21 Last Seed, 4E 201, Western Watchtower
This damned creature is toying with us, thought Ivar.
Fighting a dragon at night turned out to be a terrifying experience. One could hear the thing, a great hiss of air over leathery wings up in the sky, but it had a tendency to disappear into the darkness. All the defenders had bows out, staring up into the night, but their target rarely showed itself for more than a moment at a time.
Then a roar, and a great flare of red light, and a guard became a screaming human torch.
Ivar loosed an arrow, then another. He couldn't tell if he was scoring any hits. Probably Irileth is having better luck.
The dragon swooped down on the top of the tower, its jaws agape, swallowing another guard whole.
Ivar found himself near Irileth, both of them looking in all directions at once. "This is insane!" he panted. "We've got to retreat."
"Never!" shouted the shield-maiden. "Not while I live."
"Well, you'd better think of a way to get that thing to land. Otherwise we're going to run out of guards."
The sound of vast wings, beating the air just overhead . . .
Irileth gave a wordless shout and fired. Ivar spun in place, saw the dragon's great body, and did the same. Then he rolled to the side, his bow flying out of his hands into the dark.
Slam! The dragon's bulk hit the ground where they had stood moments before, and the earth itself shook in response.
The smith rose to his feet, taking his shield by the grips, clawing at the hilt of his sword.
Irileth shouted and charged in from the side, but one of the worm's wings lashed out, batting her aside almost without effort.
Ivar looked up, and saw the dragon considering him with care.
"Bahlaan hokoron," it said. "Zu'u Mirmulnir, joor."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Ivar muttered. Shield high, sword at ready, he advanced on the dragon.
Terribly fast for all its size, the dragon leaped forward, its great jaws gaping.
The smith bashed with his shield, staying light on his feet, not trying to stand under the full force of the collision. Thing's likely to shatter my shield-arm if I'm not careful. Not to mention the rest of me.
Again. Jaws wide, fetid breath, glittering eyes. A loud slam against the shield. This time Ivar saw an opportunity to strike back. He opened a cut under the beast's jaw, scattering worm-blood. Some of it slapped the smith in the face. He licked his lips, tasting something like white-hot iron.
The dragon snarled.
A high-pitched yell. Irileth had taken an opportunity to duck under its wing, stabbing at its flank.
Good idea. If it has any soft spots over its vitals, they're certainly not up at this end. Unless . . .
He pulled a roar from deep in his chest, trying to keep the dragon's attention away from Irileth.
Slam! The head smashed into his shield, almost knocking him off his feet once more.
He slashed wildly, scoring another hit. Another bellow, as loud as he could manage.
It reared up, eyes blazing in the dark, jaws opened wide.
"Come on!" Ivar shouted in contempt. "You going to let a puny thing like me stand up to you?"
It lashed out, like a striking snake.
All of Ivar's instincts told him to cower behind his shield. Instead he held the shield close to his body and stabbed with his sword at full extension, using the dragon's own strength to power the blow.
His sword punched through the roof of the dragon's mouth, into the soft tissues behind. It was immediately wrenched out of his grip. He left the sword in place, scrambling aside to avoid being buried under the worm's writhing bulk.
The sound of the dragon's agony was terrible, a growling scream that echoed off the Whiterun walls over a mile away.
In its last moments, the dragon caught Ivar's gaze.
"Dovahkiin. Niid!"
It died.
Ivar stood panting in the sudden quiet, not sure what to make of the fact that he still lived. Irileth came out of the darkness, a few surviving guards behind her, marveling at the dead beast.
Then it began: a shimmer of golden light, growing and crackling, like fire surging out of nowhere to consume the dragon's flesh whole. Within moments it blazed, illuminating the darkened plain for a long distance in all directions. It towered, writhed in the air, and then it swept down to wrap Ivar in its embrace.
He stood tall, his eyes wide as madness, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. Something swept into him, moved within him, shone like brilliant sunlight in the darkest corners of his mind. A sense of knowledge, of ancient wisdom and power.
Power!
When it was over, Ivar stood trembling in darkness once more, the focus of every eye.
"By the gods. It's like the old tales. Dragonborn."
"Aye. Dragonborn."
Ivar shook his head. Can't be.
"That's nonsense," Irileth scoffed. "Nothing but superstition."
"All due respect, housecarl, but you ain't a Nord. This is right out of our stories."
"There's one way to know for sure." The first guard who had spoken turned to Ivar. "If you're Dragonborn, you should be able to Shout. Can you?"
"I can't Shout," said Ivar weakly. "Damn it, I'm just a smith."
"Have you tried? Why not see?"
Ivar caught the man's eyes. Even in the darkness and the dim light of torches, he could see awe and wonder there. Something within him responded, demanded the chance to answer it with a display of power. Ivar stood tall, felt his lips and tongue trying to form a Word. He took a deep breath.
"Fus!"
Three men staggered backward.
"A Shout!"
"Dragonborn!"
Talos best and most mighty, swore Ivar in silent disgust.
"You see, housecarl? You have to believe it now."
"I don't have to believe anything," said the Dunmer, "but I am glad he's on our side."