Tale of the Tongues: Chapter 1:Awakening

Chapter 1: Awakening

unlight played in the canopy as three carriages made their way through the forest. These carriages were being escorted by cavalry, and driven by soldiers. Their cargo?

Prisoners, of course.

Most of the prisoners seemed to be in a sky blue uniform, most bloodstained or torn, which placed them in contrast with their captors, who wore scarlet jerkins with boiled-leather helmets, bracers and boots, as well as steel swords and bows to protect themselves.

The other prisoners, however, wore a large variety of clothing. Some of the prisoners wore normal peasants’ clothing, but there was also one prisoner who wore an elaborate blackbear coat, complete with a woollen shirt, chainmail armour and fur boots.

With this prisoner were three other prisoners: a blue uniformed prisoner, a peasant-looking Wood Elf, otherwise known as a Bosmer; and sleeping Breton, which is a race crossed between Man and Elf. The Breton had a fair build, with chest-long hazelnut-coloured hair, and the typical slightly tanned skin tone of a Breton

The convoy continued down the trail for over an hour, before intersecting a larger, cobble-stoned road, onto which they now turned.

The Breton woke as the carriage in which he was went through a bump in the road. Uncertain with how he got where he was, the prisoner looked around terrified. The captured soldier, who sat opposite him, looked up and caught his eye.

‘Ah, yer finally awake,’ the soldier said in a rasping voice, ‘I’ve bin wondrin’ when ye’d wake up.’

‘Where am I?’ the Breton asked in a lyrical voice, typical of Bretons.

‘Not sure. But I reckon we’re in the Black Woods of the Falkreath Hold.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ the Wood Elf wailed, ‘it’s not my fault that I was close to that battle! Damn you Stormcloaks.’

‘Quiet back there!’ the carriage-driver shouted.

‘What’d ye have against the Stormcloaks?’ the soldier whispered with a threatening tone in his voice.

‘Before your rebellion, the Empire was nice a relaxed, making it easy to traffic stolen horses to Cyrodiil, but now there’s an outpost every bloody mile.’

‘Well, would ye live under the tyranny of the Imperials if they ban the worship of Talos, just because they wanna appease the bloody Aldmeri Dominion?’

‘That’s not a reason to raise an army and hope to defeat the Empire’s legions from this frozen wasteland.’

The fur coat man mumbled something through the rag that was pulled taut in his mouth.

‘What’s wrong with this one?’ the Wood Elf asked.

‘Hey, watch yer tongue. That’s Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak yer talkin’ to.’

‘Jarl- Jarl Ulfric? The Jarl Ulfric? The leader of the rebellion?! By the gods, if they’ve got him, where’re they taking us?’

The Bosmer started rambling and panicking as they made their way down the road. After several minutes of this breakdown, the soldier shot out his leg to kick at the Elf’s shins.

‘You, horse-thief, where are ye from?’ he asked.

‘Wh-what does it matter to you?’ the Elf asked, his voice still terrified.

‘In Nord culture we say that one’s last thoughts must be of home.’

‘Rorikstead,’ he said in a slightly calmer tone, ‘I’m from Rorikstead.’

At that moment, the convoy went around a bend in the road, and a large town wall rose in front of them. The walls were lined with dozens of Imperial archers, with a large wooden gate right in the way of the convoy. As they neared the walls, the gates opened and the Bosmer started panicking again.

‘Shor, Mara, Arkay, Zenithar, Stendarr; oh gods please save me!’ the Bosmer screeched as they entered the bustling town.

‘The gods can’t save ye now, horse-thief,’ the soldier said.

The Breton gestured with his head towards the edge of the square, where a greying Imperial commander sat on a horse. Beside him sat a High Elf in black and gold robes talking in heated conversation. ‘Who’s that over there?’ the Breton asked.

The Nord soldier turned to see who it was before looking away, rage clearly visible on his face.

‘General Tullius,’ he spat out the name, ‘And, just to make it more outrageous, he’s talkin’ to the Thalmor’s Embassy to Skyrim.’

‘Thalmor?’ the Breton asked.

‘Have ye been livin’ under a rock for the last thirty years? The Thalmor are the enforcers of the White-Gold-Concordat’s laws and the eyes and ears of the Aldmeri Dominion.’

They convoy slowed as people cleared away in front of them. The Nord was still talking, this time about the town itself.

‘Helgen, that’s this town’s name. I used to be fond with a lass here. I wonder if Helen still makes her mead with chilled juniper berries.’

The Imperials had managed to clear a path through the crowd, who started jeering the prisoners as the carriages passed. Helgen’s stone Keep walls loomed on the right side of the square, and it was clear that the carriages intended to enter the keep.

‘I use to remember as a child that the Empire’s walls and keeps kept us safe, but now I know they’re only there to oppress those who don’t agree with their laws,’ the Nord said as the first carriage passed into the keep’s grounds.

The Breton turned his head to see a boy and his parents standing in front of the tavern.

‘But I want to watch the execution,’ the boy complained.

‘No, go back inside and entertain your grandfather,’ his father said, leading him back to the tavern before following his wife into the keep.

Inside, the carriages halted beside the gate, and the prisoners were being led off the carriages, their names being marked on a list.

The Bosmer started panicking loudly yet again.

‘Why are we stopping?’ he said.

‘Ain’t it obvious? We’ve reached the end of the line,’ the soldier said as he got off the carriage and stood behind Ulfric.

‘I’ve not done anything wrong! You can’t kill me!’ the Bosmer continued, ‘hey, Breton, we’re innocent, right? It’s these Stormcloaks they want, not us!’

‘Face your death with some honour, Elf!’ one of the other prisoners shouted.

‘Step forward as we read your names!’ an Imperial officer shouted at the prisoners, ‘Haldir, start marking the prisoners.

‘Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm,’ Hadvar, a brown haired Imperial soldier, recited from the list in his hands, ‘You are charged with murder of the High King of Skyrim, as well as high treason against the Empire.

‘Next, Ralof from Riverwood,’ the Nord soldier stepped forward. Hadvar continued down the list until he reached the Bosmer, second-to-last on the list before the Breton.

‘Roltir of Rorikstead, horse-thief and smuggler.’

Roltir stepped forward, begging the guards to let him go. ‘You don’t want me! I’m not a rebel!’

‘Shut up!’ the Legate shouted.

‘I’ll not be executed for something I didn’t do!’ Then, slightly catching the Legate off guard, Roltir made a break for it.

‘Archers, stop him now!’

Several archers on the ramparts took aim and rained death down on Roltir, felling him a few feet in front of the spectating crowd.

‘Does anyone else feel like running?’ the Legate shouted, ‘No, well good!’

‘Wait, who’s this?’ Hadvar said pointing at the Breton.

‘What do you mean, soldier?’

‘He’s not on the list, Legate.’

‘Then put him on the bloody list! I don’t have time for complications!’

‘Very well. Step forward prisoner.’

The Breton stepped forward, his head held against his chest.

‘State your name, prisoner.’

The prisoner looked up, lifted his chin up high, and spoke his name with pride: ‘My name is Faneas Galdor.’

‘Well, then, Faneas, I shall ensure that your remains are returned to the capital of High Rock. Please step in line. I am sorry about this. Really, I am.’

As Faneas stepped in line, a great roar echoed off the mountains and walls all around. The soldiers, prisoners and civilians looked up, fear showing on some faces, while confusion or indifference showed on others.

A deep, powerful voice drew the Breton’s attention back to the front of the line where Ulfric Stormcloak stood facing the Imperial commander, General Tullius.

‘Ah, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm,’ he said, ‘how I have waited for the pleasure to see your head on the block.’

Ulfric (still being muffled) mumbled something furiously at General Tullius, who shouted back just as furiously.

‘No! You brought this upon yourself when you murdered the High King and then started this damned rebellion of yours, but it will all end today! Start the execution!’

A priestess dressed in orange and brown robes stood forward beside the headsman, reciting a prayer to Arkay, the god of Burials and death.

‘Oh, Arkay, watch over these proceedings, to ensure that these men’s souls...’

‘Oh, just shut it! I haven’t got all morning!’ the first prisoner who stepped forward said.

‘Very well,’ the priestess said, backing away to let the headsman take position.

The prisoner was grinning as the headsman prepared to swing. ‘My ancestors are smiling down on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?’

And with those words, the headsman swung.

It took a moment to clear away the body, during which another roar sounded.

‘Bring forward, Faneas Galdor!’ the Legate’s voice bellowed.

As Faneas stepped forward, the soldier called Ralof winked at him and said: ‘May Shor protect you, Breton.’

The headsman forced Faneas’ head into place, turning his head slightly so the to-be executed could see his masked face. The executioner was preparing to swing when a great roar, louder than before and shaking bricks out of the walls, deafened all the people of Helgen.

Faneas then caught sight of a swift moving black object, and when his ears readjusted, he heard General Tullius ordering the archers to identify the threat as the black object landed on a keep tower.

But there was no need to identify the threat.

The Dragons had returned to Tamriel.