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Skyrim Spartan

Chapter Four

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Anske made her way up the hill and couldn't ignore the growing thought that this was probably not a good idea. She stopped, considering for a moment that perhaps she should go home. But she shook her head. No. She had already come this far so she may as well keep going.

She looked down at the village of Rorikstead below, watching the thin columns of smoke rising from the houses beneath the moonlight. Between a few of the houses were pinpoints of torchlights from the guards on patrol. Most of the villagers were sound asleep and completely unaware of the extraordinary events happening nearby.

Earlier, when Vors abruptly left Anske outside the inn, she watched him and the other guards scramble to get organized. It had all looked quite serious. Anske couldn't remember ever seeing the sergeant look so serious before. Even as she went back inside the inn, curiosity about what was going consumed her.

She meant to return to bed, but after seeing the mysterious beam of light for herself she simply could not stop thinking about it. There was finally something exciting happening close to the village. How could she simply go to sleep and ignore it?

Besides, she wanted more than anything to be an adventurer one day. And she was sure that a true adventurer wouldn't pass up the chance to go out and investigate for themselves what was going on like this, no matter how close to home it might be.

Anske inhaled deeply to try and calm her nerves some more before she continued her steady march up the hill. Clutched closely to her chest was the sheathed sword that belonged to her father. Hopefully she wouldn't have need of it tonight.

She had watched from the shadows as the guards departed on horseback fully armed for a fight and led by Vors himself. Surely if there was trouble, she would be safe with them there. Not that she planned to get into the thick of it or anything. She was not so foolish. Anske planned to keep far enough away so as to not get directly involved.

All she wanted was to find out what was going on. To see for herself what had caused that beam of light that went up into the sky instead of simply waiting to hear about it some day from Vors or the other guardsmen like the rest of the villagers.

Her heart thudded in her chest at the thought of what might lay ahead. Vors had looked worried, which probably meant there was the possibility of real trouble. Yet he had ridden out into the night anyway. Surely that meant that whatever was happening wasn't overly dangerous.

The sword she carried with her had been stashed on a shelf underneath the bar, hidden behind rows of cups and mugs. Anske had only discovered it by accident when she decided one day to clean out the shelves beneath the counter. It had been a rare day that her father had gone out of the inn to personally deal with some matter elsewhere in the village.

She determined that her father kept the sword under there for emergencies. With the many strangers passing through, most of them armed, it was the smart thing to do. Though as far as she knew, he had no idea that she had found it.

Every Nord, regardless of gender, was taught at an early age how to wield a sword. Most parents used wooden ones to teach their children, and Anske's father was one such parent. He had given her a wooden sword, crudely made, but it did the job well enough. As the years passed and she grew older and bigger, she began to ask him if she could practice with a real one. Every time she asked, her father only shook his head and said no, much to her growing disappointment and frustration.

After discovering the secret location of her father's sword, she decided to take matters into her own hands. Occasionally, in the middle of the night, she would practice with it in secret. If her father wasn't going to teach her, then she was going to have to teach herself.

A real sword made of metal was a lot different than a wooden one. It was heavier and harder to wield, and it had taken her a long time just to get used to doing the most basic of moves. She certainly didn't consider herself to be proficient at it and knew better than to rush into a fight given her lack of experience and skill. But having it with her calmed her nerves a great deal.

When she reached the point atop the hill where the path diverged into three, she stopped and tried to figure out which way they could have gone. Then, closing her eyes, she tried to remember in which direction the beam of light had come from. When she reopened them, she got her bearings and decided to go down the leftmost path.

Just as she started to walk again, she heard commotion farther down the path. It sounded like yelling and… fighting? She froze, her hands tightening around the sheath of the sword. Vors and the others were probably in trouble. Should she go and try to help them herself? Or turn around and get help?

Before she could even think much more on the decision, a riderless horse galloped up the path towards her and away from the fighting. It was clearly panicked and Anske recognized it as one that belonged to the guards.

On instinct, she extended her arms and tried to block the path of the horse. "Whoa there!" she exclaimed as the horse caught sight of her and slowed, breathing heavily and snorting. It neighed in protest while it tried to go around her, but she moved to block its way again.

The horse finally stopped and snorted, shaking its head while it pawed at the ground.

"Easy there. Easy now," she said as soothingly as she could. She slowly reached out with her free hand. It probably recognized her since she helped the guardsmen take care of their horses on occasion.

Her palm touched the horse above the nose, and she stroked it to help calm it down some more. It shook its head again but did not move. The sounds of fighting continued to echo through the night. At that moment she decided that there was no time to go back to call for help. Judging from the diminishing sounds in the distance, the fighting was almost over. She had to go and do what she could to help, if possible.

The horse looked at her expectantly, as if waiting for her to decide on a course of action.

"Let's go," she whispered more to herself than the horse.

Anske pulled herself up onto the saddle with practiced ease and turned the horse back around in the direction of the fighting. She found a place to secure her fatger's sword and then drew it, the blade shining as it caught some of the moonlight. With a brief glance at the weapon, she kicked the horse into a trot down the path it had come from.

She didn't travel far before the path forked and she saw two more of the guardsmen's horses milling about around the entrance to the diverging path. She turned down that path and continued around the hill until she came upon the scene of battle.

There were only two guardsmen left standing, Vors and one other. They stood back-to-back, shields up and swords out. Even from afar, she could tell that they were tired and breathing heavily. Their clothes were torn and their shields embedded with arrows.

Surrounding the two Nords were five savages dressed in various furs that were decorated with numerous tusks, bones, and antlers. A couple of them even had human skulls dangling from their waists. The Forsworn. Anske had only ever heard stories about the wild Reachmen tribes that fought against Nordic rule. Seeing them for the first time made her reconsider coming to help. They looked downright frightening.

None of them had spotted the new arrival just yet, so engrossed were they in their fight with the guards.

What could she even do to help? It wasn't like she had ever fought anyone for real before, especially not on horseback. She wasn't even sure if she could hit anyone with the sword without falling off if she tried to swing at them while riding on a horse. But still, there had to be something she could do. From the looks of things Vors and the other guard wouldn't last much longer.

The Forsworn were biding their time, seemingly toying with their prey. They were slowly pressing in on the two guardsmen, who were doing their best to fend them off and survive a little longer, but it was definitely a losing battle.

Then it occurred to Anske that even if she couldn't fight the Forsworn head on, perhaps she could at least distract them or get some of them to back off so as to give the guards an opening to either run away or to go on the offensive. A plan quickly formulated in her mind. She only hoped that she wouldn't end up dying because of it. Her whole body tingled with anticipation while her heart raced.

She took a deep breath, leaned forward on the saddle, and began to yell as menacingly and loudly as she could while kicking her steed into a full charge. She made straight for one side of the encirclement, brandishing her sword wildly. The Forsworn were surprised by her sudden appearance and hesitated for a few seconds. Even the guardsmen seemed taken aback, though they recovered their wits quickly enough once they recognized that help had come.

The Forsworn directly in her path quickly dove out of the way. She galloped through the battle and she took a chance to swing at one of them who was close enough, but to her disappointment the blade sliced through empty air, missing the man's head by a few inches.

The guardsmen took advantage of the momentary distraction by going on the offensive. Vors rushed the closest of the Forsworn with his shield, forcing the warrior to fall onto his back where he died at the end of the sergeant's sword. Then he kept moving, pressing the attack on the next warrior.

The other guardsman tried to do the same with another, though was less successful and they both got injured. The guardsman dropped to one knee, blood dripping from a wound to his side while the Forsworn he was fighting struggled to stand upright, clutching at a nasty gash on his thigh.

Anske slowed and pulled on the reins to turn around for another pass, but one of the Forsworn had already gotten back to his feet and chased after her. She tried to get the horse to go around but the warrior was already too close and jabbed a spear at the horse, causing it to neigh in panic and rise up onto its hind legs unexpectedly.

She cried out in shock as she was thrown off her horse. She faced the night sky briefly as she fell before her back smacked into the hard ground, knocking the wind out of her. Her head had been angled upward as she fell and her neck tensed enough to prevent the back of her head from smacking the hard dirt as well, although her neck now hurt. She quickly rolled onto her stomach and curled up, wheezing and finding it difficult to breathe.

She was aware that her sword was gone. It had slipped out of her grasp when she was suddenly thrown off. Not that she could even really think about finding it at the moment as she was barely able to breathe.

Just then, the Forsworn who had come after her ran up and kicked her in the stomach, forcing what little air remained in her lungs out of her as pain exploded from her abdomen. She doubled over again, coughing as she felt some bile rise up her throat.

The Forsworn then pushed her over onto her back with his foot, spear in his hands. He smiled at her from behind a wooden mask carved into a terrifying shape. His eyes were black beads in the night.

"I will feast on your heart tonight, Nord," he declared in a rough voice, sounding gleeful. His face was painted with a savage grin as he pointed the tip of his spear at the center of her chest.

Anske didn't dare move. Even the slightest movement would have her soon impaled upon his spear. She shut her eyes in fear. This wasn't how she thought she would die. Her thoughts turned to her father. She only wished she could tell him she was sorry.

But death never came.

Instead, there was the sound of a loud thwack followed by a heavy thudding and then it was quiet. When Anske opened her eyes, her own breathing still labored, she saw the Forsworn warrior was no longer standing in front of her, but was instead replaced by a hulking figure whose skin seemed to glow ghostly white beneath the light of the moons.

In his right hand he held what appeared to be a partially broken club, the end of which was dripping with a dark liquid that could only be blood. He partially turned towards her, though in the haze of pain that she was feeling, she could barely make out his face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, in a deep rumbling voice.

She nodded weakly. Who was this pale stranger?

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Kratos sat on a rug on the floor by the fireplace. He had entered the home, having to duck to get through the entryway, and taken one look at the offered chair before he decided that it would probably be best if he sat on the floor. The chair did not look sturdy enough to take his great bulk.

Though perhaps he was belittling the craftsmanship of the one who had built it and it could actually hold him. Still, he felt it was better to stray on the safer side for now. He did not want to cause any problems for these people, and breaking a chair was certainly a problem. A minor one, perhaps, but a problem all the same.

"I am unsure of how to thank you, stranger," said the man who had welcomed him into his home and was now sitting at his dining table a few feet away. Apparently, he was the leader of the village. A man named Rorik.

The young woman, Anske, had told him as such on their way to her village after the battle. She had also introduced Rorik to him directly before she left to help tend to the wounded with a man named Jouane.

"There is no need for thanks," replied Kratos.

"Still, I offer it. Had you not been there, we would have certainly lost them all. To think that the Forsworn would finally make a move against us after so long." Rorik sighed and drank some warm cider from a mug that matched the one that was in front of Kratos. "Jarl Balgruuf must be informed. I'll probably send Beinir to Whiterun in the morning to bring the news. Hopefully we receive reinforcements."

The names meant little to Kratos. "These Forsworn are your enemies?"

"Well. . . yes and no. It's not quite that simple," replied Rorik, taking a moment to think. "You see, they are really the enemies of Markarth and The Reach, the lands of our fellow Nords to the south and southwest of us. We here in Rorikstead are from Whiterun hold, and though we are also Nords, their fight is not really with us."

"I see."

The Forsworn boy had told Kratos some things, but his tear-filled babbling had been hard to follow. What was clear, however, was that the target of their attack was not actually the guardsmen. It was Kratos that they had been after. For what purpose, however, the boy did not know and so could not say.

But what troubled the Spartan was the fact that these wildmen knew of his arrival in this world. Not that they knew who he really was, however. The boy said that the only thing their party had been told before setting out was that a powerful being had emerged nearby and that they were to bring it back to their camp, dead or alive.

He wondered where the boy was now. Kratos had told him to stay in the clearing while he checked on the guardsmen, but he should have expected the boy would run away as soon as he was left alone. It was the logical thing to do.

Rorik continued. "We were aware of their growing numbers nearby, but thus far they have kept to themselves and so neither one has bothered the other. Like I said, their fight is with Markarth and The Reach hold, not with us."

"Then why are they here?"

Rorik took another swig of the cider. "It is likely because many of them have been forced out of The Reach. There are vast tracts of mostly empty lands and several abandoned forts and other defensible locations nearby that they are using to gather their strength in safety, away from the armies of The Reach."

Kratos looked down at his own mug of cider, which was still untouched. "And you allow this to happen?" He could not understand why these people would be so passive, even if they were not true enemies of the Forsworn. If Kratos was in charge of this land, he would make every effort to expel them. Such armed rebels would only bring trouble to his people, and the longer they stayed, the harder it would be to make them leave later on.

Rorik let out a chuckle. "Do you always ask such easy questions, stranger?" he asked sarcastically.

"I say what needs to be said." There was no apology in the Spartan's tone.

Rorik regarded the Spartan for a moment, then sighed again. "I don't allow this to happen, but I can't do anything about it either. I may own the land that Rorikstead is built on, but I am still beholden to the will of my jarl. And Jarl Balgruuf has made no move to deal with the Forsworn. Though I can guess at his reasons, the fact remains that none of us here know exactly why he allows them free reign in this area."

Kratos finally picked up the mug of cider and sniffed it before taking a sip. The warm liquid washed down his throat soothingly. It was a good cider.

"Besides, it's not like I have the strength to deal with them on my own even if I was given leave to do so," explained Rorik as he downed the rest of his cider and placed his cup back on the table with a light thud. "I am a retired soldier, weary of war. I also don't command any men of my own, and even if I asked the villagers for volunteers, we would likely only have a dozen or so who are willing and able to fight while the Forsworn number in the hundreds nearby. We would be slaughtered if we attacked them."

They would be slaughtered regardless of whether they went out to fight or not, Kratos thought. It was only a matter of time, even if his own arrival had not spurred the Forwsworn to action. The question now was what was he to do? Should he stick around, or should he leave?

"Forgive me for not asking earlier, with all that's happened. . . but what is your name, stranger?"

Kratos stirred from his thoughts and turned his head to face him. "Kratos."

"Kratos, eh?" Rorik echoed, sounding thoughtful. "Well, Kratos, I've decided how I can thank you properly. You are welcome to stay here at Rorikstead for as long as you like. There is a half-built house on the edges of the village. It is yours, if you wish, and I will talk to Mralki about you staying at the Frostfruit Inn until you can finish building it. I am sure he will agree. You saved his daughter, after all. He might even lend you a hand with building your home."

Kratos was taken aback by the offer, though he did not show it. "I. . . will think on it."

"Take your time." Rorik smiled. "Would you like more cider?"

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His eyes burned. His cheeks were wet with tears. His heart galloped in his chest, feeling like it was about to explode. His lungs strained to provide his exhausted body with fresh air that never seemed enough.

He had run as fast as his legs could take him as soon as the pale giant of a man had left him in that fateful clearing. He had been ordered by the man to stay, and out of pure terror of him who had so easily slain his fellows he might have stayed, but he was not going to ignore what might have been his only opportunity to escape. Who knows what the man had planned for him?

The shame of their defeat burned within his soul, but at least he was still alive. And staying alive meant that he could work towards exacting revenge. He needed to get stronger. Faster. Braver, even. He was not sure if he could face that pale monster again as he was now. Painfully aware of how weak he really was in comparison.

The return to camp was marked by a silent tension as he walked past the watchmen with his head hung low. They said nothing as he passed, already aware of what his lone return meant. The others would not be coming back.

Most of the men and women in camp were asleep, so he did not have to suffer through their disappointed and angry stares as he walked by. He headed for the slightly bigger tent that was set up at the center of the encampment, the entrance to which was lit by torches.

He froze as he caught sight of someone exiting the tent. The light from the torches danced across its pale humanoid body, though it was clearly not a human. Not entirely.

Its lower legs were bent at an odd angle as its bird-like feet pressed against the ground with menacingly sharp talons. It was hunched over and wrinkled, with beady black eyes and a perpetual sneer that crinkled its face and left its mouth open, showing misshapen sharp teeth. Feathers grew from its forearms and sharp claws had replaced much of its fingers. Its perpetually labored breathing was loud and unmistakable in the otherwise quiet night.

With one of its sharp claws, it motioned for him to approach from where he had stopped.

He tentatively obeyed, dropping to his knees when he was close enough. He stared at the ground, unable to meet the hagraven's gaze that he could feel boring into him.

"Well?" she said in a raspy voice.

He swallowed hard. "I am sorry, matriarch. . . We. . . we were not strong enough. He was too powerful. We. . . I could do nothing. . ."

"Tell me everything."

He recounted all that he saw, except for the part where he told the pale man about what he knew. The matriarch didn't need to know about that.

When he was finished, the hagraven hissed with annoyance, making him flinch, but was then silent for a while as the only sound he could hear was her labored breathing and the burning of the torches nearby. Then she spoke.

"It is unfortunate," she said in a tone that could be construed as sadness. "We underestimated his strength, yes? Yes, we did." She continued, apparently talking to herself. "We must try again. We must have him. We must have his heart. We must have it!"

He shifted uneasily at that. It would take a much larger force to even stand a chance, and after their defeat tonight, the numbers in their little camp had decreased by almost a third. He was not sure if that would be enough, especially since it appeared that their target had help from the Nords of Whiterun.

Then finally she addressed him again. "You have done well to return to us, young one. . . what is it you desire?" she wheezed.

His thoughts flashed to the deaths of his brethren. To how easily he had been beaten into submission. He never wanted that to happen again. He breathed in deeply and clenched his fists. Lifting his head, he stared straight into the inky darkness of her beady eyes.

"I want the power to defeat him."

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AN: Timeline-wise, we are a little bit before the return of Alduin. Thanks for your continued readership and support!