Veer'Shule sat deep in his jet throne. He caused the torches on either
side to flare. Their ruddy light danced in the jewels encrusting the pedestal
and the golden hand upholding the heart warmed in the glow. The Blood was so
close. It was all he could do to remain seated.
     He had tracked its progress across the bridge. This worried him somewhat
at first. The bearer should have halted upon the far steps, falling into a
dead slumber. It should have been a simple matter of crossing himself, Heart
in hand to stay the voices, and taking the Blood.
     *He must have used the Blood.* he had thought. He may have been strong
enough to use it to shut out the voices.*
     If that was so... He did not relish a contest to his power so close to
the critical moment. He would pry the Blood from this man's hand. It was just
that he would rather the hand be limp than clenched.
     But now he heard the challenge from the doors. A great voice of pure
fury ringing in the cavern beyond. Doubt took him again. So the bearer--for
who else would issue such a challenge?--had indeed succumbed. He did not know
how to use the Blood. How then had he gotten across? Was he carried? By whom?
There were few things so utterly resistent to the spirit voices. An automaton?
Golem? If that were so, the thing would become a statue upon crossing the
threshold of the hall. That would be good. The bearer would then fall
quickly. A cruel smile curled his lips.
     He settled himself in his seat. The Blood-bearer would try to open the
doors. They were warded with two levels of protection. The first was a line
of figures inscribed along the edges of both doors. These were powerful wards.
Although minor compared to what lay at the center of each door, they were
able to resist most magicka. The true power lay in the two Words of Power
inscribed as sigils: The Shield and The Hammer. Having been thwarted by the
wards, the bearer would have to resort to physical force against the
doors, to his undoing.
     The sigils were created against the Werre. The Shield would break any
weapon brought against it. The Hammer was more to the Master's liking. It
returned with redouble force any attack upon it. While The Shield destroyed
the weapon, The Hammer killed the Werre.
     *Or in this case, the Blood-bearer,* thought Veer'Shule.
     Now he heard it.
     *Ah, the fool is trying to break the magicka wards. He will soon be
spent. No one man, be he even an archmage, could break them. Even a grand-
archmage from old, may their kind never walk on Tameriel again, would
require...*
     His thought trailed off. He sensed the building energies. His brow
furrowed as he felt a slight tugging at this robes. Beyond the door a wailing
rose. He stood. His robes were whipping about him now, his connection with
the Blood allowing him to feel the magewind. The magicka being gathered on
the other side had a disturbing familiarity, a texture like--
     He heard the word as if it were spoken by his ear.
     "Will."
     --a Word of Power.
     Was he using the Blood? Quickly, Veer'Shule touched the great stone,
directed his attention beyond the door. Yes, the Blood was there, at the
center of a growing magicka storm. It was there, but it was...dormant. It was
merely a focus. A will drove it. He reached out with his own will, passing
through the doors. Here was someone who could challenge the wards. Pausing to
gather his own strength, he tentatively reached out to touch the bearer.
     A blazing heat came up between them. Unprepared, the Master hurredly
withdrew, a faint burning on his skin. He had torn apart the bowls! They were
now a vortex of super-heated shrapnel. This man was not going to challenge
the wards at all! He was going to literally scrub them from the door!
     He waited, listening to the growing, hissing wind. The sound changed
slightly, grew heavier, and he knew the pedestals, too, were gone. Now the
doors vibrated. The Blood-bearer had brought the vortex to bear against the
doors. Still, the Words should affect the assault. This was a physical thing.
Indeed, as the whirling metal and stone made its course across the doors, the
vibration lessened. The Shield mitigated the force somewhat and The Hammer
brought the awesome power of the vortex against itself, but the Word of Power
the bearer was using compromised the protective Words, turning aside some of
their force. The doors still stood. Mundane doors would have crumbled
instantly.
     The vibration stopped. Veer'Shule was certain the silver wards were
blown away. The Blood, coupled with a Word of Power and a will to direct it,
could not be denied.
     The Master reseated himself. The joining of the Blood and Heart would be
more difficult than expected. He composed himself, brought the Heart to his
lap. Hands on either side of the smooth stone, he closed his eyes, breathing
deeply. He called to mind all the Words of Power he knew, sifted through
which would be of the greatest use here. A thin smile again curled his lips.
Yes, this one would do. He will simply hand over the Blood.
     At that moment, the great doors burst inward, exploding in a cloud of
fire, lightning and stone. Through the ragged opening, choked with dust,
strode a tall figure, arrayed in red plate and flowing cape. A long staff
was in his hand. From his throat issued a triumphant laugh. Behind him were
many shadows, broad and wielding axes.
     A half-memory flitted across the Master's mind. Before it took form, it
was gone. That was well. This encounter would require concentration. Under
his hands, the Heart flared brightly at the coming of the Blood, and for the
first time, it radiated warmth.