The small group of Archmagisters all wore expressions of concern as they were ushered into the Wayrest Archmagister's study. It was rare, almost unprecedented, for such a convocation to be called, and this served to further intensify their anxiety. Their host, impassive and silent as they filed in, motioned them to seats in the spacious, tapestry-hung room. His hawk-like gaze caught each of theirs as they took seats, but always returned to the great golden scrying bowl atop the carved ironwood table in the centre of the room. A blue glow suffused the quicksilver almost filling the bowl, waxing and waning in intensity in time with the continual chanting of seven mages who sat frowning in concentration in a darkened corner of the room.
As the last of the senior mages found a seat, the Wayrest Archmagister rose and spoke. "My thanks for answering my summons with such alacrity. I assure you that I would not have asked for this council meeting except for a matter of the gravest import. I have reason to believe that all of Tamriel is threatened by a menace from the distant past, and I have called you together to see what, if anything, we leaders of the Mages' Guild can do about it. Or *if* we should do anything."
The white-haired Archmagister gestured, and goblets of wine appeared before each of the visitors. "My private stock, esteemed colleagues. The goblets will refill themselves. Refresh yourselves while I explain. First, you will have noticed the scrying bowl on the table. Some of you may recognise it as one of the most famous magical devices in Tamriel. It is said to have been made by Shalidor himself, he of Shalidor's Mirror, one of the greatest wizards in history. It has no peer in its ability to show views of what is taking place, anywhere at all in this plane and many places on others."
Murmurs of assent and recognition passed among the assembled mages, and then quieted as they waited for the Archmagister to continue. He fixed them with his sharp gaze, singly and as a group, before he continued. "I am sure that all of you know of Balefire, the Dark Elf mercenary Warmage, who has in recent years been based here in Wayrest of Wayrest. Some of you have met him, I believe. He is, not to put too fine a point on it, somewhat...ah...notorious. His methods are rather abrupt, and some say he is more bloodthirsty than scholarly. I, however, count him as a friend, and can vouch for his ability in the Art. Be that as it may, I recently decided to check on his progress occasionally when he announced his intention to assist in the defence of The Angry Porcupine, the inn in Vanshire, Menevia. I expect you have heard of *it*, too, and its proprietor, Elfiran."
The Archmagister paused for a sip of wine, and waited for the assembled mages' quiet comments to cease. He continued, "I have been following his activities using the scrying bowl there, with no trouble, until recently. What began as a commitment by Balefire and his...ah...partner Twilight to defend the Porcupine has escalated through a veritable war on the Dark Brotherhood, into something much worse, and much more troubling."
He raised his voice over the astonished clamour of his colleagues' reaction to this. "Peace, I entreat you. The Guild is not involved in the war with the Brotherhood. It is a personal undertaking of his, out of friendship, and that was only the beginning. The Angry Porcupine is a highly popular tavern, and a small army of adventurers was drawn to it. Then, a young woman named J'layah appears to have been forced to try to assassinate Balefire. Failing in this, she has now enlisted him and his companions in a quest to save her sister, whose soul has been trapped in a gem while her body yet lives. This seems to have been done by a renegade Assassin, who has since died, in order to acquire Balefire's signet ring. I am not clear about the significance of the ring, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to follow events."
The Archmagister of Dwynnen, Dwynnen interrupted. "I know Twilight well, and Balefire, too. They recently performed a valuable service for us. It is a matter of some concern that they have decided to challenge the Dark Brotherhood, but why should that, or this maiden-saving quest, cause you such anxiety that you deemed it necessary to call us together?"
The Wayrest Archmagister held up his hand -- long-fingered but strong -- for silence. "See you the group of mages there in the corner, muttering spells as if their lives depend on it? They are barely -- *barely* I say -- able to keep the scrying spell stable enough for me to catch an occasional glimpse of Balefire and his companions. What I *have* seen, though, troubles me exceedingly. This group includes several puissant warriors, one of whom has been attacked by, and slain, a dragon...*peace* I say, be silent if you would and allow me to continue! Aye, a dragon. I know not the import of that, but there is no doubt of what it was. And the dying rogue Assassin who plotted to get Balefire's ring spoke of not feeding the Heart. What's more, the Werre are involved; indeed, I fear the scrying works so badly because the entire party is camped on an ancient Werre battlefield, where the Art can be expected to work poorly, if at all."
He stopped to catch his breath and sip his wine, his fierce expression forestalling his colleagues' obvious desire to ask questions. "I greatly fear that this party of adventurers is involved somehow with an ancient evil we had thought long dead: the Horned Council. I can catch only glimpses of other happenings...a young boy in a dark citadel, chased by evil mages; a Khajit Assassin, tracking the party; a Werre warrior and a scholar with whom he rides, part of the group, one troubled and one eager; a vague impression of watchers on a nearby hillside. Most of all, though, and I would swear to this by my power in the Art, I feel some fell and ancient evil in the citadel toward which the party is heading. I have the entire staff of this Guildhouse researching everything that has been recorded about the Werres, and about that battlefield, and about the Horned Council."
"But what would you have us do?" The Dwynnen Archmagister spoke up. "Even if we could communicate with Balefire, I know he would not be 'suaded from his quest. The Warmage has an Archmage's rank and more power than any three of us, I'd swear. He is implacable, relentless when on a mission...as well try to dissuade the tide from coming in. And there are the others. What would you have us do?"
"I do not think that Balefire, or any of the heroes with whom he rides, Mea Culpa, Elfiran, Tabanallis, and the rest, realise the extent of the threat they are approaching. Possibly the Werre suspects, or the scholar, Alduin. As you say, we cannot dissuade them, even if we were able to communicate, which we are not. No, I have called you here because I have grave doubts about that party of adventurers, dauntless and powerful though they be. I fear that they will fail, and in that failure set loose on the world a scourge of evil such as has not been seen in millennia. I want all of you to go back to your own areas and muster the most puissant mages you know, to ready yourselves against an assault on our very civilisation."
The Archmagister of Daggerfall, Daggerfall spoke quietly. "I have a suspicion about what lurks in that citadel, and I would like your permission to join your scholars in their record-harrowing. Meanwhile, perhaps with our assembled power in the Art, working together, we can get your scrying bowl to give us a clearer picture of what is going on."
And Upon The Wings Of The Storm I - Storm
K'tarin immediately sprang to his mount, eager to move on. Without waiting for the others, he spurred on his horse. Soon he remembered himself and slowed his mount to allow the others to more easily catch up. Balefire was the first, followed closely by Alduin, and then the others. The scribe had an uneasy feeling growing in the small of his mind. Once the party had left the pocket of magicka, the air had taken on a different quality. Alduin muttered to himself about wild imaginations, but the air seemed...empty. Not empty as in dry or windless. A vital component was absent.
"Ho there, Redguard!" cried the Warmage. "I asked if we should move out, not run a race."
His voice was tempered with amusement, but the Redguard gave no reaction as to whether he heard the humour or not.
"Magicka!"
Balefire glanced at the scribe questioningly. The scribe realised he had spoken aloud and flushed.
"I, uh, felt something in the air was missing. It is magicka, of course." He felt rather silly and dismissed his comment with a wave of his hand. He was letting his nervousness get the better of him. A quick glance around, however, showed everyone on edge. There was something about the air other than lack of magicka. Something like--
"Storm!"
The sun, now low on the horizon, was swallowed in a pall of dust. Ahead, the sheer walls of the Citadel turned ruddy, as if the very stone were bleeding. Shortly, a wind whipped up and tugged at the travellers' clothing.
"Ugh! Where'd this wind come from?" shouted Mea, for the wind had quickly grown to a howl. "And this sand is getting under my armour again!" she muttered under her breath.
K'tarin looked back at the others, a thin smile on his lips. "Storms come with little warning here! However, this one has caught even me by surprise!" He pointed through the failing light. "Look! There are hills there!"
With his keen eyes, Balefire saw the crumpled outliners of rock marching from the base of the cliffs ahead. Elfiran came up and nodded.
"Ah! If we could get on t'other side ah those hills, we'd be in better shape. Ye say storms come on a sudden in the desert. Well, this storm dinna seem natural by any standard. We must hurry!"
The party had begun to string out in the approaching storm. The front had hardly come upon them and already their numbers were being scattered.
"Hold together!" boomed Balefire. Without thinking, he summoned up his will and let loose a blinding flash of red-white light from his staff. Those who were wandering off true saw it and leaned into the wind to regroup.
The rocks were a black shadow, indistinct. The most experienced horsemen of the party took up positions to the fore and aft. The journey seemed to stretch on interminably. The wind would at times come in gusts strong enough to stagger even Balefire's and Twilight's mounts. Suddenly the wind died. Alduin had become separated from K'tarin and found himself beside J'layah.
"What a storm!" he exclaimed. "Never have I felt the like since the tempest at the Bay of Dogs nearly a decade ago. Now that was a storm. Not dry, of course. Very wet. Why, the streets were swimming with fish!"
"J'layah!" Twilight gestured urgently. Alduin started to turn his pony to follow, but a look from Twilight stayed him. J'layah's face shouted "Thankyou!" at the elfish-mix. Alduin had, in the tavern before all this desert-crawling, bent her ear for over an hour about a tale of his adventures in some enchanted wood in northern Daggerfall while he was doing the biography of a prominent pixie queen. Twilight had seen her distress, and had saved her another hour of names and places of which she had no interest. This was two J'layah owed her now.
While the storm front had passed, the sun had set and the stars came out to soften the harsh desert features. The dark rocks were closer now and were far larger than they had at first appeared. These were not merely rocks but great pieces of the cliff face blasted away by forgotten storms. While the fury of the storm seemed to have spent itself, the wind still whipped around them, stinging their exposed skin with sharp grains of sand.
Despite this respite, the party pushed on. K'tarin was leading, urging his mount over the roughening terrain. Footing had become treacherous, and the less nimble horses stumbled frequently.
"Ho there again, K'tarin!" called Balefire. "I may have jested about this not being a race, but I also meant it. Not everyone's eyes are as good as mine! We must not get out of each other's sight."
Again, Elfiran rode up. "The Werre has cause to hurry. Behold! Another storm approaches, darker than the first. That first one was but a youngin."
Even as he spoke these words, the air grew cold and restless. A great hissing arose behind them, and what faint starlight there was, died. In the rear, Twilight glanced back and caught her breath. With renewed vigour, she drove the stragglers toward the great rocks. Not a moment later, the black storm struck. Horses screamed and riders were thrown. J'layah landed hard on her back, but could not regain her breath; the sand was too thick in the air. Twilight saw J'layah's horse, riderless, and circled 'round. She shouted, but her voice was swallowed 'ere it left her mouth. She dismounted and thanked whatever god the girl believed in, for the elf immediately found her. She helped J'layah to her feet and ran the remaining few yards to the rocks, using her horse as a windbreak.
The wild roar of the storm dropped noticeably as she stumbled to the leeside and set J'layah down.
Mea Culpa caught her breath enough to ask: "Is everyone accounted for?"
Tabanallis looked around. "Where's the old man?"
K'tarin was the first on his feet. He let loose a short string of curses in his native tongue (not reprintable) and made for the rock edge. Balefire grabbed his arm, but a dark glance from the Werre's eyes made it clear that the old scribe's life meant more than his own. Balefire released his arm and the Redguard dove into the wind. Tabanallis followed, muttering something about foolhardy Redguards.
The sands piled against the rocks, and the wind shook them.
The wind raged on, and soon K'tarin and Tabanallis returned, bent and weary. At the silent questions, they shook their heads. Only the scribe's pony was to be found, and it huddled forlornly against the other horses. The party was silent some time, listening to the sand scrape the rock. Pebbles slithered about their heads and dusted their hair. A pebble caught in the small of Mea's back with no hope of being dislodged.
"Curse this storm and the desert that spawned it!" she hissed.
K'tarin shot her a look fill with poison. "This place is cursed enough without you adding to it."
"This is nay good, us fighting amongst ourselves like this! Let us hope good Alduin is in one piece when we find him."
The Werre backed off at Elfiran's words, and Mea sat down heavily. The wind continued to whip about them, but the air began to grow heavy. The party soon found themselves caught in a cross wind that caught the flying sand and brought it back against what had been the lee side. The pressure in the air grew.
Balefire shouted something in vain. Even his booming voice was muffled like a child's under the might of the storm. He pointed urgently toward an arrow cleft in the rock a small distance away, and the group slowly made their way toward it. Many of the horses were unwilling to move, but Balefire's valiant mount helped shepherd them after their riders. Again, the wind died as they fell into the cleft. There was the sharp sound of rock popping and exploding under the storm's assault.
"Oh, Alduin." J'layah's eyes streamed as much from sand as from tears. "I really enjoyed parts of his story about the pixies. Really."
Twilight put her arm around her. A wail went up from above, vying with the thunderous voice of the storm. The wail pierced the air, rising above the growling sands. Even Balefire's hackles rose, and Alduin's pony fairly fell over in fear. "Oh, Julianos, what a wind!" someone said. K'tarin's eyes were fixed skyward, unblinking against the sand.
"That is no wind!"
Shapes, blurred by the dark sand-stained wind, separated from the storm. Great man-shapes with wings spanning many times their height.
"It is Shee'thos'r. M'agrathra! The Black Voice of the Denigroth!"
He quickly drew out a talon from under his breastplate. It was long and cruelly curved, red-stained. The Redguard winced at its touch, for it was hot and throbbing with hatred. Carefully, he pricked his palm and whispered: "Au nauth Penterah, for nauth osthula. Pere osthula! Pere Penteran!"
The words were whispered, but carried easily in the cleft. "There he goes again," mumbled Mea. Then another thought struck her." And Balefire brought up a magic light. Ah! These are too many mysteries for an innocent girl like me."
I crawled towards Balefire, ( Hmm that's a first ) and after dragging my poor exhausted carcass over to him, " I have a detection stone ", I whispered in his ear, " but I am not strong enough to use it... yet ", especially in this godforsaken storm, however maybe you can, I yelled in his ear now the storm got wilder.
" But if you can concentrate and speak Alduin's name it will glow warm in whatever direction he has disappeared in" I tried to smile at Balefire, hoping I did good, the storm however kept increasing its violence and pretty soon I was curled up next to the big Dark Elf, seeking some.......err protection.
A half-smile flitted over the Warmage's grim countenance, momentarily softening his look of implacable determination. He put his massive arm around Mea's shoulders and brought his bearded lips close to her ear. "It would seem," he told her, voice raised against the weird shrieking of the wind and whatever fell creatures swooped in the whirling sand clouds, "that magic items work even in this no-magic area in which spells do not. The magic is invested in the item, after all, and no ambient magicka is required. If 'tis concentration and will that are required, I have those and to spare. Give me the seeking stone, and I shall brave the storm and try to rescue the scholar. Keep your blade handy lest those half-seen winged beasts attack. Here, take this pair of daggers as well...they are ensorcelled with strong vampiric powers, made the more potent by the Ancient Vampires soul-bound in each. See that you break them not, however, and thus liberate them. I shall make do with my claymores, and woe betide the foe who tries to bar my path. When I find Alduin, I shall return. Keep well!" With a playful nibble at Mea's ear, the big Dark Elf moved away, forcing himself first to his knees and then rearing his great frame upright with a snarled oath. Hunched and leaning against the wild sand-filled gusts, he half-staggered, half-strode away.
And Upon The Wings Of The Storm II - Hunters
They watched. The six had crawled along the ridge, matching the strange party's movements below. The coming of the dragon had not disturbed them so much as the fact that one of the party had dispatched it so quickly...and using magic. The female watcher had marked that the battle was in a magicka pocket, but that had not eased the leader's mind. The dragon had desecrated the battlefield for long memory, true, and it's passing was good. However, the dragon was a known. The strangers below were not.
"They ride over the bones of Am'kan and cross Torvid Da with no respect!" cried the youngest watcher some time later. "And they approach the Grey Mound with no sign of going 'round."
"They will ride over the Grey Mound. They know no better."
*The leader turned then on the boy. His eyes were black but full of fire. With a broad hand, he gripped his soldier's arm and bore him to the ground.
"Do you not think my heart burns at seeing them trample our bones?" His gravelly voice shook slightly. "Do you not think I would have them run out? I cannot. We cannot. It is not our place! We are Watchers, nothing more."
The watchers crouched silent until the leader released the boy. The sun was low in the sky. Then a deep hissing rose in the west.
"Storm" whispered the woman.
One of the party looked back and saw the quickly gathering sands.
"The Khajit has good ears."
Soon, the storm roared through the flatlands below the ridge. The fury of the storm was channelled past the watchers and smote the strangers as they approached the Grey Mound.
The youngest watch smiled grimly. "They will not make the Grey Mound after all. It seems our ancestors have decided to sweep them away while we do not."
The wind and sand passed below the watchers, making their task difficult. Only occasional glimpses could be made of their quarry.
There was a faint flash of red-white light.
The boy's watchman touched his arm. "Do not speak unless you are sure. At least their mage has reached the Grey Mound, for that light came from his staff. The others are rallying to him now. The storm has but slowed them."
As suddenly as it came, the storm blew out, leaving a changed land in it wake. Seeing the strange party still moving, the watchers again took up their shadowing. The sun had set and the intruders could be seen only by the pale starlight.
"Great Mother..."
The leader glanced at the Khajit questioningly. She was staring fixedly back, but before he could turn himself, he heard it. A great hissing roar rose up from the west and the stars were blotted out.
"Mother Storm!" he swore, then he shouted: "To your watchmen!"
The watchers paired off. The leader grabbed the Khajit and dropped to the ground. Whereas the first storm had passed safely under the ridge, this black tempest rode over the ridge as if it were but a hill. The wind screamed over them, tearing at their ears and eyes. The watch-pairs found each other and stumbled from the ridge edge, away from the storm. The wind lessened as they passed behind an escarpment.
"What say you now, Talnan?"
Talnan looked down at the boy. "I say, though that be a Mother Storm, those people may prove hardier than you hope. You are a watcher. Did you not see them making for the Rocks?"
The boy scowled. He did not like Talnan as his watchman. He had wished to be paired with the leader, but he had chosen the Khajit of all people. But now, he was glad he had not been the To'Khar's watchman. He seemed weak and indecisive now: most certainly not the legendary warrior-leader the boy had grown to believe in.
"We go in."
The leader had been deep in thought. His watchman could read his face now, as it was unguarded for but a moment.
"We enter the storm now," he continued. "Talnan is right. The strangers may have made it to the Rocks."
There was protest from more than one member.
"We cannot walk in such a storm."
"Madness! We would be hard pressed to get to the Rocks. How can they?"
"Holm'ka is right. Let the storm pass. It is strong, but swift incoming and going."
The leader held each member in his eyes, but the Khajit could tell he was not weighing their thoughts very heavily. He stood.
"We do not know their purpose, but they travel toward the Guardian Citadel. They have taken that path from the beginning and have been unwavering. They may be seeking entrance into the fortress. They may be seeking audience with the new and ancient evil that lies there. If they find the passage in the Rocks and are of evil mind, then we face grave danger."
He again fixed each member with his eyes, daring them to resolve.
"We go in."
Balefire stubbornly marched through the blinding, buffeting waves of wind-flung sand, all but blinded and deafened by the ferocious power of the storm. He sensed rather than saw that he was rounding the point of rock in the lee of which the party sheltered, and he doggedly kept his feet in the face of the increased gusts. Fist clenched over the seeking stone, he kept muttering "Alduin!" through clenched teeth, and was at last rewarded by a response from the artefact. A grin more like a death ricottas than a smile spread over his features as he struggled, one painful step at a time, in the indicated direction.
Unable to see in the near-solid maelstrom of sand surrounding him, he found the drift when he walked into it, the shock driving him to his knees. He had half-crashed into a sand-drift almost the height of a man, but the seeking stone indicated his direction was correct. Struggling against the infernal wind, he tried to rise to his feet, but even his tremendous strength could not prevail against the prevailing gale, now coming from directly behind him. His boot slipped and he crashed against the drift face down. Snarling, he levered himself up onto his forearms by sheer brute force, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The seeking stone throbbed insistently now...Alduin must be buried in the drift!
Tucking the stone away, he plunged his hands into the drift, burrowing into the mass of sand, feverishly flinging it away only to have it replaced almost instantly. The wind howled at his back, forcing him against the drift even as he tore at it.
And then his flailing hands touched fabric, and he felt warmth. Redoubling his efforts, broad chest heaving as he fought for air, the Dark Elf at last discovered the scribe, buried completely in the growing sand hill, but clearly alive. Weakly, the scribe's eyes rolled and blinked in the wild spray of gritty sand, and the Warmage saw that Alduin's lips were tightly closed over a tube of some kind. Puzzled, the panting mercenary looked closer. A quill! The scribe had broken off a quill to use as a breathing tube! Admiration for the plucky scribe's intelligence filled the scarred warrior mage, and he reached out to grasp and squeeze Alduin's shoulder in encouragement.
Nearly exhausted himself by his battle with the sandstorm, Balefire doubted that the scribe could be brought back into the relatively sheltered cleft with the others. No matter; the storm could not last at this pitch for long, he judged, and the weak but reliable functioning of the seeking stone showed him a way to deal with the sand which even now threatened to rebury the scribe together with himself. Groaning with the effort, battle-hardened muscles straining, he drew his heavily enchanted claymores from their scabbards on his back and plunged them each to half of their length in the packed-solid heart of the drift. Carefully manoeuvring, he drew his ensorcelled cloak, a powerful Shield spell only one of its many enchantments, tent like over the upright swords.
"Hail, Alduin! Well-met. 'Tis a poor tent, not even much of a lean-to, but 'twill serve to avoid suffocation. We can wait out the storm, and then return to the others. Glad I am to have found you living, scribe. You will have plenty of which to write, now, methinks."
The wind howled and the waves of sand crashed around them.
And Upon The Wings Of The Storm III - Gathering
The hall was shrouded in shadow. The torches had gone out, now only blackened stumps in their silver sconces. The hall was not all dark, however: a ruddy light shone steady from a squat pedestal. The figure leaned forward from his cold seat and the light sent a maze of spidery shadows about his face. His eyes had a light of their own.
"Ah now..." he breathed. "Do you hear that? The desert does battle with us. Can you feel it through the walls? A subtle vibration."
The ancient figure shivered. A crooked smile cracked open his face.
"There will be war tonight. LORD Th'Sollar will rise up his army again." The man's eyes grew wide, his voice rose. "His army of wretched CHILDREN! They ALL died, but they can't stop!"
For a long while, he was consumed in fit of shrieking laughter.
"He can't STOP! Ooooohoohoohoo!"
He reached out a trembling hand and lifted the Heart. The stone increased it light, throbbing slightly at his touch. The man leaned back into his throne, stroking the gemstone. Two gargoyle skulls peered at him from the throne's back. A vision of another stone, far smaller, came unbidden into his mind.
"I know. You hate it. The Bloodstone that emptied you is not far. Soon you, the Heartstone, will be filled again. And then...aaaah. You, the One, the First, will walk again."
***
The coarse wind railed against them, as unforgiving to the Watchers as to the strangers now lost from sight below. A hand touched the To'khar's arm. He looked back at the questioning eyes of his watchman.
"The boy is right: we cannot be Watchers any longer. We are now Hunters." The wind tore away his words, but she seemed to understand.
The Hunters arrayed themselves in heavy storm gear, donning sand robes, masks, and gloves. They unfolded their motshas, special flexible shields of hide for use only in the most severe storms. When the leader checked every man, he fitted his mask and his watchman checked it and nodded. A strong but light rope was produced and strung through loops in each man's robe. With hand raised, he set off down the steep rock wall and the six Hunters disappeared from the world.
***
"Get up fool, or you will be buried!"
The boy squinted through the sand, but if the night was dark above the storm, all was utter blackness within. The boy lay for a moment, then struggled to his feet. He was already buried to his knees when his watchman pulled him forward. The rope had torn out of the boy's robe, and Talnan yanked hard three times to signal a halt. Talnan stripped off a glove and fumbled for another loop among the folds of his charge's robes. With numb fingers, he tied the rope and yanked once to make sure it was secure. He pulled on the rope to signal all was well and the group moved on.
The storm became the Hunter's entire world. Yesterdays seemed as dreams in this waking nightmare of slippery footholds, ripping wind, and absolute darkness. The boy, once full of spirit, was now being half-dragged behind the party. Sand pulled at their legs and arms, sometimes coming up to their wastes when a halt was signalled. Two motshas had been torn apart and many robes had lost loops. Holm'ka had lost his mask, a viscous blast having torn it even from his face. Now he wore a permanent grimace, breathing as much sand as air. Each man privately thought this madness, but had not the strength to utter a word. All sense of direction was lost. The land was constantly changing. Only their leader seemed to know where to step and they followed.
"The very desert punishes us now," shouted one to another.
They stopped. The storm had not grown worse, nor had a halt been called for. They all heard it, impossible though it was to hear above the screaming gale. It was a scream surpassing any earthly sound. It chilled the bone as no wind can.
"Shee'thos'r. M'agrathra!"
They all fell to their knees, even the Khajit, though the sand was piling about them. Together, they shouted into the wind: "Au nauth Penterah,for nauth osthula. Pere osthula! Pere Penteran!" They prayed.
Though there was no light to see by, far above their heads, winged shapes took form. Several Hunters looked about in fear.
"We mustn't be here. No Werre can set foot on Thoth Durghanti when the Lord walks."
The Khajit gave a rare smile, though none could see it beneath her mask. "I'm not a Werre," she shouted in the ear of the man next to her.
He spared her but a glance before looking back up at the sky. "Those that are not Werre are never allowed on the Sea of Bone." He then shot a meaningful glance at their leader.
Their leader stood and muttered: "It cannot be helped." With as much strength as he could muster, he yanked on the rope and forced the party to move again. Though they were desert-hardened, every muscle ached and their backs were bent. They slogged on, though all around them the dead were awakening, pulling from the sand and wind.
They hunted.
***
Alduin lay on his back, propped up a little by his pack. He thanked himself again for having worn it instead of placing it on his pony. He had just finished scribing how Balefire had resolved to face the teeth of the storm and dig out the sage from the sand, and how he had created a shelter against the wind. Of course, he had embellished the tale a bit, omitting the seeking stone in preference for Balefire's intuition. He'd let the Dark Elf read it later after he had rewritten it, for he had written it by touch and feared the scrawl would be illegible.. For now, they both listened to the storm rage without. The Warmage's cloak had bowed inward alarmingly, but the weight of the sand could press it in no more. Horrible screams could be heard outside. At first, the sage passed them off as wind through the twisted spires of rock, but now he couldn't fool himself any longer. There was something out there. Many somethings.
"I can't stand it any longer," said Alduin. "I must see what is going on! Blast this storm!"
Balefire put out a hand when the old man struggled to a squatting position.
"Even I had trouble getting here, Alduin. Though I admire your determination, I cannot let you go out."
The Nord gave a puckish grin. "Who ever said anything about going outside?"
With shaking hands (he was still weak from his early burial), he rummaged in his pack and brought out a parchment tube. He hastily, but not without care, pulled out the papers and laid them aside.
"If you would, push this tube--"
The dark elf nodded and took the tube before the sage finished. He scooted over to an open side of the lean-to, and with a savage thrust the hard leather punched through the sand. A shower of sand piled on the floor, then the howl of the storm came through the pipe. Balefire directed the tube away from the wind and peeped through.
"It was a good idea, but there is nothing to see. It is all blackness without."
Alduin fairly cursed, but stopped himself...then didn't. He cursed anyway. "Julianos damn this storm. There is something out there I've never heard before, and I need to write about it!"
Balefire smiled broadly. "Don't damn the storm too much. You did get a tale out of it, and you may yet get another. When we rejoin the others, you can take their accounts."
Alduin grunted, and began to pull back the leather tube. Balefire stayed him.
"The air in here will grow stale. Let some cooler air in."
***
K'tarin continued to stare into the storm. The sand was piling into the cleft, but not quickly enough to give anyone fear. It covered their knees, but it was easy enough yet to step above it. The Werre was whispering something to himself, his voice rising and lowering almost as if he were singing a song. No one had spoken since the great Warmage had ducked into the storm. He had been lost to sight the moment he left the cleft. Finally J'layah stirred and crossed to Twilight.
"Will Balefire be all right?" It was a rhetorical question.
Twilight looked at the young woman. She smiled, but it didn't extend to her eyes. She laid a hand over J'layah's.
"Balefire has braved many dangers, both of men and of nature. He is a sturdy warrior mage."
J'layah was keenly aware that the elf-mix hadn't answered the question but let it pass with a nod.
"Not to alarm anybody, but this sand is going to fill this hole and there doesn't seem to be anywhere else to go."
Mea was right. The sand was coming in drifts now, piling up along the back of the cleft where the wind had a straight line against the rock. Elfiran cleared his throat.
"A've been seein' thet lass. A've been thinkin' it would be well to put up a barrier of cloaks and swords. Thet'll hold off the sand for a bit."
Everyone quickly stripped off their cloaks and drew their weapons, but even as they began to thrust the blades into the cracked rock, the wind suddenly lessened. It was as if an invisible barrier had been erected, for the storm still beat furiously at the rocks and the air was thick with sand, but the drifts in the cleft stopped growing, and the roar of the wind lessened. It was as if the storm were there in spirit, but not in body. Tabanallis said so, and he could not have been more right.
K'tarin stopped his singing and a weary look came upon him. In a harsh whisper, which seemed loud to all after the quieting of the storm, he said: "The war plays out again. The battle of Thoth Durghanti has begun."
Everyone crowded around. The Werre looked about and was instantly sorry he had spoken. The ghost-storm raged about them. Every so often, a powerful wind gust would race through the cleft to remind them of the very real storm that still raged at the periphery of their senses.
"Thoth what?"
"Battle? Between who?"
"Plays out again? What--"
The brave Werre shrank before the questions. If these people were anyone else, he would have berated them 'til their ears were warm, but they had shared perils together and two of their number were lost in the storm. He gave a sigh. They were going to see the battle at the Guardian Citadel whether he spoke or not. He held up a hand.
"You are seeing the battle upon Thoth Durghanti, the Sea of Bone. Our Lord, Th'Sollar, made war upon the Guardian Citadel hundreds of years ago."
He stopped. He forced himself to go on.
"Watch and I will narrate."
The adventurers turned to the battlefield.
And Upon The Wings Of The Storm IV - First Assault
Though the sun was many hours off yet, the night air seemed to grow lighter. The winged shapes stood out from the sand better and seemed to glow softly, though their bodies were blackest jet. They were wheeling in a wide circle. Suddenly, a sharp note rang above the muffled roar of the ghost-storm. It was high and clear: a challenging ring raised up against the black citadel behind them. Torgath grimaced.
"I can't see a thing in this hole. Let us stand in the sand above. The storm's strength is held back by this ghostly one."
He stood and began to crawl out, but K'tarin held his arm. Others voiced agreement, however, and the Werre could not grab them all. Reluctantly, he released the warrior and they both followed the rest to the lip of the cleft. Everyone, so glad to be out of the rocky hole, fell silent at the view.
Stretched before them was a flat plain, no bones or shattered helms insight, but a vast army of men and women stretched out upon the margin of the great ridge that bounded the desert to the south. Tall were they, and their armour shone bright in the torches and bonfires upon the ridge. Spears rose above them as a thick forest of deadly points, and many pennants of red and grey fluttered in a fitful wind. Standing a little apart and before the proud army was a lone figure, tall and cloaked. He put a great curved horn to his mouth and again blew. The sound rang across the desert and smote the walls of the citadel.
"That is Th'Sollar, the lord of the Werre, and our father," said K'tarin. "He created us." He breathed deeply. "This is the last great battle in the war between the Horned Council and us. On this night, a siege lasting many months drew to an end."
An answering call sprang from the towers of the black citadel. It was low and terrible, resonating through the very stone on which the party stood. Turning, they saw a different fortress. The walls were black, but unmarred. No scars traced across their faces, and the towers were tall and strong. Battlement upon battlement it rose up into the night. Watchfires burned on the parapets.
J'layah caught her breath when she lowered her eyes to the citadel's base. There, arrayed in dark green plate, was a multitude of orcs and men and larger shapes, more than enough to match the opposing army in number. Spears and crooked swords were in their hands. A single banner hung above them: black with a silver eye.
"The Horned Council's army. Orcs were high in their service, and many evil men. Giants, too, served in their armies. And above all--" The Redguard pointed up. "fly the Denigroth. Beings no mortal could touch and live before Th'Sollar found a way."
Twilight looked keenly at the Werre. "The Werre were created to fight the Denigroth." K'tarin grunted assent.
For a long moment both armies stood unmoving. Then as one, the Werres charged down the ridge, a great cry rising up as from a single terrible voice.
Alduin jumped to his feet, hitting his head against Balefire's cloak. They had heard the horns, calling and answering. The Warmage sat taught, listening with his keen ears. He was trying to ignore the sage's fitful mood, but the close quarters rendered his attempt futile.
"Maybe it is one of the others calling for help."
Balefire frowned. "No. I know of no horns in the party and most certainly not any so great. That is a war-horn, large and long. The deeper one is larger still."
Alduin could not stay put any longer. He dove to the side and started digging at the sand. The dark elf was momentarily taken aback by the vigour of it, but quickly stayed the little man.
"I do not think it wise to unbury us just yet. I am as curious as you, but the storm has not let up. Listen to the wind! We must be buried deep, for the sound is dim, but it is there."
The sage looked ready to bite off the hand that held him, but soon relented. A shameful smile crept to his lips.
"Forgive me, but there is a tale out there no one has heard told. The scribe in me sees staying in this shelter as a mortal sin."
The Council's army stood firm while the Werre charged down the ridge. Only when they had gained the plain did the dark army advance with awesome speed. The ghost-storm gained force, staggering the advancing Werre, but leaving the foul warriors untouched. From behind Th'Sollar's men came arrows ,alight with fire. The air sang with them, but most were turned back by the wind. The dark army responded with fiery shafts of their own, and aided by the storm, fell deep into the Werre ranks.
"The Denigroth were always accompanied by storm. Some say the storm and they were one and the same. What you see before you was just a feign on the Horned Council's part. That army of orcs and men was to engage our attention. Once we were fully engaged with the enemy, the real power of the Council was unleashed."
"Balefire! Either you help me dig us out, or I'll get very angry."
The armies collided. Metal rang and the voices rose into a confused roar. The Council's arrows still fell among the warriors, cutting down those on both sides, but more Werre than orc or giant. The orcs were in a frenzy, cutting at anything that moved. The Werre held together and surrounded a sizeable portion of the dark forces. The ring closed and tightened until there were no more of the enemy standing.
Then the tide turned, for that too had been a feign. The orcs had allowed the men to cut through them and formed a greater ring about the Werre. The men were soon fighting to get out.
"This is horrible! I thought the Werre won," cried J'layah.
Elfiran leaned toward her. "Aye lass. But this battle doesn't look over yet."
Indeed, the orcs again found themselves being attacked from without. Upon their right and left flanks, fire exploded, throwing bodies into the air. Confusion erupted and the circle of orcs began to disintegrate. Arrows were falling among them, and great catapults now stood on the ridge, casting burning stones into the fray.
"I don't think tossing boulders into a mass of people is a sound way of helping your side," commented Torgath.
K'tarin gave him a look that would have withered a lesser man.
The lean-to shook slightly. Then again. Something was pounding the earth. Alduin had been eyeing the Warmage for some time. The dark elf seemed to be half asleep: his breathing was slow and relaxed. There was a chance. Alduin again shoved his hand into the sand, but before he could begin to dig, the imposing man's voice filled the tent.
"You are determined..."
"You can't stop me." Alduin knew full well he could.
"...and I will help you. My curiosity is getting the better of me as well, and the sound of the wind has a strange quality about it."
Together, they began to seek for the desert outside.
The battle raged on for half an hour more before the orcs and giants and evil men broke ranks and raced back to the safety of the citadel. The Werre gave no quarter, and chased them down. The thirty-or-so Denigroth in the air had not entered the battle, instead flying lazy circles in the wind. The Werre arrows were thrown back by the wind, and the spears could not reach them. Th'Sollar had always remained upon the ridge, and now he again blew his horn. Another army of Werre crested the ridge, though not as large as the first army, and flowed down onto the plain with the lord at the head. The catapults were also set in motion, and were let down the ridge by means of ropes and horses.
"And now it begins." K'tarin just nodded toward the citadel in answer to the questioning looks.
Balefire was the first out of the buried lean-to. If there was a storm still raging above, he insisted on being the one to bear it. He blinked in surprise. The storm was there, yet not there. He could see the sand being blown past in torrential gusts, yet he felt nothing. Alduin was impatiently pushing at his legs. Balefire smiled inwardly and let up the sage.
The sage stood as dumb stuck as Balefire had a moment before. It was like...
"The ghost of a storm."
Balefire looked about. "Indeed. It is here, but has no physical force. What do you think of it?"
He got no answer. He turned and saw a pale-faced Alduin staring off to the side. The Warmage turned and stood rooted as well.
Not one orc, not one man or giant reached the gates of the Guardian Citadel. As the Werre approached the gates, they opened in greeting. The army slowed and stopped as a terrible screaming issued from the black portal.
The Denigroth in the air dove into the Werre, sowing momentary confusion, for they had been in the sky for long, and the men below had taken them as watchers. When the Denigroth had dropped, there issued from the gates more black beasts. Denigroth poured forth from the black fortress, overwhelming the men.
The second Werre force raced forward with redoubled speed, and the catapults were pulled forward with haste. As soon as they were within range, four of them fired and the great stones smote the citadel above the gates. The Denigroth continued to pour out, and the remaining three siege engines tossed their missiles into the very gates. With a thunderous roar, the gates collapsed and were sealed. Even so, the Werre were being pressed back while the second force advanced.
"The first battle with the orcs had weakened us greatly, and the first thrust of the Denigroth nearly finished our first army. Had it not been for the captain of the catapults, the battle might have gone differently. He had slowed the Denigroths advance and shut up half their force within the black fortress." K'tarin's eyes had a fierce light and he spoke as if he had been there.
The first Werre army rushed into the second and the Denigroth crashed into their midst. The catapults had reloaded and again assaulted the citadel, casting down towers and punching craters in its walls. For a time, it seemed the Werre were easily overcoming the Denigroth. The beasts had pushed to the heart of the army in their might, and were now besieged and dwindling.
All that changed.
And Upon the Wings Of The Storm V - Final Assault
Alduin came out of his dream. He slapped himself hard enough to leave a mark. "Idiot! Where are my papers, my inks?"
He dropped into the hole and Balefire heard much shuffling and throwing about of things. A moment later--far too long it seemed to Alduin--the little man popped up and set to writing at a pace that caused the Warmage to raise an eyebrow.
The blocked gates burst asunder. Great blocks of hot stone pelted the men and upon the wings of storm there issued forth the full force of the Denigroth. The air was thick with black bodies, smothering the men in wings and claws. The Werre held their ground at first, but soon their ranks were broken and scattered. The siege engines were overtaken and broken. Rallying cries rose up and were cut down just as quickly. The Werre were becoming as islands in a wrathful sea. The Denigroth broke upon their shores even as the shores eroded.
K'tarin pointed to a large band of Werre slowly retreating.
"There is Th'Sollar. He is retreating to that short hill there. We call that place Duralgdur Th'Sollar. It means 'Lord Sollar's Stand.'"
From the ridge came one last group of men. They were robed and carried no weapons. They came faster than feet should allow, and the storm did not touch them. Fire was in their eyes and upon their brows a light shone. Down they swept and a token force of Denigroth greeted them. White fire erupted when the two groups met, and the Denigroth were no more. A cry went up upon Th'Sollar's hill and the Werre fought with redoubled strength. The denigroth fell back and the Werre regrouped and the newcomers arrayed themselves about the hill.
If Mea could frown any deeper, she would have. "I thought Werre could not use magic. I know you are immune to it."
"We are apart from magicka, yes. Those mages you see are not Werre, but White Mages. They are those that escaped the persecution of the Horned Council and found friendship among the Werre. It would take some time to recount the whole history of the Werre and why we exist, but I will say that Denigroth, though immortal and impervious to ordinary weapons, are not immune to magic. Now watch!"
***
The robed figure watched the Heart intently. It was back on its pedestal and its core was burning bright. Its throbbing was on the edge of hearing.
"It is time to play your part. It will be the last time."
***
The black beasts formed a great crescent and again swept upon the men. The Mages sent rolling fire over the sand, consuming many of the enemy, but they did not slow, for behind them, a great shadow had gathered. It came from the smashed gates and towered above the earth. Within it some great shape moved. Like a man it was, but greater, and from its back spread wings that blotted out the gates. Again, the horn above the citadel blew and the Shadow moved forward.
"Oh Julianos, what is that?"
K'tarin cut off the question with a savage chop of his hand through the air.
Alduin stopped writing, dropping his quill.
Th'Sollar blew his horn in answer. The Werre were galvanised again, and the battle renewed its strength. The Denigroth forced the Mages away from hill, using shear numbers, unheedful of their losses. Soon the hill was swallowed in a mass of black bodies and the fire of the Mages grew dimmer. A group of them were forced toward the adventurers. The Mages were routed and dwindling even as they gave ground. Soon only a few were left amid a sea of darkness.
K'tarin pointed. "That is the Grey Mound. Koranan the Grey fell there, perhaps the greatest White Mage."
Even as he spoke, only one Mage still stood upon the mound. He had a great grey beard and in his hands was a slender grey staff. The mound was the centre of a cataclysmic battle. Fire and lightning ripped at the mound and air, shredding the Denigroth as they advanced. Their bodies piled high about him, but he could not keep pace with them. A Denigroth, larger than the rest, mounted the low hill and gripped his staff. It burst asunder in a blinding flash. Then the mound was empty, its sand blasted away, leaving grey earth.
J'layah turned to the Redguard. "Was that what hurt your feet?"
"No. We passed over the Grey Mound in the storm. I was mounted then. Remember we were over there when Balefire gave you that rose."
K'tarin pointed far to the right. There was another battle ensuing there. A mage was surrounded by Werre and was hard pressed to hold them off. Terrible magic was unleashed upon them, but they shrugged it off, though some staggered from its power. Denigroth approached and the Werre were forced to fight on two fronts, but soon the beasts were slain. Shortly, though the mage fought valiantly with his great sword and slew many men, he fell under the heavy axes of the Werre.
"That was a member of the Horned Council. Where I stepped, I felt the power of a Denigroth still within the ground. Though we be immune to their deadly touch, it is painful." To stave off a question, he continued: "Though their touch cannot kill us, we may die from the flowing blood their claws draw."
"So just as the bones of yer ancestors dampens magic, the bones of the Denigroth allow it. Thet is why Twilight was able te cast her spell..."
K'tarin nodded. "You have keen insight, Elfiran."
A terrible roar jerked their attention back to Th'Sollar's hill. The crescent of Denigroth had surrounded the hill, and the Shadow stood at its foot. A wedge of men ran into the Shadow, but did not come out. Another group attacked. All died. The ring of black Denigroth held the hill, but did not advance. They let through the Shadow.
Again the question was asked: "What in the name of--?"
K'tarin gave no answer.
J'layah knew. "It is the Heart."
Fourteen Werre held a tight circle about their lord, standing defiantly before the Shadow. All others upon the hill had perished. The Shadow and the tiny men faced each other. The seconds stretched to minutes. Then the Shadow stepped forward. A thin voice cried out, and even from this distance, the adventurers could hear the words:
"Au nauth Penterah, for nauth osthula!"
The Shadow halted its advance and seemed to grow smaller.
J'layah's eyes widened. She looked at K'tarin.
"You've said those words."
The Werre's face was inscrutable and his eyes were steadfastly fixed upon the hill and the man standing tall upon it against all hope.
"Tol'a porte na!" cried Th'Sollar. "Shal F'thathin queshta. Pere osthula! Pere Penteran!"
The Shadow grew again, drawing itself up to its full unguessed height. It closed on the Werre and enveloped them. The ring of Denigroth seethed. A single cry rose above and a flash of piercing red tore apart the Shadow. One man now stood upon the hill, holding aloft a fiery stone. Red light shone forth and the darkness of the Shadow diminished. The Denigroth screamed in dismay. A great beast, like the Denigroth but greater in all aspects, now stood before the lord. Though they did not touch each other, a titanic battle of wills was being waged. All about the field the battle waned and soon both Werre and Denigroth were transfixed by the red light.
The lord fell to his knees and the First stood tall above him, but it seemed to J'layah that the enemy was shrinking and the man growing, though he did not actually grow in body. It was his presence that grew. The First trembled, then gave a thunderous roar as it disintegrated. A great smoke rose, obscuring the crown of the hill. Below, the Denigroth fell upon the hill in frenzy and raced up it sides. All about the field of battle, the fighting renewed. Both sides had lost their leaders and a berserk rage fell upon all. The Werre and Denigroth tore at each other with abandon. However, whereas the Denigroth had no direction, the Werre fought with hot purpose. They drew together the remaining enemy and slew them to the last. For a long time, the survivors lay upon the ground as if they were dead themselves.
A few climbed the hill, and took up the body of their lord. Another searched for something on the crown. He stooped once, then continued his search. Eventually he gave up.
"The Bloodstone was recovered, but the Heartstone was not." K'tarin continued to stare at the hill. His eyes were wet. "The Denigroth under--"He choked and stopped for a moment. "--under the cover of the smoke took the Heart into the citadel. It was a hollow victory indeed."
The ancient battlefield swam before them and the wind became very real. Sand blasted them, bending them over. Reeling, the party stumbled back into the relative safety of the cleft. Sand poured over them. With effort, Elfiran stretched his cloak over the swords the party had planted in the rock. The other did the same, though some cloaks were immediately torn away and thrown back into the hole. With the last of their strength, everyone held up the windscreen. Their strength waned quickly, and soon the sand bore down upon them as a part of the structure collapsed. Everyone crowded into the corner farthest from the wind, pushing the horses further back.
*I cannot imagine having to fight in this* thought J'layah as the sand closed off the open end of the cleft.
Alduin fairly fell into their hole when the storm reasserted itself. He was able to snatch his parchments, but his ink and quill were lost. Balefire dropped in after him, cursing at the suddenness of the storm. Sand quickly filled up the hole in the wall they had made.
Alduin lay panting and mumbling to himself in the dark. Balefire came over and laid a hand on the old man's shoulder.
"Are you well?"
Alduin looked up in the darkness. "I must remember all that I've seen in the morning. I mustn't forget a thing!" He continued his fevered mumbling.
Balefire smiled to himself. "I doubt tonight is something you will forget, good scribe. If you do forget something, I will remember it for you. Go to sleep! The night is old, and we will have need of our strength in the morning. Stop your mumbling."
Alduin stopped, but he didn't find sleep for some time.
Balefire, deep in thought, didn't sleep at all.
***
The Hunters made good time.
The wind howled over Vanshire, Menevia. A cold, violent wind. That wind followed Tenaka Khan everywhere he went, like a bannerman announcing his arrival.
It was late as Tenaka Khan slowly dropped to the ground. The darkness seemed almost magical in its consistency and many people of the town would stay home this night. The few who were out and about turned away from the tall Dark Elf they saw walking towards them.
Tenaka pulled his cloak close about him. He did not require the warmth, hardly noticed the cold, in fact, but it was necessary for him to fit in for a moment. It would be best if his quarry were surprised by his arrival.
He walked towards the nearest man, casting a spell to increase his personality as he walked. He greeted the man, who returned the politeness.
"Hello, my good man," said Tenaka. "Could you perchance tell me where lies the Angry Porcupine?"
"Of course, friend," replied the man. "Just head north, if you do not mind walking. It is not far and you cannot miss it."
Tenaka bid the man farewell and set off north. The man left wondering why he had been so helpful to someone so intimidating.
The wind blew at Tenaka's cloak, displaying dark red armour. Normally the red of Daedric metal, it had darkened with the blood of his last prey. It would need cleaning before he returned to his master.
It was not long before he saw the Angry Porcupine before him. It was the only tavern in the town that had noises coming from it. The wind and darkness were keeping more people from usual in their homes this night, but Tenaka know that the people who frequented the Angry Porcupine were made of sterner stuff, and some said that the barkeep, Elfiran was sternest of the lot.
The wind howled as he opened the door and his cloak billowed in front of him. The room was full of adventurers enjoying food, drink and wenches, but Tenaka could not see any of the people he had come to find. He walked over to a young girl and pressed a gold coin into her hand. She turned and smiled at him."
Excuse me, my dear," Tenaka said. "I am looking for a few people who often frequent this tavern. I was wondering if you could help me?"
"Of course, sir," replied the girl. "Who would you like to find?"
"I really am not going to be picky. I have the opportunity of a lifetime to offer, and anyone with some backbone in them should do. Bring me anybody who would like to hear of such an offer."
* 'Leader' in the ancient Werre