Blood and Steel

by DualKatanas

Gorgoth gro-Kharz, a brutal warrior-shaman from Orsinium, didn't expect to end up as the champion of the Nine, acclaimed by many as the Hero of Kvatch. But now that he finally has a cause worth fighting for, he and his new comrades will stop at nothing to defeat Mehrunes Dagon. Excuse the initially poor writing. Constructive criticism appreciated. Finally complete.

37. The Dark Depths of Miscarcand

A/N: Yes, I know, it's been over three weeks since my last update again... however, since 11/11/11, I've been slightly distracted. Still, Skyrim isn't distracting enough to relieve me of my duty to you loyal readers, so here's your chapter. As ever, thanks to anyone who reviewed. If you hadn't, lack of inspiration would have made this chapter a lot longer in coming...

Random Reader: Well, you knew Gorgoth was never going to lie down and let Modryn accept that fate for both of them... yes, he does love the Guild, sort of, in his own way. I don't envy the Blackwood Company... As for Cecia, I doubt he'll be needed. For one thing, a magically unaided fist is near-useless against daedric armour, and the Blades already have extensive training in hand-to-hand combat (which is logical). As for Gorgoth, he's got skill aplenty; he's almost as deadly with his fists as he is with a weapon in his hand. No, no new mods recently. I think you can guess why...

Simple Thought: Well, we'll find out eventually. Let's just say I don't think she'll ever come to like him. Yes, the FG questline hasn't got long left, but I find it might still offer up some surprises... I hope.

Underpaid Critic: Technically, there was no action scene, as it happened 'off-screen'. Considering the circumstances, I just thought it more... fitting that we only get the aftermath. The skirmish itself was only a minor thing; far better to deal with the much more significant repercussions than the action itself, which was actually a very simple one.

Always remember to review, people... if not, I might find myself overly distracted by that new game of Bethesda's... no, I'm joking. I'll never stop writing this, but reviews always do help. Now, read on.

---

Chapter Thirty-seven: The Dark Depths of Miscarcand

It was the sun rising over the Jeralls and sending beams of light through the window that finally woke Callia. Her eyes flickered as the sunlight hit her face, dragging her from the oblivion of unconsciousness. A tiny groan escaped from her throat as feeling started to return to her. Voices reached her ears, the words unrecognisable. She sensed a presence next to her, a rough hand on her forehead. Her eyes slowly slid open.

She was lying in a bed in one of the private rooms in the small East Wing, a simple place with bare essentials, used on the rare occasions when solitude and privacy was needed for whatever reason. Sometimes they were used to hold prisoners, which explained the shadows cast by the barred windows as the sun lit up the bleak grey stone walls. The Breton was no prisoner, however; if the ajar door wasn't enough, the pair of brown eyes searching her face were filled with genuine warmth and relief.

The Knight Sister mumbled something unintelligible, her tongue still confused as she tried weakly to rise. "Easy, Callia," warned Glenroy as he pushed her back down, his gentle hands on her shoulders pinning her easily. "You lost nearly four pints of blood. It's going to be a while before you find your feet again." The Imperial – devoid of his helmet and gauntlets - was sitting on her bed, having abandoned his chair. She blinked a few times, his face coming into sharper focus.

"What..." was all her weak voice could manage. Her comrade held a beaker of water to her lips. The cooling liquid trickled soothingly down her throat, helping to further bring her out of her long sleep. "What happened?" she asked in a slightly stronger voice after she had finished.

Glenroy sighed and tapped his fingers on his thigh. "You were returning to the Temple with Gorgoth when you were attacked in the mist in the valley just outside Bruma," he told her. "Do you remember anything about that?"

Callia frowned, attempting to remember what had happened before the darkness had taken her. There had been the mist... arrows from nowhere, striking deep. Her horse collapsing under her, throwing her from the saddle. Lightning crackling overhead before strong hands had picked her up. Then the darkness. She shook her head. "Not much," she muttered. "I think we were ambushed..."

He nodded, standing up and pacing around the room. The Breton found the strength to raise her head and watched him curiously. "You're right. Azani Blackheart's men ambushed you in the mist. They were meaning to kill Gorgoth; I figure you were just shot because you were there." He shrugged. "They wounded him quite badly, but you were worse. You'd be dead for sure if Gorgoth and Martin hadn't got that arrow out of you so quickly. As it is, you've been out for three days."

Grunting, Callia returned her gaze to the grey ceiling, her still-sluggish brain attempting to manage all the information. "Three days?" she whispered. Her eyes narrowed, and she shot a suspicious glance at Glenroy. "Am I indebted to Gorgoth?"

The Knight Brother nodded, his expression unreadable. "Him and Martin," he confirmed. "You'd be dead if not for them. Gorgoth twice over, in fact. He killed everyone attacking you and brought you back here, before he helped extract the arrow despite having five of the things still pricking him."

She groaned, closing her eyes. He'd claimed to have saved her life long ago, of course, but she'd always disputed that. Now, however, it was certain. "How can I kill him if I owe him my life?" she growled to herself. Her companion clearly overheard, but said nothing. The Breton sighed heavily. Her code of honour demanded that she avenge her mother, but if her killer had saved Callia's own life, not once, but twice... she shook her head. She'd talk to Gorgoth. "Where is he?" she asked, opening her eyes again.

"He left three days ago. Didn't even give himself a night's sleep here to recover. They'll probably be at Miscarcand by now."

Callia grunted and managed to push herself up to a sitting position, leaning on her shaky elbows, ignoring her nakedness as the blankets slid down her torso. Through sheer force of will, she shoved Gorgoth to the back of her mind; there was nothing she could do about it right now. "Azani Blackheart?" Glenroy nodded. "What about him?"

Before the Knight Brother could answer, the door swung open to admit Steffan, closely followed by a slightly bleary-eyed Martin. As the helmetless Knight Captain closed the door behind them, the heir strode over to Callia's bed, kneeling down beside it and peering intensely into her face. The Breton, slightly embarrassed by the attention, shrank back slightly, pulling the blankets up to cover her chest. "How are you feeling?" asked the Imperial, his voice soft and gentle as he checked her pulse.

"Weak," she muttered. "Tired and drained, mainly." Her sense had been dulled by her long sleep, but she could still feel the leaden sensation in her limbs, and the stuffed feeling in her head. Any exertion would be out of the question.

Nodding, the ex-priest smiled encouragingly. "You'll live," he reassured her, squeezing her hand before standing. "You'll be back on your feet soon enough. Right now, all you need is rest and some food." Callia smiled back weakly; Martin's reassurance meant a lot to her. She had joined the Blades because she wanted to serve the Emperor. She'd barely known Uriel, but here was an Emperor that she knew she would happily give her life for; not just because it was her duty, but because she liked and valued him, both as an Emperor and as a man. "See to it that she gets everything she needs," he told Steffan before leaving the room.

The Knight Captain walked over to her bed, standing beside her with his arms folded and a small smile plucking at his lips. "Get better soon," he muttered gruffly. "I need all the Blades I can count on." He squeezed her shoulder companionably. "I'll see if the canteen can knock up anything edible. Carry on." He saluted both his subordinates; Glenroy responded promptly in kind and Callia managed a weak imitation. The Captain of the Temple Garrison nodded to both of them and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Glenroy cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, laying a hand on the helmet hanging from his hip. "I should go," he told her. "You need rest. Hardly possible with-"

"No, stay. Please." She needed someone to talk to; left alone, her thoughts might well turn to darker matters. The Imperial met her eyes for a second before nodding and pulling up a chair, ignoring the slight creak as he sat down. She replaced her head on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. "So... who exactly is this Azani Blackheart?"

Her companion sighed and drummed his fingers against his thigh. "You know he's a bandit warlord, operating in the Blackwood right now," he started. She nodded. "Turns out that he's been hired by someone powerful to kill or capture Gorgoth. We don't know why, but he's clearly willing to do that no matter who gets in the way." The Imperial's face darkened. "I don't like it when one of my Knight Sisters almost gets killed," he growled. "My opinion is shared by the rest of the Blades."

Callia grunted. "So what are we going to do about it?"

Glenroy looked up, staring out of the window. "Time will tell..." His fists clenched unconsciously around the hilt of his katana.

---

The Ra'Sava Camp had once been the home of a ragged group of bandits preying on the merchants of the Gold Road. Now, however, the bodies of those bandits had been unceremoniously dumped into a pile and burnt, and new occupants had taken up temporary residence in the camp. Most of these were now sleeping, stockpiling rest for their important mission to be carried out tomorrow, but like every efficient squad, one sentry remained awake and alert. His new plate armour, designed in the Akaviri style and mostly well-fitting, shone under the soft light of the moons.

Inactivity and the silence of the night gave Gorgoth time to contemplate his allies, most of whom were shapeless mounds under their blankets several feet away from him. His amber eyes slowly moved from companion to companion: Lurog, his oldest and most trusted comrade, was instantly recognisable due to insisting on sleeping in his chainmail. The steel rings stretched and relaxed as the Orc breathed deeply, snoring slightly. Next to him was Mazoga; she had joined them in Bruma – Dralasa had been nowhere to be found – but had kept away from Gorgoth for the entire three days of travel. Occasionally he would catch her glaring at his back or muttering darkly under her breath. At the moment, her face seemed marginally more peaceful at rest than it did when awake, her multitude of black braids falling haphazardly over her face. The warrior-shaman did not let his gaze linger on her. She was a comrade, nothing more, nothing less.

Moving along, his eyes found Selene's golden mane poking from the top of her bedroll. The battlemage's sleep had been the easiest he'd noted for as long as he'd known her; the rest away from the Xarxes and the slow numbing of the pain of the loss of her family was to thank for that. Gnaeus was sleeping nearby, an occasional loud snore tearing the air around him. The old Imperial's hand was clutched around the hilt of his broadsword, as always when resting. He'd become more attached to the half-elf in recent times; at least, he was less caustic by half when talking to her. Saliith's green scales were almost completely hidden by his blankets, but the plain scale armour next to the bedroll clearly identified the owner; ironic, since that particular armour was both common and cheap, particularly among Argonians.

Aerin's sleeping face was by far the most peaceful of them all; she was untroubled by the war raging around her. She knew of it, for sure, but she failed to treat it like the rest of them. Maybe that was for the best. One of her hands had escaped from her blanket and was unconsciously squeezing Ilend's hand, the Imperial being a mere foot away. He was less at rest, but his face – partially obscured by his black hair – wasn't as tortured as it once had been. In fact, a small smile was even attempting to make itself known on his face. While the warrior-shaman wasn't one for romance himself, when it was this obvious he and everyone else could detect it easily. He was tempted to wonder if either of them knew of the other's feelings for them yet, but he forced his wandering mind to move on to more important things.

"They are by far the most diverse group I have ever led or worked with," he muttered. A few feet from him, the sound of his words were fully absorbed by the barrier of Illusion magic he'd put up around himself and the Dremora he'd summoned.

"With diversity often comes versatility," remarked Xilinkar. The Markynaz was sitting on a nearby rock, running his dark red fingers over the moss growing thickly on it. His naked katana was leaning against his knee as he studied Gorgoth's companions. "This unlikely group could make a very effective fighting force. Something that even the Valkyn might respect."

"I have no doubt about that." The Orc tapped a canine contemplatively. His detect life spell would warn him of any approaching danger within range, so he could afford some distraction. "This squad could close any Oblivion Gate. I have respect for every one of them." In varying degrees.

The Kynaz snorted. "They'd do it honourably, no doubt," he claimed. "Unlike the present situation of our invasion. What honour is there in defeating our enemy when we outnumber them ten to one?" He spat, starting to continue before checking himself and casting a wary glance towards his summoner. Gorgoth, of course, was intelligent enough to take that offhand careless comment and use it to reach several conclusions about Dagon's attack plan.

"You are not happy with your Lord's plan?" he asked, idly scratching the tree he was sitting against, watching the bark flake off under his fingers.

Xilinkar pursed his lips. "Many of us are not happy," he admitted. "There is little honour to be gained by the Kyn in this conflict, apart from a lucky few who find it. If our Lord used an army solely of Dremora..." he sighed and spread his hands. "But all he spreads is chaos and destruction. No, we are not happy."

Gorgoth turned to regard the Markynaz with his cold gaze. If such a high-ranking, respected Kynaz such as Xilinkar was expressing discontent, then Dagon truly was reckless. "Then why not leave him?" he pressed. "The Kyn are individuals; you are tied to no one Daedra."

A low growl rose in the Dremora's throat as he glared at the Orc. "We are not disloyal," he snarled. "I follow Dagon until he gives me good reason to leave his service. The Kyn's word is honour." From the look in his eyes, he would have torn apart a less respected summoner by now.

The warrior-shaman sighed. It was times like this that reminded him that he was only twenty-eight with much to learn in some aspects. "I am sorry, Xilinkar," he grunted. Humility was impossible for him; all he could do was temper his usual cold arrogance. "My words were ill-chosen. They were easily misinterpreted." One of the few things in life he valued were the respect his summoned Daedra had for him. It was far too valuable to lose over a bad choice of words.

Snorting, the Markynaz met the Orc's gaze for several minutes before giving the slightest nod of his head. "Maybe I judged your words too quickly," he admitted. "But it would take more than mere dislike to sever my ties to Dagon."

Gorgoth nodded in agreement, falling silent for a period. Xilinkar started to sharpen his katana; a useless exercise, as daedric steel would never lose its edge, but it clearly helped focus the Dremora's mind. His summoner, however, was willing to continue conversation. "What do you think your chances for victory are?" he asked suddenly. The whetstone stopped its movement. It was somewhat ironic that he was conversing with an enemy whilst on a mission to help win the war on which they were on the opposite sides of.

"If anyone else had been their champion, I would have said we would win easily," the Markynaz told him, before returning to his task.

That told the Orc all he needed to know. He fell silent again, keeping watch until the eastern sky started to lighten. "I must make preparations for the coming day," he told his companion. "May we never meet on the opposite side of the field of battle." Xilinkar grunted his agreement and stood, sheathing his katana as Gorgoth sent him back to Oblivion.

The warrior-shaman rose to his feet, eyes on the eastern horizon. When he judged it to be light enough, he quietly walked over to Lurog and shook his comrade's shoulder. The Orc's eyes flew open, and he blinked a few times before they focused. "Time to get moving," muttered Gorgoth.

---

It was clear, even now, that the Ayleid city of Miscarcand had once been magnificent. Towering stone walls shone in the morning sunlight, surrounding crumbling ruins of what had once been Ayleid buildings. Long centuries of harsh weather and multitudes of vines and creepers could not completely eradicate the fine elven stonework, claimed by many to still be unequalled in Tamriel. The wind dropped inside the walls, and sounds from outside grew hushed, as though they had entered a sacred place. Even the atmosphere seemed silent and still.

"I've only been here before once," Aerin was telling Ilend as the group moved cautiously through the dead city. "Me and my father camped just outside on the way to the Imperial City from Valenwood. We didn't camp inside, though. It gave him the creeps." She shuddered slightly and gripped Trueshot harder, looking around warily and keeping her arrow nocked to the string. "Gives me the creeps too..." Despite her flamboyant antics in the Arena, she hated this feeling of being watched. It was far more sinister than anything hundreds of Imperial gamblers could come up with.

"I don't blame you," muttered the Imperial. "I don't like the look of those shadows..." No light shone from any building that still had four walls and a roof. The shadows there even seemed blacker then normal. "I remember some bandits tried to make camp here after we destroyed their other hideout. We never heard from them again."

"I'm not surprised," added Selene, who seemed far more at her ease, striding along easily with her glaive slung over her shoulder. "The Ayleid spirits are always restless. Always will be. I don't think we've got anything to worry about on the surface until night falls, though." Ilend glanced at her, grunted at her relative ease, and visibly tried to loosen his shoulders. Aerin sighed. He'd probably want another massage after this. Not that she was ever inclined to complain about that.

A shrill gabbling up ahead seized everyone's attention, and most of the squad's weapons were pointing towards a half-destroyed archway as a goblin came stumbling through it, constantly glancing over its shoulder. The creature's sheer terror was evident, and apparently it was fleeing from something so terrible that it judged a group of well-armed fighters less of a threat and tried to rush through them. Lurog casually grabbed it with one hand and took half its head off with a blow of his mace.

"It doesn't take much to put the fear of the Gods into goblin rabble," observed Gnaeus, letting his broadsword fall back to his side. He spat at the bleeding corpse as they past it. "Filthy creatures...always did prefer hunting men. At least they were sometimes a challenge. And didn't smell as bad. Mostly."

Saliith rolled his eyes. "You can't talk about smell, old man," he rasped, making a point of rubbing the end of his snout with his free hand.

"At least I don't smell like I just crawled out of a swamp. You lizard-rats never lose the stench."

Growling quietly, the Argonian turned to glare at the old hermit, who returned the favour with a cold, dismissive glance. Several howls, however, put an end to the tension as everyone gripped their weapons, looking around for the increasingly evident danger. "Not much to worry about until night, eh?" Ilend asked Selene, his hair jerking around as his eyes searched from shadow to shadow.

Gorgoth cut off the half-elf's reply by raising a hand and pointing to a massive stone door positioned in a hollow, elaborately decorated with carvings. "There is the entrance," he announced. "Always be on your guard. Selene, take the rear." He walked up to the doors and pressed his hand to the circle in the centre. Nothing happened.

"It'll require the Ayleid password," the half-elf told him as she walked up, motioning him aside. "There should be a clue somewhere on the door..." her gauntleted fingers traced the words interspersed among the carvings.

"Please don't tell me we came all the way here without a password," snorted Mazoga, folding her arms and glaring at the door. Aerin rolled her eyes. The Orc had been short and snappish with everyone except Lurog on the way down, though it only took the memory of having once found the warrior unconsciously gazing at Gorgoth's face like a lovestruck Breton teenager to bring a smirk to the Wood Elf's lips. At that moment, Selene muttered a few words in a completely unrecognisable dialect. The doors slowly swung open, grinding harshly on the paving stones. Instantly, the howls grew much more audible.

"We're going in there?" asked Aerin, grimacing at the gaping hole in the ground. It was pitch black, the sunlight seemingly stopping at the door. The muted dormant fear of Miscarcand suddenly flared inside her, and the Bosmer took a step back, pale face growing even paler. She wasn't the only one; Mazoga grunted as though she'd been punched in the stomach, and Selene had raised a hand as though to ward off evil.

As she was about to take another step back, the archer felt a hand squeezing her shoulder and turned to find Ilend's blue eyes meeting hers. There was no fear in them. "I'm only ever going to be three paces from you, and you've got everyone else here. We're all in this together." The calm courage of his voice and eyes relaxed her, and the fear abated somewhat. She smiled at him before stepping forward again. Gorgoth had already entered the ruin, his brilliant light penetrating where the sun could not.

"No danger," he declared, motioning for them to follow him as he started walking deeper. Aerin found herself between Saliith and Ilend with an arrow half-drawn, her eyes scanning the few shadows that escaped the light cast by the globes summoned by Gorgoth and Selene. "Watch your step," rumbled the warrior-shaman from up ahead. "For those without illumination, this would be a death trap." It was easy to see what he meant; the passage was littered with pressure plates and the hapless goblins that had stepped on them, now perforated and shattered by bolts shot from the walls.

"They still work after all this time?" asked Gnaeus, motioning towards some of the bolt-holes with his sword.

"Somehow. We'll never truly understand Ayleid magic," Selene told him. She sometimes walked backwards for several steps to check that they weren't being followed. "There should be light up ahead. This is just a line of defence for one their more important cities."

"You have to wonder what drove these bastards in here," muttered Saliith, poking a goblin's corpse with his toe. "From what I've seen of the filthy greenskins, they take flight at any hint of something more powerful than them."

"Well... there are some good goblin hunters around Skingrad," Ilend told him, smirking. "Maybe they didn't have anywhere else to go." He exchanged a knowing glance with Aerin; it was clear that Ah-Malz had been so bored in Skingrad recently that he was going on more and more goblin hunts. At least it was a good way of training the men.

As if summoned by the conversation concerning them, two goblins rushed around the corner in the corridor a short distance in front of them. At the sight of the light, they skidded to a halt, gibbering in fright and clutching uncertainly at their weapons. Gorgoth made a slight motion with his left hand and the air around the duo froze, attacking their skin, searing their lungs. By the time the group had reached them, their sweat had long frozen on their lifeless bodies.

"Prepare to be attacked soon enough," warned the Orc, removing Blood King from his back. "There is light up ahead."

"Good," grunted Lurog. "There is no honour in sneaking around in the darkness. Best to face your foe directly."

"Funny how you seemed to forget that in all our ambushes," remarked Mazoga dryly. The Orc had moved up to walk beside Gorgoth with her sword drawn. "I also seem to remember how you-" Another fleeing goblin cut her off as it rushed around the corner. She moved to smoothly impale it before kicking it off her blade.

"Finally," muttered Aerin as the group turned the corner into some light provided by natural crystals and not by Illusion magic. Sounds of battle drifted through a wide archway ahead of them, and Mazoga sped up, entering it at a run. The rest of them filed through moments later.

Goblins – there looked to be scores of them – were fighting a desperate battle with an army of skeletons. The massive cavern was alive with the screams of the dying, the battle cries of the living, and the hissing whispers of the undead as they methodically put their unskilled foes to the sword. Thick, putrid blood was already flowing fast, and was so slippery underfoot that Ilend almost fell as he started his charge into the fray. He need not have bothered, however; Gorgoth merely took a step forward and raised his left hand, which momentarily glowed bright purple.

An explosion of sheer force in the centre of the battlefield burst outwards, throwing goblins and skeletons against the far walls with such power that their broken bodies rebounded several times off the ground before sliding to a halt. Aerin relaxed the pressure on her bowstring and looked sideways at the warrior-shaman. It was sometimes easy to forget that this normally stoic, reserved – even placid – Orc could do such things. A chill ran down her spine at the thought of his full fury being unleashed on some entity that had displeased him.

"Not bad," remarked Saliith, sheathing his shortswords. "Less work for us, I guess. Though you will leave some for us, won't you?" The Orc made no reply as he gazed around the cavern, trying to ascertain a direction.

"This place is massive," grunted Ilend, slamming his longsword back into its scabbard with unnecessary force. "We could be in here for days. I think we might lose count if we tried to have a competition, Twi- Saliith." Aerin smirked; back in Cloud Ruler Temple, the Imperial had been left with two bruised ribs after using the Grand Champion's hated nickname. She also recalled being so smug about it that the Guildsman had replaced her water with the most powerful vodka he could lay his hands on.

"Too bad; you'll lose out on the humiliation of being beaten by your elders," snorted Gnaeus, glaring at a fallen skeleton as though it had insulted him by dying in a provocative fashion.

Gorgoth was tapping his canine. "It would take too long to search if we were to stay together," he claimed. "We should split up. Selene, take Aerin, Ilend and Gnaeus and explore in that direction." The warrior-shaman pointed towards a large archway in the far corner of the cavernous room. "Lurog, Mazoga, Saliith, you're with me. We all have supplies for three days. If we do not find each other again, we'll meet up on the surface. You'll know the Great Welkynd Stone when you see it."

"Yeah, I gather that it'd be hard ta miss," remarked Aerin sardonically, falling in behind Selene as the group split. They entered a corridor lit by pillars of glowing blue stones, not unlike Welkynd stones but with far less magical energy. Selene let her magical light dissipate and motioned for the Wood Elf to lead.

"You have good eyes. Shoot anything that moves," she commanded. The archer nodded and nocked an arrow as she cautiously led the way, peering suspiciously into shadows, the ever-present fear of Miscarcand dulled by the three pairs of boots echoing off the white walls behind her. All she had to do was worry about what was in front.

That turned out to be goblins; five of them, discussing quietly in their primitive tongue. The Bosmer halted, swiftly drew the arrow to her cheek and fired. Screeching in alarm as one of their number went down with a pierced skull the creatures turned to find two swordsman mere feet behind them. The two Imperials wasted no time in effortlessly dispatching their panicked victims. "Shouldn't be too many more of these," observed Selene as the last one fell. "Pretty soon we'll be up against the denizens of Miscarcand. Then it might get tricky."

"Always full of good news, ain't ya?" muttered Aerin as she retrieved her arrow. Ilend snorted as he cleaned his blade on a rag torn from a goblin's jerkin.

"Best to make the most of the easy times while you can," he remarked, keeping his now-clean sword out of its scabbard and brushing his hair back behind his ear. The Bosmer's planned response was cut off in formation as something moved in the shadows behind the Imperial. Yelling a warning, she leapt forward and grabbed him, pulling him down as a massive claymore cut through the empty air that his body had just vacated. The skeleton hissed and raised the mighty weapon for another blow, ignorant of the approaching danger until Gnaeus cut its spine in two.

"There's more!" shouted Selene, sending a large fireball flashing down the corridor towards three more skeletons. Ilend scrambled to his feet, helping Aerin up with him as they turned to deal with the undead coming from the other direction. The archer barely had time to draw her shortsword before a skeleton was swinging its war axe at her face. She ducked and swung a kick into its hip, putting it off-balance, but it recovered enough to parry her attack, leaving a gash on her forearm in the process. Grimacing at the stinging pain, the Wood Elf swapped sword hands and struck with a quick thrust, but using the intuition that came with long years of unlife, the skeleton darted sideways and slammed bony knuckles into her forehead. Stumbling backwards, slightly dazed by the punch, she managed to back away from her foe long enough to survive until a daedric longsword severed both arms before decapitating it. The skull bounced a few times before rolling to a halt against the foot of a pillar.

"Just a scratch," mumbled the Bosmer as she removed her weakest healing potion from her belt. They might have been minor, but the cut on her arm and bruise on her forehead certainly hurt. The Guildsman took the potion from her and instead laid a hand on her head, sending Restoration magic running through her before tucking the potion back into her belt. She smiled gratefully and turned to survey the surprisingly large collection of bones piled up nearby.

"I think we're outscoring you," smirked her companion, giving her a playful nudge in the ribs. She grunted, slightly humbled by the demonstration of her lack of skill in close quarters while being grateful for the slight slackening of the ever-present tension. Gnaeus looked sideways at the pair of them, harrumphed, and went back to examining his broadsword for any damage.

"Come on, let's get moving before more of them show up," Selene told them, tapping her glaive against her boot somewhat impatiently. "That's going to be inevitable in a ruin like this." She jerked her head forward, motioning for Aerin to take the lead again.

Random attacks continued in this vein for some time, and after a few hours of fruitless searching through the dead Ayleid city, the battlemage ordered a rest. As the other three slid down to sit against the walls, relaxing as much as they could, the half-elf investigated the small chamber they were in, checking for any malignant being. There was no threat; it appeared to have been a storeroom once, with heavy casks lying around haphazardly, their contents long since rotted away in most cases. She pulled a small beautifully-made dagger out of one, twirling it around in her palm. Tiny flames sometimes flared along the length of the blade, and the curved hilt was pleasantly warm despite having lain undisturbed for centuries. "Good enchantment," she grunted to herself, slipping the dagger through her belt.

"You ever intending to go back to the Arena?" Ilend was asking on the opposite side of the room. He and the former Warrior of the Imperial City Arena had been lightening their packs somewhat by chewing the cold remnants of a deer they'd shot yesterday.

Aerin shrugged. "Probably not, but I don't tend ta think about the future too much these days." It was true; she'd barely thought about the Arena since leaving the Imperial City with Gorgoth months ago. It had always only been a means to an end, a way of supporting herself and paying the rent on her shack in the Waterfront. That shack probably had a new tenant right now, but they were welcome to it as far as she was concerned. She'd found something more fulfilling - not to mention far more exciting – than the Arena had ever been. And she highly doubted that the man sitting next to her would be content to leave Skingrad after the war was over, so seeing him again would be unlikely if she returned. The choice couldn't have been easier.

The Imperial's reply was delayed by a particularly chewy hunk of venison, so the Bosmer had more time to think. She didn't tend to dwell on the future much; it was far better to be fully involved in the present than waste time brooding about what might be. That was how most people tended to live at the Arena; there was no point in looking forward because your life could end in your next fight. More recently, however, she had been looking forward more often, pondering over what she would do when the Oblivion Crisis was resolved. That it would be won was certain; she had complete – if slightly irrational – trust in Gorgoth's ability. A deep voice next to her dispelled her reverie before it could even begin. "You ever thought of joining the Fighter's Guild?"

She turned her head to look Ilend in the eyes. "From time ta time," she replied, a slight smirk plucking at her lips. "Course, if it's filled with sweaty, hairy, unwashed, over-competitive morons like yourself, I might have ta stay away." She nudged him in the ribs, her smirk growing wider.

He laughed. "If that was the case, you'd fit right in," he remarked, nudging her in return. "No, seriously, it's a good future. Free bed and board. The food isn't too bad. And you get used to the tedium. You might not even get much of that if you get a plentiful supply of contracts."

The archer's reply died in her throat as a strong hand silently seized her elbow and dragged her to her feet. Her eyes were drawn to the battleaxe curving over the skeleton's head, some of it still in the shadows from which it had crept. Desperately, Aerin tried to throw herself sideways, but the undead's grasp was unbreakable. She groped for her own sword, despite knowing that it would be too late. As that mighty axe-head cleaved through the air towards her, she was aware of a powerful shout beside her, but was completely surprised as Ilend threw himself at the skeleton, clawing at its weapon arm. Instead of splitting her skull, the flat of the axe glanced off her shoulder, tearing her from its grasp and sending her sprawling to the ground with her upper arm in agony.

Rolling onto her front and struggling to raise herself with her good arm, the Bosmer was sent sliding across the floor again, this time due to a vicious kick in the ribs by one of the three skeletons that had just rushed into the storeroom. Unsheathing her sword with her one good arm, Aerin gritted her teeth and hauled herself to her feet. The only time she'd felt pain worse than this was in the Tournament of the Ten Bloods, but in Boethia's realm she hadn't been spurred on by the sight of her closest friend attempting to fight several opponents at once. The cramped space meant that it was only took two steps for her to be within range, and she wasted no time in thrusting her elven blade into the nearest skeleton's spine, twisting it until the bone snapped.

As though acting on instinct alone, the crumbling minion's companion swung his claymore in the Wood Elf's direction without even looking at her, forcing her to duck and almost cry out at the pain now flaring all over her left side. Stumbling forward, the archer swung clumsily at the skeleton's ribcage. Her attack glanced off the bones, leaving no more than a few chips. The bony fist of her adversary smashed into her torso, driving her backwards, gasping for breath and once again stunned by the force that undead could strike with despite having no muscle. As it stepped forward, raising its sword again, Selene darted in and knocked its legs from under it with the blunt end of her glaive before swinging it around to bury the blade into her opponent's skull.

Aerin was fumbling for a potion when Ilend's cry of pain snapped her head up. A snarl of agony and rage contorted his face as he fought on one-handed, pinned to the wall with a spear through his left shoulder. The Bosmer tore her hand away from her belt and launched herself forward, landing on the back of one of the skeletons attacking the Guildsman and dragging it the ground, ignoring the stabbing agony of her battered body and hacking at its head. Her victim's comrade turned to kick her off him, but failed to account for the daedric longsword that was thrown the short distance into its back.

Panting, the archer slowly raised her head and looked around, checking for any remaining danger despite the nauseating pain. Gnaeus was leaning against the entrance to the room, on the lookout for any other approaching danger. Blood was slowly trickling down his thigh from a gash, but he'd got off easily compared to Ilend, who finally managed to remove the spear head from his shoulder with the assistance of Selene and some fortification magic. Finally convinced that they were safe – for now - the Bosmer groaned and tried to rise. The agony of a dislocated shoulder, broken collarbone, several cracked ribs and a multitude of bruises made themselves fully known in the absence of adrenaline. She vomited noisily before collapsing.

When she next opened her eyes, she found herself in an entirely different room, slightly larger with crystals of various colours lining the walls. The Wood Elf groaned and wriggled her left arm slightly. There was no pain, but memories of the agony still made her wince slightly. Before she could sit up, there was a scrambling nearby and a clinking of chainmail as Ilend sat down on the stone slab she was lying on. Dried blood surrounded a small hole in his armour, but that seemed to be the only lasting memento of that furious, desperate melee. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice full of concern. "You were out for over an hour."

She slowly swung her legs around to sit beside him before answering. "Never better. Come on, ya know I always bounce back." She playfully squeezed his knee, smirking. "If I let something like a few bad-tempered old elves kill me, I'd never have made it out of my dancing job." The Guildsman couldn't help laughing, all concern evaporating.

"You could try a bad-tempered old man for size if you don't let him get his much-needed rest," growled Gnaeus from across the cavern from where he was leaning with his back to a pillar, facing the heavy metal door which Selene seemed to have magically locked. "If you're going to start screwing each other, there's a suitable dark corner somewhere over there." His wizened hand waved towards the back of the room, where there were less crystals in evidence.

"Let me tell you, old man: the neighbours complained about the sound back when I was 'entertaining' my previous lover," remarked Ilend, folding his arms. "I doubt you'd get much rest with that going on." Aerin was already sniggering uncontrollably.

"Well, for one thing, I could Silence the area around you, but right now, we'd best get moving," Selene told them from her position near the door, clearly standing guard. Although her wounds had long since been healed, she too had suffered in the assault; her boots were splattered with drying crimson stains.

"Let's just avoid small areas where we can get swarmed, eh?" suggested Aerin, sliding off her slab and picking up Trueshot from where it lay. "I'd personally rather not have ta get my sword dirty again. I'll leave that ta you fine gents..." Smirking, she ran her hands over the arrows in her quiver and followed the half-elf out of the chamber.

---

"How long has it been? A day now?" Saliith shook his head, scratching his scales in annoyance. The constant cold had been getting debilitating until Gorgoth's magic had prevented it from affecting him. Most of the previous hours seemed to meld together into one long running battle with skeletons and other undead as they'd descended deeper into the city. Chips in his shortswords and a few missing throwing knives were evidence of how many enemies there were; tears in his scale armour were evidence of how hard they fought.

"The passage of time is not important," rumbled Gorgoth from up ahead. "What matters is that we do not waste any." The warrior-shaman was leading the way, dispatching any minor threats with whatever spell appeared to take his fancy at the time. Saliith was fine with that; it meant that he could save his strength and his potions for the large engagements that occurred whenever the spirits of Miscarcand attacked them in force.

"We've got enough supplies for two more days," announced Mazoga, bringing up the rear. The Argonian frowned for a second as he tried to distinguish the words from her thick accent; it was sometimes hard enough to listen to fast-speaking Imperials, let alone barely-civilised Orcs. Particularly when there were three of them. His attention was momentarily distracted by a skeleton looming up out of a cloud of light mist ahead of them. The warrior-shaman scattered its bones with a well-placed fireball, barely breaking stride.

The more he fought for a victory of great importance, the more Saliith realised how little the Arena actually meant. Yes, he'd gained immortality as The Green Tornado, but what did that actually mean? He'd won fame and the adoration, the worship of thousands, but it would all be meaningless if Dagon swept across Tamriel, wreaking destruction and havoc at every turn. A Grand Champion staying at the Arena might well kill a few Daedra, but he would be defeated; if, on the other hand, he helped to pre-emptively strike at the enemy, he could prevent that. He knew what choice he would now take.

Gorgoth would approve, no doubt. The lizard knew relatively little about the mysterious warrior-shaman, but he was certainly indebted to him. Not only for helping him at the start of the path that would make him Grand Champion, but for helping him realise the truly important things in life. He and Branwen had been happy misguided fools. Had she been alive, would she agree with him? The Argonian shook his head. They would discuss it in Aetherius. That would be soon, as he held no illusions about his probability of survival. He was an outstanding one-on-one fighter, a born crowd-pleaser and duel-winner, but against the armies of Dagon, he would be overwhelmed. His only hope was that he make a significant contribution before his end came.

Up ahead, their leader raised a warning hand, instantly stopping the small group. "Large chamber up ahead," he told them, his voice a low grunt. "Watch the shadows." Three nods acknowledged his words and weapons were gripped slightly firmer. The Orc conjured a globe of light and, raising it far above his head, entered the chamber.

It provided the perfect illumination for the skeleton that leapt at him, warhammer swinging down in a killing blow. Gorgoth's left hand clenched into a fist and a wave of air slammed into his opponent, sending him flying into several of his brethren. As they scattered, his hand grew bright as he prepared some kind of Destruction magic, but Saliith was soon distracted by yet more undead coming from every direction save the way they had come from. Lurog and Mazoga instantly went back-to-back near their fellow Orc, trusting the warrior-shaman to cover their flanks, but the much more agile Argonian had no intention of letting his short reach betray him in relatively static combat.

He sprinted into action, rolling between two skeletons and slicing through the vulnerable gaps between their knees and shins. Rising, he buried both blades in their skulls as they fell and jumped, evading his next opponent's low swing and kicking it in that ever-grinning face. Chopping both blades through its neck as he landed, the lizard shoved the falling body aside and parried an approaching scimitar. Stepping back to regain his balance, he froze, his body growing rigid. Glancing down, he saw the point of an ancient elven longsword poking out of his stomach. Stunned by the mortal blow, he barely felt any pain as his backstabber wrenched the blade out of him, tearing through bone and flesh, spilling body fluids over the stone floor. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth as the Grand Champion slowly attempted to turn, to attempt to take his killer down with him.

He'd expected to see a leer, a mocking light in those empty eye sockets. Instead, he was slightly shocked to find a headless body slowly toppling over. The Argonian dimly heard a clatter as Selene threw her glaive aside to catch him as he fell, Ilend and Gnaeus moving to defend her flanks. Powerful healing magic started pumping through his dying body, finding the wound and closing it, restoring the energies of life. The half-elf's concerned green eyes continued to gaze into his as she sent a slight jolt of lighting throughout his body, snapping his head up, senses fully restored.

"Get me up!" he panted at her, finding that he was still clutching both his shortswords. The sounds of battle were resonating around the chamber; a dull explosion made the floor quake and dust fell in prodigious quantities from the high ceiling. She obliged, wrapping both arms around his torso and heaving him to his feet before backing away and sending ball lightning flashing towards a group of skeletons. Still slightly unbalanced, Saliith staggered before being stopped by Aerin's hand on his arm.

"Don't you die just yet, Twitch-Tail!" she shouted gleefully at him over the continuing explosions as Gorgoth wrought havoc among the waves of undead. "I'm way ahead on the scorecards! Come on, I wanted a challenge!" With that, she skipped away from him, pausing to send a perfectly-aimed arrow through a skeleton's mouth.

Shaking his head at the Wood Elf's antics, Saliith grabbed a throwing knife and sent it spinning into a nearby target's leg, forcing it down on one knee and presenting an easy target for Gnaeus's broadsword. Turning, he ducked under a wild lunge, finding that his legs were still slightly unsteady before managing to roll through his adversary's legs. It spun, but not quickly enough; the Argonian's blades severed its sword arm before he kicked it backwards onto a pile of bones, all that remained of a large group of its fellow undead.

The massive assault finally petered out; there simply were not enough denizens of Miscarcand to defeat two powerful battlemages on unfavourable ground, particularly not when they were both supported by very able warriors. The sheer strength and skill of their opponents had taken its toll, however; a skeleton's sword had snapped off inside Mazoga's thigh, leaving a two-foot length of steel firmly embedded in her leg. Lurog's chainmail was torn in several places, Gnaeus was bleeding heavily from a wound in his back, and no one else was without a minor wound of some sort.

Sighing, Saliith sheathed his weapons, feeling a slight weakness come over him as the adrenaline left him. He looked down at his stomach. The only legacy of that wound was the small gash in his scale armour and a smearing of blood around it. His memory, however, of that rapid numbing sensation, that approaching blackness, would stay with him until death finally did take him. He'd come close enough to death before in the Arena, but never before had he felt that he'd already had one foot in Aetherius. Leaning back on a nearby pedestal – one of several that dotted the chamber, each hosting a Welkynd Stone – he sighed, trying to ease some of the tension that gripped his body.

"How have you lot been doing?" he rasped, closing his eyes as Aerin strolled languidly over to him. She seemed uncaring about the numerous rips and tears in her leather armour, but that was to be expected; this was Aerin, after all.

"Much the same as you, I'd imagine," she replied, leaning against the same pedestal, her shoulder brushing his arm. "A load of dead skellies, boring corridors, empty rooms... and then we find you lot and pull your arse out of the fire." She nudged him. "Don't scare me like that again, OK? I thought you were dead."

"Next time, I'll ask the malicious undead bastard behind me to consider the feelings of a rather annoying Bosmer before stabbing me," responded Saliith dryly. He folded his arms and looked on, wincing in empathy, as Gorgoth disintegrated the remnants of the sword stuck in Mazoga's leg before healing her. It was a rare fighter who could force steel through ebony plate armour; a showcase of just how well the Ayleids had made weapons, and the power with which the undead here were imbued.

The archer smirked before shivering slightly and hugging herself. "It seems ta get colder every minute down here," she complained. "Must be even worse for you."

He chuckled. "Gorgoth wrapped me in a heating spell of his," he said, grinning smugly at her jealous glare. The ever-present warmth seemed slightly unnatural, but it was far better than freezing to death. "But, if I'm honest, the cold is the least of our worries. How many healing potions do you have left?"

Aerin grunted and patted the two vials in her belt. "You'd think we'd have saved more with a good healer around," she muttered. "But sometimes we just couldn't wait for her ta get detached from whatever she was blowing up."

The half-elf in question had just finished conferring with Gorgoth, who glanced around at the carnage. "From now on, we move forward together," he announced. "There cannot be far to go. Stay vigilant." He motioned towards a large archway on the far side of the chamber. "There are likely to be many more Ayleids ahead, but we will get that Stone or die trying. Get moving."

---

Several hours later, none of them had yet died trying despite the best efforts of the Ayleids to defend their dead city, which rivalled the Imperial City for size. The group had passed through residential districts, several barracks, workshops, and what appeared to be mansions, to name but a few of the wonders of Miscarcand. All of this – save for a few normal Welkynd Stones - was ignored by Gorgoth. He was not prepared to risk the future of the entire world as he knew it just to study the remnants of an ancient civilisation. "We are getting close," he told the group as they prepared to end their most recent rest stop.

"How do you know?" enquired Aerin, frowning as she counted the arrows in her quiver. She only had six left. "We've been down in this place for what, two days now? And I have no idea where we are. Unless you've got a map?"

"The design down here is far more extravagant," explained Selene, who had been listening in. "A far cry from the normal elegant simplicity of the Ayleids. I think we might be near the King's section. We'll probably find the Stone there." The archer nodded and started to pull her boots back on. Gorgoth leant his head back on the pillar and studied the engraved mural across from him on the opposite wall. Never the best reader, he could nonetheless read the four languages he spoke with some modicum of skill, but he was completely ignorant of all but a few words of Ayleid. Those words, of course, would forever remain branded on his memory.

Mor Naga av nou Ehlno Jorani. Dark death to our mortal betrayers. He had seen that inscription, splattered with his own blood, for a mere second, but he would never forget it. Even thinking about the words sparked a throbbing pain in the long, dark scar that reached across his torso, stretching from the top of his stomach to the start of his left thigh. Sinweaver had bitten hard and bitten deep; he would feel the effects of the enchantment to his dying day. He forced the ancient claymore from his mind. There were more important things to think about. Ignoring the pain, he turned to his comrades. "Resistance will probably be fewer in number, but stronger in ability, if my logic is correct," he warned them, turning to unbar the door.

His logic was indeed correct. Few skeletons patrolled these broad, well-lit corridors, but they wielded their large blades and axes with even more precision, and some wore scraps of plate armour. Quality, however, was not enough to stop eight battle-hardened, determined combatants. Not even the increased presence of ghosts, many of whom chose to emerge from the walls in an attempt to surprise them, did much to delay the group. Eventually, a pair of massive stone doors swung open to reveal a large, cavernous room. Gorgoth ordered the rest to move in and spread out to take up defensive positions as he crossed the bridge to reach the pedestal in the centre of the room.

The Great Welkynd Stone's pale blue light lit up the entire chamber. Held in place by an iron pedestal with sharp drops to the ground below on two sides, the artefact was a thin, smooth crystal about a foot long. As he approached it, the Orc could feel the immense amounts of magical energy running through its construction, the shimmering lights under the surface sparking in tune with the humming of power. He looked at it for a few seconds before cautiously removing it from its place. It was cold; not the cold of a crystal untouched for centuries, but a more magical cold.

"Naga av ehlnoi! Tyavoy nou molag! Tyavoy nou mafre!" As his furious words were still hanging in the air, the King of Miscarcand appeared on a platform high above their heads. His long lichdom had ensured that not one Ayleid feature remained on his enraged face; what skin remained stretched over his skeleton had long since rotted beyond recognition. His dark robes were equally filthy, but the highly-charged aura surrounding him and the tall wooden staff in his hands were alive with power. Extending a bony finger towards the intruders, he spat a stream of instructions. Skeletons arose from nothingness in the area below the pedestal, two sets of stairs rapidly rising to allow them to do their lord's bidding.

Gorgoth met the lich-king's eyes for mere seconds before glancing towards his comrades. "Run!" He was the first to follow his own bellowed command, clenching his left hand around the Stone and sprinting around the pedestal, across the second half of the bridge. "Run, if you value your lives!" By the time he had reached the door on the far side of the cavern, they were hot on his heels. The warrior-shaman sent a powerful fireball ahead of him, shattering the doors and leaping over the debris.

He turned and saw each of his comrades through, sending ball lightning back at the approaching mass of skeletons, ripping many apart only to see them replaced by more. The King levitated down to hover above his followers and raised his staff and free hand. Gorgoth's hastily-erected shield shattered under the onslaught of a howling inferno of elemental magic, huge columns of fire, frost and lightning tearing the entire wall apart. The Orc was blasted backwards down the corridor, slamming into his rearmost companions and taking them to the ground, eventually sliding to a halt against a wall. Only the powerful shield he'd wrapped around his body had saved him from certain death.

"What in Oblivion is that?" choked Aerin as Lurog hauled her to her feet. "Can we even kill it?"

"He is the King of Miscarcand," growled Gorgoth, getting to his feet and looking behind them. The corridor had collapsed inwards, blocking the way back with massive slabs of rubble. "That will not stop him. We need to find a place where we can face him on something like equal terms."

"Why not just run?" demanded Selene. "This could be part of a quick escape route the kings had to the surface. Look at its comparable simplicity to-"

"Damn it, Selene, this is not the time to be discussing stonework!" exploded Ilend, glaring around and clutching the hilt of his sword tightly. "We need to be moving, not talking!"

"The King has been down here for millennia," grunted Gorgoth, placing the Stone in his belt bag, leaving both hands free for spellcasting. "He knows this place far better than any of us. If we run for too long, he will slaughter us. We have to defeat him."

"You got a plan, greenskin?" barked Gnaeus. "I haven't seen you do anything so far apart from run for your pathetic life."

"We will move on," replied the Orc, brushing past the old hermit and starting off in the only direction available to them. "Move quickly, but watch for anything. He can teleport with impunity, I am sure."

The King, however, did not bother them at first. They rapidly found that the passageway was uphill, and started sloping upwards more sharply as they progressed. Their leader kept up a punishing pace, running for longer and faster than anyone would expect for a large Orc wearing heavy plate armour. Eventually, upon reaching a small, simple chamber off to the side of the main passage, he ordered a rest. Most of the group instantly slumped down against the four ornate pillars decorating the room, but the warrior-shaman merely moved to where he could see most of his surroundings, including the only door in and out. Selene joined him, panting and resting her weight on her glaive.

"What kind of chances do we have?" she asked him, leaning heavily against the wall as she checked her magical potions. Each mage had several strong potions that would restore their magical energies; they might be enough.

"Both of us together might be able to defeat him," grunted her companion, maintaining a powerful spell of life detection. "Our comrades might not be allowed to get close, but they will form a considerable distraction. And he will not be expecting the penetrating power of Trueshot. No one ever expects Trueshot." He motioned Aerin over. The Bosmer reluctantly dragged herself to her feet and lurched over. "How many arrows do you have left?" he asked.

"Four," she sighed. "Why? I only need one ta deal a death blow. Just gimme the chance."

Gorgoth leaned forward, resting both hands on her shoulders and staring into her eyes. She gulped and hesitantly returned his gaze. It was clear that she was still slightly scared of him. At another time, he might have said a few words to put her fears to rest – she was highly unlikely to ever give him a reason to harm her, and he always treated those he called comrades with honour and respect – but now, there was more important business at hand. "Do not miss," he told her. "It must be fatal. Aim for the heart or the head. Any more than one shot, and he will learn the power of your bow."

Her expression was one of uncertainty as she gulped again. "You... you take Trueshot, if you want," she offered, patting the bow on her back. "You can-" the Orc was shaking his head.

"I cannot," he growled. "My magic must keep him occupied. I cannot do that with a bow in my hands. And you are a better archer than I can ever hope to be." He squeezed her shoulders gently. "Aerin, I trust you. I know you will not fail us." She smiled, the uncertainty in her gaze easing slightly as he straightened, releasing her. "Now get whatever rest you can. But do not sleep."

He watched her as she walked back to a pillar and slid down next to Ilend, easing Trueshot of her back for comfort. He trusted her to a certain extent – she was far from gaining his full trust, as was anyone who had known him for less than two years – but he also actually felt that, deep down, he was starting to like her. She was a departure from the completely different Orcish culture, for one thing, and he admired her ability to boost morale, at least for the short term. Grunting, he dragged his mind back to the task at hand. "What's our plan?" Selene was asking.

"We throw whatever magic we can at him. He will have numerous shields and reflections up, of course. His robes might be enchanted, but he will not be relying on those alone. If both of us can swamp him with dispelling magic, we might bring his defences down to give us a chance at dealing some real damage." He sighed and looked around at his mundane comrades, most of whom would probably be dead soon enough. Neither he nor Selene could spare the magicka to wrap them all in protective spells. They would have to fend for themselves.

A shimmering pink image suddenly appeared in his field of vision, slightly above them and further along the passageway. No skeleton or ghost would cast that life signature, and no mortal would be able to teleport this far underground without a Mark. "Be ready!" he roared, his mighty voice resonating throughout the cavern as his companions surged to their feet. The pink image disappeared then reappeared as the King of Miscarcand teleported into the centre of the chamber, a mere foot away from Ilend.

"Tya balangua!" The Ayleid's battle cry downed out all other sounds as his magicka exploded outwards, blasting everyone back against the walls except for Gorgoth and Selene, both of whom already had their shields up. Both mages instantly sent Destruction magic powerful enough to level buildings at him, but what the lich didn't absorb, he reflected, forcing them to block their own spells. Instantly, they switched to sending scores of small but powerful balls of dispelling magicka at him, only to find that he could tear apart their spells before they even reached him, or absorb them with expendable shields.

This magical fight was completely ignored by Ilend, who ran in with his sword raised to cleave down into the ancient elf's skull. A casual flick of the hand sent him spiralling backwards, dealt a stunning blow by a huge fist of air. He landed heavily against the wall, not only cracking the back of his skull but crushing Aerin between him and the stone. The Bosmer gasped and dropped Trueshot, all the air forced from her body. Lurog tried a similar attack only to have his shield shattered by ball lightning, along with most of the bones in his arm. Saliith ran halfway up a pillar and jumped off, aiming high, only to find himself pinned to the ceiling by three well-placed icicles.

Barely absorbing a bolt of fire in time, Gorgoth focused all the energy he could spare into shooting more dispelling magic from both palms, widening their routes, filling the air with them. Across from him, Selene did the same. Their magicka levels was draining at alarming rates, but at least for now the King had to make defence his main focus. The Orc looked around to locate Aerin, finding her wriggling out from under Ilend's unmoving body, reaching out for Trueshot. Snarling, the warrior-shaman tore a potion from his belt and swigged it down. Gnaeus, who had been cautiously eyeing up the lich from the shadows, nodded to Mazoga and the pair moved in from different angles to attack simultaneously. A small fireball slammed into the Orc's torso, spinning her around and sending her flying into the wall. Gorgoth felt nothing. He had no time for anything but the fight. He barely reacted when Gnaeus, hit by another fist of air, landed at his feet, slightly dazed.

Across the chamber, the half-elven battlemage had slowly been advancing towards her adversary, her shields negating the attacks that had already proven so devastating to her mundane comrades. Drinking down two potions, she gripped her glaive and sent all the relevant magicka she could think of running through its blade. A massive purple orb started growing in her left hand as she moved closer, eventually stopping a mere two feet from the King. Releasing the spell, thousands of tiny particles of the orb hit the Ayleid before he could counter them. His shields flickered and died. Shouting in celebration of her victory, Selene swung her charged glaive at her opponent's head.

She hit nothing but empty air as he teleported behind her, not only avoiding her blow but frustrating Gorgoth's efforts to hit him quickly when his defences were down. Already throwing up his shields anew, the King grabbed the back of Selene's neck in one hand – thus bypassing all her shields - and sent a pulse of dark magicka through her.

The battlemage was violently ripped apart, her shattered body flying in all directions, bouncing off walls, pillars, comrades. Gorgoth's sole reaction was to take a few steps forward, maintaining his defence and deflecting the blood, bone and armour fragments that were hurtling his way. He would have felt nothing – apart from respect - for Selene even if he hadn't been involved in a life-or-death struggle; death came for everyone, eventually. At least she had died well.

A recovered Gnaeus was far less stoic. "Bastard!" he roared, throwing himself at the King with no thought for his own safety. The Ayleid waved a dismissive hand to send him flying upwards into a pillar with devastating force. The crunch of broken bones was clear even above the sound of rushing magicka as the old Imperial dropped limply to the ground. There was a roar and the lich staggered forward, unbalanced. Lurog, his left arm hanging uselessly, raised his mace for a second attack despite seeing the fist full-armed smash do little but bounce off his opponent's magical protection. His remaining strength abruptly left him, and the sudden overwhelming fatigue buckled his knees. The Orc collapsed to the ground. Saliith dropped from the ceiling above him – having finally torn out the last of the icicles pinning him there – and weakly attempted to drag his crippled companion to safety.

Gorgoth's snarl grew more pronounced as he took another step forward. Rivers of sweat were running down his face and body, he only had one potion left, and already the exhaustion of constant usage of complex magicka was eating away at him. But his determination would not be stopped. The air around the lich, right up to his shielded skin, burst into a single sheet of flame so hot that the stones cracked. Unharmed but now sightless, the King roared in frustration and teleported outside the afflicted area, only for his adversary to repeat the spell. Turning his head slightly, he saw what he wanted to see: Aerin was on her feet, sharp eyes narrowed, drawing an arrow to her cheek. She had been watching the lich for the last few minutes, and knew exactly where his head would be. "Aerin, wait!" She looked over at the warrior-shaman, confused until he lurched over and tapped her arrow, wrapping it in a spell that would let it survive the fire. "Now!"

She fired. Her arrow flew straight into the boiling inferno and vanished. Gorgoth maintained the fire until his nose picked up the smell of victory; the stench of ancient flesh roasting. He released all his spells, the exhaustion of his exertions driving him to his knees. In front of him on the cracked stone floor lay a small mound of ash and a scorched arrowhead.

---

After so long in an underground city lit only by crystals, the light of the moons felt almost unnatural to Ilend. He would get used to normality again soon enough, however. His fingers unconsciously found the back of his skull before he snatched them away. Gorgoth, having imbibed his last potion, had managed to heal the most serious wounds before falling into the dark depths of unconsciousness. He had been carried by Lurog and Mazoga on the hours-long trudge to the surface and had only woken just before they reached the end of what seemed to be an escape route for the ancient kings. Their remaining wounds had been healed then, but the mental scars would take far longer to deal with.

The Imperial sighed and looked back at their ragged camp. Only Aerin and Gorgoth were still awake, and the warrior-shaman seemed to have slipped into a contemplative mood. Aerin was watching over Saliith - who had lost the most blood and was still very weak – and Gnaeus. The trauma of both having most of his ribcage shattered and losing the woman he seemed to have adopted as a granddaughter had probably cut in half his remaining life expectancy. Grunting, Ilend shook his head and went back to his guard duty.

It was hard not to dwell on Selene's death. He'd lost comrades before, of course – Kvatch still burned in his irregular nightmares – but it never got any easier, not for him. He knew, however, that they had been lucky. The lich-king could have killed most of them with pathetic ease. They would have all died in Miscarcand if not for a powerful Orc's tenacity and the ancient bow of a skilled Bosmer. Ilend grimaced. He had felt helpless at times before, but then at least he'd known that he could be of some use. But against the King of Miscarcand, he might as well have been a child with a wooden sword. But at least that meant that he knew he could have done nothing to prevent his friend's death. He felt none of the guilt that had afflicted him for so long after Kvatch.

Boots crunched on the hard ground next to him, and he shifted on the rock to give the Wood Elf more room as she sat down beside him. "How are you holding up?" he asked, looking sideways at her. The flickering light of the small fire made shadows - cast by her loose strands of hair - dance across her face as she stared into the flames.

Aerin sighed. "I need to accept that she's not coming back." The Bosmer shook her head and turned to meet his eyes. "Right now, I keep thinking she'll walk back up to the camp fire and quietly settle back in, like she'd just gone... hunting or something. But..." She shook her head, managing a weak smile in gratitude as Ilend's comforting arm curled around her shoulders. "It'd be better if we had a body to bury. I think. I can't be sure..." Pressing both hands to her temples, she looked back at Gorgoth. Selene's glaive was currently resting in the crook of the warrior-shaman's elbow.

"Live in the present, not the past," he advised. "You said it yourself, remember? Back then, I was killing myself over Kvatch."

Her expression grew more mournful. "Yeah... but it's hard sometimes... I can't not care about her, ya know?"

Ilend resisted the urge to sigh. He himself was still downcast, but experience meant he was able to at least push that feeling to the back of his mind. But Aerin didn't have his experience. He had to be strong. "Then be happy. She's in Aetherius now. Back with her family. She'll be happy, for sure. She died well. Not a coward's death." He shook her shoulders lightly, a smile spreading over his face. "Besides, you've got yourself to think about. You saved all our arses. Be proud."

The Bosmer returned the smile, albeit more weakly, and wrapped both her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Couldn't have done it without those two mages," she murmured.

He chuckled. For someone of her personality, she was always so quick to credit others above herself. "And the effort of those two mages would have been all in vain if not for you," he reminded her. She nodded silently, her smile slowly fading as silence fell, interrupted only by the surrounding wildlife and gentle snoring from the bedrolls. The Imperial went back to scanning the surrounding forest, attempting not to think about his dead comrade too much. After a few minutes, Aerin raised her head to look him in the eyes.

"Whatever happens... we'll still have each other, right?"

Looking into those blue eyes, he had to stop himself from telling her that neither of them were immune from death, that it was likely that one or both of them would die in this war. Instead, he forced a smile and tried to sound confident. "Yeah. I'll be here."

She smiled gratefully and got to her feet, turning to Gorgoth. "Hey, big guy, could you take the watch?" He looked up at her for a few seconds, considering, before glancing at Ilend. Standing, he nodded, walking over to a good position and easing down to sit with his back against a tree. He rested Selene's glaive across his legs, running a hand up and down the steel. Aerin motioned Ilend over into the warmth of the fire. The Bosmer appeared to be blushing slightly, but that might have just been the heat. "I need some rest, but, eh..." She paused, looking down. "...I don't really want ta sleep without someone beside me. Not after that, ya know?" She looked up again.

The Guildsman nodded. "Yeah. I know what you mean. We could all use each other's company tonight..." He sighed. "Get your bedroll and put it next to mine. I'll join you soon enough. And don't worry about waking me if you need anything."

His friend nodded and turned to get her blankets, but stopped as though remembering something. "Thanks, guardsman," she whispered as she reached up on tiptoes to brush a kiss against his cheek before hurrying off.

Ilend remained still for a few minutes, staring at Miscarcand though seeing nothing in particular. In that city, he had lost a comrade, but escaped with something that would be essential if they were to win the war. Had it been worth it? Undoubtedly. Ever a soldier, the Imperial knew all too well the definition of 'expendable assets'. Selene had died doing her duty. 'Take care of the living, then mourn for the dead' was an old military maxim he'd read in some book he'd found in Cloud Ruler Temple. Now he realised how fitting it was. Touching his cheek, he also realised that, despite losing a sister-in-arms, he might have gained at least something tonight.

---

The scream was long, loud and piercing. Writhing on the now completely crimson operating table, barely held down by two of his fellow legionnaires, the soldier bellowed obscenities at anyone who would listen. No one would; the impromptu field hospital was already overflowing, the medics completely overwhelmed. This case was just one of many. Primo Varius wearily heaved his fellow Imperial's amputated leg off the table and slung it over his shoulder, leaving the operating theatre and heading outside. The entrance hall of Fort Sutch looked like a slaughterhouse, with legionnaires with varying wounds laid out on their bedrolls in any available space. Picking his way through them, Primo hardened his heart and ignored the begging for water, food, any relief from the pain. What few soldiers were left were either helping the surgeon save what could be saved or watching for any more of those damned Gates. There was no time to spare on cripples. The harsh reality of war.

Leaving the hall, the Imperial – formerly of the Imperial Watch in the Imperial City, now a legionnaire in the 2nd Century, 4th Cohort, Seventh Legion – left the walls of the fort through the open gates and threw the shattered leg onto a large pile of discarded body parts. Pausing, he leaned back against the wall and sighed. The slightly fresher air outside was welcome, as was the cool of the night, but the smell of the blood – only a little of it his own - on his armour wouldn't leave him until he'd washed it at least five times.

From where he was standing, Primo had an excellent view of the battlefield. Two charred remnants of Oblivion Gates, standing side by side, lay slightly beyond a long, thin line of bodies. Scores of men had fallen; many more had never left Oblivion after volunteering to go in, having weathered the initial shocking onslaught of the daedric titans. It had been early morning when the first Gate was spotted; Centurion Sergius Maro had ordered all three centuries into their standard shield wall formation. They had stayed like that, with shields locked and swords clutched in steady hands, for fifteen minutes. No onslaught, until the second Gate had opened, both suddenly emitting what seemed like an endless horde of Dagon's minions.

The legionnaire sighed again. From what little he'd heard of the attacks on cities, the daedra had always attacked in waves, from a single gate. They had never waited for a second to open before combining forces and attacking in one mass. The Legion had failed to perceive that this war was new to the Daedra as well, failed to perceive that their enemies would learn. As a result, barely fifty armed effectives remained out of what had once been a deadly fighting force of three hundred men. Dagon was marching closer to victory.

"Legionnaire Varius!" Primo jerked upright, standing to attention as Centurion Uriel Quintus, the last remaining officer of that rank, walked up to him. He had no bodyguard; there were no men to spare. The centurion held his plumed helmet under his arm, probably due to the bandage that was wrapped around his head. It would have been healed – along with most of the other casualties – if the detachment's three battlemages had not all died in Oblivion. "Varius, are you fit to ride?" queried Quintus, whose eyes had narrowed. Ever the harsh taskmaster, he hated an idle soldier.

"Yes, Centurion," responded the Imperial, staring straight ahead. His body disagreed with his words; the numerous bruises, the throbbing gash on his upper arm, and the complete physical exhaustion all meant that the only thing he wanted right now was some quality rest. But if duty called, then he would answer, no matter what he wanted personally. The Legion called for nothing less.

"Good. I require you to deliver this message to General Phillida in the Imperial City." Quintus held out a thick letter sealed with the Imperial Dragon seal. "The General needs to know about these new developments," continued the centurion. "Take the best horse you can find and a remount." He turned to head back to the battlements, but checked himself. "Oh, and Varius... don't bother coming back here. We'll only be split up anyway. Too many losses for them to be worth replacing. Report for reassignment to another century as soon as you've delivered that. You'll be needed elsewhere. You fought well today."

Primo saluted his superior's retreating back and headed off in the direction of the Fort Sutch Stables. The three centuries had worked wonders on the fort before the attack, rebuilding much of the crumbling stonework and making it a proud Imperial fortress once more, but the stables were still small and barely housed their small complement of horses. None of the steeds were anything like well-bred warhorses, but they would suffice. The ostler was probably lying on the battlefield with his guts around his ankles, so the legionnaire chose the two horses himself before quickly making a diversion to the barracks. Hopefully, he was managing to hide his relief at his assignment. While proud to serve the Legion in whatever service, he had no desire to stay in this butcher's yard. There would be fighting or other vital duties elsewhere; here, there were only sentries or medics. Or death, if the daedra came again. The Imperial had no aversion to giving his life in the service of the Empire, but he'd rather die in a battle of some importance rather than the slaughter of the remnants of three exhausted centuries.

There was no one in the barracks – as expected, everyone was either on duty, wounded or dead – so he was able to quickly make his way over to his hammock and start stuffing his meagre personal belongings into a burlap sack. He didn't have much; a handful of septims, a few letters from his friends in Leyawiin or the City, his personal dagger and some clothing. The Legion had been his life ever since he joined, and it would be for the foreseeable future; he wouldn't need much more than the standard-issue equipment when away from home. Hastily tying the strings, he slung the bag over his back, re-emerging into the courtyard. The sky to the east was starting to brighten. It would be daylight soon.

"You haven't left already?" muttered Quintus angrily as his subordinate mounted the first horse just outside the gate. "Well, get going. Stop for no one." Primo needed no encouragement; he heeled his mount into a trot, which he maintained until he reached a rise half a mile from the fort. He stopped, looking back. In the growing light, he could just about make out the heaps of dead on the battlefield. His fist slammed into his chest as he saluted his dead brothers-in-arms.

"You won't be forgotten," he snarled. "I swear it."

---

A/N: I'm not entirely happy with some parts of this chapter... mainly because I had to forcibly write through my writer's block until it vanished. Still, it got written, that's what's important. Don't forget to tell me what you think by clicking on that link just below. Your feedback is important; I HAVE to know if I'm doing something wrong in order to correct it.

Random fact: Aerin is in Skyrim. He's a male Imperial (I think he's Imperial, at least...). Slightly disturbing... I'd always assumed it was a female-only Bosmeri name. Ah, well, you learn something new every day... Also, I should note that I'm once again away for the weekend, so any review replies will be delayed. Don't let that stop you from leaving a review, though...