Chapter 2
‘I said I was sorry.’
‘You’d better damn well be.’
‘Well, I am!’
Valesse’s breath huffed out from under her hood in a burst of white vapour. ‘At least Tharstan, amiable old man that he is, forgave us for breaking the figurine.’ She said, smiling at the thought of the historian’s childlike joy when he received the figurine.
‘My dear, my dear, this is an incredible find! Proof that the Akaviri could very well have had a presence in Tamriel long before the Invasion of High Rock. I could write volumes on this, volumes! A pity it’s broken, though. Maybe a good potter…’
‘But you, Arn,’ Valesse snarled as she turned towards Arngrimur. ‘If I see you touch another bottle in the next month-'
She gave a visible start as the baby kicked. The couple had journeyed from Skyrim to Solstheim and back to deliver the figurine. With the bad weather, the delays in the Northern Maiden’s departure, the choppy waters of the Sea of Ghosts and the distance between the island and the mainland, it had taken them almost three months. Valesse’s belly had grown out and would almost certainly have torn her robes, had she not gotten to work with a pair of shears and some sewing thread.
‘He’s an active one,’ Arn chuckled. ‘Just like his old man. I can tell.’ He bent down and put his ear to her abdomen, listening intently.
‘Don’t try to squirrel out of this,’ Valesse said, though her voice was already beginning to soften. She put a hand behind his hair and pressed him gently against her stomach. ‘I’m not done yelling at you yet.’
Gjalund poked his head into the passengers’ quarters. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he called. ‘But we’ve docked at Windhelm.’
‘Ah,’ Arngrimur said, straightening. ‘We’ll be off then. Thanks for the ride home, Gjalund. You’re a fine captain.’
‘Let me help with your bags, ma’am.’ Gjalund said, reaching out to Valesse as Arn took her arm and helped her down the ramp.
‘Many thanks, captain,’ Valesse said, kissing him on the brow. ‘You’ve been wonderful.’
Gjalund’s face went slightly pink as he bent and placed Valesse’s pack on the ground next to Arn’s. Then he waved them farewell as he boarded the Northern Maiden once more, loading it with provisions and preparing for the journey back to Solstheim.
The walk to Windhelm’s gates was slow, with Valesse stopping to rest every few steps, Arn at her side, supporting her as best he could.
‘You know, speaking of the baby,’ he said suddenly. ‘Have you thought of names yet?’
‘Me? You don’t intend to have a say in the naming of your child?’
Arn laughed. ‘You’ve always been the clever one. I’m sure you can think of much better names than me. At least names that’ll mean something.’
Valesse thought of it a while. ‘I believe I have, yes.’
There was silence for a while.
‘I don’t intend to tell you yet, however.’ Valesse said playfully. ‘You’ll just have to wait until he takes his first breath.’
‘I hate waiting.’ Arn said sullenly.
‘Call it punishment for breaking the figurine.’
‘Argh.’
They arrived outside the city gates, only then noticing that something was amiss.
‘Arn…’ Valesse said quietly, her fingers twitching, preparing to cast spells.
‘I know,’ Arn said, his voice low, hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Where are the guards?’
The couple paused for a while, eyes scanning the area while listening for signs of trouble. Nothing.
‘We could leave if we – ‘
‘Absolutely not,’ Arn said. ‘We need supplies and provisions. I need a new shield and you’re in no fit shape to make a trip to the other holds from here without a steady supply of food, be it on foot or in a carriage.’
Valesse frowned and thought for a moment. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But we must proceed with caution.’
Arn nodded, and set his hand on the bronzed metal of the gates. It gave, just a little.
‘Not locked, then,’ he said, and grunted as he placed all his weight on one gate and pushed. It swung open with a creak.
There are a few landmarks by which one can recognise Windhelm. The inn Candlehearth Hall, for example. The blacksmith’s quarters and the large marketplace just behind it, for others. Then, of course, there was the signpost that read WINDHELM, a foolproof signature of the city.
What was not part of the everyday picture, however, was the corpse wrapped in Thalmor robes, swinging by his neck from the signpost. The Altmer's bowels had loosened as he died, and a foul stench wafted from the brown filth running down his legs.
Arn’s eyes widened, and he looked around, noticing the hastily erected wooden structures dotted around the city. Gallows. Limp figures hung from them like dried fruit. A lynch mob. His blood ran cold.
Valesse was staring at the body they’d just found, her face pale. Arn laid a hand gently on her shoulder.
‘Tanmereluar,’ she whispered. ‘To think he’d end up like this…’
‘Friend of yours?’ Arn asked quietly.
She laughed bitterly. ‘Not quite. He was my commanding officer before I deserted. I swear to Stendarr I’ve never known anyone quite as bigoted as he was. But still… it’s a jarring sight, nonetheless.’
Arn squeezed her shoulder. ‘If you need a moment – ‘
‘Thank you, Arn, but I’m fine now,’ Valesse said, pulling her hood over her black tresses and pointed ears. ‘I hope the inn is still open. They seem to have turned the markets into a makeshift court. We should get our supplies and leave, as soon as we can.’
Even from the outside, one could see that Candlehearth Hall was humming with activity. Light emanated from the windows, and Arn could hear the murmur of voices.
The pair each took a deep breath and went inside, Valesse stooping to make herself seem shorter. Someone had moved all the tables to the back, and men were milling about the chairs, clutching tankards and farming implements, talking loudly.
‘So I’m telling you,’ a brute of a Nord was saying, a bloodied butcher’s cleaver on his lap. ‘We should round up them guards we caught next and hang ‘em too. Damned Thalmor and their dogs. Are we supposed to piss all over Talos just because some fat milk-drinker says so?’ He roared, and everyone else in the inn erupted into shouts of rage.
‘I want to tickle them first,’ a thinner man next to him giggled. ‘The elves danced pretty, now I want to see how them Imperials do...’
Even under the hood Arn could see Valesse’s lips whiten.
‘Don’t worry, Skeeverface, you’ll get your sport,’ someone in the crowd laughed. ‘The Legion must have been exhausted from the war, we’ve got almost half of them alive.’
Any hopes that Arn had harboured of dealing with the innkeeper and slipping out unnoticed were dashed as the thickset Nord who was giving the speech turned and pointed at him.
‘So who’s this ‘un?’
Arn cursed inwardly, then lifted his head and said, ‘Just two travellers passing through. We were hoping to pick up some supplies from the innkeep. May we speak to her? We’ll be on our way in no time.’
‘Odd to meet a brother Nord who’s not the least bit excited about the cause. Imperial dogs and Thalmor bitches...’ The man peered at him, then waved at the frightened woman standing at the counter. ‘Place’s ours now. Elda’s not the innkeep no more. If you want supplies, you’ll deal with me.’
‘Fine then.’ Arn said grudgingly, reaching for his purse, eager to get it done. ‘I’ll need at least two full sacks of dried meats, a skin of water…’
‘Wait.’ A stout man holding a pitchfork stood suddenly. ‘I’ve seen this one before.’
Arn closed his eyes for a maddening heartbeat, then opened them again and faced him. ‘And where might that be, sir?’
The man squinted at him for a moment. Then he growled, ‘I knew it. You’re that Arngrimur fellow, served in the Legion. They raised you up real high, too. Legate, was it?’
‘Former Legate,’ Arn said. ‘I’m no longer on active duty.’ Thinking quickly, he added, ‘Deserted when I couldn’t stand having to suck another drop from dry elf teats.’ A few people in the crowd murmured in approval.
‘Funny you’re saying that,’ a voice called. ‘When we find you travelling with an elf yourself.’
Arn whirled. Skeeverface had snuck behind Valesse and taken her hood off. She must not have noticed until it was too late, stooping low as she was. The entire inn stared at her green, slanted eyes and tapered ears.
Every man in Candlehearth Hall began hissing, booing and shouting, throwing tankards and their contents at her.
‘That’s how it is, then, isn’t it? The chinless Emperor sending his loyal dog to show us all how we ought to behave and lap at the Thalmor’s boots?’ The speech-giver yelled, shaking his fist.
‘She tell you to sit and shake, boy?’ Skeeverface jeered. ‘Better yet, to bend over and pucker up?’
The stout man seemed the angriest out of the crowd. ‘And you call yourself a Nord? Why not just shave your ears to a point? It’d suit you better than your sorry excuse of a beard!’
He rushed forward, hefting his pitchfork. The mob cheered.
‘No!’ Valesse cried, and placed herself between Arn and the enraged peasant.
One sharp tip of the pitchfork drove into her shoulder. The momentum carried her backwards and pinned her to the wall.
Arngrimur snapped.
He howled like a feral sabrecat and charged, bare-handed, into the mob, the sword at his side forgotten. The whole of Whiterun shook under the force of his Voice, and most of the men in the mob let out shrieks of pain as blood spurted from their ears. He dug his fist into Skeeverface’s eye, then grabbed the speechmaker by his throat and flung him bodily into the crowd. He upended a table, sending utensils tinkling to the floor, then raised it over his head and smashed it into the nearest cluster of men. The stout peasant pulled the pitchfork from Valesse’s shoulder and she groaned as blood began to pour from the wound. Arn turned to stare at the man so quickly his neck cracked. He caught the pitchfork by the haft as the peasant swung, broke it in two on one knee, buried both prongs in his gut, picked up an actual fork and stabbed him in the side of the neck, then twisted the fork and pulled it out, doubling the size of the gash and showering both of them in blood.
This rather unorthodox display soon convinced the rest of the mob to quickly vacate the premises.
‘Arn,’ Valesse said hoarsely, ‘I’m sorry…’
‘Don’t try to talk. Bite down on this,’ he said, handing her a ragged cloth from the counter. ‘I’m going to wash your wound with mead.’
Valesse whimpered as the Arn rinsed her shoulder with the strong alcohol. ‘There. Your healing spells should go much simpler without worrying about infection.’
All was quiet for a brief minute, save for the yellow hum of Valesse’s Restoration magic.
‘I know what you’re going to say – ‘
‘That may be so, but I’m still going to – ‘
‘I would have done it anyway.’ Valesse said defiantly.
‘What about the baby?’ Arn asked, raising his voice.
‘I…’ Valesse looked down. For once she had no answer.
‘Damn it,’ Arn scowled for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I could never stay angry at you. But by Shor, I hope the child is alright.’
A tear rolled down Valesse’s cheek as she cradled her swollen belly. Then she felt a hearty kick.
She met Arn’s gaze, and they both began to laugh reluctantly.
The innkeep Elda was so terrified of the madman who took on thirty strong Nords all at once she just started nodding to everything he said.
‘As I said, two full sacks of assorted dried meats…’
She nodded, and scurried off into the storeroom.
‘…one skin of water…’
She nodded again, and scurried off into the storeroom.
‘…some fresh fruit for my wife if you have it…’
She nodded most vigorously, and scurried off into the storeroom.
‘…all the mead in your stock... ah-’
Valesse slapped him in the back of the head, then placed a coin purse on the counter and bowed to Elda in Altmer custom. ‘That will be all, thank you.’
‘We’d best hurry,’ Arn said, rubbing his skull. ‘The mob is sure to be back with more pitchforks or even weapons they looted from the guards, and you can be sure that they’ll have plenty of rope set aside for us.’
He made a slight detour when they exited Candlehearth Hall and went to the blacksmith’s, picking up a shield styled in the fashion of the Imperial Legion. Arn looked up to find that the blacksmith had been hanged as well. Poor bastard.
Luckily, the gates were still unmanned when they reached them. The sun was setting by then, and the couple slipped out easily enough.
‘Eat something,’ Arn urged. ‘Keep up your strength. Restoration takes a lot out of you, I know.’
Valesse did not argue, which worried him even more. ‘Once we’ve put five leagues between us and the city, we’ll set up camp and rest. Get your strength back. We should reach Whiterun in three weeks or less.’
‘And… and then?’ Valesse panted, the strain in her voice tugging at Arn’s heartstrings.
‘Then I’m taking you straight to the Temple of Kynareth, where I’m going to tie you down to a bed and force all of the priests, priestesses and acolytes to look after everything you need, at swordpoint if need be.’
Despite herself, Valesse snickered.
‘There’s that haughty grin that I love,’ Arn grinned himself. ‘Come on then, have another tomato.’
Night fell, but the twin moons and the aurorae lit their way as well as any torch. Arn and Valesse made the occasional wisecrack, but for the most part trudged on in peaceful silence.
Not all of Skyrim shared such peace, however. At the summit of an unmarked mountain, on an unnamed tomb buried deep under earth and sleet, a single speck of snow began to shiver. The shaking spread slowly, the radius and intensity of the tremor increasing until all nearby animals fled in terror and the ground on the peak became a quivering mass that seemed almost liquid.
From the depths of the snow, five golden blurs shot into the air, leaving a trace of steam as the ice evaporated from their surface. The objects came to a halt seventy feet above the peak, revealing themselves to be elaborate masks of neither wood nor metal.
The masks shone with power, and beneath them, stray particles of dust and snow gathered, forming spindly limbs, lifeless grey skin, ragged robes of faded purple and red, and staves humming with magic.
The figures were joined by five more masks. Then ten. Then twenty. Then forty and sixty…
The entire mountain was stripped of snow as the masks whirled in a vortex of energy and matter, which eventually coalesced into the same skeletal beings that the first five masks brought into existence.
One hundred Dovah-Sonaak descended onto the stone now laid bare on the summit. Hovering into a large circle, they gathered around the centre of the tomb, watching quietly as the first five joined bony hands. Eerie blue light began to swirl around them, forming shapes of countless men and women.
They did not have to wait long. Two apparitions emerged, shining brighter than the rest. The five waved their hands and banished the rest as the ghostly images sharpened and gained colour.
The first was an elven woman, her angled face serene and ageless, raven locks falling over her forehead. A quilt of furs was wrapped around her body, with an extra blanket placed around the swell of her lower abdomen.
The second was a man with piercing blue eyes and straw hair, a horned helm of iron over his head, and a ragged beard covering his jaw. He was sitting on a rock, scrubbing at a gleaming length of steel with a dirty rag. A kite shield hung over his back, and his muscled arms were bare.
The Sonaak rose once more, the slits of their masks glowing crimson.
‘Dovahkiin.’ They chanted. ‘Dovahkiin.’
Arngrimur’s neck prickled. He stopped wiping his sword and leapt to his feet instinctively, reaching for his new shield.
The sudden rustle woke Valesse. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘I felt eyes on me.’ He said, unnerved.
After a few minutes of looking around the camp, he slung the shield once more over his back. ‘Nothing after all,’ he chuckled. ‘I must be getting paranoid.’
‘If I find any empty bottles lying around in the morning, I’m going to… I’m going to…’ Valesse yawned, then closed her eyes again.
Arn leant over her and brushed his lips lightly against her cheek. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he murmured. ‘It was probably just a stray fox.’
Yet his sword remained in his hand as he sat back on the rock, glaring out at the flickering shadows beyond their fire.
Just my imagination…?
He cleaned the last specks of dirt from the blade and kept watch late into the night.
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