A/N: Hey, happy Monday. Here's a chapter. No notes, since the new lore introduced is explained in here. So yeah, just go ahead and read. We're in the final stretch here. Only 7 more chapters after this one. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Except Dar'Jazha. Specifically, The Legend of Red Eagle was written by someone who works for the former, but I did add in one small thing in the middle of it just to throw in an ASOIAF reference.
Rating: T for vaguely described violence and references to cannibalism.
By the end of Sun's Dusk, all of the scouts had returned but two and it wasn't long after that their heads were returned to Druadach as a warning. Nearly three hundred Forsworn had pledged their loyalty to their new rulers, and though Drogo was glad to be sure, he knew that it was not his name but Vanyrra's that had inspired such feelings. Even so, they would come to know of him in time, and with the Briarheart at his side, they would fight to the death to reclaim their true homeland.
Drogo was sitting in his tent and rereading the letter from Daenerys for what had to be the thousandth time when Vanyrra entered quietly and settled on the ground before him, her legs crossed. When he carefully folded and put away the letter, she spoke.
"My people will fight for you, and they will die for you," she said. "But they do not trust you, for you are an outsider still. Your companion proved himself in Cidhna Mine, but you are still far from Forsworn, Khal Drogo. Their loyalty may only remain until the border to High Rock."
Sighing, Drogo nodded and ran a hand across his face. "I know," he said wearily. If Dany was with him, he would have no such trouble, for he had yet to meet anyone who wasn't inspired by her strength and will.
"There may be a way," Vanyrra continued, tracing absent patterns in the dirt with a finger. When Drogo cocked an eyebrow, she looked up at him again.
"The Forsworn had a king once, long before Madanach. His name was Faolan, Red-Eagle in the Common Tongue of men. He was the first to unite the men of the Reach and he lives now in legend, revered by my people." For a moment she paused and when she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "He was the first to accept the magick of the hagravens, and for it he lost his soul. Though a mortal heart still beat within his chest, he is the father of my kind, and so we too are revered amongst our people."
"Are you asking me to sell my soul to a hagraven?" Drogo asked, smirking slightly.
The Briarheart's face showed no amusement and she shook her head. "No, Khal Drogo. It is rumored that the fabled sword of Red Eagle rests in the hands of those at the Sundered Towers. I am asking you to go there and retrieve the sword. Once it is yours, you shall take it to Rebel's Cairn, Faolan's resting place and break his curse. With his blade at your side you too will be Forsworn, and even those who doubted your leadership will raise their swords to fight."
"I do not trust her, no." Dar'Jazha said adamantly as Drogo continued to pack his saddlebags. "There is evil in her."
After Drogo had agreed to what Vanyrra had asked of him, she told him that she would accompany him, for the Forsworn at Sundered Towers had resisted the change of leadership and would likely fight to protect their stolen relic.
"And yet she hasn't tried to kill us," Drogo countered, finishing his task and turning to face his friend. "I don't understand exactly what it is that was done to her, or what it makes her now, but for the moment, she is our ally, and until I retrieve this sword, she is the only thing standing between me and a Forsworn dagger in my back."
Though Dar'Jazha flicked his tail irritably, he made no further move to argue and Drogo continued. "The Sundered Towers aren't even a full day's ride from here. We'll be back on the morrow and from there we can decide how to fight this war we're starting. Until then, I need you here."
Finally, the Khajiit sighed, though it was one of disappoint and not resignation. "Dar'Jazha will do as you say, yes, but if his Khal is killed in Rebel's Cairn, nobody can say that he didn't warn him, no."
Drogo laughed and swung atop his horse. "You've been a good friend to me, Dar'Jazha. I'll never forget that."
Though there was a path along the river that led the way to Red Eagle's final resting place, Drogo urged his horse back the way that he had come, toward Karthwasten. Vanyrra was quiet at his side, but she obeyed his commands without question, and Drogo couldn't help but wonder again why she seemed able to control the heart that had made her a killer.
They reached Karthwasten by sunrise, and though Ainethach waved cheerfully as he saw Drogo approaching, the smile faded quickly from his lips at the sight of the Forsworn woman beside him.
Seeing the change, Drogo swiftly dismounted and walked to the Breton's side, gesturing for Vanyrra to stay behind.
"Why is that woman with you?" he asked quietly when Drogo reached his side, eyeing her with blatant fear. "Where is Dar'Jazha?"
"At Druadach Redoubt," Drogo replied. "With the start of our army."
"Army?"
"Aye," he said. "My wife, Daenerys Targaryen, is the rightful ruler of High Rock, and I intend to give her her throne."
The miner stared at Drogo in disbelief and when he found himself unable to speak, the caravan master continued. "I have come here with a favor to ask."
Ainethach nodded blankly, and for the first time in the many years that Drogo had known him, it wasn't respect or admiration in his gaze, but fear.
"The Forsworn are strong, but their weapons are weak. We need refined malachite, enough to forge weapons and armor for three hundred men and women."
"We mine silver here, Khal Drogo," Ainethach said weakly. "I wouldn't know where to start to find what it is you need."
"But you know those who could." Reaching into the satchel at his hip, he withdrew a set of several letters he had written the previous night, each asking for the supplies to strengthen his wife's army and giving the promise that Vanyrra had agreed to in return. "Send these to any mine with malachite ore, and when you receive word, bring it to Dar'Jazha at the redoubt. For your trouble, the Forsworn have promised to leave Karthwasten to its own devices."
"You mean they won't be attacking us again?" the miner asked warily. "We'll be truly safe?"
"I give my word," came the reply, and both men looked up to see that Vanyrra had ridden quietly to their side. "My people will hunt you no longer, but if the civilized men seek to harm us, we will defend ourselves."
Ainethach nodded in understanding and with a sigh, he took the letters. "Very well. May the Divines be with you, Khal, and with your wife as well. Gods know you'll need their help."
The Forsworn that waited at the entrance to the Sundered Towers was familiar, and after a moment, Drogo recognized her as the woman he and Dar'Jazha had encountered at Kolskeggr Mine. The Khajiit had called her Kaie, and she had known him from the massacre in Markarth following his escape.
"Drogo," she called out as he approached. "We already told you that we won't follow you and your little queen. Madanach was our king, and if he rules no more, then we shall not be ruled."
When Vanyrra removed the deer skull helmet from atop her head, the other woman raised her weapons and her lips curled into a snarl. "What are you doing with that witch?" she hissed, her eyes filled with equal amounts of hatred and fear. "She is an abomination and shouldn't be allowed to call herself Forsworn."
"I am more Forsworn than you are, Kaie," the Briar Heart replied evenly. "For like Madanach, you have grown soft, accustomed to life in Markarth among the civilized men. You do not call him Khal because you are afraid. Because you have forgotten what it means to be Forsworn and you have no right to return to High Rock and call it your home."
Kaie looked ready to charge at her fellow warrior, but in the end, she simply ignored her taunts and turned back to Drogo. "What is it that you want?"
"Red Eagle's sword," he replied, earning a sharp laugh from the woman before them.
"Is that so?" she asked in amusement. "And what is it that you intend to do with it?"
"Break Faolan's curse," Vanyrra said calmly. "Take Red Eagle's Fury and return it to his side."
"Those who have tried before have died," Kaie responded. "But we will not stop you. If you never return, we will be free to live on our own. And if you do, we will fight for you. To that end, I give you my word."
The sword at Drogo's hip was dull, made from tarnished steel, and worn with age. Though in its time it had been used to kill thousands, it was no longer a weapon, merely a relic from an age that existed only in legends.
Rebel's Cairn was a cave, marked by stones carved in the likeness of eagles that watched over the dead king's tomb. Drogo and Vanyrra entered on foot, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a skeleton before him. In its hand was a musty old tome, and as he pried it away, a few of the man's fingers crumbled with it.
Barely visible beneath the mold across its surface was the title: The Legend of Red Eagle. As Vanyrra knelt and started gathering mushrooms into her knapsack, he began to read.
Long ago, a child was born in the Sundered Hills. They named him Faolan, which means 'Red Eagle' in the tongue of the Reach, for the screeching bird-call that greeted his birth, and the crimson blooms on the autumn hills.
Thus began his legend: Reach-child, born under auspicious skies, his very name the color of blood.
Ten kings ruled the Reach in those days, and though men were free, the people were scattered and warred amongst themselves. The augurs foresaw the boy's destiny: a warrior without peer, first and foremost Lord of the Reach, chosen to unite all under his name.
Faolan grew in years and strength, and it seemed the prophecy would be fulfilled. The banner of Red Eagle was raised along the cliffs of the Reach, and his people prospered.
Then came Hestra, Empress of the South, riding to war. One by one, the kings stood before her. One by one, they fell aside, bending knee in Imperial bargains or slaughtered on the battlefield.
Her legions came at last to the Sundered Hills, and envoys were sent to bargain for their surrender. Faolan refused to yield the freedom of his people, but the elders were afraid, cast him out, and accepted the Imperial yoke.
Thus was stolen by the foreign invaders: his land, his people, his very name. In the years that followed, Red Eagle became known as the untamed spirit of the Reach, unbowed, unbent, unbroken, stained by the blood of his foes.
He gathered loyal Reachmen to himself, those who clung to the old ways, who yearned for freedom, and forged a new nation. Together, they fell upon the occupiers and the traitors by night, disappearing into the cliffs and caves each morn, evading capture. It was not enough. For every Imperial patrol and garrison they wiped out, yet more seemed to march from the green south to replace them.
One night, under a cloud-choked sky, the men of the Red Eagle warmed themselves over damp fires of smoldering moss. A huddled, shambling figure came to them, cloaked in rags, face cowled. Though his men mocked and cast stones at the stranger, Faolan sensed something, and beckoned. The cowl was thrown back in the dim light, and she revealed herself to be one of the ancient and venerable Hagravens. She offered power, for a price, and a pact was made.
Thus was brokered to the witch: his heart, his will, his humanity. From that day forth, his was a spirit of vengeance, pitiless and beyond remorse. The rebels grew in strength and numbers, and none could stand against them. Faolan's eyes burned coldly in those days, black opals reflecting a mind not entirely his own. Two years passed, and the foreigners were all but driven from the Reach.
Such peace could not last, however, and a great host fell upon them, a swift army of invaders unlike any before. For a fortnight, Hestra's generals laid siege to Red Eagle's stronghold, till he himself came forth in battle, alone and robed in nothing but his righteous fury. A thousand foreigners fell before his flaming sword, and the enemy was routed. Yet, when night fell, so too did he. The warriors who came to him said Faolan's eyes were clear again on that final night.
He was taken to the place prepared for him, a tomb hidden deep within the rock. With his remaining strength he presented his sword to his people, and swore an oath: Fight on, and when at last the Reach is free, his blade should be returned, that he might rise and lead them again.
From behind him, Vanyrra began to speak quietly, and his eyes followed the words as she recited them. "Thus was given for his people: his life, his dream, his sword. But when every debt is repaid in blood, these he shall reclaim once more."
"You call it a curse," Drogo said after a moment, returning the book to the skeleton's open hand. "But your people wish for him to lead again."
"They do not understand," she said, and for a moment, there appeared to be a glint of sadness in the blackness of her eyes. "His eyes were clear that final night, and once again, he had his soul. When he is raised again, it will be his no more. My people do not understand how it feels to be a stranger within yourself."
"So you intend to kill him?"
The Briar Heart nodded, and Drogo returned the gesture. "Very well."
In the center of the cave was a simple stone pedestal, and in its center, a groove, carved perfectly to fit the blade of Red Eagle's Fury. With a grunt, Drogo shoved the sword into its resting place, and as a faint red light began to glow from the stone, the cave trembled, one of its walls giving way to a room beyond.
Vanyrra led the way, her blades drawn, and as they entered, a figure rose from the coffin in the center of the room. The legendary warrior had been buried in the finest of armor: dark, polished ebony, with silver designs etched across its surface. His eyes burned black beneath his helm, and as he raised the sword at his side, the woman rushed forward.
Her flashing blades kept his from reaching her skin, and she met him blow for blow, two pairs of empty eyes gazing across the clashing of steel as they fought, for their hearts knew only of battle. The fallen king fought with fury, but his child fought with the strength of her pain and pity, and in the end, he was reduced to a legend once again, his soul returned to him in death where it would remain forever more.
Vanyrra's eyes still held the lust for blood and battle, and returning her swords to her hips, she knelt at Faolan's body, her voice hoarse. "Leave me."
Obeying silently, Drogo returned to the cave, though not before he saw her tearing the rotten flesh from the dead man's throat with her teeth.
Where once the pedestal had shone red, it now glowed a faint blue, and when Drogo pulled the sword from the stone, it was no longer the same blade that it had been. Wrought of the same ebony as Red Eagle's armor, it was a heavy, and sharp, with its pommel carved into the shape of an eagle's head. He swung it easily across his shoulders.
His companion returned to him as he climbed atop his horse, her lips stained with brackish blood and her eyes dark and cold. "The blade is Red Eagle's Bane," she said as she swung onto her stallion. "It has his strength and his resilience, for these were what ended his life. Now, they are yours, and with them, you will unite the men of the Reach once again."
When they returned to the Sundered Towers, the Forsworn there bent the knee, and pledged their loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen, Khaleesi, and rightful queen of High Rock. Drogo would wait for the day when the sword could take its rightful place at Dany's side and they could ride to her homeland with an army at their backs. Until then, he would dream of her, and pray to the Divines that she still lived.
Dar'Jazha was waiting for them when they arrived back at the redoubt, and he approached Khal Drogo, a letter in hand.
"This came for you, yes…" he said as Drogo took the letter and examined its golden seal. "It bears the seal of the Thalmor."
Drogo and Dar'Jazha had had their fair share of dealings with the Thalmor in their time with the caravan, but they had never shown him more than a passing interest, for which he was grateful. Misfortune often came to those under the watch of the Thalmor.
Separating the wax from the parchment, he unfolded the letter and was greeted with his name in flowing golden script, and Dar'Jazha's beneath it.
Elenwen, First Emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion to the Kingdom of Skyrim
Requests the pleasure of the Company of
Drogo of Hammerfell and Dar'Jazha of Elsweyr
at a reception on 19 Evening Star, 201 at the Ambassador's Residence.
Regrets Only, Formal Attire Requested