The Palace of the Kings was in uproar by the time Ulfric Stormcloak arrived, word of his homecoming having spread quickly from the sentries on the walls. Breakfast had been in process, and so the kitcheners were rapidly clearing the tables as other servants hurried to assist him into the hall. He waved them curtly away. They meant well, but he was in no mood to be coddled. Not when he had left Windhelm with a score of soldiers and returned with only three. Three, he thought, scowling to himself as he felt his fists clench involuntarily. And that was not even the worst of it.
"Ulfric," a familiar guttural voice said, and he looked up to find Galmar Stone-Fist, faithful general and friend of a lifetime by now, standing before him with an expression of deep concern etched onto his scarred face. He could barely look his old friend in the eye, shaking his head. Instead, he turned to his steward, who hovered a few feet away, waiting for the word that would send him to whatever task was required. A good man,Ulfric thought, before his expression hardened. But then, I thought I had surrounded myself with nothing but good men.
"See to it that these soldiers here are taken care of. Make sure they receive the best medical attention and food we can provide, and double their pay. They've earned it. Then, come speak with me. We have much to do."
"At once, my lord," Jorleif replied with a quick bow and moved immediately towards the exhausted soldiers who were still waiting near the entrance, while Ulfric turned and hurried stiffly towards his war-room. He heard Galmar fall in close behind him, wisely deciding to hold all questions until they were alone.
He had never seriously believed that he would die in Helgen. No, there was too much ahead of him, too much left unfinished. Failure was not the fate that Talos had ordained for Ulfric Stormcloak. He had prayed with every fiber of his being as he watched his men filed before the headsman's block, and the gods had answered, albeit in much grander way than anyone could have expected. The dragon's huge, hideous visage was seared into his memory for all time. Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound, with a hunger to swallow the world. There was no doubt in Ulfric's mind. War and family duty had called him away from his studies at High Hrothgar, but in the hidden part of him that was still attuned to the Voice, he could detect the shift like the deepest notes of a drum that had to be felt rather than heard.
"Close the door," he told his housecarl as they reached the relative privacy of the war-room. Only then, did he let himself sink, painfully, into a chair. There was no part of his body that did not hurt in some way, but he had taken a stray arrow in the thigh as they fought their way free of the frenzy in Helgen and the barbed head was still buried in his flesh. Blood oozed from the wound when he shifted his weight, dampening his already gore-stiffened breeches. At least the cold had prevented it from suppurating quickly and taking the wound-fever.
"Let me send for your healer," Galmar urged, and Ulfric shook his head.
"Let him tend to the others first. This isn't a dangerous wound, and a good Jarl makes sure his men are seen to first. How else are they supposed to risk their lives for me?"
"What happened? What reports we heard don't make sense." Galmar asked, cautiously. To most, the old soldier seemed to be a rough brute of a man and no more, but Ulfric had known him long enough by now to realize that the mind behind his brutish exterior was just as sharp as the axe he carried. If there's anyone I can trust, old friend, he thought, and shook his head.
"We were ambushed at Darkwater Crossing. They knew exactly where we were going to be." Ulfric could hear the bitter growl begin in his own voice and stopped himself for a moment. Even to Galmar, he would not admit what was really going through his mind. I was forced to surrender. To Tullius, of all people. It had been the right decision at the time, and circumstances had borne him out, but it still galled him, grating at his pride in the same way that the arrowhead in his leg grated into his flesh. After a moment, he continued, his composure regained. "They were set to take us to Cyrodiil, but diverted to Helgen at the last moment. I suppose Tullius didn't want to risk the rest of the journey after the escape attempts."
"Coward," Galmar remarked, his lip curling, and Ulfric nodded, gratified by his friend's assessment. He would have slaughtered the Imperial general if the man had ever deigned to go toe to toe in combat like a honorable soldier, of that Ulfric had no doubt. Tullius had used his superior numbers and Ulfric's concern for his own men as a shield. A tactic for a weak man to be sure, but no one could deny that it had worked.
"The dragon attacked during the executions. We were able to use the chaos to get away. Those that you saw are all that survived."
"A dragon." Galmar replied, his voice trailing off. Ulfric could see the surprise, and then the unease building in the man's eyes. How long had it been since he had seen Galmar Stone-Fist uneasy about something? "Then the legends are true."
"Of course, they are," Ulfric scoffed in return, and tried to ease himself up again. Galmar was there in an instant, grasping his arm to help him, as he straightened and sighed, his body protesting the move mightily. The legends are true. And that complicates things. "We have a great deal of planning to do."
"You should rest first." Though they had been friends for far too long to stand on ceremony, it was not often that Galmar exerted the privileges that a lifetime of familiarity engendered. Ulfric could see that his old friend would not take "no" for an answer now, though, and in his innermost thoughts he was grateful for that. It was a rare breed of loyalty these days, and he was going to need that for what was to come more than ever before.
"We're getting too old for this, you know," he remarked, as he began the slow hobble towards the stairs, and saw the housecarl grin, old bear that he was.
"Never. Not until they put me in the ground and pile the stones over me."
"Tell Jorlief to send the healer up when he's finished and a servant with water and food. A few hours of sleep should see me through, and then we need to get to work."
"Should I gather the council?" The question hung in the air as Ulfric reached the doorway and paused.
"No. It's up to the two of us alone from now on," he replied and saw Galmar cock his head slightly at that, dark grey eyes going serious. Typically, the Jarl's privy council included the housecarl, the steward, the court mage, and a few other notables from the hold or the Stormcloak forces. They were supposed to advise the Jarl and maintain utmost secrecy, and they always had. Until now. It was too much of a coincidence that Tullius had known precisely what Ulfric's travel route and escort strength had been, with enough lead time to make an appearance there himself as well. There was only one explanation. Ulfric's fingers gripped the archway of the stairwell angrily, the stone scraping under his fingers as he looked into his old comrade's eyes. "Someone has betrayed us. Someone in my inner circle. I don't know which one of the bastards it is yet, but, by Talos, I will find out. And Oblivion will seem like a welcoming embrace when I'm finished with him."
~~0~~
Whiterun was turning out to be more of a tangle than Brim had reckoned on. She had watched the road from an overlooking ridge for half an hour or so, noting the guard patrols as the meandered between the outlying houses and farms. They seemed alert, but did not appear to be searching for anything particularly. Finally, she had decided to try her luck, and had gotten all the way up to the gates before anyone stopped her.
"No visitors allowed into Whiterun today on account of the dragons about," the gate guard told her. After she had put on her best earnest expression and dropped a mention of Gerdur's request, they grudgingly agreed to let her in. With an escort.
"We'll be keeping an eye on you," the guard had warned her, suspiciously, as if she might be in league with the great flapping monster that had evidently darkened their skies as well. Too twitchy, this lot, she thought as she was hurried along the high street and through the market. She had planned to do a little freelancing and be gone before anyone was the wiser, but even the common folk seemed to be on their toes today. She didn't know the place well enough to ditch the guard they had stuck her with, so she might as well just deliver the message, make a few discreet inquiries in the inns, and head back to Riverwood before anyone turned up looking for escaped prisoners. If she was lucky, this Jarl would take after the nobles down in the City and be too important to look closely at someone like Brim.
The city, such as it was, rose up around her in fortified concentric terraces, each grander than the last. At the very top of the tor stood a huge hall, which seemed to be where the guard was taking her. While the whole place was much bigger than the pokey village she had just come from, it was hardly what Brim would have called a city by Cyrodiilic standards. The architecture was distinctly foreign to her, all intricately carved wood beams and peaked roofs and hardly a stone edifice in sight. Except for being primarily strapping Nord types, the people seemed much the same, though. The common muck looks the same everywhere, Brim guessed and smiled to herself. A few modifications in the way she wore her hair and clothes and she could blend right in, provided she kept her mouth shut. The peculiar lilting accent that was being spoken around her would take some getting used to before she could reproduce it passably.
The hall seemed even more immense from the inside, and better lit and furnished than she had guessed it would be. Rib-like wooden arches supported a vaulted ceiling, and she could see the figures of intricately carved men and dragons in the rafters. The guard, his errand done, left her in the foyer after dropping a brief explanation of why she was there to his cronies at the door. She considered ducking back outside, but that would look suspicious. Before she could make up her mind, she heard the metallic shink of a sword being drawn and looked up to see an armored, sharp-featured Dunmer woman, her greyish blue skin making a surprising contrast with her tightly bound mop of rust red hair, looking displeased as she approached. Oh, hells, not again. Brim shifted backwards cautiously, clasping her hands in front of her, just close enough to her sword to be able to reach it in time if this was an attack and far enough away that it would not look like she was going for her weapon.
"What is the meaning of this interruption?" the Dunmer growled, in a far more cultured voice than Brim would have expected. "The Jarl is not accepting visitors."
That's an awful big blade to be waving in the face of a potential visitor, Brim wanted to say, relieved that she did not appear to have been recognized after all, but wisely held her tongue. Conjuring up the "good citizen" act that had gotten her past the gate guards, she answered, "If'n you please, I've just come from Helgen and Riverwood and . . ."
"You were at Helgen?" The Dunmer woman's demeanor changed immediately and she sheathed her sword without so much as an apology. No manners at all up here, I tell you. "That explains why the guards let you in. Jarl Balgruuf will want to speak with you personally. Come with me."
"Oh, I wouldn't want to bother his lordship personally, your honor. Gerdur of Riverwood just . . ." But the Dunmer had already turned and started towards the back of the hall. At a hard glance from the guards, Brim sighed and followed. If the common muck was just the same everywhere no matter where you went, then hopefully the nobles were, too. She arranged her face in a display of suitable humility and awe.
The Jarl of Whiterun reclined in an ornate chair on a dais just past the tables that lined the hall's great oblong firepit. To Brim's surprise, the huge skull of a dragon hung on the wall perhaps ten feet over his head. Well, then, I suppose you are the chap to talk to about dragons. He was a man of middle years, tall and fair like many of the Nords she had known. His blond beard was simply knotted at the bottom, most likely for comfort, and the eyes that looked out of his time-worn face were a bright, pale blue. The amount of gold evident on his person alone made Brim's brain spin with calculations of wealth, but the thick ropes of muscle and sinew on the man's arms and the heavy axe that leaned within easy reach of his right hand indicated that this was no overgrown milk-sop of inherited title and wealth. This was proper nobility, the kind that had actually raised a sword in battle before and probably still could, and that was a different kettle of fish entirely. Brim bowed slightly and touched her forehead in a gesture of honest respect as she approached.
Some sort of argument had been going on between Balgruuf, a large man that looked like he might be a relative of the Jarl's, and a short, balding Imperial that looked so prig-nosed that Brim immediately took to thinking of him as "the Weasel". The Dunmer swordswoman stepped up onto the dais and said something low to the Jarl, who sat up from his conversation-weary slump immediately.
"So, you were at Helgen," he began, his tone cautious as his gaze moved over Brim with new interest. "You saw this dragon with your own eyes?"
"Aye, m'lord. Big black beast, it was. Left the place in a right state and, last I saw, it looked to be headed in your direction. Mistress Gerdur of Riverwood sent me along to warn you."
"By Ysmir, Irileth was right," Balgruuf exclaimed, frowning. He cast a triumphant expression at the Weasel to his right. "Well, Proventus, do you still think we should trust in the strength of our walls? With a dragon about?"
"My lord, we should send troops to protect Riverwood at once," the swordswoman urged. The Weasel seemed to take exception to this, but his bleats of protest were cut short.
"I won't stand idly by while a dragon burns down my hold and slaughters my people," the Jarl reproached strongly, tone wavering close to anger. You tell him, your lordship, Brim thought and suppressed a grin at the weaselly little man's expense. The man backed off, disgruntled, as the Jarl delivered a few quick orders to the swordswoman, who saluted and hurried off at a military clip.
"I should return to my duties," the Weasel said stiffly.
"That would be best," the Jarl replied, the growl in his voice subsiding as he watched his advisor leave. Brim was poised to bow and hurry away herself, but Balgruuf turned next to her. "As for you, well done. You've done a service for Whiterun, as a foreigner no less, and I will not forget it. Were you one of the soldiers stationed at Helgen?"
Her mind flashed quickly through possible answers. No one would believe she was a local with her fresh-from-the-south accent and she didn't want to take a guess about which side of the conflict this man was on. Finally, she settled on a compromise.
"A mercenary, m'lord. Just passing, though."
"You have the look, I should have guessed," the Jarl replied, with a grunt of assent. His expression went thoughtful, and he nodded.
"As a reward for your service, I will have Proventus provide you with new armor from my armory before you leave. It will, perhaps, help you recover whatever you may have lost at Helgen," he said, and then rose. "If you are looking for contracts in Skyrim, there is a further task I could ask of you. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps."
At that moment, Brim wanted nothing more than to be back outside and hunting down a good tavern, but she scented the possibility of gold and her pockets were too light at the moment to turn down the opportunity. When she did not protest, the Jarl stepped down from his dais and started towards a room that adjoined the main hall, as if expecting her to fall in beside him. She did, awkwardly, making sure to keep a respectful distance. Still, she was beginning to like this Balgruuf. He wasn't too proud to sully his own hands with the likes of her, and she found that to be a novel trait among society's great and good.
The side room was warm, well-lit, and filled with a collection of maps, scrolls, books, and arcane instruments of the sort that Brim could not identify. Bloody wizards, she thought, because she was certain that no other type of person would work in a place like this. Her dislike of mages and other magical sorts had been cemented early on in her professional career when she had learned that almost all mages were paranoid about other mages stealing their research and that it was damned difficult to break into the house of someone who rarely left their laboratory and cast fire wards in front of practically every door and window.
The purple-robed mage that was leaning over the table in the center of the room looked up and straightened, bowing a greeting to his Jarl.
"Farengar, I believe I've found you an assistant to help with your . . . project," Balgruuf stated.
Brim guessed by the slight hesitation in the Jarl's voice that he didn't really understand what the mage was up to either. Well, on the whole, she wasn't paid to understand, just to do and that was how she liked it. The mage Farengar looked Brim up and down and cleared his throat.
"Ah. Yes. I have been researching our dragon problem," he began. By his voice and face, she could tell he was young for the position he held, younger than most wizarding types she had met, and knew it, but he spoke with the same precise, lecturing tone of superiority, like someone who no longer talked, only expounded. "And I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, delve into an ancient ruin and procure an object that may or may not be there, at least."
Not a bleeding chance, Brim thought, immediately, but listened politely enough. She nodded from time to time, as the mage described the object . . .some sort of stone tablet called the Dragonstone . . . and told her where she could, ostensibly, find it. Bleak Falls Barrow was not far at all from Riverwood. Ralof had pointed out its skeletal arches on the side of a mountain during their scurry for safety after Helgen. Brim's specialty was acquiring difficult things, and she might have considered it under different circumstances, but she was not equipped for something as risky as what the mage was describing at the moment. Aside from the problem of no longer having the Guild's resources behind her, she had been forced to abandon most of her gear and possession in a rush back in Cyrodiil and everything she had brought had been lost when she was captured. Still, she would keep the job in her back pocket. Once she had worked her way back up a notch or so, it could be lucrative. A noble of this caliber would be a good ally to have, and she doubted there were many people lining up to wander around an old tomb or they would have hired someone already.
"This is a priority," the Jarl told her seriously. "Do this, and you will be well rewarded."
"Of course, m'lord," Brim replied, with a respectful smile. Once she was dismissed, with the addition of a rather well-made set of new leather armor for her trouble, and descending the many stairs that lead up to the keep, she shuffled the information immediately to the back of her mind. She knew what her priorities were and, while making coin was high on that list, staying alive was at the top. The job could wait.
~~0~~
"How was Whiterun? Did anyone recognize you?" Ralof asked her, seriously, later that evening. By the time Brim arrived back in the village, a contingent of additional guards were already patrolling the muddy roads and that seemed to have put Gerdur at greater ease. After a hearty meal, Brim had nabbed her fellow fugitive and took him down to the Sleeping Giant Inn, the village's one and only tavern, for the evening. Ralof still looked around like a hunted animal, but, after hardly anyone in Whiterun had taken a second glance at her and not a single soldier in Legion armor came into view, Brim had greater confidence that no one was out looking for them. Not her, anyway. Or not yet.
"Locked down tighter than the Empress' chastity belt, that place," Brim observed, as she plunked a couple of bottles of ale down on the table and settled in beside the big Nord. The inn was pleasantly warm and busy enough without being crowded, though she could hear the proprietress braking orders at the barman in the background like a military sergeant. The bard, a vain-looking young man who stuck out from the brawny sawmill workers around him like a peacock among pigeons, wasn't half bad, even though Brim had never heard any of the songs he sung. She raised her bottle to Ralof and took a long drink. "And, no, not a single Legion swad in sight, so I'm thinking a few escaped prisoners are the least of anyone's worries right now."
Ralof nodded and sipped his own ale, glancing around at the other patrons to make sure they were not being overheard.
"Gerdur said a patrol of soldiers rode through town this morning and asked a few questions about Stormcloaks, but didn't stay long. I hope that's a sign that Jarl Ulfric and the others weren't recaptured."
"Speaking of," Brim started, remembering, because it was time to look to the practical future now that her errand of good-will to Whiterun had been completed, "we need to get you back to your people."
"I'm going to lay low for a while. With the Legion in an uproar around Helgen, I don't want to risk slipping across the border into the Rift or Eastmarch until things have settled down." He looked over at her with a tentative smile, "You could stay. Gerdur could find some work with the mill to keep you occupied until the roads are calm enough."
Brim raised an eyebrow at him in amusement at the thought of herself as a mill worker, though she sighed inwardly. She liked the scruffy Nord, but he seemed to have gotten the wrong impression from their brief tumble the previous night. Still, no need to hurt the man's feelings.
"That sounds just fine, but I need to get on up to Windhelm," she replied, kindly, and searched for a suitable lie. "I'd planned to visit my sister there anyway and wrote ahead. She's probably in a right state of worry by now."
Ralof looked disappointed, but he nodded anyway. "Understandable. Gerdur worries herself sick about me, I know how it can be. You should take the coach from Whiterun, then. It'll be fastest. I normally go to the Candlehearth in the evenings when I'm in town up there, the owner is a friend. If you let her know where you're staying, I'll look in on you when I'm able to get back."
Later, as they made their way back to the family's house, the windows glowing in the darkness like beacons, he stopped her just outside of the low gate and reached out to run his hands amorously around her waist and pull her close to him. Brim allowed it, though she prepared herself to wriggle away if he was about to say something foolish.
"It might be a week or two before I can make it up to the city," he murmured, lowly, with a less than subtle hint in his voice. Brim smiled at him in the darkness, though she couldn't help but laugh a little on the inside. Feed a dog and you can bet he'll hang around your yard for more, that's what Mama had always said to her girls. Why not?, she thought and played along with the seduction, letting him draw her into the deeper shadows of the yard, his hands already roving as he pressed her back against the sturdy stone wall of the house. Likely enough, she wouldn't see him again after tonight anyway.
She rose early the next morning, thanked Gerdur and her husband for their hospitality before they headed down to the mill, and dropped a peck on the cheek and a wink at Ralof as he walked her out to the yard gate. The big soldier seemed to be reluctant to let her travel alone, but prudence won out. Whistling, in a finer mood than she had been in in days thanks to the warmth of the day and the knowledge that she had probably gotten off a free thief once again, she made her way down the twisting mountain road to the Whiterun stables. A few hours later, she was jouncing along towards the north in a wagon with two old biddies on their way to visit an ailing sister, an overzealous-looking young man who was set to join the Stormcloak army, various parcels and packages, and a cage of four squawking chickens.
It had been years now since she had had a letter from Evylie, but Brim had no doubt that her sister would take her in anyway. It would be nice to see her and the child and possibly even little Tobie, who would be just about manly by now. And then she could start the long process of getting her life back on track in exile. Cyrodiil would be closed to her for some time to come until things blew over, but Skyrim . . .despite the dragons, it looked ripe for the plucking.