Author's Note: Many thanks to those of you who have read, followed or 'favorited' this story, with special appreciation for my first reviewer, BarnabusAmbrosiusIII—your encouragement means a lot to me!

8: Bad to Worse

Thorald knew he should stop pacing but his nerves sizzled like fat on a fire. The entire Stormcloak camp had arrived, quicker than he had hoped. With the efficiency of long practice, they had thrown together a hidden bivouac near the old mine, overlooking the road to Riverwood. Fifteen men and women. They looked well enough. They were sober (for the most part) and they were anxious. Rumors of trouble had spread as fast as thought but the truth—that their jarl was imprisoned in Helgen and that the Thalmor sought to take him—shook and dismayed them.

"Can't we go in and get him out of there tonight?" asked one of the soldiers. And of course Thorald had been thinking about that.

"I don't know if the gate will be unlocked before dawn," he said. "And I don't know where in the keep he is being held. If we go in early, we might spoil everything."

"What do the witch-elves want with Jarl Ulfric?" their commander had asked. And Thorald had no answer. This might all be a trap, an elaborate trap, but they had no choice but to play along.

On their terms, of course, as well as they could manage.

"The elf that hired me has gone up to his room at the inn. Sleeping, as far as we know. His room is dark and he hasn't left it. He said he would meet me and the others at the Guardian Stones, at dawn."

"I think we should hit the Thalmor camp tonight," the commander said. His name was Joric. Like Thorald, he was too young to have seen service in the Great War, and eager to make a name for himself in this one. He and Thorald had struck up an instant rapport. "We'll catch them in their bedrolls and wipe them all out. Avoid any complications later."

"I agree," Thorald said. It was risky, risky and dangerous, but did they dare leave the Thalmor at their back? "Leave me a few steady men in plain clothes for tomorrow. If you come across a Breton woman in leather armor, she's with us. She's local and the source of the information we have on the Thalmor. I think she's gone back to the farm." Delphine had never returned from her scouting trip. Which was worrisome—if Delphine had been caught, the Thalmor camp would be ready and alert.

"We'll keep an eye out for her. You should get some rest, Thorald. The sun will be here before you know it."

"I will," he lied.

"Here, have some mead. Relax a bit."

"Sure."

The commander bustled out to ready his troops. Thorald eyed the bottle of mead he'd left with loathing. He didn't want mead. What he really wanted right now, what would relax him more than anything, was a mug of warm milk, like his ma used to make him when he had nightmares. But this nightmare wasn't going to be so easily vanquished. He sighed and settled down to some serious worrying.

Maven's desk was littered with letters. She had quill in hand, writing when Anuriel entered her study. Busy as she was, Maven rarely entrusted her correspondence to a scribe.

"What's the matter?" Anuriel asked. Maven's abrupt summons had yanked her out of the middle of a court session. She'd been forced to tell the jarl that she was ill. Laila dismissed her with a look that promised future retribution. The jarl would never cross Maven in any way but her own steward did not share that protection.

"Did you bring it?" Maven snapped. Her face was pink with wrath.

"Of course, Lady Black-Briar." Maven snatched the jarl's seal from her out-stretched hand. "But why—"

"Hush." Anuriel stood, impatient and alarmed, as Maven meticulously finished writing her letter. She used the jarl's seal with a practiced hand. "There," she said. "The courier is waiting in the Bee and Barb. See that he delivers this immediately."

"What has happened?" Anuriel asked. Maven sat with rigid posture. Her eyes practically blazed as she pointed at the three opened letters on the desk. She shoved them towards Anuriel. The first was from Maven's son, Hemming. The second was official, from the steward of Whiterun hold.

"He's failed me. That damned fool, I should have known. And he's dragged Ingun into that mess. Ingun! I specifically told him to take Sibbi."

"Who's failed? Not Hemming?"

"Yes, Hemming. My son brags to all who will listen that he is a mighty warrior. And he is routed by skeevers. Skeevers! And my poor Ingun was captured by a madman!"

Anuriel skimmed rapidly the first letter, in Hemming's large bold handwriting. "It sounds like these were no ordinary skeevers," she said.

"According to Hemming, they were monstrous." Maven snorted. "He always exaggerated, even as a little boy. That damned Sabjorn has the effrontery to press charges against my children! They were taken to the Whiterun prison. Black-Briars in prison!"

"On what charge?"

"How dare he!"

Maven was caught up in her anger so Anuriel read the second letter. "Ah, I see. They caught Ingun with the poison. They charged her and Hemming with trespassing, sabotage and malicious mischief. Sabotage? Apparently there was some suggestion that she was working with that mad mage they killed in the cave?"

"Ridiculous. And I've had a damned impertinent letter from Kodlak Whitemane."

"He's the Harbinger of the Companions."

"I know exactly who he is," Maven snapped. "My incompetent son hired the Companions to rescue Ingun from the mage. Bad enough that he put her in danger in the first place, now he can't even clean up his own mess? And Kodlak says he should have been warned that the city guard had been called. He should have been warned Ingun was involved in illegal acts. How dare he take a high tone with me?"

"Who called the guard?"

"That layabout Sabjorn, of course. Have you got to the good part?"

Anuriel read faster. Divines, no! The Imperial she'd hired, Mallus Maccius, had been induced to testify against them. He told the guard that the skeevers had been deliberately let into the meadery.

"Don't worry," Maven said bitterly. "I can't touch Sabjorn—yet—but this hireling of yours won't show up in court. I've already sent Maul with a message to Astrid."

Anuriel gave a nervous swallow. She was calling in the Dark Brotherhood? For an assassination? For what amounted to little more than criminal trespassing? Wasn't that a bit extreme?

"And I'll get Hemming and Ingun released right away." She handed her letter to Anuriel. It was addressed to the jarl of Whiterun.

"The seal?" Anuriel prompted. If Jarl Laila saw her official seal was missing, that would be embarrassing, to say the least. Maven pushed it across the desk to her.

"I can't stand ineptitude," Maven said. "When Hemming slinks back, we will have words, believe me."

Anuriel believed her. And I hope I'm not here when it happens, she thought.

Hod guided Joric and his men to the abandoned horse farm where the Thalmor were said to be hiding. Only one moon was up but Secunda was close to full and there was plenty of light. They had been smelling smoke for some time but it wasn't until they rounded the side of the mountain that they saw the flames.

"That's the farmhouse," Hod whispered. "Or it was." The roof had fallen in and the fire itself had begun to die down.

They found the body of the first sentry under a tree near the lane leading to the farm. The elf had an arrow through her neck. The second sentry lay in the shadow of the barn, in a pool of his own blood. He'd been shot in the face.

"There's eleven horses in the barn, sir," one of the Stormcloaks whispered. Joric had his men fan out and search the yard and outbuildings. Joric and Hod quietly approached the house.

"Nothing alive in there," Hod said. "And I don't think anyone got out."

"Why do you say that?"

"Do you see? Someone wedged the doors shut. From the outside."

In the back, one of the elves had tried to escape through a window. He also had an arrow in the face.

"I'm seeing a pattern here," Joric said, with a snort of black humor. "But how did this fire get started?"

"It was set," Hod said.

"I expect you're right. It must have caught mighty quick though. Maybe magic?"

"Maybe," Hod said. Or maybe not. He had sharp eyes. He'd noticed three empty casks of Cyrodiil brandy under the porch. And he could think of only one person in Riverwood with access to that much highly flammable liquor. But maybe it was best not to point that out. Let Sleeping Giants lie, so to speak. If no one wanted to claim credit for this massacre, there was no surprise in that. No one would want to bring Thalmor retribution on their friends, their business, or their village. And was there any real proof these were Thalmor? Perhaps they were bandits. Perhaps they were horse thieves. Yes. Should anyone come asking, that's what he'd say. They must have been horse thieves, for here were the horses to prove it.

"When the embers cool, we'll go in and count the bodies," Joric said. "Make sure there are no survivors in the cellar. But I'm thinking our little Thalmor problem has been taken care of. Let's hope Thorald's job is as easy as ours was."

Thorald met the elf at the Guardian Stones as planned.

"Only five of you?" the elf asked. Joric and his men had yet to return from the farmhouse but Hod had come in just an hour earlier, smelling of smoke and smiling with victory. Thorald saw no sign that the elf was aware that his camp had been incinerated.

The elf led them uphill and into the cave.

"Your uniforms are here. Put them on." The uniforms were neither clean nor unstained. We're wearing dead men's clothes, Thorald thought sourly. "Don't slouch. Try to look like soldiers," the elf said.

"We'll try," Thorald said. The elf gave him a sharp look.

"I'll meet you here," he said. "I absolutely cannot be seen in the keep. Go in, bring them out, and collect your pay. It's that simple."

Neither Thorald nor the others had ever been through this tunnel, which was a confusing mix of caves and natural waterways, reshaped and widened in places by pickaxe. Thorald could see why one would build a fortress over a protected water supply, convenient in time of siege, with a handy escape route, should the fortress fall. Of course, this was a weakness as well, hence the heavy set of gates. Thorald's blood went cold when he saw they were closed but a push proved that they were indeed unlocked. Talos look over us all, he prayed.

The rusty hinges squealed and groaned. "Hasn't been opened since the Third Age," one fellow whispered but Thorald forced it open wide enough for them to slip through. And then they were in the keep proper.

Or improper, Thorald thought with disapproval as they passed dark stinking cells, thankfully empty, and entered what could only be the torture room. Thorald eyed the instruments and devices, the braziers and the pincers, and shuddered. Dead bodies rotted in hanging cages. It smelled worse than the back room of the Hall of the Dead. When a big man in Imperial armor burst into the room, Thorald almost gutted him right there.

He's a Nord, Thorald realized. That's the last outrage—a Nord torturing Stormcloaks! His own countrymen!

The torturer showed no fear at the sight of five armed invaders. He was angry and upset.

"You're late!"

"We're right on time," Thorald said.

"You're too late! They're gone!"

"What do you mean?" Thorald asked, with dread's bony hand clutching his heart. "Where's Ulfric?"

"General Tullius came in before dawn and said he was going to execute the prisoners right away. Now. A day early. He brought his own headsman!"

"What? Where is Ulfric?"

"That's what I'm telling you! He's out in the yard now! You're too late!"

"Where is he?" Thorald grabbed the torturer's arm and gave him a hard shake. "Think, man. Where would they take him?"

The torturer blinked. "He's in the side yard by the tower," he said. "Tullius sent the soldiers off to the practice ground. Wanted this to be private, just the priestess and a few witnesses, not the whole keep. He said a jarl should die with some dignity, or the other jarls would kick up a fuss."

I'll panic later, Thorald promised himself. But first—

The torturer was still gabbling. "Elenwen is going to have my balls for this. Yours, too! She'll say I should have stopped him. How? It was General Tullius! I'm supposed to tell him he can't have his own prisoners?"

Thorald barely took this in. He looked around, saw a hammer on one of the tables. Probably used for breaking kneecaps, he thought grimly. It felt good in his hand when he picked it up. It felt better when he bashed in the torturer's skull. The man dropped with a thud.

"At least his balls are safe," one of the soldiers said. "Not so sure about ours. What are we going to do?" The four men stared at Thorald as if he could pull a miracle out of his tunic.

Thorald had moved through panic and come out the other side—to desperation. "Get some leather strips and make it look like your hands are bound," Thorald said. "You're going to have to hide your weapons." He horsed the torturer's cuirass off his dead body. "I'm going to take you out to get executed."

"Now wait just a moment," one soldier said. But the others responded to the manic look in Thorald's eyes.

"A surprise attack?" a quicker-witted soldier asked. "Five of us against the whole keep?"

Another one laughed. "That will surprise them, all right."

"Talos brought us here for a reason," Thorald said with more confidence than he felt. "We will save Jarl Ulfric or join him in Sovngarde." He saw they were afraid. So was he. But he saw that they were with him. And that gave him heart.

"Have your knives hidden in your hands," he said. "If you can find a way to hide another weapon, do so, but you must appear to be unarmed." Once he'd put on the torturer's armor, he took the man's sword belt and his shoddy Imperial sword. "When we get in the yard, cut everyone loose as fast as you can. It will be a few more than five against the keep. I hope. Free the jarl first. Whichever one of you cuts him loose, run him here, quickly. Get him out through the tunnel and make sure you kill that witch-elf on your way out. The rest of us will slow pursuit as best we can. Are you with me?"

Thorald got a ragged chorus of "Aye." He pretended not to hear the man who'd said, "We're so dead."

Thorald led his fake prisoners out of the dungeon and into one of the keep's side towers. He had never been in the fortress before. Helgen was part of Falkreath hold and a strategic target, should Whiterun ever abandon neutrality and declare for the Empire. Stormcloaks held the Pale on Whiterun's north border. When they took Helgen, the squeeze would begin and Balgruuf would have a hard decision, to send troops to hold the defenseless Riverwood or to have his hold eaten up, one bite at a time.

Or so Galmar Stone-Fist said. The general had a diagram of Helgen's Keep. Thorald had seen it.

He couldn't remember a damned thing. Why hadn't he paid more attention?

His mind seethed with random thoughts, anything to keep the terror out.

Why am I leading? I should have made one of the others put on this damnably skimpy armor. Cyrodiil must be a warm place. The Imperial should be last—no, there should be two of us, one ahead and one behind. This doesn't look right, what was I thinking? I want to die in Stormcloak colors, not in this. How do the Imperials go to battle, with nothing between the world and their loincloth but a split leather skirt? So short that my knees are showing! It takes more guts to be an Imperial than I thought. He knew Jarl Ulfric and General Galmar had fought for the Empire during the Great War. He tried to picture them in skimpy Legionnaire armor. His mind boggled.

He remembered that the torturer mentioned Elenwen. Could he have possibly meant the Thalmor ambassador? How was she involved in all this? Why? And were those her soldiers at the farmhouse? If fortune favors us, she lies dead there now with her fellow elves. But no, the torturer said she was here. At the keep.

They walked through the kitchen and through the barracks and they hadn't seen a single guard. They're all outside, Thorald thought sourly. Watching the show. The heavy tower door stood open and he stepped outside. The sun was low in the sky. It felt like they'd been in the keep for hours but it was not long past dawn.

"Which way do we go?" one of the Stormcloaks whispered. Thorald looked around wildly. And then he heard it, a heavy dull sound, a butcher's sound. An axe.

"Talos, no," one of the men said. The sound had come from the left. They heard shouts of anger and protest.

"That way," Thorald said.

He ran and the others trotted beside him. They burst through an archway and Thorald signaled them to stop, and then waved for them to fan out. They hadn't been noticed yet for all eyes were on the body at the chopping block.

Blood ran over the cobbles and dragged at the eye. You cut off a man's head and all his blood runs out. The headsman had stood in the right place to not get spattered. Must be good at his job, Thorald thought inanely. He forced himself to look at the head but he couldn't see it. It was in a basket, a nice large basket, with room for plenty more heads.

But it wasn't Ulfric, Thorald thought with relief. The dead man wasn't Ulfric for Ulfric was alive. He stood alone, hands bound and a gag in his mouth. Thorald wasn't close enough to see his expression but his body radiated outrage. They will make him watch his men die first, he thought. Is this sadism or some strange kind of respect, he wondered.

The executioner kicked the dead body out of the way. A priestess of Arkay stood behind him. She held her hand over her eyes and looked like she was trying not to be sick.

"Next prisoner," an Imperial officer cried. She pointed at Ralof.

Ralof took a step towards the jarl.

"Jarl Ulfric," he said. "It has been an honor."

I have to stop this now, Thorald thought. I have to get their attention so the others can be freed. He swallowed twice and stepped forward.

"General Tullius, sir!" he called out. "I have something to report!"

No matter what else went wrong, Thorald's voice had never failed him. It didn't fail him now. His words rang out strong and clear and, as he hoped, all heads turned toward him. The general glared.

"This had better be damned important, soldier."

Thorald's eyes shifted rapidly back and forth, trying to take in everything. One of his men sidled towards Ulfric. Good, he thought. They remember the plan, they haven't frozen up. Cut him loose, he thought, get him out of here. "Er," he said. His mind was blank. "I am here to report a plot. Yes. A plot against you, sir." Don't mention Ulfric, he told himself frantically, or everyone will look at him. "There's a Thalmor plot, sir! The ambassador has—has bribed one of us, sir. We caught him." He looked frantically around. Where was Elenwen? The torturer had said she was here.

There were no elves in the courtyard. No elves at all.

"Come here, soldier," the general said. Thorald swallowed and stepped forward. Well, the good news is, everyone's looking at me and not at Ulfric, he thought. The bad news is, everyone is looking at me and my mind is totally blank. He would have tried a smile but his face felt numb.

There was a strange roaring sound off in the distance.

"What was that?" one of the legionnaires asked. Heads swiveled to look but not the general's. His attention was squarely on Thorald.

"Name and rank, soldier," Tullius snapped.

I can't give my real name, it will come back on my clan. For a wild moment, he thought of saying he was Jon Battle-Born.

"You can call me Ysgramor," he said at random. "Just joined up, sir."

"No wonder I don't know your face," the general said. "Well, recruit, let me tell you how this works. We have a chain of command in this army. You have a superior officer. And so do I. I report to the emperor, son. Not to the Thalmor ambassador. And not to you. If you have a problem, you report it to your superior officer, who will bring it to my attention if warranted. If you ever, and I mean ever interrupt me for anything less than real and immediate danger—"

There was another roar. It was closer. But the general's brows had drawn down in suspicion. "What are these men doing—guards! To me! Secure the jarl!"

Thorald drew his sword. I should kill the general now, he thought. Wouldn't that stop the war? Or at least hinder it severely? But he whirled towards Ralof and cut him free. "Go to Ulfric!" he shouted.

Behind him the general yelled, "Don't let him get that gag off." One of his officers called for archers. Ralof kicked the headsman square in his fat gut and snatched the executioner's axe from his loosened grip.

"Where are we going?" Ralof shouted. The legionnaires that had begun to rush towards them paused beyond the reach of the long axe.

"Back to the prison. There's a tunnel out," Thorald said. One of the Stormcloaks had grabbed Ulfric's arm to lead him in the right direction. And then the man fell, with an arrow in his back. "That way," Thorald shouted. He gave Ralof a shove. Ulfric stooped and grabbed the knife from the fallen soldier's hand. More arrows thudded the ground around them. Thorald felt the muscles in his back tighten up in anticipation. He wished he had his wolf armor. This thin leather armor won't stop an arrow, he thought. Might slow it down a little, make it hurt more.

They were still out in the open and the door to the tower seemed impossibly far away. We're not going to make it, Thorald realized. Over the yelling he heard Tullius's voice ring out, demanding reinforcements. The whole garrison was in the practice yard nearby. Another Stormcloak fell, his thigh pierced and bleeding in spurts. Some of the archers had moved up to the walls and their arrows rained down in silent destruction and he saw they were being herded. A dozen men in Falkreath's colors galloped through an arch ahead of them. Thorald's lips drew back in fury. They had never had much of a chance but to fail now—no, Talos, no!

A shadow passed over him. A huge shadow. And a bellow that knocked him and the Falkreath soldiers to the ground. The ground shook when the—the thing—landed on the wall behind them. There was another bellow and the archers screamed. Briefly. Thorald felt the roar enter him like a physical blow, a blow that struck from the inside first, a blow that originated in his heart and blew outwards to make his entire body vibrate. He had never felt, never even imagined, anything like it.

"What in Oblivion is that?" he heard Tullius holler. It was fairly obvious what it was. Everyone stared at the wall, where the thing perched. It was black, it was huge, with wings and teeth and claws and it was, without any shadow of a doubt, as impossible as it might seem—

It was a dragon.

Thorald scrambled to his feet. As distractions went, this one definitely topped his. The surviving archers bent their light Imperial bows but their arrows bounced off the dragon's black hide. It was like plate armor, Thorald thought and he wondered if a crossbow would pierce it.

"More archers," Tullius yelled. "Call the battle mages. Kill that thing! Now!"

Time to go, Thorald thought. He looked over at Ralof, who knelt beside the man with the arrow in the thigh. He lay in a huge pool of blood. Ralof shook his head. Dead. Tullius and the soldiers were totally focused on the dragon. The Stormcloaks had completely escaped their attention.

Too bad the same couldn't be said for the dragon.

It let out a blast of fire, hotter than any forge. There were flames and a sizzle and a sickening smell of roasted meat. The archers who had come running at the general's call were incinerated. And then the dragon swooped down and grabbed one of Ulfric's men like a hawk stooping for a rabbit. Bone crunched before the man could even scream. The dragon wheeled overhead, dropped his victim and swooped down again. Thorald, frozen, could see those great alien eyes focus on him.

There was a roar beside him. Ulfric, his eyes wide and furious, Shouted.

The dragon slammed into a wall of force. It fell backward and hit the ground with a crash Thorald could feel through his boots. Thorald was stunned and disoriented. It seemed Ulfric himself was as well. Ralof grabbed them both and pointed to the nearest tower. They ran. The echoes of Ulfric's Shout vibrated through him. Words, Thorald realized. The words Ulfric Shouted rang through his head, clear and distinct. FUS RO DAHh! His lips moved as they silently shaped those devastating words.

As they passed through the doors—shelter at last!—Thorald looked back. The dragon was on its feet. It whipped its head about.

"It seeks us," Ulfric said hoarsely.

"Is that really a dragon?" Ralof said. "Like out of a legend?" Two other Stormcloaks followed him in before he slammed the door behind them. That's all of us that survived? Thorald frowned.

"That legend is about to burn down the keep," Ulfric said. "I hope you have a way out of here."

They heard a bellow of pure rage. And screams, abruptly cut off. Thorald looked frantically around for the stairs down.

"Yes, sir," Thorald said. "Only, it looks like we've gotten into the wrong tower."

A blast of fire blew the door off its hinges. A huge black snout poked its way in. Thorald, frantic with fear, stabbed at the dragon's face. The cheap Imperial blade he'd taken off the torturer's corpse snapped in his hands. For a sickening moment Thorald was taken back to a time in his childhood when another blade broke. The shadow of an old emotion tried to rise in his chest. For one insane heartbeat he stared at the useless hilt in his hand and felt childish tears in his eyes.

But just for a heartbeat. He dropped the hilt and fled. The others had already charged up the circular stone stairway that was the only way out. Thorald followed. The light from the overhead window was blocked for one frightening moment, and then the building shook as the dragon landed on the wall outside. The dragon roared.

Thorald felt the roar in his body—as words! Like Ulfric's Shout, the dragon attacked with words. YOL TOOR SHUL. Fire blasted from the dragon's mouth.

The wall before them exploded in a shower of stones. The men ahead of him reeled back or hit the floor or were knocked off the stairs. Thorald only kept his balance because he'd been the furthest back. Huge talons clawed the opening wider and then the giant snout poked its way in. In a strange and cold curiosity, Thorald met the dragon's alien eyes. There is madness there, he thought. Hatred and fury and most of all, madness. It will destroy us all. For no reason, just because it can, just because it hates us. All of us.

Thorald felt a wind—an impossible wind, a wind he'd felt once before. And then the words—Ulfric's words—rose up in his throat in a searing roaring wave he could neither stem nor control. He Shouted. FUS RO DAH!

The dragon careened backwards off the wall and crashed into the ground. It lay there, stunned.

I'll think about that later, Thorald promised. Now I'm going to run!

None of them spoke. They ran after Thorald, they ran past the dead and the dying, they ran past the burning buildings and they ran as the dragon pulled the fortress down around them. They found the jail. They found the tunnel. They finally stopped to catch their breath once they were deep enough under the ground to feel safe.

Thorald's throat felt strange. Like I've been breathing fire, he thought.

"What happened?" he asked. "Was that a Shout? How did I do that?"

"We'd all like to know," Ralof said. "If you don't have the answers, why do you think we would?" They all turned to the jarl.

"I shouldn't have Shouted," Ulfric said. "Did you see how it reacted? It won't leave a stone standing, looking for us. It will try to kill everyone."

"General Tullius was up there," Ralof said with a trace of satisfaction. "And some of his staff."

"And the Thalmor ambassador," Thorald added.

"No, Elenwen had already left," Ulfric said. "Before you celebrate this as a victory, don't forget, Helgen is a village of Nords under attack by this dragon. And I wouldn't count Tullius dead quite yet. He's a wily old fox. We got out. He may get out as well."

"There's another elf here, waiting at the end of the cave," Thorald warned. "The Thalmor planned this escape, Jarl Ulfric. Maybe Elenwen got away but we can kill this one at least. We've already wiped out his reinforcements."

But when they reached the bear cave that led out to the path, there was no sign of the dragon and the elf was gone without a trace.

Or almost without a trace. Before they reached Riverwood, they were met by the boy Frodnar.

"That elf is gone," he told Thorald bluntly. "Took his horse and left. Didn't pay his bill at the inn."

"Left in a hurry then?"

"Yep. He looked real upset. I followed him and he met someone on the road to Falkreath. Someone on a horse."

"Another elf?"

"Dunno. Whoever it was had a hood on. They headed west. Oh, and Orgnar says to tell you your horse is lame."

"No doubt your elf met Elenwen," Ulfric said. Frodnar stared at his impressive armor.

"You the jarl?" he asked. Thorald frowned but the jarl smiled.

"I'm Ulfric," he said. "Jarl of Windhelm."

"I'm going to fight for you when I get older. When Ma says I can."

"It sounds like you are serving me already," Ulfric said. Frodnar grinned.

"Yep. Hey, we got you a present!"

"Is that so?"

"Horses! We got a whole bunch of horses." He turned to Thorald. "So you don't have to ride the lame one."