gozmonster
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Part 2: The Road to Ruin
“Will he live?” Kaldrin was grave. The stubborn orc was lying comatose against the wall. To die without even putting up a fight? The thought sent shudders down his spine.
“I cannot tell. He is not breathing and his skin is deathly cold...” Byrlock said grimly. The sound of ice shattering signalled Trop-Too’s escape from his prison. He lashed out, still wild with fury.
“Come on then you bag of bones! I’ll chew you up! I’ll make powder out of you! I’ll... I’ll...” His rage boiled down to a simmer. “Where is he? The Frost Lich? Did we kill him?”
“No. He escaped. We would have pursued, but the stairs were destroyed during the fighting. I’m working on a staircase of ice. It will be some time before I finish. Best you sit down and rest.” Elkim was indeed working on a ramp made of ice, scavenging what magicka he had left and increasing it with a potion.
“Oh.” sighed Trop-Too with disappointment. “So we lost?”
“Perhaps.” Elkim was more occupied with his construction than any form of conversation. Trop-Too, now drained from his ordeal began to walk over to the mage, but decided to sit and ponder the battle over a nearby tankard of wine.
“What of the landlord and his guests?” he asked.
“Dead, most likely reanimated by the Lich to serve his purposes.” came Elkim’s reply.
“So we did lose.” The reptile said. The hefty Argonian rested his head heavily on a nearby barrel, sitting against it with a tankard in hand. They stayed like this for a while, Elkim muttering spells of alteration, Kaldrin and Byrlock crouching next to Dro-gro-Bulag’s body, silently mourning his passing. Fifteen painful minutes passed until Elkim announced that the way was open. The party slowly rose, sore, bloody and disheartened by the loss of Bulag. Kaldrin and Trop-Too lifted the orc with difficulty, managing to carry him up the ramp of magically firm ice and out into the main room of the inn. As foretold by Elkim the room was clear of bodies, save for a few smears of blood and plenty of wrecked furniture indicating that none of them died willingly. They strode quietly through the empty inn; heads bowed, and reached the door. It was almost dawn, and the rain of the night had stopped. They trudged on back to the Honeybrew Meadery, solemn and silent, eager to put Dro-gro-Bulag to peace forever.
They returned to the Meadery to find it abandoned. Byrlock called out but to no avail. The Meadery, frothing to the brim with Nords only hours before, was completely deserted. A look around inside told a similar story to the one at the Black Sparrow; broken furniture, bloodstains on the wooden floor, smashed bottles and tankards everywhere. They took advantage of the lack of people by gathering linen wraps for Bulag’s corpse. Byrlock took point and ventured upstairs, and came down shaking his head. Everyone in the Meadery was dead. Or worse.
They continued down the road to Whiterun, their progress encumbered by Dro-gro-Bulag’s body. They rested frequently, and it took them two hours at the least to reach the farm outside the city’s walls. It was also deserted. No people, living or otherwise, stood to bar their way or offer information as to the city ahead. They picked a few of the vegetables for sustenance and began to walk again. A wagon, free of its horse and driver, leaned into a ditch on one side of the cobblestone road. “What happened? Surely this cannot be the work of the Lich?” Byrlock got no answer. For all they knew, Whiterun was overrun.
Their fears were assured when the walls of Whiterun loomed ahead, yet no guards manned the ramparts. They were in surprisingly good condition, almost unscathed by what the group had imagined came this way. The outer gates were opened, and a severed arm lay just inside the wall. Byrlock, a sre scout, leant down to it and took a close look. He returned to the others who were resting just outside the perimeter, eager for answers. Byrlock told them of the arm, how it was deathly cold, and pale blue. The insignia of Whiterun was stitched proudly on the remains of a vambrace, but it was clear that the owner of the arm had likely left the vicinity. As soon as the thought crossed their minds, the first of the undead legion attacked from hiding behind the crenulations in the walls and from inside a nearby hut. They were mostly Whiterun guards, looking intact aside from mortal wounds that no man could endure and live. Amongst the fallen soldiers were a group of now dead Kajhit, bearing claws and staggering unsteadily towards the surrounded party, preparing to fight underneath the opened gate of Whiterun’s outer wall.
The zombies amounted to about 10 in all, and more poured from the main gates to Whiterun, just up the hill and to the left following a curve. They spilled out in dozens to battle the new arrivals. Compared to the four remaining adventurers (not counting Elkim’s wolf familiar), they were formidable numbers indeed. They closed in on the living, clasping swords, shields, spears and axes. One had no right arm and carried a short sword in his remaining hand. He staggered towards the party, who had grouped up in a tight circle for defence, and swung the sword in an overhead slash at Kaldrin. Blocking it with his shield and reposting with a fast swing at the zombie’s exposed ribs; the Nord warrior shoved the corpse off him with his shield. As if the undead guard’s re-death was a signal, the rest of the shambling rabble advanced with increased vigour, hacking at the beleaguered party with sword, spear and bare hands. Kaldrin tried his best to protect the wizard Elkim, who was busy chanting some powerful ward to see off the horde.
Trop-Too however paid no heed to defence as he charged into the four closing in from his side, swinging his heavy, armor clad fists into heads, chests and arms, crushing them all. Byrlock saw no time to load his bow, and drew his long sword to better defend Elkim. They focused on buying the wizard time to complete his spell, and after a few more bloody moments he was finished and a bright circle of light flashed into the ground around the party. The undead recoiled at the appearance of the guardian circle, and some fled back to their holes and ambush points. But Trop-Too, angered as he was, was not within the protective barrier, and though he hammered away at attackers that outnumbered him ten to one he was slowly being weakened by the constant swipes and stabs of his assailants, eventually causing him to collapse in the hail of undead reinforcements. “The whole Whiterun guard must be here!” commented Byrlock, drawing his bow to assist Trop-Too. He and the others were still inside the guardian circle, safe from the swarming zombies, but they were still helping, or trying, to save Trop-Too by firing arrows or casting spells of ice. Kaldrin knew that to leave the circle now would be to invite death by the zombified guards, and yet he was powerless to help the fallen Argonian from his position. Torn between common sense and saving his new friend, he felt anger build inside. He was in the state of mind to let it flow, to let his anger take over, to crush as many of these creatures as he could before falling to their blades. But he stopped. Looking down at Dro-gro-Bulag’s linen wrapped corpse, he remembered the old orc’s wise words. .”Let it consume you and you’ll wind up just like me. Control your anger. That is my advice.” Sadly, Kaldrin turned back to the scene that nearly sent him over the edge of sanity. Trop-Too was no longer visible between the presses of undead bodies. Counting their numbers, he estimated about thirty or forty, all guards, angry at being denied their prize by the circle of light engraved in the cobblestone. He was limited to spitting at the ground outside the circle, swearing an oath to see the Lich that took Bulag’s life fall by his own flanged mace.
The undead were force to retreat up the road and into the city or be whittled down by Byrlock’s’ arrows and Elkim’s spells. As they fled Trop-Too’s body came into sight. He was lying face down, and Kaldrin raced out of the circle as soon as the army of zombies had gone out of sight. He knelt before his fallen comrade, turning him over slowly. The Argonian was hurt badly. His scaly skin was pockmarked by punctures and scratch marks, not the least of which was a huge gash in his left bicep. Elkim let the barrier fall as Byrlock also ran to Trop-Too’s side. “Wake up, friend. We can’t lose another so soon after the first!” The elf was in dismay. Elkim stood, aloof, watching the way into the city for any more intrusions. “Wake! Wake damn you! Wake!” The wood elf’s shouts were to no avail, as the brawler lay as still as before. “He is dead.” Byrlock announced under his breath. He walked slowly away from the group and squatted down, overcome with grief, next to Bulag’s body. Kaldrin stayed with Trop-Too a little longer before rising to his feet.
“They were both worthy of merit above and beyond the expectations of normal men.” Ha said, staring into nothingness. “We could do worse than honour their sacrifice by killing this so-called Lich once and for all.” He turned to look at the elves. “We press on into the city, and return for their bodies after we finish.”
“And if our efforts get us turned into...those things?” Byrlock stammered through his grief.
“Then we will take as many of those thrice cursed whoreson beasts with us as we can. And then.” He addressed them both solemnly. “We meet our friends in Sovngarde.”
They composed themselves patiently, taking in the deaths of their comrades like true warriors. Then they strode onwards, intent on death, honour or both, as long as they dragged the Lich lord into the darkest pits of Oblivion before they died.
The three reached the main gates of Whiterun to find them smashed to splinters. “There may be another ambush beyond.” warned Byrlock.
“Then we will have our vengeance fresh and bleeding.” Kaldrin replied. This comment drew wary glances between the elves, but they made no effort to speak. They were trailing behind the Nord, and by the time they caught up he was already past the gates and inside the city proper. The buildings were still standing, and for all they knew there could still be people inside. Again, no corpses in sight, and Elkim raised an eyebrow. “This Lich must be one of considerable power to marshal a horde of this size.”
“Thanks for making me feel better.” retorted Byrlock, but his insult was lacklustre. He was tormented by the death of Bulag and Trop-Too.
They continued at a cautious walk, perceptive of every threat. They carried on past the Drunken Huntsman and Warmaidens and into the bazaar. Nothing was there to greet them but empty stalls and spilled goods. They were on the verge of turning to go up the stairs on their left, into the upper city, when a women’s shout from inside the Bannered Mare inn stopped them in their tracks. “No! Don’t go beyond! Come in here!” came the yell through an opened window. The door was pulled open and the party rushed inside, a burly Nord mercenary pushing it shut behind them. They were met by the few survivors of the Whiterun invasion, a motley bunch indeed. In total, there were a Nordic bard, an armoured mercenary, a terrified Imperial couple, a child being comforted by his mother, a Redguard woman in a blacksmiths apron and three heavy-set warriors in matching sets of heavy steel. “Where have you come from?” asked a Nord woman from behind the bar.
“From outside the city.” answered Byrlock. “We were fighting the Lich but he escaped. Is that what caused this? Where is everybody else?”
“Most of us fled up to the Dragonsreach in search of the Jarl’s protection.” said the Redguard blacksmith gravely. “We were blocked off by the undead, so we came here to fend off the attacks.”
“And it worked.” added the tall mercenary. Everyone remained in silence for a moment more, at least until the barkeep offered the newcomers a drink to settle their nerves. Elkim reached for his coin purse but the lady waved her hand. “That won’t be necessary. Knowing it’s not as bad as we thought is payment enough.” Grateful for the drink, the party sat down. The rest of the living followed suit, and soon everybody was having a private conversation in a low tone, for fear of attracting attention. “So” began the barkeep. “What brings you here?”
After finishing their tale, the barkeep poured them more ale and proposed a toast. “These brave men have travelled from the Black Sparrow to Whiterun, and have lost two of their number along the way. They seek to avenge the deaths of their comrades-in-arms by killing the foul Lord at the head of this invasion. I propose a toast! To Kaldrin’s Avengers!”
“Kaldrin’s Avengers!” echoed the crowd joyously, unafraid of the hidden horde outside.
“Honour, death or both!” yelled Byrlock. Everyone in the inn was invigorated by the cheer, and the leader of the trio of warriors stood up and spoke aloud “The Companions will lend their hand to Kaldrin and his Avengers! Honour or death!”
His words caused the mercenary to stand up too. “I, Houdrann Grey-Mane, pledge my sword to your quest, Kaldrin!”
The bard also rose, drawing his sword and lifting a nearby hide shield, left behind by someone else. “Should you succeed, I wish to turn your quest into a song that will inspire generations to come. I will come too!”
That rounded the total to eight fighters, and as they were about to depart, a small voice yelled from behind “I want to come! I am old enough! I can help!” the boy, only about ten years, was struggling against the grip of his weeping mother.
“No!” she screamed. “You’re staying here!”
“But mom! I want to help too!”
“You’re not leaving! Not after your father...” she stopped short, and burst into tears, the boy still trying to get free.
“Listen boy.” Kaldrin towered over the child, and looked him in the eye, not with menace, but with understanding. “You do not know of war. Of death. We have a duty to avenge our fallen brethren. You have no such binding.”
“But I can fight! Honour and glory!” the boy protested.
“You probably can. I don’t doubt that. But you have your whole life to fight, to become a hero. If you died now, how would anyone remember you?” his question drove the boy into thought.
“But surely I can help? I could distract them, or run ahead and tell you what’s coming?” the child was eager for glory.
“You must stay. You are too young, and it would not do for your mother to be alone now, would it? Stay here. Be brave, and look after her.” When that made the boys head bow in shame, Kaldrin added “and I’ll bring you back the sword of the first creature I slay, and you can keep it.” The boy’s eyes lit up. “Really? You’d do that?”
“I give you my word. Now stay, protect your mother. You’ll be a legend yet, you just wait.” The boy nodded in understanding and turned back to his grieving mother. Kaldrin turned to exit the door, being met in the empty market by the other seven. “Let’s kill this monster.” A roar went up at that. “Honour! Glory! Death! Hoorah!”
And with that they set off up the stairs into the Cloud District, into honour, death, or the mouths of slavering undead...
“So, where be our first port of call?” asked the bard innocently. He seemed nervous, wary of all the hiding places that undead could lurk.
“Dragonsreach I suppose. To meet up with the Jarl and his people.” said the tall mercenary Houdrann Grey-Mane.
“No.” Kaldrin’s voice was like steel. “We must prevent any more from rising from their sleep.”
Byrlock gasped. “The Hall of the Dead!”
“Exactly” gritted Kaldrin. So their destination was set, and they walked in silence. Still no zombies could be seen, and this set the group on edge.
“Should we check the houses for other living?” asked one of the Companions.
“Nay, it may set off an ambush or trap.” The bard replied.
“We will never free Whiterun if cowardice is our guide.”
“Then perhaps you two should go now and leave it to us” chuckled the mercenary, putting a stop to the needless argument.
As they trudged on to the Hall, the air suddenly grew colder despite the sun above them. “Foul magic is at work here. I can feel it.” muttered Elkim.
“You ain’t seen anything yet” claimed Byrlock. He pointed to the huge palace of Dragonsreach. “Look”
True to his word, Elkim’s theory was dwarfed by the sight that stood before them. The massive building was covered in ice, thick and hard. It covered the roof, the windows, the sides, leaving no way in or out to be seen. “The Jarl may be imprisoned” said the Companions leader, lifting his two hatchets. “Be prepared.”
“We must not go. The dead could be out by now.” Houdrann stated bluntly.
“But the Jarl...”
“He must wait. Who’s to say that by the time we reach him there is an army of our ancestors waiting for us?” Houdrann argued. The Companion sighed, and pressed on.
They found the metal door to the Hall of the Dead opened and ajar. They entered slowly, Kaldrin at their head. The chapel was dimly lit, and benches on either side were smashed and broken. The shrine of Arkay itself was untouched, and as they moved to examine it a cry from one of the companions bringing up the rear turned their heads. A man, shrouded in red robes, stood clutching a chair leg. He was panting and looking down at the warrior he had just struck. He lifted his head to see the rest of Kaldrin’s party staring at him, confused. The priest frowned, then gasped and helped the wounded man to his feet. “Sorry! I didn’t know! I thought you-“he stammered.
“No need. It was my fault for not announcing myself first” the Companion said hollowly, wincing in pain at the lump forming on the back of his head.
“Thank Arkay you came. I was wondering how much longer I would last!”
“What do you mean” asked Byrlock.
“I have been fighting off the things that entered here. None got past me and the dead resting below are safe from corruption. But thank Arkay! You came to deliver me from this hell! The priest was overjoyed at seeing them. “Thank the Eight Divines!” he stuttered, collapsing on one of the pews that were still intact. The party looked around in bewilderment.
“You mean to say that you fought of dozens of undead.” The bard began. “With a chair leg?”
“I had nothing better. And my true weapon was my faith” he said, dangling his amulet of Arkay for all to see. “He mended my wounds and gave me strength to continue. I was here for a day and a night. But now that you have arrived, I can leave.”
“You should head back to the Bannered Mare. There are more survivors there, and you need a rest.” Houdrann told him.
“Thank Arkay.” The priest replied lifting himself from his pew with aching arms and walking towards the exit. “And something else, too.” He said on his way out. “The leader of these monsters went up to Dragonsreach. He seemed intent on reaching it, and as I fought here I felt a tugging at my soul.” He stopped, remembering. “Whatever he is up too, and how close he is to finishing, he cannot be allowed to finish. I fear that if he does the whole of Skyrim, possibly the whole of Tamriel-“he stopped again, his meaning clear to all. “Good luck. And gods be with you.” And with that, the lonely priest left his wrecked chapel, leaving Kaldrin’s Avengers deep in thought.
They left the chapel soon after, heading for Dragonsreach. The priest’s prophecy had left them in doubt. Was this Lich really powerful enough to engulf the whole of Tamriel? They had little time to meditate, so brisk was their pace, and they reached the icy palace in a minute or less. They were met by a veritable army of undead, all hammering away at the frozen gates. Why seal some of his forces outside the palace? They could not think on that now, because one of the zombified guards had turned his head and raised his axe high, rasping a shout that called his former comrades to do battle with Kaldrin and his Avengers. The pathway into Dragonsreach was to become a battlefield as the opposing forces clashed on icy floors beneath icy archways.
“Will he live?” Kaldrin was grave. The stubborn orc was lying comatose against the wall. To die without even putting up a fight? The thought sent shudders down his spine.
“I cannot tell. He is not breathing and his skin is deathly cold...” Byrlock said grimly. The sound of ice shattering signalled Trop-Too’s escape from his prison. He lashed out, still wild with fury.
“Come on then you bag of bones! I’ll chew you up! I’ll make powder out of you! I’ll... I’ll...” His rage boiled down to a simmer. “Where is he? The Frost Lich? Did we kill him?”
“No. He escaped. We would have pursued, but the stairs were destroyed during the fighting. I’m working on a staircase of ice. It will be some time before I finish. Best you sit down and rest.” Elkim was indeed working on a ramp made of ice, scavenging what magicka he had left and increasing it with a potion.
“Oh.” sighed Trop-Too with disappointment. “So we lost?”
“Perhaps.” Elkim was more occupied with his construction than any form of conversation. Trop-Too, now drained from his ordeal began to walk over to the mage, but decided to sit and ponder the battle over a nearby tankard of wine.
“What of the landlord and his guests?” he asked.
“Dead, most likely reanimated by the Lich to serve his purposes.” came Elkim’s reply.
“So we did lose.” The reptile said. The hefty Argonian rested his head heavily on a nearby barrel, sitting against it with a tankard in hand. They stayed like this for a while, Elkim muttering spells of alteration, Kaldrin and Byrlock crouching next to Dro-gro-Bulag’s body, silently mourning his passing. Fifteen painful minutes passed until Elkim announced that the way was open. The party slowly rose, sore, bloody and disheartened by the loss of Bulag. Kaldrin and Trop-Too lifted the orc with difficulty, managing to carry him up the ramp of magically firm ice and out into the main room of the inn. As foretold by Elkim the room was clear of bodies, save for a few smears of blood and plenty of wrecked furniture indicating that none of them died willingly. They strode quietly through the empty inn; heads bowed, and reached the door. It was almost dawn, and the rain of the night had stopped. They trudged on back to the Honeybrew Meadery, solemn and silent, eager to put Dro-gro-Bulag to peace forever.
They returned to the Meadery to find it abandoned. Byrlock called out but to no avail. The Meadery, frothing to the brim with Nords only hours before, was completely deserted. A look around inside told a similar story to the one at the Black Sparrow; broken furniture, bloodstains on the wooden floor, smashed bottles and tankards everywhere. They took advantage of the lack of people by gathering linen wraps for Bulag’s corpse. Byrlock took point and ventured upstairs, and came down shaking his head. Everyone in the Meadery was dead. Or worse.
They continued down the road to Whiterun, their progress encumbered by Dro-gro-Bulag’s body. They rested frequently, and it took them two hours at the least to reach the farm outside the city’s walls. It was also deserted. No people, living or otherwise, stood to bar their way or offer information as to the city ahead. They picked a few of the vegetables for sustenance and began to walk again. A wagon, free of its horse and driver, leaned into a ditch on one side of the cobblestone road. “What happened? Surely this cannot be the work of the Lich?” Byrlock got no answer. For all they knew, Whiterun was overrun.
Their fears were assured when the walls of Whiterun loomed ahead, yet no guards manned the ramparts. They were in surprisingly good condition, almost unscathed by what the group had imagined came this way. The outer gates were opened, and a severed arm lay just inside the wall. Byrlock, a sre scout, leant down to it and took a close look. He returned to the others who were resting just outside the perimeter, eager for answers. Byrlock told them of the arm, how it was deathly cold, and pale blue. The insignia of Whiterun was stitched proudly on the remains of a vambrace, but it was clear that the owner of the arm had likely left the vicinity. As soon as the thought crossed their minds, the first of the undead legion attacked from hiding behind the crenulations in the walls and from inside a nearby hut. They were mostly Whiterun guards, looking intact aside from mortal wounds that no man could endure and live. Amongst the fallen soldiers were a group of now dead Kajhit, bearing claws and staggering unsteadily towards the surrounded party, preparing to fight underneath the opened gate of Whiterun’s outer wall.
The zombies amounted to about 10 in all, and more poured from the main gates to Whiterun, just up the hill and to the left following a curve. They spilled out in dozens to battle the new arrivals. Compared to the four remaining adventurers (not counting Elkim’s wolf familiar), they were formidable numbers indeed. They closed in on the living, clasping swords, shields, spears and axes. One had no right arm and carried a short sword in his remaining hand. He staggered towards the party, who had grouped up in a tight circle for defence, and swung the sword in an overhead slash at Kaldrin. Blocking it with his shield and reposting with a fast swing at the zombie’s exposed ribs; the Nord warrior shoved the corpse off him with his shield. As if the undead guard’s re-death was a signal, the rest of the shambling rabble advanced with increased vigour, hacking at the beleaguered party with sword, spear and bare hands. Kaldrin tried his best to protect the wizard Elkim, who was busy chanting some powerful ward to see off the horde.
Trop-Too however paid no heed to defence as he charged into the four closing in from his side, swinging his heavy, armor clad fists into heads, chests and arms, crushing them all. Byrlock saw no time to load his bow, and drew his long sword to better defend Elkim. They focused on buying the wizard time to complete his spell, and after a few more bloody moments he was finished and a bright circle of light flashed into the ground around the party. The undead recoiled at the appearance of the guardian circle, and some fled back to their holes and ambush points. But Trop-Too, angered as he was, was not within the protective barrier, and though he hammered away at attackers that outnumbered him ten to one he was slowly being weakened by the constant swipes and stabs of his assailants, eventually causing him to collapse in the hail of undead reinforcements. “The whole Whiterun guard must be here!” commented Byrlock, drawing his bow to assist Trop-Too. He and the others were still inside the guardian circle, safe from the swarming zombies, but they were still helping, or trying, to save Trop-Too by firing arrows or casting spells of ice. Kaldrin knew that to leave the circle now would be to invite death by the zombified guards, and yet he was powerless to help the fallen Argonian from his position. Torn between common sense and saving his new friend, he felt anger build inside. He was in the state of mind to let it flow, to let his anger take over, to crush as many of these creatures as he could before falling to their blades. But he stopped. Looking down at Dro-gro-Bulag’s linen wrapped corpse, he remembered the old orc’s wise words. .”Let it consume you and you’ll wind up just like me. Control your anger. That is my advice.” Sadly, Kaldrin turned back to the scene that nearly sent him over the edge of sanity. Trop-Too was no longer visible between the presses of undead bodies. Counting their numbers, he estimated about thirty or forty, all guards, angry at being denied their prize by the circle of light engraved in the cobblestone. He was limited to spitting at the ground outside the circle, swearing an oath to see the Lich that took Bulag’s life fall by his own flanged mace.
The undead were force to retreat up the road and into the city or be whittled down by Byrlock’s’ arrows and Elkim’s spells. As they fled Trop-Too’s body came into sight. He was lying face down, and Kaldrin raced out of the circle as soon as the army of zombies had gone out of sight. He knelt before his fallen comrade, turning him over slowly. The Argonian was hurt badly. His scaly skin was pockmarked by punctures and scratch marks, not the least of which was a huge gash in his left bicep. Elkim let the barrier fall as Byrlock also ran to Trop-Too’s side. “Wake up, friend. We can’t lose another so soon after the first!” The elf was in dismay. Elkim stood, aloof, watching the way into the city for any more intrusions. “Wake! Wake damn you! Wake!” The wood elf’s shouts were to no avail, as the brawler lay as still as before. “He is dead.” Byrlock announced under his breath. He walked slowly away from the group and squatted down, overcome with grief, next to Bulag’s body. Kaldrin stayed with Trop-Too a little longer before rising to his feet.
“They were both worthy of merit above and beyond the expectations of normal men.” Ha said, staring into nothingness. “We could do worse than honour their sacrifice by killing this so-called Lich once and for all.” He turned to look at the elves. “We press on into the city, and return for their bodies after we finish.”
“And if our efforts get us turned into...those things?” Byrlock stammered through his grief.
“Then we will take as many of those thrice cursed whoreson beasts with us as we can. And then.” He addressed them both solemnly. “We meet our friends in Sovngarde.”
They composed themselves patiently, taking in the deaths of their comrades like true warriors. Then they strode onwards, intent on death, honour or both, as long as they dragged the Lich lord into the darkest pits of Oblivion before they died.
The three reached the main gates of Whiterun to find them smashed to splinters. “There may be another ambush beyond.” warned Byrlock.
“Then we will have our vengeance fresh and bleeding.” Kaldrin replied. This comment drew wary glances between the elves, but they made no effort to speak. They were trailing behind the Nord, and by the time they caught up he was already past the gates and inside the city proper. The buildings were still standing, and for all they knew there could still be people inside. Again, no corpses in sight, and Elkim raised an eyebrow. “This Lich must be one of considerable power to marshal a horde of this size.”
“Thanks for making me feel better.” retorted Byrlock, but his insult was lacklustre. He was tormented by the death of Bulag and Trop-Too.
They continued at a cautious walk, perceptive of every threat. They carried on past the Drunken Huntsman and Warmaidens and into the bazaar. Nothing was there to greet them but empty stalls and spilled goods. They were on the verge of turning to go up the stairs on their left, into the upper city, when a women’s shout from inside the Bannered Mare inn stopped them in their tracks. “No! Don’t go beyond! Come in here!” came the yell through an opened window. The door was pulled open and the party rushed inside, a burly Nord mercenary pushing it shut behind them. They were met by the few survivors of the Whiterun invasion, a motley bunch indeed. In total, there were a Nordic bard, an armoured mercenary, a terrified Imperial couple, a child being comforted by his mother, a Redguard woman in a blacksmiths apron and three heavy-set warriors in matching sets of heavy steel. “Where have you come from?” asked a Nord woman from behind the bar.
“From outside the city.” answered Byrlock. “We were fighting the Lich but he escaped. Is that what caused this? Where is everybody else?”
“Most of us fled up to the Dragonsreach in search of the Jarl’s protection.” said the Redguard blacksmith gravely. “We were blocked off by the undead, so we came here to fend off the attacks.”
“And it worked.” added the tall mercenary. Everyone remained in silence for a moment more, at least until the barkeep offered the newcomers a drink to settle their nerves. Elkim reached for his coin purse but the lady waved her hand. “That won’t be necessary. Knowing it’s not as bad as we thought is payment enough.” Grateful for the drink, the party sat down. The rest of the living followed suit, and soon everybody was having a private conversation in a low tone, for fear of attracting attention. “So” began the barkeep. “What brings you here?”
After finishing their tale, the barkeep poured them more ale and proposed a toast. “These brave men have travelled from the Black Sparrow to Whiterun, and have lost two of their number along the way. They seek to avenge the deaths of their comrades-in-arms by killing the foul Lord at the head of this invasion. I propose a toast! To Kaldrin’s Avengers!”
“Kaldrin’s Avengers!” echoed the crowd joyously, unafraid of the hidden horde outside.
“Honour, death or both!” yelled Byrlock. Everyone in the inn was invigorated by the cheer, and the leader of the trio of warriors stood up and spoke aloud “The Companions will lend their hand to Kaldrin and his Avengers! Honour or death!”
His words caused the mercenary to stand up too. “I, Houdrann Grey-Mane, pledge my sword to your quest, Kaldrin!”
The bard also rose, drawing his sword and lifting a nearby hide shield, left behind by someone else. “Should you succeed, I wish to turn your quest into a song that will inspire generations to come. I will come too!”
That rounded the total to eight fighters, and as they were about to depart, a small voice yelled from behind “I want to come! I am old enough! I can help!” the boy, only about ten years, was struggling against the grip of his weeping mother.
“No!” she screamed. “You’re staying here!”
“But mom! I want to help too!”
“You’re not leaving! Not after your father...” she stopped short, and burst into tears, the boy still trying to get free.
“Listen boy.” Kaldrin towered over the child, and looked him in the eye, not with menace, but with understanding. “You do not know of war. Of death. We have a duty to avenge our fallen brethren. You have no such binding.”
“But I can fight! Honour and glory!” the boy protested.
“You probably can. I don’t doubt that. But you have your whole life to fight, to become a hero. If you died now, how would anyone remember you?” his question drove the boy into thought.
“But surely I can help? I could distract them, or run ahead and tell you what’s coming?” the child was eager for glory.
“You must stay. You are too young, and it would not do for your mother to be alone now, would it? Stay here. Be brave, and look after her.” When that made the boys head bow in shame, Kaldrin added “and I’ll bring you back the sword of the first creature I slay, and you can keep it.” The boy’s eyes lit up. “Really? You’d do that?”
“I give you my word. Now stay, protect your mother. You’ll be a legend yet, you just wait.” The boy nodded in understanding and turned back to his grieving mother. Kaldrin turned to exit the door, being met in the empty market by the other seven. “Let’s kill this monster.” A roar went up at that. “Honour! Glory! Death! Hoorah!”
And with that they set off up the stairs into the Cloud District, into honour, death, or the mouths of slavering undead...
“So, where be our first port of call?” asked the bard innocently. He seemed nervous, wary of all the hiding places that undead could lurk.
“Dragonsreach I suppose. To meet up with the Jarl and his people.” said the tall mercenary Houdrann Grey-Mane.
“No.” Kaldrin’s voice was like steel. “We must prevent any more from rising from their sleep.”
Byrlock gasped. “The Hall of the Dead!”
“Exactly” gritted Kaldrin. So their destination was set, and they walked in silence. Still no zombies could be seen, and this set the group on edge.
“Should we check the houses for other living?” asked one of the Companions.
“Nay, it may set off an ambush or trap.” The bard replied.
“We will never free Whiterun if cowardice is our guide.”
“Then perhaps you two should go now and leave it to us” chuckled the mercenary, putting a stop to the needless argument.
As they trudged on to the Hall, the air suddenly grew colder despite the sun above them. “Foul magic is at work here. I can feel it.” muttered Elkim.
“You ain’t seen anything yet” claimed Byrlock. He pointed to the huge palace of Dragonsreach. “Look”
True to his word, Elkim’s theory was dwarfed by the sight that stood before them. The massive building was covered in ice, thick and hard. It covered the roof, the windows, the sides, leaving no way in or out to be seen. “The Jarl may be imprisoned” said the Companions leader, lifting his two hatchets. “Be prepared.”
“We must not go. The dead could be out by now.” Houdrann stated bluntly.
“But the Jarl...”
“He must wait. Who’s to say that by the time we reach him there is an army of our ancestors waiting for us?” Houdrann argued. The Companion sighed, and pressed on.
They found the metal door to the Hall of the Dead opened and ajar. They entered slowly, Kaldrin at their head. The chapel was dimly lit, and benches on either side were smashed and broken. The shrine of Arkay itself was untouched, and as they moved to examine it a cry from one of the companions bringing up the rear turned their heads. A man, shrouded in red robes, stood clutching a chair leg. He was panting and looking down at the warrior he had just struck. He lifted his head to see the rest of Kaldrin’s party staring at him, confused. The priest frowned, then gasped and helped the wounded man to his feet. “Sorry! I didn’t know! I thought you-“he stammered.
“No need. It was my fault for not announcing myself first” the Companion said hollowly, wincing in pain at the lump forming on the back of his head.
“Thank Arkay you came. I was wondering how much longer I would last!”
“What do you mean” asked Byrlock.
“I have been fighting off the things that entered here. None got past me and the dead resting below are safe from corruption. But thank Arkay! You came to deliver me from this hell! The priest was overjoyed at seeing them. “Thank the Eight Divines!” he stuttered, collapsing on one of the pews that were still intact. The party looked around in bewilderment.
“You mean to say that you fought of dozens of undead.” The bard began. “With a chair leg?”
“I had nothing better. And my true weapon was my faith” he said, dangling his amulet of Arkay for all to see. “He mended my wounds and gave me strength to continue. I was here for a day and a night. But now that you have arrived, I can leave.”
“You should head back to the Bannered Mare. There are more survivors there, and you need a rest.” Houdrann told him.
“Thank Arkay.” The priest replied lifting himself from his pew with aching arms and walking towards the exit. “And something else, too.” He said on his way out. “The leader of these monsters went up to Dragonsreach. He seemed intent on reaching it, and as I fought here I felt a tugging at my soul.” He stopped, remembering. “Whatever he is up too, and how close he is to finishing, he cannot be allowed to finish. I fear that if he does the whole of Skyrim, possibly the whole of Tamriel-“he stopped again, his meaning clear to all. “Good luck. And gods be with you.” And with that, the lonely priest left his wrecked chapel, leaving Kaldrin’s Avengers deep in thought.
They left the chapel soon after, heading for Dragonsreach. The priest’s prophecy had left them in doubt. Was this Lich really powerful enough to engulf the whole of Tamriel? They had little time to meditate, so brisk was their pace, and they reached the icy palace in a minute or less. They were met by a veritable army of undead, all hammering away at the frozen gates. Why seal some of his forces outside the palace? They could not think on that now, because one of the zombified guards had turned his head and raised his axe high, rasping a shout that called his former comrades to do battle with Kaldrin and his Avengers. The pathway into Dragonsreach was to become a battlefield as the opposing forces clashed on icy floors beneath icy archways.
Would it be too much bother, i wonder, if i asked you to read my Thingymajigger? It's still in infancy, that is to say, i've really only got the prolouge to work with 
