Part 1: Men of Heroic Lineage

Chapter 1: Night of Tears

Oh, sing low, song of ancient peoples, long lost to the cold wind of time. She, our goddess of the wind, Kyne, blew across a land of green, our land before the changing of the seasons and the cold of our home. To first settlement of the Atmoran people, oldest city of our land is now a ruin of our deepest despair. Weep for the city of Saarthal. For on one night, our people were slaughtered, and our home no more. Now hear Kyne’s whisper of this tale for she speaks of what greed can bring.

Ysgramor awoke from a restless sleep at a brush of cold wind up his spine. His rough spun blanket had fallen away from his hairy frame but even being a mass of muscle and hair wasn’t enough to keep a man warm during these winter nights, no matter if they were warmer than the nights in the old homeland of Atmora.

He lifted his head to look for it on the floor when his hearing registered a commotion in the distance. The sounds of shouting, clashing blades, and whistling arrows. He leaped out of bed, snatching his fur-trimmed tunic and belt while calling out, “Boys, get up. Get up now. Grab your weapons.”

His three sons stirred into wakefulness blearily. “What is it, father?” asked the second eldest, Ylgar, a newly made man.

“It’s still dark,” moaned the youngest, Yingild, still in boyhood.

Only the eldest, Yngol, kept silent, doing as he was told, though with clumsy fingers and rapidly blinking eyes. None of the boys had been alive when the first settlement occurred. None had participated in the long sleepless nights on a watch or in the fights for survival in the wilderness of this new land of Skyrim. They had only known the comfort of their home in Saarthal and the training fields outside.

“I’m not sure,” said Ysgramor. “There is battle nonetheless. Move quickly.”

Raised voices outside meant the neighbors were up and wondering the same thing. A woman’s gurgle penetrated the chatter and a child's high-pitched scream followed but was abruptly cut off. A heartbeat of silence was followed by cries and screams as the Atmoran citizens panicked. Ysgramor grabbed his double-headed battle ax from beside his bed and moved to the door. “Quickly!”

The door was slammed inward and two figures appeared with bloody swords in hand. Their pale armor was barely visible beneath dark grey robes and their even paler faces twisted in masks of brutality. Ysgramor reacted faster than his sons could cry out, swinging his ax into the pointed-eared head of one and splitting his skull. The second swung at him but he blocked it with his ax handle and kicked out, launching the elf to the floor. A final swing down into the abdomen killed the intruder.

His youngest, Yingild, was screaming. Ylgar was cursing as he struggled to pull on his shirt. Yngol approached him, fear in his eyes. “Snow Elves. But we have a treaty with them.”

Ysgramor looked down at the bodies to see them more clearly. They were Snow Elves: skin so white that appeared almost translucent, pointed ears, angular features, faded blond hair, and slanted eyes faded in death. Ysgramor turned away in disgust. “Then the treaty is over.”

He swung around, his plated beard spinning and almost striking his son who was a whole foot shorter. “Put on your armor.”

Yngol nodded and moved to the corner of the room where two armor stands were crammed. Their home wasn’t large, barely big enough for four beds, a fireplace, a small table, two chests, and two armor stands. It was the modest accommodations of a military commander and lord of Saarthal with three sons and no wife, living in a frontier city. Ysgramor put on his heavy armor, with its sculpted symbols of dragon scales and dragon heads at the shoulders. It was an impressive sight, even shining in the dim firelight. Yngol wore simple iron armor with fur trimming and lining. The last thing they grabbed were their horned helmets. The horn was part of a mammoth tusk, used to create an extra line of defense to the head. His youngest sons wore only simple leather armor.

“Father, what is happening?” asked Yingild. “Why are the Snow Elves trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know,” said Ysgramor, hefting his ax. “Keep your swords ready.”

His sons took up their swords, weighted larger at the tip and thinning closer to the handle. The elder two bore round wooden shields while the youngest simply held two daggers of similar shape to the swords. Ysgramor nodded to his sons and, stepping over the bodies on the floor, pushed open the door. The streets were abandoned, bodies of men, women, and children in the doorways of several houses.

Screaming and begging came from one such house before it was cut off abruptly and a trio of Snow Elves emerged. Their axes were covered in blood. The blood of their people. “Circle!” yelled Ysgramor.

His sons fanned out while his youngest stayed behind him. Ysgramor charged, whirling his ax and slicing one of the elves across his torso. The other two circled him and encountered his sons who hacked them down. Upon killing his opponent, his second stared at his bloodied blade in alarm. “Don’t think,” said Ysgramor. “We must make for the Keep. Follow me.”

Five Snow Elves sprinted down the muddy street, weapons held high as they yelled in their accursed foreign tongue. Ysgramor was built solid as a mountain and took the lead, swinging his ax in wide arcs. The elves attempted to dodge, one failing and taking the brunt of the force, throwing him down the street with his chest split open. The other elves encountered the sons of the ferocious warrior and were so distracted with the whirling ax that they failed to notice the swords. One elf sliced Ylgar in the side before he was crushed into the cold ground by Ysgramor’s massive battleax.

All elves were dead, and Ylgar held his side. “I’m alright, I can keep going.”

“Help your brother,” said Ysgramor to Yngol, pulling Yingild beside him.

They encountered no more elves along the way. Fireballs flew overhead from outside the city, flung by mages. Fires were starting all over as the fireballs hit the rooftops. From the distance, the clap of thunder could be heard, a mage of the highest potential firing lightning blasts. Cries and screams echoed throughout Saarthal along with the clash of combat. Ysgramor and his sons took back alleys until they reached the stone stairs that led up to an acropolis where the large citadel stood. Many of its carved dragon-headed spires were broken and destroyed.

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The citadel was gutted, its stone halls smoldering and covered in burn marks. The councilor and his men were in the plaza around a circle of dead and dying. It was a brief respite before another attack. Ysgramor approached his counselor and said, “Torm, we must depart.”

“My lord, glad to see you are still alive. Cursed elves!” said the Torm, spitting blood and holding his side. “It was only a matter of time before they turned on us.”

“But why?” asked Ysgramor. “They had no reason.”

“They hate us, my lord,” said Torm. “What more is there? The elves fear our supremacy.”

“Lord Ysgramor, the men have abandoned the sanctum within to the elves.” A party of men in robes arrived from out of the citadel, the symbol of a dragon breathing flame upon their breasts.

Ysgramor curled his lip at them in annoyance. Dragon priests, useless as ever except to point out the obvious. “I can see that. There are bigger concerns. Our entire city is burning.”

“But sire, our work in the inner sanctum cannot be found. If it is they will surely destroy us.”

“What do they do now?” asked Ysgramor, the fury of a commander in his tone. “If you had been up here with your magics, this attack might have been held off in the first place.”

The dragon priest scowled and raised an eyebrow in superiority. “Our work could not be stopped. It will lead us to power over the snow elves and all Skyrim.”

Ysgramor faced him, towering over the priest's wirey frame with his considerable bulk. “And you wonder why they attack? It doesn’t matter anyway, they have the upper hand.” He turned to Torm and said, “Gather our men. We need to get the citizens out on the ships. Secure the docks.”

“As my lord commands,” said Torm, bowing and gathering the few men that remained. “To the docks men, quickly!”

“We cannot abandon our work,” said the high priest, watching the guards run down the acropolis. “It is vital that we-”

He was cut off as an arrow pierced the back of his head and emerged from his nose. The man wobbled on his feet and then fell backward. The other priests, Ysgramor, and his sons turned to see another band of snow elves, armor shining in the moonlight, running up the stairs toward them. A fireball flew from an elf and struck the ward thrown up by a dragon priest.

“Form up!” yelled Ysgramor to his sons who created a triangle behind him. The priests fanned out behind them, throwing wards up and firing arcs of lightning. Sparks flew, fire ignited, and weapons flashed as the two sides collided.

Ysgramor swung his ax in wide arcs, cleaving any elves foolish enough to get close. When one dodged under his blows, he pulled his ax back, trapping them between the handle and his chest. He head-butted the elf and crushed him with the handle, kicking away his stunned form and swinging the ax down into the elf and caving in his chest. An elf dove in to strike but was spitted on the sword of Ylgar. An explosion rang out behind them as a fireball exploded amongst the dragon priests, sending two flying and a third rolling on the ground, screaming and beating at his burning robes. The final priest lashed out with a chain of lightning and struck down two elves before an arrow hit his chest. He gurgled and fell to one knee. Yingild slid in between Ysgramors legs and stabbed up at the elf fighting his father then rose to his feet and flung his dagger at the archer.

The dragon priest let out another gurgle and lifted his hands, cinders licking around his fingers and causing his body to glow as flames surrounded him. “No, no!” yelled Ysgramor, knowing what was coming. “Yingild! Get down!”

He was struck in the back by an elf who tried to slash him with a sword. The blow grazed him, causing him to grimace in pain but he ignored the elf. He leaped for Yingild as the dragon priest threw his arms down and flames exploded outward. The elves charging him were thrown down the stairs, screaming and on fire, and Ysgramor felt his feet lifted off the ground as he cradled his son in his arms. He had enough wits to turn midair to land on his back and protect Yingild. The breath was knocked from him and he unfurled his body, dumping Yingild unceremoniously onto the stone street. As he gasped, an elf appeared in his vision with a raised sword but was run through by an Atmoran blade.

Yngol dropped his sword and helped his father to his feet. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” said Ysgramor. “We need to get to the docks.” He lifted Yingild to his feet and checked him for injuries. “Are they all dead?”

Ylgar drove his sword into the wounded elf archer on the ground. “They are now.”

Yngol picked up his sword. “Then let us leave before more come.”

Ysgramor grabbed his ax from the ground. “Not before I get some answers.”

He approached the dragon priest lying on the ground, still alive and choking on his blood. He grabbed the man roughly by the front of his robes and lifted him. “What were you doing down there in the inner sanctum? What were you planning against the snow elves?”

“Our…our…victory,” gasped the man before slumping in death.

“Gods curse you,” growled Ysgramor, releasing his body. “Fine, keep your secrets. Let’s get the citizens out of here.”

Ysgramor and his sons ran down the steps and toward the port. Upon reaching the high street above the docks, they looked down in horror at the sight before them. The ships were all burning, the smoke filling the air with a hideous glow. The bodies of every Atmoran citizen, the guards under Torm, and the councilour himself were strewn about the wooden docks or bobbing in the water. Not a single man, woman, or child was left alive as the elves sifted among the bodies to kill any that might still be alive.

Yingild choked out a sob. “Father?”

Ylgar cursed. “May the Daedra take them!”

Yngol, ever practical, took his younger brother's shoulder. “What do we do now, father?”

Ysgramor shook his head. “There…there is a boat moored down the coast that belongs to a local fishermen. It's small but it will have to do.”

As he turned to leave, arrows flew from the dark, missing him by inches. Then a firebolt struck his armored breastplate and he roared in pain. A blind rage filled him and he charged at the four elves that had appeared in the street behind them. A gout of flames spewed at him but he ignored it, feeling his skin burn and his hair begin to catch fire. He tore through the blaze and swung his ax in a great arc, nearly cleaving the mage in half. His son Ylgar was right beside him, his blade flashing death as he hacked at the elven archers and blocked their arrows with his shield. The final elf tried to flee but Ysgramor picked up the bow and fired. The elf fell without a sound. Ysgramor dropped the bow and patted his hair and beard to extinguish the burnt tips.

“Yingild! No!”

Ysgramor turned to see his eldest, Yngol, holding Yingild in his arms. The young boy appeared to have fallen over and was dazed. Then Ysgramor saw the two arrows sticking out from his small frame. The boy was trying to breathe around the one in his throat and was letting out pitiful sobs. Ysgramor roared again, his anguish greater even than his fury, as he rushed to his son and knelt beside him. “Hold on, son. Hold on!”

Yingild, his mother's favorite boy, clasped weakly at his father’s hand, tears streaming down his face. Panic filled his face and he gurgled, spitting up blood. “We have to help him!” said Ylgar, tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt.

Ysgarmor knew his son’s fate. He held his hand tight and spoke softly, “My son. Wait for me in the halls of Shor.”

The fear began to vanish from his son’s eyes, the smallest smile touching his face. Then the eyes dimmed, his body slumped, and the last breath of mortal air escaped his small frame.

“No!” sobbed Ylgar. He screamed and slashed at the air with his sword. “I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them all!”

Yngol looked up at his father, tears on his cheeks. He appeared completely lost. “Father?”

Ysgramor took hold of his son's shoulder and then lifted his young boy’s body into his arms. “Grab my ax, Yngol. Let us away from this city of death.”

They left Saarthal that night, the only survivors of an entire colony of Atmorans. They rowed hard for the shores of Atmora, to bring word of their failed expedition. But in the heart of our father, Ysgramor, there was vengeance. Vengeance on the snow elves and the murder of our kin. But so too, for those who brought about this destruction, whoever they may be.