Chapter 12 update (Patreon)

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Reachmen/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 men," 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 Nords."

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

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

At that, he preened slightly at the elder's praise. But then, he blanched as the numbers caught on to his head. "So...so many! 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 until they ran out of ideas. As they did, there was arguing, shouting, and pleading but in the end, they were able to formulate a workable system to minimize casualties and maximize security. The meeting ended and he bid them to sleep, save for one.

"My son, join me," He called out to Balgruuf. His heir had nearly left the tent they were in before he had called him over. Balgruuf turned on his heels and approached him.

"What do you need of me, my Jarl?" Balgruuf asked. Heorot rolled his eyes as he stood from his throne and reached for a nearby table. Spotting two cups, he poured for himself and his son wine. "I'm speaking to you as your father, not as your Jarl. Come and join me for a drink, and let us talk."

"Tis late, and we are on campaign. Surely we can afford drinking after victory?" Balgruuf reasoned out.

"It is only one cup of wine, son. We aren't going to drink ourselves like a Sanguine degenerate," snorted Heorot as he took a cup and handed it over to his son. Balgruuf took it after a moment's hesitation.

"To victory," Heorot toasted as he raised his cup.

"To victory," Balgruuf mouthed as they both raised it to their lips and drank. They emptied their cups and Heorot licked his lips in appreciation. Although he like any good Nord preferred Mead, he could still appreciate good wine when presented with it.

But he was not here to discuss about the wine.

"Tell me, my son. What are your thoughts on our campaign and progress so far?" Heorot asked. Balgruuf paused a moment to think. Rubbing his now growing beard, braided in the Nordic tradition, he gave his answer.

"For our campaign, it will be a boon for Whiterun that is for sure. I can see nothing but benefits coming from having Markarth in our pocket. And with the High King's blessing, we need not fear censure or accusations of acting illegally," Balgruuf answered. Heorot nodded, remembering one of the many discussions they had before regarding the rewards that will come. It was agreed that any further talks of rewards would occur upon the reconquest of Markarth but they did agree that Markarth would be footing the bill for the campaign.

"And as for our progress?" Heorot asked.

"Acceptable, I suppose. We should move faster however. I fear the Reachmen might try to ambush us in the passes," Balgruuf spoke openly, his voice not hiding the paranoia he felt. Heorot understood his son's paranoia but unlike his first-born, Heorot wasn't going to let his fear rule him. As a force consisting heavily of cavalry, they wouldn't thrive in the mountains. The horse was the king of the plains, not the highlands. Furthermore, common military strategy all but urged commanders to pass over mountains quickly. They were moving as fast as they could but there was only so much ground they could cover.

Silence befell them as Balgruuf sighed as he set down his cup on the table and glanced at the banner of Whiterun.

"After going through a war, I never really thought I'd find myself fighting another soon," Balgruuf sighed, his face looking far-older than what he actually was. Heorot set his cup aside and approached his boy. Laying a hand on his shoulder, the elderly man gave his son a smile. "We never get to chose the times we live, son. The times choose for us. What we can do however, is to choose how to react. We can either let ourselves be swept by the storm, or fight it. So, what will it be?"

Balgruuf looked up, and met his father eye to eye. Even if he had been battle-scarred, and seen things that turned him into a man, Heorot would always see his first-born as the same young lad that got caught sneaking his fingers on the sweet-roll plate.

"I fight," Balgruuf declared. Heorot laughed as he brought Balgruuf into his arms, wrapping his boy in a hug.

"That's my boy!" Heorot bellowed proudly.

Balgruuf protested, but his protests died later as he returned the embrace. Heorot later pulled back and poured for them another cup of wine.

"Now, you promised you were going to tell me some of your war-stories. Come and entertain your old man, son."

Balgruuf spoke.

They conversed until the sun rose.

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The column marched forward, and the army marched forward. There was to be no stopping anymore. If they were to stop, it was only during at night, and on defensible areas. If they had to eat, they had to do it on the march.

They kept on marching until suddenly, the entire line halted.

Jarl Heorot, his head pounding from wine drunk the night previously, saw a rider come down from the front.

"What's the blasted hold up?" groaned the Jarl. The rider saluted them.

"There are some debris ahead, my Jarl. We are already working on getting them cleared for us to pass," the rider relayed.

It was at that moment, Heorot noticed that the world was eerily silent. The sounds of faraway deer, and even the birds that had trailed them were gone.

His inner instincts screamed at him to run, and run as fast as he could.

"FATHER!" He heard Balgruuf scream.

He turned, but only found that the world was getting darker. Was there a cloud over head?

He looked up, and saw a dark shape rapidly going closer and closer to him.

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A/N: That took awhile. Sorry, I was busy with something IRL. I had just hospitalized my cat Serafin and found out he's been diagnosed with FIV or Feline Immunodeficiency Virus. He needs a solvent called Verbagen to help boost his system. The problem though is that verbagen is expensive af. I've run low on funds since I had recently hospitalized him and the costs have bled my dry. If you have the extra cash, please help by donating directly to my paypal.