“I can’t believe it. You’re … Dragonborn.”
The lining of her mouth squeezed and contracted as she unenthusiastically drained the last of the bitter healing potion. She wiped her mouth on the back of a dirty leather glove and dropped the little glass bottle to the floor. As she limped along the cobbled road, back towards the city on the hill, supported by the muscular, adrenaline-sweated arm of one of Whiterun’s guards, the words rang through her ears:
“Dragonborn? What are you talking about?” One had said.
“That’s right! My grandfather used to tell me stories about the Dragonborn,” another had said.
Irileth had looked between them and her with an increasingly furrowed brow.
And she had felt sick. Sick to her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, the bodies of the guards who had been stood in the way of the dragon’s torrent of fire-breath were still smouldering in the pretty, midday sunshine.
“…Those born with the dragon blood in ‘em, like old Tiber Septim himself,” the guard continued.
“I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons.”
“That’s because there weren’t any dragons around then, idiot. They’re just coming back now for the first time in … forever.”
“What do you say, Irileth? You’re being awfully quiet.”
“Come on, Irileth. Tell us, do you believe in this Dragonborn business?”
The elf looked at the skeletal remains of the dragon, stripped of any scales and flesh, sinew and eyes, before returning her dark glare to the one who had seemingly conjured more affect than sword, arrow or spell.
“Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping gums on matters you don’t know anything about.” She puffed out her chest and stalked up to the dragon – the yellowed spinal column protruding from the wreckage of the tower. Irileth placed a boot on it and shoved. Even dead, the thing must have weighed a tonne. It barely moved under the small elf’s strength, but her message was clear: “Here’s a dead dragon, and that’s something I can definitely understand.” There was smug victory in her voice. “Now we know we can kill them. I don’t need some mythical Dragonborn,” Irileth looked back to her, those piercing eyes shadowed beneath the sun. “Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me.”
She couldn’t tell whether Irileth’s words were meant as a compliment or a caution. She hadn’t really put down the dragon, had she? She’d distracted it, sure, but it was Irileth who’d had the skill and the guts to stab the thing, and the collapsing tower had really dealt the final blow. Could she have done the same if the roles were reversed?
“You wouldn’t understand, Housecarl. You ain’t a Nord.”
“I- I’ve been all across Tamriel. I’ve seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this!” Irileth tutted. “I’d advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm, and of your fellow men, over tales and legends.”
And so, she walked away from the dragon fight with a bruised ankle. As they approached the gates of Whiterun, the pain began to dim, and she felt herself gradually more able to put more pressure on it. Faces peered over the walls at them – helmeted faces and the weary elderly and workers and more. A few she recognised, most she didn’t.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” she said, unhooking her arm from around the guard’s, before adding a quiet and self-conscious: “Thanks.”
Irileth had stayed behind at the tower with most of the surviving force, she guessed to calculate the losses and figure out what to do with an enormous dragon skeleton and a destroyed outpost.
As they were passing the threshold into the city, the sky ripped apart. A thunderous crash like a crack of lighting spliced the air all around her and echoed across the stonework and the valley beyond, setting at least three different tones ringing in her ears.
And then she realised they were words.
“Do, vah, kiin.”
Her body collapsed to its knees out of shock, but her mind caught on more quickly – it was the same tongue as that in which the dragon had spoken. In which she had spoken. The energy of the words did not just sound powerful, but they commanded her, compelled her to listen, and she did. Dovakiin. It was one word, spoken in three syllables – Dragonborn. The voices called to her.
As the thunder rumbled and dispersed around them, she realised she had not been the only one to drop. One of the guards – the one she had been holding onto – had half crouched, his sword partially drawn from its scabbard, his helmet tilted to the sky. The other guard had frozen in place – she could see his eyes rapidly moving from the sky to her, and to the other guard as he tried to figure out whether to run or prepare for a fight.
Slowly, she stood and looked around. Up on the crumbling battlements of the gate house, faces cautiously reappeared. First, they looked up at the sky and to each other. Then, they looked at her. They all looked at her.
The two guards escorted her up through the city’s main street, past the blacksmith and the well, up the stairs to that dead, pale tree, and towards the palace. Her eyes struggled to leave the floor as they went. She was a ghost wandering through a mausoleum.
The doors to Dragonsreach banged shut behind them. On the far side of the long fireplace, the Jarl sat on his throne, flanked by the steward, and another man she hadn’t seen before. He was bald and wore a collection of furs and leathers, out of which curled the horns of some creature – perhaps a goat – and culminated in a short, plated and tanned skirt. At his back, the handle of some large weapon protruded, and as she got closer, she saw he wore a flash of dark red paint that underscored his left eye. He watched her with a stern expression on his face, his arms folded.
“Good, you’re finally here. The Jarl’s been waiting for you,” said the steward, the anxiety clear in his voice.
Jarl Balgruuf didn’t speak immediately. He sat with that confident slouch and regarded her with intense eyes. “So … what happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?”
She took a deep, shaky breath, the adrenaline finally beginning to leave her system. “The … umm … the dragon was there. The watch tower was destroyed, but, umm … we managed to kill the dragon.” Her words felt surprisingly loud in the large space.
The Jarl nodded, slowly, and glanced at the man wearing the strange armour. “I knew I could count on Irileth.” A layer of subtle caution hummed under his tone. He looked back to her. “But there must be more to it than that.”
More to killing a dragon than killing a dragon? She bunched and un-bunched her fists, digging long, dirty nails into her clammy palms. “W- When the dragon died, I … absorbed some kind of power from it.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bald man shift.
“So, it’s true …” The Jarl said, and his eyes drifted into the middle distance. “The Greybeards really were summoning you.”
“The … the Greybeards?”
“You must have heard the shout as you returned to Whiterun.” The Jarl nodded to no one but himself. She couldn’t figure out why, but it made her even more nervous.
Of course, she knew what he was referring to – the immense sound that had broken across the sky. To call it a ‘shout’ seemed like an understatement.
“The Greybeards are … masters of the Way of the Voice,” The Jarl continued. “They live in seclusion, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World.” She watched as he tapped the arm of his wooden throne with a single, thought-seeking finger.
“What do they want with me?”
“The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice. That is you, isn’t it? The Dragonborn?” He spoke it like an accusation.
“I- I don’t know. One of the soldiers called me that, but I- I’ve never heard of it before.”
“If you really are the Dragonborn … the Greybeards can teach you how to use your gift.”
“My gift?”
“Your ability to shout. Have you done it? Can you shout?”
“Shout? I- I don’t-“ The remembered the ancient Nord draugr looming over her, its sword ready to strike, and the energy that built within her. It was the same energy she had reached for in the watchtower. It was a word, just like Dovahkiin, and just like those the dragon had roared as it soared above the battle. Fus. Even as she centred her mind on the syllables, she felt it waiting within her, pressing against her lungs for release.
Realising she had closed her eyes, she promptly opened them again, looking nervously between the three men.
The Jarl nodded; a grave, knowing smile inching onto his face.
“The ancient tales of the Dragonborn tell of the unique ability to focus your essence into a Thu’um – or Shout.”
“Thoom?” She vocalised the wrong letters, but she instantly recognised the word the Jarl spoke as being part of that tongue. It resonated with her … well, her essence, she supposed; on a level higher than physical.
“That thundering sound – it was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar.” The bald man spoke with a heavy, Nord accent. She looked up at him as he towered above her. A glassy, white eye looked back – the one surrounded by the paint – and she saw how his face was mottled and skewed with scar-tissue. He spoke with reverence and seemed to be less tense than the other two. “This hasn’t happened in … centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!”
Talos. That word registered with her, too. Where had she heard that before?
“Hrongar, calm yourself.” It was Avenicci’s turn to weigh in, apparently. “What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our little friend here? I don’t see any signs of her being this, what, Dragonborn.”
“Nord nonsense? Why you puffed-up, ignorant … these are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the first empire!”
“Hrongar,” the Jarl said with a welcome laugh that seemed to pop the tension in the room like a balloon. “Don’t be so hard on Avenicci.”
“I meant no disrespect, of course.” The shorter, tanned steward stuck out his chin and clasped his hands, looking away from the group. “It’s just that … what do these Greybeards want with her?”
“That’s the Greybeards’ business,” the Jarl said. “Not ours.” He looked back to her. “Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it…”
Could that be true? She’d felt the power earlier, in the barrow. But perhaps absorbing the dragon’s … ‘whatever’ had had a different effect. Was there a science to this? It all seemed strangely convenient. Why her? Why now? Did this link to her amnesia? Her questions were growing in number while her answers were dwindling. Perhaps the Greybeards could help.
“If they think you’re dragonborn, then who are we to argue?”
There was a moment of pensive silence as each of them seemed to digest the conversation.
Again, the Jarl was the first to speak up. “You’d better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There’s no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It’s a tremendous honour.”
“I- I wasn’t planning on delaying,” she said. “I just … this is a lot to take in.”
The Jarl smiled at her. It was a pleasant smile, perhaps betraying some pity for her confusion, but his eyes seemed to twinkle piously as he said: “I envy you, you know? To climb the seven thousand steps again …”
Seven thousand steps?
“I made the pilgrimage once. Did you know that? High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very … disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what’s going on down here. They haven’t seemed to care before.” He huffed and smiled again. “No matter. Go to High Hrothgar,” he said. “Learn what the Greybeards can teach you. And if you would ever return …” He stood from his throne, and both the steward and Hrongar glanced at each other. Despite his apparent age, the Jarl was still much taller than her, and held himself confidently. His yellow-blonde hair fell around his shoulders in braids. He exuded confidence and authority.
“By my right as Jarl,” he said, announcing the words to the largely empty chamber, apart from the two guards who were still stood at her rear, and had been watching the entire conversation silently. “I name you Thane of Whiterun,” he said, looking down at her, a big, friendly grin growing across his face. “It is the greatest honour within my power to grant.”
She gulped nervously.
“We may not know your name, Dragonborn, but we know your deeds. You will always be welcome here in Whiterun.”
“…wow. Okay, thank you.” She had no idea what a thane was, but it sounded fancy.
“And I assign you Lydia as a personal housecarl. She will assist you in your journey, and whatever comes after.”
A housecarl? She was being given a servant? Hadn’t the guards referred to Irileth as a housecarl? This was all getting rather overwhelming.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
The Jarl motioned to Hrongar who bowed his head and walked over to the stairs in the back wall of the large hall. He disappeared up them.
The Jarl sat back in his seat and put his hand to his chin. “You don’t look like the type who appreciates weapons so much, but …”
Hrongar reappeared, his arms outstretched before him, carrying a long, shining metal object. He bowed his head again, this time to her, and presented her with an axe. Unlike the battered weapons Faendal and Ralof had wielded, or even Hadvar’s slightly more decorated sword, this axe was a piece of art. Spiralling patterns were not simply carved into its blade but were a part of it. Its curved blade was pristine – it brandished no signs of hammer bashes or chips. It had a long, thin neck that ended in a polished leather wrap. The polished metal shone in the orange firelight.
Nervously, she took the axe from Hrongar in both hands. Her right hand touched the soft leather wrap, while her left closed around the cold steel neck. It was heavy in her grip, and she was unsure whether she would be able to make use of it like her little dagger, but it was impossible to say no to such a gift. The axe was a piece of art, crafted by a master. It looked as though it belonged on a display mount rather than in any battle – she guessed that is where it had probably been kept up until that very moment. To be given such a gift from the Jarl’s palace was quite the show of appreciation. Though, she had just returned from a suicide mission to kill a dragon, she supposed. Perhaps she could enjoy this victory.
“The Axe of Whiterun - I give you this weapon from my personal armoury, to serve as your badge of honour.” The Jarl bowed his head, gently. “I’ll also notify my guards of your new title. Wouldn’t want them to think you’re part of the common rabble now, would we?” He chuckled, but she was too busy looking at the weapon. “We are honoured to have you as the Thane of our city, Dragonborn.” He turned his head to the steward and said: “Back to business, Avenicci. We still have a city to defend.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the steward, and the smaller man stepped off the dais. Hrongar also departed, and she assumed she had been dismissed. However, she still had so many questions.
“Erm, sorry, my Jarl. I just- Who is Lydia?”
As she spoke, there came the sound of heavy boots on carpeted wooden floorboards, and she turned in time to see a tall, broad woman wearing a polished set of armour and furs step round the corner from the stairs leading up. She had shoulder length, dark brown hair that she wore straight, except for a single braid that had been tied into one side. She held a chunky metal and wood shield in one hand, had a big leather backpack strapped over her shoulders, and wore a sheathed sword at her hip – its protruding hilt adorned with a similarly intricate design to the axe.
The woman stepped up to the dais and bowed her head to the Jarl. When she spoke, she did so with good pronunciation and little of the Nordic twang her peers had: “My Jarl, I am here to serve the Dragonborn.”
The Jarl bowed his head in return and gestured towards her. “Lydia, I present to you … the Dragonborn.”
Lydia’s gaze turned to her, and she looked her up and down. Lydia blinked and glanced back to the Jarl. “Er- My Jarl, I- I-“ She stammered.
“What is the matter, housecarl? Introduce yourself to your new thane.”
Lydia looked back to her, and she thought she saw a flash of annoyance cross her face. “Of course, my Jarl.” The tall woman bowed her head, uncertainly, and said: “My name is Lydia – Lydia of Whiterun. The Jarl has appointed me to be your housecarl. It … It is my honour to serve you.”
The cocktail of shock and disappointment was written all over her expression and tainted her voice hollow. Had Lydia expected some impressive Nord warrior, like herself, and seemingly everyone else around them? Or a sleek, nimble elf like Irileth? Certainly not a wispy, sleepy-looking teenager with barely enough muscle to raise an axe, let alone swing one.
This was what she had been afraid of – the breaking disappointment. She realised she had seen it in even the Jarl’s face as he was presented with the news of the dragon attack. Was she supposed to be Skyrim’s best defence against the threat of dragons? What was their luck that their ordained saviour wasn’t even a fighter?
At that moment, she felt ready for the ground to open up and suck her into an endless void of purposelessness and un-responsibility. Not only did she have her own problems, but now she was the rest of Skyrim’s.
--
Lydia was not going to make this process easier for her. This was something that was made apparent very quickly.
As the sun turned orange and began to set behind Skyrim’s vast mountains, she followed Lydia out through the grand wooden doors of Dragonsreach Palace and down the stone steps to the city proper. Lydia walked a good ten paces ahead, which for her height was quite far ahead.
It wasn’t until the pair entered the rustic chamber of an inn that the two came properly face-to-face.
The inn – The Bannered Mare, as signposted by a swinging wooden plaque of the city’s iconic equine symbol at its entrance – was louder and more cramped than The Sleeping Giant had ever been. Like many of Whiterun’s buildings seemed to have, the inn had a firepit dug into the middle of the floor, surrounded by wooden benches and an assortment of chairs and cushions. On these, sat a few unfamiliar faces, chatting loudly and looking into the crackling flames. Pillars marked the edges of this central section, and around the outside sat more chairs and tables, set in twos and threes, cast in a lower light. Above the fire, on another floor, a small balcony looked over the scene, perhaps for the owners or as a private suite. A lady stood behind a long bar that lined the right wall.
She closed the doors behind them, shutting out the draught, and followed Lydia to the bar. The tall housecarl clanked a gauntlet of fur and metal plate onto the wooden surface and rummaged around in a pouch at her side.
“Ale,” Lydia said.
The bar was tall, clearly made for a strong and impressive people that she was not. She had to peer around Lydia’s bulk to see over the countertop. She heard the clinking of coins from Lydia’s pouch, and the woman dropped a few onto the table.
The lady behind the bar tucked a wisp of brown hair behind her ear and smiled at the pair, lined cheeks scrunching up. “Anything for the little one?” The woman spoke to Lydia.
She blinked and sighed. Without waiting for Lydia’s response, she spoke for herself: “Could I get something to eat, please? And I’ll get some wine, too, if that’s alright.” She pulled out her own coin pouch and thunked it onto the bar top. Lydia and the other lady shared a look.
“Er, of course, my dear. Take a seat and I’ll get Sadia to bring it over.”
She counted out the gold coins and the lady scooped them up, before turning to busy herself in a small kitchen behind the bar.
Lydia walked over to one of the empty tables in the corner of the room. She unhooked her bag from around her armoured shoulders and dropped it on the ground, before falling into a chair with its back against the wall, facing the rest of the room.
She followed suit, but kept her satchel clutched against her chest. She sat with her back to the fire, feeling its warmth even from where they were sat.
A moment of awkward silence passed as Lydia had a silent conversation with a wooden placemat.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Lydia got there first: “Get yourself a room. We leave first thing tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
Silence, again.
She heard the soft rumpling of clothes, and someone appeared from behind her. A young woman with dark skin and dressed in a creased and stained white blouse and matching floor-length skirt placed two bottles on the table – a brown bottle with a label attached that had the word ‘ale’ scrawled on it, simply, and an unlabelled green bottle that was wide at its base with a long, thin neck. The woman walked away without speaking a word.
Lydia picked up her bottle and threw it back, taking several gulps before slamming it back down on the table.
She took a gentle sip from the wine bottle – it tasted much sweeter than the wine she’d had at Hod and Gerdur’s house – and placed it back down, tapping it with a long, uncut nail.
Lydia crossed her arms and looked past her, towards the centre of the room.
She sighed.
The waitress returned and placed a bowl of soup and a plate with a whole loaf of bread and a hunk of charred meat between the two of them. Lydia’s eyes flickered to the food, then returned to the middle distance.
The soup looked creamy and was full of chunks of different vegetables. Almost involuntarily, she pushed her face closer to it, and felt the salty steam caress her chin, cheeks and nostrils. Her grumbling stomach had been suppressed by the stress of the day, but it then unleashed a mighty, protesting grumble.
She looked over the food – it was way too much for her to manage on her own.
“Do you- ahem,” she started, but found her voice came out tiny and weak. Lydia looked at her sideways. “Do you … want some?” She gestured to the plate of uncut bread and the crisp meat.
Lydia quietly snorted. “I’ll buy my own supplies.”
“Right. Of course,” she said, her stomach dropping off a cliff. “It’s just … it’s a lot of food.” She tried again.
Lydia scoffed. “Tomorrow will be long. You’ll need it.”
She chewed her lip. Okay. This is how it was going to be. She picked up the loaf of bread and tore it in half. It was perfectly soft on the inside. She dipped a corner in the steaming soup and ate it.
Lydia watched her as she ate.
She placed the bread back down on the plate and stared back at her.
“What?”
Lydia looked away.
She took a deep breath. “Is there … a reason why you’re being off with me?”
Lydia looked dead at her, her face stone. Neither of them spoke for a second that seemed like an eternity. Lydia opened her mouth to retort but the doors to the inn suddenly creaked and opened, flooding the sombre space with receding daylight, and a few more people entered. A man in a set of cobbled-together armour and furs, a woman in a floor-length dress, and another man clutching a stringed instrument to his chest. They filtered through the room, one stepping up to the bar, another sitting at the fire to a greeting from the others already there, and the one with the instrument began to pluck at the strings and adjust it. It was not long before his gentle playing joined the crackling of the fire, the excited voices, and the clinking of bottles.
“Forget about it,” she said, waving off Lydia, just glad for some more ambience to fill the space.
“Forget about it?” There was a snap in Lydia’s voice, and she laughed humourlessly. “Yes, let me just forget about it. Please.”
She blinked and braced herself as Lydia grabbed the bottle of ale and drank. But no further retort came.
“Why don’t you just tell me what’s bothering you?” She said. “You know, get it out?”
“Get it out?” Lydia said, her face contorting for just a second before she wrested control of her emotions and quietened her voice, though, without losing any of the venom: “You are the Dragonborn. Do you even know what that means? You are a child.”
“I- I don’t know what it means. That’s why we’re going to-“
“No, that’s why we are going to get killed.” Lydia snapped. Someone coughed, and she turned just in time to see the people sat at the fire turn their heads away from the scene.
“Listen,” she said, the fight draining out of her before it could amass. She took another sip of the sweet wine and swilled it around her mouth, feeling the sugar fizz against her back teeth. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t know what I’m doing. I admit it, okay?”
This only seemed to make Lydia more angry, as her jaw clenched and her brow sharpened to the point of a sword. She shot up from her chair, knocking the table and spilling her ale. The bottle rolled off the surface and landed on the wooden floorboards with a dull bonk.
“You,” Lydia pointed a finger at her. “Are pathetic.” She spat the words down at her.
The room was silent again, save for the gentle crackling of the fire pit. Her skin prickled against the eyes on her back. She looked up at the towering warrior and didn’t know what else to say.
“Stay yourself, warrior.” It was a different voice that spoke – calm, commanding, confident.
She turned her head slowly to see that another figure had appeared between them and the fire. Even cast as a silhouette, her tall, proud stature was unmistakable as a Nord. She was clad collar to foot in a blue-silver armour, into which spirals and patterns had been lovingly chiselled.
In the low light, it was just possible to make out her tanned skin, the crows feet at the corners of her intense eyes, and her brown-blonde hair tied back in a practical braid. She was armed, but did not brandish the large weapon strapped to her back.
Lydia looked between her and the newcomer and scowled. “What do you want? Come to stick up for the disgraced as one yourself?”
“I have come to stick up for the Dragonborn,” the newcomer said, and bowed her head.
She blinked and looked between the two fighters. “Oh. Oh, that’s okay. Thank you, but there’s no need.”
“Spoken like a true coward,” Lydia said, no longer holding back.
“Watch your tongue, Housecarl. You should know better than to treat your thane with disrespect.”
“Who are you to lecture me about disrespect, child-killer?”
She felt the air plummet as though a spell had been cast.
“Listen,” she said, moving to stand, but the newcomer stepped forward and placed a heavy, metal gauntlet on her shoulder, pushing her back down into her chair.
“I’m touching your thane, Housecarl. Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
Lydia roared and fired a metal fist at the newcomer. As the warrior threw herself forward, she knocked the table sideways, sending the surviving food and drink flying.
The metal hand left her shoulder as quickly as it had arrived, and the newcomer backed away towards the fire. The people who’d been sat around it launched from their places and out of the way of the fighting duo, as the newcomer stepped dextrously over the nearest bench, and Lydia went crashing straight through it.
“Come on!” One of the men shouted.
“Hit her back!” The woman shouted.
At the edge of the firelight, she saw the bartender watching the sudden chaos with a rigid frame.
The armoured newcomer pivoted on her backfoot to avoid another of Lydia’s lunges and finally retaliated, shoving her backwards. Lydia tripped over the knocked over bench and lost her balance, her heavy armour weighing her down.
Lydia fell to her back and rolled, pushing herself up - but the newcomer was already there. She planted a heavy boot on Lydia’s back, forcing her to the floor.
“And how are you supposed to defend the Dragonborn from dragons if you cannot defeat even me?”
Lydia growled and whipped her body round with surprising speed. But, yet again, the newcomer was faster. She crouched down and planted a single right-armed punch onto Lydia’s face. The metal gauntlet slammed into her nose and rocked her head back to a chorus of ‘oohs’ from the fight’s small audience.
“Stop!”
Everyone, including the two fighters, froze and looked at her, as she realised the voice that had cried out was her own. Sheepishly, she stood from her chair – miraculously, the only thing in the fighters’ path that didn’t get damaged – and looked between them, not entirely sure what to say next.
The older woman – the newcomer – pushed her hair back across her head and stood up straighter but looked back to Lydia. “Not until this one admits defeat.”
“I’ll have you locked up, child-killer.”
“No, you will not,” the newcomer said, that controlled calm coming back over her voice. “Because clearly the Dragonborn needs better protection than you, and so I will offer my own services.”
She wasn’t sure whether she or Lydia was more shocked at this sudden announcement. The crowd looked between themselves, whispering, presumably at the mention of the Dragonborn.
“Umm…” she said. “Okay. Can you stop fighting though, and maybe pick up that bench?”
The newcomer looked at her, a twinkle in her eyes, and smiled. She thrust out a hand to Lydia, who looked at it, scoffed, and climbed to her feet without the help.
“Nobody respects a sore loser.”
Lydia didn’t rise to the taunt. Instead, she turned away from the scene and threw the inn’s doors open, stepping out into the evening.
The newcomer picked up the bench and set it straight, next to the fire. “I’ll pay for the spoiled food,” she said, and walked over to pick up the knocked over table and chair, too.
She sat back down and watched the newcomer work before she stood over her proudly and considered her.
“My name is Uthgerd,” She said, puffing her chest out. “It would be an honour to serve the Dragonborn.”
--
The road to Windhelm gradually changed from rough, dry earth to hardpacked mud, and then sure enough, to snow. As Isaac travelled closer to those mountain peaks, and the grey line of arctic sea beyond, a bitter wind picked up, and the temperature dropped.
The city of Windhelm was, as Annekke had said, unmistakable. The road began to dip into a valley which he’d expected was there, but had remained out of sight until he had passed the hot springs properly.
Hulking, black-grey walls of stone thrust upwards, out of the snow and the earth, in a precise rectangle. If not for the flickers of firelight within, the entire city could have remained camouflaged against the grey backdrop.
A wide river ran through the bottom of the valley, flowing from west to east, starting at what he could see was a waterfall down the valley and further in-land. It then bent around the peninsula that the city stood on and dispersed into the sea further north-west. At its back, the jagged black peaks of mountains rose up, separating the city from what must have been the coast beyond, leaving only one way to enter: connecting the south and north banks was a colossal bridge of that same black-grey stone with just as precise a construction as the city itself. From where Isaac stood, he could see how it started on a ridge that overlooked the river, and it fed directly into what appeared to be Windhelm’s gate. What must have been torches flickered in the wind in alcoves cut into the bridge, suggesting in-built fortifications he could not make out from his angle.
Crossing the bridge would leave any attacker – and by extension, Isaac – very exposed to the city’s defences and the miserable weather.
A few snow-covered rooves sat atop outbuildings – perhaps houses or stables – before the start of the bridge. Isaac scrubbed his hands across his arms in a vain attempt to work some warmth into his numbing limbs and made his way down the hill towards the buildings.
Snow drifts weaved their way about him either side of the road, and the trees turned from deep green to blanketed white. Boulders rose up and hung in dangerous suspension on the increasing slopes of the mountain valley.
As he approached, he saw he had been correct – one of the buildings stood open, and a couple of large horses stood in pens, in spite of the wind. Lights glimmered gently behind windows in a house, and what looked to be a horse-drawn cart – in working order – sat empty by the side of a fork in the road that followed the river north.
Isaac continued on the road that lead him down into a dip before it climbed up to the bridge’s entrance. His boots were already dampening in the deepening snow, and he was losing feeling in his toes. By the time he reached the stables and his way forward, his whole body was shivering. Annekke had been right about the weather– he needed to get some warmer clothes as soon as possible.
The ground levelled out before him, and he looked down the length of the bridge. It was long, wide, and bleak. If the city watch didn’t try to kill him for whatever reason, the weather certainly would. The bridge was perhaps a hundred metres long, and it had its own walls that rose up at certain points, either side. There was a large stretch in the centre of the bridge that appeared to be completely open to the elements on both sides. If the wind was strong enough, he could be blown right off, into the frigid waters below. If he was lucky, the sheer height of that drop would kill him instantly. If he wasn’t, he’d sink below the river’s surface with broken bones as the deathly cold enveloped him.
The cobbled road turned into solid, tight rock. It was slippy underfoot – not good. It was going to take him even longer to cross. He started down the bridge, rubbing his hands up and down his arms and thighs. The wind howled through small, rectangular windows in the bridge’s battlements and cut through his tunic.
Just as he was passing the first set of walls, he saw two figures watching him. They stood still, high above him to his left, their arms folded. He looked back at their faces to see closed plates of metal helmet, a spike atop each. They were wrapped in furs and chainmail, and wrapped themselves in heavy cloaks that appeared to be made out of animal skins.
What he’d give to have one of those.
“Hello!” He called out, but his voice was snatched by the gale. The two figures didn’t react.
He turned his gaze back to the bridge and pressed on.
It took him an age to reach the centre section where the walls gave way to nature. He held a shaking hand out before him and immediately felt the rush of wind that whipped around the battlements and out into open air. He planted his feet and made sure he was stood in the middle of the wide platform.
Isaac stepped out onto what felt like a gallery before a storm. He was buffeted from all directions as the weather threatened to force his steps this way and that. His heart leapt more than once as he felt himself moved closed to one side of the bridge or the other, but he held his ground and pushed on, taking smaller, heavier steps.
Halfway across, the wind was so strong he could barely keep his eyes open. He lowered himself to all fours in an effort to make his profile smaller, and he pushed himself forward. His fingers couldn’t even feel the stone below them, let alone grip it.
Isaac passed the threshold into the second fortified section of the bridge before he realised he had made it. The wind instantly lessened, and he looked up. Before him, two enormous metal gates stood closed. They rose up and up before sinking into the hulking gatehouse, perhaps three of four stories up. Close-up, the brickwork and construction was like nothing he had ever seen. Even in his borderline-hypothermic state, he couldn’t help but marvel at not only its sheer scale, but the attention to detail with which it had been crafted. Each stone was a different size, yet fit perfectly together, truly creating a sense of oppression that surely no attacker could ever hope to penetrate.
In front of the doors, three guards stood, their cloaks billowing around them, their arms folded into their clothes for warmth.
Isaac staggered to his feet and looked towards them. They stared blankly back through those closed face plates.
When he approached within a few metres of them, the middle guard signalled to someone Isaac couldn’t see with a wave, and the guard stepped to the side. There was an almighty clank of metal and the gates parted, swinging inwards, admitting him to the city.
He limped past the guards into the city beyond, and they watched him as he went.