4E 202, Bthardamz
Balgruuf
It happened in the middle of the night. Balgruuf was enjoying the softness of his feathered sleeping cot—a courtesy only allowed to a Jarl on a march—when Irileth's voice cut through the canvas of his tent.
"Jarl Balgruuf, apologies for waking you. A runner from Keeper Carcette came by, asking to convene at the war tent."
Balgruuf forced himself to wake from the drowsiness. He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face as the chill of wakefulness settled in.
"Wake Frothar and tell him to get here to help me with my armor."
Moments later, his eldest entered, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. Frothar said nothing in complaint, he had long since learned that war waited for no boy's comfort. He simply moved to the armor stand and began fastening the straps of Balgruuf's dragonplate with practiced hands.
Bringing the boy to the frontlines had not been a decision Balgruuf made lightly. But Whiterun would one day be Frothar's burden to bear. A Jarl could not be forged from comfort alone.
His heir had the makings of a great ruler. Frothar had changed since Nelkir's disappearance. The boyish innocence had burned away, replaced by solemn resolve. He listened during councils. He watched the men. He asked questions, hard ones that Balgruuf made sure to answer.
Frothar now served as his page, no different than a squire to the knights down south. He would help Balgruuf in all martial matters, to polish his armor and clean his axe, as well as act as his shadow in whatever meetings or councils Balgruuf had to attend.
Balgruuf took Bonebiter, an enchanted ebony war axe given to him by Gerron Ironbreaker, and sheathed it at his hip as Frothar secured the final clasp of his armor.
Back in Dragonsreach, he was content in wearing royal garments made of silk and circlets. But here, beneath the looming shadow of Bhatdamz, he wore steel at all times. News of Vittoria Vici's attempted assassination had spread far and wide. If even a wedding protected by the legion's finest weren't secure, the frontlines were even less so.
The cold struck the moment they stepped outside. Winds that came down the mountains tore through the camp, tugging at cloaks and dimming torchlight. Though he felt little of the chill as any nord would, Balgruuf frowned.
The force of the blowing winds would interfere with their archers, an omen that some would say as a sign of the gods.
It was still the dead of night, probably a few more hours till sunrise as Balgruuf and Frothar made their way to the command tent, Irileth shadowing them.
The only light source came from the numerous torches and campfires lined in even intervals, as well as the mage light constantly hovering over Irileth.
On the way there, Balgruuf saw Vilkas and Farkas emerge from their own tent as Balgruuf approached the war pavilion. Wuuthrad rested across the former's back.
"Vilkas, Farkas." Balgruuf greeted. "When did you return?"
"Just hours ago," Vilkas replied, voice rough with fatigue. "We managed to break four Forsworn tribes before the rest retreated further into the mountains. They will harry us no longer."
Balgruuf studied them more closely beneath the torches.
New scars were visible on their person. Vilkas bore a jagged one beneath his collarbone, going down before eventually being hidden behind his wolf-like brigandine. Farkas' face carried an ugly seam from brow to chin—the result of a duel he had with a Briarheart, if word around camp was to be believed.
Frothar was looking at Vilkas with barely disguised awe. The Harbinger of the Companions had become the role model of many children back in Whiterun, for tales of his valor had spread amongst the populace.
They arrived in the main tent that was flanked with a couple of Ulfric's Snow-Hammers. They gave him a nod before opening the bearskin flap and allowed him to enter.
Ulfric, Galmar, Carcette, and Tolan were already here, crowding around the main table with the map sprawled over it. The latter two were the only ones who looked visibly fine from being awake at this hour, while Ulfric and Galmar had bags underneath their eyes.
But what caught Balgruuf's real attention was the spectral nightingale bird flapping its wings above the table, made of soft blue rays of moonlight.
"Is that–?"
"Yes." Carcette said, her smile widening. "Karliah has finally sent word. She's in position and will open the gates in an hour's time."
All traces of tiredness melted away with those words. Everyone in this tent, barring Frothar, were all experienced warriors and veterans of many battles. This won't be the first time they were forced to fight in the dead of night.
"We'll have to prepare quietly." Balgruuf leaned over the table. "While we can't hide the movements of thousands of men preparing, at least we can be quiet enough so the Mythic Dawn doesn't expect anything."
Ulfric spoke up. "Karliah chose the timing well, the darkness of the night will be more than sufficient to hide our activities from the sentries on the wall."
"We have roughly a thousand cavalry, half of them heavy lancers." Balgruuf said, looking towards Ulfric. "If you and I lead the vanguard, your Thu'um will break their front. Whiterun's horses will do the rest."
Ulfric's mouth twitched. "A good plan."
"We'll ride at your side," Vilkas said, with Farkas nodding. "It won't do for the companions to be outdone by the Jarls of Skyrim."
"I'll rouse Aldis quietly. The Vigilants and Solitude guards aren't mounted warriors, so we'll follow at a slower pace, though it'll be for the better." Tolan said, his hand idly shifting to the hilt of his ebony greatsword. "We'll secure the walls while the horses climb up the steps and secure the entrance to Bthardamz proper."
"Then we have a plan." Carcette said, steely orbs of grey the same shade as her daughter narrowing. "Today, the Mythic Dawn falls."
…
An hour later, Balgruuf sat astride his warhorse beneath the dark sky, the twin moons shining moonlight into the Reach. The best of Whiterun and Windhelm surrounded him as they formed their horses into a wedge,
A light drizzle had fallen from the skies, the soft pitter patters extinguishing most of the torches as the camp dimmed into darkness.
It was a good thing, for the sound of drizzling rain swallowed the rumble of movement and turned thousands of marching feet into muffled whispers. The constant lobbing catapults had no doubt deafened many of the defenders, but every little bit helps.
Frothar would remain in the camp surrounded by a dozen of Whiterun's finest. As capable a lad he was, the battlefield was no place for children.
Balgruuf flexed his fingers around Bonebiter's haft. His pulse slowed into that old rhythm—anticipation sharpened into clarity. Rain traced cold paths down his armor and into the padding beneath.
Beside him, Ulfric sat utterly still, as if carved from ice, his warhorse mirrored the stillness of his master. Galmar, by contrast, trembled with barely restrained hunger for battle. The way his hands kept clenching on the shaft of his greataxe and the tugging leg of his horse told Balgruuf plenty of his eagerness.
Balgruuf's gaze turned back to the walls of Bthardamz, lit up by the braziers present atop the battlements. Balgruuf could barely make out the shadows walking up the walls, horned creatures with skins of black and red along with the occasional hooded cultist.
It didn't take long for the vaulted time to arrive.
The granite gates opened without fanfare, a groaning sound unleashed by cogs and wheels that the dwemer made long ago.
Horns sounded from the castle, but they were too late.
"For Skyrim!"
"For the Nords!"
"For the Empire!"
Battlecries sounded out as the thunderous shaking of thousands of hooves echoed through the air.
Spectral daedric arrows and spears of ice started to rain down from the battlements as Balgruuf raised his shield. They were proven to be unneeded, for Ulfric Stormcloak shouted to the skies.
"FUS RO DAH!"
Balgruuf watched as the arrows and lances were dispersed by the power of the Thu'um. Projectiles scattered like leaves before a hurricane. The sheer force parted the rain itself.
Even after all he had seen, the power of the Thu'um stirred something primal in Balgruuf's chest.
One day, once he's a bit older, Frothar would climb the Ten Thousand Steps and learn from the Greybeards himself.
One day.
Beside them, Vilkas roared, "Farkas! Njada!"
The two aforementioned companions nodded as they both leapt off their horses, shifting mid air into werewolves that started running on all fours, right next to the horses.
A year ago, their presence would have spooked the horses, but Whiterun's destriers are of sterner make than others. It also helped that the horses had plenty of time to familiarize themselves with the wolves in the march.
As they neared the open gate, Farkas and Njada lunged and began climbing the walls. While the dwemer stones were ordinarily too smooth to climb, the days of being battered by catapults and trebuchets had allowed many cracks for footholds, especially for such natural climbers as werewolves.
The column of horses narrowed into a tinier wedge as they pierced through the gate, Ulfric at the helm with Balgruuf to his right and Galmar to his left.
Dremora scrambled inside, their formation half-made as waves upon waves of them scrambled like chickens.
Whiterun's destriers smashed them like a living avalanche, trampling their lines. Balgruuf's axe took a Kynval's head in one swing. He reversed the motion, carving open another's throat.
Irileth remained as his shadow at all times, making sure none flanked his left side as her blade flashed, her strike driving clean through a Clannfear's spine.
The courtyard beyond the walls wasn't that large, but the wide stone stairs that led upwards towards the entrance of the Dwemer Ruin certainly was.
Made of sleek white stone, the stairs themselves were wide enough for seven horses to ride abreast with ample space to move. The Dremora rushed down the steps like a flood, Balgruuf counted at least four hundred of them.
The steepness of the steps forced them to slow their charge as momentum bled away.
The initial charge had killed well over half of the initial defenders while barely half a dozen men were lost. But Balgruud grimaced as he realized this next part would be a bloody slog.
Firebolts burst against Balgruuf's heater shield, the painted horse of Whiterun blackening with soot. Alyn, a whiterun soldier and part of his battleguard, lifted the advanced crossbow they had bought from the Dawnguard and punctured through the cultist's spectral armor, killing him.
Yet the halt in their charge proved detrimental as more of his men were pulled from their horses from the stronger of the Kynval. Horses died as the Clannfears rammed into them with reckless abandon.
Just as the fight started to turn for the worse, another thunderous sound echoed through the air.
"MIID VUR SHAN!"
Suddenly, the men found strength poured into their limbs. Stormcloaks, Whiterun guards, and companions alike; each one moving as if their hearts were filled with the certainty of victory.
Balgruuf had heard of this before, but he never had the chance of seeing it himself. The Battle Fury of the Thu'um, the famed rallying cry of Windhelm.
Balgruuf felt it like lightning in his veins. Each swing was done with deadly force as Dremora died by the dozen within his own hand. His axe became a weapon of death as life was reaped from every swing. The battlefield became wrought with the stench of iron as they slowly and surely fought their way up the stairs.
Yet even with all of his prowess, he paled in comparison to the slaughter happening a few steps ahead of him.
Vilkas stood there with Ria and Uthgerd the Unbroken, all three dismounted as the Harbinger of the Companions cut a whole swath through the wall of Dremora.
With Wuuthrad in hand, Vilkas became death incarnate. Wuuthrad rose and fell, each swing tearing through multiple foes as the Storm's Tears drank the blood of his enemies.
The man that was Ysgramor-reborn held the coming tide of Dremora all by himself as Ria and Uthgerd remained by their harbinger's side, guarding his flanks as if orbiting a star of violence. The latter was reaccepted into their order shortly after Kodlak's funeral, along with the Redguard Amren and the Nord Warrior Sinmir.
The Companions had suffered greatly in the many fights they participated in for the freedom of Skyrim, yet their numbers had swelled greatly since then. The glory and prestige they had earned from always being the frontlines, fighting the good fight, had pulled in many warriors and shield-maidens from all four corners of the realm.
Another battlecry erupted from the gates as their reinforcements finally arrived. Carcette, Tolan, Aldis, the rest of the Stormcloak infantry, the Vigilants of Stendarr, the Solitude guards, the Companions. They began pouring in through the gate as the Dremora quickly found themselves outnumbered.
Cries of pain and combat erupted from the walls as cultists were flung from atop the battlements before splattering into paste as they landed. Balgruuf could hear the howling of the werewolves as the courtyard became a slaughterhouse.
Balgruuf saw Carcette fighting like a woman possessed as she proved to everyone why she held the title of Keeper. Dremora fell to her in droves as she blazed with holy light, sun beams that sent scamps screaming into ash.
Vigilant Tolan was right beside her, the senior and veteran vigilant wielding his ebony greatsword masterfully side by side with his Keeper. More Vigilants poured in, their weapons shining with the power of the sun.
Balgruuf grinned despite himself.
This—this was their purpose.
Truthfully, the Vigilants struggled to adapt during the siege. They were never trained to fight in formation, they didn't know how to set up a siege camp, to dig ditches or build watchtowers, or how to even breach a fortress as mighty as Bthardamz.
All the planning had been either Balgruuf or Ulfric, as they were the most experienced in warfare. But right here, right now? The famed order of Daedra hunters more than proved their worth.
With the courtyard secured, Ulfric wheeled his horse.
"Up!" he barked.
Balgruuf was right behind him as they rallied their cavalry for a renewed push up the stairs, climbing the steep incline.
Vilkas, who saw this, quickly disengaged. Pulling Ria and Uthgerd with him as Galmar and Irileth beheaded and trampled the six Dremora Churls that were surrounding them.
But the delay had cost them.
At the summit, the Dremora had formed a disciplined wall—Kynvals and Churls locked behind a wall of shields with spears and pikes angled downwards in a bristling forest of steel.
Balgruuf's stomach tightened. Only a fool would ever charge against a disciplined wall of spearmen, and it seems that these dremora weren't ones to run away like a coward.
Turning back or slowing down was not an option, for hundreds more riders were riding right behind him and Balgruuf would sooner get trampled by his own allies.
Arrows and spells rained from behind the Dremora line that dropped many of the charging cavalry—but none of the heavy lancers—for their armor was more than enough to protect them.
Balgruuf had to raise his shield quickly, a bolt of lightning clattering against it that was held back by the Resist Magic enchantment. But despite that, his old wound from High Hrothgar screamed beneath the strain as Balgruuf struggled to raise it again.
Stormcloak archers from the courtyard tried their best to retaliate, loosing their own volley of arrows under the command of a Bone-Breaker. But the higher vantage point as well as roaring winds coming down from the mountain made it difficult for them to reach. Even then, the ones that did make it did not get past their shield wall.
As Balgruuf tightened his grip, bracing for impact, Ulfric rose in his stirrups.
"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"
Ulfric's voice thundered over the din as he raised his sword high. The result was immediate.
Weapons ripped from Dremora's hands as if seized by an invisible tempest. Shields flew skyward. Spears spun away. Even blades held in iron grips were torn loose.
For a heartbeat, the defenders stood unarmed.
Balgruuf saw the realization dawn in their red eyes.
Fear.
Then the cavalry struck.
Steel-shod hooves trampled through the vulnerable lines like a battering ram, crushing the Mythic Dawn's defense beneath the thunder of Skyrim's charge.
…
AN: There we go! The assault on Bthardamz begins with a bang. This chapter was really difficult to write since I am woefully inexperienced in writing army v army combat, especially sieges, but I'm satisfied with what I ended up with.
Balgruuf is such a fun character to write a POV in. A father and a leader of the most prosperous region in Skyrim, but also marred with grief for the recent loss of a son. I really enjoyed the whole initial sequence with Frothar and his thoughts on the future of Whiterun.
More chapters are available on my P-word. Chapter 117 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers!