There was a storm brewing. The snows were falling colder than usual and, even in the stone towers of the College of Winterhold, those towers that were wreathed with arcane power centuries old, it could be felt. Even if not everyone knew the full extent of the storm, or where it came from, all could feel it.
It could be felt most tangibly by those at the top of the tallest tower of the college, in the chambers of the Arch-mage. Three were in there, all gathered in the study. One sat, at ease, behind a desk, one stood quite still in the corner, nervously wringing their hands, and the last, the most agitated, pacing up and down the room, stopping to re-read the message in their hand for what must have been the thousandth time, before beginning to pace again.
'This is a disaster,' said the pacer, 'an absolute disaster.'
The one behind the desk laid aside the quill that they had been using to write a lengthy note in a journal to turn their attention on the pacer.
'I don't see that its as bad as that,' said the Arch-mage, Safiya al-Ruuz, 'you wished the Thalmor dealt with.'
'Yes but not like this,' Quaranir exclaimed, 'this needed to be handled delicately, with care and precision. The man has instead hurled a waraxe at a beehive!'
Safiya snorted.
'You expected him to do otherwise?' she asked, her voice smooth as silk, 'it seems you have yet to truly understand the impetuousness of Nords. Try and make things complicated, most of them would start a fight just to simplify things.'
The other man in the room, the one wringing his hands, stopped for a moment to glower at the Arch-mage. Safiya shot a fond look back at the grey-bearded man.
'You know I speak with the greatest fondness, Tolfdir,' she said, 'but you must admit, your countrymen are not the most subtle of peoples.'
Tolfdir harrumphed but said nothing else. Still smiling, Safiya turned her attention back on Quaranir.
'You wished him to protect the Snow Throat Tower from the Thalmor, surely this strike on the embassy is the first step to removing them from Skyrim for good?'
Quaranir looked at her with an expression of ill-disguised frustration, tempered with patience.
'You do not know the Dominion as I do,' he said, 'they will not take this attack calmly. What's more, an attack on the embassy gives the Thalmor an excuse to move more troops into Skyrim. And the emperor will either have to let them into the province, under the guise of seeking justice, or he can refuse which will spark another Great War, something they are certainly not prepared for.'
Safiya's expression did not change, though a slightly troubled look did now touch her eyes.
'But you said Elenwen was unable to get any messages out,' she said, hesitantly, 'how then would the High Council know?'
'Ambassadors send reports back to the Council,' Quaranir explained, 'and Skyrim, being such a hotbed of Talos worship, was of particular interest to the Inquisitorial Board.' Safiya noticed the sorcerer's lip curled at the name of Talos. She must remember that, though he might be allied with them, he was still a High Elf, with an Altmer's opinions on the ninth Divine. 'They demanded reports every few weeks,' Quaranir went on, 'and Elenwen did not shirk that order. And I doubt she'll be sending any messages now, do you?'
Safiya winced. Though she had no love for the Thalmor ambassador, it had still been hard to hear about her final fate. The Blades had not been gentle, according to Quaranir. Though, she supposed, considering what the Thalmor, and likely Elenwen herself, had done to many captured Blades during the Great War, it had been a deserved fate.
'But surely it will take them months to mobilise any kind of invasion force,' Safiya reasoned, 'and longer still to convince the emperor to allow them into Skyrim?'
Quaranir looked dubious.
'It will depend on how long it was since they received a report from Elenwen,' he said, 'and on how easily Emperor Lucius Mede can be convinced. He is still little more than a boy, after all.'
Safiya pursed her lips, deep in thought. Tolfdir took advantage of the momentary silence.
'But surely we can provide aid to the Dragonborn?'
Quaranir snorted.
'My order is closely monitored by the Thalmor as it is,' he said, 'they have sorcerers of their own. If they find we've been giving aid against them even this much, we would be hard enough pressed to defend ourselves, never mind you here in Skyrim.'
'We can send mages to boost Uhther's ranks,' Safiya took up the explanation, 'but Altmer have a talent for using magicka that outstrips any of us. We could, at most, balance the scales. We have nothing to tip things in our favour when the Thalmor arrive.' When, not if, Safiya heard herself say, and knew it to be true. Quaranir was right. Uhther's attack on the embassy gave the Thalmor all the excuse they needed to invade in force. And they would go straight to the Snow Throat Tower, sweeping aside any obstacles. Just as they had during the Great War.
Tolfdir looked troubled. Quaranir, however, looked thoughtful. He seemed unhappy with what he was thinking, but also had the look of a man who had come up with a solution.
'There may be something,' he said, slowly, 'or rather someone. I mislike it greatly but he was there at the breaking of the last tower. And he has the power that outweighs even the mightiest of the Thalmor. The question is whether he will help or make things worse.'
Safiya felt completely perplexed.
'Who?' she asked, 'who do you mean?'
Quaranir did not answer straight away. He seemed to be debating inwardly with himself. This was not a decision he was making lightly, Safiya realised, it was a choice he would rather not make. But Uhther had forced their hand.
'The Dragonborn must go to Whiterun,' the psijic said, at last. And, offering no more explanation, he opened a gateway and was gone, leaving the room in silence but for the sound of the wind outside.
That same wind howled many miles to the south, whistling past and through the windows of Mistveil Keep.
Lucia paced the chambers she had taken, impatiently. A week it had been. A week since she and the Fangs had taken Riften away from the Thalmor and still she had heard nothing from her father. No praise, no word he was on his way to join them, not even an admonishment for her rashness. She might have even welcomed one of his lectures. Better that than this silence. He must have heard by now.
Her mother's letter had arrived barely two days after Saerlund Law-Giver had been named jarl of the Rift. It had been roughly what she had expected. A sound telling off mixed with words of pride. She smiled at the thought of that letter now, imagining Sylgja's face when she had been writing it, somehow managing to smile with an annoyed frown. The letter had also contained words from Sofie, warning her to be careful, as well as an illegible scrawl that she had to assume was Æthur's attempt at a message.
But nothing from Uhther. And that was infuriating. Lucia sighed. She had to get out of this room. All this pacing was not doing any good. Perhaps a walk through the town.
Quickly she grabbed her belt on which hung her dagger and waraxe and tied it around her waist, over the leather armour she had now taken to wearing at all times during the daylight.
Out the chamber, down the steps and she was in the jarl's hall. Saerlund was speaking to the imperial legate and barely glanced in her direction. Mjoll gave her a friendly smile, however. The legate, on the other hand, fixed her with an appraising look that Lucia returned. Fasendil was one of those rare High Elves that disliked the Aldmeri Dominion, chosing to fight for the Empire instead. Uhther had always spoken highly of him. What were his opinions on the change in Riften's leadership?
Lucia did not stay long enough to find out. Iona was in the hall as well, eating from a pewter platter, still wearing her dragonplate armour, but stood up when Lucia approached.
'You heading out?' she asked as Lucia approached.
'I am,' Lucia replied, shortly, 'I think I need to stretch my legs.'
'Care for some company?' Iona asked. Lucia nodded, not that she really had much choice. Iona would accompany her whatever she wished. It was her duty, she said, to serve and protect the Dragonborn and his family. And that service, apparently, did not extend to obedience to her, as Iona had gone curiously deaf any time Lucia had asked her to leave her alone.
Iona stepped over the bench she had been sitting on and came to stand behind Lucia, one hand resting on the hilt of Sanguine, her dragonbone sword. The sword made for her by Uhther. Lucia could not help but glace at the blade with envy. How she longed for such a weapon of her own. But it seemed Uhther was one of a bare few smiths in Skyrim able to work with Dragonbone, and she knew none of the others apart from Eorlund Grey-Mane. And he was in Whiterun. It had been many years since she had seen Whiterun.
Lucia and Iona left the keep together and walked down the steps, both exchanging nods with the guards who stood on duty. Lucia did not know how Saerlund could be so trusting of guards who had surrendered so easily. But they had given him their oath, very enthusiastically she had noticed, and the jarl had insisted they keep their positions.
It was a pleasant day. The sun was out and shining, the citizens of Riften were going about their usual business. All in all, barely a soul seemed to have notice the Hold's change in leadership. But then, as she recalled, the same had been true when Maven had taken power. She supposed, to the common man, whoever ruled the Hold mattered little when there were crops to be planted, fish to be caught and work to be done.
She walked around the edge of the marketplace, listening to those calling out their wares, as she made her way to Honorhall.
The old orphanage building had been taken over by those who had followed Lucia, Hroar and Runa had insisted on it. A small banner, showing a white fang against a pale grey field striped with a diagonal black line, hung over the doorway.
Lucia still felt rather guilty about displacing Constance and the two orphans who'd been living here when they'd arrived, though they had seemed all to happy to relocate to Honeyside when Lucia had made the offer. She had no need of the house, since she was staying as the guest of the jarl. The only condition she had made was that the door to the porch, the door that Lucia and the Fangs had come in through, was barricaded. She did not need any enemies using the same trick she had.
She was sure they would be alright. She just hoped her father had not left anything dangerous in there. Though that seemed unlikely. He had moved all his most powerful, and most dangerous, possessions up to the Armoury and the Museum years ago.
She pushed the door open. They were all in there. Some, like Hroar, Lars and Braith were lounging around the dining table, Braith was sharpening one of her swords. Haming had erected an archery target at one end of the room and was now loosing shafts into the coiled rope. Blaise, Samuel, Britte, Runa and Alesan were watching him, sat on the beds like they were benches, and Joric was lying back on another bed, staring at the ceiling with a merry smile on his face.
They all had upgraded their equipment since they had arrived. Those who had before owned nothing but an iron axe now were armed with good steel and wore banded iron or stiff leather armour. Lucia had Balimund to thank for that. He had offered to outfit the band, he said to curry favour with the new jarl, though Lucia suspected it was a thank you for getting rid of Maven.
Haming lowered his bow arm when he heard Lucia enter and all turned to face her. There was expectancy on all their faces. They, like Lucia, had been waiting for word from Uhther, perhaps orders to join him somewhere for some great battle with the Thalmor.
Iona went to join Braith and the others by the table while Lucia shook her head.
'No word,' she heard the disappointment and the bitterness in her voice.
Britte's lip curled and the rest looked no less disappointed. Even Haming, who kept his emotions in check better than anyone, loosed an arrow with such ferocity that it missed the target completely and instead thudded into the wooden wall.
'So what do we do?' Runa asked, 'do we just wait here forever now?'
'Just hope that the Dragonborn, or someone will bother to send word to us?' Hroar muttered before taking a good drink from his tankard of nord mead.
Lucia did not know what to say. She had been sure Uhther would have sent word to her. Sure he would want her with him. He had never dissuaded her from her choice to be a warrior. He was the one who had given her her first wooden sword to practice with when she'd been little more than a slip of a girl. So why now the silence? She had to force herself not to grind her teeth.
She was just opening her mouth, though she was not sure what she was about to say, when she heard the door open again behind her. Spinning around, she saw a dark elf. A rather pretty dark elf, as they went. She had pale, silvery hair, a wary demeanour and was wearing very plain clothes.
'Hello,' the elf said, nervously, her red eyes glancing around at the motley group, 'I was looking for the Fangs of Honorhall, I was told I could find them here.'
A tense atmosphere had descended on the room. Lars had gotten to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his gladius, though he seemed to have relaxed when he saw her. Lucia was not so calm. She had heard enough of her father's stories to know that a hopeful, pretty face could hide a world of trouble.
'Who wants to know?' Lucia asked.
The red eyes glistened, as if the woman was about to cry.
'I'm from Shor's Stone,' she said, struggling to hold back a sob, 'the town is under attack. Bandits have taken Fort Greenwall and are stopping anyone from coming or leaving. I was only just able to get away.'
Lucia sniffed, impatiently.
'That's surely a matter for the Riften Guard,' she said. Or my father if he was around, she thought.
'But you don't understand,' the dark elf said, 'they are flying the banner of Ulfric Stormcloak.'
That did give Lucia pause for thought. Bandits flying any banner, never mind the banner of a man dead these five years, was unusual enough. Though now she thought of it, she had never heard of bandits directly threatening a town before, certainly not one so close to a hold capital.
'Have you told the jarl about this?' she asked.
'He said he did not have the men to help,' the dark elf replied, 'he said the Riften guard are formalising his strength in the hold, he doesn't have the men for an assault at the moment. He was the one who told me to come to you. He said you might be able to help.
Lucia thought. It made sense. The jarl surely trusted her enough to act in his stead, retake the fort of the Rift for him while his men were out in the hold. And Shor's Stone. Sylgja had come from Shor's Stone. There were people there that she had known for years.
She looked at her companions. Braith was smiling eagerly. Most of the others wore similar expressions. They had been sitting around waiting for too long. Their blood had been stirred by their taking of Riften, and now they wanted the next adventure. Only Iona did not look eager. But then, she had seen countless battles, fighting alongside her father. She merely looked resigned and ready for the next.
'Alright,' Lucia said, turning back to the dark elf, 'we'll help you. But you will need to come with us. You might know something that will help us beat these bandits. What is your name?'
The dark elf smiled, warmly, wiping tears from her eyes. She looked so grateful.
'Thank you,' she said, her voice thick with sincerity, 'my name is Llirvalie. I'm ready whenever you are.'
