A/N: My apologies for the wait, but hopping across the North Sea for half a week to watch my brother get married in Holland did break my flow a bit. At least his departure means I'll get a bit more time for writing... here's hoping. Anyhow thanks to everyone who reviewed though remember I could always use a few more...
Rokibfd (Chapter 47): The cheese grater was invented in the 1540s; a bit modern for Tamriel, true, but remember that the Dwemer had invented sentient robots, steam power, and weather control. I think they might have had a stab at kitchen equipment as well, and a fair few of their discoveries might have made it into mainstream Tamrielic life. At least, it's not too far to stretch the imagination... anyhow, I know all too well how tight time can get.
(Chapter 48): Dralasa is most certainly useful in the battle; the only reason she wasn't mentioned in 48 was because the battlemages didn't exactly take much of the limelight from the infantry. I don't think the rocks of the Storm atronachs CAN shatter, so while I did reference the Frosts, I didn't refer the Storms... maybe I should change it. According to UESP, Thaumaturgy is actually quite major, though I guess it doesn't get much attention because it's completely absent from the game, likely due to the impossibilities of implementing it. (If only more readers of this thought like you, eh?)
Random Reader: To be honest, I have no idea what I'm doing with the Knights; I've never played KOTN. Probably best to assume that their quest line is happening somewhere but you're not hearing about it (similar to the SI questline).
Underpaid Critic: What kind of action could he have taken? Wait for Daedra to come of the Gate so he could kill one, thus giving every Blade a fit and disrupting Phillida's plans? And it would have taken a while to move along the ranks and say a few personal words to each soldier. I would have included an action, but given the situation, I couldn't think of a plausible one...
Anyhow, good to hear that the Battle (the first bit of it, at least) went down well; here's hoping the second part is well-received as well...
Chapter Forty-nine: The Field of Blood
Martin had never felt so alive in his life.
Lathar and the other Blades had trained and drilled him incessantly. They had given him calluses, burnt away his fat, replaced it with layers of hardened muscle, sparred with him until his entire body ached and cried out for rest, and then driven him even harder. They had given him skill with the sword, the axe, the mace, the shield. They had given him the strength to move in his heavy armour and the strength to lift his sword arm after hours of fighting. But nothing they had ever told him could have prepared him for the ferocity, the fury, the sheer thrill of battle. Fighting for his life, taking each second of living as a victory, was not something that could be taught.
The wedge that his and Phillida's bodyguards had driven into the Daedric ranks had disrupted their assault and saved the Imperial line, but now Dagon's commanders were throwing every soldier they had at it, forcing them on the defensive. They definitely knew exactly who was fighting on the front lines beside the men and women of his bodyguard. Daedra were falling by the dozen, but they kept on, climbing over piles of their own dead to throw themselves at the bloodied ranks of the Blades. In the very front rank, at the very tip of the blunt wedge, Emperor Martin Septim fought for his life and for the future of Tamriel.
Yet another Dremora's weapon arm fell to the ground, the Kynaz's stump instantly cauterised by the blazing inferno that was Goldbrand. Martin wasted no time in bringing his blade back down, slicing open his opponent from neck to groin. He glanced around in the bare second he had before someone clawed the Dremora's body aside and attacked him once again. Captain Renault fought to his right, her katana red to the hilt, along with most of her armour. To his left was Roliand, the massive Nord managing to bellow deafening battle cries every few seconds. The ex-priest didn't know how the Blade could keep that up; his own breath was coming in pants, and his entire body was coated in sweat. Bruma might be cold, but battle was hot.
His attention refocused on his front as a clannfear leapt over the Kynaz's corpse. He thrust forward with barely a second thought, impaling the creature through the chest, withdrawing his shining blade with ease as he stepped back into line. A massive Xivilai raised an equally massive warhammer, standing just outside the katana's reach. Raising his left hand, Martin beckoned, and the ash-skinned Daedra's eyes widened as telekinesis magic forced him to stumble forward, unbalanced and unable to stop Goldbrand carving through his abdomen. The same telekinesis magic blasted the stricken Daedra back into the lines of his comrades, knocking several off their feet.
Making the most of his brief respite, he looked up at the Great Gate – and froze. He had seen a Siege Crawler laying waste to Kvatch, and had hoped to never see one again, but now one was thrusting its monstrous head through the portal. Soon it would be far enough through to have influence on the battle. Grimacing, he prepared to call for Phillida – the general had to have some contingency plan – but the words died in his throat.
The Great Gate flared, its light rivalling Goldbrand for a single instant before collapsing inward, crumbling into nothingness with a sound like a gale shrieking through trees. A deep rumbling shook the ground as the other three Gates all winked out of existence, their anchoring power suddenly disrupted by the Great Gate's collapse. The Siege Crawler was torn apart; what little had managed to enter Tamriel fell to the ground, scything through the Daedric ranks until it finally came to a halt. Martin smiled. Thank you, Gorgoth.
A Dremora that had been about to attack him stumbled to a halt, staring at him wide-eyed, mouth dropping open. With visible effort, the Kynaz shook himself, rolling his shoulders and coming forward again, looking a lot less confident. Before he could launch an attack, the Imperial had stepped forward and cut cleanly through the haft of his battleaxe, spinning Goldbrand to slice off his opponent's right leg and left arm before stepping back in line. Everywhere, the Daedra seemed shaken by the loss of their portals, but they were still alive and still in Tamriel; within minutes, they would be redoubling their assault.
"Sire." Behind Martin's left shoulder, Phillida's voice cut clearly through the cacophony of battle. "I'll take five bodyguards and leave the rest with you. I need to contact the battlemages." The Emperor only nodded; his general knew what he was doing. Another Dremora stepped in to attack him, and the Imperial planted his feet firmly, meeting the Kynaz's blade with his own. He was the Emperor of Tamriel, and he would hold for however long he had to, or the world would burn.
Phillida pushed out from the rear ranks, not even looking behind him to check if Vignar and his other four bodyguards were still with him. His men would give a good account of themselves, and they would guard Martin with their lives as readily as the Blades, but it was not his men – his brothers – that worried him. Weariness dragged at him as he jogged up the hill, but he pushed his aches to the back of his mind. Dents in his armour and notches in his bloodied claymore told him what he already knew; he was too old for battle now. Besides, with this new development, he had to be where any good general should be; where he could oversee the situation.
He reached the battlemages on their hill and turned to survey the battle. The Daedra were clustered around their destroyed Gates, several thousand of them, contained by a wide ring of Imperial soldiers all around them. An accurate count was impossible, of course, but he grimaced. The Daedra outnumbered his forces, and they were stronger, less tired, with more stamina. He sighed and walked over to the leader of the battlemages, an old Dunmer called Sathis Faveran who had been born before the foundation of the Third Empire.
"Faveran, I need your battlemages to kill as many Daedra as they can, as quickly as they can. Use all the reserves of magicka you have left." There wouldn't be much magical healing available after the battle, but if the Daedra broke them, that wouldn't matter anyway.
"As you command," responded the Dark Elf, bowing slightly before turning to speak orders to his mages. Faveran never shouted, but his quiet voice always seemed to carry his exact orders to every mage under his command. They reacted quickly; those who had been resting swallowed what potions they had and stepped up to join their comrades in a loose circle of a hundred casters. Phillida turned to watch; this was the first time in the battle that his magical forces had been ordered to attack all-out.
The boiling sky seemed to split as lightning crashed down from above, hundreds of bolts blasting into the Daedric ranks. Hundreds more fireballs joined them, thrown by the hands of battlemages or sent from the heavens alongside the lightning. Pillars of ice and frozen air struck down from above as well, freezing all they touched. Amongst the elemental fury, a more sinister use of Destruction magic stalked the battlefield, dark tendrils of magicka darting out and simply killing whatever it touched without leaving a mark. Daedra did not fall by the dozen; they fell by the hundred, torn apart by the fury of Tamriel's mages, slaughtered as death fell from the sky to strike them down even as they frantically threw themselves forward in an attempt to escape. The general nodded in satisfaction; he had seen this kind of display before, of course, but never when the stakes were this high.
Unable to keep up the torrent of death for long, the mages began to tire, some staggering out of the loose formation as though they had been months without sleep. As the rain of death began to falter and slow, Phillida unconsciously leaned forward, feeling the intensity he always felt when a battle hung on a knife edge. Heaps of dead and dying Daedra were scattered across the battlefield, and the centre of the plain was a devastated wasteland, but still they pushed at his forces surrounding them; the battlemages could only strike down a few foes near their own for risk of hitting their allies. The magical assault – it was dying out truly now, after what had only been a few minutes – had cost them thousands that could not be replaced, but the Daedra were still fighting with their undying strength. The numbers were favourable to his own side, now – as near as he could tell – but quality won more battles than quantity.
Sighing, the general turned to one of his bodyguards. "Get to Bruma and bring me every trained soldier you can find" he growled. The militia would have to do to defend the city if any other threat arose. He hoped he wouldn't have to need this new reserve, but when a man was drowning, he would clutch at the thinnest branch if he thought it would float. Turning back to the battlefield, he watched as his last few battlemages threw everything they had at the Daedra.
Overhead, a dim light began to shine through the fading clouds. Despite himself, Phillida smiled. He had wondered if he would ever feel the soft touch of the sun on his bare skin again.
Ilend had no idea how much time had passed – battle confused everything, and he couldn't even see the sun to give an indication – but he knew that he was nearing exhaustion. The Battle of Kvatch had lasted longer, true, but that hadn't been pitched battle for hour after painful hour. He thought it had been hours since the first Gate arrived, anyway; it was impossible to be sure. And time didn't matter to the Imperial in any case; as long as he had strength to lift his sword, he would fight until the bitter end.
"At least we're making a difference now," mumbled Aerin, standing wearily at his side with half the length of her shortsword splattered with Daedric blood. "Can't be long now that the Gates are closed."
"It's not over until it's over, girl," panted Burd on her other side. "Pay attention." His upper arm was bleeding from a deep gash, but he had run out of healing potions. They all had, barely finding time to swig them down and drop the bottle before being plunged into battle again. Ilend was saving the last of his magicka for an emergency.
The Bosmer grunted in reply then focused on the clannfear attempting to gut her. Ilend's blade left a deep slash in its back, but that was all he had time for before a Dremora kicked aside the body of a scamp and struck down at him. The Imperial's shield stopped the axe and trapped it, giving the Guildsman the opportunity to plunge his blade into the Kynaz's heart. Sliding the body from his blade, he attempted to wrench the axe out of his shield. As the weapon came loose, the battered shield splintered and broke apart, leaving only a fragment strapped to his left arm. Growling in frustration, the Imperial unwound the straps and shook it off as his lover plunged her curved blade deep into the clannfear's back just behind its skull.
He was about to step over and help her wrench the blade free when Tarad bellowed a warning. The Imperial spun, expecting to find a Daedra bearing down on him. Instead, a fireball was arcing over from the Daedric lines, heading directly for them. His head whipped around, preparing to protect Aerin with his body if need be, but Tarad was already leaping at him, slamming into him so hard that they both flew several paces and hit the ground rolling. The fireball slammed into the ground nearby, sending them sprawling even further. Ilend managed to raise his head just in time to see Daedra pour into the gap with sellswords and guardsmen rushing to meet them. "Aerin!" he roared, panic and fear lashing him. He charged to his feet, but Tarad was just as quick, grabbing his shoulder.
"It hit away from her, man! Stay calm!" Ilend shrugged him off, ready to plunge back into the ranks to find her, but the Redguard's cry of alarm warned him once again. Several more fireballs were heading towards their lines. The Defender pushed him away. "Go and find her, if you can!" The feverish light in Tarad's eyes, the sheer intensity of his voice and the trembling grip on his greatsword's hilt all told Ilend that the warrior was feeling the early stages of his adrenaline rush take him. Before the Imperial could respond, his comrade was rushing towards the Daedric lines, probably intent on carving through as many as he could.
The Protector turned and sprinted along the line, keeping clear of the fireball's destination, looking for Aerin, calling for her. She had to be alive. She had to be. An errant scamp reared up in front of him and he cut it down without a second thought. He darted back into the line near where he had last seen her and looked around frantically. A daedroth tore apart the soldier in front of him and grabbed at the Imperial. He snarled as he attempted to fend it off. She would have to look after herself for just a bit longer; he couldn't keep her alive if he was dead.
Pain was the first sensation that Gorgoth became aware of. Half his back seemed to be splitting open, most of his body felt battered and bruised, and he was drained by physical and mental exhaustion. Hearing returned next; the distant clash of battle and the screams of the dead and wounded told him that the battle was not immediately around him. His brain, working sluggishly in a mire of fatigue, was confused; he had been spat out of the Great Gate with a sword in his back and the Great Sigil Stone in his hands; surely the Daedra would have killed him by now. But then he realised what was crushing him.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. Slush had blocked one of the eye holes of his helmet, but he painfully turned his head to look up through the other one. He was lying on his front near the ruins of the Great Gate, crushed beneath one of the massive legs of the Siege Crawler. His armour had stopped it killing him – the steel plate hadn't even bent – but it was exerting painful pressure on the sword hilt sticking out of his back. The Valkynaz had done his best, managing to penetrate the thick armour while diving downwards into the chaos of the Sigil Keep collapsing, but Gorgoth had been fortunate that the blade had missed anything vital. He'd never counted himself particularly lucky, but now it seemed that luck – maybe even fate – had intervened twice in the space of a few minutes. Had he not been largely concealed beneath the Siege Crawler, the Daedric forces would have wasted no time in killing him.
Overhead, the sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky. The Great Sigil Stone was lying a few feet from his hands, steam rising as it melted a hole in the mud. Blood King was a few inches from his right hand, but it would be useless until he freed himself. His magicka pool had refilled slightly in his brief unconsciousness, enough for the warrior-shaman to cast the dangerous spell that masked his own exhaustion – fatigue could never be properly removed, and the body could drop dead from exhaustion it never felt – before casting a fortification spell, giving more strength to arms and legs he could barely move otherwise.
He gritted his teeth to stop himself groaning in agony as he forced himself upwards, pushing up to his knees. The leg of the Siege Crawler slid off his back, but there was no such easy solution to the katana sticking out of him. It hadn't penetrated the front of his armour, but it was still firmly lodged in his back. Grimacing, the warlord pulled off his helmet and set it on the ground in front of him as he pulled what remaining potions he had from his belt. He only had three left; two for healing his wounds and one for restoring his magicka. He swigged down the latter and threw the bottle away before awkwardly twisting his arms behind him and tugging at the hilt of the katana. Slowly, painfully, he wrenched it out of his body, ignoring the blood spurting over his gauntlets. The second it left his skin, he threw it down and quickly downed both healing potions.
With his wound sealed and his bruises fading, the warrior-shaman finally paid full attention to his surroundings. For about fifty paces in every direction was scarred, shattered wasteland littered with corpses; he could tell that the battlemages had been throwing everything they could at the Daedra. There could be nothing left alive out there; the few survivors would have joined their comrades in the front row. All around him, but relatively distant, he could see the backs of Daedra throwing themselves at what he knew to be the Imperial lines. Tired as he was, Gorgoth knew he had something more to do; by destroying the Gates he had struck a decisive blow, but his comrades would need the Hero of Kvatch to do more than that. He stooped and picked up Blood King, casting a spell of fire resistance before picking up the Great Sigil Stone in his left hand. The fate of Tamriel could rest on it; he wasn't about to let it out of his grasp even in the thick of battle.
He tapped the side of his helmet to clear the eye holes before replacing it on his head and looking around. In the clear daylight, he could see the hill where Phillida had been commanding from; most of the battlemages were slumped on the ground resting, and the only archers in evidence appeared to be crossbowmen. There was no sign of Martin; Phillida must have committed every last reserve he had. Checking that his three blades were in their proper places, the warrior-shaman clenched Blood King firmly in his fist and started walking towards the Daedra attacking towards the hills. The mace's enchantment was less powerful than it had been, in response to his own weakness, but it would still brush aside a daedroth with ease if swung with full strength, and taking the enemy in the rear was almost always devastating. Fortifying his strength further and covering himself with a magical shield, Gorgoth broke into a jog.
The first Daedra he reached were two robed Dremora mages straining to see over the ranks of their own forces, trying to see where to direct their next fireballs. One took a full-strength swing in his back, shattering most of the bones in his body and propelling him into the rear ranks of his allies, while the other barely had time to turn before Gorgoth smashed downwards, leaving most of the Kynaz's upper half a bloody ruin. He paused only to jerk the mace head free before turning back towards the boiling mass of Daedra before him, some alerted by being struck by the remnants of his first victim. Giving them no time to reorganise, he charged into them.
Dimly he felt his body begging him to lie down and rest, to sleep, but it was like the muted buzzing of a small fly, easily ignored thanks to his spell. Daedra fell in shattered heaps as he barged his way through their battle line, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Recognising the Stone in his hand, Dremora after Dremora tried to claim vengeance and were sent back to Oblivion, Daedric steel unable to resist Blood King's battle fury, even in this weakened state. Smashing aside a daedroth, he was almost to to the front lines when a Xivilai stepped out in front of him, a bloodstained battleaxe grasped in one hand. Drying crimson stains were spread over most of Medraka's body, but none of it was his own.
"It seems I underestimated you," was all the Daedra said, rubbing his chin with his free hand. "I recall that you did warn me about that. I should have listened."
Gorgoth swiped aside a clannfear attempting to claw a way through his armour and stepped closer to the Xivilai he sometimes counted among his comrades. "I assume you will not hold it against me if I banish you now?"
"Of course not. We are enemies now. The next time you summon me, we will be allies once again." The Daedra hefted his battleaxe and looked down at the blood splattered over his sash. "I should add that Lurog died well. He fought to the last."
"He would." The warrior-shaman forced down the emotions that were threatening to rise; he would remember his Bloodguard and friend later. For now, he had a battle to fight. Medraka stepped forward, eyes darting around and silently threatening eternal torture to any lesser Daedra who interrupted them. Most of them snarled at him before hurrying off to find some other part of the Imperial line to attack. Some stayed, but kept a careful distance. Their betters were not to be defied, even when cut off from Oblivion.
Gorgoth made the first move, dashing forward with Blood King swinging towards the Xivilai's torso. Knowing the power of the mace, his enemy sidestepped to evade the attack rather than blocking, gripping his battleaxe in both hands before launching an attack of his own. The Orc barely got his mace back in time to block, grunting as he almost staggered. The two were of a height, and while the Orsimer was slightly wider than the Daedra, they were roughly evenly matched in physical strength. Back-pedalling to avoid another attack, he surged forwards again, feinting right before jabbing from the left. Unlike most enemies he faced, however, the Xivilai knew something of how Gorgoth fought, and parried the blow with enough force to almost tear the long mace from his opponent's hand.
Keeping his grip on his weapon at the expense of staggering forward, the warrior-shaman kicked at Medraka's legs, forcing his foe back, taking the time to recover. A bolt of lightning flashed from the Daedra's hand, but the warlord's magical shield absorbed most of it. Shrugging off the few sparks dancing over his armour, Gorgoth moved forward, swinging slowly for his enemy's head before throwing himself forwards and changing the direction of the attack to aim at his flank. The Xivilai jerked sideways and grabbed the Orc's weapon arm, halting his attack before putting his entire strength into heaving his opponent over his shoulder.
The Orsimer twisted to land on his back, grunting as the air was forced from his lungs but already rolling to the side to avoid Medraka's ferocious downcut, the battleaxe cleaving down into the empty space he had just occupied. Forcing himself upwards, the warrior-shaman shoved the Great Sigil Stone into the Daedra's face. Medraka jerked back, choking off a howl of pain as his face started to melt. Snatching the Stone away, Gorgoth smoothly pivoted on one foot and slammed Blood King into his enemy's ribs. The Xivilai's mutilated body was hurled across the battlefield, only stopping when the massive corpse slammed into a clannfear.
Aware that he and his comrade now had several new topics for conversation when he next summoned the Xivilai, the warrior-shaman quickly glanced around to get his bearings then started off towards the Imperial lines again. His magicka had regenerated enough for him replace Blood King on his back and blast a path for himself, bolts of lightning darting from his fingers to cut down any Daedra foolish enough to challenge him. The gap opening ahead of him was abruptly filled by Blades, exploiting the gap and spreading out to cut down Daedra left and right.
Gorgoth wasted no time in moving through them, lowering his mace as he searched for the man they would be protecting. Martin appeared ahead of him, Goldbrand shining brightly in his right hand. The Emperor's armour bore few crimson stains; fighting with such a weapon was unlikely to spray the wielder with an enemy's blood, and he was well-trained enough to avoid getting more than a few scrapes on the ornate steel plate. His eager eyes, already burning with an intense light, instantly leapt to the Great Sigil Stone.
"I have to get this safe," the warrior-shaman told him, not pausing in his march towards the rear. "I will be back when I'm sure we won't lose it." Martin nodded and turned back to the front line. The soldiers swiftly parted for the warlord as he moved through the thin line, the sounds of battle slowly receding behind him as he entered open space. Cautiously stepping around the corpses, he broke into a jog, hurrying up towards where Phillida would be. The only soldiers not already in combat were a knot of crossbowmen who looked to be rationing their bolts and the group of battlemages, most of whom seemed to be collapsed on the ground in a state of exhaustion. Ignoring them, his eyes found the purple plumes of Phillida's helmet. The man himself was standing on the highest point of ground available, surveying the battle through a looking glass.
At the sound of boots crunching through hard-packed snow, General Phillida lowered his looking glass, a small smile spreading over his face as he looked down at the Orcish warrior-shaman walking towards him. Under all their thick plate armour, it might have been hard to tell one tall Orc from another, but he doubted that a normal cavalrymer would have a Great Sigil Stone clutched in his hand. Tucking the glass behind his belt, the Imperial returned the warlord's fist-on-heart salute. "Good to see you again, Lord Gorgoth. Resistance was tough?"
"Maybe I truly am the Nine's champion. I fail to see how I could have made it through alive without some kind of divine intervention." The Orsimer's reply was hardly encouraging, yet Phillida cared little. They had the Great Sigil Stone. That was all that mattered. That, and winning the battle. "I will leave it here under guard. I am mostly spent, but I cannot stand and watch. Not while my mer still fight and die." There were knots of Orcish cavalry still fighting in the mass, each horsemer protecting his comrade beside him, wearing the Daedra down, but they were still taking casualties.
The Imperial nodded. As far as he could tell, the Orc still looked ready for battle despite the bloody mud staining most of his armour. He opened his mouth to release Gorgoth, only to close it again when he noticed the warrior-shaman gazing over his shoulder. The sound of hooves reached his ears. "Troops incoming, General, and not ours," reported Vignar, his voice urgent. The General turned. He might have expected a small squad of mounted guardsman, or perhaps a detachment of Legion cavalry. What he saw was something else entirely.
Reining in about fifty paces from the hill, just off the Silver Road, was a small column of Dunmeri light cavalry. Each mer and horse was covered in a sprinkling of dust and mud that spoke of a long, hard journey, but each soldier was sitting upright in his saddle, clutching a slender lance, alert and ready for battle. There could not have been more than a hundred of them, but Phillida was sorely tempted to smile at such welcome reinforcements. If they were reinforcements.
Their leader had not stopped with his mer but had continued on, riding up to the hilltop before reining in a few paces away when Vignar moved to block his path. He was tall for a Dark Elf, with a thin face that seemed perpetually displeased. He had no lance, but a curved cavalry sword on his belt balanced a long single-bladed axe and a quiver holding arrows for the horsebow on his back. His armour was boiled leather studded with steel, and an open-face helmet hung from his hip. Resting his gauntleted hands on the pommel of his saddle, he looked down at Gorgoth, a piercing look in his crimson eyes. "My name is Gothren Sadri, of House Redoran." His smooth voice held the accents of western Vvardenfell, though he wouldn't have been serving on the island; horsemer were rare enough on the mainland, let alone the less civilised areas of Morrowind. "I am looking for Gorgoth gro-Kharz."
"You have found him," replied the Orc in question, looking up at the Dunmer and making no attempt to remove his helmet. "What do you want?" The battle going on behind him might as well not have existed, but Phillida kept half an eye on the worst bulges in his lines.
"I have a message for you from the Lord Nerevarine." Phillida's eyebrow twitched; the resistance to the Daedra in Morrowind was being led by the Nerevarine, along with Lord Vivec and King Helseth. What would the saviour of Morrowind want with an Orcish warlord? Sadri rode closer and took a small letter from his belt pouch, holding it down to Gorgoth. The Orsimer took it without a word, breaking the seal and reading it without removing his helmet. He gave no outward reaction as he folded the letter again and tucked it inside his gauntlet, looking up at the Dunmer.
"Your soldiers are under my command?" asked the warrior-shaman. Sadri nodded shortly, his face deliberately smooth. "General Phillida is in command here. Do as he says, and go where he points. Fight and die for victory. If we lose here, Tamriel dies." His final words were punctuated by his dropping the Great Sigil Stone. The snow around it hissed as it started to melt its way through to the ground beneath. Seeming to dismiss Sadri, he turned to Phillida. "Set someone to guarding this," he said, indicating the Stone. "Martin or myself will return for it, but now the battlefield calls to me."
"We won't lose it. You have my word on that." The Imperial turned back to study the battlefield. "Rejoin the battle line directly in front of where the third Gate used to be. We're hard-pressed there." The warlord saluted and strode off to the indicated position, swinging his mace from his back. Putting the Orc out of his mind, the General looked back up at Sadri. "I am General Adamus Phillida. Your mer are ready for battle?" The Dark Elf gave him a short nod, a sharp motion to his men setting them in motion. "Good. Form them up just down the slope from here. I will give the order to charge when I see fit."
Sadri nodded again and spurred his mount onwards, shouting orders to his mer in his native tongue. Phillida was already hurrying towards the battlemages, hoping that a least a few of them had some magicka in reserve. Sathis Faveran looked up from talking to a knot of his mages who seemed on the brink of passing out and wearily stepped up to meet his commander.
"How many of your mages are up to giving it one last surge?" asked the General, looking around him in with unfeigned concern on his face. Some of the mages might have been mistaken for dead if it wasn't for the slow rise and fall of their chests. Every face he saw was drawn and tired.
"Three of my strongest, all Dunmer," replied Faveran after some thought, a hint of pride in his voice. "Arch-Mage Merissa still hasn't fully recovered from what the King of Worms did to her, so she's spent. All we have left are myself, Fathis Aren, and a girl called Dralasa Helas. We might be able to kill a few dozen, but not much more than that." At his command, the two he'd named trudged over to join him. The Imperial vaguely recognised Fathis Aren, the court mage of Bravil; he'd removed the heavy armour he normally wore, but his calloused hands still stroked the hilt of the ebony katana at his hip. If wearied, he still looked like he was considering finding his armour and heading down to the front lines. His companion, however, wasn't what Phillida had expected. Whereas the rest of the mages were mostly wearing robes or some kind of armour, the short Dunmeri girl was wearing only a low-cut silk dress that belonged more in the bedroom than on a battlefield. A smile was plucking at her full lips despite leaning on a staff to help her stay upright. Dismissing the rumours he'd heard of a Dark Elf bedding half the soldiers in Bruma, the General cleared his throat and pointed down towards the battle.
Largely, the Imperial ring around the Daedric army was holding well, inflicting casualties while maintaining the encirclement. There was, however, immediate concern; Daedra were clustering around a weak spot in the ranks near where the second Gate used to be, and the Imperial line was bulging outwards dangerously, almost at breaking point. Phillida's finger was pointing unwaveringly at that area. "Can you kill the Daedra there who are directly attacking our front line? That'd be an immediate reprieve for the infantry."
"As you command." Faveran nodded to his two comrades and they stared down at the battlefield, outstretched hands pulsing with a dark red glow. The General pulled out his looking glass and peered down at the afflicted area. He smiled as he saw Daedra exploding, torn to pieces by magical forces they never saw. His forces – on the brink of collapse – halted their grudging retreat as the Daedric attack was blown apart in front of them, some raising their shields to avoid getting hit in the face by flying body parts. By the time the battlemages had finished their grisly work, a bloody mess was all that remained of over thirty Daedra. More had to clamber over their former comrades to attempt to continue the attack, but the Imperial line had already reformed.
Phillida's smile slipped as he turned back to the mages. Dralasa had dropped her staff and was barely remaining upright, her smile gone from her face as she clutched at Aren, who no longer looked so eager to get to personal grips with the enemy. Faveran's back remained stiff and his eyes were sharp, but his chest rose and fell as though he had been running a marathon. "How long have you been casting for?" asked the Imperial cautiously.
"All of us started casting when you gave the first order, General," replied Faveran. "We used up all our potions, and even then we only stopped completely when we were ready to drop dead." The Dark Elf shook his head. "We're all spent, now. I can't offer you more than six or seven from our ranks for healing." Phillida nodded in understanding. From his estimation of the sun, the battle had been going on for over two hours; short in terms of what he was used to, but for a battlemage, throwing all the magical energy he had at the enemy for that time would exhaust even the strongest of them.
"You've earned your rest," he told the Dunmer. "Leave anyone who can help with the healing here and take the rest back to Bruma." He barely waited for the battlemage's nod before starting down towards the assembled light cavalry, Vignar and his bodyguard falling in behind him.
Sadri had arranged his mer in a deep formation of eight ranks with himself in the centre of the first rank. As the Imperial walked around to talk to him, he kept half an eye on another bulge developing near the remains of the first Gate. The Daedra appeared to be sending every last spare asset they had to that area. Reaching Sadri, he pointed at it. "When the line breaks there, I want you to charge with everything you have. If you break out into the centre, circle around and perform hit-and-run attacks in the Daedric rear, but defeating the Daedra there is most important."
"I know the work, General," replied the Dunmer, glaring down at the indicated position. "Just give the order." His axe was held firmly in his left hand, and some of his men were using their horsebows to shoot at any target that presented itself. Phillida was unsure of whether they would survive long after the impact of their charge – lightly-armoured cavalry with unarmoured horses were unlikely to last long in this brutal meat-grinder – but a good general made use of anything he could. Besides, if enough could break into the empty centre and hit enough of the Daedra in the back... Phillida rubbed his chin, deep in thought as he turned to watch the Daedric assault.
Aerin grimaced as she dropped the empty potion bottle. She'd taken it from the belt of a dead Redguard; he had needed it less than her, with the ribs on her right side clearly visible through the gash a Dremora's sword had left there. The Bosmer had fired all her remaining arrows and lost one her her shortswords, thanking the Divines that she always carried an identical spare. It seemed like years since the fireball had separated her and Ilend, though it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. She had initially rushed along the rear of their lines, shouting for him until a daedroth had almost succeeded in taking her leg off. Captain Ulrich Leland of Cheydinhal had then hauled her into his squad and pushed her into the front lines, looking so ferocious with his face splattered with Daedric blood that she hadn't even tried to argue. She'd only slipped away after her wound had sent her to the ground, scrabbling on hands and knees for a potion.
Rising to her feet, she looked around her. The sun was shining overhead now, but any hope she felt was tempered by the sight of the nearby line bulging outwards, almost cracking under the pressure of the attacking Daedra. Sighing, she raised her sword and started to back away; Ilend might have instilled some sense of duty in her, but she wasn't about to throw herself into a fight that would certainly leave her dead. Even so, her legs stopped moving as three daedroth surged through the Imperial line, cutting down soldiers left and right. More Daedra poured through the gap, wasting no time in turning to attack the mortals beside them. A horrified expression crept over Aerin's face as she realised that within minutes the Daedra would have the run of the battlefield. More immediately, a clannfear was running straight at her.
Clutching her hilt in both hands, she planted her feet, ready to meet it. However, the creature paused mid-charge, turning its head as though confused. The Bosmer frowned in confusion before following the Daedra's gaze to her right. Her mouth dropped open.
Dunmeri cavalry were slamming into the enemy forces, shattering them with their charge and impaling them on their lances, forcing them back through the gap. An exhausted cheer went up all around her as the infantry realised that reinforcements had arrived at a critical time, redoubling their efforts and fighting even harder. The clannfear shrieked and turned to charge back at the cavalry. Shaking her head to drive away the shock, Aerin leapt forward and plunged her sword into its sinewy back, almost falling down on top of it as it collapsed with a screech. She had long ago ceased to care about the hot Daedric blood spurting over her hands and the rest of her body.
Straightening, she continued to watch as the Dark Elves drove the enemy back ,effectively plugging the gap in their lines as the infantry moved back in to consolidate. Straining up on her tiptoes, she thought she might be able to see a few moving beyond the fighting, but it was impossible to be sure. Settling back on her heels before a Dremora could take her face off with a fireball, she looked around, frowning as she noticed a distant black-armoured figure striding confidently into the battlefield and promptly sending several Daedra flying in all directions. Aerin's lips curved into a smile as she started running over towards him. If she couldn't find Ilend, at least she'd be safe with Gorgoth.
Phillida smiled as he studied the battlefield. The Dunmeri cavalry had performed better than he'd expected; they'd crushed the Daedric assault and now over half of them were running riot in the centre, making the hit-and-run assaults that light cavalry were so perfectly suited for. A group of ten or twenty would charge into the backs of Daedric forces focused on their enemies, striking swiftly with their lances before wheeling away to escape any harm. The remainder of the detachment had either died in the initial charge or were battling alongside the infantry, who were fighting with renewed vigour all along the line. As the enemy weakened, the Imperial forces started to push forward again. Slowly but surely, the tide was turning.
"General." The Imperial turned to see Vignar pointing towards Bruma. Raising his looking glass, he could see the five hundred soldiers he'd requested filing out of the South Gate and marching down the road at speed. Phillida nodded to himself. It was always best to have a reserve, even if he could possibly win the battle without this one. He turned back to the battle just in time to see a surge of motion. Daedra from the far side of the battlefield were breaking away from their combat. Everywhere he could see, the enemy was turning and charging towards the Imperial line directly in front of his commanding position. He grunted. Clearly, they still retained some sense; a hammer of most of the remaining Daedra could break a part of his line while a rear guard protected their backs for the few vital minutes they needed. Even as he looked, the first Daedric reinforcements joined their comrades fighting the Imperial forces ahead of him, immediately stopping his advance and crushing a few unfortunate Dunmeri cavalry between them.
Grimacing, the General turned to look at his own reinforcements, hurrying down the Silver Road. He only hoped they could get to him quickly enough.
Martin felt himself snarling as he sliced a Dremora's face in two. The Daedra had clearly sensed their defeat and were throwing themselves forward harder than they ever had before. All around him, the Blades were being hard pressed by the sheer weight of numbers pressing inward. The ex-priest himself was tiring; his armour was dented in several places, Goldbrand was growing heavy in his hands, and most of his body was aching. Adrenaline still coursing through his veins masked the worst of it, however, and he fought on with grim determination, Goldbrand cutting through a daedroth's thick chest as though it was paper. The Blades either side of him – Renault hadn't left his side since he'd plunged into the fray – were covered in thick Daedric blood, but he knew that all of them would cover themselves in their own blood before letting harm come to him. Some already had.
"Just a bit longer, sire," grunted Baurus as he smashed his shield sideways into a clannfear's face. "They can't keep this up for long. It's their last push." He grunted again as he forced his katana through the Daedra's ribcage.
"We've half-won already," panted Renault on his other side, peering cautiously over the rim of her notched shield at the Dremora slowly approaching her. "Are you sure you won't withdraw, sire? We have this in-"
"No!" Martin paused to slice a Kynaz's sword in two before stabbing upwards into his heart. "How could I leave you to face this while I retreat to safety? How could I call myself a man, let alone an Emperor, if I did that?" He withdrew Goldbrand from the corpse, ignoring it as it fell. How many had he killed so far? It didn't matter; he hadn't even killed them. They were not mortals, to be killed so easily. He forced his mind back to the present as a hunger reached for him, claws glowing with the dark red of a Destruction spell. The Imperial chopped through both spindly arms at the wrist before splitting its horrific head in two with a high downcut.
A massive Dremora almost as big as a Xivilai stepped forward and grabbed a clannfear by the scruff of its neck, throwing it at Baurus. As the Knight Brother tried to fend off the wild creature, the Kynaz raised an enormous warhammer and brought it down on the top of the Redguard's head. Blood and brain matter splattered Martin's helmet as he turned to disembowel the clannfear, a snarl creeping over his face as the body of one of his staunchest bodyguards crumpled to the ground. From the moment he had met the future Emperor, Baurus had been fanatical in his protection, eager to atone for his previous failure; now his mangled corpse would just be one of thousands. There was no time to mourn or remember him, however; that heavy warhammer was swinging towards Martin's chest. He ducked and swung upwards at the same time, the sheer heat of Goldbrand's enchantment slicing through the weapon's haft just under the head. The big Dremora blinked in surprise at the loss of his weapon, his hand reaching for the sword at his waist too slowly as the Imperial surged upwards, driving his katana upwards into his torso.
A grunt behind him drew the Emperor's attention and he wrenched his sword out of his falling opponent before spinning to find Renault sprawled on the ground, struggling to rise as a Dremora raised his sword to end her life. Realising that the warhammer's detached head must have flown into her, Martin bellowed a battle cry as he leaped to block the attack, sparks flying as he pushed the Kynaz back away from her. Shadows flickered and danced as Goldbrand moved to block swift strikes, leaving a notch in the Daedric blade each time. More Daedra attempted to capitalise, but more Blades rushed in to stand beside him.
"By the Divines, sire, it's meant to be me protecting you!" growled Renault, her voice exasperated as she retook her place in the line beside him, mud staining most of her armour. A clannfear's claws left yet more gouges in her shield as she stabbed it through the side of its head. "Leave the heroic suicidal rescues to your bodyguard! It's what we're here for!"
"I do what I have to do," shot back Martin in response, ducking under a swing from the tenacious Kynaz and attempted a counter-attack that met only the thick shield strapped to his foe's left arm. He heard cursing behind him as someone shoved through the ranks to speak to him.
"We're cut off from our lines, sire," said a voice that he didn't recognise. It might have been one of Phillida's bodyguards. "The Daedra are pressing in from every side. They're pushing to the point of suicide; we can't kill them quickly enough."
Martin started to grunt a reply only to find himself forced back by the sheer weight of Daedric bodies pressing forward. He kept fighting with barely enough room to swing Goldbrand, slowly getting pressed back against those behind him by Daedra charging inward, forcing the corpses of their comrades forward before them. Gaps opened in the ranks of the Blades as his bodyguards were overwhelmed by Daedra swarming over them without a care for the swords that sliced through them, throwing themselves forward even in their dying spasms. The Emperor found himself jammed between Renault and Roliand, his pauldrons scraping against theirs and his back rammed against the chest of the man behind him, swinging Goldbrand from over his head against whatever foe threw itself forward. And still the Daedric horde pressed on, scrambling over a mound of their own dead.
The ex-priest had always known of the possibility of failure, known of the consequences should he fail, but it was only then that he realised how terrifyingly real that possibility was. He could die at any second, the last hope of Tamriel falling in battle alongside thousands of his subjects. Terror lanced through him, gripping at his heart, threatening to freeze him where he stood, but he ruthlessly forced it down as he cleaved a scamp's skull in two. Fear would not aid him; he could only focus on staying alive for just a few seconds longer. And then a few seconds after that, and then after that... the Daedric horde would have to exhaust itself soon. It had to.
"It was an honour to fight by your side, Martin," gasped Renault, her breath coming in ragged pants. She had lost her shield and her katana was notched in several places. Her left arm was trapped against his right side; she had no room to use anything but her other arm.
"Sovngarde awaits," said Roliand simply, the Daedric blood splattering most of his front making him look even more intimidating than usual.
"If we die here, the Empire dies with us," muttered Martin grimly, drawing on his remaining magical reserves and raising both hands. "You will not have Tamriel, Dagon." Lightning flashed from Goldbrand's blade and from his free hand, shattering the Daedra before him, scything down those so eager to taste the flesh of mortals. He blinked in shock, his spells halting, as he staggered forward into space suddenly devoid of anything but charred remains and crumbling ash. In front of him was open air. Freedom. Hope. A savage smile spread across the Emperor's face as he raised Goldbrand, Roliand and Renault stepping up beside him. To his side were Daedra still pressing forward, but their line was growing thin. "For Tamriel!" roared Martin, turning to plunge into the enemy flank.
As he carved through the invaders, Goldbrand alive in his hand, the ex-priest slowly became aware of mortal soldiers joining him, soldiers he did not recognise. Their weapons and armour were unbloodied, and they threw themselves at the Daedra with vigour, reversing the roles and crushing their foes between themselves and the Blades. Taking a moment to look around, Martin realised that hundreds of fresh troops were slamming into the rear of the Daedra, slicing through their exhausted, surprised opponents with ease. Abruptly he heard someone yelling in his ear.
"Sire! General Phillida says the battle is won! We've surrounded the Daedra and we're killing them in their hundreds!" The Emperor looked down at the messenger, letting his soldiers flow around him to deal with the remnants of the Daedric horde. "It's over, sire. We've won!" The young Imperial looked ecstatic despite the blood on his face from a gash over his eye.
Martin turned wordlessly and walked free of the fray, squelching through the red mud. Sounds of shouting and roaring reached his ears as though from a great distance. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, but he barely felt it, not even seeing the man. He felt dazed, disorientated; exhaustion swept over him, turning his muscles to water and threatening to overpower him. The Emperor of Tamriel slumped to his knees amid the scattered corpses, looking numbly at the severed head of a Dremora. Someone was speaking to him, but he heard nothing. Realisation came slowly.
Somehow, they had won.
Gorgoth could feel his exhaustion as he trudged through the field of corpses, ignoring the bloodstained mud that splashed his boots and greaves. He had fought beyond his limits; for him to feel some part of his exhaustion despite his suppressing spell meant that he had pushed himself to the point of physical and mental collapse. Maintaining the concentration to even think straight was a struggle; he would need much rest upon his return to Cloud Ruler Temple, but even now time was crucial. This battle had changed nothing; thousands of lives had been spent merely to give them the chance to get to Paradise to retrieve the Amulet of Kings. An expensive choice, but there had been no other way; the Orc intended to make sure that it had been worth the cost.
What he could see of the battlefield was carpeted with dead mortals and the bodies of banished Daedra. The white snow was now slush stained a deep crimson, visible in the rare places where the corpses were spread thin enough to see the ground. Hundreds of years from now, bards might still be singing about this battle; they probably wouldn't include the reality of the aftermath. They rarely did. Wearily, the warrior-shaman removed his helmet as he marched onward, hanging it from his belt as he searched. He had called three times for Rauzkh, but he knew that his warhorse had likely survived for no more than a minute after his master had left him. His own legs would serve him well enough for now.
He finally found what he was looking for. The surviving Blades with the strength to walk – about twenty, most sporting wounds of some kind – made it easy for him to find the helmetless Martin, slowly walking back towards Phillida's hill with an arm wrapped around the Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard. It was uncertain as to who was supporting who; Renault had lost her helmet and most of her face was covered with a crusting of dried blood, but Martin's face was haggard and his shoulders were slumped. The ex-priest seemed to have aged ten years in half a day. It was unsurprising; he would doubtlessly have imitated Gorgoth in pushing himself past his own limits.
The warlord stopped and saluted, bowing slightly and pressing his fist to his heart. "Emperor." Martin might not have been officially recognised or crowned yet, but he had done more than enough to earn his birthright; in Gorgoth's opinion, that made him Emperor no matter what officialdom thought.
Lurching to a halt, the ex-priest responded with a nod. "It seems that once again, the world is in your debt, Gorgoth," he claimed, his voice leaden with fatigue. "Just a few minutes more, and the Daedric horde would have been too big to stop."
"And if the warriors of Tamriel hadn't held, Dagon would have won no matter what I did," replied the Orc. "If I am a hero this time, my Emperor, I am one among thousands."
Martin smiled wearily. "I thought you might say something like that." He scrubbed a gauntleted hand through his disarrayed hair, careless of the bloodstains he left behind. "I assume the Great Sigil Stone is safe?"
"Phillida left two men standing guard over it."
"Good." Some of the tension leeched out of the Emperor's shoulders. "I'll send someone to take it to Cloud Ruler Temple. For now, we need to oversee the healing and recovering of bodies. I-"
"You will not be doing anything," Renault said firmly, cutting him off and fixing him with a hard stare that was undiminished by her having to arch her neck backwards to meet his gaze. "You, sire, look ready to collapse if you do anything more strenuous than breathe, so you will be returning to the Temple immediately unless you want to suffer the indignity of being carried through Bruma by your bodyguards." Judging by Martin's condition, he would be in no position to resist.
The Imperial grimaced. "I cannot abandon the wounded when they need a strong-"
"There's nothing you can do here except kill yourself through overwork, sire." The Knight Captain managed to look stern despite clinging to a man at least a foot taller than her. "Phillida is more than competent enough to see his soldiers through this aftermath. I will not leave you vulnerable for a second longer than necessary."
Martin grunted and shook his head, but let her start guiding him towards Bruma's South Gate, the remnants of his bodyguard falling in beside him. Gorgoth watched them pass then turned to climb Phillida's command hill, ignoring the deep-buried exhaustion threatening to worm its way to the surface. Slowly the piles of corpses thinned as he made his way off the battlefield. The healers had already arrived from Bruma, priests and mages who had been too weak in battle magic to take part in the fighting now putting their knowledge of Restoration to good use. There would be too many wounded to heal, but the worst cases would be seen to, provided the wounded could actually get the healing. Most of the soldiers still fit to walk had been sent to carry those who could not move.
Attaining the broad summit of the hill, the warrior-shaman turned and looked out over the battlefield. What had once been a flat plan bordered by gently sloping hills was now punctured by the remnants of four Oblivion Gates amid a scene of desolation and carnage. Smoke rose from hundreds of craters where lightning had struck or the ground had erupted, and black scars across the terrain indicated where magical fires had erupted. Tamriel itself had been scarred in more ways than one by the invasion.
Gorgoth looked around him. The few soldiers not engaged on some task looked tired, drained, exhausted. Some were touching themselves in wonder as though surprised to find themselves still alive. Others were looking around with the hollow, vacant stares of those who suspected that none of their comrades – their friends – had made it out alive. Most hadn't; the warrior-shaman could tell that well over half the Imperial army was dead on the battle plain. They had fought like lions, fought harder than he would have normally thought possible for garrison troops and mercenaries. But they had died; the immortal Daedra, while repelled and defeated, had lost not a single soldier.
The corpses of mortals would be collected after the wounded had been dealt with, buried in graves or otherwise given funeral rites. The Daedric corpses would rot away quickly now that their souls were being reborn in Oblivion. They would leave behind a field soaked in the blood of thousands. There would be no joy in this victory, not for the soldiers of Tamriel who had lost so many friends and comrades. But the Hero of Kvatch, standing on that hilltop, swore to himself that their blood would not have been shed in vain.
Ilend cursed as he tripped over the body of a Khajiit, almost falling before he caught himself. His armour was dented and torn in several places, his shield had been completely destroyed, and several of his wounds leaked blood into his already sodden clothing. Fortunately, they were all minor, but much longer without seeing one of the healers and he would need to be carried back to Bruma. He forced down his fatigue and his weakness, however, and dragged himself forward, searching.
The end had come suddenly; he had been back-to-back with a dismounted Orcish cavalrymer, fighting desperately for his life and wondering if he would survive for just a few more seconds, when Dunmeri cavalry had taken the Daedra in the rear. That had stunned their enemies long enough for the reserve infantry from Bruma to arrive and put the wavering Daedra to the sword. Ilend had been tempted to collapse with exhaustion, but Aerin's unknown fate had driven him back to his feet, pausing only to clean his sword and sheathe it before starting off towards where he had seen her last.
All around him, soldiers were on their knees, panting with fatigue as the realisation of their salvation became clear to them. More were trudging up towards where the messengers had said the healers were. Ilend wove around them, peering in every direction, occasionally calling for his lover. His dry throat felt as though it had been scraped with a razor, and his once-powerful voice could only summon little more than a croak, but he kept calling until a figure in ebony armour stepped out in front of him.
"Stop that screeching, Vonius," growled Modryn Oreyn, his voice slightly distorted by his full-face helmet. Blood caked his dented armour, but he appeared unhurt. "Aerin's back that way." His thumb pointed behind him as he grabbed Ilend's arm with his other hand to stop the Imperial dodging around him. "Bleed much more, though, and she'll have to drag you to the healers. Take my last potion. You need it more than I do."
The Protector snatched the healing potion from his superior's hand and downed it in two gulps, grunting as he felt his wounds close. "Thanks, Oreyn." He let the bottle drop to the ground. "But excuse me."
"I know what that feels like, believe it or not," snorted the Dark Elf, but Ilend had already darted around him and started running in the direction he'd indicated. The Champion could regale him with tales of past love at a later date; for now, he had to make sure his own love was still alive. He ran, stumbling over corpses, slipping in the slick mud, dodging around soldiers. Finally, he found what he was looking for and slid to a halt, staring. He felt his fists clench, his sigh hissing through his teeth.
Aerin didn't look up as he slowly approached. She was on her knees, cradling Saliith's head in her lap, her entire body trembling. "Come on, Saliith, get up," she pleaded, shaking the Argonian by his shoulders. "Ya can't be dead, you're the bloody Grand Champion..." She dissolved into incomprehensible sobbing, hugging his upper body tightly to her. "Please don't be dead..."
Ilend grimaced as he stopped beside them. The Green Tornado was most definitely dead; the broken haft of a spear protruded from his stomach, deep gashes covered his torso, and a dagger had been driven all the way through his left thigh. One of his shortswords was still clenched in his fist, the entire length stained crimson. His glazed green eyes stared up at the sun, unseeing. The Imperial muttered a quick prayer for the lizard's spirit; hopefully, he and Branwen had found each other in Aetherius by now.
"Aerin." She didn't respond, so he leaned down and gripped her shoulder, his voice sympathetic. "He's dead, Aerin. There's nothing you can do."
She moaned, but slowly let her vice grip on the Argonian's corpse loosen. As he slid from her lap, the archer grabbed Ilend's arm, using him to haul herself to her feet before throwing herself at him, burying her face in his chest, heedless of the blood. He wrapped his arms around her, making sure she had no broken bones or other injuries before hugging her tightly to him. Some of the tension seeped out of him; she might be overcome with grief, but she was still alive. He would miss Saliith as well, but the former gladiator had made it clear that he would prefer a death that actually meant something. There had been no better time to die.
"How do you... deal with it?" asked Aerin eventually, her voice muffled by his chest. "All the death? Your friends dying around you?"
Ilend sighed. He knew she'd have to face up to the realities of war eventually. "It's hard," he admitted. "But in times like this... This is war, Aerin, and we have to mourn them quickly and move on. Remember them, yes... but honour their memory by fighting as hard as you can, without getting distracted by their memory. It's what he would want. You know it." He remembered how he had been almost consumed by rage and vengeance after Kvatch, and shuddered. He'd come to his senses; he only hoped that Aerin wouldn't suffer the same fate.
The Bosmer pulled back slightly, staring up at him, her anguished face smeared with blood and tears. "I can't do it, Ilend," she told him, her eyes glistening. "Not like... I can't do it. I'm not a soldier like you."
He shook his head sadly. "You are, Aerin. You have to be. Dagon has made soldiers of us all. We fight or we die." One of his hands moved upwards to stroke the back of her neck in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "At least we're still alive. We can make sure he didn't die in vain. Mourn him, then fight for his memory. Everyone dies, in time; at least he died well."
She leaned her head against his chest again, breathing heavily. Her grip on him grew even tighter. "I need to get out of here," she whispered after a few minutes, her voice so quiet he barely heard.
Ilend nodded. It would be hard to think straight while covered in blood and surrounded by corpses. "You're right. Let's head back to..." Bruma would likely hold too many bad memories at the moment, and he wanted to be alone with her, not in the middle of a whirlwind of activity. "There'll be rooms to spare at Cloud Ruler Temple," he said. "Are you bleeding? Best to get healed before making that walk."
"Uh..." The Bosmer let go and stumbled back from him, blinking as though it was hard for her to think. Her lover quickly looked her over before pressing a hand to her lower ribs, promoting a hiss of pain. He quickly formed what little remained of his magical reserves into a healing spell. She grunted as his magic closed up the wound as well as removing a few of her bruises.
"Come on," muttered the Guildsman, grabbing her hand and pulling her after him towards Bruma, away from the battlefield, away from Saliith's body. He'd known the full horrors of war would affect her eventually; he only hoped that she hadn't been damaged too badly.
As the bodyguard of the Emperor reached the Silver Road and turned north, Callia stopped and turned, looking back at the battlefield. The rest continued on without her, focused mainly on supporting their wounded and protecting Martin. On the other hand, the Breton felt that she needed some time alone to think; with twenty Blades around him and many other soldiers on the road, the Emperor wouldn't miss one extra protector. Removing her helmet, she let her hair fall freely as she wandered over to a nearby snow-covered rock and sat down with her back to it, wincing at the pain of her bruises. She'd got off relatively lightly, but the dents in her armour and the drying blood covering half her face told how it had been a hard battle for them all.
Sighing, she fingered her empty scabbard. Her katana had snapped in half by a Dremora after being weakened by a hunger's magics, and she had left the longsword she'd borrowed back on the battlefield. There would be many more katanas down there in the bloody mud, some broken, some whole. There would be more hanging up in the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple before long. The Knight Sister grimaced as she realised how many they'd lost. Caroline in particular had been inconsolable after finding Baurus's mangled body. She only hoped that it had all been worth it.
And now all their hopes rested, once again, on Gorgoth. At least, she assumed that he would be the one to enter Paradise; she had to admit that he was the one most likely to succeed. Despite herself, the Breton had found her respect for the Orc increasing even more; not only had he invaded the Great Gate and brought back the Great Sigil Stone, but he had marched back into battle without hesitation despite suffering from exhaustion. She couldn't help feeling guilty about admiring someone she intended to kill; the feeling was irrational, but like a stubborn itch, it refused to leave her.
She was shaken from her reverie by heavy boots crunching through the snow nearby. The Blade looked up as Primo Varius slowly lowered himself to sit beside her, his helmet failing to hide his wince. There were several dents and holes in his armour, but the blood covering him had already dried. "Good to see you survived," he grunted after a few seconds, staring across at the hill where the healers were working.
"Thanks," she muttered, concealing her surprise by following his gaze. Why would he care about her? "How's Phillida? We owe his tactics a lot."
"He's fine. Putting soldiers half his age to shame with how much he's getting done. He's directing the wounded and the healers right now, as well as spreading what forces we have left to watch for any more Gates." A lopsided smile plucked at his face. "I fought by his side, briefly. He's still got fight left in him, though no one deserves his retirement more than he does." The Imperial slowly reached up and pulled his helmet off.
"Good thing he hadn't already retired. He knows what he's doing." Callia sighed. "We lost a lot of good people today." Unless she turned away from the battlefield, it was impossible not to be reminded of that fact. She made herself look; every single last fallen warrior down there deserved to be remembered. "Too many."
"There was no other way. They won't have died in vain. Gorgoth will make sure of that." The Breton half-turned to glare at him before remembering that he didn't know what she did about the warrior-shaman. Even so, she bristled every time she heard praise being given to the 'Hero of Kvatch'. The legionary continued, oblivious to her darkening mood. "No matter what he's like personally – I've heard a few things – you can't deny he's the best hope we have. I saw him fighting. He'll get what we need. I know it."
The Knight Sister stayed silent, pondering over the conviction in her companion's voice. She might hate the Orc, but she couldn't deny his ability to fight, nor his ability to inspire people. Much as she hated to admit it, he was their only hope. From what she'd heard of Camoran, it was only Gorgoth who stood the remotest chance of defeating him in Paradise and bringing back the Amulet of Kings.
"Callia?" She turned to meet Primo's eyes, concern evident on his ruined face. "I'm sorry. I know how many the Blades lost. It... can't be easy for you."
She grunted. The pain of her wounds, the wonder of being alive, her preoccupation with Gorgoth and her determination to see things through had all distracted her from exactly what she'd seen in the fighting. Ferrum sinking to the ground, clutching at his torn throat. Belisarius collapsing, still slashing with his katana despite half his head being missing. Achille frantically trying to keep his guts from escaping the gaping wound in his abdomen. She took a shaky breath, finally allowing herself to feel the pain of losing her friends. Primo nodded sadly and grasped her shoulder. "I lost some of mine, as well."
The Breton grasped his hand, tightening her grip convulsively as she realised she was shaking with pain and anger. She tried to speak, but her tongue refused to form the words; there was an odd sensation in her throat. The legionary, however, seemed to know what she was thinking. "We'll make them pay, Callia," he growled, gritting his teeth, his voice thick with hatred. "We'll make those bastards pay."
A/N: And so it ends... I'll admit that I'd thought of actually having the Imperials lose the Battle of Bruma and force Martin to perform the ritual in a besieged Cloud Ruler Temple, but I decided against it due to my plans for the last battle. Anyhow, I did say there would be character deaths aplenty... there's more to come yet, certainly, but as for now... well, I only hope I've developed the characters enough to make you feel something when they died.
Given how important these last two chapters have been for me (after all that build-up), I'd say reviews are needed now more than ever (except when I was first starting out; my writing was so bad then that I urgently needed all the advice I could get). Remember to be honest, and remember that I'm always appreciative of honest, helpful reviews. So tell me what you think...
The next chapter won't be nearly as action-packed as this one (for obvious reasons; you can't have a Battle of Bruma every chapter), but I've got something in mind for Paradise, something you might not expect... here's hoping I get it written without making you wait for too long.