/Freedom Fighter
Chapter One: The Welcome Wagon/
Light swam in and out of her vision, vainly trying to break through the fog of pain and darkness. The right side of her face felt like it was twice the size of the left. Her body ached all over, the throbbing mementos left over by her assailants darkening her silvery gray skin. Oh, if they would stop bouncing her about, if the world would just stop lurching around. One particularly large bump sent a sharp, shooting pain racing up through her gut, pushing a desperate, heaving moan out of her. Those bastards…she'd kill them all if she could only move her arms. Strong leather straps bound her wrists together, so tight that the skin beneath was probably white by now. She was helpless. They made her helpless. The bastards.
"Hey…elf…hey…"
The voice punctured the mist and brought her mind back into focus. Low, accented, full of concern, but unfamiliar. Trying to ignore the hideous pain in her neck, she raised her head and opened her claret eyes. Her vision was still blurry and her thick white hair poured over her face, but she managed to make out the form of a rough-looking man in ragged chainmail. The darkness washed back over her and she fought it with all her might.
Steadily, she willed herself awake and the scene became clearer. She and three others sat bound on a carriage, bouncing along wooded path. Mountains rose high all around them, towering over the pines. The man across from her was a Nord, she was certain. He was the epitome of his race: blond, bearded, eyes of crystalline blue, muscles thick and knotted, handsome even through the dirt and bruises on his pale skin. A scraggly, sharp-nosed man in rags sat beside him, angrily twisting at his bonds, cursing under his breath. His thick mop of dirty brown hair flopped in his face as he writhed about in vain. Seated in the back of the carriage, so close to the edge that Yvora thought he might be attempting to slip away, sat a Nord in fur-topped robes with dark coppery hair trimmed to his shoulders, a dirty cloth smothering the lower half of his face. His eyes of gray steel seemed to burn right into her, and she couldn't tell if he were glaring at his situation or at her. Her instinct told her it was the latter case.
Turning back to the man sitting across from her, as he seemed the most amiable, she swallowed hard and managed to break up the dryness in her mouth. "What...happened?" She croaked, her voice sounding foreign to her ears.
"You're finally awake. Was worried about you. You took quite a thumping at the border. Walked right into that Imperial ambush same as us, and that thief over there." He jerked his head at the scrawny man with a look of disdain.
At the mention of the thief, she remembered just how she ended up in her painful predicament. Six weeks ago, she broke out of the Cheydinhal prison and stole a horse from a caravan. Through the trickling rumors down in the bowels of that hellhole, she heard of freedom fighters up in the kingdom of Skyrim. As a child in Morrowind, her parents, nobles of house Savilu, made frequent trips to the snowy province for trade and entertainment. She was too young to remember much about those trips, but what she did remember was a beautiful, sprawling countryside and glittering cities carved from stone. If it were anything like she remembered, it had to be better than living under the damned Concordant.
Weeks later, exhausted, nearly out of food, her horse dead miles back, she finally made it to the border of Cyrodiil just past the peaks of the Jeralls. She nearly ran right into the Imperial soldiers lying in wait, but managed to make it across unseen.
If she stayed hidden, she'd have been free to run, but the thief, the one the Nord spoke of with such bitterness, raced by her on that stolen horse. Her surprised scream alerted them all to her and the thief's presence. The horse, startled by her scream, threw the thief to the ground and ran off, never to be seen again. The soldiers advanced, calling for them to surrender. She remembered pulling the thief's rusty sword from his belt, her other hand sparking with electric energy. The first soldier that reached her found himself limed in the mystical lightning, screeching in agony as he rolled about on the forest floor, twitching and spasming.
Then, a thunderous crack resounded in the middle of the sunlight copse of trees, the force of it throwing them all to the ground. Shouts and curses echoed around her as she pulled herself up and sank her sword into the smoking soldier's back as he tried to crawl away. Warm blood splattered over her face, a reward for her kill as she pulled it free and searched for another to bring down. A fist sank into her stomach, and something hard and barbed exploded against the back of her neck. Blackness.
And now, here they were. Prisoners all, no matter who they were or what they did.
"Did I kill anyone?" She asked, rolling her neck around to relieve the aching pressure.
The blond Nord smiled, amused through his own discomfort. "They found you next to a scorched Imperial, your hand around the hilt of a ratty sword."
He sounded pleased and Yvora nodded, "I thought so. Good riddance…"
"Hey, that was my sword you know," spat the thief, his face a mass of bruises, his nose bent to one side. "If it hadn't been for you and those damn Stormcloaks, I'd be on that horse and halfway to Hammerfell by now! I don't belong here!"
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," grumbled the Nord, disgusted with the man's attitude.
"Shut up back there!" The Imperial driver swung his hand around, pounding the wood next to Yvora. She jumped and scooted away instinctively, feeling ashamed immediately after, but she couldn't help it. The pain was still too fresh for her bravado to resurface.
From the back of the carriage, the gagged man suddenly began struggling and muttering. "What's his problem?" The thief asked, nudging the muscled Nord.
Irritated, he shoved the smaller man away, his blue eyes glittering. "Watch your tongue," he hissed. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" Yvora watched the Nord's face fill up with pride and devotion and the little thief suddenly deflate as if the man's identity stole his courage.
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you…oh gods, where are they taking us?" The thief's voice grew shrill, withering like a blade of grass in the frost.
Wondering the same thing, Yvora glanced back to the road ahead, trying to make out anything through the mist. The outline of a stone wall loomed in the distance. Imperial soldiers milled about on top, watching their approach.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits…," mused the Nord, his eyes unfocused as he thought of his eternal reward. Behind her, the thief began wheedling and whining about the mistake the soldiers made, his voice breaking with fear. "Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?"
Yvora turned to him, thinking he spoke to her, but found him facing the pitiful little man instead. She forgot that she wasn't the only thief aboard.
"What do you care?"
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
Frowning, Yvora turned away as the men began talking about their hometowns. Why were they giving up so easily? Why did they not fight, at least try to escape? No, the thief was too frightened to try, and the other too proud. He faced death with dignity.
"And what about you, lass? You from Morrowind?"
Yvora lifted her crimson eyes to him, shaking her head, "Originally, yes, but I've lived my life in Cyrodiil. Thought I'd come up here and get away from the scum running my home," she raised her voice pointedly in the direction of the driver who only scoffed and chucked the reins of the team. "Looks like you can find vermin all over this damned land, eh?"
"Aye, lass. All over." He cast a hateful eye on an older man in full regalia walking along the top of the wall, an air of arrogance and authority about him. "General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves, I'll bet they had something to do with this. Er, no offense."
She shrugged, "None taken. They're of a different breed than my people. Lower, less evolved."
The Nord chuckled in spite of their dire straits. "I'd like to have fought alongside you, little Dunmer," he said as they entered the gates of a tiny town, gawkers already gathering alongside the carriage. Looking about, he commented on the town, Helgen, musing about a lost lover and juniper mead. The thief had reduced himself to babbling prayers to the Divines.
At last, the carriage stopped and an Imperial soldier stepped forward, list in hand. "Why are we stopping?" The thief asked, his voice trembling.
"Why do you think? End of the line," the Nord murmured. As the trio exited the cart, the thief began begging and protesting his innocence much to the prouder man's chagrin, advising him to find some courage in his last moments. Yvora swore that Ulfric, the gagged jarl, was glaring at her again.
"Step forward when your name is called!" An Imperial woman ordered, motioning to her partner who scanned down to the first name.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."
With as much dignity as he could muster, the jarl walked to the block with his head high, his eyes haughty. His battle mate, the Nord, watched him go with raw emotion in his eyes. "It's been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."
"Ralof of Riverwood." Without a word, Ralof followed his Jarl, his eyes fixed on the skies. "Lokir of Rorikstead."
Upon hearing his name, the little horse thief's last nerve snapped. "No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" Shoving past the flanking guards, he made a break for it. As he neared the far gate, his taunting cry was cut short by an arrow through his back. He crumpled to the ground, dead before the dust settled.
The captain glanced about triumphantly at the other prisoners. "Anyone else feel like running?"
Yvora growled low, thinking of all the slow, painful deaths she'd love to introduce the woman to. Her growl caught the soldier's attention, and he scanned the list, confused. "Wait. You there, step forward." Her first thought was to spit at his feet, but she obliged him. "Who are you?"
"Yvora Savilu, of Cyrodiil," she said, unable to stop herself from glancing at the corpse of cowardly Lokir. He died quickly, if not well. A good death was honored among Nords, that much she knew. Which was a better death: the headsman's axe, or an arrow in the back?
The soldier looked the list repeatedly, turning to his captain. "Captain, what should we do, she's not on the list."
For a brief second, Yvora thought her luck was turning. A look at the captain's cold eyes told her differently. "Forget the list, Hadvar. She goes to the block."
Despite his captain's enthusiasm, Hadvar looked at her with genuine regret, his shoulders dropping a little. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are shipped back to Morrowind."
His pity lit a fiery anger in her and she stalked forward to press her nose to his. Two soldiers rushed to defend their brother-in-arms, but Hadvar showed no signs of needing it. "And I'll make sure there's not enough left of you to ship anywhere," she vowed, her voice dark and icy. A flash of trepidation lit his dark eyes for a moment before the two soldiers hauled her off to the block. She didn't struggle or protest, but her mind began to race, poring over every possible escape plan.
General Tullius stepped forward, looking Ulfric up and down with disappointment. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use the power of the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."
The Voice? Is that what that thunderclap in the forest was all about? Tullius went on about Ulfric's war and the peace he would restore as the voices around her blurred together and she fell deeper into herself, trying to remember any spell, any tactic that she could use.
A howl shook the air, sending ripples of unease through the crowd. Yvora froze. What was that? An animal? No, surely not. It reminded her vaguely of the Voice that Ulfric used to blast the Imperials to the ground. Something about it resonated within her as well, sharpening her senses. Even as it faded and everyone carried on, she could still hear it echoing in her mind.
Then it passed and she found herself staring at the headless corpse of a prisoner. The headsman stood by, wiping blood from his axe, a grim smile on his face.
"Next, the dark elf!"
Oh how she hated that woman. But as a soldier approached her, her mind went blank. There was no way out.
Another howl ripped the skies and stung her ears. Whatever made that chilling sound was getting closer. Hadvar glanced about nervously. "There it is again. Did you hear that?"
The captain's face went white, searching the skies for a moment before regaining her composure. Angrily she spun to Hadvar, "I said, next prisoner!"
Sadly, Hadvar turned to Yvora, motioning to the bloodied chopping block. "To the block prisoner, nice and easy."
She glanced over her shoulder to Ralof, who watched her with agony in his blue eyes. Nodding, pushing all fear aside, she strode forward, turning smoothly to the irate captain and spit in her face. An armored backhand sent her spinning to the ground, rough hands grabbing at her, wrenching her into position on the block. With her last bit of effort, she turned her head and grinned wildly at the headsman. He glared down at her and hefted high his fearsome weapon. Above him, butterflies flitted about in the sunny sky and birdsong lit the air in the forest beyond the wall. Truly, it was a lovely day to die.
Just past the weathered watchtower, the howling creature finally appeared, its snakelike neck writhing sinuously as it lifted its night-black wings. Its barbed tail thrashed behind it, sweeping clouds away in its wake. A nightmare reborn and it was coming for them.
"By Azura's star…" she gasped, pulling away from the block. A soldier attempted to push her back down, but he too saw the creature and began stuttering in horror.
General Tullius, annoyed that his executions should be so fraught with interruptions, approached to admonish the stricken Imperial but failed as he finally caught sight of the black monstrosity. "What in Oblivion is that?"
His acknowledgement of the creature sent the entire crowd into a frenzy. Sentries scanned the skies as prisoners used their distraction to flee into corners. Yvora struggled to get to her feet, throwing the soldier behind her off of her back as the largest, most horrifying creature she ever saw landed atop the old watchtower, the shockwave of its bulk tossing the muscle-bound headsman to the stones. Its spiked head swam lazily about, watching the fleeing men and mer with mild amusement, its fanged maw stretching in what could only be a grin. Then, it caught sight of Yvora, fixing her with its ebon eyes. Yvora saw the wild rage burning within them, unable to look away from them. They invaded her soul, threatening to swallow it whole. Its scythe-filled mouth opened wide, pulling the air around him into its gaping hole, sucking the breath from her lungs.
The breath of the fell beast exploded in an ear-splitting sound like thunder, ten times louder than Ulfric's use of the Voice. The noise shook the air around them, filling the sky with fiery clouds that rained molten rock and smoking embers. Yvora screamed as a falling rock blasted the ground next to her and sent her flying aside. Her head rang as her vision began to swim in the terrible, soul-rending chaos of the dragon's wrath.
A strong hand grabbed her arm and yanked her up from the ground as another rock landed a few feet away from her. She struggled against the grip for a moment before looking back into Ralof's frenzied eyes. "Get up, elf! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance!" He barked, pulling her into a ruined keep and shoving the door closed behind them. Yvora slumped against the stairs and pressed her wrists against her eyes, willing herself not to pass out. Others who had been on the carts were scattered around the small room, some wounded, others obviously on death's door. Ralof pressed his body against the door, his chest heaving. "Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?"
Ulfric, now ungagged, stared out of the arrow slit in the wall, his gray eyes showing only the barest sign of fear. "Legends don't burn down villages," he murmured, his deep voice free of any emotion. The rock walls of the keep trembled as the hellish creature tore the air with another blast of its powerful breath. The jarl's eyes came to life, his battlefield instincts taking over. "We need to move now!"
Yvora could barely focus with all the noise and screaming. Ralof grabbed her again, pushing her to the stairs, shouting at her to keep with him. A Stormcloak soldier worked hard at a pile of rock and rubble, tossing the loose pieces aside. "We just need to move these rocks! Come help!"
Before she could lift one bit, the wall exploded, a huge chunk of rock connecting with the unfortunate Stormcloak. She heard a snap and a groan and he fell limply to the lower level. Outside the hole, the dragon's evil mouth widened, once again gathering up all of the available air. "Yol…TOR SHUUL!"
It spoke! This beast wasn't breathing, it was speaking! The final syllable exited its maw in a stream of fire. Yvora felt her face baking, the fibers of the rags she wore curling in the unbearable heat. She and Ralof pressed back against the wall, waiting for the river of fire to cease. The dragon screamed on, setting the stones, the dust, the very air on fire. Finally, its rage played out and it pulled its head back. A rush of hot air blew in, the wind of its wings as it took off in search of more life to devour.
Ralof sprang away from the wall and tried to climb over the stones, crying out as he found them scorched and melded by the dragon fire. "Damn it! No way thorough here." Yvora barely heard him, her wide crimson eyes staring blankly at the sky. The creature flew in circles, letting blast after blast of its fiery breath flow over those unlucky enough to be seen by its black eyes. Ralof joined her, looking about for any way out. "Hey! See that inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going!"
Yvora's stomach flipped as she took in the distance between their perch and the flaming inn below. "Are you crazy?"
Ralof grasped her shoulders, spun her around, and put his face right into hers. "Go! We'll follow you when we can!"
Realizing the precious time she wasted arguing, Yvora pulled away from him and took a running leap across the empty space. Tucking her feet, she landed and rolled into a pile of embers. Her Dunmer skin kept most of the damage away from her, but the bits of fiery wood stung her like bees. Slapping her bound hands against as many burning holes as she could, she shouldered her way through the wreckage of the inn, at last coming to a broken doorframe. Outside, she saw the soldier, Hadvar, doing his best to coax a young boy over to him, trying to keep him moving against his terror. The boy's father looked up to see the dragon soaring down to shake the ground as it landed near them. Scooping the boy up, he fairly tossed him to Hadvar just as the doomful breath of the dragon poured over him, consuming his flesh in unmerciful flames.
"DA! No, no, Da!" The boy screamed and bawled, squirming in Hadvar's arms as he tried to reach the body of his father. Hadvar, aghast, pulled the boy closer but had no time to comfort him. As he placed him in a fellow soldier's arms, he caught sight of Yvora stumbling out of the inn.
"Still alive, prisoner? If you want to stay that way you'll follow me!" He called, taking a final moment to ensure the boy's safety before ushering the Dunmer along the wall. Just as they reached the end, the dragon landed on the wall right above their heads and screamed forth another fiery blast. Hadvar shoved her to the ground and threw himself against her, shielding her in case the beast saw them. His actions in contrast to their prior situation confused her, but he was keeping her safe for the moment, so she would take it. She only hoped that Ralof was all right, wherever he was.
Once more, the dragon took to the sky, the gale of its wings pushing them to the ground. Hadvar pulled her up and the pair made their way through a force of Imperials futilely attempting to bring the beast down. Nothing they did seemed to hurt it or even get its attention beyond drawing more fire to them. Unmindful of their struggle, Hadvar continued to pull her along. "It's you and me prisoner, come on!"
Finally having enough, she wrenched her arm away from him. "Stop calling me prisoner, Imperial!" Hadvar stared at her, confused. "That's all I am, a prisoner, right? Taking me to your captain, are you? If you're pulling me along just to kill me later, I'll-"
"Ralof!" Yvora spun around to see the Nord sprinting towards them, fury in his eyes as he placed himself between her and Hadvar. The Imperial drew his sword and took a step closer. "You damn traitor! Out of my way!"
Scowling, Ralof drew a small but nasty-looking axe, no doubt taken from one of Hadvar's fallen comrades. He pushed his other hand back against Yvora, maneuvering her closer to the large, untouched keep behind them. "We're escaping Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time."
For a few tense moments, the men stared at each other, each weapon poised to slice through the other to get to freedom. At last, Hadvar lowered his, giving Yvora and Ralof a dirty look. "Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"
As he ran off, Ralof ran to the keep, thrusting all of his weight against the enormous doors. They opened at last and the pair rushed inside. A blast of fire rolled along the ground, signing their heels as they slammed the doors. The iron bindings in the wood grew red from the intense heat as they ran against the far wall. For a moment, it seemed the doors would burst open from the attack, exposing them to the mercy of the beast.
Nothing happened. The metal cooled and darkened and the noise began to fade. If such a thing existed at that time, they were safe.