Authors note: Another chapter already. Woo finally had some free time to do it. Hopefully I can get the next one out soon enough; the first few arcs are going to follow the Civil War leading into Dawnguard and Dragonborn as this is only post Main Quest of the base game.
Brand looked at the formation of Orcs, Nords and Redguards standing before him. A few Imperials, namely a Tribune named Quintus, stood off to the side. Those Imperials would be his officers during this. A gods-damned sortie, he thought, with Masser and Secunda high in the sky…
One-hundred and fifty legionnaires at his command for this. He grinned savagely underneath his helmet. "We move out in ten minutes, men. Our one and only goal is to sabotage their engines, kill as many of them as possible and burn their supplies. Take this time to check your weapons and armor and pray to the Divines – be it Talos, Shor or any other."
"Yes Dragonborn," chorused from them all as they saluted. Quintus walked up to the Dragonborn, a rather unpleasant look on his features. Brand couldn't tell whether or not he disliked being under the command of a non-Legion warrior. "By Akatosh," the Tribune breathed, "I've never seen anyone volunteer so quickly."
"They are mostly my kinsmen, Tribune Quintus," pointed out the Dragonborn cooly. "We Nords have a rather deeply ingrained respect for the heroes of myth and legend which includes myself."
"Do you have a plan for the sortie?" The Tribune changed the subject as they watched the legionnaires. Some gripped amulets of the Divines tightly as they prayed silently, others were checking their weapons and armor. Brand nodded stiffly.
"I will have fifty men, preferably the lighter armored ones, moving through the camp killing Stormcloaks as they sleep. The Orcs, due to their heavier armor will prove useful as a distraction, backed up archers that I've requisitioned from the Legion, and the rest will ransack the supplies and destroy their engines."
"Will that work?" asked Quintus.
"I bloody hope so," sighed Brand as he signaled to move out. They marched quietly through the postern gate and down the hill Whiterun was built on. Brand decided he'd join those rampaging through the camp as they fell upon it.
The Stormcloaks had seemed aware they were coming, as the plan seemed to fail nearly instantly. His men had been reduced to a brutal melee as more sentries than expected retaliated.
Yol Toor Shul
Air was sucked in as he let loose the fire within. A great fireball erupted from his jaws, shooting forward and engulfing everything in its path. Tents and their inhabitants were burned to ash within seconds. Black smoke and the acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air. He turned to another group of tents as the fire from the first shout spread behind him.
Yol Toor Shul
He repeated the shout twice more before drawing Sunsinger and falling into the growing melee as well. A whirlwind of blows and shouts soon surrounded him as any Stormcloak that got too close were cut down with bestial savagery. Arrows whistled overhead and thudded into a group of Stormcloaks trying to join the melee. Quintus soon fought his way to him, "Dragonborn, we need those engines destroyed -"
The Tribune was cut off as an arrowhead emerged from his throat in a spray of blood. "Legionnaires," called the Dragonborn, "on me! For the Empire, for Skyrim! For Whiterun!"
He grabbed a fallen shield as his men fell into formation around him, shields locked. They pushed forward, batting aside any enemies. Many of the legionnaires had served under Quintus for a while and they fought with zeal to avenge their Tribune. Brand had no special love or hate for the Imperial but he had been a comrade. A shield-brother in all but name. His time in the Companions had taught him to avenge his fallen brothers and sisters no matter how he felt about them.
Bloodlust roared in his mind and the beast pulled at its restraints within him. Desiring to be set free, to feast on the blood and flesh of the enemy. Of its prey. Brand pushed the desire back, silencing his blessing from Hircine. He could not, would not, indulge. Once the engines were destroyed and supplies burned, they'd retreat. They had too many wounded and several dead already.
As they approached their siege engines, a number of rams and towers and catapults, the Dragonborn called out. "Form a shieldwall around me, men! I'll take their engines out soon enough. Some of you, grab torches and make for the supplies – burn them while I do this. Now!"
They fell into his orders quickly with cold efficiency. He breathed deeply. In and out.
Yol Toor Shul
The fire burned with a primeval intensity as he uttered the words. The fireball shot forth, engulfing the engines and burning into a massive and uncontrollable fire. He turned, the stream of Stormcloaks had dwindled as the enemy panicked and made to put the growing fires out. "Move out!" he cried.
"Back to the city!" They fell back into formation, marching quickly through the camp. The ones sent to destroy the supplies ran frantically back to the city ahead of the rest. Chased by some overzealous Stormcloaks, they were soon covered by the archers. Volley upon volley of expertly shot arrows whistled overhead and riddled the pursuers like pincushions.
Soon they were all back in the city, taking tally of their casualties. From one hundred and fifty, they had less than half still in fighting shape. Many were wounded and the dead had to be left behind, burning with the enemy camp. They died as heroes, he thought, and they shall be remembered as such.
The Legate approached as those still able bodied carried off the wounded to the healers. "Judging from all of the smoke blotting the stars," he mused, "it was successful?"
"Aye." sighed the Dragborn. "But we lost a lot of good men during the initial fighting – they somehow knew we were coming."
"It's possible they have spies amongst the defenders…" said the Legate before shaking his head. "But even if they did, the sortie wasn't an openly discussed operation… Where is Tribune Quintus, Brand?"
"He was one of the dead, sir. He took a Stormcloak arrow to the throat, he was dead before he hit the ground."
The Legate nodded stiffly. "He will be remembered as a hero."
Brand sighed and marched up to the walls, hand on the pommel of Sunsinger. Dawn was going to break soon. The pink-orange glow was already beginning to light up the horizon as he stood there. Other defenders, guards and legionnaires alike, were already falling back into place on the wall. From his vantage point, he saw dozens, if not hundreds, of small black figures fleeing the camp. Scattering to the winds as the hardliners began to form up. They marched up to the drawbridge; a single officer with a bear-head helmet and fur draped over his shoulders and a brutal looking ax in his hands stood on top of the wall of the bridge.
"Come out!" he called gruffly. His voice was gravelly and as hard as mountain stone. "Come out little Dragonborn and fight me. If you win, we leave this city. If I win, your legion dogs leave."
"Oh," he said suddenly as if remembering something. "This fight will be to the death of course, as true Nords, and none of that Voice you are so fond of."
No one tried to stop him as he marched out to meet the officer. They were the same height but while Brand was leaner and more well muscled, this man looked like he'd have no trouble picking up a boulder and tossing it across the plains. His ax was well worn with a few chips and dried blood coating it. A simple iron battle-ax against Sunsinger? He sighed.
"I'll give you the honor, traitor," began Brand. "Of striking first in our duel. Don't be shy, I'm sure you can land a blow with that rusted piece of shit."
The man roared and charged, swinging the ax down savagely. Brand stepped to the side and drew Sunsinger as the ax sunk into the earth. "Now, how did you fall for that?" mocked the Dragonborn. He brought his sword up and then down in an arc, the dragonbone sinking into flesh and bone as the officer's head fell. A spray of blood coated the ground as the body crumpled and the head rolled.
With Sunsinger in one hand, he grabbed the officer's head and held it high for all to see. "Your champion lost," he called out, "now honor his word and leave Whiterun lest you want the Legion to chase you from the hold like the dogs you are!"
None challenged him as they turned and fled back east towards Eastmarch and Windhelm and their camps and fortifications therein. With the siege over, the legionnaires stayed behind to help repair and garrison the city as Balgruuf sent a letter pledging loyalty to the Empire once more. There was no victory feast or celebrations. Only funeral pyres for the victorious dead.
Word would spread like wildfire, he had aided the Legion. He had broken his own neutrality in favor of defending his home city. Now Brand had a reason to chase the Stormcloaks until they were cornered wolves in Windhelm. He'd help the Legion, he decided, until the Stormcloaks were broken.