Shhhhf. Shhhhf. Shhhhf. Riverwood awoke to a golden sun peaking through mountain haze and dew-dropped treetops. Alvor was always the first to be up - at the crack of the rosy dawn to stoke the embers, press the tanning hides and wash his face in the fresh river water.
Shortly after, Gerdur would appear, followed by Hod nursing a rough head from a night spent drinking. The creaking and groaning of the water wheel would be joined with the scraping of bark as the log pile was loaded, ready for sawing.
Once Sigrid had taken care of the children, her boots would find the mud of the inn's allotment, its soil hardened by the early morning frost. Leeks and potatoes and carrots, pulled from the earth and loaded in wicker baskets, would be later distributed to the inn for Orgnar's bubbling stews and soups; something for the adventurers to look forward to.
Not that there were many adventurers to serve.
Some time after the Riverwood Trader's door was unlocked, and Stump had begun terrorising Embrys, and the guards had switched their shifts, she surfaced from the dream. With aching limbs, stiff from prolonged tension; with raw feet, tucked into animal skin bed covers, she moaned against the cold air beyond her safety cocoon, knowing she'd eventually have to leave. Knowing that she'd have to stand those feet into weather-worn boots once more. The day had already begun, and she was on borrowed time. Every minute that passed was an opportunity for hellfire and death.
And yet her mind remained oddly silent. No disturbing dreams to report. At least, none that she could remember.
The Dragonstone lay hidden in her pouch, which leant against the wall next to the bed. She craned her neck to look at the battered leather bag – an echo of spiderwebs and blood. Next to the pouch lay the shining metal dragon claw, clumsily discarded on the stone floor. It looked out of place next to its rustic surroundings. She'd clutched the thing in her hands, all the way home.
All she had to do was make the trip to Whiterun without dying.
--
Naturally, news of the group's adventure to Bleak Falls Barrow had spread through the tiny community, but what of the results? Breakfast was a tough goat steak that she chewed while sat at the inn's counter. Orgnar watched her with what seemed to be concern. Sigurd, carrying two baskets full of potatoes, didn't offer her a greeting as she limped against blisters out of the inn and towards the trader. Lucan's eyes lit up as she entered and he rose out of his seat, shaking off a dreary-eyed look.
"You're back... You're back! Do you have it? The claw?"
She held the heavy golden artifact out to the shopkeeper. He took it into shaking hands and cast his eyes from gleaming tip to gleaming wrist. Some deranged voice in the back of her mind challenged her – did you get the right one?
Wide eyes looked up to her. "Hah! Hahah! You found it!" Golden joy dripped from Lucan before flowing into a river. "I- I'm going to put this right back where it belongs," he said, already turning to look at the shelves behind him. "Camilla! Camilla, come look! You- you've done a great thing for me and my sister, you know?"
She smiled, but her cheeks felt like stone.
She left the trader with the siblings' blessing and a rather large sack of gold – 500 pieces, which Lucan informed her with a hysterical laugh could buy her ten new pairs of boots.
The building next to the trader was the house Sven shared with his mother. Unlike usual, she wasn't sat on her chair on the porch. Had she stayed up all night, waiting for her son to return?
She bit back tears.
Across the small street was the figure of Hadvar – back to wearing that brown tunic already. The polished hard leather shone under the afternoon sun; its buckles and bearings glinting. It was clean of any blood splatter or web, as though the memories of the previous night's expedition had been washed away.
Hadvar was talking to his father, watching as the blacksmith held a sword up to the forge's glow and inspected it from point to handle. Hadvar turned and saw her, just as she hesitated her approach. He smiled and offered her a brief wave. "Friend, it is good to see you."
"Hey, Hadvar. Hey, Alvor. Good morning." She stepped up onto the wooden decking surrounding the quaint forge, dipping her head in polite greeting.
"Greetings, lass," said Alvor without looking away from the sword.
"How did you sleep?" Hadvar's voice was kind and genuine.
She sighed. "Surprisingly well. I think I'm getting used to Orgnar's clumsy bed-dressing."
Hadvar gave her a fond smile. "You heading out to Whiterun, then?"
She took an even deeper sigh. "I suppose so. I need to get the Dragonstone to Farengar."
Hadvar nodded. "Indeed. Then I shall come with you. At least to the town. I will need some supplies for the journey to Solitude. The Legion will need to know about this dragon."
"Yeah, makes sense." She only registered the sliver of emotion that crept into her voice and threatened to crack it as Hadvar frowned at her.
"...are you okay?"
"Hm? Yeah. Yes. I- It's just..." She sighed, again, as though trying to purge the feelings of loneliness and loss through the outpouring of her lungs, and shook her head. "People keep coming and going. It wasn't long since Ralof took me to Whiterun and ... left me there."
"Ralof?" Hadvar's eyebrows shot up at the mention of his friend.
"Ralof, Faendal, and now you. Every time I feel like I'm getting somewhere ... I don't know. It doesn't matter."
Hadvar took her by the shoulders and looked her dead in the eye. "Skyrim is a big place, my friend, but there is lots of good here. We will meet again someday, I know it."
He smiled at her, and she tried to return it.
How long until it was just her and the dragon? Those words Hadvar had spoken to her after defeating the draugr – Dragonborn. If this was all so important, why did everyone seem to have other priorities?
Hadvar let go of her and stood with his hands on his hips, watching his father as Alvor took the sword over to a strange peddled contraption with a spinning circle of stone at one end, and began to grind the sword's edge against it. "Do not worry about Faendal. I've seen soldiers grieving their lost companions, and it does not last forever."
"Don't speak like that, my boy," Alvor spoke, sitting at the contraption, placing his boots on the pedals, and setting the circular stone spinning against the sword. It made an awful grinding sound, and she realised he was sharpening the blade. "You speak of soldiers and death, I might not let you go again." Despite his words, his tone was friendly.
"Ah, do not worry, father. You know I am careful with my battles."
With the gold from Lucian, she commissioned Hadvar to craft a new knife for Hod. After the conversation died away, and Hadvar took up a hammer to assist his father, she left them to it and snuck back into Hod and Gerdur's house. The campfire was smouldering and the house was empty, so she guessed they must have both been working at the mill. She found an old, white feather quill and a pot of ink in a cupboard draw, and scrawled her gratitude onto creased roll of parchment. She counted out what she thought was enough gold pieces to replace the clothes they had given her, and left them on the table next to the fireplace.
As the afternoon crept around, heralded by a brilliant blue sky, cushioned with fluffy clumps of cloud, she packed up her meagre belongings – the pouch with the Dragonstone and her potion, and her gold – and stepped out onto the road beyond the village's north gate. Hadvar was already waiting for her – his sharpened sword in its scabbard at his hip, and a bulging leather knapsack at his back. She looked back at the only familiar place she had – at its ivy-covered stone walls and welcoming chimneys; its picturesque, innocent beauty captured in peaceful mountain and river valley, and she sighed. She hoped, as Hadvar had suggested, that Faendal could forgive her in time.
--
The roof of the tent was a comforting sight for Isaac. No more midday blue sky naked wake ups, he hoped. Phew.
The snores of the miners had only mildly disturbed Isaac's restless head, and he'd lay still on his back and contemplated the facts before, and around, him. Fact: he had no idea where he was. Fact: there was a city called Windhelm that might offer him some answers. Fact: if there was some sort of magic or power to this place – which there very much seemed to be – Willow would be at its source. Or, at least, she'd find her way there.
Isaac pictured the girl's face in his mind – her tired eyes, greasy black hair, small frame ... He knew she wasn't weak, but who knew what state she was in? This place seemed wild and weird, and while he didn't doubt her ability to adapt to weird, wild demanded something else. Something primal. Something he understood.
He'd better get to her before something else – the brisk weather, or these so called 'bandits' – did.
He had some hazy memories about a sunny, coastal city that didn't explain how he'd ended up where he was or how he'd lost his clothes. It was almost like there was a barrier around his brain, stopping his thoughts like ... like arrows in glue, he supposed, though arrows seemed like an unnatural conclusion, for some reason.
Somewhere behind his tent, in the gloom of the night, the waterfall crashed. Insects buzzed and a frog croaked. Isaac had closed his eyes focused on the gentle lapping of water against shore...
And then it had turned to morning, and he was looking up at where the leather skins of the tent met its wooden apex pole. Isaac looked down – still clothed – and sighed with relief.
The movement of the miners had awoken him, and he climbed out from under the skins, not wanting to appear lazy, or as though he intended to outstay his welcome. He was brought bread and some steaks of a chewy white meat. He walked down to the lake's edge, only ten or so metres away from the tents, to splash his face with cold, fresh water. He dried his face on his tunic and looked up at the mountains beyond. What a glorious sight to wake up to.
Annekke didn't take long to find him. "It's only about a day's walk to Windhelm. I'll guide you across the springs, and then you just need to follow the road north. You'll know the city when you see it. Huge, stone, and ugly. Make sure you get some warm clothes from the market. Do you have any money?"
Annekke shouldered a long, wooden bow and a leather quiver holding a few arrows.
"You expecting there to be trouble?"
Annekke looked at Isaac, puzzled, then followed his gaze over her shoulder. "Oh, no. But you can never be too careful. Skyrim's changed. You'll be alright when you get to the road, as long as you watch out for strangers. Don't get too close, and avoid any animals – I see you've been hiding that little knife, but don't expect it to do much against a wolf – they get big in these parts."
Isaac waved goodbye to little Hrefna, and the pair set off, passing through the thicket and out onto the rough ground of the springs. Annekke was clearly eager to be moving again, and it was not long before that single, standout mountain rose up to their left, in the middle of the basin.
Annekke stopped every so often and whipped her head this way and that – a motion that Isaac's dismembered mind dredged up as a scouting or hunting technique. He watched as she listened for animal sounds, carried on the wind. If she could hear any, her hearing was much better than his.
"Is this your carriage?"
"Yeah. That'd be the one."
Annekke's route had taken them pretty much exactly back the way Isaac had come, and after rounding a particularly steep mound of earth, they had stumbled across the carriage.
"Hm. Poor Khajit," Annekke pointed the tip of her bow towards the nearly naked, dead cat-person. "It's a rare sight to see one with a carriage. I suppose if you are both from the heartland it would make more sense. What was his name?"
"Sorry?"
"His name? Your friend?" She motioned to the Khajit.
"Oh ... he wasn't really a friend. He was called ... Wallace."
Annekke blinked at him and looked between the cat and Isaac. "Wallace? Another strange name. You are a strange man, Isaac."
Isaac smiled and shrugged. He pensively followed her as she circled the wreck and prodded the burnt ground with her bow. "There must have been a lot of fire. Was it bandits that attacked you?"
"Er, yes. Bandits. There were a few of them. Magic bandits. Old Wallace here didn't stand much of a chance."
"Skyrim is getting worse by the day." He watched as she closed her eyes in what could have been a silent prayer. "Come on," she looked back towards him. "Nothing left here. Let us get to the road."
"You're the boss."
It took them perhaps ten minutes to arrive at a winding, cobbled road. The sun had moved high above them in the time it had taken to cross the wasteland, and before them stood yet more mountains. On the other side of the road, lush trees and grass – so much more alive than the ground they had just covered - disappeared up into a steep slope. Annekke pointed left along the road. North. Far, far off, he could see more snow-capped mountain peaks above the crest of where the path seemed to enter a dip. And even further still, he caught sight of that blue ocean, once more.
"That is the road to Windhelm. If you keep pace, you should arrive there before sundown. When you hit the snow, keep going."
"Snow?"
"Aye. It's a cold city, Windhelm. Cross the bridge, enter the gates, and if you're especially cold, find the inn."
"Thank you, Annekke, for sharing this knowledge with me." Isaac bowed his head. "I'll deliver Sondras' order to ..."
"The White Phial."
"Yes, The White Phial. And if I don't see you again after that..." Isaac smiled in a way that he thought was polite but not too joyful – he didn't want the woman to think he was happy to be relieved of her company, just in case he had to go back.
"One more thing, heartlander." Annekke placed a hand on her hip and looked at him down her nose.
"Umm, okay." Isaac said, an itch of worry twisting at the corner of his mouth.
"I know you're not who you say you are." She paused and stared him down.
"Annekke! What makes you say that?" He didn't let his smile falter. Technically, he hadn't really said anything about himself.
"I've been around long enough to know when someone is hiding something." She put a defensive hand up. "I don't expect you to tell me, don't worry – you don't seem the bad type - trust that I have dealt with plenty of them."
"Okay."
"Just ... be careful in the city. Those guards catch a whiff of something off ... well, you ain't a Nord." She patted him on the shoulder. "Farewell. And apologies again about my husband." Annekke flashed him a smile and walked back the way they had come, off the path and across the beaten, dry earth. He watched her until she disappeared around a rocky bluff.
Isaac sighed and flexed his hands anxiously. He finally permitted that thought he'd been pinning back: Annekke sure was pretty. Maybe he should have just stayed and become a miner.
--
Whiterun rustled and bustled exactly as she had seen so the first time. The sound of a hammer on metal reached her ears as a yellow-sashed guard welcomed her through the gate. Water trickled under and next to the pathways. A man tended to some wild-looking flowers around the side of a house, and a tall woman chopped firewood behind another.
Hadvar had left her before the road up to the gate, instead taking the western road along the plains. "Hopefully, I'll see you in Solitude, one day." He smiled at her and patted her shoulder.
"Before you go," she reached out and grabbed his leather forearm bracer. "That thing you said to me, in... in the barrow. You called me-"
"...Dragonborn."
"Yes. What does it mean?"
Hadvar took a deep breath and drew himself up. "When you meet the Jarl, ask him." She noticed what could have been a hint of pride in his voice.
"...Okay."
And Hadvar had turned away from her, beginning his journey westward.
She rounded the well in the small market square and cast her eyes across boxes of bright red tomatoes and large cabbages. The old lady who she'd seen being harassed the last time she had passed through was holding a dainty silver pendant up for a younger woman who wore a patchwork, floor-length dress. From the wooden frame of the next stall along hung red, raw steaks of meat. A man who looked to be an elf, dressed in a black apron sharpened a knife and dipped his head to her as she passed.
Her luggage felt especially heavy as she hiked up the steps to the palace for the second time. When she reached the top, she once again turned and looked out across the city and the plains beyond. Her vision lingered on the spinal structure of Bleak Falls Barrow. Everywhere she went, that place seemed to follow.
The sombre quiet of Dragonsreach's hall aligned more closely with her own energy than the noise of the market. At the top of the wide staircase, the long firepit burned healthily, topped up with dry logs. The long tables that flanked it were set but empty. On the dais at the far end of the room, the Jarl's throne sat empty, and neither of his attendants were present.
Was this the wrong time to show up? Would she get in trouble if she was found here without a guide?
She took a deep breath and unclenched her jaw. She'd already been through so much just to get here, this had to resolve sooner rather than later. She was sure if she explained the urgency of her purpose there, someone would understand.
She made her way to the chamber on the right wall of the hall, where the Jarl had taken her to meet Farengar, last time. Where she'd picked up this dreadful request. Would the wizard care for the loss of life this little mission had led to? Or was this just part of the day-to-day for these people?
As she rounded the corner to Farengar's chamber, she heard low voices. On the other side of a row of workstations, and a large central support pillar that held the high ceiling up, she could make out two figures leant against a wooden table, their heads down in intense discussion. She immediately recognised the figure in blue robes as Farengar – even with his hood pulled over his head. The other figure also wore a hood, but their outfit did not look like that of an ornate, Jarl's wizard. Instead, it looked more like leather armour. Fur sprouted from brown leather shoulder pads, short sleeves and arm guards. Where the armour relented, she could see tanned skin. The armour was not dissimilar to that of the bandits they had encountered at the barrow.
Her heart went to her mouth. Was this another adventurer, seeking fame from the Jarl's court? Was Farengar giving them the same mission? How many times had the mission been given? Was she not the first? Well, she'd be the last.
"The terminology is clearly First Era, or even earlier..." Farengar was speaking. She leaned her head further around the doorway to see past the pillar. On the table was what appeared to be a book. "...perhaps dating to just after the Dragon War."
"Good." It was a woman's voice that replied, authoritative and thoughtful. Under her hood, she was impossible to identify. "I'm glad you're making progress, my employers..." There was something about it that bothered her. Something familiar, perhaps.
When she realised the conversation had gone silent, it was already too late. The hooded woman had turned her head towards the doorway. Her eyes were obscured, but there was no mistaking where she was looking – directly at the pair's uninvited guest.
She froze like a rabbit, waiting for the first shout or sign of explosive violence. But it didn't come. The woman didn't even seem to tense up. Instead, she spoke again: "You have a visitor."
Farengar looked up towards her, and she awkwardly stepped out from behind the wall, caught red handed. She offered a little wave to go with her guilty smile. "Hello. I'm back. It's me." Not exactly the grand return she had been anticipating.
"Ah! Yes, the Jarl's protégé!" Farengar's tone went from focused to excited. "Back from Bleak Fall's Barrow? You didn't die, it seems."
She gulped, and her heart rose to her throat, again. "What did you say?"
"Seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way!" There was a smile in his voice as he passed over the comment.
She had to take a moment to compose herself, drawing a deep breath in an attempt to slow her anger. Anger?Since when had she felt anger? That felt strange.
"Do you have the Dragonstone?"
"I- I do." She unclasped the cover of her pouch and felt for the heavy stone tablet. As she brought it out into the light, her fingers traced the memories of violence. She felt the pair's attention on her as she presented the object, placing it carefully on the table next to the book. Farengar swept the book away and, with a reverential touch, slowly pulled the tablet into the centre, before him and the anonymous lady. They exchanged looks.
"So, umm ... not to be rude but ... what next?"
"That," Farengar said, punctuating the air with a finger, "Is where your job ends and mine begins. You'll have to see the Jarl about your reward. Maybe his steward, Avenicci." He didn't look up from the tablet as he spoke. "I'm sure one of them will pay you appropriately."
"...Right. Thanks."
The woman was still looking in her direction. Her gaze felt like needles.
"Well. You see," She said. "I was really hoping that, maybe, there was something for me to do. Something that comes next? I was hoping this would provide some answers to some questions I have..."
"You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that?" The question was spoken softly but it hit her like a hammer. It knocked her off her tangent and sent her staggering into silence.
"Umm. Yes," she said.
The woman considered her from under that hood. 'Nice work," was all she said.
The three stood in silence for a moment, and Farengar finally looked up from his new toy, clocking on to the tension. He cleared his throat, and said: "So your information was correct, after all." He spoke to the woman first, and then to her: "My ... associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. In fact, she discovered its location by means she has so far declined to share with me-"
Before he could pitch the full question, the sound of heavy boots on wooden floor approached at a run. The three of them looked between them, and then turned to the door. This couldn't be good.
"Farengar! You need to come at once!" Irileth, the dark skinned elf with the deep red eyes, appeared around the doorway, breathless. "A dragon's been sighted nearby."
A dragon? Her insides roiled. Oh no, she was too late. Whiterun with its thatched rooves and wooden frames and pretty flowers didn't stand a chance. Images tumbled through her mind's eye: the market stalls, Belethor's shop, the giant dead tree. It was going to be Helgen all over again.
"A dragon? How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?" Farengar was talking.
"I'd take this a bit more seriously if I was you," Irileth said. "If it decides to attack Whiterun, I don't know if we can stop it." Irileth turned and looked at her. "You should come too."
"M- Me?"
But Irileth was already marching out of the chamber, with Farengar in tow.
She and Farengar followed Irileth up a flight of stone stairs which led to a space above and behind the throne in the main hall. The room was large and open, flanked by a huge set of wooden doors. Against one wall stood mounts for maps, each detailing what looked to be a different area, perhaps of Skyrim, or the land around the city. The floor and walls were stone, here, and beneath a large iron chandelier stood a big square table. Leaning over yet another, larger map, was the Jarl himself. As the three appeared, he turned a grim expression towards them.
"My Jarl," said Irileth. "I have brought you Farengar, and the stranger we sent to retrieve the Dragonstone."
Jarl Balgruuf stood up straight. At his full height he was tall – no doubt right to be the leader of a culture of warrior Nords. From under his exquisite tunic, patterned with sewing of deep blues and reds and oranges, his bare arms bulged in clenched muscle. His sword was sheathed at his side.
"I see. I trust she succeeded?"
"She did indeed, my Jarl," Farengar said.
"I see. Well, there's no time to stand on ceremony, my friend. I need your help again."
She could hear her pulse in her ears. "My help? I- I apologise but-"
"You survived Helgen-"
"B- By the skin of my teeth!"
"Quiet!" Irileth said. "You will not interrupt the Jarl when he is speaking."
"I- I'm sorry, I-" She bowed her head.
"You have more experience with the dragon than anyone else here." The Jarl spoke softly, reassuringly. "I want you to go with Irileth and ... advise her on how to deal with the situation."
Advise her on what? How to run away? How to cower in fear as a monster the size of a mountain burns and crushes everything in its path?
"On your return, you will be rewarded. By my oath as Jarl."
The floor offered her no alternatives, despite how hard she stared at it.
"I should come along, I should very much like to see this dragon."
"No, Farengar. I can't afford to risk both of you. I need you here working on ways to defend the city."
This was it, right? This was death. Death in fire and agony. They were walking straight into it.
"Let's go," Irlileth said, and strode past her.
She should have said something. She should have shouted at them – warned them of the danger, and of the horrors. She should have warned them of how skin and bone turn to ash under that much heat, and how arrows and swords simply bounce off scales as though they were attacks launched against a stone wall.
But something in her mind – something buried deep – stopped her, as it writhed and coiled around her conscience.
Those red eyes came back to her.
--
It was as though the world was moving in slow motion around her, until she blinked, and then she seemed to have lost entire minutes.
She took her first numb steps down the hall of the palace as it stretched out before her as though a never-ending stage of wood and carpet and crackling fire and then they were outside, and the bitter breeze grasped her by the neck and commanded her to choke.
Irileth strode ahead and she kept pace by some miracle while her mind went into defence mode.
She blinked and felt the singeing of hairs on her forearm and smelt sulphur as wooden beams cracked and splintered, and then they were at the city gate. Two rows of yellow adorned men stood in varying states of readiness. Some wore capes and closed-face helmets, their identities hidden from her, and looked as though they had been pulled straight from a patrol. Others were still strapping weapons to their backs and sides – large swords and bows with accompanying quivers.
Irileth briefed them and certain words reached her, but mostly she found it difficult to raise her gaze from the cobbled stone ground.
"A dragon? What? Here?" One man said.
"We can't fight a dragon! We're going to die!" Another said.
"Quiet," said Irileth. "We cannot simply do nothing."
She wasn't ready to fight the dragon.
If everything went to plan, she wouldn't have to. She was there purely as an advisor for Irileth and the men. Though, as she fell into step with the two columns of maybe ten or twelve fighters – having seen what the horrifying beast had done to an entire fortified town – she wasn't so confident there was much of a plan at all.
Go to the tower, find the dragon, figure out how to kill it.
Every joint in her body cringed; every step they took further from the city's walls and towards the distant stone tower, across the open plains, her teeth ground harder, and her fists closed tighter.
Another little voice spoke in the back of her mind – wasn't this the way Hadvar had headed?
They could already see the plumes of smoke rising from around the tower. As they got closer, the damage became more apparent. A large hole had been blasted or torn from the stonework about halfway up the cylindrical building. Rubble and boulders the size of houses lay strewn about the place as though tossed aside by a giant feral baby. The smoke originated from smouldering piles of what could have once been stacks of supply crates and barrels, or support structures.
A quiet fell over the group.
"It sure looks like he's been here," Irileth said, and slowed to a stop to survey the destruction. They were stood maybe one hundred metres from the tower. Apart from the fluttering of a torn, yellow banner, nothing moved. The only sounds were the wind against her ears and the heavy breathing of the troops. "Okay. Spread out and search for survivors. You," Irileth pointed to her. "Stay close to me."
Irileth was the first to move, which motived the men to start towards the tower. As Irileth and couple of the soldiers drew closer to the rubble, she bit down on her teeth so hard she thought they might shatter.
There were at least two dead bodies in the rubble – one higher up on what could have been a wall, which looked as though it had been impacted by a mountain; another splayed out in a shallow crater of burnt grass and mud. Both had limbs twisted to impossible positions, their bodies broken and torched. Irileth's deep red eyes darted this way and that, cold and calculating.
With Whiterun's plains of rough grass and red heather spreading out for miles in every direction, the watchtower presented the only cover. From a giant flying beast, there would be no escape. Not then.
Perhaps it had not been too late to turn back. Perhaps she could still have warned them.
A steep, crumbling ramp that could have previously been a chiselled staircase led up to an opening in the tower – an archway. Irileth started up to it, and she followed as instructed, every sense screaming for the safety of overhead cover.
She had to take the ramp slow, taking care not to slip and tumble back down. Irlileth stormed ahead, her hand on the hilt of a fancy looking sword hilt.
Before she reached the archway, she stopped and cocked her head to one side.
"I can hear you in there. Come out at once."
After a moment, a face appeared in the archway – a man, his eyes wide, his face shimmering in sweat.
"No," he said, his voice quivering. "Get back! It's still around somewhere!"
"Guard," Irileth said. "Tell me about this dragon."
As she stepped up behind Irileth, she saw the man and his yellow robes. She stopped and turned, scanning the plains behind and around them. Nothing yet.
"Hroki and Tor got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it! You have to leave while you still can!"
"Calm yourself," Irileth said, but she glanced around nervously, too.
She wasn't quite sure what, but something in the air changed. As though the taste of metal before a lighting storm, or the gentle dimming of the sky before rain. Nothing so tangible, but it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and goosebumps grow down her arms.
She blinked and saw it in her mind – a winged beast the size of a building screeching down from the heavens – prey and glory on its mind.
Irileth sensed it too and whipped her sword from its scabbard.
And then the sky split with a roar and a shadow fell across the tower.
"Inside! Now!" Irileth grabbed her and, with surprising strength, threw her into the tower's archway as the dragon crashed into the ground behind them and sent a shockwave through the floor that knocked all three of them sprawling. Wind and dust exploded through the archway behind them, and she grazed her hands against the cold stone floor of the tower's interior.
The sounds of metal leaving sheathes and battle cries filled the air, and the dragon laughed.
She dragged herself to her feet and turned just in time to see Irileth sprint out of the archway and leap down the ramp towards a hulking figure of brown scales that looked as though the floor itself was alive and moving.
The realisation hit her like a second shockwave – this was not the dragon that had destroyed Helgen; the dragon that had looked at her dead with those all-seeing red eyes and scales as black as the darkest, most evil night. This dragon was brown in colour and, despite its terrific size, seemed to perhaps be smaller. Its wings were less pointed. The scales that ran down its back were less jagged. And, in a way she could not explain, it felt different.
Which meant there was more than one dragon.
And it was then that she became fully aware of the futility of her role in this spectacle – what advice could she realistically offer to combat the thing. Don't stand in front of it? Don't stand below it? She watched as the creature, then surrounded by yellow robed figures and glinting steel, reared up and thrust out a gargantuan wing, sending dust and soldiers scattering across the dirt to its side. No shield could defend against that. No sword could intimidate that.
But Irileth wasn't about to give up. As she leapt from the ramp, she brought her sword above her head in a two-handed grip and slashed it downwards against the dragon's tail, unleashing all the strength she could muster with a war cry.
The blade connected with scales like slabs of stone and bounced off harmlessly. Becoming aware of its attacker in the rear, the dragon swept its tail like a whip the width of a tree trunk and knocked Irileth off her feet, sending her sprawling out of sight with a sharp: "Oof!"
And then it reared up again, and she ducked her head back around the archway as the beast unleashed a torrent of fire in an arc in front of it. Many of the soldiers were immediately enveloped, and above the terrible screeching roar of the beast, she could hear their screams.
When the noise and the heat stopped, the dragon laughed a cliff-grinding laugh. It spread its wings and launched into the sky, followed by a cloud of dry, burnt dust. Where it had previously been, where the brunt of its fire blast had hit, several of the guards lay still, smouldering in their armour.
Her ears popped and an arc of sharp, blue light crackled through the air, catching the giant creature's tail as it waited for the wind to catch those impossibly heavy wings. As Irileth's lightning spell hit, it fizzled against the scale and seemed to spread further up the appendage. But if it hurt the dragon, the thing didn't react.
As it left her view and swooped up and around the tower, she ran to peer through a small, carved arrow slit in the tower's interior wall. Apart from a torn rug and an empty round table to one side, the tower's first floor was empty. She pressed her face to the hole but was too slow, only spotting whipped up dust as the dragon moved with speed.
There was no arrow slit facing the other way. Instead, a stone staircase spiralled upwards, following the wall and disappearing up to the next floor. She crossed the room and clambered onto the sharp stone steps, just as the dragon roared from somewhere in the opposite direction – and she almost slipped and fell back down the stairs.
The second floor was cluttered with more crates and barrels, tables and chairs, a rack of rusty looking weapons and some guard uniforms. The furniture had been thrown to one side of the circular chamber and stone rubble covered the floor – this was where the floor to ceiling hole had been seemingly bashed inwards. Fingers of sunlight streamed into the tower, accompanied by the whipping wind. Below, she could see the dry plains extending away from the tower, the cobbled road they had taken to get there, and further off, the city of Whiterun itself. All that wood and thatch was barely a mile away from the scene.
Another roar like a granite thunder crack shook the tower and the dragon, now at her altitude, shot past.
And then it spoke. At first, she didn't understand what happened – she felt it in her chest; in her gut. It wrought her intestines into knots and threatened to evacuate her bowels: "Brit grah!"
She felt the words enter her and resonate with a part of herself she didn't know existed. Her ears heard the scrape of the syllables as they left an ancient reptilian throat, but it was her soul that connected with the true meaning of the abrupt, brutal phrase.
The dragon said: "Beautiful battle," to no one, but she heard.
The sound of clanking chainmail and breathless voices shook her from a trance she hadn't realised she'd entered. Some of the soldiers must have retreated into the tower.
"Hey, what are you doing up there? It's not safe!" She turned back to the staircase to see a metal helmet looking up at her – six dark eyeholes betraying nothing about the man behind them; it was the shake of sheer terror in his voice that let him down.
"I- I just needed to get a better look. I'm sorry, I'm coming down."
She heard a whizz. And then another one. She realised the guards below must have been firing arrows up at the dragon. What little good they must have done.
Her ribcage rattled as the dragon spoke in tongues again: "You are brave, worthy enemies. Your defeat brings me honour."
They were all going to die.
"With me, girl. Come on!" The guard yelled at her, and she scurried towards the stairs.
But they were too late. Something massive crashed into the side of the tower with an ear-splitting crunch, and the force of the impact sent her stumbling to her knees. She whipped around to look in the direction of the noise, and froze.
A jagged skull, riveted in oil-slick bronze-brown scales, easily larger than her entire body, levelled at her. At the end of a long, pointed snout, two black slits widened and narrowed, pulling in the atmosphere around her before exhaling a gale, blowing her lank hair back across her face and throwing up dust and debris around her. She raised a hand to shield her eyes, but could not tear her gaze away from the shiny, black orb, deep as the void of the night sky, that studied her from the open cavity in the tower wall.
The entire stone structure groaned and shook as the beast clung onto the tower from the outside and looked through at her.
There was a moment of still, before the dragon spoke again: "You..." It said, in its own, alien language. And yet she understood. "I knew I smelled something ... something different. Something strange."
The entire room vibrated with the dragon's speech. Debris fell from the ceiling. It was going to destroy the tower.
"You do not smell like these men – these mortals. No..." The dragon growled – a deep, guttural sound that rose from its chest and culminated in a dry throat. "There is something different about you. Something ... disgusting."
She heard a voice from below – perhaps Irileth – shout a question. Someone responded, confused. Terrified.
That black bead blinked.
She reached out a hand. Whether it was intended to be a show of peace, or a threat – she didn't know. Deep within her, something burned. It wasn't the fear-gurgling of her insides or the pump of a heart not ready for death; it was something deeper. Her soul reached out to her and offered up a memory – a word she had learned from an ancient lizard coiled around a decaying tree. More than a word.
But before she could reach out and grasp the energy within her, a shadow shot up the stairs like a bolt of lighting, and with a flash, Irileth plunged her sword into the staring black eye.
The dragon screamed. Red blood erupted from the wound and sprayed the walls of the tower and its floor. The dragon's head catapulted upwards and collided with the ceiling, before slamming down into the floor, sending a spiderweb of cracks across the stone surface. It thrashed its head side to side as though trying to shake off the blade lodged in its eye, and it opened its great maw, baring a set of teeth the length of her arm.
Irileth grabbed her and dragged her across the floor as it began to break. They made for the stairs as the structure of the tower grated and crumpled in on itself, and she dipped her head into the stairwell as the room behind them filled with fire and the collapsing ceiling.
Irileth dragged her down the stairs, shouting to a number of guards who had taken shelter in the tower in various states of injury to move as the whole building shook and came apart.
They pushed their way out of the archway and into the daylight. She slipped on the damaged and now fire scorched ramp and went over on her ankle, feeling a stab of pain erupt up her leg. Her cry was lost amongst the inferno of titanic screaming and roaring and the crashing of stone against stone.
When her boots finally hit grass, she came down hard on her ankle and stumbled, falling to her knees. She pushed herself up and looked around at the scene behind them.
The tower had indeed collapsed, dropping heavy stone slabs onto the dragon, which fought to pull its head from the rubble like a leech pulled from a thigh. Huge claws grasped scrabbled and scrapped, trying for purchase against the crumbling stone in an effort to free itself. Its tail whipped this way and that, slicing the air behind it with a speed that would have crushed the bones of any soldier unfortunate enough to have been stood behind it.
Something in the tower gave way, and with an almighty crack, the building finally imploded, crushing the monster's skull under the rubble.
The dragon's thrashing ceased.
The whole plains valley seemed to hold its breath as the echoes of the fight died on the walls of the surrounding mountains.
No one dared to move.
She hugged her trembling arms to her body as the last few pebbles trickled down from the pile of rubble.
Ten seconds past. Then a minute. Then two.
"I- Is it dead?" One of the guards asked.
No one answered for another good minute.
She heard another of the guards gulp.
Irileth let out a deep sigh. "Let us find out." Irileth straightened up and walked past her, towards the scene of destruction. All around them, the rough plains grass was scorched black. Heat still shimmered off of the four or five dead guards that had been caught in the first fire blast.
Irileth stopped and turned back to them, a frown creasing her sharp features. "What's the matter? I said let's find out."
The guards looked nervously between each other, before gradually straightening up, also, and branching their mixture of swords and shields before them.
She followed.
They stepped across the patch of burnt earth and towards the foot of the collapsed tower. The dragon didn't move.
But something did change. Not for the first time, she felt a shift in the air – not in the breeze so much, but in the atmosphere. Her mind almost seemed to wake up, her ears pricking up like a dog hearing a high-pitched whine.
Then, the dragon moved.
"Get back! Everyone back!" The guards panicked and rushed around her, and a hand reached out to grasp her shoulder ... but she shook it off.
The dragon wasn't moving, she realised. Instead, it was as though an optical illusion was causing the bronze-brown scales to shimmer and shift in the sunlight.
A single scale detached itself from the creature's tough hide, but instead of tumbling down to the floor like the heavy armour should have, it flitted upwards, like a leave caught in the wind. Then another scale followed, and another, until the very skin of the creature seemed to be falling away from it. The leaf-scales disintegrated into ashes above them, and she began to see the ivory white of bones underneath the carapace.
Something howled. Or at least that was what it felt like. Perhaps she didn't really hear it. Perhaps it was that sixth sense she'd seemed to have developed that called out and warped the sensation into something intangible and overwhelming. Her vision tunnelled and something – a tornado of golden energy – dragged itself from the dragon's decaying corpse. The energy vortex hit her square in the chest and it filled her body with an awesome sensation that set her nerves on fire from head to toe.
Mirmulnir.
The word wasn't spoken to her – she was not even sure it was truly a word – but that was what the energy sounded like. And she understood it to be the name of the dead dragon.
In her mind, the sleeping dragon coiled around the rotting willow tree shuddered once.