A/N: No, you're not reading it wrong; I have managed to write a full-length chapter in one week. Taking eighteen weeks to write two chapters was diabolically bad, so here's hoping my new-found speed can somewhat make up for that. My biggest worry is a potential decrease in quality, so make sure to tell me if anything isn't up to scratch. As for those reviewers:
Nameless: I see what you mean, but it works better for me with the 'but' than without it. I changed the 'nor' to 'neither'; made it look slightly better, at least. Yes, the cavalry will definitely show up, and with Phillida in charge you can be sure they'll be well-used... and as for Ocato, well... all will be revealed. Eventually. ;)
It seems I updated so freakishly quickly that some of my regular reviewers haven't even had the time to review yet... but don't worry, as the next chapter will definitely take me longer to write than this one. So don't forget to review, because I'll need all the help and encouragement I can get...
Chapter Forty-seven: The Coming Evil
Not for the first time this morning, Ilend found himself sighing. Menien's skill with the sword had not faded, but his aged, weakened body and the withdrawal symptoms of his alcoholism were betraying him. Once again, Merandil had managed to disarm him with a deliberately clumsy attack that even a novice could have blocked. The old Imperial sank to his knees, ignoring the wooden practice sword lying in the snow a few paces away from him, breathing hard already despite only having been active for a few minutes. They'd got him up two hours after dawn by pouring a copious amount of freezing water over his head. Ilend had gained Burd's reluctant permission to stop his lessons until Menien was back in fighting shape, but if current form was anything to go by, it would take a long time.
It was fortunate that Merandil had an abundance of patience, but it was clear that even he was frustrated as he lowered his own practise sword, shaking his head. They were in a small open space behind one of the barracks rather than in any official training yard, and it had proven to be a wise choice; Menien would have been the laughing stock of the entire army within hours had they made this public. They'd bought him new clothes and leather armour, as well as a new longsword, but at the moment it was starting to look like money wasted. "Come on," growled Ilend, frowning down at his old friend. "Get up. You're not going to get back into shape by staying on your knees."
"Give me a few minutes," pleaded the ex-guardsman, his breathing coming in short gasps, billowing from his open mouth before dissipating into the cold morning air. "I don't have much energy." That was no surprise; after the long process of awakening from his drink-induced slumber, the Imperial had only managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of bread for breakfast, pushing the rest away, claiming it made him feel sick. Merandil had the presence of mind to have brought more food with them, so Ilend reached for the bag now, taking out a hunk of bread and some cheese and shoving them at Menien. "Eat, and you'll get more energy." Merandil, having the same idea, also reached in and thrust a flask of water at the Imperial.
He shrank back, but at least took it, looking at it balefully. "I want ale," he muttered, his voice containing a hint of anger. "I don't need it, but I want it. It's the only way to..." He shook his head and shuddered, swaying his way over to a stool and sitting down. Ilend and Merandil exchanged glances before the Imperial walked over and leaned on the wall of the barracks next to his compatriot.
"What happened to you, Menien?" he asked. They hadn't got much out of the ex-guardsman that morning, apart from a flurry of curses at having been awoken and near-constant unintelligible grumbling.
The older Imperial looked up at him with a haunted look in his bloodshot eyes. "I can't remember it, damn it," he muttered. "I have to forget." He took a small bite of his roll and grimaced, as though the taste was foreign to him.
Ilend sighed. "It was in Oblivion, wasn't it?" Menien's head snapped up. "When they took you off to that tower... well, I thought you were dead, but you're sitting here now." He leaned closer. "Do you wish you'd died in there?"
A long pause followed before the ex-guardsman finally nodded. "What they did to me in there..." He sighed, his hands shaking so much that he almost dropped his water. "No man would have come out of there unchanged, Ilend," he continued, his voice quavering. "Oleta might have healed me, but... Every night, I'm there again, in my nightmares, screaming, begging for mercy. I want to forget. I try to forget. But every morning when I wake up after drowning myself, it's still there. I can't escape my memories, Ilend. I can't."
The Guildsman grunted. He knew all to well what it was like to be hounded by memories, and he'd had it a lot easier than his old friend. Pushing himself off the barracks wall, he started to pace, one hand clenching and unclenching on his sword hilt. Menien continued, his voice still shaky. "What else can I do, Ilend? I can't live with that... constant nightmare every time I close my eyes. I can't..." He shook his head. "No one understands. They've not seen the fires as I've seen them..."
"That placed changed me as well, Menien," grated Ilend, turning to stare his old friend in the eyes. "I know I wasn't tortured, but do you see me crawling around in the mud, unable to tell one end of a sword from the other? What use are you against a Daedra?" He walked up to the Imperial and dragged him up out of his seat, glaring at him. "Yes, the Daedra did terrible things to you. And what are you doing about? Trying to forget it? Have you forgotten who you used to be?" He shoved the old guardsman back against the barracks wall, folding his arms. "Don't you want revenge, Menien?" he asked, his voice growing softer. "The way you're going, you'll die forgotten and useless down some back alley. Wouldn't you rather die with a sword in your hand with Daedric blood staining the blade? That way, you'd at least have some closure. And in Aetherius... you'd get your peace."
The old Imperial stared at him, mouth gaping slightly as his rheumy eyes started to show some signs of comprehension. "There weren't any Daedra to fight in Kvatch," he mumbled. "Got bored. Wanted to find some. Captain didn't understand... chucked me out. Then it's all just... drunken haze."
"Well, you're sober now," responded Merandil, moving to stand beside Ilend. "Do you want to die well, or die like some common drunk who's never done anything worthwhile in his life?"
At long last, some of the old steel appeared to return to Menien's gaze, and he straightened, looking for his practice sword. "Good point," he growled, bending to pick it up. "Come on, then. I'd rather not be gutted by the first Dremora that comes across me." He clumsily slipped into a combat stance, his sword hand shaking slightly, but at least he was already showing improvement. Ilend smiled and stepped back to watch. He was willing to sacrifice much to get Menien the death he deserved; he owed the old man that much, at least.
It had been too long since Aerin had gone on a hunt, just her and her bow and her prey. The last time had been just after she'd left the Arena with Gorgoth, and she'd had few opportunities since. It also gave her a chance to get out alone, away from the crowded city, a chance to think. She wouldn't have had Ilend's company anyway. The Guildsman had told her he intended to take all day training Menien if he had to, which only served to increase her irritation; he'd been so distracted in bed last night that he'd only had sex once, and not at all in the morning. She knew the Imperial's reasoning, of course, and knew that her anger was illogical, but thought it best to clear her head anyway. After spending the morning with her Argonian friends, she'd left soon after lunch with her bow, swords, a few potions and a horn to warn Bruma if she sighted an Oblivion Gate.
She was wearing her thick cloak over her leather armour to keep the cold out, but she'd swiftly learnt how to move quickly and quietly with deep snow underfoot. She was about five miles west of Bruma, on the verges of the forest. The sun had reached its noonday zenith hours ago and was now halfway to the horizon. Trueshot was in her hands with an arrow nocked. The size of the recurve bow meant that she had to walk almost straight, but she had long since learnt how to hunt with Trueshot; Gorgoth had called it one of the most powerful bows he'd ever seen, so it was worth any kind of hardship.
The stag she was hunting had stopped near a thicket. Aerin immediately slowed, creeping forward silently, keeping a watchful eye on the ground around her as well as the stag. As she moved into range and got a clear shot, she stopped and slowly raised herself to her full height, holding her breath as she smoothly drew the fletchings of her arrow almost to her cheek. It had always annoyed her that she couldn't draw her own bow fully no matter how much she worked on her strength, but that fact was that it was a large, powerful recurve designed for an Argonian's hands, not an oversized Bosmer's.
Her arrow took the stag in the flank, the penetrative power of Trueshot driving it so far in that only two inches of shaft were visible. It immediately lurched forward, grunting before collapsing to the ground. The Wood Elf's eyes darted around the immediate area before lowering Trueshot and stepping forward, drawing her hunting knife as she approached her fallen prey. The knife was large and heavy, a clumsy weapon when compared to the enchanted dagger that Ilend had given her, but it was far better at this kind of work. Kneeling beside the stag, she quickly cut its throat and was preparing to attempt to retrieve her arrow when a twig breaking jerked her head up.
The Nord was standing about ten paces from her, the grimace on his face a clear indication that he was inwardly cursing his misstep. Ragged tears in his dirty furs, the unwashed state of his face, his straggly beard and the naked broadsword in his hand all indicated that he was someone who lived on the wrong side of the law.
Aerin immediately leapt to her feet, dropping her knife and nocking an arrow, drawing it almost to her cheek. "Stay back," she warned, tossing her head to throw the hood of her cloak back from her head. Her cloak might keep her warm, but in close combat it would be a burden. Lowering her bow to remove it at the moment would be suicide, however.
"Nice of you to shoot our dinner for us, girl," replied the Nord, his yellowing, cracked teeth visible as he flashed her a wicked grin. Aerin's darting eyes picked out at least three more bandits in amongst the trees, and sounds behind her indicated more surrounding her. "We'll be taking that. And any gold you've got. And those pretty weapons of yours..." He sneered and took a step closer.
"Move another muscle and you'll have an arrow in your throat," snarled the Bosmer, trying to mask her fear. She might have expected an Oblivion Gate, but bandits so close to such a large army? There was no time to ponder it; if she didn't act on her toes now, she might well be raped and left to rot the snow with her throat slit.
The Nord chuckled, his eyes moving briefly to his comrades behind her. "I don't think so, girl. Easier for us if you just do as we tell you. Pretty thing like you shouldn't come to these woods if you're not prepared..." A twig cracked behind Aerin. Someone was moving closer.
Without hesitation, she released. The bandit had a moment to look shocked as her arrow flew neatly into the centre of his throat, just as she'd promised. As he fell back, clawing at the arrow and attempting to draw breath, she was already spinning, nocking another arrow, drawing and releasing as quickly as she could aim. One of the two bandits moving in behind her – an Imperial, this one – fell sideways into a tree with an arrow in his chest. She drew another arrow, cursing Trueshot's size for her slow rate of fire, and managed to kill the Imperial's companion before he got to within five feet.
Not turning to look at the bandits who were surely right behind her, she ducked her head and dashed off as quickly as she could, swapping Trueshot from one hand to the other as she shrugged her cloak off, barely noticing the cold hitting her as sweat started to moisten her leathers. There was the sound of a stumble behind her as one of the bandits ran into her discarded cloak, but they were gaining. Aerin couldn't sprint in ankle-deep snow holding a large bow, whereas they were unencumbered and had lived in such conditions for years. They would catch her, and they would kill her if they took her in the back. Spitting defiance, she turned and faced them, throwing down Trueshot and whipping one of her shortswords from its scabbard.
There were three of them, splitting up to each take her from a different direction. She moved quickly towards the man in the centre, a broad Imperial wearing a cracked helmet and studded leather armour that had seen better days. Using everything that her lover had ever taught her, the Wood Elf feinted left and right before stabbing upwards towards his armpit. He saw the threat too late to parry with his longsword but managed to throw himself backwards, escaping with nothing more than a scratch on his leather. Aerin cursed and rolled to her side, barely avoiding the warhammer that smashed into the ground where she'd been. There were too many of them, too many to deal with; she was an archer, not a swordsmer. Gritting her teeth, she started to spin to face them again. A heavy blow to her ribs sent her sprawling into the snow, all breath driven from her lungs.
Standing above her was a Redguard, a satisfied expression on his gaunt face as he dropped his club and threw himself down on top of her, forcing her sword arm above her head and pinning it to the ground as he punched her in the temple, her head snapping to the side. The Wood Elf attempted to kick him off, but she was too stunned to move quickly enough; within seconds, he had pinned her legs to the ground and was unbuckling her sword belt, which held all her weapons, not to mention her potions.
"Fuck you," grunted Aerin, her voice thick due to the blood in her mouth. She had lost, that was certain; defiance was all she had left to combat the despair quickly rising like bile in her throat. The Redguard raised a hand to punch her again.
He was thrown off her with such force that he rolled into the trunk of a tree several feet away. The Bosmer stared at him uncomprehendingly before noticing the massive arrow in his side. Looking up, she saw the Imperial collapsing to the ground, half his head a ruined mess, felled by the mace of a large Orc in steel plate armour. For a single, relieved moment, Aerin thought that some of Gorgoth's Orcs had followed her, only for her hopes to be dashed when she realised that she neither recognised this Orc nor his armour. Not waiting for the third bandit's death scream, the archer rolled onto her stomach and started to push herself upwards, only for a heavy boot to crush her to the ground. As she hissed in agony, a hard, heavily accented voice spoke from above her.
"Highly impressive, little elf. But bad for you." The Orc's voice was harsh as he knelt, pressing his knee into her spine as he finished removing her belt, taking it and all her weapons. Above her, another voice called out a question in a language that she knew was Orcish. Her captor answered in the same tongue, picking up the shortsword that had fallen from her grasp and sheathing it in the empty scabbard on her belt.
"What do you-" She was cut off by the Orc pushing her face down into the snow. Shuddering with the cold, she could only listen as several voices joined a discussion. Finally, the painful pressure of the knee in her spine was lifted, but only because her captor was wrenching her hands behind her back and tying her wrists with rope that seemed thick enough to secure horses. Twisting her head to the side, she spat out snow and tried again. "Who are you?"
"We'll be the ones asking the questions, little elf," snarled the Orc, tying the knot so tightly that she swiftly started to lose feeling in her hands. That done, he grasped her by the shoulder and dragged her roughly to her feet, grabbing her other shoulder to steady the Bosmer as she staggered backwards into him.
There were four other Orcs in the vicinity, all in steel plate armour with fur cloaks. Two were checking the bodies of the bandits, but one was running his hands over Trueshot, which he'd picked from the ground. Anger flared in her, but quickly fled as another Orc stepped up in front of her and roughly grabbed her jaw, forcing her head upwards to stare him in the eyes. It was he who had the massive recurve bow on his back, and he alone wore no helmet; his cold yellow eyes were hard and unforgiving. She flinched. There was no mercy in those eyes. No matter what those bandits had planned for her, it couldn't have been worse than what these Orcs were capable of. She might have liked Gorgoth, but she had always shuddered at the mere prospect of getting on his bad side.
"Take her," he grunted, withdrawing his hand and looking over towards the other Orcs. He shouted something in Orcish, spurring them into action as Aerin's captor dragged her around and pushed her, prompting her to walk forward with him.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked desperately, trying to fight the sheer terror that was now starting to grip her. She'd told a few people where she was going, but not when she'd be back; it might well be tomorrow before the alarm was raised, and by then she could be miles away.
"Another word and I gag you," muttered the Orc, kneeing her in the back so hard she almost fell. Stumbling, she tried to twist out of his grasp, but his hands were iron clamps on her shoulders. Feeling panic rising, she attempted to test the strength of the rope binding her wrists, but it only dug in deeper. "Try to run and I'll rape you bloody," added the Orc behind her, his tone of voice unchanging. They were approaching a small clearing in which five massive horses were tied to trees. Aerin knew where she'd seen such horses before. Her eyes grew wide with terror as she finally remembered the Orcs that Burzukh had sent north before Gorgoth had killed him.
"I'm not going to-" she was cut off by a gauntleted palm slapping her head to one side, the Orc growling something before reaching for his belt. At that moment – when he only had one hand on her – Aerin twisted quicker than he might have thought possible, lashing out behind her and pushing herself away from him with her leg. She managed to tear herself from his grasp and spun, sprinting away from him and the horses before he could react. Shouts and bellowed commands echoed through the woods behind her, but she didn't look back; all she could focus on now was getting away, as far away as possible. In her blind panic, she didn't even know if she was heading towards Bruma or away from it.
Boots rapidly crunching through snow behind her spurred her onto greater efforts, but the Orc was stronger with longer legs and boundless stamina, not to mention the fact that his hands weren't tied behind his back. Within a minute of her escape, a powerful blow to her back sent her sprawling, and he threw himself down atop her. Desperately struggling with the strength of someone fighting for her life, she tried to squirm free and even bite his hand through his gauntlet, but within seconds he had her pinned. Throwing back her head to abandon all dignity and scream for help, the world blacked out as he drew a hood down over her head, covering her entire face. Grabbing her jaw, he forced rope into her mouth, tying it around her head so tightly that her teeth hurt. Blind and silenced, and almost retching at the taste and feel of the rough, dusty fabric of the hood, Aerin could only moan helplessly as Burzukh's Orc picked her up and effortlessly slung her over his shoulder, growling promises of rape and torture as he carried her back to his horse.
The camp surrounding Bruma was sprawling and haphazard, yet in most places it still maintained some semblance of order. Most of the captains or leaders of the city garrison contingents had enforced discipline amongst their men, as had various mercenary captains, and Burd had made sure that the rest of the soldiers knew what not to do. Even so, however, such a large collection of soldiers with such wildly differing backgrounds and methods of operation meant that navigating the camp was often troublesome, particularly for messengers who had to deliver vital orders to every person of authority in the camp before the sun went down.
Callia was one such messenger; General Adamus Phillida had been quick to establish himself, and after learning the situation had called for a general briefing of all the captains in the entire army, to be held in Bruma after dusk in the Great Chapel of Talos. He wanted to spread his battle plans as quickly as possible, so that every man or mer in the army knew exactly what was expected of them. The Knight Sister had got the feeling that battle would be joined as soon as Gorgoth and his reinforcements turned up. Martin and Steffan had been obliging, and over a dozen of the Blades had been sent down to Bruma to carry the orders to every leader they could find.
Judging from the position of the sun relative to the horizon, there was approximately two hours until dusk, though most of the population hadn't even had dinner yet; the depths of winter brought long, cold nights to the north. Callia was wearing a thick wool cloak over her Akaviri-styled plate armour, yet gusts of freezing wind still made her shiver from time to time, and trudging through ankle-deep slush and snow was slowly turning her feet numb with cold. At least everyone had the sense to build the latrines outside the boundaries of the camp, or she would have been walking through worse than half-melted water.
She'd already delivered messages to several captains of the city contingents and a few mercenary captains, and her voice was growing weary from repeating the same words over and over again, but she still had several more to see to; Phillida had been very insistent that everyone had to have at least some idea of what the army was intended to achieve and how. So the Breton trudged on, her head swivelling as she tried to make out the white-and-red sigil of the White Arrows, a mercenary company from Valenwood with two hundred Bosmeri archers. Grunting in annoyance, she removed her helmet to give her greater peripheral vision, ignoring the cold wind that buffeted her face and plucked at her hair as she secured the helmet to her belt.
There were no Oblivion Gates open at present, so the camp was crowded; she could barely move five paces before coming across yet another group of soldiers clustered around a brazier or small fire, and many more were moving around the camp, either sidestepping out of her way as she passed or forcing her to do the same for them. One of these men, a stocky Imperial in the armour of a legionary, did a double take, looking at her sharply before grabbing her shoulder as she walked past.
"What is it?" she asked impatiently as she turned to regard him, forcing traffic to flow around them. His face was rendered largely anonymous by the cheekguards of his helmet.
The Imperial paused for a moment, his jaw working before he found the words he was looking for. "Can I talk to you?" he asked, his voice low, his mouth moving somewhat awkwardly as though something was pulling it to one side. Not waiting for a response, he ushered her off the path and into an area of relative seclusion between two large tents. As he stopped, the Blade spun out of his grasp and frowned up at him.
"I have important messages to deliver before sunset-"
"I know, and I won't keep you for long, I..." The Imperial's voice trailed off, as though he was unsure of what to say, and he looked around, presumably to make sure they were private. "You might not remember me, but I was there when you delivered that message to General Phillida a while back. When he was attacked by the Dark Brotherhood." A spasm of hatred and rage crossed his face, but he quickly smoothed it out into an expression of neutrality.
"Ah." Callia recalled that day, when the legionary in front of her had so infuriated her with his comments about the Blades before getting his face cut open by an assassin's enchanted dagger. His eyes were different, she realised; previously, there had been steel in them, but also warmth. Now, they were harder, more guarded. "What do you want?" she asked carefully.
"I wanted..." He clenched his jaw as though he was having trouble saying something unpleasant. "I wanted to apologise. When..." The legionary paused, sighing. "I was useless in that fight. The general I was protecting was attacked in front of me, and what did I do? I got my face cut open. If anyone protected him, it was you. Phillida might have survived, but I failed..." He shook his head. "Failed the same as you Blades failed in protecting old Uriel, effectively. Now I realise you didn't need your noses rubbed in the dirt. You've done a lot for all of us since. I'm sorry."
Callia looked up at the Imperial – who seemed slightly embarrassed – for several seconds, trying to think up a response. He had infuriated her, true, but his apology seemed genuine, even if it had required the ruination of his face for him to realise what he'd done. And with eyes like those, he had certainly seen his own fair share of loss. "I forgive you," she told him, softening her voice. "We're both on the same side here, we've both seen comrades hacked down fighting these Daedra. We can't let petty disagreements get in the way."
He smiled slightly, some of the tension leaving his face. "You're right." Turning his head, he squinted up at the sun, which was sinking towards the horizon. "I'd better not keep you any longer," he muttered, turning to leave.
"Wait," she said, laying a hand on his arm. He turned to look at her, raising a curious eyebrow. "Can I see your face?" she asked hesitantly. If the scar was as bad as she thought it was, it wouldn't be something he would want to show off, but she felt a sudden urge to see it.
He winced and turned back to face her, slowly raising a hand to his helmet. "It's not pretty," he grunted.
"I've seen my fair share in my time. Please?"
The Imperial sighed and removed his helmet. He appeared to be growing his brown hair, probably to attempt to one day cover his wound, but it was still far too short. What had once been a moderately handsome, strong face had been sliced almost into two by the assassin's dagger. Starting on his left temple just below his hairline, the livid red scar cut down across his face, barely missing his left eye before ending beside his mouth, pulling his lips sideways. The opposite corner of his mouth twitched as she half-raised a hand to touch it before thinking better of it.
"There aren't many who look at me like they used to," growled the legionary, glaring into the nothingness above her head. "I see it in their faces. Sympathy. Pity. Even disgust." He shook his head angrily. "Damn them all. At least here people don't care much. Here I can get on with killing Daedra." A look of extreme hatred twisted his maimed features into a horrific snarl before he controlled himself. "Might as well spend all the time I can on the battlefield. I don't have anything to hope for back home. Making friends is hard. Getting a girl is impossible."
Callia was momentarily lost for words. To avoid meeting his eyes, she looked around the camp surrounding them, taking in the thousands of soldiers ready for battle. Grunting in realisation, she turned back to him. "Look around you," she said. "There are hundreds of soldiers here who will go home with scars as bad as yours, or maybe even worse. Thousands. Many already have some. Are their families going to reject them just for that?" She had to reach up to put a hand on his shoulder; he was only just above average height for an Imperial, but she was short for a Breton. "It's what's on the inside that counts. You're a better man than a good-looking thief; I know that much. And as for your scar..." She sighed, shaking her head. "It's ugly, yes, but wear it as a badge of honour. Use it to tell people of the wounds you took during the Oblivion Crisis, when you fought to save the world." He might not have got the scar fighting Daedra, but the fact was that he had fought them in the past and bled for it; she hoped he would see that. The words sounded weak even in her ears – she was more often on the receiving ends of pep talks rather than giving them – but it was all she could think of.
The Imperial looked down at her, cocking his head to one side slightly as he frowned, clearly deep in thought. His hand twitched as though he had unconsciously started to reach for his scar then stopped himself. Eventually, he spoke. "What's your name?" he asked.
Slightly taken aback, the Knight Sister paused for a moment before answering. "Callia Petit," she replied, withdrawing her hand from his shoulder. "I... I think we got off to a bad start back in the City."
"Yes, we did. Let's try and forget that, eh?" The soldier's eyes seemed to have grown slightly softer, less angry. "I'm Primo Varius. A fair few people are calling me Scarface now, but..." He shrugged. "Names have never bothered me like reactions have. They can't think up anything for me that's worse than what I heard Argonians and Khajiit getting called back down in Leyawiin."
"Indeed. Names don't hurt. Actions do." Callia winced; she knew the truth of that. "Well, at least if we die, that's one less regret we'll both have at the end," she said, smiling slightly. Smiling wasn't something she tended to do much; dealing with a dying mother and a grief-stricken father had done that to her.
He returned the smile, though the scar meant it was lopsided. "I'd best not distract you any longer," he told her, turning and squinting at the sun. "You're on important Blades business, most likely. I should never have interrupted you."
"No, no... peace of mind is important." The Breton was glad he was looking west rather than at her, meaning he wouldn't see her grimace. She hadn't thought much about Gorgoth since he'd left, but the knowledge of what must happen between them was forever present in the back of her mind. She forced the sensation down and smoothed her face as Primo looked back at her. "It's messenger duty. I'll have finished before sundown anyway."
"Messenger duty? Ah, those orders. Vignar's told us already." His square jaw set determinedly. "The battle's coming soon. Dagon's going to have to wade through blood to get an inch of Tamriel. My only wish is that I was in the front line rather than guarding the old man, but knowing him..." He chuckled drily. "In battles, when there is no more manoeuvring to be done, he likes to appear where the fighting is fiercest to inspire his men. I think my sword will be bloody by the end of it."
"And mine. Captain Renault's assigned me to the Emperor's expanded bodyguard." Callia folded her arms, smiling. "He'll be kept back initially, of course, but he intends to send himself wherever we look likely to break, to plug any gaps and inspire the men. 'An Emperor must lead from the front, and not send men to die for him from afar, or he in no true Emperor'." She laughed lightly. "He's starting to sound like an Emperor, certainly." Looking up at Primo, her smile grew wider. "So it seems like we might end up fighting side by side..."
"So it would seem..." The Imperial returned her smile before rolling his shoulders and placing a hand on his sword hilt. "It was good to meet you, Callia, but I have to be getting back. Good luck to you."
"And to you, Primo." The legionary nodded to her then turned on his heel and marched back to the pathway, lost to her eye within seconds by the ever-shifting traffic of soldiers. She remained still for a moment before making her own way back to the path and moving on, her head shifting from side to side to locate her target. Her duty might not yet be done, but at least she now felt slightly more at ease; after being talked to for so long about her own problems, it had been good to actually repay the favour by helping someone else with his.
The entire world was darkness and pain.
Aerin's captor had slung her face down over his horse in front of the saddle before climbing up himself, clamping her in position with a hand on her back and warning her not to move or make make any noise, as if she could. Then the leader had barked an order, the company had set off at a trot, and the real pain began. By the time they'd covered about a mile, the Bosmer's entire front was bruised by constantly being battered against the horse's broad, muscular back. Air was constantly being driven from her lungs, and the tight gag in her mouth and the hood over her face meant that she could barely draw breath before the next jolt arrived. She was so focused on attempting to breathe and stay on the horse that all rational thought had long since fled from her; there was no chance to ponder her situation and attempt to find any ray of hope.
She lost all track of time and distance as the punishing journey continued. The only indication that they were nearing their destination came when the pace abruptly slowed, the horses dropping to a walk. Sweat was staining Aerin's leathers as she took the opportunity to draw in as much breath as she could through her nose, chest heaving against the horse's back. Her captor barked something in his incomprehensible language in reply to another of his company, and a conversation ensued. Some of Gorgoth's Orcs had attempted to teach her the language, but what little she'd learnt had long since been forgotten in her panic.
The halt was sudden and almost rolled her forward onto the horse's neck until Burzukh's Orc roughly shoved her off his mount. A pained groan burst from her throat as she landed on her back, adding bruises to her arms and back to go with the multitude already aching on her front. She felt as though the Orc had been pummelling her with a cudgel rather than just holding her on his horse. The ankle-deep snow instantly soaked through her leathers, reminding her of how cold the weather was and the fact that her cloak was lying in the forest miles away. All thoughts of the cold fled, however, as the Orc grabbed one of her shoulders and hauled her upright. Blind, disorientated and without the use of her arms, she was completely reliant on his direction as he shoved her forward, his hands on her shoulders guiding her as he forced her onwards. The Bosmer had never felt so helpless in her life.
Her entire body was aching before long, but the warrior behind her was ruthless, forcing her to take fast, long strides, catching her as she almost fell twice and shoving her onwards with growled threats. They were not alone; all around her she could hear and smell other armoured Orcs walking through the snow. Her captor occasionally responded to some comment, but mostly he kept pressing onward.
Eventually, after what felt like half an hour but was probably just a few minutes, he pulled her backwards into him as he stopped, speaking clearly in his own tongue to someone in front of them. After some incomprehensible conversation, Aerin was pushed forward into the arms of this new captor, who hauled her roughly around and dragged her after him through what had to be a tent flap. Taking a few steps inside, he threw her to the floor with enough force that she slid to the opposite tent wall, her breath leaving her once again with a pained grunt.
"You're going to get questioned," a harsh voice warned her. "Make it easy for yourself." The sound of his armour moving meant she could tell he had left the tent and was presumably standing guard outside.
Panic welled up inside Aerin, and she forced herself up into a sitting position, frantically pulling at the rope binding her wrists, her fingers scrabbling as they attempted to reach up to find the knot. It was no use, of course, and a low moan rose from her throat as she finally accepted there was no easy way out of here. Even if she'd had the use of her eyes, she doubted she could have sneaked her way out of the tent unseen, let alone out of a camp of at least twenty Orcs. Inwardly, she cursed her foolishness; she should never have left the city alone to hunt, should never have left the safety of the army that had surrounded her. She let herself slump backwards to the tent floor, tears of frustration mingling with tears of terror, quickly absorbed by the hood's fabric. All she could do was lie there and wait for the inevitable with her heart pounding and her stomach churning.
Not much time had passed before there was an exchange of conversation outside the tent, then a stomping as at least three heavy bodies entered the tent. The Bosmer tried to calm herself and failed. Two of the Orcs stepped to her sides and raised her up between them, a hand gripping each shoulder. A silence fell; Aerin assumed the third – presumably the leader – was studying her. After a few seconds, he spoke, his voice distorted by a helmet. She felt cold steel at the back of her neck, and panicked momentarily before realising what the Orsimer was doing. After a few seconds of sawing, the rope fell away from her mouth and the hood was torn from her head. Working her aching jaw muscles, the Wood Elf blinked at the relative brightness of the tent before her eyes widened at the sight of the Orc in front of her.
"Do I scare you?" he asked in heavily accented Cyrodilic. Aerin nodded wordlessly, trying to shrink back but restrained by the two Orcs flanking her. The figure standing in front of her was the biggest Orsimer she'd ever seen; he was broad-shouldered with a heavy build, and at seven feet tall he seemed almost too big for the tent. It was the armour, however, that took Aerin's breath away; it was thick plate armour, the steel so dark it appeared almost black rather than dark grey. Jagged angles and straight lines of folded steel made him appear even taller, and spikes jutted out from several places. The helmet was even more fearsome; the two eye holes were wide slits that seemed to be drawn down in a ferocious frown. A crown of spikes circling the top of the helm were almost brushing the ceiling.
As the Bosmer cowered backwards, one of the Orcs holding her barked a laugh. She instinctively turned her head towards the noise, and her mouth dropped open in shock. Her head swiftly turned to the other one, and she gasped in astonishment. Her captors were not Orcs, but Dremora, both helmetless and both wearing expressions of mirth. As realisation started to dawn on her, the archer turned back to look at the Orc, who had just finished removing his helmet and attaching it to a hook on his belt.
As usual, there was no hint of mirth on the face of Gorgoth gro-Kharz, but neither did he seem displeased. "One of my scout patrols came across you and seemed to think you were a spy. I doubt our enemy is that well-prepared, but I did tell them to be vigilant." He folded his arms across his breastplate and regarded her with his usual cold gaze, though the hint of a smirk might have been playing around one of the corners of his mouth. "You seem shocked."
For a moment, Aerin was too stunned to even think. Then a mixture of emotions flooded her; overwhelming relief that made her knees sag, confusion as to what had happened to Burzukh's Orcs, slight anger at herself for her stupidity, and happiness at seeing Gorgoth again. "I..." She fumbled for the words, wishing that her senses hadn't suddenly deserted her. "I thought you were those Orcs that Burzukh had sent north," she finally blurted.
"My scouts found them as well, about an hour and a half ago. The battle was over before I even got there; some of them might have joined me, but no matter. Their death has finally laid that problem to rest." Gorgoth's gaze shifted from her to one of the Dremora holding her; they would probably be Xilinkar and Chaxil, if he'd summoned the same ones he'd used at Atatar. "Untie her and go and find her weapons. You might even find them before they've been divided up amongst that patrol."
"Trueshot," grunted Aerin, some part of her old fear returning as one of the Dremora swept from the tent, the other moving behind her to work on the knots. "If I don't get it back..."
"You are our ally, so you and your possessions cannot be regarded as a spoil of war," replied Gorgoth. "Everything you had will be returned to you. We are not thieves." That much was true; his tent was utterly unfurnished. The only possessions in it were on Gorgoth's body; his Akaviri dai-katana and the Thornblade balanced each other on his sword belt, and another strap running across his chest held Sinweaver and Blood King on his back.
"Nice of ya." Aerin sighed in relief as the ropes around her wrists were finally removed, rubbing them and wincing as the circulation was restored. Now that the initial rush of emotion had partially worn off, she was all the more aware of the pain she was in. "Could I have healing?" she asked.
Gorgoth nodded and stepped over to her, laying a gauntleted hand on her head. The cool blue light of healing magic enveloped her, and instantly the pain of her bruises and other wounds faded as though they'd never been there, leaving the Wood Elf with only the memory of the sheer terror she'd felt. "It's good ta see ya, big guy, but... what exactly are ya doing making camp here?" she inquired. "I thought you'd be hurrying ta see Martin as soon as ya got here..."
"And I will be. We only arrived just over an hour ago. We are five miles from Bruma, and I thought it best to make camp here and let my mer and their horses get the rest they need. We have come a long way, Aerin."
"Ya don't say. Orsinium ta Bruma in under ten days? I looked at a map." The archer shook her head, starting to relax. The Dremora had moved over to stand by the tent flap, managing to appear casual and lethally purposeful at the same time. "How many did ya bring, anyway?"
"Five hundred heavy horsemer. There is no better shock cavalry in the known world. Phillida will know how to use us." The Orsimer, folded his arms, one hand rising to tap his canine. "I will be riding into Bruma to meet Martin and Phillida as soon as I am ready. You will want to be getting back, I expect?" She nodded. "That is convenient. What were you doing out here anyway?"
"Out hunting." When the warrior-shaman looked down at her as though expecting more, she stepped back at him and raised a defiant eyebrow. "What? I don't have ta tell ya everything I've been doing, ya know."
"I suppose not. But I myself should tell you that I am now one of the most powerful mer in Orsinium. I am now the Lord of Manruga." The Orc gazed off into the middle distance. "Had I the time, I could have partially consolidated my rule and brought my entire army with me. But wishing for what we cannot have is futile."
"You're really full of surprises now, ain't ya?" Aerin chuckled; she hadn't really been surprised at his revelation. If he'd told her he intended to enter Apocrypha to wrestle Hermaeus Mora in order to gain the knowledge needed to set up his own realm of existence, she probably wouldn't have been surprised. He was Gorgoth. Further conversation was prevented by the return of the second Dremora, who was holding her sword belt in one hand and Trueshot in the other. The Bosmer instantly stepped over to reclaim them, checking over Trueshot before carefully placing it on her back.
"How much longer will you require our services for?" asked the Dremora as the archer buckled her sword belt around her waist. Nothing was missing; Gorgoth's Orcs were as good as his word, it seemed. "It would be... unwise for us to make any appearance so close to an army that has been fighting our brethren for weeks."
"Indeed. I will release you soon to join the fight. I hope our paths do not cross on the fields of battle."
It was only then that Aerin remembered that these Dremora were in fact her enemies, and realised that she might meet them again very soon, on opposite sides of the battlefield. She instantly stepped back to stand beside Gorgoth; she knew that they couldn't defy their summoner, but she still felt uncomfortable about how one of them was looking at her. His orange eyes had narrowed, and his gaze was fixed on Trueshot. "From what Gorgoth has told me, I would rather not face that thing in battle," he muttered, half to himself. His eyes rose to meet hers. "If we meet on the battlefield, Bosmer, I hope it is within range of my sword."
The Wood Elf scoffed to hide her slight unease. "Not likely. I'll be with the other archers."
"You'll be where Phillida puts you," grunted Gorgoth. "Speaking of which, I want to be there before the sun fully sets. Send for Gurbol." As one of the Dremora left the tent, he turned back to the archer. "You will never have experienced anything like this battle, Aerin. Are you ready for it?"
She snorted. "I don't doubt it'll be big, but since I joined up with you..." Smirking, she cast her mind back over the memories of the last few months. "I've been dragged through Oblivion, ancient forts, Ayleid cities... I've been stabbed in the gut, stabbed through the leg, had more cuts and bruises than I can count, broken bones..." It had been no laughing matter at the time, of course, but she grinned anyway. "Yeah, I think ya could call me ready."
"This battle will not end the war, but it will be the beginning of the end." The Orc laid a hand on each of the sword hilts on his belt. "Win glory in battle, Aerin, and Malacath will smile on you."
The reply was in such typical Gorgoth fashion that Aerin chuckled, walking over and wrapping both her arms around him, not even caring that she couldn't actually reach all the way around him. "I've missed ya, Gorgoth. It's good to see ya again." With the Hero of Kvatch – and five hundred Orcish warriors – on their side, they couldn't possibly lose.
The normal congregation of the Chapel of Talos in Bruma was around double the size of the people currently in the vast structure, but even so, it still seemed crowded. Maybe it was because the pews had been shoved to the side to make way for a long table holding many enormous maps, and maybe because almost all the people in the Chapel were in full armour and armed to the teeth. General Adamus Phillida had sent messages to anyone with any kind of military authority in the disorganised army and told them to come and listen to the battle plan that he had thrashed out. The result was a lot of soldiers and a few mages waiting around in an enclosed space waiting for something to happen.
Martin felt eyes on him. It was inevitable; he was standing behind the altar with the General, Grandmaster Steffan and a few bodyguards, away from the mass around the tables, but it was hard for them not to notice him. He was proclaimed as the new Emperor of Tamriel by many, and was the man they had come to fight for, to die for. It wasn't hard to determine who he was; Phillida had advised him to wear his armour as battle was imminent, and the Blades had made sure he looked like an Emperor. Heavy ebony plate armour covered him from neck to toe, gold and black in colour, so elaborately decorated and gilded that the darkness of the ebony could barely be seen underneath. The Imperial Dragon was prominently displayed on the breastplate, spreading its golden wings over his chest. It was no useless ceremonial armour, however; the Blades had made sure of that. They had also made sure that he knew how to not only fight in it but to make it feel like his second skin.
His belt was leather of the best quality, worked with gold thread and with another gold Imperial Dragon on the buckle. One one side, it carried several healing potions and two finely made daggers, along with a hook from which his helmet currently hung from. Balancing them on the other side was Goldbrand. It has been Baurus who had first suggested he use the katana; while initially reluctant to use a Daedric artefact, no matter how powerful it was, Martin had eventually conceded that if he was going to take part in the battle, he needed to have the best possible chance of surviving. He had at first offered it to some of the other Blades, but they had all assured him that he was more than worthy of wielding it; Lathar and his punishing training regimen had seen to that.
Apparently, there were a few leaders still missing; Phillida was stubbornly refusing to start the briefing until every last available person was present. The ex-priest took the opportunity to scan the crowd, recognising many of them. The captains of the city's contingents were all there, as was the Arch-Mage of the Mages Guild – seemingly talking to herself and not to anyone else – and Modryn Oreyn, standing in for the absent Gorgoth as leader of the Fighter's Guild. The Dark Elf was in deep conversation with Lurog gro-Brugh; the Orsimer only led about ten Orcs, but none had questioned his presence. Agronak gro-Malog and Saliith were there was well, the Argonian resisting the cold a lot better since a Dunmer called Dralasa Helas had cast a warming spell on him. According to some, she had slept with him as well, along with half the men in Bruma, but Martin was never one to believe every rumour he came across. A powerfully-built grim-faced Redguard clad in bronze plate armour was also present; he apparently led a small company of the Bronze Shields, the elite warriors of Hammerfell and numbered among the best mortal fighters in the known world.
Countess Narina Carvain was also in attendance, standing next to Captain Burd and looking very out of place in her court finery, but she had every right to be there; this was her city, after all, and it was she who had given permission for the army to let a Great Gate open. All the Knight Captains of the Blades were also in attendance, and most of the Blades were down in Bruma; Phillida had made it clear that they would be marching to battle mere hours after this briefing, and given what happened to Uriel, the Blades were not about to take any chances.
The massive oak doors at the end of the Chapel swung open then shut again, announcing the appearance of a latecomer. Phillida looked up and muttered something to Vignar Fellhammer, his hulking Nordic bodyguard. The grizzled warrior had probably got his name from the warhammer on his back, which was as tall as a Breton with a head as large as an anvil. Straightening, the General turned from where he'd been leaning with his hands on the altar and glanced at Martin. "It's time to start, sire," he muttered, motioning that they should take their places at the head of the table. Martin nodded and followed his lead, coming around to stand at the head of the table shoulder-to-shoulder with his general, the Blades taking up positions behind them. Conversation started to tail off, but clearly not quickly enough for Vignar, who bellowed for everyone to be quiet in a voice that shook the rafters high above. Silence fell as the assembled audience stepped up to stand around the table, all looking towards their Emperor and their General.
"It's good that you're all here," started Phillida. "If everyone knows the plan, then confusion is minimised. I understand that you and your men have been dealing with Oblivion Gates for some time. That experience will be valuable, but we're not going to be closing a Gate this time." He looked around the long table, looking into their eyes before gesturing down at the maps spread out across the table. "Make sure you're familiar with at least some of these. They detail all the land within five miles of Bruma in any direction. We're not sure where this decisive battle will be fought, only that it will be near. We must have all the knowledge we can about all the potential locations."
As the assorted men and mer looked down at the maps, some shifting for a better view, the General continued, leaning forward with his fists resting on the table. "The plan is a simple one; it has to be, given the situation. We find a Gate, but we do not close it. Instead, we let another two open. That will enable Dagon to open a Great Gate, which will give us what we need, but it will also mean thousands of Daedra invading our realm." The Imperial's tone of voice did not change; his casual tone could have been speaking about the recent snowfall or what he would be having for dinner. Unnerving to some, but reassuring to many. "The Hero of Kvatch will head into the Great Gate to secure the Great Sigil Stone, but until he gets back, we must hold or the Empire will fall."
Someone tried to speak, but a stony glare from Vignar swiftly silenced them. "None of you have faced more than two Gates at once," continued Phillida, looking around. "Now we'll be facing at least four, one of them a Great Gate, for however long we need to. There's no way to avoid casualties; hundreds are going to die in this battle." He straightened from leaning on the table and folded his arms. "But stick to the plan and we will prevail. I understand that Dagon or one of his minions normally opens a Gate just after dawn?" A flurry of nods and agreements followed. "Good. We'll use that one. Five hundred soldiers will stay here in Bruma to go against any Oblivion Gates that open elsewhere, and also to help the militia guard the city." Shortly after his arrival, the General had approved the creation a volunteer militia from the citizens of Bruma, but they wouldn't see action unless the city was directly attacked.
"The rest of the army will be ready to march as soon as they get the word that this Gate has opened. There will be no time to form up; each company assigned to the battle must get to the battlefield as quickly as it can without waiting for others. After defeating the initial Daedric invaders, we won't enter; that should give their commander enough of a message. Dagon will take the opportunity and open another Gate nearby." He and Martin had discussed that point at great length; guessing as to what a Daedric Lord would do and staking the entire battle on it was risky business, but there was no real alternative; they would need the entire army, and could not waste time holding any detachments back in case Dagon tried to change the location of his main thrust. At least there was one point in their favour; the three Gates had to be close to each other in order to make a Great Gate possible.
Phillida paused, peering intently at some of the maps before speaking again. "We will avoid direct melee combat for as long as possible. When the first major thrust comes from the first gate, we'll meet it with arrows only." There were about a thousand archers in the army, many of them Bosmeri mercenaries. "If they start to advance, the battlemages will give them hell." In addition to the battlemages sent by the Mages Guild and brought by some of the city detachments, a few mercenary spellswords had turned up, as well as court wizards from some of the cities. "That will probably be enough to stem the tide from the first Gate, but it's not going to close until the Great Gate is closed, most likely; Daedra will be pouring from it all the time if their commander knows what he's doing; immortals rarely let death bother them for more than few hours."
"Then when the second and third Gates open, expect them to bring in reinforcements constantly and as quickly as they can. Now, this is the important bit." All around the table, people leaned forward, intent on the General's words. "I'm not saying your men are bad fighters, but Dremora have centuries of experience at least, and one-on-one they're a match for the best of us. Some of the oldest could probably chew up a century by themselves, and that's without throwing their mages into the mix." Several nodded; many had fought a Dremora themselves before, and while they knew they could be defeated, an entire army of them was not an attractive prospect. "Dagon has better shock troops, however. He'll send them in first."
The General's gravelly voice rose, growing more heated. "When the melee battle is joined – and it will be, those archers and mages can't suppress two Gates at once – expect nothing like what you've experienced before. Even if we had enough tower shields for a proper shield wall, it wouldn't be much use; daedroth will smash right through it, and we can expect Dagon to use a lot of them, and worse." He and Martin had also speculated over the Daedric strategy; unable to produce an accurate guess, the General had estimated what he would do if he were in Dagon's position and prepared a plan to counter it. "Daedroth, clannfear, scamps, atronachs, seducers, even Spider Daedra. You'll face them all running amok through your lines, slaughtering everything they can lay their hands on. Know that it's just a spoiling attack."
"While your lines are torn asunder and there's chaos in the ranks... that's when the Dremora form up and march towards you. Facing them organised would be hard enough, but if they reach us when we're in disarray all the Hero of Kvatch will come back to is a dying ground. But we're not going to let that happen." His challenging gaze told them they had more than just the Daedra to fear if they failed. "No, we're not letting those Dremora form up. We're taking the fight to them, crush them against the Gates, give them no room to manoeuvre, force them to fight alongside their wilder brethren rather than letting the shock troops wreak havoc in our rear ranks while they decimate our front."
"It's going to be relentless, but you're all going to have to keep your heads. As soon as that second gate opens, a detachment will charge it while another moves to the first Gate to keep it suppressed. Then another will go to the third Gate when that opens. Trust the captains I've put over you and you won't go far wrong." He had split the rank-and-file into three groups and put them under the command of an experienced, trusted soldier; Grandmaster Steffan led one of them, with Captain Burd and Modryn Oreyn leading the other two. "Archers, after the second Gate opens, swap to picking your targets; stick to the smaller Daedra. That way your arrows won't be wasted. Mages, focus on taking out atronachs and Dremora mages; I want as few fireballs landing in our ranks as possible." They all knew of the devastation that a single-good sized fireball could wreak on a company of soldiers. "And as for the rank-and-file..." Phillida drew a deep breath, looking around him. "Try to throw them back into their Gates, if you can. Confusion won't help them. A lot of you are going to die, but at least you'll die well."
He let silence fall for a few seconds, giving the others time to think before speaking again. "Any questions?" There were several questions that Martin could have thought up, but that was part of Phillida's psychology; letting his captains ask meaningful questions made them feel less useless, according to him.
"I have one." It was the grizzled Redguard in the bronze plate, his accent that of Hammerfell. "Where is the Hero of Kvatch?" Several around the table nodded in agreement, curious frowns on their faces.
"We received a message from him several hours ago," replied Phillida. Martin recalled the Orc that had ridden up to Cloud Ruler Temple on a lathered horse and bellowed his message to the Blades on duty before riding off again. "He will be here within the hour, if my sense of time has not deserted me." The Redguard pursed his lips, clearly not wholly satisfied, but several others also had questions.
"What about our reserves?" asked Modryn Oreyn, talking over a few others who had pushed forward. "Not all of our infantry will be committed to three gates. You're no idiot."
"We have prepared for that," responded the General, folding his arms. "There will be two reserves. One, a thousand strong and comprised of some of our best men, will be commanded by Captain Dion of Skingrad and will take the fight to the Daedra coming out of the Great Gate. The other, smaller, will consist of Emperor Martin and his bodyguards. They'll go to wherever they are needed. If the battle is balanced on a knife-edge I'll get involved myself." There were a few knowing smiles at that; many around the table would be pleased to see a general get his hands dirty. "And in an emergency, the archers can be pressed forward as light infantry." An upraised hand cut off the protests of several mercenary archer captains. "Only at great need. Trust me to use you well."
"One thousand men doesn't seem like a lot to use against the Great Gate," pointed out a Breton mercenary captain.
"They'll do. They'll be sent in after the cavalry." A wolfish grin spread over Phillida's face before quickly fading. "Of course, I can always draw men from the other detachments to reinforce."
"We have cavalry?" Martin couldn't see the speaker, but it was clear that his confusion was echoed throughout the assembled audience. Phillida had told all of them that they could leave their horses at the horse lines or stables.
"We do. They're coming with the Hero of Kvatch."
"What if they don't get here in time?" demanded Captain Leland of Cheydinhal.
"They-" Phillida cut off as the great doors at the end of the Chapel swung open, admitting the cold night air. The crowd at the end of the table parted, letting all eyes rest on the newcomer. Martin felt a satisfied, relieved smile spread over his face. A low murmur spread throughout the room.
Gorgoth gro-Kharz had changed since the future Emperor had last seen him. When he left Cloud Ruler Temple, he had been wearing an ill-fitting suit of battered Akaviri-styled plate armour; now he was wearing a heavy black chainmail hauberk that fell to his knees, and more chainmail covered his limbs. His leather belt was thick and wide, worked with silver thread, displaying in its centre a buckle in the shape of a clenched fist forged from the same dark grey steel of his boots. The clasp of his long, thick dark fur cloak was also a steel fist, and on the ring finger of his right hand was a gold signet ring. But it was more than just his clothes that had changed; the Orc's entire bearing was now more regal, more powerful. Those cold, hard yellow eyes were unchanged, his angular face wearing its same stony expression, but there was now no mistaking this Orsimer for some common spellsword.
Everyone around him allowed him room as he walked up to the opposite end of the long table from Martin and Phillida, his gaze slowly shifting from one to the other. "We are ready for battle," he claimed, his deep voice resounding in the otherwise silent room.
Phillida nodded in satisfaction, his eyes not shying away from Gorgoth's like many had in the past. "Good," he responded. "We can fill you in on the details you missed later. For now, are there any more questions now that the Hero of Kvatch has made his appearance?"
There were a few, but they were mostly inconsequential, and easily answered. After satisfied that everyone had got his message, the General smiled grimly and straightened. "I will see you tomorrow on the field of battle. For now, go back to your men and inform them of the battle plan. Then get a good night's sleep, if you can. We'll all need it."
The dismissal was clear, and the captains immediately started to leave, breaking up into small groups to discuss the battle or heading back to their men alone. Martin himself moved away from Phillida, pausing for a moment before walking towards Gorgoth, but he was beaten to it. Lurog gro-Brugh had instantly forced his way to his old friend's side and was engaging him in a conversation spoken in Orcish. A hand on the ex-priest's shoulder diverted his attention.
"You're still completely sure you want to lead from the front of your bodyguard?" asked a cool voice behind him. Martin resisted the temptation to sigh before turning. Renault had asked him exactly the same question three times already today. He understood that she didn't want another dead Emperor on her hands, but Uriel VII had been an old man, and despite his skill in magic he had known the hour of his death and made no attempt to resist it. Martin was different; he was younger and stronger, not to mention wielding a Daedric blade of immense power, and he had no intention of dying just yet.
"I am sure, Captain," he told her, keeping his irritation out of his voice. "If I let my bodyguard surround me completely, I might as well be using a cheese grater rather than Goldbrand. No, watch my flanks and my back; I can take care of what's in front of me."
She slowly nodded. "Very well, sire," she replied, saluting. Many of the Blades were happy to see their Emperor getting his hands dirty, but Renault was most definitely not one of them; in addition to the standard Imperial Bodyguard, she had drafted in over half the entire Blades force in Cloud Ruler Temple to protect him personally during the battle. She would probably have taken everyone in the fortress if Steffan had allowed it, but he had told ten of the least effective in combat to remain behind and hold it if the battle turned against them. The Breton turned and walked over to Steffan to engage him in conversation, leaving Martin relatively alone with only his usual two bodyguards shadowing him at a respectful distance. He turned and started walking towards Gorgoth again before stopping.
Lurog was on one knee before the warrior-shaman, gripping a dagger's blade with his left hand. As the ex-priest watched, the Orsimer slid the blade out of his grasp, clenching his fist as the blood started to seep between his fingers. He started to speak in the Orcish tongue. Martin had picked up a few words of the language; not nearly enough to know what was being said, but it was easy to guess. He'd read about the Orcish Bloodguards swearing their life, blood and honour to protect and serve their lords. Their fanatical devotion and unbreakable loyalty – along with their martial prowess, which apparently was a given – made them among the best individual warriors in the known world, according to several texts. It might have been Martin's imagination, but he thought he saw a tiny smile on Gorgoth's face.
"Not surprising, really. That Lurog's been tearing apart Daedra every day." The future Emperor looked sideways to see the Champion of the Fighters Guild watching his Guildmaster. "Bloody good to see him again. Knew he'd be coming back, but he could at least have told me how long he'd take. I'll be having words, but I guess I'll have to wait in line." With a grunt, and not waiting for a response, Oreyn turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Martin looking at his back with a slight smile on his face. Nothing would ever change Modryn Oreyn.
"Emperor." The ex-priest turned to return the gaze of the warrior-shaman, standing a few feet from him. Lurog was standing behind his lord's right shoulder, already adopting the guarded, watchful air of a bodyguard. "My strength is yours, my Emperor," intoned Gorgoth, bowing his head slightly with his right hand on the hilt of his Akaviri dai-katana.
"Good to hear. We will have great need of it in these dark times." Martin's grave expression faded, replaced by a welcoming smile. "It's good to see you again. Your appearance was most timely."
"I swore I would return within ten days. I do not break my word." The Orc's head turned to regard General Phillida, who had stepped up to stand beside Martin. There were few others left inside the chapel now. "General. My men are encamped five miles away. All will be rested and ready to move quickly before dawn. We will be at the battlefield long before the Great Gate opens."
"I'm glad you're on our side, Gorgoth," Phillida told him, ignoring the sharp look he got from Lurog. They were probably meant to add a title to the warrior-shaman's name now, or something similar. Martin had no idea what the Orc had accomplished in Orsinium, only that he had returned as promised with valued reinforcements. "I'll fill you in on the plan," continued Phillida. "Of course, you know best how to make use of Orcish heavy cavalry, but I thought if we held them back until the Great Gate opens..." Martin fell in beside them as they moved slowly towards the head of the table, with Phillida pointing out positions on the maps as they walked. He forced down the nerves that had suddenly arisen in the pit of his stomach; battle was coming, and Emperors had no use for nerves. They would fight and win, or the world was doomed.
A/N: I'm not entirely happy with this chapter; there's a lot of dialogue in the last section, the biggest bit I've ever written, I think. Tell me if you think something's bad, tell me if you think something's good, etc.. The next chapter is the Battle of Bruma, and I really hope I can live up to the build-up I've given it. It needs to be perfect after all that, so if I fail to deliver I'll have let you all down. Here's hoping I can make it work...