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Skyrim Spartan

Chapter Fourteen

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Helgen was abuzz the next day. News of Ulfric's capture spread quickly, and the garrison in particular seemed extra energetic in their duties. Every gate had their guard tripled. Every patrol and guard posting had been doubled. General Tullius also made it clear that nobody could see the prisoners locked up in the dungeons of Helgen Keep without his direct, in-person approval.

In short, there was no foreseeable way Ulfric was escaping now that the Legion had him. Not unless an army came to break him out, and that was so highly unlikely as to be impossible at this point.

An urgent knocking on the door made Tullius look up from the papers on his desk. The first time he had broken concentration since the crack of dawn, when he had gotten up and commandeered the office of the local legate within Helgen Keep for his own use.

The knocking came again, and Tullius barked for them to come in. The legate in question stepped through the door, closing it quickly behind him.

"General, sir," said the legate, beating his chestplate in salute as he stood to attention and bowed his head slightly. He was a stocky, bald redguard by the name of Avidado, with bronze-colored skin and sharp hazel eyes. One of the veterans that had come along with Tullius from Cyrodiil. Always a stickler for protocol, this one. Not that Tullius minded.

Tullius had assigned Avidado to the southern front, where he was tasked with maintaining the line against the Stormcloaks in Falkreath Hold while also rebuilding a legion to full strength. One of two new legions that Tullius had formed in Skyrim and was slowly building up. The veterans he had brought along with him from Cyrodiil served as officers and trainers for the fledgling legions, though the bulk of those veterans were currently stationed in Castle Dour back in Solitude.

"What is it, legate?" Tullius asked, noticing for the first time that Avidado seemed out of breath and sweating a little. As if he had been running. Tullius had a bad feeling about this.

"General, Ambassador Elenwen from the Aldmeri Dominion arrived at the gates not too long ago," explained the legate, talking as fast as Tullius had ever seen him. "I took the liberty of instructing the guards to take their time to escort her so that I could warn you in advance. But she should be arriving any moment now."

Tullius frowned, right fist clenching. There was only one reason why that blasted elf would show up here at this hour. But how did she know? Spies in Helgen, no doubt. But to arrive here right after he only recently returned meant that she must have already been nearby. She had been aware of their movements well beforehand. Even after taking painstaking efforts to make this seem like a routine visit to the southern front, it appeared somebody had told Elenwen the real reason for Tullius' presence here. And the only ones who really knew what was going on were the legionnaires under his command.

"We have Thalmor spies in the Legion," Tullius said gravely.

Avidado nodded. "That's what I concluded as well, sir. The question is, how many? And who?"

"Damn!" Tullius slammed his fist on his desk with a loud thud, eyes ablaze with fury. He should have expected that from the Thalmor. He had been so focused on the problems in Skyrim of late that he had, at least momentarily, lost sight of the bigger picture. The real enemy.

"We will deal with those traitors soon enough," said the general, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "First, let's see what this blasted elf wants."

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Elenwen did her best to restrain the scowl that threatened to emerge on her stern face. The filthy Imperials had taken their sweet time letting her into this poor excuse for a fortress town, even after she and her retinue had explained—several times!—who she was and that she had urgent business with General Tullius.

Eventually, they did open the gates and let her pass, though not before providing her with an 'honor guard' to escort her to the keep. The only sign of her own displeasure was a slight tightening of her grip on the reins of her horse, and a brief narrowing of her eyes as she swept her gaze across the ten legionnaires who were to escort them.

Her retinue, consisting of four elite Thalmor guards, whispered their own displeasure for having had to wait so long in the cold. They trailed behind her as the group of elves finally entered through the gate under the watchful gazes of the many legionnaires present.

Their 'honor guard'—which Elenwen was sure was not actually there to honor or protect them, but rather to keep an eye on them and control their movements within Helgen—had formed a square around them, with three to either side of their group and a pair each in front and behind. The soldiers moved somewhat rigidly, their tense muscles betraying their nervousness. And they constantly glanced at the elves, their hands not straying far from the hilts of their swords, as if expecting the Thalmor to pounce on them at any moment.

A foolish thought, really. While Elenwen and her retinue were powerful mages and experienced warriors, it made little sense for them to fight an entire garrison on their own. Besides, any direct violence between Aldmeri and Imperial forces would most likely reignite the war, and both sides were still in no shape to continue that conflict. The Aldmeri more than the Empire, not that Elenwen or any Thalmor would ever openly admit that.

In truth, the Aldmeri losses were grossly underreported in all official communications so as to maintain a semblance of strength even though they were at their weakest. The Imperial counteroffensive in Cyrodiil, and the subsequent Hammerfell campaign, had been disastrous for the Dominion Army. They had sent nearly all their forces into battle, and less than a third survived in the end. The death toll was staggering on all sides, but for the Aldmeri Dominion it was even worse.

To begin with, there were far fewer elves than humans in Tamriel, and the elves' reproductive rates were also slower in comparison. The damned humans replicated like skeevers and would easily be able to rebuild their forces in time. By contrast, it would take the Dominion far longer to replenish their forces to fighting strength again. Though the Thalmor were pushing for policies and programs that would hopefully speed that up by incentivizing their citizens to procreate.

Until then, their best course of action was to prevent direct conflict with the Empire while chipping away at them slowly from within. It was imperative to keep them weak and destabilized. To keep them divided and fighting amongst themselves. That was Elenwen's primary purpose here in Skyrim as First Emissary and Ambassador for the Thalmor.

It was Elenwen who had engineered the Civil War in Skyrim in the first place. A masterstroke of manipulation and subterfuge that began when she first laid eyes on Ulfric Stormcloak in a Thalmor dungeon during the First War Against the Empire. He had been so much younger then, though despite his youth he was strong of mind and will.

It had been surprisingly difficult to break him. But eventually he did break. Most did once they were in the Thalmor's clutches. And in that dark moment of weakness, Elenwen made sure to sink her claws deep into the man, turning him into an asset the Thalmor could use to its own ends. He was subsequently allowed to escape and return to Skyrim, where he would later become pivotal in the effort to further weaken the Empire through his rebellion.

Now, all of that hard work was jeopardized because the fool, Ulfric, had somehow gotten himself captured. She had to give credit to Sezar Tullius. The general was far more competent than she had first thought.

Unfortunately, there was only so much she could do without arousing suspicion, and it was not like she had a lot of resources available to her either so far from the Dominion. Even now, she was unsure of how she would be able to get Ulfric out of this predicament. Everything hinged on the man, as loathe as Elenwen was to admit it. She needed him alive and leading the Stormcloaks.

She could not return to the Dominion without there being open battle between the two sides. Thus far, there had been only minor skirmishes as the two sides probed and tested each other. Neither wanted to commit their main forces to a larger battle, both of them biding time to build up their forces and stockpile supplies. That would have been fine under normal circumstances since it meant a protracted war. But now that Ulfric was captured, many of the Stormcloaks would undoubtedly lose their will to fight.

Elenwen could not allow that to happen. Not before the war had even really begun in earnest. All she needed was for a few battles to occur. A few battles would be enough to justify all the effort and expense for this mission. The losses on both sides would certainly diminish the Empire's overall fighting strength while also creating further tensions and divisions due to the rising death toll and the inevitable destruction to the land.

"Go back to your homeland, knife-ears!" an angry voice yelled from somewhere nearby, startling Elenwen out of her thoughts. "We don't want you here!"

Elenwen's head turned sharply in the direction of the voice, and her yellow eyes narrowed at the middle-aged Nord who had spoken. The man was openly glaring back at her, and she had half a mind to burn him where he stood. Then she realized how many people were looking on as their group wound its way through the streets of Helgen. It seemed the word had gotten out that the Thalmor were in town.

"Be quiet, you!" yelled one of the legionnaires escorting them.

Helgen was a collection of low wooden structures, with a few stone ones here and there, surrounded by thick walls of stone. Many of the streets were narrow, as the people tried to cram as many homes as they could within the safety of the walls. Were it not for all the snow that had fallen recently, much of which was now piled off to the sides of the roads, she had no doubt it would be easier to see how filthy this place was.

A lone tower in the center of town loomed over everyone. The banners of the Empire displayed proudly on its exterior, and a large standard fluttered in the wind at its peak. Elenwen saw the silhouettes of a few soldiers moving about atop the tower.

Bringing her attention back to ground level, Elenwen noticed that the number of people staring at her and the other Thalmor seemed to have double as they neared the keep. More seemed to be coming out of the woodwork as they passed.

Skeevers indeed, she thought with disgust. She made sure not to make eye contact with anyone else, keeping her gaze above their heads as she turned her nose up, holding her head up high and proud.

Most of them looked on with barely restrained hostility. No doubt a good number of them had lost relatives and friends to the Dominion during the war, hence all the anger. Or perhaps it was their outlawing of worshipping Talos that had them angry at the elves. Not that it mattered to Elenwen.

The Helgen Keep was built long ago, as evidenced by the weathered stone walls and the few parts of it that appeared to be cracked and crumbling. It was wide, encompassing nearly the entire width of the interior of the town within the walls, but relatively low for a keep with its highest point being only about three floors tall.

The worn wooden double doors that served as the main entrance was flanked by two braziers and four legionnaires, who stiffened to attention at their approach. Several other legionnaires walked along its exterior, with a few going in and out of smaller side entrances. A few looked on curiously, but most went about their business with barely a glance at the arriving Thalmor.

As if on cue, the doors opened, and out came a legionnaire clad in a slightly more ornate armor than normal, suggesting that he was an officer of some kind. He wore no helmet, and his complexion and facial features suggested he was a Redguard. It took Elenwen a moment to recognize who he was from the intelligence dossiers she had read over on the way here.

"Ambassador Elenwen," greeted Legate Avidado with a stiff but respectful bow of his bald head, "Allow me to welcome you to Helgen."

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"The answer is no, Ambassador," Tullius said, unflinchingly staring down the clearly displeased altmer sitting in front of him.

The answer to the question of what the Thalmor ambassador was doing here turned out to be exactly what Tullius had suspected: she wanted Ulfric. More specifically, she wanted to take custody of him. She had given him a long list of reasons why she should have him, and all of them—at least in Tullius' opinion—were skeever-scat to the highest degree.

Nevermind the fact that she somehow knew about his secret mission to capture Ulfric and had journeyed all the way here from Solitude. What she was asking for was simply out of the question.

Tullius had long suspected that the Thalmor were doing their best to fan the flames of this war. All of this under the pretense that they were simply enforcing the White-Gold Concordat, of course. And technically, they did have cause to do just that. But simply because they were legally allowed to be here and to do certain things to enforce an official treaty did not mean they were allowed free reign, and Tullius was more than happy to remind them of that however he could.

"General Tullius, need I remind you that the reason I am even here is because your Empire has failed to live up to the terms of the Concordat," Elenwen said with some venom in her voice. "Those that have violated the terms are well within my jurisdiction to apprehend and prosecute. Your Emperor said as much, which is why he allowed my Justiciars to root out the worship of that false god here in Skyrim."

Tullius did not hesitate to reply. "And need I remind you, Ambassador, that I am Military Governor of Skyrim. I was personally sent here by his highness, the Emperor, to deal with this mess of a Civil War and bring all those rebelling against the Empire to heel. In the absence of a High King, Skyrim is my province, and this is my war. Regardless of the Concordat's terms, this is Imperial territory, and Imperial Law takes precedence, especially in a time of war."

Elenwen gripped the arms of her chair tighter, an action that Tullius did not fail to notice. Though he was careful not to let on that he was very much enjoying this exchange more than he was irritated by it. And he was certainly irritated.

"You are making a terrible mistake."

"I can assure you that the traitor known as Ulfric Stormcloak will be dealt with, and this war will be over soon enough," Tullius said. And hopefully, he would have the pleasure of booting out the Thalmor once the Stormcloaks were officially disbanded, and the province brought to order.

Elenwen took a deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily. When she opened them again, her rage was still there, but it burned a lot colder than the fiery sparks he saw in those yellow eyes but a few seconds ago.

"What do you intend to do with him?" she asked with an air of resignation.

Tullius gave her a tight, but tired, smile. "Cut off the head, and the rebellion dies with it."

The elf nodded slowly, and Tullius could almost see the gears in her head turning. "I see. A public trial and execution in Solitude would be quite the spectacle and would certainly send the appropriate message. The journey back will be long and arduous. I will accompany you—"

"You misunderstand me, Ambassador," Tullius said, cutting her off. "We will not wait to return him to Solitude. We will be executing him right here in Helgen. Today."

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Ulfric awoke to the sounds of commotion outside his cell door. He had barely slept. It was cold, dark, and damp in the dungeon, and the bed of straw he was laying on was so thin he might as well have been sleeping on the bare stone floor. His wrists were still bound with thick rope, and his mouth was still stuffed with cloth. It was so dark he might as well have been blindfolded.

In the dark, all alone, he had prayed. He had prayed to every divine. But most of all, he had prayed to Talos. He had prayed to the god he was fighting for. He had prayed for guidance. For salvation. For deliverance. He refused to believe that this was how his story would end. That he would be so easily defeated.

He had been captured once before and held behind enemy lines. And he had escaped. Surely, he could find a way to escape here. But there was nothing. No one. Only the cold darkness.

The commotion outside grew louder. Boots. Plenty of them. Rough voices. The jingling of keys. Suddenly, a shaft of light pierced the blackness of his cell as the panel covering the porthole on the door slid open with a loud thud.

"You alive in there?" said a voice. Ulfric recognized it as one of the guards on duty from earlier.

"He can't answer you, milkbrain. He's gagged," said another voice. Another one of the guards.

"Oh, right."

A loud sigh was followed by, "Let's just get this over with."

The porthole slammed shut with another loud clang. The jingling of keys returned, followed by the telltale clicking of the door unlocking. Then a flood of light swept away the darkness as the door opened.

Ulfric squinted, the sudden light momentarily blinding him.

Legionnaires stepped in. Four of them. Beyond the door, more stood waiting. They really weren't taking any chances.

"Ready to die, Bear of Markarth?" asked one of the guards mockingly.

Ulfric wouldn't have answered even if he could. So, Tullius has decided to make a swift end to this. He should have expected as much. Any delays would simply increase the odds of Ulfric escaping. He had done it once before, after all. He could not fault the general for his decision. Ulfric thought he would have done the same if their roles were reversed.

Roughly, two sets of hands seized him, bringing him to his feet. But he would not let them carry him or drag him. With what strength he had left, he pushed them aside, eyes hardening at the soldiers as a few put hands to their weapons. One even drew a few inches of steel.

Unafraid, Ulfric planted himself upright on his feet. He was taller than them all by a few inches. Then, slowly, deliberately, he walked towards the door.

If he was going to die today, then he was going to die without fear and with his pride intact.

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"Next," Hadvar said flatly, not enjoying his task one bit.

He finished writing the information of the most recent prisoner down in the ledger in his hands, reading it over one more time to make sure it was accurate to what he had heard the prisoner say. Keeping proper records was important for all official Imperial and Legion business. Especially for such an important day like today.

He could scarcely believe that the end of the Civil War was finally drawing near. Sure, some of the Stormcloaks were liable to keep fighting, but he was sure that the majority of them would surrender once news of Ulfric's death was made known. He was their best hope for victory, and without him theirs was a lost cause.

With the end of the war in sight, why did he not feel as happy as he thought he should be?

"The Empire sure loves their lists, don't they, Hadvar?" said a familiar voice that triggered a wave of sorrow and regret within Hadvar.

"Ralof," Hadvar said softly as his eyes met those of the bound prisoner before him.

Standing at equal height to Hadvar, Ralof was almost exactly as he was the last time Hadvar saw him. Sure, he had a few more scars to show and had filled out more, but he was basically the same, just a little older, a little more experienced. Well, he supposed both of them were now.

"You look well," said Ralof.

"Ralof, I—" Hadvar started to say, but Ralof shook his head and interrupted him.

"Save your breath. I don't need your pity. I stand here before you today as a man, a true Nord, whose only regret is not living long enough to see Skyrim strong again. A Skyrim free of cowards who would rather live on their knees as slaves than die fighting for their freedom."

Hadvar's face hardened. The many good memories he was remembering of growing up with Ralof suddenly soured by the short propogandist speech his old friend had just given. While he understood the grievances as well as any Nord, Hadvar also understood that the Empire was in a bind. The Emperor did what he had to do to end the war, save lives, and keep the Empire as intact as he could given the circumstances.

"It's not that simple, Ralof. And you know it," Hadvar said tiredly.

They had had many debates about this as they grew older, until finally a year ago, Ulfric shockingly killed the High King in a surprise duel and the rebellion really became more serious. When General Tullius and his legion from Cyrodiil marched into Skyrim, Hadvar traveled to Solitude to sign up almost as soon as he had heard. Ralof, on the other hand, went east to bend the knee to Ulfric. They hadn't seen each other since. Until now.

"What's taking so long, soldier?" yelled Hadvar's captain. She stalked closer from where she had been organizing the prisoners in the main square, hands at her hips.

"Let's be done with it, old friend," Ralof said. "My ancestors are waiting proudly for me in Sovngarde."

Hadvar sighed, his quill poised on parchment. "Please state your name for the records, prisoner."

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Ralof stood with his brothers and sisters-in-arms in the middle of the town square. Looming in front of them was the central watchtower of Helgen, the dragon banners of the Empire fluttering proudly in the wind. Below that, and directly in front of the gathered prisoners, was a raised wooden platform upon which was a chopping block. The town executioner stood next to it, ominously sharpening a massive axe.

All around them, the citizens of Helgen had gathered, only held back by the squadrons of Legionnaires who had formed a perimeter around the square. Several more were gathered around their commanding officer, the military governor himself, General Tullius, who sat astride a magnificent warhorse.

Ralof scanned the area, noting how many Imperial soldiers there were. He even spotted several situated on nearby balconies and rooftops, bows in hand. Atop the watchtower too. There would be no escaping Helgen for any of the Stormcloaks, at least not with their lives.

This was it. This was really the end.

The murmuring of the crowd suddenly silenced for a moment, before erupting into cheers and insults. Ralof realized then that the Imperials had finally brought Ulfric out to the square. He was flanked by eight soldiers, and though he was bound and gagged, he walked with his head unbowed, looking neither defeated nor broken. Not that it would matter in the end. His head would roll all the same once it was severed from his body.

"I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here," whispered a nearby voice.

"Shut up, fool," said one of the Stormcloaks.

The man seemed to not hear. "This is all a mistake. This is all a misunderstanding. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here."

The man talking to himself was none other than the one Ralof had shared a cart with on the way here. The horse thief. He was even skinnier than Ralof remembered. And clearly on the edge of madness, it seemed, what with him talking to himself with fear and desperation.

He noticed then that the thief kept shuffling closer and closer to the edge of the group. Was he thinking of running? A coward through and through. And a fool. Did he not see how many legionnaires there were? He was going to die here, one way or another. There was no escape for any of them.

Ralof opened his mouth to say something when Hadvar suddenly appeared next to the horse thief. Then, Hadvar grabbed the man by the arm, shaking him slightly and whispering fiercely to him. Whatever was said led the thief to suddenly fall to his knees in tears, sobs racking his body.

Hadvar stepped away, then looked straight at Ralof. They held each other's gaze for a moment, before Hadvar gave him a respectful nod and then looked away, his face a mask of grave seriousness.

With a frown, Ralof continued to stare at his childhood friend, wondering how he could stand to be an Imperial lackey even after all the failings of the Empire. How could he betray Skyrim and her people?

He did not have time to contemplate an answer as the noise of the crowd swiftly quieted down, and the voice of General Tullius carried across the square, marking the start of today's spectacle.

"Today is an important day in the history of Skyrim and the Empire," began the general, with a voice that commanded attention. "For today will be remembered as the beginning of the reunification of Skyrim. And the beginning of the reunification of the Empire itself. For too long, we have been divided. For too long, we have been fighting amongst ourselves. But that ends today."

The general swept his gaze across the gathered crowd, and then the prisoners. Everyone was silent, waiting to hear what the man had to say. Such was his charisma.

"In a daring mission, my men and I captured the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion, Ulfric Stormcloak himself, along with some of his most trusted men. They stand here before you today in binds, ready to face the Emperor's justice."

Tullius turned his attention to Ulfric, who was standing apart from the group of Stormcloaks. The eight legionnaires that had brought him forth remained around him, alert and ready for anything.

"Ulfric, there are some in Skyrim who might call you a hero. Perhaps some of them are even here, in Helgen," said the general, as the crowd seemingly grew restless. There were a few isolated shouts of support for the captured jarl, but they were drowned out by the angry booing and a rain of insults by the rest. "But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne. You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and caused brothers and neighbors to spill each other's blood. Well, now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace. By the authority invested in me by his majesty the Emperor, I, General Sezar Tullius, Military Governor of the Imperial Province of Skyrim, hereby sentence you and your compatriots to death for the crimes of murder, rebellion, and sedition."

At that moment, a strange sound echoed loudly through the mountains, and everyone looked around with unease. Ralof could have sworn it was the roar of some beast, but no beast he knew of could be that loud.

"Are you done yet, general?" growled one of the Stormcloaks, casually stepping forward towards the platform in the middle of the square. His flame red hair ruffling behind him in a sudden gust of wind. "I don't have all day."

Ralof recognized him as one of the younger Stormcloaks. Hjarun. Rash and fearless.

The female captain standing on the platform who had been yelling at Hadvar earlier opened her mouth, her expression furious, but was stopped when the general raised his hand to quell her anger.

"It's fine. Carry on," said the general.

"Yes, General Tullius!" acknowledged the captain. She turned to a figure in plain leather robes next to her. "Priest, give them their last rites."

A priest of Arkay. She raised her hands, palms facing the gathered prisoners.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you—"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" said Hjarun as he climbed onto the platform and stood by the executioner's block.

"As you wish," said the captain as she stepped behind him. She pushed him down onto his knees, and then shoved him over the chopping block, holding him there. Not that the man resisted.

The executioner grunted as he raised his giant axe over his head.

"My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" Hjarun said his final words as the axe came down with a heavy thud. Blood squirted from the stump of Hjarun's neck as his body convulsed for a brief moment before stilling. Meanwhile, his head fell straight into a wooden bucket that had been placed there for that very purpose.

"As fearless in death, as he was in life," whispered Ralof sadly.

The Stormcloaks around him nodded in agreement, though they remained silent.

A few voices shouted their displeasure, and a few insults to the Empire and to the Legion were heard. But they were quickly drowned out by the vast majority of the people cheering and shouting words like "Justice!" and "Death to the Stormcloaks!"

Again, the strange sound echoed across the mountainside. It seemed to be coming from the very mountains itself, though this time it was even louder. As if it were coming closer to Helgen. A strange sense of foreboding filled Ralof, though he quickly chalked it off to the fact that he would soon be executed himself.

Horses whinnied in protest, shifting around nervously. It was obvious that even some of the Imperials were suddenly feeling uneasy. Those who were not tasked with keeping the crowd in check were now clutching their weapons and looking around warily.

"Next!" yelled the captain, not the least bit bothered by the strange noise.

"Did you hear that, captain?" Hadvar spoke up, the unease in his voice evident.

"I said. Next. Prisoner." The captain ground out her words with irritation.

Hadvar saluted by banging his fist to his breastplate. "Yes, captain." He turned to the prisoners and then pointed to one of the Stormcloaks. "You there. Come up to the block."

Before that could happen, a sudden wall of wind washed over the entirety of Helgen like the shockwave from a massive explosion that emanated from the mountains. Snow was thrown into the air and swept off from rooftops and ledges. People bumped into each other, with some falling over, unable to keep themselves upright.

General Tullius' horse backed up, restless, snorting nervously while other horses nearby actually rose up on their hind legs and whinnied in fear. A few even threw off their riders. Several of the legionnaires drew their weapons, with archers notching arrows and staring into the sky. Something was coming. Something big.

"What in Oblivion is that?!" yelled the general in bewilderment, staring up into the sky.

It was then that Ralof looked up and beheld the dark shadow of… something that seemed to be moving in and out of the clouds. It was massive, for even as high up in the sky as it was, it was clearly visible. The unmistakable dark shape disappeared into a thick cloud before suddenly emerging from beneath it as it clearly hurtled down towards Helgen.

The soldiers atop the tower yelled in panic the one word nobody could have expected to hear that day.

"DRAGON!"

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Ralof shut the door, not that it would do much to protect them from a fucking dragon, but it at least dampened some of the noise of the chaos occurring outside. He turned, taking stock of the few Stormcloaks who had survived the initial attack.

Of course, one of them was his jarl, Ulfric. He wielded an Imperial steel sword, likely one from the eight soldiers who had been guarding him before the dragon miraculously appeared. Was this Ulfric's doing? Did he summon the dragon here to save them from death at the hands of the Imperials?

It was no secret that the man had the power of the Voice. The Thu'um. The power of the dragons. It was not a stretch to think that he could have orchestrated this whole thing, though if Ulfric could control a dragon, why then did he not use that power in the war effort?

"That was a dragon!" one of the Stormcloaks said at last. He too brandished an Imperial weapon, blood dripping from its edge. "I thought dragons were only legend."

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric spoke for the first time, his voice deep. He had finally gotten rid of the gag that had been in his mouth for the last few days. Ralof could only imagine how unpleasant that must have been. The jarl turned and surveyed his men, and his heavy gaze fell upon Ralof, the only one of them who was unarmed.

"Ralof, you're alive. Thank Talos."

As if that gave him permission to speak Ralof said, "Jarl Ulfric, did you—"

Ulfric shook his head sharply to silence him. "Now is not the time. We can discuss matters later." He looked around some more, spotting an injured Legionnaire propped up against a table further into the structure. An Imperial with several wooden pieces sticking out of him. Likely from one of the explosions outside, turning pillars and beams of wood into shrapnel.

He was bleeding profusely and clearly in pain, and when he looked up at the approaching jarl, there was fear and anger in his eyes. Before anyone could say or do anything, Ulfric thrust his sword into the man's neck. Then he relieved the dead soldier of his weapon, tossing it over to Ralof, who caught it at the last second, still surprised at the swift brutality he had witnessed.

"He was already dead," said Ulfric simply. The ground shook, and dust fell on them from above. "We cannot stay here. Follow me if you want to live."

He ran to the back of the building, and the others did not hesitate to follow. Only Ralof was left behind. He looked down at the sword he had been given, and then at the dead Imperial soldier. It was not Hadvar, at least. He wondered if his old friend was still alive out there somewhere, then he ran after his jarl.

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Everything was a blur. His ears were ringing. What happened?

Hadvar raised a hand to the back of his head, where there was a dull throbbing pain. He felt a slick wetness on his fingertips and hissed as a flash of pain coursed through his head as he touched it. He looked at his fingers and saw blood. He had hurt his head somehow.

Blinking to clear his blurred vision, Hadvar glanced around.

When did it get so dark? he thought.

He was on the ground, several meters away from where he had been standing only moments ago. The platform was gone, replaced instead by a smoking crater. Broken pieces of burning wood were scattered everywhere. There were bodies on the ground too, some charred and burning, others seemingly untouched but unmoving.

Then his hearing came back in a disorienting cacophony of sound, and he winced. Rubbing his eyes, he wondered if this was a dream. For if it was a dream, it was a nightmare the likes of which he had never experienced before.

Panicked screams filled the air along with the pained cries of the wounded and dying. The roaring of multiple fires intermingled with the fiery roars of the flaming projectiles hurtling down from the heavens. A maelstrom stirred above Helgen. Dark, malevolent clouds swirling with unnatural speed. Arcs of lightning lit up from within the dark clouds like veins of power as more of the flaming projectiles spewed forth from the storm's dark underbelly.

Then Hadvar saw it. A massive dark shape that flew over the fortress town, blanketing them momentarily in darkness. It opened its maw and let out a primal roar that shook Hadvar to his very core. Fear gripped him then. Fear the likes of which he had never experienced before.

A dragon! An honest to gods dragon!

Hadvar noticed then that the watchtower that had been standing tall and proud over Helgen only moments ago was now broken and in ruins, the top half of it having fallen over in a pile of stone and debris. No doubt the work of the dragon.

Several legionnaires were still running about, a few trying to tend to the wounded while the rest were firing arrows into the air in a vain attempt at taking down the colossal, winged beast that was devastating the town. Explosions rocked Helgen every few seconds, the ground shaking with each one, as the falling projectiles slammed into the town.

The wind was howling, as if the world itself were screaming in terror.

A figure loomed over him suddenly and Hadvar reacted by recoiling away in fear and surprise.

"Get a hold of yourself, soldier!" yelled the unmistakable voice of General Tullius. The general knelt down and grabbed hold of Hadvar, shaking him furiously. "Get up and get out of the street! Do you hear me, Hadvar? We're heading for the keep! To the keep!"

Hadvar could only nod, still too overwhelmed to speak. The general stood and began barking orders to other nearby legionnaires. A nearby house exploded in a ball of flame, shaking the ground, and the general seemed to barely notice as he continued to yell out commands, gesturing madly this way and that.

Hadvar managed to shake himself out of his reverie and pulled himself together enough to get onto his hands and knees. Then, he pushed himself up, finding it somewhat difficult to balance for a moment as the ground shook every few seconds, as if the very earth might threaten to open up and swallow them all.

The general was already on the move as more and more soldiers and civilians headed for the keep. Though how safe the structure was from the destruction of a legendary beast was certainly questionable. Still, it was better than having nothing at all between them and a flying, fire-breathing, magic-wielding dragon with sharp teeth and vicious claws.

Hadvar noticed then that one of the figures on the ground nearby was still moving, albeit only barely. A part of him was telling him that he ought to run. That he needed to find shelter in the keep or he would die out here in the open. But another part of him told him that it was his duty to save as many as he could. Duty and honor demanded it.

Without another thought, he rushed over as best as he could to the fallen figure, and realized it was the horse thief from earlier. It took him a second to remember the man's name.

"Lokir! Lokir!" Hadvar yelled, shaking the man the same way that the general had been shaking Hadvar but a moment ago.

"We're all dead. We're all dead! A dragon! It's a dragon!" the man cried hysterically. Tears streamed down his face from bloodshot eyes.

"Get up, Lokir! You're not dead yet. And we won't die here, not if the Legion has anything to say about it." Hadvar sounded far more confident than he felt, but he figured that if anyone could get them through this, it would be General Tullius. All they needed to do was follow his lead.

Hadvar prayed to the nine divines that today would not be his last day as he hoisted Lokir up and over his shoulders.

The dragon roared, the earth trembled, the dark skies churned, and Helgen burned.