Chapter 17
Whiterun
The elves and Ilga listened intently while Vahkiir recounted all that Paarthurnax had told him. While he spoke, he watched his companions equally closely to gauge their reactions. Brevyn seemed more concerned about him than anything else. Ilga was enraptured, seeming utterly fascinated that he had been granted the opportunity to speak with Paarthurnax, who she claimed was a legendary figure among the Nords. Vahkiir was slightly surprised by her reaction, as he would have presumed she would harbor a hatred for one of the beasts that had once enslaved Skyrim, but apparently since Paarthurnax had taught mankind the thu'um, he was an exception. Nerevar, meanwhile, seemed interested, though not enraptured, while Voryn and the two female Chimer listened politely but appeared to have no major opinions one way or the other.
It was Vehk's response, however, that surprised Vahkiir the most. The Chimer stared into the fire pensively throughout Vahkiir's tale, and for a time, Vahkiir wondered if he was even listening. When he finished telling the story, though, it was Vehk who spoke first.
"Perhaps we should consider allowing this Vokrijun to pursue his plans, then," he said softly.
Every eye turned towards him. Nerevar and the other elves regarded him with surprise, while Ilga glared at him with unmistakable fury. Vahkiir, likewise, frowned admonishingly at the elf's response.
"Did you hear nothing I just said?" he demanded.
"Since when does a Dovahkiin heed the tales of dragons?" Vehk retorted, his large, almond-shaped eyes rising from the fire to fix on Vahkiir's face. "Are you not mortal enemies? Did it never occur to you that he might be attempting to deceive you, that he might be using you for his own ends?"
"Of course it did," Vahkiir retorted coldly. "However, he sounded sincere."
"How do you know?" Vehk pressed.
Vahkiir shook his head. "You would not understand," he answered softly, looking back into the fire. "It was simply… a feeling. An instinct, I suppose. Paarthurnax did not seem to have a reason to lie to me, and when he spoke of the threat that Alduin posed, there was genuine fear in his voice. Never have I heard a dragon sound afraid before."
"Why do you believe we should allow Vokrijun to do as he wishes, Vehk?" Nerevar asked, his voice much calmer than Vahkiir's.
Vehk turned towards him with a shrug. "Why should we not?" he replied. "We are embroiled in a war against these Nords, yes? If Vokrijun releases this Alduin, that will undoubtedly do a great deal of harm to their empire. It may even provide us with the opportunity we need to successfully expel them from our homeland. Perhaps they will withdraw because they consider this dragon to be an even graver threat than we, and will be forced to attend to it first. Perhaps Alduin is the deadly threat they fear, and he will decimate their armies. Perhaps he would even be willing to ally with us. The enemy of my enemy, after all. Either way, I cannot see it as anything but a benefit to us."
"Then you are a fool," Ilga snapped.
Vehk looked down again as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Am I?" he challenged her.
Ilga narrowed her eyes. "Even if you have not heard the ancient tales, elf, I have. You claim that we Nords are oppressing you? We are nothing compared to the cruelty of the dragons. Under their reign, you would not merely be thralls. You would be as ants before them, forced to labor eternally for beings that believe themselves gods compared to you. Worse, while you will likely outlive the cruelest of your human masters, the dragons are immortal. Even with your long lifespans, you would live and die knowing only one master. You would be begging our empire to reclaim you if you were to fall to Alduin and his draconic minions."
"Paarthurnax said much the same," Vahkiir added, though his tone was significantly less venomous than Ilga's. "According to him, the only hope you would have of liberation from the dragons would be to pray that a Dragonborn came along and slew them all."
"It seems to me that we are awaiting much the same anyways," Vehk retorted drily.
"Then you should be grateful that I am aligned with you, more or less," Vahkiir snarled, growing increasingly irritated with Vehk's aloof responses. "As such, you should not be seeking to make my life more difficult than necessary. Otherwise, perhaps the next Dragonborn who makes themselves known will be a Nord who does want his empire to remain in control of Veloth, as opposed to one who has no position in this war one way or the other!"
"Enough," Nerevar interjected. He then turned to Vehk. "If you would hear my thoughts… I concur with Vahkiir and Ilga. At best, this Alduin is too unpredictable. Wanton destruction will not necessarily help us, especially if his wrath may be turned upon us as well. Therefore, let's not actively seek to release him, especially until we know more about him."
Vehk frowned slightly, then sighed and shrugged. "You are the captain," he said. On the surface, his tone was indifferent, but even Vahkiir could see that he was slightly annoyed that his idea had been roundly dismissed by the others.
Nerevar eyed Vehk for a long moment, then turned back to Vahkiir. "Nevertheless, Vehk is right on one count – we do not even know this Vokrijun's intentions yet. Therefore, it would be in our best interest to simply speak with him, to ascertain what it is he wants, and what he hopes to achieve. Once we do that, we can decide our next action."
"Agreed," Vahkiir said firmly. He glanced at Ilga, who clenched her teeth, but likewise nodded slowly.
"Very good!" Nerevar said, smiling again. "Now, Vokrijun said that he would speak with you at Bromjunaar, yes?" As he spoke, he reached into his bag and withdrew the papyrus map of Skyrim. "Let's see where that is, shall we?"
Nerevar laid the map out on a rock, and everyone crowded around it to examine it. After a few moments, Voryn's large finger came to rest on a spot near the center of the map, slightly towards the northern half of the realm. "There," he announced.
"And we're here," Vehk added, pointing to another spot on the map, east of the Throat of the World.
"Very well," Nerevar nodded, tracing a line between the two points. "As such, it seems that the easiest route to Bromjunaar is to travel by river to the city of Whiterun. From there, we can disembark and make our way overland to the ruins."
"Agreed," Vahkiir stated as his eyes roamed over the map, his hand running thoughtfully through his thick beard. From what he had seen, though the hilly terrain in the lowlands of Skyrim was easier to traverse than the mountains and glaciers of the north, the fact remained that sailing along the river was still swifter than traveling overland. The guar were hardy beasts, but they were also slow, ponderous, and difficult to ride. Ilga had suggested purchasing beasts called horses, but according to the others, they were apparently costly and difficult to feed. Thus, their most viable option for travel was continuing down the river – especially since they had the boat already anyways.
"This works well," Vehk remarked as he touched his chin. "We were due to meet with Llervu and the others in Whiterun soon anyways."
Nerevar nodded, then chuckled as he looked up, his eyes meeting Vahkiir's "So, it seems that we will be following the same path a while longer, doesn't it?" he asked, an amused smirk playing on his face.
"Quite," Vahkiir agreed as he looked back down at the papyrus. "Though after we reach Whiterun, will you still want to travel together?"
Nerevar considered the question for a long moment, then slowly rolled up the scroll. "Well… I believe it would be in our best interest for at least a few of us to accompany you to Bromjunaar."
"For my protection?" Vahkiir asked drily.
Nerevar smiled slightly. "Partially," he replied, folding his hands behind his back. "Though I will confess, I have an ulterior motive. While I don't believe that it would be in our best interest to see this Alduin released, we should nevertheless meet with Vokrijun and see whether he might be willing to aid us against the Nords."
Ilga narrowed her eyes at the elf. "You would ally with a madman who wishes to bring about an age of tyranny, if not the end of the world itself?" she hissed.
Nerevar's smile faded and he turned to face Ilga. "I would like to appraise this 'madman' myself," he replied coolly. "All we know of him is what has been told to us by a dragon whose goals likely do not fully align with ours, and thus may or may not be on our side. Furthermore, as Vehk pointed out, our people are waging a war. It would be foolish and negligent of me to discount anything that might aid us in that conflict." His tone softened. "Rest assured, if Vokrijun proves to be a threat, I have no qualms about avoiding an alliance with him. But I wish to speak with him myself before I decide."
Ilga opened her mouth, then closed it and looked away. "Do as you will," she muttered. "Just do not drag Vahkiir into danger with you."
"I hardly could, when he's walking into the mouth of the beast willingly himself," Nerevar pointed out. Ilga did not reply, save to give an annoyed grunt. With that, Nerevar turned back to Vahkiir. "So! Shall we have a meal and be on our way, then?"
"I would like that," Vahkiir admitted – it had been days since his last proper meal. To emphasize the point, his stomach suddenly growled loudly, signaling his body's hearty agreement. He smiled sheepishly as the others burst out laughing.
Once they had eaten, Vahkiir and Nerevar sought out the village elder to announce their departure and thank him for his hospitality in allowing them to stay in the village for so long. While the elder replied humbly enough, it was clear from his expression that he was eager to see the elves leave. Nerevar had informed Vahkiir that the elder and his people had tolerated their presence, but they had insisted that they keep to a secluded part of the village and not bother any of the citizens unless they were approached first.
Nevertheless, the villagers did offer one last gesture of hospitality. As they were preparing their boat, a young man approached, carrying a sack. He approached Vahkiir and handed it to him, stating, "A gift for the Dovahkiin."
Vahkiir blinked in surprise was he pulled open the sack. Inside were dried beans and lentils, which could keep for days. Vahkiir looked up with a grateful smile. While they still had plenty of food, he certainly was not going to refuse additional supplies. "Thank you," he replied with a bow of his head.
"There is no need to thank us," the young man replied. "In this village, we honor the Dovahkiin. The Old Master has favored you, so we should do the same." He lowered his head. "We do not know the task that has been set before you… but we pray that whatever you intend to do, you do so for the sake of all of Skyrim."
Vahkiir's smile turned uneasy. In truth, he was uncertain if meeting with Vokrijun would benefit Skyrim, nor what the outcome of their encounter would be. Nevertheless, he lowered his gaze slightly and replied, "I shall try."
That seemed to satisfy the young man, who shot a final, wary glance at the elves, before turning on his heel and making his way back to the village. Brevyn came up behind him and stared curiously at the sack, then turned to Vahkiir. "We are prepared to leave when you are," he announced softly. "Shall we be on our way?"
A few minutes later, they were once again adrift on the frigid river, their sail unfurled and the oars cutting through the crystal-clear waters. A few of the villagers came to watch them leave, shouting farewells and waving, though most ignored them and went back to minding their daily tasks. Vahkiir watched the villagers until they were out of sight, then turned back to grab an oar, to help propel the ship along the river.
Over the next few days, the boat resumed what had become a familiar routine for Vahkiir. The day was spent ensuring that the boat avoided the occasional boulder in the river, while keeping it away from the edge of the shore. When dusk began to fall, they would direct the ship to the shoreline and anchor it, then set up camp for the evening. In so doing, they made steady progress without taxing themselves too heavily.
The ship wound its way north until it reached a fork in the river, which split to the east and the west. Nerevar ordered them towards the western branch, and after sailing for a short ways, they made camp for the night. For the next few days, they simply followed the river westwards as it carved through the valley, snaking its way across the tundra. The entire time, they lingered in the shadow of the Throat of the World, which so towered over them that it often blocked out the sun for much of the day. A cold mountain wind frequently blew from it, chilling the elves. The wind hardly bothered Vahkiir, however, as it paled in comparison to the brutal cold he had endured at the summit of the mountain. He would often squint up at the peak, wondering if he would catch a glimpse of Paarthurnax, but the dragon never appeared. Vahkiir supposed that the dragon must have spent much of his time resting, though he would have expected him to at least circle the mountain once in a while and survey the rest of his domain, if he was truly guarding the time-wound that he had spoken of.
As they sailed, Vahkiir was treated to a close view of the sweeping plains that he had seen from afar while atop the mountain. Much of the land was dominated by rolling yellow grasses, with heavy boulders intermittently breaking through the earth here and there. Wild beasts roamed the land freely, with solitary sabre-toothed cats and heavy brown bears seeming to be the most common. Vahkiir was once treated to the astonishing sight of a twelve-foot-tall elfin creature lumbering across the grasslands, patiently herding four wool-covered mammoths across the plains. As he watched, a pair of sabre-toothed cats began stalking the group, but when one of them drew too near, the giant turned with surprising speed and slammed its club into the ground threateningly, causing the earth around it to quake. The cat let out a yowl, and the pair were sent scampering back across the plains. The giant creature watched them until they had disappeared over a hill, then calmly turned back around and resumed his trek across the land. If it was aware that Vahkiir was watching it, it did not seem to notice. Or perhaps it simply did not care.
A few days later, further down the river, Brevyn, Voryn, and Vehk sat up straighter and tilted their heads to the north, soon followed by Nerevar and the other two elves. For a short while, Vahkiir and Ilga could only stare at them in confusion, but then Vahkiir noticed something on the wind. The faint sound of metal clashing against metal reached his ears, and as they sailed closer, they eventually caught sight of what was making the sound.
In an open plain were a score of warriors, engaged in a fierce skirmish. Most carried bronze axes and swords, while two on each side were armed with bows, with which they were pelting their enemies with bronze-tipped arrows. From this distance, Vahkiir could just make out that half of those who carried shields had painted theirs with a three-pronged swirling design, while the other half were rallying around a young man carrying a banner with a horse's head emblazoned on it.
"Raiders from Morthal, it seems," Ilga remarked grimly as she crossed her arms over the side of the boat, watching the fight intently. "It looks as though they encountered a patrol from Whiterun… which means that we must be drawing close."
"Morthal?" Voryn asked with a slight frown. "Is that not a city far to the north from here? What are they doing so far south?"
"Scouting or raiding, I presume," Ilga replied flatly. "It is not uncommon. They were likely looking to waylay caravans traveling along the nearby road, when the Whiterun guardsmen spotted them. Though I concur, it is strange that they're this far south. Perhaps their guide lost his way, or this particular band was especially greedy and did not realize how far from Morthal they had travelled. Foolish of them, really, as even if they captured a wagon or two now, they would be hard-pressed to transport their loot back to their home city."
"But… why are they fighting?" Vahkiir asked with a deep frown. "I thought that the Jarls of Skyrim agreed to a truce, that they would not do battle with one another until the campaign in Veloth was finished."
Ilga shot Vahkiir a sidelong look, then shook her head. "They likely took that to mean that they were not to engage in large-scale battles with one another. However, no one would be foolish enough to recall their scouts and raiders. After all, to do so would be to give the other Jarls an opportunity to attack their caravans, which would be tantamount to allowing dozens of their people to starve."
Vahkiir's scowl deepened even further. "Still, does honoring an agreement mean nothing?" he asked grimly.
Ilga scoffed derisively. "Not if it means showing weakness to our rivals," she replied bitterly. "And not if it means enraging one's warriors when they remain eager for blood and vengeance. This war has raged for decades, Dragonborn, and it will not be quelled by a clasping of hands and a false smile. Certainly, many of my kin are gathering for an assault upon the Chimer, because that presents an opportunity for mutual plunder and glory. But once that campaign has ended, the war will resume unabated. No one wishes to return from the adventure in the east to find that their lands have been plundered by a treacherous Jarl who took advantage of the confusion and razed their lands. So, while the main armies of the cities will sheath their blades for now, small skirmishes like this will likely remain common."
Vahkiir stared at Ilga in disbelief, then slowly turned back around to watch the warriors clashing with one another, their weapons ringing across the plain. "Then how long will it take until this war ends?" he asked softly.
Ilga shook her head. "Until the Moot has declared a High King," she replied simply. "Until we can agree upon that, no Jarl will surrender."
Vahkiir felt his stomach twist with disgust. "Madness," he muttered.
Ilga did not reply, her eyes also fixated on the battle before them. A moment later, however, a shadow fell over them, and Ilga and Vahkiir both turned to see Nerevar kneeling behind them. He was not watching the battle; rather, his gaze rested on Ilga. "You surprise me," he commented, his tone obviously impressed. "You are far more insightful about the nature of this war than I had first anticipated."
Ilga glowered up at Nerevar. "I am not blind," she stated coldly. "Nor am I a fool. This war has been waged since my grandparents' day, and still there is no end in sight. I know what to expect from my enemies, because we have all drawn the same conclusion. We will all continue to fight for our Jarls in the hopes that they will be the one to wear the Jagged Crown."
"So, how did you used to determine who is worthy of wearing the crown?" Brevyn asked.
Ilga glanced at him. "As I said, it was once decided by the Moot. However, in the past, after many felt the wrong king was chosen, we have decided to resolve the issue through bloodshed."
"Even though the original claimants to the crown are long dead?" Brevyn asked. "I thought this war started decades ago."
"It did," Ilga admitted. "But by now reconciliation seems impossible. For most of us, the only way to determine the High King will be whoever triumphs in this war."
"And if that king is unworthy?" Vehk asked pointedly.
Ilga glanced at him and narrowed her eyes. "Then at least we will have a skilled war-leader," she replied curtly. "Is that not also what you are trying to crown Nerevar as? If nothing else, at least they will be a strong warrior."
"Strong… but cruel, perhaps?" Voryn countered.
"And what if it is not your Jarl?" Brevyn added.
Ilga snarled and threw her hands up. "I do not know!" she shouted suddenly, startling the elves. "I am not a scholar or a minister! I am a warrior! I fight for my Jarl and for Windhelm! That is all that concerns me! If you wish to pester someone about the nuances of this war, seek out one of the Jarl's courtiers! I am certain they can answer all that I cannot! Otherwise, leave me be!"
The Chimer traded uncomfortable glances as an awkward silence settled over the boat. Ilga slouched in her corner, leaning an elbow on the side of it and glaring sullenly at the warriors still fighting in the distance. Though it was clear that she did not wish to be spoken to at that moment, Vahkiir nevertheless felt a rush of pity towards her. It was surely difficult, to not only be forced to endure the company of elves that were plotting to fight her kingdom, but also to watch helplessly as her own countrymen shed each other's blood in a war that seemed as though it would continue for many more years. Worst of all, though, it was clear that she had no idea how to end it herself. Vahkiir felt almost as helpless, as he knew that he had no words of comfort to offer.
As they continued west along the river, a city slowly came into view. From what Vahkiir could see, it sat atop an elevated plateau, dominating the surrounding landscape. The city seemed to be built in tiers, with a vast lower city, a somewhat smaller mid-level, and a towering palace looming in the center. As they drew nearer, Vahkiir noted that most of the city seemed to be constructed of wood, though it was contained by sprawling cobblestone walls, a few of which seemed to be in a state of light disrepair, suggesting that they had recently endured their share of battles.
The boat drifted along the current until it reached a fork in the river. Nerevar ordered the boat to turn starboard, and they sailed up to a makeshift dockyard, where about ten guards eyed them cautiously as they approached. The boat was guided towards a pier, and while a group of dockhands tied it to the platform, two of the guards – dressed in leather armor and carrying round shields emblazoned with the symbol of a horse's head – held out their hands to prevent the Chimer from disembarking.
"Hold," one of the guards said gruffly, his large hand resting on the head of his bronze club. "What is your business in our city?"
"Trade, mostly," Nerevar replied glibly. "Have you perhaps recently allowed another caravan of Chimer into your walls?"
"We did. You, however, seem to have few wares to offer," the other guard retorted with a wary look.
Nerevar shot Vahkiir a sidelong, querying glance. Vahkiir caught his look and glanced at the guards, then sighed and nodded reluctantly.
"They are also acting as my escorts," Vahkiir said. The guards turned towards him, and he grit his teeth. "I am the Dragonborn."
The guards traded skeptical looks. "You are the Dragonborn?" one of the guards echoed incredulously. "Do you have any proof?"
Vahkiir glared. "I could Shout you across these docks, if that would satisfy your curiosity," he growled.
"You are welcome to try," the other guard snarled, pulling his axe from his belt. "If you dare threaten us-!"
"Peace," a voice piped up suddenly. The two guards turned towards a young man with short red hair and a thick beard as he eyed the elves. "The Jarl told us to be on the lookout for a group of elves traveling with a man calling himself the Dragonborn. He also asked us to tell him when they arrived, and to bring them to Dragonsreach."
"We were not informed of that," one of the guards retorted, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
"There was no need. He only told the captains and their lieutenants," the young man replied bluntly. "That's why I also told you to allow the other Chimer into the city a few days ago." He turned back to Vahkiir and smiled faintly. "Jarl Olaf informed us that he would want to speak with you as soon as possible. He will meet you in the palace, should you agree to his request."
Vahkiir glanced over his shoulder at Brevyn and the other elves, then turned back around and added, "If possible, I would like for my companions to join me."
The guard captain hesitated, but when Vahkiir narrowed his eyes, he coughed and replied, "Well… the jarl has not forbidden it, so I see no reason to refuse you. You are all welcome to enter the city, though I will request that no more than two accompany you to the palace."
"…Agreed," Vahkiir said after a moment's hesitation.
The captain smiled and bowed his head graciously, then motioned for them to follow. The group steadily made their way up a dirt path, which wound towards the city. Before them loomed three stone gates, each of which was manned by a quartet of guards. None stopped them as they passed by, and in fact only one or two even bothered to peer over the edge. Vahkiir was slightly surprised by the lack of pomp, until he remembered that the jarl had not informed his men that a Dragonborn was arriving. Thus, he and the others must have seemed like just another caravan visiting the city, albeit a somewhat unusual one, given the number of Chimer accompanying him. When he thought about it, he decided that he preferred the anonymity. It was far preferable to being stared at with both wonder and open hostility.
When they reached the heavy wooden front gates of the city, the captain escorting them held up his hand, and the guards manning the gates immediately pulled them open. The young captain smiled over his shoulder at the group as he stepped through the portal and announced, "Welcome to Whiterun."
Vahkiir slowly gazed around as he followed the captain down a winding cobblestone path into the city itself. There was a bustling crowd wandering the streets, consisting almost entirely of Nords, who were chatting merrily with one another. They seemed to be in a market district, as many of the thatch-roofed wooden buildings lining the streets had goods set up outside of them. Some were selling bronzeware and weaponry, others pottery, and still others woodcrafts. Further down the street, Vahkiir could see vendors shouting at passerby to peruse their food stalls, where they were offering fresh vegetables, fish, and dairy.
The captain wove effortlessly through the crowd as he led the way down the road, threading past the citizens as he strode purposefully towards a fork in the path that led to a sloped hill. Vahkiir followed him along the road, which rose along a hill covered in yellowed grass, upon which houses and shops had been set up. The path led them deeper into the city, until they arrived at a central plaza dominated by a single large tree with violet and white flowers dangling from its branches.
"The Gildergreen," the captain announced as they made their way past the tree, which seemed to be surrounded by a sort of makeshift park. Wooden benches were arranged in a ring around it, and over a score of people were either sitting on them or on the grass as they chatted or ate their midday meals. "It was granted to us by Kyne herself, and it is a symbol of Whiterun's prosperity. So long as it flourishes, so too will Whiterun." He paused and tilted his head at the tree thoughtfully. "Actually, some believe that the fact that the tree has continued to bloom despite the horrors of the war outside our wall is an indication that Whiterun is destined to win, and that Jarl Olaf will be the one to wear the Jagged Crown. We have not lost Kyne's favor, and just as she gave us Skyrim, so too will she give the kingship to our Jarl."
Beside him, Ilga let out a soft, derisive snort. "As though this backwater city could ever hope to defeat the ancient capital of Skyrim," she muttered. If the captain heard her, however, he gave no indication of it.
They continued to climb up the hill towards the palace, which towered above them, taller than any other palace that Vahkiir had yet seen. In fact, it seemed to have been built specifically with height in mind, despite the fact that it was made of wood, rather than stone, which Vahkiir would have assumed would have made the palace less sturdy, and thus less able to bear its own weight. It seemed to be four or five stories high, with sharply sloped roofs covered with yellowish tiles covering nearly every outcropping. Towers were placed at seemingly irregular intervals, through which Vahkiir could see guards patrolling, carrying strung bows and heavy bronze weaponry. A low, stone wall enveloped the citadel, and sharpened wooden stakes jutted out from around the base.
As they stepped into the shadow of the palace, a chilling shriek suddenly filled the air. The hairs on the back of Vahkiir's neck stood up as the sound rang in his ears. It sounded raw, feral, anguished… and familiar. Though he had only heard it a few times, Vahkiir recognized it as a dragon's cry. Yet, every other time he had heard a dragon's cry, it had filled him with a combination of rage and excitement, an eagerness to go forth and meet the proud beast that dared challenge him. This cry, however, merely made his stomach sink with a combination of pity and sorrow, though he could not fathom why.
The guard captain, however, let out a chuckle as he looked up at the tallest tower. "Ah… so our Jarl's prize still has some life in him, does he?" he remarked with a sneer. "And here he had been so quiet for the past few weeks."
"Prize?" Vahkiir asked, frowning deeply.
The captain glanced at him, then shook his head. "Forgive me – I imagine that the Jarl will want to personally introduce you two himself, if he so chooses. Until then, I will say no more." Before Vahkiir could press him further, he turned and added, "Now, I cannot allow the lot of you to continue any further, Dragonborn. Please, select two companions to accompany you, and then I must ask the others to wait in the city until your audience is finished."
Vahkiir scowled as he turned to face the Chimer. Brevyn and Ilga immediately stepped forward to join him, while Nerevar simply smiled and lowered his head slightly in a tacit farewell. Vahkiir nodded to Brevyn and Ilga, and then he turned to the captain, who smiled and turned back around. He then led them across a wooden bridge towards the front entrance of the palace. As he approached the double doors, a pair of guards straightened up. They nodded to the captain and immediately pushed the heavy wooden doors open for him, whereupon the captain likewise stepped aside and motioned for Vahkiir to enter the building. Still frowning to himself, Vahkiir did as he was bade and crossed the threshold.
The interior of the building seemed simultaneously humble and ostentatious, inviting and foreboding, warm and chilling at the same time. The walls and floor alike were made primarily of wood, which was layered atop a stone foundation. Thick, carved pillars supported elegant archways that supported the distant ceiling above, which was partially opened to allow sunlight to stream into the main hall. Past a couple of short flights of stairs was the main hall, which consisted of a burning firepit in the center flanked by two long, wooden tables, laden with food. At the end of the hallway, atop a raised dais, was a wooden throne, carved with runes and padded with thick red cushions. It was, at present, empty, though the hall itself had a couple of servants wandering about, and a lone figure dressed in a lavish fur robe sitting alone near the center of one of the long tables.
As Vahkiir slowly walked into the hall, the captain announced, "If you will wait here for a moment, I will fetch the Jarl for you. Please, help yourselves to anything you might like while you wait, and if you have need of anything, do not hesitate to ask a servant. I shall return shortly."
With that, the captain strode past them, leaving Vahkiir, Ilga, and Brevyn standing alone in the middle of the hall. The trio traded looks, and then Brevyn absently began to wander over to inspect the empty table. Vahkiir, meanwhile, began to approach the throne, but then a voice called out to him.
"Well now! I had not expected our paths to cross again so soon, Vahkiir!"
Vahkiir looked towards the occupied table, where he noticed the occupant was smiling and holding a hand up in greeting. A moment later, he suddenly realized he recognized the corpulent man sitting there.
"You!" he exclaimed. "You were in Windhelm, were you not?"
"That I was," the man chuckled, holding up a silver goblet in greeting. "Tarius Telepius, in case you have forgotten my name. Well met once again."
"Likewise," Vahkiir said absently as he wandered over to speak with him. "What are you doing here… if I might ask?" he added hastily, realizing that such a blunt question might sound rude.
Tarius chuckled as he took a sip from his goblet before setting it down. "If you recall, I am the Primate of Kynareth in Cyrod. As it so happens, Whiterun is the center of worship for the goddess Kyne in Skyrim. As such, once my business in Windhelm was concluded, I elected to make a pilgrimage here, both to pay my respects to an aspect of my favored goddess, and to assist the local priests with tending to the Gildergreen. You might call it something of a goodwill mission, an act of friendship between our two empires."
"Is that so?" Vahkiir asked blankly. He didn't quite understand all that Tarius had said, but he did at least catch that he was trying to improve relations on behalf of his own empire.
"Quite," Tarius replied with a cunning smile, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on top of them. "And yourself? If I might be so bold, you look as though you've had a few adventures since we last met. There's a sharper look in your eye, and you do not seem quite so… lost. Come, do you have any tales to share?"
Vahkiir hesitated, wondering how much he should divulge to a man he had only met once before, but something in Tarius' tone suggested that he was merely curious. Thus, he gave a short recounting of what had happened since they had left, recalling their journey to Saarthal, their encounter with the Dwemer, and his ascent of the Throat of the World. He did not reveal any details about Vokrijun, nor of the task that Paarthurnax had given him – only that he had met with the great dragon, and that his path now led to Whiterun.
Tarius listened intently until Vahkiir finished, whereupon he nodded slowly. "I see," he said softly as he raised his goblet to his lips again. "Quite the journey you've had thus far." There was something in the way Tarius said those words that made Vahkiir think that Tarius knew he was withholding information, but if he did, the man was not making any further mention of it. "Well, in the meantime, if I might make a recommendation?" Vahkiir nodded, prompting him to continue. "Join me in indulging in the Jarl's hospitality," Tarius suggested with a smile. "It is seen as uncouth to be invited into a Jarl's hall and given a feast, only to refuse to partake. Rest, replenish yourself, and enjoy the comforts that are being offered."
Vahkiir hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "I… surely the Jarl will arrive at any moment," he protested.
Tarius grinned and motioned for Vahkiir to come closer with one thick finger. Vahkiir leaned in, and Tarius murmured to him in a low voice, "He will not. He intends to take his time before meeting with you; he wants to make you wait. Undoubtedly, he has been informed of your arrival, but he will either occupy himself with another matter for a short while, or else simply observe you from afar, from somewhere you cannot see him. And do not bother looking for him," Tarius added quickly as Vahkiir started to glance over his shoulder. "This is his palace. If he wants to make himself known, he will, and if he wishes to remain hidden, then you will not find him. That should not trouble you, though. He wishes to assess you for a while, to get a measure of who you are – whether you will be agitated by being made to wait, or whether you will demonstrate patience. It is not uncommon for rulers to do so… especially with guests that they wish to use for their own ends," he finished with a sly smirk.
Vahkiir blinked at Tarius, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Then should I be wary of you too?" he asked pointedly.
Tarius laughed merrily as he set down his goblet and picked up a piece of bread. "Absolutely… if I felt that I could use you for my own ends," he said airily as he tore a bit of the bread off and slipped it into his mouth. "However, I have nothing to gain and no reason to try to sway you to my side, so I do not mind offering you a neutral, unbiased perspective on the Jarl's actions."
"How fortuitous for me," Vahkiir said drily.
Tarius grinned at him as he swallowed the piece of bread. "Well, you are, of course, free to disregard my advice. However, I for one feel that it would be a waste of an excellent meal – and one that you can plainly see has not been poisoned, else I would have keeled over myself. This banquet has been presented to you, so you may as well enjoy it while you wait."
Vahkiir frowned deeply, then turned to glance over his shoulder at Ilga. She met his gaze, then glanced at the table warily before turning back to him and nodding. That was enough for him to slowly make his way to the other side of the table, a few places away from Tarius, and start pulling a few slices of smoked ham and some bread onto his plate.
Twenty minutes later, while Vahkiir was draining the last dregs of his mead, a side door opened, drawing his attention. Into the room strode a tall man with long, dark brown hair, a matching beard, and a muscular body that was partially covered by thick fur robes. He strode across the hall and settled into his throne, then motioned to one of his servants, who immediately approached him with a goblet. As he took a sip of his drink, he pushed his hair back to reveal his damaged, milk-colored left eye. The right eye, meanwhile, fell on Vahkiir, and the man smiled warmly and lifted his goblet.
"Ah! Well met, Dovahkiin!" he greeted, his voice echoing through the hollow hall. "I am pleased to see that you have arrived at last! I beg you to forgive my tardiness – I had another matter to attend to."
Tarius caught Vahkiir's eye and winked slyly. Vahkiir frowned faintly, then turned back to the Jarl. "Well met, Jarl Olaf," he replied gruffly, raising his own goblet. "I assure you that it is no trouble. Thank you for the invitation, and for your hospitality."
"Not at all!" Olaf exclaimed as he lowered his cup. "I am simply pleased to see that you are enjoying it. The ham is particularly good, is it not?"
"It is," Vahkiir agreed simply as he set the goblet back on the table. "Once again, you have my thanks. However… I must confess that I am curious as to why you invited me here."
Olaf chuckled softly as he swirled his goblet in his hand. "Why should I not?" he replied calmly. "After all, you are one of the most notable figures in Skyrim at the moment, whether you are aware of it or not."
Vahkiir scowled suspiciously. "That is not all, though, is it?" he asked bluntly. "Do you intend to recruit me?"
Olaf's eyebrows rose slightly, and then he chuckled again. "If you would consent to it, certainly," he replied airily. Out of the corner of his eye, Vahkiir saw Ilga tense, but she had no reason to be concerned.
"No," Vahkiir replied shortly.
Olaf simply grinned at his blunt refusal. "Such a hasty response," he said easily. "I have much to offer, you know. For one, you seek to slay dragons, yes? Whiterun is the home of the Companions, the finest warriors in all of Skyrim. It would be a simple matter for me to convince them to accept you into their ranks. They could train you, mold you into the finest dragonslayer of the era-"
"No," Vahkiir repeated.
"Then perhaps a new weapon, superior to the one you presently have?" Olaf continued, seemingly deaf to Vahkiir's refusals. "We possess the Skyforge, one of the few places in Skyrim that can forge iron into a workable shape. If you would like a quiver of the finest arrows in Tamriel, or even a stronger bow…?"
"No!" Vahkiir snapped, losing patience.
Olaf stopped short, then set his goblet down on the arm of his chair. "Very well," he said softly as he leaned forward and laced his fingers together. "Then tell me – what will convince you to fight for me? For all of Skyrim?"
"What makes you believe I want to?" Vahkiir shot back.
Olaf tilted his head, seeming puzzled by the question. "The opportunity for glory? For prizes beyond measure?" he suggested. "You must know that this campaign in the land of the Chimer promises the opportunity for you to become a legend-"
"I care nothing for any of that!" Vahkiir snapped. Beside him, he saw Brevyn smirking at his vehement refusal, though Vahkiir did not respond.
Olaf blinked, then inclined his head. "As you wish," he replied as he settled back on his throne. "Then tell me, Dovahkiin… what do you care for?"
"As it stands?" Vahkiir snarled. "All I care about is finding the one they call Vokrijun."
Olaf's eyes widened slightly. "Ah! That one," he said, nodding slowly as comprehension seemed to dawn on him. "You believe that his command over dragons threatens you, and you intend to lay him low before he can challenge you."
Vahkiir stared at the jarl incredulously. "No," he said flatly. "I believe he poses a threat to all of Skyrim. If you think otherwise, you are a fool."
Olaf chuckled softly as he pushed himself up. "Fortunately for you, I do not," he replied. "In truth, I concur with you that Vokrijun is too dangerous to be trusted, and that even if the other Jarls intend to invade Veloth, they would be well-served by not attempting to recruit him."
Vahkiir narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Truly?" he asked skeptically.
"You doubt me?" Olaf asked calmly, folding his hands behind his back.
"Considering that you are still attempting to sway me to your side? Yes," Vahkiir stated.
Olaf chuckled again. "I seek to earn the allegiance of anyone or anything that can ensure that Whiterun emerges triumphant in this war, Dovahkiin," he said. "But that does not mean that I do not sincerely agree with you on this matter." He glanced at the ceiling. "If you do not believe me, then I would ask you to accompany me. There is something I would like to show you."
Olaf turned and began striding out of the room, accompanied by one of his guards. Vahkiir shot Tarius a wary look. Tarius caught his eye, then nodded encouragingly, pushing himself up as well. Despite that, Vahkiir was hesitant to do as Olaf suggested, but nevertheless decided to at least humor him.
Vahkiir, Brevyn, Olga, and Tarius followed Olaf up a few flights of wooden stairs, until they were standing before a set of large, iron double doors held in place by a thick bronze bar. As the jarl approached the door, a sudden, bellowing scream echoed from the other side. Vahkiir – along with the others, save Olaf – flinched at the sound, and while his heart began to pound with fright, his blood likewise began to burn with a strangely familiar sensation. Olaf glanced over his shoulder at his guests and chuckled at their reaction.
"Well now. It seems my other guest still has some life in him," he remarked with a smirk. "And here I had thought he had finally surrendered. Perhaps it is your presence that has riled him, Dragonborn?" Vahkiir was uncertain how to respond, and Olaf had already turned back around anyways. "Open the doors," he announced to the two guards standing on either side of the doors. The man and woman traded uneasy looks, but dutifully did as their jarl ordered. They heaved the bar out of the way and pushed the doors open, then stepped aside. Olaf strode confidently through the door, motioning for Vahkiir and the others to follow.
As Vahkiir stepped through the gates, he was immediately assaulted by a burst of cold air rushing through the doors. However, the sharp intake of breath that followed was not a reaction to the biting wind, but rather the beast that loomed before him. Crouched beneath the low roof, and pinned in place by a wooden yoke the size of a tree, was a dragon. The forty-foot-long creature was lying on its stomach with its back to the door, but its long, ridged tail whipped back and forth dangerously, threatening to swipe anyone who came near it. Its scales were bright red, while its underside was a soft cream color. As Vahkiir slowly made his way around the edge of the beast, which continued to thrash under the weight of its wooden bonds, he saw that it was also held in place by thick, black iron chains. When he circled around far enough to finally see the dragon's face, it whipped its head to the right as far as it could, and one bright yellow eye narrowed as it fell on him.
"Dovahkiin!" the dragon hissed, rage and hatred dripping from that one word.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Olaf asked with a triumphant smile, folding his hands behind his back. "My most valuable prisoner, and my greatest prize. Vahkiir, allow me to introduce you to Numinex."
Vahkiir gaped up at the massive beast, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. "You… managed to capture a dragon?" he asked breathlessly.
"Yes, and it was not an easy feat," Olaf replied. "This beast was ravaging the countryside, burning villages and murdering my people. As jarl, it was my duty to hunt him down and put an end to his rampage. I, along with a few of my most trusted retainers, tracked him to his lair on Mount Anthor, and there we engaged one another in a duel of thu'ums."
"Tahrodiis nirkiin!" Numinex snarled suddenly.
Olaf smirked at the dragon, then turned back to Vahkiir. "It was a difficult battle, to be sure, and I lost a few of my finest men, but we eventually prevailed. I chose to bring Numinex back here to my keep, to keep him here as a hostage, both as a prize… and as a warning."
"A warning to whom?" Ilga demanded suddenly, to Vahkiir's surprise. "To any who would dare challenge Whiterun's might?"
Olaf glanced at her, then smiled slightly and turned back to Vahkiir. "Partially," he admitted. "But it also as a warning to myself." He turned towards the great dragon again, favoring it with a look of both pride and respect. "It serves as a reminder that any creature, no matter how mighty, can be brought low if they do not keep their pride in check, and if they believe that any threat is too small not to warrant their notice. After all, how could a few simple men best a monster as powerful as a dragon, unless that beast was consumed by arrogance?" He glanced back at Vahkiir. "And it is also a warning about the true nature of dragons. They are not so much beasts as a force of nature, and attempting to control them is akin to trying to control a storm. Any man who claims that he can tame and harness their power is either a liar or fool, and a danger not only to himself, but to any who would call themself his ally."
Vahkiir gazed at Olaf thoughtfully as the jarl stepped back, avoiding Numinex as he futilely snapped his jaws at the jarl and growled at him. He was uncertain how true Olaf's tale about subduing the dragon with the thu'um was, but he was clearly a skilled – or clever – enough warrior to at least present him with the evidence of its capture. "Is that why you brought me up here?" Vahkiir asked curtly. "To warn me of the strength of dragons? I already know it well."
"Well, and to assure you that I agree that you should be wary of this Vokrijun," Olaf replied emphatically. "But I also wish to offer you a gift." He walked back over to Vahkiir, stopping short a few feet away. "Tell me, Dovahkiin… is it true that you grow more powerful when you slay a dragon?"
"In… a manner of speaking, yes," Vahkiir said slowly.
Olaf nodded as he turned back around and motioned towards Numinex. "Then allow me to offer you this gift," he said. "By my leave, I encourage you to slay this dragon."
Numinex's reptilian pupils narrowed into slits at those words, and his thrashing became even more frantic. Vahkiir, however, stared up at the captive dragon silently, not making a move. Usually, when he and a dragon locked eyes, he was filled with a rush of anger, of bloodlust, and he would find himself more than end the dragon's life before it could end his. Now, however, he did not feel bloodlust. To his surprise, he felt… pity. While he did not necessarily believe in the Nordic concept of glory, he nevertheless immediately knew that he could not slay this ancient dragon. It was tantamount to murder, and both his human and his draconic side were disgusted by the thought. Paarthurnax's words drifted through his mind – "It is disgraceful for a truly superior dov to challenge an inferior." If Numinex could not answer his challenge, then there was no point in attacking.
"I refuse," Vahkiir stated bluntly, turning back around to glare at Olaf. "This is no gift, and I will not be your executioner."
"Truly?" Olaf asked, seeming slightly surprised by Vahkiir's blunt refusal. His gaze drifted over to Numinex, who glared back at him furiously, and then he turned back to Vahkiir with a shrug. "Very well. Nevertheless, I still believe that we do have a common enemy in Vokrijun, and I do wish to offer you my aid. So, what can I offer you?"
Vahkiir sighed heavily. "If you truly wish to assist me, then you can show me the quickest way to the ruins of Bromjunaar."
"The ancient capital?" Olaf asked, surprised.
"Supposedly," Vahkiir confirmed.
Olaf fell silent for a long moment, folding his arms over his chest. He then looked up at Tarius. "Primate… would you be willing to make the journey sooner rather than later?"
"Certainly," Tarius agreed with a warm smile. "So long as your priests are prepared."
Vahkiir glanced between the two men, confusion written plain on his face. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Olaf turned back to him and chuckled. "Fortune seems to favor you, Dovahkiin… or perhaps this is fate. As it happens, priests of Kyne – and Kynareth, by extension – must make periodic pilgrimages to the ruins of Bromjunaar. The priests that reside within this city had planned to make an excursion to the ruins with Primate Tarius here at the end of the week. However, given the circumstances, I do not believe they would mind leaving a bit early and accompanying you on your journey."
Vahkiir glanced over at Tarius, who met his gaze with a grin. "Are you certain that's wise?" he asked skeptically.
Tarius held his hands out. "I shall confess, I have never faced a dragon before. However, I have the blessings of the gods to protect me, and I am also a mage of… modest skill, shall we say. Despite my appearances, Vahkiir, I am far from helpless."
"And the priests of Kyne are also knowledgeable in the ways of healing and defensive magic," Olaf added. "Furthermore, this will grant us an excuse to provide you with an armed escort to see you to Bromjunaar." A cunning grin spread across his face. "If we were to simply march an army to the ruins, it would seem suspicious. Few, however, will question a contingent of warriors protecting pilgrims on a holy mission. You and your companions will simply be accompanying them, as a matter of mutual convenience and benefit."
Vahkiir slowly looked back and forth between Olaf and Tarius, then sighed and turned to Brevyn and Ilga, who had been standing silently behind him until now. "What do you two think?" he asked them softly.
Ilga glanced past him at Olaf, scowling at the jarl. "I dislike it," she admitted in a low voice. "The jarl has done nothing but attempt to sway you to his cause, even after you have refused him. It is also clear that he cares nothing for anything beyond himself. Well… and perhaps his city," she admitted reluctantly. "But even that seems to be an extension of his own power and ambition."
"Even so," Brevyn chimed in. "This is an offer that has a tangible benefit to us. Whiterun is his domain, and if I remember the map correctly, Bromjunaar is within his hold. An escort of Whiterun's warriors would see us safely, and legally, through his territory. Furthermore, while I also do not trust this Olaf's motives, Tarius at least seems genuine in his desire to help you."
"He is a Nede," Ilga muttered. "He cares only for his empire and his gods, and he is as much a schemer as any elf."
"Yes, but a schemer who seems to be on our side," Brevyn countered. "We should not make more enemies without reason." He turned back to Vahkiir. "I believe we should accept this offer."
Ilga frowned slightly, then sighed. "I… truly dislike relying upon other holds for help, but I suppose that if we refuse, the Jarl may be offended enough to attempt to actively hinder us instead. So… I concur. Reluctantly."
Vahkiir glanced between his two companions, then nodded decisively as he turned back around to face Olaf. "Very well. We would be honored to accept your offer," he said, in what he hoped was a gracious tone.
Olaf's grin broadened. "Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Then we shall make the arrangements at once. In the meantime, Dovahkiin, I invite you to stay as a guest in my palace until you are ready to depart."
Vahkiir opened his mouth to refuse, as he would rather find Nerevar and the others, whom he felt more comfortable with, but Tarius caught his eye before he could respond, and seeming to guess what he was about to say, he subtly shook his head. Vahkiir glared at him, but when Olaf likewise narrowed his eyes, he recalled what Ilga had mentioned about how offending the jarl could make their lives more difficult than necessary. "Thank you for the invitation, then, Jarl Olaf," he said, trying not to sound sullen.
Olaf's cold expression melted immediately, once again replaced by that welcoming smile. "It is my pleasure, Dovahkiin," he replied. "Please, make yourself at home. If you have need of anything, do not hesitate to ask a servant. In the meantime, I believe I will make my way back to the Great Hall. These matters have left me rather famished."
The jarl nodded to Vahkiir and his companions in farewell, then calmly strode out of the room, with Tarius following close behind. Vahkiir watched them depart, then sighed heavily as his gaze drifted towards Numinex, who had ceased struggling and was instead staring silently, forlornly, out over the distant plains of Skyrim. Vahkiir's eyes drifted to the wooden contraption holding him in place, and then he once again looked towards the door that Olaf had just departed through. Privately, he had to admit that the Jarl was more dangerous than he appeared. To be sure, he was ambitious, ruthless, and grating… but he had also managed to entrap two dragons to use for his own ends, he mused bitterly.