Chapter 3 - Dragon?!
“Malacath's beard!” gasped Kraltorrik, looking up above the chopping block at the top of the tower to his left.
Even a foreigner like Kraltorrik could recognize the scaly spines, the reptilian claws, and deathlike wings that blotted out the sun.
A dragon.
Kraltorrik was no coward, yet his blood ran cold underneath his dark green skin as the midnight black dragon breathed fire down upon Helgen and called down a shower of meteors. Chunks of fiery rocks rained down upon the terrified soldiers, crushing several. Hardly 3 meters to Kraltorrik's right, a Stormcloak soldier shrieked as his leg was crushed by a rock the size of a saber cat cub, then was silenced abruptly as he disappeared in a column of flame.
Throwing himself from his knees, Kraltorrik stumbled to his feet. The executioner had disappeared in the commotion, and Kraltorrik found himself in the middle of a courtyard, hands tied, with an angry legend from the past rampaging all around him.
“Quick!” shouted a voice next to the stunned orc. It was Ralof, the Nord prisoner who had talked to him in the wagon. Kraltorrik shook the confusion from his head and dashed awkwardly after the Nord, his hands still tied.
They threw themselves into a nearby tower and slammed the door shut. Kraltorrik looked around and recognized Ulfric Stormcloak and several other prisoners. Ralof looked about, assessing wounds and the structural constitution of the tower.
“We need to get out of here,” said Ralof, craning his head up towards the top of the tower. No sooner had he said that then everyone in the tower was knocked to the ground as an explosion went off further up the stairs. The dragon's spiny head with red, hate-filled eyes entered the hole, breathing a stream of fire over the heads of everyone on the staircase that sent them huddling on the stairs, hoping to escape with their lives. Once the dragon had finished its attack, it flew back outside the tower and continued to attack the village.
“We need to move NOW!” roared Kraltorrik once he had checked himself to make sure his body was still in one piece. The next few moments were a flurry as the burly orc flung himself from the hole in the side of the tower through the thatch roof of a nearby house. He landed in an attic of sorts and stumbled downstairs, clearing his eyes from the smoke of the burning house as he ran outside. The dragon was still roaring in the sky as Kraltorrik made his way to somewhere, anywhere but where he was now.
“Here, prisoner! Follow me if you want to live!” It was Hadvar, the Imperial officer who had nearly sent Kraltorrik to his death only moments before. However, Kraltorrik sensed that when a dragon was concerned, all of those petty disagreements didn't seem to matter. He did what any sensible orc would have done: he followed Hadvar towards the keep.
As Hadvar and Kraltorrik ducked and weaved their way through the village, dodging the dragon and his constant streams of fire, Kraltorrik kept noticing something strange. Whenever the dragon began an attack or using magic, it seemed to speak. Not any language that Kraltorrik had ever heard before in all his travels, but a language all the same. It reverberated within the orc's soul in a way that he had never been touched before. However, now was not the time to worry about that. He was far more concerned about keeping himself alive than the linguistic capabilities of a legend come to life. Kraltorrik shook himself and sprinted even faster after Hadvar, as they made it to the keep on the other side of the village.
As the two dashed into the courtyard of the keep, they caught sight of a familiar Nord: Ralof.
“Ralof, you damned traitor!” cursed Hadvar, putting his hand on his sword.
“We're escaping, Hadvar, and you can't stop us. Not this time.” said Ralof. His jaw was set as he gazed at Hadvar. Clearly the Nord was not deterred by the fact that he had no weapon yet.
Kraltorrik cleared his throat and interrupted the whole encounter before things got unnecessarily bloody. “Out of my way Nords, your petty civil war has nothing to do with me. I, for one, would like to live to tell future generations of this day.”
Hadvar seemed to relax when he heard Kraltorrik, and let go of his sword hilt. “Fine, but you won't make it far without someone who knows the escape route. I'll show you the way. Come on!”
Ralof relaxed, and flashed a smile at Kraltorrik. “Aye, I'll be off as well. If you ever get tired of those Imperial dogs, come and join us at Windhelm. The Stormcloaks could use a level headed orc like you, even if you aren't a Nord.”
Kraltorrik nodded and took off after Hadvar, entering the keep, breathing a sigh of relief as Hadvar slammed the door shut and dropped the bar down behind it.
Hadvar listened for a moment, then after verifying that the dragon was yet a good distance away, turned his attention to Kraltorrik. “Thank you, orc. I couldn't have made it without you.”
Kraltorrik grunted in response. “Let's just get out of here as soon as we can. I need a sword.”
Grinning slightly, Hadvar motioned to Kraltorrik's still-tied hands. “We're going to have to take care of that first. Come here.”
His bonds cut, Kraltorrik rummaged around the chests in the keep, and found a serviceable sword, as well as some leather armor that fit his burly figure, if a little snugly, and then followed Hadvar into the interior of the keep.
There better be a way out of here, thought the orc to himself. I'll cut my way through that dragon myself if I have to.
