Taking Karthspire was too easy. The Forsworn were caught unaware in the early dawn, dozens of dragons descending on the camp when most were asleep, drowning it in fire, ice, lightning, acid. Fur tents turned to dust, stone overhangs to rubble, Forsworn to skeletons, burnt corpses-they rose again on Shouts and fought their own allies as they shrunk into dried husks of life.
Control was established well before stray spells shot into the sky, missing the dragons weaving high above, barely grazing those closer to the ground wreaking havoc with Shouts Ulfric had never heard record of before. The Forsworn were in a frenzy, sprinting from tent to hut to cabin to cave, few making it to their destination without falling to a Shout of talon or fang. Dragons swooped in, scooping up the panicking witches to swallow whole or to toss to their superiors.
Soskendov chuckled beneath Ulfric, a deep tone that vibrated along his body as he circled the camp almost lazily alongside the other dozen dragons that held Dragonguard. Ulfric's sword arm twitched, his Tongue begged him to draw blood from one of the panicked Forsworn below. A young Forsworn-Ulfric had to stop himself from calling it a child-sprinted from a burning cabin to hide under a juniper tree. A dragon, Odahviing, Ulfric realized, the Dragonborn's dark robes, skin, hair, a harsh contrast against his red scales, landed near the youth, his massive body eclipsing the cabin, the tree, what the fate of the young Forsworn was.
Odahviing slinked along the ground, poking his head into the cabin and snarling at what he saw, withdrawing and crawling towards the next burning husk. The Dragonborn slid from his neck and made for the lower reaches of the camp, where the fighting was moving to the beaches of the Karth River and all the deep mine entrances that the Dwarves had carved Eras ago. Witches and sorcerers defended well, holding wards of flame and ice and magic to protect the Forsworn unable to fight-the young, the old-sprinting for the safety of the caves. Shouts bounced off harmlessly, dragons slammed into the wards, unable to break through.
The Dragonborn thrust her staff at a Forsworn as she jogged, letting the man disintegrate before her, breaking a hole in the shimmering wards above. She hesitated as his body crumbled, catching a club from another on her staff before turning and giving her attacker the same ashen fate, carrying on to the bulk of the fighting and taking on what Forsworn the dragons missed, what they couldn't reach through the wards. The fleeing Forsworn that were armed with their brutal, jagged bone swords turned to her, rushing her down in hopes that they'd be the one she'd miss with her staff, spells, sword.
The Dragonguard seemed to not notice her, their dragon mounts landing high above on the cliffs and peaks-just as they'd planned. The wood elf and his drawn bow, perched on his dragon even as the rest of the Dragonguard dismounted and yelled their attack on the huts and shacks that made up Karthspire, waited for any to pass a secret boundary where he deemed that they couldn't be chased down.
He watched from high above, Dragonguard laughing alongside their dragons as they laid waste to any Forsworn cowering inside their shelters, standing aside to let the dragons Shout down the structures. They went up in flames, flying into mountainsides, off cliffs, freezing and shattering-Ulfric had never seen such efficient destruction. The death, the slaughter they'd caused in a few short minutes…the end of the Forsworn would be swifter than he could ever imagine. The days they'd planned for would take hours, tens of thousands of causalities he'd faced years ago down to nothing.
And the Dragonborn was the architect of this carnage. He scanned the panicking crowd for her again, tracing streaks of magic, trails of blood to her advance down the narrow trails along Karthspire. The Dragonborn ignored the cliff landings, continuing down towards the shore of the river, her feet sure against steep-carved stairs despite all the stumbles he'd seen her take over the past week. She held her staff, wielding it like a mace to batter those that were beyond the reach of her Daedric sword.
"Down there", Ulfric ordered, pointing to a vague spot near the rapids where two Briarhearts and a handful of Hagravens were defending the mouth of a cave, throwing up wards to allow the fleeing Forsworn a chance to make it inside, past the notice of the Dragonborn, surrounded with more immediate enemies. If they turned, if the last of the Forsworn made it inside and they noticed her…He'd seen Forsworn melt the flesh from his soldiers. Without the distraction, the durability of the dragons, they'd all have already been puddles on the mountain.
Soskendov growled; he obviously wasn't able to see Ulfric on the back of his neck. "By the beach," Ulfric clarified, noting that it was where the Dragonborn seemed to be heading towards as she wove her way down rough-carved stairs, not bothering to finish off most of the Forsworn in her path. Odahviing stalked behind her, chomping down the bodies she sliced with her sword, strike with her staff.
She leaned on it every few steps, pausing to loose a stream of pure magic at the Forsworn, withering entire groups of them as they fled towards temporary shelter or charged towards her, trying in vain to take her down. Even from dozens of feet in the air, Ulfric could see how her eyes shone as she reduced them to nothing but dust to be scattered with the next Unrelenting Force any of the dozens of dragons Shouted down. How her brow glistened with sweat in the crisp morning air.
She made it look effortless. The staff was almost cheating, if Ulfric had been stupid enough to call war fair. She created arc after arc of lightning, drawing corridors for the Forsworn to run down into their own demise. She corralled dozens into sparking, magical cells on that beach as Soskendov made his slow decent down, down to land in ankle-deep, freezing water. Ulfric ignored it, rushing towards her, the labyrinth of magic she'd caught the fleeing Forsworn, herself in, giving her the opportunity to catch heaving breaths.
She stood at the apex of the blue, gold, green walls of her own creation, clutching the staff with both hands, sword dropped on the sand, like it threatened to fly away-it did, for all Ulfric knew about the cursed sticks. "Go!" She pleaded, voice cracking alongside the thunder that poured from her staff, adding height and thickness to the walls, enveloping those trapped inside, hiding her from view. Their screams…Ulfric forced himself to find pleasure in them, in knowing that each agonizing cry was one less Forsworn that would terrorize the Nords of the Reach.
'Go'…was she begging him to leave and save himself, or to charge in and help? Another scream, high pitched with youth, Ulfric fought back memories he'd forgotten decades ago of blood-soaked soil and burning piles of corpses. Piles of bodies stacked above his head-her magic wove its way above his head, threatening to fall upon him like a rogue wave if she lost her concentration, control of her staff-they burned sweet and rancid, hair and fur armor catching to nearly cover the stench of melting fat, flesh. The mouth of the cave was much too small for any of the dragons to go inside; the multiple Briarhearts defending the entrance now were likely the least of their worries.
Bones burnt black, exposed from the Dragonborn's blue-magic flames; she winced against the power that poured from her staff, leaning on it more and more with each second as the mere act of casting, sapped the strength from her body. He didn't know much about magic, but it was common knowledge that staffs were channeling devices, storage for spells much stronger than anything a mage could cast unaided. The spell drew inwards, pulling away from charred husks barely recognizable as corpses, collecting in a firm wall in front of her, absorbing spells and arrows that flew from the cave, darting out to block streaking spells aimed directly at him.
And she released it, letting the magic roll in a wave over the beach, the mountain, into the cave, screeches echoing to let them know how far inside it traveled. Likely not far enough, Ulfric thought, recalling how many hundreds of good soldiers he'd lost chasing down retreating Forsworn into their caves, carved Eras ago by the Dwarves or by long-dried rivers. But it was a start; the distant screams were a sign that the Dragonborn's spell found marks much further than he would've thought possible, likely catching the Forsworn just as off-guard.
The spell left nothing but smoldering puddles of flesh and bones in its wake, driving deep cracks in the mountain. Karthspire itself groaned, rubble tumbling down from the cliffs and caves carved in its face. Her staff shuddered in her hand; the Dragonborn dropped her sword to grasp it with both hands, to curve into it with her entire body as if it threatened to fly away. A perfect target for any straggling Forsworn fleeing the fighting, the massacre higher up on Karthspire, she stood swaying and trembling on the riverbank.
Ulfric threw himself in front of a spell, catching frost and the heart of winter on his chestplate, scowling at the Forsworn witch who dared to live in Skyrim and couldn't capture the depths of the cold. He Shouted at the witch, throwing him back, digging a shallow trench as he skid up the mountain. A handful of other Forsworn tripped against his Unrelenting Force, tumbling down the slope and coming to a stop where Ulfric could run forward and end them, holding the rocky beach from anyone who could keep the Dragonborn from controlling her cursed spell.
He ignored the wriggling cloak on a Forsworn's back, stabbing down through what was certainly a witch's familiar to still the woman.
Dragons swooped low above his head, closing in as the Forsworn dwindled down to stragglers trying in vain to fight, to flee. Shouts were less common now; the camp itself was in flame, dark smoke rising into the grey morning. How long had it taken? Battle-if he dared to call this a battle-skewed time, hours into minutes, seconds into days, the overcast clouds not helping to estimate. Ulfric stepped back, letting Soskendov snarl over, grab the corpses at his feet with his maw and toss them back to swallow them whole, weapons and potions and all.
The skies were nearly empty. Heavy footsteps from the dragons slinking around the mountain, sniffing out survivors to eat or to dare into submission sounded under crackling flames, sobbing, screaming Forsworn, rumbling dragon voices and cheering, laughing Dragonguard. Had they really done it? Karthspire was…Karthspire wasn't.
He turned away from the path up the mountain, because he doubted a simple spell could clear out the caves, as deep as the Dwarves and the Forsworn had carved the twisting tunnels. They probably had other exits the Forsworn could slip away through, to warn other camps for what useless good that would do against the dragons. No, they'd need to do a full sweep, a dangerous task with the dragons unable to fit through the cave, with the hidden nooks they could be killed from, all the traps no doubt laid throughout the caverns.
And there was the Dragonborn, standing in a circle of blackened rock, trembling against her staff, still sparking with magic. She'd fallen to her knees and looked ready to entirely collapse in on herself, but still squaring her shoulders and staring down the mouth of the cave. "We need to go in," she rasped.
"It's too dangerous," Ulfric answered. She flinched, turned, noticing he was standing not fifty feet from her. She had been talking to herself. He cleared his throat against the heaving breaths he'd taken, the heavy fatigue in his sword arm creeping in now that the battle was over. "We hadn't prepared for a siege, much less one in caves we've no idea the form of."
"They'll escape."
"Then we'll get them when they do."
"I don't like to dilute my victories."
"Do you like to lead your men to death?" The Dragonborn turned back to the mouth of the cave. Ulfric continued, refusing to remember how long it'd taken him to read the list of his fallen soldiers all those years ago. "The Dragonguard is not prepared. They're supposed to be witnesses, not warriors! Would you lose their trust by spoiling a full retreat with their deaths?" He gestured up the mountain, to where the dragons were landing, the Dragonguard dismounting, celebrating with whoops and cheers and old warsongs he'd written thirty years ago to keep morale up against increasingly impossible odds.
The Dragonborn pushed herself to stand, the movement catching in her knees, hips, spine, shoulders. She stared down their path of retreat. Mud and blood coated the hem of her robes, sweat soaked her back, her hair looking like she'd been caught in a storm, frost trailing up her sleeves, smoke dancing along her shoulders. Each breath shakier, deeper than the last.
"You've already…" Ulfric trailed off. She'd eclipsed his failed siege easily, effortlessly, and it wasn't enough for her. It wasn't enough to control a dragon army, to fly them to the unbroken stronghold of the Forsworn and leave it in smoking rubble, and it wouldn't be enough to repeat the same assault on the rest of the camps. "We'll leave dragons to sentry the cave. The whole mountain; there's likely another entrance nearby."
A small nod, almost imperceivable from the little shudders and tremors running through her like…like lightning.
The short travel to Bleakwind Bluff gave Ulfric just enough time to dwell on the thought of the Dragonborn falling from Odahviing's back, tumbling to her death in the skies. She'd fixed up well enough after a few potions and bandaging up her raw, frozen hands, sure, but it had taken more potions on top of the ones she carried around with her constantly. He'd barely seen her without a potion in her hand and another tied to her belt since she returned from Sovngarde; his mind echoed with all the warnings healers had given him over the years about the way they could take hold in your blood and refuse to leave until you were craving a bit of magic-infused flower as terribly as any Skooma addict.
He'd given up trying to tell when she was faking her limp and when she couldn't help but stumble over uneven stones, take stairs one at a time, three steps before she ascended. It seemed to change from minute to minute, and what he'd thought was a lapse in memory, in concentration she held to make herself appear weaker was beginning to feel like the moments where the potions and spells took hold to give relief. But, she'd pulled herself onto Odahviing surely enough, flying off towards Hag Rock Redoubt with her Dragonguard in tow, none of them seeming to notice the shuddering swell in her shoulders with every breath, even after she claimed to have caught it.
He scratched at the scars running down his arm, glad they were wrapped well under bandages to keep him from seeing the remnants of the spell she'd given him. The mead and wine and beer he drank dulled that pain where the salves couldn't, and kept him sleeping at least a few hours most nights. Less addictive than potions, more likely to grog over his head so that he couldn't think about why he felt the need to dwell on the Dragonborn more than his own injuries.
"Nervous?" Soskendov sneered beneath him in Dov, and Ulfric was glad for the distraction. Nervous, a sharp insult to a dragon, one that Soskendov was likely hoping he'd agree with in the mortal way of admitting faults.
Nervous, a shameful thing for a Nord to feel before a battle, especially one to be so easily victorious.
"No," Ulfric replied in the same language, hoping dragons couldn't smell lies.
Bleakwind Bluff rose easily as they crested the final peaks of the Druadach range; a lone mountain surrounded by low valley rising dim grey along late spring green grasses, brighter with snowmelt than the dullness of the Whiterun plains had been. Multicolored patches of wildflowers and sparse bushes dotted around boulders tumbled from long ago avalanches, milling deer and elk snapped to alert as the dragons' shadows passed them, returning to their grazing once they noticed they, for once, were not the prey.
Bleakwind itself was covered in a mosaic of towers all climbing each other, some stone and crumbling with age, others sharp with deep timber walls, obviously imported pine of the Great Forest. A worn path made its way winding through the valley, too high to see the skewered skulls Ulfric knew lined the trail. A few hide tents dotted the base of the mountain, and already movement from the settlement as they noticed not one dragon, or even two.
He'd not bothered to count the dragons that flew save for the seven that carried his cohort; Uthgerd the only one that hadn't adorned herself with a deep blue sash. It was twenty at least flying in a loose formation that easily split on either side for the dragons to surround the mountain.
"No survivors," he said to Soskendov, and the dragon repeated his order in Dov, the others echoing the death knell of the Forsworn like a cheer as they dove in, meeting the first spells with Shouts of their own, easily eclipsing the Forsworn's defenses.
The first pass of the dragons wreaked havoc on Bleakwind. Unrelenting Force tore down towers that had stood for centuries, Flame Breath turned the wooden structures, thatch roofs to ash, Ice Breath turning the narrow slopes of the mountain paths impassable. The second pass found the dragons flying low into the chaos of Forsworn fleeing collapsing, burning buildings, swallowing the witches whole and shrugging off spells, spears, arrows easily. Some moved too quickly for Ulfric to track as Soskendov circled lazily above the mountain, lower than the other dragons carrying the Dragonguard; one dragon seemed to be summoning all the deer, elk, bears, sabre cats-trolls in the area, the trail to Bleakwind became a pile of corpses buried under falling stones tumbling from the ruined towers.
His gaze fell to a Briarheart in his animal helm, a massive stave in each hand, slinging lightning and acid at one of the dragons who'd dared to land against orders. It cowered behind a wing, retreating back into the ruins of a tower. The scales on its wing fell away, skin disintegrating under bright orange sluice, filling the air with a metallic vinegar scent tinged with the rotten smell of burning dragon flesh to add to the sickly sweet of the smoldering Forsworn corpses.
"Foolish creature," Soskendov snarled, Shouting down towards Bleakwind, his Shout pushing the assaulted dragon further into the crumbling tower, into a trench dug with the weight of its body and the force of Soskendov's Words. Ulfric barely had time to tighten his grip around the makeshift rope supports, to dig his boots between scales in a desperate attempt to hold on as Soskendov suddenly jerked his body into a dive, wind rushing through his hair and loosening his braids, the approaching ground burned into wind-dried eyes.
Ulfric lost his grip as Soskendov slammed into the ground, the dragon, tumbling over his neck and skidding through the dirt and rubble until he came to a painful stop. His head slammed against the last remnants of the tower, the force rolling through his armor, and he knew his nose was broken against the faceguard, warm blood already dripping below his collar. His vision cleared in time to see Soskendov forcing the dragon from the mountain, a viciously clawed foot reaching out to slice and shove it over the cliff. His mount did not seem to notice the Briarheart, stumbled from his stance, still casting at his back.
Soskendov roared, and his head rung again, vision blurring as Ulfric cried out, spitting blood and bringing a useless hand to where his ears were protected under his helmet. Soskendov's tail swung around, catching the Briarheart on a long, thin spike as easily as one speared a piece of meat on a fork, beautifully leaving the cursed Briarheart itself pulled away from the corpse upon the apex of the scale. He smoothly flicked his tail, sending the body into his awaiting mouth. A single swallow, and then a burning stare at Ulfric before the dragon was distracted by spells, arrows, spears peppering his back.
Upon Soskendov's signal the rest of the host descended, the battlefrenzied Dragonguard too thrilled to notice that the majority of the fight was long decided, contented with slaying Forsworn who were too busy facing a Shouted, clawed death to care about the mercy of a blade from behind, an axe to the neck.
And, just as quickly as the battle had begun, it ended with triumphant cries, Shouts, the remnants of the Forsworn being slowly burned away, corpses disappearing into glistening maws instead of funeral pyres or hastily dug pits. Ulfric leaned on a boulder and cleaned the blood from his sword, having found a few witches to dispatch after he collected his head well enough to stand without falling over. They had all been rightfully more focused on the swarming dragons than the handful of Dragonguard that scurried around to pick off the stragglers, those that had meaningfully fought back had only done so once they noticed a blade swinging for their neck.
He eyed the sun's position in the sky, daring to brush the summits of the Druadachs; late afternoon would soon break to a golden evening. Uthgerd came up to him, stopping casually as if they'd run into each other in a market. She stepped over pools of blood, gore, ash, and rubble, her boots dirtied to the ankle and helmet slung on her hilted sword. A spray of blood had caught her over the chest, marking up to her cheek. "I've given permission to loot what they can carry," she spoke, somber and low. "We'll make it back by nightfall."
Ulfric nodded, eyeing two Dragonguard emerging from the remains of a cabin, a chest half-open with coins and gems hoisted between them. They caught him looking and whooped in his direction, raising the chest in triumph, cursing when a Soul Gem tumbled out and took an overflow of Septims with it. "It was once said that Forsworn gold was cursed," he answered. "That, if taken from its owner unwillingly, bugs will invade your bed. Your arrow will never again find purchase in an elk. Your sword will bend around an enemy's neck."
Uthgerd raised an eyebrow, watching the Dragonguard shove the fallen coins in their pockets. "I've never heard of such a curse."
"Few lived to tell of it."
She stood silent, a nod barely ghosting on her chin. "I'll spread the word," she finally said.
The mood had not dipped as they landed at Sky Haven Temple, the Dragonguard sliding off their mounts still taunting one another with claims they'd slipped a coin down someone's collar. The doors to the Temple were propped open for both their return and to catch the mild dusk breeze. The smell of rot and old blood had begun to hang in the air of the feasting hall, though nobody wanted or dared to mention it in his presence.
Ulfric wordlessly removed the rope hold from around Soskendov's neck, listening to the chatter behind him as the Dragonguard pulled off their own handles from sneering dragons, laughing at those who fell down as their mounts snapped at them before slinking off the side of the mountain, disappearing until they were to be called at dawn tomorrow for the next day's massacres. Soskendov scraped his talons on the courtyard as he left, leaving deep trenches in the worn stone and a hanging sound in the air that left his teeth ringing.
A short order from Uthgerd and the Dragonguard filed towards the covered, half-walled terrace that housed a well-weathered forge and a doorless shed that served as the armory, sitting on benches to clean their weapons and doff their armor, still chattering amongst themselves like recruits. He looked away when they wrapped their Windhelm blue sashes around themselves to keep out the cold.
Illia hovered near the door to the Temple, summoned by all the commotion of landing dragons. She raised her chin to him, eyes rolling over him, Uthgerd, the Dragonguard, looking for any obvious signs of injury. Ulfric shook his head, letting her disappear back inside to make her poultices and potions for when they weren't so easily returned.
"Sir! Sir, thank you for the honor of fighting alongside you," Imming called from the bench, standing and hoisting his cleaned sword in the air. Ulfric froze at the attention. "May the Forsworn's blood cleanse the land their lives poisoned!" The others cheered in agreement. "To the deaths of the witches!"
Ulfric cheered along, against his sinking throat. "To the glory of Skyrim!" He managed to summon the strength to say, and watched the Dragonguard's faces brighten at his words as they cheered louder, the sight shrinking the pit inside him. They still respected his word, despite failing them, despite at least four of them nearly witnessing the fall of his great city. "To the Dragonguard!" He added, his voice firmer, clearer, gesturing to Uthgerd.
"To the True High King!"
He didn't know how he kept his face locked in a victorious smile as the ground dropped from under him, slamming back into his feet with a rising glee that caught him even more off-guard than the sinking dread it rushed away. Perhaps it had to do with that whispered promise on a snow-peaked mountain and in a dusty makeshift clinic, that he would be High King in more than naïve hearts. Perhaps some small part of him somehow still believed he was worthy against those roaring doubts and failures that rolled through his stomach. Perhaps that small part should be much, much bigger; there had been High Kings before much more prone to abject, horrible, worthless failures of reigns, and the mere fact he stood amongst a mere seven who supported him without the promise of coin made him better than the forgotten disappointments of history. Perhaps the Dragonborn had made a delusional idiot of him.
Somehow, Ulfric found it in himself to stand firm as the cheers reached a vibrant peak. Somehow, he found himself enjoying the cheers of the small crowd.
He craved to feel again the praise of a city assembled. He dared to wonder once more how marvelous the adoration of all of Skyrim would feel.
Hag Rock Redoubt reminded her a bit too much of Skuldafn.
The Redoubt was a massive complex built into a valley surrounded on all four sides by tight, jagged peaks, making swarming dragons an easy target as they dove down to pick off what Forsworn they could from the deeply fortified towers and ancient Dwarven buildings. Nariilu eyed the corpse of a dragon a hundred feet down in the rubble of a crushed fort, it's body still twitching with lightning and its Soul trickling up towards her, too far for her to devour it. An arrow cruised for her head and she ducked behind the window, pressing her body against the watchtower they'd only managed to take since it traveled through the entire mountain; they'd entered from away the Redoubt itself, attacking before the Forsworn had taken full defensive positions below them.
"The door's been fortified," Salma reported, coming up the stairs from the fortress below. "If we can't get the dragons down there-"
"I'm very much aware they outnumber us a thousand-to-one," Nariilu snapped. She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. "This may throw us off schedule."
HIIII happy second publishing anniversary of dragons nature! one year ago today I said I"d write 100k words this year. I actually wrote (drumroll please) about 30k words over 5 chapters. (for reference, last year I wrote ~50k over 11 chapters). So, I'm writing longer chapters, but slower, which is cool bc all my writing time evaporated bc of life things. I'm not going to set a specific wordcount goal for this year, but instead I've got a point in the outline I want to hit by this time next year. So maybe another year and a half/two years before I move on to the third book in the series, Dragon's Legacy. Regardless, phd school is probably gonna take up a bit of my time so dont hold your breath but i SWEAR its coming.
Anywho I meant to hit a specific plot point before I published this but my pUBLISHING ANNIVERSARY! love yall xoxo