Balgruuf the Great, Chapter 17 (Patreon)

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Jarl Hrolfdir

The Jarl of Markarth breathed out.

It had been hours since the infiltration force they sent left the camp and he and the rest of the army stood at the ready for the gates to be opened, and the impatience he was feeling grew and grew as time moved on.

The plan was simple. Send a force into the secret passage at the far wall at Markarth's left, kill anyone who stood in the way, and open the gates. To ensure that they wouldn't be spotted, they would launch a skirmish of projectiles and magicka to make the Reachmen think they would be advancing. While the defenders were taking cover and taking an onslaught of force, the infiltrators would make their way into the secret passage.

They had already done their part, starting their fusillade and barraging the walls with everything they had. Magicka, rocks from built catapults. The attack had little to no effect on the walls, Markarth's walls were strong and dwarven-made. It wasn't a physical mark they wanted to leave but mental. The Reachmen tried to reply in kind but they were simply drowned out by their attack.

Simply put, they were outclassed. This was no longer the hit-and-run tactics that they were used to. They were now forced to fight a real battle and Hrolfdir was going to remind them who were the best warriors in all of Tamriel.

With the wave of his hand, Jarl Heorot halted the bombardment, to let an uncomfortable silence descend in the air. It was good. Let the Reachmen be anxious. Let them be filled with fear.

While they were setting up the fusillade, he and his fellow Jarl were busy assembling their own forces as well. Men got into formation, eager to reclaim the land stolen from them by thieves. All they had to do was wait.

Hrolfdir glanced at his fellow Jarl, said man was at a far corner of the camp, astride his mount and resplendent in his personal armor. Hrolfdir had heard that the army of Whiterun had been ambushed along the way and that Heorot had endured a rock that crushed his legs. But despite that, Heorot was clad in his armor and seated on a saddle, looking bored out of his skull.

The crushing of his legs were an exaggeration it would seem. And if it was true, Heorot was hiding it rather well. Paralyzed or not, the Jarl was still a powerful man, holding the largest Hold in Skyrim and being wealthy from controlling trade routes that connected the rest of Skyrim together. As soon as this was over, Heorot was sure to rise in power even more. While nothing yet was agreed, Hrolfdir knew that Whiterun had much to gain from victory. Politically speaking, Heorot would reap the rewards in fame and influence. In practical rewards, Hrolfdir knew that a portion of Cidnha Mine's silver would find itself in Dragonsreach.

By Ysmir, if he wanted to, he could even put out his name for High Kingship if he so desired.

Istlod was old and his health was falling apart with each passing day. Hrolfdir could confirm it, seeing the High King in his brief exile in Solitude. The best healers and medicines were brought forward for the man but there was only so much they could do and Arkay was going to have his due. However, it didn't look like Heorot was interested in the position and besides, every Jarl had agreed beforehand that Istlod was going to be succeeded by his son, Torygg.

If there was anyone to watch out for though, it was Heorot's boy, Balgruuf. Heorot himself was also getting into age and it was inevitable that Balgruuf was going to be next in line. Once he would become Jarl, Balgruuf was going to inherit a wealthy and powerful Hold. He hadn't spoken much with Heorot's heir but from what he had seen and heard, the next years in Whiterun were going to be interesting.

He would have to keep his eyes and ears open.

"A pleasant night for glory isn't it, my Jarl?" a light but equally sickening voice spoke right next to him.

Hrolfdir resisted the urge sigh in disgust as he turned his attention to a pair of men saddled next to him.

"Indeed," he replied simply.

"I hope you did not forget our deal, my Jarl," Thonar Silver-blood mused. "The Silver-blood family has spent much to maintain the army, and for the mercenaries to reclaim your seat. Isn't that right, Thongvor?"

Thongvor grunted in his saddle.

Hrolfdir grit his teeth. "You will not worry about that, Thonar. Markarth does not forget the sacrifices of its most noble sons."

"Thank you, my Jarl," Thonar saluted as he rode away, his brother trailing behind him. "Truly, Markarth is blessed to have such a wise and able Jarl such as you." 

'You little shit,' Hrolfdir raged in his mind.

Thonar and Thongvor Silver-blood were the only surviving members of the Silver-blood family that managed to escape Markarth when the Reachmen rose, most of their family having been wiped by Reachmen eager for vengeance for rather understandable reasons. After all, the Silver-bloods owned the largest silver mine in Skyrim and they weren't exactly good to their workers.

They joined with him in Solitude and had pledged their support to him, in exchange for greater freedoms and less tax on their revenues upon the reclamation of the city. It was a poisoned chalice that he was forced to drink as he needed their help.

The damned Silver-bloods already held the city by the balls, their ownership of Cidnha Mine generating them wealth that translated into power. With reduced taxes and even greater autonomy? He might as well give up his seat and give the motherless sons of whores the city.  

Between fighting the Reachmen and dealing with the Silver-bloods, he'd happily spend his days fighting the Reachmen than staying any closer with them.

Thankfully, the Divines answered his wish as a shout came.

"The gates are opening!" a voice cried out. Hrolfdir turned to the gates and sure enough, they were slowly opening. He turned his head to Jarl Heorot who nodded. 

Finally.

It had also been agreed that he would be the first into the city. It was important for him as the Jarl to be the first through the walls, to show that he had liberated the city and not someone else. He had first expected Heorot would want to take the honor himself but the man had contented to let him have it.

Heorot did not strike him as a particularly malicious man but it felt like he was giving him the honor as he was going to reap far more better gains. No matter the case, Hrolfdir was still grateful and he was going to gain as much from this as possible as doing so would gain him much needed influence to counter the Silver-bloods. 

Drawing his sword from his scabbard, Hrolfdir yelled. "Men! Out there, rebels and traitors have taken your homes. Some of you even have families still left inside, enduring the mercies of the Reachmen. Let us go and take back what they stole from us!"

His men cheered in approval. It wasn't enough for Hrolfdir however and he raised his sword up high, and cried.

"FOR MARKARTH AND SKYRIM!" he bellowed. 

"FOR MARKARTH AND SKYRIM!" they roared. 

And with that, a horn was blown and the men of Markarth surged forward. The Reachmen at the walls saw them advance, and tried to halt them with bolts, arrows, and magicka but the mass had already surged forward and were beginning to stream through the now open gate. 

"Father!" a familiar voice cried.

Hrolfdir and his guards held back as Igmund descended down a staircase. He wasn't alone however as his housecarl trailed behind him. He worried when he saw marks and blood on his boy but he calmed when he saw it wasn't his own.

"You have done well, Igmund!" Hrolfdir celebrated. "Our home shall be ours once more!"

Igmund laughed. "Aye, we did a fine job. But the ones who opened the gate was Lord Balgruuf and his housecarl."

As if on cue, the heir of Whiterun descended from the staircase. He wasn't alone however as his housecarl and a soldier from Whiterun was supporting him as he came down.

"Lord Balgruuf!" he cried in alarm, seeing the state he was in. Who in Oblivion managed to crack his chestplate?

"The gates are open," coughed the man. "Reclaim your home, my lord."

"Balgruuf, don't speak," shushed his housecarl, a flame-haired Dunmer. "Let's get you a healer as fast as possible"

"I can still fight, I-Iri. I just need a c-change in a-armor," stuttered the man before he descended into a coughing fit. 

"An orc punched him through the chest while in a berseker rage. His lungs took the brunt of it," Igmund explained, seeing the confused look on his face. Comprehension dawned on Hrolfdir.

"I see," Hrolfdir said simply. He turned to a pair of his bodyguards who nodded as they dismounted. 

"Take these horses back to the siege camp, my lord. I will not have you limp your way back to camp," Hrolfdir offered. Balgruuf mouthed to protest but he coughed up once more.

"We thank you for your generosity, my Jarl," his housecarl answered for him as she and other men helped Balgruuf up the offered horse. She mounted herself afterwards, taking hold of the reins.

"No, it is nothing compared to the generosity Whiterun has shown us," Hrolfdir said, sincerely thankful that Whiterun had answered the call while others had not. "We shall not forget this. Go back to your camp, housecarl." 

With that, the dunmer nodded and sped off. With them out of the way, Hrolfdir turned to his son. "Let us reclaim our home, my son." he said with barely contained glee

Igmund grinned.

And so, father and son went into battle. The narrow streets of Markarth ran red with blood and bodies as Nords from Whiterun and Markarth clashed with Reachmen. Already, they were gaining ground.

Their armies were trained for this, they were better armed and this was the style of fighting they were used to, as real warriors and not like the cowardly Reachmen hit and ran, armed and clad lightly. While they had gotten to raid the city's armory, they weren't exactly used to the equipment they wielded.

The Reachmen tried to form lines to meet them but were beat back, the Nords unleashing pent up anger and fury against those that stood in their way.  Hrolfdir bathed his blade in Reachman blood, pouring out his frustration into the savages.

"Skyrim belongs to the Nords!" Hrolfdir cried as he thrust his sword into the mouth of a Reachman trying to charge him while screaming. He pulled his blade back and struck at another who tried to do the same tactic as well.

He had been dreaming of this moment, ever since he was forced to flee his city like a criminal in the night, he had itched at nothing but to take it back. And no one was going to stop him from punishing the Reachmen, his honor and the honor of Markarth demanded it.

The fighting had gone on for awhile, but he and the rest of the army was feeling quite as fresh since they started and were relishing the slaughter they were inflicting on the Reachmen. It was tempting to Hrolfdir to succumb to his inner bloodlust but the presence of his son, the discipline and restraint of the Whiterun men, and having remembered that he was to be seen as a liberator and not a murderer stopped the impulse.  

And seeing their Jarl hadn't descended into a frenzy, his men hadn't done so either. 

Suddenly, and out of nowhere, the world shook. His horse panicked and in those seconds, Hrolfdir found himself thrown from his horse. Quickly his bodyguards and men formed a ring around him. 

"Father!" he heard Igmund cry. Hrolfdir sat up as his son and men knelt by his side.

"I'm alright! I'm alright!" Hrolfdir coughed as he pushed them away. In the din of battle, he heard the clip clop of hooves approach them. His mood soured when a all too familiar voice spoke.

"My Jarl! Being thrown from your horse in the moment of your triumph does not bode well for your image! Thongvor, why don't you lend him one of horses," Thonar Silver-blood offered. 

Thongvor snickered.

"Your input was not asked for, Silver-blood," Hrolfdir spat as he got to his feet. He had quite enough of the little shit's disrespect. "When I ask for it, I shall. Until then, keep your mouth shut. Is that understood?"

For the first time, Thonar blinked. His men and son glowered, their weapons gleaming wickedly, stained with the blood of Reachmen.

"I apologize, my Jarl," Thonar said smoothly. "I only spoke out of a desire to see you reap every single bit of your victory." 

"We have not won yet," Igmund said roughly. "The Understone Keep is still yet to be breached."

Again, the world shook but they were prepared for it. The shaking only annoyed Thonar however, he glanced up towards the doors of the Keep.

"Then perhaps we sha-" Thonar offered. But before he did so, something struck the man and he fell on his back.

"Thonar!" Thongvor yelled as he dismounted to attend to his brother. Hrolfdir urged his horse close to see what on Oblivion happened. Looking down, he saw the man grasping at something struck to his throat.

It was a crossbow bolt.

"Thonar! Thonar!" Thongvor cried as he held his brother. Thonar's eyes were wide in fear in pain, his words a bloody gurgle. He couldn't hold on however, dying on his own blood. Thongvor wept, tears streaming down his eyes.

Hrolfdir however did not leave his eyes on the crossbow bolt's purple fletching.

A pit formed in his stomach.

"Father?" Igmund asked.

"My son, look at the bolt," Hrolfdir whispered. Confused, Igmund glanced at the bolt and froze, recognition in his eyes.

How did the accursed Reachmen find out?

"GRAAAAAHHHH!!!!!" a man shrieked. Hrolfdir turned and the pit in his stomach consumed him when one of his riders was felled upon, something bronze and metallic tearing through him mercilessly, bits of metal and guts and flesh chunked out of him.

"DWARVEN SPIDERS!" cried out another man. Sure enough, the chittering of metal grew louder as scores upon scores of metallic abominations poured out from somwhere, falling upon the Nords without mercy. Men tried to fight back, but the automatons simply tore through them.

For the first time, the doors of the Understone Keep opened and from there came rolling spheres, unfeeling automata firing scores of bolts into them or slicing men and women clean with their blades.

But the one thing that grabbed Hrolfdir's attention and fear more was the looming shadow that shook the earth with every step it took, hissing with steam as it marched out. Expressionless was the face of this shadow, its bronze tinted visage a perfect imitation of a lost race.

And this shadow....was staring straight at him

The Nords froze, their eyes and mouths wide as the metal constructs made and shot their way to them. They shook, unsure if they could even fight the incoming creations but before anyone thought of running, a great cry came from behind them.

Hrolfdir was tired. He had lost his seat to murderous Reachmen, forced to run from his own home like a beaten dog with its tail between its legs. He endured the pitying and mocking looks of Solitude's nobility, and being made to kneel and beg at the feet of his fellows. He was tired of running.

All he wanted was to go home.

And there was nothing on Tamriel that was going to stop him, not when he was so close he could literally touch it.

He was going to go home, or die trying.

The Jarl of Markarth stared deep into the eyes of Dwarven Centurion and other automata, and wondered if they had a mind of their own. It didn't matter, for they were all going to fall. 

"Men, do not waver, do not falter!" Hrolfdir cried aloud, gripping the reigns of his horse. "We have come so far, we shall not stop now! We are going home or to Sovngarde! Steel yourselves, Men of Markarth, and show these constructs the difference between it and real men!"

"Victory or Sovngarde!" the Nords rallied.

"CHARGE!" Jarl Hrolfdir raged as he urged his horse forward, eyes set in fury and sword glinting with wicked intent.

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A/N: And here's Chapter 17.

Enjoy, you beautiful bastards.