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7: The Unthinkable Happens

Thorald's intrepid horse labored hard as he ruthlessly drove her west towards Riverwood. Ulfric, captured! Could there be a worse disaster? Betrayed and captured and even now in Imperial hands. Taken but where?

Scores of desperate Stormcloaks searched the roads for any sign of their missing leader. With a small honor guard, Ulfric had gone south to meet a group of Bruma Nords, sympathizers from Cyrodiil who had pledged gold and men to their cause. He, or they, had been betrayed. All that was known for certain was that an elite Legionnaire strike force had come upon Ulfric and his guard, and plucked them out of Stormcloak territory. And that much was only known because a scout, left for dead, had only been half dead.

"They'll take him to Solitude," Galmar had said. "They'll want to put on a show." His face was as pale as one so storm-weathered could be. He kept his hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling. His eyes devoured the map in Ulfric's war room as he calculated distances and time. "We'll send riders on all the main roads."

"They may take back roads," Ulfric's steward, Jorleif, said. "They must know we'll be after him."

"Maybe," Galmar said. It had been luck, that a Stormcloak patrol had spotted the dying scout and revived him with healing potions. The Legion may not be aware that pursuit was so swift on their heels, Thorald thought. He forced his clenched jaws to relax. If the Legion was smart, they'd kill Ulfric on the spot. Do that, and the war was over. Ulfric didn't even have an heir, as far as Thorald knew, and the other jarls—Laila of the Rift, Skald of the Pale, and Korir of Winterhold—was there a true leader amongst them?

But surely Galmar was right and they would want a show. Ulfric couldn't disappear into an unmarked grave. The Empire would need a spectacle to prove their control. General Tullius would need a public execution and a display of the body.

"Likely they'll head west to Morthal," Galmar continued. "Or they might pass through Whiterun. Balgruuf hasn't declared himself yet but he won't stop Imperials from passing through his hold."

"Falkreath is actually the closest Imperial hold," Thorald offered as he studied the map. "There's a fort there. At Helgen."

Galmar's bloodshot eyes made his stare more intimidating than usual. "You think they intend to take him further south? To Cyrodiil? To the Imperial City, maybe?"

"I don't know. But they're a small group, we do know that. That's how they moved in place without our notice. The closest Imperial reinforcements are at Helgen."

"Then you ride to Helgen and you look." A thick finger jabbed the map. "There's a Stormcloak camp here if you need more men." He looked at the steward. "We'll send our fastest riders, fan out. We'll find him."

"Aye," Jorleif said staunchly. "We'll find him."

And unspoken words echoed in all their heads. If Ulfric dies, the rebellion dies with him.

Ancano stretched out his long legs and took another sip of the cat's piss the locals called wine. He'd been prepared for hostility from the Nords in this rustic little tavern. Whiterun Hold might technically be neutral but no Altmer could expect a welcome anywhere in Skyrim, with the dubious exception of Solitude. The Great War was still too fresh in Nords' minds, particularly with Jarl Ulfric stirring the pot so nicely. So he'd expected hostility. He hadn't expected indifference . He certainly hadn't expected to be ignored.

First Emissary Elenwen had been clear in her orders. She was so angry that sparks practically flew from her eyes, but her voice had been cold and meticulous as she ticked off his assignments. She'd given him two justiciars and a squad of crack soldiers. All Thalmor, of course. "Find a deserted farm. There should be plenty to choose from," she had said. "And keep your men out of sight. Let them rest up while you ride into Riverwood. Hire half a dozen likely looking Nords from the tavern."

"Damn that Tullius," she said, interrupting herself. They were all exhausted from their wild ride down from Solitude. "Thinks he's going to pull a fast one on me, does he? We've got to get Ulfric out of his hands. What's he going to do with him?" Ancano had shrugged. He'd been fortunate to even hear of Tullius's daring raid. He was going to owe his brother much for that tidbit of information, a debt Estormo would be sure to collect at some inconvenient time.

"Maybe he will present him to the emperor," Ancano said.

"Like a cat dragging a fat skeever to his master? Perhaps. Or perhaps he will take him to Solitude to stand trial. We can allow neither of those scenarios to happen. I've got a man in Helgen Keep, one of the interrogation team."

Ancano battled amusement to keep his face still. Interrogation team, was it? She always used pretty words to gloss over her messy little hobby. With bribes and threats, she had created a web of 'interrogators' all across Skyrim.

"There's a cave that runs under Helgen Keep and right into the prisons," she continued. "I'll arrange to have the gates unlocked. Flash your gold around the tavern and hire some men. Dress them in Stormcloak uniforms—my contact has plenty. He'll leave them at the entrance to the cave. I've got a bit of a map here. It shouldn't be hard to find from Riverwood. Slip into the jail and take the jarl right out through the cave. Take any of his men as well. The quickest way to break Ulfric is to break his men in front of him."

"You should know," Ancano said. They both laughed.

"I can't wait to have him in my hands again. He won't have forgotten me, I can promise you that." She smirked. "Circle around Riverwood like you're heading west. Have the justiciars waiting on the road, out of sight. We'll take Ulfric to Northwatch Keep and decide what to do from there. Are your orders clear?"

"They are," Ancano said.

"I'll go distract Tullius. It's extremely important that you are not identified as a Thalmor agent. I cannot stress that enough. Tullius must not, absolutely must not know that we are behind Ulfric's escape."

"He has his suspicions. His actions these last few days show that."

"Of course he has his suspicions. He's not a complete fool. It is proof that he lacks and we must give him none. I mean it, Ancano. Succeed and I promise you a promotion and a command of your own. Fail? I'll find you the coldest dreariest posting in Skyrim. You'll spend the dregs of what was a promising career, freezing your ears off. But you won't fail. Will you?"

"I won't fail."

But nothing had gone well. Deep in Falkreath Hold, they'd gotten lost. Lost! All these back roads looked the same, winding up mountainsides, switching back and forth until you lost all sense of direction. And not a crossroad marked. Luckily they stumbled across some hunters who set them on the proper path. We should have offered them gold, Ancano thought in hindsight. The torture took way too long. He just didn't have Elenwen's touch. Not yet, anyway. After all, he'd spent the Great War on the front lines as a battle mage, not in safe obscurity as an interrogator like the First Emissary.

The hunters had known of a deserted horse farm. So they were able to stable their horses and rest them properly. Ancano had set aside his splendid Thalmor robes in favor of scruffy leather armor, suitable for a mercenary down on his luck. They were taken, in fact, from the corpse of the tallest hunter.

But when he rode past the Guardian Stones, one of the features on Elenwen's map, he detoured up the hill to find the secret entrance. It was hardly secret. The trail led right to it. He stepped inside and almost immediately found the cache of Stormcloak uniforms. Elenwen's attention to detail never ceased to impress. No weapons although it was quite possible his hirelings would bring their own. He was going to be alone with these farmers, these superstitious prejudiced Nords, and having them armed at his back might not be a good thing. But he had his magic, and Nords feared magic. He'd be fine.

The cave smelled like a bear cave and sure enough, it was one. Ancano paralyzed the big sow with a spell and then roasted her and her cubs. There's one problem solved, he thought. Now all I need is some greedy Nord lackeys.

But the tavern was deserted. No customers, no innkeeper, just a sleepy bartender who seemed strangely reluctant to gossip, even after Ancano had left a generous tip.

"It's quiet now," the man said. "Wait till later. Most of the villagers stop in for a drink after supper. They'll be here."

And so Ancano waited.

There was yet another party at Mistveil Keep. Harrald had made it abundantly clear that Saerlund should keep his disgraced self out of view, particularly at meal times and most particularly, when guests were expected. But Harrald wasn't Jarl of the Rift just yet. So Saerlund made sure he was present at every meal, morning, noon and night. He never spoke, he never did anything disruptive, but he was always there.

The serving staff had silently but firmly moved his seat from the family end of the large dining table to the far end where the retainers ate. That suited him just fine. He could look across the expanse of the dining room where his mother held court. His mother would look in his direction from time to time but her eyes never met his. They brushed over him light as butterflies, as if he didn't exist.

He rarely ate with much appetite these days. But then, neither did she.

He usually sat next to Wylandriah in what he had come to think of as the Misfit corner. She was late, as usual, but she smiled at Saerlund as she took her seat. She patted her pocket and pulled out the small journal he had given her to use as a memory aid.

"Such a thoughtful gift," she beamed. She kept her hood up, as always. She was sensitive about her ears. He thought that was silly.

"There are a lot of elves in Riften," he'd told her once.

"There are a lot of Dunmer," she corrected. "And they tend to keep to themselves. Of Bosmer, there are few. There's Anuriel. Feh." One of the things Saerlund appreciated about Wylandriah was that she shared his distrust of his mother's steward. "It was different at the college, but here, it just seems better to keep a low profile."

"Keep a low profile? How can you advise my mother if you are keeping a low profile?"

"She doesn't want advice."

"That doesn't mean she doesn't need it."

Wylandriah had given him a look.

"Your experiments going well?" he asked politely.

"Oh, indeed they are, that's why I'm just a bit late." And she launched into a complicated monologue that he could not follow at all. She was either crazy or brilliant, Saerlund wasn't sure. Or possibly both, they weren't mutually exclusive. She spent most of her time holed up in her workroom, shunned by both the guards and the court. But she had a vast Dwemer library and she let him borrow. Saerlund had been fascinated by the Dwemer since childhood but her knowledge far outstripped his.

Suddenly Wylandriah cocked her head and Saerlund became aware of the raised voices at the end of the table, where Maven Black-Briar sat in the seat of honor next to his mother.

"I specifically asked for the Firebrand wine," Maven told the cringing servant. "Surely you don't expect me to believe there is not a single bottle in your cellar."

Saerlund rolled his eyes. "Listen to her, giving orders like she's in some common tavern instead of sitting at the jarl's table." He kept his voice to a whisper. "And look at them all, bowing and scraping to her. Even mother! It's sickening."

He had missed part of the conversation but it was impossible to miss Maven's loud demands.

"A problem in the cellar? Don't be ridiculous." The servant cringed even lower. Maven turned to the jarl. "Your people are afraid of the cellar? What superstitious nonsense is this?"

"I have no idea," Laila said.

"Come, we will solve this problem once and for all."

Right in the middle of the meal, Maven rose and swept out towards the kitchen. "Come, Laila."

The jarl meekly followed her.

Saerlund fumed. "Did you see that? She's giving orders to my mother! And my mother is following them!" He turned to Wylandriah and his outrage turned to concern. "What is it? Have you taken ill?"

"The cellars—my experiment is in the cellars."

"Which one? Not the spiders, I hope. My mother is deathly afraid of spiders."

A penetrating scream had them both out of their chairs. That answers that, Saerlund thought. He and Wylandriah ran to the cellars. They found the jarl by the stairway, white-faced and trembling.

"It was as large as a housecat," she moaned. Wylandriah ran forward just as Maven finished stomping the spider to goo.

"Don't be such a little fool, Laila," Maven said. "It's just a spider. A woman of power should never show fear. Force is how we solve problems. Now where is that wine?"

"You killed my spider!" Wylandriah said. "It was just a baby." Saerlund was startled to see tears in the mage's eyes. Maven turned on her.

"Do you mean to tell me this creature was yours? Some sort of pet? Are there more of them?"

Wylandriah nodded. Laila bolted for the dining room.

"Get every one of these creatures out of the palace tonight or the jarl is going to be looking for a new court mage as well as an exterminator." She swept out of the cellar, a bottle of wine in each hand.

"What am I going to do?" Wylandriah moaned. Saerlund looked at the spider's carcass. This was a baby? It was huge! How large was its mother, he wondered uneasily. "They like it here," the mage continued. "It's cool and dark. The perfect environment."

"Would a cave do?"

"A cave would be perfect but there's no time to find one. She said I had to get them out tonight. Tonight! And there are so many to move. It's impossible."

There were many of them? Saerlund stared. No wonder the servants wouldn't go into the cellar. What had she been thinking?

"The mountains in this area are riddled with caves," he said. "You know that years ago, the people rose up against the jarl and burned him alive in his palace, right? That's why Mistveil Palace was built of stone. And that's why there's a secret escape tunnel leading out to one of these caves. I can show you the entrance but you have to be careful not to be seen using it. Only the family is supposed to know about it.

She gave him an incredibly grateful look. "And will you help me move all my babies? And the eggs?"

"Eggs?" He supposed he could borrow the groundskeeper's wheelbarrow. He sighed. Although he didn't share his mother's fear of spiders, he couldn't exactly say he was fond of the things. "Of course. But how are we going to move the babies?"

"They'll follow me, of course. They're quite intelligent, you know."

"Stendarr's Mercy. Why spiders, Wylandriah? Why so many spiders?"

"It is for the good of the city, you know," she said earnestly. "I'm working on a new defense system."

"With spiders?"

"The Dwemer used spiders to defend their strongholds."

"Those were constructs, Wylandriah. Machines."

"Yes, but building constructs is a lost art. And anyway, living creatures are better. They reproduce! And they can be trained!" She gave him one of her gentle, demented smiles. "And they're just so adorable. You'll see."

The days in Last Seed were long and there was still plenty of daylight left when Thorald approached Riverwood. Thorald's horse pricked up her ears in warning, so the voice from the bushes didn't take him by complete surprise.

"Hey. You. Stormcloak."

Thorald wasn't in uniform. "Who, me?"

"If you say you're not a Stormcloak, you're a big fat liar." A boy stepped out onto the road. "I know who you are. You're Thorald Gray-Mane."

"And do I know you?"

"Yep. You know my uncle Ralof."

"You one of Gerdur's brats?"

The boy grinned. "Yep. I'm Frodnar."

"The little trickster. I remember you. What are you doing out here?"

"Watching for Imperials. And watching for you, or someone like you. You here to save my uncle? And Jarl Ulfric?"

"What do you know about that?" he asked sharply.

"Just that they're in Helgen and ma's about to lose her mind." He gave Thorald a worried look. "You're going to do something, right? Where's your men? I hope you brought a lot. Ma's trying to get folks organized. Go the back way, that path up there. I'll put your horse somewhere safe."

Thorald had visited Ralof's sister Gerdur in happier times. Gerdur may not have lost her mind but she was clearly upset and distracted with worry. Her husband Hod seemed calm but his brows were drawn down in an uncharacteristic frown. A couple of local people Thorald didn't know sat at Gerdur's dinner table.

"Oh, Thorald, thank Talos you're here," she said when he entered the cottage.

"Frodnar told me you have news of Ulfric."

Gerdur had been in Helgen on business. In a confused gabble, she told of several wagon loads of Stormcloak prisoners, arriving in town under Imperial escort. They were met at the fortress gate by General Tullius himself, with some witch-elf beside him. She saw her brother on one of the carts, next to Ulfric. The jarl had been gagged!

"They're afraid of his Shout," Gerdur said.

"They should be," Hod replied. "And then there's this elf, here in town. Just showed up. Been sitting in the inn all afternoon. Said he was looking to hire some local men for a quick job. Strange timing, to put it mildly."

"What kind of job?" Thorald asked. No one was sure. "But who is he?"

The cottage door opened. Every hand went to a weapon.

"He's a Thalmor spy," the eavesdropping newcomer said. She walked into the suddenly silent room, a bow on her back and a sword by her side, with her hair braided back and a dangerous look in her eye.

"Delphine?" Gerdur asked. Thorald blinked. This was the Sleeping Giant's frumpy innkeeper?

"I'm not sure what he wants," Delphine continued. "But he has a squad of Thalmor troops hidden on the old horse farm. I just scouted them out. There are two justiciars and at least eight other soldiers. They're up to something."

Gerdur turned to Thorald. "What are we going to do? There's that old tunnel that runs under the keep but it's been locked up for years. Even if we could break down the gate, we don't know where it goes."

Thorald's brain had been churning as fast as it could. "Gerdur, can you get me ink and paper?" He gave Delphine a long look, trying to fit this new competence to the innkeeper he thought he knew. Could he trust her? She wasn't even a Nord. He looked over at Hod, who gave him a tiny shiver of a wink. So. He would trust her.

He wrote his orders quickly. "There's a Stormcloak camp not far from here."

"I know where it is," Hod said.

"I'm going to send for reinforcements now. Tonight." And by Ysmir's Beard, I hope they're competent, sober, and above all present. Sometimes these camps were mere skeletons, emptied out either by injury, desertion or boredom. "I'll have them assemble—" He gave Hod a helpless look. "Where? Not here in town."

"I know a place. I'll take care of it," Hod said. "I'll take the note myself."

"Good. I'm going to meet this elf, see what he wants."

"He's a Thalmor spy," Delphine said.

"But he's one elf. Alone. We need to know why he's here." He looked at Delphine. "Do you think you can keep an eye on the Thalmor camp?"

"I'll manage," she said drily.

Ancano had an early supper at the tavern. The food was a good match for the wine, unfortunately. He felt the beginning of an epic case of indigestion develop when the tavern door finally opened and a human walked in. From what Ancano could see, this fellow was the very image of bucolic Nord-hood. His shoulders were wide, his hips narrow, and his hair was long and blond with the requisite braids. He was dirty, as if he had just come in from the fields. Instead of the ubiquitous axe he had a big sword in a back harness. His only real shortcoming was his stunted beard.

Now if only he has some brothers or friends, I'm in business, Ancano thought.

He sidled up to the bar as the Nord bickered with the bartender.

"Give me a bottle of mead," the stranger said. "No offense but that ale smells a bit off."

"Perhaps you'd allow me to buy," Ancano said smoothly. The stranger turned to him and made an elaborate double-take as his eyes took in his elegant Altmer features.

"Well, that's mighty kindly of ye," the stranger drawled. "Unexpected but kindly."

"Unexpected because of my race? The war's been over a long time, my friend. Bygones be bygones and all that. Do you live around here?"

"Nearby," the stranger said, with a vague wave of his hand. Ancano didn't ask his name. This business was best conducted with no names mentioned.

"As you may have guessed, I am not local to these parts. I find myself in need of some hired help. I need five or six men to pick something up and deliver it to me at a safe location."

"Must be a pretty big package if you need six men."

"This is an important delivery," Ancano said. He leaned forward. "And this must be handled with discretion. Absolute discretion. I'm willing to pay well for that."

"Sounds a bit under-handed, like," the stranger said. His brows rose, but not in outrage, more in polite interest. A venal interest, Ancano hoped.

"Some might think so," Ancano said smoothly.

"We stealing something?"

"Not stealing, no. Perhaps a better word is 'liberating'." And he set a stack of septims on the table. The stranger's eyes lit up. "There is a bit of deception involved, I admit. Are you interested?"

"Might be, if you pay as well as you say. Work's been slow for me and my mates, that's a fact. We could use a bit of gold in our pocket. What is it you want done?"

Ancano looked around. The tavern was still deserted and the bartender was safely out of earshot. "Would you and your mates be willing to put on Stormcloak uniforms?"

"Aww, you're a recruiter? Should have said so from the get-go. If I wanted to join up, I'd have done it already."

"I'm not a recruiter. It would just be for show. A disguise, as it were."

"I don't know," the man said. He eyed the septims significantly. "You can get in trouble, pretending to be what you're not." Ancano set down another stack of septims. And another. "But," the Nord said. "I guess if it was just for show there'd be no real harm in it."

"None of you will have to fight, I promise."

"So what's the job?"

Ancano took a breath. This was it. He set down another stack of septims. "There's a secret passage that runs under Helgen Keep."

"It ain't a secret," the stranger said flatly. "Everyone knows about the old tunnels. They're locked up."

More than ever Ancano was convinced he had found the right man for the job. "They are unlocked now. I need you to go in and bring out some friends of mine. The cells are opened, there will be no guards. Everything has been arranged."

"Why don't they just walk out then?"

"Er, they need a guide. When they see your uniforms, they'll know you're the ones."

"So your friends are Stormcloaks?"

"Not all Altmer support the Thalmor, you know." He jingled his coin purse. "Some of us are independent."

"So, you're a mercenary? You're, like, a jail breaker? For hire?"

"You have a fine grasp of the job." He eyed the Nord, whose eyes were on the gold. "The gold on the table is a down payment. Bring my friends out safely and I'll make you rich."

"When do we do this?"

"Tomorrow morning, at dawn."

"How do I know who to break out?"

"My man inside will bring them to you. He'll be wearing an Imperial uniform. Don't let that bother you. He's in on this."

"Your friends, they're expecting us?"

"No." Ancano thought. There could be awkward questions. This had to go off smoothly and above all, swiftly. "Tell them that Galmar Stone-Fist sent you."

"Galmar Stone-Fist?" The stranger stumbled over the name. Ignorant fool, he didn't even know the name of the Stormcloaks' general?

"Yes, tell them that. I'll explain everything when we meet at the rendezvous."

"Will do." With a strange grin, his new hireling pocketed the gold on the table and they went over the details.

"You do this job for me," Ancano said as they parted, "You'll be a proper little hero, and that's a fact." The stranger's eyes flashed. I've got him, Ancano thought smugly. No Nord can resist the lure of heroism.