Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Reviews and comments always welcome. I'm somewhere close to halfway through, hoping to wind this up in time for NaNoWriMo in November.
11: Homecoming
Thorald trotted down the steps from Dragonsreach and then hesitated in indecision. Should he speak to Kodlak now or collect his gear from the stables first? He'd left his weapons with his saddlebags. Irileth kicked a fit if any outsider entered the jarl's presence while armed. He wasn't in Stormcloak uniform but she knew he was sworn to Ulfric now. And Irileth could kick up a pretty good fit. He might as well collect all his gear and leave it at Jorrvaskr. They always had spare beds and that way he wouldn't have to put his ma out, or rather, Avulstein, who had claimed his half of their shared bedroom while he'd still been packing to go to Windhelm.
Had things gone right, that room would have been his and Grelka's, and it would be Avulstein sleeping on a lumpy mattress in Jorrvaskr and listening to Torvar's sodden snores.
But things hadn't gone right and he didn't know if he could ever make them right again. And Grelka was gone. Where had she gone? Why didn't she want him to know where she was?
How could he make things right?
He stopped for a moment to admire the Gildergreen. Aela stepped out Jorrvaskr's front door and that decided him. He strode up the stone stairs to meet her.
"Ah, Thorald, good. Just the man I wanted to see." She gave him a cool look. Aela was the only one of the Companions who hadn't condemned him for joining the Stormcloaks. If it wasn't for Kodlak's insistence the Companions stay out of politics, he suspected she might have joined up herself. Not that she cared much for politics but glory, that she cared about.
"You've heard of this dragon at Helgen?" he asked.
"That I have. Where is it now? Is it true you've lost track of the beast? If they are as big as people say, I wouldn't think it would be that hard to track."
"We think it flew up into the mountains."
"I suppose it will leave when it's hungry. What does it eat?"
"I don't know. Aela, this dragon isn't a mere beast. It speaks."
"What did it say?"
"I didn't understand it but it definitely used words."
"If it slaughtered the people of Helgen, I suppose that's all I need to know. How do we kill it?"
"Nothing we did at Helgen injured it in the slightest. Weapons broke on its hide. Arrows bounced off its scales like hitting a stone wall."
"I have arrows, dwarven arrows, that will go through steel plate. I'll fetch them." She turned her head. "What is that noise?"
Thorald listened and heard nothing. Aela's hearing was notoriously sharp. He opened his mouth but she held up her hand. "There," she finally said. She pointed west.
The sound was far off and so faint that he could almost convince himself he imagined it. Almost.
"The dragon," he whispered.
"Ah. Then I'll fetch those arrows now."
What a time to be unarmed! Thorald thundered down the steps but stopped when he saw a red-faced guard running like daedra chased him. Thorald grabbed his arm.
"Is it the dragon?" he asked. "Where is it?"
"Western Watchtower," the boy gasped.
"Has it attacked?"
"No, it's just circling. It's big! Talos, it's big. And it's fast. I thought it would eat me for sure."
Thorald gave him a gentle push. "Go! Tell Irileth and the jarl!" He turned, ready to run to the stables when his ma entered the plaza. She carried a long package in both hands.
"Thorald!" she hollered. Her voice was extremely penetrating. He ran to her side.
"Ma, you've got to go inside now. The dragon's been sighted. Go down to the cellar and stay there."
"It's coming here? Talos save us! Take this, Thorald, you need to take this now."
He took a closer look and he knew what it was, even before she'd started to pull off the cloth that covered it. A sword was a sword, you could hardly disguise it. He'd known, of course, that Grelka was making him a sword as a wedding gift. Hard to hide something like that when the smithy was right above Jorrvaskr. Half the town and all the Companions wandered up to the Skyforge whenever they were bored or chilly. So he'd known about the sword. But he hadn't seen it.
"Kyne!" he breathed.
It was a two-hander. The blade was long but not unwieldy. The balance was perfect. The hilt fit his hands like he'd wielded it his whole life. If anyone ever wondered if Grelka would be a master smith, he thought, let them look at this. The answer was in his hands. And she'd had it enchanted. The blade shimmered with power.
"Eorlund sharpened it," Fralia said. "Here's the scabbard. Grelka made that too. Stop staring and put it on."
"I will. Go somewhere safe, now, ma. Hurry."
"You go kill that thing and then I'll be safe. And be careful. And don't forget we're having a roast tonight if the house doesn't burn down. Now go."
Aela had come out in time to catch the last of this. As always, despite Grelka's many attempts to get her into something more protective, she wore the ancient armor that had been passed from mother to daughter through generations of her family. The corner of her mouth quirked up.
"Maybe we'll have roast dragon in Jorrvaskr," Aela said. "The others are coming. Let's not wait. Let's head for the watchtower and scout."
"They're all coming?" he asked, as they moved quickly towards the gates.
"Even the whelps. No one wants to miss out on the first dragon in an age. Skjor says we have some throwing spears somewhere. He's got Tilma checking all the closets. Kodlak's going to be sorry he missed this."
"Where's Kodlak?"
"Left for Morthal yesterday." Her mouth turned down. "To talk to the jarl."
"Why?"
"Not for me to say." But her expression said plenty. Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone was a seer. No doubt Kodlak was consulting her about a cure to the beast-blood. His desire to be clean of the curse had been a source of friction in the Circle for the last year. "No good can come of it," she muttered. "And he'll miss the dragon. Too bad Grelka's not here."
"Yeah." The three of them—Aela, Irileth, and Grelka—were such deadly archers that the Companions called them the Red Sisters. Extremely competitive, too. "Where is she, by the way? Do you know? No one will say."
"She doesn't want you running after her, Thorald. She's not ready to see you."
"Is she that angry?"
"Give her some time. You know Grelka. It's easier for her to feel anger than to feel—other things. But I tell you what. We kill this dragon and we both survive, maybe I'll drop you a hint."
"A hint? Come on, Aela."
"Sorry, that's the best I can do."
"No, it's not." She gave him a lupine grin and set a pace that Thorald, even with his longer legs, had to struggle to match.
The Western Watchtower was built of stone. It couldn't burn. But trees could burn. So could carts, sheds, barrels and people.
"I guess it got tired of circling," Aela said. Her voice was light but her lips were set in a stern line as they surveyed the devastation. The grass around the tower was patched with fire. Every fire held a body. No one's left alive, Thorald thought. It was Helgen all over again.
"Where is it?" he asked. "If it's gone—"
Aela walked silently through the long grass. She examined several of the bodies.
"It kills," she said. "But it does not eat what it kills. It destroys as if it glories in destruction. Why? It acts more like a man than a beast. Or perhaps something else entirely."
"It's mad," he said.
"Mad. Even beasts go mad." She stopped. Her nostrils flared. He took a step forward and she held up her hand to stop him. She looked at something wet on the ground. She stooped and touched the blood with her finger, sniffed. Her head moved slowly from side to side and then, even more slowly, her eyes scanned upward. Up to the top of the tower. From where he stood he was at the wrong angle to see anything but the stone parapet. She was too close also but her nostrils flared again.
"It's up there," she whispered. She rapidly strung her bow. "It's been wounded. I'll keep watch here. Go meet the others, tell them to fan out. Circle the tower, but quietly. We don't want to scare it off."
Scare it off? Thorald had to choke back a nervous laugh. Could two puny humans frighten such a formidable creature? Did it even feel fear? He headed back along the road, and the feeling of eyes on him burned into his back and sped his steps. He cursed Aela for scaring him with no proof the beast was still there at all. When he reached the miniscule cover of a straggly tree, he turned and studied the top of the tower. No signs of movement. Was something there? His eyes traced the outline of the stonework. There, was that a crumbled wall or was it the edge of a huge shoulder? Didn't the light reflect rather strangely?
If it's up there it's crouched down, hiding, he realized. Perhaps it was wounded, as Aela thought. Or perhaps it set an ambush, waiting for the city's defenders to arrive. Or, he thought, maybe it's taking a nap after a hard morning's exercise.
Skjor and the Companions beat Irileth out of the city. In addition to their usual weapons, they all carried bows, crossbows or spears. Skjor nodded when Thorald told them Aela's plan.
"We'll circle around the back, from the west," he said. "Irileth's people are right behind us. Have them come in straight, from the road. When everyone's in place, we'll see if we can't lure it down."
Thorald walked up to meet Irileth. Her eyes burned like embers as she took in the destruction. "Any survivors in the tower?" she asked.
"We haven't heard anyone," Thorald said. "Aela thinks the dragon's on the roof. Wounded."
"Indeed. If so, it was hale enough to fly up there. We can only reach the roof through an open staircase through the tower. There is no cover whatsoever. We need to get it on the ground. Any suggestions?"
Thorald groaned inwardly. "One," he said. "And it might not work."
Irileth told her men to be quiet but Thorald could hear whispers behind him as he stepped into the open. He made sure his sword was loose in its scabbard.
"Cooooeeeee!" he hollered. Thorald had always had a loud, clear voice. "Dragon! Show yourself!"
Nothing. He waited. The silence seemed to mock him. He took a deep breath. I guess I have to do it, Thorald thought. I hope I still can. And if it's not up there and I make a fool of myself…
"FUS RO DAH!"
His Shout slammed into the parapet. Three stone blocks broke loose and flew off the top of the wall in a shower of grit. Thorald's chest burned and his throat flamed. All the quiet whispers turned to shocked silence.
Thorald strained his ears. The wind almost covered a slight rustling sound. Something moved on the top of the tower. A giant golden eye peered down, two giant eyes, and then a long narrow maw full of long sharp teeth.
Aela was right as usual, Thorald thought. The dragon's head craned over the stonework above. Its brown scales glinted like bronze in the sunlight. Bronze. Not black. This was not the dragon from Helgen. This was a totally different dragon. That meant there were two of them.
At least two, his frightened mind whispered. At least two.
The dragon opened its mouth. Thorald prepared to dodge but the dragon didn't flame him. It spoke.
"DOVAHKIIN?"
He didn't know what it meant but the word made his bones shudder. He beckoned with his arms.
"Come here!"
The dragon cocked its head, for all the world like a dog listening for its master's whistle. Then it sprang off the top of the watchtower. It flapped its great wings once, twice, and hit the ground in front of Thorald with a thump he felt through his boots. His running boots, for he hadn't waited, he'd already darted away.
"Archers!" Irileth cried. The Companions had already started firing. Thorald heard the twang of bows and several thunks that he hoped meant the dragon had been hit. He turned. The dragon gave him a long stare and then it sank back into a crouch. The muscles in its great thighs bunched.
"It's going to fly," he hollered. "Hit the wings, keep it down!"
One of Irileth's men ran forward with an axe. He struck the wing in an attempt to split the thick membrane. The dragon whipped its head about, fast and agile as a serpent. The guard shrieked when jaws clamped down on his shield arm. Thorald couldn't risk a stroke. He ran in and slammed the pommel of his sword into the dragon's lower jaw. Lightning flared from the pommel stone. The flash should have blinded him but it didn't—he sensed it through his eyelids. He must have blinked at precisely the right moment.
The dragon opened its jaws and staggered back. The guard dropped from its mouth like a bloody dishrag. Arrows continued to fly. The dragon's sides and wings bristled with bolts and arrows and blood dripped down its flanks.
The dragon twisted to look at Thorald. It scrabbled forward, walking on the edge of its wings like a man crawling on elbows and knees. Even with this awkward gait, it was fast. Its mouth opened. It's going to flame me, Thorald had time to think. And then a dwarven arrow plunged deep into the dragon's right eye. That would be Aela, he thought. The dragon shrieked in pain and outrage. Its head jerked towards him again.
"Dovahkiin, no!" it cried. Was that an appeal or a curse? Was it calling for help? Thorald didn't know.
But the time he'd spent as a child, studying the great skull over the jarl's throne, came back to him. He and Avulstein had boosted each other up so they could touch it. He could see the shape of the jaw in his mind. And he ran forward, under that great seeking head, just as another arrow, elven this time, sank into the other eye. Irileth and Aela, what a pair of showoffs. He thrust upwards. Like a hot awl plunged into leather, his sword cut through the thin scales of the jaw. With sparks flying all around his hands, he thrust up through the roof of the dragon's mouth and up, further, into its brain.
"Everybody, get back!" he heard Irileth roar. Power ran from his sword into his hands. Power slammed into his body, into his own brain, like a wave of searing blinding fire. And it burned him, burned him from the inside out until the fire and the pain burst out his mouth in a scream. He reeled backwards, disarmed, with his sword jammed through the dragon's head. And still the light swirled around him and around the dragon. Flames everywhere. He thought he was dying, but the flames burned the dragon, burned its flesh away, burned and burned until scales rained down from what had been the dragon's flesh and his blade dropped out from the dragon's naked skull.
Thorald staggered again and fell forward onto his knees. It had been very old, this dragon. Mirmulnir. A name with a meaning. Mirmulnir. He felt the words inside him, not one but three. Mir Mul Nir. The dragon's name had a feeling of loyalty and strength. But that was his life. Now the dragon's strength was gone. Burned away. Stolen.
After a moment of silence that seemed to stretch the length of the world, he tried to stand. Too dizzy. He crawled forward to his sword. He felt better when his hands curled around the hilt.
Aela ran to him. "Are you hurt?" He shook his head. "Then get up." She grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. He swayed, blinked, looked at the sword in his hand. Sheathed it, on the second try. It wasn't just his hands that shook, it was his whole body.
Irileth crouched by the wounded guard, who lay in an alarmingly large puddle of blood.
"Am I going to lose my arm, housecarl?" His voice was little more than a whisper.
"Not if I can help it," Irileth said. She turned to the closest guard. "Bring Danica from the temple," she told him. Her brow furrowed as she took a potion from her belt pouch. "If you can drink this down it will keep you stable until the healer arrives."
Another guard reported there were no survivors in the watchtower. Irileth nodded, unsurprised by this news. With her attention diverted, the other men felt free to talk.
"It's like the old stories."
"Did you see what he did? He took the dragon's power."
"Thorald took its very soul."
"He's the Dragonborn. Got to be. You heard him Shout."
"Dragonborn! Like Tiber Septim himself, when he was a man."
"Tiber Septim never killed any dragons."
"There weren't any then, you idiot."
Aela raised her eyebrows. "Dragonborn?" she mouthed. Thorald flushed.
"Be silent!" Irileth commanded. "You, there! Put that down, this instant, right back where you got it." A shamefaced guard dropped the dragon scale he was tossing from hand to hand. "We are not here to collect souvenirs. You, go to the Hall of the Dead and warn Andurs that we have work for him. Then come back with a wagon so we can take our brothers home." Her grim wave took in the bodies in the grass.
"Irileth," Thorald said. Her attention was still on her men.
"The rest of you, see that this area is secured. In no time at all we will have every gawker in Whiterun down here. The jarl will want to see this and so will the court wizard. I do not want the dragon disturbed until they get here. Keep everyone clear."
"Irileth," Thorald said again.
"You've done a fine job, all of you, and my personal thanks to the Companions who joined us here," she continued. She gave Thorald a nod. "This may be a creature of legend but we have all seen that we can kill it. That's good enough for me."
"Irileth!" Thorald grabbed her arm. The housecarl frowned. In a hoarse whisper, he said, "This is not the dragon from Helgen."
Now he had her attention. "What?"
"It's a different dragon! The one at Helgen was black. And it was much larger."
Irileth gave him a red unblinking stare. "There's a bigger one skulking in the mountains?"
"At least one."
"There could be more? Oblivion!" She looked down at her injured guard. Her lips pursed. "I'll tell the jarl personally. I'm sure he will want to come down here right away and I don't want him going anywhere without a proper guard."
"Can I take some scales? I want to show them to my da."
"Yes, of course. What is this Dragonborn talk? Some Nord legend?"
"An old one."
"Did you truly eat that dragon's soul?"
"I don't know!"
"We'll study this—carcass—see if we can find any weak spots. I'd be glad to hear Eorlund's thoughts on how best to penetrate these scales. What happened to its flesh? Is this what happens when dragons die? Or is it something you did to it?"
"I don't know!"
"Perhaps Farengar will know something of use."
She left one of her men in charge before she left for Dragonsreach. Thorald joined the Companions as they headed back towards the mead hall.
"Well," Aela said. "That was interesting. Strange that the flesh burned away. Now we'll never know what dragon tastes like." She took one of the scales from Thorald, looked at it and handed it back. "Did you get a sample of bone as well?"
"No, should I?"
"Yes, you should. Here. It's a piece of the tail." They walked on. "Too bad Grelka wasn't here. We could have used her bow. I wonder what she'd think of this scale? Remember that mudcrab armor she made?"
"And the chaurus. I remember."
"She told me there's some fellow in Riften who knows how to make armor out of bone."
Thorald frowned. "Out of bone? How?"
"Some ancient Dunmer secret. Apparently they grind up the bones and glue them together. I wonder if you could grind up dragon bones. Think they'd be harder than other bones?"
When they parted at the mead hall, Aela said, "You've had your hint, by the way."
"My hint?" For a moment Thorald had forgotten. "You gave me a hint? About Grelka? What was it?"
Aela rolled her eyes and walked away.
"She's in Riften?" he shouted after her. "Is that it?" But Aela didn't answer.
Thorald headed on up to the smithy where, dragon or no dragon, his da was still at work. The news beat him there, of course.
"Sword ok?" Eorlund asked.
"More than ok," Thorald said. "It was perfect." He handed the scales and bone to his father. Eorlund turned them in his hands, studied them, took a hammer to a scale. It flexed under the strength of his blow.
"Men made armor from dragon scale once," his da said.
Thorald's eyes gleamed. "Can you?"
"No smith alive knows how to craft this." His lips turned in what approached a smile, a very tiny smile. "There's one who might learn."
"Grelka."
"Aye. She should come home."