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My ass ached from days parked on a wooden stool in front of the Mournful Throne. I had spent the last two weeks doing my best to investigate the abuses of Cidhana Mine. It was my plan to get as many people out as possible before Jarl Raerek returned. The investigation was only having limited success. I had released a handful of political prisoners and former Forsworn, but the mine was still packed with hardened criminals and Forsworn who lived only to kill more Nords.

I stood as Jarl Raerek approached his throne. The old man leaned on his housecarl's arm while his new steward, the Silver-Bloods' Imperial treasurer to my surprise, climbed the steps behind. "The Mournful Throne of the Reach awaits your justice, Lord of Markarth," I greeted him with the formula of the counts in Cyrodiil.

The aged Jarl nodded as he stood before his seat, "Well said Thane. Justice I shall give. Even to the Forsworn who live in my hold. Let it begin now. I hear you have been looking into the troubles of Cidhana Mine." He paused as he sat stiffly on the blood-stained throne. "Let the Silver-Blood be brought before me."

Thonar was writhing with fury as he was brought before Jarl Raerek and forcibly knelt on the steps at the Jarl's feet. He glared daggers up at old man. The Jarl spoke, "Thonar Silver-Blood, for the crime of giving aid to the enemies of your rightful Jarl. For employing intimidation and extortion on your peaceable neighbors throughout our Hold. For keeping the practice of slavery, an institution abhorrent to all decent peoples. I condemn you to exile. You shall live the rest of your days in the delvings of Cidhana Mine. Guards, remove this traitor from my sight."

Thonar roared and cursed as two of Markarth's soldiers dragged him from Understone Keep. He struggled and swore as he was hauled through the winding city streets. He stood silent in the main pit of his mine, the gates above him locked tight. Angry eyes glinted in the dim light. Thonar began to scream.

I felt like a dog let off the leash when I left Understone Keep and came just short of running out the door. The ambitious can run as many cities and empires as they please. I have a life to enjoy. The Companions had claimed the tall guard tower behind the Chapel of Dibella as their barracks or else crowded into Vilindrel Hall, the house that the Silver-Bloods bought me last year. After so much time living in a snowy ruin under fur tents, the cramped communal living paled in comparison to the luxury of having an actual roof. The news that I was relieved of city administration was greeted with a cheer before the Companions set to packing for the next campaign.

The 25th Colovian Legion under Legate Hrollod had sent a whole cohort wading through the springtime mud to Solitude and escort Jarl Raereck and his household back to his nephew's city. I presented myself to pay my respects and get whatever news or orders could be had.

Legate Hrollod handed me a letter with a broken seal, "I took the liberty of reading your orders, Quaestor," he said. I grumbled when I heard that, "The General wants you to marshal your men at Labyrinthian. You'll move south into Whiterun on the 15th of Second Seed. By then Falkreath will be under loyalist control. I'll be bringing my legion up from the south."

I considered for a moment, "That will leave my ass hanging open toward Dawnstar."

The Legate grinned, "While you spent the last month playing Jarl, the 42nd High Rock and the 77th Valenwood bull-rushed the Pale. The 77th will be on the road to your east and half the 42nd will be marching with you to set up a cordon north of the city. You'll link up with the 9th Skyrim at Whiterun's west tower."

By the way he spoke, you'd think the war was already won. I decided to sound impressed, "Holy shit sir."

"Indeed Quaestor. Tullius and Ulfric both know Whiterun is the key to Skyrim: whoever holds that city wins the war."

A hundred details flooded into my mind. I stood to attention and saluted, "By your leave sir."

The Legate returned my salute, "One last thing before you go: The General wanted me to pass a message to you: Your rival in Solitude has been hiring mercenaries. Watch your back."

I left the tent with yet another thing to worry about.

The Second Battle of Whiterun was almost a separate war in its own right. Most of the city's militia had fled with Jarl Balgruuf, leaving the city defended by a large garrison of Stormcloak soldiers. Vignar Gray-Mane held the jewel of Ulfric's crown with the strength of nearly 6,000 men and women.

Around this formidable fortress three legions and auxiliaries - nearly 18,000 soldiers - began to dig in. In the space of an afternoon the city sported a second wall of sharpened wooden piles and squat wooden towers. Preparation for the assault began early that evening. Legate Rikke, in overall command, ordered the construction of hundreds of ramps and ladders. She remembered the charnel house the gates had become for the attacking Stormcloaks during last year's battle and planned to ignore that deathtrap altogether. Sunrise was still hours away when the heavy infantry raced up the ramps and crashed down into the unfortunate city behind the walls of the Plains District. From our place in the camps a hundred yards away, Jarl Balgruuf and I could hear the thunder of the melee as cohort after cohort forced their way into the city.

The Companions and Balgruuf's men were among auxiliaries that night and would not be a part of the battle until the city was secure. We were to be an honor guard of sorts. I stood next to Irileth, watching Jarl Balgruuf fume. "Damn that Gray-Mane!" He grumbled, "He could have yielded the city to me!"

"He always wanted the throne," Irileth remarked.

I shook my head, "The decision might have been taken out of his hands. Keep in mind he did send me to you, Lord. That couldn't have made Ulfric happy. I'd guess Ulfric put the defense in the hands of a more trusted subordinate."

Irileth shot me a sidelong glance with her crimson eyes, "You don't actually believe that do you?"

I shrugged, "Vignar did me a big favor. If I can offer him a way out, I hope he can take it."

Balgruuf was only half listening. "I'd hoped my oldest Thane would hand the throne back to his lord. Now my city gets burned again!" He exclaimed as stains of black smoke began to rise from the Wind District.

I held no illusions about the conduct of the legionaries rampaging through the city. It's a perennial problem. No amount of summary executions, beatings, or crucifixions seem able to prevent hundreds of soldiers throwing off discipline and revenging themselves on the city that defied them. I guessed the number of Stormcloak prisoners and Legionaries executed after the battle was over would be about equal.

"Hopes seldom survive their first contact with reality," Irileth mused grimly.

We received another lesson in that truth a moment later when a chorus of distant horns winded from the north and south over the clamor of the nearby battle. Not the brassy sound of Imperial trumpets, but the wild, throaty noise of Stormcloak horns marching to break the cordon and relieve Whiterun. The dim predawn light revealed an army of Stormcloaks scarcely a quarter mile to the south of where Balgruuf and I stood beneath our banners. Instantly commanders all along the line of soldiers were screaming for their troops.

Balgruuf's captain drew his sword and held it high above his head, "Whiterun! Line on me! Face south!" Commander Caius bellowed.

Deeming Revenant unsafe for close order fighting, I drew my Legion-issue spatha instead and followed Commander Caius's example. "Companions! On me! Face south! Archers forward!" I called, joining the chorus of bellowing that echoed for a mile.

My 380 Companions and Balgruuf's 600 militia made a pitiful frontage; but as more and more of the Legion woke to the threat we were pushed to our left. As the cohorts assembled we found ourselves anchoring the line against the rebel army pouring down the hills from Riverwood. All through the Legion a single long blast of trumpets and whistles ordered the first assembled units to advance. More men and women assembled behind the broad, uneven line and knelt.

The Stormcloaks had spent the winter studying the lessons of last year's battles. Slingers stepped forward from the massive blocks of rebel battalions to harass our archers. In skilled hands the sling is a wicked weapon. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Instead of hurting the main body, our archers soon found themselves in an uneven contest with the Stormcloak skirmishers. Aela was among the skirmishers, out of sight as I touched my shield with Vilkas's. More than once as we advanced, my shield shuddered and a new pockmark was added to its face. I reflected for a moment that the red diamond on its white field made an excellent mark in the dim light for my enemies.

That thought ended a pace later when whistles and shouts recalled our skirmishers and the heavy legionnaires threw their javelins into the main body in three quick volleys. Before the third flight of spears impacted, the trumpets and whistles gave three quick blasts. In response we all began to run at the attacking army. That final ten-yard dash ended in a ferocious melee that tore narrow, bloody rents into the Stormcloak ranks. For all the spattered blood and screaming, the assault was as effective as breaking your opponent's nose in a fistfight. There was lots of blood, but no critical damage was done. Within a minute of the collision of the armies, a retreat was called.

My Companions and Balgruuf's militia turned and began running to the cohort that assembled behind us during the initial charge. I was almost to those legionnaires when I turned to see that all who could had reached safety. That was when I saw her. My friends tell me I screamed her name as I ran back to where I saw Aela on the ground between the armies, her body shattered by a dozen stones from the start of the fight. I don't remember dropping my sword and shield, but I was without weapons as I knelt down and cast Healing Hands on her damaged body. My housecarls made a ring around the two of us.

When my reserves of magicka ran dry I looked up to see the results of my awful decision making. Aela and I were now between the armies. Somewhere behind me I heard Vilkas bellowing orders for a boar's head as the blue-clad rebels began their approach. I stood and wiped the panicked sweat from my stinging my eyes. I picked up my weapons again, searching for a way to extract the six of us from this mess. Vilkas and the rest would not be able to reach us in time with the remnants of the Companions and I could shout my voice raw and still not turn the tide of thousands of soldiers before us.

As the sun rose I saw a flicker of movement over the distant Throat of the World. He was far away, but closer than any other help that could come in time.

"Od-Aah-Viing! Slay my enemies!" I called out to his soaring form.

The distant dragon roared his reply and came down with the rising sun at his back. He followed his Unrelenting Force Shout into the Stormcloaks like the tip of a terrible ruby spear. He drove the army before him like a shepherd. Word by word, Odahviing sent ruin before him. I gazed awestruck at the carnage until the Companions came around us. Vilkas was still shouting and Lydia's grip on my arm was like a vice as she dragged me away.