A/N: Yes... not much of a Christmas present, was it... I can't even pass it off as a late one, given that we're halfway through January. I can only apologise for the lateness of this update, and I do feel that some of it is of shoddy quality, but the writer's block struck hard. But at least it's here, and I'll do my best to get the next one out as quickly as possible, particularly as we're nearing the end now...
Guest: Many thanks.
TehEpic: I think they're naked, yes, but being Camoran's children, they probably have designated 'respawning points' where they have access to clothing... and Raven summons his armour and weapons anyway. Raven pushed Camoran out of the way because he was quick; he spotted Gorgoth moving and aiming a fireball and so dived in. And as for your second review (yes, you reviewed twice ;)) it might well be possible for Gorgoth to tickle someone to death... though it would depend what he used. ;)
Rokibfd: Well, I always assumed he was holding it open ingame; I'm not entirely sure of the workings of the entire ritual, so I fabricated most of it, but it makes sense that Gorgoth would need a potential escape route. Anyhow, it makes sense that fighting would still be happening during Paradise, so I added that in... Dagon is a persistent bugger. As for Camoran trying to turn Gorgoth... read on. ;)
Guest (Cyrus?): I feel honoured, but there are better fics out there, for sure.
Underpaid Critic: If I left a cliffhanger, it was unintentional; I dislike them and tend not to use them; I didn't even know that was their main use... no, I follow the mantra of 'A chapter ends when it ends', and in this case it happened to end when Gorgoth's POV did; no sense in adding anything else afterwards. Anyhow, it's not easy to defeat Gorgoth; he is, after all, a Hero, a Hero with Divine backing. But he's still mortal...
Anyhow, thanks to everyone who reviewed; keep that up, as your reviews will be valued right to the end (and after the end, naturally). Now, read on.
Chapter Fifty-two: A Glimmer of Light
Night had fallen over Cloud Ruler Temple, but even after a full day's fighting, even the most fatigued Blade had to be given a direct order by a superior to go to the barracks and snatch a few hour's sleep. Those that eventually did lie down often found it hard to rest, knowing that the stars were hidden beneath Oblivion's red-and-black veil, and the incessant burning of multiple Gates lit up the craggy terrain for miles. No enemy had ever stormed Cloud Ruler Temple, and the Daedra had yet to breach the fortified gates, but despite the multitude of rotten corpses scattered over the hillside, they kept coming. As soon as the defenders dealt with one squad, another would appear within the hour. Arrows would not be running short for some time – the fortress was well-supplied for any siege – but there were less than seventy defenders to hold it, and there was only so much exhaustion that even elite warriors could take.
Aerin sat slumped against the wall of one of the watch towers, staring into the brazier, absently stroking the wood of the short bow in her lap. She'd lost track of time, and of how many Daedra she'd sent back to Oblivion. The last few hours seemed to meld together, each minute indistinguishable from the next. She recalled standing shoulder to shoulder with Blades archers, sending volleys into the mass of Daedra before picking targets to support the sortie of swordsmen charging from the gates. Occasionally, Martin or Lucius Varo had joined them, sending offensive magic to scythe through the enemy ranks, cutting down half the squad before they got into range. Mostly, however, they restricted themselves to healing mortal wounds and saving their strength for the overwhelming attack that was likely to come soon.
The archer blinked and looked up as heavy footsteps announced the arrival of a visitor. An unarmoured Roliand stepped into the doorway, grinning down at her despite the fact that the left side of his face was covered in bandages, concealing the fact that his left eye had been cut in half by a Dremora's sword. He'd also lost the last two fingers of his left hand, but simply claimed that they'd never been very useful anyway. "More darts for you, little one," he said, patting her head as he dropped two full quivers on the floor in front of her. The bulky Nord had been relieved from duty by the Grandmaster – the two mages were only healing potentially fatal wounds – but he had taken on the responsibility of keeping the archers supplied.
Managing to summon a smile in response, the Bosmer emptied the remaining arrows from her own quivers and handed the empty containers over, dragging the new ones towards her. "Thanks," she told him as he dropped ten more quivers near the brazier to supply the other archers huddled within the watch tower. Sliding her remaining arrows into the new quivers, she attached them to her belt before settling back against the wall, shifting slightly in a futile attempt to get comfortable. "Roliand?" The big Nord paused as he prepared to duck out into the still night air "How's Ilend?"
He chuckled. "Took part in every single sortie until the Grandmaster ordered him to rest. Last time I saw him, he was snoring so loudly half the barracks had moved." The Knight Brother patted her shoulder with his good hand. "You stop worrying about him and look out for yourself, you hear?" He walked out of the watch tower, burdened with a mixture of empty and full quivers.
Aerin closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the stone, attempting to find some peace. But even at the top of the mountain, the sounds of fighting in the valley reached her ears; the roaring of Daedra, the clash of steel on steel, and the screams of the wounded mortals. Sooner or later, there would be an attack force numbering in the hundreds rather than in the dozens. Cloud Ruler Temple was almost impenetrable - a Siege Crawler would find it impossible to ascend the mountain – but seventy tired defenders could not hold out forever against the endless hordes of Oblivion. One of her fellow archers crammed into the small watch tower was mumbling something under his breath. It took the Wood Elf a few seconds to deduce that he was praying.
The sentry – the only person in the tower who was actually standing up – leaned forward, peering down into the valley. "Another Gate just opened," he grunted. "That's six that I can see now. There'll be-" he cut off, staring intently down at something. "Open the gates!" he bellowed, his voice startling at least one archer out of their sleep. There was a pause, then a few nearby Blades ran over to operate the giant pulleys that controlled the gates. Aerin struggled to her feet and carefully made her way over to the sentry, careful to avoid treading on any toes.
"What is it?" she asked, peering out into the snow-covered landscape and trying to make out any threat.
"There," said the sentry, pointing. The Bosmer blinked, then finally saw what he'd seen. A man was bent over the neck of his lathered horse, urging it onwards up the final stretch towards the Temple, pursued by at least twenty Daedra. "He's one of ours, I'll bet." growled the sentry, taking a step back. "Archers ready! Swordsmen prepare for sortie!"
With his voice still ringing in her ears, Aerin scrambled out of the tower, lining up along the battlements with the other archers. The gates were creaking open, swordsmen already spilling out of the gap, led by Captain Varsis. Nocking an arrow to her bow, the Wood Elf waited for the Daedra to come into range, the horseman looking back over his shoulder to watch his pursuers. A snap of bowstrings filled the air as those with longer bows took shots at the limit of their range. Aerin drew fletchings to cheek, carefully picked her target, and loosed. Her target - a clannfear – went down with satisfying rapidity, as did half the Daedric force as other arrows found their targets.
The horseman slowed and reined in to a walk as the swordsmen parted to let him through before falling on the enemy. Outnumbered and already wounded by the archers, the Daedra were swiftly dispatched. As they started retreating through the gates, Aerin slung her bow onto her back and started walking around to the courtyard, curious as to who the newcomer was. A small knot of Blades had already gathered around him as he slid off his exhausted horse, patting it as steam rose from its heaving flanks.
The man himself was short and stocky for an Imperial, and older than Aerin had thought; most of his head was bald, with a few tufts of thick grey hair around the side. He looked as though he knew how to move efficiently in his plain, unadorned chainmail, however, and the heavy broadsword at his belt looked worn from heavy usage. As the Wood Elf walked up, he was telling the men who were taking his horse to care for the tired beast properly. His voice was nondescript, as was his face; he could have been any old Imperial whose advancing years were evident.
"He doesn't look like much, does he?" The Bosmer turned to find Callia Petit standing beside her, the Breton's thumbs tucked into her sword belt as she studied the newcomer. "But that's the entire point. You'd never think him to be much, when in fact..." The Knight Sister shot a sidelong smile at Aerin. "That's Knight Captain Caius Cosades, Spymaster of the Blades. I've only met him once, but he's good at what he does. No doubt Captain Renault will be pleased when he relieves her of taking care of the lighter spy-work. I hear he'd been operating from High Rock until he was recalled."
"No, I didn't bring an army with me, and no, I didn't see one on the way here," Cosades was saying to the Blades around him. "Mostly, I was trying to work my way down through Skyrim and the Jeralls with an intact skin. Now go back to heroically killing hordes of Daedra and let me report to the Grandmaster." He pushed through the throng and entered the Great Hall.
"Charming bloke," commented Aerin, leaning on her bow. "Too bad he didn't have an army in his pocket. How much longer do ya think we'll hold out?"
Callia shrugged, pushing her helmet up to scratch at her hairline. "To hear Glenroy go on about it, we can repulse anything that comes up those stairs. Realistically, though..." The Breton sighed. "Let's just hope Gorgoth gets back soon." She grimaced. "Never thought I'd hear myself say that."
"He ain't all that bad, ya know," replied Aerin, turning to look at the Knight Sister. "What did he do to ya, anyway? I can't remember you or him ever telling me."
The Blade looked around them, suddenly adopting a guarded expression as she drew both of them back to lean against the wall of the East Barracks. "You'd remember if I ever told you," she muttered. Her fist seemed to clench involuntarily around the hilt of her katana. "He led an attack on my village six years ago. He and his Orcish raiders burnt half of it to the ground, killing anyone who resisted and raping almost every woman there. Gorgoth himself appeared in my father's house and..." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "He beat my father senseless and pushed me under the bed, where he raped my mother to death."
Aerin grunted, staring sightlessly into the middle distance. She'd known, of course, that Gorgoth was brutal, uncompromising and hard almost beyond belief, but... "Why?" she blurted. "Why would he do that?"
The Breton made a chopping motion with one hand, her lips tight with repressed anger. "He claims the raids were ordered by his father, and that he disagreed with them. As if that makes any difference. He robbed me of both parents; my father was never the same after that, and neither was the village. He spared me, and I'll admit in doing so that he probably saved my life, but I'll never forget how he claimed my mother as his 'spoil of war'." A sigh hissed through her clenched teeth. "But despite all that... having met him, fought alongside him... I can't help but respect him somewhat."
"He certainly inspires respect," mumbled Aerin, managing to digest what Callia was saying. Every time she thought she finally had an understanding of Gorgoth, another layer peeled off. It made sense, however; she'd recalled times when he'd talked about spoils of war and the rights of the victors. To him, freedom to do what he liked to those he'd defeated was probably a fact of life. It was yet another reminder of how different they were. "So now I know why you hate him." It was stating the obvious, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Yes. I hate him and I intend to kill him. Not just to avenge my mother and my village." The Breton folded her arms, staring down at her feet. "I left my village less than a year after my mother died. I learnt how to fight, to use a sword. I was a mercenary for a while, fighting for the Fighters Guild. The Blades recruited me two years ago. And through all that, what drove me was the thought of finally silencing my inner torment." She turned to look Aerin, her eyes hard but seeming almost desperate. "I have to kill him, not just for my family, but for myself. Until I do, my life will be without peace. But..."
"That's not going to be easy," pointed out the Wood Elf, somewhat unsteadily. She wasn't sure what to think of someone being so vehement about killing someone she knew and even trusted, despite his history. The words seemed even stranger when they came from the mouth of a Breton only a few inches taller and a few years older than Aerin herself.
Callia shook her head. "No, it won't. I have already sworn not to kill him until the Emperor is crowned and the Oblivion Crisis is over. Until the war is over, there are few in the world who will protect him as fiercely as I will." She snorted. "It's ironic that one who hates him so much can be trusted to watch his back and fight alongside him no matter how hard the battle becomes. And he knows it." Her hand started to unconsciously stroke the hilt of her katana. "But no, he will not be an easy fight. I won't lie to myself; the moment I challenge him, I will seal my own death."
The Bosmer shifted uneasily, not wholly comfortable with discussing the death of the Hero of Kvatch. "I guess you'd have to try while he's weak, or..."
"No!" The vehemence in Callia's voice contrasted with the sickly pale tinge that her skin was starting to take. "He has his honour, and I have mine. We are very different, but we do agree on some things; to challenge him when he's weak, or to sneak in to try and cut his throat while he's sleeping..." She shuddered for some reason. "No, I will not do that. I have to challenge him when he is fully able to meet my challenge, though I do not see how he will fail to kill me." The Breton sighed and ran a shivering hand over her face, closing her eyes. "I don't want to die, Aerin. I'm only twenty-three. I have things I want to do after this shadow is lifted. But this shadow won't be lifted until I kill Gorgoth, but I can't kill him. He'll gut me within two minutes." She clutched the sides of her head, emitting a low groan. "This shadow is eating away at me, day and night, and I can't stop it. I have to kill Gorgoth, but I don't want to die. I can't..." Her voice trailed off into an unintelligible moan.
Aerin had no idea what to say. What could she say to a woman who faced such an impossible choice? She looked around to try to find something to change the subject, but nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, and she doubted that changing the topic of conversation would do much good anyway. After a few agonising minutes, a thought finally came to her. "Have ya... ever considered forgiving him?" She bit her lip as the Knight Sister's head jerked up, her eyes flashing open.
Callia frowned for a few seconds before directing a sideways glare at her companion. "Could you?" she asked icily.
The Bosmer grunted. She hadn't thought of it like that. Trying to put herself in Callia's shoes, however, was impossible; she couldn't personally comprehend what the Breton had gone through. "I don't know," she said, shaking her head.
"I know I can't. At least, I don't think I can. There's still so little I know about him..." The Blade shook her head angrily. "But I know enough. He has to die. But..." A bitter smirk crept across her face. "It's ironic. I want him to return soon, in full health with the Amulet of Kings in his hand. I want that at least as much as anyone in this fortress. My trust in him is absolute, and it'll stay that way until..." Her features hardened. "Well, I'll know when."
Aerin was spared the dilemma of having to think up another reply when one of the sentries raised the alarm. Both of them immediately stepped away from the wall; Callia drew her katana and the Wood Elf took her bow from her back. "At least in battle, I don't dwell on my shadows," muttered Callia. "Come on. Time to do our jobs. Let's hope Gorgoth can do his."
Adamus Phillida jerked in his chair as a hand fell on his shoulder, half-drawing his dagger and looking frantically around before realising that he was still in his commandeered office in Castle Bruma. He hadn't realised he'd been dozing off; there was a nasty ache in his neck. Working his shoulder, he stood and turned to look at Vignar, who had backed away after waking his superior. "You shouldn't have let me sleep."
The centurion snorted. "I should have had Scarface strip you and carry you to bed instead of waking you. You need your sleep." Primo Varius was still standing in one corner of the room, staring out of the window. "But this news is urgent," continued Vignar. The general motioned for him to elaborate. "We've only got about a hundred and fifty Orcish horsemer left, and only half of those still have horses. But they're still doing a good job. Better than those lightly-armed Dunmer, at least." Most of the Dunmeri cavalry had been wiped out in the battle, and most of the remainder of the unit were still in the chapel for healing or manning the walls; unlike the Orcs, they didn't make good infantry when dismounted.
"You didn't wake me up to tell me that," pointed out Phillida, resisting the urge to sink back into his chair. Instead, he walked over to the window, rubbing his tired eyes. Every fibre of his aching body told him to find a bed, but the red glow lighting up the night sky reminded him of his duty.
"No, I didn't. You recall we had the Dunmeri remnants patrolling to the south to give us early warning?" The Imperial nodded impatiently. "One was found by an Orcish patrol, trying to drag himself to the city with three Daedric arrows in him. Sadri, their leader. They managed to get him to the South Gate. I was there when they brought him in; we tried to get him to you, but he died of his wounds. He said only three words, but..." The Nord shook his head. "They were said with the kind of intensity that you only get when a dying man is desperate to pass on something of vital importance before he dies. He was looking me in the eyes when he said it just before dying, and I never saw crimson eyes so bright."
"What did he say?"
"'They are coming'. Nothing else. He died before I could get him to elaborate. None of the Orcs who brought him in spoke much Cyrodilic, so they didn't get anything else either."
The general slowly leaned on the windowsill, forcing his tired mind to think. "'They?' Could he mean that the Daedra have a Siege Crawler further south and are bringing it up here to attack us? Or maybe that they just have an army of Dremora, which is almost as bad?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, sir." Their eyes met; through their long years of working together, they had learnt how the other worked, and there were times that it seemed like they could read each others minds. "It'll take about half an hour to muster everyone we can spare on the south wall."
Phillida nodded, forcing himself to straighten. "Spread the word. Every man and woman trained to bear arms not already assigned to other duties is to assemble at designated points on and near the South Gate." He reached over his shoulder and loosened his claymore in its scabbard. "If this is our end, then we'll meet it with steel and courage."
Mazoga paced angrily back and forth across the chambers shared by her and Gorgoth, trying not to listen to the sounds of battle below. She'd donned her battered ebony plate and belted on her longsword, but she refused to take part in the battle no matter how much she boiled inside. Her word to Gorgoth would have held her firm even if the life inside her hadn't; she would only draw her sword when the Daedra were knocking down her door. When the Blades had tried to invite her to the battle, she'd been forced to tell them of her condition; the news was likely all over the fortress by now, but she couldn't care less. Her mind was focused solely on the fact that it had been over ten hours since her lover had entered Paradise.
The Orc knew that the warrior-shaman was a fearsome warrior and a deadly sorcerer; she more than most knew what he was capable of. Since she had first met him several years ago, he had only come truly close to death once, when he had been surprised by Azani Blackheart. But, despite her confidence in him, she was worried. She'd tried to reassure herself that Paradise was probably large, Camoran had been hard to find, and that it would be a hard fight, but she knew that going ten hours without hearing anything was troubling news. The Orsimer had even considered praying to Malacath, but in her experience demanding help from the Daedric Prince could backfire all too easily. So all she could do was wait uselessly as the Blades fought and died before their gates.
She realised that she had started counting the number of paces from wall to wall and forced herself to sit down at the table. Old habits made sure she had a good view of the door to the hall. Pulling off her gauntlets, the warrior started idly tapping the table, trying to force her thoughts to other subjects, but the portal to Paradise kept looming in her mind's eye. Growling in frustration, she snatched up a note that was on the table, noticing that it was the Nerevarine's note to Gorgoth and deciding to read it anyway. If he hadn't wanted it read by anyone else, he'd have destroyed it. The paper itself was thick and of good quality, contrasting somewhat with the spiky handwriting. A sigil in grey wax was next to the signature.
Gorgoth,
I hope this letter reaches you. The hundred horsemer I sent along with it might be useful to you, or they might not be, but I trust them to at least get this to you. I would have come myself – no doubt the trials at the centre of the battle are greater than at the fringes – but I am Nerevarine and Hortator, and I can't abandon my people while thousands of Daedra rampage across my land.
You might be wondering why I'm writing to you, but if I know you as well as I think I do, you'll have guessed why. News of the exploits of the Hero of Kvatch have travelled far and wide; when it reached my ear that his name was Gorgoth gro-Kharz, I instantly thought of that Orcish mercenary I met in that tavern in Orsinium last year. Given that it was only one of three times I was out of Morrowind that year, I don't believe it was coincidence; we were fated to meet at some point.
While you're reading this, you'll probably recall what we both felt; a sense of inexplicable kinship and brotherhood between an Orc and a Dunmer. Even now, I can still recall that sense of... sameness that I felt between us. I just knew you were destined for great things and great deeds, and I recall telling you as much. You didn't know I was the Nerevarine then, of course, and I could understand your scepticism at the time, but...well, I think you'll have come to different realisations now.
Yes, we are both Heroes of the Elder Scrolls, our fates written in their prophecies. My Event was, of course, defeating Dagoth Ur and ending the Blight. I am unsure what yours will be, though obviously I know little of how the war is going at your end. I don't have to tell you that if you fail, the world is doomed, as surely as it would have been if Dagoth Ur had defeated me and completed Akhulakhan. But you knew that already; what I feel I must tell you is that if you win, your destiny will be truly unbound. Prior to the Event, we are simply slaves to our prophecies, our presence required for the event. But afterwards... I feel there is no limit to what a Hero can achieve.
Time grows short, so I must be brief; Vivec is growing exhausted, so sole leadership of our armies on Vvardenfell falls to me now. I can trust Helseth to hold the mainland, though he'll probably try to have me assassinated again once this is all over. But first... I never had a family, and I barely know you, but I feel like I've gained a brother recently. That sense of kinship felt between Heroes cannot be denied.
I know you have your own battles to face, but know this; I am a powerful warrior, and my magical prowess is also impressive, yet Dagoth Ur was stronger than me. I am still unsure how I managed to hold him off long enough. Almalexia, too, almost overpowered me, but I defeated her as well. I am one of the strongest spellswords in Morrowind, yet I doubt I could have done it without some kind of divine intervention; I was Azura's champion, after all. Remember this; even if your enemies seem insurmountable, you are a Hero and a champion; fight your hardest, and you will find that your hardest is good enough. I did, and I have faith in you, my brother.
I've distracted you long enough. Six years ago, the fate of the world rested on my shoulders; today, you are at the heart of an even bigger battle. For what it's worth, Gorgoth, you have my full support, and after all this is over... we will both forge our own destinies, but I'd like to meet you again. But first you have to save the world. Fulfil your prophecies, and your life will be yours to live. Good luck, and may you find glory in battle.
Your brother,
Dalvyn Voris
Nerevarine and Hortator
Mazoga slowly let the letter fall back to the table, staring at it. She had little idea what a Hero was, and had only heard of the Elder Scrolls a few times, never being interested in such things. Shaking her head, the Orc tried to ignore it; Gorgoth was a mighty warrior, a Lord of Orsinium, and her lover; that was all she wanted from him and all she cared about. Even so, she tried to recall the meeting described in the letter; she vaguely remembered Gorgoth talking to a Dark Elf for a few hours somewhere in Orsinium, but the recollection was hazy and the details eluded her. The Nerevarine knowing her lover was new to her, however; Gorgoth had certainly never mentioned meeting the legendary war hero of the Dunmer.
Folding the letter up and pushing it away, the Orsimer stood and started to pace again, realising that nothing had changed; she was still consumed with worry about the fate of her comrade. Reading the Nerevarine's note had just given her a few questions to ask him when he returned. She still refused to contemplate the chance of him not returning. He was the greatest warrior she had ever known, and the most powerful shaman she had ever met; he would win. She was sure of it. But she did wish he would hurry up about it.
The line between consciousness and unconsciousness had become blurred. In the total darkness of the cavern, only the constant pain let Gorgoth know he was still awake. The children of Camoran had closed the opening in the rock wall behind them and snuffed out the magical light hours ago. At least, he thought it was hours; it seemed like hours. He'd had plenty of time to be alone with his thoughts.
He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious after his defeat, but he had been awoken by lightning sent coursing through his body by Ruma Camoran. They'd stripped him of his armour, weapons and clothing and chained him to the rocky ceiling using bonds strong enough to hold an avatar of Malacath. The steel cuffs around his wrists were serrated, and occasionally blood would trickle down his thick arms past his dislocated shoulders. His feet swung about six inches from the ground, and he refused to humiliate himself by attempting to stand on his toes to relieve some of the pain that the weight of his own muscular body was causing.
The Orc didn't know what plans Camoran had for him, but he hadn't seen the master of Paradise since his defeat. His children, however, had been eager to show how much they hated him. It was clear that neither had much experience with torture, but they nonetheless knew how to cause pain. Ruma had set to work with magical torturing spells that made him feel like he was being ripped apart internally, while Raven had set to work with a knife, peeling his tough skin from his body in strips and rubbing salt into the naked flesh. Gorgoth had merely clenched his teeth and remained silent, save for a few times when he had taunted them on how ineffective they were. But then, he doubted they were actually trying to get any information from him. He had felt worse pain in the past, but not by much.
And then they had decided to let a daedroth loose on him, only realising their mistake when the beast had torn open half his throat. They had frantically banished it and healed his gaping wound, but not before he had passed out from the loss of blood. He hadn't seen them since. The pain was constant – Raven had also taken the time to smash his kneecaps with a hammer – but he had learnt years ago how to deal with physical pain. Instead, he was thinking over his defeat. Despite himself, he felt shamed by his defeat, though if he thought logically there should have been no shame in it. He had been fighting a vastly superior magical opponent in a world that could be shaped by his will, with the aid of two allies. And Gorgoth had almost won. Another man or mer might have felt pride at coming so close and doing so well; the warrior-shaman felt only the bitterness of defeat. He had failed.
Giving up, however, was not something he knew how to do. He had seen enough of the chains to know that they wouldn't break without magical interference, and his Silence spell was probably being maintained by Camoran himself. His rocky cell was bare and featureless, and in the total darkness he couldn't have made use of anything anyway. But his mind kept working, trying to think up possibilities. It was highly unlikely he would ever escape, but Gorgoth gro-Kharz would only rest when he was dead. Which was likely to be very soon.
Perhaps Camoran would try to turn him. It would be impossible, even with the most horrible of torture – he had sworn an oath, and he would rather kill himself after torturing Mazoga to death than break his word – but it gave him some potential options. However, it was doubtful that Camoran would ever trust him enough to release him until he'd sworn his soul to Dagon. No matter how much he thought, the warlord could find no way out of his present situation. He wasted no time on thinking how he had let the entire world down; self-pity and self-hate were weaknesses he held in utter contempt.
A rumbling sound interrupted his thoughts as the rock door slid down into an alcove. Gorgoth refused to squint to protect his eyes against the dim light now entering the room via a globe of light floating through the doorway, moving up to hover six feet above the Orc's head. He was not entirely surprised to see Kathutet enter the small chamber alone, but neither had he particularly been expecting his comrade and enemy.
"It pains me to see this," muttered the Valkynaz, moving around the warrior-shaman's body and peering critically at the bloody skin hanging off his back. "I should have known Camoran would be too strong. I know how powerful Dagon is in the Deadlands; I should have known that Camoran would be able to perform similar miracles here." The Dremora shook his head, moving back to Gorgoth's front and looking the Orc up and down. "Camoran knows everything that goes on in this realm. My merely talking to you will not keep his attention, nor even healing you, but if I help you get back to Carac Agaialor..." His voice trailed off. They both knew that Camoran's retaliation would most likely kill Gorgoth and banish Kathutet back to the Deadlands.
"Why are you here?" asked Gorgoth. The Kynaz had never been one to arrogantly mock a fallen foe, and he wasn't even sure if the Dremora had classified him as an enemy.
Instead of answering, Kathutet started pacing from wall to wall, forced to turn every four steps due to the small size of the rocky cell. "I did some thinking after you left," he finally said. "We are enemies, of course. We always will be for as long as this war lasts. Helping you would go against everything I stood for, or so I thought. But then I realised something..." He turned to face the Orc. "I swore to Dagon so long ago that it takes me a while to remember the exact words, but I remembered eventually; I swore to serve him, not to obey him."
The Orsimer grunted. "You're walking on eggshells if you're going to twist words of your oath."
Kathutet laughed shortly, bitterly. "This war is madness. What will happen if Dagon succeeds, if he kills every mortal in Tamriel? It is not a future any of us want, but he refuses to see it. I am utterly loyal to Dagon, and I will always serve him to the best of my ability, true to my oath... which is why I feel I must do this." The Valkynaz raised a hand, his palm glowing red. The steel cuffs around Gorgoth's hands disintegrated, freeing him and dropping him to the floor. He barely suppressed a pained grunt as he crumpled to the ground, the pain from his shattered knees agonising. Within seconds, the Dremora had laid hands on his old comrade, sending powerful Restoration magic through his body. He always had been a good healer, his skill surpassing Gorgoth's; even the Orc's shoulders were popping back into place. The warrior-shaman rose to his feet, still covered in blood, but the agony was already a fading memory.
He looked the Kynaz in the eye. "Can even the two of us together defeat Camoran and his children?"
"Probably not. But we have to try; I, to serve my lord, and you to save your realm." A ghost of a smile flickered over Kathutet's place. "Besides, remember that most of the Dremora here were banished here for the same reason as me. They, too, swore to serve Dagon... and most agree with me with what must be done. Even some of the once-mortals have agreed to join me; they, after all, have reason to hate Camoran." A distasteful twist to his mouth showed what he thought of the idea.
Within the space of two minutes, the warlord had seen his chances improve significantly, but he refused to get ahead of himself. "We have to strike quickly, before Camoran has a chance to organise, or to call Dagon for help."
The Dremora snorted. "Dagon has other things to occupy himself. It is doubtful that he will listen to his follower's pathetic mewling right now. But you are right; we must strike hard and fast. Your weapons and armour are nearby." He paused in turning towards the opening. "Camoran might not have detected us yet, but he certainly will if your Silence spell disappears. I am capable of dispelling it, but I will not until I know we are secure."
"I understand. We-" He was cut off by the sounds of scraping and grunting in the tunnel outside. Kathutet placed a wary hand on the hilt of his sword before shaking his head and grinning unpleasantly.
"Do not worry. It seems that Camoran will not be supported by his children after all." Two Dremora entered the small chamber, dragging a naked Ruma Camoran with them. The Altmer's wrists, elbows and ankles had been bound with strips torn from her robe, and more had been forced into her mouth. Her eyes were furious, but her desperate struggles did not slow the Kyn as they threw her into the far corner. One of them wore the robes of a mage, who was almost definitely maintaining a Silence spell on her. "Guard her well," Kathutet told him. "Rape her if you wish – her attitude certainly deserves it – but make sure she does not die or escape." The mage nodded and smiled, stepping towards the captive and clearly taking pleasure in her increasingly frantic attempts to break free.
"We already took her brother," reported the other Dremora in the language of the Kyn, sparing only a single glance for Gorgoth. "He was not surprised as easily as she was. He wounded three of us before we could Silence him and knock him unconscious. He's under guard just down the hall." The warrior-shaman's knowledge of the Dremora's language was far from perfect, but he knew enough to keep up.
Kathutet nodded and loosened his sword in its scabbard, motioning for the two of them to follow him, closing the rocky door behind them. The hallway was narrow with jagged rocks protruding from nay angles, but torches held in stone brackets provided enough illumination for the Valkynaz to dispel his light. "Most of the Dremora in Paradise have joined me," he explained as they made their way along the passage. "Those that haven't have not actively opposed us; they hate Camoran just as much as we do. The lesser Daedra will obey us, but they will not fight him either. They are no threat to either. The Xivilai..." He shook his head. "Some have resisted, but they are few in number here. I have ordered those under my command to stay in the Savage Garden. They will probably obey, but even if they don't, we have over twenty-five Dremora to fight six Xivilai. We will win." He stopped at what seemed to be another rock door. "We also have a dozen once-mortals on our side. Some are mages with a degree of competence, and they will take suicidal risks, given that they'll be reborn here within five minutes anyway and killing Camoran is the only way to escape." He pulled a lever cleverly disguised as a sharp rock, and the door slowly ground down into its alcove.
"At least you have things here well in hand," grunted Gorgoth as he entered the chamber. It was small, with only two torches for illumination, but there was enough light for him to see his armour, weapons and clothing piled against the far wall. "Have you got a plan for defeating Camoran?" he asked as he moved over to start pulling on his clothing.
"You might be weakened – I can tell that you are tired – but so is he," responded Kathutet. "He was masking his own fatigue for the entire fight. When he dispelled it, he almost collapsed from exhaustion. You nearly had him." The Valkynaz leaned against one of the walls, watching the door. The other Dremora did the same opposite him. "Now it is you, me, and over two dozen battle-hardened Dremora against him alone. Several of us have considerable magical ability, and the rest can cover our rear. We have the upper hand." His rough voice was full of conviction.
Gorgoth was already tightening the straps on his boiled leather as he met the Kynaz's gaze. "You know exactly what you're doing. Dagon will not be pleased." He reached for his chainmail.
Kathutet sighed, slowly clenching his fists. "All of us know that his rage is likely to be great," he replied, his tone thick with resignation. "But the knowledge that we are doing our duty, that we are in fact serving him, will see us through whatever punishment he sets us." He folded his arms. "I have lived for a few thousand years yet, and I know I will live for many thousands more, most likely; the prospect of ten years of agony can be endured. It must be endured, if it comes to that."
Looking around, the Orc saw the signs of grim resignation on every Daedric face. "It will be me that Tamriel loves at its hero, Kathutet," he said. "But truly, you are its saviours."
Several of the Dremora snorted. "Who would have thought it?" muttered Kathutet, looking like he had briefly contemplated rolling his eyes. "Fame in the mortal world does not interest us. Killing Camoran and destroying his Paradise does. We have little time."
Gorgoth took the hint. Within minutes he was fully armed and armoured, testing the bowstring on Trueshot. He hadn't used it in the first fight against Camoran because the Altmer would have destroyed him before the arrow left the string, but now that his focus would be divided... "Which of you is the best shot?" he asked. One of the Kyn paused before stepping forward, looking suspiciously at the bow. Gorgoth handed it to him along with his quiver. "Arrows fired from this will penetrate any armour, physical or magical. He might have too many distractions to worry about a simple arrow."
The Dremora – he looked like a Kynreeve – tested the draw and grunted. "It might work," he responded in his own language, placing the bow on his back and clipping the quiver to his sword belt.
"I'll want it back." Regardless of whether he killed Camoran and retrieved the Amulet, the Orc did not want to have to return to Tamriel and tell Aerin than he had lost her bow.
"You'll get it back," Kathutet assured him. "But we have no time to waste." He motioned towards the exit of the cavern, and the small army of Dremora followed him and Gorgoth out. Outside in the rocky corridor were a few more Dremora and about a dozen members of the Mythic Dawn in their crimson robes. More than a few looked uncomfortable, but the general mood seemed to be that of determination. The Valkynaz brushed past them all, lengthening his stride and leading his forces throughout a series of caverns lit mainly by the red glow of lava streams. Occasionally they would come across neutral Dremora or members of the Mythic Dawn, getting reactions of disinterest from the former and fear from the latter. They passed through what were clearly torture chambers, full of cages suspended over lakes of lava and other implements designed to cause pain without being held back by the limitations of the victim's mortality. Gorgoth found himself shaking his head in disgust. Camoran's people might have been weak and misguided, but no lord should ever treat his people like this. It was no wonder that so many were willing to defect and try to kill their former master.
As they approached what appeared to be an archway in the rock, a tremor seemed to run through the cavern. Dust started to fall from above, and stalagmites nearby started to quiver. Ripples started to appear in pools of lava. Mythic Dawn members started to look around nervously as cracks started to appear in the rock all around them, but Kathutet did not hesitate. "Run!" he roared, obeying his own order by starting to sprint towards the archway, throwing out an arm to magically shatter the rock acting as a door and smash it away. Daylight poured through the opening as a deep rumbling began, immediately intensifying. Rocks crashed down from above as lava seemed to erupt from the pools, splattering over the walls and almost appearing to take human shape. Gorgoth forced his fatigued body to run as fast as it could in heavy armour, following the Valkynaz out of the exit and into the sunshine, diving away and rolling down the slope just as the entire cavern collapsed behind them with a thunderous roar that had probably been heard back in Tamriel.
"Camoran's brought the fucking mountain down on our heads!" snarled Kathutet as he hauled the Orc to his feet. "We have to move quickly before he tries anything else!"
The warrior-shaman nodded grimly, feeling Camoran's Silence spell fade away as his comrade pumped complex dispelling magic into his body. Only three other Dremora had survived the earthquake, though he noted with relief that the Kynreeve with Trueshot had been one of them. None of the five paused to contemplate the fate of their trapped allies or to brush the dust from their armour; within seconds, they were all moving in the direction of Carac Agaialor, which still showed damage from the earlier fight.
All of them were experienced soldiers, so they instinctively spread out to limit the damage that could be done by a mage as they advanced, casting defensive spells to protect themselves against any magical attack. As they approached Carac Agaialor, an eerie silence fell across the landscape. Gorgoth's head was constantly rotating, a spell of life detection active. All his trusted warrior's instincts – the same instincts that had saved his life in battle dozens of times – were screaming warnings at him. Camoran might be tired and weakened, but so was he, and the master of Paradise could manipulate his world itself to strike at them. The element of surprise – so deadly in any warfare – could kill all five of them within seconds.
As they started to ascend the steps of the damaged Ayleid palace, a life signature flashing into existence in the corner of his eye was Gorgoth's only warning. He bellowed an alarm to the others and threw himself from the steps, landing on the grass and rolling away from where he had been before jumping to his feet and turning towards the nearby hill where the signature had appeared. He only had time to distinguish his enemy before the entire front of the palace collapsed inward, melting into the ground, the stone and earth bubbling and hissing as though boiling. One of the Dremora was sucked into the maelstrom, but the others had reacted quickly enough to escape.
Kathutet was the first to react. A solid sheet of white fire engulfed the top of Camoran's hill and dozens of lightning bolts stabbed from the sky, hammering at the Altmer's defences. Before Gorgoth could join in, the master of Paradise had teleported to float in the air above them, his slender face clearly visible, contorted with hatred. There would be no talking and gloating beforehand this time. He was immediately assailed once again by fire and lightning, one of the other Dremora joining in with dark red tendrils of Destruction magic that would kill whatever they touched. The warrior-shaman paused for a second; Kathutet and his companion were using brute force to occupy their enemy, and while the Altmer's defences were holding well, he was preoccupied.
Gorgoth raised a clenched fist, and a hundred filaments of dispelling magic burst from the air a few feet from Camoran. Having them spawn away from him instead of from his hand drained the Orc's magicka more, but his foe had barely any time to react; the Mysticism magic scythed through his defences, swiftly baring him to the relentless attack of the Dremora. He teleported before he was harmed, but he didn't go far, merely reappearing on the ground below where he had been levitating. His magical defences reappeared just in time as two Dremora and the Orc hammered him with whatever Destruction magic they could throw at him quickly. The Dremora with Trueshot loosed a few arrows, but they were destroyed by the magic forces before they even reached their target.
The warrior-shaman stopped casting, snatching a second to think. Brute force would not kill Camoran; even weakened, their magicka pools would be depleted before his defences fell, and he could always command the environment. He had to make use of Kathutet's attacks as a distraction, but if he got close enough to use Blood King, he would be torn apart by his comrade's magic; his own defences were not nearly as good as the Altmer's. Making his choice quickly, he rejoined the fray, once again using Dispelling magics to attack the master of Paradise's magical shielding and wards directly. This time, Camoran was ready; whirling to face the Orsimer, he cast several reflection spells to send his magic streaming straight back at him. The Orc sidestepped rapidly to avoid them; teleporting would use up too much of his magicka pool.
He staggered as the ground shook beneath him, tendrils of rock bursting from the hillside to wrap around his legs and waist, holding him immobile. His enemy widened his reflective spell, putting much of his strength into it; Kathutet and his companion were forced to fend off their own reflected fire and ice, and for an instant Camoran was free to attack at will. Using telekinesis to swat aside an arrow, he raised both fists and clenched them, a dark red glow shining from between his fingers. Barely-visible shadows filled Gorgoth's vision, and agony tore through his body, the pain of ten thousand flaming pins stabbing his skin, the pain of his very soul being torn to shreds and left to rot in the Soul Cairn. It took all his willpower to grit his teeth and purge himself with dispelling magic, following it quickly with healing to repair any damage done. The shadows shattered, clearing his vision.
Kathutet had also survived, though he was reeling, but the other two Dremora had stood no chance against the Altmer's death magic. They slumped to the ground, dying without a mark on their bodies. Gorgoth found himself wondering if the dark magic would have any impact on their rebirth. Casting the thought aside, he disintegrated the rocky arms holding him and put all his strength into a shield as his foe sent fire, frost and lightning towards him. The impact forced him backwards, but his shield held. Another few seconds would have broken it, but the master of Paradise was forced to deal with a recovering Kathutet sending a fire storm towards him. Keeping his shield in place, the Orc dashed towards where one of the Dremora had fallen snatching up Trueshot and a few arrows spilling out of the quiver before turning to face his enemy.
Camoran shattered the Valkynaz's shield, but the Dremora teleported away before the killing blow could be struck. Reappearing beside Gorgoth, his comrade took one glance at Trueshot and nodded. "I'll protect you," he grunted, putting his remaining magical strength into a cocktail of shielding and magical resistance as their foe turned to face them. The Orc had already raised the bow, nocking and drawing an arrow, aiming for Camoran's heart. His target snorted and conjured a wind that whirled around him like a shield, tugging at his robe even as he sent Destruction and dispelling spells at Kathutet's defence. Using most of his remaining magicka, Gorgoth teleported.
He appeared right behind the Altmer, the point of his arrow a bare inch from his enemy's back. He was already releasing as he reappeared; even if Camoran had detected him, he would have had no time to react. Trueshot's enchantment sent the arrow punching through all of the Altmer's magical shielding and into his back, sending him stumbling forward, his magical offensive faltering. The Orc had already dropped Aerin's bow and was swinging at the master of Paradise, a conjured longsword appearing in his hand, cleaving deeply down into the High Elf's chest. Ignoring the blood spurting over his armour, he swung sideways with his other hand, this time summoning an axe. Mankar Camoran never even saw the weapon that decapitated him.
The golden-skinned head hit the ground before the body, rolling away down the hill. Gorgoth wasted no time, dispelling all his spells and reaching down to claw the Amulet of Kings from around the stump of the Altmer's neck. Kathutet quickly moved over, looking down at his former master's headless body with an expression of contempt. He looked pale and drawn, and no wonder, if he felt as exhausted and drained as the Orc. "Fitting that he should meet his end at the hands of a warrior's weapon," he observed, his voice a harsh rasp.
Gorgoth forced himself to straighten, the Amulet dangling from one hand as the other placed Trueshot on his back. Around them, the realm of Paradise was already starting to shimmer and grow translucent, the fabric of its creation beginning to unravel with the death of its creator. "Kathutet, I am in your debt."
The Valkynaz shook his head quickly. "No, Gorgoth. I might have rescued you from Camoran's clutches, but I would have been serving him in Paradise for eternity if you had not appeared, most likely. We saved each other." He raised a clenched fist to forestall the Orsimer's response. "No, I want none of your arguments, none of your protestations. We are comrades, and our bond is of blood and steel and loyalty." He grimaced as the entire realm seemed to shake. "I am bound to Lord Dagon willingly, no matter what he does to me, but if he shatters my oath, then at least I know I still have a place of honour at your side." The Valkynaz extended a hand, ignoring the warping of Carac Agaialor and the howling of the unearthly wind that snatched at what remained of the realm. "Alone among mortals, you have my respect."
Gripping his companion's hand with a gauntlet red with Camoran's blood, the Orsimer responded with one of his rare smiles. "You honour me." The last word was lost to his ears as Paradise was torn apart. He felt Kathutet's hand ripped from his as the world collapsed into darkness and fire.
Martin realised he was tapping his foot and stopped, irritated. He was under a lot of stress – they all were – but an Emperor had to be in command of his emotions and control his thoughts, or what hope did he have of controlling his men? It was likely that most of the Blades in the Great Hall hadn't noticed, however; there was only a bare handful of them, mostly sleeping, seated at benches in the corners of the Hall, as far from the portal as they could get. Most were wounded; only Caroline and Captain Renault – his bodyguards for the moment - bore no scars from the near-constant battles down at the gate.
The portal was still ever-present in the back of his mind, an odd consciousness dimly felt alongside his own. From time to time he shot glances at the portal itself, but mostly he tried to distract himself by reading or sharpening his dagger. Neither worked. The crackling of the fire, the humming of the portal and the howling of the wind outside could never quite drown out the sounds of battle below, or the occasional scream from where the wounded were placed in the West Barracks. He and Lucius had been forced to conserve their strength, and so only mortal wounds were being healed.
He looked up as the scraping of boots announced an arrival. Caius Cosades appeared from a side door, still weak from blood loss. He was not a natural warrior, but when he'd seen how thinly the Blades were stretched, he'd insisted on joining in, taking plate armour and a katana from the armoury. He'd fought well until a Daedric spear had skewered him. Martin had healed him personally on the battlefield itself; the Spymaster of the Blades was too valuable to lose. Cosades nodded respectfully to his Emperor and lowered himself carefully onto the table across from him. "How do you feel?" asked the ex-priest.
"Weak as a day-old kitten, but I've survived worse," responded the Imperial, looking around, probably trying to find some ale. Finding none, he looked up and met his lord's eyes. "It doesn't take a spymaster to tell you that we'll be doomed if we don't get some relief quickly."
Martin nodded slowly. The Daedric attacks had been coming thick and fast for quite some time, and it was long past midnight, as far as he could tell beneath the black-and-red sky. Cloud Ruler Temple still stood strong, but before long the casualties the Blades were taking would force them to retreat within their massive gates and prepare to sell their lives in the defence of their Emperor. Even the arrows were quickly running out. Grandmaster Steffan, in some of the rare breaks in the fighting, brought disturbing news of rumours spreading among the ranks; Gorgoth had failed, Gorgoth was dead. Bruma had fallen, the rest of Cyrodiil was being devastated. He had done his best to restore optimism, and he knew that the Blades would fight to the death no matter what, but it was still worrying.
"I still have faith in Gorgoth," said the Emperor, for the ears of everyone in the Great Hall as much as the Spymaster. "Once he gets back with the Amulet of Kings..."
"...you'll still have a massive Daedric army to repulse." Cosades shook his head. "I know of this Orc; I was stationed in High Rock, after all. But even he can't single-handedly turn this battle for you, even if he does get back with the Amulet in hand."
"When he returns the Amulet, he and I and a few bodyguards will sneak out and make a dash for the Imperial City to light the Dragonfires," replied Martin. It was the plan that he, Renault and Steffan had come up with a few hours ago. "The City and its surroundings are still Imperial-held, as far as we know. We can light the Dragonfires and end this war within a few days, if-"
He was cut off by the main doors swinging open to admit Lathar, Lucius Varo and a hail of snowflakes. The grizzled master-at-arms pushed them closed quickly; he was closer to seventy than sixty, but he had insisted on serving in the front ranks, and his dai-katana was red to the hilt. Lucius stumbled over to Martin's table and sank down in the chair beside Cosades, looking even older than his hundred years. "I have nothing left to give," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Pass the portal over to me. I have bought our forces five minutes at best for now, but I can do no more except free you."
Martin hesitated – the battlemage looked half-dead – but relented at his insistence and shoved the portal's consciousness away from him. Lucius grunted as he took it, and sweat started to bead on his brow, but he waved away his Emperor's offer of assistance. "Your place is on the battlements," he muttered. "There's a Gate not five minute's march away now." The ex-priest nodded and left him, throwing his thick fur cloak around his shoulders before striding out into the storm, shadowed by his two bodyguards.
After the warmth of the Great Hall and its fire, the cold cut through his tattered robe like a knife, but he ignored it. The crushed snow around the courtyard was stained red with blood, and even now wounded Blades were being helped to the West Barracks by comrades who looked on the verge of collapse themselves. Wasting no time, the Emperor walked quickly onto the battlements, nodding to any soldiers he passed. Only a few archers were manning the wall now; most had been sent to fight in the melee to help ration their remaining supply of arrows. Grandmaster Steffan was in one of the sentry towers, leaning wearily on the edge as he peered down at the carnage below. Martin joined him and grunted.
The mountainside was a slaughterhouse. Rotting Daedric corpses were piled high around the approaches to the fortress, and the ground was black with their blood. Corpses in Akaviri armour were also in evidence, but there were far fewer of them, and only close to the castle gates, away from the devastation wrought by archers and mages. Gaping craters pockmarked the ground where fireballs from Martin or Lucius had blasted apart entire squads of attackers. There had to be at least a thousand corpses down there, banished back to Oblivion by a garrison of less than a hundred soldiers and two mages. Yet more were coming; Lucius had spoke truly. There was an Oblivion Gate clinging to the side of the mountain, halfway down the slope, and as he watched the Emperor could see Daedra emerging from it. Smoke and fire obscured his view of Bruma, but he knew there would be several Gates between the Temple and the city; there would be no hope of relief from there. Even now, he could see troops of Daedra creeping across the valley; mortal forces were few and far between, and retreating as often as not.
"We might survive until dawn, if Bruma holds," muttered Steffan, keeping his voice low, for his Emperor's ears only.
Martin felt despair threatening to overwhelm him, but he crushed it ruthlessly. Now was no time to be giving in to the oblivion of defeatism. "Gorgoth will return," he said, attempting to make his voice sound convincing. He probably failed. In the distance, the blare of a war horn reached his ears. Probably a force of Dremora forming up for an attack on the temple or the city.
"I don't doubt Gorgoth, but if he doesn't return soon, he'll come back to a burning wasteland rather than a proud castle." Another war horn sounded, from a different location. "We've got about five minutes before another attack hits us, sire. I need you to disperse their charge before it hits us; they're at their most lethal when daedroth break our ranks."
The Emperor nodded, throwing back his cloak. It had been a gift from Gorgoth some time ago; the Orc had told him he'd need it when winter came. "I have significant reserves. Holding the portal open does not drain them much."
"You should be in your armour, sire," Renault told him. Martin resisted the sudden inane urge to roll his eyes as two more war horns blasted their message across the valley.
"There was no time, unless you'd like to go and fetch it and armour me as I fling spells down at the enemy?" He quickly held up a hand to forestall her; knowing the Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard, she'd probably go and do exactly that.
"If we're to die here, then at least we'll all die well," grunted Steffan, taking a bow from one of the archers. For the first time, Martin saw that he was wounded; blood was drying on the back of his left boot, but the Grandmaster didn't seem to be giving it any notice. Yet another war horn bellowed down below. "Sounds like they're massing."
The Emperor rubbed his chin, calmly considering. Lathar and his lessons had taught him much and turned him into an effective warrior, but no man could ever teach another how to embrace death. He wondered what it would be like; how quickly would the pain fade, how quickly would he be wrapped in the warm embrace of the Nine and brought to Aetherius to be greeted by his ancestors? Would they greet him kindly, despite his bastardy and his failure? Or would they condemn him as the Septim who had failed to preserve their Empire, who had let a Daedric Prince conquer his realm? The Imperial shook his head and stood taller. He could not fail. On the path below, a Daedric force about a hundred strong had formed up and was running up the mountain towards the fortress.
Steffan was preparing to order his men to sortie when a Blade came hobbling up, leaning on a staff and walking as quickly as he could despite the plaster around his right leg. "Grandmaster!" he shouted, throwing out a hand. Martin vaguely recognised him as Marcus Corvus, one of the more experienced Knight Brothers. He'd broken a leg two hours ago when a daedroth fell on him.
"What is it?" asked the Grandmaster, irritation clear in his voice.
"I've never heard a Daedric horn, Grandmaster, but I have heard those kind of horns before." The Imperial stopped before them, leaning heavily on his staff, his face grey with pain and effort yet alive with hope. "I served in the Legion before coming here, Grandmaster. Those are Legion horns!"
Steffan raised an eyebrow, but before he could reply a shout brought their heads round. Aerin was pointing down into the valley, stark disbelief etched into her features. Martin and his Grandmaster quickly moved over and looked where she was pointing.
A large Daedric column that had been marching towards Bruma was in disarray, desperately trying to turn and face the volleys of arrows and bolts that scythed out of the trees either side of them. Another war horn blared, and heavy cavalry smashed into their flanks, shattering any notion of order that existed and cutting down their immortal enemies left and right. More movement in the valley tore Martin's gaze away as he saw several centuries of heavy Imperial infantry appear from amidst the smoke and fire, crashing into surprised Daedric formations and killing scores within seconds. Other centuries moved forward in their usual shield-wall formation, their signature tower shields forcing Daedra back towards yet more Imperials. A Gate winked out, then another.
"Took their bloody time," muttered Steffan, but Martin could detect the sudden hope in his voice. He himself couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face.
"There's more coming up the mountain," pointed out Aerin.
A force of at least two hundred cavalry were indeed starting to ascend the mountain at a trot. The Daedra from the Gate paused, uncertain, before turning and charging down the road with reckless abandon. Beside the Emperor, Steffan winced; he knew what charging heavy infantry with the advantage of a steep gradient could do. But the Daedra never got their chance; chain lightning scythed through their ranks, and more simply exploded, fire bursting from their disintegrating bodies. By the time the horses had reached the Gate, nothing remained but a few stragglers who were mercilessly cut down. Most of the Imperial force turned aside to enter Oblivion, but a force of about thirty continued on, increasing their pace.
"Open the gates," ordered Martin. By now, his smile was so wide that it felt like his face was splitting in two. The Divines had answered his prayers. Some of them, at least. As men moved to the winches, Lathar strode up.
"I assume by your face that we're winning, sire. Thought you might want to know that the Orc's back." The grizzled Redguard saluted without even waiting for a response and strode off to the West Barracks to help with the wounded.
The Divines had chosen to answer all of his prayers, it seemed. Resisting the urge to cavort and punch the air, the Emperor turned to Steffan. "Tell the commander of that force that I'll see him in the Great Hall," he said. The Grandmaster nodded, already turning away to bellow orders, his voice drowning out the ragged cheers that had started to spring up.
Gorgoth was standing in the centre of the hall, slowly removing his helmet. Behind him, only charred floorboards marked where the portal to Paradise had once stood. As the Orc took off his helmet and placed it on his hip, Martin couldn't help but notice how tired and pallid his normally rock-hard face looked; his green skin was several shades paler than normal, and there was a very slight sag to his shoulders. His eyes, though, were the same as they always were; frozen chips of yellow ice, devoid of any warmth or mercy. He noticed the Emperor and bowed slightly, holding out the Amulet of Kings.
The Imperial moved forward slowly, hesitantly taking the Amulet – his birthright – from the Orc's bloodstained gauntlet. His eyes were drawn to the magnificent ruby that seemed to drink in the light from the surrounding torches. The gold mounting was studded with other precious stones, and it felt heavy in his hand, but the gold chain was surprisingly slim. He released the clasp, his hands shaking slightly. Renault moved behind him and held his hair out of the way as he placed the Amulet around his neck and snapped the clasp shut. The Emperor looked down at the heavy ruby at his throat, then slowly raised his gaze and looked around him. He might have expected there to be an air of relief around the hall, but there was none; the Blades had all known he was their Emperor, believed it, even named him Emperor before he was officially crowned. They had not needed the Amulet's confirmation. And nor did he, he realised.
Gorgoth's face had not changed, though the sag in his shoulders had gone. "The victory is only half won, my Emperor. We must break the siege and light the Dragonfires as quickly-"
"The siege is broken, Gorgoth," claimed Steffan from behind Martin. "Bruma is safe, as is the Temple. The remaining Oblivion Gates are being closed as we speak."
Martin turned. Steffan had been joined by two others. One was an Imperial in the armour of a Legion cavalry officer. The other was an Altmer whom the ex-priest had never seen before, though he had heard him described. He'd never thought to see High Chancellor Ocato visit him in Cloud Ruler Temple, especially in such a fashion, but the Divines often answered prayers in ways common men would not expect. The noblemer was clad from neck to toe in burnished bronze plate armour which shone in the torchlight. His sword belt was studded with precious gems, and the scabbard of his scimitar was fine leather worked with gold. A golden clasp in the shape of a lightning bolt held closed a red-dyed fur cloak, and numerous runes covering his armour shone with magical enchantments. A soldier might assume that such fine armour was all for show, but Martin could see the chips where the breastplate had turned aside blades, the the hilt of the Altmer's scimitar was well-worn with blood and sweat. In his years as a politician, it had been easy to forget that Ocato had also been Imperial Battlemage for a long time, but it was a battlemage hardened by decades of war that stood before Martin now.
The High Elf's slender, aristocratic face wore a small smile as he took in the Amulet of Kings around the ex-priest's neck, but it swiftly vanished as he went smoothly to one knee, bowing his head deeply. "Martin Septim, I see that you are indeed Uriel's son, and my Emperor." Steffan looked at him sideways with a look not far short of displeasure. Martin understood why.
"Rise, High Chancellor." His voice was calm, emotionless as he tried to speak as an Emperor should. As the Altmer got to his feet, he was all too aware which one looked the part more; he must look like a beggar in tattered rags next to the High Chancellor. "How many men did you bring?"
"I left the Imperial City as soon as I could bring two legions. They are understrength in some areas, short of sixteen thousand, but I have at least fourteen thousand with me, plus all the opportunistic sellswords that rode with us. I gave their legates freedom to close any Oblivion Gate within ten miles of Bruma and Cloud Ruler Temple." A grimace crossed the High Chancellor's face. "Resistance was hard on the road north; we had to close at least ten Gates before we even reached Bruma. Casualties are mounting, but we are driving the Daedra out."
Martin allowed himself a small smile. "Most welcome help, High Chancellor, though unexpected, given the last letter I received from you..." That letter, bearing Ocato's signature and seal, had effectively named him a deluded liar. The Blades had not forgotten.
The High Chancellor nodded slowly, his mouth twisting sourly. "I must offer a humble apology, sire," he said, bowing low. "It was the work of my secretary, a man I had trusted for many years. He was an agent of the Mythic Dawn, as it turns out." He shook his head. "He made sure I never received any of your letters, sire, and he wrote the replies himself. Over the years, he'd learnt a fair imitation of my signature..." The Altmer sighed through his teeth. "If I had known sooner, I'd have surrounded you with an entire legion, but war is not won by 'if's. We are here now, and you have the Amulet of Kings."
It seemed the Mythic Dawn had reached far; they had certainly been preparing for a long time. "I see," replied Martin. "You are right; we must look forward. Put the past behind us. Grandmaster, can we have use of your office?" Steffan nodded, stepping back and preparing to lead the way. "Good. We have much to discuss, Ocato. Have you met..." He turned to gesture to Gorgoth, only to find that the Orc had disappeared. No matter; Martin could talk to him later. For now, he had plans to make. "Lead on, Steffan." He and his High Chancellor fell in behind the Grandmaster, his thoughts already on the upcoming journey to the Imperial City.
He had to light the Dragonfires quickly. Dagon had been dealt a defeat, but he would strike with renewed vengeance quickly, and the Imperial City was virtually undefended. Even so, despite the losses of the Blades, despite his own physical and mental fatigue, the Emperor had to fight to keep a smile from spreading across his face again. The war was almost won.
A/N: In case you didn't notice, there is a slight time overlap between the last two POVs; as Martin was standing in the watch tower, Gorgoth was decapitating Camoran. But sometimes that's needed. Anyhow, some parts I'm not happy with, and other parts, I like. And to clarify, I know the actual size of a Roman Legion, but this is the Imperial Legion; while very similar, my interpretation of Imperial Legion has eight thousand men in each field legion. You'll probably get more details when I write my long-distant Skyrim fic...
Anyhow, that's another chapter finished. Don't forget to review; I can't improve or take notice of your opinions if you don't. And the end is coming soon...