Dragon of the East - Arc 1, Chapter 17

• Posted by Okan-Zeeus June 8, 2014 - 1,277 views

  Reinhardt 

  ~ ~ ~

  Standing at the gates of Helgen, or what used to be, I stared numbly. The tale those woodworkers had spun was true. Completely true. What I once knew to be a modest hard-working village sat wasted, a charred bunch of wrecked homes and crumbled walls. The only things left untouched were the mountains. They towered over the scene beneath drizzling rain clouds.

  Overwhelmed, confused, enraged, I started meandering through the empty streets.

  There were no fires or smoke. Days after the attack, whatever fuel the flames had to consume was gone. Broken stone and lumber lined the roads, along with scattered belongings of the former townsfolk. Pots and pans, patches of cloth, broken swords, a shoe or two. Houses had already been ransacked for valuables.

  And the bodies – Talos have mercy, the bodies were everywhere. You couldn’t tell a man from a mer! They were all charred and blackened. Big ones, small ones, bits and pieces.

  You get to be a bounty hunter as old as me? You see death. Plenty of it. It’s part of your job, your livelihood. Never met a Nord worth his salt who’d get squeamish at the sight of blood, even his own. But if balking at the sight of that village makes me a milk-drinker, I’ll take my damn milk to Sovngarde. I wasn’t just looking at a bunch of killings. I was looking at a massacre.

  By Shor, you don’t see that much death and feel nothing!

  I stopped at a small burnt down cabin and felt a pang of grief. I recognized the entrance. It used to be my property. There was a wood plank with rusted nails on the door frame, still bent in a crooked slant that made closing the door a fit of labor. Guess nobody ever bothered to fix the thing. It was one of those chores I always meant to do, but never did. When ma left me alone in Helgen all those years ago, the deed to the house got passed to me. I only stayed a few months before I packed my things and set off for Cyrodiil. Don’t know who took the place after that.

  I shuffled inside, expecting the roof to still be over my head as rain poured on me. Floor boards creaked and groaned in protest with each step. There were a couple of bodies in a corner of the bedroom, one caught under a fallen bookstand. The back wall had a hole the size of a cow ripped through it. Acrid scents were filling my nostrils. I left the wrecked cottage and returned to the village streets.

  Helgen was gone. I felt ashamed. I should have been there, fighting back against the dragon. What greater battle to die in? Surely Shor welcomed the men and women who fell that day in his hall with open arms. They bled and fought to the last, defending their home.

  But it was their home. I’d left. It was only mine in my memories. Maybe I hadn’t the right to defend it.

  I saw my aunt and uncle’s house farther down the road. It was past a large pile of rubble that blocked the path. I climbed over, careful to watch for sharp rocks or splinters, and jumped off into a puddle. Corpses were sprawled in the village square. A black Imperial flag hung damp on its mast nearby.

  The emblem was still visible – a red dragon, of all things.

  So much for the empire’s legion. They got humbled by the creature they branded as their symbol. Not that the symbol meant much anymore. It might’ve during the Septim dynasty, when emperors still had dragon blood, but those days were long gone.

  Suddenly I heard commotion inside my family’s house, sounds of footsteps and clanging metal. I nearly tripped running toward the doorway before skidding to a halt. Two men stepped out. One was a Redguard with corn rows and some leather garbs. The other was a green skinned Orc – not a big one by any stretch but fierce looking, wearing sleeveless fur clothes. They both had crude axes of iron.

  I saw the Orc carrying a bag. They’d stuffed it full of bits and bobs from the house.         

  “Hey!” I called out angrily. “What do you think you’re doing!?”

  The scavengers startled and grabbed their weapons.       

  “Ah damn, not another one,” the Orc grumbled.

  “Back off! We got here first!” the Redguard exclaimed.

  “What’s in that bag? What did you take?” I demanded to know.

  “Nothing the poor sods here’ll miss. And nothing we’re sharing. Get lost!”

  My blood was boiling. Damned vultures! I wanted every excuse to kill them.

  “You show some respect for the dead!” I barked, pointing my finger accusingly. “Put back what you found! None of it’s yours!”

  The Orc snorted. “Oh really? I’m the one holding the bag. Last I checked, that makes it mine.”

  “Last warning, friend,” the redguard said. “Turn around and leave! This loot is ours.”

   I drew my greatsword.

  “That loot belongs to my family!” I yelled. “You take it over my dead body, you hear me!?”

  My words brought a sneer to the Orc’s face as he dropped his bag.

  “Ha! And here I thought today was gonna be boring.”

  The two men came to me, armed and ready for a fight.

  That Redguard ran headlong into my spacing and sidestepped what he thought was a straight downward cleave. His was taken aback at the sight of my sword circling to the other side and slashing across his waist. The man’s guts spilled out on the ground. I faced the other scavenger. He wavered at the sight of his dying friend. I charged with a fierce battle cry, blade level to ground as I ran through the Orc with the all the force of a charging mammoth.

  Both those men were dead from the start. Just took ‘em too long to figure it out.

  ~ooooo~

  I arrived at the edge of the White River, dipping my sword into its current. The rushing water wiped away loose stains of blood. I rubbed off the rest that was caked and sticky with a cloth. Done cleaning, I sat down on a wet rock, surrounded by damp flowers and bushes.

  Now what?

  I’d come all the way to Skyrim to reach my aunt and uncle, but they were both gone along with Helgen. All I had left of them was everything the scavengers scooped into their bag. I sat for a while, sulking and wet, rummaging through my family’s belongings. Most of it was worthless. Plates, bowls, and a few simple tools. The only things that had any value were a silver spoon and a horker tusk.

  I didn’t toss anything away. Couldn’t bring myself to. I’d either find a use for the stuff or get tired of carrying it. Whichever came first…

  The rain was gone and dusk settled in with a deep orange glow. I remembered there being another village somewhere down the road called Mosswood. No, wait, Riverwood. That was the name. Seemed as good a place to go as any.

  I only ever visited Riverwood a handful of times as a lad, made trips for lumber now and then. It was the closest place besides Falkreath that had a mill. The village gateway emerged down the road and I noticed guards on patrol along its top. A cluster of makeshift tents and sleeping mats told they didn’t have a proper barracks to stay in. The village wasn’t known for being well fortified like Helgen. The Jarl of Whiterun must have lent some extra muscle after hearing about the dragon attack. Good thinking on his part.

  Riverwood’s lumber mill was hard at work, manned by a single stout looking fellow. Strong scents from the river and puddles of mud hung in the air. People had gathered inside their homes, finishing dinner meals or relaxing after a hard day’s work.

  I made for the tavern. A sopped wood sign hung from iron chains, branding a frothing mug of ale and the words ‘Sleeping Giant Inn.’ Sleep didn’t sound so bad, especially after all the running it took to reach Helgen. But first I had to finish the drinking I started in Falkreath, more than ever. I walked up to the inn’s porch and stepped inside the door.

  The place was dingy. Tables set with rickety old stools, food stuffs lying about, floor unswept and the like. Didn’t bother me any. I was looking just as mangy as the inn, I’d wager. We had both seen better days.

  A gruff black haired bartender was standing behind a counter. The innkeeper emerged from a room to the right. She was a middle aged woman, Breton maybe, with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore a stitch-riddled dress and corset. If you saw her you’d probably feel as uncomfortable as I did. She wasn’t ugly, or anything, far from it. She was intimidating. There was an edge to the way she poised herself – the sharp gaze of her blue-grey eyes would make you want to hide under a rock. The woman strolled over to the bartender, looking mildly irritated.

  “The corn stores are getting low again, Orgnar,” she said.

  “Yup,” the bartender replied, leaning lazily on his haunch.

  “Wait, let me guess. You'll get to it later.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  The woman folded her arms.

  “I don't suppose I could convince you to take care of it now, could I?”

  “No.”

  “I should have guessed… Something to be said for honesty, I suppose.”

  Call me impressed. That bartender had stones – he didn’t even flinch for the woman. Something told me those two got along famously. The innkeeper glanced in my direction as I took a seat at the table closest to the door.

  “I’m heading out for a while,” she said to the barkeep. “You mind tending to the customer?”

  “I can see him, Delphine,” the man grunted.

  She walked by me. I felt myself shrink a little bit beneath her stare.

  “Big old crowd o’ nobody in here,” I said. “You enjoy the silence?”

  “We don't get a lot of travelers here in Riverwood,” Delphine replied, stopping next to me. “The war keeps most folks away these days.”

  “Aye…”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “So what's your story?” she asked. “Just here to... relax?”

  “Sure. Let’s go with that.”       

  “You look like you could use an ale.”

  “Ha… You oughta charge people for mind reading. Bet you’d make a fortune.”

  Delphine turned to the bartender. “Orgnar, get this man a drink, will you?”

  “Comin’ right up,” he said as the woman left, shutting the door behind her.           

  I sat at my table and waited, tugging on the ring of Hircine. It was still stuck on my finger. Blasted thing. I could just imagine my buried corpse wearing it to the grave. Was I ever going to get it off? I slapped the back of my hand on the table angrily, as if it would hurt the ring and make me feel better. It just made my hand sore.

  Am I supposed to go back to Cyrodiil now? Move on with my life? That’d be the sensible thing to do. So why didn’t I want to do it? I never hated my time spent there, but I suppose a part of me regretted it. Being back in the north for the first time in years reminded me what I’d left behind. Skyrim was Nord land, the birthplace of my ancestors. The people, the culture, the chill of the air – it all felt right, you know?

  My aunt and uncle would’ve loved to hear me say that. They supported my decision to leave, but the day I parted was hard for all of us. We never really lost touch. I still got letters every now and then, sometimes years apart. I wrote back when I could. Dumb old me never thought to visit, though, not even once. I wish I had.

  Orgnar slid a mug of ale to me from across the table. I heard creaking door hinges. A man stepped inside the inn, well-built and sturdy looking, with fair colored hair and a walking stick that clopped along the wood floor. He kept himself from stepping with a broken leg. There was a whimsical smile on his face.

  “Hey Orgnar, how about a bottle of mead?” he said.

  “Your sister’s gonna be mad if she finds out you’re here, Ralof,” Orgnar replied.

  “And if you want a generous tip, you won’t say a word,” he pretended to whisper. “Hurry it up, will you? Before she comes here looking for me!”

  The man hobbled over and took a seat at the table beside me, resting his stick against the wall. His seemed a happy fellow. I liked him on the spot. If only I’d been of more cheer.

  “A traveler!” the man said excitedly, getting a better view of my face. “And a glum one at that.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I sighed, forcing a smile.

  The Nord leaned forward on the table, eyeing me thoughtfully.

  “Hey, keep your chin up,” he said. “No good for Nords to sulk in their drinks.”

  I took a swig of ale. “Any other day that’d be my line.”

  Orgnar brought a mug to Ralof. The man fidgeted in his seat as he took a long gulp, wiping the froth from his mouth.

  “You look strong. You into fighting?” he asked. “Mercenary work?”

  “Bounty hunting. What gave it away? The armor or the sword?”

  “The smell of blood, actually. You reek of it. Been busy?”

  “House cleaning. So what does that make you?”

  “Soldier, out of action.”

  “Could’ve figured that last part. Imperial?”

  Ralof nearly spewed a mouthful of mead in his fit of laughter. “Oh that’ll be the day! No friend, I’m a Stormcloak. And a damn proud one.”

  “Well met then,” I said with a grin.               

  I didn’t have much of an opinion on the Stormcloaks, though I respected their cause from afar. They seemed to have noble intentions. The civil war wasn’t doing Skyrim any favors, though. Families divided, lives destroyed, brothers spilling blood…

  You’ve heard of the war, right?

  It all started like this: some decades ago the empire in Cyrodiil was attacked by the High Elves of the Aldmeri Dominion. It was the start of the Great War. Eventually the two sides declared a truce and signed a peace treaty called the ‘White-Gold Concordat.’ One of the demands of the treaty was for the empire to outlaw the worship of Talos, the ninth divine.

  Well, this didn’t sit with a lot of people, including my kin. The elves demanded blasphemy. We would never forsake the name of Talos.

  Agents of the Dominion, called the Thalmor, started showing up in Skyrim, enforcing the treaty and arresting anyone who still tried to worship Talos. Eventually Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm, started stirring trouble. He formed a private army and spoke openly against the Thalmor and the White-Gold Concordat. But even this wasn’t enough to get people’s attention. So he traveled to Solitude, the capital of Skyrim, and challenged High King Torygg in honorable combat. A custom from the old days.

  The king had supported the Imperial regime. Ulfric killed him and sent a strong message back to the empire. One they wouldn’t ignore.

  Some will tell you Ulfric waltzed in and murdered the man. More still say he killed the High King with his voice – Shouted him apart. You can believe whatever you want to. I have… mixed feelings on the matter.

  Torygg losing was a disgrace. A king should be able to defend himself as well as his kingdom. If he can’t do either, he’s not fit to rule. But Ulfric had to have known that Torygg couldn’t beat him. They say the High King was coddled and young. You can’t pick a fight with someone weaker than yourself and call it fair. Unless they throw the first swing, I only take on guys my size or bigger. No tallies for anything less.

  Anyway, the emperor didn’t take kindly to Torygg’s death. Ulfric was declared a traitor to the empire and the civil war began. The Stormcloaks sought to crown Ulfric as High King and oust the Imperials from Skyrim for good.

  You get all that? ‘Cause I’m not repeating anything. Now where was I…?

  “Mind sharing what’s got you so depressed?” Ralof asked.

  “Ysmir’s beard, you’re nosier than me,” I replied.

  “It’s a fare evening for spirits, kinsman. That frown of yours ought to be a crime.”

  I sat still. It wouldn’t hurt to tell the guy my story, would it? At least I’d get to drop some of the weight off my shoulders.

  “Short version? I came to see my family and found them dead.”

  Ralof grew somber.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “Where were they? Hjaalmarch? Last I heard the fighting was heavy there.”

  “No. They were at Helgen,” I said.       

  Ralof jerked upright. “Helgen? Your family was in Helgen?”

  “Aye. I’m guessing by that look on your face you’ve heard about the dragon too. It’s mad! Can you believe it?”

  “I do more than believe it friend. I was there!”

  I almost fell back out of my seat.

  “What!?”

  “I was in Helgen when the dragon attacked.” Ralof pointed to his bad leg. “Got this as a souvenir.”

  “By Shor, you saw it then!? Tell me everything! Please!”

  “Take it easy... I’ll tell you, but it’s a long story.”

  “Like my sorry hide is going anywhere!”

  Ralof recounted his tale. He told of Ulfric’s capture, the carriage ride to Helgen, the executions, and the dragon. I pictured the gruesome scene in my head as he boasted the monster’s ruthless attack, how it sowed chaos with the power of its Voice. An entire company of legion soldiers couldn’t even slow it down! Killing that dragon would be a feat worthy of song and legend.

  “How did you escape?” I asked part way through Ralof’s story. “You couldn’t have made it out alone with that broken leg.”

  The man leaned back, setting down his empty mug on the table.

  “I had my own personal savior,” he said. “There was a man who stood by my side at every turn. I’d have never made it if not for him.”

  “Thank the Nine for that. Who was he?”

  Ralof leaned forward, looking around to check for eavesdroppers.

  “He, uh… asked me not to tell anyone about him being there,” he spoke softly. “I’ve already said enough. You’ll keep this to yourself, right? He saved my life. I want to respect his wishes.”

  “I’d have no to reason to tell anyone,” I shrugged.

  “Good. Glad to hear you–”

  The door of the inn opened wide, interrupting our conversation. I noticed nightfall through the doorway. A woman with braided yellow hair stepped inside, scowling at Ralof.

  “Enjoying your little chat?” she asked irately.

  Ralof pushed his seat back a few inches with his good leg. “Now, now… Gerdur, let’s just talk for a minute…”

  “No. Don’t explain anything,” the woman chided. “You know you shouldn’t be here. That leg is never going to heal if you keep on walking with it.”

  “That’s what the stick is for!” Ralof said, holding it up for Gerdur to see. “Forget about that, though! This man here’s from Helgen. He lost his family.”

  Gerdur held a hand to her mouth.

  “Oh… Mara have mercy,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He asked me to tell him about the attack. It’s the least I could do, right?”

  His sister sighed.      

  “Of course. I trust my idiot brother’s told you everything?”

  “Yeah,” I said, looking at the man, “and I’m grateful for it. Doesn’t make me feel much better, but at least I know what happened.”

  Ralof turned around in his seat.

  “Orgnar, three more drinks! On me!” he called out with a cupped hand.

  His sister groaned. “Brother…”

  “Come now, the night’s just beginning isn’t it? We owe this to all our kinsman who fell to that dragon. Let’s honor the memory of their deaths!”

  Gerdur relented and took a seat with the both of us. As the bartender passed around  another set of mugs, Ralof raised his up to toast. “To Helgen!”     

  I nodded and raised my drink to the Nords, to my Aunt and Uncle, who walked in Shor’s halls.

  “To Helgen.”

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