The Plains of Whiterun

The next two weeks were the happiest I’d been since my parents’ deaths. My childhood wish had finally come true. I was spending my time in the fields and forests, picking flowers and catching butterflies, and earning a living to boot. It was a pleasure to be outdoors without having to worry if I would find enough to eat or a place to sleep. I was almost as carefree as I’d been as a girl. I would lie on the heath with my feet soaking in one of the many pools that dotted the plains about Whiterun. It was wonderful to feel the sun warming my face and hear the bees buzzing in the heather while the thunderheads built over the mountains. Sometimes those clouds would move out over the plains with incredible speed and I would race them to Whiterun. In the warmth of Last Seed it felt good to get soaked to the skin. I’d dry off in the Bannered Mare, the pungent smell of the peat fire redolent of the tundra where I just been roaming. I always had a coin or two for a bowl of beef stew and a cup of mead to take off the chill.

I even enjoyed working in the store, surprising myself by not growing bored. There was always something new to learn about potion making. Even dusting the shelves wasn’t so bad. I would come across a vial containing a potion I didn’t recognize, and Arcadia would tell me about its properties. Too, I had spent so much time alone for the last three years that waiting on customers was a pleasure.

Where at first I was shy and halting in my speech, I gradually grew better at conversing with people. I enjoyed hearing their stories about life in Whiterun and the surrounding farms. I learned a good deal about people’s views on the Civil War as well. There were factions supporting both sides, both adamant in their positions. I was surprised that open feuding hadn’t already broken out between the Gray-Manes and the Battle-Borns.

In my free time, I would wander the market stalls and poke my head in the shops. I even bought a dress, though I soon found I couldn’t really be comfortable in it – it was too confining, and the long skirt only got in the way. I wore it only in Arcadia’s shop, and only then when waiting on customers. When out of doors I’d wear the light armor and boots the jarl’s steward had grudgingly given me. It made me feel strong, like some sort of shield maiden.

The armor even helped me to feel more welcome in Jorrvaskr. Sitting in the Companions’ mead-hall with Aela and Vilkas, I’d imagine I was one of the original five hundred heroes traveling from Atmora to Tamriel across the Sea of Ghosts. It was easy to do – Jorrvaskr had been built from the upturned hull of one of the Companions’ boats, hauled overland to this early Nord settlement. But then I would remember myself. I was no Nord hero, nor did I aspire to be one.

Arcadia proved to be a patient teacher and a kind employer. She even showed me plants I hadn’t seen before. Most useful was tundra cotton, an ingredient in the potion to fortify magicka, the mage’s store of magic power. She taught me how to make that potion and others of particular value to a mage, those that restored health and increased ability in a particular branch of magic. There were also a few that could add to my skill in stealth, especially potions of invisibility and lockpicking, but those would come later.

When I wanted to apply to the college, she helped me write the message. My father had taught me my letters, of course, but after three years my handwriting was rusty. Farengar helped us with how to ask for admission and how much to say about my magical development so far. He even included a note attesting to my ability. I waited hopefully after the letter went off with the courier, wondering how long it would take the college to reply.

If Farengar hoped the dragon would show itself, he was disappointed. We saw no sign of a dragon for the fortnight. Nothing troubled the sky save the afternoon thunderstorms rumbling over the plains. Farengar kept studying his books on dragons. He was supposed to be looking for something that would help defeat one of the beasts, but he just enjoyed learning whatever he could about them.

I visited Dragonsreach often, since I was the only one Arcadia trusted with deliveries to the jarl and his court. Soon I was as familiar and comfortable in the great hall as I was in the Bannered Mare or Jorrvaskr or Arcadia’s. The guards would greet me cordially, asking if I could brew something for them – usually an ale. I had gotten to know the jarl’s hall-troops, the two I had seen that first day, Hrongar and Lydia, and several others. Hrongar was the jarl’s brother. He and Lydia were both part of the jarl’s hirth, the special war-band of skilled fighters and loyal retainers he had called up after the fall of Torygg. While the regular guard included several women, Lydia was the only shield-maiden accepted for this special service.

I would find the hirth-fellows sitting at table reliving some great exploit, then one of them would shout out to me, “Hey, lass,” and want to tell the story all over again for my benefit. They asked often about Helgen, but I could not revel in the tale, however much they pressed for details. “Come, Deirdre, tell us how you escaped the dragon,” one would say. I could see the lust for glory in their eyes, as they imagined themselves confronting the beast. Then I told them of the brave fighters I’d seen lose their lives that day, men and women battle-eager but death-bound, while I ran from the destruction like a frightened rabbit. What valor I had shown that day, I could not speak of – I still kept secret my temporary alliance with the Stormcloaks.

I could see the disappointment in their eyes. Nords were used to boasts and tales embellished to add to their glory, not stark confessions of cowardice. They found nothing in my tale to celebrate, no glory that would earn me entrance to Sovngarde, the eternal halls of the brave Nord departed. Bold deeds and a good death were all to these warriors.

Lydia would come to my defense then. She had heard me tell Jarl Balgruuf about the frostbite spiders and the cave bears beneath Helgen. “Anyone who can deal with frostbite spiders is all right by me,” she said. Her comrades mumbled in assent. No one liked frostbite spiders. Then they would return to one of their own tales, more befitting a Nord’s idea of valor.

As I listened to their stories, I admired the camaraderie among these hirth-fellows. They reminded me of my friends and myself when we were children, before the day I wanted to forget. They treated Lydia no differently than the rest. She would laugh heartily at the jokes and roar her approval for any act of valor, burnished though it was in the retelling. Even the most ribald jest couldn’t make her blush. She would look over at me then and give me a wink, as if to let me know her fellows meant no harm.

Though she was only two or three years older than I, none of the men called her “lass” or “girl.” I wasn’t surprised. At nearly six feet, Lydia stood on a par with many of the soldiers and even taller than a few. She was strong of limb from the constant training and carried herself with quiet confidence. I heard the men talk many times of her besting a male fighter in practice. One of the hirth-men once made the mistake of calling her “wench” and ended up on the floor.

Yet I wondered if the men found her attractive. She wore her jet black hair in the Nord fashion, with side braids like my own. I supposed a man would find her fair of face, with her high cheekbones and dark eyes. Although she complimented me on the tattoo I wore around my left eye, she had chosen not to mar her own face in similar fashion. And while she certainly wasn’t plump, a trait Nords found particularly attractive, there was something voluptuous about her that no amount of physical training could take away.

During my years in Cyrodiil, I had forgotten about the Nords’ predilection for plump women and burly men. Yet few such comely figures were to be found. Skyrim’s winters saw to that – no one could manage to keep the weight on, they spent so much energy trying to stay warm. Cyrodiilians, on the other hand, prized a svelte figure, though these were equally hard to find in that land, where the warmer climes led to lethargy and weight-gain. Thus, the old adage, “The lass is always fairer on the other side of the Jeralls.” During my time in Cyrodiil, I grew accustomed to those few men I came across ogling me, especially as I grew scrawnier from life in the forest. Now, I’d begun to put some weight back on from regular meals at the Bannered Mare, and I could feel the Nord men beginning to eye me in that certain way I found uncomfortable.

And if they thought me worth a second glance, how much more attractive must they find Lydia, whose curvaceous figure couldn’t be hidden even under her thick armor? No, I was sure that at least one of her hirth-fellows had wanted something more from her than the fraternal camaraderie on display in the great hall. Men always wanted something more from women, it seemed, like Osmer, or Ralof. I wondered if Lydia had ever found herself fending off an unwanted advance as I had, and what she had done about it. Or maybe she welcomed those advances? There was no way to ask about this while they were together in a group – and they were always in a group – so I found myself just getting more confused. After a bit more banter I would excuse myself and continue on my errand.

Other than my confusion on the subject of men and women, only one thing darkened my time in Whiterun: the feeling that I was being followed. It started on my second day working for Arcadia. I was returning from a delivery to Jorrvaskr. Old Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions, had been complaining of the rot, and Arcadia had something she thought might help. On my way back I felt the back of my neck tingling. I knew that feeling. It was the one I got in the forest when a dangerous animal was near. I looked around and saw nothing, except perhaps a shadow in a doorway out of the corner of my eye. When I looked again, it was gone.

It happened again the next day, and the next. The sound of footfalls behind me when no one was there; a tall, robed figure disappearing around a corner; glances passing between strangers I saw in the street – these were the only hints my followers gave, yet I knew they were there just the same. On the fourth day, I went to collect flowers on the tundra west of Whiterun and they were at it again. A hunter passed near me in the morning, then later in the day I came across a fisherman at a small stream, and toward evening I saw a man on horseback off in the distance on the road. I was sure they were all the same man in different costumes.

For the moment, I pretended not to notice my watchers. I was confident that I could turn the followers into the followed when I chose. But what would I do once I caught them at their game? It seemed better to keep my suspicion hidden and see what their next move would be. I guessed they were Imperial agents, or maybe the jarl’s own men who suspected me of ties to the Stormcloaks. So let them follow me. They would soon see I was no Stormcloak sympathizer – or so I thought.

Then one morning a strange thing happened. I was on my way to the mountains to collect lavender and scaly pholiota. It was the middle of my second week in Whiterun, and the day had started off well, with a courier bringing a letter from the college during breakfast. The school had space for another student, as long as I could prove my latent magical skill. I was thrilled, of course, and I planned to leave at the end of the week. A few more gold pieces in my pocket couldn’t hurt, and there were still a couple of potions I wanted to learn, especially the one that would make me invisible. While stealth was a valuable skill, becoming invisible was even better when you were being followed.

I was walking across the tundra toward the mountains, thinking about my good news, and whether I should make a trip to Riverwood to share it with Gerdur. I wondered too if Ralof was still there. Most likely not, I thought, not since the jarl had sent that detachment of guards. Then I felt the hair prickling on the back of my neck, and was certain I was being followed. I was just looking for an excuse to look around for my pursuer when I heard my name shouted from behind me, and turned to see Lydia on horseback. I paused to wait for her, and in a moment she had drawn even with me.

“Collecting flowers again?” she asked, smiling.

I nodded, holding her gaze, looking for any hint of deceit in her eye. Why would Lydia have followed me? If the jarl had put her on my track, she certainly wasn’t being very stealthy about it. “I’m headed for the mountain forests,” I said. “And what are you doing out here?”

“I’m on my way to visit my parents,” she said brightly. “They have a farm just over that rise.”

“You grew up on a farm?”

“Aye. My parents hated to lose my help when I went into the city to join the guard. There’s only my sister left to help them, but I try to visit as often as I can.” She sounded wistful as she said it. Then she brightened again. “Would you like to meet them, see the farm?”

“No, really, I need to get about my collecting.”

“The mountains rise up right behind the farm, and if we ride together it will shorten your journey. Come on, get up behind.” She held a hand out to me, and I couldn’t see a way to avoid accepting her offer. As I climbed up behind her, I tried to tell myself this was a chance meeting, and I was just being silly.

The farm was small, not more than a few acres scratched out of the tundra. The barn had plenty of places to let the rain and snow in. A few animals – horses, an ox or two, and several sheep – huddled forlornly in a small paddock. The house was small. I remembered Lydia mentioning brothers, and I wondered how they all had fit in such a place. I couldn’t blame Lydia for leaving for life in the city.

Lydia’s parents, Grimvar and Silda, seemed nice enough, though care-worn and a little distrustful of a half-Breton stranger. Their daughter Lisbet was several years older than Lydia, her face already lined from working outdoors in the blazing sun of summer and the bitter winds of winter. Her mouth turned downwards, as if it had been years since she had stretched it into a smile. She barely looked at Lydia and me when we arrived, while her parents greeted me stiffly. We exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather and the coming harvest, then I bid farewell to Lydia and went about my collecting.

I was still pondering the strange encounter that afternoon as I approached Whiterun, and was so lost in thought that I nearly walked into a commotion at the city gate. There were three guards rather than the usual two, and they were arguing with two Redguard men of Hammerfell, Alik’r warriors by the look of them, arrayed in garb appropriate for their desert land. With their dark skin, turbaned heads and tunics with wide, billowing sleeves, they stood in contrast to the fair-skinned, mail-clad guards.

“You aren’t welcome in the city,” one of the guards said. His hand was on his sword hilt, though the Alik’r looked more suppliant than aggressive.

Relations between the peoples of Hammerfell and Skyrim had never been cordial, and they had deteriorated further when the Empire severed ties with Hammerfell at the end of the Great War. The White-Gold Concordat required Hammerfell to cede half its lands to the Aldmeri Dominion. When Hammerfell chose to fight rather than submit, Emperor Titus Mede expelled them from the Empire to maintain the treaty with the Dominion. Then the Redguards pushed the Aldmeri forces from their lands, and they liked to brag that they had won a true victory over the elves where the Empire had only managed a stalemate.

Now Hammerfell stood independent and isolated, surrounded by the Empire to the north and east and the Altmer of Summerset Isle across a narrow stretch of sea to the south. Individual Redguards still lived in and served the Empire. They were a people who liked to roam, and could be found in every corner of Tamriel, like that Redguard captain back at Helgen. There was even a Redguard woman waiting tables at the Bannered Mare. She had arrived in town a day or two before I had. Everyone guessed this was her first job in an inn; the common joke was you could die of thirst before Saadia brought you an ale. There was even some grumbling about why Hulda had hired her rather than a more competent Nord.

“You don’t understand, Captain,” one of the Alik’r was saying. “We must find this woman. She is wanted in Hammerfell for terrible crimes. I have an official warrant for her arrest bearing our queen’s seal.”

“I understand very well,” said the older of the guards. It was a serious matter if the captain of the guard had been called out. “I understand that there is no treaty between Hammerfell and Skyrim allowing Redguards to hunt criminals across our lands. Your warrant is less than worthless here. To get permission you will need to go through channels at the Imperial City. Now be off and be glad I don’t throw you in a cell.”

“You’re making a grave mistake, Captain. We have tracked her here and we know she is somewhere in your city. We won’t be held responsible for any crimes she commits against your people.” With that he and his companion turned and walked away from the gate. I made for the gate myself, but the Alik’r stopped me as I passed.

“Young lady,” began the one who had spoken before. He was middle-aged and clearly used to wielding authority in his own lands. His eyes were stern but not unkind. “My name is Kematu of Taneth in Hammerfell. We are looking for a Redguard woman who has taken refuge here in Whiterun. We are representatives of the Alik’r Coterie and are here to deliver her to justice for crimes against our country. Yet these imbecile Nord guards will not allow us to search the city or even to speak with their jarl. If you help us, you will be rewarded. Have you seen such a one in your city?”

Of course I had. But what could Saadia have done? She didn’t seem like a criminal. Maybe these two were the criminals and Saadia their innocent victim. Official documents could easily be forged. “A Redguard woman you say?” I replied. “I haven’t seen anyone like that, but I’ll be sure to let you know when I do. What did you say were her crimes?”

“Her crimes are a matter of official Hammerfell business,” he said, sounding officious now. “It should be enough that we bear this warrant. We will camp on the plain west of Whiterun. I hope you will find us there if you happen to see her. Good day.”

The guards looked at me quizzically as I approached the gate, but I just shrugged. “You meet all sorts these days, don’t you?” I said, and they opened the gate for me.

That night in the Bannered Mare, I watched Saadia as she served a glass of alto wine and a plank of grilled salmon to me, then a mug of mead and a bowl of beef stew for Arcadia. As Arcadia and I switched our dishes, I wondered if Saadia could really be a criminal. She certainly wasn’t a very good bar maid. At least our food had arrived at the right table, and still warm. That was better treatment than the guests around us had received. Nor did she seem the sort to become a tavern wench. She wore the typical low-cut blouse and flowing skirt of a bar maid, but she held herself with a poise more befitting a lady-in-waiting to a queen, and her manners were more refined than those typically found in taverns.

Though none of the Bannered Mare’s patrons knew anything about her, there was much speculation. Most guessed that she came from a noble family that had fallen on hard times, maybe during the war with the elves. Much of southern Hammerfell had been razed before the Redguards had succeeded in driving the Aldmeri forces from their lands. She was the right age, at least thirty-five. But such guesses were the work of ale-addled imaginations. The only thing we knew for certain was that Saadia was a terrible bar maid.

She proved her inexperience again before we had finished our meal. She was waiting on three men at the table next to ours, two of the Gray-Mane brothers and another I didn’t know. As she bent to serve a dish to the man across from her, Avulstein Gray-Mane put a hand casually on her rump.

Now, most barmaids by necessity learn to deal with the constant advances they receive from their male customers. Many develop a playful way of admonishing their accosters that still manages to let the cads know they are serious. Many barmaids keep hidden knives, and since Nord law is on their side, most men know to go no further. Other serving girls take the random fondlings in stride, and some even encourage them. Saadia’s response was neither of these. She quickly turned on Avulstein and slapped him across the face. “Unhand me, you filthy pig!” she exclaimed, as if he were the servant and she his mistress.

The Mare went silent. Avulstein jumped up, grabbed her by the wrist and twisted. “Someone ought to teach you your place, Redguard wench!” he shouted. The Nord loomed over her as Saadia sank to her knees. He raised a hand to strike her.

I couldn’t help myself. I shouted, “Stop!” as I leapt to my feet and came around our table. I tried to make my voice as deep and commanding as possible. My hand was on the hilt of my dagger, but I did not draw it. “Let her go. Now.”

The Nord looked at me with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, his fist still poised above his head. He stood more than a head taller than I, and was probably wondering what I hoped to achieve. Then he looked down at my hand on my dagger, and grew more serious. Meanwhile, his companions had gotten to their feet and were coming around the table toward us.

“What is this, some sort of rebellion of the outlanders?” Avulstein smirked. “Take your hand off that dagger, lass, or this could turn ugly.” He still hadn’t let go of Saadia. She knelt before him, her face wrenched in pain as she looked back and forth between us.

“It’s gotten ugly enough already,” said a voice behind us. For the second time that day Lydia appeared unexpectedly. I hadn’t seen her come in, and she usually took her meals in Dragonsreach. She stepped forward to stand beside me, and Avulstein looked at her uncertainly. I could tell he was weighing his chances.

Then another voice spoke. This time it was Arcadia. “Deirdre’s right, Avulstein,” she said, stepping around Lydia and me and walking up to him. “Let Saadia go. This is no place for such behavior.”

Though she hailed from Cyrodiil, Arcadia was a respected merchant in the city, and her words carried weight. Even Avulstein, whose Stormcloak sympathies and Nord bigotry went together like ale and tavern brawls, paid heed. He loosened his grip, and Saadia got to her feet. “You saw what she did, Arcadia, she struck first.” It seemed a lame excuse coming from such a hulking brute. Many in the tavern jeered him.

“And I saw what you did before that,” Arcadia replied. “You should be ashamed. Nord men already have enough of a bad reputation without you making it worse.”

Hulda came over finally. “I’m sorry for this disturbance everyone.” She went over to Saadia. “Take a minute to calm yourself. If you can’t learn to treat our customers better, you’re going to have to leave. I’ve already had enough complaints about you.”

Saadia rubbed her wrist and lowered her eyes. “As you say, ma’am.” She turned and went into the kitchen, and the tavern broke out in debate about the event.

“It’s all over folks,” Hulda said. “Now, who needs another drink?”

That got some shouts of approval from the other patrons, but Avulstein still stood glaring at me. “You better watch yourself, lass,” he said in a low voice. “You don’t want to make an enemy out of the Gray-Manes. And if you’re going to wear a knife, you best be willing to use it.”

“Oh, I am, you can be sure of that,” I said coldly. Deirdre, your boastful mouth is going to be the death of you, I told myself even as I said it. “Keep your hands to yourself and we’ll get along.”

Avulstein’s brother, Thorald, came over. “Come on, Avy, let’s drop it.”

Lydia winked at me and went back to a table with a group of soldiers. Then Arcadia put her hand on my shoulder and suggested we finish our meal.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” I told her. “I think I’ll go check on Saadia. She’s not the only one who needs to calm down.” My heart was still pounding and my face felt flushed. My body had readied itself for a fight, and now I had nothing to do with all that energy.

I found Saadia in the kitchen, standing at the open doorway looking down toward Whiterun’s main gate. While I still felt flustered, she hardly seemed bothered as she turned toward me, gazing at me curiously out of calm, dark eyes.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She held out her wrist. “Just a bruise, I think. I’ve had worse.” There were no tears, no self-pity for her situation. I wondered how she could be so calm. “Thank you for trying to stop that brute. That was brave.”

“You’re not really a barmaid are you?” I blurted out.

Then I did see fear in her eyes. “Of course I am. Why would you ask that?”

I looked around to see that no one was listening. The cook was making too much noise with his pots on the other side of the kitchen to hear us. “Two men were at the gate this afternoon,” I said, “two Alik’r warriors. They were looking for a woman from Hammerfell. They said she had committed terrible crimes.”

As I spoke, Saadia looked more and more worried. She put her hand on my arm. “We shouldn’t talk about this here. Come to my room.”

I followed her up the stairs to the small cell above the kitchen Hulda had allowed her. As soon as the door shut behind us she took me firmly by the shoulder and pushed me up against the wall. I felt a knife at my throat, though I hadn’t noticed her draw it. What had happened to the cowering tavern wench I’d seen on the floor below?

“What did you say to them?” she hissed. “You didn’t tell them I was here, did you?”

I shook my head. “I wanted to hear what you had to say first.” She looked hard at me and I held her eye. I was telling the truth, even if I had doubts about who she was.

“I’m sorry,” she said, letting me go. “I had to be sure you weren’t spying for them.”

“So you are the one they’re after,” I said.

“Yes, but I’m no criminal. I belong to House Suda. We were prominent in the resistance against the Aldmeri Dominion. These Alik’r are only posing as officials of Hammerfell. They are really assassins in the employ of the Thalmor seeking the bounty on my head.” Now she did seem the innocent victim, pleading with me. “You have to believe me. Don’t turn me over to them.”

I still wasn’t sure I trusted her. She had appeared to be at least three different people in the last half hour. But I told her she had nothing to worry about on my account. The Redguards would probably decide she had never been in Whiterun and move on. The lie came easily; it seemed the quickest way to get out of that room and get on with my life. Why had I taken such a concern with this woman’s affairs? It was hard to remember after having a knife put to my throat.

“I should get back to work,” Saadia said, and went to open the door. As she did, I thought I heard the sound of footsteps outside. She heard it too. She pulled the door open quickly and we both looked out. A shadow was moving in the stairwell, as if someone was there, illuminated from below.

“I thought you said the Redguards weren’t allowed in the city?” Saadia said.

“They weren’t,” I said. “Maybe they recruited someone else to their service.” Or maybe it was my follower, I thought.

“Deirdre, I may need to leave the city at a moment’s notice. Not tomorrow, but maybe the next day. There is no one else in Whiterun I can trust, so I’m choosing to place my trust in you. Will you help me to escape without the Alik’r knowing I’ve left?” I told her I’d think about it.

I still felt jittery when I left the Mare, so I said goodnight to Arcadia at the door and went for a walk through the Wind District, Whiterun’s second level. I stopped at a bench under the old dead tree, known as the Goldergreen, at the center of the circular plaza. The tree had once been beautiful but now stood leafless, its bare branches making a lattice-work across the night sky. At least this way I could look up and see the stars. That was one thing I missed about sleeping out – I hadn’t seen as many stars in the weeks I had been living in the city. It was like saying hello to old friends after time away.

Some said that the stars were formed from Anu’s blood at the dawn of creation, others that they were holes in the fabric of Oblivion that let the light of Aetherius shine down on Nirn. I just thought they were pretty. Gazing at them had comforted me on many a lonely night after my parents died, the vast reaches of Mundus somehow making my own troubles seem small. Tonight the Apprentice, patron of mages, was high in the sky. The Warrior was just rising. His eye, formed by the planet Akatosh, blazed particularly bright. Facing him was the Serpent, a malign constellation that wandered the skies threatening its neighbors. I wondered what that could portend.

Nearby, a giant statue of Talos loomed over the plaza. All was silent now, but in the daytime a priest of Talos would harangue the people about the evils of the Thalmor and the Talos ban. Heimskr would even encourage them to join the Stormcloak side. Jarl Balgruuf’s loyalties must truly be divided, I thought, for him to allow such seditious talk. I wondered how he had prevented the Thalmor justiciars from seizing the priest and tearing down the statue.

Then I felt that familiar tingling on the back of my neck, and I knew my follower was near. I had grown so accustomed to it by now that I would normally ignore it, showing no sign that I was alert to the watcher’s presence. But this time something made me move. And just as I did, I heard a whoosh in the air near my head and the thunk of a projectile piercing wood. I turned back to where I had been sitting and saw a three-inch dart sticking out of the bench, its feathers still vibrating.

I broke into a run and made for the houses to the north of the plaza. Whoever was following me now gave up on stealth, and I could hear the sound of footfalls coming behind me. I ran faster and darted around a corner. There was an alley between two houses just past the corner and I turned into it. Now I would have to employ all of my skill in stealth to evade my pursuer. I found some pebbles on the cobbled alleyway and quickly threw them farther down the street in the direction I had been running. They made a satisfying clattering sound as they bounced down the hill. Then I put my hood up, flattened my back against the house wall, and silently crept deeper into the alley, waiting for my pursuer to run past.

Seconds passed, then a minute. All seemed silent. Could they have given up the chase so easily? I decided to check the street. I crept around the corner, looking to my right, the way I had come. Suddenly, someone coming the other way ran into me, nearly knocking me over. Strong hands grabbed me by the arms. My attacker must not have realized my quickness because I whirled out of his grasp and turned on him, drawing my dagger.

Then I saw that it was Lydia.

Whiterun

I was out of breath when I reached the top of the stairs to Dragonsreach, the great hall that crowned the city of Whiterun. But the climb wasn’t the reason my heart was racing. I would have to speak to the jarl on my own, and I was nervous. I hadn’t been in a great city for years, and I had never spoken to a jarl before – unless I counted meeting Ulfric in Helgen, and that hardly seemed the same. There, we were all “brothers and sisters in binds.” Now I was supposed to face a different jarl in his great hall, the imposing building with lofty peaked roofs looming in front of me. How would I be received, a mere girl dressed in a tattered tunic and fur boots?

I wished Ralof were here. He knew Dragonsreach well, and he was known to Jarl Balgruuf. But there was the possibility of a price on his head in Whiterun. Even I would have to be careful with what I said about my time in Helgen – yet one more reason to be nervous, at least until I learned where the jarl stood on the Civil War. But how would I do that? It all seemed too difficult. Surely this was a job better suited to someone familiar with the ways of great palaces and courts, not a girl who had been living on her own in the woods.

Already the guards standing on either side of the great hall doors were looking quizzically at me. To steady my nerves I turned away and pretended to take in the view.

And a spectacular view it was. East to west stretched the great Plains of Whiterun far below Dragonsreach, a high expanse of tundra dotted with pools and streams sparkling in the late afternoon sun. Bordering the plain, snow-clad peaks thrust skyward. To the east stood the greatest mountain in all Tamriel, the Throat of the World, with the mighty White River flowing at its feet. Even from the lofty summit of Dragonsreach, that mountain seemed to stretch into the sky forever. I had to tilt my head far back to view the summit, but it was lost in a ring of cloud. To the south were the lesser but still imposing Brittleshin Mountains around Riverwood, with the White River flowing out of them.

That had been the course of our journey, down from the mountains along the river, then west across the plains for a short distance to Whiterun. From here it was easy to pick out each of the spots where our progress had been delayed. First, the wagon had lost a wheel. It took hours to retrieve it from the deep gorge into which it had rolled, then to fashion a lever to raise the wagon and all of its load, and finally to reattach the wheel and set the wagon down again. Then, as we approached Whiterun with its three levels looming over us, we came across a group of fighters battling a giant.

Giants are harmless if left alone, but fearsome when roused to anger. They live on their own away from towns and cities, and are usually no trouble as they tend their herds of mammoth. But this one had wandered onto a farm, wreaking havoc as he went. Carts were overturned, fences broken and the livestock long fled. The giant stood twice as high as the tallest fighter facing him. He wielded a mammoth-bone cudgel and wore rough mammoth-hide armor reinforced with mammoth bones. One blow from that club would likely crush any fighter who came within reach.

Unfortunately for us, the giant had taken his stand in a field near the road. Hod stopped the wagon well back to avoid getting caught in the fight. Already the horses were whickering with fear.

The three fighters were having difficulty. Two of them took turns darting in and out with their two-handed swords, always remaining cautious of the giant’s club. An archer stood farther back, firing over and over again. Her arrows seemed to enrage the giant more than harm it. The fight went on like this for a minute or two and it seemed the giant was finally tiring. Then the archer ran out of arrows.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Hod and Gerdur, and I jumped down from the wagon before they could stop me. I only meant to give the archer the arrows from my quiver, but adventures seemed determined to find me wherever I went. Before I could reach her, the giant had come between us. It was very near the road now, swinging its club wildly at the two sword-wielders.

I notched an arrow and let fly at the giant’s back. The missile pierced his shoulder. It didn’t seem to hurt him much but it did get his attention. He turned and took a step toward me. One of the sword-wielders took advantage of this distraction, plunging in and giving a great blow to the giant’s lower leg, right above his calf-high boot. The giant threw his head back in a howl of pain and rage, exposing the soft flesh of his throat. My next arrow flew true, and then the giant was pawing at his neck while a fount of blood gushed forth. The fighters were on him then, and he soon fell – right across the road.

That quickly, I had broken my vow that I was done with killing. Why couldn’t the giant have stayed at his mound, tending his mammoths and keeping out of harm’s way? But who knew? Maybe this one had killed the farmer or his family and deserved death. It was sad either way.

The archer came over. She had long brown hair with red highlights. Her leather armor seemed designed more to provide freedom of movement than protection, it left so much flesh exposed. Her blue eyes were piercing, and her war paint was three diagonal stripes that made her look fierce, as if she had been raked by a sabre cat’s claws. “Thanks for your help, stranger,” she said. “That was a good shot.”

“It was there, and I took it,” I said. “You were doing fine until you ran out of arrows. I only wanted to give you some of mine.”

“It was a good thing you chose to shoot instead. Giants are dangerous even for us Companions. We are in your debt. I’m Aela, and this is Vilkas.” She nodded at one of the sword-wielders who had come up to join us, a dark-featured Nord with black hair, dark circles under his eyes, and a three-day beard. He wore stout plate armor inset with the head of a wolf on the chest plate.

“Companions?” I asked as Hod and the other fighter began trying to drag the giant clear of the road.

“You haven’t heard of us?” Aela asked. “You must not be from around here. We are an ancient order of brothers and sisters in arms, founded by Ysgramor when he sailed from Atmora to retake Skyrim from the elves. I’m descended from Hrotti Blackblade, one of the original Five Hundred Companions who accompanied Ysgramor. Now we help people and solve problems, if the coin is right. You look like a good fighter. You should think about joining us.”

“I’ll think about it,” I told her. “I’m new here, and I could use some friends.”

“You can find us at Jorrvaskr, our mead-hall in Whiterun’s Wind District,” Vilkas said. “You can’t miss it – it looks like an upturned boat.”

It took us another hour to haul the giant out of the way and reopen the road. By the time we reached the stables, the sun was slanting low in the west.

“Deirdre,” Gerdur said as she got down from the wagon, “I said I would go with you to Dragonsreach, but now I’m needed here, and we have to warn Jarl Balgruuf today. I know you’ll do just fine delivering the message to him. Anyone in Whiterun can point you the way to his hall. You can’t miss it, right at the top of the hill.”

She didn’t need to tell me the way to Dragonsreach. It had been long since my last trip to Whiterun with my father, but its shops and houses and mead halls seemed familiar. It even felt a bit like a homecoming. My father had known many of the townspeople, having grown up here. I thought I recognized one or two of the people I passed on the street, but none recognized me. Five years had changed me more than they had changed the city. I remembered looking up at the long flight of stairs leading to the Great Hall atop Dragonsreach. It had seemed impossibly high and imposing then. It still did. But I climbed those steps and now found myself at the jarl’s doors. Would he listen to me, or would his thoughts be on his fast-approaching supper? I took a deep breath and approached the guards.

“I bring news for the jarl,” I told them.

“We don’t get many teenage girls petitioning the jarl, lass,” the taller one said. “Were your parents too busy to come?”

“I have news of a dragon that attacked Helgen two days past. I was there, I saw it.”

The guard laughed. “A dragon, you say. You’ve been listening to too many old tales.”

“No Badnir, wait,” said the other guard. “I heard the steward say something about dragons before I started my watch. We had better let her in.”

“All right, you may pass,” said the first guard, and the great doors swung open at his push.

Inside, the hall was almost as imposing as without. It was built all from wood, with great timbers rising to the vaulted ceiling far above. At the center of the ceiling, a skylight let in shafts of sunlight, sending rays of brilliance through the rafters. The room had three levels, starting with the lower entry where I stood. Up a half flight of steps was a banquet area lined with long tables and rooms off to either side. As I climbed those steps several warriors sitting at the tables looked up to stare at me. Beyond them, up a shorter set of stairs, was the jarl’s dais. He sat there on his throne, counselors and guards surrounding him, and a dragon’s skull looming on the wall above, its jaws opened wide. Dragonsreach was aptly named, it seemed.

It was a long walk up that hall, with so many eyes on me. The fighters at the table, a large man in a full set of steel armor and a shield-maiden with jet black hair, nodded as I passed. Through the side door to the right, I could see a man in hooded robes poring over a stack of books. Finally I approached the dais. A female Dunmer in full armor descended the steps to confront me, but not before I overheard the jarl.

“What you say is true, Avenicci,” he was saying. “The Empire has helped us immensely. Yet I will not plunge my city into this Civil War, on either side. Many good people here support the Stormcloaks, and many more yearn to once again worship Talos freely. If we enter the war on the Imperial side, there will be bloodshed in our streets. Let the Empire deal with Ulfric and the other jarls who support him. Leave me and my city out of it.”

“I say again, what is your business here?” I had forgotten about the Dark Elf, the jarl’s words had so distracted me. She glared at me now, her eyes a bright red that matched her magenta hair. “Receiving hours are almost at an end, and the jarl will be going to his dinner. I am Irileth, Jarl Balgruuf’s housecarl and marshal of his hall-troops. Whatever your business, you can conduct it with me.”

“I bring news for the jarl from Riverwood and Helgen,” I told her.

“Helgen! What do you know of Helgen?”

I looked at her stern face. Would she believe my story? I almost didn’t believe it myself. I took a deep breath. “There was a dragon. It destroyed the town and the keep, along with many lives.”

The jarl must have heard me. “Come closer, lass,” he said. Up close, he was not that imposing. Though he was dressed regally, with a golden circlet around his long blonde hair, a thick fur mantle about his shoulders, and a richly woven surcoat draped over his tunic, he slouched on his throne taking his ease. In the books, jarls and kings always bore themselves proudly erect, but so far that had not been my experience. I stood two steps below the dais, and met him at eye level.

“If you tell true, lass,” the jarl said, “then you were one of the few who made it out of Helgen alive. We had the news just this morning, though I didn’t want to believe it. Yet I don’t know what could have caused such destruction other than some beast out of legend. And you saw the dragon with your own eyes?”

“Yes, my lord, as close as I am to you right now.”

The jarl drew a quick breath and his eyes grew wider. “And what did you think when you saw this dragon?”

“I … I could hardly believe it though it was right in front of me. I’ve read about dragons in storybooks, but I thought they were all dead long ago, if they ever existed. I thought I was having a dream, or a vision, right before…” I was going to say before the Imperials beheaded me, but then thought better of it. “But then everyone was running and screaming and fire was raining from the sky, and I knew it was real.”

The jarl looked at me as if appraising my story, then looked up at the dragon skull, its jaws wide above his head. “Many say the dragons were always just a myth, but I cannot sit beneath this skull and doubt they once existed. But for one to come back to life now, it’s almost too much to believe.” He turned back to me, and his voice became stern. “Now tell me, how comes it that a slip of a girl such as yourself survived when so many others died?”

This was not what I expected. I thought my challenge would be to convince the jarl there really had been a dragon. Now I had to explain how I had survived, without mentioning the help the Stormcloaks had given me. He seemed neutral toward the rebels, but it would do no good tempting fate.

“Well,” I began. “I … I escaped through the caverns below the keep. And I … someone helped me.”

Jarl Balgruuf looked at me more kindly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, lass. I’m just a gruff old man. We have had but a few lines in a message this morning. If you were there, you can tell us much more. If there is a dragon in Skyrim, we need to learn as much as we can about it. Now, tell me your name.”

“Deirdre, my lord,” I said.

“No need to call me my lord, Deirdre. Jarl Balgruuf will do. And are you from Helgen, Deirdre?”

“Dragon Bridge.”

“Ah, I’ve been through there several times when visiting Solitude. I always admired those carven dragon heads on the bridge. Tell me, was this dragon much like those?”

“Very like, only this dragon’s head was larger.”

“Larger? And how did it compare to the one above me here? This is the skull of Numinex, the dragon that was imprisoned in Dragonsreach by my predecessor of long ago, Olaf One-Eye.”

I looked at the skull, trying to imagine how large it would appear when covered with flesh and scales. “Larger, I believe, Jarl Balgruuf.”

He thought about that for a moment. “And what were you doing in Helgen, Deirdre? Were you there with your parents?”

“My parents died three years ago, sir. I live on my own now. I was … just passing through Helgen when the dragon attacked.”

He looked at Avenicci and then at Irileth, then back at me. “Something else was happening in Helgen that day. Did you see anything out of the ordinary before the dragon attacked?”

“I was in the inn. Some Imperial soldiers came into town, and there was some shouting, but I didn’t pay it much attention. I was busy packing to leave.”

“And where were you headed?”

I said the first thing that came into my head. “Winterhold, Jarl Balgruuf. The college, I mean.”

He looked surprised. “Winterhold! Do you have some skill with magic?”

“A bit, sir. I want to learn more.”

He looked at the knapsack I carried. “And does it take you long to pack, Deirdre?”

Avenicci had been growing increasingly impatient with the jarl’s lengthy questioning, fidgeting and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was balding, and dressed in fine garments from Cyrodiil. Now he spoke up. “What if we told you that Ulfric and a band of his Stormcloak brigands were scheduled for execution on that morning? And that Ulfric escaped when the dragon attacked? Surely the whole town had turned out to view the spectacle. And you’re telling us you remained in the inn because you were too busy packing a small knapsack? Her story smells to Aetherius, my jarl.”

I tried to look at him as calmly as I could. I pretended I was the girl of three days before, the one who didn’t even know what a Stormcloak was. “Do you mean those warriors with the blue uniforms? Are they some sort of rebel war-band?”

“You mean you don’t know Skyrim is in the midst of a civil war with Ulfric and his Stormcloak traitors?” Avenicci frowned at me.

“I’ve been living in the wilds of Cyrodiil for the past three years. I’ve had no news of Skyrim in that time. When I heard the roar of the dragon, I thought to stay hidden in the inn. Then it set the inn on fire and I ran out into the street. A soldier was standing there. He said to follow him into the keep, so I did.” Then I told them everything I could of the dragon attacking, keeping silent on the fighting between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks and my part in it.

“You say the walls of Helgen couldn’t withstand the blasts of the dragon’s fire breath?” the jarl asked me when I was done.

I shook my head. “Many of the tower walls lay in rubble when we entered the keep. I can only imagine how much more the dragon destroyed after we descended into the caverns.”

“What do you say now, Avenicci? Do you still think our city walls will defend us if the dragon comes here?”

“Still, my jarl, this is no time for rash action. We need more information.”

“And that’s what this girl is giving us.” He turned to me again. “I’ve heard there are frightening things in those caverns – spiders and bears. How did you get past them?”

“I’ve survived on my own in the forests of Cyrodiil, Jarl Balgruuf. Frostbite spiders and cave bears hold little fear for me. I saw far worse things in the dungeons below Helgen.” I looked him square in the eye. Remembering the horrors of Helgen suddenly made facing a jarl seem a small thing. Did he know of that chamber of Oblivion beneath the keep, and the methods the Imperials employed on their enemies?

“You are a brave girl to have made it out of Helgen and through its caverns alive, Deirdre.  I thank you for bringing me this information. I had hoped you might have seen a weakness in the dragon’s defenses. Yet you say nothing the soldiers did seemed to harm it?”

“No, sir,” I replied. “They used arrows, bolts, fire arrows, and even a mage’s fire spells. Nothing seemed to slow it.”

“We will have our hands full then, if the dragon attacks us. Still, it is good to know what we are facing. You’ve shown initiative in coming here on your own. Avenicci, see that she gets a new set of studded armor as a token of our appreciation.”

“My jarl, I have to protest,” Avenicci said. “For all we know this girl was with the Stormcloaks when they escaped. She still hasn’t said which soldiers helped her out of Helgen. Maybe Ulfric sent her here as a spy.”

“Proventus,” said the jarl, “why must you always be so mistrustful? Does this girl look like a warrior, or a spy? She’s a Breton, too. Why would she side with them? And what could they hope to achieve, in any case?”

“They might learn what we know about the dragon. Or whether we plan to join the Imperials in the Civil War.”

“It’s no secret that I plan to stay out of the war. I’ve told both sides as much. And we know nothing of this dragon, what of it? No, I believe the girl speaks true. Now, Deirdre, was there anything else?”

“My jarl, someone did send me here – the people of Riverwood. When I passed there, they were in a panic about the dragon. They saw it flying over the town after it left Helgen. Also, there was a burglary at the Riverwood Traders. They request a detachment of guards to help protect them.”

“My jarl,” said Irileth. “We should send guards to Riverwood at once. They face the most immediate danger of attack. And a strong presence will deter thievery as well.”

“Jarl Balgruuf, this is just what the Stormcloaks want,” said Avenicci. “They would love nothing more than to see us weaken our defense of Whiterun by sending our fighters hither and yon. And Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath will view the massing of Whiterun troops on his borders as a provocation. He may conclude that we’ve joined the Stormcloak rebellion.”

“That’s enough, Avenicci,” Jarl Balgruuf snapped. “I will not sit idle while a dragon threatens any part of my hold. And I would rather fight the beast out in the countryside than here in the crowded streets of Whiterun. Can you imagine the carnage if the dragon attacked here? I will have those guards sent to Riverwood, understood?”

Avenicci knew he was beaten. “Yes, my jarl, as you wish,” he said, bowing and taking his leave.

“Now, Deirdre, the people of Riverwood can rest more easily, thanks to you. Your experience with the dragon may prove useful to us as well, should it attack here. Will you be staying in Whiterun long?”

“I’m not sure I could be any help with a dragon, Jarl Balgruuf,” I said, “unless your warriors need lessons in running from one.” He smiled at that. “Helgen taught me that I have much to learn. I was wondering … does your court mage need help? Or maybe an apprentice?”

“I see you still plan to pursue your interest in the arcane arts. It could be that Farengar needs help, I wouldn’t know. I’ve set him to learning as much as he can about dragons. It’s strange, he was already interested in dragon lore, and he’s beside himself with excitement now that one has turned up alive. He’s a prickly sort, though, and I can’t imagine he’d be a very good teacher. But feel free to talk to him. He’ll certainly want to hear your story.”

Balgruuf was right. Farengar Secret-Fire made me repeat every detail about the dragon, down to how big his scales were. “Dragons are such fascinating creatures,” he said. “I’d give anything to see one up close. You should consider yourself lucky.”

This one had a strange idea of luck. He was less interested in my desire to learn magic. “I’m no teacher,” he said. “You should go to the College of Winterhold. Old Tolfdir is a wonderful teacher, even if he does keep his students on a short leash. And you’ll meet people from all over Tamriel. Mirabelle Ervine is the Master Wizard, and she’s a Breton like you. You should fit right in.”

“But I have this spell tome,” I told him, digging through my knapsack and pulling it out. “And I don’t even know how to read it.” I had been poring over the book I had taken from Helgen Keep, but no matter how hard I concentrated, the runes would not reveal their secrets to me. “Are you sure you couldn’t just teach me this one spell?”

With his face hidden behind his dark mage’s hood, it was hard to read Farengar. I couldn’t even be sure where he was from. If I had to guess, I’d say he was from Cyrodiil. “Well, all right,” he said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on anyone with an interest in the arcane arts. Julianos knows, most Nords are too dense to understand their value. Here, let’s see that tome.”

I handed it over.

“Ah yes, Sparks. It’s one of the most basic Destruction spells in the lightning branch. Won’t really cause much damage, but it could distract an opponent enough to allow you to get away. Here, this rune means ‘lightning.'” There were only five runes to learn in the whole tome, so within a few minutes he had taught me the words behind the spell. “Okay, now give it a try, over on that wall. Just let the words pass through your mind, you don’t have to say them out loud. Eventually, you’ll be able to simply concentrate on the result you want, and the spell will come.”

I did as he said, holding my hands out toward the wall and thinking the words he had taught me. At first I felt only a tingle in my fingertips, then a few sparks flickered and died. Finally, I had a thin stream of sparks striking the wall. They made little black scorch marks where they struck, but the spell didn’t seem likely to defeat anything larger than a fly. Then the sparks flickered out as the last of my magic power drained away. I felt weakened.

If I thought it was a poor showing, Farengar was pleased. “Excellent!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “Most students need several tries to produce even a few sputterings. Come, you must have had some magic training before now.”

I told him about learning to produce flames on a cold wet night when I couldn’t get the kindling to light, though it was literally to save my life. I had concentrated so hard that the kindling burst into flame on its own. Eventually, I had gained partial control over it.

“Extraordinary!” Farengar exclaimed again. “Most people with magic ability find it popping up sometime in their teens, moving objects from a distance, setting things on fire by accident, that sort of thing. But few are able to channel that power into a spell they can use at will, unless they get training. I’d say you have an extraordinary gift for magic, like many Bretons. You should make your way to Winterhold as soon as you can.”

This was encouraging, but at that moment I was feeling drained from the spell, not to mention I hadn’t fully recovered from the ordeal in Helgen. “I was hoping to stay here for a time and rest. I could earn some gold for the trip to Winterhold, and I imagine the college will charge tuition. Are you sure you don’t have any tasks you could give me?

“Well,” he said, rubbing his cheek, “I suppose there are a few errands you can run. Here, why don’t you take these frost salts down to Arcadia on the lower level of Whiterun. Do you know her shop, Arcadia’s Cauldron? She may have some work for you too. Besides, Alchemy is one of the most important of the arcane arts for a young mage to master.”

I did know Arcadia, but she didn’t recognize me, fortunately. I couldn’t bear to repeat the story of my father just then. Also, I didn’t know what stories had been told about how my parents had died. I wouldn’t put it past those Nords to claim that I burned my home, then fled. No, it was better to keep my identity a secret for now. “Deirdre Morningsong,” I told her when she asked my name. She had known me as Deirdre Silver-Tongue, and she didn’t make the connection now. She was just glad to receive the frost salts. Farengar had kept her waiting for them.

“Do you have any other errands,” I asked her, “or chores around the store I could help with? I’d love to learn something about alchemy as well.”

“There are always town boys available for simple deliveries,” she said. “But if there are instructions that go with the potion, they sometimes get confused. I don’t suppose you know anything about the different kinds of flowers, or how to tell the difference between a luna moth and a blue butterfly?”

I grinned. “I’m just the girl for the job, ma’am.”

“Oho, you sound very confident. Can you tell me what these are?” She pointed to a glass jar filled with bright red flowers. After I had correctly identified ten flowers in a row, some of them in their dried state, she was satisfied. “I don’t have much time to collect ingredients for my potions, the shop keeps me so busy. But I can’t trust just anyone to gather items properly without getting them cross-contaminated. It will be wonderful to have your help. When can you start?”

We arranged that I would be paid a small amount of gold for everything I collected, and she would teach me potion-making as well. She even gave me space to sleep on the floor in the back of her shop.

I found Gerdur at the Bannered Mare and told her the news. She was glad for me, and thankful that the jarl would send a contingent of guards to Riverwood. “You will learn much from Arcadia, and even more if you go to the college. Ralof will be glad too. I had almost hoped you’d decide to come back to Riverwood. Ralof grew attached to you after your experience together at Helgen, you know. I’m sure he wishes you’d go with him to Windhelm.”

I didn’t know what to say. “I know,” I began, looking at the table in front of me. “I wish…” but my voice trailed off. I didn’t know what I wished.

“Do you know what he told me this morning before we left? He said that if he had been one of those boys in Dragon Bridge he would have taken on the whole town to defend you and your parents. That’s my brother – he always wanted to be the white knight protecting the innocent and undertaking dangerous quests. I think he sees you as a damsel in distress.” She smiled when she said that, as if she knew how foolish her brother could be.

I laughed. Me, a damsel in distress? I was the Girl the Nords Couldn’t Kill, the Girl Who Escaped Helgen. Surely, Ralof had helped me get through the keep, but I’d helped him too. What kind of girl did he think I was? “Give him a punch for me,” I said.

When we said our farewells in the morning, part of me did wish I was going back to Riverwood. It was the closest thing to a home I’d had in three years, even if only for a day. But I had a new life to begin. I told Gerdur I’d try to visit when Arcadia needed flowers that grew only in the mountains.

Helgen Keep

Ralof entered the keep and I followed. Inside, we found a hastily deserted guard-room. Chairs had been kicked aside and playing cards lay strewn across a table. In the center of the room lay a dead Stormcloak. She must have run into the room just before us, and then succumbed to her wounds.

Ralof groaned. “Oh, no, not Alva!” He went to her side and felt for signs of life. “There’s nothing we can do for her now.” He looked back at me. “Maybe you could use her armor. That tunic isn’t doing you much good. But first we need to get those cords off you.”

A workbench on the wall opposite held a scatter of weapons, as if a soldier had been polishing them before running out of the room. Ralof picked up one of the dirks and turned to me with it. He paused and gave me a grim smile. “As long as you promise you won’t slit my throat.” Then he carefully cut the cords binding my wrists. He had a closely trimmed beard with a three-day stubble on his cheeks. “Take what weapons you need, and then let’s see if Alva’s cuirass will fit you.”

“I thought you were trying to get rid of me back at the tower,” I told him as I rummaged through the gear. I stuck one of the daggers in my belt, and picked up the axe and a shield.

“No,” he said. “I was about to follow you when flames shot up on that side of the inn. I thought we’d sent you to your death. But I’m glad you made it.” He watched me taking a few practice swings with the axe. “You haven’t used one of those before, have you?”

I shook my head. “Only for chopping wood, but that’s a different kind of axe.” This one was heavier than the hatchets I’d used. I imagined chopping at people would be quite different.

We worked together awkwardly to get the cuirass off Alva, a task neither of us liked at all. “Just remember it’s not doing her any good,” Ralof said, as if reminding himself. “She would want it to help someone else get out of this mess.”

When we were done, I put the armor on and found it only a bit too large.

We couldn’t go back out the way we had come in, not with the dragon still smashing the walls to bits outside. The room had two other exits. The open doorway on the left wouldn’t do, since it led in the direction of the barracks Hadvar had entered. An iron gate barred the one to the right, beyond which there was a wide hall. “Ach, it’s locked!” Ralof exclaimed, rattling the bars. “There are steps leading downward at the end of that hallway.”

“Hadvar said something about tunnels beneath the keep,” I said.

Just then we heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall to the left, and the unmistakable commanding voice of the captain.

“Quick,” Ralof whispered. “Get under cover. We’ll take them by surprise, and just hope they aren’t too many.” I flattened myself against the wall next to the doorway. The captain was in the lead, followed by one soldier. They spotted Ralof first and didn’t stop to ask questions. Their single-mindedness was impressive – not even a dragon attack could keep them from killing Stormcloaks.

Ralof backed away from their onslaught, blocking expertly and keeping close to the wall. Still, they looked to be too much for him. Creeping up behind the captain, I aimed a blow at the back of her helmeted head. My aim was none too good, and the side of the axe glanced off her steel helmet. She wheeled on me, and in an instant I was backed against the wall, blocking slashes and thrusts as best I could with my shield. I barely deflected one thrust, and her blade grazed my temple, drawing blood. Then she bashed me with her shield, forcing me to one knee. I was off balance, leaning to my left with my weight supported by my shield. I raised my axe as a feeble defense against her next swing, but I thought it would be my end.

She never got the chance to make that killing blow. Her arm went limp before it could begin its downward arc, and a dazed, disbelieving expression came over her face. Pink foam burbled from her mouth. Then her eyes went blank and she dropped to the floor, Ralof’s axe buried in her back. The Nord had saved my life.

 “Are you all right, lass?” he asked, coming over to check on me. I nodded as he helped me to my feet. He took a cloth from inside his cuirass and daubed at my head wound. It was shallow but bleeding freely, dripping into my eyes. “Here hold this on that cut while I look for something to clean it with.” He found a flask of water dropped on the floor in the soldiers’ haste to get outside.

“I owe you my life,” I told him as he rinsed the wound.

He waved me off. “I was in a tight spot myself, until you distracted the captain. That was brave.” He tied the cloth around my head. “There, that should stop the bleeding. You were lucky though. You don’t have much battle experience, do you?”

I shook my head. “I used to play at sword fighting with the boys in our village, but that’s all.” I could remember the boys’ shouts now. “Come on DeeDee, play swords with us.” I just wanted to roam the woods and fields around Dragon Bridge, but the boys were my only playmates. “Come on,” they’d shout, “we just need one more to make it fair.” They meant they needed someone small like me. I took more than my share of bruises and scraped knuckles, but maybe I had learned something.

Ralof picked up the captain’s sword. “Here, maybe this would suit you better than that axe. And look, maybe one of her keys will open that gate,” he said, holding up a ring with several keys he had found in the captain’s satchel.

“We’ve got to keep moving,” Ralof said once he had the gate open. “Tullius and the rest of the Imperials could be on us at any moment.”

Just then the sounds of mayhem outside grew louder, with the dragon roaring and people screaming. Then there were shouts and the sound of many booted feet entering the barracks and the crashing rumble of walls being torn apart. The walls around the doorway where we had entered began to tremble, the mortar between the blocks of stone giving off puffs of dust.

We rushed into the hallway. “Wait,” I said. “Shouldn’t we lock that gate behind us?”

Ralof paused. “Ulfric and my comrades may still be alive out there and may need to come this way…” But there was no time to consider further as the wall around the entry door gave way in a cloud of dust and flame. “Quick, down those stairs!” Ralof shouted.

The rest of that awful day passed in a blur that I hardly remember. We fought from room to room, fortunate to encounter just one or two Imperials at a time. We used the same pattern of attack that had worked in the guard room. Ralof went first, then I launched a sneak attack, Ralof finished his opponent, then came over to help with mine. Along the way, I managed to fill a knapsack I had found with a good deal of loot – some potions and food from a store room, a few coins left lying about, and bits of armor and weapons from the dead or unconscious soldiers we left in our wake. Even in my dazed state I wasn’t about to let loose gear go to waste. Three years living from hand to mouth had taught me that much.

But amid the blurred details of that long, grim day, one room of Helgen Keep is burned into my memory. We were descending a stair when we heard low moaning coming through a doorway beyond.

“Deirdre, sneak up there and see who’s making that noise,” Ralof said. I did as he asked, though I no longer felt so stealthy in the heavy armor. I crept to the edge of the doorway and peered around. What I saw then, I hoped to never see again – in vain as it turned out. Cages hung from the ceiling, casting eerie shadows in the dim light of candles and braziers. Barred cells lined one wall, and iron manacles dangled from another, some clasped around the wrists of skeletons. The cages held corpses in various stages of rot. Some of the bodies had been disemboweled, their entrails hanging from the cages like silver snakes. Blood was everywhere, and the stench was over­whelming. I had to fight down a powerful wave of nausea.

The smell didn’t seem to bother the two wardens of this level of Oblivion. They were taking a break from their torturing, sharing a flagon of ale at a table in the center of the room, heedless of the destruction going on above. Fortunately, they were both facing away from me, toward the Stormcloak prisoners in their cages on the far wall. Amid all the gore and horror of that room, one absurd detail stood out, staying with me all these years. The gaolers were eating peaches. They had quite a pile of the pits between them, and now they were throwing them at the prisoners, laughing. The grim business of torture seemed just a schoolyard prank to these two.

Then I noticed movement coming from one of the cages. This was also the source of the moaning. The victim was rolling from side to side as if to escape his pain. When he shifted toward me I could just make out the blue of a Stormcloak’s uniform.

“Quit your moaning,” barked one of the torturers. He was a gaunt man with a pair of tongs and an awl looped into his belt. “You’re going to tell us all about Ulfric’s troops, numbers, placements, and what his plans were. The sooner you do, the sooner the pain will end. Meantime, shut up and let me enjoy my ale or I’ll hurt you again.”

“He won’t talk, you Imperial dog!” The speaker was in a part of the room I couldn’t see, but he sounded in much better shape than his comrade. “True sons of Skyrim don’t fear your coward’s tools.”

“That was Galmar Stone-Fist,” Ralof said when I crept back to him with the report. “He’s the marshal of Ulfric’s forces. He and a couple of Ulfric’s top commanders were with us when we were captured, but the Imperials must have brought them here ahead of us. We’ve got to save them.”

“All right,” I said. “But I think I have a better idea this time.” Some madness had taken hold of me. The Imperials would have beheaded me with no cause, and now to witness this pit of Oblivion … all I knew was that I wanted that torturer dead. And I had had enough of making inept swings with my sword, then hoping to defend myself until Ralof could rescue me. I set down the sword and shield, careful to avoid them clanking and alarming the torturers. Then I took the dagger from my belt. “Let me go first,” I told Ralof.

“Deirdre, are you sure you can do this? Those two could be tougher than the guards and foot soldiers we’ve met so far.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “I’ve practiced this a thousand times.” That much was true. I could creep up on animals in the forest, rabbits, squirrels, marmots and such, and get within striking range before they noticed me. I had also practiced with a group of thieves I traveled with for a time. We would sneak up on each other from behind, pull the victim’s head back and put a stick to their throats. I was successful nine times out of ten. For years I had imagined sneaking into Dragon Bridge and doing the same to my parents’ killers. Now this torturer would pay for his crimes.

Still, I thought, practice with a stick must be different than actually slitting a man’s throat. But I kept such doubts from Ralof. “Just make sure you get into the room quickly after I take care of  the first one,” I told him. He looked at me uncertainly, but nodded.

I crept back to the room. The Stormcloaks in the cages had turned their backs on their captors’ foolery, so I didn’t have to worry about them giving me away in their surprise at seeing me. I snuck toward the table until I was behind the nearest Imperial, making myself focus only on him. I knew if I looked again at the rest of that room’s contents, the horror might weaken my resolve. The stench was already threatening to overwhelm me with nausea.

With one practiced movement, I pulled the torturer’s head back with my left hand while I drew the razor-sharp dirk across his throat with my right. I could feel the blade passing through muscle and sinew and the more resistant windpipe, then the gush of hot blood on my hand. It was different than practicing with a stick.

The torturer slumped to the floor, gurgling and clutching his throat while I stared at him, shocked at my own deed. I had come to Skyrim to kill, and now I had succeeded. I watched as his struggle lessened and he finally lay still, and I felt only numb.

Fortunately, the other gaoler was just as stunned by my action, and that was his undoing. Ralof was halfway into the room as the torturer was rising from his chair; he swung his axe before the torturer could draw his sword. That quickly, it was all over. New blood atop old, layers and layers of it, how many years deep?

Now I just wanted to leave, but Ralof remembered his companions, who were shouting to be freed. I went to the room’s far door and used the cloth Ralof had given me to wipe the blood from my hands.

Soon Ralof had removed a key from the head torturer’s belt and opened all the cages. The two healthy Stormcloaks helped the third out of his cage and over to the table where they could look at his wounds while Ralof explained about the dragon.

“Gods, a dragon?” exclaimed Galmar. “How could that be?” He was an older warrior with long blonde hair and graying beard. He wore hardened leather armor rather than the standard Stormcloak uniform.

“You didn’t hear anything down here?” Ralof asked.

Galmar shook his head. “And what about Ulfric?”

Ralof explained that he had gotten separated from Ulfric and his companions when they escaped the first tower.

I watched all this from the doorway, wishing they would hurry. I wanted only to be out of that place, whatever this soldier’s wounds were. I wanted to forget what I had seen here, and what I had done. Meanwhile, Ralof was checking the rest of the chamber for useful gear. A knapsack and some coins lay on a table.

“They put our weapons in there,” Galmar said, nodding at chest against one wall.

Ralof found it locked, then checked the gaolers’ pockets for a key, with no luck. Neither did any of the captain’s keys fit it. “Deirdre, are you any good with a lock?” He held out a couple of picks he had taken from the satchel.

“I’ll try,” I said doubtfully. Considering that I had just shown myself to be rather an adept assassin, I don’t know why I was shy about my skill with a lockpick. I had never been comfortable as a thief, though I had stolen only to survive. I became skilled enough with a pick that the rustic locks the villagers of Cyrodiil used were no deterrent.

As it turned out, this one was even easier. Perhaps the gaolers thought strong locks were wasted when the prisoners were all behind bars. The lock turned with ease, and the lid of the chest swung open. Inside, I found more coins, several potions, and a book that appeared to be some sort of magic tome. Galmar came over and retrieved the Stormcloak weapons.

Finally the Stormcloaks had bandaged the wounded soldier as best they could. He had a cloth around his head to stanch the bleeding where the torturers had cut away most of his ear. His left hand was bandaged where they had used tongs to pry off two of his fingers. He had bled a lot and looked pale. I pulled one of the healing potions from my satchel and it seemed to revive him as he drank it down.

“Can you walk, comrade?” Ralof asked. “We have to get out of here. We’re not safe from the dragon even here.”

Galmar looked at the wounded soldier. “You go and scout ahead, we’ll follow as best we can.”

Even after we left that chamber, we could see that the connecting hallways and rooms were used for the same dark purposes, with hanging cages filled with skeletons and blood stains on the stone floor. I imagined the place full of prisoners screaming and moaning, and shuddered at the thought of becoming one of those captives myself. I doubted I would be as brave as Galmar had sounded back in his cage. But maybe he would have broken eventually, despite his brave words.

I was glad when we came to the end of those chambers, at a place where a masonry wall had been torn away to reveal tunnels beyond. Whether this passage was a natural feature of these mountains, or roughly hewn by human hands, I couldn’t tell. But here and there were stoneworks – support columns, archways, and stairs – that were vastly more ancient than the keep itself. The work looked to be thousands of years old, while the keep could only have stood a few centuries.

After a few twists and turns of the passage, we came to a stone archway and the sound of voices from the cavern within. More Imperial soldiers, arguing about whether they should investigate the noises they had heard from above or wait there as Tullius had ordered them.

“The general told us to stay here in case the Stormcloaks send a war-band up through these tunnels to rescue Ulfric,” said a commanding voice, “and that’s what we’re going to do!”

I peered through the archway to see that there were more Imperials this time, mostly archers, occupying a cavernous chamber with a stream flowing down the middle. There were stone supports for the ceiling and a stone bridge crossing the stream, but the rest was natural rock and earth, with mosses and hanging ferns growing from the walls. A natural skylight let in sunshine and snowmelt from somewhere above. It also let in the roars of the dragon still attacking Helgen.

When we had regrouped, we agreed that the wounded Stormcloak would remain outside while we took the room, where the Imperials were still arguing. “Deirdre, we’ll go first and get the attention of the main group down by the stream,” said Ralof. “But there are two archers on the opposite bank. You sneak over the bridge and take them out or they’ll shoot us like ducks on a pond.”

The three Stormcloaks went first into the room, sneaking at first, and then shouting as they charged the Imperials standing by the stream. Soon the clash of swords and axes filled the cavern. I sneaked over the bridge, keeping my eye on the two archers across the stream. They had their arrows notched, looking for open shots, but hesitated to risk wounding their comrades. From the sounds of the battle, the Stormcloaks were having no easy time of it.

The archers still didn’t notice me as I crept closer. How I wished I had my own bow and quiver of arrows! Then I saw that the archers were standing next to a long pool of oil on the floor, one of them with his feet right in it. I had heard about oil traps like this. The ancient Nords used them to safeguard their crypts, to the dismay of many a grave robber. The builders of Helgen must have kept this one filled to prevent enemies from coming up these tunnels and caves into the keep itself. But these archers had forgotten all about it, they were so focused on the battle below them.

Now how to light the oil trap? There were no candles or torches in this naturally lit chamber. The time had come, I knew, for my last, desperate trick. I put down my shield and cupped my hands in front of me. I concentrated as hard as I could on the word and idea and feeling of fire. My hands began to feel warm, there was a faint glow, and then … nothing.

“Deirdre, the archers!” Ralof shouted. One of the bowmen had taken a shot and was notching another arrow. I hoped he hadn’t hit one of the Stormcloaks, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I concentrated harder.

Why wasn’t anything happening? It had worked before … sometimes. I didn’t know how it worked or why it worked or how to make it work every time, but I knew if I just concentrated harder, it had to happen. I tried again, concentrating, thinking and whispering and feeling fire. My hands began to feel warm again, and warmer still, then they began to glow, and suddenly a jet of flame was flowing from them. I aimed it at the pool of oil. It caught fire and went up in one whoomp! of heat and light and black smoke. Flame engulfed the first archer, and his screams were terrible to hear. He dropped his bow, running from the fire as far as he could go, but there was no escaping. The cloth of his tunic had caught and it wouldn’t go out. Finally he slumped to the ground and was silent.

The second archer hadn’t been standing in the oil, and he stepped farther back before the flames reached him. But now that the smoke and fire obscured his view of the melee, he couldn’t get in a shot. Finally, when the smoke and flame died down, he faced three armed Stormcloaks just a few feet from him. He didn’t even have time to drop his bow and draw his sword.

“I yield,” he shouted. “I plead mercy, by the warrior’s code.”

Galmar stepped forward, ready to strike with his axe. “Like the mercy you Imperials were showing us in that torture room? I spit on your mercy.”

The Imperial cowered, but Ralof put a hand on Galmar’s arm before he could strike. “Wait, Galmar … my captain. He’s a Nord too. Maybe he’ll join our side if we give him a chance.”

Galmar turned on Ralof. “You dare question me, Ralof? You’re just a pup. Get out of my way.”

“Or maybe he could be worth something to us alive. Maybe we could trade him. The Imperials could have recaptured Ulfric for all we know.”

That gave Galmar pause. “Well, by the great god Stuhn, maybe you’re right, ” he said, scratching his beard. He turned to the third soldier. “Find something to bind him with. I’ll go see if Eimar can walk on his own now. And you two,” he said, gesturing to Ralof and me, “scout on ahead and see what other horrors this day has in store for us.”

I grabbed the captured soldier’s bow and quiver, and followed Ralof into the next tunnel. He stopped me when we got away from the others. “What you did back there … was that … magic? Are … are you a mage?” It was dark in the tunnel but I knew I would see fear in his eyes if the light were better. Just as there had been fear in Osmer’s eyes that day three years before.

“I don’t know what I am,” I told him. “I don’t know what it is, or how I do it, but I guess it must be magic. I can’t always get it to work though.” He didn’t respond, and I could tell he was still afraid. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t hex you. And I haven’t blown myself up yet.”

“Well,” he said at last. “We Nords don’t much like magic, it’s true. But I’ve heard the Jarl of Whiterun keeps a mage, and Ulfric even hired one at Windhelm, so it can’t be all bad. Without your magic, we might all be dead back there. That was a good move.” He clapped me on the shoulder as if I were one of his hirth-fellows. “Come on, let’s find the way out.”

As we descended another flight of stairs to a lower level of the cavern, we heard a loud crash behind us. The rock walls of the tunnel exploded inward blocking the passage. When the slide had settled, we could hear the roar of the dragon from far above. Whatever he had done up there must have triggered this cave-in.

“Well,” Ralof said grimly. “We’re not going back that way. The others will have to find their own way out. Maybe they’ll join up with Ulfric.” He turned and continued down the stairs. They ended at a path that rejoined the riverbank.

From here on, the tunnels of Helgen offered little to challenge a girl used to living on her own in the woods. One chamber was filled with frostbite spiders. I probably could have gotten past without bothering them, but I knew Ralof in his creaking leather and mail would attract their attention. I drew my bow and had the three small ones down before the two mother spiders descended from the ceiling. These were average for frostbite spiders, about the size of a large hound, but rounder and with more legs. I took out one while Ralof dispatched the second with his axe.

“Ugh,” he said as I collected my spent arrows. “I hate spiders. Too many eyes, you know?”

After that, we spotted a bear in a large cavern. Ralof didn’t have to tell me to try sneaking around it. I just hoped he could follow his own advice. I crept ahead and the bear just dozed on. But the bear stirred when Ralof followed, and I thought we would have to fight. I stifled a groan. Not another thing to kill! Besides, I liked bears. No bear had ever bothered  me, which was more than I could say of men. But this one just rolled over in its sleep and I let Ralof push ahead while I made sure the bear stayed asleep.

“Whew, that was close,” he said when I rejoined him.

“For you maybe,” I said, and for a moment I forgot he was Ralof, not Osmer. I punched him in the arm. “Clumsy Nord.” There was enough light in the mouth of the cave for me to see him grinning sheepishly. What had happened to all my plans for revenge?

*~*~*

We emerged from the tunnels of Helgen bruised, filthy, and exhausted. But fear was not done with us that day, for at that moment the dragon flew overhead, casting its immense shadow over us. We crouched, trembling, under what small bushes we could find. The dragon appeared not to see us, making a straight course down the valley, finally receding to a tiny dot in the sky before rounding the shoulder of a mountain.

“I think he’s gone for good,” said Ralof. He looked around, peering back in the direction of Helgen. “There’s no telling where Ulfric and the others got out, if they got out at all. And the Imperials will be storming the hills soon, looking for any escapees.” He looked uncertain for a moment, and then turned to look at me. “We need to get down to Riverwood. That’s the most likely direction for the others to head. My sister Gerdur lives there, and I’m sure she’d help you. Soft beds, hot food and some strong ale would put us both right.”

I hadn’t needed anyone’s help in three years, but I couldn’t deny the appeal of a home-cooked meal and an actual bed. I didn’t remember what a mattress felt like, and all I had in my knapsack were a few cabbages and carrots pilfered from a storeroom in the keep. If Ralof knew the way to food and a bed, I was with him. The road led downhill toward a deep valley carving through the mountains.

Weary though I was, I couldn’t help noticing how beautiful these forested mountains were. It was a lot like Dragon Bridge, only more so – the mountains taller, the streams merrier, the forest more verdant. The pines and cedars along the road exhaled their tangy scents to the warm afternoon breezes. It was good to breathe fresh air after hours in the bowels of Helgen Keep. Boulders dotted the forest everywhere, some as large as houses, and farther up the slopes ramparts of stone rose to the highest summits, still clad in snow this late in summer.

Soon our road joined the course of a river, the water playing merrily over the stones and falls on its way down the valley. Countless birds sang out from every bush and tree. Butterflies flitted from sunlight to shade. Flowers were out in their summer profusion – red columbines, blue asters, purple clover, orange paintbrush, yellow wood poppies. The bees buzzed happily, and I couldn’t help thinking of honey dripping over good bread, hungry as I was. I thought of my childhood too, when all I’d wanted was to roam the forests and fields, looking at the flowers and learning their names, listening to the birdsong and feeling the sun on my face. But then thinking of my childhood made me think of my parents, and I knew I would never be that carefree, innocent girl again – not after what had happened to them, and not after the events of this day.

We rounded a bend in the road and Ralof pointed at an old ruin high on the mountainside across the river. Its gray stone archways soared into the sky like the steepled fingers of two hands growing from the mountain itself. “Bleak Falls Barrow,” Ralof said. “When I was a boy, that place always used to give me nightmares. Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb in my window at night, that kind of thing. I admit, I still don’t like the look of it.”

The beauty of the country had made me forget for a while the dark events of the day, but now they came rushing back. Suddenly the sunny afternoon didn’t seem quite so bright. The dragon had disappeared quickly, and who was to say it wouldn’t return just as fast?

Ralof must have noticed how somber I’d become because he turned to look at me then. “Were those the first men you’ve killed, lass?” I nodded. “Aye, I know how you feel. My first time – it was awful. The soldiers I killed would haunt my dreams – they still do, sometimes. Of course, some of the fighters are women, and that’s even harder. I hoped never to kill a woman, and now I have. Some of the older soldiers say you get used to it, that killing a person becomes as easy as killing an ox, but I’d hate to think that’s true. What kind of person can kill with no remorse?”

He looked harder at me then. “What do you think, Breton, do you still want to take your revenge on the Nords? You dispatched a good few today, Imperials too.”

I shook my head. It was hard to speak, partly because I was so unaccustomed to being with other people, partly because I no longer knew how I felt. It was ironic – I’d come to Skyrim seeking vengeance on the Nords, and now I owed my life to one. He seemed a decent person too. And the fighting, the killing – it wasn’t what I’d imagined it would be. The smell of blood and charred flesh, the gouts of gore spread on the ground, the screams of terror and pain. Worse, the look in the eyes of that dying soldier as she realized her end was coming, and then the light fading into a blank, sightless stare.

But worst of all was that torrent of rage that had come over me when I cut the torturer’s throat. My whole being rebelled against it now, even though the Imperials would have killed me without a second thought. It was just wrong, as killing my parents had been wrong. And my hatred for the Nords – was it any better than the Nords’ hatred for Altmer and Bretons and mixed bloods? I had come into Skyrim convinced of the justness of my cause, but now I didn’t know what to think.

“I think I’m done with killing,” I said finally.

“Well, I hope you get your wish, lass. I wish I could be done with it too. But it will be long before killing is done in Skyrim.” We both looked at Bleak Falls Barrow then, wondering how many more barrows this war would fill. With a shudder, we turned toward Riverwood.