A/N: Here you go, a longer chapter than usual, but I suppose you had to wait longer than usual to read it. Here we see some POVs we haven't seen in a while as well as some interactions between familiar characters that we haven't seen. I hope you enjoy, and please leave your thoughts!
Laila Law-Giver ducked instinctively as a bottle flew across the Braidwood Inn. It was nowhere near hitting her, but the fury with which it was thrown meant she could not take any chances.
"That cowardly, milk-drinking, dribbling child. That bastard bag of piss. That Forsworn bitch." Another bottle hit the wall and wine exploded across it as Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak continued his tirade. "And that maggot Tullius, happy to take The Rift but won't fulfil his end of the bargain. We had an accord. We swore oaths in front of the Greybeards themselves, but I should've known a spineless Imperial snake would backstab us."
Ulfric's face was twisted with rage, and his fists had already destroyed half the inn. Most had fled, but Laila had stayed, her own fury so great it would not allow her to leave. He grabbed a table and flipped it over, splintering the wood with a crack.
"I know, Ulfric, but what are you going to do it about it?" she demanded, her fingers turning white as she gripped a bench.
"I'll kill Igmund. I'll fucking kill him. I will restore honour to The Reach, and if that means hanging every Forsworn animal and the whole Court of Markarth so be it. I should have known. They'd betrayed me once before, imprisoned me for saving their city, and despite my better judgement I gave them another chance."
He roared, and spittle flew several feet out of his gaping mouth. A chair shattered on the stone floor.
"They can defy me all they like, but my army is nearly upon them. I sent them there for peacekeeping, as a force to disseminate prosperity and justice, but if they must conquer The Reach with blood then all the better. And Thongvor is there, and Thongvor is with me."
"What do I care for Thongvor or The Reach? They took my home. I abandoned my son so that we could have peace, and they reneged on the deal, so what plan do we have to take back Riften and kick Maven onto her arse?"
"Riften will have to wait. It is The Reach that's important-"
Laila screamed. "How dare you? After all I sacrificed in your name without a say at the negotiating table, you tell me some backwater on the other end of Skyrim is more important?"
"You forget yourself, Laila," Ulfric growled.
"No, you forget yourself, Ulfric, and you have forgotten that you are not the only one who has sacrificed something for this cause. The Imperials hold The Reach and The Rift, so we must right that wrong."
"That is what I intend to do. When I have The Reach-"
Laila threw her hands in the air and smacked the wall behind her. "There you go with The Reach again. I demand we turn around and take back my hold."
"There are bigger things at play here, and I cannot spare the manpower to invade The Rift."
Laila clamped her palms to her eyes in frustration then whipped them away with a growl.
"What of Thongvor, then? I am not worthy of your aid, yet he who has sacrificed nothing, who has not lifted a finger to depose Igmund can expect to have the Stormcloak army by his side?"
"Stop this, Laila."
"If it were me, I would have lain waste to Markarth, not hidden like a child from my duty."
"I said enough."
"And you, Ulfric." She jabbed her finger at him like a weapon. "You espouse honour and justice yet turn your back on the people of The Rift who fight for this cause, fight for their freedom, and now they must fight alone."
"I am warning you."
She could see his beet red face, his heaving chest and clenched fists, but she could not bring herself to stop.
"And what's worse is I understand Igmund. I thought I had no choice when you came down from the mountain and told me the only path was sacrifice, and as your disciple I obeyed. Igmund knew there was another path. He realised that no Imperial Governor had the power to take his home away. We are Jarls, and no one has that power. Even the High King rules by our grace, and you are not High King, Ulfric. Perhaps I should have made the same choice Igmund did."
She saw it expand in his chest as if his lungs had doubled in size. His fists clenched so tightly that his nails cut his palms, and she saw a light burst in his bright blue eyes.
"FUS," he called with all the ferocity of his ancestors.
The sound shook the foundations of the inn and drummed into her own chest as her ears rang with a hundred echoes of the same word. She leapt to the floor as the wall on the far side of the inn exploded outwards in a shower of shattered wooden planks. The explosion shook her as much as the building, and memories of war engines and fireballs came back to her as she knew it did for Ulfric.
"Stand up, Laila. I would not hurt you, but you must see this."
She got to her feet. Despite his violence, his destruction and his rage, she knew he was telling her the truth. His use of the Voice seemed to have released whatever daedra was inside him, and he stood calmly now with his hands clasped behind his back staring through the hole he had made. Laila got to her feet and joined him, but despite her trust, she was still wary.
"Look over Kynsegrove and see why I cannot reclaim The Rift. Thongvor refrained from taking the Mournful Throne so that he may uphold the peace to allow the dragon crisis to be dealt with, and we must do the same."
And she looked. Through the cragged hole in the side of the inn she saw the charcoaled skeletons of homes, spindly and black with nearly all but the foundations turned to ash and smoke. She saw felled trees, once the sacred ring of Kyne's own planting, now black as coal. Survivors walked the streets in a daze. They were bruised and bloodied and wrapped in bandages. Once miners and farmers and mothers, they now barely clung to homes they did not have. Laila saw indeed that they were the lucky ones, for they were still alive, for she was sure that the expansive graveyard filled with hasty wooden headstones had not been there days before. Snow covered the earth so that the world was a white field littered with the charred ruins of so many people's lives.
"And if Alduin is not defeated, then all people shall suffer this fate," Laila said softly, a hand clutched to her neck.
"The Dragonborn likely battles him now. He flew off on the dragon that burned Whiterun to duel him in Sovngarde itself, and our fate is in his hands alone. Meanwhile, the Imperials muster their strength, and we must do the same. I believe it is true what they say about the Imperials grinding us down. On the battlefield, the odds are against us, but ours is a war fought in the hearts of every child of Skyrim. If they see Tullius as an oath breaker, then they will see us to be just. So, we will let the Imperials hold The Rift, and we shall tell all of Skyrim how they were robbed of peace by Imperial greed and treachery. But come, it is time we left Kynesgrove to grieve."
Jarl Laila climbed into the carriage that had been her home for the past week as she travelled the width of Skyrim. She was silent as it pulled away, her hand resting gently on the windowsill. Slowly, the rumble of wheels took her away from the wounded, the hungry and the homeless, from the desolated town that could have been any other, and the new hole blasted in the wall of their last remaining refuge.
The sun was still low and pink as they crossed the bridge over the Purewater. To their right the foaming water collapsed off a cliff into the Karth far below. To their left the great plain known as the Heights stretched to the far horizon where the snow-capped peaks of the Druadachs glowed red with fire as the sun kissed them good morning. The Purewater ran from the mountain towards them, at times a lazy winding river banked by lush green, and then a glistening stream in a wide dry bed of silver shingle. In a crevice at the base of the tallest mountains was a city of black stone that spilt into the plain like a landslide. The walls were high and dark, and enormous stone columns rose two hundred feet from the grass into the air, topped with the carved heads of eagles. Hags Rock Redoubt, where one of the last great clans of The Reach launched raids towards their peaceful neighbours.
Away from the redoubt, the plain was dotted with juniper groves and outcrops of granite where mountain goats leapt to find shrubs and moss. Ancient, piled cairns marked the dead, and eagles circled the clear sky, swooping for rabbits.
Aicantar gazed upon the fortress and the mountains birthed in flame. He saw his homeland, and melancholy melded with sorrow as he realised his home was a foreign land to him. In his dreaming, Faleen was ceaseless in her asking after his wellbeing, if he needed anything, how sorry she was, and his eyes barely fluttered her way every time she asked. And every time he would tell her the same thing in the same flat tone. Yes, I am fine. Tell me everything that happened.
So she told him, and she told it well. How Jarl Igmund had learnt of General Tullius' betrayal, how Thongvor had been named Jarl, how battle had come to Markarth and how Calcelmo had given his life to save those in the Keep. Aicantar listened in silence, only asking the occasional question or nodded as Faleen explained some detail. Mostly, however, he stared across the Heights, his soul and spirit in the plains and in his memories. Shuddering pain would pound through his heart as his mind jolted with realisation over and over again that his uncle was dead. The bridle would become wet in his hands, his arms would start to jitter and shake as if in a fever. He would fight like his own life depended on it to hammer the fear back down and pave a way through the freezing fog of guilt and loss and dark loneliness. Sometimes it would work, and the mountains would come back to him, and the lush plain would smell like dew and wildflowers once more, and despite it all he would think how beautiful his home was, and what a shame that he was only seeing it now.
As the morning went on and the story found its conclusion and they left the Hieghts to find the Silver Road that led to Markarth, something settled upon him. His stomach churned and his throat was full of thick sorrow, but a truth filled him, an acceptance of what must be done.
Markarth rose before them, a dense fortress on the edge of the wilderness. He had never seen his home from the outside before like Ghorza and Tacitus had when they decided it was to be theirs too. The white walls encased the city from one cliff face to another, above which rose the guard's tower and the bronze capped Temple of Dibella. The gate was gold and sat at the top of white steps a hundred feet wide. Towers guarded their path, still flying the golden ram of Markarth. It was the life above all else that struck Aicantar. Carts and wagons full of people and provisions trundled to and from the city, farmers harvested the golden fields of wheat that encased the road, guards marched their patrols and traders set up camp amongst the stables and storehouses. The noise of fires and dogs and horses and laughter bounded from the walls and towers towards him, and it sounded like the city was welcoming him home. His uncle was gone, but there was still so much life in Markarth. Many, however, had died to protect it. Perhaps now it was his turn.
In the war room once more, the council gathered with a new addition.
"I understand it is jarrin' to have me here with you. I'm possibly the last person you expected to be asked to ally with, save if Empress Hestra or the Wolf Queen came back, but believe me when I say we have no choice. We are outnumbered, out armed and we have our backs against the wall," Madanach said.
"I am listening to you only as a favour to Jarl Igmund," said Lady Sungard. "This is your one chance to convince me to trust you, so you better make it worth it."
Madanach smiled gently and opened his mouth to speak, but the doors of the war room flew open, and Faleen marched in. Jarl Igmund beamed at seeing her again, and she looked as well as could be for her time in the wilderness. Even her steel armour looked polished. Behind her came the two guards who had accompanied her, and then the reason for her leaving. A nervous, cautious looking Elf in ill-fitting clothes dragged his feet into the war room.
"My Jarl, I have returned to resume my duties as your Housecarl. And I bring before you Aicantar of Markarth, nephew of Court Wizard Calcelmo. He has something he would like to ask of you." Faleen stepped aside and allowed Aicantar to walk up to the long war table opposite Jarl Igmund.
"My Jarl," he said with fidgety hands gripping each other. "I wish to serve my city. I come here to ask to be your court wizard."
Jarl Igmund was taken aback. Calcelmo's replacement was not something he had thought about, and now here was this Elf asking to be in his court without providing evidence of merit or even a proper greeting. He took a moment to leave Aicantar waiting as he chewed the offer. The Elf did not seem comfortable with the silence, and he averted Jarl Igmund's gaze as he raised a shaky hand to finger a gold ring on his ear. Eventually, Jarl Igmund could not put off the inevitable any longer and said the only thing he could.
"Aicantar, I am deeply sorry for your loss. Your uncle saved many of us and was a loyal servant to Markarth until his dying breath." Jarl Igmund smiled softly and tilted his head. "And so it is with great difficulty that I must deny your request. Markarth is at war, and I need someone I can trust to be court wizard."
Aicantar leant away, his brows contorted with hurt and confusion, his eyes darting across the table, his mouth slightly open.
"You are of course still welcome in the Keep-"
"Why can't you trust me?" he asked simply.
"I don't know you, Aicantar, and I need to know that I can rely on any member of my court without room for doubt, and so you cannot be my wizard."
"Then who?" asked Raerek. "We need someone to perform the role, and I see no other candidates."
"It can remain vacant for a time."
"Ha! While we are at war? While our enemies wield magic that none of us understand? Fine, let us just lie down and wait to die after we've come this far. You don't know him, fine. Thus, you don't trust him. Also fine. But we need a wizard, and I challenge you to find one that you do trust."
"You think so lowly of my uncle that you believe him incapable of raising someone with honour?" Aicantar sliced through the air.
"That is not-"
"This is my home. I have spent my entire life in this city, in this keep. I have served as a courtier since I was a babe. Maybe you look at me and you just see an Elf. You see Thalmor, perhaps. But I stand before you as a Son of the Reach asking that I may continue to serve as my uncle did." There was silence as Jarl Igmund mulled over Aicantar's words. Aicantar chose to push the advantage. "Even Thongvor recognised that my right is the same as any Nord."
Faleen hissed, and Jarl Igmund narrowed his eyes. "You would dare compare me to that man? Get the fuck out, kid."
"But that is before he tried to arrest me for treason against him." Aicantar looked down at the table and breathed deeply. When he looked up again, Jarl Igmund saw how sunken his face was and how red his undereyes were. There were tears in his eyes and pain in his tilted brow.
"Can I start again?" he asked, his voice cracking.
"Yes, you may," said Raerek before Jarl Igmund could respond.
Aicantar took one more shaky breath. "My name is Aicantar, and I was born in Markarth. My parents were killed when they tried to flee this city, their home, when Ulfric ruled. I was raised instead by my uncle, Court Wizard Calcelmo, who trained me to be a competent mage and a scholar of some renown. He also raised me to serve the Court of Markarth which I have done dutifully in my own small way for as long as I can remember. He died defending the people of this city and the true Jarl of the Reach. Meanwhile I fought on the frontlines against the Shadefeather Clan at the Karthspire where I killed Ughelvam Dettra by caving her head in with a rock."
Jarl Igmund noticed Aicantar grip the table with white knuckles.
"For that I was given the title Hag-Slayer and, briefly, I an Elf gained the respect of even Thongvor Silver-Blood. Then it was revealed that Thongvor had been named Jarl and you had refused to hand over your post, and I was branded a co-conspirator with my uncle. I fled and hid in the hills until Faleen found me and told me of my uncle's death."
He sighed deeply. "I have not gone to see his body nor said my goodbyes, and I have not yet grieved. For what is far more important is that I continue his legacy, a legacy of servitude to this city that stretches back two hundred years. I come to you as a Son of the Reach who was born and raised within this keep just as you were, and like you I have lost much to the Forsworn and to Ulfric, and like you I want to defend my home. I present myself as your Court Wizard, as a powerful weapon, and a loyal ally, if not yet a friend. For to do anything less would destroy the memory of the only family I had left."
"He has my vote," said Raerek. "A child of this city I would be proud to fight beside."
"I did not realise the council gets a say here, uncle," seethed Jarl Igmund.
"The position is Court Wizard not the Jarl's Wizard, thus it seems fair the court should vote."
"My dear, you have my deepest sympathies and my support. The fire we all possess burns in you also." Lady Sungard reached a hand across the table knowing full well she was too far to reach him, but she felt the need for some gesture nonetheless.
"Aicantar, I knew I remembered that name. I haven't seen you since you were a wee babe," growled a dark voice.
"You must be Madanach," said Aicantar softly, a tremble not just of grief in his voice.
"Come on, you ain't scared of me are ya?"
"Only a fool is not wary of the King in Rags."
Madanach raised his brows, creasing the deep folds of his forehead. He looked at Jarl Igmund and stroked his moustache. "Wiser than his years I'd say."
"You don't get a say at all," said Jarl Igmund.
"I know Aicantar. He is good," said Moth.
"And I did not go to the trouble of finding him for you to turn him away," said Faleen.
Jarl Igmund, battered and defeated, nodded his head, but he did manage to find the manners to smile at Aicantar who looked worriedly at his court.
"Fine. I swear if Thongvor or Ulfric or Tullius don't kill me, you lot will. There must be wisdom in this somewhere, and I am not in a position to refuse powerful weapons and loyal allies. Sit down, Aicantar, for council has begun, and the Court Wizard should be in attendance."
Betrid returned to the Treasury House for the first time since Rhiada's murder, and she was finding it difficult to force herself inside. The doors were shut, and while the muffled sounds of people keeping the cogs turning could be heard, she could not bring herself to join them.
She looked to her neighbour's door which had creaked open. Out walked the great bear who had saved her, the young girl she had imprisoned and the woman who had tried to kill her. Kerah heaved a mahogany chest, refusing all offers of help from Proidh. Adara skipped between them, a dazzling smile on her face.
A sad sigh escaped Betrid as she watched the trio, and a weight descended on her stomach as she was reminded of her darkest moment. Kerah's face distorted into disgust as she saw Betrid. Betrid raised a shy limp hand in greeting, and Kerah spat on the floor. Only Adara waved back, and it caused her eyes to moisten. Kerah hoisted the crate into Proidh's arms, grabbed Adara and marched towards the market without looking again at Betrid.
Betrid slowly moved her raised hand to her eyes to wipe away the tears. She suddenly found it very easy to enter the Treasury House.
"Betrid, it is wonderful to see you as always," drawled the slimy, soul sucking mouth of Rerburrus Quintillius, the steward of the Treasury House. "And now you are refreshed after your break from the Treasury House, perhaps you can handle this mess." He stepped aside from the doorway and waved a long straight arm over the room which was packed to the edges. An army of Markarth's citizenry from smelters to Hold-Thanes formed a unified front against an outnumbered and unarmed militia of clerks, each trying their best to stem the tide of accusations. Their attempts at instilling order were drowned out by the untuned orchestra of the masses which echoed off every wall to create a deafening roar of battle.
"They all want one thing. Their silver. And there is not enough in the vaults to appease them all. Do something, or we are ruined." Rerburrus pinched his small mouth and twitched his jet black pencil moustache.
"This is Thonar's job. I don't know how to deal with this."
"Thonar is dead, with a little help from you might I add, and that is why this rabble is here. War in the streets creates economic instability in case you didn't know."
"You seem to have moved on from your employer's death rather quickly."
"Yes yes, and the Treasury House is awash with your own tears for your dear late husband. We don't have time for this. You are a Silver-Blood. The only one left in the city, in fact, and the weight of that name is the only thing which might save us."
Betrid cast over the scene where bodies were pressed so tightly against the counter that it was a wonder anyone could breathe. It reminded her of the last stand in Understone Keep where nobles and servants alike sought shelter for the enemy. Here, however, the nobles and servants were merciless beasts, and nothing but the blood of coin clerks could sate them.
"Very well," she said with a defeated sigh. "Who is asking for the most silver?"
"Each smelter is asking for relatively little, but as a collective it is nothing to dismiss. And then there are the Salviuses."
Betrid rolled her eyes then drooped her eyelids in feigned exhaustion.
"Ugh, I know. They are demanding to withdraw their entire account, which is considerable since they feed the city. The others are disparate and have far smaller accounts."
"Is there any food left in the kitchens?"
"I had them restocked yesterday."
"Have the Salviuses escorted to one of our lounges and ply them with whatever will put them in the most agreeable mood, if such a thing exists. Don't forget to offer dates. You know how Rogatus likes to be regular."
"All too well."
"See what you can do without me, but I shall handle them after the rest."
"Can I deal with the poor instead?"
"Not with your attitude. Besides, I think I know how to handle them."
Betrid touched a light hand to Rerburrus' shoulder and glided down the golden rug into the hall with gentle excuse mes and would you minds. It was enough, and a path cleared for Betrid all the way to the counter where a relieved clerk lifted the counter hatch for her to pass through. Another gave up his chair, Rhiada's chair, but Betrid pushed those thoughts aside for the sake of image. She pulled a ledger towards her, lifted a quill and looked up the sea of expectant faces with her warmest smile.
"Right, where should we begin?"
"Have you heard of a group called the Tagh Droiloch?" said Madanach.
"Is that one of the tribes?" asked Jarl Igmund
Madanach laughed softly. "No, I didn't think you had. While I'm sure you won't believe me, even mentioning their name to you has marked me for death. They are the puppeteers of The Reach. They were the witch who turned Red Eagle into a legend. They put Durcorach the Black Drake on the Cyrodiilic throne. And many years ago they found a young chieftain with the gift of diplomacy and a Markarth devoid of protection due to a Great War. They helped him unite the tribes under a vision of cohabitation and acceptance of Nord neighbours and a newfound desire to be recognised as one of the great kingdoms of men under the Empire. So they found the young chieftain an army and pointed him at Markarth where he was named Ard Madanach. They did not see Ulfric coming. But theirs is a long game, and they resigned themselves to waiting another age before they sought to strike again, but then the Nords found themselves in a civil war, and once again Markarth looked weak. They have a new puppet and a new vision. Embarrassed by their defeat at the hands of the Nords and enraged by Ulfric's purges of Markarth they now seek the total annihilation of all Nords in The Reach, and they dig deep into our dark past to find their weapons. Darker magic than you can imagine seeps into the hills, and beasts and half-men join the Reachfolk in the light. It is an army that I cannot hold back, but together we might do it."
Jarl Igmund stared into the wise eyes of the impassioned old man and saw truth.
"So who are they? And how can we stop them?" asked Raerek.
"It is impossible to know who they are, for they are the masters of subterfuge and shadows. They are a network, a web that stretches across The Reach and probably even further. They could be anyone, and they have control of everything."
"Then what is their plan? Who exactly can we attack?" asked Jarl Igmund.
"There's the Nord spirit I love so much. Here, this is where they concentrate." He jabbed a finger at the map of The Reach to a point just northeast of the Karthspire. "Sundered Towers. The strongest fortress in Sundered Hills and home to the Wildspear Clan who's chief has seen a recent and impossibly fast leap in power. He already has nearly half the clans in the Reach swearing fealty to him, and he's only days away from being named Chief-of-Chiefs. The last person to be honoured with that title was me."
Madanach stood up straight and placed a strong hand on Jarl Igmund's shoulder.
"His name is Ugheldas Eryon, and he killed your father."
Jarl Igmund clenched his jaw, furrowed his brow and seemed to nod understandingly. Then he slogged Madanach across the face. Jarl Igmund reeled back shaking his fist at the pain of the impact. Madanach had been thrown back against a wall, and he clutched his red cheek and gaped at Jarl Igmund. Everyone else in the room leapt from their chairs.
"Fuck me, Igmund, you don't look like you can hit that hard," he said, opening and closing his mouth to pop everything in his jaw back in place.
"You forget yourself, Madanach. Don't try that fatherly hand on my shoulder shit again. And don't you dare look me in the eye like that and tell me who killed my father. You killed my father. Thonar killed my father-"
"And Eryon killed your father. He's the one that got their hands dirty. Let me explain what we know so far. Over the last decades, many clans have reverted back to the Old Ways where Hagravens rule and warring and hunting are at the core of society. To be clear, there is nothing wrong with the Old Ways, and many clans are able to exist with other cultures peacefully and prosperously and still follow their traditions, but not now. Now, Eryon leads a confederation of animalistic and brutal clans with one goal in mind – to kill all non-natives. He very nearly had the strength to do it, and two of the strongest tribes under his control gathered at the Karthspire to launch an assault on three strongholds; Sinkhole, Hroldan and Bleakwind Bluff. If they had succeeded then all land from Karthwasten to Fort Sungard would be under their control, but they were beaten to the punch. The Jarl of Markarth sent a formidable army led by Thongvor Silver-Blood with a contingent of Elven mages. Thongvor ran his sword through the Briarheart of the Cinder-Heart Clan, and a certain Elven mage faced the Ughelvam of Clan Shadefeather, a mighty hagraven named Dettra. He bashed her face in with a rock, and their armies were destroyed."
Madanach stared at Aicantar who had his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled. "Did I miss something, Court Wizard?"
Aicantar shook his head. "The story is true, but you speak nothing of the horrors I saw there. The Briarheart was the largest beast I ever saw, wreathed in flame and drenched in blood. It set the Kathspire ablaze, and many men died screaming as they burnt alive. Dettra was little more than an animal who would have eaten my eyes had I not won. She used magic so dark that she turned the Karth into black acid. I saw nearly half of Lady Thane Eydis' men dissolve into the river with death shrieks so piercing I hear them when I sleep."
"There is a host of men and beasts after us, each crueller and more savage than Dettra. And Eryon is the worst of them all."
"Then we should all be terrified. This city will perish if he reaches the gates."
Madanach closed his eyes, sighed loudly and nodded. "That is exactly what I am trying to tell you all. That is why I told you." He nodded at Jarl Igmund. "That Thongvor Silver-Blood is dead or very soon will be. He is sitting pretty here." He jabbed at the Karthspire on the map. "And Eryon is not far away in Sundered Towers hungry for vengeance."
"Is there anything we can do to save him?" asked Aicantar.
"Save him?" growled Jarl Igmund. "Why in Oblivion would we want to save him?"
"Because his armies are better spent fighting alongside ours than being slaughtered by Eryon."
"He thinks himself the rightful Jarl of Markarth, and he tried to arrest you. What makes you think he would fight alongside us?" said Jarl Igmund.
"He is not all bad. Sure, he is angry and feels cheated, but could we not entertain the notion that against such powerful enemies he could be a useful ally?"
"No, we cannot. He wants my throne, feels entitled to it, and he will want revenge on me for killing his brother. He is our enemy, and nothing is going to change that."
"Thongvor and I go back a long way," interjected Moth. "He's stubborn as a mule and loves Ulfric, but at heart he is a soldier with honour. I would bet my forge that he knew nothing of what Thonar was doing. If we can get Thonar's wife on our side, why not his brother?"
"I said no," said Jarl Igmund darkly. "Eryon and Thongvor can kill each other for all I care, and we win either way."
"Can we at least warn him? It's not just Thongvor. Lord Soljund and Lady Thane Eydis are good people and have suffered much at the hands of these… Tagh Droiloch. They are likely to be sympathetic to our cause," said Aicantar.
"The soldiers are not Silver-Bloods, and they do not deserve to be slaughtered. Neither do the citizens of Old Hroldan or Bleakwind Bluff," said Faleen.
Jarl Igmund glared at Aicantar. In one meeting he could feel his grip on the council slipping away. Is there not one thing they could agree on? Was he really so unwise that every decision of his was the wrong one? Still, as he stared at the Elf he found it difficult to cling on to his anger. Here was someone who had fought in his battles while he had hidden away in Markarth. He saw in his eyes the war out there beyond the city, he saw the exhaustion, yet he saw no malice. As difficult as Aicantar was making his job, he could feel the truth of his words seeping into him as they dissolved his stubborn refusal to aid his fellow Nords. He smiled weakly at Aicantar, and the boy looked surprised with creased brows, but a second later he smiled back.
"Yes, Thongvor is our enemy, but there are many out there who just want to be safe, and they deserve our help. Send doves to Thongvor, Soljund and Eydis. Warn them of the danger, and offer them sanctuary if they renew their oaths to me."
Aicantar's smile deepened as it was fed with relief. His red eyes drooped as he slumped a little in his chair, his worry faded.
"Well, I am glad you all rediscovered your love for Thongvor, but he is not the only one in danger," said Madanach. "We are in a precarious position, and our only way out is to gather our allies and launch an assault before our enemies do."
"And who are our allies? Please don't say Thongvor Silver-Blood," said Jarl Igmund with a stern look towards Madanach. He heard Aicantar snort with muffled laughter.
"Indeed not. Your letters reached your troops on the frontline, and Argis the Bulwark is marching through the last leg of Falkreath as we speak." A wide smile spread across Madanach's face, and he was clearly enjoying his surprise announcement of hope.
Jarl Igmund almost hit him in again, but this time with excitement. "Argis is coming? He got away from the Imperials?"
"It seems so. Best I can tell he was left to garrison Fort Neugrad while the rest of the cohorts stationed in Falkreath left to occupy The Rift. It appears he has abandoned his post."
"How many men does he bring?" asked Raerek.
"Upwards of six hundred. They're well-armed and heavily armoured, some of the best Nords these hills have to offer."
Lady Sungard frowned and peered over the map. "Surely that brings Argis to Sungard Pass. Those animals in Fort Sungard are not likely to allow him safe passage."
"Those animals are the Skyweaver Clan. One of Eryon's, and their leader is one of his most powerful generals. But you are indeed correct. They will not let Argis through without a fight."
"Then we shall have to give him one," said Lady Sungard.
Madanach nodded, a smile of approval upon his face.
"It was too long ago that I promised to reclaim Fort Sungard in your name," said Jarl Igmund. "It is now that I intend to fulfil my pledge. We shall march to Fort Sungard, meet with Argis' reinforcements and retake your home from those that stole it from you."
"I am afraid it won't be that easy. They watch the roads, and any army we send will undoubtedly be attacked. Even if we make it to Fort Sungard, our numbers are likely to be halved along the way," said Madanach.
"It's a bloody valley. How else are we to get there?" said Jarl Igmund. He could feel the excitement of Argis' return fading away.
Immediately the room erupted with chatter, each voice desperate to be heard over the others and not one pair of ears were listening. Some tried to rally others into a great march through the Karth Valley, others wanted to make contact with Argis and force him to march through Whiterun and enter The Reach through the north. No one had a plan that wouldn't get people killed. Jarl Igmund breathed deeply and cast a look at Aicantar. He sat at the far end of the table, his hand half raised, his mouth opening and closing trying to catch a moment where he could be heard, but none came. The Elf gave up with a frustrated frown and slumped back into his chair with a scowl.
"Enough," projected Jarl Igmund with deep command. "North won't work cause it'll take too long. Any march through the valley sets us up for an ambush." He leant forward. "Aicantar," he said more softly. "Do you have a different idea?"
Aicantar sat up once more, surprised to be called upon. Jarl Igmund looked at him expectantly.
"Well, perhaps, but it might take a delicate touch. May I?" He gestured towards the map. Jarl Igmund nodded, and Aicantar awkwardly picked his way around those gathered, trying to get to the map quickly so the expectant silence would end. He ran his hand across a stretch of the map painted neither green nor red but left as brown paper. "This area is flat and easily traversable and leads you nearly all the way to Fort Sungard."
"You want us to go through the hills and just give ourselves to the natives on their home turf?" said Jarl Igmund.
"This isn't native land. Well, I suppose it is, but it's not just native land. It belongs to a confederation of peoples."
"Like who?"
Aicantar squinted at Jarl Igmund and opened his mouth to say something but decided he'd better not.
"No, go on. What do you want to say to me?" Jarl Igmund imposed over Aicantar.
Aicantar looked as if he was going to back down, but Jarl Igmund saw a spark of a thought in his eyes, and the Elf found his boldness. "You should know who lives there. You are Jarl of the Reach, not just the City of Markarth."
Jarl Igmund heard Madanach laugh softly, and that earnt him a glare. "So enlighten me, who lives there?"
"Lord Kolskeggr for one," said Aicantar.
"Oh. Of course. He's got a tower in the hills, hasn't he? I assumed after his mine was taken that they had finished him off." Jarl Igmund tried not to look embarrassed, but being schooled by Aicantar on the political structure of The Reach was not comfortable.
"They didn't, and he shares his land with the Orcs of Dushnikh Yal and a few others in an alliance known as the Lyskmoot ."
"That's where you've been? Dushnikh Yal? You must have met my father," said Moth incredulously.
"Indeed I did."
"What is he like?"
Aicantar thought for a moment with a smile. "Tough, but not as tough as your grandmother."
Moth laughed heartily and nodded enthusiastically. "Sounds about right. My sister, did she return home?"
"Yes."
"And she's still alive?"
"Yes. In fact, I am alive thanks to her. She paid for her crimes, labelled as such by your father, in a trial by combat in which she was victorious."
"So we're supposed to march our armies through Orc land?" cut in Jarl Igmund.
"With their permission, and then onto Ker Kellys Nnans where the River-Hearts live."
"So you're telling me that Lord Kolskeggr, Marcher of my court, has allied himself with Orcs and natives?"
"Correct, and the Khajiit traders. None of these people are your friends. Yet. But we do share enemies. In fact, they march this way now."
"On the city?"
"No. Past the city to Kolskeggr Mine where they will reclaim it from the Blind-Cliff Clan."
"I don't have time for this. I need to get my army to Fort Sungard not spend my days negotiating safe passage," said Jarl Igmund, dismissing Aicantar with a wave of his hand.
"No," Aicantar said too loudly. "No," more softly this time, attempting to step back into place. "You do have time. Here's what I think we should do. You send a token force to join the reclamation of the mine as a sign of good faith. You offer a formal trade agreement with Dushnikh Yal saying you will buy their surplus food, and Madanach." He faltered slightly addressing the King in Rags directly. "What sway do you have over the Thornroot Clan of Hag Rock Redoubt?"
"What sway does anyone have over them? Even at my peak they hardly sent a look my way. It is not likely we can demand anything from them. They are fiercely independent, but that also means they have no loyalty to Eryon."
"Use that. Surely they know of the threat he poses, and offer them something close to neutrality, anything that might ease the raids they stage on Dushnikh Yal."
Madanach frowned and rocked his head as he weighed up his options. "It could work. There are reports of a cult to Mehrunes Dagon in Eryon's forces. The Thornroots despise Dagon above all else."
"Excellent. As for the others, that might be more difficult. We need the River-Hearts to tolerate you," Aicantar said to Jarl Igmund. "It is from their land you can stage the assault on Fort Sungard."
"And how can I do that? I'm not exactly popular among the clans."
"You fight the same fight. Tell them that," said Madanach. "Krasa's a real firecracker ain't she?" he asked Aicantar who smiled in response. "But she's good, right?"
"Aye, she is. Terrifying, but good. We need allies and safe passage. Ughelvam Krasa can provide both."
"I remember her," said Lady Sungard. "Massive woman with fiery hair? She always left us well enough alone, and we her, which is more than can be said for the other clans. Perhaps it is not a bad idea to extend a hand."
"We have nothing to offer her," said Jarl Igmund.
"Nothing brings people together liked a shared enemy," said Raerek.
"And it's not just Eryon. She fears Ulfric, just as we do," said Aicantar
"Now that's something I can use," said Jarl Igmund.
"You should then send an emissary to Orsinium. It's a good way to test the waters of how well a free Reach can negotiate, and they are one of our neighbours. Finally, the Khajiit traders should be allowed inside the city."
"The Khajiit? No other city in Skyrim allows them in."
Madanach raised his brows. Jarl Igmund looked confused at the provocation, but soon clarity found him.
"And to be the only city who welcomes them could be a boon to us. We can trust them?"
"Yes. They only want trade and to have walls to protect them. Markarth can give them both," said Aicantar.
Jarl Igmund put a fist to his mouth and nodded shallowly. "Alright, none of that sounds impossible. We lose nothing if it doesn't work, and we could gain more than a road to Fort Sungard if it does."
"We gain a whole swathe of the Reach. Eryon becomes surrounded. They're good people, my Jarl, and the best allies we could hope for," said Aicantar.
Betrid rubbed her face as the barrage continued. Each person desperately tried to be heard over the others, and the crowd in front of her was a writhing, gushing sea as those at the front were pushed away for new, angrier voices.
"Stop it," she screamed in a cracked voice, spittle flying from her mouth onto those nearest to her. "I cannot help you if I cannot hear you."
A body larger than most pushed to the front, and she held back a sigh as Mulush gro-Shugurz shoved his workers aside. He was not the largest Orc, and he had greasy black hair slicked flat to his head and so many lines around his tusks that he looked like a poorly folded bed sheet. Some were too slow to move aside and so he slammed them into the companions or threw them onto the ground, taking care to slowly step onto their fingers. He stopped only after the crowd had been beaten aside and he was at the counter.
"I have kept your family's silver smelted and delivered on time for years, and I am entitled to a reward for my loyalty. I have kept this stinking rabble in line, and they don't deserve the shit on my shoes, and you shouldn't give it to them either."
"You are not doing a very good job of it now," said Betrid on her feet, her palms on the desk and her face near his.
"Give me a couple of good men and a whip and you'll see what I can do."
"We've had enough of you, Mulush," shouted a faceless voice from the back.
"You won't bully us anymore," said another.
"Be quiet you lazy, whining worms or I'll break your legs and throw you in the Ouse," he gnashed at the crowd, pushing the nearest person to the ground, and the voices became quiet.
"What is it you want from me?"
"I can get the smelters back up and running and these pathetic cunts back to work for a ten Septim increase in my wages and freedom to use whatever methods I see fit," he said with folded arms.
Betrid put a delicate finger to her mouth and nodded. "A fair offer, but I have a counter. You're fired." She sat down and picked up her quill again, her faced turned towards her ledger.
"You what?"
"Did you not hear me? You are fired," she said without looking up.
"I have been loyal to Thonar for over a decade!"
"I want no one loyal to him near me. You are repugnant, vicious, cruel and without virtue, so your time here is done, and you are being released without severance."
"But Nepos was the one who ordered me to beat them if they didn't work hard enough."
Betrid sighed and stood up slowly. Enunciating perfectly, she said, "You were not ordered to enjoy it. Let me be clear. You are finished, and you are not my employee. You will vacate the overseer's house and turn over any property of the Silver-Blood family."
"You can't do this to me. You're not a real Silver-Blood, you're just Thonar's bitch."
Betrid smiled and nodded amusedly. "Indeed I was, but now I have the power to stand aside and watch as I let these good people do as they please to you."
"You wouldn't dare."
Betrid raised a single eyebrow. The crowd closed in on Mulush with murder in their eyes.
"You'll regret this," he roared as he backed away towards the door. "When the real Silver-Bloods return you'll be nothing."
"Let him pass," said Betrid. "And Mulush, I suggest you leave the city, else you might find yourself treated with the same kindness you showed your workers."
The door slammed shut.
"Now," she addressed the room. "There is still silver to be processed, and I want to see the smelters operational as soon as possible. That way we can all get paid quickly. I am also in need of a new overseer, and I would like you to choose one from amongst yourselves and have them report to me tomorrow. As for the rest, I know you have been treated poorly by Nepos and my late husband, but there is a new dawn in Markarth. You now enjoy regular breaks with food and water provided by the Treasury House, and no one will be beaten from this day onward."
"What about our pay, ma'am?" asked a meek woman near the desk. "Me child's starvin' an' we can't afford the rent. We put a few coins away 'case of emergencies an' we need 'em now."
"I understand, and I assure you that your child will not go hungry today. These are turbulent times, and Thonar's death and blood in the streets has created an enormous amount of uncertainty, so the Treasury House cannot give you all the silver you are owed."
There was noise in the crowd as frustrated voices complained to each other and at Betrid.
"But," she raised her voice and hands for attention. "I can offer you a half week's pay at maximum hours and two extra Septims each. I want to work with you, and you have my word that once I have my house in order then I will revisit the issue of pay. Are we in agreement?"
There was murmuring around the crowded and hot room, and some grumbles still carried over their heads to Betrid, but the tone was friendlier now. She sat back down and beckoned for the clerks to do the same at their desks.
"Good. Now, there is no need for any pushing or rowdiness. Every one of you will be seen today. Let us start."
After many wrong turns and some frustrated swearing at Dwemer displays, Tacitus found his way onto the wizard's balcony where the air was brisk and still. He remembered his first time here with Aicantar on the dawn of war and lamented at how much had changed. The alcove where they had hidden away from Nord revelry was now empty, so Tacitus continued along the path to the base of the Wizard's Tower which he had been forbidden to enter. That was while Calcelmo was still Court Wizard, and now Tacitus supposed the tower was Aicantar's. He had not found him in the Keep or the excavation site, the museum nor the laboratory, so Tacitus thought this was the only place left to search.
He knocked on the bronze door, and the sound echoed within and seemed to climb. Tacitus took a step back and stared up at the vertigo inducing spire of the Wizard's Tower. It was the same white-grey as all Markarth, set with square windows and worn carvings. The tower jutted from the cliff face and was topped with a golden dome and a weathervane so worn its likeness could not be guessed at.
There was no answer, so he tried again. The same booming echo, yet no one came to the door. He tried to see if it was open, and to his surprise the latch clicked and the door creaked on its hinges. He walked through a narrow hallway with walls so high that smoke and dust obscured the ceiling. He entered the tower proper and was struck with its beauty. The walls were rock, but as they rose they turned to carved stone, and the stone climbed ever higher until it was capped with the underside of the gold dome dizzyingly high above. Thin windows let in hazy sunbeams at criss-crossed angles that illuminated the centre of the room. A stone column nearly as wide as the tower rose ten feet from the floor. Its peak was walled with tables and instruments that Tacitus could not begin to understand, and in the centre was an enormous stone slab like an altar.
And there was Aicantar, books tucked under each arm, a stack of paper in his hands, two pencils in his hair and another tucked behind a twitching pointed ear. He was running between shelves and workstations, dumping a book here and picking up some twisted piece of metal there. He rifled through his stack of papers not seeming to care when some drifted to the floor. All the while his face was locked with a hard-set jaw and frustrated furrowed brows.
"Aicantar," called Tacitus with no response. "Aicantar!"
Aicantar looked up, and Tacitus saw messy hair and purple bags under his eyes, stark bruises on his golden skin.
"Tacitus," said Aicantar softly. "I – what are you doing here?"
Tacitus walked across the hall as fast as he could without running. "I'm here to see you. You disappeared from Dushnikh Yal without even a word. The guards told us what happened, and… Aicantar, I am so sorry." He had reached the stairs and, letting go of all pretence, ran up them to Aicantar.
Aicantar frowned. "You came back to Markarth just to give your condolences?"
"Well, yes. Aicantar, are you okay? You look exhausted." Tacitus reached a hand to brush Aicantar's arm, but the static cold response he got made his hand return to his side.
Aicantar stared at Tacitus and said nothing, and Tacitus stared back unable to move or say anything more. It lasted an age, and Tacitus did not know who stood before him, for there was none of the joy and warmth that he had seen Aicantar dish out to all around him. Instead, there was a husk with vacant eyes, and his heart pounded with worry, for what if all he cared for was lost?
Aicantar put down his papers on the nearest table and dropped the books from between his arms. He smiled, an exhausted and forced smile, his tired eyes nearly closing. "Yes, I am running on little more than willpower, but I am okay."
Tacitus could not help but ask, "Why did you leave? We would have come with you had you only said."
"I do not know," said Aicantar while wiping his nose. "I… Faleen was there, and everything else disappeared, and I needed to come home and deal with all this." He gestured his arms around the tower.
Tacitus placed his hands on Aicantar's shoulders. "You didn't, you know that right? All this could have waited a few hours. You've lost so much, and the books don't matter right now."
"Yes, they do. They were his, and now I must ensure the research is in order."
"Aicantar-"
"I already convinced the Jarl to make me Court Wizard, so that responsibility is dealt with. Now, I need to scour this room for where his research left off and make sure his legacy continues."
"Aicantar," Tacitus said more forcefully. "Have you seen him? Have you said goodbye?"
"That is not important now." Aicantar shrugged Tacitus away and began to pick up the papers. "I always knew that when he died I would have to rise to his position, so that is what I am doing."
"You're supposed to do that after you grieve for your family. I promise you this can wait."
"I can do both. His most recent work was on the Falmer, so my first step is to try and translate his notes and pick up his treatise on the Falmer language."
"The rest of the city buries the dead tonight. You will be there, right?"
"That depends on how much I can achieve here, and you are a distraction, so if you don't mind-"
"That's madness." Tacitus could not keep the frustration from rising. His cheeks flushed, and his fingers twitched as he looked down at Aicantar so nonchalant about the ceremony.
"It's what he would want me to do."
"He would want you to care."
"I do care."
"Well, you're not showing it."
Aicantar leapt up with crumpled pages in his fists. "You don't get to say that to me. He was my uncle, not yours."
"Tell me why you're doing this instead of preparing for his funeral."
"Because this is more important."
"I know you don't believe that. What's wrong, Aicantar? Let me help you."
"There's nothing wrong," he shouted.
"You're lying."
"Get out," seethed Aicantar between clenched teeth.
Tacitus' heart panged, and tears brewed in his own eyes. "You don't mean that either."
"I do. You're not helping, so I want you to leave."
"No."
"Get out."
"I won't leave you like this."
Aicantar cried out, and the shout echoed up the tower. He swept a table of its contents in a shower of books and quills and papers. "I said get out," he screamed.
"I never got to say goodbye," Tacitus screamed even louder, so loud that it brought the tower to silence. "My sister is gone, and I never said goodbye. You remember all those bodies we burnt at the Karthspire? Well, no one got to say goodbye to them either. It is a privilege to bury the dead, so tell me why you're so afraid to do it when hundreds would give anything for the chance."
Tacitus saw Aicantar's throat bob with something thick and watched the water ripple in his eyes, his lip quiver, and the guilt washed over Tacitus like thick, cloying syrup. His body was overcome with it, and his stomach churned, and cheeks burned as twisting shame took over. He watched Aicantar fight back the hurt.
"I'm sorry," he said meekly, but he could not bring himself to touch him.
"Because I don't know how," said Aicantar softly.
"What?"
"Because I don't know how to give him the funeral he deserves. The priests know Nordic rites and maybe Imperial and Reachfolk too, but he's an Elf, and they don't know what he needs, and I don't know either. I have to send him to Aetherius, but I don't even know the first words of the sacraments." He hung his head and clenched the papers tighter.
"Oh, Aicantar. That doesn't matter. He won't mind that you don't know the rituals. Just send him off best you can and that will be enough."
Then, a drawling, lofty, high-class voice from the door. "That is easy for you to say. You are a man, and shunting your loved ones into the dirt passes as spiritual respect. Elven rituals must be performed correctly else we risk barring the deceased's soul from Aetherius," said Ondolemar. He was once more dressed in crisp navy and golden robes, and he wore his pinched and distasted courtly expression, which promptly vanished upon seeing Aicantar and melded into the something closer to warmth.
"And I know the rituals. It is a tragedy, but I have had to perform them on rather more occasions than I would have liked, most recently at the Karthspire. I will help you, Aicantar." He had walked through the hall towards them, and Tacitus stepped away as Ondolemar placed a hand on Aicantar's shoulder. "I offer you my deepest and most sincere condolences, for we all suffer with Calcelmo's passing, and the least I can do is offer to perform the rites with you. Is that acceptable?"
Aicantar wiped his eyes and breathed out deeply in a way to try and shake off his emotions. He smiled weakly and nodded.
Tacitus' stomach dropped, and his throat felt thick, for Ondolemar had been able to do what he could not. Still, that small smile was a step towards Aicantar feeling well again, and so the goodness in Tacitus allowed him to feel happy for that.
The Ylgermet Bridge spanned before Laila Law-Giver, a black slab over a grey river. She had never missed her Riften more where golden leaves dusted green pastures and drifted upon crystal lakes. Here in Windhelm it was as if all colour had been washed out into the Sea of Ghosts, as if millennia of siege and suffering had worn away the life that surely must have lived here once, even if it did not now. The bridge was straight and flat and featureless, constructed its entire stretch with the same black stones without reprieve. Walls on either side provided a vantage point of the half-frozen grey river, named, for some reason, the White River. Laila supposed that hundreds of miles away in Whiterun it might be bright and clear, but here it was a murky slurry of muddied water and stained ice. The city walls were of the same material as the bridge, black slabs piled into a twenty-foot wall marred only by a wrought iron gate. The sky could not be seen for dark clouds which swarmed them with a blizzard of biting white snow.
"Welcome, Laila, to the greatest city in Skyrim. Windhelm, the City of Kings, or at least it was until the Imperials decided Solitude was more easily moulded to their needs," said Ulfric. "It is here that the fires of justice burn hottest, and it will be your home until Riften is ours once more."
Laila could not think of something she'd like more right now than a burning fire, justice or no. They trundled over the smooth bridge, and guards in dark blue with bears painted on their shields saluted them as they passed. The iron gate creaked open for them, and for a moment Laila was smothered by dark shadows and silence and cold, and she wondered if this is what death felt like. Then, the shroud was lifted and the cramped city was revealed to her in varying shades of black and grey. Uneven streets wound around ancient squat square buildings of grey brick with long shingled rooves. The snow piled up on street corners and in doorways, and the blizzard blocked most light save the braziers, which fought for their lives against the wind, and the few visible windows that had the softest orange siren call. The entrance square housed what she could only guess was an inn, for the windows burned a little brighter, and she thought, perhaps hoped, that the faint lilting of a lute reached her.
The carriage did not stop at the inn, nor did she expect it to, but the streets grew darker as they delved into the city proper, and even the small glimmer of music became something she longed for. Her stomach felt heavy and empty all at once, and her thoughts of home were no longer fond memories but screaming voices that told her to turn around and cross the bridge again. She looked at her hands where her father's signet ring sat on her little finger. It was a simple band of gold with her family's crest; a purple enamel field with crossed daggers of gold. It was dull in this light, but the small amount of colour was welcome, and she grounded herself with it. She looked from her hand to her proud son Harrald who had his head out the window gazing at the city with awe. She found it easier to look at her ring. Still, at times her curiosity made her look at the dark city of high walls and narrow streets that had already penned her into a labyrinth she could not escape from. Occasionally they would pass people. Bands of soldiers or guards on post at archways were recognisable, but the civilians were shadowed and hooded against the biting cold. By their stature and small areas of exposed skin she could tell they were all Nords.
"I thought Windhelm was home to a sizable Dunmer population," she said to Ulfric.
"It is, but they are confined to the Gray Quarter," he said gruffly.
"Do they not mix with the rest of the city?"
"No, and that is for the best. Many of the Sons of Skyrim in this city remember fighting Elves in the war so do not trust them, and the Dark Elves have not integrated into the city like they should. They have no wish to join our fight, so they must stay where they belong lest they do any damage as spies or terrorists."
"We did not fight against Dunmer in the Great War."
"What does it matter? Elves are Elves, and they should not be here in the first place. If it wasn't for the war, I'd be spending my time sending them back to whence they came so that the Snow Quarter can be for good Nord families again."
"Those same good Nord families invited them here in the first place. Their homes vanished in one of the worst disasters this continent has ever seen, and it was a proud day for Skyrim when we opened our arms to our neighbours."
"Perhaps it was, but they have outstayed their welcome. That was all before the damn Elves declared war on us."
"Not these elves, Ulfric. Many Dunmer have made Riften their home, and they are as proud as any Nord to do so."
"I have had enough of this, Laila."
"Perhaps we can try some small step towards integration-"
"I said enough!" He had almost jumped out of his seat, and his hands were fists. Flashes of the broken wall in Kynesgrove came to Laila, and she glanced to her right at Anuriel who looked terrified. "Integrating people who do not belong here will not work. Skyrim is for the Nords, and those dark skins in their hovels are on borrowed time. That is how things are to be left for now."
The carriage lurched to a halt in a dark courtyard ringed by black walls.
"We are here," Ulfric said, breathing deeply to rid himself of his anger. He climbed out of the carriage and offered a hand to Laila. She took it, but not without hesitation. "The Palace of the Kings, your new home."
Laila stood in the snow on the cold black ground and stared up at a dozen shingled rooves piled on top of each other with small glowing windows scattered amongst the tiles. The palace was one of the few places in Windhelm that sported decoration, and the multiple levels had carvings and statues of ancient animals. Moths, whales, foxes and a dozen others. Laila knew her history well enough to recognise the Old Gods. It was haphazard and worn and clearly ancient, and too far from home. Her flanks were threatened by symmetric wings of the palace that ran along the high walls. Long narrow windows hung ten feet in the air beneath a roof of snow-covered shingle. Behind her was a gateless arch and two braziers, her only narrow escape.
Inside was better but only by a little. The hall was long and rectangular with windows only at the far ends that let in no light. The floor was basically decorated with black diamond shaped tiles, and likewise the ceilings were squares with simple circles and diamonds within. The end of the room, which felt a mile away, was home to a towering slab of grey rock that was the Granite Throne. The seat was several feet off the ground on a stepped platform, and the back of the throne stretched nearly to the ceiling and was capped by a rough carving of a shield and crossed swords.
There was an attempt at furnishing, but it was too sparse and too bare and only served to make the palace colder. Blue banners with the white bear of Windhelm hung along the walls and flanked the throne. Blue bear-less carpets ran the length of the hall, and chandeliers of goat horn and iron hung from the ceiling. An empty wooden table long enough to fit thirty people stretched towards the throne with equally long benches on either side.
"Laila, come with me," said Ulfric.
He walked the length of the hall, and she followed dutifully. He stopped before the throne and gazed upon it. He clasped his hands behind his back. Laila joined him and struggled to find details on the granite slab.
"I know moments of this journey have been tense, but I hope that now you are here in Windhelm you can start to feel at ease. And I do hope that in time my city can feel like your home."
"Thank you, Jarl Ulfric."
"I have to leave."
Laila gaped and swivelled to stare at him. He continued to look upon his throne.
"With Igmund still clutching onto The Reach and the Dragonborn having captured his dragon, war is upon us once more. Tullius may be a milk drinker and a Thalmor lackey, but he has had a long career and does not lose easily. He will have planned something big, and we need to be ready to meet him, but there is much I must do first."
"Where are we going?"
"My business takes me north to Winterhold. But you, my most loyal friend, will stay here."
"I don't want to stay here, Ulfric. There's nothing for me here." She was almost pleading.
He finally turned to look at her. "I love this city. The city of my father and my ancestors, a city built by the first and best of us who came from across the frozen ocean. I wish I did not have to leave it, but my love for Skyrim and Her people burns too bright. Like anyone else, I hold my home sacred and will do whatever necessary to protect it. Galmar is a dear friend and an old veteran, but he is a battering ram and knows nothing of governance. My steward, while capable, has not the constitution to keep order in Windhelm." He took her soft hand. "I need you, Laila. I need you to do what you do best. I need you here as Jarl-Regent of Eastmarch."
"Ulfric, you cannot be serious."
"I trust you, Laila, more than almost anyone, and you have all the virtues of a good ruler. I cannot afford to have you anywhere else. Stay here and rule in my stead, for I could not bear to see Windhelm fall." He moved his other hand to her cheek, and it was rough and engulfed her. He leant toward her with burning intense sincerity in his eyes. "And when I return, we shall march on Riften together. I swear it to you." He leant back and moved his hand from her face to her shoulder. "So will you help me, will you allow Windhelm to be your home so that I do not lose it? Will you stay and wait for me?"
"I will, Jarl Ulfric. For you."
The bustle of the Treasury House had quietened down, and the clamouring crowd had subdued into a trickling stream as the last of the smelters were processed. They had taken a fair share of their silver stocks but not enough to cause worry, and certainly not as much as they were entitled to. As the tide receded, Betrid passed her flag to a clerk and vacated Rhiada's well-worn chair. With a small smile at her replacement, she disappeared down a side corridor towards one of the Treasury House's many sitting rooms.
She could hear the Salviuses from a ways down the corridor and sighed at the wet blustering of Rogatus and the shrill screeching of his wife Vigdis. She stood a moment outside the door, dusted her navy dress, plastered on her most brilliant smile and waltzed in with all the grace and charm she could muster.
"Bloody finally," said Rogatus, wobbling his inflated jowls.
He was old, so old that the court was waiting for him to keel over, but the wrinkled, bald and sagging ulcer of a man refused to do the polite thing, and instead sat on her furnishings bullying a flustered and thoroughly defeated Rerburrus. His wife was no better. Vigdis was small and pinched with the straightest posture Betrid had ever seen and clothes so expensive and tasteless they were comically gaudy.
"Thane Rogatus, Vigdis, please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting. It has been a troublesome day," she said while walking over to the sofa and stood before them with her hands gently clasped in front of her.
"This is an insult, Betrid. What is the meaning of locking us away and refusing to give us our silver?" said Rogatus.
"Has Rerburrus taken care of you? Is there anything I can get you?"
Betrid noticed that Rerburrus had vanished.
"You can tell that snot that I don't want any more prunes. Why have you refused to see us?"
"My apologies once more, but there have been many people who have needed my attention today."
"But none more important than us," said Vigdis in a hawk like screech. "We are Hold-Thanes after all. There were more of us waiting here, but the nobles of this city grew weary of waiting, but not us. No, we know what we are worth, and you will answer our demands for our silver."
"Yes, Hold-Thanes, beholden to no Banner or Marcher, answerable only to the Jarl himself, so I wonder what he would make of you trying to bankrupt the city," said Betrid, delicately taking a seat opposite the pair.
"We only ask for the silver that we deposited here for safe keeping, but with Thonar gone I know you could not keep it safer than we can keep it ourselves," said Rogatus
"And such a recent title. Why, you must be the most recently bequeathed nobles in The Reach, having served for only twenty-five years. One of the last things our late Jarl Hrolfdir did was elevate you from simple farmers to Hold-Thanes."
"Ah, but we are powerful ones," said Rogatus, wagging a sausage finger at Betrid. "We have fed this city for all those years and have grown rich doing so, and now we want that wealth back."
"How strange it is to have Imperials in such a high position. Save Solitude, I cannot think of anywhere else in Skyrim that would entertain such a notion."
"I have grown tired of you, Betrid. Give us our money," said Vigdis.
"Have you not been listening to me? The silver shall stay here in the Treasury House."
"That's preposterous! It's not yours to keep," shrieked Vigdis.
"Your farms have sustained this city, but in protest who else can you sell grain to? The Forsworn? And if you stopped providing food then the Jarl would snap his fingers and you would be replaced with someone who would. Your nobility is in its infancy, thus this court has little respect for you, and not one noble would lift a finger in your aid. But say you did manage to take the silver and starve this city. Ulfric Stormcloak marches on Markarth, and a starving and bankrupt city would be easy pickings for him. Ulfric would then find two Imperials on his doorstep, and he is not known for his fondness of Imperials these days." Her smile never left her.
"Are you threatening us, Betrid? Are you trying to steal from us?" said Rogatus.
Betrid bobbed her head side to side in consideration. "Yes, and there is not much you can do about it. You will continue to grow food to sustain Markarth, and you will continue to enjoy a lifestyle far above that which you deserve, and you will get out of my home."
"How very dare you. The Jarl will hear of this, and Thongvor, and I will have you removed from this city." Rogatus was working himself up into a blubbering rage, and white spit formed at the corners of his mouth. "We are your guests! You would dare threaten a guest?"
"I never invited you here, and with that considered, I have been more than accommodating. Will you leave peacefully, or must I call the guards?"
Rogatus sat for a moment, his sunken eyes darting around the room and his lip quivering until suddenly he grabbed Vigdis' hand and dragged them both to their feet. They stormed to the door where Rogatus turned around.
"You have made enemies of us today, Betrid."
"Have a safe journey home, Hold-Thane Rogatus."
As the door slammed shut, Rerburrus appeared from an antechamber.
"You could have helped me out," said Betrid.
"If I had to spend another minute with them, I would have vomited. Besides, that was a pleasure to watch. Who knew you would be so good at this?" He produced two crystal glasses of sparkling amber wine and handed one to Betrid.
"I knew. Thonar was brilliant at making money but a fool when it came to people. Had he listened to any of my advice or allowed me to help then he might still be alive." She clinked her glass against Rerburrus'.
"Well, I for one am glad you are at the head of the Silver-Blood family."
"Will you be saying that when Thongvor returns?"
"You know how I feel about your brother-in-law. He's strong and a real Nord and all such other nonsense, but he would bankrupt us within a year. We need someone with a strong mind at the helm, and I believe that someone is you."
Betrid threw back her drink. "Such fine words. Come, we need to ready ourselves, for tonight we entomb my husband."
The rains had been a blessing upon Whiterun. Kyne had looked down upon her own city and washed its fires, and Jarl Balgruuf gave her silent thanks as he oversaw the rebuilding of his home. Timber was coming in by river and road from Riverwood, a gift, he was told, as thanks for sending protection against dragons. Those days when he had not seen a dragon, when the scraggly young Nord in his hall was unknown and blathering about mythical threats felt like a lifetime ago. But it was not long enough for Riverwood to forget how he had taken care of them, and now their timber was propping up collapsing structures and rebuilding walls. Slowly, so very slowly, he began to see the first signs of life sprout up in his city. Pelagius had been a saint to the city, as had the Battleborns. Their harvests now filled makeshift storerooms and communal kitchens so that the city might still eat. Hawks had arrived from Rorikstead and Falkreath promising aid in whatever form they could spare.
Anxiety still seeped between the cracks of hope. Most of the guards continued to keep the peace or helped with the rebuilding efforts, but there was not a moment when the walls were not manned, and the drawbridge remained closed for anyone who could not prove their identity. Whiterun was weaker than ever, and at any moment Ulfric could walk up to the toppled towers and crumbled walls and demand surrender or death, and they had no power to defy him. If that happened, the scouts would send up a flare at the first sighting of an army, allowing those who wished so to flee into the tundra and begin the long march to Rorikstead. His Thanes were busy gathering the horses into a force large enough to harry any army Ulfric could throw at them. The cavalry could never defeat him, but they could slow down Ulfric long enough for them to escape.
Jarl Balgruuf knew, despite the promises that he had given his court and his people, that the plan would not work. Why not abandon the city now and migrate to Rorikstead before Ulfric sent an army? Because, and he thought the answer so obvious anyone should see it, Whiterun is their home. He doubted even the staunchest Empire supporters or Ulfric haters would leave the city. He knew for certain he could never, not while even a single child of Whiterun's remained. In truth, the only thing saving them from Ulfric was the armistice that had destroyed Whiterun.
The sun had disappeared behind the mountains, and whisps of purple cloud striped a pink sky that faded into pale blue on the horizon. The air was still, and the sweet smell of rain on earth on a cool evening perfumed the city, exorcising it of the last sniffs of burnt wood.
Jarl Balgruuf stood in the centre of the Wind District under the blackened corpse of the Gildergreen. Like many in Whiterun, he too had lost his home, and Dragonsreach was nothing but rubble. The Companions, who's hall had suffered far less than most, had put him up in one of the smaller rooms in Jorrvaskr. He ended the day with dark bags, deeper wrinkles and shoulders that ached with a smouldering heat. Still, for all his weariness he had helped rebuild one of Whiterun's forges, and the coals were starting to get hot enough to be useful. Soon, more tools could be forged to aid in the rebuilding, and that satisfaction kept him standing. Now, he took a draught of mead brought in from Honningbrew to help the workers, and he watched the priestesses of Kyne, after a gruelling day of their own tending to the wounded, tend their small garden. Only a few days ago they would have tended the Gildergreen too, but what does charcoal need from a priestess?
So deep was he in his ponderings that the first shouts did not disturb him, nor did the scurrying of the priestesses or the gathering of soldiers in the circle. It was only when one of the Companions, the beefiest of them with lungs like a whale's, roared into the sky that Jarl Balgruuf was jerked from his mind in a leap of limbs and spilt mead.
"DRAGON!"
At once the city was chaos. Civilians dove for shelter wherever it could be found. Guards and soldiers gathered weapons and bows and buckets and formed their lines. Pride bubbled up inside at the discipline and bravery of his men willing to fight this monster all over again.
He looked to the sky where, from the Throat of the World, a black shadow arrowed towards the city as fast as lightning. He knew in his heart that this was the same beast that had ruined his home and taken flight with the Dragonborn even before the dying sun from beyond the horizon glinted red off its scales.
It was moments away, and Jarl Balgruuf had nothing to prepare. What could he do? What could any of them do? They could not best the beast before, and now that Whiterun had been brought to its knees, what chance did they stand? Still, arrows were knocked, and the men held their ground, each resolved to not flee from their home.
Odahviing dodged a volley of arrows as he dove into the centre of the city. Jarl Balgruuf thought the dragon would not stop and simply tunnel into the ground, but at the last moment he opened his enormous wings and hung above the district like a kite. He was so close, close enough to smell the fire in his throat and feel the rush of air from his wings. Those wings were larger than a ship's sail and blocked out the sky. Scales red as blood and thick as armour clinked together as the dragon took a breath. A body as thick as a building rippled with scales and muscles. A long face twisted with black horns and ivory teeth and yellow murderous eyes, and talons so long and sharp they could tear stone. And in those talons, something.
Odahviing landed in front of Jarl Balgruuf, his tail swiping twigs of the Gildergreen into dust. His paws cracked the cobbles, and his head, larger than Jarl Balgruuf himself, only feet away.
He opened his talons, and out rolled the Dragonborn. His armour was torn to scraps, and thick blood oozed from the gaps. The right side of his face was blasted and burnt into a streak of red skin and blisters. His left hand was crushed into a useless claw. A gash ran down his neck, white skin flapping, and his left eye was gone, and a crater of blood remained. Jarl Balgruuf gasped, for he was certain the man was dead.
Then Odahviing spoke, in a voice so deep and booming that Jarl Balgruuf's ribs shook, and he felt the energy of the simple words tremble the ground.
"Daal Niin."
Odahviing said it again, translated into the common tongue, but Jarl Balgruuf already understood by the dragon's affected tone, by the pleading earnestness in his voice and in the shear presence of the creature standing before him without devouring him.
"Help him."