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Skyrim Spartan

Chapter Seven

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Anske could not find it in herself to take another life so soon after her first, especially because her opponent was practically defenseless, so instead she decided to simply knock the shaman unconscious by smacking her on the side of the head with the edge of her shield. That proved to be more than enough to send the exhausted Forsworn to the dirt.

Checking to make sure she was actually knocked out and not dead, Anske then moved on to examine Reldith.

The elf was in bad shape, but thankfully she appeared to still be breathing. She would probably survive even without any healing, although her right side would be horribly disfigured. Ideally, she needed to get treated and healed sooner rather than later, but the only one in the village she who could cast healing magic was the old Breton, Jouane, and she had no idea where he was.

Alternatively, if there were any healing potions nearby, that would help a lot. Perhaps one of the bodies of the fallen might have one. Otherwise, she did not know of any other places that she could search for one. All the possible places were already burned down or still burning.

Regardless, she couldn't just leave the elf out here in the open like this. Taking a careful look around, she frowned. There wasn't really any proper cover for her to drag the unconscious elf to, especially with the storm about to unleash its fury upon them.

Taking a closer look at the bodies within eyesight, she was again glad that her father was not among them. Where was he? Had she somehow missed him on the way here? She shook her head. No, Vors had specifically told her that her father was somewhere in this direction.

Her head turned towards the road leading away from the village and around a bend that cut between the close by hills. There was only one other place in that direction that her father could be, the camp that the reinforcement guardsmen had erected when they first arrived.

She got to her feet, but then looked down again at the unconscious elf and the Forsworn shaman. Letting out an annoyed breath, she knew she had to deal with them first before she went any farther. She just had to do it quickly.

Rushing around, she stripped the nearby bodies of any furs and garments and quickly piled them on top of the elf, essentially creating a makeshift blanket. She also placed some under her head as a pillow. While she was doing that, she tried to search for any healing potions, but came up empty.

Then she tore some of the fabrics up into strips, which she used to tie up the arms and legs of the shaman, making sure the bindings were tight and secure.

Once that was finished, Anske took the shaman's staff and threw it as far away as she could, as well as any other potential weapons that could be used. Then she piled some other clothes on top of her as well to help keep her warm. It would be pointless to have tried to keep her alive only for her to die to the elements.

While she was doing all of this, she had a small voice in the back of her head saying that it was wrong to strip and loot the corpses like she did, but it was the only thing she could think of at the moment. And it wasn't like they were going to need them anymore, right? She tried not to think about it too much.

Besides, adventurers did this all the time, so it should be okay.

When she was satisfied that she had done what she could for the two unconscious figures on the ground, she checked one last time to make sure Reldith was still breathing – she was – and that the bindings on the shaman were secure – they were – then she grabbed her sword and ran up the road towards the guardsmen's camp.

Her tired legs protested, but she ignored that and forced herself to move one step at a time. As soon as she rounded the bend and caught sight of the camp nestled between the hills, she came to a halt.

The camp was destroyed. All the tents were either burned or broken down. Dozens of bodies littered the ground, most of them Forsworn. But what really caught her eye was that in the middle of what was left of the encampment was a mass of people.

A big group of Forsworn stood in a circle, roughly thirty of them, and in the center of the circle were some surviving defenders. Only three of them. They looked exhausted and laden with multiple injuries. One of them was already on his back, bleeding out. The other two stood around him, one looking barely able to stand while the other was breathing heavily but seemed largely unscathed.

Luckily, the Forsworn hadn't seen her and she quickly moved off the road, hiding behind a partially torn down and burnt tent. As she got a better look at the survivors, her heart leapt in her chest. It was Mralki. Her father.

He's alive! She was relieved, but then fear washed over her like a bucket of ice-cold water dumped on her head.

There were far too many Forsworn for them all to fight. Even if she could somehow break through the encirclement and get to her father, there was simply no way they could survive a battle against so many. She had neither the strength nor the skill to accomplish such a feat, and the survivors weren't any better at this point.

They would all be slaughtered. In fact, and she frowned at the thought, they should have already been slaughtered. Yet they were alive. What was the meaning of this? And why were the Forsworn all standing around in a circle?

She glanced around, trying to figure out what these Reachmen savages were trying to accomplish. Whatever the reason, she felt uneasy about it.

They could easily swarm and overwhelm the survivors, and yet they kept their distance. They jeered and mocked and gestured rudely, but they did not advance on the tired and bloodied survivors, who seemed glad to be allowed a moment to catch their breath. Even if it was only a short reprieve from their eventual fate.

Then she saw someone approach, and it instantly became clear to her. They were all waiting for someone specific to finish off these survivors. The leader of their group, perhaps.

One side of the circle parted, making way for a warrior who wielded two terrifying-looking bone swords that looked like they had been painstakingly carved out of the bones of some large creature. The warrior walked slowly and deliberately into the circle, his attention entirely on the survivors trapped within.

Draped over the warrior's head and shoulders was the head and pelt of a bear. His half-naked body was slim and muscled, but not impressively so. His skin was barely scarred. In fact, he seemed to be little more than a teen, yet the warriors, many of whom were older and larger, sporting scars from countless battles, seemed to defer to him. Almost revere him, in a way.

It was then that Anske noticed the patch across his chest, covering the area around his heart. It seemed odd at first glance, and as she stared at it the realization hit her harder than a giant swinging his club on a hapless goat.

He was a briarheart. Her own heart beat faster at the implication, dread filling her.

Anske had only heard about them from tales shared by passing travelers at the inn, but what she heard of these special Forsworn warriors was enough to make her understand how incredibly dangerous a foe they were.

Briarhearts were high-ranking warriors of the Forsworn, and were people who, like the Hagravens who created them, gave up their humanity for greater power through a secret dark ritual. One that involved removing their hearts and replacing them with a briar heart, hence their name.

It was said that those who became briarhearts lost their ability to fully reason like a human. They remembered only a fraction of their past memories, particularly memories charged with the most emotion, and lived only to fight against the enemies of the Forsworn and serve their hagraven masters.

They felt no pain, no weariness, and no fear. They did not bleed and could ignore serious injuries, their bodies essentially undead. Their strength and speed were enhanced considerably, and their bloodlust even more so. The only way to truly kill them was to remove or destroy their briar hearts, or to decapitate them. Preferably at long range, since all briarhearts were close-range combatants.

Anske paled, frozen in place as she watched the crowd of Forsworn hoot and howl with excitement at what was essentially a public execution masquerading as a fight.

If the odds of the remaining guardsmen surviving were low to begin with, they might as well be nonexistent now. Given how tired and injured they all were, fighting against a Briarheart was akin to a guaranteed death sentence. And this was probably why the Forsworn were hanging back. They wanted to enjoy the spectacle as the desperate survivors tried to fight for their lives against one of the strongest of the Forsworn.

Anske gasped then, momentarily taken aback when her father stepped up to face the new enemy without any hesitation at all. And despite the situation, Anske could not help but swell with pride. She knew her father would not back down, even against overwhelming odds, and was glad to see she was not wrong. This was the man she admired and looked up to, the man who had raised her.

He was the only one with enough strength left to at least put up a decent fight, from the looks of it. Of the other two survivors, the one who was barely standing had now fallen down to a knee, leaning against his sword that he had stabbed into the dirt for support. The one on the ground looked like he might have already stopped breathing.

The Briarheart raised his swords and bellowed a challenge, and the spectators cheered. The wind suddenly gusted, making everyone crouch low and brace themselves for a moment, as if the storm were adding its own cheer to the spectacle.

Anske's mind churned in panic, trying to come up with a plan. Anything at all that she could do to save her father, but nothing came to her. Nothing that would lead to their getting out of this alive. She watched with worry as the fight began, her father's face a mask of determination that covered the fatigue and the pain that she knew was sapping at his already diminished strength.

The Briarheart charged, dual swords at the ready, and her father was forced into the defensive as their blades clashed.

On first glance, it looked like they were evenly matched, but the more she watched, the more she realized that the Briarheart was simply toying with him. Her father was a good and experienced warrior, and physically very strong, but he was long retired and had not been in a serious fight in some time. Plus, he was older now, and his body was not what it used to be.

After countless fights today with other Forsworn, he was obviously nearing his limit.

His movements were sluggish, his reactions slower than they should have been, and only his battle experience was really keeping him in this fight for now. He must have realized early on that he could no longer go on the offensive. All he could do was defend, dodge, and deflect. He spent a lot of time behind his shield, which she realized was his Legionnaire's shield. The one that normally hung on the wall in his bedroom.

Anske felt the cold wind on her skin and shivered as despair took hold. He was going to die here. And she was too. They all were. There was no other ending that she could think of. With this many Forsworn left, and with the Briarheart here, the remaining survivors who stayed to fight didn't stand a chance.

Her mind turned to Reldith, injured and unconscious back where she had left her.

Logically, Anske should retreat and regroup with the survivors, bringing the injured elf with her so that they could live to fight another day. But she couldn't go back there now. Not when her father was still alive. She wouldn't be able to forgive herself for running and abandoning her father to his fate, especially after seeing him fighting with everything he had to survive and protect those he cared about.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to no one in particular as she thought of the elf one last time, hoping that someone would be able to get Reldith some help before the Forsworn found her.

She closed her eyes and prayed to the divines. When she opened them again, there was only one thing left for her to do: join her father in battle.

Tightening her grip around her sword, she nodded to herself. This was an honorable way to die. A Nord couldn't ask for much better. Dying to protect her family and her home was surely worthy of being allowed into Sovngarde, especially if she faced off against such overwhelming odds.

More importantly, she would see her father there. She was sure of it.

Having made her decision, she stood tall and breathed in the icy cold air and took a step forward.

But then, as she took another step forward and prepared to charge into the fray, her heart stopped and her blood ran cold. Everything happened in what seemed like slow motion, like they were moving underwater.

The Briarheart finally got past her father's guard, and one of those nasty-looking jagged swords plunged into her father's abdomen, the bone white weapon slowly turning crimson with her father's blood. Her father's eyes widened in shock as blood spewed from his mouth.

"NO!" The wind ate her cry as her fingers went limp and her sword slipped from her grasp, falling to the ground.

She was too late. Too weak. Too slow. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.

The Briarheart abruptly withdrew his sword, more blood spilling forth from the grievous wound, and then he kicked her father to the ground, where he grasped at his wound in clear agony. The Briarheart roared in triumph, raising his bloody sword above his head, and the gathered crowd cheered in a frenzy.

Anske reached one hand out towards her father, her whole body tensing up. Consumed in a roiling sea of anguish and despair, and rising fury, she let out a cry of sorrow. Memories of her father welled up unbidden, flashing through her mind. Memories of all the times he made her smile and laugh and even cry. Of raising her and caring for her on his own after the death of his wife, her mother. Memories of him putting up with her even when she was stubborn and didn't listen.

She did not want to lose him. Not like this. She didn't even get to talk to him one last time. He was also still supposed to train her to become a proper warrior. It was too soon. Too sudden. There had to be something she could do. Anything. Anything at all.

The Briarheart stabbed is other sword into the ground, freeing his hand to grab her father's head by his hair. The Nord struggled, hands grasping at the arm of the Briarheart, but was unable to break free. Angling the raised jagged sword down towards the man, the Briarheart prepared to deal with the final blow.

With every fiber of her being, every ounce of emotion and thought, Anske willed for something to happen. For something to stop the scene unfolding before her.

And then, something did happen. Something totally unexpected.

Anske gasped as a surge of energy abruptly coursed through her body, her skin tingling. The energy flowed into her outstretched hand, where a bright ball of light coalesced in front of her palm before shooting out in a bolt of shining white light. It hurtled through the air with tremendous speed and slammed into the Briarheart's side, sending him flying and saving her father from instant death.

Feeling suddenly drained, she fell to her knees and slowly turned her hand around, staring at her palm as if no longer recognizing it as her own.

What… just happened? she thought, dumbfounded.

As one, the shocked group of Forsworn turned their attention to her. Nobody made a move for a few seconds, and even her father looked surprised.

Her head felt woozy as the world began to spin off-balance. She felt like she was going to pass out. And she nearly did, catching herself a moment before she fell over and managing to stay upright.

No. She had to stay awake. She still had to fight. The Forsworn were going to be upon her soon. And her father… She had to get to her father. She managed to get one leg up, but even that effort proved exhausting as she realized she could not get back to her feet.

Gritting her teeth, her vision losing focus, she tried to at least find her sword. She couldn't fight without her sword. Where was her sword?

Then she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. They were here. The Forsworn. Despair. Hopelessness. Fear. Sadness. Regret. It all came flooding through her like an avalanche, threatening to bury her.

Her eyes slowly glanced towards the figure that had arrived next to her, dreading what was sure to come next. But it was not one of the Forsworn that she saw, and for a moment she thought she was dreaming.

Standing more than seven feet tall and bound with chiseled and rippling muscles was none other than the newest addition to Rorikstead.

"Kratos," she whispered.

He was covered in blood, though he didn't appear to be injured. His left hand was clenched into a fist, while his right held an axe that dripped with even more blood. He wore a serious expression on his face, eyes dark and displeased.

He gave her a sideways glance, and his serious look softened so slightly that she did not even notice.

"I'll take it from here, girl," he told her.

Anske felt herself sag as soon as she heard him, as if he had physically taken on all her burdens in that moment. She opened her mouth to say something, but words failed her, and she fell to her side before rolling onto her back. Darkness crept along the edges of her vision.

She felt tired. So very tired. She couldn't struggle against it anymore, no matter how much she tried to. Before she finally gave in and lost consciousness, she had one last thought.

Father… it's… finally snowing.

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How many was that now? Forty? Fifty? He had cut through the Forsworn in the village like a farmer out in a wheat field during harvest. And now, the biggest group yet lay decimated around him, the quickly accumulating snow bathed red in their blood.

Kratos stood tall in the middle of the destroyed encampment, barely out of breath. His axe had finally broken at some point, and he had been forced to use the crude weapons of his fallen opponents, or simply his bare hands on a few occasions.

The Forsworn were not as strong as their wild appearances made them out to be, but more than a few were agile and dexterous enough to last at least a handful of seconds against Kratos in combat. Though that was partly because he was barely even trying.

They were not true warriors, by his estimation. Their movements were too wild and too reckless, their tactics were practically nonexistent thus far, and they barely had any cohesion as a fighting force. Some of them even injured their allies while fighting, not caring where their weapons landed as they swung away with reckless abandon. Others simply got in the way of their allies, interrupting attacks and generally sowing chaos amongst their own people.

In short, they did not deserve any more than the merest sliver of the necessary effort to take them down.

Nostrils flaring, he let out a hot breath that briefly steamed in the frigid air as the blizzard raged around him. He had stayed in the village to help defend it, but he had not expected the extent or ferocity of the assault that had actually come. A pang of guilt shot through him. His arrival here had caused all of this death and destruction, and he had a feeling there was more still to come in the days ahead.

A small part of him had sincerely hoped that he might settle down peacefully here for a while, that perhaps the danger of the Forsworn and anything else was overblown, but it appeared that fate once again had other plans for him. He was not surprised, of course, considering how he had even gotten here in the first place. But still, he had been hopeful. Foolishly hopeful.

Kratos glared up at the sky, wondering if the god called Akatosh was watching.

Off to the side, the surviving guardsman had gaped at him for a moment before tending to his fallen comrades, desperately trying to keep them alive. Kratos turned to them. He supposed he would have to carry them all back to the others, many of whom had taken refuge in the homes that were untouched by the battle. One of which was his.

Before he could do that, however, he noticed a dark shape fast approaching him.

Kratos faced the oncoming threat with more annoyance than surprise. There was apparently one last Forsworn to deal with.

Even with the limited visibility due to the snowstorm, Kratos noticed that this Forsworn was slightly different than the others. His head was covered with a headdress fashioned out of an actual brown bear, with the top half of the snout hanging over the man's face with fangs still attached. The bottom half had been removed, giving ample space for the man's face and head.

Wielding two crude bone swords in his hands, his opponent raised them both up and swung down with all his strength as he neared the big Spartan. The blades moved fast, faster than any Forsworn had thus far wielded, but Kratos was still able to meet them with the iron sword that he had picked up, easily blocking the attack without moving from where he stood.

There was more strength and speed behind this strike than any other Forsworn he had faced thus far. That mean that this was a higher order of Forsworn. An elite soldier of some kind. Though despite his improved speed and strength, his fighting style was still as wild and as crude as his brethren.

Kratos stared at the man's face, noting that he looked young and… familiar. The Forsworn glared back at him with pure hatred. So much hatred, in fact, that Kratos began to wonder what cause this Forsworn could have to hate him to such a degree.

Was it because he had slaughtered all the others?

It was then that he noticed the strange patch over his chest, and the clear scars and discoloration that spread out from beneath it. Even without knowing what had happened, Kratos could tell it was a serious injury, and he was at a loss as to how the man could still be fighting.

His opponent decided that he had had enough of simply standing around and made his next move, kicking Kratos in the stomach strong enough that it should have at least done some damage, though it was as effective as slapping a boulder in the hopes of shattering it.

Kratos made to grab the outstretched leg still pressed against his chiseled abs, but the Forsworn decided to use it to disengage instead, pushing off that leg and using the Spartan's body as a springboard as he jumped backwards into the air, landing a few feet away.

Not wasting any time, the Forsworn immediately returned to the offensive, lashing out with a series of basic strikes that once again showed him to be a class above all the other Forsworn in terms of speed and strength. Such a tactic might have worked on other lesser warriors, but not Kratos.

He blocked one attack after another, dodging whenever it was more appropriate, and with each failed attack his opponent grew visibly angrier and more frustrated.

The Forsworn's stamina was impressive. He did not seem to tire as easily as the others, despite how much energy he should have been expending for his attacks.

The fight continued far longer than it should have. The reason Kratos did not end it sooner was because he was suddenly curious as to what this new Forsworn fighter was capable of, but he soon realized the answer to that question: not much.

As he had already observed, this Forsworn was far stronger and much faster than most anyone he had seen thus far in this world, but his attacks were easy enough to read. His combinations were wild and reckless, just like the rest of the Forsworn, and though it made them almost unpredictable at times, it also meant they were not as effective nor as efficient.

More often than not, when such a combination failed, it left the Forsworn off-balance and overextended, though he made up for this somewhat by recovering quicker than most. Still, against Kratos, who had fought entities who were magnitudes stronger and faster, this was once again barely worth any meaningful attention.

On one such occasion, as Kratos ducked under another wide overhead diagonal swing, he stepped in towards his opponent and slammed his left fist into the man's abdomen. He had not put that much force behind it, but it was more than enough to lift the Forsworn into the air and up and over several feet before he fell to the ground in a heap.

If the blow did not kill him, it should have at least incapacitated him, which was why Kratos was surprised to see the Forsworn slowly getting up. Blood filled his mouth and dribbled down his chin, but he did not seem to care for his injuries. As soon as he was back on his feet, he charged at Kratos again, letting out a loud war cry filled with rage.

This time, Kratos parried the next strike aimed at his head and, using the momentum generated, swiftly spun his sword around and neatly sliced through the Forsworn's outstretched left arm just above the elbow. Blood spurted out, though not nearly as much as it should have for such a grievous injury, but once again the Forsworn seemed to ignore the loss of his arm as if it were nothing more than a flesh wound.

The man stumbled back momentarily before coming at him again. Having had enough, Kratos did not even bother blocking the incoming sword, instead reaching out to grab the Forsworn's remaining arm. The sword smacked with its jagged edge into the Spartan's upper arm but failed to so much as scratch him. If the Forsworn was surprised by that, he did not let on.

Gripping the man's remaining arm firmly, Kratos pulled him close and proceeded to stab him right in the chest, burying the sword into the man's flesh up to the hilt.

With their faces up close, the Forsworn growled like a feral animal, struggling to break free while he glared at him with those hate-filled eyes. Even now, he seemed somehow oblivious to the sword that had been run through his chest.

That was when Kratos finally realized why the Forsworn's face looked so familiar. He was the young man, little more than a boy in his teens, that had gotten away the night of his arrival in this world, when he had first fought the Forsworn. What had happened to him? He had been nowhere near this strong before.

"I'm… going… to kill you!" the boy spat, sounding almost hysterical.

Kratos did not bother to respond as he looked at him with a blank expression for a moment, though a small part of him did pity the boy, before ripping the sword straight up through him, tearing him in half from the chest up in a brief shower of blood and gore. He was dead in an instant, and when Kratos let go if him his mutilated body fell heavily to the ground, adding more blood to the already reddish snow that had started to accumulate.

Glancing around one more time to make sure there were no other opponents, he let out a long breath and then calmly walked over to the survivors.

The Battle of Rorikstead was finally over.

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AN: Thank you again for your patience and for all your reviews. I hope you are still enjoying the story! Feel free to pm me or leave more reviews. I do read them all.

Like some of my other big stories, this will be a long one, but hopefully I'll be able to pace it a little better than my older longfics. I am not the best when it comes to plotting, and I'm still constantly trying to improve, but writing is hard so I thank you for your patience and tolerance for my works. Like I said before, I'm not perfectly versed in the lore for either world (ES:S and GoW), but I am quite familiar with them. I have so many projects going on that it's tough for me to really get into the weeds of the lore, so I won't because it's exhausting and I'd rather spend more of my time and effort actually writing, but I'm still doing my best to make it realistic and in-line with what I think things should be in terms of power levels, politics, population sizes, skills, magic, etc.

Next chapter (ch 8) is pretty much done, just editing and will sit on it for a while to see if I can improve on it some more. I will probably post it at the end of the month. It will be a slower chap, but the chapters afterwards will advance the plot more with lots of things happening, so take it as a breather/calm before the storm. I've also already started on Chapter 9, so there will be several updates in the coming weeks to look forward to. :)

PS- someone mentioned that they didn't understand why Kratos got hurt in the first skirmish on the hilltop, even if only barely (like literally a super brief flare of pain as if someone flicked him). I will be addressing that in future chapters, but essentially normal weapons can't even scratch him, but magical weapons...

Humbly,

BardTheChronicler