Helgen

  Autumn, 17th Last Seed

  Year 201 of the Fourth Era (4E201)

  (200 years after the Oblivion Crisis)

  It was always cold in the mountains. A cold that soaked into soil and stone, freezing the morning mists into spectral wraiths that moaned their displeasure through the rocky gullies and towering heights. This was the home of the winds and the mountains, the stabbing fingers of the snow-capped earthbones that loomed over those travelling between Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Today, however, it was home to more than just the chill of approaching winter and closed mountain passes.

  Among the dozens of legionaries arrayed in disciplined, if somewhat-relaxed ranks, Hadvar shivered, feeling the breeze across his flesh and cursing whichever Legion paper-shuffler had decided to issue Cyrodillic uniforms to the legionaries in Skyrim. Cyrodiil and Skyrim may have millennia of history, cultures, and exchanged blood and trade, but climates were certainly not something they shared, by any stretch of the imagination. Thin layers of leather and metallic strips did little more than creak and sway in the breeze, allowing the morning chill to caress his bare thighs and leaving him wishing for an additional layer of true Nordic furs. Preferably snow wolf or bear, but at that moment he would’ve settled for a moth-eaten sheep’s carcass.

  "They're late." Bordering on the edge of his peripheral vision, Hadvar glanced at one of his fellow legionaries as he muttered what their entire formation was thinking, the words misting into existence from the cold.

  "It's a bit of a climb through the pass to Ivarstead."

  "Hold your tongues!" Like the crack of a whip, a voice snapped through them, and as one they instinctively twitched as weeks of drills caused ingrained obedience without conscious thought.

  Her flesh was dark, a sign of the rich Yokudan heritage that she wore as proudly as her scars from the Great War. Even under the cheekguards and the somewhat-closed nature of her horsehair-crested helmet, Centurion Tonnine’s expression was baleful and challenging to those under her command, and even the more obstinate among them would never think of crossing their veteran commander. It certainly didn’t help that they were all fresh recruits so green they could be mistaken for Spriggans, and as such, she intimidated them enough through raw force of personality without needing to fall back on her authority.

  "Hadvar. Front and centre."

  Dressed in full legion plate and the thick hide of a snow wolf wrapped around her shoulders, the centurion glanced over the Nordic legionary as he took several short, precise paces towards her before snapping to attention. Any other time Hadvar’s Nordic heritage would’ve left him towering over the smaller Redguard woman, but personality, presence, and rank ensured that Centurion Toninne cast a shadow over her soldiers. Figuratively, and literally.

  "Their ‘Lordships’ have deigned us worthy enough to be provided a list of our expected guests." A sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal was thrust towards him, atop a plate taken from a nearby tavern with only marginally less threat than a sharpened gladius. "When they arrive, you will need to cross each name off the list to ensure we got them all."

  Despite the tenseness and terse nature of his commander, Hadvar knew it wasn’t directed at him. They were all on edge, from the lowest-rank legionary to the highest-ranked member among them all, as they stood in the streets of the tiny hamlet in the mountains with a small group of elves seated on their horses, watching their every move. That, and the weight of expectation of why they were in such a backwater border town in the mountains of Skyrim.

  The parchment was nothing special, some sort of easily acquired, mass-produced sheet of undefinable origins, but the inked names were an entirely different matter. With a glance, Hadvar felt his guts turn to ice, looking over the list and seeing more than one name that he recognised—but the first was the one that truly kept his attention.

  "Ulfric?!" he breathed. "They managed to catch Ulfric?"

  There was a clank and scrape of metal as the Centurion nodded. "The General managed to ambush the Stormcloak leadership near Darkwater Crossing."

  "Then what are we here for? Escort duty?"

  Eyes that had seen immense death and conflict in the war, decades before, burrowed into Hadvar’s as Centurion Torinne slowly, and carefully shook her head before nodding down the road. The nod this time was directed to the burly smith of their cohort, scraping a whetstone along an enormous battleaxe, sitting on a wooden block and whistling a depressive funeral dirge, with his blackened hood draped over a knee.

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  This time, the chill that coursed through Hadvar, at the sound of the low whistling tune and the scrapes of metal, was not born of the mountains.

  Over the sounds of Helgen eking out its existence in the rocky heights of the Jerral mountains, a long, drawn-out horn echoed, cutting through the moans of the wind and acting as heralds to the sounds of hooves, and despite himself, Hadvar glanced around. Little more than a border post that had grown like a weed, Helgen was a backwater, and was utterly insignificant in the face of the Empire and Tamriel. Homes, taverns, stables, and farriers. Helgen was nothing but a stopping point between more important places, and Hadvar realised with a start that, for this reason alone, was why the village had been chosen as a rendezvous.

  Following his centurion’s lead and acting as her shadow, they moved away from the formation into the tiny central between the pair of mouldering towers that overlooked the collection of huts and buildings. All around them the sounds of hooves and the squealing of poorly greased axles made themselves felt, foreboding and eerie as they increased in volume. Winter was still many weeks away, but the temperatures of the higher passes had made the journey difficult nonetheless for the approaching wagons. Wheels would have slipped on frost-covered stones, tallow rubbed into wheels and suspensions, for lubrication hardened and cracked, and even the oil coating the metal hinges and axles had worn away. Northern-bred horses, their coats gleaming with moisture, filled the air with hot, humid gouts of steaming breath that were snatched away by the breeze, as they hauled half a dozen, open-topped wagons crammed full of dejected souls.

  There was little conversation amongst the prisoners, only a handful muttering amongst themselves, as they looked over the collection of legionaries and other assorted dignitaries that awaited them. The legion smith with the two-handed axe, standing before the block of wood, did little for their spirits, especially now that his features were hidden behind the blackened leather mask, but determination and hatred still burned in their eyes. Grimaces of resentment twisted mouths into snarls of discontent and challenge, as well as attempting to stave off the bitter wind. They were cold, hungry, and covered with various injuries and livid bruises from their capture, but nearly every single one of them glared intensely at the collection of mounted Elves astride their thoroughbreds.

  If the robed and armoured 'mer noticed the expressions of hatred sent in their direction by the captured stormcloaks, they chose not to react, instead staring ahead and exchanging words with the immaculately dressed General, in his polished plate and robes. They especially chose to ignore the collection of similar expressions, burning at their presence from among the ranks of the legionaries, as there were more than a few, legionaries and stormcloaks alike, who had fought against them in the Great War. Instead they remained as aloof and poised, as only such diplomatic representatives could be.

  "General Tullius, sir!" Riding over on a steed of his own, an extraordinarii clad in a maroon cloak approached the elves and his commander, thumping his fist against his breastplate in salute. "The headsman is waiting!"

  "Good." Like many under his command, General Tullius had the same reservations about the presence of the elven diplomats in such a situation, but age and his rank allowed him the pleasure of showing his true feelings in this matter. Without even a backwards glance, he cut the elves off in mid sentence, tugging on the reins of his steed and guiding it away. “Let's get this over with.”

  From house to smithy, tavern to watchtower, a ripple of commotion flowed with the passage of the wagons, the mood of Helgen’s inhabitants darkening as though the sun had been hidden by the clouds. Several of the locals ushered their children inside, glaring at those responsible for bringing the pall of death and hostile interests to their tiny community. Windows were shuttered, doors thunked closed as they were barred and locked, and what was typically a community of life and colour transformed until it was empty, like a tomb, and as welcoming as a graveyard.

  Clattering and squealing with protesting axles, the wagons were slowed in the tiny square, with each of the drivers pulling back on reins and soothingly calling their horses to a stop. In a row of wood, leather, and horseflesh, they rolled to a halt, jostling some of their passengers when a driver pulled a little too hard, and finally came to rest from the journey, to a chorus of voices.

  “Get those prisoners out of the carts!” Snapped Centurion Toninne, her words framed by the clinking of metal, muted by the furs and cloak that she wore, as she moved towards a cart. “Move it!”

  “Where are we?”

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “Why do you think? End of the Line.” Practically growling the words out like a captured snow-bear, one of the captured stormcloaks scowled as he beheld Hadvar in his legionary's armour. There was a moment of anger in the ice-blue eyes that was quickly crushed. "Let's go... Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

  One by one, the prisoners dismounted from the backs of the wagons. Some dropped with a lithe ease, while others needed some assistance from legionaries to clamber down, from a combination of their bonds, lack of dexterity, or by just wanting to resist in some small manner.

  "No! Wait! We're not rebels!"

  Hard expressions carved on bearded faces glanced at one of the skinny, almost-malnourished figures in their number, stammering in fear, twisting in his bonds, and struggling even as a pair of legionaries grabbed him and hauled him bodily off the back of the wagon.

  "Face your death with some courage, thief." The venom that dripped from every word was potent enough to burn holes into the cobblestones beneath the stormcloak’s feet, practically glaring at his fellow prisoner being shoved into their huddled group.

  "You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

  Hadvar started as the loud voice of Captain Toninne bellowed further commands, ordering the miserable group to step towards the executioner's block when their name was called. With a quick look and a nod of command from his Centurion, Hadvar cleared his throat, raised the list to his eyes and read the first name.

  "Ulfric Stormcloak," His mouth was suddenly dry, feeling parched as he choked out the words, "Jarl of Windhelm."

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