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Skyrim Spartan

Chapter Thirteen

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The orc, as it was apparently called, slumped dead against the rock that Kratos had pinned it against earlier. It was a large humanoid creature, closer to Kratos' size than anyone he had encountered in this world thus far. Though what an orc actually looked like, he still wasn't exactly sure. The entire front half of its face had been bashed in along with the front half of its helmet, leaving it utterly unrecognizable now as blood and gore spilled down from the mangled metal and onto the orc's armored chest.

Perhaps he should have removed the orc's helm first, to get a better look at it, but then he shrugged the thought off. He was bound to see another orc eventually. Besides, did it really matter what they looked like?

Blood ran down over his nose from his forehead, shaking him from his thoughts. The orc's blood. He frowned. Quickly tearing up some rags from the fallen bandits, Kratos wiped his face clean as best as he could. Then he glanced again at the shallow partially frozen cut on his shoulder. He hadn't felt it at all earlier, and likely never would have noticed had the orc not pointed it out.

With a long breath, Kratos closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Concentrating, he felt the divine energies swirling deep within him like a maelstrom. There was so much energy there. So much raw power. It was unfortunate he was not skilled enough to fully wield it. He had always had trouble with controlling raw magic and making it do his bidding. Not that he really needed to. He had gotten by more than well enough with just using his inherent powers to augment his already impressive natural strength, speed, and durability. Along with whatever magical abilities his equipment provided.

Now, he did his best to control the raw power as he tapped into it. A rush of that divine power flowed through his body, filling every fiber of his being with a familiar warm sensation.

The spot where he was wounded on his shoulder suddenly began to heat up. The frozen tissue defrosted, and the small trickle of frozen blood melted and ran down freely. The scratch itself glowed for a moment before swiftly knitting closed. When the glow disappeared, his skin was clear and untouched, as if he had never been hurt in the first place.

It was probably overkill for him to use his divine powers to heal such a small thing, but there was no telling what the scratch from a magical weapon could have done if left unchecked. Regardless of his godly powers, as he had proven many times over, gods can be killed. They may be immortal, but that didn't mean they were invulnerable.

This world was new to him, even if some things seemed the same, and he was not sure what kind of magics this world had. Whether or not such a simple thing could prove lethal if untended to was something he was not certain of. But better to err on the side of caution, even if it did mean using his godly powers.

With that matter dealt with, he retrieved the sword of his brutish opponent, pulling it away from where it had stuck against the broken axe that he had taken from the woman he had fought earlier. The sword was much better suited to his size and had a good weight to it. Not to mention it was imbued with magic. Ice magic, apparently.

Magical weapons were far more durable in his experience, and also far deadlier in a fight thanks to the extra magical powers they could bring to bear.

The sword was forged almost entirely of a bronze-colored metal, but though he was no smith, even Kratos could tell it was not actually made of bronze. It was a different type of metal, something much more durable. The pommel was simple and cone-shaped, and thankfully not overly big. The hilt was long and crafted for two-handed use—though Kratos could wield it easily enough with one hand—and ribbed to provide a better grip. The cross-guard was again simple in design, but clearly crafted with expertise. And the double-edged blade itself was long, wide, and razor-sharp.

Giving it a few good swings to get a better handle on the new weapon, Kratos gave a grunt of satisfaction. This would do nicely.

Holding the sword now reminded him of the Blade of Olympus, and all the memories associated with that mythical weapon came rushing to the surface. Closing his eyes again, this time in an attempt to clear his mind, he briefly felt the presence of the Blade of Olympus within him. It was there, in the depths of his soul, tucked away along with the other weapons he had used before, as if imprinted on his soul. A part of him now. His Chaos Blades too were there, and in particular stood out. Waiting to be called to service. They tugged at his soul. At his mind. Wanting to be used. Yearning for blood and destruction.

His eyes opened. Fists clenched. He would not call them forth. He had no reason to bring those relics of his past into this new world. And he would do whatever he could to keep it that way. He stared at the new sword in his hand. This would serve him well enough.

Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω

By the time the first tendrils of light crept over the eastern mountains, what remained of the people of Rorikstead had collected, briefly mourned, and then wrapped their newly dead, placing them carefully on the last two wagons in the train. They tied the wrapped bodies down securely to make sure they did not fall over on the journey east. To slow their decay, they were packed in with as much snow as could be managed, then had blankets draped over them for further insulation.

Much of the villagers' ransacked belongings were repacked and returned as best as they could. Those things that were too damaged to repair were simply left behind. Their camp was taken down and packed up, and their horses were accounted for and made ready. They even had a whole new set of horses thanks to those brought by the bandits, and it would have been a shame to simply leave them there.

Tarknir, who was greeted with much joy and relief when he returned safely with Britte, informed them that a handful of the bandits had managed to return to their own camp and escape, bringing with them whatever they could carry and only the few horses they could manage. They had fled in a hurry too.

It was decided that they would not bother hunting the bandits down, even if the villagers might have wanted to in order to avenge their fallen. They would leave that quest to the Whiterun Guard, which was their responsibility in the first place.

The dead bandits were left where they lay, though anything of value from them was stripped and taken as recompense for the damage and pain they had caused the people of Rorikstead. It was too much work to bury them, or even burn them, and nobody wanted to anyway. They were to be left to the beasts and birds. Some of the latter were already circling overhead as dawn broke, while some of the many predators that stalked the land would undoubtedly come soon enough, drawn by the stench of blood and death.

Rorik wanted to leave as soon as possible to avoid any encounters with the carnivorous beasts that were sure to infest these hills in the coming days, feasting on the flesh of the dead bandits. There was also the desire to simply leave yet another terrible memory behind them, and the strong urge to get to the safety of Whiterun lest any other troubles beset them.

Those who were injured, of which there were thankfully few—though it was also a testament to how many had died—were treated and healed. Vors had yet to awaken but was thankfully still breathing. The old sergeant was carefully laid on one of the wagons, with a few people to watch over him.

The bandit captain, Ilfyha, was bound by her elbows and wrists and tied to the last wagon, forced to walk—or be dragged—for the rest of the journey to Whiterun. There, she would be given to the hold guard, where the jarl could dispense his justice for her crimes. Reldith and the young man who had returned to camp to warn them all kept a close eye on her, riding atop horses at the rear of the column.

Rorik resumed his position at the head of the column, accompanied by his most trusted friend and advisor, Jouane.

With their numbers reduced, it would have been understandable for their progress to be slower than before. But anyone who could hold a shovel volunteered to do so, and Kratos resumed taking on the bulk of the work clearing their path eastward, which meant they actually kept a good pace. Perhaps slower than before, but not noticeably.

So it was that the survivors from Rorikstead left the Hills of Shattered Stone and resumed their journey to Whiterun as soon as possible.

Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω

It was Rorik who spotted them first since he was up at the front. Even though Jouane was riding beside him, the old man's eyesight had been deteriorating for years and so he didn't see for himself until they were much closer. All the old Breton could really see from that distance was a mass of dark in the distance amidst a field of white.

There was a large group of people in the middle of the highway up ahead. At least a hundred, by Rorik's estimate. His gut twisted with worry. What if these were yet more bandits? But no, that didn't make sense. They wouldn't be out on the highway in broad daylight like this. Especially not within sight of Fort Greymoor. The mountain the fortress was built into loomed nearby.

Besides, the group did not appear to be in any particular fighting formation. In fact, from afar it looked almost as if they were making camp right in the middle of the road. Who, then, were they? And what was their purpose here? Rorik sent Jouane back down the line to alert everyone about what was happening, but they continued along without pause. They had no other choice but to keep moving.

As they drew closer, Rorik's worries disappeared, replaced instead by relief. The unknown group turned out to be garbed in the colors of Whiterun, and it quickly became clear that they were a detachment from the Whiterun Guard. Most likely from Fort Greymoor itself. They appeared to be clearing the highway of snow, and behind them stretching into the distance was the evidence of the fruits of their labors—the dark ribbon of highway cutting through the snow-covered landscape.

The guardsmen had of course spotted them as well, and five riders slowly made their way through the thick snow to meet Rorik, who had finally given the command to halt the column to wait for the inevitable greeting and discussion.

The guardsman at the front of the delegation, who had the air of an officer, raised a hand in greeting when they got within conversational distance.

"Good day to you," greeted the guard officer politely as he and the two accompanying him reined in their horses. He removed his helmet, revealing a middle-aged face partially covered by a thick beard and mustache. His mouth twitched into a frown as his eyes took in the state of Rorik's clothing and equipment. "Shor's bones… what's happened?"

Rorik let out a long breath. "It's a long story. But… we are all that remains of the village of Rorikstead."

Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω

The convoy did not stop for long.

The officer, a captain of the Whiterun Guard, upon hearing a brief summary of all that had transpired, began barking orders to his lieutenants even as he asked Rorik for more details. In the end, healers checked on everyone, supplies were restocked where necessary, and twenty guardsmen were assigned to escort the convoy the rest of the way to Whiterun. One of the lieutenants would personally see to it that they arrived safely.

Not that there would be much of a problem with that. The closer they got to the city, the safer the lands were. More people. More guards. Less danger. At least, that was the hope.

The captain, meanwhile, gave what updates he could to Rorik regarding any general news. Banditry had certainly been on the rise ever since the civil war began, and there had been increased reports of violence along some of the border towns in the north and south.

"Sorry I can't take you to the jarl myself," said the captain as he rode with Rorik while the convoy passed through the detachment of guardsmen, who had all paused their work and stepped aside into the snow to let them pass. "I need to oversee my men here. We've been tasked by the commander to clear the snow on the highway heading west."

"Commander Gireld at Fort Greymoor?" asked Rorik, though he already knew the answer. The old commander was unlikely to have left his post in the years since Rorik last saw him.

"Aye, that's the one. You've met him?"

Rorik nodded. "Once. And don't worry, I understand, captain. No need to apologize. We've all got our duties. We're grateful that you're sending along some of your men with us, at least. It'll help us rest easier after everything that's happened."

"Wish I could do more, but you shouldn't have any more trouble getting to Whiterun from here. The roads are clear. Still… divines watch over you and your people."

"Thank you, captain," said Rorik. "And be safe out there. The lands west of here are more dangerous than ever before."

"Aye," the captain agreed. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what you and your people have been through. At least you're safe now."

Rorik inclined his head in thanks. "I only hope this is the last of our misfortunes."

Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω

Anske bent over, hands on her knees as her lungs burned with the cold air she was rapidly trying to inhale. Desperately, even. Her limbs were shaking, muscles sore and protesting. Sweat covered her skin, already cooling off in the cold air. Any colder and her sweat likely would have frozen. The sensation felt strange against the hot warmth of her skin.

Nearby, Kratos sat on a rock jutting out of the snow-covered plain. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching her closely as the last light from the setting sun bathed everything in orange-red tones. Beside him, jammed into the snow, was the huge blade he had taken from the orc bandit leader.

Anske had seen the orc's body. It had not been a pretty sight. Once more, Kratos' legend grew amongst the people of Rorikstead. There was no doubt in her mind that his name and his deeds would be well-known across Skyrim in time. Perhaps even all of Tamriel.

And now, she was learning from him. Learning from a future legend. She should count herself lucky. Though at the moment, she was wondering if she would even survive Kratos' training long enough to make use of it.

"We're done for today, girl," Kratos said as he got to his feet.

Anske wearily wiped some sweat from her forehead that was threatening to end up in her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

"How did I do?" she asked nervously. This was the first official training session with her new teacher.

"You are not soft, but you are not strong," Kratos said. "Yet," he added.

Anske nodded, unable to help but smile. She would take that as a compliment, as well as an acknowledgement of her potential.

In truth, the training session was nothing more than a series of physical exercises repeated several times. They were designed to improve her overall fitness, which she desperately needed. It was one thing to be strong from years of manual labor and constantly being on her feet. It was another thing entirely to be in fighting shape.

She was under no illusions that she would ever approach the level of Kratos as a warrior, but under his tutelage she was sure she would have the skills and knowledge to be great. There was no doubt in her mind about that.

The first step, according to Kratos, was to improve her physical abilities. After all, if she wasn't strong enough or fast enough to survive, then what was the point? It made a lot of sense, and given Kratos' obviously impressive physique, it was no wonder he was an incredible warrior.

Kratos pulled the sword from the snow and hefted it over his shoulder. The villagers had made a strap and a sheath for it with leather taken from the bandits, and Kratos was able to sling it across his back. He started walking back towards the camp, for they were currently some distance away on their own, away from prying eyes.

She was reminded of something that she had been meaning to ask but was unsure of how to go about it. Perhaps now was a good time.

"Kratos, when you were fighting those bandits…" Anske said, "Their arrows didn't hurt you. I even saw them… I saw them break against your skin. Some even bounced off of you! As if you were wearing some kind of armor, but… well, you're not…" Her cheeks began to heat up as she realized she could not look at him as the words came out of her mouth.

"It is not magic," Kratos said hesitantly. "Their arrows were simply too weak to pierce my flesh."

"But… how?" It didn't make any sense to her. If it was not magic, then what was it? Was his skin really that strong? And if so, how did it get that way?

Kratos paused and regarded her for a moment, then said, "It is not something you can learn."

Somehow, he managed to guess the main reason for her curiosity. Had she really been that transparent? She had, in fact, been hoping that this might be something he could teach her one day. To not have to worry about getting hurt by arrows would have been a massive benefit. Of course, it couldn't be that easy.

"I thought that you might say that," she said, the disappointment evident in her voice. "But I was hoping it could be something I could do too."

"Come, girl. It is time we returned."

Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω

Night had fallen quickly as Kratos and Anske returned to the camp from their training. After eating supper, Anske immediately retired to her tent along with most of the others. Everyone wanted to get enough rest, knowing there was more travel ahead before they reached the city.

Far in the distance, the pinpricks of lights from the City of Whiterun could be seen over the horizon. They would probably reach it in two more days. Maybe even less now that they did not have to worry about clearing the snow from the road. Their progress was much faster now.

Kratos stayed by the campfire after supper, which was a hot stew of vegetables and some beef. As usual, it was Leesa who had led some of the others in cooking the meal. The old woman had taken to her role as head cook with great purpose and enthusiasm. And Kratos had to admit that the food was good.

Another group took care of all the used pots, bowls, utensils, and anything else people used to eat, making sure they were cleaned and ready for the next meal. That meant Leesa and those who helped with the cooking could take it easy once the food was made and served.

The old woman sat across from Kratos with a thick blanket draped over her legs and a mug of something warm in her hand. Next to her, about an arm's length away, sat Jouane. The old Breton, like everyone else in the convoy, looked exhausted. In his hands he held a mug of the same drink that Leesa had, for it was he who had brought it for them. Kratos had declined the offer for a mug of his own.

One of the guardsmen came by, silently greeted everyone with a respectful nod, and threw more logs onto the campfire before walking off to resume his patrol through the camp. They were not taking any chances even as they drew closer to Whiterun City.

"So, Kratos," said Jouane with a twinkle in his eye, "Soon we will be in the City of Whiterun. What do you plan to do once we are there? You don't owe us anything, you know. In fact, we owe you… well, everything. But you won't need to protect us any longer. The jarl's men are already here and we'll be safe enough in the city. I doubt we'd be traveling anytime soon once we're there."

"I… do not know," Kratos said.

The question had been on his mind a lot lately. He supposed he could do just about anything he wanted. But what did he want to do? On the one hand, he had said he would train Anske and, try as he might to ignore it, he did have a growing sense of responsibility for her now. On the other hand, he wanted to move somewhere remote and not be bothered with the goings on of this world. Gods be damned. Had he not earned the right to rest?

"Well, I'm quite sure the jarl would want to reward you for all that you've done for us. In fact, I'd be surprised if he didn't try and recruit you to work for him. He'll likely name you a thane, for starters. And grant you a boon too," said Jouane as he stroked the gray-white growth on his chin. "That's what I would do if I were him."

"Well, no need for him to decide any of that now, Jouane," said Leesa as she took a sip of her drink. "There's plenty of time still."

"Yes, of course. I was merely making conversation. Curious too," Jouane said with a chuckle.

"What is a thane?" asked Kratos with furrowed brows. The last thing he needed was being given a title he did not want, and the responsibilities likely to come with it.

"Oh, just an honorary title given to people who have done great service to the jarl or to his people. Also given to people of recognition and distinction, mind you," explained Jouane. "Only fitting for one such as yourself, if you ask me."

Kratos frowned. It sounded like he would become the center of unwanted attention if he accepted the title.

Jouane saw his expression and chuckled again. "Don't you worry! You won't actually be required to do anything. It would merely be a well-deserved reward to give you honor for all the good that you've done."

Leesa looked sternly at Kratos and said, "Now I hope you're not thinking of turning down the honor if it is presented to you. It would be a great insult, not just to the jarl, but to us as well. We owe you our lives, Kratos. This would go some way towards repaying you even a little."

Kratos got to his feet. "I do not need a reward. Nor do I need thanks."

"Perhaps not," Leesa said. "But would you deny us what we want to give you regardless?"

Jouane raised an eyebrow at her as she unflinchingly held Kratos' gaze for a few heartbeats.

"You two should get some sleep," Kratos said, before he turned and walked away.

Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω

Tarknir held his woman close, reveling in the warmth of her body pressing against his. The smell of her filled his nostrils as his hand lazily scratched her scalp in a soothing manner. Her natural scent was mixed with the fragrance of soap, from when they had the chance earlier to wipe themselves down with some washcloths. He inhaled, long and deep, savoring her smell. After he exhaled, he kissed her lightly on her forehead, but it was enough to stir her from the light slumber she had been in.

"Love…?" she mumbled tiredly. "Can't sleep?"

"I've got a lot on my mind," he admitted as he stared up into the dark canopy of their small tent.

Sonji kissed his bare chest a few times. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," he said after a while.

Somehow, he didn't think it wise to tell her that he was thinking about how he was as thrilled as he was afraid when he went sneaking around the bandits on his own to rescue Britte. Or about the strange pleasure he felt when he slew that bandit after catching the man unaware and vulnerable.

Tarknir was no coward, but neither was he too proud or honorable to find an easier way to win. One where the danger to himself and the people he cared about was minimal. If the enemy died in the end, who cared how it was done? So long as he and his own were kept safe.

"Mmm… alright. If you feel like talking, you know I'm here," she said as she snuggled closer to him, and he responded by hugging her tighter.

"I know," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. And I'll do anything to keep you alive and here with me, love.

Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω

Kratos was walking back to his own tent when Rorik called out to him. He stopped and waited as the smaller man approached, giving him a weary smile that was illuminated by the torch in the man's hand.

"We're only two days away now," Rorik said. "Tomorrow we'll camp at the Western Watchtower. And then the day after that, we'll finally reach the city." The lines on his face were accentuated by the shadows cast by the torchlight. He looked much older than Kratos recalled from their first meeting, and that wasn't too long ago.

"I see," Kratos said.

"Can't sleep?" Rorik asked.

"I was about to try."

"Ah, my apologies then. When I saw you I… thought I might ask you to lend me your ear. Metaphorically speaking, of course."

Kratos stared at him, wondering if the man really thought that he might have believed it to be a literal request.

Taking the silence for approval to go ahead and speak, Rorik did so. "It's been… an eventful last few days, hasn't it? I…" he paused, then shook his head. "Kratos, you were once a leader of men, weren't you? I don't know much about you, and to be honest I don't think anyone does. Even Anske says she knows little of your history. But I can tell, having been in the Legion myself, that you must have been an officer in some army. Maybe even a high-ranking one at that. A commander or a general even."

Kratos turned his eyes to the night sky full of stars above. "A lifetime ago," he admitted. It certainly felt that way, at least. Maybe even several lifetimes. The greatest general Sparta had ever seen, they had said of him. A true lion among men.

"Then you know," Rorik said. "You know the burden of leadership. The trials and tribulations of being in charge. Of making decisions that could mean life or death for others."

"I do," Kratos said gravely. More than you know.

"Then tell me… how did you do it? How did you know you were making the right decisions? How did you decide on what to do and how to do it?" Rorik asked, sounding almost desperate. The questions must have been eating at him this whole time. The doubts of his leadership skills and decision-making. It was common enough for first-time leaders to think these things and feel this way, especially in times of crisis. And this definitely qualified as a crisis.

"With difficulty," said Kratos.

Rorik let out a tired laugh. "You know, I was never a leader in my time in the Legion. Was never really good at it, I thought, so I never really tried to be. Sure, I got along well with most everyone in my unit, but I never imagined myself giving out orders to anyone or making grand plans or strategies. Then somehow, I ended up as an officer on the frontlines as the great war started. A junior one, but an officer, nonetheless. And when it was over, and I retired, I bought a chunk of land in the westernmost region of Whiterun, I didn't think I would become leader of a village some day.

By Shor, I didn't even buy the land with the thought of starting a village in the first place. I just wanted a place for myself and Jouane to start a new life. But then people just started showing up, asking if they could work for me, or if I might be interested in selling small pieces of my land to them. Then the land around mine got bought up too, and—"

Kratos silenced him by raising his hand. "Even good leaders make poor choices, the best take responsibility for them," he told Rorik. "And learn from them."

"You sound just like Jouane. He said something similar to me earlier," Rorik said slowly. "Forgive me, Kratos, I'm just… tired. And anxious. Please forgive me for ranting to you in the middle of the night."

"Then get some rest." Kratos made to leave when Rorik asked one last question.

"Did you make mistakes as a leader?"

"Many," Kratos said quietly, remembering all the Spartans who lost their lives because of those mistakes. Without another word, he walked off to his tent, leaving Rorik alone to his thoughts.

When he pushed aside the flap to his tent, Kratos took one step inside before he froze. A small frown creased his lips. To his surprise, the tent was already occupied.

There was a small dying lantern in the corner of the tent, casting a soft yellowish glow across the inside of the tent. Lying in her own bedroll next to his much larger one was none other than Anske, who was sound asleep by the rhythm of her breathing.

With a sigh, Kratos fully entered and then sat as quietly as he could on his bedroll. Glancing at the sleeping figure of the girl, he wondered why she was intruding upon his space when she had a perfectly good tent of her own. Right next to his, too.

Perhaps she was anticipating an early start to tomorrow's training, in which case he would have to commend her for her dedication. Though he had half a mind to wake her up now and send her off to her own tent. Ultimately, he decided against it. The girl had worked hard earlier and had been through much lately. She deserved as much uninterrupted sleep as she could get.

Speaking of sleep, Kratos wondered if sleep would come to him if he tried. Lying down and rolling onto his side facing away from the girl, he shut his eyes and waited.

Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω

"Finally," Tullius said with weary relief as the fortress town of Helgen came into view below. He had forced everyone to march on through the night because he was impatient to be behind thick stone walls and strong defenses.

His officers didn't appreciate the forced march but kept their protests light. And the men, while not quite happy, didn't voice their complaints either. They were veteran soldiers, and they all knew they were vulnerable on the road. And with such a valuable prize in their possession, the sooner they were in Helgen, the better.

There was an increase in chatter from his men as they too eventually caught sight of their destination close at hand as the column advanced along the mountain slope, slowly but surely.

Tullius sent a rider ahead to get the gates opened and the garrison ready to receive them, though they should have already been spotted by now if those on guard duty were doing their jobs properly.

A tired smile graced his lips for a few seconds as he stared up into the night sky. It was going to get very busy in Helgen over the next few days. And the whole province, for that matter.

Twenty years this civil war had been going on, at least by the Stormcloaks' reckoning. For the Legion, they really only took it seriously in the last year, when Ulfric killed High King Torygg, and Tullius was dispatched with half a veteran legion—all the Empire could spare—to finally quell the rebellion and rebuild the Legion and Imperial presence in the province.

Now, the whole situation in Skyrim was about to change.

Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω

AN: As always, thank you to those who have gotten this far and been ever so patient with me. I appreciate all your messages and reviews. :)