestined to battle the scourge of Skyrim - and here he was, making dirty jokes with a Khajiit hireling and a Dunmer battlemage. He was young, yes, but looked quite capable, and to have survived battling dragons for the past year was no mean feat. Not to mention, of course, convincing others to follow him into battle with the beasts. After Esbern and Delphine had padded over - Delphine's dignified nod completely at odds with Esbern's sheepish, almost fatherly embrace - the man turned to Erik. He smiled and clasped Erik's hand in his own.
"I trust you are as trustworthy as your grip implies," he said with a grin, "What's your name?"
"Ah, Erik, Dragonborn, sir," Erik replied, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
"Please, Erik, nobody around here calls me that," he replied, "My name is Jakt. You're the one from Rorikstead, I take it?"
"Yes, si - Jakt."
"Good little town. Hardly touched by the war, thank the Gods. If I'd grown up there I might not ever have left. What made you want to?"
Erik swallowed. "The dragons. Someone's got to stand up to them, or villages all over Skyrim with go up in flame" He decided not to tell Jakt how boring he actually found Rorikstead, and how his thirst for adventure more than anything else had compelled him to take up with the Blades.
The Dragonborn nodded; he seemed to have a habit of squinting as he thought. "And that someone is us," he continued Erik's sentiment. "You look strong and capable. Do you have much fighting experience?"
"My father was a legionnaire," Erik explained, gesturing to the sword at his belt, "He fought in the Great War. He taught me the basics, but I was always better with the bow."
Jakt smiled. "A much more practical weapon for dealing with airborne beasts. My father was a legionnaire as well. Fought in the Battle of the Red Ring, I believe. You're lucky to have known yours. I never knew mine."
Erik was unsure of how to reply. He didn't want to tell Jakt about his overbearing, anxious father, who had only taught him how to swing a blade because a twelve-year-old Erik had threatened to run away to Whiterun and join up with the Companions of Jorrvaskr if he did not.
He was saved from responding, as the Dragonborn's traveling companion chose that moment to interrupt. She walked up to the circle and faced the Blades, crossing her arms in defiance, and her proximity to the firelight allowed him to catch a decent glimpse of her at last.
She looked to be one of the Reachmen: predominantly of Breton and Elvish ancestry, they were the Reach's original occupants, before the first of the Nord kings conquered Skyrim in their name. She had long, tangled hair that was redder than blood. Her striking, angular features possessed some wild, untamed beauty. Her eyes were large and brown, and while they were currently narrowed in a wary fashion, he thought he could still make out some trace of warmth buried within them. Short and slender, she wore a distinctive style of outfit that Erik had seen once or twice before, but never up close. It was a macabre mixture of animal products, made up of fur, leather, and bone. It left little to the imagination: the top half terminated above her midriff, and the bottom half consisted of a skirt that was slit quite far up one thigh. Reinforced gauntlets and knee-high boots completed her primitive yet undeniably fierce look. Her body was lithe and supple and young, and looking at her made Erik feel a little warm inside. She could not have been older than eighteen.
"Not you again," groaned Esbern, "What do you want now?"
"My chieftain and King, Rhydderch the Unbowed, Scourge of the Reach and Lord of the Druadach Range, demands an audience with the false knights of Karthspire, slaughterers of his free folk."
"Denied," Delphine said, her tone flat and unforgiving. The girl recoiled, and at that instant Erik recognized what she was: one of the Forsworn, the Witchmen who preyed on the goodly folk of the Reach. Theirs was a campaign of terror: whereas normal bandits fall upon caravans to plunder them, it was said the Forsworn rarely looted their victims. Instead, they left behind everything - especially the corpses - striking only for the sake of their cause. He felt cold fury replace his curiosity, as well as shame for ever considering the girl attractive.
"Tell your king," Delphine continued, "That there is no need for an audience. We are content to ignore his lordship so long as he keeps his raiding parties clear of Karthspire. Tell him that no audience will ever be necessary, and to please stop sending his deranged underlings to die upon our swords."
"Delphine," Jakt interjected, looking a little worried, "You ought to let her finish."
"I will never understand your tolerance for this foolish girl, Jakt," Delphine replied, her tone turning harsh and cutting, "You let her frolic through our territory unharmed, practically spoonfeeding her our movements and positions, and all manner of information that she might report back to her mongrel king. The Forsworn are not to be negotiated with. They only understand the use of force, and it is the only thing they respond to."
"Have Cosnach, Marcurio, and Benor returned yet? Have you heard from them at all?" Jakt asked, ignoring her stern words completely. Erik watched a flash of outrage pass over Delphine's face, but the concern evident in Jakt's question made her pause.
The Forsworn girl looked smug as she confronted Delphine. "The Breton drunk you call Cosnach is our prisoner," she said, reaching over her shoulder and producing a long, slender bundle wrapped in furs. It was long - perhaps three feet - and slightly curved.
"Fret not," she said as she began to unwrap it, "He lives. We are capable of staying our hand, unlike you, Delphine the Butcher."
She threw the unwrapped implement down at her feet. It clanged on the floor. It was an Akiviri katana, coated in dried blood.
Nobody said a word, just stared down at the blade.
"He will live for two more days," the girl spoke at last, "On the morning of the third day, my King will be waiting at the Great Stone Obelisk. He commands that you meet with him there. If you do not come, we will burn the Breton drunk as an offering to the Old Gods, and use his death to curse the name of the Blades to the deepest reaches of Oblivion."
Delphine narrowed her eyes dangerously and shifted her eyes to Jakt.
"We don't have a choice," he said uneasily, "If they really have Cosnach, as she claims..."
"Well, my boy," Esbern replied, throwing up his hands, "I'm staying here. I'm too old to throw myself into a Forsworn ambush and bleed out on a splintered axe made of hardened spit and bone."
"It isn't an ambush, you senile old man," replied the Forsworn girl, tossing her hair defiantly, "You have refused every other offer for counsel from King Rhydderch. He seeks only to parley. The Breton's survival is conditional upon your presence."
Erik sidled over to Kharjo, who watched with an unreadable expression.
"Who is she?" he whispered to the Khajiit.
"The Forsworn cub?" he asked, swiveling his catlike gaze towards Erik. The Khajiit's eyes, with their shiny yellow irises and slitlike pupils, made him feel uneasy.
"Why is she here?"
The Khajiit hissed softly, thinking. "Whenever the Forsworn want to contact us, they send her. Her clan used to live here, it is said, and Jakt and Delphine had to drive them off. Khajiit thinks she is a reminder, to play off his guilt."
Erik looked at Jakt, studying the way the young Dragonborn conducted himself around her. His shoulders hung low, his face seemed to droop a little, and he seemed a bit… cowed, to say the least. Delphine was the opposite - attentive, sharp, mistrusting. Her sword arm clutched at her belt with purpose. He wondered what had transpired when the Blades had first come to occupy the mountain temple.
"What's her name?"
"Gwynlach," Mjoll growled, "Now pay attention. You might learn something."
Erik shut up and did as he was told, rejoining the conversation. Esbern had sauntered off to study the grand carving they had mentioned earlier.
"She mean's Gjukar's Monument," Jakt was saying, his tone urgent, "It's at least a day's travel to the east. We need to decide now."
"Very well," Delphine's reply came bitterly. "We will treat with them. But you will return to the Greybeards when this business is concluded."
Jakt furrowed his brow. "I am needed here. Anything they could possibly teach me I'll learn so much quicker by actually fighting dragons. Besides, you like them even less than I do!"
Delphine snorted. "Be that as it may," she started reproachfully, "Esbern seems to think they can help us confront Alduin's return. And the Blades will manage without the Dragonborn, as they have for the past two millennia."
Jakt crossed his arms irritably. "Fine. Whatever you say. Let's just get moving."
Delphine turned to Erik and sighed. "Better get him some proper plate. And find your own. We'll be wanting to look the part."
The sun crested over the horizon, welcoming the dawn of Erik's third day as a Blade conscript. He had gradually grown used to wearing the plate. He was a strong young man, having spent the past fifteen years toiling in the fields and the past ten running, hunting and sparring with the children of Rorikstead. But traveling in full plate armor - even exquisitely crafted in the Akiviri style - proved to be a challenge. Although the range of motion was impressive, and the weight well distributed to his hips and lower back, the plate was still damned heavy.
His only other experience had been his father's Imperial legion armor, which was designed to provide maximum protection to soldiers marching in the phalanx formation. The Blade's signature armor was instead better suited to flexible, open-ended combat. The breastplate was segmented to allow the abdomen to bend, and instead of heavy greaves the armor incorporated a long tasset that hung from the belt and descended almost to the knees. It consisted of boiled leather and narrow strips of steel, padded with fur to provide further protection and to account for Skyrim's colder months. It was partitioned to allow maximum leg movement. Erik got the sense that the heavy round shields the Blades all wore at their backs were just for show, though he had seen Erandur use his to defend against dragon's breath quite ably.
"It's not very practical armor for an agent or provocateur," Jakt had remarked as Erik had struggled to fit his on, "But it looks damn good and it sure has kept up well. For some reason the Blades left an entire contingent's worth here when they left."
Erik had an opportunity to walk beside each of the Blades and familiarize himself with them during the two-day march to Gjukar's Monument. It was all immensely exciting, and he got the sense that the others appreciated his exuberance but found it a bit tiresome at times. Only Delphine remained cold and aloof, but Erik suspected that was her default state.
Kharjo, it seemed, was new to Skyrim. He had joined a Khajiit caravan bound for the northern province at the behest of his cousin, in order to escape debts that he owed in his home province of Elsweyr. He spoke of his homeland with some melancholy: he missed its warm sands, sweet foods and shimmering oases, and cautioned Erik good-naturedly against seeking one's fortunes in the gambling hall. A dragon attack had separated him from his caravan, and Jakt had come across him alone, badly burnt, waiting to die. Instead, after nursing the Khajiit back to health, the young Dragonborn had enlisted Kharjo's help to slay the beast, and he became the first of his Knight Brothers soon after. Erik had known Khajiit who were scoundrels, fleet of foot and quick of hand, but Kharjo was built like a warrior: stocky and strong, with muscles rippling under his coarse grey fur. The mace at his belt was a formidable weapon, one he seemed to prefer to the Akiviri katana at his back.
"The katana is a good sword," the Khajiit had explained, his eyes glinting as he patted the blunted weapon, "Perhaps even a great one. You should see what Delphine can do with it. But against thick plate armor it is near to useless. This one saves Skullbreaker for such occasions."
It was a trend that Erik began to notice amongst the Blades: they seemed to carry auxiliary weapons, from Mjoll's battleaxe to Kharjo's mace. Erandur carried a simple wooden walking staff, inlaid with a diamond-shaped gem at the very tip. When pressed about its magical properties, the Dunmer simply grinned knowingly.
The dark elf was slim and swarthy, a goodnatured jest never far from his lips. His general cheeriness seemed a coping mechanism to Erik, and when pressed, the Dunmer admitted that he had once known the darkness of Daedric worship, common amongst his people. He would not speak further of this, but went on to say he had found the light of Lady Mara and fled south into the Reach, living as a hermit and doing his best to spread Her teachings. A fateful dragon attack had brought him into the company of the Blades: sorely in need of a healer, they gratefully accepted him into their fledgeling ranks. His religious conviction seemed to mask some uncertainty, as yet unanswered, but it seemed to Erik that Erandur did believe he was doing Mara's work. Erik had known few Dunmer, but had always found them mysterious and strange-humored. Theirs was a race that had suffered much, and Erandur, it seemed, was no exception.
Mjoll was a different story. Erik had heard traveling minstrels sing songs about the Lioness of the Pale at his father's inn; the tales of her sword Grimsever cutting a righteous swath through the thieves and bandits that had plagued the land since the end of the Great War. Meeting the legend in the flesh proved to be somewhat of a letdown. Mjoll seemed tired: she was the oldest of the bunch save for Delphine (and Esbern, of course) and though she never complained, he could sense a weariness that colored her every joint. She had joined the Blades after an ill-fated expedition to the Rift. Though she spoke openly about it, her shame was evident. Her attempts to cleanse the blackened belly of Riften - the seat of corruption and deceit in Skyrim - had cost her her fabled sword, her reputation, her dearest friend and very nearly her life. She had been fleeing west when she heard the tales of the dragon-hunters and, seeking some sort of redemption, joined their ranks. Mjoll was a proud creature punctured by failure, a warrior past her prime. Erik found her stoic sense of self - so distinctly Nordic - oddly comforting, especially given that the Dragonborn himself was a foreigner.
Jakt, although Nordic in blood, had grown up in Cyrodil. He was tight-lipped on the subject: all he would say was that his father left him young and his mother died soon after, leaving him to fend for himself. He had gestured to the painted markings on his cheek, mentioning offhand that it was the mark his father had painted himself with before battle, and something his mother did to him as a child that he continued to do out of habit more than anything else. After a long, lonely adolescence filled with hardships, he found his way into bad company, enlisting with a string of mercenary bands and traipsing about southern Tamriel. He joined the Fighters Guild at eighteen and after his stint with that more reputable organization had come home to Skyrim to seek his heritage. Rebuffed on all accounts, imprisoned and nearly executed for a crime that he did not commit, he had instead come to realize that he was the fabled Dragonborn of Nordic legend. He laughed as he said it, shaking his head with a bitter smile. "Fate is fickle, Esbern always says," Jakt had said, his story finished.
Although he seemed good-natured and welcoming, Jakt was hardly patient: some frenzied, obsessive force seemed to lurk under his calm facade. He could be expressive and forthright, and then suddenly become frustrated and aloof. He hurried their company on at a relentless pace, stopping only when Delphine threatened to beat him with the blunt end of her sword. Erik was struck by his strange perception of loyalty: he seemed surprised to the point of insecurity that the Blades followed him willingly as he charged into what was most likely a trap. On the other hand, he seemed all too willing to throw himself into the fray to rescue his brethren, with or without aid, at the cost of his life if need be. It was as if he expected that all who followed him would eventually, inevitably leave him, unless he proved his loyalty to a fault.
At the same time he seemed inexplicably willing to acquiesce to Gwynlach, the Forsworn girl, who had become their seventh companion. She spoke little to the others, preferring to scout ahead during their travels, but Jakt seemed drawn to her, and it very plainly made the rest of their company nervous. Erik finally conjured up the gall to ask him about it, but he only muttered something about guilt and regret, and waved the matter away. He seemed a conflicted man, and Erik could scarcely believe that he and Jakt were close in age. The burden of newfound significance and leadership weighed heavily on the young Nord's shoulders, that much was obvious.
He was in a stony mood as they summited the gently-sloping hill where Gjukar's Monument perched. It was a simple stone obelisk, tapered at the bottom and the top: a slightly younger Erik would have found it hilariously phallic. His slight, childish amusement was tempered by the small swarm of Forsworn that waited there already. The early morning sun beamed down, giving the scene a deceptively cheerful air, and the temperature was nearly balmy by Skyrim's standards.
The Blades marched to a halt and stood at attention in a row, some ten yards away from the rag-tag group of Reachmen. They milled about silently, watching the interlopers, their faces blank; their ragged clothing, makeshift weaponry and bony jewelry made them appear downright eerie, wraithlike. There must have been fifteen in all, men and women, all carrying weapons of bone, chipped stone, wood, and occasionally iron or steel. Erik squinted hard, trying hard to determine who among them might be King Rhydderch. He was unsuccessful.
Delphine took a step forward and removed her helmet; Erik, who had already began to feel uncomfortably warm in his plate, wished he could do the same, but the rest of them remained where they stood. He concentrated on keeping his shield held out before him instead, which was surprisingly difficult. He glanced over to see Erandur at his left sweating through his helmet, and smiled to himself, knowing he was not alone. He was surprised to see that Gwynlach remained at their side, standing attentively next to Jakt.
"I am Delphine ap Carimund," she said, her clear voice ringing through the air and echoing off the Druadach range to the southwest, "Grandmaster of the Blades and First Sword of the Dragonguard. I come here seeking to parley with Rhydderch of the Forsworn, at his behest."
"King Rhydderch," came a low growl, and out stepped a brute of a man. He was built like an orc, thick with muscle; he wore a spectacular headdress that was decorated with the antlers of an elk. Around his trim waist he wore a simple fur kilt, complimented by a pelt that draped over his left shoulder and half of his brawny chest. His face was squat and ugly, no doubt the product of many beatings, and countless scars decorated his arms, chest and stomach. Erik almost didn't notice the slim man at his side, who stepped forward to address Delphine once he had corrected her.
"King Rhydderch, scourge of the Reach and Lord of the Druadach Range, greets Delphine ap Carimund and bids her a humble welcome to his plentiful lands." His voice was soft and raspy; he was thin, swathed in soft fur, with a wizened face and one clouded blind eye. A thick black beard descended from his chin, but he kept the hair on top of his head shaved almost like a monk. He carried only a simple staff. Erik could scarce believe his eyes: if the Forsworn only followed the strong, why had they flocked to this slight, unassuming man, soft of voice and middling of stature?
"The Blades recognize no King of the Forsworn," Delphine responded curtly, "For the Forsworn recognize no king amongst themselves. We are here for a singular reason, Rhydderch. Please do not try our patience."
Rhydderch looked left and right to his people, who hissed in unison. It was an unnerving display: Erik had grown up hearing the tales of the Forsworn, and was beginning to understand why they were feared. The brutish man at Rhydderch's side turned around, grasped a kneeling figure behind him, and pushed him forward, sending him sprawling. He was a short, red-haired man, stripped to the waist, covered with bruises and one poorly-bandaged cut across his midriff. His hands were bound behind his back, and he cursed as he flopped about, trying to work himself back to an upright position. Erik heard Kharjo hiss from down the line, heard Erandur curse Azura's name, and guessed that the man must be Cosnach.
"Behold," Rhydderch said, gesturing to the captive, "Your singular reason."
"What have you done to him?" Delphine asked, her voice deadly calm.
"I found him like this," Rhydderch explained, "He was badly wounded. He would have died if not for my intervention."
"I don't believe you."
"It matters not what you believe," the Forsworn King continued, "Only that you listen to my terms." He produced a red-stained sack from behind him. Even from the distance, Erik could smell its stench. He suddenly felt very uneasy.
Rhydderch upended the sack and out poured two severed heads. Erandur muttered a prayer to Mara at his side, but remained still, along with the rest of the Blades.
Rhydderch paused for dramatic effect, then lifted the heads by the hair. One had pale skin, long golden locks and a considerable beard, soaked with blood; the other was a little darker in pigment, with curly dark hair. Both had horrible expressions frozen on their faces, their features forever twisted in fear and agony. Erik recognized the heads as belonging to an Imperial and a Nord, though the faces were not familiar. He felt his legs trembling slightly, but he forced himself to be calm. He had seen death before, and cruelty as well. But not like this.
"While you skulk around the Reach, hiding away in your mountain fortress," the Forsworn King began, his tone scathing, "Skyrim's oppressors penetrate further and further into the heart of my fiefdom. They seek the Blades, and the Dragonborn they guard. They murder my brothers and sisters in their ceaseless quest, lay siege to our freedoms and our way of life. I name you Grandmaster of the Craven, Delphine ap Carimund, a false knight who cowers in her fortress while innocents bleed in your stead."
He spat for emphasis, then continued, stalking back and forth, holding both the severed heads high.
"Henceforth you will leave the Reach. You will abandon your coward's refuge in the Karthspire and seek your fates elsewhere. I will allow the Breton to live as a token of my goodwill, but you must abandon your foolish quest. And-" he paused, lowering his trophies, narrowing his eyes - "You must surrender the Dragonborn to me."
"Your terms are unacceptable," Delphine replied flatly. "Surrender Cosnach, and I will allow you to live."
"I thought you would say as much," Rhydderch smiled thinly, "Very well. Skarn, cut the Breton's throat-"
"Wait!" Jakt stepped forward, dropping his shield to unbuckle his helmet. Delphine shot him a fiery look, but the young Nord ignored her, pushing past her to stand in front of Rhydderch and the rest of the Forsworn.
"You would trade my life for his?" Jakt asked defiantly.
"Your existence is an affront to the Forsworn," Rhydderch replied casually, "Your people have enslaved, raped and killed mine for eons. You are a symbol of Nord oppression, and the flames of our contempt shall lick at your bones." Erik was amazed that the words - carrying with them the accusation of a thousand years of murder and cruelty - came so easily to his mouth.
"I won't surrender to you, false king," Jakt spat. In one swift mood he drew his sword from its sheath on his back. It flashed in the morning sun, and the Forsworn scrambled upright, drawing their motley assortment of weapons. Erik felt the tension acutely: it was thicker than fog. But Jakt did not attack, only stood with his weapon unsheathed, pointing the tip of the blade at their leader.
"But I will give you a chance to claim my life," he continued, his voice collected now. "I challenge you to single combat."
Rhydderch laughed. "Done."
Jakt looked surprised.
"It is my right as King of the Forsworn to request a personal champion fight in my stead," Rhydderch continued slowly. "My kinsman, Skarn the Bloodless, will do me this honor."
The big brutish man stepped forward and grunted. "I accept this honor, King."
Erik got the uneasy feeling that Rhydderch had hoped for such an outcome. Jakt turned back to Delphine, his jaw set, but Erik could see the unease in his eyes. The man was big, and looked formidable. Delphine shook her head.
"You made your bed, Jakt," she said reproachfully, "Now you have to lay in it."
"What's the matter, boy?" Skarn shouted, smiling wide to reveal massive, rotting teeth, "Afraid to follow through on empty words?"
With one gesture, he unhooked the pelt draped over his shoulder, revealing his muscular torso. He must have been twice as wide as Jakt, and a good few inches taller, but his bulk was not the most terrifying thing about him: there was a gaping hole in his chest, right where his heart ought to be.
"Shit," Erandur whispered, "He's a Briarheart."
"A what?" Erik replied frantically. Some otherworldly, pulsating object, shaped roughly like a human heart but with a wooden, bark-like texture, pumped and pulsated in the hole. It was held in by crude leather straps, and Erik could make out an eerie green glow emanating from the grotesque organ.
"The Forsworn cut out their hearts and replace them with seed pods from the briarheart tree," Kharjo hissed. "Only their toughest warriors survive the process. Makes them quicker, stronger, near undead."
The brutish Forsworn began to stalk back and forth, taunting Jakt, as the others began to jeer and chant, thumping their weapons on the ground.
"You going to hide behind your armor like some fancy little elf girl?" Skarn bellowed. In reply, Jakt stuck the point of his Katana in the ground and began to slowly unbuckle his armor.
"What are you doing?" Delphine asked through clenched teeth.
"If he's a Briarheart, he'll be quick," the young Nord explained, frowning as he unclasped his belted tasset and then lifted his cuirass over his head. "I'll need to be quicker."
"He'll tear you apart if you're not careful," Delphine replied, eyeing the brute. "Give the word, and I'll order a charge. They might outnumber us, but look what they're equipped with. We'll carve through them like butter. And the Gods know I've fought Briarhearts before-"
"No," Jakt said, frowning. "He'll slit Cosnach's throat before we're halfway there. And I can beat him." He finished removing his armor, and was dressed in only leather boots, thick trousers and a simple linen shirt. His body was lithe and hard, but it looked positively sickly compared to the massive, overworked torso of Skarn the Bloodless. He retrieved his sword and spun it a couple of times, loosening his muscles. The blade was dark and seemed to glisten in the air.
"Going to use your magic sword to fight me?" Skarn taunted him again. "You think I haven't heard the rumors, boy? Dragonbane, hah! Too good for plain old steel, are you?"
He spat. "Magic is a woman's weapon! A craven's weapon! Fight me like a man!"
Jakt turned around and walked over to Erik. "Lend me your sword, Erik," he said. It was not a question.
"Jakt-"
"Here," he said, with a lopsided grin, "I'll trade you." He flipped his katana around, caught it gingerly by the blade and offered its dilapidated hilt to Erik. The younger Nord stifled the urge to gasp as he beheld it.
The sword was longer than those of the other Blades', more than a yard in length, and forged from some bizarre metal the color of ash. Despite its dark hue, the glossy metal seemed to glisten like glass. Runes, outlined in quicksilver and scripted in some ancient, flowing script, continued halfway up the blade. The hilt itself was plain, carved from dense white bone; the criss-crossed leather stitching had long since rotted away, leaving only etched grooves. The pommel was a burnished quicksilver square, and the circular guard appeared to have once taken the form of a serpentine dragon, although its fine details had long since faded with age. When Erik touched the hilt, however, he felt a tiny static shock, as if he had just vigorously stroked a shaggy rug. His hand felt warm and tingly as he held it. It must have been heavily enchanted: there was no other way to describe the sensation other than by magical means. It was the most beautiful weapon that Erik had ever held, much less been in the presence of.
"This is why you Nords are so stupid," Kharjo hissed sarcastically to Jakt, "You value honor over practicality. Keep your damn sword, fool boy."
"Relax, Kharjo," Jakt replied, "He isn't a dragon anyways, so it makes little difference. Now then, lad, your sword. No, not your katana, the one at your belt, if you please."
Erik would have been more reluctant to part with his father's sword, but he was still too much in awe of Jakt's own blade to think much about it. He withdrew the blade from its belt-loop and offered it to the Dragonborn. Jakt took a practice swing and nodded.
"Well balanced. Good steel, if a bit simple. Imperial made, I'd wager."
Erik nodded dumbly, his jaw still a little slack.
"If I die, you can keep mine," Jakt said with a confident wink.
"Alright then," Mjoll said, "I've just about heard enough from this milk-drinker. Jakt, go skewer him, already."
Jakt turned around and stalked over to face Skarn. One of the Forsworn in the rabble walked forward with a long, thin bundle of skins wrapped in her arms. A long handle protruded from one end, and it was not difficult to guess what was concealed within. She presented the bundle to Skarn, who grasped the handle and pulled gingerly. A wicked greatsword slowly slid forth: it had a serrated blade comprised of some sickly green alloy, and a crossguard made of bone. A round object that looked disturbingly like a child's skull dangled from a leather strip wrapped around the hilt.
The two men eyes one another for a moment, Jakt standing still, Skarn pacing back and forth. Then the big man opened his mouth and roared, charging forward, wielding his greatsword in one hand with practiced ease.
Erik felt himself tense as the Forsworn champion rushed to meet the Dragonborn. His large, meaty legs pumped impossibly fast given their size, allowing him to close the gap in a manner of seconds. He led with a massive horizontal chop that surely would have cleaved Jakt in two. Erik could have sworn he felt the wind from the swipe across his face from yards away.
But Jakt was not there; smoothly, gracefully, he had stepped out of harm's way. He did not have time to counter with a slash of his own, as Skarn reversed his momentum in the blink of an eye - far quicker than he should have, given his size and the weight of his blade - to bring it down diagonally. Jakt cursed audibly as he spun away from the sword, a desperate maneuver that left him slightly off balance. His blade down and wide, the Forsworn champion led with his massive shoulder instead, catching the Dragonborn right in the sternum and sending the young Nord sprawling over backwards.
Next to Erik, Erandur groaned. Erik tightened his grip on his shield, cutting off all circulation to his fingers. The Forsworn cheered and began to stamp their feet.
Skarn looked down at Jakt, who struggled to rise, and laughed from the very pit of his belly. He let the Dragonborn stand up; Jakt was still struggling to breathe.
"You call this a fight, you worm?" the Forsworn champion bellowed. Erik caught the faintest whiff of his terrible breath and wrinkled his nose. Jakt shook his head to clear the cobwebs, rolled his shoulders and raised his sword.
With that, the big man launched into another attack. His greatsword gave him a greater range, which allowed him to press the offensive; Jakt dared not outright parry him, instead dodging away or deftly sliding the bigger man's blade out wide where he could. Erik saw the frustration on the Nord's face: the leaf-shaped Imperial blade was short - two and a half feet at most - and wide. It was perfect for stabbing in the close quarters of two clashing shield walls, but the greatsword, nearly twice its length, outclassed it in single combat.
"He should have kept his sword," Kharjo hissed, a sour note of desperation in his silky-smooth voice.
Skarn launched into a series of impossibly quick and brutal strikes that kept Jakt on the defensive. The Forsworn crowd's jeers and catcalls grew louder and stronger; they had settled into a surprisingly rhythmic stomp, steadily increasing in tempo. The young Nord struggled to keep ahead of the brute's cruel, whirling blade, just barely dancing out of its way with every vicious slash. Erik was impressed with the young Nord's agility: the way that he moved, twisting and whirling with the ease of a dancer, contrasted almost comically with his expression, which was screwed up in concentration and tempered with fear.
Then, all of a sudden, Jakt faltered, stumbling sideways, reaching out with his left hand to steady himself.
Skarn howled in triumph, bringing his sword across for the killing blow… but it met no resistance, for the Dragonborn was no longer there. His stumble had been a ruse, a clever ploy designed to get Skarn to overextend himself. The Dragonborn had simply shifted his weight and spun out wide, readying his blade to strike. The big Reachman, no stranger to the feint, recognized his mistake and immediately and threw himself sideways. Were he a slower man, he would have found Jakt's sword buried in his side halfway up to its hilt. Instead, Jakt's precise swipe drew a thin diagonal line of across his right side, from his hip to his chest. Jakt completed the spin, bodily fluids whirling off his sword, cursing under his breath when he saw that the wound was shallow. Instead of red, Skarn's blood was a shade of yellow-green, and seemed to coagulate almost like syrup.
The Forsworn din faltered - first blood to the Dragonborn, it seemed - but the big man hauled himself up. He put a finger to the wound and tasted the sticky liquid, then spat in Jakt's direction.
What happened next was a terror to behold.
Jakt sprinted forward, roaring, his face consumed with rage. He swung wildly, uncontrollably, pressing his advantage, not letting the bigger man regain his balance or momentum. With every stroke he shouted a word in some deafening, unintelligible tongue that split the air like thunder, and his sword seemed to fizz and crackle with every swipe. Skarn was quick, but his sword was ill-suited to parry Jakt's shorter blade at a closer distance; he had to backpedal furiously to keep ahead of Jakt's savage attacks. Two of Jakt's mad swipes struck home, giving the brute two more shallow cuts to worry about: one on his left leg, the other between his shoulder and neck.
In a desperate bid to regain control of the battle, the Forsworn champion parried Jakt's next savage strike with all his might. The clang of metal was so loud it stung Erik's ears, leaving behind a painful ring. The blow sent Jakt's blade out wide, and Skarn tried the same tactic as he had before, rushing forward to catch the smaller man in the face with his brawny shoulder. Somehow, impossibly, Jakt managed to twist around him and with fluid grace brought his sword back around and across Skarn's back.
The champion howled and fell to his knees, pawing at his eviscerated flesh with one hand. His saplike blood oozed down his back, and Erik thought he could see a flash of white rib bone through the torn flesh: this wound was deep. Skarn forced himself upright using his sword and turned to face Jakt, his expression an amalgamation of pain and rage. It was the Blades' turn to cheer, and Erik felt his heart race with excitement as he hollered in support.
The brutish man stumbled forward and swung his blade in a wide, low sweep. Jakt sidestepped it easily, parried the clumsy reverse, tapping the serrated blade to the side with an impressively small movement, and stabbed forward to bury his own sword in Skarn's belly.
The crowd went silent. Skarn's face was one of disbelief. The briarheart in his chest seemed to beat quicker, as if under immense strain. Jakt yanked out his blade, took it in both hands, and whirled it around to take the head neatly from Skarn's shoulders.
Then he threw down his sword, angled his head skywards, shouted another strange, foreign word, and breathed a great gout of flame into the air. The steady stream of fire lasted a good twenty seconds: dragonfire. The Forsworn groaned and gasped; Erik felt the hairs on his neck stand up like a cat's.
"Release him" growled Jakt, once he had finished with his display of raw power. His command was unnecessary: Cosnach, taking advantage of his captor's stunned inaction, pushed himself upright and sprinted over to the Dragonborn. Jakt produced a knife from one of his boots and cut Cosnach's bindings. The Breton, rubbing his wrists, threw one around Jakt's shoulder and laughed spitefully at his captors; he had a hoarse, raucous voice that cracked as he chortled.
Rhydderch finally regained his composure.
"It seems we are bested today," he said conversationally, although Erik could make out a vein on his forehead that was pulsating quite angrily. "No matter. The Forsworn will never bend the knee, no matter the odds against us. That is why we have survived and thrived, to pick away at the invaders and interlopers, undermining their false claims of sovereignty on our rightful land."
He spat at Jakt's feet. The Dragonborn rippled with fury: Erik could see it in the way he clenched and unclenched his hands. Luckily, Delphine stepped forward before he could do anything else rash.
"Rhydderch," she called, "Do not risk the lives of your people any further. We do not seek to make war on the Forsworn, only the forces of Alduin. Cease your hostilities against us."
Rhydderch was silent for a moment, then continued. "I spoke the truth before," he said, "We merely found the Breton, wounded and alone."
"What of his comrades?" Jakt demanded, "Two others accompanied him, an Imperial and a Nord. What torturous end did you visit upon them?"
"Calm yourself," the Forsworn King replied, "There were no others."
"He speaks true," Cosnach said, quietly. Jakt turned to him incredulously, but the Breton shook his head. "I'll tell ye what happened when we're safely back."
"You bested my champion in single combat," Rhydderch continued, "So I will honor your request." He narrowed his eyes. "Unfortunately, I cannot speak for the Forsworn tribes at large. Support my claim as King, and I will enforce it among them."
"The Blades take no part-" Jakt began, but Delphine interrupted him.
"Done."
The Dragonborn recoiled in surprise. "What?"
"Better the monster we know," she replied, shrugging, before turning back to the king. "We will support your claim where we can, but you must give us the freedom to roam your holdfast. Dragons do not see the Reach with such distinctions as do the Reachmen, I'm afraid."
Rhydderch rubbed his head; he looked weary and distraught for a moment. "The dragons' return has weighed upon us as well. My warriors will aid you where we can, but they are fearsome beasts, and we must look out for our own."
Jakt managed to calm himself, and he and Delphine sat in a circle with Rhydderch and his shaman, a beautiful ashen-haired woman with a gnarled staff, to hammer out further agreements. As their negotiations continued and the day wore on, the other Blades had begun to relax, as the threat of imminent attack was all but gone. They watched, chatting amongst themselves, as several of the Forsworn gathered up Skarn's remains and wrapped them in animal skins.
"Funny how a furious bout of single combat turned into an alliance of sorts," Erik commented.
"The Forsworn recognize strength and tenacity over all else," Kharjo hissed, "It makes them dangerous foes, yes, but useful allies as well, if you can convince them so."
Erandur gestured to Gwynlach, the Forsworn girl: she had padded up to join Jakt, Delphine and Rhydderch as they hammered out the terms of their agreement. Watching her, Erik got the sense that she was not altogether welcome within the ranks of Rhydderch's Forsworn.
"That one is a prime example," said the Dunmer, "Jakt cut his way through her tribe when they first met. She's practically worshipped him ever since."
Erik raised his eyebrows. "But she-"
Kharjo chuckled. "Women express devotion in strange ways, my young friend. Isn't that right, Mjoll?"
"We usually don't have a problem expressing annoyance, you overgrown housecat," came her irritated reply. "Don't listen to this one, boy, he hasn't got a clue."
Kharjo hissed mirthfully. "Khajiit women are easy to understand. If they like one, they will scratch him. If they don't like one, they will scratch him also. Just different types of scratchings. One should assume one will be scratched."
Mjoll rolled her eyes; Erandur shook his head good-naturedly. Cosnach laughed long and hard. He was not a handsome man: short and stocky, he was middle aged, with a broken nose and small, sunken eyes. His crooked jaw was stuck in a permanent, cheeky grin, and he had an unfortunate bald spot that made his ring of hair look like a red halo. His biceps bulged impressively, but his belly was plagued with the hint of a beer gut.
"Please tell me one of ye brought a flask," he panted, "I've been sober nigh on three days now, and it's weighing hard on me soul!"
"Drink is a weak man's tool, Cosnach, used to seek short-lasting refuge from life's ills," Erandur replied piously. Then he grinned, and withdrew a small metal canteen from his belt.
"A pox on you, black elf," the Breton man replied, grasping the flask greedily and taking a hearty swig. He burped when he finished, then spoke to Erik for the first time.
"A new Blade joins the ranks, eh? What's your name, boy?"
"Erik, son of Mralki, Cosnach, sir."
"Ah! You're Mralki's boy, then?" he laughed and clapped Erik on the shoulder. It hurt a lot, considering that Erik wore plate armor and Cosnach did not. "Good man, although I still owe him a debt or two."
At that moment Jakt and Delphine walked over. Erik looked over their shoulder to see the Forsworn dispersing. Gwynlach lingered; he met her eye for a second, but her face was unreadable. Then she turned away.
"Cosnach," Jakt said, his voice thick and tired, "You had better be grateful. Oblivion take the Forsworn, dealing with them gives me shivers."
"Rhydderch is shrewd, if anything," Delphine reproached him, "He'll know not to cross us. Not after your display."
"You were the one so against negotiation," Jakt shot back.
"And blood was spilled to prompt it," Delphine replied, raising an eyebrow, "As to be expected with the Forsworn. We should count ourselves lucky it was relatively little."
Erik looked around to see the others' expressions: they all seemed uncomfortable, not unlike children whose parents argued in the company of strangers. He got the feeling that Delphine and Jakt bickered often.
"What of Marcurio and Benor?" Jakt asked; worry replacing the frustration and weariness on his face. Cosnach's solemn expression was enough to answer him.
"What happened?" he asked quietly.
"It's hard to believe, Jakt," Cosnach replied. "We were ambushed, targeted."
"Ambushed?"
"Aye," the Breton nodded and swallowed, scratching at his neck. "I've quested all over this damned wintery wasteland, Cyrodiil and High Rock as well. I know a hit when I see one. We were tracking this big wyrm south from Dragonbridge - fucker had breath like a dead mammoth, let me tell you - and holed up in Karthwasten after tanglin' with him at Hag Rock. All of a sudden some floozy runs up, tells us the beast had crash landed not three miles west. You know Benor, the stupid brute goes runnin' away before me and Marc can stop an' think."
"Always rushing off for glory," Mjoll murmured, "Benor was courageous to the end." Erik was surprised by her melancholy words.
"They were waitin' for us in the forest," Cosnach continued, "Three strangers, dressed in black, hooded. They carried poisoned crossbows, tiny ones you could hold with one hand."
He produced a small crossbow quarrel from his trousers, no longer than his middle finger. The tiny feathers were dyed a deep red.
"Tagged us with these, waited for us to grow weak," he said, "But you know Benor. Crazy bastard charged in, whirling his greatsword, weren't going down without a fight. But they gave it to him, alright: never seen anything like it. It was like watching a three-headed snake, attackin' separately, but all coordinated-like. Poor Benor didn't stand a chance. Marc, they put him down 'cause he was a magic user - too much trouble for them, I think. They let me live."
"Why?" Erik couldn't decide who looked more terrifying: Jakt, whose anguished snarl could have stopped a charging boar in its tracks, or Delphine, whose frigid, expressionless stare might freeze a thundering waterfall.
"Dunno. Tried to fight - the poison slowed me down such that I couldn't do much, and they just beat me and laughed - then everything just faded away, and I fell. Next thing I knew, I was waking up with some dumb savage peerin' over me."
"You were lucky it was Rhydderch's cell that found you," Delphine said, "If Chief Aedran or Marella the Tooth had instead, they'd have gut you like a fish."
"Damned Forsworn took my armor," grunted the Breton, "And my sword. Did let me have some of their moonshine though, an' it weren't half bad. Your pal Rhydderch seemed almost apologetic about the whole damn thing. My pa always said I had a bit of the Reach in my blood."
"Focus, Cosnach," Delphine ordered, "Do you remember anything else about the attackers? What did they do with the bodies?"
"They were gone when I awoke," Cosnach grunted, shaking his head. He was silent for a moment. "At least Benor's runnin' and drinkin' and laughin' in Sovngarde now. And Marcurio, he's - well, wherever Imperials go."
"Oblivion," Kharjo quipped, "They have their own special plane." Mjoll shot him a scathing look, and he lowered his head sheepishly.
"But the hooded bastards, they left me a little message of sorts," Cosnach continued, "Been tryin' to figure it out for the past week or so."
The Breton withdrew another object from his trousers - a small folded-up piece of parchment. He handed it to Delphine, who opened it, frowned, and passed it to Jakt. Jakt shook his head.
"I've no idea what this means," he said, snarling, "But whoever did this, we'll make them pay."
He passed it to Mjoll, who continued to pass it along. The parchment came to Erik last. He was disappointed by what he saw.
On the paper was a simple handprint, made with black ink. The paper was smeared with blood.
A/N: This is a sequel to The Ember Covenant, which tells the origin of Jakt the Dragonborn and is a little more character driven. I wanted to hit a reset of sorts: The Flames of Contempt is much larger in scale, and will feature a lot more of the entities in Skyrim, as you can see. As always, feel free to hit me with reviews or criticism!