Quick Note: I don't know how to explain music or beats, but the song featured in this chapter is made up of seven beats, and if put to a metronome, it would be one syllible to each beat for three beats, then two syllibles each beat for two beats, then one syllible per beat for two more. Three slow, four fast, two slow. If you can't hear that in your head, go to Youtube and watch "Legends of the Frost" by Miracle of Sound featuring Malukah, the beat in my head is based off that song.
Book Two: Chapter Three: Divergence
As Lydia opened the door to the commons of the Inn, she noticed the lute chords and faint singing she heard was, in fact, coming from her Thane. The two of them had reached Ivarstead late the previous night, barely catching the innkeeper, Wilhelm, before he turned in. They were so tired they hadn't even bothered to have a small meal before hitting the two beds in their room. As she awoke, she found her Thane was, again, up before her. She had changed from her under armor into brown riding trousers and a short, laced white tunic.
Einherjar was slightly slouching in the chair with one leg proped up on a short table, the lute held low enough to show off the wide, unlaced V of his tunic, obviously showing off his chiseled chest to the women in the audience, while he stroked a slow, simple, but consistent melody on the instrument. From the smiles on the audience, Lydia got the impression it was a light hearted song.
"Three scores gone, were portraits from the Count,
Three scores done, good haul by the thieves' count.
With that gold, the whores played to their tune,
'Cept Old Sven, always ended too soon."
That got a few people snickering.
"Then ol' Garr, dirty, ugly, quick to lie,
Thought he might not have to share the pie.
With the others, distracted by the band,
Dumb Garr took off with nightshade in his hand.
When he thought, that he had plenty of time,
Someone found him, 'bout to tamper with the wine.
Onl' one way to get the poison out o' sight,
Down the hatch, that joke took me hours to write."
That got a few more snickers and groans out of the smiling audience. Lydia allowed herself to enjoy the dumb humor before going to the barkeep to order breakfast. A few minutes later as Lydia was handed her porridge, Ein came up and sat beside her as an imperial bard, who already seemed to be a better lute player, began playing.
"You don't sleep much" Lydia commented.
"I'm too excited to sleep" despite the jovial tone, she could see some signs of fatigue even without looking directly at him.
"A Thane needs his rest" she countered, not looking at him and speaking as if arguing for the sake of arguing.
"And a Dragonborn can't afford to" Ein retorted, making sure his voice was low enough others didn't hear him while still trying to sound playful. Continuing on, he stated, "I asked around about the seven thousand steps, saying we were pilgrims come to pray to Kyne. Other than a few wolves and 'biting cold wind', they say the worst thing is the trip itself. We're climbing almost a mile vertically."
"That's why I'm taking Milo" Lydia stated.
"Come on, what's the point of climbing a sacred mountain if you do it on a horse?"
"To make sure we can stand when we get there?"
"Lazy heathen."
000 000 000 000 000
Stepping through the large, bronze gates of Markarth, Cuchulainn felt both nostalgia and disgust. Growing up he saw how nords, redguards, and even orcs could set up businesses with ease while reachmen like him always have to struggle through red tape. Back then, he had simply accepted it as part of life, but having spent time in the Legion where he was treated as an equal, if still a peon, he couldn't help but feel a rising hatred for this place.
Stepping into the opening square of the city, he saw a nord bartering with locals over his meat cuts, a redguard selling jewelry, normal people walking and conversing. Normal, except not reachmen.
He stood there, taking it in. It was all a facade. These people lead these lives off the suffering of virtual slaves, the silver his people mined and smelted. He didn't see anything like this in Solitude. The people there didn't live luxury off the toil of the unseen and unacknowledged, yet despite being the center of the Imperial war effort and the largest garrison of the Legion in Skyrim, the people there were not as tense as those in Markarth. It took a few seconds for Cuchulainn to realize why:
In Markarth, blood is cheaper than ale.
The privileged among the nords took what they wanted, and in turn, the Forsworn attack all nords, regardless of culpability. It was a vicious cycle, one he couldn't see a reasonable solution to.
It was then that he noticed someone moving toward the square differently than the others. His gait was different, his eyes too focused. No one else noticed him, too focused on their own business to bother, but Cuchulainn felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He instinctively did a tactical evaluation of his situation. Cuchulainn wore burlap clothing that had become ragged over the course of his trip to Markarth, no armor, an iron sword, iron hunting dagger, and a bow he had unstrung just outside the city.
As the man approached the crowd, Cuchulainn felt more and more that he was there to cause trouble. Moving circuitously to get behind the man, he followed him to the jewelry stall were he could see the dark haired man focus on the tall, rail-thin woman talking to the redguard vendor. The moment the man pulled a steel dagger from a sheath under his tunic, Cuchulainn pulled out his own iron dagger, and in a practiced motion, grabbed it by the blade and threw it.
The weapon went more off course than intended, striking the man in the shoulder. The yelp the man let off caused his target to turn around. When the imperial woman saw the dagger in the man's hand, she screamed for the guard and bolted away. Reaching around, the man pulled the dagger out of his shoulder, turned, and let out a war cry as he attacked Cuchulainn.
Pulling out his iron sword, Cuchulainn swung his weapon, cutting the man's arm before he could get within range. Despite being only slightly better than a wooden sword, the extra length guarenteed victory for him, even if the guards didn't arrive in time. "Stand down!" He ordered.
The man clutched his bleeding arm, then with a look of fury in his face charged again. This time, Cuchulainn took his left arm completely off just below the elbow. The man screamed and recoiled, clutching his bleeding stump. He then looked at Cuchulainn with the same fury, but with something else he hadn't noticed before: desperation.
"I die for my people" he declared low enough that Cuchulainn barely heard before the man charged again. This time, Cuchulainn jumped to the side while slashing the man's neck, sending a fountain of spurting blood out. The man collapsed on the ground, not bothering to try and staunch the bleeding. He turned on his side and looked at Cuchulainn. The former Legionnaire could almost hear him saying again I die for my people before his face went vacant.
Cuchulainn looked around and saw half of the people in the square hadn't fled, but were still as far away from the commotion as they could get while the city guard arrived. There were mutterings of 'Forsworn' amongst the crowd.
"Alright everyone, the city guard has the situation under control" one of the guards proclaimed, "go about your business!" The last part was a clear order. He then moved to Cuchulainn, blood still dripping from his sword. "You too, beat it!"
"Aren't you going to ask for statements?" Cuchulainn asked, confused. This was not how the Legion or any proper guardsmen would handle the matter. They would ask all witnesses to stay and give individual statements.
"No, the city guard has this under control."
"The hell you do" Cuchulainn stated before he could stop himself, "you didn't see anything that happened here!"
"Do you want to be arrested for obstructing justice?" The guard asked, stepping right up to Cuchulainn's face. The guard was half a head taller, broader in the shoulders, and with a slight gut for added weight.
"No" he answered after a few moments. But you should be he silently added. He stepped around the guard and moved toward the Silverblood Inn. There is something very wrong with this city he realized, and wondered if things had changed recently, or if it had always been like this and he simply hadn't noticed. Inside, he asked for a room and an ale.
Shortly afterwards, a man sat next to him. "Gods, a woman attacked in the street, in broad daylight."
"I know" Cuchulainn stated, "I was there."
"I'm sorry to hear that" the man stated. "By the way, I think you dropped this note out there."
The reachman turned in his seat to look at his bar partner, and was surprised to see he had Reach tattoos on his face. Looking at the folded piece of parchment in his hand, Cuchulainn became confused, "That's not mine."
"Really? I'm pretty sure I saw it fall out of you pocket on the way in."
"What? But I don't have any pockets."
"Well, I'm still sure I saw you drop it" the man put the letter in Cuchulainn's hand before standing up and leaving before he could object.
It took a few moments for Cuchulainn to figure this out, and chided himself for being so dense. Opening the letter, it contained what he suspected it was: directions for a secret meeting. There is definately something wrong with this city.
000 000 000 000 000
"Oh you've gotta be kinding me!" Ein declared in dispair when he saw the stable, capable of holding half a dozen horses, under the shadow of the dark stone edifice that was High Hrothgar.
Following her Thane's line of sight, Lydia smirked. "I guess horses aren't forbidden after all." For a second there, she thought her Thane was going to cry.
Groaning, Ein padded over to the steps of the monastery while Lydia moved to tether her horse. The path up the mountain was grueling, even for someone of Ein's stamina. The two quickly learned that seven thousand steps were really seven thousand stairs, with long stretches of mountain rock and dirt between, making it over twice as long as they anticipated. Add in a few ice wraiths and a frost troll, air that got thinner the higher up they went, and a constant cold, bone dry mountain wind and the trek was exhausting for the Thane, while the Housecarl didn't have to get off her horse except for the frost troll.
Sitting down on the black stone stairs, Ein took a breather while Lydia tethered, unsaddled, and blanketed Milo. As she came over to join him, he said to her, "Lydia, if we have to come back here...I'll buy a horse."
Lydia cocked an eyebrow. "Finally admitting they're useful?"
"In certain situations. On the flatlands they only help those who can't move in their own armor." He explained, nodding to Lydia's steel armor.
"At least I have armor that protects more than a tunic" she nodded toward his leather armor.
"Whatever, let's just get inside." Ein decided he'd had enough of the sparring and got up.
The two warriors moved up the stairs and pushed open the dark stone door. Inside it was lit by a few smoldering braziers, the smell of smoke and incense lingering. It was unsettlingly quiet, the air seemed too still after the constant wind of the mountain. At least it was warmer inside. Stepping in, the duo quickly caught sight of shapes moving through the shadows. Those shapes stepped into the light to reveal four men in robes, stiched in the same triangular and diamond patterns as the floor.
One stepped forward and said, "Dragonborn, we welcome you to High Hrothgar."
000 000 000 000 000
His breath exploded from his mouth as he was slammed into the rock wall. Borkul the Beast took a step back, then threw a punch at Cuchulainn's face. There reachman managed to move his head out of the way just in time for the gauntleted hand to miss him, taking the opportunity to punch the Orc in the solar plexis. The beast barely gave off a grunt before hitting him with a left hook that sent him sprawling and tasting blood anew as the crowd of prisoners cheered them on.
As the beast advanced on him again, Cuchulainn used his hands to push his body toward the big orc enough to kick him in the groin. This stopped the beast for a moment as the reachman got back on his feet. Borkul glared murder at him just before Cuchulainn threw a feint punch at his face, followed up with a side kick to his leg causing him to kneel, then did a real punch to his face. Ignoring the aching pain in his hand, the reachman got behind the orc as he reached for him, looping one arm around the outstretched limb to behind Borkul's head, then wrapped his other hand around his head to grab onto his forearm. He then jumped up and wrapped his legs around the prisoner's torso, forcing him to fall back to the ground with Cuchulainn under him with a solid sleeper hold.
Then the reachman squeezed with his arms while arching his back to pull down on Borkul's waist to put greater pressure on the orc's neck. After fifteen seconds of intensifying the squeeze, Borkul the Beast finally went limp, and the crowd cheered.
Pushing the large orc off his chest, Cuchulainn gasped for breath as he got back to his feet. As he stood up, several of the inmate's shook his hand and clapped him on the back, half of which nearly knocked him over as he was struggling to stay up after the beating he endured. The only reason he hadn't yelded several minutes ago was because he went through Legionnaire training under the infamous Sextius Omerta, a man known to put his recruits through brutal training, even torture if he felt his recruits deserved it; and he always found reason they deserved it.
As the crowds broke up and meandered back to work, Cuchulainn walked over and lightly kicked Borkul in the head. After a couple kicks, the orc woke up with a start. "I believe you owe me an audience?"
The orc scoffed, but got back on his feet, the few paultry hits Cuchulainn managed to land not seeming to affect him at all, while the reachman struggled not to limp or hold his ribs to ease the pain. As they reached the gate, Borkul held up his hand to stop him, then unlocked the gate, stepped in, then closed and locked the gate behind him. As he moved down the tunnel away from sight, Cuchulainn tried to compose himself. He had spent the last two weeks in this hell-hole coming up with this plan. Madanach, the King in Rags, had managed to assassinate half of the Silverblood family at once. He had power, Cuchulainn figured, and the deal between him and Thonar Silverblood had clearly begun to crumble. Things were going to come to a head, and the reachman figured that would be his best chance to escape.
The problem was that he may have to ally with Madanach, the king of the Forsworn. While he hated the nord overlords of Markarth, he knew that Forsworn terrorism was not the way to improve the reachmen's lot. Still, if he did nothing he would likely die in Cidhna Mine, either from the work, or whenever the Markarth guard under Silverblood coin decide to come in to clean up any loose ends. Better to be trusted by those you distrust, so he was going to keep his enemies as close as he could.
As Borkul got back and opened the gate for him, Cuchulainn made no indication of how nervous he was, or how careful he knew he had to be for this meeting. At the end of the narrow hallway was a single room carved out of the rock. In there, an actual mattress, ratty as it was, laid on the ground, with a wooden three wall partition to a wooden bathtub, and a desk with papers, quills and a couple ink vials. And at the desk sat a Reachman in his latter middle age. He still had a layer of dust on him, but it wasn't caked on like the rest of the inmates, and he didn't smell like years worth of unwashed sweat. He had a thick mustache, with his chin and sideburns mere stubbles. Cuchulainn assumed he had nothing to use as a razor aside from shivs. However, his clothes were just as ragged as anyone else in the Cidhna Mine.
The man looked at him, and he, in turn, looked back. After several moments of the men sizing each other up, the King in Rags turned his chair to face the newcomer and said, "It's been a long time since anyone managed to walk away from a fight with Borkul."
"Necessity forges the impossible, right?" Cuchulainn kept his tone even, his face unreadable.
Madanach raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? And why would it be necessary for you to meet with me?"
"Do you know how something as harmless as water can cut tunnels through the earth?" Cuchulainn asked, remembering Ein's little lecture about rivers creating caves.
"Because like most men, water follows the path of least resistence?"
"That, and every drop of water is a tiny chisel as it moves. Over years, it wears down soil, clay, even rock. All it takes is pressure and time. So I can't help but wonder, with enough time being left to rule from the mines, what would the King in Rags find?"
After a moment to ponder, Madanach turned to his desk, wiped his quill on a cloth and put the stopper in the ink vial. "And what makes you think I found anything at all?"
"Because why else would the King of the Forsworn order his long-standing undercover agents to kill half the Silverblood family?"
Madanach looked genuinely intrigued by the statement. "And what makes you think I had anything to do with that? You've been a prisoner here for some time, as Borkul tells it; what makes you think I can do anymore from here than you?"
"Because I was there when your agents killed them. I'm in this hell hole because I uncovered the truth about your deal with Thonar Silverblood. I figure it won't be long before Thonar decides you've become a liability." He then knelt down so he was looking the king in the eye. "And I figure you attacked him because you found a way out? So tell me, is twenty years of pressure enough to find something interesting?"
"That depends: are you at all interesting?" Neither Madanach's tone nor his face betrayed anything.
"I used to be an officer in the Legion," he wasn't actually an officer, but the situation necessitated an exaggeration, "and I'm not looking to follow the path of least resistence, like most men, and submit." He had hoped to find a way to convince him without doing anything to bind him to the King in Rags, but it looked like he needed to prove his worth.
"Yes," Madanach said after several seconds of thinking it over, looking at Cuchulainn, "yes, I think you just might be interesting enough to keep around."
000 000 000 000 000
As he knelt on the prayer rug Ein nodded, not in acknowledgement of Master Arngeir's words, but at the tone of his voice to give the impression he was listening, and he wondered, not for the first time, if the Graybeards were fooled or not. For two weeks he had endured the same trite: morning prayers, meditation, breakfast with the worst conversationalists Ein had ever imagined, discussion of what he had learned already, review of Words, and then the only good part of the day: learn one more Shout, with lectures before and after. The Graybeards were well aware that he usually tuned those out, and Master Arngeir made no secret that it frustrated them, usually causing another lecture then, as well, about how this magical art was sacred and that he needed to take his divine gift seriously and so on.
At least Lydia was able to spend a few hours everyday hunting for wolves and goat, pick berries and whatever else she could find in order to cover her's and Eins' meals. The Graybeards subsisted on next to nothing, eating only two small meals a day! The two non-emaciated nords would've gone through their donated food stores within a few days. She also tended to their weapons and armor, and prepared the meals for everyone, while Ein enjoyed a slow decent into cabin fever.
It didn't help that Master Arngeir gave non-answers whenever the young nord asked how many Shouts he was going to learn so he could get an estimate of how long he was going to endure this torture. He learned the Shouts with a single try, why did he have to learn the intricacies of its grammatical usage and subtle meanings? And history, really?
After fifteen days, Ein waited through the lecture so he could learn another Shout, until the Graybeard yelled at him with the Thu'um breaking through his control, "are you listening!?", causing the whole building to shake and knocking over the young Dragonborn.
"Yes, yes of course, Master."
"No you weren't!" Master Arngeir's voice was no less angry, but at least his Thu'um was under control again. "I'll say it again: it is time to commence the next stage of your training!"
That got his rapt attention. Something new, ANYTHING new!
"You have learned all the Words of Power that we can teach you for now, and you have shown excellent control of your Voice, such skill that can only be found naturally in the Dragonborn, the chosen of Akatosh and Kyne's blessed. There are three more trials you must endure before we can officially bless you as Dovahkiin: you must go into the ancient fane of Ustengrav and retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, you must see the effects of your voice outside the walls of our monestary and learn, on your own, how best to use them. And finally, the third trial will commence when you return with the Horn.
"In Ustengrav, you will be tested with your knowledge and precision of the Thu'um. Do not shy away from these challenges, take them in and let them make you stronger."
"Master," Ein asked, trying not to sound impatient, "if I may, what is the third trial?"
"The Trial of Confrontation is a reflection of Jurgen Windcaller's tribulations as he began preaching the Way of the Voice. Remember your lessons about him, and you should be able to glean an idea of what to expect." Ein swore the Graybeard was holding back a smirk; the old man knew damn well he never listened to those lectures.
He stood up, cringing at the grind and pops in his knees and hips as he did so, to go find his stuff. After he got his armor and weapons back on, and packed his few essentials in a bag, he stepped out to the front of High Hrothgar and found Lydia just returning from a hunting trip, three rabbits at her belt and a goat slung over the back of Milo.
"Pack your stuff, we're leaving" he called out.
Even from the distance between them, he could hear her mumble a prayer of thanks to Mara. "Where are we going?"
"Ustengrav, it's apparently a few miles out from Morthal."
000 000 000 000 000
Keeping his breath even, Hadvar scanned the white horizon. A few stone edifices were all they could see above the depression that marked the sight of Korvunjund. Where were those archers? A part of him knew it had only been a few minutes, and that they were moving as fast as they could while still being cautious. All it took was a little impatience to completely turn the upcoming battle. Not only that, but this mission could well become a fool's errand.
"Sir," a legionnaire, no more than a boy really, spoke up behind him, breaking the silence Hadvar had ordered, "sir, are we going to attack or not?"
"Patience," Hadvar ordered, half to himself, "we cannot rush the plan. We move on my signal, not a moment earlier!" He had to be the example here, he couldn't let the men see how much the wait was affecting him as well.
Another minute of excruciating silence, and five archers appeared seemingly out of nowhere at the opposite end of the depression. The plan was that the bulk of the force would approach from the entry point, use the normal advancement tactics of phalanxes and archers, but that tactic was often countered by the Stormcloaks and their greater mobility. All it took was a few warriors flanking the phalanxes to force them to break formation, and that was what the archers, hidden from the archers bunkered down in the barrow, were meant to take care of.
For a moment as he was about to give the order for his unit, all belly down in the snow like him, he wondered if Ein had followed Ralof to Windhelm. The boy was fast, agile, and resourceful, traits the Stormcloaks valued immensely to counter the Legion's patient discipline, and he would have been accepted into their ranks quickly.
Hadvar held up a closed fist, then raised it as an open palm. Around and behind him he heard his men rustling snow as they got up and raised their shields, the hoplites in front and pulling their tower shields off their backs. Hadvar then pulled his sword out of its scabbard held it high, then pointed it forward. The marching began.
Four platoons moved up individually, Hadvar's third in line. As soon as the wall of shields became visible over the lip of the stairs leading down, shouts were heard and arrows shot up. Imperial archers occasionally rose above the lip and shot down, or the front shields of the phalanx procession opened and a few archers within fired. When Hadvar's platoon reached the stairs, he saw the front phalanx was already entering the barrow, with three dead Stormcloaks, hit with arrows in the back.
Only three? That would have only been one attempt to disrupt their phalanx, and it had already passed the entrance, as if there had barely been any fight at all. And indoors, the heavy armored troops gained a huge advantage. This was the work of an amateur commander, and if the Stormcloaks were here for the Jagged Crown, like them, then they wouldn't send an amateur commander.
"HALT!" He called out, his platoon stopping, halting the one behind them as well.
"Hadvar," the platoon commander, Einar, behind him began.
"We're to hold the rear!" He called out the order, and since he outranked Einar via seniority, the other commander had to listen.
Thwop-thwop-thwop!
Hadvar turned and saw the archers stationed at the head of the barrow fall over, each with at least one arrow sticking out of them. "SHIELDS!" He called out, kneeling down behind his shield half a second before an arrow was imbedded in it, the head coming through nearly six inches. Dwarven metal arrows, those were not handed out to rank-and-file archers.
He heard cries as a few of his men fell over with arrows in them, but most managed to get behind their shields in time while the hoplites dutifully moved to protect the wounded as the medics got to work, all in the span of a couple seconds. No more arrows came, as it was likely apparent that they wouldn't work at this stage. A wolf call rang out, and from the woods came Stormcloaks. Between them, Hadvar noticed small hovels made from fallen branches and covered in snow to disguise them. This group was there for insurance, to let any Imperial forces into the barrow, and these troops would hit them from behind in a pincer attack.
"Stand your ground!" He called out. The first wave of warriors rushed at them. The one coming at Hadvar jumped at the last second, bringing down his large war axe to bear. Hadvar deflected it with his shield a microsecond before slamming it into the Stormcloak, putting him on his back on the ground, where the nord legionnaire stabbed him through the stomach, not even the ringmail stopping the blade.
He looked up and saw another warrior rushing him, this one stayed low to the ground as he rushed, swinging a mace and a dagger. Hadvar jumped back to avoid the man's initial attack, then blocked the mace with his shield, and staying behind it, thrust his sword forward. The Stormcloak deflected it with his dagger, and tried to use the hooks on the flanged mace to pull the shield out of the way when a spear caught him in the ribs, penetrating deep enough to hit the heart.
As quick as it appeared, the spear was gone and the Stormcloak dropped. Hadvar gave a quick nod to the hoplite who helped him, though he wasn't sure the man saw, and turned his attention back to the trees where more Stormcloaks were coming. And then, out came Ralof. Hadvar snarled at his luck as their two gazes met.
Ralof stopped, and the two men regarded each other, the chaos around them a distant thought. The blonde nord twirled his axe once, twice, then charged. As soon as he was within range, he made an overhead cleave which met shield. Hadvar's sword came under the shield and was deflected by Ralof's other axe.
The blonde used the momentum of the action to spin around Hadvar, swinging an axe at his back. The brunette nord spun the other way, slamming the edge of his shield into Ralof's forearm. The hit both bruised and hyperextended his arm, nearly snapping it. He followed through with an overhead strike of his sword, which was caught in the crux of the other's axe. Ralof began lift his leg for a kick, but Hadvar beat him to it, kicking the man squarely in the gut and onto his back.
As the legionnaire came down to deliver the finishing blow, the Stormcloak reared back, lifting his hips in the air and kicking with his closer leg, which caught the shield, but that was only to turn him over so his other leg could reach high and hit Hadvar in the side of the head.
As the Legion captain recoiled, Ralof got up and the two circled each other, neither one willing to attack first. Then a horn blew close by, followed by a shout to retreat. Hadvar saw the look of confusion in Ralof's face before either of them looked around themselves. The Legion had lost several men, but for each one down, there were three standing up, and two dead Stormcloaks. In the battle, the rebels had lost the majority of their forces, and were now outnumbered.
Hadvar could see clearly that Ralof was torn between finishing the fight and following orders. In the end, he chose to live to fight another day, and circled around Hadvar to get clear before turning and running back into the treeline. Today, the Imperials won. He didn't blame his old friend for hesitating, he just abandonded his comrades left in Korvunjund. Such was war, and so would be revenge.
He knew this wasn't the last time they would meet.
End of Book Two: Chapter Three.