Fredas 22nd of Last Seed 4E201 Evening

Menrig

Unlike many of my fellows, I had grown up wanting to be a town guard.

For sure, the stories of heroes and adventurers enthralled me, but the thought of such danger all the time filled me with dread. Becoming a merchant sounded far too dull, and farming even more so. Despite my friends' jokes about "taking an arrow to the knee" and settling down at their spouse's behest, guard duty seemed to me a safe, but interesting job to maintain.

So how in the name of Talos is it that we have this day fought a dragon?

We'd all heard the rumors, of course, but it still all seemed like mere fantasy, far away from our actual lives. But those thoughts vanished when we reached the Western Watchtower. Not even the local giants could have done such damage, nor caused the stones themselves to catch fire. If anyone had doubts still, they flew when a scout called out a dragon approaching from the southern mountains. We all desperately moved to defensible positions, drawing bows, as the dragon descended upon us at impossible speed. I called upon Akatosh to protect me from his child, and Talos to grant me valor in battle, and to the old warriors of legend, the Dragonborn. And then it was upon us.

"You are brave. Balaan hokoron. Your defeat brings me honor."

It was... Madness. I have no other word to describe what happened this day. It was unlike any fight one could possibly imagine. As our foe was airborne, our first attack was a volley of arrows thrown on the Housecarl's mark. A few hit their mark, but they hardly seemed effective, beyond the beast somehow avoiding most of them. Irileth had said something about forcing it to land, but such thoughts have a way of being forgotten in the heat of battle.

There were no ranks to close, no manner of file that would work against an enemy that could fly over your head to flank you. So when the voice of that Breton screamed out to 'ware the dragon's fire, you found cover where you could. The few archers stationed on the remains of the watchtower were lucky to merely hide behind the arrow slits, but those of us on the ground scrambled to find rubble large enough, raise our shields, and pray to not be cooked alive. The heat was still unbearable, and the stone turned cherry red at our backs, but all of us stood still after that first pass.

The next few minutes passed the same; Let fly an arrow, the move 'round cover before the dragon returned the favor a hundredfold. Once, it lit upon the tower, and with one sweep of its tail, leveled the entire top floor, but its brief pause gave us the chance to loose several dozen arrows directly into its back, forcing it to take flight once more. Soon after, the beast landed, whether from injury or frustration at its lack of success in the air. We abandoned our bows, drew our blades, and now we were able to move together. We might not have been soldiers, but our bonds of kinship as Nords were instinctual.

"Krif krin. Pruzah! I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide!"

If fighting a flying dragon was madness, then fighting it on the ground felt like being in Oblivion itself. The beast was even larger up close; its maw could have easily fit a man's torso within it. I know this for certain, as it snapped its neck forward, pouncing upon a man too slow with his shield. The sight of a man being tossed about like a rabbit, the sound of cracking bones; it will haunt me forever, I'm sure. It tossed the corpse aside like a rat, and backed away from our line, as we attempted to flank and encircle it. Despite a warning from Talao, its tail knocked a few of us over several times, one of the fallen men roasted alive when we were a moment too late to recover, but we soon felt the flow of its attacks. Half our number would block a fang or claw, and then they other half dart forward and score as many cuts as possible while the dragon is vulnerable.

The dragon screeched at us after one particular foray, and our line staggered back at the sheer force behind it. It tensed up, and I could tell it was about to regain the air. To flee, or to take advantage of our open position, either one would be devastating to us, but we seemed powerless to stop it. Until Uthgerd broke rank and charged forward with a battle-cry that put the dragon's to shame. With her tremendous greatsword, she clove directly through one of the beast's wings.

The sound that issued forth from the dragon... I have never heard, nor ever shall hear, a sound so visceral, so terrifying, so piteous, as the sound of pain that came from that dragon's throat. It reared back from Uthgerd, but the damage was done; its wing fell uselessly by its side, blood gushing from the wound, as it screamed, "Dii viing! Hi sunvaar, zu'u fen krii hi! Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!" It staggered around on its three remaining limbs, madness and fury in its eyes. A living avatar of the unbridled force of Nirn itself.

And that insane woman looked at the thrashing, screaming dragon, smiled, and charged forward again.

I half expected to be cleaning her corpse off the ground later, but she skillfully evaded the dragon's desperate flailing, and leapt atop its back, plunging her blade deep into its flesh, again and again. With every thrust, the dragon's screams became softer, and its thrashing slowly eased. She dropped off the dragon's back, then held up its massive head, a dagger in hand. The gleam in its eyes is dim, searching past us, when they widen and I hear it say "Dovahkiin? Nid!" It tensed up once more, as if to deny its fate, and then the woman shoved her dagger into the base of its skull. The light died, and it went limp.

Now, the dragon's vanquisher gives another great cry, a feeling of victory rather than challenge, and the guards all follow suit, realizing we had done it. We had done the impossible, the stuff of legends; we had slain a dragon!

The housecarl's quick tally of our troops was somber, though not terribly depressing. Of the dozen guards that had made our group, only two had died. Kjeld was the poor soul who'd been nearly eaten alive, and Sorarke the one who had fallen to flames. One of the archers in the tower, Ingmorn, had his legs crushed, but would live. The two guards who'd originally been stationed at the tower, Hroki and Tor, had not made it either. The rest of us all had minor burns and other wounds, but nothing serious. Our ordeal was finally over.

Or so I thought.

It happened when Irileth had stepped forward to inspect the corpse. Even in death, the dragon was magnificent, despite its wounds. Its teeth a blinding ivory, majestic horns upon its skull, its bronze scales still gleaming. And smoking. Smoking?

We all back away, murmuring, as the dragon's flesh seems to fade and burn. Was it coming back to life? I hear a death rattle from its chest, as if exhaling for the last time again, and a queer wind blows from it, something more than air, and flowing toward a surprised looking Uthgerd. No, not to her, through her. Past her.

I hear another scream. And I see him, the Breton who had inspired us not an hour ago, who had warned us of the dragon's actions in the heat of battle, had descended from the ramparts. And now the wind was burrowing itself in his chest, as he screamed, no loudly, not in pain, but an odd mix of fear and surprise. Before my eyes, the dragon corpse has suddenly decayed by weeks. As if all the life had been drained from it, or its vitality.

Or its soul.

Something clicks in my mind; an old story I'd heard, but as though I'd forgotten until this moment. As Uthgerd helps Talao up, panting and sweating, eyes wild with emotion, one word is at the front of my mind. "It can't be. You're..."

After today, perhaps I'll take up farming after all.

Translations:

Balaan hokoron - Worthy enemies

Krif krin. Pruzah! - Fight courageously. Good!

Dii viing! Hi sunvaar, zu'u fen krii hi! Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde! - My wing! You monsters, I'll kill you! My overlord will devour your souls in Sovngarde!