Author's Note: A shout-out to those of you that enjoy this and give me encouraging words, I must thank you. And to those of you reviewing, sorry I haven't responded. It has been one hell of a few days... let's just say I want to remember when I got this tattoo. Looks good, though. Anyway, on with the story.
The portcullis began to raise, gears turning and cranking as it rose from the earth. Jonah looked about at his men, each with a grim expression on their face. They took no attack seriously, Jonah was always quick to remind them it was confidence that could get them killed. Never underestimate any opponent. Jonah strode out to the path, drawing his longsword. The blade looked as if it had just come fresh from the blacksmith's anvil, blazing deadly hot in the early morning sun. Heat emanated from the blade, the ebony hilt rather cold to balance the heat. Once before known as the Dragonsword of Lainlyn, Jonah had rechristened it as his own, naming it simply Flamerend.
The opposing forces began to move, their crude iron armor clanking as they fanned out, showing minor battle tactics. Jonah did not know who they were, nor did he care. Arrows began to fill the air, Jonah's archers and the opposing archers firing as fast as they could. The Steelhall archers were more coordinated, however. Jonah felt an arrow pass right beside him, embedding itself in the neck of a large Orc directly in front of him. The Orsimer toppled over, clutching at the missile. Jonah took that shot up to Berenor; directly before the gates opened he had asked for a bow with a gleam in his eyes.
Steel and iron rang out into the morning as both forces now drew their weapons, raising them high, beginning to charge. Jonah ran out ahead of his men, Flamerend blazing, his armor shining. Directly before him was a large Nord wielding a warhammer, his face a snarl. They closed the gap between them in a few steps, the Nord swinging his hammer down from overhead. Jonah sidestepped the heavy weapon, lunging at the large warrior. The tip of his blade easily pierced the Nord's crude iron cuirass, the tip poking through his back, the steel sword glowing scarlet in the morning sunlight. Jonah extracted the blade from the Nord and pushed his lifeless body away, crumpling to a heap on the ground.
Jonah heard another warcry to his left, an Imperial charging him with another overhead strike. Jonah swung for his sword arm, the blade cleanly slicing his forearm in two. Spinning clockwise on his heel with the momentum of the swing Jonah saw the Imperial's expression of horror before the warrior removed his head from his shoulders in one clean stroke. No blood poured from the hole that had materialized in the Imperial's neck; Flamerend's enchantment instantly cauterized the wound, searing the flesh together after each stroke.
A large Orc bore down on Jonah, swinging a giant claymore from the side. As Jonah completed his spin Flamerend caught the blade, neatly slicing through it. Spinning counter-clockwise on his heel now he slammed his shield into the head of his opponent, reeling the Orc to the side. Another moment later Flamerend passed through the Orc's undefended left side, the blade slicing through the thick armor and skeleton like a literal hot knife through butter. The Orc's legs fell from under him, the rest of his body falling to the earth a moment later. The Orc began screaming in agony before Jonah plunged his sword through his head, silencing him.
Suddenly Jonah felt a blade pierce the back of his pauldron, the shock of pain causing him to drop Flamerend. Jonah felt himself dropping to his knees, now at the mercy of the man that had been invisible the entire length of the battle. Jonah could hear the sounds of his men bravely defending the hall as he felt the assassin's blade enter his throat, ripping it open as he jerked the blade to the side. He could feel the flow of his blood upon his neck as he fell to the ground, growing colder by the second...
"NO!" Berenor screamed from atop the battlements, seeing the red fountain spraying from Jonah's neck as a man reappeared into visibility, a blade in his grasp. Lightning fast he nocked an arrow into his bow, screaming as he unleashed the missile toward his friend's murderer. A moment later a bolt of lightning flashed from beside Berenor, striking the arrow. With the roar of a thunderclap the projectile passed through the man's head, blowing it apart in an explosion of gore. Blood spouted from his head like a geyser as he dropped, the arrow now blowing apart in a flash, lightning forking from the blast. Every enemy archer and warrior in the area was hit with a burst, frying and charring their flesh instantly inside their iron armor. The remaining thirty attackers continued to jerk and spasm as Berenor leaped from the ramparts, rolling as his feet collided with the earth, dashing madly toward his fallen companion.
He threw aside his bow and fell to his knees at Jonah's side, trying to pull a healing potion from his belt, staring in horror at his friend. His throat had been ripped open entirely, blood flowing freely from the wound, a small pool forming around the warrior. He stared up at the Bosmer, his arm reaching out and grasping him roughly by the collar. He struggled to speak, blood bubbling from his lips. He coughed, a small stream of scarlet splattering on the pirate's cheek. He drew in one rattling breath, gurgling his own blood. As Jonah released it his grip grew slack on Berenor, breathing out one final rattle as his body went limp, his eyes glazing over, his soul on a journey to the land of death.
Cassius walked through the cool night air, his body crying for blood. He knew now that he needed it if he was going to survive. He could smell it now, it was nearby; fresh, warm, and sweeter than the sugar that dominated his youth. Weakly, he stumbled to a small pool. As he bent down to it, he could see that it is not water in the pool, but warm, fresh blood, steam rising off of it. The aroma was in the air and he could almost taste it upon his lips, sliding down his throat. He lowered his head to drink, but found he could not open his mouth. He realized with horror that his lips had been sewn shut, a pair of cold, white hands reaching out from the pool and drawing him under.
With a start he opened his eyes, grasping for the longsword that always slept beside him, drawing it and swinging into the dry cave air. He dropped it with a clatter and put his head to his hands, his body beginning to shiver. The dreams were becoming worse and worse, some vivid flashbacks, some horrible nightmares like the one he had just had. The crusader thought he was going crazy, or maybe all vampires were like this. Or maybe this was further punishment from the Nine, urging him to continue his Pilgrimage. He had no answers; nobody could help him. He avoided towns and slept in caves, like this one nearing Chorrol. He was still amazed at his new-found speed, marveling at how fast he had traveled in such a short time.
In just two hours he had made it from northeast of the Imperial City to this cave near Chorrol, the sun starting to peak over the horizon as he entered the safety of the caverns. A pride of mountain lions had taken up residence in the cavern, forcing Cassius to put them all down but giving him food for the night and many others besides. He even drank the blood of the last lion before it had grown cold; he could not resist now. Surely the gods would forgive him if it kept him alive? But he dared not drink the blood of humans. He swore to himself it would never come to that. But perhaps he would never need to worry about that again. Soon he would be before the Nine once more.
He decided that tomorrow night, he would complete his Pilgrimage. And in that time, he would have the answer he seeked.
Author's Note: I know, short. But I wanted to just update and get it done with, this took too long for me to write honestly. I'm running out of ideas, I think. I think that soon I will make a separate fic involving everyone's time during the Oblivion Crisis. Just an idea right now... anyway, hope you enjoyed the short chapter.
