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Dragon Rising

The letters etched in stone glowed with a blue light that wavered; not like a candle, but like a mist, wisping about like a cobweb in wind, like heat burning the surface of a rock. The wall around the words shone with the light of that mist; a gray silvery-blue wall that was all the world. Everything was dark, except the wall and the letters. The wall was the world, and letters were the stars in the night sky. One word was the sun, burning like a magnificent ball of blue fire, searing into his brain one thought that was two words, which were one word.

FUS. FORCE. They were one thought, but FUS was not simply a word. It was force, in the most primal way. FUS was the physical essence of force.

The word burned till it hurt, but he could not look away. He could feel his eyes melting, and his sight failed. His ears popped. The roaring of the word and the chanting of the voices were the world, now. The wind did not move, he did not breathe. Wind and air were nothing. Only the chanting and the word were real. And then the chanting stopped, and the word roared. It roared so loud. So loud his ears popped again and there was no sound. And then his heart beat, and the word was his heart. FUS. FUS. And from his core the word pushed. Upward, through his throat; his heart, all that he was, all that was force pushed up through his throat, burning and roaring so bright and so loud that a man without eyes or ears now saw the brilliance and heard the roar. And it burst from him and all that was left of him was destroyed.

.

Aleron woke with a start, breathing heavily and sitting up. "Gods," he muttered. The dream was still there, tearing at his mind, but thankfully fading. And the word was still there. It had not left since he saw it on the wall. It was not destroying him, but he felt as though it should be.

And then Mjoll was there, her beautiful angular face a stern mask of concern.

"Are you all right?" she asked, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his brow like a mother.

"Just a dream." Looking around, he could see the great arches of the courtyard outside Bleak Falls Barrow looming overhead, shadows against the rising sun. They had discussed sleeping in the entry hall, but Aleron would not sleep in that place. He had hoped to escape any bad dreams.

Mjoll smiled at him, something she had not done since he Shouted in the barrow. "I'm sorry I hit you." He shook his head to forestall her, but she went on. "No, I really am sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. It's just… what you did - the Shouting - it's something very…"

"Sacred," he finished for her. "I know. It's a holy Nordic act, performed and protected by the most holy Nordic religious order. I know."

"How did you do it?"

"That I don't know. I've never met your Greybeards, never seen that language before. But I could read it better than my own handwriting. I read it without even knowing I was doing it, at first. And that word. I don't know why I did it. It just came out, as if… that thing was going to kill you, I had to stop it. That word, it's as if the thing that has defined my whole being was given a name. It just rushed out of me."

"I'm confounded by all of this." She looked it. Such a blank stare had covered her face since leaving that wall that Aleron thought she might be going mad. He knew he was.

Erik seemed to take the whole thing as some great joke, once the shock of it had all wore off. He was awake already, preparing a meager breakfast while shaking his head and muttering about old legends.

"Listen," Aleron told Mjoll. "I need to explain something to you… and to confess something."

"Alright."

"I… like you." There. It was started. He couldn't think of what had made him decide to do this now, but it just seemed something that would not wait any longer. What he'd heard in the barrow had given him some hope that he wasn't crazy, but the look of confusion on her face now made him think he should not have said anything at all. "I'm not good with understanding relationships between men and women. Erik was telling the truth, really. I haven't been around very many women. Even before my parents died… I didn't go to the city very often. I lived on a farm, and… there weren't others my age that I could spend much time with on the nearby farms." He licked his lips, wondering why, since he'd made the decision to say this, it was so difficult. He stared at Meeko, for some reason, who was lying with his front paws crossed, staring at him. When he looked back to Mjoll, her eyes were expectant.

"I suppose the point is that I… I can't stop looking at you. I'm not a child, and I have been around some beautiful women before. Even when I was at the Priory, farmer's daughters and merchants and ladies would come around, for a day or two. Some were quite beautiful. But I've never been… helpless, looking at someone."

This was not going well. Mjoll was trying to keep a calm face, but clearly she wanted to laugh at him or swat him. Best to get the worst part out of the way now, before this got any worse. "I saw you, when you were wrapping yourself, outside of Cragslane."

That got a reaction. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, and her eyes widened - they were bright blue-green now. It did not help that those eyes so widened made him want to fall into them.

"You were exposed, and I should have looked away. I just… I'm sorry." He swallowed hard.

Surprisingly, Mjoll smiled. A very mischievous smile, if Aleron knew her face well enough to make that judgment. "So you got yourself a little show, did you?" She slid very close to him. Far too close. She put a hand on his thigh, and her lips actually caressed his ear as she whispered. "What about when you were measuring me? Did you like that? When you helped me into my armor?" The smile on her face was vicious, now.

He knew he was wrong, but that was no reason to mock him. He tried to stand, but she pulled him down and wrapped her hands in his hair. She stared into his eyes for a moment, holding him as surely as if she had bound him in chains. He prepared himself for the rough side of her tongue. Then suddenly she kissed him. Confused as he was, he let her. And then he did his best to kiss her back. His mouth opened and he felt her tongue sliding into his mouth, finding his own - and it was not rough, but sweet as a strawberry tart.

His blood raced inside him, and suddenly it was as if all the pressure in his shoulders released. In fact, his whole body felt as though something had broken away from him, some great burden he had forgot he carried. He lost all control of what was happening. He felt her hands in his hair, and knew his own hands were pulling her forward. And for some time all he knew was that he never wanted to break free of this. And then her hands were not in his hair. They were roaming all over his chest, under his arms, inside his shirt and dragging fingernails down his back. She was pressed against him; the softness of her was inviting, absorbing. And there was something more than heat, almost like being near a lightning strike, where their skin touched. He realized suddenly that his hands were groping at her breasts. That snapped him out of his intoxication. He tried to pull back, and realized she was lying on top of him, her legs straddling him. She seemed to understand, though. She pulled away, breathing hard and looking at him as if he had stolen her sweet roll.

"Yes, well." She sounded more breathless even than she looked. "Perhaps this is not the right time."

"Yeah, I'm gonna have to agree with you there." Aleron had forgotten Erik was there. Now he stood over them with double-handfuls of snow.

Mjoll stared daggers at the red-headed Nord, who just chuckled and turned away to go back to his breakfast. Aleron waited for her to move; he could not have moved her. He knew that he would not be able to stop her from doing anything to him that she wanted. He was hers, right then; she had bought him with something as simple as a kiss, and just then he would not have given anything to buy himself back. He stared at her as she heaved atop him, staring back at him like some victorious lioness, ready to devour a stag. Slowly, agonizingly, she lowered herself back down, supporting herself with one hand on his chest and the other in his bedroll behind his head. There was so much heat where they were pressed together, he thought they might catch fire.

"When there's time, and some privacy, I'm going to teach you so much."

The journey back from Bleak Falls Barrow was one full of mental stresses for Mjoll. She had so many frustrations piling up on one another that she needed time to sort them out. But she did not want to sort them out. She wanted satisfaction, pure and simple.

First, there was Aleron. She wanted the man, younger than her or not; innocent or not. He might be inexperienced, but he was not lacking in passion. She had thought when she kissed him that he would go stiff, get nervous and pull back, or fumble at her belt right away. But he was in the moment completely. When that thick hand went around the back of her neck and held her there, she had growled like a hungry lioness. When he pulled her on top of him, she thought she would melt. She remembered pawing at him, sliding her hands under his shirt; all that thick muscle under dark coarse hair. Wrapping herself around him, marking his back. She had been marking him. She wanted him to have a reminder of her, to make sure he knew he was hers. Thinking back on it, he was as clumsy with his tongue as she had expected, though she had kissed worse. And it had not mattered. She would teach him to kiss properly; and other things.

But she could not be sure he had not pulled away before she did. Or why. If he had simply remembered Erik, that would be fine. She was not a stranger to propriety. But if he had pulled away for some other reason… what other reason? He looked almost ashamed, now, when she gave him promising looks or comments. And he still did not flirt; not in the least. The first night, when they made camp, she tried to convince him to follow her a ways off from the road, and light a fire there. But he complained that there might be more bandits, which was absurd. She just did not know what to think.

Secondly, there was Aleron's Shouting. What had happened in that room with the wall? She accepted it now, as best she could. But something tickled at her mind that she could not quite place. She had never thought of herself as an overly religious woman. She was… open-minded where the gods were concerned. Certainly, she observed all the holidays and had a reverence for Shor and Kyne, the same as any Nord; and she'd read the teachings of Jastal when she was young, and believed them, for the most part. She hoped for entry to Sovngarde, and prayed for the peace Kyne just the same. To her, peace was a laudable thing, but Sovngarde was the reward for those who fought to keep it. It was a very Nordic belief, and it was the basis for her honor.

Enmeshed in all the Nordic histories she had ever heard - not so many, but enough - was the Thu'um. Her father had taught her that the Thu'um, or Shout, was the sacred praise of the Nords to Kyne, the Goddess of the sky, Mother of Men, and wife to Shor. It was a practice held exclusively by the priests of High Hrothgar, the Greybeards, and it was sacred to Nords.

She had heard that Colovians were more Nordic than Imperial in some ways, but Aleron was not really Colovian, just raised there. Sure, the man claimed that his father was a Nord, and maybe that mattered. But to her, and to everyone else, he was a Breton, as his mother was. That was the proper way of things. Everyone knew that the mother was responsible for race. Elves and men bore elven children when the mother was an elf, and human children when the mother was human. Sure, they took on some traits of the father, but never much. Aleron was Breton in appearance, with his soft face and dark hair - true, some Nords had dark hair, but rarely that dark. Even his eyes, beautiful and intense as they might be, were too dark a blue to be really Nordic.

She just could not understand how a Breton could be blessed with the Thu'um. Bretons hated Shor, called him the God of strife and crop failure - a very elven belief. She'd learned that much in her time in Wayrest. They worshipped Kynareth, as the Imperials did, and maybe that was fine. Kyne could bear another name. But how could she bless a man who's people turned their backs on her husband, the dead king of the gods?

It was all so very confusing, and not made any better by the third problem. If Aleron was not crazy, there were dragons in Skyrim again, and every Nord knew that the dragons' return meant the end of days was coming.

.

They made the return far more quickly than they had made the ascent. On the evening of the second day, they saw the lights of Riverwood ahead as they came down out of the mountains to the road proper.

And they saw another light; one that filled Mjoll with terror.

Nearly black against the night sky, soaring above the village, was a winged serpent, roaring like a bellows and breathing fire.

"Oh, gods!" she cursed. "Let's go!"

Together they all mounted and spurred their horses to a gallop, toward the village and the dragon. Mjoll was glad now that Aleron had insisted they still travel in armor. It struck her, though, that rushing toward the dragon, even armored as they were, might be useless. How many Imperial soldiers had it killed in Helgen? She might be a fly biting at a lion. But what else could she do? There were likely people dying in Riverwood.

They reached the bridge as one of the Whiterun soldiers the Jarl had sent was riding across the other way. The soldier reigned up just in front of the group, his horse spraying mud and snow as it reared.

"Run, fools! Follow me if you can keep up. The Jarl needs to know what is happening."

He tried to ride through them, but Mjoll would not be pushed back.

"Let us through man! You can run to the Jarl in a moment! Right now we can try to get these people to safety at least!"

The soldier backed away from her then, but only enough to unsheathe his sword. "Move aside or go back!"

Aleron began to shout at the man. "We can't move aside -" she thought he was going to say. But Erik's voice broke over the rest of the din.

"Here it comes!" he warned, and dove off his horse with his battleaxe in hand.

The dragon swooped in, and Mjoll dismounted as well, and nearly lost Mista when she tried to bolt. The beast was massive! At least the size of a mammoth, but long and sinewy, with membrane wings like a bat seeming only capable of half the work it would need to keep that massive form in the air. It dove toward the bridge like a hawk, and wrapped the soldier in clawed feet the size of a grown man. Pulled up from his horse, the soldier screamed for a moment before the crushing grip of the dragon silenced him. It dropped him then, from two hundred feet above the town.

She looked over, and Aleron was still in his saddle, staring at the beast. That insane horse of his hadn't moved an inch.

"It's not the same one!" he cried. "Not the one from Helgen! This one's much smaller! And it hasn't called down fire from the sky like the other did!"

"Smaller!" Gods, this one was bigger than he'd described. "Get off your horse, man! You'll get thrown."

He said something in reply, but it was lost in the roaring of the dragon. He spurred Caddock forward, rushing into the village.

The winged beast circled above the far side of the village now, near the southern entrance and the blacksmith's home. It seemed almost to be laughing, if thunder could laugh. Against the setting sun to the west, it cast great shadows that she would not have believed had she not been staring at the thing that made them. It spun, a twisting of the wings coupled with serpentine movements of the head, and it dove again toward the village, this time toward the walkway overlooking the southern road. Aleron was nearly beneath it, as it came. It looked as though it would crash through the overlook, but instead it fanned out its wings and landed, surprisingly light, above the walkway.

And then, perhaps most shockingly, the thing spoke.

"Osron heinmaar! Zu'u Mirmulnir! Volginne, hinah los wah vel! Wah aus! Wah dir!"

It stared directly at Aleron, who still sat Caddock's saddle, defiantly staring right back. He pulled free his axe, and the dragon laughed at him.

Mjoll hurried across the main street, looking ahead at the meeting. Aleron truly had gone mad. He was dismounting now, and he seemed to be laughing, himself. He swatted the horse as soon as he was on his feet, and Caddock trotted off behind Alvor's house. She was nearly to Aleron when he stepped forward and Shouted at the dragon.

"FUS!"

And then the beast reared as though hit in the face with tree, and fell backward off of the walkway.

It did not stay down. Nimbly, despite the ungainly wings, it rose to its feet, bearing its chest in pride. It was laughing now, she sure of it.

"Hi larot wah jur zey voth hin selahg thu'um?"

"I knocked you down. I'll do it again." Mjoll could see Aleron's face now. It was a thunderhead. All the ice was gone, all the heat. All that was left was pure violent storm.

"HA HA! Hi dreh ni tinvaak sahkren, nuz hi… mindoraan?

"I understand enough to know you'll die thinking yourself my better."

Aleron Shouted "FUS!" again, and charged forward toward the dragon, his shield held forward and his axe to the side. Mjoll followed. This is insanity! she thought. This man's going to get me killed! She heard Erik roar beside her; she hadn't known he was there until now.

The beast took the blast of Shouted force to its face, and snarled like a kicked wolf. The head snapped forward then like an uncoiling snake toward Aleron. He was going to be eaten!

But his axe slashed at the dragon as it came near, and that great head, mostly jaws and longer than Erik was tall, was thrown aside as though it weighed no more than a horse's. A long gash bled now from just above the mouth of the beast, and then it roared at them. It was not a word, but a primal roar of rage from deep within being let out in sound and fury. And in that roar was fire.

Mjoll dove out of the way, as far as her strong legs could propel her. She found herself, a moment later, rolling on the ground behind the timber south wall with Erik lying beside her, beating at his clothes. NO! she thought. She had seen Aleron as she fled that fire. He was going to stand and try to block the fire with his shield. He was dead.

But then she heard his voice, laughing at the dragon like a madman.

"Hmm. Munfahliil. Mu dovahhe doj wah irkbaan hin sonah." The dragon's voice was full of anger now. Anger and distaste.

"Don't like men your magic can't kill so easily?" Aleron's voice was full of weariness. He was breathing heavily, trying to be brave. No. He was brave. But brave would get him killed, here.

Mjoll looked behind her, at the street. No one was coming from their houses. Likely they were all huddled in their basements, hoping that if the dragon fire burned down their houses, the beast itself would leave them alone before they suffocated. She needed to tell Aleron that he could not hope to save any of these people. The best thing he could do was run. But then she saw Alvor, running from his house toward the dragon, battleaxe in hand.

"Aleron!" he shouted, as he ran. "Get back. That's a dragon! It will kill us all!" The big Nord ran past her, and Mjoll thought she could see him dying even then.

The dragon saw him, and with speed very much snakelike, it snapped its head forward to attack. Alvor was not a warrior. He was a brave man, but his axe was not ready. The dragon took him in its jaws and shook him as it swatted Aleron with its tail. Aleron was thrown, and landed in a pile of wood.

Mjoll charged the dragon then, and Erik was behind her. They hacked at its legs as it reared back to crush the man in its jaws, letting the blood flow out of its mouth and bath its pale belly. The beast took wounds, but it seemed not to notice them. It only danced from side to side, making their job a little harder, but not fighting back.

Then its head came down in a violent swing and batted her and Erik both aside as if they were flies. The world spun beneath her, and she landed in a tree, the breath knocked completely out of her lungs.

From the tree, though, she could see the beast confront Aleron, who had gained his feet. It still held Alvor in its jaws, as it laughed. Poor Aleron looked as though he might explode. Then the beast spit Alvor out at his feet, and she thought she could see the lightning in the Breton's eyes.

"Brit grah," the beast rumbled. "Zu'u vodahmin fos ronak kred hi joor vis kos!"

"You hunt what will kill you, dragon!" Aleron's voice was a growl.

"Hmm. Zu'u shur nu wah zulot vasaar, veyn daar reyth dreh ni morkon zey ful. Waan hi hind wah kiibok, Zu'u fen krii hi til."

And then the beast shook out its massive wings and took to the air in a rush of wind. It was gone with incredible speed in moments, lost to the now full-dark horizon.

Mjoll let herself down from the tree, and started toward Aleron. He stared down at the crushed, bleeding body at his feet, a look in his eyes so painful it made her want to weep. Suddenly, he fell to his knees, and placed his hand on what had once been Alvor's head. "May great Talos, patron of heroes, guide your steps to Sovngarde, and leave you drinking and singing in the hands of Shor, the dead king of the gods of men."

Sometimes, it was easy enough to forget that Aleron had been raised in a priory. She was glad that he knew that right, though. She would have had no right to give it herself. Mjoll smiled as she placed her hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, and even through the heavy fur cloak and steel pauldron, she could feel tension leech out of him.

He sprung to his feet, took her head in his hands and kissed her as though trying to wipe away all the pain and fury within him. Mjoll kissed him back, noticing that already he had learned from the last time.

He broke away, finally, leaving her a bit unsteady. He'd learned a lot from last time, it seemed. He went to Erik then, who'd gone to fetch his horse, Aslak.

"Where'd that thing go?" the tall Nord asked.

"North. The Tundra."

"How do you know that?" Mjoll asked.

"The last thing it said. It's going to look for somewhere the trees won't bother it."

"So you did understand it?" It seemed impossible. He could not have heard the language before. But then, who knew what books old priests had lying around? Who knew what old priests knew, but priests? Or maybe it had something to do with his reading that wall. The language sounded similar to what she remembered him saying in Bleak Falls Barrow.

Aleron was already mounting Caddock. "We've enough supplies to get us to Whiterun. If you two are coming, we should leave tonight. Erik, can you get that claw to Lucan and catch up?"

"This is bad idea," Mjoll told him, as she headed off toward where she'd left Mista. "It's cold, Aleron. We shouldn't travel in this cold."

"You can stay and tell Sigrid how her husband died, then. I'm not spending another moment here. When Mirmulnir is dead, I'm going on to Morthal. I'll wait out the winter there.

That stopped her dead. She turned to look at him, trying to keep the hurt out of her expression. "And what about me?"

The man had the decency to look ashamed, at least. "I'm not a priest, Mjoll. But many of the things the Order of Talos preaches, I believe. I think what you're looking for is more than I can give."

"What in Oblivion does that mean?"

"It means I'm celibate until marriage. Is that something you want anything to do with?"

Shor's bones! What kind of man would commit to that? "We've known each other a matter of weeks. You want to marry me?" She doubted that. He was inexperienced, but nothing she'd seen made him a fool. She did not want to marry him. Maybe someday she'd marry; and maybe he could be that man. But she would not marry soon. And she doubted she could wait for him. No. She would have him, or she would go. Go where, though? Back to Riften? Back to Aerin and Maven Black-Briar? Riften was worth saving; but it would have to save itself. And where did that leave her? Waiting for an answer? Waiting for Aleron?

He stared at her for a moment, a look of weighing on his face. "Hard to know that yet. Maybe I'll know once things settle down. For now, are you coming with me?

Whiterun was healing from its war wounds. At least, from a distance, in the dim light of the morning sun it looked that way. The fields around the city were not so muddy as they had been when Aleron was last here. Of course, any mud would just have frozen at this point. It did not snow often near Whiterun, even in winter; what snow did fall, though, was unlikely to fully melt until spring. The roads were clear, to be sure, but astride them were banks rising to the knee or more.

The walls of Whiterun had been all but unharmed in the Stormcloak assault, and they looked better now than when Aleron had seen them last. He cared little, though, for the walls or the city. The dragon Mirmulnir had killed Alvor, ground him up and spit him out like a dog killing a diseased rat, and the man would be avenged. The vengeance prayer of Talos rehearsed over and over again in his head:

Hear my cry, oh god of men.

God of the slain,

Your servant has been slain.

Hear my cry, oh god of men.

God of vengeance,

Give your servant vengeance.

It was a simple prayer, and old. Some in the order claimed Talos himself said the prayer, to Shor, over every battlefield. Aleron said it for Alvor, the first man since his father to have shown him nothing but acceptance, when no man since his father had ever shown any at all.

The roads around Whiterun were not muddy, but they were hard travelling. What snow had been was now slush, mixed with dirt and horse dung, that seeped into the feet of the travelers and made staying warm a matter of constant movement. That, as Aleron made sure, was not a problem.

That dragon had challenged him. Challenged him in a way that he could not ignore. Honor was not the same to Colovians as it was to Nords, however close the two cultures could be at times. Honor to a Nord was a complicated thing, much like the northern peoples' surprisingly specific laws. Colovian honor was simple; a man did what he said he would do, and he upheld order. In the cities of Colovia, guardsmen were needed for keeping order; but they were rare in the villages and homesteads. Men took care of one another, and the law need not enter into it. In a way, it was older and more savage than Nordic ways. Nords were free men, even their Jarls beholden to the people, but they were all bound to their complicated laws of blood-debts and recompense. To Aleron, to any Colovian, vengeance was not about debt. Debts could be forgiven. Vengeance was about order.

.

The gates of Whiterun loomed ahead, but a group coming out of the gates caught Aleron's eye. A Dunmer woman in fur-and-leather armor trotted alongside a group of Whiterun soldiers in yellow-slashed leather jerkins over half-sleeved chainmail. He remembered her from his first visit to Whiterun. The Jarl's housecarl.

"Housecarl!" he shouted to her as she came by. "Housecarl, I need to speak with you."

The Dunmer woman did not stop, but looked at him without recognition. "I've no time for talk. Get to safety within the city. There's a dragon about, and no I'm not pulling your leg."

"It's attacked Riverwood. Your guards there are all dead." That got her attention. She gave one of the guards accompanying her a short order, and then she dropped back to speak more to Aleron. She gave Mjoll and Erik weighing looks before opening her mouth, though. "What happened?"

"Just as I said. It's not the one that attacked Helgen." That seemed to remind her who he was. "And it left the village after killing the guards. After we fought with it. But I… we can help you kill it."

She'd looked doubtfully at him at the mention of fighting a dragon, but then she shrugged. "Well, you've seen more dragons than I have. If you're willing to come along, it was last seen at the Western Watchtower. We can make it there by evening."

He only nodded and pulled Caddock around to follow the group of soldiers. He heard Erik and Mjoll behind him do the same.

"We've come a long way without a real rest, Aleron." Mjoll's voice was soft, pleading. "Give over, man. You'll get yourself killed. There are twenty guards here. If they find it, they'll kill it. But if it challenged you, it will kill you first if it can."

"It can't. It won't, at least. If you're tired, go find an inn in the city."

She grabbed him by the shoulder then, and pulled him around to look straight into those now green-and-gold eyes, so beautiful it hurt through all the hatred and hardness in him.

"Listen to me, you thick-necked boy. I will not be spoken to that way. I don't know what's gotten into you since that night outside the barrow, and I don't care. If you ever question my honor again I'll bend you over a stump and paddle you till you cry."

He just looked at her. What had he done? He'd been short with her, but that was how most people treated each other all the time. But not him. And she knew him well enough by now to know that. He was ashamed, he realized. He never let his anger do this. Not to people he cared about. But then, how long since he had cared about anyone? Even himself?

He reached out a hand to brush a stray strand of hair from her brow, relieved when she did not flinch away. "I don't cry," he told her with a smile. Erik went red behind her, but he went on. "And I'm sorry. I'm just confused, I think. I'm not used to that."

She took his head in her hands and kissed his above each eye. "Forgiven."

"Thank you." He did not think that would be the end of it, but it would do for now.

Erik coughed loudly behind them. "Can we go kill a dragon, now?"

.

The Western Watchtower was not the same as it had been months ago when he and Erik had spent a night within the tall tower. It was burning, now. Or smoldering, really. Little of anything still burned. Against the setting sun, Aleron could see the broken tower some two hundred yards off, and the short battlements extending outward in ruins, but he could not make out any of the guards who should have been here. Irileth, the Dunmer housecarl, was noting the same to her second, the only other Whiterun warrior not in yellow-slashed leathers.

Lydia was a beautiful woman, with raven-black hair quite uncommon among Nords, and very young to be in any authority among soldiers, especially being a woman. Mjoll seemed to think she must be some noble's illegitimate daughter. That would certainly explain her leadership role; though Aleron suspected that Irileth would reject anyone who was not formidable in her own right.

"Spread out!" Irileth said, her dusky voice suited more for this command than the court life he'd seen her in before. "Look for survivors. And keep an eye on the sky. Don't want to get caught off guard."

Aleron set off toward the tower, with Mjoll and Erik trailing behind. Meeko, he'd left with the horses about a half-mile back. The earth around the smoking battlements was not snow, or even slush. It was warm and dry, as if the dragon fire had scoured off all the winter frost and turned the ground to that of early spring.

The stairs leading up to the tower entrance were crumbling as well, and the stones were black with soot. Aleron suspected the beast had landed here to try getting at the people inside the tower.

Suddenly, one of guards emerged from within. "No!" he shouted. Looking over the edge of the steps, he seemed more than half-crazed. "Get back! That thing's still out there somewhere! Hroki and Tor got grabbed trying to make a run for it! The rest… they're dead! Eaten, some of them!"

And then a loud roar came from far to the south. "Kyne save us!" the tower guard shrieked. "Here it comes again!"

Aleron looked, and he could see a great shadow southward, rising into the sky. The sun was darkening. They would all die if they fought that thing in full-dark, trying to find it by sound and shadows.

"Spread out!" Lydia called, as Irileth pointed men to different locations surrounding the southern side of the tower, where the battlements were burning.

"Aleron," Mjoll called. "Can you knock that thing out of the sky?"

"I'm not sure. I think if it gets tired enough it will land on its own. Maybe if I hit it a few times with that shout. And maybe these archers will bring it down before there's a need for that."

The thing was on them faster than he would have believed, coming from so far. He had barely been able to see its shadow at first, but in what seemed like only moments it was flying overhead, laughing and roaring. And then the first arrow struck home in its white belly, and it snarled like an avalanche.

It was Mirmulnir, for sure. "Hi krif kringaar. Pruzah!" Aleron heard the words, but he knew they meant You fight well. Good! The beast alighted atop of the tower, rattling the great stone construction, but not so much as its size should have. "Dii thur fen du hin sil ko Sovngarde." My overlord will devour your souls in Sovngarde. The Whiterun soldiers stopped firing their bows, shocked by the beast talking, whatever language it spoke; all but Lydia and Irileth.

"Mirmulnir!" Aleron's cry broke through the din of men shouting, and the dragon's head turned toward Aleron with a visible hesitation. "You wanted a fair fight. Come down and face me!"

"The Breton. Hmm. Would you cut off your legs? Why should I clip my wings for you? Bring me down from the sky if you can, mortal! Or burn!"

The beast rose into the sky with a gust of wind for those below. Arrows flew again, and Mirmulnir was struck more than once to little effect. The beast laughed in the rapidly darkening sky, then swooped over one of the soldiers and breathed fire with a roar of rage that seemed to shake the very air. The man was dead in moments, flailing about and screaming as his insides cooked as quickly as his skin. Magic fire was all-consuming of flesh, if strong enough.

"Coward!" Aleron cried into the sky as the beast laughed.

Erik didn't know how they were supposed to kill this thing, but he knew that waiting for it to land was foolish. He'd brought his longbow, and a thick quiver of broadhead arrows. The thing was speaking with Aleron now, as it sat atop the tower for all the world like some dragon-king on a throne. He didn't know what to think of Aleron understanding that cruel-sounding gibberish. The Breton seemed to know everything else, but still that shocked him. It didn't really matter, though. The man was his friend, and he would accept him as he was, whatever he was.

The beast took to the sky, then flew close overhead and cooked one of the soldiers where he stood.

Erik did not feel any fear. He rarely did, really. He was not a fool, though. If Aleron were not here, he likely would not be either. That may have sounded like fear, but fear was different than prudence, surely. Well, perhaps he would have been here anyway, come to think of it. To bring down a dragon! That's what legends were made of.

He planted his back foot and set his arrow, watching the flight of the great winged serpent above. As it started to fly in front of him, about a hundred feet in the air, he stepped forward into the bow and took aim. Even he could not hold the bow bent so far back for long. He took his shot, releasing the arrow and letting the sturdy wood and flaxen string propel the arrow forward toward the dragon's belly. The arrow buried into the creature nearly to the fletching, and the beast howled.

"Erik the Dragon-Slayer sounds even better," he said to himself as he pulled another arrow from his quiver.

Mjoll felt useless as the beast flew overhead. It cried out like thunder as Erik's arrow hit home in its soft underside, and she hoped he could at least bring the thing to the ground. How they would kill it, then, she could not really say. They had cut deep gashes into its legs in Riverwood, but it had practically laughed at the wounds. She would likely need to find some way to cut open its belly, or maybe stab through the top of the head - though the later seemed unlikely, considering that there were teeth in that end.

Another of Erik's arrows hit home, and two of the soldiers' arrows ripped through the beasts wings. Unfortunately, that only seemed to anger the dragon. It swooped down to grab one of the soldiers, before lifting the poor man a hundred feet into the air and tearing him in half with its great clawed feet. Not for the first time she wished she had a bow. Not that it was likely anything she would hit anything - she had never been good at any kind of archery - but it would make her feel less useless.

To her left, she noticed Lydia firing arrow after arrow with her imperial style recurve bow. The recurve had a much faster firing rate than a longbow, and it flew with nearly as much strength. It was complicated, though, to string as well as fire. The woman was a fine shot, of course. A woman that beautiful had no business being a good warrior as well. Woman was really not even the right word for her. She could not be much older than Erik, if any.

The beast dove toward the woman as one of her arrows found a home in the side of its neck, and she leaped out the way of a rush of flame that surely would have killed her. She was quick. One of the benefits of the lighter Nord armor, even when it did have steel plates. Mjoll rushed in as the dragon passed close to the ground, fighting the wind from its mighty wings. She managed a shallow slash to its heel, but that was all.

Useless like this! Someone needs to get it on the ground!

Aleron ran up the spiral stairs, ascending the tower as quickly as his legs would grant him. Mirmulnir was going to win if he could not take it down. The soldiers below were smart enough to stick close to the tower and battlements, where its size would be a disadvantage, but the dragon was killing them still, one by one. He needed to bring the thing to the ground.

Its wings kept it up, however insufficient for the task they seemed. That was a weakness, if he could exploit it. He reached the top of the tower and poked a cautious head out. The beast was still far ahead, laughing and taunting. He needed to wait until it came down for another kill.

Mjoll was tired of waiting for this dragon to come down. She found one of the slain guardsmen, and took his bow and the quiver half-full of arrows. It had been some time since she fired a bow, but a Nordic war-bow was not much different from the hunting bow she'd used as a girl. Her full plate armor, though it was fantastic for sword-and-shield fighting, left poor range of motion for arrow work. Still, it was better than standing around, waiting. She slung the quiver over one shoulder and pulled free an arrow.

The dragon was flying high overhead now, laughing at its prey. It started to lower again, and arrows from the remaining ten soldiers - and Erik - flew in unison to catch the beast. It dodged at the last moment, and none of the archers' arrows hit home. Mjoll, however, had had trouble lining up her shot, and so she did not release until it had made its move. She struck the dragon squarely in the snout, drawing a heaving snarl.

"Shit!"

She hadn't done much more than draw its attention. Arrows stuck shallowly into the monster's hide seemed to do no good. It wheeled around to rush at her, and she ran. She ran for the watchtower, the only place of safety she could think of. She ran with all that she had, feeling the muscles in her calves strain. For some reason, as she heard the beasts breath above her and was sure she would die, she wondered where Aleron was.

Finally, Mirmulnir came low again. Aleron watched the beast take an arrow to the face with no more than a snarl. But he had it. Whoever it was after now was leading it toward the tower. He did his best to judge its flight and choose the right moment. The world seemed to slow down.

His shield slung around his back, he started to run as Mirmulnir was coming closer. It would pass just beside the tower, perfect for what he had planned. The beast moved faster than he had expected, though, and he found himself hurrying to catch up. He heard it pull in air to release a shout as he dove from atop the tower. From this height, at least thirty feet, the ground pulling at him seemed stronger than it normally did.

But he had aimed true. He came down, shouting "FUS!" at Mirmulnir's head as he landed with his axe ripping into the dragon's wing. As quick as he could, he plunged his free hand into the tear he'd made, as the beast howled and careened toward the ground. Aleron tore more holes into the wing as they descended. Descended very rapidly, he realized.

Contact with the ground sent Aleron tumbling. He kept a firm hold on his axe, though.

He got to his feet as quick as he could, and stumbled back toward the dragon. Mirmulnir was cursing him, swearing vengeance for its destroyed wing.

"I will drink your blood, mortal! I will pick my teeth with your bones for a thousand years!" It was thrashing about, trying to keep its assailants away with grand swings of its tail and snaps of its jaws between threats and curses.

Aleron stumbled on, until he was face-to-face with Mirmulnir. Panting, still trying to recover from the fall, he gave the beast a triumphal smile. Infuriated, the dragon darted its head out toward him with its teeth bared. He dodged to his right, grabbing the horn of its snout as the teeth missed by only an arm's length. As Mirmulnir lurched back its neck, Aleron held on and swung himself onto the beast's head.

Riding the dragon as it tried to thrash about, he laughed mirthlessly. Then he drove his war axe into Mirmulnir's skull. Again and again he drove the axe, until the falling beast hit the ground and sent him sprawling from atop its head.

It was done. The beast was dead. His vengeance for Alvor was complete. Aleron rolled in the dirt, wishing he could sleep right there on the ground. He was so tired! He breathed as deep as he ever had before. But then a burning in his skin made him sit up.

What was this? Looking at his hands, he was vibrating like the strings of a lute. And the burning! He heard voices shouting around him.

Irileth's voice commanded, "Get back, everyone! Get away from it!"

Mjoll screamed from somewhere, "Aleron, get clear! Something's happening! I think it's going to explode!"

He looked up at the dragon in time to see what they meant. Mirmulnir's body was vibrating far worse than he. It seemed unsubstantial, somehow, as though it were melting into mist before his eyes.

And then it did explode. It exploded into him. He could feel the dragon seeping into him like water into a sponge. His eyes open, he could see the dragon's essence pouring through his skin. It felt like almost nothing he could imagine. It was as if he was water, and the dragon sugar. It was dissolving into him. And it was painful beyond bearing. He thought he would faint, but somehow he was more alive than he'd ever been, and he could not have lost consciousness if he had wanted.

And then suddenly it was over. He heard the footsteps of everyone rushing to him. He looked up to see Erik staring, with a confused smile on his face. The soldiers looked almost… reverent? Why? Mjoll was weeping, the tears flowing unhindered out of her beautiful blue-green eyes. She did not seem sad, though.

Since no one else seemed to want to ask, he did. "What just happened?"

As if in answer, thunder sounded in a cloudless starlit sky. Thunder so loud there should have been a storm raging over their heads. And then he heard a voice on the wind- voices, maybe? "DO-VAH-KIIN!" it was so loud that Aleron put his hands to his ears.

"What in the name of Talos is happening?"

Mjoll was still crying, but oddly she was smiling as well. "By the gods! You're the Dragonborn."

There will be a short Epilogue coming - hopefully - later this week. I hope you all enjoy this book, and continue on to the next. Blood of Akatosh: Dragonborn should be starting within the next two weeks.