A/N: Well, nine reviews last chapter wasn't bad, I guess. I've had better, I'd had worse, though special thanks must go to Pale White Shadow and his bionic eyes for managing to read this whole thing so quickly.
Random reader: Hmm, fragging could be an intriguing option, though obviously it'd have to be called something else as the frag grenade doesn't exist in Oblivion. As for Martin's daedric experiences... I haven't decided on that one yet. There's a lot I still haven't decided on, in fact...
Underpaid Critic: Yes, this incident WILL be used in future. While not willing to give too many spoilers, it might even make an appearance in another planned fic of mine, we'll just have to see what happens.
Cola1806: Better late than never. In my personal opinion, Maglir is more annyoing than the Adoring Fan...
And so ends this author's note. Don't forget to review.
Chapter Twenty-seven: The Blood of Heroes
The Imperial City had not changed much since Gorgoth had last been there. Clouds overhead blocked out the sun and the autumn winds chilled the air, but life largely went on, the same as normal. The Market District was crammed full of bustling shoppers as was usual for that time of day just past noon, when lunch had finished and normal business had resumed. However, from his viewpoint near a guard post next to the gates leading to the Arena, Gorgoth could sense a slight undercurrent of fear. There was not much – no direct danger threatened this city – but fear of Oblivion was spreading through the Empire. Word had spread of Kvatch, and of Daedric armies threatening Morrowind and Hammerfell in particular. The Oblivion Gates outside Chorrol and Bravil had proved that it could happen anywhere. Gorgoth could see the words on the lips of some citizens: It surely couldn't happen here, could it? It couldn't happen to us. It can't. What one man said, ten men thought. They were scared.
Gorgoth was not here to learn about the rising unease in the Imperial City. He cared nothing for its inhabitants, and thought them weak and prone to unnecessary fear. Instead, he was here to reclaim what was his. After leaving Cloud Ruler Temple yesterday morning – not wanting to provoke Jauffre's rage any further than he already had by staying the night - he had arrived in the Imperial City shortly after sunrise, and had spent the last half-hour in casual conversation with the gate guards. It turned out that General Adamus Phillida, Commander of the Imperial Legion, liked to patrol the City sometimes to remind himself of what he was defending. With no campaigns being fought, he had been stationed in the Imperial City for some time, governing his legions from afar, delegating responsibilities to his legates, and making occasional appearances on the Council of Elders to argue for increased military spending.
Apparently, he also took the time to claim prizes from Orcs he'd never even met, let alone fought.
Guardsman Primo Varius, who had been on duty for the last two hours, had welcomed the opportunity to pass the time by talking with the Hero of Kvatch, even if those questions did seem to edge towards probing when discussing the subject of General Phillida. Still, it was a welcome break from the normal monotony of guard duty. "He should be coming through here shortly," Varius told the Orc, who was leaning casually on the wall next to him, arms folded, watching the main street with those cold amber eyes. "It's not like the General to be delayed. He's always punctual."
Gorgoth grunted. Punctuality was vital in any military. After forty years service as a general, Phillida would naturally know that. "You would say he was a man of honour?" he asked, despite already knowing the answer. Varius clearly regarded his commander with reverence.
The Imperial snorted. "He's done more for us legionnaires than any of his predecessors in recent memory," he explained. "When on campaign, he always shared the discomforts of the men – well, most of them – rather than keep his hands clean and stay in his massive tent, like he's entitled to. And, yes, he's always treated everyone I can remember with honour. Hard but fair."
Tapping his canine, Gorgoth leant his head back until it was leaning on the wall. From what the guardsman was saying, Phillida didn't seem like the type to have taken Blood King without ever having even met it's previous wielder. There was probably more than met the eye in this case. Whatever the truth, Gorgoth had little doubt that Phillida knew nothing of the true power of the weapon that he'd stolen. While the weapon had changed hands many times over the centuries, there had never been more than one wielder at the same time, and Gorgoth could still feel his connection to the mighty weapon pricking at him, urging him to reclaim what was his.
His thoughts were interrupted by Varius. "I made a transfer request two days ago," observed the Guardsman. "I'm fed up with standing here until falling on my sword seems like a welcome release from the boredom. I'm good with a blade, and I can hold my place in a shield wall. I'm transferring to the Fourth Legion. If all goes well, I'll be patrolling Elsweyr within a year, maybe putting down a few local rebellions. Better than standing around looking shiny." The Imperial spat into the dust.
"Have you ever been on a military campaign?" asked Gorgoth, turning and casting an analytical glance over the Guardsman. He was of average height and stocky build, with a bluff face and observant brown eyes. Having clearly seen no more than twenty-five winters, he was young yet, but the hard set to his features indicated that he'd seen action at least once. He was bloodied, Gorgoth was sure of that.
Varius shook his head. "I've only ever been on guard duties since joining the Legion four years back," he explained. "But sitting in the barracks, listening to old veterans who have been on campaign... yes, there's years of rain, mud, sweat, dirty work, boredom... but to stand in a shield wall with the rest of my century, to stare into the face of some rebel as he tries to kill me, to bring glory to the Empire... it's worth it." A fanatical gleam entered the Imperial's eyes, and he thumped his cuirass, the steel ringing with almost as much conviction as his voice.
Gorgoth nodded slowly. "A worthy cause," he rumbled. Movement caught his eye, and immediately he straightened, unfolding his arms. A heavyset Imperial in the polished, decorated, heavy armour of a serving general was approaching the gate, flanked by two bodyguards. A thick purple plume on the crest of the helmet tucked under the general's arm symbolised the wearer's rank of Commander of the Legions. The man himself was old and weathered, with thick lines deep-set in his leathery, blunt face, and the complete absence of any hair meant that the lining of the helmet was likely to be thickly padded. However, his blue eyes were as sharp as any eagle's, and the deadly grace of his movements indicated that he could still handle a blade better than most of the men in his Legions.
One thing drew Gorgoth's eyes more than any other feature as Phillida approached the guard station, and it was the mace strapped on his back, slanted across the ornate, silver-worked claymore. Blood King, in contrast to the other weapon, was relatively simple in appearance, brutal and purposeful in design. Steel forged from Wrothgarian iron was normally far darker than normal steel, being dark grey in appearance, but Blood King was black as the void, for reasons known only to the Orc who had forged and enchanted it. A five-foot haft, with ridges for better grip near the bottom, was topped by a massive head, boasting eight flanges easily capable of penetrating the thickest armour when correctly applied. Even when not in the hands of the wielder, the weapon had an air of distinct menace about it, some indication of the thousands of lives it had taken over the centuries.
Phillida briskly ascended the steps to the gate, returning the salutes of the two Guardsmen on duty. Satisfied that all was well, he made to enter the Arena District, but paused when Gorgoth moved past Varius to approach him. The general's bodyguards let their hands rest casually on the hilts of their broadswords, both keeping half an eye on Gorgoth as they continued to watch for danger. Giving Phillida no chance to speak, Gorgoth planted himself firmly in front of the general.
"General Phillida," began Gorgoth, inclining his head respectfully. "I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz, known by some as the Hero of Kvatch. Do you have a few moments to spare?"
Phillida's eyes were clearly used to taking the measure of a man within moments as his gaze took in Gorgoth's heavy built, his battered plate armour, and the Akaviri dai-katana on his back. Folding his arms, he thought for a few seconds. "For the man who saved Kvatch, I can spare a few moments," he confirmed, voice gruff and slightly hoarse from bellowing commands for over forty years.
Seeing that Phillida was waiting for him to speak, Gorgoth grunted. "I'd prefer it to be in private," he muttered, lowering his voice furtively. Behind him, Varius was clearly straining his ears.
The general gave Gorgoth another long, searching look. "Very well," he barked, turning smartly on his heel. "To the barracks it is. I hope this is worth it."
"It will be," growled Gorgoth as he fell in beside the Imperial and his bodyguards, moving at a quick march. As they moved through the throng of the Market District, Phillida's bodyguards clearing a passage, conversation was limited; Gorgoth wasn't willing to discuss his mace in public, and Phillida clearly wasn't one for idle conversation. The silence continued as they made their way across the bridge that connected the Market District to the Prison District, which also played host to a large part of the city's garrison. There was no doubt that Phillida was entitled to a room in the palace, but his willingness to sleep with his men was no surprise to Gorgoth.
As the steel-reinforced gates creaked open slightly to admit them, Gorgoth realised that he had come through this very courtyard on his first entrance to Cyrodiil. However, even if any guard recognised him, he'd had Uriel's pardon; that should have been circulated by the Blades by now. Phillida moved briskly across the courtyard, returning salutes and exchanging a few words with officers, heading towards one of the larger barracks that were lined up on one side of the district. Simple in construction, its sole purpose was to hold up to a hundred men in adequate conditions. Clearly, it managed to do this quite well. Phillida saluted the sole guard and pushed the door open, his bodyguards ushering Gorgoth through behind him before turning to wait outside.
The barracks was basic; rows of double bunks stretched from near the door to the far end of the structure, with no other furniture save for a table that hosted a lamp, presumably for the officer in charge of the barracks. Most of the barracks was vacant, with few of the bunks occupied. Phillida eased himself into the seat behind the table, relaxing slightly and looking up at Gorgoth, who, in the absence of any other chairs, stood with his back straight and arms folded. "Speak," invited Phillida.
"Where did you get that mace?" asked Gorgoth, his voice emotionless, eyes fixated on the head of Blood King, visible over the Imperial's right shoulder. It's head was as large as Phillida's.
A flicker of suspicion entered the general's eyes. "It was a gift from one of the prison officers," he responded slowly, eyes locked onto Gorgoth's, analysing his every reaction.
"And how did he get that?"
Phillida leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. "Not that I believe it's any of your business, but he claimed that he took it as a prize from an Orcish barbarian, sentenced to death for rebellion."
Gorgoth's own eyes hardened. "And do you know what happened to that Orc?" he asked, voice dropping dangerously.
If the warrior-shaman's sudden malevolent air worried Phillida, he did not show it. "He was executed, I assume," he replied.
Shaking his head, Gorgoth took a step closer. "No. That prisoner did not choke his last on Imperial gallows. That prisoner had been thrown into a cell that was part of an Imperial escape route." Phillida's eyes sharpened; clearly, he understood the implications already. "That prisoner witnessed the assassination of the Emperor. In his last act, the Emperor pardoned that prisoner, and told him to save Tamriel, to close shut the jaws of Oblivion." Gorgoth's voice was rising with every word, freezing fire appearing in his eyes. "That prisoner went to Kvatch and closed the Oblivion Gate. That prisoner brought the Empire's last heir from the ashes of Kvatch to the safety of Cloud Ruler Temple." Gorgoth's eyes were now boring into Phillida's skull. "That prisoner stands before you now, Phillida, and he is demanding the return of what is his!" At the last word, Gorgoth's armoured fist slammed down on the table, cracking the wood and toppling the unlit lamp.
Phillida did not flinch; instead, he regarded Gorgoth calmly for a few seconds, before standing and reaching for the mace on his back. He removed it from its straps smoothly, hefted it with both hands, clearly at ease with its weight. Gorgoth ruthlessly repressed the urge to grab his mace. "Tell me..." muttered Phillida, glancing down at Blood King's head before looking back up at Gorgoth. "What is so special about this mace?"
The Orc straightened once again, masking the desire raging through ever fibre of his being. It was not just his own desire; Blood King itself was calling to him, weapon to wielder, demanding that he end their separation. "It was forged early in the Third Era," he explained, recalling the history of the ancient weapon. "Durz gro-Gurakh, one of the most powerful shamans of the period, not to mention a master armourer, forged it in his stronghold deep within the Wrothgarian mountains. When he had finished, he called upon Malacath to imbue the weapon with the power of the Orcish people. Using Durz's body as a conduit, Malacath did so." Gorgoth's gaze dropped once more to the weapon. "His body could not survive the process, so the first wielder was Matuk gro-Dragol, his apprentice and a master warrior."
"I have never felt any enchantment," interrupted Phillida, frowning down at the mace.
"That is because you are not the wielder," explained Gorgoth. "Malacath would not tolerate any weak wielders, so the only way to claim Blood King is to defeat another wielder – of whom there have been many, over the years - in battle and take the mace as your own. That is the only way it will accept you, the only way to use it's full power. I gained it that way, three years ago..." Gorgoth's eyes hardened as the mere memory pained him. A shattered ribcage, punctured lungs, and several other broken bones had been his price. He snapped back to the present. "You have not killed me, Phillida, so you do not deserve it. Likely, you never will; you are no Orc."
If Phillida was insulted, he kept it concealed as he motion for Gorgoth to continue. "What is this enchantment you speak of?"
"It is hard to understand, let alone explain," muttered Gorgoth, tapping his canine. "Malacath infused it with the power of the Orcish people; the power of the weapon itself decreases and increases depending on the wielder and his situation. It draws power from me, and I from it; it waxes and wanes in power according to my state of mind, from the effects of the heat of battle; as I sleep, the enchantment would be barely noticeable. In a hard duel, full of glory, it would awaken, to become a truly devastating weapon. In a pitched battle, with the dead and dying all around me, with enemies all around me, the adrenaline pumping through my blood..." A dangerous gleam appeared in Gorgoth's eyes. "Then, I doubt any weapon on Nirn can match its power."
"But what does the enchantment actually do?" asked Phillida, persisting.
"Power," grunted Gorgoth. "Pure power. The swing of the mace itself is enough to shatter bones and snap spines. The power of the enchantment merely... increases that. When at full strength, it..." Gorgoth closed his eyes, momentarily savouring the memories. "I remember once hitting a Breton pikeman, from horseback, at full power. Most of his body disintegrated immediately, but was what left of him flew into a squad with so much power that few of them survived the impact." The fanatical gleam faded from Gorgoth's eyes. "So you see, Phillida... you see why I want my mace back."
Phillida rubbed his chin, the head of Blood King drooping dangerously as his single hand attempted to hold the heavy weapon straight. "You are the Hero of Kvatch, of that I have no doubt," he muttered. "And... you were captured in Orsinium, correct?" Gorgoth nodded. "I know for a fact that the prison officer who took it as a 'prize' has never left Cyrodiil, so he clearly did not deserve it in the first place. By extension, I do not deserve it." The Imperial grasped Blood King and held it out with both hands. "Take it. I feel more at home with my claymore."
Gorgoth slowly reached out and wrapped both hands around the black haft, easing it out of Phillida's grip. The second it left the Imperial's clutches, a torrent of pure power cascaded from the weapon, threatening to overwhelm him. Gorgoth battled it back ferociously, wresting the power down to a manageable level, bringing the weapon firmly under his control. On the outside, the mace appeared to grow even darker, seeming to pulse with the pure energy coursing through it. Phillida cocked an eyebrow.
"May I never face this on the field of battle," he muttered.
Gorgoth ignored him, hefting Blood King easily with one hand. He could do exactly the same with a mace of comparable weight, of course, but Blood King was not merely an extension of his arm, it was part of his very being. Deprived of its wielder's strong arm for so long, it was crying out with a desire for blood, to take souls, but Gorgoth resisted the temptation and slotted it through the belt on his back, the same belt that held his dai-katana in place. When requesting the belt from the Blades, he has specifically ordered a section be made to hold Blood King, in anticipation of his reclaiming it. It was a comforting weight on his back.
"You are a man with at least some honour, General," praised Gorgoth, delivering a salute, fist to heart. "Many would have made some attempt to keep what is not theirs by right. Your death would have caused me much regret, should I have been forced to take action."
Phillida raised an eyebrow but remained silent on the veiled threat. "I'll say that I'm glad you're not on the other side," he grunted, returning Gorgoth's salute. "Off with you, Hero of Kvatch. It's good to know that we have someone with enough power to make Dagon's knees quake." Gorgoth gave a farewell nod and left, the bodyguards outside understandably confused when they saw him walk out with their general's mace on his back, wasting no time in hurrying in before the door had shut to check on him.
Walking slowly across the courtyard, with the intention of leaving the City immediately to head off to Bravil, Gorgoth was feeling more confident than he had for months. Now that he had Blood King at his disposal, he could probably deal with whatever Dagon chose to throw at him. And in the coming days, Gorgoth had a feeling that whatever edge the Blades could find would be essential.
It was soon after midday when Ilend returned to the Fighter's Guildhall, a secretive, pleased smile on his face as he ignored Fadus's greeting and headed upstairs, covertly keeping a small bundle of cloth hidden in his fist. Agnete had done very fine work very quickly – it had only been two days since Ilend had commissioned his order - and for that he had been willing to pay a premium. Safe in the knowledge that Aerin was out the back, competing with Parwen to see who could be the most accurate from increasingly ludicrous distances, Ilend walked quickly over to his bed and shoved the bundle between the mattress and the frame. It was an unwritten rule in the Skingrad Guild that each member had his own bed, and that any other member who touched that bed or anything on or below it would be unprotected from the wrath of the offended Guildsman. It worked well.
Straightening from his bed, Ilend sighed and knuckled his back. The massage he'd received from Aerin the night before had loosened his muscles considerably, but there was no obscuring the fact that work was now becoming increasingly hard to come by, with no contracts for days. Back in Kvatch, the local Guild had been kept busy, but now that Guildhall was no more, along with most of its members. With most of his time being his own, it would never be as boring as guard duty had been, but Ilend was starting to feel a familiar craving for action.
With nothing else to do in the Guildhall, the Imperial went for a stroll in the weak sunshine, the clouds frequently obscuring the sun and making the day seem colder. The cold autumnal winds succeeded where many blades had failed and cut through his chainmail and clothing, chilling his skin. Ignoring the cold, Ilend walked aimlessly over to the northeast section, passing the expansive mansions and houses, nodding to the guards on patrol duty. The guards posted at the East Gate looked bored beyond belief. Ilend, with his ability to empathise with them, was ready to go over and start talking when his attention was diverted by the town's resident paranoid Bosmer.
Glarthir had beckoned frantically to him from his position in the narrow alley between two mansions, and was hissing for him to come quickly. Sighing and rolling his eyes, Ilend dragged his feet over to the alley. The short, skinny Bosmer – no doubt half-starved due to fear of poison – had moved back down the alley at a crouch to avoid detection. "What do you want, Glarthir?" asked Ilend, standing up straight, making the height difference between them seem even greater.
"Not so loud," whispered Glarthir, his eyes darting, never resting in one place for more than a second. The Wood Elf's brown hair was lank, falling over his face, partially obscuring the fanatical gleam in his pale green eyes. "You never know who might be listening." The Bosmer spoke haltingly, checking every so often to make sure that no-one was straining to listen in.
Ilend folded his arms. "You know I'm not attracted by your foolish schemes, Glarthir," he told the Wood Elf, making no effort to lower his voice. "So why do you persist?"
Glarthir made frantic hushing motions with his hands. "Because you are not chained by the-"
"Give it a fucking rest," spat Ilend. "You're a bloody lunatic, a fucked-up paranoid half-wit who spends his entire life looking over his fucking shoulder. You're only tolerated because you couldn't hurt somebody if you tried. Now piss off and leave me alone." Not waiting for a reaction from the shocked Wood Elf, the Imperial turned on his heel and left the alley.
He'd gone three paces when he stopped, frowning. The day seemed to have darkened. He looked up and grunted as black clouds appeared to be rolling in, quickly, by the looks of it. Shaking his head, he turned to walk back to the Guildhall. He had no intention of being caught in heavy rain without a cloak. Something caught his eye, and he froze. The wind was vainly plucking at the flag of Skingrad hanging outside a mansion, failing to move it even slightly. Even accounting for the protection of the walls, the wind required to make those clouds approach so swiftly would be stretching the flag to it's limit. Head growing heavy with horrific realisation, Ilend once again looked up at the sky. Those black clouds had spread from horizon to horizon. No natural cloud would do that.
"Oblivion!" The roar of alarm came from one of the sentries posted on the wall above the gate, frantically waving down at those below him. "Inform the captains! Oblivion Gate outside the walls! Move, you lazy bastards!" Two of the guards at the East Gate needed no further prompting, running off to find Dion and Danus Artellian. Ilend himself was only frozen for a second longer before launching himself down the street, pushing people out of the way as he sprinted towards the Guildhall as quickly as his heavy chainmail would allow.
By the time he had reached the Guildhall, the sky had advanced into its fully Oblivion-influenced state, a boiling cauldron of black and dark red clouds swirling overhead. A bright red glow to the east indicated the exact position of the Oblivion Gate. Word spread fast; civilians were already running to the west, just as companies of soldiers were hustled from their barracks and sent to the east wall. Ilend kicked open the doors to the Guildhall and stomped in, filling his lungs.
"Look alive, you slugs!" he bellowed, loud enough to be clearly heard in the Mage's Guild a few buildings down. "Oblivion Gate to the east! To arms!" There was a crash from the lounge as Fadus fell off his chair. Ah-Malz came tearing out of his office, past Ilend, and out into the street, taking one look at the sky before sprinting back in, adding his voice to Ilend's, whipping the Guildsmen into action.
Within minutes, the entire Guild was assembled in the hall, hefting weapons, the four Associates looking nervous and edging closer to their more experienced superiors. Ilend had grabbed his shield and was already regretting his lack of a helmet as Ah-Malz paced up and down the hall, haranguing the Guildsmen. "And just remember: If you don't hold whatever the Guard tell you to hold, then this city will burn, and it'll be your fucking fault! So, eyes in front, keep your shields high and your weapons singing, and don't die until you've got a pile of corpses stacked up front of you! Move out!" He motioned with his drawn claymore and led his men out of the Guildhall. Ilend stepped back and let most of them pass, barking for Aerin and Parwen to stay with him. Both Bosmer turned, arrows bristling from full quivers, bows in hand, ready to scale the wall and fire down on the Daedra that would surely soon be attacking.
"We're not going to save the city by defence alone," he told them, motioning for them to fall in beside him as he started jogging towards the East Gate. Aerin, knowing what he meant, sighed in resignation. "I'll need you two to come with me to close that bloody thing; good archers aren't common in the Skingrad Guard, and I doubt many will volunteer for this suicide mission."
Parwen stopped dead in her tracks. "Ilend, you expect me to go in there?" she asked, voice dripping with scorn. "Unless you've suddenly lost your wits, you know I outrank you, so-" She cut off abruptly as Ilend, fury in his eyes, laid his bared steel across her throat.
"You have a choice, Protector," snarled Ilend, holding his daedric blade steady. "Either you do what I say and help save this city, or don't, and aid its downfall. Your fucking choice. I should mention that if you go for the latter I'll spill your guts right here. Neither I nor Skingrad have any time for malingerers."
Parwen's eyes, wide with shock, searched for Aerin, and found her fellow Bosmer standing back from the spectacle, testing her bowstring. "We'll do this your way," stammered Parwen, relaxing when Ilend nodded and removed the blade from her neck.
"Good. Now, watch my back while I try to find Dion. I'll need his support if we're going to have any chance." The Imperial set off for the East Gate once again, the two archers trailing in his wake. Shouts and sounds of battle were already reaching their ears; the Daedra were not wasting time. Apparently, most of the civilians had either fled to the western end of the city to take refuge in the Chapel, or had barricaded their own homes. The streets were empty save for yet more companies of troops heading for the wall at a double march, with years of discipline, instilled by their very capable commander, eroding most of their fear.
The East Gate was alive with activity, detachments of troops ransacking nearby houses for anything that could be used as a barricade, with more taking up positions behind the gate with spears hastily fetched from the armoury. With no tower shields to hide behind, they would be vulnerable, but at least with spears the second rank could add to the number of weapons facing the daedra at any one time if they broke through. Yet more guardsmen lined the wall, companies of archers working furiously, the snap of bowstrings incessant. Ilend spotted Dion marching back and forth along the wall by the distinctive black-and-red crest on the Imperial's helmet, bellowing orders and encouragement to his soldiers.
Rushing up the stone steps to gain access to the wall, the Imperial paused to assess the situation below. A gate to Oblivion, taller than the city wall, was positioned directly in front of the city's East Gate, just out of bowshot range. Corpses strewn over the road indicated the first failed attempt to rush the Gate as the Guard struggled to mobilise. Behind a screen of lesser Daedra, who were being shot down by the archers with rapidity, a company of Dremora were hauling a thick steel ladder towards a section of the wall, their shields and armour doing a good job of defending them from the hail of arrows battering at them. Several fell, but others took up the slack, and more ladders were emerging from the Gate.
Ripping his eyes from the battlefield, Ilend beckoned to Aerin and Parwen and sprinted down the wall, shouting for Dion. The Guard Captain turned and grunted in appreciation. "Good that you're here, Vonius," he growled as Ilend reached him. "We need men with your experience here. You got any advice?"
"Plenty, but you won't like it," muttered Ilend, motioning the experienced Imperial to the inner edge of the wall. "The only way to stop this relentless attack – and it will be relentless, believe me – is to go into that gate and close it. I'll willingly lead the strike, but I'll need a squad of your best men."
Dion pursued his lips, his lined face thoughtful. "What are the chances of success if I gave you six swordsmen?" he asked, weighing up the risks.
Ilend sighed. "I can't promise anything, Dion. But it's the only chance we've got. Get the Mage's Guild up on this wall to blast us a hole, and I'll take six of your men, along with two Guildsmen, and try to close the Gate."
"And if you don't succeed?"
Ilend's face darkened. "I don't know how long it will take. We might even die before we take ten paces. Send messengers to get whatever help you c-"
"I already have. Don't think you know more about a military defence than a twenty-year veteran, Guildsman. I've got everything under control apart from closing the damn thing." Dion's gravelly voice had taken a sharper tone; he clearly didn't like a mercenary, even one under Imperial charter, attempting to give him orders on his own city wall.
Ilend took a deep breath. "If we haven't closed that gate by the time reinforcements arrive, then swarm it," he offered. "It's not perfect, I know, but it's the best I can offer."
Dion tapped the side of his helmet for a second, thinking. The crash of a ladder impacting against the wall snapped both of their heads around, but already a knot of guardsmen had succeeded in pushing it away from the wall. Falling, it crushed a handful of Dremora who had been too slow in running to escape its deadly path as archers opened up with renewed vigour. However, three more ladders were rapidly approaching different sections of the wall.
"Where is the fucking Mage's Guild?" roared Dion, face crimson with anger as he glared down into the city in an attempt to find members of the Skingrad branch of the Mage's Guild, who, at over fifteen strong and specialising in Destruction, might provide valuable magical firepower, enough to stem the tide. Already, a column of Dremora was emerging from the Gate, gripping what appeared to be a battering ram. Turning back to Ilend, Dion tapped him on the shoulder. "You'll get your men," he growled.
Ilend nodded, not wasting time expressing his gratitude. "Is there a side gate we can leave by?" he asked.
Dion nodded, raising his voice once again. "Denian! Macra! Ceno! Nirol! Hinald! Daron! To me!" Six guardsmen, each wielding a standard sword and shield, turned and stepped smartly from the ranks of guardsmen lining the wall. "All right, men, no time to explain, but you're going to save Skingrad today," started their Captain, walking down their line, looking into each face in turn, their helmets partially obscuring their features but still making it clear that there were four Imperials and two Redguards. "You're going to follow this oik-" he jabbed his thumb at Ilend, who rubbed his chin to conceal his smirk, recognising the captain's attempt to lighten the mood, "-into Oblivion. Try and make sure he doesn't trip over his own bloody feet. He helped close the one at Kvatch, so you'd assume he should be off his mother's apron strings, but you never know." A few of the men, despite the gravity of the situation, couldn't hide small smiles. It was a start. Ilend had also noted that, judging by their uniforms, they were all mere guardsmen, no Guard Sergeant to take nominal command. He, a mercenary, would be leading troops of the Imperial Legion.
"Go out through the lower side gate, the one behind Toutius Sextius' house," Dion was saying. "You know the one, Daron...? Good. Get on with it. I'll see you all back here with that Gate closed behind you and you all grinning like madmen, with leave of a week each. Off with you." The Guard Captain straightened and saluted his men, before turning and jogging off to where a ladder had slammed into the wall.
One of the Redguards beckoned to Ilend and his comrades, turning to lead them down the stone steps back to street level. Ilend paused for a moment. "Parwen! Aerin!" he shouted, his voice rising above the sound of battle. The two named Bosmer ran from where they had been firing down into the daedric ranks. "We're moving. Bows on your backs, we'll need mobility here." They nodded wordlessly, Parwen's face pale and drawn with fear, while Aerin's jaw was set in grim determination.
The heavy mail boots of the guardsmen and Ilend thumped noisily down the stone steps, the lighter padding of the leather boots of the archers almost silent in comparison. Ilend increased his pace momentarily to fall in beside the leading Redguard – Daron – who'd eased into a quick march. "The side gate is just down there," he told Ilend, pointing down a narrow alley between the city wall and a large house. "Leads straight out." Apparently, he was a man of few words, clamping his mouth shut again. Ilend nodded, patting his sword hilt to make sure the daedric blade was suitably loose in its scabbard.
Aerin moved up to jog beside Ilend as they entered the alley, Daron falling back. "What are our chances, Ilend?" she asked him in a tight voice. He shot her a sideways glance. Her face was largely void of emotion, though the normal sparkle of humour in her eyes had long vanished. At least she was able to hold whatever fear she was feeling in check.
"Shoot well, use us for protection, keep your wits about you, and we'll probably make it out," responded Ilend. "If that's not enough for you, I'd recommend prayer, but remember that you can always rely on the steel of your comrades." She nodded, checking her twin shortswords.
The side gate was a tiny oak door set in an archway, painted to blend in with the grey stones of the wall. After removing the heavy beam barring access to the door, Ilend had to duck in order to lead the way through. As Daron had said, the outer door led straight out into the shadows of an alcove, hidden from the eyes of the Daedra by a watch tower jutting out from the wall. Ilend silently motioned for his soldiers to line up behind him, then edged to the end of the square tower's base, peering around it.
Three ladders were in place, Dremora desperately attempting to swarm up them before they were pushed off, with two more fast approaching. The battering ram had made it halfway to the city gate when lightning bolts speared from the walls, blasting most of the squad of Dremora to pieces. Ilend ducked back around, a savage grin splitting his features. "The mages have finally got involved," he told the next soldier in line, one of the Imperial guardsmen. Not waiting for a response, he looked out again. Another collection of Daedra were charging from the Gate, ranging from lesser scamps to Storm Atronachs. Nothing emerged from behind them.
"Right, now or never," Ilend muttered. "Sprint as fast as you can, and don't stop until you're through the Gate. Ignore the burning sensation and be ready to fight as quickly as possible. Ready?" His question prompted a flurry of nods, some more confident than others. "For Skingrad," he finished, voice low but intense, leaping out from behind the cover of the tower and sprinting for the gate, which was side-on to them; a full-frontal assault would have been suicide. Speed and stealth would be their weapons until they closed the gap. Ilend put his head down and urged his legs to move faster, for once cursing his heavy chainmail and shield.
Halfway to the gate, already panting with the exertion, Ilend looked up, finding Aerin and Parwen on either side of him, the archer's lighter armour and equipment enabling them to keep pace with him easily. The clanking behind him told him that the rest of the squad was at least keeping up. A scamp's ears pricked up and it turned, squealing with both fear and rage as it somewhat foolishly darted into attack. Aerin and Parwen both sped up, running either side of the now confused daedra before Aerin sliced through its hamstring, leaving Parwen to crouch and slide her dagger into the back of its skull. Within seconds, they were sprinting again.
A lone clannfear emerged from the Gate, clicking angrily, presumably due to its late arrival. It turned, noted the approaching squad, and screeched in defiance, pawing the ground momentarily before launching itself at them. Ilend roared for Aerin and Parwen to get out of the way, drawing his own sword and rushing to meet the daedra. It closed the distance rapidly, leaping up and swiping at the Imperial. He raised his shield and blocked, wincing as the clannfear's entire body crashed into it, jarring his left arm painfully and forcing him to step back. As the daedra twisted, scrambling back to its feet, he moved in and chopped down at its arm, neatly removing one of its claws. As it hissed in pain and fury, another guard moved in unnoticed and sank his blade deep into its back.
"No more delays!" shouted Ilend, resuming his sprint towards the Gate, which was now close enough to make the squad flinch from the heat. He hefted his bloodied blade and thrust it in the direction of the flaming portal. "With me! To Oblivion!" Without further hesitation, he ran at the Gate and threw himself into the boiling cauldron of flames.
A few seconds later, the Imperial staggered out into Oblivion, desperately trying to suck air into his seared lungs while hefting his weapon and looking around for danger. Finding none in the immediate vicinity, he stepped aside to let his comrades through the Gate, all the while scanning the area. An open expanse of cracked earth around the Gate seemed to be well-suited for a forming-up ground, and it had apparently been well-used, judging by the flattened Bloodgrass and heavy bootprints. The Sigil Keep stood tall out of the otherwise flat landscape, which was broken in places by numerous rocky ridges channelling any forces through a series of narrow, winding paths in order to reach the tower. Two smaller towers were visible far off in the distance, beyond the Sigil Keep.
"Right, listen up," called Ilend, pausing to clear his throat, which was already almost dry. "That-" he pointed at the Sigil Keep "- is our target. We're going to go there as quickly as possible, grab the Sigil Stone, close the Gate, and save our city. Any questions?"
One of the Imperial guardsmen, straightening and recovering from the effects of his first entry into Oblivion, raised a hand. "How many daedra are we likely to face?" he asked, voice hoarse.
"Enough to give us one hell of a pain in the arse," responded Ilend. He turned and pointed to one of the pathways leading from the open area. "That looks like the most attractive path to me. We need to be out of here before more of their troops show up. Which I suspect they will be." The Imperial looked down at his drawn sword, the blood of the clannfear already drying and blackening. He swept most of it off with the back of his gauntlet. "I'll lead. You three-" his gesture took in two Imperials and a Redguard "- are in the front rank, with me. Aerin, Parwen, you're behind them with arrows nocked. The rest of you, bring up the rear. Holler if you see anything amiss."
"It's sodding Oblivion," snarled one of the Imperials. "Everything's amiss."
"Good point," agreed Ilend. "But you know what I mean. Now move out!"
It soon became clear that anything more than a jog in the oppressive, dry heat of Oblivion would swiftly run the heavily-armoured guardsmen into the ground, so Ilend settled for preservation over speed. After crossing the plain, they were nearing the entrance to the narrow valley when Ilend's ear caught the sound of heavy armour clanking, emanating from one of the passages to his left. He frantically hissed at his comrades to increase their speed, and they vanished into the relative safety of the passage just as a company of Dremora marched onto the plain.
"That was too bloody close,"he muttered as he watched the Dremora spread out and continue towards the Gate, carrying two ladders. "Keep moving, and let's hope there's none coming down here."
Fortunately, some god had chosen to smile upon them, or maybe they were just lucky; the only opposition immediately awaiting them were two clannfear and a spider daedra, all cut down by Aerin and Parwen before they could get close to the swordsmen. Ilend's pace meant that the two archers barely had time to retrieve their arrows. The Imperial maintained that it was inevitably only a matter of time before a squad of Dremora came down their present path, and the small squad had absolutely no possibility of surviving a straight fight with a company of over twenty disciplined, heavily armoured Kyn.
After five minutes of continuous advancing, the squad finally reached an end to the twisting pathway, leading to a sizeable plateau that stretched from the rock formations that they had just emerged from to the base of the Sigil Keep, with walls and other rocky ridges interrupting the otherwise flat expanse of cracked earth. Patrols of daedra roamed the area, disappearing and reappearing, flitting in and out of sight. A handful of gaping holes in large rocks marked entrance to what looked like caves, presumably breeding grounds or barracks of some kind. Ilend held up a hand, stopping his men, most of whom would have sagged, hands on knees, were it not for their discipline and training holding them upright. Oblivion was not kind, and the low crime rates meant that most of the Skingrad Guard's strenuous activities were in training. They simply were not prepared to run and fight in the Deadlands. Ilend did not blame them; unlike him, they didn't have the fury of their ravaged city fuelling them, spurring them on.
"Rest. Two minutes." Most gratefully trudged over a rock to lean on it, drinking out of their canteens while keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. Parwen clambered over a few rocks to get a better position to scout out the various obstacles and patrols in their paths, while Aerin slid down to sit with her back resting against the rock next to where Ilend was leaning, propping Trueshot up beside her.
"Think we'll even make it to the tower?" she asked, staring up at the mentioned column of obsidian with a mixture of regret and dread.
"Definitely," responded Ilend immediately. The Bosmer arched an eyebrow at his certainty. "This is excellent terrain for bows," he explained. "If you see em coming from far enough away, you could kill ten Dremora before they even reached you. They won't be expecting you to be able to penetrate their armour. Surprise is lethal. As is Trueshot."
Aerin nodded slowly. "Just make sure they don't surprise us," she muttered. She grabbed the rock above her and pulled herself to her feet, turning to look up at Parwen, who was crouched on a higher rock, peering out over the fractured landscape. "See anything?"
"Quite a few patrols," replied the archer, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the stinging dust that occasionally swirled across the terrain, borne by the hot winds. "I see another three full companies heading for another path to the Gate. How many soldiers do they have here?"
"As many as they need," grunted Ilend, pushing himself away from the rock. "Just be thankful that they'd only opened the one Gate. They might have opened more by now, though, and if that happens..." The Imperial shook his head. "I doubt Skingrad would hold out for much more than an hour. That's why we've got to move quickly here." He turned to the guardsmen. "Break's over. Same formation. Parwen, you scout ahead a bit." The Bosmer nodded as she nimbly jumped down from her vantage point.
Their pace was slower now that they had left the narrow confines and relative safety of the narrow path. Now, any enemy could leap out at them with little or no warning, and it was best not to blunder into an ambush at a double march. A few times, only Parwen's prior warning had allowed the squad to escape detection, crouching in the shadow of a rock as a patrol crossed the path ahead of them. The Sigil Keep drew closer with agonising slowness. Despite their fear and apprehension, Ilend could tell that some of his men were spoiling for a proper fight. No doubt they'd grow tired of fighting soon enough.
His predictions proved accurate when Parwen cursed and started sprinting back to the squad as a patrol of six Dremora and two scamps hurled themselves around a corner, drawing weapons and pausing only fractionally before charging at the invading mortals, bellowing war cries.
"Form a line!" commanded Ilend, sword flashing from his scabbard. Parwen dashed through their ranks and turned, adding her arrows to Aerin's. Both scamps fell quickly, and two Dremora fell to arrows from Trueshot before they closed the distance. "Use our numbers! Two for one!" Ilend himself darted forward and swung at the leading Dremora, ordering one of the Imperials off to deal with another. He could handle one Dremora by himself. Parwen and Aerin hang back, arrows nocked, keeping an eye out for any other daedra.
The leading Dremora, his head bare, snarled wordlessly at Ilend as he blocked the Imperial's swing with his shield, the power of the blow forcing him back a place. He barged forward, shield leading, and attempted a thrust, but Ilend smoothly sidestepped out of the way, locking shields and stabbing up at the Kynaz's stomach. His opponent backed away rapidly, but Ilend pursued, swinging down in an overhead cleave. Ducking, the Dremora found Ilend's heavy boot under his chin, throwing him backwards onto the hard earth, helpless as Ilend kicked his shield arm aside, leaving him open for the blade penetrating his armour, slicing through his lungs and punching through his heart.
Ilend withdrew his longsword with some effort, turning to find the battle already over; with two guards for each Dremora, it hadn't taken long for their discipline and training to destroy their attackers. The only wounded mortal, a Redguard with a shallow slash on his thigh, grimaced but ignored it as he emulated his comrades and wiped his sword on a cloth. "I'll be fine, save your magicka," he growled, waving away Ilend's offer of healing.
"They'll probably have heard that," observed Ilend, wiping his blade clean and sheathing it. "Come on, we've got to pick up the pace again. Aerin, you scout."
This cycle continued for some time; drawing closer to the Sigil Keep, they were attacked by smaller parties of daedra who stood no chance in the face of greater numbers, skilled archers and disciplined guardsmen. Any severe wounds were swiftly dealt with by Ilend, or by healing potion when his limited knowledge of Restoration failed him. Progress was frustratingly slow, but steady, and eventually they reached the foot of the enormous Sigil Keep, which towered threateningly over them.
"It's been easy so far," Ilend told the squad, ignoring their looks of disbelief as he led the way to the foot of the massive door. "Once we get in there, they'll know for sure we're here, and they'll throw everything they've got at us. We'll take casualties, for sure." He turned and faced them, wearing a grim expression. "Some of you will die. That is almost a certainty. I need you to ignore the fact that your comrades are dying all around you and fight on with everything you can muster. Skingrad's fate hangs in the balance. Can I count on you?" Faces just as grim as his stared back at him, slowly giving their assent. Determination rolled off all six guardsmen in waves. They might never have seen action before, but their city was in mortal danger. They would not falter.
"Good. We need to-" Ilend was cut off by Aerin calling a warning and frantically pointing at a pack of clannfear that had just appeared from behind a broken wall. Ilend only hesitated for a second. "Form a line!" he bellowed, drawing his sword and firmly planting his feet as three guardsman took positions either side of him. "Lock shields! Block their charge, then strike back!" The pack of fifteen clannfear were galloping now, growing closer by the second. Two bowstrings snapped, and there were two less. Another pair of arrows were loosed, and another two fell, tearing at the parched earth in their final agonies. The daedra were too fast, however, and covered the ground too quickly. Aerin got one more shot off, making a clannfear stumble with an arrow in its shoulder, before drawing her shortsword and placing a hand on Ilend's shoulder, ready to stab through the gap between him and the next man if an opportunity presented itself. Parwen walked slowly backwards, arrow still nocked, awaiting an opening.
The sheer force of the clannfear smashing into their shield wall forced each man back several paces, desperately fending off the piercing beaks and sharp claws of the daedra. Ilend smoothly slid his blade up past his shield in a movement much-practised on the drilling ground, neatly disembowelling the attacking clannfear battering at his shield. Another took its place, headbutting the battered steel shield with so much force the Ilend was forced back out of the line, staggering before Aerin pushed him back forward and slid her sword into the daedra's ribcage. As the Imperial swung clumsily to roughly half-decapitate it, he head a gurgled scream of agony as a clannfear got under a guardsman's shield and ripped its claws down his side, leaving three gaping slashes reaching from his lower ribs to his knee. Stumbling back and falling, the Imperial was only saved by Parwen's well-aimed arrow taking the clannfear in the neck.
Overwhelmed by the sheer force and numbers of the daedra, the line had broken into individual duels. Ilend and Aerin darted different ways, the Imperial moving to chop the tail off the clannfear attacking one of the Redguards, the daedra howling as its balance was destroyed, attempting to run before the embattled guardsman stepped forward and impaled it. Aerin ran up and slid her shortsword between the thick scales of a clannfear's head, penetrating its brain and killing it instantly, freeing up a guardsman to ram his shield into another, knocking it off balance and allowing him to pin it to the ground with his boot as both he and Aerin forced their blades deep into its chest. The frantic battle was dying down, the few remaining clannfear swarmed by guards, put down by multiple swords piercing their skin, leaving the bloodied, battered survivors to sag in relief.
One Imperial was dead, with his throat slashed open and his chest caved in, while four other guards had wounds, the most serious being the Imperial with his side laid open, grimacing in pain and making a tremendous effort not to make any involuntary noises as Ilend rushed to his side and fumbled for his potions, kneeling to ascertain the damage. He kept his face smooth, but inwardly he knew that the signs were not encouraging; a large pool of blood was spreading around the Imperial, slaking the thirst of the earth, and it was still pumping from somewhere on his leg, the sheer amount preventing exact location. The guard's face was draining of all colour as his hold on life gradually weakened. Ilend wrenched his most potent healing potion out from his belt and twisted the cork out, but was stopped by the guardsman's weak grasp on his arm.
"Save it... you might need it," he whispered, his voice weak as he stared up into Ilend's eyes. "Don't waste it on me. Get on with it." His eyes had a look of understanding in them; evidently, he'd seen the blood, he'd know that that much blood loss was fatal in Oblivion. Even if he survived, he'd be nothing but a burden to his comrades. Ilend slowly nodded.
"Anything I can do for you?" he asked, voice tight. No matter how many times Savlian Matius had prepared him for something like this, it wasn't easy.
The guardsman attempted a smile. On his pale face, it looked more like a grimace. "Just close the Gate," he sighed. "Don't waste any more time." Ilend dragged his eyes away and grunted, replacing the cork in the potion and straightening. The remainder of his squad, wounds healed, watched wordlessly.
"Mourn for the dead later," he told them, voice harsh. "For now, worry about yourselves. Come on." Clenching his fist around his sword hilt, he led the way up the stairs to the door, snarl firmly planted on his face. The still-raw memories of Kvatch were starting to burn fiercely.
The fact that the colossal doors leading to the bottom of the Sigil Keep slowly opened at a mere touch surprised Ilend, despite Gorgoth filling him in on the workings of daedric doors after Kvatch. Ruthlessly trampling his surprise down, he motioned for his squad to follow him as he walked steadily through the doors as they opened, slightly crouched, ready for anything that was thrown at him.
Advancing down the short hallway, Ilend grimaced as the spire of pulsating, liquid fire dominated his vision. Forcing his eyes away from it, he scanned the circular base of the tower which surrounded the spire, doors branching off in several directions. A robed Dremora noticed the intruders and bellowed a warning, swinging a staff off his back. Aerin's arrow took him in the throat before he could use any magicka, but numerous daedra were converging on their position. Ilend roared a battle cry and charged an approaching Flame Atronach, holding up his shield to block the gout of flame it sent at him, ignoring the smell of the flesh on his forearm starting to cook to thrust his sword up into its chest. He grimaced in pain as it dropped to the ground, fire extinguished. He'd suffered similar burns to his shield forearm at the Lake Arrius Caverns, and removing his gauntlet to find his skin still attached to it was never a pleasant experience.
He had no time to reflect on his scorched flesh and shield, however; a large scamp was charging towards him, ready to leap into attack. Ilend rushed forward, shield first, and battered the daedra to the ground, hearing it howl as the still-hot shield burnt its skin. The Imperial buried his blade in the scamp's chest, looking up just in time to see a daedroth that had been about to attack him stagger back, an arrow penetrating deep into its chest. Ilend moved forward and plunged his longsword into its stomach up to the hilt, bracing his leg against the crocodile-headed daedra's thick skin and wrenching his blade free.
Most daedra occupying the cavernous level were dead, though two of the guardsmen were nursing wounds. One was slowly rising to his feet, fumbling for a potion to treat a deep gash in his upper arm, while one of the Redguards bit his lip, drawing blood to stop himself crying out as his comrade pushed the remains of an arrow through his calf. Aerin and Parwen were grimacing as they counted their arrows; many had been damaged since entering Oblivion, leaving them with barely ten apiece. Looking over his blood-splattered, battered men, Ilend realised that most of them probably wouldn't survive Oblivion. But it was a price worth paying. To Ilend, just about any price was worth paying to stop Skingrad ending up like Kvatch.
"Move up," he ordered, gesturing towards a wide ramp curling upwards. "From now on, be even more alert than you were before. You can be attacked from anywhere." He led them upwards, sword still drawn, making no attempt to conceal his noise. The daedra knew they were there; no point in hiding. Memories of Kvatch had sparked a roaring inferno in Ilend's head, and he was damned if any daedra was going to stand between him and the Sigil Stone. The Dremora waiting for them halfway up the ramp stood no chance; Ilend's powerful, focused fireball blasted its leg off, leaving it helpless as one of the Imperial guardsmen knelt briefly to cut his throat.
The first room had numerous passages leading off to other parts of the tower, as well as a continuation of the ramp, but the daedra lying in wait demanded more attention. Ilend cursed as a daedroth slammed into his shield, almost crushing him beneath its bulk, but an arrow piercing its skull undoubtedly saved him from its teeth and claws. Aerin rushed to help him get out from underneath, but was intercepted by a clannfear, barely drawing her sword in time before it butted her to the ground, forcing her to frantically crawl backwards on her back, swiping at it to force the daedra to keep its distance while Ilend rose to his feet and disembowelled it. He staggered as an Imperial rolled into him, physically thrown across the room by a Dremora. Ilend recovered in time to block the Kynaz's strike with his shield, allowing the beleaguered Imperial to twist on the ground and sweep the Dremora's legs from under him, enabling both Imperials to stab him repeatedly until he stopped struggling.
Fighting had tailed off, and the room was clear, apart from an armless daedroth staggering around, swiftly put down by Parwen's arrow in its neck. An Imperial signalled for a potion, blood spurting from a savage-looking wound on his throat, and Aerin was wincing as her fingers probed her ribcage; the clannfear had definitely cracked at least two of her ribs. Most of the guards had already used up their small stock of potions, and Ilend's supply was dwindling. As the wounded Imperial managed to force the precious liquid down his throat – holding a hand to his wound to make sure it stayed in – Ilend winced as he realised that the entire squad only had three potions and his limited healing abilities to rely on.
Allowing no rest, Ilend relentlessly pushed on, knowing that every moment they delayed, the daedra would find more reinforcements to protect the Sigil Stone. Rooms were cleared with brutal efficiency as the increasingly ragged squad moved up the tower, dispatching daedra and collecting wounds. By the time Ilend judged that they were nearly at the Sigillum Sanguis, Parwen and two guardsmen were bleeding from minor wounds, having run out of healing potions. Ilend was saving his magicka only for the more serious wounds which would affect combat efficiency. Trudging up one final ramp, the Imperial pressed his hand to a door and led the way out onto a ledge hanging far above the ground below.
Archers and mages on the far side, blocking a ramp leading up towards the Sigillum Sanguis, instantly sent everything they had at the mortal invaders. One of the Redguards was too slow, and an arrow took him in the thigh. He fell, grunting in pain, head down, not seeing the fireball that slammed into him a moment later, vapourising most of his upper body. Aerin and Parwen returned fire, felling an archer and a mage, but were then forced to dive for cover again as two more fireballs made the ledge shake. Ilend was charging around the outside, desperately attempting to close the distance, but a bolt of lightning found his shield, lifting him and throwing him against the wall, his limbs twitching involuntarily as the Imperial almost bit his tongue in two trying to keep from crying out at the excruciating pain.
His eyes widened as one of the Imperials, more out of frustration than anything else, roared and threw his sword across the gap, narrowly missing the spire of magicka and embedding itself in the chest of a shocked Dremora mage, who stayed on his feet, swaying, for a second, before collapsing. Aerin's arrow took the other mage in the throat, and as he desperately attempted to tear it out while preserving his life, the remaining mortals charged across the ledge, blocking arrows with shields as they bore down on the remnants of the holding force. Aerin skidded to her knees beside Ilend, frantically shaking him.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," growled the Imperial, managing with some difficulty to haul himself to his feet, ignoring the blood dripping from his ears and nose, leaning heavily on the Bosmer. "I'll be fine... just hurts like nothing I've ever felt before." Fortunately, the steel of his shield had absorbed most of the lightning; without it, Ilend would doubtless have died in agony.
By the time Ilend had staggered to the base of the ramp, slowly finding his feet again, the three guardsmen and Parwen had finished off the archers, and were cleaning their blades, given a rare opportunity to rest. Ilend spent what little magicka he had left on circulating healing magic around his body, alleviating some of the pain, and he waved away an anxiously hovering Aerin to stare resolutely up the ramp towards the fleshy floor of the Sigillum Sanguis. "This is going to be the hardest you'll ever fight in your entire lives," he slowly told his men, voice rough. "If you're going to die, to die here is a glorious death. But dying will not save Skingrad." The Imperial slowly started up the ramp, his comrades joining him in his slow ascent. "If you want to see your city again, fight like heroes," he grated, hefting his dented shield.
The doors to the final stretch of their long, arduous journey opened at Ilend's touch, and they stomped through the Sigillum Sanguis with grim, determined looks set in bloodied faces. Three Dremora waited them, two with drawn swords, one hefting a massive warhammer. From the styling of their armour, the length of their horns, and their postures, they were clearly of high rank. Wasting no time, they moved to attack; what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in strength and ability, not to mention the fact that they were rested, whereas the mortals had been fighting for hours.
Ilend charged to meet the Dremora in the centre, who growled something unintelligible as Aerin's arrow was stopped by his shield. He parried the Imperials' blow with his identical blade and slammed his shield at Ilend, his sheer strength forcing the ex-guardsman back as they locked shields. Another swing was blocked and forced wide, and the Dremora leapt forward, attempting to gore Ilend with his horns. Stepping back, the Imperial kicked out at the Kynaz's knee, putting him off balance and allowing Parwen, who had been hovering nearby, to dart in and force her dagger between a small gap where the plates of his cuirass and greaves met, the blade embedding itself deep in his hip. The Dremora roared in pain and anger and smashed his shield side-on into the Bosmer's temple. As she crumpled to the ground, Ilend charged in and rammed his weapon into the base of the Dremora's skull with so much force that the tip of the longsword broke through the centre of the Kynaz's forehead.
Kicking his dead opponent off his blade, Ilend spared a glance for Parwen and grimaced. The Protector was dead, the side of her skull caved in, her one good eye staring blankly at the Sigil Stone far above her. Wasting no time to mourn, the Imperial quickly assessed the situation: The warhammer-wielding Dremora had been hamstrung by Aerin and was being relentlessly stabbed by both her and the Redguard as he frantically attempted to recover, whereas the other was easily holding his own against the two Imperials. Ilend stepped in to help, pushing the embattled Dremora onto the defensive, and seconds later he shuddered and collapsed as the Redguard forced his blade through the plate armour and into the base of his spine.
"Let's hope there's no more of that lot around," spat Ilend as he led the way up the ramps leading to the Sigil Stone. "We need to grab this sodding thing and get out of here. I'm fucking sick of Oblivion." One of the guardsmen agreed; the others merely concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as they followed Ilend up the last ramp. It was due to this exhaustion that the Xivilai lurking in the shadows went undetected for so long.
The massive grey-skinned daedra struck with brutal efficiency, battleaxe cleaving an Imperial guardsman's shield in two, severing his left forearm in the process, before wrenching the mighty weapon free and swinging it down in an overhead cleave, separating the Imperial's right arm and most of his torso from the rest of his body, blood spurting over the last few steps to the platform on which the Sigil Stone rested. Killed in sight of his objective, the dead Imperial slid slowly down the obsidian stairs.
Screaming a wild battle cry, the fallen man's Imperial comrade leapt to attack, shield and sword swinging, only for both weapons to be parried. The haft of the battleaxe slammed into his stomach with enough force to expel bile and stomach fluid, the guardsman powerless to resist as the Xivilai reversed the weapon and decapitated him. Hurling curses and profanities, Ilend and the last remaining guardsman launched themselves at the bloodied daedra, weapons chopping into his defence, halting him momentarily. Then the daedra stepped back, sweeping his long right leg across the ground in a move that toppled Ilend, and swung his axe across the Redguard in a slash that should have cut him in two, but instead merely left a light slash across his stomach as the guardsman stepped back. Planting a naked foot into his chest, the Xivilai sent the Redguard sliding across the floor with a dent in his breastplate, turning to find Ilend on his feet, a look of ice-cold fury in his normally bright blue eyes, the wet blood staining his face making his snarl all the more menacing.
"Come and get it, you bastard," he whispered.
The Xivilai's response was lost, the words whipped away in a howling wind that was tearing through the cavern. Blue and orange eyes whipped to the anchor, where Aerin was slowly backing away, hissing in pain and throwing the Sigil Stone across the Sigillum Sanguis as it burnt her palm. A triumphant shout left Ilend's lips as the Xivilai made one last attempt to reach for him before the world was consumed by flame.
For a long time, the only thing Ilend felt was pain. Pain, racking his body, a residue left by the lightning bolt that should have killed him. Pain, from the bruises on his left shoulder left by a Dremora's mace. Pain, from the flesh of his left forearm sticking to his gauntlet. Gradually, other senses returned to him. The stench of burning, thick in the air. Hard earth beneath him, a rock digging painfully into his back. A light breeze vainly plucking at his once fine black hair, now stained with blood and dirt. Hearing returned slowly; the screams of men, mer, and daedra dying, bellowed orders, spells booming, making the ground tremble.
Opening his eyes a fraction, Ilend's exhausted mind attempted to bring him up to date. Stars shone overhead, the brilliant white of Secunda glowing at the edge of his vision. It was night; he had spent hours in the gate. It felt like days. His eyes opened further, and an involuntary groan ripped from his lips as he raised his head slightly. Fighting continued in and around Skingrad, but as he slowly assessed the situation, a smile ghosted onto his cracked lips, disturbing dried blood and sending a small stream down his cheek, dripping onto his blackened chainmail.
The daedra were fighting a losing battle. Starved of reinforcements, what troops they had managed to get onto the wall were being pushed back, and while the East Gate had been shattered, the stubbornness of the guards and bottlenecks restricting their numbers meant that the daedra were being soundly beaten. Knowing that his task - for now - was done, Ilend was tempted to lie back and let the dark embrace of sleep take him, but his duty to those who had survived pulled him upwards.
Leaning with his back against the remnants of the Oblivion Gate, the sole survivor of the squad of guardsmen – Daron, the Redguard – could have been dead, with his torn surcoat, dented armour, and deathly expression. But as Ilend approached, it became clear that he had merely succumbed to exhaustion; his chest slowly rose and fell, and most of the blood encrusting every part of his body was not his own. His silver longsword, pitted and chipped, lay a few feet away from his right hand. Satisfied that Daron was alive, Ilend began looking around somewhat more urgently for Aerin. There appeared to be more daedric bodies around the Gate than when they'd entered.
He found the Bosmer crumpled on the ground a short distance from the gate, her face pale and drawn, several rips in her armour marking where enemy weapons had found their mark. As Ilend knelt beside her, raising her head with a hand behind neck, her eyes flickered open, slowly refocusing. "Is... is this Aetherius?" she asked unsteadily, looking weakly up at Ilend.
The Imperial snorted. "If it is, it's a pretty crap place," he told her, looking around. "Dead bodies everywhere, a shit-load of daedra, and nowhere near enough good-looking girls for my liking." He laughed, but it swiftly turned into a hacking cough. "Come on," he grunted. "No point in lying here."
He helped her to her feet, grabbing her arm to support her as they limped over to the remains of the Gate, leaning against it as they watched the battle unfold. "So, that's another city saved... all in a day's work," muttered Aerin, yawning. "I need ta sleep for a week. How does Gorgoth do it?"
Running a hand across his face, leaving it even dirtier than it had been before, Ilend shrugged. "He's the Hero of Kvatch," he sighed. "It's what he does."
"He's not the only hero in this country, ya know..." Aerin observed.
Ilend nodded. "There are hundreds of them," he agreed. "Hundreds, like you or me, or these guardsmen, doing their bit to save Tamriel. Hundreds of them, no matter what recognition they get. This is a time for heroes, Aerin." She slowly nodded, and they lapsed into silence as the daedra were pushed out of Skingrad and put to the sword. The price had been paid. Another Kvatch had been averted.
A/N: Another chapter, another Oblivion Gate... while it might seem that certain viewpoints are getting neglected, rest assured that they'll be back soon, I just prefer to keep things... chronological. Anyhow, don't forget to review, you know how much I appreciate them, and it doesn't have to take you long to write one.