Saraven was aware of the impact, and then he fell to his knees on the platform as the dremora vanished into the pillar of flame. He heard the sound of the sphere being knocked away, and then the world was noise and motion as everything began to shake. He fell on his face on the membrane, disturbingly hot and damp against exposed skin. Literally every part of his body hurt, so badly that his dislocated right arm seemed numb by comparison. He waited for everything else to become numb, too, but it did not happen. He was fully aware when the walls started to come down and the floor fell away beneath him, and then he was falling as well and he heard Zudarra screaming -
He landed on something hard, knees striking first. He managed to keep his head from hitting, but he had to land on his right arm to do it and he blacked out again for a second. Or an hour. He wasn't sure. When next he was aware of anything he was lying on his back. The ground felt blessedly cold against his head and neck and hands, cool air blowing against his face.
When he opened his eyes the distant sky was gray. He inhaled the scent of smoke, then coughed. His mouth felt like sandpaper. A weak attempt at casting failed completely, blue sparks fizzling around his fingertips. Every inch of skin felt raw, scraped by his armor even through the padding, burned at the soles of his feet where the lightning had earthed itself.
He rolled his head slowly to look to either side. The smoking ruins of homes and shops, spars of wood piercing the gray sky. Stone bridge. Black stone remains of something massive jutting upward, coils of steam still rising from it.
The gate is closed.
Blood red eyes snapped open as raindrops hit her nose. Zudarra looked up at a gray sky. Not the unnatural sky of the Deadlands, but the familiar dark of a midnight rain shower. Masser was veiled in clouds, but a sliver of Secunda peeked from an opening. Zudarra huffed as she pulled herself up to look around her. For a moment she thought she was still with Molag Bal, until she realized that the blackened husks of houses that lay before her were Kvatch, not the Imperial City.
Zudarra was sitting up on his other side, looking around. That pleased Saraven for reasons that he chose not to examine. He was dying of thirst and exhaustion and wounds, and not even Meridia could blame him for failing to kill her now. He wondered if his patron would reject him in his last moments for what he had done. He supposed he was about to find out. A weak laugh escaped his cracked lips.
Zudarra turned towards the noise beside her. It was Saraven, alive. She stared at him numbly and rubbed her arms with her hands, unsure if this was all really happening.
It was all real, as real as that place had been. Somehow, knocking that stone out of the beam caused the tower to destabilize and collapse. But how did they get home? Was it Molag Bal's doing? No.. If he had any influence over Dagon's realm, he wouldn't ask Zudarra to do his dirty work.
None of it made any sense.
Saraven looked like shit. Without thinking about it Zudarra pointed her palm at him, expelling blue light that spiraled around his body. She could heal moderate wounds, but even in perfect physical health he wouldn't last long without sustenance.
"I'm... not... sorry," he had time to say, and then the magicka charge hit. His eyelids fluttered in complete astonishment as he felt himself heal. He still felt dry and weak, but the pain was gone. He sat up, leaning toward his right side as he propped the useless limb against the ground and shoved with that shoulder. It resocketed with an unpleasant wet click. He flexed the fingers. They worked.
Zudarra pushed herself off the ground with her hands and stood. A tremor ran down her legs. She was still shaken from her encounter with Molag Bal, but she stood tall, chin thrust high in the face of her fears. She held out a hand for Saraven to take. He couldn't die now, if he was to be her thrall.
"Come on," she said with neither warmth nor her usual annoyance. "I left food and water with Vandalion, at the arena."
He looked up at her hand blankly for a moment. Then he shrugged and took it, letting himself be levered upright. He stood quite still for a moment as he let the head rush pass. It seemed to last longer than it ought, his stomach clenching. Gods, I'm thirsty.
The world had gone completely upside down. He was still alive. Nothing made sense. So he might as well go along and see what happened next.
Besides, she was a powerful creature even if she wasn't as bright as she thought she was. Even if Meridia wanted none of him from this moment, he owed it to any future victims to stay close to her as long as he could.
"Thank you," he said, and turned toward the Arena beside her. A drop of water pattered on the ground near his foot with a soft putt. Then another. Then another. Droplets began to strike his head and shoulders as the soft pattering increased. Rain was falling, hissing in the ruin of the gate and the ruins of Kvatch, making endless ripples in the black water of the moat.
The streets were utterly still and empty as they walked. Fires still smoldered in some of the buildings but they hissed out as the rain doused them, darkening the city even more. The streets were slick with gore and stank horribly of shit and death, but Zudarra began to notice a good deal of daedric corpses in addition to the mutilated people. Something had happened to turn the tide while they were inside the Deadlands, but she couldn't imagine what. Most of the townsfolk were already killed or dying by the time she was captured. Did reinforcements come from another city? If so, why wasn't anyone around?
Saraven walked beside Zudarra through the dead city of Kvatch. He, too, noticed the daedric bodies, scamps piled in doorways, clannfear on their backs with their bellies slit open to expose their reeking guts. If this was the work of the frightened guards he had seen behind their barricades, something powerful had rallied them. He wondered what it was.
Perhaps the blood of Akatosh has come to save us after all.
He looked at Zudarra beside him, at the city, at his hands in front of him as he walked.
Meridia certainly did not. If any daedric prince cares for a soul of Nirn it is only as a prize to be won. He had gradually grown further from his patron in his heart for many months, he realized. He had been resigned to her service in life and after death. Now he was alive past expectation and nearly past believing.
The city hadn't merely burned, it had been ravaged by some sort of giant cannon- the machine she had watched emerge from the portal. Zudarra balked at her first glimpse of the arena as they turned around a corner, passing two-story houses with caved in roofs. The timbers of the grandstand had burned and collapsed onto the stone lower levels, causing a cave in. She forgot Saraven and sprinted ahead, leaping over the door that jutted at an angle from the ground. It had been the entrance to the bloodworks, which was now a heap of rubble and charred logs.
Zudarra crawled over the debris until she found the approximate location of the rest room and tore into the pile, feverishly lobbing planks and stones off to the side.
Saraven was giddy from lack of thirst, food, sleep, walking a ruined city with the vampire who had fought beside him through a daedric fortress. It seemed less real than the Deadlands had. So he could not muster much surprise when Zudarra sprinted away beside him and began digging down toward what had once been the Bloodworks. He dodged a thrown plank that weighed as much as he did, clambering over the ruined structure to follow her.
"Vandalion!" she hissed, heaving away a support log that hadn't burned. It sailed effortlessly through the sky and splintered against the rubble she had already thrown. Vandalion's corpse lay beneath it, pallid face mottled with bruises from the collapse. Dead eyes, dark and wet, gazed at nothing under half-opened lids. His body was still partially concealed under the wall of the bloodworks. Zudarra stopped her frantic digging and sank to her knees, slamming her fists down on the rubble that lay all around. A stone cracked in half under the force of her blow, but she didn't notice. Her shoulders heaved as she seethed in fury, staring at the dead Altmer with fangs clenched.
I'll tear those fucking daedra from limb to limb, every last one of them! I'll drink them dry and rip out their throats! The rage began to clear as she realized the uselessness of her threats. She was one person. She couldn't possibly kill every last dremora in Oblivion.
Saraven gazed down at the dead face without expression, hands at his sides. The rain fell down, plashed on the open eyes, slicked the boards and stones around them.
"You never had much of a chance, did you," he said to the corpse.
Her anger surprised him. Perhaps the mer had meant something to her after all. He twitched back without thinking from the sound of breaking stone, keeping his footing out of pure reflex. The vampire he had fought had been strong, but not this strong. Drinking the blood of daedra had done something to her. Well, he was dead if she wanted him dead. That had been the case from the moment they woke up together in hell.
Zudarra reached into the hollow by the body, grasping for the leather strap of her bag and yanked it out, tossing it to Saraven without looking.
He caught the thrown bag easily, one-handed, and then almost fell over when the weight unbalanced him. Saraven righted himself with difficulty and hauled the thing away to the edge of the ruin to drop on the most unbroken stretch of paving he could find. There he knelt down and undid the closure to look inside. He found paper wraps that might contain food, a whiff of mold saying it wasn't in good condition, glass bottles with stoppers, and under that the reason for the weight, heavy bags that clinked when he moved them.
He pulled a bottle out and thumbed loose the stop, sniffing. Water. He took a cautious drink. His stomach clenched hard when the liquid hit, and he breathed for a moment, willing himself not to throw up. Then he drank again. He wanted to swallow all of it at once, but he knew from experience that he would make himself sick if he tried. Once you were dehydrated past a certain point you had to restore yourself slowly.
Even after being bottled for days inside a bag it was delicious, cold on his raw throat. He shut his eyes as he drank, giving in to the most pleasurable thing he had felt in days.
The Altmer had probably died of smoke inhalation before the grandstand even collapsed on him, Zudarra realized. If that were true it was probably a peaceful death, like falling asleep, still wrapped in the cottony joy of her recent feeding.
What did she care, anyways? Zudarra cared only that her cattle and squire was gone. But she shouldn't, not when she had a much better replacement at hand. She turned away from the man that had loved her and fed her with unyielding devotion for the past several months, her face empty of all emotion. Zudarra watched the Dunmer drink instead, from behind and to the side of him. Rain pattered against her head, matting the fur to her skull and making her blink when droplets hit near her eyes. Most Khajiits did not like the rain. She didn't care. It was appropriate for the current atmosphere and helped conceal the stink of death.
Saraven's eyes were closed. It wouldn't be long before his strength returned. If Zudarra wanted to dominate his mind, now was her chance. She would probably never get another.
She flopped heavily down onto a fallen support beam on top of the rubble, the far end lifting up under her weight, and watched him instead. She wasn't tired, weak, or hungry. Physically, Zudarra was in her prime. So why did she feel so weary, so beaten? She wasn't in the right frame of mind to enthrall him. Her own thoughts were too discordant. Even her hatred for Saraven, who dared to attack and insult her, seemed to have washed away with the rain.
Foil Mehrunes Dagon wherever you can and aid those who would do the same.
I can rend you from existence as easily as you would crush a fly in your palm.
"What will you do now?" she asked, leaning forward with forearms on her thighs. Her tail was draped limp over the debris, growing heavier with water as minutes passed.
Saraven looked up as she spoke, opening his eyes. He corked the empty bottle and put it away slowly. He had not expected to live this long. He was alive, so it was time to go on.
"I need to know what happened here, and why," he said. She looked limp and defeated sitting there, something he had never seen. It wasn't an act. If there was anything he had learned from their acquaintance it was that she was completely without the capacity for convincing deception.
He tilted his head, looking at her as he spoke. "I've given my life to making Cyrodiil safe for people with families, with children. No one is safe if Dagon's troops can just appear from the Deadlands and annihilate a city. So I'm going to find out."
He pulled out one of the packages. It contained, for lack of a better word, bread. Mold wouldn't kill him. He hunted up another water bottle. Maybe with enough water it would stay down.
Zudarra's stony expression did not change. She wondered what that water tasted like to Saraven. It had been about a year since she had turned, but she remembered the deeply satisfying taste of cold water after a workout, or the sensation of being full with a good meal and completely forgetting about food until the next time she was hungry. These were things that she missed.
"How noble of you." The words weren't biting as usual, although she still did find his ceaseless need for heroics tiring. "I want to know what's going on as well. It'll be bad for my career if Cyrodiil is razed to the ground, although I guess there's nothing I can do to stop that if it happens. Anyway, Anvil is the most likely place for any survivors to end up, and maybe some of them know what happened. I have to go there anyway and check on my mother. For all we know, every city was attacked last night, not just this one." She paused. "No telling what's roaming the roads out there. It would be safer to go together."
"A mer needs a reason." He considered her, stoically munching the moldy bread from her pack. He felt another surge of pity for the dead Altmer. What a life he had led! Perhaps he had not minded, lost in that hypnotic fog all his days right up until the moment of his death. "And I agree. Thank you for the food and water." He stood up, hooking another bottle of water, and offered her back the bag. It was her gold, and vampires were territorial creatures.
Then the first part of her statement actually registered. "You have a living mother?"
Zudarra stood and accepted the bag, slinging it over her shoulder and began the walk out of town. She didn't bother to look back at Vandalion's final resting place. He was just one corpse among many in an open graveyard full of bodies too burned or too mutilated to identify. Sentimental people would come to bury the dead, she was sure. He'd had no family, so it didn't matter if the Altmer's gravestone was marked with a name or not.
"I was twenty-three when I turned, and that was a year ago," Zudarra replied. Normally she would be uncomfortable telling anyone she had family - they might use that against her in some way - but Saraven was not the kind of person to do a thing like that. "Aren't you concerned about your people?" she asked absently.
She stopped to pilfer a greatsword and baldric from a slain dremora. The edges of the heavy blade were jagged like teeth, bits of flesh still caught in them. She pulled a cloth from her bag and cleaned it as they walked with the hilt under her armpit. There was nothing she could do about the rain that slicked the alien metal.
"No," he said. "Nothing can harm them now." So his impression from her assault on his mind had been correct. She was incredibly young. He watched her with a small lift to his chin, and then began looking for a corpse with a longsword. He felt strength returning to his body. Moldy bread wouldn't keep him going for long, but it was a start.
Zudarra didn't know how to respond the Saraven's admission. Either his family were cloistered inside an impenetrable fortress or they were all dead. His complete disregard for his own life suddenly made more sense. Zudarra didn't know what she would do when Mama died, but beyond the typical grieving period she didn't see how it would ultimately change her. She would still want power and fame. She would still want her life. Why didn't Saraven?
A lot of diversions into rubble eventually turned up a dremora with an intact scabbard. He unfastened the baldric and removed it to replace it on himself. The blade, when he slid it out to look at it, was clean. The creature had died without ever drawing it. That made him go and look again. It was hard to tell from a dremora's mottled complexion, but the marks on the temples might be electrical burns. Interesting. A quick check of the pockets in the armor's padding turned up another scroll of Silence, an unidentifiable potion, which he left be, and a pearl, which he pocketed.
The Chapel of Akatosh still stood, though the barricades around it were unmanned. Saraven gazed up at the spire as they passed, but did not turn aside. But we will have words again, the Divines and I.
He gradually drained the second bottle as they walked, careful of his knotted stomach. "How did it happen?"
"It wasn't an accident," she said, glad that he had changed the subject. She wasn't about to fake sympathy she didn't have or ask how they died. She was curious, but knew it was too rude of a question. "I saved up my winnings from the arena and bought the most powerful staff of fire that I could, then I walked into a nest of feral vampires outside the Imperial City. When I'd been bitten enough to ensure I was infected, I killed them all. It took a while to find them. Followed lots of rumors and false leads."
As they moved toward the open city gates they could see the ruins of another gate into the Deadlands just beyond it, black spears of jagged rock jutting upward. It looked smaller than the one that they had left. City guards in their steel mail and wolf insignia were still manning the barricades behind it, but they had the weary air of men after a battle is ended; there was no real sense of vigilance, and no civilians in sight.
The stable just outside the wall looked like it had burned before the rain put it out. The stable itself had been left open and every horse inside was missing, but a few still stood in the pasture. Probably the people fleeing didn't have time to catch the animals that were loose in the pen and crazy with fear.
A guard approached them as they came near, an Imperial. He seemed exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and slumped shoulders.
"I didn't think anyone was alive in there," he said. "How did you get out?"
Saraven didn't hear him, because he had stopped dead several yards back. His face was completely blank, empty bottle dropping from his fingers to rattle on the cobblestones. A parade of smug, mocking faces flashed in front of his eyes.
Soon you will be one of us.
You know you've been down here a long time, hunter. How long until you become the thing you hate?
You will understand the thirst so much better three days from now. You have not the slightest choice in the matter.
He shook himself and moved forward after her. It was anathema to him, it was horror and abomination, but he knew with certainty that she was not the first.
Zudarra looked back at Saraven when the bottle hit the ground, narrowing her eyes.
This guy has a screw loose for sure. He told her that he saw things back in the Deadlands, didn't he? That was just her luck, to end up with a damaged thrall who might end up having flashbacks in the thick of battle. She stared at him as he caught up and spoke to the guard.
"Sorry, I didn't hear that," he said. The man repeated himself dully. "We were captured. We were able to get out of the cage and fight our way back. I'm Saraven Gol, Fighters Guild, and this is Zudarra the Bloody, Arena fighter. What happened to this gate to the Deadlands?"
"It was closed by an Argonian fellow. Half the city guard held the Kvatch gate while the other half followed him in. Most of them.. didn't make it back." The man's voice caught in his throat and he looked away, gazing glassy-eyed at something very far away.
"Where did the Argonian go?" Zudarra asked. His attention snapped back to her.
"I don't know. South. You say you came out from the other gate? Is it open still?"
"No, we closed it. I don't understand how, but..." She waved a hand, unable to find the words to explain all they had seen and done. "There doesn't seem to be any daedra left alive in the city, now."
He nodded, but didn't seem glad at the news. His friends and family were probably all dead. There was really no city to guard any more, just a pile of rubble and ash.
"I'm sorry," Saraven said. "Do you know why this happened?"
The guard shook his head. Someone behind him called his name - "Glarius!" - and he moved away to answer. Saraven turned toward the fenced pasture. It didn't seem likely that Ves had survived it all, but he had to check. He stood at the fence and whistled. The black horse came trotting up, whickering at him. Saraven spoke to him in Dunmeris, patting his neck. He thought about the moldy carrots in Zudarra's bag. Probably even Ves would refuse to eat those. He went to check inside the stable building in case there was food, or anyone willing to sell him some. The dremora had not bothered with his purse, and he still had a couple of septims.
It was dark inside, and his greeting returned no answer. There were bales of hay stacked against one wall. A few bags of oats presumably intended for sale hung from nails. Near the wall of hay was a stool and a little cupboard. There was no one on duty. They must have fled. He looked in the cupboard and found a bar of saddle soap, a couple of brushes, and a canvas bag that must've been someone's lunch because there was a half-loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and two apples inside. The saddles still hung on their stands inside a stall. He shouldered his and took it out to the pasture to call to Ves again. The black horse came up to him willingly enough. He had heard enough noise for one day and was eager to be away.
At a glance Zudarra knew Shadow had survived, standing taller than most other horses in the pasture. She followed Saraven inside for her tack and grabbed a bag of oats to lure Shadow with - he wasn't very well behaved. Zudarra kept him stabled most of the time and rarely rode. She left some gold behind for the oats, knowing Saraven would probably complain if he saw her stealing.
As if it mattered. Whoever owned the place was probably dead.
The rain was beginning to let up, clouds drifting away from the moons as they set off down the road side by side, weaving their horses around the barricades. The road zig-zagged sharply down the steep hill, and after the first bend they came to a crowd of survivors. Zudarra could hear grown men and women wailing like small children before they were even close. Some huddled beneath drenched blankets hung over tree limbs by the road, but most of them sat on the grass with their heads in their hands. They had to slow their horses as they approached. There were people in the road, wandering aimlessly or standing and staring at the ruined city on the hill. A lot of them seemed completely oblivious to their surroundings.
It was intensely uncomfortable to watch. Zudarra had never seen war before... but this must be what it was like.
Saraven sat hunched in the saddle as they rode through the refugees, looking to left and right, mouth folded down. The sounds of weeping and wailing threatened him with more overwhelming images, but if it was not sudden he could fight it off. His hand twitched on the bridle, causing Ves to snort inquiringly. The Dunmer made a soothing noise under his breath.
He could not help them. His pitiful few coins would not buy them new homes or bring back their dead family and friends. It ground at him like sandpaper, but he rode on, slowly enough to let the wanderers get out of the way. A few people stared at them as they passed, attention drawn by the strange sight of a Dunmer in mithral and the largest Khajiit many would ever have seen; but they both carried dremora weapons, and no one dared say anything.
Presently they were through the camp and on their way down the hill, and Saraven let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. He did not know when he had last slept, and it would be a long ride to Anvil even with the rain gradually abating. A last few drops ran down the back of his neck, cold against his flesh.
In fact, he made it about ten miles before he fell off the horse. At the bottom of the hill the road wound off through rolling hills, tall grass, scattered flowers. The terrain here had not been harmed by the attack, still green and lovely under the moon. He was aware of the dull rhythm of Ves's stride, out of synchronization with Zudarra's enormous horse because of his shorter legs, and it gradually lulled him, reigns sliding through his hands. He did not notice that he was falling or know when he landed in the tall grass beside the road.
Ves snorted and pranced in place as he was suddenly deprived of weight.
Zudarra looked over her shoulder at the sudden thud and pulled back on the reigns, rolling her eyes when she saw what had happened. Shadow turned sharply to circle around her fallen companion.
It had been a long time since Zudarra needed to sleep. She still did it because it was pleasant and gave her something to do during the day, but she never felt foggy-brained from going without. Exhaustion was an infirmity of mortal life that she didn't miss at all and another thing that had annoyed her about Vandalion when they traveled.
She stared down at the Dunmer for several long moments, saddle creaking as Shadow pawed the road, and wondered what to do with him. Throw him over his horse and keep going? They would make better time that way. She didn't want to waste valuable moonlight just sitting around. But if they encountered more dremora, he wouldn't be much use if he was really tired enough to fall from his horse.
With an annoyed groan Zudarra slid to the ground. She tied Shadow and Ves to separate trees at the side of the road, giving them enough free reign to drop their heads and eat. She unrolled the bed attached to Saraven's saddle and dragged him onto it. Then she stared down at him, again wondering what to do. Should she take off his armor?
No, she wasn't undressing him. If he was so tired he should have said something and asked to stop. If he woke up with a sore back from sleeping in mithral, that was his problem.
Like it or not, it seemed that Zudarra was stranded roadside for the night. She started undoing the clasps of her armor and putting the pieces away in her saddle bag, which she pulled form Shadow's back; she wasn't going to sit around in that all night. It felt good to get the heavy steel off her body, especially the cuirass. Rain had trickled down her neck and soaked her underclothes. Now they could get some air.
She sat down beside Saraven's sleeping form, leaning back on her palms and stretching her unencumbered legs out in front of her. She felt so light. The new daedric sword lay beside her in its scabbard by her hand. The horse's teeth squeaked against wet grass behind them and the trees rustled in the warm breeze. It was such a beautiful night. Zudarra couldn't believe that hours ago she'd been in hell, so sure she would never see this world again.
A pulsing thud reached her ears and she looked down to watch Saraven's breast rise and fall with every breath. In the Deadlands she hadn't noticed it so much in the air clouded with death and blood - blood far superior to his - but now she was noticing his scent again. Her nostrils widened as her nose twitched. Her mouth fell open, tongue running over her fangs. She shouldn't be hungry; she had fed multiple times that very day, and fed well.
But she could hear the blood that pulsed through his body and she could smell something not quite of this world, a seductive perfume that just wouldn't get out of her head. The thirst roiled within her and she knew it would be impossible to sit there peacefully and ignore it.
Zudarra leaned over Saraven, bracing herself with a hand near his head and using the fingers of her other hand to press his cheek, turning his head gently to the side. She could feel his warm pulse under her finger pads as she touched him, which inflamed her desire all the more. She may as well have been starving for days for the level of hunger that suddenly clawed at her belly.
He doesn't have to know. He won't wake up, she told herself, lowering her mouth to his exposed neck.
He was tired, so very tired. Someone was touching his throat, lips, teeth. That wasn't right. He hadn't actually slept with another person in decades now. It didn't matter, the gorget would protect him.
"The gorget is gone," said the Argonian child, flames crackling from her back and head. She grinned at him, showing all her sharp teeth.
Saraven's eyes snapped open on something curved and yellow-white in the dark, pulse jumping. The curve of one breast in cotton under-armor padding filled half his vision as the Khajiit bent over him, and then he felt her fangs indent the skin of his throat. His sigh could be felt but was not audible.
I must have fallen asleep in the saddle. There was something softer than the ground under him, so she had taken the time to haul out his bedroll. He felt no pain from head injury. She had not ambushed him or taken him by surprise. She was merely taking advantage of the opportunity.
After all that had happened, all that they had fought through side by side, she still would feed on him. He felt an overwhelming fatigue at the realization, and in that moment he slowly shut his eyes again. The sensation of fangs piercing his throat was painful, but he lacked the energy to fight it. She felt his heart slow down again.
"Why do you want me that badly?" he asked, voice weak.
He's awake. She couldn't stop now, even if she wanted to. And Zudarra didn't want to stop.
Fangs punctured flesh and lifted. Her mouth covered the holes and she eagerly sucked. The hot blood on her tongue was more wonderful than she had imagined, a taste so overwhelmingly strong and full. It was not comparable to the blood of daedra; it strengthened her, but not with that intoxicating level of power. Still, it was sublime. All blood was, and especially his. She groaned against his neck in response to his question.
I always want this. How could I not?
He was already weak from the events of the previous day. Saraven needed his strength and she did not. Zudarra knew all of this, but it took all of her willpower to finally pull herself off him. She gasped as her mouth broke away, trembling in pleasure. She raised a hand to heal him and the punctures closed, leaving behind two tiny drops of blood that rolled down his neck. She impassively searched his face for a reaction as she pulled away, curious but not disturbed that she'd been caught.
She fed him when he needed it most. It was only fair that he return the favor. He ought to be thankful that a taste was all she took, when she could have so much more from him.
It hurt, the fundamental wrongness of flesh being pierced and the worse feeling of suction against his new wounds. She groaned in response to his question, as if helpless with lust. He felt his strength drain with his blood. In seconds he had sunk past the point of not wishing to resist, to the point of not being able. Was this why she had given him water, that he might survive to feed her?
Of course it was. He opened his eyes and sought hers as she healed him, his face slack with resignation, perfect despair. He could not even be angry at the betrayal when she had not attempted to violate his mind. It was in her fundamental nature, irrevocable and irresistible. He felt the world growing vague around him, and it came as a great relief. Nothing seemed more desirable at this moment than darkness and silence.
Zudarra was puzzled by the dead-eyed expression that greeted her. He didn't fight back or complain, he just... accepted the violation. Zudarra frowned, ears flicking to the sides as she scooted aside to give him space. Maybe he was too tired to properly react. He seemed to be falling asleep again.
She laced her fingers behind her head and fell back on the ground to watch the stars, sighing in deep satisfaction. She could appreciate Saraven's pleasant scent now that her thirst was slaked. She was warm and comfortable and the presence of a beating mortal heart nearby was just downright cozy.
Such an odd man, who didn't seem to care one way or the other what happened to him. He spoke as if he hated vampires, but here he was allowing her to feed and she hadn't even forced him! Zudarra grinned up at the stars, happy for her luck at finding him. At this rate he might become a willing thrall.
The sudden memory of his words echoed through her mind.
I started seeing things. Things that I remember. Dead vampires. Dead victims of vampires. My – people I knew.
Nothing can harm them now.
Her smile faded, and something ugly and uncomfortable bubbled up in her chest. His family had been killed by vampires. That was the source of his single-minded hatred. That's why he had no will to live. Zudarra was all too aware of which emotions now squeezed her heart with icy fingers.
Guilt.
Shame.
She grimaced, swallowing hard, and jerked her head so she was looking away from him. He was fine! She didn't hurt him! She didn't kill his stupid family, and she never would do such a thing! A quick drink was different from murder.
I'm not like them. I could be if I wanted to - I'm powerful enough. But I choose not to be. I'm not a mindless animal.
It was too much. Her thoughts were racing too fast. Zudarra jerked upright and to her feet and raced down the road. She needed to burn off energy. A quick jog would help with that, but she wouldn't leave Saraven alone. The road was straight and level here and she would keep him in her sights.
After her run, Zudarra occupied herself with her daily calisthenics, across the road from Saraven so as not to disturb him. She tried not to think. The sun was already rising by then, and for once in her unlife it brought not the slightest discomfort. Zudarra had a feeling that would change as her vigor from the dremora's blood faded, but she would enjoy it while it lasted.
Saraven was not sure how long he slept. He dreamt not at all, sunk completely by exhaustion and blood loss. The bright sun on his face woke him at last, piercing his eyelids. He turned away from the light, but the effort of moving in his armor forced him into wakefulness. He sat up slowly. The two horses were tied not far off, peaceably cropping the grass. He felt weaker than he should, even a few hours' sleep should have him up and ready to fight for his life unless he had been bitten.
He had been bitten. His mind kept throwing up memories and images of every time it had happened, and he sorted through them with difficulty to find the one that mattered. He rested his elbow on one upraised knee, his forehead on his hand. There was something important, something he had forgotten to do.
Zudarra. It was Zudarra, and I did not cure myself. He clenched his left fist, and green magicka flared up in a spiral around his torso, the light sinking in and vanishing. That moment of adrenaline finally cleared his head.
He was still alive. He'd have to get up and go on. That did not feel possible or interesting in the slightest, but it had to be done. He couldn't just stop. That would be letting them win. And what if there was still some chance, however small, that he could save someone else's spouse, someone else's child? Saraven got up slowly, shook out the bedroll, and took it to attach it to the saddle before he put the saddle back onto his horse.
Movement made him glance around belatedly. Zudarra was across the road, doing exercises in the bright sun. He spared her a disinterested glance as he hunted up the sack with the better food in it. The taste of an apple revived him a little. It was a little wrinkly, but at least it wasn't moldy bread.
Zudarra finished her stretch when she saw that Saraven was almost finished with breakfast and padded across the road to saddle and untie her own horse, and pick up her sword. She thought that after leaving him alone for hours her conflicting emotions would have vanished. For the most part they had, but there was still a nagging sense of having done wrong in the back of her mind.
Maybe he didn't remember. Maybe he wouldn't notice.
Of course he notices. You don't just lose a couple pints of blood and not notice it.
She'd been planning to ask Saraven to help her into her armor, but now she felt too awkward to ask such a favor. She missed Vandalion. She had taken him for granted, always annoyed with his weakness and never appreciating how easy he made life for her.
"Ready to go?" she asked curtly, hand on her saddle horn, ready to pull herself onto Shadow's back. Her eyes did not seek his.
"You're out of armor," he said, tossing aside the apple core. "Get your greaves on and I'll do your vambraces." He had helped guildmates into and out of heavy armor. It was nothing new. And if he was resigned to continuing to live for the present, he didn't want to die stupidly because she was unprotected as well as arrogant when they ran into another gate.
Zudarra nodded, feeling a little funny inside. It was a twisty-curly emotion she didn't have a name for, and it annoyed her greatly. She started to pull the armor from her saddle bag. When her greaves were tightly laced she held the cuirass against her chest for him to tighten, kneeling so he could easily reach.
It was uncomfortable being so close to him. She wasn't even close to being ravenous, but of course she could never turn down a drink. She wanted him. She wanted every last drop of blood in his body. An image of his pale, desiccated corpse flashed in her mind. Zudarra didn't want him dead, but it would have felt so good to feel him die in her arms, knowing that every last bit of strength was now hers.. Her pulse quickened; she inhaled sharply at the imagined sensation.
She forced that thought away, but the heavy awkwardness of what they both knew hung unspoken between them. She stood and faced him, arms outstretched for her vambraces and pauldrons, stealing a quick glance at his eyes.
He tightened the cuirass as she knelt there. If he'd had his dagger he could kill her right now, one quick blow to the eye or the temple. Would he be able to even try, he wondered? He felt heavy and divided. In his mind he saw clearly what he wished her to be and what he knew that she was, and even though one was not real he could not completely let it go, or he felt that his mind would break. He listened to her breathe in.
The thirst is never blunted. Never.
He set about armoring her shoulders and arms, face still relaxed as he concentrated on his task. His movements were unhurried and certain. Only an odd little twitch in his left hand betrayed anything wrong. His eyes only partly saw what was in front of him, red and dark and distant.
She won't be able to stop herself. Last night I was willing to end thus. Am I ready to choose that in the cold light of day?
No. If I had died in the Deadlands, closing the gate, it might have meant something. It won't mean anything to her.
He ran over the problem in his mind as he worked. He would have to supply the deficiencies in his armor. He would wake up if she tried to remove a solid gorget, and he knew that she could survive one fire spell if he had to use it. He felt no pleasure in the thought of any of it. The entire situation felt bizarre, awful, and his mind stuttered and danced around the problem like a water strider around a stone in the current.
Zudarra flexed her arms and then her legs, testing her mobility and the fit of the armor. Everything was good. Her baldric was draped from the saddle horn; she lifted it over her head and pulled herself up. Shadow shifted under the sudden heaviness that plopped onto his back.
"...Thanks," Zudarra said belatedly, without a hint of actual gratitude, remembering that's what you were supposed to say when someone helped you. She never even thought of thanking Vandalion. She rarely thanked free people in general, but it might be beneficial to be a little friendly to Saraven after what had happened.
She thought of telling Saraven about his inexplicable quality that drew her like a moth to a flame. Perhaps he didn't know about that, or maybe he did and he could explain what it was. But the moment for explanations had passed, and she didn't want to seem like she was making excuses for herself or apologizing. She wasn't sorry.
Saraven was startled into a brief laugh in response as he mounted up. She hadn't thanked him for his blood. But then, that had not been a free exchange of any kind. It had been ravishment, and they both knew it. Perhaps there were people alive who would feed a thirsty vampire voluntarily, but there were no vampires that would ask before they took. Nothing in his experience argued with that conclusion. She had never given him any reason to assume she was different, and he was the fool for wishing it to be that way. A rush of anger and loathing burned in his gut, but it was feeling something, it was life. It was better than nothing.
The gelding made a low, complaining noise at the change in his rider's scent. Saraven murmured to him in Dunmeris as he steered him out to the road.
Zudarra turned Shadow West towards Anvil and started down the road at a brisk canter, the sun on her back to warm her glinting armor.
It was a long day's ride to Anvil. Saraven pulled off to eat again when they passed a wild apple tree, filling his canvas bag with hard, tart little green fruits. It would be uncomfortable to live on for very long, but it would stop him keeling over again. He ate as he rode and drank when they passed a brook. Each time Zudarra would know his plans when he clucked his tongue at Ves to stop him. Otherwise he did not attempt to speak to her.
The gray stone walls of Anvil loomed up ahead in the late afternoon. They topped a small rise and there it was, the Southern sea gleaming endless beyond. The masts of ships looked like twigs from so far out, the waterfront a sprawling forest of them. The road wound down the hill and out of sight past what looked like an inn, and then reappeared in the distance as it approached the city's main gate.
Zudarra breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the city untouched. She couldn't fathom why daedra would want to destroy Anvil, but then, she couldn't understand why Kvatch, either. With Mehrunes Dagon commanding the daedric army, there was probably no tactical reasoning behind Kvatch as a target. He would destroy for the sake of destruction.
They rode through rolling golden hills, the cool coastal breeze smelling of sea salt and wild flowers. The sea sparkled in the sunlight beyond the town, slowly disappearing from view as they came down the slope and the walls rose on the horizon instead. Shadow's hide glistened with sweat when they stopped to stable the horses outside the main gate, where two human guards stood watch.
"Have you come from Kvatch?" one of them asked as they approached, looking from the daedric weapons carried by the newcomers and then back to their faces.
"Yes, and no daedra are left alive in the city," Zudarra answered, anticipating his next question. She straightened her spine, chin held high and jerked a thumb at herself. "I am Zudarra the Bloody, and I have closed the great gate to the Deadlands that destroyed Kvatch and threatened all of Cyrodiil!"
The guards looked from Zudarra to Saraven in astonishment, but considering they both carried daedric swords, it seemed believable.
Saraven stared at her in mute disbelief for a second. Then he turned to the guards and said,
"Do you know if any other cities were attacked?" Both men shook their heads.
"Everything's overturned since the Emperor's assassination -"
The Dunmer stared at him. The man looked from him to Zudarra and back. "What? You didn't hear about the assassination? Right under the noses of the Imperial guards, too, they're saying it was some kind of cultists."
"Daedric cultists?" Saraven asked carefully.
"Not that I know of, but the details are still very sketchy," said the second guard.
"So who's ruling the Imperium?" Saraven asked.
"It'll be Chancellor Ocato, I guess. The princes of the blood were assassinated at almost the same time."
"No one bearing the Blood of St. Alessia remains?" Saraven asked.
"I don't think so. I mean if you believe in all that, no offense," the guard said.
"I see. Thank you for your time, officers." They were waved on, the bemused city guards staring after them.
"I need to see Morvayn, and he's close to the gate," he said to Zudarra, reluctantly breaking the day's silence. "Where's your mother live?"
"Western end of town," Zudarra replied. "Isn't Morvayn the smith? What's the matter, a sword forged in the fires of Oblivion isn't good enough for you?"
"I need a new gorget and bracers," Saraven said. "Can't afford one yet, but I might be able to do something for him in exchange. I have before." He moved toward a solid, prosperous-looking building ahead of them with the universal symbol for a smithy hanging from its sign, a sword and mace crossed over a shield. Above it were carved the words Morvayn's Peacemakers. The shop was built of heavy, roughly square bricks, with pillars supporting a short, pointed portico roof above the porch.
"Hm. I suppose I'll go with you," she said, following him into the shop. It was easier than meeting up later, and she didn't want to risk having Saraven split on her. There was really no reason for them to stay together anymore. The road had been safe, Anvil was safe. "After that... you could eat at my mother's, you know. She's very friendly, and you need to eat something other than apples."
Have to be strong if you're to be of any use to me were the words she did not speak. Her offer was most definitely not born of guilt for weakening him.
"Thank you. That is a generous offer," he said grimly. What in the world was behind this?
Saraven pushed open a heavy hollow-core door of verdigrised bronze and entered a warm, dim interior. A sturdy, muscular Dunmer with a gray-brown tan stood behind a counter, polishing a silver shortsword with a piece of rawhide. He had no hair on the top of his head and had grown out the sides to tie back into a short tail in the back. Hammering could be heard in the room behind him off to the right. The space behind the counter was mostly shelving, piled with armor and weapons.
Varel Morvayn glanced up, then laid the shortsword aside as he rested callused hands on the counter. Saraven watched him hunt for the name, squinting, then glance at the Cathay-raht behind him and back. His eyes dwelt on their weapons for a good couple of seconds.
"Saraven Gol," Morvayn said at last. He had the accent of a Dunmer raised speaking Cyrodilic, much more lilting and less harsh. "It's been some time. What can I do for you?"
"I need another gorget and bracers," he said. "This is Zudarra the Bloody, who closed the second Kvatch gate."
"Charmed, I'm sure. Are you still broke?" Morvayn asked dryly. Saraven nodded.
"You could trade me that sword for them. I don't see many of those through here."
"I could, but then I would have no sword," said Saraven. Morvayn smiled slightly. His next question was in Dunmeris as he glanced back at Zudarra.
"Are you keeping up with the cures? You're looking paler since I saw you last."
"Always," Saraven replied in the same tongue. "I'm not asking for anything for free. I will work for it."
Zudarra crossed her arms over her chest, listening to their conversation with increasing irritation. Her tail jittered and curled against the back of her calves. They were talking about her, right in front of her! Did they think she was stupid?
"All right," Morvayn said, switching back to Cyrodilic. "I haven't forgotten what happened three years ago. But the things I need done aren't necessarily work for a warrior. Probably. Maybe the one with the silver."
"What about it?"
"I'm expecting a small casque of ebony for a commissioned dagger in from a ship called the Vala Jan," said Morvayn. "All the way from the mines at Solstheim. It's here in port, but they haven't sent a runner these five days. I need someone to go see what's happened. If you can get the ebony and haul it back here I'll have your gorget and bracers made by the time you can get back."
"Thank you, Morvayn. I am in your debt." Saraven turned for the door.
"What was that all about?" Zudarra huffed, letting the door bang shut behind her as they left. "And by the way, I never claimed that I closed the gate by myself. Nothing was stopping you from saying you were there, too." She overtook Saraven to lead the way towards the Western end of town.
"I don't care if anyone knows who I am. Easier for me if they don't," he said, turning to keep up with her. "Morvayn knows what I do. He asked if I was keeping up with the cures. I said yes, and I wasn't asking for anything for free, and the rest you heard." He did not lay out for her the implied question whether he had finally been made a prisoner or a thrall, and should Morvayn reach for the Truncheon of Submission behind the counter?
Which was a kind thing to offer, Morvayn was a good man; but Zudarra would easily have killed him. He might be able to easily fight off the odd attempted robbery, not an arena fighter with the abilities of a vampire.
Zudarra's anger dissipated. It was quite reasonable for a man to be concerned if he saw his acquaintance with a vampire, she supposed. It seemed that Saraven had been mocking her, but now she felt silly for thinking so. Saraven seemed incapable of humor to begin with.
"Here," she said after finishing the walk in silence, nodding to their right.
Her mother's home was a tiny and narrow two storied house of white limestone brick and terracotta-shingle roof, situated in a cul-de-sac near the Southwestern gate. It overlooked a little grassy plaza in the center of the ring of homes, thickly clustered with lilac and rose bushes. Nearly every building in the city was made from stone and plaster, lacking nearby forests for timber. It eased Zudarra's mind that at least Anvil wouldn't burn as easily as Kvatch if there was an attack.
Zudarra rapped on the door, ancient wood painted aqua blue and badly chipped. The rest of the house was just beginning to fall into disrepair. Some of the shingles had fallen off and cracks spidered across the foundation, but there were other homes in the neighborhood in far worse condition.
"By the way," Zudarra said offhandedly. "My mother doesn't know about my condition, and if you tell her, I'll kill you." She pushed the door open without waiting for a response, either from the Dunmer or from within the home.
"Ma, it's Zudarra," she announced loudly as she entered. "And I'm with a... friend."
The door opened into a very narrow hallway with a stair leading up. Zudarra's pauldrons scraped against either wall, so she had to turn her body and edge in sideways. A square frame on their left lead to the single downstairs room. Zudarra had to duck her head to enter. She left the door for Saraven to close, as it would be impossible for him to maneuver around her.
The room they entered was cluttered but tidy, without a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. A small table with four pushed-in chairs sat directly in front of the entryway, adorned with white crocheted placemats and an empty glass vase. Daylight flooded the home from two huge windows that overlooked the street and the neighboring alley. Cabinets full of spotless porcelain dishes and shelves crammed with random junk lined every wall. Glass bottles, sea shells, household tools, a basket of yarn, books, candles, fresh vegetables, and countless other items were tightly packed on every surface. Zudarra moved slowly in the tiny room, made even smaller with clutter, for fear her armor would knock something over.
Just beyond the windows and the sitting area was the hearth. Iron pots on tall legs stood in the ashes of an earlier fire, bellows and tongs and other tools laying on the little brick wall that bordered the cooking area. A short pantry cabinet stood against the back wall.
Across from the hearth sat an Imperial woman who looked to be in her mid fifties, on a wooden bench lined with sunny yellow cushions. A patchwork quilt was thrown over the back of it, and a side table next to her held a little pale blue kettle and matching teacup. A steel shortsword was mounted on the wall over her head on a plaque, a red wooden shield beside it. The paint was heavily chipped and full of deep gouges, but the emblem of a black serpent twisted into a knot was still visible.
The woman stood as they entered. A purple shawl fringed with tassels hung from her shoulders. The long-sleeved tunic and skirt beneath it were both a pale red embroidered with a darker floral design. Her thinning silver hair was pulled back in a bun, several stray wisps hanging down around her round face. Her tanned skin bore the creases of one who smiled often.
She beamed when she saw them and came forward with arms thrown open wide to embrace the armored Khajiit in a hug.
"I'm so glad to see you!" she exclaimed happily, pressing her cheek against Zudarra's breastplate and squeezing. Zudarra smiled back and patted her shoulders. The woman pulled back and looked up at the tall Cathay-raht's face with foggy hazel eyes, then behind her at Saraven. She leaned forward, still hanging onto Zudarra's arm. "And who is this? I'm sorry young man, but I can't see very well. Come here!"
"Saraven Gol, and this is my mother, Lavinia," Zudarra said, apparently uninterested in explaining why she had a human mother. It was obvious that there was no blood relation.
"Good afternoon, Ma'am." Saraven bowed deeply and moved forward. "I'm afraid I'm not very young." So Zudarra had been adopted by an Imperial. He supposed that explained why her accent was better even than most Cyrodiil-born Khajiit. He was not surprised by her threats. Of course she would not tell an elderly parent she had become a blood-drinking revenant. Anyone might wish to spare their loved ones that knowledge if they could. He was not sure how to explain it if she were to lay a hand on his throat with his layered scars – he had been bitten an astonishing amount of times. Life in the Guild was hard these days, he supposed?
"Well, age is only a number," Lavinia said cheerfully. "I'm just happy my Zudarra finally found someone. She's a very lonely gi-"
"MOTHER." Zudarra's ears flattened against her head. Her tone was annoyed, but not abrasive as it could be when speaking to others. "It's not like that at all. Actually, this isn't a friendly visit. Kvatch has been attacked by the daedric army of Mehrunes Dagon. I was there when it happened. I only came to see if you were all right."
Saraven squinted in silent discomfort. The idea that he would be romantically involved with Zudarra was farcical and horrifying. He could imagine a number of scenarios that were both safer and likely to provide more enjoyment, including persuading a mud crab to give him a handjob or receiving sodomy from an ice atronach.
Lavinia's smile faded quickly, mouth dropping open in shock. She clutched at the shawl around her neck, blinking rapidly.
"Come to the table," Zudarra said gently, laying a hand on her mother's back. She guided the woman forward and pulled out a chair. Lavinia sat, staring forward numbly.
"How?" she asked.
Zudarra looked up at Saraven.
"We don't know. But the Emperor and his sons have been assassinated. It must be related. I only just met Saraven while all of this was happening. We escaped Kvatch together."
"I'm sorry we were the first to tell you, Ma'am," he said. "Zudarra fought valiantly, if that is a comfort to you." This, at least, was absolutely true. For all her arrogance and selfishness, she was a vicious fighter.
"Oh, is that so?" Lavinia said, raising a brow. She looked up at Zudarra and smiled proudly. She loved Zudarra, but even she knew it was unlikely the Khajiit had done anything selfless.
"We'll tell the story, but first, would you feed Saraven? We've been traveling since the attack last night.."
"Oh, of course! How rude of me that I didn't offer." Lavinia jumped up, grabbing two plates from a cabinet.
"Nothing for me, Ma, but I would take something with me. You can sit down, Saraven," Zudarra said, pulling out a chair for herself. She lowered herself down awkwardly, spine straight and legs splayed in front of her. It wasn't very comfortable, but she felt too large standing up in the small room.
"Nonsense, you should eat," Lavinia said, digging through the pantry. She brought back salted fish, sliced tomatoes, bread, and cheese, laying plates in front of both of them.
"Thank you, Ma'am, you're very kind," he said. He pulled out a chair and sat down carefully. If the chairs were strong enough to support Zudarra in steel they would hold his weight in mithral easily. He ate with decent manners, but quickly. It had been short rations for a few days and he was starving. When he felt Lavinia was not looking closely he stealthily reached over to hook Zudarra's fish. If that worked he would take all of it bit by bit. He was completely capable of eating two meals right now, and it was a shame to see good food go to waste.
Zudarra watched Saraven for a moment as he ate, almost wistfully. Then she looked away, and began telling her mother all that had happened. She made it out that they met for the first time in the cages of the torture room and ended with their awakening on the other side of the gate. Lavinia listened with concern and awe, nodding happily every time a daedra in the story was slain.
"I'm so proud of you, dear," she said, patting Zudarra's arm that lay across the table, helping to obscure her plate. "And Sir Gol, thank you for bringing my daughter home to me. You are a very brave man." Lavinia stood, leaning forward on the table to look at their empty plates. She had not noticed Saraven's pilfering, absorbed in the story of their survival.
"She brought herself home," he said dryly. "The fact I was there was more of a coincidence."
"You two must have been famished. Would you like more?"
Zudarra was about to nix that idea when a boom rocked the house, followed by a long trembling of the world beneath their feet. Zudarra caught her mother with one arm as she pitched forward, her chair smacking against a cabinet as she quickly stood. Plates clattered and tools thudded as they shook themselves free of the shelves. The room suddenly darkened; Zudarra's head snapped towards the window. Black clouds, just like Kvatch.
"No, Ma'am, thank -"
Saraven shot to his feet as the ground began to shake, chair rattling across the floor on its back behind him. Zudarra had managed to stop Lavinia falling. He turned and ran to the front door, throwing it open to look out. Black clouds were gathering overhead, the sky deepening from gray to blood-red behind them. Staring intently at the swirl of movement, hands braced in the doorway against the rumbling underfoot, he thought he could tell where the center was.
"Another gate is about to open," he said, turning back to the tiny room as bric-a-brac rained from the shelves. A glass vase smashed on the floor, scattering stalks of young aloe vera. "And I think it's about to open in front of the city gate. In five minutes there will be daedra in the streets. Does this house have a root cellar, Ma'am?"
The waterfront was probably the safest place, but their odds of reaching it with Lavinia before they were overtaken by roaming clannfear and scamps seemed poor.
Lavinia pushed away from Zudarra, keeping herself upright with a hand on the back of her chair as the house shook.
"Yes, it's out back, but I should get my sword-"
"No, Ma!" Zudarra snapped. "You'll go to the cellar and lock the door. Now!" She grabbed her mother by the shoulders, pushing toward the door. Lavinia huffed in offense as she was jostled out of her own kitchen.
"But I have to defend my home," she insisted.
"You're blind as a bat. You'd be dead in a minute." Zudarra waved Saraven out of the way and pushed Lavinia out the door, who seemed to accept that her daughter was right. Around back in the narrow space between the house and the city wall a single door angled down into the earth, weathered and full of wide cracks between the planks. Zudarra yanked it open and watched impatiently as Lavinia carefully crept down the dark stairs.
"There's no light," she complained.
"Don't make a sound and I'll come for you later," Zudarra said, letting the door drop when her mother's head had cleared the entrance. A wooden firewood rack full of split logs was leaning against the house. Zudarra dragged it aside and shoved, letting it topple against the cellar door. Her mother's muffled yelp issued from inside, but she ignored it.
"Do you mean to close the gate?" she asked, looking to Saraven. "There's going to be an entire army waiting to walk through the second it opens."
Saraven watched them, nodding in firm agreement as the logs fell. Smoke would rise upward if the house was burned. The daedra had not hunted carefully house to house in Kvatch, they had done as much damage as they could in the shortest amount of time. Lavinia was as safe as they could make her.
"I can't fight an army," he said. He looked around for the house's water pump and dropped to one knee to yank on the handle, then held his face under it, drinking as much as he could stand. In between drinking and pumping he spoke. "That's how I got captured the first time. But I can wait out the first wave and get in the gate before the second one. The tower we were in was almost empty. If I move fast, maybe I can get to the top before they get me." It seemed a strategy likely to result in him being filled with daedric arrows a few steps through the gate, but he felt surprisingly optimistic about his chances. A full belly and half a night's sleep was something to go on, and now he had a weapon.
Saraven stood up and wiped his mouth, water soaking his padding around the neck. Then he turned toward the street, drawing his longsword. It emerged from the sheath with a metallic shing, unsilked and unpadded, the toothed blade gleaming black and red and wicked in the increasingly dim light.
Zudarra paused, looking between the blocked cellar and Saraven's back as he walked away.
What am I going to do? She growled, realizing there were no options. Anvil wasn't any better equipped to deal with an invasion than Kvatch was. The city would fall if no one did anything. Her chances of survival were just as poor out here as they were inside. And her mother... even hidden in the cellar, she would be found and killed eventually if the dremora were not stopped.
She had caught up with Saraven in an instant, armor clanking as she slowed to match his pace.
"I'm going with you," she said.
People were emerging from their houses now, alarmed by the rumbling ground and staring in awe at the mass of black clouds that swirled below a strange red sky. Many of them had heard the news of Kvatch and were visibly terrified. Some people ran past them toward the waterfront.
Saraven showed his teeth, a death's-head grin. "I wondered if you might," he said. He raised his voice as he moved toward the gates of Anvil, which the guards were even now hurrying to close. Beyond them, black spikes were completing their journey up out of the earth, the cause of the shaking. They formed a spiny arc that came together at the top without a seam even as he watched.
"Let us out. Then seal the gate and then get the hell away. Get everyone to the castle and the waterfront, if you can."
"Who the hells are you?" demanded one, turning to stare at them.
"One who survived Kvatch. The gates won't stop them for five minutes if they've brought the siege weapon that they used there." He slid between the closing gates without pause. In front of him the gate roared like a bonfire as flames appeared from its edges, snapping in to form the crimson membrane. Saraven ran for one edge, prepared to stand behind the spiny edge of the thing until the first wave of daedra had passed through.
Zudarra followed and pressed herself against the black spine, although she was too bulky for it to completely conceal her. It was warm to the touch, like recently cooled lava. She glared sideways at Saraven, yanking her own sword from its scabbard. She wanted to close the gate, but this was starting to look like a suicide mission.
The humming of the fiery portal grew louder as black shapes emerged from the other side. Dremora ran through in pairs, heavy daedric boots chinking as they moved. A few archers had assembled on the wall, but not nearly enough to call themselves an army. They were just the guards who happened to be on duty that day. Zudarra hoped that someone had the brains to retreat to the castle, where maybe a force could be rallied to hold it.
The stream of demons didn't stop. The warriors came through first, and then lines of mages who wasted no time in flinging volleys of fire at the Anvil gate. Arrows splintered ineffectively on the black-armored warriors who formed a protective barrier in front of the mages. At least fifty dremora had emerged, all of them running forward to make way for the next, when the high pitched whine of the portal ebbed to its usual drone. The city gate was a wall of flame now, to match the portal that lay in front of it.
Zudarra looked at Saraven. It was time to go.
He jerked his head once, a short nod, and spun around the stone rim and stepped into the membrane.