> [slash]
>
>      Tabanallis frowned. "What kind of name is 'Heart's Hold?'"
>      The wizened scribe shrugged. "Possibly for all the blood spilled there.
> Thoth Durghanti, the Sea of Bone, was the site of possibly the greatest battle
> ever waged on the plains of Hammerfell. As I understand it, Lord Th'Sollar, a
> mythical figure, had been slowly gaining ground in a war lasting over a
> decade. His name appears in various stories near the end of the war, about
> when the Werre first appear in Hammerfell. Oh, I almost forgot! The people of
> Hammerfell were rising up against a consortium of mages called the Horned
> Council."

At the mention of the Horned Council, Balefire gave an inward start.  A term found
in several old tomes, and mentioned always with dread.  A familiar term, and a
baleful one.

>      Alduin paused to point at the black bulk of the fortress hunched on the
> crumpled hills beyond Twilight and J'layah.
>      "That, my friends, is the Guardian Citadel. I do not know it's native
> name, but it was the last line of defense for the Horned Council. The Werre
> gathered all their number to break it, but instead of a few day's fight, a
> seige developed that stretched into months, marked by constant skirmishes and
> pitched battles. Summer is harsh there, but winter is harsher. In mid winter,
> the Citadel was emptied. Instead of being idle, the forces in the Citadel had
> multiplied, and beasts of pure magic, Denigroth believe?--" Alduin turned to

"Denigroth!" Balefire thought to himself, his wrath deepening, "Another term from
the past, and a dire one."

> [slash]
>      Balefire drew in a deep breath. "Now I know how it is familiar. This
> place is spoken of only in whispers. Werre-Bane."
>      K'tarin farely bristled at the name. "Torith au Werre."
>      Everyone tensed as J'layah and Twilight moved from their field of view
> in wary crouches, weapons drawn.
>      "Well, it seems thet there may be somethin' livin' there yet. I think we
> best be gettin' there quickly. Whatever ken survive among bones ken nay be
> wholesome."
>

His customary urbanity abandoned, the Dark Elf warmage snarled savagely at his
companions, his battlefield demeanor possessing him completely, "Each of you take
a hold on a companion, there's no time to waste...I shall teleport us all through
to them, and that immediately. Grab hold, I say!  There's aught amiss with the Art
around that ancient battlefield, but I have power enough to take us all, I swear
it by the gods.  Look to your weapons, and do not let go your hold until I say
so."

Impatiently, he shot his gaze at each of them.  Coldly abrupt, he barked, "Ready?"

He bellowed a word of power, there was an actinic instant of disorientation and
the sense of enormous power unleashed and flowing, flowing and checked, flooding
over and through a half-tangible barrier...for just a heartbeat, as the whole
universe seemed to vibrate with the echo of the word, and the implacable force of
the will behind it.  And then they were on Thoth Durghanti, and the scarred
warmage's countenance was a study in conflicting emotions.

"By the Scales of Akatosh, 'tis no wonder it was so hard to scry here, not to
mention teleporting.  'Tis a zone of anti-magic, or I'm a monk!  I might have
guessed, in a Werre battlefield."  His sword rasped out of its sheath, its
customary aura dimmed almost to invisibility, and he replaced his staff in its
saddle-sheath.  Looking around at his companions, he started visibly.

"Mea!  Mea is not with us!  What has transpired here...?"