Author's Note: November is coming and that means NaNoWriMo. I was hoping to have this story finished this month but there are about eight more chapters to go...

I've been over this chapter quite a few times and am still not real happy with it. Feedback would be lovely. Please review!

15: An Unexpected Rescue

Thorald had sent messages to Jorrvaskr and to Windhelm. He was sure—almost sure—that a squad of Stormcloaks would meet them in Kynesgrove. He was hopeful at least some of the Companions would come as well. Kodlak had not just been displeased when he told him he was joining the Stormcloaks. He'd been dismayed, as if he'd seen Thorald's decision as a personal betrayal. Which had taken Thorald shockingly aback. Although he was always scrupulously neutral, Thorald had thought Kodlak was sympathetic to Ulfric's cause. Thorald still puzzled over his reaction.

He and Delphine rode in silence through some back roads Thorald had never even heard of. She knew a shortcut to everywhere in Skyrim. If she's wrong about this dragon, I'm going to look quite the fool when I get to Kynesgrove. And that was fine by him. Everyone would have a good laugh. Sometimes being wrong was better than being right.

But Delphine wasn't wrong. As they approached Kynesgrove, Thorald felt a strange tingle across his skin. It felt like hundreds of ants marching down his back. Marching all in step. He looked up, looked all around, saw nothing.

"What is that?" he asked.

Delphine also looked around and then frowned. "What is what?"

And now he felt a tightness across his head like a band wrapped around his temples. It didn't hurt, not exactly, but he was sure that pain was lurking and ready to report for duty.

"I think," he said grimly, "That we better hurry." The horses picked up his urgency—or maybe they sensed it too, whatever 'it' was—and they both trotted up the trail. Delphine led the way but she turned her head from time to time to glance at him.

And then he felt the Words. Felt them on his skin or in his mind, not exactly in his ears.

"Do you hear it?" he whispered.

"Hear what?"

Maybe this was what the Greybeards meant when they said they could hear the whisper or the echo of Words of Power. Had they felt this when he Shouted at the dragon in Whiterun? Had they felt this when that dragon died?

Delphine wouldn't gallop her tiring horse up a steep trail but they were moving at a pretty good pace when they headed the rise and looked over at the burial cairn.

"Lorkham's eyes," she said. "We're too late."

An explosion of rock and fresh dirt had formed a crater. Something very large had forced its way out of the earth so recently that worms still scuttled for cover in the damp earth.

"Where is it?" Thorald asked.

Delphine pointed. Off in the near distance nestled Kynesgrove. "It will attack the village. Listen for the screams," she said.

He didn't see a dragon. Nor smoke. There wasn't any actual screaming. But there will be, he thought with inner certitude.

They rode into Kynesgrove to find Aela in charge.

"The townsfolk are all in the inn's basement," she said.

"Have you seen it?" he asked.

"It?" She gave him one of her curved sword smiles, sharp and deadly. "Them. I've seen them. A big black dragon and a smaller bronze one, very similar to the one at the tower. They circled the town and then flew off to the east."

"They're gone?"

She shrugged. "For now. Who's your friend?" Her eyes narrowed. "Wait, I know her. Isn't that the innkeeper from Riverwood? You're traveling with her? Does Grelka know about this?"

If that was humor, it was ill-timed. Thorald stretched his senses. He couldn't quite hear the dragon but he thought he could feel it. "There it is," he said.

Still frowning, Aela looked. "I don't see it. Are you sure?"

"It's coming." He raised his voice. "Heads up, people. Spread out and remember, concentrate on its wings. We've got to force the dragon to the ground as soon as possible."

Then they all saw it and there was a murmur of wonder and dismay. It wasn't the big black one, Thorald noted. It wasn't the dragon from Helgen. Thank Talos! The thought of tangling with that big black dragon made him feel a bit sick. It was invulnerable. He didn't know how to fight it. He'd gone to the Greybeards for help and they had given him the Way of the Voice.

How could he fight with that? He needed a weapon, not a philosophy.

This was why Ulfric had left them. That was why Ulfric abandoned the Way.

"That could have gone better," Aela said when it was finally over.

"Yeah," Thorald said. "A lot better." Vilkas had taken a claw in the chest, proving that dragon claws could indeed penetrate Skyforge steel. Wounded but not dead, thank Stendarr, although it was his unusual resilience that had saved him. Two Stormcloaks had died in the fight, one instantly and the second, after several long horrifying moments. He didn't even know their names. And a villager, who apparently had not heard the command to take cover, would now fit in a funerary urn with plenty of room to spare for any offerings his family cared to leave.

"Your lady friend is pretty handy with the bow. Knows a few spells too." When Thorald made no reply, she said, "Delphine, is it? I'd say she comes from a very different innkeeper school than old Hulda in Whiterun, yes?" Thorald still didn't answer. Was there any more horrible way to die than fire? "Well? Cat got your tongue?"

"Just thinking, sorry."

"Yeah, you're an officer now. Lots of thinking in that, I'd imagine. Giving orders. Taking orders. Must be quite a change from the Companions. A different kind of glory, huh?"

"Glory?"

She waved her hand. "All this will make quite a tale."

Thorald finally woke from his stupor and took in her highly aggressive stance. "You have a problem with me?"

"Why would I possibly have a problem with you? Because you jilted my best friend? Because you left the Companions to join the Stormcloaks? Because Kodlak—forget it."

"I'm trying to do what's right."

"Yeah. Don't we all." She shook her head at him. He knew she was mad and he could even see why. But he didn't have time to sort it out. Delphine's pattern was right this time—it might be right again. Her map had suddenly taken on a huge relevance. Maybe they could use it to track down the black dragon.

"Your lady friend is beckoning."

"Is she? Listen, Aela. Do you think you could gather up some of these scales and take them to my da? And show him Vilkas's armor, too. We're going to need better protection for our people."

"I'm going to have to take Vilkas back in a wagon so sure, that should be no problem." She gave him a look. "I'll save the scales for Grelka. I'm sure she'll be back soon."

"Good," he said vaguely and headed over to Delphine.

"Did it hurt?" Delphine asked.

"What?"

"When you ate that dragon's soul. It looked like it hurt."

"I didn't eat it." She raised a brow and he knew he couldn't possibly explain. He didn't want to explain. It was too—it was too personal for explanations. "It didn't hurt. Not exactly." But he knew something happened. He knew more than he wanted to know. He knew the dragon's name. Sahloknir. Sah Lok Nir. Lok was a word he had learned at High Hrothgar, a word frequently in Master Arngeir's mouth. Lok, thu'um. Sky above, Voice within. In Dragonspeech, Lok meant sky. A fitting name for a winged creature.

"And now there's no doubt at all," she said. She sounded satisfied. "You really are the Dragonborn."

"The Greybeards think so too," Thorald said drily.

"Where's the black dragon? Do you know?"

"No."

"Strange, that it didn't attack Kynesgrove. But the other one, the one we killed. It spoke. What did it say?"

"Alduin."

"And what does that mean?"

"You've never heard of the World-Eater?"

"Is this some Nord legend?"

"Aye. I thought everyone knew of Alduin, not just Nords. Alduin was the dragon who destroyed the last world. Clearing the way for this one to be born, although I'm not sure that was his intention. He was a god, or so they say."

"A god. Is Alduin the Nord name for Akatosh? But Akatosh didn't destroy the world. Perhaps the dragon called upon Alduin as you would call upon Talos in your need."

"Perhaps."

"You sound uncertain," Delphine said.

He was uncertain. He wished he could speak to Arngeir. He'd heard of the legends of the evil dragon Alduin since childhood. Alduin was the dragon that had enslaved the Nord people, ages ago. But now, when the dragon spoke, for the first time he heard the familiar and dreaded name as words. Al Du In. And In was a word he knew. It meant master.

In the short time he'd been with the Greybeards, he'd absorbed how sparingly they spoke. He knew little about dragons. But it seemed strange to him that one would use Words of Power as a mere prayer or curse. Could that dying dragon have literally called upon Alduin for aid? Could the World-Eater have returned?

Was that why Kyne had given him this power?

He must be wrong. He had to be wrong. Surely the Greybeards would know the truth.

"We need Esbern," Delphine said. "He was the real expert on dragons. We always thought he was just another mad Nord. No offense. Joke's on me, yes?"

With the stench of burning human flesh still heavy in the air, Thorald didn't feel much like laughing. "Who is Esbern? He knows about dragons? Where is he?"

"Dead now, caught up in that mess in Cyrodiil. Ancient history. Never mind. Could someone be directing that black dragon? Esbern showed me a picture once of a man riding a dragon."

"Truly? Riding a dragon?" All his life, he'd envied birds their power of flight. What would it be like to fly, to see Nirn from the back of a dragon? Could it be done?

"He might have been one of the old dragon priests. I don't remember."

"Actually riding it? Like riding a horse?" Thorald tried to picture that. A winged horse. Talos! Of all the things he'd hoped the Greybeards could teach him, what could be more awesome than the power of flight? "They're certainly strong enough to carry a man. The black dragon in Helgen picked a soldier up in its claws and flew off with him. It didn't turn out well for the soldier," he added. "But where would you put the saddle?"

Delphine snorted. "Never mind all that. We need to go to Solitude. I'm more certain than ever that the Thalmor are behind this somehow." He tried to picture an elf, with Thalmor robes flapping in the wind, riding a dragon. His mind boggled. What he'd felt on the ride to the dragon barrow didn't feel like witch magic. It felt like the Voice. He tried to picture an elf training with the Greybeards. More bogglement.

"We need to find out what they know," Delphine continued. "There would be records in the embassy. There must be a way to get in there."

"We could ride in on a dragon."

"I'm serious. Maybe I could get you an invitation to one of Elenwen's parties."

"I thought you were serious. A Gray-Mane at the Thalmor embassy? That would last until the guards stopped laughing and drew their weapons. I can't go there."

"Neither can I, damn it. I do have a contact, though. Someone on the inside. But I can't ask him to take that kind of risk. He's not like you."

Thorald remembered his first trip to Solitude. "I also have a contact."

Another of Delphine's shortcuts took them to Solitude without, they hoped, attracting notice. She had a friend with a shack and a bit of a shed where they could leave the horses. Smugglers, Thorald thought. Great. And she knew a way into the city through the docks that avoided the main gates.

Thorald felt very exposed in Solitude, as if everyone could see him wearing a Stormcloak uniform although, in fact, he was in ordinary armor. The tone of the city had changed since Torygg's death. People seemed more watchful now, more suspicious. Or maybe it's just me, he thought. Delphine was wearing off on him. A perverse part of him wanted to Shout in the street, just to see what would happen.

He and Delphine separated, each to seek their secret contacts in the Thalmor Embassy. "If you get anything good, get out and don't wait for me," she told him. "We'll meet back in Riverwood." His contact was as jumpy as he was and she didn't want to meet where they could be seen. And so they ended up walking along a deserted strand of beach outside the city. Having been raised inland, Thorald was fascinated by the ocean.

The maid—they carefully didn't exchange names although it soon became clear that she knew exactly who he was—had quite a bit of useful information. And some troubling information as well. "The elves don't know anything about dragons and they are desperate to find out. Elenwen has gone through all their archives and sent off for books and scholars as well. But there's another thing. Elenwen keeps files on most of the prominent people in Skyrim," she said. "I've been reading them as I get the chance. Did you know that Jarl Ulfric was captured during the Great War? The ambassador interrogated him personally. She tortures people. She still does it too. Down in the basement, what used to be the cellars—she tortures people down there. She comes up with blood on her clothes. Smiling!"

She gave Thorald a sideways look. "I don't know if I should tell you—but it worries me so!"

"Something about Ulfric?"

"In her report, she says—but she might have been lying!"

"What did she say?" he asked gently.

"She says that while he was a prisoner during the Great War, she tortured him and got information about Cyrodiil's defenses. But they tricked him! They made him think the Imperial City fell because of what he'd said. She said the Imperial City had actually been taken days earlier but he didn't know that. And they let him escape. And then they blackmailed him into helping them later. But Ulfric would never help the Thalmor. Would he?"

Thorald was a bit shaken himself but he tried not to let that show.

"I don't know the truth of what happened then," he said. The Thalmor had wanted Ulfric to escape from Helgen. Were they using him still? Was that even possible? Would Ulfric willingly allow himself to be a Thalmor tool? No. Surely not. It was not only impossible, it was unthinkable. "But I do believe that it is the present that we must focus on"

"There is a lot of information on the Gray-Mane family," she said with a sly look. "Someone named Vignar that they're worried about. They think he has too much influence in Whiterun. If you know anyone in his family you might warn them to be careful. They have a fortress west of here where they take hostages. They're planning on taking his relatives there if they catch any."

Oh, boy. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. They have someone down in the cellars now. Elenwen is all excited about some information they think he has. It has something to do with dragons, I'm almost certain."

"Do you know his name?"

"No. I think he came from Riften but that's all I heard. They're keeping this one quiet."

"I'd like to speak to him then."

"That's impossible. Too many guards." And then she stopped. "But—"

"You have an idea?"

"Elenwen is throwing a party tonight. So she won't be down there. Neither will the guards, they'll be helping with the guests. If you could get down there tonight –"

"Is there a back way in?"

"Not through the compound. But under the compound—yeah, there is a way. But it's tricky."

Thorald found the secret cave. He found the troll. He was beginning to not just hate, but loathe trolls. Taking his frustrations out on this one was strangely satisfying. He found the locked hatch that led into the cellars. The maid hadn't been able to get a key. That didn't matter. It was a simple plank door, large enough for a crate or a man. Thorald was a smith's son. He'd been taking things apart since before he could walk. He found some old abandoned boxes and piled them into a rickety platform. With the tools he'd brought, he had the door disassembled in a few minutes. He hoped the maid was right about the lack of guards because he'd made quite a racket. Fighting witch-elves in their own stronghold didn't strike him as a particularly bright idea. He pulled himself up into the cellar. No one in sight.

The basement was fairly clean, well lit and very quiet. Everything appeared normal at first glimpse. If the maid hadn't warned him of the horrors performed here, would he have even noticed the faint, battlefield odor of blood, raw sewage and decay? If pain has a smell, this is it. There were still no guards, as the maid had promised. Bless her, Talos, bless her. Then he turned a corner and all illusions of normalcy were dispelled by the body chained to the wall. No, not chained. Nailed to the wall with heavy spikes. If there had ever been a part of him that didn't hate the Thalmor, it withered and died when he saw what had been deliberately, painstakingly done to what once was a man. He'd been alive through at least some of it.

If that's my informant, I am far, far too late.

At the end of a row of empty cells, he found one that wasn't empty. At first Thorald thought this man was dead as well but then he saw his bare chest move. The man woke with a start when Thorald opened the unlocked cell door. He didn't lift his head.

"Is it time?" he asked in a whisper of utter despair.

"Time? Who are you?" Thorald asked. The man looked up. His eyes looked infinitely weary. His face was bruised and swollen. His bloody lips parted in surprise.

"I—you're a Nord?"

Thorald nodded. Was this Breton the informant he needed? Thorald supposed it didn't matter. He wouldn't leave a skeever in the hands of these malevolent witch-elves. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Mara, yes."

His manacles weren't locked, but merely latched with a pin. Released, the Breton fell. Thorald lunged to catch him but he couldn't decide where to grab—the fellow was burned or cut or bruised all over his emaciated body. The man grunted when he landed on his knees.

"I hope this isn't a trick," the man said. "Because if it is, I'm still falling for it. Let's go."

Despite his brave words, Thorald saw the glint of tears in the man's eyes as he huddled on the floor a long moment. Then he took a breath and used his bleeding hands to push himself to his feet. Feeling like a fool, Thorald remembered the healing potion he kept in his belt pouch for emergencies.

"Here," he said. He pulled the cork. The stranger gave the potion a dubious look before taking the vial between his trembling hands. He downed it in one long swallow.

"Ah," he said. He blinked. There was now a bit of color in his face. Not a healthy color, more of a hectic, feverish glow but it was an improvement over his corpse-like pallor. When they walked past the dead body, Thorald shuddered. The Breton swayed on his feet. Thorald saw his throat convulse.

"That was to be my fate next," he whispered. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated with fear.

"Don't look, Thorald said. He turned his own head away and led the Breton to the hatch.

"Um," the man said. "There's a troll down there. In case you didn't know. A really big one. They feed people to it. Or sometimes just bits of people." He looked at his hand. Half of his little finger was missing.

"I killed it on the way in," Thorald said.

The man smiled. Despite his damaged face, his smile had genuine warmth. "Did you? Truly?" He gave a little huff of relieved laughter. "Then lead on, hero," he said.

Thorald saw no point in waiting for Delphine and he saw a great deal of point in getting as far away from Solitude as quickly as possible. So he borrowed her horse for his new Breton friend, Etienne Rarnis. The smugglers said they could get her another horse, no problem. They'd put it on her tab. Etienne wasn't in much shape for riding but he was in no shape for walking. Etienne clung to the saddle with grim determination.

"They already got everything out of me," Etienne said. "I think they kept me there out of some kind of elven thoroughness. Or maybe for entertainment. That Elenwen—" He tightened his grip on his horse's mane. "It was going to get worse. Much worse. They stopped healing me. They didn't care anymore if I could speak. Or hear. Or understand."

Thorald shuddered in sympathy. Stendarr's mercy! "What are they looking for?"

"Some old man in Riften. All they knew was he was holed up in the Ratway."

"What's the Ratway?" Thorald wasn't familiar with Riften at all.

"The sewers under the city. I was practically born down there, so I was their native guide, you might say. They wanted to know about this Esbern geezer. All worked up about it. Don't know why. He's a harmless old madman. Keeps to himself."

"Esbern?" The same name Delphine had mentioned. Her dragon expert. And the Thalmor were seeking for knowledge of dragons. This couldn't possibly be a coincidence.

"Yeah. They didn't say much about him, just that he has information they need."

"And you know where he is?"

"Yeah. And they got enough out of me, they have a pretty good idea where to look too."

"We need to get there, get him first."

Etienne gave him a sideways look. "So we're going to Riften?"

"Well, I am," Thorald said. "You look like you should go straight to a healer. And then to bed for about a month."

"Oh, no. No, no. I'm going with you. Got me a score or two to settle." He gave Thorald another look. "I didn't get in that cell by accident, you see. I was set up by someone in the Thieves Guild. My guildmaster sent me here to Solitude on a special job. He sent me straight into Elenwen's hands." He looked down at his own battered, bloody hands. "I wasn't supposed to come back to Riften. I was supposed to die in that hole. He thinks he'll get away with it."

"Why would anyone do such a thing to you?" So Etienne was one of the notorious members of the Thieves Guild? Thorald thought he looked pretty much like anyone else. Anyone else who had been tortured for days, that is.

"I saw something I wasn't supposed to see. I didn't think much of it at the time. But since then, I've thought of very little else."

"Something important?"

Etienne breathed a laugh. "Oh, yes. We have a vault, you know. The guild does. Thieves are paranoid—we don't trust anyone, not even each other. Especially not each other when lots of gold is involved. The vault has a custom lock. Takes two keys to open it. Real secure. That's where the cream of our loot is stored until it's safe to fence it, you see. Nothing comes out until all the leaders agree."

Etienne's pale face was flushed. Thorald hoped he wouldn't fall off his horse. There was an apothecary in Morthal but he wasn't sure he dared stop there.

"One day I saw Mercer Frey, our guildmaster, coming out of the vault. He had a pack on his shoulder and it looked heavy. And I was a bit surprised-like, because he was alone. He only has one key, you see. But I figured he was the guildmaster, maybe he had a special key. But he gave me this look. And he gave me this smile. A funny kind of smile—all teeth, like a slaughterfish. The very next day, he calls me over and gives me this assignment. In Solitude. Usually I get my orders from Bryn—er, from someone else. And his special assignment sent me straight to the Thalmor. They expected me. So now—now I need some answers. And you need some answers too. So I figure, let's help each other out."

"Sounds good," Thorald said. "But I'm in a hurry. We've got to beat the Thalmor to Riften. Hope you can keep up."

Etienne grimaced and let out an amused breath. "So do I."

Ancano thought the robed Altmer who rode into camp looked vaguely familiar. He slid off his steaming horse—he'd obviously been riding hard—handed the reins to the sentry who had come to ask his business. The sentry pointed to Ancano. The newcomer had a document case slung over his shoulder.

"Elenwen sent me," the newcomer said. "I'm Rulindil, Third Emissary. I am to join you and help however I can." Ancano looked him over more carefully. Not just a messenger then. Young, good-looking and did he detect a certain cockiness in the young mer's eyes? "I am familiar with the message. You can read it in front of me if you like."

Ancano gave him a sour look. One of Elenwen's little pets then. Wonderful.

He opened the sealed case, scanned the code. At least it wasn't the rebuke he expected for losing Thorald Gray-Mane. Although that rebuke would come later, no doubt, for Elenwen never forgot a mistake. No, this was something new.

'You and your squad must go to Riften immediately. You're the closest agent I have. We've located a member of the Blades, an elderly Nord male named Esbern. He is said to be a mage of considerable ability. He must be captured alive. He has crucial information on dragons and I repeat, he must be captured alive. I'm sending one of my aides to assist you and to insure that my commands are met to the letter. We need this man. Our informant escaped from the embassy, undoubtedly with the help of another Blade agent. We have long suspected some had fled to Skyrim. This agent may be headed to Riften as well, so be alert.'

The letter seemed to have been written in great haste.

"Do you have any further information for me?" Ancano asked.

"I do. This man we seek is said to be hidden in the sewers that run under Riften. The Ratway, they call it. Riften is a Stormcloak city and we cannot show ourselves openly or we risk being mobbed by the locals. But Elenwen has a contact, an influential woman by the name of Maven Black-Briar. She will help us enter the city secretly and get us into the Ratway. She will also instruct the Thieves Guild to assist us in locating this man. They are quartered in the Ratway and can guide us to him. Shall we pack up camp? There's still daylight and we need to move swiftly."

Ancano gave the order under Rulindil's mildly mocking eye. Technically, the Third Emissary out-ranked him but he made no attempt to take command. Going to be like that, is it? If the mission turned out well, this young buck would take the credit. And if it turned out poorly—well, Ancano was going to have to make sure that didn't happen.