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-Ross-
Fool, Ross berated himself, as the dragon came around again. Bloody careless fool.
The power of its wings disturbed the topmost branches of the trees, sending a shower of pine needles upon the forest. His horse whickered in fear as the dragon's shadow flashed across them. He fretfully hushed his terrified mount; Bloods, he seemed to recall from somewhere, had a particularly sharp sense of hearing for their kind.
The silence that followed was so profound it almost ached. Ross pressed his back against the rough bark of the tree where he had taken shelter. Fading light slid through the trembling branches. Night would be upon them soon, and there was nowhere safe to go; he would have to ride through the nightfall and hope to reach the mountains and the border of the southhold before dawn and the hunt resumed…if it would ever stop.
He heard its wings and closed his eyes, trembling, as it swept overhead once more. It made no sound in the depths of its long throat, but Ross could feel its piercing stare sweeping the trees and shuddered in dread; all dragons had miraculous eyesight—it was their prized sense above all. Within moments, if the dragon continued its circling, it would succeed in spooking his horse into the open, and in this dense forest, the horse could not run far from its rider. We will both be dead if we let fear take us.
Had the Greensmile anticipated this? It was a treacherous path to take, to ride an old forest road through dragon territory and find his way to the mountain pass that made the stony border of the greenwood and bearwood of Gravuungevild, the autumnhold.
For three days and nights, Ross had ridden the road with little trouble. He had taken his time, favouring caution over speed—but all that had counted for nothing when a Blood dragon had picked up his scent. One night had been spent sleepless already, and in a terrifying game of cat-and-mouse, dragon and freerider had swept through the greenwood.
Ross had had to abandon the path and take his chances through the treacherous forest; he could not keep riding the road, else the Blood would easily anticipate where he next would be. It knew these trees better than he did. It was enjoying the game, he could tell; sometimes it would laugh and bellow what sounded like jests in its guttural tongue. It was feral, with no knowledge of the mortal tongue or respect for mortality whatsoever, so even when Ross had proclaimed to it that he was a freerider—only a messenger for hire, sternly neutral to both dragons and mortality—the hunt went on. He doubted the Blood even knew what a freerider was.
His fourth evening since leaving Gosvahgraag, and he had not even made it to the pass. Ross feared he never would. Dragons were peerless hunters and, once a scent was gained, it was not abandoned easily. Yet again the dragon came round with a rattling snarl, one that made his horse start badly, his terrified whinny barely stifled.
We came too close. We must keep moving, before the dragon loses patience and razes the forest down. In one fluid movement Ross swung himself into the saddle, turned the head of his horse, and spurred it into a gallop. He hadn't gained much ground before the dragon realized its prey was fleeing. He heard the change of its wingbeat pattern, and fear took deep root in his soul. This racket will only draw more dragons to my position…I will be dead before I reach the mountains if I cannot lose this accursed creature!
The vast trees were all around him. Ross prayed his mount would not trip over the bulging roots. He dared not venture too deeply into the more ancient heart of the greenwood, even with the Blood gaining with unfair speed upon them. He shuddered to think what dark creatures lurked in the shadows of the boughs, uninfluenced by mortality for a hundred years—and more dragons dwelled in the thickest parts of the forest. To enter deeper would still be his death, but by the maw of a different beast.
His horse was panicking, galloping blindly, almost out of control; when Ross turned his head he barely followed it. Desperate, he placed one palm upon the frenzied animal's throat and whispered, "You and I have walked the world together; do not lose faith in me now."
The words carried only the feel of sentiment and reassurance, but to the frightened steed it was enough. Ross bowed forward in the saddle and tugged sharply on the reins, spinning his mount to his left. The dragon came screaming behind them, talons slashing through the thick branches, raining a shower of green and brown upon both man and horse. Ross batted the obstructions from his eyes and ducked hard beneath a low-hanging branch that appeared suddenly in his path.
The woods grow ever more treacherous. They know of the disturbance in their territory. The strange thought passed through Ross's mind as though he'd always known. He'd once heard a story behind the mystery of the greenwood. Not all the trees had died or burned in the purge that birthed the Fifth Era; there were those so ancient and deep-rooted that dragonfire had not burned them down to their core. These few survivors grew descendants that carried echoes of their patriarchs' bitter memories, and slowly the woods came to embrace a more evil nature, and with this new mindfulness they determined never to burn or suffer again at the hands of men or dragons. The lumberjacks had to be careful what trees they chose to process.
The greenwood had always been seen as queer and full of misadventures by the people outside of the southhold—full of memories and foul thoughts, and magic too stubborn to die. It was in the shadow of these boughs that creatures once dabbled in the ancient, perilous art of Earth Magic, and where unkindly animals stalked every flitting shadow.
Greensmile had spoken of change, and the way he had, it was as if he believed that all the world, from the lowliest insect to the proudest of beasts, was to change in some way. Perhaps, the freerider thought grimly, if such legends and rumours can be trusted in to do good—but it seems that all old tales that reawaken do only ill to this unfortunate world. The fires of Oblivion in the Third Era, and the dragons' return in the Fourth…even the Dragonborn and his unforeseen betrayal.
The Blood's throaty bellow brought him back into reality; Ross swore and turned his horse between two tall pines, and heard the sharp crack as the dragon's plunge was broken, talons snapping splinters from the trees. It shrieked in frustration, and Ross urged his horse faster. Get back to the old road and make a break for it…running circles in the forest will get us nowhere…
Wings pummelled the sky above, and suddenly a storm of white burst in the woods just ahead. His steed started and reared in fear, and Ross closed his eyes against the blast of icy air. He recovered to the sight of sparkling ice and bitter frost, drenching the trees and green beyond, and turned his horse away. It's growing tired of this. One hand still tight on the reins, he let the other grasp his crossbow as once more he fled, keenly aware of the dragon above their heads rounding back for another attack.
This time, as the shadow passed, Ross raised his crossbow and fired. The bolt disappeared through the canopy, but whether it struck home or not, he didn't know, for the dragon Shouted ice once more. It struck too heavily and too close, and both man and animal were peppered with frozen shards. The force of its impact had been incredible, sending violent shudders through the earth underfoot. Ross gasped with the effort of turning his horse from the streak of snow once more barricading their way.
It's penning us in, or trying to, he thought numbly. It wants to tire us, then move in for its kill.
The dragon's circle drawn above their heads was tighter. The shadow passed over them again. This time Ross sat heavy in the saddle and pulled back sharply on the reins, and his horse slid to a frantic halt as the green brush ahead of them was struck with a third Shout of frost.
Ross slid from the saddle and led his mount into the shelter of an old fir's vast trunk. There he threw his cloak around the terrified horse's head and nervously whispered words of comfort. Above all, keep silent, keep silent.
The Blood returned, but its cries had quietened. Once, it flew over the trees where Ross was hidden. It returned, lower than the first time, its belly scraping the topmost branches. Was it listening for them? Was it aware that its prey had abandoned its flight and chosen to hide?
Ross's heart beat faster. As he listened to the dragon's wingbeats fade, he slowly withdrew a bolt and carefully reloaded his crossbow. It was ready when he heard it return, but it did not pass by directly overhead. Its circles were widening.
Has it lost us? He regarded this possibility with cautious hope. Perhaps it will give up…
Then there came a much different pattern of wings, and when the shadow came, it did not disappear. An instant later Ross heard the telltale thud of the dragon's landing, tearing through the branches to descend heavily upon the forest floor.
As the last leaves and twigs pattered to earth, Ross listened to it draw a deep thrumming breath, and many more in short, precise gulps. Scenting, he realized, it's scenting us, or trying to. He tightened his grip around his weapon. One powerful shot in the right spot could wound the beast enough to make a desperate escape…but even the thought of standing before the monster intent on killing him dotted his skin with sweat.
He listened to it chuckle and mutter something in its tongue, felt vibrations run through the ground as the beast took a few paces. Its long tail knocked lightly against the trees as it swept to and fro. Once more it drew deep breaths, each rattling in its long throat. Ross could imagine its slanted yellow eyes gleaming wickedly from the dark hollows in its head, pictured the fin-like folds around its skull flexing as it strained to hear but a single sound that could give the prey away.
A few tense minutes passed. Ross's nerves mounted. It sounded as if it were drawing steadily closer, but it could have only been his fear exaggerating what he heard. At last he could not stand it; very slowly, every movement made with extreme care, the Imperial freerider pressed his shoulders to the bark, took one step to brace himself, and peered cautiously around the tree's trunk.
He saw the dragon only a few bounds beyond, crouched just in front of where its ice breath had struck. Its head was turned away from him, eyes peering intently through the trees to its left. After a moment it drew back, still sniffing. One wing, now an ungainly foreleg upon the ground, extended and the dragon swung leisurely around, gazing thoughtfully down the tangled thoroughfare where Ross and his horse had galloped down moments before.
Heart pounding even harder, he hid behind the fir once more. It cannot end like this, he thought fiercely. I have a message that must be delivered. If I have survived dragons until now, then I can survive them again. He stared at his crossbow, loaded and prepared, and clenched it harder in a surge of indecision. The rest of the dragons may learn of this…if I kill it, as feral as it is, the dragons may no longer see me as neutral and treat me as an enemy to their kind. If I do not fight, it will kill me, and I will have failed the warden of the south. It was terribly unfair, but fairness had died with good in the purge.
There was no other way to escape. Perhaps I can blind it, in one eye, at least, Ross thought nervously. He would only have time for one shot—it took time to reload a crossbow, and that time needed to be spent mounting his steed and fleeing once more through the forest. A dragon couldn't run nearly as fast as a horse, and it would take the creature time to punch its way through the canopy and back into the sky once more, and by then…precious seconds would have been gained, time to throw the beast off once and for all.
Ross steeled himself. Get out, shoot. Try to aim. It will draw breath and attack with its Voice. Maybe…A new possibility occurred to him. Maybe I can shoot it down its throat. That would be a stunning and crippling strike—
The heads of the trees rocked and groaned to the tempests of wings.
Ross looked up in alarm. Two more vast shadows soared over the forest, and back again; circling. More have come to the hunt, he thought in horror, yet one of the newcomers began to speak—in the language of the dragons, so Ross could not understand, but it seemed that the two other dragons had come to speak to the Blood, not to hunt.
The landed dragon reared its head and snarled an answer—it seemed angry, but a few short growls from its kin circling above silenced its fury. It responded in a more civil manner, though reluctant.
Ross tried to divine the soul of the conversation. Whatever is being said, the Blood's attention has been turned from me, to something else…Then one of the skyborne creatures spoke a name amid a flood of other unfathomable words; Alduin.
The World-Eater…A possibility occurred to Ross. The two in the air must be soldiers. The Blood…is it being recruited? Or is it…was it a soldier all along? It was not as feral as I thought? His hands trembled.I almost attacked such a dragon—that would certainly have enraged the rest. Mortals that dare to strike a soldier of their overlord suffer terribly for it. Even those that are innocent of the deed must pay the price…
The dragons spoke some more, until at last the Blood spat some frustrated response, unfolded its wings, and sprang into the air. A gale was stirred in the dragon's ascent, slapping the heavy boughs and sending another shower of debris to the floor—then three shadows passed over the forest and the sound of the dragons faded. One melancholy cry echoed through the sky and the woods below, and then all was silent.
The hunt was abandoned.
For one breathless moment, Ross could not believe his luck. It was indeed some time before he moved at all, making his way slowly to where his horse stood, trembling still. He pulled his cloak away and threw it once more about his shoulders, and stroked the frightened beast. "To the road, my friend," he told him, "but give me a moment to gain a sense of where we are, and how much further we must go. Night is closing in."
He lashed the reins to a low branch of the fir, then began to climb. It was a large tree, and he didn't need to climb it all the way to the topmost branches, jutting well clear of the upper canopy. Ross burst through it just as the sun slipped behind the peaks of the mountains beyond.
The air was already chill and sharp on his skin, and in the darkening sky he glimpsed the first of the constellations. Below him stretched a sweeping sea of darkest green, and when he looked to the east, he saw the three dragons fading fast, their silhouettes no larger than ants before they vanished entirely. To the east, Ross thought with a frown, where I am headed—are they to the hold itself or does their business take them right over the border?
His eyes lowered from the sky to the mountains themselves; he'd ridden in the shadow of the Throat of the World since leaving Gosvahgraag, and remained in its dark shadow still; but he could see the pass and the stretch of the stony mountains that made it, dividing Stumgevild from Gravuungevild. They were barely a mile away. We are closer than I anticipated, Ross thought in delight, and descended the tree swiftly, keen to reach the mountain pass and be in the autumnhold before the morning came.
And from there, the easthold is but a few days' ride.
He'd returned to his calming horse and thrown the reins back over the saddlehorn when he became aware that something was watching him.
Ross looked up. A small dark huddle perched in a knotted mass of mouldy branches just above him. He glimpsed tiny bright eyes and a long black beak in the gloom of the darkening forest—no dragon, but ravens had always made Ross feel uncomfortable. They were hoarse and clever creatures seen all too often feasting with crows and flies on the flesh of the dead, if the dragons had left any remains, and remained to be seen as cunning animals of ill omen. "Shoo," he told it sharply, and the large bird spread vast tattered wings and vanished into the darker wood with shrill screams of protest.
He shook his head in its wake and gladly mounted his waiting steed. I've had quite enough of flying things in this greenwood for one day.
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