Chapter 52
Above them and slightly to the west, the world's ceiling of puffy white clouds is torn asunder by an unseen force and a cobalt-blue dragon emerges at a steep dive. The purples and greys of a high mountain peak are faintly visible behind it, easily the highest in this entire section of the Skyborn Range.
When Mull's eyes land on the dragon's winged form, the song that only he can hear instantly crescendos into an earsplitting chorus. Blood starts pounding behind his forehead and his fingers become slick with sweat. This is almost an exact repetition of Mirmulnir's appearance in the night sky over the Western Watchtower.
They're nearly halfway through Eldersblood Pass, only a hundred yards or so from its zenith. He desperately glances back towards the southern side of the pass – a sheer snow-clad slope sweeping out beneath them all the way to the green-and-yellow plains of Whiterun. They've come too far up the mountainside for a retreat to be feasible and he can only assume the other side of the pass looks much the same. Heavy snowdrifts are still lingering at this high altitude, which will make it difficult to move quickly. Going back isn't an option but neither is going forward. At a glance, their only chance will be to take cover somewhere. He doesn't see much within walking distance except for a few groves of spindly pine trees.
And all the while, the blue-scaled dragon is plummeting closer and closer.
"Shor's balls, that's a dragon."
"By Azura…"
"My Thane-!" exclaims Lydia.
"Run!" he shouts over his housecarl. "To the trees! Run! Run now!" He jabs his finger towards the closest cluster of conifers and breaks into a dead sprint. The others follow his lead while fighting through the knee-deep snow and skidding across frozen puddles in their panicked haste.
Jenassa pulls ahead of them in an athletic all-out dash while Torgen plows through entire snowdrifts like an enraged bear, leaving Mull and Lydia to steadily fall behind their more physically capable comrades. The housecarl is doing her best, but her shorter-than-average-for-a-Nord height is holding her back and her roundshield is acting like a windsail.
Mull curses and grabs onto the girls collar like she's a disobedient kitten. "Get ready!"
"Wha-?"
"WULD!" The power of his Thu'um accelerates him to inhuman speeds across rocky ground and straight through shoulder-high heaps of snow, all while dragging his housecarl along with him. The force of the whirlwind pushes snow aside like a boat churning along the surface of a choppy lake. After several seconds, the effect of the Shout wears off and they're deposited less than fifteen paces from the treeline. Mull heaves his housecarl forward and tosses her like a piece of luggage. "Go!"
She scrambles on all fours and dives headlong into the refuge provided by the pine grove with him following right on her heels. Jenassa and Torgen slide into cover a few seconds after them, having been left in the dust by Mull's Thu'um.
Torgen gulps for air while leaning heavily against a tree. "Boss… that just wasn't fair."
"Save the whining for when we aren't about to die," he bites back.
"FO KRAH DIIN!" They wince and cover their ears as the dragon strafes low overheard and roars again. This time, the roar is accompanied by a huge torrent of freezing ice magic that completely inundates the grove. Frost. Cold. Freeze.
Branches and needles are frozen solid in seconds, and gleaming layers of frost travel down the grey-barked trunks like a virulent infection. In the span of a few heartbeats, the patch of pine forest gains the beautiful yet haunting appearance of a terrible ice storm's aftermath. The travelers bundle into their cloaks as the ambient temperature plummets well below freezing… and it doesn't stop there.
As the temperature continues to drop, the life-giving warmth of Mull's body is greedily siphoned into the frigid air at a worrying rate. Frost takes form in Lydia's hair and on her eyebrows, making her look like an elven snow queen of legend. Mull feels his beard solidify into an icy mass. They're going to freeze to death if this continues for too long.
He reaches for the celestial magic of Aetherius and closes his eyes, which are already starting to ache from the penetrating cold. After a tense moment of extreme concentration, a dense core of flame springs to life in his cupped hands. Lydia presses closely against him to take advantage of the warmth while Torgen does the same to Jenassa, who also summons a small flame spell. The white vapor of their ragged breathing mingles together between them. The small magically-fueled fires don't offer much in the way of heat, but it's enough to keep them alive for now.
"D-d-d-dammit," stutters Mull. This is one of the worst environments he can imagine for a battle against a flying opponent. The lingering dragon-magic could still kill them if they stay here, but if they retreat from the grove they'll become easy pickings on the open mountainside.
When the bone-numbing cold still hasn't lifted after a full minute, Jenassa shakily extracts herself from Torgen and staggers a few feet away while pulling her knife from its sheath. She drops to her knees and uses the short blade to carve a handful of elven runes into the permafrost. Once she's finished, she clasps her hands together and bows her head in supplication while chanting a solemn refrain in Dark Elvish. Mull doesn't have any clue what she's saying, but Lydia noticeably perks up.
As soon as the Dunmer mercenary completes her prayer, the runes carved into the earth begin glowing white-hot and a wall of blazing flame erupts in a circular radius around the four frozen travelers. Snow and ice rapidly revert to liquid form and wintery sludge starts sloughing off the nearest trees. The air steadily becomes warmer and soon Mull's clothes are drenched from the thawing frost.
"That was the manifestation of ancestor's wrath," breathes Lydia.
"Yes." Jenassa gasps for air as she climbs to her feet and sheathes her knife. Perspiration is dripping from her brow and columns of steam are roiling from her unnaturally feverish skin. "I only know a few novice spells such as basic flames and sparks, so I cannot rightfully claim credit for this magic. My benevolent ancestors are the ones who deserve your gratitude, as I was merely acting as a conduit for their power. Luckily for us, they must've noticed our plight and were willing to lend their aid from beyond the veil of Oblivion."
"This is a sacred Dunmeri ritual that grants the user a flame cloak without the expenditure of their own magicka," the housecarl adds. "Irileth spoke of it as a last resort that could only be used in the most dire of circumstances, else the spirits of her ancestors might forsake her."
"I don't personally know this Irileth, but it sounds like she spoke the truth. And these circumstances are more than dire enough if you ask me," says the Dunmer ruefully.
Mull groans and cuts off his flame spell. He wouldn't have been able to keep it up for much longer. "I don't care how you did it, I'm just glad you did. I felt like I was about to pass out." During his lessons with Farengar, the wizard made a point of having him intentionally deplete his magicka reserves so he could get accustomed to recognizing the sensation – a sort of deep-seated weariness that stems not from sore muscles, but rather from overworking the magic-veins that crisscross his body. If the strain becomes too great, you temporarily lose your ability to channel magicka and in extreme cases suffer from magicka burns. He was getting dangerously close to that threshold.
Torgen rubs his arms and releases a blustery breath. "Now that we aren't being turned into ice statues, what should we do?"
"The dragon was flying to our south when I last saw it," Lydia dutifully reports. "It hasn't ventured low since then, so it might be waiting for us to emerge into the open."
"Understood." Mull peers through the icicle-laden trees. The pass reaches its highest crest just above them, beyond which lies the northern side of the mountains and the Hjallmarch. Decamping from cover might get them killed, but staying here would be just as perilous as they've already seen. "Jenassa, how many times can you use that ancestor power?" he demands.
"Once a day at most, and only when the ancestors approve of my actions."
He grimaces. "…Wonderful." They definitely can't stay here then.
They'll need some sort of distraction to have any chance of escaping the dragon in the open, and the only person capable of fulfilling that role without meeting a gruesome end is himself. He sighs. If only Aela were here, she could put that Hircine-blessed bow of hers to good use and fill the dragon with arrows. But seeing as she isn't here, the best idea he can come up with is for him to lure away the winged menace from his companions. The dragon can sense his presence and will presumably come after him, meaning the others should have a chance to slip away… hopefully. Mirmulnir doesn't speak up to correct him.
He restlessly scratches his neck. Lydia isn't going to like this.
Half a year ago, he never would've dreamed of doing something like this. What kind of suicidal idiot would willingly face a dragon alone? In what world could that level of risk be justified? Anyone in their right mind should value their life much more highly than that.
But now he's so much more than he used to be. He spent an entire night talking about it with Aela outside Dustman's Cairn. The Mull that survived the annihilation of Helgen and the battle at the Western Watchtower doesn't exist anymore, and in his place is an up-and-coming Dragonborn with confidence in his latent abilities. There are only two Shouts at his disposal right now and neither of them are capable of bringing down a dragon on their own, but he thinks they should offer enough utility for him to survive a little game of cat and mouse.
Mirmulnir responds to his unspoken thoughts. 'Your Thu'um has indeed become mighty, but if you wish to grow into your full potential, you must hunt down more of our brethren and slay them. Once their souls have been bound with yours, you shall gain their knowledge and understanding of new Words of Power. This is your nature as the Dovakhiin, the Born Hunter of Dragonkind.'
He softly mutters. "Why can't you teach me these things yourself? You haven't been very helpful with Yol."
'My capabilities are vast but not unlimited. I have already expended much of the potency of my spirit by accelerating your nascent comprehension of Unrelenting Force and Whirlwind Sprint. For that reason, the insights I am able to offer will be limited in scope from this point forward. But if you were to consume another dovah's soul – perhaps even today – then that would no longer be the case.'
"Wait, you want me to fight this dragon and claim his soul instead of just delaying him? Are you sure you aren't trying to get me killed so you can take revenge on me for eating you?"
Mirmulnir snorts. 'Our fates have been bound up together, Qahnaarin. I seek only to advance your best interests.'
"That'd better be true," he grouses. "Because here in a minute, my best interests are going to be put on the line."
"He's talking to himself again," he vaguely hears Torgen say in the background. "What d'you think that means?"
"He could've picked a better time," snarks Jenassa.
Lydia shushes her. "Let him concentrate! I think it's related to his… um…"
"His condition," the Dark Elf blithely finishes. "I'm still waiting for an explanation about that. What happened inside that disgusting barrow simply wasn't normal – your pet werewolf notwithstanding. The black wall in the final chamber was unlike anything I've ever seen before."
"It wasn't my first time," says Torgen. "There's a place called Bleak Falls Barrow in the southern mountains where-"
"Enough." Mull's companions fall silent as he mentally dismisses Mirmulnir and turns to face them. "I'm going to distract the dragon while the three of you reach the top of the pass and start down the other side. You'll need to cover as much ground as you can, so don't hold back for any reason and especially don't wait for me." He raises a hand to forestall his housecarl's indignant retort. "That's an order and I expect it to be followed to the letter."
"My Thane, I refuse."
"You don't get to refuse."
"Yes I do!" Lydia angrily stamps her foot. "I left you behind once before and I won't do it again! Please don't make me do this! I can stay here and help you, as is my sworn duty as your housecarl!"
He bites back a furious rejoinder and instead clamps a heavy hand on her shoulder. Her sky-blue eyes are swimming with fury, fear, and a bit of something else. He recognizes that she's doing this for his sake, but she's also being an idiot.
"Your duty is to survive." He pours as much meaning and emotion as he's capable of producing into those five words, all while shaking her for emphasis. Lydia might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she's his responsibility – she belongs to him. He isn't going to let her come to harm because of her own pig-headedness.
Electricity tingles between their locked eyes and she finally tears her gaze away. "The same could be said for you," she whispers.
He exhales as he releases the obstinate girl's shoulder. "Carry her if you need to," he says to Torgen.
"Aye," the older man soberly replies. "Make sure you run after us when the time is right. I'm not gonna duel a dragon for the right to recover your corpse."
"I'll keep that in mind," he huffs. "Jenassa, if you've got any other tricks up your sleeve, now's a good time to make 'em known."
"I can't promise anything, but I'll do what I can."
"Good. Now get going, and make sure I'm out in the open before you leave the treeline."
He quickly ensures his weaponry and gear are ready for action before turning and walking away without another word. He trusts Torgen to keep Lydia in check.
Jenassa deactivates her ancestral magic and the cold instantly rushes back in. He pulls the collar of his cloak tightly around his face as he hurries through the trees. The faint sound of his companions pushing through the underbrush somewhere off to the right gradually fades into an eerie silence. If there was wildlife living in this grove before the dragon turned it into a winter wonderland, there probably isn't anymore.
He reaches the edge of the grove and emerges into bright sunlight. It's much warmer here, although there's still a thick layer of frost and snow on the ground. He shields his eyes and looks upwards to the clouds, where he soon glimpses a tiny speck wheeling far overhead that reflects the sun's brilliant rays like a normal bird never could.
In the exact same moment that he catches sight of it, the speck changes course and rapidly descends towards him. It grows bigger and bigger in his field of vision until coalescing into the unmistakable form of the dragon.
He walks further away from the trees and plants himself in the middle of a level patch of ground, where he feels more comfortable receiving the dragon. Wuld will provide him with all the mobility he needs. A short distance to the east, his three companions appear at the grove's fringe and start booking it for the top of the pass. I hope this works, he fervently prays.
'Your underlings are weak,' counters Mirmulnir. 'You allow them to hold you back. Leave them to perish here. A dov restrains himself for no one.'
It's true that they're liabilities in some ways, but so is he. In the half-year they've known each other, how many times would he have been killed if it weren't for Lydia and Torgen? For how many times could the reverse be said? One thing he learned during his years of banditry is that very few people are capable of surviving alone, and he isn't one of them.
Instead of responding to the dragon's thorny statement, he poses his own question. "Do you think this is a bad idea?"
'You seek my assurances but I have none to give you, for they would be irrelevant. It does not matter if this is or isn't a wise decision – rather, the only thing that matters is what you are willing to do. Are you willing to give your all against this opponent? Do you feel the song of the world calling out for you to slay him and claim his soul? Would you deny the Tides of Fate their due by continuing to hold yourself back, or will you unleash your potential as one of the dov?'
"…I feel it," he grudgingly admits. The sight of this dragon drawing closer and closer is afflicting him with an irresistible desire to hunt and to consume. It doesn't matter than his upcoming foe is a massive reptilian monstrosity the size of an entire tavern. The ethereal voices of the battle-song are clamoring in his ears, urging him onwards to war just as they did at the Western Watchtower. A star-dense flame ignites inside his stomach and scorches his innards with bloody desire.
He releases a feral growl and draws his sword. This is supposed to be a distraction, but in the heat of the moment he lusts for nothing less than the death of this blue-scaled dragon. He wants to bring down this opponent so badly. He craves it. He needs to seize possession of a new soul and gain mastery over its valuable knowledge. He recognizes somewhere deep within himself that this is fundamentally what it means-
'-to be Dragonborn,' finishes Mirmulnir.
Less than twenty paces away, the cobalt dragon slams into the ground with a booming crash that causes the earth to shake. Mull firmly stands his ground despite being battered by powerful gusts of wind and particles of stinging snow. He distantly recognizes that he should be terrified, but somehow he simply isn't.
The dragon looms over Mull and glares at him with reptilian eyes colored a vivid ice-white. "Bahlaan hokoron, Dovahkiin. I am called Iizyoldrog," he rumbles.
Iizyoldrog. Ice-Fire-Lord.
"…Mull," he slowly responds. "The Dovahkiin."
The dragon exhales through his nostrils and a wave of stale air washes over Mull. "I perceive that you have already slain one of our brethren and incorporated his spirit into your own. A mighty feat indeed. However, I have yet to judge your capabilities as Dovahkiin with my own eyes. Prove to me that you are a worthy adversary and I shall slay you with honor, or cower in my shadow and accept your death like a slave. There is no pride to be won in a battle against a helpless opponent. Let me taste of your Voice – greet me as is proper for a fellow dov. If you refuse, then I have no business with you."
'I have heard this name before. Iizyoldrog is a master of the elements,' Mirmulnir reveals. 'Beware of his Thu'um, for it is mighty.'
"Mightier than yours?"
'Of course not,' he sneers. 'Now give him your earnest greetings and let the tinvaak commence.'
Mull nods and takes a deep breath. "Alright then, you asked for it. FUS!"
A wave of azure energy washes across the dragon's snout and horns… but he doesn't even flinch. Instead, he sluggishly blinks in a way that comes across as distinctly mocking. "So you know the meaning of Force," he growls. "But is that all you can muster? I find myself disappointed."
A torrent of steam flows from Iizyoldrog's nostrils and slightly parted jaws.
'Qahnaarin!' roars Mirmulnir. 'Move now!'
"WULD!" The whirlwind takes hold of Mull's body and flings him to the side.
"YOL TOR SHUL!" Fire. Inferno. Sun.
A storm of orange flame erupts from the dragon's maw, immolating a huge area of the mountainside and flash-melting entire fields of snow. Further back, the frozen pine grove is instantaneously turned into so much charred kindling. Huge quantities of water are vaporized and the pass is enveloped by dense fog in the blink of an eye.
As soon as he emerges from his summoned whirlwind, Mull recoils from the cloud of superheated steam and tumbles to the ground. The earth beneath him has been transformed into to a viscid mush that sticks stubbornly to his clothing and threatens to trap him. He frantically pats himself down to make sure everything is still there and scrambles to his feet as the firestorm recedes.
He smells burnt hair and reaches up to feel his cheeks. His beard is much shorter than it used to be and is even smoking in a few places.
"You burned my beard, you bastard!" he yells at the dragon. "This'll take weeks to grow back out!"
Bestial laughter thunders in response, so low and deep that it shakes his entire body from the inside out. The dragon's silhouette lurks within the mist as an ominous shadow.
"Do you now understand the heights and depths that lie between us?" Iizyoldrog's voice echoes from every direction at once. "This is the power of my Thu'um – that the land itself can be consumed by flame at my behest. You are my fellow brother beneath the heavenly auspices of Bormahu, but you are still too weak. You have much more to learn before you can hope to defeat another of our kindred unaided… including me."
The dragon's snout emerges from the billowing mist, then his luminous white eyes, and then the rest of his terrifying horned head. He opens his jaws to display twin rows of sharp fangs. The shadows of his bat-like wings shift threateningly in the gloom behind him.
Mull readies himself to defend against another Thu'um, and so he's taken by surprise when the dragon suddenly springs forward with the obvious intention of crunching him into mush within his deadly maw. Mull instinctively calls on his own Thu'um and sinks deeply into the Way of the Voice. Even if he uses Wuld again, he gets a sinking feeling that the dragon would still catch him in his jaws or pulverize him by swinging his tail. His only recourse is to use Unrelenting Force again.
This time he isn't going to half-ass it. He recalls everything Arngeir taught him about the nature of Force and Balance – about the underlying properties of natural forces and how they interact with one another. Force is both weight and the intensification of speed. Balance is equality in motion. I must stop this dragon. He will be stopped.
"FUS! RO!" An ethereal ring of pure force slams into Iizyoldrog's snout, halting the huge dragon in his tracks mid-leap. The rest of his scaled body coils up behind him as he plows awkwardly into the earth.
"Dovahkiin!" he furiously roars.
Mull blinks with bafflement before charging at the downed dragon with his sword raised high. He's shocked that his Thu'um could be powerful enough to stop such an enormous opponent in his tracks, but he isn't going to let his amazement ruin this chance to deal some damage.
'This is the power you wield!' Mirmulnir urges him. 'Use it! Do not fear its potency and do not underestimate its reach!'
"WULD!"
He dashes closer to Iizyoldrog and maneuvers around the dragon's flailing bulk to attack his vulnerable head. Unfortunately, he isn't the only one who can use Shouts.
"SU GRAH DUN!" Air. Battle. Grace.
The dragon untangles himself and leaps into the air with a preternatural grace that should frankly be impossible for something so large. He mightily strains his wings and gains altitude before Mull can do anything more than ineffectually flail his sword at his scaled legs and tail.
"Do you think these paltry efforts are enough to stop me?! I am Iizyoldrog, and I shall not tolerate this baseless audacity! I will claim the lives of your previous joorre as recompense for your impudence and revel in the warmth of their blood as it courses across my tongue!" The cobalt-blue dragon flaps his wings again and takes flight. Mull is buffeted so heavily by displaced air that he struggles to remain standing, but he doesn't let that stop him as he starts chasing after the dragon. Their short but destructive battle shifted them closer to the summit of the pass, so it only takes him a few seconds to crest the highest point and begin descending towards the Hjallmarch.
He's greeted by the sight of a cloud-wreathed land of greens and browns, stretching all the way to an abnormally flat horizon in the far distance that can only be one thing. The ocean.
He's never seen the ocean with his own eyes, so in other circumstances he might pause to take in the eye-catching view. Unfortunately, there are bigger things to worry about right now.
He sprints down the pass at full speed with arms pumping frantically and hair flying wildly in the wind. Unlike the southern side, this half of the pass isn't a single continuous slope but rather twists and turns like a snake all the way until it reaches the base of the mountains. That's good. It'll give his companions a better chance of evading the dragon's onslaught.
"WULD!" He uses his Thu'um to gather speed, enabling him to skim faster along the powdery surface of the arctic expanse. He squints through the harsh sunlight reflecting off the snow while blindly hoping he doesn't trip on an unseen rock or a log. If he does, he'll almost certainly break his neck.
A good distance below him, Lydia, Jenassa, and Torgen are also running with the Dark Elf maintaining a slight lead. Lydia is the slowest of the three, and it doesn't help that she keeps stealing glances at Mull over her shoulder. Worry about yourself, you stubborn idiot girl!
"Mirmulnir! What should I do?!" he shouts.
'Fight and attain victory, or leave them to their fate and watch them die as a true dov would.'
The booming flap of huge leathery wings inspires him to pick up the pace, all while ignoring the painful slapping of his sword pommel against his thigh. Iizyoldrog soars beneath the cloud layer with rich blue scales glittering in the rays of the colorless sun. He snarls and swoops lower, taking aim for the fleeing joorre below.
Mull pushes himself to run faster but he's already reaching his physical limit. Each ragged gasp for air generates billowing clouds of vapor that stream behind him like wisps. He isn't sure how much longer he can keep this up. He doesn't waste time trying to get out his bow and string it while moving so quickly, as that would be a fool's errand. Besides, the distance has already grown too great for a bowshot. That means he needs to rely on his Thu'um, but no matter what he tries, he can't gain enough speed to catch the airborne dragon.
That's when he spots a misshapen spur of rock rising sharply from the snow ahead of him, a steeply-slanted flat shelf that tapers into an acute point like a natural ramp. He receives a flash of inspiration. If he can hit the outcrop just right and use it to launch himself forward, he'll gain a lot of altitude and speed. Maybe even enough to catch up with Iizyoldrog. The downside is that he'll be flying through the air without knowing how to land – but he can worry about that afterwards. The lives of his joorre are at stake, and besides, he still wants to kill that damn dragon.
"I have a plan!" A ridiculous plan, but it's better than nothing.
'This course of action is unwise.' objects Mirmulnir. 'The joorre are your expendable pawns. If they must be sacrificed upon the altar of victory, then let it be so. Do not needlessly disadvantage yourself for the sake of sentimentality.'
Mull ignores him and delves even deeper into the Way of the Voice. He painfully inhales. "WULD!"
He reaches the ramp-like boulder, finds purchase on its solid granite surface, and doesn't stop. He plants his front foot and leaps from the edge of the rock with another perfectly-timed application of Whirlwind Sprint.
"WULD!"
He soars high into the sky like a bolt loosed from a ballista, much higher than he'd anticipated. The pass rapidly drops away beneath him and he belatedly realizes the outcropping was actually the ledge of a sheer cliff. His stomach plummets like a stone and it takes every ounce of his willpower to stop himself from vomiting. Still, he accomplishes what he intended and the winged form of Iizyoldrog draws closer as he tumbles through the open air.
"Oh, holy shit!" he reflexively cries out.
Iizyoldrog looks back at him and his ice-white eyes go wide.
Mull shoves aside his mortal terror and gathers himself for one last Shout. "FUS RO!"
Pure unyielding force blasts into the closer of Iizyoldrog's two wings and violently forces it downwards, causing the dragon to veer sharply to the right and enter an uncontrolled spiral. He rightens himself at the last possible moment and executes an cumbersome landing accompanied by a pained roar.
As Mull plunges towards the unforgiving earth, he distantly notices that the dragon's upset roars are transitioning into something that sounds suspiciously like laughter.
He doesn't quite have enough time to start philosophizing about his impending demise before someone unexpectedly intervenes and graciously prevents him from splattering against the boulders below in a gory mess. "SU SPAAN HORVUTAH!" Air. Shield. Ensnare.
His terminal descent is suddenly slowed to a crawl with an abrupt jolt. He gingerly turns his head to look straight down, gulps, and very nearly pisses his trousers. It's extraordinarily disorienting to be staring at the ground about forty feet below with nothing beneath him, knowing he still should be falling but somehow isn't. His jaw drops with stupefaction as he glances this way and that, searching for the cause of this unforeseen blessing. His companions are out of sight, so it can't be a spell from one of them. No, the only living being nearby is the dragon Iizyoldrog.
He gradually falls to the earth at a snail's pace until his boots touch solid ground once more. His limbs are shaking so hard that he can barely stand, but he jerkily clambers to his feet and gazes at the cobalt-blue dragon with trepidation. Iizyoldrog tramps across the stony earth from the site of his landing about fifty paces away – there isn't much snow at this lower altitude – and stops in front of Mull with a vaguely amused chuff.
"Did you enjoy the liberating sensation of taking flight across the skies as we do, Dovahkiin? If only for the briefest of moments?"
Mull licks his lips and grasps the hilt of his sword like a lifeline with trembling fingers. "…No. Not at all." That was one of his most frightening experiences in recent memory.
"Hmm. That is truly a shame." The dragon makes a dry croaking sound that can only be laughter. "Perhaps I judged you too harshly. It is true that you are weak, but you are certainly not lacking in spirit – and both of us know that it is the quality of the spirit that determines whether a dovah is truly mighty or feeble. To think that a Dovahkiin would so willingly fling himself from such a high precipice without the assurance of wings to catch him. You have greatly amused me."
The dragon laughs some more while Mull stares at him, thoroughly nonplussed.
'…Hi los aan mey, Qahnaarin,' gripes Mirmulnir. 'You are indubitably a fool, and it is only by the mercy of our brother Iizyoldrog that you have been spared the ignoble death that you deserve. It was his Thu'um that rescued you from the world's weighty grasp. Had you maintained the presence of mind to use Wuld to redirect your momentum, then perhaps you could've accomplished this yourself and spared us the dishonor of being rescued be an opponent – but you did not. Mercy is the indulgence of the strong, so do not thank him for his generosity and be sure to remain on your guard. However…'
"What is it?"
'…I do not think he will kill you this day. The time for tinvaak has passed.'
"I have become interested in you, Dovahkiin," continues Iizyoldrog. "Today I was too eager to greet you, for I did not realize you're still but a fledgling when I felt the warmth of your spirit in the world beneath my wings. You are small in both body and su'um, but I sense that your potential is vast. In the future, I hope that my evaluation of you will be changed for the better."
"I hope so too," mutters Mull.
"We will meet again," the dragon emphatically states. "When you have grown greater, come to my strunmah atop the Wuthsosnaar and we shall take council with one another a second time. Only then will we determine who is the greater and who is the lesser between us, as is appropriate for newly-acquainted dov. Until then, Dovahkiin. I eagerly look forward to our next confrontation."
The dragon takes flight and soars away to the west, angling sharply upwards to a tall purple-and-grey mountain peak. Mull track the winged monster's silhouette until it vanishes above the clouds with a faint puff of mist. Although he's now at a lower elevation than before, there are still muted whispers emanating from that lofty pinnacle.
"Wuthsosnaar. Eldersblood Peak," he murmurs. "Sounds like something's waiting for me up there, just like at Dustman's Cairn."
Mirmulnir grumbles unhappily. 'You should not have put yourself in such a precarious position today, Qahnaarin. Your most effective recourse would have been to either dominate Iizyoldrog at the summit of the pass or to allow him to hunt down your minions at his leisure while you withdrew to marshal your strength. But instead, you took foolish actions and so easily allowed him to escape from your grasp in the end.'
"I think he's the one letting me escape," Mull drily replies.
'Yet here you are now, entirely lacking in remorse and already planning for your next escapade. You intend to take him up on his offer,' asserts the dragon.
"I do. As soon as we're done with our business in the Hjallmarch, I'm finding a way onto that mountain and defeating him once and for all."
'You crave his knowledge of the Thu'um.'
"Aye, if you can't help me learn Yol then I'll find a dragon who can."
He expects Mirmulnir to be offended, so he's surprised when the dead dragon chortles with throaty laughter. 'It is well that your instincts are guiding you true. As the destined hunter of our kindred, it is right that you should wish for these things. Very well then. Although your actions today speak to your lack of foresight, I will not advise against this decision. We shall see where the Tides of Fate will lead you.'
-x-
Mull finds the rest of the Mighty Mudcrabs taking shelter beneath a craggy cliff near the bottom of Eldersblood Pass. He waves for them to come on out, which they do after carefully scanning the skies for signs of danger. They look harried and cold but none the worse for wear. He'd noticed as soon as he starting running down the northern side of the pass that the north wind blowing in from the Sea of Ghosts is no joke. It's downright frigid.
"Did you kill the dragon?" Torgen calls.
"Hell no," answers Mull.
"…Oh. That scaly bastard started chasing us a few minutes after we crested the pass, but something drew him away. Was it your doing?"
"Aye, I did a few cute tricks to get his attention. I can't say it went the way I thought it would, but everything worked out in the end."
'Despite your efforts to the contrary,' interjects Mirmulnir.
They assemble beneath an ash tree and wait for Mull to catch his breath. He takes a long swig from his waterskin and sits against the tree's roots for a few minutes while waiting for his calves to stop burning from all the running he's been doing today.
Lydia gives him the stink eye, crosses her arms, and turns away with a "hmph!" Since she's apparently refusing to give him the time of day, that leaves Torgen and Jenassa to interrogate him about the events at the top of the pass. He doesn't see a reason to dodge their questions since Jenassa is already halfway in the loop about the Dragonborn business. Might as well make it official.
He and Torgen take a few minutes to bring the Dunmer up to speed about the nature of the Dragonborn and the history behind it – as a native of Morrowind, her knowledge of the subject is practically zero. Mull also gives a brief explanation of the dragon-runes and the black word walls within Bleak Falls Barrow and Dustman's Cairn. He never went into much detail when telling Lydia and Torgen about these things before, so he doesn't mind when they subtly lean closer to listen. He can see dots being connected in real time behind his pouting housecarl's keen blue eyes.
Jenassa makes a faint noise of realization. "So this is the secret you were hiding. Not only are you a Nordic Tongue, but you're also what the Imperials call a Dragonborn like the Septim emperors once were. I knew there was something, but for the life of me I couldn't deduce what it was. I can't say this is quite what I was expecting."
"I imagine so," he chuckles. "It wasn't what I was expecting either when I first came to Skyrim." His good humor diminishes. "Jenassa, this is something you aren't allowed to share with anyone. I know you're a mercenary and you're in this for the money, which is fine. I can't exactly fault you for that. But the point stands that this is something I'm trying to keep under wraps for several very good reasons, and I won't let you jeopardize my efforts up till now. If you can't keep your mouth shut, I will kill you. Is that understood?"
Lydia and Torgen stare at him like he's lost his mind, but Jenassa simply nods and smiles like he said the most reasonable thing in the world. "Of course, sera. I can't say I've appreciated being kept in the dark, but I do understand your reasoning. We Dunmer take the guarding of secrets very seriously as followers of Mephala the Webspinner. If you're willing to compensate me accordingly, then I shall swear a solemn oath here and now to eternally seal my lips on this matter. My silence can be bought."
"Good to know. I'll make sure you get a hefty 'bonus' when we return to Whiterun."
The Dunmer graces him with a sly grin. "That should be satisfactory. It seems we have an accord then."
They firmly shake hands and the matter is settled. An exasperated Lydia massages her forehead and very pointedly doesn't say anything.
The only thing he doesn't divulge to them is the presence of Mirmulnir's spirit dwelling inside his head. He still isn't sure how they'll react to something so undeniably strange, so when they ask him about his odd habit of muttering to himself, he brushes off their questioning and claims it's an old routine that helps him concentrate. They clearly don't buy the excuse, but that's a problem for another time.
For some reason, the idea of revealing Mimulnir's mental presence to his followers makes him very uncomfortable. He's worried they'll start to see him differently if they learn about that particular aspect of his nature as the Dragonborn. Would they wonder if it's actually a dead dragon talking to them instead of the real Mull? He doesn't want to raise these concerns in their minds – at least, not yet. What they don't know won't hurt them.
Or so he tells himself.
-x-
After gathering up their things and refilling their waterskins in a nearby spring, the four travelers get underway for Morthal, the capital and largest settlement of the Hjallmarch – which isn't saying much, as this northerly Hold is one of Skyrim's least populous regions. They first descend from Eldersblood Pass and enter an area of craggy foothills covered in coniferous forest, where they follow the headwaters of a rushing stream with steep banks of grey shale. Torgen informs them that this is the main branch of the Myr River, which flows all the way to Morthal and beyond. High barren bluffs are soaring overhead on either side of the waterway like the walls of an ancient fortress.
Several hours later, the hills dwindle into forested flatlands and they encounter a stone-paved Imperial road running from east to west. On the northern side of the road, the Myr River becomes much wider as it executes a lazily turn westwards. Driftwood and the remnants of dead trees are scattered along its banks, which are inhabited by patches of sparse green foliage with star-shaped flowers and little else. In the distance, the elevation of the land seems to drop significantly and the color of the vegetation transitions into a lifeless panorama of greenish-greys and browns. The dreary vista it a good fit for what Mull had been imagining of Skyrim's northern wilderness.
They turn west on the Imperial road and spend the rest of the day walking through wooded terrain interspaced with large granite outcroppings and the occasional dome-shaped ruin. Although this region is sparsely populated, the road is an important artery for overland trade in northern Skyrim and they come across several caravans belonging to merchants or miners. At one point, a grim-faced Imperial legionary patrol marches past them without so much as a single word in greeting.
Around noon the next day, the sight of chimney smoke on the horizon informs them that they've nearly arrived at their destination.
-x-
AN: (This is a long one. TL;DR: Explaining some changes made to the last chapter, the Companions won't be a big part of this story, I'm trying not to change too much from the game without a good reason behind it, and y'all are the best. Thanks for reading!)
Regarding the previous chapter and some questions y'all had about it – honestly, I wrote that segment the way I originally did because I wanted to avoid dragging you through an entire delve into Dustman's Cairn, writing out another delve for Ustengrav a few chapters down the road, and then potentially having the two barrows feel too similar to each other. But after I got into the writing a bit more, I decided that skipping Dustman's Cairn would be lame and would make the pacing feel off, so here we are. Although making it over 9000 words in length probably messed up the pacing in a different way :( which wasn't what I intended, but that chapter got away from me a bit. Anyway, I'm hoping Ustengrav will be unique enough in its own right to keep things entertaining for you.
I don't plan on doing the entire Companions questline in detail, so instead it'll be quietly taking place in the background. Certain events from the in-game Companions questline will happen over the course of this story while other events have already taken place in the past, like Farkas mentioned with the killing of the Glenmoril witches and the slaying of the wolf spirits at Ysgramor's Tomb. Love it or hate it, but I don't want to spend too much time on a questline that most people already know by heart – and in my opinion is somewhat generic – when there are lots of other cool things in Skyrim to explore. I've always intended for Aela to be a supporting female lead and she'll come into that role more and more as the main quest progresses, but the rest of the Companions are going to be insignificant side characters for the most part. Sorry if that's disappointing. Hopefully I can make it up to you with other neat characters and questlines later on.
For those of you who hate it when writers on this site decide to change things from how they were in-game for absolutely no reason… I'm with you. That isn't something I intend to do often. One of my main goals is to flesh out the world of Nirn while keeping to the spirit of the existing lore, and at the same time not making random changes without a good reason. Sometimes I make these changes to streamline the writing for my own sake – like what I'm doing with the Companions – but again, it's something I actively try to avoid.
As always, I can't express how much I appreciate your reviews/favorites/follows/views. Each and every one of you is an individual who chose to take time out of their day to read this little story of mine, and that's just so awesome. Y'all are the best! Thanks for reading!