Irileth/Jarl Heorot/Balgruuf
They arrived at Markarth late in the afternoon. She was riding ahead on the column when they marched up the fork road that connected Markarth with the rest of Skyrim. She first saw the bronze domed roofs, then as the army drew closer, she saw the towers, the walls, and the massive bronze gates of Markarth.
The city was massive, the Dwemer having built it after cutting through the mountain's face and using the stone to form the outer layer of Markarth. At its left was another wall, from whom a crevice flowed water.
At that point, the sun was setting and in the orange glow of the setting sun, Markarth loomed ominously like it was a fortress of evil.
From her reading of its history, it was once a city of the Dwemer, her people's ancient enemy. When the Dwemer mysteriously vanished, the city was abandoned until the Reachmen moved in. They occupied it until Balgruuf's ancestor, Olaf One-Eye, became High King and expelled the Reachmen. Now, the Reachmen had pushed the Nords out and it was up to the combined armies of Whiterun and Jarl Hrofldir's survivors to restore Nord rule.
As they settled into the siege, the Nordic armies were focused in setting up a siege camp and establishing a perimeter that would isolate the city from potential reinforcements and supplies. No messenger was sent to the city, nor did the Reachmen inside send someone to talk to them.
Perhaps they were considering how to respond or some such thing, Irileth did not know. What she knew however was that the next days and nights were going to be difficult and she would have to rest up and await for orders.
Night came and the army rested for what was to come in the following morning. Not so for her however as she stood outside the command tent where the leaders of the army were having one last meeting. She wasn't alone though, there were other guards there and a young female Redguard was impatiently tapping her gauntlets as she sat on a crate.
She briefly considered starting a conversation with the woman, if only to pass the time, but then the tent flaps opened and out came the men who were their lords. Jarl Hrolfdir went out first, his face glum. Afterwards was his son, Igmund, determination in his eyes. The redguard immediately went up to the man and excitedly started chatting.
Irileth tore her attention away from them as Balgruuf came out, looking worse for wear. Briefly, worry filled her but seeing that numerous eyes were on them, being a bit affectionate would raise questions.
The last thing Balgruuf needed was for busybodies asking him questions.
"My lord," Irileth greeted him.
"Walk with me," Balgruuf groaned. Irileth nodded as they made their way from the Command Tent to Balgruuf's very own. As soon as they came in, Balgruuf made his way to a nearby chair and planted himself firmly on it.
She followed after him and made her way to her own cot. As Balgruuf's Housecarl (Unofficially), she had a right to sleep with him.
To better protect him of course.
It was all part of a housecarl's duty.
Oh gods, why did she phrase it that way. Now she was blushing and oh by the love of-
"Someone's having a good time," Balgruuf remarked, amusement laced in his voice. The dunmer frowned and forced her thoughts of her mind. It wasn't the time for it after all.
"What was discussed in the tent, Balgruuf?" she started. In their private moments, there was no formalities. It was just Irileth and Balgruuf. Now that she thought about it, it was almost as if they were husband and wife.
Now she was blushing again.
Stupid brain and stupid feelings.
"We just agreed on how the war was going to go," Balgruuf began as he stood up once more to unclasp his armor. Irileth stood as well, walking over to help him.
"And?" Irileth continued, her blush dying down as she reached for the straps on Balgruuf.
"It was agreed that talks of reperations would have to wait after we were victorious. We mostly discussed on how the siege was going to be conducted." Balgruuf added, "Definitely no looting, nor was there going to be burnings or such. It would be counter-productive for the Jarl of Markarth to burn down his own keep."
Irileth nodded, her fingers wrapping around Balgruuf's chest plate. "And?"
"Jarl Hrolfdir was adamant though in extracting revenge on the rebellious Reachmen. The leaders of the rebellion would all be executed, no exceptions." Balgruuf momentarily sucked in a breath as she briefly brushed her hand against his groin.
They locked eyes.
"Continue, my lord," Irileth whispered, as she wrapped her arms around him to reach for the straps on his back. She made sure to press herself fully against him. She smirked as his eyes went down to her chest.
"F-for now, we are to focus on establishing a p-perimeter. W-when that is established, w-we are going to attack," As he talked, Irileth slowly slid her hand around and down to him, and stroked him through his undergarment.
She smirked as she felt him harden.
"Sounds exciting," she said airily. "But for now, we must rest, Balgruuf." She pulled back from him and turned around. "Would you mind helping me get my armor off, my lord?"
Balgruuf descended on her.
The next morning came, Irileth found herself in a wind-swept field, shadowing the man that had just went through her the other night.
Earlier, the Reachmen had finally made a move and sent a party of men calling themselves ambassadors wanting to talk. They had set a table and sat there, waiting for the Nords to send someone to talk to them.
The Jarls and their Jarlings, accompanied by their housecarls and a small force went out to meet them. Instead of seating themselves however, they remained on their mounts and looked down at the Reachmen.
The Reachmen refused to react however, and stared at them coolly.
Diplomacy wasn't exactly part of her skills, yet even she could tell that the talks would all be for nothing.
"I am Nepos, Chief Advisor to my master and King, Madanach. He has authorized me to treat with you, my lords. What are your demands to the King of the Reach?" he began.
From his seat, Jarl Hrolfdir bristled but held his tongue as Jarl Heorot spoke. It was his right, as he had the most men. "Our demands are simple. The leaders of this insurrection, including your so-called King must surrender immediately. Do so and the lives and property of those that followed them will be spared."
"Or do not, and we shall take both," Jarl Hrolfdir added.
"We reject those terms," Nepos said flatly.
"Then what are we doing here with this farce?" said Jarl Hrolfdir.
"Because we have a counter-offer. My King offers his allegiance to High King Torygg, to serve as his vassal. He also offers his grand-daughter as a ward to the court in Solitude, to be raised as a Nord as well as an offer of payment to Jarl Heorot for the expenses incurred from bringing his army to Markarth." Nepos closed with finality.
Irileth blinked.
Well, damn.
Even if she wasn't attuned with politics, even Irileth saw that was a pretty good deal. Thinking about it, the reason why they were here was to deal with the Reachmen rebelling. If they accepted it, then the Reachmen would integrate themselves into Skyrim, become a vassal of the High King, and a member of their royal family would be sent to Solitude to basically be a hostage.
She glanced at Balgruuf to see his reaction and saw the surprise in his face.
"Absolutely not!" Jarl Hrolfdir protested. "You have no right nor authority to offer anything to anyone!"
Jarl Heorot glanced at Jarl Hrolfdir, and was silent for a minute. Perhaps he was thinking about the offered deal? For a moment, Irileth thought that Jarl Heorot would accept the deal but then he shook his head and frowned.
"The High King has demanded your surrender, not your fealty. We have been charged to remove you and restore Jarl Hrolfdir to his seat. There shall be no alterations," Jarl Heorot closed.
Nepos leaned forward, clasping his hands as he did. "I shall remind you, my lords, that the advantage here is with us. Our stores are greater, our patience wider. All we need to do is outlast you, my lords. How many men can you throw at us before you are exhausted of soldiers?"
"It will not come that far. Your rebellion shall die in a whimper!" growled Jarl Hrolfdir.
Nepos's guards bristled but the old man remained impassive. Old grey eyes locked themselves onto the Jarl of Whiterun. "Think on our offer, my Jarl," advised Nepos as he stood up and with his detachment of guards, retreated into the gates of Markarth. Irileth caught glimpse of empty streets inside before the great bronze gates of the city was shut with an audible echo.
"We need to attack soon. The more we wait, the more the Reachmen infest my city," Jarl Hrolfdir spat into the ground.
"I concur," Jarl Heorot said, urging his horse to turn. The rest of the Nords followed after them. Before she joined them, Irileth took one last look at the city. With their available forces, how were they going to breach the city?
The answer became apparent when the sun had set once more. Irileth spent most of the day bored out of her mind as the Nords seemingly spent it building siege engines and openly drilling in the face of the Reachmen who watched them from the walls. As usual, she silently followed Balgruuf, keeping an eye on him as he busied himself with mundane duties and such.
Then, Balgruuf turned around to her and bid her to follow him to a far side of the camp. Her mind treacherously bombarded her with certain scenarios that might happen between the two of them as they walked. A certain disappointment filled her however when they came to a nondescript tent filled with Nords gearing for battle.
"Ah, welcome, my lord Balgruuf." A Nord stepped forward. Irileth quickly recognized him as Igmund, the son of Jarl Hrolfdir. He was clad head to toe in the armor of Markarth, a Dwemer metal cuirass over a green tunic and chainmail. Around his back was a great shield, and on his hip was a war axe that emitted magicka.
"Are we all ready?" Balgruuf asked.
Igmund nodded as he accepted a conical helmet from his housecarl, the Redguard woman Irileth saw the other night.
"Then let's get to work," Balgruuf said with finality as the Igmund reached for the far end of the tent and opened it, revealing a stream.
"What is going on, my lord?" Irileth whispered as she joined Balgruuf's side.
"Lord Igmund is going to be leading us to a hidden entrance in the sewer drain, at the Deep Wall," Balgruuf explained as they joined the other Nords. The tent they were in was at the far side of the siege camp, meaning that they were hidden from view of the defenders.
"It is a secret that only few know," Igmund added as they trudged on the wet banks of the stream. "And it will be what will win us the city again."
Irileth glanced at their party, and counted. "So we are going to sneaking into the city with twenty good men?"
For some reason, Balgruuf snickered. "It is all we need."
Silently, they made their way from their tent and around the camp. Irileth thought how they were going to get close without getting seen when she realized that all the racket the camp was making was probably enough to mask their movements. And with how calm Balgruuf and Igmund were, they probably had a plan.
Then without prompting, the world turned as drums, cymbals, and horns blasted and the night sky was alit with flame. Looking up, Irileth saw streams of fire come from the camp. It looked like their siege engines and their mages were lobbing anything and everything into Markarth. It was rather dazzling, Irileth found, as explosive fireballs and stones sailed in the air and struck the walls, illuminating the night with bright orange light.
So that was their cover, Irileth reasoned.
Noiselessly, they crept their way closer and closer to the far wall. Irileth heard the Reachmen scream and shout, and letting out curses as they rushed to their positions. They were far from the line of fire and so had little reason to fear getting caught in the blasts.
Eventually, they made their way to the wall and onto the drain where water poured out. Before they arrived, they had to cross waist-deep water first. It was admittedly an anxious experience but thankfully, they weren't seen.
"Irileth, Faleen, check out the drain," Balgruuf ordered. The Dunmer and Redguard nodded as they unsheathed their weapons and gingerly made their way into the drain. Faleen went first, her roundshield and sword at the ready. The tunnel was a wide one and at the far end was a metal grate. Were they going to breach that?
Faleen answered her question when she stopped midway and Irileth saw a staircase with a stone door.
"Tell the men to come forward. I have to open this door," Faleen said to her as she momentarily sheathed her sword and reached for a key that hung on her belt. Irileth nodded and made her way back to the entrance.
"So?" Balgruuf asked.
"It is clear," Irileth revealed.
"As I said, a way into the city," Igmund repeated as he went in first, his men trailing behind him. Balgruuf shrugged his shoulders and followed afterwards. Silently, they made their way to the staircase and found Faleen with her shield and sword out, staring up into the staircase. The door was also opened, and Irileth felt wind come from the passageway.
"Let us go," Igmund said as he made his way up the stairs. She and the rest of the party followed and found themselves staring at another door. This time, Igmund opened it with his key and the door slide upwards into a hidden crevice.
"Irileth, go," Balgruuf urged her. She nodded and went in first, her bow in her hand.
She found herself standing in what seemed to be an old storage room. The air was thick with bitumen and tar, and old rotting wood. At the far side of the room was a workbench that had seen better days. There was also another staircase as well, and from there Irileth could hear Reachmen.
Behind her, Balgruuf followed afterwards and so did the others, their weapons and shields at the ready. She blinked when the men suddenly relaxed and sheathed their weapons.
"Are we not to join the battle?" Irileth asked. Igmund shook his head.
"Not yet, we cannot fight all the Reachmen in the walls at once. We are to stay and wait until the bombardment outside has run its course and the Reachmen tire. That is when we will make our way up, slaughter any sleepy Reachmen we see, and make our way to open the gate," Igmund explained as he leaned back against a wall.
"That doesn't mean we won't be cautious though. Irileth, stand by the stairway and if you see someone come in from above, put one between their eyes," Baglruuf ordered. Irileth nodded and did so, her bow at the ready.
And so, they waited, and waited, and waited some more. All the while, they heard the din and shouting on the walls outside. The men sucked in a breath as the walls shook and dust fell on them. No one else made a word however. The last thing they needed was for a sharp eared Reachman finding out they were in the walls.
Eventually, and after enduring what felt like an eternity sitting in the dark, the yelling and shaking stopped. Irileth glanced back at Balgruuf, to see if it was the time to move but the man shook his head. Frowning, Irileth returned her attention to the wooden door upstairs where she could hear Reachmen mulling and muttering amongst themselves.
"The Nords ain't so tough after all," a young man said. "They die like flies,"
"They'll be back for more, don't act so casually," an older and rougher voice chided him. "Keep your guard up, and if you see someone that isn't us, give them a proper Reach welcome."
"Yes, yes, I'll do that. I'm a vigilant hunter," the younger man boasted. The older man grunted and walked off while the younger man spat on the floor and suddenly went silent.
And so, they sat and waited some more until finally, Irileth felt a tap on her back. She turned to see Faleen point to Balgruuf and Irileth saw him mouth 'It's time'. The Dunmer nodded and Igmund's housecarl slowly and gingerly made her way up the stairs. Irileth followed after her, ready to fill the first Reachman she saw with arrows.
Faleen's sucked in a breath as she stood before the door and pushed it open, slowly. She and the men cringed as the door made an awful creaking sound as it was pushed open, revealing orange light from toches hung on the walls. Irileth came in first and found herself in a long winding hallway.
Suddenly, the hairs on her body stood as she heard the sound of snoring. Turning swiftly, she found a young-faced Reachman sitting on a chair, sleeping. Irileth loosed an arrow in his eye, and the man fell limp instantly.
"Follow me," Igmund whispered as he unslung his shield and marched down the hallway.
They did so silently, slaughtering any unsuspecting Reachmen in their path. They probably thought that they were another patrol coming before seeing the blood on their armor and weapons. As they did so, Irileth peered out through the arrow slits and saw that in the distance, torches slowly being lit from their camp.
"For the love of-" she heard Igmund curse. Turning from the arrow slits, she saw in front of them a group of Reachmen who stood, wide-eyed and frozen, as they stared at one another.
"N-Nords! Sound the al-"
Irileth loosed an arrow into his mouth, and behind him, a Reachman cringed as blood and fluid splattered onto his face.
"FOR THE REACH!" an older Reachman cried as he charged forward with a knife.
And at that, all Oblivion broke loose.
"SKYRIM BELONGS TO THE NORDS!" Igmund cried as he charged back, his men and housecarl yelling their own cries as they met the Reachmen. They clashed, the sounds of battle echoing in the walls. Balgruuf and his men joined in the fray as well, meeting the Reachmen head on. The Reachmen, while lightly armed, still fought with the ferocity and tenacity of men defending their home.
Balgruuf squared against a bronze-armored Reachmen, armed with a shield and axe. Gripping his weapon, the Reachman lunged and delivered a downward slice with his axe. Balgruuf raised his shield and met it, growling. He tried to thrust his sword forward but the Reachman defended himself with his own shield. In response, Balgruuf looked down and promptly stepped onto the man's boots. The Reachman yelped in pain, and Balgruuf took the moment to drive his weapon into the man's skull.
"We cannot stay here and fight the entire garrison ourselves!" He yelled over the din of combat, spotting other Reachmen running at them in the distance.
"My men and I shall stay and fight!" Igmund roared. "Keep on going and you shall find a staircase leading into the gatehouse!"
Balgruuf attempted to open his mouth, seemingly trying to say something before he shook his head. "Whiterun! With me!" he yelled again, pushing through the lines. They did so, hacking and slashing any Reachman they met along the way. Eventually, they found the staircase that Igmund spoke of that had two guards standing before the doors.
They had to be the most incompetent guards Irileth had the pleasure of meeting, as they at first greeted Balgruuf before realizing that he wasn't a Reachman and was covered head to toe in the blood of their kin.
For their incompetence, Irileth hastily raised her bow and fired two rapid shots that pierced the guard through their helmet slits. They slumped back against the wall, dead.
"Nice work, Iri," Balgruuf praised before rushing forward and kicking open the door to the gatehouse, where three startled Reachmen stood guard.
And one massive orc.
"To arms, fools!' The orc barked as he unslung his shield and his weapon, an orcish mace.
"For the Reach!" the three men roared as they rushed them. Their accompanying Whiterun foot met the Reachmen, and they descended into a melee, leaving the orc for Balgruuf and her.
"Never should have come here," The orc glowered as he raised his shield and mace, ready to attack.
"Fuck you and eat shit," Balgruuf grit as he and the orc glared at one another. They first stared, then they charged at each other. The orc swung, his mace aimed for Balgruuf's head. The Nord ducked, the mace narrowly missing him by a hair's breath. He then took the moment to hack at the Orc's back, who roared in pain. Irileth saw her chance and loosed an arrow at the orc but he raised his shield in time and the arrow uselessly bounced off the shield.
"Ha! All you got?" he mocked. Growling, Irileth slung her bow back, sheathed her saber and raised her palm. The Orc's eyes widened as he raised his shield once more as a stream of hot flames poured out of Irileth. She could see his shield rapidly heating up and it was only a few more seconds until he would have to throw it away. Just as expected, the orc did so.
Only he tossed the shield at her. It was only thanks to her reflexes that she was able to dodge the steaming projectile. Her eyes narrowed as the orc shakily raised his hand and saw the burnt flesh there. His pain turned to rage however, as the orc's breathing became heavy.
"Berseker Rage," Irileth recognized as the orc roared savagely. In this state, she knew that the orc would be launched into a frenzy and would kill anything and everything in their sight until their enemies or they themselves were dead. With the orc distracted, Balgruuf thrust his sword through the orc's back. But that did not stop the orc however, as he elbowed Balgruuf and delivered a punch straight into Balgruuf's chestplate, shattering it.
"MALACATH SMILES UPON ME!" the orc cried as he grabbed a hold of Balgruuf and lifted him up. And with another great roar, threw him against the wall. The orc pounded his chest in triumph.
His victory was short-lived however as Irileth sprang forward and separated his head from his shoulders with one clean slice. The orc's head flew and his body at first knelt, before collapsing on the floor. With orc dealt with, she rushed over to Balgruuf's who heaved and coughed where he lay.
"Damn orcs, and their damn strength," hacked Balgruuf. "I should bloody learn magic,"
"There will be a time for that, my lord," Irileth shushed him as she went over his wounds. "Can you walk?"
"I can," Balgruuf said, pushing her away. "Worry about the gate first! Go!"
For a moment, Irileth felt hurt that Balgruuf had pushed her away, but remembering they were still in battle, pushed that hurt away. "Yes my lord!" she affirmed as she stood up and searched the room.
She didn't have to search far, seeing a great wheel in the middle that had a line of rope connecting it to somewhere. That had to be the mechanism to open the gate and let their forces in. And so, she ran to it and reached for the wooden handle.
With all her might, she pushed.
The Jarl of Markarth breathed out.
It had been hours since the infiltration force they sent left the camp and he and the rest of the army stood at the ready for the gates to be opened, and the impatience he was feeling grew and grew as time moved on.
The plan was simple. Send a force into the secret passage at the far wall at Markarth's left, kill anyone who stood in the way, and open the gates. To ensure that they wouldn't be spotted, they would launch a skirmish of projectiles and magicka to make the Reachmen think they would be advancing. While the defenders were taking cover and taking an onslaught of force, the infiltrators would make their way into the secret passage.
They had already done their part, starting their fusillade and barraging the walls with everything they had. Magicka, rocks from built catapults. The attack had little to no effect on the walls, Markarth's walls were strong and dwarven-made. It wasn't a physical mark they wanted to leave but mental. The Reachmen tried to reply in kind but they were simply drowned out by their attack.
Simply put, they were outclassed. This was no longer the hit-and-run tactics that they were used to. They were now forced to fight a real battle and Hrolfdir was going to remind them who were the best warriors in all of Tamriel.
With the wave of his hand, Jarl Heorot halted the bombardment, to let an uncomfortable silence descend in the air. It was good. Let the Reachmen be anxious. Let them be filled with fear.
While they were setting up the fusillade, he and his fellow Jarl were busy assembling their own forces as well. Men got into formation, eager to reclaim the land stolen from them by thieves. All they had to do was wait.
Hrolfdir glanced at his fellow Jarl, said man was at a far corner of the camp, astride his mount and resplendent in his personal armor. Hrolfdir had heard that the army of Whiterun had been ambushed along the way and that Heorot had endured a rock that crushed his legs. But despite that, Heorot was clad in his armor and seated on a saddle, looking bored out of his skull.
The crushing of his legs were an exaggeration it would seem. And if it was true, Heorot was hiding it rather well. Paralyzed or not, the Jarl was still a powerful man, holding the largest Hold in Skyrim and being wealthy from controlling trade routes that connected the rest of Skyrim together. As soon as this was over, Heorot was sure to rise in power even more. While nothing yet was agreed, Hrolfdir knew that Whiterun had much to gain from victory. Politically speaking, Heorot would reap the rewards in fame and influence. In practical rewards, Hrolfdir knew that a portion of Cidnha Mine's silver would find itself in Dragonsreach.
By Ysmir, if he wanted to, he could even put out his name for High Kingship if he so desired.
Istlod was old and his health was falling apart with each passing day. Hrolfdir could confirm it, seeing the High King in his brief exile in Solitude. The best healers and medicines were brought forward for the man but there was only so much they could do and Arkay was going to have his due. However, it didn't look like Heorot was interested in the position and besides, every Jarl had agreed beforehand that Istlod was going to be succeeded by his son, Torygg.
If there was anyone to watch out for though, it was Heorot's boy, Balgruuf. Heorot himself was also getting into age and it was inevitable that Balgruuf was going to be next in line. Once he would become Jarl, Balgruuf was going to inherit a wealthy and powerful Hold. He hadn't spoken much with Heorot's heir but from what he had seen and heard, the next years in Whiterun were going to be interesting.
He would have to keep his eyes and ears open.
"A pleasant night for glory isn't it, my Jarl?" a light but equally sickening voice spoke right next to him.
Hrolfdir resisted the urge sigh in disgust as he turned his attention to a pair of men saddled next to him.
"Indeed," he replied simply.
"I hope you did not forget our deal, my Jarl," Thonar Silver-blood mused. "The Silver-blood family has spent much to maintain the army, and for the mercenaries to reclaim your seat. Isn't that right, Thongvor?"
Thongvor grunted in his saddle.
Hrolfdir grit his teeth. "You will not worry about that, Thonar. Markarth does not forget the sacrifices of its most noble sons."
"Thank you, my Jarl," Thonar saluted as he rode away, his brother trailing behind him. "Truly, Markarth is blessed to have such a wise and able Jarl such as you."
'You little shit,' Hrolfdir raged in his mind.
Thonar and Thongvor Silver-blood were the only surviving members of the Silver-blood family that managed to escape Markarth when the Reachmen rose, most of their family having been wiped by Reachmen eager for vengeance for rather understandable reasons. After all, the Silver-bloods owned the largest silver mine in Skyrim and they weren't exactly good to their workers.
They joined with him in Solitude and had pledged their support to him, in exchange for greater freedoms and less tax on their revenues upon the reclamation of the city. It was a poisoned chalice that he was forced to drink as he needed their help.
The damned Silver-bloods already held the city by the balls, their ownership of Cidnha Mine generating them wealth that translated into power. With reduced taxes and even greater autonomy? He might as well give up his seat and give the motherless sons of whores the city.
Between fighting the Reachmen and dealing with the Silver-bloods, he'd happily spend his days fighting the Reachmen than staying any closer with them.
Thankfully, the Divines answered his wish as a shout came.
"The gates are opening!" a voice cried out. Hrolfdir turned to the gates and sure enough, they were slowly opening. He turned his head to Jarl Heorot who nodded.
Finally.
It had also been agreed that he would be the first into the city. It was important for him as the Jarl to be the first through the walls, to show that he had liberated the city and not someone else. He had first expected Heorot would want to take the honor himself but the man had contented to let him have it.
Heorot did not strike him as a particularly malicious man but it felt like he was giving him the honor as he was going to reap far more better gains. No matter the case, Hrolfdir was still grateful and he was going to gain as much from this as possible as doing so would gain him much needed influence to counter the Silver-bloods.
Drawing his sword from his scabbard, Hrolfdir yelled. "Men! Out there, rebels and traitors have taken your homes. Some of you even have families still left inside, enduring the mercies of the Reachmen. Let us go and take back what they stole from us!"
His men cheered in approval. It wasn't enough for Hrolfdir however and he raised his sword up high, and cried.
"FOR MARKARTH AND SKYRIM!" he bellowed.
"FOR MARKARTH AND SKYRIM!" they roared.
And with that, a horn was blown and the men of Markarth surged forward. The Reachmen at the walls saw them advance, and tried to halt them with bolts, arrows, and magicka but the mass had already surged forward and were beginning to stream through the now open gate.
"Father!" a familiar voice cried.
Hrolfdir and his guards held back as Igmund descended down a staircase. He wasn't alone however as his housecarl trailed behind him. He worried when he saw marks and blood on his boy but he calmed when he saw it wasn't his own.
"You have done well, Igmund!" Hrolfdir celebrated. "Our home shall be ours once more!"
Igmund laughed. "Aye, we did a fine job. But the ones who opened the gate was Lord Balgruuf and his housecarl."
As if on cue, the heir of Whiterun descended from the staircase. He wasn't alone however as his housecarl and a soldier from Whiterun was supporting him as he came down.
"Lord Balgruuf!" he cried in alarm, seeing the state he was in. Who in Oblivion managed to crack his chestplate?
"The gates are open," coughed the man. "Reclaim your home, my lord."
"Balgruuf, don't speak," shushed his housecarl, a flame-haired Dunmer. "Let's get you a healer as fast as possible"
"I can still fight, I-Iri. I just need a c-change in a-armor," stuttered the man before he descended into a coughing fit.
"An orc punched him through the chest while in a berseker rage. His lungs took the brunt of it," Igmund explained, seeing the confused look on his face. Comprehension dawned on Hrolfdir.
"I see," Hrolfdir said simply. He turned to a pair of his bodyguards who nodded as they dismounted.
"Take these horses back to the siege camp, my lord. I will not have you limp your way back to camp," Hrolfdir offered. Balgruuf mouthed to protest but he coughed up once more.
"We thank you for your generosity, my Jarl," his housecarl answered for him as she and other men helped Balgruuf up the offered horse. She mounted herself afterwards, taking hold of the reins.
"No, it is nothing compared to the generosity Whiterun has shown us," Hrolfdir said, sincerely thankful that Whiterun had answered the call while others had not. "We shall not forget this. Go back to your camp, housecarl."
With that, the dunmer nodded and sped off. With them out of the way, Hrolfdir turned to his son.
"Let us reclaim our home, my son." he said with barely contained glee
Igmund grinned.
And so, father and son went into battle. The narrow streets of Markarth ran red with blood and bodies as Nords from Whiterun and Markarth clashed with Reachmen. Already, they were gaining ground.
Their armies were trained for this, they were better armed and this was the style of fighting they were used to, as real warriors and not like the cowardly Reachmen hit and ran, armed and clad lightly.
While they had gotten to raid the city's armory, they weren't exactly used to the equipment they wielded.
The Reachmen tried to form lines to meet them but were beat back, the Nords unleashing pent up anger and fury against those that stood in their way. Hrolfdir bathed his blade in Reachman blood, pouring out his frustration into the savages.
"Skyrim belongs to the Nords!" Hrolfdir cried as he thrust his sword into the mouth of a Reachman trying to charge him while screaming. He pulled his blade back and struck at another who tried to do the same tactic as well.
He had been dreaming of this moment, ever since he was forced to flee his city like a criminal in the night, he had itched at nothing but to take it back. And no one was going to stop him from punishing the Reachmen, his honor and the honor of Markarth demanded it.
The fighting had gone on for awhile, but he and the rest of the army was feeling quite as fresh since they started and were relishing the slaughter they were inflicting on the Reachmen. It was tempting to Hrolfdir to succumb to his inner bloodlust but the presence of his son, the discipline and restraint of the Whiterun men, and having remembered that he was to be seen as a liberator and not a murderer stopped the impulse.
And seeing their Jarl hadn't descended into a frenzy, his men hadn't done so either.
Suddenly, and out of nowhere, the world shook. His horse panicked and in those seconds, Hrolfdir found himself thrown from his horse. Quickly his bodyguards and men formed a ring around him.
"Father!" he heard Igmund cry. Hrolfdir sat up as his son and men knelt by his side.
"I'm alright! I'm alright!" Hrolfdir coughed as he pushed them away. In the din of battle, he heard the clip clop of hooves approach them. His mood soured when a all too familiar voice spoke.
"My Jarl! Being thrown from your horse in the moment of your triumph does not bode well for your image! Thongvor, why don't you lend him one of horses," Thonar Silver-blood offered.
Thongvor snickered.
"Your input was not asked for, Silver-blood," Hrolfdir spat as he got to his feet. He had quite enough of the little shit's disrespect. "When I ask for it, I shall. Until then, keep your mouth shut. Is that understood?"
For the first time, Thonar blinked. His men and son glowered, their weapons gleaming wickedly, stained with the blood of Reachmen.
"I apologize, my Jarl," Thonar said smoothly. "I only spoke out of a desire to see you reap every single bit of your victory."
"We have not won yet," Igmund said roughly. "The Understone Keep is still yet to be breached."
Again, the world shook but they were prepared for it. The shaking only annoyed Thonar however, he glanced up towards the doors of the Keep.
"Then perhaps we sha-" Thonar offered. But before he did so, something struck the man and he fell on his back.
"Thonar!" Thongvor yelled as he dismounted to attend to his brother. Hrolfdir urged his horse close to see what on Oblivion happened. Looking down, he saw the man grasping at something struck to his throat.
It was a crossbow bolt.
"Thonar! Thonar!" Thongvor cried as he held his brother. Thonar's eyes were wide in fear in pain, his words a bloody gurgle. He couldn't hold on however, dying on his own blood. Thongvor wept, tears streaming down his eyes.
Hrolfdir however did not leave his eyes on the crossbow bolt's purple fletching.
A pit formed in his stomach.
"Father?" Igmund asked.
"My son, look at the bolt," Hrolfdir whispered. Confused, Igmund glanced at the bolt and froze, recognition in his eyes.
How did the accursed Reachmen find out?
"GRAAAAAHHHH!" a man shrieked. Hrolfdir turned and the pit in his stomach consumed him when one of his riders was felled upon, something bronze and metallic tearing through him mercilessly, bits of metal and guts and flesh chunked out of him.
"DWARVEN SPIDERS!" cried out another man. Sure enough, the chittering of metal grew louder as scores upon scores of metallic abominations poured out from somwhere, falling upon the Nords without mercy. Men tried to fight back, but the automatons simply tore through them.
For the first time, the doors of the Understone Keep opened and from there came rolling spheres, unfeeling automata firing scores of bolts into them or slicing men and women clean with their blades.
But the one thing that grabbed Hrolfdir's attention and fear more was the looming shadow that shook the earth with every step it took, hissing with steam as it marched out. Expressionless was the face of this shadow, its bronze tinted visage a perfect imitation of a lost race.
And this shadow...was staring straight at him
The Nords froze, their eyes and mouths wide as the metal constructs made and shot their way to them. They shook, unsure if they could even fight the incoming creations but before anyone thought of running, a great cry came from behind them.
Hrolfdir was tired. He had lost his seat to murderous Reachmen, forced to run from his own home like a beaten dog with its tail between its legs. He endured the pitying and mocking looks of Solitude's nobility, and being made to kneel and beg at the feet of his fellows. He was tired of running.
All he wanted was to go home.
And there was nothing on Tamriel that was going to stop him, not when he was so close he could literally touch it.
He was going to go home, or die trying.
The Jarl of Markarth stared deep into the eyes of Dwarven Centurion and other automata, and wondered if they had a mind of their own. It didn't matter, for they were all going to fall.
"Men, do not waver, do not falter!" Hrolfdir cried aloud, gripping the reigns of his horse. "We have come so far, we shall not stop now! We are going home or to Sovngarde! Steel yourselves, Men of Markarth, and show these constructs the difference between it and real men!"
"Victory or Sovngarde!" the Nords rallied.
"CHARGE!" Jarl Hrolfdir raged as he urged his horse forward, eyes set in fury and sword glinting with wicked intent.
My entire world burned, every breath that I took sent deep and puncturing pain that seared my body. Even just a whiff of air was as painful as taking a breathful. In front of me, Irileth guided the horse like a woman on a mission, pushing the horse to full gallop as we made our way through the charging masses of Markarth and Whiterun men who gave way seeing the mad Dunmer and my injured body.
From behind us, the men who joined our little foray yelled and screamed for any one in the way to move aside.
"Hak! Ack, arck!" I coughed, clutching my chest.
"We're almost to the priest, my lord! Hang on!" Irileth cried, looking back at me before turning back to look at the way. The siege camp was far enough from the walls as to avoid fire but close enough for our forces to reach but still, it felt like we had just ridden from Cyrodiil to High Rock.
Our party got through the trenches that had been dug by us, and we whiffed through the main gate. She urged the horse onward and only brought it to a stop when we neared the medical tents. With swift dexterity, Irileth leapt off the horse like a bolt of lightning and cried out, "Priest! We need a priest!"
With that, and seeing that Irileth wasn't exactly subtle, there were robed men rushing forward with a stretcher. Despite the pain mining my chest, I wasn't exactly feeling like lying down.
"J-just let m-me sit down," I forced through, every word a stinging pain, as I got myself off the saddle. While I could feel my chest burning, I could still walk. The men and Irileth moved forward to let me use them as supports and gratefully, I placed my arms on their shoulders as they moved me through the tent flaps and set me down on a cot.
The tent was already filled with wounded, men and women sporting light to heavy injuries, the heavier ones at the very back. There too was the Head Healer with his assistants, helping those that needed it.
Irileth marched forward, getting the man's attention towards me. From where he stood, I could see his eyes widen as he motioned for one of his assistant's to take his place. With that, he walked off to me, kneeling at my side.
"What happened, my lord?" the priest asked, his eyes examining my swelled chest.
"An orc punched through his armor," Irileth answered for me, as a small crowd noticed what was happening and had gathered to watch.|
"Ah, I see," said the priest, Ainelon, with the same tone a man would use as if he heard the most obvious thing in the world. "This once more proves that orcs are indeed one of the strongest creatures on Tamriel once they're berserk. Why, I heard of an orc pulling apart the bars of his cell once."
"A fascinating tale, but unneeded, Priest," Irileth forwarded, her tone all but showing exasperation. "What does our lord need?"
The man huffed at Irileth's dismissal but nevertheless, he put his focus back to me. "Does it hurt when you breathe deeply, my lord?"
I nodded dumbly, huffing and heaving on the cot.
"You say an orc punched through his chest plate," he said to Irileth before turning to me. "The blow may have broken your ribs and punctured your lungs, my lord. It is also possible that fragments of your armor is inside of you as we speak," Ainelon explained.
"What must be done?" Irileth pressed, patience long gone from her tone.
"Without a clearer examination, I cannot pinpoint exactly where the fragments are. I can heal our lord now and then without issue but the fragments will remain inside of him forever," he answered her with a quick glance.
"H-how long is the e-examination?" I hacked out.
"I need at least an hour but I will work as fast as I can," Ainelon stated with a twinkle in his eye. "Don't worry, my lord. I am one of the finest chirurgeons in all of Skyrim."
"B-But the b-battle, I can-" I tried to protest but Irileth spoke out, interrupting me. "My lord, let the Head Priest examine you. You have already done enough in this campaign. Rest, and let the armies here earn their keep." Irileth advised me. She tried to be stoic about it but her tone was fully of barely concealed worry.
I knew that, and Christ above my chest was in sheer burning pain. But as an officer and as the next man to inherit Whiterun, I had to be there at the front, with the soldiers.
But then again, the idea of metal fragments in my chest was not an exciting prospect. I knew some veterans who served that still had pieces of metal stuck inside them and were doing ok. Still, Irileth had a point. I had lead the army this far, opened the gates with her and the might of Markarth and Whiterun was going to beat the Reachmen down like a winepress going down on a grape.
Unless the Reachmen pulled some bullshit, like waking up Dwemer constructs or summoning an army of Dremora, the day was all but ours.
And the tone on Irileth, I wasn't going to refuse her like that.
"What's your choice, my lord?" Ainelon asked.
"E-examine me, Ainelon." I croaked out. The priest hummed as he nodded and from where she stood, Irileth visibly breathed a smile of relief and for the first time since ever, she smiled openly.
The smile on her face dulled the pain in my chest way more than all the painkillers the world had to offer.
Ainelon then brought me to a separate tent and had his assistants take off my armor one by one. Unlike what you'd see in game, just a soft raise of the palm and letting the magic happen, it was much more nuanced in-lore. Hell, it felt like a visit to the doctor, Ainelon being the head doctor and his assistance nurses. He washed his hands in a bowl of cool and clean water before poking and prodding me with his tools. With an anesthetic of course, the medical tech and procedures in the Elder Scrolls may have the image of medieval flare but its was far from it.
There were slight complications however, some slight tremors from the outside here and there. I didn't pay too much attention though, the tent being sound-proofed magically and my mind flying in the clouds thanks to the anesthetic. Eventually and just as he promised, it was as over as soon as possible.
Feeling woozy but still quite lucid, I glanced first at another table where bloody fragments of my armor lay in a wooden bowl then back to him. Ainelon had carefully and with the assistance of magic and having his own surgical knowledge, had plucked out the pieces one by one before sealing me up with a spell one would recognize as healing hands.
"You've done me a service, Ainelon. You and your assistants. Whiterun owes you. Name once price and if it's within my power, I shall grant it to you." I promised. I wasn't going to let this man and his squad get out without a reward.
The assistants blushed at the praise but Ainelon only laughed. "This is what you pay me for, my lord. I'm fine with where I am nor do I exactly need gold. I do have something in mind for a reward though," he continued.
"Once we are back in Whiterun, I shall hear this and get this through my father." I vowed. Ainelon hummed a tune as he stood up and deposited his tools into a tray.
"I would appreciate it, my lord." he said smoothly.
"Now that I'm healed, can I still rejoin the battle?" I asked, putting forward the question that was itching my mind. Now that the operation took an hour, the battle was most likely over but considering this was an age of swords, shields, and magic, a man could still dream.
"You may, my lord. I would be more than happy to see you again with more chest injuries to tend." replied the priest, earning a laugh from me.
"I do not plan to grow a mine in my chest, Priest." I laughed as I stood up, breathing in clean and healthy air. I gave him and his assistants a smile.
"Thank you, truly." The assistants blushed, and Ainelon smiled back. With that, I turned and put on a shirt ready for me. Shirt on, I marched out for the tent flaps and opened it.
And found the camp in disarray.
Some of the men and women were packing up their equipment, others and officers were yelling orders at them to stop and get back to formation.
"Balgruuf! My lord!" Irileth's voice called out to me. I turned to find my nightblade running towards me, blood and sweat on her face. She halted before me, huffing and puffing.
"What in Oblivion is going on?" I asked as I yelled at a bunch of men to report to their officers.
"It would be best if you saw for yourself, my lord." Irileth breathed out. Blinking dumbly, I made my way for the stockade's walls and climbed a tower. Inside was a scared looking youngster wearing the armor of Markarth who stood aside for me to have better room. I glanced out into Markarth and sure enough, saw that the gates were manned by the chattering forms of Dwarven Spiders, and patrolling the barbican were Dwarven Spheres, rolling balls and all.
From behind me, I could hear Irileth climbing and walking over to stand next to me. "While you were getting examined, those constructs were unleashed and made short work of our forces inside the walls."
In the distance, I spotted a figure trying to run out of the gates. It was a soldier, from my army. He was able to run down the stairs that led people into Markarth before the Spheres spotted him and peppered bolts into his back. He fell onto the floor, dead.
My fists tightened.
"Where is Jarl Hrolfdir? Lord Igmund?" I asked, trying to cool the anger I felt bubbling in my chest.
Irileth took the opportunity to sit on a nearby chair, exhaustion filtering through her eyes. "Jarl Hrolfdir was last seen organizing a charge inside the city, at a Dwarven Centurion. We do not know his whereabouts for now. Lord Igmund is in the command tent, begging your father to stay and continue the siege."
"W-what are we going to do, m-my lord?" the soldier from earlier spoke out, having been standing the entire time.
I turned and went to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Stay at your post, and prepare for new orders. I will speak to my father about what needs be done."
The soldier nodded, and nervously fiddled with his weapons as he turned to face the shadow of Markarth's walls. I took the moment to climb down and Irileth followed after me. While doing so, my mind was abuzz.
I don't remember the Reachmen ever having access to Dwarven shit in lore, and when Ulfric besieged the city, it fell like a house of cards. Granted, we advanced into the city easily and we would have won, if not for the fact that the place was now crawling with dwarven constructs.
"What now, Balgruuf?" Irileth asked me.
"We find out what father intends to do, and try and continue the siege," I said, not quite confident in my answer. With the way things were going on, continuing the siege sounds like a thin dream. It was already a stretch for father to bring a host of Whiterun to deal with a problem that wasn't his to begin with, now with dwarven constructs at the field?
Going home empty-handed was becoming a bigger possibility now.
The command tent's entrance was abuzz, officers and other men were standing outside, impatiently waiting as Unferth stood and urged them to calm down. I pushed through the crowd, and made a beeline for the entrance. Unferth's eyes widened as he stepped aside to let me in.
"My lord, they are inside," Unferth motioned. I nodded as I marched in, Irileth silently taking her place at the far end of the tent as yelling and pleading filtered through our ears.
"Lord Igmund, I will not sacrifice the lives of my men to fight constructs of legend," the Jarl of Whiterun stated firmly from his chair-throne.
Igmund was standing before him, two Markarth men at his side. His armor was battered and bruised, his helmet hung limply from his belt. Blood, grime, and sweat was on him. "My lord, you've promised my father that you would assist us. You've sworn on your honor you would help us fight the Reachmen!"
"Reachmen, not metal monsters," Jarl Heorot stressed.
"I-"
"My lords!" I called out, all heads turned as I marched forward to step into the spotlight. "I apologize, I needed to have my wounds checked from earlier. What have I missed?"
"My son," Heorot greeted me. "I've only just explained to Lord Igmund here that we cannot maintain a siege now. We do not have means to even attack the Dwarven Centurion that is now guarding Markarth."
"My lord, I am from this city, I know how to destroy these constructs," Igmund insisted, inching closer to my father's chair. Wiglaf stepped in, blocking him before he got too close. Igmund still continued. "Please, let us mount an attack and reclaim this city, for Skyrim!"
"My lords, please, let us discuss this," I put forwarded. "Our soldiers are confused, and a crowd of them are outside standing anxiously. We must at least give them some orders lest they panic."
"Tell them to stand at their posts and return to formation, but they must be ready to leave as soon as possible," Jarl Heorot commanded a nearby soldier who nodded. The face that Igmund had was nothing short of despair.
"Let us discuss the things that remain at hand," I continued, letting the attention fall back to me. "What is the status of your forces, Lord Igmund?"
The man turned to me, startled, before he forced himself to calm and speak. "Our forces took the brunt of the attack, my father trying to lead a charge at the construct horde. We felled many spiders, and took down the spheres but the Centurion remains the biggest threat. We know how to destroy these creatures, my lord, but we need more men."
"And I have the men, but I will not let them fight and die foul abominations, Lord Igmund," Heorot interjected.
I thought about it for a second. We had sent a letter to Falkreath, asking them to join us in the war for the promise of spoils.
"Did we not call for Falkreath's assistance? What is their response?" I asked. As father moved to answer, the tent flap suddenly opened and in ran a soldier, his face red.
"My lord! Banners!"
"Banners? Falkreath?" I asked.
The soldier paused to catch his breath before speaking. "No, my lord. It is blue, with a roaring bear."
Blue? Roaring bear?
My world froze.
There was only one hold with that banner.
Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloak.
Not a minute later, the tent flaps opened and in marched two men.
I stood at my father's side, my eyes on the blonde-haired man standing before us, Nord-blue eyes shining against the fire. Ulfric Stormcloak was very much the same as his character model in Skyrim, but here he was younger and has fresher face. He was clad in thick plate, a blue sash draped over him. At his side stood his right hand, Galmar Stone-Fist, pretty much dressed in the same clothing in the game but like Ulfric, was also much younger.
"Introducing Ulfric, son of Jarl Hoag, Jarl of Windhelm, the Bear of Eastmarch," Galmar declared, his voice the same as in canon. Ulfric waited for a moment, before speaking.
"The High King has called for true Nords and Windhelm answers the call," Ulfric declared, his voice the deep basso that had inspired many to rebellion.
"You've arrived at the worst moment, Lord Ulfric," Jarl Heorot replied. "The Reachmen have made use of Dwarven constructs that have torn our men to shreds. These constructs are still in the city as we speak."
"But these constructs are not invincible, my lord." Igmund interjected, eager to get Ulfric's ear now that he had the men. "I know how to destroy these things, all that we need is your support."
Ulfric stood, listening, before he spoke. "Windhelm will do what needs to be done for Skyrim, Lord Igmund. My father, Jarl Hoag, has instructed me to assist this campaign as best as I can, and I shall do so. Rest assured, my lord, that the men of Windhelm is at your call."
Igmund looked relieved, and rightfully so.
But from where I stood, I just waited for the clincher. The motivation for Ulfric to do what he did, the request that lit a fire that would raze Skyrim, and unleash an even hotter flame brought about by black wings.
Mentally, I kicked myself. I had spent so much time worrying about the Markarth Incident that I forgot about the instigator of said Incident.
I should have had him killed a long time ago.
"However," Ulfric started. "Before we assist you, Windhelm wishes for an assurance from you my lords, that for its reward, we will have your full support when the time comes."
I could feel Irileth glancing at me in confusion and concern, as I briefly went pale. My mind was just a circus at this point. Ulfric was fucking holding us hostage for his help and he knew it.
"Windhelm shall have Markarth's support!" Igmund hastily added, desperation all but evident in his voice.
"This I swear, on my city's honor!"
Fuck.
From his throne, my father watched the display carefully. He glanced at me for a second, and perhaps sensing the conflict I was feeling, hesitated. He turned back to Ulfric, and spoke. "The High King has declared that the city must be reclaimed for Skyrim and the Empire. Whiterun has answered its call out of duty and not reward, Lord Ulfric. Whiterun wishes to know why Windhelm would not do the same, after all, our Holds have marched out in the name of duty, service, and fealty, not out of some mercenary desire."
Fuck yeah! You tell him dad!
For a moment, I saw a crack in Ulfric's expression and just in that second, I saw doubt flicker in his eyes. I decided that this was a moment for me to intervene.
"But of course, as loyal servants, we shall be justly rewarded. However, it is pointless to discuss rewards when our quarry is still occupied," I interjected, moving forward. "Let us first deal with the Reachmen, then we can discuss terms afterwards."
Ulfric stood, silent as the wind, before nodding, thankfully. "A fair point," he concluded. "Windhelm is willing to do its duty, for Skyrim."
"For Skyrim," we all chorused.
"Moving forward, we must discuss a new battleplan, my lords." I continued. The Lords of Markarth, Whiterun, and Windhelm all nodded and soon, the tent devolved into discussion as the each lord gave their proposals
But as the discussion dragged on, there remained one conclusion. The gates were wide and open, and while the Dwarven constructs were formidable, they weren't indestructible. A new force of Nords had arrived, fresh and eager to fight.
And so, the decision was made.
Attack.
The Dwarven Constructs stood sentinel before the walls of a city whose original name was lost in time, but their purpose was clear to them just as the day it was breathed in them. Defend their quarry from whoever was in the city, and no more.
And then, without warning, a great shout echoed in the valleys of the Reach, as Ulfric of Windhelm summoned a great power that was used to carve an empire from the bodies of elves.
"FUS, RO, DAH!" Shouted Ulfric, and the constructs that were in his way were not only pushed with a unrelenting force, but torn apart as they were shouted away. The Constructs rallied, spiders chittering and spheres rolling the meet the threat but they were met by the armies of Whiterun, Windhlem, and Markarth.
The Dwarven Centurion marched out, each step announcing its presence. It scanned the battlefield looking for a target and its gaze fell on Ulfric, ancient programming all but telling it to destroy the Nord. Its steam mechanisms roared as it charged forward. But Ulfric stood his ground, stared back up at the Centurion.
And roared back.
A/N: Updoots.
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