(Today on the commute to work, I had a brainstorm idea: cut the fat from the last chapter and make this chapter two parts, since they both flowed together thematically.)
(One more rant before we dive into this chapter: apart from Bloodmoon nostalgia and an all-too-short quest-line, Dragonborn upset me because of the treatment of Thirsk. The original one from Morrowind is based on the Beowulf poem [Hrothmund is Hrothgar, Thirsk is Herot, Llevas Dorvayn the Nerevarine is Beowulf, and the Udyrfrykte is Grendel]; but then the Dragonborn version is based on the 2007 CGI Robert Zemeckis revisionist take where Beowulf lies about killing Grendel's mother and his legend is built on lies. Shame on Neil Gaiman for doing this, and shame on Todd "it just works" Howard for copying him! I guess Michael Kirkbride isn't the only one from Bethesda-Zenimax who hates Nords.)
(Now we'll find out what happens when a truth-telling murderer meets a lying milk-drinker.)
A Legacy of Lies I
Solitude, the thirtieth day of Morning Star. Legate Rikke had returned to her duties after the events in Whiterun. She was now on her way into Castle Dour to give her report. She went to her quarters immediately and doffed her disguise to take up her uniform. Yet as she looked at the crimson and steel armor, she paused. Eirik's words and deeds rung in her ears. He had spoken to every one of her doubts, and shoving Idolaf onto his knees and disgracing him publicly after his misdeeds became known, demonstrated what the Empire had become.
That's not my Empire, she said, shaking her head.
And what was the Empire she served? One that paid off their servants to submit and offered them the axe for it?
"No," she shook her head, speaking aloud. "I'm a soldier...I follow orders..."
But she didn't. The Talos amulet lying in the bottom of her chest and her own private reservations about what the Empire was doing, these were proofs that she didn't follow orders. The Empire said and she flatly refused to obey it. She was in private disobedience to the White-Gold Concordant. Where was the line where she refused to obey the Empire's commands if they crossed it?
With a frustrating sigh, she girded her loins in her armor. She was in the Legion, and had to wear her gear when giving her report. Once she was properly armed, she made her way into the war room. To her relief, she saw that only General Tullius was present: Crixus was not there. She was relieved: perhaps he'd be more willing to listen to her concerns. She certainly didn't feel safe revealing these things around Crixus: he would have called her a traitor and demand her arrest immediately. She knew that she couldn't be entirely open with him. He wasn't a Nord, and would often remark on how little he thought of her people's traditions, beliefs, and the climate of Skyrim. Perhaps he wouldn't be the best one to tell her doubts to at all.
She thought of the only other Nord she had heard had been in the company of Crixus: Torgrim Stone-crusher, a loyal Nord and a soldier of the Legion, just like her. He was on leave in Hjaalmarch to visit his family: perhaps she could make an excuse to go down there and visit him. But he was just a soldier, a rank-and-file man of the earth: she was a legate, someone who had command over dozens if not hundreds of men like him. If she let on her doubts to him, what damage would that do? A soldier can doubt, but a leader?
"Legate!" Tullius called out. "I heard you arrived in Solitude just recently. You were gone for nine days. Was it that hard to track Eirik down?"
"Not at all, General," she replied. "The Divines smiled on my quest and I found him easily. He was in Whiterun, but now he's disappeared."
"Disappeared, legate?"
"There was some...trouble in Whiterun," she replied. "He left suddenly on account of it."
"You mean the death of Idolaf Battle-Born?"
"How did you know?"
"His father Olfrid has been sending me ravens nonstop, demanding to know what I'm going to do about the man who murdered his son. But go on; you said he left suddenly?"
"Yes, sir. I asked around, and it seemed that he had a falling-out with Balgruuf. His title and property were revoked, so we don't even know where to look for him now. He could be anywhere."
"And what about the man himself?" Tullius asked. "Is he willing to bow the knee to his Emperor and the Empire?"
Rikke sighed. "Not at all, sir."
"Not surprising."
"General, he..." she halted.
"Yes, Rikke?"
"He says that the Empire is weak. That it's failed in its duty to safeguard Tamriel, as Martin Septim ordered our ancestors."
"Is that what he says, now?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what do you say, legate?"
Rikke's eyes widened, as she came under Tullius' intense gaze. "I say nothing, sir, but the words of the Emperor."
"Make sure it stays that way, soldier," he replied. "You may be a Nord, but you're a citizen of the Empire and a legate in the Red Legions. Your first and only duty is to the Empire and your fellow soldiers. Now do I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Yes, sir," she nodded. Tullius saluted and she returned the salute. He dismissed her for the rest of the day, with more to attend to on the morrow. She was grateful and returned to her quarters to rest and contemplate. Once she was inside and had shut the door, she tore off her armor and sat down upon her bed. She thought about what she was going to do now. She had hoped for some kind of understanding, some kind of consolation, from Tullius: it seemed that she had overestimated him.
Then again, she thought to herself, what had she expected from him? Tullius was a soldier, just like herself: he wasn't her father or her uncle. But would they have agreed with the direction that the Empire was going? Were they willing to remain shackled to a dying Empire barely able to rule itself? Of course they would have: the alternative would be perpetuating the death of her kin, the Nords. That would only serve the end of the Dominion, to send warriors off to Sovngarde and not have them remain here to fight the real threat. If Eirik couldn't see that, then he wasn't as wise as she was starting to believe.
If he's not wise for seeing things my way, she thought. What does that make me for refusing to see what's obvious?
The two of them walked eastward for as long as their muscles could push them forward. Under the ash-cloud from Vvardenfell, they had little concept of whether it was day or night, or how long they had stayed in the Bulwark. Besides that, the ash that hung in the air or was kicked up by their feet flew into their eyes, noses, and mouths, and caused them great coughing fits. After a time, they pulled their traveling cloaks over their mouths to keep out the ash. As for the landscape, there wasn't much to look at. At the start of their journey, they found many odd-shaped basalt columns rising up out of the ash, which were certainly austere in their oddity. But the farther east they went, these faded and the land became more natural and more covered with ash. Half-dead trees rose up from the gray ash: skeletal in their nakedness, some of them still hot with cinders, others snapped in half and fallen down.
Though they had set east as their course, the land was not forthcoming to them. For many miles a wall of basalt barred the way eastward, forcing them to travel south along the coast. By and by it opened up and they made the long and arduous walk through the ash-fields. While crossing the fields, they almost hoped for an assault: anything would be better than the grim sight and silence of the ash-fields. Every so often they would hear the doleful cries of some otherworldly creature off to the south, or the chattering of insects buried just beneath the ash. It seemed impossible that anything could survive in a wasteland such as this.
They reached a high and bare hill with a tower on its peak. Farther east they could see, through the bare skeletons of dead and rotting trees, mushrooms of unusual size growing like trees out of the ground. Sigrun didn't fancy going that way: she was never over-fond of mushrooms to begin with, being that they grew from dying things. Moreover, as a child she had had a dream of a mushroom that sprouted legs and came to life, with a voice that spoke from an unseen mouth in its cap; this had quite put her off to them, and seeing mushrooms the size of buildings wasn't any pleasant experience. Farther south they could just barely make out the sea and, farther in the distance, the Red Mountain smoking like a giant chimney on the edge of sight.
"So," Erik coughed. "Which way are we going?"
"Anywhere but east," she said. "I don't like the sight of those mushrooms."
"Why not?" he asked.
"I just don't, okay?" she returned, feeling rather silly for having to explain herself. "Gods, I'm already wishing d...the Dragonborn were here. He could probably do something about this ash."
"What could he do?" Erik asked.
"Shout the ash-clouds from the Red Mountain away?" Sigrun suggested. "Maybe then this land could have some cleaner air, for one thing. And maybe a relent from this damned ash. It gets everywhere, and it's so loose that you can't properly walk in it." She breathed a sigh. "It really puts you to the test."
"I know it," Erik added. "Sure wish we had something to camp in, though. The sea winds are really getting to me."
"You too, huh?"
"Well, I grew up all my life in Rorikstead. We never felt anything this cold over there."
"Hmm. Well, I guess I inherited my mother's love of the cold." She then turned her eyes north and smiled. "That's where we're going. I can see green trees in the distance; maybe the ash is less heavy over there." They started to pick their way north, keeping the hill with the tower on their left-hand side.
"So, let's hear it."
"Hear what?"
"The story. More than once I've heard you call the Dragonborn 'da'. If I'm not mistaken, you're probably close to my age, and he's at least in his thirties. Something doesn't add up."
"It's a little difficult to explain," Sigrun replied.
"You said you'd tell me the story," said Erik. "So go ahead. Let's hear it."
She sighed. "Well, as it turns out, my brother ran afoul of some daedric prince or another. Learned a lifetime's worth of knowledge, but...he grew into an old man. Time continued to pass on without him while he was learning. When he came back, he found everything in ruins: our world destroyed, our kin slain, everything had gone wrong. So he retreated once again into his...well, I guess you could call it plane of Oblivion, wherever the daedric prince had kept him...and, well, here's where things get really interesting."
"Yeah?"
"He reached out to me, gave me instructions to go back to the year I was born and put things to rights."
Erik nodded, though all of this was quite over his head. "So why do you call the Dragonborn 'da'?"
"Because he is my father," Sigrun replied. "And Mjoll the Lioness is my mother."
"And Jonna?"
"She's my best friend, and something of a sister to me. She wouldn't be parted from me and so decided to help me in my little endeavor."
"And what about the letter?"
"My brother gave it to me. I think he enchanted it or something, with different words. I know that sounds silly, but every time I open it, something new is written thereon."
"Ugh, mages," Erik replied. "My da said that nothing good ever comes from playing with magicka."
Sigrun didn't say anything, for now she heard a new sound that she hadn't heard since coming to Solstheim: running water. Eagerly, but slowly because of the loose ash, she ran the rest of the way forward until she arrived at the foot of a small stream. She squealed in excitement as she came to its banks, with Erik following on behind her.
"What? What is it?" Erik asked.
"That water's moving downhill from the north," she said. "If we follow the stream to its source, we might come to someplace where the water is fit to drink: someplace away from the ash!"
They both let out laughs and then started following the stream northward. It wound around the foot of a great hill of rock, as the land around them started to gently incline and then grow flat again. They soon realized that the land around them was easier to walk on: the ash was growing thinner and thinner. They followed the stream up to its source, a small waterfall in the side of the high hill, and found that the ash had ceased altogether. The two of them laughed aloud in happiness: the ash-fields were behind them now.
With renewed hearts, they carried on their way eastward, into the land that was now growing green around them. North and west, they could see the land rising higher and higher, until it was overcome with snow and ice. Near at hand, however, they saw another sight which lifted their spirits: the telltale sign of smoke rising up from a campfire, no less. Though they were weary, footsore, and dry of mouth from the ash, the promise of a fire was enough to rouse them from the stupor of the ash-fields and put fire in their step. They jogged the rest of the way through the trees, following the smoke-signal.
By and by they came upon a small beach on the eastern shore of the island. On said beach were seven tents made of animal skins set up around a small fire. Around this fire a handful of men and women in armor were laying about, humming to themselves, or walking about listlessly. Sigrun wondered if these were the Skaal, or if they were some other people. But from the sound of their voices, she was relieved: they were, at any rate, not Dunmer. What they were saying she could not tell, but whatever it was, they weren't very happy about it.
"Hail, kinsfolk!" she greeted them.
A few scattered "hails" were given in return. One of them, a woman dressed in leather armor with a cloak about her shoulders, stood up from the others and approached them. She was about middle-aged, but looked quite young despite it: with fair skin, eyes as blue as the Sea of Ghosts, and long blonde hair. Her thin lips were curled in a grim scowl that didn't change as she approached Sigrun, who was a few inches taller than her.
"What brings you here, outsider?" she asked. "Come to mock us in our shame, like the dark elves in Raven Rock?"
"I don't even know who you are," Sigrun replied, taken aback by the woman's harshness.
"Name's Bujold," the woman replied. "I lead this rowdy bunch: we're the warriors of Thirsk."
"We were the warriors of Thirsk!" one man grumpily muttered.
"And that's no one's fault, at all," Bujold retorted. She then turned back to Sigrun. "So what do you want?"
"Um, we're looking for the Skaal."
"They're up north," one of the men in the group said, pointing that way with his arm. "At least that's where they were."
"You mean something's happened to them?" Sigrun asked, a hint of worry in her voice.
"Not yet, anyway," the man returned. "But who knows, the way things are going. I've even heard rumors that there'll be another Bloodmoon this year. And the greatest warriors of the east won't get to be part of that!"
"Kuvar, please!" Bujold begged. "That kind of talk isn't going to get us anywhere."
"Talk won't get us anywhere, action will!" the one called Kuvar retorted.
"Well, I don't see you doing anything about this, darling!" Bujold replied, a little harsher than before. "You're more than willing to let those big-nosed blue devils keep our hall because, what? You like living in a tent by the sea?"
"Oh, not this again!"
"Um, I'm sorry," Sigrun said. "I don't want to get into the middle of something. So we'll just be going."
"No, stay," Bujold returned, turning back to Sigrun. "No, stay, and see the shame of the warriors of Thirsk. That's what you came to see, isn't it?"
"What? No!" Sigrun retorted. "I told you, I'm here for the Skaal."
Bujold frowned. "Fine. I just thought that, maybe, we could use someone like you. But if you're so determined to leave us out here in the cold..."
"Wait," Erik interjected. "Tell us what you need help with. Maybe we could help you."
Bujold paused and looked the two of them up and down. "It's possible that we could use the help. You're certainly armed, that's good."
"Well," Sigrun interjected. "Whatever we do, can we at least rest a bit? We've walked all the way from Raven Rock."
"Sure," Bujold sighed. "But there's not much here, so don't expect a feast." She walked over to Kuvar and forced him to give up his seat for the guests, then walked over to take her own seat by the fire. Sigrun and Erik sat side-by-side as Bujold introduced her small band: there was her husband Kuvar, her sister Hilund, Elmus the brewer, Halbarn Iron-Fur the smith, Sirkjorg and Herkja. To the surprise of Sigrun, she noticed Bujold drinking from a bottle of some white liquid which, she was sure, was milk. She had Kuvar pass them a bottle, which Sigrun refused.
"Don't you have anything else?" she asked.
"Anything else?" Bujold asked. "You don't like milk?"
"Well, you know what they say," Sigrun said, quoting something she had heard from the guards in Riverwood: "'Milk is for babies; when you grow up, you drink mead.'"
"There, you see?" Elmus interjected. "Now that's a woman after my own heart."
"Cute," Bujold replied. "But drinking is what got us into this mess in the first place."
"What happened?" Sigrun asked.
"We used to live in Thirsk," Bujold began. "That's the mead hall up on the hill in the snow to the west."
"Those were the days!" Hilund stated fondly. "The golden mead flowed freely and we sang songs and told the tales of the bold deeds of our chieftains of old."
At that, one of them began to sing. Slowly but surely, the others joined in until all seven voices were singing this old song. It wasn't anything Sigrun recognized, though the rhyming structure was similar to those of the songs she had heard back in Skyrim.
In the cave he met the Beast
And cut quite short it's evil feast
And when the Udyrfrykte did fall
The chieftain camed and claimed his hall
"Yes, those were the days, indeed," Bujold added, speaking to Sigrun as the laughter and merriment of the song died down. "But we kept on singing, and kept on drinking, and kept on telling stories: and then, one cold night, they came. Damned rieklings: about three foot high, ugly faces with big noses and floppy goblin ears."
"Only three feet tall?" Sigrun asked.
"That's nothing to laugh about!" Bujold retorted. "They came in great numbers and overwhelmed us. We had to run for our lives!"
"And leave the mead behind!" grumbled Elmus.
"You ran?" Sigrun asked. "And left your hall to these...rieklings?"
"Well, not really running," Bujold replied. "I mean, we could certainly take them on. We just...needed to come out here to catch our breath and regroup before coming back in and taking back our hall. Yeah, that's it."
"Uh-huh," Erik muttered. "And how long ago did this happen?"
"Not sure," Halbarn said. "Must have been before all the goings on in the center of the island happened. Miraak the First and all."
"That was last year," Sigrun said. "You're telling me you've been out here for almost a year?"
"Hey, you'd be singing a different tune if a horde of rieklings were throwing spears at you from the back of charging boars!"
"And exactly how many of these rieklings were there?"
"Uh...thirty."
"Last time it was five," Sirkjorg muttered to Herkja.
"And how many of you were there?"
"More than there are now," Bujold returned. "Still, what difference does it make at this point?"
"It makes a difference," Kuvar muttered. "Because now I have to sleep on the damned rocks in a tent instead of a nice warm bed, with a nice warm fire on the hearth, and a nice cold horn of mead in my hand." The others moaned in complaint at his words.
"Complaining isn't going to do anything about it, dear!" Bujold replied.
"So why don't you try and take it?" Sigrun asked. "You've been out here for months, surely you're rested enough to try and take back your hall."
"We'll go when we're good and ready," Bujold retorted. "And not a moment too soon."
Sigrun rose up, frustration building up in her. "This is ridiculous! Are you Nords or aren't you? You're letting someone weaker than you run over you?"
"There's no need to use that kind of language," Bujold stated. "Besides, how many have you slain in your day? I slew the great beast of Ilfark."
"And I slew seven fully grown Dunmer slavers," Sigrun replied, her voice rising in wrath as she rose to her feet. "All by myself in the midst of a storm. And I tell you all, if your hearts and your swords were as quick as your words, these rieklings wouldn't have been able to drive you out of your own hall!" She sat back down, ignoring the incredulous looks of the crestfallen warriors. Erik was amazed: he had never heard this about her, and was quite impressed to hear this. He leaned in and whispered to her:
"Was any of what you said true?"
"Every word of it." He looked even more amazed, which earned him a smile from Sigrun.
"Bold words," Bujold said. "But can you back them up with more than words? I don't think so."
"Come on, Erik," Sigrun sighed. "We're wasting our time here."
"Wait!" Bujold interjected. "Why don't we make a deal, hmm? Since you're so keen on showing off, why...uh...why don't you join us in driving out those rieklings? Yes, your words have sparked the old fire in us. If you're as good as you say you are, we might just be able to drive them out. Join us, and I'll help you find the Skaal."
"You know where the Skaal are?" Sigrun asked. "Truly?"
"Yes, truly," Bujold returned. "The founders of Thirsk emigrated from the Skaal to live freely like our kinfolk in Skyrim. We've always had ties with them. You help us with the rieklings and I'll show you where their village is."
Sigrun turned to Erik, who nodded; she turned around to Bujold. "Alright, then. Let's kill us some rieklings."
"Yeah!" Erik shouted, taking up his axe. He hadn't done any fighting since Rorikstead, near the middle of the month.
The others didn't really seem to respond. Only Bujold seemed interested, as she rose to her feet with her hand on her axe and a smoldering fire in her eyes. She then turned to those around the camp and began kicking their hind quarters.
"Come on, you lazy milk-drinkers!" she said to them. "Get up and get ready!"
"Oh, come off it, hun!" Kuvar grumbled. "We're just started to get settled in."
"Yeah," Hilund added. "You were more than content to let us stay out here."
"That was before," Bujold said. "Now I'm not going to let some wandering little girl outshine me! Plenty of time to rest and drink in the hall. Now get up, all of you!"
One by one, they rose up to their feet and got their weapons ready. All counted, there were nine of them: nine to go up against Shor alone knew how many rieklings. Sigrun had never seen a riekling before, and had no idea how they fought or how to defeat them. Her only hope was that, if anything Bujold said could be believed, they were a little more than half her height. At her side was Erik, his axe in hand. She wished that it was Jonna instead, for she knew how she fought and was comfortable having her at her back.
Behind them came the motley crew of Thirsk: all seven of them. Three weeks ago, Sigrun would have been overjoyed to have this many in her party for the salvation of Skyrim. But these were not warriors; these were milk-drinkers, soft-bellied sots who talked a big game with nothing to show for it. And there was Erik, a farmer's son who had managed to get one lucky shot in on a bandit twice his size. It would be a miracle if she could pull off a victory here, without her father's strength to aid her. The group was moving west, in the direction of their mead hall. Before joining the throng, Sigrun closed her eyes and prayed.
"Kynareth...Kyne..." she muttered under her breath, choosing now to embrace the old names for the Divines. "You blessed me in the storm, now bless me again. May my sword be drunk with the blood of my enemies, and may your winds bring me back to my father."
Drawing her sword and letting out a battle-cry, she ran after the warriors. Erik let out a cry of his own and ran after her, axe in hand. Beneath her feet, the earth became harder the farther inland she ran. Soon the ground became white as they entered upon the snow. She ran past the Thirsk warriors, who had suddenly halted their advance: high-pitched shrieking could be heard just up ahead. Suddenly a spear came whizzing towards Sigrun's head: she barely had time to duck to the left to avoid being skewered in the face.
Then she saw them: seven short, squat blue creatures clad in loincloths and wielding spears. Five of them were on foot, and two rode boars. One of the boar-riders threw a spear, which sliced through the side of Sigrun's arm. She regretted not having a shield now, but there was nothing for it: she now had to fight with one wounded arm. The boar riders started to circle the company as Sigrun ran head-long into the group, sword in hand. The five on foot started brandishing their spears to keep her off of them. She pushed one spear back and sliced the face of one riekling, sending it backwards into the snow. Just then Erik came charging forth, wrestling two of the buggers to the ground. A third jabbed him in the side with its spear, and he threw his axe into its face before turning his attention to the two that had he had wrestled to the ground.
One managed to crawl out from under his grasp, and was crawling over to the spear of one of its fallen comrades: the other Erik had in his grasp and was punching with his fists. Sigrun, meanwhile, had kicked the face of the fifth unmounted riekling before driving her sword into its neck. Turning about, she saw the last free riekling was coming up from behind to stab Erik. There was no time to warn him: with another kick she knocked this one off balance and followed it up with a sword-stab into its unprotected chest. She turned to help Erik, but found that he was already climbing up from the riekling body; its tiny frame was no match for his own larger body, forged from many long days of plowing and reaping.
"Thank you," he said to Sigrun, as he saw her standing over the body of the one that was coming up from behind. "I owe you one."
"Oh, no," she returned. "This was for Rorikstead. We're even now."
"The boars!" he cried out.
Sigrun barely had time to leap out of the way. The two riekling boar riders were circling the little group: Bujold and her companions were gathered back-to-back, weapons out, but looking rather scared and encumbered. Erik picked up his axe and was watching their movements, looking for an opening.
"Do we have any arrows?" he asked her.
"No!" she replied. "Even if we did, I suck at archery."
"Too bad we don't have any spears," he said absent-mindedly.
"Shor's balls, we do!" she returned, pointing with her sword to the ground. Five riekling spears were littered on the ground.
"Move!" Erik shouted, as another one came galloping towards them.
"These are no good, though!" he said. "They're the size of arrows! You need a proper pig-sticking spear to get those bastards, otherwise they'll charge through and gore you to death."
"We have to try something," Sigrun returned. "How's your aim?"
"Fair enough, I'd say," he said. "I can hit a mead sitting on the fence of the inn back home."
"You'll do, then," she said. "I'll try and cover you. Just make sure you get them before they get you."
"Get me some spears!"
Sigrun quickly gathered up all the spears she could find, then brought them over to Erik while she stood with her sword drawn, ready to attempt to fend off the boar riders. They were still circling the Thirsk warriors, who had no stomach to face them. They passed around the company and were now charging towards the other two. Erik heaved a spear at one of the boars, sticking it between the eyes. The beast went mad with rage and started flailing about, the riekling on its bristling back howling and chattering madly as it tried to keep it under control; but it galloped off into the snows, unable to wrest control of the beast.
The second one was charging directly at them. Erik went one way, Sigrun went another and slashed at it with her sword: the force of the beast nearly ripped her arm off as it charged on, her sword dug into its belly. Erik picked up a spear and hurled it at the boar, but missed it by a few inches. Sigrun picked up another spear and threw it, but her shot was wide and it dug into the snow, not far enough to hit it.
"You're wasting spears!" Erik shouted. "Here, take my axe and I'll try it again."
He handed her his axe and, then picked up the last two spears as the boar was charging around the flank of the Thirsk warriors. Once it came clear, he sent the spear hurling towards the charging boar. It stuck true, biting deep into its hide and remaining stuck there along with Sigrun's sword. He was now down to his last spear, and the boar was coming straight for them. He and Sigrun rolled out of the way, and she took a swing with his axe: the beast was already leaving the effective range of her swing, and the blade only managed to scratch the surface of its thick hide, not causing much damage. As it was swinging around to make a pass at the Thirsk warriors, Erik hurled his last spear, striking the broadside of the boar's body: a direct hit, but the boar was not stopped.
"Dammit!" he swore. "I'm out of spears."
"He's all yours, Bujold!" Sigrun shouted to their companions.
None of the Thirsk warriors dared to make a move: none of them save for Halbarn, the largest one. In his hand was a might hammer, and he brought it down upon the side of the boar's head as it was charging towards their side. The blow struck home, shattering many bones in the boar's skull, and sending its rider flying off into the snow. Sirkjorg and Herkja leaped after the downed riekling, beating it with their maces. Halbarn, meanwhile, advanced upon the crippled boar and brought another mighty hammer-swing down upon its head. The others broke ranks and ran over to Sigrun and Erik, while Halbarn removed Sigrun's sword from the beast's body and returned it to her.
"That was amazing!" Bujold exclaimed, as she kicked a downed riekling. "My blood's starting to boil at the sight of these fiends."
"Are you serious?" Sigrun asked. "You didn't even kill one of them."
"Oh, that's quite enough, thank you," Bujold returned. "There's plenty for the rest of us inside the hall." She gestured towards the hall. "After you."
Thirsk was an impressive sight, even for Sigrun who had seen Jorrvaskr. Whereas, from a distance, Jorrvaskr was clearly built as a ship's hull before becoming the hall that it now was, this was from the ground up a hall of warriors. It struck an impressive image, standing up out of the snow and ice in its stately grandeur. Here was a little piece of home, even all the way out here in Solstheim: it made Sigrun's heart glad.
Halbarn went for the door, while Sigrun and Erik tended their wounds. The spear stab and cuts he had taken were bad, but none of them fatal. The gash in Sigrun's left arm could only be bandaged with a few strips of cloth from her cloak: they still had the hall to take care of. Wielding his mighty hammer as a battering ram, Halbarn began to pound on the doors of the hall: obviously the rieklings had barricaded the hall, or else the first blow would certainly have opened the hall to them. A second strike came, and the doors held: then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, but still it held. On the sixth blow, the door burst open and they entered the dimly lit hall within. Chattering and shrieking sounds were heard, and Sigrun and Erik, along with Halbarn, were the first ones into the hall.
A swing from Halbarn's hammer crushed the skull of one, and the force of the blow hit another in the shoulder and sent it flying into a stave pillar. Erik buried his axe in the head the first one that attacked him, then kicked another one into the fire-pit in the center of the hall. Four had fallen, and there were still nine more in the hall. Upon hearing the howls of the burning riekling, a great number of them charged towards Erik. Taking advantage of his distraction, Hilund, Kuvar, and Elmus each slew one of the advancing rieklings, but three of them slipped past them and leaped upon Erik. Sigrun, meanwhile, was making her way towards a particularly fat one with a headdress of many feathers: this, she surmised, was their chief. If she could take him down, the rest might scatter.
One of the little buggers leaped at her, and Sigrun decapitated it with a swift, deadly stroke, then continued on her way to the chief. Meanwhile, Erik was trying desperately to fight off the three rieklings that had attacked him: most of the Thirsk warriors were busy making sure their own kills were dead, save for Herkja, Sirkjorg, and Bujold. They were guarding the doors, maces in hand, while Bujold was standing behind Kuvar: there was no blood upon her axe. Erik managed to push them off him, and threw his axe at one of the rieklings: the force pinned it to the wall, and it bled out, but now he was without a weapon. Grabbing a spear from one of the fallen, he used it to fend off the other two as they were now quickly on their feet and jabbing him with their spears.
Sigrun was now staring down the chief of the rieklings, sword in her hand. She took a swing at it, but the chieftain leaped aside deftly. Another swing, and it dodged it with ease. The chief howled and thrust with his spear, and Sigrun was barely able to leap aside to avoid the thrust. She swung again, and the chief leaped aside and sent her a thrust to the leg. Reflexively, she moved her knee to avoid the blow and lost her balance, falling face first onto the ground. The chief leaped onto her back, spear in hand, ready to run her through. Sigrun pushed herself up onto her feet, and the chief gripped her shoulders to keep from falling off her back. Sigrun then pushed her back against one of the stave pillars, crushing the chief between herself and the beam. She stepped back and slammed herself again.
But as she came around for a third shove, he started biting her neck. Sigrun took the little writhing beast and heaved him off her back, into a stack of barrels. With great speed, the chief leaped back onto its feet and threw its spear at Sigrun; this time it struck home, hitting her in the lower right-side of her stomach. Only the chain-mail hauberk prevented the spear from going in deeper. She lunged at the chief, who leaped out of her reach and started bounding towards the door. With the battle-fury hot in her veins, and her mind unclear from the pain, Sigrun tore the spear from her belly and heaved it at the chieftain: normally she wouldn't have attempted this, knowing her poor throwing skills.
The spear barely nicked the riekling, but it was thrown with enough force to send it off its feet and falling to the floor of the hall. Sigrun stumbled over to the fallen chieftain and, with a swift thrust, sent her sword into the chest of the chief. It twitched for several minutes, gurgling in a sickening rasp, and then was still.
Sigrun pushed herself up to her feet, and looked about the hall. One of the two rieklings that Erik was fighting lay dead beside him, a spear in its face. The other he was beating to death with his bare fists. Once the little bastard stopped moving, he got up onto his knees and turned to Sigrun: his face was covered in blood, and his hands were twitching, but he was still alive. She limped over to him, an amazed look on her face.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
"Aye, I think I am," he replied. "Those little bastards have a mean bite, but I came out on top. How many did you kill?"
"Five," she said. "Three outside, and then two in here. How about you?"
"Seven."
"Seven?" she exclaimed. "You killed seven rieklings? Damn! Keep that up, and they'll be calling you Erik the Slayer."
Erik chuckled. "That will set me apart from Eirik the Dragonborn, won't it?" Sigrun laughed, and Erik smiled again. There was something about her laugh that warmed his heart.
"How about you?" she turned to the others. "How many did you kill?"
Most of them only managed to kill one per person; Halbarn managed to get three. For a moment, they breathed a sigh of relief and took wind. Sigrun noticed that Bujold wasn't anywhere around. She looked among the bodies of the rieklings, but didn't see her. She then heard a cutting sound and groans of frustration and turned towards them. Over by the body of the chief of the rieklings she found Bujold: she was on her knees, trying to cut the chief's head off with her axe.
"What are you doing?" Sigrun asked.
"Claiming my kill," Bujold replied.
"Your kill?" Sigrun asked. "Excuse me, I killed him."
"No, you merely wounded him," Bujold returned. "This little big-nosed rat took my hall from me; it's only fitting that I kill him." After many moments of frustrating struggle, she managed to take off the chief's head and held it aloft to the others.
"Behold, warriors of Thirsk!" she declared proudly. "Let no man call me Bujold 'the Unworthy' again! For I have slain the rieklings and brought you back here to your mead hall!" She threw the head of the chieftain towards the door, among her fellow warriors. Kuvar and Hilund shouted praises at her, and the other four echoed them back. Sigrun and Erik were quiet.
"Now comes the hard part," Bujold said. "We have to clean the filth of these rieklings from our hall, and make it a place of feasting and merry-making once again."
Sigrun stepped outside of the hall, a look of disgust in her eyes. She could barely stand to breathe the same air as such a coward. How could anyone as weak and lily-livered as she pretend, in full view of her compatriots, that she had actually done something for them? Did she have no fear of the gods? Clearly no one with even a cursory regard for any authority, divine or otherwise, would be such a flagrant coward and liar. But as she thought and kicked at the bloodied snow, her eyes turned her east to their camp. She thought about how much she had heard them complain about their predicament, yet none of them were willing to do anything about it: not even Bujold. Weak, complacent, indecisive...
Her eyes turned westward, across the snow-drifts and ash-fields, and farther more across the Sea of Ghosts; to Skyrim. She feared for her Father Eirik, and for the cause. Every day that she was away from them, their enemies were amassing and biding their time for the first strike. Despite the incident with Idolaf, she was certain that Eirik would never stoop to the complacent levels of crippling indecision which Bujold possessed: all he needed were enough proofs to dispel any doubts his Colovian upbringing may have imparted to him, and he could move mountains if they stood in his way. Yet despite this, she saw that the affect of his Colovian upbringing was indecision of his own. It would be his undoing, especially if unchecked and allowed to sink to this level.
"Kyne..." she prayed. "Give Jonna the strength to convince my da to do what must be done."
(AN: Lot of stuff in this chapter; a lot of references to other things: like Arnold's one-liner from Pumping Iron, especially since it is often joked that some of the Nords in Skyrim sound like Arnie, the Thirsk chieftain song from Bloodmoon, and of course, some oblique references to 2006 Beowulf. I know people who are in the know might find those lines a bit cheesy [kind of like in The Dragon of the South where I had Madanach use a modern slur], but I hope that at least throws some humor for you.)
(Funny story: in my Skyrim game, I have the Relationship Dialogue Overhaul, which can lead to some very interesting [and even Oblivion-esque] moments of dialogue. Serana will flirt with you if you take off all your clothes, regardless of your character's sex [don't ask me how I found that out], followers and spouses will have much more varied things to say [culled from other NPCs who share their voice sets]: this led to Mjoll shouting "let's kill us some rieklings" while I was traveling with her and Vilja in Solstheim. Even though she has an extensive commentary on nearly everything, I hadn't heard that one before: turns out it's pieced together from Bujold's lines, since they share a voice set.)