NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This thread deals with regards to this sign-up/ooc thread: A freeform, fantasy Earth. (OOC, Interest thread) (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=539618)

IC:

Redoran Frontier, near Nagor

The road wound among dark, lifeless hills and through echoing hollows dense with oak and ash, while in the distance the high walls and pointed towers of Nagor, the forbidding Fortress of Iron, rose ever higher into the indigo sky. Glimmering wichtlight shone like a thousand eyes from the buildings of the fortress city, lending it a kind of cold, brooding life. This was not a place built upon ruthless power like other Dark Elf cities, or stained with bloodlust like Har Ganeth and its bloody worshippers of Kaine - Nagor was black, eternal hate quarried from cold marble and unyielding iron. It was the implacable heart of the Druchii given form.

The lone rider traveled the Spear Road for another hour until finally cresting a rocky ridge and came upon a flat, featureless plain that stretched between the curving arms of a bleak mountainside. Nagor curled upon itself like an enormous dragon upon the plain, surrounded by a gleaming wall nearly sixty feet high. Tall towers bristling with iron spikes rose from the wall every mile or so along its length, sited to rain clouds of arrows and heavy stones upon any invader. Ahead, the rider could see a massive gatehouse that was a small fortress unto itself, looming over a double portal wrought from slabs of polished iron nearly twenty feet high. The rider, a noble highborn drow, shook his head in wonder. He'd thought that Klar Carom’s, home of House Redoran, fortifications were fearsome, but nothing compared to Nagor's forbidding bulk.

The dark clothed rider led his steed directly across the plain and approached the iron gates. No challenge was issued from the gatehouse's jagged battlements; the banner flapping over the rider's head was sufficient. With a terrible, echoing groan one of the massive gates swung open and the horseman trotted down a long, wide tunnel that ran beneath the gatehouse. Darkness pressed in from all sides, and the highborn fought to keep from hunching his shoulders at the thought of the murder holes and oil flues that doubtless pierced the stone overhead.

Tyrent Redoran, for he was the rider, expected to emerge from the tunnel into a large, open square, much as in the style of dark elf cities. Instead he found himself in a narrow lane overlooked by tall, stone buildings with deep-set oaken doors. Witchlights glowed from scones hanging over many of the doorways, creating pools of flickering light amid the twisting path of abyssal shadow. Another rider, wearing armor and livery of Nagor, was waiting. Without a word he turned and started off. Without a question, Tyrent followed.

The hooves of the dark steeds struck sparks on the grey cobblestones and set up a thunderous clatter that reverberated from the close-set walls. All Druchii cities were treacherous, labyrinthine places, full of blind alleys and confusing turns designed to entrap and kill the unwary, but Nagor was unlike any living city Tyrent had ever seen. Once inside the walls there were no landmarks to navigate by; nearly every street ended at a crossroads that connected to three other narrow lanes, all leading of in unpredictable directions. None of the buildings he saw bore signs or sigils that told what they were, and if there were market squares anywhere he never saw them. Within minutes he was utterly lost, and he knew full well that he had only just entered the outer wards of the city.

The mounted soldier of Nagor led Tyrent for more than an hour through the labyrinth, along but for the echoes of their passage. Tyrent saw not a single living thing along the way; no citizens or city guards, no drunkards or thieves, penny oracles or cutthroats. It reminded him of nothing more than the houses of the dead, like a city of crypts where the ancient dead were bound fearfully in vaults of stone.

There were three more defensive walls that subdivided the city, closed by three more heavy gates of iron. Tall, silent houses pressed hard against either side of these inner walls; as the first of the major cities every built Tyrent had the sense that it had grown in fits and starts as the kingdom prospered, expanding beyond its own walls again and again until it was ringed like an old gnarled tree.

Thus, when they paused before a fourth wall the gleaming stone it took several long moments before Tyrent's road weary mind registered the narrow, arched gate and the gatehouse formed of blades of forged iron. Witchlights shone from the oculars of iron dragons that rose to either side of the formidable gate, their spread wings formed of hammered iron plates as sharp-edged as swords. Beyond the gatehouse rose a profusion of close-set towers like a thicket of polished spear-blades, pierces by slitted windows that glowed with sorcerous fire. Tendrils of vapour rose from among the towers and reached for the sky with claw-like fingers.

Tyrent had come at last to the Fortress of Iron, citadel of the undying Witch King.


* * * * * * * * * * * * *


A rattling boom reverberated from the iron gatehouse, startling Tyrent from his exhausted stupor, and the arched gate swung inward on ancient, dwarf-wrought hinges. The highborn elf felt a chill race down his spine as the black gate swing open and he stared into the blackness beyond. He feared to tread any deeper into the Witch King's domain. It was only his father's foolishness and his hatred of his father that drove him. With hate, his father always said, all things were possible. So in return of his father's intended treachery, he would enact his own...by invoking the wrath of the Witch King himself if need be! The rider of Nagor motioned for Tyrent to follow and they nudged their horses forward.

The passage through the gate was shorter than he expected, barely twelve feet form one end of the tunnel to the other. Beyond lay a small courtyard paved with flagstones of polished slate and bounded by statues of imposing druchii knights and rearing dragons. Above them loomed the sharp-edged towers of Malekith's citadel and the vassal lords of his warband, casting a deep shadow over Tyrent and his would-be guide. As Tyrent led his horse into the courtyard he felt the weight of a terrible gaze fall upon him; for a moment he felt like a rabbit caught in the shadow of a swooping hawk, and cold unreasoning terror seized his heart and turned his muscles to ice. Even his horse felt it, causing the beast to sink onto its haunches and snap its teeth in dismay. Just as quickly as it struck, the terrible pressure eased, and Tyrent caught the hint of a sinuous shifting amid the thick shadows that lay across the paving stones. He stole a glance upwards and caught a faint hint of motion, as though a great serpent were coiling about one of the citadel's tallest towers. Then he glimpsed the outline of a long, narrow head silhouetted against the moonlight, and a pair of glowing red eyes that brooded over the dark city with lordly disdain. A black dragon, Tyrent realised with a shudder.

Tyrent was so caught up in the sight of the fearsome beast that he paid no head whatsoever to the highborn that awaited them in the middle of the courtyard until he spoke. "Are you Tyrent Redoran, son of Balethek? Or are you some simple minded peasant who should be fed to the great drake Vaulkur?"

The highborn's tone snapped Tyrent out of his reverie. "Lord Hourc I presume?" asked Tyrent in return, exhaustion and spite emboldening his tongue.

"Did I give you leave to open your damned mouth boy?" Lord Hourc snarled. He was a tall and powerfully built dark elf, clad in enameled plate armour ornamented with gilt etchings and potent runes of protection over a skirt of shining ithilmar mail. His paired swords were masterworks, their pommels set with rubies the size of sparrow's eggs and resting in glossy black scabbards made of dragonscale. Even without the thick gold hadrilkar circling his neck it was clear that he was a powerful noble and a member of the Witch King's personal retinue. His sharp nose was scarred in places by sword-strokes, and a star shaped dimple of scar tissue on the side of his neck spoke of the spear thrust that ravaged his voice. The elf’s black eyes shone with keen wit and hinted at a will stronger than iron.

“I am a highborn and son of a great house. I’ll speak as is my want,” hissed Tyrent.

Hourc studied Tyrent for a moment and then nodded appraisingly. “Brave but stupid,” he declared. “I expected as much from the son of the Corsair King. Though I never expected to meet a son of the Corsair King who might be, as rumor speaks, an outcast.”

“You’re lucky,” continued Hourc. “Instead of being killed to honor the blood feud between your father and yourself our lord simply wishes to speak with you. So you can put that banner of sin down and come with me.”

Tyrent handed the banner he had been carrying over to the soldier of Nagor who had acted as his guide. He tarried a bit long and Hourc grew impatient. “I’m not in a habit of repeating myself, boy,” the highborn growled. “Now get out of that damned saddle. The Witch King knows you’ve arrived, but I won’t send you to the Dragon Court looking like some flea-bitten dog.”

Hourc’s iron-tinged rasp galvanized Tyrent body into motion. Before he was fully aware of it he was already climbing out of the saddle and standing uneasily on the pave-stone ground. As if on cue a Beastmaster with ornate leather armour appeared from the shadows, ready to take charge of the black steed. “Follow me,” the warlord commanded, and turned on his heel. Tyrent followed Hourc without a word.


Hourc led the younger highborn into his own apartments where servants took off his filthy riding robes and rust-bitten armour and prescribed him to a fierce cleaning from a large marble tub of warm water. When they were done the servants laid out a fine set of black robes and a court kheitan of soft human hide. Hands plucked at his head and he nearly rounded on the servants with a snarl, before realizing the servants were trying to comb his long tangled hair. Frowning, he let them finish their work ad bind the hair back with leather and gold wire. There was no armour to replace his old harness and certainly no paired swords to wear at his hip. It was clear from that alone that Malekith’s interest in Tyrent was entirely conditional. The new outfit he wore would look just as fitting hanging from an iron spike on the wall as it would at court. “Alright,” Tyrent said, putting on a new pair of boots and looking up at Hourc. “Lead on.”



Tyrent followed Hourc though a maze of dark, empty corridors, each one as silent as a tomb. Witchlamps set in iron sconces cast solitary pools of light along the way, making the darkness seem even deeper and more oppressive. Before long the silence began to prey upon Tyrent, setting his nerves on edge. There was none of the hectic bustle he was accustomed to at the citadel of his father, Balethek Redoran. Though it was the center of power for the entire kingdom, the Iron Fortress was cold and still, filled only with echoes.

At first he’d tried to memorize their route, but after a quarter of an hour’s worth of twists and turns he gave it up as a lost cause. Like the city outside the fortress, there were no landmarks by which to navigate; only those who belonged there had any hope of finding their way. Tyrent couldn’t imagine how long one had to wander these funereal halls before they gave up their secrets.

Lord Hourc found his way effortlessly. Within half an hour they passed through an archway into a long, empty chamber lit by massive witchlamps suspended by chains along the arched ceiling. Here Tyrent began to notice furtive movements of other dark elves: masked guards, nobles going about the business of state, temple bureaucrats and scarred, nervous servants, all gliding quietly through the shadows to and from the Witch King’s court. All made way for the brisk, commanding stride of Lord Hourc, who swept by without so much as a nod.

One long chamber led to another. In most Dark Elf cities a lord’s audience chamber was divided into two spaces: the throne room proper and the lower room, where lesser highborn and common folk waited in hopes of a brief audience with their overlord. Here Tyrent counted no less than four lower chambers, each one large enough to hold a thousand druchii or more. Each room was slightly more ornate that the first; bare walls of polished black marble gave way to statues of druchii princes clad in the raiment of a lost time, which in turn gave way to titanic columns of fiery red-veined basalt and bas-relief of mighty battles between the armies of Morrowind and their foes. The final lower room was dominated by a tremendous flame that rose in a hissing, seething pillar in the center of the chamber. The shifting light picked out threads of silver and gold in ancient, enormous tapestries that told of Malekith’s glorious rise and past feats.

At the far end of the fiery vault stood a pair of iron doors twenty feet high, engraved with the sinuous forms of rearing dragons. The twin drakes seemed to glare down at Tyrent and Hourc as they approached the Witch King’s throne room. Four of the infamous Black Guard stood watch at the doors with bared blades in their hands. They bowed as Hourc approached and gave way before their master. With a single backwards glance at Tyrent, the warlord placed his hands on the great doors and pushed. The massive iron panels swung open on perfectly balanced hinges, throwing a rectangle of shifting blue light across a floor of gleaming black marble.

Beyond the doorway the Court of Dragons was all but devoid of light. The change brought Tyrent up short, leaving him near blind and intensely vulnerable in the space of a single step – an effect that of course could only be deliberate. As his vision adjusted to the gloom he saw that he was standing in at one end of a surprisingly small octagonal room, barely thirty paces across. Again, after the lofty places of the previous chambers Tyrent couldn’t help but feel the weight of the dressed stone walls pressing in on him. All around the perimeter of the room stood huge dragons carved cunningly from onyx, their wings spread like cloaks as they bowed in obeisance before the tall dais at the far end of the room. There, in shadows as deep as the eternal Abyss, glowed a pair of red-orange eyes that shone with the banked fire of a furnace.

The huge iron doors swung silently shut behind Tyrent, plunging the chamber into darkness. Tyrent felt the burning gaze of the Witch King upon him and bowed his head in genuine fear and dread.

Hourc’s voice rang out in the blackness. “As your dread majesty commands, I have come with Tyrent Redoran the outcast of Klar Carond, formally of the house of Redoran.

The voice that replied sounded like nothing formed from a living throat – it was as hard and unyielding as hammered iron, the words rumbling out like the hot wind form a forge. “I see you, thief and outlaw,” the Witch King said. Malekith shifted slightly in the darkness, causing red light to seep from between the seams of his enchanted armour. “Did you think to escape your father’s wrath, or mine, Tyrent Redoran? Your father is sworn to my service, and lived and died at my command alone…and you killed him. There can be no forgiveness of such a crime.”

Silence fell. Tyrent blinked owlishly as he considered the Witch King’s words. Killed his father? Tyrent had stolen a message from his father’s chambers, delivered from a demon of Omnia. He’d been attacked by some shadow hidden figure and had merely defended himself. He must have stumbled into his father. He shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it at this point anyway.

“I live as you wish,” he replied.

There was the sound of steel rasping against steel and more ruddy light outlined the segments of the Witch King’s form. “Will you not beg for mercy, kinslayer? Will you not bow down before my throne and treat with me, offering all that you possess if only I would stay my wrath?”

The suggestion took Tyrent aback. “Am I to believe you would be moved by such a pathetic display? Do I seem foolish as that?” he said, his tone indignant. “I think not. You are the Witch King. Who am I to persuade you of anything? If you mean to exact your vengeance upon me, then so be it.”

“Kneel, then, and show your fealty to me.”

Tyrent gave the Witch King a bitter smile. Part of his mind gibbered in terror at his effrontery, but he’d suffered enough humiliation at the hands of his father to last a dozen lifetimes. “Only a vassal bows his knee,” Tyrent said. “But I am a vassal no longer. I am an outlaw now, by your own decree.” He squared his shoulders, drunk on suicidal defiance. “So I believe I would rather stand.”

Red eyes narrowed, and Tyrent knew he’d gone a step too far. He drew a deep breathe believing it to be his last – when suddenly a woman’s laughter, rich and cruel, rang from the darkness beside the throne. Pale green light flickered to life across the throne room, kindled in the depths of the witchlamps set in stands arrayed around the chamber. Again, Tyrent was momentarily disoriented, his defiance forgotten. Through slitted eyes he dimply perceived a tall, black throne at the top of the dais, and upon the seat of barbed iron he glimpsed the terrible visage of Malekith himself.

But it was the laughter that drew the highborn’s eye. A woman was gracefully descending from the dais, clad in black robes as befitted a dark elf witch or seer. She was tall and regal, with features that seemed cruel even in mirth. White hair fell past her waist, wound with gold wire and delicate finger bones. Her eyes flashed with a cold, draconic intellect, her stare cutting into him as cleanly as an obsidian knife.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice belling out in the same cold tones as the witches of Klar Carond, “do you come by such reckless courage naturally, or does it come from the stupidity bred in your father’s line?”

“My recklessness is the very reason I usually survive, Lady Morathi,” Tyrent said. He kept his gaze focused straight ahead, fearful of what the seer might unearth from the depths of his eyes.

Morathi, mother and consort of Malekith, circled him slowly. He could feel her icy gaze sweep over him, reminding him of the passing stare of the dragon in the courtyard outside.

“It is a curse that you and your house are continually in blood feud,” she declared.

“Be that as it may,” replied Tyrent in kind. “I did not slay may father on purpose. He merely got in my way. Let’s just say it wasn’t my choice. I simply tried to steal a message from his quarters that had been delivered by an Omnian daemon.”

The Witch King leaned forward upon his barbed throne. Visible heat radiated from the seams of his armour, blurring the air around him, “Daemon?” Malekith hissed, his burning eyes narrowing further.

“Yes dread lord,” he said. “A daemon arrived bearing a message from some noble in Omnia addressed to my father. From what I learned before the message was destroyed during my escape bears meaning that an invasion may be underway of Morrowind by those fanatics. It seemed to me that my father might be in league with such filth and so I acted in hopes of getting the message and coming here to inform your dread majesty.”

Morathi stared at Tyrent a moment more, a faint smile quirking at the corners of her mouth. “I have little trouble believing that,” she said, then turned back to the dais. “It explains much of what I have already divined,” she said to the Witch King as she climbed the stairs to take her place beside the iron throne.

Tyrent shook his head in consternation. “From my perspective it explains nothing, dread majesty. Why have I been brought if you know already what I speak, if not to simply answer for my crimes?”

A rumbling hiss escaped from Malekith’s horned helmet. “Oh, you shall answer for what you have done Tyrent Redoran,” the Witch King said. “But the payment shall be of mine own choosing.” Malekith stretched an upturned hand to the ceiling. “Observe.”

A circular opening in the center of the domed ceiling opened. With a thunderous rattle of heavy iron chains a spherical shape descended from the opening. First the witchlight picked out curved bars of polished iron, formed into a cage or basket large enough to hold a grown dark elf. At first Tyrent thought the cage was meant for him, but as it sank closer he saw the greenish light reflecting on a huge, uncut crystal held within the iron frame. Suddenly the highborn realised what it was. “The Ainur Tel,” he hissed.

Malekith nodded slowly. “The Eye of Fate,” he said. “One of the few relics of power that we still retain from the Ancient Times, carved from the root of the world in aeons past.”

“Stare into the eye, son of Balethek,” Morathi said. “Cast your gaze a hundred leagues north.”

Tyrent fixed his gaze into the white glare. At first he saw nothing. His eyes grew weak and his lids fluttered – then all at once the harsh light faded and Trent saw blurry images take shape within the crystal. He saw a single, blackened watchtower rising over a bleak and desolate plain of tundra-mixed sand. The walls of the keep were blasted and broken and the single gate had been smashed aside, buried beneath a mound of twisted, misshapen bodies of dark elf warriors bearing the livery of House Hlaalu. Moonlight shone on the armoured bodies scattered around the courtyard, and many more in the burnt-out shell of the citadel itself. Hundreds of armed Omnian soldiers and other such fanatic devotees of that cursed country moved about the remains, picking up their own fallen to burry in their own special fashion and beneath specific rites.

“Bhelgaur Keep has fallen,” Morathi declared, and the vision within the crystal faded to darkness.

Tyrent’s mind raced as he tried to make sense of what he’d seen. “I’m not familiar with that Keep or any of the border forts in that area, but if what you show is true then an Omnian army has torn a hole in our frontier defences more than 10 leagues across,” he said darkly. “There must he tens of thousands of them.” He shook his head in terrible wonder. “I’ve heard of the Klatch issuing such forces but from the Omnians? So soon after their navy’s defeat by the Ephebians? It’s unmanageable.” The highborn turned to the Witch King, his former defiance and suspicion momentarily overcome by the glamour of war. “What more do we know of these invaders, dread majesty?”

But it was not the Witch King who replied. “They are fanatical in their faith, like the Brides of Kaine are to the Lord of Murder,” said Lord Hourc. “They will try to gain more land and better prestige now that they have been wounded by the Ephebians. By trying to get your father to join in on their side they no doubt thought it would be easy. The Bhelgaur Keep fell five days ago.”

“But if what you say is true, then they would be within a few day’s march of the Tower of Lathuu,” Tyrent exclaimed. If they mad it past the Black Tower then the Omnian host would be at the northern end of the Spear Road and less than two weeks’ march from the walls of Nagor itself. It was an invasion that Morrowind had not faced in years. This revelation explained much.

A week before Tyrent had led a small warband against agents of his father in an attempt to thwart them. Now he understood why the Witch King had not marched on Klar Carond when he’d learned of the uprising. What was more, he knew all too well how badly weakened the armies of the druchii were after the fighting in the short but recently savage feud between the Telvanni and Redoran.

“Enough!” Malekith roared, his armour flaring like an open furnace. “No one makes demands on the Dark Elves,” he rumbled, leaning forward on his barbed throne. His red gaze burned against Tyrent’s skin. “They will get nothing but wrack and ruin.” He stretched out an armoured hand and pointed imperiously at the highborn outlaw. “You will see to this. When you slew the great Corsair Balethek you deprived me of my rightful property. Now you belong to me instead.”

Tyrent bowed. “I live to serve, dread majesty,” he declared. “What is your command?”

“Go to the Black Tower of Lathuu,” the Witch King commanded. “Lord Kuall is the marshal there. It is he who has failed to turn aside these Omnian fools, and you will express to him my displeasure.” Malekith’s armoured gauntlent clenched into a fist. “Your exploits against your father’s personal retainers are well known to me, son of Balethek. Take command of the forces at Lathuu and lead them against the invaders until I arrive with the army of Nagor. You will hold them at the Black Tower until I arrive. Do you understand?”

The highborn took a deep breath. He understood all too well. “Your will be done, dread majesty,” Tyrent replied without hesitation. “I will serve you with all the vigour I posses.” As he considered the situation, his predatory mind saw a possible opportunity. “There is one matter to consider, however,” he said cheerfully. “The people of Morrowind still consider me an outcast and a criminal. That will make it difficult to speak with any authority.”

Malekith glared implacably at the highborn. “You are a member of my retinue now, Tyrent Redoran,” he hissed. “You will ride to Lathuu with the Black Guard and bear a writ signed with my name.”

For the first time, Tyrent essayed a smile. “Then I may reclaim my rights and status as a highborn?”

The Witch King paused, considering Tyrent carefully. “In time, perhaps. Serve me well and you will be rewarded in kind.”

“Yes. Of course, dread majesty,” Tyrent said, bowing deeply. “Then with your permission, I will return to my chambers and prepare to depart immediately.” The sooner he got away from this fortress the better, he thought.

The Witch King dismissed Tyrent with a wave of his gauntlented hand. The highborn turned on his heel and strode swiftly for the chamber door, giving Hourc a defiant glare as he swept past. Already his mind was racing, contemplating all that he had to do when he reached the Black Tower.

The not so haunting voice of serving soldiers inebriated with victory filled the air, that and the prevalent stench of death. Omnian Divine Legionaries had erected a massive bull out of iron of the enemy tower, it’s horns were bent swords, bent at forty-five degree angels by the inexorable swing of a Divine Legion Battle axe. Militarily the victory had been stunning, the Legion, who was more normally accustomed to a flat out charge had performed a maneuver informally known as the Fryiat Saunter. Forty thousand men had sauntered over the border in an informal fashion and beaten merry hell into the minds of the defenders.

Admittedly the victory was more the work of a hugely depleted squadron of demons, who had launched themselves to the gate, opening it before being slaughtered back. Now Borrowing’s first border fort was being dismantled to make the Holy Bull, every starring vacantly over his new domain. Still more embarrassing the garrison of elves (I believe that’s what it is please correct me here if not) had fought with the same manic fervor of the righteous, steeling themselves to a bloody and long defense.

“This is subtle?” Over the smoking battlefield a group of chargers trotted occasionally avoiding a mutilated body, beside it a imp held a small bronze plate from which the Cenobiarch’s livid could be seen. “Forty thousand men storming the border is not what I had in mind for secrecy general.”

With a clatter the entourage stopped inside the dwindling fort, their hooves sliding on blood soaked cobbles. “You know,” one man glanced at the disk before dismounting in a manner that suggested a very long while in the saddle, “Your Imminence my orders were to cause disruption in the feudal affairs of Morrowind,” he snapped his fingers at the imp who turned the metal disk to where several elves had been nailed to a support beam, “consider them disrupted.”

“I also ordered subtlety,” the Cenobiarch’s voice had lost its exasperated tone and gained a far more menacing calm, “Can you not obey orders?”

“Yes sire. Um, meaning yes I can” the general paused momentarily and removed a high plumed cavalry helmet from his head revealing shock of red hair, matted by hours under heat conductive metal, “but this is subtle. We could be in whatever they call a capital now, burning whomever we please. In this manner they shall be sending an army here, and if your rouse has succeeded another army shall arrive also. I am making Omnia invisible.” The general preened a bit, stiffly walking towards what had been designated a forward command post, the imp still hovering along with him.

“I supremely doubt it General, you a burying the dead.” With a low ‘bong’ the plate went dark and the imp gave a huge scream as it’s body was dematerialize back into hell, being warped a moments notice from one dimension to the next was very often disconcerting. It’s plaintiff cry was drown out by another song issuing from his jubilant soldiers below, they had already moved through half the hymns at their disposal, and were now singing with every increasing timbre “Om the Divine Sword.”

It was perhaps the most tiring aspect of this war, the damn freshness of his soldiers, some of then hardly sixteen and removed from vital farm work back in Omnia, for the express purpose of smashing the heathen. In the end, if they lost this one the theocracy would suffer far more then the loss of an army.

A brilliant halo to the west marked the setting sun, an entire day of slaughter, with no end in sight. Wisps of mist began to form on the ground, it was strange what the desert would do, and without moisture it without fail managed mist. Admittedly the high desert had tapered out some time ago, but this spot of land was hardly a lush Eden, though made slightly more fertile since the morning.

“Sulking are we?” A similarly dressed man creaked his way up the battlements of weary legs, giving a wry smile at the General’s sad frown. “I knew you would be up here surveying, appraising glory to e had as it were.” The new arrival lumbered to a halt and wheezed for a bit, “can barely breath for what they’re doing down there.”

“What are they doing?”

“Desecration most probably. They do so get a kick out of it, I personally didn’t stop for a look,.” Two faces lightly patinaed with grime and smoke starred out over rolling acres, light was dim, and blinding at once and the terrain was not easy to make out. “Arezzi they need you for the parade, I must say that I did not pull myself up bloodstained stairs to swap war stories, I have a wife at home and want to be killed before I go home,” the new arrival gave a huge wink and wandered off.

General Arezzi Svea pulled himself up, and with a spit covered hand attempted to wipe his face, before descending the stairs in what regal manner could be obtained. A regiment greeted him in the courtyard, raising their dull-headed spears in salute, sergeants stood every two meters sabers extended, the review. It would take hours for the full thing that would have to be done on the victory march later but for the moment Arezzi contented himself with the fact that only ten minutes of posturing would mar his evening. “If we must Captain.”

Sometime later when the sun had finally surrendered to the pull of gravity, gravity that the Church was most adamant about, the world was a perfect sphere, all objects maintained on it by the force of Om’s will. A black night thick with oil fires descended on the Divine Legion camp, it’s sheer blackness unusual, this was a new land, and here the Divine Legion would march arm and arm into the darkness. Not quite alone though, Om was there of course, and so were a few of his more select oracles.

“How many of you are there, you all sort of mingle?” Arezzi had been roused from a bed constructed of horse blankets and straw to the polite knocking of a priest mage some while ago.

“Just shy of five fold you Supremacy,” one voice speaking in the air that suggested long forgotten wars and dusty dooms, It issued from the mouth of an angel glowing and pulsating to, if Arezzi had been paying attention to this detail his own heart beat. “Four of us are Seraphim warriors at the battle of Scant no less. We are prepared to act in the protection of Om.”

“Excellent, the rest of my army may be bogged down by tradition, but according to our enemies it is impossible for you to exist,” he clapped his hands together warmly. “Kill every civilian in a twenty mile radius, there are probably isolated villages dotted around. Take them as silently as possible, fly quickly you only have till sunrise, and avoid any Elven military posts at all costs, we can’t afford any of you not to return. The army will be moving south, report to me five miles, and six hours from here.” He nodded to the mages who spoke a very few words of command, and the angels reacting as a magnet to iron, burst up into the air ethereal swords appearing in their hands. On silent wings they flitted away. Technically in a melee they were worthless, as they in reality had no body mass, a child could push over an archangel and hold it’s head in the sandbox should you find a child so inclined. When they came in the night on silent wings though it was a different tale.

One after another their glows winked out in the dark, their wings making no noise, not disturbing the air in the slightest. Arezzi exhaled as they took to wing, no matter how long you spent in the company of angels, there bodies glowing with the zeal of Om, there was perhaps something daunting about the prospect. It was tampering with Om’s will and there were always, always repercussions. Still as the general crept back to his cot he could not help the tune of “Lo the Infidels Flee the Wrath of Om” issuing from his teeth. This was the Divine Path, one that he was to make clean. In the morning they would burn the fort, and trample the bull into sheet metal, hopefully for time their presence would go unnoticed.

When Tyrent returned to his chambers the exhaustion of his trip wracked him. His forced march across the stretches of Morrowind had truly tested the limits of his already weary body. He gazed into a mirror sitting next to him and the dark elf he saw staring back looked like a hallow wretch of a druchii. Behind him, he heard the chamber door creak open. Tyrent just kept his head bent and rubbed his temples. “Take another step and I’ll split your skull,” he snarled at the intruder, believing it to be another bothersome slave.

“You’re welcome to try,” came Hourc’s familiar rasp. “But Witch King writ or no, I think you’d regret it.”

The highborn masked his surprise by scrubbing fiercely at his cheeks with a nearby washcloth. “Your pardon my lord, I thought you were one of those damned servants,” he said. He gestured tiredly at the clothes and armour laid out at the bed, placed there in his absence by the servants. “Give me a moment to change and I can leave the fortress at once.”

Hourc gave Tyrent a penetrating stare, his expression doubtful. “You don’t look fit to pull off your boots, let alone manage another forced march,” he growled, but then grudgingly nodded. “Not that I expect you’d let such a thing stop you. You’re a hard-hearted, spiteful bastard, right enough.” The warlord pulled a metal plaque from his belt and walked over to the highborn. “Here is the Witch King’s writ,” he said, offering it to Tyrent as casually as though he were sharing a bottle of wine. “I’d caution you to use it wisely, but what’s the point? With that piece of paper in your hand you can do damn well whatever you please and no one will look sideways at you.”

Tyrent took the plaque from Hourc’s hand. It was very like the Writ of Iron he’d once been granted by his father. This one was a bit longer, perhaps eighteen inches long, and the protective metal was unpolished silver instead of steel. He opened the hinged plaque and studied the parchment within.

He’d expected a lengthy statement detailing his rights and privileges in exacting detail. Instead there were just two simple sentences. The bearer of this writ, Tyrent Redoran of House Redoran, belongs to me and acts solely in my name. Do as he bids, or risk my wrath.

Below the archaic line of druchat, dark elf writing, was pressed the dragon seal of Malekith, Witch King of Morrowind.

Tyrent closed the plaque carefully, savoring the feel of the cool metal on his fingertips. This is what absolute power feels like, he thought. With that writ in hand there was very little he could not do within the borders of the kingdom. Only the highest nobles in the land were immune from his authority, and he answered to no one but the Witch King himself. A slow, hungry smile spread across his face.

“It’s a trap of course,” the warlord said, reading the look in Tyrent’s black eyes. “You realize that I’m sure.”

The highborn paused, his smile fading. “A trap?” he replied, setting the plaque carefully on the bed.

Now it was Hourc’s turn to smile. “Of course it is. Consider the situation,” he said, pacing slowly around the room. “Your father had near openly supported an attack on the kingdom of outsiders. Not just any outsiders, but Omnians. They expect to see an army bearing the emblem of the House of Redoran coming to join their assault. The only way to keep them occupied long enough for Malekith to scour the cities for every warrior he can lay hands on and form an army large enough to match the Omnian one.” The general pointed a long finger at Tyrent. “And you are the one thing guaranteed to hold the Omnian’s attention.”

Tyrent thought it over. “If so, why not simply send me to the Black Tower bearing the Redoran Banner or in chains for my crimes, showing the enemy that their plan on this end has failed?”

Hourc gave Tyrent a side-long glance. “Put a dark elf in chains and he’ll look for the first chance to escape. Put a dark elf in power and he’ll fight like a daemon to stay there, regardless of the risk.” He crossed the chamber and picked up the writ. “This piece of parchment is stronger than any chain ever forged,” he rasped. “You may think yourself clever, but Malekith can see right through you. You are just another pawn to him. He’ll use you as a stalking horse to draw the Omnians to the Black Tower of Lathuu, then once they’ve been beaten you’ll be nothing but an outlaw once more.”

“Why tell me this?” asked Tyrent.

“I want you to understand how tightly Malekith has you boxed in. Don’t try anything stupid. It won’t work, and it will likely leave us in an even less tenable position than we’re in now. The best chance you have of keeping your head on your neck is to follow orders and enjoy the power you’ve got while you’ve got it.”

Tyrent sighed. “You’ve made your point my lord,” he said, tossing the plaque back onto the bed. He began working at the lacings of his armour. “I should be ready to ride within the hour.”

“Very good,” the general said with a curt nod, then turned to leave the room. “I’ll send the servants back in to help you change and bring in a good meal. It’ll likely be the only one you’ll get for the next few days.”

Hourc stepped into the corridor outside Tyrent’s chamber, barking orders for the servants. Tyrent jerked the lacings of his breastplate free with sharp, angry movements, glaring balefully at the Witch King’s writ as he worked.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Black Tower of Lathuu

The ride to the Black Tower of Lathuu was just as arduous as the ride from Redoran lands to Malekith’s citadel. Pain and soreness wracked Tyrent’s body with a vengeance as he rode high in the saddle of a Cold One, known as a Nauglir (meaning “Dragon-kin” in the Dark Elf tongue). The beast was a little over 30 feet long and a good six feet side at the shoulders. It was a great, monstrous lizard with sharp fangs, poisonous spittle, and sharp claws that could rend even the heaviest of armour. However he got there he did not arrive alone to the home of Sardet Telvanni, Lord of the Hlaalu.

Lathuu was a city only in the sense of its population and density of structures; in reality it was a permanent military camp, its buildings devoted solely to martial pursuits. The fortress city had a hexagonal-shaped outer wall more than forty feet high that was wide enough at the top for a troop of knights to ride their Nauglir two abreast along its length. Each corner of the hexagon was further fortified into a triangle shaped redoubt that was a citadel unto itself, with its own barracks, armoury and storerooms. The redoubts extended some ways out from the walls, so that archers and bolt throwers (ballista) could fire down the length of the wall and catch attackers in a withering crossfire. Like the redoubts, the city’s two gates were likewise fortified with imposing gatehouses that could rain death upon any attempt to break through their iron-banded doors.

From the southern gatehouse the sentries could see the entire length of the Spear Road, all the way back to the far ridge where it opened into the valley where Nagor lies. As the Black Guard drew closer the forbidding wail of a horn rose above the battlements and the massive portal slowly swung open. One look at the silver-black banner of the riders and their black steeds was enough to convince the sentries of their identity.

Within minutes Tyrent was riding beneath the arch of the southern gate and into a narrow tunnel lit only by a handful of witchlamps. Heavy stone blocks seemed to press in from every side, and the highborn made out narrow murder-holes and arrow slits along both the walls and ceiling of the space. After about ten yards, the highborn was surprised to find the tunnel angled sharply to the right, then dogleg back to the left again. It made it a difficult turn for wagons and impossible for a battering ram, he noted with approval. An attacker who managed to penetrate the first gate would fine himself stuck in the dark confines of the tunnel and ruthlessly slaughtered by the gatehouse’s defenders by the murder-holes.

After another ten yards Tyrent emerged from the inner gate into a small marshalling square lined with low, stone barracks. Foot soldiers were drilling in formation in the square, and the air rang with the clash of hammers from the nearby forges as armourers readied the garrison for battle. The commander of the footman raised his sword in salute as the riders passed, then resumed bellowing orders to his men.

The space between the outer wall and the inner wall of the city was close-packed with barracks, stables, storehouses, forges and kitchens, organized into fortified districts that could operate as independent strongpoints in the event the outer wall was breached. An invader would have to spend precious time and thousands of lives clearing these buildings and fighting along the narrow streets before he even reached the inner wall itself. Tyrent had read somewhere that each building had been further built so that the people inside could collapse it when all hope was lost, further denying its fortifications to their conquerors.

Unlike other Dark Elf cities, the streets of Lathuu were laid out in neat, orderly lines to facilitate the rapid movement of troops. Tyrent and the Black Guard made good time riding down the bustling avenues. Ahead of them loomed the black bulk of the fortress’s inner wall, its spike battlements rising sixty feet above the city’s fortified districts.

Like the outer wall, the inner wall was built in a hexagonal shape with six small redoubts of it own and a single, solidly built gatehouse. Beyond rose the black tower itself, supported by lesser towers like any great lord’s citadel and bristling with spiked turrets fitted with an array of heavy bolt throwers. As the highborn and the Black Guard were admitted through the inner gates he could not help but shake his head in admiration. All the power of the border watchtowers combined could not equal the strength built into this fortress. A few thousand druchii could hold the Black Tower against a force more than ten times their number. It was an expertly designed death-trap, built solely to ruin an invading army. And he, Tyrent noted bitterly, was meant to be the bait. When he entered the main courtyard he angrily berated an attendant to take him with all haste to Lord Sardet.


The great lord’s council chambers lay near the very top of the tower, which did nothing to improve Tyrent’s mood. The climb, up narrow, twisting stairways and down dimply-lit, bustling corridors, seemed to last for hours. By the time the young knight led him and his Black Guard bodyguards into the council chamber’s anteroom he was entirely out of patience. Pulling the writ from his belt he pushed past the startled attendant-knight and strode purposefully up to the chamber door. The two Black Tower halberdiers assigned to watch the door glanced from Tyrent to his silver-garbed attendants and stepped carefully aside. Smiling grimly, Tyrent put his boot against the door and kicked for all he was worth.

The oaken door swung open, rebounding from the stone wall with a thunderous bang. Nobles and retainers in the room beyond leapt to their feet with startled shouts and wrathful curses. Tyrent rushed within, catching the recoiling door with the flat of his war axe and stopping it with a hollow clang.

Across the large, square chamber lay a broad table, covered with maps, parchment notes, wine goblets and pewter plates littered with half-eaten meals. A dozen armoured dark elf lords and their retainers glared fiercely at Tyrent’s intrusion, many with their hands on the hilt of their blades. Four more Black Tower Guardsmen dashed forward from the shadows, two on either side of the axe-wielding highborn, the spearheads of their halberds aimed for Tyrent’s throat.

Opposite the chamber door, at the far end of the table, sat an older highborn clad in ornate, enchanted armour. Sigils of could serpents were worked in gold across his lacquered breastplate, and his right hand was encased in a taloned gauntlet of a type that Tyrent knew all too well. It was a literal Fist of Night, the magical symbol of a great house’s authority to rule. Lord Sardet, the lord of Lathuu, studied Tyrent with small, bright black eyes. His long face, accentuated by a narrow, drooping mustache, was marked by dozens of minor scars from the bite of sword and claw. He reminded Tyrent of his late father Balethek, which blackened his mood even further.

At the tower lord’s right hand stood a towering, lanky figure in ornate armour, marked with the sigil of a tower engraved upon his breastplate. He was older than Tyrent, but not so old as the great lord, and his skin was darkened by years of exposure from campaigning in the field. His sword belt and scabbards were studded with jewels, doubtless looted on a dozen raids into the northern desert wastes. The lord was bald as a nauglir’s egg, and his face and scalp bore the marks of a great many battles. His left cheek was scarred and crumpled, lending his angry scowl a horrid cast. “What is your name, fool?” the scarred dark elf roared. “I want to know whose head I’ll be handing from the spikes atop the inner gate.”

“I am Tyrent of House Redoran,” the younger drow replied coldly.

Lord Sardet straightened. “Tyrent the kinslayer?” he exclaimed. “The outlaw?”

Tyrent smiled. “No longer.” He raised the writ for all the assembled lords to see. “His dread majesty the Witch King has seen fit to put my notorious talents to good use.”

The great lord held out his taloned hand. “Let me be the judge of that,” he declared. “I’ve heard of your deeds, wretch. For all I know there’s nothing in between those metal plates but a fish-wife’s tally sheet.”

Tyrent bowed his head, genuinely amused by the great lord’s accusation, and passed the plaque to the nearest lord, who in turn handed it around the table to Lord Sardet. As the highborn lord opened the plaque and studied the parchment within, Tyrent waved a hand at the Black Guard. “I suppose these would be the fish-wife’s daughters in disguise?”

Lord Sardet read the parchment, then scrutinized the seal closely. His face turned pale. “Blessed Mother of Night,” he said softly, raising his eyes to Tyrent. “The world has turned upside down.”

“As is its wont to do from time to time,” Tyrent said darkly. “Which is why the Witch King requires the services of people like myself.” The great lord blanched even further and Tyrent couldn’t help but feel a rush of cruel glee. This was a role he could come to enjoy, he thought. He turned to the tall lord next to Lord Sardet, the one who had asked Tyrent’s name. “Now you have me at a disadvantage, my lord. Who might you be?”

The glint of rage in the dark elf lord’s eye faltered slightly at the sudden change of events. “I am Lord Kuall Hlaalu, Marshal of the Black Tower.”

Tyrent’s smile widened. “Ah, yes, Lord Kuall. I’ve come a long way in a very short time to deliver a message to you from the Witch King himself.”

A stir went through the assembled lords. Even Lord Sardet leaned back in his chair and stole a bleak look at the marshal. Lord Kuall straightened at the news, the muscles bunching at the sides of his scarred jaws. Whatever his failings, the marshal of the tower was no coward. “Very well, he said, his voice tight. “Let’s hear it then.”

Tyrent nodded formally. “As you wish. My lord and master has watched your efforts here in the north since the coming of the Omnian horde, Lord Kuall, and he is displeased with what he has seen. Very displeased.”

Worried murmers passed through the assembled lords, and Lord Sardet’s eyes narrowed warily. Lord Kuall, however, went white with rage. “And what would Malekith have me do?” he cried. “Meet that damned multitude in the field?” he snatched up a pile of parchment and threw them across the table at Tyrent. “Has the Witch King read my scouts’ reports? The Omnian army is large! When it moves it raises so much dust that you can see it from the sentry posts at the top of the tower. You expect me to form lines of battle and try to defeat it in open battle? We would be completely overrun.” He banged his armoured gauntlet on the heavy table, causing goblets to jump. “I’ve commanded the army of the tower for two hundred years, and I’ve led countless raids into the northern lands. In all that time I’ve never seen an army as big as this outside the Witch King’s own, and only then when all Morrowind is mustered. The only sensible course of action is to conserve our forces and prepare for the coming onslaught, where we can bleed the enemy dry against our fortifications.”

The assembled lords listened and nodded, casting uneasy glances between Lord Kuall and Tyrent. But the highborn was unimpressed.

“So while you cowered in your hole like a rabbit that enemy has systematically destroyed a number of our frontier watchtowers,” he replied coldly, “not to mention slaughter dozens of isolated troop units who stood their ground expecting reinforcements that never arrived. Instead you cowered behind these walls to preserve your own skin, and now the kingdom will be vulnerable to Omnian raids for years to come.”

“The Omnian army must overcome the Black Tower if they hope to press further into Morrowind!” Kuall shot back. “They have no choice but to attack us, and here we are in a position of strength.”

“Are you?” Tyrent said. “If I recall correctly, slightly more than half your garrison is made up of cavalry. How useful will they be to your protracted siege, unless you plan on putting the cavalrymen on the walls and sending their mounts to the kitchens?” He glared hotly at the marshal. “You have a powerful, and above all, mobile force at your command, Lord Kuall, and yet you feared to put it to the test against a mass of ignorant fanatics. Out of timidity you hoped to fight the enemy with half an army while you sat here in your chair and waited for Malekith to come and rescue you. That is not how our people fight, Lord Kuall. That is not how the state responds to animals that trespass into its domain.”

“You dare to call me a coward!” Kuall shouted tearing his sword from its scabbard. The gathered nobles backed hurriedly away from the enraged lord, knocking over chairs and upending cups in their escape.

“I call you nothing,” Tyrent sneered. “When I speak it is with the Witch King’s own voice, and he calls you nothing less than a failure.” Tyrent gestured to the Black Guard. “Take this wretch and impale him upon the spikes above the inner gate. With luck he’ll live long enough to witness the defeat of the horde.”

The masked bodyguards swept forward in a silent rush, swords suddenly appearing in their hands. With a cry of rage, Kuall gave ground, threatening the implacable Black Guard with the point of his blade. But the warriors scarcely broke stride, advancing fearlessly into reach of the lord’s long sword and trapping it with their own. Two more warriors seized Kuall by the arms, and within moments they were dragging the thrashing dark elf lord across the chamber and out the door.

Tyrent savoured the shocked silence that fell upon Lord Kuall’s sudden exit. His black eyes sought out the Lord Sardet and he waited for the great lord to make the next move. The great lord met the highborn’s stare, and Tyrent could see that he was weighing his options. For the moment the great lord was untouchable; as one of the Witch King’s personal vassals he was beyond Tyrent’s reach, but the reverse was true as well. Finally this expression softened and the highborn knew he had won. “What is our dread majesty’s command?” the great lord asked.

“The Witch King is assembling the army of Morrowind and preparing to march here at once,” Tyrent replied, feeling a thrill of triumph. “Until such time as he arrives I will command the forces of the black tower.”

Sardet bristled at the news. “Malekith cannot name you marshal without the approval of the tower lords!”

The highborn cut off the great lord’s protest. “I did not claim to be the marshal, Lord Sardet. I said that I will command the army. It is a fine distinction, but an important one, as I am sure you’ll agree.”

“Very well,” the great lord said darkly, realizing that he’d been outmaneuvered.

“Excellent,” Tyrent said, then raised his axe and embedded it in the tabletop with a thunderous crash. All the assembled highborn leapt back with startled oaths and Tyrent leaned forward and picked up an empty wine goblet with a fierce grin. “Now as my first official command I want a bottle of good wine brought out, then you can tell me who you are and report as to the disposition of our forces.”

Fortress Lathuu, Council Room

The reports lasted for what seemed like eternity to Tyrent, but was however only a few hours. Though long, he listened closely to each and every one, forcing himself to stay away and drink in every detail. His brief time as a lieutenant in his father’s corsair army and more recently as a would-be rebel general had in no real way prepared him for the magnitude of commanding the army of the Black Tower.

He even struggled with the names of the dark elf lords who came forward to report on one of the many facets of the garrison and the tower’s defensive preparations. Lists were presented, detailing the numbers of troops in each regiment, the status of their equipment and their overall readiness, the quantity and quality of their food and the amount of time left in their training period before they were to be sent to their home city. Detailed tallies were given of arrows, crossbow bolts, heavy bolts, spare armour, spare shields, swords, spearheads, arrowheads, catapult stones, gallons of oil, bundles of torches –

“All right, all right!” Tyrent interjected, waving his chalice of wine at the pair of highborn who were currently reporting on the status of the kitchens. “I’ve head enough.” The two bowed quickly and returned to their seats, grateful to have escaped Tyrent’s notice with their skins still intact. Wincing painfully, the tired highborn shifted in the uncomfortable council chair and drained the dregs of his goblet in a single gulp.

“It is clear to me that the Black Tower and the House Hlaalu have not squandered its time since the appearance of the Omnian army. Your preparations were misguided, but your dedication and effort are to be commended,” he said. The assembled lords nodded their heads respectfully. The chair of Lord Sardet next to Tyrent was empty; the great lord had left a couple hours before.

Tyrent focused on the druchii noble across the table who had introduced himself as the commander of the cavalry. He was whipcord-lean wearing dark armour, swathed in a heavy cloak of glossy bearskin. Tyrent couldn’t remember his name… “Let’s get back to basics. How many light cavalry did you say we had, lord…”

“Vespasian, dread lord,” the highborn replied smoothly. Lord Vespasian had a long, hooked nose and three gold earrings that glinted roguishly from his left ear, hinting at a successful former career as a corsair. “We currently muster six thousand light horse, arrayed in six banners, regiments if you will.”

Tyrent nodded. “Very good. ‘ He turned to the broad and unusually large dark elf sitting next to Vespasian. “And our infantry, Lord Decius?”

“Of course,” the highborn said. He had blunt, craggy features and murderously short cropped hair that was jet black with inflections of grey. Tyrent wondered mildly if Lord Decius’ mother hadn’t mated with a bear to produce such a child. He was quite hairy. Lord Decius consulted his reports and drew himself straight. “We currently muster fifteen thousand spearmen and a thousand Black Guard in sixteen banners (regiments).”

Tyrent realized his goblet was once again full, the culprit servant gliding back into the shadows until needed again, and he took a deep draught. He made a mental note to get a tally of the fortress’s wine stores when he had a moment. “Lord Pyrrhus,” he said, turning to the armoured giant to his right. “How fare the household knights?”

Household Knights were the heavy cavalry of all Dark Elf armies. Instead of riding horses, they ride Cold Ones, Nauglir, and are usually filled with the nobility of a local city or area. Many a young lord or highborn desire to be honored to join the ranks of the Household Knights and earn the right to ride a nauglir.

Lord Pyrrhus turned slightly in his chair to face Tyrent, a bit surprised that his new commander actually remembered his name. Pyrrhus was head and shoulders taller than any other druchii in the room, and looked strong enough to crack walnuts with his hands. If Lord Decius’ mother had mated with a bear, then Pyrrhus’ ill-fated mother had lain with a nauglir. He had a wide face and an almost square chin, an unfortunate combination for a druchii lord. “The household knights are fifteen hundred strong,” he replied in a booming voice. “As well as five hundred chariots that haven’t been used in battle as far as I know.”

Tyrent rolled the numbers over in his mind as he swirled the wine in his cup. Twenty-four thousand troops! It was easily twice the size of any other garrison in Morrowind, with the possible exception of Nagor itself. The notion was more intoxicating than any vintage of wine. The amount of power at his disposal was immense. As he contemplated his eyes fell to the burnished silver plaque resting on the table before him.

Now he understood Lord Hourc’s words all too well.

Tyrent took a deep breathe. “Alright, what do we know about the enemy?”

Heads turned. At the end of the table the oldest druchii present sat up straight in his chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. Lord Kerst’s hair was grey white, and was pulled back and plaited with plain finger bones and silver wire. Unlike the other highborn he wore only a shirt of close-fitting mail over a kheitan cut in a rustic almost autarii style. His right cheek was decorated with a swirling tattoo of a snarling hound – a mark of considerable honour among the shades, autarii, if Tyrent’s memory served him correctly. Kerst certainly looked more at home among the cushions and rugs of the autarii lodge than sitting at a table with civilized folk.

The autarii were sometimes considered a people apart from the normal citizens of Morrowind. Where the elves of the city loved craftsmanship and a fine blade the autarii favoured ranger skills and how well a repeater crossbow shot. They were the most skilled trackers and scouts in the known continent, using a bit of magic to summon shades to guide them to either safe places or to find targets. And since they moved like shades themselves, they gained the name too.

“Our scouts have been tracking the army since it came together after sacking the first two border forts almost a week and a half ago,” Kerst said in a gravelly voice. “Kuall spoke truly: the army is the largest I have seen since long ago, Tens of thousands of infantry, cavalry, and summoned daemons and else besides.”

“Any heavily armoured troops?” Tyrent asked.

“None that my scouts saw, dread lord,” the scout commander replied. “But there were many a daemon and summoned angel. It appears the horse is led by a very skilled and powerful sorcerer for the air reeks of magic.”

“And you would put their numbers at what? What is your estimate?”

Kerst paused, swallowing. He looked at the men beside him then back at Tyrent. “I would put them at about forty to forty-five thousand give or take. They darken the plain with their number.”

The other gathered lords looked uneasily at one another. It was a shock that so large an army could have penetrated so quickly and with such secrecy in so short a time. Lord Pyrrhus looked at his wide hands. “Kuall had the right of it,” he said slowly. “There’s no way we can challenge such an army in the field. It would be a massacre. They could outmaneuver us and swallow up our flanks. To even challenge them at all we’d leave the fortress with not even a skeleton garrison.”

The scout commander nodded at once. “I didn’t want to believe it myself, which is why I went and counted their numbers myself.”

Tyrent nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the map spread across the table. “And where are they now?”

Kerst rose from his chair and came around the table. “The army moves slowly,” he said. “Less than a dozen miles a day. Their baggage train is large due to the fact that our country side does not provide a large enough bounty for them to feed from. A small contingent of ships brings in food via a long road for wagon trains. After razing Bhelgaur Keep they turned towards the Black Tower, which means they would be about here.” He pointed to an area of foothills north and west of the Plain of Lathuu, perhaps fifteen leagues distant. It was thirty leagues in from the border.

Tyrent considered the distances and studied the terrain. For the last four days he’d been thinking over all that Hourc had told him, trying to find a way out of the many snares that had been laid for him. One plan after another had been discarded, until an idea struck him in the early hours of the morning that suggested a possibility of success. Now, looking at the map, he made up his mind. “Very well. My thanks to your gentlemen. You’ve given me everything I need to develop a plan of action.” He threw back his head and finished ff the contents of the goblet, then set the wine cup carefully on the tabletop. “It’s been a very long day for all of us, I expect. I’m going to find a bed and get a few hours’ of sleep. We will meet again on the morrow, when I will provide detailed orders for each of the divisions.” Bracing his hands carefully on the arms of his chair, he pushed himself upright and to his feet. “Until then, you are dismissed. I suggest you all get as much rest as you can. There will be little of it to go around in the next few days.”

The army staff rose to their feet, exchanging bewildering glances at Tyrent as he strode purposefully towards the door and the expected bed-rest beyond. Finally it was Lord Pyrrhus that summoned up the courage to ask. “Dread lord?”

Tyrent paused, his hand on the door handle and his head swimming in wine. “Yes?”

“Is there something you know that we don’t?” he rumbled. “Lord Kerst says that the Omnian army is moving only a dozen miles a day. That means they won’t reach the Black Tower for almost a week.”

Tyrent looked at the captain of knights and gave him a wolfish smile. “I know. That gives us just enough time to launch our attack.” Then he disappeared from the room, bounded by the swift shadows of the Black Guard.

A great affront to the sky, the endless of expanse of the burning desert torn by the pretensions of man. Who could build such a thing, to erect a wonder from the nothingness of the wastelands to build a gilded palace monumental in all dimensions as to scrape the feet of the Great God himself? In a very specialized sense the scraping horns of Om did eviscerate the feet of the Divine, its clergy, laboring under its shadow constantly stretched the boundaries of what could be considered the pact between the Divine and Divined. Angels and demons intermingled on the streets so commonly it was hard to make headway against the stream of summoned creatures, and the sky permanently hinted at the flagrances of Mir, Rosemary, Ardabeben, is word magic was in the air.

Kom was by nature not a magical place, the priests usually shunned it as being barbaric, at least it until an Entity is needed to clean the stables, or carry a message, or fight in the most recent crusade. It was said that after the last flicker of belief vested to the old God Ur Gilash that the Prophet Ossury, the great Patriarch of the Omnian Church, made a covenant with the then, and always-powerful Om. The old religion had been brought down in a trice; it’s temples and cities burning under the efforts of only a very small band of irregular followers. What protection could the great God offer to us, we shall believe we shall believe with passion and spread his word, but how shall we not suffer the same fate. On the center hill of Kom Om promised the assistance of the hosts of heaven, to be summoned at times of need by the true in faith to defend his holy words. At that point he also dictated the book of Ossury, detailing how he expected his followers to act, the sanctity of the Inquisition, the need of the Divine Legion and the hierarchy of the Church.

On the spot, the very spot of the old heathen temples the great white fortress was constructed, stone ripped from mountains, jewels hewn from the deserts, pearls pried up from the sea. The expediency of the project was never questioned; in a nation dying inch by inch the Citadel encompassed nearly three hundred varieties of precious stones and metals. The Holy Horns of Om, cast out of gold, and polished to a brilliant gleam met sailors as they entered the harbor of Kom; at least it did before sea travel by civilians was banned. Dwarfed in the shadow of the citadel a city has arisen, mostly constructed from the leavings of the Citadels own stony birth. Though a large metropolis, ranging in pilgrimage seasons from 95,000 to 150,000 citizens, its only piece of note is man’s rape of the sky, the tower of presumptions.

Philosophers, mostly captured from Ephibe have called it many things, in truth mostly they screamed defiance at is from between the not to friendly arms of rather muscular members of the Divine Legion, but when given time to reflect it has generally been conceded it is a work of magic in itself. The original temple had been raised in the fashion of old hill forts, built on a man made mound of dirt with concentric rings of palisades defending it from attack. As Ossury was defiling the statue of Ur Gilash architects were already drawing up the most elaborate plans, not sparing Omnia the smallest expense. Sprawling in marble, the buildings and associated grounds cover twenty-four acres of prime land, land that is hungrily eyed by those of a more practical nature. Over the reigns of nearly two hundred ordained Cenobiarchs, eight prophets, two Archangels, and Om himself the palace has developed as the wealth of the heretic were patched into its walls

The Divine Sacellum is in itself a contained city; terraces cultivated with the finest soils grow sweet vegetables, and golden grains. Ditches once used so ineffectually against invaders are lined with orchards, some of the more enterprising vineyards were in fact planted on the walls, tendrils snaking down and covering the ancient walls with progress. Upon looking up at the walls one’s first sense is that of old money and old power. Even Ephibe was taken with the glistening relic, writing of its thirty-story brilliance.

Through a grand avenue materialized out of the High Desert and performed a regal march to the iron work gates of the Citadel. One of many gates, and certainly not the most renown. Eventually through a crisscrossing of parade grounds, private orchards, and out building the walker may approach the Grand plaza, cut from shale, basalt and quartz, from above in a sight that cannot be totally seen by humans, a mosaic of The Great God Om, in bull form, trampling infidels under massive flaming hooves. Around the plaza where pilgrims offer their devotions to the Holy horns or shrines of lesser angels, often there s public entertainment and vendors thronging the plaza, Kom seems primarily devoted to the mercantile needs of the pilgrims, it’s citizens sole purpose to wrangle with the pious for a few Obals.

Now with back facing the desert Om’s true word is revealed, ten meters high and shiny with bronze. The commandments of every prophet have been engraved painstakingly with the heads of silver pins into the door, each prophet adding a few square feet upon his ascension into the Divine. By the more credulous of the denizens it is said that the breath of Om simply on the command of the Cenobiarch opens the doors. Of course Their Imminences are, almost to a man, skilled magicians and the breath of Om usually take the form of dozens of sweating demons laboring under the invisible whip of his Holinesses hand.

Once inside the building become cavernous, high, stained glass windows pour in soft light, which refracts off the clean marble of the walls. Murals of ancient battle and Prophet’s walk adorn most walls, their vibrant colors conflicting with the pale radiance of the marbled halls, Though there are thousands of impressive rooms the most grand, the center of power, the convalescence of Omnia power is the Convocation Hall. When a Cenobiarch is ordained he must yell into the room, whim’s natural shape and marbled nature assure reverberations. To be successfully ordained no sound may return, the Cenobiarch’s words must go unchallenged, his voice extending it’s control over the room and symbolically the country. He then is washed in sacred oil from a silver tub placed on a high alter, where the entire senior clergy must watch him bathe. Once finished the Cenobiarch is dressed in the robes of the Abbys, wherein a demon of considerable power is trapped, to the extent then when wearing the robes no harm may be inflicted upon it’ wearer, at least in the magical sense. In the right hand a white staff, the Staff of Ossury is placed, which in the pomposity of the hall looks stark, simply white carved with the phrase “In Thy Hands the Fate of God” Though there has been no official story, other then that the Prophet fought at Kom with it, it releases an abnormal feeling of power, a faint aura of unimaginable wisdom, the trails and hardships of the Prophets, the opulence and pleasure of the Cenobiarch’s.

At this point the Cenobiarch to be must stroll over burning sand, fresh from the desert not a mile away kept warm by oil fires below the floor, finally brining his coronation to the climax in the Convocation hall. There a susurration that only the massed can attain, in cavernous halls the Cenobiarch sits himself of the wooden throne of the Prophet Vorbis and awaits his crown. Thirty meters above him the battle of Blünderburg is portrayed, each corner of the ceiling supported by an equally imposing statue of the first four Prophets. Their elaborate robes hemmed with gemstones, their teeth in pearl, and their eyes of desert opal. There finally after a day of preparation a simple miter is placed on the head of the new Hierophant the leader of all Omnians around the globe, always a globe.

---

Today however the sun blessedly had been shrouded behind a torrent of ominous clouds, it seemed for once rain was on the horizon, and even now the windows were being savaged by a desert storm. Little groups of men wearing variety of robe, from homely to the downright pointless extravagant sailed like full galleons around several tables, covered in a haphazard fashion with discarded books. Servants and imps sprinted about gather small items from one table, a few pens from this one and hurrying them over to another, in a mystifying dance of clerical purpose.

Lothar the XVIII hovered, quite literally on a litter some feet above the ground his slippered feet dangling with an impatient fervor. Around him were gather eight or nine hulking Demons, every one bearing a title as long as their severely clichéd horns, dukes of hell bound inside the circles. Circles, it seemed quite the hobby in Omnia, more were forming in the convocation hall, were bishops blustered around bellowing at servants, and stretching their calves, and loosening their robes this was to be a strange summoning, something that again contradicted the tenants of Omnianism. Candles created spheres of soft light in the darkening hall, each constructing it’s own separate world on marbled floors.

A rhythmic chanting began, low, dark, the sound of barbarian kings evoking wood spirits, of dark sorcerers chanting their devotions to forgotten spirits, and this was old magic. Bishops seemed to shiver as a croup of Archpriests in the center of the hall began to sway, their boney arms tinging a faint green. Servants began to whimper before collapsing, the Bishops only refraining from succumbing themselves due to hours of preparation, and quite extensive praying. Premature darkness filled the hall, shadows long and spiny appearing where there should have only been the twinkle of candles, What few lights guttered streaming in a warm wind that impossible blew from locked and barred doors. Any words that were shouted were swallowed into a chasm of expanding silence; all present steeled them, grasping at suddenly flapping robes. The Archpriest’s words were no longer words, the guttural sounds that could have been considered intelligent dissolving into a primeval scream of rage.

Behind every eye, every closed pupil images flashed of old deserts, dusty dooms and shimmering faces. These faces though were not of the living they were shallow and pale, though all exuberant and beckoning calling every man present to them, their eyes alone betraying the sadness within. The binding seemed to be reaching and end, the Divine Circle, which upon study expanded through a majority of the room, with hypnotic Bishops acting as anchors to the Archpriests words, had begun to glow, casting an after image into the Cenobiarch’s eyes of the Holy Horns, constellations of all the heavens, of the subduing angels. Then the world, went dark all light, true darkness as not achieved by the mere lack of light enveloped the room sucking and dragging away all wisps of humanity. For a moment time was suspended in the silent darkness, reality was only held in place by the flashing after images of the circle.

Slowly, with the paces of continental drift, life returned, and with it the pungent sent of decaying autumn leaves slowly returning to the earth from which bore them. It was an unfamiliar sent to Omnians, who had never greatly invested in forestry, but it was a scent that spoke of some universal sweetness commanding and demanding reverence.

“And to this world I bind you, by the pacts of the Great God Om you have been commanded to serve his greater will.” Lothar the XVIII picked himself up off the floor for that was, in the darkness, where he had fallen. Scattered in their places bishops, archpriests, demons and servants lay collapsed faintly smiling in the grip of an exhausted sleep. Brandishing Ossury’s staff Lothar approached the circle, rubbing a faint haze from his eyes, and more over starring for though there was still hardly any light he could feel the presence, the exact location and demeanor of the summoned. With a snap of his gloved fingers ten dots of flame burst into life near the ornamented ceiling. Behind the opal eyes of the Prophets fire burned crackling orange and refracting evilly off the opal eyes of their containers. In the mouth of pearly teeth another fire blazed glinting fiendishly of red tipped teeth. Each snarling face, for it was a snarl, reflected the savagery of Om, their by day patrician features, turned to the hooked appendages of the demon.

“Lady I have called, you must answer?” Lothar was not capable of viewing his Entity, an naked women, slightly plump in cherubic way with flowing silvery hair that cascaded down in great streams, acting as censor.

“You have Indeed, and I stand at your service,” her voice was deep as though she were the puppet of a skilled ventriloquist, and it was not her voice. Her hair acting as she spoke began to wind it’s way up her sides, pulling and coiling away from a set of impossible breasts, revealing on their way up a silky nape of exact proportion perfect dimension and scope. Even with a lifetime of Church imposed celibacy under his belt old passions arose, even though they were forbidden, and especially since the exact location and history of this woman was known all too well.

“Majesty,” The Cenobiarch dipped a low bow in an attempt to break eye contact with the vision of lust gently posing before him.

“It is said that, when Ossury received the benefaction of Om he did not bow, did not prostrate himself in fear against the furies of his god. Yet you, here, bow to me?”

“And I shall bow before Om. That was then, lady this is now, we have evolved.”

“So polite the con of man.” The lady managed to summon a light shift about her person and gave off a light chuckle either from the shift of humanity or the feel of silk on skin was unknown to Lothar.

“I remember your old Prophets, how they starred into the desert hungered for it’s power. I’ve watched this country as I was bade to do, for millennia I have waited and sighed with you, wept with you, and fought with you. Against the whole we world we march, arm an arm into the desert, against the burning sun we shall raise our weapons in salute. There shall be no solace for us, no rest against the tides of invaders, no final rest for those who die in the defense of Om. For we shall be raised again to fight the eternal battle after death, never to let slip this damnation of religion. Let us die.” She had begun in a controlled voice, angled for the desperate and ended in a furious whisper, which shook and rattled the teeth of the dead Prophets.

Glistening streaks of flaming oil cascaded from the open mouths of the ancient dead. For a brief second the flickered across the faces of thousands of dead warriors depicted on the wall, each one of them glaring out from plastered walls as if furious. The cascade ended on the floor, puddling in a still burning pool around the border of demons, which instead of their normal leers, seemed to laugh and dance about the edge of humanity.

“I have a task for you,” the Cenobiarch’s normally stentorian voice quivered with the pressures of the situation.

“I know,”

“Against the world we march.”

“I know,”

“Into the darkness, against the heathen, the pagan, and the demon. Into Morrowind we extend our hand.”

“And what would you have me do? Om did not invest me with magic as he did your Bishops, he did not grant me his Divine Spear from which to impale our enemies? I am your shield, your hope, your grace, the wind upon the palm, the song against the sky, the final psalm, the prayers of a child, but I am not the spear of the Prophet.”

“You are Omnia,” Lothar whispered loudly enough again to fill the hall, though no echo came back, he was master here, he had been crown, he had sat upon the wooden throne, he had curled his fingers about the staff and felt in it Omnia, all that it had been all that it could be. “You may not be able to blast your way through the enemy, but Omnia does not fight it’s wars in the open. Our battles need not wield across the sky, and burn the land; we shall fight where no fortress can be built, no army march. Our hand shall extend and rip from the enemy his soul, his mind, everything that excuses his existence.”

“You shall whisper in the night,” he stepped into the circle grabbing the Lady by the hand, which was unsurprisingly warm. For a moment again, his mind was not his own. Soldiers screamed up marble steps, their boots bounding in rhythm to the thunking of ballista, and the war cries below. Men in white robes streamed up the steps and behind them fire illuminated the insanity in their eyes, the staves clutched to their knobbly hands. Behind it all though, a bank of clouds the Holy Horns burned like the death of a thousand words, smoke and ash framing it against a primitive, bloody sky.

“Lady go in the night to Morrowind, and take their soles, whisper in the night, corrupt their black hearts. Turn them against themselves, expand your loving embrace.” Lothar paused returning to the here and now. “Do what you must protect us, protect the Holy Horns, you may depart, your orders are clear.”

With a sad smile and a bob of the head the Lady turned bobbing a curtsey so majestic it portrayed the crowned heads of the world as gibbering peasants. She turned longing green eyes to the Cenobiarch. “Your orders have never bound me, there are powers of a greater calling, greater then crusade, greater then a God that may blow away in the wind.” In a cloud of hazel leaves and a burst of magic crackle the Lady dematerialized.

With her absence consciousness returned to the room at large, along with some natural light. As bishops began to pick themselves up off their feet rain began to plink against he widows gently in fashion that suggested it could keep on forever.

---

Banners wiped around the General Azerri. For once it seemed to be pleasant weather, ironically of course they were in a land where even the trees seemed to come alive and eat forage parties. His army was in excellent spirits; opposition had been limited to a few pokey forts, and old women attempting to hold off the Omnian horde with kitchen utensils. His infantry marched along a seemingly uninhabited and unused road, although there were signs of use only occasionally a dark elf would pop it’s head around and then run six miles before Omnian cavalry had even formed a line.

And what cavalry, chargers used to eating hay in dusty stable now feasted on fresh grass and apples when they could be found, Omnian cavalry was developing quite nicely on campaign, brining out the old shine. Somewhat to Azerri’s annoyance some of his angels scouts had reported quite a large fortress some miles to the south, it was a ways still and if his angels kept on their tows any force able to oppose the Omnians would be spotted within hours. An additional concern was the fact that his cavalry, so fresh full of vigor, spread out occasionally up to two miles from his column. Admittedly they were raping the countryside of valuable resources but should battle ensue they would be considerably far off and of comparatively little use unless acting quickly. “Still Om walks with us, though all of our deserts, his hands guides us all. We cannot fail.” It was a phrase brought out so much in this strange land that it had started to be believed.

Song and a gaiety could not be kept out of his men, and though they marched further and further without combat this only improved morale, although messages to the Cenobiarch were becoming more painful everyday.


“Liar.”

“Faker”

“Fraud”

“He killed his father”

“He Has No Honor”

“He will come for you next.”

“He Plots”

“Nowhere is safe”

“Ruin”

“Death”

“Dishonor”

“Give Into Me”


The litany would continue until the enemies of Omnia lay broken and humbled at the feet of the Cenobiarch.

Black Tower of Lathuu

The thunder of three thousand marching feet reverberated down the length of the marshalling square and vibrated against Tyrent’s ribcage. He felt the measured tramp of boots through the heavy stone of the outer gatehouse, and it brought a feral smile of joy to his pallid face. It was, some might say, music to his ears.

He had issued his orders scarcely an hour past dawn, and the forces he’d chosen had assembled in good order barely three hours after that. To their credit, his highborn staff hadn’t blinked an eye when he’d laid out his plan. Possibly they’d drunk their fears into submission the night before, much as he had. The servants were still clearing out the empty bottles.

The scouts, as always, were the first to depart. They’d left almost immediately after meeting with his lieutenants. Lord Kerst had left with them, garbed in dark robes and mail just like the hill-born autarii themselves. Glancing up at the midday sun, Tyrent reckoned that the shades were leagues away by now.

Just an hour before a fanfare of horns sounded from the outer gatehouse, and the first three banners of cavalry left as the army’s vanguard. The last few squadrons of those horsemen were just departing through the massive gate, and the regiments of Black Guard were crossing the square next. Their captain raised his sword in salute to Tyrent as they passed beneath the high arch, and he returned the gesture proudly with his upraised axe. Beyond the Black Guard waited two more regiments of spearmen, then the household knights, and the cold one chariots, destined for the battlefield at last. Farther still waited the remaining three banners of light cavalry to act as a rearguard. The garrison’s entire cavalry and almost a quarter of its infantry – almost half of the entire army, on balance – were being wagered on a single, desperate gamble. The thought chilled him to the marrow, but anything less would have doomed the expedition to certain failure.

Suddenly a loud commotion arose at the far end of the battlements. Tyrent heard angry shouts over the heavy tramp of feet and glanced along the walkway to see what was happening. The soldiers of the gate watch who were watching the army alongside him suddenly shifted and dodged about as a single figure stormed down the battlements in Tyrent’s direction. The highborn couldn’t see who it was, but he had a fairly good idea.

He straightened and made certain his gleaming armour was presentable as the Lord of the Black Tower burst into view. Lord Sardet was livid, his entire body trembling with rage. “What do you think you are doing?” the lord said in a strangled voice. “Stop this madness at once and return these troops back to their barracks!”

Tyrent bowed his head regretfully. “I cannot,” he replied. “And you have no authority to command me, even if I were your tower marshal.”

For a moment it looked as though Sardet would reach for his sword. His hands trembled with furry…and no small amount of fear, the highborn imagined. “You cannot defeat the army in pitched battle!” the highborn lord cried. “You’re sending those men to certain death and leaving the Black Tower defenceless!”

“Defenceless?” Tyrent arched an eyebrow. “Hardly. I’ve left you with thirteen thousand well trained spearmen to defend the fortress walls. That should be more than sufficient to hold back more than ten times their number. And if my plan succeeds, they will not be needed at all.”

Sardet would not be mollified however. “But the army-.”

“My lord, I have no intention of fight the Omnian army in a pitched battle,” Tyrent snapped, fixing Sardet with a fiery state. “An army like that is not held together by mere training and discipline. If their spiritual-temporal leader dies, then they will suffer a heavy loss and most likely retreat. And if they do not then when the Witch King’s army arrives it will be like mopping up idiot children armed with pitchforks.”

“Point is my lord,” continued Tyrent, “I need the cavalry’s mobility and hitting power, and the spearmen will provide a solid rearguard for the squadrons to rally behind.” He leaned forward close to the tower lord. “Think of the glory when Malekith arrives with his army to find the war leader’s head hanging from a gatehouse spike. They’ll sing of your heroism the length and breadth of Morrowind.”

Sardet thought it over. A faint gleam of avarice shone in his eyes. “The rewards for such a victory would be great,” he allowed, then frowned worriedly. “Are you absolutely certain this will work?”

The highborn shook his head. “Nothing in war is certain, my lord. But believe me when I tell you that while the Omnian leaders have a strong magically enhanced army of daemon-spawn, they have no real experience in major large-scale warfare. They will not expect an attack like this, which gives us a great advantage. At worst we will be able to inflict tremendous losses and sow terrible confusion on the enemy, which will allow for us to retire back to the fortress in good order.”

Tyrent put every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his argument. He believed in the plan; it was the only one he could conceive would give him a chance escaping Malekith’s clutches. A victory now would forgo any retribution by Malekith.

The highborn struggled to remain patient while the tower lord thought it over. Finally, Sardet nodded. “I can find no fault with your plan,” he said at last. “Go with the Dark Mother’s blessing and sow fear and loathing among our foes.” He smiled. “Naturally I regret not being able to accompany you-.”

“Say no more my lord,” Tyrent assured him. “Someone must remain behind to command the garrison and await the Witch King’s arrival. With luck I should return with the army in about five days.”


* * * * * * * * *

Tower of Nagor


Lady Morathi watched through witch-fire fueled eyes as the first of her acolytes fell dead on her feet. It was not unexpected. In truth Morathi even liked watching, feeling the ecstasy of a small but powerful soul being dragged tooth and nail from its body and beyond. How useful were the servants of the Omnia, or at least those they thought their servants. Indeed Morathi had to hand it to them. They must be investing a great amount of effort to win this campaign if they’ve started this trick.

Morathi turned away from her alter and looked at the gathered Blood Witches. They and she were all entirely naked. Their perfection of body, the alabaster smooth and regal skin, was enough to make men go mad with lust. Many a man had wandered across a bloody battlefield to discover these dark angels and be filled with joy, only to have it stripped away with fear and hate as a knife from a Blood Witch found his heart.

The room they stood in was a chapel to Kaine. The walls, the floors, the doors, and even the alter were splattered with old and new blood. It formed large pools across the cobblestone surface of the floor. It fell in small perfect drops across the skin of each Blood Witch. At a word it could even begin to rain blood within the confines of that room.

“Sisters! Tonight a reckoning is at hand!” Morathi called. A murmur of pleasure and bloodlust filtered through the group of elf women. Each pair of burning brass-colored eyes stared with an unholy hunger at Morathi.

“A spirit enslaved by the Omnians is nigh…trespassing upon our domain and stealing the souls of our sisterhood. Shall we teach them the ways of Murder?”

“Yes!” They chanted back.

“Then bring forth the sacrifice!”

From a side door two temple eunuchs entered bearing a dead body. The body had once belonged to the arch lector of the temple of Kaine. A powerful and fearful man, he’d gone willingly into death at Morathi’s behest.

The two eunuchs laid the corpse on a great black basalt block of stone in the center of the room. The body of the man lay on the block, his pale face stained with dark blood and his hands wrapped around the hilt of a gleaming draich sword. His body was attired in the clothes in which he had died: simple white robes, similar to other zealous temple members, but his were soaked in red from a gapping wound that ran from the shoulder to his hip.

Without a word three of thee women danced slowly around the corpse, their thick, white hair billowing like banners in the wind. Each wore a witch’s black headdress, and their naked bodies were sleek and voluptuous. Sweat glistened on their powerful arms and gleamed coldly from white throats and heavy breasts as the witches swayed to a rhythm only they could hear. Their eyes were like shadowed pools, depthless and dark, and their lips moved, whispering words of power that Morathi could feel pulsing against her skin. Their fingers, tipped with long black talons moved elegantly. Their brilliant white, fanged teeth shone as their mouths opened.

Morathi stood apart from this dance. A curved scimitar rested in her hands, retrieved from the table next to the alter, she stood ready with the poise of a skilled and experienced swordsman. Soon would come his part.

The blood-witches continued to dance around the corpse, staring at the body with their hooded eyes and whispering supplications to the Lord of Murder. As one the trio suddenly stopped. One stood to either side of the body and a third stood just behind the man’s head. The blood-witches reached towards the corpse, stretching their long taloned fingers, and the woman at the head bent with a bestial grin and pressed her lips to his.

The corpse convulsed, arms and legs spasming as if in the throes of death. The blood-witches withdrew, throwing back their heads and letting out an ululating howl that set Morathi’s teeth on edge, though she’d heard it before. Then with a furious roar the corpse sat bolt upright, its bloody face twisted in an expression of hatred. Several of the watching witches drew back in obvious fear. Morathi, however, spread her arms as if welcoming a lover, and let out a joyful laugh. “Arise fell creature! Shake off the black veil of death and heed your vow to Kaine!”

The risen corpse glared at Morathi. The corpse’s face worked spasmodically, as if wishing to hurl curses at her but its mouth was unable to form the words. After a moment the corpse gave up trying to speak. The corpse’s dark eyes glittered with bitter humour. For a bare objective moment Morathi wondered if the dead elder wasn’t trying to impart some dark wisdom from Kaine’s blood-soaked realm. With a jerk the corpse launched a blistering attack on Morathi. The speed was shocking, near inhuman. Morathi met them blow for blow and felt at ease. Just as the corpse’s long sword sliced for Morathi’s throat the bare witch elf exploded into action. One moment her sword was hanging calmly from her hand, and the next she was past the corpse’s onrushing form, his long sword held high. One could barely register the ringing of sound of steel against flesh.

The corpse staggered to a stop, still frozen in mid-swing as if confused. Then with a wet, slithering sound the upper quarter of the corpse’s torso slid off at an angle and fell to the floor with a spray of clotted blood. Incredibly, the rest of the body remained upright for a moment more before toppling forwards and spilling steaming organs across the slate tiles.

With an ecstatic shriek the other witches fell upon the corpse’s bisected form, pulling away robes and tearing into the shorn flesh with fang and claw. Morathi held out her hand to the blood witches. “Give me my due,” she said, “in Kaine’s holy name.” The blood witches eyed her over their carrion feast, their chins dark with blood. One of them smiled, showing blood soaked fangs. She reached into the corpse’s ruptured chest and pulled forth his heart. Morathi took the organ respectively, and threw back her head and squeezed the heart’s contents into her open mouth. For a moment then Morathi absorbed all that was part of the dead man and used him as a bridge to another place, a dark place. When she spoke it was no longer the voice of Morathi.

“I summon you o’ Lord of Murder! Head the call of your servant! Revenge yourself in a bloodlust upon our enemies and show them the fiery heart of your rage! Take this offering in payment, with many more soon to follow.”

The voice that answered was one that reverberated through the very soul and being of every blood witch. It called forth a hunger for blood and battle that would never be sated. It demanded thousands, hundreds of thousands, nay millions of lives to be sought and killed for the glory that was its name; a thing of before time.

“Know then that I shall destroy your enemies,” pronounced the god Kaine, Lord of Murder, The Bloody-Handed God. “For though and thine has given me great pleasure and sacrifice.”

When the gateway to the Abyss was shut it knocked Morathi down to the floor. All the other witches were brought to their knees in pain and ecstasy. Their lord and master had spoken to them and they knew that a reckoning had begun.



Kaine walked as the coming of doom. Where he passed in the lands of the beyond, there was left only a wake of wrack and ruin. A destruction and murder so great as to sicken the most bloodlust filled minds. It pleased him to think of himself as a masculine figure. His favorite worshippers were called ‘Brides of Kaine’ after all. He watched as another Dark Elf soul, a soul dedicated to him, was lost and stolen by another spiritual being; A being that he knew and laughed at.

Kaine was all too familiar with the angels and daemons that the foolish mortal Omnians summoned from the nether. Many was the time that the Lord of Murder had feasted on their corpses and sat amongst their skulls in leisure.

The creature, known as the Lady, looked up and saw Kaine. And mighty is the fear of lesser beings when in the presence and power of a god.

“Thine end has come,” Kaine rumbled.

“Lies”

Around not but desert, black and portentous, it’s howling waste spreading untold millions of miles, it’s vastness not formed by reality, not bound by any whim. Gritty sand arranged in great sweeping patterns that would never be seen, the world played out where feet would never tread. Alone in the desert, an Omnia phrase, this placed was created by Omnian belief, it’s stark flats the sum of the petty fears of those who fashioned it. Alone you had to walk it, or not.

“The burning Furnace awaits you.”

If in the expanse of nothingness a center could be found, then in the center was a rock, a boulder, it’s edges not hinting of the ebb and flow of water, or the caress of a soft wind, but of tooth and fang, sword and axe. Though it could not be explained the gentle slope of each side portrayed the battle of the hammer against the nail, the thought against the head, evil against other evils. There was no good here, not when the body had turned to rot, reality, though enhanced by philosophers in the other world, was truly here. Shimmering heat haze barred no argument; this was where the anxious fears were realized.

“Your Gods are nothing but an echo on the wind”

Atop the rock a figure sat cross-legged, hair cascading down in an act of ridiculous censorship. Her creamy skin the only texture to the place, her flowing hair the only contrast of color. Carefully, in a measured way, she rocked back and forth her shoulders arching to the necessities of movement. Her breath, the only smell and only coolness in the anteroom of hell, came in a long pronounced huffs.

“Till the word of the Falsehood dies.”

Standing beside the arching and mumbling figure another hummed softly. It had no name. It did not exist, but with the force lent of gods clashing it hummed, a hum that reverberated across infinity. The only section of anatomy that was visible was a set of teeth, perfectly white, possibly kept so by the inexorable hum. By the aura and white robe it wore the watcher would expect to see another female of impossible beauty. It was not so, below the teeth, skin of grey and green hung like burial shrouds, so dilapidated a host of small insects crawled though many small orifices. From one sleeve dangled a chain of beads, which clicked rhythmically with his slight never-ending hum. From one end hung a pallored silver Holy Horns that had nearly lost its gleam to tarnish. The Horn bobbed in time gently swinging back and forth to an inner beat, with it though came the sound of bones on bead. He was Remorse.

“You Gibber Error”

Below the two another figure strode around the stone as if impatient, it’s robe’s hem flicking away sand. Its white hood had been pushed back to reveal a bound of bun of grey hair, a few tendrils limply bobbing to the movement of the women. Her footprints acutely crunched into the sand the heels of a set of fine black shoes pushing little holes into the desert floor. In a near sobbing state the women rushed around the rock, her head cast down in wild frustration. When her frantic rush brought her to an arbitrary point on her circuit she let out a wailing moan, and began her stroll again.

Her good natured face, a women of about sixty, with kindly blue eyes and a face that had seen the pinch of many grandchildren, starred horrifically down at a tattered scrap of paper in her hand. Perhaps it had once been a piece of paper but now it was simply a grey two-dimensional object preserved forever in the blinding heat. She made no sound but the occasional moan, and forever rushed looking for what could not be found. She was Anxiety.

“They shall come for you.”

Casually, in comparison to the others a three, a fourth reclined on the rocks surface. Its robe was spattered with blood, now faded to an ancient black. Other bodily fluids had probably adorned it once but had been bleached away; it still had the trappings of the Church about it, a stab of violent green here, a faded thread of gold attached to the shoulders. It had eyes, a face, and it seemed a spark of consciousness, but it like the others had only one task here. It’s eyes grey and bright starred into the desert, longingly but with a certain passion that held it’s feet in place.

A faint tinge of incense and rosewater rose of the man, the odors of coronation. On his fingers sat rings of silver, set heavily with sapphires and emeralds, they too had lost their sheen, fading to a pinprick against the supernova. The man’s lips moved gently, reciting silent psalms and endless exultations. Om, it seemed, had forgotten him and there was a desert to walk, a great desert one which was reality, the culminations of all actions. He was Fear.

“Murderer”

Alone they had stayed, away for so long since from the sweet touch of death bond forever to click rosaries, to chant prayers to, await the arrival of a lost son. Omnians believed in an after life, they were most emphatically sure of an afterlife; it was the meaning of their existence to worship and create Om, who like all was bound to duties. Unknowingly in this Omnians, whether destined for heaven or hell had damned themselves, for if one went to heaven then one became an angel. If one’s deeds had merited a stay in hell then one became a demon. Whence on the sacred hill of Kom Om made his pact he enslaved a people as yet uncreated. From the first second of Omnia to when it’s life winked out it’s people would walk a desert, perform the will of the Cenobiarchs and softly weep for death. To the ideals of an enslaved God the world spun on a twenty-three degree axis around a stationary sun, or else.

“Let us Die, forget us”

These Laments were however not intended for deaf ears, the desert dwellers had been commanded to sway the minds of the Dark Elves, and suddenly then were not alone. Clicking, humming, moaning, continued even when the voice, a voice of liquid steel, so dark and powerful, poured over the land. Subtle undertones, a chorus of echoes came from the voice chatter out and away from the roar of this Hellish god.

“Thine end”

“Thine end “

“Thine end”

“Thine end”


The Lady, Omnia, stood and bowed a long and gracious deference to Kaine. Silk like hair cascaded down in rivulets to be flung up when she had paid her dues. “I would embrace end my lord. Sleep, I slept once centuries ago, a calm blackness is all that I desire.”

With a patrician hand the Lady scooped from the stone a hand full of sand and tossed it into the air, any man in the vicinity not insane or older then humanity would have choked at the associated movements of the Ladies’ actions. Brilliant crystal flew into the air behind her and began playing the stream of images the Cenobiarch and his retinue had seen. White robed priests battling under the Holy Horns.

“I am captured with more then just magic, the words of the Magicians of Kom hold no power then what was there. REGRET!” She ended screaming, her eyes, before tranquil, went icy white with fear, before fading to their normal condition.

“I am no angel”

“I am Omnia. Every tree that grows from that accursed desert, every knife of the inquisition, though I would shirk this duty, I cannot, for I am duty. When all life, when all memory of Omnia has evaporated, when the voice of God is no longer even a whisper I can die.”

“DIE!”

“I am the protector, come with your powers, come with your spawn, burn everything with flames of unholy retribution, it matters not. For I am serenity, and all your posturing, your fanciful decadence shall be nothing to us. This is the Desert Sire, and you must walk it all alone. This is Omnia. I rule here.”

Again the woman sat down, there may have been additional raging from the God but they were lost, they indeed were nothing here. Of course her voice was nothing in Morrowind but what the Dark Elves made of it.

“Do you fear him?”

----


“Stomp the Heathen Stomp the Heathen Stop the Heathen Till he Stands no more.” If a scale was created where on one end there were sopranos trilling their way through Ave Maria, the singing of the Divine Legion, whose boots stomped fields flat would be ranked as petulant screaming. Still its power was reinforced by the thundering of thousands of men under arms, weapons glinting from a hazy sun. Yellow cloaks brilliant now with contrasts in the land whipped in a gentle breeze.

For the moment the army had been called to a halt. Fires had already been lit and the countryside was be scoured for food, and more commonly former slaves, who gibber of great voices, and usually were missing pieces of anatomy. By Omnian standards however the Dark Elves were simply talented amateurs at torture and the few Dark Elves that were captured learned just how effective one demon being forced inside your head can be. It was a painful torture, some say the worst, but the trembling sticks that once had been children deserved to see the Elves killed then nailed to trees. Om’s Orchard as it was playfully called.

Though most were indeed feeling playful, General Arezzi, who lacked a spyglass, as they were obviously abominable, shielded his eyes with a gloved hand and surveyed the countryside. “This is a decent spot for camp, we are marching no more today.” Aides scampered off to break the news to already jubilant soldiers. Around the majority of the army a series of gullies, usually with sweet springs, formed a defensive ring. A few heavy infantry had been sucked to the waist into sinkholes, and required horsemen to pull them out. All these little streams lead to the sea, which was to the armies left about nine miles off from the furthest cavalry patrol. Behind the army was the pillaged landscape they had just come from, mostly steppe land but General Arezzi having been born in the desert wasn’t quite sure what Steppe was supposed to mean.

“Of course if you look at it the other way we are in a bottle neck between, but if the angels are accurate any nearby enemy forces breaking two to surround us would only be an advantage.” A fairly winding path of varying from a quarter to half a mile wide, lead out of the marshy area, and back to the main road. The Cenobiarch had assured various commands that this was the wisest thing to do, leave the road.

“For the night,” the general turned a eye to a mage puffing gently on a willow pipe beside him, on one of the very few hills here, “have about five hundred imps bury themselves in the mud, and from here on form a perimeter of demons, we will not be surprised here or anywhere in this damn country.”

----
"He brings ruin to your house. He marches away with men that should fight only for you. Do you fear him, or do you fear you God? March against him, take his head and win favor with the Witch King. The Omnians wait in a swamp, not three days from here, unawares, lambs for the slaughter. Obey Me. Their is only honor in killing the traitor, and more in killing the Omnian defiler, march against them. Do it now, or I shall not grant the mercy of killing you, there is so much worse then that."

The Lady had no power, no influence, except what was already there.