Author's Note: This is a sequel to my previous Skyrim story: Skyrim: The Wolf Queen Awakened. If you have already read it, WELCOME to the next installment of the story! If you haven't, none of what you about to read will make sense.
-Tusken1602

*COLLEGE OF WINTERHOLD*
WINTERHOLD
SKYRIM

"Alesan!" Llewellyn Dragonborn laughed, being dragged along the College's passageways by the hand. "What in the world is going on?"

"This way, Father!" Alesan answered, beaming at his adopted father. "Sarai said it was a surprise!"

Navigating the maze of the College's lower levels would have left others hopelessly lost. But Llewellyn and his children had spent many months here, splitting their time between each of the eight holds that remained in Skyrim, while the Dragonkeep in Helgen was being completed. Sofie and Alesan knew every inch of the College like the back of their hands, much to the chagrin of whatever housecarl or college student assigned to keep an eye on the children.

Finally, the door ahead of them opened, and two figures turned toward the newcomers. Enthir and Sarai Gellarus both bowed in respect as Llew approached. He waved aside their gestures of obeisance. Enthir had been his friend even when the Bosmer had been a lowly fence for the Thieves' guild, long before he had even known he was the Dragonborn, much less been High King. And Sarai was of course, his most trusted friend, confidant, and lover.

"We have a surprise for you, my king," she smiled, and the grin was like predatory wolf eyeing a staked goat.

Enthir shot him an equally smug grin. "It took us a long while," he said, "With much trial and error. Well, mostly error, if we're honest."

"But we've finally got it," Sarai finished. Excitement was blazing in both of their eyes, and the enthusiasm in the room was palpable.

"What?" Llew asked after a long and pregnant silence.

Sarai stepped aside, and lifted the cover off of the table.

Llewellyn Hereon gasped, and stepped forward to grasp the long weapon that Sarai now offered to him. The long barrel was cast in Dwarven Metal, but the stock was beautifully carved out of walnut. Magical runes hummed along seemingly every inch of the barrel, and in strategic points of the stock as well.

"This is… It's… Is this what I think it is?" he stammered breathlessly.

Sarai indicated a wicker target set up on the far side of the long room.

"It's loaded and ready to go… if you can remember how to work it?"

Lewis Heron smiled and closed his eyes, remembering the movies of his youth, before he had been pulled across the threshold of death into a realm he had known only as a game. He planted the butt-stock against his shoulder, casting his eye down the long barrel. A crude sight had been placed on the top, with a single dot on the end of the weapon, to be lined up with the two dots closer to him.

"Here goes nothing," he grinned, and took long aim.

It would be very bad form for the High King to miss his first shot, he thought to himself, and then pulled the trigger.

For a half-moment, he thought he had done something wrong: the hammer moved, and there was a small flash of sparks, then nothing. Suddenly, a thunderous BOOM sounded, and the weapon kicked against him like a mule that had been wronged. Recovering his balance, Llewellyn peered through the black smoke that now filled the room to see the distant target now wreathed in blue magical flames.

"Every musket-ball is enchanted with a Fire-Rune," the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold explained with a satisfied grin.

The High King of Skyrim gaped openly, and turned back to the other three figures in the room: his friend, his adopted son, and his lover.

"Not a word of this gets out, before we can put them into mass production," he said in a low voice.

"We are already quietly putting the word out for blacksmiths across the eight holds," Enthir nodded in confirmation. "The College will be the only ones capable of producing the weapons, have no fear, Majesty. Without the hidden runes, the weapon will fly apart in an explosion that will kill whoever attempts to recreate it."

"Muzzle-loader?"

"Easiest to make," Sarai nodded. "But with enough training, it can still fire three to four times a minute, at nearly double the range of any crossbow or arrow. And," she placed a hand on the barrel, and a row of runes gleamed along the barrel, "it will hit what you point it at, if it's within range, which is an improvement over… earlier models."

Lewis nodded. "The muskets from our world," had been what Sarai had almost said, but held back for Enthir and Alesan's sake. "This," he marveled, "this could alter the balance of power in Skyrim."

"No, my king."

At his puzzled expression, Sarai stepped forward and took the weapon from his hands.

"This will alter the balance of power for the world."

*GJUKAR'S MONUMENT*
WHITERUN HOLD
SKYRIM

The running figures were panting now like a bellows at a blacksmith's forge. Strong as they were, they were still no match for a lancer on horseback, much less ones armed with recurved saddle bows. Eight of their number had already been ridden down or riddled with arrows.

Belhar grunted, gesturing the rest of his party forward, and drew a giant double-bladed axe from his back. His tribe had come all the ways from the Colovian Highlands, drawn to new lands by the promise of freedom from persecution and slaughter. Maybe… maybe, if he could gain them enough time, they could lose their pursuers in the maze of rocks between them and their ultimate destination.

He bellowed defiance as the first of the horsemen came over the crest of the hill towards the giant stone monument. One of the hand-axes on his belt went whirling through the air. The rider let out a shocked cry and raised his round shield decorated with the white horse head of Whiterun, and then let out a shriek as the weapon split wood and metal, biting deep into the arm beneath. But then another three of his companions were beside him, two with long lances that would outdistance even his massive weapon, and another with a drawn bow that would render even his throwing axes moot.

Still, he roared all the louder, as they approached, and brought the broad blade of his axe up to block the incoming arrow, launched from too far away. Suddenly, each of the horsemen was pulling their mount up short, insofar as it was possible: a ton of horseflesh and armor does not stop on a dime, and the earth plowed beneath the churning hooves as the riders struggled to regain control of their mounts. Stealing a glance back, Belhar saw a row of figures rise from the nearby scrub brush. Some were clad in thick robes, hooded and masked. Others were covered from head to toe in feather and bone armor and headdresses. He bristled, unsure if these were friends, or merely more foes. The fact that all of their weapons were trained on his pursuers, however, was a good sign.

The rest of the Nordic horsemen were now assembled, a patrol of almost twenty strong. None of the newcomers were mounted, but the broken ground around Gjukar's Monument made a mounted charge unadvisable, to say the least. One of the mounted party spurred her horse forward, but sheathed her sword and removed her helmet to show that, at least for now, talking was all that was needed. A hooded figure, wearing a carved mask that covered his entire face, stepped forward to meet her.

"Lord Piquine," the horsemen stated, and there was a begrudging respect in the Dunmer's face and voice.

"Lady Irileth," the masked figure greeted in return, and his voice was laced with almost mocking levels of courtesy and formality.

"You are trespassing on Whiterun land," the housecarl of Whiterun hissed. "And interfering with the pursuit of criminals."

"Are we?" the hooded figure looked over his shoulder at Belhar, who gripped his axe menacingly. "My, my, how utterly careless of us. We were merely patrolling the southern border of Vodahmin land, and we see harmless travelers being run down like animals."

"Harmless?" Irileth almost shrieked, "Look at that monster!"

Movarth Piquine, Warden of the South Reach, looked once again at the towering figure of the Minotaur who still held his massive axe at the ready.

"I see only a chieftain, prepared to die for his people," he shrugged. "And one whom the High Mother had decreed should be given succor and refuge within the Covenant."

"By the Emperor's order, and the Treaty of Falenesti," Irileth continued, "All Daedra worship is banned within the Empire, and those who follow their ways are condemned."

Movarth snarled beneath the Mask of Otar. That particular treaty had given the Nords back their precious Talos worship, but in the spirit of "giving the Thalmor something in return," the Emperor had upheld the ban on Daedric worship across the Empire of Cyrodiil.

"He is not MY Emperor," he hissed back, "And if I recall correctly, the Vodahmin Covenant wasn't invited to sign that treaty, were they?"

He bit back the accusation of outright betrayal. The Vodahmin had invaded the Summerset Isle directly, pulling back thousands of reinforcements that otherwise would have been deployed against Titus Mede II or Llewellyn Dragonborn. And after those two warriors had secured their victory, they had turned around and signed a separate peace treaty with the Dominion, one that ceded vast tracks of territory back to the Empire. The newly-formed Covenant, however, had been left out in the cold, and only by an ingenious stolen march through the Soul Cairn plane of Oblivion had saved the army from the combined forces of the Dominion and the Empire trapping and massacring them to the last vampire.

But since no blow had actually been exchanged between the Vodahmin and Imperial armies, a technical and uneasy truce still existed between the two powers, maintained by the peace agreement between Skyrim's High King Llewellyn Dragonborn and Tala Niwot, High Mother of the Vodahmin.

"They are on our land," Irileth was saying now. "And they will suffer the High King's Justice."

"Funny," Movarth snorted, and then moved the mask aside to spit at the dirt at their feet. "I'm on your land, and I'm an avid worshipper of Molag Bal, Prince of Vampires."

The two captains stared challenges back and forth across each other.

"Are you sure there's no exceptions to the Dragonborn's… justice?" he asked slowly.

Irileth looked back at her small patrol, and then at the party behind Movarth. Numbers-wise, they were nearly even, but there was no way of knowing how many more vampires or Foresworn tribesmen may be hiding in the brush around them, thanks to their new mottled 'war-cloaks', with branches and grass woven into the cloth itself to blend flawlessly into the undergrowth.

And how many of those hidden figures would hold those infernal Dwemer Crossbows, which could out-fire the Whiterun Hold soldiers' bows four shots to one?

Eyes snapped back to the vampire Warden, and a decision was made.

"Another time," she said in low promise. "And see to it that you remove them and yourselves from the Jarl's holdings by sunset."

Without waiting for a reply, she jerked her horse aside, and made a signal for the column to fall in behind her. Falling into a line two abreast, the rest of the party followed, lances moving to the at-rest position, and bows being unstrung and replaced back in their hide slings behind the horsemen.

Movarth made an elaborate bow of mockery to the fading column, and then turned back to the giant figure of the Minotaur.

"Can you speak the Common Tongue?" he asked. Belhar snorted, and then slowly shook his head.

"Well, you can understand it well enough," Movarth shrugged, and then gestured towards the northwest. "Follow us, and we will see your people safely into Covenant territory. Then we can talk about a place for you to settle your folk."

The towering figure cocked a head at the vampire, and then went to go to one knee before him. Movarth caught his arm and pulled him back upright.

"Not to me, boyo," he said gently, shaking his head. "Save your kneeling for our Queen Mother, Lady Tala. It's her orders I'm following, and her good graces you have to thank for your people's lives today."

The horned head nodded, and then the party set off at a brisk trot, several eyes still firmly fixed on the now-distant column of horsemen.

"Hongi," Movarth barked, "Arctos!"

Two Reach tribesmen came running.

"One of you take a message to New Hroldan," he said. "Inform the Queen of what happened here today. The other heads to Valthume. Tell Mother Maidus that we have more refugees coming in, and who exactly they are."

Both Foresworn made their salutes and then set off at a sprint for where the patrol had left their mounts. Sabre cats made more dangerous mounts to be sure, but they also made quicker time over the rocks and valleys of the southern half of the Reach.

Movarth quickened his pace to fall in next to the Minotaur chieftain, and then clasped a hand on the massive shoulder.

"Welcome to the Vodahmin, my friend," he said genially. "Welcome Home."

Author's Note:

So it begins.
As always, your thoughts/ suggestions/ constructive criticism are always welcome in the reviews, or my PMs.

ROCK ON, my friends!

-Tusken1602