Stallion of Whiterun (Skyrim Balgruuf SI) Chapter 26 (Patreon)

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In the movies and shows, assembling an army involves the titular character standing gravelly over their subjects and declaring for banners to be called and then, things would happen. Such a state of affairs were not so simple in practice. To marshal an army of men especially in a pre-Industrial world took work. The institutions of the Nords and the Empire which had ruled it had fostered a sense of mobility and drive for war. The former was a highly warlike and battle-driven society and thus, Skyrim had its own way of gathering men for a campaign. The latter was a machine of paper and logistics whose efficiency and order made the Nords more fluid for war. 

As soon as the party had arrived at Whiterun, it was nothing more but an electric flash of activity. Messengers and criers were sent all over the city and as far and wide as possible. Evgir Unslaad! Season Unending! A time of reaping and crying, and the gnashing of teeth of the enemy. Men and women were needed to fight for a campaign, paid generously of course, and they were to assemble at Whiterun as soon as possible. 

Balgruuf did not idle himself with easy pleasures. Such a thing was only a waste of time and there was so little of it. The Imperial Prince was coming from Cyrodiil and no matter what Balgruuf did, he couldn't stop the man from arriving. He and his allies did not know what the Imperial Heir wanted but it was better to be safe than to be sorry. They were already disappointed before and now, they weren't going to be disappointed again. 

Balgruuf waited a day and a night, and more. Soon enough, eager volunteers were starting to show up. Familiar faces too. Veterans which had served under him or during the war. It was easy to spot who they were, walking with the quiet confidence of a soldier and the studded steel belts around their waists indicating service. These men, Balgruuf intended to serve as his front-liners and more. The experience they had learnt during the war would be instrumental in thumping the untested Reachmen Army, should they face them in the field. Extra pay was to be doled out to them alongside additional privileges and responsibilities to officers and senior enlisted men. 

Then there were the professional mercenaries and cut-throats. Skilled men but without the discipline of army life. They were willing to kill and fight but only if they were paid well. Such terms was acceptable to Balgruuf. While they numbered more than his veterans, they couldn't hope to overthrow him and his allies should it come to it. Mercenaries were a unpredictable lot after all. Even if many of them were Nords who swore on their honor to uphold their contracts, it was once again better to be safe than to be sorry. Some had grumbled with the terms of contract however as they had expected the right to loot and pillage Makarth after re-taking it but that was unacceptable. They were to liberate the city, not sack it. Requests for further pay were made but denied. The payment they were going to get was generous already, enough for them to live comfortably for three months if they didn't spend it all on drinking, gambling, and Dibellan arts. Knowing rough and hardy mercenaries however, it was clear they were going to lose it all on those three. 

Finally, there was the cavalry. Unsurprisingly, a big portion of it was from Whiterun. A modest force of a thousand heavy cavalry-men. The baseline were lancers armed with thin thrusting spears for the shock and cavalry swords for the awe. They wore scale-mail chest-plates, brown and yellow per the colors of Whiterun. Alongside them were the seconds, horse-archers mostly clad in lighter leather or fur armor. Such men and women made a life hunting deer, rabbits, or other game in the grasslands of Whiterun. But in times of war or campaign, they would be hunting two-legged game for their arrow and bows.

By the weeks end, Balgruuf had counted seven-thousand in his army, fully-armed and filthy. 

They were all encamped outside the city in a fully purpose built place. Balgruuf refused to let them idle around like vagrants nor did he intend for his army to be like one. Tall barracks type dwellings were made, providing much work and pay. The wood provided upstream from Riverwood, courtesy to Gerdur and her mill. Ralof and Hadvar were present at the Hold albeit not as soldiers, young as they were. They had tried to enlist, of course, but them and many younger folk were not allowed to serve in any capacity, strictly enforced by his veteran and senior men. 

Blagruuf did not intention for this to be a adventure. He had a mighty and sharp force yes but seven thousand weren't enough to siege a city the size of Markarth. No, they were going to descend onto it like locusts on crops. They were going to storm it and force the rebels to heel. Instrumental to that was going to be their one and only Tongue, Ulfric Stormcloak. 

Ulfric was quiet most of the journey, keeping to himself and his housecarl. While he was available should Balgruuf required of him, the Jarling of Windhelm trained or meditated. Balgruuf himself was too busy to see to the man, organizing his army as he was. Finally however, he had the time to ask for Ulfric and soon, the blonde marched into his office, Galmar Stone-Fist trailing behind him. 

"You asked for me, Lord Balgruuf?" Ulfric asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity as he glanced around Balgruuf's private study. At the side, Irileth was quietly seated on her own chair, mulling over some papers herself. As much as Balgruuf relied on her for protection, he too also relied on her for administration. (She was shanghied into the role, much to her chagrin)

"Yes, I did. I apologize for not getting to you earlier, it has been a busy week," Balgruuf apologized sincerely. "I wanted to ask how you were taking everything. The army, the assembly. Whiterun." 

Ulfric nodded. This was a social call then. "It is impressive, I admit. Marshalling a force so quickly, it takes talent." He paused to consider his next words. "Whiterun itself, it's not cold or port-like but it's impressive in its own right. The cavalry men you field, I can see why the Elves were so terrified of you during the war." 

Balgruuf smiled at the praise. At first, he tapped the stacks of paper on his desk. "This is why it's so easy or rather, why it looks so easy. Having a well-drilled army of paper-pushers means organizing an army of sword-pushers becomes easy." 

He then craned his head to look outside his window. "The cavalry, it comes with Whiterun. Flatlands as we are; infantry would be massacred here so our people adapted. The Whiterun breed is not as fast as the ones in Hammerfell or as graceful like the Elvish ones, nor is it as mighty as the High-Rock breed but, it has stamina. My brother and I, we out-lasted whoever the Dominion sent at us with our raiding and fleeing." 

Ulfric's lip tilted at that. "Hardly honourable, to attack then flee." 

Balgruuf's smile turned thin. "The Dominion started the war first with their aggression. They overthrew the Bosmer kings and replaced it with puppets. They deceived the Khajit with their lies. I reckon it's pretty fair for them to get whatever we send their way. It's foolish for the knife-ear bastards to sow the wind and not reap the whirlwind, you know?" 

The Whiterun Jarling paused, glancing towards Irileth with her very much elf-like ears. "No offense, Irileth." 

The Dunmer's expression was mild amusement. "I take none, My Lord. We Dunmer are different from the Altmer." She paused then nodded. "Your insults need work. They are basic and unimaginative. My people have fought the Altmer much longer than you all have and our slurs are so much more better." 

Balgruuf leaned in with interest. "Is that so? Care to show us a sample?" 

And thus, Irileth explained. "In our lore, my people separated from the Altmer when Prophet Veloth lead us away from the Summerset Isles to settle in Morrowind. My people then called Chimer wished to worship the Good Daedra-Azura, Mephala, and Boethiah. The Altmer wanted us to retain worship of the traditional Gods. Naturally, we disagreed and that disagreement became violent. Prophet Veloth and my ancestors, they believed that with the Good Daedra, we would achieve more and be free from the constraints of the traditions we used to share with the Altmer. We didn't wish to be slaves and so, we call the Altmer n'wah, which means slave or foreigner." 

The three resident Nords listened quietly. Balgruuf broke the silence, speaking gravelly. "Such is the power of the n-word. May I have your leave to use it?" 

Irileth snorted. "Of course. If it means insulting the Altmer, all the power to you, my lord." 

Balgruuf's eyes glistened with mischief. "I have secured a pass. I will use this power to great effect." 

Ulfric shook his head. This talk of slurs and lore, while interesting and he would surely insult the Thalmor as much as he wished, it was noise compared to what they were going to do. "When will we move out, Lord Balgruuf?" he asked, clearing his throat. 

"Ah yes, that. Well, we will be moving out in a day. I have sent a advance party by the border to construct supply depots, just in case. Our time may be short but that does not mean we should be careless." Balgruuf nodded. He stood up. "Once we arrive at Markarth, are you ready to tear down the gates with the Thu'um?" 

Ulfric nodded. "I have been meditating on it. Master Arngeir, he spoke that the Way of the Voice must be used to worship the Divines. I have...thought on it and decided that this too is a way to worship the Divines. Talos made the Empire and Markarth is a part of it. For the Reachmen to go against it goes against him. They are rebels who have usurped the authority of the Jarl and thus have committed injustice. Stendarr demands I correct this. Their control of Skyrim's mines, it will create instability that will ruin proper commerce. Zenithar would want us to prevent that." 

He spoke simply and quickly, assured of his divine duty. Balgruuf nodded in approval, remarking. "You have thought of this alot." 

Ulfric cleared his throat. "I have adopted old habits, to reflect and meditate. I may not have completed becoming a Greybeard but I still remember their ways. Sky Above, Voice Within. I...I only have one regret, though." 

Balgruuf raised an eye. "And that is?" 

"I have no armies to bring." Ulfric sighed. "This is an effort of our people. I lament that Windhelm, the oldest of all Skyrim's cities, would not participate in this undertaking." He shook his head. "I will have to accept that fact. My father, the Jarl, has forbidden Windhelm's children from fighting. His word is law." 

Balgruuf resisted the urge to sigh. His mouth was about to move, to offer words of comfort for Ulfric but then, there was a knock at the door. He blinked, glancing to it. "Enter!" he cried out. The door swung open and in came a veteran trooper, his status clear on the belt around his waist. 

"Lord Balgruuf! A letter, my lord." the man informed, holding out a letter in his hand. Ulfric glanced at it and his eyes quickly narrowed at the familiar script on the paper. Balgruuf bid the man to come close and took the letter. He opened it and quickly read through it. 

Slowly, a smile formed on his face as he glanced up towards Ulfric. "Downstairs with me, Lord Ulfric." 

And with that, they left the room and followed after Balgruuf, letter still in hand. Ulfric wondered what the fuss was about. And soon enough, he saw it. 

For they descended onto a flat field and was behold to a host of men and women, clad in grey iron cuirasses or brigandine chest-plates with spotless spectacled helms. They carried heavy axes on their shoulders, wicked and mighty. Tall, noble-bearing, and healthy. To make them all uniform, they all wore dark blue cloaks, the color of storms. 

Stormcloaks. 

A tall Nord stood forward. He wore scaled-armor and his beard was forked with braids in the traditional style. "Hail, Lord Ulfric. Hail, Lord Balgruuf!" the man cried out. "We are volunteers from Windhelm, ready to reclaim Markarth with you." 

Ulfric blinked as he was beheld to the host. They were all familiar to him. They were the same men he led at Fort Amol. "What are you all doing here? My father forbid Windhelm men to serve in this campaign! You are exiled now!" he cried out in anguish, worried for them. 

The man nodded. "We are aware, Lord Ulfric. The Jarl may lead the city but he did not lead us through the war. He was not the man who endured the Thalmor with us, he does not share our scars, our pains. He did not offer words of encouragement to us while we dwelled in dark holes nor did he offer water to our lips when we thirsted. You did. We are proud to have served with you and we are equally proud to serve with you now. Through fields of wheat, through fields of shame, or through the fields of battle. Victory, or to Sovngarde!" 

Then there was movement, the clacking of axes as one, as the Windhelm hundred saluted their Lord. "Victory, or Sovngarde!" they cried out. 

Ulfric was at a loss of words. His heart, he did not know how to feel. These men...

He glanced to Balgruuf who in turn, was grinning at him. 

Fighting back the tears in his chest and the warmth of pride in his breast, Ulfric Stormcloak turned to the man he knew as Brunwulf Free-Winter. "To victory, or Sovngarde." 

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A/N: IT'S TIME FOR WAR, BOIS. 

Also, health update. I got bronchitis. But worry not, I am significantly healthier and better so, return to updoot schedule bby!