A/N: It's been a while since my last update, yes, but... well, I don't really have any excuses, so I'll just try to get my focus back for the next chapter. Anyhow, thanks to everyone who reviewed; they most definitely help with motivation.
Simple Thought: Well, you know Gorgoth says never to underestimate anything... well, his six-year-old self clearly underestimated a pond. Saliith's on a losing streak? No one informed me...
Yes, I like Oreyn. Hope I managed to keep him in-character this chapter as well. There were a few areas that I have suspicions about... Gnaeus, swiping Sinweaver? The man's got a tongue, but he's no thief. And as for those Daedra... read on. And yes, I most definitely approve of your review.
Rokibfd: Metaphorical, literal, whatever; yes, expect a lot of battles to happen as the fic nears its end. Only logical, really. Yes, he's an onion, and yes, most of his past is unexplained. And a lot will remain unexplained until he chooses to reveal it. He's a private bloke. As for Azani's army, Gnaeus and Lurog scouted it in Chapter 28. That's how they know the troop numbers. Thanks for the review. Hope I don't disappoint.
Random Reader: Yeah, you could say that. And while Dremora are powerful, I can't see a few of them sneezing on an army and killing all of them. Yes, Azani's powerful, and he's meant to be. Always felt that he should be tougher than he was ingame. And as for Skyrim, fear not; I've already started planning my Skyrim fic, though obviously it won't be around for quite a while. And that sounds like something Gorgoth would do...
Underpaid Critic: I have no idea what that French phrase means, but I assume it means I'm doing something right. Always good to hear. Hope I can keep that up.
Just remember, people: reviews always help me. Even if they're one-liners. Just take a few seconds/minutes to leave one is all I'm asking. I wrote 14k+ words in this chapter; a few words doesn't seem like a big ask compared to that.
Chapter Thirty-nine: Reaping
The biting wind howled around him, the gusts cutting through his layers of clothing and armour and chilling him to the bone. He was now so numb that he could barely feel the pulsing pain of his wound; a deep gash between his lower ribs. His hand held some ice to the bloodied flesh around the cut, but Blood King was steady in his other hand as he staggered through the storm, high up on the slopes of the merciless Wrothgarian Mountains. He could feel parts of his broken shin rubbing against his boots, but pushed on regardless; he'd come to kill someone, and Gorgoth gro-Kharz was not prepared to fail.
"Burzukh!" he roared, not even the storm able to completely swallow his mighty voice. About fifty paces ahead of him, barely visible through the whirling blizzard, Burzukh gro-Ghash turned to look back at his adversary. The Orc's face was a bloody ruin; half of his jaw was hanging loose, his left eye had been torn from its socket, and ragged gouges covering the left side of his face were deep enough to show flashes of the white skull, if snow had not already filled the gaping crevasses. The half-blind warrior turned and surged forward, his unhurt legs already taking him away from his pursuer.
Gorgoth growled in frustration. He'd already killed all seven of Burzukh's men, and his father would say that he had succeeded in his mission, but the warrior-shaman's honour called for the head of his enemy hanging from his belt by its braids. That enemy was clever, however; his battleaxe had been poisoned. His magicka gone from him, the Orc could only watch as his target vanished into the mists.
Falling to his knees, Gorgoth gritted his teeth at the pain in his leg. Burzukh had escaped, and if he had any sense he'd flee to where none could pursue. But his time would come. Time and distance could not erode the desire for vengeance.
The warrior-shaman opened his eyes. It was still night; Masser and Secunda were bright above the dark canopy of the Blackwood. The grey fingers of dawn were barely visible to the east. Five Blades and Lurog were standing guard at the moment; it was a large rotating watch, but he'd insisted on it. Mazoga's body was warm against his under their shared blanket. Both were fully clothed; better to be prepared for battle than to surrender to the heat and humidity of the jungle. Careful not to wake her, the Orc slid off his bedroll and pulled on his boots before rising to his feet.
Burzukh had not been the subject of much discussion the night before – to Oreyn, he was Gorgoth's problem – but he could never be ignored. Not only was he a formidable opponent, but his Orcs would follow him, not Blackheart. And he'd had a hundred and twenty thousand septims to throw around. It did not take a genius to work out who was financing him, but it never hurt to be certain. More than one head would have to fall today before he would be satisfied. Working his neck and digging his fingers into the thick muscle, the Orc wandered slowly over to where Lurog was leaning against a tree, still as a statue as he gazed out into the night.
"Anything of note?" he asked, receiving a shake of the head in response. Nodding, he leant on the tree beside his old friend and fell silent, watching as the eastern sky slowly turned lighter. "Do you know anything about Shagar?" he asked. Shagar gro-Durug was Lurog's cousin, and a good Orc. He'd been one of the men Burzukh had brought with him from Orsinium.
The warrior sighed. "Not a thing," he grunted. "I didn't see him when we scouted Blackheart's camp before. He's there somewhere, though." His hand clenched around the head of his mace; as he shared blood with Shagar, Lurog would demand the right to single combat if they met on the field of battle. No matter whom he served, an honourable Orc deserved a good death. Gorgoth's plans, however, would mean that many might die without even knowing they were in battle. His comrade knew that.
As the sun rose, the camp came alive. Glenroy only had to say a few words; the Blades were well-trained and well-disciplined. Tents and supplies were tied to packmules, horses were fed and watered, and armour was donned and double-checked. Only half of the sun was showing over the horizon when the Knight Captain marched up to his fellow Blade and reported everyone mounted and ready to move out. At any other time, a captain reporting to his inferior might seem odd, but all the Blades recognised that this was effectively a Fighter's Guild operation; they were just here to settle their own scores.
Gorgoth, now fully armoured, swung into Baluk's saddle with practised ease. He was used to armour far heavier, and while Baluk was no warhorse, she bore his weight well. Turning the mare, he walked her down the line, looking over the men and women he'd be going into battle with. Callia returned his gaze evenly, her jaw set and determined behind her helmet's cheek guards. She might hate him, but that didn't mean she wouldn't fight beside him today. Further down, Ilend and Aerin had their horses standing close together, both of them checking each other's weapons over. It hadn't been hard to determine what had happened between them last night; it had been coming from a long time.
Turning to look over his men again, the warrior-shaman was aware of Lurog and Mazoga behind him to the right and left, the traditional positions of an Orcish lord's Bloodguards. Satisfied, he raised his voice. "Blackheart's army at Atatar is about three hour's ride from here," he announced. "We'll meet up with Oreyn's men just east of here. For now, I want scouts out ahead and on the flanks. Let's move."
The light in Atatar was ever-present. There was no escape from the blue crystals evident in every room, every passageway. They never dimmed, never died, and never failed to stop annoying Burzukh gro-Ghash. He'd shattered every single one in the room Azani Blackheart had given him, and still the fragments glowed on the floor, mocking him. Eventually he'd shoved all the fragments inside several thick burlap bags whenever he had to sleep in the Ayleid ruin. That bought him some darkness, at least. He had no idea how his Redguard host could stand the Ayleids. To the Orc, they were merely long-dead elves who could still annoy people with their magic and ruins.
"I still think this is unwise," muttered Atulk gro-Magob, his second in command. Both Orcs were fully armed and armoured despite the early hour and the fact that they were within an underground fortress that had nearly nine hundred soldiers to defend it.
"I don't care what you think or what he thinks," growled Burzukh, shoving the door to Azani's inner sanctum open. "I'm no slave to anyone. I fight how I fight." He gestured angrily for Atulk to precede him into the chambers. The warrior did so, waiting while his commander shut the door behind them.
The bandit lord was sitting in a well-padded stone chair, one booted foot resting on the opposite knee as he traced a calloused hand over a map. Unlike his guests, he was unarmoured, dressed only in well-cut clothes that wouldn't have looked out of place on a provincial lordling. Grey streaking his close-cropped black hair and fine lines around his brown eyes were signs of his age, but it would that would not slow him down for some time yet. The Redguard was a man in his prime, with over two decades of experience behind him. He even had a slight aura of majesty around him.
Burzukh paid no attention as he stopped over to slam a fist down on the table, glaring down at Azani. The warrior looked back calmly, tipping his head back to meet the Orc's eyes. He was tall for a Redguard; he would only be overtopped by five inches if they were both standing. "You're not doing enough," growled Burzukh, pushing the map away from him. "You have eight hundred men here, you know where he is, you know how he operates, yet you do nothing. I didn't think I would be working with a coward." He spat onto the cold stone floor. Atulk winced.
"And how would you move an army across the heart of the Empire unnoticed?" asked Blackheart, unconcernedly examining the wide gold signet ring on his right hand. His voice was cultured, refined; a far cry from what most people thought of bandits. "No. I know what I am doing, Orc. You came to me for a reason, I recall." He looked up then, directing a challenging stare upwards.
"I thought I was hiring a man of action," snarled the Orc, turning and starting to pace up and down the small room. Sinweaver lay on Azani's bed, looking malevolent even when sheathed. "I've sent twenty of my men north already, I'm sure you'll know that. I'm taking the rest of them with me when I leave today."
The Redguard leaned forward. "Is our agreement still in place?"
Burzukh grimaced. "Yes," he muttered. "Thirty thousand if you kill him, sixty thousand if you bring him to me in chains. I'm a man of my word." He cocked his head to one side. "Are you?"
Before his host could reply, the door flew open and Do'kazirr rushed in, pushing past Atulk. "This one has..." he was panting, leaning on a wall, trying to regain his breath. Azani crossed the room within second and gripped the cat's shoulder, telling him to rest. After a few seconds he continued. "This- I have a message from Jo'danirr. He says-" He was cut off by his superior, who turned to glance at the two Orcs.
"I have a bloody right to hear whatever he has to say," snarled Burzukh, starting forward. There was a slight buzzing of magicka, and he had to leap out of the way as Sinweaver flew past him, the hilt slapping into the Redguard's hand. Their eyes met, brown meeting yellow.
"You were going north, I believe," Azani told him in a voice that was as soft as silk, but infinitely more dangerous. He nodded his head towards the door. "If you please." Behind him, Do'kazirr hissed threateningly, sliding his claws out and in. Atulk looked at his superior, shaking his head slightly. Growling a curse in his native tongue, Burzukh stalked out of the room, spitting again as he left.
"Muster the men," he growled to his second in command. "And find out what's going on." As the Orc sprinted off, however, he knew perfectly well what was going on. He could feel it in his bones. One hand traced the scarred ruin of his eye socket. Battle was coming.
Gorgoth gro-Kharz stood on one slope of the vast hollow, visible to every eye in the enemy camp below. Beyond the ragged encampment, the white pillars of Atatar shone in the sunlight, but he would focus on that later. For now, he had several hundred soldiers to deal with. At his back, just out of sight among the trees, were twenty-one Blades and four Guildsmen, along with two Orcs, an unaffiliated archer, a disgraced ex-Guildsman and two Dremora. Several Akaviri katanas had flashed free of their scabbards when he'd summoned the Daedra earlier, but now each and every one of them knew his plan. The Blades and the Daedra might not get along, but today they would need every blade they could find.
"You are sure about this?" asked Medraka. The Xivilai was the warrior-shaman's only companion on the ridge; he'd even forced Mazoga to stay back with the rest.
"I have destroyed larger armies before."
"Not by much. Remember that I, too, was there at the Durlakh Gol. You could barely stay in your saddle afterwards."
"That is why you are here now."
The ash-skinned Daedra looked at him sideways. Their heights were exactly the same, but unlike the barely-clothed Xivilai, Gorgoth was in full armour with four weapons to hand; Blood King and Selene's glaive were strapped across his back, while his Akaviri dai-katana and the Thornblade shared his sword belt with several potions. He was staring at the camp below with his face free of anything that could be called emotion. They'd known of his presence for quite some time; they were in the process of mobilising, with several squads clustered around the camp, ready to guard it from attacks from any direction. But they would not be ready for his assault.
The Orc stepped forward and raised his right hand, palm downwards. Even if some of the soldiers down there had looking-glasses, they wouldn't be able to see the dark glow spreading from his hand, wouldn't be able to see the look of intense concentration on his face as he started muttering incantations in Orcish. Sweat started to prick at his forehead and he clenched his other fist to stop it trembling. Medraka turned and waved a hand downwards. Behind them, barely visible through the thick growth of the Blackwood, the rest of his allies braced themselves.
His magicka was alive within him now, his vast power swirling around, making him crackle with energy as it begged to be released. Gorgoth narrowed his eyes and started casting.
Lightning stabbed out of a cloudless sky, blasting craters all over the camp, throwing men and horses around like rag dolls. The readiness of mere seconds ago was forgotten in a blind panic as the troops forgot all discipline and started running around blindly, aimlessly. Scores were being cut down within seconds, but the true slaughter had not yet begun. Fireballs started dropping from the heavens, ripping gaping holes in the earth and immolating dozens of soldiers at a time. The ground shook under Gorgoth's assault, but he was not finished.
The earth itself started to erupt, great gouts of fire reaching for the sky, infernos fed by howling winds that trapped everything within reach and dragged screaming, praying men back into the fires. Closing his eyes, the warrior-shaman ignored the great strain he could feel in every fibre of his being and continued, conjuring a ring of fire stretching all around the camp. He closed it slowly, trapping any survivors of his apocalypse in a vice from which there was no escape. The screams of the dead and the dying were lost in the roaring of fire and the rumble of thunder.
He slowed down what little magicka remained in him, slowed the spell, stopped it. Opening his eyes, he saw that there was nothing left of Blackheart's army but a scorched, cratered wasteland that reached to the walls of Atatar. Then the weariness hit him, and he staggered, held up only by his own willpower and Medraka's arm wrapping around his shoulders. He heard the Xivilai growling incantations in the harsh language of the Kyn, felt the power of the Daedra's magic flow into him. His own magicka started to recover, sparking once again. The exhaustion that numbed his limbs receded, leaving only the natural fatigue that might be associated with a day's hard riding.
Grunting, the Orc stepped forward and stood unaided. His magicka was depleted, but now at least he could fight rather than waste hours waiting for his strength to return. The Xivilai himself might need several potions; he could not regenerate magicka like mortals and Dremora, and his own spell had been powerful. But he'd done enough. Turning, Gorgoth beckoned the rest of his companions forward. The battle had only just begun.
Aerin – despite still being slightly stunned by the display of destruction before her - was the first to leave the relative safety of the trees as Gorgoth beckoned to them. Jogging to his side, she gaped down at the remnants of what had once been a formidable fighting force. She'd seen it done, of course, seen his true power, but... there's nothing left. Nothing! She hesitantly looked up into the Orc's face. He was tired, that was certain, but it was barely in evidence. He was invulnerable. He had to be. "How do ya... do things like that, big guy?" she asked, laying a hand on his arm.
"Anyone can be powerful in their own way, Aerin," he told her, gazing towards Atatar without any emotion in either his face or his voice. "I do what has to be done." He turned away to talk to Modryn, who was looking down at the devastation with his arms folded, nodding in appreciation. The Wood Elf stayed still, glancing out at the scorched earth once more. She shuddered; despite knowing that the warrior-shaman wouldn't do such things to her, his sheer power and stoic demeanour still unnerved her sometimes. This was one of those times.
"This isn't the first time he's done something like that," grated a harsh voice behind her. Spinning, the Bosmer found herself looking up at one of the Dremora that Gorgoth had summoned when they'd arrived. He was looking at the Orc's back with something like admiration in his fearsome red eyes. Those glowing orbs flickered to her briefly. "I recall he once shattered a charge of Breton knights with nothing but fireballs. Another time, he opened the ground beneath a shield wall and effectively won a battle. That is what warrior-shamans do, and I understand that he is one of the best of his kind." The Kynaz grimaced as though just realising that he'd talked at length to a weak mortal, and turned his back on her to stride over to his comrade.
"I don't know how he does it, but I'm glad he's on our side." This voice was far more agreeable to the archer's ears, and she smiled as Ilend joined her on the slope. His shield was strapped to his left arm, and his hand was resting on his sword hilt, but he looked relaxed at the moment. He would be; after that display, no sane enemy of Gorgoth would want to be within twenty miles of him.
"Ya got that right, guardsman," she sniggered, wrapping an arm around his waist and shielding her eyes as she looked towards Atatar. "Do ya reckon Azani's still in there?"
"Definitely. Gorgoth wouldn't have done that if he thought Azani was in the camp. The Guild needs proof of his death." The Protector's assumptions were proven correct moments later when Gorgoth ordered everyone to move out in the direction of Atatar. As they skirted around the edge of the blackened pit he'd created, the warrior-shaman surrendered the lead to the Dark Elf and fell back to talk to Lurog and Mazoga. Aerin tried to fall back to listen in, but Ilend pulled her forward again. "Come on, you know his plan. Stay focused."
All of them did indeed know his plan; he'd been through it with each one individually on the way there, making sure every fighter knew exactly what was expected of them. While the archer knew what to do, it didn't mean she was happy with it; she was in the rear guard under S'kasha's command, making sure no one escaped thorough the ruin's only entrance. Not only would she miss out on the best of the fighting, but Ilend would be away from her and in the thick of it. She knew Gorgoth's reasoning, knew that it was logical and sound, but... I still don't have to like it.
"Enemy sighted on the walls." Modryn's gravelly voice brought her back to the present and she took Trueshot from her back, nocking an arrow as the group spread out. There were indeed several soldiers on what walls Atatar still possessed; all had bows, but the distance was still too great to discern much. "You know what to do. My section, move up." Several Blades, Jongar and Antus followed the Dunmer as he started marching directly towards the ruin. More Blades fell in behind Glenroy as their captain led them around to flank from the right. Gorgoth took the Daedra along with Lurog, Mazoga and Ilend to sweep around to the left. Aerin was left in the company of S'kasha and three Blades as they moved in behind the ex-Champion's company, keeping their distance.
The sparse opposition was swept aside; four men on the walls were feathered by arrows, and the remaining three fled into Atatar. Two more were found hiding in the shadows and were swiftly put to the sword. Modryn's squad led the charge into the Ayleid city, swiftly followed by the other two, whereas S'kasha's section swept the exterior ruins first to ensure there were no others in hiding. Finding none, the Khajiit Protector ordered a cautious advance into the city itself.
Those that had preceded them had done their work well. The white walls of the first few corridors into the depths of the city were splattered with blood, and dozens of corpses littered the stone floors, illuminated by the blue crystals embedded into the rock of the ceiling. There was no uniform, no predominate race amongst Azani's men; Aerin was tempted to call them a rabble, but some few would have a backbone and some fighting skill. That was proven by the bodies of two Blades interspersed among the dead.
"Their katanas must have already been taken by the Captain," grunted Jena Carius as she straightened from her second comrade's corpse. "At least they died well."
"You got that right, Sister," responded Cyrus. The Redguard was slightly ahead of them, looking down the next passageway. "Looks like they resisted hard. Can''t see any Orcs, though. Maybe they all died when Gorgoth did his... thing." That much was a relief. Aerin knew that she could shoot down any common mercenary, but a berserk Orc could shrug off even well-placed arrows. The memory of Boethia's Tournament was still strong.
"I'm getting sick of Ayleid ruins," she growled under her breath. The third Blade in their company, a Breton called Jerian Gane, overheard her and shot her a curious glance.
"Personally, I find this fascinating," he observed, reaching out and running a gauntleted hand down the shining walls. The Bosmer snorted.
"Try spending half a week in one, then watch a friend get killed by an Ayleid lich-king," she told him, her voice bitter. "It loses its charm." She stalked away further into Atatar before he could respond.
It was slow going; the corpses dried up after a few minutes, but S'kasha insisted that they make sure every single enemy was dead before proceeding. And when they finally came to an open area with three corridors leading from it, she ordered a stop; their duty was top stop anyone from escaping, not to join the attack. Aerin muttered darkly about boredom and leaned against a pillar, folding her arms and resting them on Trueshot. She knew that Khajiit was right, but she'd much rather be in the thick of the action, fighting alongside Ilend. Settling down for a long wait, she wasn't expecting to hear approaching footsteps, heavy boots ringing on stone.
"Look alive!" barked S'kasha, taking up a good vantage point atop a crumbling pillar with an arrow half-drawn. The three Blades drew their katanas and spread out, each leaning on the wall beside an opening. Aerin crouched beside a pillar that she could swiftly duck behind to avoid any return fire. They waited, all as tense as Trueshot's bowstring, as the rapid footsteps came ever closer.
"I don't care what he's paying us, we don't stand a chance against-" The Imperial's complaint to his comrades behind him was cut short as he rushed into the chamber, seeing part of the ambush waiting for him. He desperately attempted to turn around, but the mass of his companions pushed him forward from behind. A small smirk plucked at Aerin's lips as she sent her arrow straight through his right eye. Not bad. She certainly hadn't grown rusty. S'kasha's arrow took a huge Redguard in the throat, and he stumbled backwards, knocking most of the other soldiers off-balance, easy prey for the flickering katanas of the Blades.
There were over ten of them, but they were disorganised and panicked. The two archers took three each and the swordsmen accounted for the other four. However, the next group was forewarned, and they entered far more cautiously. One died with the Khajiit's arrow in his throat, but a warhammer-wielding Nord charged straight for her, his comrades holding off the outnumbered Blades. The Bosmer sent an arrow through his skull, but a Redguard had spotted her and closed the distance rapidly. Backpedalling, the archer drew and fired again, but her motion threw her aim off. The range was short, however, and the arrow embedded itself in her foe's sword arm. Grimacing in pain, he threw his broadsword to his left hand and swung at her.
Dropping Trueshot, Aerin rolled out of the way of the blow and came up with her shortsword in hand, turning to block another swing. The power of his attack shook her entire arm, and she gritted her teeth; even using his weaker hand, any Redguard swordsman worth his blade would be at least her equal. Putting a hand on his chest, she shoved him backwards, aiming a thrust at his midsection, but he parried it and barged forward, forcing her off-balance. He was drawing back his arm for a swing that would finish her when he suddenly staggered and collapsed. The shaft of an arrow protruded from between his shoulder blades.
"This one does not like shooting the prey in the back," growled S'kasha, retrieving her arrow. "But sometimes it is necessary. Try to keep your distance, little elf." The Bosmer glared at her fellow archer and was about to retort when the Suthay held up a hand. "Just friendly advice. No time for disputes now, yes?" She bared her teeth in what might have been a grin or a snarl and turned, walking back to her pillar.
Shaking her head, Aerin walked over to the pile of corpses near the entrance and retrieved what arrows could be used again. There was a sizeable dent in the side of Jerian's breastplate, but apart from that the Blades seemed unharmed. In the past, the archer would have scoffed at a squad of five taking on nearly twenty soldiers and winning, but this time, they'd had quality, terrain, location, and, most importantly, surprise on their side. What had Gorgoth once told her? Surprise is the most deadly weapon that can be wielded? He was probably right.
"You okay, archer? Good for another round?" Jena was wiping her katana clean on a rag torn from the tunic of the dead Argonian at her feet.
"I could do this all day," snorted Aerin as she returned to her place beside her pillar. "What about you, swordswoman? You getting tired yet?"
The Imperial laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. "Don't you worry about me," she retorted. "To my knowledge, I'm outscoring you." She laughed again when the Wood Elf stuck out her tongue.
"Quiet!" Cyrus raised a clenched fist, and they all fell silent. Even if they had continued, however, the thunderous footsteps fast approaching them through another passage would have been heard quickly enough. "Orcs. It has to be. I doubt any others in Blackheart's army make that much noise."
"Hide! We'll strike from the shadows!" Jerian followed his own advice and took cover in what little darkness there was. The rest quickly emulated him; it sounded like an entire company of Orcs, and they wouldn't go down as easily as sellswords. Aerin grimaced; elves could see better into darkness than humans, and she felt very exposed as she knelt in the shadow of a collapsed pillar. And no captain worth his salt would ignore the pile of corpses piles in front of one of the archways...
She barely stopped herself from gasping as Burzukh gro-Ghash strode into the room, massive battleaxe in hand. He was instantly recognisable by his scarred face and battered helmet, but he had never before struck this much terror into the Bosmer; not only was he peering suspiciously around the chamber, but two dozen of his comrades, all in heavy plate armour, had filed in after him and were spreading out. We can't take all them. It's impossible. For the first time in what seemed like a long time, she was scared for her life.
The massive Orsimer barked a stream of instructions in his harsh native language, and a few of his soldiers – it was hard to tell if some were men or women under that armour – went to prod the bodies of Azani's men. Looking across the room, Aerin met S'kasha's golden eyes. The Khajiit seemed to be praying. None of the Blades were in sight, but they all knew that attacking twenty-plus Orcs would be suicide.
One of them seemed to be arguing with their leader, but Burzukh was ignoring him, his eyes sweeping over the cavern, looking into the shadows. Twice his eyes swept over her, and twice it was all she could do to stop herself shivering. Just go, she pleaded, silently urging him to move on. There's no one here. Just go.
They didn't go. Their scarred commander gave an order, and most of his men started moving around the edges of the room, thrusting torches into the shadows. One headed straight for the crouching Bosmer, and she knew her time had come. Sighing, she stood, tempering her fear and resigning herself to her fate. Best to go down fighting. In one smooth motion, she had nocked an arrow, drawn the bowstring to her cheek, and fired.
As the Orc collapsed – his armour providing no protection from Trueshot's enchantment – all three Blades leapt from their hiding places, roaring wordless battle cries as they charged the startled Orcs. Their enemies recovered quickly, however, and within seconds they found themselves fighting three to one. Aerin herself danced around one opponent, whose warhammer was too slow to catch her, and planted her feet, aiming for Burzukh. He'd turned to face her, and a hint of recognition flickered in his eyes. At the last second, he threw himself to the ground, and the arrow meant for his heart instead took the mer behind him in the side of the neck.
Before she could even reach for another arrow, foul breath on the back of her neck warned her of imminent danger and she ducked. The claymore missed her, but her attacker gave her no respite, instead picking her up and throwing her onto the pile of dead mercenaries. As she scrabbled for anything to give her a firm purchase, struggling to get up, the Orsimer grinned evilly and thrust his blade not only through her thigh, but through every body beneath her until the tip grounded on hard stone.
As she gasped and writhed in pain, dropping Trueshot and weakly reaching for her shortsword, the Orc moved in, kicking her sword arm. The sharp crack of her elbow breaking brought a yelp of pain, and she let her head fall back onto the chest of a dead Khajiit, looking up at her soon-to-be killer with tear-filled eyes. He had drawn a broadsword from his belt and was slowly raising it over his head. Aerin squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to see the end.
The end never came. Instead, a feline screech tore through the air, and the Bosmer opened her eyes just in time to see S'kasha dash from her previously undetected hiding place and leap onto the Orc's back, burying her dagger in the base of his neck. The lithe cat leapt off the Orsimer's back as he fell, but all the immobile Wood Elf could do was watch as the corpse toppled towards her. She watched, and hoped that the soft cushion of corpses beneath her would protect her.
It didn't. Her enemy crushed her as he fell, squeezing every breath of air from her body and snapping a few ribs into the bargain. The claymore tore across her leg, almost amputating it; she would have screamed if she could. Instead, all she could do was wait for the end to come, for one of Burzukh's men to tear the corpse off her and finish her off. Her helplessness meant that tears of frustration mingled with those of pain. They were joined by tears of sorrow when she realised she'd never see Ilend again.
Through the haze of her semi-consciousness, some voices distracted her. Guttural Orcish voices raised in argument, followed by a screeching that chilled Aerin to the core. She dimly realised that the bulk of the elf atop her was concealing her from her enemies; unless they took their dead with them, she would not be discovered. At the moment, she was unsure if that was a blessing or a curse. The screeching continued, changing pitch until it faded into a helpless wailing, which was abruptly cut short by the unmistakable sound of an axe splitting bone. More conversation followed, then the only sound was of receding footsteps.
Aerin waited for a few minutes before groaning and attempting to push the corpse away from her. All the strength seemed to have leeched from her arms, but at last she managed to free her head. The stench of the dead all around her diminished slightly, but she still barely kept herself from retching. Wiping a hand over her face, she let forth a shuddering sigh, her entire body trembling. The agony was assaulting her in waves, but she was still able to focus on the scene in front of her.
Five Orcs lay dead, including the one atop her. Cyrus was sitting up against a wall, his torso a mass of wounds. His blank, dead eyes were staring across the room at Jena's headless body. Jerian had been hacked to pieces. But they had all died in combat. It was S'kasha's corpse that the Wood Elf's eyes flinched away from. The Khajiit's head had been split in two by the axe blow that had killed her, but she'd suffered before that; both her arms had been torn off and had clearly been used as clubs to break whatever bones her tormentors could find.
The Bosmer let her head fall back on her fleshy pillow and closed her eyes, attempting to ignore the pain that racked her body whenever she drew breath. She was alive, but with that claymore pinning her... she found herself praying that someone, anyone, would come back and find her. In this ruin, wounded with only corpses of friends and enemies for company, Aerin had never felt more alone.
Blood spurted over Ilend's sword arm as he withdrew his longsword from the Breton's chest, stepping back from his vanquished opponent as he fell. There had been no shortage of killing since they'd entered the ruin, as Blackheart had apparently stationed a sizeable proportion of his forces within Atatar. They were dying, though; spread out as they were, they could only face the attacking squads in small numbers at a time. Turning, the Imperial saw that the remainder of yet another band of mercenaries had been ruthlessly dispatched. He tore a rag from the Breton's shirt and started cleaning his blade.
"You might actually be worthy of wielding that," observed Chaxil, casually leaning on his claymore as he looked around at the carnage. "Who did you take it from?"
"A Dremora at Kvatch." If the ex-guardsman's memory served him correctly, it had been archers who had killed the Kynaz, but Ilend had taken his sword nonetheless; he'd already killed at least a dozen Dremora beforehand, and many more since. Besides, the honour of the Kyn wasn't about to stop him taking an enemy's weapon when his own had broken. He was willing to tolerate the three Daedra, so long as they fought his enemies and not his allies, but he wouldn't trust them an inch. Blackheart was merely a bandit; the true enemies would always be Dagon and his Daedric minions.
"Some day, we might meet on the field of battle," mused the Dremora, as though he'd read the Imperial's thoughts. "I would look forward to such a battle."
"That's the future," pointed out Gorgoth, wiping brain matter from the head of Blood King. "Focus on the present." The Orc's leading from the front meant that Ilend was underworked at times; with his mace in one hand and the Thornblade in the other, the warrior-shaman simply tore apart any opposition that came his way.
"Where are the Orcs?" demanded Lurog, who'd become increasingly restless as they'd penetrated deeper into Atatar. "If Shagar's not here, if he was in the camp..."
"If he was in the camp, there's no changing it," said Mazoga sharply, cutting across him. "Take it up with Gorgoth later. Not now."
"What's so important about him?" asked Ilend. "Isn't he just another one of Burzukh's Orcs who happens to be related to you?"
Lurog spun to face him, his face contorted into an angry snarl under his helmet. "He's my cousin," he growled. "I know he deserves an honourable death."
"Focus on that later," Gorgoth told him. "For now, we press onwards." He nodded to Medraka, who hefted his battleaxe and resumed leading them down the passageway. It had been continuing for a long time; the Ayleid builders of Atatar had favoured long corridors and large rooms. "I'd rather not find Blackheart only to find that someone has beaten me to him."
Ilend fell in beside him and shot him a questioning glance. "I didn't think this was about your personal revenge."
"It is. My desires and what is best for the Guild just happened to coincide perfectly." The Orc raised the Thornblade in his left hand and looked at the slightly serrated blade critically. The weapon's enchantment glowed a dull yellow at the edge of the blade. "This is a good sword," observed the warrior-shaman. "I haven't had a chance to use it effectively until today. It would have been wasted on the skeletons at Miscarcand." Up ahead, Medraka had stopped beside an archway that led into a larger chamber. Gorgoth signalled a quiet advance until they were lining the walls either side of the arch.
"Orcs inside. Six of them." The Xivilai was clearly using a spell of life detection; Ilend couldn't see anything, or hear anything apart from a muted rumble that might be voices.
"I see no point to waiting." Lurog hefted his shield and charged in, followed closely by the two Dremora. The Imperial followed more warily, instantly looking around and noting the surrounding area. A high ceiling gave the room a cavernous feeling, and several steel frames full of crystals hanging from above gave sufficient illumination to discern that this room used to be an armoury. Weapon racks lined the walls, filled with the remnants of weapons that had largely rusted away long ago. Some few held intact swords and axed that hummed with enchantments, but of immediate note were the six heavily-armoured Orsimer spreading out with weapons in hand.
"Stop." Gorgoth's clenched fist allowed no argument, and the squad under his command formed a line abreast of him. His enemies stopped as well, glaring suspiciously at him. "Where is Blackheart?"
"Further in," growled one of the Orcs, who was wearing plate armour and gripping a large battleaxe with both hands. "Not that we care any more." His helmet did nothing to hide the look of revulsion crossing his face. "Bloody coward. You're welcome to him."
"Shagar." Lurog snarled and hefted his mace before looking around at his comrades. "He is mine." None argued. If he wants to kill his own cousin alone, fine by me, thought Ilend, as he stared across the void towards the Orc opposite him. None of them looked particularly vulnerable, and he'd had extensive experience of fighting alongside well-trained Orcs such as these. They wouldn't be easy meat.
"What about Burzukh?" asked Gorgoth.
Shagar barked a harsh laugh. "He's already gone. Gone north to hunt you, in fact. You just missed him." A cruel sneer plucked at the Orc's lips. "If only he'd known you were here..."
Ilend didn't catch the warrior-shaman's reply. His mind was racing. If Burzukh had left after they arrived... there was only one way in or out of Atatar. And it had been guarded by the rearmost squad. "Aerin," he whispered harshly. He spun to leave, only for Gorgoth's hand to clamp down on his shoulder. "You don't need me," he snarled at the ex-Warder. "She will." If she's still alive.
Mocking laughter echoed throughout the room. "The chief took over twenty Orcs with him," remarked one of the enemy Orcs in a Cyrodilic that was so heavily accented that the Guildsman could barely understand it. "Anyone in his way is dead by now."
Gorgoth ignored them. "Go," he muttered. "Go and find her. If she's alive, track Burzukh. I would rather not lose him again." The Orc gave him a push in the back, and Ilend needed no further encouragement. He was halfway down the corridor, sprinting hard with his shield on his back, before the clash of steel and steel from the chamber behind reached his ears. Ignoring it, he put his head down and ran harder.
Dashing through a large Ayleid ruin in full armour took its toll, and by the time he'd nearly reached the entrance, the Imperial was sagging, his lungs burning and his legs weak. Pausing for breath, he leaned against a nearby wall, panting hard. Corpses and his own thoughts had been his only company on the way back. Pulling off his bloodied gauntlet, he wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. He was under no illusions; Trueshot was a powerful weapon, but against twenty Orcs, Aerin, S'kasha and three Blades stood no chance. All he could cling to was the hope that she had somehow made it out alive. A fool's hope, but he'd rather not comprehend the alternative.
"Now I know why Savlian forbade romantic relationships between the guards," he mumbled to himself as he slid down the wall into a sitting position. Not that there had been many women in the Watch anyway. Anger flared within him, and he pounded the wall with his fist. "If Gorgoth can do it, why can't I?" he shouted to the Ayleid stonework. But Gorgoth was different. The Imperial doubted that he'd even care if Mazoga fell in combat. He'd probably even be happy that she'd died well. Snorting, he hauled himself to his feet and replaced his gauntlet. "Sweet Mother Mara, please don't let her die," he prayed desperately as he broke into a run again.
He charged into the room she and her squad would have been holding with sword drawn, looking around at the carnage. His heart sank; the small chamber was littered with corpses. The Akaviri-styled plate armour of a Blade caught his eye, and he knelt beside the body of Cyrus, who was slumped against the wall. He must have been stabbed at least ten times. Sighing shakily, the Guildsman sheathed his sword and prepared himself for the grisly task of searching through the dead.
"Took ya long enough, guardsman."
Spinning, he wrenched his longsword from its scabbard, eyes flickering around the room until they fell on her. "Put that away, guardsman," she laughed. "I ain't a cheese for slicing." The Wood Elf was lying on a pile of dead bodies with a dead Orc at her feet. Bloodstains formed patches on her leathers, but the smirk on her face and the empty healing potions scattered around her sent waves of relief pumping through his body. He sheathed his sword and strode rapidly towards her, throwing off his shield and kneeling before wrapping her in his arms.
"I thought you were dead," he whispered into her neck, attempting to locate her smell from the overpowering stench of death all around them. He felt her snigger and tighten her hold on him.
"Doubting me, Ilend? I should feel insulted." She smirked and pushed back from him. "But I, ah... have a small problem."
He frowned and looked at where she was pointing. "Ah." A claymore was jutting out of her thigh, just below the hip. He bent to examine it, noting that no blood was oozing from the wound.
"Yeah... 'ah'." She chuckled again before stopping and wincing. Behind her ever-present cheerfulness, he could detect great pain. "Could ya get it out? It's become a tad annoying."
Ilend ran his hands around the steel. "The healing means that the flesh has knitted around the blade," he grunted. "I'll have to cut around it before it can come out." He drew his dagger and looked at her.
Aerin sighed, letting her head drop back onto the Khajiit she was lying on top of. Her face was drawn with pain, he realised. How long had she been lying here? Hours? Before he could ask, she nodded. "Whatever. Do whatever ya have ta do. Should I scream?"
He grimaced. "Probably best if you don't." Standing, he walked over and removed the sword belt from a dead Redguard, handing it to the Bosmer. "Bite down on that. I'll try to be quick." He knelt with both legs pinning her other leg to prevent any involuntary spasms.
She nodded and shoved the hard leather into her mouth, biting hard and nodding again for him to begin. He sighed and worked his neck before taking a firm grasp of her leg next to the claymore. The muscles of her thigh were tight and tense under his hand as he gently placed the tip of his dagger to the claymore and slid it down until it touched her skin. Then he ruthlessly plunged it down until he felt the tip break through on the other side of her leg. Ignoring her heaving body and desperate grunts of pain, he worked the blade from side to side, widening the new wound, attempting to see through the blood spurting over his hands.
Fortunately, his was a good dagger, long enough for the job and sharp on both sides. Once he'd made the gash big enough, he wrenched the dagger out and grasped the claymore's hilt. It was evident that he'd have to pull it out of the numerous corpses under Aerin as well, so he pressed down on her thigh with both knees while yanking upwards with both hands. It slid about a foot before halting. From the sudden relaxation of the elf's body, he knew that she'd passed out, so he stood and braced his boot against her, putting all the strength of his arms and back into pulling the Orcish weapon upwards.
It came free suddenly with a wet squelch, overbalancing Ilend, who almost fell before taking several steps backward. Sparing a glance for the weapon – it was almost as tall as he was – he dropped it and knelt once again, pressing both hands to the bleeding wound and healing it. He made sure the the flesh underneath the rip in her armour was whole – there was a small scar from the initial wound – before relaxing and slumping down beside the unconscious Bosmer on their bed of corpses.
Cleaning his dagger on a nearby rag, the Imperial sheathed it before gently shaking Aerin's arm. After a minute of increasingly insistent jolting, she groaned, her eyes flickering open, blinking several times before finally focusing on him. "Nice job, you bastard," she muttered, grinning weakly before wrinkling her nose. "When you've been lying here for hours, the smell kinda gets to ya." He jumped to his feet and helped her rise before stepping back as she cast around, looking for Trueshot.
"What happened here?" he asked, looking curiously around the room. His eyes fell on S'kasha and he grimaced. No need to ask what happened there.
The Bosmer sighed and made sure Trueshot was secure on her back before answering. "We defeated that crowd of idiots easily enough," she told him, waving towards the pile of corpses she'd been lying on. "But then... Burzukh and about twenty of his lackeys showed up. We hid, but..." she sighed and looked down at the Orc that had been lying at her feet. "They found us. We didn't stand a chance. I only survived because they didn't think ta check underneath this big bugger here." She prodded the body with her foot.
Ilend glanced down at it. "Odd that he managed to trap you when you stabbed him in the back of the head."
Aerin bit her lip. "I didn't kill him," she admitted. "I was lying on the corpses with my eyes squeezed shut waiting for the end." Shuddering, she turned away and looked down at S'kasha's mutilated body. "She could have stayed in the shadows, ya know. They wouldn't have found her. Why did she save me? She didn't even know me..."
"Think of it this way..." The Imperial squeezed her shoulder. "If you were her, what would you prefer to do? Stay cowering in the shadows, looking on as your comrades were put to the sword, and having that memory for the rest of your life? Or do something, anything to help, even if it meant your own death? I know what I'd pick. Every single time. It's the warrior's choice. You just have to be brave enough to do it when the time comes." He looked past her down at the Khajiit's body. Her death had been neither quick nor painless, but she was no coward. That might be some comfort to her in Aetherius.
The Wood Elf turned and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest despite the drying blood splattered over large parts of it. Ilend returned the hug, feeling her tense body relax. He was content to remain in that position for a few minutes, but then his duty pricked at him. "Aerin, Gorgoth asked us to track Burzukh. He doesn't want to lose him again."
She sighed and looked up at him. "I've just been lying for a few hours with a sword through my leg and I've only got two potions left. Can't we have some rest?"
The Imperial snorted, his face hardening as he stepped back from her. "Clearly, you're still not much of a soldier. We rest when we're dead. He'll have a big head start on us, but we can move quicker. There's only two of us."
Rolling her eyes slightly, the Bosmer ran a hand over her sword hilts and tapped her bow. "Fine, fine," she grunted. "I'm ready when you are. Lucky I didn't die, eh? Last I knew, ya couldn't track a lame mammoth." Smirking, she turned and sauntered out of the chamber towards the surface. Chuckling, Ilend caught up with her.
"Clearly, I've never told you about that time I tracked those bandits to their hideout on the plains north of Kvatch..."
"Spare me, guardsman." She grinned and nudged him in the ribs. "I've almost been killed once already today; no need ta bore me ta death."
He refrained from boring her to death, and instead he gave her two of his eight healing potions to replenish her stock. As they left the ruin through the large archway, the bright sunlight outside was blinding after so long in the crystal-lit underground Ayleid city. The Guildsman blinked vigorously and shaded his eyes, squinting up at the blue sky as he moved forward. He only realised the danger when Aerin grabbed his arm and threw herself to the ground, dragging him down with her. Rolling onto his back, he was just in time to see the battleaxe cutting through the air above them.
Frustrated by his miss, the Orc used the momentum to swing again, aiming downwards, but Ilend rolled to his feet and the axe blade embedded itself in the soft earth. He pulled his shield from his back and wrenched his sword from its scabbard, giving the Orc time to free his weapon. The heavily armoured warrior looked up to see Aerin taking Trueshot off her back, and charged to close the distance, knowing the threat that bow posed. She cursed and put it back, fumbling her shortsword out instead. The short blade would be near-useless against her opponent's heavy plate armour unless she placed it perfectly, so the Imperial drew abreast of the enemy and barged into him, putting them both off balance.
A thick arm wrapped around the Protector's neck and attempted to throw him to the ground, but he countered by thrusting up towards the Orc's armpit. The hasty blow merely grazed the steel, but his opponent recognised the danger and shoved him away before blocking several of Aerin's experimental thrusts. His boot flashed out and caught the Bosmer in the stomach, sending her staggering back, but he didn't capitalise, instead stepping back and dropping into a defensive posture, yellow eyes flashing at both of them in turn.
Ilend grunted. "I suppose you're not going to tell us where the rest of you went?" His enemy snorted and growled something in Orcish. The Guildsman glanced sideways. "Aerin, shoot him. I'll cover you." While the Orsimer might not understand what the Imperial was saying, he certainly understood the archer removing her bow from her back. Starting towards her, he found his way blocked with a Daedric longsword darting for his head. Snarling, he deflected the attack and swung at his foe's legs.
The Imperial stepped back to avoid then dashed forward, bashing his shield into the warrior's chest, forcing him back. A few hopeful strikes were turned aside by the haft of the battleaxe, but he could hear Aerin attempting to move into a position where she had a good shot behind him. He merely had to keep his opponent occupied. The Orc darted forward with unexpected speed, the axe head cutting deep into Ilend's shield and staggering him. As his enemy wrenched his axe free, the Protector attempted to sever his right arm, but the Orcish plate kept out even Daedric steel. Pushing the Imperial away, the Orsimer raised his axe for an overhead cleave only to stumble as an arrow appeared in his throat. Within seconds, another was embedded in his forehead, completely ignoring his helmet.
"Good shot," remarked Ilend, allowing himself to sag as the armoured soldier crashed to the ground in front of him. He worked his left arm; that blow to the shield had jolted him.
"You could have hit that target," responded Aerin, throwing Trueshot over her back as she sauntered forward to retrieve her arrows. She had a point; at only several feet away, a complete novice would have had a good chance at hitting a target as big as an Orc.
"Either way, Burzukh's got a big lead on us." The swordsman sighed and sheathed his blade. "Best get on with it. We'll get the horses then find their trail. Should be easy enough. I wouldn't want to fight a dozen Orcs, but at least they're not the most subtle of elves."
One thing was certain in Modryn Oreyn's mind; Blackheart's army hadn't grown any smaller since he and Vitellus had made their last attempt on his life. His advance through Atatar had long since devolved into one long running battle, with the bandit lord's forces falling back but constantly being reinforced. The Dunmer's Daedric mace was dripping with blood and bone fragments, and his ebony shield had been scarred numerous times, but he himself was unscathed, testament to his excellent armour and over a century of experience. The same could not be said of his men; two Blades had been killed, and he'd had to leave Antus behind with another to try to get the arrow out of the Imperial Guildsman's hip.
The ex-Champion did not have time to focus on his Guildsmen, however, nor on the battle raging around him. An Argonian bandit was sidestepping from side to side in front of him, a spear held in both hands, tongue flicking in and out of his mouth as those green eyes watched Modryn's every move. Unlike most of his countrymen, the Dark Elf wasn't prone to underestimating the lizard-men; he'd known several in the past, all good fighters. This one looked nervous, but it was always hard to read Argonian expressions.
Stepping forward, the Dunmer swung his mace in a wide arc, a powerful attack, but slow and obvious. The lizard ducked under it, opening himself up perfectly for the shield smashing into his face. As he lurched backwards, it was easy for the warrior to step forward and bring his mace crashing down into his chest. By the time the shattered bandit had hit the stone floor, his opponent was moving, searching for another target.
Moving past an unfortunate Redguard – the bandit's shield arm had been shattered by Jongar's warhammer – Modryn came up behind a Bosmer fighting for his life against one of the Blades. He kicked the Wood Elf's legs from under him and left him for dead, turning to meet the strike of a Breton wielding two shortswords. Both slid off his shield and the Dark Elf swung at him. His opponent foolishly tried to block the mace with both weapons, resulting in two bent swords and a broken wrist. Shattering his spine with an upswing to the groin, the ex-Champion looked up to see the remnants of the enemy squad in retreat once again. Two went down with arrows in their backs, but the remainder escaped, inevitably to join the next band that awaited them.
"Take a breather!" snapped Modryn. As his men relaxed – near-incessant killing was hard work – he leaned against a wall and tapped his mace against it in a futile attempt to shift the worst of the brain matter. Cursing, he returned it to his belt, ignoring the smear it left against his cuirass. At least he wasn't as bloody as Jongar. The Nord's iron armour was splattered with crimson, and half his warhammer's haft was slippery. Even his beard was more red than blonde. His fighting style was rather more similar to an Orcish berserker than anyone within twenty feet of him would have liked, but he was definitely effective.
"You getting tired, Dunmer?" inquired the Breton Knight Sister who had walked over to lean on the wall beside him. "I guess at your age, fatigue is going to be an issue." She snorted with laughter as she cleaned her katana with a rag. Caroline Genis was the woman that Glenroy had put in nominal charge of the Blades in Modryn's squad, but it was proving difficult to see why. The Breton was good with a katana and capable of casting a pathetically weak frost spell, but she was over-confident and only serious for as long as it suited her. She inspired confidence, it was true, but he'd have preferred someone with a more level head.
"I've forgotten more about leading than you'll ever learn, Breton," growled the Dark Elf in response. She merely sniggered and jerked a flask from her right boot, offering it to him before shrugging at his denial and swigging it herself. If the spirits inside were as strong as they smelt, he was thankful that she was limiting her intake. He'd seen grown men get drunk on less. "Don't get too pissed," he warned. "Fighting drunk is for Orcs. Not the kind of people you'll want to be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with."
Caroline laughed. "Don't worry your pretty head, Dunmer," she told him. "Right boot is for combat, left boot is for the temple. The left boot flask doesn't have water in it." She shoved the offending drink back into her armour and straightened. "We heading out?" Modryn nodded and adjusted his ebony helmet on his supposedly pretty head as he stepped forward, pulling his mace free of his belt once again.
They continued deeper into the ruin, following the trail of blood left by one of the wounded survivors of the last engagement. The trail ended when they found his corpse, but there was only one way forward in any case. Shouts and footsteps could be heard echoing off the stone walls of the narrow passageway. One good man could hold fifty here, thought the Dunmer grimly as he eyed the walls, which couldn't have been more than six feet apart. Blackheart had chosen his fortress well.
A small archway marked the end of the passage. As they approached it, a grizzled Imperial armoured in chainmail with a longsword in hand stepped out, taking a few steps towards the squad and beckoning with his free hand. His hard grey eyes spoke of experience, and there was no doubt that the bandit knew the strength of his position. Beside Modryn, Caroline sniggered and drew her katana. "Come on, then," she said, striding forward to meet the Imperial. The Dark Elf and the rest of his men had no choice but to watch; any aid would be a hindrance rather than a help in the narrow confines.
The bandit said nothing. He merely stepped forward and attacked, his longsword curving down towards the Breton's neck. The edge of her shield parried the blow, leaving him vulnerable to a slash that opened his thigh. Grunting, he pressed forward, attempting to back his opponent into a wall. Instead, she slammed her shield into his chest and halted his advance. While lacking the strength to push him back, she caught his sword with her blade and kicked him in the knee. He stumbled backwards, but the Knight Sister gave him no rest, their blades clashing three more times before the katana clashed against the side of the steel helmet covering most of the Imperial's head. Stunned, the bandit fell back against the wall, barely remaining standing. Two wide, uncontrolled swings forced his adversary backwards, however, giving himself enough room to recover.
It was his turn to go on the offensive, turning aside Caroline's weapon and delivering a punch to hear head with his free hand that was strong enough to stagger her. Only a swift recovery meant that his blade merely grazed her plate instead of impaling her. Modryn grimaced and stepped forward. He hated feeling helpless, but he was unlikely to escape with a mere tongue-lashing if Captain Glenroy found that he'd let his subordinate get herself killed in single combat.
His help was not needed, however. The Imperial had overextended himself, and only his heavy chainmail saved him from being gutted as his opponent's katana rattled across his stomach. He swung downwards towards her head, but the Breton stepped back to smoothly avoid the blow, stepping back and slamming the edge of his shield into his helmet. She would have followed it up with a thrust to the midsection, a fatal blow, but her enemy took two steps backward and threw down his longsword.
"I yield," he announced gruffly. "I have no intention of dying for that deluded young bastard." He undid his helmet strap and threw it to the ground beside his sword, revealing sparse grey hair covering an aged, weather-beaten head. A stubborn, square jaw was marked by an old scar running from his right ear to his chin. Modryn hadn't been wrong when he'd guessed at experience; this veteran had likely fought in wars before Jongar had even been born.
"You're not bad, for an old man," remarked Caroline, picking up his longsword. It was good steel, though chipped and pitted in places. An old weapon. She wiped a tiny smear of blood from her cheek where the weapon had nicked her in his first attack. "A half-second slower with my shield and I'd need a new face."
He spat. "I ain't as young as I used to be," he growled as Modryn walked up, looking him up and down. The man was of average height, but his broad, stocky build made him appear shorter than normal. His chainmail was flecked with spots of rust, but it was well-crafted and still sturdy. He returned the Dunmer's gaze with his own, running his eyes over the scarred ebony armour and the bloodied Daedric mace at his hip. "Some people have it all," he snarled. "Good armour, good weapon... and you're likely to live four of my lifetimes." Folding his arms, his lip curled into a sneer. "What are you going to do with me?"
It was a good question. Modryn hadn't anticipated taking any prisoners. He wasn't about to detach anyone to watch the man, but taking him along with them would be too dangerous. "What's your name?" he asked. Maybe conversation would throw something up.
"Uriel Signus." The Imperial grimaced. "I'm a mercenary. Blackheart hired me to whip these whelps of his into shape." He pursed his lips and spat. "Gave me two months to do it. I've been here two weeks, and I've already realised it'd take at least half a year to make this rabble into anything useful. As you've seen yourself." He spat again. "No notion of discipline, and they've got more languages in this camp than sense. Training goats would be more productive. At least you can eat goats." Uriel brought his rambling to an abrupt end and leaned forward, looking into the Dark Elf's eyes. "If you go through that arch, be prepared."
"Why?" demanded Caroline, folding her arms. Her defeated foe's longsword was slotted through her belt. Doubtlessly, she only meant to keep it for as long as necessary; it was a shoddy prize for someone used to Akaviri katanas. "What's through there that we haven't faced already?"
"Try fighting something that can kill off half your squad without you noticing," sneered Uriel. "Do'kazirr's hardly the most pliable of Khajiits. Try getting him to yield." He shook his head. "Don't even think about forcing me through first. He'd force me to eat my own balls for valuing my own life and surrendering. Release me and I won't trouble you again."
Modryn started to demand more information, but Caroline cut right across him. "Do we have your word on that?" she asked the mercenary. Am I in charge here, or her? The Dunmer glared at her, but before he could unleash his tongue, the Imperial had spat again.
"My word?" he snorted. "Hasn't anyone told you that sellswords really don't have much honour, girl?" Noting her look of anger, he rolled his eyes and jabbed her breastplate with a finger. One Blade half-drew his katana before realising that a man with no sword wasn't likely to be able to kill his leader by poking her in the chest. "Look, if I say I won't attack you, then I won't attack you. There's nothing in it for me. I expected to be training raiders, not going up against the Emperor's bloody bodyguards. I'm out of here to find a new sword and a new employer."
The ex-Champion placed a hand on Uriel's shoulder. "Why don't you tell us a few more things first?" he inquired, a small, cruel smile appearing on his lips. "I'd hate to walk through that archway blind." Caroline understood the Dark Elf's intentions and nodded, smirking ominously and grabbing the Imperial's other shoulder. The mercenary's eyes flickered between both of them, his frown deepening with every second. Finally, he spat again and started talking.
"Guard the door. Make sure no one enters." Gorgoth's eyes swept the corridor in both directions. Nothing stirred, and his spell of life detection revealed nothing, but it was always best to be sure. Two Dremora and a Xivilai guarding the door would be sufficient.
"When you ask us to guard a door, you're normally raping someone on the other side," remarked Chaxil wryly as he took up a position beside the stone door with his claymore drawn.
"Not this time." They'd met minimal resistance throughout Atatar. Blackheart's army had been numerous but ill-trained and ineffective. Blood King had slaughtered many, yet the warrior-shaman could still feel the energy pulsing under his fingers, calling out for more death. That was good. He would need the enchantment's full power, along with any other advantage he could get.
He pushed open the door and entered Blackheart's chambers. Lurog and Mazoga followed him, both of them sheathing their weapons. They would play no part here. Lurog had already fought his own duel; he'd required healing for a deep gash in his thigh, but he had been the victor. Shagar's head was proof of that; the warrior had tied his cousin's head to his belt by his war braids.
The chamber was sizeable; the large bed was situated in a cleft in the wall, and several bookshelves lined the walls, along with a table and chairs that had clearly been pushed there, clearing a large space in the centre of the room. Crystals in the walls and ceiling provided ample illumination. Gorgoth let his magical light wink out; the magicka required to maintain it was tiny, but he might need every drop of it in the coming battle.
Azani Blackheart was standing in the centre of his redoubt, arms folded as he watched his enemies file in and stand in a line facing him. The Redguard – who had clearly been expecting them for some time - was clad in Ayleid armour, the burnished gold plate sparkling with the reflections of thousands of crystals. Only his head was bare; he always had preferred visibility over everything else. Sinweaver's hilt was easily within reach at his shoulder. He hadn't changed an inch. Gorgoth took two steps forward, holding Blood King and the Thornblade loosely. "Blackheart," he greeted, inclining his head respectfully.
"Gorgoth." The bandit lord tapped two fingers to his heart. "Would any further words be a waste of my breath?"
"Yes. You know why I'm here. If not me, then someone else will claim your head today."
A small smirk played across Blackheart's lips as he reached up and smoothly slid Sinweaver from its scabbard. The ex-Warder could feel the pulse beneath his fingers quickening as Blood King sensed a climatic battle approaching. In response to the weapon, his own heart beat faster. His fists clenched tighter around his weapons; the Thornblade might well be the edge he needed. Ayleid armour was strong and flexible, but the blade's enchantment would eat through even Daedric steel in mere moments.
"This will be different from last time," claimed the Redguard. He was right; not only did Gorgoth have another weapon and better armour, but the warrior-shaman could see tendrils of fortification magicka creeping up the bandit lord's arms to his body. The Orc followed suit, encasing himself in a strong shield spell as well as boosting his strength and speed. His enemy slowly unbent his stiff back and entered a combat stance, Sinweaver held upright in both hands. "Come, Gorgoth. Let us dance."
Stepping forward, the Orc swung upwards towards his adversary's spine. Blackheart jumped back then forwards, his claymore a blur as it darted for his unprotected head. Steel met steel as the Thornblade met the attack, and the warrior-shaman swung his mace again, far faster than he could have done normally. But for the first time in recent history, he was fighting someone who fought like he did; martial might backed up with strong magicka. The Redguard jumped and vaulted over the Orc's head, landing behind him with an attack already in motion.
Gorgoth spun so fast that the room blurred. Then he was facing Blackheart again, Blood King turning aside Sinweaver, sparks flying as the mace's enchantment fought for dominance with the protective Ayleid magics. The two combatants surged back and forth across the chamber, weapons flickering so fast that their movements were impossible to follow. Several times, the spectators had to move quickly to avoid them. Mazoga, watching with narrowed eyes, unconsciously grabbed at Lurog's arm several times, once squeezing his hand so hard that he grunted. She was gripping her sword hilt so tightly that the weapon was shaking.
Pushing the bandit lord back against the wall, the warrior-shaman attempted to kick his abdomen, but was forced back by his claymore arching towards his throat. One scratch and he would be dead; his healing magic could hold the black rot at bay, but it would be impossible to fight at the same time. Whether he knew it or not, his opponent was fighting under the same threat; with this much power coursing through it, one good hit from Blood King would utterly shatter him. The Thornblade could end it as well, but apart from a few scorched gouges where the blade had grazed his armour, the bandit lord was unharmed.
Stepping back quickly to get a few seconds for thought, the ex-Warder found that he was breathing heavily. Across the room, Blackheart's chest was also rising and falling, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. Their eyes met, light brown meeting dark yellow. The Redguard's mouth was curling upwards slightly; he was enjoying every moment. He came forward again, sword whirling. Gorgoth ducked and rushed forward at a crouch. The thrust rattled against his pauldron as it passed over his shoulder, but now he had his arms wrapped around his opponent's legs. He forced himself onward, rising and lifting the bandit lord's feet of the ground before throwing him to the floor.
Cursing, the swordsman twisted, rolling so that the Orc's boot caught him in the ribs instead of the head. He was thrown across the chamber with a dent in his armour and a cracked rib, but he was still alive. Bouncing to his feet, he wasted no time in charging again, his ferocity forcing his opponent back. As they clashed, the warrior-shaman got a glimpse of his adversary's eyes. They were wide, the pupils fully dilated. Behind the look of calm ferocity was a touch of ecstasy, of pure adrenaline.
Gorgoth grimaced. Blackheart's adrenaline rush would give him a definite edge. His only hope was to wait it out; if he survived, his opponent would be exhausted. But survival was looking difficult. Blessed with new-found speed and vigour, the Redguard started to batter at the Orc, forcing him across the cavern. Blackheart was simply too fast; he could block most of his foe's attacks, but Sinweaver was testing his shield spell far more often now. Dents appeared in his steel cuirass; if not for his Alteration, more than one of the attacks would have penetrated.
The Redguard persisted, forcing the warrior-shaman back against a wall and pinning him there, Sinweaver apparently coming from three directions at once. An attempt to lock blades and push him back with brute force failed, as did an attempt to shoulder-barge his way to freedom. Twice, only Gorgoth's quick reactions in throwing his head sideways saved it from being cleaved in two. A sudden kick forced his adversary back, but he recoiled with such speed that the Orc had to dive sideways to avoid impalement.
Sinweaver instead stabbed into the wall, over a foot of its length vanishing into the Ayleid stonework before Blackheart stopped his charge. He yanked it back out immediately, but his opponent had scrambled well clear and recovered. Roaring wordlessly, the Redguard attacked again, but this time the ex-Warder stood his ground. A powerful slash scythed into his stomach. The Akaviri-styled plate buckled and groaned, but held; the shield spell had prevented another scar appearing across his torso. Stepping inside the bandit lord's reach, the Orc wrapped his arms around him, driving the Thornblade up towards the back of his head.
In response, the bandit lord picked up Gorgoth and threw him across the chamber. The massive warrior-shaman left a large dent in the wall as he crashed into it, and fragments of rock rained down on him, bouncing off his magical shield as he struggled to his feet. He'd kept hold of both his weapons, but his enemy intended to give him no rest, dashing forward and swinging downwards. The Orc threw himself backwards, managing to tangle his legs with the Redguard's.
Blackheart came toppling down on top of him. His weight crushed the warrior-shaman to the ground, but Gorgoth bashed him in the side of the head with the hilt of the Thornblade before pushing the bandit lord off him. They got to their feet at the same time, the Redguard looking slightly unsteady. One look at his face confirmed it; his adrenaline rush was over. Fatigue would be weakening his body now, slowing his reflexes. The warrior-shaman was battered, but now he held the advantage.
The ex-Warder moved to take the initiative, a blow from Blood King almost ripping Sinweaver from his opponent's hands. It was the bandit lord's turn to be driven across the chamber, forced to defend every blow, not able to launch an attack of his own. He remained dangerous, however; an attempt to pin him by forcing Sinweaver above his head was countered by a kick to the abdomen that sent the Orc staggering back. Shouting a battle cry in his native tongue, the swordsman attempted to cleave his head in two. Gorgoth sidestepped and pushed past him, giving him a slash across the back of his thighs in passing. It was shallow, but the Redguard was bleeding.
Bellowing his own battle cry, Gorgoth hammered at Blackheart, one barely-blocked swing sending him staggering back halfway to the opposite wall. Before the bandit lord had completely recovered, the Thornblade had forced Sinweaver wide, leaving the swordsman truly vulnerable for the first time in decades. Blood King slammed into his torso, the sheer power of the mace smashing him into the far wall with enough power to shatter the stone.
One glance told the warrior-shaman all he need to know. Azani Blackheart was dead, his chest a shattered ruin. The back of his head was a bloody pulp where it had hit the wall, and his breastplate was crumpled beyond recognition. The flesh and bone underneath - what remained of it – would be barely recognisable as human. Sighing, Gorgoth sheathed his weapons before finally allowing himself to sag momentarily. Weariness from his earlier magical exertions combined with the fatiguing fight threatened to weaken him, but he forced himself to stand straight again. There was never a time for weakness.
Mazoga said nothing as she walked up to him. Maybe she couldn't think of anything. Instead, she threw her arms around him and kissed him with all the passion and fury that he'd come to expect from her. As his own arms wrapped around her, the warrior-shaman allowed himself a brief moment of relaxation as the taste of her tongue masked the stench of sweat and blood.
The sound of the door sliding open and approaching footsteps brought Gorgoth's head up, and he stepped back from Mazoga when he saw Modryn Oreyn stalking towards him with a face like a thunderstorm. His lover stubbornly kept an arm around his waist and glared at the Dunmer as he approached, but he either didn't notice it or ignored it completely. "You fucking idiot," he snarled, shaking a fist two inches underneath the warrior-shaman's nose. "He's the most dangerous man in half the province, and you go and fight a bloody duel with him. What the fuck were you thinking?"
"It was the most honourable way. He deserved it." Unable to fold his arms due to one of them still being wrapped around Mazoga, the Orc rested the other on the hilt of the Thornblade. "He is dead, and he died well. We have what we need. Why complain?"
The Dark Elf spluttered wordlessly for a few moments before throwing up his hands and stalking over to Blackheart's body, muttering under his breath. "There's gratitude for you," growled Mazoga, glaring at his back as he worked the bandit lord's signet ring off his finger. "How many of his lackeys would Blackheart have killed if you hadn't been around?" She snorted and moved in to kiss him again, but Gorgoth shook his head and walked over to the body.
Kneeling, he waved Modryn away and gently closed his old enemy's eyes. "He fought and died well," intoned the warrior-shaman. "He was a true warrior to his last breath. Malacath, watch over his soul." He reached over and worked Sinweaver's scabbard off the Redguard's back before looking around for the weapon itself. The claymore was lying on the floor, still appearing ominous despite the death of its wielder. Picking it up, the Orc hefted it, testing the weapon's weight.
"A fine weapon," he observed, gazing at the glowing blade for a few seconds before sheathing it and looking around the chamber, now filled with comrades who had fought and bled beside him. "There is still much work to be done," he informed them, his face as grim as ever. "We all know that Blackheart wasn't the true enemy." Modryn and the surviving Guildsmen exchanged glances, but they knew it to be fact. "We have removed a distraction, but there are other trials to face. Remain ready for them. There is much blood still to be shed."
A/N: And there you have your chapter... just a few minutes before the end of 2011 (in England, at least). Now, short of something catastrophic like my arms falling off, I'm certain that Blood and Steel will be finished before we see the end of 2012. After that, you'll almost definitely be getting a Dark Brotherhood (Oblivion-spec) fic, a handful of oneshots, then a Skyrim fic. So many ideas, and no time to write them... well, I'll get there. For now, Happy New Year, and don't forget to leave a review.