1.02 The Whiterun Incident
"…when we suffer, we wage war, a jostling of space where, in the end, one falls in order for the other to breathe a little better. But the irony of it is that, after all the fighting's been done, the suffering still continues and we have no one left but ourselves to blame."
Thorald nodded solemnly in agreement to the bard's words.
In front of them, looming over a starry night backdrop, stood the gates of Whiterun. Or at least what was left of it. Signs of the siege—and the ensuing enfilade—were blatantly in display everywhere, from gaps in the walls to mounds of bodies piled up by the road and awaiting burial or burning. The majority of Battle-Born forces had long vacated, their commanders preferring to billet them within the outlying farms which held water and food, the two major things which a burned out city could not provide for an army.
"There's something we need to make clear here, witch," Thorald said, "If you're going to be travelling with me then you'll have to learn to follow my orders. You're the one that needs something from me; I ask nothing of you. This is my city, my people, and my world. I'll not have a Daedra gallivanting around doing whatever she wants. You will behave and you will follow my lead, is that understood?"
"If it makes you feel any better, then yes… master," the Daedra in question smiled innocently.
Thorald glared at her but chose not to say anything else. He turned his attention back to the city gates. "They'll likely only have a couple Centuries of troops watching over whatever's left of the place," he muttered, "Not that there's much to guard. Most of population were… 'processed'. Whoever managed to escape would have fled east already to Stormcloak lands. Although with Ulfric soon to be executed, they might have to keep on running."
"Flee anymore to the east and you'll run into a mystic volcano," Vaermina said distractedly as she stared at a pack of children. They were scavenging what they could from the rubbish strewn about in the field before the city. "And there is also nothing for us here, Gray-Mane. Unless you think you'll find your sister somewhere among these piles of rotting carcasses, I suggest we turn around and force a meet with these Greybeards up in their mountain. I am sure they—"
"—you are free to go climb the 7000 steps if you want, witch. I'm staying down here until I learn of my sister's whereabouts. And by the Nine, stop calling me Gray-Mane. At least not while we're in Imperial-controlled territory."
"Your addressing me as a witch will bring us to suffer the scrutiny of the guards that you fear so much."
Thorald sighed. "Very well, but we'll draw even more stares if I call you by your name. We'll have to make up names for each other while we're here."
"An interesting game," the other replied before turning to their companion, "Dear Sven! Provide us with false names befitting our appearances if you please."
The bard's eyes lit up and he furrowed his brows in deep thought. After a moment, he nodded and said with a deep bow, "As per my rights as a master story-teller of Cyrodiil, I bequeath to you my lady, the name Alessia, as taken directly from the very same Saint Alessia who founded the First Empire."
Vaermina smiled, well pleased with his choice. She glanced at Thorald and gave him a mocking stare, daring him to say something. The warrior however did not take the bait.
"And mine?" he asked the bard.
"You of course, will be…" the bard dropped their packs and looked quickly about. He then darted rapidly off the road and towards a pile of bodies where he shooed away competing scavengers. After a verbal exchange of curses and much tugging, he managed to pull away with something clutched in his arms. He then raced back to his companions and, before the Gray-Mane could react, he draped around a coat of riveted mail and plate around the large warrior.
"You are Morihaus, consort to Saint Alessia, wielder of thu'um, chosen of Kynareth, and wearer of Kynareth's gift, the Lord's Mail!" With that said, he stepped back and gave the coat an admiring grin.
Thorald clearly did not share the bard's enthusiasm as he made to shake away the coat. He stopped when Vaermina raised a hand. "Keep it on. You'll look more the part of the travelling warrior. And besides, it suits you," the Daedra smiled.
Thorald glared at her but nonetheless slipped his arms into the coat. He then tightened the front straps and adjusted the sewed-on belt around the waist. "Huh. Perfect fit," he muttered, "Not bad quality either despite it being buried under all that blood."
"Only the best for my dear friends," Sven spoke up happily as he picked their packs back up, "Although if you don't mind my saying, I have heard many rumors about these Thalmor and their Justicars. It is said they do not easily forget a face. Few criminals have ever managed to escape them and those still at large will likely not be so for very long."
"He's right," Thorald muttered. He looked up ahead where the few guards on duty by the bailey took no notice of them. "There's bound to be a few Thalmor still in the city and they might have a Justicar by the gate checking every person that leaves and enters."
Vaermina snickered, "A minor issue easily resolved. This is where your owing me begins. Just remember to hold up your end of the bargain, Dragonborn." She then stepped to the side of the road and began examining the bodies strewn about. She stopped in front of one which was still in the early stages of decomposition thanks to the winter cold. She stared at the face of the dead body for a brief moment before heading back to stand in front of Thorald.
"What are you—"
Vaermina slowly traced a finger around the contours of Thorald's face. When she reached the point where she had started, she withdrew her hand and said softly, "For mortals, what they see right in front of them, they often perceive as the truth."
Behind her, Sven's jaw dropped open. "Amazing! Your face, it's changed! I dare say for the better! Quite an improvement if I say so, I always did think your face was a little too hairy, and don't even get me started on your nose—"
Thorald growled and pushed both of them out of the way as he moved to stand beside a pool of muddy water. He squinted his eyes as he tried to make out his new face's reflection. His shoulders trembled and it seemed as if he was about to go on a tirade. But instead, he simply let out a loud sigh in apparent surrender.
"Please tell me this is your idea of a joke, witch."
"It is Alessia to you, my dear. And you heard Sven's words: it is an improvement. Now come, Morihaus, let us enter the city."
Thorald grumbled as they started walking towards the gates. "You could at least have chosen a human face. I look like a— I don't even know what I look like!"
"Like the offspring of a large Nord woman and a troll!" exclaimed Sven cheerfully.
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The scene this time was being played out at Castle Dour. The slowly widening orange streaks in the sky set the hour. Seen partially from the crenellations and above snow-covered rooftops, half-hidden shadows were pushing wagons into the market grounds close to the castle. It was that hour when enterprising merchants began setting up their stalls to make ready for the new day.
It was the last day of sales before the grounds would be closed in preparation for the upcoming festival. An extra sense of urgency and anticipation was evident in the stall owners' movements since, this being the last market day until the festival, a higher volume of customers will be showing up. It was a potentially lucrative period and the merchants had to make it count in order to make up for the days when they'll not be allowed into the market. Even though a makeshift area of commerce would be set up outside the city gates, few were willing to risk the lack of security which that entailed. Not to mention the snow. Frostfall may be at the wane but for some unusual reason the last days of the month were often the longest and harshest.
"Thieves will be out in full force today too," Corporal Martin muttered under his scarf, "Last day of fishing before the festival. Then when that day comes, they'll be out in full force… and then some."
Both soldiers' boots made heavy clicking noises against the stone. The hallways in the fortress castle were a lot more hollow and bare than the ones in the palace. Even so, Hadvar and Martin would have preferred to be billeted here. There was a sense of ease and security knowing you're surrounded by multiple layers of six-feet thick fire-blackened stone walls and three cohorts comprising the most veteran archers, warriors, battlemages, and mercenaries of the Imperial Expedition. But the most attracting feature of the castle?
"It's not the palace," Hadvar grumbled.
"Sergeant?"
"Nothing. We're here." They stopped at a hall which opened up to a courtyard on one side and had massive doors on the other. The courtyard itself was mundane, acting more as a buffer between the training yards and the large doors that they now stood in front of. The more trained eye would however notice the magical dust floating heavily in the air. The dust served as a sound deadener, preventing the noise of soldiers training in the yards from reaching past the courtyard.
"The whole city could fall under siege and no one in here would even notice," Martin said.
"Doesn't stop the enemy from barging through with swords swinging."
"Who would pillage a temple? The Temple, mind you."
"I could think of a few." Hadvar gently pushed against the doors which opened noiselessly and with ease. He then entered the Temple of the Divines.
Immediately upon entering, they were assailed with the strong scent of burned incense and a thousand burning candles of the most peculiar wax. Combination of paraffin and Kagouti sperm, Branding had once told Hadvar, lasts about ten times longer than your regular wax. Leave it to that old man to know about the most insignificant facts.
It took their eyes a moment to adjust to the partial light which the candles provided. Their flickering cast shadows on walls carved with various depictions of the Divines performing random miracles and acts of 'greatness'. There were carvings of Akatosh as a dragon, reading what was supposedly an Elder Scroll. On another wall appeared Stendarr the Merciful bestowing his hammer to Pelinal Whitestake, companion to Morihaus and Alessia, once slave-queen and now a saint. And the carvings went on and on towards the opposite end of the temple where stood eight statues, each more than ten feet high.
"Huh. Look over there," Martin pointed at a darkened section of the walls, "Talos fighting alongside Cuhlecain in Sancre Tor. I'm surprised that hasn't been sanded down."
Hadvar frowned, staring intently at where his Corporal indicated. After a while, he said, "I don't see anything there."
"What?"
"The wall is blank, Martin."
"But—"
They were interrupted by the faint shuffling of padded feet. From behind the statues and past the rows of pews came a hooded priest, hunched and walking with that slowness common among those significantly past their prime.
"The wall is indeed blank," the old priest said in a wizened voice as he stopped in front of the two. He stared curiously at Hadvar before settling his eyes on Martin. "It is blank… except to those trained to see through deception, magical or not."
Martin frowned. "Deception?"
The old man shrugged. "It was at the Jarl's request. Talos still lives in this temple, perhaps not worshipped so openly, but still he exists."
"But Talos' statue—"
"Alas, its decommissioning was overseen by the elven Emissary herself. But whatever else she left behind, we were able to save. And hide."
"That is quite the risk."
The old man shrugged again. "The risk lies with the Jarl. Now tell me what it is that you young fellows seek from my humble self."
"You know we came here to see you?" Martin asked, brows raised.
"It is the middle of the night. For whatever reason would anyone come to this place but to visit the Halls of the Dead and its keeper?"
Hadvar grunted. "You are Styrr then? The priest of Arkay? We're here—"
"—by order of your new Captain to investigate the four dead elves brought in yesterday. And also perhaps to ask about what I know about the Wolf Queen, yes?"
The two soldiers looked at him in surprise.
"Oh, your purpose here wasn't that hard to deduce," Styrr chuckled as he turned around and bade them to follow, "You wear the same insignia as the young Nord Captain who was at the embassy when I came to fetch the dead bodies. And, after having inspected all four victims, it was not hard to come to the conclusion that they were killed by our city's current most famous murderer."
"So you agree the Wolf Queen's come back from the dead then?"
"I didn't say that, young Corporal." They went past the statues and through a thin curtain which hid a stone stairway leading down to the Halls of the Dead. "I simply said," Styrr continued with labored breath as they began descending, "that you would be asking about the Wolf Queen. It is not for me to say whether the murderer is indeed her in any shape or form. That is your and your Captain's job, if I am not mistaken."
"Fair enough," said Martin, "the four bodies then. Anything you can tell about their deaths?"
"Nothing you probably haven't already heard before. Dispatched in the same swift efficiency as all the other ones. Curved blade, unimaginable sharpness. Cuts through bone, cartilage, even Orsinium metal plates."
The priest led them through catacombs and into a spacious, well-lit one. Various medical and alchemical equipment were on display everywhere. In the middle was a large stone table where a headless body was lying down stark naked.
"Never knew what hit him, this one. The blade just swept through, bone and all, from one side and then out of the next." Styrr was now standing by the head of the table, looking down at the dead body. "No magical traces except on one of them."
"And what did you learn from it?"
"The magic? I would call it unusual to say the least. It had a certain… 'wildness' to it. Almost feral. Not something a common magicker would wield, I would say."
"How 'uncommon' do you have to be to wield it then?" Hadvar asked.
Styrr stopped poking at the neck wound and stared up in contemplation. He then sighed and said, "God-touched. That or our murderer is a god herself."
Hadvar looked at his Corporal. The latter stared back with 'I was right' written all over his face.
"Still doesn't mean she's the Wolf Queen," said Hadvar.
"No, but whoever our killer is, she certainly has enough powers to make you wonder."
"I'll leave all the wondering to you," Hadvar replied before turning his attention to the priest, "There was a survivor from the embassy attack. Did you examine him?"
"Ah, the Justicar? No, he seemed well enough when I arrived, perhaps overly bandaged, but well enough to give your Captain a headache. You'll have to ask your superior if he managed to make any headway with his questioning since I was not allowed anywhere near the two. Although, at the rate that their conversation was going, you should not expect much."
"The Thalmor are hiding something," Martin shook his head, "There're too many unknowns in this attack."
"The only thing we have to know is that the murderer apparently plans to break into the Palace."
"And I suppose it would be too much to hope that she plans to kill Ulfric once she's inside," Martin said glumly.
"All of it unlikely," interrupted Styrr, "The Blue Palace simply has no weaknesses. Every hidden passage sealed off, every entryway guarded and, of course, I need not mention Wizard Stentor and the magical bubble she has around the place. Our murderer, powerful as she maybe, and even if she somehow gets past being detected by the magical wards, would still need the aid of a small army to get anywhere near Ulfric."
Martin sighed. "Who's to say she doesn't have an army of undead just eager to burst through Stentor's bubble? If Dancer were here he'd suggest we slit Ulfric's throat right now and save everyone the trouble."
"Do that and the Jarl would slit ours. Ulfric is her kill; we just have to make sure she gets it."
"A symbolic time at a symbolic place," Styrr chipped in cheerfully, "Of all people, the Jarl knows the significance of appearances the most."
"She'll be appearing quite the fool if Ulfric escapes."
Styrr smiled. "Your job, not mine, Sergeant. Of course, if there's anything I can do to help…"
Hadvar furrowed his brows. He looked around, only now noticing how literally he was surrounded by death. A hundred feet underground and surrounded by thousands of corpses.
"A dire premonition," he sighed.
"What is?" asked Styrr.
"Nothing." Hadvar was about to say they were leaving when a thought crossed his mind. A hundred feet under the ground… He faced the priest once more. "Perhaps there is something you could help us with. You are the Master of Burials are you not?"
"An olden title but yes, I was once called that."
"Well then perhaps you could help us find one specific corpse buried under the city."
"And whose corpse would that be?"
"Potema Septim's of course."
Both Styrr and Martin looked taken aback. "Easier said than done," the former replied after regaining his composure. "A good plan though, going after her in her home before she intrudes in yours. Good… but vain. There's a whole ruined city beneath our feet and there have been many who have scoured all of Solitude's basements looking for the Wolf Queen's final resting place. Suffice to say, none have found it."
"But I'm sure you have an idea of where to look."
Styrr smiled. "I suppose I've thought about it once or twice. According to viable sources I've uncovered, she was within her palace when her brothers sunk Old Solitude all around her."
"Any way we can get down there?"
"Doubtful. There's no way to…" The priest's voice trailed off, a thoughtful look suddenly appearing in his eyes.
"What is it?"
"Well… Our talk of hidden pathways has me recalling some strange circumstances I've experienced some time past… Tell me; how familiar are you with the name 'Roggvir'?"
Both soldiers were quiet for several seconds before Martin suddenly piped up, "Torygg's death. Roggvir was the Palace guard Captain who let Ulfric walk after the duel. But I thought he was executed?"
"Committed suicide actually. And his family all but vanished into thin air soon afterwards."
"And what's he got to do with anything?" asked Hadvar.
"Well… It was said that he and Torygg discovered a hidden passage. A passage that could get you down into Potema's old haunts."
"That was just a rumor," said Martin, "Besides, both people you just mentioned are dead now so we can hardly go about asking them about it."
"Ah, but that's the part which made all this so strange and memorable for me. As you already know, it is my duty to handle the funeral arrangements for every recently deceased body in the city… and what made Roggvir so difficult to forget was that I never had the opportunity to watch over his funeral… simply because it never happened."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly as I have said. I had received word that his body would be sent to my halls, and when it didn't, I went about inquiring. The local constable said the Thalmor took Roggvir's body and buried it outside of the city. I took it upon myself to send a letter of complaint to their embassy and received only a response saying the Thalmor had jurisdiction over any and every worshipper of Talos. Not long after, the same constable came to visit me saying that the corpse was actually taken by Roggvir's family when they made their leave of the city. And, to add to all this strangeness, I would receive a missive a few days later from some official in the Palace saying that Lady Elisif had the corpse cremated and that I was ordered to leave the matter to rest. And so I did."
Hadvar frowned. Beside him, Martin had his arms crossed as they both absorbed what they had just heard. "Anything comes into suspicion once the Thalmor are involved," said Martin.
"How do you think this all ties up?" asked Hadvar.
"I can think of a few scenarios. Maybe the Thalmor found this passage and the Wolf Queen's corpse."
"And then what? Animated her and had her terrorize the city? Besides they got attacked themselves. And there's no way they can have been messing around on Palace grounds without anyone noticing."
Hadvar's face twisted into a grimace, his thoughts churning. He paced rapidly to and fro, with the other two waiting patiently in silence. Eventually, something clicked in his mind.
"I need to talk to the Captain," he said abruptly, "I need to know what he found in the embassy. Thank you for your time." He directed the last sentence to Styrr who acknowledged it.
"I don't often get visitors," the priest smiled, "Feel free to come back should there be anything else you'd like to talk about."
Hadvar and Martin both nodded and began walking out of the catacombs. They had only taken a few steps when Martin turned around in an afterthought.
"Was there something else I could help you with, Corporal?"
"I came down here one time before."
"Yes... yes, you have. You came to visit your former captain, Luther Oranius… and before you even ask that question burning in your mind, I shall endeavor to answer it… The answer is 'no'. He was not killed by our Wolf Queen pretender… So have care my friends, because there are now two murderers roaming the streets of Solitude."
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Jon Battle-Born, newly assigned Captain of the Forlorn Hope, looked up at the battlements in absolute weariness. Morning was creeping up which meant he hasn't slept for more than a day now. Not to mention his head was still buzzing from his fruitless interrogation of the Justicar Rulindil. The bastard elf would say little, only repeating his scripted story of how he saw nothing but red eyes and the flash of twirling blades. The killer came for the Ambassador. Four guards dead but they had managed to stop her. No, the Ambassador was definitely the target. The basement? It was just a storage room.
But Jon knew better. You could cover up a torture chamber as much as you could, but you can never get rid of the smell of shit, piss, and blood. The Thalmor must have once held prisoners there, Talos worshipers no doubt. But they'd likely have transferred them out of the city by now. Damn elves…
"Coming in, Captain?"
Jon looked back down at the inquiring guard. The latter stood beside another, both guarding the opened gates into Solitude. They were both staring curiously at Jon who had abruptly stopped in the middle of the road in front of them. The captain nodded numbly at the guard before stepping through.
"Keep a hand o'er your purse sir," shouted the guard at his back after he had passed, "It be market day today, last one 'fore the festival. Plenty o' thieves amok."
"Thanks." That explained the surprisingly large number of people already out on the streets despite the early hour. He decided against stopping by the nearby inn, preferring instead to return to the Palace and see if his sergeant had better luck examining the bodies of the dead Thalmor guards. He had been pleased to find Hadvar a calm and reasonable man when they first met. Jon had been attentive when he first introduced himself to the company, and he thought the sergeant's presence had been the only thing stopping him from getting a knife on the back.
He sighed. He wasn't in Whiterun Hold anymore. He wasn't leading soldiers in his father's army. He was here, alone, commanding the most legendary company in Tullius' damned army and guarding the most wanted man in the whole of Skyrim.
Not to mention, he was a Battle-Born. That was the reddest of red flags if there ever was one. He wondered if the killer loose in the city knew who he was. He looked about casually, half expecting to see bright red eyes bearing down on him. Part of him was afraid while the other part was past caring. Perhaps the killer was vengeance made manifest for what the Battle-Born had done. Or rather, for their having done nothing.
He was walking towards the market when he froze in fear and surprise. His head swam as he slowly looked down, expecting to see nothing but a sea of red. Relief came as he realized that he had only stepped ankle deep into a melted puddle of snow. Relief mixed with guilt. For having done nothing.
It had begun at the start of Last Seed, some months back. Although highly unusual anywhere else in Tamriel, it came as no great surprise among the denizens of Skyrim when the sunny sky was suddenly engulfed in snow and bitter wind. It was unexpected and risky of course, staging an offensive in the high of a rogue winter storm. But with risks came great rewards.
Whiterun City had been a long-term objective since the start of the war. Not only did it lord over the nearby farmsteads, it was also a roadblock for any potential offensives into the east towards Windhelm, the heart of the Stormcloak lands and Ulfric's own Jarldom.
The engagement began with a procession into what seemed like an obviously disadvantageous battle. When the snow storm was at its strongest, Olfrid Battle-Born burst through the plains and started creeping towards Whiterun City with the main body of his army leading the way. He lost many on the march and he would likely have lost more if the Grey-Mane, having been goaded into battle, had not come out of their city to meet them partway.
The Gray-Mane had the advantage after all; they had warmth in their belly while the Imperials were half frozen from their march through the plains. They surged confidently to meet the main Imperial battle-lines which consisted of nothing more than raw recruits and levied peasants. And so with ease, they pushed back the Imperial van a step, then another, and another.
Their push was near-effortless and progressive, a fact which should have alerted them that something was wrong. Instead, they continued on pushing further into the center with ease. And only when it was too late did they realise their mistake. Perhaps due in part to the heavy snow storm or due to their arrogance, they had failed to realize that the Battle-Born flanks, filled exclusively with the most hardened veterans, had been holding all this time. And when Olfrid had deemed the trap wide enough, he ordered a stop in the main body's intentional retreat.
And just like that, the Grey-Mane army suddenly found themselves almost fully surrounded in a crescent trap. Suffice to say, Olfrid more than made up for his weather-related losses in the Grey-Mane army's mad dash for their city's safety.
The siege was brief and less tactical. After having caught a fair proportion of the remaining Grey-Mane forces in retreat, Olfrid sent unrelenting waves of mass assaults, eventually taking the city without a single engine of siege. A spectacular victory. One that would have been sung joyously by bards.
But that was only before things settled down.
Before the first report came.
It was just a few at first. A statue or two found here and there. Then there were paintings, offering stands, temples. Then it came from the lips of the conquered citizens themselves.
Talos was everywhere in the city. Worshipped in the open. His name spoken freely. Talos, the once mortal God.
The Thalmor response was swift. The elves—who technically instigated the war in the first place—had been content to just watch the civil war by the sidelines at first; but when news came of Talos' presence everywhere in the captured city, they invoked their rights as per the White-Gold Concordat. They bore down onto Whiterun, sword on one hand and the Emperor's blessing on the other. Every Talos-worshipping man, woman, and child was to be rounded up and confined. And when they captured as many of the fleeing ones as they could, the executions began in earnest.
Jon was there in the plaza at the first day. There he stood in the beginning with the rest of the Battle-Born. And there he remained unmoving when night finally came.
…when the blood in the plaza reached up to his ankles.