Prologue
"Hold your tongue, Ulfric," Torygg urged as his retainers reached for their blades. "You won't accomplish anything with threats of violence."
"Did your Imperial master tell you that?" Ulfric mocked with a hint of a smile.
Torygg didn't take to the man's jab. He was young, barely past thirty, yet mature beyond his years. "The treaty was signed," he pronounced. "You are well aware that we had little choice in the matter."
"And your Nibenese whore?" Ulfric asked harshly. "Did we have little choice to put a foreigner on the throne?"
"Don't breathe a word of my wife," Torygg's voice was gruff and angered. "She is your queen and that is final."
It was known that the Jarl of Eastmarch took issue with the Empire after The Great War. Torygg's marriage to Elisif was bound to cause a quarrel sooner or later. "Be that as it may, I will not have the spawn in her belly as High King!"
"Hrolfdir thought similarly, Stormcloak," Torygg replied. "There is a reason he eventually bent the knee."
"And now the fool lays in the ground." Ulfric retorted. "Won him his city back, just for the halfwit to agree to having it taken again."
Torygg scoffed at the man. "You think him a fool for trying to prevent war? After your slaughter of the Reachfolk, Bear?" he said, dragging out the final word.
The older man's mouth tightened, barely suppressed anger raging in his eyes. Ulfric was a man past fifty, spending most of his years in war, a lifestyle that didn't allow for him to be made light of often. Torygg could tell that the Jarl didn't approve of his given nickname, he wasn't fond of being seen as a brute. He could almost taste it; the rising tension that came remarkably close to pique.
Torygg shared his anger, albeit for different reasons. He had served as High King for the last decade, and in that time he was met with diplomatic hell. Constant supervision from the Dominion, rising tensions amongst the Holds, and the weakening of the Empire had made him wizened and shrewd. The Bear of Markarth might have been his senior in matters of war but he would not stand for his contempt.
Torygg knew he should be careful. The man in-front of him was not some hot headed clansman, he was a jarl and a seasoned one at that. Torygg grew up hearing tale of the man's siege of Markarth and how he shouted down the men of the Reach. That was two decades ago, now the man had an army and was furiously berating him in his throne room. The tension was thick. His steward signaled to him to hold his tongue.
Falk Firebeard was the youngest son of a local clan with too many heirs. He was of matured complexion, reddish brown hair and broad like an axe. He was a shorter man, meeting Torygg's nose. He favored earthen colors; wearing a brown padded tunic and pale hose and breeches. His emerald pendant glinted around his neck. He served as Solitude's steward since before Torygg was crowned, proving to be unparalleled when it came to matters of coin and wisdom.
Falk had advised Torygg on dealing with the Jarl of Eastmarch before. "Influential and barbaric, not one to trifle with," the man had told him, "he'd sooner have your head than your apology." Torygg remembered the frigid tone well.
It was easy to take orders from a man who held himself like a bear. Ulfric's men would follow him to Oblivion, a fact which Torygg was well aware.
"We were made to fight for the Empire, we did," Ulfric said. "Our brothers died. Sons taken from fathers, all for what? For those damn elves to come and force us to forsake our god?"
The High King heard him. He listened intently, nodding along. Torygg didn't disagree with Ulfric, being a follower of the Nordic gods as well. He was, however, not foolish enough to call his people to war against the very force that brought the Empire to its knees. "The Dominion's Justiciars hadn't stepped foot on our lands until your siege, Ulfric."
There was little to no enforcement regarding the ban of Talos worship. Ulfric's demand for religious freedom following the Markarth Incident incited the Dominion's action, a fact that the Jarl of Windhelm forgot often.
"We've spoken of this before, Torygg," Ulfric said. "We don't need another war. I don't want another war. I yearn for Skyrim's independence, freedom for her people. Freedom from the enfeebled Empire and its concordat."
"And when the Empire comes to prevent our secession? How will you prevent that war?"
"Then I will meet them with force," Ulfric's response was short.
"Are you mad?"
"The elven bitch that tortured me now has free reign to walk amongst our people's lands and do with them what she will, the people who slaughtered our brothers continue to do so and with pardon," Ulfric's tone was furious. "So no I am not mad, I seem to be the only sane one amongst us."
"You'd sooner throw Skyrim into a slaughter house than avenge the fallen."
Ulfric's glare hardened. "Don't talk of things of which you know little, boy."
"Little?" Torygg rebutted. "If I called for secession we would immediately be met with the Legion and Dominion's blade at our throat.
"As if it's not already?" Ulfric said steel-clad certainty. "Are you really so blind to not see what is happening? We have the damn Thalmor slaughtering and kidnapping children!"
"Starting a war we will not win is not a solution, Ulfric. There is more on the line than our pride."
"I will not stand idly by any longer," Ulfric palmed the steel blade attached to his waist. The motion did not go unnoticed by his onlookers.
Torygg's eyes widened slightly as his clansguard reached for their weapons. "Careful, Stormcloak."
"You would have our people be indolent," Ulfric said. "Have them be slaves for the sake staying in a weakened Empire's good graces. I will not allow it."
"I am bound to the Empire by marriage, Ulfric," The High King placed his palm over the hilt of his sheathed longsword. "I will not betray that bond. To do so is to betray my wife."
The jarl scoffed at his king. Tension was building thick between them and their clansguard proved restless. "Is that all it takes?" Ulfric asked gruffly. "Cyrodil gives you a whore so you're forced to stand idly by while they hegemonize us." He shrugged his shoulders, shifting the brown bear skin cloak atop his frame.
"We need stability," Torygg said with iron certainty. "Our people just finished fighting a bloody war, and an uprising along with it, all when I was just half a boy. You can talk of oppression, how our enemies roam our lands, but the real danger is your rush to be consumed by flame. You are like a moth, drawn to this idea of vengeance and justice, but all you will find is an end worse than any mortal death. Nothing dies with more haste than one already weakened. No. We will rest, we will recover, and we will not betray the only aid we have left."
Falk nodded in approval of the High King's words, a small smile gracing his lips. Ulfric stirred.
"We will never heal while they continue to scar us from within," Ulfric gripped the pommel of his blade, knuckles turning white. "You speak of rushing into flame when you would prefer us boil from within. You expect to recover when they survey your every breath?"
Torygg shrugged. "Our people will fair better for it."
Ulfric glared at the boy king, the scar on his cheek from when the Thalmor gashed his skin flushed red with anger. "We will see how you fair with a sword in your belly." Torygg's clansguard acted immediately, briskly unearthing their weapons.
"At your word, lord," Bryling announced. She stood as chief of Haafingar's clanguard and Thane to the realm.
"Stand down, Bryling."
"My lord, he just threat-"
Torygg's tone was stern. "Stand down."
"You are no king of mine." Ulfric's voice was low and harsh.
"You threaten treason?" Torygg's glare could pierce steel, eyes darting between the various Stormcloak clanguard. "Start a war amongst our own people?"
Ulfric shook his head. "No. I am no fool nor would I prefer war between brothers. We will settle this dispute in the tradition of our clans and fathers long before, I demand Holmgang." Ulfric's smile was cocksure yet rage was still evident. "We will meet blades and let our blood decide."
The uproar was mighty, voices all but shaking the halls of the Blue Palace. Falk Firebeard hurried to his liege ear, voice rushed and strained. Bryling gripped her blade, anger on a hair's breadth from fulminating. Torygg and Ulfric's clansguard stood armed, poised for attack.
"SILENCE!" The room fell quiet, all eyes turning to the High King. Torygg pondered Ulfric before speaking. "Holmgang has not been called since the second era; you wish to challenge my rule in The Old Way?"
"If you will not do your kingly duty and stand by Skyrim and her people, then I must fulfill mine."
"You would have me abdicate?"
"I am left with no other choice," Ulfric responded. "I will do what I must. "
Torygg was silent for a period, hesitant to respond. He spoke, his voice like a breath. "Very well. We will fight until first blood, the throne shall be the spoils."
Falk attempted to intervene, but to no avail. The Holmgang had been accepted, they were honor bound to partake.
Dusk's twilight enveloped the city of Solitude, joined by the crisp cold winds of the north. The Bear and the Wolf stood across from one another, roughly ten paces in whole. Their battle mere moments from erupting, overlooked by three thousand in all, would come to serve as one of the few bouts of combat that Torygg would experience.
Ulfric was larger than Torygg, fitting well with his moniker of Bear. Falk had warned him of The man's prowess in battle, a conversation Torygg had with bated breath. He was just a boy when he had first heard of Ulfric Stormcloak's brutal attack on the Reach.
The man was clad in fur clothes, the same bear skin cloak from the day of the challenge. He wielded a steel longsword, a weapon that somehow seemed small relative to his massive stature. His skin was weathered, most likely from Eastmarch's brutal frozen winds, and his honey colored hair faced much the same condition.
Torygg delivered the first blow, his blade easily deflected by Ulfric's own. The breath of the two men mingled, appearing as vapor in the cold northern air. The blades of the two met again in a swift clash, causing a small gasp to erupt from a small number of the crowd. Torygg created space and shot a long glance at his wife, Lady Elisif the Fair. She was months along with his child, the future heir to the throne should things go well. He thrusted his blade forward, hoping he proved proficient enough to succeed. The older man parried with ease.
Falk sat within the overhang of Solitude's public square, overseeing the battle from above. Trimmed red beard and matured face, the man was wizened beyond his years and proved to be a good ally to the High King. However, the grim look in his eyes paid Torygg no comfort, he was not at all the man who once gave him company with warmth and drink.
Their blades clashed again and Torygg grew more aggressive with his attacks, attempting a fast succession of slashes and thrusts into Ulfric's chest. Each attack was met with an equally intense parry and counterattack. The two were seemingly equally matched, a fact that the younger man grew thankful of.
Torygg readied his blade to strike again. "Wolf Fang," he had called it, named after the sigil of his clan. It was roughly two inches wide and had a length of a little over half his own height. The blade was made of skyforge steel, forged by the Gray-Manes and seemingly as luminescent as Secunda and Masser. There were few finer blades in the province.
He grunted as Ulfric met his blade with a heavy slash, knocking him back a foot. The Bear began to meet his aggression, causing Torygg's adrenaline to spike. Sweat began to drip from his chin. He made an upwards slash towards the man's leg.
"You know how this will end, boy," Ulfric spoke, exasperated in tone.
Torygg responded with a grunt, followed by a flurry of targeted thrusts to the gut. Each one narrowly avoided and parried. Ulfric's annoyance was obvious, he expected Torygg to be weak. A boy king of no significant combat prowess, an expectation that was very much so squashed.
Torygg had expected a clash of some sort for the better part of year. The Old Holds had grown discontent with the Empire after the White-Gold Concordat, with tensions rising further after his marriage to the Emperor's niece. Of course, the young king was well aware of the Empire's attempt to further solidify their hold on his nation. His son will be an Imperial born heir, heavily influenced by his mother and her native culture; a fact that brought many to their breaking point, Ulfric included. That by no means prepared him for the Holmgang, the ceremonial duel of the Old Way was not a thing to be taken lightly
"You will not be High King, Stormcloak."
Torygg's assault hastened, each blow against Ulfric's blade causing the older warrior to be pushed back. The younger of the two men was proving superiority, an occurrence that few expected. The ring of metal on metal reverberated throughout the public square, deafening the voices of the crowd.
The night shrouded Ulfric's face, but Torygg could see the hard glitter in his eyes. For a moment he was afraid, terrified at his chances against the war hardened Jarl. He just barely deflected a heavy thrust from the man's fearsome blade, only to then be met by Ulfric's elbow slamming into his face. He could taste the slightest thing of iron on his tongue; blood. He swallowed it down in haste, barely maneuvering away from a slash to the arm.
Torygg's will nearly abandoned him, he groped for courage he did not have. It felt impossible. His eyes swept back forth, following every swing and thrust of his opposer's steel blade. He found himself thankful that the Jarl of Eastmarch opted to use a blade, had he used his signature axe his blows would not so easily be parried.
"We will see," Ulfric was short-spoken, sending a flurry of well calculated swipes at Torygg's blade arm.
Torygg parried all of them.
The Bear of Markarth made space and sent a glance towards the High King, visibly shook by the green boy's skill in battle. "The throne will be mine, Torygg. I will free our people."
Torygg met his gaze, wordless. There was no use arguing. His blade moved, an aimed swipe at Ulfric's head. The Bear moved to parry when the skyforge steel edge changed trajectory, nearly taking off his hand. A move that was quickly met with a grunt and a swipe at the legs.
Torygg saw movement from the corner of his eye. His wife was clad in a beige dress. He made space and turned his head, glimpsing a small view of her beauty. Then his attention was snatched. The ring of the collision could be felt in the air, steel meeting steel. Ulfric opened his mouth to shout his anger but couldn't, voice lost in his throat as he barely managed to parry Torygg's own counter blow to the leg. How could one so green be this capable with a blade?
Behind him, to left, to right, all around them, the three thousand watched, faceless, the shifting hues of their cloth clothes making them blend as if they were a pool of murky water. They stood on edge, breath held as Torygg sent his flurry.
Ulfric stumbled backwards, grunting as he dug his soles into the stone below him. Torygg saw his eyes; wide and calculating, a hint of anxiety could be seen. Ulfric's blade fixed itself onto his skyforged longsword, an attempted swipe at the wrist.
Torygg met him bravely. Pushing Ulfric back with a shove forwards. He raised his blade, defiant of the older man's strike. His hand held firm, knuckles white from his grip. He was no longer a green boy, but High King of the North.
Again and again their blades met, steel collisions ringing throughout the square. They were winded from their efforts. Ulfric's blade had gained a number of chips along its edge; Torygg's only marginally fairing better.
Torygg made a downward side slash, aiming for Ulfric's sword arm. The Bear's parry came a second too late. The King's steel sheared through the cloth atop the jarl's arm, followed by a harsh kick to his knees. The man let loose a howl of pain, falling to a kneel. Blood seeping from the cut, dampening his cloak. He brought his palm to the wound, blood as red as snowberries drenching his hand.
Torygg went wide-eyed before smiling. He kneeled to the older man's side, keeping the hilt of his blade level with his waist. "You stand defeated, Bear. The Holmgang has been decided."
The crowd let loose a cheer, praising their High King. It would be a battle to tell for the ages, one that would be written in song. That Battle of the Bear and Wolf. Ulfric's glare cut like a dagger into Torygg, face inflamed with red anger. "You know nothing, boy."
"I know that I have won, Stormcloak," The King retorted, tone serious. "No more talks of war and vengeance. We will recover before I see your will be done."
Torygg rose, turning to face away from Ulfric. He waved and smiled to his people, turning and doing the same to his wife and Falk. The weight of battle relieving itself from his shoulders, he laughed and continued for his wife. The thought of tonight's feast already appealing to him.
"We are not done, Wolf," Ulfric's tone was guttural and deep, sounding more like the growl of his alias than any human tongue. "This Holmgang is not at completion."
Torygg shook his head and let loose an exhale, not halting his pace. He didn't reward Ulfric with a response.
"Torygg!"
The High King turned to the jarl's roar, hastily raising his blade to meet the forbidden charge. He made to parry his opponent's strike, only for an invisible force to erupt from Ulfric Stormcloak's mouth in a language Torygg only vaguely understood. He was knocked off balance, grip loosening from Wolf Fang, blade falling from his fingers as it was struck. The young king could only let loose a howl as The Bear of Markarth sheathed the steel into his heart. His glare bore into the Jarl of Eastmarch, cursing as his eyes lost the luster of life.
Ulfric Stormcloak pulled his blade from the fallen High King's chest, watching as the man's body fell limply to the ground. His Holmgang had been decided, his people will be free. He turned away from the crowd, making way to flee as the Valtyr clansguard made to charge him. It was for naught, he would escape and he would make Skyrim his own. Carving way for a new era of Nordic revolution, he would be High King.