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."

18. Chapter 18

Chapter 10

[Author's Note: This chapter is a bit longer than the others, but there was no easy place to break it up. Several things get set in motion here, and there's a lot going on. We are getting closer to the end of this saga, but I won't speculate on how many more chapters it will take to finish it. In the meantime, please enjoy this offering. And if you really want to feel inspired (as I did), listen to Two Steps From Hell's "Flight of the Silverbird" as you read about Marcus' dragon riders.]

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Cyrus stared out at the ships in the Abacean Sea. Nearly twenty vessels in the water, and half were Dominion warships. The rest consisted of about a third of the Hammerfell navy, woefully ill-equipped to confront an attack of this level. Unfortunately, the rest of the navy was needed along the rest of Hammerfell's extended coastline, and in the Iliac Bay to the north. But every single Redguard from Hegathe to Rihad, from Sentinel to Elinhir had volunteered to protect their homeland after the fall of Stros M'Kai. Of course, he had been one of the first to sign up.

He had thought he would be assigned to an infantry regiment, but had ended up a marine on the deck of the Stormlord, the flagship of the Redguard armada. He was grateful he knew how to swim. He had a feeling if things went bad, it might be his only way back to shore.

The commander was a veteran by the name of Zane al-Rashid. He was of Forbear heritage, but had distinguished himself in the Great War, rising quickly in the ranks to his present position. Whatever he felt about the odds of their chances against the Dominion fleet, he kept it to himself.

The Stormlord was a new commission, and this was to be her maiden voyage. There was much mystery about this new ship. Built in secret and held in reserve until now, she was a sister ship to three others like her, which had all been sent to guard the west coast and the Iliac Bay.

"This is it, then," an older man near Cyrus mused. He was at least fifty years of age, by the look of him, wearing a simple breastplate over loose-fitting trousers and tunic.

"I suppose it is," Cyrus answered. "Why aren't the Dominion ships attacking?"

"They're waiting," the old Redguard said.

"Waiting?" Cyrus blinked. "For what?"

"For us to make the first move," the other man chuckled. "It not unlike a game of Castles and Kings. Whoever makes the first move might have the initiative, but the opponent can then counter, based on that first move. At the moment, this is a test of wills, to see who breaks first. Name's Nels, by the way."

"Cyrus," the younger man nodded. "I'm of House Suda." He paused, expecting Nels to clarify his family lineage, but the older Redguard seemed not to notice.

"Glad to know you, Cyrus," Nels replied, a warm smile on his weathered face. "Have you served on this ship long?"

Cyrus chuckled. "About as long as you have, old man," he grinned. "I've been on ships before, but never as a sailor. At least I know I won't get seasick."

Nels chortled. "That would be the least of your worries today, I'm thinking." He sobered. "Let's hope we both live to see the sun go down today."

A shout from the crow's nest above directed their attention out to sea. The Dominion ships were on the move.

Commander Zane smiled grimly and gave orders which were signaled to the other ships in the line. They were to wait until the Aldmeri ships were close enough to hit with artillery and magefire.

"Here we go," Nels muttered as he and Cyrus ran to their position by the forward ballista.

"Target the main ship," Commander Zane ordered. "Take aim at the waterline and wait for the upswell! Mages, on my mark, sweep the decks!"

Seconds ticked by, and Cyrus felt his nerves tense, waiting for the order. The deck beneath their feet dipped and rose, and the Dominion bird-of-prey did the same as the distance between the two warships closed.

"FIRE!"

Hauling on the line, Cyrus and Nels pulled the trigger on the ballista, then watched as the ten-foot-long bolt sailed across the harbor, its hardened steel tip carefully crafted to punch through several feet of wood. It slammed into the side of the Aldmeri flagship, followed quickly by three more bolts from the other ballista around them. Two bolts hit too high to do much more than pierce the hull, but the other two impacted lower. Every time the Dominion ship dipped into the sea, she would be taking on water.

"Incoming!" Nels roared, and pushed Cyrus to the deck. A flaming boulder, as large as a bear, sailed over their heads and crashed into the foremast behind them. A loud crack reverberated in the air, and the sails sagged as the lines snapped. Splinters of wood a foot long flew in all directions, and Cyrus saw one sailor impaled against the railing, clutching feebly at the shrapnel that had sprouted in his chest. Another toppled over the side, but not before Cyrus saw the lethal splinter that had gone straight through her head. He felt sick. He was no stranger to battle, but at least he had always been able to see the blade that was coming at him.

"Damn! That was a lucky hit!" Nels muttered.

Several of the crew scurried to clear the debris and carry the wounded belowdecks to the healers. A few more stamped out the fires that attempted to spread.

Commander Zane was issuing orders again, and they all felt the lurch as the Stormlord changed course, turning her starboard side to the Dominion warship.

"Mages at the ready!" Zane barked, and a score of robed figures lined the side railing, Nels among them.

"Now!" the Commander cried.

Wave upon wave of Destruction magic leaped forth. Shock spells arced across the water; fire spells blossomed in the sails and along the rigging; frost spells targeted the decks, making them treacherously slippery.

The other schools of magic were making their presence felt as well. Atronachs sprang up out of nowhere and began pummeling Altmer sailors. Some of them cowered as Illusionists worked their mind magic. Boards along the hull began to warp and buckle as Alteration masters twisted their contours. Restoration mages put up warding shields, to protect from retaliatory spells and arrows.

The archers on the Stormlord kept up a steady barrage of their own. Cyrus was with this group, having long ago mastered the bow.

Another volley of flaming boulders was launched from the Dominion flagship, along with a flurry of ballista bolts.

"Shields!" Nels yelled. His call came too late for some. The boulders crashed into the sides of the ship, the flames washing upwards, immolating a few of the mages, who fell overboard and did not surface. There was not as much damage as there should have been, however, and even the ballista bolts stuck in the wood, dangling momentarily before dropping off.

"What the-?" Nels wondered, and risked peering over the side. Much of the hull had been blown off, revealing solid metal under it. Behind him, Nels could hear the Commander laughing as he realized the Stormlord's wooden exterior concealed a heart of iron.

Now the Aldmeri ship was close enough to read her name on the prow – the Viper. Nels could see her Commander, as well, and the look on the mer's face was priceless. She turned to her crew and issued orders, but the Stormlord was still too far away to make it out. The intent was clear, however, as the Viper turned her bow to their starboard to come alongside the Redguard ship.

"They're going to try to board!" Commander Zane called out. "Marines, to your posts. Don't let them come across!"

Cyrus ran to the railing and began firing as swiftly as he could at the Dominion warriors lining the side of the Viper. Grappling lines sailed across the intervening space, and the Stormlord's crew hacked away at them to prevent the Aldmeri sailors from pulling the two ships closer together. It was a losing battle. For every line cut, two more snaked across. For every Aldmeri struck down, another took their place.

Realizing at this point that his bow was ineffective, Cyrus dropped it and drew two scimitars. He preferred his two-handed greataxe made from dragon bones, but he wouldn't have had the room to swing it here. It was safely ensconced at his uncle's home in Hegathe.

The first of the Aldmeri warriors came across, some leaping the final distance and others swinging across on the lines. There was no more time to think – only to survive.

Spells flashed and swords clashed as both crews fought for their lives. Men and mer, male and female, engaged in life-or-death hand-to-hand combat. The decks of both ships grew slick with blood and ice. Frost Atronachs thudded heavily into knots of sailors, either pounding them into the deck or hauling them overboard. Here and there were a few Storm Atronachs, but no one summoned one of fire, knowing it would be bad for both sides. Other creatures, however, sprang into being, summoned from the depths of Oblivion. Combatants turned on each other as Illusionists cast their mind-altering magic.

Cyrus saw Nels struggling against three opponents, but couldn't reach him to help. The older Redguard whirled and thrust with both scimitars, beating back the Altmer facing him, but there were still so many coming across.

Where are they all coming from? he wondered. A ship of this size couldn't possibly carry that many sailors, could it? He sliced through the Altmer facing him and stepped back a moment to survey the situation. Movement from the other ship caught his eye, and he saw a dozen more gold and glass-clad Dominion soldiers emerging from below decks. Eyes narrowed in speculation, he re-entered the fray and fought his way to the Commander.

"Sir!" he called, cutting down one of the mer threatening Commander Zane. "Sir! I think they're bringing more soldiers in from somewhere else!"

"What?" Zane barked, and looked across to where Cyrus pointed. He nodded, understanding. "They've got a portal on that ship," he told the younger man. "Can you get over there? Disable it?"

"I'll do my best, Commander!"

"Take someone with you!" Zane yelled to Cyrus' retreating back, before putting up his blades to deflect another onslaught.

"Nels!" Cyrus called, gesturing with his head towards the Aldmeri ship. Nels nodded, and took out his last two opponents with a stunning display of shifrat aldawaran. Cyrus' eyes widened. He'd read of this technique of the sword singers of old, but had never seen it demonstrated. Nels wiped his blades clean before sheathing them and dodging his way over to Cyrus.

"When this is over," the younger Redguard said, "you have to teach me that move!"

Nels gave him a mysterious smile. "Nothing would please me more," he said. "What did you need?"

Quickly, ducking spell effects and the combatants around them, Cyrus explained what he'd seen, and Commander Zane's orders. Nels nodded. "Let's get over there, then, and see what we can find. Hold onto my shoulder," he ordered. "Don't let go." The old Redguard made a gesture with one hand, and vanished.

"Nels?" Cyrus called in alarm. He felt Nels' hand clamp over his.

"I said don't let go!" the older man repeated. "We're heading into the lion's den. So it's better to do it unseen."

Planks had been laid across the railings of the two ships, now lashed together with grappling hooks, and Nels made his way across slowly, making sure Cyrus was right behind him. There was fighting here, too, as some of the Stormlord's crew had made it this far. Cyrus saw a group of Altmer marines struggling against a swarm of bees that had been summoned. No matter where they went to evade them, the bees followed.

Nels led them to the door in the quarter deck of the Viper, near the stern, which was being guarded by four heavily-armed marines.

"Get ready," he murmured to Cyrus. "When I strike the first one down, we'll be visible again."

Cyrus nodded, though he knew Nels couldn't see it, and drew one of his blades with his free hand. The first two marines went down quickly, unaware of the danger. The other two, however, responded with spells. Cyrus felt his muscles seize as electricity coursed through his body. Nels seemed to shrug it off and attacked with both scimitars. The Altmer barely conjured his own blade in time to ward off the attack.

The female facing Cyrus wore the black robes of a Justiciar, which to him meant she was the more dangerous of the two. Cyrus didn't use magic, preferring to fight with something more tangible. He was, however, fast on his feet, and had spent many years perfecting his ability to dodge almost anything short of a sneak attack. She lashed out with her shock spell again, but this time he was ready and moved swiftly to one side. He took a step forward and swept up with his blade. The Justiciar, limned with mage armor, took the blow and shrieked in pain, her conjured spell fizzling before it could be launched against him. He struck again and she went down. He hit her a third time, just to make sure.

Nels had neatly dispatched his opponent, and opened the door of the cabin. A short flight of wooden stairs led down, and the older Redguard headed into the interior of the Viper with Cyrus close on his heels. Cyrus locked the door to prevent anyone outside from interfering.

There were more Justiciars here, and a few more marines as well. The tight confines of the corridor meant only two could come at the men of Hammerfell at a time, but it also meant a different style of fighting. Whirling blades here might mean collateral damage neither man was willing to risk. Nels dropped back behind Cyrus and put up a shield.

"Stay behind it," he told the younger man. "Let them come to you."

The Justiciars launched their spells, but were unable to break through Nels' shield. The gold-clad Aldmeri soldiers moved forward, two at a time, but Cyrus cut them down, and they pushed forward to the door at the end of the corridor.

As Cyrus cut the last Justiciar down, Nels dropped his shield, breathing hard.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concerned.

"I'm fine," Nels gave a breathless snort. "Just not as young as I used to be. Are you ready? There's likely more of them inside."

Cyrus nodded, and they kicked the door in.

Five Justiciars guarded a circular dais in the center of the cabin. Advancing on the two closest to the door, Cyrus swept out with his foot, taking the legs out from under one, and stabbing upwards at the other from his lower position. The Destruction spell the Justiciar cast sailed over his head, smashing into the wall near the door. Nels shot the downed Thalmor with a Thunderbolt, and the Altmer lay there, too stunned to move.

The three Justiciars on the other side of the dais lashed out with spells of their own, and Cyrus was seized with a sudden rage. He wanted to kill everyone and everything, starting with the Redguard next to him. He struck out, surprising Nels, who cried out in dismay.

"Hey!"

But Nels was no stranger to magic, and knew exactly what had happened. He put up a shield to protect himself from the Justiciar's Destruction spells and launched another Illusion spell at Cyrus.

As quickly as the rage had filled him, it drained away, and Cyrus was left with a feeling of calm. Why were they fighting? Couldn't they all just get along? He wandered out of the room and down the corridor.

With Cyrus out of the fight for the moment, Nels knew he was on his own. Chained Lightning erupted from his hand, and all five Justiciars writhed under its effect. The Thalmor on the floor shuddered once and slumped, never to rise again.

"You fool!" one of the Justiciars sneered. "You are an inferior race! You will all submit to the superiority of the Altmer!"

Nels didn't bother to reply. A scimitar was back in his hand, with shock spells in the other. He dodged their magic as best he could, hoping the Calm would wear off Cyrus before he did anything stupid, like open the door to the upper deck and wander away.

Another Justiciar fell to his blade, but he was wearing out. The comment about his age was no joke. He could also feel his magicka reserves hitting bottom, while the Altmer still seemed to be fresh as mountain flowers.

One of the Justiciars had worked his way around Nels, and had blocked him from the door. There would be no retreat. Warily, he kept his eye on the one who had mocked him. This one seemed to be in charge. He raised his hands and Nels rushed him, using a sword singer move known as junah wahid, "one wing", which was especially good in close quarters when one only had one weapon. A feint low, to one side, then a swift movement upwards, on the diagonal. The Justiciar fell for it, and Nels opened a large gash across the mer's chest. The Altmer staggered back, desperately summoning healing magic.

The movement, however, left Nels vulnerable to attack from behind. Pain lanced through him and his sight wavered as one of the other Justiciars hit him across the back of his head. He fell to his knees, shaking his head to clear it. The two uninjured Thalmor closed in, and Nels accepted his failure, commending his soul to Tu'whacca.

One of the Justiciars dropped to his knees, and the other stiffened before falling over. Nels looked up groggily to see Cyrus standing over the two bodies before stepping around the older man to finish off the one Nels had wounded so grievously.

"Sorry I'm late," he told Nels. "I don't know what came over me."

"I do," Nels chuckled, as Cyrus helped him to his feet. He fired off a healing spell before patting they young Redguard on the shoulder. "My thanks, young Cyrus. Now, what do we do about that?" He pointed at the portal.

"They could keep bringing people through it if it stays," Cyrus said dubiously.

"They could do that if we took it," Nels pointed out. "That wouldn't be good for any of us. That'd be like bringing in a frozen snake because you feel sorry for it. It's still a snake."

"Can we destroy it?" Cyrus asked.

"We can't," Nels replied. "It would take more magicka than I have. You don't do magic, I take it?"

"Never learned," Cyrus said, shaking his head. "What if we cover it up?"

Nels considered this. "It would do to begin with. It's not a permanent solution, but we'll leave that for greater minds than ours. How are we going to get it out of here, up the stairs, and across to the Stormlord without fighting every Aldmeri soldier between here and there?"

Cyrus pondered this. His eyes swept the interior of the cabin, taking in everything around them. Suddenly he smiled. "I've got an idea," he grinned. "Help me here."

The battle above continued. When Cyrus and Nels finally emerged from belowdecks on the Viper, they were thrust back into the thick of it. It took them the better part of an hour to fight their way back to the Stormlord to report to Commander Zane. By the time the sun had set, however, it was clear that victory belonged to Hammerfell. Several of the Dominion ships had been sunk, though the Redguard navy had suffered heavy losses as well.

"Did you find that portal?" Commander Zane asked of Cyrus when he was finally able to deliver his report.

Cyrus exchanged a glance with Nels, his eyes crinkling. "We did, sir."

"Good," Zane replied. "As soon as you left, I signaled to the other ships what we suspected. We were able to capture three other portals to be destroyed. Where's the one you found?"

Nels coughed to hide his amusement, and Cyrus cleared his throat.

"Well, sir, to be fair, we couldn't destroy it ourselves," he began.

"I'm aware of that," Zane frowned. "So where is it? Did you turn it upside down?"

Cyrus hung his head. "That never occurred to us, sir."

"Well, did you at least cover it up?" the Commander demanded.

"In a manner of speaking, sir…"

"Out with it!" Zane roared impatiently. "Where's the gods-damned portal?"

Nels and Cyrus exchanged another look before Nels rolled his eyes towards the railing.

"We put it in a big burlap bag and chucked it over the side, sir," Cyrus explained. "Right now, it's at the bottom of the harbor, where the only thing that might get through it is a ton of seawater and some fishes."

---

Dante Greyshadow brooded over the note in his hand.

"It would seem you like secrets. I, too, like secrets. Meet me at the Temple of the One at midnight tonight if you wish to keep yours."

It was unsigned, and Dante could imagine it came from any member of the Elder Council. Nearly all of them were out for his blood anyway. He ruled out Councilor Devane, because the Breton man was too honest and upfront to attempt blackmail of this nature. Besides, the man had made no effort to hide how much he admired and respected Dante, whom he saw as a fellow businessman pulling himself up out of the common rabble. Lady Vanadia was quite simply too vapid and too clueless to grasp opportunity when it presented itself. Lorena Polus was still entertaining the inside of a cell in the Cyrodiil prison for her part in abducting the Arch-Mage several years ago, but it didn't mean she didn't still have loyal contacts on the outside who would work to get her out of there. Lord Ballentine, on the other hand, had made no secret of his dislike for what he considered an upstart in the Elder Council.

That was not to say that the author of the note was on the Elder Council. Dante knew all too well the number of enemies he'd made over the years. It was entirely possible this was another ploy by the Dominion. One of their operatives, still working in the Imperial City, could have found some minor bit of information that would be irritating to have to explain. Dangling that possibility in front of him, they might hope to draw him out, alone and in secret, and do away with one more obstacle in the way of placing a puppet-Emperor on the Ruby Throne.

Growling in frustration, he knew he would have to take the bait. Whoever this person was, they clearly had no idea who they were dealing with. That was their problem.

At nearly midnight, when the time-keepers were making their rounds, calling out the hour and assuring the sleepy citizens that 'all was well,' Dante slipped through the shadows surrounding the Temple of the One. Two hundred years ago, this had been the scene of the final confrontation between the Daedric Prince, Mehrunes Dagon, and the Avatar of Akatosh, which Martin Septim had become. The roof had been repaired since then, of course, but the gigantic statue of the dragon form the Avatar had taken still rose above the chancel at the far end, which was now open to the sky.

He had been tempted to show up in his Nightingale's armor. The stealth enchantments alone would have been worth it, in addition to the physical protection the armor afforded. But the suggestion that the author of the note implied, about keeping secrets, made him decide against it.

Plausible deniability, he grimaced to himself. Let them accuse me of whatever they wish. They'd still have to prove it.

With that in mind, he wore a simple surcoat of black and silver – his own favorite color standard – over an ordinary suit of leather armor, improved to the best of his ability.

Without a sound, Dante cast a Detect Life spell and found the one figure still awake at this hour, attempting to hide behind the dragon. No doubt they would step out as soon as he came into view. Except that revealing himself was something Dante had no intention of doing until he was certain they were alone. His spell didn't reveal anyone else in the Temple, except the priests and acolytes sleeping in the rooms below, and his curiosity was further piqued. Did this lone person genuinely believe they could summon him here, threaten him, and overpower him? It didn't make sense.

Taking a deep breath, Dante moved away from the doorway and strode purposefully into the nave of the chapel, his boots ringing on the polished marble floor. Only a few torches were lit at this hour, and the flickering shadows did nothing to quell his unease at not being in control of the situation.

"You did come," a woman's voice said. "I'm surprised. I thought you would disregard my note."

"Show yourself," Dante replied tersely, his eyes peering into the gloom.

"In good time," the woman replied. "First, a gesture of trust. Toss your weapon to the side."

"How do I know you won't attack?" He deliberately made his voice sound nervous, and gave an uncharacteristic fidget, looking everywhere for the source of the voice that echoed around the chamber. He knew where she was, of course, but it wouldn't do to let her know that.

"As I said, it's a gesture of trust. Do it now."

He fumbled at the straps and pulled the short sword off his hip, dropping it to the ground and kicking it away from him.

"That's good," the woman approved, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Now the other one."

"But I don't—" he began, but she cut him off.

"You forget yourself, Councilor," she reprimanded. "I thought I made it clear in my note: I know who you are. Drop the other blade."

Cursing inwardly, Dante pulled Mehrunes Razor from its sheath under the surcoat and dropped it on the floor.

"Kick it further away," she ordered. He complied, his assessment of his opponent undergoing several revisions.

"Now we can talk," the woman purred. A shadow detached itself from the darkness behind the dragon statue, and a figure in gray armor glided into view.

"Who are you?" Dante demanded. "What do you want?"

"I'm no one of importance," the woman shrugged. "And we're not here to talk about me. We're here to talk about you, Lord Greyshadow…or should I say, Grey Fox?"

Dante said nothing. If this was all she held over him, he could deal with it. His grandfather already knew of his dual-identity, and while he didn't necessarily want the entire Council to know, there were worse things to contend with at the moment.

"You don't deny it?" she queried, amused. "Good. That makes things much easier."

"You seem to have made up your mind about this," Dante shrugged. "Would it do me any good to deny it?"

"None at all," she smirked. "You see, I know quite a bit about you, about your organization, your – shall we say – special status within that organization—"

"Get to the point," the Grey Fox bristled. "Who are you working for? And what do they want?"

This elicited a chuckle from her. "I'm working for a very old, very underappreciated House in High Rock, Lord Greyshadow. Perhaps you've heard of them? House Montrose? You see, they've never gotten the respect they feel they deserve. Thirty years ago, they were well on their way to eliminating all the obstacles that littered their path to power. And then, in a moment of chaos, you slipped away. Oh, you've led them a merry chase over the years, and it wasn't until a couple of years ago that they finally figured out where you were. But the contract on you remained open all this time. A contract that I intend to fulfil."

"I think you'd find that harder than you imagine," Dante growled, and immediately called upon Nocturnal's favor. Crouching, he instantly vanished from view. A gasp of dismay from the woman was all he heard as he used Telekinesis to bring Mehrunes Razor back to his hand. Still crouching, he tumbled to the shadows at the side of the nave under the stained-glass windows depicting four of the Eight Divines.

Her hand fluttered a gesture, and while Dante could see no obvious spell effects, she suddenly turned in his direction, and he knew she could cast a Detect Life spell. His hiding in shadows wouldn't help him here. Leaping to his feet, he made a dash for the door. Something impacted the plaster wall behind him, but he didn't stop to see what it was. His opponent was already sprinting down the center aisle to cut him off, and Dante abruptly turned and headed back to the chancel, and the stairs that led to the upper gallery. Something whizzed past him and thocked into the carved balustrade ahead of him. It was a metal, star-shaped disc with six jagged, razor-sharp spikes radiating around it. A throwing star; preferred weapon of the Morag Tong.

Now he knew what he was up against. His mind raced ahead of his body as he sprinted for the bell tower and the door to the roof. If he could make it there, he felt confident he could slip away. The last thing he wanted to do was fight a Morag Tong assassin in the Temple of the One.

He could hear her now, her feet thudding up the stairs to the balcony behind him, and he paused a moment to wait for her head to appear above floor-level before firing off a Calm spell in her direction. She paused, but only for a moment.

"Very clever, Grey Fox," she smiled. "But it will take more than that to stop me." Shrugging off the sedating effects of the spell, she came at him again, and Dante slipped through the bell tower door, throwing a Lock spell at it before climbing the ladder upwards. He could hear her tugging on the handle, but the spell held.

Breathing a little easier, he knew he wasn't out of the woods yet. A locked door wouldn't stop a Morag Tong assassin; she would simply find another way of reaching where he would be. To that end, Dante paused on the ladder to assess his situation. Climbing down again was out of the question; she might still be waiting in the Temple somewhere. He could find her with another Detect spell, but he was also quite certain she could find him. He could continue his upward route and come out on the roof. From there he could jump to one of the nearby trees and shimmy down to the ground. Again, she would likely be close behind.

And he realized he didn't really want to run away from her; he wanted to end her. Getting rid of an assassin sent by House Montrose wouldn't stop them from sending another, but it might take some time with a war going on for them to realize the first one had been unsuccessful. He just didn't want it to be done within the Temple. Normally he wasn't this sentimental; he'd certainly never paid much lip-service to the Eight – Nine – in the past. But Clarice had been working on him since he'd moved her back to the Imperial City, and it felt somehow sacrilegious to fight a battle in a church.

Thinking of his old nurse, and her Bosmeri charge safely sequestered in his house on the other side of town, Dante grimly resolved to finish this unpleasant business before checking on them. If House Montrose knew who he was, and had sent an assassin to eliminate him, who knew what else they might have done?

The fear for their safety settled into a cold lump in his stomach. There would be reprisals for this affront. But first, he had to get out of the tower. Casting Detect Life again, he found her form climbing up the outside wall of the Temple, heading for the roof. So that was the way of it, then? He chuckled, and slid down the ladder, unlocking the door and heading back downstairs at a dead run. With the spell still active, he knew the moment she realized he wasn't continuing to climb when she reversed direction and headed for the front of the Temple over the roof, intending to head him off.

He made it to the door first and bolted out into the Temple District beyond. Several spiked stars embedded themselves in the gravel around him, and he zig-zagged his way to the gate that led to the Waterfront District. The gates were closed at this hour, but Dante knew a way through them, by slipping through a postern gate on the side. Would she follow him?

The answer was another volley of throwing stars sticking into the trees, and slicing through the fabric of the surcoat as it billowed behind him.

That was a bit too close! he gulped to himself.

The causeway sloped down to the docks which lined the harbor, vacant now except for a few merchant vessels. All warships had been deployed to Bravil to defend against the Dominion navy coming up from Leyawiin. He spared a brief prayer for Jasper and the rest of the Guild in the fallen city. Turning, he faced his opponent as she approached, using the trees as cover.

"Decided to finally stop running?" she mocked him.

"I prefer to think of it as a strategic withdrawal," Dante countered. "I had no desire to profane the Temple with our battle."

"Since when did you ever care about the gods?" the assassin jibed.

"You assume much for an assassin," he threw back at her.

She shrugged. "To defeat your opponent, you must first understand them," she replied, obviously quoting from somewhere.

"I'm not arguing that that isn't sound logic," Dante demurred, "but you'll never understand me." He lobbed a Thunderbolt her way, which she easily evaded, but she failed to dodge the Icy Spear he sent a heartbeat later, where he anticipated she would be. Her grunt of pain was all the satisfaction he needed.

"Very clever," she acknowledged. She drew two wicked-looking Daedric daggers. "Let's end this, then."

"To the death," he saluted her, as he drew Mehrunes Razor and kept one hand free for spellcasting. He knew the guards at the gates would not intervene. They were technically outside the City now, and restrictions against drawn weapons were lifted here. It was, after all, the Waterfront District, where you took your life into your own hands.

They circled each other warily, assessing their opponent, looking for weaknesses and watching for openings. The Morag Tong struck first, feinting with her left and following it up with a slash from the right. Dante easily dodged these but didn't take the bait to close with her. Instead, while he kept his eyes focused on her every move, he used his other senses to become aware of the terrain.

Studded with trees, the land sloped down to the Lighthouse, which stood between the gates to the Temple District and the docks at the waterline. The Lighthouse itself was a large, cylindrical structure, not nearly as tall as the White-Gold Tower, that helped guide ships into the concave, semi-circular harbor. There was only one way inside, through the door that faced the gate, and the spiral staircase inside led up to the pyre at the top which was kept going twenty-four hours a day.

The shoreline was rocky and precipitous, and if one fell into the lake, it would be difficult – though not impossible – to clamber back out again. That was assuming the slaughterfish didn't get you first. It certainly wasn't the most advantageous place to engage in a knife-fight, but Dante knew he didn't have much choice.

She was moving again, maintaining the high ground, and Dante deliberately backed up, familiar with a path he had walked many times in the past. He threw a Wall of Frost her way, and as it billowed and obscured his position, he retreated further down the road, pulling level with the Lighthouse. The assassin grunted as the cold hit her, and followed close enough on his heels that he was forced to turn and throw off another Wall to prevent her from striking out.

Now he could see, in the dim light of Secunda, that she was a Dunmer. It made sense. Most Morag Tong assassins were of that race. It also explained why the cold spells affected her so deeply, and he grinned privately. Now he knew one of her weaknesses.

Drawing on his magicka once more, he summoned a Frost Atronach and ducked behind it to buy himself a few seconds of respite. The assassin countered by conjuring something of her own, and Dante knew he'd never seen anything like it in his life, as it snapped at him with a curved beak lined with needle-sharp teeth.

What in Oblivion IS that thing? he wondered, ducking into the doorway of the Lighthouse. The last thing he wanted to do was get trapped in the building, but he was being outmaneuvered, and he didn't like it.

Leathery wings flapped overhead, steel-like talons made a grab for him, and on instinct, Dante leaped and grabbed the creature by its feet. Squawking horrendously, the creature pulled him up into the air, out over the water, before dipping a wing to wheel back and return to its caster. Glancing down, Dante let go, dropping into the harbor and coming up quickly for air. Treading water, he saw the Atronach still holding off the assassin, and he paddled silently over to the ladder that came down from the dock, pulling himself to the safety of the wharf before any of the local slaughterfish realized they'd just missed a midnight snack.

A resounding crack told him the Atronach was finished, and Dante crouched behind a stack of barrels, though he knew it would do no good; his opponent knew the Detect Life spell as well as he did. He used it now to track her movements as he cast his glance about the dock to see what else he could use to his advantage. The flying creature was screeching overhead again, searching for him, but his stealth skills kept him safe from it for the moment.

Think, Dante, think!

A slippery residue on the barrel caught his attention, and he touched it briefly, bringing his fingers to his nose to test the scent. A wicked smile danced on his lips as he saw the assassin reach the docks, searching the shadows for him, but striding purposefully in his direction. Swiftly, he pried the lid off the barrel and dumped it over, igniting its contents with a simple Flames spell before jumping back into the water. With a roar and a whoosh, the entire wharf caught fire as oil spilled across its width, catching the assassin in the conflagration. With a shriek, she dove over the side herself. Unfortunately, all the activity had alerted the piscine population, and the waters of the harbor churned as the carnivorous fish attacked the floundering Dunmer. Dante shut his ears to her screams and struck out for the shore as quickly as he could. The flying creature winked out of existence as he pulled himself out and flopped onto the grass to catch his breath. The city guard, alerted by the fire, now converged on the docks to extinguish the flames before they could spread to the nearby merchant ships, or the shanties and shacks that made up the poorest section of the Imperial City.

It was several minutes before he felt it safe to find what was left of her body, which had now floated to shore. Steeling his mind against the gruesome sight – he'd seen worse – he rummaged through her chewed armor and tattered clothing until he found what he'd been looking for: a satchel of now-soggy papers. He hoped the ink hadn't run too badly to be able to read them.

A half hour later he was at his home in the Elven Gardens District. Another Detect Life spell indicated there was no one in proximity to his house who shouldn't be there. The city guard patrolled the streets, and the two beggars who watched his house for him assured him no one had come there while he was away. Thanking them with coin, he entered as quietly as he could. There was a light on in the kitchen area at the back of the hall. Clarice was there, sipping a cup of tea, reading a book.

"Master Dante!" she exclaimed softly, delighted. "I didn't know you'd be home this evening. I thought you'd be at the Tower all night."

"Something came up," he replied. "Any of that coffee available?" He admitted it; the Dragonborn had gotten him hooked on the stuff.

"Not now, but I can make some," his old nurse replied.

"No, no," he dismissed, shaking his head. "I can wait until morning. A cup of tea will be fine for now."

"The mugs are over there," the Breton woman smiled, pointed to a shelf near the sink. "I'll set the kettle back on the fire. In the meantime, you can tell me what brought you back here at this hour."

From his earliest childhood, Dante had never been able to lie to Nonna. She knew every time he'd gotten into trouble, and hiding it ended up with a worse punishment than if he'd just been honest with her in the first place. He told her about the assassin. Clarice was troubled, and the papers in the satchel worried her even more.

"They know more about your recent movements than we thought," she sighed. "I wonder what took them so long to find you?"

"I've kept a low profile over the years," Dante rumbled.

"Yes," Clarice nodded, "but the Emperor didn't help matters, letting everyone know who you are."

"I understand why he felt the need," the Guildmaster said defensively. "The timing is bad, but it's just something I'll have to deal with."

"The timing stinks," Clarice said succinctly, getting up to fetch the teapot. "The war with the Dominion is back on and now the heir-apparent has to watch his back from both Thalmor and assassins."

"I've been in tighter places," he shrugged.

Clarice poured the boiling water into his mug. "I know you have, dear," she soothed. "But I didn't know about all those times. I do know about this, now, and I worry what might happen to you. And what might happen to Falisa and myself should the worst happen."

"I have standing orders with the Guild," Dante assured her, blowing on his tea before sipping it. "If anything happens to me, they're to come and get you and the child out of here immediately. In fact," he went on, "I've been thinking we might have to move you anyway."

"Move us?" Clarice echoed. "You think the Imperial City will fall again?"

She was quick on the uptake, Dante realized. It was one of the things that endeared her to him.

"It's a possibility we can't ignore," he nodded. "Grandfather lost the City once, nearly thirty years ago. It could happen again. If it does, no place in the city will be safe for either of you – especially the child. She's too important to risk."

"Where would we go?" the old Breton woman asked, subdued.

"Morrowind," Dante mused. "They haven't committed to this latest conflict, one way or the other. As far as my sources have been able to tell me, there aren't any Dominion-influenced attacks going on there."

Clarice considered this. "I think going underground would be safer," she said slowly. "Your Guild isn't well-known in the City. The people know there are thieves here." She threw him a sharp look of reproach as she said it. "But in general, no one knows where they come from."

"I still say that's too risky," Dante disagreed. "I haven't heard anything from Leyawiin since the city fell, and that's not a good sign. It means our branch location there may have been discovered. If the Dominion is aware of a group of thieves working in Leyawiin, it won't take them long to conclude there might be an entire network of them throughout Cyrodiil. We may already be compromised."

Clarice sighed. "Very well, dear," she conceded. "If you say we go to Morrowind, then we go to Morrowind. I'll start packing in the morning." She stood and carried her mug to the sink, rinsing it out with some water from a nearby bucket. "You're going to have to deal with this new problem sooner or later," she warned him. "You can't effectively fight a war if you're constantly looking over your shoulder."

Dante rubbed the beard on his chin. "I know, Nonna," he sighed. "But I have other concerns right now. And honestly, the war may solve the problem for me."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," she intoned.

---

Tamsyn made an enormous effort to drag her eyes open. Something was preventing it, however. She shifted her head slightly, and even that was a great effort. She felt incredibly weak.

"Easy now," Priestess Danica's voice soothed. "You've had a rough time of it."

"D-Danica?" It came out as a thready whisper.

"Aye, Tamsyn," the priestess of Kynareth assured her. "Just relax. Let us do the work, alright?"

"Us?" Tamsyn croaked.

"I'm here, too, Arch-Mage," came Arcadia's voice.

"Don't worry, Tamsyn," said an all-too familiar voice. Azura! "We're going to get you well again."

"What…happened?" she managed to get out. "Why…can't…I see?"

"Just a precaution," said Azura, with a bit more perkiness than Tamsyn felt was necessary. "You took some massive damage. Jarl Balgruuf said he saw you get blown out a window. You'll have to tell me that story when you're feeling better."

"For now, just try to rest," Danica insisted.

"Where's…Marcus?" Tamsyn murmured. She couldn't keep the plaintive note out of her voice, and hated herself for it.

"We've sent for him," Arcadia assured her. "He should be here soon."

"I've got some broth here," Azura said, "when you feel up to it—"

"What's…happened?" Tamsyn tried to insist, but it came out as querulous. "What's going…on…out there?"

There was a brief pause, as if her caretakers were exchanging glances, judging how much to tell her.

"The city is safe for now," Azura said, "but it's taken a lot of damage. Dragonsreach is partially destroyed, and will need to be rebuilt. The Gildergreen is lost. I don't think we can bring it back. Breezehome—" She paused.

"Yes?" Tamsyn prompted.

"It took a direct hit from the catapults," Arcadia confessed to her. "There's a hole in the ground where it used to be."

Tamsyn groaned. Of all the houses she and Marcus owned, Breezehome had been and always would be her favorite.

"Try to get some sleep," Danica insisted again.

"But Marcus—" Tamsyn pleaded.

"We'll wake you when he gets here," Azura promised.

More tired than she'd ever felt in both her lives, Tamsyn allowed herself to be lulled to sleep.

She woke, unsure of how much time had passed, to hear voices talking quietly nearby. She heard her name being mentioned, and assumed they thought she was asleep. She didn't notify them of their error.

"—might never recover," Arcadia was saying.

"Tamsyn is stronger than you think," Azura replied, staunchly defending her friend, and Tamsyn's heart warmed to the Bosmer mage all over again.

"Still," Danica insisted, "she was burned over half her body, and lacerated over at least that much. We still don't know if she'll have the use of her eyes again."

Cold fear gripped Tamsyn's gut. Blind? She was blind? Was that why she couldn't see? She put a hand up to her face and felt the linen wraps that shrouded nearly her entire head. She could feel them on her hands, now, as well. The stiffness in her body wasn't merely due to lying in a sickbed. She was wrapped up like a draugr!

She couldn't prevent the keening wail that escaped her. Was this what her father meant? The image of the husk that had been her body when her spirit had separated from it flew through her mind. She had given up her divinity to return to this? A useless shell of a woman destined to once again be a burden on her loved ones?

In a matter of moments there were voices surrounding her, and soothing spells attempting to calm her, but Tamsyn fought them off. She would not be comforted. She screamed and raged like a wispmother, thrashing about on the bed where she lay, unsure if she was even able to cry, and uncaring if her friends saw her in this state. It went on for a long while until she realized that she was being confined, encircled in arms that were stronger than her thrashing, and a voice deeper and more soothing than any other was speaking softly in her ear, insisting she was loved, that she would recover, that she was the dearest person in the world to them.

"M-Marcus?" she sobbed, and the fight went out of her in an instant.

"I'm here, my love," he crooned. "I'm here, my brave girl, just hold onto me. We've got this together."

"I'm hideous!" she wailed.

"Never," he insisted. "Not to me, ever. You've got this," he went on in that same low, comforting voice. "You can heal yourself. I have faith in you."

"I'm blind," she sniffled, her nose stuffed up and runny at the same time. She wanted to wipe it on the bandages of her hands, but they were too sensitive to stand the pressure it would have taken. She must have made some kind of gesture to do just that, however, as a soft, cool cloth began to gently wipe her face.

"Your eyes are covered for their own protection, dearest," he told her. "You might not be permanently blind."

"My hair—"

"—was cut off so they could bandage you, sweetheart," he insisted. "It's just hair. It will grow back."

"Will it?" she hiccupped. "I saw myself, Marcus! I saw myself lying here. Hair can't grow back through scar tissue!"

"You'll find a way," he said with confidence. "I know you, Tamsyn. You're the most accomplished healer in all of Skyrim—"

"I'm a cheat," she mumbled sourly. "I had an advantage no one else had. That's gone now."

There was silence for a moment.

"We'll talk about this more later," he promised. "But regardless of any advantage you think you might have had, I still have every faith that you can heal yourself from the inside out. You've brought babies into the world and cured everything from ataxia to witbane. You even cured Eorlund Gray-Mane's cancer last year! You are the most amazing woman in the world to me, and I love you. You can do this."

She pulled away and turned her back to him. "Will you still love me when I'm crippled and disfigured?" she snapped. The old woman she had been in another time and place was back, and she hated herself for it.

Marcus reached over and caressed the part of her face that was not covered in bandages. "Yes," he replied simply. "I told you before, on that bridge in Ivarstead, that it wasn't just your looks that attracted me. If you remember that conversation, you'll understand how much I love you."

He pulled away and she heard him moving as if rising to his feet. "I'm heading to Falkreath now," he told her. "There's a reckoning to be had with Siddgeir, and I need to be there. It might even carry us into Cyrodiil. We need you, Tamsyn. The fight isn't over yet. The Dominion is going to hit us with everything they've got. So, we need to hit them back, just as hard. We don't want this war to last another four years, and that means taking the fight to them, even if it means all the way to the Summerset Isles. I was kind of hoping you'd be there with me at the end." He paused before she felt him lean in closer. "This isn't you, Tamsyn. You're stronger than this. The Dominion would be dancing in the streets if they knew they'd beaten you like this. Don't let your self-doubts trip you up now, sweetheart. With or without your 'special abilities', you're still one hell of a mage, and I love you."

A tender kiss planted itself on her cheek, and she heard his footsteps striding away.

But this is me, she thought. This is who I was before I came here.

A single tear escaped the linen wraps and slid down her cheek, to be absorbed into the bandages on her hand.

Outside Jorrvaskr, Marcus took a deep shuddering breath.

"How is she?" Azura asked, gently.

"Surly, moody and depressed," he told her honestly. "All legitimate emotions, to be fair. She's had a rather rude awakening."

"We'll do everything we can, Marcus," his friend promised, laying a hand on his arm.

He gave her a reassuring smile. "I know, Azura," he replied. "And I thank you for it. But the real decision lies with Tamsyn herself, if she wants to recover, and how much effort she's willing to put up to make that happen." He patted her hand. "The Dominion is in retreat now, and we have to press our advantage, so I'll—"

"DADDY!"

Marcus whipped his head around to see mop of curly dark hair bobbing up the steps towards him.

"Julia?" Looking past her, he saw Lydia trotting to keep up with her four-year-old charge.

"I'm sorry, my Thane!" the Nord woman panted, out of breath. "She insisted she needed to be here. You know how she gets."

"This isn't really the time or place," he frowned, scooping up his daughter. "Julia, sweetie, you shouldn't be here. It's too dangerous! How did you get past all the soldiers?"

"I made it so they couldn't see us, Daddy," the little girl explained, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "Mommy needs me, so I hadda come!"

Lydia shrugged helplessly. "She was all set to sneak out of the house when I caught her," the Steward sighed. "She insisted her mother needed her, and if I didn't come with her, she was going to come by herself. Well, I couldn't let that happen…" She trailed off, pleading with her one good eye for her Thane to understand. Marcus did. He knew his daughter.

"It's alright, Lydia," he told her. "You're here now and you're both safe. That's the important thing. But Breezehome is lost."

"I know, Thane," Lydia replied sadly. "We passed it on the way here. If there's room at the Bannered Mare, we'll stay there."

"I'm staying with Mommy," Julia announced, squirming to get down.

"Sweetie," he began, "Mommy's not in good shape to have visitors."

"I know, I know," the four-year-old said. "That's why I'm here. I need to help her!"

From any other toddler, this would have been endearing, but Marcus knew there was something unique about his daughter. She often knew things before they happened, and was already mastering dovahzul, the language of the dragons. And now, apparently, she was performing magic that most adepts hadn't learned yet. Crouching down to put himself on her level, he took his daughter gently by the shoulders and stared into her deep green eyes, so like her mother's.

"Julia, baby," he tried again. "Mommy has been badly injured."

"She was cut and burned," Julia nodded. "I know. I saw it happen."

"You…saw it…"

"I was sleeping, and I saw Mommy fly out that window," the child explained, pointing to the upper level of Dragonsreach in the distance, now in ruins. "I knew she was hurt bad, and I knew I hadda come. So I did."

"And you think you can help Mommy?" Marcus asked gently.

"I know I can," his daughter said with supreme confidence. "Can I go see her now?" She pulled away from his arms.

"Alright, sweetheart," he sighed, letting her go. "But don't be scared at what you might see. And don't be surprised if she doesn't want to see you."

Julia giggled. "Oh, Daddy," she crowed. "You're so funny!" She climbed the rest of the steps and smiled at Azura. "Hi, Miss Fros'fevver!" she greeted the bemused Bosmer. "Let's go see my Mommy!"

Azura declined to correct the child, either the pronunciation of her name or that she was a married woman now, and quirked a lopsided smile at Marcus. "I guess we'll see you later," she quipped, before allowing herself to be pulled inside by the hand.

"I'll look after her," Lydia promised her Thane.

"I know you will, Lydia," he smiled. "And thanks."

He headed for the main gate where much of the Alliance army was still gathering its strength.

"There you are, Dragonborn!" Madanach grinned, ignoring the many wounds oozing through the makeshift bandages plastered on his body. "Quite a fight, wasn't it?"

"Your help was greatly appreciated, Madanach," Marcus nodded gratefully. "I'm sorry for your losses."

"We knew the risks," the old Reach King dismissed. "What happens now? Do we keep pushing south? My Matriarchs tell me the Dominion is moving their troops eastward. Seems they can't get through the Jeralls. Something about a bunch of native tribes being led by dragons, or rumors like that."

Golmonah! Marcus thought, elated. He'd nearly forgotten about the female dragon who had helped Tamsyn and Sylfaen Telperion return to Skyrim. His wife had related the entire story to him, and they had even gone to visit the ancient green dov. Was it possible that Golmonah had recruited more dragons to her peaceful way of life, similar to Paarthurnax's 'Way of the Voice'?

"What about your dragons?" Balgruuf inquired. "You still planning to take to the air with them?"

"I think we have to," Marcus replied. "If they'll agree to fight riderless."

"If you can convince them to carry some of my people, there are a few who are eager to fly," Madanach offered. "Matriarch Elieshandra showed them a different way to fight." His face clouded as he thought of the fallen Matriarch. "I'm gonna miss that old girl," he murmured sadly.

A group of several people approached, one of them Commander Caius.

"Jarl Balgruuf," he called out. "The troops are ready when you are."

"I'll be right there," he acknowledged, then turned to Marcus. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay here with your wife?" he offered. "I know everyone would understand."

"Tamsyn wouldn't," Marcus retorted wryly. "She's…hurting right now, both physically and mentally. She needs a little time and…distance from me. Lydia's here, and our daughter, and Azura has promised to keep working with her. She'll be fine." Even as he spoke the words, he hoped he was right. Tamsyn's rejection of him was understandable, given what she'd been through, but it still stung.

"I hope you're right, Dragonborn," Balgruuf said fervently. "The mages are in disarray. I don't think they know what to do."

"That's not true!" one of the women exclaimed sharply. She was a Nord mage dressed in Master-level Destruction robes, and she scowled at them in pique. "We know what we need to do," she insisted. "Our Arch-Mage is fighting for her life right now. We aren't going to let that go unpunished!"

"Who are you?" Balgruuf demanded, irritably. Loyalty was all very well and good, but he needed action right now, not words.

"My name's Karla," she answered. "Karla Hellesdotter," she continued. "And if the Arch-Mage can't lead us, then I'll do it."

Dubious, the Jarl arched an eyebrow at her. "The mages will follow you, Karla?"

"They'd better," she intoned with a grim smile, "or I'll know the reason why. Arch-Mage Tamsyn put me in charge of our aerial group. I have a score or more mages under my command, and about a handful of us can still fly." She held up her hand adorned with a plain, silver ring.

Hope flared in the Dragonborn's heart. "Get them prepared to move out, then," he told her. "We're heading to Falkreath Hold."

---

Rezhyk the Blackheart stared in dismay at the legion of Khajiit and Thalmor surrounding the Palace of the Mane. So, this was where they all were. They had anticipated a coup of this nature. Well, it wasn't as if he'd made a secret of his southward advance. The amount of time it had taken to muster his strength and grow his army had been more than enough for the Dominion to sit up and take notice. A challenge to the Mane at this point was moot. Why would he agree to fight the Blackheart one-on-one when he could sit safely inside and let the Dominion whittle the numbers down for him?

"What now?" Tika murmured, for his ears only.

"We fight," Rezhyk replied, whiskers twitching.

"They outnumber us," the cocoa-pointed mage felt obligated to point out.

"We either die fighting, or we die as prisoners," Rezhyk answered with a resigned sigh. "We have been outmaneuvered."

A commotion at the southern gate, which led to the docks, caught the attention of the Torvalian troops near the Palace. The Thalmor, too, seemed distracted. A whistling sound screamed overhead, and an explosion of fire and stone erupted against the minarets of the Palace of the Mane.

"Look out!" Rezhyk called, and his troops scattered in confusion, taking shelter in doorways and up against walls. The roars of the Senche and Pahmar underscored the screeches of the Tojay, and the screams of the Suthay and Cathay.

Pandemonium broke out as the Torvalians at the Palace abandoned their positions to rush to the southern wall in defense of this new threat. The Dominion soldiers callously ordered them back, but they were ignored. Frustrated, the Justiciars were torn between punishing the fleeing Khajiit and protecting their own hides. They were outnumbered here, and they knew it. If they persisted in enforcing their influence, they risked having even the Torvalian Khajiit turn against them.

Over all this chaos, boulders as large as a Senche pummeled the towers of the central citadel of the spiritual leader of the Khajiit. Fires broke out everywhere there was something to burn, but in the humid dampness of southern Elsweyr, most only smoldered.

"What's happening?" Tika cried.

"The city is under attack!" Rezhyk answered. "But by who?"

Leaping to the wall and using his claws for leverage, the Blackheart pulled himself to the top to peer through the smoke down to the harbor. Two things he saw at once: the first was a fleet of Bosmeri ships firing on the town as well as the Dominion ships still at harbor; the second was the other half of his own army, led by Far-Eyes and Cinnamon, fighting their way back to the city.

"Tika!" he called, waving to get her attention. When she waved back, he pointed towards the main gate on their side of town. "Our allies need our help!"

She nodded and gathered as many of the Blackheart's followers as she could within the sound of her voice and led them towards where Rezhyk was waiting. He leaped down from the gatehouse once more and sprinted out to the rest of his army, who were fighting a rear-guard action just to get into the city.

"You're late!" Cinnamon roared, laughing as he slashed at a Torvalian guard, and blocking a blow from a Dominion soldier.

"You know me, my friend," the Blackheart grinned, showing all his teeth. "Never arrive early when the eleventh hour will do!"

"What's going on?" his second demanded. "We got cut off, fighting all these kittens out here, and suddenly all Oblivion breaks loose!"

"It would appear the Bosmeri navy likes the Dominion less than they admire the Khajiit," Rezhyk drawled. "But that can wait. We have an opportunity it would be unwise to waste."

"I've got your back, my friend!"

After that it was all claws and steel. Spells slammed both sides of the conflict, and the relentless pounding of the Bosmeri barrage was taking its toll on the city. Rezhyk and his group allowed themselves to be pushed back into the city, prepared to fight the Torvalian army on both fronts, but the remaining guard in the city seemed more concerned with keeping the Bosmer out of the southern section of the city.

In the mass confusion, Rezhyk saw many of the Dominion soldiers working their way to the outer fringes of the battle, to slip out of the main gate.

"The Dominion soldiers are escaping!" he howled. "Stop them!"

Several Khajiit, Far-Eyes included, attempted to move in that direction, but there were still too many combatants in the way. A group of Senche-raht plowed their way through the mass of Torvalian guards, many of them falling along the way, to open a path for the Cathay and Sujay to advance towards the Palace. The Pahmar headed in the opposite direction to clear the way to the gate.

"You need to get to the Mane!" Cinnamon yelled to Rezhyk. "We'll hold these cubs off."

"But—"

"It's the only way to stop the fighting," Cinnamon growled. "If you claim the title, they all have to listen to you!"

Rezhyk hissed his frustration, but he knew his friend was right.

High-pitched screams from the area of the main gate caught their attention. As they watched, several gold-and-glass-clad Dominion bodies were tossed into the air like rag dolls, streaming trails of bright red blood behind them. The Pahmar were playing with their prey.

"Go!" Cinnamon roared, laying back his ears. He turned his back on the Blackheart and returned to the battle. Rezhyk blew out a sigh of resignation and raced for the Palace steps. He cut down the few guards who were either too brave or too stupid to get out of his way and leaped for the wall above the door, once more using his claws to pull himself upwards.

At the first balcony, twenty feet above the ground, he nimbly bounded over the railing and grabbed the first guard at the knees, hauling him over the side.

"Don't worry!" he called. "It's not far. You'll land on your—oh, well, you should have twisted in the air!"

A sound behind him alerted him to a second guard, coming out from the interior, and he drew his longsword to parry the spear coming at him.

"You traitorous scum!" hissed the female guard, lunging at him again. He batted the weapon away, twisting his blade as he did so. Her spear slipped from her hands and went flying over the rail.

"You were saying?" he taunted.

She stared at him, indecisive and nervous.

"Perhaps you'd like to go get your spear?" he mocked softly.

She fled indoors.

"Kittens!" he spat contemptuously.

Deciding it might be unhealthy for him to fight a running battle inside, Rezhyk opted to climb the outside of the tower. The stones were set tightly together at the lower levels, but the upper half of the towers were not so finessed. Walkways connected the three pinnacles that made up the Palace of the Mane, with the central of these being larger. It was this tower which Rezhyk knew he needed to reach, and it would be where he would find the Mane himself.

From an early age he had enjoyed climbing. He had always found it relaxing. With the Bosmeri navy lobbing fiery boulders at him, and a mix of Khajiit and Altmer soldiers below using him for target practice, he decided that this climb would not rate very highly among his more enjoyable excursions. A few arrows found their mark in his armor, and he hissed in pain, but concentrated on moving one paw in front of the other, and to keep moving upwards. Eventually, he knew, he would move out of range of the archers.

CRASH!

The Bosmer artillery, however, was another tale altogether. He scrabbled, as huge boulders bombarded the tower that connected via catwalk to the citadel of the Mane. He felt his claws slipping, and his eyes went wide as he realized he was falling.

A furry hand shot out from above and grabbed his. He held on for all of his nine lives and looked up to see Chieri smirking down at him.

"How did you-?" he began as she pulled him onto the walkway.

"Silly cub!" she scolded him. "I used the stairs inside. We killed all the guards along the way." Behind her stood a dozen Claw-Dancers, with Darmahn in front, grinning like a madcat.

"This one fails to understand why you would make it harder than it needed to be," was all he said, but Rezhyk could tell the little Tojay was enjoying the Blackheart's discomfort.

"It has to do with…style," Rezhyk said defensively, but he knew he wasn't fooling them. "Let's go," he hissed, and together they moved across the walkway to the central tower at the other end.

The doors were locked, but Darmahn managed to get them open quickly, and the group of the dozen or so Khajiit that followed the Blackheart made their way through the corridors to the inner sanctum. The guards here were fewer, but tougher. These were mostly Cathay-raht – large, burly, bipedal Khajiit who were heavily armed and armored. The fights were vicious, brutal and short. No quarter was asked; none was given. Darmahn went down, and Chieri was severely injured when they took down the last guard before the inner sanctum.

"Go!" she insisted, breathing hard. "I have potions. I know a spell or two. I'll be fine."

"Darmahn—" he began, but she cut him off.

"I said go! You can't help him now. Be the Mane," she hissed, partly in pique, partly in pain, "then you can help us."

Nodding, he threw open the doors to confront his destiny.

---

It took some time to organize the vast number of the Alliance army still remaining. Calcelmo and his nephew Aicantar, along with Sorine Jurard, commanded the unit of Dwemer machines that had been rebuilt for this purpose. Two Centurions were hitched to a large wagon with something on it, covered with a tarp. It had arrived too late to be used in the recent skirmish, and Marcus knew in his heart it had been just that – a skirmish. It had not lasted long enough to be a battle, and the Altmer forces had withdrawn too quickly once their airships had been downed by dragon and magefire.

They're drawing us in to close the net, he knew, and wished with all his heart that General Tullius was here to help plan their strategy.

Balgruuf had laid out a map on a table in a tent near the main gate. At another, larger, tent nearby, every mage who could perform Restoration magic, who could be spared from the city, was working on healing soldiers and creating potions. Marcus was certain there wasn't a stalk of wheat or a blossom of blue mountain flower to be found within a five-mile radius of Whiterun.

"This is the most recent map I have of Skyrim," Balgruuf announced. Stones weighted down the corners and two sets of markers were scattered across the southern portion of the Province. The gold markers represented the Dominion forces, to the best of their knowledge. The red and blue markers were Alliance troops. They were in a decided minority.

"As near as we can tell," he went on, pointing to the map, "the Dominion has installations here, here, and here, along the border. We believe there's a concentration of their troops in Falkreath Hold, certainly in the city of Falkreath itself."

"How did you discover this?" Galmar asked. A bandage had been carefully wrapped around one hand, the grizzled veteran insisting it was a minor wound in his off hand, and he didn't need it to kill Thalmor. "Besides," he'd insisted, "there are a lot of our people who need healing magic more than me."

"Part of our information came from Madanach and the Arch-Mage," Balgruuf told him, for the benefit of the other leaders. "Part of it came from our intelligence network. Nelkir?" he prompted, stepping aside to let his younger son explain further.

The strapping, red-haired seventeen-year-old, schooled under Brynjolf's tutelage, confidently pulled another map from a horn tube at his side. He unrolled it and placed it over the previous parchment.

"This is Falkreath Hold," he explained. "My team and I explored every inch of it in this past year. We'd had some hint that the Jarl there was colluding with the Dominion, but no solid proof. It was our task to find that proof."

He paused to let the uproar this caused to settle before continuing. "This is Lake Ilinalta, here," he pointed out. "There's an old ruin situated on the southern side of the lake, known as Shriekwind Bastion."

"I've been there," Marcus interjected. "It's been quite a few years, but I had to clear out a nest of vampires there."

"There aren't any vampires there now," Nelkir went on. "But there are a lot of Dominion soldiers, from what my team and I could see without revealing ourselves. Over here," he continued, moving his hand around the map, "are Cracked Tusk Keep, a former Orc stronghold, Bleak Falls Barrow, and the ruins of the city of Helgen. There are tunnels under the abandoned city, and they used to hold a lot of people, until General Galmar and his troops wiped them out. But it's also not all that far from the Pale Pass. It's possible, as the Dragonborn and his team found, to move troops through some back roads and avoid passing by Fort Neugrad. The Dominion might try to reinhabit the town. We haven't confirmed that yet."

"But Dominion troops couldn't have come through the Pass," Hadvar protested.

"They didn't need to," Marcus explained. "There's a tunnel to the west of the Pass that leads through the mountains. The Dominion also had one of their staging areas in the Jeralls near the Bloodlet Throne."

He didn't tell them of the vampire cult the Dawnguard had found there, and eliminated.

"The troops from Bleak Falls Barrow came down as a second wave during this last battle," Nelkir explained. "As far as we know, it hasn't been repopulated yet."

"So where does this leave us?" Madanach rumbled, voicing everyone's thoughts. "We don't know their strength, and we don't know where they all are, really. You say you've found concentrations, young man, but if they've been given free rein in Falkreath, we could have them all around us and not know it."

"That's why your team is going to be so critical, Madanach," Balgruuf pointed out. "You'll be our scouts, and kill any Thalmor you come across as we advance. If you find a large concentration, you come back and let us know. I know you took some heavy losses here for my city. I don't want to risk any more of your people."

Madanach's throat worked. It was the first genuine acknowledgement of the Reachfolk's contribution to the cause, and his opinion of the Jarl of Whiterun went up a few notches.

"We can only travel as fast as our slowest unit," Marcus continued. "Right now, that's the wagon the Centurions are pulling."

"What's on that thing?" Galmar asked, curious.

"Our secret weapon," Sorine Jurard replied solemnly. "Calcelmo and I were able to get it to work, but we still aren't sure how effective it will be. There wasn't time to test it."

"We still have the spheres and spiders," Aicantar added, "and a few Centurions not required to pull the wagon. They can go on the front lines and take the brunt of the assault."

"How can we cover the entire Hold, though?" Hadvar asked. "We could head directly to the capital city, but we'd have Dominion troops on all our flanks."

"That's the risk we have to take," Marcus shrugged. "We're reasonably sure we won't be threatened from either Helgen or Bleak Falls. It's possible the Dominion can call up troops from Cracked Tusk and Shriekwind. This isn't going to be an easy fight, and you'll be up against fellow Nords who might have decided that being loyal to the Empire means accepting the Dominion yoke."

"Either way, it's time we get moving," Balgruuf replied as Nelkir rolled up his map and put it away. "There's no direct route to the city of Falkreath from here. We have to follow the road through Riverwood and turn south to Helgen, then west from there. We'll likely have a fight on our hands the entire way."

"Good," Galmar rumbled. "As long as it means I can kill Thalmor, let's get started."

Madanach chuckled. "I like you," he quipped, earning a grin from the hairy Nord.

"What about us?" Karla demanded. "What about the mages? Where do we go?"

Marcus considered this. "How many of you are there?" he asked.

"There are a dozen of us who can still fly," she replied. "But there are at least a hundred more of the various Schools who will have to walk with the troops."

"Scatter yourselves among the troops, then," he told her. "Try not to concentrate in large groups. If the Dominion targets the mages, I don't want you all together. It might also be a good idea to wear some armor. There should be enough to go around. Arkay knows we've had at least that many casualties."

"But—"

"I know," he forestalled her, holding up a hand. "Your robes give you additional magicka. But armor will give you protection. I'm just thinking about keeping you all alive."

"Do what he says, Karla," a woman advised, and Marcus turned to see Tamsyn, being supported by Azura and Arcadia. His heart leaped in his chest, and he couldn't prevent the silly grin that creased his face.

"Arch-Mage!" Karla cried with delight, and several mages in the area turned and clustered around, cheering.

It was clear Tamsyn was still not completely well. Her head was swathed in bandages, and a loose-fitting tunic was thrown over her swaddled body, but her eyes were bright and her expression grim, though it still bore the ravages of her ordeal.

"Have the mages wear armor over their robes, Karla," Tamsyn said now. "You'll get the benefit of both."

"You aren't coming with us, Arch-Mage?" Balgruuf exclaimed, incredulous. He had not, until now, fully realized the extent of her injuries.

"No," Tamsyn replied. "Not at the moment. But I hope to be with you when you head to the Imperial City."

"When we head there," Balgruuf contemplated. "You think it will be necessary?"

"I know it will, my Jarl," the Arch-Mage replied. "Karla," she addressed the Nord mage, "you're in charge here. Do whatever it takes to beat the Dominion back, and take care of yourself."

For her part, Karla looked like she wanted to hug the Arch-Mage, but hesitated, unsure if it might hurt the Breton woman. Instead, she nodded and began calling out to her fellow mages, to give them their marching orders.

"I'll let you two say goodbye for now," Balgruuf murmured to Marcus as he ushered everyone out of the tent. Azura and Arcadia carefully helped Tamsyn to a nearby chair and left her alone with her husband.

"Tamsyn," he began, but she held up a linen-wrapped hand.

"We don't have a lot of time, darling," she said. "I shouldn't have snapped at you the way I did. I was in a low spot and pitying myself. That may have been who I was in another time and place, but it isn't who I am now. You were right, and I was being stupid. I'm sorry. Julia helped me realize that."

"Julia did?" he blinked.

"Yes," Tamsyn smiled. "Whatever possessed her to come all this way, we'll never know for certain, but Daddy did say she has her own special gifts. Kicking her mom's mental butt must be one of them." She chuckled indulgently.

Marcus ran a hand through his hair, and Tamsyn noticed the difference immediately. "Are you competing with me to see who goes completely gray first?" she teased. His once-black hair was now salt-and-pepper, with more salt than pepper, and streaks of silver ran through his beard and at the temples.

The Dragonborn fidgeted. "I, uh…tried something I haven't done before," he admitted, and told her about raising the dragons that had fallen at Riften and Sky Haven Temple.

"Be careful about tapping into those powers, dearest," she warned him. "You've seen what it did to me," referring to her own locks of white, now shorn from her head.

"What, exactly, did it do?" he asked quietly. He'd known about the draw on her power, but not what it portended.

Tamsyn hesitated before telling him the truth. "I had to give up my divinity," she whispered, for his ears only. "I tapped into it before, but in order to come back to you and the children, and this fight we're up against, I had to give it all up. I'm completely mortal now, and not as powerful as I once was."

Marcus digested this. "What are you not telling me?" he insisted.

She refused to look at him now. "I might not live as long as you," she finally sighed. "You have dragon blood in you. Dragons live a long time. There will come a point where you'll have to go on without me."

There was a calm acceptance in the statement, and Marcus knew in his heart she was probably right. He remembered Barbas, Clavicus Vile's daedric dog, saying something similar a few years ago.

"We'll deal with that when it happens," he told her now, pushing it from his mind. "Right now, all I want to do is hug and kiss you."

Tamsyn gave a weak chuckle. He could see she was tiring. "I don't think I could bear a hug right now," she admitted, "but I'd love a kiss from you."

He did so, as gently and tenderly as he could.

"Get better," he ordered her as Azura and Arcadia came in to fetch her back to Jorrvaskr. And he grinned as he broke into a line from a song. "I need my gal beside me."

Tamsyn's eyes twinkled. "They Call the Wind Maria," she replied with a wink. "From 'Paint Your Wagon'." She sobered. "Be careful, my love," she warned. "The Dominion has a stranglehold on Siddgeir. He'll be up against a wall, with no place to turn, so he'll be dangerous."

"That fop?" Marcus snorted.

"Don't underestimate him," his wife insisted. "Desperate people do desperate things."

"Come on, Tamsyn," Azura prompted. "We need to get you back. We aren't done with you yet."

"At least we've turned the corner," Arcadia sighed in relief. "That little girl of yours is something else! I don't know what she did, but it put the fighting spirit back in you!"

Tamsyn said nothing, but allowed herself to be led out of the tent. Marcus followed and stole another quick kiss before watching the Bosmer mage and the Imperial alchemist carrying the Arch-Mage back to a waiting litter, held by two Alliance soldiers.

Marcus spoke a few words to Balgruuf and headed down the road to the western watchtower. When he reached the place where he first discovered he was Dragonborn, he took a deep breath and bellowed to the skies, "Zeymah do dii sos, bo wah zey!" Brothers of my blood, come to me!

Several minutes passed as the dragons, circling lazily in the vicinity, heard his call and flew to him, settling in a semi-circle around him, or perching on the ruined walls of the tower.

He spoke to them in the common tongue, knowing many of them understood more of that language than they cared to speak, and unsure if certain concepts would translate to the draconic speech.

"We are soon to make our way to the southern part of Skyrim," he told them. "Another battle against the elves who would slay you all awaits us there. Some of you had riders with whom you bonded. Some of you have never known the weight of a joor on your shoulders. You all know the power of my thu'um, which has brought some of you back from the edge of the Void."

The dragons rumbled agreement among themselves.

"As your thuri," he continued, "it is my desire that you allow some of my soldiers to be carried by you into that battle. I will not force you to do this, but I do ask it."

There was rumbling again, but the undercurrent this time was not as accepting.

"Carry a joor?" one of the unnamed dragons snorted. "Are we then to become as beasts of burden?"

"They have the ships that fly," another pointed out. "Can they not use that? Why must we risk our lives again for the humans who turned on us?"

Part of Marcus – the part that was dragon – grew angry. He was their lord, their thuri! He had proved the rightness of his thu'um against them time and again. Did they dare to challenge him and his authority?

His human part struggled to remain calm. He knew how proud the dragons could be. But he didn't have time to best each and every one of them in single combat. No dov would dare to gang up on him. There was no honor in that.

"Enough!" It was Lazarus who spoke, his roar drowning out the rising dissonance of the others. "The Dovahkiin has brought you back from the dead. Only Alduin ever did this before, and only rarely, when it suited him. The Dovahkiin has rewarded your service to him by restoring your life so that you may again fly the skies of Keizaal. You are all ungrateful hatchlings, to have to be reminded of this. Are you dovah, or are you merely lizards, complaining about a momentary inconvenience over an eternal lifespan? Our Father, Bormah, would be ashamed to hear you speak to his chosen one in this manner."

There was silence. Not a single dragon dared to look Lazarus – or Marcus – in the eye. Even Marcus felt the sting of censure in the ancient dragon's words. It was a long while before any of them spoke, and Marcus waited as patiently as he could, as the Alliance army got underway, heading towards Falkreath. He knew he would be able to catch up to them easily.

Finally, a youngish white dragon blew out a frosty breath. "I owe you my life, thuri," he said at last. "While I am not happy about this plan of yours, I will agree to carry a joor into this battle of yours."

"Have you a name?" Marcus asked.

"Niid, Dovahkiin," the snowback replied. "I had only recently come to the Temple in the west before being cut down by the tahrodiis vax who lived there."

Marcus knew the 'treacherous traitors' had to be Delphine and the ones who followed her.

"The vax responsible has been incarcerated, imprisoned," he told the dragon. "I will deal with her later, when I have time to do so. This war is more urgent, however. I name you Felniiriisk, Winterfang, and I welcome your assistance."

A pleased expression crossed Winterfang's face as he shuffled closer to his thuri.

Seeing this, one by one, the other dragons roared their allegiance and vowed to help their lord by carrying his soldiers to battle.

"We'd better get moving then," Marcus said after each dragon had expressed his loyalty and willingness to help, and Marcus gave each of them names to the best of his ability.

"What about those joore there?" Lazarus asked, pointing his snout to the west. "Are they part of your army?"

Shading his eyes from the setting sun, Marcus saw a group of about a dozen figures in Blades armor coming down the road towards them. In the lead was Iona.

"Thane Marcus!" she called, gladly. "We thought we'd be too late!"

"Iona!" Marcus grinned. "Your timing couldn't be better. Who are all of these?" He gestured to the group behind her.

"These are what's left of Sky Haven Temple," she replied, a frown creasing her forehead. "When Delphine went on her rampage, they objected, and she attacked them."

"It was all so sudden," one woman added, scowling. "She said we had to kill the dragons, and that you had ordered it, Dragonborn."

"We knew that was a lie," a familiar voice joined in, and Marcus could have wept to find Esbern, looking much better than the last time he'd seen the old man. "My conversations with you were always about bringing the dragons to our side," he continued. "When I challenged Delphine, well…" He looked decidedly unhappy. "It didn't end well," he finished. "I'm sorry we couldn't save the dragons. But it seems you've been able to recruit more."

"Actually," Marcus demurred, "these are the same dragons."

Iona's eyes widened, but she said nothing except, "We are at your command, my Thane. What would you have us do?"

"Mount up," Marcus said sharply. "Esbern, you're with me. I'll take you into Whiterun and make sure someone looks after you."

"Actually, Dragonborn," Esbern smiled. "I'd like to come with you. I can still cast my magic, and I'd like the chance to pay back the Thalmor for what they've taken from me."

Marcus eyed the old man dubiously, but the aged archivist was firm in his resolve. Nodding, he called for Odahviing as the rest of the Blades paid their respects to the dragons, and the dovah decided which rider they would deign to carry. When the great red firedrake arrived, he lowered his neck to allow Esbern – with Marcus' help – to clamber on. Mounting in front of the old Nord, Marcus gave the signal and they were all soon airborne.

As he led them southward, he communicated with Iona through the hand signals the dragon riders had developed. Watch for Thalmor below. Take them out ahead of the army.

Nodding her understanding, Iona passed the signal along to the rest of the riders as Marcus contacted Balgruuf through his ear bud.

"Balgruuf," he called, "we're in the air and headed for Falkreath. We'll try to clear the way for you, but keep your eyes open."

"Aye, Dragonborn," came Balgruuf's reply. "May the gods go with you!"

Esbern clutched his waist tightly, and Marcus couldn't turn back to see how the poor man was faring, but an exhilarated, "By the Nine! I never thought I'd see Skyrim from this viewpoint!" more than made up for his concern.

The flight of dragons soon left the tundra of Whiterun behind and crossed over the ridge of mountains that divided it from Falkreath Hold. In the distance, glimmering like a silver ribbon, Lake Ilinalta stretched from east to west. But before that, the ancient Nord ruin known as Bleak Falls Barrow perched atop the highest peak in the chain. From this height, Marcus could see the long string of Alliance soldiers wending their way southward towards what was left of Riverwood, and he scowled. There would be a reckoning for this wanton destruction. Some of his oldest friends and earliest memories of Skyrim had lived and taken place in Riverwood.

"Thane Marcus!" Iona called through the ear bud. She was pointing toward the Barrow where hundreds of Dominion troops poured out of the main front doors. They flowed down the mountainside like a sinister golden wave to intercept the unsuspecting Alliance troops before they could enter Falkreath Hold.

He motioned to Iona, Attack! before thundering in dovahzul, "Dovah, iidah gein ko yuvon!" Attack the ones in gold!

A chorus of approving roars answered, and the dragons, both with and without riders, swooped down towards the clueless Dominion army.

"Hang on, Esbern!" Marcus called back, and the archivist dutifully tightened his grip around the Dragonborn's waist. "Odahviing, let 'em have it!"

Laughing in glee, the firedrake – mindful of the aged passenger on his back – took a graceful spiral downward, flaming the soldiers below. The first ranks emerging from the ruin were decimated, and the rest scrambled to find any cover they could. Volleys of arrows shot from conjured bows whizzed past, but did little damage to the hardened scales of the dragons. Their riders, if they had one, clung as close as burrs to their necks and let the dragons have their fun. It was a rout.

The next wave of Thalmor soldiers poured out of the ruins under the cover of shielding spells, but the Blades riders drew their own bows and rained death from above on the pinned-down troops.

As Odahviing swooped in for another strafing run, Esbern managed to cast a Storm Atronach, which succeeded in taking down a knot of a four or five Justiciars before being cut down.

Seeing this, a few of the other Blades urged their dragons in closer, casting their own Atronachs to wreak havoc on the Aldmeri legions.

Marcus noticed with dismay, however, that more Dominion troops continued to pour out of the ruins.

"They must have a portal in there," he yelled to Iona. "Concentrate your firepower on the roof of the Temple. It's ancient, and should collapse under the assault."

She nodded and signed to several nearby riders. The dragons wheeled around and began Shouting at the roof of the Temple. Marcus lent his own Voice to the efforts as the riders defended against Dominion retaliation. It was soon apparent that the Temple that had stood for thousands of years against the elements could not withstand a sustained attack from dragon Shouts. The roof collapsed with a loud rumble and a cloud of dust, sealing the entrance, and – Marcus hoped – preventing any further additions to the Dominion ranks.

The tactic worked, as the number of Aldmeri soldiers dwindled to the point of being able to hide among the rocks and trees where the dragons could not reach them from their aerial vantage point. Marcus notified Balgruuf of the turn of events before informing him the dragon riders were heading directly to Falkreath Hold.

"Be careful, my friend," the Jarl of Whiterun warned. "We don't know what we're up against there."

"I will be," Marcus promised. "Just get there as fast as you can. We'll need every warm body we can get."

"Aye," the Jarl agreed. "There's quite a few here who had family and friends in Helgen and Riverwood, and they're looking for some payback."

Marcus privately agreed with his friend, but worried what might lie ahead. How many portals did the enemy have? Would they have to fight the entire Dominion army piece by piece, every step of the way? He hoped not, but the uncertainty lingered, and he resolved more strongly than ever to take the fight directly to the Summerset Isles, if need be. Not for the first time, or the last, he wished Tamsyn were there with him.

The sun was setting low on the western horizon, and they were losing the daylight. Unable to distinguish the difference between friend or foe, Marcus called his riders back to land near Pinewatch and contacted Balgruuf once more.

"We're perhaps an hour away," Balgruuf told him. "I agree we shouldn't go in there in the dark. We don't know what we're up against."

"I plan on finding out," Marcus promised. But it was a restless hour for him as he waited for the rest of his army to arrive. He used his time to set up a headquarters of sorts inside the building.

"Any trouble?" he asked Balgruuf, Madanach, and Galmar when they arrived.

"A little," Galmar admitted. "There were some Thalmor attempting to reclaim Helgen. An entire battalion, but we took care of them."

"Where did they come from?" Marcus asked, surprised. "I thought you cleaned that place out?"

"Er…well…" Galmar stammered. "We may have missed a few hiding out at South Skybound Watch," he confessed. "But we made sure none of them escaped this time."

"What's your plan, Dragonborn?" Madanach inquired.

"We need to know what their numbers are," Marcus replied. "I also need to know if there are any Thalmor left in Shriekwind Bastion and Cracked Tusk Keep, or if they've recalled them all to the town. What kind of fortifications have they made to Falkreath proper, and where are the citizens? Did they imprison them, recruit them, or…" He left it hanging and the men with him nodded in understanding.

"What about the rest of our army?" Balgruuf wanted to know. "Do we call them up?"

"We should," Marcus mused. "We'll need them when we cross over into Cyrodiil, and we don't have the portal at Dragonsreach to funnel them through anymore."

"I gave that back to that Bosmer mage who was with your wife," Balgruuf informed him. "She said she knew exactly what the Arch-Mage had done to it, and she could get it working again."

Marcus' eyes lit up. "Great!" he exclaimed. "Her name is Azura Frostfeather, and she has an ear bud. Get in touch with her, and tell her to let you know the moment that portal is operational again."

"I'll do that now, Dragonborn," Balgruuf nodded, and turned away to make the call.

"I'll see to the sentries and make sure everyone else beds down," Galmar offered.

"Good idea," Marcus agreed. "Send Nelkir to me if you find him." The ursine general gave a short salute and left the small cottage.

"I'll get some of my best scouts together, Dragonborn," Madanach promised. "How were you planning to get the information you need?"

"The dragons will carry anyone who's willing to fly," Marcus answered. "They've already sworn their allegiance to me. All I need are enough people who can hide on a dragon's back and cast Detect Life to count the warm bodies."

"That'll make it easier than sneaking around in the dark," the Reach King grinned. "We can't exactly Shadow Walk here."

Unsure what he meant by that remark, Marcus let it pass.

"Both Cracked Tusk Keep and Shriekwind Bastion have underground floors and-or multiple levels," he informed the older Reachman. "Whomever you pick will have to be an accomplished mage to penetrate deeply enough with their spells to give us an accurate account."

"That's why I'm including myself in this venture of yours, Dragonborn," Madanach chuckled. "You think I haven't wanted to fly on a dragon before now?"

"It will be risky," Marcus warned him. "And you're too valuable to lose."

"Horse feathers!" Madanach spat. "Kaie will take over for me if anything happens. Just…uh…don't tell her I'm going until after I'm gone, okay?" He winked.

Knowing it would be pointless to argue, Marcus sighed and agreed.

The door opened, and Jarl Balgruuf's younger son entered.

"You wanted to see me, Dragonborn?" he inquired respectfully.

"Yes," Marcus replied. "Do you think you and a couple of your team can infiltrate Falkreath and assess their strengths? Don't be afraid to tell me it's too risky."

The red-haired Nord considered the matter. "It will be difficult," he admitted, "but not impossible. What are you hoping to discover?"

"Where the citizens are," Marcus said. "I need to know if they're still alive. I don't want to put them at further risk."

"I'll find them," Nelkir assured him. "Brynjolf's taught me a few things about moving around unseen. I'll never be as good as him, but I think I can safely say they won't know I was there."

Marcus nodded. "Good. Gods be with you, and come back as quickly as you can."

Nelkir gave a short nod and left the cottage. Marcus blew out a breath and turned his attention to his other reconnaissance teams.

In the end, it was decided that two teams of two riders would be needed to accurately assess the strength of their enemy. Marcus led one team on Odahviing; Lars Battle-Born on Summerwind accompanied him, with Karla nervously clinging to his waist behind him.

Iona took Madanach with her on Lazarus, and Winterfang agreed to carry a Breton Blade named Bastian who was skilled in magic as well as with steel.

"Be careful!" Marcus called as they took to the air. "Get the information, then come right back. Don't call out to each other unless it's absolutely necessary. Do not engage the enemy, understand?"

"Understood, Dragonborn!" Iona called, as they wheeled to the south to avoid flying directly over the city to the west. For Marcus and his team, it was a short flight directly west to Shriekwind Bastion.

What they found there troubled him greatly. He said nothing to Lars and Karla, but both he and the Nord mage employed their Detect Life spell repeatedly as the two dragons circled both sides of the sprawling, mountain-top ruin. The Dominion soldiers sheltering here numbered nearly seven hundred. His own army put barely five hundred soldiers and mages on the ground. The dragons would help even the odds, but he had the sinking feeling they were already outnumbered.

Iona and her team had not returned when Odahviing set Marcus down back at Pinewatch. Rising into the air again, the great red firedrake returned to the area on the other side of the hill behind the Alliance encampment. It was a large, open space, able to accommodate many of the dragons, with the only feature being an abandoned altar just south of the lake near the road that hugged the shore.

Having little to do besides wait, Balgruuf insisted Marcus catch a few hours of sleep, promising to wake him once the other teams returned. He agreed, realizing just how tired he was. As he laid down on one of the cots in the basement, he tried to clear his mind of the upcoming battle. A whistling sound coming from one side of the room was so insistent, however, he pulled himself out of the cot to investigate. A draught of air was coming into the room from behind a wooden set of shelving, and further exploration revealed a hidden button on the wall next to the fixture. Pressing it, he was not surprised to see the shelf swing open, nor to find a tunnel leading down into the hill.

"Balgruuf!" he called. "Get down here!"

"What is it, Dragonborn?" the Jarl queried, coming down the stairs. "I thought you were going to—Shor's bones!" he exclaimed. "What do you think is down there?"

"I have no idea," Marcus murmured. "And keep your voice down! If there's someone – or several someones – down here, we don't want to alert them."

"Should we call for backup?" Balgruuf asked, more quietly.

"Let's see what we're up against first," Marcus suggested. "It might lead nowhere. There might not be anything down here."

"You don't believe that any more than I do," Balgruuf snorted.

Marcus grinned. "No, I don't," he agreed. "Shall we?"

The two men entered, crouching with swords drawn. Marcus kept a frost spell in his off hand. Time spent in Solstheim a few years ago had taught him the value of being an accomplished mage, and Tamsyn had been delighted to work with him since then, honing his talents. His last visit with Marcurio, before the war broke out, even had that renown spellsword commenting with approval over his improvement.

Balgruuf carried a sword Marcus recognized from his earlier days in Whiterun, when he had taken any job at all to get money to live on. Adrienne Avenicci had forged a hand-and-a-half longsword for the Jarl, and had entrusted Marcus to take it up to Dragonsreach for her. Balgruuf had been pleased at the unexpected gift.

The tunnel opened into a large cavern with typical Nordic stone supports encircled by scaffolding. Marcus used his Aura Whisper and halted when several figures lit up. Balgruuf bumped into him.

"What is it?" the Jarl hissed.

"We've got company down here," Marcus warned softly. "I can see three nearby, across the cavern. There are more, further in, but I don't think my thu'um can see far enough to reveal everything."

"Do you still want to do this alone, just the two of us?" Balgruuf asked.

"I think we can take them, if we go at it a few at a time," Marcus said confidently.

"I'm right behind you," Balgruuf nodded. "Lead the way."

The three nearby figures turned out to be Aldmeri soldiers. Marcus wondered why there were none above, in the cottage, or in the surrounding area. Maybe that group Galmar found in Helgen had some of these guys, too.

It wouldn't explain why they all didn't go, and why so many remained behind, however.

They crept as close as they could, as quietly as they could, but Balgruuf didn't sneak well, and Marcus was only marginally better.

"Over here!" one of the soldiers called, summoning a blade of pure magicka in his hand. The two other guards came running, one of them drawing a bow out of thin air.

"For Skyrim!" Balgruuf yelled as he charged in, and Marcus could have face-palmed himself in frustration.

Let's just alert everyone here that there are intruders, he simmered privately. He could tell he'd have to have a talk with Balgruuf about the virtues of silence soon.

The result of the Jarl's bellow, however, had a surprising effect on the Altmer. They dropped to their knees and covered their heads, cowering. Their weapons of magicka fizzled out, and Balgruuf lopped the head off one and was moving towards the other two before Marcus could react.

It was short ugly work, and Balgruuf was grinning when they finished.

"That was barely a warm-up," he crowed.

"You could have been a bit less vocal about it," Marcus said sourly.

"There's nothing like a good Nord war-cry," Balgruuf sniffed proudly. "It got results, didn't it?"

"Sure, if you want to let the entire Dominion outpost know we're here," Marcus growled. "We're trying to do this quietly, remember? I don't want to get double-teamed."

"Bring them," Balgruuf snorted. "If I die fighting Thalmor, then I'll wait for you in Sovngarde."

In spite of himself and his pique, Marcus smiled. "Let's not make that too soon, okay?" he suggested. "I rather like having you around, my friend."

They continued on, pressing further into the complex, finding and fighting more soldiers as they went. Though they were only two, both the Jarl and the Dragonborn were experienced warriors. In spite of the Altmer using magic against them, they were separated throughout the caverns in smaller groups of no more than a half-dozen. In a short while, Marcus and Balgruuf came to the last large cavern, where the more experienced Dominion soldiers milled, obviously guarding something in the remaining chambers beyond them.

Balgruuf used his battle cry again, but these Altmer were made of sterner stuff and did not yield. Marcus used his Marked for Death to soften them up and sent a Flame Atronach against the few too far away to reach with his sword. Balgruuf retreated to the doorway and drew a bow he'd picked up along the way, targeting the gold-clad soldiers he could see as Marcus laid into the three that had surrounded him.

As soon as he felt the rawness in his throat ease, the Dragonborn Shouted, "TIID KLO UL!"

To Balgruuf, it simply appeared as though the Dragonborn had blurred out of sight, but the effects were dramatic. Two soldiers dropped their weapons – not because they were forced, but because their hands had been sliced from their bodies. A third sprouted three feet of Akaviri steel between his ribs from behind, and two others went down with gaping wounds in their sides and legs before Marcus blurred back into view. In the meantime, Balgruuf took down the two who had lost their hands, and together the Jarl and the Dragonborn finished off the last of the ones they could see while the Atronach continued to pummel the few behind a partition wall.

This room appeared to be some sort of underground tavern, with a tunnel leading away from them, and behind the bar was a Justiciar trading icy spear for firebolt with the Atronach. Balgruuf carefully took aim and planted an elven arrow between his eyes just as the Atronach succumbed to the Justiciar's frosty assault.

Silence fell in the cavern.

"That was some fight!" Balgruuf approved. "I've never really seen you in action before, my friend. To be fair, I didn't see you this time, either!" He chuckled as Marcus grinned.

"Shall we see what they were guarding?" the Dragonborn invited, gesturing to the tunnel.

"Aye," Balgruuf agreed. "I wonder if they have another portal set up down here?"

"If they do, we'll disable it," Marcus replied, rummaging through the Justiciar's robes, and smiling when he came up with a keyring. There was only one key on it. "Bingo!" he exclaimed.

"What does that mean?" Balgruuf queried.

"It means I found what I was looking for," Marcus answered, leading the way down the tunnel to an iron door that looked to be set in worked stone, similar to any Nordic ruin he'd ever been in.

It was the work of a moment to get the door open, and at first, he could see nothing inside, but he heard voices. Weak, moaning, weeping, with exclamations of fear and surprise as the two men entered. Firing off a Candlelight spell, Marcus looked around at the pitifully small number of people huddled against the walls, or leaning against an altar table in the center of the chamber. It was a burial chamber, clearly, but it appeared the Thalmor were using it as a prison.

"Dragonborn," a vaguely familiar voice whispered. "Is that you?"

Following the direction of the voice, Marcus found Runil, the aged Altmer priest of Arkay lying on the floor, tended by Zaria, the Redguard alchemist.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Marcus," Zaria sighed. "Am I glad to see you!"

"Who are all these people, Marcus?" Balgruuf wondered.

"Some of the people of Falkreath," the Dragonborn replied, pouring healing energy into Runil. Some color came back into the old Altmer's face. "What happened, Runil?"

"The Dominion happened, Dragonborn," the priest replied, still weak. He struggled to sit up, and Zaria and Marcus helped him to a more comfortable position. "Jarl Siddgeir allowed them into our Hold and our city, and then they took over."

"What happened to Siddgeir?" Balgruuf demanded.

"I know not," Runil admitted. "Those of us who spoke out against the Dominion were summarily rounded up and herded here. Anyone who put up a fight was killed."

"Siddgeir is being held prisoner," a new voice said. Marcus looked around, casting a Magelight on the ceiling to get a better look. An Altmer woman in tattered finery was slumped against the altar table.

"That's Nenya," Zaria murmured. "Jarl Siddgeir's Steward. She put up a fearsome fight until they overwhelmed her. I'm surprised they threw her in here with us. Probably expected us to turn on her because she's an Altmer."

Marcus crossed the chamber and crouched down next to Nenya. Her arm hung at an awkward angle and her face was battered and bruised, but she pulled herself up straighter at the Dragonborn's approach, though she winced at the pain.

"Who else are they holding captive, Nenya?" he asked kindly.

"Besides Siddgeir, they have his uncle Thaddgeir, and the Imperial Legate, Skulnar. Siddgeir's Uncle Dengeir was murdered, along with several others who resisted. I can't believe Siddgeir was so stupid as to let them in!" She shook her head bitterly. "He never told Helvard or I what he planned."

"Where are the women and children?" Balgruuf demanded. "There should be more people here. Falkreath was a thriving town. All I see here are the old and the sick, aside from Nenya and the herbalist, that is."

"They took them away," Runil moaned. "I know my people; the women will be violated and tortured. The children will be sold into slavery. The men were probably murdered outright."

A cold rage settled into Marcus' stomach.

"We're going to get you all out of here," Balgruuf promised. "You'll be safe, now. We've cleared the way."

With a few more healing spells and a lot of encouragement, Marcus and Balgruuf got the villagers to their feet. Besides Zaria, Runil and Nenya, there was an old Nord woman named Tekla, who had been Dengeir's housekeeper. The poor woman was in shock, mumbling to herself, unable to comprehend the horrors that had recently happened. There was another Redguard woman, as well. She was still unconscious from a grievous wound to her head. Zaria said she had recently come into Siddgeir's service, and that her name was Rayya, but she knew little about her countrywoman. She had managed to bind the head wound, but was unable to rouse Rayya, so Balgruuf picked her up in his arms and carried her. For the rest, those who could still walk helped to support those who struggled. Marcus found the key he had lifted off the Justiciar also opened a door at the far end of the chamber, and this led back into the first cavern of scaffolding he and Balgruuf had cleared an hour before.

Once back at their encampment, Marcus turned the villagers over to Galmar to see to their needs. Food, clothing and healing was passed around, and the people of Falkreath were settled for the night.

"In the morning, I'll send them back to Whiterun under a security detail," Galmar promised.

"Have the others returned yet?" Marcus asked.

"Aye, Dragonborn," the general replied. "Iona was looking for you, but nobody knew where you were."

"And what of my son, Nelkir?" Balgruuf asked.

"Here, Father," the young Nord replied. Balgruuf blew out a sigh of relief he hadn't known he was holding.

"Let's get everyone settled, then meet in the cottage," Marcus suggested.

An hour before dawn, they were huddled around the small table in the main room.

"We saw at least five hundred or so life auras at Cracked Tusk," Madanach informed them. Iona nodded her agreement.

"There were at least six or seven hundred at Shriekwind," Marcus confirmed. "How many were in the city itself?" he asked Nelkir.

"I estimate about another four or five hundred," Nelkir replied. "They've fortified some of the walls, and built extensions in areas where there wasn't any protection before. That may hinder our soldiers, but it won't bother the dragons."

"We're still outnumbered about three to one," Marcus frowned. "I don't like those odds."

"We have the Dwemer machines," Balgruuf pointed out. "They're worth at least two or three soldiers each."

"And there's the dragons," Madanach offered. "I have a new appreciation for them, now that I've flown with one."

"It will have to be enough," Marcus nodded. "Since it seems clear the citizens have been removed from the town, we can start the attack as soon as it's light enough to see. This is going to be a tough fight, ladies and gentlemen. We can't let even one Dominion soldier or Justiciar escape."

"Then you'll need to take out the Jarl's Longhouse first," Nelkir offered. "I saw a lot more Thalmor coming out of that building than were going in."

"They have a portal there," Marcus surmised. "What else do we know?"

"The two gates into town have been barricaded," Nelkir informed them. "The weak spots in their defenses are behind the cemetery and along the mill pond."

"Shriekwind Bastion watches over that side of town," Balgruuf mused. "They're sure to send in troops once they realize the city is under attack."

"The dragons will be ready for them," Marcus promised.

"What about Cracked Tusk Keep?" Galmar interjected.

"You don't need to worry about that place," a new voice interrupted. Everyone looked up to see the Redguard woman, Rayya, standing in the doorway. She looked haggard, but her stance was firm, though her head still had a bandage wrapped around it.

"What do you know of that place?" Balgruuf demanded.

"It's where they took the women and children," Rayya explained. "I tried to stop them and got this," she indicated her head wound, "for my trouble."

"Then all those life auras we saw…" Madanach began.

"Were still probably a lot of Thalmor soldiers," Rayya shrugged, "but at least half of them are the villagers of Falkreath."

"Thank you for coming to tell us, Rayya," Marcus smiled. "But shouldn't you be resting? Galmar's sending you all back to Whiterun soon."

"I want to fight with you," the Redguard woman said. "I owe them for what they did to me, and to the people under my protection. My scimitars," she patted the ones on each hip, "are yours if you'll have me."

"It won't be easy," Marcus warned. "You might still die in this fight."

"If I do," Rayya said grimly, "at least I know I'll take a few of them with me."

"I like this woman!" Madanach grinned. Iona elbowed him good-naturedly.

"You like every woman who can fight," she teased. Madanach chuckled.

"Nothing wrong with that!"

Marcus nodded with grim resolve. "Go and get ready, everyone," he advised. "The sun will be up soon. This is the last day on Nirn for a lot of Altmer. They have an appointment with Aetherius, and it won't do to keep the gods waiting."

---

[Author's Note: Next up, the Battle of Falkreath. There's a change in alliances in Elsweyr and Valenwood. The situation in Cyrodiil becomes more desperate. The Dominion has a few setbacks of its own. Stay tuned!]