Steel, Fire, and Magicka: Uprising

An Elder Scrolls Fanfiction

Ahan1899

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Disclaimer:

To be frank, I'm not really good with these legal statement thingies. But, as everyone has acknowledged, The Elder Scrolls series and all the materials included belong to Bethesda Game Studios. Some of lore elements are used for the sake of plot and/or storyline development, with additional lore fabricated by myself.

A note worth mentioning:

The story sets in the Fifth Era (5E), year a hundred and two (102)--a hundred and fifty years after the Dragon Crisis, and a hundred and two years since the Empire's downfall. It was the time when Third Aldmeri Dominion have almost whole Tamriel under their wing, with only Black Marsh remains a free province. It's the era when technology advances rapidly, and firearms and explosives has already invented (including brand new vocabularies of swear words and profanity, haha). Imagine the Fifth Era of Tamriel as the 17th century of our world. Take note that Skyrim has changed a lot over the course of time. Some villages has turned into towns, and some cities has grown even larger than before. Enjoy the story.

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Chapter One

~v~

Just as Alvynd was going to shut his keen, brown eyes, an old man hit the back of his helmet with his musket's buttstock. Despite the weak force, however, Alvynd couldn't help but to bounce forward and open his eyes wide to recover his balance. It needed a lot of work to put his body back straight. Although his standard issued iron vest beneath his robe wasn't that heavy, the backpack he was carrying was truly burdensome. Among the other soldiers, he was the one who carried the most. Need to carry tent, ammunitions, grenades, and additional muskets? Alvynd can handle it, they would say. Of course, the young Nord didn't think the same way they did. For him, his job murdered his shoulders worse than his dignity.

After a successful attempt to regain his balance, he growled, "What the fuck was that?" he said as he rubbed the back of his helmet. His backpack rattled and clanked.

The old man pulled a smirk over his harsh, scarred lips. A slip of his bleached hair peeped out from beneath his helmet. Fred was the name he called himself. "I was just trying to help," he said. His appearance looked as old as the musket he was carrying on his hand. Rusty, dirty, rough, and ugly. At least, that was what Alvynd could perceive.

"That was helpful," Alvynd said, keeping his face sour.

"Okay, easy. I just can't afford to let you pass out with all of essential goods strapped on your back."

"I can sleep-walk," the young man mumbled.

"Yeah, right. Should've let you 'sleep-walk' to that bear-ridden cave over there," he said, indicating a cave not far from the road. "Now, let's keep up. They're gonna leave us behind and they won't care."

With a sigh, he then took a constant pace next to a wagon at the third row from the convoy's tail. Its condition was far from convenient. The rider had his most upper-half body wrapped in crude, blood-soaked dressings. The wheels were terribly cracked, with dozens of arrows stuck on their rims. And the horse, while virtually walk elegantly as if it had no issues, was actually injured. Pretty badly, in fact. Nothing was covering its open wound on its left thigh, nor on its neck. Blood were dripping down slowly from the wounds, and even more slowly, while they were freezing under the skin-biting breeze of the night of the Rift Hold. Another fifteen carriages had faced the same fate, but the last three of the convoy suffered the worst.

Boarding the wagon were civilians--refugees, to be precise--on their long way to the Town of Ivarstead. A siege had been laid upon the City of Riften by army of five thousand men led by Lillia Raven-Songs, by the order from Jarl Bjeld Free-Winter of Windhelm. His action had been considered a treachery and straightforwardly had declared war against the Dominion.

Some of them were still grieving over their losses--their homes, their fortunes, and in their worst case, their families. Alvynd felt sorry for them, but he wouldn't feel the same to himself, as his family was safe and sound in his hometown, Ivarstead. Thus, it made the term "refuging" unfitting to his current situation. It was "homecoming" that was more fitting.

"Did I accidentally screw up your head, lad?" Fred blurted after noticing a peculiar smile on Alvynd's face.

"What? No," he replied. "It's just ... I miss my home."

"Ah, I see. Going home, aren't ya? Good for you."

"Thanks," Alvynd thanked him. "How about you?"

"How about me?"

"I mean, how do you feel ... about the attack?"

"Well ... Ain't got nothing to lose," Fred shrugged.

Alvynd smiled. "Heh, that's a relief."

The old man hung his head. "Can't say the same to these folks," Fred asserted. "It's a miracle we could get past that cordon."

Indeed, it was a miracle. Well, mostly. A small part of it had been some witty tricks and precise strategy.

The first catapults hail from all directions which had caused a significant collateral damage to the outer ring of the city had become an ultimate warning. But, Jarl Jayek the Fearless had kept on steadfast, and ignored the serious threat from his enemies. He was brave and confident, but his ignorance had nullified their value. Thinking that the city could sustain months of siege, he had commanded the garrison to hold the city at all cost. His counselor didn't object, but he also advised him to summon reinforcements from Ivarstead.

Two hundred well equipped and well defended men against five thousand sword-and-bow-wielding men might've been worked, given the defender's advantages. But the risk was also high. With additional power from Thalmor troops, his counselor would've been much more confident that they could withstand the siege and repell the attackers. But, you can guess what the Jarl had said. He had refused, saying, "We can take care of this. There's no need to make a fuss, for this is personal."

The next day, knowing that the city had refused to surrender, the assailants commenced another attack. That time, they had managed to break through the eastern flank of the city--the side that had the fewest artillery, thus, the most vulnerable--and killed countless citizens on their way in, before it got put to a stop later in the afternoon. The garrison commander had then advised an immediate surrender, which had been refused even before the commander could pull his tongue.

Knowing this, some soldiers had suggested a mutiny. But, they also realized how preposterous the idea was and threw it as far away as possible. Instead, they had planned to leave the city clandestinely.

Later at the midnight, a handful of soldiers secretly had gathered up a hundred and twenty civilians--mostly comprised of their families and relatives. The soldiers who had involved in the act had many connections they had made use of, and managed to gather resources to break through the besieger's line, including wagons, additional firearms, shields, and surpluses. Initially, the plan had gone very smoothly. They had gone past the southwest gate with an aid from the gatekeeper, and they faced no threat on their way out. They had moved in high speed, under the shroud of the darkness of the starless night.

But a trouble had come to their sight as they had gone closer to the besieger's camp. The road had been blocked by chevaux-de-frise, some spike traps to prevent horses to pass by. Moreover, the opponent forces had been alarmed as the convoy had approached. It had been, however, anticipated. The forwardmost wagon had carried crates of grenades. Without stopping, they had hurled grenades to the said spike lines, and had successfully blown them up and cleared the path. This hadn't gone unnoticed as the explosion had attracted attention from both sides. Immediately after, the convoy had been barraged by volleys of invisible arrows from left and right. Shields had been raised, covering the sides of the wagons.

They had returned fire with all the firepower available, and suddenly, the bitter silence of the night had been shattered by thundering crackles and booms from their firearms and grenades, accompanied by screams and shouts from civilians and combatans. They'd been blind at the time, with no light sources from anywhere but the bright flashes from their guns. They'd been literally shooting in the dark. After a seemingly endless five minutes, the volleys had finally stopped after they had made it to the forest, and the night had become still once more. All the sound that had remained had been the unbearable ringing sounds in their ears and cicadas singing between the bushes. The air had been thick with the strong, sharp smell of burnt up firepowder. The break out had costed numerous casualties, both the soldiers and civilians; either injured or deceased. And in addition, three wagons carrying supplies didn't make it. They even had to drop off some corpses from the wagons, to prevent them slowing down. It wasn't a commendable deed, neither an easy one to commit, but, still, it had to be done.

"What do you think they're going to do to us?" Alvynd asked. "For abandoning the rest of us back there?"

"Guess we'll be fine."

"How's that?"

"We tell them what happened. I'm sure they'll be grateful."

"But, we left them," Alvynd insisted.

"Well, the worst case is they'll hang us for treason," Fred chuckled. Alvynd said nothing but glaring at him in a disgusted visage. The old man, noticing his gaze, needed a moment to continue.

"Look at it this way: we didn't abandon no one; we only saved dozens of innocent people from their certain demise."

Alvynd took a moment to think thoroughly. "Understood," he then replied half-heartedly. He didn't fully agree, but what else he could say? He also feared the death as much as the others.

~vVv~

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