A/N I would just like to thank everyone who has stuck with this story so far. I know it's been a struggle with the massive gaps between updates, but I truly am thankful, especially to those who review my work. I know I don't respond to all reviews, however I do want you to know that I deeply appreciate every one of them.
I would also like to add that I had some trouble with the description of Fort Kastav, so I apologise if it's not up to scratch. They way the fort is positioned makes it very tricky to write about.
Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter.
The whitewash of the ice fields shone with the light of a hundred suns around the line of people who slowly trudged their way south. They formed a dark slither on the white snow as hundreds of men and women stumbled along the icy road. Some wore fur-lined collars, but it did little to keep out the cold.
Mages and men crested the hill, and before them sprawled Fort Kastav. In a few short days it had been converted from a crumbling ruin to a bustling fortress. Guards patrolled the outer walls, and archers stood watch atop the tower at its south-west corner. Chatter broke out amongst the horde as they laughed and pointed at roaring fires and the promise of a bed within the barracks.
The fort stood in the only pass through the mountains to the south, but the pass cut south-westward through the mountains, and the fort itself faced west. The fort extended between two imposing cliff faces who's hard shoulders cast a looming shadow into the pass. Fort Kastav completely blocked any route into Winterhold from the south save for a small, iron enforced gate where the road ran through the fort. At its southern end rose the keep, its three levels keeping watch over the field below, and upon it flew the black crown of Winterhold, imposed on an ice blue background.
"Here they come!" shouted a guard atop the keep. He stared in awe at the long line of black figures that followed the road. They curly haired soldier had come from a small hovel in the city, but now it dawned on him that he was part of something bigger than he ever thought, something that might change Skyrim forever.
He looked down into the fort and saw people running about making last minute preparations for the reinforcements. The wind blew ferociously around him, threatening to tear the flag that he was standing next to from its pole. The small fire he had built sputtered and spouted sparks, but he just smiled and pulled his fur collar tighter around him. Hope was coming.
The gates slowly creaked open as the horde approached. Many soldiers and mages craned their necks to look through the gate into what would be their home during the war. A great, snowy courtyard greeted them, filled with tents, forges and workshops. Almost every blacksmith in the hold was busy hammering out swords and axes or tirelessly shaping steel and iron into armour. Next to them were rows of fletchers who carefully inspected every arrow before handing out bows and quivers to queues of soldiers. Meanwhile, healers rushed here and there, gathering ingredients or brewing potions, throwing them into boxes when they were done, and then they moved onto the next one without pause. Two huge workshops stood at the northern end of the courtyard, towering wooden scaffolding surrounding two almost-complete catapults.
The workers quickly stopped what they were doing when the gates opened and an army of nine hundred soldiers and mages strode into the courtyard, led by a fur-cloaked Hoarik Forge-Blazer. His dented iron armour had been replaced with a newly forged suit of steel plate armour with the crown of Winterhold emblazoned on his chest.
Hoarik stood at the centre of his men, turning on the spot, a frown on his face. "Right men, we've got to make this place the best damned fortress in Skyrim. I need everything inventoried from bread to arrows. I need to know exactly what we're dealing with here. As for the rest of you, help build up defences inside and outside the fort." The soldiers scurried away from him to crates and barrels scattered around the courtyard, and to the storage rooms within the keep. Hoarik and his men had brought several carts of provisions with them. The stores of Winterhold had almost been emptied for Hoarik's convoy. These supplies were now being unloaded into the keep, and the horses were being fed and watered.
"Lad, how many soldiers were here before I arrived?" Hoarik said, grabbing a passing soldier.
"Fifty-two, my Thane."
"Nine-hundred-and-fifty-two soldiers," he whispered, mostly to himself. "That's all, soldier."
"Sir," the soldier said, and marched away.
Hoarik climbed the stairs to the wall, taking two at a time. He gazed over the ice field and watched the men build up wooden barricades in front of the shallow ice shelf that the fort stood upon. One extra line of defence.
"Nine-hundred-and-fifty-two soldiers. Solitude has five times that alone. This is going to end in blood and fire."
"They're at the gate!" shouted Captain Rolf. Men ran along walls, stopping to shoot arrows as they went. The two Alterationists stood before the gate, focused and unmoving. They barely blinked. Dawn had brought the Pale army marching upon the fort, but the Winterhold army was prepared.
Archers had been placed on the walls well before the sun had risen, and mages stood ready to light the pre-dawn sky with fire.
But it had gone wrong.
The army had approached with steel-lined shields, which arrows and ice spikes rarely penetrated. Fire still burnt the wood but did not harm the soldier, and the army reached the fort with minimal losses. Immediately, they focused their attack on the gate, shooting arrows up at the soldiers on the walls, however the Alterationists stood strong, and no side made any headway.
"Irontooth, get your men over here, and your mages onto the keep!" shouted Rolf from above the gate, sword and shield in hand.
"Your heard the Captain. To the gate. Spellslingers, you'll have a better vantage up on the keep," Irontooth commanded, and the soldiers and mages began filing their way along the walls.
Several Illusionists were already on the keep and had a good vantage point of the battlefield below. It was a desperate struggle for control over the gate. The simple wooden structure was the cornerstone of the battle. The Illusionists were doing their best to sow chaos within the ranks of the enemy, and several soldiers could be seen fleeing from the battlefield. After yesterdays battle, however, the Illusionists felt drained, and their spells were not as powerful. This effect was felt throughout the rest of the mages. Some of them had almost completely ran out of Magicka and were forced to pick up bows. Very few mages knew how to use one.
Rolf stood on the wall above the gate, his shield raised. Several arrows protruded from it, but none had pierced through his steel armour. He scanned the field of men below, but he saw no sign of their commander. That'll bring morale down, he thought to himself with a small smile.
Irontooth came up beside him and placed a meaty hand on his shoulder.
"Something isn't right here," Irontooth said, glancing down at the soldiers underneath him.
"I know. They seem too disorganised. How do they expect to get into the fort with only arrows?" Rolf said, his brow creased. "There's something we're not seeing."
Korir stood before the wooden walls of Winterhold, the red dawn light shining off the snow. Since their return from the Moot, the wall had been made bigger and stronger. Great timber logs now stood erect in the snow, supporting the thick beams that ran between them. Most of the trees surrounding the city had been cut down for its construction. What once was a vast snow plain dotted with pines was now an empty field, extending to the rock shore to the east, and the Winterhold Mountains to the west. To the south, the cobbled road snaked its way towards Fort Kastav, hugging the mountain range. Korir climbed to the top of one of the watchtowers on the gate and stared over all of this. All that he owned. He heaved a sigh, gathered his cloak, and made his way back into the city.
Throughout Skyrim, Winterhold was known as a dead city, its population dead or gone after the Great Collapse, but Jarl Korir saw life all around him. Smoke rose from holes in thatched roofs, and people bustled in and out of Birna's Goods; the only half decent shop in Winterhold. The Frozen Hearth was almost repaired. The last few bundles of thatch were being added to the roof. Dagur, the owner, stood outside beaming at the kindness of his neighbours. As a kind gesture, they'd managed to find him a shire horse and sturdy wagon to transport crates and barrels for when he could get his inn up and running.
A useless gift. To get mead into Winterhold would need an army willing to cut their way to nearest meadery, Korir thought, but he simply looked away and moved on. The Jarl's Longhouse stood across the road from The Frozen Hearth. It towered above all other buildings in the city save for the College of Winterhold. Despite this, the fact that is was made of wood and thatch could not be hidden. Kai stood at the top of the wooden steps, his arms crossed.
"Jarl Korir, how am I to act as your housecarl if you run off without telling me where you are?"
"You aren't my mother, Kai. I can look after myself in my own city," Korir said, stopping at the bottom of the steps.
"We are at war. Assassins could be hiding around every corner. Do not forget the shadows the citizens are still seeing."
"They can't be very good assassins if every drunkard and housewife can see them," Korir said, trying to push past Kai.
"My point still stands," Kai said, grabbing hold of Korir's arm.
"Let me go, Kai." Korir stared into the man's eyes. Kai returned the gaze before letting him go. "And I'll trouble you to remember your position," Korir said before heading inside.
Master Wunfarth stood inside, looking mistily into the central fire. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his long, grey sleeves dangled almost to the floor. He looked up as Korir entered and inclined his head in a bow.
"Jarl Korir, how fares it?" asked the old monk.
"Not well, my friend. Almost a thousand men are stationed at Fort Kastav, yet I fear it will not be enough. They may be able to fend off an attack from Windhelm, but barely. If any more holds join the fight then we will wake up to smoke on the horizon any day." The Jarl slumped himself onto his tall throne. He looked up at the tattered mammoth skull that hung above him, a reminder of a time when they used to call the frozen waste their home, along with their giant shepherds.
"How fares the battle to the west?" Wunfarth asked after a moments pause.
"A pigeon came this morning. They are under heavy siege by Jarl Skald's armies," he said dryly.
"They may still prevail."
"Let's say they are still alive. What about the iron and precious metals in the mine? We can't get them out during a siege. We are bankrupt, Wunfarth. There is not a Septim in our coffers. We cannot fund this war!" Korir shouted, leaping from where he sat. His fists were clenched, and his jaw was set.
"Then we need to find a way to break this siege, or retake the fort if we must. Send a rider into the ice plains. If the beacon at Snowpoint is lit, then there is hope yet. If not, then prepare the city for attack," Wunfarth said, staring back into the fire.
"Malur," Korir commanded. His steward appeared on the landing leading to his chambers on the upper level. "Yes, my Jarl?"
"Send a rider into the plains. Tell them to report back on whether Snowpoint Beacon is lit."
"Yes, my Jarl," Malur said, and he threw on his thick fur coat and hurried from the Longhouse.
"Milady," Malur said, and bowed as an elegant yet aged woman strolled into the Longhouse. Her simple white dress was the same colour as her hair, and she walked as if born to the Emperor. Her hands hung delicately at her side. A young stable hand walked behind her, heaving in a heavy bag.
"Korir, my love, what's this I hear about you starting a war? Can I not go to visit my niece without you stirring trouble?"
"Thaena!" Korir yelled and rushed to meet her. He brought her in for a heavy kiss before letting her go. He wrapped his large arms around her delicate frame and held her tightly. "I didn't expect you back for another week."
"Well, when one hears news that one's husband has sparked a civil war, one returns home immediately," she said. She drew away from him and stared up into his eyes for several seconds. "You daft bastard! It's actually true?" Korir could only nod, and in response he received a sharp slap. "I can't leave you alone for five minutes." Korir reeled from the slap and silence fell across them. This was held for only a few moments before both Korir and Thaena burst out laughing. They hugged tightly, laughter still spilling from them.
"Oh, Thaena, it's good to see you," Korir said, releasing her.
"Oh, I know. Maybe I can get this place back in order," she said, pointing to the door on the right of the hall, directing the boy as to where her bags should go.
"I think I'm doing a pretty good job with what I have," Korir said, crossing his arms.
"Oh, do you? You think that wooden construct you call a wall will last five minutes?"
"Perhaps not, but I'm hoping it won't be put to the test."
"Is that so? I suppose Fort Kastav was looking quite impressive when I passed through. Thankfully the soldiers recognised me and didn't give me any trouble," Thaena said, stepping closer to her husband. "I also passed a rather impressive army marching along the road. It included a fair number of mages, dear. Are we to be friends with the college now?"
"We have a mutual understanding, yes. They might win us this war," Korir said.
"Are you sure it's wise? I suppose we don't have much of an option, but be careful around them, okay?" Thaena said with big eyes.
"I always am. Is there anything useful you learnt whilst in Whiterun, dear?" Korir said sweetly.
"Whiterun's on the move. Not all soldiers, but a fair few hundred, but I got out of there before I could learn anything else. I'm sure if anyone there had recognised me, you'd have a ransom note for me by now," she said, pulling on Korir's collar.
"Thaena, where is our son?" Korir said, worry deep in his voice.
"Oh, don't worry, dear. He's still in the carriage getting his things along with..." She trailed off, looking at the floor.
"Along with?" he asked seriously.
"Oh, don't be mad, Korir dear. I couldn't very well leave them in Whiterun, not when they could so easily be arrested, or even killed for treason!"
"You brought your niece with you?"
"Well, yes, but also my sister, and her husband, and my niece's husband, and their children, and my brother, and his family, and-"
"You brought your entire family from Whiterun?" Korir said, stepping away from her.
"I'm sure we have room for them."
"Oh, I'm sure we do! But they could just as easily spy for Elisif as work with us," Korir patronised.
"They are my family!"
"They're from Whiterun, and they shall be returning there first thing in the morning."
"And what happens when the Jarl of Winterhold shows them the door? They'll return to Whiterun and make sure every citizen knows to back Elisif. Let them stay, but keep an eye on them. No courier in the city is to allow them to send a letter without your permission, and under no circumstances shall they be present for war councils."
Korir looked into his wife's pleading eyes. "You know I can't say no to you. Fine, they can stay, but if I catch them with a letter to Balgruuf or Elisif, I shall have no choice but to execute them for treason."
"I understand, Korir dear," Thaena said, her eyes at the ground.
"Go on, my love, and bring them in."
Fornice sat at her desk, pouring through a dusty tome. A pile of similar books sat on the floor beside her. A circle of bright blue light lay at the floor of her chambers as the noon day sun shone through the window. Behind her, the white lights of the alchemy garden bobbed and bounced between trees and flowers. The garden contained samples of most every plant in Skyrim, some containing great healing properties, and others were so deadly they were rarely spoken of. A heavy aroma swam from the garden, and it filled the room with a sickly sweet incense.
Her mouth moved with the words as she desperately searched the books for information. She looked up for a moment and rubbed her temples, and she reached over for a glass of wine.
"You shouldn't drink so much of that," Tolfdir said from the doorway. "Makes your mind foggy."
"All this reading is what's making it foggy, old man."
"What are you searching for?" he asked, moving closer to look over her shoulder.
"Any secrets about the college or the city that I don't know already."
"Found anything useful?"
"No. Well, I stumbled across some stories about the Augur of Dunlain, but if he's still around I doubt he'd help us," Fornice said, picking up another book.
"He is still down there, in the Midden. Somewhere," Tolfdir said.
"Still, he'd have no interest in us. Tolfdir, what do you need?" she said, beginning to flick through the pages.
"There have been reports around town of strange shadows, and they're asking for us to look into it," Tolfdir said.
"Isn't that a job for the guard? I don't have time for this."
"The guard aren't doing anything, and they're calling for our help."
"Fine. Send out a Battlemage." She turned around and looked at Tolfdir. "In fact, there's a young girl amongst the Battlemages by the name of Runa. She's skilled and smart, and she'll be up to the task."
"Very well, Fornice. I have been wondering, are you and I and the other leaders going to enter the battle? There have been whispers that it is cowardly for us to stay here and send our own to die," Tolfdir said gently.
Fornice heaved a deep sigh. "I have thought this myself, Tolfdir, and I'm afraid I must agree with those whispers. You and I are needed here, but we must send representatives to the battlefield. Our mages are lead by warriors, but only a mage knows how to use magic best."
"Who is to go?" Tolfdir said, he brows furrowed, knowing whoever was sent away might never return.
"Drevis and Phinis are to travel to Fort Kastav. They will lead our mages to battle there, and maybe their powers can offer them a hand as well."
Tolfdir looked at the ground for a brief moment, his hands clasped behind his back. "And to the Western Forts?" he said quietly.
"Faralda shall go to Fort Fellhammer. Maybe her magic can break the siege."
"Do you wish me to inform them now?"
"Yes, Tolfdir. Thank you. Send some of their students with them. We still have mages left that can fight."
"Yes, Fornice," Tolfdir said with a slight bow. He turned and hurried out of the room.
Fornice turned back to her desk, knowing she couldn't have put it off forever. She stared at a page of a book for a minute without reading a word before slamming it shut and standing up from her chair. She went over to the wine rack on the far wall and selected a cheap Skyrim vintage. The taste was always sharper than the more fruity High Rock or Cyrodiil wines. She gently fingered a dusty, ornate bottle at the bottom of the rack. It was an exceedingly expensive and old wine that Faralda had given her for her ascension to Arch-Mage. It was made in Summerset Isle and must have cost the Elf a fortune. Fornice hoped she hadn't sent her friend to her death.
She grabbed a chalice and poured herself a generous cup of the Skyrim vintage. She sat back at her desk, took a long draught and reopened the book. An ink drawing of a very familiar staff caught her eye. Underneath it in a flowing hand was a note on the staff, and Fornice leaned closer to the book to read it.
The Staff of Magnus is one of the oldest known artefacts in Tamriel, if the stories are to be believed. It is told that it was created by Magnus, the architect of Mundus, himself. He used it as a tool to shape his creations and bring order to his new world. It is said nothing else could contain his power. When he fled Mundus, creating the sun; a gaping hole to Aetherius, he left the staff in Tamriel so that it may still bring order to the world.
There have been many reports of mages wielding this staff. These date back as far as written records begin, lending truth to the Magnus myth. One particular story tells of Arch-Mage Shalidor using the staff to decimate the forces of Skyrim in the First Era. How the staff contains so much power is a mystery still, but it is undoubted that the staff is capable of catastrophic acts.
Fornice looked up from the book, and a plan formed in her mind.
"They've got ladders!" shouted Rolf, standing atop the walls of Fort Fellhammer. The siege had still barely begun when out of the forest ran Pale soldiers carrying heavy wooden ladders. They descended on the walls either side of the gate, and along the western wall. "They have ladders! Cut them down before they reach the wall or this is all over!"
Mages and archers all switched their aim to the band of ladders. Archers fired at the men carrying the ladders, felling many, but not enough. The mages did their best to set fire to the ladders themselves, and they managed to reduce two of them to ashes, but there were still many more. Two teams were already setting up ladders on the western wall, and there were still only a few soldiers defending it. "Irontooth, you're up," Rolf said to the Orc next to him, pointing the western wall where the first soldiers could be seen clambering onto the walls.
"Men, with me!" shouted Irontooth to his regiment, and his men instantly began running to the wall, past soldiers on the wall over the gate and through the courtyard. On their way, several men fired arrows into the increasing number of Pale soldiers on the wall, felling several. The few soldiers defending the wall, however, were being cut down by the increasing numbers. Irontooth was the first to come to their aid, caving in a man's skull with a single blow of his hammer. Blood splattered onto his face, but he ignored it and moved onto his next victim. Irontooth felled a young Nord with a blow to both legs, breaking them instantly. He finished him off with a downwards strike to the chest. By this time, several other soldiers had now reached the wall as well as a Destructionist. This mage blasted several men off the wall with a powerful fireball before freezing two men solid. A sword to the chest finished him off before he could cast another spell.
Ladders were now going up on either side of the gate, and more were going up on the western wall. The Winterhold soldiers were having trouble stemming the tide of Pale soldiers, and the walls were becoming a bloody mess. The dead and wounded were being trodden under the chaos of deadly sword fights. The smell of burnt flesh hung in the air as mages fired everything they could from their depleted reserves of Magicka.
Rolf fought desperately to defend his wall, despite rapidly becoming outnumbered. Barely had the body of his victim fallen to the ground before he moved on to the next one. His steel armour now sported many cuts and dents from blows that had got passed him. Winterhold and Pale soldiers alike lay dead at his feet, but he cut his way through to the nearest ladder, violently kicking it away from the wall. The ladder fell down into the crowd below, injuring several soldiers. He cut down a soldier to his left with an axe stroke to the throat. Blood pooled from the man's body to join the blood already on the walls.
Irontooth's hammer came down on a ladder, shattering the top half completely. Splinters of wood flew in all directions, and the lower half fell to the ground. To his right, a swarm of Pale soldiers had killed the last defenders on the other side of the wall and now rushed towards him and a small band of his soldiers. Irontooth barely had time to turn around before the first were upon him. He blocked a sword swing with the hilt of his hammer, and then smashed it into his opponent's nose, breaking it instantly. The man was sent reeling, and was finished off with a blow to a chest.
"Push them back!" he shouted to his men. They were just beginning to engage the Pale soldiers. Irontooth strode forward, swinging his hammer in a blood-lust frenzy. Any blows that got passed him simply bounced off his iron armour. Beside him, a Winterhold soldier slammed his shield into the chest of a heavy built Pale soldier, winding him. The Winterhold soldier raised his sword for a killing blow, but was too slow. A sword was buried hilt deep into his chest, and was quickly pulled out by the soldier. This soldier was a large, hulking Nord, rivalling even Irontooth in size. Irontooth turned to face this foe and swung his hammer at him. The Nord blocked the blow with his great sword and swung heavily at Irontooth who narrowing avoided the razor edge. Another blow came just as quickly. This one connected with Irontooth's arm. He roared in pain, but swung his hammer in a mighty arc, bringing it down on the Nord's head. Blood poured from the gash on his arm, but he kept on fighting.
Rolf was fighting a bitter battle on his wall. Some of the fighting had spilled into the courtyard, and a small group of his men were desperately trying to defend the Alterationists who still blocked the gate from the main force of their enemy. Some more of the ladders had been cut down or burned, but they still had a great task ahead of them.
Rolf grabbed the collar of a Pale soldier and threw him over a wall before plunging his axe into a soldier on his right. His group was making headway along the wall. His mages had burnt most ladders along one half, and they had the Pale soldiers on the defensive. Rolf let out a bellowing roar and charged towards the fifty or so soldiers that remained on his wall, however more were still climbing up, and the courtyard was quickly filling with soldiers, Pale and Winterhold alike.
Rolf reached the first soldier, a scared young boy with no helmet. Rolf planted his axe into his throat, killing him instantly. He encountered a more seasoned soldier next, wielding a longsword. They parried blows, the Pale soldier on the attack, forcing Rolf backwards, but he caught ever blow on his axe. The soldier lift his sword for a downwards swing. Rolf jumped to the side, knocking the soldier off balance. Rolf smashed the hilt of his axe into the soldiers throat, stunning him, before plunging his axe into his chest. He fell to the floor, choking on blood.
The wall wasn't very wide, so only Rolf and a few soldiers could push forward at a time. Some of the Winterhold soldiers grabbed bows and tried to shoot past the front line, to some effect. Most mages were on the keep, shooting down into the battle, whilst some were on the walls tackling ladders. Rolf hoped it would be these mages that gave them the upper hand. If an army of mages couldn't help them, then nothing could.
Irontooth dislodged his hammer from the body of another soldier. He'd lost count of how many he'd killed, and he didn't care to know. He'd been a bandit for too long to care if killing was right or wrong. The soldiers on his wall were making slow headway, but the Pale soldiers were being pushed back to their last remaining ladders. He risked a quick glance over to Rolf's wall and was relieved to see a similar story, but that didn't last long. His face creased into a frown. It shouldn't have been this easy. He turned around, desperately looking for something out of place. Something really bad was going to happen, and he needed to know what. He looked down into the courtyard, and his heart dropped. There was a reason why they were doing so well on the walls. Most of the Pale soldiers had headed straight for the courtyard, and they were now cutting through the much smaller group of Winterhold soldiers who desperately fought to protect the Alterationists and Restorationists who huddled by the gate. The Alterationists struggled to keep the gate shut amidst the chaos. Irontooth kicked himself for not having noticed sooner.
"Men, to the courtyard now! We can't let them get that gate open," Irontooth shouted, running towards the steps, his hammer raised. He gestured up to the mages on the keep, and pointed towards the remaining ladders. They nodded and diverted their fire, but they were far away, and it would take a while before they got enough hits on the ladder to take it down.
Rolf killed the last soldier on his wall, and with a mighty roar, kicked the ladder away and into the soldiers below. He and his men cheered at their victory, but the sounds of fighting could still be heard. He wheeled around to see the courtyard brimming with soldiers still, and Irontooth leaping into the fray. "Alright men, this isn't over yet. Cut them down, and we can win this," he said to his men, and rushed to join Irontooth, raising his axe. He grabbed a shield from the body of a fallen soldier and leaped into the fight. He leapt off the steps, slamming his shield into the chest of a solid Nord woman and planting his axe into her skull. He rolled onto the bloodstained snow and viewed the battlefield. Irontooth's soldiers were cutting through the soldiers on the western side of the courtyard, whilst his own soldiers had joined those in the defence of the gate.
"Push them towards the keep!" he shouted at his soldiers who showed their obedience by ferociously hacking and slashing at their enemy, but the Pale soldiers weren't going to go down easily. They still outnumbered the Winterhold soldiers by more than half, and they were killing their fair share of men and women. Rolf desperately looked up at the keep where the mages were assembled and was disappointed to see them still tackling the ladders, cutting the steady stream of soldiers that were pouring into the courtyard. "Looks like we'll have to do this the good old fashioned way," he said to himself, before slamming his axe into the nearest soldier.
"Smoke! Smoke on the horizon!" called down the watchman from atop the keep of Fort Kastav. Hoarik threw down the arrows he was counting and ran up along the ramp that been constructed to allow the catapults to reach the first level of the keep. From there he ran up several flights of worn steps and emerged on the highest point in the fort. He looked across the vast field before him, and further. The southern reach of The Pale spread out before him. His eyes fell upon a great snow covered forest, and the glimmer of Lake Yorgrim. Somewhere beyond that was Whiterun Hold. His gaze fell just beyond the mountain range which blocked his view into Eastmarch. Just above the mountain line hung several streams of smoke from the direction of Windhelm.
"They're on the move," he whispered to himself, and the watchman next to him silently nodded. He stared at the smoke for several more seconds before running down the steps and snowy ramp into the courtyard. He stood in the centre of it and shouted out to every man within range.
"Alright, listen men!" Hoarik shouted, turning in a circle. People stopped what they were doing and listened to their leader with intent. It was then that the full weight of the power and responsibility that he held hit him. He stammered for a moment but continued in the same booming voice. "The soldiers from Windhelm are marching this way as we speak, and if we're to survive then we need to be ready for them. I need you all to work double time, as we can't afford any surprises when they arrive, certainly not from within these walls. I may not be from Winterhold, but it is my home as much as it is any of yours. You are men of the ice, and we shall not let these people shackle us. Many of you will die in defence of your home, but Sovngarde awaits any Nord who dies with a sword in their hand. So fight. Fight like the armies ahead hold your wife and children in their hands. Fight like they hold torches to your homes. Fight like they are destroying everything you love, because if we lose, all that will be reality. We are the last hope here, so at dawn the Vanguard and Conjurationists shall stand in front of the fortress, ready for whatever comes through that pass. At dawn, we shall fight!" He ended with a great Nordic roar, his fist raised in the air. The soldiers and mages around the fort responded with a fury not seen in Winterhold for centuries. They banged their shields and shouted to the heavens, ready to fight and die for their homes. Amongst the soldiers on the wall, a lone mage fisted the air with a shout just as loud as the others. Onmund was ready for battle.
They were pushing forward, Rolf and his soldiers. Their line never wavered, and they managed to push the Pale soldiers a good way back towards the keep. Irontooth and his soldiers had punched a hole through the Pale line and were wreaking havoc from within. This all came crashing down when Rolf heard a high pitched scream behind him. He wheeled around to see the Redguard Alterationist lying on the floor, an arrow going straight through her thigh. Blood poured out onto the snow, and her face was pale. The Dunmer Alterationist tried with all his might to hold the shield, his face twisted in exertion, and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. It was in vain, however, as the shield began to flicker, and bright green cracks appeared along its length.
"Let it go," Rolf shouted at the Dunmer. "You'll die if you try to hold it."
With a defeated sigh, the Dunmer stepped away, and the shield shattered into tiny glass fragments that fizzled away into the air.
"Mages, kill whatever comes through the gate," Rolf called to the mages atop the keep. The gates burst open, and the hordes of The Pale charged into the courtyard, fury in their eyes.