Chapter 20
Imperius rode with the vanguard of his legion, his horse walking alongside the standard bearer, the sigil of a red dragon surrounded by a golden laurels on a black field swayed gently in the light, chilling breeze. He gazed at the narrow path before him, a light fog obscuring everything at a distance, glanced at the surroundings of the pathway , and was reminded as to why the Reach was infuriatingly difficult to subjugate. The narrow pathways in the high stone covered hills and rivers were woefully inadequate for a proper force of arms to use effectively. Any army in great number was forced to walk three abreast at most, making the columns of men exposed to an uncomfortable degree. He was nervous, and couldn't shake the premonition of an ambush along the way to Markarth by the savages that blooded his legion harshly.
They have passed Bilegulch Mine a few hours ago, and found no one present, just tools laying on the ground, as if they were hastily discarded in a panic. It only added to the overall dour conditions, the lack of clear skies and sunlight, coupled with the ever present Forsworn, whom have yet to make their presence known since the attack, made moral plummet to an all time low. He yawned as they passed through another set of large stone hills, his eyelids, seemingly of their own volition, slowly but persistently tried to close. He doubted that he would make the entirety of the march to Markarth without falling asleep on the way. The combination of nervousness and exhaustion did nothing to improve his mood or condition. Despite the victory against the Khajiits, it did remind him of the true threat against his plans. The Thalmor had taken notice. After the subjugation of Markarth, he will make all haste towards the Thalmor Embassy and turn it to rubble and ash, leaving no survivors to tell the tale of his progress.
They soon came to the area just south of the Forsworn camps if he remembers correctly and he ordered the men to halt, gathering a small group of scouts and sending them into the foothills to scout ahead, already knowing where the Forsworn hid. They reported that a massive force of Forsworn are camped out north of their position, an established settlement consisting of huts, primitive forges and sacrificial altars stained with blood, the bones of their sacrifices decorating the surrounding buildings. Roving bands of archers and infantry patrolled the encampment, primitive bridges and arches attached to ancient roadways and carved buildings, with Briarhearts acting as commanders and champions, their chest proudly bearing the open wound that carried their briarheart, the contents being secured by crude leather strips bound into the skin, effectively acting as stitching without the healing process being observed. The most horrid, however, were the Hagravens. Hideous amalgamations of human and bird, they inspired terror, even in the veteran scouts of the Legion. The scouts estimated that the savages numbered in the hundreds, possibly thousands. What angered him and the Legion, were the desecrated bodies of the fallen legionaires being used in their rituals. The corpses were hidden away in the highest dwellings, where the Hagravens made their home, their chests bare and the briarhearts painfully visible. This enraged Imperius. The Legion shared his sentiment and clamored for revenge.
Imperius thanked the scouts for their efforts and gathered his centurions to plan. His men desired bloody revenge of the highest order, and he needed to quell the threat that the Forsworn represented to his plans. It was a win-win.
"Centurions, hear me. There will be no quarter, no mercy. Slay the savage with the same level of satisfaction as they felt when they killed our men. Let us take vengeance for our fallen, for they deserved better endings that being sacrificed on a heretical altar to dark powers, their bodies being used as cannon fodder by the witches that command these heathens. Not one of them will survive to see the morrow," he proclaimed.
The centurions gave an enthusiastic shout of agreement, and after an hour of non-stop planning, left to prepare their men for the coming battle. It would be one to remember.
Nightfall
Wolvoch Vabal huffed in annoyance when the scouting parties didn't find the armored invaders. It gave him immense pleasure to slaughter those who didn't belong, watching them scream and writhe in agony as his blades tore through their flesh, their eyes bulging in terror as arrows pierced their throats, and the palpable fear that his people caused as they retreated. A grin formed on his face at the memories. He wanted to bleed the invaders more, wanted to slowly whittle them down, sapping them of their strength and energy until they couldn't even stand up, let alone defend themselves from his warriors and shamans, and provide the Matriarchs more sacrifices and more prospective candidates for the transformation into the awe inspiring Briarheart to serve as substitutes for his own people.
"Elder! Elder! Invaders to the West!"
He whipped around to find a battered and bloody youth tearing his way towards the camp, his armor torn and cut, wounds rent all across his body bled profusely. Shouts and screams of surprise and terror drew his attention to the western half of the camp, seeing the glint of steel armor and weapons in the camp fires as they cut down dozens of his kin. Most of the Forsworn in the western half of the camp were caught completely off-guard, their attempts to resist were but ineffective dams against a tide of steel and anger. The legionaires will have their revenge, one way or another. Nothing will stop them.
"Rally to me kinsmen! Death to the invaders!" he shouted, gathering any nearby warriors and archers willing and able and charging the attackers with speed and ferocity.
The two forces clashed in anger, shouts and screams echoed throughout the campsite as imperial steel met bone, swords and axes tearing through flesh and armor, fonts of blood creating a slippery surface upon the stone ruins. Men and women slipped on the slick ground as they fought, being slaughtered with relish by their foes, their cries falling on deaf ears except for allies whom were too late to save them. Vabal kicked away the tower shield of his foe and swiped his bone sword across the legionaire's neck, the soldier clutching at his neck as gurgling attempts at breathing sprayed blood across his armor. He fell to the stone soon after, and another legionaire replaced him, hacking and slashing at Vabal's defenses with rage and skill.
Vabal was forced to retreat behind his brethren, watching with regret as one of his sisters in arms was gutted in front of him, just beyond his reach, her hands clutching at her innards as she desperately tried to stuff them back into the gaping hole that was her stomach, only for her struggles to be cut short as her throat was shorn with a mighty swipe of a legionaire's sword, and then she fell. Another of his kin was dragged behind the enemy battle lines as he strayed too far from his brethren, his screams of agony and terror stood out amidst the clamor of battle, mentally scarring him. He would never forget them. A large warrior, tall and broad, was brought low by a simple thing, a singular cut running the length of the inside of his left arm given by a veteran centurion. At first, he thought it was a minor wound, something a simple salve would fix later on after the battle. However, as the battle wore on, his strength began to flag, his breathing grew heavy, and his movements were sluggish, his lifeblood coating the stone beneath his feet in a dark red sheen, until finally he fell to the ground, being nearly cut to pieces by the legionaires he was fighting.
The shrieks and howls of surprise and agony drew his attention to the northern half of the camp, a large force of legionaires charging the huts, cutting down anyone that came close. The forges were located in the northern half of the camp. The crafters, large, strong men, were slaughtered to a man as they defended their workplaces, determined to make a stand against the invader, the outsider. More screams and death howls from the east nearly made him panic. They were practically surrounded. The slaughter too horrid to even comprehend, so many deaths in such quick succession made his head spin. The only way out was to flee to the south. He opened his mouth to call for a retreat, but the familiar, animalistic croaks and squawks of the Matriarchs stopped him in his tracks. Three of the venerated Matriarchs, large Hagravens by their standards, shambled out of their hutts at the highest altars, their needle like teeth glinting in the nearby torchlight, claws as sharp as any sword gleamed with murderous intent, caked with old blood, and slickened with the essence of their most recent victims. Their hideous appearance actually made the legionaires pause in their assaults, enough so for the Forsworn to actually organize a somewhat coherent force and form battle lines, dragging wounded and injured behind their warriors to their archers, where healers and female elders waited to treat their wounds.
Forsworn, gathered near the southern entrance to their camp, praised and prostrated themselves before their Matriarchs, thanking them for saving them in their hour of need. The chittering and croaking of the Hagravens emboldened them and gave them hope.
"Matriarchs, I thank and praise you for coming to our aid at this most egregious time," Vabal prostrated himself before his Matriarchs.
In a voice as old as the stones beneath their feet, they spoke. "We cannot have our loyal servants simply be slaughtered as easily as newborn lambs. We offer our Briarhearts in your defense, in exchange, all of your fighting men-folk will be transformed into the mighty Briarheart, to compensate for our efforts. The sacrifices will be increased, the powers need to be appeased," the old crones spoke in near unison, the heartbeat delay of each voice only added to their unnerving appearance.
He grimaced, but nodded in acceptance. While the Briarhearts were mighty indeed, there were only so few. It wasn't much, but anything will do at this dire time. One of the Matriarchs turned towards the highest altars and screeched, a sound more akin to a steel fork scraping against fine china. What he saw emerging from the holy altars astounded him. Dozens upon dozens of walking corpses, dressed in the regalia of their foe save the chest plate, left the altars, the open wounds holding the briarhearts indicating what they were. When the legionaires saw this, their blood lust reached a fever pitch, snarls of outrage and shouts of anger greeted the new foes. Promises and vows of savagery and vengeance were hurled at the Forsworn, with Vabal not doubting their willingness to carry them out tonight. The legionaires, filled with rage, wanted to give into their baser urges, to behave like rabid war hounds baying for the enemy's blood, wanted to freely relish in the slaughter to come. Their discipline, their training and professionalism held them back, maintaining a level of anger and fury acceptable to a soldier, while not behaving like berserkers and crazed mad men. He admired that about the outsiders, albeit begrudgingly. The new Briarhearts, along with what remained of the Forsworn, charged the Imperium's battle lines, combat resuming with fervor and relish.
Vabal did his best to inflict as many casualties as possible against the foe, but their heavy armor, the crashing of bodies and the din of battle made it somewhat difficult for him to do so. He swung his sword at the exposed neck of a legionaire, but a reflective block by the large tower shield stopped his attack. He narrowly dodged a lightning fast stab from the offending gladius, the Forsworn next to him being the unfortunate victim as the blade plunged into his chest, piercing the thick leather and hide armor. Vabal moved to counter attack, but was jostled by a fellow warrior, nearly throwing him to the ground. He jerked his head back, hissing with pain as a stray swipe from an enemy blade dug into his face, a ragged wound from his chin to his hairline, thankfully missing his eye, wept blood onto the stained stone underfoot.
He moved back from the battle lines and heard a cry to fall back coming from the left flank. He wiped the blood running into his eye and rushed to take command of the situation, determined to not let the actions of the Matriarchs be for nothing. Warriors and archers who were fleeing saw Vabal rushing towards the rapidly crumbling left flank and, emboldened by his courage and valor, followed him into the fray. He would never see them again. In the center of the melee, the enemy seemed more enthusiastic, fighting harder than all the rest, the unyielding wall of shields and steel armor giving nothing, and taking everything. Why is that? He soon found out. In the midst of the vicious melee, a lone enemy warrior caught his attention. He was tall, standing half a head above the rest of the outsiders, his armor thick, strong and masterfully crafted. In his right hand was a gladius that seemed more akin to an extra limb than a sword, moving with such speed and accuracy that he struggled to follow, felling many warriors in quick succession. An ornately crested helmet that signified a high rank caught his eye. He moved with power and authority, harshly barking commands to junior officers and subordinates, and the soldiers around him formed a semi-circle of protection, brutally cutting down whoever tried to get close. Perhaps the commander?
Vabal nodded to himself and charged the warrior. Unbeknownst to him, however, the warrior was none other than Imperius, leading the charge against the heathen lines. The Forsworn shouted a mighty war cry, and rapidly swung his sword at the enemy commander, aiming for the neck. His blow was countered by a heavy shield bash from the commander, the blade shattering under the force of the tower shield. He was sent reeling by the blow, backing behind the battle lines. Vabal looked to the warrior, baffled that he didn't even seem phased by the blow. It looked as if he didn't even register it at all! This angered Vabal, and he charged the warrior once again, grabbing a bone sword from a fallen brother in arms. He will not be humiliated!
He hacked, slashed, and swung at the enemy commander, and every single blow was blocked effortlessly. He jabbed at the thighs of the outsider, his sword point was diverted to the ground, the tip being broken as it made contact with the stone. He attempted to bypass the imperial's defenses, but the impregnable wall of shield, blade and armor made it all but impossible. He waited for a moment. There was always a moment, a second of hesitation, a second delay in reactions and action that he could exploit. There! As the imperial blocked a jagged tipped spear aimed for his side, he made his move. He thrust his sword at the small opening in the segmented plates that showed every time the warrior raised his arm to strike or block an attack, betting on the thin, jagged tip of his sword slipping through and finding the vulnerable body underneath the armor. He didn't even feel the burning pain of the sword tearing through his flesh until it was too late.
As the sword was thrust, Imperius maneuvered his body around the primitive blade, rearing his sword arm back and rammed his sword into the savage's stomach. He stared in anger and disgust at the pitiful attempt on his life, watching as the perpetrator fell to the ground soon after.
"Keep the pressure on the left flank. Their lines are breaking! Push forward!" he shouted, rushing into the melee with hundreds of legionaires at his back.
He couldn't remember how many he had cut down already, and he doubted that he will remember the total count by the sun's rise. He was exhausted, pushing onwards by sheer force of will, leading his men to victory. The left flank was irreversibly broken, nothing the heathens could do would save it. He had made sure of that. Behind him were the men of the First Cohort, the most skilled soldiers in all of the I Legion. They were veterans unequaled in the Legion, only surpassed by Imperius himself in skill of arms. No mere savages could stand against them. Imperius charged deep into the enemy formation, cutting down numerous Forsworn warriors and champions that challenged him. While the slaughter of the savage was a task of great import, it was not the main objective. In order to bring this battle to a close, and for the slaughter to truly begin, he had to eliminate the Hagravens.
Over the din of battle and screams of agony and death, he heard the distinct croaks and screeches of the Hagravens ordering their thralls into battle, not taking part in hand to hand combat, they were content to send in their minions while they flung destructive magics at the foe. In melee, they were easy prey, but getting to them without being killed by their dark magics was another matter entirely. Three legionaires managed to hack their way into the inner formation of the Forsworn, intent on slaying the beasts. One of the monstrosities looked their way, chittered, as if in laughter, and raised a clawed limb. Lightning sprung from the clawed tips of her fingers, arching its way towards the charging legionaries, sending them flying back into the mass of bodies.
He grimaced, but pushed onward nevertheless.
"Cohors Prima, cuneum formate!"
As one, the First Cohort formed a flying wedge and slammed into the Forsworn battle lines, cutting down hundreds of the heathens with the initial charge. The charge created a hole in the swathes of Forsworn, giving him the opening that he needed. He charged in, batting aside any Forsworn that blocked his path. This battle needed to end, and he would end it swiftly. The Hagravens turned from their malicious games and gazed upon the imperial with disdain and arrogance. The largest Hagraven turned to the smallest of the trio.
"Kill this rabble and return to our side, we have many sacrifices to complete. The powers will be pleased with our efforts," the beast ordered.
The smallest one nodded in acceptance and shambled towards Imperius, lightning crackling along its long, sharp claws. Imperius flung himself out of the way as a deadly arc of lightning streaked towards him with the force of a tidal wave, striking legionaire and Forsworn alike, reducing them to burnt corpses amidst the battlefield slaughter. As he moved in for the kill, he abruptly raised his shield to block another attack, the force of the lightning pushing him back, his heels sliding against the wet stone. The Hagraven croaked in laughter at how quick it was to drive this warrior back. This was too easy. This man was supposed to defeat them? They were the Hagravens, the most powerful beings in the Reach. Nothing could stop them. As the Hagraven wheezed and laughed, Imperius charged once again, taking the advantage the Hagraven's arrogance to get in close. The Hagraven, only now seeing the threat, charged her magical energy, the lightning forming around the tips of her claws, only for it to putter out as Imperius removed the beast's head from her body.
The death of a Hagraven shocked the Forsworn nearby, soon followed by cries of panic and defeat which quickly spread through the heathen ranks. Only the shrieks and orders of the remaining two Hagravens prevented the Forsworn host from outright fleeing in a mass panic. The I Legion, seeing their chance, pressed the attack with renewed fervor and ferocity, killing dozens upon dozens in their assault. Seeing the outsiders getting close to the remaining matriarchs, the Forsworn doubled their efforts, valiant last stands and staunch defenses against the onslaught characterized their efforts, buying time, but nothing more.
Imperius soon turned towards the remaining Hagravens. Now they regarded him with a different emotion. Fear. The largest one shrieked and gestured towards him angrily, the second Hagraven chittered in compliance and moved to intercept him as he charged them. This Hagraven was the melee specialist of the three, as she didn't charge any magical attacks before engaging him, shrieking a furious war cry of vengeance. He blocked and weaved his way around the flurry of attacks, the claws glinting with murderous intent in the nearby torch lights. He jabbed at her defenses, followed by a heavy handed horizontal strike, both which were blocked, the way the Hagraven nearly buckled suggested difficulty in doing so. Imperius ramped up his efforts, the speed in which he attacked his foe increased to a level that the Hagraven was always a step or two behind, enticed by fakes and being rewarded with deep wounds for taking the bait. The beast couldn't keep up, no matter how hard it tried, it just couldn't match the level of skill in battle this imperial possessed. Then it had an idea. Who said a fight for life was fought fairly? After barely dodging a lightning fast strike intended for her chest, she called to five nearby Forsworn, who answered immediately, and ordered them to attack her foe. They did so without question, providing her the perfect distraction.
As Imperius cut down the last of the Forsworn that attacked him, he searched the battlefield for his target, not noticing the Hagraven flanking him until it was too late. His foe reappeared, striking a blow against his side, the armor holding against the attack. The follow up attack nearly rendered his right leg useless, as the claws cut deep into his thigh, sending him to his knee. His life may have ended in that moment. He was open to attack, vulnerable to a mortal wound that would undoubtedly have sent his campaign into disarray and his dreams turned to dust. A death blow with no uncertainty. A blow that, thankfully, never came. As the Hagraven raised her claws to bury them into his exposed neck, she shrieked a horrid cry as a blade roughly protruded from her chest, being lifted into the air as a centurion of the First Cohort brutally finished off the beast. Three other legionaires surrounded the pair, forming a barrier of steel and muscle against any who would try to harm their commander. The centurion turned towards Imperius and held out his arm, which he clasped, and hauled him to his feet. Imperius hobbled behind the battle lines, guarded by the three legionaires, towards the medicos. He felt the urge to look back at the battle, and what he saw would be proudly etched into his memory for the rest of his days.
The largest Hagraven, distraught and enraged by the loss of her sisters, began to fire dark magical attacks at random, too overwhelmed by emotion to effectively use her battle magics. None were spared her wrath, legionaire and Forsworn alike were caught in her range of fire, and soon both forces gave the beast a wide berth, fighting just beyond the range of her attacks. None dared to go near her as the battle raged, much less attack, until a small group of six legionaires of the First Cohort broke from the ensuing melee to charge the monster. The Hagraven, still consumed by her grief and rage, failed to notice the soldiers circling around her, more akin to lupine hunters closing in for the kill on wounded prey. Soon enough the Hagraven focused on her assailants, and lashed out, arcs of lightning racing to consume its target, each legionaire barely dodging the deadly magic attacks before darting in, slashing and stabbing at the monster. These blows, while still deadly, weren't meant to kill, rather they were to draw the attention of their foe while other legionaires made their attacks, deep gashes and stab wounds being their rewards for their efforts. This continued for some time, the soldiers slowly weakening their target until the moment was right to strike.
The Hagraven howled as another gladius tore into her side, her claws meeting air as the legionaire danced out of melee range. She snarled and snapped her teeth, furious that she couldn't even so much as touch one of them, yet was reduced to a bleeding mess by this rabble. As she eyed the soldiers around her, looking for the slightest sign of movement indicating an incoming attack, she noticed a look shared amongst the legionaires. A look that filled her with terror with each passing second. It was the look of a predator finally done playing with their food. She knew the look well. She and her sisters wore the same look when converting live sacrifices into Briarhearts, slowly cutting into the flesh and muscles of their victims for hours at a time, cackling as their near tangible terror of their sacrifices slowly faded as they finally removed their heart and replaced it with the briarheart, ending their suffering at long last. She had for so long been the bearer of such a look. So used to it being used against others. Now, it was directed towards her, and she finally understood the terror of her victims.
She brazenly lashed out at a nearby legionaire, desperate to, if not escape, at least take one of them with her. Unfortunately, there was no small victory in this defeat, for as soon as she made her move, her fate was sealed. Numerous blades carved into her body, sinking in deep and spilling torrents of vile ichor onto the stone beneath their feet, seemingly all of them dealing a death blow at once. She croaked one last cry of pain, anguish and defiance, before unceremoniously falling to the ground, a mess of ripped flesh and ichor.
This finally broke the Forsworn's morale, and they fell into an all out rout, being run down and slaughtered to the man by the legionaires. The huts of the Forsworn burned brightly that night, light bright enough to be seen from the Throat of the World. As the smoke of the fires swirled into the night sky, Imperius looked upon it all, and was satisfied that his men were avenged, but that did nothing to quell the grief in his heart at the loss of so many. Instead of dwelling on such dark thoughts, he turned his attention to Markarth, hoping beyond hope that this conquest will be without bloodshed for once, but knowing in his heart that it would be the bloodiest in the history of the Imperium. He prayed for the wisdom and strength to carry this out, and made his way towards the camp to retire for the night.
Another Chapter! Holy Terra, this took forever! School is currently Mike Tyson, and I'm the punching bag at the moment. So updates are gonna be a bit before being posted. Apologies. If you feel inclined to, I would implore you all to leave a review of the current state of the story so far. I would like to know the general consensus of how you all feel about this so far. I know that I've been more aloof than most authors regarding those that read my content, but I'm trying to change that, even though I have no idea how. Hope you enjoyed, and see you next chapter (published this at around 15, my goodness how time flies). Ciao!