Balefire had once remarked to Twilight that the time he loved best is that just before dawn, when it often seems as if the world is holding its breath in anticipation of another dawn. The Dark Elf Warmage had spent a sleepless night, brooding over the previous night's events and remembering. He had walked through the castle of his mind, opening this and that half-forgotten door, examining items from the past like dusty relics. Some were like shards of a cherished, broken vase, incomplete but too beautiful to throw away. Others had grown dusty from disuse, but now stood out brightly, polished by the winds of the night's phantom battle. Many were fragments like a disassembled mosaic from some temple so unspeakable that it had been taken to pieces bit by bit, each of no apparent meaning when considered separately, but -- with knowledge of theme and context -- clear and ominous in their import, slyly but silently asking to be reunited with their fellows in the original eldritch design. Some memories were timid mice, hiding and scurrying in dim corners, having to be chivvied out into the light, where they crouched, trembling. Still he paced through the halls of past study and conversation, reaping memories amid echoes, with cobwebs for companions.
The mercenary Archmage glowered at his signet ring throughout, his usual dusky, stern visage gone determined and hard with unwanted knowledge. When all the bits and pieces had been examined and fit together, and the once-prince knew what he must do, he continued to gaze at the carved stone as at a friend or lover found suddenly to be a traitor. He had spent his whole life wearing and using the ring; it had become so much a part of him that he hardly thought of it. Now he knew what it really was...not just a bloodstone, semi-opaque green of dark forest fastnesses wound through with vein-like streaks of blood red, but The Bloodstone, a vital piece of a legend even many scholars thought merely a myth. As Balefire brooded, a small part of his consciousness noted the drop in the wind's force, until the only sound was the half-inaudible whisper of trickling sand. At last, he knew what he must do and the knowledge made his great muscles tighten as it brought a smile to his face.
When he awakened Alduin, the scholar saw that smile, and shuddered as he looked away. Balefire laughed an executioner's laugh, and when he spoke his voice had a joyous tone the old scribe had never before heard from the Warmage.
"Gather your belongings, good Alduin", Balefire said, grunting as his powerful arms swept away the drift in which they had been near-entombed, "and let us join the others as quickly as may be. I have a new quest in addition to the one which brought us here, and you shall hear -- and write, doubtless -- about it when we have rejoined our companions."
********
And so it was that the party was awakened by a strangely exhuberent red-mailed giant, flinging sand away from them with wild abandon, crimson eyes glowing fiercely as he sang in the waning dimness of pre-dawn.
J'layah whispered to Twilight as the ebony-armoured mercenary sponged out her mount Evensong's mouth. "I have never heard Balefire sing. Does he do it often? And what could he possibly have to sing about now? I cannot understand the lyrics, either, do some sound strangely familiar."
Twilight laughed shortly. "No, he rarely sings, for all that he has a good voice, if somewhat over-deep for a bard. I think he may feel that it would damage his image to be seen mirthful."
J'layah snorted, a delicate sound coming from her, and retorted, "It would do him good to smile more and frown a good deal less. I rather think that is the reason Mea seems to have shifted her attention to Tabanallis...Balefire is always so...well...grim."
The raven-haired hybrid Elf started combing out her gelding's grey mane, and barked a laugh again. "He is grim enough now, in a way. He sings in Old High Elvish, or Elven, if you will. 'Tis rarely heard outside of Morrowind these days, except in some of the High Elf courts. Or in very old songs. He sings one of the ancient songs of his House, the ruling House of Ebonheart, of which, for all that he spurns the role, he is a Prince. I have heard that song many times ere now. 'Tis grim enough." Twilight continued her work on the horse, while watching the rest of the party at their cleaning and gear-gathering, and darting frequent glances at her surroundings.
"But", J'layah persisted, "it has such a cheerful ring to it, his song. I will admit that his expression is a bit...ah...odd..."
"'Tis the nature of Dark Elf warriors, J'layah, and especially those of Ebonheart, to go with apparent joy into battle. Perhaps it is a conceit, perhaps it heartens them. If nothing else, it discomfits their foes. He sings a warsong, my young friend. The primary warsong of his House. The song his ancestors have sung for ages. The song from which his warcry comes. Have you heard Balefire's warcry, J'layah?"
J'layah shuddered slightly. "I once heard him shouting 'Blood and Souls', or something like it, but he told me that it was the warcry of another, not even of this world."
Twilight nodded. "Aye, I know the world, and the man of whom he speaks...another prince, with a strange doom upon him. I think Lord Balefire feels some affinity for him, mayhap because their swords have some superficial resemblance. No, Balefire's -- and Ebonheart's -- warcry is 'Black and Red'. 'Tis the name of the song he sings so lustily even now. Shall I translate for you?"
At J'layah's wary nod, Twilight listened a moment and then sang softly the words of the song the Dark Elf was booming across the cleft from them.
"Black the rock that spawned it,
Red the flame that weaned it.
Black the hammer striking,
Red the sparks a'flying.
Make the sword a strong one.
Red and Black!
Black the mountain shoulders,
Red the lava smoulders,
Black the ashes crumbling,
Red the campfires gleaming.
Make the heart a brave one.
Red and Black!
Black the night enfolds them,
Red the spells engulf them,
Black the corpses falling,
Red their lifeblood flowing.
Make the blow a true one.
Red and Black!"
Twilight chuckled evilly as she stopped. "There is more, but I believe you understand...we used to sing it in harmony in the old days, when we rode to war together. He was a veteran, covered in glory, and I was a green mercenary. He took it upon himself to train me. I believe he wanted to protect me, although he would never admit such a thing. We had some good times, and some very bad ones. Mayhap I'll tell you about some of them, some day."
J'layah pulled her sword half out of its scabbard and inspected the edge, her gaze purposely avoiding both Twilight and the big Dark Elf on the other side of the camp. "Ah...yes...maybe...sometime..."
"Look!" Twilight suddenly spoke. "Something is happening."
The big Warmage had suddenly stopped singing and throwing gear together. He did not crouch, exactly, but his whole stance had subtly shifted to one of watchful readiness. He seemed, though, to be looking only at his companions. Something in the way he stood and moved denied that, though. He raised his voice, and it might have been heard across a clamorous battlefield as he shouted.
"You must make a decision, comrades. Our quest has changed, and it maybe time for rethinking. I have made my decision, for I see that I have little choice. The gods or my fate seem to have selected me to be the owner of this ancient artefact I thought only an heirloom. I have decided to bear it to where it must be borne, and to put a final end to the story we saw played out here last night. I would have dared yon citadel in any case, for that the Art has been used perversely to entrap the soul of the living. Now I have al the more reason. I have remembered much that I once read without understanding. Now I know that the Bloodstone must be used, not to feed the Heartstone, but to destroy it, along with its fell master.
"I will not deny that I would value your help. I would also not deny that any who enter that pile of evil-soaked rock have small chance of returning alive. Twilight, I renounce any debt of loyalty or affection you may think you owe me. J'layah, I shall strive to liberate your sister's soul to the last breath in my lungs and the last drop of blood in my veins, but the foe I go to face is not some Dark Brotherhood scum. Indeed, it is likely that the whole war with the assassins was manipulated by that fell monster yonder. You would not please your sister if you died for her. You two must do what you decide best.
"K'tarin, I believe I detect the approach of some of your brethren. Perhaps your place is with them. Perhaps they come to dissuade me; if so, it would be best for you to speak with them, for I will not brook interference, be it ever so well-meant.
"You others must decide, given this new information. 'Tis my birthright, this Bloodstone, and that makes it my responsibility. I go to cleanse that citadel of its festering evil at last. Those who come with me will be welcome. Those who stay have my gratitude for their help so far, and my sincere wishes for good fortune. I shall think none the worse of you, nor should it matter what I think. What say you?"
Twilight's clear voice rang out like a temple bell. "I should miss you, Lord Balefire, swordbrother, should you not return. I should wonder, too, if my presence at your back might not have changed the odds. Not for you, Warmage, but for myself, I shall go with you."
J'layah squared her shoulders and spoke flatly, "It is my sister. And somebody owes me for a great deal of hardship and unhappiness. Of course, I shall go." She turned to her horse.
The big Dark Elf nodded acknowledgement, his scarred visage expressionless as he looked from one to the other of the rest of the party. The rising sun painted the sky in colours of spilt blood.
The Master paced irritably. The round room was dim, but thin shafts of light struggled through narrow eyelets near the high vaulted ceiling. Dust danced in the pale light. The figure was untouched. Day could not reach him, and a cloak of shadow was about him. A deep bass relief clung to the curving wall. Gargoyles, dragonlings, orcs, and giants marched across it. Men lay under their feet. Set above them were evil shapes, exceeding tall and many-winged. Their handless arms scythed the air and their faceless heads looked out from the wall. Above all was a thick cloud that billowed up to the eyelets. The scene was so skilfully crafted, the battle seemed to be moving. The Master surveyed them all as a general commanding his army.
He stopped his pacing and strode up to a side. He looked up to a flying beast and smiled. The smile was full of love, yet cold. Cold, for they were all dead.
"Denigroth," he whispered. "Oh to see you in the sky again! Ah, to rule the sky again, and the land below. The Heart's time grows near. When it awakes, you shall be reborn. I shall remake the Horned Council and through your eyes, see all of Tamriel cower."
He stopped.
"See."
Something in the back of him mind struggled forth from its festering-place. His whole body tensed as the realisation struck him as a hard blow to his back.
"See!"
He was being watched. The tension building in him these last few days was not merely due to the Blood being so near. Bloodstone. Heartstone. He knew they would eventually have come together. Would he be able to control the Heart? A source of tension, surely, but he knew now the true source of it.
With quick strides, he moved down the spiral staircase in the centre of the floor as a shadow before a torch. It was utter blackness here, but he knew his way and soon came to the throne room after many lost and winding passages. The torches were alight again, and the Heartstone lay on its pedestal, silent and dark. As he approached it, his anger mounted and the stone flared in response when he lifted it.
"I will not be spied upon!" He hardly contained himself. His hands shook violently as he seated himself, face close to the stone. "I have remained hidden far too long to be found out now."
He bent all his thought on the Heartstone. After the ghostly battle, he sensed it was withdrawn deep within itself, but he needed it now. He felt it move within itself; a ponderous sensation. It was reluctant, but as the Master pulled at it with his mind, the Heart grew more responsive.
"I need your eyes. I need to see what you can see." The Master's nose nearly touched the stone. "Open your eyes. Open them, and look for other eyes."
At the Master's coaxing, the heart of the stone changed. A vision of the desert without appeared in the stone, as if the stone's surface were a window into another world. The vision sped over the desert. Many tiny figures appeared, but the Heart's gaze passed over them and sped to the edge of the desert. Confusion took the Master. If it was not the intruders watching, then who?
The vision left the desert behind and with ever-increasing speed, flew over mountains, plains, cities, and forests. A great body of water appeared and receded. The vision slowed with dizzying suddenness, and a room took form. Many robed men walked about it, and one was looking back at the Master with a concerned brow. In the far corner of the room, eleven robed men were settled in a ring, chanting madly. Anger and fear welled up in the Master's heart.
"It is not your time to spy me out!"
He drew in a deep breath and began chanting in a low voice. The words were harsh and smashed against the walls of the throne room instead of echoing. His voice began slowly and soft, but steadily grew in force. The Master was using words of Power, ancient magic known by few, and it took all his strength to utter them. He would put an end to this scrying if he could.
***
The Archmagister of Sentinel was peering into the scrying bowl. The soft blue light painted his face a ghostly shade. The seven chanting mages holding the spell steady had been joined by four others. A terrible storm had come up the previous night, and the spell had been nearly lost. Strange visions the Archmagister of Dwynnen had reported, for he had been scrying at that time. Confused shapes were seen, as if a great battle were being waged, but little could be gleaned. The Archmagister of Daggerfall who had been watching with the Dwynnen mage had immediately dashed off to the archives again, alight in his eyes. Now the vision was clear and no trace of the battle could be seen but ancient bleached bones. Had the battle been an apparition then? The Daggerfall Archmagister would have the answer if ever he dragged himself from the deep Wayrest libraries.
One of the chanters stumbled in his fevered chanting. A word was dropped here, mispronounced there. The Sentinel Archmagister was about to turn to the man to dress him down. He had only begun chanting an hour ago, having relieved a night-chanter. However, even as he turned, the mercury rippled. He might have imagined it except for a slight undulating of the quicksilver's surface when he looked back. If the spell were to fail, the vision would merely fade, but it was still there, clear and bright.
He was again about to turn to the chanter when two more slurred their speech and the quicksilver rippled unmistakably.
"What under Julianos...?"
The chanters were beginning to sag, and their words grew forced. The mercury in the bowl rippled constantly now, as if the table were being shaken by a mild earthquake. The Archmagister looked up and pointed at three mages pouring over a tome. They nodded and hurried to join the chanting ring. The chanters regained their earlier poise and their words came easily again. The crisis seemed past, but the Archmagister remained worried. He had never encountered something like this before. With a curt command, he sent a gaping apprentice to find the Archmagisters of Daggerfall and Wayrest.
The silver liquid started to ripple again, but this time the vision changed. The desert darkened and became a blank mist. There was a shape there. The Archmagister leaned closer to see and became mesmerised. From the mist came a great Eye. It was red, without white or pupil; a red orb clothed in black skin. It pinned him with a piercing gaze. He could feel it looking deep inside him, stripping away all barriers.
The ring of chanters fell into chaos. First one, then the rest screamed. A scalding steam rose about them and they fell to the floor, writhing. A mage stumbled back from the circle and threw a wild glance at the Archmagister. The Archmagister was slowly leaning forward, his face inches from the quick-silver. The blue glow had become an burning red.
Seeing the danger, the mage ignored his burns and rushed over to pull his master from the bowl as the mercury began to boil. A heavy cloud of mercury rose up.
The door burst open and the Archmagister of Daggerfall came into the room. The Eye turned its piercing gaze on him, and he knew what it was. There was scarce anything written of the Werre, but he had found reference of the 'First'...'Heart' in some tongues.
"Everyone out!" he roared. No one needed encouragement, and the mages stumbled and crawled from the poison room. Some were carried. The Archmagister tore his eyes from the boiling bowl and shut fast the door.
Amid the groans, someone whispered: "I have never seen such a counter-spell!"
K'tarin listened to Twilight's soft singing. When she ended, he nodded to himself. It was a warrior's song, and stirred his heart. It told of harsh land and hard victory. Suddenly, he was keenly aware of the battlefield upon which he now stood.
***"K'tarin, I believe I detect the approach of some of your brethren. Perhaps your place is with them. Perhaps they come to dissuade me; if so, it would be best for you to speak with them, for I will not brook interference, be it ever so well-meant.***
The Werre's eyes shifted from the Warmage to the horizon to the south-west. Indeed, there was a subtle dust rising there. Though Werre are adept at travelling stealthily over sand and dust, the storm had shifted the land, and all was loose and apt to cloud the air. Also, they seemed in a great hurry. They were too far off to make their number or form. The hair on his neck prickled. Though he could not count their number, he could discern their formation.
"They do not come to dissuade."
Alduin came up to his travelling companion, but the dark man seemed not to notice him. With brow furrowed, he sprang forward, charging off into the sand toward the on comers.
"I'm happy to see you too," muttered Alduin.
The men were more dead than alive. Though they moved quickly, they did so with forced strides and twisted faces, and though their formation was perfect, they were deathly weary. The invaders had dug themselves from their sandy graves, much to the dismay of the men...except their To'khar. He was harbouring a wild hope, a hope he had no right to have. Some of the legends had been lost among the younger ones, but the old Werre had long memories. Though the To'khar was by no means old, he was a stout traditionalist, and he knew all legends had roots in truth.
Now a cloud of dust came at them with speed. It's maker was hard to see in the ruddy light, but all loosed their axes and straightened their backs. It was but one person, and though they be worn nearly past enduring, they deemed themselves an easy match.
The leader nearly dropped his axe in surprise. The dervish was no foreigner, but a Werre. His manner and axe was enough, but the leader knew in his bones this was indeed a brother Werre. Even so, he did not sheathe his massive weapon.
"Aure Mehana!"
The approaching figure raised his hand and came to stop a yard from the To'khar. He replied in kind.
"Aure Mehana! The sun smiles on our meeting!"
The leader grunted. "But not too broadly. There are Shirm walking among our dead."
K'tarin studied the older man's weathered features. Strong bones and the curved nose common to more northern Redguards. His eyes were not common, but bright beads that were studying the newcomer in kind. K'tarin held those eyes for a long moment, then gave a passing glance at the three others. Each was stiff and erect, but weariness tugged at the shoulders, turned down the mouths. The youngest looked especially hard for his trek through the storm.
"Yes, there are Foreigners here, and I am with them. I speak for them."
K'tarin gave no further explanation, and the To'khar gave a slight nod. The others stirred restlessly.
"They stepped upon the Grey Mound."
K'tarin put his fist to his breast. "And I am to blame. I was leading the Shirm at that time."
Again, a lengthy silence.
Finally the boy could stand aside no more.
"You have led Shirm into the Battlefield and straight to the Black Fortress! What--?"
The To'khar's eyes hardly shifted, and the Werre flanking the boy each placed a heavy hand on his shoulders. He quieted at once, but kept a sullen face. It was clear his behaviour would no longer be tolerated.
"What have you to say?" The leader's voice was almost conversational.
"Only that in the beginning the Guardian Citadel was not our intended destination. Need drives us there. The Power--" He suddenly decided not to mince words. "--the First stirs again, and has a new Master. A dragon has appeared in the sky, and the dead walk again. The Blood and the Heart are nigh and the Second Death may be at hand! We go to the Citadel now to end the Heart finally, though that too was not our original purpose."
The leader sheathed his weapon, and the others did the same. He placed his hand on K'tarin's arm.
"This is dire news indeed! We had become Hunters to stop the Shirm from stirring evils, but it seems evil has already raised its head. We now endorse your mission." It was clear the youth did not, but neither did he protest. "But I am concerned. A task whose goal changes becomes a dangerous task. The mind may still be set upon the first goal and so obscure the second. Are all resolved to face the First? And where is the Bloodstone?"
At this, K'tarin frowned. "I know not if all are resolved, but the Bloodbearer is, as is his closest companion. The woman who began this whole quest is also resolved, but for reasons of her own, I think." He paused, lost in thought for a moment.
"And I will enter in," he continued, "if my charge wishes to continue, although I guess he will not."
For once, the leader grew puzzled.
"Charge?"
"Yes. A master of words. He hails from Skyrim, and was scribing the feats of the party in its quest."
Something about the To'khar's eyes changed. An edge of...what? Fear? Anxiety? He cleared his throat.
"A scribe?" he whispered. Then he spoke the name as if its very sound hurt his ears. "Alduin..?"
K'tarin nodded warily. "You know him?"
The leader's shoulders fell. A Khajit -- K'tarin hadn't noticed her before -- leapt forward. Her eyes were bright, and the wear of the storm seemed to fall away from her. Her face broadened into a grin.
"*The* Alduin dor Lammoth? That old rascal! He's still jaunting about on wild adventures?"
K'tarin was taken aback. "Yes...he is with us."
She suppressed a giggle and immediately walked off at a brisk pace with the Werre in tow.
"I am sorry, my Lord, but there is no one of that kind here at the moment. "With that she walked off, swinging her hips in what she clearly assumed was seductive.
Tenaka frowned as the girl gave him the answer he did not want. He had hoped his hunt would be over when he reached the Porcupine. This was where they all stayed. He knew not where they were, but he knew how he could find out. Going to the barkeep he booked a room for the night and went to it, for what he was about to do would require concentration and quiet.
Sitting down he concentrated and quietly began to mutter words. Mist rose from the floor around him and concentrated as a small square before him. Int he misty window the face of his Master appeared. "Where can I find those I seek, Great Lord?" Khan asked.
"The ones you seek are approaching the Guardian Citadel, Dreadlord. Thou must make haste, for soon shall they enter that foul keep and then it may too late." The window closed and the image of the black helmet faded. Tenaka walked out of the tavern into the cold night. His cloak blew out, but he did not feel the cold wind. He had long since learned to ignore such petty annoyances as unpleasant weather. He hurried towards the local Mages Guild.
The door to the Mages Guild stood before him, set in a wall of green brick, the colour of which he had always found unpleasant. It was locked, as he had expected, for they only opened this late for high ranking members, and though he had once been an Archmage, that time was long ago. He muttered the words to a spell he had made himself when he had been a member and the door burst open. He walked into the building, surrounded by a blackness. Antilight. The very absence of light radiated from him, instilling fear in all before him.
He saw fighters of the Order of the Lamp running towards him, but flicked them off with no effort at all, sending them to lie slumped against the walls. He felt magic being used nearby and looked over to see a Mage walking towards him. Tenaka could sense the pitiful thing the Mage would call a shield, but he decided that now it could be the time for talk.
"What do you seek?" asked the Mage.
"I seek the services of the Travellers League."
"Surely you know that they only offer their services to the highest ranking members of the Guild."
"I expect the services of all I call to serve me. Do you not know me? Has the Mages Guild fallen so low and ignorant that they cannot recognise alegend when they see it?"
"I know you, Tenaka Khan. You were expelled from the Guild when you became a Vampire, though I see that that is no longer a problem."
"That was long ago, and I have risen high since then. I am now the Dreadlord!"
"That is a myth!"
"That myth is reality."
The Antilight around Tenaka grew outwards until it took up most of the room. The Mage edged back. He knew that if Tenaka truly was the Dreadlord then it would take more magic that he could summon to protect him from that absence of light. Tenaka smiled. The man had doubts. He muttered under his breath and his magic turned those doubts to fear.
"Very well, Dreadlord. Come this way."
Tenaka Khan followed the man through the corridors as he lessened the radius of the Antilight. The went around staircases, turned corners and even went outside at one point. Tenaka memorised where he was going as he walked, knowing that the knowledge could well be useful in the future. Finally they went through a door, and he recognised the chamber of a member of the Travellers League.
"Well, come on then," said the Mage. "Where do you want to go?"
"I would visit the Guardian Citadel!"
A great puzzlement came over the mage.
"The what?"
Tenaka came closer, his Antilight threatening the room. "Fool! You heard my request. Grant it."
The mage did his best to stand his ground, but he could not keep his eyes steady. This customer was rude indeed. He made furtive movements with his hands, but upon catching the look on the other mage's face, he cut short his spell. Fire, it seemed, would do no good here. Instead, he cleared his throat.
"Excuse my ignorance then, for I do not know of this citadel. Perhaps if you--"
The dark elf advanced upon the mage again, pushing the poor man into a corner. His shadow filled the room. The one who had brought Tenaka here fled in despair. Tenaka looked into the man's face and knew he truly did not know about the Guardian Citadel. Still, his anger did not lessen.
"Then find me someone who does know of this place. I have need to go there this very night. I will brook no delays!"
He receded enough for the mage to slip by and followed him through the winding guild hall. The first mage had been busy, and when Tenaka came into the main hall, there were a dozen men there already, staffs in hand, stern faces turned toward the intruder. An Archmage stood forward with the sternest face of all.
"And who is this who charges in our hall in contempt of the law and our power?"
The question was rhetorical, as Tenaka was known in the Guild and the first mage had undoubtedly told everyone who he was and what he was doing here. Still, the dark elf answered. To refuse would add to the delay.
"I am Tenaka Khan, Dreadlord, and once-member of this hovel you call a guild. I seek the services of the Travellers League. However, I found the member I met to be ignorant. I need passage to the Guardian Citadel. Now."
The Archmage continued to stare down his nose at the Dreadlord, but spoke to an aide that sprang to his side.
"Elric. Wasn't that fuss in Wayrest to do with this? A bunch of blather about a Guardian Keep or something?"
The aide could not tear his eyes from Tenaka. He wasn't sure himself to whom he was speaking.
"Yes Archmage. The Archmage of Daggerfall had ordered every major Guild in the province to look into it."
"And?"
The aide seemed loathe to continue.
"We cannot send the Dreadlord there."
The boy seemed to expect a sudden death from the dark elf. The Dreadlord had drawn himself up to his full height and looked fit to knock heads from shoulders. Indeed, death was on Tenaka's mind, but it would mean further delay. He twisted his face into a smile, though there was no humour there.
"Why not, boy?"
"It -- it lies in a place c-called 'Torith au Werre.' Magicka does not work there. Some of the other aides said...uh...there lives a seven-eyed demon with many arms and legs and...uh..." He stopped, saving himself from further embarrassment.
The Archmage wanted Tenaka out of the guild hall quickly, so he shooed away the aide, who eagerly obeyed, and smiled.
"Of course. The Guardian Citadel. We'll get you on your way presently."
He pointed to the member who brought in the bothersome dark elf and also stabbed a short finger at the aide. The boy was very reluctant.
"Boy! You seem to know a bit about this. You will hold the picture of the place in your mind. Yes, stand there!"
Tenaka closed to the mage and aide and stood patiently while they started the spell. Immediately, the casting mage frowned. Soon he shook his head and slumped against the aide. The Archmage frowned and called over two more mages. The muttering incantation remained strained, however, and the Archmage grew anxious. What was going on? Impatient, he stepped up to the growing circle of mages, and soon the whole guild was encircling Tenaka Khan. He felt their power around him, straining to tear through some barrier. The world twisted and colours bled. The sound of bodies falling to the floor and then a bright sound and thunderous light.
The light resolved into a merciless sun, though it be low in the east. The sound became his heavy breath. Sand dragged at his arms and legs as he pulled himself to a standing position. At the last, he had put forth some of his own will into the spell, and now suffered a dull ache behind his eyes. A black fortress reared up hard on his left, its many narrow windows frowning down upon the wasted land.
The Archmage stared down at those who had fallen in the spell. They were exhausted and cared only for their next breath. Those who still stood looked at the Archmage reproachfully. He looked to the aide slumped against the far wall, eyes wet. Perhaps he should look into this Wayrest business.
Balefire rose in his stirrups to watch the meeting of K'tarin and his fellow Werre. A faint smile hovered over his bearded lips as he saw that the meeting appeared friendly. The Warmage spoke just loudly enough to be heard by his companions. "Those Werre were coming to attack us, or I'm a green recruit. It seems as if whatever K'tarin has told them has headed that off, at least for now. From what I have read of the Werre, 'tis entirely possible they resent our presence on this, their ancient battlefield. Had I a choice, I should not be walking over their ancestors' bones at all, and perhaps they can be made to see that have not come to violate their traditions, but to fulfil them. We shall see."
Twilight loosened her sword in its scabbard and stretched a kink out of her shoulder muscles. "We have no quarrel with them, 'tis certain. A bit more waiting can not be amiss; I am content to bide awhile. J'layah and I will ride with you whenever you decide, swordbrother."
The Dark Elf eyed the rest of the party curiously. "Well, heroes, who among you will be riding with us, and who will not?"
"Aye, Balefire me trusted friend," replied Elfiran. "Ah would nay miss this fer the world. Besides, the quicker we get this done with, the quicker ah kin find me a tavern or two te wash this sand outta me mouth." With that, Elfiran unclasped his Long Sword and shifted in his saddle.
Frowning slightly, the Warmage noticed Alduin scrabbling frantically through a pouch. "What ails you, Scribe? Have you misplaced something? Mayhap you dropped something in that hole wherein we sheltered last night?"
Alduin shook his head. He kept digging, pulling out scroll tubes, quills, and other oddments. The pack soon was empty and the little man's face fairly shrivelled.
"It's gone." His voice was hoarse. "I don't have it."
Mea looked at the pile of papers and pens, and wondered to herself what the queer man *didn't* have. He seemed set to write for weeks on end...except for-
"I've lost my last ink-jar." Alduin continued to stare at his empty pack, willing the small cube of crystal to pop forth from the fabric.
The dusty cloud that was the Hunters was now close at hand, and there was a thin figure at the head. It was waving its arm.
"Alduin! You unscrupulous old badger! How many ears have you bent red now? Must have been one too many to be dumped here!"
At the sound of the musical voice, Alduin dropped the leather tube he was holding. J'layah saw his face do a complicated bit of gymnastics, weaving from anxiety through confusion to surprise and quickly coming to rest on joy. He stumbled to his feet just in time to be nearly bowled over by a speeding Khajit.
"Loriella! You rag-tag piece of tail! I see I haven't bent your ear enough just yet."
The two old friends laughed, locked in a fierce embrace. It lasted until the Werre troupe arrived. They were arrayed as a square, with K'tarin on the right corner and the To'khar on the left. Though the leader did not shirk his position, he was uneasy. Alduin pulled himself from Loriella's arms and looked at her at arm's length.
"Now where is that thundercloud? One would think wet weather followed him everywhere!"
The old man walked past the Khajit, slowly surveying the dark men. He was looking at the second man when the To'khar turned his black eyes on him.
"Master scribe."
Loriella was trying to control her giggling as Alduin's face opened up into a broad smile as if seeing the man for the first time. Of course, he had immediately known where the Thundercloud was. He strode over and clapped the dark man on the shoulder. Alduin's face grew stern. For a moment, the two were squared off, the broad dark warrior against the thin pale scribe. The other Werre were tense.
Alduin nodded. "Yep. The same as memory serves. Nice to know some things haven't changed!"
He laughed again, clapping the shoulder. The tension melted away from the men when their To'khar almost smiled. This man was not to be killed. Turning, he saw the many quizzical faces. However, K'tarin beat him to introductions.
"These are Werre like myself," he explained. "They were Watchers who keep Thoth Durghanti free from intruders. The post is more ceremonial than real. The desert kills most who enter.
"This is To'khar K'than. A To'khar is high among the Werre. These are his cell."
The To'khar stepped forward.
"This is Holm'ka, Talnan, Joran," he said, pointing to each in turn, the boy last. "When your group survived the storms, he had cause to wonder at your motives. Though the desert beat at you, you did not turn aside and were but slowed. When it became clear of your course, motives became of greatest importance. We became Hunters and entered in. If you be in league with the evil within the Guardian Citadel, then we would stop you or die. K'tarin here was a surprise to us. For now, he has convinced us to withhold our hand."
K'than turned to Balefire and openly stared at him, searching the black face and red eyes. A sort of longing was in the Werre's face, but it was gone before the Archmage could be sure it was ever there.
"K'tarin. Will your charge stay?"
Alduin's smile faded and turning from Loriella, looked at each member of the people he had been proud to name companions and friends. He rested on J'layah longest. There was a vague fear in his eyes. The Werre waited patiently. Alduin sighed.
"I--" He stopped. Then a mischievous gleam appeared in his eyes.
"Need you ask? I've lost an ink-jar! I cannot part with it, and so must stay."
Under the steady gaze of K'tarin, his shoulders slumped, then rose again as he drew himself up. His humour left him.
"Yes I will continue. And if we fade away, maybe my scripts will not."
K'than remained impassive, but within, he was quivering. If the next few days with the old scribe are anything like their last encounter, he would go mad.
K'than nodded. "Then K'tarin! We lost a man in the storm. You shall join the cell as we join your group."
K'tarin bowed, his fist over his left breast, then took up position in the square of Werre. To'khar K'than faced Balefire again.
"We are with you."
Balefire dismounted and bowed deeply, his usual manner transformed as if by magic to one of great respect. "You are most welcome, To'khar K'than. Welcome doubly, for as a warrior I have the greatest respect for the Werre and welcome your prowess added to our group, while as a mage I have some recollection of a prophecy alluded to in some tome I read long ago and only now gnawing at my memory. I believe that your presence is not only welcome but may indeed be necessary to the success of our quest. Allow me to present Twilight, my swordsister for many years, and J'layah, whose sister we go to rescue in spite of-- or mayhap because of -- this ancient evil aching to be cleansed. By virtue of my birthright, or mayhap of a complex fate, I bear the Bloodstone."
The Dark Elf Warmage had turned to J'layah as he mentioned her name, and now he spoke to her. "J'layah, would you be so kind as to introduce our new companions to the rest of our party, while I go with Alduin to recover his ink-jar? I would not seem ungracious, but I fear it will be covered by the shifting sand if we do not hurry." Taking the scribe by the elbow, he strode off to the other side of the rocky spur, where they had sheltered from the storm.
When they reached the spot, Balefire frowned at the size of the depression in the sand. Brows furrowed in puzzlement, he threw himself into a frenzy of digging, clawing and flailing at the sand with his crimson-gauntleted hands while Alduin stood by in mute amazement at the grey and red whirlwind who sprayed great armfuls of sand out of the steadily widening and deepening hole. A triumphant shout burst from the Warmage at almost the same time as a metallic clang rang out. "Hah!" The Dark Elf bellowed, crystal winking in the sun from his mailed fist emerging from the dust cloud half obscuring him. "Here is your ink-jar, Master Alduin, and may the gods witness that your losing it was fortuitous! I have found a *door*, Scribe, and I shall wager anything you like that it leads to yon citadel. Stand back...well back."
The big Dark Elf took a two-handed grip on something out of Alduin's sight, and his scarred visage tightened with the strain of pulling at it. The muscles of his jaw bunched and his lips twisted into a feral snarl as he wrenched without effect. He straightened and took a deep breath, his face a study in determination. Bending again, he took a grip and heaved, his Daedric armour creaking as his breath exploded from between clenched teeth, and with a shriek of tortured metal the door was open.
Panting, sweat running down his triumphant face, Balefire turned to Alduin. "Master Alduin, be so good as to go back to the others and tell them I have found a better door than the front one, and bid those who would come to follow me. I shall go a way down the tunnel I see revealed, to scout a bit. I shall hold the passage a bowshot or so farther on, or at the first branching, if there are any such. Pray bid them see to the horses, for they cannot enter here, and to follow as quickly as may be."
The Warmage turned and crouched to enter the portal, but Alduin caught a glimpse of his expression as he turned away. The merest glimpse, but the scribe shivered, for Death had peered out from those crimson eyes, and Alduin now knew beyond doubt why Balefire was sometimes called "the Implacable". Clutching his ink-jar, he hurried back to the others.
***The Dark Elf Warmage had turned to J'layah as he mentioned her name, and now he spoke to her. "J'layah, would you be so kind as to introduce our new companions to the rest of our party, while I go with Alduin to recover his ink-jar? I would not seem ungracious, but I fear it will be covered by the shifting sand if we do not hurry." Taking the scribe by the elbow, he strode off to the other side of the rocky spur, where they had sheltered from the storm.***
Unaccustomed to addressing a group of strangers - most of whom looked decidedly unfriendly, It took a moment for J'layah to find her voice. The Werre seemed ready to slice her into ribbons without warning, and judging by their ripe aroma had bathed only in sand and dust for the past month. It was all she could do to keep her delicate nose from wrinkling. The female Khajit's tail tip quivered ever so slightly, whether in irritation or amusement she couldn't tell, but it made her nervous nonetheless. J'layah swallowed and summoned a friendly smile.
"Ah......may I introduce to you my companions," she turned and gestured toward the group, who inclined their heads respectfully as she spoke their names. "Elfiran, Tabanallis, Mea Culpa, and Torgath. Lord Balefire has already introduced you to Twilight and myself, and you have obviously made Alduin's and K'tarin's acquaintance elsewhere. Honourable allies and fearsome foes, every one." Pleasantries completed, she recounted the events leading to their unexpected arrival at Thoth Durghanti, and was describing Torgath's dramatic dragon slaying feat when Alduin trotted up, robes hitched high to avoid tripping over them, his face flushed red with exertion, and eyes fair gleaming with excitement.
"We have found it! Quickly.....you must come and see for yourselves!" He looked expectantly around the group. There was an lengthy pause before Mea spoke, her tone suggesting that perhaps the scribe had lost his marbles.
"Er, I'm sure you are happy to have found it old man, but it's just an ink jar. Why such a fuss?"
"Ink jar?" Alduin looked puzzled for a moment until he realised the skein of conversational thread was rather tangled. "Oh....no, no, no! We *did* find my ink jar, but Balefire has discovered something even better - a secret passage into the citadel! Now quickly, you must come quickly!" He fluttered his hands impatiently as the group gathered their belongings and made to follow him, pausing only to tether their mounts in the cleft where they'd sheltered from the storm.
Balefire had made slow progress down the rough-hewn passage, checking every few feet for potential traps - who knew *what* defences had been built into this place? His senses were finely honed from years of use(and had saved him from an assassin's dagger more than once), but it didn't help matters that he couldn't use the Art to magically sniff out glyphs, wardings, and tripwires. Blast this place! He unstopped his canteen and took a swig of the lukewarm water, wishing for the tenth time it was a cool, foaming mug of Elfiran's finest draught. Ah! The others had finally arrived. He could hear them milling around the entrance. He replaced the canteen in his pack and continued his cautious advance.
The party wasted no time. Led by the Werre they entered the dark passage, torches held aloft and weapons drawn. Loriella, Tabanallis, Torgath, and Elfiran were next, followed by Alduin - wearing an ingenious device on his head (consisting of a metal headband, a candleholder, a lit candle stub and a reflective disc) that allowed him to write as they walked. Indeed that is just what the scribe was doing, and the harsh 'scritching' of his quill could be heard above the soft clank of armour and shuffling footsteps. Twilight, Mea and J'layah brought up the rear, stifling their amusement at the scribe's mutterings and comical contraption.
To'khar K'than had reached Balefire and was quietly conferring with him when Alduin - who was looking down at his notes and hadn't realised the party was no longer moving, ploughed straight into the back of Elfiran. "Oof!" The flaming candle on his headband singed a good deal of Elfiran's hair before it was extinguished, and a blob of hot, melted wax dripped onto the tip of Alduin's pointed nose. "Aargh!" he yelled.
The distraction caused Balefire to step back a pace......onto an uneven slab in the floor. There was a "click" followed by a grinding noise and ominous cracks began to appear in the ceiling of the tunnel directly above Alduin.
"Ware!! A trap!" bellowed Balefire as he sprang into action, bodily hauling two of the Werre further into the passage with him and shouting at the others to follow. Twilight, whose reactions were equally fast, dragged Mea and J'layah in the opposite direction - towards the tunnel entrance. Chunks of rock were now falling from the ceiling, and sand was beginning to pour in through the ever-widening cracks in a deadly cascade. Elfiran grabbed a bemused Alduin and hoisted him out of harm's way, and not a moment too soon. With a deafening roar the ceiling collapsed, effectively separating the Elven women from the rest of the party..........