A/N: Yes, near enough three and a half weeks. Again. I can only apologise. I WILL try harder to write faster in future. Anyhow, my review count for last chapter was below average, but thanks to those who DID review; keep that up. And for those who didn't, try reviewing. It's not hard.
Random Reader: You'll find out about Mazoga soon enough... maybe next chapter, or maybe in the next few. Dunno how exactly I'm going to spin it yet, but I DO know their past. And in the BaS universe, steel is far more common than silver; not what you'd expect a Blade to have under her pillow. And not everyone can use magicka... As for Mannimarco, the physical incarnation of him on Nirn with have near-godly powers, so he'll be pretty bloody powerful, yes.
Rokibfd: That's good to hear; I never would have rated it that highly myself, but... anyhow, you're right, I've changed that bit. And you know I like changing NPCs into major/minor characters, so, yes, I can tell you that I have plans for Mazoga...
Maverick77: Well, a few mistakes always slip through my proofreading. And, arg, that's never good to hear. Hope it gets fixed ASAP.
Underpaid Critic: Ah, I see. I get you now. It did sound a lot like a cliches when I first thought it up, but if I could pull it off well... as for cliched lines, I guess I'd better expand my reading library so I can better avoid them.
Hmm, odd. I didn't particularly like that section. Much how I don't particularly like the last section of this chapter. Odd how things work out sometimes. Anyhow, yes, Mannimarco would be an immensely powerful opponent, if I ever get the chance to spin him in somehow. Which is unlikely. As for Mazoga... I think she'll be more focused on other things now, rather than becoming a knight. I always did think that was rather unOrsiniumish of her.
Anyhow, on with the chapter. Don't forget to leave a review.
Chapter Thirty-four: Hope and Despair
The Oblivion Gate to the east of Leyawiin crumbled into nothingness. Three elves stumbled out of it, the pounding rain relieving their hot flesh and attacking the blood and grime ingrained in their armour and skin. The ground around them was relatively clear of corruption; no daedra had fallen near the portal. "Well, that was fun," observed Dralasa brightly as she stepped away from the closed Gate. The Dunmer was ignoring the numerous bloody rips in her dress and the accumulated filth of battle covering her body; fortunately, Lurog had brought an ample supply of healing potions for all three of them, and even Dralasa's insignificant skill with Restoration was enough to heal shallow wounds.
"Fun?" growled Mazoga, running her gauntleted finger down the edge of her ebony longsword to check for any chips. Her armour was even more dented than it had been before; an armourer's services would be required before she saw any more strenuous action. "Sure, it was good fighting, but fun?" The Orc snorted. "Dral, you are depraved."
"We all knew that," muttered Lurog, wiping brain matter off his mace and striding towards Leyawiin. "Looks like the daedra have made some progress, at least." Bodies of the dead carpeted the ground before the walls, but the gates had been smashed in. Shouts and ringing of steel on steel confirmed that the fighting was still ongoing. The Orc's shield was battered and his chainmail was torn in several places, but Wrothgarian steel was among the strongest in Tamriel. It would suffice. "Take two minutes, then we'll enter the city."
The two Orcs instantly slumped down onto the grass and relaxed, but Dralasa was far less fatigued than either of them; she was unencumbered with heavy armour and had escaped the strain of physical fighting, almost all of which ad been taken care of by her more martial comrades, though it was fair to say that their victory was mainly down to her. She walked off in the direction of a small pool of water and dipped her bare feet in, smiling as the cold water chilled her worn, hot feet. The Dunmer didn't even care when an inquisitive frog started poking at her big toe as she looked around, squinting towards Leyawiin. Satisfied that the city wasn't yet on fire, she sat down at the pond's edge and laid her legs along the bottom of the pond, letting the water come up to her knees. The soothing sensation spread.
Boots thumping on the grass put an end to it. "Come on, Dral," growled Lurog, offering her his hand. "You still have enough magicka left to devastate the daedra if you hit them in the back." The Dark Elf sighed, rolled her eyes, and accepted his hand, flicking water with every step she took.
Mazoga was squinting at Leyawiin's skyline. They had been in Oblivion for hours – the grey of dawn was tinting the sky behind them – but the daedra, from what she could tell from outside, hadn't made much headway yet. Leyawiin's troops were far from the worst in the province – with the history of insurgency in the area, they were among the most experienced – but the daedra would always have physical superiority, as well as strength in numbers. "How long d'you reckon they can hold out?" she asked Lurog as the three of them started marching for the East Gate.
"It depends," responded the other warrior. "I cannot say for sure how long we were in Dagon's realm. Just prepare for the worst." Mazoga nodded and drew her sword once again. They were closer to the gates, and had to keep stepping around arrow-ridden Daedric corpses. Dralasa grimaced; whenever she stepped in one of the many puddles of blood, the sanguine liquid splashed her legs. By the time they reached the gates – which were hanging limply from their mighty hinges – her lower legs and the hem of her knee-length dress were more red than blue.
The sounds of battle reached them from through the gateway, but their path was partially blocked by piles of bodies. This was where the Leyawiin City Watch had mounted their main defence, and both attackers and defenders had fallen in their hundreds. Lurog and Mazoga forced a way through to the street beyond, shoving the corpses out of the way as Dralasa followed in their wake.
Fighting was going on in every direction; the daedra had pushed their way down every side street available to them as the City Watch doggedly attempted to hold their ground. The invaders were paying in blood for every inch of Leyawiin they took, but despite their horrendous casualties, they were pushing onwards with ferocity. The defenders lines were thin on several fronts; in some places, a few more daedra into the breach would shatter them. Lurog's experienced eyes evaluated the situation within seconds. "Mazoga, you and me will charge the Daedric rear down that street," he said, pointing down one of the wider streets; this one led to the nearby castle and thus was under heavy attack. "You know that both of us attacking their rear will be worth ten in the battle line. Dral, do what you do best and sow chaos everywhere you can."
"No encouragement needed," giggled Dralasa as she started walking down the main street. Within seconds, four lightning bolts had rent the Daedric ranks, and ball lightning scythed down scores more. Lurog and Mazoga were already charging in the other direction, silently falling upon the daedra who were on the verge of breaking the Watch's line. By the time their enemies realised the threat, the two Orcs had felled six of them, and their weapons ruthlessly hacked down several more. The mauled City Watch, seeing this unexpected aid, gave a roar and forced themselves forward, laying into the invaders with renewed vigour.
The street leading to the castle was rapidly cleared of the enemy, and the two Orcs, not resting on their laurels, were turning back to find another street to repeat the tactic when two Storm Atronachs unleashed chain lightning at the entire squad. Up on the walls, the Daedric commander - a Markynaz - had been directing his forces and had quickly sent the two Atronachs he had in reserve to the trouble spot. Their attacks blasted the squad apart, but the bolts had landed beyond the Orcs, who were merely slammed into a nearby building with enough force to crack the timbers.
Lurog groaned and forced himself to his feet. Searing pain across his side indicated a broken rib, but for now he concentrated on pushing himself onwards towards the Atronachs. Most of the Watch behind him had been killed, and Mazoga was struggling to rise. Before the daedra could finish the job, however, two large fireballs blew them to pieces. Dralasa stepped into the mouth of the street and somewhat impatiently beckoned her comrades onwards. Beyond her, several squads of guardsmen rushed past, the battle cry of "Leyawiin!" tearing from their throats as they threw their weight into several isolated skirmishes.
The warrior grunted and turned back to Mazoga, gripping her elbow and forcing her to her feet. She muttered something unintelligible and grabbed her sword from the ground. Ignoring the pain from his broken rib, Lurog was already running towards the fighting. The Markynaz had descended from the wall and was leading his bodyguard to the stiffest fighting, where the Watch, reinforced by reserves and the local Fighter's Guild, was driving a wedge in the chaotic jumble of the Daedric battle line.
"I'm almost out of magicka. Time for you to do the heavy lifting," remarked Dralasa as Lurog and Mazoga joined her, a few steps back from the melee. The fighting had been pushed back towards the Gate, with dead from both sides littering the battlefield all around them. A summoned shortsword was gripped in Dralasa's right hand, but should the daedra break through, she was barely capable of even defending herself without her magicka.
"Stay safe," grunted Lurog as he hefted his shield and stepped up to where the fighting was heaviest. The Markynaz and his bodyguard of high-ranking Dremora were cutting a swathe through the ranks of the guardsmen. Plunging his scimitar through an Imperial's stomach, the Daedric commander pushed past his victim to find his path blocked by the sturdy Orc. Finding his slash blocked by Lurog's shield, the Kynaz attempted to kick his defence aside, only to be knocked off balance by a glancing mace blow to his shoulder. As more guardsmen rushed to the area, the Markynaz snarled as he was forced onto the defensive.
Mazoga kicked a scamp off her blade and looked up just in time to duck under a wild swipe from a daedroth. The massive reptilian daedra were the prime targets for the Watch's archers; just one could cut a swathe through their ranks while being hard to take down. Already a space was opening up around the warrior and this particular specimen; neither side wanted to get in the way of those powerful claws or that massive, twitching tail. The lizard emitted a powerful roar and leapt forward, but the Orc had already ducked to the side and plunged her sword into its ribs as it blundered past. Its momentum ripped the hilt from her hands, but she didn't waste a second; without hesitation, she plucked a spear from the grasp of a dead guardsman and rammed it up against the base of the daedroth's skull. Recovering her sword, she turned in time to see a guardsman block a Dremora's attempt to stab her in the back.
Dralasa sidestepped warily along the battle line, careful to avoid tripping over bodies. She shot a suspicious glance down at the shortsword, held somewhat delicately in her untrained hand. Knowing how pitiful her chances were against even a mere Churl, the Dunmer had kept some magicka in reserve, but she was still frustratingly impotent. Her normally cheerful face contorted into a sour grimace as a lone scamp shouldered his way between two guardsmen, who were struggling to deal with some marauding clannfear.
Chattering harshly, the lesser daedra ambled forward slowly before throwing a quick fireball at the Dark Elf. Dralasa threw herself to the side, but the range was too short; the fireball caught her arm, spinning her around. She hit the ground on her back, jarring her, with a nasty burn running the entire length of her forearm. She had her Dunmeri blood to thank for the lack of greater damage, but at that moment her mind was focused purely on finding her feet before the scamp reached her. It threw itself at her just as she brought the shortsword up in a clumsy block; the scamp reeled back, yelling in pain at the cut on its arm. Dralasa, recovering from the recoil of the block, moved forward, putting most of her inconsiderable strength into an overhead cleave that the scamp was either too stupid or too slow to dodge. Her sword cut deep into its chest and lodged on a rib, stuck fast. The Dunmer hopefully yanked on the blade before realising it wouldn't come loose, and stepped back, dispelling it before the screeching scamp could gouge her eyes out.
Hastily summoning an identical shortsword, Dralasa gasped in pain as the lesser daedra, mad with pain, took mad swipes at her. One connected, cracking the elf's elbow and spinning her around. A hot poker of agony erupted down her back as the scamp's slash parted her silk dress and the skin underneath with pathetic ease. Gasping with pain, with tears blurring her vision, Dralasa turned and swiped blindly, forcing herself forward. One of the swings connected, and the Dark Elf felt resistance to her blade as sinews, muscle and bone ruptured under the sharp daedric steel of her summoned shortsword. The scamp's head rolled to the ground as Dralasa collapsed onto one knee, her features twisted with pain.
Lurog was locked in battle with the Markynaz, each warrior finding their match in the other. In Lurog's experience, killing the leader of the opposing army was normally catastrophic for morale, but he knew that daedric armies were somewhat different, and in killing the Markynaz he would only remove the threat posed by a skilled warrior. Killing him, however, was no simple matter. Lurog's mace was slower than his opponent's scimitar, and even using his shield in combination he couldn't force the Kynaz onto the defensive for long.
The Dremora spat a few words at him; Lurog knew a few words of the Kyn language, but in the heat of battle his partial knowledge deserted him, and he met the curses with a swing of his mace. The increasing crush of bodies as the battle was forced back into the narrower area near the Gate meant that the enemy commander had less room to manoeuvre, and so was obliged to block the full force of the swing with his blade. Grunting as the shock of the blow shook his entire arm, the Markynaz took a step back right into one of his Dremora, knocking him off balance momentarily. Lurog moved in and punched his shield into his opponent's face, ignoring the crunch of breaking bones to sweep his legs form under him with his mace. An eager guardsman slipped in to stab the dying Kynaz in the throat.
Everywhere the battle had turned in the favour of Leyawiin. The daedra were now compressed into a small area in front of the gate; gradually, they were surrounded, and then it was only a matter of time. They fought to the death, but eventually a ragged cheer started, soon taken up by the remaining survivors of the Watch, along with elements of the Fighters Guild and Blackwood Company that had joined in. Lurog grunted as he watched the last Dremora die, then turned and walked back out of the scrum of guards congratulating each other to find his comrades. Several guardsmen attempted to talk to him, praising him for his actions – they didn't know he'd helped close the Gate, or half of the Watch would be worshipping him – but they still knew how effective he'd been. Shaking them off, he came across Mazoga and Dralasa leaning against the side of a scarred building. The Dunmer's residual cheerfulness was unaffected despite the bloody tear down the back of her dress indicating a recently-healed wound; she was regaling Mazoga with a tale of how she's taken down nearly twenty daedra with a single spell.
The sun rose, peeking over the tops of the battered wall. It illuminated the full scale of the carnage; hundreds of bodies were heaped on the ground in the streets near the East Gate. Watch Captain Caelia Draconis, bloody sword in hand, was shouting orders and directing her men, but it was clear that the Watch had lost over half its strength in the desperate fighting. Corpses belonging to the Fighters Guild and Blackwood Company were also strewn around; they had proved invaluable, but had also paid a price. The furthest daedric corpse from the Gate had been within inches of breaking through to the Castle courtyard. Soon, the normal atmosphere of a battlefield started to thicken; the air grew heavy with the smell of blood and the cries of the wounded. People started coming out of their homes, looking around in horror at the devastation, some doing what little they could.
Lurog, Mazoga and Dralasa had long since retreated to the Five Claws Lodge, where Witseidutsei had overcome her disgust at the bloody footprints they were leaving and gave them her largest room. Lurog and Mazoga started the long process of easing themselves out of their well-used armour; in that time, Dralasa had gone out and returned with her saddlebags, two buckets of water and a sponge. She stripped naked, rolled her torn filthy clothing into a bundle and threw it into a corner, then proceeded to wash herself as thoroughly as possible. Blood and dirt-stained water immediately started pooling on the clean wood floorboards. "Witseidutsei is going to give you hell for that, Dral," remarked Mazoga, removing her breastplate and heaving it onto the double bed.
The Dark Elf shrugged, brushing her sodden red hair out of her eyes. "Meh. I ain't about to walk around Leyawiin caked in blood with my dress half ripped off." She wrinkled her nose. "You two smell like you need some of this as well," she claimed, poking one of the buckets with her foot.
Lurog snorted. "We'll be fine," he grunted. He'd removed all his chainmail and was now working his tired muscles as he lay down on the bed. "I'm going to get some rest. If I'm still sleeping in an hour, wake me up."
"You can be sure of that," murmured Dralasa, giggling slightly as the Orc sighed and relaxed. Mazoga was running a critical eye over her sword; the ebony was pitted in several places, but it was high-quality; it would survive several such engagements. The Dunmer finished washing and cast a more refined version of her well-practised heating spell to quickly dry her body. Running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to emulate a comb, the Dark Elf stepped away from the buckets and started rummaging around in the bundle that had been regurgitated from her saddlebags.
Mazoga sighed and rammed her sword back into its scabbard, easing herself down to lie on the bed beside Lurog before closing her eyes. Not designed to hold two large, wide Orcs, the bed looked decidedly cramped and overloaded. Removing a clean silk dress – this one a dark green – from her saddlebags, Dralasa smirked at the sight before realising that her own eyes were growing heavy with fatigue. Grumbling under her breath about being left without a bed, the Dunmer flopped down into a chair, swinging her legs over the arm and resting her head against the back, deciding to dress later. The combined effects of little rest and an hours-long battle through Oblivion and into Leyawiin hit home, and within minutes she had descended into the dark, warm embrace of deep sleep.
The watery morning sun failed to have any effect on most of the snow lying thick on Cloud Ruler Temple. A lot of the snow on the courtyard's training ground, however, had long since turned to muddy slush, partly due to the four braziers marking the boundaries, and partly due to the exertions of the few hardy souls sparring and training in the cold of a winter's morning. Some of the Blades on duty sometimes glanced across at them, wondering who in their right mind would practice outside instead of inside at this time of year, but for the most part they themselves concentrated on keeping warm and keeping watch.
Facing a future Emperor on a practice field wasn't something that Ilend was used to, so he had instead ignored his inherent deference to a Septim and treated Martin like any other sparring partner, though he had insisted on using wooden weapons. They bore two bruises each; the heir might have less experience, but the training he'd undergone under Lathar had certainly turned him into an effective warrior, and his natural talent had lain dormant for years. Eyeing each other warily, conscious of the sweat freezing on their bare torsos, the two Imperials slowly sidestepped, neither willing to be the first to strike. Martin's claymore had a longer reach, but counterbalancing that was his opponent's slightly faster longsword.
Ilend, the less cautious, moved forward, feinting left before slashing right. Martin anticipated the move and blocked, darting in with a kick aimed at his midsection. The Guildsman took a step backwards, yanked his opponent's leg forward, and aimed an attack at the heir's head. He ducked and put his back into a powerful cleave that smashed into Ilend's collarbone with enough force to splinter the wood. Ilend was thrown to the ground, but managed to swipe Martin's knees from under him as he fell. The breath was forced from his lungs as the other Imperial fell on top of him, exacerbating the throbbing pain that was coming from his shoulder.
Grunting, the heir pushed himself upwards and offered his sparring partner a hand, smiling. "You're a good fighter, Ilend," he remarked as he helped the swordsman to his feet. "I always like a challenge. I get the sense that a few of the Blades here go easy on me; respectful of them, but also annoying."
"Well, when you fight a man, he's not your friend. Or your Emperor," replied Ilend with a wry smile. The cold wind was hammering at the two Imperials now that they were standing still, numbing the pain from their bruises. Casual applause came from the sidelines; Aerin had joined them, swathed in a heavy cloak and standing close to a brazier. Gnaeus was on the other side of it, arms folded, adopting an air of stubborn indifference. The Bosmer smiled at Ilend and threw him his shirt, which he donned as quickly as he could without seeming unduly hasty.
"I don't see how ya can survive like that in this weather," observed Aerin, pursing her lips as her friend pulled on a heavier, thicker vest. "Not that I'm complaining about the view, though."
Gnaeus barked a laugh. "Maybe you should have paid attention to the admittedly semi-decent swordwork instead of ogling your pet oil painting, girl," he growled. He shot a sideways glance at his fellow Imperial, who was now pulling on his chainmail. "Not that he's much of an oil painting anyway."
"You're in a position to judge?" asked the archer, smirking. "Never thought you swung that way, Gnaeus."
"I've seen enough filthy pretty-boys in my time to get a good judge of their ranking system," was the immediate retort. "Gah, just thinking of those vile days in higher Breton society makes me sick. Pay wasn't worth all that political simpering."
"From what I've read, some Bretons do appear to be over-politicised," chipped in Martin, fastening his belt over his robe. "Some are very good at what they do-" this was accompanied by a significant glance at Captain Renault, who was standing on the battlements looking out over Bruma "- but from what I've heard about High Rock, people live and die by politics."
"Even the bloody servants have spies," snarled Gnaeus. "Useless whelps." He spat. The four of them moved over to the edge of the west wall, leaning on it as they looked out over the Jerall Mountains. "How's the translation going?" the old Imperial asked the heir.
The future Emperor groaned, running a hand over his forehead. "I wish you wouldn't remind me of that," he muttered. "We thought it would get easier over time, but Dagon is completely incomprehensible. I'll put in an hour later."
"Hey, don't overwork yourself, ya hear?" Aerin waggled a finger under Martin's nose. "Not only are you our only hope, but it'd be good ta see a nice bloke on that throne. So don't kill yourself." Her friendly concern brought a slight smile to the Imperial's face. On the other side of the Bosmer, Ilend successfully hid his snigger.
"A nice Emperor won't be an Emperor for very long," claimed the old hermit, harrumphing. "Haven't you been listening, girl? Politics is a cutthroat business; the Elder Council might not be as skilled as the Breton nobles, but they make up for it by wielding actual power."
"Don't remind me," sighed Martin. "I'm preparing for that, but I'd rather deal with it when it comes than be constantly reminded of it."
"I remember when I first started to command my squad in the Watch," added Ilend with a grimace. "If that was daunting, taking command of an entire Empire is... unenviable. Best of luck, though." The glare of the sun reflecting off the snow of the Jeralls was forcing the Imperial to squint as he admired the view.
"I think everyone in the Empire should take a moment to give thanks that you aren't a Septim," grated Gnaeus. The old Imperial irritably rubbed at his beard. "As for Martin, on the other hand..." he shot a sideways glance at the heir. "As for you, we've got a moderately young priest with a questionable past." He snorted. "At least it's a break from some of the boring old farts the Septim line has produced."
Martin turned to regard the older man coldly. "My ancestors had their foibles like all men, but it is not your place to judge them. You did not live in their time."
Gnaeus snorted. "All I'm doing is saying what I think. And history books can give a pretty good representation. Uriel V knew his stuff, one of the few who did. Too bad the Akaviri made a pincushion out of him."
The retort of Uriel V's descendant was cut off by the appearance of Jauffre, whose weathered face bore more lines of worry and concern than normal. "I've just received a report from Bruma," he started, after his customary salute to Martin. "It confirms what our sentries have seen recently: there's an Oblivion Gate outside Bruma."
The heir immediately turned and strode rapidly up the path to the sentry towers at the end of the fortress. He was joined by his companions as he peered grimly down at the distant swirling cauldron of fire and ash and was an Oblivion Gate. Earlier, it could have been dismissed as a normal fire from this distance, but now they knew for sure what it was, it had taken on a malevolent character that made it unmistakeable. "It looks like it's right next to the North Gate," he grated, turning to the Grandmaster. "What's the situation down there?"
"Burd reports that his men have repelled repeated attacks without loss and have contained the threat; he and the Guard were well-prepared for such an invasion." The wizened Grandmaster frowned down at the portal as though it had insulted him personally. "They might not last long, however; another may be opening soon. Burd is eager to close it, but he wants someone with experience to advise him and his men. He wanted Gorgoth, but he is... not available." Jauffre grimaced.
"I'll go," said Ilend, without hesitation. The Breton raised an eyebrow. "I've got experience," continued the Imperial. "I've been through Oblivion twice; I've led men in Oblivion, I know how the daedra operate."
"Good enough," agreed Jauffre, giving a short nod. "Burd will be providing the bulk of our force, but you'll be taking a few Blades with you."
"And me," chipped in Aerin as the leader of the Blades hurried off to muster his men. The Bosmer was already checking the edges of her shortsword and making sure her dagger was tucked firmly in her belt. "You ain't leaving me behind, that's for sure," she told him, looking up, excitement sparkling in her eyes.
Ilend grunted. "You know how dangerous it is, Aerin," he muttered. "There's going to be a lot of us. No need to risk yourself."
Aerin arched both eyebrows, her expression one of shock. "What, you're trying ta keep me out of danger?" she asked him incredulously. Martin and Gnaeus started to edge away. "Ilend, you know very well how powerful Trueshot is. And you've never tried ta keep me out of danger before." Noting his concerned expression, the Wood Elf frowned and moved closer, her voice growing softer. "Ilend, ya know ya don't need ta be worried about me."
Sighing, the Guildsman shook his head. "I know, Aerin, I know. I just wouldn't want you dying." He scratched his chin. "Come if you want," he conceded. "But you're an archer; you'll be staying behind our battle line."
"Naturally," responded the Bosmer, reaching up to give him a friendly pat on the cheek before grinning widely and dashing off towards the East Barracks. The swordsman watched her go, easing his longsword in its scabbard. His sword arm would probably ache from overuse by the end of the day.
"I'm going with you," Gnaeus told him as the old Imperial fell in beside Ilend as he made his way down to the courtyard. "You young headstrong idiots need an old-timer to make sure you don't trip over your own feet."
"Well, don't let your arthritis slow you down, old man," smirked Ilend. "Walking sticks aren't easily come by in Oblivion, I hear."
"Maybe you should be thankful; if I had my hands on one, I'd use it to beat some sense into you every few minutes. And if I actually had arthritis, maybe you might stand some chance of keeping up with me."
Ilend barked a laugh. "You beating us to the Sigil Stone? Now that I would like to see."
Gnaeus paused in the entrance to the Great Hall. "No, you won't see me for the dust, youngling," he claimed, before turning and walking in. Ilend chuckled, shaking his head before entering the East Barracks.
Aerin had thrown off her thick cloak and was busily counting the arrows in her quivers. Trueshot was already strung and leaning on the wall next to her. She looked up at his approach and smiled. "Finally we're seeing some proper action. That Ayleid ruin was a bit of a wash-out..." It indeed had been; a few inadequate skeletons had guarded what few pitiful treasures had remained. Her companion nodded in agreement and started shoving healing potions through his belt. "Hey, Ilend?"
The Imperial straightened and met her eyes as the Bosmer walked over. "I will be careful in Oblivion," she told him, her voice serious. "I know how dangerous it is. I'll be as cautious as I have to be. I promise."
Ilend smiled. "You've been though Oblivion twice before, not to mention Boethia's Tournament," he recalled. "I think you're a tough nut to crack. And we'll be there in force. Just keep your wits about you and you'll be fine."
Aerin forced a weak grin. "I'm more worried about you, guardsman," she mumbled, twisting her fingers together behind her back and looking down at her foot, which was nervously pawing at the ground. "I'll be fine behind the guardsmen, but you'll be in the front line, and... how many times have you done this and survived? Your luck has got to run out some time, Ilend, and I... don't want it to."
"Luck?" Ilend pursed his lips as he thought it over. He had been lucky, true; surviving in Oblivion was often down to luck. Had he been more lucky than most? "Don't worry about me," he told her in what he hoped was an encouraging tone of voice, gripping her shoulder firmly. "I was trained for this. I've survived, yes, and that means I'm capable of surviving whatever Dagon throws at me, right?" He put his fingers under her chin and raised her head to look her in the eyes. "Besides, I can't leave you here alone. You'd die of boredom within two weeks." His smirk alleviated some of her nervousness, and she was just about to reply when Saliith strode in.
"Good to hear we'll be kicking some more of Dagon's hordes into next week," commented the Argonian to no-one in particular as he moved over to his bedroll and started equipping his armour, a savage gleam of excitement in his eyes.
"Didn't think you'd miss out, Twitch-Tail," responded Aerin, stepping back from Ilend. The lizard idly threw one of his pauldrons over his shoulder at her. It skipped along the wood floor of the barracks several feet from the Bosmer. She snorted contemptuously. "How did you ever become Grand Champion with a throw like that?"
"Because I never had an annoying Bosmer jumping up and down on the sidelines screaming encouragement," retorted Saliith, chuckling. He tightened the straps on his scale cuirass and moved to pick up the pauldron. "I do have an annoying Bosmer, but they don't let him in the Arena. Thank Sithis for that..."
"Thank Agronak, ya mean," snorted Aerin, testing Trueshot's bowstring. "He hates that idiot even more than you do, I'll wager." She glanced over at Ilend, who had finished securing his potions and was running an expert eye over the edge of his blade. "Hey, Ilend, I need a favour."
The Imperial glanced up at her with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Sure."
She reached behind her and undid the simple band that held most of her auburn hair in its long ponytail. Her freed locks cascaded down her back. "I need your steady hand. This is getting a bit too long; it's scraping my arse, for crying out loud."
Ilend exchanged a quick glance with Saliith, who shrugged, before rising to his feet and taking a firm grip on his longsword. "I hope you don't want too much off," he said. "I'll admit that it must be annoying sometimes, having it that long, but..." his hand stopped short of fingering one of her loose tresses. "I do like it."
Aerin rolled her eyes. "So do I, guardsman," she sighed, gathering her hair and holding it in one fist, lifting it off her back. "Just take a foot off. Cut just under my hand."
Ilend muttered his assent and gripped the end of her hair in his left hand before bringing his blade down in the place she designated. The daedric steel, which could part chainmail and plate armour, cut through it cleanly and the Imperial was left holding a foot-long length of Aerin's locks. He resisted the urge to smell it and instead looked on as she angled two mirrors in order to get a look at his handiwork. After a few minutes of studying, she smiled gratefully and start securing her now mid-back length hair into its usual loose ponytail, still letting a few locks run loose over her ears and cheeks. The Guildsman curled a few individual hairs away from the auburn mass in his hands and put them into his wallet, shooting Saliith a warning glance to make the Green Tornado swallow his laugh. At that moment, Steffan walked in, putting on his helmet.
"Jauffre decided it's best for all his officers to have experience, so I'll be in overall command," he announced to all of them, checking that all four potions were secure in his belt and that his shield was firmly on his back. "We'll take a few Blades with us, but the bulk of our force will be the Bruma Guard. Let's hope your experience spreads, you two..." his gaze took in both Ilend and Aerin, who had two gates apiece. "Normally, Selene would be coming with us, and she's got a lot of experience, but Martin won't allow it. She's been translating for the past hour, and he says her going into a Gate might well kill her."
The swordsman pounded a fist into his palm in frustration. "Mages are worth several good men," he growled. "Selene would really reduce our butcher's bill. Do we have any other mages?"
Steffan nodded. "We're in luck. The Bruma branch of the Mages Guild was destroyed recently, but there's one of their number still in town. A higher rank – a Warlock, apparently – and a damned good mage, if she's to be believed."
"We'll be the judge of that," commented Aerin. "When do we leave?"
"Now," replied the Knight Captain. "As well as you lot, I'm taking Glenroy, Caroline, Pelagius and Roliand. That'll stiffen the core of our forces, if need be. Come on, waste no time." The Imperial secured his helmet strap and walked out into the courtyard. Ilend checked his sword and potions before following him. Saliith shrugged on a cloak and joined the Imperial in ducking out of the doorway, with Aerin following seconds later, wrapped in an even thicker cloak, which would be discarded the moment they reached Bruma's North Gate.
The five Blades, along with Gnaeus, Martin and Jauffre, were already at the head of the steps leading down to the Gate. "You all know how vital Bruma is to the defence of Cloud Ruler Temple," Jauffre was saying, his thin voice still carrying clearly over the wind despite his age. "Failure may well result in the deaths of us all. Come back to us in victory, and may your blades find their targets." The Grandmaster paused to salute each Blade as they started off down the steps. "May Talos guide you," he finished, his voice a whisper.
Having risen over carnage in Leyawiin, it seemed fitting that the sun should set over even greater carnage. The damage to the East Gate had been hastily repaired, and the hundreds of dead guardsmen laid out in rows for burial. There had been no celebration – too many had died – but the Watch had still been relaxed, sure that they had seen off the threat. So when a second Oblivion Gate opened outside the West Gate, it had sparked mass panic. Troops had rushed to hold the Gate, but the ground was swiftly growing as red as the sky above, which completely obscured the setting sun.
"Hold the line, you filthy weaklings!" roared Lurog, pushing a couple of wavering guardsmen back into the tenuous battle line that was barely managing to contain the hordes of daedra pouring out of the Gate. Watch Captain Draconis had been wounded by an arrow early on, and so had been evacuated to the Chapel with the rest of the wounded to join most of the population of Leyawiin, who were cowering on the holy ground in the hope of protection. Of the three remaining Watch Sergeants, two were incompetent and one had gone mad, hewing his way through several daedra before a blow to his head had knocked him unconscious. The Orc didn't hesitate as he stepped up to take command; he'd never commanded infantry before, but at least he was better than spineless idiots.
"They're not going to hold much longer," observed Mazoga, standing next to him. Her left arm was hanging limp; her shoulder had been torn open by a daedroth and there were no healers left. She was ignoring the blood running down her arm, however, and would fight to the last no matter what; her sword arm still worked fine. Her words were true, however; the Watch's battle line was bulging outwards at several places, threatening to shatter. Lurog had ordered Dralasa to hold back a short distance down the street; she still had some magicka left, but he wanted to use that in reserve to deal with any breakthrough, and she was the last remaining mage available. The Leyawiin Mages Guild, specialising in Mysticism, was of little real use in a battle of this magnitude, particularly as the only one competent in Destruction was insane nearly all of the time. Most of the mages were in the chapel helping the healers, ordered there by a Watch Sergeant who had no concept of how Mysticism worked; a few choice telekinesis spells could have wrought havoc in the daedric waves.
The temporary commander of the forces of Leyawiin sighed, gripping his mace tighter. He ordered what few reserves he had to one of the danger zones, but could do nothing about the other. Jerking his head towards it, he started jogging over with Mazoga in tow before a battle cry stopped him in his tracks. The Orc raised an eyebrow as Count Marius Caro, equipped in a suit of steel plate armour and roaring insults at the invaders of his city, led a small retinue of bodyguards into the fray where the fighting was hardest, making an immediate impact as his sword cleaved a scamp's skull in two. A ragged cheer went up as the surrounding guardsmen realised their Count was fighting among them, a cheer that soon spread throughout the Watch. The surge in morale stiffened their resolve, and they fought even harder.
However, heroics would not be enough; the Watch was quite clearly losing. Daedra kept pouring in through the West Gate, replacing the scores who were falling to the blades of the mortal soldiers. Count Caro's appearance had driven the daedra back in that section, but they were soon attacking with ferocity, swarming around the Count and cutting down his retainers. The Count himself was a surprisingly effective warrior, but eventually he met his match in a Dremora and went down with his stomach opened. Around him, the guardsmen surged forward, dragging their leader back out of the fray before two of them carried him into the Chapel for treatment.
Lurog forced himself into the fray, throwing back a Dremora with a shield bash then shattering another Kynaz's spine with an upwards swing to the groin. Beside him, Mazoga leapt to defend his back from a clannfear, groaning as she barged into it with her wounded left side, but managing to slice one of its claws off. It shrieked in pain and rage before it was pushed aside by a daedroth. The warrior slammed his mace sideways into its ribs, throwing it off-balance enough for his companion to leap at it and sink her blade up to the hilt into its chest. Unable to withdraw it quickly enough, she let out an involuntary grunt of pain as she followed it down and landed on her left shoulder. Lurog quickly dragged her up and pulled her back out of the battle line.
Her face was a lighter green than usual; the blood was still flowing down her arm, and her comrade gave her a choice of walking to the chapel on her own two feet, or having him carry her in after she fainted from the blood loss. Mazoga growled insults under her breath, but acquiesced when she saw that he was quite ready to carry her to the chapel even before she lost consciousness. The Orcish warrior turned back to the battle line in time to see it sunder in three places. Lightning bolts immediately struck into the mass of daedra, throwing corpses into the air, but Dralasa's magic could not hold them all back, and the battle line shattered. The discipline of the guards now counted for nothing as they were forced into individual duels, in which the daedra ruled. Mercenaries of the Guild and the Company were more individually skilled, but their numbers were still too low to have much affect. Lurog snarled as several Dremora rushed towards him. The Watch was being slaughtered. He would be among the dead, though he would sell his life dearly. Leyawiin had fallen, to be ravaged under the light of the moons...
The moons? The warrior looked up, eyes growing wide. Masser and Secunda were shining brightly through patchy cloud cover overhead. The sky was peaceful, a direct contrast to the raging inferno of black and red that it had been moments ago. Stopping in their advance towards him, the Dremora ignored the battle around them and turned as one towards the West Gate. Most of their comrades, excepting the few engaged in combat, emulated them.
In the centre of the empty gateway, amid the ruins of the destroyed gate, stood Gorgoth gro-Kharz. His usual battle snarl was firmly planted on his face, and a blood-splattered Blood King pulsed darkly in his right hand. As the battle petered out – most of the defenders were dead or watching Gorgoth with nearly as much apprehension as their enemies – the warrior-shaman slowly extended his left arm, palm facing downwards. An eerie calm spread over the battlefield.
Lurog narrowed his eyes and stared at the Leyawiin flag over the gateway; minutes ago, it had been hanging limply, but now it was straining at its pole. He felt nothing from where he was, halfway to the chapel. Apparently, the daedra were feeling it; several were looking around uneasily, raising hands in defence, leaning as though fighting a heavy wind. The flagpole snapped and the flag of Leyawiin was sucked into what seemed to be a swirling maelstrom of timbers, dead leaves, severed limbs, all spinning in a whirlpool in the air.
The first screams started as lesser daedra were swept off their feet by the ever-increasing wind, which was now howling louder than the inhabitants of Leyawiin ever had. Soon even the massive daedroths were being sucked in, along with every other living thing in the area, including a few unlucky guardsmen. Storm Atronachs were ripped apart, the flying stones killing many before they even reached the whirlwind. A few daedra and several guards got out of the danger zone in time before the nearby shadows were banished and the entire city was lit up as the air caught fire. Lurog threw his arm up to protect his eyes as the intensity of the fire reached him, boiling him in his armour and forcing him to stagger back.
It only lasted for a few seconds before burning out, leaving the Orc blinking as the afterimage slowly faded. Hundreds of daedra had been caught up in Gorgoth's spell. All that was left was a large mound of ash. The warrior-shaman calmly walked through it, displacing the grey remnants of what was once an army. For a few moments, everyone was stunned into silence. Then the first cheers rattled from the dry throats of the remaining guardsmen. Of the daedric remnants, most of the lesser daedra panicked and were cut down by the invigorated Watch. A squad of several Dremora united and moved to stand in Gorgoth's path. Lurog moved to help him, but his friend noticed him and waved him back, setting his feet firmly.
The six Kynaz – knowing their fate, with nothing to lose – charged, yelling useless insults. Gorgoth responded with a long, loud wordless roar, the power of which shook several timbers in nearby half-burnt buildings. The Dremora hesitated for a split-second, and the warrior-shaman took the opportunity. A dark disturbance in the air around the head of Blood King was the only warning to the Dremora who blocked the Orc's attack with his longsword; the blade was shattered along with most of the Kynaz's arm as he was thrown into the air, eventually landing at a guardsman's feet. Another opponent was dispatched with a simple blow to the chest, obliterating most of his torso, while three more were victims of chain lightning unleashed from the warrior-shaman's free hand. The remaining Dremora, grimacing but bravely attempting an attack, found himself smashed into the ground with enough force to drive him two feet into the earth.
Gorgoth looked up and met Lurog's eyes. There was fatigue spread throughout the warrior-shaman's demeanour – no-one could close and Oblivion Gate and destroy a daedric army without getting tired – but he masked most of it quickly and walked up to lay a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "A soldier arrived in Bravil this morning with a blown horse," he explained, his voice tired. "I abused Vorguz brutally in order to get here as fast as I could; I may have crippled him."
"Had you come ten minutes later, Leyawiin would have been ablaze," responded Lurog, sagging as the adrenaline leaked out of him, exposing him to the raw fatigue that was gnawing at him. "As it is, its people have paid a price in blood. Another Gate opening now would doom us all. Even you are not immortal."
He was right. There were not more than twenty guardsmen and a handful of mercenaries left outside the Chapel, and none were in any mood to celebrate; most had collapsed from exhaustion where they stood, and some few had trudged over to the chapel. Some more brave souls were filing out already, the joy on their faces fading as they took in the carnage that had befallen their city. Count Caro, stripped of his armour, stumbled down the chapel steps on the arm of one of his retainers, looking blankly at the piles of dead, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the blood-soaked field. In some places, the smell would never truly leave. Leyawiin was saved, but, like Kvatch, Dagon had left his imprint.
The Sigil Keep dominated this particular Plane of Oblivion; there were no other towers in sight, just endless, blasted plains of scorched earth and craggy rocks. It looked ideal for a large battle, but in fact the fighting was being done by a comparatively small detachment of the Bruma Guard, forty men strong with attached Blades and others. Captain Burd's strategy was working so far; using smaller groups had resulted in heavy casualties in other Gates in the past, but a sizeable force was able to dispatch daedric patrols easily. It had been split into two sections; Burd led the larger, consisting of thirty men, while Steffan commanded the Blades along with their 'attached others', supplemented by a few guardsmen and the Warlock from the Mages Guild.
Her name was Merissa. A somewhat chequered and highly eventful career had propelled her up the ranks in a remarkably short time, though her considerable magical ability – she was skilled with all schools, and masterful in Mysticism and Restoration – had clearly helped. She'd already proved invaluable, healing many crippling wounds and devastating daedra with elemental spells, but apart from her name and rank barely anything was known about her; the slender Altmer had been distant, even managing to seem distracted in the Deadlands. Despite the heat and her thick blue robe that marked her membership of the Guild, sweat never trickled down that heart-shaped face, and her honey-coloured hair remained neatly ordered in a multitude of thin braids that reached her shoulder blades. However, eccentricity was to be expected in the Guild, and as long as the High Elf kept up her support, her comrades didn't mind the fact that she rarely spoke more than a sentence to them at a time. Mostly, she kept muttering to herself under her breath in a foreign tongue.
Leaving a trail of daedric corpses in their wake, the two squads rejoined at the edge of what appeared to be a wide belt of open land stretching out nearly to the base of the Sigil Keep. Significant to the two captains was the complete lack of enemy patrols and the numerous short black spires jutting out from the otherwise flat landscape. More curious were the odd small, round objects that seemed to dot the plain. Four black prongs curled inwards towards a flame-coloured centre, and the entire thing appeared to be made of obsidian. Burd looked at one curiously for a few minutes, before taking a few steps toward it. As he approached, it leapt into the air, a light clanking noise apparent as it started to spin. The Nord staggered back, but too late; the disc exploded, sending a sizeable fireball towards him. Merissa's shield only just got between them in time.
"We have to get across an entire plain filled with those things?" asked Steffan, talking to no-one in particular, his face growing grim behind the anonymous cheek guards of his helmet.
"Well, I don't see any other way forward," sighed Ilend, scratching at the back of his head irritably. "You got any ideas, Merissa? This seems to be more in your domain than ours."
The High Elf blinked and stepped forward, her hazel eyes sweeping the terrain ahead. "Yes," she said simply. Her right hand whipped up, red Conjuration magic swirled around her arm, and two Flame Atronachs appeared in front of her, causing half the force to adopt a fighting stance before they realised the daedra were on their side. Ignoring the apprehension of her comrades, the Warlock pointed out in the direction of the minefield. The two Atronachs turned and, with a few feet separating them, started jogging across the plain. The mines in or around their path mines leapt up and discharged, but the fire merely seemed to invigorate them.
Burd nodded in appreciation. "I like it," he muttered. "Nice and simple." Turning to his men, his voice rose as he barked orders. "Single file. No deviating from the line. Follow the man in front of you. I don't want anyone getting fireballed." He led the way, waving for Merissa to follow him. "Shield us if one gets activated," he told her in a somewhat quieter voice, getting a distant nod in reply.
The Guard Captain did not have to fear for his men. Unwilling to be killed by what appeared to be a simple rock, they stayed in a rigid formation, slowly following the path the Atronachs had carved, keeping well to the centre of the passage. "I think we might be staying like this for a while," observed Aerin, keeping a hand on Ilend's shoulder to help her keep pace with the column, all of whom had longer legs than her. Behind her, Gnaeus snorted.
"Be thankful for the break, girl," he barked. "While this is boring, I'm sure you'll agree it's better than the chaos of close-range battle, the sort you'll get in that tower." The Sigil Keep was drawing closer with agonising slowness. His boot clipped the back of the Bosmer'sheel. "Come on, show a leg, girl. You wouldn't want this entire column trampling over you."
The Wood Elf rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath. Behind Gnaeus, Saliith was more preoccupied with the fact that his tail was refusing to consistently obey him, much to the consternation of the guardsman behind him. Up ahead, Steffan, walking behind Merissa, had given up attempting to understand her scattered random mutterings. He never had been good with languages. The two Flame Atronachs had long faded from existence, back to their own plane of the Deadlands. Which was hopefully not this one.
A new danger presented itself in the form of a nearby spire; the hot tip, looking similar to one of those mines, started spinning as the mortal column approached, emitting a louder clanking noise. It spat forth a ball of fire which impacted near the front, blasting four guardsmen out of the line and into the minefield. Those who hadn't died instantly were finished off by the several mines that activated, blowing their bodies to pieces. Burd snarled in anger at the relative helplessness of his men as Merissa blocked several more incoming projectiles.
"Can't you destroy that thing?" asked Steffan, glowering warily at the tower. Merissa nodded and extended a hand, Destruction magicka glowing a dark red in her palm. A grinding sound preceded the shattering of the head of the spire, the magical shield keeping the fragments from harming the soldiers.
"I hate those things already," snarled Burd, motioning for the column to resume their advance.
They made it across the plain without further incident, leaving four destroyed towers in their wake. The Sigil keep was closing, looming overhead, but the squad – having split into two again – had some rough terrain to traverse, and enemy patrols were certain.
"I don't like this place," growled Steffan as the tail end of the other squad disappeared behind a large rock formation. "Too good for ambushes for my liking. They could have archers and mages on every rock."
"They probably do, so keep that infernal racket down," warned Gnaeus. Steffan turned slightly purple, but ignored the old man's impertinence; the situation was too serious, and, besides, he was right. "That goes for you two as well," the hermit continued, turning to point a gnarled finger at Ilend and Aerin. "Don't think I didn't see you two flirting on the walk over. If you're going to start screwing in Oblivion, do it out of earshot."
"You appear to be breaking your own rule of 'keep that infernal racket down', Gnaeus," observed Saliith innocently, fervently hoping that the sharp-tongued Imperial would succeed in making it through Dagon's realm without being killed by either daedra or his increasingly annoyed comrades.
"Quiet!" snapped Glenroy, who was in the lead. He held up a clenched fist and slowly raised five fingers, lowered them and made a motion to the left, then raised three fingers. Fifteen enemies up ahead. The Imperial – who had quietly stolen Goldbrand from Martin's study without anyone noticing, in a similar fashion to what Baurus had done once – crouched behind a rock, peering out at the enemy as he was joined by Steffan. Fifteen Dremora, spread out in a line, were combing the terrain, their deep red eyes constantly searching.
"We can take them," muttered the Knight Captain, awkwardly crawling backwards to join his force. They were equal in number to the Dremora, but one of them was a powerful Altmeri mage who could dispatch them all with little effort. However, he told her to save her magicka and ordered his men to hinge themselves on the rock formation to their right, sweeping around to hit the Kyn head-on. He emulated his soldiers and lifted his shield into a fighting position, drawing his katana. Glenroy, beside him, did the same, but left Goldbrand sheathed for the moment; the light could give away their position. Placing himself at the far left of the line, Steffan checked that his men were in a good order of battle – Merissa was staying behind the line, ready to send a few lightning bolts at the enemy before the clash – before motioning for them to advance.
They'd barely formed up in time. The Dremora quickly drew into sight, the more alert Kyn raising the alarm and drawing their weapons. Almost as one, the two opposing sides let their battle cries fly from their throats and charged. Aerin shot down one with an arrow through his throat, while two lightning bolts from Merissa struck down five Dremora, their shattered bodies flying into the air and bouncing off the rocks. Then the lines closed and she watched the melee unfold dispassionately.
Steffan's shield got in the way of his opposite number's mace, but he felt the entire shock travel up his arm and staggered backwards. The Imperial grimaced; it had been decades since he'd last been in the field, and if he was making recruit mistakes like blocking a mace when he could dodge then he had give himself a kick up the arse. Advancing, the Dremora raised his mace for an overhead attack, only to find his arm held there by his opponent's extended shield as the Imperial attempted to run him through. Skipping backwards so the thrust glanced off his plate, the Dremora brought the mace down, swinging at Steffan as he advanced, but the Knight Captain dropped a shoulder and moved just enough to dodge the heavy head. As it hit the ground, he stamped on the Kynaz's weapon hand and decapitated him with one strong swing.
Most of the Dremora lay dead or dying. Outnumbered, they had succumbed quickly to the mortals, leaving only one wound as their legacy. This wound – a deep gash on a Nordic Bruma guardsman's forearm – was swiftly healed by Merissa. Any surviving Kyn were swiftly and mercifully finished off instead of being left to die slow deaths and the squad continued on towards the Sigil Keep.
The two squads met up again at the base of the tower, minus four casualties from Burd's section; resistance had been stiff. Upon clearing the ground floor of the Keep, the Guard Captain organised his men into four different sections, each to make their way up their tower to the Sigil Stone. Anything more than a squad of ten would have difficulty fighting effectively together in the tight corridors. They set off in different directions, each with a good chance of overcoming whatever the daedra threw at them.
Gnaeus, Saliith and Caroline led seven Bruma Guardsman up the narrow ramp that spiralled around the very edge of the Sigil Keep, on the outside. If logic was to be believed, this would be a more direct route to the Sigillum Sanguis, with fewer diversions or opposition. However, Dagon had never been known for his logic, and it wasn't long before daedra started pouring from a side passage.
Saliith immediately leapt into the fray, a throwing knife taking a Flame Atronach in the neck as his shortswords turned aside a Dremora's swing. Ducking under another attack, he swung upwards with both swords; the Kynaz was only able to dodge one of them, the other taking chunk out of his neck. Snarling as his severed blood vessels started spurting blood, his opponent threw himself at the Grand Champion, hoping to break him by smashing him down the ramp, but only succeeded in sealing his fate as the Argonian tripped him up. No time to relax; he was forced to sidestep quickly in order to avoid a lunge by a scamp, who had its spine severed seconds later by Caroline's katana. "You're welcome," she told him, her voice light given the situation as she turned to block a Dremora's broadsword with her shield.
Gnaeus, who throughout the Oblivion Crisis had refused to don armour over his brown wool tunic, was once again defying his years by darting around to dodge a daedroth's wild swings. One such swing caught a Bruma Guardsman in the navel, and he was thrown back down the ramp with a gurgling scream as his entrails showered themselves over his comrade's heads. Gnaeus used the opening to lunge forward and sink his blade up to the hilt in the lizard's thick hide, ignoring the blood spurting over his hands as his weapon pumped in time to the daedroth's heart. He rapidly withdrew his blade and backed away as the mortally wounded creature sank to the floor, its tail thrashing.
Wincing at the heat emanating from the Flame Atronach that was trying to hug him, Saliith stabbed it in the chest with both shortswords and screamed in agony as his arms caught fire, throwing down his superheated blades as the Atronach crumbled. Frantically attempting to beat out the flames, he was surprised by Caroline applying a weak frost spell to the area, leaving him with nothing but some very painful burns. "Just about the only magic I'm capable of," she shrugged, sheathing her katana after cleaning it on a scamp's hide. Realising that the fight was over, Saliith nodded his thanks and downed a powerful healing potion.
Much of the same followed; they moved methodically up the tower, dispatching daedra that periodically attacked them. Fortunately, the Bruma Guard, forewarned, had come well-stocked with potions, and as there were three other squads in the Sigil Keep, the daedra could not concentrate as much on one; they had to split their forces, thus weakening their defence. Gnaeus remarked that they would probably be fortifying the Sigillum Sanguis heavily, but Caroline countered that by pointing out that the mortals would be back at full strength for that assault. Losses were relatively light; by the time they had almost reached the top of the Keep, they'd only lost two Guardsmen.
A door at the end of the passage led them back out into the central column, around the spire of pure magicka. After so long in the comparatively dark tunnels, most of the squad shielded their eyes, but Caroline managed to make out another squad above on the opposite ledge, finishing off a token daedric attempt at stopping them. They met just as Aerin pushed the last Dremora off the ledge, the Kynaz roaring in defiance rather than fear as he fell to his death and painful rebirth.
"Steffan and Merissa are ahead of us for sure," Roliand told Gnaeus as they started off up the ledge. "They'll probably wait for us before trying to get the stone, though. That High Elf can certainly carve through their ranks." The Nordic Knight Brother grunted in admiration then got back on with business. "Burd, Ilend, Glenroy and Pelagius are somewhere below us; they had the stiffest resistance, we heard." Aerin's face tightened as she looked down the open space around the column of magicka, attempting to locate the named squad on one of the ledges.
"Well, if they get left behind, it's their own fault," grunted Gnaeus, striding on ahead and grumbling to himself. Roliand – who had been sensitive ever since the death of his friend Haesmar – recoiled, then fell back into the ranks, growling slightly. Caroline shot him a sympathetic don't mind him look.
The doors to the Sigillum Sanguis were surrounded by soldiers, awaiting the word of their commander to break in and put an end to the battle. All were tense, and two moved to attack Gnaeus before recognising him, moving aside to let the two squads pass. Steffan – who was resting with a boot on the back of a dead Dremora – nodded to them in greeting as he swigged from his canteen. "None dead here," he reported, as he took the news of four dead between the two squads stoically. "Merissa's pretty good at breaking up attacks." The Altmer in question was leaning on the rail at the edge of the ledge, staring at nothing in particular.
"Well, I just hope she's got some magicka left," observed Saliith, leaning on the wall next to the nearest entrance to the Sanguis and taking out his canteen. "Here's hoping Burd and the rest make it through."
Gnaeus harrumphed. "We don't need them, lizard-rat," he growled, spitting into the column of magicka. "Near enough twenty men and a mage are enough to storm that place."
"Well, now you've got near enough thirty," rumbled Burd as he led his somewhat more ragged column up the ledge towards them. "Three dead," he reported. "Bastards fought tooth and nail. A minute's rest, and we'll be ready to end this."
"Twenty-five men and a mage to take a single Sigil Stone..." mused Steffan. "No arguing over the honours, people," he told them, smirking. He turned to one of the doors and forced it open, cautiously poking his helmeted head through. After half a minute, he stepped through fully and motioned for his men to join him. Burd took the other half round to the other door on the opposite side of the tower, taking Merissa with him.
Roliand was the first man to stride into the Sigillum Sanguis proper, and was promptly hit by a Silence spell flung by a Dremora mage in the upper levels. This affected the big Nord even less than the bite of a flea would, and he roared as he plunged into a melee with several daedra. Within seconds, the rest of the mortal invaders had joined him. Merissa, safely concealed by a chameleon spell, kept up several shields to stop magic from decimating the ranks as they slowly pushed back the waves of daedra eagerly snapping and swinging at them.
Gnaeus had been right; this was by far the heaviest resistance they received. However, he had also been right by saying that twenty men, supported by a mage, could storm the place; protected on his left by Ilend's sword, and on his right by Roliand's shield, the old man could concentrate on cleaving through daedric flesh and bone with minimal risk to himself. Parrying a Dremora's lunge, he watched as it was knocked off balance by a swift blow by Roliand, then moved forward himself and stabbing downwards through his armpit to finish the job. A collection of screams marked the place where a daedroth had charged into the fray and sent six men flying, one of them with a shattered ribcage. It was swiftly neutralised by a surgical bolt of lightning from Merissa.
Glenroy, wielding Goldbrand with the experience of long years with a katana, severed a Dremora's leg and leapt forward, swinging the blazing blade in a wide arc, cutting down several unfortunate daedra. Bruma guardsmen rushed in to fill the void, smoothly turning to flank those oppressing their comrades on either side. This breakthrough meant the invaders were surging towards one set of steps, their counterparts forming a rearguard. Saliith, the most agile there, avoided a clannfear leaping at him and started sprinting up the steps, pushing off two Dremora who stood in his way. At the top he was confronted by a mage; he now had no more protection from the shields of Merissa, but he need not have worried; she was systematically cleaning the upper levels with accurate bolts of lightning and frost. As this particular Dremora lowered his staff to aim at the Argonian, he was forcefully thrown into the wall, his body smoking, by her ball lightning.
Dashing to the ramp leading to the Sigil Stone, the Green Tornado's progress was finally blocked by a Xivilai. Casually batting two throwing knives aside with telekinesis, the ash-skinned daedra's battleaxe cleaved through the air towards Saliith with rapid progress that belied the weapon's weight. As he rolled out of the way, the Xivilai managed to change the axe's flight path so that it merely grazed the ground instead of being embedded in it and was able to block the Argonian's double-bladed riposte. As he prepared for another attack, the daedra staggered sideways, one of Aerin's arrows jutting from his ribcage. The Bosmer had just ascended the steps and was lining up another shot, but a screeching clannfear leapt from above and knocked her off-balance, sending her plummeting back down below. Saliith had already sunk his blades deep into the wounded Xivilai's chest and shoved him out of the way, running up the ramp towards his prize.
It was guarded by a Dremora. A high-ranking Dremora, given the size of his horns. Drawing a massive warhammer from his back, he stepped towards the incoming Argonian, only to find himself the victim of a swift sliding tackle that knocked him off his feet. He got up instantly, but the damage was done; Saliith had plucked the Sigil Stone from the spire of magicka. Howling with rage at the defeat, the Kynaz rushed towards him, only for Saliith to frustrate him by dancing out of the way, staying out of reach until the fires consumed both of them.
Several of those in the plane of Oblivion had closed Gates before, but not with so many men with them. It seemed that the teleportation magic was crude; it simply dumped them outside in front of the gate, regardless of numbers. Thus, Aerin could only wheeze helplessly until Burd hauled his considerable bulk off her, having fallen on top of her. Gnaeus, in the same position, growled and shoved another hapless Bruma guardsman off him and stood up, brushing at some dust on his tunic.
Burd walked forward and raised his sword in a clenched fist. Cheers of victory rang out from the survivors, from the defenders, from the guardsmen lining the city wall above them. Some of their number would never return, but in comparison to the bloodbath at Kvatch, in comparison to the hard battle at Skingrad, eighteen men was a small price to pay to close one Oblivion Gate. Now that they had defied Dagon, they knew they could do it again.
A/N: OK, quite an action-filled chapter, but you'll get some more plot soon enough. Leaving a review will always help.