Twin Mountains, White and Red.
Chapter 1
The winds blew cold down the mountain side, carrying the smell of snow and the sea. The sky was thick with heavy, dark clouds, though their loads of snow had yet to fall. Far below, on the bluffs overlooking a river as it ran down out of the mountain pass, flowing east, into the sea, a city sprawled. Its stone wall, slick with snow, ice, and rain, stood tall and indomitable. Stretching forth from the walls, spanning the mighty river below, was a great stone bridge; the first defense of a city that had stood millennia.
On an overlooking balcony, in the city's lone tower, an old man stood silently. His beard and long braided hair were gray, like the icy stone of the great palace beneath his feet. His eyes were ice blue, like the great bergs floating in the sea to the north, though they had become clouded with age. His hands were gnarled, rough, calloused from years of holding an axe's wrapped handle. That very axe, with ornate knot work in the quicksilver its head, the blade angled sharply forward, rested at his hip while those aged hands lay on the stone balustrade of the balcony.
The old man sighed, his shoulders sagging beneath a richly adorned robe, mantled in the dappled white fur of a mighty snow bear, its interior lined with the pelt of a savage saber cat. His brows furrowed beneath his snow frost hair, the locks held back by a circlet of jade and emerald, mined from the hills to the southeast. The failing eyes look from the city below, to a great sprawl of tents and wagons, just beyond the great bridge. The land was covered, from the river to the hot springs in the south, to the mountains in the east. Thousands upon thousands moved through the tent city, and more joined the throng every day. And if the man looked to his left, to the east, he would see another, if smaller, tent city upon the western shores of the great river.
The ages man sighed again, and raised his weary eyes to look south once more, beyond the make-shift settlement outside his walls, to the dull red glow on the horizon. The source of the illumination was beyond his sight, hidden by the mountain to the southwest, but he knew its source, its reason. He knew that the red light was why his lands were filled with hollow-eyed men, starving women, and screaming babes. He knew the cause of that smoldering glow, knew it was the product of an enemy of incalculable numbers; an enemy that sought to annihilate all the lives laid out before him, for no more reason than a belief in racial supremacy and a vengeance validated only in myths older than time. The gnarled hands tightened their grip on the stone, as High King Keldaf Dragonsblood snarled, "Fucking Thalmor."
Keldaf turned and looked up the mountain slope just outside the walls to the north. Though a haze had settled over the peaks as snow began to fall, he could make out the movement of large indistinct shapes shifting along the mountain side. Every so often, one of the blurred forms would leap into the sky, disappearing into the clouds. Great, hollow bellows filled the evening air, echoing down from the overcast twilight. Keldaf counted silently, as he had done so often of late. "Only a dozen," He muttered to himself. "Is that really all that's left? All that is left of the children of Akatosh?" Keldaf returned his gaze to the vast city of tents. "Have the witch elves of Alinor driven us to this? My people, refugees in our own lands? Half the kingdom, a waste land of horrors and death? The mightiest of beings, a bare dozen where once hundreds darkened the sky with their wings?" A tear ran down his cheek, unnoticed in his contemplations.
A new roaring shook Keldaf from his revelry. This new call was different; it came from the south. He moved back to the wall of his balcony. There, beyond the edge of the mountain's ridge to the south, a tiny speck in the sky. At first, Keldaf thought it a hawk, but it swiftly began to grow larger. Another cry rang out, and the king recognized its meaning. It was not a cry of melancholy and mourning, like what he had heard from the northern slopes. No, this was a call of greeting, of peaceful intent. Soon, Keldaf could make out a flash of color in the feeble overcast light of dusk: red.
Now, the high king could see other features of the approaching form; a long sinuous neck, a head as large as a horse. It had wings longer than most houses, and taloned feet to rend even the thickest armor to scrap metal. Its tail could crush a giant's skull. The great beast suddenly dipped low, swooping down to skim over the tent city, causing the canvases to flap in the creatures wake. Then, as the monster reached the river, it tilted upward and rose higher into the air. As it ascended, the tips of its wings and the end of its tail barely raised enough to avoid striking the stone walls of the city. In fact, so close did they come to the battlements that they delicately brushed two inches of snow from the stone.
The red leviathan rose over the city rooftops, until it was level with the palace tower. It gave another cry as it banked right, and began circling the palace, bellowing all the while. From the mountain side behind the city came an answering chorus of roars, a returned greeting. A powerful gust of wind cause Keldaf to sway as, with a final turn and powerful back wing, Odahviing, greatest of living dragons, landed on the palace roof.
Taloned feet dug into stone and a large wing wrapped around the tower, as the dragon raised its head to the level of the balcony. Great yellow, slitted eyes flashed as the beast greeted the king. "Drem yol lok, Brojun do Hiimsejun. The sky weeps, such krosis, such sorrow, I have seen these days. Kaag sosin Fahliil. They burn all the lein with their Lu, their magic."
"What have you seen, old friend?" Keldaf's voice was heavy. His heart bled as he awaited news of even more tragedy upon his lands.
"Cyrodil and Hammerfell are but kii, ash. Highrock lies a gal before the sea, ravaged by mage sent storms. Morrowind is deserted, the Vulfahill gone, while blizzards cover the land. The Blackmarsh is dying. The Geingolslen, the Hist, are diseased, corrupted by some plague of Thalmor device. The Faareyth, the Valenwood, is desolate; its great trees gone to feed the elves' war machine. Elsweyr is a land of aar, slaves, of all races, men and mer alike. Only Alinor is untouched, a paradise to hide the sickness within." The dragon spat the last sentence, feat remarkable in a creature that did not possess lips.
"Tell me, Snow-Wing-Hunter, have they revealed that true allegiance yet? Have the Thalmor finally forsaken their pretense of divine will?"
"Not yet, Faar Jun, but the façade is thin. The Deyra Kulaan speak, and the Thalmor listen. And when the Thalmor command, Alinor obeys. Auri-el does not rule in the Dominion. It is Molag-Bal who demands conquest and sacrifice, and the Fahliil march to appease his hunger."
"It is as I feared then. Go, Odahviing, fill your belly and rest your wings. I must speak to the council. If I have need, I will call." Shoulders burdened with worry and fear, the old king opened the balcony door and enters the palace. Odahviing snorted and took off, winging his way north to where the last of his kin crawled on the mountain side.
It was nearly an hour later before the king entered the Great Hall of the palace; old bones do not make traversing the stone stairs from the tower top easy. When Keldaf arrived in the long chamber, he found it full of people; people whose presence, in ordinary circumstances, would have warranted a feast. But these were not ordinary times, and neither would a feast be tactful, even if they had the stores to provide one. Along the wall stood personages of importance from across Skyrim, representing the factions of those who did not play at Hold politics, but oversaw matters ranging beyond a Jarl's borders and understanding, or were those who only recently took a position of interest in affairs in the Crown of the World.
But these were not the only folk in the Hall. A long table ran nearly the length of the room, from the oak front doors to the stone throne at the opposing end. About it sat eight children, at least to Keldaf's old eyes, from a boy no more than ten, to a young lady and young man, both in their late teens. These children sat at the table because their fathers, their mothers, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and older siblings, were all either dead or soon would be. Another legacy of the Thalmor, that these children are the Jarls of Skyrim, thought Keldaf to himself.
With a groan of protesting joints, Keldaf climbed the steps to his throne and sat himself wearily. To either side of the stone chair, upon which Ysgrammor himself once sat, stood two young men. On the kings's right stood a man in armor of glittering stalhrim; a great axe, also of the never-melting ice, rested on his back.
His hair was dark red, like dried blood, and his eyes were a stormy gray, like the king's. This was Korvan, elder son to Keldaf, and heir to his crown. He led the king's army, ever at its head, when they sallied forth to do battle with the Witch-Elves of Alinor. Brash, arrogant, sure in the knowledge of his prowess in battle and the love of his father. He allowed himself only one weakness: his younger brother, Höder, was ever the most cherished by both his father and his brother.
Höder stood to his father's left, himself clad in armor, though his raiment was of ordinary steel plate. He had armed himself with a longsword of Skyforged Steel. The sword was one of the last such in existence, for Whiterun and the Skyforge had fallen to the Thalmor three summers past. Höder was himself a quiet and contemplative man, wise beyond his 26 years. He favored quiet discourse before the call of battle, but his skill with blade and bow outmatched even his brother's, though he lacked Korvan's sheer strength and battle-lust; the fury of combat touched the young man only lightly. His eyes were the blue-green of the Sea of Ghosts in summer, and his beard and hair were a dark blonde, tied into a single braid.
Keldaf leaned forward, hands on his tired knees. "What do you have to report, Gojun?" he asked of his steward, who stood in a corner.
The steward, a stooped man older than the king, shuffled forward. "My lord, another 300 refugees arrived among the tents this week. They came down the Yorgrim, out of the west. I believe they hail from Solitude, by way of Dawnstar. My king, it is to my sorrow to inform you and this assemblage, that both Jarl Jörgun and Jarl Danith are dead, their heads mounted before their cities." At the table, two of the children, a red-haired boy of 12 and a raven-haired girl of 15, gasped. The girl began to cry, while silent tears ran down the blank face of the boy, who started with empty eyes. The steward continued. "Most of these most recent arrivals were priests from the Temple of the Divines. They fled Solitude as the Thalmor set fire to the Temple. According to my source in the camps, the Thalmor had been threatening to level the Temple for over a year now, likely hoping to break the city's spine and lure the Hold's pockets of resistance out of hiding. It seems that the occupation forces coincided the burning of the Temple with the public execution of Jarl Danith." The ancient Nord turned to the table. "You have my condolences, Lady Jarl Senta."
Keldaf growled. "I thought the Gold-Skins would keep the Jarl alive, as insurance for the good behavior of his people. To decide to kill him, they must mean to set an example. Could that be why they also executed Jörgun?"
"I believe so, yes sire, though it is also possible that the former Jarl of Dawnstar was fomenting opposition to the Dominion's occupation of the Pale. Jörgun's family was ever known to be stubborn."
Keldaf sighed and looked at the young, newly appointed, Jarl Borsun. "My sympathies, Jarl Borsun, but now is not the time for mourning." He looked back to the steward. "What does that bring the count to, Gojun?"
"We now have some 10,687 refugees camped throughout the Hold. Sire, I must add that, though Riften is sending all the provisions it can, we only have the enough stores for about two or three more months. On one third rations, sire. And with so large a civilian population, we do not have the troops to protect it. Our standing force is only three thousand strong, sir."
"Not so!" came a shout from the Hall. A man in burnished steel armor, a closed faced helm under his arm, and an Imperial gladius at his hip stepped forward and knelt before the throne. "I have a thousand legionnaires camped a day's ride to the southeast, just above Stone Creek Cave. They are at your service, King Keldaf."
Keldaf studied the Legion Captain. "Who are you, soldier?"
"Your majesty, I am Captain Lucius Turalis, of the 6th Cheydenal Legion. The Count ordered my regiment up to Bruma when the Aldemeri Dominion invaded. When Bruma fell, we were cut off from the southern roads. That forced us to go north, into Skyrim. We were assisting the fortification of the Whiterun when news of the Imperial City reached us, sir. I lost a lot of close friends that day. Now, we are all that's left, sire. Of over nine legions, five thousand strong each, now we are but a bare thousand. Let us serve you, my liege. Let us avenge our fallen brothers."
"You may get that chance, Captain, though we will likely die with it. Four thousand cannot stand against the Dominion's hundreds of thousands."
A coarse laugh began to echo in the Hall. Keldaf and his sons stared at a hulking figure leaning against the wall, near the great doors. The figure stood his six foot frame almost grotesque with heavy muscle. His green scaled armor gleamed in the torchlight. On his back was a massive weapon, a hammer it seemed. The man grinned, a frightening expression on a face with a savagely fanged under bite. The orc was still chuckling as he turned to the king. "I can offer you nearly two thousand more warriors, oh king, and they will each be worth at least three of your own men. Aye, we can kill these elves for you, and likely have more fun than any of you soft skinned weaklings. Hah!"
Keldaf pursed his lips and leaned his head against the knuckles of his raised hand. "I have never known you, Dumaz, to be a braggart and a liar. How can you claimed to offer me so many warrior? Gojun has told me that there are less than 600 orcs in all of the camps. Where will you find these fighters for me?"
Dumaz was still grinning, though it now looked more like a feral beast baring its fangs. "I have the majority of my people holed up in Morvunskar. It is large enough to hold us. Those two thousand are the all folk of fighting age still alive." The grin became a grimace as a look of sorrow flashed across Dumaz's face. "Once, orsimer strongholds dotted Tamriel, and our city of Orsinium was a monument to the strength and glory of our race. Now, there are only around three thousand of us left. Our two remaining strongholds, Narzulbur and Lorgashbur, are emptied; their people and everything that can be carried have been moved to the ruins. When I give the call, every man, woman, and child that can hold a weapon will march forth to slaughter our enemies." The grimace returned to a savage smile. "We will go to our end singing, and bathe in the blood of the Thalmor as we die."
The great orc began laughing. Reaching over his shoulder, Dumaz drew forth the massive scaled and spiked hammer. Slamming it to the ground, cracking the flagstones in the process, he knelt on one knee. "I swear by this Hammer of Malcanth, Volandrung, and as the High Chieftain of the Orsimer, that my people and I will assist in the defense of those who cannot fight for themselves."
The unexpected pronouncement of the orc sent a storm of murmurs through the assembled guests. "If a legion bureaucrat and an orc savage can offer support against the Thalmor, then so can I!" A tall, heavily muscled man stepped forward. His skin was a dusky brown, but he lacked the broad facial features typical of Redguards; he seemed of mixed blood, likely of Breton stock. He wore heavily quilted armor, and a sword of inestimable beauty hung at his side. It seemed wrought of gold, and the circle guard hilt shone like the sun at midday. "We of the Dawnguard number 200 strong, with thirty armored trolls at our command. By Stendarr, Arkay, and Meridia, we will help fight the Thalmor. Theirs is an unholy quest for world destruction, and I see the machination of the Darker Princes of Oblivion behind them. With the blessings of Arkay and Stendarr, the Danwguard hold favor with Meridia, Lady of Light, in our mission to eradicate undead and other such abominations from the world. The Dominion sends forth hordes of Dremora and Atronachs to pave the way before their own armies. My men and I will stand against the spawn of Molag-Bal beside you, this I swear on my sword, Dawnbreaker."
The whispers intensified; the stewards of the child Jarls, standing behind the chairs of their lords and ladies, looked astonished. Was the problem so dire that the neutral parties and organizations would intercede? The question seemed answered as three more people stepped forward, two from the crowd, the third from an alcove in the corner. All three were recognizable, but it was the third that ruly shocked the spectators. What was a Nightingale doing here?
The first was a man in hide armor, stitched from many pelts to almost seem a dragon's head on the front. In his hand was a monstrous great axe, depictions of screaming elves across the entirety of the double bladed head. On his arm was an ancient iron round shield, intricately etched into the face of a dragon. The man himself stood nearly 7 feet tall, broad as a house, and heavy with muscle. "The Companions stand with you, my king." The voice of Harbinger Turraf was deep. It almost seemed to have an echo of a howl in it. "We are the arbiters of justice, and the finest warriors in Skyrim. Let us prove that justice. We only number 20, but none may match us in battle."
The second man was an imperial, of average height and build. He wore armor that was a mix of narrow crossing lames and solid pieces of plate. His sword was long and slender, slightly curved with a small guard. While the armor was unrecognizable to many, none could mistake that sword for anything but an Akaviri katana. "I am Octavias Juranus, Grandmaster of the Blades. The Thalmor have been hunting and decimating our numbers for four hundred years. Now, only thirty of us remain. Allow us our vengeance and the chance to serve the Dragon's Blood, as our ancestors have in ages past." With that, the Blade knelt on both knees and bowed from the waist before Keldaf.
The king looked from Blade to Harbinger, then back again. "I welcome all who would offer aid, for though it is ultimately futile, I will not simply lie down for the Thalmor to step on my neck as they slaughter my people. Not when I can at least make an effort to defend the helpless from wholesale death. But what of you, Agent of Nocturnal? Why do you stand forth? Have you something to offer?"
The final figure was silent for several seconds, wrapped in the leathers, cowl, and cloak of a Nightingale. When it did speak, it did so in the dry cadences of a Khajit. "This one is Rrhazsh, and Rrhazsh tells you now: Nocturnal is dead. She died alongside her sisters, fighting Molag-Bal and his allies, Mehrunes Dagon and Hermaeus Mora. But before they died, my mistress and her sisters, along with Malacath, invested those artifacts of theirs with the last of their power. We Nightingales are the Mistress of Shadows' living instruments, through our service as Agents and the gifts of our equipment. The Thieves guild has called us to lead them, and the last members of the Dark Brotherhood, destroyed by Thalmor Justicars, have been absorbed into our ranks. The guild asks to serve however it may, and brings gifts to the king of snow-land."
From some hidden pocket in the obviously enchanted cloak, the khajit thief brought forth two objects that should have been too large to be hidden. One was a shield of pale moonstone, beautifully carved in intricate ridges and curves. The second was a bow, also of moonstone, of surpassing loveliness. One of the assembly, an Altmer priest of Dibella, judging by her amulet, gasped. "The Bow and Shield of Auriel! But the Thalmor claimed those when they conquered Solitude. How did you come by them, Agent?"
The Nightingale purred. "They should have better locks on their doors."
The High King chuckled. "We thank you Rrhazsh, for these gifts, as well as the service provided by removing them from Thalmor hands. I believe the Guild may indeed be of use." His expression grew dim. "We also thank you for informing this assembly of the deaths of the Daedric Princes who held highest regard amongst mortals. We all suffer their loss." He turned his gaze to the assembly at large. "Are there any others who would speak?"
Silence reigned for several second before two figures from the farthest corner of the Hall. One was cloaked and deeply hooded; the other was clearly a Dark Elf, richly adorned in ornate crimson robes. The Dark Elf spoke first. "I am Tiradoth Telvanni, last scion of House Telvanni, and off all the Great Houses of Morrowind. I bring the last of my people from Solstheim and Morrowind, as well as 300 House Guards. They are at your service. I also present you with the most sacred treasure I have: the Star of Azura, most radiant of the True Tribunal." The Dunmer drew a large metal wrapped crystal jewel. It was shaped lake a sun or a many armed star, spires of crystal spiraling out from it. Keldaf knew what it was; the Artifact of Azura, an indestructible, re-usable soul gem. Valuable indeed.
The hooded figure stepped forward, lowering its hood as it did. The entire room stiffened. It was a female Altmer, a High Elf, and her robes were black edged with gold. A Justicar. In heartbeats, weapons were drawn, and the she-elf was ringed in steel. However, she simply stood still, ignoring the metal death pointed at her, and stared at Keldaf.
"I am Alaniwen. For decades, I served as a Justicar of Alinor, meeting out the justice of the Dominion. I upheld its laws, safeguarded its people. Until three years ago, when the Thalmor came to my home. They arrested my husband, and took custody of my son. My family was tortured for two weeks before being publically executed. All for the crime of mixed blood. My husband had a great, great randfather who was a Breton of High Rock. My love and my child were slaughtered by my own people, simply for not being of pure blood." She spat to the side. "I hate the Thalmor with my entire soul. They have poisoned my home, my people, and this world with their hate and their pride. I abandoned the Dominion the day my family died, and took with me all those who had suffered the same wounds of the heart. Men, women, children, soldiers, craftsmen, mages. Nearly two thousand of those refugees at your gates are from Alinor and Valenwood. 200 willing blades stand at your call King of Skyrim." And to shock of the Hall, the former Justicar prostrated herself before the king.
The king sat silent, gazing at the prostate Altmer. Then he turned to his steward, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Gojun quickly scanned the blot board in his hands, notes piled high upon it. After studying the papers intently, mouth moving silently, Gojun looked back to his king. "That brings our forces to 6,750, sire. Enough to give the Thalmor a good fight, certainly. But our people will still die in the end. There is nowhere for us to retreat to, and the Thalmor number beyond counting. I'm sorry, sire."
Another guest stepped forward. This one was an Altmer as well, but he wore the feathered mantle of the Archmage of Winterhold. He carried a staff topped with a crystal sphere, swirling blue-green mist within. "Then let us flee, my lords."
The assembly rang with shouts of mixed reaction. The clamor was so great; the king had to clang the head of his axe against stone of his throne to call for silence. Keldaf turned his gray eyes the Altmer. "That is an excellent suggestion, my lord Archmage. But, pray tell, to where shall we flee? Morrowind? High Rock? Cyrodil? The lands all about us are ravaged; conquered, despoiled, and destroyed by the Dominion. Akavir? Lost Atmora, may haps? I have not enough ships to ferry even the three thousand citizens of this city, let alone the ten thousand souls before my gates. And even if I did possess the ships for such a voyage, the Thalmor have ships of their own patrolling the Sea of Ghosts. An evacuation fleet would not survive to reach Solstheim, let alone a continent beyond our horizons. Where then, I ask of you, may we go Archmage?" The king's tone was harsh with both derision and resignation.
"What I suggest, oh High King is not that we flee these lands." The Archmage's own voice was calm and collected, without a hint of emotion. "What I suggest, is that we flee this world."