A/N: I don't know exactly how long this chapter took me to write, only that it was too long. Yes, it's my last chapter and the quality had to be assured, but you, my loyal readers, have followed me this far and thus deserve better. But anyhow, you'll find anything else in the massive ending Author's Note, for now, here's the review replies to those much-appreciated reviewers:

Anon: Indeed; and now this thing is finally finished. At long last...

TehEpic: Good to hear it worked; I'm not a fan of massive dialogue myself, but I felt that chapter was needed.

Underpaid Critic: Indeed it has improved; I look back at my early chapters now and wince at the shoddy quality of them. I really should go back and re-edit them now...

Random Reader: Well, nothing after that until he finds his next cause to fight for, though the desire for vengeance always has been his driving force thus far. I doubt he'll find healing, however; he himself believes that he's beyond all healing.

Bobb: Yes, admittedly, I skimmed over the religious divide in Oblivion, but in BaS King Gortwog and much of Orsinium most definitely worship Trinimac; one of his titles is the Sword of Trinimac, after all. Most of his court do worship Trinimac, but the Pocket Guide does mention a minority still hold to the old ways of Malacath (Gornakh and Gorgoth are among these, as are the shamans who trained Gorgoth; remember that the spread of Trinimac worship is a relatively recent occurrence).

Right, enough from me; here is the final chapter of Blood and Steel. At long last.


Chapter Fifty-four: The End of an Era

They broke camp at the crack of dawn. Martin took them south immediately, negotiating the forest and the morning mist until they were standing rather nervously in two long ranks on a beach facing the City Isle, barely visible through the fog. The horses pawed nervously at the loose sand, detecting their rider's emotions. Gorgoth and Ocato moved through the ranks, casting a spell of water walking on each mount and advising the soldiers that they only had the strength to do this for the horses; fall off and the heavily-armoured warriors would probably drown. Stepping back from doing the last horse assigned to him, Gorgoth brushed his hair out of his eyes, feeling a stab of irritation. He'd been so used to the war braids that he'd forgotten how convenient they were for keeping his hair from obstructing his vision when not wearing a helmet. There were more important things to consider than the availability of a hair band, however, so he mounted Baluk and nudged her to join Martin and Grandmaster Steffan.

"I can't say I like this idea," Steffan was saying as he frowned down at the water's edge, inches from the hooves of his steed. "Solid ground is so much more reliable. And you, sire, will sink like a stone if you fall off; that armour will see you to the bottom quicker than any rock."

"I thought you might make that observation, Grandmaster," replied Martin, a smirk plucking at his lips as he cast a spell, a white sheen covering his body for a split second. "There. To satisfy you, I've just cast the same spell on myself. And we both know that this will save us hours; at this stage, every minute counts." He turned away from the leader of his bodyguard as Gorgoth reined in beside him. "Is everything ready, Gorgoth?"

"My spells are cast. I will maintain them until every horse is on solid ground again. Ocato will probably finish very soon." He looked into the calm, still water. "The horses will need to be eased onto the lake. They will not be used to this."

Martin nodded in agreement, and a few seconds later the High Chancellor rode up, his bay stallion looking every bit as magnificent as he burnished bronze armour. "My spells are cast," he reported.

"Good." The Emperor gently guided his reluctant mount forward onto the water before half-turning and raising his voice to address his bodyguard. "We will advance across Lake Rumare until we make landfall just north of the city gates. I know some of you are uneasy, but this will save us hours if no one falls off." He paused, sweeping his gaze along the two ranks. "Move out." He followed his own order by urging his horse further out onto the lake in the direction of the massive bridge.

Gorgoth gently nudged Baluk forward, whispering soothingly in her ear to calm her obvious nerves. She was no warhorse – he'd taken her from a Black Horse Courier messenger months ago – but she was strong enough to carry his bulk, and willing to walk across a large lake with enough encouragement. Such communication between mount and rider was not in evidence throughout the company; a few Blades, unused to horses, fell off or were unseated by their quivering steeds. The water was still shallow, however, and they were eventually guided back into their saddles by some of the smirking legionaries. Within minutes the entire force was heading across the body of water at a fast walk.

The warrior-shaman noted Mazoga and Krognak falling in slightly behind him, keeping half an eye on the murky water below him as an entire shoal of inquisitive slaughterfish swirled beneath the armed party, trying to comprehend the unfamiliar sight and eager for any hint of food. He could feel his magicka pool refilling, albeit very slowly; maintaining his batch of spells did not drain him significantly, and casting them in the first place had only cost him a third of his pool, but he would always prefer to have his full strength available at any one time.

"Do you think Dagon will attack the Imperial City?" asked Martin suddenly from his position slightly ahead of Gorgoth.

"It is likely from a strategic point of view; he will know that is where you are going." The City had got off lightly in the war so far; only a single Gate had opened on the City Isle itself, and it had been swiftly dealt with by the garrison. After Kvatch, Dagon had directed his main Cyrodilic attack against Bruma, but that was now certain to change. "We should prepare for the worst and try to get there as quickly as possible."

"My thoughts exactly," responded the Emperor, increasing speed to a trot, followed somewhat raggedly by the rest of his bodyguard. The horses were swiftly growing used to the motion across the surface of the water, and even the most unskilled of the riders did not look to be in immediate danger of falling off. Their progress continued without incident, the fog slowly receding to reveal a City Isle yet to be ravaged by the minions of Dagon. Most of the slaughterfish lost interest and drifted away, easing some of the tension, and some way behind them on the northern shore the Legion's cavalry could be seen on the Ring Road, making haste towards the bridge. Everything was going as planned, but understandably the nervousness of the group was almost tangible.

They made landfall without incident, Ocato sending a few messengers galloping ahead to warn the gate guards of their arrival. Steffan arranged the bodyguard, sending outriders to warn of any conceivable approach as they set off towards the city gates as quickly as they could over the hilly terrain of the City Isle. The party hadn't landed far from the gates, and it barely took them five minutes to reach the end of the vast bridge and turn towards the Chestnut Handy Stables and the massive city gates, which were reassuringly wide open. Both the road and the walls were well-populated by guardsmen from the garrison.

There was a tangible slackening in tension amongst the bodyguard, though they still remained alert as they approached the open gates. The guardsmen was sensibly keeping any civilians well out of Martin's way, though there were relatively few around; it was still early on a cold morning, and there had been no forewarning. "We need to get to the Temple of the One and light the Dragonfires as quickly as possible," Ocato reminded him as Emperor and High Chancellor rode through the gates side by side. "There will be more than enough time for your official coronation later."

Martin nodded and was about to reply when an Oblivion Gate exploded into existence on the shore, a bare hundred paces from the city gates. Gorgoth snatched up his helmet and had finished donning it by the time he had controlled Baluk's shock and spun her to face the Gate. Daedra had started to pour out of the portal even before the debris of its creation had finished falling. The discipline of the Imperial Legion meant that their surprise only lasted a few seconds before they began forming up for battle, most of the infantry stationing themselves between the enemy and the city gates while others on the walls began to sound the alarm bells to alert the city to the imminent attack.

"This changes nothing," Gorgoth told the Emperor as the Blades immediately moved to surround their charge.

"He's right," agreed Ocato, standing up in his stirrups to get a view over the heads of the Blades, preparing a few spells to lob at the approaching enemy. "Now it's just even more urgent for you-" He was cut off by an explosion behind them as another Oblivion Gate erupted into existence several streets away. Screams indicated that the Daedra were wasting no time in pouring into the city.

Baluk nervously danced a few steps and Gorgoth reined her in sharply, looking back up just in time to see the flash of another Gate opening in the distant Market District. It seemed that Dagon was going for an all-out attack, throwing everything he had at the Imperial City in a last-ditch attempt to stop Martin. The Daedra outside the walls were now within bowshot; arrows and Destruction magic started to rain down on them, but already hundreds were out of the portal. The grey clouds overhead were slowly replaced by a grim black sky laced with red.

"We can't let the city gates fall," Martin was insisting even as he turned in the direction of the Temple District. "Phillida needs to be able to get his army in."

"The garrison can handle that," Ocato was shouting at him over the increasingly loud sounds of battle, motioning the bodyguard onwards. "You need to light the Dragonfires!"

Gorgoth moved in closer, slotting in on the Emperor's other side as they started off towards the Temple of the One, the Blades closing around them in a circle sixty strong. "Every Daedra in the city is going to be charging straight for you," he told the ex-priest. "Keep every protective spell you know active. Ocato and me together should be enough to carve a path to the Temple if it comes to that." As he spoke, yet another Gate opened some way ahead of them. "Keep moving," he urged, dropping back slightly, looking to his left to find Mazoga riding beside him with sword drawn. "You'll stay at the city gates. Make sure they don't fall."

Fury contorted her features. "I'm not leaving you."

He shook his head, riding closer and seizing her horse's bridle, bringing the two of them almost to a stop as Martin's bodyguard pulled away ahead of them. "I'll be next to Martin every step of the way, and almost every Daedra in the city will be going straight for him. Holding the city gates is an honourable duty, but also far safer. Will you go back and help hold them or will I have to shove you into a basement somewhere with Krognak to guard you?" He didn't wait for an answer, digging in his heels and sending Baluk cantering after the Blades, leaving his lover to turn back towards the city gates. They were held by at least three hundred legionaries, and Phillida's cavalry force would be there within an hour once they saw the fires; she would be safe there.

Pushing the thought from his mind as he caught up with the rear guard of the Blades, he looked from side to side to find Krognak and Dralasa on his right and Ilend, Aerin and Gnaeus on his left. Apart from them and the Blades, the streets were almost empty; it seemed that most civilians had fled for their homes at the first sight of the ominous sky, and the Legion garrison would be hurrying to pre-determined strategic positions. "The last battle is often the hardest," he told his comrades. "Be ready for anything."

They nodded and dispersed to join the bodyguard as the warrior-shaman pushed his way through to reach Martin's side again. "The district wall is just up ahead," Ocato was saying, standing up in his stirrups. "We might be able to reach the Temple District without a fight..."

He had barely finished speaking before they reached a deserted junction of four wide streets. Three of them were clear of anything but a few fleeing civilians, but the left-hand street leading towards the city centre had been completely blocked by a portal to Oblivion. A mass of Daedra were already within twenty paces of the Blades' left flank, and upon seeing the mortals they charged, howling and roaring. Steffan barely had time to bellow orders to turn and fight before the horde was upon them.

Gorgoth and Ocato immediately sent lightning and fire scything through the enemy ranks, but the Daedric charge had already cut through the Blades, killing nearly a dozen and unhorsing more in the chaos; the street was too tight and confined for the horses to move easily. Fireballs and lightning also struck at the mortal forces, only to be stopped by Martin's magical shield. Most of the Daedra on the street were dead or dying as the two mages cut them down, but there was still at least twenty in amongst the Blades, the daedroths and Dremora savaging the screaming horses and their riders even as they fell. Abruptly a Dremora pushed through the throng and grabbed for the Emperor's stirrup, raising a bloody broadsword. Gorgoth swung downwards, shattering the Daedra's head and splattering his brains over the cobbles. "We can't get held up here," he growled, keeping a bolt of death magic ready for any other enemy slipping through the wall of Blades. "Sixty men can get held up too easily. A smaller party makes faster progress."

The Emperor was gritting his teeth, clearly not happy to abandon his Blades – Daedra were pouring out of the Gate still, only held back by Ocato's constant onslaught – but he nodded in acquiescence. "Grandmaster, I'll take Ocato and five Blades and go on ahead," he called. "Catch up when you can." Steffan nodded and roared the names of five Blades, who peeled off from the rear and formed up around Martin.

Gorgoth looked to his left and found Krognak beside him, his cavalry longsword stained with Daedric blood. "You and Dralasa stay here. They might need a mage. I would rather not have Daedra coming up behind us as a Gate opens in front of us." The Orcish warrior gave a short salute and rode right back into the melee. Ilend and Aerin fell in beside the warrior-shaman as he started off in pursuit of Martin and Ocato, already trotting quickly towards the Temple District. Gnaeus was nowhere to be seen; knowing him, he was probably in the thick of it, daring any enemy to strike him down.

They caught up, the warlord slotting in beside the Emperor as they neared the gate to the Temple District, which appeared to still be held by a small Legion squad. There were no Oblivion Gates immediately in evidence ahead of them, but the partitioning wall was high and might hide one. Captain Renault, leading the vanguard, was about to hail the legionaries when the street just ahead of them erupted in a fiery explosion. Baluk screamed and reared with such force that the warrior-shaman was thrown from the saddle, hitting the cobbles just as several other explosions nearby shook the city. He immediately threw up a magical shield to protect himself from falling debris and forced himself to his feet, struggling to keep his balance on the still-heaving ground.

Thankfully, there was no Oblivion Gate, but several large craters dotted the street, still smoking. Small fires had broken out in places, and the houses on both sides of the street had been blasted apart by the explosions. Fallen masonry and other debris was strewn everywhere, and distant explosions indicated that this destruction was being repeated around the city; Dremora mages must have levitated or ascended the walls, and would be doing anything they could to impede the movement of the garrison. Thankful that his helmet kept out the worst of the smoke and dust, the Orc looked around; the detect life enchantment showed him only one life signature nearby, but it only had a short range. Walking over, he grimaced to find Baluk's shattered body half-concealed by the house that had fallen on her. The mare's chest still rose and fell, but her breathing was ragged and her eyes were already starting to slowly slide closed. He knelt and rammed a summoned dagger into her head to ease her passing, then straightened.

"Gorgoth?" Martin's voice came from his left, and the warlord spun to find the Emperor striding from behind a collapsed house, wiping dust from his armour and shadowed by Captain Renault and Caroline. "Our horses are dead or fled," he continued. "We'll have to continue on foot, but we can still make it fairly quickly if we use fortification magic. Have you seen any of the others?"

"No, and we will have no time to search. We cannot waste a second." Ilend and Aerin might well be buried under tons of rubble, or they might even have been blasted apart by one of the explosions, but he had no time to care about them now. The gatehouse that they had been heading for was now a gaping hole in the wall, partially blocked by debris, but it was nothing that they couldn't jump over.

"You're right," agreed Martin grudgingly, moving past him and walking quickly towards the Temple District. Before they had gone a few paces, Ocato and Callia appeared, the battlemage's armour almost unrecognisable underneath the grime but otherwise unharmed. Gorgoth made one last sweep of the area with a Detect Life spell and found nothing. He shook his head and took the lead as the other remaining Blades fell into a protective circle around Martin. Casualties were part of any war. And it was certain that this final battle would claim many more lives before the war was over.

As they approached the Temple District, the passageway through the remains of the gatehouse blackened as Daedra started pouring through towards them. Gorgoth tightened his grip on Blood King and smiled savagely. This was what he had been born for.


Aerin came to her senses slowly, blinking rapidly; even the dark light of the sky above made her head pound. She groaned weakly and rose to a sitting position. Remarkably, her head was the only part of her that hurt; she dimly recalled a massive explosion and getting thrown from Firebrand's saddle, but then only pain and blackness. A scrabbling at her side heralded the arrival of Ilend, who looked as bad as she felt; he was covered in black dust, blood was smeared over his face and his chainmail was covered in scars. But he was still alive, and his blue eyes were staring into hers with his typical intensity. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Head hurts." Her mouth felt so dry and clogged with grit that she looked down, only to find most of her potions gone from her belt.

The Imperial put a flask of water in her hands. "We needed your healing potions; Marcus barely survived even with two, and I needed one myself. You'd probably be in agony if I hadn't poured one down your throat; half your ribs looked like they'd been caved in."

She spat out the first mouthful of water to clear her mouth before proceeding to gulp down half the flask. "What happened?" she asked eventually, handing it back and looking around. They certainly weren't in the same street – this one was relatively undamaged – but the sky was still that ominous mixture of dark red and black. Over Ilend's shoulder she could see Roliand helping a blood-splattered Marcus Corvus with getting his armour back on.

"One of the explosions threw the four of us a fair distance, then we got caught in another blast. You hit your head on a stone and you've been out for twenty minutes. There haven't been any Daedra around, thankfully, or we'd all have been pretty much helpless; we only just finished re-breaking Marcus's leg."

"Martin? Gorgoth?"

"No sign, but they were further from the explosion than we were. They've probably gone on without us; not that I blame them. There's no time to waste." The Protector sighed and rose to his feet, taking Aerin's hand and dragging her up as well. She staggered slightly and put an arm around his wide shoulders, checking with her quiver with her other hand and grimacing. Most of her arrows had fallen out, but at least Trueshot hadn't cracked.

"What do we do now?" she asked as Roliand finished helping Marcus with his boots and pulled the Knight Brother to his feet.

"I've got no idea where we are, or where the Temple of the One is," responded her lover. "We had to drag you a fair way to get out of the path of those explosions. But we can't just sit here and wait while the battle passes us by." He pointed towards White Gold Tower, the Ayleid stonework standing out against the angry sky. "There's sure to be people fighting in the palace. We'll head there and see how many Daedra we can kill."

The Bosmer managed a weak smile. "Sounds good ta me," she responded, taking Trueshot off her back and nocking an arrow. Roliand drew his dai-katana; he'd lost his eye patch and his gaping eye socket combined with blood streaking his face made him look even more villainous than usual. Marcus drew his own katana and looked around for his shield before giving it up for lost. They started off down the street in the direction of White Gold Tower, constantly scanning for any danger; it was unlikely that Daedra were hiding in the houses, but there was a myriad of alleys in the Talos Plaza District that they could use to stay out of sight.

It didn't take long for trouble to find them. As they approached a junction of three streets, the sounds of battle reached their ears just before a small squad of guardsmen appeared, conducting a fighting retreat against a squad of at least fifteen Dremora. They were clearly outmatched – they were leaving a trail of corpses behind them – but the Dremora were so focused on their immediate enemies that they failed to notice the mortal reinforcements until Aerin's arrows had already struck two of them down. Ilend and the two Blades crashed into their flank, killing another two immediately and forcing the Daedra to turn and fight on two fronts. The Legionaries rallied, pushing with their tower shields and stabbing with spear or sword whenever they found an opportunity.

Aerin moved in closer, looking for openings she could fire into as the fighting moved around. She winced as one of the Legionaries took a spear through the leg, but managed to shoot down the Dremora who had wounded him. Another Kynaz lurched out of the battle and darted towards her, a savage snarl twisting his face as he raised a broadsword to cut her down. She calmly sent an arrow through his heart, but one of his comrades was right behind him, jumping over the falling body and slashing down with a battleaxe. The Bosmer dropped Trueshot and rolled to her side, snatching her shortsword out of its scabbard as she rose.

The Kynaz had already recovered, feinting right before aiming a swing at her head. She backpedalled quickly then rushed forward, cursing as her stab only left a graze along his breastplate. Seconds later, the haft of his axe slammed into her side, sending her to the paving stones with the breath driven from her lungs. Rolling onto her back, desperately clutching her sword, she scrabbled backwards as he moved in to finish her quickly. He blinked and started to turn as a throwing axe clanged off his pauldron. Roliand's war cry was the only other warning he had before the bloodied Knight Brother was on him, bellowing a Nordic war chant as he hammered at the Dremora's defence. Aerin staggered to her feet and seized her chance, throwing her entire body forward and plunging her blade into the Kynaz's back with enough force to penetrate the Daedric steel. He growled and smashed an elbow into her ribs, cracking one of them and sending her sprawling onto the pavement, but Roliand's dai-katana swept his head off moments later.

"I was aiming for his head," growled the Nord as he scooped up his throwing axe from where it lay. "I'm still getting used to the eye." He tapped his empty eye socket before walking over and helping her to her feet. The fighting had ended; Ilend and Marcus were moving amongst the bodies with the remaining four Legionaries, checking for signs of life. "Are you all right?"

Pain lanced through the Wood Elf's side every time she took a breath, but she'd become used to pain throughout the course of the war. "I'll be fine," she replied, despite failing to repress a groan as she bent to pick up Trueshot. "Nothing that Ilend needs to waste his magic on, at least."

Roliand smirked as he cleaned the blood from his blade, the fire of battle gradually fading from his eyes. "Try to keep your distance, little one. I think he might just go mad if you were to fall. No one would be safe then." He sheathed his dai-katana, looking up at the sky. "This is going to get worse before it gets better."

"How can it get any-" Aerin's words were cut off by the rumble of distant explosions coming closer. "Ah, crap." The Nord grabbed her shoulder and pulled her into the centre of the street along with the rest of the group; the Dremora were striking seemingly at random, and the biggest danger apart from the explosions themselves would be the surrounding houses falling on top of them. Within seconds, the explosions were upon them, great gouts of flame spurting from the ground and houses simply shattering as they were destroyed from the foundations up. Falling lumps of masonry clattered off the legionaries' raised shields as the earth trembled beneath them. The Wood Elf felt a chunk of wood whack into her shoulder and she staggered sideways into Marcus, hissing in pain. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the explosions left them, rolling onwards towards the outer walls, leaving a trail of devastation in their path. The Imperial City was being torn to pieces.

The Bosmer dragged herself to her feet using Marcus's elbow, coughing on the acrid air. They were surrounded by craters and collapsed buildings, some of which had vaguely human remains scattered amongst the scorched timbers and broken stonework. Naturally, most of the citizens of the city would be hiding in their homes or designated safe areas; the Daedra were targeting not just soldiers but any mortal unfortunate enough to be in the city. Whatever the result of the battle, the dead would number in the thousands; half the Imperial City might soon be dead if Martin didn't stop the invasion soon.

Ilend glared around them, watching for any danger. There were tears in his chainmail and there blood caking in his beard, but his bright blue eyes were still alert as they shone out of his grimy face. "Bastards," he growled under his breath as he turned towards her, clearly referring to the Daedric Prince behind all the devastation. "You're hurt," he claimed. "Can't draw a bow if you're that doubled up by merely breathing." Before she could protest, his hand was on her unhurt shoulder and the cool, refreshing sensation of Restoration magic was spreading through her body.

"Should've saved your strength, guardsman," she told him, managing to hide a grateful smile as she worked her left arm. "It wasn't like I was dying."

He laughed mirthlessly as he unsheathed his sword, taking a moment to check its edge before ramming it back into its scabbard. "Might as well spare you some pain," he said, coughing on the dust before continuing. "We'll all be dead soon if Martin doesn't hurry up; best we can do is go out well and hope we get a decent burial after." In the distance past his shoulder, a Great Gate lit up the skyline as it formed.

The Bosmer pursed her lips, nodding slowly as she returned his gaze. He was right, of course. A younger, less experienced Aerin would have been scared of death, scared of their situation. But now... she wrapped her arms around Ilend, closing her eyes and drawing comfort from his presence. If they died, at least they would die complete. "It's been great while it's lasted," she whispered into his ear. "Let's try ta keep that up, eh? Stick two fingers up at Dagon and try not ta die."

She could almost feel his grin. "Good plan," he responded, pulling back. An inhuman roar tore their attention away from each other; a small pack of lesser Daedra were pouring from what used to be an alley and were heading straight for them. The Imperial spun towards them, his longsword flashing from its scabbard. Roliand, Marcus and the Legionaries were already in combat stances, shields raised as the enemy approached them. Aerin raised Trueshot and nocked an arrow, leading a daedroth for a fraction of a second before firing. The arrow pierced the Daedra's eye, sending it crashing to the ground in an explosion of dust. As her second arrow brought down a clannfear, the archer checked her supply and cursed. Only three left.

Looking back up, she saw the Daedra smash into the Imperial ranks. Most held firm, but one legionary on the extreme left got swatted aside by a daedroth. Aerin sent an arrow into its chest before it could turn to flank the others, but the massive best merely staggered and growled before turning its small, beady eyes onto her. She cursed and nocked her last arrow, calmly keeping her breathing steady as the massive reptile lumbered towards her.

She barely felt the sword cutting through her ribcage.

The Dremora brutally twisted his blade within her, clamping a gauntleted hand over her mouth to stop her scream. She slumped to the ground as he withdrew it, pain and shock stopping her from warning her comrades and five other Dremora silently tore into the back of them. Two of the legionaries fell immediately, and Marcus took a spear in the back, barely managing to twist and haul his attacker down with him. Roliand spun at the last second and hacked the arm off the Dremora attacking him, while Ilend dashed forward, smashing his shield into a clannfear's face before jumping over the writhing Daedra's body and turning to face the Dremora. Aerin's attacker stepped over her to join the fray, leaving her to wonder why the air suddenly felt so cold. The daedroth had slowed its approach, those eyes appearing almost gleeful.

Attempting to force herself to her feet merely led to a painful flop, her hands slipping in the growing pool of blood spreading around her. Most of the lesser Daedra had already been killed, but the Dremora were relentless in their assault; the last remaining legionary was torn to shreds by a scamp and a clannfear, while Ilend and Roliand were being driven further apart. The big Nord's customary battle cries were abruptly silenced as a Kynaz drove a katana into his abdomen. Roliand pulled the blade further in to draw his enemy closer and hacked the Dremora's head in half, but another blade penetrated his back, sending him to his knees. The Knight Brother tried to raise his dai-katana for one last attack, but one of his attackers kicked him over and drove his spear through his throat.

Ilend was fighting like a man possessed, a snarl making his blood-splattered face look even more terrifying as he stabbed one Dremora in the chest before spinning and hacking at the knees of another. He kicked a scamp aside and blocked a scimitar with his shield as he cleaved a clannfear's head in two. Barely blocking a mace with his shield arm, he staggered backwards before throwing himself headfirst at a Kynaz, bulling his enemy to the ground before stabbing downwards into his face. A pained grunt burst from his lips as another Dremora darted in and neatly hamstrung him. As her lover stumbled, barely keeping his feet, Aerin tried to call his name but found only blood bubbling in the back of her throat. The daedroth reached down, the stench of its breath almost overpowering her.

The Protector was desperately trying to fend off the three remaining Dremora, but a heavy blow from a mace sent him to one knee. One enemy grabbed his sword arm while another sliced his chest open with his scimitar. The daedroth grabbed Aerin and raised her in both hands, sparing her the sight of the death of her lover. She stared into the cavernous mouth, opening wide, and accepted her death. She closed her eyes.

"Saliith!"

The battle cry sprang from at least thirty throats at once. Aerin opened her eyes in shock as the daedroth dropped her, blood spraying from her mouth as she hit the cobblestones. The daedroth was on the ground, both legs hamstrung, writing in agony as Huzei cut its throat. Dimly, out of the corner of her eye, the Wood Elf could see Agronak gro-Malog beheading a Dremora with such ferocity that the Kynaz's head flew over twenty feet and disappeared into a hole. Other gladiators were filling the street, scything down the remaining Daedra without mercy. She struggled to rise, to see if Ilend was alive, but Neesha's face appeared over her, pressing her back down and fumbling for a healing potion. "Easy, now," soothed the Argonian. "You've both lost a lot of blood..." The green-skinned Argonian and the red sky above faded to grey, then black, as the Wood Elf slipped into unconsciousness.


Dralasa felt right at home; the swirling clouds of dust and the angry sky all reminded her of the Ashlands back home in Morrowind. The periodical explosions and the constant destruction was the icing on the cake; it felt so right to explode so many Daedra at once, and there certainly had been no shortage of targets.

The Blades had been hard pressed since Martin left them; the explosions had thankfully avoided them, but even so, it was hard for horsemen to operate effectively in such cramped conditions, and the Daedra pouring from the Gate simply moved straight over the piled corpses and craters that Gorgoth and Ocato had left there. Dralasa had solved that problem quickly enough; after Krognak had escorted her to a vantage point on the second floor of a nearby house, she'd simply blown up most of the street to such an extent that most incoming Daedra fell straight into a deep pit. Grandmaster Steffan had got most of the remnants of the Blades reorganised and ready to follow the Emperor into the Temple District when the next wave of Daedric explosions hit them dead on, scattering them and plunging everything into chaos.

Since then, things had truly gotten interesting.

"The Temple District is just up ahead," claimed Arcturus Gabinus, the sole surviving Blade of their group. He'd lost his helmet and his horse, but he was still fighting effectively enough with katana and shield. "The wall used to be at the end of this street, but it's probably got more than a few holes in it by now." There was tightly suppressed anger in his voice; he was a native of the City.

"And if not, we jump," replied Krognak, his deep voice reverberating from within his helmet. Dralasa could feel the vibrations through his armour; she was sitting just in front of him on Bugak, one of the few horses to have entered the city that was still alive. Her own horse had taken three arrows early on, but she was so light that Bugak barely felt the extra weight. He was massively built like most warhorses from Orsinium, and she had already taken advantage of the good visibility to destroy three groups of Daedra that had threatened them. She'd left some for the others, of course; they might have got impatient if she made them feel too useless. Or maybe not, but it was always best to be sure.

"And if that happens, we'd probably get blown out of the sky mid-leap," snorted Davas Helas. "Those Dremora will have established themselves in towers and high places; they'll see us for sure." Her Ancestor Guardian was striding along at Bugak's right stirrup, using his bloodied glaive as a walking staff. There was a slight etherealness to his body, but the Dunmer's ebony plate armour and polearm certainly still did their jobs effectively, despite their user being over a thousand years dead. Dralasa had only called on him a few times in the past, but her distant ancestor certainly shared her love for battle, though their fighting styles were definitely very different.

Krognak merely shook his head as they turned the corner, clearly not understanding much of Davas' accented Cyrodilic. "I think-" He stopped talking as they were confronted by a sea of rubble, beyond which stood the shattered remnants of what used to be the dividing wall between the Talos Plaza District and the Temple District. Between them and their goal was a squad of Dremora, currently engaged in finishing off a small squad of legionaries.

The Orcish warrior wasted no time in drawing his greatsword and booting Bugak to a canter, roaring an Orcish battle cry that almost deafened Dralasa as she clutched his horse's mane for support. Most of the Dremora had broken off to form a line; even without her hands, she could deal with them easily enough. Half her magicka pool was gone, but her usage of Destruction magic was so efficient that it wouldn't matter for quite some time, and she still had two potions left. A slight focusing of magic, and four Dremora exploded, shreds of flesh and armour bombarding those beside them and leaving them open to Krognak's charge. His greatsword cut downwards, cleaving through a Kynaz's head, and another bounced off Bugak's chest and was trampled to the ground. Another Dremora, looking up from gutting the last legionary, only had time to widen his eyes before the Orsimer's blade cut down through his collarbone into his chest. Wrenching his blade free, Krognak turned Bugak and prepared to charge again.

Davas and Arcturus had reached the remaining Dremora, the former knocking one to the ground with the blunt end of his glaive before spinning it to stab the blade down between his enemy's eyes. The Blade blocked a swing with his shield and threw himself at his assailant with the fury of someone whose native city is being torn apart around him. Dralasa was about to explode a few more when she felt a terrible impact beneath them. A burbling scream burst from Bugak's throat and Krognak roughly shoved her out of the saddle as the warhorse fell heavily. She scrambled to her feet, only to frantically roll to the side as a Dremora stabbed at her, his spear red for most of its length with horse blood. Twisting onto her back, she thrust out her hands, engulfing him in a cone of white-hot fire; it wasn't hot enough to melt Daedric steel, but more than enough to boil the blood in his veins.

She scrambled to her feet as what was left of Bugak's killer collapsed, pausing to hiss in disgust at the number of rips in her now-filthy cream silk dress. War might be fun, but it was certainly costing her. Shaking her head, she looked around for further targets and, finding none, went to look for Krognak. A skilled horsemer, he'd managed to avoid getting trapped under his dying steed, and was currently sliding a dagger into the back of his horse's skull. She left him alone – she knew how attached cavalrymer could get to their warhorses – and looked around, finding nothing of interest but corpses and chaos. Davas finished checking a dent in Arcturus' pauldron and walked over.

"The Helas lack of self-preservation is certainly strong in you, Dralasa," he observed, leaning his glaive on his shoulder. His was a sharp face, with a jagged nose, prominent cheekbones and a pointed chin; there was little resemblance between them in appearance - apart from their flame-red hair - but there was plenty in temperament. "Just remember that it's that same lack that's ended up killing us over most of the years. You've still got centuries to live; don't throw your life away just yet."

She chuckled and patted his arm. "Don't worry, Dav; it'll take more than this little invasion to kill me."

"You're certainly overconfident enough for two of us. Remember your weaknesses. I remembered mine, and I lived for two hundred and forty years. You'll live for longer, if you survive; the magic in your blood will see to that."

"That magic and your lectures." She laughed and hugged him; he was slender enough for her arms to meet around his back, though his ebony plate was cold against her bare skin. "We'll get through this. Martin's sure to do something soon enough." She pulled back in time to see Krognak and Arcturus walking over, naked blades in their hands.

"Time's wasting, and there's killing to be done," the Orc told them, anger evident in his voice. Krognak didn't get angry often, but when he did, his unfortunate enemies certainly knew about it. He'd already used half his reserves of magicka, but he'd have no reservations about using up the other half despite not being able to naturally regenerate it.

"Lead on. I'll leave a few for you this time." She fell in close behind him as he approached the broken wall; she could barely create a coherent magical shield, so using her heavily-armoured friend as a barrier against possible archers was the next best thing. Arcturus and Davas took up loose positions either side of her, heads constantly swivelling. No movement as they moved down the street; no Daedra, no surviving mortals. Just the distant rumble of explosions and the sounds of battle.

They spread out as they reached the rubble of the wall, each of them having to carefully pick their way over treacherous heaps of blasted stone. Dralasa stubbed her toe and swore, for once regretting not wearing anything heavier on her feet than a pair of sandals. Krognak almost fell once when his weight caused a small avalanche, but eventually they were at the peak, staring out at the Temple District. Most of the area was hidden by rows of houses, but at least three Oblivion Gates had opened, and smoke and fire rose everywhere, almost hiding the Temple of the One, rising proudly out of the ruins of the ravaged district.

"Keep moving," grunted Arcturus, scrambling down the remnants of the wall as quickly as his armour would allow him. The area immediately ahead of them had been hit hard; it was now nothing more than a wasteland of smoking craters and scorched stone.

"It's starting to look even more like home," muttered Dralasa as she carefully picked her way down, remembering the rumours about what the Daedra had done to Ald'ruhn. After slipping for the fourth time, she kicked off her sandals in favour of the better grip offered by her bare feet; her healing abilities at least extended to stubbed toes and minor lacerations. She eventually reached what remained of the street – the stones hot under her heels – and walked up to Arcturus, who was looking around.

"Looks clear," he said, lowering his katana slightly and turning towards her. "We should-" His words were cut off by the icicle that speared through the back of his helmet, protruding out from his open mouth and spraying the Dunmer with his hot blood. His wide eyes stared wildly for a split-second before two more icicles hit him in the back. The Knight Brother collapsed to the floor as the Dark Elf dived for what little cover their was, searching frantically for the mage. A squad of at least fifteen Dremora warriors rushed onto the street, weapons drawn and heading in her direction. The nearby ground trembled as Krognak rushed past her, bellowing his battle cry and unleashing a chain-lightning bolt that felled three before he even reached them. Davas was right beside him, pausing only to shout to his descendant that she should look for the mage.

Dralasa had already found him, a robed Dremora standing next to a ruined house, apart from the raging melee, his eyes fixed on her. She swore; she hated fighting mages. Within seconds twenty icicles were flying towards her, accompanied by a cone of air so cold that it would freeze her solid. She smiled and summoned a wall of fire, melting the icicles and dispersing the cone before it even reached her; if he kept to his apparent specialisation of cold Destruction, she could beat him. She raised a hand and summoned white-hot flames around him.

Unfortunately for her, this mage had studied well, and unlike her, he was skilled in more than just Destruction. Her flame vanished within seconds, revealing the Kynaz to be unharmed save for a slightly singed robe. A quick glance showed Krognak and Davas fully occupied with the Dremora warriors; no chance of any help from them. Hoping to find a chink in his armour, she threw several large fireballs at him, only to watch him absorb them all and unleash several Silence spells in her direction. Knowing when she'd met her match, she dived into a nearby crater, grunting as the wind was knocked from her body and unsteadily scrambling to her feet, heading for a collapsed house she could hide in. Her enemy was smart; he'd know of her weakness by now. She could burn icicles, but not Silence spells or anything else he chose to throw at her.

A snatched glance behind her revealed her adversary raising his hand, a savage gleam in his eyes. Behind him, many of the Kyn were down, but more were pouring in from another street; Davas had noticed her predicament, but he was completely surrounded. More Silence spells burst from the mage's raised palm; Dralasa started to run as fast as her slender legs could carry her, but an unseen force jerked her back violently. Twisting in in the grasp of the Dremora's telekinesis spell, she could only watch helplessly as she was Silenced. An explosion beyond indicated that Krognak had blown up several of his enemies, and her Ancestor Guardian was rushing towards the mage, but he would be too late. The Kynaz smiled as he unleashed his Destruction once again.

"I don't want to die," whispered Dralasa, seconds before her body was pierced by several icicles.


Gnaeus watched the Daedric blood slowly drip from his ebony broadsword, which was now notched and chipped by chopping through bone, muscle and flesh. His left arm ached, and he found himself wondering how he was still alive. He'd thrown himself into the thick of the action as soon as the Blades were first attacked, and everything except his own personal combats had become a blur since then. He distinctly remembered looking up from disembowelling a clannfear to find the street – a different street – devoid of all life except for himself, a few wounded Daedra and five Blades, two of whom were still mounted. Since then the group – which included Grandmaster Steffan, limping but still effective – had meandered around the shattered streets trying to find their way to the Temple District, succeeding only in finding yet more danger. But somehow Gnaeus was still alive; few Dremora had taken notice of him, and he was still the match of any lesser Daedra.

"We need to move," came the gravelly voice of the Grandmaster from somewhere above him. The ex-hermit looked up to find the younger Imperial offering him a hand; behind him stood the two surviving Blades of their group, Baragon and Pelagius. Unwilling to let go of his sword, Gnaeus instead hooked his elbow around the Grandmaster's forearm, levering himself to his feet. He suddenly realised how much he'd been running on adrenaline; his muscles felt watery and his body was barely responding to his movements. As he straightened, he found himself wondering if age would kill him before the Daedra. He shook his head angrily and hefted his broadsword, ignoring the stabs of agony spreading throughout his overworked arm.

"What are we waiting for?" he growled, staggering forward before catching his balance and looking around. They appeared to be in what used to be a graveyard; most of its inhabitants had been rudely disinterred by the Daedric explosions. Shattered gravestones littered the area, and clods of old earth were scattered among shards of bone and shreds of ancient flesh. White Gold Tower loomed over everything; the sounds of battle were evident. The Daedra would be trying to take the Palace, of course, but Steffan had reassured them that it was solidly built and easy to defend, and that the Palace Guards were the best of the garrison. Gladiators from the Arena had also been glimpsed in the area.

"If we can get to the Palace, we can restock on potions and perhaps get a contingent of guardsmen to help us cut our way through to the Temple District," Steffan was saying, removing his helmet to wipe sweat from his forehead. The result was a dirty smear of grime and blood across his face, but he didn't seem to notice.

Gnaeus looked back down at his sword, still dripping blood. "Let's move, then. Come on, don't force the old man to wait for you." If he was going to get a death worth dying, this would probably be one of his last chances. He set off in the direction of the nearest entrance to the Palace grounds, not even checking to see if the Blades were following. Their footsteps quickly caught up with his, their steel plate armour making a lot more noise than his simple cloth tunic and leather boots.

They didn't have to wait long before danger found them once again; the graveyards were crawling with groups of Daedra. A small group of lesser Daedra confronted them as they rounded the corner of a damaged tomb; Gnaeus wasted no time and charged straight at them, driving the point of his blade through the throat of a clannfear before it had even reacted. "Come on, you useless cowards," he taunted, spinning away from a hunger's lunge and disembowelling it. "Can't kill even one old man? Useless, the lot of you." A daedroth swiped at him, but he sidestepped and stabbed it in the back of the knee as Baragon plunged his katana into its chest. He stumbled as a scamp crashed into his back, going down on one knee before shifting his weight. It rolled over his shoulder onto the ground in front of him, desperately trying to scramble to its feet even as his broadsword punched through its thin chest.

Standing, he turned and blocked a Frost Atronach's swing with the flat of his blade. His arm instantly went numb and he staggered from the force of the blow, barely keeping his feet. "Start trying!" he spat at his assailant, regaining his balance and swinging downwards with all his might. The ebony blade cleaved though the Daedra's shoulder and cut down into its chest before getting wedged. He attempted to dislodge it as the Atronach raised its fist for the killing blow; a spiderweb of cracks was running through the ice around the blade, but nowhere near enough to shatter it.

Steffan barged into the Atronach, throwing it momentarily off balance and giving Pelagius the chance to bury his katana up to its hilt in its chest. More cracks appeared, which finally split open as Steffan rammed his blade between the other two. The massive Atronach groaned before splitting in two.

"This is getting ridiculous. How much does it take to kill one old man?" growled Gnaeus, staring down at the slowly melting Daedra and shaking his head. He bent to retrieve his broadsword, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain in his back. A shout from Pelagius whipped his head around; six Dremora warriors were running across the graveyard towards them. The ex-hermit straightened, shifted his grip, and charged to meet them.

He met the first Kynaz with an overhead downcut to open him up for a thrust, but the Dremora simply caught his blade in his free hand and twisted it, forcing Gnaeus off balance. Seconds later, the Daedra's longsword had torn upwards through his gut, punching out of his upper back. The old Imperial barely had time to blink before his attacker had withdrawn the blade and pushed him to the ground, already turning to join his comrades in fighting the Blades.

Gnaeus barely felt the impact of his body hitting the ground. An odd mist was gathering around the corners of his eyes. He angrily blinked and saw his sword lying in the dirt a few feet away. He stretched out his right arm to take it, only to get no response. Of course; he no longer had a right arm. He stretched out his left arm instead. His body felt slow to react, clumsy; his fingers fumbled at the hilt. The mist was partially obscuring his vision now. He snarled and shook his head, trying to clear it. He had to get back on his feet and help the Blades kill those Dremora; getting pushed aside so quickly was demeaning. Something warm was dribbling from his mouth. He choked as he tried to swear. His fingers were still clumsy, pushing his hilt away rather than grabbing it.

As he died, Gnaeus Magnus found himself wishing that he could have fought for just a bit longer.


Yet again the Dremora charged, and yet again they were killed and pushed back. Blood King's pulsing was now an animal roar, constantly revelling in the blood and slaughter, constantly demanding more. Gorgoth was obliging it. He was in the vanguard of the tiny group that was hacking and spellslinging its slow way towards the Temple of the One, constantly assaulted by legions of Daedra, sometimes helped by isolated groups of beleaguered legionaries. Martin was in the centre, with Ocato bringing up the rear and Renault, Caroline and Callia guarding the flanks. They advanced over a carpet of dead and dying enemies, yet more were always replacing them. The magical reserves of all three mages were running low, and they only had so many potions between them.

Another Dremora warrior tried his luck. Gorgoth deflected his swing with his forearm and smashed his mace into his opponent's chest. The resulting shock wave shattered the Kynaz and sent not just him but his two companions crashing back into the ranks of the enemy with such force that they killed several more. Raising his left fist, the warrior-shaman grabbed a few other Daedra using telekinesis and hurled them into their already disordered companions, throwing in a few fireballs for good measure. "Move!" he barked, following his own order by advancing rapidly, slightly crouched with Blood King raised in from of him. The small hole he'd blasted was quickly filled with Daedra again, forcing them to stop and fight. They'd only advanced a few feet; at the end of the street was the small plaza surrounding the Temple of the One, but unless they could fight their way through the mass of enemies quickly their destination might as well have been in Akavir.

Calling on his necromancy, the warlord raised the nearby corpse of a daedroth, the crocodile-headed beast ignoring any wounds as it rose and started rampaging through the ranks of its former comrades. His attention was forced back to the immediate threat as four Dremora separated to attack him simultaneously. He evened the odds by exploding two and stepping forward to smash another into the far distance. The last remaining Kynaz leapt forward and tried to bury his spear into the Orc's gut, but Gorgoth sidestepped and pushed him into the path of Martin, who sliced his chest open with Goldbrand. An impact on his back told him that his armour had saved him once again, and he spun to elbow a clannfear in the face, blasting it away with a lightning bolt. A daedroth leapt at him only to be batted away with telekinesis. A small gap appeared in the thinning Daedric ranks.

"Go!" he roared, pushing Martin towards the gap while exploding four Dremora about to close in on them. The Emperor charged forward, cutting down a hunger and ducking under a wild swing from a daedroth. Gorgoth was right behind him, throwing lightning with both hands, cutting a path for the pair of them. He could sense Ocato and the Blades following, the Altmer battlemage using his remaining magical reserves to eliminate any threat to their rear. They were in clear air now; he and Martin turned to find a much-diminished horde of Daedra rushing after them in one disorganised mass.

He lacked the remaining magical strength to kill them all instantaneously, but he did his best; lightning bolts picked off the biggest threats, and deadly fogs of death magic enveloped small portions of the force before fading away. Other Daedra simply exploded as Martin went to work; more froze solid as Ocato joined in. Within seconds, there were only a few stragglers left, who either fled or were cut down.

Martin sagged, placing his hands on his knees and breathing as though he'd run from Anvil to Leyawiin. "My magicka is almost gone," he gasped as he fumbled for his last potion. Gorgoth turned and saw Ocato throwing aside his last empty bottle. The warrior-shaman himself was starting to feel the effects of the fatigue, but he sensed that he'd be needing every scrap of magical strength he could draw on soon enough. He took his last potion from his sword belt and drained it.

"Caroline's dead," said Renault in a hollow voice, looking around for danger as she mechanically cleaned her katana. "Spear through the throat just as we broke through." Callia had taken a blow that cracked her helmet; she dropped it to the ground and swallowed the dregs of her last healing potion.

"We need to keep moving," growled the Orc, not looking behind him as he set off at a jog towards the Temple of the One. The remains of the street were empty for now, but he knew that wouldn't last long. He heard the others falling in behind him and cast a spell of life detection. They were alone, for now.

They were almost to the end of the street when a blinding eruption of light and fire stopped them in their tracks. Gorgoth instinctively threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the blaze. The air around them grew dry and hot, all moisture sucked out of it. Narrowing his eyes to slits, the warrior-shaman lowered his hand and peered at the giant Great Gate that had just opened next to the Temple of the One, overshadowing even that great building.

From it stepped a towering figure, taller than the city walls. Four huge arms flexed as they tested their power, raising a colossal battleaxe. Its skin was a deep red, riven with runes and tattoos, and darker horns dotted its skull above two malevolent golden eyes, alive with both hatred and ecstasy. Mehrunes Dagon raised his head and roared in triumph as dozens of his minions poured from the Gate behind him.

Gorgoth shook off the initial shock of their total defeat and raised Blood King, preparing several spells to throw from his left hand. He would die here, but he would die fighting. Gathering himself to charge towards the Daedric Prince, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"I can stop him, Gorgoth," Martin was shouting over the sounds of battle and Dagon's bestial cries. "I have to get into the Temple, but I can stop him."

The warrior-shaman nodded, not knowing what Martin was planning, only that he trusted his Emperor with his life. "I'll distract him," he replied. Martin nodded and led Ocato and the Blades off down an alley, aiming to move around Dagon if they could. The Orsimer rolled his shoulders and stepped forward, casting every cost-effective protective spell he knew on himself. It wasn't every day he confronted a Daedric Prince. "Dagon!" he bellowed, magically enhancing his voice so that it could be heard by half the Temple District. "Dagon, here is the Hero! Try me, Dagon!" He sent multiple lightning bolts stabbing towards his adversary. They might as well have been fleas for all the attention Dagon paid them as they impacted, merely turning his terrifying face to stare down at Gorgoth.

Moving quickly, the Orc jumped from the street to the top of one of the nearby houses. The Daedra's axe scythed down into the space he had occupied mere seconds ago, splitting the ground and shaking the earth. It rose from the crevasse it had created easily, Dagon turning with speed that belied his size to smash his fist into the house; the warlord barely escaped him, jumping from the house back to the street just as it crumpled from the sheer force of Dagon's blow. He sent a stream of lightning bolts directly into the Daedric Lord's eyes, making him curse and blink but having no other apparent effect.

The foremost of his minions had reached Gorgoth, a squad of Dremora moving in to attack. He stepped forward to meet them, spinning to deflect one blow with his breastplate and smashing Blood King into his assailant's head, shattering it and hurling the body halfway to where Dagon was standing, his axe raised and his eyes following Gorgoth's every movement. The warrior-shaman froze two Dremora solid and caught the thrust of one between his arm and body, pinning his attacker's arm in place as the rest of his body was torn away and broken by his swing. More Kynaz moved to attack, but Dagon was not prepared to wait that long; heedless of his own servants, he swung his axe downwards, forcing the warlord to leap and roll out of the way, the resulting earthquake of the axe's impact depositing him in an unceremonious heap in a doorway.

He sprang back to his feet only to duck as the axe swung at him again, passing only a few feet over him and tearing half the house apart. The warrior-shaman was already up and running towards Dagon, using telekinesis to blast away those who tried to stop him. With his target getting closer, the Daedric Lord would have to be slower and more precise in his attacks; at least, that was Gorgoth's thinking. As no mortal had ever experienced anything like this before, he was operating purely on instinct and guesswork. At least his enemy was facing away from the Temple of the One.

A group of five Dremora – all high-ranking, judging by their armour and horns – moved to block his progress. No time to fight them with nothing but his physical strength and skill; instead, he sent ball lightning flying at them. Three of them had magical shields up and blocked the magic that killed their comrades; two replied in kind, sending streams of fire towards him that he absorbed . They had no time to do anything else before he crashed into them, digging his shoulder into the chest of one to send him staggering before spinning and lashing out with Blood King, shattering both the shield and arm of the Kynaz who tried to block it. Instead of following up with a killing blow, he instead rolled forward, away from the inevitable attacks of the other two Dremora. He'd just regained his feet when Dagon's axe hammered down into the earth where he'd been, shaking him so badly that he lost his balance. Seconds later, one of the Daedric Prince's free hands closed around him, imprisoning him as he was lifted off the ground.

Gorgoth snarled as he wrenched one arm free, meeting the Daedra's gaze as he was brought to within feet of his malevolent face. He summoned magical blades of blazing steel and sent them flying into Dagon's eyes, only to watch the Daedric Lord blink them away without apparent effort. Attempting to paralyse him had no effect, and trying to initiate explosions within his arm merely resulted in his magicka rebounding from a shield of immense strength. Dagon opened his mouth, his breath dry and stale, his sharp fangs wet with red blood. Gorgoth, knowing that he was about to die, spat full in his killer's face.

The ground beneath them heaved. Dagon blinked, looking around, and abruptly the warrior-shaman was falling. He barely had time to refresh his protective magics before he hit the ground, bouncing once before coming to rest on his front. With his face pressed against the dusty street, he couldn't even summon the energy to groan; pain lanced through every crevice of his body, and attempting to even wriggle his limbs caused such intense agony that he almost passed out. At least his spine hadn't been broken, but most of his ribs probably were. Hot blood rose in his throat, leaking out of his mouth into his helmet. Wondering why no lesser Daedra had finished him off yet, he managed to ignore the pain and heaved himself over onto his back.

Dagon was locked in battle with what appeared to be a magnificent fiery gold dragon, standing amid the ruins of what used to be the roof of the Temple of the One. The dragon's roars were even more powerful than the Daedra's had been as it snapped at its adversary, beating him with its wings, forcing Dagon back from the Temple. The Daedric Lord almost lost his balance as he trod on a row of houses, but recovered to slam two of his fists into the dragon. It grunted and flew a short distance, settling on another part of the Temple roof and ducking under a swing of the Daedra's battleaxe.

Springing from the roof, it rose, dodging two wild swings, then dived down into its adversary, the sheer force of the impact almost toppling the Daedra. It sank its teeth into the Daedric Lord's throat, ignoring his fists pounding on its ribcage. A chunk of red flesh came with it as it pulled back. Dagon bellowed with rage and slammed two fists into its lower chest, forcing it back onto the roof before swinging his axe in a brutal upswing into its stomach. He dropped the hilt as the entire weapon started to disintegrate, steam pouring from the dragon's wound as it rose up, stretching to its full height. A stream of divine fire poured from its mouth, enveloping Dagon. The writhing Daedric Prince tried to fight, tried to escape, but the dragon kept on relentlessly.

Dagon slumped to his knees, the fight visibly going out of him as his form started to distort and dissipate. As he faded from existence, banished back to Oblivion, the last expression on his face was one of utter defeat.

The exhausted dragon staggered and stepped back into the Temple, barely managing to remain standing. Its fires were dimming as it managed to rise up and give one last defiant roar to the heavens, a warning to the Daedra, a warning to stay away and never return. Then the fires went out and the voice faded, the dragon eternally frozen in its heroic last moments. Gorgoth closed his eyes and grunted. They had won. He didn't know how, but they had won.

A stab of pain brought him back to his own concerns. Drawing on what little magicka he had left, he wove a healing spell through his body, repairing his shattered bones and sealing the punctures in his lungs. Tearing off his helmet and spitting out blood, he rolled over and rose to his knees, looking around.

Where there had once been a street full of Daedra, there were now only a few isolated legionaries emerging from where they had taken refuge. The corpses of mortals were everywhere, but it seemed that even the Daedric bodies had been banished back to Oblivion along with their lord. The sensations of relief and victory rose up within him, but he crushed them down ruthlessly; he still had things to see to. As he forced himself to his feet, brushing the hair out of his eyes, the first raindrops began to splatter on the ground. He rose his head to the rolling black clouds overhead and let the rain wash away the worst of the accumulated filth of battle from his armour.

Hesitant footsteps behind him betrayed the presence of a legionary. "Have... have we won?" she asked.

He stood and turned, fitting his helmet to the hook on his belt. "We have," he confirmed. "The war is won. But we still have our duty." Without sparing her a backwards glance, he started off towards the entrance to the Temple of the One; most of the structure was still standing, though the stone dragon would be visible from many angles through the gaping hole in the roof and side of the building. Before he reached the tall double doors, they swung open. Ocato stepped through, his vision almost glazed, not seeming to noticed Gorgoth until the warrior-shaman put out a hand to stop him. "What happened?" asked the Orc.

The Altmer blinked and met his gaze, slowly removing his helmet. His hair was dishevelled and most of his bronze armour was battered and covered with blood, but at least he was alive. "Martin... sacrificed himself," he replied, speaking slowly as though still in shock. "He shattered the Amulet of Kings and joined the blood of kings and gods. He... transformed into an avatar of Akatosh." The High Elf shook his head, his expression a mixture of sadness and wonderment. "He died saving us all. He died a hero. A true Septim, one to rival Tiber."

Gorgoth paused before resting a hand on the High Chancellor's shoulder. "A hero indeed," he replied. "But we still have our duty. I have an oath to keep, and you have an Empire to run." Ocato grimaced. "You know there is no alternative. This is your duty. I am sure you will do well." He squeezed the other elf's shoulder before stepping past him into the Temple.

The Dragonfires along the circular walls were dark, and the rain was hammering at the naked stone floor where there was no longer a roof or wall to protect it, but the interior of the Temple had always been stark and minimalistic. Half of the altar in the centre had crumbled into ruin, but the huge stone dragon taking up most of the space was a worthy replacement. Captain Renault was on her knees next to the statue, sobbing uncontrollably. Callia had an arm around her superior's shoulders and looked distinctly uncomfortable, half looking as though she wanted nothing more than to join the Knight Captain in vocally expressing her grief. Gorgoth ignored them both as he strode up to the skeleton, drawing his Akaviri dai-katana as he went. Jauffre was dead, but he remembered the oath that he had made to the dying Breton long ago; Martin no longer needed his services.

He knelt before one of the dragon's feet, gently laying his dai-katana down on the ground before his Emperor. Raising his right hand, he pressed it against the statue; it was warm to the touch, even through his gauntlet. Bowing his head, he finally let himself think about the fact that Martin was dead. The last Septim had been more than his Emperor; he'd been his friend, a good and honourable man. An Emperor worth dying for. Instead, their Emperor had died for them. Gorgoth would move on, of course; he'd seen so much death that he'd become fully used to it, even amongst those closest to him. But first, he would take time to remember those who had fallen.

His grip on the statue tightened. "Martin. You were a good man, and for that short time, a good Emperor. You are with your ancestors now, and even in their illustrious company, you can hold your head high." He paused. "Thank you."

An odd sensation of warmth and strength flowed through him from the statue, easing the accumulated fatigue of the battle. A blessing from the last Septim; it was somewhat fitting. He slowly withdrew his hand and rose, leaving his dai-katana where it lay. He was no longer a Knight Brother of the Blades; the Emperor had no need of help from him or indeed any other mortal; he was with his ancestors in Aetherius. Captain Renault was still unresponsive, but Callia was standing apart from her now, gazing into the middle distance, tears silently rolling down her cheeks.

Gorgoth walked past the Knight Captain – she was beyond all help, at least for now – and placed a firm hand on Callia's shoulder. She jerked and stared up at him with wide eyes. "I do not intend to linger here long," he told her. "Mourn him. He was a great man and a good Emperor. But do not get too distracted. Meet me at the city gates." He turned and left the Temple without waiting for an answer.

The rain had largely eroded the stench of Oblivion, and most of the fires around the city were dying down, but everywhere he looked bore signs of the merciless destruction the Daedra had wrought upon the Imperial City. White Gold Tower looked down imperiously upon mountains of rubble, and deep craters already starting to fill with rainwater. Entire blocks of houses had vanished, and shattered stonework was littered across the city. But Gorgoth did not care; his time here was done for now. Pushing his wet hair back from his eyes, he moved on, starting off towards the city gates with a renewed sense of urgency.

"Gorgoth!" He stopped and turned to see Agronak hurrying towards him, trailed by a limping Ilend. Both of them looked like they'd seen hours of battle – Ilend was covered in dried blood and there were so many rips in his chainmail that it was barely holding together - but it was Aerin's limp form in the half-Orc's arms that caught his attention. He moved swiftly to meet them, noting the various holes in the Bosmer's leathers and the fact that they were stained with worrying amounts of her own blood. "We healed her as much as we could, but she still hasn't come round," explained the concerned Imperial as Agronak knelt, gently laying the Wood Elf on a bench that was mostly intact.

The warrior-shaman frowned, slipping off his gauntlet and taking her pulse. Very faint. He pressed his ear to her chest, again finding only a very faint heartbeat. "I have told you before that I cannot create blood," he replied, checking her magically for any other wounds. "There is nothing I can do for her. Restoration has helped her as much as it can; now her own strength must do the healing."

"But..." Ilend seemed lost as the warrior-shaman straightened. "She's dying."

"Not necessarily. Give her all the rest she can, feed her whatever you can get down her mouth. She is small, but she has a strong spirit, and she will never give up while she has breath left." He placed a hand on the Guildsman's shoulder. "Take her to the best inn you can find in the City, and remain there with her until she is better." He fumbled around in his enchanted belt pouch until he found a bag of coins. "This should be enough." Forcing the bag into the Imperial's hand, he knelt and placed a hand on Aerin's forehead, casting a limited-duration shield that would at least keep the rain off her. "If the Tiber Septim Hotel is still standing, I would recommend that."

Agronak bent to pick her up again as the warrior-shaman stepped away. "We'll get her there," he said. "You have my word on it."

As they turned to leave, Gorgoth grabbed Ilend's arm again. "I know how much she means to you, but look after yourself as well," he growled. "The war is won; you both have a good future ahead of you, and I am fairly sure she will live to see it. When my business in Orsinium is concluded, I will return here on a semi-permanent basis to lead the Guild; you two will be instrumental in rebuilding the Kvatch branch. Remember your duty, Guildsman."

His words seemed to break through the Imperial's daze. "I will," he replied, the familiar determination returning to his gaze. "Thanks, Gorgoth. And..." He paused, looking from Aerin to the statue towering over the Temple of the One. "Martin?"

"He died saving us all. A true Emperor to the end."

Ilend nodded and made a hasty salute before turning to leave, hurrying off after Agronak. Gorgoth watched them leave, pulling his gauntlet back on. Aerin was likely to survive; he'd seen similar cases pull through when they received the required care and attention, and Ilend was devoted enough to attend to her every need night and day until she was fully fit again. But that was his problem; Gorgoth had his own to take care of. Mazoga had been at the city gates; he had no idea how long it had taken Phillida's vanguard to get there, but there would have been fighting; he knew he'd sent her to a relatively safe place, and she was a good warrior, but... he would not rest until he was sure of the safety of her and his child. He broke into a run.

Fortification magic enhancing his speed meant the city passed him by in a blur. He didn't stop to help survivors comb the wreckage, nor did he respond to any hails of the Hero of Kvatch. He only stopped when he came to a hole in what used to be the dividing wall between the Talos Plaza District and the Temple District. The street was deserted except for Krognak, his armour bloody, his huge body shaking with sobs as he cradled Dralasa's corpse. Gorgoth grimaced as he slowly walked over to place a hand on his friend's broad back. They always had been close.

"Go on," grated Krognak, forcing his words out through gritted teeth. "I'll catch up. Just... let me mourn. I'll bury her later. Go on. I'll be fine."

The warrior-shaman nodded and turned away, unconsciously clenching his fists. Yes, they had won, but the cost had been great. At least Dralasa had died well, in battle; she wouldn't have embraced death as he would have, but at least she had not died a coward like so many who had huddled in their homes. He would mourn for her later, when the time was right. For now... he gathered himself and jumped though the hole in the wall, hitting the ground running on the other side. The rain was steady and relentless; he could feel it pouring down the back of his armour, mingling with the sweat and soaking his clothing. He ignored it; the cold felt soothing after the hot, dry air of Oblivion.

Phillida's cavalry was moving quickly to secure the city; he passed several patrols on his way to the city gates. The Talos Plaza itself had survived relatively intact, but the hundreds of corpses lying around the area indicated that there had been hard fighting. He reached the city gates and halted; Phillida had stationed himself there, giving orders and coordinating his men. Bodies were piled high around the gatehouses, and it appeared that the fighting had spilled onto the walls themselves before Martin had thrown Dagon and his minions back into Oblivion. Knowing that Mazoga would have stationed herself at a bottleneck, he hurried towards one of the towers.

Mazoga was sitting against the wall just beside the doorway, sword still grasped in her left hand. Her right arm was missing from the elbow down, but it was the gaping wound across her torso that had killed her. It had probably been a large battleaxe or halberd that delivered the terrible blow; the wound ran from her left breast almost all the way to her right hip. Her eyes were still open; normally full of fire and passion, they were now dead and cold. The rain had mingled with blood from a scalp wound; it made her look as thought she'd been weeping blood in her last moments.

Gorgoth clenched his fists to stop them shaking as he knelt beside her, casting a spell of life detection in an illogical attempt to deny the truth: his lover and his unborn child were dead. He managed to keep his hand from shaking as he slid her eyes closed and stood. He tried to keep his seething emotions in check, tried to call upon the mental fortitude that he'd maintained over all the years. He failed.

He threw his head back and roared, letting the rage and hate and sorrow come pouring out. For an instant, he was back in the mud hut, calling his mother's name as he shook her mutilated corpse. Then he was back in the present, voicing his pain and rage yet again before stepping forward and slamming his fists into the city wall, again and again, chipping the stone and denting his gauntlets. He hadn't felt such loss since his mother died, and he channelled every emotion he felt into his fists, letting the red mist take him as he smashed his fists into the wall again and again, so hard that he cracked his knuckles despite his gauntlets.

Time passed; he didn't know how long, but eventually he came to his senses, breathing hard and staring at a gouged section of the city wall, with pain lancing through his hands. With great effort, he forced his mental armour back into place; his lover and his unborn child were dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. Regret was pointless; trying to change the past was useless. He had vented his anger; now he would move on, always remembering but never regretting. Mazoga would be another painful memory; one of many that tormented him, but he would not let it affect him. Not any more. He would control himself or go mad.

He sent healing magic through his hands and turned from the wall, looking down at Mazoga's corpse. Emotions surged, and he forced them down again. He had no time to waste on weakness. Most of Phillida's bodyguard were carefully avoiding looking in his direction. Krognak was standing several feet away, still cradling Dralasa's corpse, and beside him stood Callia; grief was still etched on her features, but her back was straight and her eyes alert.

The Oblivion Crisis was over. The cause he had fought for had won. It was the end of an Era, and the start of a new one. "Our purpose here is ended," he told them, his voice calm and emotionless. "Many have died this day. We mourn them and we move on, for there are battles still to be fought."


A/N: And so it ends. This project has taken nearly three years, far more than I originally thought it would, and it's also expanded beyond whatever I thought it would be like when I first started. And now it's finally over... though soon I'll be along with my next project, so don't worry about me fading back into the shadows any time soon. But anyhow, I haven't written a disclaimer for the entire fic, so I'd better do one now:

I do not own The Elder Scrolls or Oblivion or any of its characters; they belong to Bethesda, the jammy gits. I just hope they don't mess their excellent universe up by outsourcing it to make their MMO. I don't make any profit out of this, either, not that I ever wanted to.

I DO own the following: Gorgoth gro-Kharz, Aerin, Gnaeus Magnus, Selene, Lurog gro-Brugh, Dralasa Helas, Krognak gro-Durak, Gornakh gro-Nagorm, Primo Varius, Uriel Signus, Burzukh gro-Ghash, Merildan, Tarad, Kharz gra-Shagren and every other original character I've created; if I were to list them all it would probably take hours for me to just find them all.

I couldn't finish this A/N without thanking my readers and, more notably, my reviewers; right from the start, you lot have been there, encouraging me and giving me advice; even those one-liners are helpful. There's far too many reviewers for me to list every single one, but I'm certainly going to try: CallumDaGrouch123, for being my very first reviewer and giving me that first taste of the unique joy you get when you see a new review in your inbox; there were those who reviewed at the start before tailing off later, but who still remain much-appreciated; Sneer, Rickard Steiner, Idledreamcatcher, Reaction Meter, The Blackjack, Levi Matthews, Omega Gilgamesh, zombie chow, Commentaholic and NoSoundComes, to name but a few; those who are still chewing through this behemoth with appreciated determination, including InkheartFirebringer, the mighty lu bu, SpecialAgentOrange and athos-aramis (who gets special thanks for helpfully nitpicking my anatomy); those who have been there throughout, notably HunterAzrael, Koboldlord, Random Reader, Pale White Shadow, Rokibfd, Vickmackey007, Lohce Azcry, Orion the Awesome, Agent 94 and many more (apologies, but I AM typing this at 2:30am; my memory is bad enough normally). And then, of course, there are the 100%ers, those who have been there for every single chapter (or near enough): The Underpaid Critic, my most ever-present anonymous reviewer and much-appreciated despite never being able to reply to you properly, Lord Jacob of Writing, who blitzed though the entire behemoth then spent months waiting for the last few chapters, and, of course, Arty Thrip; not just a great and loyal reviewer who's been there from the start, but a good friend as well. And a damn good writer; if you haven't read her fics already, they should be next on your list. Anyhow, I know there are many more reviewers than this, and your input is certainly as appreciated as anyone's on this list, but I'm sure you understand if I overlook you by accident, given that at the time of writing I have 890 reviews, which is insane. So here's a blanket thanks to everyone who has ever reviewed Blood and Steel; you people are great. Thanks a lot; you have my gratitude, for what it's worth.

That is probably the longest paragraph in Blood and Steel, but it deserves to be. Anyhow, it's finally over, but keep the reviews coming; I know some don't like to review a fic until it's complete, and in any case I want to hear what you lot have to say about it (as always). Anonymous reviews will be replied to in a separate A/N underneath this one, so check back if you've left an anonymous review; I'll reply to it.

As for the future, you'll probably know if you've been following me that I plan to write an Oblivion Dark Brotherhood fic after this; that still holds true, and I'll try to make it original and not just another rehash of the same story that's been overdone hundreds of times. Before that, though, there'll most likely be a oneshot tying up some loose ends; I won't be writing an epilogue because that oneshot and my DB fic will take place in the same universe several months after BaS; hence, you'll learn of the fates of the surviving characters in there. Also worth noting is that my eventual Skyrim fic will also be set in what I'll be calling the 'BaS universe'.

Right, that's it from me; it's time to end this fic, which has seen me through years of college and the end of my education; I've definitely improved along the way as a writer, and here's hoping I'll be able to keep on improving; after all, 'anyone can always improve' is the mantra I sometimes use in my reviews... but anyhow, while the earlier chapters of BaS are, indeed, in a woeful condition, it might be some time before I'm able to bring them up to scratch; writing new things is always more interesting, after all... and I take long enough to write new chapters anyway.

And now, until next time, I'm off. Hopefully I won't be away for too long...


A/N: This bit is to reply to anonymous reviewers:

HereFromTheStart: That's... certainly good to hear. And very flattering. You'll get more, that's for certain. Thanks for reviewing and for staying with me all this way.

Anon: Yes, nearly three years is definitely 'forever', even for a fic this long; long update times are something I'll always beat myself up over unless I have a valid excuse, because I don't want to let you readers down. I'll work on it. Thanks for reviewing.

Underpaid Critic: For me it would make simple sense for all my other TES fics to be in the same BaS universe, if only for people to know exactly who the key figures were at certain points; I do like establishing continuity. There definitely won't be a full-blown sequel to BaS, merely that oneshot that ties up a very obvious loose end. The DB fic that'll come after this will be in the same universe with some surviving characters getting references and cameos, but that's as far as it goes.

1 word every three minutes... not bad, but it could always be better. Updating slowly is an obvious weakness of mine; especially as I KNOW I'm capable of updating with a 10,000 word chapter in two weeks. It's something I'll always work on, because anyone can always improve...

The real world doesn't exactly have any lustre at the moment, given that I'm still looking for a job a year after leaving college. Oddly, I seemed to write faster when I had coursework deadlines to meet rather than now when I have more time...

But anyhow, good to hear you liked it. Thanks for reviewing all these years.

Sakura's Edge: I'm not sure if you got the reply I sent to your profile or not, and as you reviewed anonymously I figured I'd betterp lay it safe, so I'll paste my reply here as well:

Good to hear it delivered. And yes, it most definitely was a tragic ending; Gorgoth was utterly convinced that he was doing the safest thing by separating them (and he actually was), so he at least expected her to still be alive... but she wasn't. Good to hear it performed as expected, because Gorgoth in those last few moments was truly broken (he pulled himself back together as he always does, but as ever when something is broken and put back together, there are scars that will never fade).

Krognak is a very emotive Orc, so it'd be expected for him to mourn a good friend (I'll leave it ambiguous as to whether they were lovers as well, for now) very vocally; there's weakness and then there's mourning your friends, so Gorgoth (and other Orcs) would fully understand why he's crying his heart out (and later drinking pubs dry). But anyhow, such a conversation would be good to have, but there won't be one, at least not immediately after this event; the oneshot takes place months down the line, though all the scars will still be evident. As for Callia... well, she's finally seen some vestige of what he's been through. She'd be more sympathetic at the very least. Again, it'll probably be addressed in the oneshot (she's determined to see Gornakh dead as well, though of course not nearly so much as Gorgoth).

Gnaeus was never going to go out quietly. 'Stubborn bugger' describes him perfectly, and he died as he lived. No doubt he's making the most of time in Aetherius until his soul is recycled... though I'm still undecided as to whether his brother's there waiting for him or whether he's still alive.

I can confirm that Aerin is alive; she'll be weak for a while, but like Gorgoth says, she's strong and a fighter. She'll make it. They definitely won't see Skyrim, though; Ilend's pathetic magical abilities won't stretch his lifespan, and though Aerin might feasibly still be alive in 200 years she'll be very old indeed for a mundane Bosmer. And as half-elven children age much quicker than their elven parents, if they all die naturally she'll likely outlast all of them. Sad thought.

I haven't played Oblivion since the early chapters; it's not even installed on this computer. On that note, I haven't played Skyrim this year either (it's not a good game) though I might fire it up again soon after modding the crap out of it to make it the game it should have been. But anyhow, before that Skyrim fic (it WILL happen; I want it very badly to happen), there must be the oneshot/DB fic/Iron Walls oneshot; I'm a fan of chronology in my writing. Hopefully I won't take too long. Thanks for reviewing.

LPalaiologos: Your review was for Chapter 53, but I'm replying here as you've clearly read to the end (and I don't have anywhere else to reply). Anyhow, as for Aerin, realise that she's still quite naive; she doesn't stop to think that Gorgoth would be perfectly fine with raping someone she actually likes, an act which would DEFINITELY result in her hating him. And realise that Dralasa is nowhere near innocent; she wasn't angry for the people that Mannimarco defiled, but rather at the defilement itself; as a proud ancestor-worshipping Dunmer, she hates necromancy with every fibre of her being, hence her hatred of Mannimarco. And as she's travelled extensively in the past with Gorgoth and his mercenaries before, she's definitely not condemning Gorgoth's rapes at all; she loves him (platonically, of course) even though she knows that he's raped many and would again, even those who might be close to her (then again, Dralasa is just slightly unhinged).

Gorgoth already has most of High Rock hating him, and as he points out in his own thoughts, the people of Cyrodiil love the Hero of Kvatch, whom they hold up and idealise without actually knowing him; they would DEFINITELY hate Gorgoth gro-Kharz. Besides, the immense emotional trauma from his childhood has left him tortured enough already (many of his horrendous deeds stem from that); see the oneshot semi-sequel when I finally get around to writing it. But until then, thanks for the review, and I only wish you had a profile so that I could actually respond at a decent length.

Guest: It's good to know Gorgoth came across like that; it's how I meant to portray him. And there most definitely is a difference between Chapters 1 and 54... I really need to rewrite half of this fic to bring it up to current standards, but that'd probably take years, knowing me; that DB fic will probably take years as well... but I'll work on it, no doubt about that.