A/N: It's been far too long since my last update, especially given how relatively short this chapter is, but writer's block can be a bugger to get over sometimes. I'll try not to make you wait as long for the next one. It's two weeks until Christmas Day, and as two weeks is the update time I normally demand of myself... well, here's hoping I can deliver you all a Christmas present this year. Anyhow, thanks to everyone who reviewed:
Skyrim Lord: Well, I wouldn't give BaS that lofty title, certainly... there are excellent Oblivion fics out there, after all. Just check my favourites list...
Rokibfd: Indeed not... there has to be limitations to Restoration, after all. Maybe a select few can have unparalleled skills at healing that can reattach lost limbs, but there'd only be a very few of them, and they'd have to act quickly... As for your speculation about Paradise, I'll give you a RAFO (Read And Find Out) ;)
Well, Gorgoth always was a slightly emotionally repressed block of steel, but it took a while for that to be revealed to the reader. But anyhow, yes, there are more deaths to come yet.
Underpaid Critic: I've never been bothered by the character limit recently... maybe it's because I have a profile. But anyhow, the Nerevarine is in Morrowind and he'll be staying there until the Crisis is over; I'd thought about having him in BaS, even as a cameo, but then decided that because he's Nerevarine and Hortator, he'd never leave his country in times of such peril; he's a war leader, after all, and he might just be trying to become more than that. Gorgoth is the only Hero we have right now, so it's got to be him going to Paradise.
Anyhow, I do try to insert details between dialogue like that, and it's worked in the past, but I found this time that there was a limit as to what I could put in and still make it realistic. When they're talking like that, it's hard to have them make the same gesture over and over again, and they wouldn't be walking around much. Either way, I hope it doesn't happen again...
Valences: I write too slowly for that to happen. ;) Anyhow, I do intend to write a novel at some point in the future, but that point is a long way off yet. Using name alternatives like that can get confusing, but it's the only real way to combat name repetition...still, I'll take a look at that.
Avik: A good beer is always welcome, but a trip to Bombay isn't going to be likely any time soon, sadly...
TehEpic: Yes, massive dialogues are needed at some points, though I don't like writing them, myself. But anyhow, yes, there'll be more deaths, that's for sure.
Random Reader: Indeed; everyone's ready to drop and sleep for a week, but they've got more battles to fight yet... they'll sleep when they're dead.
And now comes the time to cut short this behemoth of an Author's Note and plunge you into Paradise.
Chapter Fifty-one: The Darkest of Days
Martin realised that he was tapping his foot and forced himself to stop. Such a display of nerves and anticipation was unlikely to decrease the palpable tension in the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple. The desks, benches and chairs had all been cleared to the corners of the room, leaving a large open space in the middle. In the centre of this gap were the four reagents needed for the ritual; Volendrung lay on the cold stones opposite a scraping of Tiber Septim's blood, while the Great Sigil Stone - sitting in a bed of sand to prevent it melting anything or rolling away – faced the contrasting light of the Great Welkynd Stone. On the table next to the Emperor was the Mysterium Xarxes, open to the page detailing the procedure of the ritual. Fortunately, it was a simple process, almost in mockery of the vast effort required to assemble the reagents.
Several Blades were present around the edges of the Hall, but most had wisely chosen to distance themselves from the ritual. Captain Renault had coincidentally returned from her rest to guard him just as he had entered the Great Hall, as though her blade or bow could protect him from the unknown paths they were about to tread. Lucius Varo was standing behind the ex-priest's other shoulder, ready to step in if Martin needed to take a break from maintaining the portal. All was quiet as they waited for Gorgoth to make his entrance.
They didn't have to wait long. The heavy doors swung open to admit the Hero of Kvatch and a swirl of snowflakes carried in on the gust of freezing wind. Letting the doors slowly bang shut behind him, the Orsimer looked around the room before shaking the snow out of his war braids and donning his helmet. "We are ready?" he asked.
Martin nodded, exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm his nerves. "Do you have everything that you need? Once you're through that portal, we don't know if you'll be able to return without killing Camoran. In fact, we don't even know that much..." He sighed. "You're going in blind, Gorgoth. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you more, but I have deciphered the entire Xarxes without finding any reference to what Paradise actually consists of."
The warrior-shaman nodded once as he slowly walked to the centre of the Hall, stopping short of the four reagents. "I have to retrieve the Amulet of Kings and get back here," he said. "A simple objective. It may be simple to accomplish. Speculation is useless, and time is precious. Start the ritual, my Emperor."
Moving to stand beside the warlord – noting with slight surprise that he had Trueshot slung over one shoulder – Martin turned to face the reagents, raising his arms and shaking back the sleeves of his robe. Looking around to check that everyone else was standing well back, the Imperial cleared his throat and started chanting the incantations for the ritual.
Instantly he felt the disturbingly familiar feeling of dark Daedric magic stirring within him, a feeling that threatened to bring forth unpleasant memories. He ruthlessly forced himself to focus; this was no time to be reminiscing about his time in the service of Sanguine. A glowing grey cloud started to emanate from his fingertips, spreading out to engulf the four reagents. He let his spell flow through the cloud and into each of them, feeling the blood of the Daedra and the Aedra, the power of Oblivion and the ancient elves. The Emperor forced the battling elements towards each other, forced them into the conflict that they naturally yearned for. A red glow appeared in the murky cloud, sparks of raw magicka fountaining into the air. A cracking sound rent the air as Martin's voice grew deeper, more urgent. The wood of the floorboards split as three obsidian spires thrust through the ground, curving upwards until their points stood firm ten feet in the air.
Most of the Blades were nervously shifting their feet and looking for the nearest exit, but Gorgoth stood unmoving by the ex-priest's side, not even flinching as the cloud grew darker, more solid, changing into a black sphere hovering between the three spires. Sweat was running down Martin's back from the exertion as he forced the opposing forces of creation even closer together, fuelling their battle with his own magic. Bright light started to shine through widening cracks in the globe and waves of heat washed over him as he entered the final stage of the ritual. Clenching his fists, he shouted the final words and involuntarily stepped back as the sphere appeared to warp, the battle of the opposing forces coming to its climax. As they released their final burst of energy before their mutual destruction, the last slivers of black disappeared and the globe seemed to shimmer, a light burning in the centre to rival the sun.
A consciousness slammed into the Emperor's mind, the sheer power of it staggering him despite being forewarned. He wrestled with it, forced it into submission before his mind was torn apart. "Go, Gorgoth!" he heard himself shouting, looking up to find the warrior-shaman leaping into the portal with Blood King in hand. As the Orc vanished, Martin felt the other consciousness start to fade. He grabbed hold of it and held it firmly, holding the portal open even as the terrible light faded. Sagging, he stared at the gently rotating orb hanging between the three spires, now no brighter than the fire in the hearth at the end of the Hall. "May the Divines protect you, Hero," he muttered.
Predictably, Renault was at his side within seconds, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and helping him stand upright. "I'm fine," he told her. "Lucius?" The battlemage walked swiftly over, shooting curious glances at the portal hanging before them. "The ritual itself took a lot out of me, but the actual maintenance of the portal requires only a trickle of magicka and some strength of will. I described it to you...?"
Lucius nodded. "You did, sire. You want me to take over?"
"Be ready." At the battlemage's nod, Martin let the consciousness of the portal slide from his mind. The physical portal appeared to flicker as Lucius seized control of it, a brief tightening of his mouth the only sign of the unfamiliar sensation. Renault was already helping the Emperor over to one of the armchairs.
"Are you sure a bit of rest is all you need?" she asked, her eyes narrowing as he slumped into the chair, leaning his head against the back.
"No worse than a long period of translation. Give me a few hours of rest and I'll be fine." He felt almost as drained and exhausted as he had after the battle, but he couldn't afford to give in to weakness at this crucial point. The Emperor closed his eyes and resisted the temptation to rub them. "I'll be fine, Captain. Go about your duties." With that portal in the same room, she was unlikely to move more than six feet from him.
Letting his breath escape him in a long sigh, Martin started to pray. He might be tired, but at least he was on the right side of the portal. There was no telling what Gorgoth was facing in Paradise right now, but he would need all the divine help he could get whether he wanted it or not.
Gorgoth had guessed that the passage through the portal would be similar to passing through an Oblivion Gate; searing pain with the sensation of fire blazing in every part of his body. He hadn't expected to feel as though his very soul was being torn apart. The Orc floated weightlessly in a sea of blinding light, unable to move, unable to do anything except desperately hold on to his focus and attempt to push himself forward. After what seemed like an age, the pain stopped abruptly and he fell forward, his knees thumping onto solid soil. Crushing the urge to slump to the ground and rest, he forced himself to his feet and looked around, raising Blood King to deal with any attack.
No attack was forthcoming. The warrior-shaman slowly lowered his weapon, taking in his surroundings. There was none of the parched rock or rivers of lava that characterised the Deadlands; instead, for his own realm Camoran had created something more to his own liking. A lush forest of tall trees and colourful plants stretched as far as the warlord could see. The gently rolling hills were studded with fine examples of Ayleid architecture, the pristine white stone glistening in the sun. A light, cool breeze whispered through the leaves above his head, and through a gap in the canopy he could see a small cloud drifting lazily through the otherwise interrupted blue sky. A true paradise for those with an eye for nature, but Gorgoth was not here to admire the scenery; he was here to kill.
Under his feet was a narrow road of smooth white paving stones leading around the nearest hill and out of sight. He started following it, returning Blood King to his back and taking Trueshot from his shoulder, nocking an arrow to the string, looking out for any movement or life signature, his head constantly turning. It wasn't long before he heard a deep, disembodied voice resonating inside his head. "Most impressive. I had not thought any could survive the passage to my Paradise while I was blocking the way. But of course, the slave of the Septims is no ordinary mortal." The warrior-shaman did not pause in his advance or stop looking for danger as Camoran continued. "You knew, of course, that it would be impossible to take me unawares, here in the Paradise that I created. You are no fool, Hero; look now upon Gaiar Alata and see in it your grave."
The voice faded from his consciousness. Gorgoth offered no reply; Camoran might have heard his reply, but he did not intend to let the master of Paradise distract him. He walked past some colourful plants and stepped onto a white stone bridge stretching across a narrow river of deep blue water, waves gently lapping at the sandy shores. The land across the bridge was less flat, the hills taller and their sides steeper. "Behold the Savage Garden." The Altmer seemed to have appointed himself as the Orc's tour guide. "My loyal disciples here are tempered for a higher destiny; to rule over Tamriel Reborn."
As the warrior-shaman stepped off the bridge, distant screams started to reach his ears. It appeared that Camoran's 'tempering' might not have been what his disciples had expected when they had given themselves to him fully, body and soul. He walked onwards, his boots ringing on the paving stones. Movement flickered to his right, and he spun with the bowstring taut before he realised that it was just a deer bounding away from him. Relaxing the bowstring, he scanned the immediate vicinity before continuing on. Camoran made a taunting comment that he ignored.
A few more minutes of walking and a figure appeared on the road ahead. The warlord raised Trueshot again, but the rapidly-approaching Redguard hadn't even seen him; he was looking over his shoulder at something unseen, heedless of the blood running down his naked chest. He screamed as a daedroth lumbered out onto the road behind him, redoubling his efforts to escape as the crocodile-headed beast lurched after him. Gorgoth waited a few seconds before sending an arrow deep into the Daedra's chest, putting another alongside it to drop the mighty reptile onto the paving stones, crimson staining the pristine white.
The Redguard stumbled to a halt as he saw his attacker fall, pausing only for a moment before turning, preparing to run again until the warrior-shaman stepped forward and took his arm in a vice grip. "Who are you?" he growled. The half-naked man struggled for a few seconds before slumping in the Orc's grasp.
"I am Azir," he sighed. "I am... I was one of Camoran's followers, taken in by his promises of Paradise and immortal rule. But this..." He raised a hand to indicate the area around them. "We are hunted down by Daedra and killed in agony. We are reborn and hunted and killed again, and again, and again..." His voice trailed off.
"You were a fool to follow him," Gorgoth told him. "But now you can get your vengeance. Tell me where he is."
Azir stared at him blankly. "We can't kill him. You can't kill him. We're stuck here in this living hell for eternity. All of us." The Redguard's face crumpled, and he gritted his teeth. "There is no escape."
Gorgoth contemptuously shoved him away, quickly conjuring a shortsword and slicing it across the cultist's hamstrings. Collapsing to his knees, the Redguard's scream of agony was snuffed out by the warrior-shaman kicking him face first into the paving stones. "You are weak," he spat, feeling nothing but contempt for someone who had given up all will to live, who had accepted his dismal existence as normality. Letting the shortsword dissipate, he left the Redguard to his fate and moved on, nocking another arrow.
The road grew steeper, and as he crested a hill the Orc stopped, scanning the forest around him. Movement betrayed a few other mythic Dawn cultists, moving slowly through the grass with hunted expressions. Several corpses littered the ground in various stages of decay, one of which was being feasted on by a clannfear. As the warrior-shaman watched, the Daedra raised its head and hissed malevolently, setting off in pursuit of a cultist who had unwittingly made her presence known. Gorgoth turned away from the chase and looked at where the path seemed to lead. A short cliff seemed to rise out of the forest in the distance, and beyond that was a peak covered with what appeared to be a small Ayleid palace.
"Behold Carac Agaialor, from where I watch over Paradise," Camoran told him. "I shall await you there; then we will truly see who is the stronger; the champion of a crumbling dynasty or the herald of the New Age." The Orsimer ignored the voice inside his head as he descended the hill, always on the lookout for potential danger. Knowing the location of the battlefield changed little; he still had no clear strategy for how to defeat an opponent who was both magically stronger and had the clear advantage of being in a realm of his own creation. A wandering clannfear hissed and started to move towards him before he put an arrow through its skull.
"You are a fool," chided Camoran as the Orc continued on. "A fool who understands so little. You cannot stop Lord Dagon. The Principalities have sparkled as gems in the black reaches of Oblivion since the First Morning. Many are their names and the names of their masters: the Coldharbour of Molag Bal, Vaermina's Quagmire, the ten Moonshadows of Azura, and... and Dawn's Beauty, the Princedom of Lorkhan... misnamed Tamriel by deluded mortals." Gorgoth spared a glance up at Carac Agaialor, from where Camoran was presumably spouting his rhetoric. "Yes... Tamriel is just one more Daedric realm of Oblivion, long lost to its Prince, betrayed by those that served him. Lord Dagon comes not to invade; he comes to liberate the Occupied Lands, his birthright!"
"If you are this deluded, Camoran, you might be an easier fight than I thought," growled the warlord, finally deciding to respond. That the Altmer was deluded he had no doubt; Nirn was the realm of the Nine. The Orsimer had never worshipped the Nine, but he believed in their existence and respected their role in his world. He was more than the champion of the Septims and the people of Tamriel; he was the champion of the Nine themselves, sent into Paradise to do battle with the champion of their immortal enemies, the Daedra. Their choice might seem ironic, but Gorgoth did not question divine transcendence. He had his duty, and he meant to see it done.
The ruler of Gaiar Alata persisted. "Ask yourself, Hero! How is it that mighty gods die, yet the Daedra stand incorruptible, immortal? How is it..." Gorgoth pushed the voice away, muting it to an irritating buzz just out of earshot. He had no time for Camoran's delusions. The path was nearing its end at the foot of the cliff, leading into a deep crevasse in the rock. Keeping watch for sudden attacks, the Orc kept his arrow nocked as he approached the familiar figure standing just outside the fissure.
Kathutet had changed little since the warrior-shaman had last seen him; unsurprising, given that the Valkynaz claimed to be almost as old as the Daedric Lord he served. His smooth skin was dark red, and his red-flecked orange eyes regarded the approaching Orsimer with a calculating gaze. Long horns curved upwards from his head, adding eight inches to his already considerable height, and his thick dark grey hair fell to his pauldrons. The Dremora's plate armour had numerous Daedric runes and patterns inscribed on the durable plates, and several scars showed where the Valkynaz had seen hard combat over the millennia, the age of some of them giving credit to the Kynaz's claim that he hadn't been killed for thousands of years.
"I thought it would be you, Gorgoth," he intoned, inclining his head in greeting, his gravelly voice free of emotion. His right hand rested on the hilt of his enchanted longsword.
"I suspected I might find you here," replied the warlord, recalling the conversations he'd had with his other summoned Daedra. "Xilinkar claimed you were serving as a welcome mat." He replaced Trueshot on his shoulder as he stopped a few paces short of his comrade and enemy.
The Dremora grimaced. "He is accurate," he rasped, pursing his lips to spit onto the paving stones under his boots. "I am Master of the Savage Garden, as though by giving me a title Camoran thinks to make me feel important." His eyes flashed with hatred at the mention of the Altmer. "Ruling fellow exiles and pathetic once-mortals does not please me. Your appearance means this existence might soon be over for me."
"Do you intend to stand in my way?" asked the warrior-shaman, reaching behind him and placing a hand on Blood King's haft. He knew Kathutet's abilities well; if the Valkynaz chose to fight him, he might not even live to reach Camoran.
The Kynaz met Gorgoth's gaze and held it for a few seconds. "You are slightly more powerful than me magically. That is why I let you summon me. Martially, I always believed I would have the upper hand. But on this day, with that in your hand..." he nodded towards Blood King. "I am not confident I would be able to withstand you." The immortal warrior shook his head. "No, Gorgoth, I will not stop you in your quest. I have no allegiance to Camoran. But stop and talk for a moment. The minions of the Garden will not attack you here."
Hesitating only briefly, the warrior-shaman took one last look around before walking over to a nearby rock and leaning against it, looking towards the crevasse as Kathutet joined him. "Does that path lead to Camoran?"
"It leads to the Forbidden Grotto. Some of the once-mortals believe it holds their salvation. Instead, it holds tortures far worse than they would ever endure here." The Dremora's lip curled into a snarl. "Even these fools deserve better than this. They at least served their master faithfully in life; they should die rather than be forever held in this... perversion of immortality."
"Why are you here? You did not come of your own accord."
The Valkynaz slowly drew his sword and held it up, watching the flames dance up and down the blade. "You know me, Gorgoth," he muttered. "I was among the greatest of the Valkyn, only a few steps down from Dagon himself. I ruled swathes of the Deadlands for him. Over the millennia, I have slain more mortals than any hundred of the Kyn. And now... how far I have fallen." He moved a gauntleted hand down the length of his sword, keeping his palm just above the reach of the flames.
"I have never questioned Dagon in the past. He is my Lord; I serve. But this invasion..." He grimaced. "Nirn is not Daedric, no matter what Camoran believes. It is, and always will be, the mortal plane, the Aedric plane. Dagon is the embodiment of Change and Destruction, and to most that would seem to be enough for him to do this. I do not pretend to know his motivations, but I know this; his invasion is flawed." The Kynaz turned to look at his companion. "Once the barriers are fully down, Dagon will sweep across Nirn, destroying and changing until there is nothing left. No mortal left alive; the entire world would resemble the Deadlands." He looked at his sword for a long moment. "If that is the result, then... what is the point? Would the Daedra fight each other for eternity, having no mortals to use for sport? What would befall us then?" The Dremora sighed and sheathed his sword. "It would be a defeat. Why destroy the mortal plane when we can use it for so much?"
Gorgoth slowly removed his helmet, blinking as the sunlight directly hit his eyes. He certainly hadn't thought much about Dagon's motivation, or what he had planned for Tamriel; he just wanted to stop him. But it would be pointless to dwell on what might happen should he fail; he would refuse to accept any possibility other than victory until his dying breath. "You told Dagon what you thought?"
Kathutet's smile was bitter. "Yes. I told him his invasion was ill-thought and doomed to failure even if he won. He did not take it well." He pushed himself away from the rock, glaring around him. "And now I am Camoran's lapdog, watching over his Garden for him. But I could not remain silent."
"You stayed true to your honour. I do not have to tell you that you did the right thing." The warrior-shaman put his helmet back on. "But I cannot lose direction. How do I get to Camoran?"
"The path leading through the Forbidden Grotto is the direct route. But by going in there, you will only trap yourself." The Dremora turned to look at the fissure. "Camoran's magics are strong in this place. He will know what we are saying, and he will know that I will not try to stop you. But you must kill him. My obligation to him will be released by his death, and I can return to the Deadlands. He will not be an easy fight; his son and daughter are with him. But he himself remains mortal. If anyone can kill him, it will be you."
"Is there any other path to Carac Agaialor?"
Kathutet's eyes rose from the crevasse to look at the craggy wall of the cliff face. "Camoran has denied you the use of levitation, and even you will not be able to jump far. But you can jump far enough to put a pair of sturdy shortswords to work; with your mastery of Destruction, you can carve into the rock. I'm sure a few fortification spells can make your arms strong enough to drag yourself up that cliff..." His voice trailed off and a hint of a knowing smile flickered across his face.
Gorgoth nodded once. "I doubt Camoran will be expecting that," he observed. "I have little time, but is there anything else you can tell me about his defences...?"
The earlier snowstorm had departed Cloud Ruler Temple, but now a far more dangerous storm threatened to envelop it. Aerin could feel the tension permeating the atmosphere as she joined at least thirty Blades in leaning on the outer parapet and gazing down at County Bruma. The snow-laden countryside was broken by the ominous red flickering of several Oblivion Gates. Battles between squads of soldiers and Daedra were visible from the Temple's walls. The archer's fists tightened on the cold stone walls as she counted the Gates she could see. There were five; more than the defenders of Bruma had ever dealt with at once before, and there would surely be more out of sight. And the soldiers were still decimated from the battle at the great Gate. General Phillida had left the fortress with his bodyguard half an hour ago, saying that he had to be closer to the front to manage the battle effectively.
"How long since Gorgoth went through the portal?" asked the Blade next to Aerin, a tall muscular Imperial called Marcus Corvus, addressing no one in particular.
"About an hour," replied Captain Varsis, pacing around behind the long line of his men. "But time might move differently in Paradise. He will be back soon."
"He'd better move quickly, or we'll be overrun soon," remarked Aerin. They knew the truth of her words; there would be too many Gates for the defenders of Bruma to contain all the Daedra.
Varsis snorted. "Even if they do overrun us, they'll climb over mounds of their own dead before my Temple falls," he growled, turning and marching away to check on the reinforcement of the front gates. The Captain of the Temple Garrison had ordered strengthening of the defences as soon as Phillida had left.
"I'd rather they didn't get that far," murmured the Wood Elf, conscious of the lack of her bow. There were bows in the armoury, of course, with several complementing her height and abilities, but none would ever match Trueshot. She was still frowning down at the nearest red glow when Ilend appeared beside her, moving her and Corvus apart slightly so he could stand between them.
"Looks like Dagon's finally found some strategic sense," grunted the Imperial as he shielded his eyes against the sun. "If he keeps flooding the area with Gates, we won't be able to resist him for much longer with the forces we've got." He looked down to meet his lover's gaze, his eyes full of determination. "But he'll fail. Gorgoth will see to that, and if he doesn't, well..." He smiled grimly. "We'll give him the fight of our bloody lives."
Aerin returned the smile and wrapped her arm around him, pressing her body against his, feeling her mood lift slightly despite the desperate struggle going on below them. She'd come to terms with the fact that her life seemed likely to end within a few days, and so was attempting to make the most of what little time she had left; proper mourning for Saliith could wait until more stable times. Her memory had been eased by the news that the Grand Champion's body was being taken back to the Imperial City by Agronak, who had left early in the morning with only a few of his gladiators as companions.
"I've been thinking," stated Corvus, his smooth voice breaking both of them out of their reveries. "If Dagon is throwing so much of his strength at us here, he'd have to halt his attack in other places, if he hasn't done so already." He turned to look at them and the Blades around him, a glimmer of hope sparkling in his brown eyes. "I doubt we've been forgotten; news of that battle will have spread. Help might still come."
Ilend pursed his lips before shaking his head. "I doubt it," he replied. "If Dagon has any sense at all, he's stopped attacking the regions furthest from us. In the unlikely event of the provinces sending us any help, it'll be too late, and he's still going to be attacking other parts of Cyrodiil." He rested his hand on his sword hilt. "No, we're alone. We've just got to hold on and hope."
Aerin was about to make a remark when movement on the road below caught her eye. Frowning, she leaned forward, peering over the parapet. "Oh, crap," she hissed, realising that what her sharp eyes had detected was a squad of Dremora rapidly climbing the hill towards the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple. She prepared to raise the alarm, but was pre-empted by Roliand's voice booming from the watch tower.
"Daedra approaching! Stand ready!" At the Nord's warning, every Blade lining the wall turned and dashed towards the courtyard, joining more spilling from the Great Hall and various buildings. Captain Varsis carved a path through the throng and pushed his way to the wall, looking around until Aerin pointed out the approaching forces to him.
"Get the Grandmaster. He's in the Great Hall," barked the Imperial before running off to marshal his garrison. Aerin nodded and immediately followed him, giving Ilend's hand a squeeze before he left her to join the Blades, who were quickly being separated into squads of archers and swordsmen by their Knight Captain. The Bosmer moved around them and threw open the doors to the Great Hall, pressing herself back against the wall to avoid being trampled by the man she had been sent to find. Grandmaster Steffan strode out into the courtyard to find half his Blades moving down the stairs to hold the gate, while the other half moved back onto the wall, taking bows off their backs. Knowing what duty she would prefer, Aerin ran off to the armoury to find a bow. She would be needing it.
Adamus Phillida briefly ran his hand over his face, closing his eyes and sighing. He'd suffered from lack of sleep on many campaigns, but he had been younger then. It was a concession to his age that he was operating mostly from the relative warmth of Castle Bruma rather than taking too many tours along the city wall. His sentries had good eyes and knew what to report; there was no need for him to peer over their shoulders too much. Instead, he'd accepted the Countess's hospitality and commandeered one of her smaller rooms to convert into a makeshift command centre. The clouds visible through the windows hid the sun, but he knew that it was midafternoon. And his forces were crumbling already.
"Cloud Ruler Temple reports that they just defeated a force of Daedra, but more have been seen," reported Vignar, swinging the door shut behind him to eliminate any draughts. The room was small with bare stone walls and a thin carpet, with no furniture other than the desk and chair that Phillida had requested; he might have escaped to the warmth of the castle, but he still refused anything other than the basic necessities.
"Any news from the chapel?" asked the General, staring down at his sparsely decorated desk. There wasn't much need for paperwork in his current situation, one of the few benefits.
"Most of the wounded are demanding to be placed back on active duty, but even they themselves know they won't be fit for action for at least a day." The Nord shook his head and leaned back against the wall next to the door. "At least the spirit is there. Every soldier within five miles is fighting his heart out."
"Or getting it ripped out," muttered the only other bodyguard in the room, the soldier that most had taken to calling Scarface. Phillida had overridden the protests of his entire personal guard and sent them out to fight alongside their comrades, keeping only a bare handful to protect himself. If the Daedra broke through to threaten him, then the battle had already been lost anyway.
The General shoved his chair back and stood, ignoring his knees and back protesting the fact that he hadn't taken his armour off for hours. "We have to abandon the south," he said. "Dagon is opening Gates far faster than we can close them. Before this day is out we'll have lost a thousand more men. We've got to focus on protecting Cloud Ruler Temple."
"And then we'll get a Siege Crawler knocking on the South Gate before tonight is out," responded Vignar, who often pointed out what he perceived as flaws in his general's plans, 'just to make sure you don't miss them'.
"It's a risk we have to take," sighed the Imperial, wondering what the Countess's reaction would be. "Bruma is a big obstacle, and if we can suppress every Gate in the north, we'll slow them down considerably. Time is what we need."
The head of his bodyguard nodded slowly. "I'll send messengers," he said, turning and opening the door, closing it carefully behind him as he left.
Phillida sat back down in his head, closing his eyes again, resisting the urge to groan. Scarface might be a relatively new bodyguard, but he had adopted the policy of over-protectiveness alarmingly quickly. The numbers written on the papers in front of him told him that he'd already lost nearly six hundred men dead to the Gates since dawn, with as many wounded and out of action. Without the battlemages working on the front lines, the casualty rates would be twice as bad, but the few healers left in the city were dropping from exhaustion. Civilians, pen-pushers, nobles and the like would look at the papers in front of him and thought they knew something of war just from the numbers. Often, they lived and died never knowing just how wrong they were.
The exhausted men under his command would not hold out much longer. No help seemed to be forthcoming from anywhere else; even the slow trickle of mercenaries into Bruma had stopped, presumably due to resistance on the road. The general found himself thinking of his retirement; he would have been out of the Legion before the end of next year. But now it seemed as if he would be dying as he had lived; with a sword in his hand on a battlefield carpeted with the bodies of the dead. All hope had left him; now only his duty remained. He would not live past the next sunrise, but at least he would die having done his duty.
"Do you believe in the Divines, Varius?" he asked, not turning around.
"My father was religious, general, and he raised me that way. After what I've seen, though..." The scarred legionary let the sentence trail off, the insinuation obvious to both of them. "Why do you ask?"
"Because now would be a good time to start praying."
Gorgoth straightened and let his summoned curved shortswords fade from existence as he looked around him, checking for danger. The two blades had made impressive hooks once he'd coated the edges with Destruction magic to enable them to cut through rock, and he doubted that Camoran had expected him to climb all the way over the cliff between him and Carac Agaialor. Finding no danger, he dispersed the fortification magic that had enabled his arms to drag his heavily-armoured bulk over the cliff. The grassy land here held only a few trees, and the ground sloped upwards, stone paths leading to the palace at the pinnacle of the highest hill in Paradise. Taking Blood King off his back and leaving his left hand free for casting, the warrior-shaman waited a few seconds for his magical reserves to start regenerating then started to walk towards his ultimate destination.
"This is my purpose," he muttered to no one in particular. He had given the matter some thought while climbing over the cliff, and the words of the Nerevarine's letter, along with some of Camoran's ramblings, had helped him realise his true purpose in life. He might be the champion of the Nine, but he was first and foremost a Hero of the Elder Scrolls. All of his life beforehand – his lost childhood, his brutal training by his father, all his battles, all his triumphs and tragedies – all of it had been nothing but training so he could make it to the event written by his prophecy. After all, without the Hero, there could be no event; in his battle with Camoran, he would fulfil his own prophecy and unbind his destiny, or die trying. And the rest of Tamriel would die with him. "This is why I exist, Camoran," he growled, stopping to stare up at the Ayleid palace. "I am here to kill you." The corners of his mouth quirked into a half-smile. "If my brother can kill living gods, then I can defeat you." He tightened his grip on Blood King's haft and continued on towards his destiny.
He reached the narrow archway to the centre of Carac Agaialor and immediately coated himself in a cocktail of defensive magics, one of which was an aggressive Dispel spell that would eliminate at least one magical attack before it even reached him. Looking around he saw no sign of life, but he was still cautious as he entered the roofless hallway. For all his talk of a climatic final battle, Camoran might still try an ambush at this late stage. There was no attack, however, and the hallway narrowed and came to a halt at a square door, shining in the light of Paradise's sun. After checking it for traps, the Orc pushed it open and ducked under the doorway.
In contrast to the rest of Paradise, the high-ceilinged long hall he was standing in was mostly dark, only the stone dais at the far end lit up by light pouring in from two openings in the white stone roof. Slender columns flanked the otherwise bare length of the chamber, drawing attention to the throne at the height of the dais, illuminated by the rays of the sun. With his children standing on either side of him, Mankar Camoran was sitting comfortably in his throne, looking almost relaxed. A smile crept over his face as Gorgoth appeared.
"I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel," he said, rising from his throne and spreading his arms. He was slender, and not tall for an Altmer, but he seemed regal in appearance, his greying hair carefully slicked back, his fine blue robe immaculate. The ruby of the Amulet of Kings sparkled in the sunlight, hanging around his neck, another reminder that this was Camoran's realm where he could change laws at will. He continued as his nemesis approached the dais. "You are the last gasp of a dying age. You breathe the stale air of false hope. You cannot stop Lord Dagon." A small, triumphant smile spread across the Altmer's face. Behind him, his children readied themselves for combat. Ruma took her staff from her back, and Raven summoned a claymore, stepping into a combat stance.
"I never put any faith into hope, Camoran," replied Gorgoth, stopping short of the dais. "Hope is too fickle, as are your delusions."
Camoran laughed, his rich voice echoing throughout the cavernous chamber. "How little you understand! The walls between our worlds are crumbling. Soon, Lord Dagon will walk Tamriel again. The world shall be remade. The new age will arise from the ashes of the old. My vision shall be realised. Weakness will be purged from the world, and mortal and immortal alike purified in the refiner's fire."
"Purification seems to be your term for unending pain and suffering." The warlord shook his head. "You are blind. Dagon will dispose of you the moment he has no need of you. If you are lucky, you will be spared what you are giving your followers. If not... you will be begging for something so merciful in the end."
The master of Paradise smirked. "As I thought. These things are beyond the comprehension of mortals... even Heroes." He raised his hands, both starting to glow with a purple light. "The time for talk has ended. The Emperor is dead. The Amulet of Kings is mine. And the last defender of the last ragged Septim stands before me, in the heart of my power." A cruel smile split Camoran's face. "Let us see who at last has proved the stronger!" His voice ended in a shout, and he raised his clenched fists.
"Die!" roared Gorgoth, thrusting his left hand towards his enemy. The dais erupted in fire, a single burning flame cracking the stones with its intensity. He could barely make out the life signatures of Ruma and Raven fading, but Camoran's stood strong. Fire flashed around the warrior-shaman, a reflection of his own spell, stopped only by his magical defences. He dropped his spell and leapt aside, teleporting to the left of the chamber just as the place where he had been standing exploded in a maelstrom of fire and steel. Camoran stood untouched on the crumbling dais, in front of his scorched throne, all humour gone from his eyes as he turned to meet the Orc's gaze.
Thousands of purple filaments burst from the Orsimer's palm, tendrils of Dispel magic homing in on his enemy, followed by several Silence spells; if he cut off the Altmer from his magic, he would be dead already. But Camoran not only had more magical power than his foe, he had centuries of experience; he created thousands of tiny magical shields, each absorbing a threat before fading from existence. At the same time, lighting crackled, hammering into the warrior-shaman's own magical shielding, sending him staggering back.
"I won in Tamriel, and I will win here!" Fireballs and icicles joined the bolts in the Altmer's offensive magical barrage, even as his shields kept Gorgoth's constant stream of dispelling magic at bay. "Your false Divines will not aid you here, as they did against my father!" The warlord gritted his teeth as his opponent started sending out his own streams of dispelling, along with a few green orbs that could only be Silence spells. He dropped his defences and teleported, already starting to swing as he appeared directly behind Camoran; magical shielding could only do so much against the raw fury of Blood King.
Presumably sensing the spell and guessing where his enemy would appear, the master of Paradise teleported away before the blow could connect, appearing in the centre of the chamber. He turned and dismissed Gorgoth's stream of fire with a flick of his wrist before making a pulling motion. The scorched stone of the dais leapt up and took shape, latching onto the warrior-shaman's limbs, attempting to drag him down. He shattered it with Destruction and rolled aside to avoid a flurry of fireballs, feeling the searing heat creep through his armour and start to burn his clothing. Jumping to his feet, he found his balance just in time to deflect an unexpected sword blow from Raven Camoran, who had reappeared from a side passage. Sending the Altmer's blade spinning with a counter-attack, the Orsimer finished him with a smash to the chest then dived to the side to avoid the inevitable barrage of offensive magic from the dying mer's father.
A frost spell caught him in its numbing grasp, and he only dispelled it just before the numbness spread to his heart. Camoran was now levitating several feet in the air, seemingly unruffled and fresh as he sent spell after spell at the flagging Orc. Gorgoth erected a multi-layered shield around him and grabbed a Welkynd Stone on his belt, barely feeling the restoration of his magical reserves before his shield had been reduced to nothing and he was forced to teleport again. Appearing behind a pillar, he cracked the stone in two places with Destruction and then used telekinesis to hurl the long chunk of rock towards Camoran. His enemy simply batted it right back at him without moving a muscle.
Magically throwing the broken pillar off to the side, Gorgoth teleported again, this time to just behind Ruma Camoran, who had just emerged from the same side passage her brother had used earlier. Slower on the uptake than her father, her broken body was thrown across the chamber as the warrior-shaman smashed his mace into the base of her spine. Abruptly, the ground beneath Gorgoth seemed to turn to clay, and he sank into it up to his knees, keeping him in place. Unsure whether it was Thaumaturgy or simply Camoran making the most of fighting within his own realm, the Orsimer was forced to once again teleport. This time he appeared above his enemy, diving down on the Altmer.
The master of Paradise stepped to one side to avoid the mace's swing and tapped Gorgoth on the shoulder before he could teleport. The warrior-shaman was thrown into the chamber's far wall with enough force to crack the stone, his breath forcefully expelled from his lungs with a sharp grunt as he dropped limply to the stone floor. He could barely force himself to roll aside, avoiding his enemy's Silence spell only by a tiny margin. As he staggered to his feet, Camoran floated down to stand before him, a small smile on his face.
"You have tested me more than most have," he admitted, folding his arms as Gorgoth regained his posture and healed his bruises. "I wonder... would you have ever considered joining us?"
The warrior-shaman's bitter, ironic smile was hidden behind his helmet, but he had the feeling that his opponent could sense his mood. "I never expected to save the world. Most of it would hate me if they truly knew me. I truly do not know why the Nine chose me to be their champion." He grunted and hefted Blood King. "But I will not question it. I have my duty. I will carry it out. To turn aside, to abandon my destiny... it would be weak and dishonourable."
Camoran chuckled. "Devout to Malacath to the end. But in the end, even your own Lord will have to watch from Ashpit as Lord Dagon reveals his true glory."
"Or he might emerge and show Dagon who is stronger on a neutral battlefield." The warrior-shaman snorted. "I will be truthful. If it were Malacath invading instead of Dagon, I would have joined him in a heartbeat long ago." He slowly shook his head, reaching for the Welkynd Stone on his belt. "But Malacath is not that stupid." The Welkynd Stone shattered, and his magical energies were once again restored. "But this conversation is pointless. We are here to fight. And one of us will die."
His enemy nodded and took a step back as the Orc covered himself with more defensive magics. "Then let us end it."
Dozens of steel blades appeared out of nowhere and struck at the Altmer, each breaking on his shield. Gorgoth charged forward, swinging both his mace and a summoned warhammer approximately equal in size to Blood King. Camoran grabbed the haft of both weapons in his hands and sent lightning coursing through his opponent. Gritting his teeth and forcing himself to concentrate through the agony, the warlord send Dispelling magic through both of them, swiftly followed by a Silence spell. His opponent gasped at the loss of his magicka and released the Orsimer's weapons, backpedalling. Gorgoth had also been Silenced by his own spell, but he had always been a warrior first and a shaman second.
His attacks missing by mere inches, the warrior-shaman stepped forward to swing again and finish it, only to find himself unable to lift his feet. Looking down, he saw that once again the stones had come alive and were holding him in place. Tantalisingly out of reach, Camoran was wearing a smug smile. "Forget not that this is my Paradise," he said as the stone started to creep up the Orc's ankles. Gorgoth threw the summoned warhammer and Blood King at his enemy, but he dodged them smoothly. Growling in frustration, the Orc clenched his fists and tried to free himself through brute force, waiting for his Silence spell to wear off; he hadn't set it to last for long, and his Orcish blood would make him more resistant to it than Camoran.
An attempt to wrench his feet free only succeeded in the living stone taking a greater hold. The master of Paradise stood a few feet away, a look of concentration on his face as he manipulated his realm, the stone sliding up Gorgoth's thighs. "Soon, Champion. Soon."
The warrior-shaman felt his magicka abruptly return to him and thrust out a hand, white-hot flame streaking from his palm and engulfing Camoran. At the same time, he disintegrated the stone and kicked free, using telekinesis to pull Blood King to him. The Altmer's life signature vanished. Letting the fires fade, Gorgoth looked at where the master of Paradise had been. There was nothing left. Not even ashes.
Understanding hit him just in time, and he teleported up to the dais just as half the chamber exploded in fire and lightning. Camoran, emerging from where he had teleported to, dispelled his invisibility, revealing a face that was no longer smiling. Burns covered his skin and his charred robes from where he had barely got his shield up in time. "Die!" he spat, sending an inferno rushing towards his enemy. A smell of burning flesh filled the air as the Orc's body was fried inside his armour. The Altmer clenched his fist, and the charred remnants of his foe exploded.
"Father!" Camoran barely had time to react as Raven threw himself at his father from behind, pushing him away from the explosion that tore half the dais apart. Raven screamed as his body caught fire, but Camoran had thrown up magical shielding around himself just in time. Pushing his son's writhing body aside, he turned to deflect another of Gorgoth's fireballs, staring angrily up at where the unharmed Orc was levitating.
"A very convincing Illusion," he snarled, absorbing several lightning bolts. "But there will be no more tricks. You will not defeat me in my own realm!" The Altmer targeted the roof, splitting it apart and sending the huge chunks of white rock towards his enemy. Feeling his magical reserves dwindling, Gorgoth moved out of the way instead of teleporting, dropping his defences to focus all he had on finishing Camoran. The master of Paradise had to have drained much of his magical reserves by now; the warrior-shaman had done enough to drain his own significant reserves twice over by now, yet the Altmer showed no signs of strain.
The rocks crashed into the floor, and the two enemies faced each other from across the destroyed, rubble-strewn chamber. Gorgoth refused to let himself feel despair; Camoran was stronger than him, more masterful with his magic, and his children would be back to help him as quickly as they could be reborn. If he had relied on hope, he might be close to giving up. But instead of hope, the warlord had only ever relied on his insatiable desire to live, to find power, to find glory in victory. Next to his simple, stubborn refusal to ever give up, hope alone would never be good enough. He took a step forward, raising his hand once again.
Filaments of dispelling magic sprang up all around Camoran, hammering at his defences, appearing too quickly and too close for him to eliminate all of them. As the Altmer's defences fell, he sent spells of Silence and paralysis towards his enemy, but the master of Paradise simply teleported away again, reappearing and sending yet more Destruction towards his opponent. Forced to put everything he had into his shields, the warrior-shaman could feel his strength quickly fading. Pushing forward through the maelstrom of fire, frost and lightning, he raised his mace, finding Camoran's life signature and battling towards it.
Suddenly, the torrent of offensive magic ceased. The warlord staggered forward, looking around for Camoran, who had teleported once again. Hearing something behind him, he spun just in time to block more Silence spells from the Altmer, who was standing mere feet from him. Bellowing a last defiant battle cry, Gorgoth charged forward and swung at Camoran just as his magical strength dwindled away.
The Altmer teleported a few feet to avoid the attack and blasted the warrior-shaman back into the wall with a strong wave of telekinesis. Before he could find his feet, the last remnants of the Orc's magical defences had been swept aside. He grunted as the Silence spell hit him, followed closely by a spell that drained all his remaining stamina. Barely able to think, the warlord dropped to his knees, forcing himself to meet Camoran's eyes. As the master of Paradise healed his burns, a triumphant smile spread across his face. His two children were picking their way across the debris to him, their sharp eyes watching their enemy's every move.
Placing both fists on the ground, Gorgoth made an effort to rise. He got as far as a crouch before Camoran hit him with another exhaustion spell. The Orc collapsed, defiantly attempting to keep his eyes open for a few more seconds. The sun of Paradise shone through the broken roof, penetrating the eye holes of his helmet. It would probably be the last thing he ever saw.
For the first time in his life, Gorgoth gro-Kharz had been decisively defeated.
A/N: I wrote that last POV all in one sitting... I felt it could have been improved in places, but I'm just not sure how. Anyhow, I normally write spontaneously, but I've had that ending for Gorgoth v Camoran II in mind ever since the early chapters. There were two moments in that fight when I wanted to end it with the death of one or the other, but this works best, in my mind. And, of course, it means you'll be waiting a while to see exactly what's going to happen next. ;)
Anyhow, be sure to let me know what you think by reviewing. Without reviews, I can't improve, and... it'd be good to hear your thoughts. The endgame is fast approaching, after all.