Chapter 10

The sun had barely reached its zenith when two figures crept over a hill just north of the ancient ruin of Korvanjund. Leaving their horses tied to a tree a few yards back, Tavian and Roald approached the barrow cautiously. It was no secret that ruins like this frequently attracted bandits and marauders, who used the exterior, above-ground structures as lairs from which to waylay travelers on the nearby road. If they were lucky, Tavian thought, bandits would be all they would find. Darker and more dangerous foes lurked in the subterranean depths of the crypts below.

Korvanjund itself was rumored to be the final resting place of High King Borgas, who had been King of Skyrim during the First Era. Tavian had read about him in a book in his father's library. Little was known about Borgas, but he had been the last known King to wear the Jagged Crown, which Tavian's father had found for General Tullius, who in turn delivered it to Elisif, to further her claim as High Queen of Skyrim.

In the end, the Moot decided on a joint rulership with duties shared equally between Elisif, and her husband, High King Ulfric Stormcloak. The two were clearly devoted to each other, and were raising six children under the azure-tiled roof of the Blue Palace in Solitude. Tavian had met them on several occasions, and was impressed with how well-mannered each of them were, from Princess Eila – who would someday be Queen – and her twin brother Eifid, to the youngest, Prince Daric, who was still just a toddler.

As for King Borgas himself, Tavian recalled his father mentioning that he had been forced to kill the draugr wearing the Jagged Crown; that could only have been Borgas, Tavian reflected. At the very least, they wouldn't have to deal with him.

Unless some necromancers decided to bring him back, he worried. But he said nothing of this to Roald. The young Nord was determined to relieve his boredom at the potential expense of his life. The idea that delving into an ancient Nordic ruin with possible undead walking its halls never occurred to him – or if it did, he wasn't admitting to it.

"I don't see anyone lurking around outside," Roald whispered now.

Tavian wasn't so sure. "Let me try something first," he suggested. Summoning his inner wellspring of magicka, he made a gesture and released the energy in the form of a Detect Life spell. It was one he had only recently learned, in the past year, and he couldn't keep it going for very long. What he saw in that brief time, however, elicited a quiet gasp from the young Imperial.

"What do you see?" Roald muttered.

"Lots of images," Tavian said. "I can't tell if they're bandits or draugr, but we'd be fools to go in there right now. We should head back and let my Dad know."

"You won't be going anywhere today," said a voice behind them. Rolling around onto their backs, the two young Legionnaires saw at a glance they were outnumbered. Somehow, a half-dozen ruffians had come up behind them without a sound.

"What do we do with them?" a second asked, uncertainly. It was clear he had no stomach for killing in cold blood.

The first one considered this. "We'll take them to the Boss," he finally decided. "We'll let him decide. On your feet, you two."

Rough hands grabbed Roald and Tavian and hauled them to their feet, stripped them of their weapons and bound their arms behind their backs. They were then half pushed, half led towards Korvanjund and taken first down a flight of stone stairs, across a short avenue, and up a second flight into the main part of the ruin. From here they were thrown into an iron-barred cage, and the door was locked shut on them. One of the scouting party was left behind to guard them while the rest retreated further into the ruins.

"What's going on here?" Tavian asked. "I thought this place was abandoned?"

"I don't answer questions," the man said. "Keep your mouth shut if you don't want it shut for you." He hefted the butt end of his spear as a threat, and Tavian subsided.

"What do we do now?" Roald whispered. The bravado of the stalwart adventurer had quickly faded, and his brown eyes were wide with fear.

"We wait to see what happens next," Tavian murmured back. "They haven't hurt us…yet. And I'm curious to know what's going on here. Bandits would have killed us outright. That one guy looked scared, like he was out of his league. So, we'll wait and see."

Roald looked doubtful, but he nodded all the same, trusting the young Imperial had a plan up his sleeve. For all his boasting, Roald knew that deep down inside, he was a follower, not a leader. Dirk's early dismissal from the Legion had scared him. If someone as tough and clever as Dirk could wash out in less than a week, how long would it take someone like him, who had no particular talents? This was why he'd gotten into fights, and had spent a lot of his time on extra duty. The fear that he wasn't good enough, tough enough, brave enough to make it in the Legion had made his first year much harder than it needed to be. And Roald was only just beginning to realize that what he had been looking for was another Dirk to follow. The past few days spent in Tavian's company, with his family, had opened the young Nord's eyes to a different life – a better one – if he wanted it. He needed only to re-evaluate what was important to him.

Roald realized none of this on a conscious level. All he knew at the moment was that Tavian, sitting beside him in the cramped iron cage, had remained calm, as though he were formulating a plan. Whatever that plan happened to be, Roald intended to take advantage of it.

For his part, Tavian desperately hoped someone would find the note he'd left behind, and come to look for them when they didn't return for dinner. He said nothing of this to his companion, with the guard outside the cage within earshot, and Roald knowing nothing of the note. But he spent his time of incarceration watching the people hurry back and forth. They didn't seem to be wearing any formal armor; it was a mish-mash of many various types from leather to ring mail, but nothing sturdier than scaled armor. Their weapons, however, were curiously bright. He shifted a bit closer to the corner where their guard stood watch, and examined what he could see of the spear from his angle on the floor. Torchlight gleamed off its point, which had a much duller finish than sharpened steel would have had.

Silver! he realized. That's a silver spear point! But why?

Several people hurried through the chamber, heading deeper into the ruin, and Tavian strained to catch a glimpse of their weapons. The regular swords were sheathed, which told him nothing, but here and there, he caught sight of the sheen of silver on a greatsword hanging down someone's back, or on a mace bouncing at another's hip. The last one wore a cloak which was nothing more than a giant wolf skin draped over his shoulders, the head hanging down his back.

That's a werewolf skin! Tavian realized with horror. Are these people part of the Silver Hand?

Fear churned his stomach. He had thought – as many had – that the Silver Hand had been wiped out a couple of decades ago. His father had been instrumental in that purge, and part of the reason was because he had been a werewolf himself for a brief time. The Dragonborn had never related this to either him or his sister, but on one evening, alone at Breezehome in Alesan's company, the Redguard Companion had had one too many mugs of mead and had confided the story for their ears alone.

"Don' let Ma an' Pa know I told ya," he slurred, as he concluded the story. "They'd probably get mad at me for tellin' ya, but I think y'oughta know."

The Silver Hand had been, back before the Last War, a group of werewolf hunters who dedicated themselves to destroying what they considered to be 'abominations.' The fact that they did not exclusively kill werewolves made them nothing more than glorified bandits, harassing travelers on the roads, or abducting people from their homes on the mere accusation of being werewolves, torturing and murdering many innocent people. The Jarl of Whiterun had been grateful to the Dragonborn when their group had been wiped out.

But now it seemed to be on the rise again. What could have prompted this revival? Tavian pondered this, but could come up with no reason that made sense. The fact that he and Roald had not been killed outright, however, showed a form of restraint exercised by this group of Silver Hand that had clearly not been present with its predecessor.

Time dragged on, and what little light came through the few holes in the ceiling was dimming. The afternoon was waning, and it would be night soon. Someone – a woman wearing leather armor and carrying a bow on her back with a quiver full of arrows – approached with a plate of bread and two mugs of water. Tavian had no doubt the arrows were tipped with silver points. She spoke not a word, but merely set the plate and the mugs down on the floor and nudged them towards the cage with her foot, just within their reach. Their guard said nothing to her, but gave a short nod and left them in her care as she took up his position by the cage door.

"Are we to be ransomed?" Tavian asked her.

"Not for me to say," she replied. "Eat your food. It's all you're going to get today." She refused to respond to any other questions.

"How are we going to get out of here?" Roald asked around a mouthful of bread.

"I don't know yet," Tavian responded truthfully.

"I don't want to die in here!" Roald whispered, swallowing hard.

"We aren't dead yet," Tavian assured him. "They said something about letting their boss decide our fate. Maybe something will happen soon."

Though it was only dry bread and water, it had at least been food, and both young men settled uncomfortably into the corners of the iron cage to await their fate. In spite of their fear and uncertainty, they both drifted off to sleep.

Great roars awoke them, though how much later it was impossible to determine. Tavian snapped awake to see two large werewolves smashing their way through the waves of Silver Hand that came running up out of the depths of the ruins. With them, he recognized the Harbinger of the Companions, Vilkas, and his twin brother Farkas. There were other faces he recognized, too: Athis, the Dunmer trainer in swordsmanship, and Ria, the Imperial Shieldmaiden. He knew the two werewolves, also, and his heart leaped into his throat as several of the Silver Hand launched a flight of arrows towards the one he knew to be his brother, Alesan.

Performing a twist in midair to avoid the arrows, Alesan bounded towards the knot of archers and slammed two of them aside, lunging for the throat of a third. Swifter than thought, a masked figure wearing a large werewolf cloak broke from the shadows and leveled a crossbow at the Redguard-turned-werewolf. Tavian attempted to scream a warning, but there was no time. The silver missile flew from the crossbow, burying itself in the younger werewolf's chest. Gasping, he sank to his knees, and the man who had stood guard over them earlier thrust with his spear. Bright red blood splashed over the floor and the female werewolf howled her rage. She turned towards the masked figure, but there were too many other Silver Hand in her way.

Stunned, the Companions faltered, and the Silver Hand pressed their advantage, pushing them back towards the front of the chamber. At that moment, the door opened, and Tavian nearly wept in relief as his father entered Korvanjund.

The Dragonborn's eyes swept the room and took everything in at a glance, finally resting on the bloody heap that was Alesan, slowly morphing back into human form. Those steel-grey eyes widened in horror at what had just happened.

"NO!" he bellowed in anguish. Those same eyes hardened into chips of flint as they narrowed. "TIID KLO UL!"

Tavian and Roald felt the wind whip past them as their cage door was suddenly, of its own accord, unlocked and left to swing open. Several Silver Hand suddenly found themselves weaponless and knocked to the floor, unconscious. Vilkas took advantage of the confusion and called to the other Companions.

"Bind them!"

Ropes and leather straps were produced and the disoriented Silver Hand were meekly bound, hand and foot.

Pounding feet approached their cage, and the masked figure slammed the cage door shut on Roald and Tavian, who had not had time to flee. He raised his sword to strike at Tavian, who had no room to avoid the blow.

"HOLD!" boomed the voice behind the mask. "I will kill these two unless you withdraw!"

Everyone went still, and the form of the Dragonborn blurred into existence crouched next to the too-still form of Alesan.

"Who are you?" Marcus demanded, standing slowly. "Why have you done this?"

"You took my son from me," the voice growled. "I felt it only fitting that I take yours." A sound that might have been a suppressed chuckle, or might have been a snort, emerged from behind the mask. "Your son was an abomination, Dragonborn. He deserved to die. And I will take another son from you if you don't leave right now." He raised his sword again. Roald flinched, but Tavian was surprisingly calm.

"How did I take your son?" Marcus frowned, trying to place the voice. But muffled as it was behind the mask, he couldn't quite guess for certain. Aela, however, had reverted back to human form and her eyes narrowed.

"I know that scent," she growled, "even from behind that mask, Idolaf Battle-born!"

Tavian gasped, and from where he stood, the Dragonborn did as well.

The man in front of the cage removed the simple mask and gave a nod. "Your day will come, too, bitch," he sneered. "Don't think you're getting away from justice."

"If I die, it won't be at the hands of a milk-drinker like you," she snarled, and even in her human form, it was a very animal-like sound.

"All of you, leave now," Idolaf ordered. "Your son's life hangs by a thread, Dragonborn. If he dies, his blood is on your hands."

"FUS RO!"

The sound of the thu'um rebounded around the chamber, coming from behind Idolaf. Unprepared, he was pushed forward, stumbling to his knees. In that instant, Aela was on him, swords flashing. Pandemonium broke out once more, as those of the Silver Hand who hadn't been bound swept forward and engaged the Companions, though they kept their distance from the Dragonborn.

Idolaf managed to block Aela's initial attack, and cut her deeply on the riposte, but the she-wolf whirled and thrust, proving she was more than adept at swordplay, though her preferred weapon was the bow. Vilkas attempted to get between Idolaf and the cage but was blocked by two Silver Hand members who threatened with spear and sword. He found himself with Farkas at his back, keeping three others at bay.

"TAVIAN!" Marcus boomed, using the thu'um to empower his voice, "GET OUT OF HERE!"

But Tavian had other ideas. While he was currently weaponless, that did not mean he was helpless. He kicked at the door Idolaf had slammed shut, and it reluctantly popped open on the second jolt, having not relocked. The female Silver Hand, who had given them food earlier, raced to intercept him as he and Roald emerged, but Tavian shot her with an Ice Spike, and she stumbled.

Roald scooped up a sword and shield from a fallen Silver Hand and prepared to defend himself. Looking around, Tavian could see nothing nearby that could remotely be described as a weapon.

"Stay behind me, Tavian," Roald called over his shoulder. "Head for the door, like your Pa said. We'll back out of here together."

"No good, Roald," Tavian argued. "We fight them together."

"You don't have a sword," Roald pointed out as two Silver Hand headed their way.

"I don't need one," the Imperial lad said, with more confidence than he felt. He cast a fire rune on the floor between the approaching Silver Hand and Roald, and the one in the lead couldn't stop in time to stumble across it. The one behind plowed into his back and the two fell to the ground screaming, immolated in the wash of flames that exploded from the rune.

"You're almost as good as Dorian," Roald grinned, but the smile faded as the two Silver Hand got to their feet and continued to approach with murder in their eyes.

"Almost," Tavian acknowledged, conjuring a sword of pure magicka. Then there was no more time to speak as each young man defended themselves from those who wanted them dead.

Towards the center of the room, the Dragonborn parried, thrust and countered with the aggression of a man with vengeance in his heart. He didn't stop to think of the consequences of his actions right now; all he knew was that his son was dead, and Idolaf Battle-born was responsible. But he couldn't reach Idolaf. There were too many other Silver Hand initiates in the way. Even if he could reach Idolaf, Aela had claimed him as her prey. He knew enough about the Huntress to know that much, having been a werewolf for a time himself.

He couldn't think about Alesan right now; he couldn't think about how much he wanted to kill Idolaf for what he'd done. All he could do was fight the ones coming at him now, and hope that Tavian and Roald had gotten away. He couldn't see past the battling Companions to see if they were safe.

In the end, however, the Silver Hand were crushed for a second time that day. In all probability, they would never rise again. Idolaf lay dead at Aela's hands, and she had taken off, injured, to nurse her wounds.

"I might not return to Jorrvaskr," was all she'd said to Vilkas on her way out.

Marcus found Tavian and Roald waiting at the front of the ruin, two dead Silver Hand members lying nearby.

"I thought I told you to get out of here," Marcus frowned at his youngest son.

Tavian pulled himself up to his full height, nearly meeting his father's gaze on an even level.

"I'm a Legionnaire, Dad," he said. "So is Roald. We don't abandon our friends in battle."

A ghost of a smile played at the corner of the Dragonborn's mouth as he patted both young men on their shoulders. But his eyes were bleak.

"We'll have to bring your brother home," he said. "Go get your horses."

They hurried to do as instructed, and Marcus turned to Vilkas, who was coming up behind him.

"I can't believe Idolaf would go so far as that," the wolf twin said quietly, shocked to his core. "I always thought he was an honorable man."

"Grief sometimes makes a man do the unthinkable," Marcus murmured. "I wonder if Alfhild knew any of this."

"I doubt it," Vilkas replied, shaking his head. "But if you want me to, I'll break the news to her of her husband's death."

"Don't tell her about the Silver-Hand," Marcus murmured in a moment of compassion. "If she doesn't know, this would break her. Just say he was set upon by bandits, and you managed to kill them, but not before Idolaf lost his life."

Vilkas looked at him in wonder. "Why would you do that for him, Marcus?" he asked. "He was ready to kill both your sons in revenge."

"I'm not doing it for him," Marcus said shortly. "I'm doing it for her." He turned and left Korvanjund, leaving the Companions the task of cleaning up after the battle.

It was a sad homecoming later that morning, just as the sun rose above the trees to the east. Tamsyn was waiting for them by the front door, and it was clear from her reddened eyes that she had known what had transpired.

Julia was devastated, and suffused with righteous anger towards Clan Battle-born…what was left of them.

"I'm never going to be able to look them in the eyes again after this," she raged.

"Yes, you will," Marcus warned her sternly. "Idolaf's obsession was his alone. Alfhild and Jon are blameless in this. You will remain cordial and polite in any dealings you may have with them in the future, is that understood?"

"But Alesan is dead, Daddy!" she cried, grief-stricken. "How can you be so calm about that?"

"I'm not," he said heavily. "Not on the inside. I'm furious and raging and I want vengeance in the worst way. But Idolaf paid for Alesan's life with his own. And that's where it ends."

"Your father is right, dear," Tamsyn interjected softly. There was an ineffable sadness in her tone that pulled at Julia's heart. "We can't continue a blood-feud with people who had no part in the treachery. Alesan knew the risks of being a werewolf. He even told me once that he'd probably get killed by someone with 'an axe to grind' over it. It didn't seem to bother him. He accepted his fate. And we have to, also. But I will miss him terribly." She put her handkerchief over her face again with both hands, and her shoulders shook silently as Marcus put his arm around her.

For his part, Roald said nothing about what he had witnessed in Korvanjund, until later that afternoon when the Dragonborn called him into his private study.

"I wanted to speak with you, alone," Marcus said, indicating that Roald should seat himself.

"I'm very sorry about Alesan," Roald mumbled.

"You should be," Marcus replied, a bit more sharply than he intended, perhaps. "Tavian tells me that it was his idea to go off to Korvanjund to explore the ruins, but that isn't the truth, is it?"

It was on the tip of Roald's tongue to lie and insist that it had all been the Imperial lad's fault. But one look into those stormy grey eyes quelled any idea of misrepresentation.

"No, sir," he mumbled. "It was mine. I was bored. I thought it might be interesting to see what might be there."

"You found more than you bargained for," the Dragonborn intoned. "Julia found Tavian's note about where you'd gone. She contacted me right away, but my wife and I were held up in Winterhold and couldn't get away immediately. She then reached out to Alesan to go with her to retrieve the two of you." He sighed and sat on the edge of the oak wood desk, running a hand through his steel-grey hair.

"It was Alesan who told her to stay at home and wait for my wife and me. Apparently, the Companions had been keeping tabs on the rise of the Silver Hand, and knew of the enclave at Korvanjund. When you and Tavian blundered into their lair, Idolaf saw it as an opportunity to lay a trap for Alesan, with you two as the bait. Alesan had the insight to bring the Companions along for back-up, and they got there just before I did. I just arrived…too late to save my son."

His bleak face took on a hard expression.

"What you did today was careless and foolish, and it cost a young man his life," Marcus said sternly. "That is not the way of a Legionnaire. You don't risk other peoples' lives, if there's a way to avoid it. If anything, you prepare yourself to give up your own life to protect others. If you aren't prepared to do that, then you shouldn't be in the Legion."

Roald felt himself shrinking. Not even his Commanding Officers had been this harsh without raising their voices. Most of the time, the Prefects yelled at them, the Legates hounded them, and the General, when she made her rare appearances, lectured them. But this cold, impartial dressing down issued by the Dragonborn stripped him to his core. And he would have resented it, as he had the treatment from his Legion superiors, except this time he knew he deserved it.

The Dragonborn's son had died trying to save him from his own stupidity, and the Hero of Skyrim himself had every reason to eject him from Heljarchen and ship him back to Cyrodiil on the next available carriage. Humiliation made him squirm; his face flushed with embarrassment. There was nothing he could say, nothing that would ease their suffering or bring their son back.

"You will never," the Dragonborn continued, "ever mention to anyone outside Tavian and this family, that my son Alesan was a werewolf, is that understood?"

Numbly, Roald nodded. He couldn't even bring himself to say the words, I'm sorry, knowing how hollowly they would sound.

"I will be inquiring of your Commanding Officer about your progress in this next year," Marcus went on. "And I'm hoping I will see some improvement in those reports. No more picking fights, less time on extra duty, and more cooperation with your fellow Legionnaires. Do you think you can manage that?"

Roald found his tongue. "Yes, sir!" he nodded. "Does this mean…I can stay?" He didn't realize until that moment just how much he wanted to.

A small smile played at the corner of the Dragonborn's mouth. "You still have a week of leave left, right? Try to stay out of trouble between now and then, okay?"

Roald heaved a sigh of relief. "Yes, sir! I will sir!"

Julia was not quite so won over. Though she treated their guest with the courtesy that hospitality demanded, it was years before she completely trusted him.