The Short Fight (III)
"Look out!" Mirabelle shouted, realised that was too slow, and just launched the ice spike she'd been charging.
The Morag Tong assassin—who's invisibility had just run out—leapt at Aranea, but the spell caught him in the chest and pinned him to the side of the mountain.
This meant that the Forsworn warrior Mirabelle had been aiming at went unimpeded, and was able to launch a strike with his axe that crackled against her ironflesh spell. She cried out, stumbling backwards and landing on her rear.
The spell protecting her shattered, and she froze up, panicked, as the half-naked barbarian raised his axe into the air—
Got caught by a twinned ice spike and firebolt, and was sent spinning head over heels and crashing to the ground some distance away.
"Are you alright?" Aranea asked, grabbing Mirabelle about the shoulders and hauling her to her feet.
(They'd been on horseback at first. Those hadn't lasted long.)
"I…I, yes, I'm—" Mirabelle shook her head, breath coming out in pants. "I'm not…I've never really done this before."
"Me neither." Aranea admitted, handing her another magicka potion, which she popped the cap off and drank from, heavily. Her body bucked, reflexively, and she had to struggle just to keep it down.
That was the trouble with potions. Even if you had an infinite supply of them, the body could only handle so much rapid restoration before the chemical effects started to do more harm than good. People had died from it before. And with the rapid, non-stop spells she'd been outputting, Mirabelle was rapidly reaching her limit.
She charged up another fireball all the same.
Ahead of her, the battle had stalled. Nazir, Cicero, and Babette had already slaughtered about a dozen hostiles each (the sight of which had threatened to make Mirabelle throw up where even the potions hadn't), but now their remaining enemies had become more cautious. They were refusing to rush in without at least a three-to-one advantage (and there were still plenty of them left), which was a lot of pressure for even the talented assassins to handle. The mortals were flagging (Babette was fine) even with Xander's enchanted equipment, which was why some of their enemies had managed to break through to attack the mages directly.
The only thing allowing the frontliners to hold the line was the spell-support from Aranea and Mirabelle, disrupting the enemy formation. Aranea and Mirabelle were running out of magicka.
Hjar, Margret, Karliah and L'laarzen had pushed ahead, and were nowhere to be found.
"We could back up? Find Dulurza?" Aranea offered. She too looked exhausted.
"If we do, they'll kill these three." Mirabelle said, firing off the fireball and wincing at the throb from her magicka reserves. Babette leaned aside to let it past, and it exploded at the feet of a trio of Orsimer. One of them stumbled forwards, allowing the diminutive vampire to leap up, tear out his throat with her teeth, and jump back into position as he crumpled.
He was replaced immediately with another.
"Maybe we bring down the snow, bury the path?" Mirabelle suggested, sluggishly making the motions for her next spell.
"And trap Hjar and L'laarzen on the other side with them?" Aranea grunted, hurling out an ice storm. "It's your call!"
Mirabelle grit her teeth.
"We hold out." She said. "We just need to last until the Disasters win, and can come bail us out!"
Come on, Xander. We need you.
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Having a scorching hot stick of metal through one's stomach hurt about as much as one might expect.
Hjar howled, writhing atop the silver spike Urzoga had pulled out and impaled her with. Turning to her wolf form had healed the bleeding hole in her neck, great, but she was going to die anyway if this kept up.
Who in Oblivion decided that silver should super-effect undead anyway? Why are werewolves part of that? This makes zero sense!
But then Urzoga staggered away, and turned to Margret, and that was totally unacceptable.
Hjar took in another shuddering breath, and howled again. This time, it was a cry of rage rather than pain, and the echoing howls had Urzoga's attention snapping away from the struggling Margret at her feet.
"How in the—" was all the Orc managed, before the first of the three ethereal werewolves crashed into her and took her off her feet.
Margret scrambled to get her legs under her, screaming "HJAR!" and rushing over to the werewolf kebab.
With her girlfriend safe, Hjar could worry about her own freedom (and imminent death). Impalement was still not fun, and she tried smashing her claws into the spike, but no dice. It just hurt more, and it seemed more likely that the silver would cut her arm in half rather than vice-versa.
Need something that's not allergic to it. I could transform back and summon my mace, but if I got caught on this as a human I don't know if I'd live long enough to swing it—
But Margret was already moving. She looked around, eyes widening, and snatched up Faolan's blade.
Oh. Yeah, that'll probably do it.
'HURRY PLEASE!', Hjar tried to say, but what came out was more like "OWROOOO!"
"I'm hurrying!" Margret shouted back anyway, raising the blade.
Scant metres away, Urzoga was not dying. A ghost-wolf got her on her back and started clawing, but another spike of silver burst from between her shoulder blades, blowing a hole through its face and disintegrating it. She stood with an agonised shout and whipped the metal limb around, cracking one wolf across the face before manifesting a battle-axe to smash into the other's chest as it continued to claw at her.
Margret's first swing shook the pillar (Ow), her second put a significant gash in it (OW), but there wasn't enough time for a third because Hjar's shifting weight in werewolf form was enough to flex the pillar and then, finally, snap it.
She collapsed to the floor, whining, still impaled. Margret dropped the sword and immediately grasped the end of the pole, while Hjar did the same just in front of her chest, the metal scorching her paws even as she touched it.
They heaved.
The following few seconds were almost the most unpleasant in Hjar's life. The only reason they weren't were because, when she'd gone down the Waterslide Of Death, she'd been alone.
Eventually, though, the spike clattered to the floor, and Hjar collapsed on her back. The giant hole in her chest was a relief, in the same way it'd be a relief if you didn't have to go on an awkward date because your legs had fallen off.
She whined, piteously, and tried not to curl into a ball.
"Hjar! Hjar, talk to me, are you okay?" Margret rushed in and grabbed her snout, looking into her eyes.
'M fine. Crap, still can't talk.
Hjar grunted, which she knew wasn't an answer, and tried to phase back. There was still the hole in her, but the werewolf healing was getting to it, and it would be smaller in human form, and to be honest she was probably going to have to transform again to fix it anyway.
"Damnit—Here!" Margret fiddled in her pouch as Hjar gradually became a fur-covered, not-naked (hot damn Xander wasn't kidding) woman, before producing a red vial. "Drink, fast!"
"We have healing potions?" Hjar exclaimed, before grasping it and putting it to her mouth.
How come I never have time to drink a healing—
And out the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of silver streaking towards Margret.
She didn't hesitate. Dropping the half-swallowed potion, she shoved her girlfriend aside and jumped in the way.
A lash of metal—not sharp, not really—crashed into her back and wrapped around her stomach, before yanking her backwards. She skidded across the snow for a few metres, crying out and trying to resummon her mace—
And then she was hauled upwards, one hand pinning her own to her chest while a blade came up to a throat.
"Well well well." Urzoga's voice growled in her ear. "Anyone else get that feeling of déjà vu?"
8˂
L'laarzen hit the snow next to Karliah and groaned.
Her body was ruined. It was, somewhat ironically, in about as bad of a condition as Mercer had left her in.
Only this time, the damage is almost entirely self-inflicted. She reached up with the one arm that still (mostly) worked to touch the key at her neck, and put all the ordinary limiters on her body right back where they were. Her pupils contracted back to normal for the light level, her brain noticeably slowed, and a number of involuntary twitches she couldn't control went still.
It didn't help with the damage she'd already accrued, but at least it would stop them getting worse.
"Argh—" L'laarzen spat out a mouthful of blood. It appeared she'd bit a chunk out of her own tongue without realising it. "Are you alright, Karliah?"
"I'm alive." Karliah didn't sound too happy about it, groaning and sitting up. "I'm not built to take so much punish—" Her eyes widened "LOOK OUT!"
A boot slammed into the Nightingale's face, sending her rolling further down the mountain. L'laarzen tried to turn onto her back, only for a hand to latch onto her throat, shoving her halfway into the snow.
Mirri Ulen looked like Oblivion warmed up. The parasite on her left arm was gone, along with most of her left arm, leaving only a charred stump that leaked ash and blood onto the snow. One of her legs was crooked, dragging behind the other, and a decent amount of the left side of her torso was just gone.
Mirri didn't look like she was going to live much longer.
L'laarzen didn't fancy her chances either.
"Why?" Mirri growled, pressing down on L'laarzen's throat. "Why do you still exist?"
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Dulurza tried, once more, to punch Larak in the face. Three guesses how that went. He caught the fist in one hand and clenched, making her scream as the bones in her knuckles shattered.
Physical features when you were mortal must transfer over when you're turned. Sybille wasn't anywhere near this strong.
It wasn't a helpful thought. Mostly, at this point, Dulurza was panicking. Larak was stronger than her, faster than her, she'd ran out of tricks and stamina and now he had her on her knees.
What did she have that he didn't? Tits? Not helpful. Teammates? Her allies were all caught up in their own battles. She couldn't think of anything that would stop Larak from plunging his teeth into her neck.
He's actually going to turn me into a vampire. Am I going to lose my soul? What's it going to do to me? Is Elisif—
Gods, what if I hurt Elisif—
She strained, with all the desperation left in her body, but Larak barely seemed to notice her struggles. He opened his mouth, revealing extra-sharpened teeth, and—
Darted his head up, sniffing the air and scowling.
Dulurza blinked, and through her concussion, realised that the mountain was rumbling.
Are the Greybeards shouting again? Did the Dragon get mad? Is there an avalanche?
(There was, in fact, an avalanche currently going on, but Dulurza wasn't aware of it.)
But the noise, she was pretty sure, was coming from down the mountain. And it was getting louder.
She'd have turned to look but Larak had a vice grip on her head and wasn't letting her move it. But he wasn't eating her, which was good.
"See something funny?" Dulurza grunted. "It's called snow, Larak, and it—"
"OI! YOU!"
That…wasn't Larak. Dulurza's eyes widened.
"GET AWAY FROM MY SISTER!"
The words snapped Larak into action. He moved to finish the bite, but then immediately froze again, his silhouette flashing blue. His fingers twitched outwards, releasing their grip, and Dulurza collapsed to the floor as he was forced backwards, standing upright—
When the head of an enormous hammer crashed into his stomach, sending him tumbling backwards across the path.
Only then did Dulurza look up and see what was happening.
"Do you always end up fighting vampires if I don't see you for a few weeks?" Said Borgakh, standing next to her with a smile on her face and Volendrung in hand. "How have you survived this long?"
"Oh, I quite agree." Said another voice. "The next time someone asks to borrow you on a secret mission, I'm just going to say no."
Elisif the fair hopped down from a horse (hoofbeats, the noise was hoofbeats) and approached with an expression of mock offense.
"In my defence." Dulurza croaked. "It's…uh…it's all Xander's fault."
"Oh, that tracks." Elisif crouched down next to her, putting a hand to her cheek. "Are you alright? Here, I have potions—"
Borgakh took a protective stance in front of them both, as some distance away, Larak got back to his feet. The sound of hooves clattering on stone continues, as a long column of steeds charged past them up the mountain.
In one glance, Dulurza saw over a dozen figures she dimly recognised: Thongvor and Faleen from Markarth, Bolgeir hopping down to stand by his Jarl, people in the outfits of the Thieves' Guild, city guardsmen in red, blue and grey, Forsworn, Orsimer warriors.
"What—" Dulurza croaked, between mouthfuls of healing potion, "Where did all these people come from?"
"You've made more friends than you think." Elisif said with a smile, offering her a hand. "And besides. Everyone hates the Thalmor."
"…I love you so much." Dulurza took the hand, getting to her feet.
"Sis." Borgakh called, warningly. "What's traitor-face doing here?"
The three of them turned to face Larak, who was looking between them with rage…and no small amount of wariness.
Dulurza's expression hardened. "Nothing worth the time to talk about. Dad's dead, Borgakh."
She met her sister's eye. Borgakh looked at her for a few seconds. Nodded. "Then lets let his body know."
She kicked up Dulurza's axe, and handed it over. Dulurza took it with newly repaired fingers, and narrowed her eyes.
Behind them, Elisif's fingers lit up with spellfire.
Short fight.
They both charged.
Bolts of magic flew over their heads, and Larak darted unnaturally to avoid them, but they curved and came back around to strike him in the back. He stumbled, barely got his shield in the way of Dulurza's axe, ducked a swing from Borgakh's hammer, tried to strike at Borgakh but a green bolt from Elisif froze his arm in its place and he got a kick to his chest for the trouble.
He hissed, lashing at Dulurza with the shield. She blocked it with her axe, twisted it away and struck at his leg. He raised it, but Borgakh's next strike hit his mace while he was off-balance and sent it skittering away. He kicked at her to make distance, but that meant he had nowhere else to pivot to.
Dulurza's next swing severed his other leg at knee.
The scream he produced was inhuman, and so was his balance, as he was able to land on his remaining leg. Tried to punch Borgakh, but she punched him right back, and the enhanced strength of Volendrung trumped his vampirism, shattering knucklebones and forcing him to roll backwards into a knee. Dulurza kicked his shield away, and a larger bolt of green from Elisif took him right in the chest, freezing his entire body.
For a moment, Dulurza felt really, truly, sorry for him.
So let's give him some relief.
Her axe swipe outpaced Borgakh's hammer swing by a fraction of a second. What that meant was that Larak's head separated from his body just before his skull shattered into a thousand pieces.
"DOWN, PRETTYGIRL!"
The battle lines had fallen apart.
Mirabelle was about to be stabbed to death by a Forsworn who was using a ward to block her flames spell (she was genuinely out of magicka for anything bigger, and had thrown up the last magicka potion she'd tried to drink) when Cicero barged her out of the way, taking the blade in the side of his chest.
The Forsworn looked shocked, and then much more so when Cicero buried a dagger in his throat.
"Filthy heathens…Oh, if only I were not so weak, I could slay them all myself…" Cicero yanked the sword out of himself, whistled, and hurled it across the path to Nazir, who began dual wielding it with his own to protect Aranea. Babette was stuck in the middle of a circle of pokey sharp things, bleeding from multiple lacerations and hissing.
"Why…why did you—" Mirabelle spluttered. Her head was swimming too much for her to form coherent sentences.
Cicero turned to her and beamed with what looked to be genuine joy, even as he bled onto the snow. "You are favoured of the Listener, my dear! It would be quite remiss if I did not protect you!"
Oh, right. That's why Xander didn't kill the crazy one.
Mirabelle turned, seeing a pair of Orcs and a Morag Tong assassin rushing towards her, and raised her arms up towards them, sucking in a breath.
"COME ON THEN, YOU BASTARDS!" She screamed, adrenaline pumping at a mile a minute, "SEE WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU GET ANY CLOSER TO ME!"
They…stopped.
Mirabelle blinked, because she hadn't actually expected that. Then heard the rattling of hooves on cobblestones, and a voice calling:
"On your left!"
She turned and saw Jarl Korir riding up the mountain on horseback, leading a pack of dozens of warriors. Some began to dismount and fight directly, others just crashed through the enemy lines atop their mounts, swiping left and right.
"Korir? Mirabelle gasped. "What are…why are—"
"What? You thought you could put my war on hold, then go out to pick a fight with the Thalmor and not invite me?" Korir was genuinely laughing, as he batted a spell away with the shield Xander had enchanted for him. "I followed as soon as I could get the Men together! I'm just glad there's still a fight left!"
"Oh…good…" Mirabelle's body chose that moment to stop holding her up. Thankfully, Cicero caught her.
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Hjar carefully did not wriggle, with the sword at her throat. But she did open her mouth and say "Oh, this is what's it's like to be damselled."
"Yeah, it sucks, doesn't it!" Margret stopped, a good five metres away. "Urzoga! Put her down!"
"See that sounds like a really bad idea." Urzoga replied. "Unless you mean 'kill her, drop her, and then kill you afterwards'…which I am planning to do, I'm just savouring the moment."
She was panting, Hjar realised; silver was leaking from myriad wounds even on the parts of her Hjar could see, leftover damage from the ethereal wolves. She's acting confident, but she might not win against Margret in her condition.
"Urzoga." Hjar said, carefully. "I want you to think back to the last few times you've been involved in a hostage situation with me. I want you to think about how badly that went for the people that tried it."
"I've survived just fine." Urzoga pointed out.
"Because I let you go. I can be reasoned with, you've seen this, and that—" Hjar didn't dare point, didn't dare nod, but her attention was on the increasing commotion coming from further down the mountain. "—is a sign that we are winning. Drop me, we'll let you go. Try to stab me and you will not get out of this alive."
"It's impressive that you can negotiate so confidently with a sword at your throat." Urzoga leaned in, and whispered in her ear. "But mercenaries have a reputation, little werewolf. I can't go scurrying away from you this time."
Hjar closed her eyes.
Fact: Urzoga has me at sword-point and intends to kill me.
Fact: I cannot be permitted to die. Margret would be upset.
"Hjar, I'm starting to see how you felt all the times I was in that spot." Margret's attempts to remain flippant were breaking down a little. She glanced behind herself, then back again, calling "And Thongvor and Kaie are coming! They're right there!"
Urzoga snorted. "Oh, alright, so I kill her now."
"Wait, no!" Margret jolted forwards, reaching out desperately, "Don't, uh, don't you want to kill her in front of her fiancé? Wouldn't that be more fun?"
"Not helping!" Hjar squeaked.
"Nah, I've heard the stories. I don't give a damn about him." Urzoga pointed with one hand (the sword remained at Hjar's throat). "But you…It's gonna be fun butchering this bitch in front of her girlfriend."
Fact: I can probably force myself to transform into a werewolf again now.
Fact: If Urzoga spots this starting, she'll try to kill me instantly.
Hjar shivered, blood and silver dripping down her cheek.
Fact: If I—
Wait.
…Blood and silver.
Hjar, as gently as she could, began to work the Ring of Hircine free of her finger.
"Okay, why is it that literally everyone Always calls us girlfriends?" Margret exclaimed.
"I know, right?" Hjar met her eyes and smiled. "You'd think they'd have clocked by now that you mean so much more to me than that."
Margret's eyes widened.
Urzoga barked out a laugh.
And Hjar jammed the ring of Hircine onto Urzoga's finger.
The effect was immediate. Urzoga stiffened, and Hjar shoved forwards, the silver sword at her throat disintegrating as she hurled herself through it and away. A dagger went whizzing over her shoulder, and then Margret was holding her, pulling her away.
Hjar took one look behind her, and regretted it. Urzoga was spasming, her eyes bulging, body distorting. Silver burst from her skin and dripped from her wounds.
Margret gulped. "Is she turning into a—"
"Yep." Said Hjar.
"And her body's full of—"
"Yep."
"…What's that going to—"
"I won't look if you don't."
Hjar and Margret shared a glance, then clutched onto each other, eyes closed.
Behind them came some bubbling, roiling noises. Then a gargled scream—
Then a burst.
Hjar felt something wet hit her hair, and shuddered.
"…What in the name of HIRCINE'S LEFT TESTICLE was THAT?" Demanded Thongvor, from horseback right next to them.
8˂
"Why do you still try?" Mirri hissed, blood and spittle flying from her mouth, "Why must you keep spreading misery with your every breath?"
L'laarzen gasped. Both legs and one arm were functionally useless. She would only have one shot.
"Before…because she enjoyed it." She said, weakly. "No more. L'laarzen fights, because…she has found…others, she must, fight for…"
"Oh you found others." Mirri made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "Good for you, moving on. Vendil was my everything. I loved him, and you killed him."
"Yes. L'laarzen killed him. L'laarzen loved him too." L'laarzen's vision started to blur. "He said…that perhaps we were destined to hurt those we love."
Mirri's grip weakened. She sagged atop L'laarzen slightly, sucking in a shaky breath. "Do you still think that's true?"
"Not always." L'laarzen gasped out between shallow breaths. "Khajiit will not repeat her mistakes. She has learned. She will do better."
"You really don't give in, do you?" Mirri chuckled, weakly. "I don't have your tenacity. I…I just want to stop hurting."
She met L'laarzen's eyes. "Where do you think he went? Do you think…will I be able to see him again? Will you?"
L'laarzen breathed out.
Then lashed up with her one good hand and buried her claws in Mirri's throat. The power of the Nightingale, the Full Moon, burst to life at her whim, draining the remaining life energy from L'laarzen's target. Bones and muscles knitted themselves back together, as blood splattered onto her chest.
"Maybe we will both be lucky." L'laarzen whispered.
Mirri's eyes glazed over, and she toppled to the side.
That was where Brynjolf found them, some seconds later.
Cassia had already decided to cut the power to the flame propulsion spell: After two seconds, or when Octavia tried to kill her, whichever came first. So she was only a little offended when a purple dagger lashed out at her just about the moment they left the peak, forcing her to stop the fire and let go of her very angry sister.
The fact that they were now plummeting off the edge of a cliff wasn't really a concern to either mage. Cassia redirected the bursts of fire to slow her descent, pushing herself back to the mountainside, while Octavia summoned some hideous winged Daedra that grabbed her by the shoulders, helping her glide down to a rock outcropping.
The two stared at each other across ten metres of empty air, the mountain falling away beneath them.
"What the ASS, CASSIA!" Octavia spat, dismissing the Daedra and glaring daggers. "You had ONE JOB!"
It was the kind of tone that usually made Cassia flinch and cower. But she held her sister's gaze.
"This isn't right, Octavia! You know it, and so do I!"
"You couldn't have betrayed us earlier?" Octavia pointed up to the mountain's peak, from which flashes and booms emanated. "People are dying up there!"
"THALMOR are dying!" Cassia countered. "And you wanna kill all of them afterwards, so don't pull that crap! Paarthurnax might be dying too, though, and I'm not letting that happen! He's not done anything wrong in millennia!"
"People Die In War! Sometimes, people much better than that Dragon!"
"But we don't cause those, remember? Because we're the good guys!"
"Oh, stop being such a child!" Octavia barked out a laugh. "I literally tortured a woman because I was upset, Cassia! If you think the Empire's never done anything a hundred times as bad as killing an innocent, for a hundredth of the benefit one of those eyes, you have even less of a clue than I thought about the way the world works!"
"Because you don't tell me anything!" Cassia shot back—
"Because you're a liability!" Octavia pointed a finger at her. "Because you haven't grown up enough to function in a world where you know the things we keep from you! I'm only sorry that I wasn't good enough at lying to you to keep you following your pissing orders, otherwise I would have left you at home!"
The words hurt. A lot. Cassia had no idea if she was crying or not, she was too busy being utterly furious.
"And you think Julius isn't thinking the exact same thing about you?" She said. "Cos he's good at that, isn't he? 'Oh, sis, it's me and you against the world, you're the only one I can trust with these secrets', even though he's not been telling us ANYTHING!"
Octavia grimaced. "Julius wants the same thing I want—"
"So he's SAID! This is what happens when we can't trust each other, what happens when you two start getting delusions of grandeur and decide to poison your friends instead of talking to them! At least Xander never tried to drag me into anything like this without explaining what he knew!"
"XANDER—"
"Killed the Emperor, I KNOW! And you're pissed because protecting him was your job, well SCREW YOUR DAMN JOB!" Cassia practically howled it, then stood there panting for a few moments. "You don't know why he did it. I don't know why he did it. Julius might know why he did it but he sure ain't telling us!"
Octavia scoffed. "And what, you think there's any good reason to—"
"I DON'T KNOW!" Cassia threw her hands up. "I could think of fifty reasons off the top of my head why, but I have no idea if any of them are true! Maybe he's crazy, and if he's crazy, then we'll beat some sense into him and drag him home!" She stomped her foot. "But I am NOT going ONE STEP FURTHER with your STUPID SUPERWEAPON PLAN until I am SURE, AND THAT'S FINAL!"
Silence, except for the sounds of wind and distant battle.
Cassia took several deep breaths to try and steady herself. "So. Come on, let's go ask him."
"Cass."
She looked up, and saw Octavia pointing a bound bow at her.
Cassia laughed. She actually laughed. "Oh, for the Divines' sake, stop making a fool of yourself."
"Cassia—"
"Put that ridiculous thing down and come with me. We're going to talk to Xander."
"Cassia, I will—"
"No, you won't." Cassia turned to glare at her. "Because you can't do anything to stop me short of killing me, and you won't kill me. That, if nothing else, I still believe."
She turned her back, checked her magical senses for her other siblings, found them, and started around the side of the mountain at a run.
Forty eight seconds later, a pair of footfalls fell in with hers, and she didn't even try to suppress a grin.
"Stop sodding smiling." Octavia growled from her shoulder.
"I'm not gonna do that."
"Mum's going to kill us."
"That's what I said!"
"Yol Toor Shul!" Paarthurnax belched a great gout of flame and whipped his head around, carpeting a swathe of terrain in flames. The attack caught out one of the mortals, cooking him inside his armour before his allies could try to put him out with frost magic. But at this point, minutes into the battle, the ones still alive were the ones who knew what they were doing. Most of them put up ward spells when they heard the Shout coming, and the fire washed over them harmlessly. He could have broken any of those wards with a concentrated attack, absolutely; but focusing for more than a few seconds on any one target would leave him far too exposed.
Spells and arrows constantly smashed against his scales. Some deflected, some dug in. He leapt to a higher spot on the mountain peak, trying to clamp his jaws around one of the annoying snipers, but it turned invisible and fled as he did. He could have tracked it down with smell, yes, but the intensity of fire from the others immediately increased the moment his attention left them. He was forced to snarl, detach himself, and glide back down towards a patch of targets.
One strong opponent, he could focus all his attention on. A group of weak foes, he could kill in swathes with his wide-area attacks. But these mortals were right in the sweet spot of being too hard to kill with a single quick strike, and yet too many for him to effectively hunt them one by one.
They have trained for this. Damn them! Is this the anguish that my brothers began to feel as the Great War came to a close, when the mortals adapted and they could not?
Their technique was only part of the problem, of course. A few millennia ago, he would have relished the opportunity to battle a group so expertly prepared, to find the holes in their strategies and exploit them, to prove his own superiority. But in those millennia, his skill in battle had rusted from misuse, and the damage from his battle with Alduin left him weaker still. Even he could not be in earshot of the Dovahkiin's unthinkable new Shout, almost a dozen times, without suffering some harm to his soul.
Paarthurnax could not muster up the strength to fly.
Could any lesser dragon do better here? No, probably not. Perhaps he could take solace in that as he died.
He swiped his tail, catching one mortal and tossing them into the word-wall, leaving a red smear. A roaring sound caught his attention, and he snapped his head to the side with a growl.
The mad-Mer had reappeared, with the Dovah-soul-crystal in her hands. Energy crackled from it, and with a scream of an emotion he couldn't discern, she blasted a torrent of fire at him that was comparable to his own.
There was no Dovah in Nirn who would back down from a challenge that explicit.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!" Paarthurnax repeated, and their flames clashed between them, bursting out to either side and incinerating another mortal who got caught in the chaos.
He would win. He knew he would. She was no Tongue, and her bootleg, inefficient method of drawing forth the power was not even robbing a Dovah as strong as he. But that was assuming their clash remained fair.
Seeing his distraction, more of the mortals rushed in, drawing larger blades and hacking at his wings and hindquarters. He bashed at them with his wings, to minimal effect, but couldn't turn his head away or else surrender to the mad-Mer's attack.
Paarthurnax knew he could hold out until the spell destroyed her, if only these other mortals would leave him be, but the strikes only increased in number, and then in his periphery he saw some come charging with axes towards his neck—
FINE THEN!
He cut the Shout and lashed to the side, managing to bite one mortal in half just before the fire crashed into him and bowled him over backwards, sending him sprawling across the summit.
His scales were mostly resistant to the heat, but the recently opened wounds all over his body stung. He would have roared in pain, if he hadn't known that doing so would expose his throat to the damage, and so he kept his jaws clamped firmly shut.
Fortunately, as he'd suspected, the mad-Mer could not maintain the attack for much longer. The flames relented, and he sagged, rolling until he could get his claws underneath him. Shakily, he raised his head.
The other mortals were slowly approaching, but Paarthurnax's eyes locked onto the mad-Mer. Though the hand touching the Dovah-soul-crystal was visibly reddened, she had an expression of pure rapture on her face.
"Glorious…" She breathed. "So, this is the power of a Dragon?"
"Bah." Paarthurnax spat. "Do not make me laugh. I have tasted curries with more fire than you."
The mad-Mer blinked. "You…have?"
"Arngeir is an excellent cook."
Paarthurnax's flippancy may have been surprising to the mortals, but it was characteristic of an important realisation.
He was going to die here.
How inconvenient. My apologies, Kyne, Shor. You bid me hold this peak until the Calper ends, or else Mundus would end before it. I suppose, if the Dragonborn fails, I will not have broken the streak too early…
Hm. Not much of a consolation. Sod that, how do I spite these little bastards?
The Long Sleep was something the Dov could understand, even if they were too prideful to ever consider it. But this abomination, this false-Dovahkiin-Elven-crystal-magic, this he did not like one bit.
Paarthurnax was willing to die. But that rock had to go.
He inhaled, spread his wings—BO—and leapt into the sky.
The mortals resumed their attack, but most of the spells and arrows missed entirely as he climbed higher, higher, then tucked his wings and looked down towards the Dovah-soul-crystal.
The mad-Mer attempted to repeat her attack, launching another blast of flame up at him—But there was more to battle between Dov than power, as she would now learn.
One last lesson, mortals: Always, in all things, focus.
"FUS ROH DAH, MORAH!" Paarthurnax roared as he dove, producing a supersonic boom that cracked the very stone of the mountain and swept the snow from the air. From his mouth rocketed, not a wave of power, but a compact bullet of force. It tore straight through the middle of the cone of fire, blasting it out to either side and streaking towards its target.
The mad-Mer (wisely) made to throw herself out of the way, but this was not a problem, for the target was not she.
The bullet whizzed through the flame, and slammed into the side of the crystal that contained the soul of one of his brothers—
Right where, almost invisible to mortal eyes, one could see a small crack in the diamond.
Ping!
And then the mountain air was rent by the mightiest explosion of the night.
Paarthurnax crashed right into it.
CHECKOV'S GEM CRACK, BABY! I do so enjoy setting things like this up.
(Though, honestly, I didn't really need to. I was planning to have Paarthurnax destroy the crystal long before I made the offhand joke of Xander dropping them into each other. There's a lesson in writing there, I suppose; foreshadowing is cheap.)
The greater battle for the Throat of the World is now over, with the majority of our Disasters confirmed as survivors. Do you guys have any idea how hard it is to have four different battles reach their dramatic climax simultaneously? It's very sodding hard, that's how hard. If this were a TV show I could have rapid cuts between each character almost dying before the big moment of relief, but in writing, its harder to get away with scene changes that come that fast. Maybe I could have done it better. I don't know. Tell me what you thought.
So here's the thing. The next chapter is the Xander/Julius fight. I have not written it yet. I have no idea how long it's going to be. If it winds up full-chapter length, I'll just drop it next Saturday. If it isn't, well, we'll see. The drop-time of it and the chapter that follows it may be a bit fragmented.
Until then, relax, review, and be glad I haven't murdered any major protagonists.
Yet.