I didn't really have any intention of writing anything like this but my damn muse wouldn't shut up until I did. Something about having a pseudo-Samurai army fighting a pseudo-Republic-era Roman Army appealed to me more than it probably should've... XD

My explanations and translations of certain details are contained right at the end for reference.

As always, I would love feedback on this, especially as this is the first "big-battle" scene I have written for a long time and has provided practice for the battles coming up in "Bloodtide Rising"...

Pale Pass

Spring

1E2703

His army was dying.

His army was dying and there was nothing that he could do about it. It was fighting as it died, scrabbling and biting and spitting every inch of the way but it was dying nonetheless. Sixty thousand soldiers had marched north from Brumia as the winter snows began to melt and now those same sixty thousand were finding themselves cut down against a foe that seemed unstoppable. It should have been a neat, if bloody victory against a foe cut off and starving in the depths of the pass; a foe that they held a numerical advantage of almost twenty thousand and a strategic advantage of a friendly army on the far side of the mountains cutting off retreat, supplies and reinforcements.

The war had lasted three years so far, and during the winter he had rallied the combined forces of the petty kingdoms and city states in Cyrod. Some, like those in the north of the region who had already faced the might of the Tsaesci host had quickly rallied. Brumia had sent all of her sons and daughters; the ones that had survived the previous year at least, and even the Tharnian Dynasty had sent their own troops and even the heir apparent to lead them. He hadn't been surprised at how his own people had joined as the threat of the invasion from Akavir was right on their doorstep, but it was the first time in memory the quarrelling nobles of Chorria had united under one banner.

Some of the others had been a surprise, a full six thousand from Anvilum and five thousand from Bravilia had arrived and pledged their swords to his command and he hadn't been expecting anything more than a token show of force from those southern cities. Skina Gratum had truly outdone their neighbours with a full sixth of his entire army and a further three thousand had also joined the march north from Vatchiae. The Sutchittes had also sent every able-bodied soldier they had available to face the second year of invasion, even if they had been the only ones who hadn't been entirely welcome if he and the other commanders were honest with themselves. The Sutchittes reasons for joining this alliance had been disarmingly simple; they just wanted to fight someone and didn't care who it was.

Such a confederacy of the Cyrod kingdoms and cities would have been impossible only two or three years earlier. Indeed, the cities had even been fighting each other in the years before the invasion and both the nations of Colovia and Nibenay were historically at each other's throats. It had taken a truly world-shattering event to grant some form of unification of the troubled region, and the invasion from Akavir had certainly been one.

Since their arrival in the north they had swept through the Kingdom of Skyrim with an astounding ease. The Nords had always treated their southern neighbours with a wariness as their fears of Colovia and Nibenay unifying under a common barrier would have birthed a threat they would have struggled to face. The appearance of the 'snake-men' of Akavir had been a rude awakening for all involved, especially with the ease that the Tsaesci forces casually slapped the Northern armies aside like troublesome insects.

After a year of constant assaults, lightning quick sieges and relentless battles and skirmishes they had managed to batter the Nords into something equivalent to submission. There was not a force in the world or Oblivion that would ever force the Nords to bend knee but the Tsaesci had managed to carve a foothold into Tamriel nonetheless. Their armies roamed throughout the north and controlled everything between Morrowind and the Reach, and any sizable formations of troops were quickly cut off, surrounded and destroyed with a strategic brilliance that so far no one had been able to manage. With commanders such as Sinrun-Vinralu Maresuke leading their forces, the Akaviri horde had been unstoppable.

Until their attempt to conquer the lands south of the Jerals at least. It had been hard pressed and bloody but they had managed to fend them off, paying for every inch of ground in the blood of men and mer. The populations of the Colovian Estates and the Nibenay had been united under the charismatic rule of a man barely into his thirties and he had somehow even managed to gain an alliance of sorts with the Dunmer. While his forces were pushing hard to the north through the bloody crevice known as the Pale Pass, the Great Army of Vvardenfell was also engaging the Tsaesci to the rear within Skyrim itself, catching the invaders between the two armies.

From Reman's saddle it didn't take a strategic genius to know that all the plotting, diplomacy and the greatest force mustered in the history of Mankind was becoming worthless. Sixty thousand soldiers had marched into the kilometre-wide pass to engage the forty thousand Tsaesci who had spent the past weeks cut off from supplies and reinforcement. The Tsaesci otherwise had their own plans and had decided to counterattack. They were pouring their way down the pass towards the southern lands, possibly even spurred on by the imagined sight of White-Gold too far south to be visable by mortal eyes. As a rolling tide of lacquered wood and iron armour and fluttering banners strapped to their spines, they chose to attack rather than wait for Reman's force to engage them. They were very much living up to their namesake, striking hard and fast and killing as surely as a poisoned fang.

Looking over the sea of scowl-masked soldiery gutting the disciplined ranks of his own troops, Reman couldn't help but shiver at their names. Within the first weeks of the invasion rumours of horrible monsters had run rampant, fang mouthed beasts and terrible half-snake, half-man creatures leading the Akaviri hosts vanguard throughout the north. While it was true that they had a penchant for utilising vampiric scouts and assassins in their campaign thus far, the truth of their moniker of snake-men was not of a result of fantasy. The Tsaesci soldiers were easily distinguished by their unique, decorative armour that many had adorned with reptilian motifs or fashioned into snarling fang filled skulls of great serpents. He wasn't naive enough not to know that among the commoners within his ranks the Tsaesci were also known to be 'snake-men' due to their strange eyes that left them universally squinting at the world.

Unlike the honest chainmail, and segmented armour of his troops, the Tsaesci were in a lighter armour made of wood and metal that suited their fighting styles. The Hastarti and Principes in his forward battalions fought shoulder to shoulder in walls of metal and meat, using their enormous shields to cover themselves from the enemy. The Tsaesci in comparison rarely used shields at all outside of dedicated sieges but were no less deadly for it. He knew that they had chosen to attack to reduce the time they could be the targets for his archers, but their lighter armour meant that they treated the southerner's shield walls as though they were as dangerous as men made of clay.

With their katana's flashing they hewed their way through the heaving ranks of the Hastati in the front ranks like they were little more than distractions. As the younger, inexperienced soldiers within the Cyrod armies the Hastati were meant to weaken and wear down the enemy to allow the older, wealthier Principes to do the real killing. Instead they were being slaughtered in droves, dying horribly on the keen edges of Katana's that chopped faces, hacked heads from shoulders and made a mockery of the iron helms the younger men wore. For every Tsaesci Saburi that died, they took five or more southerners with them and Reman's army was reeling.

In less than twenty minutes the first eight ranks of his battalions were dead or dying, slowing the enemy more by their piled, slippery corpses than what they had while breathing. The Tsaesci fought like men possessed, and their scowling Mempo masks and curved Kabuto helms completed the image of a sea of daedra ripping the life from them.

"Prisianus! Send the order to the Ninth to reinforce the right flank! They must hold!"

Reman watched as the messenger wheeled his steed and disappeared in the direction of his orders with all the haste he could muster. Forty strong, the mounted Equites of surrounding him were the best his army had to offer. All were seasoned horsemen, and represented the richest and noblest of both the Colovian Estates and the Niben. Their armour was perfect, their faces cold to the witnessed butchery only a few dozen metres to their front and barely sweating despite the increasing heat. The various nobles of the southern lands were scattered about, leading their forces against the invaders but it had fallen to Reman to lead them all.

It was not going to be enough and he knew it. He had won victory after victory against the Tsaesci the year previous where all other leaders had failed, but now he was facing a different foe. Gritting his teeth until he feared that they would begin to crack from the strain he watched as the shimmering formation of naginata wielding Akaviri streamed down with their shoulder mounted banners fluttering in the air. The wicked polearms, little more than one of their accursed katanas mounted to the end of a two-metre-long wooden staff made terrible work to the compressed formations. Reman's soldiers were at a clear disadvantage, as the individual Hastati and Principes were equipped with nothing more than a short gladius had nothing to match the reach of the Tsaesci polearms.

Every man carried a pair of pilum, but only the principes behind the younger soldiers could use theirs to any advantage. Unfortunately, they were purely designed as throwing weapons and totally ineffective for stabbing or thrusting. Each pilum was made of a solid iron tip, a bronze or soft iron core and a lengthy wooden shaft half a man's height in length. Once thrown, the softer core would purposely bend and twist the pilum out of shape, fouling the enemy ranks and ensuring that the weapons couldn't be retrieved thrown back at their original owners. Only the heavy plated Triarii in the rearmost ranks with their six-metre-long sarissa pikes had a comparable reach to the deadly naginata, but they were trapped in the rearmost ranks, their weapons useless until the foe hacked through the rest of the army.

A runner, his horse panting froth and bleeding from several wounds came to a skidding halt before Reman and his bodyguard. The young rider covered in blood to the elbow from where he had fought himself free of the swirling melee towards the opposite flank, and was a sure sign that the battalions were beginning to take terrible losses.

"My Lord, the Orcish Auxillia have been broken!" he shouted over the increasing storm of metal on metal and screams.

"Retreating?"

Shaking his head and oblivious to the sweat and blood mingling under his barbute helm, the messenger struggled to keep his composure. "No sire, destroyed. There are some still fighting but they have been cut off and almost entirely wiped out."

Growling, Reman bit back the curse and looked about at the banner scattered behind the lines. The band of Orcs had been a welcome addition and while the greenskinned pigs were little more than animals, they had appeared more than capable of facing anything either army could offer. He almost didn't need to see the flickering banner with its multitude of horsetails fluttering in the breeze in the tiny knot of orcs to know that they were gone. The messenger was doing little more than passing their eulogies.

"Return to the sixteenth. They are to deploy to that flank and reinforce what remains of the second. The slant eyed bastards are likely to press their advantage once the tuskers are wiped out."

Nodding once the horseman wheeled and turned, disappearing into the maelstrom of violence like the one only seconds before. At the heart of his army, Reman directed it like a skilled conductor, but he knew that the battle was not going his way. His whole stratagem had revolved around crushing the Tsaesci against the anvil of the Dunmer with the blunt hammer of his own troops. He had the numbers and the compressed nature of the pass should have ensured that his numerical superiority carried the day.

Instead, the Tsaesci knew that they were trapped, and were fighting all the harder for it. To a man they knew that they had to claim victory or die. The cliffs either side of the kilometre-wide pass were steep and only the strongest and most experienced climbers would have had any chance of successfully scaling them and to the north the Dunmer waited. If the rumours were true than Lord Vivec Himself was personally leading army of the Great Houses. Faced with the decision of attacking Reman's army or one led by a living god, the Tsaesci had thrown themselves at the southerners.

For a second while he watched the last of his reserve battalions wheel into the carnage, Reman felt a sliver of hope. His forces could break the Tsaesci here in the winding scar through the towering mountains, utterly annihilating the invaders and freeing Tamriel from the threat. There were other armies of the Tsaesci throughout the north, but none as were large or organised as the one butchering their way through his forces. If he could cripple this army then there would be no others to oppose the reclamation of Skyrim and the invaders could be driven into the sea.

Fresh reserves of Tsaesci roared into the sky as they rushed in a single mass into the heart of the battle, destroying what little hope he had of a victory in the process. Reman's forces had been almost thirty deep when the battle commenced but now they were easily half that now. In some places a lot less. The bodies must have been piled two or three deep where the two armies grappled but this didn't stop these reserves slamming into the centre of his lines with the force of a winter storm.

It was also impossible not to recognise them. The stories of these warriors were spoken in hushed whispers throughout the lands ever since they had arrived, and hadn't been helped by the tales they seemed intent on forging during their invasion. Prisoners had freely spoken about their elite warriors and their pledges to guard their people from the worst the world could threaten them with. when questioned, they would also tell all willing to listen about how their race had overthrown the great wyrms and slaughtered to extinction in faraway Akavir. The scattered refugees fleeing the north had also woven tales about golden armoured warriors seeking out the dragons of Skyrim wherever they were rumoured to dwell. Even in the midst of a continent shattering war, these elite Dragonguard left no stone unturned in hunting and slaying creatures with the power to devastate entire kingdoms.

Easily five hundred or more of these mighty slayers roared with primal fury as they swept all before them. The lines of the Tsaesci parted in the centre to allow them to reach the shocked survivors of the Cyrodillic battalions who recoiled away from them. As though it was a wounded animal, the massed ranks of Hastati and Principes heaved and bucked, bending inwards from the inexorable charge. From his saddle, Reman watched in growing horror at the veteran core of his army being left little more than bleeding meat on stones and soil turned into a morass of mud, blood and shit.

The concerned mutterings of the horsemen surrounding him was a distant echo to the pounding of his heart. Each and every one of the Dragonguard were clad in gilded plate fashioned into the likenesses of the very creatures they hunted. Snarling visages of fangs and scales clamped down hard on shoulders and grim-faced masks carved into the features of daedra and reptiles hid the cold expressions of their wearers as they ripped souls into Aetherius. They were untouchable and impervious to the increasingly panicky attempts to fend them off. Some, including the more experienced Principes and even Triarii were being forced back step by bloody step and the beginnings of a rout were already visible.

A glance was all he needed to know the outcome of this battle. His reserves were committed in trying to hold back the majority of the enemy from the flanks and his most experienced and battle-tested troops were in the centre. It was also these troops that were being made to appear little more than amateurs who barely knew which end of a sword to grasp by their golden armoured foes. Many were already taking more than their fair share of backwards steps and in ones and twos some were already turning to flee.

Ludicrously Reman found himself biting his tongue until the taste of copper filled his mouth. In the back of his mind he could feel the creeping sensation gnawing away at his consciousness and it was taking all of his willpower to keep it at bay. It had been years since his last episode and he would not allow himself to simply give in to the weakness of his own flesh when his presence was perhaps the only thing keeping his army from utter panic. He would not give in no matter how that worming sensation tried and he spat forcibly, ripping his sword from its sheath and looking at those surrounding him.

No words needed to be said. The dark expressions of those handful of horsemen tasked with protecting him knew as well as he did the way this battle was leaning. Thankfully there was no sign of terror or fear of death from any of them, the blood of the Colovian aristocracy running cold in their veins despite the likelihood of their deaths. In a chorus of metallic rasping their swords appeared in their gauntleted hands, their faces turning into expressionless masks and nodding to their young general.

Digging in their spurs, the tiny band of horsemen forced their massive Colovian warhorses into a gallop into the mouth of chaos consuming their army. Each horse was over sixteen hands high and enormously powerful but they were also the only cavalry available on either side of the battle. They were far too expensive and rare to be used except in the direst of situations but this moment was unmistakingly one.

Unfortunately, as he had in all other battles, the Akaviri general Maresuke had already thought ahead and prepared for such an eventuality. While his army utterly lacked any form of cavalry after making the perilous journey across the mountains, the dismounted Saburi were equipped with more than just katana's. Many within Reman's army had been introduced to such weaponry as the polearm naginatas but they also had the sharp bladed yari spears and their archers wielding the enormous yumi longbows. The initial battle had left both sides loosing volleys at each other in attempts to thin and befoul each other's lines, but after the first twenty minutes the archers had mutually run out of arrows.

But as always and living up to their serpentine, deceitful name-sake, the Tsaesci had only appeared to have used their entire supply. The archers waiting for their turn to wet their swords with southerner blood had seen the mass of cavalry begin the charge and as one they reached for their bows. In a shifting movement that belied the decades of practice, they all lifted their strange asymmetrical weapons high above their heads, pulling and dragging the string back even as they aimed with their mind rather than their eyes.

To Reman and his bodyguard there was no warning, their vision limited by the confines of their heavy steel helms and one moment they were charging and the next they ran headlong into a hail of arrows. The sky turned black with their number, a brief storm of hissing shafts and metal points that lasted less than a handful of seconds but proved enough to completely gut the formation. Horses screamed as arrows plunged deep into their flesh, cutting through the chainmail protecting them as though it was little more than cloth and in the front rank Reman felt the dozens of impacts that felt as though he was being beaten with mallets.

For a split second he found himself thankful for wearing his father's breastplate and the heavier mail that he had managed to acquire for this campaign. Several arrows shattered against his torso and did little more than severely bruise his flesh but for the moment the armour held. More than one glanced away from his helm as he dropped his chin to his neck to shield his face and at least one of the hissing projectiles snagged in the horse hair plume that ran from forehead to neck.

His horse however suffered a lot worse than what he did. Several of the arrows tasted the flesh and blood of his favourite steed and the pain that it felt was enough to make it stagger in mid step. In its agony it lost its footing on the rough ground, skidding helplessly for half a pace before its screams reached a higher note. The sound of cracking bone was so loud that for a moment Reman wondered if it had been one of his own legs rather than that of his horse.

The entire formation of cavalry splintered and collapsed as though it had barely existed. Those towards the front who fell fouled the charge of the others, sending more than one rider being catapulted from his saddle and dashing their lives onto the unforgiving ground. Those that were killed outright had been mercifully granted release from the injuries that followed but Reman was not among the dead.

Whether it had been blind luck or an instinctive reaction made outside of his conscious mind he would wonder for the rest of his life, but as his stallion crumpled face first into the stones and dirt he managed to rip his feet free of the stirrups and throw himself away. The ground seemed to rise up and meet him with a shockingly solid embrace, smashing him hard in the chest and face as he bounced and rolled in the dust in a tangle of limbs and armour but he survived when many others did not.

He and his cavalry had failed, and failed spectacularly. For many of the soldiery not distracted with the foes within swords reach they had seen their commander and his bodyguard scythed down in a hail of arrows. While it had been brief and the Tsaesci archers had been limited to a single arrow each it had been enough to leave the ground around their shattered formation as a forest of fletching and snapped shafts.

For many this severed the last thread of their courage. Despite the shouts of their noble-born commanders and officers the men and mer of Reman's army began to shuffle and flee away from their adversaries with their morale shattered like fragile glass. It began like a handful of thrown stones down a slope but within seconds those stones had grown into an avalanche. The right flank devolved into scattered pockets of panicking, terrified soldiers fighting back to back with their comrades as the disciplined ranks broke under the Tsaesci onslaught.

With a mouth full of blood and his nose broken, Reman roared in the effort needed to lift his battered and bruised body from the dusty soil. His armour had been polished to a mirrored sheen but was now chipped and scratched, covered in dust and his blood as he heaved himself upright. Of the forty plus horsemen who had pledged their swords to his service, less than a dozen were still alive and only two were still in their saddles. Only a few of them had died from the brief hail of arrows, but it had been the way their steeds had been struck from underneath them that had ensured their end. Some died when the full weight of their horses toppled onto them in various ways, resulting in shattered spines, broken necks or their bodies entirely crushed. Others had been struck by flailing hooves or had died when they struck the ground after being thrown from the saddle; their armour amounting to nothing by such tremendous impacts.

Reman and the other handful of survivors were all wounded to some degree. Dislocations and broken bones were the least of their concerns and he saw one of his men stagger to his feet and make it two steps towards the enemy before pitching forward from the result of a concussion or other head injury. The limited opportunity to reinforce the centre of his army had failed and now he was in the best position to watch the confederated army come apart at the seams.

He wasn't going to simply sit back and let such a thing happen, not while he still breathed. Knuckling the gore and dirt smeared into his mashed face he dragged himself upwards with nothing more than willpower alone. With every painful step he forced his agony through his eyes and directed it at the golden armoured Dragonguard as they continued hacking their way through the broken ranks in front of him. There were still hundreds of his soldiers fighting, but many more were fleeing past the bloodied collection of screaming horses and their dazed riders.

Tearing his personal standard from where it had fallen, he wrenched it free from its bearer who had died when his horse had rolled over the top of him. Sickeningly in the back of his mind he noticed that nearly every bone was broken in the man's body by the way that the arm flopped back to the ground as it finally released its grip on the banner. Even with such a quick and brutal death, the loyal Colovian had refused to give up his honoured duty until his general retrieved what was rightfully his.

"Hold fast!" he shouted on the top of his lungs, roaring and lifting the enormous banner into the air for all to see. "Turn and fight! Do not give them an inch!"

Some of the fleeing soldiers saw the way their commander rose from the ground amidst the dead and dying with his banner in hand. The fluttering canvass with its inlaid gold thread caught the light even with the dust and blood that stained it and some of them stopped and rallied.

But not many did. Seeing the way that the Tsaesci had cut down all in their path and the seeming invincibility of the Dragonguard had broken many beyond the point of salvation. The battle was all but lost, his army breaking into an outright rout and leaving the pass to the south wide open to the invaders.

Reman shouted, swore and bellowed at the surging ranks streaming past him and away from the grim faced horde at the heels. There were little more than a few dozen soldiers standing between him and the glittering ranks of the Dragonguard but he didn't falter, striding towards the last few ranks holding formation against the Tsaesci elite. It was impossible for everyone not to see that he was extremely unsteady on his feet as the numerous wounds and the fall from his saddle took its toll but the waving banner in his hand had drawn the attention of all of the enemy's chosen troops. They were coming for him now, and there was little more that he could do except continue attempting to rally his men.

"You will hold the line! Do not give up! KRIIST HIN GOLT!"

The trio of words erupted from his throat with all the force of a volcanic eruption, blasting through the air and drowning out the sounds of battle in an instant. Completely unbidden, they had forced their way out of the core of his being and in that single moment of cold realisation he suddenly found himself more terrified at his lack of control rather than the effects the three syllables had.

Those nearest to him, friend and foe alike were ripped from their feet as though punched by giants and the ground heaved in response. Every single living being felt the words sunder their minds and soul, rumbling deep in their bellies and stopping them all in mid blow. They were louder than thunder, stronger than the greatest of storms and even the mountains quaked under their touch. In a swirling cloud of dust and debris the wall of force radiated in a circle around him, tossing anything smaller than a fist through the packed masses of men and mer with overwhelming might.

Reman stopped in mid step, horrified and trembling. The priceless banner of his family fell from nerveless fingers as he found terror seeping into the core of his being that forced his eyes to close tight around the tears. His curse; this… malady of the mind had finally chosen the worst moment to reveal itself. For his entire life he had struggled against it, the strange words tumbling forth during times of stress or when his emotions ran high and leaving him and his entire family in fear of what it represented. They had taken such care in ensuring that it had remained a secret, keeping it hidden and spending years teaching him how to supress his heretical abilities. The decades of his adult life had left him in terror of the church's inquisitors and what they would mean to he and his family if they discovered his penchant of speaking in tongues.

It had never been this powerful, or had revealed itself in such a way before. This far exceeded the time when in his youth he had inadvertently set fire to the curtains with a single misspoken word. Further up the pass the echoing rumble of his shout had touched the sky and the towering peaks of the greatest of mountains and many kilometres to the north an entire slope of Cobalus mountain broke away and began sliding to destruction.

With his heart threatening to burst in his chest from the uncontrollable terror and the visions of fire and pain at the hands of church's agents he kept his eyes screwed tightly shut. That was at least until he realised that other than the distant rumble of the mountains the entire area around him had fallen utterly silent.

All the pain of his injuries had been forgotten, and he opened his eyes to a sea of shocked expressions from friend and foe alike. Many of the soldiers battling to the death on the flanks hadn't witnessed the source of the words but they had certainly felt their effects. The battering wind had knocked many over and left the ranks of both sides shuddering in its path and starting from the centre all eyes had turned inwards, facing the man standing in a patch of scoured earth ten metres in diameter.

Colovians and Nibenese all stood in silence, their enemies momentarily forgotten. Not a single weapon moved and there was not even the slightest hint of metal striking metal. There was however a growled murmur rippling through the combatants, many voicing their questions aloud and looking to their comrades for answers.

What none of them were expecting, Reman least of all was the reaction from the Tsaesci. Many of the masked warriors had stopped in place, and their shock was noticeably different to Reman's forces. They stood almost in complete silence, mouths hanging open and many were removing their warmasks to get a better look at the Colovian general. Without their masks, Reman could see the men within the exotic armour and he could also see the way that it was not terror or surprise the gripped them tight but an entirely different emotion.

Completely ignoring the handful of soldiers between them, a trio of golden armoured Dragonguard broke from the enormous formation milling about in the shattered remains of Reman's army and began making their way towards him. At first glance they were no different from any of the other elite warriors from Akavir but the closer they got the more Reman saw the details and felt a sliver of ice settle in his stomach. These were no 'mere' Dragonguard, but General Sinrun-Vinralu Maresuke and his personal bodyguard.

Both thick leather gloves were teased away from his hands and handed to the masked Saburi to his side, and with the utmost care Maresuke pulled his own mask away and revealed his face to Reman. While both were commanders of their respective forces the two of them were opposites in more than their cultures. Where Reman was tall and young, his flesh bronzed from his years living within Chorria, Maresuke was at least twice his age, if not more. His face was lined with the years like an ancient oak, a handful of scars long since fading into a pale white visible and each were a distinct badge of honour for the Tsaesci general. A thin wispy moustache hung from his lips where it had been waxed and curved down to his chin, and the tiniest tuff of hair clung to his chin like white moss.

Without the intimidating mask he was no less mortal than Reman and his own troops were, his expression one of amazement by yet appearing grandfatherly and kind despite the blood that stained his lacquered armour. It was the face, that if it had belonged to a Colovian Nobleman would have easily been found illuminated by a hearth, laughing and smiling at his grandchildren as he engrossed them in tales of his youth. Instead it was gazing upon the aftermath of two cultures driven to murder each other with something akin to sorrow and bitterness.

Maresuke removed his helm and handed it to the waiting hands of his other bodyguard, the snarling reptilian maw staring forward with eyes carved from jade set within a skull forged from steel. Reman watched in a daze as his aging counterpart very carefully and precisely bowed at the waist to him before kneeling in full sight of both sides. "Watashi no meiyo aru senzo no namae de watashi wa anata o mitomemasu…" He began in his native tongue, carefully untying the silken sash around his waist and removing his sword and scabbard from his side. "Akabōru."

The sword that had only minutes before taken the lives of several of his soldiers was held in the steady grip of Reman's enemy, who was now kneeling before him and making the show of carefully wrapping the silken cloth around its bloodied scabbard. It seemed as though the world was collapsing around him as he watched the Tsaesci General's motions and felt as though he was watching some form of religious rite or ceremony that he didn't understand. It smacked of superstition and he knew that while he was terrified of his secret being revealed and his soldiers were uncomprehending of what had occurred, the Tsaesci recognised it!

Unseen to everyone else, Reman's mind was swirling, rolling and churning like a storm as he tried to gain control over his flailing thoughts. Whatever Maresuke was doing was not a surrender, the Tsaesci commanders had a habit of committing suicide if their defeat was particular inglorious and the times that the odd one or two had been taken prisoner had nothing in common to this. Furthermore, up until his curse revealed itself they had been winning. A victorious commander did not present himself to the defeated and make an effort to abase himself before him.

Whatever thoughts remained in his mind were further swept away as Maresuke finished the careful winding of the sash around the scabbard and offered it to Reman in both palms. His head was no longer bowed down and he looked the younger man in the eyes with a faint smile on his face, and Reman struggled to understand the look of relief and awe in his opponent's expression.

"Reman of Cyrodiil." The aged Tsaesci said in the tongue of the south despite the way that it was thickened by his strange accent. "I offer you my blade Ryū no Aka; the Bane of Dragonkind and the blades of all those under me." Again Maresuke bowed his head and lifted the blade higher. Reman was almost too stunned to breathe let alone react to the situation he found himself in. All of his injuries were long forgotten and he stood as still as a statue, trying desperately to comprehend what was happening or the sight of the greatest Tsaesci general in all of Tamriel kneeling before him and offering his sword. It was an immaculate weapon but the symbology was impossible not to notice. They weren't surrendering, they were offering to serve him… For the tens of thousands watching they didn't see the trembling of his muscles, the way that he was sweating or the fact that he was struggling to stand from a combination of shock and pain. What they saw instead was their young commander carefully reach out and take the offered katana as the entire Tsaesci army began kneeling like a ripple in a pond.

The idea of writing this came to mind when I was trawling through the Elder Scrolls lore and thinking back on Skyrim. The Battle of Pale Pass and the Akaviri Invasion of the 1st Era is a real pivotal moment in the history of Tamriel but there isn't much detail about it. I personally liked the mentions of how the Akaviri (Tsaesci if we are being accurate with their name) knelt before Reman during the battle and pledged themselves to him after "hearing his voice."

As a "confirmed" Dragonborn it could stand to reason that he could utilise the Thu'um and that is what the Tsaesci recognised during the battle. I have purposely had him and his army not knowing about or being familiar with the Thu'um because the timeline of the Elder Scrolls is just downright crazy.

To explain fully, Jurgen Windcaller established the "Way of the Voice" in the 4th century of the 1st Era after the disastrous Battle of Red Mountain (The 1st one before the one resulting in the disappearance of the Dwemer) and the Akaviri Invasion was in 1E2703 - A full 2,300 years after! (and 1,700 years before the events of Skyrim!)

This provides more than enough time for the Thu'um and the Nordic tongues to be lost to the dust of history, especially after the establishment of the Greybeards and the way all Thu'um users have basically been treated as hermits throughout the games. (Mind you, I'm impressed that the order of the Greybeards and the "Way of the Voice" has been in existence for as long as Stonehenge has been in real life, but it does show the ridiculous nature of the Elder Scrolls Timelines) I also use this enormous lapsed period of time to explain how there wasn't anything overly mystical about the Tsaesci and they weren't some half-snake, half man creature but normal men of flesh and blood of a differing culture.

"KRIIST HIN GOLT!" - Stand your ground!

The Tsaesci General speaks a severely bastardised Japanese, as unlike some of the other languages there isn't anything Akaviri or Tsaesci within the Imperial Library for me to use.

"Watashi no meiyo aru senzo no namae de watashi wa anata o mitomemasu" - In the name of my honoured ancestors, we acknowledge you.

Akabōru - Dragonborn (Bastardised from 'Aka'-viri - Land of Dragons and the google translated Japanese word for 'Born")

For those with interest or the confusion of the names I have used for cities, I have purposely given the major cities of Cyrodiil a "Roman" makeover:

Brumia - Bruma
Chorria - Chorrol
Anvilum - Anvil
Bravilia - Bravil
Skina Gratum - Skingrad
Vatchiae - Kvatch

Leyawiin I didn't mention as they were a bit too far south in my "expanded universe", so I used the county of Sutch in their place as it had originally been slated to appear as a city while TES IV: Oblivion was under development.

I did mention Cheydinhal though, but not by name. The specific mention of "The Tharnian Dynasty had sent their own troops and heir-apparent" was my way of including them. (i.e. Jagar Tharn and how his family could trace its lineage back to 1E200...)

I hope everyone enjoyed this fic, and I look forward to seeing any comments! :-D