A/N: Apologies for taking so long, but the writer's block came back for a bit, and I had to make sure this chapter was as good as I could make it. It is, after all, the long-awaited-for Battle of Bruma. As usual, review to give me your thoughts/opinions/point out errors, but I need them even more now; this is one of the most important chapters I've ever written.
Underpaid Critic (Chapter 46 review): Character limits have been the bane of my existence in the past, mainly when writing reviews... anyhow, yes, anything expansive involving Gorgoth's child needs another fic to itself. When I finish this, you'll still have time to enjoy Skyrim before I come to write about it, given that I have a DB fic to get out of the way first...
(Chapter 47 review): That's good to hear... sometimes I'm not sure what to think about these things, but it's good to hear I pulled it off. And yes, this thing is definitely very long; there's not long left, but it might overhaul War & Peace yet.
Random Reader: I have to be hard on myself: I'm a perfectionist, after all. But yes, this battle is definitely going to involve high casualties on the Imperial side, for sure. The Daedra won't suffer any casualties, of course, but they'll still leave thousands of corpses behind. And as this is before Skyrim... well, when I come to write my Skyrim fic, I might well include a reference to Martin using Goldbrand in this battle if it's appropriate to slip it into conversation somewhere.
Right, enough of me blathering on. Here's hoping my Battle of Bruma is up to expectations, and don't forget to tell me what you think.
Chapter Forty-eight: Warriors of Tamriel
The Imperial hung in darkness, suspended from the high ceiling by a rope tied around his ankles. The only marks on his naked body were the cruel cuts and tears that the guard's whips had left him with; far worse was the magical pain raging inside him, gradually eroding all the hope left he had to him. Much more of it and he would go mad. He was alone in the darkness; no torches were lit, and the guards had long since departed, leaving him alone in his personal hell. The pain reached a crescendo, and he shrieked, more out of terror than in pain. He knew. He was coming.
It seemed like hours before light finally started to seep under the stone door, though it could not have been more than a few minutes. His eyes flinched away from the sudden light as the door swung open to admit the guards, the light of their torches reflected in their burnished breastplates. It was who they brought with them that the Imperial did not want to see, however.
"Of all crimes, betrayal is the one I hate the most," he said, his voice courteous and as smooth as silk, even now, but that served only to make his words more chilling. The guards took the Imperial's limp, unresisting body in their hands and turned him towards the speaker, who stepped forward, looking his captive in the eyes. "It would appear that even your master cannot make something truly unbreakable," he continued in that same unruffled tone. He didn't always speak like that; the Imperial had seen him as few others had, and he was as expressive as any mer... but this was different.
The pain racking the captive's body peaked again, and he jerked so hard the guards had to wrestle him back into position. "Ask me!" he screamed, his voice shrill, that of a broken man. There was no hope now. This could go on for weeks, months, years. There could be no escape but through the truth. "Ask me!" He screamed again, pleading.
A look of distaste crossed High Chancellor Ocato's face. "Torture is not a tool I like using," he mused, talking as though to himself. "But in this case, it was the only path." He took a step closer to his former employee, previously one of his most trusted associates, a man he had used to write hundreds of notes and to pass their replies on to him. The Imperial retained some tiny shred of satisfaction that he had gone unnoticed for so long, but there was nothing else for him. He had to talk. The pain eased slightly.
"What do you want to know?" he asked the Altmer, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath.
"Let's start with any correspondence I might have had from a certain Martin Septim," replied Ocato, folding his arms and fixing his betrayer with a determined expression. "I'm sure you have much to tell me."
The Imperial took a deep breath and started talking, inwardly praying that Camoran might forgive him once he finally reached Paradise.
Rooms had been made available for him in the Countess' residence, but Martin had politely told her that he would rather spend the night in the Chapel of his ancestor. Sleep had not been quick in coming; after eating, he and Phillida and Gorgoth – he was Lord Gorgoth now, but he didn't seem to mind them dropping the 'Lord' – had talked for a few hours about various subjects; the upcoming battle, Orsinium, the Legion. The warrior-shaman was characteristically close-mouthed about what had happened back in Orsinium, but Martin hadn't expected to get much out of him.
As the night deepened, the ex-priest had knelt before the Chapel to pray, ignoring the various goings-on around him. Phillida, who tonight was basing himself from the Chapel, sent away messengers every few minutes, and someone came in to talk to Gorgoth almost as frequently. Several times it was an Orcish messenger, sometimes a companion. Lurog disappeared at one point before returning later wearing a suit of heavy steel plate armour, with a new shield on his back to replace his old damaged one. Martin noticed them all, but focused his energies on calling on his ancestor to aid his descendant, asking for his courage, his leadership.
The reply was not obvious – few acts by the Nine were obvious – but after a while Martin felt an inexplicable sense of peace settle over him, calming his nerves and strengthening his spirit. Tiber Septim was watching, and he was not displeased. Straightening, the Imperial stretched – praying in full armour was not comfortable – and walked over to Gorgoth, who was examining the much smaller shrine to Stendarr off to the side.
"You should get some rest," the warrior-shaman told him, turning to regard him with en even glance. Beyond his slight bow of the head at the briefing earlier, there had been not a hint of deference from the Orc, an attitude that the ex-priest had wholly expected; this was Gorgoth, after all. "It's past midnight. We'll be marching before the sun is fully up."
The Imperial nodded agreement. "I doubt I'll get used to sleeping in armour any time soon," he muttered. "Speaking of armour, I thought you'd be wearing something heavier."
In reply, the Orc waved a hand in the vague direction of a shadowed corner. Lying there was heavy plate armour that could only have belonged to him; the breastplate looked to be over two inches thick. "I'll put it on before battle." His eyes met Martin's. "I will walk to the battlefield with you and meet my horsemer there. I'll be saving my magical energies for the Great Gate, but you never know what might happen." The warrior-shaman could probably have suppressed the first Gate almost by himself, but they agreed that getting the Great Sigil Stone was all-important and took priority.
Phillida walked over, sighing as he worked his neck. "I'm not as young as I used to be," he grunted. "Everything's laid, and as long as the alarm's raised promptly, everything should go well come dawn. I'll be getting some sleep on a bedroll the priest set up for me."
"I will be fine for a while. There are a few things I have to clear up." Gorgoth turned to regard Martin levelly. "But you should definitely get some sleep. You're not used to campaigning."
"You're right there." The future Emperor looked around, and one of his tireless bodyguards pointed him towards a bedroll one of them had set up for him near the altar. He smiled in thanks and nodded to the other two before approaching the bedroll, loosening his armour and removing his sword belt before lying down, accepting that he wasn't about to get comfortable any time soon. Sleep was not long in coming; it had been a long day, and his responsibilities seemed to grow heavier with every passing minute. A few times he woke to the muttering of low voices, but it was probably just the bodyguards talking amongst themselves as their shifts changed or Gorgoth receiving yet another visitor.
He was woken after a few hours by an insistent hand shaking his shoulder. "It's time, sire," came the quiet voice of Captain Renault, her face hard to pick out in the dim shadow of the Chapel as she leaned over him. "The alarm has been sounded. It's almost dawn, and Dagon is attacking."
Blinking a few times, Martin quickly sat up before hauling himself to his feet. There was already a flurry of activity going on around him; Phillida was sending off several messages, and Lurog was helping Gorgoth into his plate armour. Wondering if either of the Orcs had slept, the ex-priest waited calmly while the helmetless Renault made sure his armour was tight and prepared for battle. He could not miss the worry evident on her face. "Are you sure-"
"Yes, Cassandra," he replied sharply, cutting her off as she started to ask the same question again. "There is no turning back now." She grunted and checked the tightness of his sword belt with more force than was strictly necessary. He sighed and softened his voice; she, too, probably hadn't got much sleep. "This isn't the end. I have no intention of dying."
The Breton stepped back and looked up at him, shaking her head and looking up into his eyes sadly. "I only wish I had more than one life to give for you, my Emperor." As quickly as it had gone, her professional reserve was back, and she drew herself up standing to attention. "I will muster the Imperial Bodyguard. We will stand ready, sire, through blood and fire." She saluted and turned on her heel, marching out of the Chapel.
Heavy boots ringing on the stone floor distracted Martin from his bodyguard's retreating back, and he turned to regard Gorgoth, now clad in the most fearsome – and heaviest – plate armour the ex-priest had ever laid eyes on. In the dim, barely-lit Chapel, the Imperial thought he could catch the slightest gleam of cold yellow eyes behind the helmet's frowning eye-slits. A sword belt of steel links had replaced the silver-worked leather belt, but all his weapons were in the same positions, all ready to be drawn within a second. "It might be early, but still expect cheering crowds," said the warrior-shaman, his heavily accented voice harder to understand than usual due to the distortion caused by his helmet. "Word will have spread quickly last night, and they won't want to miss a chance to show you their love. They rarely do."
The ex-priest rolled his shoulders and fingered his own helmet. He wouldn't put it on, not yet. If the crowds would be there as Gorgoth thought, then they deserved to see his face as well as his armour. He blinked as a torch was suddenly lit, swiftly followed by several more. Primate Falvius was magically lighting them, stifling a yawn as he marched up and down the Chapel. General Phillida was pulling on his gauntlets, nodding as he said a few words to Vignar. Picking up his helmet, he walked over to Martin, bowing his head slightly. "The army is heading out, my Emperor," he said. "I suggest we do the same. The first wave of Daedra has probably been engaged if they haven't been already, but we'll have time before the true attack starts. Not much, though. It's just under a mile to the south. Close."
Nodding, Martin put his hand on Goldbrand's hilt. "It's time." Phillida smiled and donned his helmet, the purple plume hanging down to his shoulder blades. All three of them – general, warlord and Dragonblood – turned for the exit together.
The tip of the sun was peeking over the eastern horizon as they left the Chapel, its golden rays already starting to banish the grey of the pre-dawn. It also provided illumination enough for them to see the greeting that awaited them. Gorgoth had been right; the streets might not have been packed, but many had defied the early hour to line the path their Emperor would take towards the South Gate. As he emerged from the Chapel, unmistakeable in his armour, a mighty cheer arose, shaking snow from the rooftops. People – mostly Nords and Imperials, but several other races were represented – from every corner of Bruma had come to cheer their Emperor to his battle, and to show that no matter what happened, they were behind him. Soldiers not going to the battle were ostensibly preventing them from spilling out into the Emperor's path, but most of them were cheering, as well.
The Imperial they were cheering stopped and smiled. He knew the importance of pressing on, but these were his people; they were showing that they believed in him; they trusted him; they loved him. They deserved more than just a view of him as he swept past stony-faced. He raised a clenched fist to the heavens, and the cheers redoubled. At Phillida's urging, they started to make their way down the Chapel steps to the path they would take, the adulation of the crowd bringing yet more inhabitants of Bruma to urge their Emperor onward. Martin barely noticed Phillida's bodyguard - fifty strong – falling in behind their general to walk in a column alongside his own bodyguard, consisting of sixty of the Blades.
As they passed through the streets, the cheers turned to chanting, urging them onwards. Martin's name rose into the night air, chanted by hundreds of eager voices. Few knew much more than Gorgoth's name, but they cheered him as well, and Phillida, and even the soldiers behind them. Eager hands thrust through the protective line of guards, handing hastily-picked winter flowers to those who would soon be painting themselves red with the blood of their enemies. The Blades and legionarys took them with genuine smiles, returning the salutes of the crowd, but they knew in their hearts that many of them might soon be dead. With that grim knowledge, their smiles soon faded as they marched swiftly on.
Soon they reached the South Gate, the sounds of the crowd fading behind them as they left under the watchful eyes of the large company that had been charged to hold it to the last man. Several of those eyes were envious, others relived, but all of them showed some kind of pride or encouragement. As the Emperor's party past out of the Gate, they noticed the camp around Bruma emptying, thousands of soldiers marching south towards the red glow of the Oblivion Gate. All made way for their leader, their general and their hero, smiles flashing across their grim faces as they passed.
Martin felt a mixture of nerves and anticipation as they approached what would be the battlefield, the sky above slowly turning black, a fiery red spiderweb cracking it as far as the eye could see. He noticed that he was clutching the hilt of Goldbrand in a tight grip and forced himself to relax. They walked off the Silver Road, angling to the west, coming to a halt on the crest of a small hill.
The Oblivion Gate had been positioned slightly off-centre in a flat area of ground, bordered by low hills all around. The flat, open ground was ideal for a battleground; their entire army could position themselves on the flat before the Gate, while their archers were close enough to take advantage of the elevation offered by the hills. Ankle-deep snow covered the entire area, but more interesting were the bodies strewn around the Gate. They were too far off for Martin to discern individuals, but the initial Daedric sortie had been beaten back with few Imperial casualties. When no task force was sent in, the Daedric commander would probably sense the difference. Hopefully.
Already, hundreds of soldiers were pouring onto the flatland, directed and harangued by their captains. The soldiers who had dealt with the initial threat had withdrawn to about a hundred paces away from the Gate, and it was another two hundred paces from them to the base of the hill. More than enough room to manoeuvre if they had to. The ex-priest noted Phillida nodding in approval.
"Good ground," he muttered, turning to Martin. "I've got to organise the men; the entire army will be here in under half an hour, though the fight will have started before that. But take this time and use it wisely." He leaned closer. "Soldiers fight better with inspiration burning in their hearts. Show them who they're fighting for, sire, and tell them why." Clapping a hand on Martin's shoulder, he nodded significantly and peeled off, jogging away and already bellowing orders, making himself clearly heard over the multitude of horns that were blowing.
"Make them fight for something more than their lives," advised Gorgoth, not taking his eyes from the Gate. "I must go and meet my horsemer. Fight well, Emperor, and look for my return. I will not be long in Oblivion." He saluted, fist to heart, and withdrew, Lurog shadowing him.
Martin took a deep breath, sensing Captain Renault stepping up beside him. "You can guard me to the front, but I will address the men alone," he told her, fully expecting some kind of argument. To his surprise, she merely nodded, gesturing to the Imperial Bodyguard. They turned and marched off to find the position that Phillida had assigned them, ready to charge into battle wherever the fighting looked the most desperate. And Martin would be leading them in that desperate charge. Sighing, he started off towards the Gate, Renault walking by his side, her head swivelling. She had donned her helmet as soon as they'd left Bruma, but he would not; not yet. They would see the face of the man they would fight and die for.
A narrow gap split the ranks as he passed through, closing up again after him. Men and mer on either side regarded him with warm, tight smiles; the tension in the air was evident. All the time, thousands more men were pouring to the battlefield from their camps in and around Bruma. As he reached the front line, Renault stopped, but the man who would be Emperor continued onward, directly towards the Gate. When he was fifty paces from it, he turned.
His army stood before him, a long unbroken line stretching from one border of the flatland to the other. Thousands were there already, and the rest were hurrying into their places in the ranks. Behind the infantry was the reserve infantry detachment meant for the Great Gate, and behind them were the thousand archers, in position on the hills. At either end were the battlemages; already, some had spells glowing in their hands, ready to fling. Phillida and his bodyguard stood atop the highest point he could find, with a clear view of the battle, and the ex-priest thought he could see his Blades nearby. Gorgoth's cavalry had not yet arrived, but they would not be needed until the advanced stages.
Banners were everywhere, denoting the cities of Cyrodiil, the emblem of a mercenary company, even a few sigils of minor lords from around the Empire who had answered his call. There were differences everywhere he looked; Imperial Guardsmen stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Khajiit in light leather armour, who in turn contrasted with burly Nords in full plate armour adorned with animal fur. Everywhere there were differences, men and mer from all corners of the Empire, yet in this moment they were all united by one cause, one man; they would fight for their lives, fight for Tamriel, and fight for their Emperor. Martin felt a surge of pride lift his heart as he regarded his army; they were here for him, to fight for him, to die for him.
He raised a hand, and the noise quieted; horns stopped blowing, and idle conversation – what there was of it – came to a halt. There were still orders and the sound of men moving, of course, but he could talk over them. Weaving complex magicka into his throat, he lowered his hand and spoke, his voice magnified by magic so that it would carry to each and every soldier on the field of battle.
"Soldiers of Tamriel, I am your Emperor." If the power of his voice had stunned them, none of them showed it; faces beyond the front rank were indistinct at this distance, but almost all of them were turned towards him, hanging off his every word. "I am Martin Septim, last remaining heir of Uriel Septim." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them. He had not practised or even planned this speech; Steffan had told him that while political speeches were rehearsed, Uriel V had never planned a speech given to his troops. "You all know why you are here. Dagon seeks to invade Tamriel, to make it his personal hunting ground, to make all of you live in fear!" A hint of anger was now evident in his voice, and he made no effort to control it. "Dagon will make hunting you his sport, and he will not rest until all of Nirn is a wasteland, a dying ground, a place without hope!" He paused again, looking at his men, his warriors. "That will not happen! Not while I am Emperor! This is my Empire, and Dagon has no place here!"
A cheer rose at that, but Martin was not finished. He placed a hand on Goldbrand's hilt, his face grim, and waited for the last cheer to die. "You all know what you have to do, and you all know it will not be easy. Many of you will die this day. By the end, your shields will be shattered, your swords will be bloody, and your arms will ache from over-use." Almost unconsciously, the fingers of his free hand ran over his helmet and his potions; some would heal his wounds, some would restore his magical energies. All around, there were grim faces, knowing the risk but prepared to do their duty to the end. Martin's voice rose again. "But there will be no surrender! You all know what happened at Kvatch! Will you let the Daedra do the same to Bruma? To Tamriel?" There was no answer; he neither needed nor wanted one. "Warriors of Tamriel, stand with me, and fight, to stop that happening! Fight, for your brothers in arms! Fight, for your homes and your families! Fight for freedom, and for Tamriel!" Goldbrand rasped from its sheath, its brilliant light making the Gate behind him seem dim and dull in comparison. Roars burst from thousands of throats, cheering for their Emperor, shouting defiance at the Daedra.
Martin smiled grimly as he lowered Goldbrand and dispelled his magic, all the nerves and worrying that had plagued him in the past now replaced with determination. He started back towards the ranks, and they parted for him, soldiers on either side raising their arms in salute and chanting his name. Captain Renault fell in beside him, and he thought he glimpsed an approving smile behind the cheekguards of her helmet. Most of the army had now turned up; there was still about a quarter still to come from where they had camped north of Bruma, but they were ready. As the Emperor reached his bodyguard, the Blades drew their katanas and saluted him, fierce proud smiles visible on their faces. He raised Goldbrand to return their salute; he would not sheath the Daedric blade until the battle was won.
"A good speech, sire," commented Renault as he turned back towards the battlefield. "Uriel V himself could not have done better." No matter how much her professional reserve tried to hide it, there was pride in her voice as she turned to stand beside him. "That's got them champing at the bit. Now all we need is for the Daedra to show up." The Breton's katana was in her hand, her shield firmly strapped to her left forearm. Moving closer, she dropped her voice, just loud enough to be heard over the clamour below them. "No matter what happens, Martin, it is an honour to fight by your side."
At another time, he might have been shocked by her actually using his name for once, but now he just nodded. His reply died in his throat as a warning shout went up. Daedra were starting to pour from the Gate. Straightening his back, Martin pulled his helmet from his belt and donned it, glaring down at the invaders of his Empire. "So it begins," he muttered.
Aerin and the archers all around her drew fletchings to cheeks without hesitation, the points of their arrows unwavering. The commander of the archers, a grizzled one-eyed Imperial Legionary called Decimus Varus, waited only a second before giving the order. "Archers, fire at will!" he roared, his gravelly voice swiftly drowned out by the snap of a thousand bowstrings as a thousand arrows flew upwards before descending on their targets. Aerin did not bother following the flight of her arrow; she was already drawing her second and loosing. She nocked, drew and loosed, nocked, drew and loosed, the rate of fire quickly starting to tire her arms, but she was one with the arrow; focused, unforgiving. There would be no mercy for these invaders.
As the first volley slammed into the Daedra, dozens died instantly, feathered by scores of arrows each. Scamps, clannfear, hungers, Spider Daedra, even the ferocious daedroth; all suffered under that relentless storm. Within moments, the area around the Gate was strewn with thousands of arrows and dead and dying Daedra, yet more pushed on into Tamriel, pushed onwards to their death. Only the rocky Storm Atronachs and the solid Frost Atronachs were making any headway, yet even they were falling, the icy demons shattering under the weight of hundreds of shafts. And more still came.
Aerin's mind registered another order being barked by a different voice, and the battlemages joined in, bolts of lightning and balls of ice and fire striking down the targets that shrugged off the arrows. The mages were not throwing their entire power into the battle yet, far from it; they were just ensuring that no Daedra got more than thirty paces from the Gate. Down below them, the infantry cheered on their comrade's efforts, knowing that every passing minute without melee engagement was saving more of their lives. All of this was lost to Aerin; she was one with Trueshot, nocking, drawing, loosing.
"Archers, slow rate of fire!" The Bosmer grunted at Varus's bellowed command, but she knew the sense behind it; keep up that initial pace for long and many of them would run out of arrows before the second Gate opened. She forced herself to slow down, to spend more time picking her targets. Beside her, Merandil was doing exactly the same thing; the Altmer had removed his helmet for better vision, but the situation prevented much idle talk. Sweat started to trickle down the Wood Elf's back, tickling her spine; it was cold and she had shrugged off her cloak, but the heat of battle was starting to take hold.
"All battles are hot," grunted Merandil, almost as though he had read her thoughts. "Even when the battles are in places that don't know summer, they're already hot."
"I wouldn't know," growled Aerin in response, picking out a flailing daedroth and shooting at it; she might have hit it, but twenty arrows striking the Daedra at the same time made it difficult to be sure. "This is my first one."
"You'll remember it," replied the Altmer, not pausing in his firing. "I remember every battle I've been in. I forget why sometimes, but never what it was like." He shot a quick sideways glance at her. "Even if you get to my age, Aerin – and that's old for you Bosmer – you'll remember this."
"Nice ta know," she muttered, pausing for a moment to check her arrow supply. Every fletcher in Bruma had donated their entire stock to the battle, and she had been one of the lucky ones. She had three quivers with thirty arrows each, two on her back and one on her sword belt. Making a few quick estimations, she realised that she'd already used twenty arrows. Grunting in frustration, she nocked, drew and loosed again, further decreasing her rate of fire. The last thing she wanted was to have to draw her swords and wade in with the infantry because she had run out of arrows. Her arms were aching, but she ignored them; soon enough, there were going to be soldiers on the front lines with worse than aches. If aching arms meant less Daedra for Ilend and her friends to face, then she would shoot until her arms dropped off.
Several minutes passed, and still the stream of daedra continued unabated. Sometimes a squad of Dremora slipped out of the Gate, their heavy plate armour protecting them from the arrows and giving their mages long enough to throw a few fireballs. But these were futile gestures against an overpowering force; all the fireballs were blocked by magical shields long before they reached the Imperial forces, and soon various destructive magics would slaughter the Dremora before they could advance further.
One of Aerin's quivers was completely empty, and she had paused to rest for a few seconds when the second Gate opened. She had never seen a Gate open directly before, and it wasn't something she would soon forget. A rushing, roaring sound filled her ears, and part of the plain lit up, a gigantic flame flashing into existence and burning with a savage brightness to rival Goldbrand. Blinking and holding up her arm to shadow her eyes, the Bosmer was left with a purple afterimage across her vision as the flame died, and in its place stood a new portal, its obsidian arms embracing the fiery inferno through which Daedra were already pouring. It was on the opposite side of the plain to the other Gate; the size of the Imperial army and the hills anchoring their left and right meant that there was no danger of being outflanked, but they were now facing double the amount of Daedra.
"Archers, pick your targets and fire at will!" roared Varus, glaring down towards the second Gate. Aerin raised Trueshot once again and fired yet another arrow towards the new target, which was slightly further away from her than the first Gate. Magic filled the air as the battlemages began to truly get involved, their fire, ice and lighting striking down at both gates, shattering Daedra and halting the attack. Corpses were already piled high around the first Gate, and the attack from the second was faring little better, but even Aerin knew that this resistance couldn't continue; ten more minutes of throwing this much effort at the Daedra and the archers would have few arrows left, and many of the weaker battlemages would begin eating into their stock of potions. But that wasn't her problem to worry about; all she had to think of was nocking, drawing and loosing.
As soon as the second Gate had opened, Ilend had expected the order to charge to come within minutes. It was at least ten minutes later, by his reckoning, and the order had yet to come. He was standing in the front line near Captain Burd, the commander of this detachment, and he noticed the Nord often twisting his head to stare up at the hill behind them as though silently questioning why the order hadn't been given yet. Ilend himself was focused on the Daedra dying in front of him; he was on the left flank of the army, facing the second Gate, and the Daedra were being cut down not twenty paces from him. The volume of arrows had decreased, but the battlemages were still managing to suppress both Gates. Working his neck to prevent his muscles locking, the Imperial checked his helmet strap for the umpteenth time before turning his head sideways slightly to regard Menien Goneld. The older ex-guardsman had no helmet and was clad only in the leather armour purchased in Bruma yesterday, but his longsword was steady. He wouldn't last long against the lowliest of Dremora, but at least he would die fighting.
"What are we waiting for?" growled a voice behind him. Ilend curtly told the man to shut up. He'd been put in command of a squad of forty men, most of them guardsmen from the cities, and now they were in a tight formation around and behind him, along with all the other such groups that made up the thousand-plus men of the left detachment. The voice grew silent, but the Guildsman couldn't help echoing the question in his own head. What were they waiting for? If the battlemages were to have any magicka left by the end of the battle, the infantry needed to relieve the pressure on them and close with the enemy. What was Phillida doing?
Just as his hand twitched towards his sword hilt for the hundredth time, a cacophony of horns broke out from the hill, and Ilend grunted. Burd wasted no time in sweeping his claymore from his back, waving it above his head before levelling it to point at the Gate ahead of them. "Soldiers, advance!" he bellowed, his voice heard clearly over the sounds of spells flying over his head. A cheer went up as the army surged forward, Ilend adding his own battle cries as he drew his longsword and led his men forward into the fray. The arrows slowed to a trickle, and the battlemages started picking their targets; they would have to be much more careful now, to avoid hitting their own. But all thought as to what was happening behind him was lost to Ilend as the Imperial and Daedric ranks rushed towards each other.
It was a clannfear that reached Ilend first; he brought his shield up and charged into it, knocking both of them off balance. Menien lunged forward and sliced off one of its claws, giving Ilend the opportunity to cut its throat open before kicking it aside and plunging into the fray. The madness had begun.
All around him were the shouts and screams and the clash of steel on steel, all the sounds of battle and death, but the Imperial blocked it all out and focused on the enemies in front of him. A scamp hissed and swung at him with both hands, sharp claws reaching out to rake his face, but he sidestepped and swept his blade upwards through its chest, already turning away to parry the downward slash of a Dremora's blade. Bashing his shield into the Kynaz's chest, the Guildsman pushed it away before focusing his magicka through his sword the way Gorgoth had taught him. Thrusting the weapon at his enemy's face, a fireball shot out of the tip, blowing half the surprised Dremora's head apart. Ilend made a mental note to reserve most of his magicka for healing; that spell had drained him more than a normal fireball would have.
There was no time to think more; a daedroth rampaged through the Imperial lines to his right, scattering several soldiers with a single blow despite an arrow jutting from its shoulder. As it moved past him, the Imperial dropped to one knee to smoothly hamstrung it, letting his comrades deal with it as it fell and turning to find the next enemy. Another clannfear leapt into the air, beak stabbing for his face. He ducked then rose, driving his blade upwards through its gut with enough power to break through the tough leathery skin on the other side. Swiftly pressing his foot down on the fallen corpse, he yanked the Daedric sword free and swiftly back-pedalled, raising his shield to ward off a scamp's wild lunge. A Redguard in the uniform of an Anvil guardsman moved in and sliced the lesser Daedra open from neck to groin.
Sweat was already pouring down his back, and the blood was pumping around his veins; he had only been in battle for a few minutes, but there would be no time for respite; only brutal, relentless combat. Even so, in a brief few seconds where there was no enemy to fight, he found himself noting things; as Phillida had predicted, there were few Dremora leading from the front, and there were also Daedra in amongst them that he had never seen before. As tall as a Bosmer, they had brown skin pulled tightly over a slender skeletal frame, attacking with claws of horn and a long, deadly tongue; he supposed they were hungers sent by Boethia, but that didn't matter; Daedra were Daedra, and they died just the same as the others. Ilend's sword sent more than one of their hideous heads rolling from their bony necks.
The Gate seemed closer than it had been when the battle was first joined; were they closer, or was it just his imagination? Certainly, no ground had been given to the invaders. Ilend's chainmail had already been scarred in two places, and blood ran down his sword arm from a shallow gash on his shoulder, but he was faring better than many of his comrades; Daedra were dying by the score, but so were the mortals, and unlike their enemies they would not rise again.
A daedroth burst through the crush of Daedra just ahead of him, charging forward. Two arrows instantly took it in the chest, but it shrugged them off as though they were meaningless pinpricks. Ilend instantly rolled to the side, coming up with his sword raised, slashing at its leg. It stumbled and swiped down at him, but he had already thrown himself backwards before scrambling to his feet. The crocodile-headed Daedra turned away to find easier prey just as Menien appeared from the haze and struck down at its tail. Roaring in pain as the old Imperial's sword cut deep, the behemoth turned and lunged, its jagged teeth closing around Menien's throat, lifting him off the ground and slamming him back down with most of his neck missing, his blood already starting to stain what little white snow remained underfoot. At least the old man died well, thought Ilend before sheer animal rage pushed all rational thinking aside.
Yelling wordlessly, the Imperial ran forward and thrust upwards with all the strength of a soldier burning with hatred and fuelled by the fires of vengeance. The daedroth choked as it collapsed with the Guildsman on top of it, its half-severed tail still thrashing as he slid off it, ignoring the blood staining his sword from tip to guard. Everywhere, the Daedric defence was stiffening as the mortals grew tired, forcing them back on the defensive, pushing forward. Ilend threw himself back into the swirling maelstrom of the front lines, the edge of his shield cutting a clannfear's face in two before he decapitated a scamp. A hard sword blow to the side of his helmet sent him reeling, and he was only saved by the rapid intervention of Tarad, the bronze-clad Redguard cutting the Dremora's sword arm off before thrusting his greatsword into the Kynaz's chest. It appeared that the young Guildsman might actually be as good as he thought he was.
Shaking his head, Ilend found no respite; the Daedric forces were pushing on relentlessly. Fresh men from the rear ranks replacing those who fell on the front ranks of the mortal army would hold for a time, but against the tireless, immortal forces of the enemy, there was no easy victory. All Ilend could hope for was that Dagon opened his new Gates as quickly as possible; once the Great Sigil Stone was in Gorgoth's hands and the Gates closed, it would be a mopping-up operation. But they had to survive first. Gritting his teeth, he fought on. Divines, if you're up there watching, we could use some help.
"Come on, Dagon. What are you waiting for?" It had been half an hour since the second Gate had opened, and Phillida's eyes were narrowed. He had expected the Daedric Lord to expand his assault by now, bringing the forces of more than two Gates to bear. He still had twenty-five hundred men uncommitted on the battlefield, not to mention the five hundred Orcish cavalry that now stood silently behind the archers, the dark steel armour of mer and horse barely glimmering despite the bright fire of the Gates. The archer's firing was sporadic now; he'd sent men to the city to requisition more arrows, but there were few enough already. Some of the battlemages had stopped fighting, resting to restore their magical reserves and to keep themselves in fighting condition; casting intensively was tiring work. Many were still throwing magic at the Daedra, but they had to pick their targets carefully.
As far as Phillida could see, the infantry's lines were holding well at each Gate, but the Daedra had advanced far enough for their reinforcements to be able to get through without hindrance. It was good that they could only exit from one side; his troops had them surrounded for now, and that was infinitely better than allowing the enemy free rein to use the entire battlefield. But with most of his other forces earmarked for Gates yet to appear, the General could not yet send reinforcements to the already engaged detachments no matter how bad their losses. There was nothing to raise alarm yet – casualties had been expected – but if Dagon made him wait much longer...
With perfect timing, a giant flash of fire appeared on the battlefield, this one all the way to the right, past the first Gate, towards Bruma. Before the portal had even finished stabilising, Phillida had sent the order for Oreyn's detachment to engage the new threat. The archers fired with renewed vigour as they were commanded to focus their entire attention on the new Gate, holding the Daedra back and inflicting losses until the infantry could get there. The General knew all too well that their ammunition was running low.
His attention was diverted by a massive horse halting in front of him. Broad and muscular, its front, rear and flanks were all protected by dark steel plate armour, which served the dual purpose of making the combination of horse and rider heavy enough to shatter any shield wall. The Orc sitting astride it – the distinctive helmet marked him as Gorgoth – leaned half out of his saddle towards the Imperial. "General, with your permission, I will move my cavalry around to the front. It is obvious as to where the Great Gate will form." The warrior-shaman was right; there was a large empty area between the first and second Gates.
Phillida nodded. "Go, Gorgoth. You know what to do." He trusted the Orc as a military commander; he would know what to do and how to do it. Grunting in response, the Orsimer gathered the reins and signalled to his men, bellowing an order so loud that the General's ears rang. His horsemer followed him, the force of five hundred splitting evenly to flow around the detachments of archers and the reserve infantry to form up behind the battle, a long line eight deep with Gorgoth at its head in the centre. The banner of Orsinium and Gorgoth's Steel Fist still waved proudly in the air; the infantry's banners had mostly lowered to concentrate on the battle, but the cavalry often had no such problems.
Tearing his eyes away from the Orcs, Phillida grunted in satisfaction; Oreyn's detachment had engaged the enemy and were containing them, though much longer and the battle for the third Gate would join the battle for the first and the two would become one. He sent orders for the battlemages to focus on the first and second Gates; the infantry down there would need the magical help more than Oreyn's fresh troops. Folding his arms, he settled back to wait once more. Come on, Dagon. This is the chance you've been waiting for.
After fighting through the Arena, through Sancre Tor, Miscarcand and several Oblivion Gates, Saliith had thought himself ready for a battle. He was wrong; it was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. The heat and blood and sweat and screams of battle were all things he'd felt before, but not like this. Nothing like this. But he had a job to do and he intended to do it; there was no time to be shocked or stunned. Already his twin shortswords were stained with Daedric blood, and the Argonian was forever darting through the chaos, seeking new targets, leaving dying and crippled Daedra in his wake.
He and Agronak, along with all the gladiators they'd brought from the Arena, had been placed in the forefront of Modryn Oreyn's command. Clearly, the Dunmer had thought them effective but ill-disciplined fighters, and aimed to use them to wear down the enemy before the regulars got involved. He had been right, but they were doing more than just wearing down; even the Daedra seemed to fear Agronak, who left death wherever he fought. Upon watching the half-Orc smoothly shift from foe to foe as if dancing, Saliith had felt a brief moment of relief that he had never had to fight him for the title of Grand Champion. But that moment was brief; fighting left little time for thinking about anything else.
A clannfear leapt at him, claws darting for his face, but Saliith was already ducking, thrusting upwards to disembowel the creature as it soared over his head. Wrenching his blade from its stomach as it landed, he turned to parry a Dremora's strike with both blades, staggering backward at the force of the blow. The Kynaz raised his war axe to try again, but the Argonian quickly recovered and darted back in, throwing himself against his shield and forcing his blade up into his opponent's armpit. Penetrating the Daedric plate – strong even at that weak point – took effort, but the Dremora stiffened, his axe dropping from his hand as Saliith reclaimed his shortsword and spun, kicking away from his dying foe.
Dagon appeared to have realised that flooding the battlefield with his lesser quality troops wasn't working, and had sent in his Dremora; the Grand Champion could see them everywhere now, striking into the Imperial ranks all around him, capitalising on the holes in their ranks already torn by their less disciplined brethren. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Huzei and Neesha, each watching the other's back as they fought closely together. He'd told them to fight as though they were joined at the hip; if they were separated, they would die quickly, but together they stood a chance, even if they were relative novices.
A bestial roar jerked his head around and he threw himself to the side to avoid a daedroth lumbering towards him. It went straight past him, but the squad of eight Dremora in its wake were not so ignorant. Four peeled off to attack him just as he sprang back up from the wet ground, barely having enough time to get back on his feet before they were on him. He contorted his body to dodge several of their blows before rolling forward, his blade rasping across plate greaves before he came to his feet again, spinning to throw a knife into the throat of one. His comrades ignored him as they charged the Argonian, pushing him further from his allies, back towards the Gate. He was aware of allied soldiers desperately fighting and dying around him, their blood spraying over the already sodden battlefield.
But while the title of Grand Champion might not count for as much as people thought it did, it still meant something. Saliith had not fought all the way up through the Arena by being vulnerable, easy to kill. He danced around his pursuers, managing to put their backs to their Gate once again, manoeuvring away from the greater danger while receiving nothing more serious than a cut on his forearm. But still the Dremora pressed on; they were not tireless, he knew, but it certainly seemed like they were. Their armour bore several scars now, but it was so thick and durable that his slashes were generally worse than useless.
Abruptly, blood fountained from the neck of one as a shortsword pierced all the way through his neck. He staggered into his companions, and Saliith seized the opportunity, leaping forward and driving one shortsword into the leader's chest with both hands behind it. Twisting away from the corpse as it fell, his left his sword buried in its chest and struck at the other Kynaz, his blade smashing into the side of the Dremora's helmet with such force that he staggered, then jerked forward as another shortsword was forced into his back. The Grand Champion sidestepped the falling body and wrenched his other shortsword from the leader's corpse, nodding in thanks to the two young Argonians who had taken the Dremora in the rear. "You're learning."
"We have to," growled Huzei, turning and glaring at the Gate. "Who knows-" He was cut off by a yell of warning from his sister.
Spinning, the Green Tornado plunged one of his blades into the body of a scamp, but a clannfear bounded right past him and hurled itself at Neesha, her defence rising a fraction too slowly. The Daedra's deadly claws raked her stomach, blood spurting from gaping wounds. Huzei's throwing knife took the creature in the shoulder and Saliith moved over and finished it off, but all he had time for was to throw a healing potion in Neesha's direction and turn to face the onslaught.
He and Huzei fought in tandem, slicing off claws, severing limbs, hamstringing rampaging daedroth. Saliith shouted as he fought, a wordless cry of anger and defiance directed at no one in particular, not caring as the blood of a butchered scamp splashed over his tongue and teeth. Neesha staggered to her feet and threw the empty potion bottle at a Dremora, still fighting despite her scale armour stained with a worrying amount of her own blood. "Get back!" Saliith roared to them as he seized a Dremora's weapon hand with his own, grappling with it. "Get back to our lines! I'm not having you hatchlings die on me!" The Dremora spitting in his face drew his attention, and he had no idea whether they obeyed or not, but by the time he had stabbed the Daedra in the stomach and turned, he was alone with his enemies.
Adrenaline pumped through the Argonian's veins, masking the weakness of blood loss from several wounds and the fatigue from fighting so hard for so long. Bellowing curses in his native language, he threw himself at the Daedra, their blood mingling with his own and painting him red from head to foot. A scamp bit down into his forearm and refused to let go; he stabbed it and threw its body into the path of a daedroth. A hunger tried to grab him in a fatal embrace, but he chopped it in half with three good swings. Dremora surrounded him, and he lunged forward, trying to take as many as possible.
He barely felt the spear enter his stomach, but within a second he had grabbed the shaft and pulled it all the way through him, drawing his free arm back and swinging from the shoulder like his shortsword was a longsword. The Kynaz's neck opened, half-blinding him with his burning blood, but he no longer cared. A scimitar opened his shoulder to the bone, and he turned, his razor-sharp teeth darting for the Dremora's throat. Blood and flesh burned his teeth, his mouth, his tongue, but he no longer cared. If a Grand Champion of the Arena had to die, this was the way to do it.
The swirling chaos of battle made it impossible to pick out everything with the naked eye, but Phillida had come prepared. The looking-glass he was holding to his eye was well-made and exquisite, made by the finest craftsmer from Alinor; the Empire could afford to pay for the best. Through the glass he could make out individuals, see exactly how the fight was going at the front lines, get all the information he needed to make the necessary judgements. The glass was so fine that it was almost as though he was in the thick of the action himself; he could even see the blood spray as a clannfear tore open a Khajiit's chest.
It also made him aware that Dagon was no longer holding his Dremora back. They were now out of the Gates and fighting in force alongside their brethren, and the effect was notable; everywhere, the Imperial forces were being pushed back. The first and third Gates had effectively become one battle, the Daedra having linked up, though they were unable to break free of the ring of steel around them. Phillida grimaced. His army were fighting valiantly, fighting like lions, but hundreds had fallen already and still the numberless hordes of Oblivion were pouring in.
He was about to turn to Vignar to send yet another order when the western horizon appeared to explode with flame. Throwing up an arm to protect his eyes, the old Imperial staggered as the ground trembled beneath his feet. When he had recovered, a Great Gate stood between the first and second Gates, a massive portal bigger than both of them put together. Legions of Daedra were already pouring out onto the battlefield. Despite the situation, Phillida smiled; now things could finally get started.
As soon as the Great Gate had stabilised, Gorgoth had swung Blood King from his back, standing up in his stirrups and holding it aloft. "Orcs of Orsinium, advance!" he roared, his voice clearly audible over the sounds of battle and the crackle of magic. The creak of saddles and the thump of hooves heralded the movement of the five hundred cavalry as they spurred their mounts forward, quickly reaching a trot. Gorgoth rode at their head with Lurog to his right and the bannermer to his left, turning Rauzkh slightly so the horse's head pointed directly at the centre of the Great Gate.
Daedra were already pouring out of the entire width of the Great Gate in their hundreds, Daedra of every kind. Within seconds, they would outnumber not only his cavalry but also the thousand men Dion was leading in behind them. But these Daedra had most likely never faced a charge of Orcish heavy cavalry. He spurred Rauzkh to a gallop, the ground starting to tremble as his force emulated him. "Orcs of Orsinium, charge!" Five hundred lances lowered as he raised Blood King and bellowed a battle cry, a wordless roar of challenge swiftly taken up by five hundred others. The Daedric advance faltered, suddenly uncertain, but had no time to react as the Orcish charge thundered into them.
The first few ranks were thrown aside like shattered rag dolls as the cavalry broke through any resistance; the sheer weight of the heavily armoured Orc and horse meant that even the colossal daedroth were crushed under their hooves. Steel-tipped lances were thrust home with such power that even thick Daedric plate stood no chance of stopping them. Gorgoth, however, had no time to admire what his Orcs were doing; he'd seen it all before on a much bigger scale, and he had his own battle to fight. Blood King pulsed in his hand, its desire to taste blood in this glorious battle threatening to overwhelm him. It did not have to wait any longer.
He swung as soon as Rauzkh was clear of the first few ranks, the heavy head smashing into a Dremora with enough power to disintegrate most of him, ignoring the Daedric plate armour as though it were paper. The remnants of what had once been a fine immortal warrior slammed into nearby enemies with enough force to send them flying as well, but the warrior-shaman was already pushing on relentlessly, his mace rising and falling, his foes dying by the dozen. Gurbol would be trying to wheel the cavalry for another charge – difficult, in this situation – but Gorgoth had his own fight to worry about, and he had to get into the Great Gate as quickly as possible.
Rauzkh was already slowing, unable to force his way through the press of bodies now that his momentum was largely gone. Ignoring the Dremora rushing towards him, the warlord pushed his left hand forwards, palm outwards. Dozens of bolts of lightning flashed outwards, stabbing at whatever lay in front of them, arcing towards the Great Gate and cutting a passageway for him that was carpeted with twitching, burnt corpses. Spurring his mount onwards, the warrior-shaman clenched his left hand into a fist; the lightning stopped and in their place an explosion of pure energy forced the Daedra on either side of him reeling back. His eyes were locked on the Gate; there was no going back now, no distractions. Lurog and a few others would still be behind him, defending their lord right up to the fiery portal. Rauzkh would probably die a few seconds after Gorgoth left him to enter the Gate alone, but the old warhorse deserved a good death; he would give a good account of himself.
He was almost to the Great Gate. Letting his spell drop, the warrior-shaman leapt from Rauzkh, rolling forwards and finding his feet. Daedra surrounded him, more pouring from Oblivion all the time, but he brushed them aside magically and sprinted forward, careless of the weak blows from behind him that bounced off his plate armour and the usual magical shielding he was maintaining. With his own battle cry ringing in his ears, Gorgoth leapt into the massive portal.
The sensation of every inch of his body – outside and inside – being plunged into lava never got any easier to ignore, but within a few seconds he was out on the other side, running into a surprised Dremora. Barely keeping his balance, the warrior-shaman took one look at the enormous army surrounding him – with hundreds still flowing into the Gate just behind him – and raised a clenched left fist. Dark red-and-brown clouds started seeping out from between his fingers, the several Daedra trying to reach him held back by a telekinesis spell. One of the Dremora mages looked at the spell he was forming and stepped back, his orange eyes growing wide.
Their only warning was an abrupt shuddering beneath their feet. In a wide area just ahead of Gorgoth, the ground erupted, several huge chunks of rock propelled upwards and gouts of fire reaching up towards the tortured sky, immolating those who were not already dead. Within seconds, over a hundred Daedra had been destroyed; more would die when the rocks crashed back to earth, and they would be forced to go around both boulders and the crater to enter Tamriel. But that was now none of the warrior-shaman's concern. Replacing Blood King on his back, he jumped, Alteration magic propelling him far up into the air. Reaching the height of his leap – the magic had limits – and evading to chunks of rock as they fell back towards the massed army, Gorgoth focused his mind on the air under his feet, forcing it to support him, forcing it to take his weight as well as any rock would. He could not maintain such a spell for long – Thaumaturgy was not one of his stronger skills – and it was by no means levitation, but it gave him enough time to survey his surroundings.
He was standing forty feet above a vast rocky plain that hosted thousands upon thousands of Daedra, easily enough to overwhelm Phillida's army if they could all be brought to bear. A few arrows and fireballs skittered off the shield he had woven under himself, but the Daedra below had their orders; they were still pouring into Tamriel, leaving the defenders to deal with this intruder. More interesting to the warrior-shaman was the rest of the world he was in. Four towers of obsidian flanked a long pool of lava, beyond which stood a vast column of obsidian which was surely the Sigil Keep. The only way to it was on the two paths around the lava, opening him up to attack from the defenders surely stationed in the towers. But there was another way, one that Dagon might not have considered possible.
In the pool of lava, slowly marching towards the Great Gate, was Dagon's most feared weapon, the weapon that had brought ruin to Kvatch. The Siege Crawler was long and narrow, shaped much like a battering ram. It moved forward slowly on thick legs of obsidian, reminiscent of a gigantic centipede. Its head – as large as one of the smaller Gates – was a glowing spiked orb, liquid magicka swirling around a Sigil Stone that was probably what powered the entire thing. No doubt its mission was to destroy Bruma as soon as the lesser Daedra had cleared a path, but Gorgoth had other plans for it. Gulping down a potion that partially restored his depleted magical energies, he started leaping towards it, covering the distance in several giant hops. The Crawler's head hissed and spat a stream of fireballs at him, dozens spouting from its mouth at a time, each big enough to lay waste to a tower on Bruma's wall.
Blocking such powerful projectiles for more than a few seconds was beyond him, so instead the warrior-shaman sent whirlwinds of telekinesis into their midst, sending them spraying in all directions, many in the direction of its own army. The few that were still a danger to him were blocked by webs of dispelling magic that made each fireball vanish as soon as they touched it. Braving the storm, the Orc completed his final leap, landing on the thick back of the Siege Crawler itself, a few feet behind its head. The fireballs stopped; apparently, it could not attack a target behind it.
Keeping his balance as the construct started to drag itself out of the lava and onto the plain, Gorgoth looked up at the vast Sigil Keep rising up in the distance ahead of him. Without hesitation, he started off down the Siege Crawler's back at a run.
Lurog watched his lord plunge into the Great Gate, watching him for only a second before turning away and striking down a Dremora attempting to hamstring Astakh. He'd wanted to follow Gorgoth into Oblivion, but had been quick to see logic; without magic, he would have to rely on Gorgoth to move quickly, and the warrior-shaman couldn't afford to spend any magical energy helping his Bloodguard to keep up with him. The Orsimer forced his warlord from his mind and plunged back into the glorious battle, the Gate to his back.
There was only a small knot of them, six Orcs who had followed their warlord to the last, one of them being the bannermer carrying the Steel Fist. They were far from where the cavalry and infantry were fighting the front lines of Daedra, but there was no point in wasting time and dying. Letting a battle cry fill his throat, Lurog booted Astakh towards safety, leaning down in his saddle to crush the head of a nearby clannfear. The warhorses themselves were weapons, breaking bones with steel-shod hooves and tearing faces open with strong teeth. Hewing himself a path with grim determination, the Bloodguard ignored the blow glancing off the armour of him and his horse, ignored the Orcs dying around him, ignored the front lines far from him. There was just him and his battle. This was what he had been born for.
A savage smile split his face as yet another Dremora went down with his skull crushed by the Orc's mace. He bashed his shield into the face of a daedroth and swung his mace into its throat, already turning to deal with a hunger trying to wrench his foot from its stirrup. A forceful swing tore its repulsive face in two. Astakh reared as another daedroth threw itself in front of him, the warhorse's front legs kicking out, sending the Daedra staggering back into its comrades. In that moment of unbalance, a Dremora charged forward, ducking under Lurog's swipe and forcing his spear upwards into the massive horse's belly.
Snarling, the Orc threw himself from his dying horse, Astakh's scream ringing in his ears. He kicked the Dremora to the ground and caved his breastplate in with a single blow, turning to find Daedra all around him, a clannfear distracted enough to start feeding on the dying horse's steaming entrails. Roaring wordlessly, Lurog rushed to meet them, knowing that his death was imminent but not caring. White-hot rage bubbled up inside him, but he forced it down; going berserk would rob him of him of logical thought, and he might well die quicker. Instead, his anger was a cold thing; any Daedra managing to glimpse his eyes under his helmet would see cold golden orbs without mercy or remorse.
Knocking aside a scamp, the warrior kicked a Dremora to force him off-balance before swinging his mace up between his legs. As the Kynaz collapsed with a shattered spine, the Orc was already moving on, a whirlwind despite his plate armour, destroying Daedra left and right. Maybe they might even have remembered him from past incarnations; he had certainly felled many in Oblivion Gates before this battle, and Bloodguards were not chosen for weakness. Blocking a clannfear's wild lunge and throwing it off his shield into a Spider Daedra, he turned to smash aside a Dremora's defence. He never saw the battleaxe, swinging low from his right, until it was too late.
A lesser warrior might have frozen in shock or pain as the heavy half-moon blade punched through three layers of armour into his abdomen, but Lurog merely swung down at the arms that held it. The Xivilai staggered backwards, ignoring its ruined right arm as its left hand rose to summon another weapon. Lurog tried to follow, but the battleaxe's haft tangled in his legs, sending him stumbling to the ground. Tasting blood in his mouth, he dropped his mace and yanked the axehead free, but before he had made it to his knees a clannfear was on him, beak stabbing, claws scarring his helmet. He kicked it off and charged to his feet, feeling his life start to drain out of him along with the blood that was staining the front of his armour. Any attempt at reaching for the potions on his belt would mean his death. Instead, he swung the battleaxe one-handed, decapitating the clannfear and using his unbalancing to swing himself around, looking for another target.
The Xivilai still watched him, quietly considering as the weakened Orc was attacked by a pair of Dremora. He smashed one in the face with his shield and attempted to cleave the other in two, but his movements were slowing; his skilled opponent danced out of reach before darting forward. Lurog barely moved in time to prevent his enemy's stab penetrating his armpit, instead gaining a deep scar in his breastplate. Sweeping his foe's legs from under him, the Orc still had enough strength remaining to swing downwards and cut the Dremora's chest almost in two. Before he could even attempt to pull the axe out, he felt a blade punch through his backplate into his spine.
Collapsing to his knees, the Bloodguard snarled in defiance and jerked his shortsword from its scabbard. The edges of his vision were growing dim. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his eyes, he searched for a target within range, barely feeling another blade lance down through his pauldron into his chest. "To the last," he growled past a mouthful of blood, stabbing downwards, his shortsword pinning a Dremora's foot to the ground. He fought to stay on his knees, fought to resist the weakness that threatened to overcome him; blood was already spreading around him, staining the slush a deep red. Above him, the Xivilai stood, looking down at him with a triumphant gleam in his vivid orange eyes. His fully healed right arm flexed as he raised his enormous battleaxe in both hands.
As the axe descended, Lurog's last thought was of how honourable it was to die in such a battle.
Gnaeus had never been fond of battles. Many years ago, he'd been the scout who found battles; he'd rarely taken part in the battles itself. Good scouts were too valuable to risk in the front line. But now he was in the front line of a battle of a magnitude he'd never seen before. Of course, he'd seen bigger battles – much bigger, tens of thousands on each side – but he doubted any could match this for intensity. He'd only gained the time to think by stepping out of the front line for a few seconds to swig a healing potion. Even the very useful illusion created by the ring of Khajiiti didn't make him invulnerable; his chainmail was adequately-made but distinctly second-rate against Daedric steel. He'd only been in contact with the enemy for a few minutes, but it was clear that Dagon had sent his best from the Great Gate that was looming up ahead of him, dominating the sky.
Rolling his shoulders, the old Imperial hefted his broadsword and prepared to step back into the fray. One of the advantages of being in the last group to get to grips with the enemy was the quality of his allies; not far to his right were a cluster of about thirty Redguard Bronze Shields, who seemed quite ready and able to carve a path to the Gate by themselves if they felt the need. Ignoring them and turning his focus to what was ahead of him, the ex-hermit stepped over the falling body of a Cheydinhal guardsman and sliced through the claw of a clannfear, following it with a thrust the ended against the creature's frantically beating heart. Kicking the body aside, ignoring the spurt of blood that disappeared into the shimmering of his illusion, he stopped thinking and instead focused simply on staying alive.
Fortunately for him, it was hard to fight a mere shimmering in the air. Several Daedra thought there was nothing where he was standing, a notion they were disabused of by his blade, and others who might have caused trouble were dispatched when their attacks missed entirely. No matter how many he killed, however, Gnaeus was not blind to the fact that the Imperial advance had halted; in places the line was being pushed back. Ahead of him, over the heads of the attacking Daedra, he could see knots of Orcish horsemer charging around, leaving death wherever they went, but even their numbers were starting to thin, and they were too few to break up enough of the Daedric attack.
Ignoring them, the old Imperial focused instead on the Dremora approaching him cautiously. Gnaeus sprang forward in attack – it was always important to do what the enemy least expected – and aimed a downcut at the Kynaz's mace. His opponent spun to the side and attempted to smash his weapon into the ex-hermit's ribs, but the old man dodged with a spryness that defied his age and parried the blow, ignoring the shock that ran up his arm and kicking the Kynaz's legs from under him. A Khajiit sellsword darted out of the ranks to plunge his axe into the Dremora's chest before wrenching it free and springing back into position.
Grunting, Gnaeus fell back beside him and turned just in time to see a large fireball arcing towards his position. Growling a curse – there had been projectiles flying over their heads towards the Daedra all the time, but the enemy had their own battlemages – the old Imperial shoved his way out of the front line, sprinting for relative safety as fast as he could. The battlemages on the hill couldn't be expected to block everything coming their way.
The sound of the explosion reached his ears at the same time that a fist of air seemed to punch him in the back, throwing him face down in the slush. Coughing on the suddenly acrid air and attempting to clean the eye slit of his helmet of the half-melted snow, Gnaeus tried to draw breath back into his lungs as he rolled onto his back. A gaping, smoking crater was all that remained of at least twenty men, and Daedra were rushing into a exploit the sudden gaping breach in the Imperial line. Struggling to his feet, the ex-hermit barely found his breath before joining the rear-rankers charging in to attempt to plug the gap. A scamp leapt at him and he swiped at it almost absent-mindedly, already putting the lesser Daedra out of his mind as it fell shrieking, clutching at the guts spilling from its abdomen. A hunger barely had enough time to draw a thin arm back to strike him before he severed it at the shoulder, smoothly bring his blade around to stab the hissing Daedra where its liver would have been had it been human. Shoving its body out of the way, he barely had time to parry an overhead swing from a Dremora.
Gnaeus found himself forced onto the defensive, giving ground slowly as the Kynaz forced forwards. If the ex-hermit had been fully visible, he would probably have been dispatched in the first minute; his opponent was clearly a warrior of high rank, wielding both shield and mace with skill that had been honed by centuries of conflict. Twice their duel was interrupted by a sellsword staggering into their vicinity, and twice the Dremora killed them without breaking stride. Growling with frustration, the old Imperial found himself ignoring everything else around him as he focused on simply staying alive. He was already bleeding from a few minor cuts that had torn through his chainmail; his enemy's shield was pitted and scarred, but Gnaeus had yet to draw blood or land any telling blow.
A dull ache in the small of the ex-hermit's back forced him to realise that he was about to die. It wasn't lack of skill or experience - had he been thirty years younger he could probably have beaten the Dremora and still lasted the battle – but the fact was that he was no longer an in-demand sellsword in his prime. He was an old man dragged from a peaceful retirement to fight in a war more intense than any he'd previously fought in. As his muscles started to weaken and his breath came in shorter pants, the Imperial found himself wishing that he'd stayed on Whiterock to die peacefully, or better yet to have never left the mainland and died well in battle decades ago. Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he forced his back to stiffen; he would, at least, die knowing that he had done his best.
He barely got his broadsword up in time to block a powerful blow, and he staggered back, barely keeping his hold on his weapon as the shock of the mace's blunt force made his arm quiver. The Dremora spun and kicked him in the stomach, forcing all the remaining air from his lungs and doubling him over. Still managing to wheeze one final insult, Gnaeus looked up to see the mace head flashing towards his face. He could only watch as it suddenly jerked and missed him by inches, the Dremora collapsing in a heap with a blade through his armpit. Uriel Signus calmly planted his boot against the twitching Daedra's arm and wrenched his Daedric steel broadsword free. Pausing only to nod in his comrade's direction, the ageing mercenary turned and threw himself back into the fray, crossing blades with another Dremora.
The ex-hermit shook his head. "I'm too old for this crap," he muttered, forcing himself to stand upright. He had no time to get his breath back. Another Dremora to Uriel's right decapitated two sellswords at once with a broad-bladed claymore, rushing in to exploit the gap. Accepting the fact that he would die in this battle, sooner or later, Gnaeus stepped in to stab low at the Kynaz's midsection. The Dremora spun to parry his attack before smashing the hilt of his weapon into the Imperial's temple. Stunned, Gnaeus barely managed to stay standing; he could only watch his enemy turn and neatly slice upwards to sever Uriel's arm at the shoulder before bringing his blade back down and across to neatly disembowel the mercenary.
Managing to steady himself as the body of his saviour slumped to the ground, Gnaeus raised his sword to defend himself once again. Despite his impending death, despite the battle raging all around him, he still had time to recall that he had seen that blade, that particular face, before. Well, if he was going to die, it might as well be at the hands of one of the Dremora that Gorgoth liked to summon. "Come on, then," he growled under his breath, his voice lost almost instantly in the screams and the clash of arms.
Chaxil stepped forward, eyes flickering to his left and right before refocusing on his opponent. As he drew back his claymore, preparing to end yet another mortal life, the sky behind him flashed white. A lightning bolt scythed into the Daedric ranks, sending shattered bodies flying in all directions as the earth heaved beneath their feet, rolling thunder drowning out even the sound of battle for a second. The charred hulk of what once might have been a clannfear slammed into Chaxil's back, unbalancing him even further. Despite the assault on his senses, Gnaeus recovered in time to charge forward, a wordless shout torn from his throat as he rammed his sword into the staggering, disorientated Chaxil's abdomen with all the strength he had remaining. The Kynmarcher lurched, orange eyes growing wide with shock as the old Imperial released the hilt and drew his shortsword, forcing it sideways into the tough skin of the Dremora's upper neck.
Choking blood, the stricken Daedra shoved the Imperial away from him, not wasting time to claw at the blade in his neck. One hand still clutched his claymore, and his other fist struck at the ex-hermit's gut, doubling him over once again. Gnaeus barely raised his head in time to see the Kynmarcher put his remaining strength into one last slashing attack. Exhausted and weaponless, he could only attempt to twist away from the attack. Instead of slicing through his chest, the Daedric blade merely chopped through the upper arm just below his right shoulder, parting chainmail, flesh and bone before finally coming to a halt as the Dremora's strength started to fail him.
As Chaxil withdrew his weapon, weakly attempting to raise it to try again, the Imperial staggered backwards and fell to his knees, groaning at the pulses of agony threatening to overwhelm his senses. Gritting his teeth, he managed to stop himself from vomiting, attempting to blink away the haze of tears obscuring his vision. He'd felt pain before, of course, but nothing this severe for over four decades. Wondering why he wasn't dead yet, he slowly raised his head.
His would-be killer lay on his back a few paces in front of him, orange eyes still wide in shock even as they glazed over, staring at the throwing axe neatly embedded in his forehead. The sellsword who had thrown it – he would probably be a Nord, with that weapon – was standing over the fallen Dremora, fending off a scamp. Managing to drag himself to his feet, Gnaeus staggered back through the rear ranks to comparatively open space, not caring that he was leaving his weapons behind, not caring that the Imperial line seemed to be stretched thin enough to break at several points.
Finally finding a clear space, he sank to his knees, groaning and clutching his upper arm with his left hand. Blood leaked through his clutching fingers and stained the wet ground, attempting to turn the slush even redder than it already was. The old Imperial could see several bodies, both Daedric and mortal, lying on the ground nearby, but they might as well have been rocks for all the attention he paid them. Looking down at his right hand, he saw a glimmer of gold. The Ring of Khajiiti was a wide golden band with a massive ruby embedded in the circle of the ring; very useful, very valuable, and at the moment, very visible. Another groan burst from the old man's lips as he realised that the rest of him was also fully visible.
Craning his neck awkwardly so he could see, Gnaeus peeled his left hand away from the wound. Wincing at what he saw, he slowly took hold of his arm just below the massive gash and yanked. The few strands of tortured chainmail and skin that had held his arm together parted, and the ex-hermit looked on silently as his sword arm fell to the ground with a wet splat. Blood poured from his stump in tandem with pulses of agony. Not caring if he bled to death, not even caring about the battle raging around him, Gnaeus Magnus knelt in the snow and stared blankly down at his severed limb.
Aerin glared down at the battle, feeling frustration at her own uselessness. She only had five arrows left, and she was saving them for the very last. Most of the archers were doing the same; only a small knot of crossbowmen were still firing. Down below, the battlefield was a boiling cauldron of blood and chaos. The Daedra pouring from every Gate had linked up with each other and were pushing out in every direction against the ring of Imperial soldiers surrounding them and their portals. Their main thrust, however, was clearly towards the hills where the archers were, where Martin and Phillida were overseeing the battle; her sharp eyes could pick out several places where the line was bulging outwards. The Imperial forces were rapidly reaching breaking point. Grimacing, she turned to Merandil, but before she could speak, Varus's voice barked the dreaded command.
"All archers with less than ten arrows left, prepare for melee!"
Sighing, the Bosmer placed Trueshot carefully on her back and drew one of her curved shortswords. Beside her, Merandil took his battleaxe from the loop on his belt. All around them, archers were dropping their bows or placing them on their backs before drawing whatever weapons they had to hand. Many wore swords, axes and maces, but some had little more than long daggers or clubs, and few wore anything heavier than boiled leather armour. Part of her was tempted to call Phillida mad, but part of her reluctantly acknowledged that an injection of several hundred fresh troops could hold the line for vital minutes.
Varus's gravelly voice barked more orders. "Section leaders, lead your designated squads down to where the line is thinnest! Hold it with your lives!" The archers were split into ten sections of roughly a hundred each; not much, but they could be enough. Merandil raised an arm without hesitation and strode forward several paces, bellowing for his section to follow him. Aerin rolled her shoulders and hefted her blade before darting to catch up with him, walking at his side as his command slowly fell in behind him.
"Don't worry, Aerin," growled the Altmer, thumbing the edge of his axe. "I know the bloody work. Stick close to me. We'll be heading down to help Burd's detachment."
The Wood Elf nodded grimly and gripped her sword hilt so tightly that her leather gauntlets complained. Ilend had been in Burd's section. As they marched down towards the fight near the second Gate, she couldn't help trying to pick out her lover, but it was, of course, impossible. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the Imperial lines slowly falling back. Merandil was leading them towards one of the worst bulges, where it looked like the enemy forces would break through any minute. Lightning still forked down into the swarming mass of Daedra, but most of the battlemages were tiring, and of the dozen or so Daedra killed with each strike, more soon came from the nearest Gate to replace them. The archer drew a shuddering breath and tried to force down her nerves.
"Don't die, Ilend," she whispered as Merandil raised his axe and ordered the charge.
Gorgoth stopped at the end of the Siege Crawler, looking down on flat, cracked earth slowly passing by far beneath him. The far end of the massive weapon was nearly at the Great Gate. Ahead of him loomed the huge spire of obsidian that would host the Great Sigil Stone. From his vantage point, he could see a path leading to it through an otherwise impenetrable rock formation. He jumped without hesitation, a Slowfall spell breaking his fall. Within seconds he was running towards the tower, fortification magic meaning that he was moving even faster than he could have done normally.
Dremora archers posted on the rocky ridges ahead of him saw him as soon as he saw them, but before their arrows had left their bows they had been shattered by ball lightning or consumed by fireballs. Nothing could slow the Hero of Kvatch. Even the smallest delay, and the world would burn. Ignoring the snarl spreading across his face beneath his helmet, the warrior-shaman ran on.
Phillida's free hand stroked his chin thoughtfully as he surveyed the battle below him. His other hand was behind his back, gripping the hilt of his claymore. The archers had reached the line and had largely stabilised it, but the sheer weight of enemy forces pouring from the Great Gate would soon rupture his centre. Within the Daedric horde, Gorgoth's horsemer formed deadly pockets of resistance, but they could only break up the tide, not avert it. Even the elite warriors under Dion's command would crack soon. He turned to regard Martin, standing at his side with a grim expression on his face, Goldbrand shining like the sun in his fist. The Emperor's left hand was pointing towards the Daedric ranks, ever moving. Where he pointed, his enemies died, struck down by lightning bolts or torn apart as the earth erupted under their feet, but while the Imperial was a powerful mage, he couldn't keep it up for much longer.
The general cleared his throat. "Looks like our swords will be bloodied today, sire." He swept his claymore from its scabbard, his words punctuated by rasping leather. As one, his bodyguard unsheathed their weapons, ready to follow where he led and willing to die at his side.
Martin simply nodded, lowering his left hand and raising his right. Sixty Akaviri katanas flashing from their sheathes was the only answer Phillida needed.
Their bodyguards moved together as their two leaders moved forward, more than a hundred elite warriors ready to hack a path into the depths of Oblivion itself. They needed no commands, and neither Phillida nor Martin gave them any as they passed the remaining archers and the tiring battlemages. Holding up a clenched fist, the general brought them all to a halt twenty paces behind the front line, directly in front of the Great Gate. Checking his helmet strap, he looked sideways at his Emperor.
"Sire, all we need to do is buy time. Buy it with our lives, if need be, but not your life. I'll only-"
"No, Phillida," responded Martin, donning his helmet. "I've already sent men to die for me while I sat and watched. No longer. If Dagon wants my realm, he will not take it without his minions feeling the bite of my sword and feeling the fury of the last Septim." His lips curled into a snarl as he turned to face the backs of the soldiers in front of him, their line on the verge of disintegration. "For Tamriel!" Raising Goldbrand high, he charged forward, his bellowed war cry echoed by sixty Blades as they plunged after him into the chaos of battle.
Despite himself, Phillida smiled. The man would be a good leader of men, if he lived. He raised his voice. "For the Emperor!" Knowing that his bodyguard would follow, he forced his ageing bones into action and threw himself into the fray.
Ilend no longer knew or cared if it was sweat or blood pouring down his back; all he knew was that his arms were aching, his armour was scarred, and there was still no end to the enemies facing him. He'd managed to find a relatively stable section of the line and was fighting side by side with Tarad and Captain Burd, but eventually exhaustion would take its toll. He could only hope that Gorgoth closed the Gates soon.
"Why did you have to bloody well invade?" he growled at a clannfear trying to claw his innards open. His shield swept aside its attack and his sword carved a bloody line across its chest. "I was happy in Kvatch. Happy, damn you. I didn't need this war." He stepped forward, thrusting, and the clannfear fell with a burbling screech. "Then again, I'd never have met Gorgoth. Or Aerin." A Dremora replaced the clannfear. "Maybe if things turn out well, I might think differently. But now-" He snapped his mouth shut, well aware that his babbling was detrimental to the morale of those around him. Wincing as the Dremora's mace shook his shield and jarred his left arm to the bone, he slammed his blade into the side of his helmet, knocking him off-balance and giving Tarad the chance to stab him through the armpit. The Redguard Defender truly was every bit as good as he claimed; his bronze armour and helmet was black with blood, but none of it was his own.
"Stop going mad on me, Ilend," panted Burd, finishing off a scamp. His blonde hair was matted by blood trickling from a gash on his scalp. The Nord had little breath left to spare; a blow from a daedroth earlier had broken several of his ribs, and a healing potion had left him tired and drained, if whole.
"Not mad," retorted the Imperial, bashing a hunger in the face with his shield. "Just angry." His full-armed thrust took the Daedra in the midsection, lifting it off its feet before he kicked it off his blade. He blinked as sweat trickled into his eyes; the constant light of the Gate ahead of him was making it hard enough to see without his eyes swimming. Every part of him ached, but he knew the sensation and was managing to ignore it, just as he'd done at Kvatch and at Skingrad. He shook his head and prepared for the next Daedra to step up. What he wasn't expecting was to hear someone talking behind him.
"Don't turn around, Ilend. Just know that I've got your back." Despite his lover's calm, serious words, the Guildsman almost turned around anyway. They must have ordered the archers out to fight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merandil a few men down, his bloody battleaxe rising and falling.
"If we get surrounded, cut off..." He had to pause to swallow. His mouth was dry. "If we die, Aerin, we'll die together with a pile of corpses around us."
"A good way ta go." Her laugh was nervous. A daedroth reared its head and pawed the ground, getting ready to charge. "Focus on them, Ilend. I'll be here." Her hand patted his shoulder. If she was trying to hide the fact that she was trembling, she wasn't doing it very well. Even so, he smiled.
Gorgoth, if you're going to do something, do it soon. His smile became a snarl as the daedroth charged.
The Lord of Manruga suppressed the weariness threatening to drag him down as he climbed the final ramp in the vast Sigil Tower. He'd taken two Welkynd stones with him into Oblivion, and both of them had been used, along with many of his potions. He had slaughtered a way through the maze of tunnels and passages as quickly as he could, but using so much magic so quickly was always tiring, and even now he only had about half his magicka pool to confront whatever was in the Sigillum Sanguis. Of course, Blood King was still clenched in his fist, pulsing angrily; with this much power coursing through him and the weapon, he could brush aside any warrior without a strong enough defence, but any delay would cost hundreds of lives.
He pushed open the doors to the Sigillum Sanguis, expecting heavy resistance the moment he entered the curving corridor. There was none. Knowing that Dagon would not leave his greatest vulnerability completely exposed, he hurried onwards, sure he would find resistance once he entered the Sigil chamber. Once again, there was none. The chamber itself was no different to the chambers he had found in normal Sigil Keeps, save for the column of liquid magicka flowing upwards, which was thicker by far, pulsing with barely-restrained energy.
Hurrying up the stairs, he looked around for resistance and yet again, found none. Suspecting what he would find at the uppermost level, he grunted and looked down at Blood King, tightening his grip on the haft. Squaring his shoulders, Gorgoth marched up the ramps to find the final barrier.
The Great Sigil Stone looked much like what he'd expected, a larger version of a normal Sigil Stone, a slowly rotating ball slightly larger than his head, blacker than the darkest night. It was not that which drew his eyes, however. Awaiting him were three Dremora. One casually held a longsword in either hand, one had a shield and mace, and the other was hefting a battleaxe. All three had long horns curving upwards, adding six inches to their height, and the dark red skin of their faces was smooth. Their eyes were orange, flecked with an even darker red, and looking at him with an expression not of hate or fear, but of respect. Like their skin, the Daedric plate of their armour was more refined than that of ordinary Dremora, with Daedric runes and patterns inscribed on the red-and-black plate. As Gorgoth slowly moved onto the platform, they inclined their heads slightly.
He had long suspected that Dagon would send his very best to guard the Great Sigil Stone, and he was not wrong. Even one Valkynaz was powerful enough to be called a minor Daedric Lord in their own right, and now he faced three. When at full strength, he could probably best one of them magically, but in his weakened state against three they could kill him within minutes. Aware of dwindling time, he inclined his head slightly. The Valkyn returned the gesture.
"We knew you would get this far, Hero," said the Valkynaz with the mace and shield. Now that Gorgoth was closer, he could see the tell-tale shimmering of magical enhancements on their weapons and armour. "You have your duty, and we have ours." They spread out, forming a line between him and the Stone. No further words were needed. He knew all three would die to keep him from that Stone. It was more likely, however, that he would be the one dying, and there would be no quick rebirth for him.
He stepped forward and summoned a shield, already strapped to his left arm. Fortification magic seeped into him, strengthening him, masking his fatigue and granting him speed and agility beyond normal mortal limits. He would need every advantage he could find just to outmanoeuvre his opponents and survive for more than a few minutes. They were waiting patiently, knowing that he had to attack.
Gorgoth raised his mace and swung down, starting his attack just as he teleported in front of the battleaxe-wielding Dremora. The Valkynaz, caught by surprise, could only jerk backwards. It saved his life, but Blood King's heavy head left a deep gouge in his breastplate and knocked his battleaxe to the ground. Before he could recover, Gorgoth had spun and planted his boot into the Dremora's torso, kicking him off the edge and sending him crashing down to the floor below. He would be back, but not for a few seconds at least. The warrior-shaman turned towards the Stone, but the other two were already blocking his path. If he teleported directly to the Stone, they would be on him before it had finished parting from the magical stream. He had to deal with them.
It was they who attacked this time, splitting up to come at him from two different angles. The swordsman darted in and slashed high and low just as the maceman swung at his head. Blocking the mace with Blood King, Gorgoth blocked the high slash with his shield and jumped over the low slash, turning his movement into a forward flip – made easy by his magical enhancements – that put him on his feet a few paces from them. He turned, putting his back to the Sigil Stone, and started backing towards it, never taking his eyes off them. The third Dremora scrambled back up the ramp, picked up his battleaxe and joined his compatriots.
"You cannot take it," said the swordsman, shaking his head. Gorgoth felt resistance behind him, and knew without looking that the Valkynaz had effectively turned the air behind him solid.
"And I cannot let you keep it," replied the warlord, raising a hand. Fire leapt into existence, a single large flame surrounding all three of the Dremora. At the same time, he pushed back against the air behind him with his mind as well as his body, pitting his skill in Thaumaturgy against the Dremora's. Shapes appeared in the flames as they started to force their way out of the fire; they'd have known of his magic as soon as he started casting, and would have shielded themselves before they could take too much damage, but at the same time the inferno would be trying to trap them, melting the very ground under their feet. If they got free, he would die quickly; he would lack the energy to resist for long.
With a grunt he staggered back, almost falling off the ledge before he caught himself. Spinning, he released his summoned shield and snatched the Great Sigil Stone from the stream of magicka just as his own magical reserves started to fail him. Letting the conjured flame go, he put his last energies into resisting the heat that threatened to melt his gauntlet and threw himself from the ledge, wrapping his body protectively around the Stone. As he fell into the chaos of the magical forces tearing the Sigil Keep apart, he felt one of the Dremora slam into him.
The world vanished in fire and pain.
A/N: Yes, this chapter ends there. Apologies if it dissatisfies, but if I included the entire battle in one chapter it'd be over 20,000 words long, and that's too long for a non-oneshot chapter. Anyhow, next chapter will see the end of the battle; forget not that there are still thousands of angry Daedra to be dealt with on the other side, so expect more blood and gore to come. As ever, don't forget to review; reviews help.