Ulfric marched up the stairs to the scaffold. The entire city combined with his and Queen Ahleen's armies pooled at the foot of it, eagerly awaiting his words. Thorunn and Galmar stood at his sides as he held up a hand to silence the crowd. "People of Skyrim," he called. "The Dominion rages our country and slaughters our people in the name of their power-hungry agenda to dominate all of Tamriel. There is not a person standing here today who has not lost a brother or friend to these elves. How long did we let them ravage our homes, usurp our Talos and hunt our families for sport?
"We defeated the Empire and claimed Skyrim's independence only a year ago. The Thalmor would see us chained once more under tyranny and bloodshed and dishonor. We lost over a thousand men during the seize of the Reach, but that number pales in comparison to the thousands of brothers and sisters they murdered and tortured for dreaming of a Skyrim where Talos is rightfully present. How many lives does it take to say no more? I say it now: No. More.
"Today we join forces with the mighty Alik'r to win Skyrim's freedom once and for all. Today, we do not fight for honor and glory. We fight for our fallen brothers and sisters. We fight for our children who deserve to walk a world that does not hate them. We fight for blood, for justice. For vengeance."
The army cheered their approval, banging the hilts of their axes against their shields.
Ulfric's voice rung out above it all. "Onward, men! For Skyrim!"
The units turned and began marching, blue garb joined with gold, the bear joined with the lion. Thorunn had sent for the Circle a week ago and they stood there now, awaiting her along with Altair. His wounds had healed and now he wore Stormcloak Officer armor. His blind eye made him look all the more intimidating with his bear's helm and enchanted Stalhrim daggers. Isha, Vunthar, Mulnak, Volediri, and Dra'hana were somewhere within the masses, being heeded by Kottir Red-Shoal.
Together, Skyrim's men and Hammerfell's reach about a total of twenty-five thousand, and this wasn't even the bulk of their armies. Hammerfell had another hundred-thousand back home and Skyrim neared the same number, but they couldn't spend every drop they had into one battle. Soldiers needed to protect the cities, as well, and guard the borders- especially now, with only one border not leading into Dominion territory.
Battles didn't win wars, either. The battle they marched to now was likely only the beginning. The Dominion would drive at them again and again, relentless until either they or the Nords were extinct or one or the other yielded. Skyrim would not bend a second time, not under Ulfric's reign.
Thorunn fell into stride among the vanguard, surrounded by her personal party. She'd be leading a charge into the right field while Queen Ahleen took the left and Ulfric the middle. Hammerfell's queen was nothing like the dainty girl who'd stepped off a jeweled litter some days ago. Now she stood in blood-stained light armor with two cutlasses hanging from a leather belt, her pretty hair and pretty face obscured behind a helmet. Behind that helmet lay a face hungry for battle.
She was delivering a speech to her warriors in the Redguard tongue, Yoku. Though Thorunn couldn't discern a single word, the effect of the speech was palpable. Doubt transitioned to certainty on the faces of her men; frowns to confident smirks; fear to courage.
Thorunn couldn't stay to watch. It was time to march. Her unit wasn't the one she would have chosen, but she did what was required of her. She was leading the archers, dogs, and light-armored warriors. They would be the first to hit and the first to be struck.
Following right behind would be Ulfric's unit- the vanguard, composed of the biggest and meanest the Stormcloaks had to offer. They were the berserkers, the fist of the army while the rest were mere fingers that came in to clean up the leftovers. Mages would follow as well, guarded by the shields of the warriors. While the archers hailed arrows and the dogs did their lightwork, hundreds and hundreds of seasoned warriors would charge through the lines.
Lastly would be Ahleen and her cutlasses. Mages and archers were among her numbers along with warriors and duel-wielders. They would be the last push, and most likely their last limb. Ahleen's unit was strategically the most diverse, put together with the hope that their combined forces would be the changers of the tide, should the battle not fall to Skyrim's favor.
...And if it did fall to Skyrim's favor, their march would not end with the last fallen elf. Vikkesia Hrethgir and Thongvor Silver-Blood had a lot to answer for. Ulfric had allowed Thongvor into their march, if only to lure him into a false sense of security. Ulfric had always liked the build-up. Psychological warfare was as much his game as physical.
And so they went.
It was a two day march to the Reach, where the Dominion nested. Thorunn spent the better half of those days whispering her Thu'um: "O-dah-viing," she'd say to no avail. "O-dah-viing." When she wasn't calling out to deaf ears, she was calling out to Talos for strength, to Mara for protection, to Akatosh for guidance. With the weight of battle looming over her, her mind would have her believe that not even her Gods heard her, but if she were to get through this, she needed to remain vigilant.
The battle that ensued was longer than the march and thrice as dooming. Ulfric's army surrounded the Dominion's camps, hailing arrows and spells and deploying blades and axes and dogs. To Thorunn's left, an Alik'r warrior took down three elves in one stroke, and to her right, a Stormcloak berserker obliterated an elven mage with a battleaxe. Destriers rode into battle on armored hooves, bringing with them fierce riders and a thunderous roar of movement. Altair didn't seem to be hindered by his bad eye; he fought as ferociously as Thorunn had ever seen him, more even.
As for herself, she poured her reserve into every slash. A kill here, a kill there, several corpses here and thrice that number there. It was a methodical rhythm of bashing her shield, thrusting her sword, dodging a fireball, Shouting a fireball, jumping to the defense of a brother, joining the offense of another. Her armor was slick with blood and chunks of flesh as the earth was slick with gore and heavy with corpses, many of them wearing blue but more of them wearing gold. Stormcloak archers hailed from clifftops and ridges; Alik'r cutlasses disappeared into the shadows only to appear a moment later with their blades sunk into the flesh of an elf; Winterhold mages pierced hundreds of unsuspecting chests with ice spikes or electricity; destriers trampled the wounded and their riders inflicted the wounded.
All was going well- until night fell. That was when Farkas's movement started adopting a familiar ferocity, and Thorunn's panic soared enough to make her abandon her opponent and rush to her companion's side. "Farkas!" she bellowed, taking up the opponent on his flank.
"I got it under control!" he returned, but there was a growl in his voice that didn't sit well with her.
"Farkas..." She met the elf's blade with her own, parried it, and shoved her sword into their gut before they could make a comeback.
"I got it!"
Then his armor started to break. He opened his mouth and screamed, out of agony and rage and hunger. His eyes- once blue, now yellow -turned unto Thorunn, helpless and pleading. "Get out of here," she ordered, but it was too late. He made to turn and run and merely fell to his knees, his screams growing louder and his armor growing more strained.
"No," Thorunn bellowed. "Get back! All of you!" There was no use. This was a war, and if it wasn't a bloodbath already, it was going to be.
"Farkas!" This voice belonged to Vilkas, Thorunn discovered when she turned her head. There was a wound in his thigh and another on his brow.
When she looked back, she was looking at a twisted beast, seven feet tall and covered in scraggly brown fur, foot-long talons stretching out from its fingers. Its appearance paled in comparison to the look in its eye; there was hunger, aye, but there was pain.
And there was death. Whatever hesitation the sight of a werewolf caused the battlefield, it turned to panic when Farkas started attacking. Stormcloak, Alik'r, Altmer- it made no difference. Flesh was flesh and Farkas wanted it all. Battle cries turned to screams of panic, destriers reared and knocked their riders off only to trample them in their attempts to flee.
This was a mistake, Thorunn thought as she started backing away, rigid with horror. This was my fault, bringing them here.
Suddenly she understood Ulfric's burdens. A choice, he'd called soldiers. Every man he defeats, he must choose whether that man lives or dies, whether to deliver the killing blow or keep walking.
Farkas kept killing, and Thorunn kept hesitating. Her blade weighed heavy in her right hand. Four Stormcloaks fell to one swipe of Farkas's mangled talons. The beast blood would run thick for hours at this rate, perhaps until morning, and she knew she couldn't afford that.
"Harbinger!" Vilkas growled from behind her. "Don't!"
Do I still have a choice, Ulfric? she thought. She wondered where he was, and if he was watching her hesitation. She could turn and run and leave her people to the mercy of a beast that would tear at them again and again with godly stamina and even more godly speed; or she could charge and thrust her blade through the beast's backside, saving an army but dooming a friend.
No, she decided. I suppose I don't have a choice.
She made to charge.
A hand grabbed her arm and she whipped around to meet it with her blade, only to discover it was Ulfric. "Don't," he warned.
"What the hell do you mean 'don't'?" Thorunn demanded. "Our men are dying by the hundreds."
"So are the elves."
Horror struck her heart. Had it really come to this? "No," she declared. "No. That isn't right." Sacrificing their men to defeat their enemies for the greater good... that wasn't how they did things. That wasn't the way of the Nords.
"War isn't right. Turn away." Ulfric Stormcloak glowered at her. "That's an order."
She heard a beastly growl in the distance, followed by more screaming, more confusion, more panic, more dying. This isn't right. "Our men..."
"...know what they signed up for," he finished. "Turn away, Stormblade."
"They signed up for liberty, not for slaughter."
He continued to glower.
Gods be good, it truly has come to this. She yanked her arm free and shoved past him, in the opposite direction of the chaos she was leaving behind. How many lives does it take to say no more? she wondered.