CHAPTER NINE – OUT OF TOUCH

Jarl Brandor of Whiterun had always loved noon more than any other time of day. It was when the sun was highest, the day warmest, and the city at its most beautiful. At midday, almost all houses would be empty, their occupants having made their way out into the streets to work, shop or simply wander about. Whiterun was best at this time, Brandor felt, when the streets were buzzing with activity, and he could see his people going about their business with smiles on their faces. This particular day was no exception.

Brandor grinned to himself as he descended the steps from Dragonsreach. He knew that plenty of Skyrim's Jarls preferred to spend their days in their palaces, either slumped on their thrones or talking endlessly with their stewards. That had never appealed to Brandor, and he doubted it ever would. If ever asked about why he refused to act like 'a normal Jarl,' he would usually reply that there was no way for him to have a good relationship with the people of his Hold if he spent all day cooped up in Dragonsreach. But a good part of the reason was because he would simply find it too boring.

His solution was simple. After breakfast, he would spend several hours speaking to his steward and to the captain of the guard, discussing the general running of the Hold. Once that was out of the way, he would descend into the city to see what was going on. Brandor went out of his way to try and talk to as many people as possible. The more valued his citizens felt, the more they would trust and respect him. And the more they trusted and respected their Jarl, the more faith they would put in his decisions, and so the safer Whiterun would be.

For the most part, his court agreed with his decision. The steward, Medwin, though he often worried about the potential risks of 'mingling with the commonfolk,' agreed that it made a good impression on the people. Branna, his daughter, would sometimes accompany him, on the rare occasions that she was up at Dragonsreach when he set out – she had joined the Companions some time after her fourteenth birthday, stating that she needed to be a skilled fighter if she ever had to defend Whiterun when she eventually became Jarl. Brandor's smile widened as he past Jorrvaskr. Branna had a lot of her mother's spirit. He had grieved along with the rest of Whiterun when his wife had died giving birth to their daughter, but he wouldn't have exchanged Branna for all the gold in Tamriel.

As for the rest of his court, the only dissenter to his strolls in the city was Veekuja, but that was only to be expected, really. The Argonian was his housecarl, and saw it as his duty to make sure that Brandor was protected at all times. But there was no real danger out in the city, not with the guards keeping a careful eye on things. And Brandor would have felt terribly awkward walking everywhere with a bodyguard.

Although, he thought with a twinge of anguish, there had been a time when his housecarl had accompanied him on his walks. Twenty years ago, in fact. But that had been a very different housecarl, in a very different time.

He stopped as he reached the Gildergreen, standing for a moment to gaze at the gently stirring branches before continuing on his journey through the town. A trio of children raced past, shrieking at each other. A pair of Companions warriors nodded at Brandor as they passed, heading for Jorrvaskr. As he reached the centre of the Cloud District, he noticed a few people waving in his direction. He returned their greetings with a smile and a lift of his hand.

In about ten minutes, he had reached the inner wall of the city, the division between the old and new parts of Whiterun. For hundreds of years the Hold capital had been contained within the same set of ancient stone walls, but as the years passed and the population grew, a second set of walls had been built around the outside, enlarging the city until it was half as large again as it had been before. As he often did when he reached this point in the city, Brandor made his way up the steps of the inner wall to stand upon the battlements. From here, he could see almost all of his city, and a wide stretch of the Hold that lay beyond.

Brandor's smile widened. It always made something shine in him, too look out over his home. Over the years, he had given so much to Whiterun. Seeing his city and its people safe and content made him feel certain that everything he had ever sacrificed had been worth it.

Not that he'd had to sacrifice much. But there had been losses, all too many of them, and many of them had been made for the sake of the second time that day, Brandor felt a pang as he remembered the greatest loss of all that had happened to protect the city. Nothing would ever compare to the grief of losing his wife, but the death of his former housecarl came a very close second.

Faenlor. Brandor closed his eyes as he remembered his oldest friend. Born to his own father's housecarl and his wife, Faenlor had inherited the race of his Bosmer mother but the heart of his Nord father. The two had grown up side by side, more like brothers than friends, and upon the death of the former Jarl, the young, somewhat uncertain Brandor had felt unable to trust anyone else as his housecarl. Faenlor had been the best warrior Brandor had ever known, skilled with both bow and blade, strong, fearless, and seemingly undefeatable. And yet he had been defeated – defeated by one of the very first dragons to return to Skyrim after the return of Alduin.

It had been a Khajiit who had brought the news of Faenlor's death, since she had been the only witness. Brandor remembered it as if someone had made a sketch of the scene and stored it inside his brain – a sixteen year old girl, her silver and black fur scorched, dirtied and streaked with blood, her whiskers wet with tears as she blurted out the news. If someone had told Brandor then that this particular Khajiit girl was in fact the Dragonborn, and that in twenty years' time, she would be one of the most legendary heroes Skyrim had ever seen, he would never have believed them.

Or maybe he would have. Because he did believe it in the end, didn't he? And even then, small and bedraggled and frightened as she was, her spirit and courage had been plain to see.

How times had changed since then. Faenlor was gone, but Veekuja was loyal and brave, and a good enough housecarl, even if he could never really replace the Bosmer. Due to A'jira's request, Whiterun had become the first Hold in Skyrim to allow Khajiit within the city gates, and to revoke the laws that had been made a hundred years previously by some foolish Jarl that had forbidden marriage between Nords and Khajiit. After that, Brandor had done his best to lead the way in making Skyrim a better place for all races. Nowadays, there were plenty of Khajiit residents, and from what Brandor could see, friendships and even romances that crossed the species barriers were getting far more common. The city as a whole seemed happier, and for that, Brandor knew he had the Dragonborn to thank.

Brandor chuckled softly and turned his gaze to the eastern sky, where he could just make out the peak of the Throat of the World scraping through the clouds. He and his people owed A'jira and her Dragonhearts a great deal, he knew that well. The occasions when dragons had attacked Whiterun and the surrounding villages were few, but they had still been very unpleasant. But time and time again, the Dragonhearts had been there to save them.

The Jarl raised a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun that was beginning to stream through cracks in the clouds. Sometimes it was possible to see dragons circling the summit of the Throat of the World. It was a welcome sight. It reminded Brandor that he and his city were protected. His guards could repel almost anything that was brave enough or mad enough to attack the city, but dragons took specialists to deal with.

A faint, familiar-sounding roar echoed across the plains. Brandor shivered, despite himself. Dragons' roars could be heard from miles away, and though he knew it could be the sound of a loyal Dragonheart that was carried towards him on the wind, it was equally likely to be some wild dragon hunting on the tundra.

Just so long as it stays away from Whiterun, he thought. His eyes flicked across the skies, and his stomach jolted as he caught sight of two dark, winged shapes above the golden grass. For a minute or two he watched them trying to determine whether or not they were coming closer. Eventually he held up one finger. The dragons looked about the size of his nail. He closed his eyes, counted to sixty, and studied the size of the beasts again. They had definitely got larger.

He clutched the edge of the battlements, trying to stop his breathing from becoming faster. They're probably not here to attack, he told himself firmly. It would be madness for them to attack us. And if they do, we can call the Dragonhearts. Don't panic.

Glancing to the side, he caught sight of one of the guards standing nearby, his head craned back, his eyes fixed on the distant dragons. Brandor's brow creased. It was always hard to tell the guards apart, seeing as their helmets covered their faces, but he recognised the sturdy figure and the Dwarven-style sword tucked into the man's belt. 'Is that you, Garmund?'

The guard turned and removed his helmet, revealing a weathered, scarred face beneath a mop of grey hair flecked with both the black of his youth and the white of his approaching old age. 'In the flesh,' he replied, nodding in Brandor's direction. 'Have you seen the visitors?'

'The dragons, you mean? Yes, I saw them.' Brandor walked along the edge of the battlements to stand beside the captain of the guard. 'Do you think they're planning to attack?'

'They'll be fools if they do,' Garmund said frankly. 'I've got a man stationed up by the beacon, as always. The Dragonhearts will be here in minutes if we need them to be. And we can hold them off in the meantime.'

'Let's hope we don't have to,' Brandor said grimly, but his hopes were beginning to fade. The dragons were getting much too close to comfort now, and they certainly seemed to be heading straight for Whiterun.

Even from up on the walltops, the Jarl could see that the people below had seen the dragons too. Parents were hurriedly breaking off conversations with friends to shepherd their children inside, merchants were hurriedly grabbing their most valuable wares and stuffing them into their pockets, and guards were reaching for their bows. Garmund bit his lip. 'I don't think they're stopping.'

'They won't attack,' Brandor said, though he knew he wasn't convincing Garmund or himself. 'They can't. They know how easily we can call the Dragonhearts. And even without the Dragonhearts, our guards can probably withstand two dragons. Why would they risk it?'

The guard captain never got a chance to reply. As he opened his mouth to speak, one of the dragons – now that it had drawn closer, Brandor could see that it was an huge but slender beast with a jutting jaw and a snakelike figure - swooped down on a group of traders heading towards the city gate, and sent a jet of frost at them that sent them scattering in all directions. They were too far away for Brandor to hear them screaming, but he knew they were.

Garmund snatched up his helmet and jammed it onto his head. 'Sound the alarm!' he roared, and a guard at the far end of the wall hastened to obey. 'And light the beacon!'

Not long after the establishment of the Dragonhearts, an extension had been built onto the Dragonsreach palace – a short tower that stretched out of the roof, with a vast stack of wood perched on top. In the event of a dragon attack, the guard posted next to the beacon simply had to douse it with oil and set it alight. Except on the cloudiest days, this could be seen clearly from High Hrothgar, and often as not, one of the dragons who hunted around that area would see it even if the weather was bad, and report it to the Dragonhearts. One way or another, help would never be far from coming.

For now, though, they would have to fend for themselves. Already the beacon was flickering to life, but it would take some time for the Dragonhearts to arrive, and who but the Gods knew how much damage the dragons could inflict in that time? Drawing his sword, Brandor turned to Garmund and the few other guards who had come running up to receive orders. 'Garmund, get at least half of your men helping the townspeople to safety. Tell them to get underground – the crypt in the Hall of the Dead will do, or any basements they have, but make sure they're not outside or, preferably, inside wooden houses. Everyone else is responsible for defence. Someone needs to fetch the Companions, too, though I'm sure they're already on their way; they can help.' Desperately, he tried to recall the contents of the book A'jira had written about combatting dragons – he'd read it recently, he was sure. 'Try to stay in high-up places where you'll have clear shots at them. Aim for the eyes, mouth, nose and wings. Get them on the ground if you can.'

Garmund nodded. 'And be prepared to die for Whiterun if you have to.'

He fell to bellowing at his men, sending half of them down into the city below and the other half spreading out along the ramparts. Brandor ducked as the second dragon, a long, thin one with pale purple scales – swooped low over the walls. As it passed, a stream of ice lanced from its maw. Brandor let out a yell of horror and fury as he saw a young woman running towards her home vanish briefly behind a cloud of white. When the frost faded, she was lying motionless on the cobblestones.

Sillda, Brandor thought numbly. Her name was Sillda. She sold fruit in the marketplace. She had a brother, parents, a nephew. She was one of my people, and now she's dead.

His jaw clenched, and he reached for his sword and pulled it from its sheath.

'Come on,' he growled to Garmund. 'Let's show these monsters that they're messing with the wrong city.'

'Direct hit!'

Sha let out a muffled squeak and spat out as much as she could of the snowball that had just hit her in the mouth. 'Hey, I wasn't ready!'

'It's me. No one's ever ready if it's me they're fighting.' Duroth snatched up another handful of snow and beat it into shape. 'Come on, fuzzy, let's see what you're made of.'

Sha grinned at her friend. 'You're going to regret challenging me. And you're going to regret calling me fuzzy even more.'

She hurled the snowball she'd been hiding behind her back at the Orc's chest. He ducked, and it struck his head instead. 'Ha! Payback!' Sha yowled.

Duroth's response was to throw two lumps of snow at her in quick succession. One missed and sailed across the courtyard, where it thumped against a boulder. The other struck her in the chest. Grateful for the thick, fur-lined tunic she was wearing, Sha retaliated quickly, sending snow splattering against Duroth's shoulder. When you lived on a mountain, snowball fights were a typical way of entertaining yourself, and somehow, they never got boring no matter how many times you had them.

Within five minutes, both Orc and Khajiit were covered in white flakes and panting for breath. 'Truce?' Sha suggested.

'Nah. I've got a better idea.' Duroth prepared another snowball and carefully took aim at Arnor, who was sitting with her back against a rock, deeply absorbed in a book. Something about the Falmer, from what Sha could see. She frowned at Duroth and shook her head, but she couldn't stop herself from grinning.

Duroth rolled his eyes and threw the snowball. It sailed through the air and hit the book with a wet slapping noise. Snow sprayed over the pages and onto Arnor's face. Sha pursed her lips, put a hand in her mouth and bit down on a furred finger to stop herself from laughing.

For a few seconds, Arnor did not respond. Then she blinked slowly, brushed the snow off the pages of the book, folded over the corner of one to mark her place, and carefully set the book down on the rock.

'You realise,' she said calmly, rising to her feet, 'this means war.'

And she kicked a shower of snow right at them.

The next few minutes were a blur of yells, shouts and flying snow. Sha was the best shot, but Arnor was fast enough to keep up a near-relentless hail of snowballs, and Duroth's huge hands were able to create larger missiles that packed more of a punch. Eventually, Sha and Arnor teamed up against the Orc and managed to back him against a pillar. His response to that was to simply throw himself at them and wrestle them both into the snow. Sha pulled herself to her feet, laughing, and turned around to look for a deep bank of snow.

And froze rigid.

She ignored the sensation of yet another snowball thudding against her head, and narrowed her eyes. Was she seeing what she thought she was? It was so far away, but she was almost certain…

'Sha? You okay?' Duroth's voice came from behind her.

'Get over here, quick.' Sha's voice sounded oddly frightened to her own ears. 'Look.'

She pointed away from the mountain, at the land that lay sprawled out below. Duroth and Arnor joined her, one on either side of her. She saw them frown, squinting in the direction her finger pointed.

'I'm not the only one seeing that, right?' Sha asked them.

'If you're talking about the beacon, then nope, you're not.' Duroth's voice grew urgent. 'Whiterun must be in trouble. Or they're relaying a signal from another settlement. We need to get your mother.'

'I'll fetch her.' Arnor took off instantly, racing across the courtyard towards the monastery.

Sha turned to Duroth. 'I don't like this.'

'It's a dragon attack, genius. You're not meant to like it.'

'I mean, I don't like the fact that there's a dragon attack happening so soon after Ma almost got killed in the Scars. You know how rare it is for a dragon to risk attacking a settlement. And it's even rarer for them to team up to attack Dragonhearts – in fact, that never even happened before yesterday, did it? And now both those things have happened in two days. Doesn't that seem weird to you?'

Duroth sucked on his lower lip, looking thoughtful. 'I guess you got a point. But if there's a town in danger, we need to help, even if we don't feel all that good about it. What's the alternative?'

There was no answer to that, and Sha didn't try to come up with one.

By the time Arnor returned with A'jira in tow, the courtyard was already beginning to fill with Dragonhearts; mortals and dragons alike were heading over to the edge of the cliff, murmuring to each other as they caught sight of the speck of brilliant orange below them. They stepped aside to let A'jira through. She stared for a moment, then spun around to face the slowly growing crowd.

'Zaran, Lorn, Echo, Firlaen, Duroth and your Wingsiblings; you're coming with me. We're going straight there. Andelm, Sviri, Riikluhax and Alokkrin, you're in charge while we're gone.'

'Ma.' Sha stepped forwards, her heartbeat quickening. 'Can I come?'

A'jira gazed at her for a moment, then shook her head. 'Not this time, love.'

Sha's fur bristled. 'I want to help!'

'So do all of us.' Sviri smiled at Sha from across the crowd. 'But we can't leave High Hrothgar undefended.'

Usually, Sha would never have argued with Sviri. Apart from the fact that she was Arnor's mother, she was one of the nicest people on the mountain. Her voice almost always had a calming effect on Sha – if a warm drink could have a voice, it would sound like Sviri. But on this particular occasion, Sha couldn't stop herself from feeling angry with her.

'I'm not being told to stay because we need people to guard the mountain! I'm being told to stay because everyone thinks I'm too young and that I can't handle myself!' Sha felt the words explode from her mouth in something that was not quite a shout, but was very close.

'Sha, once we know that you can look after yourself in battle – ' someone – maybe Firlaen – began, but Sha didn't let them finish.

'How do you expect me to do that when you never give me a chance to prove myself? Duroth's only a year older than me, and he's going!'

'Sha, that's enough.' Her mother's voice was laced with anger – something so rare for A'jira that Sha's fur flattened instantly. 'You're not coming with us this time. That's the end of it.'

Sha's eyes felt hot, her throat tight. She dropped her gaze to the ground, clenching her hands into fists. I will not cry, she told herself firmly. I will not.

'I'll stay if you like, Sha,' Duroth said quietly from beside her. 'If it'll make you feel better.'

The young Khajiit turned to him with a stinging retort forming on her lips, then saw the sadness in his eyes and let the sentence falter and die before she could even begin it. He was trying to help. Of course he was; Duroth always was.

'I'm fine,' she muttered. 'You go.'

Duroth nudged her gently. 'Come on, fuzzball. There'll be other times.'

Sha nodded, now wanting nothing except for everyone to stop staring at her. 'Yeah,' she said, barely moving her mouth. 'I'm going to get a book.'

She turned on her heel and marched back towards High Hrothgar. She thought she heard her mother calling after her, but she didn't respond, and A'jira didn't try again. It wasn't until she reached the door of the monastery that Sha realised Arnor had followed her.

'I shouldn't have done that,' Sha said bitterly. 'Now they'll never let me go.'

Arnor grinned. 'No, they'll just think you're a typical teenager. Sha, you're sixteen and you've never been in an actual dragon battle before. They just don't want you getting killed. I'm sure that if she'd had time, your ma would have given you an explanation that might have satisfied you a bit, but she does have slightly more important things on her mind at the moment. Like a dragon attack.'

Sha sighed, knowing that Arnor was, as usual, probably right. 'I know. I just feel so trapped. I've waited for so long. Why can't she see that I'm ready?'

'Course you feel trapped. You've got dragon blood, right? And dragons are meant to fly.' Arnor shrugged. 'Look, what you said earlier was right. Duroth's seventeen and he's going on missions. And that means that you'll be going soon, too.'

Sha stared at Arnor for a moment, and a thought struck her. The Nord girl was fifteen, not all that much younger than Sha. And yet she never complained. She trained for battle as hard as any of them, yet she never said a word about finding a Wingsibling and going to battle.

I was already asking to go on missions when I was fifteen, Sha thought. Why can Arnor wait when I can't?

Was Arnor simply more patient? Or was Sha more selfish? Or did she just feel as if she had more to live up to - more reason to prove herself?

'Just give it some time and you'll be going with them.' Arnor shoved the door open, grinning.

'Yeah.' Sha followed her friend inside, glancing back over her shoulder as she did so. 'But how long?'

Vulgrahskein knew that if he told any of the other dragons what he was feeling at that moment, he would have been mocked mercilessly for the rest of the time they knew him. To be sure, there weren't actually any other dragons with him, only a mortal, but the mortals probably wouldn't be very accepting, either. He knew that he couldn't say a word about it, if he wanted to be taken seriously. But what he felt was fear.

It was painful to admit it to himself. Dragons should never be afraid, and Ancient Dragons doubly so. Fear was for the foolish and the weak. Fear was for mortals. Yet Vulgrahskein felt a glimmer of fear inside him as he crouched on the Whiterun plains, staring at the distant shape of the city that he and his comrades were soon to attack.

Perhaps it was because their numbers were slightly decreased. Two dragons and two mortals had left overnight. At first, the other dragons had accused them of abandoning the Bloodcallers, but Vulgrahskein had known immediately that couldn't be the case. His old friend Keinvulnax was one of them, and he was far too proud to do something as cowardly as deserting a group he had sworn allegiance too. The other dragon was Skarvennax, and she clearly hated the Dragonhearts so much that Vulgrahskein was fairly certain she was the last one who would abandon them. And soon enough Veldarion had confirmed his suspicion – Skarvennax, Keinvulnax and the two mortals who had accompanied them were on some kind of mission. 'I can't give you any details at present,' the elf had said. 'But if it succeeds, it will be greatly beneficial to our order.'

Vulgrahskein was uncertain whether or not he trusted Veldarion, but he was sure that Keinvulnax wouldn't have agreed to carry out this task unless it was important. Still, it left the Bloodcallers' ranks depleted, and for an attack like this, Vulgrahskein would have preferred to have as many warriors on his side as possible, especially his old grah-zeymahzin Keinvulnax.

But there was a far greater reason why he was – though he was loathe to admit it to himself – slightly afraid. They had underestimated the Dragonborn before, and it had almost killed them. What if they were making the same mistake again now?

Even from a distance, Vulgrahskein could see the flashes of orange and pale blue-white flaring up among the greys and browns of the city. Vednahviing and Kahjuniisk were already there, almost certainly wreaking havoc. Around the city, the other Bloodcallers were waiting. They had flown there earlier, staying low, close to the ground to prevent anyone seeing them. When Qoyoliiz gave the signal, they would attack.

'I hope the Dragonhearts actually turn up.' The uneasy mutter came from Lurag, the Orc woman who had been instructed to accompany him. Vulgrahskein did not at all like having a mortal perched on his back, as if he were some kind of witless horse, and he was convinced that he would find it easier to fight without her there, but Veldarion had asked all the dragons to carry one of the mortals, and that was what they would have to do.

'Zinaal geinne frey fahdonne. They are honourable; they will come to the aid of their friends.'

'Yes, but how soon? If they don't show up quickly, those two are going to get killed.'

'A Serpentine and a Legendary are more than a match for joorre,' Vulgrahskein growled. Much as he hated to pay any kind of compliment to Kahjuniisk, he had to admit that his kind were more resilient than most.

'I hope you're right, for their sake.' Lurag placed a hand above her eyes to block out the sun, squinting in the direction of High Hrothgar. 'But I've incurred the wrath of the Whiterun Guard a few times, and trust me; they're tougher than you might think.'

'Nid uful.' Vulgrahskein flicked his tail towards the sky. 'They come.'

He could see them now as they dropped down from the clouds. Six in total, flying in an arrowhead formation – one in front, two behind that one, three behind them. He recognised the small, compact leader instantly as Laaskriiah, and one of the two flying behind her looked like the Storm Dragon he had fought in the Scars. The others were strangers.

'Only six,' Lurag grinned. 'We've got them outnumbered.'

'Twelve,' Vulgrahskein corrected her. 'They are carrying joorre.'

'So are you and the other dragons. And Qoyoliiz probably counts as three. We definitely outnumber them. We can take them.'

Vulgrahskein felt a smile spread across his face. How long had it been since he had been able to watch the frail houses of mortals blaze and crumble beneath his flames, since had had tasted the blood of mortals he had butchered in battle, since he had felt like a true dovah – proud and free?

Not since that terrible day twenty years ago. Not since Alduin had died. Not since the Dragonborn had arrived, murdering Vulgrahskein's master, preaching her infernal Way of the Voice and bending all the dragons of Skyrim to her will.

'This time she dies,' he vowed in a low hiss, his eyes fixed upon the Dragonborn's distant figure. 'And Skyrim shall belong to dov once again.'

Sorry as he felt for Sha, Duroth couldn't stop himself from feeling elated as he and the others flew at flat-out speed towards Whiterun. There was nothing that really compared to seeing Tamriel from this kind of height, and feeling the wind race past you on every side as your steed's wings pushed down against the air. It was impossible for him not to miss the family he'd lost ten years ago, but he didn't regret that it had happened. Not when he barely remembered them, and definitely not when it had given him a chance to become a Dragonheart.

Battles like this were by far the best part of being one of A'jira's warriors. Duroth was, after all, an Orc, and for an Orc, nothing was more glorious or more exhilarating than being face-to-face with an enemy, locked in a raging battle for survival. Duroth grinned and glanced down at his Wingbrother as they approached the edge of Whiterun. 'Ready, Juskahrath?'

The brown dragon bared his teeth, his eyes glimmering with excitement. 'Unstiid! Am I not always?'

Now they were closer, Duroth could see the dragons: a pale purple Legendary, the first of that kind he'd ever seen, and a jet black Serpentine. It was an odd match. Usually, when dragons attacked in pairs, they were either mates or siblings, and that meant they were always of the same breed. Remembering what Sha had said earlier, Duroth felt a momentary twinge of unease, but it was quickly gone in his eagerness for the battle.

'Echo, Vithmulsah, Duroth and Juskahrath, come with me. We're going to take on the Legendary. Lorn, Vulqosturn, Firlaen and Nahzahkriiyol, you handle the Serpentine. Zaran and Kestmaarnah, can you put out the fires and help get the citizens to safety?'

'Consider it done,' Zaran said promptly, and his Wingsister Kestmaarnah arced away from the main group, blowing a stream of frost on top of the nearest burning building. Vulqostrun and Nahzahkriiyol veered left, heading towards the Serpentine. A'jira nodded to the remaining Dragonhearts, and they headed for the Wind District of the Old Town, where the Legendary was tormenting a pack of guards. Duroth's fingers curled around his mace handle and lifted it from his belt.

'Dovahkiin.' Laaskriiah's voice was urgent. 'Could that be the Zooruv we encountered in the Scars?'

A'jira drew an arrow from her quiver. 'It's a possibility. And if he is, there's more to this than we can see right now, that's for certain.'

Sha was right, Duroth thought grimly. But it doesn't matter. All that matters is protecting Whiterun.

The Legendary, a guard clamped between his teeth, looked up as Laaskriiah let out a furious roar. The beast spat out the guard, who crashed onto the cobbles and lay still, and spread his wings. 'You should not have come here, Dovahkiin!'

A'jira's response was to fire the arrow, striking him in the nose. 'Neither should you!'

Laaskriiah swept over the rooftops and collided head on with the Legendary. Despite her smaller size, she had gathered enough speed to send the larger dragon reeling backwards. Duroth let out a shout of triumph and eagerness. 'Come on, Jusk. Let's see what he's got.'

As the Legendary drew back his head to snap at A'jira, Juskahrath swooped around behind his neck. Duroth's eyes zeroed in on the unprotected space between the dragon's horns, and as Juskahrath passed, he swung his mace down with all his considerable strength. The Legendary let out a shrieking howl as the heavy steel weapon slammed down on his head. The purple dragon twisted around, fire already flickering in the back of his throat, but by the time the final word of his Shout was ringing in the air and the flames were shooting skyward, Juskahrath had shot forwards, safely out of the way.

Duroth glanced at his mace and saw to his delight that there were spots of scarlet upon the steel. 'First blood of the battle goes to us.'

Juskahrath let out a delighted hiss. 'Let us see if we can claim the second!'

The battle was raging in earnest now. Vithmulsah and Echo had landed on the roof of an inn and were sending ice magic and Shouts at the neighbouring building, whose thatched roof was going up in flames. The Legendary had managed to throw off Laaskriiah, but now that his attention had been drawn away from the guards down below, they were sending arrow after arrow flying in his direction – as was A'jira. Over the New Town, Vulqostrun had the Serpentine pinned against a wall, and Firlaen, standing upright on Nahzahkriiyol's neck, had a shaft readied and aimed between the black dragon's eyes.

This is going to be too easy, Duroth thought gleefully.

And then a roar shattered the air, louder than the crackling of the flames or the yells of the guards or the screams of the citizens. Juskahrath lurched in alarm beneath Duroth, forcing the Orc to quickly grab hold of his Wingbrother's spines, and Vulqostrun froze for just long enough for the Serpentine to whisk free of his grasp.

As the roar faded away, an eerie quiet fell over Whiterun. Not only the battle, but the entire world seemed to stand still for a moment. And from somewhere beyond the walls, out in the plains, a Shout sounded, bellowed in a voice like none Duroth had ever heard before. And then another. And another.

'YOL TOOR SHUL!'

'FO KRAH DIIN!'

'QO THUL NOS!'

Three streaks of colour shot upwards into the sky from behind the walls of Whiterun – orange, pale blue and purple-white. For a second it looked like some kind of small, vertical rainbow. Then Duroth saw it for what it was: a trio of breath Shouts, fire, frost and lightning.

There are more dragons out there.

Within a heartbeat of the thought flying into his mind, he saw them. They rose above the walls, their wings pounding against the air, their roars thundering through the city. An enormous Ancient with scarred red-bronze scales. A Frost Dragon already throwing itself at the terrified people below. Two identical brown-scaled Fire Dragons.

And each of them had a rider perched upon its back.

It was impossible. Duroth stared without understanding what he was seeing. Nobody rode dragons, nobody except the Dragonhearts. But there could be no denying it – these people were seated behind their steeds' horns, just as the mortal Dragonhearts were, and the dragons were not chained or bound in any way, or flickering with the tell-tale light of Illusion magic that hinted at mind control.

'What in Malacath's name?' Duroth breathed.

'Vokorosaal!' Juskahrath gasped.

'Dragonhearts! Ready!' A'jira shouted.

Her voice jolted Duroth back to reality. Idiot, he cursed himself. Who cares if they have riders, as long as we can beat them?

His gaze fell on one of the two brown dragons. There was a Nord man seated on its back, clutching a sword in one hand and charging a spell in the other. Let's go for that one. Looks like it'll be a fair fight. Juskahrath's bigger – we can push him against a wall, and then –

A wordless shout of shock and terror from behind him made his train of thought crash abruptly, and his head turn. And what he saw made him feel as if his heart had dropped out of his chest.

A dragon was rising over Dragonsreach, its wings spread wide, blocking out the sun. It landed upon the beacon, sending the guard who had been manning it flying, and falling helplessly down onto the rocks far below. The beacon's fire licked around the dragon's scales without harming it. With a rumbling growl that chilled Duroth's blood, the creature lifted its head.

And its other head. And then its other head.

From where he was seated upon the monster's centre neck, a tall High Elf clad in ebony coloured robes lifted one hand, as if in greeting. Duroth saw his lips move, but the distance between them was too far for him to make out the words.

Without warning, the dragon reared, throwing out its wings and extending all three necks. And in three different voices, it screeched to the skies.

'Al niin pah!'

Duroth was by no means a master of Draconic, but he knew what this meant. Destroy them all.

Gods above, Sha, he thought desperately. Why didn't I listen to you?

Uh, yeah… another cliffhanger. I'm really sorry about that, but yet again, this chapter ended up being longer than I planned it to be, and if I'd carried on to a point where I could stop without cliffhangers, it would have been far, far too long. It's not as bad as the last cliffhanger, though, so… please don't kill me! *runs to hide*

Those of you who read 'Night Eye' might remember Brandor and his court members. It's been great to write about him again, so I hope you enjoy reading about him again!

I kind of drew a blank with the chapter title. I chose this one because of the theme of communication in the chapter - Duroth not paying much attention to Sha's concerns, A'jira and Sha not really understanding each other, Brandor wanting to be on good terms with his people, and I guess Duroth having to work out what Qoyoliiz was saying.

The Shout 'Qo Thul Nos' (Lightning Thunder Strike) was invented by me. It's a Lightning Breath Shout used only by Storm Dragons.

OK, so, before I end this note, I have two questions. And I'd really, really appreciate it if you could answer, because it'll help me keep up the quality of the story.

First: There are a lot of characters in this story. Are you able to keep track of who everyone is - or if not everyone, at least the most important ones?

Second: This is the really important question. Do you think I spend too much time describing what my characters are thinking and feeling? I always feel like I'm leaving something out if I don't get deep into my characters' minds, but while writing this, I realised that a lot of what I write goes into scene-setting or showing thoughts rather than actual action. Do you like that, or would you prefer that I had more action? If you do, I'll be sure to alter my style a bit. Please, please, please get back to me on this – I don't want to feel like anyone's just skipping long bits of description.

And now I will put an end to this overly long author's note and sign off with my customary phrase: Thanks for reading!