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Skyrim Spartan
Chapter Eight
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When Kratos returned from the encampment, his massive frame covered almost entirely in blood, he stepped into the village square carrying three bodies as if they weighed nothing. The surviving villagers stared at him in shock mixed with more than a little awe. Those reactions further intensified when he suddenly declared an end to the battle, claiming that there were no more Forsworn in the village. None that were alive, at least.
His declaration was loud enough to be heard above the din of the storm as snow continued to fall all around, and his words were delivered with such unshakeable confidence, and in that deep and powerful voice of his, that none dared to challenge his assertion.
Rorik and Vors, both of whom were injured from the fighting but very much still alive, snapped out of their shocked stupors first and began to organize the survivors by barking out orders. They did not have much time before the storm grew too fierce—even for Nords—to do much of anything productive outside.
Their immediate priority was setting up a makeshift healing ward of sorts, where the old Breton, Jouane, could start treating the wounded. There was a large barn not too far away that proved to be the perfect size and location, and soon runners scoured the village looking for any more injured to bring to that barn.
Kratos brought over the ones he had carried from the encampment; Anske, Mralki, and the lone surviving guardsman from the camp whose name Kratos did not know.
It was only when Kratos put Mralki down on one of the hastily made beds of hay on the floor of the barn that he realized the Nord was already dead. The innkeeper's body lay motionless on its back, ghostly pale, and the expression on his still face made it seem as if he were at peace with his passing. A small comfort for those that knew him.
Jouane hurried over, took one look at the dead innkeeper, and shook his head sadly. "By the Eight… he was a good man, Mralki. I'm sure he's in Sovngarde now. Maybe even in the Hall of Valor. At least, I think he should be there… if the Nords are to be believed." He sounded weary, and he still had a long night ahead.
Kratos guessed that Sovngarde was the afterlife for the Nords, based on the context. He was about to ask for more details when a fresh batch of injured villagers were brought in and the questions died in his throat. This was not the time for that.
"Are you hurt?" Jouane asked, giving him a once over.
"No," Kratos replied. Other than some very slight disgust from being covered in other people's blood, he felt perfectly fine. None of those Forsworn could have ever hoped to even so much as scratch him.
"Good. The Divines favor you then, to have fought so fiercely against so many and come out unscathed," said the old Breton, causing Kratos to narrow his eyes a little—in his opinion, the divines had nothing to do with it. In fact, they could shove their favor up somewhere very unpleasant.
"How about the girl?" Kratos asked in a brusque manner, gesturing towards the unconscious young woman on another bed of hay on the floor.
Jouane knelt down beside Anske and did a quick inspection, gently turning her over onto her side at one point.
"She appears to be fine. A few bruises and scrapes, and some very minor burns, but otherwise healthy. She'll recover well enough on her own. The Divines were watching over her too, it seems." The mage frowned, rubbing his goatee. "Although, I do detect traces of excessive magicka use… how curious…"
"Is that a problem?"
"Problem? Oh, no, no… not a problem at all," said Jouane with a shake of his head as he glanced at the Spartan. "It's just that she's never displayed any inclination for the magical arts before, so I find it surprising. That's all."
The old mage moved to the third and final person that Kratos had carried over from the camp. The guardsman was battered and bruised, with a few lacerations and some fractured ribs. With deliberate movements, Jouane skillfully cleaned and dressed the wounds, taking supplies out from a pack that he had brought with him.
"That should do it for now," Jouane said to himself with a satisfied nod, "I could heal him quickly with my magic, but it would be best to conserve my energy for those who are in dire need of it." He explained that last part for Kratos' benefit, perhaps anticipating that the big warrior was questioning why he refrained from using any healing magic.
It made sense. Jouane had a finite amount of magic power to draw upon and if he used it on every little injury then he would not have enough to treat those more gravely injured in time to save them. Even the gods had their limits, unbelievably high as those limits were compared to mere mortals. Kratos would know.
"Jouane! We need you!" cried one of the villagers who was helping tend to the wounded.
The old mage sighed. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got others to attend to." He started to walk away before turning to look back over his shoulder at Kratos. "What will you do now?"
"Go home," Kratos responded simply.
He had already done his part. The Forsworn were routed and at least some of the villagers now lived to see another day. Besides, there were a few survivors currently at his home who probably had no idea about the outcome of the battle.
"Then, would you mind bringing Anske along with you?" asked Jouane. "She's barely hurt, and I'd like to spare her the trauma of waking up unharmed next to the cold corpse of her father. You understand, don't you?"
Kratos glanced at the sleeping young woman, then at the motionless figure of her father next to her. He sighed. He was probably going to regret this.
"I understand."
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The villagers Kratos had saved had barely made themselves at home, perhaps out of respect—or fear—for Kratos, or maybe because they were prepared to run away again at a moment's notice. When Kratos arrived, caked in half-frozen blood, and a still unconscious Anske cradled in his arms, the men had been positioned by the door with their crude weapons at the ready while the women and children were hidden away.
The men had sagged to the ground in relief when they recognized him, and when he told them that the battle was over. That the battle was won. They were surprised, elated even, but were too drained to properly celebrate the news. They called out to the others, who emerged and shared in the feelings of relief and gratitude. Their lives were no longer in immediate danger.
While watching the group embrace and talk, Kratos had the idea to ask the women to help take care of Anske. In exchange, they could make use of his bedroom while they stayed here. They were hesitant, and initially refused his offer, citing that they already owed him a great deal and could not in good conscience take the comforts of his own bed away from him, but he insisted. They needed it more than he did, and things would work out better this way.
The room and the bed were certainly large enough to fit all the women and even the children if they wanted, since Kratos had built it spacious enough for himself. Besides, he thought it a good trade for what he was asking of them. After all, he was not inclined to bathe her or change her clothing himself, and she needed to be bathed and to put on fresh clothes.
Not to mention she would likely find better comfort from these people when she awoke. They knew each other far better than Kratos did. They would know what to say, what to do, when the news of her father's death was finally revealed to her. He was just glad to pass on that responsibility to others.
Kratos stepped out briefly as the storm worsened and the snow fell so thick he could barely see. He used handfuls of the fresh snow to wipe away most of the blood from his skin. When he returned, one of the men had a towel for him, which he accepted with silent gratitude, and they sat by the fire while the women washed up in the large bath built to accommodate the Spartan's massive frame.
After a few beats of silence, the two men, Tarknir and Nederd, started talking to Kratos, introducing themselves and telling him their story without having been asked. Not that Kratos stopped them.
They were apparently cousins. Both looked to be around thirty winters old, with long dark brown hair, short beards, and strong, stocky builds borne from a life of constant manual labor. Apparently, Nederd—or Ned—the younger of the two, was visiting from some village to the southeast when the attack happened.
One of the three women was Tarknir's wife of three years, Sonji, while the other two women were unrelated.
The oldest of them was Leesa, who was almost fifty winters old, with the wrinkles and the graying hair to match. Apparently, she was a widow who had moved to Rorikstead a few years past after her husband died, helping out wherever she could to earn some money. Kratos had a feeling there was more to her than met the eye.
Then there was Rona, who had been a farmhand on Tarknir's farm. She was perhaps a little older than Anske, with the typical Nordic fair skin and blue eyes. Her thick light brown hair was tied up into a large bun behind her head to keep it from getting in the way.
Finally, there were the two children. Both of them girls no older than ten winters. In fact, they turned out to be twins. Nearly identical twins. Britte and Sissel, they were called, and despite looking almost exactly alike—Britte's blond hair was slightly darker than Sissel's—they were stark contrasts in terms of personality. And they apparently clashed often because of it.
Sure enough, coming out of the bathroom the twins were bickering over something, and they stormed off in opposite directions. Britte went to the bedroom while Sissel made her way to the fire and sat down in a huff with the men. Before anyone could ask, Leesa came out from the bathroom next and announced that she was preparing dinner for everyone.
Kratos forgot about the troubled twins when he realized that he did not have any food at all. All of his meals, few as they had been, were supplied by Anske whenever she came by to visit him. In fact, the only food supplies he had were from what Anske had brought earlier in the day, right before the attack. And he had no idea what she had brought over this time around.
"I'll have to make a stew out of this if we're to have enough for everyone," said Leesa thoughtfully as she peered into the sack of food. "But this might tide us over for two meals, if done right."
Two meals. One tonight, one tomorrow. Judging from the way the storm was raging outside, Kratos doubted it would be over so quickly. Which meant they would need more food if they did not want to starve while waiting for the storm to blow over.
There were two solutions that Kratos could think of: one, he could go to Rorik and the other survivors and ask for some extra food; or two, he could go out hunting in the storm later while everyone was asleep. The choice was obvious, of course.
How long had it been since he had gone out hunting for game?
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With his manor burned down to its foundations, Rorik had taken up temporary residence in the now abandoned house of one of the missing villagers. And because of the blizzard raging outside, he, like everyone else, was stuck indoors for the time being. There was no point in going out in this weather after all, especially at night.
As he sat at the dining table, a square piece of furniture with four simple chairs around it, the house creaked around him. To his right, slouched over with his head resting on his folded arms on the table was Sergeant Vors, one of two surviving guardsmen left in Rorikstead.
It was hard to believe that they had lost so many. Before the attack, with the fresh reinforcements newly arrived from Fort Sungard at the Jarl's command, they had 44 guardsmen stationed here, including Vors. Their presence had helped delay the Forsworn long enough for one of the guardsmen to alert the villagers, allowing many of them to at least attempt to escape—or arm themselves to fight—before the Forsworn descended upon them. He shuddered to think what would have happened had the reinforcements not arrived in time.
His people had suffered greatly today. And he honestly felt a little guilty that he was one of those who survived—he seemed to be able to survive many incredibly dangerous situations. He was uncertain if that was a curse or a blessing as he thought back to several battles he participated in while he was in the Legion. If Jouane had not saved him that last time, he might already be in Sovngarde.
Thinking of his old friend and constant companion, Rorik felt a pang of sympathy and concern for the mage. His health had been fading gradually over the years, and his strength was no longer what it used to be, both physical and magical. Yet, because the situation was dire and the circumstances demanded it, the mage was pushing himself to his limits to tend to the wounded.
"Jouane..." he whispered sadly. Hopefully, the fool would not push himself too much lest he fall down dead on his own. Rorik would never forgive him if he did. If only they had more mages.
Vors stirred, opening one eye just enough to look at Rorik. "How many injured?" he asked quietly.
"33, according to Jouane when I saw him last," replied Rorik.
"Then that makes… 51 surviving villagers," said the sergeant. "We lost a lot of people."
"We won't know for sure until we count the dead, but you're right. 51 survivors… that's less than half of our people."
"54, if you include us guardsmen and Kratos."
"You didn't count Kratos as a villager?" Rorik looked at him curiously. "He finished his house on Rorikstead land just recently."
"True, and in one week no less… but he only just arrived. After what happened here today, I doubt he'd want to stay. A man like that could go damn near anywhere he pleases."
Rorik pursed his lips. "I don't think any of us should stay."
Vors was surprised enough to raise his head. "You plan to abandon the village?"
"For now," Rorik said with a nod. "I see it as the best course of action to protect the people. My people. So many have already suffered and died, I will not stand for any more of them to get hurt under my watch. Besides," he stared straight into the sergeant's eyes, "It's time I talked to the jarl face-to-face. He has a lot to answer for."
"I won't argue with you on that," said Vors, a dark look crossing his worn features. "I would have words with him too. The Forsworn should have never been allowed to roam so freely on Whiterun soil. We have been too passive, too weak, and the bastards have taken advantage, spreading their roots deep into our land." He turned his head to spit on the floor.
"We also don't have the soldiers nor the defenses to hold Rorikstead," Rorik continued, "As it is, the only reason we're still alive is probably this blizzard… and Kratos. That man took out half the Forsworn on his own, I think."
"He slaughtered them like pigs in a butcher shop," Vors said, his eyes staring into the distance as if he were playing back the memories of the battle in his mind. "He moved with skill and grace that seemed at odds with his massive bulk. And he was fast. Faster than you'd think when first looking at him. None of the Forsworn could so much as touch him before he killed them in one blow. And all he used was a simple woodcutter's axe."
Rorik chuckled. "He wears no armor either. And I saw him kill a few Forsworn with only his bare hands, Vors. He broke them like a child playing too rough with his toys and sent them flying with a single strike. His strength is no joke… those muscles… they're not only for show. It makes me wonder where he trained and learned the arts of war. Where does he come from, you think? I don't believe him to be a Nord. And he doesn't strike me as a Redguard, a Breton, or an Imperial either. The man knows nothing about the Empire. About the world."
"You think there might be others like him?" Vors breathed, eyes widening. "By Shor… to have even a dozen men like Kratos… let alone an army…"
They imagined an army of ashen-skinned warriors with bulging muscles and towering over seven feet tall rampaging over the continent. With the current state of the Empire, they doubted any could stand before such a force. Perhaps not even the Dominion.
"Whatever the case, I'm glad he's on our side," Rorik said with a shake of his head to clear away those images. "And we'll need him to help keep us safe on the journey to the city. It will be tough going, what with all the snow and with all the people with us, but we'll all feel better knowing he's around. The roads should be safe, but today's attack has proven that there are far more dangers closer to home than we thought."
"Civil war… Forsworn… Aldmeri… there's been talk of increased violent activity all across the region. Anything from bandits to monsters, to the restless dead. There's even whispers of vampires!" Vors said worriedly, "You'd think the world was about to end."
"Let's worry about one thing at a time, Vors. First, we get our people to the City of Whiterun. Then we demand the jarl act so that we can reclaim our village and avenge the deaths of our people. And after that, we return to Rorikstead, rebuild, and live the rest of our lives in peace. Let other people deal with all those other problems."
"You think Kratos will agree to come with us? Like I said, a man like that could go anywhere, do anything he wanted."
There was no hesitation as Rorik replied.
"I do."
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Tarknir held his dozing wife close as they lay by the warmth of the fire. They were lying on his coat, which was serving as a rather poor excuse for a bed at the moment. But at least it was somewhat softer than the hard wooden floor.
The coat was the only thing Tarknir had managed to grab, other than a pitchfork, before they dashed out the door of their home and into the chaos of a burning village. He still could scarcely believe it. Their home was destroyed, their people attacked. How many of his neighbors had perished in the battle?
It could have been him. It could have been his wife. It could have been all of them. The thought chilled him, and he shivered, gripping his wife tighter. He could have lost everything.
"Mmm… can't sleep?" asked his wife as she squirmed in his arms, trying to find a more comfortable position.
He loosened his grip, realizing that perhaps he was squeezing her a little too tightly. "Just a lot on my mind, Sonji…"
"Please tell me you're not worried about the crops."
"What? No! Shor's bones… I'm not worried about the crops," he said, sounding annoyed.
His wife laughed lightly, and he relaxed when he realized she was only teasing him.
"You need to ease up, love," she said. "You'll grow gray and wrinkled if you worry too much."
"I guess," he chuckled. "Although, now that you mention it…" He started thinking about the crops. This freak blizzard was certainly going to kill all of them, but if they're lucky perhaps some of the crops would survive. Maybe some choice offerings to the Divines would help with that.
At least they were able to harvest some of the fields already, sending some to the markets while keeping some for their own use. Though what they had on hand was likely destroyed in the attack. If by some miracle it was left untouched, it still would not last them through the end of the year.
Sonji bopped him lightly on the forehead with her fingers. "What did I say?"
"Sorry, dear," he said, then quickly added, "But it's your fault you brought it up, you know. If you hadn't…"
She arched a brow at him, and he shut his mouth immediately, eliciting a smile from the woman. "We'll figure it out, love. There's no need to worry about any of that right now, because right now we should just be glad we're still alive."
Tarknir sighed and stared at the fire. "You're right, dear."
"Of course, I am," she said. "I'm your wife. When am I ever not right?"
He wisely chose to stay silent, and they both watched the fire burn and crackle.
"He's unbelievable, isn't he?" Sonji suddenly said, her voice hushed as if they would be overheard. "I've never seen someone so large before, and so strong. Like he was born half-giant. Maybe even blessed by the Divines."
"Aye. He's larger than most, like someone straight out of the heroic epics and legends that the bards are always singing about," added Tarknir. "He's also got a rather interesting tattoo. I wonder what significance it holds." He was speaking about the red tattoo that spiraled across the warrior's chest and even over his head and face.
"And all those scars… he must have fought in many battles. He killed those Forsworn so easily, as if they were mere boys playing at fighting rather than the fully-grown and violent Forsworn warriors that they were… and when he returned from the battle, he was drenched in so much blood, yet appeared to be entirely uninjured…" she whispered.
"He's clearly a warrior of great skill, with an incredible physique to match."
"Aye," she agreed, but looked troubled. "So, what manner of foe could have left all those scars on a warrior of his level?"
Tarknir frowned at the thought. "Hopefully, not anything that we'll ever have to face in our lifetime."
They were quiet for a time, lost in their own thoughts. Then his wife spoke up again.
"So did you find out anything more about him?"
"Hmm?"
"You talked to him, didn't you? What did you find out about him?"
"Ah, well…" Tarknir reached a hand up to scratch the side of his head. "Kratos is a man of few words…" Sonji rolled her eyes at that, which he ignored, "…Very few words. We might have looked like we were in a conversation, but truthfully, he barely spoke, and it was mostly Ned and I doing the talking. So calling that a conversation isn't exactly appropriate. The only thing he said when we asked him where he came from was that he was from somewhere far away, and the way he said it made it clear that he didn't want to speak any further on the subject."
Sonji sighed. "And here I thought you might have learned more about the man who saved us. We do owe him our lives, you know."
"Sorry to disappoint," he said with a chuckle.
"I guess I'll have to use my womanly charms on him to get him to talk."
Tarknir looked down sharply to where she was resting her head on his chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Sonji raised her head up to meet his gaze and gave him a playful wink and a smirk. "Jealous now, are we?"
He laughed. "Yes… well, no. I might have been, had I not already concluded that he doesn't seem to be the womanizing type."
"You don't think he is?" she asked with surprise. "A man like that, with a body like a masterwork statue, he could probably have almost any woman he wanted, if he tried."
"Aye, he probably could," Tarknir conceded with a nod, "But he hasn't tried yet, and he doesn't seem inclined to do so either. He seems to have a lot of other things on his mind right now other than women. So, I don't have to worry about anything. Besides, you love me, don't you?"
"Of course, I love you, Tarknir," Sonji said, raising a hand to cup his cheek. "But just letting you know that if he announces that he's Ysmir reborn and offers for me to be his woman, I might have to seriously consider it…"
Tarknir laughed aloud, and his cousin Ned stirred for a moment where he lay asleep a few armlengths away, making Tarknir try hard to suppress his laughter lest he really wake his cousin up.
"You're really something, dear," he said when he finally got a hold of himself. "You asked me not to worry so much, but now I'm worrying that Ysmir reincarnated might take you away from me."
"That's why you married me," she said knowingly as he kissed her forehead. "You may have won me over, love, but you still have to work to keep me." She lay her head back on his chest and shifted around again in his arms.
"I'll remember that," he promised, still amused.
"You think he's alright out there?"
Kratos had left a short while ago, much to their surprise. He probably did not think they would still be awake when he left, but they also did not feel it was their place to ask what he was up to. All he said, as he strode towards the door, was that he was going out. And then he was gone.
Tarknir chuckled and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "I'm sure he's fine."
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Kratos had seen them darting around in his many trips into the forest. They were covered in pale brown or gray fur and had black eyes on stretched necks with four skinny legs that ended in hooves. Some even had antlers. He was thinking about deer, of course. Or at least, animals that looked like the deer he knew of. Perhaps they were different in this land. He would find out soon enough.
In a storm as fierce as this, with the wind howling and the snow falling nearly sideways at times, the deer were likely hunkered down in whatever shelter they could find in the wilderness. Usually, that meant tightly packed trees and brush that could at least protect them from the wind.
It was dark out, but not so dark that he could not see. One of the benefits of having two moons—at least when they were full or close to full—was that no matter how deep the night or how clouded it got, Skyrim rarely ever found itself under complete darkness. Even now, with the massive storm churning overhead, some moonlight leaked through and was reflected by the swiftly accumulating snow, giving everything a minor, almost ethereal, glow despite the darkness.
Trudging through the already ankle-deep snow, Kratos held the thick branch he had broken off from a tree and fashioned into a spear. The end of it had been carved and sharpened into a deadly point. Perfect for piercing through flesh. It was not a good hunting spear, heavy and twisted as the branch was, but with enough force, Kratos could overcome its flaws and make it work for the task at hand.
Strangely, as he moved between the trees and peered into the darkness in search of his quarry, he thought he felt someone's gaze upon him. More than that, he felt a presence nearby. Faint, well-hidden, but certainly there. There was no malice in its gaze, so he continued on as if he had never noticed it. All the while, he kept his guard up.
Eventually, he found a trio of deer huddled together between a close collection of old pine trees, their wide trunks and many branches providing ample shelter from the blizzard. There were two does and a stag with antlers that twisted to a decent length from its head.
Bringing back even one of the deer would last them more than enough to get through the storm. With eight mouths to feed, excluding him, one deer would probably last them a little more than a month. But, thinking on it more, Kratos figured it would be better to take at least two. Just in case.
He would bring down the stag first, and then grab one of the deer. They would likely be startled and try to run, but the snow and the gusting winds would impede their movements. Hopefully enough for him to grab one before it got too far.
With the plan decided, he crept as close as he dared and raised the rough-hewn spear over his shoulder. He was at an angle that gave him a clear shot at the stag, and he aimed carefully, holding his breath for a moment as he tensed and twisted, winding up, before launching the spear forward with such strength that it flew too fast for the wind to influence and embedded itself straight through the upper chest of the stag and deep into the ground, pinning it in place even as it died.
Immediately after the spear had left his hand, Kratos lunged forward and with powerful strides was soon by the group of trees just as the two does scrambled to escape. One of the deer, not knowing where exactly the threat was coming from, had decided to run straight towards the side that Kratos was approaching.
It leaped out between the trees and immediately tried to change course as it caught sight of the massive muscle-bound Spartan and panicked. But in its haste, it lost its footing in the snow, and proceeded to tumble down. And it was easy enough for Kratos to leap on it and break its neck with his hands.
Pleased that the hunt had gone well, Kratos went to inspect the stag first, its blood staining the snow in a dark splotch that grew larger by the second. Gripping the shaft of the spear that was poking out of the dead animal, he tugged it free and threw it off to the side. There was no need for it anymore.
He felt the gaze upon him again, and the presence grew stronger. Closer. There was a strange energy in the air as an unknown power seeped into the surroundings. Kratos tensed. The roaring wind suddenly died down to a whisper and the falling snow seemed to avoid the space between the trees where he stood. Somehow, even the light had gotten a little bit brighter than before.
From behind a nearby tree appeared the figure of a man, but it was no ordinary man. Where its head should have been was instead the head of a large stag whose antlers were an impressive size. It seemed almost like a crown of sorts, with several sharp points that looked like they could tear through flesh with ease.
Its body was well-defined and muscular, though not as large as Kratos, and was covered in what looked to be a variety of strange markings. Perhaps even fur if his eyes were to be believed. Its torso was wrapped underneath a strange but imposing cuirass of bone and antlers while its lower half was covered in an assortment of cloth, leather, and bone that reminded Kratos of the Forsworn.
Standing at a few fingerbreadths shorter than the Spartan, if you did not count the antlers, the strange creature did not approach any closer as it regarded him with glowing orange eyes that brimmed with power. Kratos was unfazed as he stared right back at it, noting that the half-breed was unarmed and not hostile. Yet.
"A fine hunt," said the creature, sounding impressed. Its voice was raspy, oddly echoing, and strong enough to be heard clearly. Actually, it sounded almost as if it was speaking to him from inside his head. But its mouth also moved while it spoke, so it was difficult to say for sure.
Kratos kept quiet, still studying the creature.
"You show great promise. But this was far too easy for someone… like you." It gestured towards him with a hand encased in a gauntlet of fur and bone, the tips of the fingers shaped into claws.
Eyes glowing a shade brighter, the staghead suddenly bared its teeth, lips parting and cheeks squeezing outward. It was an odd expression, an unnatural movement that a normal stag should not have been able to produce. Kratos realized after a few seconds what it actually meant.
The creature was smiling.
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AN: I had this chapter finished, like I mentioned, but I actually rewrote 80% of it because I didn't like how the first draft turned out. This one's a little better heh. Hope you like it. Not too much going on, but next few chaps will be... a wild ride. So buckle up.