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Skyrim Spartan

Chapter Eleven

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Whiterun Hold was the largest of the nine holds of Skyrim, occupying much the center of the province. Some people, particularly the residents of Whiterun, went so far as to call Whiterun the heart of Skyrim. And there was strong evidence to support that claim beyond its simple geographic location.

In terms of geography, Whiterun Hold was both the flattest and lowest of the holds in terms of elevation, as well as having the highest elevation of the holds. This extreme contradiction was made possible by the fact that Whiterun encompassed both the vast valley plains west of the White River and the Throat of the World, also known as the tallest peak in all of Tamriel that stood east of the river. For true Nords, that mountain was the birthplace of mankind, where the goddess Kyne first breathed life unto the land.

There was one other notable mountain in Whiterun Hold. A single, solitary mountain of dark rocks that rose up out of the ground in the middle of the plains. It was called The Lone Mountain—Nords were not known for naming things creatively—and it was situated almost halfway between Rorikstead and Whiterun city, though it was closer to Whiterun than Rorikstead if it were to be measured true. Skyrim was host to a multitude of mountains, but this mountain was perhaps the smallest of the lot. Yet it was still tall enough that at sunset a part of it cast a shadow over half of Fort Greymoor, which was built to the east not far from the mountain.

Along the hold's southern border was a range of small mountains that stretched a little less than halfway across the length of the plains. These mountains were taller than the Lone Mountain, but far shorter than their towering brethren of the Jerall Mountains further south, and certainly tiny in comparison to the great Throat of the World.

To the southwest were rocky hills and half-mountains, where Fort Sungard held a highly defensible position atop a plateau overlooking the southern routes into Whiterun.

Due to its central location, Whiterun Hold was rich with trade and its fertile boreal plains and oft-bountiful farms accounted for most of the food produced in Skyrim. Because of this, and its warmer and more agreeable climate compared to most of the province, Whiterun boasted the highest population of all the holds as well. Add to that the many travelers who passed through Whiterun, whether inhabitants of Skyrim off to one end of the province or another, or outlanders who have come from beyond the mountains, and it was certainly impressive how many people could be found within the hold.

With so many subjects to govern and so much land to rule over, in order to keep the prosperity and peace of Whiterun, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater had steadily increased the size of the Hold Guard over the years and also had several forts that had fallen into disrepair restored and even expanded. Much gold was spent to properly train and outfit the increased ranks of the guardsmen, with at least half of the gold per guardsman going to providing them with a suitable horse.

The sigil of Whiterun was a golden horse's head upon a wheat-colored field, representing both the importance of agriculture and horses to the people of Whiterun. The early Jarls were once called the Horselords of Skyrim due to the sheer number of horses they had as well as the strength and hardiness of those steeds, both for labor and for war. Even now, in the uninhabited lands of the hold, herds of wild horses still roamed freely.

One such herd was sighted some distance south of the convoy of Rorikstead survivors. Dozens of dark shapes moving slowly across the snow in the opposite direction, heading west, oblivious to the dangers posed by the Forsworn. A small herd. They numbered at least a hundred, by Anske's count, though it was hard to tell exactly. She squinted at them, slowing her walk as her neck craned southward. She wondered how many wild herds there were left. From what gossip she overheard while working at the inn over the years, they were supposedly thinning out.

"Watch where you're stepping, Anske. Wouldn't want to trip and hurt yourself," said a friendly voice nearby.

Anske jumped a little and nearly stumbled, but thankfully kept her balance. She turned and caught sight of Tarknir, who appeared to be returning from a shoveling shift at the front of the convoy.

"Hello, Tarknir," she greeted him with a small smile. He had always been kind to her and her father, though Tarknir had often been too busy on his farm to spend much time with either of them. The few days spent together in Kratos's home after the attack, as well as the time on the road, had seen them grow closer.

Tarknir rolled his hefty shoulders, grimacing and groaning, as he fell into step beside her. "I don't know about you, but I'm starting to believe that Kratos really might be more than human, or even more than a half-giant, if you think he's one."

Anske's sapphire blue eyes immediately sought out the figure of the musclebound man with pale skin and a spiraling deep crimson red tattoo that stood out in stark contrast to the lack of color elsewhere. Even from this distance, she could tell that he was a massive man, in every sense of the word. The tallest man in Rorikstead barely reached his chest, and somehow, she doubted anyone in Skyrim was taller other than an actual giant. She had seen countless people pass through the Frostfruit Inn, after all, and none of them could come close to matching the sheer size of Kratos.

As usual, Kratos was working tirelessly to shovel snow off the highway that they were following eastward as they made their way towards the city of Whiterun. The villagers had cobbled together a makeshift shovel from cannibalized pieces of various wagons, tools, and furniture, one that was large enough for Kratos to work effectively while also not breaking from the strain of all the snow he was able to move at once—they had to build three different shovels before the third one finally held for longer than a few hours.

Behind him stretched the column of survivors from Rorikstead, traveling with relative ease through the path he helped clear before them. A few paces back and to either side of him were teams of men and women who were shoveling to widen the path Kratos had started through the snow. Ahead of Kratos, riding on their horses, were Rorik and Vors, the two leaders of Rorikstead. They stayed up front as guides for Kratos to follow, for it was they who sighted the highway markers and made sure they were following the road.

A few times already, Anske had tried to strike up a conversation with him, only to receive a few short words or even mere grunts in reply. Kratos seemed to be lost in his thoughts, surrendering to the monotony of shoveling to keep his body distracted while his mind wandered.

"He's been at it since we broke camp at dawn, hasn't he?" Anske noted.

"Aye, he has," Tarknir said with a nod. "The only break he's had was when we stopped at the crossroads to see off Ned and the others, the ones who journeyed south to Mistfield." Massaging one of his arms and grimacing from the soreness, he added, "And he hasn't complained since we left Rorikstead. Not one word. He hasn't slowed either. In fact, some of the others say he's working even faster. Harder. And at night he volunteers for watch duty, as if the very thought of fatigue was just that: only a thought. I wouldn't have believed it all if I hadn't witnessed it myself, mind you. By Shor, that man is something else. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I'm glad he's on our side."

Anske couldn't help but agree with that sentiment. She had seen for herself some of what he could do against the Forsworn and had also heard firsthand accounts from the other villagers of how easily he tore those wild warriors apart. Some quite literally torn apart too. And now there was this display of otherworldly strength and stamina, one that Kratos himself likely didn't even seem to notice, so wrapped up and lost in his own thoughts as he was.

Whispers among the villagers called him Ysgramor reborn, or some other legendary hero from ages past. A faint few even mentioned that he might perhaps be a daedric lord trapped in mundus, or at least the champion of one. The most preposterous of rumors was that Kratos was somehow Talos himself, the dragonborn man who ascended to divinity made flesh once more, descended to return Skyrim and the Empire to proper order as everything seemed to be falling apart.

Anske highly doubted any of those scenarios, the last one most of all—that just seemed like too much wishful thinking—but she couldn't deny that the man was beyond impressive. Not only was his skill as a warrior seemingly unparalleled, but his strength, speed, and endurance appeared to be beyond the limits of human comprehension. Though if she were being honest, she did not have much to compare him to since she had barely left the area around Rorikstead. Perhaps there were others out there who could do the same feats, like the Companions or some other similar group.

"You seem to be close with him," Tarknir said, eyeing her thoughtfully. "You've at least spent the most time with him. Talked to him more than everyone else, 'cept perhaps Rorik. You sure there isn't anything more you could tell me about him? About where he's from or how he learned his… skills?"

With a sigh, Anske shook her head. "For the hundredth time, no. Everyone keeps asking me that, but you've been around him more than most of the others since he got here. You know how he is. Kratos barely says much, and whenever I speak with him, I'm usually the one doing most of the talking."

Tarknir laughed. "Aye, you're right. Sorry, I'm just… we're all curious about our savior, you know? A man who seems larger than life in almost every way. It would have been hard enough to get him out of our minds having just seen him up close, but now, after all he's done… we're all going to be telling the story of Kratos for the rest of our lives, I reckon."

"You make it sound as if his story is done." Anske adjusted the sword that hung at her waist, feeling the hard leather grip of its hilt against her fingertips. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Tarknir's amusement evaporated as he set his mouth into a grim line. "You really think Kratos will go that far to help us? He's already done more than enough. I wouldn't begrudge him if he went on his own way after we reach Whiterun, especially with an army of guardsmen with us."

Anske glanced at Tarknir for a moment before returning her gaze to watching the Spartan toiling relentlessly against the ocean of snow before them. "I don't know what he's going to do, whether he'll help us or not, but… someone like him? He's bound to be mixed up in something grand. Something epic. And if he's just arrived in this land, as he says, then… I have a feeling his story is just beginning."

And somehow, Anske had a feeling that they had already been swept up in his wake and were now caught up in whatever epic story was unfolding around him. The only question was, was the story going to end well… or in tragedy?

A gust of ice-cold wind blew, and Anske shivered.

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The convoy entered the Hills of Shattered Stone just as the sun disappeared behind the faint outlines of the mountains jutting up over the horizon far to the west. Hundreds of boulders dotted the landscape, making for an eerie reception with the waning light of dusk. It almost looked like a graveyard, with each boulder a tombstone.

It was Rorik who signaled a halt to the day's journey once a suitable area had been found to set up camp for the evening. Everyone was certainly more relaxed than they had been over the last few days, with plenty of lively chatter and laughter to go around despite the weariness they felt from the journey as the camp quickly took shape between the large, snow-covered rocks.

Wagons that had been carrying only people—and thus were now empty as everyone made camp—were moved into strategic locations to partially block some of the spaces between the larger rocks that ringed the camp, creating a more defensible perimeter. The supply wagons that contained food and other essentials were brought into the camp with a lot of effort, more for ease of access than security, while the other wagons laden with inedible goods and personal treasures were left on the road.

Since they had excellent visibility across the plains throughout the day, it was easy enough for anyone to notice bandits or wild beasts traversing the snow. Anything that might threaten the convoy would be spotted with enough time to organize a defense. And since they had spotted nothing as they approached the Hills of Shattered Stone, there was an air of relaxed ease in the camp. Even among most of those tasked with watch duty, though none dared to shirk their responsibilities of course. Still, it was not like they held their hands on their weapons ready to use them at a moment's notice either.

Cooking fires were made, and food prepared, and soon a hearty meal was served to all. They had been making better progress than expected—thanks in large part to Kratos's efforts—and so they did not need to ration as much food as they thought. Having put some distance now between them and any Forsworn, and with no Forsworn chasing after them or any other threats on the horizon, the villagers felt the need to let loose.

Someone had brought a lute, and some people took some of the booze they brought along on a wagon specifically laden with such liquid treasures, and soon there was dancing and singing and more smiles and laughter than were seen in the past few days.

Rorik eyed all the commotion quietly, his face mimicking stone as he leaned against one of the rocks that ringed the camp, arms crossed over his chest. He had not been too happy with having a whole wagon full of alcohol on such a journey, but Vors had helped him see reason. The people needed some drink to warm them and ease their souls after what had happened, and he was glad now that they had taken it with them. The morale of the people was important. His people.

"It's hard ta imagine that only days ago they were despairin' on the edge o' death," said an accented voice to his right. Rorik didn't have to look to know who it was, the guardsman sergeant had a distinct accent. Crunching snow sounded from the man's approaching footsteps. "But we Nords have always been a hardy people. Hardier than most, eh?"

"Not just Nords, Vors," Rorik corrected, for there were certainly other races of Tamriel amongst the villagers. "Though I understand what you mean well enough."

"Well, if you've lived in Skyrim long enough, I reckon it's alright ta call 'em Nords too. Honorary Nords, I s'pose, if it makes yah feel betta ta call 'em that. Not true Nords in blood, mind ye, but Nords in spirit. Besides, nothin' brings people closer togetha than a bloody harrowin' fight like that. We might as well be blood brothers and sisters after this."

"Have you been drinking, Vors?" Rorik raised an eyebrow at him before resuming his watchful gaze upon the festivities of the camp.

Vors laughed heartily, slapping his hard stomach as he reared his head, a mighty grin spreading across his face. "Perhaps a wee bit, Rorik. Just a small helping. Real small. You aren't drinkin'? Did ya miss the toast? We toasted ta the dead… and ta the livin'. Ta the fact that we're still alive 'n drawin' breath. To you. To Kratos. To Jouane. To the divines…"

Despite his stern demeanor, Rorik couldn't help but chuckle. "That sounds like you had more than a small helping, my friend."

"Bah! I'm fine, Rorik. T'wasn't much," Vors waved him off, leaning slightly more on one leg as he stood staring at some of the dancing villagers near the bonfire. The firelight shimmered across their sweat and ale-covered bodies as the sounds of merriment washed across the night.

"Are you going to rejoin them?" asked Rorik, gesturing towards the dancing and singing. And drinking.

Vors laughed again. "No, no. I'm off ta report for watch duty. Relieve one o' those who drew the early shift. Let one of the poor young'uns have a taste of revelry 'fore the night is done."

Rorik smiled a little as he watched him go, though his eyes were as hard and as serious as they had been since the attack. The ordeal was far from over, and hard days were still to come, but his people had earned a bit of a reprieve for tonight.

With a sigh, he decided to get moving as well. So far from the fire, he was starting to feel cold and stiff. He would get something hot to eat, he had only had a little earlier since he had not felt hungry when they first started serving food, but now his stomach growled at him. And once he had eaten his fill, Rorik figured he would check on the perimeter. Just in case.

At the very least, Vors would be glad of his company, and it wasn't like he could sleep easy these days anyway.

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"So, Kratos…" Anske ventured after she had put aside his now empty food bowl, placing it on top of her own.

Nearby, the people of Rorikstead continued their merrymaking, soothing some of their grief and their exhaustion as the sounds of their laughter filled the night.

It had become routine now for Kratos and Anske to eat together. Unsurprisingly, the meals often passed in silence, with neither party seeming to know what to talk about with the other. Any conversations that did occur were often initiated by Anske. Such was the case now, though Kratos had a feeling the girl had something important to say this time around.

"When are you going to start teaching me?" She held her sword across her lap now, hands firmly clutching the simple hardened leather scabbard while her thumbs rubbed against it nervously.

Kratos glanced at her sideways. "I do not remember agreeing to teaching you anything."

"I asked you to teach me how to fight, remember? The other night?"

"I did not agree to do anything."

"But you didn't disagree either!" Anske blurted out, then blinked, looking embarrassed, and added, "You even showed me how poor my fighting skills are… and then told me to get better. I thought… maybe that meant… and then when you didn't say no…" she trailed off, suddenly uncertain.

Kratos was silent. She did have a point there. He had not said no, unlike the last twenty times she had asked him. Because for the first time ever, he had actually seriously considered the girl's request. With the faintest snort of amusement audible only to himself, he crossed his arms over his chest.

The two of them were sat at a smaller fire away from the large bonfire the villagers had built for the sudden celebration, but still the noise was loud enough that Anske had to speak louder than normal to be heard. Kratos, with his deep and powerful voice, barely had to change his volume.

Several times during their meal, one of the revelers had stumbled by and tried to entice them to join in the fun. Kratos often refused with a mere shake of his head or a curt "No," while Anske was a bit more friendly about turning them down on their invitations.

Even inebriated though, the townspeople did not even dare try to change Kratos's mind, but they did spend some effort to convince Anske. One of them was Tarknir, who had to be dragged away by his wife Sonji after staying around too long. Sonji had apologized profusely for his rude behavior, not that Kratos really cared. He didn't think Tarknir had been all that rude, and he figured Anske felt the same.

Regardless, Kratos was surprised that Anske kept refusing. He could tell that some part of the girl had wanted to say yes. That a part of her yearned to relax and let loose. To move her feet to the rhythm of the music and to sing and laugh with her friends, her people. He could tell by the way she had hesitated to decline their invitations, and by the look in her eyes. But she didn't go. She remained where she was. And when they were finally left alone, she did not tear her gaze away from him.

Now, Anske continued to stare at him, waiting for his answer. Patient. Expectant. Hopeful. Determined.

Anske had survived the Battle of Rorikstead largely on luck, Kratos was sure, and perhaps some natural talent thrown into the mix. But her skills in battle were woefully inadequate, from what little he saw. She desperately needed instruction. Guidance. And it was clear that she wanted it from him. In fact, even if he turned her down now, she would probably ask again in another couple of days. The girl was relentless, even more so after the battle at Rorikstead.

But did he really want to get so involved? Training her would take a lot of time and effort. Not to mention patience that Kratos did not know he had. More importantly, it would most likely intertwine her fate more firmly with his. And Kratos knew that his fate in this world was already destined for much hardship.

With that in mind, perhaps letting her go and find her own way would be better after all. Surely there were others who could teach her. Others whose fates were not being so directly played with by the gods of this world. He would endanger her by helping her, wouldn't he? He clenched his jaw, hands balling into fists.

His burning anger had given him terrible purpose. His raging fury had made decision-making so easy that now that he was without it, he felt lost and uncertain.

"Kratos?" Anske asked with worry, noticing his irritation. Her eyes warily glanced down at his clenched fists. Then she suddenly stiffened. "I'm sorry, Kratos… I… I shouldn't have asked again. I didn't mean to… Please forgive me." She bowed her head and hurriedly got to her feet.

Before Kratos could say a word, she had already run off. He watched her disappear around one of the rocks, heading somewhere to the edge of camp. He stared after her for a while in deep contemplation. Then, with a long sigh, Kratos rubbed a hand to his face and stood up in a smoother movement than should have been possible for someone his size, though no one really noticed him for once.

He really hoped he would not come to regret this decision.

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Kratos found Anske sitting atop one of the massive boulders at the edge of camp. It was easy enough for him to follow the girl's fresh tracks through the snow, even at night, and just as easy to climb the rock that stood at least twice his height. The cold, hard stone was rough, weathered, and partially covered with lichen, signs that it had been sitting in this spot for a long time.

Kratos would have been lying if he said he wasn't curious about all the stones in these hills, as if the gods of this world had lifted one of the many Skyrim mountains into the sky and then shattered it right over this spot. But he was not curious enough to actually ask anyone about it.

Anske didn't seem to react to his presence, sitting with her legs stretched out on a flatter part of the rock with her sword at her side. She was leaning back on her hands, palms pressed against the surface of the rock. Her gaze was skyward, staring into the uncountable stars and the two bright moons that glowed amidst the inky black of the heavens.

Kratos looked skyward for a moment upon arriving, wondering if there was something particular the girl was staring at, but decided that if there was, he could not figure out what and wouldn't bother trying. Instead, he sat down nearby and kept his gaze low, eyes sweeping across the dozens of dark shapes of the other rocks that were scattered across the whole area.

A cold wind blew steadily from the northeast. The wind always seemed to be cold here in Skyrim, not that Kratos really felt it. The sounds of revelry were a little more distant here, though still loud enough to be heard. From what Kratos could hear, it sounded like things were starting to wind down. They had long days ahead still, and what was left of the people of Rorikstead were likely realizing that they would have to wake up early again in the morning to get back on the road to Whiterun.

"What do you think about when you're shoveling snow?" Anske asked out of the blue.

The question was so unexpected that Kratos couldn't even begin to formulate a response before the girl spoke again.

"You just always seem so lost in thought when you're up there. I've been trying to think about that all day, you know, and I think I've got a good guess." She paused. "It's home, isn't it? You're thinking about home. And I don't mean the house that you built in Rorikstead. I mean your real home. The one in the land that you came from."

Kratos turned his head to take a good look at her, studying her smooth pale face beneath the moonlight. The girl was still staring up at the sky, looking thoughtful. And sad, he noted.

"It's obvious that you're not from around here. You seem to barely know anything about Skyrim, let alone Tamriel. I may not be the smartest person, but I can tell well enough from the way you act and the way you speak that you must have come from somewhere outside of the Empire. Perhaps even outside of Tamriel. Somewhere beyond the sea. And that would mean… you are a very, very long way from home."

Kratos kept silent, but he had to admit that the girl was more perceptive than he thought. However, she had no idea just how far away he really was from home. If only it were as simple as being from a land across the sea.

"You miss it, don't you? Of course, you do." Anske laughed quietly. "I miss my home already and we're only days away from it, even if it was burned down and half destroyed. Even if my father is… anyway, I can't even imagine how much you miss your own home, and how you must feel to be here in Skyrim caught up in all this trouble. And yet here I am, already owing you a life debt twice over, asking you to take on the burden of training a worthless, weak nobody like me. I really am sorry." She laughed again. The sound of it was hollow.

Kratos thought he saw the moonlight reflecting off of tears that had run down her face, but she reached up a hand to rub at her face and then quickly looked away, so he wasn't sure.

"There are many things in the world that are worthless, girl… but you are not one of them," he declared, finally breaking his silence.

Stiffening in surprise at his unexpected words, Anske sniffed and looked back at him. She had definitely been crying.

"Thanks, Kratos."

He gave her a nod.

"But I'm still weak," she said with a half-smile.

"Yes, you are." There was no hesitation in his reply.

Anske's smile faltered for a moment, before she let out a genuine laugh this time. "Shor's bones, Kratos, that was harsh. You could at least try to take it a little easy on me. Especially when I'm down and in tears like this. Or do you secretly delight in making maidens cry?"

"Girl," he said seriously, "If I am to teach you, I cannot take it easy on you."

Anske simply stared at him for several seconds in disbelief, then said, "You're actually… going to teach me? You'll teach me how to fight like you?"

"It will not be easy," he warned her. "You will be in a lot of pain. You will likely hate me. You will curse me. You will wish you had never accepted to be trained. You will wish we had never crossed paths. But when I am done with you, girl, you will be a warrior worth the title. That I can promise you."

As he spoke, Anske's youthful face resolved into a steely mask. Her eyes seemed to glow alight with fierce determination, or perhaps it was the moonlight reflecting off of them.

"I don't care," she said with a hardness in her voice that surprised Kratos pleasantly. "I'll endure anything. Do anything. If it means getting stronger. If it means getting better. I never want to feel so weak and helpless again." She seemed to want to say more but stopped herself.

"Then you will do as I say, when I say it and how I say it. Do you understand?"

"I understand." Anske nodded. "What you say, goes."

They held each other's gazes for a while before Kratos finally nodded once in return, satisfied.

"Good," he said. "Now, the first thing—"

Before he could finish his first instructions to his new pupil, a panicked cry from nearby tore away the relative peacefulness of the evening.

"BANDITS!" someone yelled. Kratos thought it sounded like Rorik. "BANDITS!" came the cry again. "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK! TO ARMS! TO ARMS!"

Instinctively, Kratos moved and pushed Anske down so that she was lying flat on the rock as he shielded her body with his own. Anske yelped when he shoved her down but said nothing as she stared up at him with wide eyes. Sure enough, he heard the whistling of arrows through the air followed by the faint feeling of being gently poked in the back several times. The clattering of wood and metal upon stone told him that the arrows had bounced off his wide back and fallen to the ground.

"They have archers. We need to get off this rock and into cover," Kratos growled as he pulled her to her feet and then ushered her down the rock, making sure to keep himself between the girl and the enemy archers.

Before he jumped off the rock, he turned and surveyed the area, noting the dozens of moving dark shapes between the rocks, clearly visible against the moonlit snow. More arrows bounced off his hard muscles, clattering harmlessly to the rock at his feet.

There were a lot of bandits. Too many not to have been noticed by anyone earlier, which means they most likely had been hidden amongst the rocks even before the convoy had arrived. They had been waiting here for the convoy to make camp and settle in before making their move. Was this chance? Simple bad luck? Or was this caused by his own cursed fate?

Whatever the reason, these bandits were not going to live long enough to regret coming here. Kratos was going to make sure of that.

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The camp was in chaos. One moment, they had been drinking and laughing. The next, they were screaming and yelling as people huddled together in fear. What few among the villagers who could wield any weapon formed a protective line as the rest grouped together with their back to one of the widest and largest boulders in the camp.

It had been one of the men on watch, a younger man, perhaps no more than twenty-five winters old, who had stumbled back from the perimeter to warn them. Blood dripped from three arrows that stuck out of him, two in the back and one in his gut. A trail of dark red drops followed in his tracks through the snow.

Tarknir had been the first to catch sight of him. And though he was drunk, he sobered enough to rush forward to catch the man before he fell over. His sudden movements caught a few other eyes, and soon the whole camp had gone silent as they stared, frozen in place, at Tarknir and the wounded young man.

"Bandits," the man said weakly.

In the silence, his words carried far, and the sounds of fighting nearby were quickly heard. And that was when everything happened all at once.

Jouane had suddenly appeared at Tarknir's side, pulling out the arrows and casting healing magic on the young man. Reldith had sprung up to take the lead in organizing a defense of the inner camp, icy particles gathering around the elf's hands as her eyes scanned for any hostiles. And when the young man was healed and had recovered some of his strength, he too joined in the defense.

Soon enough, they had formed their makeshift defensive line, using whatever was close at hand for weapons. But thankfully, the bandits seemed to be avoiding the main group. Either that, or they were saving them for last.

"Perhaps they're after our belongings, not our lives," Jouane said as some of those ready to fight looked around in confusion. "If we're lucky, they won't bother with us here. Most of our valuables are in the wagons on the road, further out from camp."

"Let's hope they're not too hungry, then," Tarknir said, glancing towards the supply wagons they had brought into camp. The ones that were filled with food and drink.

"Some of us should help the guards," said one of the others nervously.

The young man who had been on guard duty shook his head, looking equally ashamed and depressed. "It's too late. We were already overrun by the time I managed to get away. They're all probably…"

Tarknir frowned. He did not like leaving the others to die out there, but if they had already been overwhelmed, the best thing to do was to stay together and stay put. Like Jouane had said, the bandits might only be after their valuables, not their lives.

"We should stay here," Tarknir finally voiced his opinion. "I doubt Rorik and Vors would let a few bandits kill them. And Kratos is still out there. If anyone can handle things, it's them."

There were murmurs of agreement. Some of them looked relieved, even. Perhaps taking comfort in the reminder that the pale warrior was here with them.

"I agree. Staying here is the best course of action," Reldith added in that haughty voice of hers.

Jouane did not look happy, but he said nothing. His weathered hands wrung together anxiously.

"Tarknir!" a feminine voice hissed from behind him, sounding distressed.

He turned, and his frown deepened. His wife was holding a young girl whose cheeks were red and streaked with tears. The little girl was clutching fiercely at his wife's coat. It took him a moment to recognize her—one of the twins. Sissel, he thought, though he wasn't sure.

"Sonji? What is it, my love?" he asked, worry etched on his face.

"It's Britte… she's… she's not here, love."

So it really was Sissel who his wife held. "What do you mean she's not here?"

Sonji looked at him with terrible worry while placing a hand gently upon the girl's head, stroking her hair. "This one says that her sister had gone off on her own right before the attack. To go find something to play with. From the wagons. The ones with most of our belongings. The ones we left on the road."

Tarknir cursed.

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Kratos landed in front of Anske, who was pressing herself against the rocks, hands holding her sword shakily in front of her. Apparently, she had drawn it upon dropping down from the top of the rock. She flinched at his sudden arrival, fear evident in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by relief as she recognized him.

"H-How did they—" she started to say, but Kratos would hear none of it.

"You are afraid," he said, more a statement of fact than a question. Despite that, Anske nodded in response. "Good. Being afraid is good. It means you value your life, and you understand that fighting is violent. Dangerous. Never forget to fear, because it can save your life, but don't let it control you. As with any emotions, you must control them instead, lest they in turn control and betray you."

She nodded, though he was doubtful if his words really sunk in. There would be time enough to instill the lesson later. More battles lay ahead, he had no doubt. The important thing now was to survive this one.

As if on cue, three bandits spotted them as they rounded the rock, but instead of immediately rushing to engage like what the Forsworn probably would have done, they stopped and froze. In fact, one of them even took a few steps back.

"What in the… are you seeing what I'm seeing?" one of them said.

"He's fucking huge," said another.

"He's unarmed," said the third.

"You go ahead, then. You don't get scars like that without living through some violent hell," said the first.

Kratos ignored them for a moment, turning to Anske. "Control your breathing," he commanded, making her jump again. She had not expected him to continue talking as if they didn't have armed enemies only a few paces away.

Her breathing was quick and panicked. The rapid breathing of someone too afraid and too inexperienced and yet thrown into the middle of a fight. Even after the battle at Rorikstead. She needed to get a hold of herself before she could be capable of doing anything else, and Kratos needed to get through to her on that point.

"Do you hear me, girl?" he growled. "Remember what you agreed to. You will do as I say, when I say it. Now, control your breathing. Take slow and even breaths. Do that while I take care of these fools. When I am finished, I expect you to be breathing more normally."

Anske stared at him and then slowly nodded. Swallowing hard, she made an effort to obey.

Kratos turned his attention back to the bandits. Two more arrived, and the five of them tentatively began to fan out wide to try and encircle him.

"Maybe we should—" the most cowardly of the first three began to say, but in the blink of an eye Kratos had already closed the distance and swung a fist at his head. The impact jerked the bandit's body backwards as his head exploded into a bloody mist of gore. More blood gushed out from the stump of the man's neck as the body fell to the ground, the snow around it turning crimson in short order.

"Fuck!" was all the nearest bandit could say as Kratos stepped towards him. With another vicious swing, this time with his other fist, Kratos crushed the man's chest, armor and all, and sent him flying, mouth spewing blood into a line on the snow as he sailed through the air and landed in a crumpled heap more than thirty paces away.

Twisting around as the third bandit rushed him from behind, Kratos didn't pause as the bandit's sword slashed through the air where he had been standing. Continuing his twist, he slammed his elbow into the man's side, feeling the ribs break easily under the blow. The bandit's sword fell to the snow as the bandit dropped to his knees in agony, blood spilling from his mouth and his nose.

Kratos grasped the hilt of the sword, and then sliced the man's head off in one smooth motion. It spun in the air, leaking blood and still gasping, eyes wide with shock, before thudding and rolling into the snow at the same time his body fell over.

More bandits arrived. Four this time. They did not hesitate to engage the bloody giant of a warrior, thinking he was injured. The two bandits who had arrived after the first three were stricken with fear at what they had just witnessed, holding their swords out in front of them but shaking even more than Anske had been.

Seconds later, and the four who had attacked Kratos were lying in the snow, broken and bloodied, and very much dead.

One of the two surviving bandits seemed to come to his senses. He turned and grabbed at the other bandit, who was apparently a woman.

"We need to run!" he hissed, as the woman seemed too stunned to react to the sudden actions of her comrade.

"It's too late for that," Kratos said, as he casually walked towards them, sword in hand.

The female bandit was still rooted to the spot, trembling. The man desperately tugged at her clothes, and the woman fell over, taking the man to the ground with her. Her sword disappeared into the snow, while the male bandit used his sword to keep himself from falling down completely.

"No! No! P-Please, spare me!" the woman cried fearfully, shutting her eyes as she curled into a shivering ball.

"Damn it all! Damn it!" the man cried in frustration as he struggled back to his feet. He turned towards Kratos and lurched forward, sword at the ready. "Fuck you! You giant's son of a who—"

The man's head was suddenly cleaved in two with a sickening thwack as Kratos's sword came down upon it with enough force that the sword actually stopped at the man's sternum as the Spartan let go of it. Warm blood spurted everywhere.

The bandit's own sword, which had been swung on its way to strike at Kratos, suddenly flew out of limp, twitching fingers, spinning harmlessly into the snow somewhere behind Kratos.

There was no one left in the immediate vicinity except for the one who had practically given up and curled herself into a ball in the snow, hugging her knees to her chest. Kratos didn't think she would get up anytime soon and decided to just leave her there for now. She was effectively incapacitated.

With this many bandits around, Kratos figured that the guards had already been overwhelmed and killed. Though he could still hear some fighting on the other side of some nearby boulders, so maybe some of them were still alive. Kratos was willing to bet that Rorik and Vors were involved. They were probably the only ones skilled enough to still be alive after the initial assault.

Kratos returned to Anske, who was still standing with her sword held out in front of her, both hands tight around its hilt. He was pleased to see that she had succeeded in controlling her breathing. Mostly. She was still breathing quicker than she ought to, but it was far more measured than before. And the fear in her had seemingly lessened.

"Good. You've done well to calm down, girl," he said, and she raised her head a little as if noticing his approach for the first time.

"I'm sorry," Anske said in a strained voice, ducking her head. "I'm so pathetic. I couldn't even move… I felt so afraid. I wasn't like this back in the village when the Forsworn—"

"Be silent," Kratos said with a little more force than usual, making Anske flinch. "What did I tell you about being sorry?"

Anske hesitated for only a moment as she thought of it. She took a deep breath. "Don't be sorry, be better." Saying it out loud seemed to make her stand straighter, though she still couldn't look him in the eyes.

"You remember," Kratos said approvingly. "Now don't forget again."

The girl nodded. "I won't." It was only then that she seemed to realize that Kratos was covered in blood. Her eyes widened, taking in the sight of him. Then she looked around, seemingly unaware of the slaughter that had occurred until now. "What—"

"We will talk more later. For now, stay close to me. The fight isn't over yet," Kratos said as he started walking towards the sounds of fighting.

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Rorik barely managed to parry a sword thrust aimed at his head, ducking under the blow as he let the attacker's momentum carry him forward and off-balance. Quickly readjusting his sword, he slashed downward, cutting a bloody gash down the bandit's chest and around his side. The man cried out in pain, but managed to somehow stay on his feet for another few seconds before Rorik finished him off with a thrust up the ribcage and into the man's heart.

Grimacing from the pain of many wounds, some of which were probably pretty serious, Rorik surveyed the area. Thirteen bandits lay dead or dying in the snow, while another two were on their feet, bleeding and injured. Six of the other guards also lay in bloody heaps in the snow, motionless. He prayed to the divines that the others were okay, but deep down, he knew they were likely all killed.

Vors knelt a few paces away, panting and bleeding from as many wounds as Rorik could feel on his own body. The old sergeant was tough and seasoned, but he had started the fight slightly drunk, and that made a world of difference. Especially because the attack came as a surprise. The arrows had taken down two of the guards before they could react and take cover, and then the bandits were upon them with axes, swords, and daggers.

"You still alive, Vors?" Rorik asked, eyeing the two remaining bandits as warily as they watched him and Vors.

"Barely," the sergeant managed with a gasp. "I ought ta never drink again."

Rorik scoffed. "What are you talking about? After we're done here, you and I will drink plenty."

Vors laughed, but that started a coughing fit that left blood trickling from his mouth. "Please… don't make me laugh."

Rorik spared a glance at him and grinned. "Sorry."

"So, we gonna kill 'em or what?" Vors nodded towards the two remaining bandits. "Otherwise, I might just pass out right here."

"Sounds good to me. You take the one on the left." Rorik mustered what strength he had left and slowly moved forward, sword at the ready. Trailing slightly behind him was Vors, who limped to keep up.

Before they could fight, however, more bandits arrived, forcing Rorik and Vors to stop. Four more of the bandits appeared wrapped in fur-trimmed leather armor. But they weren't what gave the two Nords pause. It was the two other bandits that followed after the four that caught their attention.

One was a woman, judging from the design of her fur-trimmed Nordic steel armor. She actually stood a little taller than Rorik, with wide shoulders and thick arms corded with hard muscle. Covering her head was a slightly banged up full helm with goat horns twisting out from the sides, a typical Nordic helmet design. Only her eyes, nose, and mouth were visible from the T-shaped opening in the front of the helm. Her steely gaze stared at Rorik with what looked like hunger.

Slightly behind the Nord warrior woman and to her left, however, was a massive figure clad in heavy orcish armor who drew the most attention. Had Rorik not known Kratos, he might have considered the orc the biggest person he'd seen since he retired from the Legion years ago. The orc towered over them all, however, and the giant greatsword the orc hefted casually over one thick shoulder guard looked like it could easily cleave Rorik in two in a single devastating blow.

"Rorik," Vors said in between labored breaths. "Ye should… run… while ye got the chance…"

"And leave you all the glory of taking down these bandits? No, old friend. I think I'll stay," Rorik said.

In truth, Rorik doubted he could get far enough away even if Vors tried to buy him time. Not in the condition he was in. Besides, his pride wouldn't see him turn tail and run here. Not when he had his people to defend. Though I've failed in that responsibility now, he thought bitterly. The only hope he had was that Kratos was still at the camp. That man would succeed where Rorik could not, bringing what was left of the villagers safely to Whiterun.

Vors laughed in pain again and started coughing up more blood. "Who are ye… callin'… old?"

This time it was Rorik's turn to laugh, turning to his friend with the grin of a man who knew he was about to die.

"Well, Vors," Rorik said, "Do you want the big one… or the bigger one?"

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AN: Long overdue, I know. I thank you for your patience, and for your kind words of support thus far. Life has been difficult lately, and I haven't been very happy with my writing, nor have I been feeling very inspired, but I'm trying to push through because I do feel bad about not updating for so long. I do also miss writing, so here's to hoping I'm able to keep it up. Pray for me lol as usual, I am open to concrit and suggestions. If you'd prefer to message me directly instead of publicly posting a comment here, I do have a account you can send a DM to ("BardTheChronicler") otherwise I am not on any social media at this time so those are the only avenues to get in touch. Thanks again for reading, and I hope to continue to entertain.