Balefire hadn't gone very far along the dead mage's recommended route when he and his comrades encountered the next impediment to their progress. The Dark Elf mercenary had been stalking warily down the clammy tunnels, alert for more attacking spell casters, with or without their giant scorpion "shock troops". He was beginning to believe his informant's assertion that few if any of the citadel's dwellers dared to descend this far, for his senses and his detection spells remained unalarmed. The Warmage's continued existence after long years of battle owed much to his ability to maintain a high degree of readiness even in the face of no apparent danger, however, so he continued his measured pace and careful scanning of his surroundings nonetheless. And it was well that he did.
The scythe-sized mandibles scissored together through the space where Balefire's neck had been a heartbeat before. As he dropped to his haunches, the Warmage gathered his massive thigh muscles to launch him to...there! A kaleidoscopic image of eight huge eyes glowing evilly in the near-dark, and breathtakingly quick stabbing and slashing of huge, many-jointed, spiked and clawed legs, but his combat -trained mind and eyes saw the briefly open space between the living pole arms, and he dove away from the living threshing machine that was the biggest giant spide rhe had ever seen. Dove and tucked-and-rolled, to come up with his back to granite and facing, Daedric claymore in hand, the skittering charge of the enraged arachnid.
Peripherally aware of his comrades' manoeuvring for position, but knowing they would have neither space nor time to help, he concentrated on making his blows count, for the spider tribe is tough and die sslowly. First he must stay alive, though, and the scarred warrior mage parried blows from cruelly-clawed legs with speed and strength in no way inferior to that of the monster before him. The spider's sheer bulk was a handicap in the relatively narrow tunnel, since it could only bring four or so of its legs, and its mandibles, to bear. For his part, however, Balefire could not break away from the constant attacks to get at any of the creature's softer, more vulnerable parts. Unlike its scorpion cousins, this spider had no trouble rearing up and confronting him with what amounted to a co-ordinated cluster of edged weapons, rendering a jump onto its back impossible.
Venom dripped from the monster's jaws and hissed, smoking, where it touched the rocky floor. Balefire was less concerned about venom than about the jaws themselves, razor-sharp and perfectly capable of slicing him in two, armour and all. The legs were incredibly strong, as well, and if not parried would surely pin him to the wall like a parody -- he had to laugh at the image -- of an insect in some scholar's collection. A well-angled parry allowed him to catch his sword-edge in a spiked leg-joint, and he twisted as he withdrew, grinning ferally at the sound of the joint's destruction and at the ichor dripping from the now-uselessly-dragging limb.
In quarters this close, a Wrathbolt or Skyfire spell would be suicide, so the dusky Archmage wracked his brain for a weaker spell, even as his sword wove its protective pattern of edged metal around him. The darting mandibles caught the sword, and the creature's enormous strength almost wrenched the weapon from his hand. He avoided the impulse to strike forward at the beast's head and eyes, knowing that to do so would put him just in range of one of the waiting legs. No future in a blow that killed your foe and yourself at once. He twisted the sword with all the power of war-trained wrists, and it came loose with the nerve-rending screech of metal on chitin. A leg swept toward him and he managed to dodge it only partially; it threw him into another leg, stumbling as yet a third lanced toward him. He pulled, hard!, on the nearest, and the spider was forced to abandon its spearing attack to steady itself on its injured leg's side.
Repositioning itself lightning-quickly the creature pounced forward, two legs raised like halberds, twin descending dooms, its venom dripping maw, mandibles spread wide. A bright blue-white streak of light left Balefire's hand as he released his hilt, and a sullen red-orange one followed an instant after. A violent explosion released a cloud of swirling, billowing steam shot through with streaks of ichor and venom, and the great spiked legs of the giant spider collapsed to the tunnel floor, their rattling crash counterpoint to the thud of the arachnid's body.
When the steam cleared, Balefire's companions saw the Warmage leaning on his sword and quietly chuckling, looking down at the mangled, raw mess where the spiders head and thorax had been. "Ice and fire. I shall have to remember that when next I have a chance to write a monograph for the Mages' Guild. I was looking for a spell more suitable for a barroom than a battlefield, Elfiran, and I happened to remember an old trick I've used now and then in barroom brawls. You throw a small icebolt spell into a well-heated fireplace, and get steam to confound your enemies. I reversed the process on our multilegged friend here, and caused an explosion well down his gullet."
The dusky Warmage smiled and shouldered his great sword. "Let us see if there are any more of these minor nuisances between us and this bridge we must cross."
Loriella snorted under her breath, a fairly amazing feat if you think about it. She glanced over at Holm'ka, who was half-leaning on her for support. She saw he agreed with her sentiment. If that was a "minor nuisance," then she was an Argonian beauty queen. Balefire grinned fiercely at her, but she wasn't sure if he had heard her or not. She smiled back, feigning nonchalance. To tell the truth, she hated anything with more than four legs, and if that thing was bigger than she was, it was *not* a "minor nuisance."
The Warmage turned and led the party on. Loriella made sure she was on the far side of the hall from the spider's hiding place. Curiosity absolutely failed to grab her. Talnan took up quietly humming his harvest song again. The Khajit soon hummed along under her breath. Usually she enjoyed skulking along, looking for someone's purse to lighten, but now she needed a song, and the bright cheery tune helped relax her.
"Ho!" said Balefire softly. "The tunnel forks here."
The party bunched up behind. Before them, the rough tunnel did indeed split, both paths leading slightly downward, although the right dipped steeper. Great cobwebs, each strand as thick as fine rope, obscured the left way some dozen meters on.
*Just as well,* thought Loriella, *nothing in the world could make me take that path after that giant spider.*
Without further speech, Balefire, with Elfiran and Cromm a footfall behind at his left and right, strode down the right path. The Khajit's hair raised up on end when she followed them. It was as if they had crossed over an invisible barrier. The darkness seemed to become heavier, and she relied more on hearing than sight.
Whispers. She slowed her stride a moment, then again matched the party. Holm'ka glanced at her quizzically, but said no word. There they were again...or was she imagining it? The whisperings were so faint, they seemed to exist only in her head. Cold voices from somewhere below. She shook herself. She would not tell the others until she was sure.
A nice bit o' work back there Balefire, me friend. Twas unfortunate thet ah did nay get te have me sword taste thet monster's blood tho'." Elfiran snickers, then continues talking, "This skulkin' around is beginnin' te get me thirsty." The high elf, then cocks his head to the side like he hears something, then shrugs, pulls out his skin of ale, takes a few swigs, and then returns it to his pack.
"Next time we gets in a scrap Balefire, how's about lettin me in on the carnage? You seem te be gettin' most of the fun here." Elfiran smiles and weaves an intricate pattern in the air for a few seconds, then says, "Thet's one of me own creations. Tis a shield spell, wit a light spell thrown in fer good measure, as well as an enemy detect. Perfect fer dungeon crawlin. Course ah 'ave nay used it much lately. We must be gettin close te thet bridge thet mage wuz talkin about, cuz the hairs on the back of me neck are gettin twitchy." Elfiran noticed that Balefire could hear him, but that by the set of his jaw, he was concentrating totally on the tunnel.
Whatever they would face, Elfiran was ready for, even though it appeared that he was virtually distracted. If one looked close at him, you would see that his strong, gauntleted hands were never far from the pommel of his Long Sword. Being as he was a BladeMaster with either hand, it would not matter from which direction the enemy came from, they would be met with the point of his sword.
Elfiran looks back to make sure the rest of the party doesn't stray too far. The Werre, as always, looked ready to battle in an instant, and Alduin was engrossed in one of his scrolls as usual.
Elfiran looks back just in time to see that the tunnel is starting to get wider. He loosens the sword in his scabbard, while his senses strain for anything out of the ordinary. "Looks like we're gettin' te the bridge Balefire. Thet worthless mage didn't lie te ye after all." Elfiran chuckles at the thought of what Balefire would have done to that mage if, indeed he had lied and Balefire had sensed it. "Tis better te not think about thet" he mumbles.....
As the small party left the confines of the tunnel, they stopped and warily looked around. The path continued on towards a huge towering bridge set in the middle of the cavern, with a sort of mist flowing over and under it. To the left of the main path, the wall continued on out of sight, with an occasional outcropping marring it's surface. The rocky slope of the wallto the right of the tunnel was littered with stalagmites and stalactites. The path in front of them widened out so that four abreast would fit side by side with no worry of slashing each other in case of a battle. Elfiran whistled at the sight. "Well, it looks like we should be headin' over te thet bridge, even tho' ah do nay like the looks of it."
Balefire grunted his assent, but kept inspecting every nook and cranny that he could see. It was clear that Balefire, the seasoned veteran that he was, was not about to go blindly charging into what may well turn out to bean ambush. Cromm was on the other side of Balefire, scanning this way and that also. Cromm had his weapon at the ready, and appeared willing for any enemy to appear. By the set of his jaw and the piercing gaze of his eyes, he appeared to hold no love for this place.
The Khajit Loriella, appearing to be distracted while in the tunnel, turned her head from side to side, like she was trying to puzzle something out. Holm'ka, standing next to her, was trying to act like he wasn't injured, and actually doing a pretty decent job of it. The party would not have toworry about protecting him, as he seemed more than able to take care of himself.
The scribe Alduin, immediately started scribbling furiously on one of his parchments. He would scribble for a few seconds, then look up and glance this way and that, then scribble for a few seconds more. He seemed to be giving description to this huge cavern even as the party was advancing.
Something flittered across Elfiran's consciousness, and he narrowed his eyes a bit before speaking aloud to the party. "Hold all, ah seem te remember this place from somewhere afore. Ah'm nay sure, but this is a place of deep evil if'n ah remember correctly from the tales ah wuz told as a young lad. Be ware everyone, tis nay a place te let yer guard down ah would think." With those last words, a sound like vibrating metal pierced the quiet of the cavern, as Elfiran drew his Long Sword.....
Balefire halted his advance. Cromm took a step farther, a black fire in his eyes shouting defiance at the shadowy cavern, and held his great-axe as a ruler his sceptre.
Balefire nodded. "Yes, a history I read some time ago spoke of a place such as this. A dark bridge over spirit-waters." He sifted through long-shut memory of tomes he had read in passing or earnest. "'Cold voices from below'..."
He could not remember the rest of the line, but his words drew a small gasp from the Khajit. He spared her a glance, but flicked his eyes back to the stone span ahead. A menace lurked there.
"Yes," Loriella whispered, "voices. Cold voices...whispering. Do you not hear them? I've heard them since the giant spider above."
The moment she asked them, everyone heard them. It was as if they had just noticed a sound that had been there all along; phantom whispers on the edge of hearing, so ephemeral as to seem to be in their heads and not heard with ears at all. Cold nothings, yet urgent, pressing. They were fell voices that chilled the heart, yet beckoned them all to listen.
Alduin slowed his scratchings, cocking his head. His hand began writing again, but with a different rhythm, the pattern of a different tongue. His eyes nearly shut and his mouth began to shape words he did not know.
Talnan, the nearest Werre, lashed out, punching a hole through the fine parchment. The scribe gave a start, seeming to come out of a light sleep. His headlamp flickered with the sudden movement. He began to give the man a vicious tongue-lashing, and it looked to be withering, but stopped himself at the look of utter fear on the dark man's face. Alduin looked down at the torn paper. There in another hand were strange markings, yet he could understand their meaning so perfect was their form. He squeaked and dropped the paper. Talnan, not looking at the page, snatched it up and set it aflame in Alduin's lamp. The fire greedily took the parchment and the fear left the Werre.
Loriella held the old man's arm.
"What was on the parchment? What did you write?"
Alduin met her gaze with unsteady eyes.
"I will not tell. It was...horrible. Such terrible words... I will not recall them now."
The dark Warmage grew more grim. He set his crimson gaze on every one in the party.
"It is just as Elfiran said: this is not a place to let down our guard. Good Alduin has paid somewhat. Be ware that no one else pays more dearly!"
Alduin shooed off Loriella's attempts at leading him, and the party continued on. The bridge was great indeed. It continued to grow as they approached, its size difficult to judge in the deceitful shadows cast by torch and lamp. The air cooled and a draught flowed over them. All the while, the voices grew more insistent and came out of the background of their thought.
Again, Alduin slowed, but Talnan did not allow him to halt. With a rough push, he kept the scribe awake and moving, if not a little annoyed. But while attention was paid to the Nord, Loriella had slipped behind. Joran had to go back to pull her along.
Balefire let out a deep growl. "What is this? My feet are like two stones unwilling to move." His voice was low, but Elfiran heard.
He shook his head and breathed deeply, mustering his will against the voices. Their eerie song was lulling, clouding his mind, making his limbs as of wood.
"Ah! Sorcery it is," said Elfiran. "Ah feel as tho' ah'm pushing agenst the very air itself."
They reached the base of the bridge. The grey mist swirled about the bank, and curled up the supporting pillars on either side of the bridge. A steep flight of stairs led up the near arch of the bridge. The draught of air had grown strong and threatened the torches. Alduin's light went out and he moved closer to a Werre.
The voices were overpowering now. They had not grown any louder, still were on the edge of hearing, but they had become impossible to ignore. Loriella began muttering to herself.
"Get away. Go. Don't touch..."
Her voice trailed off, and she slumped into Holm'ka. Now he was holding her. His stern face was full of concern. The Khajit was breathing only lightly and her face was deathly pale.
Balefire then felt it; the voices seemed to be coming from under the bridge, but were advancing on the mist. A quick glance at Elfiran confirmed that he too felt the malignant presence. With a sigh, Alduin now succumbed. The Warmage, his face a mask of fury, turned to the Werre. Even as he did so, he stumbled.
"We must get across!" he hissed. His voiced seemed faint, as if coming from another throat, far away. "We must not heed the voices!"
He wracked his mind for a spell to stave off the encroaching darkness of sleep. The only thing he could think of with his clouded brain was a foolish cantrip, a spell for quickly sobering up after heavy drinking. He of course never needed to use it, but now, it was all he could think of.
He muttered the words and the dark mist of his mind seemed to lift a little. His vision cleared. It only now occurred to him that the Werre did not seem to be affected by the beckoning voices. Straightening his stooped shoulders, he turned to Talnan and Joran.
"Pick up those two. We must cross this bridge. This is the final challenge before the storm. Come!"
Feeling weariness coming on again, he did not wait, but jogged up the steps. Elfiran took heart in seeing Balefire's renewed strength and fought to maintain his own hold on consciousness.
He never made it to the top of the stairs. It seemed to him the voices were all around him, clawing at him, dragging down his limbs. His last memory was of Balefire's cape, red and black, whipping up the stairs ahead, the hard crunch of his boots on stone.
The Warmage stumbled once, then again. The heavy weariness had advanced with redoubled force. He growled and gripped the low barrier for support as he forced his way to the top. The span became less steep now, and he found himself racing too quickly ahead. His feet could not keep up. He fell, and as blackness took him, he echoed Loriella's words.
"Get away. Leave me..."
Cromm nodded to the Werre in response to Balefire's command. The old man and the boy each took up the sleepers, hoisting them over their shoulders. The To'Khar followed Elfiran closely, with Holm'ka and K'tarin behind. Not twenty steps up, Elfiran collapsed, groaning under the weight of the voices. Without a word, Holm'ka swept up the tall elf, ignoring the quick stab of pain in his shoulder. A look at K'tarin let him know that this burden was a point of honour, and he would not have it removed. K'tarin picked up the fallen sword.
Balefire slowed as he reached the top, and took three faltering steps before toppling. Cromm was there, catching his fall. With effort, he slung the large man over his shoulder. Balefire was certainly as heavy as he looked. Cromm for one moment was glad he'd never have to feel that weight bearing down on him behind the point of a red claymore.
K'tarin now took point. He sheathed his axe. There was nothing here that could be harmed by it. The Werre did not hear the voices. They were deaf to them, as they were 'deaf' to all magicka. They knew the voices were there, certainly. They knew their power. They were the voices of the Naugh, those Werre who fought for the Horned Council. They are never spoken of, even among the Werre. In their betrayal, they damned themselves. Now their cries fell on deaf ears. Cromm allowed himself a smile, invisible in the dry mist enshrouding the bridge. These Naugh would soon be released from their long imprisonment if the Heart were destroyed. His smile faded, however. K'tarin was looking over the side of the bridge.
Through the mist, he could dimly see a black water, perfectly smooth. Something was there. He kept walking, but he found it difficult to draw away his eyes from the water. There were faces there, seen as if from deep below the surface. Pale faces, white as bone, eyes as sunken shadows. Their lips moved to the words of their silent whispers.
"K'tarin. Look yourself!"
The Werre jerked back from the edge. He saw the fierce glare in Cromm's eyes.
"We may not hear their voices, but we are not immune to their faces. They will root you to the spot!"
Chastened, K'tarin loosened his axe. With it in hand, his conditioned mind became more alert. He had been foolish. Here, not all dangers were obvious.
As they neared the centre of the great span, lamps lit on either side on silent command. The lamps, widely set on the low barriers, gave a steady pale light with their blue flame. K'tarin could not help but give one final glance at the water. The light did not reflect off the black surface.
The far bank came into view, higher than the first, for there were only a few stairs on this side. In the gloom ahead, there was a deeper shadow. The file of Werre passed from the bridge. Cromm paused a moment.
"This was where the final line was held, so say the Histories. To'Khar Rhurn fell here against the Fifth Council Mage, who I will not name here."
The men bowed their heads, then strode from the bridge to the shadow. Here, the cavern walls met again, and a natural cleft had been shaped into the frame for a mighty pair of doors. They were of a black stone, engraved and inlaid with white granite and gold. In silver were runes traced; wards. These were all along the edges, framing the doors in powerful magicka. What caught Cromm's attention, however, was the centre of each door. Here there were skulls set in a pentagon. They were Redguard, with their strong brows and large jaws. They were also Werre. Just as one Werre knows another on sight, so Cromm and the others knew that these skulls were Werre. In the centre of each pentagon was a large ivory sigil. They had all seen them before in the Histories. They were Words of Power. Talnan gave voice to what they all feared.
"Kru'ldum dul Holkthm and Heem'd u Toth! The Shield and The Hammer."
He had used the Lesser Names, but even so their sound grated on the ears. The Shield to guard and The Hammer to smite.
Three low wide steps led up to the doors, faded inscriptions chiselled in their leading edges. A great bronze bowl stood on either side, mounted on squat pedestals of obsidian. The bowls were filled with white ash.
Cromm lay down his charge on the first step and composed him in a more comfortable position. The others did the same. No one was sure if this was far enough from the voices, but the only way to move farther was to pass the doors, and no one save the midnight man told in legend could do that. Cromm looked at the Warmage's sleeping face. He tried to crush the feeling of hope in his heart, but found he could not. He knew with pious conviction that this dark elf was Him.
Joran could stand it no more. He hurtled toward the doors. With a wild scream, he gripped a skull and pulled hard. He pulled and clawed until his nails broke and bled.
It required both Holm'ka and Talnan to pries him from the door. The boy fought with abandon for a moment before falling limp. He was crying.
"Joran! They cannot be freed." Cromm came up and held the boy's face. "They cannot be freed, I say. They are a part of the doors now."
The young Werre struggled again, but was held fast.
"But they have been defiled!" he cried. "Evil surrounds them."
"Evil surrounds all of us. Evil surrounds us now. Look about you and remember where you are! Beyond that gate you will find far worse things than the profanity here."
His eyes snapped at the young man until he quailed. Then the To'Khar straightened. Even though he had said it, he was not sure himself what could be worse than the bones of his brethren used in the design of such fell doors as these. He could not know what lay on the other side.
He turned at a stirring behind him. It seemed indeed that the voices had lost their power.
A harsh, almost bestial snarling drew all the party's eyes to the red-mailed Warmage whence it emanated. It seemed no throat but that of a caged great cat could ever hope to produce such a sound of sheer frustrated fury, but it clearly came from the fallen mage. Cromm looked at the red-armoured figure, concern warring with hope in his countenance, and hope gradually took over as he saw Balefire's great limbs quiver, then twitch, then move smoothly and purposefully as the Dark Elf's crimson eyes opened. Teeth bared in a ricottas of hate and fury, the Warmage rose to his feet with a harsh grating of metal on stone. The inarticulate snarling rose to a growling roar of rage as his gaze took in his surroundings and fell on the cyclopean doors. Raising both fists over his head, he roared out his anger in a shouted challenge that rang and echoed in the cavern and struck nerve-twisting harmonics from the huge bronze bowls.
"Hide! Hide, enemy mine, while you can! Cower, foul skulker in darkness! Run, to whatever pit spawned you! You have gone too far, using souls of dead traitors to drag me into sleep against my will!" The Warmage's left fist dropped to his side but his right stayed aloft, brandished now like a weapon in itself, and the tone of his voice changed, so that the listeners felt his words as glacial gusts from some frozen wasteland.
"Breathe deeply, whoever you are, for these breaths are your last. I am coming for you, and these gates will not bar me, nor long stave off your doom. I have awakened, and with me has awakened my wrath. Know that your final hour is near, and the Balefire burns for you." He lowered his fist, and stood a moment unmoving before the massive gate, the silence seeming to ring as loud as had his shouted challenge. He turned then, his expression once more impassive, even his familiar half-scowling frown gone. Taking his rune-carved staff in one gauntleted fist, he held it over the still-slumbering forms of his companions and spoke a single word. "Wake!"
He turned, not stopping to see the result, to the gathered Werre. "My thanks, warriors, for doing for me what I could not. You have the word of Balefire that your efforts will not be in vain, and my gratitude for the rest of my days. I owe you a debt I cannot easily repay, but I shall do what I can to justify your faith in me, at least. Do you now stand back somewhat, for I will presently work high magics here, and while they cannot touch you, some of their side-effects may." He turned his gaze to his now-awakened friend and his voice softened. "Elfiran, old friend, I would have a boon of you."
"Aye, gladly, Balefire, ef it be within me power...ye have but to ask..."
"I know, comrade, so I ask that you stand beside me here, while I work with the Art, and do you raise and maintain such shields as may be needed to protect these other brave warriors. I will be using ancient magics, and not only from this plane, and the substance of this cavern may well alter in dangerous ways. I must needs rely on you to keep these others safe from aught that might prevent them from joining the final fray awaiting us beyond these doors. Guard well, good Elfiran, for our foe is not the only one who can use Words of Power."
"Do nay fash yerself, Balefire, ah'll do me best."
Balefire gave his friend a grateful smile, which vanished to be replaced with a look of stern determination as he turned to the gate. The dusky Warmage raised his staff slowly, then held it at eye level parallel to the ground, slowly moving his hands out toward both ends, until each was about half-way from the centre to one end. Muttering softly and gazing intently at the runes carved in the oak wood, he shifted his feet until they were set well apart and he was directly in front of the gate's centre. He raised the staff over his head, and as he did so the carved runes suddenly shone out in blazing blue. A keening wail began, and the mage's cloak lifted and flowed in a phantom breeze none of the others felt. Small sizzling sounds drew attention to his Daedric-booted feet, where lightnings sparked, snapping louder and brighter as they grew larger and faster, twisting into and out of a rising blue-black nimbus which now enwrapped Balefire's feet, now his legs, and whirled suddenly up and around his upper body to rush up his arms and into and through the staff. In a matter of heartbeats, the Warmage was enveloped in a seething aura of energy, and the keening and wailing had grown into a drone like an endless note of a mad god's instrument.
Amidst the eye-searing light and now-constant flashing of lightnings, his hair on end and his cloak now twisting and cavorting violently in the mage wind only he could feel, Balefire intoned one word: "Will."
The aura and lightnings flared and vanished, and the mage seemed at first unchanged, until Elfiran stole a look at his face and saw there a look of sheer determination, and was appalled to see that his friend's eyes now truly glowed like lava freshly spewed from some volcano's maw. He redoubled his efforts to provide a shield against he knew not what.
Balefire lowered his staff and held it in his right hand, vertical now, held at the middle, hand at shoulder height. Levelling the staff and pointing first at one ash-filled bowl and then the other, he spoke again, his deep voice rumbling like thunder. "These ashes represent an offence to the gods and to the Art. Let them be as they should have been, long ere now." The ashes vanished in twin soundless explosions of sun-bright yellow light.
Shifting the staff to his left hand and resting its lower end on the ground, he made an intricate gesture with the fingers of his right hand, and spoke a phrase in a language none there recognised. A hum like a billion bees filled the cavern, and again the nimbus returned to his staff. Harshly, in a tone neither completely demanding nor angry, but having something of both, he rapped out, "I claim this once-profaned metal as my own, by the power of the Word and the Will." The humming rose beyond the limits of hearing, then faded, and the great bronze bowls began to dissolve, like sand castles in a hurricane, a whirling tornado of metal filings taking shape between them, growing in mass and speed as the bowls flashed away their substance into the whirling, glittering vortex of metal. When the bowls had vanished, a bronze whirlwind twice his height hissed and moaned before the grim Archmage. Once again he spoke, in a tone of irrefutable command, "Faster!", and the whirlwind spun madly, glowing now with friction and moaning like a thousand lost souls, then once again the command, "Faster!", and the speed and heat increased. Dust and detritus began to rise from the floor before the gate, to be whirled off into the shadows.
Balefire half turned to Elfiran and spoke softly, "Be ready, my friend, to feed power to your shields. I have just begun what cannot be stopped until all is finished." Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to the spinning, superheated vortex of bronze filings and gestured with his staff, a complex twirling motion. It rose, its nether end now at the height of the obsidian pedestals' tops. Once again the Warmage spoke a phrase, this time in a language filled with vowels and short syllables strung together strangely, but strangely, inhumanly devoid of intonation. He levelled his staff once again, pointing at each pedestal as with a sabre for a charge of cavalry, and spoke in the common tongue of Tamriel, "As with metal, so with rock. By the power of the Word and the Will, I, Balefire, command it."
With the last word, the squat obsidian pillars flashed bright red, melting in a searing burst of heat into molten lava and swirling away in two fiery streams to join with and blend into the brazen vortex. The forge-like glare illuminated the mage's scarred features, showing a satisfied but still implacable expression. He stared at the seething, twisting thing of whirling stone and metal, and spoke to it as if to a person, harsh, deep voice brooking no refusal and no excuse, "Metal and Stone from Earth, Air from the Wind of your whirling, and Fire from its forced embrace." He reached with his staff-holding hand to the other, and pulled his gauntlet off, his eyes never leaving the roaring, fiercely glowing funnel of tortured elements. He brought his bared wrist up to his mouth and bit into it deliberately, tearing at the vein his teeth found there and sucking at the welling, spurting blood. Red stream trickling from his lips and running down his fingers, he took two paces forward, ignoring the heat as he approached to arms'-length distance of the whirlwind. His hair starting to smoulder and his beard to smoke, he spat a mouthful of blood straight at the tornado, where it hissed into steam.
"Water, from my lifeblood, makes the four, and my Will will not be gainsaid!" Stepping back, he looked at his wrist and muttered "Heal", then raised his staff again to point at the door-framing silver sigils. "By Earth and Fire, Air and Water, by the power of my Will and of the Word, may these wards be removed." Like a live thing, the vortex moved to the lowest left corner of the gate, and struck the silver rune there,in a silent flashing explosion of multicoloured sparks, obliterating it and then racing up and up, gathering speed as it went, racing around the gate frame, showering sparks and banishing shadows in actinic glare until it reached the other end, and all the runes were gone, scoured utterly away. Diminished in size somewhat, the whirlwind yet seethed and glowed with heat, and Balefire's eyes glowed to match it (indeed, Elfiran noted that the vortex and his Dark Elf friend's eyes were *exactly* the same colour, and repressed a shudder).
The Warmage turned to the Werre warriors and smiled grimly, his gaze softening slightly when it rested on Joran. He looked at Cromm, though, when he spoke. "Too long have these Werre been entrapped here in these doors. Know that they are about to be freed."
Turning back, he strode up to the doors. Replacing his gauntlet and grasping his staff firmly in his left hand, he gestured to the vortex as to a pet. It rose and approached, following his rising right fist and coming at last to rest upon it as he held it fully extended over his head. "Ho!" he bellowed, "Your doom is upon you! Balefire and his friends are come a-calling, and we bring you a well-deserved death!"
With the last word, the Dark Elf Warmage smote the great stone doors with his vortex-wrapped fist, and they exploded inward in a colossal gout of smoke and flame, wrenched out of their frame and crumbling into a huge roiling cloud of lightning and flame-streaked powder even as they flew into the hall beyond. Balefire's booming laughter sounded triumphantly over the echoes of destruction as he strode through the portal.