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Skyrim Spartan
Chapter Fifteen
Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω
Kratos stared at the lone structure in disbelief. The Western Watchtower was even more underwhelming than the name suggested. At one point perhaps it had been something more, but now it really was only a single solitary tower of stone standing above the vast plains of Whiterun. Not only that, but it was partially in ruin.
Large swathes of its base were covered in dark moss while dozens of vines crept up its sides, reaching almost all the way to the top. Pieces of the tower had already fallen off over time, with a few holes visible in the walls to go along with the actual windows and arrow slits. Blocks of snow-covered stone, some broken while others remained mostly intact, were strewn about on the ground nearby, making Kratos wonder why the damages were not repaired.
On its eastern side, extending outwards from the base of the tower were the ruined remains of defensive walls. The only evidence of what was perhaps a bigger outpost that had once stood here, with the tower all that now remained of it. In the scant remains of that outpost, a small camp had been erected with a semicircular wooden palisade protecting the sides not facing the tower.
On the northward side of the tower was the main entrance that was accessible only by a stone bridge that sloped down to ground level. A somewhat defensible position, but not unassailable. Truly, it was not meant to actually defend against an attack, but merely as a forward outpost for scouting.
Kratos, though, could not see the sense in it. What was the point of a watchtower here when the plains barely provided any cover. Any significant threat to the city of Whiterun could be seen from the very walls of Whiterun itself. Or even from Fort Greymoor since that was even further west than the watchtower.
At some point, they started passing what appeared to be farms, though much of their fields were still covered in snow. Some had begun attempting to dig out the snow from their fields, but with so much land to cover, it was a slow and arduous process.
The city of Whiterun itself rose up from the plain on the horizon, a bump in the land that was otherwise flat. Well, other than the massive mountain that loomed next to it. So massive that its peak was hidden from view as it pierced the clouds. It was taller even than the many other mountains that could be seen.
"We call it, The Throat of the World," said Jouane as the old Breton rode next to Kratos, noticing the Spartan staring at it. "It's the highest mountain in all of Tamriel, you know. Legend has it that it was from there that man first came into being, when the sky breathed onto the earth and created man."
Kratos frowned, tensing. "Do your gods live up there?"
Jouane chuckled. "No, no. There are no divines up there. But there are people who live near the summit of the mountain. People with power that some might consider godlike. Some folks even travel up there to give them offerings, though very few make it all the way. The journey is quite treacherous, you see."
Kratos felt somewhat relieved that there were no gods living atop the mountain. The mountain reminded him of Olympus. A smaller, less impressive Olympus, to be sure, but it evoked similar feelings of awe and reverence in the peoples of this world, nonetheless. And that alone made him uneasy.
"Why do you ask?" Jouane said, looking at him curiously.
"It is nothing." Kratos tore his gaze away from the mountain and looked at the old Breton mage. "Who are these people who live on the mountain?"
"They're called the Greybeards, and yes, they do have long, greying beards, hence the name." Jouane's eyes twinkled merrily as he spoke. He was clearly amused by that fact. "They live in High Hrothgar, a monastery their order built near the peak of the mountain. Though none can say for sure exactly how close they really are to the peak, for no one has actually summited The Throat of the World. As far as we know."
"These Greybeards... they are demigods? You said they wield a power that some consider godlike."
"Not exactly demigods, no. They're human, born and raised. But they have a gift for the Thu'um, or the Voice some call it, and that makes them perhaps something more than a mere human. With it, they can use the power of the dragons. Dragon magic. And dragons were one of the most powerful creatures to ever walk the face of Tamriel."
"Were?"
"They're all gone," explained Jouane. "At least, nobody has seen a living dragon in several hundred years. And those that claimed they have could never actually prove it. People have searched, mind you, and no one has turned up anything more than their long dead bones."
Kratos was intrigued. "And there are people who can use the powerful magic of these dead dragons?"
"Indeed." Jouane nodded knowingly. "I don't know much about their ability to harness the power of the dragons, but what I do know is that there are two paths to learning The Way of The Voice, as it is called. The first is through extensive and oftentimes dangerous study of ancient texts, as well as teachings from elder Greybeards, and subsequently applying that knowledge in practice. That's why they are up there in the first place, away from everyone and everything. It keeps them, and everyone else, safe."
"And the second way?"
"You are born with it," Jouane said. "Mind you, it is exceedingly rare to be born with dragon blood in your veins. Being dragonborn means you have the natural talent to learn the dragon language, and thus wield their magic easily. Nearly every dragonborn in history was a powerful figure of great renown. In fact, the entire Septim Dynasty of Emperors were dragonborn, starting from Tiber Septim himself. The man who unified all of Tamriel and who, upon his death, ascended to godhood. He is without a doubt the most famous of the dragonborn. Or as they're properly called, the dovahkiin."
Kratos stopped walking so abruptly that it took Jouane a few seconds to realize that the big Spartan was no longer next to him. Reining in his horse, Jouane turned in the saddle and looked quizzically upon him.
"What's the matter? Did I say something to upset you?" said the old mage with concern.
"What did you say?"
Jouane looked puzzled. "Which part?"
"You called these… dragonborn… by another name."
"Dovahkiin," Jouane repeated with a nod. "That is what the dragonborn are called in the dragon language."
Kratos was staring so intensely that Jouane started to feel nervous.
"I'm sorry if I've somehow—"
"You will tell me everything you know about the dovahkiin."
Jouane gave him a strange look. "Well, of course. It's not like it's some big secret or anything, though I must warn you that I don't know much. But what I do know, I will tell you."
It was then that Anske trotted up on her own horse to join them. She had been conversing with Reldith at the rear of the column, where the elf was still helping to keep an eye on their lone prisoner. Not that she was going anywhere, with all the guardsmen about.
"Is everything alright?" Anske said, sensing the slight tension in the air. She glanced back and forth between the two of them. "What are you two talking about?"
Jouane smiled at her. "Kratos here was just asking me to tell him all about the dovahkiin. It seems to be something he's quite interested in."
"Really? You're interested in the dragonborn?" said Anske with mild surprise.
Kratos looked away and started walking again. "I am only curious."
Jouane chuckled. "Now you're sounding like me." The old Breton turned to Anske and winked. "Well, child, I suppose you can help me tell our dear friend here all about the dovahs, hmm?"
Anske nodded, smiling. "Sure, I'll help! I love a good adventure story. And there are many of those involving the dovahkiin."
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
Kratos stood atop the watchtower, leaning over a parapet as he watched the setting sun far to the west. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of all that had occurred since his arrival in this world. Since then, he had traveled no small amount of distance to get here from Rorikstead, and yet Kratos knew his journey, or at least the journey that the god Akatosh wished for him, was only just beginning.
With the revelation of what the dovahkiin really was, Kratos now pondered what to do with that information. Apparently, dragons hadn't been seen in centuries, and the last dragonborn was the now long deceased Emperor, Martin Septim, last of his line. Or so say the official records.
Neither Jouane nor Anske knew how exactly one became dragonborn, other than that it was technically a blessing of Akatosh, the dragon god of time. If it were hereditary, then it would mean that someone had to be of the line of one of the previous dragonborn in order to inherit it. However, since it was a blessing from Akatosh, it could technically be bestowed upon anyone the god wished. Though nobody in recent memory has displayed dragonborn powers, nor claimed to be one, according to Jouane.
Kratos looked down at the camp of Rorikstead refugees. It could be any one of them. Or it could be anyone else, really. Someone in Whiterun, perhaps. Maybe even someone else in some other place he had yet to visit. That was partly what was so infuriating about all of this. Knowing that something was bound to happen, but not knowing what, or even when. Or in this case, who.
"Enjoying the view?"
Kratos did not turn around to greet the newcomer. "I was trying to enjoy it alone."
"Oh, come on. I thought you were getting used to me being around," said Anske as she hopped up onto the parapet next to him and took a seat, legs dangling off the edge. "I am your student now, you know. Or would I be called an apprentice?"
"These stones are old, girl. You might fall," he warned.
"You'd catch me though, right?"
Kratos let out a snort. "Perhaps."
She smiled, swinging her legs back and forth. "See? Then I've got nothing to worry about."
"Perhaps I should let you fall so you may learn a lesson. That is, if you do not die first."
"If I die because you let me fall, then I'd come back to haunt you for the rest of your days," she said with an amused grin.
Frowning at the thought, Kratos changed the subject. "Was there something you needed?"
She shrugged. "Just wondering when we were going to start today's training."
"Is that so?"
"Or you could also tell me why you're so interested in the dovahkiin all of a sudden."
"I was only curious, girl. Think nothing more of it."
Anske gave him a look, before she turned back to watching the sunset. "If you say so."
Kratos finally glanced at her, the sunset bathing her in golden light. Her hair, slightly tousled, partially blowing in the wind. He had never denied her beauty since he first laid eyes on her, but in that moment, he had to admit that she looked breathtaking. Many men would undoubtedly try to claim her in the future, and with some amusement he knew that she would break many of their hearts when she inevitably turned them down. After all, he was forging her into a great warrior, and it would take someone with incredible strength, and will, to tame her after he was done with her.
"Are you sure you are ready to train again?" he asked, breaking the silence that had settled between them.
Anske shook her head. "Honestly, no, not really. I'm still very sore from yesterday, and I honestly want to just lie down and sleep. But…" She looked squarely at Kratos. "I want to be strong like you, so I will do my best."
Kratos gave her a nod as he leaned back from the parapet and stood up straight. "Since you not fully recovered, we will take it a little easier today. Do you remember what I taught you?"
She winced. "Mostly."
"Then show me."
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
They had barely begun the training exercises when Anske abruptly stopped, her whole body going rigid as a confused, then worried look, crossed her face.
Kratos was on his feet quickly, hand reaching up for the hilt of his sword. "What is it, girl?"
"Do you feel that?" she said in a whisper. She was genuinely scared, and Kratos' worry immediately doubled.
Kratos moved to the parapet and scanned the surrounding area. The dying light of day barely illuminated the plains, but it was enough for him to see that nothing appeared to be amiss. There was no movement out there in the snows. Nothing to indicate any imminent danger.
Perhaps it was a false alarm. Or maybe the girl was simply overworked, and her exhausted mind and body were playing tricks on her. It would probably be best to call it a day if that were the case.
As he turned around to talk to her about it, he noticed that she was staring up into the sky. Her eyes moving quickly, as if searching for something in the clouds.
Kratos looked up as well, though he could see nothing in the heavens. He was about to speak, mouth already half open, when he saw it. A brief glimpse of a shadow between the clouds, but it was enough to confirm that something was indeed up there. Very high up in the sky. Something massive. And headed north, northeast.
"It's gone," she whispered in relief. Then she looked at him, bewildered. "Did you see it, Kratos? Did you feel it?" She shivered.
"I saw… something. But it was too high up and too far away to make out clearly." He frowned. "You say you felt it?"
She nodded.
"What exactly did you feel?"
It took her a moment to respond.
"Anger," she said slowly, shivering. "Rage. Hunger."
That was not good. It sounded like some kind of ravenous beast. And it was massive. Whatever it was, at least it did not seem to be hunting them. For now.
More immediately important, Kratos felt some concern over the fact that he somehow did not sense the creature the same way Anske clearly did. And so strongly too. Why was that? Was it because it was not after them? But then, why did it affect her so?
"We can stop for today," he started to say, finding himself troubled by what had transpired.
"No!" Anske cried, before covering her mouth in surprise at her own actions. Then, sheepishly, she said, "I… I just need a minute. I can still train."
Kratos stared at her. "Very well."
While waiting, he looked back up into the sky, wondering what it was that had passed over them, and what it might mean.
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
With Whiterun in sight and half a day's journey away, supper was somewhat of a muted celebration for the survivors of Rorikstead. They ate heartily, and there were many laughs and good spirits to be found. A few even drank ale or wine, but with the painfully recent memory of their time in the Hills of Shattered Stone, no one drank to excess.
Another difference was that everyone clearly had weapons within arm's reach. And every now and again, people would look about, as if searching for any potential enemies in the shadows. They would not be caught with their guard down anytime soon. Perhaps even never. Even though they were in the company of dozens of guardsmen and in relatively safe territory.
Another reason for the celebrating was that Vors, the old sergeant, had finally awoken from his deep, injury-induced slumber. He had been disoriented and weak at first but had gained strength with some food and water in him. Jouane had been tending to him ever since he had collapsed and been near death, and the old Breton seemed pleased that his ministrations had saved the sergeant's life.
Kratos realized that must have been why Anske seemed happier than usual today. The girl cared much about her fellow villagers, but some clearly more than others. Vors was one of those who held a more important place in the girl's heart.
He glanced over to where Vors was surrounded by a few of the villagers. The old sergeant was wrapped in furs, looking a bit gaunt from a lack of food and water, but at least he was smiling. Anske was sat nearby, engrossed in telling a story—quite animatedly as her hands moved at a rapid pace to demonstrate what was happening. At one point, she gestured in Kratos' direction, and everyone turned to look at him, eyes filled with awe.
A story about him, apparently.
Kratos sighed. He was not sure how he felt about her, or anyone else, spreading tales of his recent deeds. He was also uncertain of what bothered him more, that other people were spreading these stories, or that the stories themselves were, at least to him, not even anything worth mentioning.
Kratos sensed someone approach from his side and take a seat on the same log that he was perched on.
"A serious drink for your serious thoughts?" offered the new arrival.
Kratos turned his head to face Sonji, who offered him a large tankard of some unknown liquid. She held it with both hands, for the tankard was larger than normal, and clearly meant for someone the size of Kratos. With a nod of thanks, he took it from her and stared into the tankard.
"It's a locally brewed wine," she said with a shrug, reaching for the horn flask that hung at her side. Presumably, it contained the same drink. "Rorik got it from that Khajiit caravan that passed by earlier, and he passed it on to me. I thought you might like some. Nothing special, really, but it's something other than mead or water to drink."
The Khajiit she spoke of were those catlike people who had passed by the watchtower earlier in the day on their way to Whiterun. They were large, humanoid cats complete with fur, claws, and teeth, and yet wearing clothes and armor like humans.
Kratos recalled their inquisitive, shining feline eyes as they stared at him from a distance. Though none dared to actually come up to him.
"These Khajiit," Kratos said, pronouncing the name for the first time. It sounded odd coming out of his mouth. "Are there many of them?"
"Khajiit can be found all over Tamriel. They're usually involved with trade and business, hence the Khajiit merchant caravan earlier." Sonji looked thoughtful for a moment. "I'd say there's not as many of them here in Skyrim as other provinces though. Most of the people here are Nords, Bretons, and Imperials. And the Khajiit haven't been as welcomed as the other races. Plus, we are far from their homeland. A place called Elsweyr, though I've never actually been so I have no idea how many of them there actually are over there. They say it's full of deserts and jungles—meaning it's hot and possibly humid. As different a place as you could get from Skyrim."
"I see." Kratos thought it odd that a people would name their land 'elsewhere,' but he supposed there must have been a good reason for it.
Taking a tentative sip of the wine, Kratos noted the slightly sweet taste of the cool liquid as it passed through his mouth and fell soothingly down his throat. He took a big gulp of it after that, though was careful not to chug it all in one go. It was a light, refreshing wine that was, as Sonji had said, a welcome change to all the water and mead he had been drinking the last few days.
"Thank you for the drink," he said. "It is refreshing."
Sonji raised her horn flask to him. "A small token of appreciation, Kratos. For without you, we would likely not be alive today."
You would not be in this predicament today at all if it weren't for me, he thought. He still had a strong suspicion that it was his presence in Rorikstead that had called for all the misfortune to befall on them, as was often the case when the gods and fate took a strong interest in someone.
He took another swig of the wine.
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
Later that evening, Kratos was sitting on his bedroll with his legs crossed beneath him. He was staring at the entrance to his spacious tent, made large to accommodate his great bulk, and had been staring since he had returned to it. He waited in silence, lost in his thoughts even as he kept watch.
His quiet vigil was rewarded when, at some point in the evening, the flaps of his tent were pushed aside, and a figure entered as silently as they could muster. Then froze, as they realized that the occupant of the tent was not only present, but very much awake and staring directly at them.
"You have your own tent, girl," said Kratos, more curious than reprimanding.
Anske did not immediately reply, perhaps too surprised to have been caught sneaking into his tent. The other night when she had first done it, he had not been there, and she was already fast asleep by the time he was back. She had gone before sunrise, presumably to return to her own tent.
"I'm sorry, Kratos," she began uncertainly. It was too dark for either of them to see the other's face, as only their silhouettes were visible in the barely lit space, but Kratos could imagine her looking embarrassed or even ashamed. "I just… I don't want to sleep alone. I can't sleep. I just lay there, unable to fall asleep. No matter how tired I feel. And even if I do manage to get some sleep, I end up having nightmares. So, I thought… well, last night, I slept so soundly here. No nightmares. No fear. No worry. Just… peace."
She took a deep breath. "I know… I should have asked you before doing anything. But I was afraid you'd say no, and… well, you didn't say anything about last night. So, I thought…"
Kratos, for once, did not reply immediately as he considered her words. He did not feel any deception from her, and he could tell well enough that she spoke true. Were they alone, he would not have as big of an issue about it. While he found her attractive enough, he was not actually attracted to her in that way—he doubted he would ever feel like that for another woman. He also knew she thought of him as a guardian, not a potential mate.
But they were not alone. There were people who might take notice. People who might draw the wrong conclusions. Spread false rumors. Not that he was worried about his own reputation. It was her own he was more concerned about.
"Did anybody see you?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head. "No. I made sure that nobody was watching before I snuck over. Thankfully, I didn't have to go very far since my tent is right next to yours."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Kratos sighed. Hopefully, he would not come to regret allowing this. But if it meant that she could sleep soundly at night, perhaps it was worth whatever potential consequences lay down the road. Besides, it was not as if they were actually doing anything inappropriate. The thought had never even crossed his mind.
"You must return to your tent before the rest of the camp wakes."
"I know," she said. "I have no trouble waking up before dawn. Most people are still asleep by then. I'll be careful." She was already moving, unfurling her much smaller bedroll next to his.
Kratos lay down on his side, facing away from her, listening to her as she settled in. Then there was silence, save for the sounds of their breathing.
"Thank you, Kratos." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Sleep well," he said, and closed his eyes.
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
In the dim early morning light, the people of Rorikstead dismantled their camp for what was hopefully the last time. Everything and everyone were loaded onto the carts and the horses. Everything was checked, and checked twice, to make sure nothing was amiss or left behind. When they were ready to go, several of the guardsmen on duty at the watchtower were there to bid them farewell.
It was as they were about to start moving, with Rorik once again at their head and ready to call the official start to their last day of travel, when it happened.
A strange sound seemed to echo from the mountains to the south. Faint, at first, as it traveled some distance from the mountains to where the convoy was in the middle of the plains, but distinct. Kratos was the first to notice, unable to ignore the sense of foreboding creeping on him.
With furrowed brows, he stared off into the distant peaks of the southern mountains, squinting as if he might see what it was that was causing that sound. Perhaps it was nothing. An odd sounding but powerful gust of wind that caused some strange echo. But he knew that was a foolish thought.
The convoy began to move. Since he was closer to the rear, they had yet to get moving as they waited for those ahead to give them space to get underway.
The noise came again. Louder. Closer. Clearer. It sounded like a bestial roar, one loud enough to echo across the mountains. Kratos stood unmoving as the cart full of food supplies next to him rumbled forward, his eyes trained towards the south where he was sure the roar had come from.
The cart drivers glanced nervously at him, and then in the direction he was looking at, but they said nothing.
Anske rode up from the rearguard to where Kratos was standing, looking worried. "Something's coming," she said.
Kratos looked at her grimly. "Warn Rorik." If he hadn't already figured it out, he thought. And something told him that he did. Not that they really had much choice—there was nowhere to hide out here in the plains, and they were boxed in to the road by all the snow anyway. No, their best choice was to keep moving forward. With haste.
The girl nodded, kicking her mount into a gallop as she sped towards the front of the column. Kratos watched her go, feeling some relief at seeing her put some distance between them. Whatever was coming, he wanted its sole attention trained on him if he could help it.
Kratos reached up behind him and drew the massive greatsword from his back, holding it low. The frosty edge seemed to gleam even in the grey light of dawn. He waited, breathing deeply. There was still no sign of the approaching beast.
The column seemingly doubled its pace a moment later, or maybe Kratos imagined it in a bout of wishful thinking. He liked to think it was the former. By the time the rear of the column was about to pass Kratos, everyone in the rearguard realized that something was wrong as they caught sight of the alert warrior holding his sword and standing as still as stone, as if waiting for something.
"Something is coming," Kratos declared, the booming of his voice making a few of the more jittery guardsmen jump. "Be ready to defend the people."
Swords were drawn, shields and spears were readied, and arrows were notched. Reldith implored everyone to be on their guard. The prisoner stayed silent but was clearly worried as she had to pick up the pace to keep up with the cart she was chained to, lest she be dragged down the road.
Still, Kratos could see nothing. Was the beast invisible? That would be troublesome. But then, another roar sounded. Much closer. In fact, it sounded like it was nearly on top of them. Then he realized he had been so focused on the ground, that he had neglected to look up again. When he did, he finally saw it. A shadow moving fast through the gray morning clouds.
For a moment, Kratos thought it might be the same beast from yesterday. But it was not nearly big enough. No, this was something else.
Moments later, the beast burst from the clouds and came into full view. Its dark wings spread wide as it flew over them, a sleek, dark mass of scales, spikes, claws, and teeth. The winged beast issued another roar, and everyone flinched. Everyone except Kratos, who alone stared up at it without fear.
Horns blared from the watchtower as the garrison was called to action.
One of the rearguard near Kratos cried out in dismay.
"By the gods! It's—it's a dragon!"
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
Standing atop the watchtower, Sergeant Maveri lowered the horn from her lips, eyes trained at the dragon flying through the sky—a real, honest to gods, fucking dragon!—and then yelled to her men, half of whom were only now waking up.
"To arms! Everyone to arms!"
She blew the horn one more time for good measure. Several of her men made it up to the top of the tower with her, bows in hand. From the looks on their faces, they were clearly shaken, but at least they were moving and seemed willing to fight against a monster straight out of legends.
"Archers! Fire-at-will! We need to bring that beast down!"
She was not sure if that was even possible, but what else could they do? They had to try. If they could bring the dragon down to the ground, they would have a better chance at killing it. As it stood, they were at a massive disadvantage while the beast was in the air.
This was supposed to be an easy posting. They hadn't had a major bandit attack in this area in over a decade, and most of the wild carnivores nearby had been hunted down or driven away. But now they were facing a legendary beast long thought to be dead, one that could potentially level cities and destroy armies.
The dragon roared and wheeled around, heading straight for them. Arrows filled the air as anyone with a bow let loose. Most missed their mark, but a few managed to land on the dragon, only for the arrows to bounce off of its hard scales. Maybe only a handful of arrows actually stuck on the thin leathery membranes of its wings. It was hard to tell.
Closing in, the dragon opened its maw and a stream of fire issued forth, bathing the ground in searing hot flame. Half the outpost was burning as the dragon flew by on its first pass. Some of the guardsmen on the ground died immediately, burned to a crisp, while others were set on fire and were screaming in agony. She tried to ignore their dying screams filling the air as she concentrated on fighting the dragon. Or at least trying to.
Maveri, who had ducked as the dragon flew dangerously close overhead on its first pass, snapped at the others on the roof with her.
"Keep firing you fools!"
One of the guardsmen was holding their head in their hands, shaking. Maveri closed in on them, roughly grabbing a hold of the shaking guardsman.
"Get a hold of yourself. Our ancestors are watching!" she said.
The others around her were continuing to send arrows into the air.
When the guardsman shook their head and continued to cower, Maveri simply frowned and picked up their bow instead. Relieving the guardsman of their quiver, she nocked an arrow and aimed high into the sky as the dragon turned and made for another pass. Letting loose, she liked to think that she hurt it somehow as the dragon roared, though it was nearly impossible to tell for sure. She kept shooting arrows along with her men.
It became immediately clear that the dragon was targeting the tower next, however. Maveri shoved the cowering guardsmen down the steps, and they proceeded to roll painfully down them, but that was better than getting roasted by dragonfire.
"Back down! Into the tower!" she yelled to the rest of the archers, who started running just as the dragon opened its maw once more. She barely made it out herself, descending the steps just as fire engulfed the roof of the tower. Tongues of flame lashed down the steps as a wave of heat rolled into the structure, but they were alive. For now.
Maveri looked around, counting out a dozen men and women of the guard still alive. Perhaps there were a few more outside somewhere. But their number was already halved.
It seemed a pointless battle. They did not have nearly enough strength of arms to take down a fire-breathing dragon. They certainly did not have enough arrows to keep firing at it either. The guardsmen were more suited for combat against other men or the various normal predators and creatures that could be found in Skyrim, not an actual flying dragon of myth and legend. The dragon seemed as large as the whole tower itself, and there was no way their puny arrows could pierce its hardened scales.
"What do we do, sergeant?" asked one of the men.
A few of them looked to her, waiting for her command. The others were lost in their own thoughts or panicking like the one who she had practically thrown down the steps.
Maveri thought for a moment and tried not to fall into despair. Nothing in her training had ever prepared her to take down a dragon, but what choice did they have?
"We can stay here in fear and wait for the dragon to tear this tower down," she said at last with more confidence than she really felt, "Or we can go out there and fight until our last breath, make our ancestors proud, and guarantee us a place in Sovngarde."
"Hide and die, or fight and die, eh?" said another of the guardsmen, looking around at the others. "We all know what we have to do."
Several ayes echoed across the room. The dragon's roar shook the tower then, as if beckoning them to come out and fight as well.
"Then we fight," Maveri said, standing tall, bow in hand. "Divines watch over us," she added softly. They were going to their deaths, perhaps even painful deaths, but at least Sovngarde awaited them in the end.
Before they could do anything, however, the entire tower shook violently, throwing a few of the guardsmen to the ground. Maveri barely was able to stay upright, leaning on the wall closest to her. Pieces of the walls and the ceiling all around them came loose, and dust filled the air, stinging their eyes and causing several coughing fits.
A chunk of the wall and ceiling suddenly disappeared, ripped away by the powerful hindlegs of the dragon as it hovered over the tower. It lowered its reptilian head towards the newly created hole, opening its jaw to reveal dozens of sharp fangs. Fire sparked into existence from within its mouth.
Shit. They were going to be barbecued alive. So much for fighting valiantly to their deaths. By the time any of them could even draw to fire an arrow they would already be burning.
Suddenly, a pale figure appeared and somehow leapt high into the air towards the dragon's head. It held a massive greatsword in its hands, the flat of which was facing the dragon's mouth. A jet of flame streamed out from the dragon and hit the sword, partially burning the figure since it did not entirely cover its body, but the figure was still hurtling through the air, flames leaking around it. Because it was so close to the dragon, it was taking the brunt of the fire, protecting the guardsmen who could only stare in stunned disbelief.
Then, her eyes widened, jaw slackening, as she witnessed something so absurd that she thought she was imagining it.
The figure, she realized, was yelling, whether in pain or in challenge it was impossible to tell for sure, as the flames were partially deflected by the sword, and then it twisted in midair, one musclebound arm cocked back. The figure managed to reach the side of the dragon's head and actually punched the dragon with an audible thump and with such force that the dragon's entire head and neck whipped back and disappeared from the hole.
The dragon roar that followed was clearly one of pain as the pale figure was rocked backwards in the air from the force of the blow it delivered. It landed with its back turned to Maveri and crouched down on one knee less than ten feet away from where she was standing.
The massive sword in its left hand was pointed downwards, used as a momentary crutch, the blade spewing and hissing billowing folds of steam that engulfed the figure and made for a surreal image.
The figure itself turned out to be a giant of a man, with muscles carved like stone and smoke issuing from the many burns on his otherwise ashen skin. Smoldering burns that covered his hands, arms, and shoulders, as well as the sides of his torso. Yet he was still very much alive, and despite the burns that should have had him debilitated and screaming in agony from the pain alone, he was not only still conscious, but he made no sound other than his breathing and appeared to either not notice or not care about his injuries.
Maveri, mouth still agape, stared dumbstruck at the man wreathed in smoke. A man who had survived taking the brunt of a dragon's fire and then punched it right in the face.
What in Oblivion did I just witness?
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AN: The next chapter (Ch 16) will be up in a few days. I've also already started on Ch 17, so expect updates at least once a week moving forward, or once every ten days at most. I'll let you all know when that might change, but I'm currently in the midst of a major bout of inspiration and motivation to write, and I'm doing my best to take advantage of it. For those who follow my other works, I'll be updating those soon as well. Thank you again, and as usual, I appreciate your time and your kind words. Concrit is always welcome, whether via review/comment/dm. I am still trying my best to improve my writing, one day at a time. Cheers! :)