I.
"That's the offer, Orc. Take it or leave it."
The captain turned and spat on the floor. "Makes no difference to me. Say no, I put a knife in your gut and we leave you out for the crows. Those were my orders in the first place, and I want to be on the road to Bruma before sun-up."
Arkath shifted in the chair and felt the tight cord binding his wrists. He furrowed his brow and thought of the events that had led him here, of the sacrifices his father had made that he might flee and make it even this far. His own actions were borne of his nature, and he knew they would be the same if he were born a thousand times.
"Fine. Untie me."
The captain laughed. "Shit, that was quick. Thought you green-skins were supposed to be stubborn." The soldiers around the edges of the room laughed.
"You'll be untied when you get there, not a minute before. Linus and Jorvic will escort you to the pass and you'll walk from there. Remember, we want details. Men, horses, weapons, supplies, exact locations. Stay off the road, and report back to Bruma in three days' time. After that, any man who sees you has orders to put an arrow through your neck, just like before."
He took a drink from his waterskin and started scrawling a crude map on the sheet of parchment in front of him. "The courier from the Imperial City will have reached Helgen a week ago. If you try and make a run for it out the north side of the pass, don't expect them to treat you as kindly as we did." He rolled up the parchment and handed it to a soldier with a travelling cloak who hauled Arkath to his feet.
"Not everyone remembers your father as fondly as we do."
"Hey, you. You're finally awake."
Arkath opened his eyes and winced. His head ached where the club had struck, and when he tried to raise his hands to feel for a wound he found them bound again. There were four of them in the back of the cart. The blond Nord who had just spoken was dressed in Stormcloak colours, but the other two he couldn't place. One was skinny, dressed in rags, with wide eyes and a nervousness Arkath knew was common to those who – to put it kindly – didn't always see eye-to-eye with the law. The third was different. He wore fine furs and armour of bright steel and dark leather. A silver chain with an axe-shaped pendant swung from his neck and, while he was gagged, his face was calm and his eyes were cold.
"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there."
The thief turned to face them. "Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine before you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now." He looked over his shoulder, then turned again and looked Arkath straight in the eyes. "You there. You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants!"
The blond Nord sighed. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."
Arkath tried to recall what had happened. He remembered being marched through the snow by the two Imperials, and he remembered them laughing when he asked for his gear. They tossed him a sack with a stale loaf of bread and a small skin of water and cut his binds, and then he was alone. He walked for a full day and half the night before coming across the first encampment the next morning. Lying flat at the crest of the ridge above, he counted what he could see amidst the hive of activity. Twenty tents, each big enough for at least four men. Two larger tents with banners erected outside. He saw a plume of smoke and heard the metallic pulse of a blacksmith's hammer, and he smelled the shit of the warhorses tied to their posts.
Hmm. The captain from Bruma had told him to expect scouting groups and maybe a raiding party or two. Nearly a hundred fighters this close to the Pale Pass – this close to Helgen – was a significant escalation, as far as he knew. Moving down from the high point of the ridge, Arkath looked for the position of the sun and the shadows in the valley to orient himself. He had two more days to scout the three peaks the captain pointed out on the map.
"Shut up back there!"
The driver hit his club on the side of the cart, snapping Arkath back to the present and the two Nords out of whatever conversation had irritated the Imperial. For a moment, they were alone with the rattle of wooden wheels on the rough track.
"And what's wrong with him, huh?" The thief poked his chin towards the gagged man, who faced straight ahead, blue eyes unmoving.
"Watch your tongue!" The blond one spat, "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh Gods, where are they taking us?"
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." The Stormcloak soldier seemed to relax into his words. He looked at his Jarl, then leaned back and gazed up into the sky.
Ulfric Stormcloak? Arkath realised now what the captain from Bruma had failed to tell him, and the number of soldiers he had seen in the hills started to make sense. The Stormcloaks were moving to secure the Pale Pass by force, and cut the Empire's line between Helgen and Bruma. Odds were that the captain had a hunch, but needed a damned fool to send on a suicide mission to be sure. And I gave myself up on a plate.
"No, this can't be happening." The thief's eyes grew wider with every stride of the horses on the road ahead of them. "This isn't happening!"
"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" The Stormcloak's voice was soft. He had made his peace.
"Why do you care?"
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
He paused, and looked down at his bound hands. "Rorikstead. I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."
The three of them drifted back into uneasy silence, the two Nords' eyes glazed over and lost in thoughts of home. Home. It had only been a month since Arkath had left, but he had hoped to avoid trouble for a little longer than this. He was an Imperial prisoner, and the great walls of Helgen were approaching.
"General Tullius, sir. The headsman is waiting."
"Good. Let's get this over with."
The thief had taken less than a dozen paces before the arrows sprouted from his back. He screamed and fell, rolling as he hit the ground. He tried to crawl using his still-bound hands, splintered arrow-shafts showing through his bloody rags, and Arkath could hear his sobs from his place by the executioner's block. The last arrow tore through Lokir of Rorikstead's neck, and the ragged thief slumped into the dust.
"Next, the Orc!"
Malacath, forgive me. Arkath didn't think much about religion or death, but this wasn't how he had seen his end: he had always imagined himself falling in battle when his hair was grey and the steel of his sword-arm finally gave in and buckled. Fighting was what he knew, and in his bones he knew that a good death was one met standing with a sword in your hand. He walked to the block, and a red-caped solider pushed him to his knees.
"What in Oblivion is that?"
"Sentries! What do you see?"
"It's in the clouds!"
A shriek unlike anything Arkath had ever heard filled the air, followed shortly by the screams of the soldiers around him. His ears rang and the ground shook from the weight of the sound, and when he looked up he knew he had seen death. A great horned silhouette swamped the tower and swallowed the sun, its body the length of a longhouse and each terrible wing reaching almost to the ground. Eyes that burned white-hot bore through Arkath and pinned his body to the earth. He felt the heat of the creature's gaze in his chest, pouring into his throat and his lungs and filling his body. The monster raised its head and thunder shook the ground again. The sky turned to blood and fire rained from the clouds.
"Orc. Get up! The gods won't give us another chance."
The blond Nord almost wrenched Arkath's arm from its socket as he pulled him to his feet. His head was filled with the heat of the dragon's eyes until the rebel shook him again. "In here. This way, come on!"
They ran to the stone tower as the monster took to the sky. Everything in view from the doorway was aflame; Arkath couldn't see a soul in the chaos. A handful of Stormcloaks had made it to shelter, but the stench of burning flesh hung in the air. Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm and claimant to the Jagged Crown, stood amidst his soldiers and spoke to the blond Nord in whispers. The winged monster screeched oblivion again and stones rattled and fell from the tower's walls.
"Stairs. Now. Carry the wounded." The Jarl spoke softly but his words cut through the heat of the room like the north wind. A group started up the stairs while their comrades helped those that couldn't stand to their feet. The man at the front stopped and shouted to the rest, "Too much debris! We just need to move some of these rocks to..." Before he could finish, the wall beside him collapsed and he was surrounded by shadow.
"Yol...Toor... Shul!"
The beast's fire engulfed the soldier, and several of those ahead of Arkath fell from the walkway. The Orc's chest burned as though the dragon's breath had eaten its way into his stomach. He thought he was going to vomit, and half expected flames to pour from his mouth when he did. The walls shook as the monster's shadow lifted. Then, the blond Nord was back at Arkath's side. "Look at me. You see that building? Jump, and keep going." The beast shrieked once more and the two men froze. "We need to move the wounded. Go!"
Arkath leapt and landed heavily on the top floor of what used to be an inn. He ran through its charred frame and dropped down to ground level through splintered floorboards at the far end of the building. Screams rang out from the street ahead of him and a young boy ran past, chased by fire.
"Prisoner!"
Arkath had been rushing, and he saw the brown-haired legionnaire too late. He tried to raise his hands into a fighting stance, but they remained bound by rope. Shit. The soldier, however, made no move towards him; he was sheltering a man and the small boy behind a small house. "Follow me if you want to stay alive! Stay close to the wall!" He motioned with his sword and made for a sheltered alley heading northward. Arkath followed, and the two made pace. Rubble and mortar fell from the walls, the dust and smoke choking them both. Ahead, twenty feet of stone wall exploded and the black shadow descended again, screaming tongues of fire. All around, buildings burned and the people of Helgen cried and screamed. Other than the solider before him, the only people Arkath saw were scorched beyond recognition. The beast took flight, and Arkath could not help but follow it with his eyes.
"Seems the gods don't want your head today, friend." breathed the soldier, as the thatch of a nearby building collapsed in flame. "Not yet at least. Make for the main keep and take cover, I need to find the General."
No sooner had the pair reached the gap in the wall than their path was crossed by a group of legionnaires, archers and battlemages loosing quarrel after quarrel as they danced in and out of any structure still standing. A tall man with a head of grey curls and a breastplate bearing a golden dragon moved between the other soldiers, all but throwing them through the breach in the stonework. "Fall back to the keep! Archers, move in twos and give us what cover you can. Sirius, I want one spellcaster with each pair. See what you can do with your wards." The General came to the wall and took the brown-haired soldier's arm, pausing in not-quite-recognition as he met Arkath's eyes. "Hadvar, get to the keep and round up any survivors. We need to move them, underground if we can."
"Aye, General." The grey-haired man was gone already, barking orders to retreat as he went. The soldier – Hadvar – nodded at Arkath and the two moved onward, first through the rubble and then across the small courtyard in front of the keep.
"Ralof! You damned traitor. Out of my way!"
The blond Nord stood before them, sword drawn, as Stormcloak soldiers carried their wounded behind him.
"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time."
The two men stood not six feet apart; the tension of what seemed once to have been a friendship flicked between them like static in the air. Both had weapons drawn but neither moved towards the other. They danced in a circle, neither willing to give nor take an inch of ground; neither willing to move to break whatever bond they once had.
The wind changed and smoke drifted across the courtyard. Arkath wanted no part of whatever quarrel the two men had, but he knew nothing of the land surrounding Helgen and would need help to make his way from the once-town.
"You two, put your arguments aside. We need to move. Now." He held up his wrists, "And, one of you, cut these." The Nords looked at him through the smoke, the heat of burning wood and thatch reaching even the middle of the courtyard. "It will come again. We couldn't be more exposed, and I don't want to end this day as a pile of ash."
The two Nords looked at each other. Without blinking, they lowered their weapons and made toward the keep. Arkath noted that neither had loosened his grip.
There was no sign of the survivors the General mentioned. Two soldiers, Imperial and Stormcloak, lay dead on the ground. Hadvar cut the Orc's binds, and Ralof knelt by the Storkcloak'ss corpse. The man's face was barely recognisable; the flesh on one side was blackened and blistered beyond humanity. "Gunjar." His voice caught and trembled, and he grasped the dead man's tunic so hard his knuckles turned white.
Hadvar stood over the other body, hand on his sword hilt. "Orc, I don't know where your road is taking you, but the country around here is rough, and if you're to leave this place you'll need more than those rags." He walked to where Ralof knelt. "Our... friends here will have no need of their gear in Sovngarde. May as well take what you need, and a weapon if you can use one. Ralof, I'm sorry for..."
The Stormcloak pulled a necklace from the dead man's body and folded it into a pocket. He stood abruptly, and faced the Imperial. "Once I've found Ulfric, I'm headed to Riverwood. They need to know about this monster, and some of us remember our duties to our kin. You and yours can fuck yourselves, Hadvar."
"Duty?" Ralof had clearly hit a nerve in the legionnaire, who stepped towards the other man. "You cannot lecture me on duty of all things, Ralof! Your little band of outlaws are traitors to Skyrim. Ulfric is a madman – he murdered High King Torygg in cold blood!"
Ralof spun, ready to retort, but was interrupted by a clap of thunder and a rumbling above in the keep. The ceiling collapsed, bringing stones and splintered wood crashing to the floor. A great mound of rubble was now piled against one wall of the room, blocking off the main door and all but one of the hallways leading away.
Arkath had stripped the dead Imperial, buckling the familiar leather armour over his rags. The man's boots were too small and his helmet was soaked in blood, but the weight of Empire steel in his hand was all the security he needed for now.
"Ralof. How far is this Riverwood from here?"
"Two days' walk to the north. Assuming we can get out of this damned keep."
"How big is the town? Who have they backed in the war?" The Stormcloak was right – the people of Skyrim needed to know there was a monster on their doorstep – but Arkath didn't feel as though he would be lucky enough to make it out of a third Imperial garrison alive.
"Riverwood and the rest of Whiterun Hold remain neutral. Jarl Balgruuf has not declared for either side, despite Ulfric's attempts to court him."
"Aye," Hadvar chimed in, "My uncle is the blacksmith there. Riverwood is undisturbed by the war. But they are isolated – at least two days' hard march from Whiterun – and that beast would burn the town before any messenger even reached the plains."
If they had nothing else in common, the three survivors agreed that the town of Riverwood was in danger. Arkath had not forgotten the words of the captain in Bruma. But, whatever poor decisions he had made since, in Cyrodiil he had sworn an oath to protect the people of the Empire. And besides, he had nowhere else to go.
AN: Thanks for reading! This is my first sustained writing project in a few years, and I would love all positive and (constructive) negative feedback. I hope this chapter familiarises you with Arkath in the context of a well-known (but frankly very well-done) set piece. The twists and turns will all follow!