bulbaquil
...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Chapter 6: Love and War
22nd of Frostfall, 4E 201 | 3:30 p.m. | Whiterun Stables
There were two major unanticipated challenges to Penelope riding in the carriage to Whiterun with them. The first hurdle was in the form of Brynjolf and had already been overcome—Brynjolf, for whatever reason (possibly a romantic one) had been particularly disinclined to allow the Breton to ride unescorted with two unfamiliar men. Penelope herself was the solution—reminding him that she’d have to ride with the (male) carriage driver anyway, and that at any rate she was going to have to do some jobs alone, even in much more dangerous cities such as Markarth, and she had to get used to traveling both alone and with strangers in the treacherous lands of Skyrim.
The second hurdle was the need to avoid alerting the ever-curious Cheydinhol native to the fact that they were Stormcloaks, which wasn’t exactly easy given the need to transport their Stormcloak gear. Fortunately, fur bracers and fur armor were common enough among Skyrim’s bandits that it was easy to assume those were filched off of them, and the chain mail itself of the Stormcloak cuirass was not a dead giveaway—the other parts of it were, and they were tucked safely in bearskin. It also helped that Penelope also had a secret of her own to keep along the way—namely, what she was doing in Whiterun.
Sjadbek and Burdnar did try to assuage her curiosity about Whiterun and about Skyrim in general—apart from her unexpected trip to Helgen and then, of course, to Riverwood and finally Riften, she hadn’t really been many places in Skyrim. They happily regaled her with tales of Whiterun, Windhelm, Ivarstead, Falkreath, and what Helgen used to be. Burdnar added his excursion to Skaven and Elinhir in Hammerfell to the list.
The carriage stopped outside the Whiterun gates, allowing the three to disembark. Out of politeness they escorted the Breton to the Bannered Mare, where she needed to go anyway.
“Aren’t you staying here too?” she asked, handing Sjadbek the Dragonstone.
“We’ve got other lodging arrangements in Whiterun,” he responded—the quite-generous Skirling had assured the two Stormcloaks as they left the town for Windhelm and then Riften that they’d be welcome guests anytime they returned to the plains city. Sjadbek had considered letting Penelope stay with them, but it would have seemed rude to foist an uninvited guest on him—especially a guest that for familial reasons favored the Legion, and had probably been further persuaded towards the Legion during her escape from Helgen through its keep with Hadvar (which had rather fascinated Sjadbek, except the part where they killed Stormcloaks).
You’d think having your head a split second from being separated from your body would sour anyone to the Legion, he had thought, honestly a bit surprised, but no…
“I hope she doesn’t join the Legion,” Burdnar muttered to Sjadbek as they left her for Skirling’s house. “I really would hate to have to kill her.”
Official Stormcloak business required official Stormcloak gear, and there was no point in keeping the secret anymore from Penelope even if she did happen to see them as they traipsed up the steps to Dragonsreach, the late Frostfall sun hovering ever lower in the sky.
“We have the Dragonstone,” Sjadbek announced to Jarl Balgruuf as they entered the palace.
“Excellent,” remarked the Jarl. “Give it to Farengar over there, and he can deal with it appropriately. Now, as for this axe of Ulfric’s….“ Balgruuf narrowed his eyes, staring directly at Sjadbek’s, as he handed him the symbolic weapon.
“You’ve chosen the wrong side,” Sjadbek spoke softly.
“Have I? Or have you? The esteemed Jarl of Windhelm has my answer. Make sure he gets it.”
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23rd of Frostfall, 4E 201 | 4:27 a.m.| Whiterun | Dragonsreach
The roar of a dragon outside his window woke Balgruuf from his slumber and made him immediately regret having not spent another day in deliberation. Illuminated only by effulgent auroras partially blocked by passing clouds, the dragon’s wings flew by the palace’s western façade and into the city. A roiling inferno of flames emitted from its mouth, lighting both the night and a handful of buildings on fire.
Whiterun was under attack, and not by Stormcloaks.
Guards and armed volunteers sprung into action as the dragon continued its merciless onslaught. Several died, as did several civilians and onlookers as their houses burned. Though the safest place for him would, at this point, be the dungeons of his palace, Balgruuf was mesmerized by the beast now terrorizing his people.
“Zu’u fen viik Dovahkiin!” the dragon raged as it landed and attempted to snap its jaws at Sjadbek, the blond Stormcloak who had visited him the previous evening about Ulfric’s war axe and who was now dodging the not-so-mythical creature’s sharp teeth. He sliced off one of them with his blade, causing the dragon to scream in anger, “Fen nid krii Mirmulnir!”
A large scale, easily the size of a breastplate, that had been the target of one of the Companions’ blades fell off the dragon, who howled in anguish as it flew back into the air to further terrorize the inhabitants, virtually none of whom remained in bed. More arrows flew into the night. Lightning from Farengar and the city’s other mages aimed at the dragon joined the arrows and the fires, as the dragon flew eastward away from the city, then doubled back with what, in the firelight, appeared to be a clipped wing.
As the dragon came back westward for what would be his final crash landing about a thousand feet north of Jorrvaskr, he smashed his massive tail into an already-damaged portion of Whiterun’s eastern wall, to say nothing of the buildings separated from it by only an alleyway. The impact clearly damaged the dragon just as effectively as the structures: scales and bones splintered from it at an alarming pace, flesh and meat being ripped with them. It let out as its last act a halfhearted flame spray ironically at a shrine of Akatosh nearby as swords, spears, maces, and various other accoutrements of battle ripped into what remained of its rapidly weakening body.
Jarl Balgruuf saw the remains begin to blow brightly as what appeared to be the dragon’s soul was absorbed into the blond Stormcloak’s body. If he hadn’t already been regretting not waiting another day to decide on the Ulfric issue—a city already battered by dragonfire would be ripe for the taking—he sure was regretting it now. The Dragonborn, part of the rebellion. Ready to throw away the Empire, ready to hand either Skyrim or Cyrodiil or both to the Aldmeri Dominion.
Kynareth save us!
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23rd of Frostfall, 4E 201 | 6:04 a.m.| Whiterun
“You know, Burdnar, I’m beginning to like dragons, even if they do try to kill me,” Sjadbek declared nonchalantly as he picked up one of the heavy dragon scales. “How much you think Belethor will pay me for one of these?”
“Depends. We using Skirling’s guess or mine? I’d say a hundred septims. He’d say fifty at the most.”
“Dragonborn,” called out a Breton woman who was not Penelope—couldn’t have been, she looked to be in her late thirties or early forties if she had been a Nord, which probably put her as a fifty-something given her actual race. She beckoned him and Burdnar into a secluded, abandoned home, and spoke, “So the Greybeards were right.”
“Er, if you don’t mind my asking, aren’t you the Riverwood innkeeper?”
“I am. Delphine of the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood. But that’s not why I’m here. I saw the Dragonstone sticking out of your rucksack when you stayed there night before last. I believe this belongs to you.”
She handed him a rather particular horn he knew he was technically supposed to be looking for, but hadn’t actually gotten around to finding. Probably a good thing in this case, given that the horn in fact wasn’t there.
“This is the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Are you telling me you went to Ustengrav and took it?”
“Surprised? I knew if you really were Dragonborn, they’d send you there—so predictable they are. Of course, you killing that dragon worked to prove it to me just as well. I know it’s a little aggravating, but I needed to ensure it wasn’t a Thalmor trap.”
Delphine spoke as if she were apologizing for something—likely she had thought Sjadbek had actually been to Ustengrav. “Unless the Greybeards became puppets of the Thalmor while I wasn’t looking, I don’t see how it could have been.”
“Not that. That you, in particular, were the Dragonborn they were talking about.”
“Ah. What do you mean—what are you, anyway? Clearly you’re not the harmless Breton innkeeper I thought you were.”
“I am a Breton, and I am an innkeeper—or at least I have been for some time. But I’m also one of the last members of the Blades. The Thalmor hunted us down during the Great War. And they’re likely our best lead for the dragons.”
“You think the Thalmor know—well, actually, it wouldn’t surprise me.” Stupid Aldmeri Dominion. Sjadbek relished the idea of actually killing one of their numbers. Or fifty—either way was fine with him.
“How in Oblivion are we going to interrogate them?” Burdnar piped in.
Delphine scrunched her forehead in thought. “I’ll come up with a plan. Give me a couple weeks and meet me in my inn in Riverwood. I should have something by then.”
But in the meantime, it was off to Windhelm for them. If it was war Balgruuf had chosen, it was war he would get.
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30th of Frostfall, 4E 201 | 8:50 p.m.| Valtheim
There were really only three viable roads in all of Skyrim that separated the Imperial-dominant western half from the Stormcloak-dominant eastern half. The road through Valtheim, the small town by the White River separating Eastmarch and Whiterun Holds, was one of these, and at the present time the one of the greatest strategic importance to the Stormcloak army. Its ordinary population of thirteen hundred was nearly quintupled by the twenty-two rebel contingents, each of which consisted of between 200 and 240 warriors.
Galmar, Sjadbek, and Burdnar rode into the Valtheim encampment on horses—Ulfric had decided that, given the amount of traveling the last two of those in particular needed to do regularly for their other tasks, it would be wise to furnish them with equine transportation. The sheer size of the camp impressed Sjadbek: clearly, Ulfric was not kidding around when he said he had been planning to take Whiterun for a long time. Some of the troops in the camp claimed to have been there since Rain’s Hand.
“Prepare yourselves, boys. We’re taking the city,” Galmar announced to general applause. “We move out tomorrow.”
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3rd of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201 | Around Noon| Outside Whiterun
For the second time in two weeks Whiterun was under attack—this time by an army. Sjadbek and Burdnar had been given the honor of being vanguards of the contingent led by Ralof, and were ready to take the city.
Such a shame Jarl Balgruuf was unwilling to listen to reason, Sjadbek thought, the sounds of catapults (he’d seen a few being built in Windhelm) launching their deadly cargo at the already-battered walls of Whiterun, damaged both by age and the dragon attack of the 23rd of Frostfall.
One wave of Imperial reinforcements had already arrived at and was defending the city from their siege—the regiment from Fort Greymoor, only a day and a half by horse away. The larger contingent at the Rorikstead camp was likely to pose a greater issue when they arrived—Galmar expected them to have arrived already, but they hadn’t, which likely meant a battle in the field proper. Already berms and trenches were being carved along the western flank.
Whiterun itself was in a state of civil unrest, as those Imperial supporters not themselves on the battlements fought Stormcloak supporters on the streets, with what beleaguered guard remaining on patrol of the city effectively powerless to help them. Rubble from the catapults and the dragon attack turned into barricades as the battle waged outside the city tugged at the city’s own citizenry. Those neutral barricaded themselves inside their houses, hoping desperately that they would not be torched or crushed.
The Rorikstead regiment of the Fourth Legion arrived a few hours later as the light quickly faded underneath the cloudy skies—Sun’s Dusk certainly lived up to its name in Skyrim. A full-blown night battle was underway as snow began to fall, harsh flaming arrows joining the gentle flakes in the air.
“Why are we not joining them?” Burdnar asked Ralof as their contingent and two others made their way towards the damaged and surprisingly weakly fortified eastern wall. A hastily erected barrier of dragon remains mixed with a sluice of mortar blocked what had been the crash-landing point of Mirmulnir. A handful of archers were perched upon the wall next to it, shooting arrows at the Stormcloaks.
“We have different orders,” Ralof responded. “Sjad, see if you can shout their bows away!”
“Zun!” Sjadbek Shouted in compliance. Two of the archers found their bows ripped out of their hands, falling outside the walls. Two’s better than none, but I really need a stronger shout. He continued to try to Shout away the pesky archers’ weaponry as the Stormcloaks’ own archers attempted to defeat them the more conventional way.
“Ah, that’ll be Birkir with the catapult,” Ralof stated as an arrow pierced Sjadbek’s knee, officially qualifying him to be a guard in whatever hold he liked when he was done being an adventurer (like you). For the time being, he simply shrugged the injury off, and let out another shout. “Fus—ro!” An archer staggered, falling unceremoniously to the hard stone pavement—or rubble, or whatever was there—behind the battlements.
Finally, after several hours of vocal, sagittal, and catapult bombardment, the makeshift wall had fallen. A handful of Imperial reinforcements sent from the main battle met them, but were dispatched in what had to be an additional half hour, allowing the six hundred or so remaining Stormcloaks from the four contingents to charge into the eastern part of the city, only about five hundred yards from Dragonsreach.
Skirling, accompanied by his family and what appeared in the extremely dim lighting to be the Gray-Manes hacked away at a barricade set up by the Imperials as Ralof, Birkir, Hjarbek, Agna, and Skadveir’s contingents marched into Whiterun. One last target remained to be breached, if they could manage it: Dragonsreach.
Hjarbek’s contingent gladly took the rear guard—they figured they’d need it. The remaining four, and Ralof’s in particular, which took the vanguard position, were met by Legate Cipius’s own contingent, plus fifty or so Whiterun guards still displaying valiant loyalty to Balgruuf. The fight for Dragonsreach lasted until nearly sunrise, the dawn displaying the white of snow, red of blood, and brown of rubble and ruined barricades around them. Outside the city, the battle had raged, though it appeared both sides had fallen back to their trenches to recoup losses and rest.
It wasn’t long before Sjadbek pared blades with Jarl Balgruuf himself. “I will not—” Whiterun’s longtime ruler strained in desperate battle—“let you milk-drinkers—take my city!”
“You seemed like—such a good Jarl,” Sjadbek responded as steel clashed against steel. “I know—it’s a bit unfair—for us to have launched an attack against you—so quickly after the dragon did, but—you wanted war, so we gave it to you!”
“That decision may have—been somewhat premature!”
“Then surrender Whiterun,” Sjadbek grunted, as his blade slashed against Balgruuf’s breastplate, “and we’ll spare your life. Ulfric’s orders!”
“You—shall—not—” Balgruuf began, but the motion of Sjadbek’s blade pulled his own sword out of his grip. A shield bash later, and the Jarl of Whiterun shortly found his throat at the tip of a sword. “Fine. I surrender.”
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12th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201 | Early Evening| Riverwood
Balgruuf’s surrender didn’t mean the battle of Whiterun was necessarily entirely over. Of the twenty-three hundred Legionnaires and four hundred Whiterun guards that had been dispatched to defend the city, about nine hundred remained who had not died or defected. Half of these retreated, but the other half remained to fight until the bitter end. Then, of course, there was the probability of reinforcements from other holds being sent in an attempt to retake the city.
The thirty-three hundred or so Stormcloak troops who remained were redivided into fifteen contingents. Of these nine remained to garrison the large city until control was fully solidified, three were sent back to the camp at Valtheim there to receive new orders, and one was dispatched to scout the roads around Whiterun. The remaining two contingents, Ralof’s and Anga’s, were sent to Riverwood to set up a garrison in the case of forces coming northward from Falkreath—or Cyrodiil itself. It would indeed be nice when Falkreath Hold, too, was under Stormcloak control, and the Pale Pass to Bruma could be blockaded.
Ralof’s contingent in particular had been assigned to Riverwood for two reasons. The first was, of course, that Ralof was himself from Riverwood, and his family was very pleased to see his safe return. His nephew Frodnar in particular asked him all about the Battle of Whiterun, and he was happy to oblige. The second reason was the fact that Sjadbek was in his contingent, and that his “other orders” necessitated he be in Riverwood anyway.
Delphine had sent correspondence to “someone in Solitude”—that’s all she’d say; even with Stormcloaks in charge she was still concerned about Thalmor informants—and was expecting a reply.
The small town was easily walked, and that was exactly what Sjadbek was doing. He wasn’t making rounds, not exactly—as leader of a subplatoon he had subordinates to do that, one of whom was Burdnar who was following him at any rate—but it was nice to stroll around the pleasant village that they were guarding. In many ways Riverwood was a lot like Helgen—a similar climate, similar styles of speech, and a pleasant environment overall.
“I swear, four hundred soldiers and they all want Camilla,” a young female voice argued from around a corner. “Camilla Valerius this, Camilla Valerius that—ever since Sven vanished and Faendal got the ire of that crazy necromancer, Camilla has been batting eyes at every remotely young male who passes by here. Stormcloaks send a garrison, she flirts with them. If the Legion retakes Riverwood, she’ll be flirting with the garrison they send.”
“I understand, Kadmi,” said a similar voice, “it’s almost as if we don’t exist to them compared to Camilla. I thought Stormcloaks didn’t like Imperials, but….”
Sjadbek and Burdnar, curious about the nature of this conversation, turned the corner. There stood two Nord women about twenty or so years old, the one on the right with flowing light-brown hair, bright green eyes, and pleasantly-shaped lips, looking surprisingly like Berdja. It almost felt that Mara or Stendarr or Dibella or whichever deity was relevant here was giving the Dragonborn another shot to make up for the loss of Berdja.
“Is there anything we can assist you with?” Sjadbek asked politely, grinning. “I understand you’re having… trouble with something.”
“Well, now that you mention it, there is,” said the one who resembled Berdja. “Skelja of Riverwood, much better than Camilla even if she doesn’t think so.”
“Heh, I’ve seen Camilla around,” Sjadbek muttered to Skelja as Burdnar went to flirt with the one named Kadmi. “I’m sure the boys think she’s a good screw; that’s why they make passes at her all the time. But let’s be honest, if you claim to have come here to Skyrim expecting to get away from war, you’re either lying or stupid. Neither of which is a quality I’d particularly like to have in a wife.”
“Indeed. If it’s not this civil war, it’s bandits or Thalmor or Falmer or bears or who knows what. We’re the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives…”
“And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies.” he recited. “Every Stormcloak has a story. Would you care to hear mine?”
“Sure.”
He told his story, and Skelja listened with interest. He didn’t know why he was so willing to share his past with her, his history with Berdja, his imprisonment and her execution at the hands of an Imperial “justice” that was anything but the sort, but he felt she could be trusted, or at least he willed she could be trusted. She was Berdja reincarnated, or at least that’s how he saw her. Oh, obviously she wasn’t Berdja—Berdja’s remains lay beside a desolate chopping block in a desolate ruin, and her soul was safely in Sovngarde—but after hearing her reactions, Sjadbek felt she was as close to Berdja in spirit as he was ever going to get now.
“It beats me up inside every time I have to kill my kin,” the Dragonborn admitted. “But they made their choice, and I’ve made mine. What Empire is there left, anyway? The Thalmor, Black Marsh, Hammerfell… it’s already gone; it just doesn’t know it. I’m sorry, Skelja,” he concluded.
“I could make you feel better,” Skelja brightened.
“I don’t want to feel like I’m stealing you, Skelja, just because of a sob story.”
“You’re not stealing me, Sjad, but if you insist… I could use a few more logs chopped for the fire. It’ll be cold tonight.”
“I’ll be happy to help. Maybe it won’t be as cold a night as you think.” And not just because of the fire, either.
Another fantastic chapter, Bulba! Your story just flows so well, so naturally. And once again, I must praise you for your dialogue!
