Stallion of Whiterun (Skyrim Balgruuf SI) Chapter 10 (Patreon)

+++

Harald had reared his horse up by a fallen tree when he heard a twig snap. His sword was drawn immediately as his ears registered it, reflexes of war still fresh in his body. Then, that battle-cry of the ages, a timeless shout that once filled the land in days gone past. "UNSLAAD KROSIS!" someone snarled, its voice weathered by time but with a hate and malevolence as fresh as the day it was felt. Something whistled in the air and soon, the death throes of horses echoed through the air. 

The Nord yelped as his horse was shot down from under him, trapping Harald under its weight. As the air left his body and the situation settled into his mind, Harald became aware of the shouts of his comrades as well as the rushing of feet against leaves. "To arms!" came the cries of their squadleader, Freyr. Whoever their attackers were, they had the good sense to shoot out the one advantage they had, their horses. Those who could stood up quickly, their hands reaching for their weapons and just in time as well. For in the darkness, crystal blue eyes as bright as stars rushed forth. 

"Draugr!" someone else cried, warning their group. And sure enough, scores of the wretches were upon them. They were as ugly as sin and smelling of the worse that undeath could have. The mummification techniques done to them made their skin look weathered and gray. What armor they wore was rusted or just even a few pieces of mail here and there. They were armed unequally, with swords and axes and battleaxes. Like the draugr themselves, they were old but still quite deadly. 

Battle was quickly joined, six of them against an equal number of draugr. The Whiterun men had one advantage, the fact they were alive. Undead as the draugr might be, their movements were stiff and uncoordinated. Plus, the riders wore armor. What was ancient blades going to do against them?

"Back to the grave with you, wretch!" Harald roared as he gripped his longsword and met with his undead counterpart. The creature snarled at him in annoyance, looking at him as if he was nothing but meat. Their blades met in a clash and to Harald's surprise, the damn thing was strong. As strong as it was in life, and now even in death. He reared back, spotting an opening for him to exploit. Longsword glinting, he quickly thrust his blade into the damn thing's stomach. 

"Lop their heads off! No stab wounds!" Freyr cried out, swiping a draugr's head off with his sword. Harald glanced back to his foe and saw stars are the draugr slammed its fist against Harald's face. Shaking and seeing blood, Harald stumbled back. A yelp quickly escaped him as he was suddenly lifted off his feet and tossed against a tree, as if he was nothing. Pain coursed through him as he glanced up, seeing the draugr pull out the sword jammed in its stomach. It grinned toothily, revealing rows of long rotten teeth as it hobbled to the downed Harald. It loomed over him and began hacking away at his chest. 

Harald thought then and there he would die there. His chestplate protected him from the actual blade, yes. But he was still a meaty Nord and the impact from the blade landing on him was violent and primal. Adrenaline coursed through his body as he tried to pull a hidden dirk on his body and jam it into the draugr's leg but the undead thing laughed it off. It stopped its bruising of Harald and now aimed his next strike against Harald's exposed face instead. 

Then suddenly and from the North came the exulting cry of a war-horn, and the thundering of hooves against the earth. The bones of Skyrim shook and quaked as reinforcements arrived. Balgruuf and Irileth and his riders swept in, battle-cries and exultations rising to the sky. "For Whiterun!" came his lord's voice, louder than the deepest drumming of thunder. The draugr before Harald was quickly swept off in the sudden cavalry charge, its head lopped off by Irileth with he sabre. They were a on rushing force, a unrelating tidal wave that swept away even in the stalwart undead. Yes, they could shrug off wounds that would immobilize a man but a horse and rider coming at high speeds was a different thing entirely and the draugr were still men, dead as they were. 

The other draugr were swept off their feet, like trees uprooted by the fiercest wind. Bones and flesh snapped underneath horse hooves. Some were merely gored by long thik lances, others tossed aside. "Drive them down into the ground! Make them regret coming here!" again roared Balgruuf. The Nords roared their affirmatives, hacking into the draugr as the charge slowed down. If they had fought ordinary men or mer, the charge would have been broken. But these were not the living, these were the dead. Powered by a hatred of those alive, the draugr merely stepped up to deal with them, weapons and teeth glinting. 

One draugr saw Balgruuf who had his back turned, busy with dealing with another one of its wretched brethren. It took its chance and charged, its mighty battle-axe long enough to bring the Nordic rider down but before it could, it found itself frozen in place. Irileth had spotted the thing running and with a wave of her hand threw ice that crystalized the draugr's feet. "Balgruuf!" she called out and the Nordic lord turned immediately. He realized quickly that he was about to get stabbed from the back and repaid Irileth's watchfulness by lopping the Draugr's head off. Their eyes met briefly as he nodded. 

"Watch your back, my lord," the Dark Elf muttered. 

"That's why I have you just in case I can't," grinned Balgruuf. "Now come! Let's finish our bloody work!" 

Much later, the Draugr were defeated. Looking up, Freyr gave his thanks. "Thank you, my lord. You saved our lives," the squad-leader's voice was grateful, rightfully so. Around them, men were busy tending to the wounded or gathering the draugr's bodies together for a pyre. Balgruuf shook his head. 

"Thank one of your riders. They ran off to find us as soon as battle began," Balgruuf said. He then glanced down towards the growing mound that was being formed. His lips quivered as the putrid stench of undeath filtered in his nose. He continued to speak. "Draugr, Where in Oblivion did they come from?" 

"There must be a private barrow somewhere around here, my lord," suggested Freyr. "Perhaps they wandered off from it?" 

"That's possible," nodded Balgruuf. It wasn't particularly uncommon for restless undead to go march off and fight...whatever they came across. A part of him snorted in amusement at that thought. "Well, finish in gathering up the remains and burn them. Better they turn to ash and fertilize the earth than let them stay as they are." 

At that, Irileth turned to Balgruuf, a question in her mind. "Private barrows...are they not the resting places of wealthy families? Why not return them to where they came from and earn favour from whichever family had these as relatives?" 

Balgruuf's eyes twinkled. That was certainly something. Freyr the Squadleader cleared his throat however. "That would take time, Housecarl. Most of our horses have been slain by the wretches. We'd have to get a wagon and take them back to where they came from." 

Irileth shrugged her shoulders. It was worth a try. "Nevermind then." she said dismissively. 

"Set them alight, kinsman. I shall take my riders and scout around some more and make sure," Balgruuf harumphed. "These are probably just some wandering draugr and nothing else." 

+++