Jurgen Windcaller’s Sword-Meeting With Gerard the Bloody-Handed

Gerard woke to a brisk, cold morning; the chill as he stepped from his plain canvas tent took his breath away, and hurried his retreat towards the warming fire still lit from the night watch. Holding his hands out to warm them and chase away the cold which had already wrapped its icy nature around his extremities, Gerard looked over at his second, Roland, and smiled bitterly.

“A cold day,” he observed baldly. Roland nodded in agreement, his face a stoic mask. Around them, the other men of their warband were beginning to rise, strapping on armor and sharpening swords and axes in preparation. Gerard was pleased to see the presence of a quiet anticipation on their faces. For too long had the Nords held sway over their home; all were pleased to see the invaders set back on their heels.

A horseman galloped up to their fire and looked down at the pair; the sigil on his surcoat marked him as one of the King’s men.

“You are Gerard of Daggerfall?” asked the man, the insolence of a young man of high birth written across his features.

“I am,” replied Gerard calmly.

“You are to take your men into the pass and clear it for the rest of the army; a Nord band is said to be holding it against us and you are to push them aside.” This message was delivered with such a haughty imperious tone that Roland’s face clouded and his mouth opened to set forward a rebuke; Gerard’s hand on his arm stayed his outburst.

“It will be done,” Gerard said quietly, and the messenger spun his horse to depart without bothering to take his leave.

“Insolent pup,” growled Roland, and Gerard laughed softly.

“We were as young, once, my friend,” he replied absently, letting his eyes drift around the small camp, absorbing the sight and sound of his men readying themselves once more for a long movement. They had been marching for days, pursuing a retreating Nordic army towards the ancient border of the Reach.

The Nordic Empire had spread from High Rock to Morrowind in the early centuries of the First Era, but when King Borgas of Skyrim was slain by the Wild Hunt of the Bosmer, the Empire was plunged into the chaos of secession. Sensing weakness, the Chimer and Dwemer of Morrowind united in rebellion and under the leadership of Dumac Dwarf-king and Nerevar Moon-and-Star began to drive out their conquerors.

When word of this reached the mages and kings of High Rock, they set in motion plans of their own, mustering armies and equipping them with startling speed. Nord garrisons were surrounded, stormed, or starved to death within their walls before a concerted effort could be made in their defence. For several years Gerard and his men had fought a war of their own, guerillas in all but name, until they were able to join with Lord Raul’s force of a thousand men moving north-east in pursuit of a smaller Nord force.

Now all that lay between the two armies was a narrow pass, from which a few men might stand against many.

“Get them up, Roland.”

Within minutes the warband was on the march. Whispers passed between the men as they moved swiftly up the dirt road; bowmen strung their weapons and counted their shafts; wary eyes peered around them for any sign of ambush.

The tension had reached an almost unbearable level when they arrived at the pass’ middle, and there, athwart their line of advance, stood a group of Nords, ranked against them. Their armor gleamed in the pale sunlight, and their breath fogged the air as they stood still and quiet.

Gerard held up his hand to halt his men, and they quietly deployed into line behind him, ready to meet the Nords in open combat. The two bands stared at each other across the cold ground, grey eyes meeting blue in silent assessment. After several minutes of immobility a tall bulky Nord stepped forth from among the ranks, brandishing an axe and carrying a shield.

“I am Jurgen Windcaller,” he said, and his voice carried easily across the long distance.

“And I am Gerard of Daggerfall,” came the reply.

“Well met, friend,” the Nord said calmly, “I am come to contest this pass with thee.”

“And I with you.”

Trueheart flashed in the gentle light, unsheathing swiftly as Gerard brought its length into guard. “Your name is known to me, Nord,” he said quietly, Trueheart’s point unerringly aligned with his enemy’s torso.

“Thy name also is spoken of with respect around our fires,” answered the tall Nord as he pulled on a dark helmet and took up his weapons once more. “Wilt thou face me in single combat: one man ‘gainst the other for stewardship of this ground?”

His men murmured at the Nord’s challenge and gripped their weapons tighter: a contest between the two bands would be a near-run thing. Gerard hesitated, hearing behind him the whisper of Roland: “Don’t you do it, lord.”

But Gerard ignored him and stepped forward to meet the Nord champion. Everything seemed still, and to both warbands their leader seemed frozen in time: motionless but for the imperceptible breath, betrayed by the mist of their exhalation. Then Gerard sprang forward, there was a clash as Trueheart deflected off the Nord’s shield, and the two men had exchanged places, facing each other once more.

“It has been many a year and more since last I felt a challenge,” came a calm observation from the Nord; Gerard simply shrugged.

An intricate exchange; then another: Gerard’s helm fell to the dirt – a hiss of anger from his men.

Trueheart wove in, flashed under the Nord’s guard and cut deeply into his side, letting Gerard spin swiftly away from the counter. The two combatants faced each other, eyes fixed.

Then the sky split and Gerard was flung through the air as the ground slipped out from under his feet to strike a massive tree bole. He lay at its foot, gasping, only barely managing to roll away as the Nord appeared over him, driving his heel down to crush the space Gerard’s neck had occupied only seconds ago.

The remorseless axe came down, parried by Trueheart, and then a stinging riposte which glanced off the Nord’s heavy armor.

Again they spun away, breathing hard this time, and faced each other; their world had shrunk to encompass only themselves.

There was a clash of thunder and Trueheart flew from nerveless fingers to land glittering in the dust: shattered. The boss of the Nord’s shield slammed into Gerard’s chest and knocked him flat.

“Such is the end of it,” said the Voice, and the Nord’s boot came down to press against Gerard’s sternum, forcing him against the ground. Their eyes met.

0

Gerard shouldered his pack and continued on down the path. The village would be at the bottom of the next rise, and he wished to reach it before night fell and darkened the road before him.

A warm wind sprang up around him, moving gently through his hair, across his face, between the leaves of the trees around him, and he heard below him, soft and distant, a sound of many voices raised in unison.

He paused, crested on the rise, taking in the sight of the small village nestled in the shallow valley below him. The wooden homes clustered together, broken by little patches of garden here and there, a large swarth of grass that might have been the common, and then long unbroken fields stretching out to brush against the forested slopes of the mountain.

Even in the fading light Gerard was able to see the large group gathered on the common, the long green grass swaying around them, rippling in shallow, rolling waves like a verdant sea. With a small sigh Gerard shouldered his pack and moved down the slope toward the village, glancing over curiously at the gathering from time to time.

It appeared that the entire village had been emptied for its attendance; as Gerard moved into the village itself, no activity was apparent, not even a playful dog or arrogant cat to take notice of him. Wandering for a few minutes, calling out once or twice in vague greeting, Gerard found himself on the common, the people before him, their voices clearer now, calling out in lament and supplication.

Slowly, drawn to them by some unseen force, Gerard approached the villagers; at their head was a man, perhaps a priest, and all around him were men and women and children bent in lamentation.

A little ways separated from the body of the villagers was a small girl. She had long black hair and was skinny and boyish in her build; tears ran silently down her sharp, angular features, and as Gerard stood next to her she raised her head to inspect him with deep, shockingly grey eyes.

“Why do you weep, child?” he asked her kindly. The grey eyes considered him for a while, as the long, slow rhythm of human voices faded and grew in the background.

“We are lost,” she said finally, with a grave appearance of absolute certainty. This startled Gerard, for it seemed absurd that anyone could be lost so close to their own village.

“Lost?” he asked quietly, seeking confirmation, “How, child?”

“Our god has abandoned us.”

“Your god?” Gerard repeated, feeling stupid and slow under the child’s bright, acute gaze.

“Hush child,” said another voice, sharper and more adult, “You know not what you say.” A woman put her hands on the child’s shoulders and looked into Gerard’s eyes. “And who are you, stranger?” she asked calmly, her eyes dry, and just as sharp and piercing as the girl’s.

Gerard straightened at the challenge in her voice, and then he remembered his belt, naked of a sword, and smiled quietly. “I am Gerard of Daggerfall,” he replied gently.

“You come at a bad time, stranger,” the woman replied firmly, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“So I see,” Gerard answered after a long, considering pause.

“There is room at the inn, stranger,” she continued in short, clipped, admonitory tones, “But we are in mourning.” They watched each other for a long moment before the woman and her child turned away and melded into the crowd.

Gerard stood there for a long while, and as the sun sank slowly behind the horizon, the lament ceased, and the crowd began to disperse, leaving the priest at last alone in the field’s center. The man stood stock-still, his eyes fixed on the summit of the mountain and the wind, grown strong, whipped at his long robes; Gerard watched him stand there, motionless, until it grew too dark to see.

The inn was empty when he found it, guided by a faded wooden sign illuminated by a guttering wooden torch. The door creaked and slammed shut behind him, and there was only a small fire to see by.

“Why are you here, stranger?” asked a woman’s voice, and in the dimness Gerard was able to see the shape and vague features of the woman he had met on the common. She was tall and slim, and as she turned to face him, he saw that the years lay only lightly on her features; she was putting on a thick traveling cloak, and her hands were at the hood, lifting it up to cover her face.

“I seek shelter,” was his simple answer.

“There is none,” she replied, “not any more.” She moved to push past him, but Gerard caught her by the arm and held her, looking over to meet her eyes beneath the shadow of her hood.

“Where are you going?” he asked quietly, curiosity overcoming his normal reserve.

She shrugged him off easily, holding his gaze with a defiant challenge. “To the mountain,” she answered at last.

Gerard frowned, frustration growing inside him. He had seen many strange villages and many stranger things, but nothing compared to the feeling that suffused him the more time he spent among this seemingly ordinary village. “What troubles this place?” he asked sharply.

Her eyes considered him for a while, and he saw her notice his lack of weapons and his rough attire. At length, she shrugged and turned away. “See for yourself,” she replied, opening the door. Gerard paused and turned to look after her; the door shut, almost in his face, and Gerard followed her.

Catching up to her, they walked in silence along the dirt road, turning from it onto a thin path which headed up among the hills towards the great mountain that dominated the village.

The wind grew more bitter as the path wound higher, and Gerard envied the woman her heavy cloak, and as the trees thinned around them, and the moons rose high above them, she began to slow. “He is here,” she said simply, without turning to look at him, and passed into a small dell in the side of the mountain.

Gerard began to hear a deep, rhythmic noise, almost at the edge of hearing, and as they passed further into the dell it grew stronger and stronger.

A man lay in their path, dead. The woman ignored him, even spat upon the corpse as she passed, leaving Gerard to stare down at the cold face of death. It was not the stony aspect which so transfixed him, but a subtle sense of the alien: here was a strange face, he realized, but however he tried, he could not quite understand what it was that made him so quietly uneasy.

From far ahead the woman called to him impatiently and Gerard, sparing the corpse only one last glance, hurried to catch up with her.

He passed several more bodies, each provoking the same weird uneasiness, until she took him by the arm and halted him. The soft touch of her hand on his arm startled Gerard, and he looked over at her, surprised.

“Who is there?” came a deep, rumbling challenge, issuing forth from a hollow within the dell. And then, with a tinge of fear that shocked Gerard, the softer query: “Have you come to kill me?”

“No, lord,” the woman whispered softly and Gerard thought he saw tears in her eyes. There was a long, pregnant pause.

“Amarie?” the voice called, a gentleness filling it that was at odds with its harsh and rough tones, “why have you come, child?”

She moved forward, her feet flying lightly over the broken ground, past discarded swords and shields and the husks of men. Taken by surprise at her swift motion, Gerard lagged behind and as he entered the hollow he saw the woman, and before her, dwarfing her entirely, was a great creature: leathern-winged, and bronze-scaled; heat boiled off of it, and great eyes followed his movements. The woman’s hood had fallen back, and her hands rested lightly on the dragon’s neck.

“I came to see you, lord,” she seemed on the verge of saying more, but fell silent. The dragon gave a great, shuddering sigh. Around him lay the broken bodies of many more men, their weapons abandoned where they fell: a great assortment of strange swords and spears and other wargear.

“I remember when you were just a small thing,” the dragon said, “no bigger than my claw.” Amarie only nodded helplessly. Their eyes met for a moment, and then the huge iris turned itself to regard Gerard, who had been standing apart. “And who have you brought with you?”

“This is Gerard of Daggerfall, lord,” she whispered.

An awful chuckle wracked the dragon’s stationary body, and Gerard saw that he was mortally wounded: a great rent was in his armored breast, and red blood stained the ground around him; but he was long in dying. “Come to see the death of a Son of Akatosh, have you boy?” Gerard bowed slightly and remained silent; the dragon chuckled again. “You may have a long wait.”

“What has happened here?” Gerard finally asked the woman, who turned to him, her eyes still full of grief.

“For as long as my mother’s mother can remember, our village has been safe, protected from all evil: and so we continued to be, until the snake men came.”

“Snake men?”

“Pale men with yellow eyes and strange weapons,” said the dragon, his throat rumbling in hatred, “their kind is known to me.” A pause. “They caught me here unawares, and dealt me this wound that will be my death.”

“Do you understand now, stranger?” the woman asked quietly, her eyes resting seriously on Gerard, who stood transfixed by the dragon’s great unblinking eye.

“I have missed you, child,” said the dragon at last, his eyes closing for a long tired moment, and then reopening, their yellow gaze turned once more to the slender woman standing beside him. “Time to leave,” he continued quietly. “Take our stranger home; he has seen enough of death.”

“Yes lord,” she replied and turned away, taking Gerard by the hand and leading him reluctantly down the mountain.

The village was still and silent when they returned, and Amarie led him to a small room at the inn, closing the door behind him as he entered. Gerard did not turn at the sound of the door, but stood, motionless, looking down at his hands, held supine before him; he clenched them tightly, his nails digging into his palms, and then he sighed, letting them fall.

0

It was to clamor and despair that Gerard woke; outside the inn it sounded as if the entire village had gathered all to talk at once in high, terrified voices.

He woke swiftly and pulled on his worn leather boots, groaning softly at the chill as he left the room and exited the inn. A crowd had indeed gathered, clustered around someone or something as the entire village talked one to another, almost desperately. In the distance a great pillar of smoke rose into the sky.

Gerard pushed his way through the crowd and into the small space at its center. A man was there, bloody and bruised; kneeling next to him was the priest.

“We are lost,” lamented a man standing next to Gerard, his voice soft and wondering, as if he contemplated a thing inconceivable.

“What do we do?” pleaded another.

“We must go see Him,” said the priest as he slowly stood to face the gathering.

“He is dying!” shouted a voice from the crowd, “What can He do now?”

“They will burn our fields and pillage our homes!”

“Where are the Mages and their promises now? A pox on them and their whoreson Kings!”

“Peace,” the priest said mildly, his hands raised in calm quiescence, “peace. The Nords may come, perchance, but we will find no solace in despair. Let us see what He has to say. Come.” And with that he turned and passed through the encircling crowd toward the mountain. The others hesitated, and then followed, until Gerard was left alone with the wounded man.

“You are from the next village,” Gerard observed, his voice breaking the sudden quiet; the man only nodded in affirmation.

“What happened?”

“What do you think?” the man hissed softly, wiping blood from his forehead with the back of his hand, “the Nords came and burned our village.”

“And what of your lord?”

“Dead,” came the bitter response, “by some Nord magic.” Gerard stiffened and looked at the man more intently.

“How?” Gerard asked, his voice coming out strangled and harsh.

“I don’t know,” spat the man in utter disgust, “I’ve never seen the like of it.”

“Can you walk?”

“I ran from the next village didn’t I?” the man bit back as he struggled to stand. Gerard gave him his hand and together they began walking towards the mountain, following the crowd that had left them behind.

0

The dell was just as he had found it: dead men surrounding a dying god; but now the people stood around him in a wide ring, the priest conversing in low tones with his lord.

“I cannot,” Gerard heard the dragon say, “I have not the strength.”

“What are we to do, lord?” the priest asked, “There are none among us able to stand against the Nords; we are but farmers.”

“And you have grown soft under my protection,” answered the dragon sternly. The priest let his gaze fall to the ground at his feet. “But enough. You have few options: stay, or leave.”

“What of our homes, lord?” pleaded a supplicant, and a murmur of support rose through the crowd, inspiring a deep, resonant sigh in the dragon.

The dragon made a great effort and lifted his enormous head from the ground, his eyes fixed on Gerard. “You have, maybe, a third option.”

The crowd slowly turned to face him, until Gerard could feel the weight of the entire village’s gaze.

“Will you help my people, Gerard of Daggerfall? Will you stand in my stead?”

Gerard swept his eyes across the crowd: men, women, and children gathered here in hopeless attempt at the chance of safety. Amarie’s eyes caught at his, and he paused, meeting her look with his own.

“I cannot defeat a warband,” he heard himself protest, the words rising almost without thought from his own throat, his mind screaming at him to run, run, and not look back.

“No,” said the dragon, “perhaps not. But their leader…” the rumble of his voice trailed off.

“Not even that could I do,” Gerard replied, hanging his head in shame, “He is a Tongue, and I could not best him in a trial.”

The dragon gave a deep laugh, harsh and full, and the sound echoed broadly in the dell.

“He has the Voice then,” he said at last, “that is as it should be, I suppose.” There was a pause, where only the wind might be heard in the trees around them. “Come forward,” he continued, “my eyes grow dark.”

As Gerard stepped forward the crowd parted to let him walk through their middle; and then it was simply he and the dragon, face to face. The great maw moved down to rest at his level, and Gerard felt the hot breath on his face.

“I cannot fight a man with such power,” Gerard whispered, subdued by the presence of such a great creature.

“You have faced it before,” the dragon observed in what for it was a quiet tone that was not a question. “Remember, boy, that this power is only a way to impose your Will on the world; it is a way to shape and form the fabric of reality into a manner of your choosing.” A great, gravelly cough racked its way up the dragon’s throat. “If you have the will to resist it, to deny another man’s version of the world in favor of your own, he cannot touch you.”

Their eyes met and a long silence settled over them.

“I cannot force you to help my people,” the dragon said finally, in answer to Gerard’s unspoken question, “but I ask it all the same. I will give you what aid I can.”

“I do not even have a sword.”

The dragon’s gaze swept slowly about, until his eyes caught the cold glint of a sword lying in the grass. “There,” he said, “take up the sword of my enemies; armor yourself in their steel, and defend my people, if you will.”

Gerard felt the eyes of the entire village follow him as his feet crossed to the sword: it was strange, slightly curved, but as Gerard stooped and held it aloft in his hand, gazing up along its razor-edge, it felt right.

“This will not save me if I face the Nords,” Gerard said, despair creeping once more into his heart, “it will not save your people.”

“All power is sacrifice,” the dragon murmured in his great rumbling voice. “Come here, boy.”

Gerard’s eyes fell back to the dragon, and their eyes met once more. Slowly, a mounting dread growing within him, he crossed back to stand by the dragon.

“What would you give,” he asked, “to save the life of your woman, your family, your home?”

“I would give my life,” Gerard answered after a moment.

“As would I,” responded the dragon, “as would I.”

“For many years I sought power and domination, and in my pride I was laid low, and I felt a change come over me. I found myself seeking… different things, different hurts, different worlds.” Gerard looked at him curiously. “And what I have come to value most, above all other treasure, is this little village I have lived above for so long.” He fell silent for a while, his eyes moving over the assembled villagers; Gerard wondered how much he truly knew of them: was he a benevolent god? “And now, when they truly need me, I cannot help them.”

There was a long, deeply serene calm.

“You must put the sword through my heart,” the dragon said at last; Gerard merely stared at him. “I am dying, boy; let me have an end and be done: I am weary of lingering.”

Gerard hesitated. “Do it,” the dragon hissed, “Let my death preserve my people.”

Slowly at first, with the sword gripped tightly in his hand, Gerard stepped toward the dragon, watching those terrible eyes as they followed his motions. When he stopped, Gerard could have reached out and touched the dragon’s skin he was so close; the heat boiled off the scaled hide, and the smell of the dragon’s blood nearly overpowered him.

A great rent had been torn in the dragon’s armored chest, and if he listened Gerard could hear the distant thump-thump of the creature’s massive heart.

“All power is sacrifice,” murmured the dragon, and Gerard plunged the sword deep into the wound.

Hot, acrid blood spewed forth from the wound, thick and noisome: Gerard’s arm was covered to the elbow with it, and it burned where the blood enveloped his skin. He heard a sound like a cry of pain.

The dragon gave a deep, shuddering sigh, echoed all around by the forgotten people of the village as they watched the end of their lord.

Gerard could bear the heat no longer and pulled the sword from the dragon’s breast, holding it aloft as the red blood covered the bright steel in its viscous flood.

There was a shift, a change in the world, and deep in his soul Gerard heard the reverberation of three incomprehensible words: the blood flowed and shifted along the blade, beginning to shine with a deep golden light, lambent and glorious. Gerard watched, motionless, as the blood became golden instead of scarlet, and seemed to sink into the blade itself until all had vanished; the sword was no longer a grey steel but a deep and shining gold, and the hilt also – but his hand was still red, though there, too, the blood had disappeared.

The sword caught the shining light of the sun as Gerard stared up at it, and it was only as the dragon’s massive head came crashing down in the repose of death did his eyes break from the sword, and he turned to see that all the people were gone, save one.

Memory of Amarie’s tear-filled, hateful eyes followed him to the end of his days.

0

A single man stood against them, astride the rough dirt track. They had come, confident of victory, ignorant of any chance of resistance. Their leader halted them some twenty yards from the village’s outskirts and stepped forward to meet the village’s champion.

The other man watched him motionlessly as the Nord approached and removed his helm that his enemy might see his face.

“I am Jurgen Windcaller.”

“And I am Gerard of Daggerfall,” said the Breton, removing his helm also.

The two men watched each other for a moment, Gerard’s deep grey meeting the Windcaller’s bright blue; the Nord’s warband shifted restlessly behind him, impatient to be off.

“It will be thy death to face me again, Gerard of Daggerfall,” the Nord warned quietly, his voice low and soft.

“Perhaps,” was the emotionless response, “yet I will face you all the same.”

“I do not wish to kill thee.”

“Then take yourself away from here; you will not enter this village.”

Jurgen restored his helm and silently raised his weapons; his men murmured in protest. Gerard unsheathed his sword and raised it; the gilded light which flashed from it narrowed his opponent’s eyes, but he came on unstayed.

Their weapons clashed, the sound ringing off the hills and slopes around them. Gerard pressed his enemy back, pushing him to the limit of his skill; he felt the world gather and shift, and the Nord shouted, fire issuing forth to consume him.

The sword sang in his grip, the golden blade echoing in his soul. No, they said, joined in mutual denial, and the fire washed over them, leaving them unscathed.

All was still for a moment, and even the wind had died; the Windcaller stared and so too did his men.

Gerard moved forward, beating aside the Nord’s weapon and thrusting his sword deep into the other man’s shoulder, slicing through armor and bone and flesh. A deep groan issued forth from the other men, and the Windcaller slumped to the ground as Gerard withdrew the golden brand from his enemy’s flesh.

His booted foot rested firmly on the Nord’s chest, and their eyes met once more; a razor edge between them, just above the hollow of his throat.

0

The wind howled, whipping at the pilgrim’s heavy robes.

“Here,” he said to his followers, “here is where we shall build it.”

“You are certain, lord?” a man asked, looking doubtfully at the steep, snow-swept slopes.

“What better place?” was the leader’s calm reply, his bright blue eyes lifted up into the sky, toward the cloud-wreathed summit of the Throat of the World.