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Chapter V: Hunter Hunted
25th - 26th of Last Seed, the Year of Our Divine Sovereign 4E 81
"We avoid fights whenever possible, of course, but if the city is threatened, we quickly step in to defend it, have no fear."
Captain Hugo Javert, Vermeir Militia, 4E 22
"We fight because our King demands it. To protect Crown and Kingdom is our duty, and any who wish to threaten either must contend with lance and sword."
Sir Leon Rousseau, Order of the Dragon, 4E 22
"We try to live in harmony with nature as the Ehlnofey wish it, and so we prefer to not spread war and conflict where possible. But others often don't respect our beliefs and so we are forced to make exceptions to defend ourselves."
Sister Awsta, Beldama Wyrd, 4E 22
"We left the politics and conflicts of the mainland behind for a reason. Let them stew in their scheming and misery, we know what is right. If conflict comes to Galen, it is born from outsiders, and they will be driven out. So, watch yourself, mainlander."
Witch-King Gwydyon, Eldertide Circle, 4E 22
"Peace? Peace is a vapor, the only earthly certainty is conflict and believe us, interloper, the Reach holds no shortage of conflict."
Chieftain Darragh, Blackstone Clan, 4E 22
Compiled by Imperial Ministry of Safety for Attitudes on Violence among Peoples of High Rock published 4E 23
Lydia had never been stationed at the western watchtower, but she knew it well enough. Located a full day's march from Whiterun, it had once served as an early warning should an enemy approach from the west; its position at the confluence of three roads meant that it could warn equally well against incursions from Falkreath, Hjaalmach, or the Reach. When Fort Greymoor had still been manned, the watchtower's beacon could be seen from the relay tower atop the fort as well. Now, however, the fort was overrun with lowlife outlaws, the relay beacon had been dark for decades, and the watchtower was a punitive posting for those who had in some way offended the higher-ups in the guard. What chance did they have against a dragon?
The watchtower had been old and crumbling, she knew, but now it was more ruin than outpost. The wooden shutters and walkways had been reduced to smoking wreckage, and the stone itself seemed to have half-melted in places from the heat. The scouts that Irileth had sent ahead were spread around the area; Lydia saw one atop the tower scanning towards the mountains to the south. The army of hangers-on and would-be dragonslayers that had accompanied them from Whiterun were dispersing as well, eager to do battle. They had traveled through the night, and some among them seemed all too happy to get off their feet and take a rest. Ciero, the Breton mercenary that seemed to be serving as Farengar's proxy, uncorked a small bottle and began to drink. At her look, he produced another and offered it to her.
"Potion of fatigue," he said as he stoppered the empty vial and tucked it into the bag on his belt. The Breton continued to baffle her. He moved like an experienced fighter and spoke like he thought himself clever, which was a dangerous choice to make for a Breton outside of High Rock. He had not caused her any trouble since coming to Whiterun, though did not seem to be in any rush to be of use to anyone. It was as if he paradoxically had both too much and not enough time on his hands and seemed unable to make a choice between them. Whatever the case, Lydia came to the conclusion that Sebastien Ciero was simply a burden she did not have time for. She refused the proffered potion; she had no need of it anyway. He shrugged and tucked it away, and Lydia moved forward, going to check on the guards from the watchtower.
At the base of the tower, she found the injured laid out, some eight or so with burns and a few more with what looked like collateral damage from falling stone or accidental injury. As she approached, she realized that she the man in the silver-trimmed cloak who commanded the watchtower. She rushed over to the older guard, filled with equal parts worry and relief.
"Father!"
Serjeant Hagom was moving about doing what he could for what was left of his command; when he caught sight of his daughter heading toward him, he gave her an exhausted smile. The moment Lydia was in range to do so, she threw her arms around her father.
"Are you alright? The dragon, did you-"
"Lydia, Lydia!" Hagom reassured her. The older Nord had heavy grey sideburns that framed his heavily lined face, but still had enough life to keep an eye on the plains. He was quick to remind his daughter of that fact. "I'm old, child, but I'm not helpless just yet." The plains were safe enough these days, even with the war going on. Safe enough for an old veteran too stubborn to retire, certainly. He wanted to further reassure Lydia, but one of the guards cried out in distress, prompting the Serjeant to attend to her, murmuring soft words of comfort. Lydia was forced to put her father out of her mind, and refocused on her duty.
As she knelt to check on another man, she noticed on of the Orcs who had come with running towards the main party, shouting something in his tongue. One of his companions heard him, and raised his voice to spread the world in Imperial common. "Dragon from the mountains!" A guard atop the watchtower was shouting too, and waving her arms. "The dragon is coming! Here in minutes! IT'S COMING!"
Lydia spun and rant toward Irileth, who had set up her command post on an outcropping of stone that still resembled the wall it had once been. Several other guards arrived as she did, and Irileth spoke to them all. "You know your formations, now get into them! Archers, aim true, spearmen, use javelins until it's downed, and for Mara's sake, don't get caught out of formation. Listen to your captains, and do not let the dragon close! If it lands, flank it in formation and remember to cripple the wings. Anybody gets themselves of someone else killed by breaking ranks, I will reach into Oblivion and pull your soul back so you can suffer my wrath! Avoid the fire. If it can break stone, your armor won't last long." She took a deep breath and looked over at the Breton, who had just arrived. "We did not choose this battle, but we end this here. We will bring down this dragon, and return our hold to peace. May the gods go with you! For Whiterun and the Jarl!"
When Irileth had commanded his presence on her dragonslaying expedition, Sebastien had fully expected to just be left with the other hangers-on and leave her to command her troops. He had passed along what scraps of information Farengar had wrangled out of his studies as they marched through the night. The Dunmer and her top retainers had listened as he spoke, and then, lit only be the light of Aetherius shining through the stars above and the few torches they carried, deliberated on how best to put knowledge of dragon behaviors and anatomy into practice. They had come to several conclusions, the largest being that while this information might be generally useful from a command perspective, most of it would not help the average soldier as part of a formation. When the captains began discussing how best to position themselves with regards to the watchtower, he had been surprised as they continued to ask for his input. It would seem they saw far more in his firsthand experience with dragons that he did. I could tell you how to fight wyverns, Reachmen, and dreugh, but dragons are out of my repertoire. Still, he stood amongst the chaos that was the coming battle as perhaps the only semi-professional battlemage Whiterun had in its fold.
Irileth was giving orders to the Dragonsreach guard called Kemming; he nodded as she finished and led his units off away from the watchtower. She then pulled Sebastien aside as she was surveying the field.
"You said you know long range spells?" She asked.
"If the dragon stands still, I can hit it. I have scrolls from Farengar-"
She cut him off as several members of the mercenary company that the Nords called the Companions moved up. "Good. Get to high ground and use them. Aim for the wings." She waved him away and the leader of the Companions, an older Nord man with snow white hair, engaged her in rapid discussion about positions and baiting the dragon. Sebastien left them to it and made his way to the tower. If it's high ground, there's none better. They had swords and arrows aplenty, but Sebastien may have been one of the only handful of trained mages on hand.
Inside the tower, the injured waited, looking more corpses than warriors. A healer who had tagged along from the Kynareth temple in Whiterun was attending to one of them, waving his hands slowly over a burn as the flesh slowly knit. The soldier's face was tight with pain, and he was letting out a high whining moan. Poor bastard. Sebastien recognized that spell of healing. It restored the body rather than accelerating the natural processes, as a result it worked well against burns and aching and torn muscles, but could not heal more immediate injuries. It was also slow, outrageously painful, and very tiring. Glancing around, he took in the state of the men in here; he had studied under enough healers to be able to assess wounds. Even if some of them make it, none will be of help today. He began climbing the steps.
At the second landing, he encountered several guards peering out through the windows, though he did bot recognize these. Assuming them to be the remnants of the tower's garrison, he ignored them as he jogged up the next flight. However, a shout drew his attention.
The Nord man was obviously the leader, wearing as he did a cloak trimmed in silver. He was also the one who was demanding to know what he was doing in the tower.
"I have spells. I need a place to cast them. The top of the tower is the best vantage point, so I am using it." He turned to go, but stopped when his hand landed heavily on his shoulder. He stiffened. "Would you kindly remove your hand, because I assure you that if you do not, I will." How dare he try to stop me; I defend his people! When the hand vanished and he turned though, the old Nord's face was not indignant or aggressive. Instead, his hawkish gaze was calm and cold.
"I have many wounded in this tower. Do not bring the dragon's fire back onto them."
Sebastien nodded. "I will do my best." A fair request, but soldiers die. I can try my best and use what abilities I have to protect them to the best that I am able, but Archei will have his due, one way or another. Leaving the old Nord to his wounded, he finished ascending the stairs and blinked as he adjusted to the bright light atop the tower.
Three archers were slumped behind the parapets while another stood and watched the huge shape sweep slowly toward them. He turned to look at Sebastien. "You're not one of ours. You from Whiterun?" On closer inspection, his gear was dirty, and his eyes were dead and unreadable, even for a Nord. Elves expressed themselves though their eyes, Men expressed themselves through their faces. Bretons were expected to know how to do and read both. All Sebastien could read from this man, from both his face and his eyes, was that he was bone-tired and half dead. If I had to pass a night not knowing when the dragon would return to finish me off, how would I fare? He pushed the thought into the back of his mind and regarded the four Northmen. They all had bows, and the dragon was closing fast. Sebastien moved to the battlement and looked out. Below, this Whiterun guards had broken up in rigid formations; armored guards warding the archers while the spearmen hefted javelins, ready to throw. Elsewhere, the two Orcs had occupied a pile of rubble that provided cover from several directions, while many other groups were simply standing out on the rocky fields. Evidently, they trusted that the dragon would not go for them. Or they are Sheor-marked fools. They did choose to come after all.
A roar echoed across the battlefield. The dragon, still far beyond bow or spell range, dived and let loose a plume of fire that moved along the ground, scorching the grass beneath it. It's coming in low and fast. Archers won't have long to react. He spun to face the guards. "Fire the instant it's in range! Those on the ground won't have a good angle. We do!" By the look of it, the dragon would actually come in blow, giving them good access to its back. It will ravage the forces down there, though.
The dragon was gliding in fast, claws outstretched. As it approached, Sebastien got a good look at it. Grey-green scales and a smaller form, the sight confirmed it. This was the dragon he, Lydia, and Faltur encountered in the depths of Bleak Falls, not the black beast that had devastated Helgen.
Another roar reverberated off of the tundra as the dragon made its descent. In another moment it would be on the outmost scouts. They were all lightly armored hangers-on, and they broke as the beast swept over them. One hunter wasn't fast enough, and he screamed in terror as one of the dragon's claws slammed into him. His screams as his broken body flew through the air were ended with a crack as a boulder jutting from the earth broke his fall. The guards atop the tower, eyes wide and arms shaking at what they had witnessed, prepared to let loose and Sebastien did the same. From his palms, crackling lightning stirred, jolting between each outstretched digit. He did not have high hopes, but this monstrosity seemed to be almost eighty feet long from nose to tail, with a wingspan easily that wide or wider. It was fast as well, and clearly knew how to maneuver to its advantage. Kynaree's talons, did we bring enough force to kill it? If they did, then maybe the Gods hadn't abandoned them just yet.
The lightning crackled and writhed in his hand, sounding and moving like a buzzing hive of wasps. He loosed.
He aimed for the broad wings as the dragon swooped beneath the tower, not confident that his magic wouldn't be reflected the same as the arrows being shot at it were, as well as hoping that by crippling it, the dragon would be left slower and more vulnerable for the ground forces. Gods damn you, but you are powerful, beast. If the lightning had an effect on the dragon, it showed no sign. The great devil continued onward, sweeping over the clusters of soldiers down below. It would bathe them with fire or claw at them, all while moving fast enough that any arrow or spell that did not miss would most likely glance off its hide. It scattered a group of hunters of some kind, and swept northwards away from the main host. It landed with an earth-shaking crash on a pair of guards and took to the air gain, leaving them crushed beneath its massive claws.
The dragon's huge wings flapped at the air with lazy power, and it circled back toward the tower. This time though, Sebastien was ready. He had opened the scroll labeled "Lightning Storm", and power pulsed around him as he awoke the magicka imbued into the parchment. He let his body's magicka attenuate to the power contained in the scroll, and the spell coursed into him. He could feel his hair lifting on his scalp as the charge altered his natural magical currents, and his armor and clothing felt strange against his skin as the current reverberated through him. His magicka held this power in check for the moment; he would not burn out his insides or have lightning explode from him. He must release it soon, however, his skill in magic was advanced, but keeping any kind of spell contained for extended periods of time can cause lasting damage to the castor's body. For this brief instant, in the middle of the battle, he allowed himself to luxuriate in the power coursing through him, pumping through his blood and simmering in his bones. I am the storm, dragon, and you shall know my wrath. The dragon was closing fast, and Sebastien thrust his arms out above his head. The charge gathered in his hands, and he could smell the moment that their between them began to crackle and burn. He brought his arms forward, and focused the spell towards the onrushing dragon.
The space between him and the dragon was calm for a single heartbeat. The wind died and the tunnel of air became perfectly still. The dragon's head swiveled, and its eyes burned into him. Sebastien met dragon's gaze head on. If it wanted him to be afraid, then he would deny it that. You think I have anything left to fear, beast? Between the two of us, I'm not the one with anything to lose.
The moment ended. The magical equilibrium was broken, and lighting surged out of Sebastien's hands, the magicka from the scroll using his body as a conduit on its path towards the dragon. The spell crashed into the devil's face and played along its body, leaving burns and skittering snakes of energy along the great beast's scales. It roared, this time in either annoyance or pain, and aborted its graceful sweep towards whatever its target had been to pull itself up and come even with the tower's roof. Oh. This isn't good. This is bad. Yelling a curse that would have had his mother boxing his ears for days, he bolted for the entryway into the tower, vaguely aware of the other guards on the roof doing the same. The dragon rose slowly, wings pushing its monstrous bulk over them, its shadow covering the entirety of the roof in a macabre parody of the relief from the sun. With a crash, it landed atop the trapdoor, killing the two guards who had been closest to safety. Three remained on the roof. Its head snapped forward and its jaws closed around another; her screams ended as the great jagged teeth came together with a crack.
Two of them remained on the roof, and the dragon lumbered toward them. In truth, the watchtower's top was too small for such a huge creature, and its great clawed wings gripped the edge as it moved awkwardly forward. Its head reared above the two survivors, Breton and Nord, and Sebastien doubted that his armor's resistance to fire would stretch so far as to save him from a dragon's wrath. He glanced at the tower's edge, then at the watchman, who was shaking and staring helplessly at the dragon. For what it's worth, I'm sorry.
Sebastien sprinted away from the dragon, passing the last of the four Nords, who was now whimpering with tears running down his cheeks. He reached the parapet, and flung himself over the edge. As he did so, he cast one of the first spells he had ever learned, one of the simple tricks children used to amuse their friends and one that might now save his life. Behind him, the rooftop lit up with orange and gold and the agonized screams of a dying guard.
The spell required only the merest trickle of magicka, and so little concentration that it could be cast by a desperate fool vaulting away from a dragon. The ground was ten meters below, now five, now…
The Slowfall spell he had learned as a child worked as intended, thankfully. What had once let him make graceful descents from the walls and towers that surrounded Wayrest now meant that he could leap from a watchtower with something less than fatal results. He landed poorly though, twisting his ankle as he impacted the ground. So instead of rising triumphantly to the cheers of his friends and fellow pages, he rolled on the ground cursing until his momentum had left him. Rising slowly to his feet with a groan, his world spun around him, and he had the unwelcome urge to heave his breakfast onto the ground. He clutched himself and steadied his breath until the feeling began to pass. That's never happened before. Of course, it must have been some thirty years since he last attempted it, and doubtless a dragon did not make the endeavor easier. As he took to his feet again, he resolved to spend more time practicing minor spells like that. In this province? Seems like I'll need them.
His vision slowly returned to something approaching clarity, and he noticed with a lurch in his stomach that the watchtower no longer sported a dragon atop it. He spun around, trying to find the beast, but could see nothing. Then, a deep roar and a pillar of flame emerged from the far side of the tower, and he slumped with relief. Around him, some of the eager dragon-hunters seemed to be reconsidering while others were already dashing off to rejoin the fight.
He tried to stand on unsteady feet only to come crashing back to the earth as a sharp shooting pain raced up from his twisted ankle to his leg. Just barely managing to catch himself on his hands, Sebastien used a free hand to dig through the bag of potions, only to be met with bits of shattered glass and cool, dripping liquid. SON OF A-! He hadn't noticed until now, the bag was dripping with spilled, ruined potion. The bottles must have shattered when he fell. It was all too much. He collapsed, blinding rage turning to a whimpering mad humor as he was left nearly sobbing with laughter. Of course they broke, of course they did!
Tears were streaming down his cheeks, eyes wide and without even breath to make a sound. He tried to inhale to laugh more, but ended up choking and doubled over coughing. He lay there for an eternity or two, until something fell just in the corner of his eye.
A small red pottle lay nestled in the grass by his right hand, and not too far were a pair of heavy plate boots from shimmering black glass. "Sebastien…" A voice called out, deep, comforting, familiar. "What are you doing, Sir Sebastien? You haven't given up so soon, have you?" Sebastien looked up and his eyes met the expressionless helm of the Ebony Warrior. Nothing of the figure was visible save ebony and mail, and if it had been in battle, it gave no sight.
Why? Why now? Can't you let me die in peace for once?
Despite his melancholy thoughts, Sebastien felt his strength retuning to him. He reached out and picked up the potion of healing from the ground. He didn't open it just yet, and simply let his blistered and calloused hand hold the cold glass. "Am…Am I dead?" He asked as he stared at the bottle, the familiar questions already on his lips before he could even think them.
The Ebony Warrior stared down at him impassively. "No," he answered bluntly.
Sebastien swallowed and looked back at the blank glass visor of the Warrior's helm. "Have I gone mad?"
The Ebony Warrior tilted his head in thought, before answering. "Nothing so simple," he said with a hapless shrug.
Sebastien nodded and popped the cork off the red bottle. "Then it seems I still have work to do." Downing its contents, he unsheathed his sword and dug it blade first in the earth, using it to help him stand on his rapidly healing ankle. The Ebony Warrior offered a hand, and Sebastien accepted it, clasping the cool gauntlet his Marked hand.
As he stood, the Ebony Warrior looked at him pensively. "The dragon yet lives, Sir Sebastien. Tell me, do you intend to let Whiterun suffer as Helgen did? As Wayrest did?"
Sebastien ripped his sword from the ground. "No, it dies here," he vowed, his voice firm. "I'm going to kill it, and I'm going to save these people." Or die trying, anyway. The Ebony Warrior gestured silently, and Sebastien strode past him, returning to what may have been his Final Hour.
Leadership, Lydia had been told, was a team effort, reliant both on the example of the commander and the discipline of the followers. She had to wonder if the current fiasco was her fault then, or if the guards as a whole simply lacked the courage and skill to secure victory. She had only two of hers left, an archer she did not know from the town watch, and Hroki from the Dragonsreach guard. Currently, the archer was firing at the dragon, although they all knew it would do no good, while she and Hroki had shields prepared should it turn on them. She had lost the remaining three in her command somewhere on the field. One she had seen engulfed by flames when he broke from formation, and two others had been scattered. Some other guards and hangers-on had gravitated towards them, assuming that three who seemed to have kept some semblance of their discipline would be a good place to rally. Nearer the tower, she could see Irileth sending ice spikes at the dragon as she commanded ten or so guards in a concentrated effort. The great beast itself swung lazily above the field, and dove to snatch another guard from the ground; this one had been cowering alone behind the boulder. With a sinking heart, Lydia realized that had been one of hers. She turned to her remaining two. "Keep firing and provide cover! All armor has a weakness, we just need to find it!"
From the direction of the tower, a torrent of lightning suddenly split the sky in two, as it had just a minute before. This time, though, it did not come from atop the tower, but from the west, where she saw a dozen warriors rushing her way. In the lead came Faltur and his karls, bellowing with a fury that shook the earth. The lightning was coming from a mage in steel armor and –
It was the Breton, Sebastien Ciero. He looked like he had pulled himself out of the grave, but he had a scroll in one hand and his other was projecting a stream of lightning at the dragon. The look on his face was one of absolute resolve and contempt. When the spell ended, he produced another scroll from the satchel at his side and summoned a great whirling ball of ice, which flew toward the dragon. The creature dodged easily though, and dove on the newcomers. The armored mage threw his hands in the air, and the dragon's fire splashed harmlessly off a shimmering dome of energy. The dragon, however, did not. It tucked its wings in and crashed into the shield, which vanished with a blast of purple light. The dragon plowed into the group, and suddenly chaos reigned among the newcomers.
Lydia pointed with her sword towards where the dragon was now on the ground, laying about with claws and teeth and flame. "It's on the ground! Pierce the armor! Cripple the wings! FOR WHITERUN!"
Her archer cheered and took off running, and Hroki grinned behind his thick beard and clapped her on the shoulder as he bellowed past. Others must have been listening, as they too charged past her toward the grounded dragon. Lydia followed at a slightly slower pace. She had seen the power of that beast, and was not about to burn because of her own carelessness.
By the time she reached it, the dragon was surrounded, but it had done no small amount of damage itself. Her heart leaped into her throat at how many of the guard were down, and she prayed that most were merely out cold or wounded. If they are all dead… No. She forced such thoughts out of her mind and advanced, coming up behind an Argonian wearing the spotted skin of some massive cat around its shoulders with a twisted wooden longbow who was releasing obsidian-headed arrows at the beast. The Argonian regarded her for half a second with unblinking alien eyes as she passed it, and resumed its archery. She wondered why the Argonian was wearing the skin of a massive cat on its head, and then, as she watched one of its arrows tear clean through a wing, decided that she didn't care. If it works, it works. Against a dragon, I'll take all the help I can get.
The dragon spun in her direction and spat a great gout of fire that would have cooked her in her armor had she not raised her shield and thrown herself down. As it was, her steel armor heated and the fur that lined it began to black and smoke. When the flames abated, she regained her footing and looked about. The dragon had not been aiming at her, and a pair of smoking corpse was all that remained of the Bosmer archers. She began advancing again, keeping her body low and shield ready, and managed to get close enough to feel the buffet of the wind off of the dragon's wings at it took to the air once more and circled away into the sky.
The scene the dragon had left behind looked like it had come from one of the more horrifying realms of Oblivion. Bodies lay torn apart or burned beyond recognition, and the ground was furrowed by great claws and littered with broken and spent arrows and other weapons. The air was thick with the smell of death and cries of fear and pain sounded from every direction. We are broken, was Lydia's first thought, but she soon realized otherwise. Many had fallen, to be sure, but the survivors were readying themselves for another bout. A good thing, too, as the dragon had achieved some distance and was now swooping in low and fast to plow through them or burn them from above.
"On your feet! Brace yourselves!" Lydia's cry preceded Irileth's similar exhortation by only a moment, and the tow of them shouting together managed to pierce through the exhaustion and fear evident on so many faces. The Dark Elf housecarl was bleeding from a nasty gash over one eye, but her expression was resolute, and she was already preparing another spell.
Not far enough away, the dragon dove even closer to the ground. Now, it would come in mere feet above their heads. It extended its claws, and Lydia knew what would happen next. The claws would rake through them, and many would fall. Some of those would never rise again. She raised her shield, and glanced around to see who else was ready. Too few. She needed to do somethi-
A war cry echoed from behind her, and the earth shook as thunderous footfalls echoed towards her. She spun, shocked to see Faltur and his Old Clan Nords, clad in furs and his blue wode-paint, running at the dragon. His face was contorted, mouth open, and in his hand was his axe of rough iron, wickedly sharp and intricately carved. She realized with a start that the thundering earth was not from the dragon or battle, but that it ended with his footfalls and his war cry. It was an inarticulate sound of rage and pain, but if the power in the footsteps was any indication, it would give his blows incredible strength. He passed her, traveling at respectable speed made terrifying by his crashing steps, and thundering onwards towards the onrushing foe. She could feel the force of his cry as it washed over her and the calm once it had passed her by. His charge took him directly into the dragon's path, where he leapt high into the air. Clearly, the dragon was not expecting this, as no claw came to knock him away nor fire to burn him down. She watched with slack jaw as his axe bit into the dragon, and the shock of his war cry and blow smashed into the flying beast, roughly halting his attack. Suddenly, the elegant and deadly swoop became a tumble of scales and wings that was almost comical, the huge Nord a tiny bug clinging to an axe stuck into this giant beast's breast. It crashed into the ground even as the Nord leapt free and abandoned his weapon to its grim sheath. The dragon rose, spitting fire and claws whirling, but the forces of Whiterun Hold had seen the chance and attacked with renewed vigor. Lydia drew her sword and raised her shield to guard, waving their forces forward. To her left, she saw Irileth and Kaptain Carth do the same. The same Argonian from before with his obsidian arrows took up a firing position on an exposed stone, and to the west, the Reachmen with their flint and bone weapons threw a great stream of icy shards into the air, where they tore into the dragon's wings as it began to take to the sky. Abandoning the plan, it instead dove for the hedge mage, crushing one of the hide-clad warriors underfoot and snapping at the spellcaster. Lydia charged in, intent of dealing some crippling damage while the dragon was preoccupied with the mage. As she did so, she noticed the Breton Sebastien Ciero again. So he still lives. Perhaps even by his own doing. He seemed to have run out of Farengar's scrolls and so matched her pace towards the dragon, scroll and lightning in hand. Then, she reached the dragon's great scaled flank, and her world narrowed until only she and the beast existed within it. Time to die, brute!
Sebastien let the last scroll fall to the ground, the lettering on it still smoking from the speed at which he had pulled forth its power. He felt drained and ready to curl up and sleep. Or die, more like, if I do it here. He was in a good spot well away from the dragon's gnashing maw; for the moment it seemed intent on slaughtering Korpral Lydia. I suppose it would be ungrateful for me to let that happen. From his own reserves of magicka, what remained of it anyway, he summoned a writhing fistful of electricity. With the great beast grounded, he saw no purpose in attacking its wings for the moment. Get it bleeding, and it will die. At least, he hoped so. This monstrosity had proven absurdly resilient, its armoring should have made it slow, or its mobility should have demanded vulnerabilities. However, it seemed that the dragon had decided that it would simply be not only the fastest combatant on the field, but also far too resistant to the blows of its enemies. As it was now, the Korpral had been fending off the dragon well enough, but one of her soldiers was already down, and the other was falling as he watched. A buffet from great wing sent the korpral to the ground, but the dragon spun before landing a killing blow, and turned to its head was facing directly at him.
Absurdly, Sebastien's first emotion was not fear, but indignation. I didn't even fire on you yet! Go kill someone else! Then, as the dragon reared up and he saw the Nord sprawled on the ground beneath it, holding up a bloody sword, he realized that was exactly what was happening. He gave brief thanks as he began to move out of the line of fire, only to catch a glimpse of the Nord's next movement and have time grind to a halt. The shield that had been slung across her back had been knocked out of her reach, and her dark hair was matted with blood. She was staring at the dragon full in the face, and though her back was to him, he could imagine perfectly the expression on her features. She'll be staring that thing down, even to the end. There was no reasonable way he could save her. It was the guard tower all over again. He was already dead, I could only have died too. But she had fought beside him at Bleak Falls, and listened to his moronic japes in the morning. She is just another casualty, and she is dead already. If he tried to help her, he would most likely join her in death. Something else would snatch away the dragon's notice eventually, but it could kill them both easily before it happened. I couldn't save Helgen. I couldn't save the Watchtower, but Gods be damned, I will save one person here today. His sword was already in his hands and with a curse, he began running, picking up speed as he went. The dragon would unleash more of its fire in mere moments, and he did not have much time.
Lydia looked up at the dragon above her, and tried to have her last thought be of satisfaction. She had drawn the dragon's attention and scored a deep wound on it in the process. Her sword had found a weakness between the scales and slid deep into the meat of the dragon with an almost unbearably satisfying feeling, and even as the dragon had turned to kill her the wound had been gushing blood. She had done well, and brought glory to Whiterun with her final battle. She tried to be brave and embrace Sovngarde, but all that she could do was realize that she did not want to die. She wanted to go home covered in blood and glory, to raise mugs with the Companions and the Guard to a battle well fought, to earn the rank of Serjeant and stand behind the Jarl on matters of import. She wanted to serve for a long life like her father, and, though she knew she should rejoice at the prospect of Sovngarde, she wanted to go there after a life well lived. She did not want to die like this. She looked up into the eyes of the dragon, and saw her death as its head reared back, and flames was born deep in its dark gullet. Lord Talos, I don't want to burn. Fire is a horrible way to die.
Sebastien appeared from out of nowhere moving at a dead sprint, some spell already forming in his hands. He thrust his arms up above the both of them, and bent his head as the fire washed over a shimmering dome of magicka instead of roasting her alive. She curled reflexively, and the shadow of the spell provided enough free space of flame for her to lie there, stunned and trying to figure out where he had come from and why he was here. He was not burning, but the strain of keeping the shield up was apparent, and the dragon's fire was visible eating away at the upraised ward. The warding magic was holding out for now, but it clearly would not hold forever. His eyes met hers, and she was struck by the expression on his face. She wasn't sure what it might have been fear, or sorrow, but she did not have time to figure it out. She pulled herself kneeling, and went to retrieve her sword. Something flashed across Sebastien Ciero's eyes as he understood her thoughts.
"On the count of three, be ready to dodge out of the way, alright?" Every word was growled through clenched teeth, and all the while his eyes burned as bright as the flames around them.
"Thank you, but why?" She had to ask, even as she adjusted her armor and readied her sword. Either the flames would stop, or the shield would fail, and perhaps she could land one more blow. "If your plan was to save me, you only doomed yourself."
"I know that, you Sheor-damned Nord!" The glimmering ward was failing, cracks and fractures were spiderwebbing across its shimmering surface as the dragon continued its fiery torrent. "Bad plan." His speech was harsh and clipped. "I shouldn't have." His eyes burned into hers. "Shouldn't have tried to save you. Foolish." He closed his eyes, and without them blazing in rage, his features took on a striking cast, almost regal despite the harsh angles of his face. His dark hair had come free and now fell every which way like an ebony mane. "I did though, so now we die. Together." The shield gave another precipitous crack and he moved to adjust it. Golden-white magic flowed along his skin, and he grimaced in pain as it worked its way into his wounds. "Do…do me a favor won't you, korpral?" The ward was shaking, and the dragon didn't seem any closer to stopping. "Bring my body back to Wayrest, won't you? I doubt they'll take it, but at least try, won't you?" The shield cracked again, and the flames grew closer. She opened her moth to tell him that they were going to make it through this, but he cut her off. "On three now?" Lydia nodded; her sword clenched tight in her hands. "One…Two…Thr-!"
Before he could finish saying 'three', there was a mighty roar, and the fire was suddenly gone. Immediately, she lunged out from behind the shield as Sebastien let it drop and shook his arms with manic abandon. She noticed the dragon rearing back and a long spear sticking out of its side, and dove forward to end this fight and kill this dragon to make Skyrim safe again.
Sebastien let the what remained of his ward to slip away, and almost sobbed in relief as the heat abated. He had trusted in his skill in magicka to save him, but he had underestimated the dragon's breath. Now he had half-healed burns, soreness throughout his body, no magicka, and a headache for holding a ward in place for so long. The dragon has shifted focus away again, and he was sorely tempted to clear the burned earth and simply press himself to the ground and wait for all of this to pass. The Nord woman Lydia was already back on the attack, though, so he drew his sword and followed her to where the dragon was menacing some guard who had been foolish enough to draw it ire. Saved our lives though, so good on you, brave dead guard. Then, he saw the face that was behind the light leather shield and his heart sank. Gods damn it all, Hroldr, you addled brave fool.
The dragon was almost contemptuous with the blow that felled the boy. One huge winged claw smashed through the shield and sent him sprawling, and the dragon raised another to crush the life from the guard. Sebastien found himself running toward the dragon with a blade in his hand and wondered what he planned to do. In front of him, Lydia had reached a great bleeding wound in the dragon's thigh, and drove her sword deep into the bloody flesh. Others were doing much the same, and Sebastien felt the momentum of the battle turning. The dragon had become sluggish, and its blows lack the precise lethality of earlier in the fight. It was moving less and did not even try to take to their air. When one of the Companions in his wolf-shaped armor climbed onto its back, raised a great claymore, and cleaved a wing off of the body in five mighty strokes, Sebastien knew that the fight was all but done.
The dragon gave a sudden spasm and threw the Companion bodily from its back. He landed, but the dragon had risen to its feet again, and thrown its back to breathe a great plume of fire into the sky and the sight confirmed Sebastien's worst fears. The dragon was mighty, to be sure, but mostly smooth and grey-green. At Helgen, the dragon had blotted out the sky, and its black spiky form had burned itself into his mind like one of those pitiful silhouettes against the walls of Helgen Keep. Here, the dragon's fire burned men alive with torrents of orange and red. At Helgen, it had tuned them to ash as they fell to the ground amidst a sea of white-blue flames. This is the dragon of Bleak Falls.
As the great beast was dying on the fields of Whiterun, Sebastien found himself looking to the skies again. How many are there? If one had been at Helgen, and another here, were they all across Skyrim, or perhaps Tamriel? Were the Knights of the Silver Rose even now fighting dragons on the streets of Whiterun? How many? And where did they come from?
He was jolted out of his thoughts by another deafening sound from the dragon, this one a deep booming growl that almost seemed to convey speech. "Dovahkiin? NOOOOOOOO!" The dragon's final roar reverberated off of the watchtower and the plains, fading slowly as the great beast died. When Sebastien looked at the dragon - one of the dragons - he realized that it had died looking straight at him. The light faded from its eyes, and its huge limbs relaxed in death. It was unnerving, staring at something so old and terrible. He saw something in the eyes, and stepped back, worried that there was enough light in the dragon's eyes for one final blow. But although he saw light, Mirmulnir did not rise again.
He paused. That name, Mirmulnir. He knew is belonged to the dragon, proclaiming him 'Most Loyal of the Great Hunters', and he had won it when the men still dwelt in Far Atmora, and the Mer wept for the sin of Creation. How can I know that? He felt the wind beneath his wings - I do not have wings - and saw the screams of the mortals as they sought do kill him. His fire licked over them – What is happening to me? – and they burned. He saw fire then, around him and on him. He saw himself, standing there, wreathed in the nine hundred colors of the sun, and he saw himself, lying there, vanquished by the man-mer of the winged hourglass.
He died, and he flowed into himself, and felt something within him. He recalled the words far beneath in Bleak Falls were he first encountered his killers, the epitaph of his fallen servant, and knew their meaning. He saw them on the back of his eyelids, and mocked the crude human hands that had shaped it. They meant well, to raise words of honor in the tongue of their masters, but it was crude work, manling work. He knew the words though, and one in particular was pleasing to him. Whatever mortal had carved Fus had done a passable job, and the words resonance within him was pleasing. He thought on Fus and the power of force, of molding the world to your will, of the power behind every act. Fus – 'Force' – the ultimate equalizer, the favored tool of the Dov, so useful to showing the Joore the power of the Dov. They cowered and knelt, and if they rose, Fus put them in their place.
Sebastien opened his eyes; he did not recall closing them. The survivors of the battle with the dragon were clustered around him, and he wondered why. Surely I was not the only one to fall. Then he chanced to look at Mirmulnir. How long was I unconscious?
The dragon was no more. In its place lay a great skeleton, unnaturally clean given how recently it had been flesh and blood. He found his voice. "What…what happened?"
A bellow came from the ring of watchers, and the huge blue-painted Faltur strode forward. He had recovered his axe, and pointed it at Sebastien. "Man-Elf, speak Thu'um."
"What? What is thume?" How do you know of Thu'um, manling? He looked around him, taken aback by how… strong he felt. The aches and wounds he received were gone, and his magicka felt completely replenished. He focused on a few faces. Irileth was confused, and, unless he missed his guess, annoyed that something else had happened after bringing down the dragon. Lydia had wide eyes and a slightly open mouth; he thought that she might be surprised or upset. He spotted Hroldr, half his face scarred from battle healing and leaning on a spear; his eyes were so wide it was impossible to mistake his feeling for anything but excitement. Of course, the boy could just be feeling the rush of brining down a dragon. He realized that Faltur was talking again.
"Not thume. Thu'um." The long 'oo' in the middle was punctuated with a glottal stop. Sebastien gave thanks for his skill with tongues and mentally resigned himself to this impromptu dialect lesson. "Very well, what is Thu'um?"
The big Nord pointed at his corp-the dragon. "Dovahzul. The Thu'um is the Voice." He raised his voice, and his wordless yell shook the earth. "Now you. Speak Thu'um."
He realized what the Clan Nord was saying, and bafflement grew within him. "You want me to Shout? To be a Tongue?" The ancient High Kings of the Nords had been Tongues along with their fiercest warriors, and they ravaged High Rock and looted their temples. Not since the Nords were driven out by High King Ryain Direnni and Sir Anwyll Puretide of the Second Direnni Hegemony had a Tongue come to High Rock. I don't know the first thing about being a Tongue!
He rose, ready to talk Faltur out of his foolishness. As he opened his mouth, the words he had prepared left him. Something within him was stirring, and upon his bones the Thu'um the Nord had used still echoed. It was Thu'um only by courtesy, half-formed and wordless and befitting only the mouth of the paltry mortal that had uttered it, but it was a challenge nonetheless, and challenge must not go unanswered. To back down was to subservient, and we was Knight! He was Dov! He ruled here!
"FUS!"
The word bubbled up from deep within him, leaving emptiness behind. He could not even breathe in its wake, and had to put a hand on his chest as threatened to fall. He realized that the watchers had gone silent, and looked up. Faltur had been knocked five paces back, but now was striding quickly towards him. Sebastien opened his mouth, trying to apologize, certain that the painted barbarian was about to strike him. The Nord stopped a pace away, however, and sunk down to one knee.
"Dovahkiin." Just the one word. The surrounding crowd seemed as confused as Sebastien. He looked at Lydia, but the roiling emotions on her face made her impossible to read. For Irileth, his use of the Shout seemed to have shocked her out of her annoyed glare. Hroldr was probably running out of space on his face for his eyes to get larger. Faltur stood and seized Sebastien's arm, raising it high into the air with such strength that he ran the risk of either dragging Sebastien's feet off the ground or pulling the limb right out of its socket! "Man-Elf is Dovahkiin! Man-Elf is Dragonborn!"
With that final word, chaos broke loose. Seemingly every Nord in the crowd began shouting all at once, and Lydia moved in swiftly. "You are Dragonborn? And you did not think to tell us?"
"I don't know what a Dragonborn is, and I certainly didn't know that I was one!" He was trying to remain calm amidst the madness but failing miserably. He lowered his voice; the last thing he wanted was one of those Shouts slipping out. "The dragon did something to me when it died; I saw through its eyes. That must be why I can Shout like that." He shuddered. "Believe me, I would not have chosen this." The distaste of being a Breton Tongue aside, he could still feel the dragon's mind rising within his again. He wanted these squabbling mortals to be quiet, and he knew that with just a few shouts, he could bowl them over and make them kneel. He forced that thought down. All he wanted was to figure out why this was happening.
Irileth approached, two of the Dragonsreach guards at her back. "Lydia, grab what you need. I don't know what's going on, but Carth has explained a bit about this Dragonborn business. We're starting back to Whiterun this instant." She turned to Sebastien. "You keep your mouth shut until we figure out what's going on." He nodded, grateful to be leaving this place. The crowd stood aside to let them pass, Faltur and his karls bowing and many others giving him off looks. Among them stood the Warrior in Ebony. His visor-covered head rose as he passed to regard him. He glimpsed his eyes through the dark holes in his visor and saw the beaming pride there. A strange warmth filled his belly as something that might have been hope swelled in his chest, and he turned away. Irileth took the lead while Lydia and four other Dragonsreach guards surrounded Sebastien. Behind them, the crowd was still in turmoil, with many trying to break apart the dragon skeleton while others began leaving for Whiterun or some other destination. More were simply milling about, seemingly trying to figure out what had just happened. They are welcome to tell me once they figure it out.
As they got on their way, he approached the Housecarl. He had no problems with keeping his silence, but he needed to say this first. "Irileth."
Her eyes narrowed. "I said quiet. I don't want-"
"Listen." He kept his voice low, but the urgency in it bled through. "This wasn't the same dragon."
"What?" He knew that she understood; her eyes gave her away. She simply didn't want to believe.
"This dragon is not the same one from Helgen. That one was black, spiked, bigger than this." He was fairly certain that Lydia could hear them, but he didn't care. "I'll stop talking now, but you needed to know. This isn't over yet."
As they moved on down the road, he was left alone with his thoughts. He had taken knowledge from the dragon, and it had given him the ability to read the inscription from Bleak Falls Barrow. The most troubling part of that was that he could not recall the writing now, nor would ha have been able to beforehand. Somehow the dragon had wrested the knowledge from within his mind. Or, something kept my memory safe from even me until I had his knowledge and could make use of it. He had not missed the way that nearly every Nord on the battlefield had looked at him with new eyes after learning that he was Dragonborn. He just wished he knew what it was that they saw.
And what am I?
You are Dragonborn, mortal. Enjoy it while you can. Alduin is returned, and your soul belongs to him.
Elsewhere
Klimmek groaned, shifting the weight of the pack across his shoulders. The path to High Hrothgar grew harder on him with each passing month. Getting old, I suppose. Maybe it was time to start looking for someone to take over for him. Gwilin would probably be willing to it, if Temba ever gave him enough time to make the trek. It took about two days to make it to the monastery. He could use the extra time fishing, or maybe talking to Fastred. A quick breeze of frigid mountain air shook Klimmek out of his and he readjusted the pack stuffed with dried meat and fish on his shoulders. The snow shimmered slightly in the moonlight as Klimmek dredged through it towards the heavy weathered chest sitting at the foot of the pair of stairs leading to the monastery's entrance.
The fisherman knelt before the great chest, painfully aware of the strain of his knees as he did so. Still, he took some solace in knowing he was still strong enough to make the trek at all, and opened the great chest. Empty, as usual. It was the only evidence that Klimmek ever got that the Greybeards even noticed the outside world. It was almost an honor to know that even the work of a fisherman could catch the notice of Masters of the Voice. Klimmek shrugged the pack off his shoulders and left it inside the chest, closing the lid shut with a heavy thud. He stood up with another groan, only to freeze as he heard a door that for all his life had been closed, suddenly open.
Klimmek looked up and thought for a moment that the entire world had frozen in a single moment of time. There, standing at the top of the stairs, in front of the heavy wooden doors of High Hrothgar was a Greybeard. Klimmek had often wondered across his many, many trips up and down the Seven-Thousand Steps just what the ancient Masters of the Voice might look like. The legend in front of his did great justice to his many wonderings. Clad in heavy, fur-lined robes of iron-grey with his weathered brow under a hooded cap and a heavy, knotted beard of white, the old sage greatly resembled someone's favorite grandfather. He wore no gag, as the stories said and his mouth was quirked up in a gentle smile.
Then, the Greybeard spoke.
"You are Klimmek, correct?"
Instinctively, Klimmek flinched and braced himself as soon of the Greybeard opened his mouth, eyes clenched tight in anticipation. When he found himself still in a singular piece after several tense moments, Klimmek opened his eyes and found the Greybeard patiently awaiting his answer. The fisherman felt his ears burn and silently berated himself for making a fool of himself in front of a Greybeard. The old sage in front of him remained silent, still waiting.
At last, Klimmek found his voice. "Y-yes, I am Klimmek." Despite his slight stutter, Klimmek did his best to keep his voice firm, but reverential.
The Greybeard smiled at him and in a low voice that, while it did not shake the earth or split open the sky, still carried a level of venerability and wisdom. "You have our thanks, master Klimmek." The Greybeard said humbly. "It is comforting to know that even in such trying times, there are still good folk who would see a few old men fed."
"Y-you're welcome," Klimmek didn't know what else he could say.
"Klimmek, I am Master Argneir, I speak for the Greybeards and I must ask that you bear a message for the people of Ivarstead on our behalf."
Klimmek nodded his head so fast, it ran the risk of falling right off. "Of course," he said immediately. "Anything."
"You must tell the people of Ivarstead that they must evacuate to Fort Greenwall. It is for their own safety, but rest assured, they will be safe to return before the evening." The Greybeard look directly into Klimmek's eyes and the fisherman couldn't help but feel as if the whole world was being placed on his shoulders. "Can you do that Klimmek?"
"It will be done, Master."
Master Argneir smiled warmly. "Thank you, Klimmek."
Klimmek would return down the mountain, running faster than he had ever run before, making the climb down the Seven-Thousand Steps in only half a day's time. the shortest know time in recorded history. This achievement would remain paltry in Klimmek's eyes with the knowledge of the days that would follow. And though the fisherman would live through some of the most eventful and extraordinary times seen in many decades, nothing would compare to the day he saw a Graybeard with his own eyes.
High King Ryain Direnni (1E 311 – 1E 566) was the last Elven king of High Rock. Ryain's reign was a long and prosperous one despite ending with the final collapse of the Second Direnni Hegemony. During his lifetime, King Ryain saw to the destruction of the first Orsinium some 150 years after the infamous Green Tide, the successful defense against the Alessian Empire during the historic Battle of Glenumbra Moors, and even driving off the Nords at the Battle of Novulk Hills. It was during this battle that High King Sweyn the Boneless was beheaded by Ryain's Breton son and champion Sir Anwyll Puretide after being challenged to an honor duel, only for the spectating Nord army to be slaughtered by Breton calvary. Sweyn was so horrified that he did nothing even as the Puretide's sword cleaved his head from his body.
AN: Quick note about the Thu'um and the Old Clan Nords. Prior to the release of Skyrim, a major part of the flavor for the province was the conflict between the Imperialized Nords who embraced Talos and the new gods, and the old ones who held to the Nordic pantheon and revered the quasi-totemic spirits of Atmora. This was eventually merged into the Stormcloak Rebellion, but the notion of the Old Holds is canonical enough that I feel comfortable including clans of backwoods Nords who are on the 'barbaric' side of the Nord civilization scale. They hold onto the old gods, go nearly naked in blizzards, fight like madmen, some can use a rudimentary version of the Thu'um, and the wise among them know a lot about the history and legends of their area. They won't be a huge part of this story going forward, but they are a taste of the kind of interesting lore that was missing from much of Skyrim. Until next time, folks, take care. - Bones