this is my first short story

Prologue:
it was around 2 or 3am, the barricades were stout and the sentries were alert, but they did not expect such an attack 20, 30 werewolves, they leaped over the barricades with ease the sentries raised the alarm but they knew it was hopeless. the horde had the camp in it's jaws. And it would not let go.

Chapter 1:
the men were a motley crew, farmers, guards, washed up adventurers that took one too many arrows to the knee, and mere children, barely a whisker on their chin, they were training in Whiterun, preparing to receive the Horde. they did not know how the infections got so out of hand, the Jarls had been so occupied in their petty civil war, the towns were reporting missing people but they did not care. they had more on their hands then a missing bastard or two. the first Jarl to recognize the problem for what it was had been Idgrod Ravencrone, they had laughed, and called her names. if they had realized then what was happening, things would never have gotten out of hand, the towns fell one by one the hordes of undead and werewolves grew larger and larger, the undead and the werewolves fought each other just as much as they fought the uninfected, the silverhands had tried to warn them of what was coming, but the Jarls were blinded by the war they were already fighting.

thoughts so far?