Dragon of the East - Arc 1, Chapter 2

• Posted by Okan-Zeeus January 11, 2014 - 1,096 views

  Chases-The-Wind

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  Helgen was a peculiar town, settled in thin sheets of snow. The Throat of the World loomed in the north-eastern sky, an enormous alp stretching up to the clouds, the tallest peak in Tamriel. Nords dwelled in thatched wood shelters. The village’s southern border was shielded by a mountain side, with the rest enclosed inside a cobbled stone stronghold. Watch towers served as garrisons for the Imperial Legion.

  This place, Helgen, was well fortified.                                                                                  

  Men and women emerged from their hearths, stepping out into the chill air as carts full of captives were paraded through the town. Children were shoed inside, their insistence on watching the spectacle ignored by the good intentions of their parents. The mountain face had provided a point of access into the village, largely unguarded. I remained close to the scene, slipping past the eyes of Imperial sentinels patrolling walls and parapets. Shrouded in shadow behind a Nordic house, I watched the unfolding affair.

  “General Tullius, sir, the headsman is waiting!”        

  An archer upon one of the garrisons called out to his commander resting on the back of a chestnut horse. I studied the man, an Imperial, aged features lining his stern austere countenance. His skin was tanner than that of the Nords, as is common for natives of Cyrodiil or other southern provinces. He wore a head of balding grey hair and a suit of brilliant leather armor embroidered with gold.

  “Good,” Tullius called back to the soldier, “let’s get this over with.”          

  In front of the general were two Altmer on horseback wearing black trench coats. The tall yellow-skinned elves were clearly Thalmor, agents of the Aldmeri Dominion. Even in Skyrim their presence persisted.

  They would not be involved in this matter unless it pertained to the White-Gold Concordat, I brooded. This is more serious than I thought…

  Tullius spoke to the elves. “Tell Elenwen that her concerns have been noted, but my duty is to Emperor. The rebellion ends today. We are commencing the executions here in Helgen.”

  The general turned his horse and began trotting toward the convoy as it parked in Helgen’s square. Displeased by some turn of event, the two Thalmor withdrew down a northern road. I darted between the backs of buildings, stopping at a narrow alley between a stone tower and an inn. The mountain stood at my back. A high ranking officer ordered the unloading of the prisoners. The man in sack cloth, sitting in the back of the now still carriage, looked panicked.

  “Why are we stopping?” he asked the blonde Nord beside him. An Imperial soldier began calling out names, book and quill in hand. The captives were checked off by title and gathered around a headsman’s block.

  “Why do you think? End of the line,” the blonde man said as he stepped off the cart. His name had been announced. He was Ralof, of Riverwood.

  “No, I’m not a rebel! They can’t do this!” the ragged Nord clamored as he jumped down from his seat. He was Lokir, of Roriskstead. Ralof maintained a calm demeanor despite Lokir’s dismay.

  “Face your death with some courage, horse thief.”

  “You’ve got to tell them, I wasn’t with you! This is a mistake!”

  Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, was called last. The prisoners in uniform looked upon their leader. His face was solemn, expression half-hid by the gag that covered his mouth. Soon all were marshalled to the headsman, with the general and his officers standing by. A large tower loomed over the square, bowmen lining its battlements. Villagers looked on from the porches of their homes. I watched in silence.

  Tullius walked up to Ulfric with a dour look in his eyes.

  “Ulfric Stormcloak,” he began, “some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

  Ulfric muttered something behind his gag, seemingly in protest. The general continued.

  “You started this war! Plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now the empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.”

  A roar echoed suddenly from the snow whipped face of the Throat of the World. Those at the gathering were startled, turning their heads toward the noise. It was disturbing, carrying an almost metallic ring. No creature known to me could bellow such a shout. One of the soldiers turned to his general.

  “Sir, what was that?” he asked, hinting concern. Tullius kept his composure.

  “It’s nothing. Carry on,” the commander replied. It seemed to him this business was too important to interrupt.

  A high ranking officer in steel plated armor stepped up and saluted. She turned to greet the figure of a priestess walking toward them, dressed a modest orange robe. She was to present the prisoners their last rites. The thin priestess bowed, her face partly covered by her hood. Standing before the captive Nords, she extended her hands toward the sky.

  “As we commend your souls to Aetherius,” she prayed, “blessings of the eight divines be upon you! For you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our–”

  “For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with!”

  A prisoner had brazenly stepped forward, cutting off the priestess’ speech.

  “As you wish,” the woman scorned.

  The red-headed Nord was dragged to the block by two soldiers nearby. He continued to hurl insults, spitting in the faces of the Imperials. The headsman was a brute of a man, wearing a black sack-cloth mask and sleeveless chain-mail armor. He held in his hands a wicked axe as large as he was tall. Shoved down upon a slab of wood, the prisoner uttered one final remark of defiance:

  “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

  He managed a grin before the blade of the axe came down, lodging squarely between his neck and shoulders. The man’s head rolled off into a basket. Blood shot from the gaping plateau where his head used to be. The steel armored officer kicked aside his headless corpse as spectators shouted reproaches and praise.

  “You Imperial bastards!”

  “Justice!”

  “Death to the Stormcloaks!”

  It pained me to see lives end so viciously, but I knew nothing of the circumstances behind these executions. Intervention was ill advised. I hissed under my breath condolences to the deceased. The armored officer pointed at Lokir.

  “Next, the Nord in the rags!” she declared. The gaunt man was livid with fear, trembling. His legs twitched with the urge to chance flight.

  Then the roar came again, echoing from the cliffs. It sounded closer. The gathering of people turned toward the sky. That was all the distraction Lokir needed. The horse thief, hands bound, bolted from the crowd toward the back alleyway – where I was hiding. I scuttled behind the tower to my left, teeth clenched, crouching against the wall. The armored officer barked out orders.

  Just as Lokir reached the end of the, ally he turned and saw me, hesitating. A confused and startled look crossed his face. I opened my mouth to speak.

  An arrow struck him upside the head. He crumpled to the ground.

  “Anyone else feel like running?” the Imperial officer goaded.                    

  I swore. They would send someone to retrieve Lokir’s body. Leaving the way I came would not conceal me as it did before. The village sentries were on alert. Lokir’s attempted getaway had trapped me. I would have to climb the mountain to reach the outside of the village and risk being spotted.

  Xhuth… This venture was foolish. I should have left the carriages alone.

  I gently inched around the circumference of the watchtower, my back pressed against its cold hard stone. Before I could act I needed to see what the soldiers would do next. I peered out once more toward the town center.

  The roar sounded a third time. I threw a glance at the distant mountains.

  A winged leviathan thirty feet in span, cast with serrated scales as black as shadow, dove from a cliff and soared toward the town on a gust of wind. I held my breath.

  “What in Oblivion is that!?” Tullius shouted. The monster in the sky flew with unthinkable speed toward the village of Helgen. With a beat of its wings, it lifted up into the air and landed on the tower of archers overlooking the square. Men were crushed under its weight.

  There the awful creature perched. Long and glossy talons hung over the tower’s battlements. Its face was angular, reptilian, not so different from my own, with long crooked horns jetting back from its head. A thick tail dangled at its rear. Razor-like teeth bore from its snarl. Its eyes were blood red, faintly glowing, with slit pupils as dark and inky as the rest of its hide.

  Soldiers stumbled backward. Others drew their swords. People screamed. Before chaos erupted, a woman’s cry gave name to the terror that stood before us.

  “Dragon!!”

   

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