The Black Prince ripped the blade of Heartstopper from the Dunmer warrior's back with a burst of crimson that splattered over the already blood-stained deck. For a second the blade began to glow a bright green, the blood on it seeming to be absorbed by the black metal, but it stopped as soon as the Prince sheathed the blade, along with its 'brother-blade' Fleshtearer, the identical sword crackling with arcane lightning momentarily before the ebony sheath closed up around it.
Looking up from the corpse of the Dunmer sailor he had just slain, the Prince noticed the dead Elf's own blade lying discarded, his severed right hand still clutching its handle, across the deck.
"Almost didn't seem a fair fight." He mused as he looked out over the rest of the ship, then added with a grin, "Almost…"
From his position on the top deck of the Imperial Navy ship, he could see right across the entirety of Fort Polaris, the fortified harbour he and the Black Army had stormed barely an hour ago. The docks and warehouses behind him were still wreathed with smoke from extinguished fires but the Prince had made sure to leave a detachment of his own troops here, alongside a unit of engineers and automatons, to rebuild and refortify the harbour and its walls. The High Queen could make good use of this place. Besides, he thought with a smile, the queen wouldn't want her new fleet to burn.
All around the large galleon he stood on the top deck of were more ships, ranging from Imperial galleons stacked with ballistae and catapults to sleek dromons, the distinctive warships of the Dunmer, capped with steel rams and armoured prows of iron. Their masts, all flying both the dragon flag of the Empire and scarab sigil of House Redoran, stretched out beyond as sprawling and as dense as the pine forests of Skyrim. Looking out over the grey water, he could see the stone lighthouse at the far end of the port lit up in a burst of flame, and he grinned.
The port, and at least two dozen of House Redoran's finest warships, were now in the hands of the Dwemer.
Looking down at the deck below, strewn with countless Dunmer corpses, he called out to one of the ten soldiers he had brought with him to clear this ship.
"Ishkur! Zarich's detachment have taken the lighthouse and lit the beacon! Send word to all our forces! We are victorious!"
The Prince's lieutenant, Ishkur, a lithe soldier in the army's distinctive black armour, clutching a Daedric bow in hand, saluted quickly and drew a small lexicon from his belt.
Walking down the wooden stairs to the lower decks, his armoured boots slipping slightly on the Dunmer blood coating every step and his large purple cape opening up in the breeze, the Prince removed his helmet, letting the cool sea winds fall on his pale face. Looking out at the fleet around them, he could hear a chorus of cheers and shouts from the other ships, as more of his troops, victorious in their own captures of the Dunmer ships, began flying the Dwemer banner from their masts.
His plan had been simple but effective. The walls of Fort Polaris were high and broad, the majority of the House Redoran troops garrisoning its strong gates and towers. And yet all it had taken was an attack at the very dead of night, where his soldier's black armour made them nearly invisible-and the bleached bone armour and bright torches of the Dunmer made them almost too easy to find. The Prince had been the first to scale the walls, as always, and it had been him that had assassinated the entire fort's commanders- by dropping through the roof of the tower they were meeting in and cutting them all down in seconds. Once the walls were clear the scattered crews of the ships in the harbour, little more than fishermen and merchant sailors conscripted by House Redoran, were easy prey for the swords of the Black Army.
Turning back to Ishkur, the Prince barked another order, "I want all my men assembled on this ship within the next ten minutes. The relief force should be here within the hour to requisition these ships for the war effort. I hope General Bahrma appreciates my gift when he storms Blacklight! As for us, I want to be en-route to Solstheim by then! And somebody get those damn engineers on board! If they're going to cower for the whole battle they should make themselves useful now it's over!"
Ascending once more to the top deck, the Black Prince watched with pride as his army began to rush to work, others beginning to arrive on small row boats, mostly more black armoured warriors with various patterns of bloodstains on their armour, but also a large amount of Dunmer labourers to crew the boat and a few skittish looking engineers in green robes. All around him the labourers were clearing away the bodies and preparing the ship to sail, the engineers were activating spider automatons that scuttled across the deck and everywhere his warriors were preparing themselves for battle, checking weapons, loading crossbows and bringing aboard stacks of provisions, ammunition and ingots of ebony and Dwemer metal for battlefield repairs.
Letting a slight smile cross his face, the Prince looked out over the gentle waves of the Red Sea, watching how the firelight from the shoreline played across its waters, giving the ocean its name. And, just visible in the distance as a grey smear on the horizon as the sun slowly rose above the endless sea beyond…"
"Solstheim." The Prince said reverently. Soon, their attack would begin, and the world would never be the same again.
000000
The newly risen sun's rays beat down relentlessly upon the coast of Vvardenfell as Serana and the battered remains of General Tullius' Fifth Legion, barely a hundred of them, staggered through the gates of Fort Reclusion.
As the fort's towering gates closed behind them, Serana, her face burning hot and her mouth feeling as if it was full of sand, felt a slight sense of relief pass through her.
Fort Reclusion was a decent sized town, its walls tall and broad, made out of black stone and baked sand while the streets beyond were as ordered and wide as any town in Cyroddil. The former vampire looked around with a weak smile on her face, at the timber roofs and expensive glass windows, the well-dressed Imperial and Dunmer residents dressed in fine silks and robes from High Rock and Hammerfell. Atop the walls and standing all around were scores of Imperial soldiers in leather and steel armour, their eyes wide at the sight of General Tullius, not riding in triumph on a white horse with a full Legion behind his back, but stumbling down the cobblestone street supported by two exhausted soldiers with the battered remnants of his once proud army behind him. And above it all fluttered the dragon banner of the Empire, proud and defiant as it flew from every tower and the masts of the dozen or so Imperial ships in the small harbour.
"General Tullius sir!" shouted a voice from within the watching crowd, and a gaunt faced Dark Elf in the armour and ornate cape of a Legate came pushing through the crowd, two Dark Elf Legionnaires at his back, "What happened?"
"Dwarves ambushed us," Tullius replied in his familiar gravelly tone, "This is all that's left."
A collective look of fear passed through the crowd, who now began talking in low voices amongst themselves. The Legate looked around at the increasingly desperate looking civilians around them, and quickly turned back to Tullius.
"I think we should take this inside, sir." He said quickly, and, at a nod from the Legate, a large group of Imperial soldiers pushed their way through the crowd and formed up around the battered remains of the Fifth Legion, escorting them at a quick march down the road.
Serana felt relieved as the ranks of Legionnaires closed around them. She saw Lydia, currently being held on a crude stretcher by two exhausted healers, be taken by a trio of heavyset Orcs and a small Breton healer.
"We'll get her some proper medical attention," the Breton said kindly, patting Serana on the shoulder with a wrinkled hand before leading the Orc stretcher bearers away and down another street, along with the rest of the wounded.
Up ahead the Legate and Tullius were deep in conversation.
"My name is Legate Helseth. I'm the commander of Imperial forces for this town and the surrounding area."
"What have you been doing to prepare for the Dwemer's attack?" Tullius asked bluntly, and the Dunmer visibly paled.
"The Dwemer can't be attacking us yet? Red Mountain is at least a week's ride from here."
"Their mechanical mounts don't tire. And we last encountered them barely a few days ago when they wiped out most of the survivors of our Legion. We found the rest of these men wandering the roads looking for the remains of their own units. Has there been any word from General Gaius in Blacklight?"
"The general sent a messenger hawk barely a day ago sir." Helseth said, "He told us to evacuate all civilians and military personnel across the Inner Sea and to head for the Skyrim border."
"Then why haven't you?"
"We had to wait to see if any more troops made it."
"Orders are orders Legate!" Tullius snapped, "The general gave you a direct order! He may be more of a scholar than a soldier these days but General Gaius is your superior officer!"
"But Sir I-"Helseth protested, but the general was having none of it.
"I want all those ships in the harbour prepared and supplied within the day. We haven't seen any remaining soldiers out on the roads except what you see here. As for civilians, they've either fled or are being taken prisoner by the Dwemer. You're putting this whole town at risk by waiting!" he added, before saying in a lower tone. "I need your largest ship fully prepared and stocked with all the arms and armour you can spare. And any of your troops not needed to escort the civilians to Skyrim."
Helseth looked visibly shocked at that, and started speaking in a low whisper. If Serana hadn't been standing right behind the two men, she wouldn't have caught the next bit of conversation.
"Sir, I…I can't do that," the Dark Elf said in a worried tone, "Half of these men aren't even proper soldiers. They're just young idiots who wanted to see the world and make some coin doing it."
"Then give me the half of your men who are real soldiers." Tullius replied simply, "If General Gaius is setting up defences at Blacklight he's going to need every soldier he can get."
"The general forbade me from sending any troops or ships to Blacklight! They've already raised the Ebony Chain across the harbour and barred the gates. The general is trying to tie up as many Dwemer forces as possible while the civilians get to safety."
"A sound plan. But Gaius has always been a sentimental fool. He's going to need every man he can get against those golden bastards. He can't afford to let his emotions get in the way of strategy. The only reason I'm not taking any of these men and women with me is they'll be more of a hindrance than a help when the Dwemer storm Blacklight."
"You're making it sound like Blacklight is already gone!" the Dunmer hissed. "My brothers are part of the garrison there. My family have been in the city guard since the time of Vivec! Besides, House Redoran isn't going to go down without a real fight."
"Look…" Tullius said in a softer tone, his more compassionate side showing for a brief time, "I've seen first-hand how the Dwemer fight, and that was only their vanguard. If the stories of some of those soldiers we found were true, that was only a glimpse of their true strength. They'll bring their full strength to bear on Blacklight."
"Then why are you going there! We've been receiving messages from the High King of Skyrim himself. They're building an army as we speak! All the armies of Hammerfell and High Rock are riding to Skyrim! The emperor himself will soon be calling the barons of Cyroddil to war. They need you in Skyrim Tullius," he added, a more pleading tone in his voice now. "If what you're saying about Blacklight being nothing but an obstacle in the road for the Dwemer, why are you so ready to throw your life away when they need you back with the Legion?"
Tullius nodded but his face remained defiant, "The armies of Tamriel will have to wait. We're going to have to fight this war one battle at a time. This isn't like the First Great War. This won't be decided by one big battle. We're going to have to fight the Dwemer every step of the way until we can turn their advance back, and then we're going to have to fight them all the way back to Red Mountain. At least if we make them pay dearly for Blacklight, it'll help the armies over the border in the long run."
Serana had heard enough. Pushing between the two men she looked at both of them with fury on her face.
"You're throwing your life away General!" she snapped, "Do you have some kind of death wish!"
"Auxiliary!" Tullius roared, but then Helseth cut in.
"She has a point sir. Anyway, we can discuss this inside, as I said before." He added, and Serana looked up from the two quarrelling officers.
Up ahead loomed a squat Imperial fort, the traditional square of stout walls and towers built into the side of the town wall, at its centre a large central keep with a single circular tower at its centre.
As the column of troops passed over the drawbridge, past a ditch filled with wooden stakes, and into the fort beyond- a sprawl of barracks buildings and storehouses, the Dunmer turned back to Serana and the general.
"If we're going to talk about suicide missions, can we at least do it away from my men?"
000000
After the rest of the Fifth Legion survivors were led away for some much needed sleep and medical attention from the fort's healers, Helseth led Tullius and Serana into the keep, past the main hall, currently filled with Legionnaires stacking up crates of supplies and weaponry, and up a twisting flight of stairs to the top of the main tower.
The Legate's office was small but cosy, reminding Serana a lot of the room Lucius had been given at Castle Dour to use as his personal quarters during the Civil War. The stone walls were hidden by large wooden shelves stacked with books and personal ornaments, along with a small camp bed and washbasin at the far end of the room, while a large map table dominated the centre of the floor- carpeted in silk rugs from Blacklight with the sigils of the Great Houses on them.
The three soldiers stood around the map table which was currently filled by a faded map of Morrowind, their own position marked with a small red flag, as were other Legion sites throughout Vvardenfell and the mainland.
"Why did you bring the Auxiliary, if you don't mind me asking general?" Helseth said, giving Serana an apologetic look as he spoke, "No offence of course, miss."
"This woman is the Lady Serana, wife to Legate Lucius Arbitus of the Fifth Legion- the Dragonborn. She may only be an Auxiliary but I trust her counsel implicitly." Tullius said in a low tone, one that was polite but with an undertone of almost fatherly protectiveness that Serana appreciated.
Helseth nodded and continued, "So, if we are to sail within the day to Blacklight, what state is the rest of the island in?"
"You're sailing to Blacklight?" Tullius said with a confused look across his hard features, "Your men…"
"If you're taking my men to Blacklight it will only be if I'm there to lead them," Helseth said simply, with a tone that showed he was not going to argue about it, before continuing, "As I said, if we are heading to Blacklight, what state is the rest of Vvardenfell in?"
"The Dwemer control the centre of the island unopposed." Tullius replied, pointing at a vast swathe of land at the centre of the map, "So we have to assume the ring of old Legion and Redoran forts near the mountain are gone." He said, and began removing the small red flags marking forts in the area.
"If our positions are gone, we have to assume the Dominion's are as well," Serana said thoughtfully, taking away the small cluster of green flags in the south of the island, "Have your scouts encountered any Dominion troops?"
Helseth shook his head. "None. My strategists have suggested that any Dominion forces- if there any left from when you fought them…"
"Trust me, there aren't." Serana said simply, and the Legate nodded.
"So, if the army you fought are gone," he added, "The only possible High Elf forces left would be at their landing grounds near the ruins of Vivec City- or the Scathing Bay as they call it now. Doubtless they've already fled to the mainland to join Lord Naarfiin's army."
"Lord Naarfiin?" Tullius said in disbelief, "I thought he was still in Black Marsh?"
"We received a messenger hawk a few days ago from one of our deep cover spies on the border with Black Marsh. Lord Naarfiin's currently leading an army of at least sixty thousand Altmer hoplites and battle-mages, Bosmer light infantry and Khajiit skirmishers supported by up to twenty thousand Argonian heavy infantry led by Bleeds-Men-Dry, the same general who led the Argonian counter-attack during the Oblivion Crisis, and then the troops who sacked Vivec City and set the whole eastern coast of Vvardenfell ablaze."
"You mean the man who willingly charged into an Oblivion Gate?" Tullius said, half with amusement and half with a sense of quiet respect for the Argonian.
Helseth nodded before continuing, pointing out a large mass of green flags in the south of Morrowind, along with a few pale blue flags with the strange crest of Black Marsh upon them.
"They've been advancing steadily since they crossed the border. General Tacitus has made sure to keep scouts following them every step of the way. Naarfiin is nothing but predictable it seems. The scouts he caught he assumes are the only ones because, in his view, nobody can outsmart him. They're maybe a week or so from Mournhold at their current marching speed."
"And Mournhold…?" Tullius began, and Helseth, sensing his question, answered him quickly.
"Is still controlled by the Argonians. As is a large swathe of the south of Morrowind. The Dominion forces are very much in friendly territory so long as their alliance with the An-Xileel is still profitable to the Argonians. House Redoran have been almost constantly besieging or attacking Mournhold for years now but, with the Dwemer and Dominion both advancing, they've pulled all their forces back behind the Red Wall," he added, and Serana gave him a confused look.
"The Red Wall? Sorry I've been…out of the loop…for a while now." She said and Helseth nodded.
"Of course. The Red Wall is an unbroken wall and series of forts stretching all the way from here…" he said, pointing out the coastline opposite the ruins of Vivec City on the southern coast of Vvardenfell, "To here…" he added, indicating the mountainous border with Cyroddil. "House Redoran have been defending that frontier from Argonian attack ever since the end of the invasion."
"Unfortunately, with the Dwemer in Vvardenfell and the Dominion and Argonians in the south, that leaves the entire east of the province without support." Tullius added thoughtfully, pointing at the eastern strip of Morrowind, which stuck out into the Sea of Ghosts like a spear tip.
"Don't worry about that General," Helseth said with a slight grin, "House Redoran is planning on sending out the fleet they have at Fort Polaris to the eastern coast and evacuate as many troops, supplies and civilians as it can. The fleets are already preparing as we speak, and the Dwemer are at least a few days march from Polaris."
"Now, moving back to the matter at hand, how many troops do you have to take to Blacklight?" Tullius asked, studying the map intently as Helseth replied.
"Just under two hundred, leaving a stable hundred of the less able to escort the civilians. That's not counting the five hundred Imperial Navy sailors we have crewing the ships."
"Are the sailors good fighters at all? We need every man and woman we can get."
Helseth smiled grimly, "Hardly. Most are either the sons of rich nobles looking for an easy posting, or are just fishermen conscripted once the Dwemer began mobilising themselves. It's best we just leave them off with the civilians to be honest. The actual capable sailors I'll keep back to crew the Eagle. It's the largest ship we have, and the only one that could actually help out in the defence of Blacklight. The rest are either too old or are little more than transport ships."
"We'll take it." Tullius said simply, and Helseth nodded.
"We can work out the details later of course. In other matters, I have to ask, Lady Serana, will you be sailing to Blacklight with us or joining the civilians on the way to Skyrim?"
Serana smiled darkly, "Much as I would love to head back to Skyrim I can't at the moment. Call it Nord honour or something, but I just can't leave when there's a good fight to be had. I'll be heading to Blacklight with you. I just couldn't look Lucius in the eye again if I knew I had run from a fight. Divines only know how much guilt he must feel at having to leave us behind during that battle…"
"The Dragonborn had his reasons," Tullius said evenly, "Frankly I would have told him to go myself if I could have. It was bad enough losing Delphine and Rikke and the other commanders. I try not to think about all the good men and women in the Fifth Legion we left behind. Every time I think back to our victory in the Battle of Windhelm, it feels like less and less of those who fought with us are left…"
"It never gets easier, trust me," Helseth said with a frown, "I was in the Eighth Legion during the Great War. When the Imperial City was sacked, we were the rear-guard sacrificed by the Emperor so that the rest of the Legions could escape. I had to abandon my unit as I tried to get at least a few men out through an old passage in the Imperial Prison…"
A single tear traced down the Dunmer's ash coloured face, and Tullius paused, then said softly.
"We all went through hell during the War. But at least now, once the Dwemer are dealt with, we can finally take back the Summerset Isles from those damned Thalmor. I will personally take Naarfiin's head from his shoulders, if that's what it takes…"
000000
As evening rolled in and the sun dipped in the sky, the forces arrayed against Fort Reclusion began to lay their own plans. A mile out from the town, atop a rocky incline topped with the collapsed remains of a Dunmer Tribunal temple, a Dwemer scout ,dressed in light armour made from golden scales and bronze plates, lowered his telescope. Emerging from behind the cover of a toppled statue of Vivec, the scout collapsed his telescope and slipped it back into his belt, next to his sheathed dagger. Scrambling down the steep hill in the opposite direction from the town, he leapt atop his mount, a sleek grey horse, taken from a House Redoran fort along with the rest of the stables, for scouting where the noisy spider automatons would only attract attention.
As he rode back the way he had come, down a hidden path between the thorny bushes and thin trees that clung to the ashy ground, the scout took a few minutes to marvel at the world around him. When he had last been in Morrowind it had been nothing like this. Back then Red Mountain had been nearly dormant and the ash strewn plains and rocky bluffs had been covered in a carpet of verdant grass and pine trees. His family had farmed along this coast, owning a few acres of fields amongst the rolling hills, along with a few livestock and a battered second-hand automaton bought by his brother from the city of Bethamez. Maybe, when this war was over he thought to himself as he rode on, he might return back here and try and fertilize the ash lands once more.
His thoughts were interrupted when he rode up the sides of a steep incline and, as he came to the top, the valley beyond stretched before him.
Gazing out, the scout looked down of the secluded valley, surrounded on three sides by tall hills, and saw the vast army of Dwemer readying themselves for battle.
Fifty thousand Dwarven warriors stood in rank after rank and formation after formation of gold and bronze, the sunlight playing across their armour and making the surrounding area look dull in comparison. Alongside the hundred strong square formations of Dwemer infantry were rank after rank of glittering automatons, legions of Spheres and Centurions standing in perfect ranks as an army of green robed engineers- armoured in complex looking golden chainmail and plate metal- checked them over and pressed shining soul gems into their central cores.
A stench of polished metal and engine oil hung over the entire army in an invisible cloud, making it smell more like a vast workshop than a military force and the scout guided his horse down the hill towards it, other scouts wearing brown robes and armour made dull with dirt and sand standing by as he rode past, their bows trained on the hills beyond.
Feeling slightly intimidated by having the eyes of thousands upon him, the scout spurred his mount on faster, through a gap between the shining formations and towards the centre, marked by a forest of ornate banners and standards.
As he reached the central command, having to pass through a formation of Centurions and the elite Armiger Legion soldiers in armour marked with red crests and ruby encrusted pauldrons- bodyguards of the Council of Warriors- he finally came to the commanders themselves.
Standing atop a low hill, surrounded by row after row of Armiger Legion troops, the commanders, dressed in the finest armours and robes, looked like gods of the battlefield to the lowly scout. Clambering off his horse and keeping his head bowed as a mark of respect, the scout moved past Master Engineers in deep discussion and tacticians thrashing out last minute strategies to bow low at the feet of General Bahrma himself. The Dwemer general, his helmet off to show his genial features, accepted the man's salute with a solemn bow.
"My lord I've finished the last of our scouting operations," the scout said, making sure not to meet the general's eyes out of respect, "The remnants of the Empire's forces appear to be making ready to flee the island."
The general nodded and turned to one of his lieutenants. "Volendun! Move all reserve cohorts into position around the town. Make sure to use the landscape for cover. We don't want the Imperial troops to know of our arrival until we want them to."
"Of course sir!" Volendun said obediently, then turned to the scout, "I'll be needing your help soldier. Did you happen to spy any hills or promontories to mount our ballistae on?"
As Volendun led the scout away, the two men deep in discussion, the general took a deep breath before saying to the other commander to his left.
"Commander Akkadia, I want you leading the attack from the north. Inform Engineer Nasir that his automatons are to be in the vanguard of your assault. I'm not willing to let our men throw themselves into the fray when the automatons can be used first."
Akkadia saluted him quickly, the short haired Dwemer woman quickly donning her red crested helmet after barking orders at her own subordinates.
"General, Commander Cuolec is in position! Awaiting your orders!" called out a nearby staff officer, looking up from the lexicon he was using to transmit messages.
"Good," Bahrma replied simply, "Inform the commander that his riders are only to engage when the gates are breached, and that his orders are to secure the harbour and ships, not burn the town down!" he added authoritatively and the staff officer saluted, turning his attention back to the lexicon in his hand.
As the rest of his commanders departed to head up their own divisions, their plans already laid out the night before on the march here, a messenger in the white robes of Commander Balthazar's so-called 'Prophet Division'- a unit made up of Dwemer skilled enough in the use of the Calling to project their vision over long distances and thus predict enemy strategy- ran up the hill to him, breathless and his face white with fear.
"General Bahrma, sir!"
"Go ahead." The general replied simply. He had learnt to trust the Prophet's abilities many times while in command. Although they couldn't truly predict the future, only being able to see the composition of an enemy army in advance, at least, for the few brief seconds the Prophets were able to keep their minds focused, the men and women of Balthazar's division were invaluable.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, the Prophet spoke clearly and slowly trying to keep himself as calm as possible.
"I was projecting my gaze over the Inner Sea, trying to get an idea of any resistance we might encounter on the mainland, when I saw…"
For a second he tensed up, as if somehow reliving the awful memory all over again.
"…black wings, scores of them, and all flying straight towards us. Almost a hundred of them. Maybe an hour away at most."
"You don't mean-"Bahrma began, but the next word that the Prophet said made him realise that all his carefully laid plains and strategies were now useless.
"Dragons."
Turning away from the shivering Prophet, Bahrma started bellowing out orders at both his staff officers and the retreating forms of the armies various commanders, feeling a slight sense of pride as his men began to run around him to carry out his orders.
"Akkadia! Mahzda! Zurvan! Call off all cohorts from their current routes and take up defensive positions on all approaches to the town! Tell Commander Cuolec to stick to the plan but be prepared for attacks from the sky! Somebody get a message out to Commander Volendun! Engineer Nasir! I want your ballistae and Centurions ready for those special tactics we talked about! We're hunting Dragons now!"
000000
From atop his mount, the vast army of the Aldmeri Dominion looked like a forest of blazing torches and tall pikes lit by hovering Magelights. Lord Naarfiin smiled to himself. It was beautiful really. In the dying sunlight he could already feel his powers returning, feel the raw magicka beginning to course through his lifeless body in place of blood and oxygen. He kept a mask of arrogant smugness on his face but, inside, his dead heart was filled with excitement- the desire for a fresh kill.
To the formation around him- mainly stalwart Chosen of Trinimac in formidable glass armour but also retainers, scribes, servants and messengers of all kinds, all resplendent in shining Elven plate armour and bright robes- Naarfiin merely looked as if he were surveying the troops but, in his mind, the world was so much different. His vampiric sight could see it all as clear as day. Everything from the individual armour plates on an Altmer standard bearer at the front of the column, over a mile away to the individual feathers on the arrows of a Bosmer captain leading a formation of scouts on the left flank. Even the keen eyed Khajiit, moving at the front of the column in a long line of skirmishers, couldn't see or feel the world as keenly as Naarfiin could. In the distance to the west he could just see the distant lights from the Red Wall and the figures moving atop its battlements, almost five miles away.
"Another time maybe…" he muttered under his breath, almost with a sense of longing. Soon the rest of Tamriel would know his wrath, and no amount of high walls or vast armies would stop him.
He took a deep breath, not because he needed any air in his decayed lungs, but just to give himself a pause in the sense of pure ecstasy he was in.
All around him he could hear the thump of blood pumping in the veins of every man and woman in his army, like a symphony of life, the music that fuelled his every moment. Every thump of a heart in that army- all two hundred thousand men and horses- all of it made I'm feel almost…
Alive.
"My lord!" came a voice, and Naarfiin was snapped out of his reverie as a Bosmer scout, atop a small chestnut brown horse, appeared to their left, standing up in the saddle to be seen over the heads of the marching Chosen of Trinimac surrounding Naarfiin and his retainers.
"Let him past." Snapped the commander of the Chosen, Captain Tancano- a smug faced Altmer with a wicked scar across the right hand side of his face- riding alongside Lord Naarfiin.
Instantly the Chosen parted and the Bosmer rode through, bowing low in the saddle.
"My lord. The Khajiit have discovered a man on the road ahead."
"And?" Naarfiin said with a single raised eyebrow, "Tell the filthy cats to slit his throat and be done with it…"
"Sir with…all due respect," the scout said, making sure to bow extra low as he said the last part, "The man is your son…"
"Take me to him."
000000
Ondolemar was lying in a pool of stagnant water a mile from the coast, his once fine robes covered in mud and ash, his handsome face scarred and bruised. A gang of Khajiit, midway through checking the man's pockets for valuables, scattered as the Chosen of Trinimac marched towards them. Naarfiin was ashamed to look at him. Atop his white horse, armoured and seeming to shine in the light of the torches held aloft by the Chosen of Trinimac, the lord seemed a world away from the filthy wreck of a man before him.
"Father…" Ondolemar pleaded, reaching one pale hand, showing the early signs of starvation, up at the distant mounted figure of Naarfiin.
"Ugh…" the general retched and turned to Tancano, who watched the proceedings atop his own horse with a look of disgust, "You know what to do with deserters, captain."
"Of course sir. I'll take care of it myself." The captain replied obediently, leaping off his horse and through the formation of Chosen. As he walked across the baked earth, he drew his sword with a dull ring of metal- orange torchlight reflecting off the polished malachite.
"Wait! Wait wait wait!" Ondolemar spluttered, shuffling back across the ground like an animal, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender as the captain advanced towards him.
Planting an armoured foot on the defeated Altmer's left hand and crushing it into the earth, the captain's face was impassive. Gripping his sword in two hands, he brought it up as the bones in Ondolemar's hand snapped.
"Please! Father you can't…"
"You stopped being my son when you were defeated in battle," Naarfiin said calmly, leaning slightly forward to look at Ondolemar in the same way a man does an ant or some other insect, "You didn't even have the grace to go down fighting. Your older brothers…my only sons…" he added, correcting himself with a grimace, "…they went down fighting. It took a whole mob of Imperial degenerates to bring them down. What did it take you? Your first proper taste of combat!"
"But the…the Dwemer…"
"Will be dealt with in time. As for you, I doubt you will see the day when my army hunts down every last one of them down like the filthy dogs they are. I doubt you'll even see the sun set." He added with a casual look up at the sun steadily retreating behind the horizon.
"Father please…" Ondolemar begged, and the captain paused for a second, an amused smile on his face as he held his sword aloft, "Show me the same mercy you were shown…"
"When? When was I ever shown mercy?" Naarfiin roared, stopping the captain with a raised hand, "Hold, Tancano. I want to hear this wretch explain himself!"
Realising his poor choice of words, Ondolemar tried to shuffle backwards, his dirty encrusted face streaked with tears and sweat, but finding his path blocked as Tancano casually walked past him and stopped him with a casual kick to the ribs. As he lay groaning and defeated on the floor, the former Justicar tried to explain himself, but soon devolved into wordless sobs.
"Sir, if I may?" Tancano asked, and Naarfiin nodded at him.
"Go on…"
"How did he get here? Last I heard he was on Vvardenfell. His clothes aren't wet and I doubt he could have swum across the Inner Sea in a state like this."
Naarfiin paused and nodded.
"An excellent question captain. How did you get here you useless piece of filth?"
"A…a…boat," Ondolemar replied quickly, and if the man hadn't been in such a sorry state and hadn't had such a pleading tone in his voice Naarfiin would have had him killed on the spot for insolence.
"Where?" he demanded instead, and the defeated Altmer curled up into a ball, but still answered his question.
"There's…a harbour just down the road. We used it as a supply base when we sailed across to Vvardenfell… Most of our transport ships are still there…"
Naarfiin's expression softened slightly, and he guided his horse over to Ondolemar, stopping just in front of the Altmer as he tried to crawl agonisingly away.
"Perhaps you're not a total loss. Now I don't entirely regret letting your mother give birth to you. Maybe there's a trace of pure blooded Mer in you after all. Captain, leave this piece of filth. We have more important things to do."
A wave of relief passed across Ondolemar's face at his unexpected reprieve and began to attempt to rise.
"But I can't let you get away completely unpunished." Naarfiin added, digging his horse in the side with his spurs. As he did so the animal reared slightly, bringing its front hoof down squarely on Ondolemar's right hand. The man's screams echoed across the landscape but Naarfiin only smiled, saying his parting remark as he rode away.
"Just to make sure you're not going to get any stupid ideas about betraying me. Try using a sword ever again with a shattered hand. Now…why don't you go crawl away and throw yourself off a cliff or something?" he added with mock pleasantness.
As the defeated Altmer began to crawl away, the Chosen of Trinimac simply stepped over him, a few spitting on him as they passed.
"You're not worthy of being called a Mer." Tancano spat at him, sheathing his sword and clambering atop his horse.
As the vast army of the Dominion marched on, Ondolemar curled up into a ball, his quiet sobs inaudible to anyone over the marching sounds of thousands of feet.
Up ahead Naarfiin, at the head of the column now, rounded a low hill and spied the dark form of the Inner Sea flowing in the near distance, and, with his vampiric senses, spotted a small fleet of abandoned Dominion ships- elegant and sleek warships with armoured prows bearing the black and green flags of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. He turned to Tancano with a wide grin on his gaunt features.
"Captain, send word throughout the army. Vvardenfell awaits us!"