Into the Light

by Aurora Nova

Marcus of Whiterun, called Dragonborn, prepares to launch resistance against the final assault from the Aldmeri Dominion, to fight the Last Great War for the freedom of Tamriel. Fourth in a series; sequel to "Into the Maelstrom," "Into the Darkness," and "Into the Ashes."

17. Chapter 17

Chapter 9

[Author's Note: Before we jump back in let me say "thank you" to lukemowry for his insight into combat strategies and battle logistics. Also, I'd like to give a HUGE shout-out to the group Two Steps From Hell. Their brilliant compositions have truly inspired me to write the combat scenes you are reading. I couldn't get "Victory" out of my head as I worked on this chapter!]

---

"Teams of two!" Benor roared, guiding Firefall towards Whiterun.

"What about the Dragonborn?" Amalie demanded. "He's not here yet!"

"We can't wait for him," Benor decided. "Galmar and his battalion are almost in position. "They're going to need backup!"

Amalie nodded. "Mistwing, let's go!" she urged, and the white dragon complied by bellowing out a challenge to the enemy on the ground. The fight at Helgen and Riverwood had been but a warm-up. Fewer than a hundred Dominion troops had been left behind to secure the ruined city and the peaceful riverside town further north, which had been reduced to cinders. Galmar's army included some who had once called Helgen and Riverwood home, and the skirmish had been short, brutal and complete. They searched the town for survivors but found none, and Amalie hoped they had managed to escape into the hills.

Now she led half of the remaining dragon force from Dragonpeak Eyrie to the main gate of Whiterun, where the fighting was fiercest. Benor took his half and angled north, to fly over the heart of the city and battle the three remaining airships, including one that appeared to be docked at the Great Porch of Dragonsreach, currently in flames.

"Sorri, Stands-Alone," he called, "take Ironclaw and Smokefang and use their frost breath on the Thalmor. Stay clear of those ballista bolts!"

"Yes, sir!" the Nord and Argonian saluted, and wheeled off to distract the airship crews while Benor and the remaining two dragon riders urged their companions higher, to get above the dirigibles. As Lars had done in Helgen, they dove at the airships to allow the dragons to gouge the tops of the airbags with their razor-sharp claws, before leaping away again. The dismount was almost more dangerous than flying in, as they were more vulnerable to Dominion counter-attacks.

Ironclaw swept the decks of the closest airship, hovering over the marketplace, with his frost breath while Smokefang followed quickly behind with a second volley. Many of the soldiers dropped to their knees, but didn't succumb to the assault. Sorri frowned and brought Ironclaw around for a second run, with Stands-Alone on Smokefang in tight formation behind and to her right.

As they made the second pass, the Justiciar on the ship sent a Thunderbolt their way, and Ironclaw practically folding himself in half to avoid it, forcing Sorri to grab for the neck ridge or be dislodged. Stands-Alone scowled, baring all his chiseled teeth, in a grimace not unlike his draconian companion, and unleashed a Chain Lightning towards the Justiciar as Smokefang bellowed forth his own icy blast. Nearly half of the Aldmeri soldiers dropped to the deck and did not rise, but the Justiciar fired off a healing spell before tracking the dragons' flight. The deck of the ship shuddered, though, and he staggered to keep his balance as he realized they were drifting off course and losing altitude.

The streets below were crowded with soldiers of every race as the airship glided northeast over the retaining wall between the marketplace and the Wind District. With horror, the Justiciar realized they were going to crash into a great, overturned ship-turned-mead hall near the outer wall. Below, arrayed in the yards, were a dozen or more heavily armed and armored warriors and two eagerly waiting werewolves.

Benor moved on to the next airship as soon as he knew they had effectively neutralized the first. He took a moment to scan the skies to the west, hoping to see Marcus and Odahviing arriving with reinforcements, but the horizon remained clear, and he gave a tired sigh. They would just have to keep going until the Dragonborn could get here. It was all they could do.

Amalie and her team continued making strafing runs through the ranks of gold and glass armored warriors. At her instructions, Lars and Summerwind, being the smallest and swiftest of her team, were ordered to specifically find and target the black-robed Justiciars. Nearly all the Thalmor army were spell-casters, but the Justiciars were a breed apart, with seemingly unlimited magicka, and Amalie knew they needed to be taken out quickly.

Her heart swelled with pride as she looked down and saw her own people fighting on the outer edge of the battle, having taken the Dominion by surprise from the rear. But the feeling didn't last long as she realized that the Reachfolk were taking a brutalizing. More lightly armored than the rest of the Alliance, and most still preferring to use their traditional weapons of bone and tusk, they were slowly being decimated by the Thalmor. Even their spells seemed to have little effect against the highly trained Altmer forces.

"Again, Mistwing!" she urged, and the frost dragon obeyed as he sailed over a contingent of Dominion troops.

"FO KRAH DIIN!"

"Now, wheel around to the back of the fight," she told the dragon. "I see a Matriarch there at the edge. Let's give her a ride."

"I must carry another?" Mistwing questioned, dubious.

"Just this once," Amalie promised. "A Matriarch has much better and stronger spells than I do. We need that boost."

"As you wish, dii fahdon," the coldrake replied, ducking his head.

They landed several yards behind the ranks of archers, near where the Matriarch stood, sending her fireballs over their heads into the Altmer army. Amalie didn't recognize her, so she dismounted quickly and approached, bowing.

"Matriarch," she began respectfully, "may I offer you a ride?"

The Hagraven studied her with beady, dark eyes. "I do not know you," she announced in her raspy voice, "but you appear to be one of us."

"I'm Amalie," the younger Reachwoman replied, tugging self-consciously at the collar of her flying suit. "I'm from the Karthspire. I married Benor, one of the Dragonborn's Blade riders."

"And became one of them, too, I see," the Matriarch cackled indulgently at the girl's obvious embarrassment. "I'm Elieshandra, from Bthardamz. Our King, Madanach, told me of the Dragonborn's plans. This is your friend?" she inquired, bowing to Mistwing, who rumbled in approval.

"My friend…my fahdon, Amalie, gave me the name Mistwing," the dragon replied. "I have heard from her about the Matriarchs. I did not expect one to so closely resemble a creature that flies."

Elieshandra cackled again in amusement. "I had a dream not long ago, that I would someday fly," she told the dragon. "I thought it a mere fancy, or perhaps that my soul would take flight. I did not expect it to be taken literally."

"If you will climb on, I will take you above the battle, that you may be a force to be reckoned with, Matriarch," Mistwing volunteered, surprising Amalie, who had expected more resistance from the dragon. She knew how proud they could be.

Elieshandra chuckled. "Well, how can I resist an invitation like that?" she grinned. "Let's show those Thalmor what real power is!"

Mistwing lowered his neck to make it easier for the Matriarch to climb up and settle in, and Amalie jumped up in front of her. "Let's go, my friend!"

Pumping his wings hard, and thrusting off the ground with his powerful hind legs, Mistwing was soon airborne, and circled around to come at the battlefield from the west, were the sun was already taking its downward trip.

"There!" Amalie pointed, towards a large section of Dominion archers, firing up at the city walls, pinning down the Alliance soldiers there. "Let's take them out!"

Mistwing roared, Amalie cast a Chain Lightning, and Elieshandra, holding on to Amalie's waist for dear life, made a gesture with one clawed hand. The soldiers who were not frozen or shocked suddenly turned and ran, and the Matriarch screeched with glee.

"I do love me a good Fear spell!" she chortled.

Again, and again, Mistwing flew low over the ranks of the Dominion army as both Amalie and Elieshandra cast their Illusion spells to demoralize the Altmer soldiers. The Dominion commander scowled in dismay as the left flank was suddenly in disarray, with soldiers cowering or dropping their weapons to run for cover. He had seen the white dragon, of course, but now it had two riders, and he could only surmise they were responsible for the sudden breakdown in discipline among his troops.

"Justiciars!" he called to those who had resisted the spells. He pointed towards the dragon, and the black-robed Thalmor mages nodded. Spells flared back in response, and the dragon was required to take evasive action as the two Reachwomen held on for dear life. "Archers!" the Commander roared, and a sudden volley of arrows met Mistwing's next strafing run. Amalie hastily put up the ward they had all been taught which blocked missiles, as the dragon heeled over once more to avoid the brunt of the attack. Elieshandra grabbed Amalie tighter with both hands, but her face was livid.

"Get us closer, please, Mistwing," she begged. "I'm going to try something I haven't done since the Markarth Incident."

"My hide is tough, Matriarch," the dragon complained, "but it is not impervious."

"Please, Mistwing!"

Shaking his head in resignation, the dragon complied and circled around for another strafing run.

"What are you going to do?" Amalie worried.

"Watch and learn, young one," the older Reachwoman replied confidently.

As they came within range, the Matriarch gestured with her free hand once more, and spoke a single word that Amalie didn't recognize. A wave of energy burst forth, roiling downwards to meet the scores of arrows headed their way. As the arrows passed through the wave they morphed, lost definition, and became a sudden rain of mountain flowers, in hues of blue, red, purple and yellow, that dropped out of the air all around the stunned Dominion archers. They reached back into their quivers for another salvo, only to pull up bouquets of posies.

Mistwing roared his approval, and Amalie shouted in delight, while Elieshandra chuckled. They made two more passes as the Matriarch cast the spell again in quick succession, gasping a bit each time.

"Are you alright?" Amalie asked, cocking her head behind her.

"It takes a lot out of me, but I'll be fine," Elieshandra replied, patting the younger woman's back in reassurance.

A volley of flaming stone whizzed past them, exploding against the outer walls of the city, and Amalie frowned. If the walls were breached, no amount of Alliance resistance could prevent the Dominion from invading the city and razing it to the ground.

"Can you do that spell to the catapults?" Amalie asked the Matriarch. "Change their rocks into flowers?"

"Oh, I've got something better for that," the Hagraven cackled. "It's much more powerful, though, and it may come with a cost."

"Maybe we shouldn't then," Amalie frowned.

"No," the Matriarch disagreed. "It must be done. Mistwing, see that cluster of siege engines, there? Get us closer, if you can."

The white dragon obliged and wheeled about in the air, swooping just overhead as the Matriarch summoned her power and gestured with both hands. Amalie felt the percussion of the spell thrum deep in her chest as the power was released.

The Justiciars gave their order, and the war machines loosed their ammunition, passing through the barrier of magic that had settled around them. Stones suddenly became bubbles, iridescent and delicate, floating on the air currents away from the walls back to the Dominion army. All along the Dominion line, the result was the same. Stones were loaded, but only bubbles floated away from the catapults.

Amalie squealed with laughter, until she felt the Matriarch slump against her. Alarmed, she made a grab behind her to keep the Hagraven from falling off. Fearing the old Reachwoman had been shot, she ordered Mistwing, "Get us down quickly!" As the frost dragon touched down, Amalie turned around swiftly and hauled the Matriarch off the dragon's neck, laying her tenderly on the ground. There was no arrow.

Elieshandra's eyes fluttered open, and Amalie called forth healing energy into her hands, but the old Reachwoman pushed them away.

"No," she whispered. "That won't help. There was a price to be paid for tapping into the old magicks that way. I knew the cost."

"But we need you—"

"No, child," the Matriarch smiled gently. "I did what I was sent here to do. Go now. Win this thing…for the Reach." She closed her eyes again and gave a quiet sigh, and Amalie knew she was gone.

---

Marcus left Mistveil Keep with Saerlund's assurances still ringing in his ears. The young Nord Jarl was confident they would be able to hold Delphine in the castle dungeons indefinitely until other arrangements could be made, but Marcus had his doubts. Delphine had become too quiet, too complacent as she was led away with an almost smug smile teasing her lips. She was up to something, Marcus was certain, but since he didn't have time to figure it out, he hoped it was merely another manifestation of her insanity.

"Dad!"

His heart leaping in his chest, Marcus turned to see Blaise running to meet him from the Scorched Hammer, which was looking a bit more scorched than usual.

"Blaise!" he cried, throwing his arms around his older son. "I'm so glad you're okay! Is Balimund—" He didn't want to ask, but he needed to know. He had a soft spot in his heart for the man who had crafted his armor and sword from dragon bones and scales.

"He's fine, Dad," the young Breton man assured his adoptive father. "He's a bit shook up, though. We had no warning. Those flying boats just came out of nowhere from the southwest, over the lake, and the soldiers rushed in from both sides of the city. The Rift guard barely got the gates closed in time. Is this it? Is this the next Great War?"

"I'm afraid so, son," Marcus told him honestly. "You and Balimund are going to be getting very busy, very soon."

"We'll manage," Blaise assured him. "I'm just so glad to see you're still alive! You weren't among the dead, but no one knew where you went. I could hear you, though," the young man added with a quirk of his lips.

"I had some things to deal with," Marcus replied, and gave his son a brief synopsis of what had occurred.

"Whiterun's under attack, too?" Blaise worried. "Is Alesan alright? Have you heard from him?"

"I haven't actually been to Whiterun yet," Marcus admitted. "I sent Benor and Galmar on ahead. I'll need to get over there myself and see what can be done."

"I won't keep you, then," the young blacksmith nodded. He threw his arms around Marcus again and thumped his back, making a hollow sound on the dragonplate as he did so. "Stay safe, Dad!"

"You too, son," Marcus smiled. "Give my best to Balimund, along with my apologies for not stopping in."

"He'll understand," Blaise assured him.

Marcus left Riften, now in the throes of repairing the damage done by the recent battle, through the south gate to return to Odahviing with an uneasy feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the fact he hadn't eaten in a long while.

The bones of the fallen dragons still lay where they had met their fate, and Marcus paused somberly, regret washing over him. He had such hopes! But Delphine and her single-minded arrogance had truly ruined what could have been a brilliant tactical advantage.

"Thuri?" Odahviing queried, as softly as a dragon could. Even the great red firedrake sensed his lord's downcast mood.

"It was such a waste!" Marcus muttered. "Not just here, but at Karthspire, too. All those dragons, lost. And for what?"

"Lost?" Odahviing blinked in surprise. "How do you mean?"

"They're dead!" Marcus sighed in frustration. "At least the ones here died for a cause. But the ones at Karthspire? They never had a chance."

"Perhaps you could give them that chance," Odahviing replied, offhandedly.

Marcus looked up at his companion. "They're dead, Odahviing," he snapped tersely. "I took their souls."

"Took them, yes," the dragon pointed out, amused. "But you did not consume them. You have not unlocked any new rotmulag with them. They are still a part of you. And if I am not mistaken – which I seldom am – Miraak taught you the same thu'um Alduin used to bring me back."

Stunned, Marcus could only stare. It was true. He did know the Resurrect Shout, though he had never used it. A thrill of excitement ran through him as he searched his mind for the Words of Power. Taking a deep breath, he turned to the closest skeleton and bellowed, "SLEN TIID VO!"

All the air seemed to be sucked from his lungs, and he gasped as his vision darkened. Marcus dropped to his knees as bright pinpoints of light raced away from him into the vanishing point of the horizon. He felt the soul release itself from his mind's grasp and flow out of him, all while his lungs struggled to bring in the next breath. A rushing wind roared in his ears, though the air around him was calm. He was vaguely conscious of the skeleton in front of him igniting once more as the flesh regenerated on its bones and the soul suffused it with life.

"Dad?"

Dimly, he was aware that Blaise was by his side, even as the dragon was reforming, though he hadn't heard the young Breton approach. How long had he knelt there?

"What are you doing, Dad?" his son asked, gazing in horrific fascination as the flesh grew once more to cover the dragon's bones.

Marcus couldn't speak. The thu'um had taken much out of him, and he felt as weak as a baby Khajiit, but he dared not show that to the dragons. He forced himself to stand, to answer his son.

"Getting back…what the Thalmor…took from us…" he managed.

To his credit, the Breton blacksmith only nodded. "I've never seen you take a soul," he breathed, "much less give one back. It's…bizarre…" He handed his father a stamina potion, which Marcus gratefully accepted and drank on the spot.

"Are you going to do that to the others?" Blaise asked, and when Marcus only nodded, the younger man replied, "I'll head back in and get some more potions, then. I think you're going to need them!"

By this time, the bronze dovah had completely reformed, and opened his eyes, blinking in confusion.

"Dovahkiin, thuri?" the dragon breathed in amazement. "Zu'u lahney ontzos. Vir los daar korasaal?"

I live again. How is this possible?

Odahviing rumbled his approval. His thuri truly was worthy of loyalty now!

"Yes," Marcus nodded, striving to get his breathing back under control. "I brought you back. Do you have a name?"

"Niid, Dovahkiin," the bronze dragon replied. "My rider called me 'Brownie', and I indulged his little joke, but it was not who I am."

Marcus managed a weak chuckle. "That doesn't seem like a very adequate name for a dragon of your prowess," he replied with only minimal flattery. After all, a dragon who had gone up against a Dominion airship was brave, indeed, even if he had lost his life doing so. "There is a story among my people of a man who was once brought back to life," he said now. "The man's name was Lazarus. I give you that name now, since you are the first dragon I have ever raised."

"Lah zah ruz," the dragon mused, mulling the words over with his tongue. "From the viewpoint of a dovah, it makes little sense in our language," he conceded. "But I will be honored to bear the name you have given me, Dovahkiin."

"Excellent," Marcus nodded. "Well, then, wait here with Odahviing, Lazarus. There are others here who need my attention."

With a sense of dread, knowing what was to come, Marcus waited until Blaise returned with a half-dozen Stamina potions before Shouting at the next set of dragon bones outside Riften's walls. As the dragon's soul flew back to its fleshly form, he felt weaker and more breathless than he did the first time. It didn't get any better after the third dragon. After the fourth, Blaise ordered him to take a break.

"I'm worried, Dad," he said, his voice thick with concern. "This is taking a lot out of you. Is it worth it?"

"Just hand me another stamina potion, son," Marcus murmured. "And yes, it is worth it. We need the dragons."

"But Dad," Blaise frowned. "I don't know if you're aware, but your hair is turning gray."

Marcus chuckled indulgently. "You kids did that to me."

"Not funny, Dad," Blaise snorted. "I mean it," he insisted. "You've got streaks in your beard that weren't there earlier, and now you've got them at your temples, too."

"Really?" A hand went up to his beard unconsciously. "I suppose it was bound to happen," he mused. "Guess I'll be ready for High Hrothgar sooner than I anticipated."

Blaise just sighed and shook his head, handing his father another stamina potion. His father pulled a face before swilling it.

"I think I feel my eyeballs filling," he joked. Setting the empty bottle aside he stood, leaning more on Blaise for support than he liked. "Time to address the troops," he muttered. He turned to speak to the dragons, awaiting instructions from him.

"You all know what my hopes were in this war," he told them. "But you've lost your riders, the ones who bonded with you during training. You gave your lives here for our cause, and I won't ask more of you. But if you are still of a mind to fight for your own survival, I would gratefully accept your help."

The dragons looked from one to another, and at Odahviing, who sat nearby, inscrutable as always. It was Lazarus who finally spoke.

"I owe my new life to you, thuri," he said. "My zeymah feel the same way. We would not be here but for you. We will do as you command."

Odahviing rumbled his approval. Marcus' face split into a grin.

"Then, follow Odahviing," he told them. "He is my second in command." He turned to the great red dragon. "Take them to Whiterun," he told his draconian companion. "I'm going back to Karthspire through the Portal in the Ratway here. I'll head to Whiterun when I'm done at Karthspire."

"As my thuri commands," Odahviing replied, ducking his head and showing all his teeth in a dragon's smile. "What shall we do at Whiterun?"

Marcus gave a wicked grin of his own. "Fos voz? Krii Thalmor." What else? Kill Thalmor.

---

The war room of the White Gold Tower was several floors below the Emperor's private chambers, and Dante couldn't remember ever being in it before, though he had been a regular visitor to the Imperial City's most prominent structure for nearly four years now.

Curved to fit the contours of the outer wall, it was windowless and dark, but for the elaborate lanterns hanging from chains overhead, or mounted in gilded sconces along the walls. The thick woolen carpet under Dante's feet was without pattern, but dyed a deep, vibrant vermillion. The walls themselves were hung with portraits and tapestries of some of Cyrodiil's most famous emperors and generals. A long table in the center of the room was made of carved cinnabar wood from Elsweyr, and laminated with a border of mother-of-pearl inlay. A map of Cyrodiil lay at one end of the highly polished surface, while another of the entire continent of Tamriel lay at the other end. Heavy clay and stone markers indicating troop movements were carefully positioned on each map.

Surrounding the table were generals, councilors and spies, and at one end sat Emperor Titus Mede the Second. At the sight of his grandson, the old Imperial visibly relaxed and smiled.

"Councilor de Fer!" he exclaimed. "There you are! I trust your return journey was uneventful?"

"I wouldn't exactly say that," Dante drawled.

Titus Mede frowned. "Oh? Is that so? And where is General Tullius?"

"He'd better be at the Temple of the One, getting healed," Dante replied. "It's where I left him."

Astonished murmurs broke out among the people around the table.

"You'd better explain, then," the Emperor sighed. "Though I have a feeling it isn't good news."

Dante could only nod. "It isn't."

He told them what had occurred at the Pale Pass, and at the Fort. He then informed them of the situation in Bruma. When he was done, there was silence around the table and each person absorbed what had been revealed.

"We should send troops to Bruma at once," one of the councilors said, stunned.

"That would leave us spread very thin, Sire," General Admantus frowned. "We're still pushing back against the Dominion advances in Anvil and Bravil, along the Leyawiin border."

"We have no choice," Titus Mede declared. "What good will it be to fight along our southern border if the Dominion comes at us from the north?"

"Perhaps the Nords could take up the fight for us?" Councilor Devane suggested. He was a rotund, fussy little red-haired man, but had earned his position on the Elder Council through hard work and dedication to helping the people of Cyrodiil. Dante liked him.

"The Nords are busy with their own problems right now," he told them. "I received a brief message from Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun that his city was under attack by the Dominion." He held up a folded piece of paper that he did not share, but merely tucked it into his belt pouch once more. Only Dante knew it was blank. No one here needed to know exactly how he had heard so soon from Whiterun's Jarl. "I haven't heard anything since."

"My contacts in High Rock have sent a similar message," Devane frowned. "The courier practically killed himself getting it to me in a timely manner. It seems Daggerfall is under attack by Dominion warships."

"How could they have gotten past the coast of Hammerfell unseen?" Councilor Vanadia demanded. She was an extremely wealthy noblewoman who inherited her post from her father. Though the seats in the Elder Council were not hereditary, enough money had passed between the right hands to make her a member of the Council.

"Maybe the Redguards weren't paying attention," Councilor Ballantine joked. Thin, balding, with an acerbic tongue, Ballantine had served on the Elder Council almost as long as Titus Mede had been Emperor. The two had never seen eye to eye, and Ballantine had been, at one time, a confidant of Amaund Motierre.

"Perhaps the Dominion sailed far enough away from the land not to be noticed," Dante suggested, "or they used the cover of magic to hide their ships from view. What does it matter? The point is, this has all been a coordinated assault on each Province remaining in the Empire."

"Which means they're going to be spread just as thin as we are," General Admantus mused.

"We should use that to our advantage then," the Emperor nodded. "I've already sent messages to Morrowind and Hammerfell, asking for aid. It will take time to get a reply. And there's no guarantee they'll help."

"I can send troops to Bruma," the General declared. "We still have men in Cheydinhall. I'll send word."

"Better send some to Chorral, too," a new voice suggested, and all heads turned to see Lucius Maximillus Tullius stride into the room, looking as hale and hearty as if he hadn't been near death's door, knocking loudly just the day before.

"Chorral?" the Emperor exclaimed. "Why Chorral, General? Oh, and it's good to have you back," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Everything good?"

"It wouldn't have been, but for the Councilor, here," Tullius bowed, nodding towards Dante. "Suffice to say the Dominion didn't get me this time. And we should send troops to Chorral because the Dominion has been channeling their own troops through the Colovian Highlands into the Jeralls, to get to Skyrim."

"Are they still doing that?" Ballantine scoffed. "That report is nearly a year old!"

"Just because we haven't had an update doesn't mean we should discount it," Dante replied, backing Tullius up. "I'd far rather send a contingent of soldiers on a 'just in case' rather than be caught flat-footed…again."

Ballantine subsided, brooding.

"How many troops do we have in total, Generals?" the Emperor asked now. "How many people can we distribute around Cyrodiil?"

Admantus looked at Tullius and nodded to defer to him.

"We have about ten thousand stationed in all parts of Cyrodiil, your Majesty," Tullius replied, "and another five thousand scattered around the various other Provinces."

"Can we pull them out of the other Provinces?" Councilor Vanadia asked.

"Certainly," Dante replied with an urbane smile. "As long as you're willing to have your business interests in those Provinces go unprotected."

"Oh," she said, suddenly aware of her mistake. "Never mind, then."

"We can't leave the threatened areas unaided," the Emperor said firmly. "If I have to pull our people out of the other Provinces, I'll do that. But for now, we need to put as many as we can against the forces attacking Anvil and Bruma, and send aid to Bravil to fend off the advances coming up through Leyawiin."

"And Chorral, your Majesty?" Tullius reminded him.

"We'll send a contingent to Chorral, as well," Titus Mede decided, sighing in resignation. "If the Dominion does have troops in that area, we'd be foolish not to guard our flank."

"I'll speak to my people and see if there's any new intelligence they can offer," Dante announced.

"Yes, but before you do that," the Emperor said, "and as long as we're all here, there's something we need to settle."

"What's that, your Majesty?" Councilor Devane asked.

"I wish to state for the record," the old Imperial began, "that Councilor de Fer here is, in fact, my grandson, Dante Greyshadow. He is the son of my daughter Lucinda, and he will be the next Emperor after me."

The silence in the room was deafening, and Dante himself was stunned. All eyes turned to him, and he heard his heart pounding in his ears.

Why, Grandfather? he wanted to demand. Why bring that up now, without consulting me?

The room suddenly exploded into chaos as twenty voices all began shouting, and not all of them were in his favor.

"Congratulations, my dear boy!" Councilor Devane enthused, grabbing his hand and pumping it vigorously. "I'm delighted for you! Delighted!"

"How can he be Lucinda's son?" Vanadia demanded. "She died a long time ago!"

"He does bear some resemblance to the Princess, I'll admit," Admantus said slowly.

Councilor Ballantine said nothing, but his eyes narrowed in thought.

"Even if he is the son of the Princess," Vanadia continued, "she was never married! He's a bastard! He can't inherit!"

"He can if the Emperor legitimizes him," General Tullius reminded her sharply, and Dante was surprised and grateful for the vote of confidence.

The Emperor pounded the table with a small silver gavel, and the chamber quieted down enough for him to speak.

"We can discuss the details of the rights of succession another time," the old Imperial declared. "I merely wished to put this out there so there will be no arguments later. We have other work to do immediately. Generals, get your men assigned and moving. We have a Province to defend. That is all. Dismissed."

The military personnel left immediately. The Councilors trickled out in ones and twos. The Emperor gestured to Dante and moved towards the private lift that would take him back to his quarters on the top floor. Dante followed, still troubled over the turn of events. He said nothing, however, until they were back in the Emperor's private room.

"You could have said something to me before making that announcement," he simmered.

Titus Mede blinked. "Is something wrong, my boy?" he asked, oblivious. "I would have thought you'd be happy to be openly acknowledged."

"I just think the timing is wrong, Grandfather," Dante protested. "It's bad enough you sent Tullius to fetch me and bring me back, and we get caught in a Thalmor ambush. Now you've painted a target on my back for everyone in the Elder Council to shoot at!"

The Emperor frowned. "Dante," he began severely, "I'm not going to live forever." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Divines! I didn't think I'd live this long! I've read the histories. I know what happened after the last Septim Emperor died. I don't want to know that that kind of chaos and dissolution of this Empire will happen after I'm gone."

"But we could have prepared the Elder Council more gradually," Dante insisted, "rather than just spring it on them like this. It's only going to make it harder for them to accept me as the new Emperor."

"Bah!" the Emperor scoffed. "Half those old fossils will never accept you anyway. The Elder Council has always striven to wrest power away from the Emperor."

"All the more reason to get them used to me first," Dante sighed in frustration. "Well, the damage has been done. I understand your reasons, Grandfather," he added, "but I wish you'd told me first."

"You're a clever young man, my boy," Titus Mede declared with pride. "And you have resources at your fingertips. I'm sure you'll manage to turn them around."

"Maybe," Dante said doubtfully. "If we all survive this."

---

It should have been easier than this, Galmar Iron-Fist groused to himself. He should have known better. Their attack on the reserve troops the Dominion left behind at Helgen had been easier than skinning a bear. They had invaded the ruined town in the pre-dawn hours, when most of the sentries had been – dare he say it? – less than attentive. Sweeping through the shambles of the city, and paying particular attention to the warren of tunnels beneath it, they had wiped it clean of any Thalmor presence. The main force of the Dominion army at Whiterun would not be able to count on their assistance this day.

Now, however, it was a different story. Advancing on the Aldmeri army from the east, Galmar had hoped to take them by surprise. Instead, his battalion joined up with a contingent of Forsworn led by a fur-and-feathered hellcat who called herself Kaie. There had been little time for congratulations, as a second surge of Dominion warriors and mages swept in from the south, pinning the conjoined Alliance forces between the outer bastion and the main gate. As men and women around him fell under the onslaught by the Thalmor, Galmar began to wonder if this was the day he would go to Sovngarde.

Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun gritted his teeth against another wave of frost from the Dominion soldiers coming out of Dragonsreach towards the knot of Alliance troops at his back. He had seen the Arch-Mage thrown from the top of the palace, and saw her hit the water behind them, but he couldn't send anyone to retrieve her. Despair gripped him as his home of nearly fifty years slowly went up in flames, and he hoped that Avenicci was able to secure the important documents from his office before getting himself to safety. He felt a thrill of fear slice through him at the thought of the Dominion getting their hands on the Portal there, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

"Irileth!" he called. "Can you get to the Arch-Mage?"

"I can try, my lord!" she called back, taking a vicious swipe at the two Thalmor warriors in front of her with her Daedric blade. Making a gesture with one hand, she immolated herself with a Flame Cloak to push them further back and give herself breathing space to get free of the crush. They had to hold the bridge, she knew. She had seen one of the airships smash against the north wall in the Wind District, but there was still another behind Dragonsreach that continued to funnel Dominion troops into and through the Jarl's palace to join the fray here. She suspected they were using a similar kind of Portal to the one the Alliance had stolen and recreated somewhere on that ship. It meant they could constantly add more troops as long as they had reserves to call upon.

Making a strategic withdrawal from the fighting, Irileth allowed several red and blue armored Alliance recruits to fill in her place along the line as she descended the stairs to find the Arch-Mage. With the airship gone, the residents of the Wind District were forming bucket brigades to combat the flames, and several were dashing water onto the Gildergreen, though Irileth personally felt that was a lost cause. She found Tamsyn floating face-up, unconscious in the retention pool just above the shrine of Talos, and waded in to retrieve her, hauling the smaller Breton mage easily over one shoulder. Laying her on the steps she checked for a pulse and found one. The Arch-Mage was burned over a large portion of her body, and bleeding from scores of lacerations. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, as well, and Irileth glanced around.

"Are there any Healers down there?" she bellowed into the park.

No one answered, and the Dunmer Housecarl growled in frustration. There were diminishing sounds of combat near Jorrvaskr, and she noticed another airship had come down behind the Companions mead hall, which was currently untouched by fire.

Heaving Tamsyn over her shoulder again, she hurried down the stairs, across the park and up to the great carved, wooden doors of the home of the Companions. Opening them, she went inside and called out.

"Is there anyone here who can help me?"

For a moment, there was silence. Then a quiet voice came up from the stairs that led to the lower quarters.

"Who is it?" the woman asked.

"Tilma?" Irileth called. She knew the woman was the housekeeper there.

"Irileth?" the old Nord woman queried, coming up the stairs. "Shouldn't you be out fighting?"

"I need help for the Arch-Mage, here," the Housecarl rejoined. "She's been injured, and it looks pretty bad. I don't know where the healers are. May I leave her in your care?"

"Oh, my goodness! Certainly!" Tilma replied. "Poor dear!" She knew Tamsyn quite well. "Bring her downstairs. We'll take good care of her."

"We?" Irileth queried, following Tilma to the lower level with Tamsyn in her arms.

As the old housekeeper opened the door, the Dunmer woman was amazed to see so many people huddling in the basement of Jorrvaskr.

Noting the surprise on the Housecarl's face, Tilma chuckled. "It's really the safest place," she said. "Unless we wanted to hide out with Andurs in the Hall of the Dead, but most felt that might be tempting fate. The floor above us is wood over stone, so even if the mead hall burns, we should be safe enough here. There's also a passage to the Underforge from the Harbinger's quarters, if we needed to get out in a hurry."

"Underforge?" Irileth blinked in surprise as she handed Tamsyn off to Danica Pure-Spring and Arcadia the Alchemist, who carried the unconscious mage into a nearby room.

"Oh my," Tilma giggled nervously. "I don't think I should have mentioned that. Forget I said anything."

"You've said it now," the Housecarl said sternly. "Is there a way out of the Underforge that doesn't go through the Harbinger's room?"

"Well, yes," the older woman replied. "But it leads out into the yard outside." She wouldn't meet the Dunmer woman's eyes, however, and Irileth narrowed hers in suspicion. Some of those stories of wolves howling inside the city were starting to make sense.

"Tilma," she intoned, "as Housecarl to Jarl Balgruuf, and as someone in charge with the security of Whiterun, I demand you tell me the truth. Is there another way out of the Underforge?"

Decidedly unhappy at her slip of the tongue, Tilma nodded. "It leads under the wall and ends in a culvert outside," she replied. "Please don't tell the Harbinger I told you," she begged. "Vilkas will have my hide if he finds out."

"Let's hope the Dominion doesn't find out about that tunnel," the Dunmer Housecarl brooded. "Where is the Harbinger?"

"Outside," Tilma replied, surprised the other woman would ask. "Defending Jorrvaskr, and Whiterun of course!" she added hastily.

Irileth grunted and turned on her heel, heading for the door.

She did indeed find the Harbinger, Vilkas – who was also still known as one of the wolf twins – outside in the yard behind Jorrvaskr, accompanied by the rest of the Companions. Aela and Alesan had reverted back to their human forms by this time, and Irileth was none the wiser about their unusual talents.

The yard was littered with the bodies of Dominion soldiers and Justiciars, with only a scant handful of bodies belonging to raw recruits hoping to enlist with the prestigious fighters' guild. Draped over the wall was the gondola of an airship, the bag itself having spilled over the side. Some of the Companions were hauling on the lines to drag the bag back into the confines of the city.

"Pull harder!" Aela ordered. "We don't want them climbing up the bag to get over the wall!"

Vilkas noticed Irileth waiting and came over.

"Something I can help you with, Housecarl?" he asked neutrally. "Shouldn't you be up there, fighting?" His tone was neutral, but animosity flared in the wolf twin's eyes. It was no secret to anyone that he didn't like the Dunmer woman.

"I would be," she replied stiffly, "but I needed to get the Arch-Mage to a place where she could receive healing, and that happened to be here. I might ask the same of all of you," she continued, with just a trace of censure in her tone. "Shouldn't you all be out there, helping to defend your city?"

"We're doing our part," Vilkas countered. "We took down one of those flying boat things for you. You're welcome. As to the Arch-Mage, I'll make sure she's given the best treatment we have available. I'm sure you must have noticed we're sheltering many of the townsfolk below stairs."

"Yes, below stairs," Irileth murmured. "And are you also guarding the exit under the wall to the Underforge?"

Vilkas' eyes widened. "How did you-?"

"Does it matter?" she cut him off. "If I'm aware of it, I'm sure others are as well. It won't take much torture from the Thalmor to get that information out of them."

Vilkas glared at her. "Any other criticisms you want to lay at my door?" he growled, and though he had been cured of his lycanthropy years before, it was still a very animal sound.

"Just this," Irileth said. "You might be some of the best fighters in Skyrim – maybe even in Tamriel – but I would far rather trust my back to someone who is out there, giving his life for his people, instead of staying safely behind barred doors and sequestered walls."

She turned and departed, leaving Vilkas seething behind her.

"She's got a point, 'Kas," a gruff voice said behind him. He turned to see his twin, Farkas, standing behind him, arms folded with a scowl on his face. "All this keeping to ourselves when the rest of the city's burning and people are dying…well…it doesn't seem honorable to me. Marcus wouldn't have kept us here."

"I'm not the Dragonborn," Vilkas simmered.

"No," Farkas replied, nodding. "You're my brother, and I'll always have your back. It's just…this doesn't sit well with me, that's all."

Vilkas blew out a breath of frustration. Though he would never openly admit it, censure from his brother cut him deeply. He valued Farkas' opinions, even if others did not. He saw Aela, Athis and Ria come up behind Farkas.

"And the rest of you," he demanded sourly. "Are you all in this together?"

"We live here," Athis shrugged. "It's our city, too."

"The people here," Ria said unhappily, "they're our friends. Our neighbors. They're people we do business with every day. Why shouldn't we fight for them?" Her tone pleaded with him to understand.

"And you, Aela?" Vilkas asked. "What do you think?"

"I just want to fight," she grinned. "Bandits, draugr, Thalmor; it doesn't matter to me."

"Alright," the Harbinger replied after a long moment. "Get your gear together. Get those whelps in line. Let's go fight for Whiterun!"

"Yeah!"

"Alright!"

"For Whiterun!"

Vilkas watched them go, knowing some might not live to see the end of the day. He had tried to protect them, to keep to their code of honor and to remain neutral unless there was coin involved. But his brother's words had stung more deeply than the gentle giant could know. Vilkas had always felt as though he was being measured against great Harbingers like Kodlak Whitemane and the Dragonborn himself and being found wanting, and it didn't help matters that he himself didn't feel worthy of the title.

Watching them now, as the last of the airbag was dragged to their side of the wall and the whelps rushed inside to grab replacement arrows and an extra sword or two, Vilkas couldn't help but feel he was sending them to their doom.

But if we don't do this, he argued with himself, it's for certain we will die. Far better a quick death than a slow one, I suppose. And maybe, just maybe, we'll take a few of those bastards with us.

---

The Khajiit known as Rezhyk, the Blackheart, brooded over the letter in his hand. They had been encamped outside Verkarth Hills, to the south of Dune, for just under a week. The Blackheart's contacts inside Valenwood informed him of the events transpiring in Cyrodiil, to the north. Rezhyk already knew of the attack on Leyawiin to the southeast, as many Khajiit had been conscripted into the Dominion army to take over the Imperial port city. There was also news of a resurgence of the Greenhand, the Bosmeri dissidents; they had launched an attack against the Thalmor at Woodhearth and Greenheart, successfully taking back both cities, and were moving on Southpoint and Haven.

"Bad news?" Cinnamon, his second in command inquired.

"On the contrary," the tall black cat replied. "The Bosmer are taking back their Province. This one believes it may be time to do the same here. The more confusion for the Thalmor, the less likely they will be able to fight on all their fronts at once."

"Are you going to challenge the Mane?" Cinnamon asked, his green eyes widening in excitement.

"The Mane is ill, according to my sources," Rezhyk replied dismissively. "He may not live out the year. This one will not fight a dying cat. That is, not unless it is necessary."

"Honestly, I thought he'd never die," Cinnamon snorted. "He's been the Mane for as long as I can remember." Years of working in the merchant trade had eroded his Khajiiti accent. He now spoke in words and patterns indistinguishable from anyone coming from Wayrest, Skingrad or Solitude.

"This one thinks you should show a bit more respect for our spiritual leader, Cinnamon," Rezhyk scowled.

Cinnamon merely laughed. "If I was as spiritual as you, my friend, perhaps I might do that. As it is, I've traveled the world enough to realize that even spiritual leaders have failings. Doubly so, if that leader believes we have to show gratitude to the race that now breaks our pride and bends our knees."

"You aren't saying anything this one hasn't already considered," Rezhyk grimaced. "But this one has the grace to keep his thoughts to himself."

"You always were inscrutable, Blackheart," Cinnamon grinned, showing all his teeth. "What's our next move? Do we return to the south?"

"We should," Rezhyk replied slowly, deep in thought. He tapped his cheek with the letter, unconsciously, as his second waited. "We are too far away to take advantage of this situation. This one thinks we may not get to Torval in time."

Cinnamon shrugged. "Then hadn't we better get a move on?"

The Blackheart nodded. "Inform the others," he said. "We must leave before the sun has set. We will gather our followers along the way."

With the speed and efficiency of long practice, the small group of twenty or so Khajiit packed up their sand-colored tents and headed south. At each stop along their way, more and more disgruntled Khajiit joined the caravan. When they reached Ein Meirvale, they were joined by over two hundred Cathay-raht who had marched six days from Orcrest, led by a mottled veteran named Far-Eyes.

"We have waited for this moment a long time, Blackheart," the grizzled, battle-scarred warrior declared. "This one has heard how you destroyed the Thalmor outposts in the Tenmar Forest."

"This one hopes the Dominion has also not heard it was me," Rezhyk grinned. "You are most welcome, Far-Eyes."

They met with a large force of a mixed band of Khajiit who had come from Corinthe. Their leader was a Tojay named Darmahn.

"This one leads the Claw-Dancers," he told Rezhyk modestly. "We have known you were coming, and would join with you. The Dominion has lied to us, and treats us like outsiders in our own land. We would be led by one of our own."

Upon hearing this, Chieri perked up her ears. "Rezhyk!" she exclaimed softly. "You didn't tell me you were a Claw-Dancer!"

"It was a long time ago," the Blackheart demurred, but Darmahn grinned.

"The training never really leaves one," he pointed out. "Once a Claw-Dancer, always a Claw-Dancer. So, we will follow you."

At Portneu View a band a Suthay mages met them outside of town. The sleek, brown-pointed female who led their group called herself Tika.

"We are all mages," she explained, of her group of forty. "The Thalmor do not teach us their magics, so we prayed to Magrus to give us the knowledge, so we may fight against our enemies, since our bodies are not built for fighting with weapons."

The trip south took two days, as they traveled from the hot, arid dunes of the northern deserts, through the canyons of the midlands and into the steamy southern jungles to reach Torval, the capital city of southern Elsweyr, and the seat of the Mane. By the time they approached the city, Rezhyk's followers numbered in the hundreds, and was genuinely an army. He expected resistance from the Dominion-loyal warriors that followed the Mane, and was not disappointed. His heart quailed, however, when he saw the number of Khajiit lining the walls of the city, behind the closed gates. This would not be an easy fight.

"Archers! Mages!" the Blackheart caterwauled, pointing towards the city. Flights of arrows crossed paths in both directions as the warriors on the walls fired into the throng at the gates. Warping noises were heard up and down the ranks as summoned beings were called from their planes of existence and directed by the Suthay, who had dispersed themselves among the rebel forces, rather than congregate in one group.

The summons that could walk, slither or shamble made their way to the gates and the walls, pounding and slashing with mattock-like fists and claws sharper than scythes. Those that could fly lifted themselves into the air to strike from above. Swarms of stinging insects eddied about the top of the walls, making it difficult for archers to focus on targets. Flying reptilian creatures dived and strafed the defending Torvalians, forcing them to face the more immediate threat rather than the approaching Khajiiti rebels.

Hampered by the lack of mages of their own, the Torval guard could only rely on their ranged and melee fighters to repel the advancing army, but what they lacked in magic they excelled in numbers. Time and again, Rezhyk saw his warriors drop in their tracks, felled by arrows or catapults. Still, the gates of Torval held.

"Pahmar-raht, advance!" he cried, and the quadrupedal felines boomed their deep, throaty roars as they threw themselves at the reinforced wooden gates.

"It's working!" Cinnamon crowed.

"Yes, but this is only one gate into Torval," Rezhyk said. "There is another, but we are too few to fight on both fronts. Keep half our forces to the rear, to watch our back. They may come around and try to get behind us."

"Understood," Cinnamon nodded and retreated to give the orders.

The summons were doing their work well. When time ran out, or they were extinguished, the Suthay mages re-conjured them and sent them back into the fray. The archers on the walls were beaten back to the point where they could no longer be effective, and the Blackheart knew it was time to make the push past the gates.

Leaping onto the back of a Pahmar-raht, he urged his fellow Khajiit forward to the base of the wall. Made of smooth, closely-joined granite blocks, there were barely any cracks to wedge a claw into for climbing, and this was done on purpose. Still, there were few walls a Claw-Dancer couldn't scale.

"With me, Dancers!" he yowled, and scores of Khajiit, both large and small, answered his rallying call as he leaped for the top of the wall, fifteen feet overhead. He slipped once or twice on the way up, but caught himself before losing too much ground, and flipped himself over the top of the wall where he crouched to assess the situation.

Three Cathay rushed him, swords and claws out, but the Blackheart leaped backwards to the parapet before bounding forward, tumbling over their heads. He heard the swish of their weapons as they passed through the air behind him. Hitting the stone rampart, he zig-zagged his way towards the gatehouse, dodging arrows and Torvalians attempting to stop him. Behind him, around him, he saw more of the Claw-Dancers engaging the enemy, their sinuous movements hypnotizing the unwary, biding their time avoiding blows until it was time to strike. Few opponents could match Claw-Dancers for their precision, efficiency and accuracy.

The gatehouse was just below him, now, and Rezhyk grabbed the level that lifted the heavy wooden bar holding the gates closed, giving it a hard pull. Chains clattered and clanked, and a resounding crash from below told him the gates had finally been breached.

Pahmar-raht, Cathay, Senche, Suthay and Tojay; a host of rebel Khajiit poured into the city and spread out, with more summoned creatures gating in all the time. But he didn't see Cinnamon or Chieri in the crowd. Jumping to the top of a crenellation, he peered out over the forces that had yet to enter the city and saw the reason. It was as he feared. A large force of Torvalians had come at his army from behind, and were attempting to cut them off from the gate.

He spotted a familiar face just outside the gate and howled, "Far-Eyes!", pointing back to Cinnamon's group.

"This one sees, Blackheart!" the old veteran called back. "We go to their aid!"

It dwindled his forces even more, but the Torvalians were not putting up much of a fight, now that the rebel army was inside the gates.

It makes no sense, he thought. Is this some kind of trap? Why aren't they fighting harder?

The fighting in the streets seemed to be taking a turn. Rezhyk noticed many of the civilians coming out of their homes with whatever weapons they could find, but they were joining the rebels!

Descending the stairs and making his way to a group of rag-tag warriors coming out of a small temple to S'rendarr, he held up his hand to stop them.

"Go back to your temple," he ordered them. "You will be safer there."

"This is our fight, too, morto fa," the youngling said. Black one, she had called him in Ta'agra, the language of the Khajiit. She couldn't have been more than three hands of summers in age. She stared him down as she declared, "We want to fight to free ourselves from Thalmor oppression. You cannot stop us."

In spite of himself, Rezhyk grinned. "No, little one, this one cannot. But he wishes you to take every precaution to protect yourselves. See the fallen? Take their weapons and armor. It is undoubtedly better than you have. But be quick, and be safe!"

The little female nodded and gestured to her followers, and they made their way to a group of fallen warriors, to loot them of their equipment.

Rezhyk pushed his way through the milling crowd to the front of his rebel army. There were no Torvalians left to fight in this area.

"What do we do now?" Tika asked. She was covered in blood, but it didn't look like hers.

"We push on to the Mane's palace," Rezhyk said. "We will demand that he step down."

"And if he doesn't?" Tika inquired, her ears straightening and her whiskers moving forward.

"Then I will fight him," Rezhyk declared. "Elsweyr will be the master of its own destiny. Darmahn!" he called to the leader of the Claw-Dancers.

"This one comes," the lithe little Tojay called, pushing his way through the throng.

"Take half your Dancers and go back for Cinnamon and Far-Eyes," he ordered. "They are battling some of the city guard who came out of the south gate."

"By your command, Blackheart," Darmahn bowed, departing.

"The rest of you, with me," he announced, catching the eye of the youngling from the temple. "We march on the palace of the Mane!"

---

The mages that had been part of Tamsyn's strike force were either dead or grounded. Karla and Demetrius rallied the few remaining near the well in the Plains District.

"What do we do now?" an Adept in Alteration robes demanded, her tear-streaked face smudged with soot.

"We fight on," Demetrius declared, with classic Redguard stubbornness.

"How?" the Adept wailed. "The Arch-Mage is dead!"

"No, she's not!" Karla snapped, refusing to believe that. "We don't know that! And even if she is, we fight on, understand?"

"What do you want us to do, Karla?" a Breton Conjurer asked.

The Nord mage considered for several heartbeats while the dozen or so mages waited, expectantly.

"How many of you can still fly?" she asked finally. Only two or three hands went up. Her heart sank, but she rallied an encouraging smile. "Then this is what we do: we stay together. From this point on we are auxiliary mages, understand? Use Restoration to keep the soldiers in the fight. Buff them with your Alteration spells; use summoned creatures to help them fight; throw panic into those concentrated knots of Altmer warriors and confidence into our own. And above all, watch out for those Justiciars. Keep yourselves in the fight, understand?"

They nodded. "It's a good plan," Demetrius agreed. "Where do we fight?"

"The main gate," Karla decided. "I think they need us more there. Let's go!"

As they headed in that direction only one thought went through the Nord mage's mind: I hope I'm doing the right thing.

The sudden influx of seasoned warriors from Jorrvaskr improved Jarl Balgruuf's mood considerably, and he suddenly felt more hopeful about taking back Dragonsreach – even if all he took back was a smoking husk. The remaining Dominion troops had come out of the palace by now and were fighting furiously, beating the Alliance forces back down the stairs to the charred remains of the Gildergreen. The airship that had been behind the once impressive citadel had come around and was heading for the center of Whiterun, and there was little he could do to stop it. That didn't mean he intended to give up.

"I've got your back, Jarl!" Vilkas called. "Step back and let us give these bastards a taste of Skyforge steel!"

Relieved, Balgruuf did just that, seeing Ria step in to take Hrongar's place, and Aela moved in where Hadvar had been. Behind them came a second line of Companions, while the rest headed for the main gate.

"What now, brother?" Hrongar called.

"We need to take out that airship!" Balgruuf decided. "Get up on the wall and man that ballista!"

His brother nodded, and without another word hurried to obey.

"I'm needed at the main gate, too," Hadvar said. "I should have been there by now, but…" He let his voice trail off.

"I understand," Balgruuf said. "Go. I'll do what I can from here." What that might have been, he didn't say, and Hadvar didn't ask.

Scanning the skies, Balgruuf saw Odahviing, one of the few dragons he recognized by sight alone, approaching with two other riderless dragons to converge on the Dominion airship now threatening the heart of Whiterun. But the great red firedrake's back was empty, and Balgruuf's heart quailed. Did that mean…? Was the Dragonborn…?

No! He refused to consider that possibility. Unconsciously his hand went up to the earbud, but at that moment electricity arched from the airship, and Balgruuf ran for the only cover available – Jorrvaskr.

Inside the sounds of combat raging without seemed dimmer and further away. He could hear a murmur of voices from below stairs and headed down to see how many of his people were still counted among the living. He was pleasantly surprised.

"Jarl Balgruuf!" Carlotta Valencia called. "Tell us, please! How goes the battle? We haven't heard anything since they brought the Arch-Mage here and the Companions left."

"We're doing everything we can," Balgruuf assured her. "Where is the Arch-Mage?"

"Down the hall," young Mila pointed. At fourteen, the young Imperial girl was her mother's apprentice, and already a savvy trader. "Priestess Danica and Miss Arcadia are with her."

Nodding his thanks, Balgruuf hurried down the hall to the room he remembered as the Harbinger's quarters. Both the alchemist and the priestess of Kynareth were hovered over the still form of the Arch-Mage, and Balgruuf gulped as he took in the grim spectacle. No stranger to the horrors of war, it was still a gruesome sight.

"Will she be alright?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

"We're doing everything we can," Danica replied, in an echo of his own words, moments before. Both women were pouring healing magic into the Breton mage's body, but the progress seemed far too slow.

"We found this in her pocket," Arcadia said, pulling out a palm-sized disc that Balgruuf recognized as a miniature version of the Portal.

Without realizing it, he slumped in relief. The Thalmor hadn't gotten it!

But how did she shrink it? he wondered. And how can it be restored?

"I'll take that for safe keeping," he told the green-grocer, putting the mini-Portal in his belt pouch. "I'll need to get back to the fight. Do whatever it takes to keep her alive," he told them both.

Outside once more, Balgruuf noticed the airship had moved to the northern side of Whiterun, harried by the dragons. Realizing there was nothing he could do from here, he saw the combined efforts of the Alliance forces and the Companions had the last remaining Dominion troops well in hand, and turned his steps to the main gate.

The fighting here was savage, not the least of which was due to the continuous, incessant bombardment of the city walls by Dominion catapults and ballistae. There were dragons circling overhead here, as well, but only two more airships. He saw Commander Caius at the top of the wall above the main gate and joined him.

"They've breached our outer defenses, my lord," Caius told him. "They haven't gotten through the gates yet, however. It's a mixed bag down there of their troops and ours, so the dragons haven't been attacking anything between the outer walls."

"What about beyond the walls?" Balgruuf asked.

"There was a large force of Reachfolk who showed up at midday, but I have no word on how many of them survived. We heard the Dominion horns call for their reserves at that time, but my men report the troops that showed up belong to Alliance forces."

"And it's just two hours past midday now," Balgruuf nodded, shading his eyes from the sun to gauge the time. "How many more Dominion troops do you think there are?"

"It's hard to say, my Jarl," Caius admitted. "We had the advantage of walls, but their airships negated that. They had more troops outside, but we have no idea where they all came from, or how many more they may have had."

"Dammit, man, I need answers," Balgruuf barked. "What do you have spies for anyway?" He blew out a breath of frustration. "What you're telling me is that our chances of survival are still not certain."

Caius raised his hands helplessly. "If it's any consolation, my Jarl," he offered tentatively, "there are more of us between the outer walls than there are of them."

"That's not helping!" Balgruuf snapped.

In the distance, barely heard over the cacophony of battle, was a sound that would once have made every citizen in Whiterun run for cover. Unsure he had heard what he thought he'd heard, Balgruuf moved to the western edge of the observation tower.

"My Jarl," Caius began, "it's not safe to stand there. You're a target—"

"Quiet, man!" Balgruuf shushed him, holding up one hand, and using the other to shade his eyes against the glare of the sun.

There! There it was again!

Scarcely daring to hope, Balgruuf held his breath until his eyes beheld what his heart hardly dared to hope for: a score of dragons, of all sizes and colors, speeding eastward towards the city, and on the leading dragon was a figure clad in dragonplate armor!

"Ha ha! He did it!" Balgruuf crowed. "The Dragonborn comes!"

"Krii nunon fahliil," Marcus bellowed, using his thu'um to enhance his voice so all the dragons could hear. "Krii nunon gein ko graag ahrk yuvon. Lif vorey naalein." Kill only the elves. Kill only the ones in green and gold. Leave the others alone.

The dragons roared their approval and understanding, and several split off to concentrate their attacks on the airships that remained. The main force of the Dominion army was still spread too far around the city walls for the Alliance forces to defend effectively. Marcus could see ladders being raised on the south side of Whiterun and sent three riderless dragons to deal with them.

"You are late, thuri," Odahviing roared as he pulled up in front of the frost dragon Marcus was riding. Powerful wings buffeted as each dragon held its position in the air only long enough for the Dragonborn to leap from the white dragon to the red one. A few years ago, such an action would have paralyzed the young Imperial with fear. Now, he did it without thinking.

"I was delayed," Marcus told his draconian companion. "Raising dragons takes a lot out of one, I've learned."

"Indeed," Odahviing agreed. "You already show the signs of having pushed yourself too far."

"Couldn't be helped," Marcus shrugged. "Now, let's thin their ranks a bit."

Winging over, Odahviing reversed direction and headed back to the main gate where Dominion forces had pinned what remained of the combined Alliance and Forsworn troops.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!"

"GAAN LAH HAAS!"

The twin attack from both dragon and Dragonborn slammed into the wall of Altmer, Bosmer and Khajiit soldiers attempting to get past the outer defenses that led up to the main gates of the Hold capital. In dismay, several struggled to take shelter in the overhanging remnants of the ramparts, where they launched a fusillade of arrows towards this new enemy.

"FO KRAH DIIN!"

The white dragon, whom Marcus had ridden into battle, had returned to lend his own voice to the battle. The combination of Shouts – fire, frost and weakness – was too much for several scores of Dominion soldiers, and they dropped to the ground. But there were still far too many more to take their place.

"Target the ones in black with your special thu'um, Thor!" Marcus called.

"The pleasure will be mine, Dovahkiin!" the younger dragon exulted.

"QO NAH NOS!"

Electricity leaped from the maw of the snow-white dragon and struck the nearest Justiciar, who stiffened as he became a conduit for the group of Aldmeri warriors surrounding him. The Dragonborn had been delighted to find a dovah who could breathe an electrical charge. He had never heard of it before, and the dragon he had named Thor was smugly proud that he was one of only a few who could do so.

A dozen green and gold-clad warriors fell and did not rise again. The smell of ozone permeated the air as panic ran through the Aldmeri lucky enough not to get hit. Morale was wavering yet again. The Justiciar staggered, but did not succumb to the attack. Instead, he targeted the dragon responsible for this assault on his person with a staff that crackled with its own electrical energy. A bolt shot into the heavens, but Thor easily rolled out of the way and Shouted at the black-robed Thalmor again. A bolt of pure plasma hit the Thalmor, who writhed, screaming and smoking, until he eventually lay still.

At the main gate several figures dropped down into the outer bailey by rappelling down with ropes from the ramparts above. Farkas and the remaining Companions, including Aela and Alesan, pushed to the front of the battle to engage the enemy. The whelps behind them crowded closer, eager to get a taste of glory. Hadvar noticed, and called over to the new arrivals.

"Farkas! Keep your friends in line. Eagerness is fine, but not if it gets them killed."

"They know what they're doing," the wolf twin grunted, blocking a slash from a conjured blade. "They'd better, or they wouldn't be Companions."

"We need to hold this position," Hadvar warned. "We can't let them into the city. There's a force of them at Dragonsreach, and we can't let them join up!"

"Vilkas is at Dragonsreach, with Ria and Athis, and a bunch of others," Farkas growled. "If anyone can take the castle back, it's my brother."

Then the surge from the enemy pushed back, and there was no more time to talk.

Aela and Alesan shuddered and shivered, morphing into their wolfen forms. The crowd of Alliance soldiers immediately around them recoiled in horror. However, they soon realized the two werewolves weren't harming them, but instead were clearing large swathes of Dominion soldiers by simply knocking them aside, smashing them into the walls, and pushing forward. The Alliance men and women pressed their advantage as the Altmer scrambled to get out of the way of this new horror.

Overhead, another airship drifted west, in a long, steady descent. The dragons pursued it, pummeling it with flame and frost. Thor wheeled overhead, near the gate, gleefully targeting black-robed Justiciars with his shock breath, while Odahviing and Marcus made a sweeping run along the outer walls. As they flew, Marcus scanned the skies above the city for the mages from College, but could see none, and fear gripped his heart. Where was Tamsyn, with her flying acolytes?

Jarl Balgruuf had grabbed a bow from a fallen Alliance soldier and was pinpointing Dominion warriors attempting to come over the wall at its weakest point, on the northwestern corner where the ground rose up to form the granite dome on which the Wind and Cloud Districts were formed. Commander Caius stood by his side with his own bow, grimly shooting with an almost mechanical precision. A glint of something gold glimmered in the sun, which was well past its zenith and heading towards the western horizon.

"What is that?" he called to his lord, who squinted and shaded his eyes against the glare. "Is that some new menace from the Aldmeri?"

"No," Balgruuf replied, scarcely daring to hope. "I don't think it is."

Moments later the figures rolled and lumbered into view. Two large Dwarven Centurions and a dozen Dwemer spheres appeared through the smoke and haze of battle, and began attacking the Dominion forces from the rear. Well behind them were another large force of Alliance soldiers from Blackreach, with Legate Rikke in the lead.

The Centurions, commanded by Sorine and Calcelmo, waded into the largest concentration of Altmer and Bosmer forces and used their steam attacks to horrific effect. The screams of parboiled elves would stay with many an Alliance soldier for many years to come. The spheres rolled along the perimeter, heedless of the terrain, picking off any Dominion soldier who attempted to flee.

"Reinforcements are here!" Balgruuf called out in elation, to be stifled a moment later as an Aldmeri arrow found its target in his shoulder. Caius dragged him back immediately and began to administer to the wound. As an Imperial, the Whiterun Commander knew at least the basics of Restoration magic.

Expert and Master-level Destruction mages sent forth their elemental attacks on the left flank of the Aldmeri army as the ground troops closed for combat. Alliance archers sent wave after wave of missile attacks deep into Dominion ranks with devastating effect. The combined force of Nord, Imperial, and other races of Tamriel, united by their mutual hatred of their elven enemy, fought with vicious brutality, taking no quarter and asking for none. Taken by surprise, the Thalmor suddenly found themselves on the defensive, in what they had believed would be an easy fight.

The Dominion Commander knew when retreat was the best strategy. The nightmare of unexpected surprises sprung by these backwater Nords and their Imperial allies had unsettled him badly. The Thalmor High Command had not counted on dragons, Dwemer constructs or – the pupils of his eyes dilated as two figures loomed in front of him – werewolves?

Striking out instinctively, he felt his Alinor sabre connect with one of the creatures, who yelped in pain, but the other was on him before he could withdraw. His last thought was, It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Seeing their Commander go down, the rest of the Dominion forces broke ranks and ran, heading south towards the mountains that divided Whiterun Hold from Falkreath.

"Don't let them escape!" Marcus called to the other dragons, who gleefully followed after the fleeing remnants of the Dominion army, flaming them, freezing them, and weakening them enough for the Alliance army to maintain hot pursuit.

"Odahviing," he added, "set me down, if you would please. Over there, on the wall."

This was swiftly done, and the red firedrake joined his younger zeymah in harrying the Aldmeri rear flank.

Marcus crossed the top of the gate to where Balgruuf lay, the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder.

"I'm alright," the Jarl snapped crossly. "It's just a flesh wound! Marcus! I'm glad you're here! Those dragons of yours really did the trick!" He did a double-take. "You look…older," he smiled weakly. "Finally caught up with you, did it?"

"Looks like the Blackreach crew is doing some major damage, too," Caius commented. "They're a bit late, but I suppose that's better than not getting here at all."

"We need to get you to the Temple for healing," Marcus said, helping the Jarl to his feet and putting the Nord's good arm across his shoulder for support.

"No, not there," Balgruuf replied, wincing only slightly. "It went up in flames. Take me to Jorrvaskr. That's where the townsfolk are sheltering. And Marcus," he said, soberly. "Tamsyn is there."

"I wondered where her mages went," Marcus nodded, as they descended the steps to the street below. "They must have needed the healers."

"No, Dragonborn," Balgruuf informed him. "Not as a healer. As a patient."

The sick feeling in his stomach threatened to rise up to choke him. Not saying a word, he and Caius took Balgruuf to the Companion's mead hall as quickly as they were able, where Marcus turned the Jarl over to the care of Jenssen and Ahlam.

"Where-?" He hardly dared to ask, but Ahlam touched his shoulder in sympathy.

"Harbinger's room," she murmured, before turning back to the more immediate concern.

The sight that met him in the Harbinger's quarters threatened to make that sick feeling become a projectile reality. Swallowing hard at the figure in the bed, barely recognizable as his wife, Marcus crouched at her side and gingerly took her hand.

"Tamsyn," he whispered. "Tamsyn, my love, can you hear me?"

There was no response. She was still breathing, but it was faint and erratic. Arcadia and Danica were still pouring Restoration magic into the still form, but it was clear the two women were already tiring.

Touching the earbud in his ear, Marcus forced himself to concentrate.

"Azura?" he murmured. "Azura, I need you."

A moment later, her voice filled his ear. "What is it, Marcus?"

"Tamsyn's badly injured," he told her. "I don't know—"

"I'm on my way," she replied. "I got word from King Ulfric that the Portal there was compromised, so I started out the old-fashioned way. I should be there by morning."

Morning? "Tamsyn might not have that long." He hated having to say it. Please, darling, he prayed. Hang in there!

"I don't know how to get there any faster, Marcus," Azura replied, and he could hear the frustration in her voice.

"I know," he answered, unhappily. "Do the best you can. She's at Jorrvaskr."

"Where are you?"

"I'm here, too, at the moment," he said grimly. "But I might not be by the time you get here. I need answers, and I think we'll get them in Falkreath."

He signed off, gently kissed Tamsyn's blistered hand and spoke to Arcadia. "Whatever it takes," he began.

She nodded understandingly. "Ahlam and Jenssen are doing what they can out there, so we can concentrate in here. Tilma just brought us some more potions from my shop. It's a good thing I laid in a supply."

Back in the underground hall, Marcus checked in on Jarl Balgruuf.

"I'll be fine, Dragonborn," Whiterun's lord told him. "Is your wife-?"

"They're still working on her," he said shortly, unwilling to talk about it. "What's the status out there?"

"That Companion, Ria, just came in here to say they've killed all the Dominion soldiers who came through Dragonsreach from that airship of theirs."

"What about the main gate?"

"It's a rout," Caius grinned. "The Dominion army is being pursued by dragons and Alliance warriors to the border of Falkreath Hold. We don't dare go further."

"Why not?" Marcus demanded.

Caius floundered. "Well, because it's Falkreath Hold, and Jarl Siddgeir might see it as an invasion of his sovereignty."

"Fuck him," Marcus declared succinctly.

"I beg your pardon?" the Commander blinked.

"These Dominion forces are being channeled through his Hold unhindered to get here," Marcus growled. "Siddgeir is either in cahoots with them, or he's too stupid to realize he's lost control – or both. We don't need someone like that on our southern border. Rally your troops. We're going into Falkreath Hold."

He strode away without allowing Caius to reply. The Imperial Commander looked at Balgruuf, who glared at him.

"Well?" the Jarl snapped. "You heard the man. Rally the troops!"

---

"Well, daughter, you certainly have a way of creating chaos," an indulgent voice chuckled, and Tamsyn became aware that her father was sitting next to her. Arcadia and Danica were pouring healing energy into her body, and she put a hand to stop them.

It went through Arcadia's wrist, and Tamsyn realized with horror that her spirit had separated from her body.

"Daddy?" she called in alarm, and he shushed her.

"You're not dead…well, yet, anyway," he soothed. "You're at a turning point here."

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

"Well, you have two choices," he replied, dispassionately. "You can come with me and give up your mortality, or…"

"Or?"

"You can give up your immortality to return to that." He pointed to the husk that lay in the bed beneath her. Tamsyn recoiled.

"Oh…my…gods." It was barely a whisper.

"And I don't want to have to be the one to tell you," her father went on, "but you don't have a lot of time to think about it."

"How can you be so callous?" she demanded.

"I'm being realistic," he corrected. "You are half-Aedra. You were given a grace period of living your life as a demi-goddess until your life was in peril, as it is right now."

"I didn't know about this!" Tamsyn wailed. "I was in at least as much danger in Apocrypha, and you said nothing then. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Your body wasn't fighting for its existence then, Tamsyn," he told her. "Only your mind was at risk. And besides," he added offhandedly, "it wasn't my secret to divulge." He glared at her. "Do you think I'm obligated to tell you everything I know?"

"No, Daddy," she murmured, backing down.

"Then choose."

"What? Now?"

"Your body is dying, daughter," Julianos said sternly. "If you don't return, it dies, and you join us in Aetherius, a full-fledged Aedra. But you will not see your loved ones again until they join us at the ends of their lives."

"And if I go back?" she whispered.

"You may live out your mortal years, but you will not be able to call upon the divine powers you've already tapped into." He briefly touched the locks of white on either side of her face.

Tamsyn nodded. "If I go back, I'll be weaker, but I can still help the Alliance."

"That is also true," her father nodded.

"I can't leave Julia," she whispered, tears spilling over. "She's so young. She still needs me."

"Julia will be fine, with or without you," Julianos stated bluntly. "I know that sounds harsh, but she is a special child, with special gifts of her own. As an Aedra, you would be able to visit her in her dreams."

"The way you do now," Tamsyn stated.

Julianos nodded. "It's time, my dearest daughter," he said softly. "Make your choice."

---

[Author's Note: Next up, the battle for Falkreath Hold; political upheaval in Elsweyr and Valenwood; Hammerfell and High Rock join forces in the Iliac Bay to take on the Dominion; and more political fallout in Cyrodiil for a certain heir-apparent. Thanks for staying with me!]