Chapter 12
Ill Omens
"On the day when the sons of snow do battle amongst themselves and when the children of Ysgramor suffer the curse of Glenmori, the World-Eater's wrath will be turned toward men and mer. Yet hope remains, for the dragon's son will rise up to battle his ancestors. But doom will fall on all, if the son of Akatosh fails."-A mysterious prophecy decoded from the Elder Scrolls. Decoding date, 3E 28. Creation date, unknown.
"And then he tells me, using these exact words, 'I will eat your soul! I will possess your corpse!' And this whole time, he's flailing his arms around like a mummer's puppet!" Hammel mimicked the gestures with his arms, delivering a decent performance Farkas began howling, pounding the table with one hand while clutching his mug tightly in the other. Hammel was recounting his misadventure with Sild the Warlock, his most recent successful contract, much to the bemusement of those listening.
"I'll never understand mages!" Farkas chuckled, his eyes damp with mirth, "If he'd just kept his mouth shut..."
"You'd be worse than dead," Vilkas said dryly. Hammel knew that a good ribbing was likely the highest level of friendship he could expect from Vilkas unless he did something truly impressive. Killing a lone warlock wasn't that.
Hammel nodded. "That's true enough, but you know how these magic types are. They need to put on a show."
Kodlak Whiteman raised his own foaming mug high, "A weakness Greymist was wise to exploit. The mark of a cunning warrior."
"My mother didn't raise a fool, Harbinger."
Skjor cracked a rare smile, "Evidently not."
"How'd you not hear him before the rant?" Farkas asked, snatching a hunk of warm bread from the bowl in the centre of the table. "Ria says you have good ears."
Hammel shrugged. "I'd just stumbled upon the necromancer's lair. Passing a few cells full of bodies and crazed writings is enough to unsettle anyone. The whole castle was one disturbing place." He stopped his ramblings and returned to his story. "Anyhow, this necromancer had the drop on me, I couldn't see him, I didn't even know he was there." Hammel looked down at his mead, "In hindsight, I was damn lucky." The thought about how close he'd been to death, though funny as a re-telling, suddenly distressed him. "Bow out and ready, I'm looking around for this necromancer so I can bag him and complete the contract." He took a long drink of mead, clearing the grime and dust from his throat. Shaking his head, the smile back on his face, Hammel chuckled, "If Sild had kept his mouth shut, I'd never have seen that lightning bolt. Fortunately Sild had to get his word in." Hammel smiled coldly. "He didn't get the chance for a second."
"Well said!" Skjor hoisted his mug to that, a slight smile breaking across his scarred features. "Remind those spell-slingers that an arrow kills them like anyone else!"
"The look on his face when my arrow punched through his throat was priceless." Hammel snorted. "He'd finally realised just how foolish it was to not just melt me when he had the chance." Finishing his tankard, he slammed it upside-down on the table before him.
"That's why I use steel. It keeps me humble, and smart." Farkas said, rubbing the handle of his greatsword protectively. The big man had simple tastes, and seemed to be of a simple mind, but even he wouldn't have been foolish enough to make Sild's fatal mistake.
"Normally, ice-brains, I wouldn't put you and smart in the same sentence," Skjor told Farkas casually, "But compared to this fool, it seems a fair comparison." Everyone laughed, with Farkas bearing the gentle insult with his usual good-graces.
At first, Hammel was surprised how easily the big man brushed it off. But he grew to realise the others meant little by it. To them, it was their way of showing they cared. They were a family, something he had only experienced once before.
So very long ago.
"But enough about me, what have the rest of you been up to?" Hammel asked warmly, toasting his new family.
"I killed a bear yesterday!" Ria blurted out proudly, a huge grin plastered across her face. "Aela only helped a little." She'd become much more confident since the trip to Bleak Falls Barrow. With Swiftfrost belted to her waist, a longsword they'd discovered in the Barrow's treasure pile Hammel insisted she claim, Ria practically swaggered around Jorrvaskr. While He didn't know her situation exactly, he knew she had something to prove. Claiming a blade that once belonged to Denbar the Cruel was a step in the right direction.
"How big a bear?" Vilkas said, throwing another hunk of beef onto his plate, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"Bigger than the last one you killed," Farkas said, coming to her defence. Ria smiled at the big man, tipping her mug towards him in thanks. Hammel leaned back and closed his eyes. Around him the Companions bickered, bragged and celebrated. He felt a sense of security and warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.
He had finally come home.
Farengar was frustrated. In fact, he was so frustrated he could almost consider himself to be flustered, and Farengar didn't particularly care for that feeling.
Ancient scrolls and dusty tomes covered his desk, some open, others not. A half-full cup of tea cooled on a volume long forgotten by the wizard. Not even his pipe seemed to help. The sweet aroma of burning tobacco filled the room as smoke drifted towards the ceiling. Yet despite all his meditations, his impressive intellect, and the number of ancient volumes dedicated to the subject, he could not translate the Dragonstone. As a man not used to striking dead ends, he was taking it rather poorly.
If only my contact knew more…perhaps I could reach out to her…
And yet he knew the end results of such a line of thinking. It would be another dead end, just as always. He couldn't find her, she'd find him.
Pipe clenched so tightly in both hands that he burned his fingertips, Farengar brooded. There was no obvious proof behind it, but a sinking suspicion about the value of the Stone's message wouldn't leave him. The more he struggled with deciphering it, the more important it became. Something big was about to happen, something with world shaking consequences.
How do I know that?
Though it was just a hunch, Farengar trusted his gut instinct. He wanted to be ready for whatever came. For whatever would descend upon Skyrim and Whiterun.
He had no idea it would be descending so soon.
He'd put his notes aside. Though looking over them had been fascinating, and the information he'd gleaned about the Nords might prove useful, they were ultimately unconnected to Clob's mission.
The old map he'd purchased from the Khajiit traders camped outside Whiterun smelled faintly of musk and dried whiskey. Judging from the numerous creases and tattered edges, the old parchment hadn't been treated with kindness. How Ri'saad had gotten his paws on it would have been a fascinating story. And now it was Clob's.
While his people were often viewed as crude savages, there were many brilliant minds among them. The most important to Clob was the cartographer Davog gro-Grissom, who'd drawn and redrawn the map of Orsinium, a difficult task considering its borders practically changed with the seasons, until the day he died. Though his apprentices had taken up the mantle of mapping Orsimer territory, they'd abandoned Davog's other passion, mapping the Orcish strongholds of Skyrim.
Maps to those strongholds were extremely rare and all known copies were carefully guarded. It had taken serious research to locate the map and plenty of his coins to acquire it. Fortunately, with the map in his possession, his planning could begin in earnest. Clob had come to Skyrim for a deeply personal reason. A promise had been made, a vow was owed, and no son of Grogork would ever break his word.
The candles he'd lit hours ago had long since burned low, dripping wax onto the table. His remaining tea was cold. These things didn't matter to Clob. He was engrossed in the map, because now he was another critical step closer. Unfortunately, there was still a mammoth-sized obstacle in the way.
He had to travel roughly halfway across Skyrim to reach the stronghold, through wild mountains and tundra. Clob didn't fear the hike but he was no fool. Though he was a capable mage and well aware of his abilities, a lone magic-user, no matter how skilled, wouldn't last long in the wilderness. All it would take was a stray arrow, or a particularly stealthy wolf, and no amount of magic would save him. Travelling alone would kill him as certainly as slitting his own throat. He needed a travelling companion.
Stroking his beard casually, Clob pondered his options. He could hire some mercenaries, there were certainly a few in Whiterun. However, not only was he unsure of their character, he didn't have enough coin left to get particularly competent ones. He could write to the College of Winterhold and request the assistance of his fellow mages, but they had no reason to help him and most likely wouldn't. Even if they decided to help there was no telling when they would arrive.
What he really needed was a friend to watch his back, but unfortunately he didn't have many of those in Skyrim. Tracing the map before him, Clob put those thoughts out of his mind for the moment. He had other needs first, like supplies, meaning water, jerky, and a warm blanket. Maybe even a horse, though he lacked the resources for one.
Momentarily he pictured riding a large boar like the Orcish warriors of legend, but he quickly discarded the fantasy. It was a foolish notion because he needed a horse, a proper Nordic one. Unfortunately, he'd probably have to walk.
Most of all, he needed to know what he would do when he reached his objection. Clob rubbed his temples at that thought. He needed a plan, he needed to know what he'd say, what he'd do, and more importantly, how he'd react when he saw him again. He'd need to control his temper and keep his rage in check. He needed to be persuasive. If Clob went about it the wrong way, he'd simply be one more corpse nailed to the wall slowly drying in the wind.
Clob began rolling up his map. Retrieving the protective tube from his pack, he took great care in storing it. After securely fastening both ends in place, he moved to return it to his pack.
A sudden gust of wind blew through the open window, taking the light out of his candles and chilling him to the bone. Moving over to the window, Clob closed and shuttered it. Something about that wind made him uneasy, though he couldn't say why.
Clob hoped Hulda built a warm fire and kept it going. It was going to be a long, cold night.
"I noticed," Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions said to the much younger Hammel Greymist between swigs of mead, "that you have never mentioned your father." While the other Companions had moved on to various contracts or leisure activities, Hammel and Kodlak remained behind, smoking, drinking, and partaking in each other's company.
"It's because I never knew him." The answer was as blunt as a Dwemer warhammer, and delivered with the practised ease of a man who'd said it many times. "I know nothing of my father's line. He could have been a hero or a monster." Puffing a solitary smoke ring, Hammel looked down at the floor. "It doesn't really matter."
Kodlak nodded sympathetically. "With such significance placed on family lines and ancestral deeds, that is a great burden. What of your mother?" Kodlak asked, in a surprisingly soft voice, "Does she have greatness in her family? There is no shame in following your mother's bloodline."
Hammel put down his mug and cupped both hands around his pipe thoughtfully. "If so, she never said." His mind started to wander back to that dingey room he lived in for the first twelve years of his life. He remembered the large, hairy, older woman who'd bark at him to get out whenever his mother had to plaster that fake smile on for her clients, he remembered the Orc woman who sometimes worked at the brothel with his mother and was kind to him. He could still smell the stink of unwashed bodies and sex that filled the room after she was done. But most of all, he remembered Elliana Greymist's unbreakable spirit.
She'd loved me so much…
Kodlak nodded sagely, "So you are a man who will forge his own line, whose children and grandchildren will point to him as the founder of their clan."
Hammel snorted, coughing out a smoke cloud. "For a man who hasn't had a woman in his life for years, that's optimistic of you," he chuckled for quite a bit. "And I haven't had a serious one…" Hammel scratched his goatee thoughtfully, letting the smoke drift from his pipe up to the ceiling. "...perhaps ever."
Kodlak drained his mug before reaching across the table for a refill. "That is the warrior's life. I've lived it myself," chuckling a little, he tapped his snow-covered chin. "And, I would guess, I lived it far longer than you." Taking another mug of cool mead, he leaned back in his chair, propping his chin on a closed fist.
"What about you?" Hammel asked Kodlak, taking a long draw on his pipe, and puffing out a near-perfect smoke ring. "Do you have any family or children?"
A sadness welled up deep in the old man's eyes, but his expression remained unchanging. "No, none of my blood at least. As for family," he gestured around the hall, arm outstretched, showcasing Jorrvaskr's glory, "the Companions are my family now." Gripping Hammel by the shoulder, the elderly veteran smiled. "That includes you as well, young Greymist. You are my son now."
Hammel wasn't sure why, but the simple honesty in the older man's words stirred him. It was an emotion he couldn't put his finger on, but it felt good. It warmed him like a good stew, or praise given by his old Legion commander.
Hammel didn't know what his time with the Companions would bring, but he was already rewarded with the comradeship he felt. Though he'd come from a dark place, leaving some terrible memories and experiences behind, Skyrim had welcomed him home with open arms.
The future looked bright indeed.
"Rabbit again? I'm sick of rabbit." Tor complained. He had served Whiterun as a guard for almost a decade but never found a shortage of things to moan about. "We should send Torgar into town, Carlotta's bound to have baked some fresh bread this morning." He rubbed his stomach, punctuating the motion with a loud rumble.
The other guards ignored him, save Abbaik Lute-Beard, who'd cooked that morning's breakfast. Abbaik may have been fat enough to stretch his armor, transforming Whiterun's symbol from a proud stallion into a barrel shaped pony, but he could swing steel with the best of them.
"Listen, you blasted milkdrinker!" Abbaik growled, shaking his ladle fiercely like a club, "You can eat my fist or my stew! Take your pick!"
Tor scratched his head thoughtfully, as if pondering a deep philosophical quandary. "Hmm, that's a tricky one..."
"You bastard!" Abbaik bellowed, hurling his ladle like an axe at his antagonist. Tor nimbly dodged the impromptu missile, chuckling with dry amusement.
This only made the older guard madder. Surging to his feet, panting like a horker, his pudgy hand dropped to his sword hilt. "I'd like to see you make lunch, Tor! I'd like to see you try!"
Holding his hands upward in a peaceful gesture, and speaking in a placating voice, Tor said, "I'm only teasing, my friend. The safety of our stomachs rests easy in your capable hands."
Hroki didn't hear the rest of the exchange. His attention was focused once again on the surrounding countryside. Something refused to let him rest, a warrior's instinct that told him something wasn't right. With the sun shining brightly and the western watchtower's height, Hroki could see for miles. So far he hadn't seen anything, but that feeling simply worsened.
Two of his brother guards were involved in a dice game, each routinely cursing or praising his luck. With Abbaik and Tor battling over the rabbit stew, that left only him and Hargon, the sergeant in charge of the tower, bothering to observe the tundra. The sergeant stood staring over the countryside, his bare knuckles whitening as he gripped his shield. His head was bare, his hair blowing with the wind. He sniffed the air casually, like a bloodhound trying to follow a scent.
"Something's not right."
The words fell from his lips with ominous certainty. They couldn't have been heavier if they'd been cast of iron. He squinted, trying to focus on something he couldn't quite see.
"What makes you so sure, sir?" Hroki asked, glad he wasn't the only one with the suspicion something was off. Once again, he cast a steady glance about the tundra and once again, saw nothing.
"Do you hear that?" Hargon asked, head tilted slightly to better expose his ears. Following his sergeant's example, Hroki did likewise. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't hear anything. There was an eerie silence.
"I don't hear anything."
Sergeant Hargon nodded. "Exactly." He gestured across the open expanse with a rough hand. "Where are the birds? The deer?" He traced his moustache casually. "I guarantee it, lad. When the beasts are silent, something will strike. Be ready."
They sat in silence for a moment, looking out over the land. Save for the unusual silence, all was normal.
Hroki noticed it first. "The giants are moving in a hurry."
A number of giant tribes lived on the plains near the city. They were generally peaceful, the relationship was even often beneficial. The giants kept the worst of the beasts away, and, in exchange, the people of Whiterun let them raise their mammoths in peace. It wasn't a written contract, but generally understood by both parties.
Befitting creatures of such size and power, giants didn't move much, anything that bothered them didn't live long. Giants didn't flee.
Yet it was happening before his eyes. They were dashing as fast as they could away, the ground shaking with the fury of their flight. The previous silence was shattered as mammoths screeched in panic, rushing after their masters. Giants and mammoths both carried whatever they could hold. The giants were terrified, fleeing as quickly as their large legs could carry them.
"What in Talos' mighty name could spook a tribe of giants?" Hroki muttered with a sense of impending dread. He was certain nothing could cause such fear in a tribe of giants.
Then he saw it.
Saw, but couldn't believe it. He'd heard the rumours about Helgen, they all had. He'd been told the stories as a lad, he probably could recite them from memory. Flying towards them, its raw power obvious, its magnificence terrifying, was a dragon. A flesh and blood dragon, a living dragon, a horrifying mountain of flesh and teeth. A semi-divine child of Akatosh, alive and flying right at them.
The formerly gargantuan tower seemed suddenly very small and his heavy chainmail felt like feathers. Icy fear gripped his heart as he felt warm urine trickle down his leg. "It can't be." He whispered under his breath, as the all too real dragon drew closer. He could see the sun glinting off its scales, a magnificent green color, and see its eyes narrow.
He didn't realise that fear had paralyzed him until Hargon grabbed his shoulder. "Did you hear me? I said, "run to the Jarl, inform him of our situation." He shoved him towards the stairs. "Go! Move!" he hollered, turning to face his other men.
Hroki ran down the stairs. Hargon was shouting his orders, ordering men to draw bows and loose arrows.
He was already halfway down the stairs when the dragon roared. It chilled him more than Skyrim's air ever could, shaking the stones around him.
He'd shoved his way through the double doors, boots striking the tundra before the first blast of dragon fire washed over the tower, setting its standard on fire. He'd made it a dozen steps before the second knocked several stones loose, leaving the tower belching black smoke into the skies above.
His lungs burned, his heart pounded in his chest, tears of terror chased their way down his grimy cheeks.
As he dashed towards the city of his birth as fast as he could, two thoughts occupied his terrified mind.
How is this real? And if it is, how do we stop it?
"The smoke rose suddenly, appearing from nowhere!" the Khajiit babbled, gesturing wildly to accentuate his point. "Ri'saad knew something must be happening, something the Jarl would wish to know!" Balgruuf the Greater gauged the Khajiit's words with dispassion. He hadn't said anything, simply listening with narrow eyes. It almost seemed as if he was actually considering this outlandish tale.
Proventus couldn't believe the Jarl was humouring him.
I can't believe we're even hearing this peddler's drivel.
Ri'saad's eyes were wide with panic and his tail twitched violently, a sure sign of his unease. "The ground shook as fire blazed all around the watchtower, lighting it up like a beacon!" Ri'saad leaned back and placed his paws over his eyes for dramatic effect. "Even from where this one was standing, it was nearly blinding," he continued on, speaking about heat and smoke, making little sense.
A sudden fire? Preposterous.
Hrongar stood at his brother's side, burly arms crossed and face shaped into something of a sneer. Irilet was straight as a razor, fist wrapped tightly around her sword's handle. Each remained silent as the words flowed, at least considering the account.
Set fire to the western watchtower indeed! Are we to believe this impossibility on the word of a skooma dealer? I think not! Liars all of them.
Proventus rubbed his hands together while trying to hold his tongue. He didn't believe this fantasy about returning dragons, why did the others? Was the word of this Khajiit, who ordinarily wouldn't even be allowed in the city, so compelling?
What had he really seen? Some guard's campfire no doubt, with the influence of skooma transforming it into a raging inferno. Or, perhaps this was all a clever trick, allowing him to take refuge inside the city long enough to rob several homes.
Proventus' thoughts slowly became more irritated as the creature prattled on in broken common, delivering at best an exaggeration or, more likely, a lie. Finally he could stomach it no longer.
"My Jarl," Proventus began, "While this…man's testimony is indeed interesting, I must advise caution." He gestured at the trader with obvious contempt. "This story could be the result of skooma induced delirium, or an outright lie designed to gain him entrance to our city!" Straightening himself to his full, though admittedly not very impressive, height, Proventus fixed Ri'saad with his most demeaning sneer. "I would suggest his word is as useful as dung flavoured mead, and only half as valuable."
Proventus was preparing for another tirade when the doors to Dragonsreach flew open. Staggering through them as fast as possible was a guardsman. His helmet was missing, revealing a face covered in grime and sweat, hair messy from exertion. His tunic was burnt and armor blackened, as if he'd taken a stroll through a furnace.
Bracing himself against a column, the guard looked up at Balgruuf with terror evident in his eyes. "My Jarl," he gasped out, sucking in air between words, "A dragon has attacked the western watchtower."
The sneer vanished from Proventus' features. A deafening silence filled the castle.
Balgruuf pushed himself up from his throne, eyes grim and features set. The only sound was the rustling of his cloak. Everyone was waiting for Balgruuf's command. When the Jarl of Whiterun spoke, his voice echoed to every corner. "Prepare for war."
Hrongar and Irileth bowed low, awaiting further instruction. "Brother," Balgruuf turned to Hrongar, clasping the larger man on the shoulder, "Rally the guards and place everyone on the walls, if the attack fails you must preserve the city." Spinning to Irileth, he said "Irileth, gather a contingent of guardsmen, including some of our best archers. You will attack this monster and bring back its head."
Irileth slammed her fist against her breastplate. "It will be my pleasure, Jarl Balgruuf."
"Let's just think about this for one moment!" Proventus begged, clasping his hands tightly together in an imploring gesture. "We don't know anything! We don't know..."
Balgruuf cut him off with a dismissive wave of a hand. "Silence." Though his voice maintained the same volume, its tone became colder than a winter in the Jerall mountains. "I will not stand idly by while my people are terrorised and killed! Not while something can yet be done!" He looked Proventus dead in the eye with an unflinching gaze. "I tell you, I would ride against a thousand dragons, to save any of my people. Is that understood?"
It was.
The distraction now dealt with, Balgaruuf returned to the task at hand. "Make sure everyone you take with you has a bow," his instructions to Irileth continued as if nothing had happened, "Feel free to requisition as many arrows as you need. From this moment forward, we are at war."
There was another pause, before Balgaruuf said. "And find that Companion Hammel Greymist, I have a suspicion he might prove useful."
"There's no way anyone can be so lucky!" Hammel groaned for the third time. Once again the dice had come up in Ria's favour. She smirked, dragging her growing pile of coins toward her with both hands. Farkas seemed rather nonplussed by Ria's continued victories. If anything, he looked amused.
Casually rolling the dice between her fingers with the grace of a trained con-artist and a butter-smooth smile, she shrugged, "What can I say? The Eight love me!" She looked at him, giving his much smaller pile of coins a sad nod. "Do you want to make some of your money back?"
Against his better judgement, Hammel found himself picking up the dice. "By Azura, yes!" Shaking the dice ferociously Hammel knew, without a doubt, he'd win the throw. With a grin, he tossed them. They watched the bones bounce but unfortunately for Hammel, luck was not with him.
"Yes!" Ria crowed, pumping her fist triumphantly. Unable to articulate a good response, Hammel just grumbled, taking another draw on his pipe. Grudgingly, he passed her the rest of his coins.
"Thank you very much for your contribution to my evening," Ria said with a hint of friendly mockery, "I'll eat well tonight!" She grinned, "Perhaps I'll have a Grey Mare turkey all to myself!"
"Don't feel bad," Farkas commented, draining his pewter mug in one gulp, leaving a hint of foam behind, "Ria beats everyone." He chuckled deeply, "It's no wonder she asked you to play. Everyone else is smart enough to say no!"
Hammel couldn't help but smile, "I guess I'm the 'ice-brains' now."
"This calls for another drink!" Farkas announced while heading for the casks of mead.
As Ria began shovelling the coins into her pouch, Hammel asked, "Who taught you to play?"
She smirked, her pretty nose wrinkling. "You first." Her tone was light but her eyes suggested she wasn't kidding.
Leaning back, pipe in hand, Hammel began, "I played my fair share of games of chance during my youth." He paused, almost embarrassed, "I lived on the streets for a while before joining the Legion. After that I played plenty with my fellow Legonaries. I thought I was actually pretty good."
Ria's gaze softened, "You never mentioned living on the streets." The words were gentle but not overtly-sympathetic, as if she was afraid of pitying him. Hammel didn't mind, he accepted pity from no one, offered or otherwise.
"It wasn't bad all the time," he said, almost embarrassed. "Just most of it." He winced as some unpleasant Solitude evenings came rushing back to his memories.
The cold, the hunger, people who'd stab you just as soon as they looked at you. Sometimes I wonder how I survived it all.
"My captain said I put on twenty pounds during our first week, despite the training!" He chuckled, "Old Naveev told me he'd never seen a recruit eat so much, so fast," he laughed. "The food was, of course, terrible."
Ria giggled. "I suppose it's my turn to squawk." Adjusting her chair slightly, Ria helped herself to a bottle of mead. "My father knew all about various dice or card games." Her gaze shifted towards timidity. "He taught me all of them when he was a Companion and I was young. He had the fuzziest beard and the warmest smile." She became quiet suddenly, chewing at her lip.
Before he could offer her his sympathy, the doors flew open. Instantly, hands went to swords all across the room. To everyone's surprise, a member of the city guard was the intruder. "I've been told to find the Companion called Greymist. Is he here?" His words stumbled out between gasps of air.
Standing up, his stance defensive, Hammel looked at the guard. "I am he."
"The Jarl has requested your assistance, Companion. A dragon has attacked the western watchtower."
Everything changed in an instant. Hammel snatched up his iron helmet and strapped it on. He was picking up his bow as the guard continued, looking to Farkas "The cats outside are begging for protection. Whiterun can't spare the guards, so they've turned to you. Their leader claims to have coin."
Farkas ordered Ria, "Tell Kodlak we have an honourable task. He'll know who to send." Ria bowed low before dashing towards Kodlak's chambers. The other Companions were already moving, the word dragon motivating them to action.
Yet none were more motivated than Hammel.
With his bow strapped to his back and both swords on his waist, Hammel headed out the doors with the guard. "Where are we headed?" he asked, tightening his helmet's chinstrap.
The streets of Whiterun opened up before them as they jogged towards the main gate. While moving, the guard responded, "Irileth is gathering enough guardsmen to attack the watchtower and drive off this dragon."
"Why invite me?" Hammel asked, dodging around several fleeing citizens.
"I thought it was obvious!" The guard responded in shock. They continued on for a few moments before he clarified, "You're the only one the Jarl trusts who's had any experience with these monsters."
Hammel chuckled darkly, "Except I spent all that time running."
And yet here I am, rushing headlong to fight one in defence of my new home. I must be crazy.
"Even so," the guard responded, "you're the closest thing to a dragon-slayer we've got." They continued past the gawkers and vendors who hadn't yet fled to the supposed safety of their homes. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was shining brightly in the clear blue sky and a slight breeze rustled the grass but no birds were singing. All had fled.
Standing before the gates were a handful of guardsmen. Those visible faces looked terrified and even the men wearing full helmets radiated fear. Danica Pure-Spring, the priestess of Kynareth, stood before a small group, her arms outstretched beseeching the goddess of nature for protection. Other guardsmen knelt before Heimskr, as he prayed for mighty Talos to aid his sons in battle against the foe. Those who weren't praying adjusted straps on armor, tested bowstrings, or ran whetstones over blades one more time, anything to avoid thinking about what they were about to face.
Standing proudly atop the walls was Irileth. A light but powerful-looking crossbow was strapped to her back and a steel blade, nearly as jagged and sharp as its owner, rested in her hand. Sunlight reflected off the old blade magnificently in the midday sun. Her armor looked freshly washed, the leather strapped down tightly. Her flinty eyes squinted over the twenty-odd guardsmen gathered before her, assessing each man's heart. Despite the chanting of priests, murmured prayers, and the rasping of steel on stone, her words echoed across the square
"Soldiers of Whiterun," she began, looking confidently down from her post, "This is a day of glory." Heimskr and Danica ceased their prayers, listening as intently to Irileth as the surrounding guardsmen. A gust of wind threw Irileth's hair back dramatically. "This is the hour where you rise up and defend your home! Where you prove that the sons of snow will never be conquered!"
Pointing her sword fiercely in the direction of the watchtower, she shouted, "A dragon has attacked us! A living, breathing, dragon has assaulted the western watchtower, the first seen in Whiterun in hundreds of years!" She paused dramatically, "It falls to us to be more than mortals. We must be heroes! Dragon slayers!"
"If this really is a dragon," one guardsman shouted, "We should run! It'll be another Helgen!"
"Damn straight!" another howled, "What chance do we have? It'll kill everything in its path!"
"My da always said a dragon can't be killed! We'll die in agony!"
A physical tide of fear swept through the massed guards as panic, speculation, and old-wives tales bubbled to the surface. They were in danger of breaking.
"I assure you men," Irileth's voice cut through the noise like a knife, "These monsters can be slain! A feat not performed since the days of legend! Men, we will join those heroes of old!" The guardsmen stood, almost paralyzed. Irileth seemed to have struck a chord within them. Hammel felt his blood begin to stir, her words resonating deep within his soul.
"Look at this city, men! Look at your home!" She gestured with an ash-skinned hand. "If you give up now, if you falter, this city will burn. Your families, your women, your friends, will all die screaming!" She paused dramatically, letting those words hang in the air. "Men of Whiterun, will you let that happen? Will you let me, an outsider, face this threat alone?"
Twenty odd fists and voices were raised together. "No!"
"Will you allow another hold to claim our honours? To beat us to the kill?"
"No!"
"Will you stand with me and show this dragon that Nords do not back down? That they fear nothing?"
Hammel found himself screaming alongside the mob, hands held high the answer. "Yes!"
Sensing now was a good moment to join in and provide some motivation, Heimskr called, "And if you fall this day, know that you will enter Sovengarde with your head held high and pride in your breast. You will take your place alongside Ysgramor. For you faced the enemy with pride and honour. Talos is with you!"
Stamping her foot on the controls, Irileth threw the gates open wide. "Men of Whiterun, follow me!" Leaping down, her elven grace evident as she landed, Irileth slammed on her helmet. The wind caught the plume magnificently as she cried, "For honour, for glory, for Whiterun, advance!" And with that the housecarl led them out of the city, towards their destiny.
Hammel followed the guards gladly, bow in hand. Little did he realise that the next hour would shape every following one for the rest of his life and change the fate of Tamriel, forever.