Ahead, banners snapped in the wind: blue and white; bear and axe. Stormcloak colors, bright and proud against the dull rocky hills. Marcus stared at them without feeling much of anything.

He hadn’t carried much personal love for the Stormcloaks as an ideal, even last time, unless “kill as many Imperials as possible” counted as an ideal, and this second time in their ranks had only eroded what feelings for it he might once have held. What remained was a thin, stubborn desire for the war to simply be finished so he could stop walking, stop listening, stop being told where to stand and when to breathe.

Divines, this had been such a mistake.

The army stretched far ahead and farther behind, a long, uneven serpent crawling toward Whiterun’s walls. It was far too soon for this -- they don’t have enough men to take a fortified city, especially with the leader at the head of the column.

Jaunty rode as if the army his back was literally his. Or, rather, Dragonstomper rode that way.

It had been a week since Jaunty’s promotion and the name still sounded ridiculous. He’d been Benrad Gray‑Mane once, a soft‑handed officer with polished boots and a voice trained for speeches rather than commands. Now he was Dragonstomper, elevated by a victory he’d had nothing to do with, strutting atop a borrowed legend like it was his birthright.

As before, Marcus refused to acknowledge the new name.

The promotion had not improved Marcus’ life in the slightest. If anything, it had made things worse. Jaunty’s replacement at the company level – Dragonslicer, nee Privy -- had been selected not for competence, courage, or experience, but for devotion. He followed Jaunty’s words like scripture and enforced them with the zeal of a convert desperate to prove himself worthy.

Dragonslicer had decided Marcus was a “stability asset.” Which meant Marcus was always on supply duty or perimeter duty or latrine duty. No initiative. No deviation. No opinions. Marcus suspected the man saw him less as a soldier and more as a particularly useful piece of furniture.

He sighed and drifted sideways until he was closer to Bent, who had earned his own promotion and had an even stupider name.

Slammer marched with the same easy, heavy stride he always had, warhammer slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. The new name hadn’t changed the man, just the way others looked at him. Soldiers gave Slammer more space now, watched him out of the corners of their eyes. Promotion did that.

Marcus leaned slightly closer. “Still hate it.”

Bent didn’t look over. “Hate what?”

“That name. Slammer. Sounds like something you’d call a tavern door.”

Bent snorted. “Aye, well, it could have been worse. At least it’s sort of fitting. The two others who got promoted are Rockface and Bonehugger.”

Marcus laughed. “These stupid names are hard to come up with, it is true.”

They marched in silence for a few steps, the familiar comfort of shared irritation settling between them. Bent had been one of the few constants in Marcus’s time with the Stormcloaks. Names changed. Officers came and went. Bent was still Bent, even if the army insisted on calling him something else.

Marcus craned his neck to look behind them at the soldier trudging along. “You think this is enough?”

Bent’s eyes flicked toward him, then forward again. “Enough for what?”

Marcus didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

Bent exhaled through his nose. “Depends how you define ‘enough.’ Enough to die on the plains? Sure. Enough to scare the city? Maybe. Enough to take it clean?” He shook his head once.

Marcus nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

They fell quiet as Dragonslicer passed down the line, inspecting with exaggerated care. His gaze slid over Marcus without lingering. Satisfied. The stability asset was exactly where he’d been ordered to be.

When Dragonslicer moved on, Marcus spoke again. “I don’t even care anymore. That’s the worst part. Used to lie awake thinking about tactics, wondering how we’d win. Now I just want it done. Win, lose, burn the whole place down -- I don’t care.”

Bent grunted. “Careful. That kind of talk gets you a night in chains.”

Marcus shrugged. “Let them try. Maybe I’d get a decent sleep.”

Bent huffed a laugh, short and humorless.

Whiterun was the heart of Skyrim, a fist gripping the province’s lifeblood. Take Whiterun and the war tipped. Fail, and it dragged on until there was nothing left but bones and banners. They had barely managed to take it last time. This time, they were much less prepared.

Jaunty called a halt.

The column slowed, compressed, then stopped entirely. Marcus planted his feet and welcomed the stillness, even as his legs protested. Ahead, officers clustered, pointing, gesturing. Orders passed forward, then back.

Bent leaned closer. “You notice something?”

Marcus followed his gaze and saw Jaunty had dismounted. That alone was unusual – the fop preferred to be seen above the men, literally and figuratively. Now he stood with his officers, hands on his hips, staring toward the horizon like a man trying to look decisive.

Marcus squinted. “He’s about to give a speech.”

Bent grimaced. “Divines help us.”

Sure enough, moments later a horn sounded and voices called for attention. The army shifted, ranks straightening. Marcus fixed his gaze somewhere safely neutral and prepared to endure it.

He needn’t have bothered. They were close enough to the front to see Jaunty but, mercifully, far enough back to hear only the wind and the murmur of the others around them.

“Trust Jaunty to stop an army in middle of a march and give a speech no one can hear,” he muttered. Bent snorted in response.

When the speech ended, a cheer went up from the front and was repeated down the line, even from those who could not have heard it. Marcus did not join in.

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Start from the beginning

It started with the restrictions on Marcus’ daily sword practice, which Jaunty forbade the moment he saw them (“You are an archer! If you still need more practice, work on that!”). Marcus tried to get around this command by getting up early, while Jaunty was still asleep (their patrols never got moving until the sun was well up and stopped well before sundown; this made for a fairly short day in these mid-autumn weeks) but, as before, Jaunty had his spies, so the loophole was shut down.

Jaunty very nearly lost his head when he tried to take the swords from Marcus. This probably would have led to a fight with the entire company and a sudden violent discharge from the Stormcloaks, but Privy, Jaunty’s second in command, talked the fop out of it (“He might need swords if an enemy gets too close.”)

The salt flats stretched out in every direction, a blinding white wasteland beneath a pale sky. Marcus trailed behind the company as they marched (well, more like ambled – they were Stormcloaks, after all, and from Company D, at that, so there was nothing akin to “marching” going on in their vicinity, beyond, perhaps, ants in some nearby ant hill). He held his bow in loose hands, his swords strapped across his back. The monotony of the flats made him restless and his mind drifted to memories of another life, another body, and a certain battle on these very plains.

He laughed a little at himself. He had warned Bent about patrolling this area, some weeks ago, but, of course, nothing had come of it – at this date last time, she and Bent and the rest had barely been sworn into the Stormcloaks. They were still nearly three months away from that fateful day; the day she had faced her first…

“Dragon!”

The word sent a jolt through Marcus and he swiveled his head. Sure enough, the familiar form of a dragon was screaming out of the west toward the also-familiar partially built house. Without hesitation, Marcus dropped his bow and started to run forward, swords already half out of their scabbards. At last, his time had come! He would take on the dragon, just as Trendil had before, and prove himself. Even Jaunty would have to…

“Marcus!” The officer’s voice cut through the clamor. Jaunty was resplendent in his tailored armor, his hair oiled and his face set in a permanent sneer. “Get back with the archers. You’re not a frontline fighter. I don’t want you anywhere near that thing.”

Marcus glared at him, frustration boiling over. “I can help! I’ve done this before!”

Jaunty’s eyes narrowed. “You can help by following orders.”

“I…”

“You’re an archer because I say you’re an archer. You want to play hero, do it on your own time. Today, you follow orders.”

“But…”

Marcus was interrupted by a boom, so loud it rattled his teeth. Or maybe they just hurt because he was grinding them together in frustration. In the near distance, the dragon’s wings froze mid-flap; it seemed to hover in the air for a moment, then it hurdled to the ground. The impact shook the flats, and just like that, the fight was over.

Sure, there was still a little to do - the beast thrashed, tail lashing, claws gouging the earth. Squads A and B rushed in, swords flashing, while Marcus watched, helpless. A woman with dark hair dressed in fur armor held the dragon’s attention, doing something – probably a shield spell – whenever the dragon loosed its flame while the others hacked at the beast. A sandy-haired woman – Holo, Marcus remembered, the wife of the crafty khajiit who had trapped the dragons last time - drove ice into its side. The dragon roared, flopped, then fell still, and Marcus had to acknowledge how impressive the takedown had been. Even she and her Company at their strongest would have been hard pressed to match that time.

Jaunty nodded, his face smug. “See? Sometimes the best thing you can do is stay out of the way.” He sauntered toward the remains of the dragon, presumably to take full credit for the kill, and Marcus bit down the retort he so longed to verbalize and began to turn away, but then stopped and turned back.

He watched as the strangers – now that the dust had settled, Marcus saw three more, two orcs and a human in College Mage robes – talked with Jaunty and the khajiit. There was something familiar about the dark-haired woman, but her face had been turned away, so he couldn’t…

Then she turned and started walking toward the building with the orcs, the mage, and Kra’aft and Holo, and Marcus’ heart skipped a beat. It was one of his sisters; he was sure of it. Probably Aithne, although why she was dressed like the orcs and not in College robes, he could not guess. He called out to her but was too far away to be heard, so he started running toward the building, only to be stopped once again by the returning Jaunty.

“I see you are still full of energy. That’s good! And I have more good news for you – you get to use those swords after all! Get over to the dragon and chop off its head. We’re going to bring it back to Windhelm.”

“I will in a moment, first I need to…”

“What you need to do is follow orders or I’ll have you put in chains! You’ll spend the rest of the war in prison! You are on your last warning, Cuss!”

Marcus thought over his options. Killing Jaunty would solve one of his problems but would create several more, beginning with the follow-up necessity of killing the rest of the company, who would surely not take an enlightened view of the situation. The only other option was galling but, really, the only one he had.

As he turned and made his way toward the dragon, he tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that it wouldn’t have really mattered had he been able to talk to Aithne - it wasn’t as if he was free to go with her, nor did he have any useful information to give her. Whatever else he had managed to do in this iteration of Skyrim, making progress on his primary tasks was last on the list of accomplishments. 

Needless to say, his halfhearted attempts at self-consolation served only to deepen his depression. Not for first time, he cursed himself with bitter breath for choosing this path. Not for the last time, he vowed to find a way to make it work anyway.

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Start from the beginning

Fifty-one days earlier, she and Marcus had met in the very earliest hours of the morning on the outskirts of the city of Dragonstar and fled together to the south. Ten days later, they had passed through the gate into Skyrim. Thirty-two days after that, they had arrived in Riften and nine days later, on the very day her dress was finished, they had wed in the Temple of Mara.

On Fredas, the nineteenth of Hearthfire in the year 201. The happiest day of Trendil’s life.

Now, once again, it was Fredas, the nineteenth of Hearthfire in the year 201, and Cuss’ life was in shambles, very much akin to the remains of Company E as they straggled through the gate into the city. Of the fifty men sent out, only eight returned, all of them badly injured. Two of them died before the healers could get to them.

The disaster was compounded by the loss of Galnar, who, just like last time, had led the company tasked with retrieving the crown. The survivors weren’t sure of his fate; they had all been left for dead by the Imperials and had come to their senses long after the Imperials were gone, taking the twin prizes of the crown and Galnar, whether dead or alive, with them.

It was a disaster on every level. The tiny bright side was that it gave her a conversational starting point with the catters. On the other hand, catting was the last thing they wanted to talk about.

“They’re saying they’ve never seen anything like it.” Haan, the brother of one of returned soldiers, had everyone pinned to his every word and was clearly lapping up the attention.

Cuss had known the final challenge in Korvanjund would prove difficult for the Company, but this… “King Borgas was that tough?”

“Aye, Borgas was tough! They were having a hard time with him, it is true. But that wasn’t what destroyed the company.” Haan leaned forward as if about to spill a great secret, and the entire inn, it seemed, leaned with him. “It was a she-devil! That’s what they’re saying, anyway.”

Someone called out, “What was a she-devil?”

“The creature that decimated Company E! Aren’t you listening? Those fucking Imperial bastards knew they couldn’t beat our men, so they must have conjured it.”

Another voice: “What is a she-devil?”

Haan glared. “How would I know? I wasn’t there. That’s just what the survivors call her. ‘It wore the guise of a naked woman but its skin was pitch black, it had ears like a cat, and its eyes glowed red like flame.’ Probably a succubus or some other type of lesser dremora.”

Cuss frowned. “Not a succubus. I have fought those, and other types of dremora, but never one that looked like that description.”

Haan tossed Cuss a sneer. “Aren’t you the braggart? Well, I don’t pretend to know all the types of the bloody things. I’m just telling you what the survivors are saying. I think it was a ghost, personally.”

“A ghost?!” someone yelled out.

“Aye! My brother says he got it right in the side with his axe. But…” he leaned forward again, and the rest of the room leaned with him again, “…he says the axe passed right through it, like it was made of smoke! Then it turned and stabbed him in the gut.”

Cuss’ frown deepened. “Wait, it stabbed him? It had a weapon?”

“Of course, fool! You’ve never heard of daedric weapons?”

“Not in the hands of a lesser dremora.”

“Then I guess you don’t know that much after all. It had a flaming black sword that cut through armor like butter and could push a grown man backward with a single sweep without even touching them.”

Another voice called out, “What about Galnar?”

“The way I hear it,” Hann replied, this time leaning back in his chair like a magus imparting wisdom (whatever else he was, the man knew how to hold an audience), “he was still alive when they took him. They made sure of it because…” a pause as the entire room leaned forward even more, “…they’re going to feed him to the she-devil!”

Cuss shook his head as the rest of the room gasped in shock, then stood up with an abrupt enough motion that it splashed some drinks, muttered apologies as he dropped coins on the table, and left the tavern. He needed to think.

The relative quiet of the night was a welcome balm as the door to the tavern closed behind him. He paused a moment, considering, then went to the market to purchase a jar of snowberry jam (the jam on bread had become Cuss’ favorite snack since the vendors had opened their stall two weeks ago) and a loaf of flaky bread, then moved on to the empty practice yard, sat, and ate as he tried to wrangle his thoughts.

Last time, the Imperials had made it to Korvanjund first, although they had not progressed very far; they had only made it about a third of the way through by the time Trendil’s company had swept past on the way to claiming the crown. And the Imperials certainly had not produced any dremora. Of course, the fact they had shown up this time proved the communication between the two sides of the war was intact, just as last time. It was frustrating to be part of a military where it seemed the “spies” encompassed the entire leadership.

“Espionage made easy.” Cuss shook his head, frustrated, as he brushed the last of the breadcrumbs from his legs, then stood, pulled out his swords, and began Form One. He always thought best while practicing, and now was the time he needed to think at his best.

He had rejoined the Stormcloaks so he could change things; could force the army to make better decisions. Instead, he was stuck on the lowest levels of the hierarchy, able to affect things only in the most oblique ways.  He tried to think what his mother would have done but that was a practice in futility – Melissa would have eschewed the Stormcloaks and simply gone on an Imperial hunting trip. She would probably have won the war for the Stormcloaks in the process just by exterminating a large portion of their enemies.

Cuss cussed at himself again at the thought, then continued his litany of bad words as his agitation made him mistime the âj beewmeb that should have completed the form. He sighed and reset; missing one part meant doing the entire thing over. Trendil hadn’t made such a mistake since she was fifteen, and Cuss was very very glad his mother was not there to see it. Or any of the other mistakes Trendil had made, starting with sneaking away in the first place. He wished he could start again, could make different choices. And the fact that he had had exactly that opportunity and had chosen so poorly the second time was a thorn he would only be rid of if he somehow found a way to turn everything around.

He just couldn't think what that somehow might be.

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Start from the beginning

“Ah, Francis. Have a seat, won’t you? Care for a drink?”

“I…thank you, Uncle.”

“Of course. You are my favorite nephew. Have I ever told you that? It is true. Here.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“How is your mother?”

“I…she is fine. She said to tell you the pot is pitch black. Whatever that means.”

“Of course she did. Do not fret, it is just a childhood joke between the two of us, stemming from her jealousy of me. It is not important. I suppose you have heard the rumors about our plans to use the war to take over several key mines throughout Skyrim?”

“Yes! Lies that I have been stamping out whenever I hear them!”

“Ah. I appreciate your zeal, Francis, but, as it happens, that rumor is true.”

“I…what?”

“If I ever find out who leaked our plan, I’ll give him the same thing I gave that skeever!”

“They probably won’t be small enough for you to squish under your boot.”

“Shut up, Francis! This rumor is a disaster. Now the Silver-Bloods have allied with the Battle-Borns against us and even the Back-Briars have been complaining to father. The whole plan has fallen apart and now I’m stuck playing soldier for who knows long.”

Out in the hall, Cuss smiled.

“It wasn’t me!”

“I know it wasn’t you, Francis. You have always been my favorite nephew. I like you more than my brothers, for that matter.” A sigh. “Well, maybe we can still go forward with the plan. When we get sent into the field, we can take the mines no matter who says otherwise and they won’t be in a position to stop us. At the very least, we can get our miners in there to pull out what we can before we’re forced to give them back. And maybe we can ransom them back.”

“As you say, Uncle.”

“It’s not like we could have put the plan in place yet, anyway. Not while the army is just sitting around here in Windhelm.”

“Maybe things will get moving when the Jagged Crown is found?”

“If it really exists, maybe. It is the kind of thing commoners like to rally around, after all. That’s why they’re so easy to lead – they see a crown, they start kneeling. Still, if it does exist, the Company that retrieves it will likely be rewarded. Including a promotion for its leader.”

“So you believe your Company will be the ones chosen for this honor?”

“Of course, my Company. Who else is qualified? Mine is the only one that has practical experience! The others just ‘practice’ while we have been putting our lives on the line every single day guarding the walls!”

“I…would have guessed Company C, but they’re on a patrol right now. As I should know, since I’m supposed to be with them. And I think Galmar wants this done as soon as possible.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Francis. I needed you here so I pulled some strings. I wish you would just apply to transfer to Company D.”

“I can’t, Uncle. You’re the one who told me we need at least one Grey-Mane in every Company and I’m the only one in C.”

“Yes, I noticed. Strange how that worked out. There were supposed to be five other Grey-Manes in Company C but somehow they mysteriously got re-assigned.” A snort. “Bloody Battle-Borns.”

“Battle-Borns? They aren’t in the Stormcloaks – how could they have had anything to do with it?”

“Oh, my sweet innocent nephew. There are plenty of Battle-Borns in the Stormcloaks, just as there are many Grey-Manes in the Imperials. They use different names, of course, to keep up the public perception. But there is money to be made on both sides of this war and it would be foolish not to put yourself in a position to profit from both sides.”

“But…but the Battle-Borns…”

A sigh. “Okay, I’ll tell you the secret because I trust you. You have earned the right to know. But you must swear not to tell another soul.”

“Of…of course, Uncle!”

“When we all learned there was going to be a civil war, my father and Olfrid Battle-Born drew straws to decide which family would publicly side with which side of the war.”

“I…what?!”

“It is as I told you – there is money to be made here. Of course, we’re still against the Battle-Borns because we want to make more money than they do, but it’s not the all-out fight you have been led to believe.”

“But we were told…”

“Yes, I’m sorry, nephew. Obviously, this had to be kept secret from even the…more distant relatives. The more ears to hear, the more mouths to speak, as they say. I am taking a big risk in telling you, for this very reason.”

“I won’t tell anyone!”

“I know you won’t. That’s why you have always been my favorite nephew. Which brings me to why I pulled you from your patrol. For which, you are welcome, by the way – I can’t imagine how boring those must be.”

“I…no, I enjoy them.”

“Do you.” A sniff. “Anyway, I need you to find out who spilled our plan to use the war to take over the mines.”

A pause.

“I…how do I do that?”

“How should I know? Figure it out! Go…talk to the commoners, ask them who told them, then go find that person and ask the same thing. It had to leak from someone – follow the chain upward and find out who.”

“I…of course, Uncle. I will find out for you.”

“I know you will.”

Another pause.

“Well?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you waiting for? Go!”

“Oh! Of course! Sorry, Uncle.”

Footsteps, then the door opened and Wooly stepped out, paused a moment, then turned left and hurried down the hall while the door closed behind him and Cuss’ smile turned into a wide grin.

****************

This is just a divider, there is more below

****************

It was not Company A, C, or D that had the honor of accompanying Galmar to reclaim the Jagged Crown; the former two because they were on patrol, the latter because…well, they were Company D. Cuss watched from his spot on the wall as Company E passed through the gate and over the massive causeway linking the city to the road with mixed feelings.

On the one hand, the war was progressing much faster than before – they were still over a year and a half away from when the crown was captured last time. WIth it, recruiting would skyrocket. If it was anything like last time, at least. On the other hand, Cuss was stuck on this stupid wall while others did the real work.

The crown had been Trendil’s second big achievement leading to her second promotion. Cuss had not even had the opportunity to get his first one. And there was the question of whether Company E would even succeed - last time, Trendil had been there to fend off the Shouts of the king-turned-draugr at the end. Cuss doubted anyone in Company E could accomplish the same.

Cuss sighed as the last row of soldiers passed under the gate. He had accomplished his first two goals, at least after a fashion – Jaunty’s mine scheme seemed dead in the water and the Stormcloaks were on their way to pick up the Jagged Crown. Even if Cuss wasn’t personally being recognized for them, all that really mattered was that they were done. The goal was to finish the war as quickly as possible, not pile as many lauds as possible on himself.

Still, it would have been nice to be able to take a more active role.

The next step was Whiterun. Last time, she and Bent had found a weak spot in their defenses that they were able to exploit. That same spot would likely still be there, but it would be much harder to get someone to listen to him on that topic – songs about weaknesses in walls were probably not going to be enough! He would have to find a way to get it done on his own. After some thought, he decided the best place to start was to get to know the engineers. If he had them on his side, maybe he could convince them to knock down that particular section of wall.

He wasn’t sure how to accomplish the part after that, but that was for another time – once he was able to get the engineers on his side, he would worry about the strike squad needed to exploit it. One step at a time, he was going to win this bloody war. No matter what it took.

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Start from the beginning

Cuss stood on the wall and looked out over the parapet toward the hill that blocked the view to the salt flats. Somewhere out there, Whip was leading a company with Bent in it. If things went as they had, they would be facing a dragon and then come upon a company of Imperials. Last time, Lint had been there to make sure (almost) everyone came out alive. This time, Cuss was stuck on the walls hoping Bent returned. He had never thought of himself as the “worried woman waiting at home” sort, yet here he was, waiting and worrying.

The one positive about being arbitrarily assigned to be a bowman was that he did not have to work the gate. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he was forced to be the one who accosted women for carrying weapons or, divines forbid, trying to get home.

Somewhere in the city, a horn blared a single note, and Cuss sighed a breath of relief. Their shift was over – now he could get back to real work. He headed down the stairs, across the front courtyard of the city, then down a street that led toward the Gray Quarter. Just before he got to the slums, he stopped at a particular door and entered.

The Hidden Pearl was a very niche brothel catering to particular tastes. It sat just on the edge between the slums and the “good” side of town and serviced customers from both. It was the one place where all were equal because all were incognito.

Cuss was shown to a private curtained off room where he stripped and put on the hood that all clients were forced to wear. It had holes for eyes, nose, and mouth; all else was covered and all hair had to be tucked in. He was then led to the rarest of things: an indoor hot bath. He sat in the water while naked attendants washed him all over. His now-familiar-yet-still-alien cock sprang to attention like an eager puppy and pulsed as those soft hands rubbed soaped and scented cloths over him, but fortunately did not spout off, even when gentle fingers gave it its own thorough cleaning.

Once finished, he was led to the massage room, where he lay on his back on a heated padded table. The next table over, only two arms’ reach away, carried a portly man with a distinctive tattoo on his left shoulder, and Cuss smiled – this night had cost him every gold piece he had, but it had been worth it; the man he had wanted to talk to was there, just when Cuss’ contact had said he would.

Of course, he couldn’t just start chatting. As soft oiled hands began to knead his shoulders, he started to hum a familiar inn tune. He added his own lyrics as the hands moved to his chest.

“There once was a hero name King Borgas, Who ruled over Skyrim in times now long past.

He wore a crown so jagged and fine, It is still whispered of through ages of time.

But then he was silenced, was King Borgas, When the Wild Hunt proved too much for his ass.

The War of Succession was ended that day, but his body was rescued and spirited away.

The ages have passed and history has shown, that time has a way to erase what was known

It doesn’t matter who lost or who won, Because now the crown rots inside old Korvanjund.”

Cuss was glad the song ended there because the soothing hands reached his cock at that point and Cuss stopped wondering if his target had received the message because the sensation overwhelmed every other sense in his body.

He might have come right then, but the woman, as if sensing his nearness, backed away and, with a tap on his shoulder, motioned for him to turn over. He did so with trepidation  - the massage had felt so good, he had nearly forgotten the reason this place was so exclusive, but now he remembered. Unfortunately, he could not back out now.

He lifted his hips and brought his knees forward and spread at her light promptings until he was splayed out, ass in the air, then braced himself. Again, she seemed to sense his concern because her voice whispered in his ear, “Relax. It will feel better. I promise, you will like it.”

Cuss tried to follow her advice, but when the warm and slick device started to push into his anus, his muscles went into survival mode and he tensed every muscle he had. The device continued inexorably inward despite his body’s best efforts, pushing against and then past his sphincter and further inside.

There was a moment of stillness where all Cuss could do was pant in growing panic, then the device began to hum and vibrate. He was caught off guard at the feeling, nearly surprised right out of being afraid. After a moment, the thing in his ass added movement; just a little back and forth, then gentle presses to the walls.

It grew warm. Not hot, just a comfortable heat that blended with the vibrations and the movement and, in moments he didn’t notice, Cuss had forgotten his fear. It was replaced by a burgeoning heat of his own and his cock sprang back to life as if beckoned. He arched his back, suddenly wanting the device to push a little harder, hum a little heavier and, as if in response to his thoughts, it obliged.

Soon he was panting like a dog in heat and, when the woman’s warm slick fingers unexpectedly wrapped themselves around his cock and began stroking, he came in an instant. It was the most intense orgasm he had ever had, in this body or her other, and when it was over, seconds and lifetimes later, and the machine had pulled out of him, he collapsed onto a bench covered in his own spunk and could do nothing but breath ragged gasps for the next five minutes.

A few minutes later, as he relaxed in the tub again while attempting to reconcile this experience with…well, everything, the other man waded into the water and sat on the opposite side. There was a long silence that felt oddly like a kindred – as if they had gone through something together and come out triumphant. It was a ridiculous feeling, yet there it sat.

“That song you sang.” The man cleared his throat. “Where did you hear it?”

“I don’t remember. A Bard was playing it at one of the inns. It caught my attention because of the tune.”

The man laughed. “Yes, old King Borgas reduced to a parody of Ragnar the Red.” A pause. “I wonder if it’s true, though.”

Cuss shrugged. “I could not say. It has just been stuck in my head, and I was so relaxed from the massage, I started singing it. I apologize if it bothered you.”

“No no, it was fine. I just…if it is true…”

The man trailed off and Cuss smiled behind his hood. His mark had taken the bait. Surely he would report it to his lover. And his lover, the one and only Galmar Stone-Fist, would relay the news that the Jagged Crown had been found, and the war would once again be kicked into a high gallop.

And this time, Cuss would find a way to take full advantage.

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He sulked over a drink in the tavern, ignoring everyone around him. That is, until one of those everyones plopped himself down on the chair across from him.

“Hey, Dragonsnack! Why the long face?”

Bent’s familiar voice almost brought tears to Cuss’ eyes. His head snapped up and he just refrained from casting a flirty smile, twisting it at the last second to something more…well, manly. He hoped.

“Hello, Bent. I’m Cuss now, if you hadn’t heard.”

“Pfft. You’ll always be Dragonsnack to me.” Bent leaned forward and peered at Cuss. “How did you know?”

Cuss frowned. “Know what?”

“About the dragons. You mentioned them when we first met. Don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about - it’s why I call you Dragonsnack, for Divines’ sake!”

Cuss sighed. “I come from the future, except I was a woman and you and I were lovers and the commanding officers of the Stormcloak army. We were about to take Solitude and win this war when we, along with the rest of the world, were wiped out by dragons.”

A long pause, then Bent burst out in loud guffaws that rang through the room. “That was a good one! Hey Wooly, you need to hear this! Ahh.” Bent’s guffaws settled into chuckles as he sat back in his chair. “You have a great imagination, Dragonsnack. It’s fine,” he added as Wooly pulled out the chair next to him and sat. “You don’t have to tell me. I was just curious.”

Wooly looked from one to the other. “Curious about what?”

Cuss could not keep the bitterness from his voice. Not that he really tried. “About what your uncle Benrad aka Jaunty is going to do with all the money from the mines he plans to take over for your family.”

“Oh, you heard that rumor?” Wooly laughed. “There’s nothing to it. Benrad is just here because he is the youngest of the brothers and one of them had to join.”

Cuss seethed but did not respond.

Bent took a swing of his drink then tilted his head at Cuss. “You’re in his company, right? How is that going?”

“Very poorly. He has me shooting a bow because I’m ‘too short to be a swordsman.’”

“What? What a fool! Has he seen you fight?”

“No, he just assigns roles based on his own arbitrary measures and there’s no way to prove otherwise because we don’t train.”

“What do you mean, you don’t train?”

“Just what I said. We guard the walls for six hours, then our day is done. We don’t train or do group exercises to learn to work as a unit. If we ever get into a real battle, we will be massacred.”

Bent shook his head. “Wow!”

Wooly looked disturbed, which was just fine with Cuss, who tried not to glare at the traitor as he continued, “He’s even lazy about names. I’m ‘Cuss’ because it’s the second half of ‘Marcus.’ No thought put into anything with him. Except how to grab those mines, of course.”

Wooly’s disturbed look turned into a flash of anger. “I told you, he isn’t…”

“And I’m telling you he is.” Cuss matched Wooly’s anger, then added fuel to make it brighter. The room became silent around them as Cuss mentally pleaded with Wooly to attack. He had been wanting to kick that sanctimonious Grey-Mane ass for weeks!

“That’s enough, gentlemen.” Bent pressed cold drinks into each of their hands, using the opportunity to place his arms between them. “Dragonsnack, we can’t know Jaunty’s true intentions until he shows them. Until then, he is your commanding officer, so you owe him the benefit of the doubt. And Wooly…I’ve seen this man fight. Trust me – you do not want any part of him.”

“Bah!” Wooly snatched up his drink and left the table. Cuss did not watch him go.

“You’re pretty bent out of shape over this.”

Cuss snickered. “Nah, that’s your name. I just want to cuss him out.” They laughed together and Cuss took a large gulp of ale and the tension passed.

“How do the other members of the company feel about all this?”

Cuss shrugged. “That’s the worst part – they all seem to like it. Work – and I use that term loosely – for six hours then have the rest of the day off? It’s a great deal!”

Bent snorted. “For a miner or a barmaid, perhaps. That’s no way to run a military unit.”

“Exactly. I have tried to arrange training on our plentiful downtime but only a handful showed up to the first one and then, after Jaunty caught wind of it and went on a rant about it because it was ‘subverting his authority,’ that stopped.” Another shrug. “So I do my own training. It had been at least a decade since I last drew a bow, so I practice that.” As the new calluses on his fingers could attest. Basic weapon training to a certain competency level had been part of his early lessons, but he had hated the bow most of all. It was easier without breasts, though, he had to admit. “And, of course, my mother would kill me if I didn’t do my sword training daily.”

“Does she live around here?”

“No, she’s in Hammerfell.”

“Then how would she know?”

Cuss laughed, both at the question and at the echo of conversations long past. “She would know.”

Bent shrugged. “As you say. We’re going on our first patrol in a couple days – it will be good to get out of the city.”

“Heading into the flats?”

“Aye. How did you guess?”

Cuss shrugged. “Only three ways to go. I took a stab.”

“Well, as always, your stab was dead on. Aye, the flats then up into the Rift, then loop back along Darkwater.”

“Watch the skies in the flats. And be careful on the ridge – I heard there is an Imperial company skulking about around there.” Of course, that assumed Bent’s first patrol would match up with Cuss’ previous life. The time difference between the two already made his head hurt and this just conflagrated things – it was still over a month before they should have even been in the Stormcloaks and then there had been a nearly three-month period of training before their first patrol. It was as if this new world, too, was in a hurry to finish this war. It was the one thing New Skyrim and Cuss agreed upon.

And if that was the case, he realized with a dawning thought, perhaps there was a way for Cuss to help after all. There had been about a year and a half’s delay from the time she joined until the time the war finally got started, and the catalyst for that had been the finding of the Jagged Crown. The claiming of it had pushed Stormcloak recruitment sky high and Cuss knew where it was. Of course, no one would believe him, but that didn’t matter – all he had to do was get the whisper of its location into Galmar’s ears; Ulfric’s second-in-command would take care of the rest.

“Dragonsnack! Did you fall asleep?”

Cuss shook himself out of his reverie and gave a sheepish laugh. “Sorry about that. I got lost in thought for a moment. Say, I heard a bard sing a song a few days ago. Something about a jagged crown or something? Have you heard of that?”

Bent had, of course, as any good Nord would, and as he filled Cuss in on the details of King Borgas and the Wild Hunt, Cuss smiled. It was a small step forward, but at least it was a step. Now he just needed to find a way to take another.

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Bearmane’s voice rang around the room, but for the first time since Marcus had known the man, he did not garner everyone’s full attention. Even Bearmane could not upstage…

“Dragons are myths, there’s no way someone saw one. Stop spreading stupid rumors.”

“They say it was as big as a mountain!”

“My aunt’s best friend’s dog's former owner’s cousin’s friend saw one two years ago in…”

“Do you think we’ll get to fight one?”

All this and more babbled on around the room. The only ones not talking about it were Marcus and, somewhat unnervingly, Koren, who kept looking back at Marcus with speculative eyes. Marcus cursed himself for making the comment about dragons when they had first re-met. He didn’t need that kind of…

“SHUT UP ABOUT THE BLOODY DRAGON!!”

This time Bearmane got the attention he had been fighting for. He took full advantage.

“You are STORMCLOAKS! You are here to kill IMPERIALS and bloody POINTS! The only thing that matters right now is that, at this point, most of you would have trouble fighting a mudcrab, say nothing of a dragon. We’re going to change that starting right now, so let’s get back on task.

“Here is how this is going to work: you’re going to take the oath and get dressed in proper gear,” he motioned toward the long table, “then we’ll get to work. Right, fists over hearts, repeat after me."

The oath was the same (with the notable absence of the terms “and sisters” and “and daughters”) and it made Marcus just as uncomfortable to think this oath might really be binding him beyond death. Which, to be fair, had happened, in a way.

In most respects, the uniform gathering was the same as well. The first couple of men picked up their gear and then stood awkwardly holding it until Bearmane yelled at them to get dressed. This time, though, they just shrugged and did so.

It was strange. Much like with the feeling Marcus had had celebrating the killing of the sabrecats with Koren, the lack of two genders in the group removed some undertone, some secret tension or hidden edge, that was not noticeable until it was absent.

What it might mean, he couldn’t say. Perhaps the removal of the interplay between woman and man helped cement the male bond; perhaps it removed a distraction, making for more focused soldiers. Although the male libido, unhooked, as it was, from emotional constraints, was a distraction in and of itself. No wonder there were always women at the camps.

Of course, the women in the camps in the past had mostly been slaves (or captured female soldiers, which amounted to the same thing). With that off the table, he wondered how long it would take before slavery was back, at least for the militaries. He couldn’t imagine a ton of women lining up to take the recruiter up on his offer. And there presumably wouldn’t be any captured female soldiers this time.

This did not bode well for the civilian women of the towns and cities that were sacked by either…

“Marcus!”

His name jolted Marcus out of his reverie and he stepped forward and took the bundle of familiar armor, then went back to his place and began to strip.

It may have felt something like home when Marcus put his helmet on, except she had spent more time as an officer (with their blessed open-faced helms) for the second half of the so-called “war.” He let out a sigh as he bid a fond farewell to his peripheral vision.

His was, just like in the trial selection, among the last names called, so by the time he was ready, the group was already moving. Marcus followed the newly-sworn-in Stormcloaks as they filed out into the training courtyard, then, as Bearmane began calling out names along with the Company they had been assigned to, planted himself close to Koren in some vain hope that proximity would sway the lots toward putting them in the same company.

“Koren! Company A!”

So Koren was in the same Company as before. Coincidence, probably – there were at least three fewer people this time (assuming the same group of people had shown up sans the other three women), so the chances of being in the same Company were…

“Francis, Company C!”

The name jolted Marcus and he looked around until he saw who he had expected. Francis Grey-Mane, aka Wooly, walked toward the area designated for his Company, looking for all the world like someone who wouldn’t betray his closest comrades. Anger and sorrow rushed through Marcus and he turned away. That made two Companies he did not want to be in – he didn’t think he could handle being in Wooly’s presence again.

Of course, that would still be much better than…

“Marcus! Company D!”

Marcus kept himself from swearing by only the thinnest of margins. He had to take two big breaths before forcing his legs to move.

Of course he was in Jaunty’s Company. Why make things easy the second time through this fiasco? Regret consumed him as he plodded his way through the courtyard – she should have just left once she was turned away by the recruiter. Too late now.

Of course, something had already changed this time. Well, something other than the million other things that hand changed. A rumor had started somewhere about the Grey-Mane’s motives for joining the war effort. A rumor that Marcus, himself, knew to be true – that they were planning on taking over all the mines they came across.

Of course, the family denied it, but the rumor was out there, which had not been the case last time. Someone had looser lips this time than last. Or someone else remembered last time and had started the rumor on purpose.

Which would have been a good idea, and Marcus kicked his internal self for not thinking of it himself. He could have been spreading malicious Jaunty rumors instead of bringing up dragons that no one would know about until three days ago.

Of course, last time the dragons had already been out and about for a few weeks before she joined, so…

Marcus shook himself out of the same circular argument he had had with himself at least a hundred times already. None of that mattered. What mattered now was that he was in the one Company that would be least helpful in ending the war quickly. In fact, he was in the one that was most responsible for extending the damn thing.

The two - the rumor and the Company - were related for him, Marcus realized: Jaunty had been the architect for the stalling of the war. Well, not the architect – the only thing that fop could build was a pile of shit - but the one put in position to set the real architect’s plan into motion, by sending Trendil’s Company into the bloody Reach. And, with foreknowledge of at least some of the plan, Marcus could take a cue from the presumptive rumor-starter and use what he knew to bend this new reality into one of a better shape.

Maybe he could get Jaunty’s ear; maybe he could sway him to help.

Or maybe, if the right circumstances came about, Jaunty might have a little accident and die an honorable death in battle and have no effect on the war at all. It was a lovely thought, one that brought the first smile to Marcus’ lips even as he stepped to his place in Jaunty’s Company’s group.

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Marcus was saved from a four-hundred-and-first go-through when he heard voices. He stood and took two steps and peered around the edge of the small outcropping of stone that blocked his fire from the chill northern breeze, then smiled as he spied his prey - his days of waiting had paid off. He banked his fire, strapped on his swords, and hurried across the road. By the time his prey reached him, Marcus was in position on a small boulder overlooking the valley where the sabrecats that had been so helpful those six days earlier lounged in the sun.

As expected, his prey look the bait.

“Hey, it’s Dragon Snack! Still on your trial?”

Marcus glanced back, doing his best to act surprised to see Koren and Rell, each with an arm around a wounded Crowbar, but unable to suppress a short laugh at the name so eerily similar to the one she had earned with her first promotion last time.

“No, I finished my trial six days ago. I am hunting.”

Rell frowned. “Hunting what? There won’t be any game around here. Not with that pride of sabrecats so close.”

“Those are what I’m hunting.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I am out of money and sabrecat hide turns a pretty profit.”

Koren laughed. “Fair enough. I don’t see a bow, though, or a spear.”

“Why would I need those? I have my swords.”

Another, deeper frown from Rell. “You…are going to hunt them with swords?”

“Of course.”

“You are crazier than I thought!” Koren said the words, but Marcus knew him well enough to hear the tinge of excitement. “How are you going to separate one from the pride?”

“Separate? That would be inefficient. I’m going to attack them all at once.”

“What?!” Koren almost dropped his half of Crowbar. “That is completely insane!”

“I know.” Marcus grinned. “You want to join me, don’t you?”

“Of course!”

Rell shook his bemused head. “I’m…going to stay out of this. You two maniacs go right ahead. I’ll keep an eye on Trogan.”

Marcus pointed. “My camp is just on the other side of the road, by that outcropping. Feel free to use it.”

“Perfect, thanks. Any family members I should know about, so I can return what remains of your remains to them?”

“Pfft.” Koren shrugged out of his pack and hefted his hammer. “There will be plenty of us remaining. Ready?”

“Of course.”

Then it was just like old times. Marcus explained his plan as they walked, Koren expressed his doubt and dismay at the sheer impossibility of it, and then they sprang into action.

Trendil weaved through the cats using keep ke dud’ (fighting animals was always refreshing – they were predictable enough that she didn’t have to switch styles or even use more than a couple of the alternate forms; it was as close to pure shûnyuu as one could get), slicing and stabbing as she went, dodging and skittering away from flashing claws and teeth, while Koren’s hammer sang its song of death upon heads, backs, and shoulders. She didn’t try to hold back the joyous laughter that sprang out of her, although the deep timbre of the laughs cast the smallest of palls on her joy.

It probably took the better part of an hour to finish, but to Marcus, it felt like mere minutes. As the last cat collapsed from a thrust to the chest, he yelled and raised his swords toward the sky, then almost fell over as something heavy smashed into his back. It took him a couple breathless moments to realize it was from Koren pounding him with a gleeful hand.

Marcus had just enough presence of mind to restrain himself from launching a victory hug at his companion in death. Instead, he wiped most of the blood off his swords on the nearest carcass and tossed Koren a grin as he relished the moment.

It was a familiar yet strange feeling; the immediate burst of exaltation born of shared exertion toward a common goal. She had had similar experiences before, of course, but this felt different – this was a pure extract of male camaraderie, without the taint of hormonal overtones she hadn’t even realized were there until they were not.

It was simpler and less fulfilling, less complete; like expecting a four-course dinner with all the trimmings but instead being handed a bowl of stew and a loaf of bread – still filling but not satisfying.

Still, it colored in some of the Bent-shaped hole in her heart, enough to assuage the keenest edge of her desperate longing for what she had had. It would do for now; she had a start. Now she just needed to navigate to the finish.

Koren thumped Marcus again, this time on the shoulder. “You might be short, but you are amazing! I have never seen anyone move like that! You are the best swordsman I have ever seen!”

“Thank you. You are quite skilled yourself – I didn’t think warhammers could move that fast.”

“Most people just see them as simple weapons. ‘I see, I smash!’ But they are quite versatile with enough strength and practice.”

It was clear Koren was about to go on one of his long diatribes about the historically criminal view of hammers and the assumptions made of those who wielded them. In the old days, Trendil would have cut him off at the earliest opportunity, but now, with her longing to return things to how they had been, she found herself eager to hear him. “So I see! Tell me more!”

He laughed. “Nah, you saw my hammer in action. What could I possibly say that is more eloquent than that?”

Of course, the one time she actually wanted to hear his boring dissertation …

Marcus pulled out his dagger and knelt to begin skinning the nearest cat. “We have a one-in-four or five chance to end up in the same company. If that doesn’t happen, when you have your own company, remember me.” He glanced up and winked. “Unless I have my own first.”

Koren laughed as he shouldered his hammer. “Oh, trust me, although it is easy to look over you, it is impossible to overlook you.”

And, although it was the wrong context, spoken to the wrong gender of her, meant in the wrong way, for that brief moment, Trendil felt peace.

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He felt a pang at the thought of the company, not least because those thoughts turned his attention to his former second-in-command. Koren had almost certainly discovered the five Resist Frost potions in his pack by now. Since there was no one there to challenge his fragile male pride, he was sure to use them.

Or so Marcus hoped.

He shook his head – he needed to focus on the job at hand.

“I count about fifty of them, with probably more on the ship,” Petr said. “How are we supposed to ‘take care of’ this many men?”

Marcus grinned, but didn’t look at his companion - if he didn’t see Petr’s face, he could imagine it was the old days, with her telling Bent her latest plan and waiting for his incredulous reaction. “Simple. Time to bring back a classic.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. Hey, did you happen to notice the pride of sabrecats we passed on the way here?”

***

Never again, Marcus told himself some minutes later as he ran for his life. Fortunately, this male body was markedly faster than when he had been a woman – had he still been Trendil, she would now be sabrecat food and her mother would have died of shame.

As it was, the head start he and Petr had thought would be enough had been erased in far too few seconds. Fortunately, they got to the camp just before that gap closed entirely.

Trendil screamed warnings as he ran straight toward the closest slaver, watching the man’s face contort from confusion to fear, trying to time everything just right. A moment before a collision with the flat-footed bandit, Marcus shifted, diving to one side and rolling. He heard the sabrecat’s roar and the man’s scream as the two met, but spared only a glance at the carnage as he jumped back to his feet and resumed his sprint. The bandit was already little more than ravaged pulp as the cat tore into him; Marcus had been only a heartbeat away from the same fate.

Never again. It had been one thing to taunt mammoths and giants – it was easy enough to outpace them (as long as you didn’t step in a prairie vermin’s hole). Sabrecats were on a different speed level entirely. Maybe a nice nest of horkers next time.

Marcus and Petr gained the gangplank to the ship at the same time, then paused, wheezing for air, as they glanced back at the chaos that had once been the slavers’ camp.

Fifty men against seven cats, and the battle was not close – the men were getting slaughtered. Several of them wavered and broke for the ship, which was when Part Two of the ever-evolving plan presented itself to Marcus.

“Quick, onto the ship. Try to look like a bandit.”

“What are you going to do?”

Marcus smiled as he took out his swords. “I’m going to make sure they keep fighting the cats.”

“I…” Petr stopped, apparently thought better of what he had been about to say, shrugged, and staggered up the gangplank while clutching an imaginary wound on his side.

Marcus got to work slicing rope. First, the thick ropes that tied the ship to the pier, then the ropes that had been used to build the pier itself, until he felt the dock quiver and begin to skew. He turned, took a running start, and jumped back toward the ship, which had already begun yawing away. He had just enough reach to grasp at the rope that had tied it to the pier, but it was too thick to grip and a moment later, he cursed as he splashed into the water.

In this, he was fortunate – the rope was long enough that he was able to reach the trailing edge. As he shimmied up, he found himself thankful that he had not been wearing armor (well, other than his jâr, of course, but that would cause no hinderance to swimming. In fact, the jârs had been the de facto swimsuits for the students of Y̌êz Shûngbo); heavy leather or metal would have dragged him down.

Marcus spared a glance back as he gained the deck of the ship. As hoped, the rickety pier had mostly collapsed under the weight of its own shoddy construction, leaving the slavers to the mercy of the cats. A few of the bandits had lept into the water and were swimming with vigor toward the ship, so Marcus sliced the rope he had climbed on the off chance some of them might be strong enough swimmers to reach it, then turned his attention to the ship itself.

It was a nice surprise to find it empty save for three crumpled corpses and Petr, who waved a hand. “You just missed the welcoming party! Nice work with the pier.”

“Thank you. Sorry I took so long. Is that your blood on your shoulder?”

Petr waved a dismissive hand. “It is nothing, just a cut. Ready to see what's down below?”

Marcus pulled his swords back out as he nodded. “Let’s finish this.”

It turned out the reason there were so few guards was because all of them were busy having their ways with their prisoners. The two layers of belowdecks had been retrofitted to accommodate their newest cargo – dozens of naked women were bound by their wrists to metal manacles bolted to the walls down the length of each side of the ship. Most lay in some form of hopeless protective pose; curled up with knees tucked under chins, facing the walls or sitting up with legs pulled to them, covering themselves as best they could.

Those actively being raped were, of course, in much different poses, as decreed by the men who had chosen them for their pleasure. One of those men, dick-deep in a woman’s ass as she sobbed on her knees, her gave Marcus and Petr a dismissive glance.

“Still our turn. Get the fuck out. Yer supposed to be on watch.”

Marcus was about to respond, but Petr beat him to it.

“Brey? Is…is that you?”

Marcus frowned at his companion, then followed Petr’s gaze. One of the chained women to their right, a dark elf with dark hair, stirred and glanced up, then squinted. “P…Petr?”

Petr took two steps and thumped to his knees beside her. “Yes! Divines, what are you doing here?”

“What am I…”

“Wait, you know that whore?” The man who had admonished them paused in his labors (though did not pull out, of course) to look back. “I didn’t think…wait. I don’t recognize you. Who are…”

That was enough for Marcus. His sword cut through the air, taking the man’s head with it in a splash of blood. He was already moving before the slaver’s body began slumping to the floor. In mere scream-filled (the screams were mostly from the women – the men’s got cut short) moments, the heads of the other rapists joined the first’s.

“Find the keys and start unlocking these,” Marcus called back to the still-kneeling Petr. “I’m going to get the rest of them.”

Distracted as they were, it was not difficult to finish off the bandits on the ship. Once it was done, Marcus joined Petr in freeing the women then scavenging the ship for clothes, food, and drinks before they all climbed to the upper deck.

The ship had meandered a few hundred feet from the shore but was still close enough to see the aftermath of the battle. It was not a pretty sight – blood and dead men saturated the area. The cats were still there, feasting on their prey.

Marcus laughed. “I guess we’ll need to find another way back.”

“I guess so.” Petr motioned, turning Marcus’ attention his way. “Marcus, I’d like you to meet Brelyna Maryon, an old friend of mine.”

Marcus nodded to the dark elf as she said, “I don’t know what fortune led you here – Petr said it was some sort of test? – but I shall be ever grateful for it.”

“Did you…” Petr started saying, then stopped and gestured awkwardly. “Did they…”

Brelyna rolled her red-tinged eyes. “Rape me? Divines, Petr, just say it. You haven’t changed. No – I was lucky. A lot of Nords have some sort of loathing for my people such that they don’t want to even touch us. Usually that is a sore point in our lives but, it seems, in this one singular instance, it was actually beneficial.” She motioned around. “The rest of these women had it much worse than me.”

Marcus nodded. “We’ll get everyone safely to Windhelm.”

Brelyna shook her head. “Everyone but me. I’m going to Winterhold.”

Petr gasped. “What? You’re still planning on going there?”

“Of course. You know it has always been my dream.”

“But…”

“But what? Of course, the trip will be harder now that I don’t have my horse anymore.”

“I’m going with you.”

“What? No, you need to return to Windhelm. Didn’t you say this was a trial to get into the Stormcloaks? I don’t want to mess up your chances at your dream.”

“It will be fine.” Petr’s voice had grown firm and he gripped Brelyna’s shoulders. “The war isn’t going anywhere and I want to make sure you’re safe. I’ll escort you to Winterhold then join the Stormcloaks with the next batch of recruits.”

Brelyna sighed. “I suppose I have to have an escort anyway. And I’m pretty sure you won’t turn out to be a slaver, like the last one I hired.”

“That’s how you got here? I wondered.”

“Yes. That’s what I get for hiring outside the Mercenary’s Guild, but I didn’t have enough for their fees and I’m already pretty old to be starting out, so I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Petr gave Marcus a glance. “Guess only one of us is making it this time. Let Bearmane know, will you?”

“Of course.”

Not that Bearmane would care, Marcus mused as Petr and Brelyna moved off together, still chattering. He sighed as he turned his mind toward other things, such as getting forty-something people off this ship and back to Windhelm. Maybe they could just sail there? He cursed himself for killing all the bandits – some of them would know how to sail this thing.

It didn’t matter – the important part was that the trial was complete. Soon he would be back with the Stormcloaks and another step closer being back with Bent. Whether dragons did or did not exist in this new Skyrim, even, he realized with a sort of growing wonder, if the Stormcloaks did not win the war – none of it mattered. Not anymore.

Only getting Bent back did.

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He had been afraid his height might disqualify him, but the recruiter had just taken down his name (he went with the name of his dead fiancé because he hoped that would help him be able to respond to it when someone said it) and said, “You’re just in time – the recruitment pairings are being made in about an hour.”

Too close! Had it taken any longer, he would have had to wait however many weeks until the next batch of recruits were chosen, and, even regardless of his desire to get paired up with Koren again, he had precious few coins left to live on.

He spotted his target as soon as he turned the corner and entered the courtyard. Koren had always stood half a head taller than most and this lifetime was no different. Marcus forced himself not to sprint as he headed in Koren’s direction.

“This is taking forever,” Koren rubbed his thick red beard (Marcus had to restrain himself from doing the same) as he scowled at the crowd of fellow recruits in the courtyard. “Why can’t they hurry up?”

Marcus smiled at the words, but the smile faltered since there was, of course, no Prid to respond to him. He wondered where she was in this new Skyrim. Instead of her counter, the men around just grunted agreement.

This was the point where Koren had first noticed Trendil. Marcus decided it was a good time for that to happen again and, while he was at it, begin to plant the idea of what they all needed to really concentrate on.

“Think we’ll end up dealing with the dragons much?”

This did get a response, but it was not what he expected. Koren turned with a frown and peered down at him. “Dragons? What in Oblivion are you talking about?” General scoffs of agreement sounded from around them and Marcus frowned as Koren followed up, “Best for you that the dragons all died out thousands of years ago – a tiny man like you would make a nice snack for one.”

“Nah,” someone else responded as those around laughed. “He wouldn’t even be a mouthful for a dragon. Maybe they’d save him for a dragon baby toy!”

More laughs, but Marcus had stopped listening – his brain was trying to catch up. No dragons? He thought back; the dragons had definitely been back when Trendil joined the Stormcloaks. Hells, one had tried to kill her on the way to Windhelm. The rumors had been rampant all over the city of where they had come from and, of course, what had happened to the Dragonborn, who had arrived on the scene just as suddenly then disappeared just as quickly. If there were no dragons this time, she wouldn’t need to worry about finding the lost sister – she could just focus on winning the war. And Bent’s heart. He just needed…

The sound of the gate at the end of the courtyard rattling open broke Marcus from his reverie.

“Finally!” Koren turned away, his attention shifting from Marcus to Bearmane who, just like last time, stepped out and looked over the assemblage, then began yelling familiar words.

“All right, everyone quiet down! We’re going to separate you all into squads of three. Each squad will get an assignment. Everyone who comes back from their assignment will become a Stormcloak! Pretty simple! Shout out and group up when I call your name! Parks!”

A man on the far side of the courtyard yelled out acknowledgement and the pairing up continued as Marcus bit a nervous lip. He hoped he would still get in the same group as before, but thanks to the delay, he had not signed up at the same…

“Rell!”

Marcus had forgotten about Rell, but the sound of his name sent a spike of panic down Marcus’ spine. Her name had been called before Rell’s last time. Did that mean…

“Koren!”

Koren pumped a fist. “Yup!”

Marcus cursed in his head as Koren began to angle away toward Rell even as Bearmane yelled out the third member of Koren’s party: “Trogan!”

Marcus watched in frustration as Koren, Rell, and new party member Trogan (who Marcus recognized as Crowbar from Company M, Squad 3) got together, and therefore missed the first calling of his name.

“Marcus!”

He jumped and turned as Bearmane walked toward him.

“You too short to hear?”

“Maybe your words went over his head,” responded someone else, and both laughed.

Marcus glared at both as he glanced at the new person, one he didn’t recognize from last time. A stereotypical Nord – tall, blonde, thick as a tree. “I hear just fine. Where is our third?”

Bearmane gestured. “It’s just the two of you, the last two left. You have a problem with that?”

“No,” Marcus responded at the same time her new companion said, “No, sir!”

Bearmane glared at the Nord. “Sir?! Do I look like a geezer to you?!”

“Ah...no…”

“Then don’t call me sir! When you get back – IF you get back, you can call me Bearmane. Until then, stop talking to me at all!”

“Understood.”

“Right, you two get to deal with a little problem over on the coast. There is a pack of bandits that has decided to expand into slavery. Not on our watch! Get your asses to Bleakcoast Cove and take care of them. Simple!”

Marcus nodded while the Nord said, “Got it!” and Bearmane turned and stalked away.

Marcus’ new partner turned and grinned. “Hi, I’m Petr.” He held out a massive arm.

“Marcus,” replied Marcus as he took the arm. “Meet at the gate at daybreak?”

Petr looked surprised. “Ah. I was going to suggest drinks. Get to know each other a bit. We’ll need to be on the same scroll when it comes to fighting.”

Marcus blinked as his brain recalculated. Last time, she had gone off on her own to sell her jewelry and make preparations. It had not occurred to him this time might be different. “Um, that’s a good idea. I have a couple errands to run first. Meet you at the ‘Hearth in two hours?”

“Sounds good.” Petr gave Marcus a nod and turned away, while Marcus cast eyes around for Koren.

Koren, Rell, and Crowbar stood near the wall of the courtyard, so Marcus idled his way in their direction and lingered long enough to overhear “Serpentstone Island” and “wraith.” So, they had the same job. The job they had not been prepared for and would have died doing had Trendil not been there. Marcus turned and hurried away – he had preparations to make for two groups.

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Hin was someone she had had no reason to visit in the past, although she had seen some of his work in the noses, lips, and cheeks of some of the more vain (and daring) young noble women (and men, for that matter). She found him in a small but pristinely clean room in the cellar of the New Gnisis Cornerclub. When she explained to him what she wanted, however, she was soon swept with disappointment.

“I think you misunderstand what I do here. I can make your face look so different, your mother would not recognize you (this statement presented a temptation Trendil nearly could not resist), but your body is that of a woman, not a man – you would not last more than a month in the military regardless of the tricks we might try to hide your breasts, hips, and…well, lack of penis. But fear not,” as Trendil began to protest, “you are not the first to come to me with this question. I do not pretend to know why some of the fairer sex wish to partake in war, for it is not my business, but after the first few times the question was raised, I consulted with others and we have come up with a solution for you. I warn you, it is very expensive.”

Trendil nodded as hope burst anew in her chest. “I expected as much. Whatever it costs, I’ll pay it.”

“Very well.” Hin opened a trunk and pulled out a box of vials. “An alchemist came up with this potion. One vial will change your gender for approximately one month, so it is important to remember to take the next dose before that happens.”

Trendil frowned at the murky green liquid as doubt crept into her mind. “This will really change me into a man?”

“It will change your body into that of a man. Your mind will remain as it is. Do not worry, training is part of the deal.”

“Training?”

“Yes. You walk like a woman, gesture like a woman, put on and take off clothes like a woman. That simply will not do if you wish to present yourself as a man. Also, you will have a new appendage that you will not be used to. You did not immediately know how to use those swords you carry, did you? Well, now you will have another sword. Although it is not nearly as difficult to learn to use, I can promise you that.” Hin winked and laughed, and Trendil found herself laughing with him as her mind raced.

With any luck, she would be able to get the war over in a year, but there were no guarantees. Better make it two, just in case. “I’ll take 24 vials.”

“Very good. The vials are made of malachite, so they will not break easily; you should have no trouble carrying them with you.”

Then Hin named a price, and it was beyond the already exorbitantly high number Trendil had imagined. She swallowed and reminded herself she would not need money in the military and handed over the sack containing the majority of the coins that had meant to be the seed for her new future.

And, she supposed, it still was. Just a very different future than she had imagined.

Hin nodded and pulled out 24 vials, which he placed in a well-crafted fur-lined pouch. Then he pulled out a 25^th vial and handed it to her along with the pouch.

“What’s this?”

“The first one is on the house – it is to get you started. Drink it and go through that door. Sebastian and Marie will take it from there.”

“Who?”

“Your trainers. Don’t worry, they are very good at what they do.”

“I…if you say so.” Trendil stashed the pouch in her bag then unstopped the vial and took a sniff. It smelled of peppermint and cloves. “It smells nice.”

Hin smiled. “Flavoring was added because it had a rather bitter flavor. Or so I have been told.”

“I see.” Trendil looked at the liquid, then frowned. She was stalling, which was a sign of fear. She was raised better than that. She took a breath, lifted the vial, and quaffed the liquid in one gulp. It did, indeed, taste bitter, but the minty clove combination did an adequate job of hiding it.

“It will take about twenty minutes for the potion to have its full effect,” Hin said as he took back the vial. “Go to the other room, remove your clothes, and have a seat.”

“Remove my clothes?”

“Yes – you are going to change shape. Your clothes are unlikely to fit your new body. At best, you would tear them as you change. At worst, you could strangle yourself, although that is probably unlikely.”

“I…understand. Thank you.”

Hin nodded and Trendil nodded back then headed for the next room as her heart beat a staccato rhythm in her chest, though whether that was from fear or some effect of the drug, she could not be certain.

The next room was similar in shape and cleanliness but held only a bed along the righthand wall and a curious chair-like contraption attached to the opposite wall. After a pause, Trendil slipped out of her clothes, including her jâr, although she assumed it would stretch with her, and sat in awkward silence on the bed.

She had feared it would be painful, but it wasn’t. Just uncomfortable, in a “my body is made of molding clay” sort of way. She watched in fascination as her breasts shrank into her expanding chest while her arms and legs thickened. She stood with an inadvertent squawk when she felt shifting between her legs, then her fascination turned into something more akin to horror as her labia seemed to erupt forward or maybe turn inside out or…something, it was difficult to tell exactly what went where, but in the span of moments, she watched a penis sprout and grow while testicles bubbled out from somewhere below.

“My, you’re a handsome one, aren’t you?”

Trendil wheeled toward the voice and found herself facing a woman with bright blonde hair piled high. She wore a skintight negligee with gaps in the most interesting places and Trendil felt a familiar-yet-not-familiar tingle in her groin. The other door to the room opened and a man stepped in, dressed in similarly revealing clothes.

“My trainers are whores?” The words blurted out of Trendil before she could stop them but it was the unfamiliar low timbre of her voice that really took her by surprise (though, she realized almost instantly, it should not have).

“What gave us away?” the woman asked in a teasing voice. “Looks like your new body is responding properly.”

“What?” Trendil followed the woman’s gaze and found herself staring down at her own erection. “What the hell!” She quickly covered her cock with both hands as she flushed and looked around for her clothes. Of course, that brought her hands into contact with the unfamiliar thing.

She had, of course, touched penises before, but it was a very different experience touching one connected to her own body. She forgot the others in the room as she ran a light (thick hairy) finger along her shaft. It jumped and sent tiny sparks of hunger radiating through her body. So sensitive!

“How do men live with these things?”

The male whore laughed. “That is what we’re going to teach you. How to piss, how to tuck it away, how to make love. Hell, even how to masturbate. All the things most guys have done all their lives. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of that thing in no time. It is the other things, like learning how to stand and walk like a man, that will take the longest. I’m Sebastian and this is Marie, by the way.”

“I…hi. I’m Trendil. Although I suppose I should use a different name. I apologize for my outburst. You just weren’t…what I was expecting.”

“Don’t worry, we’re used to it. Most people react the same way.” Marie sashayed forward and lifted her hand. “It makes sense, when you think about it. People in our line of work have to know all there is to know about men and women of all races and species.” The hand slid between Trendil’s and rubbed the shaft of Trendil’s cock. It responded with a kick and a rage of lust welled up as Trendil gasped. “You’re not going to be able to concentrate on those things with this acting up. So why don’t we start there?”

“I…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” Marie took Trendil’s hand and Trendil allowed herself…er, himself to be pulled toward the bed. “Let’s start with a blowjob. I’m sure you have given them to men – now you can see what it is like to get one.”

“I…”

“Shh, it’s okay. Here, lie back on the bed. There’s a good boy. You’re going to have to train yourself to think of yourself as a boy.”

Trendil allowed Marie to push her onto the bed, then gasped again when the whore’s fingers stroked her shaft. Her entire body trembled with each touch. Then Marie lowered her head and took Trendil’s cock into her mouth and the world shifted.

The heat of Marie’s mouth, the movement of mouth and hand up and down her shaft; every motion, every moment was an agony of lust and longing. Trendil gasped and grunted, clutching at the covers of the bed because she had nothing else to hold onto as the knot of lust in her groin grew in exponential bounds with each stroke. She wanted simultaneously for this torturous experience to be over and to last forever.

It exploded soon after as her body convulsed in great heaves. She had felt the streaming essence of men in her mouth or body; now she felt it leaving her in bursts. When it finally squeezed out the last of its seed, Trendil felt her body relax. Marie continued to stroke Trendil’s cock as it slowly deflated, and Trendil found her eyes grow heavy as her breathing began to slake to a normal rhythm.

“Aw, you’re a post-nut napper. How cute!” Trendil forced her eyes open to peer at Marie, who grinned back. “That’s how most men are. Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that, so you’re going to have to push through. How was it?”

A good question. Trendil had had orgasms as a woman, of course, but they were different. They had felt…deeper. Almost spiritual. Not just physical release, but as if they reached down and brushed against her very soul. They had filled her with energy. They were also notoriously fickle, reliant nearly as much on external factors like mood and fatigue than on any physical stimulus.

The male orgasm, on the other hand, was much like men themselves – a completely physical experience, an explosion of sensations that permeated the entire body and seemed to awaken every nerve all at once, thus temporarily draining the man of his vitality; but without the same emotional limitations. Even as Trendil grunted into a sitting position and lifted her legs off the bed in order to stand, her cock began to twitch again as an already-beginning-to-be-familiar tightening kicked into low gear in her groin.

“I…” Trendil forced herself to her feet then turned and shook her head at Marie. “No wonder men are so obsessed with these fucking things. I can’t wait to be rid of it.”

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So she was already annoyed when the guard at the foot of the bridge to Windhelm stopped them from passing.

“Where is your escort, ladies?”

All the women began babbling at once while Trendil tried to make sense of the question. After much confusion, talking over each other, and accusations aimed at Trendil for not going where they had wanted, the story of the attack finally made its way out, leading to a huff by the guard.

“All right, I suppose that is acceptable. Go on in.” As Trendil started to follow the other women, the guard held up his hand again. “Just a moment. Do you have a license for those weapons?”

Trendil frowned. “A what?”

“A license, girl! Those blades aren’t exactly made for carving vegetables, are they?”

A vision of someone using a y̌êz shûngbo to carve vegetables in her mother’s presence passed through Trendil’s mind. There would be so much blood…

“Certainly not.”

“Then either show me your license or I’ll have to confiscate them.”

Trendil bristled. “These are kaay̌êz shûngbo from the shûyaa shî yee y̌êz. They will only be confiscated from my dead hands.”

The guard placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “If they’re all that important, you must have a license for them. If not, hand them over or I’ll take you up on your offer.”

Rage tore through Trendil and her hands twitched to call the man on his arrogance, but the conversation had drawn the attention of other guards. She had no doubt she could win against them, but that would surely draw the ire of the entire city (along with the Stormcloak army she had come here to join). But the alternative, to hand over the kaay̌êz shûngbo to outsiders, was absolutely unthinkable.

She had already started to reach for the hilts of the swords when the realization hit her that this version of her had been in this version of Skyrim. Which meant she had had the swords with her before. Surely that version of her had known about this stupid licensing requirement. With a frown, she reached into the pouch she had recovered from the ambushers and felt around until her fingers brushed against a piece of paper. She drew it out and glanced at it.

It was, indeed, a license, for “Permanent Allowance of two (2) swords and one (1) dagger.” She shook her head as her rage began a slow descent and showed it to the guard.

He took it, looked it over, then handed it back. “Was that so hard? Divines, woman, next time just have it ready. I nearly took your head off.”

He waved her away, his attention already focused elsewhere, which was probably good because he would not have liked the expression that crossed her face as she stowed the license and began the trek across the bridge to the gates of the city.

 She thought it couldn’t get worse. She was wrong.

The city was just as she remembered it and it took very little time to find the recruiting table outside the Stormcloak barracks. The response to her request to join was not what she had hoped for.

“Hmm? Well, that’s great! It’s nice to see you girls signing up freely to help bolster the morale of the men! And don’t worry – those who join freely are usually restricted to the officers. No worries about all the dirty low-rankers!” The Nord man laughed. “Just go down the hall and report to…”

Trendil glared as she interrupted. “I’m sorry, I’m not here to sign up to be a camp whore. I’m here to fight.”

The recruiter looked annoyed at the interruption, but by the time Trendil had finished talking, his annoyed expression had been wiped out by a loud guffaw.

“A woman fighting?! Hahahaha! That’s a good one! Oh, you’ll be popular in camp, that’s for sure. As I was saying, just down…”

Trendil’s irritated brain blanked out and she found herself interrupting again. “Since when don’t the Stormcloaks take woman combatants?”

The man’s laughter died out – he was back to looking annoyed. “Since always, woman! Everyone knows that! Now stop wasting my time! If you want to help the cause, go down…”

Trendil didn’t hear the rest because she was already twenty paces away, fuming as she headed back into the city, her plans tattered to shreds. Time for a new plan, then – she would not join the Stormcloaks this time. That was probably better anyway, because she then wouldn’t be tied to the whims of officers who would limit where she could go and what she could do. She would find her pseudo-sisters instead. She knew where one would be, at least. It would take some time to get to the College of Winterhold, but…

She stopped, both physically and mentally, when she saw him – her nemesis-turned-lover, her second in command, her reason for being here. Dragonspite/Hammerleaf/Bent stood at the recruiting table, chatting with the Nord she had just walked away from. Trendil felt a wave of disorientation – it had been less than a week since she had cradled his head in her lap as he took his last breath at the massacre at Solitude, yet here he stood, hale, hearty, and whole. Not to mention six years younger and countless battles less worn.

She fought down the urge to run to him, to throw herself into his arms, tried to temper the dim hope that maybe – just maybe! – he remembered, just as she did. She took a jagged breath as he left the table, then set herself on an intercept course with him.

One look. She just needed to be sure he got one look at her and she would know if he remembered. Hope flooded her even as she mentally tried to tamp it down; the chances he would remember were slim, so slim! But maybe, just maybe…

She watched him as she drew near, stared as she set herself in his path at such a point and angle that he could not help but notice her. When the moment came, she held her breath; when he passed with no apparent heed of her, she deflated as her hope turned to sour bile in the pit of her belly and a wave of sorrow washed over her.

Of course, he did not remember. This was a different world, though it looked the same on the exterior. He was the old Bent – no, not Bent, even, not yet. He was the rapey man-child Koren. If she wanted her Bent back, she would need to drag him out of this version of him. She would have to start all over.

To do that, she would need to join the Stormcloaks after all. And to do that, she would need to stop being a she.

Trendil turned as a new plan formed in her mind. She didn’t have much time – in order to give herself the best chance to get close to him, she would need to be in the same recruiting group. Hopefully she would end up in the same squad. If not, perhaps she could find a way to trade into his.

Whatever happened, she was determined to get him back – facing all the things that were coming their way seemed impossible without him.

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Start from the beginning

She was not in Solitude. That much had been apparent from the start, though she had not had time for it to truly register. She was on a road, a pass through mountains, from the look of it. A perfect place for an ambush.

She closed her eyes as a feeling of déjà vu passed over her. She was certain she had been here before. Or somewhere like it.

She looked again at the ruined dress. The silk was tattered and stained, but still soft to the touch. She rubbed a bit of it between her finger and thumb as a distant memory burbled up out of a past she had nearly forgotten existed.

She and Marcus stood at a stall in Windhelm. She was running silk through her fingers while talking in an excited voice about her dress.

What dress? Trendil frowned, trying to remember. The stall…they had been in Windhelm because…

They…

Marcus.

Memories flooded back, then – sweet Marcus, with his eyes the color of the sky. Her best friend growing up. She had run off to marry him, the first thing she had ever done against the wishes of her furious mother. They had picked up material in Windhelm but brought it to Riften because he knew the best tailor in Tamriel.

And he had been right – the dress had been breathtakingly beautiful, had fit her perfectly, and, most difficult of all, had made her trained and toned body look feminine.

With shaking hands, Trendil set down the swords, reached up, and pulled the remains of the dress off, then, after a very frightened pause, turned it.

The scooped neckline, the Basque waist, the embroidered pattern…it was all exactly as she remembered.

Impossible.

She ran trembling fingers over the stitching, smiling a little as she remembered trying to describe what she wanted to the very patient tailor. She had felt like the most beautiful woman in the world at their wedding. Then they had traveled with a Company of Stormcloaks for protection as they made their way toward Marcus’ home in Helgen.

But the Stormcloaks had been ambushed.

By Imperials.

At Haemar’s Pass, a road, a pass through the mountains. A perfect place for an ambush.

Trendil stood back up, locking her trembling knees to keep from falling, and, for the first time, really took in her surroundings. There could be no mistake – it was the same place. She thought back and remembered – she wagon she had been in had overturned and she had knocked her head and blacked out. When she came to, it had been just silence, blood, and death. In her grief, she had stayed there, huddling in silence until the Imperials left.

Then she had emerged and searched in desperation for…

“Marcus!”

If this was really the same place and the same time, impossible as it seemed, his body would be…there. She stumbled to the place where the Imperial ambushers had shoved the stripped bodies of the fallen. It did not take long to find him.

Marcus’ eyes seemed a reflection of the sky above, twin pools of blue yearning for freedom from the lifeless vessel in which they were trapped. Trendil stared into them in absolute disbelief.

It was true. Somehow, she had gone – or had been sent – back in time. Back to where this nightmare had begun.

She reached down and tried to close Marcus’ eyelids, but it was too late – his body had been dead long enough that they would not close. She laid his body on the side of the road and patted his face before covering it with the dress. A single tear dribbled down her cheek, but no more than that. She had grieved Marcus’ death long ago; there were newer deaths she mourned now, fresher friends and lovers she…

Trendil stopped, head lifting. If she was back at the beginning, then surely that meant they were as well!

She jumped to her feet and hurried away. It took mere minutes to find the cache the Imperials had stolen from their victims. Included in that was a trunk.

Her trunk. She had forgotten its existence, had counted it as lost all those years ago.

She opened it and let out a long sigh of relief mixed with glee – it was all here. All of her things she had lost and almost forgotten.

She dug through, tossing the items she no longer needed, those sundries she had picked up for her new life as a wife and shopkeeper (her mother had been so mad!) and focused only on the essentials.

The first thing she dug for was her jâr. Hers was the jâr shî dud’ ewshe , the “armor of silken iron,” given to those few who made it through the rigors and graduated from the shûyaa shî yee y̌êz. It was spun from a material as soft as silk but gave the protection of a suit of armor.

She sat and stared at it for a solid minute before muttering, “I really could have used you last time.” Then she put it on. It clung to her body like a second skin, and the familiar feeling brought back a wave of memories.

No time for those, though – she shook her head to wave them aside and continued to dig.

Her swords were still there as well, and she ran reverent fingers along the hilts, then loosed one just enough to see the shine of the blade. “I could have used you two, too.”

She pulled out the other necessities – two sets of clothing, plain and solid shirts and trousers made of thick linen, perfect for travel, her favorite leather boots, a waterproof cloak with a hood, and her pouch of coins, her life savings. Hers and Marcus' (most of it his; her 500 gold contribution was just a drop next to all he had saved over the years) - enough to establish their business on solid footing.

Speaking of getting started, she was already running late. If she wanted to be in Windhelm at the same time as she had before, she would need to get going – she had already been on the road for at least an hour in the previous life. She put on one of the sets of clothing and the boots, strapped her swords to her back, hefted the satchel containing everything else, and started up the path.

Then stopped when she came across eight tied up women in a carriage. Trendil frowned as her mind raced back.

Ah, yes – there had been other women traveling with them. No doubt they had become Imperial camp whores or slaves last time. Well, it was their lucky second chance day as well! Trendil untied them, accepting their thanks, and, as they scrambled for their own belongings, realized she didn’t have to worry about making good time on foot – here was a carriage, provided by the Imperials, complete with horse.

She relaxed in the driver’s seat, allowing herself a smile as she thought of the path ahead.

First, Windhelm. She would join the Stormcloaks again. If she joined at the same time as before, she would hopefully be assigned to the same Company. She would see all her friends again, all the comrades who had fallen.

She would see Bent.

The thought sent a sharp stab through her – the grief of losing him was still with her, overriding, for the moment, the hope of seeing him again.

Would he remember her as well? It was a nice thought, but she somehow got the impression he would not - this would be the old rapey-rapey Bent. She frowned at the thought – they had been lovers so long, she had nearly forgotten how their relationship had started.

She sighed. She was going to have to find a way to get through to him faster this time. And, while she was at it, she was going to find a way to protect everyone this time.

Because this time, she was forewarned. This time, she knew the truth of the war. This time, she knew how big of a threat the dragons really were.

This time, it would be different.

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Trendil’s brain seized up, trying to make sense of what she felt. The pain that had filled her body was gone, except for a small cramp that was beginning to creep up her calf. She looked around in a wild panic and found herself laying under what appeared to be a broken and overturned wagon. She shook her head in confusion; the visage of the ruins of Solitude still danced across her eyes. Her only conclusion was that the wind had knocked her out and then debris had been blown on top of her.

Of course, that didn’t explain why the pain had disappeared. Maybe she was so close to death, her brain had just shut down?

She tested that theory by shifting; her body responded without pain. In fact, it felt better, as the cramp began to recede. “What in Oblivion…”

Voices again and the sounds of many footsteps, then there was a shifting and the wagon was heaved away, leaving her sitting in bright sunlight as four Imperial soldiers leered down at her.

“Well! Looks like we found another one for the camp! Good thing we hadn’t left yet!”

She swore and tried to scramble to her feet as many hands reached for her, but her feet got entangled in something and she fell back down. The Imperials grabbed her arms and yanked her up and out of the wreckage, then many hands began to grope her, running along her back and legs, squeezing her ass and breasts.

Trendil blazed. Not at the groping (although a part of her wondered at how much her armor must have been damaged to allow the hands to reach such intimate parts of her body) – that would be repaid soon enough. No, she was furious at the unfairness of it all. All their work, all the years of toil and struggle, of sacrifices and pain, only to be stymied at the end because a handful of Imperials had managed to escape the dragons’ attack.

It was not to be borne.

“You cowards!” Trendil jerked back to give herself some leeway, then threw an elbow at whoever was groping her from behind and felt it crunch into their face. The hands removed themselves from her as a voice cried out in pain. Trendil ducked down and spun, still yelling as she slammed her knee into the same man’s groin; his pained cry turned into a wheeze as he began to collapse.

“You don’t get to win just because you hid from the dragons!” Her movements had loosened the other hands that gripped her; she took the opportunity to rip out of them.

The man she had hurt had collapsed to his knees, arms crossed in front of him. Perfect – it left his sword exposed. Trendil drew it from the man’s scabbard and, in the same motion, swung her body in an arc while a part of her wondered what had become of her swords. Probably at the bottom of the estuary. Pity.

She had to give the Imperial credit – he took care of his weapon. The sword had a keen edge, as witnessed by the ease with which it decapitated its previous owner and, for good measure, cut into the side of the man next to him.

The second Imperial cried out and fell and Trendil dove through the gap created by the two fallen men. She rolled and tried to bounce back to her feet but, again, something entangled her legs and she fell back down.

As she rolled again to keep out of reach of anyone coming after her, she took a moment to glance down to see what was going on. Had the wagon been carrying textiles that had somehow wrapped around her legs?

The answer was as unexpected as it was incongruous – she was wearing a dress. A floating white – well, it had been white before she started rolling around in it – gown that looked familiar, although she didn’t have time to try to figure out why, along with heeled shoes that were as inadequate for combat as any she might have dreamed of. She slashed at the thin straps that held the shoes on, grazing her ankles at the same time, and they flew off as she rolled to her feet and parried a blow aimed at her shoulder.

The Imperials had reacted in admirable time – weapons had been unsheathed and raised, and a circle had formed around her. She noted a few things right away.

First, there were many more of them than she had expected. A dozen surrounded her and there appeared to be even more outside the circle. Somehow an entire company of Imperials had survived the dragons.

Second, though their numbers were great, their nonchalant stances and the laugher on their lips and in their teasing words to each other told her they did not see her as a threat, even though she had just killed one of them and hurt another. Which, fair enough – one woman against an entire company would not seem like a threat to her, either. Unless that woman happened to be her mother. Then, woe to the company.

She smiled at the thought.

Third, their surroundings did not seem right – she saw trees and peaks all around, not the shattered spires of the former capital city of Skyrim.

This last fact, much like her incongruent dress, was not important in the moment – there would be time to contemplate their meanings once she had finished with the Imperials.

Of course, it helped that they had decided to turn the fight into a game – they called out a name and laughed as one of the soldiers, smaller than the others, with a slack, innocent face, was shoved into the impromptu ring.

“Let’s go, Greenback! Look, here’s someone you can beat!”

“Go Greenie! If you can beat her, you get to fuck her first!”

“You can do it! Even you can beat a woman! We believe in you!”

The little man seemed to take confidence in the shouts – his dull expression turned into a wide grin and he lifted his sword and pranced about as the Imperials cheered. Someone started up a chant that was immediately picked up by all the observers: “Greenie! Greenie! Greenie!”

Trendil thought furiously as she took advantage of the delay to cut the skirt of the dress off above her knees so she would stop tripping on it.

If the Imperials wanted to play, she could do the same – pretend to struggle against this idiot who couldn’t even grip his sword correctly, maybe make it look like an accident when she beat him. Maybe they would keep just sending in one fighter at a time, although as she kept beating them, they would probably start getting antsy.

Perhaps better to tear the bandage from the wound all at once and just get on with the killing.

She was still undecided when Greenie finally finished his prancing and turned toward her. The continued chanting seemed to buoy him up – he raised his sword, howled, and charged.

It was in that moment that Trendil realized she couldn’t do it. Every instinct screamed at the mere notion of giving the appearance, even for a split second, that she could possibly be challenged by someone like Greenie. Also, she had felt her mother’s scornful gaze the moment the idea had trickled across her consciousness.

When Greenie got close, Trendil sidestepped, cut off the hand holding the sword, and, in one motion, stabbed Greenie in the spine while catching the sword with her other hand. She allowed the natural impetus of the movement to spin her and used the generated torque to throw Greenie’s sword into the chest of the Imperial unfortunate enough to be standing at the particular spot where her spin placed it.

In the following moment of stunned silence, Greenie flopped face-first into the dirt while his hand, jarred loose by the impact into the Imperial’s body, fell limply off his sword, and Trendil, who had leapt after the sword the moment it left her hand, grabbed it again, shoving the already dead Imperial off it with her foot.

Then all hell broke loose.

A wiser person would have fought defensively, adopting on ezh to keep blades away while taking advantages of opportunities as they came up. It would have created a long, slow slog of a fight, but it would have given her the best chance at survival.

However, Trendil was long past caring about such trivial things as survival. It was only by the sheer luck of being smashed over the cliff that she was not dead herself. So dying now would just right that small wrinkle in the universe’s plan.

Besides, she was furious. She had watched, helpless, as her regiment was whittled down in The Reach before being completely decimated at Solitude. All those lives had been hers to protect, and she had failed them. And here, in front of her, at long last, were the Imperials she had come all this way to kill.

 So she eschewed the safe route and went full keep ke dud’.

The Imperials nearest to her never had a chance to realize their danger, and those next closest had just begun to understand the implications. By the time the Company of Imperials caught onto the truth of the threat they had unleashed, they were already nearly two squads down.

To their credit, they rallied. An officer barked out orders and the remaining soldiers formed up into ranks even as Trendil hacked down the last of the strays. A wall of shields was placed down and a matching row of spears pointed outward. Another order and the back row pulled out crossbows.

A couple of crossbows would have been no challenge, but Trendil would get nowhere just standing back and waiting for them. Instead, she took the track they had formed up to keep from happening – she charged forward.

The spears defending the opening she was heading for pivoted toward her, attempting to close the gap. Trendil deflected the crossbow bolts that came near, then jumped as she reached the spears.

They were disciplined and good at their jobs – the spears rose with her, threatening to pierce her torso through the soft material of the strange dress. Trendil brought both swords down, banging the spears with the flats, using their momentum to propel her into the shield wall.

The two men stumbled at the impact and Trendil took the opportunity to slash at their legs. They fell to the side as she dodged a swing from an axe that took a solid chunk out of the ground where her head had been. After two rolls, she was back on her feet.

This time, she was forced to use on ezh. Her opponents were no longer off guard. They were also probably seasoned killing machines and she was nearly surrounded. Her blades flashed as she turned in a constant pattern, edging herself as far away from the center of the group as she could while she took advantage of any mistakes her opponents made.

There were aggravatingly few – whoever these particular Imperials were, they were more than competent. It took a solid ten minutes for one to slip off guard just enough for Trendil to slice open his shoulder.

As hoped, the man’s stumble interfered with the others’ actions and Trendil was able to use the chaos to strike two more and then dance out of the mass.

Each side took a breath, then lunged at each other again. Since she hadn’t started surrounded this time, however, Trendil was able to switch stances again, this time to the more balanced keep ke us, and the killing pace improved. When the Imperials had been whittled down to three, they turned and ran.

“Cowards!” Trendil threw one of her swords and was rewarded by the impaling of one of the fleeing men, but the others continued sprinting, yelping over the crest of a hill, and disappeared, leaving Trendil alone, surrounded by dead and dying men.

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She wasn’t sure why she had bothered – there was nothing left but shattered buildings and broken bodies. She supposed it was only for her own ego – after all the years, she had arrived at her destination. Solitude was officially in the hands of the Stormcloaks. The war was over, and they had won.

A chuckle squeezed past the pain. If this was winning, she would hate to see what losing felt like!

The chuckle turned into a coughing fit that brought up thick blood. She sighed as it dripped from her lips, spattering the ground beneath her, and spared some thought for her mother.

What would the mighty Melissa Shae, youngest Ansei in history, who had manifested her y̌êz buud before her first period (so she claimed), have done differently? How would she have fared against an attack by thousands of dragons?

Trendil shook her head. Presumably her mother would face that very question soon enough. How she would respond…well, Trendil would never know. Pity. She would give anything to see the dragons versus the Shûyaa Shî Yee Y̌êz.

Her body heaved and the pain caused her to black out. When she came back to herself, the sky had grown darker. She had survived one more day but she was certain she would not see the next.

She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position in which to die, but it was like trying to find a comfortable spot in a box of needles. No matter which way she turned, pain was the only result. She gave up as the last of her strength ebbed away and wished her body would just hurry up and get it over with. Where was a bloody dragon when you needed one?

As if in response, she heard a distant sound; a shout on the wind from long miles away. Trendil could not make out any word that she knew and strained to hear more as a sudden wind kicked up. Not just a gust, but a full hurricane-strength blast that tore through the blasted city, sweeping away bodies and debris in an instant. Trendil closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands as her aching body was buffeted. Then she felt herself lifted and blown away as darkness engulfed her. 

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Dragonspite sat and tapped his finger against his thigh, eyes never wavering from Trendil’s. She smiled.

“That bad, huh?”

He shook his head and got to his feet, then stretched, his fingers pushing into the low tent ceiling. “That may be your worst plan yet.”

“I know! That’s why it is sure to work.”

“Your reasoning is as solid as ever. Which is the same solidity as a foundation built on quicksand.”

“Oh, aye? And what is your plan for sacking a well-defended capital city with only one-hundred soldiers?”

“I don’t have one, which is why we’re stuck with yours. The good news is, your other three-hundred-twenty-six stupid plans all somehow worked.”

“Aw, you’ve been counting them!”

“It was a rough estimate.” He yawned. “This night seems like it is taking forever. Shouldn’t it be dawn by now?”

“It does feel that way, doesn’t it? Well, maybe that means we will be able to get some sleep after all.”

“I have a better idea.”

Trendil laughed. “I figured you would. Let me hit the latrine and I’ll hear all about your idea."

She stepped out of the tent and stretched, then made her way through the quiet camp, all the time looking toward the towering spires of Solitude. So close! By the end of the day, it would be theirs. If the plan went well.

She gripped her fists as she neared the latrine. It would work. It had to. As long as the weather cooperated.

She glanced at the sky as she began to unbuckle her belt. The night sky was covered with dark, roiling clouds. They seemed to move erratically, as if being pushed by contradictory waves of wind. They were like no clouds she had seen before. Her hands froze in place as she stared.

A moment later, she was rushing through the camp, shouting commands as loud as she could. She reached the alarm bell and rang it before sprinting back to the command tent.

Dragonspite was already on his feet with hammer in hand when she burst in.

 “What’s going on?”

“Come see for yourself.” She grabbed her swords, unsheathed them, then threw the scabbards into a corner of the tent before rushing back out.

Dragonspite joined her a moment later and together, they looked at the sky.

Trendil pointed. “It is after dawn. Those aren’t clouds covering the sky. They’re dragons.” A deep breath. “Every fucking dragon in the world, apparently.”

“What? That’s impossible!”

“You don’t see them? Look closer.” She closed her eyes. “I told them. How many times did I tell them?”

Dragonlance ran up, her armor half on as she gasped, “What is it?”

“We’re about to fight a much larger battle than we could possibly have imagined. Get everyone armed and ready. And divines protect us.”

High above, the first dragons plunged toward Solitude.

****************

Trendil stood with ninety-nine veterans of countless battles with dragons, using tactics honed over years of trial and error; they may as well have been newborns with rattles.

It was not a battle. It was a massacre.

As she split the fire from one dragon, a dozen more rushed past on either side. The formations her regiment had specifically designed to protect them from those occasions where they had to face more than one dragon, and which had proven their worth in battles against two, three, and even four at a time, were simply overwhelmed by dozens at once. Trendil had never felt so helpless as the battle cries of her soldiers turned to screams and then abrupt silence.

In the space of a minute, half of the regiment was gone, and all order disappeared with it. Soldiers cried out and ran in all directions, only to be killed by fire or claw or tooth.

Those who maintained composure fared no better. Trendil could only watch in growing panic as Dragonlance was grabbed from the center of her squad’s protective shield wall and lifted, screaming, into the air, only to be torn in two and dropped again, her insides splattering the rest of her squad, who had only a few heartbeats to voice their horrified anger before six simultaneous blasts of fire turned them to near-instant ash.

Trendil stood back to back with Dragonspite in the center of the carnage, the two moving in practiced synchronicity, but though, between them, they had managed to knock down or incapacitate three dragons, sheer numbers made their attempts irrelevant, their defeat inevitable.

For Trendil, it came from one of the dragons they had knocked down; focused on those above, she simply did not notice the tail that whipped at her, slamming her in the side and throwing her through the air. Her body flew over the ridge upon which their camp had been placed and she fell its one-hundred or so feet, landing with a splash in the icy water of the Karth estuary.

The impact drove the breath from her and she spent several panicked seconds thrashing. It may well have been sheer luck of the current that she found herself moments later in water shallow enough that she could lift herself to hands and knees and gasp in air.

It took several breaths before she was able to gather what strength remained to her and crawl to the shore, where she collapsed for another long moment. Her entire body ached; she feared to think about what numbers of bones and/or internal organs may have been broken. Whatever that number was, it didn’t matter – she needed to get back. Back to Bent.

She struggled to her feet, found her legs ached but were able to hold her up, and began a slow stagger along the beach. Every step caused a jolt of pain that she could not pin down to any particular part of her body – the entire thing felt like one giant hemorrhaging bruise. Of course, there was an excellent possibility that that was because that’s what her body had become.

She kept one hand pressed against the cliff face to help her stay up as she turned a rounded corner. Solitude came into view, silhouetted again a slowly-lightening sky. Three steps later, Trendil stopped, gasping for breath, and watched as the five-hundred-foot-high pillar of native stone that formed the distinctive sky peninsula upon which Solitude had been built snapped with a sharp crack and toppled with a groan that filled the sky, dumping the Blue Palace and the upper districts of the city into the estuary.

Trendil swore and turned, but she was far too slow – only a few heartbeats later, a massive wave rushed over her, bringing with it debris, and for several more panicked moments, she was back underwater, struggling once more to find purchase.

She ended up in the same place she had started, groaning out of the still-churning water. The going was slower this time since occasional waves lapped at her ankles but she eventually made it back to the turn.

The remains of Solitude lay wrecked across the channel like a defeated boxer, and Trendil took a moment to gather her breath while she studied it. All that time, all the years, all to reach this city, only to have it destroyed before her eyes before she could even step foot in it.

It figured.

She shook her head and continued her pained journey until the dragons appeared to finish their attack on the city, gathered above, and left, flying en masse to the south. Trendil sank against the wall of the cliff, afraid any motion might give away her living presence and attract a dragon, as an eagle to a rabbit. She only dared move again when the cloud of dragons had become a distant splotch on the horizon.

It took her the rest of the day and all through the night to make her pained way back to the remains of the Stormcloak camp. All around her were torn corpses littered among blackened figures twisted in grotesque parodies of human form. She stumbled to where she and her love had fought together.

She found him twenty feet away, his body twisted and broken. Trendil rushed to him with a cry, disregarding her pain as she dove to his side, took his head into her lap, and searched with growing panic for any signs of life.

He was breathing. They were shallow breaths, but they were breaths. Trendil stroked his cheeks as her tears rained onto his face.

“Bent?”

“Bent?” He coughed, and blood dribbled from his lips. “That was my virgin name. It’s Dragonspite now.”

Trendil wiped away her tears. “I’m your commanding officer, remember? I’m the one who decides your name.”

“Ah.” His chuckle turned into a wheeze, and then a sigh. “Fair point, oh wise leader Lint. Bent is at your service.”

She barked out a laugh that turned to a sob, then shifted to nestle next to him, wrapped both arms around him, clung to him, willed him to stay with her. She was lost to time and reason, thought and desire. She was aware of nothing save his scarred breathing, his scattered heartbeat. The less of those she felt, the tighter she gripped.

She felt him leave. Between one heartbeat and the next, she felt it, then felt the heart still, a final whispered exhale. Still she clung to him, eyes closed and tears streaming, all her world an aching empty silence.

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*******************************

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to hand out promotions on your own?”

“What, you don’t like your new name?”

“It’s fine, although I noticed you went heavy on the ‘dragon’ theme. I’m Dragonspite, Pride is Dragonlance, Mo…”

“Well, despite the actual war going on, the dragons are both our greatest threat and make up our greatest achievements. I’m quite sure we have killed more dragons than Imperials at this point.”

Dragonspite nee Hammerleaf snorted. “Hard to argue that. And I’m not. The issue is…”

“That I don’t have the authority to promote myself, say nothing of anyone else. Yes, I know. But it became necessary when we learned there is no real war and our so-called leaders are in cahoots with the enemy. It’s a good thing our salaries are being kept in lieu or people would surely notice they did not get raises.”

“That’s assuming we still have salaries and haven’t all been fired for derelict of duty, sedition, or outright treason.”

“It would put the bow on the gift for Ulfric to label us as traitors as he’s sitting on the throne we won for him.”

“No question. Also, I’m not sure I can call you ‘Trendil.’ It sounds far too civvy.”

Trendil shrugged, set the scroll she had been working on down, and stretched her arms over her head. “Well, when you get to the upper ranks, your Stormcloak name reverts to your real name. I don’t make the rules. I just bend them to my liking and then follow them.”

Dragonspite snorted. “I have never heard a truer statement.” He moved behind her and started to rub her shoulders.

She let out a little groan as tension began to loosen. “But I don’t think we’ve been fired – that would be too messy and would require them to actually assemble the army and come after us. No, I’m pretty sure they’re hoping we’ll just find a way to get ourselves killed. By, for instance, trying to take Solitude with a single regiment.”

“Which we’re doing.”

“Which we’re doing. Here’s another true statement for you – the scouts counted no fewer than two dozen dragons along our route.”

“Are they all in one group?”

“No, although some are in smaller groups.”

“Then we’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be fine but we’ll be delayed. I’m estimating thirty days, give or take a week.”

A sigh. “Well, it can’t be helped. Besides, what’s one month after all these years of waiting?”

“With the dragons becoming more prevalent that birds, I’d say it’s far too long” Trendil shrugged. “But we can only do what we can do. Too bad we can’t just go across the bay.”

“Aye. You can do many things and somehow it would not surprise me to learn you could walk on water, but I do not think any of the rest of us can.”

“I cannot either, if that helps pop your overwrought fantasies about me.”

“Oh, I have fantasies about you all right.” His hands slid off her shoulders and down her chest to cup her breasts.

“Oh gods, why did I say that?”

“Because you have them about me too.” His fingers began to tease her nipples and she could not stop a gasp from escaping her lips.

“Fair point. How about we put this work aside for a bit and explore a few of them?”

“See, that’s the kind of plan I can get behind!”

“Behind, eh?” She stood, turned, and wrapped her arms around his neck as his hands slid down her back. “Fair enough. I think I still have the strap-on we found in…”

He gave her ass a slap. “I said I can get behind!”

“Pfft. We’ll see.”

***************

It took two weeks and ten dragons to reach the landmark that gave Dragonbridge its name. The Karth River roiled below; for it, the bridge was instead a gateway to the beginning of its final leg after a weary, seemingly endless journey through The Reach. Soon it would reach Solitude, its last stop before its final rest in the sea.

Trendil shook her head. Feeling kinship with a river surely must be a symptom of going mad.

Flying above (and occasionally diving down, spewing fire, landing and destroying something, and/or grabbing people for a snack) were three dragons. The Stormcloaks watched from the far side of the bridge as the dozen or so soldiers from the unwalled town tried to fight the things. It was clear the soldiers were soon going to be overwhelmed.

Trendil scratched her head. “What do you think? Will they be grateful if we help, or will they just turn and attack us?”

Dragonspite shrugged. “If they turn on us, they’ll end up as dead as if we had left them. Besides, one should always be good do his fellow man.”

“Very well. Sound the signal. Something simple. Plan A should be good enough.”

“As you wish, oh wisest of leaders.”

Just as they began their attack, however, the dragons unexpectedly looked up as one as if they heard something calling them, then wheeled toward the east and flew away, leaving Trendil and her regiment pouring over the bridge to face only a handful of exhausted guards, who took one look at them and threw down their weapons.

One had a sergeant’s patch and appeared to be the highest ranking of the group, so Trendil approached him as the regiment gathered up the weapons and guards.

“Greetings, Sergeant. Are we going to have any difficulties?”

The man scowled but shook his head. “My men are too exhausted to fight this many of you traitors. What are you doing here, anyway? The war ain’t anywhere near here.”

“It is now. And it will be over very soon.”

The man’s eyes widened as he looked at her force. “What, with this lot? You don’t have near enough to take Solitude.” A sudden wary glance. “What, are you the vanguard? The rest of the army gonna be marching through here?”

“Nah, just us.” She frowned upward, ignoring his disbelieving mutters. “Do dragons do that a lot here?”

“Do what? Attack? Yeah, all the…”

“No, do they just leave in the middle of a fight?”

“Ah. No, that was a first.”

“First for me as well. Strange.”

The sergeant shrugged as Dragonspite bound his hands behind his back. “Your problem now. Be good with the townsfolk, will ya? They’ve been through enough.”

Trendil’s eyes dropped from the sky to the man and she smiled. “And here I thought all Imperials were morally bankrupt.”

“I ain’t no Imperial. Just a Nord who wants peace.”

“Aye? Well, be heartened, then – peace is coming in about two weeks.”

The man snorted as he was led away. “Ain’t no peace coming for any of us. Just fire and death.”

Trendil sighed as she looked back at the dwindling dots of the dragons. More had joined them; a veritable flock of dragons was winging its way to the east. To where, and why?

She shook her head. There was no way to know and, in truth, it didn’t matter. She turned away and motioned for Dragonspite.

“Get Company I set up here and tell the other company leaders to gather their squads – we’re leaving in an hour.”

Dragonspite lifted his eyebrows. “Already? We aren’t going to get much travel done with the time we have left.”

“We’ll get farther than if we wait for the dragons to return and have to go back to fighting them every four hours.  I don’t know where they went, but I’m not going waste this opportunity.”

“Aye, fair point. I’ll have them ready.”

Trendil nodded and turned again, but this time her eyes were on the distant but visible silhouette of Solitude, miles away across the estuary created by the Karth. The end of the war was finally within reach but the sergeant’s point had been valid – taking the city with one hundred soldiers was a tall task. Just getting there was not enough – somehow she would need to find a way to get through their defenses. And unlike the other cities they had come across, it seemed unlikely the Imperials would have left only a skeleton crew in the capital city.

She sighed and turned away. A different issue for a different day. What mattered now was making sure Dragonbridge stayed in their hands, resupplying what they could, and mustering back up to continue their journey. A journey that was about to end.

One way or another.

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Actually, she could – the day of her wedding. Also the day of the attack that was the impetus that put her where she now.

She sighed and gave up on mingling. It had seemed a stroke of luck to stumble across the invitation to this swanky event in the ex-Jarl of Morthal's desk, but she could barely move in the dress and heels she had liberated from the same ex-Jarl's wardrobe. She was never going to be able to blend in like this.

New plan! She would find a seat somewhere and let others mingle toward her. Then she wouldn’t have to…

“Stop fidgeting. You are terrible at this.”

Swordsinger whirled toward the unexpected voice in her ear…or tried to. The heels turned the spin into a stumble and she found herself in the arms of a woman, who helped her hobble to a seat on a divan in a corner of the room, all the time apologizing to those they passed. “She had a fainting spell, poor thing.”

The woman had high-curled blonde hair and a face painted within an inch of its life. She perched with demure ease next to Swordsinger, every move a symphony of grace. Swordsinger had never been so jealous in her life.

“Thank you, I…um…” She stopped, unsure what to say. What excuse would a noble give for such un-noble-like behavior? Fortunately, it turned out she didn’t need to find one.

“It is good to see you again, my pseudo-sister. No, don’t slouch. Sit up straight. Good. Put your hands together like this. No, fingers…that’s right. Now smile and try to keep it there. Just nod if anyone tries to talk.”

Swordsinger did as she was bade and the attention soon shifted away from them. Her mind was reeling even as she concentrated on holding the pose.

“Do I know you?”

A soft laugh. “I should hope so after all that time we spend in Labyrinthian together. No, keep steady and smile. That is a grimace, not a smile. Pretend you see someone you like. Or, for you, someone you don’t like getting a justly deserved sword through their gullet.”

A picture of Jaunty impaled on her swords came to mind.

“Yes, that’s better. Now, how did you get in here? This is an invitation-only event.”

“We…um…found an invitation.”

Another soft laugh. “Did you, then? And you decided to pause the war to come to a party?”

“No to the first part, yes to the second. The war is here. I just need to find it.”

“Truly? Do tell.”

Swordsinger sighed as she shifted, trying to ease the ache in her back. Who knew just sitting could cause so much pain? "The invitation came with a guest list. Imagine our surprise when a number of high ranking Stormcloaks were on the list of a party deep in enemy territory!”

“Indeed! Have you seen any of these people here?”

“Not so far. I’m thinking maybe they’re in a different part of the mansion. Maybe some dignitaries section. I was going to…” She stopped and sighed. “Well, I was going to try to find it.”

“I see. Is there anyone is particular you were hoping to find?”

“Aye. Benrad Gray-Mane.”

“I hear the tinge of hate in your voice.” Sloan – for it must be her, though she looked nothing like her – smiled. “I have a proposition for you.”

“I am listening.”

“It has surely become clear to you that you won’t be able to infiltrate this august group. However, that is exactly the sort of thing I am trained to do.”

“That is an interesting idea, but you wouldn’t know what information to listen for. If it even comes up.”

Sloan’s smile grew larger and she paused to greet a couple passing by before responding, “I don’t need to. I’ll bring Ser Gray-Mane to you.”

Swordsinger gasped then turned it into a cough. A demure one, she hoped, though it likely sounded like a choking mule compared to what these people were used to. “You can do that?”

“Of course.”

“All right. What do you want in return?”

Another laugh and Sloan inclined her head ever so slightly toward a stark but gorgeous dark-haired woman standing near the banister of the wide sloping staircase.

“Remember when I said I was no longer employed? That woman is Mishi, and she is one of the reasons that happened. She is going to attempt to kill me later tonight.”

“Oh, Aye?”

“Indeed. I was also going to try to kill her but, though my skills have improved over the years, I am not certain I can. You, on the other hand…”

“I’ve seen you at work. I find it hard to believe you would lose.”

“It would be a tossup. But I have likewise seen you at work. I have no doubt you would win.” Sloan paused again to greet an elderly man, smiling up at him as if they were the only two people in the world. After the man shuffled away, Sloan added, “That said, do not underestimate her. She is…very quick.”

“If you’re not sure you could beat her, she must be. All right, I’ll accept your proposal. How do I do this?”

“You only need to leave. She will soon follow. She likely believes you to be me, and further believes I am making myself stand out on purpose to lead her to a trap. But she is arrogant – she will believe herself able to defeat any trap I might lay down.” A final laugh and a shake of her head. “Little does she know.”

“And how will I find you after?”

“I’ll meet you on the hill opposite your camp at midnight. And I’ll bring your jaunty little friend with me.”

Trendil’s eyes narrowed as a small jolt went through her at the phrasing but she only leaked a small laugh. “I won’t even ask how you know where our camp is. I’ll see you then.”

Sloan stood and dipped a small curtsey toward Swordsinger before moving away. Swordsinger waited a few seconds then, with a groan, stood back on the shaky heels and began to hobble her way toward the door. After two steps, she decided she had already made a scene and wasn’t fooling anyone anyway, so she kicked off the damn things and strode with much relief out the door in her bare feet.

*******************

Swordsinger knelt, blades across her knees, head bowed, and concentrated on her wi, guiding the energy along her inner paths, letting it relax and energize each part of her body in turn. It brought her in perfect attunement to her surroundings and always helped her to relax in times of stress. Someday, it would be the key to manifesting her gift, the y̌êz buud, the swords made of pure spirit that were the culmination of the vemnyi shî yee y̌êz.

She was not there, though. Not yet. But every time she felt the wi flow through her, it moved a little easier, a little freer. Once she was able to let go and it moved on its own without her conscious thought – then she would be ready.

Or so she had been told, at any rate. Of course, her mother had manifested her Spirit Swords before she turned…

Movement from behind, and Swordsinger stilled her thoughts. Someone approached through the trees with the predatory silence of a cat.

A pause, then something flicked. Swordsinger twisted to the side incrementally, just enough so the dagger that had been meant for her back stuck in the hard wood of one of her scabbards instead.

“So sloppy, as always.”

The voice seemed to come from the right but Swordsinger could feel the figure shifting through the trees, still behind but arcing toward her left.

“The Matron saw potential in you but I knew it was only a matter of time before you failed.”

Step. Step. Step.

”Nothing to say? You were always so mouthy during your debriefings. Always trying to defend your actions.”

Step. Step. Now she was directly to the left, where she paused, but her voice appeared to come from the front.

 “But you know you’re not good enough. Don’t you. Still the little orphan street rat. You thought you found a family in us, in the Vixen, but now you know the truth – you never had one. You were always only a pawn in a larger game. A game you thought you glimpsed. But you only saw what we wanted you to see.”

Another step, and now the voice seemed to come from every direction at once.

“I know you have traps laid out all around you. But I will join your game.” A throaty laugh. “You are just a child at play. Your traps are as meaningless as you are. Let us see how they fare against this!”

Figures leapt out of the trees from all directions. Each held a pair of glistening deadly-sharp daggers. With a single cry, they rushed toward her.

And, at last, Swordsinger moved. She twisted to her feet, braced herself, and shoved both swords upward into the woman who was descending from the sky. The illusory circle of attackers disappeared in an instant as Mishi’s daggers scattered from numb fingers and she crashed to the ground.

They stared at each other for a long moment as Mishi’s life pumped out of her body, until finally the assassin whispered, “You’re not her. Who are you?”

Swordsinger smiled as she lifted her sword.

“I am her family.”

The blade flashed down and Mishi’s head rolled free from her body and the forest once more grew quiet.

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The scout shrugged. “That’s what we thought but I swear it is. We circled the city at least half a dozen times and Lurching put on civvies and walked right on in through the front gate.”

Swordsinger shook her head. “Morthal is the fourth largest city in Skyrim, the largest city in Hjaalmarch, and, more to the point, it is the only major city between us and Solitude. We’re in the middle of a war. How can it possibly be undefended?”

The scout shrugged again, clearly as lost as she. “Not completely. It has guards. But just the locals. There’s no sign of a garrison.”

Hammerleaf rubbed his head. “My guess is their forces are concentrated on the front line to the east. Although I would not have guessed their numbers so thin that they had no one left to guard their cities.”

Swordsinger’s heel began to tap again as she dismissed the scout and rubbed her eyes. “I don’t like it. This has trap inscribed all over it.”

“What do you mean? What kind of trap?”
 

“The kind where a spy in our midst has forewarned our enemies of our presence.”

“Ah. An Imperial spy or a Jaunty spy?”

“While I have no doubt Jaunty has spies among us, it is hard to imagine even that buffoon tipping off the Imperials about us.”

“Not that hard.”

“Valid point. It doesn’t matter which, right now – just that we likely have some.”

“In a group this size, it is inevitable. So how do you want to find them?”

“Oh, we’ll go the tried and true method of telling each of our squad leaders a different plan then see which one the enemy attempts to counter. That will at least narrow it down to one company.”

“Or more, if the enemy tries more than one counter.”

“Another valid point. Look at you, Mister Strategy today!” Swordsinger pursed her lips in thought, then a slow smile crossed her lips as her heel slowed to a stop.

Hammerleaf eyes turned wary and he leaned away. “I know that look. What insanity have you cooked up now?”

“I’m certain I have no idea what you mean.” Swordsinger stood and stretched. “In fact, I think it’s a good idea to take a break – we’ve been running ragged for a long time. Why don’t you and Company A take a nice Leave? You’ve all earned it.”

Hammerleaf frowned. “Leave? We’re in the middle of enemy territory. Where could they…oh no.” His eyes widened. “That’s your plan? If things go wrong, that’s tantamount to suicide.”

Swordsinger snorted. “Nonsense. If the trap is really in the city and they carry a typical garrison, it will be sixteen of you against a hundred-fifty-ish of them. I like your odds. Besides, my guess is that the trap isn’t in the city.”

“Mm hm. Is there anything you’d like us to get you while we’re there?”

Swordsinger smiled. “Yes – the Jarl’s abdication.”

“Have I mentioned how much I dislike your plans?”

She gave him an innocent stare. “Don’t you trust me?”

He didn’t respond but she grinned when she noticed his heel tapping as she passed by on the way out of the tent.

***************************

“…then we’ll move here,” Swordsinger set a pink rock on the map, “and take Stone Hills first. I don’t want anything coming at our backs while we’re laying siege to Morthal.”

The squad leaders nodded their understanding but Wooly asked, “We’re doing this tomorrow? Is that enough time?”

Swordsinger shook her head. “We’re starting tomorrow. It will be another three days before we are in place. Also, congratulations! You have just volunteered your squad to do the initial scouting!” 

She grinned and the rest of the room chuckled as he winced, but all he said was, “Sure enough! We’ll leave tonight.”

“Very well. Go ahead and get your squad together. We’re about done here, anyway.”

“Aye.”

Wooly saluted, fist on heart, and left the tent. Swordsinger waited another dozen heartbeats before she spoke again.

“Okay, now that the traitor has the bait, here is the real plan.”

It caused Swordsinger physical pain to say the words out loud, but the truth could not be denied. Enemy movement had been reported on only one of their many decoy gambits. And that one had been told, in the strictest of confidence, only to Wooly.

She wanted to lay her head on her arms and just weep, but now was not the time. Indeed, never would there be a time for such a selfish act while the war raged on. But when it was over…well, that day, a reckoning would come. Provided they all survived, of course.

Pride frowned at the map. “Do we have a plan for the dragons? I saw at least a half-dozen today.”

“Close by?”

Pride shrugged. “Not close enough to raise an alarm. But still…”

“Aye. All we can do is keep an eye on the sky and prepare to adapt on the run should one decide to pay us a visit during a fight.”

“Aye.”

“Right. Get your squads up to speed. We’ll give Wooly a day then move into position.” Plenty of time for Wooly to unwittingly bait their trap.

*********************

Frustrating. It was frustrating when plans didn’t come together.

“It is difficult to spring a trap when the intended trapee does not show up.”

Pride laughed. “It’s good there was no enemy waiting for us, right? Even though we weren’t where they would have expected. Perhaps Wooly is not a spy after all?”

“I considered that but he’s the only one who knew about our fake plan in Drajkmyr.” Swordsinger sighed as her leg went back to tapping. “I guess I have no choice. I was hoping I could use him to spread disinformation but I’m going to have to burn that bridge. Send him here, please.”

“Aye.”

When Wooly arrived in the command tent five minutes later, Swordsinger looked up from the map table and glared.

“Whoa! What’s that look for?”
 

“How could you?”

“What? What did I…”

“Don’t play dumb with me!” Swordsinger jumped to her feet as her hands turned to fists, crumpling the report between her fingers. She waved it at Wooly. “Would you care to explain how the Imperials knew of our plan to build a ballista in Drajkmyr?”

Wooly went white but sputtered to his own defense. “What? They weren’t Imperials, they were just locals! And I don’t know how they found out! Maybe one of the other squad leaders…”

“Enough!” The crack of her voice shut him up and he took another step back as Swordsinger leaned forward. “Morthal is in the hands of the Imperials which makes the locals the same. More to the point, you were the only person I told about that plan. The ONLY ONE!” She struggled not to sweep out her swords and remove his head on the spot. She also struggled not to collapse to the ground weeping. “I TRUSTED YOU! You’re an IMPERIAL SPY! WHY?!”

Wooly blanched still further and waved his hands in front of him. “What?! No! I’m not, I swear! I just…I sent the information to my uncle.”

Swordsinger paused at this unanticipated direction. “Your uncle? Who is your uncle?"

A moment of abashed silence, then Wooly mumbled something.

“Speak up, I can’t…”

“Dragonscorcher. My name…my real name is Francis Gray-Mane.”

It took a solid five seconds for Swordsinger’s brain to process what it had heard. “Gray…you’re a spy for JAUNTY?!”

“It’s not spying! He’s our commanding officer! We’re going against his direct orders!” Wooly’s tone had begun to turn sanctimonious and set Swordsinger’s teeth on edge.

“He’s the reason we were stuck in the Reach running in circles for a year and a half!”

“He must have had his reasons!”

“He DID have his reasons – his family – YOUR family now has control of all the mines in that area!”

“I…that’s not why…”

“Of course it is! All his…YOUR relatives are in the squads that were assigned to them. Did you fail to notice that?”

“I…um, now that you mention…”

“Tell me this, Mister Jaunty-lover – if you only told that incompetent fop about the ballista, how did the Imperials know about it?”

Wooly opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

“Here’s the truth about your uncle – he sent us to the Reach to procure wealth for his family and to get rid of us because we were the only ones making any progress on this war. Since we didn’t stay there to die, he is making new plans to get us killed here.”

“But…but that would mean HE is an Imperial spy! That makes no sense! There must have been some other reason!”

Swordsinger shook her head. “Must there? What is it, then? What is Jaunty’s fabulous plan that is so amazing, we’ve been running in circles slowly dying for two years while the rest of the army sits in a stalemate three-hundred miles away from Solitude?”

A long silence, then Swordsinger sighed and sat down. “Since in the most technical sense, you didn’t do anything for which I could court-martial you, I’ll have to go with what is in my power. You are stripped of your rank and position. You are the lowest of the low members of the company. Your new name is Dogshit. Go report to the privy-digging squad – that’s where you’ll spend the rest of this war. Gods help you if I ever see you again after the war.”

Dogshit looked poleaxed and his face had turned sheet white. It took a long few seconds of a staredown before he ducked his head, turned, and left the tent. Swordsinger waited for the flap to close before she collapsed on a chair, buried her head in her hands, and, for the first time since she could remember, wept.

***************************************

“You look good in that chair.”

“I know. ‘Jarl Hammerleaf.’ Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Swordsinger laughed as she looked around Highmoon Hall. “Speaking of, where is the former Jarl? Did you kill him?”

“Her. The Jarl was Idgrod Ravencrone. She’s in a nice cell with some rats for company.”

“Good enough.”

Hammerleaf quirked an eyebrow. “Any signs of actual Imperial activity?”

“No. I guess they really are all engaged at the front.”

“Probably split between that and Solitude – it’s hard to imagine they might have left it as empty as here. How do you think Jaunty was able to tell them about the fake plan so quickly?”

Swordsinger shrugged. “Either there are some really fast pigeons of one of the battlemages somehow sent the message for him.”

“Ah. I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think we should expect some actual Imperials soon?”

“I assume so. We’ll have to make preparations. Once we’ve eliminated them, we can move on to Solitude.”

Hammerleaf frowned. “Solitude? Not the front?”

“Why would we go there? Either there is a massive Imperial force between our forces and us, or…I don’t know what. But whatever it is, we don’t want to waste our forces fighting unnecessary battles and we definitely don’t want to have someone like Jaunty commandeering our troops.” Swordsinger shook her head. “No. We’re going to Solitude and we’re going to win this bloody war. Hopefully it won’t be too late to deal with the dragons by then.”

As if on cue, a rush and boom sounded from outside, followed by screaming.

“Gods, I hate those things. Let’s go. Maybe after we show we can kill the damn things, the people in this city will feel more favorable to us.”
 

Hammerleaf laughed as he stood and reached for his namesake. “Can’t hurt! Let’s show them the mettle of Stormcloaks.”

Swordsinger snorted as they rushed toward the door. “Most of them, anyway.”

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They reached the command tent just as Hammerleaf stepped out and the entire thing became worth the confusion just to see the expression on his face. Swordsinger managed to keep her expression neutral, if only just. A normal post-battle day here with my identical twins! Nothing unusual about that!

“Ladies, this is my second in command, Hammerleaf.”

Hammerleaf’s eyes roamed from one of them to the next, clearly trying to get his eyes to believe what they were seeing. “There are three of you now? I do not think the world can handle that!”

“There are not three of me.”

“Then what…”

“There are actually four. That we know about.”

Hammerleaf froze with his mouth open and this time Swordsinger could not hold back a laugh. “A banner day! I do not think I have ever seen you at loss for words!”

“Words fail me in the face of such beauty, it is true.” He bowed as Swordsinger rolled her eyes.

“Been saving that one up for the next trip to town?”

“Aye, but since we haven’t seen a proper town in years, I figured I might as well not let it go to waste.”

“Ah, but you did – we’re all immune to your charms. Have we the tallies?”

“I was just going to get the squad leaders’ reports.”

“Okay. Go ahead and do the officer debriefing without me. My…” she glanced back then shook her head “…duplicates and I have things to discuss.”

“As you command, oh fearless leader.”

As he began to walk away, Sloan injected, “Hammerleaf is an…unusual name. Where did it come from?”

Hammerleaf laughed and jabbed a finger at Swordsinger as he continued to stride away. “Ask her! She's the one who gave it to me.”

“The Stormcloaks don't have ranks like The Imperials or other armies,” Swordsinger explained as she led the way to the map table in the tent. “Each time you gain a rank, you get a new, more battle-sounding name. Since I was his commanding officer, I got to give him his new name at his last promotion. I called him Hammerleaf because he swings that giant hammer he carries around as easily as if it was a leaf.” At their quizzical expressions, she added, “Don't judge. These stupid names are harder to come up with than you think.”

Sloan laughed. “Oh yes? What is your battle-sounding name?”

“Swordsinger.”

“Considering the way you were wielding those things, that seems fitting.”

“Thank you. So I think that's enough idle chatter. Who are you two and what are you doing here?”

The other two looked at each other and then Sloan shrugged.

“I’m Sloan, as I said before. I was just passing through on my way south.”

“You were passing through Labyrinthian?”

“Yes. It is much faster than going all the way around.”

“So you've taken this path before?”

“Several times. And, to anticipate your next question, yes, I've seen trolls here before. Not that many of them, though. Two or three at a time.”

“And you made it through alive?”

“Well, it's easy to stay hidden when there's just one person instead of the hundred-thirty-nine you have.”

Swordsinger raised her eyebrows as her estimation of Sloan rose. “One hundred forty-two. The three cooks were in the mess tent.”

“I stand corrected.”

Swordsinger snort-laughed and turned to the mage, trying not to get distracted by the dark well that had once been an eye. “And what brings a college mage to a place like this?”

“I came to study Labyrinthian. I believe it is connected to a magical artefact we recently found.”

“You're planning on going in there alone?”

“Yes. It's just a hunch and I don't want other people to get hurt.”

“Commendable but these ancient ruins are rife with traps and surprises.”

“I…am aware.”

“Well. You helped me, so I will help you. I’ll go with you.”

The mage was silent for a long moment, although it was hard to tell what she might be thinking.

“A week ago I would have said that is not necessary but…I have learned. Things. Since then.” A pause, then a pile of words that seemed to try to stumble from her mouth at once. “I almost died and…um…almost got someone else killed in the last ruin I was in because I thought I could…” The words stopped as she took a breath; suddenly she seemed very vulnerable. “It would be good to have someone else along. I try not to make the same mistakes twice.”

“Pithy words.” An enigma, was the mage. One moment she seemed cold and aloof, the next she leached vulnerability to a degree that felt like innocence. Yet the haunted look around her eyes…well, eye…hinted at a facet that precluded the idea of innocence, just as a matter of form.

Sloan waved a hand, gathering their attention. “I've recently become unemployed so I don't have much else to do. There might be treasure in there that could help cover my expenses.”

“Aye? And what was it you did?”

“I was in public relations. But the company and I had some disagreements and they tried to terminate my employment.”

Unlike Aithne, Sloan was unreadable. She showed emotions and to someone who had not spent as much time being forced to study other people as Swordsinger (once again her mother was proved right), Sloan probably came across as forthcoming. But in truth, she was a blank wall. She was someone to keep an eye on.

Aithne cleared her throat. “I…um…thank you both. I will admit I was not entirely hopeful about my prospects of coming back out.”

Sloan raised an eyebrow. “Are these old ruins that bad?”

Aithne shrugged. “Parts of them. The regular draugr - I assume you have heard of them? If you wondered whether they were real, they are. The regular ones are easy to kill but there was one that was…much harder.”

Swordsinger nodded. “Aye. And the traps in those places are well hidden, especially after millennia of dirt. Do you need to go there today?”

Aithne shrugged. “I honestly just expected to come here and go in and leave again, but that fight was pretty taxing. I would not mind a rest – I would prefer to enter the place at full strength.” There was an obvious rumble and Aithne laughed as she put a hand on her stomach. “Also, I'm afraid I did not come as prepared as I should have.”

“Aye, if you don't travel much, it's hard to know all the things you will need.”

“Speaking of travel,” Sloan interjected. “You don't have to tell me, of course, but last I heard, there were no Stormcloaks within two-hundred miles of this place.”

Swordsinger laughed. “Well, I suppose it is fair to ask the same question I asked you. We got new orders a couple weeks ago to end this war once and for all, so we’re heading north to do just that.”

“That’s good to hear. I lived in Riften for a time and knew a lot of Stormcloaks, so I am predisposed toward your cause but, frankly, at this point I don’t care who wins. There is a much bigger common foe both sides should be fighting.”

“You mean the dragons.”

“I mean the dragons. The war really should have been suspended once they started to appear in numbers.”

Aithne raised her eyebrows, itself a weird thing to see with only the one eye. “Dragons? I had heard they had reappeared and I did get a close up view of one at one time but I didn't know they were that numerous.”

Swordsinger nodded. “Oh, yes. There's been a steady increase in their numbers.”

Sloan repeated the nod. “There is an entire colony of them north of here right by the old Thalmor embassy. Dozens, maybe hundreds. I have no idea where they're coming from. Maybe this is some sort of hybrid dragon that has been mixed with rabbit?”

Swordsinger laughed but shook her head. “I don't know how it started but there are more because they're coming back to life.”

Aithne blinked, yet another disturbing thing to see. “What?”

“You heard correctly. Every time one is killed, it comes back to life in about a week.”

Sloan nodded. “Delphine said the same.”

Aithne looked poleaxed. “That is...incredible.”

“Incredibly bad.” Swordsinger laughed again . “Well, for some people. I met a khajiit who had captured one. Every time it came back to life, he and his people slaughtered it. A never-ending supply of dragon hide, bones, and…whatever else you can get from them that is worth coin!”

“That's an idea.” Sloan tapped a finger against her lips. “Maybe I'll do that for my next business venture.”

“Good luck if you try it. It takes a lot of effort to capture one and you’d need some pretty stout chains to hold it down.” Swordsinger noted a slight wince in the mage’s expression at the word "chains,” giving her a slight inkling as to what may have happened to the eye. “Well. Dinner should be ready. I hope you all are ready for camp stew.”

Aithne nodded, then shook her head. “What is it?”

“Basically it's the same stew every day. We just add whatever fresh meat and edible plants we find as we march or can hunt when we camp, mix it together with the leftovers from the day before and add a lot of water, then cook it until everything is mushy and tasteless. What it lacks in flavor it more than makes up for in awful texture. There’s a good chance this will be a far sterner test for your bowels than anything we might face tomorrow.”

Her duplicates exchanged a glance, then Sloan smiled. “Can't wait to try it.”

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Part 2

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Swordsinger sighed as she glanced up from the map. “Finally. That’s the last one, as I recall.”

“Yes.” Hammerleaf grinned. “Unless you have reconsidered and want to pull Jaunty’s family in.”

Swordsinger snorted. “No. I’m sure there are already plenty of Jaunty spies in the companies we have who will be happy to start spreading rumors as soon as we make the announcement. We don’t need more of his people here to help spread those fires.”

“Oh, you mean the rumors that the orders we’re about to announce don’t really exist and we’re planning to strike out on our own without permission, effectively making us traitors?”

“For Harbor’s sake, don’t say that out loud! What’s wrong with you?”

“So so many things. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

 “Don’t start having doubts now. We’ve discussed this over and over and we keep coming to the same conclusion. So don’t try to seed more doubt into it.”

“Of course. It’s just a big step.”

“Yes. As we have said many times, sometimes big steps are needed. Frankly, I’m more worried about balking when we mention Labyrinthian than doubts about the orders.”

“Well, it is said to be haunted, and that…”

“…no one who goes there comes back. Yes, I know. I don’t have time for ghost stories. Besides, Delphine said she has gone through there many times without incident.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘without incident’.” Delphine looked up from the black armor she was repairing. “There were some trolls.”

Hammerleaf shrugged. “Perhaps the trolls are the reason for the rumors. Certainly they are formidable creatures to fight.”

“Aye. We’ll have to approach with caution. I’m sure we’ll be able to handle whatever we find, but I don’t want to lose any more people.” Swordsinger straightened, tugging at her armor in an ineffectual attempt to make it look less worn out. “Let’s get this over with. The sooner it is done, the sooner we can deal with whatever comes next. Ulfric is going to be king whether he wants to or not.”

Delphine raised her eyebrows and paused her work. “You’re leaving today?”

Hammerleaf shook his head. “No, it will take a little time to get organized. We’ll leave in…three days, I’d say?”

“Sounds about right.”

Delphine nodded. “Very well. And my offer?”

Swordsinger exchanged a glance with Hammerleaf then shook her head.

“After the war, if we aren’t executed for treason, we’ll join you. It just…doesn’t feel right to do it right now.”

Delphine nodded. “I understand. We’ll be here when you’re ready. Hopefully with Sian and more Blades!”

“Yes, I admit, I am interested to meet this person I apparently look like.”

“Two people you look like. Spitting image, I assure you. Are you certain you don’t have sisters?”

Swordsinger shrugged. “I make no assumptions when it comes to my mother, but if so, I have never heard of them.”

“Well, hopefully we’ll have time to explore that mystery as well once you return.”

“Aye. I look forward to that.” Swordsinger looked at Hammerleaf. “Are we prepared for this? Have we forgotten anything?”

 “We are as prepared as we are ever likely to get.”

“Then let’s get this over with.”

Hammerleaf laughed. “You mean, let’s get this started.”

They wound their way through the cavern corridors in stark silence. Swordsinger found her heart was beating at a rate that seemed frankly unhealthy. She was more nervous about this than any battle or dragon they had faced. They made their way into the cavern that had been their base for these many months and she took her place on a ledge overlooking the main cavern room, then motioned to Hammerleaf, who nodded, took a deep breath, and shouted, “Attention please! Everybody gather around. We have new orders.”

It took a few cacophonous minutes for the companies to arrange themselves. Swordsinger looked over the assembled group with an overwhelming sense of pride at their accomplishments and a dark sickness that twisted inside her at what she was about to say. Their actions following this announcement would technically make every one of them unwitting traitors to their king and country. Once they gained Solitude and won the war, there was a good chance all who survived the war would find themselves arrested and headless within the next fortnight. She might as well be signing their death warrants herself.

Still, it could not be helped. As things stood, they would all be dead before the war ended (if it ever did), no matter what happened. Better for it to happen for the right reasons. She quelled her doubts and took a deep breath.

“We have good news! At long last, we have orders to get out of this Divines-forsaken place! We are leaving the Reach!”

 She paused, waiting for the inevitable reaction that arrived only a couple heartbeats later - a raucous cheer erupted. She let it go for a bit then held up her arms and waited for it to quiet again.

“It is time to end this war! We are to march west and then north, bypassing the northern portion of the Reach! Instead of the expected route through the Reach to Dragon Bridge, we are to go through Labyrinthian Pass and take Morthal!”

She hurried on, getting to the good part of this news, hoping to quell the instinctual fear the name Labyrinthian would no doubt bring forth in many of the Nords.

“That will give us a new front in this war that will lead to our inevitable and ultimate victory. All hail the Stormcloaks! All hail King Ulfric!”

She hoped finishing on the high note would help them step past their fear and, for the most part, it seemed to have worked. The cheers rang out again, though perhaps not as loud as before, and she nodded and stepped back. Hammerleaf took her place and began announcing the orders for the Company leaders to begin their preparations. Swordsinger stood by until he was finished and then they turned as one and headed back up the hall toward the temple.

Once out of earshot of the companies, Swordsinger took a deep breath and Hammerleaf wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders and said, “That went as well as could be expected.”

“I suppose. The fallout will come in the next few days as we gather for departure. Then the fears and rumors and whispers will have had a chance to implant themselves. That is the scariest part.”

“Well, we’ll deal with that as it comes up, as always.”

“Aye. Just as we’ll deal with the headsman axe when it comes up.”

“You’re such an optimist. We’ll have to survive a war long before we have to face any headsman axes.”

Swordsinger laughed. “Fair point. I need to talk to Wooly. Let’s set up an officer’s meeting in, say, two hours.”

“As you say, oh fearless leader.”

“I wish that moniker was true. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much fear.” She sighed and turned toward the tunnel to her right. “See you soon.”

“Aye.”

The darkness of the tunnel enclosed her like an echo of the fear that pressed at her heart and she shivered as her steps quickened in instinctual empathy. She burst out the other side almost at a run, stumbling to a stop in the chamber beyond where Wooly looked up from the rough map table.

“You all right?”

Swordsinger took a deep breath, fighting for composure as the light of the room pushed away the darkness, if only for a moment.

“Yes.” She motioned at the map. “I see you’ve already started charting our course. We need to try to avoid any engagements, if possible, even if that takes us off the straightest path. Oh, and have someone put a torch in that tunnel. It’s dark as night in there.”

Hammerleaf snorted. “Somehow this is home already?”

“Well…it’s the closest thing we’ve come to it in a while.”

“Fair enough. Looks like Woody has kept things in good order.”

So it appeared. Swordsinger cast an eye over the valley. Where once had been Foresworn tents and hovels, sturdy defenses had sprung up. A palisade protected the cave entrance while the already rough ground surrounding it was a maze of spiked fence rows. It would take monumental effort just to reach the wall.

Well, unless you were a dragon. Fortunately, this appeared to be a dragon-less day.

The downside to the arrangement was that it took them all day to wind their way through it. Sky Haven Temple – or the mountain that housed it, anyway – had blotted out the sun by the time they were cheered through the gates. After giving Wooly and the other Company leaders a brief rundown on what had happened, they finally got the chance to talk to their prisoner.

The elf’s fancy robes were mud-spattered and torn and he reeked since he had proven to be very bad at shitting with his hands tied (and neither of his captors had felt any inclination toward helping or wiping him after) yet he still managed to convey an air of superiority as they removed his gag.

“Now then,” Swordsinger began, “let’s get down to business.”

“Indeed. Do not worry, you savages. You won’t need torture or cajolances. The things that are in motion cannot be stopped now. Not by you. Maybe by the dragons, but we’re working on a plan for them as well.”

Swordsinger lifted her eyebrows. “Oh? Well, let’s test that theory. We have heard a rumor that Ulfric Stormcloak is secretly a pawn of the Thalmor. Is that true?”

The elf laughed. “Of course! He has been our puppet from some time.”

Hammerleaf cursed and Swordsinger chewed on her lip. So it was true. “I suppose the stalling of the war was your idea as well?”

“Not mine personally, but it is the grand design. You Stormcloaks were moving far too quickly for our tastes at first but it didn’t take much effort to shift enough resources here to the Reach to slow you down.”

Swordsinger exchanged glances with Hammerleaf. “Guess you were right.”

Hammerleaf shrugged. “Wish I wasn’t. That was disappointingly easy. What are we supposed to do with him now?”

“What?” The elf frowned at them. “You killed my men so you could kidnap me and drag me here for one question?”

Swordsinger ignored the elf. “I don’t know. I’m fine with killing people on a battlefield but I’m no murderer. Think he’d make a good slave?”

“This is asinine! Don’t you want to know about our strategy?”

“I suppose that depends on what kind. We could send him to Jaunty’s men to make him mine.”

“Or the Imperial setup? Wouldn’t that be useful?”

“I don’t know about that. The only way Jaunty could have got his promotion is if he and his family were brown-nosing Ulfric something fierce. I have the feeling our friend would become an honored guest if we did that.”

“What about supply points?”

“Good point. Should we take him to Delphine?”

The name seemed to have sparked something in the elf – his head snapped up and there was a new fire in his eyes. “Delphine?!”

Swordsinger blinked at him, surprised by the reaction. “Yes. You know the name?”

The elf spat. “Every Thalmor knows that bitch’s name.”

“Truly? What do you know of her?”

“She fucked men for money and horses for pleasure, that’s what. Where did you hear of her?”

“We met her about…how long has it been?”

“Five months?” Hammerleaf poked the elf.  “Took a while to find you.”

The elf paled. “That…that’s impossible.”

“It is? Well, to be fair, we only know that’s her name because she told us as much. Perhaps she isn’t the real Delphine. Why don’t we see her and find out?”

“Wait…she’s here?”

“Well, I don’t know if the real Delphine is here, but someone calling herself that certainly is. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Swordsinger stood and tugged on the rope.

The elf cast his eyes about, then glared. “You’re bluffing. I don’t know how you heard that diseased-filled whore’s name but she can’t possibly be here. She died a decade ago.”

“If she was really filled with disease, you’re probably right.” Swordsinger tugged the hood back over the elf’s face and glanced at Hammerleaf. “Ready to visit our patron?”

“You know, I believe I am.”

***

They found Delphine almost exactly where they had left her, but the room had changed. A surprisingly large pile of scrolls, books, paper, and writing materials now covered the massive table and dozens of newly polished sets of Blades armor lined the walls. Refurbished weapon stands held numerous black blades that made Swordsinger’s palms itch in lust.

Delphine looked up from polishing a wrist guard as they approached. “Well, hello again. I see you have brought a guest.”

Swordsinger smiled. “You could call him that. He confirmed what you told us. In fact, he seemed happy to admit it.”

Hammerleaf snorted. “He was gloating about it.”

“He was indeed. He wanted to tell us all of their plans. Apparently he feels we are powerless to do anything about it.”

“And I’m certain none of the information he wanted to volunteer would have been deceptive in any way.”

Delphine laughed. “Typical elven arrogance. So, now that you have confirmed what I showed you, have you thought about my offer?”

Swordsinger exchanged a glance with Hammerleaf, then nodded. “Of course we have talked about it but we haven’t come to any conclusions yet. No matter what our thoughts on the subject might be, we still have our Regiment to consider. After hearing this news, many would likely join you but just as many more are completely dedicated to Ulfric” the bloody traitor “and will not hear a bad word said about him, evidence be damned.”

“I understand. Let me know what decision you ultimately come to, won’t you?”

“Certainly.” Swordsinger nudged the elf, who had gone suspiciously quiet. “About this fellow…we mentioned your name and he had…thoughts.”

“Oh, yes? And what did our recalcitrant friend say about me?”

“He says he’s heard of you but he didn’t believe we actually knew you. He thinks you’re dead.”

Hammerleaf leaned forward. “Also, that you’re a diseased-filled whore who fucks men for money and horses for pleasure.”

Swordsinger frowned at him but Delphine looked merely amused. “Really? Let’s see who we have, then.”

Swordsinger reached out and plucked off the hood. The elf sputtered a bit and Delphine’s face twisted into a smile, but not like the ones she had shown before. This one was…predatory.

“Oh, I do know you. Deputy Moru, isn’t it?”

The elf’s head snapped up and his eyes widened. “It is you!” He turned back to Swordsinger with a new desperation in his voice. “Do whatever you want with me! Kill me, enslave me, I don’t care! I will serve you willingly! I’ll tell you everything you need! Just do not leave me with her. Please!”

Hammerleaf snorted. “I guess we found the best place for him after all.”

“Indeed.” Delphine’s smile had grown as the elf gibbered. “Don’t you worry. We’ll take real good care of our guest.”

“We’ll leave him in your hands, then. We have a rebellion to plan.” A small laugh. “Another one.” She shared a nod with Delphine then turned away. The elf’s screams (along with Delphine’s calm voice saying, “Oh, we haven’t even done anything yet.”) followed them out of the temple. It was a relief when the stone door swung shut and left them in silence.

The stairs led to a room that was not quite as big as the one they had just left but was still large enough to dwarf any palace throne room. Doors stood in the stone wall to the left and stairs led further up and in along each wall but she only registered those details through an oblique lens – her eyes were drawn with helpless immediacy to the massive wall that curved nearly the width of the cavern. It was carved in relief with a dizzying array of pictures and strange marks that she could only assume were some sort of lettering, though like none she had seen before.

“What is this place?” The words slipped out before she was cognizant of their presence.

Delphine’s face was lit up like a girl on her birthday. “It is as I told you – this is Sky Haven Temple, home of the Blades. And the Dragonborn, when she isn’t imprisoned somewhere.”

“Yes, you told us but that doesn’t tell me anything. What who or what are the Blades?”

“The Blades were dragon slayers, back in the day. When the dragons disappeared, they became the king’s personal guard. Then the war happened and they were wiped out almost to a man. Or a woman.” A bitter smile. “The few left went into hiding – the Thalmor wish nothing more than to eradicate the last of us.”

“So you are one of these Blades.”

“She is, yes,” the old man’s voice replied from behind Swordsinger. “We both are.”

Swordsinger glanced back as Esbern and Wooly entered the room but the old man didn’t pay her – or anything else – any attention when his eyes caught sight of the carved wall.

“Divines! It is here!” He moved toward the wall with a haste that belied his seeming age, but stopped once he neared it as if afraid to disturb it. “I wondered if it truly existed.” He reached out a shaking hand and touched the relief.

“What do you mean, you weren’t sure it existed?” Delphine’s voice had turned flat and Esbern spared her a glance and a chuckle.

“Knowing a thing existed in the past does not mean that that thing still exists today.” He stepped back and surveyed the wall. “This tells the tale of the dragons of the past, and the Blades who fought them”

“Does it tell how they defeated them?”

“I don’t know yet. It will take some time to decipher everything. I certainly hope so.”

 Delphine ran a hand through her hair. “Hopefully whatever you find something before it’s too late. And we still need to find Sian.”

Swordsinger tilted her head at the name. “That’s your Dragonborn, yes? Do you have any ideas where she might be? Perhaps we can help.”

Delphine gave a small smile and shook her head. “I appreciate the offer but I have the best working on that particular problem. If they cannot find her, no one can.” Her eyes narrowed and she tapped her chin with a finger as she studied her Stormcloak guests. “But since you mention it, there is a way you could help. But it might…create issues.”

“Issues? What do you mean?”

“Well – I seek to restart the Blades. And that means I need people know how to handle themselves against dragons.

“I know you are vowed to the Stormcloaks and tied up in the war, but in my mind, it is clear that the dragons are the biggest threat to Skyrim, if not all of Tamriel, right now. They need to be dealt with, but the war is draining most of the fighting resources. In order to defeat the dragons, the war needs to end, so it would not be a conflict of interest for you and your people to join us as well.

“Obviously we cannot hope to have final victory against them until we have found Sian, but without the war, at least we would have a better chance of controlling the dragon population until we can find her.”

Hammerleaf snorted. “So you are suggesting we join your little cult?”

Delphine tossed him a glare with eyes that seemed able to cut metal with a glance. “It’s not a cult. It’s an ancient established militia that stands in peerage with the Companions or the Vanguard or the Fighter’s Guild or any other similar group you might wish to name.”

Hammerleaf shrugged. “Fine. Even if that is true, what would joining do for us? You do not seem to be in a position to offer us anything in return.”

“No?” Delphine gestured around. “A safe place for you and your soldiers to rest? Also, there are these.” Delphine lifted a black-hilted sword in an equally black sheath from table, held it up, and slowly removed the blade from the sheath.

It was unlike any weapon Swordsinger had seen – the blade was just as dark as the hilt yet still somehow shone. As more of the blade appeared, strange ruins inscribed in silver were revealed. It had a strange graceful curve that ended in a needle-sharp point. She could not take her eyes off it, not only because of its beauty, but because she could sense an energy emanating from it; an energy remarkably similar to the y̌êz buud that only the Ansei could generate.

The thought cast a bitter shade over Swordsinger’s thoughts. Her mother, the youngest Ansei in history, had been able to create the swords made of nothing but spirit energy by the time she turned twelve. Swordsinger was nearly twice that age and still had not managed the feat. If he accepted Delphine’s proposition, she would hear her mother’s scorn that she needed such a weapon every time she used it. Yet, there was no denying its power, and her hands twitched in slavering lust to hold it.

“Not just weapons.” Delphine had been talking but Swordsinger hadn’t heard a word of it. She dragged her attention away from the blade and tried to focus. “Armor as well. Armor designed to protect from dragon attacks, especially their breath attacks.”

“Those aren’t breath attacks,” Esbern interrupted, though his eyes never wavered from the wall. “They’re word attacks.”

Delphine rolled her eyes and glared back at the old man. “Yes, I know, but everything thinks of them as breathing fire or ice or whatever. There is not need to be pedantic about it when doing so just adds confusion.”

“Add confusion? Being accurate never adds confusion, it removes…”

Swordsinger cleared her throat and cut in. “We’ll…um…need to talk over your offer. We can’t just abandon the Stormcloaks. And, yes, I know you said they wouldn’t conflict but some would not see it that way.”

Delphine’s attention returned with a new level of intensity. “Understandable, of course. But there is one more thing you really need to see.”

She reached into her pack and pulled out a sheaf of papers, fingered through them for a moment, then separated a few pages and slid them across the table. Swordsinger and Hammerleaf exchanged glances, then Hammerleaf stepped forward picked up the papers, and brought them back to Swordsinger. 

The papers appeared to be from the Thalmor – they were written with the tight and neat scripting that was the hallmark their writing. It was, for back of a better word, a dossier on none other than Ulfric Stormcloak. And what it said…

Swordsinger looked up as the dread slowly forming in the stomach for the past year and a half sprang forward as a fully functional panic.

“Where did you get this?”

“From the Thalmor themselves.” Delphine smiled a little. “Sian snuck into their embassy and took that, along with some other information. Interesting, isn’t it?”

Hammerleaf shook his unusually pallid face. “If this is true, it does answer a lot of questions.”

“Yes. Like why the war is stalled. Like where we’re here in the Reach in the first place. If this is true…it changes everything.” Swordsinger glared at the papers then looked up at Delphine. “We cannot just take your word for this. We will head back to the cave and continue our mission while we verify this information.”

Delphine nodded as she stuck the rest of the paper back in her pack. “Of course. I would do the same.”

Hammerleaf frowned. “How are we going to do that?”

Swordsinger tossed him a grim smile and she turned and headed for the stairs. “I can only think of one way - we are going to have to kidnap some Thalmor. Ready to go on a little mission with me?”

Hammerleaf’s surprised was masked by a sudden vicious grin. “Am I ready to hunt Thalmor? What kind of question is that? I am always ready for that.”

“Good.”

They marched down the stairs in tandem as plans formed in Swordsinger’s head. Plans revolving around the papers she still clutched in her hand – the papers that seemed to prove that Ulfric Stormcloak, would be king of Skyrim and leader of the rebellion against the Empire and the Thalmor that Swordsinger had been embroiled in for three and a half years, was a secret agent of the Thalmor and therefore a traitor to his own people.

Swordsinger cursed, only able to spare a glance as she was forced back. The hagraven popped back out of the leather hut it had hidden in when the dragon approached and launched another fireball at the retreating squad. The cries of fear and pain were subsumed by the ear-ringing blast and two more of her soldiers collapsed, their armor melted into their blackened skin.

Swordsinger glared up at the three lizards that wheeled above as she ran and shouted, “Dammit, dragons, why don’t attack them for a while?!”

As if in response, the red one dipped and dove. Fire spewed from its mouth, catching the hagraven in mid-cast. It screamed as it was engulfed; Swordsinger had just enough time to stop, face the dragon, and adjust her stance to split the trailing edge of the flame before it reached her. Then she yelled, “Thank you!” as she turned and resumed her sprint. She reached the cave entrance and paused to make sure everyone was in before entering herself.

Well, everyone who could.

“Head count!” She yelled it to no one in particular as she strode through the cave, eyes searching every face she came to, fighting to keep desperation from leaking into her voice. “Who have we lost?” Who have I lost?

She reached the back of the cave and her eyes lit on Hammerleaf kneeling over an injured soldier. He looked up and their eyes met and her relief blocked out all other senses for a moment. She just restrained herself from running to him and burying herself in his arms. The day had been a disaster of unprecedented proportions for her regiment and she wanted nothing more than to weep into his strong chest while he told her it would all be okay.

But it wouldn’t. Nothing could be the same after today.

She settled for walking to the spot beside him but then stood, turned, and faced her regiment as an openly weeping Wooly handed her the list of names. Her eyes widened as she saw it.

“That many?”

Wooly nodded, not bothering to wipe away his tears. Swordsinger shifted so Hammerleaf could see list.

“Fourteen.” Hammerleaf shook his head. “We lost an entire Company.”

Swordsinger nodded as she scanned the names. “Just about.” Then her heart caught in her throat and she pointed. “See that?”

Hammerleaf glanced then cursed as Swordsinger gently touched the paper next to Poke and Primrose’s names. She shared a glance at Wooly and he grimaced and looked away.

She sighed as she folded the paper, then took a step forward. Time to be a leader.

The cave stilled as she faced her troops.

“We lost…” she paused and cleared her throat of the thickness that filled it. “We lost a lot of good soldiers today. And we will recover their bodies and mourn their losses as soon as we can. For now…” she cleared her throat again. “…we need to get prepared. I don’t know why the Foresworn dare not enter this cave even when being attacked by three dragons, but I’m not going to take the chance that they might change their minds. We need to set up barricades at the narrowest point of the cave entrance and establish a defensive perimeter. We need our scouts to search the rest of the cave system but be careful! Whatever it is in here is something the Foresworn avoid at all costs, so take no chances. We’ve…we’ve lost enough soldiers.”

She nodded to the Company leaders and turned away as she heard orders being given. The cave burst into something almost resembling normalcy as her Regiment went to work. She only needed a quick nod at Wooly and Hammerleaf to get them to follow her to a point farther away from the rest.

Once there, she allowed herself to slump. Just a bit. She took off her helmet and drooped as she ran a hand through her sweat-soaked hair. Hammerleaf wrapped an arm around her and she allowed her head to rest on his shoulder as she sighed.

“An entire Company.”

Hammerleaf’s voice sounded rough as he responded, “It wasn’t your fault. We were winning until the dragons showed up.”

“Three bloody dragons!” Wooly shook his head, eyes staring toward the distant entrance to the cave. “I have never heard of such a thing!”

“Aye. Most we’ve seen is two at once, and they were miles apart.” Hamerleaf’s arm gripped Swordsinger a little tighter. “Seems there are more of them by the day.”

“Sure does. I…” Swordsinger stopped and frowned as the sound of hasty bootsteps approached. She turned with reluctance out of Hammerleaf’s grasp and straightened as a soldier approached. “You’re…Crowbar, right? Company M, Squad Three?”

The man stopped in front of them, his still-fresh-looking face betraying his surprise. “Aye. You know who I am?”

Hammerleaf snorted. “Of course. You think we’re like the Imperials and just see our soldiers as arrow fodder? She knows the names of everyone in the Regiment. You have something to report?”

“Ah, yes, sorry. I found out why the Foresworn don’t come in here.”

“What?” Swordsinger looked around, half expecting some monstrous creature to leap into the cavern to carve up more of her Regiment. “Already? That didn’t take long.”

“Well, there’s only one path farther along and it doesn’t go far. She said she wants to talk to you.”

“She? She who?”

*********

“My name is Delphine. This is Esbern. I hear you had a tough time with some dragons out there.”

Swordsinger studied the woman. Breton, by the looks of her, with dirty blonde hair cut short and keen eyes that screamed danger. This was not a woman to be trifled with. Behind her stood an older man, mostly Nord, although narrower than the usual bulky Nord archetype. His eyes screamed nothing at all.

“Aye. We’ve killed any number of dragons in the past three years but we’ve never seen three together.”

She forced herself to keep still – her brief glance at the cavern when they entered had been enough to make her want to crane her neck in every direction and she was glad she was wearing her helmet so the woman – Delphine – could not see her gape.

The cavern was immense, twice again as large as the one the Companies now rested in, with a vaulted ceiling that rose fifty feet or more above. It had clearly been carved out and polished by hand - the walls were smooth, making it feel more like the grand hall of a palace than a cave, but it held no furnishings save for the packs and bedrolls of Delphine and Esbern along one wall. The only décor was a six foot circle with intricate channels in an unrecognizable pattern carved into the middle of the floor.

Esbern shook a little as if he was rousing himself from sleep. “You will need to get used to multiple dragons, I’m afraid. Three together is just the beginning. By my calculations, it is only a matter of a handful of years before dragons are a daily occurrence everywhere in Skyrim.”

Swordsinger shook her head. “Where did they come from? There were no dragons and now they’re everywhere. And immortal, it seems.”

Delphine and Esbern exchanged glances, then Delphine smiled as she ran a wry hand through her hair. “That is a long story. It’s good to know you know they come back to life. Not many believe that.”

Swordsinger laughed, then reached up and tugged off her helmet to run her own hand through her matted hair. “Well, it’s hard not to catch on after the fourth time…” She froze as Delphine’s expression changed to something akin to shock. “What?” Swordsinger looked around, swords already half out of their sheathes.

“Is this some kind of cosmic joke? How can there be two people who look exactly like her?”

Swordsinger’s attention swung back to Delphine. “What? Look like who?”
 

“The Dragonborn. Other than your eyes – hers are yellow, not blue - you may as well be twins. Triplets, actually, because we met another one who…”

“You know the Dragonborn?” Hammerleaf’s unexpected insertion into the conversation made Swordsinger jump. She glanced back at him.

“We do! We’ve been looking for her for…how long has it been? Over a year. She…”

“Four-hundred-sixty-eight days.”

Delphine glanced back at Esbern and laughed. “You know exactly how many days?”

He simply shrugged and Delphine turned back around, still chuckling. “She got put in prison in Falkreath for something that should have been just a small fine and then…disappeared. Turns out a lot of people have disappeared mysteriously in that region over the years.”

Delphine’s eyes took on a calculating look as Swordsinger tried to think of how to respond. “I wonder…”

“She disappeared?” Hammerleaf’s voice sounded aggrieved. “She needs to be found! She is exactly what we need to deal with these dragons!”

“Why?” Swordsinger glanced between the two. “I’ve heard stories about this Dragonborn but no one has been able to tell me what, exactly, they can do.”

“She can shout.” Hammerleaf mimicked yelling. “Like the Greybeards.”

“Shout? Anyone can shout.”

“Her shouts have power,” Delphine supplied. “It’s hard to explain, but her shouts are the same as dragon roars. She has dragon-like powers.”

“Really? Then how did she ever get caught?”

“She was...still learning how to use them. Also, and more important, she can take the souls from dead dragons. Which means…”

“…they won’t come back to life?” Hammerleaf supplied the question with what was nearly a shout of his own.

Delphine nodded. “Indeed. That is why we’re trying to find her.”

“So she is here?”

“No.” Delphine waved a hand. “This is the entry to Sky Haven Temple, which used to be the home of the Blades, those who were sworn to serve the Dragonborns of years past. It has been closed and locked for centuries. We came here to see if we could find a way in because once we have found and rescued Sian – that’s the Dragonborn’s name – we’re going to have to have a plan of attack ready to go. We’re hoping something in the temple will give us the key to defeating the dragons.”

Hammerleaf stepped forward, hefting his hammer. “I can try to knock down the door.”

Delphine laughed. “I have no doubt you are strong, but the door was made to withstand dragons. No, brute force will not do.” She motioned at the circle carved in the floor. “Only the blood of the Dragonborn on the seal will open them.”

“Ah.” Hammerleaf slung his hammer back over his shoulder. “Well, that’s unfortunate. We don’t have any Dragonborns with us.”

“No? Well, perhaps.” Delphine raised an eyebrow at Swordsinger.  “I wonder if you might indulge me.”

Swordsinger blinked. “Indulge you?”

“Yes. Could I…borrow some of your blood?” Delphine hastened on, presumably as she noticed the expression her request had engendered. “I know you are not the Dragonborn. If you also had that gift, surely you would have discovered it by now but…well, you look so much like her. Maybe you’re related in some way. And maybe that will be close enough. And if it doesn't work…well, we’ve lost nothing.”

Swordsinger laughed. “Except some of my blood.”

“If it helps, Esbern knows some restoration spells. He will…”

“He does?” Swordsinger’s gaze snapped to the old man, who looked a little nonplussed by the sudden attention. “I’ll make you a deal, then – I’ll give you some of my blood if you come back with us and heal my men. We barely survived that attack and we have a lot of wounded.”

“I…” Delphine and Esbern exchanged glances. After a moment, the old man nodded and Swordsinger released a breath she had not realized she had been holding.

“Great! Wooly, show him where the triage is, will you?”

Wooly nodded and he and the old man started toward the exit. Swordsinger pulled out her dagger and looked at the circle. “Does it need to be any particular place?”

“I…am not certain. I believe all the channels lead to the middle, so maybe just aim for that area?”

“All right.” Swordsinger stepped onto the pattern and crouched near the center, then took a breath and drew the dagger across her forearm.

Red blood welled out of the cut and she turned her arm around and watched as it dripped from her arm and splashed into the dusty circle. She frowned, wondering if she should have cleaned out some of the dust first in case the mechanism could somehow be blocked by a layer of…

Her thoughts were interrupted by a low rumble. She looked up just as a section of the wall shuddered and lifted. Dirt billowed away as it shifted upward, somehow merging with the stone above, or so it seemed. Once the dust settled, she blinked at the graceful stone staircase that curved up and away.

“I…honestly did not think that would work.” Delphine’s voice was barely over a whisper and filled with the sort of reverence usually confined to temples. Which, Swordsinger mused, was exactly what Delphine had said this was.

She felt Hammerleaf’s hands on her shoulders, his gentle lift helping her stand. He wrapped a soft cloth around her arm and tied it in place, then gestured toward the new opening that Delphine was already halfway to.

“Shall we, oh mighty Dragonborn?”

She tossed him a glare as they started walking. “Do not start calling me that. We don’t need any rumors spreading. And I certainly don’t want people to think I can keep dragons from coming back to life.”

“It would be so nice if you could.”

“Aye. It would, at that.”

They reached the stairs and stopped as one to peer up, but it curved away into darkness and they couldn’t see anything. After a moment, they looked at each other, shared a shrug, and began climbing the steps.