PART 1: AND NO FARTHER
The hooves of their warhorses had been padded to muffle their approach over the snow-covered rocks. Bridles had been tied to keep from a betraying jingle. Both horse and rider had fastened dozens of woven cords between the metal plates of armor and barding so that no clank or creak might give their presence. Even their pace, slow but relentless, drove them on through whistling winds of the Pale Pass.
Up and up they climbed that narrow cleft in the gray, forbidding stone, careful to speak as little as possible, though each pulled their thick cloaks tight against the bitter, knife-sharp winds. Some twenty riders back, a towering man in black plate armor rode high in the saddle. There was no colour about him, save for the grey-white wolf fur that lined the edges of his armor. Those rare times when his eyes could be seen through the visor of his helmet, they were dark and shiny, like chips of onyx. He wore no livery, bore no Lord's banner, nor did any in his company. They clustered around their leader, as though he were the eye of their steel-clad storm.
Their quiet procession rounded a twist in the pass, where the road flattened out for a long stretch. And there, just visible through the haze of flurrying falling snow, stood a woman. She wore no armor, nor furs to hold back Skyrim's frigid breath, but instead a noblewoman's fine dress; her only armament was a golden-hilted longsword upon her hip.
The lead riders thought at first that she was a shade, an apparition. Many were the tales of the Pale Pass and the strange things which separated the heartland from its northern province. But ghosts were pale, translucent, as though kissed by moonlight. The woman before them was real enough, an Imperial by her stature and deportment. And yet, she seemed indifferent to the cold, as much as any Nord. The ghostly winds barely whipped at her long brown hair. Her skin bore a reddish tone, as though sunburned, or one of partial Redguard blood, but even through the white gloom, the riders saw her eyes, pale blue as to almost be white as the snow around her. Red tribal paint ran down her cheeks on both sides of her face in stripes as though the woman wept tears of blood.
"Hold," she said. A sound like thunder reverberated through the pass.
The riders pulled up on the reins, forming a grim line a short distance away from her. Shudders went through their mounts, which had nothing to do with the cold. Neighs and whinnies went up along the line under the woman's level gaze. Slowly the host parted and the dark knight came to the fore.
"Power," he said in low, rumbling voice. "I can feel it. What are you?"
"A dragon," the woman replied, and took a step towards them. A bolt of fear went through the horses, and some reared up, causing their riders to work the reins to remain in control "Well, of a sort."
"I've slain dragons," the knight said. "Flee now, wyrmling, and your life will be spared. My conflict is not with you."
The woman—alone and staring down an armored host—seemed amused. "Then it's clear you don't know who I am." Her arms tensed at her sides, a warrior preparing for battle.
"Who you are is unimportant," the knight told her. "Death has come to Skyrim. I am the Unmaker, the Breaker of Fate."
"Funny, Alduin said something similar. And Harkon, and Miraak," she remarked. "Introductions with the likes of you always begin with bravado, and titles, and posturing."
"Truly?" the knight said, and the men laughed a little space. "And then…?"
Her eyes hardened to blue-white diamonds, "Then I show them why I am called the Last Dragonborn."
The riders' laughter had been tinged with nerves, but now it ceased altogether. She took another step towards them and their steeds nearly revolted beneath them. They looked to their leader, who sat implacable in the saddle as always.
"You, the Dragonborn of legend?"
"Me."
"But you're just—" the knight began.
"Just what? A human? An Imperial?" Her eyes narrowed to stormy slits and thunder crept into her voice again. "A woman?"
"Ordinary," he replied. "I thought you'd be taller…and a man."
"I get that a lot," she said. "And you are just a minor manifestation of a Daedric Prince, and not a terribly impressive one at that."
"Who defied the gods," the knight rumbled. "Who nearly conquered the world, despite the Nine, who even now bides his time to finish what he started."
"Nearly," the woman shot back. "And it was a dragon who stopped him then." She drew her golden sword and the crystal embedded in its circular guard glowed like the dawn. "No, Skyrim is my home. You are not welcome. Here you will go, and no farther."
"Then you have saved me great effort in finding you, Dragonborn," the man replied, drawing a long black greatsword. "My first order was to hunt you down."
The woman sighed and worked her head to either side, popping her neck and loosening her shoulders. "I will permit your men a moment of prayer before we begin," she said, slipping easily into a low guard stance. "It's not too late to turn back."
The knight's followers turned their helmeted heads to look at one another in silent question. The woman before them had slain dragons and consumed their souls, bested dark gods, and contended with powers beyond imagining. But could it be? A woman, alone, without armor. This was the mortal with the dragon's soul?
"MUL-QAH-DIIV!" the woman bellowed. Spikes of mystical energy appeared around her body, ice-blue and fiery orange. The orange aura surrounded her face, and crowned her head in the outline of dragon.
"Kill her," the knight ordered. His men surged forward, not entirely of their own volition. Lances lowered, and swords were drawn from their scabbards.
And the Dragonborn smiled.
Where the woman had been standing, a hooded figure appeared, arrayed in armor that looked hewn from midnight, though the draconic aura around her persisted. A dark sword appeared in her other hand. If the golden blade was the day, the black blade in her other hand was unequivocally the night. Twenty steel lance points bore down upon her, and yet she did not move, not at first. She waited for the horses to find their footing in the loose rock and snow first, waited for them for them to surge into a canter.
"KAAN-DREM-OV!" she shouted. The effect was instant. All at once, with no warning, every horse in the front formation stopped their advance. Caught unaware, the riders atop them carried forward on their momentum. Many tumbled over the front of their mounts to crash in a heap of metal and snow, while others remained in the saddle but fought wildly not to share a similar fate as their brothers.
One rider lurched forward, running the point of his lance into ground an arm's length from where the Dragonborn stood. At this, she was in motion, darting forward with almost preternatural speed. As if it were a tightrope, she ran up the shaft of the lance, then used it to somersault into the frey, taking a head off with each sword as she went.
Her sword cleaved through their metal armor was though it were paper. Some died without ever knowing what killed them. Others had drawn steel before saw the dark blur came among them, with only a flash of gold at the centre, before they too left this life. A few thought to rally and corral her, but with a leap she was up, balancing on the saddle of one of the abandoned steeds before diving back in like a shade of death itself. Only the footman storming the killing grounds gave her pause, due only to their sheer numbers.
They even managed to surround her, piling on top of her, stabbing and cutting. For a single moment on the battlefield, it seemed the Dragonborn had drown beneath a tide of her foes. Her will was not so easily extinguished, however.
"FUS...RO-DAH!
Her thu'um had always been powerful, even from the beginning, but she had trained her gift, refined it to a level even that the legendary Tiber Septim might envy. Instead of a cone of force projected before her, her shout burst forth in all directions as she pushed outward with all her draconic might. Armored men flew away from her with bone-shattering force. Some were reduced to ash on the spot, while others were literally torn to pieces. The pristine white of the Pale Pass was now spotted with red, which glittered like red rubies.
At what had been the point of combat, now only the Dragonborn stood. She thrust the point of golden sword in the direction of the black knight. Red drops rained from its edge.
"Had enough?" She wasn't even breathing hard.
At this, the knight's rearguard abandoned him. He exerted his will upon them to remain, but the dragonfear had claimed them, and they did not stop again until the earth of Cyrodil proper crunched beneath their boots.
"I said leave," she said as the rearguard retreated into the distance and were swallowed up in the mists and snow."Or do you require further incentive?"
"They were nothing," the knight spat back. "But I suppose this was the way it was always meant to be, Dragonborn." He held out his hand a jagged pillar of red glass appeared in his hand. Within it glowed the malevolence and hellfire of the Deadlands, and faintly on the wind, the Dragonborn heard tortured screams. He trained it on her and a crimson beam shot from its tip.
The Dragonborn held her swords before her in an 'X' as the beam struck the point at which they crossed. This was no bolt, but a continuous assault on her every sense. She could feel its dread energy sizing her up, feeling its way around her peripheries, seeking the creases and cracks in her defenses to exploit them. So powerful was the force being thrown at her, that she was forced backwards in the snow where she stood, her black boots digging trenches as she resisted.
And then, a shift came over her. The midnight armor and the twin swords vanished. Now dark metal covered her body, covered in spikes and chains, and a deep red burned at its core. The horned helm itself looked nearly draconic upon her head, made more so by the glowing aura that still radiated from her. In her hands, she wielded a golden shield and mace.
She thrust the shield before her, standing to her full height as she did, though still braced against the beam's fury. The edges of the golden shield were scalloped almost like a stylized seashell, and with every heartbeat that passed, it absorbed the black knight's attack. By degrees it began hum and vibrate as the Dragonborn got her feet under her. Then, she released the energy it had soaked up in a devastating wave that nearly tore the giant knight from his saddle. The red pillar flew from his hand and the beam stopped as the weapon sank into a snow bank.
The Dragonborn sprinted towards her enemy, moving in her armor as though it were non-existent. She leapt into the air and a skeletal horse appeared under her. Her steed appeared at a canter, which became a gallop as it trailed purple eldritch flames. The Dwemer mace in her right hand elongated into long golden lance.
That dread crystal spike had not lain on the ground long, however, as it returned to its master's hand, as he spurred his own steed towards her. There among the snow and ice, two black knights tilted at each other in that narrow corridor of stone. Not since the summit of Apocrypha had two forces of such a titanic magnitude clashed so directly, so intent on the others' destruction.
The Breaker leveled his crystal lance directly on the Dragonborn's shield, confident that his greater size and mass, coupled that of his mount, could unseat his smaller opponent on her ghostly, almost insubstantial steed. Had he faced any other opponent in Skyrim, or indeed anywhere else in Tamriel, he might have been correct.
But here he faced a demi-goddess, and the shield in her hand had once belonged to the Lord of the Aedra. The black knight's lance shattered into a thousand pieces upon her shield, while her lance landed true. To its credit, his enchanted shield did turn the deadly point of her lance, but could not stop the gale force with which the Dragonborn's lance struck home.
The dark knight was ejected from his mount, saddle and all, and landed hard some twenty paces away. The force alone would have killed any mortal man, but no sooner had his armor clanged loudly on the stone then the was struggling back on his feet and reaching to unlimber his dread greatsword.
The Dragonborn brought her steed to a halt and dismounted. The ghostly horse's skull nuzzled into her hand with affection, and then vanished as she dismissed him. Her lance shortened, becoming a flanged mace with sharp, geometric lines as she stalked towards him.
"Surrender," she said to him, then added: "KRII...LUN...AUS!"
A burst of blue-white energy burst from her mouth and enveloped the knight, and where it touched him, his flesh and armor glowed a dark purple. His scream split the air, and he collapsed back to the ground.
"Never," he said through gritted teeth, clawing at the snow with his hands.
"Surrender, she repeated as she continued towards him. "GAAN...LA...HAAS!" A violet flame engulfed him this time, and he screamed again, and a portion of his strength flowed into the Dragonborn.
"No, NO!"
Despite her assault, the black knight stood and brought his greatsword to bear.
"If you raise your blade to me, I will cease being merciful," the Dragonborn warned, her voice echoing from the depths of her helmet. In the cold, her breath sprang from her mouth in wisps, like smoke from a dragon's mouth.
"Here I stand, whore of fate," the Breaker spat back. "Here I will remain when you are gone."
"For once, we agree," she said, raising her mace and readying her shield. "But you will never set foot in Skyrim."
The knight raised his sword to the sky, "Father of Lies, Foe of All Men, grant me stren—"
Before he could finish, the Dragonborn's mace fell upon his shoulder pauldron, crushing the metal, bone, and flesh beneath it.
"He favors only the strong. The weak are of no use to him," she said as she bashed him in the face with her shield, staggering him backwards. "You of all people should know that."
The knight stumbled back, and supported himself on his greatsword. Like a fire catching and sparking suddenly to life, a bright red light enveloped his body, and with it a measure of his power and presence. He stood up, renewed. Red hellfire burned in his eyes.
"You're wrong. I am him on this plane," the Breaker said. "And he has special cause to want you dead."
With that, the two clashed at arms, and the sound of sword on shield and mace on armor echoed for miles around. She landed lethal blows that would have given even an elder dragon pause, but the Breaker remained tenacious and upright. The edge of his sword nearly found her throat, but here it fell on the smaller of the two great horns that crowned her helmet instead. The horn came away and fell into the slush of ice and blood gathering at their feet.
"IIZ...SLEN...NUS!" she bellowed, and ice formed around the black knights body. An instant later, she raised her shield on instinct as he busted out of his icy prison, sending sharp shards of ice flying in all directions.
When she trapped his downward stroke between her mace and shield, he stepped in, using his towering height to gain leverage over her. The visor of his helmet nearly touched her own, and she could see deeply into his blazing eyes.
"I smell her on you, Dragonborn, the other incarnate," he said as the Dragonborn struggled to break his hold. "You cannot keep her from me. It is as inevitable as the dawn." She could feel her strength waning even as the ruby aura around her foe leapt to brilliance.
The Dragonborn's eyes narrowed, and a world of unimaginable vengeance shone in them. Something in them flashed, which seem to make her pupils vertical slits. "You will go no farther." Putting her powerful legs and back into it, she broke his hold, and swept free from his grasp.
"TIID...KLO...UL!"
The Dragonborn seemed to be everywhere at once, and a dozen blows rained down on the Breaker in space of a single breath. She might have uprooted an ancient oak with any one of them, and even through his deadland glow, armor and bones began to crack. The last one took him full on in the face and his helmet shattered, revealing the brutish, scarred face beneath.
He tried to defend himself, but both of his knees had withered under her assault, and he slumped to ground, knowing he would never stand again. His mind reeled from the impossibility of it as much as the pain. His invulnerability had been absolute, until she had taken it from him. The vision of her advancing on him blurred in and out. She now held her glowing gold sword again, and he knew he would soon feel its kiss.
His vision cleared, but still she remained blurry, almost as if he were seeing two images of her transposed on top of one another. One of order, one of chaos, of darkness and light finally finding their cosmic balance in a singular soul.
"Of course," he said. "Why I had I not seen it before? You are not one, but two."
"Choose your last words carefully, knight. You fought well, so make them worthy of remembrance."
At last, he saw only a single woman standing before him, though she was adorned as a Dremora Lord going into battle. And yet, it seemed that dragon wings sprouted from her back. Or were they the wings of an angel? Was there even difference worth noting between the two?
"I shall," he said, and nodded. "I'm ready."
Her golden blade pierced him, but he barely let out a grunt as she dealt him a final, mortal wound.
"They will bring me back," he told her. "This is not the end."
"Then they will have their task cut out for them," she said, and the blade twisted. He winced, but held her gaze. Blood ran from the sides of his mouth. He motioned for her to come closer, and she did so.
"The...Mythic Dawn," he whispered, "has returned."
Then his head lolled to the side, and his spirit was gone, eyes staring up at the white skies and the snow falling down in drifts. The Dragonborn reached over and closed his eyes. For long moments she stood over his body, looking to the south. He had seen her shock as he had breathed his last.
And now the Pale Pass was silent, but his words floated on the wind in her ears. I smell her on you, Dragonborn. If the Mythic Dawn had returned, the other incarnates might not be far behind. It would fall to her to stop the oppressors and rally the others, but in that, she would need help. Even the Dragonborn couldn't be everywhere at once.
Standing, she removed her helmet, and let the cold winds tousle her hair. She retrieved the cleft horn from her helmet and stowed it in a pouch. Then she led the fine steeds of the cavalry to one side, some eighteen in all, and readied herself. There was one more duty she had to perform.
Gathering her remaining will, she channeled her energy into her voice, speaking her soul towards the fallen of the battlefield.
"YOL-TOOR-SHUL!"
She breathed fire across the frozen landscape, lighting a beacon that could be seen from both sides of the mountain. This was no ordinary fire.
This was dragonfire.
It melted stone and metal, consumed blood and bone, and what ice and snow had fallen was instantly turned to steam. So hot was her breath that months later trade caravans passing by couldn't help but notice a patch of stone so warm that nothing frozen could long endure its touch.
The battlefield became a testament to the courage and ferocity of the Dragonborn, not that the world needed reminder. And yet, it had been the line in the snow she had drawn in defense of her adopted homeland, as well as warning to other dark powers that might try to assail it:
Here you may come, but no farther.