Erik the Slayer: Chapter 1 - Strength

[Azir L'Stros]

If you haven't read it before, I encourage you read Erik the Slayer: A Humble and Adventurous Beginning. There's not really much I can say about this, other than I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it

Chapter 1

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 1: The Departure​

The blade fell with a satisfying smack as the sawn log split perfectly in half. Both of its halves flew to the side, adding to the piles of wood on either side of the worn tree stump. A tall, redheaded Nord picked up another log, setting it just right on the stump. He hefted the axe above his head and brought it down with a grunt, cutting the next log swiftly. He wiped the sweat off his brow, which had begun to fall into his eyes, and set down the axe, sighing in relief.

Erik, the person who was often recognized by his flaming red hair, leaned on the wall of the nearby inn, catching his breath. He surveyed the morning’s work and nodded to himself. Enough firewood to last the houses and the inn in Rorikstead a few days, plus some to spare. His arms, chest, and back, though conditioned and toughened by having the task of chopping wood over the past few years, were extremely sore.

Erik groaned. The work was taking its toll on his willpower. Although it was the beginning of the Morning Seed, the first month in the calendar, working throughout the morning brought sweat to Erik's face. Not that it helped much, as the sweat felt like ice on his skin from the cold air. But he had to work. It became unbearably cold during the nights, which was why firewood was needed. Being young and strong, Erik was, of course, the most capable man for the job.

As Erik entered the Frostfruit Inn, which was owned by Mralki, his father, he wasn’t surprised to hear two voices arguing. One being the voice of Lokir, Erik’s brother and best friend. But to tell the truth, Lokir wasn’t really Erik’s brother. Lokir had wandered into Rorikstead several years ago as an orphan, and Mralki took him up and cared for him as his own son. Mralki also just happened to be the second voice in the inn, arguing loudly with Lokir.

Erik sighed as he knew what they were arguing about. For the past few weeks, Lokir had wanted to move somewhere else, being sick of the same old village that he grew up in. Not that Erik blamed him. Rorikstead was relatively secluded, on the edge of Whiterun Hold. It was also a quiet, small, and relatively boring village. There wasn’t much to do there, except for farming. Rorikstead had always been a farming village, and it was natural to be bored there, planting, plowing, washing...

Erik sighed again. He sympathized with Lokir’s wishes. It truly was boring here. Pushing the thought out of his mind, Erik sat on a nearby bench. He tuned the argument out of his mind, instead focusing on other things, like the large fire nearby, which filled the inn with heat and a musky, distinctively piney scent.

He helped himself to some bread that was sitting nearby on the table, along with a bit of freshly cooked venison and a slice of cheese. He grabbed a nearby bottle of mead and took a deep swig. The strong Nordic ale cooled Erik’s throat as it went down and filled his stomach with a distinct icy sensation.

The mead also left the notable aftertaste of strong mint in his mouth as well. Erik closed his eyes. There was really nothing like the ale here. It was as refreshing as recently thawed snow, and just as cold, too.

Erik’s string of thoughts were suddenly interrupted as a door slammed shut. The sound was nearly deafening and seemed to suck the bickering and ruckus out of the air, replacing it with a cold, dead tension.

Erik got up suddenly. The tension was like a string, ready to snap at any moment and bring a flurry of hurtful words to the peaceful inn. He wanted to be anywhere but here. Luckily, ‘anywhere’ was just out the door. Erik quickly walked toward the door and slipped through it. The stifling heat was much preferable to the air of the inn, which had gone cold after the argument.

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Several hours later, Erik got up with a shiver. He got up from his bed, glancing at Lokir’s bed, which was...empty? Erik frowned. Lokir wasn’t the type of person to get up at night. He shrugged it off. Maybe it was nothing. Erik went outside, grabbed a few logs, and went back inside the inn, feeding the ever-hungry flames. The fire flared, bringing a wave of warmth and light to the inn. Erik nodded to himself. Now he could sleep in peace.

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He rode through the night, on a horse that was not his own. His breath came out ragged and laboured as white clouds that flew past his cheeks. It was too late to turn back now. The plains rushed past him, a distant river, an outcrop of rocks, seen for a few moments only to disappear from sight. But one sight intrigued him. A group of soldiers, in brown and blue uniforms. Well, they appeared to be not quite soldiers. They stood in a loose group, and seemed to lack the discipline of rank-and-file soldiers.

He slowed his horse. They called towards him, but he couldn’t make out the words. Not that it made any difference. His mind was preoccupied with other things. As he approached them, one of them said, “Hail, citizen! What brings you to the plains of Whiterun at this time?”

He got off. His hands were freezing, nearly numb. He could barely raise his arms in a gesture of greeting. "I am...traveling," he said. Yes, traveling. That would make sense. Better that 'I left my home and stole a horse, and I'm running for my life.'

The soldier nodded. "Shor's bones, you'll freeze to death at this rate!" he exclaimed. "You'd better come with us, we're traveling to our camp. We have a fire, hot food, and someone can take care of your horse. And just wait a moment..." He squinted. "That's not your horse, is it?"

He shrugged, not responding. At least he wouldn't die here. A man nearby handed him a heavy cloak, covered with fur. He felt much better. All he needed was a hot meal, then he could ride towards his goal. As they walked, he asked, "So who are you, exactly? It's not every night you see a group of soldiers in blue uniforms."

The soldier chuckled. "Well, my friend, it's not every night you see a man wearing little more than simple clothes, riding as if his life was in danger. We are the Stormcloaks, Skyrim's truest sons and daughters."

Nodding in response, the rider asked, "And why are you here?"

"We are heading back towards the camp. Not too long ago, we were spying on some Imperials." He spat out the last word like it was a bad taste in his mouth.

Knowing that it would sound stupid, he asked, "Who are the Imperials?"

The soldier looked at him with surprise. "You don't know who they are? Well, I'll tell you. They're dirty little traitors, what with the White-Gold Concordat. They ban Talos, the true god of man, and they let the stinking Thalmor in our cities." He spat out the word Thalmor the same way he did Imperials.

The rider would've asked more, but it seemed he had stumbled onto the wrong topic. The soldier's face was dark and angry, and the rider didn't dare to provoke him. He had heard about the rebellion already, but it didn't hurt to stay current on the information.

He noticed a man towards the rear of the group. He was dressed in little more than rags, but something caught his eye. His face had a look of regality. If it wasn't for the dirt on his face and his ragged clothes, he could've passed as royalty. The rider shook the thought out of his head.

They had traveled for about 3 more minutes when he noticed something. Whether it was an off sound or a movement in the bushes, something troubled him.

Then it happened.

Soldiers in brown and red uniforms surrounded them. Most held stylized swords in their hands, although some carried bows. This was obviously planned. "You are surrounded, Ulfric!" one of them called out. One of the Stormcloaks yelled "We'll take you all on, Imperial bastards!" One man stepped forward. He was dressed differently, a bit more formally, and he carried with him a sense of leadership. In a deep, rich voice, he said quietly, "We surrender."

Then an object smashed against the side of the rider's skull, and he fell into unconsciousness.

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He woke up. He was dressed in rags now, and the first rays of dawn warmed his back. He groaned. His head hurt horribly. The person he had noticed from last night was awakening as well, his face as seeming more haggard and dirty than ever, but still carrying that look of regality. Next to him was the soldier who he had met the night before, and next to the oddly regal man was the leader from last night, but with a rag roughly bound around his mouth. The soldier next to him was the first to speak. "Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into the Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." He gestured toward the rider.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he muttered. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they weren't looking for you, I could've been halfway to Hammerfell by now." He glanced at the Nord from earlier with the strangely regal face. "You there," he said. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. Its these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." The soldier frowned, a troubled expression on his face.

"Shut up back there!" the carriage driver yelled.

"What's wrong with him?" the rider asked, gesturing towards the person who was gagged.

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" the soldier snapped.

"Ulfric, the Jarl of Windhelm?" he murmured to himself. "You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you...oh gods, where are they taking us?!"

"I don't know where we're going," the soldier sighed, "but Sovngarde awaits."

"No..." he murmured. "No, no no. This can't be happening! This isn't happening!"

"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?"

"Why do you care?" he spat back.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." His voice was softer now, and had a hint of sympathy.

Tears welled up in his eyes. ''Rorikstead," he whispered. "I - I'm from Rorikstead."

The soldier was about to say something, but an Imperial woman shouted, "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

"Shor, Mara, Diabella, Kyraneth, Akatosh, Divines, please help me," the horse thief begged.

He mentally ignored everything around him. People in the town were talking, but all he focused on was home. He realized what his family really meant to him, although "family" was just a brother and a father.

His thoughts were interrupted by a jolt from the carriage. "Why are we stopping?" he asked.

"Why do you think?" the soldier replied. "End of the line."

"No, wait!" he yelled. "We're not rebels!"

"Face your death with some courage, thief," the soldier snapped.

"No, we've got to tell them we weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

"Step towards the block as we call your name," the female soldier called.

"Empire loves their damned lists," the Stormcloak beside him said.

A soldier next to the female Imperial said, "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

"It has been a honor, Jarl Ulfric," a voiced sighed.

"Ralof of Riverwood." The soldier next to the rider stepped forward, frowning.

This was it. He had to run for it. He had to take a chance, or simply accept death like a lamb going to slaughter.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No, I'm not a rebel!" he called. "You can't do this!"

He sprinted past the soldiers, legs pumping as fast as they could. His breath was already laboured.

"Archers!" the female soldier cried.

"You're not gonna kill me!" he yelled. But the words felt hollow and false, even to himself. An impending sense of doom filled his heart. He was dead already. Running just delayed the inevitable.

The first arrow hit him in the back of the thigh, burning hotter than a white hot blade. Blood ran freely down his leg. The arrow remained lodged in his leg, and brought a wave of pain to his leg with each step. The other arrows hit him in a flurry. One in the arm, several on the torso, four in the legs.

Lokir fell heavily onto the dirt road. He coughed heavily, bringing blood to his throat. He took one ragged, laboured breath, then breathed no more.

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His breathing eased, and he was filled with a sense of enlightenment as he drifted upwards, leaving the physical world behind. He could forget about everything else now. A light from above shone brighter and brighter, and the feeling of enlightenment increased as he realized where he was going.

Sovngarde.

But just a quickly, a cold, slimy rope wrapped around his waist. It pulled him down and covered his eyes, dimming the light of Sovngarde. A deep, booming voice chuckled, making Lokir’s skin crawl with malice. “Ah, you silly little mortal,” it said. “Did you think you could escape me, Hermaeus Mora, this easily? There is much to be done…”

And then Lokir was pulled from a world of everlasting paradise, into the depths of Apocrypha.