Imperial archers sure can hit a moving target, Hadvar thought, watching their arrows find their mark. The fleeing horse thief slammed to the ground, two bolts in his back, wheezing his last few breaths. Not a single soul in the courtyard paid him a second thought.
A strange calmness wafted through the air that even the untimely fate of the late Lokir of Rorikstead could not puncture. Hadvar could scarcely believe it when Ulfric Stormcloak himself, bound and gagged yet remaining resplendent regardless, stepped down from the carriage and walked purposefully to the gathering crowd of the condemned. Hadvar's voice trembled slightly as he read the Jarl's name aloud, knowing full well that he was an accessory to the death of one of Skyrim's last, greatest heroes. This man should not die in Helgen: it was barely more than an Imperial-fortified village. He should face trial in Solitude, or the Imperial city itself, and let the Elder Council decide his fate.
Ulfric did not even acknowledge Hadvar as he strode past. The same was not true for his lieutenant, Ralof of Riverwood, who glared accusatorially at Hadvar as he stalked over to join his king. Hadvar had known Ralof: they had grown tall and strong together, brothers all but in name, former friends separated by the hatreds bred of civil war. Just like countless others across Skyrim. Ulfric is tearing our land apart, he wanted to plead to Ralof as he passed, can't you see? But like any disciplined soldier of the Empire, he simply read the accused man's name aloud and kept his anguish to himself.
Hadvar did not have time to comment on the death of a kinsman before the last passenger stepped down from the carriage. He looked down at his list to see that it had ended with Lokir. He could feel the disdain emanating from his commanding officer at his left, a brash imperial captain, as she ordered the prisoner forward. Hadvar opened his mouth and formed his curiosity into words.
"Who are you?"
The prisoner was fairly tall, with sandy-brown hair that fell matted around wiry shoulders. His face was gaunt and guarded, with a trace of a beard, his jawline taut like a coiled spring, distinctly Nordic. His soft green eyes and slender, outwardly-curved nose, however, bespoke of some other blood, as did his height - below average for a Nord. He was young: pride born of youth dominated his visage, but did not completely mask his cold fear. Over his right eye he wore distinctive blue war paint, two jagged lines that zig-zagged from his forehead down one cheek.
The man uttered his name. It was a short name, quick and harsh. "Jakt."
"Seems he was caught trying to cross the border, just before throwing in with the Stormcloaks," muttered the soldier who had escorted the prisoners. Hadvar looked at the young man and tried to keep the pity off his face. Perhaps he had simply been trying to return home and had lacked the coin to pay for the cross. It was not a crime befitting of death, but luck, it seemed, was not on this boy's side. He turned to his captain, uncertainty thick in his voice.
"He's not on the list,"
The Captain shrugged, her eyes cold as steel upon his. "Forget your list. He goes to the block, like the rest."
Hadvar heard a sharp intake of breath, but he could not meet the young man's eyes. "By your orders, captain." At the last minute he looked up and said, "You picked a bad time to come to Skyrim, kinsman. I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, at home."
A Nord's last thoughts should be of home, Ralof had said to Lokir and Jakt. As he stepped towards the block, Jakt found cynicism a better comfort. I have no home, he thought bitterly, certainly not with the Empire that has forsaken me, and my ancestors. He had come to Skyrim to find one, but the Empire was about to take that fervent dream with the swing of an axe. The irony of his fate danced around him, mocking and untouchable.
He marched behind the captain as he joined the other condemned prisoners. A grey haired imperial, clearly one of high rank judging by his gilded armor, was face to face with Ulfric. Ralof had given his name as they had entered Helgen, but Jakt could not remember it. His voice rang hard as he first addressed Ulfric, and then the crowd: he spoke of restoring the peace, but Jakt did not listen to his lies. Instead, he thought he heard a faint roar, or a screech, coming from beyond the mountains. No one paid it any mind.
Soon his little speech was over, and the first Stormcloak took the block, his nose high and his manner brusque, as if his own execution simply bored him. When he spoke the name of Talos aloud, cutting off the priestess as she spoke his last rites, Jakt silently applauded his audacity to thumb his nose at the Empire, and their Thalmor allies, even at the moment of his death. The Headsman was quick, at least. Growing up on the streets of the imperial city, Jakt had seen the High Elves root out Talos worship on more than one occasion. It was often a gruesome spectacle, much more so than a quick decapitation. As soldiers from both sides shouted in defiance or approval, he heard Ralof mutter a quick word after the axe came down and the man's head rolled into the bucket: "As fearless in death as he was in life."
Then it was Jakt's turn, and as he approached the block, he thought he heard the same roar, louder this time, over the pounding of his heart in his ears. It was unlike any he'd ever heard, somehow ancient and primeval, and when others began to mutter and glance about, he knew that he was not the only one privy to the sound. At least I won't die a crazy man, he thought as the captain's armored boot forced his foot forward. Hesitant to gaze upon the severed head in the bucket below, he chanced one final glance up into the headsman's hooded face, but his eyes were cold, with no mercy to be found. Helgen's central watchtower loomed in the background as the axe rose. He felt calm, despite the black taste of fear that choked his throat. I will die in Skyrim, that much is true.
All of a sudden, a shadow filled the air, along with the leathery sound of flapping wings. Something gigantic and silhouetted landed on the tower, shrouded by some otherworldly force. The ground rumbled as it landed, as the air crackled with a dozen gasps and cries. The axe faltered and then disappeared. Before Jakt could get a better look at the creature, it opened its mouth and shouted some phrase in an indecipherable tongue. There was a crack of thunder and some unseen wall of pure force blew him off of the block and sent him hurtling to the ground. His head clunked against hard, cold dirt and everything went black.
…Mommy?
Yes, child?
The soldiers, why are they leaving?
They are going home.
Is daddy going home too?
Yes, child.
Why can't we go with him?
Because this is our home.
No it isn't. It doesn't feel like home.
"Wake up, brother!"
The blond Stormcloak, Ralof, hoisted Jakt to his feet. Somehow he'd managed to free his hands. "Come on kinsman, the Gods won't give us another chance!"
Jakt spared a glance at the monster sitting atop the tower. Dark clouds swirled around a colossal, horned head, black as night except for two beady red eyes. Reaching out its arms it revealed two massive wings so wide they seemed to blot out the sun. Its body was as dark as its head, with scales that looked tougher than any steel, and horned ridges that erupted from its spine all down its massive back. It opened its cavernous mouth to reveal teeth the size of a man's arm.
Jakt decided he'd had enough of a glimpse, so he turned and raced after Ralof. "Quick!" shouted the fair-haired Nord, "Into the tower!" As they sprinted away he thought he heard a low rumble, as if the beast were speaking. All of a sudden cries of "Kill it! Kill the monster!" turned to screams, as the air crackled and heated. Jakt did not need to look back to know it must have breathed fire. He found it awkward and difficult to run with both hands tied together, but he followed Ralof at a dead sprint into the nearest guard tower, entering just in time to witness one Stormcloak tending to the wounded body of another. Ulfric Stormcloak stood over them, his hands and face free, turning away only when Ralof addressed him directly.
"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof began, "What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"
The Jarl fixed an icy gaze on his subordinate. "Legends don't burn down villages." His voice was rough and deep, like a boulder rolling against stone. He turned to regard Jakt; when their eyes met, Jakt thought he saw something, some flicker in the man's eye. Then the beast roared again, and Ralof grabbed hold of Jakt's arm, shouting into his face, "Quickly! Up the tower!"
The blond nord dashed up the stairs. As he followed, Jakt chanced a quick look backwards to see Ulfric's eyes still fixed on him. There was no time to wonder, however, because right as Ralof reached the first landing, a great crack split the air, followed by a crunch. Jakt watched in horror as the wall exploded inwards, throwing Ralof to the floor. The monster's head filled the newly-created hole as it opened its jaws to take in a great breath, rumbled in its imperceptible language, and sent a great gout of fire pouring forth. Jakt threw himself backwards just in time to avoid the deadly flame, but the white-hot fire danced in his vision, blinding him. He could only sit there, curled into a fetal position as the fiery barrage continued. He could feel the heat as it melted the wood and the stone that made up the second floor landing. Then, it was gone.
By some stroke of divine providence, Ralof was unhurt, albeit covered in soot; the force of the exploding wall had thrown him clear of the beast's flame. Jakt struggled upright. Ralof ran to the window and gestured frantically. "See the inn on the other side? If we can make it there, it's a straight shot to the fort. Jump through and just keep moving!"
Jakt looked downwards to the first floor, but Ulfric Stormcloak was long gone. He shot Ralof a desperate look, unable to find the words to express his pulsating fear, but his fellow Nord simply grinned, nodded his head and patted him on the shoulder. Terror almost took control then, but somehow Jakt forced it down, turned to the window, and took a running leap. The soft hay roof rushed up to meet him and helped to slow the fall, but he landed hard regardless, plunging through the roof and onto the second floor of the inn. As he landed he forced himself into a roll, absorbing the brunt of the impact, but his bound hands made his body's trajectory hard to control, and his awkward roll turned into more of a tumble.
Once again Jakt forced himself to his feet, shrugging off the pain, before slumping desperately around the second floor of the burning, dilapidated inn. The staircase was in shambles, so he dropped through a hole in the floor. Ralof had not followed him, but there was no time to go back, he had to get out of the burning building…
Outside, he found himself facing a motley crew of Imperial soldiers and archers. Several yards away, in the middle of the courtyard, a young boy crouched crying in front of a scorched, broken man, whose leg was bent back at an impossible angle. Somehow he was still moving, waving the boy away frantically, tears of pain in his eyes. The Nord soldier from earlier, who had looked on Jakt with kind eyes, stood near the burning inn, his sword drawn. He was gesturing just as frantically at the little boy, crying his name, trying to save him. All of a sudden the monster landed in front of the man and the child and sucked in its breath. The boy, finally understanding, turned and ran, and Jakt could only watch as flame from the beast's mouth engulfed the man. He looked frantically for Ralof, or one of the other blue-clad Stormcloaks, but they were nowhere to be seen. Out of options, he followed the remaining soldiers behind the cover of a burning house. The familiar Nord soldier turned to him then, his eyes flashing as he recognized him.
"Still alive, prisoner?" He asked incredulously, "Follow me if you want to stay that way!" He turned to one of his fellow soldiers. "Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to join General Tullius in the defense."
"Gods guide you, Hadvar," grunted the soldier as he scooped up the crying child.
Hadvar turned to Jakt. "Come here," he ordered, "and hold out your hands." He fumbled with a knife, reached out and cut his bonds. Jakt recoiled as if stung, surprised by this unforeseen kindness.
"I think you just earned yourself a pardon," he growled as he turned away. "Quickly! Stay close to me!"
Saved by an Imperial soldier? Once again irony reared its ugly head. Jakt followed him through another burning building, then around another close to a stone wall. There was a tense moment when, all of a sudden, the beast landed on the wall. Both men threw themselves against the stone, waiting as it breathed a fresh gout of flame at a pair of fleeing Stormcloaks in the courtyard… Jakt closed his eyes, certain to be roasted alive, but when he opened them again the fiend was gone: it had not seen them. He had not time to breathe a sigh of relief before Hadvar wrenched him to his feet.
As the two man ran through Helgen, buildings burned and people screamed. The beast flapped overhead, rending the village with fire and mayhem. In the central courtyard a group of newly freed Stormcloaks frantically waged battle with some Imperial soldiers, and the sound of steel upon steel joined the cacophony of the strangely surreal yet deadly attack. Hadvar cursed their foolishness and chose to ignore the fight, so Jakt followed him; besides, he was still unarmed. He was unsure if he could bring himself to kill this new savior, even if he was a soldier of the Empire. All of a sudden the two entered through a newly toppled stone archway to find Helgen's keep, separated by a small, open courtyard.
Suddenly, a beleaguered Ralof appeared. He had armed himself with a small war axe. Hadvar screeched to a stop and called out to him. "Ralof! You damn traitor, out of the way!"
"We're escaping, Hadvar," Ralof cried out in response. "You can't stop us this time!"
There was a tense moment as the two eyed each other, but when the monster roared overhead, Hadvar cursed again and lowered his blade. "Fine," he spat, "but I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"
The two ran in opposite directions. Both called out for him to follow, but Jakt quickly made up his mind. He turned on his heels and ran behind Ralof towards the main gates of the keep. There was a pang of guilt and uncertainty then – after all, Hadvar had freed him, and clearly regretted his misfortune. But Ralof was a Stormcloak, and everyone knew that the Stormcloaks fought for Skyrim's independence, and besides, Jakt had just come very close to losing his head on an Imperial chopping block for a crime hardly worthy of a fortnight in prison.
Jakt and Ralof forced open the gate and piled into the keep. They found themselves in a large circular room, decorated with Imperial Legion colors. The battle raging outside became little more than a series of muffled shouts. Ralof ran over to a body next to a table that wore the blue of the Stormcloaks.
"We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother," he muttered, crouching over his slain comrade. Jakt knew little of his people and their religion, but his blood boiled at the sight. He stood there, stony faced, unsure of what to say.
Soon enough, Ralof stood. "Looks like we're the only ones who made it," he breathed. Then he shook his head sadly.
"What was that thing?" asked Jakt. His voice felt hoarse: he could not tell if it was from disuse, or breathing too much smoke.
Ralof looked at him with wide eyes. "It was a dragon! No doubt about it. Just like the children's tales and the legends," He took another deep breath. "The harbingers of the end times."
Jakt said nothing. What was there to say? His mother had never told him those stories. She had barely told him anything before she died. But he knew about dragons, he had heard the rumors. The dragons were all dead, they died long ago: the last dragon stood as a statue in the Imperial city, frozen in stone for two centuries, the only reminder left of the days when the Septims ruled the Empire. Back when it was worth anything.
"Ralof," he spoke, stirring the man from his fears, "We need to get moving."
Ralof shook his head again to clear it, and nodded. Then he took one look at Jakt and laughed, a short little bark. "Not like that, you're not."
Jakt looked down at himself. He was still dressed in the prison rags. Ralof had a point – he wasn't about to slay any dragons dressed like this.
"You'd better take Gunjar's things," Ralof started slowly, "Where he's gone… well, let's just say he won't need them anymore."
Jakt looked him in the eye, and cleared his throat. "Tell me… where did you say he went?"
Ralof's eyebrows shot up in surprised. "To Sovngarde. Shor's bones! Do you mean to tell me you've never heard of Sovngarde?"
Jakt raised his hands defensively. "I grew up in Cyrodil."
Ralof continued to look at him as if he was daft, but he shrugged. "Sovngarde is where the sons and daughters of Skyrim go when they fall in this life." He paused. "They say that mead flows in rivers from a never-ending source high in the mountains, and that the heroes of old test their might on frosted plains, then drink to never-ending friendship in a beer hall larger than a mountain!" He laughed his short bark again. "Of course, the only way there is a sword through your belly or an axe through your neck. But sooner or later, Sovngarde awaits all valiant Nords." He looked to Gunjar, and Jakt thought he detected a hint of jealousy in Ralof's otherwise grim tone.
Jakt rubbed his own neck, grateful his head was still attached to his body. He did not yet understand these people, his kin, with their blind courage, love of battle, and superstitious ways. In the slums of the Imperial city, reckless bravery was like to get one knifed in the back. He was in no hurry to get to Sovngarde.
Once Jakt had dressed, they pressed on through the castle. It was eerie and quiet: Ralof was right, no one else had thought to enter the keep. Either that, or they were all dead, killed by the dragon. Jakt paused only to take a sword from where it hung on a weapon rack in one of the barrack rooms. Ralof looked disdainfully at him, for it was an Imperial weapon, with a wide blade and the Septim dragon sigil carved into its hilt. Regardless, it was good steel, well sharpened and balanced. Most Nords liked to charge in with abandon, wielding greatswords or battleaxes the length of a grown man, but Jakt had learned to fight a little differently.
"You are new to Skyrim, then?" Ralof asked after a moment, as they descended through the keep.
"I grew up in the Imperial City, although I spent time walking Cyrodil."
Ralof smiled, but it was not a happy one. "So you have seen the cruelty of the Empire before." He gestured at the room they found themselves in: several cages sat against the walls, and an assortment of crude, pointed and serrated objects – knives, shivs, embalming tools – lay on a table, smeared in what looked like blood. One of the cages held a dead man dressed in bloodstained robes.
All of a sudden, there were voices, followed by the heavy footsteps of armored feet. Three men entered the room, legionnaires all of them. They skidded to a halt when they beheld the two blue-clad Nords. Ralof drew his axe and bared his teeth like a snarling bear.
"You Stormcloak bastards," began the one in the middle. He was barrel-chested and squat, with a split lip and oily hair. Faded blood stained his gauntlets and his leather armor, and the sword in his hand was as ugly as he was, with a harsh, serrated blade, and a slight greenish hue. Judging by the keys dangling at his hip, this was the gaoler, and most likely the torturer as well.
"You thought you might escape the axe, did you?" the gaoler hissed. The soldiers to his left and right gripped their swords, with cold eyes and lips pressed tightly shut. "We'll send you to Oblivion ourselves then!"
Ralof gave a terrible cry and charged forward, scattering the three. Jakt loped after him, keeping his center of gravity low, with his sword in his left. They were three against two – he needed to even the odds quickly before their enemy overwhelmed them. He spotted the gaoler, who had leapt back in surprise following Ralof's reckless charge. Jakt swung his blade diagonally towards the man, a weak strike to test the man's defenses. The man parried easily and pressed his own attack, a savage overhand chop, relying on brute force to overwhelm his opponent. Jakt briefly felt his hot breath on his face, looked up to see wild eyes scarcely a foot from his own. Instead of fighting the man's lunge, he met the man's blade with his own, quicker than a whip, and tapped it slightly to the side, then deftly spun out of the man's way, his foot lunging out in the process to catch the gaoler's own. Overbalanced, the man crashed forwards, buying Jakt precious time.
He turned just in time to block the horizontal sweeping strike of one of the soldiers. In the corner of his eye he saw Ralof tackle the other to the ground, but he forced himself to concentrate on the man in front of him. He unleashed a flurry of quick strikes that left his opponent hard-pressed to counter them all. The last parry left the man awkwardly outstretched, his sword arm extended and bent too far to his left; Jakt deftly slid his own blade down past the hilt of his opponent's outstretched sword, shearing off his thumb and biting deep into his arm in the spot just before his leather gauntlet met his wrist. The man cried out and dropped his sword, and Jakt sent him reeling backwards with a shove.
Before he could follow up, the gaoler was upon him again, evidently recovered. He came in with a brutal smashing blow that sent a jolt through Jakt's arms as he just barely got his own sword up in time. The squat man pressed his attack, each swing stronger – and clumsier – than the last, keeping Jakt on the defensive. Jakt bided his time, parrying his blows, waiting for the man to make his mistake, and he soon did. His final swing, a great arcing overhead strike, took too long, and by the time he brought it down Jakt was no longer there. He'd spun aside, completed the turn to build his momentum, and by the time the gaoler's wicked sword reached the point where Jakt had previously stood, his own weapon was biting deep into the man's side.
The man cried out, turning awkwardly and desperately tried to counterattack, but Jakt swatted the halfhearted blow away and plunged his own blade deep into the man's chest, shearing through his leather armor with ease. With a gurgle the gaoler dropped his own weapon and clawed at the sword frantically, pathetically. Jakt did not linger, planting his foot on the man's stomach and yanking his blade free, sending the gaoler tumbling back in the process. He did not get up, and Jakt did not look at him. There was a lump stuck in is throat, and his eyes felt very dry, but he ignored it and turned away. He was just in time to see Ralof, standing, knock aside one last feeble slash and bury his axe deep in the neck of the soldier he'd been fighting.
Jakt was about to sheath his own blade when he remembered the third. The soldier sat against the wall, clutching his bleeding hand, tears of pain in his eyes. Ralof strode towards him, his axe dripping, his face frozen in cold rage. The soldier whimpered, "mercy," and Jakt opened his mouth to tell Ralof to wait, spare him, but before he could say anything his axe buried itself deep between the soldier's eyes. Ralof wrenched it out, let the man fall sideways.
He turned to Jakt and smiled, laugh lines returning to his face all of a sudden. "You're pretty handy, boy," he said. "Who taught you how to fight like that?"
Jakt just shook his head. He forced himself to smile back and replied, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Ralof shrugged and turned away. "Alright then. Lets keep moving."
Jakt lingered for a moment, finding himself in front of the third soldier, his head nearly split in two. He was young, no older than Jakt, and he would stay that way. And though it was matted with blood and brain matter, his fair hair betrayed his heritage, as did his sky-blue eyes, frozen open in death.
By the Eight, thought Jakt. What have I gotten myself into?