Balgruuf the Great, Chapter 18 preview (Patreon)

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Balgruuf

My entire world burned, every breath that I took was deep and puncturing pain that seared my body. Even just a whiff of air was as painful as taking a breathful. In front of me, Irileth guided the horse like a woman on a mission, pushing the horse to full gallop as we made our way through the charging masses of Markarth and Whiterun men who gave way seeing the mad Dunmer and my injured body.

From behind us, the men who joined our little foray yelled and screamed for any one in the way to move aside.

"Hak! Ack, arck!" I coughed , clutching my chest.

"We're almost to the priest, my lord! Hang on!" Irileth cried, looking back at me before turning back to look at the way. The siege camp was far enough from the walls as to avoid fire but close enough for our forces to reach but still, it felt like we had just ridden from Cyrodiil to High Rock.

Our party got through the trenches that had been dug by us, and we whiffed through the main gate. She urged the horse onward and only brought it to a stop when we neared the medical tents. With swift dexterity, Irileth leapt off the horse like a bolt of lightning and cried out, "Priest! We need a priest!"

With that, and seeing that Irileth wasn't exactly subtle, there were robed men rushing forward with a stretcher. Despite the pain mining my chest, I wasn't exactly feeling like lying down.

"J-just let m-me sit down," I forced through, every word a stinging pain, as I got myself off the saddle. While I could feel my chest burning, I could still walk.. The men and Irileth moved forward to let me use them as support and gratefully, I placed my arms on their shoulders as they moved me through the tent flaps and set me down on a cot.

The tent was already filled with wounded, men and women sporting light to heavy injuries, the heavier ones at the very back. There too was the Head Healer with his assistants, helping those that needed it.

Irileth marched forward, getting the man's attention towards me. From where he stood, I could see his eyes widen as he motioned for one of his assistant's to take his place. With that, he walked off to me, kneeling at my side.

"What happened, my lord?" the priest asked, his eyes examining my swelled chest.

"An orc punched through his armor," Irileth answered for me, as a small crowd noticed what was happening and had gathered to watch.

"Ah, I see," said the priest, Ainelon, with the same tone a man would use as if he heard the most obvious thing in the world. "This once more proves that orcs are indeed one of the strongest creatures on Tamriel, once they're berserk. Why, I heard of an orc pulling apart the bars of his cell once."

"A fascinating tale, but unneeded, Priest," Irileth forwarded, her tone all but showing exasperation.

"What does our lord need?"

The man huffed at Irileth's dismissal but nevertheless, he put his focus back to me. "Does it hurt when you breathe deeply, my lord?"

I nodded dumbly, huffing and heaving on the cot.

"You say an orc punched through his chest plate," he said to Irileth before turning to me. "The blow may have broken your ribs and punctured your lungs, my lord. It is also possible that fragments of your armor is inside of you as we speak," Ainelon explained.

"What must be done?" Irileth pressed, patience long gone from her tone.

"Without a clearer examination, I cannot pinpoint exactly where the fragments are. I can heal our lord now and then without issue but the fragments will remain inside of him forever," he answered her with a quick glance.

"H-how long is the e-examination?" I hacked out.

"I need at least an hour but I will work as fast as I can," Ainelon stated with a twinkle in his eye.

"Don't worry, my lord. I am one of the finest chirurgeons in all of Skyrim."

"B-But the b-battle, I can-" I tried to protest but Irileth spoke out, interrupting me.

"My lord, let the Head Priest examine you. You have already done enough in this campaign. Rest, and let the armies here earn their keep." Irileth advised me. She tried to be stoic about it but her tone was fully of barely concealed worry.

I knew that, and Christ above my chest was in sheer burning pain. But as an officer and as the next man to inherit Whiterun, I had to be there at the front, with the soldiers.

But then again, the idea of metal fragments in my chest was not an exciting prospect. I knew some veterans who served that still had pieces of metal stuck inside them and were doing ok. Still, Irileth had a point. I had lead the army this far, opened the gates with her and the might of Markarth and Whiterun was going to beat the Reachmen down like a winepress going down on a grape.

Unless the Reachmen pulled some bullshit, like waking up Dwemer constructs or summoning an army of Dremora, the day was all but ours.

And the tone on Irileth, I wasn't going to refuse her like that.

"What's your choice, my lord?" Ainelon asked.

"E-examine me, Ainelon." I croaked out. The priest hummed as he nodded and from where she stood, Irileth visibly breathed a smile of relief and for the first time since ever, she smiled openly. The smile on her face dulled the pain in my chest than all the painkillers the world had to offer. Ainelon then brought me to a separate tent and had his assistants take off my armor one by one.

Unlike what you'd see in game, just a soft raise of the palm and letting the magic happen, it was much more nuanced in-lore. Hell, it felt like a visit to the doctor, Ainelon being the head doctor and his assistance nurses. He washes his hands in a bowl of cool and clean water before poking and prodding me with his tools. With an anesthetic of course, the medical tech and procedures in the Elder Scrolls may have the image of medieval flare but its was far from it.

There were slight complications however, some slight tremors from the outside here and there. I didn't pay too much attention though, the tent being sound-proofed magically and my mind flying in the clouds thanks to the anesthetic. Eventually and just as he promised, it was as over as soon as possible.

Feeling woozy but still quite lucid, I glanced first at another table where bloody fragments of my armor lay in a wooden bowl then back to him. Ainelon had carefully and with the assistance of magic and having his own surgical knowledge, had plucked out the pieces one by one before sealing me up with a spell one would recognize as healing hands.

"You've done me a service, Ainelon. You and your assistants. Whiterun owes you. Name once price and if it's within my power, I shall grant it to you." I promised. I wasn't going to let this man and his squad get out without a reward.

The assistants blushed at the praise but Ainelon only laughed. "This is what you pay me for, my lord. I'm fine with where I am nor do I exactly need gold. I do have something in mind for a reward though," he continued.

"Once we are back in Whiterun, I shall hear this and get this through my father." I vowed. Ainelon hummed a tune as he stood up and deposited his tools into a tray.

"I would appreciate it, my lord." he said smoothly.

"Now that I'm healed, can I still rejoin the battle?" I asked, putting forward the question that was itching my mind. Now that the operation took an hour, the battle was most likely over but considering this was an age of swords, shields, and magic, a man could still dream.

"You may, my lord. I would be more than happy to see you again with more chest injuries to tend." replied the priest, earning a laugh from me.

"I do not plan to grow a mine in my chest, Priest." I laughed as I stood up, breathing in clean and healthy air. I gave him and his assistants a smile.

"Thank you, truly." The assistants blushed, and Ainelon smiled back. With that, I turned and put on a shirt ready for me. Shirt on, I marched out for the tent flaps and opened it.

And found the camp in disarray. 

Some of the men and women were packing up their equipment, others and officers were yelling orders at them to stop and get back to formation. 

"Balgruuf! My lord!" Irileth's voice called out to me. I turned to find my nightblade running towards me, blood and sweat on her face. She halted before me, huffing and puffing. 

"What in Oblivion is going?" I asked as I yelled at a bunch of men to report to their officers. 

"It would be best if you saw for yourself, my lord." Irileth breathed out. Blinking dumbly, I made my way for the stockade's walls and climbed a tower. Inside was a scared looking youngster wearing the armor of Markarth who stood aside for me to have better room. I glanced out into Markarth and sure enough, saw the gates were manned by the chattering forms of Dwarven Spiders, and patrolling the barbican were Dwarven Spheres, rollling balls and all. 

From behind me, I could hear Irileth climbing and walking over to stand next to me. "While you were getting examined, those constructs were unleashed and made short work of our forces inside the walls." 

In the distance, I spotted a figure trying to run out of the gates. It was a soldier, from my army. He was able to run down the stairs that led people into Markarth before the Spheres spotted him and peppered bolts into his back. He fell onto the floor, dead. 

My fists tightened. 

"Where is Jarl Hrolfdir? Lord Igmund?" I asked. 

Irileth took the opportunity to sit on a nearby chair, exhaustion filtering through her eyes. "Jarl Hrolfdir was last seen organizing a charge inside the city, at a Dwarven Centurion. We do not know his whereabouts for now. Lord Igmund is in the command tent, begging your father to stay and continue the siege." 

"W-what are we going to do, m-my lord?" the soldier from earlier spoke out, having been standing the entire time. 

I turned and went to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Stay at your post, and prepare for new orders. I will speak to my father about what needs be done." 

The soldier nodded, and nervously fiddled with his weapons as he turned to face the shadow of Markarth's walls. I took the moment to climb down and Irileth followed after me. While doing so, my mind was abuzz. 

I don't remember the Reachmen ever having access to Dwarven shit in lore, and when Ulfric besieged the city, it fell like a house of cards. Granted, we advanced into the city easily and we would have won, if not for the fact that the place was now crawling with dwarven constructs. 

"What now, Balgruuf?" Irileth asked me.

"We find out what father intends to do, and try and continue the siege," I said, not quite confident in my answer. With the way things were going on, continuing the siege sounds like a thin dream. It was already a stretch for father to bring a host of Whiterun to deal with a problem that wasn't his to begin with, now with dwarven constructs at the field? 

Going home was a becoming a bigger possibility now. 

The command tent's entrance was abuzz, officers and other men were standing outside, impatiently waiting as Unferth stood and urged them to calm down. I pushed through the crowd, and made a beeline for the entrance. Unferth's eyes widened as he stepped aside to let me in. 

"My lord, they are inside," Unferth motioned. I nodded as I marched in, Irileth silently taking her place at the far end of the tent as yelling and pleading filtered through our ears. 

"Lord Igmund, I will not sacrifice the lives of my men to fight constructs of legend," the Jarl of Whiterun stated firmly from his chair-throne. 

Igmund was standing before him, two Markarth men at his side. His armor was battered and bruised, his helmet hung limply from his belt. Blood, grime, and sweat was on him. "My lord, you've promised my father that you would assist us. You've sworn on your honor you would help us fight the Reachmen!" 

"Reachmen, not metal monsters," Jarl Heorot stressed. 

"I-" 

"My lords!" I called out, all heads turned as I marched forward to step into the spotlight. "I apologize, I needed to have my wounds checked. What have I missed?"

"My son," Heorot greeted me. "I've only just explained to Lord Igmund here that we cannot maintain a siege now. We do not have means to even attack the Dwarven Centurion that is now guarding Markarth." 

"My lord, I am from this city, I know how to destroy these constructs," Igmund insisted, inching closer to my father's chair. Wiglaf stepped in, blocking him before he got too close. Igmund still continued. "Please, let us mount an attack and reclaim this city, for Skyrim!" 

"My lords, please, let us discuss this," I put forwarded. "Our soldiers are confused, and a crowd of them are outside standing anxiously. We must at least give them some orders lest they panic." 

"Tell them to stand at their posts and return to formation, but they must be ready to leave as soon as possible," Jarl Heorot commanded a nearby soldier who nodded. The face that Igmund had was nothing short of despair. 

"Let us discuss the things that remain at hand," I continued, letting the attention fall back to me. "What is the status of your forces, Lord Igmund?" 

The man turned to me, startled, before he forced himself to calm and speak. "Our forces took the brunt of the attack, my father trying to lead a charge at the construct horde. We felled many spiders, and took down the spheres but the Centurion remains the biggest threat. We know how to destroy these creatures, my lord, but we need more men." 

"And I have the men, but I will not let them fight and die foul abominations, Lord Igmund," Heorot interjected. 

I thought about it for a second. We had sent a letter to Falkreath, asking them to join us in the war for the promise of spoils. 

"Did we not call for Falkreath's assistance? What is their response?" I asked. As father moved to answer, the tent flap suddenly opened and in ran a soldier, his face red. 

"My lord! Banners!" 

"Banners? Falkreath?" I asked. 

The soldier paused to catch his breath before speaking. "No, my lord. It is blue, with a roaring bear." 

Blue? Roaring bear?

My world froze. 

There was only one hold with that banner. 

Windhelm. 

Ulfric Stormcloak. 

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I stood at my father's side, my eyes on the blonde-haired man standing before us, Nord-blue eyes shining against the fire. Ulfric Stormcloak was very much the same as his character model in Skyrim, but here he was younger and has fresher face. He was clad in thick plate, a blue sash draped over him. At his side stood his right hand, Galmar Stone-Fist, pretty much dressed in the same clothing in the game but like Ulfric, was also much younger. 

"Introducing Ulfric, son of Jarl Hoag, Jarl of Windhelm, the Bear of Eastmarch," Galmar introduced, his voice the same as in canon. Ulfric waited for a moment, before speaking. 

"The High King has called for true Nords and Windhelm answers the call," Ulfric declared, his voice the deep basso that had inspired many to rebellion. 

"You've arrived at the worst moment, Lord Ulfric," Jarl Heorot replied. "The Reachmen have made use of Dwarven constructs that have torn our men to shreds. These constructs are still in the city as we speak." 

"But these constructs are not invincible, my lord." Igmund interjected, eager to get Ulfric's ear now that he had the men. "I know how to destroy these things, all that we need is your support." 

Ulfric stood, listening, before he spoke. "Windhelm will do what needs to be done for Skyrim, Lord Igmund. My father, Jarl Hoag, has instructed me to assist this campaign as best as I can, and I shall do so. Rest assured, my lord, that the men of Windhelm is at your call." 

Igmund looked relieved, and rightfully so. But from where I stood, I just waited for the clincher. The motivation for Ulfric to do what he did, the request that lit a fire that would raze Skyrim, and unleash an even hotter flame beneath black wings.

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A/N: Some more updates to this chapter. Will continue on tomorrow.