Chapter 3
Mull isn't sure how long he remains unconscious. It's likely just a few seconds, though to him it feels a good deal longer. He groggily awakens, as though emerging from a deep dreamless slumber.
He finds himself still laying on the ground in the middle of the courtyard. Helgen is burning around him, dozens of buildings alight with devouring flames and curtains of oily black smoking wafting towards the sky. His body is filled with an indescribable sensation, a searing numbness like his blood is boiling in his veins. His ears ring painfully.
A muffled voice pierces through the haze and rouses him from his stupor. "Come on, brother! The gods won't give us another chance!"
Ralof the Stormcloak is standing over him with an expression caught somewhere between bewilderment and terror. The man yanks him to his feet with strong hands and together they run – or stagger, in Mull's case – for the shelter of a tower on the far side of the courtyard. It's sheer madness, with soldiers rushing every which way, women and children screaming in panic, and above all else, ferocious roars that rattle his teeth with their sheer intensity. Fire pours down from above in columns and waves, washing against the fortress walls and overtaking many who attempt to flee even as he watches.
They somehow reach the tower alive. As they scramble up a handful of steps to the entrance, another Stormcloak reaches around the doorframe to grab them and haul them inside. The sounds of Helgen's terror are muffled within the safety of the solid structure.
Ulfric Stormcloak is there along with a few of his men, unbound and ungagged for the first time that Mull has seen. The man still appears sickly, with gaunt cheeks like a famine victim, but he holds himself with an assuredness that makes it clear from first glance he's the one in command here. The tower's denizens gather around him, and Mull and Ralof instinctively follow their lead.
Nobody seems to know what to do. Some of the Stormcloaks are practically in hysterics, and Mull really can't blame them. He has no idea how he should be reacting to something like this, so he settles for empty detachment, like he's an outside observer to his own body. Dragons are supposed to be long gone from the world, not having been seen at least since the days of Tiber Septim himself, if even then. They're the stuff of legends, reserved only for storytelling and the performances of bards. At least, they should be.
Several of the Stormcloaks voice that same thought aloud, but Ulfric Stormcloak replies with firm simplicity. "Legends don't burn down villages." His voice is rich and smooth, that of a man accustomed to exercising unquestioned authority over many others.
Mull briefly considers the possibility that he's in a dream, but dismisses it out of hand. He massages his throbbing forehead. Dreams aren't supposed to hurt this much.
The Jarl says more, as do a few other men, but he doesn't remember the words. Their current circumstances have rendered him practically insensate. The world is shrouded in varying shades of grey. Only later does he actually recall the Jarl's statement about legends and villages. Right now, everything else is lost in an amnesic fog.
After cowering inside the tower for some time, the roars of the dragon and the cries of the dying grow fainter. The little group dares to cautiously emerge from their haven.
The courtyard is strewn with piles of ash, charred bones, and molten slag that were once men and their armor. In many places, melted stone glows with residual heat. It's unnatural. Mull has never seen a fire that could burn men and solid rock so thoroughly. It seems more akin to the results of unimaginably powerful magic. He doesn't have much experience with magic, but he knows enough to recognize the signs. He goes to kneel beside one of the white-hot flagstones, but stops and scolds himself for his stupidity. Focus. There are bigger things to worry about right now.
He rejoins the Stormcloaks as they creep along the shadow of the walls. They dart one by one into the smoldering husk of a nearby inn, eyes watching the sky as the sounds of terrible destruction continue in the distance.
The place is completely deserted. Only a few tables, chairs, and barrels remain inside, scattered in all directions by the previous residents' desperation to escape. After a moment of silence, Jarl Ulfric motions to what used to be the front door and the group exits onto one of the town's main boulevards.
It is hell. Bodies are everywhere, most blackened far beyond recognition and some still being hungrily consumed by unquenchable flames. People are moving among the dead, sobbing and wailing as they encounter the remains of family and friends. Many buildings are completely razed to the ground, now little more than heaps of broken charcoal. Billowing clouds of smoke and dust obstruct the sun's light.
Mull gags at the rancid stench of burning flesh pervading the cinder-filled air. He isn't the only one.
"By the Nine," whispers Ralof. His voice trembles. There really are no words to describe the tapestry of misery and death laid out before them.
Suddenly, an earsplitting roar rings forth much closer than before. Mull tears his eyes from the carnage and turns to the sky.
Something blots out the sun. The reptilian monster is now flying in their direction with great wings unfurled. Its flame-wreathed maw opens to display countless crimson-stained teeth. Before, he hadn't been able to properly gauge its actual size, but now its full breadth is made horribly apparent. The monster is enormous, easily the size of the inn behind him, far larger than he thinks any living thing has a right to be.
After that, he doesn't think. He runs. He turns and runs blindly, urged onwards by a cacophony of terrified screams, refusing to falter even as they're cut off by a great unearthly screech.
He doesn't know how long he sprints through the blackened ruin that was once Helgen. It's total chaos, scrambling around blind corners and dodging flaming debris as the town is obliterated around him. He's operating on pure animalistic impulse, running until the danger has been left behind. Unfortunately, you can't outrun something that flies. Savage roars echo through the sky as the dragon continuously hunts its helpless prey, its enormous shadow a herald of inescapable death.
As he rounds another corner, he catches a glimpse of Ralof and two other Stormcloaks, a man and a woman, following right on his heels. All three are deathly pale, something that makes the blood and ash coating their bodies and ragged sackcloth garb stand out all the more. He probably looks about the same. He briefly wonders what became of Ulfric Stormcloak, left behind on the street outside of the deserted inn.
That thought is quickly forgotten as he emerges from an alleyway just in time to watch a man be roasted alive. The accursed dragon soars away just above the few rooftops that still remain standing. The man's flesh literally melts into a steaming pile on the stone flags of the street. Not for the first time that day, Mull has to push down the bile rising in his throat at the sight. Two of the others are not as successful, spilling the contents of their stomachs onto the ground as quietly as they can manage.
They continue once the immediate danger has passed, running and surviving by some gods-given miracle, not knowing where they're going or how they can escape this horrific nightmare.
They finally emerge into a wide courtyard within the walls of Helgen's central fortress, much larger than the square where their execution was to take place. Archers and mages stand atop the high walls, futilely seeking to bring down the winged monstrosity that has so thoroughly ravaged the town. Animalistic bellowing resounds from somewhere unseen, a noise that could only belong to a minotaur. They even hear General Tullius himself shouting frantically from the battlements.
The keep looms solidly before them, unyielding and strong. An impenetrable bastion. If they can get inside, they will be safe.
"Get back, you fools!" Without warning, Mull and Ralof are thrown from their feet by an armored man's full-bodied charge. They tumble to the earth, wrapped up together in a tangle of thrashing limbs.
Not two seconds later, the dragon flies low overhead and… does something. Mull thinks he can hear words rippling through the air, humming as if filled with power. There's a faint flash of blue, and suddenly the keep is… gone.
Flying shards of stone whizz around their heads, and if it weren't for the kite shield held aloft by the armored man, all of them would've doubtless been riddled with holes. Once the barrage has ceased, he turns to face them.
Mull recognizes him. He's the Imperial soldier who recorded his name before the execution.
"Hadvar…" Ralof croaks.
The man, apparently named Hadvar, quickly shakes his head as he grabs Mull by the arm and hauls him to his feet. "No time! We have to get away from this place!" His exhortation is punctuated by another deafening roar, the thunderous beating of gargantuan wings, and yet more screams. Once everyone is ready to move, the Imperial gestures over one shoulder and sets off at a run. "Come with me if you don't want to die!"
Hadvar leads them further along the wall of the keep to a small postern door, which he unlocks with a fumbled keyring and holds open for them to enter. They're greeted by the gloomy interior of Helgen's peripheral fortifications, illuminated only by a handful of inadequate torches. The air is cool and dry. Mull can't tell for certain, but this appears to be a storage room of some kind. Bales of hay and stacks of limber are piled neatly against the walls.
The legionary enters behind them and heaves shut the heavy ironbound door. "This section of the keep is partially underground," he pants. "It should be one of the safest structures in the whole town."
The ceiling shakes worryingly, showering them with dust and small bits of debris. The Stormcloaks each give the man a dubious stare of varying degrees, though Mull is too busy catching his breath to bother with being cynical. He's preoccupied trying to wrap his head around the fact that he's still alive.
After a brief discussion in low voices, Hadvar and the Stormcloaks head towards one of the hallways branching off from the storage room. With nothing better to do, Mull wordlessly follows as they make their way through a series of poorly-lit tunnels. The shaking doesn't abate, which to his mind is extremely worrying. I don't think a building made of stone is supposed to move around this much.
They eventually run across an armory along their route and hastily girt themselves with whatever weapons and armor they find on short notice, as well as other miscellaneous equipment. Mull decides to take an Imperial-style short sword, a heavy cloth aketon, a cloak, thick gloves, and a faded but sturdy leather rucksack. Not the best quality gear, but he'll take what he can get. It's better than the rags he's been wearing up till now.
Hadvar seems hesitant to allow them weapons – unsurprising since Mull is pretty sure the man could be court-martialed for such a thing – but he's clearly making an exception due to their current circumstances.
After several more minutes of dim passages and low ceilings, they emerge from the tunnels near the town's northern gatehouse, which now little more than a pile of destroyed masonry. No other living people are in sight. Plenty of dead though. Kyne's breath, it's a massacre… There must be dozens of corpses scattered around them, alone or in charred heaps. It's completely still. There aren't even any animals moving about, and no scavengers have arrived yet to partake of the waiting feast.
They carefully clamber over the twisted remains of a portcullis and drop to the other side while Hadvar stands watch, eyeing their surroundings warily. He hastily follows once they're over the gate.
They've somehow made it out of Helgen. They may be covered head to toe in soot, dust, and blood, and reeking of smoke, but at least they're alive and whole. Well, mostly. Ralof's male compatriot sustained a nasty gash to his left calf at some point during their escape, but it doesn't appear to be life-threatening. The woman helps him hobble along at a decent pace.
A dark pine forest looms before them, sloping away from the town at a shallow incline. The northward road disappears into its murky depths after thirty or so yards. Mull sends up a quick prayer to whoever happens to be listening, thankful for the ample cover that the trees will provide.
"We need to keep moving," Hadvar urges. Though bleeding and exhausted, the rest of them each voice their respective agreement. For his part, Mull can't wait to be away from the hellscape behind them.
Without further delay, they delve into the shadows cast by the densely-packed trees at a jog, too exhausted to sprint but too frightened to maintain a normal place.
Once they're deep enough to feel that the immediate danger has been averted, only then do they stop to consider their options. They huddle together beneath the needled canopy of an especially broad evergreen.
"We can continue north to the White River and Riverwood, or we can turn west for Falkreath." Hadvar crosses his arms. "Either would be a valid decision, but I think Falkreath would be safer for us. It has stout walls and a strong garrison."
"So did Helgen," Ralof retorts. "Those aren't things we can depend on. Riverwood is closer, and right now we'd be better served by getting a roof over our heads as soon as possible." He indicates his beige gambeson and the axe looped into his belt. "The equipment we took from the armory will help, but it isn't enough for us to go tramping through the wilderness for too long. Our supplies won't last."
"The southern shore of Lake Ilinalta is much more heavily forested than the banks of the White River. Reliable cover is critical. We need to be sure that we can avoid being seen by that dragon if it flies near us."
"You just said it yourself. It can fly. In a land like Skyrim, it could reach Dawnstar and come back far faster than we could ever hope to travel, even if we had horses. No destination will be safer than anywhere else."
Mull leans against a tree and watches as the four other survivors begin arguing amongst themselves. He decides to stay out of it since they seem to know the local geography much better than him. Whatever they decide to do, he thinks his best bet is to stick with them. There's strength in numbers when traversing unknown terrain. Besides, he's utterly exhausted. He'll have to stop for rest at some point, and he'd rather do that with somebody around to keep watch.
Eventually, Hadvar relents to the three Stormcloaks' desire to go to this Riverwood place. Mull overhears that he and Ralof are both originally from Riverwood, which is why the legionary agrees in the end. That's good. If the two men are from this area, then they should know the land decently well.
According to Hadvar, Riverwood can be reached in about three days if they follow the road north and then turn northeast once they reach the White River. However, that estimation of three days is assuming they're in good physical condition, which they aren't. The male Stormcloak's injured leg in particular will be a hindrance. Four or five days is more likely in their case.
Hadvar soon gets them all moving again, though he apparently isn't quite finished speaking. As Mull finds himself walking beside the legionary while the Stormcloaks trail behind, it falls to him to listen. "A dragon…" the Imperial wonders aloud. "It must be the first in a thousand years…"
Mull frowns. "I thought the dragons were all dead a long time ago."
"So did I! If the Stormcloaks somehow found one and woke it up, then the war might be about to take an ugly turn." The man's tone is bleak. "It's difficult to believe this could've been a coincidence, that the first dragon anyone's seen for centuries decided to attack Helgen right as Ulfric Stormcloak was about to be executed."
One of the Stormcloaks, the woman, speaks up from behind. "But dragons aren't supposed to be real!"
"Weren't real, you mean."
"What's the difference?" the other Stormcloak weakly asks.
"Much, it would seem." Hadvar's expression hardens. "A fact of which your Jarl appears to be fully aware."
"That's trollshit!" Ralof explosively swears. Mull finds it distinctly odd to see the normally open and friendly man become suddenly so furious. "How dare you insinuate something like that! As if Jarl Ulfric would ever stoop to such dishonor, to use a creature straight out of a fairytale to rain death upon his own countrymen!"
"Oh, and you discuss grand strategy with Ulfric Stormcloak on a regular basis? I didn't realize you lot were so highly positioned within the rebel hierarchy, to intimately know the thoughts and plans of your lord."
They collectively shuffle with unease. Mull watches the exchange with a mixture of amusement and mounting annoyance.
Hadvar continues. "If Ulfric Stormcloak somehow found a dragon, none of you would've had any idea until now. Is that assumption wrong?"
"…No," Ralof spits out. "But that doesn't change the fact that Jarl Ulfric would never do such a thing! He fights tooth and nail for our peoples' future, for our freedoms! Unleashing a dragon upon Skyrim… ye gods…" He leans heavily against a tree trunk, exhausted and entirely defeated.
After everything they just survived and witnessed, Mull can empathize with those feelings. The Imperial opens his mouth to continue, but he decides that the soldiers' argument has gone on long enough. Someone needs to be the voice of reason, and that responsibility has unfortunately fallen to himself.
"That's enough," he interrupts. "Our first concern should be getting as far away from Helgen as possible. The dragon could be hunting us down right now, even as we stand here wasting time."
They all stop to look cautiously to the sky.
"How the dragon came to be here doesn't matter right now. I don't care whether your Jarl summoned it from thin air or not. I just care about getting out of this mess alive." He sighs and presses his hand against his brow. Breathing in all that smoke gave him a raging headache, though the adrenaline shooting through his veins prevented him from noticing until just now. "Quit your yammering and let's move. We don't have all day."
"…Remind me again, who are you?"
He gives Hadvar an indignant glare. "Really?"
The legionary stares at him for a few awkward seconds. Finally, his eyes light up in recognition. "Ah. You're the prisoner who insisted he wasn't a Stormcloak, aren't you? Apologies, but…" He waves vaguely at him. "All the blood and grime makes it difficult to distinguish."
The man grimaces.
"Your companion was the man who tried to run when he was called to the block. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about what happened. That was… an unpleasant end. I wouldn't have wished it on anybody."
Mull bares his teeth. "Save your pity for someone who needs it, Nord." Lokir wouldn't want it from one of the people who killed him.
Startled by his vehemency, Hadvar averts his gaze and begins walking again. "…Right. I understand."
The Stormcloaks eye him warily as he stalks after the Imperial. The sounds of their footfalls inform him that they're following close behind.
The road through the forest obviously hasn't seen significant use for some time. The flagstones are cracked and overgrown with tangled layers of grass and lichen. Trees crowd closely on either side, hemming them into what feels like a narrow tunnel reminiscent of those they just traversed beneath Helgen. It's unnervingly silent, with no rustling underbrush to signal the presence of wildlife or birds flittering in the branches overhead, as if all of Kyne's creation knows that something is badly amiss in the world.
Ralof and his two comrades jump skittishly at every snapping of a twig or louder-than-usual whistling of the wind through the branches. Clusters of pine needles crunch beneath their boots. Hadvar remains stoic, though Mull is sure he's just is as uneasy as the rest of them. He, for his part, does his best to mimic the legionary's impassiveness, if only for the sake of maintaining his own sanity. However, he can't keep himself from anxiously watching the sky overhead, nor his palms from becoming coated with sweat. The mere memory of that black dragon with eyes burning like the fires of Oblivion itself… well, he could say it was terrifying, but that would be an understatement. He endures as best he can, the same as the rest of his newfound companions.
He unfortunately has plenty of free time to think as they trudge along the road in weary silence, and much of that time is spent mentally cataloguing the day's events, unbelievable as they are. He wonders once more if he's been trapped inside a dream, but the soreness of his legs and the dull ache in his stomach are quick to dissuade him of that notion. However, those comparatively minor discomforts are dwarfed most of all by his intense misgivings and the accompanying anger directed at himself. Needless to say, there are a lot of things he regrets at the moment. Coming north was a terrible mistake. First Imperials and now a dragon of all things? They're not even supposed to exist, for Talos' sake! If he knew that he'd get caught up in something like this, he wouldn't have crossed over the Jerall Mountains in the first place.
They travel as long as they're able, until it's nearly sunset, before finally stopping to rest. When they do, they organize and take stock of their nonexistent supplies. In terms of food, their circumstances are less than ideal. They don't have many provisions other than a few scraps of bread and dried meat that Ralof and his female comrade had the foresight to swipe from the keep on their way out of Helgen, much of which has already been eaten. Water shouldn't be an issue since there are a few shallow streams flowing through the forest nearby, but if they can't successfully hunt or forage during the journey ahead, then they'll likely be in trouble.
From eavesdropping on the Stormcloaks' conversations, Mull finally learns that the wounded man's name is Gunjar and the woman's is Rana. He doesn't particularly care – he doubts that he'll stay with them beyond the next few days – but their names are repeated often enough that they become ingrained into his memory. It isn't explicitly a bad thing. You never know when you might need to yell at someone to duck beneath an unseen attack or start running for their life.
The night is a tense one, to say the least. They go without a fire and keep two of their number on a rotating watch at all times.
Mull and Ralof are on watch together about an hour before dawn when they hear something massive fly directly overhead, moving northwards with unbelievable speed. It's just as they feared – the dragon has returned. Mull clamps a hand over his mouth, terrified that the winged monstrosity might somehow hear his breathing and kill them all. This is the end, his mind traitorously whispers.
But luck is evidently on their side for now, and it seems that the gods haven't decided to claim their souls quite yet. The dragon soars across the treetops without slowing and continues on its way, seemingly oblivious to the humans cowering beneath the foliage below. The others are woken by the commotion of the trees swaying violently with the creature's passing and flatten themselves against the earth, eyes darting about fearfully in the darkness They don't dare move for several minutes after the sound of flapping wings has ceased.
None of them get any more sleep that night. They set off in the early morning and march all day.
-x-
The day passes swiftly beneath their weary yet hurried pace. Soon, the sun has set and the autumn chill of late evening is upon them once more.
As Mull pushes through a belt of dense foliage into a clearing just off the side of the road, he stifles a yawn and scans the trees with not nearly as much perceptiveness as he usually would. He's too tired.
For that reason, he only realizes that something is amiss when a boulder on the far side of the glade emits a throaty grunt and ponderously stands on four bulky legs. Clearly, he was wrong to offhandedly assume it was a lifeless rock.
It's an adolescent brown bear, crouched protectively over what looks to be the remains of a recent kill. There's only about ten yards of open ground between him and the creature. He freezes, but it's already too late. The others have blundered into the clearing right behind him, one by one like a column of lemmings.
The beast turns as it hears them approach, observes them for a moment, and announces its displeasure with a low growl that makes Mull's hair stand on end. Rana hisses as the bear gives the five intruders a furious glare with dark, gleaming eyes. Ralof slowly takes up the bow strung across his shoulders and nocks an arrow.
Mull berates himself silently. He hadn't noticed any bows in the armory back at Helgen, and now he's wishing he had. They've always been his strong suit. He was one of the best archers in Joren's gang, hands down.
Without further warning, the bear snarls and charges with a speed belied by its imposing size. Ralof immediately draws and fires. The arrow strikes the beast in the dense flesh of its shoulder, failing to do anything besides making it angrier.
"Scatter!" barks Hadvar. He raises his kite shield against the rapidly approaching beast while Mull and the others jump to the sides. The bear thunders towards the Imperial, the ground shaking with each stomp of its massive paws. It slams into the man's shield and easily bowls him over.
Ralof readies another arrow. Mull draws his sword but doesn't risk getting close enough to actually use it. Several hundred pounds of fur and muscle is not something to be carelessly trifled with, though Hadvar seems to think otherwise. If nothing else, the Imperial has some balls. He almost rushes to the beleaguered legionary's aid – he saved his life back at Helgen, after all – but he hesitates. Ultimately, he isn't willing to take the risk. That bear looks like it means business. If Hadvar's courage gets him killed, then that's his business.
Hadvar curls underneath his shield as the bear reduces it to splinters with its claws. When the shield is little more than kindling, the bear rears up to drop its full weight onto the helpless man.
He's spared from being unceremoniously flattened by the arrival of Ralof's second arrow as it slams into the side of the creature's head. The huge animal stumbles, roars in anguish, and turns its beady black eyes to the Stormcloak.
His third arrow, immediately following the previous, sinks deeply into the bear's upper torso.
The creature lets out a pitiful groan, stumbles a few more steps, lurches precipitously, and falls to the earth with a resounding crash. Hadvar scrambles away on all fours like a frightened mudcrab.
The bear writhes and whimpers for the better part of a minute until it breathes its last and falls still.
After that, a tense stillness descends on the glade as the five survivors consider just how close they came to getting themselves stupidly killed. It's finally broken when Hadvar releases a shuttering breath and slowly gets to his feet. He tosses aside the remnants of his shield, now useless, and gives Ralof a tired nod. "Must've pierced the heart or lungs. Not bad."
Ralof grins as he produces a keen-edged knife.
Given the size of the creature, food is no longer an issue for them. There's bear on the menu tonight.
-x-
Later that evening, as they sit around the campfire while roasting greasy slabs of bear meat, they briefly discuss the possibility of other people having survived Helgen.
In particular, Ralof and Hadvar wonder if Ulfric Stormcloak or General Tullius managed to survive. Both seem optimistic about their respective leader's chances.
"Jarl Ulfric is a warrior without peer," the Stormcloak proudly states. "He survived the horrors of the Great War, subjugated the Forsworn with his conquest of the Reach, and defeated High King Torygg himself with the power of his Voice! Even a dragon could not bring about his end. I believe that wholeheartedly."
"Torygg was little more than a boy. Of course Ulfric Stormcloak defeated him," Hadvar grumbles. He swiftly continues before Ralof can begin arguing with him. "General Tullius, for his part, is a wise man. You heard him leading the defense of Helgen against that monster. We all did. He's courageous, but he's also a strategist. He'd know a losing fight when he saw it." The legionary shakes his head sadly. "My guess is that he retreated when he realized victory was impossible. He's likely headed back to Solitude even as we speak."
"Where he can continue his yipping as just another Thalmor lapdog," Ralof darkly retorts. "Don't tell me you didn't see those High Elves, Hadvar. You know they were involved in this somehow."
"…Aye." The legionary's features remain stony, but his tone oozes with poorly-repressed shame. "They were. I can't deny that, though I don't know the details either."
"Why?" All eyes turn to Rana as she speaks up, one of the few times she's deigned to do so. "Do you not hate them just as we do? If you do, then why do you fight against us? We only want our freedom, Imperial. Freedom that you are taking away from us. But if we joined together, then surely even the Thalmor would fall before our blades."
His gaze becomes stern as it passes over the three Stormcloaks. "It's true that we must have unity," he states with unshakeable certainty. "But you're looking at it all wrong. We can't afford to fight among ourselves. The Empire will only survive this age of aggression if we stand strong, together. All of us. No matter what that might entail or the realities we might have to accept." He stares into the fire. "Our leaders have sold their souls to the Thalmor and subjected our people to their petty whims. Aye, the ban on worship of Ysmir Talos is inexcusable. For our people to have turned their backs on our most glorious god-king is a deplorable act. There are none who would deny that. But this is simply what we must do for the Empire to survive. If we can ensure our continued existence, then we can outlast the Thalmor. Their population is smaller and replenishes far more slowly than that of Man. They will fall, just as all other enemies of the Empire have fallen throughout our history." His words come quicker, burgeoned with passion. "Can you not see the bigger picture? We live in hard times, but it's only so that the times in which our children will live can be better. Aren't these tribulations worth enduring for that reason alone?"
Ralof shakes his head. "So until then, you're content to be their slaves? You'd let Orkey do all the hard work for you? Gods above Hadvar, you're hardly fit to call yourself a Nord. You've gotten yourself wrapped up in justifications. How could it be wrong for us to fight for our people's sovereignty, even in the face of eventual defeat? The end of a journey is only vindicated by the actions we take to get there."
"Maybe it isn't wrong to fight for freedom. But it's certainly foolish, however you try to excuse it."
"…Then we'll agree to disagree," says Ralof with finality. "Just as we've done before."
The legionary hesitates for a long moment, his expression downcast once more. "Aye. I suppose things haven't really changed."
They fall into silence after that, interrupted only by the crackling of their campfire and the sizzling of the bear's butchered flesh being slowly cooked, rivulets of molten fat dripping into the hot coals. Mull was starting to get fed up with listening to their politics. He's thankful that they're finally finished, and celebrates by cutting away a slice of the bear's seared flank. He takes an experimental bite and grunts with contentment. It's gamey and flavorful, just the way it should be.
Eventually, Gunjar poses a question. "I wonder how many of the townspeople survived."
When it doesn't look like anyone else is going to answer, Mull grumbles through his mouthful of meat and speaks his mind. "Judging by what we saw in there… probably not many."
"If we made it out, then others could've also," Rana says insistently. It sounds like she's trying to convince herself.
"Aye," the injured Stormcloak quietly replies. "Hopefully."
Mull tears another chunk out of his slab of cooked bear. There were those three High Elves too. I hope they got eaten. Then the dragon would've done one good thing, at least.
Several hours later, after the end of his watch, he wraps himself in the ratty cloak he pilfered from Helgen keep, leans against a fallen log, and closes his eyes. The cloak stinks of its former owner's old sweat, but it's better than being cold.
It isn't long before he drifts into a fitful slumber. He's plagued by dreams, as he often is when there's no alcohol available. However, unlike the usual fare, these dreams are shrouded in a veil of forgetfulness, and he can only recall a few scant details after he awakens. A broken tower, a beastly roar, and the tortured screams of the dying, himself included.
-x-
Throughout the next morning, the five notice that the forest seems to be growing darker and thicker with each passing minute. Seeing as it isn't even midday yet, that's distinctly odd.
Rana proves herself to have the sharpest eyes of their group when she begins pointing out strange shapes in the trees overhead. It takes a minute of examination for them to realize what they're looking at.
They're webs. Massive webs weaving from tree to tree. Oblong objects hang from high branches, most likely the silhouettes of local wildlife that have fallen prey to whatever made the webs. However, there are a handful that are suspiciously human-shaped.
Gunjar gulps audibly. "This road is patrolled by the Empire, aye?"
Hadvar scowls and shakes his head. "We're heading towards Whiterun Hold, which is strictly neutral territory. By decree of the Hold's presiding Jarl, the Legion cannot have any official presence within its borders. So no, this road isn't patrolled. It hasn't been for some time now. The only Imperial traffic would be prisoner transfers and shipments of arms, and those are irregular. Most civilian commerce goes further west along the White River to Lake Ilinalta and Falkreath."
Mull glances sidelong at Ralof. "Are those Frostbite spider webs?"
The man gives a dour nod. "It looks that way. I can't think of anything else that could spin webs this big."
"So what do we do?"
Having overheard them, Hadvar sighs and gestures down the road. "We have no choice but to continue onwards."
There's some grumbling, mostly from Gunjar and Ralof, but they eventually get underway. However, they keep a close eye on their surroundings with much greater caution than before.
An hour later, the webs are still as thick as ever, though there haven't been any other signs of predatory arachnids. Mull is simultaneously thankful and not. It's unnerving to not have seen hide nor hair of the culprits. He watches the trees warily, sword drawn and held ready at his side. He's had a few run-ins with lone Frostbite spiders in the wilds of the Eastmarch and the Rift, but this is something else entirely. If there are this many webs… no. He doesn't even want to think about it. Just one of the creatures is enough to make his skin crawl. Anymore than that and he'll be about as terrified as Gunjar looks to be right now. White as a bedsheet and trembling like a man suffering from Ataxia.
Everything changes when the road emerges into a spacious clearing, much larger than the one where they encountered the bear. However, that isn't the only difference between the two locations. Here, thick fences and overhangs of webbing stretch between the tree trunks all around the perimeter, ten feet high at the lowest point. Off-white ovular shells are clustered together on the ground wherever the shadows are heaviest, some cracked open and others without blemish – eggs, without a doubt, each as large around as a cart wheel. This place reeks with the sickly-sweet scent of decay.
Rana halts with a sharp curse, and Mull runs into her from behind before he can stop himself. The woman stumbles but keeps her feet. He's already discovered that she's a bit of a feisty one despite her reservedness – she's perfectly willing to speak her mind, especially where disagreements with Hadvar are concerned – so he expects to be on the receiving end of an imminent tongue-lashing.
It never comes. Instead, she lifts an arm and points shakily ahead into the trees. He follows her gaze.
There, perched on a branch not a dozen feet away, is an absurdly massive Frostbite spider, all of its countless glittering eyes trained directly on them. Its rust-red chitin contrasts sharply against the pale backdrop of the webs, further exemplifying its remarkable size. He echoes Rana's curse.
As if waiting just for that, more spiders emerge from the sea of white, their numbers rapidly swelling from one to well over a dozen, all of them intent on the little group of intruders. They've stumbled straight into the middle of a Frostbite spider nest.
Gunjar lets out a decidedly unmanly whimper as he palms his axe. Hadvar mutters something about being careless before rapidly issuing orders. "Get in a circle! Face outward! Girl, light some torches!" Mull and the others do as instructed, their weapons already raised in preparation for a desperate defense. In a situation like this, he has no compunctions whatsoever about following someone else's commands.
Ralof nocks an arrow as the spiders creep closer. Mull estimates there must be twenty of them at least, including a trio of big ones. He marvels at the enormity of those latter three. They're easily as large as the bear.
Rana softly speaks, her torches now lit. "The webs across the road look to be the thinnest. We should push up to there and cut our way through."
Hadvar considers for a moment before grunting in agreement. "Good thinking. Gunjar, Mull, you're with me. Ralof, Rana, keep them off our backs." Everybody nods.
Ralof draws his bow, aims, and releases. "Go!" Hadvar shouts just as the Stormcloak's arrow hits a spider directly between its mandibles. The creature collapses limply, its spindly legs splayed every which way.
The clearing erupts into pandemonium. Spiders leap through the air with limbs outstretched and skitter excitedly across the ground. Hadvar, Gunjar, and Mull commit themselves to cutting through those standing between them and their goal. The chitinous armor layering the creatures' bodies is more durable than one might expect, and Mull is forced to stab deeply into each spider in order to kill them. He's wasting previous time and energy, but he has no other choice if he wants them to stay down for good. The earth flows with cerulean blood.
Ralof fires arrow after arrow. Rana waves two torches, warding off as many of the pyrophobic arachnids as she can. Gunjar unleashes a fearsome battle-cry as he charges ahead, hopping on his good leg in his haste to enter the fray. Mull gives the man credit where it's due. He may look terrified, but is actions are certainly courageous. And that's where it counts.
Then, in an instant, it all goes wrong. Just as Gunjar reaches the strands of webbing that are blocking the road, a spider drops from above and lands on top of him, knocking him to the ground. He yells in pain as he's trapped beneath its bulbous abdomen and bitten repeatedly.
"Gunjar!" Rana shrieks. She throws aside her torches, hefts her mace, and charges after the spider. After closing the distance, she swings her weapon with all her might. The creature goes flying across the clearing with the crunch of shattering carapace and a piercing screech. The woman drops to her knees, hovering over the wounded man as he feebly convulses. "Ye gods! W-we've got to help him!"
Ignoring her pleas, Mull grips her arm and roughly hauls her to her feet. "Cut through the web!" he orders.
"But-"
"We need to make sure we can escape, and then we can help him! Hurry!"
She hesitates, her face contorted with indecision, before she curses savagely. She grabs Gunjar's axe and gets to work without further objection. She, Mull, and Hadvar feverishly hack away at the twisted strands of webbing, making steady progress.
Still, Mull worries that it won't be fast enough. Ralof is continuing to hold off the spiders with an axe in one hand and one of Rana's torches in the other, but he's just one man. There's only so much he can do, and it won't take long for him to be overwhelmed.
However, they make quick progress, driven by fear and despair. After a grueling half-minute of desperate work, they finally carve their way through the final layer of the viscid barrier. The overgrown cobbled road stretches before them, their pathway to deliverance. Mull shouts back to Ralof. "We need to go!"
Hadvar is readying himself to cover their retreat when he sees something that causes his eyes to go wide. "Look out!" As she kneels down to help Gunjar, Rana doesn't have time to react before a Frostbite spider lurking behind a nearby tree trunk jumps over Ralof, narrowly avoiding a swipe of his axe, and slams into her with clawed legs outstretched. Its mandibles latch around one of her upraised arms and she screams in agony.
Time seems to slow for Mull as the creature ravages the girl. He hesitates, deliberating whether he should take the chance of going back to help when his escape is so tantalizingly close. Just run! Leave her! If you stay, you're a dead man!
He's almost resolved himself to turn and flee when a blur of movement gives him pause.
Hadvar surges forward with his sword raised. With a mighty leap, he bodily tackles the giant spider. He and the creature go tumbling to the ground together, spitting and hissing as they engage in a vicious struggle. The legionary's weapon is ripped from his grasp and whirls away into the dirt.
This Imperial saved Mull's life back in Helgen, when the keep was destroyed by the dragon's magic. Rana? He could easily leave her to die. After all, he hardly knows her and owes her nothing. You don't get far in life as a bandit if you start caring about strangers without gaining anything in return.
That said, the only reason he's standing here now is because of the legionary's actions. He didn't do anything when the bear nearly killed him, and he's surprised to discover now that he feels regret for that inaction. His pride is demanding he do something, though there's also an element of habitual self-preservation as well. In the world of brigandry, men who incur debts without paying them back rarely live for very long. He isn't one of those men.
He won't ever claim to have much in the way of pride, but he has this much at least. It really is such an inconvenient thing.
"Didn't realize I'm such a sentimental fool. Godsdamn it…" With that, he starts running, but not towards freedom.
Hadvar finally gains a little leverage against the Frostbite spider, gathers his legs beneath its belly, and kicks with the coiled force of his entire body. The creature is propelled into the air, where it spins lazily before landing on the ground with little effort.
It charges back towards Hadvar with astonishing speed. The weaponless legionary puts up his fists, preparing to go down fighting. It will almost certainly be a futile effort, but legionaries aren't known for giving up.
His desperate display of bravery is unneeded. Mull conveniently steps between the two combatants and intercepts the spider with his blade, making use of the creature's own momentum to cleave it in twain. The two halves tumble to either side, turquoise blood and gore splattering across his trousers and the needle-blanketed earth.
The two men make eye contact, share a curt nod, and take stock of the situation.
Wave after endless wave of spiders rush towards their group, threatening to cut off their hard-won escape. The big ones are all dead, but the small ones have received reinforcements and now number several dozen at least. This already dangerous situation has been rendered untenable by such overwhelming odds. Ralof is struggling to keep the beasts back, giving Rana an opening to stumble towards the gap in the webs, but there are far too many. Gunjar has been lost to the swarm.
"We need to run," Mull tiredly states.
"Aye," wheezes Hadvar.
"Help the girl."
"Aye."
The pair weave their way to Rana, with Mull using well-placed thrusts to dispatch any spiders that get too close while Hadvar focuses on reaching the girl as quickly as he can. Once they do, he lifts the girl from her feet and slings her across his shoulders, ignoring her slurred protestations. Ralof joins them in short order, the horde of spiders following right on his heels, and the three plus one break into a sprint as they leave the accursed nest behind.
Within seconds, the webs spanning the forest around them are already diminishing. It doesn't take long for the spiders' angry chittering to fade into the distance as their prey pulls away, escaping into the trees.
The creatures soon give up the chase, their primal frustration not so overwhelming as to draw them away from their nesting grounds. They return to their white-webbed stronghold, intent on recouping their losses and preparing what little prey they've acquired for storage and eventual consumption. This group of prey was unexpectedly ferocious and inflicted disproportionate harm, but the colony will endure. They always do. Frostbite spiders are a tenacious breed. As just one lesser species among the varied predatory denizens of Skyrim, they have to be in order to survive.
