Perhaps she should've been more concerned with how many would be waiting for their return, Ulfric thought. The poorly-masked looks of horror on a few of the Dragonguard's faces let him know that some of them had never seen slaughter before, never war. So many of them were young, too young to have known the Great War in anything but stories; Ulfric was almost jealous of the quiet looks a few of them shared. Little nods, whispers that would be passed in private amongst friends to decide their next move. And, Ulfric realized, probably without other friends that were growing colder every minute in the makeshift morgue deep inside the Temple.
It was meant to be a farm, the Dragonborn said after they carried the last body down, its earthen floor brought down from the surface in case Sky Haven was ever sieged, but it was a good enough gravesite. And then she muttered about gathering supplies for Skuldafn, made a door in a wall, and left. Left him and Uthgerd and three other Dragonguard-not Blades, he kept reminding himself-milling about in the farm-morgue-cemetery. But it was enough to bury the dead, more than enough after a wood elf raised the earth with a spell and they dropped the bodies in the dirt. They were covered again before Uthgerd had time to say a few words.
They weren't very sentimental words; even if she wasn't trying to pretend like the dead had never been part of the Blades, it was obvious from the generalities that she'd never gotten to know the Forsworn beyond a few pleasantries. She dropped a few names, said a few deeds, and doomed them to whatever afterlife the Forsworn would go to. It certainly wouldn't be Sovngarde, for most of them. Ulfric counted three Nords among them, Nords that betrayed their people for witchery and banditry.
But the number that were packing sacks, talking under their breath or above the wind to one another, Ulfric couldn't say he wasn't concerned for the number that were lighthearted. Ten or so sharpened their blades in the courtyard as Ulfric waited for the Dragonborn to gather what they'd need in Skuldafn (he couldn't say he didn't feel a little useless for not helping her, but she was the one who'd disappeared through a magical door that even Uthgerd hadn't known about), obviously stalling to see what kind of dragon they left on, chattering loudly about how they were glad the Forsworn's days were numbered.
"All I'm saying, sir," a particularly outspoken Nord man said, "is that it's about time those witches got what's coming to them. I was just a boy during the Markarth Incident, and my Da nearly had to tie me down to keep me from running off when your soldiers came through." He tested his axe against the wood pillar supporting the patio. "Honored to fight for you again, against the witches this time."
"You were a Stormcloak?" Ulfric asked. A wood elf snorted behind him, punctuating three chuckles with three arrows. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man had hit a bullseye on three different targets.
"Yeah, I am," he replied. "Me, Erich, Ysdor, and Astel all held Fort Amol until the very end. Got captured, too, but Astel used to be a thief-"
"Shut up, Imming!" A man, Astel, Ulfric figured, tossed a honing steel at Imming. He turned apologetically to Ulfric. "I was a lockbreaker for the Blackbriars, when they lost keys to money shipments and things." Ah, so he facilitated thievery, whether he knew it or not. "I slipped us right out of those cuffs, and we ran-"
"We ran right back to Windhelm!" Imming cut him off, swiping his axe through the air in punctuation. "To send warning that Amol had fallen. But the siege had already started, so we turned around and hauled ass halfway across the country, to my home near Sunderstone Gorge. We were nearly eaten by a dragon, too, if Uthgerd and Delphine hadn't showed up."
"Sometimes I wonder if we should've let that dragon fill its belly," Uthgerd called, pushing open the Temple doors and holding the thick stone slabs in place with a metal stake pressed into the ground. "Stances!"
The Dragonguard jumped into formation, a tight uneven grid underneath the patio. They stood at a stiff rest; Ulfric could easily pick out the ones who'd served in an army, his or the Legion, by their comfort in the position. Others, like that wood elf, stood with a nervous stick down their spines, their arms. Not quite locking their knees, but close enough that Ulfric knew they hadn't had anyone pass out yet from standing at attention for hours on end.
"Up!" At Uthgerd's word, they snapped to guard. Weapons raised, loose, comfortable. Ready to attack or defend or drop and run. Ulfric nodded in approval, wondering if he should step in to correct the footing of a woman with a greatsword.
"Stance!" Another voice, Ulfric turned to see Salma approaching the patio. Her arms were crossed and her eyebrows knitted together. The Dragonguard moved back to their rest posture, much more proper than before. "Watch your leg, Arentia." The woman with the greatsword shuffled one foot outward. "Cover!" The Dragonguard dropped to kneels, hands and weapons moving to cover their necks. "New stance, that one," Salma said under her breath. "A few were burned alive by a dragon."
Ulfric doubted the stance would offer a load of protection against a dragon that knew how to aim its Voice. Salma passed him a small parcel wrapped in rough cloth. He glanced inside-it was full of pastries and bunches of juniper berries. He'd've been more grateful if he still had an appetite after the morning's…excitement, but he couldn't meet her eyes or do much more than mumble a 'thanks'.
"Stance, pairs!" Salma shouted. Uthgerd walked through the ranks, swapping sparring partners as she saw fit. "Form two." One partner at a time moved in a harsh flow; Ulfric could see the unifying fundamentals at play even as each Dragonguard adapted the specifics to fit their weapon. Greatswords and axes and even the wood elf's bow all marked the same beats, the partner on defense catching every strike just before it was too late. And then the defending partner took up an offense that was almost the same, the tone of the movements jarringly different even if the stances seemed to mirror their partners'.
The second round of forms finished, and both in the pairs repeated their form, both attacking. Attacking to defend, what had looked like an easy strike turned to a parry under the new context, what seemed to be a stab was a dodge. The Dragonguard repeated this form until Uthgerd did one last sweeping glance, and nodded to Salma. "Form eleven."
Back to one attacking at a time, they began to weave in and out of each other in fit of dance-like footwork. Circles in circles in lines-Ulfric was glad he wasn't caught in the center of the group. He wished he could see this 'form eleven' exercise with enough people to fill the courtyard, and from above.
Uneven footsteps behind him, Ulfric turned to find the Dragonborn plodding along, her staff contributing to her odd rhythm. Her oversized Graybeard robes were speckled with damp spots; she'd taken the time to almost remove the blood, leaving only dark outlines around where it had started to try at the edges before she got to it. A single satchel was tossed over one shoulder, the shoulder that he hadn't just slapped back into place with a firm hand disguised as a standard back-pat between allies to show support for what she'd done at breakfast-two larger bags floated behind her, encased in a red spell.
She observed the Dragonguard with a nod. "Do you want to try calling Odahviing?"
"Even if I thought it'd work, no." He tried to keep his face clear of any surprise that she knew how to move things with magic. He'd thought she was a near-pure ice mage. "He'd eat me alive for daring to call him."
"Hmm. Good point. Ready to go?" Ulfric nodded, and the Dragonborn steeled herself on the stones, leaning hard into her staff before she even inhaled. The bags dropped to the ground with a clanging thud. "ODAHVIING!"
Near instantly, Odahviing appeared on the horizon. Had he been waiting in the mountains to be called? He roared, shaking pebbles in the stones. The Dragonborn leaned further into her staff, knees almost failing beneath her.
"Hold!" Uthgerd yelled, trying to keep control as the Dragonguard were rightfully distracted by the quick appearance of a dragon that took up an easy half of the courtyard. "Gods damn you all, how will you fare against one that wants to kill you? Hold! Form seven!"
They almost recovered focus, only to be thrown off when Odahviing landed, shaking the courtyard. "Drem yol lok."
"Take us to Skuldafn," the Dragonborn ordered.
Odahviing chuckled. "Frin fah Oblaan, Dovahkiin?" (Eager for death, Dovahkiin?) He cast his gaze to the patio, eyeing the training Dragonguard. They were off their rhythm, more focused on the dragon than their sparring partners. "I am not surprised you cannot find death here." Despite his taunting, he lowered his head for her to climb on. A rope wove its way around his middle, guided by that same red magic. The dragon huffed at his cargo, smoke rising from his nostrils. His head swiveled around to face him, as she settled in. "Sahvot hi fen nahlaas Ahst Dovahhof, joor?" (Think you'll survive in a dragon's home, mortal?)
"Zu mindok hi pruzah deinmaar, Odahviing," (I know you're a great host, Odahviing.) Ulfric replied, making sure to step hard on one of the dragon's scales as he climbed up. "Zu nid faas." (I have nothing to fear.)
"Mu fen mindok." (We will see.)
"Shut up and fly," the Dragonborn snapped. "I want to make it by sundown." Ulfric hoped they'd be taking breaks; flying from Whiterun to Sky Haven Temple was half the distance, and his fingers were still sore from hanging on for his life. At least this time she'd given him a rope to hold on to. Ulfric slipped his bag of pastries into one of the sacks and secured it down.
"As you wish, Thuri." Odahviing took off roughly, almost shaking Ulfric from his back. He wrapped the rope around his hand once, twice until it was taught around the dragon's middle and he felt that even if he lost his grip, he'd miraculously stay on.
Despite leaving midmorning and true to Odahviing's word, it was nearing twilight when Odahviing finally dipped into a descent. The rope dug into his skin after hours of rubbing against his gloves, his legs were numb from sitting for so long, his face burned from the cold wind. And he hadn't even gotten to view Skyrim from above; Odahviing's massive wings and body blocked what view the clouds didn't. At the very least, Ulfric dared to snack on the pastries Salma gave him throughout the trip, adjust his posture every so often to keep his thighs from burning in a kneel, knees locked in a cross. The rope gave him a bit of confidence that he wouldn't fall to his death if the dragon decided to switch up his smooth gliding to buck them both off.
He looked at the Dragonborn, unmoving at the base of Odahviing's skull. She'd kept a casual-looking grip on one horn at a time since their takeoff, switching every hour or so, the other hand always digging in a pouch at her side, withdrawing some pastry or fruit or other bitesize piece of food every so often for the first few hours of their trip. After the pouch was limp and empty, she clenched her fist rhythmically. She'd barely moved otherwise.
Odahviing roared, other dragons joining in horrible Shouts as they circled over, under, to the side-hundreds of them. Dragons swarming like rats on a ship, beggars to skooma. Thousands.
She was insane for this, taking them to a dragon's den. And he was just as insane for going without a second thought.
Odahviing spiraled down, coming to a heavy landing in a courtyard large enough to fit a keep in multiple times over, framed on three sides by high, sharp peaks, a fourth by a steep drop into a carved city. Ancient barrow architecture was built into the cliffs, and it spread below them in a sprawling city that took up the entire valley, rising onto the mountains. Dragons sprawled on every spare cliff table the Velothi mountains had to offer, others perched directly on the arches and roofs of Skuldafn, more idly flying in the sky. Ulfric picked up on far away Dov as they conversed amongst themselves, the occasional fiery Shout rolling off one dragon to another.
And it wasn't just a dragon's den, Ulfric realized, focusing on innumerable bright blue pinpoints of eyes bobbing, wandering, walking around on the undead. Draugr of all dress and decay occupied every level of the city, fifty at least waiting on the courtyard below Odahviing, staring up at them.
Two in flowing gowns, floating gowns, preserved well enough that Ulfric could see the memory of fullness in their sunken cheeks, idled before a century's worth of kneeling undead soldiers. They raised their hands towards Odahviing. "Dral pruzah, Drogi," (Welcome back, my lord.) the two said in scraping unison, jaws hanging open on the words.
The Dragonborn slid down from Odahviing's neck, catching her fall on her staff. The draugr instantly jumped to attention, drawing swords and readying spells, snarling at her. "Dar los Alduin kriid!" (This is Alduin's slayer!) Odahviing roared, twisting his body and neck to put himself between her and the draugr. The sudden jolt of movement almost threw Ulfric from his back. "Zin, Dovahsilii. Thuriil eril dinok." (Respect her; she possesses the Soul of a dragon. She is your ruler until death.)
And the draugr nodded, falling back to kneels. "Zok krosis, Thuru." (Greatest apologies, our lord.) The Dragonborn shrugged-she had no idea what was being said. Perhaps that was why she'd brought him to Skuldafn, to act as her translator. Ulfric slid down Odahviing's wing, steadying himself with one hand on the dragon until his knees stopped shaking under his own weight.
"Drem yol lok, Odahviing," a dragon hovered above, golden scales catching every single ray of early sunset. "Pah shul grind, Dovahkiin. Joor." (Nice to meet you, Dovahkiin. Mortal.) Ulfric supposed the dragon would've devoured him on the spot if he hadn't arrived alongside Odahviing and the Dragonborn. "Nust lost meyz zaam hi. Ni prodah." (They have made a slave of you. Not surprising.)
"Mul pah aar, Qokrenvul," (We are all servants, Qokrenvul,) Odahviing snarled back. "Dovahkiin, Shout this fool from the sky."
"Joor, zah frul!" The Dragonborn Shouted. Ulfric never thought he'd be jumping towards draugr, but he pounced back, almost crashing into the undead on his unsteady legs as Odahviing writhed and flailed under her Shout. "Don't ever think you can order me around."
Qokrenvul laughed above them, dropping down to a landing. "Tinvaak hi Dovahzul?" (Do you speak the dragon language?) He was smaller than Odahviing by a large margin, maybe half the size of him. Still, a cow could easily fit in his mouth without harm. The draugr in the robes floated cautiously towards Ulfric-perhaps they thought both of them were Dragonborn? No, Dovahsilii was singular; he was safe by association with a dragon and a half. They thought him a dragon priest, like the dragon on the road from Riften?
"Nid," she replied. He hoped the dragons missed how heavily her shoulders moved with each breath. She tilted her head to Ulfric. "He does."
Qokrenvul sighed deeply, not even seeming to notice Ulfric. "I can smell him on you. Alduin. Mirmulnir, Kriivaalneh, Yahgrahviin, Nahviintas, Joorahmar…I could list the names for hours. You kill us, and now you are here in peace, Odahviing claims."
"I'm here in peace to lead you to war."
"Ah," Odahviing shivered around the word, shaking out his wings like a dog caught in the rain, "I was wondering why I'd been called so soon. We revel in war."
"Not under the command of a mortal." Qokrenvul spat, lunging for Odahviing and Shouting. The Dragonborn fell out of the way of a spray of blue fire, lightning crackling over Odahviing's scales. The heat from it burned.
Odahviing took the full force of the Shout, a low roll in his throat as the flames died down. And he Shouted back, much, much hotter, fiercer, longer. The Dragonborn scrambled to her feet, holding an arm over her face as she rushed away cursing. Qokrenvul was retreating before Odahviing's Shout was finished. "Krosis. Apologies. Qokrenvul has been challenging my authority almost daily after my…devotion to your service. He is my Second, currently."
"And you just let him rebel?" Ulfric wished he'd kept his mouth shut as soon as the words left his lips. Odahviing's attention was on him, the fury of having to remind his second of his place fresh. No, he did not let the other dragon rebel. The Dragonborn startled, that red spell untying the bags from around Odahviing. They tumbled to the ground, and she doused the smoldering bags in a small cloud of snow.
"The Dov respect strength, and strength only. Any below may challenge any above at any time," Odahviing explained. His breath was hot; embers flew from each word. "The ancient hierarchy has been broken by years of horrible, horrible rot for many of us. Those of us Alduin restored have had to fight our way back to our rightful places-the Dov who rose to prominence by escaping our kind's slaughter do not wish to yield. Positions may be stable in a century, I believe is your mortal measure. Before then, yes. The weak rebel against the strong, and sometimes they prove themselves stronger."
"So, even if I were to meet your lieutenants, they may change before we leave to campaign?" the Dragonborn asked. Her hands shook around her staff, stomach grumbling loud enough that Ulfric heard it twenty feet away.
Odahviing snorted, a puff of smoke rising from his nostrils. "A lieutenant is such a foolish word. I am the First. I have a Second, a Third, a Fourth, so on in the natural order of strength. I control them all. Qokrenvul controls all beneath him. So it is, down to our weakest."
"Interesting," she muttered. "And I control you. So, I am the First. You are the Second. Don't forget that." They both growled at each other before she continued. "But there are no…groups that take orders as one?"
"If more than one Dov is given the same order, then they follow it as one," Odahviing answered. "But in the mortal way of making groups to throw yourselves at an enemy, no. We have found no reason to, even during the Great Rebellion."
"I suppose dragons don't have much need for a standing army," Ulfric mentioned.
"We are not bound to the ground as you. Armies were only created to fight the Dov," Odahviing said, pivoting his massive body to follow his head, forming a physical barrier between them and the dragons creeping down the cliffside to watch the spectacle. "Watch yourself, joor, that you are not eaten by the weakest of us. Perhaps it's best for you to disguise yourself as a sonaak, a priest of the Dov, and do whatever we say."
Ulfric rest his hand on his sword, just in case. "I'll do what I please, and you'll do what she says."
"We'll meet with you and the five directly below you at dawn," she said, looking around and fishing in her satchel. "Here will do." She pulled out a cube of smoked meat and popped it in her mouth, barely chewing before her throat bobbed to swallow. "How many do you number?"
"Thousands."
"An exact count, at dawn," she ordered. Another piece of meat disappeared into her mouth.
"Exact count of what, Dovahkiin?" Odavhiing replied. "The Dov that find themselves loyal to you? That number will always be zero."
"Exact count of dragons loyal to the vahzen (rightness) of my Thu'um, Odahviing," the Dragonborn snapped back. "You do what I say, loyal or not, and I'll Shout any dragon out of the sky that dares question either one of us. My Thu'um is the strongest here. If you need me to remind you again, go ahead and ask."
He growled, a low exhale that fluttered her robes. "You find yourself in the line of power, little Dovahkiin. Do not forget that any of us can test your rule at any time. Quoting the Old One will not save you from our ways."
The Dragonborn growled in return, slamming her staff on the ground. The Draugr snapped to attention behind her, behind Ulfric. "I welcome any challenge, and I'm sure Qokrenvul and the rest of the dragons would love to see how that turns out for you," she spat. "A count. At dawn. You do not forget that no other dragon has had the goodwill of surviving a battle with me. I will cut out your Tongue and leave you wishing you could comprehend death."
"When Bormahuii (our father's) goodwill for you runs dry, I shall find your immortal Soul in the afterlife and ask how you comprehend it," Odahviing replied. "Now, thuri, I must begin my count."
The two had a staring match long enough that Ulfric clenched his hand around his sword, the tension in their shoulders rolling off in palpable waves. "Dismissed," the Dragonborn finally said, "you overgrown serpent." Odahviing made a motion with his mouth that almost resembled a smile, whipping around and nearly crashing his tail into them. He slinked off the side of the courtyard, pouncing and crawling through the city below with too much grace for a being bigger than most houses. "I've decided I hate him."
You hate everyone that dares to question you, Ulfric thought, his mouth open to speak before he bit his tongue. She watched Odahviing move through wide streets, climbing on buildings and weaving under archways. "Well, I'd rather deal with him than…these." He nodded towards the draugr. Their dead eyes stared at him, through him. Unnerving.
She turned to glance over them, her eyebrows knitted in a deep scowl. "Yes, well, at least they're not trying to kill us." One of her bags floated over to him, past him, dropping in front of the two robed draugr. "Embalming tools," she said. The draugr kept deathly still at attention, staring at her with those icy blue eyes. "For you. A gift."
They didn't move. "I don't think they speak Cyrodiilic," Ulfric said. Why should they? Dragon Cultists sealed off from the rest of the world well before the Second Era, by all accounts. The two in robes floated uncomfortably close to him; they smelled of salt and dust and cracked leather. "Why would you give them embalming tools?" The question was more to figure out why she would think to bring such things to a barrow; salts and oils were often part of regular offerings given by living descendants of those entombed.
Draugr, Ulfric never liked to think about how many of his ancestors were walking around. It wasn't impossible that some of them were standing behind him staring at the Dragonborn with glowing eyes, almost an impossibility that none were in Skuldafn. Unsettling, horrible creatures, much worse than when they were trying to kill him for trespassing in Korvanjund. The sterile, sleeping dead in the barrows he ritually blessed in the name of Arkay and Shor could never prepare him for standing among so many.
"Look at them! They're about to fall apart!" She said, throwing a hand out at the draugr. "Tell them it's a gift."
Ulfric turned. The draugr had floated closer-he could reach out and touch them if he wanted. He turned back. "Why haven't you bothered to learn Dov?"
"I've been fairly busy since I came to Skyrim," the Dragonborn huffed. "Just tell them."
He sighed, shook his head, and spoke. "Drem yol lok, fahdonu. Het ofaniil, fah kun slen dilon." (Hello, our friends. Here is a gift for you, embalming tools.)
The robed draugr nodded in understanding. "Drem yol lok, Dovahsilii ahrk sonaakii aar. Zok kogaanu." (Greetings, she who has the Soul of a Dragon and her servant dragon priest. We offer many thanks.) They spoke in unison, cracked voices around cracked, unmoving tongues. "Pogaan bok mu grind mun se sahvotu." (It has been many ages since we have welcomed another of our faith.)
"They think we're dragon cultists," Ulfric translated. She didn't need to know that they'd decided he was a servant-slave by a harsher translation. But that's how the cultists tended to describe anything that wasn't a dragon; everything was done to serve the dragons. Or, that's how scholars described the cultists. One of the draugr snarled a command, and two soldiers shuffled forward to carry the bag back into their ranks.
"Ask them what the best way to the city proper is. They have tons of intact homes there," she said. "Bed rolls are in the other bag, if you'll help me carry it. I'm almost out of magicka for today."
"I would've carried them earlier, if you'd asked," Ulfric muttered, shouldering the bag. She made no indication that she heard him, and he didn't know if he wanted her to.
Fun translation note: Dragons always use gender neutral suffixes since they have zero concept of gender, being timeless beings of vague physical origin (and might not be mostly physical; note how most of their body disappears when their Souls are absorbed). Draugr do have a concept of gender, and do use gendered forms of words, except when referring to dragons.
Also this chapter was originally over 11k words before I decided to split it up, mostly because I went on a bender and apparently blackout me kind of speaks Dov. Here's like 4.5k instead :D