No attack came from within the barrow or without that night. However, Ethne's sleep was haunted by chanting voices, burning cities, and the rush and clap of dark, leathery wings. Over it all, the word Fus thrashed around in her mind like a blind bird searching for somewhere to roost. She knew that it meant "force," but how did she know it, and why? What language was it? What was she supposed to do with it? The answers eluded her.

Before dawn, she gave up on rest and decided to make for Whiterun as quickly as possible. If anyone would know anything that could help her, it would be Farengar.

First she had to get back to Riverwood and return the golden claw, and that proved more difficult than she expected. The tunnel dumped her out onto the side of the mountain, with no obvious path down. She was all over aches and pains, and not all of it was due to enemies or traps—a fair bit was simple strain, the price of getting mixed up in serious combat after years of soft city living. She picked her way gingerly down the rocks, stopping frequently when an abused muscle threatened to drop her to her death. At last, she found herself in the valley of the White River, and from there she was able to navigate back to the town.

For all the danger of the route, it was direct, and she reached the Riverwood Trader by dusk. Lucan and Camilla Valerius were overjoyed to have their claw back. They couldn't pay her much, what with business being hurt by the war and the loss of Helgen, but they found her some fresh clothes to replace her stained and burned ones. They also put her up at the Sleeping Giant Inn for the night, and stuck around to make sure the flinty-eyed Breton innkeeper fed and watered Ethne to her heart's content.

Word got around that something had happened, and half the town piled in to see what the excitement was about. Between the three of them, Ethne and the Valerius siblings told the story of the claw at least half a dozen times. (Ethne left out the Dragonstone and the mysterious black wall.) The local bard, Sven, was already setting the tale of Arvel the Swift and His Swift Demise to music and would have continued picking Ethne's brain all night, but the innkeeper finally kicked everyone out so they could all go to bed.

Full of hot food and heady Nord mead, with soft furs and straw under her, Ethne managed to sleep better. She got an early start the next morning.

Back on the road, she put her head down and walked as hard as she could bear, stiff and sore as she was. Her progress was slow on the first day, little better on the second. She looked on with envy when she was passed by a rider on a swift Imperial horse. Ethne would have traded her armor for so much as a sway-backed nag as long as it could carry her.

It was well after dark on the second night when she reached the gates to Whiterun Hold. She wasn't sure she would get in, but the guards had been told her name and that she was on an errand from the Jarl himself. They let her though with no trouble.

The moons were high; it was late even by mages' standards. Ethne slept the rest of the night and a bit of the next morning away at the Bannered Mare and went up to the palace after midday.

She was surprised to find Farengar with company when she arrived at his study: a woman by her build; her face was hidden by a deep hood. She wore high-quality leather armor with a sword belted at her hip. She and the wizard were deep in conversation, heads bent over a handsomely bound folio. Ethne didn't mean to eavesdrop, but she didn't want to interrupt, either. Wizards hated interruptions. She stepped just inside the doorway and waited to be noticed.

"You see?" Farengar was saying. "The terminology is clearly First Era or even earlier. I'm convinced this is a copy of a much older text. Perhaps dating to just after the Dragon War. If so, I can use this to cross-reference the names with other, later texts. Let me show you..." He turned to root through his bookshelves.

The woman nodded in her hood. "Good. I'm glad you're making progress. My employers—" She glanced up and spotted Ethne. Her hand jerked reflexively toward her sword, but didn't quite touch it. "You have a visitor."

Ethne could just make out the impression of a sharp nose and sharper eyes, glinting from the hood's shadow. She thought the woman's voice was familiar, but she couldn't place it.

"Hmm?" Farengar spun around and smiled upon recognizing Ethne. "Ah, yes, the Jarl's protege! Back from Bleak Falls Barrow? You didn't die, it seems." Such confidence he had in her! Or maybe that was just what passed for his sense of humor.

"No, not quite," Ethne said, coming to the table. She kept an eye on the hooded woman, who stepped aside and turned her head to keep her face obscured. "And I've fetched your artifact for you." She pulled off her pack, withdrew the stone tablet, and set it in the clearest space she could find. She was careful, but it still made a satisfying thump.

Farengar was delighted. His spidery hands danced eagerly over the face of the stone, which Ethne now saw bore an inscription of the same wedge-shaped characters as those on the black wall. To her relief, she recognized none of it and felt nothing calling to her.

"Ah!" Farengar sighed. "The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow! Seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way. My... associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. She discovered its location, by means she has so far declined to share with me." He turned toward the woman. "So your information was correct after all. And we have our friend here to thank for recovering the tablet for us."

"Nice work." The woman gave Ethne a curt nod of acknowledgment. To Farengar, she said, "Just send me a copy when you've deciphered it. Time is running, don't forget. This isn't some theoretical question. Dragons have come back."

"Yes, yes. Don't worry." The wizard waved a hand, already studying the Dragonstone again. He turned it over with another thump, revealing a curiously marked map of Skyrim above the dragon emblem. "The Jarl himself has finally taken an interest, so I'm now able to devote most of my time to this research. Although the chance to see a living dragon up close would be tremendously valuable."

"Be careful what you wish for, Farengar. You might get it," said the woman.

He just grunted in response. His eyes flicked from the tablet to the folio and back again. He probably hadn't heard a word.

The woman shook her head. "I'll be off now. Good day." She gave Ethne a sidelong look and a nod, then left.

Ethne watched her go, taking a read of her movements: sure, smooth, and alert. Someone ready to leap into action and take her foes apart with her sword before they could blink. What did she have to do with Farengar and the dragons, and who were the employers she mentioned? Who was she?

Perhaps she would ask Farengar. But she had more pressing questions. And she would have to get his attention back first. She waited.

After a moment or five, he realized she was still standing in front of his desk and tore his eyes away from the Dragonstone to squint at her. "Ah. You'll be wanting your reward, I suppose."

Ethne hesitated. "Actually, I wanted to ask—"

He waved her words away. "No, no, you'll have to speak to Avenicci about that. I have no time for petty pecuniary matters."

"But—"

"I'm very busy," the wizard said without pause. "Now go."

Firmly, before he could lose himself in the Dragonstone again, Ethne said: "I have a question. About the stone."

Farengar stared at her as though she had spoken in Yoku. "What?" He blinked rapidly as he caught up. "A question? Oh—taken an interest in my studies, have you? Very well. Ask your question."

Ethne sighed in relief. "Thank you. The place I found the stone, the crypt, it wasn't just a crypt. There was this huge, black wall, covered with markings like the ones on the tablet, and it had that symbol on it, too." She pointed at the dragon emblem.

"Really? You discovered a Word Wall?" She had Farengar's full attention now. "What else can you tell me? Did you transcribe the writing, by any chance?" Taking in her pained look, he sighed. "No, I don't suppose you did. Not many people know that dragons had a language, a spoken and a written language, used to impart knowledge to their followers. Here, take a look at this." He pulled an old, battered book from the pile on the table and passed it to Ethne.

"Dragon Language: Myth No More?" she read. Both fascinated and discomfited by the concept of dragons writing, she paged through the book.

"Look at Hela's transcriptions," Farengar urged her. "Do they resemble what you saw?"

"Yes," Ethne whispered. The short passages of angular markings were all of the same form. The book's author, Hela Thrice-Versed, had translated them. It seemed the "Word Walls," as she called them, were memorials to honorable persons who had died.

"Such a pity you didn't copy the inscription," Farengar tutted.

"I was a little busy," said Ethne, not looking up. "The chamber was guarded, and—"

"Ah, yes, it would have been." Farengar nodded. "Hela indicates that approaching these Word Walls is a dangerous business, not for the faint of heart. She also suggests they contain some sort of power."

Ethne's head snapped up. "What?"

Farengar was oblivious, as usual. "Perhaps it was reserved for the worthiest of the dragons' worshipers. We can only speculate. The secrets of the Dragon Cult are, alas, long since lost."

The question Ethne had wanted to ask splintered and grew into an impossible multitude. What was the Dragon Cult? Who did they consider worthy? Who worshiped a dragon? What did any of this have to do with Ethne? What on the face of Nirn had happened to her? What did it mean?

More than ever, she was sure it couldn't be anything good. Farengar might not know the answers, and she was afraid to find out if he did, but she had to ask.

"Lord Farengar...?"

She got no further. There was a commotion out in the greathall, and Irileth the Housecarl barged into the room, shouting the wizard's name. "Farengar! Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby."

Icy fear and foreboding shot down Ethne's spine. No. Not now.

"Are you serious?" Farengar said. Then he realized who he was talking to and shook his head, grinning so widely his muttonchops bristled. "Of course you are. How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?" He hurried around the table, toward the housecarl.

Irileth scowled. "This is not a lark devised for your amusement, wizard. If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don't know that we can stop it. Let's go." She started off, but paused and fixed her garnet eyes on Ethne. "You should come, too."

"What?" Ethne yelped before she could suppress the reaction.

Irileth explained impatiently: "The Jarl will wish to see that you have returned from the mission he gave you, and to learn anything you know about dragons that may be of use. You are involved. Come."

The housecarl turned and strode briskly from the room, Farengar right behind her.

Ethne shook her head and hurried after them, her head spinning. A dragon, here! Was it the same one as before? She wasn't sure she could face the sight of that black demon again. She certainly didn't know anything that would help Whiterun fight it.

Irileth led them up a stairway to what looked like a war room, just behind the greathall. Maps hung on the dividing wall, and more were laid out on a pair of long tables. Jarl Balgruuf was there with one of the hold guards, a young man who stood with his helmet clutched to his chest, breathing hard and trembling. Both men looked to Irileth on her arrival.

"Go on," Irileth said to the guard, "tell them what you told me—about the dragon!"

The man nodded. "Right. We first saw it coming from the south. It was fast—faster than anything I've ever seen!"

"What did it do?" Balgruuf demanded. "Did it attack the watchtower?"

"No, my lord," the guard said disbelievingly. "It was just circling over Secunda's Kiss when I left. I never rode so fast in my life! I thought it would come after me for sure."

The Jarl clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it."

The guard nodded gratefully and went on his way.

Balgruuf spoke to his housecarl. "Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and send them down there. If it does decide to attack..." His face was grim. He certainly realized that, no matter how quickly the guard had ridden from his post, it could already be too late by the time reinforcements got there.

"I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate," the Dunmer replied, undaunted.

"Good." The Jarl frowned briefly at Ethne, then recognized her. "Ah, it's you. You were successful?"

She jerked her head stiffly. "Yes, my lord."

He turned to Farengar. "And this Dragonstone—it will be of use?"

The wizard nodded. "Oh, yes, my lord. Tremendous use. I've already begun to correlate the locations indicated on it with—"

Balgruuf cut him off with a raised hand. "Will it help us fight them?"

"Oh." The wizard blinked. "Not directly. No, it will take further study." His eyes lit up. "But if I could go along with Irileth and make some observations of a live dragon—? I would very much like to see it!"

After a moment's thought, Balgruuf nodded. "Yes. You go—Irileth, remain."

Farengar beamed. "Thank you, my lord!"

"Milord?" said Irileth, just shy of outright protest.

"I can't afford to risk you both," the Jarl said curtly. "Farengar must go. He must have all the information he needs to protect the city."

Irileth gave the wizard a dubious side-eye. "And who is going to protect him?"

"What else are soldiers for?" Farengar replied, grinning. "Don't worry, Irileth. I am still a master of the elements. It's likely enough that I shall be protecting them if we come up against dragon-fire." He sounded giddy at the prospect.

The housecarl's lip curled ever so slightly. Abruptly, she raised a hand and pointed at Ethne. "What about her? She's proven herself reliable, and she survived Helgen, so she has more experience with dragons than anyone else here."

Ethne cringed; she had hoped they had all forgotten about her. She wanted to protest, but Farengar didn't give her a chance.

"Oh yes, an excellent suggestion. I could use an intelligent assistant." He nodded to Ethne as though he'd just done her a great favor.

"Then it's settled," said Jarl Balgruuf. He addressed Ethne directly: "Go with Farengar. Help him learn as much as possible about this dragon, and keep him safe at all costs."

Ethne shook her head. "My lord, I don't—"

He rode right over her. "When this is over, you shall be well rewarded. Now go."

Well rewarded. Great. That would be excellent, if she was still alive. She thought she must try to refuse once more, but Irileth was giving her a molten glare that brooked no argument. Farengar turned to go, beckoning to Ethne, and she followed though her feet felt like lead. Irileth came, too, saying she would accompany them to give the guards their orders.

As they jogged down the stairs, Farengar chattered with excitement. "I'm ecstatic for the chance to see this dragon up close." He didn't seem to notice the look of utter incredulity Ethne shot him. "By all accounts, they're unstoppable in the air. We'll have to bring it down to the ground to study it properly."

"If it doesn't burn us to cinders first!"

"Ah. Yes, that would be unfortunate." Farengar said this as though he had realized he was almost out of sugar for his tea. He seized Ethne's arm and hauled her to a stop. "Just a moment!" The wizard held up one finger, forbidding her to leave until he returned, and darted to his study.

Halted at the top of the steps in the middle of the greathall, Ethne shifted from foot to foot, as unhappy to stay as she was to go.

Irileth reached the doors and realized she was alone. She turned back and beckoned sharply with one arm. "Come on!"

"Yes, ma'am—but Lord Farengar asked me to wait for him." Ethne looked over her shoulder. He wasn't coming back yet.

The Dunmer made a disgruntled noise in her throat, but folded her arms, waiting.

Finally, Farengar came running back across the hall with a golden chain dangling from his hand. "Here," he told Ethne, "put this on. Your skin will be as resilient against fire as our good Housecarl's."

"Oh!" Ethne slipped the chain over her head. Hanging from it was a gold pendant set with a trillion-cut garnet the size of her smallest fingernail. Embarrassed to be sporting such wealth, she tucked it inside her cuirass. "Thank you, Lord Farengar!"

"You must protect me in turn, of course," the wizard said—and Ethne heard, Why, certainly I'll have another biscuit, how kind. "You can give it back to me when we return with the knowledge we gather." His grey eyes glittered hungrily.

"Yes. Of course."

"Hurry up now!" Irileth barked. "Or there may be nothing left to gather but ash!"

Ethne and Farengar shared a look of exasperation and ran down the length of the greathall. They followed Irileth at a breakneck pace down the palace stairs and through the city, and it was a wonder they didn't trip.

They stopped to collect the dozen guards who had gathered near the stables outside the city gate on Irileth's order. Ethne stuck close to Farengar, off to one side, while Irileth conferred with a stern-faced Nord woman.

The housecarl then briefly addressed the guards: "You all have your bows and arrows? Good. No questions now; there's no time to lose. You ride for the Western Watchtower. Sergeant Lydia has the command. Now move out!"

The Nord woman, Lydia, barked at the soldiers to mount up.

Horses had already been prepared for the guards, and the grooms had hastily saddled two additional steeds for Ethne and Farengar. Ethne hadn't ridden in ages, and her horse seemed to know it: the shaggy black mare shied and rolled her eyes until Ethne was on her back. Farengar seemed equally ill suited to the saddle in his robes, but he just grinned and said "Isn't this exciting?" Then they were off, and no one had any breath left for talking.

The road was broad, its stones broken down to wagon-rutted rubble by hard freezes and brief summer thaws. Sergeant Lydia put the band through their paces, and Ethne struggled along at the back of the line, expecting her mare to miss her step and throw her rider at any moment. But the horses of Skyrim made up in surefootedness what they lacked in speed, and not one animal stumbled as their mission drove them on.

Yesterday, Ethne had longed for a horse. Now her wish had been granted, and she knew she was a gods-cursed fool. Her legs ached, and the bruise where her dented cuirass dug into her back was pummeled again with each of the mare's strides. She fantasized about taking the reins firmly in hand and riding off into the wilderness, never to be seen again by Men or Mer—but the thought died swiftly. She was no thief, and she remembered the discipline she'd learned as a young merchant guard to carry on in spite of pain and adversity.

The space between the mare's black ears became Ethne's entire world. Her aches faded into the rhythm of trot, canter, walk, repeat. There was no thought in her mind but to endure just until that rock—now that tree—now that hill...

After uncounted miles of this, it came as a shock when Lydia finally called the line to a halt. Ethne reined her mare too abruptly, and the horse swerved aside with a startled whinny.

Her senses returned enough to observe her surroundings. It had gotten dark, and the soldiers were lighting torches, bright smears of red against the gloaming. They stood atop a low, rocky hill north of the road. The soldiers were muttering oaths in palpable alarm, and the cause was obvious: the watchtower, across the road a little farther west, had been attacked and burned. Patches of earth were fused into glowing embers, and blazing timbers cast the cracked and blackened stones of the tower in ruddy light. A pile of fire-blasted debris lay at the tower's foot, fallen from a high section of the wall. Not all of the debris was stone and mortar.

The guards muttered angrily to each other as they took in the wreckage.

"It's those damned traitors, I'll bet," said someone.

"Bloody Imperials, come to take our gods," said someone else.

"They've gone too far this time."

"Quiet!"

All eyes snapped to the sergeant. She ordered them to dismount and form up. A picket was established for the horses, and the guards made a rough semicircle around Lydia. Ethne hovered at the back. Farengar stood apart, gazing at the heavens, and she had to keep an eye on him. Quite unfairly, the wizard showed no sign of being tired after the journey.

"Here's the situation." Lydia's voice was resonant, but clipped. "You've all been hearing whispers about dragons since Helgen was attacked. They're true. A dragon destroyed Helgen, and earlier this day, a dragon was sighted over Secunda's Kiss."

A confused murmur ran through the guards.

"A dragon!"

"What?"

"Now we're in for it," muttered the man nearest to Ethne, and she recognized the dour voice of Arne, who had challenged her at the gate on the day she had first arrived. He held his helmet in one hand, and in the torchlight she could make out an egg-shaped head, thinning hair, and a full mustache.

"You heard right!" Lydia bellowed. "I said a dragon! No sign of it now, but it sure looks like it's been here. I know it looks bad, but we've got to know what we're dealing with. First we'll see if there's anyone left. Come on."

She went down the hill, back to the road, and they all followed. When they drew level with the tower's entrance, a figure leaned out from the doorway and hissed at them:

"No! Get back! It's still here somewhere! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!"

Undeterred, Lydia jogged up a fallen section of old wall that served as a ramp to the entrance, and gestured for her contingent to spread out. "Check for survivors. You two"—she indicated the foremost guards—"up the tower, and keep your eyes peeled."

Ethne lingered near the bottom of the ramp with Farengar. She wanted to tell the two guards not to go up there, they'd be sitting ducks if the dragon came back, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She could smell the charred earth and the savory odor of cooked meat. Her stomach roiled with nausea.

She could have slipped away through the shadows and found a rock to hide under. No one would have noticed or particularly cared. But she stood firm and focused on Lydia.

The sergeant took the man who had met them by the arm and spoke firmly to him. "What happened here? Where's the dragon? Quickly now!"

"I don't know," the man moaned, shaking his head. "It came up so fast, we barely had time to draw our bows before it was on top of us. It scorched the top of the tower and blasted the side; it clung to the wall like a bat and ripped Hilda and Ole apart."

Below, Ethne shuddered. The same thing had nearly happened to her and Ralof in those first frantic minutes of flight in Helgen. They had thought the sturdy Imperial tower represented safety, and they couldn't have been more wrong. The sight of those black, rushing jaws amid the flames and the stink of brimstone... she would never trust stone again.

The guardsman went on, recalling as much as he could. "We got a few hits on it from below, but its hide is like armor. I don't know if we even hurt it, and then it turned on the rest of us. I think... I think I'm the last one left."

"Not anymore," said Lydia. Her grip on his arm now served to shore him up.

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded and gripped the hilt of the sword belted at his waist. He would fight again.

"Good man." Lydia gave him a final bracing slap on the shoulder, then turned and whistled.

The guards who had gone looking around the tower came back in a hurry and assembled on the ramp. The wizard followed them up, and Ethne made herself go with him.

"The amount of destruction!" Farengar remarked. "It's tremendous, isn't it, the damage a controlled blast of fire can do."

Some of the guards glared at him, but he was oblivious.

"Nothing," a woman reported to Lydia. "Everything that isn't stone is burning."

There was a murmur of agreement from the others. They sounded scared, and Ethne didn't blame them.

But Lydia had no time for fear. If she felt any such emotion herself, she kept it well hidden. "Now, listen," she said. "That dragon may still be lurking out there. We'll stay here and keep a sharp eye out until dawn. If the dragon comes back looking for a fight, we'll give it a fight."

"But Sergeant," said the woman guard, "how can we fight a dragon?"

"That's the question," said Lydia. "And that is why we have Lord Farengar with us. I'm told he's been making a study of dragons, and he's here to put that knowledge to the test."

The soldiers all turned to look at him, and he blinked back. "Oh. Yes. Hello!"

They were not impressed. One even turned and spit over the edge of the ramp.

"And," Lydia went on, "we have someone here who has seen a dragon before and lived to tell about it. Her." Lydia pointed at Ethne.

Ethne stood poleaxed. This was low, dirty, and mean, to use her like this.

Arne, once more at the back of the group, recognized her. His eyebrows shot up. "You!" He pointed, too. "It's true! She's the messenger who came from Helgen!"

"That's right!" Lydia called. "This is Ethne Duval. She has faced a dragon and survived, which proves it can be done. If she can do it, so can we."

The guards took a good look at her: small compared to most of them, poorly armed, and scared stupid. If she could survive, anyone could.

"Besides," Lydia went on, "think of it: the first dragon seen in Whiterun since the last age. And the glory of killing it will be ours! What say you?"

"Aye!"

"Some of you didn't hear me. I said, what say you?"

"Aye!" the guards roared.

And another roar came in answer.

All the bravado was undone in an instant.

"What was that?"

"Where is it?"

"What do we do?"

"Everyone inside!" Lydia shouted.

"No!" Ethne heard herself say. Her voice was barely a squeak, but Lydia pinned her with a look.

"No?" It wasn't a word a sergeant was used to hearing.

Ethne had no air. She sucked down a breath, and another. It wasn't enough.

Just then, one of the guards keeping watch up the tower shouted, "Here it comes!"

It was too late. Acting on pure animal instinct, everyone rushed into the tower—everyone except Farengar. The damn wizard was gawking at the winged silhouette hurtling from the sky.

Beholding the dragon, Ethne might have been looking death itself in the face, its jaws gaping. And then it called out in a fell voice:

"FUS..."

The word came home to roost.

An instinct Ethne hadn't known she possessed told her exactly what was about to happen. Without thinking, she tackled Farengar, bearing them both over the edge of the ramp in the nick of time.

A blood-curdling roar ripped through the air like a thousand knives through sail canvas, followed by a boom and a blast of wind. Where they had just been standing, the ramp exploded in a shower of stone and dust. The beast shot past. Ethne's ears ached from the noise, but she could have sworn she heard it laughing.

Farengar sat up, coughing. It hadn't been a long fall, but they'd landed roughly on their backs. "Why did you do that?"

"We almost died, you idiot!" Ethne forced herself up in spite of the renewed injury to her back. It wasn't important now. "Come on." She pulled Farengar to his feet and dragged him up the shattered ramp to the tower.

They gained the entrance and were ushered in by the nearest guards. "They're alive!" one called.

Lydia pressed forward and looked at Ethne with wonder. "I don't know if you're sharper than you look or just lucky. Thanks for saving him." She nodded at Farengar.

"Did you see it?" said the wizard. "Did you see what it did? It's just like the legends say. Its very breath has power!"

"That's why we need to get out of here." Ethne's words were a panicked stampede. "We're right where it wants us, all packed into one place. When it comes back, it could roast us alive, bring the tower down on top of us, or Divines know what else!"

"So what are we supposed to do?" said the argumentative woman guard. "Go out there and get picked off one by one?"

"No, she's right," Lydia said curtly. "Our best chance is to spread out." She clapped her hands in the air, drawing everyone's attention. "Listen up! The time for glory has come! Do you want to die huddling in a hole, or do you want to die bravely in open battle? Could you call yourselves Nords if you ran and hid from this monster?"

A chorus of scathing denial answered her.

"Then let's kill us a dragon!"

Rapidly, she laid out a battle plan. The guards would pair up and spread out, taking whatever cover they could. One pair would draw the dragon's attention. Whoever had a shot would fire on it.

"Aim for the wings," Farengar advised. "We must bring it down—but try not to kill it. Not before I can study it!"

"They'll do what they have to," Lydia said sternly. "Now, go!"

The guards scattered. Each pair took up a position below a section of the old ring walls so that almost every angle was covered by archers—or a Destruction mage.

It was obvious that Farengar had the best chance of doing serious damage to the dragon, since most of its hide was covered in an armor of thick scales. Lydia had asked the wizard to stay in the tower so he had the advantage of elevation. Ethne, despite wishing desperately that she were anywhere else, stayed with him to watch his back.

They didn't have to wait long before another roar announced the return of the dragon. This time Ethne was certain it laughed as it wheeled overhead—and then it spoke, and its voice was like the fall of an avalanche.

"Krif krin. Pruzah![1] I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide."

Ethne shuddered, but her eyes stayed fixed on the beast.

"Incredible!" said Farengar. "The Dragon Tongue! We should be taking notes."

"Focus," snapped Ethne. "Get ready." Below, she could hear Lydia's voice shouting much the same.

The dragon whirled in the air, lining up an attack run.

Farengar's hands lit with blue fire and a cold steam spilled from between his fingers: frost magic. He caught Ethne's look and grinned. "Since this creature breathes fire, perhaps it won't care for the taste of ice."

Maybe he wasn't a complete idiot after all. Ethne nodded. "I hope you're right."

Just as planned, two guards had darted from cover, one holding a torch aloft while the other drew their bow.

The dragon came stooping for them. The archer bravely loosed an arrow, but too late. "YOL TOOR SHUL!" A stream of fire spewed from the dragon's maw and blasted the pair of guards.

A dozen more arrows peppered its body, but it took no heed, winging away toward the mountains.

"Fools," muttered Farengar. He stood and cast: a brilliant spear of ice shot forth and pierced the dragon's wingsail.

It roared now in surprise, and its head swung toward the wizard. "Kro! Ha! Nin med tuzseveydo."[2] Ethne knew it was taunting them, but if her eyes weren't playing tricks on her, its right wing was dragging out of time with its left as it climbed out of range.

"It's coming for us now," said Ethne, gripping her axe. It wouldn't do her any good, but she felt better holding it.

The dragon wheeled on its sluggish right wing, compensating for its injury, and dove for them.

Farengar was already charging up another spell: a ward sprang to shimmering life over him and Ethne as the dragon's jaws parted.

But no fire came forth, only a bone-shaking roar. The dragon extended its hind claws, backwinging. Ethne and the wizard staggered back as enormous talons crushed into the stones of the parapet. The dragon's wings beat the air into a torrent; Farengar stumbled and collapsed with a cry, and his ward vanished.

The next thing Ethne knew, she was in front of the wizard and her axe was dripping hot ichor down her arms. The dragon's jaws snapped on air, blood streaking its chin where a tooth had been shattered, and it reared back from the unexpected pain. One yellow, slit-pupiled eye fixed on Ethne.

She charged. Battle-fire was running through her veins now, screaming at her that this was her only chance. The dragon's wings were like a bat's, partially furled to stabilize it on the tower. She leaped for the nearest. One hand seized it by the arm above the wrist joint even as the wing rose—extended—and she couldn't keep supporting her own weight, suddenly hanging freely, so she swung her legs and let go. Her feet slammed down onto the dragon's back, where she gripped a jutting spinal ridge and drove her axe down into its hide. The blade stuck fast, and she held on as the enormous wings beat down, up, down.

Part of her knew she was in the sky now; icy wind rushed in her ears and tried to flatten her against the dragon's back. Her wonder was a mote overwhelmed by terror. The dragon was roaring something as it glared—or grinned?—at her over its shoulder.

"Bahlaan hokoron.[3] You are brave."

Ethne forgot herself for a moment, struck by the absurdity of being addressed directly, never mind complimented, by a dragon.

"But can you fly?"

Ethne's stomach rolled, and her feet swept out from under her. The merchantman pitching down from the crest of a wave; lightning flashing; thunder rolling; the cry: "Hold fast!" She held fast. The axe wrenched free, but she held on to it and the bony spur, and the dragon's back finally came up beneath her again.

And she had her sea-legs now.

Go for the wings, Farengar had said. Sails shredded; slouching into harbor. The thick membrane was in reach where it joined to the dragon's body. She swung her axe. She kept on swinging as blood sprayed.

The dragon bellowed. "Feynsedok! Stin dii slen!"[4] It sucked in breath, sides swelling. "YOL—!"

Ethne ducked into a tight curl as a wave of parching heat rolled over her and sucked the moisture from her body like the deadly simoom off the Alik'r Desert.

But before she was immolated, the dragon's voice broke into a snarl of anger. Over it, Ethne heard lightning and smelled the rent air, sharp in her nose; the dragon pitched and yawed. Ethne found her feet and hacked again at the dragon's wing membrane. Something essential snapped; she felt it through her boots. The dragon howled as the forces of flight tore the injury further, and Ethne came as close as she ever had to falling off as the dragon sharply careened into a downward spiral. She could no longer feel her left hand or the spur it gripped. The dragon's roll threw her into its spines, and she wrapped her other arm around the one she'd claimed, clinging for her life.

A long time it fell, and she fell with it, until she ran out of breath for screaming.

The crash knocked her senseless for a moment. When she came to, she was on the ground, and the dragon was above her, its injured wing blotting out the stars. She heard shouts all around. The dragon lunged, its jaws snapped, and someone screamed. Ethne saw the great tail waving over her head. As unsteady as a drunk, she rolled to her knees and—pausing only to snatch her axe off the ground—lurched away.

Something grabbed her by the arm. Wildly, she swung with her off-hand fist, but only dashed her knuckles against a steel helmet.

"Steady, now! Wait—it's you! By the gods, you're still alive!"

Ethne recognized Lydia by her voice. She sagged in relief and gripped the sergeant's shoulder.

Lydia squeezed hers in turn. "Come on," she said. "It's not over yet."

Ethne nodded.

In the flickering light of torches, she beheld the dragon brought low. It didn't taunt them now; only roared its fury. The remaining guards circled it, avoiding its head and its lashing tail, to take shots with their bows or rush in with their swords to slash at a vulnerable joint. Arrows had bitten between the scales all over the dragon's body, particularly its wings and neck, and one lucky archer had even punctured an eye.

Lydia was going for the throat: sword flashing, she charged up the dragon's blind side, Ethne at her heels. With a great cry, the Nord plunged her blade deep into the groove behind the dragon's jaw.

It screamed; its head whipped up and away; Lydia was pulled off her feet and fell prone. Ethne leaped over her back and met the dragon's remaining eye as it spun to see what had dared wound it so. Its pupil widened, and it drew a deep breath.

Slam. A bolt of ice struck it square on the head. With a yelp, it staggered sideways. Its neck drooped . .. just enough.

With both hands, Ethne wound up and swung her axe upward with all the strength she had. Crack. Scales sundered. The dragon's jaws flew wide, and only a spray of fluid came forth. Ethne heaved her axe free from its throat, and steaming blood gushed down her arms.

She staggered clear from the dragon in its death throes. Its thrashing limbs scored the ground as if trying to bodily cling to the mortal world. Ages seemed to pass before it finally stilled.

And then...

It was as though the dragon exhaled one final breath. Ethne thought she heard its voice whisper, "Ni—Dovahkiin...!", but the wind rose to a deafening rush in her ears, and her vision filled with an unearthly glow, bleaching the world white-gold. Something inside her burned, bursting to life, ravenous.

She wanted to scream, but couldn't. The light was being drawn in, arcing through her flesh to feed the red-hot coal in the pit of her stomach. She could only clutch at her chest, teeth bared in an open grimace at the certainty that she was about to die. Surely the dragon had turned one last trick, and her body was being unmade, leaving only her soul to fly to whatever realm the Divines deemed fit for her.

Funny, though. She had always thought death would hurt.

"Nid, Dovahkiin. Hi lahney nu ol dovah. Dahmaan sahrot Mirmulnir, wo lost kriin."[5]

With those incomprehensible words, the light faded.


1. Lit. "Fight courageous(ly). Good!"

2a. "[A] mage!"
2b. "Stings like [a] blade of grass."

3. Lit. "Worthy enemy."

4. "Flea! Cease to bite me!" Lit. "Bane of dogs/dog-bane! Free my flesh!"

5. Lit. "No, Dragonborn. You live now as [a] dragon. Remember mighty Mirmulnir, who was slain."