Chapter 8
The Barrow at Bleak Falls
"While Bleak Falls Barrow remains a popular holdout for bandits, few venture beyond the first few levels. Long rumoured to be haunted, the Barrow has claimed the lives of all who dare to try for its depths. Its treasure, the legendary Dragonstone, has never been removed or even confirmed to exist."-Excerpt from "Holdings of Jarl Gjalund." Written by Handar Lore-Delver. Published 3E 58
Young Hammel knew it was a stupid idea. He was nowhere near as agile as Oryn, lacking the Dunmer's natural agility. It was a long jump and he was hungry and tired.
Despite all that, Hammel Greymist was going to jump. No one could call him a coward.
"Alright, give me space!" He gave Meat-Pies a small shove backward, looking at Oryn defiantly.
Hopping up and down in an attempt to get his blood flowing, Hammel backed up a few steps and took a running start.
Leaping off the building with all his might, Hammel felt for just a moment, like he was flying. The wind rushed past his hair, the ground was far below. It was exhilarating.
Pity that glorious moment was shattered by cold failure.
His jump was too short by several feet and Hammel plummeted to the cobblestone below. A painful crack echoed throughout Solitude as young boy met rock. Darkness took him.
He was fading in and out of consciousness. Every so often, his eyes would flutter and he saw a glimpse of Oryn and Pies dragging him along.
"It's gonna be okay, Hammel," Pies whispered intently, "You're gonna be fine!"
Hammel knew Meat Pies was just trying to be encouraging, but the last thing he wanted to know was just how close his friends were to absolute panic.
When he finally woke, he was laying in his bed. It was rickety, and the blankets were thin and worn, but they were his. Despite the pounding in his skull, and a lump roughly the size of a baby horker blossoming out of his temple, he felt at peace. That's what being home did for him.
A damp, warm cloth was being rubbed tenderly across his forehead, while a gentle voice whispered, "Poor baby. Mum's here now. You'll be okay."
Elliana Greymist was, in a word, faded. Her hair was a long, stringy blonde, like wool not fully spun. Her eyes were sunken, her forehead lined and creased. She still had most of her teeth, minus her right canine and both back molars. She seemed stretched and worn. Her only feature with any remaining vigour was her eyes. Despite all the hardship Elliana suffered, they still sparkled like stars. Sometimes they reminded him of the night sky, dark but filled with warmth.
Rubbing the warm rag across his throbbing head, his mother looked down at him tenderly. "What happened baby?" Her gaze fell across his bruised forehead. "You weren't awake when your friends brought you. They said you fell off a roof?"
His tongue felt fat, forming the words through his muddled mind was difficult. "Yeah." He nodded, his head pounding harder with each shake.
She made a clucking noise, like a mother hen, "There there. I'm here now, you're home and you're safe. Everything's gonna be alright."
The door to the small room they lived in shook as someone pounded on it violently. "Open up, Greymist! I know you're in there and I've got a hankering!" The voice was male, crude and rough. The words were slurred because the man was drunk, and wouldn't have enough teeth to properly pronounce them even if wasn't.
His mother gave a pained expression, her gaunt face retreating behind the veil of stringy hair. "Go away Lorag, I'm not entertaining at the moment." Her words were quiet but firm. "My son's hurt. He needs me."
"Sounds like he needs coin and I know you don't got any." The ugly words were triumphant. "I've got some for you, but my patience is running out."
Elliana began chewing her lower lip, a habit Hammel knew well. It meant his mother was mentally arguing with herself. Her gaze was filled with pain, looking at her calloused hands and tattered clothes, before returning to her injured son. Hammel couldn't see her expression, his eyes were too unfocused.
"It's really bad isn't it?" She whispered, more to herself than to him, rubbing the small talisman that hung from a simple strand of leather around her neck. He could just make out the way it gleamed in the light, worn down from the constant rubbing of a worried mother's thumb. "I'm sorry baby," she whispered before turning away. "I'll be back soon, with medicine."
Hammel wanted to tell his mother not to do it. To stay with him and not go with the mean-sounding man. He wanted her to know he didn't need any medicine, or any healing, he was fine.
Except when he tried to say those things, young Hammel blacked out.
"Greymist! Get up!" Someone was shaking him roughly by the shoulder. Blinking rapidly, Hammel turned to get a good look at his rude awakener. Despite his current early morning bleariness, Hammel could tell it was Vilkas.
"Wha time iss it?" He slurred, rubbing a bare hand across his eyes. Hammel enjoyed Skyrim's mornings, but this was far earlier than he liked.
"Early." The words were gruff and no-nonsense. "Sun's not yet risen." Vilkas didn't seem happier than Hammel was with this encounter. "Put a shirt on, someone wants to speak with you."
Reaching across the bed to his nightstand, Hammel fumbled inside the top drawer for one of his shirts. He withdrew a simple linen shirt, homespun, and light blue. Rolling out of bed while pulling the shirt over his head, he asked, "Who wants to see me?"
"The bloody Court Wizard."
Hammel wasn't expecting that. Pausing a moment, shirt halfway over his head, Hammel tried to force his sleep-addled brain to determine why Farengar would want him. "What does the Court Wizard want from me?" He said groggily.
"You can ask him yourself. Now get up and get going!" Vilkas' non-existent patience evaporated. Picking up Hammel's boots, Vilkas practically threw them at him, hurrying him along. Pulling his shirt down and yanking on his boots, Hammel left for Dragonsreach at a brisk pace.
It was chilly outside the Mead Hall, darkness was wrapped around Whiterun like a cloak. A light mist hung around his ankles. To Non-Nords the morning would have seemed unpleasantly chilly, but he found it merely crisp.
Quickening his pace, Hammel slipped his hands into his pockets and began to whistle. Despite the chaos of the last few days, being back in Skyrim was wonderful.
Wonderful? You're going soft, old Greymist.
Chuckling to himself slightly at his own sentimentality, he paused a moment before the statue of Talos. With Heimskr nowhere in sight, Hammel dropped to one knee, folded his hands, and bowed his head in reverence.
The statue looked down at him, judging his actions and thoughts. Talos was a God Hammel could respect, strong, powerful, honourable and unafraid of battle. Obviously, there was much about him for a soldier to admire. Yet something was troubling Hammel and he wanted to speak with mighty Talos about it.
His silence.
Between outlawing his worship, the Thalmor attempting to stamp it out, and the war being fought in his name, Talos should be showing his divine wrath. Why wasn't he acting? Through a priest, avatar, or even divine intervention, anything that showed he was listening to his faithful. Being a deeply religious man, Hammel went to Talos with these fears and begged his Lord to reveal himself to the Nords.
Talos didn't answer.
Feeling more relaxed after his brief encounter with the Lord of Storms, Hammel rose from before the shrine and went up to Dragonsreach. The guard outside the gate nodded. "The Jarl's expecting you. Good to see you didn't keep him waiting." He had an accent far thicker than Hammel's own, though Hammel understood him just fine, he'd grown up among men who spoke that way.
With a salute to the guard, Hammel entered Dragonsreach. Unlike his previous visit there was no activity, no servants bustled about, no courtiers loudly beating their chests and proclaiming their superiority. Instead, the grand hall was silent.
A few hearty embers remained glowing in the fireplace while the ancient dragon skull glowered down from its perch. Straining his ears against the silence, Hammel heard the faintest murmuring of voices. Turning in the direction of the voices, he followed them. As he crept along the darkened halls, the voices grew louder and clearer, revealing themselves as Farengar Secret-Fire and Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.
"So Farengar, what do you have to share that requires my immediate attention?" The Jarl didn't sound particularly thrilled to be dragged from his bed at this hour.
Hammel entered the room before the Court Wizard could make a pithy response, while busying himself with several parchments. Looking at the Jarl, Hammel saluted. Balgruuf, in return, responded with a polite inclination of his head. The Jarl was dressed in a fine robe, his beard and hair remarkably well-maintained despite the hour, crown placed firmly on his head. Hammel felt under-dressed.
Withdrawing a dust-coated scroll from one of his bookcases, Farengar blew the mould from it. "Greymist, touched that you decided to arrive after all," the Wizard said drolly.
"You're lucky, cryptic messages delivered before sunrise are my weakness." Hammel made sure his tone was equally as deadpanned.
Raising a single eyebrow, Farengar responded in an appropriately pithy manner. "Someone with half a wit? That sets you apart from the usual mercenary riff-raff."
Balgruuf coughed loud, effectively shutting down further verbal sparring.
"Very well, on to the reason I summoned you at this hour," Farengar began with all seriousness. Opening the scroll on his table, he spread its crumbling edges out, placing spell tomes on each corner to ensure it remained open. Hammel leaned forward to discover the parchment was a map and a fairly old one at that.
"We are here." Farengar pointed out, placing his finger on a dark blob the map referred to as 'Whiterun.' "To the south-west of here," he continued, pointing to a different blob,"Is The Bleak Falls Barrow. According to myth, it houses the final resting place of the legendary king Denbar the Cruel, keeper of the equally legendary Dragonstone, a gift he received from his dragon masters."
Turning away, the Court Wizard removed an unwieldy looking leather-bound tome, with a spine cracked from age. "Now, according to all records I could find, no one has ever managed to remove the artefact. So, it pays to reason, the stone is still there."
Farengar looked rather smug, arms crossed and face twisted into a confident grin. Balgruuf, on the other hand, hardly seemed convinced. "So, assuming the Dragonstone is still inside the Barrow, which it might not be, why do we risk getting it?"
"Good question!" Farengar snapped his fingers, his vocal tone implying he'd been waiting for someone to raise that very point. "Even our best records are vague as to what exactly is written on the Dragonstone. Despite the ancient nature of the artefact, I should be able to translate any text on the stone." He moved his book aside, running a hand along the map again. "What is actually written on the stone varies with each retelling, but all agree that it shows a glimpse into the mind of the dragons, and the location of several ancient burial sites. If the dragons are indeed returning, any information we gain from this venture could prove useful in the future. I highly recommend someone get me that stone."
Hammel felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something told him the wizard already had a candidate in mind. Running a hand through his bedraggled hair with a small sigh, Hammel looked right at Farengar. "You want me to get it, don't you?"
"You seem the logical choice," the Court Wizard admitted, fists resting adamantly on his hips. "I most certainly am not."
Balgruuf didn't speak, he stood quietly while stroking his long beard. "If you do this," he said after a moment of silence, "and you come back in one piece, I will arrange a reward for you. Retrieving the Dragonstone would be a great help to the city." Almost as an afterthought, Balgruuf added, "If your friends would care to join in, they would also receive compensation."
Hammel was in a predicament. On one hand, he wanted to refuse. He'd just joined the Companions and didn't want to place his new job in jeopardy. Plus, tramping off to Bleak Falls Barrow sounded like a good way to get killed.
And over what? A hunk of stone with some writing on it?
Yet something kept him from refusing. Balgruuf needed him. The Jarl of Whiterun, by all accounts a good man, was requesting his service. Hammel hadn't felt so needed since his military days, and he felt honoured by the trust. Besides, insulting the man whose town he'd be living in for the foreseeable future wasn't wise.
Despite the sinking feeling suggesting this was a very bad idea, Hammel found himself nodding. "I'll set out for the Barrow mid-day tomorrow." He paused as an idea struck suddenly. "Could you please grant me a favour, Jarl Balgruuf?"
Balgruuf nodded, his arms folded across his chest.
"I'd like a bow."
The constant bouncing of the cart made her head throb.
Lianna of Riverwood wasn't particularly fond of horse-drawn carriages. Their rickety seating made it impossible to sit comfortably, and being exposed to the worst of Skyrim's weather didn't help.
Rubbing her hands together, Lianna tried to force warmth into them. Despite her best efforts nothing came of it. Cursing the gloves' poor lining, she settled in for an unpleasant journey.
Despite what she regularly told Ralof, and the image she tried to project to others, Lianna struggled with the cold. Being a spellsword, her magic was extensively combat-focused and provided her little protection from the elements. As if to spite her, this grey morning was particularly unpleasant. Rain fell sporadically from the darkened sky, leaving her both damp and cold.
The weather didn't bother her driver in the slightest. The burly Nord kept rambling on about his favourite types of mead, gripping the reins tight. The rain seemed to have no effect on him, bouncing off his fur coat and scarred features without raising even the mildest of complaint.
Still, despite foul weather and a chatty carriage driver, Lianna's spirits were rising.
She was headed home.
Not her literal home, not any building, but the home of her heart. Ralof. She was going to Windhelm. She longed to be among the ancient buildings, hear the bustle of the market, and drink the mead in the taverns. And, of course, snuggle up with a certain Nord to keep her warm at night.
Hammel had asked if she wanted to come on his little fool's errand, but she refused. She'd gone on enough quests with that washed-up excuse for a warrior and if she never saw him again it would be too soon. She had a war to win.
The cart bounced over a rock, causing her to jam her arm against the side. Lianna swore bitterly under her breath, pulling her thread-tattered cloak tighter. It didn't help.
Mentally, Lianna willed the cart to go faster. Her Jarl needed her.
"By Oblivion! A man could freeze his stones off out here!" Talius Deverus cursed, wrapping the bear pelt tighter around his shoulders. He could hardly believe the snow up to his knees and the storm raging around him. The bandit could barely see anything in the blinding whiteness. How the Nords lived with such weather, almost daily, was baffling to him.
Throwing another log onto the pitiful excuse for a fire the bandits managed to keep burning, Talius reached for the flask of warm tea he kept on his belt. Because he was the sentry, he should have been keeping his war axe in hand, but the thought of anyone finding them here was preposterous. The bandits had taken up refuge atop a snow-covered mountain in the shadow of an ancient Nordic Barrow. Talius wasn't superstitious by nature, but he disliked the tomb.
"Good thing you don't have any stones to lose!" Wudgar, his Nord accomplice, laughed heartily. "You Imperials lack backbone! The weather is nice and brisk." Despite his snow-caked beard and eyebrows, Wudgar barely noticed the storm around them. Unlike Talius he left his fur vest open, exposing his scar-covered chest to the fury of the elements, seeming unbothered.
"We should head back to Hammerfell," Talius said, taking a long sip of his tea, the heat warming him down to his toes. "Sasha misses home, and she's more "excitable," around sand."
Wudgar snorted, shifting his drooping moustache, "I'd rather fight a sabre cat bare-handed than return to that oven."
Talius shrugged. "Say whatever you want. The women are better there." After another sip, he screwed the lid back on his flask and returned it to his belt. Wrapping his hand around the handle of his axe, Talius leaned back on the stump he was sitting on. "When's Draven coming back from the tower? He should be here by now." Looking out into the utter whiteness, the bandit shielded his eyes. "I can't see anything."
"If that Bosmer returned I'd know," Wudgar answered disdainfully. Glancing into the snow with one good eye, he smirked. "I work best in the snow."
"Well I sure don't," Talius responded, scooting closer to the fire. Holding his hands out as far as the cloak would allow, he practically shoved them into the fire. Giving his best mental estimate, Talius guessed he had maybe another hour of this torment. After that, he could return to the Barrow. He'd spend the rest of the day playing cards with Arvel, flirting with Sasha, and drinking the night away.
Hopefully their next scheme would put some actual coin in his pocket. This damn treasure hunt had been a bust so far. Breaking into the Riverwood Trader had been easy. Making out with the claw was even easier. But actually using the claw to make some money had proved more difficult.
Arvel seemed to think he'd figured it out. Last time they had played cards, he'd kept muttering about how the answer was right before their very eyes. Honestly, Talius thought the Dunmer had finally lost his mind.
The howling wind increased in speed, the snow hitting him firmly in the face. Sputtering and spitting out snow, Talius rubbed his eyes with a frozen hand. "Wudgar, how do you...?"
He stopped mid-word as an arrow came flying out of the snow, striking his companion directly in the shoulder. Howling in pain, Wudgar fell to his knees, his good arm stretching for his claymore's handle. He never reached it. A second arrow struck him directly in the face. Even as the bandit fell into the snow, Talius was flinging himself off the stump.
Hitting the snowbank hard, his left ear clogged. Scrambling to his feet, Talius dashed for the stone steps leading up into the Barrow. If he could only reach it...
Unfortunately, moving quickly through snow wasn't something he was good at. Talius kept falling, becoming tangled in his cloak. After the third fall he quit trying to stand, scrambling forward on his hands and knees.
Talius never saw the arrow strike him in the back of his head, never felt its shuddering impact and never hit the ground. All he saw was blackness leaping up to embrace him.
"Pity. I wanted one arrow per target." Hammel said with all the emotion of commenting on the weather. He'd tried his best to compensate for the wind and snow but to no avail.
I've been away from Skyrim for too long if I can't make a simple shot.
The bow Jarl Balgruuf had given him was Legion standard, compact but powerful. In his hands it felt comforting, something familiar from his past.
"And I thought your removal of the earlier bandit was impressive. He never saw you until the arrow was in his throat," Clob said approvingly. Despite the weather, Clob seemed almost at home in the snow as Hammel himself. The fluttering of his robe and the firm grip on his quarterstaff was the only indication Clob noticed it at all.
Hammel shrugged in response. "What can I say? I was a scout for years, I know how to move quietly."
"I've never seen anything like that," Ria commented, awestruck. "I mean, I've killed my fair share of creatures, but never like that." She shifted nervously in the snow, her sword already drawn.
Ignoring both, Hammel advanced towards the fire, bow in hand. The others flanked him, keeping their eyes ahead.
Clob had come along because we wanted to visit the ancient ruins. Despite refusing to tell him this, Hammel was more than happy to have a mage along. Bleak Falls Barrow was an ancient tomb and he wanted magic on his side, just to be safe.
As for Ria, Hammel had invited her along on a whim. Feeling that the girl could use more combat experience and, with Lianna gone, he needed another person watching his back. However, a nagging part of his mind kept saying he'd brought the young warrior along because she reminded him of a young Hammel. Regardless, the trio had taken a walk to the Barrow, rested for the night, and carried on. Aside from the two bandits at a watch tower, and the two guards at the fire, they'd seen no one else.
Kicking over the body of the fallen Nord, Hammel saw both arrows were broken in the fall, neither could be recovered.
"You'd think they'd have more guards," Ria said. "We're practically at the Barrow's doorstep." The ancient tomb loomed over them, clearly visible despite the snow. The Barrow's dark and jagged points sprouted off in all directions, a massive set of crumbling stone steps leading up to the doors. Various carvings and runes decorated the structure, though many were now broken or faded. It wasn't one of the nicest places Hammel had seen.
"Bandits are notoriously lazy," Hammel responded, drawing another arrow and notching it. "They must have thought their position in the mountains would keep them safe." He kicked the corpse at his feet, "They were wrong."
Off to his left, Clob began whispering and making sharp, precise hand gestures. Recognizing a spell being cast, Hammel let the mage finish. "You missed one," Clob said casually, pointing up the stairs. "I don't know if he's seen us yet, but he hasn't moved from the steps."
"Detect life is such a useful spell," Ria commented between chattering teeth. "Makes me wish I knew a little magic."
"Focus on your blade, Ria," Hammel said, moving forward as he did, "A sword never runs out of energy at a critical moment." Crouching, Hammel moved towards the doors. With the snow cloaking him, Hammel was practically invisible.
As he moved, he barely heard Clob's indignant response of, "Some of us have plenty in our Magicka reserves."
The blistering cold was comforting on his skin, his posture connecting him back to his military days. It was a happy moment for him, though he wasn't sure why. Scouting made him feel like he had purpose again. After his discharge, he'd been lost and wandering aimlessly. While he wasn't sure where his new connection to Whiterun would lead, it was certainly a step in the right direction.
Crouching behind a pile of rubble that had once been an ornate column, Hammel kept his fingers taut on the bow string. He sat still for a moment, listening. After a brief pause he heard what he was waiting for. A faint cough, muffled behind someone's hand.
Now I've got you.
Moving out from behind the cover, Hammel cleared the remaining steps in a series of leaps, ending in front of a very startled Nord bandit. Without a word, Hammel released his arrow. It punched effortlessly through the fur jerkin the bandit wore. Without a word, he sank to his knees before collapsing onto his side.
Dropping to a crouch, Hammel yanked his arrow free, cleaning it on the bandit's jerkin. After returning the arrow, and bow, to his back, he drew his swords. "Be careful," Hammel advised the others. "We don't know what we'll find on the other side of these doors." Clob nodded, preparing a spell. Ria twirled her blade once but said nothing.
Hammel rammed the massive iron doors with his shoulder, throwing them aside. Swords held in a defensive posture, he stormed into the Barrow's mouth, letting the tomb swallow him like a ferocious beast.
"The Imperials are moving northward," Galmar Stone-Fist said, his voice sounding like gravel running downhill. He pointed at the map spread before them on the table. Tracing away from the red flag representing the Third Imperial Cohort, Galmar jabbed a blob labelled "Fort Snowhawk." Leaning back from the map, Galmar continued, "With the Third Cohort strengthening the Seventh and Ninth, we'll need to pull our boys out before the damned Imperials have them surrounded." He grumbled, "As much as I hate to lose Fort Snowhawk, losing those soldiers would be worse."
Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion splitting families and ending friendships all across Skyrim, didn't immediately respond. Instead, the Jarl of Windhelm stroked his proud beard for a moment, eyes darting across the map. "Give the order, Galmar, I want those men free to continue the fight elsewhere." Pointing at Falkreath, Ulfric said, "Siddgeir is a weak man, more interested in hunting trips and parties than fighting the war."
"Exactly the kind of man the Empire would put in charge of the Hold. Dengir actually loved Skyrim more than the Emperor's slop. He wouldn't please the elf masters." Galmar said with disdain, spitting on the floor, "Better to have a Jarl that accepts Imperial gold no matter how bad he is for the people, than one who actually loves Skyrim."
"Rest assured," Ulfric said, "Dengir will sit on his throne again. We will use Siddgeir's incompetence to our advantage. When Falkreath hold is firmly under our control, Balgruuf will see the error of his ways and join us. When both Whiterun and Falkreath are under our control, the war will shift in our favour."
There wasn't a hint of uncertainty in his Jarl's voice. It was as unyielding as the mountains themselves. His Jarl was a hero, like the ones of old, advanced enough in years for traces of grey to sneak into his proud beard and hair. A fair share of scars marred an otherwise handsome face, a nose thrice broken testified to its owner's willingness to fight his own battles. He was tall, easily more than six feet, with a handsome continuance that had maidens a third of his age swooning. Yet more than anything else, it was Ulfric's voice that made all stand still. It was proud, with a thick accent showcasing true Nordic upbringing. Yet still humble enough to show favour to those who deserved it.
By comparison, Galmar was short, bulky, and built like a bear. He was brutally scarred, darkly tanned and walked with a permanent limp. His dark eyes remained fresh and his mind was sharp as ever. He didn't look like much, but he was a powerful fighter and sound tactician. The bearskin hood was a symbol of his status as a high ranking officer in the Stormcloak army and he wore it with pride. Galmar knew his strengths and weaknesses and readily admitted to them all. Only a fool didn't test himself before the battle raged.
And I've known plenty of fools.
"In other news," Galmar continued, returning to the task at hand. "Most of the Helgen survivors have returned from Riverwood. As befits proud children of Skyrim, they remain hungry for Imperial blood." Stamping Ulfric's royal seal on the latest pile of orders, Galmar tucked the bundle firmly under one arm.
Ulfric gave a predatory smile, "And they shall have it." Waving his hand authoritatively, the Jarl commanded, "Have the survivors formed into one unit. Their resourcefulness and experience will be a great asset to our cause. They number some of the truest sons and daughters of Skyrim. I want that fury focused in one place." Bringing his fist down on the table, the Jarl of Windhelm said boldly, "They will be my hammer, striking hard against our enemies." Leaning back again, Ulfric said almost as an afterthought, "Find a worthy soldier to lead this new band."
Galmar nodded, "I've already got one in mind. If he shows the same resolve that he did at Helgen, he'll be a fine officer."
He's a little rough around the edges perhaps, but a worthy choice for this important role.
"Good." Turning away from the table with a flourish of his fur cloak, Ulfric moved for the door. Instead of leaving, he paused mid-stride and spoke again. "We are outnumbered, Galmar."
"I understand that, my Jarl."
"We are undersupplied, our troops are underfed."
Galmar didn't fully understand where Ulfric was going with the speech but he wouldn't argue. Everything Ulfric had said was true. Their situation was dangerous, it was grim, and they were outnumbered. Despite the grim statements Ulfric made, Galmar trusted him implicitly. "That's true, my Jarl."
"Yet despite the odds stacked against us, we will win this war." Turning back around, Ulfric fixed Galmar with an iron gaze. "Do you know why?" Without waiting for his Housecarl and most trusted friend to respond, Ulfric answered. "Because we are Nords fighting for the land that we love. We are fighting for our homes, for our gods, for the ashes of our fathers and for our freedom. None of the Emperor's dogs have such a noble goal." He finished with a firm, "Send out my orders Galmar." Then Ulfric left the war room with purpose in each step.
Galmar gave a rough smile. Those damn Imperial's had no clue what they were up against. They may have more numbers and better supplies. They may have three full Legions deployed in Skyrim. They might control Solitude, the most heavily fortified city in the province.
But they didn't have Ulfric Stormcloak and it would take more than three well-supplied Legions to break his legendary will.
Galmar Stone-Fist departed the ancient Palace of Kings and headed for the barracks. He had orders to deliver.