Chapter 12 sneak peek! (Patreon)

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Jarl Heorot

The scout saw them.
He spotted the birds first. An army on the march is a magnet for carrion birds to gather, their bellies growling in anticipation for a great slaughter to occur. Then, he heard the horns, the bugles, the marching of boots. Remembering his lessons that he had learned from his teachers and elders, the scout hugged the stone and kept his profile as low as possible, his face painted to help hide him amongst the overgrowth.

As he moved forward to gain a better look, he felt it. It was slow at first, a slight vibration that tickled him. Then, it intensified slowly, the vibrations shaking him. The earth shook and trembled as a hungry and gnawing beast trampled over it. Armies no matter what banner were always beasts. They inhabit and destroy the land, taking anything and everything in its sight without a single lick of care for the devastation. The thought of the army despoiling his home infuriated the scout but he had to keep his anger in check, unless he would betray his position.

He raised his head slightly and there, he saw them. A vast and engulfing stain that violated his sacred home, slowly worming its way forwards. He could make out yellow horse banners fluttering in the breeze, the glinting of armor and spearheads held aloft by their wielders. He heard the snorting and whining of horses, the barking of what looked like ranked men towards their subordinates and the groaning of wooden wheels as oxen pulled wagons no doubt carrying supplies for the army to consume.

With this, the scout began to work.

"Twelve thousand spears," a aged voiced said next to him. The scout's eyes widened and he felt his heart nearly stop, but then he recognized the voice.

"Honored Elder, please don't sneak up on me like that," the scout whimpered. The elder and more experienced Reachman snorted as he took up a position right next to the scout.

"You are good, Druadach, but you still have a lot more to learn," the elder said to him before turning his attention to the army below. "Now, show me how much you've learned and count the horsemen."

Flustered, Druadach turned back to the army and counted. "I see....four-thousand horses?" he tried.

"Five thousand. You almost had it, boy." the elder replied. Druadach flushed. "But you got it close so you get some points at least."

At that, he preened slightly at the elder's praise. But then, he blanched as the numbers caught on to his head. "That makes it seventeen thousand at least! How are we even going to win against that number?" Druadach fumbled in a panic. The expression on his elder's face stilled him where he was.

"By clever tactics, and never giving up on our home, Druadach," the elder's eyes were old but they still burned with the fire of a man who had fought and bled for a dream, a dream of home. "We have done this before, fighting all the Empires that the world has thrown at us, yet we are still here. Despite every single invader, despite every single war, we'll be here until the end of all time, and our home shall be ours!"

Hearing the elders impassioned speech, the young scout felt his heart soar. Yes, he was speaking true. Despite everything, they were still here. They could still fight. They could do this.

"You are right, Honored Elder. I'm...I'm sorry, I was about to despair," the scout apologized, his cheeks red with shame.

The elder smiled as he laid a hand on Druadach's shoulders. "It's alright. I was in your position before. Now come, we must retu-"

The elder failed to finish his sentence as an arrow penetrated him through the throat, his blood glinting in the sun. For a moment, it seemed the old man felt the arrow, as his eyes widened like saucers. Slowly collapsing on the earth, the elder tried to scream something out, but the only thing Druadach heard were bloodied and throaty gurgling.

Before he could register anything else, he felt his throat suddenly itchy as well. It took him a moment to register an arrow had struck into him as well. His heart raced as adrenaline pumped through him. The adrenaline was enough to keep him a bit more conscious but it only delayed the inevitable. Fear took the scout as he tried to scream out, but the blood that was choking him blocked out his screams.

He collapsed on his back and before the deep darkness took him, he felt someone stand over him. The last thing he saw was that whoever it was, it was most probably a monster from the darkest hells their people believed it.

Red crimson hair, the color of flames.

And the eyes.

The eyes that seemed to glow with baleful, malevolent red.

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Clanging echoed throughout the wide tent as Irileth dumped a stack of weapons on the floor. From the sides, expressions turned grim.

"Rise, and report," ordered Jarl Heorot. The aged Jarl was seated on a wooden throne that was similar to what was in Dragonsreach. Surrounding him were men important to the campaign, all clad in the armor of Whiterun.

Irileth stood tall and proud. The Nords did not do kneeling. Waiting for the order to be given, the Nightblade began. "My Jarl, we are being watched. This is the fourth scouting party that my men and I have encountered. The ones that we have managed to capture during skirmishing refused to give us any information. But, I have managed to gleam out that the Reachmen have no plans to engage us."

From behind him, his men glanced at one another. Heorot took the moment to recall what had happened so far.

Ever since the High King had authorized them to act, the Ram and Horse wasted no time and marched to reclaim the Reach for Skyrim and the Empire. The Ram, to strike out in the Northern border from Dragonsbridge, and the Horse striking from its border with the Reach.

For the first phase of its invasion, Fort Sungard was designated as their main supply dump and the fort, having been long abandoned was occupied and was fortified overnight. With their backs secure, he ordered the army to march.

Their march wasn't entirely unopposed. Scouting parties from the Reachmen shadowed them, and light skirmishing broke out in the lines where their numbers were lighter. There were casualties but nothing too heavy as to worry him. Heorot was a warrior, having fought over the course of his life in small and large battles but he had never fought Reachmen before, his adventures in his youth happening outside of Skyrim. From the conversations he had with Jarl Hrolfdir, the man insulted the Reachmen with every single insult under the sun, decrying them cowards who hid and scurried around like rats. He did not share the man's opinion however. Heorot may be a warrior, but he was a smart one.

It will take a great fool to not exploit the defensive advantage of the Reach's hills and mountains.
"It is the same as yesterday," said Unferth, his eyes set on the bone weapons lying on the tent floor. "Scouts shadow us, and small parties skirmish us."

"Cowards," spat Wiglaf.

"The Reachmen are not cowards, Wiglaf. If they were, they wouldn't have offered us a fight at each turn," came the voice of Balgruuf, his son. Heorot allowed himself to smile. Clad in his armor, his son cut a dashing figure. If anything else, Whiterun's future was secured.

"The tactics of our enemies aside," Heorot coughed. "We will have to implement a better system to protect our men. While our armies are strong, well-equipped, and well-trained, they are still men and even the strongest of warriors will fall to a single well-aimed arrow. And so, lay down your suggestions."

They debated