Far below its wings stretched an endless, white blanket, covering stones and rocks, bushes and trees under the heavy, wet snow of spring. Further away a dark band wound its way through the mountains, disappearing from view now and then, obscured by one of the higher peaks. A trail marred the perfect white cover, ending abruptly at an outcropping. There, two dark spots shone against the background.
With another stroke of its wings, the dragon soared nearer. The two tiny specks grew larger. Jorre. Mortals. They were cowering in the snow, one facing the other. The dragon chuckled at their inattentiveness as it drew closer.
Both of them stank of magic, a strong, biting stench. It knew that smell.
"Dovahkiin," it rumbled, circling the pair on the ground. And, on a whim, it added, "One joor falls, and the Dovahkiin despairs."
The woman's head snapped up. A fire gleamed behind her eyes, her glare bridging the distance between beast and man. "Dovah," she answered its greeting.
Ah, so the rumour was true.
Her partner jumped to his feet, drawing a huge bow from his back. The winged beast continued circling them, almost lazily, as the man nocked an arrow. It coughed a rumbling, hissing sound, thrown back at them from the mountain's slopes.
"It is laughing at us," Falka growled. Pushing her despair into a deep corner of her mind, she got to her feet and, facing the beast, raised her voice in shout. "What do you want from us?"
Instead of an answer, the wyrm finished its circle around the two warriors before taking off to the south.
Falka and Vilkas set off in pursuit.
"Why didn't it attack?" Vilkas shouted over his shoulder.
"No idea!" Falka, trying to keep up, puffed. The snow wasn't as deep here at the mountain's ridge as further down, but the task of running still taxed her reserves.
"Come on! We're losing it!"
"Dovahkiin!" the dragon, now far in front of the Companions, roared again.
"It is playing with us!" Falka panted.
Once more, the dragon's laughter echoed across the mountains. Motionless, the ancient being hang in the air, chuckling at the two mortals struggling across the wintry landscape. And before any of the two could come too close, it finally spread its wings and with a few mighty strokes, passed out of sight.
Vilkas pulled to a stop, scanning the now empty skies for a sign of their strange acquaintance. "It's gone."
"Aye," Falka, bent forwards and with her hands on her knees, panted heavily.
"Are they stopping by to mock you now?"
The woman at his side gave a shrug. Vilkas cast a look around, then strode towards the cliff's edge to peer down into the chasm.
"Red!"
"Mh?"
"Over here!"
Falka came to stand beside her partner, her gaze following the direction of his gaze.
"A camp," she mumbled. Far down below them, where the river came into view from behind mighty cliffs, sat two wooden huts.
"Come."
In order to get a better view, Vilkas led the way further south along the mountain's ridge. Now and then, he stepped right up to the cliffs' edge to cast a look down below until eventually, they were rewarded with a clear outlook over the camp.
"Forsworn," Vilkas muttered, lowering himself into a sitting position between two towering rocks. Falka settled down next to him, huddling against Vilkas' side. Absentmindedly, Vilkas wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
They studied the settlement in silence until, in awed tones, Falka remarked, "It is huge."
"Aye," Vilkas nodded, his voice grave. "A force to be reckoned with."
"Look, they built their huts right into the river itself."
A number of little wooden houses sat on stilts in the mountain stream's waters, with walkways connecting the huts to each another and the river's bank.
"They will be difficult to approach."
Vilkas grunted affirmatively.
"I wonder… Are they preparing for anything?" Falka mused loudly. "Look, two smiths hard at work…"
"Weapon smiths by the looks of it."
"Aye." Falka's gaze had already passed over the two men working at the forge. "And those people down there. What are they carrying?"
The group of five people that had piqued Falka's interest were busily moving crates in and out of their field-of-view. She shielded her eyes with her hand, scanning the camp's outskirts. "I can see three sentries."
"Four. Over there."
"Mh-hm."
All of a sudden, Falka drew a sharp breath, her hand gripping his arm tightly. "Vilkas!"
"What?"
"There are children down there."
Vilkas scanned the area. "Where?"
"There," Falka pointed. "Behind the forge."
They watched in silence as a young boy ran along the walkway towards one of the larger buildings.
"And there are the horses."
With clenching teeth, Vilkas stared at the door behind which the boy had disappeared, allowing the two Companions the glimpse at the animals inside.
"Those are the horses Farkas and Calla rode out on, aye?"
Vilkas nodded, his gaze glued to the scene down below.
Falka bit her lip, worrying over what to make of the new development. Never before in her life had she had to face a group with children, even families. And now, to her dismay, she was seriously considering—
"Children or not, they have my brother," Vilkas' voice interrupted her thoughts. Determination steeled the hard lines on his face. At a second glance, though, Falka could recognise reluctance and plain and simple fear for his twin's life warring underneath.
"If it's what it takes to get to Farkas, I'll pay the price.
The endless days of pushing himself along, forwards, against the gnawing worry over Farkas, had left their mark on his face. Dark shadows, most likely mirrored in Falka's own reflection, haunted Vilkas' eyes.
"Vilkas… They have been gone for over a week now. How…" She bit her lip in a futile attempt to keep her fear to herself. "How big is the chance they are still…" Her voice broke. "Alive?" she finished in a whisper.
Vilkas snorted bitterly. "We're talking Forsworn here, Red."
"I know." The bitter despair from earlier, briefly forgotten over the excitement of the dragon and the settlement, again welled up inside her. A memory long forgotten and well buried stirred in her mind. She shuddered. Unbidden images danced behind her eyes; mangled and tortured faces that – more often than not – these days morphed into Vilkas' rugged features.
And then, something warm touched her face, and Vilkas' eyes were boring into hers. "Red." He pulled her closer. "I don't dare wait for Aela and the others. I know there still is hope for Farkas, but… I need my shieldmaiden for this."
When the sun had finally set across the mountains in the west, the two warriors started the dangerous hike down into the valley. The slope was steep, and in the darkness it was a perilous descent, heightened senses or not. But when Secundus rose later that night, two shadows silently slipped into the camp. Coming from different directions, they met up at the smithy.
"Troubles?" Vilkas growled, barely loud enough to hear.
"None."
Side by side, they stared at the temple hewn into the side of the mountain they had just climbed down from. Apart from a small group of inattentive guards at the top of the short flight of stairs, the entire camp was deserted.
"Where are all the people?" Falka wondered.
"Whatever's going on here, if Farkas is still alive, he's in there."
"Definitely."
They only made it part of the way towards the temple, though, before one of the sentries saw them. With a loud cry, he drew his weapon and threw himself at Vilkas, swinging his sword in a huge arc. Steel clashed on steel as the two men met each another on the wooden walkway across the river. The warrior fought sloppy, though, diverting too much of his attention to raising his fellows. With a swift whack of his heavy sword, Vilkas sent the man flying across the railing and into the ice-cold waters.
But as soon as the guard had been dispatched, a pair of guards threw themselves against the Companions. Falka threw a fire missile towards the duo, momentarily slowing them down. But even as Falka readied her next spell; as Vilkas parried the attacking warrior, an dozen guardsmen poured out into the open.
Discarding her readied spell for her trusted cloak of fire, Falka ducked under her attacker's onslaught with a quick move that brought her out of the man's close proximity.
"Forsworn!" she bellowed, pulling on her Thu'um to carry her voice across the village. "We want your captives! The Companion and the Dunmer!" The cliffs to both sides of the river threw back her voice, multiplying it until it boomed across the space. "Release them, and you will live!"
The guards briefly paused in their attacks to digest her words, but resumed the onslaught as soon as the last echo had died down. Soon, Vilkas was sweating from the effort of keeping them at arm's length while Falka let her magic work its way. Most of the guards fell quickly, taken unaware by the nightly invaders. A few others – among them one of the smiths – gave them a harder time, costing them precious time. With an angry roar, Vilkas pushed another warrior over the wooden platform and into the raging river below.
An arrow soared past. Falka turned, a ball of fire already sitting in her palm. She sent it back towards the attacker. Moments later, a ball of flames exploded at the base of the stairs leading up to the temple. Another pair of guards threw themselves against the Companions. Sweeping his sword in a high arc, Vilkas forced the pair to keep its distance.
"Red!"
A ball of fire swooshed by, slamming into one of the two Forsworn. Vilkas parried a blow when all of a sudden, he felt a dull impact on his knee. He stumbled. Life-long training saved him from the next of the swordsman's blows even as his feet gave out under him. The moment he sank down on his knees, an angry Shout tore through the air above his head. The clansmen who had been attacking Vilkas only moments ago were suddenly thrown backwards, sailing high through the sky before hitting the cliffs. Lifeless, they both sank into the floods.
"Vilkas!" Falka was kneeling next to him, frantically gauging for injuries.
Another arrow soared past, barely missing Falka's head. She whipped around, anger giving her strength beyond measure as she sent another fire ball across the river. An inhuman screech told of her sure aim. Vilkas averted his eyes as the human torch struggled and wreathed in pain. With one final wail, the hapless archer threw himself into the river.
For a moment, silence spread across the camp.
Vilkas struggled to his feet. The knee wasn't hurt, at least not physically. His initial fear – that he had caught an arrow – proved untrue. Whatever had hit his leg, it had left it unresponsive, weak, and soft as wax.
"Get to cover," he growled through gritted teeth. He tried to take one step, but stumbled as again, his foot gave out under his weight. Falka slipped under his shoulder and together, they made it to the bottom of the stairs.
"What happened," Falka inquired as she let Vilkas sink down on the stone floor.
"Don't know. Some spell, I think." Absentmindedly, he rubbed at his unresponsive leg while scanning the surroundings for more enemies. Falka conjured a ball of golden light, and Vilkas could feel the strength return to his limb as the energy washed into him.
Above them, an old and heavy door creaked.
"More hostiles. Can you stand?"
"Aye." Vilkas struggled to his feet. Tightening the grip on his sword, he cast another look Falka's way. "Let's get Farkas home."