Balgruuf

The screams of horses and the shouts of men echoed in the valley road, but my eyes did not leave the man that was my father. Spurring my horse forward, a chestnut colored stallion, I broke into a full gallop towards his position. Around me, men screamed and yelled as arrows both bone-tipped and steel-tipped rained down at horse and rider, rocks from heavy stones to boulders fell, and flaming stacks of hay were tossed down, spreading fire and panic through the lines.

Nearing him, my heart sank when I saw his legs and his horse was crushed underneath a rock. His face was pink in exertion as he tried and failed to push the rock of him. I wondered on where the hell were the mages were that was supposed to ward him but then I realized wards while incredible, had no defence for a boulder the size of fuck you. Around him, his honor guard and housecarl had formed up a shield wall around him and was also trying to get the rock of him.

"Father!" I cried out, my concern for my father drowning out my discipline as an officer.

"Do not concern yourself with me!" Heorot groaned. "This army cannot fall to chaos. Deal with the Reachmen and get us victory!"

A part of me protested, and wanted to bring him out of the battle. But I had to ignore that, and listen to the officer inside of me. I turned and found the men of his guard looking at me, their eyes asking me for orders. My mind went to work quickly.

We were at a massive disadvantage, with most of the army unfit to fight in the narrow mountain road but what they had were discipline and arms, and I was going to use that to get us victory.

Quickly, a plan formed in my head.

"Raise high the Horse standard, the House that rules Whiterun still lives!" I bellowed at the top of my lungs.
"Go the back of the lines and tell our infantry to abandon our baggage train and withdraw quickly, but not hastily!" I yelled out. The rider nodded and sped off to the back.

"Your orders for us, my lord?" asked another rider. I glanced at him, and noted that he wore the armor of the guard.

"Free my father and withdraw, as for the rest, we follow the slope to the top and engage the Reachmen briefly. Be prepared to withdraw on my command!" I roared, spotting the burning trails left behind by the hay. The riders all glanced at each other in confusion, before understanding dawned. Steel formed in the eyes of the riders as they unsheathed their swords, tightened their grips on their lances and unslung their bows from their backs.

Hundreds of horsemen galloped up the slope, their hooves drumming on the rocky earth. As we formed our lines, the Reachmen skirmishers were retreating into the distance, where I saw the Reachmen infantry, at least five companies worth arranged in a sort of U-formation facing down at us. Most were armored lightly, tunics or gambesons over chainmail. But at the center of their lines were bronze armored Reachmen, and a banner whose design I hadn't seen before. Soon, our ranks were formed in the standard battle formation, horse-achers at the front and lancers at the back.

"Order the first ranks to advance and harass the enemy," I ordered to a nearby rider. He then took out his horn, and the crescent shaped instrument sang. Soon, a few more joined, then a hundred. And straightway all the horns in the host were lifted up in music, and the blowing of the horns of Whiterun in that hour was like a storm upon the valley and a thunder in the mountains. The first ranks of horse-archers charged, their mounts whinnying in the mountain air.

As they advanced forward, their riders loosed arrows at the Reachmen. The air whistled with arrows flying and soon, there were screams from the Reachmen.

"Send forward the second ranks! Keep the pressure up!" I yelled. The same rider from before nodded and blew his horn, and the second rank blew their horns back. They advanced, their riders steely-eyed as they joined the fray. The first wave of horse-archers drew back right before contact with the enemy and turned. As they did, the riders twisted their bodies around, loosing arrows just as effectively as if they were facing them front-faced.

This battle-tactic was called the Parthian Shot, a hit-and-run tactic developed by the Parthians, the successors of the Achaemenid Persian Empire. Such a tactic was effectively used to harass the enemies of Persia, and now, it was being used to harass the enemies of Whiterun and by extension, the Empire. Despite being separated by literal universes, some things remained the same with cultures.

The Reachmen, for their part, did not take the onslaught sitting down. They replied with their own arrows, or lobbed ice spikes, fireballs, and other ranged magicka at the horse-archers. As they traded blows, my mind wandered into thinking. Where the hell was Irileth and why hadn't she warned us about the ambush? I had assigned her and other men to be forward scouts for us and they had done splendid work sighting out potential ambushes.

Where the hell was she now?

I shook my head out of my thoughts. As much as I worried for her, I had to focus on the battle now.

Looking back, the second rank had harrased the reachmen and were now pulling back, as they did, the first rank returned to loosen their own arrows. Beside me, I could feel the men getting anxious, their body language screaming at them to join in the battle. These men were Nords, and battle roused something in their blood. I saw it in their eyes. The gripping of weapons, the half-lidded stare. Honestly, the battle too was getting me excited and I wanted nothing more but to sound a charge to ride down the Reachmen. But I had to keep myself, and my men in check. If my plan were to work, we all had to keep discipline. And so, we sat on our saddles, watching as our horse-archers peppered the Reachmen with arrows then retreat. I had to give the Reachmen credit though. They still hadn't broke from the onslaught.

It was then I heard a rider coming up from behind me. Turning around, I saw that he was wearing the armor of my father's guard. He strode next to me and saluted. I saluted back.

"My lord," he started breathlessly. "We have recovered the Jarl and he is absconded back. The infantry have also left the valley, and are awaiting further orders."

For the first time since the battle began, I smiled.

"Good!" I said cheerily. I then turned to the same rider from earlier. "Sound the retreat." A few younger faced riders turned to me, confusion in their eyes. The older men and women however grinned. A horn was raised, and it sang once more. Without a word, we all turned our horses and rode off. From behind us, I could hear the horse-archers following us.

As we rode down the slope we had climbed up on, and went pass our dead and our wagons brimming with supplies, I couldn't suppress the excited giggle that went out my lips.

Oh how much I loved this part of the job.

His father was stagnant.

Oh, he knew that his father, Madanach, meant well. There was simply no way for them to fight two invading armies at the same time. The best thing that they could do was to simply harass the invaders as they slowly made their way into their homeland while conserving the rest of their strength in the city where they could simply outlast the invaders.

When they had risen up in Markarth, they had managed to do so in such a quick and efficient way that the stores of the city was left intact. And such, they had resources and time on their hands to outlast the marauding Nords. Their stores were full, their supplies greater, and their patience even more so. The invaders had to contend with paying and supplying their soldiers and endure the hardships of a siege meanwhile getting picked off one by one by skirmishers.

It was a good strategy. It was a sensible strategy.

And it was a unreactive one.

Homuldrud respected his father, having reigned over his people long and respectably. And under his leadership, they had managed to overrun the Nords in a single uprising what had took their people centuries to do so. But, he was so infuriatingly slow, and couldn't grasp the politics of the outsiders.

With the Nordic High King declaring his people enemies of Skyrim, and having the tacit approval of the higher Imperial authorities, they could kiss his father's earlier plans goodbye. They were now enemies of the state and as such, would be treated accordingly by the punitive expedition that was being sent their way. They couldn't just wait it out, they had to take up arms and fight.

The reasoning was simple. They had to win a battle, a big and glorious one, to convince the Nords and the Empire that the Reach was home to a people that was fierce and free. If they could make an example of any of the invading armies, the already exhausted Empire would have no choice but to recognize the Reach as a independent kingdom. The Nords would seethe, of course, but they were an enemy that his people could handle. Their people could handle a hostile Skyrim, having done so for as long as they could remember.

What did Skyrim have to offer them, when there were other provinces that was richer and more prosperous than Skyrim? Their kinsmen in High Rock had culture and wealth that his people needed, Hammerfell would no doubt have need of talented fighters for their armies in their war against the Dominion, as well as ingots to make weapons and armor. And Markarth just had endless stores of dwarven ingots just ripe for smithing.

The future for his people was bright, and just in reach in front of them. All they had to do was take it. And plus, his wife had just given birth to his daughter and he wanted nothing more for his first-born to breathe free air now, rather than later.

And so, with the support of his friends, he delivered his speech in his father's court, urging for them all to act and intercept one of the two Nordic armies on their way.

He was heartened to see when important members of the court agreed. With their support, his father had no choice but to concede to an interception. As soon as his father nodded, Homuldrud went to planning.

The Nordic army invading from the North consisted of the remnants of Markarth's Nordic armies as well as a mercenary company of Redguards. From the east, a primarily cavalry based force from Whiterun. The Prince of the Reach considered his options. While the northern army was smaller in number, roughly eight thousand strong, the Nords would most likely be much more difficult to fight than last time, having wised up to their tactics. The army from Whiterun on the other hand had more men and horses in them, but they were a cavalry based forced.

And cavalry does not do well in mountains.

And so, he ordered the Reach to march to war, against the men of Whiterun. He had clad himself in the bronze-armor of a Nordic Jarling, and had taken the man's weapons for his own. Marching alongside him were six-thousand men, a good portion of his kingdom's host.

As they marched, Homuldrud could not help but feel hope and excitement for the first time in his life. Once they won the battle, the Nords would retreat and he could swing his army to deal with the remaining invading force. Once victory was achieved, a treaty would have to be written down and the Reach would be free. Once that would happen, oh how he had so much plans he wanted to pursue.

Homuldrud was not blind. He knew that his people were seen as barbarians and savages, no thanks to their traditions. And once peace was assured, Homuldrud had every intention to prepare his people for the future. The practice of briar-hearts was to be no more, and communing with the wise hags was now to be illegal. The more…bloodier parts of their religion would have to be moderated.

Homuldrud swore that he would give everything, even his life, so that his people, and his daughter, will have a future that would not only have them live prosperously, but even better than he and his father ever did.
Before all that could happen though, he had an army to defeat.

The plan was simple. Intercept the Nords in a select valley road and throw everything they had at them. If the Nords engaged them, then they would meet them on a slope, pikes in hand. His army would have every advantage, being up hill and having the Nords ride up to them, which would no doubt tire them out. Homuldrud had travelled Skyrim before, and he saw how the men of Whiterun conducted warfare. They could rain arrows on them from their horse-archers but the incline of the slope would not only tire their horses but also make sure their arrows would fall short of their targets. Their heavy lancers could also charge them but the energy of their charge would be negated by the climb they would have to do.

And so he and his army waited, for the invaders to arrive. And arrive they did, in full force and splendor.

Golden banners fluttering in the valley wind, armor shining in the light, and lance-heads glinting. Homuldrud thanked the gods that they were fighting them in the mountains rather than the plains. He doubt that he and his army could survive even to the best of their ability. There were some problems however, as an advanced force of scouts led by some Dunmer had chanced upon his army.

Thankfully, they were chased off into a different direction and the secrecy of their ambush was preserved.
And speaking of ambush, as soon as the Nords halted thanks to the roadblock they had set up, Homuldred gave the signal and the Reachmen attacked.

He wasn't exactly someone that enjoyed needless cruelty, but had to admit the cries of dying Nords and the screaming of their horses had a certain spell to it. Arrows were loosed, rocks were dropped, burning hay was rolled down, traps were activated, and magicka was thrown at the Nords below them. His spirit grew as horse and rider fell, an arrow piercing them, a rock rushing them, or having them tumble off the cliffside at their rear. He swore he saw the banner of the Jarl fall, and thought that victory was at their grasp, but the banner was later raised and the Nords stopped panicking, instead they turned their own arrows at the Reachmen and were readying their weapons.

So, a battle it was.

Homuldrud then signaled his force of skirmishers to retreat back into the high-ground, where the rest of his army stood ready. It was just in time too as the Nords had rallied and were now charging up at the slope. They didn't pursue him and his men however, content to form their lines at the bottom. As soon as Homuldrud rejoined the rest of his army, the Nords rode up the hill, horns singing in the mountain side. Despite them being enemies, the Prince of the Reach had to admit it was quite a magnificent sight. He had to moderate his admiration though, and ordered his men to stand their ground. As the Nords neared, he could see that they were horse-archers and Homuldrud had guessed their intent immediately.

"Shields!" he yelled. He knew that the arrows would fall short but he didn't want to take any chances. The Nords let loose, and the arrows flew. Most landed a distance in front of them, but a lucky few managed to get at the front of his lines.

"Brace, and return volleys!" the prince yelled. His men roared back, and let loose their own bows. Rider and horse fell, the Reachmen's arrows able to travel further and faster thanks to them going downhill. For awhile, time seemed to be lost the prince, they kept up the exchange. The Nords rushing up and down to let rain arrows, only for them to suffer casualties from the Reachmen's own bows and magicka. Steadily, they were losing more horsemen each attack they pursued and Homuldrud briefly thought that they were insane to keep up their attacks while only whittling down his forces with an arrow here and there.

Then, the Nords sounded a horn and just as quickly as they arrived, they turned tail and fled.

Homuldrud could hardly believe it.

They…won?

When the reality of their situation finally hit, his army slowly broke out into cheers and finally, they cried out at the top of their lungs. They could hardly believe it. The Nords were driven off!

Homuldrud on the other hand was suspicious. It all looked so…easy. The Nords still had plenty more horsemen to spare, and they could still have charged up the slope to engage his army, but the Prince concluded that the enemy commander realized that doing so would be folly. Little by little, Homuldrud allowed himself to hope and ordered his men to stand their ground, just in cast it was all a feint. And so they waited, and waited, until finally the sun had run its course, and was to set in a few hours. Even if their throats thirsted for water and their bellies cried out for food, he hadn't allowed his army to move. Finally, Homuldrud decided that they had waited long enough and ordered a force to advance and survey the damage downhill.

The men moved, and his army waited. For awhile, they heard nothing but the marching of feet on the earth as a the advance force marched downhill. For a few more anxious minutes, they heard nothing else, then screaming. Eyes widening, Homuldrud thought that they were caught in a trap, then he saw smoke rising from below and the sweet sweet delicious smell of meats being roasted. Despite himself, Homuldrud couldn't help it as his mouth watered. Each man and woman under his command had their senses honed thanks to their training. Their hearing was clearer, their sense of smell sharper.
And they all smelled beef being roasted slowly over a fire.

"The army shall advance below." Homuldrud finally ordered. And so, they crept down the hill, their paces fast and their tongues licking their lips. Eventually, the arrived downhill and saw that the advance force had ignored the bodies of dead Nords, and had helped themselves to the left behind wagons brimming with supplies. The men and women were laughing, feasting, and drinking away at the left behind impedimenta.

And like hungry beasts, the army lost its discipline, having not ate and drank for the entire day, and joined the feast. Men and women either sheathed their weapons or dropped them entirely to paw at the barrels of mead and ale; to get at the salted pork, the corned beef, the wine, or to pocket at the chestfuls of Septims that was the pay for the Nord's army. The only ones that still held their discipline were his own guard, who were slightly more professional than the normal Reachmen. Still, Homuldrud could see they were faltering at the sight of the bounty before them.

And so, he made his decision.

"Let the men have their fill, and once we have finished, we shall take the loot back to Markarth."

And so, they all descended on the abandoned loot. They ate, they drank, they made merry. Homuldrud on the other hand, drank and ate little. A part of him was still suspicious on how easy their victory was, and he did not want to partake in the feast when they were still out of Markarth. It was all so…suspicious. The Nords had retreated, yes, but their retreat was so…orderly.

Then, he felt it.

A slight vibration on the rocks.

At first, he thought that he was only seeing things as he had drunk some fine wine. Cup in hand, he stood from a overturned box he was using as a chair and wandered to the cliff wall. Dropping his cup, he walked and placed a hand on the stone.

Vibrations. And they were getting stronger by the minute. Was there an earthquake happening? Taking off his helmet, the Prince of the Reach placed his ear against the stone to better figure out what was going on.
Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.

CLIP. CLOP. CLIP. CLOP. CLIP. CLOP.

The Prince pulled himself back and noticed pebbles on the valley road shaking and rolling. All his worst fears were confirmed as his gut screamed at him.

It was all a trap.

The Nords were coming.

"TO ARMS, REACHMEN, TO ARMS! WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!" Homuldrud roared out as he hastily put on his helmet and unsheathed his sword.

Just as he screamed out in horror, he heard the bloody screams of men and women, the deathly cry of horses, and the deafening song of warhorns.

Around him, men who were still sober enough to stand rushed to get to their weapons and arm themselves, but the horsemen were upon them. Hooves thumped on the earth as the riders, silent as the grave, thundered through the Reachman lines. Illuminated by the fires of still cooking meats, Homuldrud caught sight of the golden banner of Whiterun fluttering in the wind as a rider came upon him, his lance glinting against the fire.

The last thing he thought of, was his daughter sleeping in the arms of her mother, as the rider gored him through with his lance.

That night, the valley ran red with blood.

I looked down on the bound men and women kneeling before me.

"Present me their leader," I commanded from horseback.

One of the Reachmen glanced up at me, hatred in his eyes. "Our lord is a Prince!" he spat, reddish liquid leaving his bloodied lip. He was too low however, and the liquid was spread on the floor. For his impudence, a nearby guard delivered a kick into his stomach. The man moaned in pain as he fell front-face onto the dirt.

For a moment, I glanced up to scan the aftermath of the battle, and it was the picture perfect image of desolation.

Carrion birds squawked as they feasted on the dead, or perched themselves on where they could, patiently waiting to dive onto the dead being piled by stone-faced Nords. They had their work cut out for them, as the dead were many. Equipment and loot were going to be piled and distributed as a reward to those who proved themselves in the battle. I coughed as the wind picked up and the noxious smell of death punched it's way into my nose. This was always the part of the battle that was difficult, taking in the odor of sweat, blood, and suffering. It was difficult to build-up a resistance to at first, and the first time I had vomited my breakfast on the floor.

I mean, it takes a special kind of stomach to tolerate the aftermath of a battle. I forced myself to get used to the smell though, as I was going to see shit like this in the future and being queasy about it wasn't going to help me in the future.

I turned back from looking at the dead and back into the kneeling Reachmen under me. As I did, a pair of men approached us carrying a stretcher, on it was a body wrapped with the Reachmen's banner, and on it was a bronze-tinted helmet.

Immediately, I recognized who the body might be. And so did the Reachmen, as they wailed as the stretcher-bearers got closer.

Honestly, it was rather difficult to not feel sorry for these guys. They had dreams of freedom and we basically just crushed it. And plus, seeing other humans crying their hearts out also was, well, difficult to not feel sorry for as well. But I had to remember that these were Reachmen, who worshiped deplorable Daedra and did deplorable shit in their name. Plus, what I had done and will do was for the benefit of Whiterun. I had to think of my people and Hold first rather than these guys.

"Take the body, and burn it," I commanded. My men nodded and walked off to perform the function.

"What shall be done with the prisoners, my lord?" Wiglaf asked from my side, the commander of the Guard having joined me after accounting the men. I glanced to him, then back towards the Reachmen. Some were wailing, others were giving the stare of death. A few were expressionless. I thought of my options first, then I spoke.

"Take them prisoner. I want men to figure out their identities first and see what information they have. They might know something we don't," I ordered. Despite my meta knowledge and having the Markarth Nords with us, there might be details that we didn't know such as troop numbers, defenses that the Reachmen might have set-up, and other surprises.

With that, the guards around the Reachmen barked at them to stand, and lead them away. With that matter settled, I grabbed hold of my horses' reigns and urged it forward. "What is the situation with the supply wagons?" I asked

"The Reachmen managed to pilfer through most of them, my lord," Wiglaf reported. "The remaining supplies left will last us three days at least, four if we ration them."

My face fell. At time like this, the options were to raid, forage, or purchase supplies. Each of these options had their risks especially in a still-hostile Hold such as the Reach. Fortunately, we had a supply depot set up in Fort Sungard.

"Send riders to the depot at Fort Sungard and have them send us supplies. They have two days," I commanded. With that, Wiglaf glanced back at a pair for riders who nodded and sped off. Turning away, I glanced down at a pair of Nords picking up a fallen rider who had burns all over his armor from the road.

"What are our casualties?" I asked.

"Two-hundred dead, horse and rider. Some are unaccounted for, fallen off the cliffs. The rest are wounded, my lord," Wiglaf answered. I sucked in a breath. it wasn't too big of a loss relatively speaking but we needed every single man and woman available for the upcoming siege. You simply must outnumber the defenders if you want to take a castle. You have to.

The greatest casualty of the battle so far had been Father. I've yet to speak to my old man about what he was going to do now, with both of his legs crushed. I've seen Restoration magic at world and saw the wounds it could heal but I doubt Restoration magic could heal the sheer amount of trauma that was inflicted on his legs.

If we could find someone who could do that, I'd make sure that they'd be rewarded beyond their wildest dreams. At the College of Mages perhaps?

That reminds me, I would have to deal with the College pretty soon. My memory was a bit fuzzy if the Collapse had occurred or not but the College would no doubt welcome a investment into their institution, and Whiterun could always use more mages.

It was then I noticed a commotion from the front of our lines, riders coming at a frantic pace. The guards around me reached for their weapons but I halted them when I saw a streak of red hair coming close.

Irileth looked like she had seen better days, and so did her horse and the scouts that accompanied her. They were haggard and bloodied, with grime and dust on their armor. A rider had a bandage wrapped around his eye, and another rider had a bloodied stump right where his right arms was. It was pretty impressive he had managed to ride with one arm.

"Irileth. You're late," I noted as my Nightblade halted her horse right in front of me.

"I deeply apologize, my lord," Irileth breathed out. "The scouts and I had encountered the gauntlet before you and they surrounded us. We had no choice but to fight our way forward. We rode back when we were confident that we were no longer followed. We will accept whatever punishment you have for us, for failing to return and warn you of the ambush." With that, she bowed her head, and so did the other riders. The armless rider groaned as he struggled to bow.

"You do realize that you failing to return endangered the army," I spoke slowly, not mentioning that my old man would be possibly paralyzed for the rest of his life. Irileth tensed on her saddle and I could see her gripping her reins.

I sighed. She probably thought I was going to go execute her or some shit. I mean, their failure to report back resulted in the army getting ambushed and having the Jarl's legs crushed. The legion would have had them lashed, and more zealous commanders would have cut their heads off.

I was not so zealous however, and to execute them would be a waste of their talents and my time.

Plus, they were ambushed as well and didn't exactly have a choice.

"It is good that you have returned. I shall hear your report fully first before I shall decide on anything. Get yourselves cleaned, food, and rest. For now, the army shall continue to march to Markarth just as planned," I commanded. The riders let out a breath and looked relieved.

It was also at that moment the armless rider slid out from his saddle and collapsed on the ground.

"So, you got ambushed."

The army got moving as soon as possible. Sitting still in a vulnerable as hell valley didn't sit right with me and the sooner we got to Markarth and linked up with the other Nordic armies, the better.

Irileth slumped on her saddle, her expression every bit dejected as she reported to me what had happened the day before.

"Yes, my lord. We had ridden on that road when we found ourselves surrounded on all sides by the Reachmen. It was as if they just...spawned from the rocks," Irileth sighed. "We had no choice but to push through the gauntlet or we would all be killed."

"How did you not detect them? Surely you could have heard them from a mile away?" I asked.

Irileth gripped her reigns. "At normal circumstances, I could have. I suspect that they had used Illusion spells to shield their forces. If only I was better at magicka I could have detected it!" Irileth hissed.

I stayed silent, lending my ear to Irileth as she spoke. I was pretty miffed that Iri hadn't shown up to warn us about the ambush, but she frankly had a legit reason why. Giving her too much shit for it would be a miscarriage as far as I was concerned. I was still intending to censure her though.

"I put your life, and that of your father at risk, my lord." she whispered bitterly. "Maybe it is best if I-"

"Don't even think about it, Irileth," I cut in.
"How can I call myself your shadow if I canno-" Irileth tried to protest. I cut her off once more.

"Irileth, listen. I understand why you'd feel that way. But look, you couldn't have possibly predicted that ambush, neither could you have warned us considering the circumstance. That does not diminish your skills either way. In fact, you managed to save the lives of your men. That is commendable at least," I spoke succinctly, thinking back to the armless rider from earlier. Dude was practically being held together by what little Restoration magicka that Irri knew. When he collapsed, it was because Irileth had literally ran out of magicka.

That was impressive at least.

"But I-" Irileth whispered.

"Look, you're still going to get a punishment, don't mistake that. I'm not going to let you off lightly from this as father, myself, and the army was put at risk. However, don't you ever think that your skills are lacking simply from something you had no control over. You are a talented nightblade. Don't forget that," I said with some finality. I wasn't down to let those under me let themselves be consumed by doubt or some shit. It was a waste of their time and talents. Better to nip it in the bud before they get carried away.

"My lord..." Irileth whispered.

For the next few minutes, we did not speak. The clip-clop of hooves, the creaking of wheels, and the clinking of armor dominating our ears. I took the chance to turn my attention to my father, who was riding ahead of us looking every bit the Jarl he was.

Earlier, we had the army's best healer examine him. After looking him over, the Breton's expression told me everything I needed to know.

"My lord, the rock has effectively...crushed your legs. I will do what I can for your leg, but at this point, only the most talented in the art of Restoration can restore some semblance of function," the breton looking healer said, trying his best to be as apologetic as possible.

Silence permeated the command tent. Only father's inner council was permitted to be inside. The Jarl of Whiterun glanced at his legs, then back at the healer.

"I wish to know something," he spoke gravelly. His tone set me on edge.

"Yes, my lord?" tensed the healer.

"Does my tool still work?" he asked abruptly.

We stared at the Jarl of Whiterun.

"Um...yes?" squeaked the man.

He smiled contentedly as he lounged on his chair. "Then when we return home, my wife will not be too angry at me then."

Fuck's sake, dad.

Anyway, everyone in the council recommended him to sit back and return to Whiterun, or if he still wanted to participate, head back to Fort Sungard and lead the war effort from there.

He flat out refused.

"A Jarl must be there for his men. I am ordering these men to die for me. I must be there for them." He stated with finality.

The court stood still, silently gnashing our teeth as father kept to his decision stubbornly.

"Then, what about a compromise?" I said blithely as I rubbed my head in frustration.

"What do you have in mind, my lord?" Unferth asked me.

"If father insists to stay and command, he shall. But when it comes to battle, he must stay in the rear," I eased out. For the first time since I've returned, he frowned.

"I will not sit back and lounge while my soldiers fight and die. I will fight," the Jarl of Whiterun interjected.

"My lord, you are...injured," I sent back, biting my tongue before I could say crippled but everyone in the tent was thinking it. " We do not doubt your skills, father. But with your injury, it will only cause more harm than good."

"Aye, my lord," Wiglaf added. "You are still a warrior, but to fight while so gravelly injured will not only endanger yourself, but also the men."

For a while, father sat silently. Then finally, he looked into my eyes.

"You still follow my commands?" he asked. I straightened my back and saluted.

"I am still your faithful servant, my lord!" I said aloud.

"Then your Jarl commands you, lead this army to victory." he said with finality.

There were many reasons why Father refused to call it a day, but principally, I chalked it up to him not wanting to be seen as weak. I reasoned that morale would plummet if the Jarl wouldn't be seen by the guys leading them. He must have to keep up the façade of command so that the guys below would feel much more secure. A cripple leading men into a siege would be a bad look not only for the army but also for our allies.

Judging by the look he sent me after the meeting, the discussion was not over.

But that discussion would have to wait however, for the army suddenly stopped marching. Bringing myself out of my thoughts, I looked up to see that we had stopped at a fork in the road.

And on the fork was an opposite army with banners of a Ram.

We've finally linked up with the army of the Reach.

The objectives of the war were simple. Invade the Reach, Link up with the other Army then march to Markarth as one.

Now, we just had to complete the next part of our war goals.

Besiege Markarth.

Then win.

?

"Curse this infernal cold!" His niece yelled as she gave up trying to light the fire with her tools and poured forth a stream of flames at their campfire. The inferno did its work, and they felt their spirits lift as the fire warmed their bones.

He shook his head and tutted. "Niece, we must not use magicka so brazenly. We are after all, simple travellers. Next time, do learn how to use your tools effectively."

His niece glared at him and frowned. "Then why didn't you do it?"

He laughed as he leaned back on his chair. "Because my soldiering days are done, and you need to learn how to rely on your practical skills."

"But magicka is a practical skill," pouted his niece.

"To us maybe, but not to the Nords. If you want to succeed here, you must learn how to rely on your own hands to thrive," he advised her sagely. He considered dumping water on the fire for his niece to try again but thought better of it as the cold bit at him, despite them having the best cloaks that their money could buy and having his niece cast a nice warmth spell to enhance their protection from the frost.

Skyrim's chill was infamous for a reason.

"I care not for the Nords. We are only here for vengeance and that is all," his niece stated with finality. "Once we are finished, we are coming home."

He hummed for a moment, considering her words. Ironically, his niece was at her safest so far from their homeland. The influence of...them still hadn't reached this far out.

Yet.

Well, as long as nothing too explosive politically happened, he can focus on keeping his niece safe from the usurpers and traitors that dominated his homeland. And with that, he cast his gaze down the road. The spot they chose for camp was on a hill overlooking a road. A perfect site for travelers looking to rest their weary heads.

With the clear night sky, the idyllic view of the mountains and forests, he felt that he would be sleeping well tonight. He stopped those thoughts however as his ears and sight picked up orange lights coming up the road. His years of experiences and senses all noted the men as soldiers.

"What do you see, uncle?" His niece asked him, noting the alert look on his face.

"Oh, there are Nords at the road below us. They are not coming up here so we are fine." he replied.

"Should...should we be worried?" His niece asked with some concern. Despite her bravado and skills, there were just some things she hadn't experienced yet. He swore with every fiber of his being that she would be kept safe from such things until she was ready.

"Oh no, not at all. They must be marching off to Skyrim's western border. The Nord's High King has decreed that these 'Reachmen' must face justice. Did you not see the notices and the whispers from the travellers we've met?" He asked her.

"Their politics do not interest me," she said, her arms crossed.

"Politics is boring yes, but if you wish to thrive in a place, you must at least know who are in charge and what they will bring in their rule. That way, you will have a headstart over your enemies," He explained as best as he could.

His niece hmphed as she turned her back on him, walking off to set up her own tent. As she did so, he turned back to the Nords who were now in full view, their faces stoic as they marched forward, armor clinking and banners fluttering.

He took note of the banners, a roaring bear on blue, and resolved to ask from which Hold those banners might be from.

It might be important in the future.

A/N: More updoots