[So sorry for the delay!
Rest assured, this project is still in the works. But, due to my laptop crashing and dying, I now have to write everything on my phone (meaning endless spelling/grammatical errors) and email it to myself on a desktop and upload from there. Also, I've recently moved house, and the nearest accessible computer to me is about 45 minutes away. That being said, Chapter Four is about halfway completed, and should be uploaded within the week/fortnight.
Thanks for sticking around and reading! Let me know what you think.]
The Daedra's Wrath
(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)
Chapter Three
Sauron's true form was something awful to behold. A tall, dark, towering figure, ten feet in height, clad in hideous black armour like a scaled obsidian skin. Dead white eyes glowed through circular slots in his horned helm, and a colossal mace was girt by his side.
Standing at the gates of Barad-ûr, the Daedric Prince of Death stretched out a gauntleted hand, the one ring gleaming in the fires of Mordor. The bare, ashen earth trembled, the lines of fiery script glowing around the band of the ring, and Sauron chanted in the uncouth Black Speech of Mordor. Two fissures in the ground cracked open, tendrils of foul smoke pouring forth in a cloudy haze.
The Dark Lord's chanting grew more vicious, almost snarling the words, and he clenched his iron fist. The smoke took on a squared form almost at once, tongues of fire licking at the the smog, and on the other side, through the smoke, a hazy apparition of a dark stone chamber swam into view. Beneath the macabre mask, Sauron smiled a grotesque smile.
His time had come.
In the crushing shadows of Bleak Falls Barrow, inside a sealed, hidden room (a hidden room a certain young Breton Mage and his Raven had so desperately tried to uncover), a replica of Sauron's Ash Portal shimmered into existence. Through the power of the Ring, the Dark Lord had breached the walls between realms, and he stepped through the fiery gate, bathed in a pale radiance.
The chamber was high ceilinged, roughly hewn stone from wall to wall. Completely bare, it seemed completely unremarkable, aside from the nine vertical tombs, made from pressed obsidian glass and sealed with Daedric metal clasps and chains. Sauron's eyes swept across the room, to the tombs, and the barren torch brackets built into the wall. "Ghâsh." he whispered, and the room was bathed in a sickly orange glow, fire springing to life in the receptacles. He raised his hand, sweeping it around in front of him, and the chains around the caskets burned white hot. With a hiss and a crack, they melted to nothing, becoming no more than grey ash. A stout boom of thunder followed as Sauron clenched a fist, and the clasps exploded, the tomb doors blasting outwards and falling to the ground. "Awaken, my Nazgul." he called into the shadows.
As one, nine tall, cloaked figures swept from the standing tombs. Grim and foreboding, their dead faces were concealed within the shadows of hoods, cold steel covered their hands and feet, some bearing pale blades, others ornate and cold axes. The Eight Jarls of Skyrim and their High King, who swore fealty and their blades to Sauron in his conquest of the First Era, in return for 9 magical rings. Blinded by greed and the promise of power, the Jarls accepted these handsome gifts without question, yet the price was more terrible than they could have ever imagined; Total servitude to Sauron, until the ends of time. Now, they all surrounded the Dark Lord, drawing their blades and axes with a ringing clamour, and dropped to a knee. "We are yours to command, Lord of Mordor."
Sauron regarded his faithful servants, the light crackle of flame the only sound in the tomb. "Build me an army." he spoke in gravelly tones.
"The will of Sauron will be done." the Nazgul replied as one.
Sauron knew there were many men in the world who would bend to his will. Black of heart and ambition, the ruffians, killers and thieves of Tamriel would swear allegiance to the Lord of Mordor at the promise of power and wealth. And, with the help of the Nazgul, Sauron began to compile a list of potential recruits. He sent emissaries out across the lands.
The doors of Castle Volkihar remained closed, and no gatekeeper answered the summons. The Goblins of Cyrodiil, who were created by Sauron's own hand accepted his offers of allegiance most willing, as did several knots of the blinded Falmer sect. Even the greater mercenary and bandit clans received messages from the Lord of Death.
In the hills West of Dawnstar, a broken tower rose like a bleak obelisk against the cloudy skies, men pacing its outer walls, their breath coming out in puffs of mist, while the yards rang to the sound of clashing metal. The keen-eyed sentries were most visibly shocked when a heavy, steel fist smote the iron door with a ringing boom, and a high cold voice called, "I am an emissary for the Lord Sauron, here to treat with the one named Althan Mabari. Open, in the name of Mordor!"
Archers lined the battlements, arrows nocked and strings taut, training the iron tips of their arrows on the silhouette of a dark horseman in the swirling snow. The horse gave a snort and a shriek, rearing underneath it's evil rider. "Tell yer Lord Sauron t' stick 'is treaties where the sun don't shine!" one of the mercenaries roared, to raucous laughter from his chums, who slowly lowered their bows. "On yer way, stranger!"
No sooner had the man spat out his words, his throat visibly constricted, strangled gasps of air choking from his mouth. He clawed at his throat, while the men on the battlements stared in horror. "Open... In the name of Mordor..."
"Open the gates!" the man choked. "Open the gates!"
The men below rushed to the gate, sliding back heavy iron bolts, yanking the gates inwards. The rider jigged his mount forward into the yard, completely unperturbed by the sea of pikes and blades surrounding him. As he approached the keep, the door swung open, and an armoured Dunmer stepped out onto the cobbled stones, wearing an almost bored expression on his tattooed face. "Althan Mabari?" the rider questioned, reigning the midnight black horse to a halt.
Althan nodded solemnly. "What brings you here, rider?" he asked, resting his hand on the hilt of the dagger in his belt. "Why have you sought the Red-Eye Rogues?"
"I have been sent to broker an alliance." The Nazgul replied, his voice a hiss. "The Lord of Mordor seeks allies. And those who serve him faithfully are rewarded beyond their wildest dreams."
"Forgive me, friend." Althan replied, his lip curling. "But in my experience with War Lords, they're as likely to kill their friends as foes."
"Sauron is no mere warlord, Althan. He is Daedra, a Prince no less."
The Dunmer fell silent. So, this Lord of Mordor was a Daedric Prince? Well, that certainly explained why Althan had never heard the name Sauron, nor even the realm of Mordor. Apparently, like Sheogorath, Hermaeus Mora, Mehrunes Dagon, Hircine, and the other Princes, Sauron commanded his own Plane of Oblivion. An alliance with the Daedra wasn't one to be taken lightly, and more often than not, the Daedric Princes killed their followers for their own amusement.
Althan felt though, that this wasn't the case with Sauron. The lesser Princes (which Sauron must be, due to his name not being known to the Dunmer Battlemage) rewarded their servants with gold and power and gifts beyond their wildest imaginations.
And Althan wasn't about to let that ship sail.
The young Dark Elf sized up his options, then provided a short, respectful bow to the Nazgul. "I believe we may be able to help each other, friend. Let us speak in private."
While Althan and the black rider spoke in the room atop Fort Redeye's Keep, another Nazgul rider galloped across the Alik'r desert, a rooster tail of dust kicking up as his steed tore across the sands. A thin column of smoke rose in the distance, twirling up from the base of a rocky mesa where, the Nazgul knew, a Redguard Bandit and his crew resided. At the foot of the mesa, a large animal skin canopy was stretched across the camp above a fire pit, where charred Skeevers and coyotes roasted on iron spits. In a roughly built throne of bone and hide, the Redguard bandit Barbas lifted his head at the sound of the approaching rider.
There were five other men in the camp on that day, and they hastily scrambled to their feet, drawing cutlasses from their belts, grim faces framed within the folds of weather-stained turbans. The rider reigned his horse just shy of the canopy, provided his greeting, and declared his offer on behalf of Sauron, Lord of Mordor.
Barbas rose slowly, his ringed hand sliding his own blade from his belt, a gust of breeze blowing through his shaggy, shoulder length hair. "If your master truly knows of me and mine, then he was a fool to send you here, seeking aid and succour." The Redguard replied, his deep and heavily accented voice dripping with disdain and scorn. "The Alik'r need no allies, rider. We do, however..." a thin smile curled his lip. "... Require horses and steel. Boys, relieve our friend!"
With a roar, the Alik'r charged, brandishing their swords, and the Nazgul reared his horse, a ring of steel heralding his own blade as he leaped to the ground. The cold metal clashed with the cutlass of the Alik'r, and the Nazgul checked a slash and parried a stab. He thrust his sword deep into the chest of one, and in the same movement, broke the jaw of another attacker with a gauntleted fist. A short dagger was produced from the folds of the Wraith's cloak, and he slashed the throat of a third combatant.
Deep red lifeblood dripped from the tip of the Nazgul's blade as he turned to face the remaining two warriors. By now, Barbas had joined the fray, his arrogant smirk now a mask of anger, tightly clenching his fists around the handles of twin shortswords. "Rethink your actions, Redguard..." The Nazgul whispered. Barbas ignored the suggestion. His two men lunged forward towards the cloaked ghoul, slashing and stabbing, but the Nazgul parried and dodged as though this was nothing more than practice duels in a training yard. With two deft counters, Barbas was on his own.
"What are you?!" the Redguard snarled, backing away.
"I am an emissary of Lord Sauron." he hissed in reply. "And you will show me respect." The Nazgul stared blankly for a moment at Barbas, face concealed beneath the cloak. The Alik'r soldier mouthed silently, terror etched in every line of his face. "I shall return in 3 days. I strongly suggest you rethink your attitude towards Mordor's messengers, Barbas. Remember what happened here today." In a single, fluid movement, the rider mounted his black horse and seized the reigns, the steed snorted and shrieked, and he galloped off towards the horizon.
Not all of Sauron's targets were ruffians and vagabonds, however. Much like his Daedric brethren, the Prince of Death had worship shrines dotted across the landscape of Tamriel. But, due to the fighting between the Dark Brotherhood and Sauron's Followers, the shrines had fallen into decay, and were now no more than misshapen stone pillars. The elements had worn the features away, and vandals had taken anything of value, including the rounded diamonds crafted into the eyes. One such shrine was nestled in the hills of Colovia, near the border of Skyrim. No one had visited the shrine for hundreds, thousands of years.
Until now.
A trio of young travellers, making the trek from Leyawin to Solitude stumbled across the shrine in the mountains. A young Imperial woman, with her Breton lover and Khajiit companion stepped into the clearing, staring open-mouthed in awe at the obelisk. "Would you look at /this/!" the Breton muttered, running a hand across the rounded edge of the shrine.
"I don't like it, Junor." the woman said quietly. She cast her gaze around the clearing, staring through the trees. "It feels like we're being watched..."
Junor apparently didn't hear her. "What do you think this is, Rhazi?" he asked over his shoulder to the cat. "Daedra worship? An old shrine to Talos?"
"I... Cannot make out the markings... But this is no Daedra I have ever heard of. The posture is unfamiliar to these eyes." Rhazi informed, peering at the statue.
"Lord Sauron had hoped to find more of you here..." A cold voice, like an icy wind on dead leaves slithered across the air, and the three travellers spun hastily, searching for the source. "He will be pleased, however, to find those still loyal to him, after so many years." A tall figure stepped through the trees, robed in black, wicked and foreboding. The trio huddled together in fear.
"L-loyal? Lord Sauron? I... I think you're mistaken..." Junor stammered, finding voice. "We are merely travellers..."
"Travellers..." The Nazgul hissed. "Then you are of no use to Mordor." The ringwraith drew his blade, and painted the snow red.