Old Hroldan Inn, a not very impressive stop in the middle of nowhere. All that remained of a once formidable city of the Reachmen were broken stone walls scattered randomly about, and the great timbers of the city above ground had long rotted away to dust, leaving only deep stumps that were a constant problem for the many subsistence farms in the area.
According to history, H'rolden or Ahrol-Dan (in the so-called Dragon tongue), was where the young Hjalti Early-Beard proved the power of his Thu'um; his "shout" breaking walls like the legendary dragon gods were suppose to have been able to do. He was the Stormcrown, and the Tongues of High Hrothgar thundered his name to the heavens.
So goes the legends.
He paid for the prized Tiber Septim room the owner grandly boasted about. Biggest, softest bed in the place. It was a big step above the usual fur covered, straw padded beds. And, by the smell, the thick cushion was aired at a decent interval.
And for its proof of history, sleeping in the special bed also came with a ghostly visitor who insisted on calling him "Hjalti" and who pleaded for him to recall his promise to become his sworn brother after the battle. He'd waited so long for those words.
He asked the innkeeper and she was happy to tell him about the legend of Tiber Septim. As for the possible location of this sword, he got better information from the innkeeper's smart-mouthed 10-year-old son who took his duties as the man of the house very seriously. He also knew the history of the area, but in a far less romanticized version.
The boy pointed out the nearest Forsworn camp at another ruin of the past empires. It was the likeliest place, he reasoned, as it was already ruins at the time of the battle for Old Hrolden and Reachmen would have gone to ground there. As for the sword, it was unlikely to have been taken from this Hjalti. More like the sword had already been exchanged and in the possession of the ghost before he'd died, and the promise for the blood pledge was to have been made after the battle. But he'd died, and Hjalti had moved on without saying the words. So, here was the ghost, without his sword, without the brotherhood he'd been promised.
Poor, deluded spirit. No doubt it called everyone who slept in that bed that name. Tariq was of a mind to sever its ties to the mortal world with his Ash'abah sword. Still, his plea for this Hjalti to gift him this sword and a pledge of brotherhood — something about that touched Tariq. That's why he and Argis were presently at the eastern edge of Whiterun Hold scouting a Forsworn camp called Serpent's Bluff, looking for a ghost's sword.
The camp outwardly seemed smallish enough. A few tents on a large mound dotted with fallen stone pillars.
Of course, it wasn't that simple. Once they'd defeated the Forsworn camped on the hill, they found in the center of the cleared camp the entrance to the underground of the long-ago fortress. Traps, more Forsworn, and hagravens. Also, some nice treasures, the paychests of a long-dead army posted here, probably from the ancient Falkreath army of King Cuhlecain, maybe even the one Hjalti Stormcrown once commanded. The shape and size and stamp of the coins were certainly not of this era.
They found the unremarkable dented and rusted sword at the bottom of a chest with some gold, moldy books and scrolls, and other rusted iron weapons. The sword was identifiable by a faint ghostly glow, which was something only Tariq saw and Argis did not.
When they returned to the inn, the glow of the sword peeled away from the old iron, becoming a ghost version of what it once had been when it was new. This the ghost took up with a delighted cry. "Now I can do battle again and Sovngarde awaits. It's been an honor to serve you, brother.
"Remember our lessons from the sword masters of Alcaire? Let me show you a few things you may have forgotten before we leave Hrolden."
And for that evening until dawn, the ghost was solid, and instructed Tariq in the highlights of short sword and small shield techniques of Alcaire. The ghost was very skilled, and it made sense, from his story of his death, that the enemies had finally given up on killing him by the sword and had pulled back to take him out with arrow strikes.
It was also a memorable evening also for the audience of locals who watched and then cheered on the legendary town ghost, fading in the dawn's light, finally on his way to rest.
He gave the rusted, dented relic to the innkeeper to hang in the room. It deserved to stay with the room, posted above the bed. No one would think it worth stealing even if it was rumored, like the room, to have once been Tiber Septim's.
…
The next village was Granite Hills near Imperial Fort Sungard, which must have been a major fortress and settlement in its time, and now currently taken over by Forsworn.
The folk at Granite Hills were suspicious and heavily armed. Frequent citizen patrols marched the village perimeters, watching over the small farms that couldn't afford raiders. Most came of Nord stock, descendants of the Falkreath army of the Second Era that had built and manned the fort, then called Granitehall.
The Stonewall Inn had the look of a squat storage and supply depot. It had probably once been so. It was made of the same stones the old fort, and big enough that most townsfolk could take shelter and barricade themselves against Forsworn attacks.
The barricades looked to have been recently put to the test. Villagers were positioning and lashing replacement pieces into place.
"I'm looking for Hinrik Stonecutter. I've a message from his sister, Orla," said Tariq to the innkeeper. He showed the wrapped package with its intact wax seal.
"Hinrik Stonecutter! Anybody seen him?" bellowed the innkeeper to the room.
"Saw him with his goats, east watering well," someone bellowed back.
"Anything else?" asked the innkeeper. "Rooms are 30, single bed. If a place on the floor in the hearth room after midnight is enough, then 10. Either rental gets you a small beer and half a loaf of fresh baked bread in the morning. If you don't have coin for even that, there's the fenced area behind the guards barracks if you ask them first. Forsworn raiders avoid that area. Guards don't permit fires back there and they get irritated if you don't clean up after yourselves. You'll also have to be out of there by dawn."
Tariq paid for two rooms and stable fees. Pricey, but fair enough when considering the extra security.
They went looking for Hinrik and found him watering a dozen goats. Hinrik looked at the seal. "Do I owe you anything?"
"No," said Tariq.
"You staying at the inn?"
"Yes."
"Then let Sten know you can have an ale each on my tab."
"Very kind of you, sir," said Tariq, nodding respectfully.
They didn't go immediately back to the inn. Instead, Tariq toured through the town, noting that even in the market, the stalls were built of wood and clay bricks that could be locked down to protect the vendor. Merchandise was not as freely displayed as one might find in other markets, another sign of caution.
He managed to strike up conversations with some of the villagers and mercenaries in the market. He learned that the Forsworn had taken over the fort six months ago. They had help. Unofficially, of course, and one the surviving soldiers couldn't arrest.
Two groups of Thalmor dropped in, unannounced and unwelcome. Something was said and the captain and the upper command were found to be Talos worshipers, so the Thalmor invoked the Concordat and used magic to slaughter the heretics and any soldiers trying to defend them. They weren't a large company in the fort to begin with and could ill-afford the disappearance of all the upper command. While the remaining soldiers were still burying their dead and awaiting order from the Markarth Legion commander, the Forsworn had swarmed in, killing yet more of them and driving out the rest.
Should he volunteer? Tariq thought about that as he discussed with a leather smith the job of making a new girth strap for Cairo's saddle. No one was offering pay. The mercenaries in town readying for battle all had personal connections here; they weren't expecting pay or loot. An old town drawing on old blood. Old battle lines of Nords versus the Reachmen.
Technically, on that basis, it wasn't his battle. But then, again, this wasn't against the Reachmen but the Forsworn. He liked Reachmen like Ainethach and his villagers, just decent Reach folk trying to make an honest, peaceful living. Maybe the Forsworn had a point in their anger about being dispossessed of their land, but that was war. Winners and losers.
The Heartland elves enslaved the Cyrodiilan ancestors, but eventually lost when the slaves rebelled. They were all dead. The Left-Hand Elves tried to enslave his people. Dead. The Falmer overreacted when the Atmorans started fleeing their origin land of Atmora, which was freezing over, becoming year-round ice which nothing could live on. The Falmer attack one invasive settlement, got repaid by decades of unrelenting slaughter. The Orsimer caught shit from both Man and their fellow Mer and had been driven to the Wrothgar Mountains or to small enclaves scattered around Skyrim.
Yet, the losers would do the same if they had the upper hand. Nature of the beast. And a nation is a collective beast, territorial, concerned only with it's own survival above all others.
He went back to the inn, saw to the horses, then took a nap before dinner.
It was crowded for the evening and he was greeted by hearty calls. "Thane! Well met!" "Cheers, Thane." "Welcome to Granite Hills, Thane."
He looked at Argis. "Did you say anything?"
"Not a word, sir."
The innkeeper nodded at him. "Hinrik came by to tell us there's a new Sybil and that you two were the ones to rescue and deliver her. Hinrik's paid for your dinner. He'll be back around midnight bit later after he's done his shift at patrol.
"Also, you helped the Reachfolk village of Karthwasten and you destroyed a Namira cult. We're hoping, Thane, that you will help us. Maybe Talos sent you our way at this time." He set down two flagons of rich, dark beer.
"I hear invoking Talos is what brought on this trouble in the first place," Tariq remarked, after taking a deep swallow. This was a good roasty malt with an sweet note of figs.
"Maybe. That's the excuse of those filthy yellow vultures. They know that Talos has always been the patron of the Legion. Every since Old Hroldan, which we've heard just now that you've fulfilled Hjalti's promise."
"That news traveled so fast? I don't recall anyone passing us on the road here."
"So it's true?" The innkeeper actually looked surprised. "I just said that because little Skuli wrote a note about you two making the attempt and actually going out to Serpent's Bluff. He had a good feeling about you two. He and Leontius harvest some of the wild honey around that area and send it to us and we use it in our brews and send a couple casks and meat back to them in exchange. You hadn't yet returned when Leontius delivered the honey and the note. Skuli knew you would eventually come our way because you'd asked directions to our town. So, the ghost has gone to Sovngarde?"
"I would presume so, if that's where Nord souls are supposed to go."
That set off a murmuring among the listeners.
"And the sword?"
"I left it back at the inn. It should stay with the room after all. And I prefer my scimitar."
The innkeeper glanced at the weapon. "I suppose. It looks good for a Redguard weapon. And you are wearing that bizarre deep elf armor instead of good iron or steel. Your friend here is wearing proper Nord armor."
"Best set this straight now, friends, before a line is crossed," declared Argis loudly, his tone jovial. "My Thane is a Redguard, though he prefers the old name of Yokudan. I know, I know, he doesn't look like the typical black-haired, darkie Redguard, but even pure bloodlines can throw off-color variations. His line just happens to be of a fairer stock than the common.
"He's also a man who knows his gods, his Yokudan gods, so our Nord gods mean nothing to him. Anybody trying to tell him what his duty is as a Nord and to Talos or Shor is only going to piss him off. If you're wanting his help, ask him as foreign warrior who's proven he does good deeds. As for being the newest Thane of Markarth, the Jarl has given it as an honorary position. He has the title, but no real duties. But, again, because he is a warrior of honor, he'll at least give a fair shot to listen."
"Thank you, Argis. Well said," Tariq said quietly.
"No problem. Just laying things out plain and simple, my Thane." Argis stepped back, getting out of the focus of attention.
People wanted to hear about the ghost quest. By general consensus, it seemed, they would wait until Hinrik arrived to talk about the upcoming battle to retake Fort Sungard. It was Hinrik's sister, Orla, after all, who had written the news about the new Sybil and the greatness and fearsome sword skill of the new Thane.
That lasted about two hours. A runner came in, announcing there was a Forsworn raid taking place. Behind him came a flood of noncombatants, elders, and children taking shelter in the fortified inn. Soldiers and those of fighting spirit rushed out. Argis was halfway out, but hesitated, looking back at Tariq for orders. Tariq nodded and joined in.
It was a raid on someone's cattle. It was calving season, a good batch of tender, young calves, cows fat with milk — a loss of meat and future cheeses the village could ill-afford. Tariq went with the main group heading toward immediate battle while other groups split out to protect other vulnerable farms with livestock and flocks.
It was a hard night battle. A few casualties and some calves got taken. Not an unrecoverable loss for the farmer, but a hard loss all the same in human lives.
They returned to the inn. Some Forsworn had been seen in the streets, but they were quickly chased out. A few market stalls had lost some goods, but nobody was hurt.
"They've got a fort to retreat to now, and we're sitting here out in the open, so they're getting bolder with their raids," said Hinrik. It was dawn, and the tired and injured came to the inn. The town healers moved among them, working.
"The town came from the Fort, so you know. Back when it was built, back in the Second Era, it was Granitehall, and the village started actually inside as a walled city. Back then, this who area was part of the Falkreath Kingdom, Helgen and Falkreath controlled the trade comeing through the Jerall pass, and this place controlled the road, the east road to Whiterun and beyond to the Old Kingdoms, and the north road to Solitude and to High Rock.
As the population grew, the village was moved out, and the fort was rebuilt to be more a military fort to hold a larger army as Falkreath was gaining greater power in the Colvial Estates to become the new empire. But King Cuhlecain died, his generals fought, and Hjalti Stormcrown won to take up his destiny as the Dragonborn Emperor.
"As the Septim Empire grew, new trade routes opened up and Granitehall lost its importance. Traders were now able to sail around and directly to High Rock and Solitude without having to pay passage fees and taxes through Summerset waters or even Hammerfell waters. After all, one Empire, right? No more large caravans grouth through the Reach."
"Hm," Tariq agreed, smiling tightly with no humor. He did not appreciate the comparison to the High Elves. The Hammerfell navy acknowledged no equal in defiance of High Elf claims of being the oldest and greatest of all naval powers, and such a navy was expensive to maintain.
"And then the Empire got monopolies with the Dark Elves, and found easier wealth there. Not that there isn't still wealth in the Reach, but one has to work at it. But why, if there's opportunity for easy wealth? Well ..." Hinrik shrugged.
"In any case, the Thalmor used the Concordat — again — to strike at the Legion. We're too easy a target when it comes to finding Talos worshipers. They probably goaded someone into slipping up, and they had their excuse for more revenge against the Legion.
"Expecting any help or reprisal from Markarth is a joke. It's too far and the Jarl has the Legion there chasing Forsworn in the hills. Falkreath is closer, but the Jarl there is a lazy, cheap prick who uses the Legion to do the basic work his Hold guards should be doing. That is, if there were sufficient Hold guards. Jarl Siddgeir won't spend the money hiring, training, or just flatly paying for anything beyond the bare minimum to protect his coddled ass.
"Do you know what we got instead? We sent our message directly to the Legion commander there. Instead, what came from Falkreath was a representative of a known robber band with a writ from the Jarl who offered assistance for as long as we pledged to catch up on 'taxes' owed to Falkreath. A cowardly, dishonorable land grab. It's true that Granitehall was once Falkreath territory, but that was centuries ago. This writ is one Siddgeir can easily deny by claiming the robbers forged the demand and his seal.
"We've asked the Legate at Whiterun, but his people are already committed to other campaigns. They're stretched to their limit because Jarl Balgruuf continues to deny General Tullius's demand to station more Legion companies in Whiterun Hold. The Whiterun Guards are as stretched as the Legion, and they're only able to do this because they have the Companions headquartered in their city. The Companions take care of the bandits in the Hold. They've got a lot because right now they're the wealthiest Hold. But we can't even appeal to the Companions in Whiterun for help because we don't have the money to pay a bounty for that big a band, and Siddgeir, of course, won't put up even a shaved septim for any bounty — not when he gets a cut of their take.
"We've sent people to Solitude to try to get aid from General Tullius, the military governor sent by the Empire at the death of High King Torygg. But word coming back is that the General is abroad in Skyrim. His officers in Solitude dare not move without his permission, especially if there's any hint of Thalmor involvement. There's something else with more importance happening and a crumbling fort in the Reach is low priority to them."
"So, you are going to take back the fort on your own. I see. Ambitious," said Tariq.
"No, thane. Survival. The longer we wait, the more the Forsworn settled in. We've been appealing to ex-villagers, to allies who aren't already committed to the Legion, to come home and help us take back the fort; we're calling on old bonds, old ties, family loyalties. We refuse to lose to either the Forsworn or to the Dominion."
"All right. You've got my sword," said Tariq.
"Hah. Orla did say your sword was always ready," said Hinrik, grinning. "Though, knowing my sister and her goddess, she was probably talking of something else."
"Well, according to Mother Hamal, I am Dibella's Champion. Accurate on all counts, I would say."
…
There really wasn't much strategy involved. The villagers were all familiar with the fort's layout. The Forsworn advantages were only their greater number and the magics of their witchblades. At least there were no hagravens that anybody had seen.
Tariq, Argis, and other heavy armored soldiers would make their attack at the front, drawing the Forsworn. Another group, led by a surviving Legion officer and Granite Hill native would go in by the backdoor escape tunnel. From long observation, the villagers had never seen the Forsworn use that egress, and the Legion officer had gone in the night before to verify that the many security traps and seals were still in place, which he then disabled in preparation for this strike.
The battle went as planned. The heavy armored fighters drew the swords and spears; steel and oak bows out shot the bone and wood bows. The witchblades, the magic users, Tariq handled himself because of the anti-magic enchantments on his armor and shield. He would steadily advance on them, pushing through their elemental fire or lighting spells. Sharpshooters sent arrows to pin the mages in place, denying their attempts to fleet-foot away from Tariq's sword.
They were beating the Forsworn. Still, while fighting them, he found time to admire their double-wielding techniques. If they had been properly outfitted in real light armor and with real weapons of steel scimitars, they would be far deadlier. The best ones danced, their movements worth committing to parchment for lesson illustrations, moves hinted at in the Book of Circles that he ferociously tried to commit to memory so that he could practice them later. Had he not been wearing his heavy armor, he could see himself taking injury. But, because their weapons were so inferior, he could break the beautiful sweeps with his shield. Dwemer armor was built for that. He was the rock wall that broke their fury and flow. It was better than most in combining protection and mobility, but there was no dancing in it.
They didn't try to flee; they fought to last warrior. They didn't have to. Tariq felt a little sick about that. No nation should be driven to that kind of hopelessness.
— Broken Tower. The dead eyes of children. The Worldskin eating its own flesh. —
But it was the stuff of legends. The hopeless, unwinnable battle. And when they were all dead, maybe some decades or generations later, they would be celebrated as examples to emulate by the descendants of the winning race; romanticized as valiant, but ultimately tragic heroes.
Or not. As the worm turns. It all depended on which way Satakal coiled as it continually shed itself of the past and ate until it consumed its own heart and memories, and was reborn in a new skin, in the same, yet altered story.
The battle was over. Tariq met up with the Legion officer, Praefect Viggo, and accompanies him on a quick inspection of the fort.
"Well, at least I can tell my wife's aunt her brother died fighting," the man growled as plucked one grisly trophy off it's spike at a makeshift altar. "They celebrate a difficult kill this way. Drain the blood to feed the spirits of their own fighters. Supposedly. Better than being slowly torn apart to feed a dark god's appetite." He glanced sideways at Tariq.
"I'm grateful for your help. Those witches would have caused serious damage without you."
"I think Granite Hills still would have won without me."
"A temporary victory," stated the praefect, clinically. "We wouldn't have been able to kill them all. Some would have survived to run to other Forsworn holdouts and swarm back with yet more. Those of us who survived this battle would certainly be dead in the next wave. Oh, we could retreat to the inn and make a stand, but anyone outside would be dead, our crops and cattle taken. They'd let us starve in our little fort because I have a feeling the response from General Tullius would be far too late. A complete sweep has bought us time. We'll have to harvest early, if possible, cull the animals to build our dried meat supply, bring most of the village back into the fort. Hold out until the Legion has time to remember us."
They ended the tour at a tower near the front gate. The praefect and two soldiers restored the Imperial flag to its rightful place. Afterwards, the man stiffly bowed his head to Tariq. "Again, thank you for your help, thane. We could not have done this without you. Please do not let my earlier words be a burden; we will made do and survive as we have done the past hundreds of years."
Hinrik repeated those words as they dined at the inn, adding, "I'll be leaving tomorrow for Rorikstead across the border in Whiterun. If things go well, we'll drive most of our cattle and herds there for them to hold. They'll also hold part of their harvest to tide us over."
"Will you send your elderly and children there?"
"Naw. We're stubborn. They'll want to stay." There was something unsettling in Hinrik's wry smile.
"You'll trust them with your livestock, but not with your children, your elders?"
"Rorikstead's a strange place, thane. Na, na, don't ask me anymore about it. Maybe you'll want to travel there yourself someday and make your own judgment.
"So, you're leaving us soon? Your horse's saddle is repaired."
"Yes. We're heading into Falkreath."
"Nice hunting down there. I know your man, Argis, is eager to hunt some fat deer. But watch for the spriggans, Kyne's guardians of the forests, there's plenty there. Of course, you know there's large groups of bandits. Also necromancers — Falkreath is famous for its uncountable graves and crypts. So many lost in the forest. And watch for vampires. The jarl isn't the only bloodsucker there. And Thalmor. After all this time, it's gone back to being a real frontier. The only justice is by the sword.
"And, here —" he presented a folded parchment to Tariq. "It's a letter of introduction to some friends, Ari and Niels, fur trappers. They're a good pair and can give you a lot of information about the Hold. They live near Falkreath. You could probably just drop word at the Dead Man's Drink, and they'll come looking for you.
"Oh, and I'll tell you, Siddgeir's steward is an Altmer. Nenya's her name. She's a local, born in the Hold, Helgen, actually. Has served as the Hold's steward the past 60 years. She detests the Thalmor, but she has to play nice with them. We understand she has family in Bruma and Anvil, and that Thalmor like to give her news on her family from time to time. An honorable elf, but one you can't really trust lately."
Tariq nodded.
"Why the smile, thane?"
"Oh, just anticipating the hunting," said Tariq.
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