Cromm was at Balefire's elbow the moment the doors collapsed. Hardly waiting for the dust to settle, the two men entered the hall beyond. Balefire pulled ahead as the scene slowly impressed itself on the Werre's eyes. Soon the Warmage, too, slowed to a halt. Even he found it difficult to take in the hall in which he now stood. It was the stuff of nightmares.
The floor was uneven, paved with rounded stones--round, but not perfectly so. Balefire unconsciously knew what they were before his eyes understood. The floor, from wall to wall, was paved in skulls. Each was laid at a slight angle so its empty eye sockets stared out at those who ground them underfoot. All were facing the far end of the hall. Their lower jaws had been removed, mounted in two lines, outlining the main causeway to the centre of the hall of bone.
The walls on either side were almost lost to darkness, so wide was the space. Dimly, rough murals could be made out, set with teeth and fragments of bone. Though the scenes were impossible to make out from the doorway, their subject matter was all too clear; great beasts upon a battlefield, men being beaten into the earth.
On either side of the causeway, there stood three pairs of pillars of such girth as to require three men, linked hand in hand, to encircle. The bases were broad disks of ivory, but the columns themselves were of long bones and vertebrae.
Pulling his burning eyes forward, the Warmage saw him. Beyond the final pillars rose a great throne of such perfect blackness, light could not touch it. The two great torches on either side threw wide their yellow light, revealing the ribbed ceiling in dancing hellfire, yet the figure within the throne was enshrouded in shadow. Only his narrow white hands, cold and smooth as marble, were seen resting on the arms of the throne.
A cold anger rose in Balefire, starting in the pit of his stomach, then swiftly rising upward, setting his eyes ablaze. As if in response, another light flared before the throne, a perfect crimson. A pedestal was there, squat, carved from black stone and polished smooth. About its base was a ring of skulls, each bearing sapphires and emeralds in their eyes. Upon the pedestal, cradled in a golden hand, lay a ruby of such perfection as Balefire had ever seen. Its surface was smooth, and no light reflected from it, but the crimson light radiated from within it. Only its light pushed aside the dark about the throne, illuminating the figure in bloody relief.
As the Heart's light grew, so a warmth grew upon Balefire's finger. His ring! The stone upon it had grown heavy and hot. He knew without casting aside his gauntlet that the Blood was giving off its own light.
Balefire and Veer'Shule, Midnight Man and Master, stared at one another as statues across a gulf of bone. Only slowly did the Warmage perceive the Werre behind him.
Cromm had not moved. He stood as rigid as the columns and was even more grim to look upon. The torches cast twisted shadows over his weathered features. His eyes were pits of blackness, but a glint was there; eyes that defied the shadows, being kindled with a fire of their own. Although his countenance was inscrutable, every nerve within his being was being laid bare. His mind was benumbed and his body did not seem his own. Only dimly did he sense his fellows stepping through the broken gates. They too, halted. Loriella wanted to run, flee from such a place of pure hatred. She could not feel the Werre bones as the Redguard could, but the black will of the Master bore down on her as a physical thing. Alduin simply dropped his pen and parchment. This, he could not put to words.
Cromm had said that whatever lay beyond the great doors, there could not be any greater sacrilege than the skulls of the doors. Now he stood rooted among the bones of his ancestors, his comrades in arms and blood. The hall seemed lined with them, but he could feel the bones extended beyond the walls and ceiling. The hall's foundations were buried in them.
His limbs began to tremble, and for the second time since he had joined Balefire, uncontrollable emotion took him. His eyes filmed and his lips trembled. To Elfiran, it seemed he was about to cry. Indeed, his cheeks became wet and his face flushed. Of a sudden, he hefted aloft his great-axe and threw back his head.
It began deep in his chest, a low growl as of a bear slow to anger finally rounding on his tormentor. The sound rose in pitch and volume, filling the hall with a terrible scream. Behind him, K'tarin, Holm'ka, and Talnan heaved up their axes and added their throats to Cromm's. Joran jerked from his deathly silence and his voice soared above all others, reaching even the ceiling cloaked in silent darkness. But though the screams were born of ultimate despair and hatred, they were not inarticulate, but raised up a single word, as terrible as the sound it rode upon.
In that moment, Veer'Shule shot to his feet, throwing back his deep hood in dismay. His head was bald, its skin translucent with extreme age and deathly pale. His eyes were deep-set as a corpse, but they were very much alive, quick and fierce. His long hooked nose marked him as a southern Nord, but his chin was sharp, bespeaking a Breton heritage. Between thin lips shone silver teeth. He took up a staff not unlike Balefire's own, but of Mithril instead of wood. Cruel runes were etched about its head and base. All this Balefire took in.
For a moment, the nightmare came back to Veer'Shule. He was standing above the battlefield, the Werre far below, screaming their battlecries. He came back to the present. The battlefield was gone from his eyes, but thecry was still there, filled with the same bloodlust. It stopped only when the Werre had no more breath to spend.
When the echoes faded, the Werre surged forward, but Cromm quickly mastered himself. He thrust out his axe, barring the way. Talnan understood immediately and restrained the boy, Joran, who struggled fiercely.
"Remember the Lay of Perinoth!" hissed Cromm, his voice hoarse. "Do you not recognise the stone? This is not for us!"
Joran's eyes screamed defiance, and K'tarin and Holm'ka did not try to hide their thoughts. To oblivion with the song! Slay this evil where it stands! Look at the bones! The bones!
The robed figure let loose a cold laughter. It was nearly enough to break Cromm's resolve.
"Yes," the Master said, "stay where you are." He brought his keen eyes to bear on the Warmage. "And as for you, the Blood!"
He spoke another tongue, yet the meaning of his words was clear. He held out his hand and stepped closer to the Heart.
After the doors were breached, Elfiran held up his shield long enough to ensure that the rest of the party would be unharmed. When he let down the shield, Balefire and Cromm had already entered through the opening beyond. Elfiran quickly surveyed the other members of the party, and upon seeing them unharmed, nodded to himself in satisfaction, for although the shield spell was a relatively simple one, it required an inordinate amount of Elfiran's will to withstand the complex, intricate forces that were assaulting the great doors. Elfiran himself had never seen the magicka that his good friend Balefire had employed against the great doors before, so was almost unprepared to continuously change the amount and type of magicka needed for the shield.
As the rest of the party entered into the hall beyond, there were several gasps from the party. Elfiran immediately sensed what this place was in a swift appraisal, and closed his eyes momentarily in a silent prayer to all the Werre that fell to provide the foundation on which they all now stood.
As the figure revealed himself, it brought back a vague memory of, what back then was a fable, during Elfiran's training back on Sumurset Isle those many years ago. The figure just exuded evil and it flowed over the entire party like a wave crashing on the beach. This must be Veer'Shule, the dark master, Elfiran thought.
Cromm and the rest of the party were now bellowing a single cry, that to many lesser individuals, would have them quaking in their own waste. The cry was mournful, and challenging, and it appeared to visibly affect the individual on the throne, for when the Werre took up the cry, the aged man stood up and appeared to be looking elsewhere. Then he blinked once, and addressed the Werre, who had stopped their cry, and surged forward before being stayed by Cromm's axe.
"Yes," the Master said, "stay where you are." He brought his keen eyes to bear on the Warmage. "And as for you, the Blood!"
He spoke another tongue, yet the meaning of his words was clear. He held out his hand and stepped closer to the Heart.
At this point, Elfiran brought up the shield around the entire party again, while drawing his Daedric Long Sword clear of it's finely tooled Daedric sheath. "Balefire me friend, it appears we are once agin faced wit an evilso foul, thet t'woud only make all of Tamriel better te be witout. Ah'll stand by ye till me last breath, brother, how'e'er, this battle be betwixt thee and thet foul abomination. No harm will come te ye from other quarters whilst ah'm here, so ah say".
As the sound of Elfiran's words faded, he thought he detected some movement in the shadows of the great hall. The movement appeared to come from everywhere around the central walkway. "Ware friends, some evil seems te be about!!!"
And although he was a master in most forms of killing, and didn't relish killing any more than was necessary, he appeared to be looking forward to any conflict....
"T'shoni flevira M'gatcrys"!! he shouted in the ancient high-Elven tongue.
Balefire stood firm, unflinching, his face set in such a mask of sternness as to give a Daedra Lord pause. The Werre were taught, their sinews straining against bunched muscles. It was all they could do to stay their weapons. Alduin had picked up his instruments and made a few tentative scratchings, almost apologetically. The dry sound was too much for him, and he began committing to memory what he could bear to look upon.
"The Blood is not yours to take."
The Warmage's words rang hard through the hall.
"Your evil has come to an end, Dark One. The Heart will be destroyed and you with it! We have endured your machinations long enough, and those others to whom you have dealt harm cry out for revenge! You sit here, a great spider in your web of darkness, spreading your threads across the land, but now the sun has come in, and you will be pierced in its light."
The Master stood stiff, the very caricature of Balefire's words, unmoving in the ruddy light of the Heart. But in his stillness, menace crouched, a brooding cloud. Now that cloud grew, and for a moment, the steady fire of the ruby was dimmed. The figure seemed to loom up, filling the hall's darkness with itself.
"Do not pretend to threaten me!" The voice boomed from above. "I am the Last and First of the Council, Veer'Shule Hhaathra! Forsoth Aynastar was an elder in the Horned Council, and his son, Tol'Arigrim, groomed me to cause the rebirth of the Council. I am the Chosen, the Forebearer! I have waited many lives of men for my time. I have the Heart!"
His voice had risen to a near-scream, piercing the air as shrilly as a wight. The great shadow that was the Master bent itself over the party. The voice came again, low and heavy.
"Give me the Blood."
Loriella could almost taste the tension between the men. Now the strong tang of iron washed her mouth, and she discovered she had been biting her cheek. She gave it no thought and went on biting. She had drawn her short sword, but had no idea what to do with it. Here was something she had no experience with. Dealing with Black Overlords with Immeasurable Power and Grand Delusions were the things heroes did. Right now, she felt rather small and unimportant. She shrank behind a column. She was only vaguely aware that the fearless scribe had joined her.
Balefire laughed. It came from the belly, whole and loud. However, the sound was not jovial by any means.
"Give me the Heart, black mage. To join the two would be folly. No one would control the being thus released. It would consume you."
The brooding shadow collapsed back into the narrow robed figure, and the red light shone forth again from the Heart. This was an incredible relief to the Khajit, but for Balefire, the challenge had now been joined. Where the threatening vagueness of the shadow had been, there now was the cutting keenness of the Master's eyes. The hall seemed to fall away, and the Warmage's vision was filled with those eyes. They were terrible; two milky orbs with a golden fire burning within. Though the cataracts were thick, Balefire had the distinct sense Veer had sight surpassing the sharpest hawk. Those eyes were now boring into Balefire's own; gold locked with crimson.
The Master had said a word, but its memory escaped Balefire. His whole world was now those golden eyes, unblinking, staring. On the edge of his perception came a voice. Elfiran was calling him as from a great distance. However, those eyes would not let him turn aside.
For Elfiran, time slowed. The Master's shadow had gone, but even as it did so, the man had spoken a word. It was soft, a silky word of seduction. The Word of Power was for Balefire's ears, but still, Elfiran felt its power. For one terrible moment, his heart told him to follow every word. Give the Master the Blood. Aye, a'course! The Master wants the Blood. Let him have it. These thoughts flittered through the high elf's mind, but hard on their heels came doubt and realisation. Veer'Shule is the enemy! Stay yer hand!
He jerked himself from his clouded thoughts. The Master was sweetly whispering as to a fitful baby, his eyes locked with Balefire's. A cold hand gripped his heart as he saw the dusky Warmage pull off the gauntlet and offer the hand with its ring.
"Balefire!" His voice came out a croak. "Balefire, don't! He be clouding yer mind. Awake!"
Balefire frowned. He stirred and brought down his hand, clenching it into a great fist. The first trial of wills had been decided. The Warmage drew himself to his full height and opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was stilled, for the Master swiftly stepped forward and placed his palm on the Heart. Its steady light shone through his thin skin, turning his marble hand ruby. His lips curled and his teeth flashed, but his eyes never left the Warmage's. He barked a harsh Word, at once asking and commanding.
Balefire stepped forward, his face twisting with an inner turmoil. Again, his hand came up, though it wavered now as two forces vied for control. Elfiran made to grab his friend's arm, but found himself immobile. Now the Master's words were not for Balefire alone, but also to the rest of them. Be quiet, serene. There is no danger! The Blood belongs to good Veer'Shule. You were merely keeping it for awhile. Return it now! Be still, the rest of you. Watch!
The Werre! Why aren't they stopping him?* thought Elfiran. He shifted his eyes, and saw that the Master's words had an effect even on the magicka-hardened men. The chords were standing out on Cromm's neck as he lifted a leg with agonising slowness. K'tarin, too, was straining to move to Balefire, who seemed to be slowly walking as in a trance, easily outpacing them.
Balefire wrestled with his own body. The Master was a puppeteer, and the warmage the marionette. There was a dull roar in his ears, drowning out allwords, though the Master's lips never stopped moving. Veer'Shule's eyes rivetted his own, and between them an invisible line of fire burned. Far in the back of his mind, Balefire fought the Master's hold. The ten thousand bones about him was a defilement of the dead. What the Master was doing to him, now, was a defilement of the living.
*Defilement of ME!*
This thought flashed hot in his mind. Anger like that he had only rarely felt well up, and the thought fed it. Like unto a bonfire it was, growing, nearly outspending its fuel in its greedy hunger. For a moment, those milky eyes could not hold his.
Balefire broke loose with a great shout. The others stirred, but Veer'Shule's spell had not been wholly broken. Cromm took a few stumbling steps forward, mouth slack and wet. He looked a rabid thing, hunched with chest heaving and fingers curled.
The Blood was burning bright, matching the Heart, heat for heat, light for light.
Veer'Shule grasped his Mithril staff and slammed it into the ground with a white flash, his face a ricottas of unmasked fury. From his eyes blazed a golden light. Now he lashed out a most powerful Word. It rang out long and stung the ears of all who heard it. It brooked no disobedience, no rebellious thoughts. To hear it was to succumb. It was Law. It was a Word of Command.
The Heart flared, blotting out all shadows and creating stark new ones. Two of the Werre were brought to their knees. Cromm let fall his great-axe. The sharp clatter of ebony on bone was lost on deafened ears. Those ears were now only for the lips of the Master.
Balefire gave a strained groan, and again shuffled for the Heart. Elfiran's eyes streamed with the effort to follow his friend. Their plans had fallen apart. All their labours were now for nothing. Tamriel would be undone. They had all come this far only to hand over the Blood to this Master of evil and whiteness the rebirth of a terrible being, The First...the first of the Denigroth.
Loriella was softly crying to herself. The second Word had been enough to cow her, but this one... She had lost control of her bladder when the stony Word rolled through the air like a great wave that washes away all resistance. She tried to withdraw into herself, but the Word would not allow it. It held her fast between retreat and action. Her mind was numb and her body trembling. She was not even aware of Alduin, laying prone beside her, eyes vacant, his breathing laboured.
Now Balefire was but a few paces from the Heart and ancient man. He could feel the chaotic energies whipping about the Heart. His own hand, ring on finger, felt encased in a glove of heat.
Another step. The Master's eyes were wide. Anticipation, glee, fury, longing were all mingled in those dead, yet vibrant orbs. The compelling words were pouring from his lips as the dark elf's ears hearkened.
Another step. The twin energies of the Heartstone and Bloodstone were mingling now. He discerned their connected nature. They were separate, yet dependant upon each other. On a level beyond perception, the two were calling to each other. In a way, they were already joined. A dark corner of Balefire's mind stirred.
One more step. The Warmage gathered his mighty will, scattered to the far reaches of his being by the Word of Command. One thought was his rallying point; The Heart and Blood are connected! The barrier that made them separate entities was very thin now. A new plan slowly formed, though it was difficult to concentrate. The Word would not be gainsaid, and it was a battle to keep his mind from wandering into oblivion.
Time crept. His muscles tightened. He began to take the final step.
"Now, now, now, now, now!" A thousand distant voices screamed at him. Elfiran. Cromm. K'tarin. Loriella. Alduin. J'layah. Mea. Twilight. Others. All the voices and faces of those he had ever met came to him from the mists of memory. Although he didn't know it, he whispered the word himself.
"Now...now..." The Word was compelling, cloying, and the Warmage trembled with the twin efforts of resisting and trying to concentrate. The Heart and the Blood are connected. A plan...there was a plan...what? "Now...now..." Balefire whispered the words to himself, unnoticed, unknowing, as he chased down the corridors of his mind for the tattered edges of his fleeing thoughts. "Now...now...together...connected...now...now...NO!" He snarled defiance, for suddenly he had his answer, and his denial rang out triumphantly. The Heart and the Blood flared brighter together, and the Warmage curled his powerful arm up so the glowing ring throbbed at shoulder level. The Heart pulsed in time with the Blood, and -- though none noticed -- with the scarred mercenary mage's heartbeat.
"*I* am the Bearer of the Blood, skulker in shadows, and it is mine to use. To use, maggot who crawls in corruption, as *I* see fit. I, too, can draw on the power of the Heart, dweller among bones. It flows into me through the power of the Blood...they call to each other, to be joined and to create an abomination, but it shall not be so. Do you think yourself capable of facing me *now*, diseased offspring of vermin? Now that I tap the same source of power? You, who have tittered and cackled to yourself here amidst the dark-shrouded remains of heroes, have sought to compel me, to use me as a tool in your insane dream of reviving an eldritch monstrosity. You have used Words of Power on *me*, mad one, sowing the seeds of your own destruction; now shall you reap whatyou have sown, fool: a deadly harvest. Know that you are not the only one who knows such Words, fornicator with noisome slime. I, too, have studied the ancient mysteries, yet here, in this place, I refrain from using them, lest the fabric of reality be torn asunder."
Fixing Veer'Shule with his steady, crimson gaze, Balefire planted his staff firmly on the floor with his left hand, his right continuing to hold the glowing bloodstone ring at shoulder height. "Let us see how you fare in a final contest, a contest of your Words and my Art. Of your paltry will against mine." The red-mailed Warmage threw back his shoulders and snarled, his voice ringing and echoing among the shadowed corners of the hall, "Die, now, fool, and take your nightmare plans with you to Oblivion!"
The very air seemed to thicken, and energy crackled around them, as the two foes strove to bend the ancient power to their wills. A sourceless low vibration began, building slowly into a rumble, and dust began to sift down from above, sparkling and swirling in the fiery pulsing glow of the Heart and the Blood.
In the shadows, something stirred...
The Master pulled back his lips in a death's head grin. His staff in left hand, right hand curled over the Heart, he was the mirror image of Balefire. The air brightened about the wizards, and the Master's robes whipped about him as he and his foe stood in an ever-growing vortex of magicka. The vibration slowly increased, and the space above their heads crackled.
"Pretty words," sneered Veer'Shule. "You have a foul tongue, dark elf, but if you truly believe what you say, then you do not know whom you now face! Impudent apprentice. You have stuck your head out from your briny cesspool only to have it cut off and sent rolling back into the noisome depths!"
Both men now spared no more words for each other. The contest was now in earnest. The ring and great stone throbbed in unison, searing the eyes of the now-bystanders. The perfectly white skin of the Master was awash in red and his staff bled crimson light. Terrible Words fell from him, smashing against the ears, numbing the mind, but Balefire retaliated with spells of his own. The air was a living thing.
The Werre were hunched over, squinting through the hellfire, gritting their teeth against the assault of the Words. Cromm had recovered his great-axe and now painfully made his way to the pair in the furious vortex. The Werre formed a V, driving through the crackling wind.
The pressure on Loriella's mind suddenly ceased. Her body relaxed and she let out a long sigh. Darkness tugged at the edges of her mind; the siren song of sleep. The battle raging in the centre of the room did not touch her. It seemed a matter distant, something in a half-remembered dream. She began to succumb to oblivion when there came a hoarse groan on her right, jerking her to the present.
Alduin began to breathe again. The air was no longer solid in his lungs, and they greedily sucked in its sweetness. He groaned softly at the effort, and levered himself up on one arm. The power of that Word! His body was shaking in the aftermath. The sound of the battle came to him as from a great distance, muffled as through heavy fabric. A movement close at hand caught his bleared eye.
"Loriella!" His voice came as a croak. He cleared his throat and called to her again.
Loriella sat up, suddenly aware of her surroundings. She crawled over to the old man, and they helped each other to their feet. The Words' effects were quickly waning.
"The air. I couldn't breathe."
The Khajit saw the remembered fear in Alduin's eyes, but could not speak of her humiliation. She merely nodded and squeezed his shoulder. Now the battle came to them in a rush of sound and light. A shadow passed over them and looking, Loriella saw the Werre making their way toward the dazzling light that was Balefire and the dark Master. Their shadows were long and stark. The acrobat looked at the scribe.
"Stay here!"
Before he could open his mouth, she pushed into the wind. She was greeted with such heat, she nearly stumbled back into the cool shadow of the column. The vibration was pronounced now, and the crackle of the magicka eclipsed the Words and Art of the wizards. Both their mouths moved in silence.
Cromm halted his advance. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled. Something tugged at the corner of his mind. Before him, Balefire still stood tall; a proud man, staff erect, ringed hand aloft, every inch the master of his art. In that moment, Cromm saw the royal blood running in his veins. He was a statue of some great lord of the heroic past. Veer'Shule as well stood firm, his robes now tatters in the whipping wind, and as Balefire was noble, he was regal. Like a king of old, he was, likewise a master and lord, but while Balefire's skin was black, the Master's countenance was blacker still.
The feeling tugged again. In his mind, he saw It...saw Them! He madly looked about, heart racing. How could it be? The War had ended Them. Yet They were here. He glanced once more at the Master and Warmage. Lightning arced between their staffs, wreathing them in stark white. He made his decision. They were here. Balefire was on his own.
"Aya'tivui! Koth ta vida!" His words were snatched away in the wind, a faint cry of a child in a storm. "Krul anad. Denigroth!"
That final word hung in the air, defying the wind.
"Denigroth!"
The Werre immediately formed a ring, facing outward. Loriella had almost reached them when an intense cold gripped her. Irrational fear took her and she jerked around. The shadows were moving. Elfiran, too, looked about. His keen eyes picked out the demon-shapes first.
The shadows separated themselves from the columns. Great beings of obsidian night, their skin as hard as any armor, glinted red in the hard light. A stall as a man and half again, their two great pairs of wings spanned four times their height, translucent. Their feet were talons. Cleavers were their hands. They had no face in any real sense, but a blank mask, devoid of feature.
The Werre broke into pairs: Cromm with K'tarin, Talnan with Joran. Holm'ka, hastily cutting away his sling, came over to Elfiran's side. Elfiran spared him a curious glance. The Werre had loosed his axe, but it was designed for two hands and his damaged arm did not allow such use of his left hand. It could do little more than help guide the weapon.
"Master Elfiran, we must fight in pairs. One of us is distracter, the other attacker. I am in no condition to strike blows. Beware the cleavers! One touch and death will be swift. Put this on your blade. Your blows will be ineffective otherwise."
The dark man tossed a pouch and cloth to the high elf. With quick strokes, he anointed his weapon with the green liquid. Its smell stung his eyes.
"It is t'sun. Poison-acid. Denigroth cannot recover from its bite."
With that, the monstrosities were upon them. All about them, the ringing of metal and bone filled the hall as axe and sword clashed with the bone cleavers of the Denigroth. Elfiran quickly understood the need for the t'sun. He weaved his sword between the great cleavers, with Holm'ka taking the brunt of the beast's fury. Every blow the high elf scored only seemed to anger the beast. Every gash and hole he drove though the obsidian flesh would quickly begin to close, but as the wounds mounted, they healed more slowly. The acid damage proved too difficult to repair.
The Denigroth shifted its attention to Elfiran now. Both cleavers were trained on him. Now he was on the defensive, parrying and blocking. The beast was perfectly ambidextrous, using each arm will equal ease. Holm'ka hacked at its back, carving out great divots from its spine and flank. Finally the beast stumbled. It was fighting on two fronts and losing. More than once the cleavers nearly brushed Elfiran's skin. They had already rent open his armour in a few places. He was not used to this type of combat. If a foe scratched him, it was of little consequence, but to allow no contact? This monster was almost his match. Almost. He allowed himself a small smile as the beast fell to the floor, bleeding its milky lifeblood from a hundred wounds. With a savage cry, Holm'ka cleaved its head and it moved no more.
All about them, the battle continued. Three Denigroth lay dead, but the sight did not cheer the high elf's heart. More of the monsters were sweeping from the hall's corners. A vision of the great battle upon Thoth Durghanti flitted before his eyes; of the black tide of Denigroth crashing upon the island of Werre before the citadel's walls. The thought came and went. From where he stood, he now saw the real danger. The beasts were trying to reach Balefire! With his attention locked with Veer'Shule, he was open to them. With a cry, he leapt forward, Holm'ka at his side, to engage another Denigroth. He would die before any of these foul creatures would touch his friend and brother.
Loriella froze, but only for a moment. The great shadow rose above her. Its outspread arms swept down. Without even time to scream, the lithe Khajit rolled out of the way. She didn't have time to be afraid anymore. She was now relying on cool professionalism, and her profession was an acrobat. Quick as lightning, she was behind the beast, and with short sword in hand, cut deep into its knee. The hard flesh nearly turned aside her blade, but with a deft twist, the point sunk right to the back of the kneecap. She laughed, both another skilful blow and at the insane situation in which she now found herself. Here she was, battling a being of pure magicka she was sure she couldn't kill, who's very touch *could* kill, and her thoughts kept turning to a nice down bed in some small town inn. Any inn would do, as long as it was far from here.
The Denigroth spun about, wrenching the blade from her grip. She noticed the point had indeed gone through the kneecap, but to her horror, the tip disappeared as the wound closed itself, pushing the sword out. It clattered to the bone floor with finality. It was all Loriella could do to avoid the next blow. The beast touched her hair, and she imagined her scalp tingling as if asleep. Her sword again in hand, she squared off with her opponent and dug into its wrist. She stabbed again, dodged, ducked, slashed, parried, leapt and rolled as her whole world became this unstoppable nightmare. Every wound she inflicted healed in moments. The beast's skin chipped at her blade and her arm began to ache. Finally, the blade snapped. In desperation, she drew out her ebony dagger. She saw her reflection in the smooth blank head. Her beautiful auburn hair had gone white where the cleaver had brushed it.
Suddenly, the Denigroth lost interest in her. It simply turned away and headed for the vortex. A strange mixture of emotions coursed through the acrobat. Renewed humiliation, anger, fear, relief all fought for dominance.
"Where are you going?" She screamed.
A little voice in her head shouted back at her to leave the monster alone. She was alive. Let it go! She was no match for it. But her humiliation, and the image of her hair, overrode all discretion.
"Come back here you <censored>...!" She hurled such abuse at its back as her benumbed mind would allow. "...flee-ridden, sow-bellied, horse-faced, bat-eared, dog-breathed..." She trembled. "...fecund, toad-lipped (she forgot for the moment it had no face), knobbly-kneed, maggot-eyed...Aaiiee!"
She leapt full on its back, whipping out her second dagger. With the strength of the desperate, she walked up its broad back with her knives, pushing each to the hilt. Standing upon the giant's shoulders with cat-like poise, she tore at its neck, showering herself with its milky blood, but each gash she rent closed just as quickly. The wind flung her hair about her face, and she saw the beast was walking straight for Balefire's back.
She grew feral. Caked in white, eyes wild, body violently shaking, she looked like some primitive Khajit-ancestor. With her last strength, she sunk the daggers deep into the Denigroth's head, their hilts becoming mock horns. Her eyes stared at the milky ruin of it neck and with no more thought, she snapped down her head and sank her sharp canines into the open black flesh.
Blinding pain shot through her jaw as a tooth snapped but she held on. The wound closed around her mouth and she bit all the harder. She would not be pushed out. The white blood tasted acid.
The beast slowed to a halt. It shook its head from side to side but could not loose this suddenly painful terror. Her saliva stung deep in its wound. It spun about, scything at its back, but was unable to reach her, its great cleavers nicking its own flesh. Her daggers clattered to the floor as its head closed, but she didn't pay them heed. She had now come to her senses, and was again terrified. The blood was burning her mouth, but she didn't dare unlock her jaw. She was all too aware of the proximity of those deadly cleavers, felt the milky blood splash against her legs as it carved at itself in desperation. Her jaw was beginning to relax when there came a cry from below.
"Hold on lass!"
Elfiran came into view, sword dripping white. He danced about its legs, driving his blade into its torso again and again. Loriella was aware of another man, axe in hand. His left arm hung limply at his side. She tightly shut her eyes, feeling tears of fatigue. She fell. The floor came up hard, but she was too numb to feel more than dull pain. She looked up to see the creature towering above her, cleavers held wide. Then a red-mailed figure eclipsed her view and the floor shook as a heavy body impacted the ground.
She nearly blacked out, but a firm hand brought her back.
"Lass, are ye all right?"
She opened her eyes to see Elfiran's face, laced with white looking down at her, full of concern. At Loriella's slight nod, he grinned.
"Ye do tend te get inta yer work, don't ye?" He reached down to touch her sheered tooth. "Don't take this the wrong way, but Ah dinna think ye had it in ye."
He stood and helped the Khajit to her feet.
He turned to the Werre, chuckling. "Would ye look at that? She *bit* the wee beastie!"
Holm'ka stared in amazement. "Maybe you are worthy of being Cromm's wife! A true warrioress. But let me say something." He held out a pouch. "Use this on your blades and not your teeth."
They turned to intercept another Denigroth getting rather near the wizards. Loriella thought about what she had just done and felt faint. She had bit a Denigroth! Was she mad? Another thought fell on her. Alduin!
She swept up her daggers and raced back to the columns where she had left him.
Alduin watched the Khajit go. He was now alone. Balefire was locked with the foul Master. The Werre and Elfiran were marching through the magicka-driven wind. Loriella had now gone to join them. For a moment, he merely sat, enjoying the feeling of breathing again before turning to his task. He was strangely reluctant to put pen to paper. He rummaged around in his worn pack and drew out fresh paper. After much mumbling, he found his finest ink; the royal purple, and his gold-tipped quill. He had just started to scribe when he felt the presence at his back. He froze, playing the part of the rabbit, wildly hoping that the oncoming cart would avoid him. He turned his head slowly around to see two very large feet, horribly taloned. He moved his eyes upward to see a Denigroth.
He shot to his feet and backed up against the column. He held his pen before him, waving it back and forth. In his fright, he had no idea of the stupidity of his actions. He really had no idea what he was going to do with the quill. Autograph the monster? He had no chance to find out. The Denigroth gave him an appraising glance, then moved on. Alduin didn't move until the creature had passed well beyond him.
He started to breathe again. He saw flashes before his eyes, so he must have been holding his breath for some time. He peeked around the column only to see the nightmare advance on Loriella.
"Loriella!" he said in a hoarse whisper. His voice carried no further than his lips. "Loriella, behind you!"
The Werre now broke into pairs, and the Khajit spun around to meet her foe. Alduin watched in morbid fascination for an interminable time before remembering the quill held loosely in his hand. He dove back behind the column and got to writing. He sat so he had a full view of the room. He got a pang now and then; a feeling of uselessness. Here he was sitting against a column jotting down words and scrawling pictures while eight of the bravest people he ever knew were fighting for their lives mere yards from his stoop. Then his thoughts turned to the three women above. Had they made it into the citadel, or were they burning out on the desert floor? If they got inside, did they find a way down? They might be sleeping by the spirit waters at this very moment. Disaster!
He noticed he had stopped writing. He shoved such thoughts aside and forced the events about him to paper. The Denigroth kept coming. The Talnan-Joran pair was showing fatigue. Elfiran was very nearly a one-man "pair" himself, with Holm'ka valiantly trying to wield an axe too heavy for one arm alone. Loriella had tried to come back to the lonely scribe, but had been cut off by another Denigroth. Only her natural speed was keeping her alive. Cromm and K'tarin were back to back, keeping two of the nightmare creatures from Balefire. K'tarin was now wielding a sword. His axe lay broken at his feet.
A rending scream pierced the air. The master scribe jerked his eyes to the right in time to see Talnan grow rigid. The Denigroth had cleaved his axe in two. Almost tenderly, it reached out and touched him. Alduin could see from his vantage the wound was not deep, but the Werre fell to his knees. The Werre remained upright a moment more, and a tenuous haze rose up from his body. It hovered there, a ghost trapped by the steady gaze of the Denigroth. Then the beast lunged forward and absorbed the spirit into its head. Talnan's body crumpled and to Alduin's horror, the Denigroth was healed of all wounds.
Joran wailed and retreated as the beast came on with renewed vigour. Fortune was turning against the heroes. Somehow, Alduin kept writing. He found cold comfort in that, but when he glanced at the two wizards, even that small comfort fled.
Balefire was no longer the proud Warmage. He was hunched over, using his staff more as support than weapon. Its runes were an angry red. The Master, too, was bowed. His adamantium staff was bending, glowing hot, but he did not release it, his hand blackening. The Heart was throbbing quickly, beating erratically, and the Blood was no longer in sync. White lightning and blue fire wreathed all, catching the Master's robe in phantom fire. The battle was going badly for both sides.
There was a sharp crack. The vibration had become a background noise, but now it changed, and two columns had split open. Great pieces of ceiling came crashing down from their heads, filling the heavy air with choking dust. The very floor was shaking in an unnatural earthquake. As Balefire had warned, the fabric of the place was unravelling.
Above all, a mist formed, swirling with the magicka vortex cocooning the mages. The mist expanded, replacing the ceiling as bone and stone fell all about. Alduin felt a great oppression from above, as if another Word of Command had been uttered. The air was thick in his lungs. He forced his eyes upward, to peer into the blank mist. Something was taking shape there.
An Eye.
A great pupiless Eye enfolded in blackest flesh stabbed down. Its entire will was bent on the Heart and Blood directly below, but the periphery of its gaze was still horrible to bear. The scribe shrank behind his column. Only the floor buckling beneath his feet forced him to move. Passing to the next column, his eyes were drawn to Balefire. Both he and Veer'Shule were on their knees. The Master's staff lay melting, and Balefire's own was smouldering. With his keen eye for detail, the scribe saw with terrible clarity the end of their hope.
Balefire was dying.
Balefire was dying. The grim satisfaction of knowing that Veer'Shule was also near his end was a poor sort of consolation, but offered a bleak edge of comfort to the Dark Elf. The mad, self-styled "Master" in this bone-built abomination of a hall would accompany him, maybe even precede him to whatever awaited beyond this life, but Balefire had no illusions about his own chances of surviving.
Even as the scarred mercenary mage painfully dredged his last reserves of energy for one more bit of will, he knew his end was nigh. In a state beyond pain, beyond fear, he poured his will and his Art into this, his last battle. It almost seemed the world had receded from his ken, leaving only the struggle. The struggle, and the knowledge that it was his last battle. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, memories surfaced, blown across his perception like autumn leaves before the storms of early winter, illuminated it seemed by the lightnings and the flame bursts that raged around the two antagonists. He struggled to ignore them, to concentrate on crushing his opponent in the maelstrom of magical force of which he was a part, now, but the memories, though fleeting, would not be denied, or ignored.
As from far off, he heard a weak, pitiful groan, and dimly realised it was his own. Unable to stand, or even move, he thrust and slashed with his will, artifice and subtlety abandoned, a thing of sheer will and power, but weakening, and plagued by memories.
His first sword, and its first blood-letting. The look of utter astonishment on the face of that long-ago foe. Dawn over the battlements of Castle Ebonheart, and the proud banner of his House flying and snapping in the breeze. That same banner, lit sullenly by the flames of war, obscured by smoke. The joy in the eyes of...what washer name?...too long ago...when he'd filled their forest bower with sparkling coloured lights and the scent of wildflowers. The shock of pain and dread as an enemy's blade slid into his flesh, and the horrid grating when it slid along a bone. The wild abandon of a headlong charge against superior numbers, in his youth when he did not really believe he could die. The feeling of power when he had engaged in his first wizardly duel, and the stench and horror of blasted battle fields without number. The pride when he had overheard the first of many bards' songs about Balefire, the Warmage. Archmage of the Guild. Balefire, the Implacable, the Relentless. Balefire Demonbane, they'd named him, in a long-ago campaign, and later they had whispered "Balefire Bloodmage", and "Balefire Deathdealer". Ah, Death! Old companion. Saddlepartner. Long had Death walked and ridden at his side. How many foes had his old companion taken, and left Balefire alive. Life. It had been good, at times...the wines...the cool tankards of ale...how good an ale would be now, in this flaming vortex of forces that were taking his life. Ale, and friends. Many gone now. And the women...he recalled their faces, and their forms, their voices in joy and in passion, and the sound of their laughter. Many, but it had been many years, years of living as if there might not be a tomorrow. Most recently, Mea...he wished he had had more time to get to know her better. And Twilight. Ah, Twilight...he wished he could have seen her one more time before it came to this, the day when the tomorrows ran out at last. Memory haunted him, and the scarred dark elf groaned, and tilted his head back to howl. And he saw the Eye, and the face of the Terror, solidifying like a congealing mist.
Banishing memory, Balefire focused what will he had left and used the channel of his once-familiar ring to maintain the outpouring of magic, assaulting the crumbling Veer'Shule as he, too, crumbled. He felt his life ebbing, draining away, and a part of him mourned the world, for if...when...the Terror entered fully into Tamriel, Balefire would no longer be alive to dispute its dark reign. At the corners of his dimming vision, he saw movement, and realised bitterly that Denigroth walked again, and there was nothing...absolutely nothing...that he could do about it. He mustered his failing will, jaws clenched and shoulders trembling, and flailed at Veer'Shule anew with his last shards of energy.
Balefire was dying.
The Archmagister of Sentinel turned fitfully in his bed. His bed! It wasn't his bed, but one in the Mages' Guild where an eye could be kept on him. He coughed softly. The sheets lay tangle about his chin. His feet were uncovered.
The dream came to him again, but this time, it felt terribly real. He was in a barren land, earth black and pumous-strewn. The sky was broiling with low cloud, lit red underneath. It was like Morrowind, but no place he had ever visited. A dark wind thrashed against him, its high keening stinging his ears with bitter cold. A figure, robed and tall, stood many hundreds of yards distant on a precipice overlooking a shrouded canyon. The Archmagister tried to call out, but could not open his mouth. His lips were sealed and his voice stilled.
The black figure looked out across the canyon, then turned to him as it had thrice before. Its burning red eyes bored into him, and he could see every feature in that cowled robe despite the distance, if as looking at the fatal figure through the wrong end of a spyglass. His features were noble, fierce, but now they were different. They held a strained sadness, though a hot rage flickered behind those eyes. The man was imposing, but the Archmagister of Sentinel was rooted to the spot and could not move or look away. He knew the figure did not bend his anger at himself, but still, he cowered. But this was not what made the dream terrible.
Now the man's features changed subtly, the nose becoming more hooked, the eyes turning a milky gold, and the anger burning in them leapt outward, stabbing the Archmage to the quick. The skin paled to a paper white, and in one upraised hand there was a great ruby giving forth a fiery light.
The dream would end soon. The white man would give way to the black and the terrible image would fade. The white man stood there! He raised his other hand and pointed a damning finger at Sentinel's heart. The mist in the canyon boiled and seethed to the very lip of rock on which the Archmage and terror-figure stood. The Archmage struggled to close his eyes, but could only stare fixedly at the Master. The word came into his head and he knew who the white figure was. He grew cold. The dream had changed.
The figure was again replaced by the black image; the dark elf. The ruby was reduced to a bright ring, a red beacon held high. But the dark man's features were worn and old. Pain was etched in his cheeks and forehead. The mist enshrouding the canyon seethed, boiling to its very lip.
The fatal figure burst into flame and sagged under some terrible weight. Below the mists parted and a terrible will came forth. The Archmage's eyes were drawn to the abyss and beheld a great Eye, a perfect red orb set in midnight flesh. Its gaze fell upon both men. The Archmage felt himself shrivel up.
***
His eyes flew open. The sheets entangled his limbs and he fought desperately to free himself. The door opened quietly and an apprentice poked his head into the room. On seeing his master's state, he rushed in.
"Archmagister! You were dreaming again. You are in the hospital room. You are all right."
The older man could not stop wheezing. The herbalist, the best and most expensive in the province, had only been able to partially preserve his damaged lungs. The healing spells uttered by his fellow mages were able to save most of his eyesight, but the boiling quicksilver had done much evil. He would never run again, and even a climb up a flight of stairs winded him. Most caught in that deadly room were similarly affected. Three had died shortly after. Now he was struggling for breath. The apprentice brought over the prescribed smelling herbs and after some minutes, the Archmage could speak.
"No, I am not all right!" he rasped. "The dream was different this time. Great peril! Do not dismiss me boy! The poison has not clouded my mind as much as you believe."
He lapsed into silence so deep, the boy, uncertain of his master, turned to leave.
"Yes, go!" the Archmage shouted. "The dream is foretelling. Hope lies between fire and abyss."
The door was softly shut.