Unto the Breach
(Or, Skip and Al go to Bruma.)
We think she went alphabetically, the Countess, when she picked the two of us. I mean, there's me, Skip Armiger, and him, Al Brennus. A-B. And that's fair, right? She doesn't know us all by name, so it was almost like drawing straws. And me and Al, we know each other sort of. That's how a lot of the rounds are set up, alphabetically. So, you know, that was probably the smart way to do it, when you consider how none of us really wanted to go.
Somebody had to go to Bruma, though, to fight in defense of the Emperor and all that. And that somebody's us, I guess. Al's been there before, and so I ask him -- What's it like there in Bruma? And he says -- Gods, Skip, it's just too bloody cold. All bloody year round. Goddam miserable place, and that's without all the goddam Daedra tryin' to get in. So I'm not too keen on getting there, but it's got to be done.
We travel on foot. At the Gottshaw Inn the first night we meet a guard who talks to us over beers and meat pie. -- A little far from Anvil, aren't you, friends? he says. He is looking at our uniforms. I tell him yes, and we've a ways to go yet, and we're headed for Bruma. He asks us -- Bruma? What for? After what happened at Kvatch, I'd think you'd want to stay and defend your own city. We tell him Anvil's saved, Releth's been and closed the Gate, and Countess Umbranox herself sent us on our way.
-- But what you goin' to Bruma for?
-- That's where the heir is, haven't you heard?
-- Oh. No, I haven't.
-- They're calling for more men, from all over Cyrodiil. We're going to win the war against Dagon.
He drinks his beer and sort of stares out past the two of us. -- Then luck, friends, he says -- to both of you. And long live the Empire.
-- This is damn good pie, says Al.
Next day we pass Kvatch, but you can't really see it from the road, what with the trees blocking the front and it being so high up and all. It's just as well, I suppose. Don't need to see it to know what happened there.
-- Al, I say, do you think the Daedra would've done for Anvil like what they done for Kvatch, if Releth hadn't come?
-- Oh, prolly, he says. But Kvatch had it bloody coming.
-- You think?
-- Oh aye. Bunch of bloody gamblers and stage fighters, is what they were. Had it coming, the whole damn city.
That seems a little harsh to me. But what's done is done, after all, and no words're going to make a difference one way or the other now. I just hope Anvil doesn't have it coming. Or Bruma, at least while we're there. World's got to be saved first.
Guards in Skingrad seem tense when we get there that night. After securing accommodation (we're allowed use of the vacant beds in the barracks -- they've already sent their squad ahead to the Emperor), we sup with the rest of them and get to hear their conversation.
Well, it's no wonder they're on edge. No sooner is the Gate closed than they've got something else to worry about -- four murders, four nights in a row. They thought some deranged Wood Elf was behind the whole thing at first, but he was the last victim and now they haven't got a clue. No marks on the bodies, no nothing. Captain swore he saw some shady figure hanging around with the Wood Elf all last week, but he didn't recognize him or see much of his face or anything, and he hasn't seen him since. Some of them think it's the Dark Brotherhood's doing -- all of it -- but that sort of talk never comes to anything. They said the same thing about that ghost ship in the harbor a couple months back -- nothing came of that either. So I dunno. It's troubling, troubling stuff.
The barracks are more crowded than I expected. But I'm sure they sent enough men to Bruma. This is for the Emperor, after all.
We hit the road early next morning, hopefully make it to Bruma by day's end. Al's awful quiet today and I'm not sure why. We usually talk quite a bit on duty together, me asking questions and him rambling mostly. Al's getting on in years somewhat -- not that old, you know, but he's seen more of the world than I have, and he's got something to say about most of it. As for me, I've not left Anvil more'n a few times in my life, mainly to go to the Imperial City and such. So I don't have much to talk about, and when Al doesn't talk things get very quiet, see.
-- Al, I say, somewhere up the Red Road, why don't you talk?
-- Hmm?
-- You haven't said nothing all day.
-- Oh. He sort of swallows. Just that I'm wondering if I'll get to see any of this again.
Then he sets his jaw and we don't talk the rest of the way. What he said, though, sort of keeps nagging at me. Saving the world sounds all very fine, but we're going to fight Daedra, right? Which means we could die, maybe. But you know, I don't want to think about that right now. Not if I can help it, anyway.
Al was right about Bruma, that's for sure. It's early summer back in Anvil, all breezes and balmy days once the morning clouds burn off, but it is really bloody cold here. Hasn't snowed yet but the wind is awful. We wrap scarves round our faces and pull on gloves underneath our gauntlets, but they don't help much, and the uncovered bits turn red and raw right quick.
We reach city proper round nightfall, and it's a good thing too, since the weather's getting worse. Gate guards stop us outside.
-- Names?
-- That one's Alban Brennus. I'm Scipio Armiger. We're out of Anvil.
-- Fine, fine. Go on in. Head up to the castle, you'll find the rest there.
These Bruma guards don't seem particularly worried, and that makes me feel better about the whole situation. Skingrad was on edge, of course, but they had their own problems to deal with. These fellows are on the front lines here, so I figure if they're not worried, things must be all right.
I don't think Al is having any of it, though. By the Nine, what a lump he is today.
The wind is picking up a lot as we reach the castle, and I just want to pitch my tent and crawl underneath it. Can't help but notice there isn't a lot of us here -- maybe ten -- but this can't possibly be everyone. Al's looking really grim, but he can shove his attitude up his own arse. I'm going to sleep.
Next morning I swear there's frost in my hair. Weather's gray and awful cold, but at least the wind is still. I get up and look around and don't see any more men than I did last night, and this is really a puzzle. I turn to Al, who's breaking fast on some hard cheese.
-- Al, d'you think this is all of us?
-- Yep. And then he sets his jaw all grim again, and goes back to eating his cheese. Only... grimmer this time.
I leave him with that, he's no bloody help at all, and go and talk to some of the other men. But they're all a bunch of prickly bastards, especially that one from Cheydinhal, who went on at me about how soft we have it in the West, must make for soft men. This from a pansy Breton! I decide I've had enough, think I'll go off and look around the city or something.
Awful shock waiting for me just outside the walls. Another Gate's opened up! Shouldn't somebody be off to warn the Countess? -- No, no, the guards tell me, with these sort of bored looks on their faces -- no need for that. We sent Garrius in with a couple others, they should have it closed up soon. Nobody looks worried.
I ask them -- You can close those things?
-- Oh yeah. Releth showed us how to do it, a few weeks back.
-- Huh.
-- It's a good thing, too. They open one up pretty regular, every couple days or so. Used to be worrisome, but it's almost routine by now. Something to do, anyway.
I stay to watch the show, never having seen Releth do it back in Anvil, and when the Gate collapses in a heap of fire and rock and the men emerge safely from the wreckage, everyone cheers and we call it a good day for all.
It's on the way back to the castle that it suddenly strikes me -- if they can keep opening up new ones here, well, what's to stop them from doing the same thing in Anvil? And if they did, who'd know what to do? I mean, Releth didn't exactly stick around to teach us anything, did he? I don't even know what the fellow looks like. This is pretty troubling.
I find Al whacking at things in the practice yard.
-- What's up, Al?
-- Practicing.
-- Hey Al, it just occurred to me -- did Releth show any of the boys back in Anvil how to close those Oblivion Gates?
-- No, don't think so. What about it?
-- He showed these Bruma guards. I guess they have to close up a new one every other day.
Al puts down his sword and gives this sort of nasty chuckle, like he wasn't laughing at anything funny. -- Well, Skip, he says -- that just bloody figures, don't it.
-- What figures?
-- Nothing. Listen, Skip. Did you know we were supposed to get more men up here? The Blades sent to Ocato for some Legionnaires, a whole bunch of 'em. But Ocato says no, they're needed elsewhere now and can't be spared. So now all we've got between the Empire and certain destruction is you, me, that ass from Cheydinhal, this other lot, and Releth. That's it. If I was the heir, I'd be asking that goddam High Elf what the hell he's thinking, and then I'd call for his fat head.
-- But -- well, it can't be as bad as all that, Al. The guards aren't even worried.
-- That's 'cos they know how to close the bloody Gates, Skip, and that's all they been doing, so far. Something big's about to go down, though, mark my words. Otherwise they wouldn't have pulled us up here, and they definitely wouldn't have sent out for Legionnaires. I dunno, Skip. It don't look too good.
That evening Releth shows up at the castle. Goes in for a long audience with Countess Carvain, then comes out and sort of chats around. Says he's inspecting us, but I don't much care why he's here, really. I just want to get a good look at him.
He's a Dark Elf, obviously. Kind of average looking, to be honest. Not too tall, not too short -- he's not even carrying a weapon. He talks like he's gargling something, which I've been told marks an eastern Dark Elf from an Imperialized one. But I dunno what to make of him. I'd been expecting someone more intimidating, I guess.
As the sky darkens he calls us all over. -- Now listen up, you lot, I've got something to say. Countess doesn't like this very much, but Martin's the Emperor here and he's calling the shots. You're all to be suited up and ready for action tomorrow at noon. We will shortly then head downhill to the east of the city, and there we will do battle with the Daedra for the fate of Tamriel. Tomorrow. Noon. I expect you all to be prepared.
That's it. Then he turns and makes off for the north gate. Al's standing next to me. -- Bloody elf, he mutters.
Tonight nobody mingles with guards from other counties. But you can tell we're all thinking about tomorrow. About what happened at Kvatch. Kvatch had it coming. You can feel the grim in the air, as we're all sitting in our separate camps, and it's bitter and consuming, so much that when the snow finally begins to fall it's a chore to notice it.
It's so bloody cold. What was it Al said, back when we were still on the road? Something about the last we'll see of any of this. I never thought I'd die in the cold. I always thought I'd die in Anvil, if I ever thought about it at all, but now I might never even see Anvil again. What if all I've got left is this gray cold snow and some Daedra to look forward to? Gods...
Morning comes with a clear sky and a biting chill. We eat a quick breakfast of bread and mutton and then it's time to suit up. Word round the castle is all about this Great Gate that's supposed to be opening, just like they had at Kvatch, and how if this Releth don't close it in time we'll all be dead for certain. Then word comes that the Countess isn't dispatching more'n a few men from her own garrison, keeping most of them back behind the walls. Then word comes that we're not getting all that many Blades, either.
-- Al?
-- Yeah?
-- Do… d'you think we'll win this battle?
He pulls on his helmet. -- Dunno, Skip. But if we don't, then who will?
And then the heir arrives, up from the chapel, with a couple Blades and Releth at his side. Martin Septim, in his royal armor -- he will be fighting today as well. And that's when it really hits me, standing here with these other guards -- this is it. This is the day, and the battle, that will decide the fate of Tamriel.
This is all of us. There aren't enough. There aren't enough.
Outside the walls the snow is pure and white, brilliant in the midday sun. It's Fredas today. The odd realization hits that I usually don't have shift most Fredas. I laugh a bit at that.
Al notices. -- What's so bloody funny?
-- I'm about to die on my day off, that's all.
Al laughs too.
We stop at a wide field of snow. A Gate already looms red and hellish ahead of us, and we spread out before it to form a single rank. The heir gives us a talk, as is customary I suppose, about things we already know -- this is the day, the hour, the fight; the world hangs in the balance, all that, all that, we know.
It was so different talking about saving the world back at that inn along the road, and then actually being here. Is this what saving the world is usually like? It seems so thankless -- hopeless, even. The Legion was supposed to be here -- instead there's us, a few extra guards from across the province who're just hoping our city isn't next -- we're the ones being handed the fate of the world today. Us and Releth, anyway. I mean, me and Al, we were picked alphabetically.
But isn't that the whole point, though? Our odds are looking pretty slim right now, but they're the only odds we've got. We are the ones here, however that might have happened, however hopeless that may seem. None of us wanted to go to Bruma, but somebody had to. Not a lot of people showed up to fight the Daedra, but somebody did. This is the battle. There aren't enough. Somebody's got to save the world, though -- here, today. And that somebody's us, I guess.
-- Al? I whisper as the Daedra erupt from the Gate.
-- Yeah?
-- Good luck.
He grins. -- You too, Skip. I'll see you at the end of this.
Then we all rush forward, for the Empire and the Nine.
A/N: The end is rushed, I know I know. :P Twas fun to write anyway.