Survivor (A Skyrim Fan-Fiction)

Chapter Twenty Three

Ulfric's P.O.V.

I didn't want it to come to this but Maven Black-Briar has left me little choice. 

The tide was out, leaving the crossing from the land to Castle Volkihar a plain stretch of mud and rock, squelching every second as the host of five-hundred Stormcloak men and women moved forward.

"I still think we have too many men for a rescue mission," Galmar grumbled beside me, his battleaxe gripped tightly in his calloused hands.

"You and I both know that this won't end up merely a rescue mission, Galmar. I'm aware that what we are doing is tending the flames of another war, and I fear this will be the blow that truly sets the fire ablaze."

The Officer grunted and fell back into a brooding silence. He hadn't hid the fact that he didn't agree with this act of war, saying it was unnecessary and a foolish idea as Aemilia was fully capable of escaping by herself. I agree with Galmar on that front - I've known Aemilia to escape the most complex of prison cells like it was nothing. 

But we're not here to just save my Queen; we're here because Maven acted. This was the invitation I was waiting for.

"Halt, men!" I shouted loudly. 

All came to a stop as we lined halfway across the field, each of the ten rows stretching fifty men wide. I looked around at the true sons and daughters of Skyrim and saw some with faces showing fierce determination and eagerness; others hiding their true emotion behind a mask of uncertainty.

I pulled out my war horn and blew.

The noise echoed again and again until all fell to silence once more. Nothing. 

"Maven! Show yourself! You know why we're here - let's get this over and done with!"

A few moments passed until the portcullis rattled and began to shudder upwards. In the distance, the heavy oaken door slowly opened and a host of vampires marched forward led by a new face. Their numbers were two-thirds of mine own; about three hundred and fifty pairs of glowing red, orange or yellow eyes.

No orderly line was formed by them; they just remained scattered randomly across the plain of mud fifty feet away. Scowls were exchanged from each side and the anticipation for blood was rising with every passing second.

Galmar and I walked forward, my General and loyal friend doing so stiffly with his jaw set tensely and his mouth a thin, frowning line. The leader of the opposing side sauntered forward with an arrogant spring in his step; his accompanying comrade with a malicious and disturbing grin.

"I see the bear cub has emerged from its cave at long last," the leader's shorter associate giggled. His wits seemed to be as scattered as the dark blotches on his pale and sickly skin. By his height I would judge he's a Breton, but I couldn't be certain.

"Forgive Knife. As you can probably tell, he's not entirely sane," the Dunmer said casually as he flicked his black, flowing and glossy hair to the side. 

Me and Galmar traded strange looks before directing our attention to the abnormal vampires again.

"Why do they call you Knife?"

The Breton licked his lips and rolled his eyes and grinned as he stretched his long, bony fingers, making them click grotesquely. 

"You'll find out soon enough." 

I turned my gaze to the Dunmer and assessed him coolly. He had dark green steel armor decorated with engravings of skulls and all kinds of gruesome scenes, and a one-handed cleaver at his hip still stained with the crusted blood of his previous foes.