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Skyrim Spartan
Chapter Three
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Kratos was no longer completely naked. He sat with his bare back pressed up against the base of the shrine to Akatosh, feeling the cool stone against his skin. His legs were bent in front of him, arms stretched out over them with forearms resting on his knees. His pale skin seemed to almost glow under the light of the moons.
The pile of clothes that had been left at the shrine had been surprisingly clean despite being totally exposed to the elements, and Kratos figured that divine magic had something to do with that. There was a light brown tunic made of a rough material, a pair of matching trousers, a worn leather belt, a linen loincloth, and a pair of weathered leather boots with thin wool socks.
It was not exactly the most comfortable of clothes, but it was certainly better than being nude.
He had tried to put on the tunic, but it was too small and ended up almost ripping apart from the effort, so he decided to tear what remained of it into strips and wrap them around the scars on his forearms instead. He did this both to avoid any questions about them and to hide them from himself. The scars from the chains of the Blades of Chaos, the weapons bound to him for all eternity.
Kratos could feel their presence in the back of his mind, distant and faded, waiting to be called to service once again. Until he summoned them, however, they would apparently remain hidden away. Where exactly the blades were at the moment, he had no idea, and he had no desire to be reunited with them anytime soon.
For his lower half, the loincloth was easy enough to put on, but the trousers tore a little at the seams as he slid them over his legs. They barely fit him, and he briefly wondered if Akatosh had purposefully gotten clothes that would be so tight and uncomfortable for him. He shot a glance at the statue of Akatosh and was reminded of how he really disliked gods.
After moving around to test the trousers once they were on, he tore off the bottom half to a little above his knees because they felt too tight and restricting. He added the ripped pieces to the strips of cloth that were now wrapped around his forearms.
Kratos had never worn trousers before, though he at least knew that such clothes existed. The Greeks considered trousers to be the fashion of barbarians and wildlings from the north and most Greeks never considered wearing them because they thought such clothes to be beneath them.
When he was still a mere Spartan general several lifetimes ago, Kratos had fought against these northern barbarians and saw for himself how their people wore trousers. To him, it made sense to wear such clothing in the much colder and harsher environment that they lived in. They offered more protection from both the cold and from weapon strikes compared to the tunics that the Greeks wore, but the trousers sacrificed some of their wearer's mobility to provide that additional protection.
Kratos preferred to be as mobile as possible in battle, though he had little choice for now but to wear the shortened trousers. It struck him then that he must be somewhere far north of Greece. It would explain the much colder air, the trousers that had been left at the shrine, and the many tall mountains that ringed this unknown land.
Even the trees, he realized after closer scrutiny, looked like those found in colder climates. He was no arborist, but he at least recognized the multitude of pine trees intermingled with firs, oaks, and birch trees. These were most prevalent in the northern regions of Greece if memory served him correctly.
He stared up at the twin moons, wondering how long it was going to take for someone to come along. Someone that he could get some answers from.
The beam of light that Akatosh had shot up into the sky was done purposefully. It was a beacon to call someone to the shrine, and it wasn't something anybody nearby could miss. Now all he had to do was wait. It was certainly better than aimlessly wandering around in the dead of night.
The only question was: who was coming?
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Vors gripped the reins of his horse as it hopped over a particularly large rock that had fallen onto the winding path that led up the hill. Behind him, five others of the Whiterun Guard followed on their own horses. Each one was armed with a spear, a shield, and a sword.
They bore no torches, navigating only by the light of the moons so that they would not be easy to spot, though they did have torches in their saddlebags if needed. The horses were meant to shorten the travel time up the hill and to preserve their strength while also making it easier to make a run for it should the need arise. Whiterun was also known for their mastery of horses, and most people had one.
The five soldiers accompanying Vors were the best of the dozen soldiers under his charge to defend the village of Rorikstead. But they were all green. New recruits sent to him only a few weeks ago after Jarl Balgruuf called most of the veterans back to the city of Whiterun.
The other seven guards he left back in the village. It would have been foolish to leave it defenseless by bringing everyone. He had given one of them strict instructions that if they did not return in a few hours, he was to ride as fast as he could to Fort Greymoor to call for aid. The others were charged with defending the village until the reinforcements arrived. He only hoped he had trained them well enough not to shirk their duty and run away if they came under attack.
"Hey Vors, do you think it's the Forsworn?" asked the man directly behind him, breaking the silence of their steady ascent.
"Be quiet," Vors growled, sparing a glance back at the man who ducked his head in shame.
In truth, Vors wasn't sure if it was the Forsworn or not who was responsible for that peculiar beam of light on the other side of the hill. It very well could be. Scouts, travelers, and locals had all been reporting increasing Forsworn activity along the border with the Reach, but the Forsworn hadn't dared to cause any trouble in Whiterun hold. Not yet at least.
Their war was with the people of the Reach, and Markarth in particular. Not with Whiterun.
Still, everyone was worried about the barbaric wildmen called the Forsworn, especially Vors. He had thought the posting in Rorikstead would be a peaceful one, and it has been so far, but with the Forsworn so close and growing in number he figured it was only a matter of time before something bad happened.
Jarl Balgruuf was of course aware of the situation, but with the civil war ongoing between the Imperial forces to the west and the Stormcloaks to the east, the jarl didn't want to risk provoking the Empire by deploying his forces along the western border. Even if it were only to deal with the Forsworn, the Empire might think it some kind of ruse and respond accordingly. Or the Aldmeri might force the Imperials to make a move.
To make matters worse, even if the Empire believed them and didn't react to a deployment of troops to the western border, the Stormcloaks might think that Whiterun was in league with the Imperials for helping the Reach deal with the Forsworn since Markarth was aligned with the Empire. It was all a big headache, and Vors was certain that innocent people were going to die because Whiterun was stubbornly clinging to neutrality.
Vors didn't much care for either the Stormcloaks or the Imperials, but he would have preferred it if they had chosen a side so that they all had a clearer path ahead. And so that the Forsworn problem could be solved without causing any other issues.
Of course, he also understood that it wasn't really that simple, and that the jarl was trying to do what he thought was best for the hold. Perhaps even what was the best for Skyrim. Still, some part of him thought that staying neutral for the entirety of the war was next to impossible, so might as well choose sooner rather than later.
The path twisted around and began to level out as they neared the top of the rocky hill. When it diverged into three other paths, they took the leftmost one that led to where he thought the pillar of light had come from. So far, they hadn't seen a soul.
The path began to descend on the other side of the hill, and the horses navigated well enough on their own so that Vors and the others didn't have to pay too close attention to where they were going as their eyes continuously looked about for anything of note. Trees and brush grew to either side of the path and all along the surface of the hill wherever there was soil between the rocks.
Not far down from the top of the hill, the path diverged again, one continued to descend towards the base of the hill, while the other led around through the trees to what Vors knew was a clearing that contained a shrine to Akatosh.
He pulled on the reins and guided his horse towards the shrine as the others followed quietly. He didn't know why he knew, but something told him that he would find what he was looking for there.
As they entered the clearing, Vors saw him almost immediately. Sitting at the base of the shrine of Akatosh and bathed in silver moonlight was the biggest man the Nord had ever seen. Even despite the fact that the man was sitting down, it was easy enough to tell how much bigger he was than most people. Vors thought the man might have some giant's blood in him.
The stranger was naked above the waist, save for some wraps around his forearms. His head was cleanly shaven, his features sharp and angled, and a big dark spiral tattoo snaked around his well-defined muscular body from his left shoulder all the way up to the left side of his face.
The stranger didn't move other than to look up at them as they approached. He didn't seem bothered in the slightest by their sudden appearance, as if he were expecting them. Nor did he seem to care that they were all armed while he was not, which made Vors uneasy.
Vors pulled hard enough on the reins of his horse so that they came to a stop about fifteen feet away from the shrine and the stranger. He did not dismount, though he did raise a hand towards his men who formed a line behind him as a sign to keep calm. He could tell they were just as tense as he was, though he did his best not to show it.
"Greetings, stranger!" Vors called out and their eyes met. "We aren't here to seek trouble, but were ye the one responsible for that beam o' light earlier?"
"No." The voice of the man matched his powerful frame. Deep and strong like the rumbling of a mountain, giving each word weight as they escaped his mouth. He spoke at a measured pace, in no rush, and sounded like a man used to being listened to. "I was here, but the light was not my doing. It came from this." The stranger jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the statue of Akatosh.
The men behind Vors began to whisper to each other, and Vors himself was taken aback by the revelation. Either the man was lying, or Akatosh was somehow involved. Was this man favored by the divine? His horse snorted and pawed at the ground, bringing him out of his thoughts.
"Are ye alone, stranger?"
"I am," came the quick reply.
"What purpose do ye have fer being here at this hour?"
"I might ask the same of you." The man stared unblinkingly back at Vors, who cleared his throat and looked away towards his men. They seemed as unsure of what to make of the situation as he was.
"We are o' the Whiterun Guard. We come from Rorikstead," Vors found himself answering. "The light… it drew us here. We only wanted te find-"
"Whiterun? Rorikstead?" the man echoed with a frown. "I do not know of these names."
Vors snapped his gaze back to the man, who continued to remain seated at the base of the shrine. "Ye must be joking."
The man was silent. He was not joking.
"Rorikstead's a village on the other side o' this hill," explained Vors, gesturing in the direction of the village and growing more puzzled by the second. "It is in Whiterun Hold, ruled by Jarl Balgruuf the Greater… where are ye from, stranger?"
"Far away," the man said in a softer voice, looking off to the side. Then his gaze returned sharper than before and his voice was hard. "How many are in your company, guardsman?"
Vors shifted in his saddle. He wasn't sure if he should answer that, but his gut told him that the mysterious man meant them no harm, so he did anyway. "It's only the six o' us."
The man frowned again. "Then we have company."
Vors could suddenly sense eyes on them. His body tensed as he moved his spear from his left to his right hand and retrieved the shield that hung across his back with his left. Behind him, his men followed suit as they raised their guard and they all scanned the far tree line. The moonlight barely filtered through the autumn leaves, leaving their trunks and the areas around them in shadow. But Vors thought he saw some movement there.
"AMBUSH!" he yelled.
Not a moment later, arrows whistled through the air. One narrowly missed his head and instead embedded itself, luckily or skillfully he wasn't sure, into the chest of the guard behind him. The man looked shocked as he stared at the wooden shaft that stuck out from his breast, raising a hand to grab it. But before he could do anything, more arrows struck him, and he fell off his horse and to the ground with a heavy thud.
The horses neighed and snorted and began to back up in alarm at the smell of blood and the sense of heightened fear and rising panic from their riders.
Instinct made Vors raise his shield immediately after the first arrow barely missed him, and the others that followed thudded harmlessly against the thick wood. The archers were deliberately not targeting the horses, probably in an effort to steal them later after they killed all the riders. A small part of him was thankful for that at least.
"Back! Back to the path!" he growled as arrows continued to fly around them.
They turned their horses and galloped back the way they came. Vors took one look at the stranger, who had finally moved to his feet and was crouched behind the shrine for cover, arrows flying through the air and hitting harmlessly against the stone. He was pinned down there, and the Nord felt bad to leave him, but they were in no position to help him. Unfortunately, the stranger would have to fend for himself.
Wild war cries sounded from the trees as figures dressed in odd assortments of furs, bones, and trinkets emerged. The Forsworn had come.
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Kratos moved quickly, taking cover behind the shrine as he grabbed the steel war ax that had been hidden between his back and the base of the shrine. Arrows pinged and bounced harmlessly to the ground or broke apart when they hit the stone. Judging from the number of arrows coming in, he estimated there to be only five archers of mediocre skill.
A few arrows would not kill Kratos, but it would certainly hurt as he moved to close the distance between them. No, he would wait until they ran out of arrows, or until they grew tired of their long-range attacks and decided to get closer themselves.
He glanced at the retreating guardsmen, noting the one that had fallen was no longer moving. A wise decision to retreat. Had the enemy archers been more skilled, they would likely have all died in the first volley. But now they had a fighting chance to escape.
Kratos glanced up at the statue and glared at the unmoving figure of the god that had brought him here.
"You and I will have words someday," he vowed.
He heard fighting in the direction of the fleeing guardsmen and hoped that they would survive. Except for the leader, who Kratos had been talking to, the other seemed unsure of themselves. Even in the dim light of the moons he could tell their equipment was barely used. Only the leader had some combat experience.
War cries echoed in the night as the enemies finally stopped flinging arrows at him and emerged from the trees. They wielded crude clubs, axes, and half-decent swords, all of them of different designs and makes. Some looked handmade, others looked forged, and some were certainly stolen from the corpses of their past enemies.
Kratos shook his head. They resembled, at least in temperament, the barbarian hordes that Kratos had faced in battle so long ago, as they rushed him yelling and angry.
The Spartan emerged from behind the shrine, standing up to his full height. The warriors approaching him, slowed but did not stop, finally taking in the massive size and appearance of their opponent. Kratos quickly stepped to the side as an arrow was loosed at him. It missed wide, with him not having to move as much as he did. A good attempt, but one he had been expecting.
The closest warrior wore a leather helm with antlers and fur and raised a massive Warhammer with both hands, intent on crushing Kratos's head with it. There was a frenzied look in his eyes, and Kratos knew he was blinded by bloodlust, unable to see the folly in his attack. One that the Spartan could have easily dodged, but he decided like he often did to go through his enemy instead of around.
Kratos simply raised his hand towards the Warhammer as it swung down at him in an overhead strike. The crude flat metal head slapped loudly against the palm of Kratos's hand and the momentum was instantly arrested without moving Kratos even an inch.
The warrior's eyes changed from frenzied to panicked as he stared up at his failed attack with mouth agape.
Kratos wrapped his fingers around head of the hammer, gripping it tightly as he swiftly raised his leg and kicked the man squarely in the chest. The Spartan felt the man's chest collapse beneath the blow as he was immediately thrown back into the next warrior behind him with enough force to send them both tumbling painfully back to the trees. He let go of the Warhammer now held aloft in his hand, the weapon clattering onto the stony floor of the clearing.
The next warrior faltered in his advance, fear gripping him, but he was too close to turn and run. He swung his sword wildly and Kratos dodged it easily enough, then swung his fist in a sideways uppercut that caught the man in the side of the jaw. The force of the blow lifted the man up into the air a few feet, his body twisting, as his head and jaw lolled loosely. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The other warriors came to a sudden halt and froze for a moment, weighing their options, but Kratos didn't give them enough time to decide what to do. The next man had a wooden spear with a head of sharpened bone that he thrust at the Spartan's bald head.
Kratos turned, the spear passing inches away from his face, and grabbed the shaft with his left hand. With a jerk, he pulled the spear towards him, and the warrior who had been gripping the spear tightly stumbled towards his bent elbow. As his forehead made contact with the point of Kratos's elbow, his body continued to move forward from being pulled by the spear, forcing his neck to snap back, killing him instantly.
Kratos ducked as another arrow flew through the night, missing its mark again. Eyes narrowing, he twirled the spear around, readied it over his shoulder, and then threw with practiced ease towards where the arrow had come from. The spear soared through the air and Kratos was rewarded a moment later by the pained sounds of a dying man echoing through the night as it hit its mark.
There were three others remaining, the one farthest away slowly backtracking towards the tree line while the two closest ones held their ground. One had a big length of knotted wood in his hands and a bow slung across his back while the other wielded a nasty-looking double-sided axe. They glanced at each other, then to Kratos, and with defiant cries attacked at the same time, coming at him from two directions.
The one with the club swung low towards his knees while the one with the axe went high for his head. Kratos tensed his legs then jumped forwards a few feet into a roll. As soon as he emerged out of the roll, he jumped up, twisted his body, extending his arm behind him with axe in hand, and threw it at the farthest man who had begun to run away. The weapon sped through the air, spinning end-over-end before splitting the back of the man's skull with a wet thud.
The two warriors who had come at him adjusted their weapons at the last second so that they didn't hit each other, but their momentum still had their bodies running into each other. With grunts of pain they bounced off one another, the club-wielder stumbling to the ground and the other barely able to keep on his feet.
The one with the axe, regaining his footing, turned around and brought his axe up over his head. He screamed as he threw it as hard as he could at Kratos. The Spartan ducked, but the axe was thrown from too close for him to dodge it completely as its blade sliced at his shoulder, drawing some blood as it spun off somewhere behind him.
Growling, Kratos closed the distance between them in only a few swift steps while the fur-covered warrior took out a long knife and tried to stab him in the gut. Kratos deftly grabbed the man's wrist in his big hand before the knife could make contact and squeezed, crushing bones and flesh as the man cried out in agony. The knife fell to the ground.
Something hard smacked into his broad back. The warrior with the club had finally gotten back to his feet. Kratos lifted the man he was holding and then threw him at the stone base of the shrine. The warrior's body broke against the stone and went limp. Whirling around, Kratos raised an arm quickly enough to block the next swing from the big club with his forearm. The warrior's weapon cracked and splintered against his forearm, though the wooden club did not break apart completely.
The Spartan grunted at the impact as a dull pain reverberated from his arm, gone as quickly as it had come, and then reached forward and wrapped his hand around the warrior's neck. He lifted him into the air, but it was then that Kratos realized this warrior wasn't actually a man, but a boy, underneath all the furs and animal bones. He was big and strong enough to wield the big club without much difficulty, but he was definitely still very young.
The boy writhed and squirmed in his grasp, pounding and scratching against his arm as he wheezed and growled like a wild animal finding it steadily difficult to breathe. He tried to kick him, but he may as well have been hitting the big Spartan with feathers.
Kratos looked into his terrified and furious eyes. Tears streamed down his face, marring the warpaint on it. Snot covered his lips and chin. The boy hated him. Hated him immensely. But he was also afraid of dying, and Kratos could not fault the boy for that. Most people were afraid of death.
The Spartan glanced around at the now quiet clearing. He could no longer hear fighting in the distance, and he wondered if the guardsmen made it through the attack alive. He would have to check on them, but first he had to deal with the boy.
"I will give you one chance to live," he stated as he let go of the boy's neck and the boy crumpled to the ground in a heap, coughing and gasping for breath.
Kratos let out a long and weary sigh. Then he crossed his big arms and stared down at the young warrior with eyes as hard as stones.
"Tell me what you know, boy."
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