Chapter 6 – Whiterun
Keeper Carcette roared, the burning thatch of the Hall of the Vigilant reflected in her eyes. Beams crashed around her, the flames devouring them only slightly less deafening that the screams of her comrades trapped underneath. The creature in front of her hissed as it dodged the swing of her mace. She was tiring. Her head throbbed and her lungs screamed at the heat and smoke. Blood and soot stained everything she could see. She swung at the creature again, and this time it laughed. A red glow appeared in its palm, and Carcette fell to one knee.
"How weak are the faithful of Stendarr in the face of Lord Bal's fury!"
Carcette's shield slipped from her hand. She thought of her brothers and sisters. Pain and rage and sorrow and guilt flooded her mind as salt tears cut tracks through the ash on her cheeks. Stendarr, give me strength and grant me mercy.
As she closed her eyes, a blinding light erupted from the Keeper's chest. Where the broken skeleton of the Hall of the Vigilant had before glowed red in the flames of arson, it was now lit up a brilliant gold. Carcette opened her eyes, and she could see the half-dozen vampires hissing and shielding their faces. What she saw next caused her eyes to widen like they had never done before.
One by one, golden spectres rose from the corpses of the fallen Vigilants. She watched as they drew swords and axes of wondrous light from their sheaths and they set upon the invading undead. The vampires screamed as their flesh burned, and one by one they collapsed into piles of ash.
Carcette blinked, and the flames engulfing the Hall vanished. She saw her comrades' bodies, scattered, limbless, and burned. She saw her own body, too, knelt, lifeless, in the centre of the Hall as if in prayer. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming. But then she turned and saw them all – Thorvald, Allendra, Orwen, and the rest of her family. They were shining in gold, and they held out their hands for her to join them.
"Halt! City's closed with the dragons about."
The carriage ride to Whiterun had taken two days, and while the early evening sun painted the city in a rustic orange, Arkath was in no mood to stand around and admire the view. The approach to Whiterun's southern gate was a throng of bodies: traders and couriers waited to bring their goods into the city as locals and visitors alike moved among the market stalls and watering holes. Khajiit caravansaries smoked long pipes and haggled over fine gems and carpets, and an Argonian fire-breather entertained the children of a young Dunmer family. The strange hand-symbol of their people adorned their heads in bright paint, a contrast to their ragged clothing and the dark bags under their eyes.
Arkath felt exposed in the crowd, vulnerable to all these unknown characters, any of whom could be looking for an Orc recently arrived from Cyrodiil. The sooner he were inside the gates and could relay the message about the dragon near Riverwood to the Jarl, the sooner he could leave.
"I have news of the dragon from Helgen. It's close to Riverwood. I need to speak with your Jarl."
Two of the gate guards glanced at each other. "Mm. You'd better come in, then. Arjen!"
One guard opened the gate while the others held back the crowd still stuck outside the city. Arkath slipped inside, dodging the bottles and other debris being hurled at the guards.
The guard who opened the gate gestured to Arkath. "I'll take you up to Dragonsreach, this way." Arkath followed the Nord along the city's main thoroughfare, a bustling street lined by shops and stalls. "First time in Whiterun? Don't see many Orcs in the city," asked the guard.
"Aye," Arkath grunted. "Won't be staying long." The hooded figures Delphine had spoken of in Riverwood – those who were, he could only assume, hunting him – had occupied his thoughts the whole journey here. Nobody would have accused the Orc of gregariousness in the best of times, but now he was even more closed off than usual.
The pair made their way along the cobbled streets of Whiterun, through the marketplace and upwards towards the Jarl's palace. Arkath knew Whiterun was home to the Companions, and he noted their longhouse, Jorrvaskr, near the north-eastern walls. His eyes narrowed as he saw two of them, playing at sword-fighting up and down the stone steps in front of their hall. They moved their blades quickly, Arkath conceded, but the object of their exercise seemed to be less about form or practice and more about them trying to knock the over the flagons of mead they were each balancing on their heads. In the Legion, Arkath had seen more than one recruit desperate for the life of the heroes of the Nordic Edda gutted before they could draw their sword in a real battlefield.
Arkath's feet were sore by the time they had climbed the stone steps to Dragonsreach. Alongside the palace sat the barracks and training grounds of the Whiterun guard. This was more like what he was used to seeing. The satisfying thunk of training arrows biting into hay-bales. Green recruits dropping their shields every time they raised their weapons, their exasperated commanders hurling boots and helmets at them every time they did so. While more organised than the Companions, the Whiterun guard were still a long way from the Legion. Swords were being used for leaning-posts as often as they were for training, and, judging by the smell, more than a few of the guards' waterskins were filled with ale or mead. Gods help these people if they have to face a dragon.
One fighter caught Arkath's attention. She was demonstrating one-on-one longsword technique to a group of recruits, and, despite the simplicity of the drills, her every movement was liquid. She was tall, at least the Orc's equal, but her footwork was light as a fox in snow. Feathers of raven hair escaped under the bottom of her helmet, the high winds on the eyrie of Dragonsreach whipping the tangles into a dance to match their owner's. She instructed one of the recruits to move as she had done, and, standing tall, Arkath was struck by her profile in the late sun. She turned to look at him – he had been staring for some minutes – and the orange light set fire to her green eyes.
The Orc felt himself blush and rushed to join his escort at the great wooden doors to the Jarl's palace. They entered and walked up through the cavernous hall. It smelt of sweet wine and roasting meat, and smoke and chatter hung in the air. Arkath and the young guardsman approached the dais at the head of the hall, where the Jarl's golden throne sat under the giant, horned skull of a dragon slayed in ages past.
"What's the meaning of this interruption? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors."
The guard stuttered and stammered at the snarling Dunmer warrior in front of him. Arkath could barely make out what he was saying – something about dragons… Helgen… Orc… Riverwood… The elf sheathed her sword and looked Arkath up and down. Disdain covered her face. "I see. Come on, then. The Jarl will want to speak to you… personally."
The twin moons shone high over Whiterun by the time Arkath was released from Dragonsreach. The elf had been right, and the Jarl and his military entourage had spent hours quizzing him on the details of the dragon attack at Helgen. They wanted far more than he could give, asking about flight patterns, weak spots in the beast's hide, and the heat of its flames, when all Arkath remembered with any certainty was its size. Balgruuf's wizard, Farengar, mentioned that Dragonsreach got its name when old Olaf One-Eye captured a dragon and built a palace around it, but Arkath doubted that the dragon from Helgen would fit inside the whole city of Whiterun.
Farengar wished to interrogate Arkath further the next day, and the enthusiastic gate guard, Arjen, had directed the Orc to lodgings at the Bannered Mare in the Plains District. The inn was several times larger than the Sleeping Giant in Riverwood, and filled with scores of people even at this late hour. A blond-haired bard was crooning from a pedestal in front of the firepit, while steel-and-fur-clad Nords shouted and arm-wrestled in the back corners. The chatter of townsfolk and the scent of smoked meat and honey filled the air, and Arkath was grateful to hand over a few septims for a warm, clean bed.
Before turning in, however, he decided to follow up on the lead Delphine had given him in Riverwood. Arkath ordered a flagon of ale from the tavern keeper and idled at the bar with his ears open. His flight north from the Imperial City had begun weeks ago, but he was no closer to understanding his father's purpose in urging him to Skyrim. Seretus Sixtus's trial was summary. The decorated general was marched from the White-Gold Tower straight to the headsman's block at the Imperial Prison. There were only rumours of his charges, but the spit and dirt hurled at him as he was paraded through the streets showed how far his star had fallen. One of his father's lieutenants had slipped Arkath a scrap of parchment before Seretus went for trial, upon which there were three hastily-scrawled words in his father's hand. Skyrim. Falion. Curse. There was another word alongside these three, but by the time Arkath received the message it was smudged beyond recognition. The first was easy enough to decipher, but since his escape from the Imperial City Arkath had started to regret not asking more questions about the rest of the message. What or who was Falion? And Curse was so vague as to be useless to him currently.
The only person he could think that might be able to shed light on this message in Skyrim was one of his father's old friends and students, a Nord woman who had led a famously ferocious band of Legionnaires during the Great War. He knew the Civil War would likely be keeping her in Skyrim, but needed someone with knowledge of the Legion in the province to help track her down.
"Ha! The Grey-Manes talk a big game, but they know us Battle-Borns are the first family of Whiterun! The Jarl leans on my father for almost everything, he runs the city day-to-day!"
Battle-Born. That was the name Delphine had given Arkath back in Riverwood. She had described one of the clan as loose-lipped, and judging from the bloated words and empty tankards surrounding the blond Nord seated at the table behind him, this was the man to look for.
"Aye, Jon. But when will your father convince the Jarl to pull his finger out and throw Whiterun's eight behind the Empire? Stormcloak raids on the fringes of our hold are taking more and more cattle every week."
"Well…" Jon paused to let out a large burp and a hearty laugh followed. "I don't claim to understand politics the way my father does, but I'm sure Balgruuf will see sense before long. Siding with the Empire is the only sensible choice for Whiterun, for all of Skyrim." A great cheer erupted at the table, but as mugs were emptied and more drinks were poured, Arkath noticed a table of Nords at the other side of the inn shooting dark looks towards the Battle-Born crowd. Jon stood and burped again, and announced to the table, "My brother will soon depart for Solitude to join the Legion, and I know he will bring home with him the righteous fury of the Empire to safeguard our hold and our families!" Another cheer followed. "My father received a letter – just yesterday – from General Tullius's right hand, urging the men of Whiterun to enlist for the safety and security of all Skyrim! While the Jarl may bide his time with political machinations, we loyal Nords must act! The Legate Rikke is right – our destiny is waiting for us to forge it, in bright and mighty Legion steel!"
Rikke was the woman Arkath was looking for. That she was now General Tullius's second-in-command was not surprising, given her glittering record in Skyrim, but it presented certain… complications. With merriment well under way, and utilising all of his inconsiderable social skills, Arkath probed some of the peripheral members of the Battle-Born table for further information. Rikke was indeed Legate now in Skyrim, recently promoted it seemed. She and Tullius were headquartered at Castle Black in Solitude, but there were rumours she still led her personal squad on the Empire's most daring and… delicate missions in the province. Amidst the cheering and drink-sloshing of the Battle-Born band, the group who had been staring at the Imperial supporters filed out of the inn. One, a hooded woman, turned at the threshold and seemed to stare Arkath straight in the eyes before leaving into the torch-lit night.
Travelling to the centre of Imperial power in Skyrim seemed like a terrible idea. Arkath had no idea how Rikke's fondness for his father would weigh against her loyalty to Tullius and the Legion. He emptied his mug and took the stairs at the back of the inn's main room towards his lodgings, hoping that a good night's sleep would provide some clarity on his next move. He couldn't leave the city without meeting the Jarl's wizard the next day without raising suspicion, so he could at least take another day to formulate a plan. He opened the door to his room, and paused. A piece of folded parchment lay on the bed. Arkath's hand was already on his dagger-hilt, and he drew it quickly and quietly. He checked every inch of the room, but there was no-one else there. He latched the door and locked it with the key the innkeeper had given him, and sat to open the note.
If you want Legion information, we can help each other. Meet me behind the Temple of Kynareth tomorrow night after the torches have been lit. O.
AN: This story has returned after Arkath has spent the last year or so percolating in my brain. I'm very grateful to everyone who reads this, thank you for taking the time to do so. Please leave comments / reviews / message me with your thoughts and (preferably constructive) criticisims!