Chapter I: A Voice Through the Smoke

201 of the Fourth Era

Jarl Balgruuf's observant gaze examined the Breton. He was old, very old, but fit. Obviously still an active soldier in the imperial military. The small ribbon tied to his chest plate indicated the rank of Quaestor: only the first rank above Auxiliary. He hadn't been in the legion as long as his years indicated … a sellsword perhaps? Decided to go the straight and narrow? The Jarl brushed his thoughts aside. It didn't matter. These were hard times, there was a war looming in from the east, and this Breton had just survived one dragon and slain another. Men like him were in short order, and the Jarl needed his assistance yet again. Ulfric Stormcloak was marching on the gates. The imperial legate from Solitude poured over the map of the hills under bleak falls barrow. The pass near Riverwood was the only other place to bring across siege equipment besides the northern side of High Hrothgar, and all possibilities had to be covered.

A creaking slam of wood echoed down the main hall as the front gates of Dragonsreach were thrown open. An out of breath auxiliary sprinted up the side steps into the war room. The legate looked up to him expectantly. "Well? Let's hear it auxiliary. Report."

The auxiliary attempted to collect himself and pulled in a deep breath. "T-T-The gates…Ulfric. He's coming through the north pass – catapults - ". The auxiliary gasped losing his words

The legate was brought to attention now. "Come one boy, how many men! Spit it out!" He turned from the auxiliary to the rest of the imperial soldiers about the war room. "Everyone, get to the forward gates! Archers to the rear and fore city walls, standard gate defense everyone. Make sure not one blue-backed sonnuva bitch enters this city alive!"

As the aging Breton pulled on his helm and checked the blade of his sword one last time, he and the Jarl locked eyes for a brief moment. It was not a gaze of honor nor a nod for luck, but a quick glance of utter indifference. The Jarl needed his services, and the soldier, despite his grand accomplishments, was a slave to his rank. Uthard strapped the sabre securely against his hip, satisfied of its edge. Without a second to lose, he took off through Dragonsreach towards the torrentially raining and pitch dark battlegrounds of Whiterun. Water tore through the frigid air of the plains like tiny spears, and the night stretched onward in such darkness that Uthard couldn't even make out the outline of High Hrothgar. One could not have hand-picked a poorer night for a defense. The only marking of any distance outside of the city's walls was the oil-fire of boulders, prepared to be hurled onto the cowering citizens of Whiterun hold. This night, Uthard was their defender. He had long thought that such honorable battles were behind him, but now he found the old feeling of righteousness rushing through his veins.

It was only for the most fleeting of moments.

From out of the pitch darkness, one of those distant fires came suddenly, and terrifyingly closer. A massive 5 foot stone careened off of a cloud district homestead, splintering one of its support beams before rolling to a fiery stop in the city's high square. Whiterun would never be the same.

Fire. Blood.

Through these things Karlirah could barely make out the dark imposing silhouettes of imperials and stormcloaks. The blue cloth of Ulfric's hold was raining down hellfire onto her home. The Whiterun she had grown up in soon would be no more. The hunter's shop was ablaze, its owner sobbing outside. Most townsfolk had retreated into their homes as soon as the first stones fell, but the strong wood beams of Whiterun's buildings were no match for fired rock, and many had already been buried alive in flaming wood by Ulfric's host. Karlirah had tucked her blade away at home. Housecarl that she may be, this was soldier's work, and if Ulfric's forces were successful, anyone wielding a blade would likely be cut down by invaders. So far, it seemed, the blue swarmed over the red. Despite the numbers being similar to begin with, the stormcloaks were unrelenting. The first barricade had fallen hours ago and the front gate was now barely held by a skeleton crew of imperials. Most had such tiredness in their eyes that Karlirah wondered how they could manage to stand. Bodies that had been dragged behind the main gates were lined up on the side of the street and covered with linen. Most were imperial, some were citizens of Whiterun. Jenssen from the temple lay among them, his blank, dead face staring from beneath the bloodied white cloth. She hadn't known him, but he was always kind, and he was a talented healer. Karlirah couldn't look. Her mind was a dangerous concoction of adrenaline, anger and grief. She could see that same rage behind every one of those soldiers' aching bodies.

"Talos give me strength…" She spoke under her breath, setting a quick pace back to her home. If Whiterun was going to fall, then she would fall with it.

Beneath the thinned, worn cloth of her carpet, she felt the familiar shape of a hilt. Her broadsword pulled out from its hiding place as if it were light as a feather in her hand. It's steel edge sharp as a bard's tongue. If she had anything to say about it, the stormcloaks - victory or no - would remember this day with sorrow. As she emerged from her house, a thunderclap wracked the sky with sound, drowning out the shouts of warriors. And yet…it was as if the thunder itself formed words. It came again, this time more clear. The thunder spoke as if in tongues, rolling words across the vast tundra of Skyrim. A Breton man in imperial garb sprinted past her towards Dragonsreach. She glanced back towards the gate for a moment then ran after him.

"Sir!" she yelled to him as she tried to catch up. "What was that voice!?"

He glanced back but kept running up the stairs to the Jarls keep, picking up the pace as if to ignore her.

"SIR!"

He made an exasperated gesture and slowed down to a more reasonable run. Karlirah caught up and he stared at her for a moment. "Not a soldier eh?" He finally spoke, his voice haggard and solemn. He tapped her broadsword. "Can you use that oversized ingot?"

She nodded, swinging it into her backsheath.

Grimacing back at her, he switched his attention to the doors of Dragonsreach. "Good. You're going to need it very, very soon."

Two of them entered the Jarl's main hall. The Jarl's court was assembled near the throne, surrounded by several guardsmen. The imperial legate stood among them as well, and they all spoke in hushed panicked tones.

"I'm assuming you all heard the Thu'um?" The Breton spoke, and all of them turned to him. Balgruuf nodded, defeat written across his face. "Ulfric Stormcloak has come himself then?" he asked.

"No. No, this is unfortunately much worse than that. The Dragonborn has joined the rebellion." Uthard pulled out his flask and took another swig. The steward, Avenicci's face went white. "D-Dragonborn? Surely-"

"Oh, it's him alright." The Breton took another drink and tucked the bottle away. "I got a fine look at him as he was shouting apart the gates."

Karlirah couldn't believe her ears. Sure, most of the city had watched the guard fight off a dragon at the western watchtower, but the Dragonborn… she had always thought it was a legend created to make humans seem more powerful; the blood of dragons running through our veins. So many questions sat at the edge of her tongue, but she kept silent. Now was not the time to ask.

Proventus Avenicci looked up to the imperial soldier pleadingly, desperately even. "You killed that dragon didn't you? Surely a dragon is no fiercer than one's blood inside a man? Please – you must! I…" The Jarl interrupted the cracking voice of Avenicci "Proventus! Have a little more backbone; this is not a day for cowardice." The Jarl's aged face turned back from his steward to the man standing in front of Karlirah. "That being said, you are surely the most qualified. If you think you can do it, my men – and I – are at your service."

The Breton she had followed cleared his throat, and seemed somewhat off-put by the begging of Avenicci. "There's no need for such pleading. I've just come to deliver the message. I have to get back to the front lines." He turned and strode past Karlirah towards the wide doors of Dragonsreach. As he passed, he looked to her, and tipped his head in a motion as if asking her to follow him. She finally got a good look at his face; he had two deep blade scars running across the bridge of his nose and down to the right side of his cheek. The wrinkles across his face indicated a man old enough to have grandchildren. His hair was lightened and grey, but still carried a twinge of its original brown within the wires of his thick beard. His eyes were deeply set and while tired and solemn, seemed to hold knowledge of everything they glimpsed.

Karlirah looked back at him with as much confidence as she could manage. This was the man who killed the dragon of Whiterun? She wouldn't have believed it at first glance, but there was something in his face that spoke of legend.

"Well come on, girl. Are you going to help kill this god or what?"

Uthard unsheathed his blade. The girl behind him hustled to keep up. Her face seemed familiar somehow, and her blade arm looked strong. There was something in her eyes that he always looked for in young warriors. She observed everything about her surroundings. Her gaze was not idle, but calculating and strategic. It was an early sign of a great swordsman. Uthard's habits for selecting pupils had never really died, but he hadn't taught in decades and wasn't planning to, even now. The old ways of his craft were now beyond his reach; the Thalmor had seen to that.

A thu'um splintered wood somewhere ahead in the city walls. The Dragonborn was here. Uthard had once sworn an oath of allegiance to the dragon's blood. Now not only was his order destroyed, but he himself was an oathbreaker. Above all else, a Blade must serve the line of the dragon's blood, and hunt those immortal winged foes of man. Now, Uthard planned to raise a blade against his god. With soft rolling of metal on metal, the girl's blade left its sheath behind him and she lowered into a readied stance.

As the two of them approached the piles of burning debris, the Dragonborn came into view. His armor was pierced with five or six crossbow bolts, and had a massive cleaved opening across its chest; someone had already managed to land a strike. Despite these marks of what should have been death, the man stood tall, taller than any other living man in the city. His thick Nordic neck cracked as he stretched it from side to side, loosening up as if he had simply taken a few punches. The sword in his right hand was covered in ash and blood, still dripping from its latest kill. Fire wreathed around him, singeing the ragged pieces of fur lining the inside of his iron plate. He called to the fire and commanded it; as he bellowed out the dragon's speech, fire leapt from his mouth and burned the nearest guardsman alive. The man who had been torched screeched in terror, dropping his quickly blackening crossbow to roll across the ground, writhing in vain to put out the dragonfire.

Uthard could hear the girl choke on her breath, if not from the black smoke of the burning city then from the sight of the fearsome deital monolith of a man before her. Several of the closer guardsmen of Whiterun turned and fled. The imperials nearby, and some of the more stalwart guards reformed a line of crossbowmen to attempt another volley.

The Dragonborn disregarded the crossbow line as Uthard came into view. The fierce eyes of the dragon met Uthard's, burning with a desire to kill. Uthard steeled himself, and returned the deathly gaze. The Dragonborn shouted "WULD NAH KEST!"

Suddenly he was on them, feet from Uthard's readied blade. In a massive arcing swing, the Dragonborn brought down his sword. Had Uthard's reflexes failed him, he would have been cleaved in two. In a flash, his sabre clashed against the broadsword, parrying it to the side as Uthard deftly sidestepped the brunt of the Dragonborn's force. The thin bladed sabre moved like lightning across the Nord's plate, aiming for a seem in the metal. It slipped through, slicing across the Dragonborn's side. Blood leaked from between the metals folds and the Dragonborn grunted in pain. In his pained confusion, he flung his shield arm wildly towards Uthard. Uthard ducked beneath it but the steel shield caught on the massive pauldron of his imperial armor. The force careened Uthard across the cobble street and he was dashed against the side of one of the many burning homes.

Unclipping a red flask from his hip, the Dragonborn swigged back the whole bottle and tossed it to the side of a stunned Karlirah. Uthard could see the attention of the massive hulk turn away from him, and towards the girl. As Uthard stood, a shooting pain wracked his left leg and he stumbled back down to the ground. The Nord's cleaver swung up, preparing to taste Karlirah's blood. As he brought it down, Uthard tried desperately once more to raise himself and distract from the girl. Karlirah clapped her greatsword flat against the incoming blow, with her left hand holding up the far end of her blade for added resistance. To Uthard's surprise, Karlirah barely moved an inch from the Dragonborn's strike. Her greatsword tilted, letting the rest of the Dragonborn's swing follow through harmlessly to her side. Her counter attack was less accurate than Uthard's strike, but slammed into the Nord like a battering ram, denting in his chest plate. The man began to cough uncontrollably; the dented metal held in his lungs from breathing properly. As he fumbled to unclip it Karlirah dodged away and signaled the crossbowmen, who had been holding until the Uthard and the girl were not in the line of fire. As the Dragonborn's armor fell from his body and he looked up to re-target the girl who had attacked him, he was suddenly blindsided by a hail of bolts. Quickly he reacted, crouching down and shouting back at them, "FUS ROH DAH!" Three of the bolts connected with his flesh, piercing deeply into his leg, shoulder and chest. The rest were blown aside by his shout. Screaming in pain, he managed to roust himself and hobbled away from the line of fire as the crossbows reloaded. Karlirah made to chase after him but Uthard grabbed her shoulder.

"No, let him go!" He growled to her.

"Why? We can kill him now!" She yelled back, trying to shake his grip.

"He's retreating. The Stormcloaks will see him and do the same. A fleeing god is more demoralizing than a corpse like any other corpse. He is not as dangerous as his title would make him seem." At this, Karlirah relaxed a little, and Uthard let her loose. As she gazed over the charred city, she could see the blue coated men of Windhelm retreating from their posts. They had seen their trump-card defeated, and were crippled in morale. The battle was over for now, and the Breton was right. She sighed, wiping sweat from her face.

"What now?"

Uthard took a deep breath and sheathed his sabre. "Now we tend to the wounded, see the Jarl, and refortify the city. Beyond that…It depends on that coward, Ulfric." Uthard glared out over the tundra. "Never have I met a more dangerous man than he."

Karlirah looked to Uthard, wide eyed. "You've met Ulfric Stormcloak?"

"Yes, I have." Uthard began to walk back towards Dragonsreach, and Karlirah followed him.

"And?"

"And what?" Uthard replied exasperatedly

"What's he like?" Karlirah said, ignoring Uthard's rude tone.

"He's like any other cruel bigot, except he's handsome and people listen to him."

Karlirah was silent. It wasn't exactly the answer she was expecting, but she decided not to press it any longer. Uthard was obviously not up for much talking.

As they reached the steps, Karlirah decided she would be staying out of the politics of this one. She was already more involved than she'd ever planned to be. When Uthard stepped briskly through the front gates of Dragonsreach, Karlirah stepped off to the side and let him be the one to go through to the Jarl. She sat down at a side table with one of the guardsmen. He was a man she'd known since she moved to Whiterun. After a hard time of blood and death, they didn't exchange any words. He simply passed her a bottle of wine, and the two of them drank in silence, listening in on the Jarl's court.

Uthard paid no heed as the girl slipped away. The Jarl was already looking at him expectantly from across the grand hall, and as a man of the Empire, he could not leave a superior waiting.

"The Stormcloaks are retreating, Jarl Balgruuf." Uthard addressed the Jarl, but his eyes met with each member of the court. As he came to Proventus, the Jarl's steward asked "And the Dragonborn?"

Uthard bowed in apology. "I made the decision to let him live, to help force the retreat. He is, however, heavily wounded."

At this, Proventus frowned, but said nothing. Balgruuf's face was pensive, but not unhappy. "This decision, while I am not convinced it was the right one, was likely the safest for my city. I appreciate your quick decision making. Even so, this man…this Dragonborn, must still be dealt with."

Uthard stared at the court in front of him. They all had immediately looked to him as the Jarl mentioned killing the Dragonborn. Uthard's face fell. This boded ill for his military career. The court turned inward, speaking in hushed tones for a few minutes as Uthard was left the shuffle about, waiting for his predictable next set of orders. As they turned back to him, he could see they had reached a decision. Legate Cipius who stood beside the Jarl looked unhappy and when he met Uthard's eyes, he spoke a subtle apology.

"Quaestor Mallory," The Jarl began, straightening himself, and delivering his address formally. "I have requested your immediate leave of absence from the imperial fighting force for the purpose of defense of Whiterun Hold. Specifically your task will be to eliminate the abomination that threatens this land from the legions of Ulfric Stormcloak, false king." The Jarl presented a writ with the official imperial seal from the Legate beside him. "Your superiors have signed your services to me temporarily as part of our agreement in Whiterun's support of the Empire." Uthard made no attempt to hide his contempt for the situation and the Jarl saw his expression. "I have not forgotten your previous services to my hold. I hereby name you Thane of Whiterun, and I appoint Karlirah as your personal Housecarl."

Somewhere in the back of the hall, Uthard head the faint sound of a bottle shattering. Uthard could never remember the old Nord words and their meanings, but considering the context, this person would be some sort of servant. As much as other men would have enjoyed such frivolity, Uthard found himself dreading this new work even more than before. Not only would he have to leave the legion behind to hunt an unascended brutal god-man, but he would have a glorified butler following him as he did.

"You are dismissed. I hereby bestow to you the sum of five thousand gold. Upon the completion of your task, a second half of your payment will be rewarded."

Uthard's eyes widened as he took the large knapsack of gold from the Jarl's guard. At least the money was good. He nodded curtly, saying nothing before whirling around and stepping towards the door. As he came to the exit, the girl from before was standing in front of him. "Glory to you, Thane. I am Karlirah, you're Housecarl."

Uthard sighed. Well, at least she could be useful in a fight. "And what are your duties as a Housecarl exactly?"

"As my thane, I am sworn to your service. I will defend you, and all you own, with my life."

"I won't be needing any defense. However, this gold is quite heavy." Uthard tossed the knapsack of gold to her and she caught it with a surprisingly solid grip.

"Anything else thane?" She said, swinging the knapsack over her back. Uthard paused for an awkwardly long moment as he processed this most recent chain of events.

"We're leaving this city." Uthard said finally, glancing back at the mead hall tables. "And bring me one of those bottles would you? Full is preferable."

"Right away."