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Skyrim Spartan

Chapter Ten

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There were dozens of passes through the towering Jerell Mountains that marked the border between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, but only a handful were deemed safe enough to traverse for the general public. And only two were paved with stone, highways built long ago by the Empire to connect its peoples.

Those two passages were deemed safe thanks to the Imperial Legion, which maintained security and accessibility through these routes. Regular patrols sent from outposts and forts ensured that any debris, monsters, and bandits were kept clear.

And it was with that knowledge that they currently avoided those paths, taking one of the lesser known and more treacherous routes through the mountains instead.

There were two dozen of them traveling through the mountains. All of them wore thick coats of fur to protect them from the vicious cold and the biting wind, two of the many dangers to contend with when crossing the mountains at almost any time of year. Their fur lined boots plunged into the snow with each step, the crunching white substance reaching almost to their knees.

Beneath their coats they wore their leather padded chainmail armor and the long blue scarves that marked them as Stormcloaks. A few of them wore helms of various Nordic designs. And each of them carried a weapon—be it a sword, an axe, or even a warhammer. A quarter of their number had bows, with quivers full of arrows.

A handful had shields strapped across their backs, all of the shields patterned on the face of them with the familiar growling bear on a blue field—the sigil of their leader.

Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion, stopped to raise his head and stare up at the sky. The mountain peaks were hidden behind thick white clouds, yet he stared at them as if he could see right through them with ease. The crisp mountain air was dry and harsh, and yet he breathed it in happily. It smelled like home.

He had spent several weeks away from Skyrim, plying the back alleys of Cyrodiil cities and navigating the relative wilderness of the countryside in search of more support for his rebellion. More recruits. More money. More weapons. More of everything, really. If there was something he really begrudged the Imperial Legion when comparing them to his own Stormcloaks, it was that their armies were larger and better supplied than his own.

This had not been the first such trip he had taken, though he hoped it would finally be the last. At least this foray south had been a moderate success, so he did not feel like time was wasted away from his beloved Skyrim.

Ulfric had convinced several Nords who were prominent members of their communities to muster potential recruits to send north, though they would not arrive for some time, of course. He had also managed to secure some extra funds and negotiate some additional supply lines.

Of course, the problem was that they had to send the supplies in secret to escape Imperial notice. Using lesser known and more dangerous routes meant the supplies took longer to arrive, if they even arrived at all. But they had to make do with whatever they could get.

The ugly truth of the matter was that the piece of Skyrim that Ulfric currently controlled was simply not enough to support the needs of a growing army of brave Nord warriors. The true sons and daughters of Skyrim fighting for their freedom and for their god. Nor could he support a prolonged war. At this rate, they would lose by simple attrition in two years. Maybe less. And he would not allow that to happen.

"Jarl Ulfric?" one of his men broke him away from his thoughts. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine, Rolf." He glanced at Rolf Hardhand—a bear of a man who was taller and bigger than even Ulfric, who was physically imposing in his own right. Rolf had earned his name by being a fierce brawler who could send foes flying with merely his fists. He had never lost a fistfight for as far as Ulfric had known him, and now the man was one of his most trusted captains, and an old friend.

"The weather's getting worse, my Jarl," the larger man said with a sliver of worry in his deep voice. "There looks to be a storm on the other side. A bad one."

Ulfric frowned. "I noticed that as well. Come, let's make haste to the caves further up the pass. We don't want to be caught out in a storm."

"You heard the Jarl!" Rolf roared to the rest of the group. "Pick up your asses and get moving or I'll feed you to the frost trolls myself!"

Ulfric glanced up at the sky once more. His hand strayed to Rikvard, his legendary axe strapped securely to his waist as a foreboding feeling suddenly crept up on him.

Ulfric was roughly shaken awake. He was seated, though he could not remember how he had gotten that way. His head hurt and his body ached like he had tumbled down the side of a mountain. Disoriented, he opened his eyes, but his vision was blurry and spinning, which only made him dizzy. Shutting his eyes, he leaned forward to try and center himself.

That was when he felt them. The tight bindings on his wrists and his ankles, chafing against his skin. The gag that filled his mouth and left his jaw sore as it was forced to accommodate the foreign object in his mouth. His lips were cracked and dry, and his mouth and throat were parched.

Somehow, he had been captured. Panic shot through him like lightning, and then worry. What of his men? What of his friends? What was to happen now? Though that last question he had some inkling of, and it wasn't a good one.

His aching body elicited a groan as he shifted in his seat. The gag tasted something awful, but there was nothing he could do about it now, so he simply tried to ignore it.

"My Jarl, you're finally awake," said a familiar voice of a man nearby.

Ulfric reopened his eyes and blinked several times, his vision slowly coming into focus while turned towards the voice. He recognized the man almost immediately. Ralof, one of his bannermen. A fine Nord specimen at a little over six feet tall, with a proud nose, blue eyes, and shoulder-length blonde hair. Some of his hair was braided into a thin cord that hung down the left side of his face. If memory served, the man was a little over thirty winters old and in his prime. A strong warrior with some no small amount of skill.

Ralof was also bound with thick cords of rope, but unlike Ulfric he was only bound by his wrists. His left eye was slightly swollen, and he had bruises all over his exposed skin, with cuts and scrapes to go along with them. Still, the man appeared to be rather calm considering the situation they were in.

The shaking of the wagon brought his attention to the Imperial soldiers who were currently driving it. More soldiers on horseback and on foot flanked the wagon as they waded slowly down a road covered in a couple of feet of fresh snow. The soldiers glanced every so often at him and the other occupants of the wagon, keeping a watchful eye. Though whenever their eyes were on him, their faces tightened with contempt. And anger. He supposed he had angered every loyal Imperial on either side of the Jerell Mountains by now.

Ulfric took some time to analyze the situation, wondering what, if any, the chances were of escaping.

They were in the middle of a long train of wagons and horses, with a contingent of soldiers far ahead appearing to clear much of the snow off the road for the horses and wagons behind them. That slowed their progress considerably, but the snows were thick and there was no other way through.

There were at least sixty soldiers, he estimated. Far too many for them to stage any successful breakout without removing the gag from his mouth. With his Thu'um, they might just stand a chance. Still, with the number of eyes on him currently, there was no way he could remove the gag without any of the Imperials noticing and reacting. He would have to be patient for now. Perhaps an opening might present itself later on.

He focused his attention on the other wagons, some of which carried more prisoners. Most of them appeared to be his men, but there were a few others who were somehow caught up in this mess.

One such unlucky soul was bound next to Ralof. He was a scrawny man. Half-Nord, half-Imperial from the look of him. His face and hair were filthy, caked with grime from untold weeks without washing. Shifty dark eyes darted back and forth, filled with fear and anxiety. He kept licking his cracked lips, tongue darting out quick like a snake. Ulfric easily surmised he was a milk drinker and instantly disliked him.

"D-Did you say Jarl?" the shifty man whispered harshly. "This man is a Jarl?" He gestured towards Ulfric warily.

"Watch your tongue, horse thief!" Ralof said with a glare that had the other man edging away from him fearfully. His voice took on a tone of pride and respect as he continued, "You are in the presence of the Jarl of Windhelm. The great Ulfric Stormcloak himself."

The man gasped, his dark eyes nearly popping out as he stared at the bound Jarl. "U-Ulfric… Stormcloak?" he said, his voice becoming pitifully small. Almost a croak.

"You should feel honored to be in the presence of the next High King, a true son of Skyrim and champion of Talos." Ralof softened his glare, though he continued to stare down the thief, who appeared to be near pissing his pants.

"No… No, no, no… This has got to be a mistake… A mistake, I tell you! I-I'm not one of them!" the man said frantically, voice loud and tight. He glanced to and fro at the surrounding legionnaires, all of whom pointedly ignored his increasingly desperate pleas. "I'm not a Stormcloak! I'm just a common thief! I'm not a rebel! I swear! I don't want anything to do with the Stormcloaks. Long live the Empire! Long live the Emperor! You've... You've got to let me go!"

"Be quiet back there!" yelled a hard voice from the front. One of the Legionnaires half-turned to glare at them from beneath his helm.

The thief was effectively cowed into silence, but his legs started bouncing rapidly as his nerves got the better of him. He looked like a man who was bound to do something stupid and get himself killed. Perhaps in doing so, it would provide an opening for escape. Though Ulfric seriously doubted that.

"Damned Imperials ambushed us as we made our way down the pass," Ralof said with bitterness in his voice, ignoring the thief as well. "How did they even know we were there? There were so many of them, we were overwhelmed even before the avalanche hit. By Talos, we should not have survived that… yet here we are."

That was right. They had been ambushed. Ulfric's memory returned to him, the haze on his mind lifted suddenly.

The Stormcloaks had holed up in some caves near the top of the pass they were traversing until the storm finally abated. When the skies cleared, Ulfric recalled urging his men to get moving quickly down the pass. The feeling of dread had grown even as the storm raged outside, making him anxious to leave and return to the relative safety and comfort of Windhelm.

It did not help that they were already behind schedule thanks to the blizzard, and the longer they delayed the more worried he became that this feeling of dread meant things might be going wrong at home. A sign from the divines, from Talos, that he needed to move with great urgency.

Not that Ulfric did not trust those he put in charge when he left, but he would feel better once he returned to Windhelm himself.

The trip down the other side of the pass had been slow and treacherous with the fresh snow now reaching waist-high in some places, but they managed to make it more than halfway down the pass when the trap was sprung. How the Imperials managed to figure out where they were or how they managed to set and hold the trap despite the blizzard, Ulfric would likely never know.

But what he did recall was that he was eventually forced to use his Thu'um in the hopes that it would create an opening with which they might escape. In hindsight, that had not been the best idea, for his Shouts shook the mountains and drew their wrath down upon them.

Before they knew it, the ground rumbled mightily beneath them as if it would open up and swallow them whole. The mountains shook with fury as the world became lost in a deafening roar. The avalanche swiftly fell upon them, effectively ending the fightin. Ulfric remembered little else after the thunderous wave of snow crashed into him and knocked him unconscious.

He supposed the Imperials managed to dig him out somehow, though how any of them survived the ordeal at all was yet another mystery. Was this the will of the Divines? Was this something Talos had allowed? One more trial for Ulfric to overcome?

Another familiar voice spoke up from behind him. One that had Ulfric quickly narrow his eyes, the skin around them tightening. The voice belonged to his nemesis on the field and in this war. His counterpart who he hated yet begrudgingly respected. And suddenly, the daring trap, the supreme patience, the iron-will and discipline required to hold steady despite the deteriorating conditions, it all made sense.

"I see you've finally decided to emerge from your hibernation, Ulfric Stormcloak," said the one and only General Sezar Tullius, currently the military governor and commanding general of all Imperial Legions in Skyrim.

General Tullius was an Imperial born and raised, and one of the Empire's finest generals. The man was personally sent north by the emperor himself to quell the rebellion. Tullius was a man of sheer determination and force of will. A man who led by example, and who suffered no nonsense and wanted only results. Though he was no heartless soldier, he was willing to go to great lengths to achieve victory for the Empire—even if some of those lengths may end up bending some morals and upsetting some people. Hard choices had to be made for the greater good, a fact Ulfric understood well enough.

In another life, perhaps he and Ulfric could have been friends. At least that was what Ulfric thought. Turning his head just enough to see the general riding his horse up close to the wagon, Ulfric took a good look at the man the Empire charged with defeating him.

General Tullius sat tall and straight upon his horse, holding himself with the pride and bearing befitting a man of his stature. His weathered, wrinkled face betrayed his advancing age, but many women would still find the man attractive from looks alone. His white-gray hair was cut very short, and his face was clean-shaven. Battle-hardened eyes stared out beneath thick grayish-black brows with the wisdom and confidence of a long and successful military career. And they held within them a fiery vitality that, despite his age, showed he would live for a long time yet, if he could help it.

The general's Imperial armor was an ornate piece with a unique design, very different from the mass-produced sets that the rank and file were wearing. Trimmed with gold and silver, and accented with high-quality leathers, the armor shone proudly in the sunlight with nary a speck of dirt in sight. Embossed on his armor right in the middle of his chest, and right over his heart, was a golden winged dragon. The unmistakable seal of Akatosh, and the symbol of the Septim Dynasty of Emperors. The irony of it did not escape Ulfric's notice, and it both angered him and amused him that the symbol was so prominently displayed by so well-known and powerful a man as Tullius.

A large part of the reason for Ulfric's rebellion was the Empire outlawing the worship of Talos, one of the Nine Divines. A human named Tiber Septim who ascended to divinity, chosen and blessed by Akatosh, Dragon God of Time, and the First Emperor. Of course, it was the Aldmeri Dominion who forced the Empire into such an action, but Ulfric was a man who would rather die fighting for his beliefs than to live peacefully having given up something so vitally important, so fervently believed.

Ulfric glared at the general. He was unable to say anything, so he decided to communicate with his eyes. The effect was muted, of course, due to his being bound and gagged. Still, it felt good to at least show some defiance, even a token one. Let it not be said that Ulfric Stormcloak was cowed despite having been taken prisoner.

"You really are something else, you know that? Bringing an avalanche on top of our heads like that." Tullius shook his head in disbelief, though Ulfric noticed the anger that tightened the skin around the general's mouth and eyes. "I lost more men than I should have because of that little stunt. More needless deaths because of your damned rebellion. More men that we could have at hand to fight the..." he trailed off and shook his head. "But in the end, their sacrifice was not in vain. We have you now, Jarl Ulfric," he said the title mockingly, "And you will soon face Imperial justice for betraying the Empire, and everything else you've done."

"You call this justice? You call us betrayers? Don't make me laugh! You damned Imperials think—" Ralof started to rage but one of the mounted soldiers behind him quickly moved closer and rapped him hard on the side of the head with the butt of his spear, sending the surprised Nord down onto his side in pain.

The thief next to Ralof screamed at the sudden violence and scrambled to move as far away as he could without leaving the wagon, which was not very far at all. It was a pitiful display that had Ulfric looking with disgust at the man. A coward indeed.

"Shut your mouth, rebel scum! The General wasn't talking to you," the soldier said angrily, though his mouth twisted into a gleeful smile at the sight of Ralof clutching his head in pain. The other soldiers looked on approvingly as well.

"Thank you, soldier." The general inclined his head. "You may return to your position."

"General!" the soldier saluted sharply, bringing his fist to his chest as he lowered his head and bowed from atop his saddle before rejoining the line of his brethren.

"Well, Ulfric, I suppose that is enough chatter for now. You should make yourself comfortable. We still have some ground to cover before we reach our destination." Tullius paused, taking a moment to look around at the wilderness to either side of the road. "I advise you to enjoy the scenery of your homeland… one last time before the end." With those ominous parting words, the general kicked his horse into a trot and pushed further ahead to the front of the column.

Ulfric watched him go, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A war of emotions was roiling beneath his calm exterior. Anger. Despair. Frustration. Remorse. Doubt. Fear. All were raging within him. He did not want to believe that this was the end, that everything he had worked for, sacrificed for, was for naught. But right now, strong as he was, he was powerless to do anything.

No, that was not quite right. There was one thing left to do. The one thing he could do in this situation. Pray.

Talos, guide me…

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The convoy of refugees, for that was what they were now, left what remained of Rorikstead shortly after midday as Rorik had planned. Thankfully, there had been no delays as everyone worked diligently to get everything ready on time.

More than fifty people were to make the journey as none wanted to be left behind. Ten were given horses to ride, mostly men and a couple of women who had prior experience fighting on horseback. They were given arms and armor in addition to the horses. Another dozen was to walk on their own two feet and were similarly armed and armored.

The remaining thirty odd villagers—those too young, too old, too weak, and too injured—were placed on some of the wagons they had scrounged up. With only a few wagons carrying passengers, the rest were filled with supplies and important belongings. Those wagons were placed at the rear of the convoy where they could easily be left behind if they needed to make a run for it. Hopefully, that would not be necessary.

Each wagon had either one or two horses pulling it, for they had plenty of steeds to spare, and because of that they were able to make good progress despite the heavy snow.

The convoy's forward contingent, consisting of Vors and a few other able-bodied men and women, broke up the snow ahead of the convoy and shoveled some of it out to make it easier for the rest to pass through, particularly the heavy-laden wagons.

It was hard, arduous work, but it gave the restless something to do while also benefiting the convoy as a whole. Kratos helped up front as well, and after a few hours of grueling work it was clear he was the only one who could keep going. Not that he minded. If anything, he relished the constant physical exertion. Kratos was not overly fond of idleness, and it helped him keep his mind off brooding over the past, which he had been doing much of late.

According to the villagers, the main highways and roads that crisscrossed the land were built by ancient Nords, and then rebuilt by the Imperial Legion ages ago. The Legion paved stones over the weathered paths carved out by their Nord ancestors. Stone markers had been placed at set intervals along the roads in case of situations where the snows proved too great and covered them up. With the markers in place, travelers would not easily lose their way. Something that they were most grateful for now.

When night fell, they made their first camp out on the plains. Several large fires were built, tents erected, and the wagons were circled up around them to form a defensive perimeter for four separate camps, two to either side of the road. Several of the people who were armed rotated watch duty, the order of which was determined by Vors so that there would be no arguments.

Conversation was minimal and muted across the camps while the food was served by those who volunteered to cook.

Kratos had contributed the remaining venison he had in his supplies from the two deer he hunted a few nights ago, although they were certainly not wanting for meat at the moment. Several farm animals had been butchered before they left, adding to their food supplies as the farmers were unable to bring them along. The animals would slow the convoy down too much and would be too troublesome to care for while traveling.

"Are you not hungry?" Anske asked him from her place to his right.

They sat by themselves near one of the big campfires at the center of each camp, the other villagers giving them a wide berth. Partly because of Kratos—they were in awe of the man, and more than a little intimidated—but also because no one was in the mood to talk much, least of all to a stranger like Kratos, even if he had saved them from the Forsworn.

Kratos looked over to where Anske was licking her fingers clean of the last traces of her food. Her empty bowl sat on her lap with not even a tiny scrap of food remaining. The speed with which she ate had simultaneously amused and concerned the Spartan, but he did not give voice to his thoughts as he ate a few bites of his own food. Most of which was still untouched in front of him. It was edible, at least, and the taste was not terrible. But it left a lot to be desired.

"You can have the rest of mine," he said.

Anske's eyes glittered as they stared eagerly at his nearly full bowl of food, but then she hesitated and glanced up at him. "Are you sure?"

"I am sure."

He could not tell her that, as a god, he no longer required any physical nourishment to survive. He could certainly partake in it and enjoy it—if the food was good enough to be enjoyed—but there was no such thing as hunger or thirst for Kratos. Well, that was not exactly true. He could feel when his stomach was empty, and he could feel when his throat was dry, but he could ignore them easily enough and nothing bad would happen to him.

Even now, in this strange new world, he could sense most of his divine powers buried in the deep recesses of his soul. They lay dormant, suppressed even—perhaps subconsciously—waiting to be called upon once more and unleashed to their fullest potential. He doubted he would ever have need to call upon them ever again, nor did he want to.

"Kratos, are you okay?"

The Spartan blinked, wrested from his thoughts. He realized he had been staring down at his bowl of food intently as he held it in one hand.

"I am fine," he assured her, reaching his hand out with the bowl. "Here. Eat."

She smiled as she accepted the offered bowl quickly, not giving it another thought. "Thank you, Kratos," she managed to say before busying herself with consuming his ration as if she had not eaten anything yet.

Her voracious appetite this evening was likely a consequence of her hard work today, Kratos thought.

Anske had volunteered to be in the small group of perimeter guards that roamed up and down the convoy. That of course involved a lot of walking—more than anyone else in the convoy—while maintaining a keen vigil on their surroundings for any possible threats.

Honestly, Kratos did not think she was ready for such a responsibility, but it was not his place to tell her what she could or could not do. The girl still had so much to learn. So much to practice, let alone master. He did not think she would have survived the trials of becoming a Spartan warrior, at least not as she was now.

She had fought in the battle and survived, that much he could not deny. There was a strength in her, a grit that some people simply did not possess. But the Forsworn they faced were little more than rabble with deadly toys in his eyes. They were more like wild animals armed with weapons than trained soldiers. A dozen Spartan soldiers could have held their ground well enough against their attack on the village.

The only challenge, meager though it was, came from the briarheart warrior. And there had only been one of those. Kratos imagined them to be the elite of the Forsworn, and if that was the pinnacle of their fighting prowess, then he was not impressed.

At least the girl had actual equipment now. Kratos could still recall his dismay when the girl had run headlong into battle without a weapon or even protective gear of any kind. There was a fine line between courage and foolishness, and in battle that could get you killed. She was lucky to have survived at all, luckier still to have gotten her first kill.

Laying on the ground in front of Anske was her father's steel sword, sheathed in a leather scabbard and within arm's reach. Kratos had inspected the blade earlier and found it acceptable. Her light leather armor was provided by Vors for added protection, and she wore it over her plainclothes. It was a little too big for her, but light enough that her movements would not be too encumbered while giving her some measure of defense against injury in a fight.

"Hey, Kratos," Anske said, her tone serious enough to warrant his full attention.

"What is it, girl?"

"You didn't take it back," she said. "What you said about my father last night." Her eyes reflected the flickering flames before her.

Kratos turned his head towards the fire. "I did not mean it."

Anske nodded slowly. "I know." She paused. "I forgive you."

Kratos felt a slight tug on the corners of his mouth, but long had it been since he had reason to smile. And even now, his lips did not move as the feeling passed quickly enough.

"I take back what I said about your father," he said slowly. "He was brave. And his warrior spirit was strong, even in the face of certain death. He fought to protect you and the rest of the village, and he died with honor."

Anske did not immediately respond, but when she did her voice came out small and fragile.

"You mean it?"

"This time, I do."

"Thank you," she said with a sniff, reaching up to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. "That means a lot, coming from you, Kratos."

"Hmph," he grunted in reply.

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Kratos volunteered to be on watch for the shift that covered late evening up until sunrise. They had given him his own tent, one of the few who did not have to share on account of his size, but he left it without a second thought and walked through the sleeping camp when it was time. Arriving at his assigned location by one of the wagons that marked the perimeter, he relieved the man on duty there.

The man turned out to be the lone surviving guardsman Kratos had saved from the final battle at the encampment. He thanked Kratos again, promising like many others to repay him for what he had done. Some way, somehow. As he watched him go, Kratos allowed himself to briefly wonder how much all these debts owed to him would actually be worth.

A few hours into his shift, with nothing but a vast expanse of moonlit snow in front of him and the cold whispers of the wind for company, Kratos heard footsteps crunching on the snow behind him.

It was too early for the next person to relieve him. And whoever it was, they were not making any effort to conceal themselves, so he doubted they were attempting anything malicious. Neither did his instincts register any hostile intent, so when the person drew close, he did not react.

Kratos was seated on the ground with his legs crossed and back straight, having cleared a patch of snow for him to sit down. The person came up next to him, and he finally allowed himself to look the person over, bathed as they were in the light of Tamriel's moons.

It was a woman with a light complexion, with her hair tied up into two buns that looked like bumps atop her head. He noted her angled features, familiar and yet alien, and the stern expression on her face. Yellow-gold pupils stared out at the world from slanted eyes.

Her pointed ears marked her as an elf, and as far as he knew there was only one elf in the village of Rorikstead: Reldith. Anske had spoken of her before, and it had been in a positive light.

Why she decided to approach him now, and at this hour, was a mystery.

"So, you're the Kratos everyone seems to be talking about," the elf said in a haughty voice, sizing him up from head to toe. "You certainly look as strong as they say. What are you, half-giant or something?"

Kratos snorted. "I am no giant." He was tempted to say that he was actually a Spartan, but the word meant absolutely nothing in this world. A pang of sadness filled him at that fact.

"Clearly," said the elf drily. "Otherwise, you'd be bigger. Much bigger."

"Are you having trouble sleeping, elf?"

Reldith stiffened. "No. Why do you ask?" she said with some hostility, slanted eyes narrowing.

Kratos shrugged. "It is the middle of the night. You should be asleep."

"You're awake."

"I am on watch duty."

She did not reply right away, perhaps realizing that he was right. "I wanted to meet you," she explained truthfully.

Kratos let out a snort.

"Do you find that amusing?" Reldith gave him a disapproving look. Or perhaps it was just her natural facial expression.

"That is not the first time I've heard that said to me of late," he said.

"And it won't be the last, I imagine." The elf visibly relaxed a little and crossed her arms over her chest. "You saved the village. There are enough eyewitness reports from trustworthy individuals to attest to that, and your physique and countenance seems to support their observations. Already, some are calling you a hero. A legend of old come to save Skyrim from untold perils. A giant of a man whose strength could rival mythical figures in the songs of bards. A few have even whispered that you are Ysgramor reborn." She said the last part with some disdain.

Kratos raised his eyebrows at that. He did not know who this Ysgramor was, but he could guess that it was some great mortal champion of history.

"So… are you?" she asked, hesitantly.

Kratos frowned. "Am I what?"

Reldith sighed with annoyance. "Oh divines, you're really going to make me ask you out loud." She muttered to herself, though Kratos still heard it. She let out another sigh before saying, "Are you Ysgramor reborn?" as quickly as she could. Like it was a bad taste in her mouth that she needed to spit out as soon as possible.

He shook his head once and replied, "I am only Kratos. Nothing more."

"Well, Kratos," said the elf, "Even if you hadn't done any of those things I mentioned previously, from your appearance alone there would be plenty of people curious enough to go out of their way to meet you. You must know that you stick out like a naked Falmer at an Imperial Wedding."

Kratos had no idea what a Falmer was, but he understood well enough what she was trying to say.

He shrugged. "I cannot change my appearance." Not that he would even if he could. There was no good reason to.

"Pity," she drawled. "You could stand to look a little less dangerous."

Kratos grunted.

"But I suppose you are dangerous, so it's fitting. After all, you seem to have the ire of the Forsworn. What exactly did you do to them that has them hellbent on killing you? So much so that they would risk all-out war with Whiterun, on top of their current war with The Reach no less, just to get to you."

Kratos cast an appraising eye upon the elf once more. "How do you know it's me they're after?"

"Come now. It's not that hard to figure it out if you really think about it. The attacks all coincide with your sudden appearance in our peaceful little farming village. There is nothing of real value to be gained by attacking us. It only stands to reason that you are the cause for all of our… misfortune." Reldith stared at him once again, neither one of them blinking.

Kratos narrowed his eyes at her. He did not know the point of all this, but he was not liking where this conversation was going. "I have done nothing. The first time I encountered the Forsworn was up on that hill, when they attacked me and the guardsmen from the village."

Reldith continued to stare at him, eyes searching his face for any trace of falsehood.

"Either you are an amazing liar, or you're telling the truth." She sniffed; her arms shifted but remained crossed. "Neither sits well with me."

"It is the truth."

"So you say." The elf stepped forward, leaving her back to him. She gazed out into the snowy fields lit by the light of the moons. "What are your intentions with Mralki's daughter?"

"I have none," he replied easily enough.

"You mean to tell me you spend all that time with her and have no intentions on her whatsoever?"

"You are mistaken. She chooses to spend time with me, not the other way around."

"She does seem to be growing quite attached to you," the elf said, a small frown forming. "We've spoken several times in the last two days, and she has mentioned you often enough that I needed to take your measure for myself."

"Are you her mother?"

"No, of course not." Reldith scowled at him. "What kind of brain addled question is that? We look nothing alike."

"Then what concern is it of yours who the girl spends her time with?"

"I have known that girl since she was little," the elf said defensively. "Though we aren't close, she is still part of the village. And we look out for one another in Rorikstead. Plus, I'm fond of her, even more so now that she saved my life during the battle. Since her father is dead, she is alone in this cruel world… and someone needs to look out for her in his stead."

"Then perhaps you should speak to her instead of me."

Again, Reldith went quiet. "Just make sure not to hurt her," the elf said, sounding tired.

This time it was Kratos who frowned. "I have no intention of hurting the girl," he said with as much severity as he could muster.

The elf turned her head to the side so that she could see him from the corner of her eye. "If you hurt her—"

"I won't," he growled.

"—know that I can be dangerous too." There was a glint of violence in her eye as she held up her hand, palm facing the sky and fingers curled. Magic energy rippled around her hand for a second before a large bolt of ice the size of her forearm materialized in the air over her hand.

Kratos stared at her in disbelief. Did she really just threaten him? He would have laughed at the absurdity of it had he found it amusing, but all he felt was irritation. What part of he was not going to hurt her did this woman not understand? Was she really that dense?

"You should go to sleep, elf," he said pointedly.

"Yes, I suppose I should," she replied, unbothered by his now obvious tone of dislike. She casually flicked her hand down towards the ground as the bolt sped towards the same direction, piercing through the snow and into the ground.

Kratos kept a straight face, not impressed by the sudden display of magic.

"Watch yourself, Kratos. I know I will." Reldith spun and walked away, her footsteps through the snow fading slowly into the night.

Letting out a long, irritated breath, Kratos returned his full attention to keeping vigil over the surrounding area. Hopefully he did not have to deal with any more of these absurd encounters for the foreseeable future. Or he might have to show the elf and everyone else what a real threat actually looked like.

Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω

They broke camp just before dawn the next day, wanting to cover as much ground as possible during the daylight hours. There was some grumbling, but everyone pulled their weight, and the convoy was soon on the move while the sun was still rising from behind the mountains to the east.

Kratos once again took up a position at the front, helping to break up and clear away enough of the snow ahead of the convoy to make it easier for those behind to pass through. This time, they elected to have him lead the way with a few others supporting him by clearing off the areas to his sides that were beyond his reach, forming a path wide enough for the wagons and horses.

Anske, meanwhile, found herself stationed at the rear of the convoy today along with two other armed villagers on foot. A third armed villager was mounted and was a few paces behind them. She did not know them very well but recognized them enough to at least remember their names.

Unsurprisingly, they spoke for a few minutes about Kratos, the villagers curious to know more about him from the girl who had spent the most time with him.

For her part, Anske did her best to answer their questions, though she knew only little more than they did. When that became obvious, they drifted off to other topics before falling into a somewhat awkward silence. The kind of silence where everyone present was trying to think of something to speak about, but unsure of what.

Thankfully, she was saved when, much to her delight, Jouane drifted to the back and asked if he could borrow Anske for a while. The old Breton pulled her a little forward of the rear group as they walked out of earshot and settled into a steady pace between some of the supply wagons.

"How are you holding up, Anske?" Jouane asked, starting up the conversation first.

"I'm… okay," she said tentatively.

Jouane said nothing as they continued to walk. Eventually, Anske continued to speak, and she realized he had been expecting her to.

"Sometimes I still think this is all a bad dream. That I'll wake up back at the inn and see my father again. That none of this ever happened," she paused, her breath hitching for a moment before she composed herself. "Everything is still a little surreal, you know? The attack. The… magic. The funeral. The departure of the whole village from Rorikstead." She gestured towards the line of wagons and people ahead.

"So much has happened in such a short time, hasn't it?" the old Breton finally broke his silence, sounding weary. "Sometimes I too wish this were but a terrible dream."

Anske understood the implication of his words well enough. "But it's real," she said sadly.

Jouane sighed, his wrinkled head slowly bobbing up and down. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

They walked in silence for a spell, and Anske took the time to study the old Breton. He looked far older than she remembered from even a few days ago. He had lost weight, and his face was gaunt. His deeply wrinkled skin pressed tight across his old bones. Dark circles formed under his eyes, which looked as if they had receded deeper into his skull. He walked with a slight slouch that she knew had not been there before, like he could no longer gather the strength to stand tall.

The attack had undoubtedly changed him. Had changed all of them.

"Tell me about the magic you performed," Jouane finally asked, shifting the topic and the mood. "I heard about it from the others."

"Oh, right. I was actually going to approach you to talk about it, but I got busy and—"

"It's fine, it's fine. I understand," he said, waving her off. "So?"

She took a quick breath. "There's not much to tell, honestly. I watched as my father… he was struck down. And then I don't know. I felt helpless and angry, and I just wished I could do something, anything, and then… somehow… I felt this power well up within me, and then magic escaped from my hands to send one of the Forsworn flying through the air. The one my father had been fighting. That's it. That's all that happened."

When she was finished, the old mage was thoughtfully stroking his goatee with one hand, longer and more unkempt than before. "Interesting… very interesting. I've heard of such things before, but never thought I'd come across a case of it myself."

"You've heard of what before?" Anske asked.

"Latent magical affinity blossoming under extreme circumstances. Sometimes, when someone previously has exhibited no magic ability, they might be able to trigger a… connection to magic, shall we say, when they find themselves in a highly stressful and highly emotional situation," he explained academically. "It usually means that person had dormant magic ability in their blood, unlocked only through a usually life-altering or catastrophic event."

Anske took a moment to process all of that. It made sense, at least. "Is it… common?"

"More common than you'd think," he admitted. "Of course, some scholars have argued that the people who come into their magic this way are often people who were never tested for it in the first place. So, it's not surprising that their magic was untapped until a moment of great need forced it to the surface."

Anske thought that made a lot of sense too. With the Nord's general dislike and distrust of magic, and her father not having shown any magical inclination, there had been no reason for her to get tested for magic ability.

"There are also some instances where powerful outside forces have come into play, gifting or lending magical ability to the person in question," Jouane added, almost as an afterthought as his eyes seemed to stare at something far away, beyond physical sight.

It only took a second for Anske to understand what he meant. "Like the divines!"

"Or daedra," Jouane said gravely, mouth pursed into a line.

Anske's initial rush of excitement at the prospect of having been blessed by a divine was suddenly doused with cold water. Of course, there was a chance a daedra was responsible too. Maybe even a higher chance since they were far more directly involved in the happenings of mortals compared to the divines. At least, according to what she had heard.

"Regardless of how it came to be, the fact of the matter is that you have some magic ability now. And that, of course, means you are now technically a mage," Jouane said seriously. "An untrained one, but a mage nonetheless."

"So, you'll train me?" she asked, her voice a hopeful whisper.

"I'll at least teach you the basics and we can go from there," he said cautiously. "I am not as accomplished a mage as many of you think I am, but I can at least teach you that much. Perhaps Reldith would also be inclined to teach you a thing or two if you ask her nicely. She's a far better mage than I, that's for sure."

Anske beamed, excitement filling her once again as she quickly forgot about the possible daedric connection to her magical awakening. She was well aware of her many shortcomings as a warrior, but if she were able to quickly learn and improve her magic, that would make her stronger and more powerful far faster than the time and training required to improve her fighting skills.

She looked to the old Breton with eager eyes and youthful vigor. "When can we start?"

Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω

It was well into the morning when they encountered the first major crossroad. The junction was important enough to warrant placing a big wooden post on the spot with signs pointing to the different destinations down each path.

According to the signpost, to the east lay Fort Greymoor and Whiterun. To the south were Mistfield and Falkreath. To the west, back in the direction they came from, were Rorikstead and Solitude. Seeing the name of their village, now temporarily abandoned, was cause for some sadness among the villagers.

As the convoy momentarily slowed at the fork, a small group numbering six people, asked if they could split off and head down the southern road, causing the entire group to stop and take a break. The group included Tarknir's cousin, who lived in a village not far from the town of Mistfield, and Rona was to go with him. If it was not obvious before, it was clear now that the two of them were in some sort of romantic relationship, much to Tarknir's pleasant surprise.

He was reluctant to let his cousin go off on his own, but they were not children anymore. Ned was full-grown and could make his own decisions, and the man wanted to return to his village to check on his family. Tarknir could not deny him that. The village itself was to the south, not too far from the town of Mistfield and was close to the border with Falkreath Hold. From where they stood it was only a few days journey, made longer only because of the heavy snows.

Rorik was not exactly happy with parting with more of his people, having hoped to at least get everyone to Whiterun safely, but he could not and would not stop them from leaving either if they so desired. He gave them a few minutes to say their goodbyes and gather their things before he would call for the convoy to resume its journey east.

The cousins parted with the promise that Tarknir would return with the jarl's army to march against the Forsworn and force them out of Whiterun Hold for good. Ned only asked that Tarknir send for him when the time came. The younger man did not want to miss out on a chance to repay the Forsworn for their aggression.

"I'm glad he finally had the sense to ask Rona to be his woman," Sonji said as she walked beside her husband. "Took him long enough."

"You knew about them?" Tarknir asked, raising an eyebrow at his wife. "For how long?"

"Since they first met," she replied with a smile. "Why else did you think Ned visited us so frequently?"

"I thought he… hmph. I can't believe I didn't notice until now," Tarknir said, grumbling. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sonji leaned against him, wrapping herself around his arm. "Because knowing you, you'd have meddled in an attempt to help your cousin. But it wouldn't have worked out as well if you did."

"I would not have meddled!"

Sonji raised her head to glance at him with an upraised eyebrow.

Tarknir grimaced. "Okay, maybe a little."

"Exactly," she said triumphantly, returning her head to rest on his shoulder. Her hands rubbed up and down his arms reassuringly. "You're a fine man, dear. But you'd be a terrible matchmaker. No subtlety at all."

Tarknir could not help but chuckle. "I suppose you're right."

"What did I tell you before? I am your wife. I'm always right," she said with a playful smile as they both laughed.

Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω

Some distance away, three figures watched from the shadows of a thicket of trees as the host of people, wagons, and horses moved on from the fork in the highway. All three were dressed warmly for the weather, with heavy brown fur cloaks and thick brown leathers. Each of them was armed. One with daggers, another with a hefty greatsword across his back, and the last one wielded a war axe.

The wielder of the greatsword was an orc of great musculature and height, easily six foot and a half of greenish-brown flesh. The others were diminutive in comparison, though all three stood with the confidence of equals.

"The storm has caused us all sorts of problems," said the one with the daggers, one of which he was twirling around in between his nimble fingers. The blackened steel blended in against his dark gray skin. He was a dunmer, or dark elf. "But it seems waiting out the blizzard here will turn out to be well worth the effort after all. A sizable caravan with only a handful of guards. This is too good to pass up." He licked his lips in anticipation.

"Some of them are splitting off," said the one with the war axe, a Nord woman with thick hair twisted into one big braid that ran down her back. She stood a little taller than the dark elf, and there was a certain wildness in her eyes. Her face may once have been attractive, but it was now overly scarred and pitted from countless battles. "Should we pursue them?"

The orc shook his head. "No. They only have their small packs with them. Not worth the trouble. Focus on the main group."

The woman fingered the hilt of her axe as it hung from her waist. "Alright. What's the plan, then?"

"At the pace they're going, they'll probably make camp around the hills of shattered stone. At least, that's where I'd try and set up anyway. It would be the perfect place to lay in wait," said the man with the daggers. He flipped the dagger he was playing with up into the air, the blade twirling quickly, before he snatched it out of the air easily and then hid it in one of several sheaths sewn into his clothes in a blur of motion.

The Nord woman shrugged. "Sounds good enough to me." She sounded almost bored.

"If we wait too long, we'll be within range of Fort Greymoor," said the orc with an air of finality. "Gather everyone and be ready to strike tonight. We make for the hills of shattered stone." His eager grin pressed his lips around the two sharp tusks that jutted out from his lower jaw.

Tonight was going to be fun.