"They did what!?" Galmar Stone-Fist roared, snarling like an enraged troll.
"They tortured them," Gharrok answered. "One was given the chance to fight for his life, then kept alive while the axe in his head caused seizures." Gharrok had been all but tied to the chair he sat in for this impromptu interrogation. "One girl… they raped her. Over and over again." Galmar's cry rumbled through the Palace of Kings, throwing the wooden mug he drank from across the room. It shattered against the wall and a handmaiden scurried in to clean up the mess.
"Once more, if I may." Lord Ulfric Stormcloak said, looking at the young man thoughtfully. "Five city guards, and eight Stormcloak soldiers, led by you, were escorting Lord Thongvor Silver-Blood across The Reach."
"Correct," Gharrok answered. "We were inspecting the last shrine on the map, and then we were attacked."
"And you escaped from the Thalmor."
"How in Oblivion did you do that?" Galmar eyed him suspiciously. "No one has ever escaped the Thalmor!"
"I think the question that we should be asking is Lord Gharrok is in Windhelm, and not in Markarth," Ulfric said softly, but his voice boomed across the hall.
"Just as we were inspecting the shrine and praying, the Thalmor ambushed us."
"Did Lord Thangvor escape?"
"Aye," Gharrok answered. This is where he would have to turn truth to lies. He prayed to Stendarr that it was good enough. "We held them of as long as we could, but we were overcome. The Stormcloaks there were only Unblooded, they had not seen a real fight!" This made the two veterans nod sadly.
"So then they tortured and raped you?"
"Not me personally, but the others, yes. As the blade rose to end me, the Forsworn came from over the hill. In the chaos I escaped, running all night until I made it to Whiterun."
"So why did you not go back to Markarth?" Galmar asked, making the Skaal stiffen. Why did he go back to Windhelm?
"...Because my identity was compromised." Gharrok finally said. "The operation was a stealth mission, but my face was known. My Lord, the Thalmor have a much greater hold in the Reach than we estimated! You must-"
"Enough!" Ulfric boomed, scowling at his subject before him. "You disobeyed my orders, and left you post, and your squadron without a leader! It was wrong of me to send a mere Bone-Breaker on such an important mission."
"Forgive me..." Gharrok hung his head in shame. Guilt flowed through his body like it were blood. For a Lord of a House as reputable as House Broken-Blade to cower like he did, it was shameful!
"However, I am willing to give you another chance," Ulfric sighed, waving away the servants.
"You would?" Gharrok's eyes lit up, much to the annoyance of Galmar.
"Ulfric, are you sure?" Galmar queried. "This whelk isn't worth his weight in shit! Just send him to the front lines and be done with it!"
"Watch your tongue!" Gharrok shot up, stepping up to the older man. They glared at each other, noses inches from touching. "You may be Ulfric's advisor, but you are nothing more that! Has anyone heard of House Stone-Fist? No, because it does not exist!"
"At least my family was not one full of cowards! What happened in Markarth when we stormed the gates and killed the Forsworn? Your father ran! What happened to you? You ran! You call yourself a Lord, but you're nothing more than a-"
"Fus, ro!" The hall rumbled, sending the pair staggering.
"We are fighting a war here, not drinking tea." Ulfric glared at the pair. "You two are soldiers, now act like one!"
"Forgive me, my lord." Gharrok apologised sarcastically, bowing curtly to the older man, Galmar grunted, knowing full well how insincere the Skaal was.
"Now, Gharrok." Ulfric continued. "Despite your misdeeds, your mission was not a total failure. This morning we received a vast donation from the Silver-Blood family. We have the proper funds to truly equip my soldiers and raise a true army. The reunification of Skyrim shall begin!" This seemed to lift Galmar's mood, a small smile growing on his face.
"So, shall I be going back to Markarth?"
"Nay, such an important mission should have been led by a proven general. One of my senior Snow-Hammers will continue what you started. Saldr shall be the first mate, followed by Bramm." Gharrok was disappointed that his chance to prove himself had been cut so short, but as the expression went All is fair in love and war. And this certainly was war.
"What will become of me?" Gharrok asked, praying not to be sent to the front lines. A warrior he was, but he had never seen a true battlefield, where armies of thousands clashed together in horrible combat.
"You will return to the Nightblades," Ulfric answered. "The reports Ralof has sent me indicated that he is in need of his first mate again." A feather light joy made Gharrok's heart skip a beat. The Nightblades was the first squadron that he had ever been placed in. Together, he and Ralof had risen through their ranks, and now stood at the head of the raiding party. "Head to Morthal, that is where they are ambushing Imperial wagons coming from Solitude. As Gharrok rose to leave, he placed several amulets to Talos on the table.
"I had not the opportunity to recover their bodies. This was all I was able to get." Ulfric gave the Skaal a sympathetic nod and patted him on the shoulder.
"Thank you, my friend. You've done their families a great service. Talos guide you,"
.
.
It was normal that on a windy day, sub-zero winds would blow up from the harbour. Today's winds were particularly chilly. Despite Nords and Skaal having evolved to live in cold climates, Gharrok still shivered, rubbing his arms for warmth. It was times like these where he would pray for guidance, and blessings from the All-Maker. It was habitual for Gharrok to thumb the blade of Icefang on occasion, as if to centre him, calm him. He did so now, except-
"Huh? Oh no, oh Gods! For the love of Mara! Fuck!" Gharrok had forgotten to ask Aüriel to return Icefang. The Elf still had it! "No. No, no, no… All-Maker protect me from my father's wrath." Roland Broken-Blade, first of his name, was from a long line of chieftains of the Skaalish people. However, it was his sister that became the leader, leaving him free to explore Tamriel. Roland arrived in Skyrim with only the armour on his back, and his sword and axe. Through his adventures into ancient crypts, slaying giants and bandits, to investing in trade and businesses, he amassed a fortune. With his newfound wealth, and relations with the Greater Houses, they anointed him a Lordship, and gave him the barony of Ivarstead to watch over. Icefang and Wraithbane, the two weapons he wielded, became legendary icons for House Broken-Blade. When Gharrok was 18, he had been given the honour of wielding Icefang as he began his adventures across Skyrim. Gharrok felt as if his father's strength was with him when he rode into battle wielding that axe. The Skaal stumbled into Candlehearth Hall, almost fainting in shock.
"Welcome to Candlehearth Hall, what can I-"
"Mead. The strong stuff." Gharrok grunted, thumping into a barstool. A tankard of Honningbrew Reserve slid across the bar, Gharrok chugged it down, placing a few Septims on the table. "Another." How could he have forgotten Icefang!? His most treasures possession! In Skyrim, your weapon was your life. In Solstheim, it was your soul. Losing such a precious weapon was a disaster.
"Rough day?" A female voice said, sliding into the chair next to him.
"Hello Hermir," Gharrok nodded, not looking up from the drink. Hermir Strong-Heart had joined the Stormcloaks at the same time that Gharrok and Ralof had. She was a competent fighter, but her skill with the forge had much more potential. So she spends her days forging weapons and armour for the Stormcloak Rebels.
"What seems to be troubling you?" She asked. "I do not see Icefang on your side." Gharrok only grunted, slumping against the bar.
"Wait right here," she purred, slipping out of the inn.
"I have to get her back." Gharrok mumbled, a fire of determination sparking deep in his soul. "I can make this right, and I will!" it was at that moment that Hermir returned, carrying a wrapped package.
"Open it," She ordered. Under the cloth was a sword. Shining steel gleaming in the candlelight.
"It's beautiful," Gharrok smiled at her. "Yours?"
"Yeah, I just finished it." Gharrok inched the blade from its scabbard. Examining the glint of the metal.
"This is unlike any steel I have seen before. Where was it made?"
"I made this on my last trip to Whiterun," the lass answered, inching her stool closer to his. Gharrok's eyes widened, realising how valuable the gift was.
"Skyforge steel." Gharrok gasped, looking at Hermir. "This is… Thank you! How can I ever repay you?" In truth, he could afford ten Skyforge steel swords easily, but Gharrok was a humble man, not using his lordship as a weapon against the people.
"Perhaps you can buy me another drink…"
.
.
Drinks turned to snacks. Snacks turned to laughter. Laughter turned to more drinks. It was mid-afternoon by the time he was finished.
"This has been a welcome break from fighting, but I must be on my way." Gharrok slid out from his chair, needing a few moments to find his balance.
"War calls?" Hermir asked, looking at her friend.
"Aye, I am to meet with Ralof and the Nightblades."
"Be careful, will you not?" she looked genuinely concerned. Gharrok smiled his toothy grin at her, filled with youthful overconfidence.
"With your sword, not even General Tullius could stop me!" As the Skaal turned to leave, the smith yanked on his hair, pulling him back. As he spun to meet her, she planted a quick kiss on his lips. After a couple of moments, Gharrok separated from her, very confused.
"Be careful, okay?" She winked, watching him nod and leave, dazed.
.
.
Managing to bring himself back to reality, Gharrok strode out of the huge city gates and across the lone stone bridge. The winds had calmed, and the sun shone through the clouds. Across the floe lay the harbour, where the Skaal spied city guards abusing the Argonian workers, again. Such sights saddened him. Why must they live segregated and discriminated? It was not right. All men and women deserved to live free and equal. Though, perhaps only had such views because of his upbringing. In the village he was raised in, he grew up a half-breed, half Skaal and half Nord, side by side with Elves, Argonians, Imperials, and Khajiit. All religions were accepted there. All Nine of the Divines, the lesser Daedra, and the All-Maker. One thing that House Broken-Blade objected to about the rebellion was the policy of racial degradation and discrimination. There was no benefit to it! Only look to the Third Era Cyrodiil, was life any better?
"Greetings kinsman," a guard nodded in respect as they crossed paths. "Make Skyrim proud. This is our homeland!" Yes, Skyrim is the homeland of the Nords, but what's wrong with others living and prospering here? Multiculturalism makes society stronger. This issue was the sole reason that Roland Broken-Blade, Gharrok's father was not in the position Galmar Stone-Fist sat in. That, and he abandoned Jarl Ulfric shortly after the Markarth Incident, and the atrocities that were committed against the native Reachmen.
"Looking to but a horse?" An Altmer asked, looking up from the troughs he was filling with hay. "Sometimes the difference between life an' death is a swift stead!"
"I have a horse already, my friend!" Gharrok smiled. "How has business been, Ulundil?"
"Lord Broken-Blade!" The High Elf bowed to the Skaal. "It is an honour to see you, as always!"
"How is my steed?" Gharrok reached into his coin purse to pay the man for housing his steed. "It is time that I leave."
"I will have her saddled in but a moment!" The happy-go-lucky High Elf dropped what he was doing and ran to through the horse stalls to where they joined onto the house. These were the pens for the horses of the Lords and Ladies, more food, warm pens, more care, Ulindil knew how to please the upper classes. As the saddle was strapped on and the steed led out, its eyes seemed to light up.
"Hey girl," Gharrok almost purred, resting his head against the horse's long face. He ran his hands through her snow-white mane, taking in her scent. Roland Broken-Blade owned a mighty steed from his adventuring days, and Gharrok learnt to ride on its offspring. The two were inseparable since. Agr̃o snorted, nibbling on her owner's side-lock, as if it were cud.
"Such a beautiful steed!" Ulundil remarked, smoothing out the bumps in her reddish brown pelt. "Where did you purchase her?"
"She is the offspring of my father's horse!" Gharrok grunted, mounting the steed.
"A lucky man, you are! Safe travels!"
.
.
To ride alone on the roads of Skyrim was once a safe thing to do. Ever since Ulfric had taken up arms in rebellion, bandits and highwaymen plagued the roads, reaving and killing travellers. Every shadow along the path was the potential attack, and Gharrok kept a hand ready to shoot bolts of lightning, should the need arise. Thankfully, something else must have caught their attention, as Gharrok was not the victim of the attack. Through the light snowfall, Lake Yorgrim stretched on their left, the bubbling of the river keeping the pair company. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils. Not the smell of wood, or cooking, but-
"Flesh," He'd smelt it a thousand times before, having battled mages before. Death by fire was one of the cruellest fates. Gharrok reached for Icefang, only to remember her absence. They hurried past the mill and over the hill. On the other side of the rise was a Khajiit caravan. The traders were dead, the women gone, the wagon in flames.
"Bastards." Gharrok spat, cursing the people responsible. How could people profit on the murdering and suffering of others? Where was the merit? The virtue? Agr̃o whinnied, shifting beneath him uncomfortably. No doubt the criminals that did this were still in the area. Gharrok tapped her sides with his boots, pushing her onward. The gentle trot they were going was now a fast gallop, as both were eager to escape the stench of the burning fur and flesh. The snowy wind swept through his hair, the trees whizzing past. Gharrok's journey was uneventful, bar the caravan. Dusk had come by the time they had arrived at Dawnstar. Agr̃opanted lightly from the sprint, but Gharrok pushed on. Dawnstar was an Imperial controlled port. For a Stormcloak to stay there alone would be suicide. The Nightblades were not like other Stormcloaks. Most of Ulfric's 'army', was no more than angry farmers given a sword and told to kill. The men that Ralof and Gharrok commanded were skilled warriors, brave and cunning. Each had their own reason to fight, each their own grievance to settle. Most of them were open to racial equality, and planned to use their influence to persuade the Jarls to welcome foreigners.
"We drink to our youth, to days come and gone," Gharrok started to sing. His mother had taught him to sing, and she was once a famous songstress.
"When the age of oppression is now nearly done. We'll drive out the Empire from this land that we own…."
.
.
The two moons were almost at their zenith when Gharrok and Agr̃o trotted through the marsh. The Nightblades were experts of concealment, they knew how to make their camps look almost invisible. Gharrok knew how to follow the signs they left behind to find the camp.
"Halt, horseman!" A voice boomed in the night. Gharrok complied, gently pulling back on the reigns. Agr̃o grunted, drinking the waters around him. "Our eyes and bows are aimed at you. State your buisness!" Ahead of him lay a grove of trees, the undergrowth thick around it. A naturat fort, though quite the obvious place to set up camp.
"I can see you from here, Jarad!" Gharrok called, recognising the owner of the voice. "Put down your weapon before you hurt yourself!" An arrow splashed into the mud an arm's length away from Agr̃o, causing her to buck in fright.
"Last chance stranger, the next one will-"
"Are you daft, boy? It is me, Lord Gharrok, of House Broken-Blade, you halfwit!" Gharrok could hear the mumbling of the watchmen in the trees.
"By Talos, it is! Welcome back, m'lord!" The shrubbery parted to let the han on horeback through, as soon as they entered the camp they were greeted like heros. Agr̃o was washed down and Gharrok embraced by his shield brothers and sisters.
"Summon Snow-Hammer Ralof," Someone shouted. "Captain Gharrok has rejoined us!"
"Where is he!?" Ralof's voice boomed, the man storming from his tent. "Wjere is that fat as a horker, piece of troll shit?" Ralof and Gharrok locked eyes, and Ralof shoved the men out of the way to get to the Lord. Gharrok gulped, seeing murder in Ralof's eyes. "You! How dare you sully me with your presence after you abandoned us!" Ralof struck him across the face with an open hand, the unexpected blow stunning Gharrok. Recovering instantly, he went for his sword. For a lowborn to strike a highborn? People had been hung for less!
"How dare you!" Gharrok roared, slowly drawing his weapon threatiningly. "You will pay for-" Suddenly he froze, unable to move. Ralof's arms were around him, squeezing the aris from his lungs in a tight hug.
"We thought you were dead…" He mumbled, almost tearfully. "By Stendarr, things have not been the same without you." Gharrok dropped the sword, returning the embrace, much to the cheering of the other Nightblades.
"Forgive me, my friend." Gharrok mumbled back. "T'was Ulfric's orders, not my own."
"Crack open the ale, start a song!" Someone anounced,with a chorous of ayes and sinning followed.
"What did Jarl Ulfric want?" Ralof asked, handing his friend a mug of mead.
"He wanted support from the other Greater Houses," Gharrok answered, after clinking cups with his friends. "House Silver-Blood, to be exact."
"Smart move," nodded Ralof. "They are probably the most influencial family in the Reach. Damn rich too,"
"They also support the Stormcloaks," Gharrok observed that the members of the Nigtblades were happier than usual, proudly displaying themselves. This was unusual. "Has something happened in my absence? They are acting diffrently." Ralof nodded, unclipping the warhapper that hung on his back and passed it to Gharrok.
"Remember the one I had before?"
"Aye. It was iron," Gharrok nodded. "What metal is this? It is…"
"Mithril." Ralof answered. "The Nords in Bruma are siding with us, and have been sending up weapons." Gharrok whistled, admiring the new weapon. Most of the weapons that the Nightblades had been using prior to his mission in Markarth were homemade bows and iron, looted from the enemy. Ralof had been lucky enough to afford cheep steel.
"And the armour?"
"The Silver-Bloods," Before, the Nightblades were donned in leather and repurposed Imperial armour, with the colours and markings changed. Now they were clad in professionally made chainmail shirts, with plated bracers and pauldrons, protective gauntlets and scaled helmets.
"It warms my heart to see that they will be able to properly fend for themselves," Gharrok smiled genuinely. When the Nightblades were first formed, the Rebellion was severely underfunded, hence the reason for the terrible conditions of their equipment. Many Nords had become casualties because of that fact, but no longer! Imperial plating was no match for mithril, orcish, and hardened steel, be it an axe, sword, or arrowhead. "Now the Imperial dogs can really feel the pain from the Nightblades!" Their comrades cheered boisterously, pushing each other around to show their might.
"Oblivion take the lot of 'em!" Ralof joined in, chugging the last of his mead. He eyed Gharrok up and down, frowning. "Something seems off about you. Has something happened?" Gharrok sighed, pulling a knife from his belt and approaching the roasting spit.
"It is… not something I would like to talk about in public," the Skaal mumbled, slicing strips from the mutton. As he cut, his mind flashed back to Bjorn, the Stormcloak whose throat was slit by Ancano. Gharrok nearly buckled, dropping everything.
"Gharrok!" Jarrad managed to catch him as he fainted. "What ails him?" The celebrations hushed, unsure what was happening.
"No doubt he is weary from his journey," Ralof put Gharrok's arm over his shoulder. "Set up his bed in my tent, double time!"
.
.
Gharrok came to on a stretcher, covered in blankets. Ralof and a redheaded woman stood over him.
"Did you see what happened to him?" Astrid asked, using her healing magic to sooth him.
"One moment he was slicing mutton, the next, he collapsed." Ralof answered. "I do not think this is the thing that can be fixed by medicine."
"I am alright," Gharrok shrugged the woman of, placing his feet on the ground. "How long have I-"
"A minute," Ralof chuckled. "You are getting soft, m'lord!"
"Funny," Gharrok sipped from a cup of water as the other Nightblades peeked in, checking he was all right. Gharrok rubbed his eyes, giving them the thumbs up.
"Gharrok," Ralof started, pulling up a chair. "Something happened in The Reach. If you fainting does not tell me so, then the absence of Icefang does," many knew of the legendary axe, and many were envious of it. Ralof knew the bond Gharrok had with her. The only time that they were apart was to bathe. The Skaal ate, trained, and slept with it by his side. Gharrok groaned, waving Jarrad and the others away.
"Leave us," Gharrok ordered. All left, bar Ralof and Astrid. "You two, Astrid."
"No," She shook her head. "I need to make sure you are stable." Astrid, like Hermir, had joined the Stormcloak Rebels at the same time as Gharrok and Ralof. The three of them became inseparable, relying on each other for their skill in combat. In battle there was ne'er a more deadly trio then them. But the feelings Astrid had for Gharrok were deeper than just friendship, she cared for him more than that.
"Fine," Gharrok grunted. He told the tale in full detail: the mission, who they were escorting, the Thalmor attack, how they treated the prisoners. Astrid was almost in tears, appalled at how their comrades had been treated.
"I am so sorry," she mumbled, placing a worried hand on his shoulder. "I hope they can rest in peace." Ralof raised an eyebrow. It was common knowledge that no one escaped from the Thalmor. They never released captives, only enslaving them or executing them.
"Very few try to escape the Thalmor," Ralof started. "Even fewer are successful. So why were you successful?" Gharrok had to lie to his friends, he had known this for a long time. To tell them the truth would result with a knife in his gut. That, or he'd by flayed and hung for all to see on the walls of Windhelm. Gharrok bought as much time as he could for himself, taking long slow swigs from the mug of water in his hands.
"It was a massacre," Gharrok answered. "As they lifted the blade to finish me, the Forsworn pressed down upon the Elves. Amidst the chaos, a managed to cover myself in the blood of Bjorn, the one who had his throat cut, and Hekja, the girl who was raped. I played dead, hoping they wouldn't find me. When the sun had set, I got up and ran. I didn't stop till I made it to Whiterun."
"Ysmir's beard!" Ralof gawked. "You poor bastard."
"Can I do something to comfort you?" Astrid asked, resting her head on his shoulder.
"This alone is more than enough," Gharrok answered, putting an arm around her and resting his head on hers. "I thank you though." Ralof smiled to see that his friend was comfortable, but at the same time felt the stab of jealousy, being so close to that woman.
"You two should get some rest," Ralof eventually cleared his throat. "We have an ambush at sunrise, past Dragon Bridge." Astrid nodded, bidding them goodnight. Her hand lingered on Gharrok's, slipping away into the night.
"It is my fault," Gharrok muttered, after moments of silence.
"Excuse me?"
"They died because of me, all of them! If I had called a retreat, or ordered a shield wall earlier then-"
"Stop it," Ralof snapped, shaking his friend by the shoulder. "I understand how you feel, about Bjorn and Hekja. It is-"
"That poor girl!" Gharrok wailed, loosing his calm demeanour. "All that suffering. And Mallas! Why did they not just kill him? It is my fault that he suff-" Ralof grabbed Gharrok's chin, squishing his cheeks.
"Look at me, now," Ralof scowled at him, dead serious. "No matter what you think, the results would have been the same. They would have died, and you loved, just be thankful that the mission was a success. You cannot blame yourself for the actions of others, the Divines will judge them in the end."
"I guess…"
"Do not guess, do! Thank the Divines and your All-Maker that you survived so that you can carry their legacy! Do not let the fallen be a burden on you, but push you forward. Let their dreams be the reason you get on your feet in the morning, their hopes what makes you run towards the enemy. Let their souls deliver your foes to Oblivion!" Ralof released the Lord, slumping onto his own cot. "How do you feel every time one of the Nightblades die? Yes, you and I plan every attack to the smallest detail, thinking of all the possibilities. Yet I still wonder, 'What if we had planned things differently? What if Jarrad, or another archer, was somewhere where they could provide better covering fire? What if they were at the rear of the attack?' But it matters not. They are already dead. If not them, then someone else, possibly more! If you fall down and cry for them, their sacrifice was for nothing! Let them be in your prayers, but never stop for fighting." His speech over, the sound feet shuffled away from the tent, no doubt Astrid stood by to listen. Ralof was not one for speeches, or wisdom. But when he had things to say, they yielded the results he wanted. The Skaal nodded, the weight of grief melting into a fire of determination.
"Thank you, my friend." Gharrok smiled, laying down again. "Your words have not fallen on deaf ears. I shall fight for them as much as I!"
"Have you not helped me in the past, shield-brother?" Ralof grinned back, blowing out a candle. "Next time though, let me have Astrid, would you? You do not even fancy her!"