Years of training taking over, Twilight fell into a fighting crouch even as she cast shielding spells, almost unthinking. That done, she quickly surveyed her surroundings. The bridge was observed and discarded from consideration, paling in importance when she saw the charred, scoured, and cindered remnant of the blasted portal, and the near-blinding, multi-colored, roiling, seething violence of the magical energies crashing like waves in an insane storm against the quaking, trembling, crumbling cliffs of the dimly seen hall beyond.
"Balefire's handiwork, by all the gods! I know his style, and his aura, well enough after all these years." She rapped out the words, and then paused as if listening to other than the hissing and roaring of spells. "His will remains firm, but little of life is left in him...I can feel it." She shaded her eyes with her arm and squinted into the chaos beyond the door, growling to her companions, "I like not the dark shapes I see within, but I cannot tarry. I would welcome your help, but will not demand it. My swordbrother dies within, and I would fight with him one last time."
She strode away toward the corruscant madness beyond the portal, flinging behind her the words, "I told him once I would follow him to hell. I was younger then, but I still keep my word."
Raven hair billowing in the raging magewind, she raised her sword and marched into the disintegrating, chaos-filled hall.
Leaping in to the portal with Sacre Noir at the ready, I got a really bad feeling about this situation, wondering if perhaps I got myself into something to big to handle ; flash thought : Big, Handle, = Balefire and that pretty much resolved any doubts that I had in regards to the melee I was about to participate in.
But Holy Julianos, I was not prepared for the Hell that I found at the other end of the portal, the sight of black cindered burned god knows what, millions of skulls embedded in the floor, shady beings that I presumed to be Denigroths, and in the middle of it all, a veritable cyclone of magicka, with two figures vaguely identifiable as Balefire and I'm sure what must be Veer'shule or what was left of their ethereal bodies, I saw Elfiran effortlessly hacking away at a Denigroth, the fiery Loriella doing the most amazing acrobatics and actually getting somewhere with the denizen that was trying hard to get to it's master.
My Elven plate felt very cold through my under vest and shivers ran up my spine, never the less I couldn't let my friends fight by themselves, so I followed Twilight, got a tight grip on my shield and prayed, I don't now if it helped, but hey it can't hurt and I threw my self at the first monster I could find, remembering someone saying; "Don't let those Denigroths touch you it's instant dead"
Well Julianos may protect me, the only question is " is he gonna do it here?" and I attacked the unholy thing in front of me, with Sacre Noir singing in my hand I beheaded the thing, instantly a great tingling went through my body and I saw Sacre Noir, my hand, my arm in fact my hole body light up in a blue aura of such strength, that i was sure that Julianos had heard my prayer, before I realised that it was magicka flowing from the Denigroth in to me, I have no idea what I looked like but I felt as if I could take this citadel apart stone by stone all by myself, I let go of a shield spell that would have made Balefire proud of me, such power, all this while the Denigroths head was amazingly floating down to the floor, Floating? I then understood that the ring of Notorgo that I was wearing stood out like a beacon in the blackest of nights and I found my self continuing to slash this Fuzz ball to little pieces as if I was preparing meat for a loaf, but that ring was beginning to hurt and then stop to hurt, it was to much for a poor wood elf to understand, I didn't care no more and to my mind came the battle cry " No retreat, no surrender" and like the mythical dervish I let the Magicka loose and slashed and hacked my way in…
Tenaka started as the mage's spell stopped. It seemed that the man had sent him to the right place. He quickly focussed on the image of the museum in his mind and opened the Window. Leaving it open (he knew that Pilar had somewhere learned how to close them) he ran towards the sounds of fighting. In the centre of the room he entered he saw two men, each with a staff by his side. One, a Dark Elf like himself wore a ring that clearly identified him as Balefire. The other would be the Master. Small comfort, that as Balefire lay, close to death, so too did his enemy.
But that was merely the centrepiece of the display. Around the room he saw large black shapes in battle. Moving closer he saw that they fought with other men - two to each creature. One of the men he recognised - Elfiran from the stories - whose partner seemed to be weakening - he used only one hand. Drawing his great Daedric Dai-katana he yelled, "Carai en Caldazar!" 'Glory to the Red Eagle'. The traditional war cry of the Khans. The man fighting alongside Elfiran backed off slightly, seemingly glad of the respite and the Dreadlord took his place. Looking around, he saw the tactic that was being used and recognised it - Distracter and Attacker. He signalled to Elfiran to take the part of Distracter until he regained his strength. He swung at the monster, but it easily parried the blow before returning one of its own. Only his lightning reflexes saved him from the blow as he leant back slightly. Even so, he felt a deep chill run through him. These things were clearly more dangerous than they at first seemed.
"Alright then, Creature of the Night. Let's Dance!"
Tenaka was light on his feet as his sword dipped and danced within the creature's defences. The Angry Porcupine's barkeep was forgotten - his adversary was all. But however many blows he managed to land on the thing, it never slowed. At one point he managed to cut off a hand, but it simply crawled back to it across the floor and reattached itself. This was not a problem in and of itself – merely an inconvenience. Tenaka doubted it's head would grow back when he finally managed to decapitate the thing which was now his sole aim apart from survival.
The problem was that he was tiring fast. He was beginning to feel the weight of his Daedric armour and weaponry, and this was far from a good sign. Getting desperate, he muttered the words to a simple spell that would restore his stamina. But nothing happened. He inwardly groaned as he realised that they must have entered another non-magic area.
Tenaka had only one option left to him. Standing tall, he waited for the creature to get close. As it approached he felt the chill again, but he tried to ignore it in a similar way that he had the heat of the desert earlier. It reached out to touch him, and then he did it. With a thought, the blackness of the Antilight radiated from him, enveloping the creature. It gave a scream and Tenaka felt its power being drawn into him. He now understood these creatures. They had no life, but seemed to be made of pure magicka. And that pure magicka was being drawn into him via the Antilight. As the creature screamed its last, Tenaka increased the radius of the Antilight, weakening the other creatures too. Hopefully no more of the warriors would fall this day…
Distaste warred with desperation as Twilight's battlefield-honed perceptions assessed the tactical situation in the Hall of Bone. Balefire dying, almost gone, but evidently taking with him the archfoe responsible for this abomination of a hall. A monstrous *something* coalescing above their magic-suffused tableau. The parallels with the re-enactment she'd seen earlier made horribly clear by the leaping, slashing figures fighting what had to be Denigroth. Denigroth who seemed to be trying to advance toward the Warmage, and were barely being held in check by Elfiran and the others. A sense that reality was losing its hold on the environs, that the Art would work sporadically at best in the spell-saturated and warped hall, and that dissolution impended in the citadel...
Her lightning-fast assessment made, she leaped toward the nearest group of warriors, slashing and dodging in a blur of movement, a frenzied hunting cat with cold logic barely in control of emotions she had dismissed or denied for years. Training and experience guided her body in the dance of swords, while her mind called out to her unhearing, fast-fading swordbrother.
"You knew how I felt, damn you, all along, and now you die on me! 'Tis not fair, Lord Balefire!"
Crouch, spin, and her sword licked out adder-quick.
"You taught me so much, and kept me alive countless times, and now you find me helpless to save you."
Duck, slash, recover, and she barely side-stepped the blow of a great cleaver.
"I never really minded the others; I knew you had more to give than even I could take. And you never lied to me."
Lunge, pierce, twist, withdraw, squat below the slash, and the wind of the passing blow caressed her tear-wet cheek.
"We were a *team*, damn you, the best there ever was. You cannot mean to die without me at your side. I won't allow it, Lord Balefire!"
Descending blade, sides blocked by allies, dive between the monstrosity's legs, tuck and roll, spring up and around and she beheaded the foul creature.
"You always said 'Do not call me "Lord"', swordbrother, but you will always be my lord. I cannot save you, but by all the gods you affected to spurn, I shall make you a final gift of heaped corpses. And we shall see if yon red-eyed shadow cannot be sent after you as a death-gift, too."
Twisting, feinting, leaping, blade darting, Twilight engaged another Denigroth, her body moved panther-like as her mind moaned in anguish.
"You always counselled no regrets, old partner, old lover, and you lived as you spoke. You ask too much. Henceforth, for as long as I live, my battlecry shall be..."
"Balefire!" Twilight screamed aloud, the pain-filled cry impelling her to ever-faster movement, her blade flashing and striking, tears catching the magelight where they glinted among her flying raven locks.
Veer'Shule looked down his long nose at the impetuous dark elf before him. We was a worm about to be tossed aside in a maelstrom of power! This fool challenges the great Archmage--no: Grandarchmage for control of the Heart. He would not have it! The Heart was his and so was the Blood, so long ensnared on that petty ring the dark elf was now brandishing. What was the Blood to the Heart? What was the Warmage to the Master?
"Negotiations" had fallen apart. Now they were locked in mortal combat in true mage's fashion. Two wills pitted against each other, using whatever Arts were at each's disposal. This Warmage spurned the Words! Fool! He shall taste the full cup of woe for that stupidity. His Art was no match for the ancient Words, a power that has been at odds with magicka since the beginning. Veer'Shule firmly believed the Words were far more powerful.
The two men now strove with all their might and will, closing out all the world about them. The Heart gave the Master its insurmountable Will. He felt the euphoria of its power rushing through his veins, reaching every fibre of his being. Such power, such concentrate might! No one being can contain it all, and yet he did. He lashed out with it, bringing fatal power to his Words such as none had ever dared to do since the creation of the Horned Council so long ago. His opponent sagged, but did not give way.
The dusky Warmage retaliated! He wove his Art with expert ease as if born to it. Complex energies swirled around him and came forth in terrifying force. The magicka rocked the pale man. The Heart's power was waning. No, not waning! It was being drawn off. The crimson light of the Blood flared in time with the Heart. This mage was also tapping the Heart, using the Blood as a channel.
Fury welled up in Veer'Shule. He almost lost himself in the great tidal forces that was now the Heart. He mastered himself and his anger crystallised, became cold. This worm had become a scorpion. Merely lashing out would not crush it. He now carefully chose his Words, crafted them and imbued them with terrible purpose targeted at this unique individual. The Warmage kept up his relentless assault. Fire and lightning saturated the air. The Master's staff grew hot. The Warmage would remove his crutch! His focus would be lost.
With desperate thought, the Master pulled at the Heart, steering its Will back to himself. His staff grew too hot to hold, yet let his hand be damned. As long as he held the staff, he would persevere. As long as he had the staff, he had the Heart. And yet, deep in his mind, he had doubt. This dark elf had stamina as well as will. The Blood was attuned to him, and the stones were in harmony with each other. Veer'Shule felt a pang of betrayal.
*How could you do this?* he silently addressed the Heart. "I am your master. When this fool is dead, you will be whole again.*
The Heart did not answer, but was intent only on awakening. The Blood was too close to bicker about who ruled who. LIFE! The Blood was life and the Heart would have it. The Denigroth, long-time statues in the darkest recesses of the hall, were animated once more, the latent energies giving them life. The Heart needed more. This dark one proved stronger than the Master. It would receive the Blood from him.
The adamantium staff was now bending and Veer'Shule could not hold himself to grip it any longer. He knew the hand was gone, now bitter bone and brittle flesh. With vengeful wrath, he attempted the same against his foe. The runes on Balefire's staff grew hot with an ire of their own. The staff was a living thing, and this pale, ancient man had directly attacked it. It brought up it own defences and weathered the Word of Burning. But now, the Master could not spare it more thought.
The loss of his own staff had weakened him, and his hold over the Heart was slipping. Fear gripped him. The cool concentration that shaped the Words was thrown aside and his lips spat out the sounds in chaotic frenzy. His mouth stung at the unfettered power. His lips grew sticky with blood, but his enemy was also weakening. Veer'Shule's desperate strength was enough to again divide the Heart. stretching its Will three ways, for now it was strong enough to achieve consciousness. It cared not for the warring mages, and only strove to force the Blood into contact with the great ruby.
Balefire, under attack from both the Master and the Heart, sagged to his knees. His Art and will were not enough, and his great stamina was waning fast. He now discarded discrete spells, and raged against the Master with a deluge was untempered magicka.
Veer'Shule, without his focus and with the Heart against him, found his own will faltering. This was not how it was supposed to be! This worm-come- scorpion had metamorphosed into a dragon. He had enough life left in him to utter one last Word, a most terrible Power. He fought with himself. He would need it to subdue the First when it fully awoke, but if he did not use it now to silence this mortal dragon ripping at his throat, he would surely perish, if not from this deathly embrace, then from the others beyond the bright circle of magicka in which Warmage and Master lay...or the Denigroth might slay him.
Through bleary eyes, weak and dim, he perceived his archfoe. They were now within arm's reach of one another. The enemy's face was drawn and aged, his dark skin tight against the bone. His mouth was set in a pained grimace, but fierce. Their eyes locked, red and gold. In those eyes, Veer'Shule saw his decision made for him. There was no defeat there. He would have to use the final Word.
During the fast and furious melee, Elfiran keeps trying to work his way over to his War Brother Balefire. Each time he sees an opening, it closes just as quickly as though the Denigroth senses Elfiran's wants. Holm'ka is faring no better seeing as he can only use one of his massive arms. Elfiran is amazed by the strength of the Werre. With one arm, the Werre is barely able to hold off the Denigroth, and Elfiran imagines the damage two healthy arms would do.
Elfiran fleetingly wishes for the strong feel of magicka that he's used to for augmenting his fighting skills. "No sense wishing for something when it will do me no good" he thinks. "Well am ah a Blade Master or nay" Elfiran thinks to himself. "Holm'ka" he yells, "Gather the Denigroth's attention fully for a small spell. Ah tire o' this, an' wish te end this one's existence with the aid of yer t'sun."
Holm'ka quickly attracts the full attention of the Denigroth, and in doing so appears unable to last for very long like this as the cleavers and talons perform a perfectly timed attack against the wounded Werre. "Well, it's now or never" Elfiran mumbles. With a great leap that most people would never have thought the high elf able to accomplish anymore, Elfiran leaps in the air towards the back of the Denigroth. As he reaches the top of his leap, he swings down hard with all of his strength, separating the head of the Denigroth from the body. Before the body falls, he uses the corpse as a springboard and completes a somersault in the air before landing next to a panting Holm'ka.
"Well done lad. Ah would nay 'ave been able te do thet if'n ye had nay caught it's attention." Holm'ka just slightly inclines his head as though speech would be too much for the Werre right now.
Elfiran quickly scans the combatants, and seeing that all of them are otherwise engaged, he turns to help his friend Balefire, but is blocked by another foul Denigroth. Holm'ka instinctively joins Elfiran's side, then fans out to continue the fight the only way the Werre have known. Elfiran's face hardens into a grim visage, and his eyes appear to burn into the Denigroth. Any other time, and the appearance of Elfiran would look comical to most of his friends and patrons, but to get in his way this day means death to his foes.
Briefly Elfiran's senses something...looks over to a newcomer, and grumbles ..."Huh? Who is that"? The Denigroth almost touches him, so Elfiran shakes his head, then concentrates on the task at hand, the stranger forgotten for the moment. Elfiran steals a quick glance over to Balefire and sees His War Brother appears to be....dying. "NO!!!!!!" Elfiran yells as he hastens his attack on the demonseed that's keeping him from Balefire's side.
"Carai en Caldazar!" he hears from the stranger that recently appeared. Holm'ka appears to have understood this stranger and he backs off slightly, seemingly glad of the respite and the stranger takes Holm'ka's place fighting alongside of Elfiran. Holm'ka heads over to Joran to help out where Talnan will never again be able to.
Elfiran glances over at the stranger and sees that he appears to know about 'Distracter and Attacker' as he quickly falls into the rhythm of the battle. Elfiran looks over to the stranger and he's signalling for Elfiran to take on the part of Distracter. Elfiran senses for some reason that the newcomer expelled a great part of his strength and will to reach here. "He must need some time te build his strength up" Elfiran correctly guesses. He nods and yells above the din, "We 'ave te reach Balefire o'er there quickly afore any o' these Denigroth do. He is dying, an' by Akatosh, ah will nay let him do thet 'ere."
The stranger battles with the Denigroth a few moments more and then he appears to do something, and Elfiran blinks because the Denigroth facing them ....is no more........
The dying Warmage met the gaze of those evil golden eyes with the last shreds of his stamina, and despised his inability to utter as much as a single word, not even a final gasping curse. He saw the desperate resolve in Veer'Shule's eyes, and knew his Doom was at last upon him; he lacked sufficient reserves to counter another Word of Power. Indeed, he lacked the reserves to prolong his life much longer, much less the deadly duel that was killing him. With the certain knowledge that his death was at last upon him, it seemed that the moment existed outside of Time, and his senses perceived with preternatural clarity.
Balefire would have laughed, had he the energy, in triumph at his foe's loss of his staff and the hand that had held it. And laughed louder, had he been able, at the bungled misguided attack on his own staff, the legendary Staff of the Dawn. The Ancient Vampire souls trapped in the staff both hated and loved their enslaver, for he kept them entrapped and used them mercilessly, but he had kept them well-fed for years. In other circumstances, they might have greeted the prospect of the staff's breaking with glee, eager to be free and turn on their erstwhile master. Steeped in centuries of guile, they sensed that to be freed in this storm of magical power would bring instant dissolution, and so they reacted to defend their hated home's integrity, and their continued existence, hateful though it was.
Elfiran...loyal, cheerful, deadly Elfiran kept the Denigroth at bay, the Warmage knew, along with the Werre and agile Loriella. A part of him wished he could observe them in their legend-worthy fight.
And...Twilight! He sensed her presence and her white-hot fury, proud and sad at once in the knowledge that he would die without a last stand back-to-back with his long-time swordmate and sometime lover, and in the inescapable certainty that she would insist on revenge at the expense of her own safety. He had tried to teach her to live to fight another day, but mayhap she had learned other lessons than his words alone had taught. He heard her, dimly now as his pain and fading senses overwhelmed his dying reverie, shout his name. "If only," he thought, "I had told you half of what I should have. Save yourself, sweet, fiery, incomparable Twilight. Would that I could speak one last word to you."
Veer'Shule's hate-filled eyes swam back into focus, overshadowing his awareness of the others, the strange Dark Elf, sweet impulsive Mea, J'layah..."Death will cause me to break my promise J'layah," the words rang bitterly in his heart, " to save your sister. Forgive me, for Death has won the toss for the first and last time."
The dusky Warmage saw the decision in his failing foe's eyes, and knew his Doom was upon him. He tried to speak, to utter a last taunt or threat, and he forced out a sound that none could recognise as other than a death rattle. "Dead, but undefeated", he whispered, as he poured the last of his will into the power he drew through the Blood from the Heart. It would make as good an epitaph as any.
The floor rippled again, sending the scribe to his knees for the fifth time. He was bruised and shaken. Again, he picked himself up only to be tossed like a doll as another shock moved through the hall. He reached out an unsteady hand to the nearest column, but the bone felt slick and insubstantial. He snatched back his hand and stumbled deeper into the hall as the column sagged like hot butter.
'I have seen barroom brawls that would make the hardiest pirate weep,' he thought to himself, unconsciously touching the divot in his tricep where a dagger had relieved him of some muscle. 'I have weathered scorching snowstorms and stinking swamps. I've faced down a harpy with nothing but my tongue with which to lash her ear. I've riddled with spriggans and made a nymph blush. I've flattered rogues and upbraided princes.'
He reached the next pillar, gingerly side-stepping another Denigroth as it moved to battle.
'But this!' he continued. 'I am worthless here. An old man who can't keep his balance. A snivelling wastrel clinging to the coattails of warriors.'
He paused as he reached the third pillar. The titanic battle between the two great mages threw monstrous light hard against the battlefield. Elf and Khajit and Redguard and Denigroth stood stark between blackest shadow and blinding light. Now more figures entered the fray. From the smashed gates there came a second group. The women! They did find a way into the citadel. With them also were warriors he did not know. The forbidding dark elf went straight for Elfiran's Denigroth, relieving a failing Holm'ka. What caught his eye, however, was the young one, J'layah. Her face was transformed from when he saw her last on the desert so long ago. She was grim and a fey light was in her eyes. With a startling yell, she charged the nearest monster, her blade sweeping a glittering arc through the beast's side. He stood amazed at her sudden onslaught and fighting prowess. Maybe he had underestimated her, not a thing often done by the scribe.
***
Loriella was on her third Denigroth now. Her arms ached and her legs were heavy. No longer was she showing off her acrobatics, abandoning her backflips and somersaults for deft side-steps and rolls. Her lithe movements were certainly not impressing her enemy. It followed her every move with the mindless persistence of a force of nature.
'Or a city guard,' she wryly thought to herself.
The thought almost cost her life, and she snapped back her attention in time to parry a razor cleaver. She rolled between its legs and thrust her ebony dagger up. She wished it had feeling there. It would have made this nightmarish battle all the easier. She almost smiled again at the thought of that. Her dark humour would get her killed someday...maybe today.
Another long cleaver came close and she felt her rage beginning to bubble over again. She bared her teeth, showing the beast her broken canine as a badge of honour.
"I will break another tooth on your hide before you take me!"
From her left came a shrill warcry and a great Daedric blade bit deep into the Denigroth's side. It silently turned its head to face this new opponent and got a second dose of the biting blade in the centre of its chest.
It didn't even stumble.
It went after the newcomer with both cleavers, forgetting the panting, bent, sweaty Khajit with her two blunted daggers. Loriella looked over to see a young wood elf wielding a katana which seemed a bit too large for her, but was wielding it as if born to it. She parried every stroke the Denigroth threw her, and slipped in many of her own. Loriella had noticed some of the warriors had decapitated their foes, but J'layah (yes, that was her name) was not quite tall enough. Instead, the whirling dervish carved at its legs and torso, spilling white blood upon the bone floor.
The sword was not poisoned, and the great monster took no heed of its wounds. Loriella stood by a moment catching her breath, but she could not wait for feeling to return to her limbs. Silently, she slipped in behind the towering beast and with a grunt, leapt on its back once more. She had been trying to do this from the beginning, but could not leap before her enemy had spun about. Now she sunk her blades into its neck, slicing through what was its spine. It lurched and fell. J'layah, transformed in her battle-lust, diced its head to ruin though it already be dead.
For a moment, the two women stared at each other, one with berserker frenzy, the other with a feral fear. They stood thus for heartbeats. Then J'layah jerked up and ran down another obsidian devil. Loriella raced after her.
'Without s'tun, she cannot survive,' she thought, then her humour raised up its head again. 'Of all the warriors in here, and I get paired with a berserker wood elf!' Her thoughts changed. 'Oh Cromm, do be careful!'
J'layah had not lost all her wits, and did not fully engage her opponent before the Khajit arrived. Together they fought hard, J'layah the bait and Loriella the executor. It seemed she would not have to chip another tooth after all.
***
Alduin breathed a deep sigh of relief when that wood elf came crashing into the beast. Loriella was slowing down and had needed rescuing. He scanned the hall. It seemed everyone would need rescuing shortly. Friends. It was hard losing friends. Loriella would have been hardest of all.
Losing! Did they have to lose? He looked again at Balefire and his mortal enemy. The storm raging about them had a life of its own now, and neither mage controlled it. The great red opaque eye above was the only thing seeming untouched in this dissolving pit of hell. Its power stabbed down, taking in all within the deathly hall, but the scribe had the strong impression the power was impersonal. It did not care whether all lived or died. It cared only for itself. Alduin cowered at the thought. Even here, in this den of sacrilege and doom, something did not care. In the face of all the magic and fighting prowess, here was something that existed above it all, untouched, pitiless. It was a thing remote, yet far too close. He let his mind go numb. This was too much.
Do we have to lose? The question passed across him mind again. He ignored it. Of course they had to lose! The Heart was moments away from being fulfilled. The Denigroth were relentless. The heroes were slowing. Already a Werre was dead! The boy, Joran, was inexperienced. The scribe saw that the moment he laid eyes on him. The Watchers post had probably been a training exercise. He was far out of his depth now. Although now new warriors had come... But what of that? The new dark elf seemed to have an influence over the black beasts. More of an influence; a deathly aura. But what of that? When Balefire and the Master were dead, the Heart, the First, would turn its terrible Will upon those left standing. Who could resist that? No, they were lost.
Do we have to lose?
"Yes!" he shouted at the darkness. "Yes, we have to lose!"
His voice did not carry far in the magicka storm, but the screech of it started him. He looked back over to Balefire. His large form was almost still now. Somehow, the Master was still on his hands and knees. Something was happening there. Alduin peered, but his keen eyes could not pierce the cloud of light. He sat in the cool of the column, head bowed. He had not the courage to go closer. He spat on himself.
"Foolish old man! A scribe are ye? A teller of tales? Here's a tale worth telling, and you can't even get a closer look! Bah!"
He fell silent. No. The words had no effect. Insulting himself wouldn't get him on his feet. He looked around the column again. Again, Joran was alone, retreating for Cromm and K'tarin. Off to the right, Holm'ka lay propped against a glistening pillar, blood coursing from his arm and shoulder. His exertion had reopened his wound, and he was busy trying to stanch the blood. Alduin almost moved to help him, but that meant moving across the hall, through the wild fray. He savagely bit his lip.
"Worthless fool!" This time he shouted it with vigour. "You could save his arm and all you are worried about are a bunch of black beasties who aren't even interested in you! It would be perfectly safe to go out there." Somehow, common sense said otherwise. He came close to weeping.
Old memories flooded through him; brawls he had fought in younger days, the fear he had felt when confronting a pirate who had just taken the ship he had chartered across the Illiac Bay, brawls he had weathered in older days, the vampire ancient he had been forced to entertain for a long dark month, the child he had saved from a mining shaft.
The child became another. His child. He tried to shut out the vision, but he still saw his son's round face behind his eyelids, indelibly etched there by years of guilt. The face was so pale, so at peace. It needn't have happened. If only the father had moved sooner. No, don't distance yourself this time, master scribe! If only *you* had moved sooner! You were afraid, afraid to reach for your son when he needed you most. The ice might have held your weight too. It *would* have held your weight for that moment needed to reach him.
"No it would NOT have!"
Yes it would have. Your son was a few arm-lengths away.
"Shut up! You think I don't know that!?"
He looked at you. He called out. He was afraid.
"*I* was afraid!"
You were weak! You failed him. You failed your wife. You failed yourself!
"STOP IT!"
His hoarse shout brought him back to the hall. His son vanished into the roiling light and shadow. He was standing, shaking. In his right hand he held his quill, its feathers crushed in his sweaty grip. It was the same hand that had held that slender branch, that bit of wood that might have saved his son.
"Ricard," he whispered. "I am so sorry."
Through streaming eyes, he took in the battlefield for the last time. Dust choked the air. Joran had successfully joined Cromm and K'tarin. Holm'ka was nowhere to be seen. He hoped the Werre was safe. His eyes were brought back to Balefire and there he saw not a dark elf, but a young boy laid out on the ice. He heard the dry cracking of it. In his mind, Balefire-Ricard turned to the old man. His mouth moved but no sound came. Alduin knew the words, still heard them some lonely nights. Something deep within the scribe stretched, then broke. His limbs were free, free from doubt and fear. He was striding across the hall, ignoring the Denigroth as they had ignore him. All he saw was Ricard. He threw himself into a run, and even as Twilight uplifted her clear voice in battlecry of "Balefire!" so did he.
"Ricard!"
With savage strides, he closed with the magicka vortex. Mage-wind tore at his robes and whipped his fine hair about his face. Intense heat curled his wiry eyebrows and reddened his fair skin, but he felt none of this. At the last, a Denigroth noticed his advance, turned to cut him down.
Cromm saw the beast move past, but could do nothing, for he was still engaged and could not abandon K'tarin and Joran. Alduin never saw the towering hulk. It was within arm's reach when it shuddered. Tenaka had extended his Ant- light again having briefly moved from Elfiran's side. The Denigroth with which they were engaged was smaller and easier to handle and for a moment Elfiran took on the beast himself.. Alduin's attacker disintegrated even as it swept down its deathly cleavers. Alduin never knew the debt he now owed the Dreadlord.
He entered into the raging vortex. He cried in pain from the raw magicka that roiled within, searing his skin and drying his eyes. His lips bled, but his focus never wavered. He would not fail again. Even at this late hour, he would be strong as he should have been so long ago. Now he was at the eye of the storm.
He heard nothing. The two antagonists were statues in a grotesque tableau, still as becalmed ships in lifeless waters. The great Warmage's features were twisted in pain, anger, triumph. Anguish was there, but his eyes were alive! Stabbing fire was there for his arch-enemy. His staff lay at his side, its runes softly glowing in time with his slow ragged breaths. Alduin was standing over the Master, and had he known it, in the same proud stance and grim visage as the fallen arch-mage ages long before. His gold-tipped quill caught the crimson light of the stones and softened them, trading harshness for warmth. Balefire-Ricard brought up his eyes. Even now, their gaze was strong, but the scribe was not fooled. There was little life left there.
'I will not fail you again, Ricard' thought Alduin.
He brought up the pen. The Heart's light bled upon its fluted tip, running down the length of its shapely head. The purple ink was black, old blood from his writings.
"This hand withheld life from my son," he whispered. "Now it shall do the for you!"
He bent over and grabbed a fist-full of smoking robe. His hand blistered, but he did not yield, but lifted up the Master. The ancient man was light, too light for a living man. The Words had taken more from him than he knew. With deliberate precision, Alduin dor Lammoth executed Master Veer'Shule, pushing the golden quill deep under the base of the skull. The tip slipped between the vertebrae, slicing into the soft tissue beyond, bringing the Master's long life to a jerking end. A word escaped from Veer'Shule's lips, but his will had already passed, and the sound fell hollow.
He stood there, a figure graven in time holding up a limp form, little more than a skeleton. He stood there, lost within himself. He had killed. He had never killed before, and he could not understand the feeling. So he stood there until his hand would no longer hold the black robes. The Master fell to the floor with a dry whispering. Balefire was still looking up at the scribe, though his eyes were too glazed and jaw slack.
As in a dream, Alduin fell to his knees and took Balefire's head into his lap. He sat there, the shell of a man cradling a dying friend. He had failed again.
"Forgive me, Ricard..."