The War of the Concordat

Hrolfdir had his hand on his son’s shoulder. Old Hroldan meant much to the Nords of the Reach, and was a good place to hold this meeting. Damn the Empire for leaving them defenseless against such an uprising. With their fighting men in the south, the barbarians had risen up unopposed.

“Father?”

“Yes, Igmund?”

“Why did the Reachmen attack?”

“Because they are heathen savages,” a new voice, deep and booming, answered. Hrolfdir felt something shiver inside as the man approached and held out his hand. He looked a lot younger than he had expected. Shorter too. “Ulfric Stromcloak; war veteran and-“

“Tongue,” Hrolfdir finished for him. Ulfric smiled and shook his head.

“If only I had that power.”

“Is that how you are able to shout?” Igmund pointed to the man’s face.

”Many years of training,” Ulfric smiled. “But a mighty nose helps.”

“So it’s true?” Hrolfdir asked. “You can shout.”

“Yes.”

“And you command a militia?”

“Yes.”

“Will you help us retake Markarth?”

“I don’t do favors for the Empire’s vassals,” Ulfric lost his smile.

Damn the Empire, Hrolfdir thought. “The Concordat. And what if we allow free worship in the Reach?”

The Purebreds were gathering outside the gates, again. Hah, foolish. Truly so. The Old Gods had left them gifts of strange metals and stone. None of the brutes would ever tear them down. Their blood was not even properly mixed!

“So as to what was said, we shall spill their blood to be mixed in the earth. Let the Red Power flow to make the Reach strong again. Let this be the first sacrifice for our Faolan! Their blood will grant us his furious gaze!”

To the left and right of the Heir of Faolan, with stolen bows and bone-forged arrows, the Reachmen prepared to rain death on the purebreds. But the wall of Manakkath shook. A Purebred, tall and terrible, spoke and the Old Gods’ Gift trembled. Their protector against the monsters of the East had failed. Had Satos the Traitor truly returned?

“For Talos!” the terrible Purebred yelled.

**

“Never speak to him, never utter his name,” the King in Rags said, quietly. Each strike of the pickaxe rang through the tunnels. Not the smashing of metal against rock, but the thuds and thumps of flesh. “Never again, never in the future. Never forget, but never honor. He is Satos the Reborn. Nothing more. Never more.”

“Silent Shadow, come to me. A deep night’s kiss, a boon for thee.”

“Trying a hand at poetry are we, Your Highness?” Sybille Stentor’s graceful movements blended into one. Hard it was to say how fast she moved across the room, or what path she took around the many small objects on the floor.

“Trying?” Torygg bit his lip playfully.

“And failing, Your Highness.”

He snorted. “How’d it go?”

“You were there. I do not think anyone expected Ulfric to be so open. Perhaps foolish, perhaps brilliant.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, my dear Silent Shadow?” he put his hands on her waist, starting a slow dance. She played along.

“Baseless speculation, my King,” she folded her hands behind his neck. He was so much like his father.

“You’re selling yourself short.”

“Bloodshed, Son of Istlod. For whom and why only the Gods may know. The Stormcloak’s heart is long since darkened.”

“Maybe he is right; maybe Skyrim should be free. Imagine, High King Torygg, the first truly Sovereign Ruler of Skyrim since the days of Tiber Septim.”

“With the Aldmeri Dominion rising in the south to challenge his might, yes. Are you strong enough to stand alone against the Elves, Torygg?”