The world went red. There was a sensation of incredibly rapidly movement that lasted a long second, and then Saraven was staggering forward onto cracked and stony ground under a fiery sky. The earth sloped down from the gate to a sea of lava, a broad staging ground where two ranks of dremora still waited, warriors and mages. Clannfear and scamps were already pawing and screeching in front of them, ready to run in through the gate. Across a levy of slick stone rose a pair of half-broken gates, lying open, and beyond the levy broadened into a bridge large enough to admit a small army. A black tower climbed to the sky at the end of the bridge, its parapets black and cruelly sharp, a spire of yellow flame rising from the summit into the sky.
Saraven turned and sprinted for a rock formation near them, hardly more than a pile of rough stone covered in peculiar crimson grass. The dremora officer currently haranguing the front ranks had not seen him, but a couple of scamps had. He heard their rapidly pattering feet as they turned to run after, their screams of rage and alarm mingling with the cries of their brethren at the gate.
Zudarra had closed her eyes before her face touched the membrane. She was half afraid that she would find herself not in the Deadlands, but the empty ruins of Coldharbour, and in some ways that would have been worse. Her stomach twisted as she stepped through after Saraven and then she was running beside him without a moment's pause to get her bearings.
Scamps. The weakest of daedra would ironically be one of the most deadly to Zudarra. She peeked over the rocks and ducked back just as a ball of fire came whizzing over her head.
"We'll be seen if we fight them in the open," she hissed.
The slope behind the gate lead up toward rocky hills. They might be able to lose the scamps in those hills, or at least fight them without worrying about the entire army below noticing.
A scamp vaulted over the rocks, screeching as it came down feet first. Zudarra thrust the greatsword up, skewering the creature through the pelvis in mid-air. It's jaw, crowded with crooked yellow teeth, fell open in a scream as blood splattered Zudarra and Saraven like rain. Two more scamps followed over the rocks, a third running around the pile.
Beside Zudarra, Saraven grunted assent as his eyes flicked between the three scamps. When he moved it was not vampire-fast, but it was uncannily fast for a Dunmer. He took a quick step forward toward the rocks, drawing the longsword in his right hand upward in a long stroke that split one scamp's belly from nave to chops. Reeking guts poured over the rocks and the toes of his boots, and he felt the heat even through layers of boot and padding.
The second one clawed at his face, hot sulfurous breath blasting his mouth and nose. He raised his free arm to defend his unarmored head, and the daedra's claws scraped the mithral chain with a metallic screech. On the down-stroke he hacked into its shoulder. It staggered, screaming, and he stabbed into its leathery chest as another fireball flew past his shoulder aimed at the Cathay-raht.
Zudarra leaned back as she let the greatsword fall hard against her shoulder, shaking off the impaled scamp. It convulsed on the ground as it quickly died, little rivers of blood filling the cracks in the stony ground. Her tongue flicked out to lick the blood that had landed on her nose, the untamed corner of her mind frenzied by the smell and taste. The armies below were no longer on her mind, only the need to survive the present battle.
She darted to the side just before the fireball hit, catching her on the right shoulder. Heat seared her neck and armpit, scorching black the tips of her fur. She launched pass Saraven with an angry growl, driving her blade through the scamps shoulder. Its long claws flew up to grasp at the blade, yellow eyes wide with pain, and Zudarra grinned as she twisted. The scamp screamed as the greatsword's teeth sawed through its flesh, then finally fell limp against the blade. Zudarra shook the bleeding corpse onto the ground.
"Maybe we don't need to lead them away, after all," she snorted.
Saraven whirled to stare through the distorted membrane. A row of dremora were marching toward him, the first faces in the line showing startlement as a few caught sight of him, but then they were gone inside the gate. It was in the process of happening again as he turned to run for the rocks.
"Heal yourself," he hissed over his shoulder. "It's going to be a long night." He started to climb, hands inside his mithral sleeves as much as he could – damn it, he needed gloves for this kind of work, he was taking the gauntlets off the next dremora he killed whether they were heavy or no. The rock was not only sharp but hot, not quite enough to blister the calloused flesh of his palms but certainly hot enough to make it uncomfortable to keep a grip.
He rolled over the top of a boulder and down the other side. A fat vine, its gray surface disturbingly slick and fleshy, lashed at him like a whip as he landed on his feet. It hit his armored back and shoulder without leaving a mark. Without a pause he turned to make his way to his right, in the direction that would lead him in a rough semicircle around the gate and toward the bridge and the tower. The vines covered many of the rocks, stirring gently as if in a breeze that was not there.
Zudarra pulled a mocking face at the Dunmer's back when he turned away - I don't need you to tell me that - but healed her aching burns in a quick flash of blue. She hauled herself up the rocks after him, lifting her own weight easily. From the top of the boulder she watched the vine whip Saraven's back and jumped down clearing the vines by several feet. She eyed the others suspiciously as she prowled along. Zudarra didn't want any of these bizarre daedric plants touching her.
They were well hidden by the downward slope of the levy now and could look up to see the final regiment passing through the flaming portal. Zudarra didn't like that they could do nothing about all those dremora. The Anvil gate had surely burned through by now, leaving nothing but a few disorganized guards between the monstrous horde and the city. She thought of her mother, trapped in the dark cellar, listening to the muffled screams of her neighbors. Lavinia was strong, she would not draw attention to herself by crying. But could daedra smell fear?
Stop thinking about it. You have work to do here.
She jogged over the bridge, overtaking Saraven now that there weren't any potential threats in their way. Lava gurgled loudly below them, fiery bubbles bursting from a black skin. The bridge arched high over the ocean, but still the heat was nearly unbearable.
The tower wasn't far after the bridge. A single arched door stood at the base of it, cut from the same black stone as everything else with glowing daedric runes engraved on the frame. Zudarra waited for Saraven to catch up before she pried the halves apart, revealing the blindingly bright pillar of light that cut through the center of the spire. It came from a hole in the center of the room, protected by a guard rail, and traveled through another wide hole in the domed ceiling. Even over the loud hum of the pillar Zudarra could hear voices on the walkway above, obscured by the ceiling from where she stood. If they walked closer to the pillar, they might look up through the hole and catch a glimpse of a dremora.
There were several doors, seemingly randomly placed and not equidistant apart. Another blood fountain was situated near the front door, tempting the vampire with an alluring coppery scent.
Saraven ran after Zudarra, unable to keep up until she slowed down, but not sick or weak. He felt almost smug. Being hydrated and fed did a lot to dispel his tendency to morbidity, and now there was work to do. He needed there to be work to do. He slid between the toothed doors after her, breathing hard – it had been a long enough run in armor and fervent heat – and ducked to one side to let his eyes adjust to the darker interior. No enemy moved to attack at once. The hum of the pillar of fire was an inescapable, irritating vibration through his boots, through his teeth, in the backs of his eyes.
There was nothing to indicate which door led where. Did this place have a basement level? He supposed they would have to try doors until they found a ramp leading up. He moved toward the nearest one. It yielded to pressure, though it was harder for him than it had been for Zudarra. Behind lay a flat hallway. He let it alone and moved to the next. This one led upward. He shoved it open as far as he could and started up, sword in hand.
There was an interrogative grunt from above him, and a query of "Kha velkad?" Then he burst out the top of the ramp and almost ran into an armored dremora, this one wearing a full spiked helm and carrying a mace in one hand. Saraven let his momentum carry him forward, bashing the creature in the chest with his forearm. The impact drove him back a step without doing the slightest damage, but it had bought enough space for Zudarra to emerge from the hallway behind him.
Zudarra slid past them and behind the dremora in a vampiric blur, having no space to maneuver her long weapon in the mouth of the hall. She chopped at the back of the dremora's knees with sword parallel to the ground just as he swung his mace at Saraven's head, taking advantage of the Dunmer's proximity.
Saraven ducked to his right, twisting violently from the waist as the mace whistled over his skull. The dremora snarled and went suddenly to his knees, armor impacting with a loud, metallic clank against the stone floor. The Dunmer tossed his longsword from his right to his left hand and whipped the blade around backhand.
The dremora's head toppled from his neck. Blood spurted upward from the point of severance. The body flailed the mace for a moment before falling over. Saraven stared at the sword in his hand, then back at the body. Even at its sharpest his silver blade had not been able to do that in one blow.
They were in a room very like the one where they had first been caged together, a square chamber with high, thin panels of light on the walls. There were two pillars near the center of the room with a bench between them. There were no cages. There was a corpse nailed to one of the pillars, held in place with bent metal rods, burning. It was impossible to tell what species the headless, blackened thing had once been. The stench of it filled the room. A doorless entry marked the opposite wall, ramp leading upward.
Zudarra hungrily watched the geyser of blood before she tore her eyes away and turned towards the ramp. They had to move quickly.
"Two above," she informed her companion, guessing from the sound of footsteps up top. There was little point in trying to conceal their own sounds.
The air crackled with lightning over their heads just before Zudarra reached the top, leaving black scorch marks on the ceiling behind her. Two robed dremora waited in the center of a room held up by four pillars, a male and a female. Unspent fire burned in the male's hands. He watched, waiting for a clear shot. Zudarra ducked back below the floor as soon as she saw them. Even with her speed, running towards mages was a stupid idea.
Saraven watched her duck back, already reaching for his unspent scroll. He flipped it open in his left hand as he held the longsword in his right. Then he darted up the ramp and spun to the left, already speaking the word of power as he pointed at the first robed thing to appear in his line of sight. He had an excellent view of the green spiral of Silence and the crimson fireball passing each other. Then he threw himself on his belly just in time for it to singe the back of his head and heat his armor to the point of almost burning his flesh. He rolled fruitlessly away from the inevitable lightning and managed to still absorb most of it, his body convulsing as white-hot agony rippled through mithral, flesh and nerves.
He couldn't move. Whatever had kept him going through a lightning bolt two days ago was no longer with him. He twitched in vain, trying to rise. His hand still had a convulsive grip on his sword-hilt, steam rising from his burnt flesh where the charge had passed from hand to sword to floor.
Zudarra sprang from the ramp as soon as the Dunmer went down, knowing she was most likely going to be on the floor convulsing with Saraven very soon, but not before her serrated blade got a taste of daedric blood. The silenced mage turned to run, but Zudarra was faster and her greatsword sliced through his back just as the lightning hit. The dremora's partially severed torso flopped over his lower half and he sagged to the ground. His legs continued to violently kick with the rest of his body despite a severed spine, blood spraying everywhere from both jerking halves, thanks to the current that flowed from Zudarra's sword.
The Khajiit was left standing upright, face contorted in frozen agony. Her armor clinked as she jerked and twitched, muscles spasming even as they cooked.
Saraven's face was turned to the wall. He heard the rapid tak-tak-tak that was Zudarra running in heavy boots, the wet sklush-thud of the dremora being killed, and the violent crackling of the lightning bolt. Then he heard harsh female laughter. His left hand finally obeyed his order to close and open.
"Foolish mortals," said the other mage. "Why would you even come to this place? To face the might of Dagon's armies?" Saraven managed to flop his head around in time to see her sauntering up to Zudarra. She kicked at the Khajiit's shins. "Fall, prey, that I may enjoy the fruits of my labors."
Zudarra fell back with an awful clatter and sharp thwack as her head hit the stone. The harsh sound still rang in her ears, compounding an already throbbing headache as she fought to gain control of her aching limbs.
The dremora grinned down at the helpless Khajiit with the same glee Zudarra herself often felt at ending a life. She pulled back her arm as if to wind up a throw and thrust her hand forward, fingers flying open as the white light burst from her palm.
I won't lose to you! Zudarra jerked out clumsily with one leg, smacking the dremora's calf as the lightning hit. There was very little force behind her blow, but all she needed was a touch. Zudarra's armor rattled against the floor as both shook convulsively, steam rising from the chinks of her mail. Her entire back cooked to char where it touched her armor, a horrifying stink of burned flesh and fur. She could barely think through the agony of it, didn't even register the sound of the dremora falling over backwards, still alive but unable to move for several seconds.
Saraven closed his left hand, blue magicka spiraling up around him as he healed. His right hand unmelded itself from the grip of the longsword, but he kept his grip. He rolled rapidly to his feet as the dremora reached out to shock Zudarra again. He saw the Khajiit make contact, conveying the charge back to her attacker. Cleverer than I gave her credit for.
He stalked over to look at them both. Both were still breathing, though burning was a dreadful stink in his nostrils. He clubbed the dremora in the head with the hilt of his sword, hard enough to stun her, not hard enough to kill. The dremora grunted and twitched, eyes rolling upward. Then he grabbed the mage by the collar and dragged her over to Zudarra. He reached out to clamp a hand onto the Khajiit's shoulder, healing power transferring from one to the other.
A week ago he might have considered letting her die of her wounds purely because she was a vampire. He should consider it now, because she would be hungry and he would be tired again before he had a new gorget. He could not deal with that thought right now. Instead he just held on and healed her again.
The absence of pain as her fried nerves healed was almost greater than any pleasure Zudarra had felt. Almost. Her fingers twitched as Saraven's magicka flowed through her body, stiffened muscles relaxing as burns gave way to soft, pink flesh beneath her striped fur. As soon as her hand successfully made a fist Zudarra's upper body lurched forward, claws reaching out to yank the dremora from Saraven's grasp. The limp body fell across her lap, head cradled in the Khajiit's hand like some horrible parody of a nurturing embrace.
The illusion was broken when Zudarra's maw flew open, wild crimson eyes flashing as her fangs fell upon the neck of the dremora with a greedy hiss. The burned flesh under her tongue would be disgusting if Zudarra even noticed it. Her eyes rolled back in pleasure as she drank, almost watching Saraven from the corner of her eye. She was only vaguely aware of him, her senses overloaded with the taste and the smell of her meal.
Saraven stepped back as she seized the dremora. He stood rigid, eyes fixed on the vampire – he could not say to himself the Khajiit in this moment. He wanted to turn away, but he did not allow himself to do so, opening and closing the fingers of his empty left hand. Do not hide from yourself what you are doing. This is what she is and will always be.
Again the unfathomable power swelled in Zudarra's every muscle as her victim's pulse weakened. She yearned to keep keep sucking, but there was nothing left. She threw aside the empty husk, snarling angrily that it was dry. She needed more! Zudarra scrambled up. Still crouched, she glared up at Saraven, lips high over pink gums and dripping fangs. Her forehead wrinkled as she hissed, almost ready to pounce on him when she came to her senses. The bestial rage drained from her face and she stood, slow and confused. Her sword lay at her feet beside a gray, shrunken body.
His face might have been made of stone. He watched her rise, her features feral, insane, and he raised the longsword at the guard, prepared for the dreadful irony of what he had just done becoming a complete waste. He was not so despairing now that he would let her kill him while there was still an important work to be done. Not now. Not this. His left hand clenched into a fist, light beginning to glow against the palm as he prepared the magicka.
But then she stopped, straightened, transformed, and she was standing there blinking at him as if she did not know what had happened. He lowered the sword cautiously, letting the power dissipate from his open hand. Saraven jerked his head at the greatsword where it lay beside the shriveled corpse, turning to lean on one of the pillars. His heart rattled and thundered in his chest, and why? Should he be dismayed at the thought that he might have to kill another vampire?
And tell her mother what? Oh, good. That was a helpful thought, he thought bitterly.
Zudarra looked down at the sword near her feet and bent to pick it up, brows furrowed in confusion.
I almost attacked him. I wouldn't merely have fed, I would have killed him. She frowned at herself, glancing quickly at Saraven's face and then away to see his reaction but not meeting his eyes - he was obviously shaken. She had almost thrown away her only hope of survival here, her only hope of saving her mother! And if she killed one who sought to foil Mehrunes Dagon, what would Molag Bal do to her then? Her stomach clenched with dread and Zudarra turned away from Saraven, too frazzled by what had happened to mask the fear on her face.
There wasn't time to ruminate on her loss of control. She'd been taken up by bloodlust, that was all. It happened sometimes, but there hadn't been any "accidents" in months, back when she was a very new vampire.
The corpse of the vagabond stared at her from the dark alley, mouth hanging open and eyeballs round in a frozen expression of terror. The body had aged fifty years under her fangs, all wrinkly and colorless, skin loose on the bone. He'd been a handsome young Breton, so different from the soldiers with old injuries and dirty orphans who seemed to belong to the streets. Maybe an addict, maybe one touched with madness. She didn't know or care. Zudarra's thoughts were dominated by thirst, a raging beast that clawed through her belly and mind.
She didn't intend to kill him. But once that hot liquid gushed into her throat, she could think of nothing else.
The vampire turned and ran, a shadow in the dark, chased by the fear of what she had become.
In the morning Zudarra would forget her terror. He was weak and she was strong and the death of the weak meant nothing to her. She would work harder at controlling the beast within for her own sake, not for anyone else's. If a few beggars had to die to feed her, it was no great loss.
Zudarra hefted the blood-drenched greatsword against her pauldron and looked over her shoulder, her face a perfect emotionless mask.
"Thanks for the heal; I owe you one. Let's get going."
Saraven nodded and pushed away from the pillar, looking around the room. Another ramp led upward, and there was a pair of doors separate from the doorway they had entered. He went to pry them a cautious inch open. The enormous vertical shaft ringed by walkways was starting to feel familiar, with its pillar of flame piercing the center and casting dim yellow-orange light.
"Right," he said. "Up."
They found two scamps and a clannfear and covered perhaps a quarter-mile of vertical ramp before they saw another dremora. Saraven kept a warier eye on Zudarra, trying to keep her on one side and never behind him. The first time they had been in the Deadlands together, he had believed his own death to be inevitable, and it had blunted his ability to think clearly. Now that he was planning to survive past the gate, Zudarra was more of a problem.
Because if not him, if not Zudarra, who was going to close the next one? One Argonian could only travel so far, so fast. He was not so arrogant as to believe he would long survive these attempts on his own. But what to do about the vampire? He could not trust her. He would never be able to trust her.
Then you will devise checks against her power as best you can. You have been alone a long time, Saraven Gol. You will survive, and Zudarra is the greatest sword against Dagon that you will ever wield.
Undoubtedly she would be either offended or amused or both at that idea. For now they fought their way up the spiral, toward the domed membrane far above.
They could see the red dome just above them now, the drone of the pillar loud enough to drown out any possible noises from above. Zudarra had to assume the defenses at the top would be similar to the tower at Kvatch; there had been two mages and a warrior then. The scroll of silence had been used, and both of them were running low on magicka - Zudarra could perhaps afford to heal herself once or twice more. Their chances were looking slim.
She was acutely aware of Saraven's eyes boring into her back. He was very careful not to let her out of his sight. Zudarra should fully understood why, she should be proud that she struck fear in his heart... but she wasn't. He viewed her as a mindless animal, not a worthy opponent or ally. Someday, when this was all over, Saraven would be the mindless one. Zudarra's hand clenched against the hilt of her weapon, glaring at the walkway ahead of her in indignation. She would see to it that his fears were justified.
They crawled slowly up the steep ramp, this time using the whining pillar to conceal their sounds. As Zudarra's head cleared the floor, the veiny membrane stretching over the middle of the room was just a few feet away, glistening wetly in the fiery light. Its scent was faintly human, like the fleshy pods they had seen before. This dome was exactly like the other, a little black ball floating in the pillar by a balcony on the upper floor.
A fully armored dremora, helm and all, was strolling around the lower level, a huge battleaxe slung across his back. His back was presently turned to them, and two robed figures stood on the upper walkway. These dremora hadn't noticed them, either. She wondered how the daedra selected who would march on Tamriel and who would stay behind. Were they fighting the rejects, the washouts? If so, Zudarra pitied the Imperial forces back home.
"We might run past the warrior, and hope to knock the stone out of the fire before they can get a shot," Zudarra said, low under her breath. Two moving targets meant one of them had a fairly good chance of reaching the balcony by the pillar.
Saraven actually smiled, briefly and a bit sourly.
"You might," he said. "They're not faster than a vampire. I'll try to engage him under the shelf, where they can't easily hit me at range. Then, when they believe I'm alone, make your run." Drawing the attention of three dremora by himself was a suicide mission, but Zudarra didn't have any better ideas and she wasn't about to argue. She sheathed her greatsword and hunkered down to wait.
Would he still be sent back to Cyrodiil, to Nirn, if he was not next to the stone when it was displaced? Or would he be crushed in the rain of debris this time? Saraven's heart jerked at the thought, and he was surprised to realize he was actually afraid to die today. Inwardly he laughed at himself. Now is no time to start to care.
Outwardly he flicked the longsword, clearing any last drops of blood from the hungry teeth of the blade, and started purposefully up the ramp. As he rose fully into view he accelerated into a trot, then a run, and then just as the armored figure started to turn to see what the noise of booted feet was about he jinked sharply left under the back edge of the walkway. A fleshy pod pulsed and throbbed in the shadows, and a small fountain full of something that was not blood stood there. The contents flowed like water, but they were blue and luminous.
The clanking of the armored dremora as he ran for Saraven, slinging the axe from his back, drew their attention. Fire blazed in both of their hands, one coming down the steps opposite Saraven and the other running along the upper walkway in search of a good shot. Zudarra sprang from the ramp, toward the stairs on the right, as soon as the mage on the upper level loosed his fireball.
The mage on the lower level didn't have as clear a shot; his armored ally was blocking the way, roaring as his axe sailed towards Saraven's head. Zudarra launched into the air and the dremora turned, eyes wide at the mass of steel and fur hurtling towards his face and raised his hands. Zudarra's feet slammed down on the daedra just as fire burst from his hands, both of them screeching as the dremora was smashed to the ground and flames exploded around the Khajiit's paws. She didn't stop, leaping up for the stairs on burned pads. Every step was a jarring pain and she opened her palm as she ran, blue light flashing. Any second now the other dremora might hit her in the back with its flame. Even as fast as she was, on the stairs her trajectory was obvious, and the burns had slowed her down.
Saraven dove and rolled. The fireball impacted on the wall behind him with a roar, heating his back and shoulder, and the axe came down a fraction of an inch to the left of his head an instant later with a metallic report large enough to fill the world. He jabbed upward as he scrambled to his feet, roughly aiming for the inner seam of the dremora's greaves, but the blow was sloppy and it clanged off the armor plating instead. The dremora swung the axe again, and Saraven rolled backward to avoid being decapitated and then dove to his right to avoid a stamping boot.
He heard two screams and a whomph of expanding flame from overhead. One mage was dead and Zudarra was burned, but he still heard the slap of her paws on the surface. She was still upright. Saraven got to his feet just in time to lean away from another swing. The dremora jabbed at him with the butt of the weapon rather than initiate another slow swipe, and the blow connected with his chest, jarring him from head to toe. For a second he couldn't breathe, but he dared not stop moving. The second mage was moving away from him, probably distracted by Zudarra. Saraven turned and sprinted for the ramp, one hand glowing with flame.
"The Empire!" he screamed, and hurled his own fireball at the dremora. The mage paused with one hand upraised as the flames engulfed him, unharmed but confused.
Zudarra's magicka spiraled down her legs, the cracked black flesh gradually turning pink on her jelly bean toes as she sprinted up the stairs. That was it, she realized, the last of her magicka. The burns healed more reluctantly than other wounds, expending every last drop of her energy.
She skidded to a stop on the balcony, and now the line of sight between her and the mage was broken by the fiery pillar that rose from below. To shoot her now would be to risk hitting their precious little stone and collapse the tower either way.
The roar of the pillar thundered in Zudarra's ears, the sweltering heat of the pulsing beam blasting her face even from a foot away. Every instinct told her to stop as her arm thrust forward, smoke rising from her hands as the fur burst into flames. Her fingers had not even touched the fire yet. An animalistic roar ripped from Zudarra's muzzle as her hand forced its way into the raging inferno, the ashes of her fur crumbling away, the skin beneath burning red and then black. Her claws bubbled and warped in the heat and she knocked the sphere aside with her dead, clublike hand. A fiery explosion boomed in her face, sending the vampire flying back against the far wall.
The armored dremora rattled after Saraven, aiming a kick for the Dunmer's side, so hard that he heard ribs snap under his chain shirt, and he was thrown sideways under the balcony to fetch up against the wall. Black and white spots flared at the edges of his vision as he struggled to breathe, chest a mass of agony in front and on his right side. He was dimly aware of the dremora stalking toward him, snarling something derisive.
Something overhead exploded. The balcony shook with the force of it, and then a black sphere about eight inches across dropped from above and hit the floor behind the dremora with a thunderous impact. The daedra spun, axe at the ready, and then roared with fury in the moment before the floor cracked under his feet and spilled him into the endless depth below. Saraven staggered upright against the wall and ran for the ramp to see if Zudarra was alive, but he couldn't see her and the walkway buckled under his feet. There was a rumbling and cracking from overhead as the roof and the ceiling started to give, and he looked up into a majestically shattering ruin as he started to fall. Everything bloomed white -
- and he landed on his back in the dirt. He blinked, gasping, as his vision gradually cleared to reveal the black sky over Anvil. The last wisps of crimson were just clearing, revealing the cold and distant glitter of the stars. He started to curl his left hand automatically, to heal himself, but then he remembered Zudarra. He sat up, baring his teeth at the pain in his chest, and he looked around for the vampire. With his right hand he sheathed his longsword. He had held onto it through all of it.
Zudarra couldn't recall the impact against the wall, but the back of her head throbbed horribly. That was nothing in comparison to the searing pain of the burns on her face and arm, although her hand was numb after the wrist, the nerves completely dead. Zudarra moaned as the quaking tower jostled her body and then she was weightless as the floor gave way beneath her. Zudarra wasn't afraid. She would welcome death at that moment, anything to escape the torture of her burns.
She came to laying on her back, one eye cracking open to look at blurry stars, too confused to realize she was falling in and out of consciousness. Voices shouted in the distance - mortals, they lacked the rasping quality of dremora. A patch of bloody, raw skin spanned from the top of Zudarra's nose to her chin, the edges of her lips eaten away by fire. Her right hand was a charred lump still frozen with her fingers curled open beside her.
Piles of daedric and mortal corpses lay in the main street sixty yards away, visible through the hole that had once been the main gate. The charred remains of the edges still stood, held up by the iron bars that had reinforced the large double doors. A lone clannfear ran past the opening, only to skid to a heap in the street as arrows rained on its back. Someone was alive inside the city.
The fingers of Zudarra's left hand twitched feebly. Her magicka was completely dry. She closed her eyes, wishing she could just pass out or die already.
Saraven rolled to one knee as he caught sudden movement from the corner of one eye, but the clannfear was already dead, ploughing into a bloody mound some yards away. The gate was in ruins and he could hear distant shouts, so someone in Anvil had survived.
Zudarra lay nearby, sprawled on her back, one hand charred to the point of almost being coal, half her face burned down to the level of muscle. He crawled rapidly over to kneel beside her, trying to breathe shallowly. She wasn't ash, so she wasn't dead, but she must be in terrible pain if she was at all conscious. This was Saraven's fault. He had asked to deal with the stone, and she must have put her hand into the flames to push it out of position. He wasn't sure what had happened to her face, but it certainly would not have happened if she had not been alone on the platform.
"Zudarra?" He laid a hand on the shoulder of the burnt arm and concentrated, letting go all of his remaining power. "You did it. This one really is all yours."
The face looking down at hers was as sere as ever, set in an expression of stern impassivity as it had been at the first moment she saw him. He was paler than he had been two days ago, but not at the point of collapse, not about to expire; the heart that beat in her ears was strong and steady.
A couple of heads clad in mail hoods peered cautiously from the top of the wall, behind the tips of arrows. No one started shooting. They were too busy staring at the jagged upthrust remains of the gate.
The voice that spoke to her was foggy and distant, muffled as if through cotton. Then the refreshing tingle of magicka flowed through her body. Zudarra's face itched as skin regrew on her muzzle, fresh fur growing in soft and white on the new skin. She opened her eyes as the pain receded, realizing where she was and what had happened. The pain in her arm ebbed and sensation returned to her fingers; she clenched her fist, testing her grip, and then used both palms to shove herself into a sitting position.
She grinned widely at Saraven, her earlier resignation completely forgotten. She nodded over his shoulder towards the figures on the wall, who were now gawking in amaze at the sight below and shouting for others to come see. The Khajiit knocked the Dunmer's shoulder with her fist, oblivious to his broken ribs.
"Wipe that dull expression off your face. We're alive, and heroes!"
Saraven hunched his shoulder in time to brace himself slightly, but he still grimaced at the impact, smothering a wheeze.
"You're a hero. I was just there at the same time." He climbed carefully to his feet. "Let's go find your mother. And then maybe the Chapel."
He raised a fist as he turned his face up to the wall, filling his lungs in spite of the pain. "ANVIL STANDS! THE GATE IS CLOSED!"
An answering cheer came in response, ragged and scattered, but unbroken, indomitable.
"ANVIL STANDS! THE GATE IS CLOSED!"
He could hear the shout being repeated along the wall and off into the city as he limped in through the broken gates.
Pride swelled in Zudarra's breast as she passed beneath the entry, stepping over the bodies of the slain. Joyful shouts rang in the air as guards raised up their shields, holding the crest of Anvil toward the heavens. This was a sound she lived for - the admiration of hundreds, all come to bask in her glory, every eye in the stadium focused on her and cheering for her.
But this cheer was not just for Zudarra. These were the exultant cries of survivors, reveling in their shared triumph over evil. They had fought for a cause, not petty games. Even in the midst of her pride, Zudarra felt something dark leaking in to taint that golden emotion. Her trials as a gladiator were a parody of war. She had never known the same level of horror and fear as she faced in the Deadlands. And no one had ever looked to her with gratitude for anything she had done.
The streets were slick with blood and piles of gore. Despite the overpowering stink of burned flesh hanging in her nostrils, the daedric blood sparked a thirst in Zudarra. She was healed, but weary and hungry.
Morvayn's Peacemakers was still standing, though the bronze door swung from its hinges, bent nearly in half. And this was the case with many buildings. Some roofs had burnt, but most things were still standing. The forces of the Deadlands had not had a great siege engine to bring to bear here. It was worth noting, Saraven thought, that the number of the great walking batterers was not infinite. Even the resources of a Daedra Prince were not infinite.
The spire of the Chapel of Dibella still stood above the city to the South and West as Saraven turned that way, moving toward Lavinia's house. Its stained glass upper windows glowed gently from within, light, life, hope. A barricade of pews and chairs was stacked up in front of the double doors.
Bodies lay in the street, people, clannfear, scamps, dremora. The stench of burning and death was not as bad as it had been in Kvatch, but the reminder of war and mortality was there.
Saraven was walking stiffly, obviously injured. Zudarra looked over at him, a strange expression on her face. The Dunmer may have saved her life just then, healing her when he obviously needed it himself. Part of her was irritated by that. She wanted nothing from him, she wanted no help from anyone. But Lavinia owed her life to this man as much as Zudarra. The Khajiit opened her mouth, breathing in to prepare for words, then faltered.
"...I have to see to Ma. We might have a potion at the house, when you get there," she said instead, somewhat apologetically, and broke into a sprint. Saraven wouldn't have been able to keep up healthy, let alone injured, and she was impatient to check on her mother.
"Go on," he said to the air where Zudarra had been. Then he grunted and kept on walking as she vanished into the distance. It seemed like there were fewer bodies as he got closer to Lavinia's home. That was hopeful. Maybe people had actually managed to evacuate in time to survive.
Based on the distribution of corpses, it seemed that some guards and townsfolk had taken a stand at the gate. Everyone else must have fled to the waterfront or the castle. The castle was on an island accessible only by a bridge about two people wide, making it an effective bottleneck for the invading army.
Zudarra's heart seemed to flip in her chest when she saw the house. The front door hung open, windows smashed. It was unmolested otherwise. She flew down the back alley without missing a beat.
"Mama, it's me!" she called, chucking aside the wood blocking the door and throwing it open as soon as it was clear enough, the remaining logs thudding onto the ground. Lavinia emerged slowly, clutching at her shawl and trembling as she climbed up the steps.
"Oh, Zudarra! I'm so glad you're safe! It's been hours since I heard a peep-" she fell against the Khajiit, voice breaking. Only her mail protected Zudarra from the crushing hug. "I thought for sure you had died out there." Lavinia pulled away, eyes shining with tears of joy, but then her hand clamped over her mouth, eyes wide with horror. "Where's your friend, the Dunmer?"
"Saraven is fine. He'll be here in a minute," Zudarra said, gently guiding the older woman back towards the house.
"It was awful. I could hear them crashing around upstairs," Lavinia was saying as she went inside. Zudarra ducked back to look down the street for Saraven.
The Dunmer was starting to feel tired now that there was no need to run and fight every second. His eyes felt full of sand, but someone might see if he stopped to rub at them. If he closed his eyes he was afraid he would fall down. He wanted a wash and a quiet place to lie down for about a day and a half.
He felt a certain sense of satisfaction. It was horror, burning, and death, but it was not Kvatch. What they had done had made a difference. Even if he had served mainly to support Zudarra's rampage through Dagon's troops, he had accomplished something. It had been some time since he had felt that from his ordinary work. Usually he found a vampire by the trail of bodies, by the people who were already past saving or at the very least already harmed, left to try and put a life back together with a ravished mind and a half-drained body. Today there were at least some survivors who were alive and well even if they had to replace some of their possessions.
Zudarra was looking out of the broken front door up ahead. Her ears were up, that seemed like a good sign. Saraven continued his steady if somewhat bent progress up to the door, leaning on the door frame to look around.
Zudarra followed her mother inside, seeing that Saraven had made it down the road.
Lavinia could make nothing out in the darkness. She knew her home well enough to get around sightless, but stumbled through the overturned furniture and ceramic shards from fallen plates that littered the floor. A warm breeze pressed on them gently from the broken window as Zudarra lit an oil lamp for the others to see by, setting it on the table. She didn't want to look at another fire for the next fifty years.
"Saraven is injured and both of us are drained. Do you keep any healers?" she asked, picking up the chairs and then a fallen shelf. The room stank of scamp.
"Yes. Well, they might be a bit old," Lavinia said, stooping down to dig through the bottom drawer of a cabinet. She pulled out a little corked vial, a ruddy brown liquid sloshing inside, and turned towards the Dunmer as he entered with the bottle in her outstretched hand.
He eyed the bottle with misgiving. "Thank you, Ma'am, but keep it in case of mishap. I'll be seen to at the Chapel and come back to check on you both tomorrow, now that we know you're all right. Do you need anything, Zudarra?"
Lavinia tsked, pulling back the potion with a concerned frown.
"You don't have to walk all that way-"
"Ma, it's obviously spoiled. Don't poison him."
The vampire's eyes flicked briefly over Saraven's body and returned to his eyes. As usual, his powerful scent clouded her senses, reminding her of the ever persistent hunger. She did need something, but it was nothing he'd fetch for her.
"No, we're both fine." She felt that she should say something more. It was unfortunate that he'd have to walk across town in that sorry state, and perhaps find no one alive at the chapel to help him get past the barricaded doors. Zudarra could throw him over her shoulder and be there in two shakes, but that would be uncomfortable for both of them. She couldn't offer that, and he wouldn't ask.
"Thanks... Saraven. For your help," she said uneasily, standing very still as she stared at him, a jar picked up from the floor still in hand. It was her fault he was in this situation.
He looked back at her for a long moment. He firmly rejected the possibility that Lavinia might not be safe with her. Some other poor sod might not be, but her mother? As much as he would like to fall back on old habits and say she is a vampire, no one is safe, he knew that was probably not true. She had possessed enough self control to keep poor Vandalion alive through many feedings over time.
That he could not trust her not to use him while he was exhausted and unconscious must be down to what had passed between them. Or it might just be that she thought of him as another like the Altmer, who had existed to serve her. It would fit.
There were things he wanted to say. Make sure it's someone who deserves it. But the old lady was still there, nearly blind and completely trusting of her adopted daughter, and he would not for the world plant the slightest doubt in her mind of what Zudarra had become.
"You're welcome," he said at last. "Good night, Ma'am." He bowed to Lavinia very carefully and turned to make his slow way up the street. It would be a long walk to the chapel, stepping over bodies, pausing to lean on an empty house from time to time. His chest throbbed. By the time he was back to that neighborhood the guards were walking the streets with torches, looking for any survivors who might be trapped under bodies or debris. He watched one run a sword through a scamp that had not even twitched. They were understandably jumpy. He was glad that the silver gleam of his mithral chain and the white of his hair would mark him as no daedra at all even in the dark.
An older Imperial in the same guard uniform as the others, chainmail with the city's insignia, hailed him as he passed.
"You there, where are you going?"
"To the Chapel of Dibella," Saraven said, turning slowly to answer. "Are the barriers still up?"
"I shouldn't wonder, but if you knock they may let you in," the man said, looking him over slowly. A woman came up behind him, her face weary behind the nasal of her round helmet. She had a bow and quiver on her back and the slender build most common in Bretons. "You don't look so good, friend. I'll detach one of my men to take you there."
"Thanks, but I'll be fine. What your men are doing is important."
"I'll go, Sergeant," said the woman behind him. "He was with the Khajiit, the big one in armor. They closed the gate."
The Imperial turned to stare at him. "Good gods, a Dunmer in mithral, you're right. You should've said, mer! Of course we'll get you to the Chapel. Go along with him, Corporal Benetton. See that he gets healed up, gets whatever he needs. What happened to your friend, is she all right?"
"She's taking care of her mother," he said. "Lives here in town. It's a small house, and they'd some picking up to do, so I left them to it. And really it was she who closed the gate. People should know that."
"Well, when you see them you can tell them they have the gratitude of the City of Anvil," said the sergeant. "I imagine she'll be hearing it from the neighbors as they trickle back anyway, word travels fast. What's your name?"
"I'm Saraven Gol. She is Zudarra the Bloody."
"Well, good night, Saraven Gol. You take good care of this mer, Corporal."
"Yessir." The woman saluted. She looked Saraven over, thought better of offering him an arm, and walked beside him instead.
They found the Chapel still barricaded. Corporal Benetton shoved her way past one end of the barricade to get to the West doors and pounded on them with a mailed fist. "Open up! I'm with the Anvil City Watch. All's safe!"
There was a sound of clattering furniture from within; apparently they'd barricaded from inside as well. A moment later the door opened a cautious crack. A Redguard woman, skin a deep chocolate hue, peered out at them. Then she opened the door fully. She had a luscious figure, and her colorful robes showed some cleavage, appropriate to the service of her particular goddess. Her hair was dressed in elaborate cornrows. Her outer robes were torn in vertical strips as if by claws, but she had no visible injuries.
"All's safe?" she asked.
"The gate to Oblivion is shut and the daedra are dead," Benetton said. "We're hunting for any survivors, but it's fairly certain there are none left by now. This mer helped to close the great gate. He's injured."
"Zudarra the Bloody closed the great gate," he repeated firmly. "I was just there at the same time."
"All right, come in, come in." The sanctuary looked immaculate except for a dead clannfear in the aisle where the pews had been. It was not immediately clear what had killed it. The reek of sulfur and death was almost overridden by the smell of incense, making the air bittersweet.
It was a vast room, wooden support pillars towering away toward the tapering ceiling, candelabras near the altar giving off a warm, dim light. The stained glass window shed colored light over the main altar to the Nine and the smaller altars to each individual aedra. They were roughly cylindrical, barely ornamented little fonts of stone. An altar cloth lay draped across the center of the great Altar of the Nine, but even that was unpretentious, ridged but without fresco or paint.
"When I've seen to this gentleman I'll go and tell the others," the priestess said. "They're hiding below."
"It's really just my -" Saraven started to say, and then the world turned blue and brilliant. Pain melted away in an intense, euphoric wash of healing energy, a massively empowered version of the spell compared to the one he knew and used. He was left blinking stupidly at the Redguard.
"Is that better? Does anything still hurt?" she asked, hand resting on his arm. "You're looking a bit pale."
"No, that'll do very well. Thank you very much. May I approach the altar before I go?"
"Of course. Dibella's blessing, Sir."
"And to you, Priestess." He bowed deeply to her and turned to move toward the Altar of the Nine. There he sank to one knee, reaching up a hand to touch the altar briefly. The stone was cool against his palm.
I don't know if I'm any good to you now, after so many years of serving a Daedra Prince, he prayed silently. But I think right now we want the same thing. And if you can see your way clear to keeping Zudarra and me going a while longer, I think we can help a lot of your followers. I hope Velaru and Dorova are happy where they are now, and I hope that they never think of me. Thank you for your time.
He rose and turned toward the door. Corporal Benetton was still waiting there, watching him with her head on one side.
"I'm fine from here, Corporal," he said. "I'll stay at the Fighters Guild. I'm a member there."
"Then it'll be a short enough walk," she said, smiling at him. "Come on."
The guildhouse was empty. One of the front doors had been torn off, but there was no sign of real carnage inside. The cushions around the practice room floor were barely disarranged, the dummy still hanging from its chains in the center of the stone floor, the straw target still standing. The crimson banner of the sword that was the Guild insignia hung unmolested. Racks of iron weapons stood against the walls. Everyone had gone out to fight the daedra the moment the gate opened, he suspected. Probably those who had survived were still out with the City Watch.
"Do you know if Azzan survived?" he asked Benetton as he took stock.
"I'm afraid I don't, but I haven't heard that he was killed," she said. "He's the guild head here, yes? I imagine he wouldn't fall easily."
"No. Well, I'm just going to wash up and turn in, Corporal. Get some rest if you can."
"And you. Good night, Sir."
He returned her bow and watched her out of sight. Then he went to the pump in the little yard out back to have a drink and collect a bucket of water. There was a crude curtained stall for washing, hole cut in the floor for water runoff, and he peeled off armor, padding, and underthings to clean all of it and himself as best he could. Certainly he would smell significantly better tomorrow than he had today. Unabashedly naked, revealing the layered gray scars of long years, he hauled everything with him into the windowless barracks room. It was a long, narrow space with beds lined up against the wall and a wooden trunk at the end of each bed. He picked a bunk at the far end of the room that looked unoccupied, shoved the armor into the chest, and laid the clothes on top of it to dry. Then he climbed into bed with the dremora sword in its scabbard lying next to him. He had been in armor for at least two days, and without it he felt weightless, floating. The moment his head hit the pillow everything swam and faded. Blessedly, he did not dream.