A memory of Ysorya's home city of Wayrest, the last time she saw it – a full thirteen years before, when it was attacked from the sea. Just a flash of images, really: black smoke against the perfect blue sky, the tall, angular towers of the city, her mother, with light brown curls and hard blue eyes, "Just go, to the north gates, and wait for me there." She never saw her again. Wasn't sure the mother of her memory even looked like the mother of her reality. In the rest of her memories her mother and father moved like blurred shadows, almost silent save for their presence. It was the last time she remembered crying. The last time she tasted tears: warm, salty…
...coppery taste of blood in her mouth. The dagger was stuck. She put her arm in it, moving back to her and down, and it came loose from the rib cage of her attacker. Her feet turned like they knew the dance better than her.
She looked at the man she had stabbed. Eyes, blue like her mother's eyes. A face pale and worn from the rigors of life. The beginnings of wrinkles moving along lines cut by fading scars. Stubbled jaw, weak chin but a strong nose. That face, the surprised expression, as if he was thinking, so this is what death is like. His lips moved, but no words came out. She didn't know his name. She didn't remember her mother's name. All these dead strangers in her life.
Her ears picked up a sound and she turned. Heel slid slight on wet rocks. The sword, long and straight, swung for her neck. She lifted the dagger up to parry and it caught into the blade itself, nicking the sword. Iron, softer than her dagger's metal. She felt the force of the sword's blow recoil through her arm.
There was rain, rain and snow, but most of the wetness on her was blood, her heart racing too fast to feel if any of it was from her. The man holding the sword was so close all she could smell was his sour breath. His lips closed to hers, eyes half panic and half murder. It felt oddly intimate. A breath away from a first kiss. They struggled, she couldn't pull the dagger out of the man's blade. He pushed down and they tumbled on to the rocks, her crying out as her ankle twisted, knee against stone.
This is where I die, she thought. My first real combat, so many years of training, and this is where I die. "Arkay," the man urged, his voice terrified. "Please." Then he pushed down at her with all his strength. She screamed and fought back, her other hand going to his face, fingernail in his eye. She would bite if she could. She had to live. Had to.
Suddenly, the body of the man slammed down on her, pushing the air out of her lungs. Then – a blur at best – a man kicked her attacker off of her. Another crack of lightning and she saw the Nord stand over her. He brought the warhammer down, both hands, and crushed the other man's face. "Ysorya, come on!" he said, turning to offer a hand.
Snow, so much snow now. Big white flurries lumped on her hair, mixed with the matted blood on her cloak. She tried to offer thanks, but was too busy gasping for air. "Come on," he rumbled again. Also terrified. Something had cut him. She could heal that, maybe. Maybe. She'd lost the one dagger still stuck in the sword at her feet. She transferred her left dagger to her right hand.
"Where," she gasped. "D'we go?"
He clenched his jaw. "By Ysmir, I do not know. Anywhere but here. Let's go. Now!"
"But my brother-"
"-Is dead." He set the warhammer to hold himself up. "Probably. We have to go."
Ysorya shook her head. "No. No! He has to be alive. He has to be!" Who am I anymore, she thought, now that everyone I know is dead?
"Don't be a fool, girl!" Tolfbjorn grabbed her by the arm, then scanned the way they had come. Downhill. She relaxed against him, heart still racing. With Stephan dead, she felt no hope or home. No divines or daedra could convince her of anything else. "That way," he said, pointing towards an outcropping of rocks. The wind picked up, snow flying everywhere.
The battle may have been over, but the storm had yet to begin. She'd killed a man. That look on his face: she'd see it in her dreams, no doubt. Still she wanted to live. She tried to will her legs to move and follow the Nord, who held on to her arm as if the storm would pull her away otherwise.
She saw a shadowy figure behind the Nord. Her brother survived! She smiled, then resisted Tolfbjorn pulling on him. "Wait!" she cried.
He swung around, "What're you-" he started to say, then she saw the blade in the shadow's hand. The sword, large enough to need two hands, plunged into Tolfbjorn's back and out his chest. Close now, she saw the Orc at the other end. Not her brother, not her brother. Tolfbjorn released her and the hammer at once time, and she fell to her knees as the hammer clattered down the rocks.
The orc put a boot to Tolfbjorn's back to help kick the sword out of him, while she looked on in shock. If only she had realized… she started to think, vaguely, as another woman came out of the blinding snow as well. The Imperial. She saw Ysorya and lightning-fast nocked an arrow at her.
"Livia, no," the Orc said. But he rose up, holding the greatsword to Ysorya, the long blade coated in blood and water.
She held her dagger in one hand, watching the two.
"She killed my husband, Golag." Livia said. "Give me this much."
Golag favored her with a tired look. "Who shot the first shot?"
Livia glanced at Golag while keeping the bow aimed solely at Ysorya's throat. "Odgir. The bow slipped."
Golag looked back at Ysorya, while still addressing Livia. Everything about his posture suggested a soldier, or at least a mercenary. "All this dead, for a mistake. You want to add one more death, Livia?"
Livia snarled. "The bitch killed Sam, Golag!"
Ysorya narrowed her eyes. You killed my brother, she thought. But another figure was coming in through the snow. She couldn't hope to fight all of them. But nothing else lived in Ysorya right then, save for anger. She would die with a smile to put Livia into Skyrim's earth along with her.
She took two steps back on the snowy rocks. Glanced behind her. Her Nord lay sprawled out, his hammer to one side. Face down but still breathing, he struggled to rise. Behind him was the rocks, the cart, the old nag screaming and trying to back away, and the storm, as large and dark and imposing as collective breath of all the Divines.
They were fighting to choose who would die first: the blizzard would surely kill the rest. She kept her hands where they could see her. The Orc and Livia continued the conversation while another of their companions limped up. Tall, slender, awkward. Looked like a Breton, but she couldn't really tell. "It's too late. We've got to get our wounded to shelter."
"Kill the wounded," stated the Orc, flatly. The Man's expression widened, and he took a step back. But he readied his blade.
Ysorya thought of her brother. "Don't you have a healer? Don't you have magic?"
Livia turned, and quick as anything an arrow loosed from the bow. Ysorya's exhausted body seemed to move on its own: She twisted, felt the arrow tear through her and felt a line of cold pain against her chest. But it did not pierce her.
The Orc just looked at her, greatsword resting on his shoulder like he couldn't be bothered to tie it to his back again. "You put a knife in our healer, girl," he said with a twitch to one of the men who attacked her. Sam, presumably.
Stephan, she thought. My brother. You're dead. She fell to her knees, her mind swimming in grief and terror. She could hear the voices of the victors as if from afar. Do we have to kill them? One asked. When they catch up to us, anyone still alive will wish a thousand times for death. We are giving them mercy.
She could feel warm tears on her face, blotting with large snowflakes. She gasped, and felt the weight of defeat on her. She felt someone standing next to her, then, and opened her tear-blurred eyes to look up. It felt to her the old Dumner stood there, facing downwards, his long white hair flying in the wind. Is this where your time ends? Is this where you give in? It seemed to ask. If the ghost even existed. Or will you live yet longer? Will our vengeance ever touch the lips of Boethiah herself?
She took a deep, choking breath. Heard something sick and wet in the winds behind her. A gasp, someone dying. Maybe her brother. And somewhere distant, the wind sounded odd. Like drums. Or chanting. Her face twisted, and she lurched to Tolfbjorn.
The dying Nord had turned to face the sky. When he saw her, he smiled, white teeth lined in red. "Do not cry, my dear," he croaked, his melodic rumble as fond as it was full of blood.
"Tolfbjorn, I'm sorry," she said. She leaned down and kissed him on the lips. The first time she kissed a man. She thought his lips would be warmer.
The kiss seemed to revivify him, but it wouldn't last. "Do not be sorry..my dear," he said, struggling to speak. "Tonight I will dine…. In Sovn-"
She plunged her dagger into his throat. Eyes closed, hunched over. Praying to any Daedra that Livia or the others did not see her. Tolfbjorn's last expression stayed on his face – a look of confused betrayal.
She took a deep breath. She focused.
They always joke a woman from High Reach knows her necromancy. The mana, her spirit, her soul, whatever power she still had within her flowed through her arm and down her left hand into the dead Nord.
Ysorya lowered her head, blood-tangled hair falling in her face. She whispered to the Nord. "Rise, my love." The corpse obediently began to rise. "Rise, and kill the Imperial. Do not stop until they are all dead."
Tolfbjorn's corpse staggered up, holding on to the warhammer. It lurched towards the three standing warriors. Livia turned in confusion and began to fire, while Ysorya ducked low and scrambled down the path to the cart.
She cut the restraints while trying to calm the nag. Wretched Aia, as horses go, was terrified, and Ysorya had no skill with animals. Still, the old mare seemed to know the girl was releasing her. Ysorya cut the remaining bonds and scrambled on the horse, leaving everything behind. The cart began to clatter back down the road, and Ysorya clung for her life.
Ahead, Livia had managed to put three arrows into Tolfbjorn's face and chest before the dead Nord reached her. The Orc clattered to one side with an unlucky hit, Livia backing uphill. Another wide arc sent another of the warriors scrambling away. One dead corpse against seasoned soldiers – it would not last long now that surprise was over. She pushed her heels into the nag's flanks, and the nag screamed as only horses can scream, riding uphill and over the pass.
An arrow flew past her head. She was no longer in control of the horse. She was barely in control of staying on top of the horse. Wretched Aia carried Ysorya over the top of the road, giving Ysorya a facefull of juniper brush that almost knocked her off her back.
It seemed like an hour before the horse felt like it should stop running. Now the snow was piling up, the horse gingerly making her way along the road. The winds had gotten higher, and Ysorya bitterly regretted not grabbing an extra blanket before escaping. The sounds of the winds kept the same atonal howl, but she kept hearing what she was sure was almost a chant, a weird keening sound that matched nothing she had heard before.
Cresting a hill, she caught sight of what had been chasing the soldiers all along.
The Dragon loomed above the road, its two lower claws holding on to the rocks above the pass. It had a slate-blue color, with eyes that seemed to glow a yellow-red light. The head of the thing was easily the size of the tallest man she had ever seen. An army could fight this thing and lose.
She had caught it eating, the legs of some human disappearing in its maw as it swallowed.
The horse under her froze, as if it had finally crossed beyond the limits of what the poor old beast could think. She scanned under the dragon, flames flickering in the snow and wind that continued to buffet the area. She caught a burning corpse. Could not tell if it was Reachmen or Nord. Was unsure it mattered. She swallowed, and looked at the little dagger in her hand, then up at the dragon. She had skated one death only to fall into another. Such was the irony of her life, she thought, bitterly.
But the dragon did not attack. It spoke in words that shuddered both her and the mountains themselves. Then spoke again in words she could understand:
"Speak," it said to her, "if you have aught to say worth the listening."