A/N: So, funny story: I actually intended to have this chapter uploaded by June 26, in honor of Template of a Hero's 4-Year Anniversary. But of course I procrastinated a bit and ended up getting this out today, two days late. Oh well.
Happy (Late) 4-Year Anniversary, to all my readers! Now for some quick stats before we get into the story: As of uploading this chapter, Template of a Hero has 106,864 total views, 438 Reviews, 237 Favorites and 248 Followers.
Hopefully, by the next anniversary I'll have either finished the story or gotten close. Also, a quick shoutout once again to fellow writer and reviewer J. APPLEGATE, whose Skyrim fic "The Nerevarine's Return" has been part of the reason that I keep finding myself wanting to write more and more.
Well, enough of the Author's Notes. Enjoy the chapter!
Asmund was in a foul mood. Today, everything seemed to annoy him in some way. The light clinking of the chainmail he wore underneath his leather cuirass annoyed him; the way his wolf skin cloak flapped in the cold winds that blew through Windhelm as he patrolled the cobblestone streets annoyed him; the dull ache in his arm, due to having left Whiterun's healer a day too early and not letting it heal properly, annoyed him; even the cold itself was annoying, something that had never truly bothered him. He couldn't seem to find something that didn't annoy him in some way.
When his hand brushed the haft of the axe at his hip, Asmund's brow furrowed slightly at the feeling — the weapon was undoubtedly part of the reason for his mood. It was the one the Dragonborn had given him.
He still wasn't sure why he'd kept it all this time. After all, it wasn't an especially notable axe. It had no enchantments, no runes were etched onto the blade… it was just good old-fashioned wood and steel. Perhaps he kept it as a reminder. But a reminder of what? A moment of weakness? If so, then whose weakness was it — the Dragonborn's, or yours?
Asmund still couldn't fathom what had gone through that reptile's head when he'd given him the supplies he needed to return to Windhelm — paid out of his own pocket, no less. Did some base instinct, some primitive neuron in the recesses of his mind, fire off some mad message to commit such an act of altruism? Or had he actually felt pity for a Stormcloak who'd never had a kind word for him?
Absurd! No such thing is possible! The thought came more as a knee-jerk reflex than an actual, pondered idea. When Asmund reconsidered the point, he contemplated his answer anew. But if Lydia's tale of how she befriended the lizard is true… perhaps it isn't as inconceivable as I believe…
He wasn't even sure how he should feel about having received the aid. The proud Nord inside him wrinkled its nose at the thought of being brought so low as to require aid from an Argonian, and more so at having accepted it.
Yet, at the same time, he had to admit that the Argonian had also saved him from committing a dishonorable act. If he hadn't received the Dragonborn's aid… he was ashamed to admit that he might've resorted to stealing the supplies necessary for him to survive the trip to Windhelm.
The very thought made him shudder — thievery was something which all honorable Nords looked down upon. Especially his father, rest his soul, who looked down on all thieves with uncompromising scorn. His brothers-in-arms might've excused him on the fact that it was necessary for his survival, but Asmund knew that he would've never forgiven himself. If anything, I am glad that I have not had to walk the darker path I might have needed to take…
His feet had carried him out onto the ice-slickened Windhelm docks. Happy, hooting laughter and jeering shouts reached his ears over the moaning wind. Asmund looked to see two guards holding mead bottles standing with a third, shorter figure. His eyebrows furrowed when he noticed the Argonian's tail, but for once it was not in contempt.
He couldn't hear what the two guards were saying, but he didn't need to. They were confronting the Argonian, obviously. Perhaps making some crude joke at their expense, or drunkenly spitting out curses at the lizard people as a whole. Asmund knew he'd been one of those who'd done that sort of thing before… but somehow, something felt off about it, seeing it happening in front of him again.
Before he realized it, his feet had carried him towards the guards, leaving him a short distance away from the commotion. "What's going on here?"
He'd asked it as a simple question, but it somehow had come out as more of a demand. The two guards snapped their heads towards him, looks of confusion on their faces. "Whaddaya mean?" grunted the one with the unsightly boils on his stubble-peppered face.
"We're just having a bit o' fun, brother." The second guard was a man with a full, red beard and a weathered face.
Asmund glanced over at the Argonian, who looked back with wide, yellow eyes. In spite of the thickly layered woolen clothes he wore, the lizard was shivering despite his best attempts to stand completely still, obviously to divert attention from himself.
"Don't you have a patrol to take care of?" Asmund grumbled to the pair of guards. "Why don't you go about your duties instead of wasting your time with one of these reptiles?"
"And who are you to tell us how to spend our time?" asked the bearded one, cocking his eyebrow.
"Asmund Steel-Born," the Nord grunted, "and I am only reminding you about your duty as a Stormcloak. Nothing more, brother."
"Perhaps you should mind yer own fuckin' business, Steel-Born," the one with the boils spat, obviously already in his cups by the way he swayed. "We don't answer to you. You ain't Captain of the Guard, so I ain't—"
Asmund's fist smashed into the man's cheek with enough force to spin him to the ground. He landed heavily on the cobblestones, where he then laid, groaning weakly.
"No, perhaps I am not Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced," Asmund growled to the wounded man, cracking his knuckles. He slowly lifted his gaze to pin the second one in place. "But I will be damned before I take any language like that from some lout as yourself."
Without breaking eye contact, Asmund nudged his head towards the grounded man. "Pick up your friend, and get off these docks."
The bearded man met Asmund's glare head-on, as if trying to scare him into submission. He would inevitably fail; the Nord would not budge for anything short of a stampeding mammoth. Perhaps not even then.
At last, the other man's gaze dropped, and his face reddened, though his furious scowl remained. Defeated by a superior will, the guard wordlessly bent low to retrieve his wounded comrade and haul him to his feet, before leading him away from Asmund.
When the two were gone, he turned to regard the Argonian. The lizard remained standing in place like a fur-wrapped statue, now looking at him with an expression of… well, Asmund wasn't quite sure what sort of expression he had. His eyes were still wide, and his mouth was slightly agape, but that could've been fear just as much as awe or disbelief. Perhaps it was all three.
For some reason, he had the urge to ask, "Are you well?"
The reptile stared at him silently. He swallowed once, shivering. "I-I'm fine… T-thank you, sir," the lizard said, in a strange, rasping voice that didn't match Archer's tone or timbre at all.
Asmund cocked an eyebrow at him. "What's wrong with your voice, man? Catch a cold?"
The lizard shut its mouth, blinking rapidly. "This is my normal voice… and I'm not a man."
Asmund's eyes flew wide open in shock, looking her over. This is a she? So what they say about Argonians are true… their women truly are as flat as bricks, he thought in wonder.
"Huh. M-my apologies," he muttered. Did you just apologize to an Argonian? You must truly be out of sorts today, Asmund.
His head snapped up when he heard the reptile making some rasping, croaking sound. Her lips were pulled back, her cheeks had turned upwards slightly, her shoulders were bobbing up and down… wait, was she laughing?
That came as another shock — Asmund hadn't thought them capable of laughter. Once again, he was helpless but to stare in stupefied awe.
"I'm not offended," the lizard admitted, still laughing. "Men and Mer have difficulty discerning the differences between males and females of my kind. My name is Shahvee, by the way."
"I'm… Asmund," Asmund muttered absently, before realizing that she was still shivering. If she were a Nord, perhaps he might've invoked some sense of chivalry and offered her his cloak. But such was not the case, and he instead said, "You should get back to the Assemblage, before you truly do catch a cold. I've heard your kind don't get sick often, but best not put that to the test."
She sobered up instantly, but she didn't leave immediately. Instead, the lizard reached down to the small blanket-covered basket she'd been holding all this time, before producing what looked like a small biscuit. "Here, take this; as a thank you, for driving those goons away. Should still be warm."
Asmund could only stare stupidly as she grabbed his gloved hand and planted the biscuit in it before quickly taking off again. The Nord stared at her retreating form for a few more seconds before looking down at the biscuit in his hand. After a few more moments of ponderous silence, he bit into it. Just like she'd promised, it was still warm. He then turned to continue his patrol through the city, his mind wandering as he went.
You laid a hand on a fellow Nord, for the sake of one of those lizards. He immediately knew that wasn't true; he'd done it more because of the man's attitude than out of any desire to help the lizard. Yet, the thought didn't sit so badly with him as it maybe should have.
Asmund took another bite out of the biscuit, before studying it for a few seconds. That Argonian… wasn't terrible, I suppose.
His thoughts drifted, and he began to think of how the rest of his brothers were doing. By now, there must've been an army of thousands marching to take Whiterun. He wouldn't be happy to hear of the destruction and death that would inevitably fall upon his home city, but he'd be more comfortable knowing that it was under Stormcloak control.
But by the Gods, he thought almost feverishly, I hope that Lydia isn't in Whiterun when it gets attacked.
Lydia plopped down onto the empty chair at the Bannered Mare with a tired sigh. It had been a long first day as part of the Whiterun defense force. She, along with the rest of her friends, had spent the better part of the day helping train the city's militia for combat. While Lydia knew that the militia, ranging from young farmhands to city boys, weren't going to be ready by the time the Stormcloak army marched on them in three days, Commander Caius wanted them to have some sort of training regardless. It had proven to be a very trying, and tiring, endeavor.
It was absolutely packed in the tavern, mostly with Imperial soldiers or Whiterun guards on break; there were few, if any, travelers remaining in the city. The clamor of drinking and conversing men that filled her ears nearly drowned out the sound of her friends speaking around her.
"Gods, I need a drink," Balamus groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.
"It's been a long day," Jordis put in, sighing wearily.
"Too long," Solona agreed, removing her gauntlets to rub her hands. "I swear, some of those people wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a pick and a pike."
She scowled. "And some of the recruits kept ignoring me just because I'm short. Let me tell you, I've never wanted to punch a man in the stones so hard as today."
Erik, seated next to her, placed a large hand against her shoulder. He hadn't been training militia, but he was still visibly tired from helping set up fortifications around the city. "Easy, Solona. They won't ignore you again when they finally realize how much they need your instruction."
The Nord's lips suddenly quirked up into a smile. "If they do, then I'll punch them."
"You can hardly knock the lights out of every farmhand in Whiterun," Balamus remarked.
Jordis spoke up again, in a soft voice. "No need to. The Stormcloaks will probably knock their lights out the moment they engage in combat, permanently."
She was distracted when the waitress finally came by. Once they'd placed their orders, Jordis turned back to Lydia. "You were at Jarl Balgruuf's briefing with the Imperial Legate and Archer. Did you hear mention of what kind of force we're dealing with? How prepared is Whiterun to repel a major offensive?"
Lydia pondered her answer. After their company gone up to Dragonscreach to directly pledge themselves to the city's defense, the Jarl had directed the rest of their company to the barracks near the city entrance to be assigned their roles, while asking her and Archer to join him in Dragonsreach's War Room to attend a briefing along with the Imperial Legate, acting as commander for the city's legionary forces.
She recalled standing in the War Room with Archer, the Jarl, Irileth, Hrongar, and the Imperial Legate: a lean, hard-faced Altmer who went by the name Fasendil. Clad in his Imperial heavy plate, his added bulk had given the illusion that the elf was larger than even Balgruuf, clad in his usual robes and cloak.
Legate Fasendil leaned against a large table, looking over the map of Skyrim and the area surrounding Whiterun. The table groaned softly under his weight as he pointed out an area to the north of the city. "My scouts' latest reports all confirm enemy movement approaching from this direction, around these mountains. While I've managed to station a bit over twenty-seven hundred legionaries in Whiterun, the enemy numbers my scouts give me range from a low end of around five thousand troops to a high end of seven thousand. So we can average that out to six thousand troops."
"Six thousand troops. That's more than twice our number, then." Balgruuf gave a grunt of discontent, folding his arms across his chest. "Whiterun is a large city, however. Thirty thousand people live here. Last I checked, that makes us the second largest city in Skyrim, next to Solitude."
Fasendil nodded. "Indeed. Six thousand troops will not be enough for the Stormcloaks to safely encircle the entire city without spreading their forces too thin. But it's certainly large enough to threaten us. They also bring with them trebuchets. Sustained fire from those will turn even Whiterun's walls to rubble."
"Whiterun is not without its own defenses," Irileth remarked pointedly. "We have ramparts with ballistae, and we have the numbers to man them all properly — from the numbers of recalled guards Commander Caius has reported, Whiterun should have a bit over three hundred guardsmen within its walls. The ballistae don't have many fancy fire- or lightning-bolts to fire, but a standard shot on a flat trajectory can still kill groups of men."
"Whiterun's guards are top-notch," Lydia added, her own brow furrowed. She thought of her friends, especially Hrogar and Aengus, who would doubtless be proud to fight for their city. "They're all strong, hearty men and women who would die to defend their home if need be. They wouldn't hesitate to be at the very front lines."
"Guardsmen are not true soldiers," Fasendil countered, shaking his head. "They have never faced a scale of battle this large before. They've never trained to handle such a threat as an army of thousands of trained soldiers — but my boys have. I'd rather not entrust the defense of this city to its guards and militia. Besides, most of the fighting will be done by my men."
He looked back at the map, studying it. "What's the status on your trebuchets?"
It was Hrongar who answered him. "Our engineers have nearly finished them," the man replied gruffly. "I've also set all the city's masons to saving their quicklime for ammunition; it would take too long to get enough large stones for a decent ammunition supply."
"Then what we lack in numbers, we may make up for in firepower," Fasendil commented, perusing the little wooden figures on the map denoting what Imperial and city troops and equipment were present. "If well made, those trebuchets should be able to accurately nail targets from behind our walls. Unfortunately, as you know, in our rush to arrive in time to defend Whiterun, we haven't managed to bring in any Imperial battlemages. Ulfric's boys haven't shown to be fond of magic, however, so that's not something we should overly concern ourselves with."
Archer spoke up next. "And don't forget Whiterun's defensive position atop this hill. We've got a vantage point that we can use to see for miles around, and it'll force the enemy to fight uphill in case they make it into the city."
"If they make it into the city at all, then the battle is already lost," Fasendil replied, eyeing Archer curiously for a few seconds. "Balgruuf, forgive me for asking, but why have you included one of your Thanes in this meeting? It isn't as if he's going to be leading any troops, and this is a matter to be discussed without unwanted ears around."
"Because he will be instrumental in defending this city," the Nord replied simply.
Balgruuf looked over at Archer, as if asking for permission to continue. The Argonian gave him a hesitant nod, which the Jarl returned before addressing Fasendil again. "Legate, this Argonian here is the Dragonborn, and he wields the ancient weapon called the Voice."
The Altmer quirked up a brow at Archer. "Dragonborn? Yes, I've heard of him. I hear he helped defend Solitude when Potema's revenant attempted to take over. I've heard tales of him breathing white flame like wisps of the sun itself, and clearing streets filled with hordes of zombies and daedra in an instant. Is any of that true?"
Archer nodded. "Yes."
If Legate Fasendil was impressed to hear of his power, no trace of it was to be found in his eyes or in his voice. "Hm… Then that gives us another advantage over our foes. Sounds like you could smash apart any troop column with ease, and clear any avenue of attack. With your ability to do that — well, you may just prove to be our most precious asset."
He studied another, smaller map on the table, depicting a layout of Whiterun in detail. "I suppose we could put you on either the eastern or western walls at first; but I'll have to move you wherever our men need you most during the fight."
Archer nodded determinedly, crossing his arms over his armored chest. "Wherever you put me, it'll take the heavens and earth to move me."
Lydia recounted the whole briefing, before concluding with, "And after that, the Legate just discussed a few finer details of the defense with Balgruuf."
"Six thousand troops," Balamus repeated softly, his gaze distant. "Gods… this'll be just like Potema all over again."
"Stormcloaks aren't daedra, or undead," Erik reminded him, though he himself didn't seem much comforted by the fact. "They can bleed and die just like any other man."
"Just like we can bleed and die," Jordis murmured. Her hand sought out Balamus', and he gave her a reassuring squeeze in return. His own gaze was absent and grim, like a mer at a funeral.
Lydia's brow puckered with concern. Her friends were all afraid of death; that much was too obvious. She wasn't any less afraid, truthfully; there was never any telling who war took, or when. It was always a matter of chance.
For several long seconds, nobody could seem to find their voice. Their drinks came by, but nobody seemed able to drink much. Even Lydia only took a small sip of the sweet Honeybrew.
"We have Archer on our side," Erik remarked hopefully. "Maybe when the Stormcloaks see their ranks being obliterated by his Voice, they'll rout."
"It's possible," Solona commented, her gaze thoughtful. "It must be terrifying to get bombarded by something like the Voice."
"Say, where is Archer, anyways?" Balamus asked, turning towards Lydia.
Her lips pursed in displeasure. "Archer is somewhere north of Whiterun, joining a few Companions in skirmishing duty against the incoming Stormcloak army," she replied, and left it at that. Lydia would rather not think about the immense danger her Argonian was putting himself in — or the mass carnage that he would inevitably inflict.
The winds that blew through The Pale felt especially cold against Archer's skin, despite being clad in the warmest winter gear he had, his enchanted cold-resisting ring included. With all the howling wind and flying frost that stung his face like a lash each time it whipped past, he almost felt as if he'd never truly known what cold was until now, and he wasn't certain if he'd be able to find the resolve to endure it. But so far, he had managed, and he knew he'd continue to endure the cold — if only to prove to the other Companions that he could.
After the briefing they'd had with Jarl Balgruuf and Legate Fasendil in Dragonsreach, Archer and Lydia had gone back into the city only to be met with Aela. When the huntress had realized Archer's presence, she approached him with a wide, happy smile. "Ah, good to see you again, Archer! I was looking for you, since I heard that the Thane had returned."
"Were you?" the Argonian had asked with a wide smile to match hers, as the two gripped arms in greeting.
She nodded. "There's a matter that I want to discuss with you. Preferably in private."
"Really now?" Lydia asked in exasperation, crossing her arms. "What is it that you need to tell him that his own Housecarl cannot hear?"
"I'm sure that whatever it is you need to tell me, Lydia can hear as well," Archer assured the huntress. "She already knows about my Beast Blood, Aela. And that of the Circle."
"And if it concerns Archer's safety, I'd like to hear about it," Lydia added sternly.
Aela gave her a curious look, but at length she just shrugged. "Very well, then. You may stay."
She turned back to Archer. "I'm sure you've heard about the Stormcloak army that's going to march on Whiterun."
He nodded. "I have. My comrades and I have pledged ourselves to the city defense. Have… the Companions decided to raise arms against the Stormcloaks?"
Aela shook her head. "As a whole, no. Kodlak refuses to get the Companions mixed up in the politics of this war. Normally, I would follow the old man's lead, but now that I have an army knocking on my doorstep and threatening to invade my home… I can't bear to sit back and watch it all happen. And neither can the rest of the Circle."
"So you plan to act against the Stormcloaks?"
She nodded. "Skjor, Vilkas, Farkas, and I plan to go out into the field and harass the incoming army on their way here. But the Stormcloaks won't be spared our full wrath — we plan to unleash our beasts upon them."
Archer and Lydia both looked at her in surprise. "You wish to attack the army as werewolves?" the Argonian asked.
"Indeed. We were wondering if you were going to join us."
"That sounds extremely dangerous," Lydia warned, her hands on her hips. "I'm not sure I like the idea of so few of you attacking an entire army by yourselves."
"It is a little risky," Aela admitted, "but the damage we could cause would be tremendous. Not to mention the psychological impact — with us attacking by moonlight, the soldiers won't get another good night's sleep until they reach Whiterun. I figure that a tired army is much easier to fight."
Archer contemplated the idea for a few moments, before looking over at Lydia. The look she gave him told her she really didn't want him to put himself at such risk. At last, he looked back at Aela. "Alright. I'll join you."
"Are you certain, Archer?" Lydia asked, furrowing her brow.
He nodded. "I am. I'll be of more use attacking the army than I will be sitting here, waiting for them to arrive."
"You'll be tired from the night attacks when you return, though."
"Not if we come back with enough time to rest," Aela put in. "Don't worry, Lydia, I'll bring back your Thane in one piece."
Her words didn't seem to inspire much confidence in Lydia. Archer took the moment to lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He said softly, "I'll come back, and I'll defend Whiterun. I promise."
She looked up at him, frowning, but she nodded. "Alright, Archer."
Archer looked back to Aela. "When do we leave?"
"As soon as we can. We have a lot of ground to cover before we reach the Stormcloaks. I hear that the army is about three or four days out, but they're being slowed by bad weather conditions and terrain. Gather your supplies, and then meet us in the training yard. We can proceed in our beast forms afterwards."
When Archer had secured himself all the supplies he'd needed for the journey north, he'd joined the others in Jorrvaskr's training yard. Wearing leather harnesses made a long time ago by Eorlund for carrying supplies while in beast form, the werewolves had raced north across the countryside with a speed to surpass any Skyrim-bred horse. Archer's wolf had been pleasantly compliant the whole way, but at the same time he could feel an unnatural restlessness inside him — his beast wanted blood, and it knew it would get it soon.
Now, the five of them waited at a small camp they'd set up at the base of some nearby mountains for the Stormcloak army to approach them, to rest before they attacked. The skeleton of their strategy had already been laid out before embarking on their journey: kill packhorses and destroy or disable any supply wagons and artillery if possible, then get out again as quickly as possible — if they became enveloped, it could be their death sentence. Following this, killing soldiers was made a secondary objective.
Archer took a swig of cool wine from a skin, only enough to warm him up a bit. He looked into the distance, where hundreds of columns of smoke curling from torches rose behind the ridge of the closest mountains to dissipate against the backdrop of the twilight sky. He heard deep, echoing booms, sometimes long and drawn-out, sometimes in quick succession, like mournful dogs of war howling at each other. The sounds hung just on the cusp of perception, even with his lycanthropy-enhanced senses.
"What are those sounds?" Archer murmured, setting his wine skin aside to inspect his sword. Just because they were going to be doing most of their work as werewolves didn't mean they would allow themselves to go without blades.
"I reckon those are carnyx battle-horns," Vilkas answered, sitting against a nearby rock as he looked out into the distance. His flinty eyes squinted as he scanned the horizon. "Ancient Nordic instruments of war, similar to trumpets. They're tall, and S-shaped, with a bell in the shape of an animal's head at the end. Meant to serve as a rallying banner, to relay mass orders, and for intimidation, all in one. But they've not been seen in Nordic warfare for a long time."
Archer looked over at him, before turning back to the horizon. The mournful, haunting groans of the carnyx horns continued to echo faintly in the distance.
"I'm not afraid of any horns," Farkas remarked from the side as he stretched his arms. "The sound of a werewolf's roar should prove to be more terrifying than any horn the Stormcloaks may have."
Somewhere behind them, Archer heard someone begin to intone in a low, rhythmic chant, and he looked to see Skjor approaching their gathering. "In lonely woods, screams carry long… Shadows creep far in deep dark dale… Beware ye, then, the wolves' wild song… Or in the wild will end your tale."
"An old Nordic warning," Skjor explained, seeing the looks they sent him. His lips curled up into a curious smile. "A warning about the terrors from the woods — which would be us, tonight."
They heard a rustling, and Aela suddenly appeared from behind a bush. Her face was covered in dark brown and green warpaint, and she had some short branches with leaves tied to her armor as camouflage. The Nord's eyes shone with malicious glee, and her teeth were stark and white against her dark face. "The army has begun to make camp. Let's make our move, pack-mates."
The five of them began to methodically strip down. Archer still felt a bit uncomfortable with getting naked like this, but he ignored the discomfort and opted to get undressed and transformed as quickly as possible. When the five of them had all shifted into their beast forms, they immediately set off towards the camping army at a bound, climbing the ridge of the mountain that separated them from the Stormcloaks.
When they crested the hill, Archer finally got his first look at the incoming army. His golden, lycanthropic eyes were sharper than that of any man, mer, or beast. As he scanned the camp, he could see each individual Stormcloak soldier meandering about, performing tasks to make ready for the coming night. Men moved firewood and weapons, started campfires and watch fires, brought out bedrolls and set up tents. He could see a number of wagons and packhorses grouped together near the center of the closest formation of soldiers.
The soldiers themselves were unremarkable; most were clad in leather cuirasses with blue sashes, like Asmund had been, but Archer distinctly noticed a couple regiments of Stormcloak heavy infantry clad in steel, as well as a few horses, both barded and not — heavy and light cavalry. He also saw their heavy siege engines, trebuchets, but to his disappointment they were too far away to safely target.
"Their archers are further towards the back," Aela reported, nudging her snout over towards the end of the formation. "They shouldn't trouble us — and hopefully, if they panic, they'll end up shooting their own men."
"Good. Then we can focus on those packhorses and wagons near the center, directly ahead," Vilkas responded.
Skjor scented the air. "Wind's quiet tonight. Not even their horses will know we're here before it's too late. Move up."
As one, the group advanced quickly and quietly with Skjor leading them, using the tree cover and heavy scrub to conceal their advance. They continued forward until they reached the tree line, ending about one hundred feet from the edge of the camp. Skjor's dark gray werewolf looked back at the rest of his pack-mates behind him. "We strike quickly, and then get out quickly. Remember, we're focusing on critical targets, not soldiers. Don't let yourself get bogged down. Other than that… happy hunting."
Some of them growled eagerly, while others nodded their head once, sharply. Aela bared her teeth in an eager snarl. "Fangs out, fight's on. Attack!"
As one, the werewolves burst out from the trees. Almost instantly, they heard and saw Stormcloaks pointing at them and shouting alarms to their confused comrades. Their cover blown, the five werewolves let loose with bloodcurdling howls as they finally came upon the Stormcloak army.
Five thousand pounds' worth of lupine fury slammed into the soldiers. Aela and Archer leapt and slashed their way into the army, eviscerating five men in their opening attack. Skjor and the twins leapt straight into the air, roaring with primal rage as they landed in the midst of another group of Stormcloaks. The three of them crushed several upon landing, and disemboweled the shocked bystanders with wild claw swipes.
Archer bulled through the lines, knocking men over and sending them flying upon impact with his massive frame. A Stormcloak appeared before him, swinging a large axe at his head. The werewolf pounced and flew into the man, crushing him under his immense weight upon landing. Another Stormcloak rushed at him from the side with a spear. Aela suddenly appeared and swung a backhanded fist at the man in passing, a blow that crushed his ribcage and sent his shattered body flying into a group of his comrades.
The werewolves plowed through the crowd, maintaining the momentum of their charge as they went towards the nearby packhorses and supply wagons. With their speed of approach, they were upon them in mere moments. Skjor leapt at one screaming horse and clamped his jaws around its neck, while Aela tackled another with bone-shattering force. Archer and the twins went for the nearest loaded wagons and rammed them with their shoulders. The force of their charge threw the wagons onto their sides and sent them flying, throwing all their cargo to the floor. Archer followed up with a blow from his claw, shattering the remains of his cart and sending them flying into the surrounding mass of people.
A large shape to the side, rapidly approaching, drew Archer's attention. He looked to see a barded warhorse and his lance-toting rider charging towards the werewolves — a weapon like that could easily kill any of them if they weren't careful. Unfortunately, the others were all busy killing more packhorses and wagons, and Archer still hadn't learned how to speak through his thoughts to warn them. With a snarl, the Argonian-werewolf charged towards the incoming warhorse, sending more Stormcloaks flying as he bulled past them. Noticing his approach, the rider couched his lance and turned his mount towards him, unleashing a battle cry as he drew near.
At the last moment, Archer leapt to the side and pounced. The rider swerved in the saddle to swing the lance's tip around. Cold, tempered steel tore a gouge through Archer's flank, doing little to stop his momentum as he tackled the warhorse, throwing both man and beast to the floor. Suddenly his jaws were around the rider's skull, biting down and twisting the man's head off in a spray of warm blood. A second claw swipe shattered his screaming horse's spine.
He felt an axe bury itself into his back. Archer lashed out blindly with a paw, catching his assailant in the ribs and eviscerating him. Another group of Stormcloaks rushed at him, hoping to envelop him. The werewolf charged straight through them, sending three men flying. Archer frantically looked around for his pack-mates. He saw Skjor, Farkas, and Vilkas destroying the last of the supply wagons in this area while Aela killed a few Stormcloaks harassing them with swords. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a light horseman charging at Aela from behind, a lance held in his hand.
Archer roared out an alarm and made a mad sprint towards her, but he would not reach her in time. The lancer couched his lance towards the she-wolf's back. Somehow, Aela managed to turn around in time to see him coming. She leapt. The lancer struck. A splintering crack filled the air, and Aela went down, roaring in pain from the shaft of the lance sticking out of her side, above her hip.
A thick, blood red fog settled in Archer's vision, watching his pack-mate injured and seeing the other Stormcloaks beginning to converge upon her vulnerable form. He unleashed a bellow of primal rage and picked up his pace. The lancer was wheeling around his mount for another charge with his cavalry sword when Archer tackled him. The infuriated werewolf bodily picked up the horse and threw it with an echoing roar, sending both horse and rider flying into the nearest group of Stormcloaks charging their position, crushing the rider beneath his horse upon impact.
The werewolf turned and charged towards Aela, who was on the ground, thrashing at the Stormcloaks striking at her with swords and spears from all sides. Archer sent a wide swing that threw four men into the air, and then a second that eviscerated two more. He looked back to Aela, only to realize with shock that she had torn out the lance in her side and was shakily rising her feet. He heard her voice in his head: "Pack-mate! We have to get out of here!"
Looking around at the soldiers who had rallied and were charging at them, Archer didn't need to be told twice. He answered her with a roar, and the two began charging back out of the formation. More Stormcloaks appeared from every direction, striking at them in passing with swords and spears. He dodged and slashed, killing and wounding a few unlucky men, but not stopping to finish them off lest he allow himself to be swarmed. Chaos surrounded him, and he found himself biting, slashing, shoving, and running for what felt like an eternity until at last, he was in the forest again, weaving through trees and trampling bushes until he was a safe distance from the tree line.
Panting, the tired werewolf looked back at the carnage they'd inflicted. Whole swathes of men lay dead and dying about the grounds of the disrupted camp. All the supply wagons and packhorses in this side of the army had been wiped out. He saw Skjor and the twins maul a few more Stormcloaks at the edge of the camp before charging back into the forest a few hundred yards away, all of them heading in different directions.
He suddenly remembered about Aela. The she-wolf was panting heavily as she lay on her side, blood oozing steadily out from her wound. Upon impact, the lance had shattered and left half a meter of wood in her side. She hadn't actually removed the lance, but rather broke off the shaft to allow her to run more easily, leaving her with a foot of lance still stuck in her.
Archer shifted out of his beast form and immediately went over to help. He grabbed the piece of lance and looked up at Aela's glowing lupine eyes. "I'm going to pull this out. It'll hurt."
He waited for her nod, before bracing himself against her massive frame and yanking, hard. Aela let out a sharp growl when the lance came out with a ragged piece of muscle, allowing a steady flow of blood to pour out — even with natural werewolf regeneration, it would take at least a few hours for her to completely heal this wound, and they couldn't risk staying here for long. Archer pressed his hands against the openings of her wound and pumped her full of healing magic.
While he healed her, Aela suddenly began to revert to her human form. He hurried to heal her before she finished, or else she'd be left with a fatal wound in her human body. But he needn't worried; by the time the werewolf lying on her side had transformed into a sweating, panting Nord, her wound had been sealed. Archer kneeled before her, worriedly looking her over for any more critical wounds. "Aela, are you all right?"
The panting woman stared up at him. Unless it was Archer's imagination, her gaze seemed to rake over him in wonder for just a moment, before she looked him in the eye with a tired smile. "Yes, I'm… I'm all right. Thanks for the save, Archer."
Archer sighed and nodded, before looking back over his shoulder at the camp of Stormcloaks. "Seems like our mission here was a success. Minus the lance in your side, of course."
"I was careless, and allowed myself to be ambushed. I won't let it happen again," the woman responded, looking out at the camp herself with a small smile. "Look at them, cowering like lambs. I doubt many of these men will get a good night's sleep. I call this mission a success. If we keep this up for the next two nights, these soldiers will be too tired to even stand upright by the time they reach Whiterun."
Archer nodded absently. "We should get out of here. They might think to send out a sortie to hunt us down… what do we do about Skjor and the others?"
"They know the way back to camp. They're probably going to try and lead any potential pursuers away from it before returning." Aela stood, brushing the dirt and twigs off herself before looking over to Archer with a mirthful smile and extending an inviting hand towards him. "Come on, then, pack-mate. Care to join me for a stroll under the moonlight?"
Archer blushed in embarrassment as he rose and joined his pack-mate in returning to camp. He pointedly averted his gaze of her as they walked — but he had a feeling that Aela wasn't doing the same of him. A midnight stroll through the woods with another woman, with both of us naked, and her sneaking looks at me… I hope to the Gods that Lydia doesn't learn about this.
Some habits died hard. Balamus' first instinct upon waking up in the morning was to roll onto his back and stretch his arms. The feeling was even more impulsive since last night marked his final day of serving as combat instructor to over dozens of untrained men and women, leaving him sore by the end of all the exercise. He quickly realized that he couldn't quite do that, not with his left arm pinned underneath Jordis' head the way it was.
The elf settled back into the bed with a soft sigh, and pressed himself just a bit closer to his lover, feeling the warmth of her bare back against his chest as he lazily threw an arm around her waist. When he felt her hand grasp his, he pressed a kiss to the back of her head. "Mornin' beautiful. Sleep well?"
"As well as I could," came her response. She'd been instructing the militia with him all day yesterday as well; no doubt, she must've still felt a bit sore, like him.
Balamus pressed another kiss to her hair. "Come on, let's go get some breakfast. Unless you'd rather start the day the way we ended last night?" he asked suggestively, propping himself up on his elbow.
Jordis turned over in bed so that she could throw an arm around his chest, looking up at him with her jade-green eyes. "If you don't mind, I think I just want to lie in bed with you a while longer."
His hand went over her side to rub her back lightly. "If that's what you wish," he replied simply, resting his forehead against hers.
The two lay there for several minutes in comfortable, content silence, the only sound present coming from the Bannered Mare's common room, beneath their chamber's floorboards. He could smell smoked meat being served, which made his stomach groan lightly. Balamus was about to suggest again that they go downstairs for some food, but Jordis spoke first.
"The Stormcloaks are due to come today." She spoke so softly, as if afraid that breaking the delicate silence would be seen as an offense. "Today we defend against an attack from six thousand soldiers… I'm afraid. I'm worried about… losing you."
Balamus was quiet for several seconds as he contemplated his answer. In a soft whisper, he responded, "I'm afraid too. I don't want to lose you, either."
He wanted to say more, but what words of comfort could he possibly offer in the face of something like war? Finally, he decided to put on a brave face, and wrapped his arms around Jordis more tightly. "We'll stay by each other's side the whole time. We can win this. Remember, we have Archer on our side; he returned last night. Remember how he told us how many supply trains he'd helped destroy, and how he'd helped harass the Stormcloaks? Whiterun has its advantages. We'll pull through yet. Just don't lose hope."
Jordis remained silent for a few more seconds, before nodding. When she spoke again, she sounded a bit surer of herself; but the fear was always present in her voice. "I won't lose hope. Not when I'm with you."
The rest of that day went by too quickly for Balamus' liking. Neither him nor any of his friends spent any more time training recruits; the day was spent going throughout the city helping with final preparations. Whiterun was a hive of frantic activity as everyone rushed to complete his or her final tasks. Barricade integrity was checked and double-checked, arrows were distributed, and swords were sharpened. Siege engineers performed their final inspections on the three newly built trebuchets, placed around the Wind District on the west side of the city. Alchemists and apothecaries doled out their final batches of potions. It was chaos, and the battle for Whiterun hadn't even begun.
Late in the afternoon, Balamus had just finished helping deliver a supply of arrows to the Whiterun guard barracks when horns began to blare throughout the city — the Stormcloaks had reached Whiterun.
The nearby Imperial officer under Legate Fasendil's command immediately ordered everyone to his or her battle stations. Balamus, being one of the frightfully few mages in the city who knew combat magic, already had his orders and rushed to the eastern wall with Jordis following. He took the wooden steps up to the newly constructed battlements, and when he reached the top he looked out into the distance, where the signs of the Stormcloak army's march drew near.
At first, the only sign of their approach was the light of hundreds of torches in the horizon, shining out of the shade of evening like the eyes of wolves as they stalked towards the city. The haunting sounds of their carnyx battle-horns began drifting towards them not long after, booming across the plains like distant thunder as they bleated and blared notes at each other.
Hearing and seeing the army's approach made the mer's stomach twist into a knot. His bad feeling only increased when he saw two massive trebuchets being unloaded and erected on a hill to the northeast, while the army marched ahead — from their elevated position, sitting just out of range of Whiterun's three trebuchets, they'd be able to unload their payload on the city with impunity. It was only too fortunate that there weren't more, and they had Archer and the Circle to thank for that; they had reported destroying two packed trebuchets during their nighttime raids a few days ago.
A curious sort of organized chaos descended upon Whiterun now that the Stormcloaks had arrived. Left and right, men and women all rushed to their defensive positions, but they moved quickly and without hesitation. Officers shouted orders to their charges, and somehow their voices were heard and obeyed through the tumult. Balamus knew that the same scene of organized chaos would be playing out somewhere behind him, in the Wind District, as the engineers and siege crews hurried to adjust the heading on their three trebuchets and load their first shots.
The battlements that Balamus occupied were quickly filled up with Imperials, city watchmen, and militia toting sinew-backed composite bows, holding in their bow hand arrows with oil-sodden cloth wrapped around their heads to be ignited. He felt more than saw Jordis relax a bit when a small company of Imperial light infantry along with Legate Fasendil, distinguishable in his crested helmet, joined them as backup, wielding their kite shields and gladii — save for the Legate, who brought a longsword. A pair of militia mages joined them, as well, clad in drab gray and brown robes. Aside from Balamus and Solona, there were very few other people in Whiterun with enough magical experience to be deemed fit for frontline combat, aside from a few militia mages, and even they had to be clad in enchanted robes that would help bolster their meager arcane abilities to an acceptable level. Nobody really expected them to turn the tide of this battle, but Legate Fasendil believed that every little advantage they could use against the Stormcloaks would help.
As the newcomers got into their positions, Balamus decided to do a final look-over of the potions he kept at his belt for quick access. Three magicka potions from his own recipe, two healing potions, and a potion that would restore his energy and revitalize him, for emergency use. It had been a very expensive elixir — he hoped that it would perform as well as the apothecary, Arcadia, had promised him.
Satisfied that everything was in order, he looked back up at the plains. The Stormcloaks were now forming distinct ranks before the city. Most of the army crawled around towards Whiterun's east, but a considerable chunk of them circled around towards the left — they were going to try a pincer movement on the city. While it would divide their forces, it would allow the Stormcloaks to bring more of their number against them, and in attacking both the eastern and western walls it would reduce the defenders' ability to easily send reinforcements between the two walls.
As the Stormcloaks came nearer, he could see their army composition more clearly. The front ranks consisted solely of light infantry toting ladders to mount their walls, while the ranks behind them consisted of more heavily armored infantry. Their archers initiated a loose formation behind them. What cavalry the enemy had was concentrated on the flanks, likely to defend against any surprise flanking maneuvers. They'd be nigh useless to attack the city, unless the enemy managed to batter down the front gates or collapse a wall with their artillery to allow them to storm the city.
There was movement amongst the men behind him on the battlements, and Balamus turned to see Archer shouldering his way through the press, longbow in hand. Archer's newly-repaired malachite didn't gleam quite like it used to, after having endured so much punishment up to this point, but the scratches and scuff marks did give the Argonian a battle-hardened look almost fit for a veteran. When Archer turned towards the Dunmer, Balamus felt the sudden, instinctive urge to avert his gaze — there was a strange intensity in those golden, reptilian eyes of his. It felt more like he was staring at a live dragon, rather than his long-time friend. He must've spent some real quality time during his pre-battle Voice meditation.
He buried his unease with an acknowledging nod. "It's about time you got here, Archer. Things are going to heat up soon."
The Argonian nodded, looking out at the army before the city. A slight frown suddenly twisted his saurian features. "Looks like they've stopped."
Balamus turned to look. The Stormcloaks on this side had drawn close enough to nearly encompass the majority of the eastern wall and partly surround the entrance, but their inexorable approach had inexplicably halted. Even their battle-horns had gone silent, leaving no sound save for the light moans of the wind in their ears.
A group of mounted figures broke away from the main body and headed towards the front gates of the city. One of them bore aloft a tall blue standard emblazoned with the Stormcloak bear.
They're sending an emissary, Balamus thought as he watched the figures disappear around the south side of the city. They probably want to offer Whiterun a chance to surrender. But would that work?
After looking out at the mass of men and women standing out in that plain with the one goal of seeing this city fall under the Stormcloak banner one last time, Balamus shook his head. It might.
The defenders manning the ramparts on Whiterun's first stone archway were nervous and silent. Lydia felt the same as them, as she stood on the rampart with her friends. Erik and Solona stood off to her right a few feet away, but a few minutes ago her old guard friends, Hrogar and Aengus, had joined her on the wall. She took the time to speak with them and quickly catch up since the last time they'd spoken. Both men were nervous about the coming battle, as she'd expected; but at the same time, they were stout in their refusal to sit back and watch the Stormcloaks invade. They would remain steadfast by her side, some part of her knew. It filled her with a sense of pride.
"Your Thane is here, correct?" Aengus finally asked, holding his full helm under his arm to reveal his scarred face and apprehensive look. "Where is he now?"
"Out on the eastern wall with the Imperial Legate," Lydia replied.
Aengus gave a grunt of discontent. "I'd been hoping he'd be here with us…"
"He'd be a boon to us," Hrogar agreed, nodding solemnly. The man scratched his beard in pensive silence. "But we can do without him, can't we?"
"Of course we can," Lydia replied immediately, though her brow furrowed in concern. She suddenly realized how many people were counting on Archer to win them this fight, perhaps unreasonably so. Despite knowing how powerful his Voice was and how competent a warrior he was, she knew that they couldn't all count on Archer to singlehandedly deliver them this victory. But they'd faced long odds and come out on top in the past, with his help — surely, he could help them do so again.
Shouts went up amongst the men manning the first line of defense at Whiterun's first stone archway. When Lydia saw the Stormcloaks' blue standard, it didn't take her long to see the riders who bore it. There were six of them, all clad in mail hauberks and toting long axes. The rider at the head was a burly man, bulky enough for the bear fur cloak he wore to make him look almost like the beast itself.
The cloaked rider bellowed at them in a loud, booming voice. "Defenders of Whiterun! I am Galmar Stone-Fist, and by request of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim, I have come to give you one final chance to surrender your city!"
Beside her, Solona snorted indelicately as she allowed wispy, white frost magic to fall from her left hand like a delicate veil. "Surely, these Stormcloaks don't truly believe that Whiterun would surrender? What, were the barricades and armed men not obvious enough?"
"Of course we won't surrender," Lydia remarked, scowling. "This is our home, and we will defend it to the end. Nothing these people could say or do will change that."
But none of them could answer for Balgruuf; Galmar was left to stand by the gates and bellow at them like an angry bear, challenging the Jarl of Whiterun to come out and issue his response. A few Whiterun guards and Imperial soldiers spat at him and shouted back all manner of ungracious variations of, "Sod off, you bear-loving traitor." One threatened to loose an arrow at the man, but a hard glare from Lydia quickly stayed the watchman's hand. They might've been the enemy, but they deserved the right to parley regardless.
Just when it seemed like Galmar Stone-Fist was about to lose his patience and ride off, the gates of Whiterun creaked open. Stepping out of the gate with Irileth and some personal bodyguards at his side, Jarl Balgruuf looked every bit like a warrior out of storybooks. He wore his full steel plate, decorated with little other than the traditional Nordic knotwork engraved onto the breastplate and sword belt buckle. He held his halfhelm under his arm, featuring a ruby-encrusted, golden circlet welded onto the top, exposing his face to the open air. All could see his hard, cold look of determination.
They watched as the Jarl and his bodyguards advanced for the archway before which Galmar waited. There were earthen and wooden barricades at the entry to prevent passage, so Jarl Balgruuf mounted the steps onto the ramparts of the archway to look down at the Stormcloak emissary. "Galmar Stone-Fist. To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, making it very clear that he saw this meeting as anything but a pleasure.
"I'm here to offer you one last chance to surrender," the Stormcloak replied. "Our numbers are great, and our resolve is greater. We will spare you and your city nothing. I see that you've erected your barriers and closed your gates. So I ask you, Jarl Balgruuf: are you truly willing to put so much at stake against such long odds, just to spite us? Or will you see reason and tell your men to stand down?"
Balgruuf squinted at the man below. "If you truly think that after all that has happened, I would simply give up and open my gates to your army, then you are sorely mistaken. Perhaps you thought that intimidating us with a display of sheer numbers would make us submit. Perhaps you might think to try and win me over with honeyed words. In that case, you've severely underestimated the tenacity of all the people who call this place their home, and you insult my intelligence for believing I would be swayed by your empty and hateful rhetoric."
The Jarl of Whiterun shook his head firmly. "You shall not pass. Go back to your frozen corner of the province, Stone-Fist. Ulfric Stormcloak is a power-hungry, warmongering menace to Skyrim, and you Stormcloaks are traitors to your country. I refuse to bend the knee."
"Ulfric Stormcloak had the mercy to order me to offer you one last chance to surrender your city before we attacked," Galmar ground out in a low, dangerous tone. "And of course, I dutifully followed the command of the future High King. But now I see that this was simply wasted time."
He pointed a thick finger at the Jarl. "You may believe yourself to be so noble and honorable for fighting us, Balgruuf… but how will you call yourself honorable when you see the shattered remnants of your guards and kinsmen, knowing very well that you were the cause for such a scale of death and destruction? All the people faithful to you, following you around like dogs before their master, will end up dead on your streets — and it will be your fault they died. Make peace with your Eight Divines; it will only ensure that Talos will guide our victory."
"We'll see about that," Lydia muttered under her breath as the Stormcloaks turned and rode back towards the army. She thought back to Archer on the eastern wall, and her brow puckered. He's going to be facing the biggest part of their assault on that wall… I hope that he comes out all right.
Balgruuf watched the Stormcloaks until they rode out of sight, before turning back to the defenders. He raised a fist into the air and shouted, "This is your day, men! Today, we fight for our homes and families! We will defend our city, whatever the cost may be! From the walls, to the gates, to the very streets, we will fight every step of the way! But we shall never surrender! We shall do it for our homes, for our families… We shall do it for Whiterun!"
"For Whiterun!"
Lydia shouted back, and Erik, Solona, and every single guard and militia manning the ramparts echoed her cry. They all repeated those two words again and again, as if it were some holy mantra, until their voices and the words they chanted all came together in one loud, spirited, Nordic war scream.
Archer's heart beat just a bit faster when he saw the Stormcloak emissary heading back to the army. He stood and watched with bated breath as the riders' figures diminished into the distance before reentering the body of troops. For several long, tense seconds, nothing happened.
An echoing cry boomed out across the plains as every Stormcloak in the army raised their voices as one. Then their battle horns blared, and the infantry surged forwards in a massive wave of hot-blooded, Nordic fury.
"Ignite arrows!" shouted Legate Fasendil, raising his longsword, his order being repeated along the wall by other Imperial officers. All around them, arrows were nocked against bowstrings and then set alight with pieces of steel or simple magic. Archer did the same with his longbow, igniting his arrow with a snap of his fingers and casting a quick fortification spell on himself as well, to be able to loose arrows more quickly without tiring.
Behind him, he heard the deep, flat whumps of three trebuchets firing, and a moment later a pair of large earthenware pots sailed over Archer's head and flew towards the charging army — the third trebuchet must've been aimed at the army charging at the western wall. Those must be the quicklime shots, the Argonian thought, watching them descend along their fatal parabolic arc.
Quicklime — or what the more pretentious alchemists liked to call calcium oxide, amongst their little circle of professionals — was a dangerous, caustic substance that becomes extremely hot when slaked with water. While it sees more innocent uses in the hands of masons as mortar and plaster for buildings, it can serve as a terrifying weapon on the battlefield; even the smallest amount can cause painful burns on the skin, and a larger amount could easily kill a man.
The earthenware pots slammed into the earth, shattering directly in front of the advancing Stormcloaks and bathing the front ranks in quicklime. Soldiers screamed in pain as the white, caustic powder left deep red burns on their skin and burned their eyes, as if they had just been sprinkled with powdered flame. Many of them staggered and fell, writhing in agony or clawing at their own eyes in a futile attempt to stop them from burning. But their fellows pressed onward with increased fervor, uttering their war screams as they toted their ladders.
A moment later, Archer saw the enemies reply with their own trebuchet salvo. Two huge, three hundred-pound stones suddenly shot into the evening sky and flew directly at the city. One stone sailed right overhead and pockmarked the city street somewhere behind them with a thunderous crash, while the other one hit the earth a few yards from the base of the wall, before bouncing into it with enough force to make it tremble.
"They missed us," Archer sighed in relief.
"No. They didn't miss, not exactly," Legate Fasendil responded, squinting into the evening with a grave look. "One shot went a bit far, the other fell a bit short — now they've established a range upon which to fire directly at the wall. It's an artillery tactic known as bracketing; you can bet that their next shots at us won't miss."
He suddenly raised his longsword again. "Archers, draw!"
The Argonian looked back to see that the Stormcloak vanguard had nearly come into bow range, and hurried to draw back his bowstring and aim up at a forty-five degree angle. He felt the heavy tension in his string building up quickly as his arrow's fletching came to brush his cheek. Thankfully, he didn't have to hold it for long.
Fasendil waved his longsword once. "Let fly!"
There was a thrum as over one hundred archers loosed their missiles, filling the evening sky with flaming arrows. A bright flare shot forth as Balamus also loosed a horse-sized fireball at them. The two militia mages with them unleashed two fireballs as well, albeit much smaller. Archer watched as his arrow joined the massive flight that soared across the five hundred meters that separated them and their targets in a matter of seconds.
Seeing the arrows incoming, the Stormcloaks raised their round wooden shields above their heads just before impact. Despite their shields, more Stormcloaks fell, crying out in pain as the flaming bodkin arrows punched through chainmail and leather, or just flopping limply to the ground if they punched through a helmet. The three fireballs made impact a few heartbeats later, exploding amongst the front lines and sending dirt and limbs flying in all directions.
"Fire at will!" Legate Fasendil shouted at the archers, waving his longsword in the air. Another pair of deep, flat whumps suddenly heralded the arrival of two more quicklime shots. Both earthenware pots shattered and spread their deadly powder, burning every Stormcloak in their radius.
As the archers all hurried to light their next arrows, the four ballistae on this wall aimed their weapons and loosed. Their shots soared across the plains like lightning bolts and struck just in front of the Stormcloak vanguard. A second after impact, all four ballista bolts erupted into bright conflagrations that incinerated every man within a ten-foot radius.
But the Stormcloaks kept coming. Their trebuchets answered them, sending two more three hundred-pound stones flying at them. One stone slammed into the edge of the rampart further down, breaking off a segment of the wall and killing the men who'd been unfortunate enough to be standing when it made impact; the other scored a direct hit on the face of the wall, and Archer heard the stone crack under the stress. The Stormcloak archers finally got into position as well, and once in range they did not hesitate to loose their own massive salvo of flaming arrows at them.
Archer instinctively lowered his head and shielded himself with a forearm just before impact. The arrows fell all around him, killing several archers and ballista crewmen as they took them in the head or throat. One arrow even glanced off his angled pauldron, but in the end Archer remained unharmed. He quickly raised his bow again, ignited his arrow, and loosed it. He saw his missile score a direct hit on a Stormcloak's chest, taking him down. Balamus and the mages' next fireballs killed a dozen men on the enemy flank, throwing dirt and limbs into their fellows and tripping some of them.
By now, the Stormcloaks were nearly upon them with their ladders. Archer ignited the last flaming arrow he had, which he quickly loosed to score another kill. The archers around him did the same, loosing arrow after arrow into the fray. Their foes merely lifted their shields and continued as if they were being pelted by raindrops instead of arrows. Another fireball rocked the enemy lines, incinerating more men in an instant. Archer continued loosing arrows as quickly as he could nock them, killing men with each one. At this range, it was difficult to miss.
"They've reached the walls!"
Archer heard one man cry out in alarm, just before a ladder fell in place against the rampart a few feet to his side. The Argonian drew back another arrow and aimed at the first man climbing the ladder, who looked up just in time to see him loose. That man fell off the ladder with a bodkin arrow through his eye. He nocked, drew, loosed, and killed the next man in the same manner. Before he could load his third arrow, some deeply buried instinct screamed at him to move back, and he obeyed it just in time for a heavy throwing axe to soar past his head.
By the time Archer had recovered his footing and put away his bow, he saw a Stormcloak leap up onto the rampart with a ferocious bellow, swinging his axe into an Imperial archer's head. As the legionary fell with a cloven skull, the Stormcloak tackled the nearest man shield-first, allowing another of his fellows onto the rampart behind him. Chaos quickly enveloped the battlements as the Imperial light infantry hurried to engage the enemy boarding their walls.
The fighting was extreme close quarters. Archer had trouble in simply unsheathing his malachite blade as he surged forth to do battle. He saw a Stormcloak pushing back against the Imperials with his shield. Archer ran his sword into the man's side, pushing the malachite blade through layered leather and chainmail to puncture flesh and bone. The man released a strangled scream as he fell to a knee, before a mace flew into his face and caved in his skull.
Before Archer had even freed his blade from the corpse, he felt a metallic impact against his upper back as a sword glanced off his armor. He spun around and sent an elbow at his attacker, catching the Stormcloak in the side of his helm. The blow only stunned the man, but it was enough for Archer to tear his blade free, and then drop his shoulder to ram him, sending him staggering back against the rampart. Archer drove his sword straight into his heart, with enough force to punch through the man's chainmail and staple him against the stone.
The Argonian tore his blade free again and quickly peered over the edge of the wall. He could only see a swarming sea of blue-sashed soldiers hurrying to scramble up the ladders, with the heavy infantry close behind. Deciding that now was the time to unleash his Voice, Archer took in a sharp breath and held it for a moment, before releasing it in an echoing bellow: "FUS RO DAH!"
A sound like the crack of thunder filled the air as Archer's shockwave flew into the nearest ladder. The force of the shockwave didn't even bother to pick up the ladder; instead, it shattered it completely and sent the splinters flying like wooden shrapnel. The Stormcloaks that had gotten hit directly by the Shout died instantly, as the shockwave shattered their bones and ruptured every internal organ, while those who were at the edge of the shockwave merely suffered lung lesions and burst eardrums. A chorus of screams responded to the Argonian's Shout as the surviving Stormcloaks on the ladder were sent back to the ground in a pained heap.
"By Talos' beard!" shouted one of Galmar's bodyguards when he saw one of their ladders on the eastern wall suddenly burst apart under the force of a massive shockwave, sending men and ladder fragments flying.
"What in the Gods' name was that?" cried out another man, clutching at the Amulet of Talos hanging by his neck with his gauntleted hand. "Magic? Was that magic?"
Galmar stared at the wall with an almost feverish intensity. No. It cannot be… Ulfric said that the Dragonborn had accepted his sword! Now he is fighting for the Imperials?!
He wanted to deny it with every breath, but he knew that what he had feared most had come to pass. At last, he let out a low, growling sigh full of tension and anger. "No, men. That would be the Voice."
"The Voice?" another bodyguard asked, appalled. His fair Nordic features had suddenly gone as white as snow. "But that means…"
Galmar nodded solemnly. "Aye, boy. The Dragonborn is on that wall, fighting against our men."
A somber silence settled over Galmar and his five bodyguards, consisting of his most trusted Stormcloaks from the ranks. He knew them all well. Good, hearty and strong men, all of them. They'd followed every order he'd given them without complaint, and they were as loyal as men came — the only reason that one of them, Asmund Steel-Born, was missing was because he had deemed him unfit for combat; he'd needed to keep his arm in a sling after having it broken in some accident on his return to Windhelm, and not having allowed it to heal properly afterwards.
These men have been with me through thick and thin, Galmar thought confidently, albeit with a furrowed brow. They won't abandon me here — but the rest of our men… their morale won't last long under a barrage from the Voice.
Galmar looked back at the wall, where an unnaturally bright blast of flame suddenly erupted to engulf a group of men attempting to raise another ladder. It was like watching a torch being thrown into naphtha. That must have been dragon-fire.
He'd been taught that the Dragonborn was supposed to be the legendary hero to save them all — to kill Alduin and stop the End Times, according to prophecy. But now here he was, killing his men and fighting for the Imperials, using an ancient Nordic weapon to do so. The Dragonborn insulted them by using something like the Voice to fight against the Nords who he was supposed to be saving: the true Sons and Daughters of Skyrim, who wanted to ensure that the legacy of Talos would never be forgotten. Which meant he had to make a decision: pull back the army and retreat, or fight back against the very hero of Nord legend himself, the Dragonborn.
Galmar sighed, and suddenly he felt an unnatural, bone-deep lassitude sweep over him. He was old, and making hard decisions like these wasn't easy on him; he'd made hard choices in the past, but this one was unlike any other. He almost wished that another general was here to make the choice instead.
But there was no other general. It was just him. This was his choice to make.
"Signal the archers," he finally growled over to one of his men. "Concentrate all available fire onto that wall. No more flaming arrows. We're going to either force the Dragonborn off of that wall, or kill him."
The battle on the wall had only been raging for a few minutes, and already Archer could feel the blood slickening the flagstones and the bodies littering the ramparts threatening to trip him. But none of it mattered much; he'd settled into a familiar battle trance, and in this state he'd become so intensely aware of his surroundings that his footing never faltered amongst the dead bodies or the slick blood and offal.
Imperials and Stormcloaks fought tooth and nail for every inch of ground. To his left, Legate Fasendil cleaved a man's breastbone open with his longsword, and to his right, Balamus grabbed a Stormcloak one-handed and tossed him back over the wall. Jordis was with him, smashing a Stormcloak's head open with her mace. The corpse hadn't even fallen before an axe flew into her weapon and threw it to the ground. Jordis retaliated by bashing him in the chest with her shield and then lashing out with her newly freed hand. To his utter shock, he saw her shoot a small blast of flame out her hand, causing the man to hold his face and scream, and giving her enough time to recover her mace and swing it at his head, bursting it apart. Looks like her magic lessons with Balamus have begun to pay off.
He rejoined the fight, killing men left and right, finding himself obliged to take a few blows with his armor from men he'd never seen coming. Though damaged, his malachite armor held fast under the sword and axe blows.
Suddenly, all the soldiers around him began to fall dead instantly. Imperials, Whiterun guards, and Stormcloaks alike all went down with arrows sticking out of their bodies. As he was slashing open a man's spine, Archer felt an armor-piercing arrow ricochet off his breastplate with enough force for him to feel the impact in his ribcage.
He glanced back out at the field, where Stormcloak archers were preparing another volley. The archers drew their arrows back and loosed again. Archer raised his arm to shield himself just as the arrows fell again. More men died all around him, from both sides of the battle, and he felt another arrow glance off his helmet this time. To his right, he saw one of the militia mages fall with an arrow through his robed chest.
Archer was about to lower his arm when a massive figure filled his vision, and suddenly he had the wind knocked out of him as a huge Stormcloak soldier tackled him, sending them both to the ground. The Nord raised the axe in his hand to finish him off, but he was interrupted by Legate Fasendil's longsword decapitating him. Hot blood jetted from twin fountains in the stump of his neck, showering Archer with the sanguine fluids as his corpse fell over with a sodden thump.
The reptile found the Legate helping him to his feet. Fasendil had a grave look in his eyes as he spoke. "The Stormcloaks are concentrating their missile fire on this wall. I believe they mean to kill you."
"I can't do anything about it," Archer admitted, having to shout over the tumult of war. "My Shouts won't reach far enough to hit the archers."
"Legate Fasendil!"
On the street below, a horse-mounted ensign bearing a red flag emblazoned with a steel dragon called up to them. "The western wall is coming under heavy assault! We need support, or we'll be broken soon!"
"I believe my men will be able to hold the eastern wall," Fasendil told Archer quickly. "Go over to the western wall and give them your aid. I'd rather not risk losing you here to a lucky arrow. May the Eight be with you, Dragonborn!"
Archer glanced back at the battle on the eastern wall, where Balamus and Jordis would now be left without his support. He silently prayed for their safety before turning and making his way down to the street. His company had all brought their horses into the city walls when they agreed to defend Whiterun, and he'd left his horse Glaive tied to a post nearby just for this occasion. Archer untied his mount and hopped onto the saddle, before burying his heels into his flanks, urging him into a gallop.
The Argonian rode through the streets of Whiterun, where he was forced to ride around obstacles because Glaive hadn't been trained to jump them. Chaos greeted him at every corner he passed. Imperials and Whiterun guards shouted orders amongst each other as they hurried to support different points on the walls all at once. Incessant twangs from bowstrings, the clatter of swords, and the wails of the dying filled the air. A few hundred meters away, a flaming trebuchet stone soared into the roof of a building with a thundering crash, fragmenting upon impact and sending burning shrapnel flying in all directions.
By the time he finally arrived at the western wall, he could see that the enemy heavy infantry had already come into the fight. The Imperial heavy infantry stationed on the wall were having difficulty in beating back the tide of huge Nords clad in thick, banded mail and bear helms that had come surging up the ladder. Some wielded great axes to splinter and shatter shields, while others fought with large round shields and one-handed weapons. These must've been the infamous "Bear warriors" he'd heard some Imperial troops speak of.
Archer pulled Frostbite from its belt loop and hopped off his mount to charge up the steps, Shouting: "SU!"
Suddenly his entire body was wrapped in wispy, white tendrils of energy, and he felt much lighter and quicker than normal. Satisfied with the effects of his Shout, Archer entered the fray with a powerful swing that cleaved apart a Stormcloak bear helm and split open the man's skull. Another Bear warrior noticed him and swung his great axe at him with a roar. Archer backed away from the blow, forcibly pushing aside a few men in the process, before rushing him.
The Bear's axe darted at his belly in a thrust. Archer knocked the tip aside and continued forward to ram him with his shoulder. The big Nord stumbled from the sheer force of the blow, and before he could recover Archer was already swinging again with a speed to surpass any normal man. His axe struck again and again into the Nord's chest and stomach, denting his armor and knocking him backwards until Archer found enough space to maneuver his axe around for a strike at the side of his helm. The man's head burst open like a melon under the impact.
Another Bear appeared before him, thrusting with his sword. Despite being at such close range, Archer moved quickly enough to bat the weapon aside and counterattack, only for his strike to meet his foe's shield. That shield slammed into his chest with enough force to stagger him, and while he regained his footing the Bear closed the distance and thrust his sword into Archer's abdomen.
There was enough force behind the attack for the sword's tip to pierce in between the moonstone plating and bypass the chainmail he wore underneath. Archer snarled as three inches of steel buried itself into his gut. A shield bash into his helm sent him staggering sideways. Burning pain flared to life as the man tore his blade out, but before he could strike again Archer swung his axe.
The big man's round shield took the blow, but Archer just continued to swing over and over again with all his strength, forcing the man to stay behind his shield or else take the strike. His opponent's knees buckled under the force, and his shield was quickly reduced to little more than splinters. A couple of times he felt a sword or an axe glance off his armor as another Stormcloak tried to interfere, but Archer quickly silenced them with a single cleaving strike into their skulls before returning his attention to his original opponent.
He didn't last much longer. With one final hewing strike, Archer roared and brought Frostbite down with all his might, splitting the shield in half and breaking its wielder's arm in the process. While he was busy screaming in pain, Archer's next strike took off the Nord's jawbone. The panting Argonian scanned his surroundings once more and saw that a group of Bears were clambering up onto the wall. Seeing nobody in harm's way, Archer took in a sharp breath and Shouted: "YOL TOOR!"
The blast of dragon-fire engulfed the men and the top of a ladder in wreaths of white flame. Those who were directly in the blast radius were incinerated immediately, while those caught at the edge of the Shout were simply set aflame as the fire ate at their armor's fur lining and blue sashes. Seeing the Dragonborn's power invigorated the defenders, who surged forth with a spirited cry and reengaged, finally succeeding in pushing the Bears back against the wall.
Just when Archer thought he'd be able to breathe again, shouts came up from the south. He couldn't quite hear what they were saying, not exactly — but he did hear the word "Stormcloak", "breach", and "ram" several times. The Argonian's eyes widened as he put two and two together. The Stormcloaks have reached the main gate. They've got a ram.
He ran back down to the city street and found Glaive nervously pacing nearby. Archer hopped onto his mount's saddle and dug his heels into his side, spurring him into an immediate gallop. Dimly aware of the blood leaking through his armor, he quickly healed himself. As the Argonian rode through the city streets, passing by the three trebuchets in the Wind Districts, he gave himself a moment to gather his thoughts. I need to get to the city gates. There will likely still be defenders outside. If I make it to the wall I'll be able to cover their retreat with my Shouts, and then we can hold the gate from there. No ram will be able to withstand the Voice.
A bright light suddenly lit up the evening sky. Archer looked up to see a flaming stone flying towards him. The Argonian's eyes widened in shock, and he pulled back hard on Glaive's reins, forcing the horse to whinny and rear his head. Moments later, the flaming stone filled his vision, and the last thing he heard was a deafening boom.
The men at Whiterun's first entryway had held their ground and fought long and hard. They'd killed men by the dozens as they tried to break past the earthen fortifications and wooden barricades, pelting them with arrows and javelins or killing the few that reached them in blade combat. But they'd been overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers and forced off the rampart, and now the defenders were in full retreat, back towards the city walls.
"Everybody, retreat!" Solona shouted, before priming a spell in her hand and unleashing it at the nearest group of Stormcloaks in a raging whirlwind of frost and ice. The men's corpses were sent flying backwards, the blood in their bodies frozen by the subzero temperature in an instant.
Solona was forced to singlehandedly cover the defenders' retreat with her magic, allowing men and women all around her to run past for the safety of the drawbridge and city gates. Despite her experience and arcane might, she found herself tiring quickly, both by mind and body. Archers on the walls helped beat back the incoming tide, but their foes' approach was as inexorable as the passage of time itself; the only thing they or she could do was buy the defenders outside the walls time to retreat back into the city.
Solona took a moment to hastily uncork and down the contents of a magicka potion before tossing the empty vial aside, allowing her hands to light up with lightning this time. She pointed her palm out towards the Stormcloak-filled street and let loose with a single huge torrent of crackling lightning. The lightning crackled and hissed as it spread outward, killing three men outright as it burned a glowing, orange-hot hole through their armor.
Lydia suddenly stepped into her side, just in time to catch a stray arrow with her shield. "Solona! You need to get out of here!"
"Let's go!" Solona shouted back, allowing the taller woman to shield her from more stray arrows as they ran back towards the city gates.
By the time they got there, the drawbridge had been lowered and the city gates had been opened to allow the defenders on the outside to retreat back into the walls. Solona pushed herself to run as hard as she could, blindly sending a lightning bolt behind her into the surge of incoming Stormcloaks. She and Lydia were among the last of the defenders who pounded across the drawbridge. Once they were across, the men manning the drawbridge began raising the bridge again before the enemy could cross.
An arrow suddenly took one of them in the throat. As he staggered backwards, another arrow soared into the second man's throat. Not having been locked into place, the moment their hands had left the drawbridge crank it thudded back against the floor.
"The drawbridge is lost!" shouted an Imperial officer as the defenders rushed back into Whiterun, "Fall back into the city! Bar the gate!"
Solona let loose with one final surge of lightning to suppress the enemy's advance before turning and sprinting back into the city. Erik was waiting for her when she entered, and he helped the Imperials and Whiterun guards close the gates and place a large oaken bar across it to prevent entry. When the lad turned back to her, Solona couldn't suppress her grimace. His brigandine was torn, there was a gash over his brow, and blood stained his face and armor. Thankfully, little of it was his.
"Are you all right?" Erik asked as he came close, looking her over worriedly.
"I'm fine!" Solona replied, panting. She looked back at the gate. There were men still firing arrows down at the Stormcloaks below, but they received return fire in the form of heavy throwing axes and javelins.
"What's going on here?" a voice bellowed, and Solona turned to see the Imperial Legate — Fasendil, she thought — approaching them, along with Balgruuf and his retinue. All of them were covered in blood and offal. Some part of Solona was satisfied to know that not even the Jarl had spared himself of an active role in defending his city.
The Imperial officer that had been with them came before the Legate and saluted quickly. "Legate Fasendil! The enemy has overwhelmed us and beaten us back to the gates!"
Shouts went up amongst the men at the walkway overlooking the gate. "The Stormcloaks have a ram! They've brought a ram to breach the gate!"
Balgruuf's halfhelm exposed enough of his face to make it clear he was glaring at the tall wooden gates of his city. He muttered, "If they know what they're doing, that gate won't be able to last long enough against a ram for us to beat them back…"
The Imperial Legate turned to Solona, who still had lightning weaving around her fingertips. "You there! Can you seal the gate with magic?"
Solona shook her head. "I don't know door-sealing spells!"
She thought for a moment. "But I do know frost magic!" she suddenly added, switching out the lightning in her hands for frost. "I could seal the gates with ice!"
There was a massive boom as something large and heavy made impact with the gate. Solona looked to see the men on the walls attempting to fire down at the attackers, only to receive multiple arrows, axes and javelins in return. The Stormcloaks were concentrating their numbers outside that doorway.
"Go ahead and do it!" Jarl Balgruuf shouted at her, before waiving his bloodied sword in the air. "Everyone else, rally around! Form a wall on the street!"
"Call on the other officers!" Fasendil commanded a couple of nearby officers. "Draw reinforcements from the walls! We cannot let the Stormcloaks through here!"
While Lydia and Erik left her to join the phalanx, Solona turned and primed as much arcane energy as she could in her free hand before unleashing it at the gate. Her frost magic struck right in the gap between the two oaken doors, and she began to move the blast of subzero frost up along the gap, sealing them with ice.
Another loud bang rocked the gates, cracking and shattering her ice seal. Solona grunted in frustration and began to reseal the parts of the door that had been broken, but the ram knocked again and shattered more ice. The Imperial persisted with her frost blast, but in her heart she knew it was futile — the ram was knocking and breaking her ice seal more quickly than she could refresh it.
Cracks began to appear along the face of the wooden gates. Splinters flew, and the gate groaned eerily with each impact from the battering ram. It wouldn't hold for much longer, but she was at least slowing them down, giving time for additional reinforcements to be pulled from the walls to join them. Balamus and Jordis appeared at the scene and grouped up with the rest of their friends, as well as several Imperial heavy and light infantry and a number of Whiterun guards.
At last, Solona gave up on trying to seal the gate and ran back to join the wall of defenders, stumbling slightly in the process — using so much magicka during the course of this battle had already left her in a bit of a daze. She got into place beside her friends, holding her halberd out in front of her. Erik and Balamus held their weapons more tightly, the latter preparing flames in his offhand. Lydia and Jordis braced themselves behind their shields, snarling. The five of them watched the gate buckle, saw the iron rivets bursting out under the ram's impact, and braced themselves for the ram's next blow.
With one final bang, the city gates swung wide open, revealing the sight of the crowd of Stormcloaks standing around their battering ram. The Stormcloaks unleashed a furious battle cry before surging forward into the city, every bit as unstoppable as an avalanche.
Solona and Balamus loosed twin arcane blasts. A surge of lightning and a fireball flew into the crowd, killing everyone in the front ranks. Their fellows behind them ran over their corpses and charged at the wall of defenders with reckless abandon. Solona lunged blindly forward, and a Stormcloak flew into her halberd's tip. She pulled her weapon back out and raised it in time to block an axe, before being roughly shoved backwards by the larger Nord wielding it. He swung again, but she parried the weapon and then stepped forth, swinging the end of her weapon's haft into his ribs. The man stumbled under the blow, and a quick slash from the polearm tore the side of his neck open.
The Imperial stepped away from the battle for a moment to regain her bearings, but there was combat and chaos everywhere. Blood and offal began to litter and slicken the streets like the floor of a charnel house. She caught glimpses of her friends in the frenzy. Erik cleaved a man's leg off with his claymore, snarling like a lion. Balamus chopped off another's hand to disarm him before slashing his throat open. Lydia and Jordis were both brawling with their foes, alternating between savage shield-rim bashes to the face and overhead strikes with their weapon. Irileth and Jarl Balgruuf fought next to each other, cutting apart any Stormcloaks that dared challenge them. Despite it all, they were being pushed back. There were simply too many Stormcloaks, and they were killing the defenders just as quickly as the defenders were killing them.
"FUS RO DAH!"
She heard the Shout a mere second before the shockwave suddenly filled her vision, plowing a hole through the center of the column of Stormcloaks pouring into the city. Then she saw a figure come in between the defenders and the rest of the approaching Stormcloak avalanche, in the hole that had just been made. Catching a glimpse of his cracked and bloodstained malachite armor, Solona only realized it was Archer who had planted himself before the Stormcloaks moments before the Argonian let loose with another deafening roar. "FUS RO DAH!"
Solona stared in awe as his Shout boomed across the city street and slammed into the incoming Stormcloaks, lifting them off their feet and sending them flying backwards as if a giant hand had just swept them back, as well as completely shattering the battering ram they'd brought with them. Most of the bodies that fell back did not stand back up. That one Shout must've killed at least fifty men.
Bereft of their reinforcements, the Stormcloaks that were on their side of the street were cut down in mere moments. More Stormcloaks quickly moved to fill in the space that their fellows at the front ranks had once occupied. Archer stepped forward and Shouted again, this time sending a blast of dragon-fire down the center of the street, which was funneled out of the gate and through the entryway. The white-hot flames melted cobblestone and set a second crowd of Stormcloaks ablaze. Seeing the sudden blast of dragon-fire shooting out of the city's entrance had a twofold effect — it completely halted the Stormcloak charge, and it galvanized the defenders into action.
Legate Fasendil raised his longsword. "Everyone, charge!"
Balgruuf did the same, and shouted, "For Whiterun!"
The defenders on the street let loose with their battle cries and charged forth. Emboldened by those around her, Solona raised her voice in her own battle cry as she joined the charge. She heard Archer unleash his own, draconic roar, before rushing ahead. Everyone else followed him, and in a matter of seconds there were several hundred of Whiterun's defenders surging out from the city like an army of furious ants to push back the Stormcloaks.
One of Galmar's men, Lojalt, smiled as he looked through his spyglass and witnessed their men rushing into Whiterun's entrance with a battering ram. "Our men have reached the gate! Soon, victory will be ours!"
Galmar himself was content to watch the scene with his own eyes, as were the rest of the riders and a regiment of light infantry he'd kept in reserve and ordered around towards the south side of the city to watch the battle from a hill. He didn't give himself into celebration just yet. True, there was probably little chance for the enemy to successfully push them back out of the city once they'd broken in, given the defenders' numerical inferiority. But he knew from experience that a battle wasn't won until a battle was won. Anything could happen.
As it turned out, that anything happened to be another Shout.
His men all gasped when they heard the sudden boom in the distance. Galmar's stare intensified. They waited for several more moments with bated breath. When they heard the second boom, followed by the sight of their men running back out of the city in a full retreat, they swore. The soldiers behind them began to gasp and shift nervously in place, suddenly losing their eagerness to fight.
"The damn Dragonborn lives after all." Galmar bit out the oath in a low growl. He'd thought that the fact that they hadn't seen any more Shouts on the eastern wall after he'd commanded the archers' mass fire meant that they had killed him. A part of him knew that the soldiers only ran because they stood no chance against something like the Voice, but watching his brave men fleeing from the battlefield made him furious. What made him more displeased, however, was the thought of what he now had to do.
I suppose it's time to use our secret weapons, he thought with resignation, turning to one of his men and nodding. The rider, Bjorn, nodded and pulled out a decorated ivory horn, which he blew a long note on, followed by three shorter ones.
Of course, they hadn't simply come unprepared for the possibility that the Dragonborn would fight against them when they marched on the city. He and Ulfric had believed the likelihood of that happening to be low, but his Jarl had convinced him to prepare for the possibility regardless. So Galmar had followed his advice, and brought along a few secret weapons that he knew the arrogant Imperial dogs would never suspect them to have.
It didn't take long for their secret weapons to march up ahead of the body of troops. The five mages, including two former Imperial Battlemages, took up positions in front of Galmar and his bodyguards. All five of them allowed wreaths of flame to envelop their hands, but they would hold their fire until Galmar gave them the order, and he would only give that order at the best moment to kill their target.
That moment wasn't long in coming. Galmar watched his men retreating, and saw the defending Whiterun forces surging out of the city to chase them off. Now in the open field instead of the city streets, the Stormcloaks saw their chance to attack and charged the defenders. Their efforts were greeted with another massive shockwave that effortlessly plowed through an entire regiment, followed a heartbeat later by a loud, distant boom.
Galmar pointed at the battlefield. "There! Where that shockwave came from! Stormcloak battlemages, fire at will!"
The dragon in Archer's soul had taken firm control over him after having been thrown from his horse when the trebuchet stone landed in front of him. Heedless of his lack of a mount, the Argonian had run through the city on foot and come just in time to help the defenders push back their attackers through the gates. Now he was outside Whiterun's gates, fighting his foes on the open field with a veritable army at his back.
Stormcloaks charged at him from all directions. Instead of retreating back towards friendly lines, he allowed them to come at him as they pleased. Let them come! I will show them what happens to those who dare attack my home!
A pair of Stormcloaks charged at him at the same time. With his dagger in his left hand and his sword in his right, Archer parried both blades and counterattacked, only for both men to block with their shields. He sent his foot into one shield and threw the man onto his back, before parrying the other one's sword with his and following up with a dagger thrust. Archer buried his dagger into the man's armpit and ruptured a lung before shoving him backwards, allowing him to parry his comrade's sword with his dagger. He sent a pommel strike at his helm to stun him, and followed up by pressing his sword against his throat and then tearing it to the side, slicing the man's head clean off in a spray of dark red blood.
Movement appeared at the corner of his vision, to his right. Combat instincts screamed at him to dodge, and Archer put all his strength into a backwards leap. It wasn't enough. He felt the mother of all kicks impact his chest as the flanking Stormcloak's great axe slammed into him, mid-leap.
Black spots appeared in Archer's vision as he felt the wind knocked out of him, as well as a boiling pain from his cracked sternum. Through the haze of his vision, he could see the man who'd attacked him directly in front, a snarl on his helmet-less head. Archer let loose with a savage, wordless roar, before charging at him. The great axe swung at him again. Archer parried with his sword and brought his dagger up at the same time, plunging it into the man's throat. His victim released a strangled sound as he gagged on his blood, before Archer shoved him to the ground to bleed out.
The evening sky suddenly lit up. When Archer raised his head to look, his eyes widened at the sight of the fireballs — actual fireballs, not flaming stones — coming towards him. He only managed to raise his ward moments before impact.
A deafening chain of explosions rocked Archer, and he staggered under the concussive force. Only one fireball had directly hit his ward, but the other four exploded all around him and killed everyone nearby. Ears ringing, the Argonian looked out past the clouds of smoke to see a group of robed figures on a hill.
"The enemy has mages!" he heard Legate Fasendil shout somewhere behind him. He looked to see the Legate cleave open a Stormcloak's chest before shouting again. "Everyone, fall back! Fall back into the city! Break line of sight with the—"
His order was cut brutally short by an arrow that flew into his eye. The Legate stumbled backwards a step before falling over, twitching. Archer looked back to see that the enemy archers had begun to pour their missiles into the fray as well.
Archer turned and ran for the city, following all the defenders who were already doing the same. Men and women died all around him under the hail of arrows. He tried using his ward to block the arrows, but the first one that made contact with it passed right through without stopping. Something made Archer look over his shoulder at the enemy. He immediately wished he hadn't, once he saw the five fireballs flying in his direction. Archer could only brace himself for impact.
The roar of the fireballs' explosions filled the whole world, bathing Archer's vision in impossibly white light. He was dimly aware of a sensation of weightlessness for a brief moment as the explosion carried him through the air, trailing smoke. Then he slammed into the ground with enough force to make him see black.
His vision returned to him slowly. When he could see again, he found that the world had been reduced to a gray, hazy field. The exposed scales around his neck and throat stung fiercely. Archer tried to stand up, but he quickly found that he couldn't feel his limbs. Had the explosion blown them off? Was he nothing but a torso with bloody stumps where his arms and legs used to be? He couldn't even turn his head enough to check without intense pain wracking his entire body.
A massive shadow eclipsed him, and for a moment Archer thought that a trebuchet stone was about to land on him and put him out of his misery. Instead, he found himself being picked up by a large, powerful arm. As he was shifted onto the arm's connecting shoulder, Archer's golden gaze was met with an impossibly deep-blue one.
"Hang in there, Archer," Erik grunted, sounding as if he were speaking underwater. A massive Imperial tower shield appeared in his free hand, at the edge of the reptile's range of vision. With another grunt, Erik lifted the heavy shield with one hand to protect him from the incoming arrows, while his other hand kept him steady on his shoulder as he began to carry him across the battlefield.
Five more fireballs appeared in the distance, flying towards them. Balamus suddenly appeared before them, casting lightning at the incoming projectiles. All five fireballs erupted in midair in a bright, white conflagration. Solona was next to arrive, sending bolts of lightning at the few Stormcloaks who attempted to pick them off. Balamus joined her with surprising vigor, moving as if he'd never been involved in a desperate battle for Whiterun, and together, the two of them killed every Stormcloak that tried to rush for them across the field.
A loud horn blast boomed across the plains, and then suddenly every Stormcloak in the field paused where they stood. They looked back at their commander who'd blown the horn, and shot a final backwards glance at the city before running, leaving the defenders to scurry back into their bloodied city. That was the last thing that Archer was able to see, before he allowed unconsciousness to take over, leaving Erik to haul his limp form all the way back to Whiterun.
Lydia felt horrible. The intense combat she'd endured throughout the day had left her entire body sore, from her aching arms to her aching feet. But that wasn't even the worst of it; the knowledge of her friends amongst the battle's casualties had that gruesome honor.
Hrogar had died on the wall to a throwing axe in his skull, and Aengus had taken an arrow while retreating from the field. She'd watched both of them die before her very eyes; some of the blood that speckled her armor belonged to both of them. Lydia hadn't allowed herself to cry until after the battle was over — and cry she had, long and hard, especially when she'd heard about Archer's critical condition.
But that had been hours ago. Her cheeks were still puffy, her eyes still red, but she'd stopped crying. Now she stood in the guest chamber inside Dragonsreach, where they'd moved Archer after the healers had saved his life, speaking with the healers that were taking care of him.
The healer explained Archer's multiple injuries to Lydia as her assistant tended to the Argonian. "He's suffered from multiple cracked ribs, a cracked sternum, and a major concussion, among several broken bones. We've done our best to mend them all. So far, he seems to have received our magic well — what they say about Argonians being quick to mend must have some truth about it, I suppose."
Frowning, Lydia looked back over to Archer. He seemed to be sleeping now, but it wasn't a peaceful sort of sleep. Even now he seemed troubled, or pained. Perhaps that was the case — surviving being caught in a fireball's explosion had left him with spots of raw flesh where his scales burned off, and would have to regrow. She could only guess at what internal pains he must've suffered from as well.
"So he's fully healed now, right?" Lydia pressed, hoping to the Gods that she would hear good news for once. "He won't be crippled? He'll be able to walk again and everything?"
The priestess gave her a weary shrug; just like everyone else charged with tending to Whiterun's wounded, she was tired and probably running on fumes by now. It had been several hours after the Stormcloaks' retreat, and yet still she'd probably not gotten any rest. "I can't say for certain. He should be able to walk again without assistance in a couple of days, but whether he's suffered any injury to his mind…"
"My mind is perfectly fine, thank you very much."
The two women jumped when they heard Archer speak, his eyes still shut. He scowled for a moment before willing his eyes open to look at them, blinking rapidly as if having difficulty focusing on them. Once he could see, his features softened when he noticed his Housecarl. "Lydia…"
Lydia was immediately by his side, kneeling so that she could pull his head towards her chest in an embrace, being careful not to touch his burned flesh. Pressing her cheek to the top of his head, Lydia whispered in a soft voice, "Archer… Thank the Gods you're alright."
Archer sighed and rubbed her shoulder. "It's okay, Lydia. I'm fine. I'm alive."
After she released his head, he looked around the healing chamber with a frown. "Where are the others? Are they all right?"
Memory of Hrogar and Aengus' final moments flashed through her mind, and her throat tightened suddenly. She found the willpower to choke her tears back and reply. "They're all alive. Wounded, but alive."
"And where's my armor?"
"Destroyed," Lydia told him with a shake of her head. "It was already damaged when you went out to battle; those fireballs you survived finished it off."
Archer sighed sadly. "It was a good suit of armor. Probably also part of the reason I survived — malachite and moonstone have high melting points."
Someone cleared their throat, and they turned to see Commander Caius standing at the threshold. The Guard Captain of Whiterun had a bloody bandage around his head and leaned heavily on a cane. He spared Archer a surprised look. "Thane Archer… I didn't expect to see you alive, much less awake."
"Takes more than a fireball to kill a dragon," Archer remarked with a soft, sad smile as he attempted to sit upright on his bed. He managed, with some assistance from Lydia.
Commander Caius looked between the two for a moment longer, before speaking. "In any case, Jarl Balgruuf requested that your Housecarl attend a briefing in the War Room. But I don't think he'd mind if you came along, Thane."
Lydia gave Archer her arm and allowed him to use her as support as he heaved himself to his feet. He grimaced and struggled a bit, but he managed to stay on his feet without too much difficulty. The Housecarl looked back at the Commander, who merely beckoned them to follow.
The atmosphere in Balgruuf's War Room was as somber as a funeral when Archer and Lydia entered. Jarl Balgruuf, his Housecarl, and Hrongar all stood around the map of Whiterun, their arms crossed in contemplation. Balgruuf's features were sad, while Irileth's were grim. Hrongar looked infuriated and disappointed all at once. When they noticed their approach, all eyes were immediately on the Argonian on Lydia's shoulder.
"Thane Archer," Balgruff began, eyebrows raising with surprise, "I'm glad to see that you weren't taken from us."
"The Stormcloaks," Archer grunted as Lydia led him before the table, "they had mages, five of them."
"So we've heard," Irileth muttered, more to herself than to anyone in particular. "We'd thought that the Stormcloaks wouldn't bring mages to Whiterun. Didn't think they'd want them to have a chance at stealing the glory of battle from them. But I suppose that perhaps we underestimated our foe."
Lydia spoke up next. "How… many men have we lost?"
"I've had my men perform a quick body count, and ordered the same done from the Imperial officers," Balgruuf reported, in a solemn voice. He sighed, conveying a soul-deep sadness that everyone could feel in their hearts, sullen and heavy. "We've lost nearly one hundred and fifty guardsmen, and around twelve hundred Imperials."
"Half of our fighting force — all killed, in a single afternoon," Hrongar growled out, staring intensely at the floor with his arms folded across his chest. "Damn those Stormcloaks to Oblivion, damn them…"
"Calm down, brother," Balgruuf told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Hrongar brushed the hand off. "Why should I? Half of the men in our city guard died in the span of an evening! Not only that, but we've failed to defend our home! We've failed the men under our command, and their families which we promised to protect! The Stormcloaks will surely attack again the next morning, and what will we defend ourselves with? We lost a trebuchet to enemy siege fire, along with several ballistae, our front gates have been smashed to splinters, our militia mages were all killed in the battle…"
"Hrongar! That's enough!" Irileth commanded loudly. The Nord glared at her for a few heartbeats, before he dropped his gaze to the floor again.
"He's right, Irileth," Balgruuf admitted in a taut, rasping whisper. Lydia suddenly noticed that his own eyes were red — he'd been crying as well, at the news of his fallen men, no doubt. "Our city won't be able to repel a second Stormcloak attack, even by their depleted force. Whiterun… is beaten."
Another unpleasant silence spread throughout the room. Archer finally asked, "So what happens now?"
Balgruuf looked up at him. "You and your Housecarl need to leave this city as fast as you can. No doubt that the Stormcloaks see you as an enemy now. If they hear that you're still alive, they'll kill you."
"But what about you, my Jarl?" Lydia asked.
"I will take Irileth, Hrongar, and Proventus, along with my children and a retinue of bodyguards, to Solitude," Balgruuf replied solemnly. "I'll leave Commander Caius the order to open the gates for the Stormcloaks next morning. No more point in bloodshed. Do you have horses?"
Lydia nodded, but she found difficulty in speaking without croaking; her throat had suddenly gotten tight. "We do. My comrades and I brought them into the city when we came here."
"Then take them and your traveling supplies and go, as fast as you can. Leave before the Stormcloaks arrive." Balgruuf looked towards Archer. "I understand that your armor was destroyed in the battle. So I offer you a scaled shirt of mail to take with you. It's the only thing already in the city watch armory that will fit an Argonian."
Archer bowed his head. "Thank you, Balgruuf."
Balgruuf nodded, before dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "Now if you'll excuse me… I have to evacuate my family. Farewell, Dragonborn. Gods guide you."
After grabbing Archer's new armor, Lydia helped him out of the stronghold and down the stone steps to the Wind District. Lydia frowned, remembering how she'd needed this same assistance from him after her interrogation by the Thalmor.
"Hold on a moment," Archer said, once they reached the bottom of the steps. "Let's go to Jorrvaskr. I've kept the gold from my contracts under my bed; it should still be there. I want you to grab it for us, since we'll probably need it. And… I'd like to say goodbye to my friends one last time."
Lydia nodded. "Sure. Let's go."
The Companions hadn't taken an active role in the defense, so they were all still inside Jorrvaskr. All the members of the Circle, including Kodlak, were in the feasting hall when Archer and Lydia entered. They immediately approached the wounded Argonian as his Housecarl helped him into a chair, before walking off in search of the gold.
"Archer, you're alive!" Vilkas breathed when he approached, looking him over.
"By the Gods, you look awful." That was Skjor, coming up beside him accompanied by Aela.
Kodlak spoke up next. "We heard that you'd been hit by a fireball," the old man murmured, studying him with a sad look. "Are you in pain?"
"I did get hit by a fireball," Archer replied wearily. "It hurts a little. But I can ignore it." Mostly. It isn't easy, though.
"So did Balgruuf tell you anything about the battle?" Farkas asked, looking the Argonian over. "How many people died?"
Archer shut his eyes in pain — emotional pain, more than physical this time. "Half of the city's watch and local Imperial forces were wiped out. We're in no position to defend ourselves again."
They all stared at him in abject shock. "So… we've lost the defense?" Kodlak asked, in a grave voice.
He gave him a sad nod. "Balgruuf is preparing to evacuate his family and ride for Solitude. He's giving Commander Caius the order to let the Stormcloaks in when they next approach."
The gathering of Companions went silent. Out of all of them, Kodlak looked the most dismayed. Archer wondered if he was thinking of how differently the battle could have gone if he'd given his express support.
"And what about you, Archer?" Aela asked next, her brows furrowed in concern. "What will you do?"
"My friends and I are going to leave the city as fast as possible," he answered. "We ride for Markarth tonight, ere the sun rises."
Another gloomy silence enveloped them. The Companions regarded each other sadly, as if wondering what words they should offer. Archer suddenly froze in surprise when Aela kneeled before him to wrap him in an embrace, pressing her cheek tightly against his. She pleaded in a soft voice, "Please be careful out there, Archer."
Seeing the rest of the Companions looking at him with mixed looks of pity, sorrow, and deep sadness, Archer's features softened. These people — his friends — all truly feared for his safety now. Perhaps with good reason — you're a known enemy of the Stormcloaks now, and they don't know it, but the Thalmor are also after you. Feels like everybody wants to kill me these days…
"I'll be fine," he assured them, addressing the group, but wrapping his arms around Aela to return the hug all the same. "I promise. I'll avoid Stormcloak-held territory. I won't be found."
Aela finally let go of him, just as Lydia appeared with a large sack of gold in her hands. She offered him her arm again, and he took it so he could rise to his feet. He regarded the Companions one last time. "Farewell, all of you. I hope we meet again, under more favorable circumstances."
The gates to Whiterun had been thrown open by the Stormcloak battering ram, so they didn't need to bother opening it when they rode out. Archer's company rode out the gates of Whiterun in dour, brooding silence. He looked up at the few men standing on the walls, looking down at him impassively. I wonder how many of them blame me for this.
As they left the city and began riding out west, he heard Lydia sniffling. The Nord had glimmers of tears rolling down her cheeks, her head turned as she regarded her bloodied city in the distance. He noticed that everyone else was also looking back at the city they'd failed to defend, their features morose, grim and everything in between. Archer joined them, his features twisted with sorrow as he studied Whiterun's shadowed form in the distance.
At last, he tore his eyes away from the figure of the defeated city. He didn't want to think about what would happen when morning came; how the rebels would march through the gates without meeting any further resistance, or how the Bear flag of the Stormcloaks would fly above Dragonsreach in the end, to mark the last nail in the coffin for Whiterun as they knew it.
Well, I hope you this chapter was worth the wait. Please leave a review if you thought so! And if I don't immediately reply to it, then it's probably because I'll be in Chile for the next two weeks starting on Saturday, in some cabin in the Andes Mountains.