Ahzidal's Descent
by
Halund Greycloak
In the days beyond memory, when men first walked the lands of Skyrim, there arose in the city of Saarthal a great enchanter. As a boy, his gift for magic and artifice had been evident to his tutors. As a man, his skill surpassed them all. And finding nothing more to learn among his kin, he left wife and child, and set out to train under the elven masters.
A year became two, then three. And when finally his path led him back to Saarthal, he found only ruins: for the elves had sacked the city, and all that lived there were dead or gone. Amid the ashes, in the smoldering ruins of his home, he swore a terrible oath of vengeance. And from that comes the name the legends give him: Ahzidal, the embittered destroyer.
Alone, he could do nothing. And so, he bided his time, delving deeper into his art than any before him. From the Dwemer, he learned the seven natures of metal and how to harmonize them. From the Ayleids, the ancient runes and dawn-magic even the elves had begun to forget. Among Falmer and Chimer and Altmer he traveled, taking what he could from each, and all the while plotting how he might turn that knowledge against them.
Finally, word reached him of Ysgramor and his Companions, newly-arrived from Atmora. For three days and nights, he rode north, and met them as they made landfall on the icy coast near the ruins of Saarthal, which the elves had fortified against them. He offered the Companions his service, and all he had produced in his years of labor. And with Atmoran steel imbued with his enchantments, the elves fell before them, and at last he had his revenge.
But he was not content. His craft had become his life, and his hunger for knowledge still gnawed at him, driving him to delve ever deeper. At long last, he exhausted the lore of the elves, but it was not enough. He sought the secrets of Dragon-runes, and won for himself a seat among their high priests, but it was not enough. And at length, he turned his gaze to the planes of Oblivion, and found there both power and madness.
Some say he ventured there, never to return. Others, that he was betrayed by his fellow Dragon Priests, and killed, or driven into hiding in the ruins beneath his beloved Saarthal. Among the Skaal of Solstheim, it is said he fled to their island, and was sealed in the depths of Kolbjorn Barrow, together with the last of his relics.
But that is the tale, as it was told among the bards of Winterhold. Whatever the truth, the legend of Ahzidal was intended as a warning: in pursuit of perfection, one must take care that the pursuit itself does not become all-consuming.
“Damn it! Not now, Shiny!” the Orc growled, crouching next to Äelberon. The elf’s eyes were bloodshot, the blood pouring from his nose didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. His pale skin was covered with sweat. The breathing was labored, making the whistle from old injury all the more prevalent. “We’re not takin’ a nap now, Shiny. Got a job to do, remember?”
“A nap? Boy… you... sound... like my Ana... Sorry, Gru, tired, so tired. Wish... I could be what I once was… sorry. I want to… I really want to.” He tried to push himself up. “Just can’t.” A second attempt to push himself up and the Altmer gritted his teeth effort. “No, cannot be like Ondolemar, cannot be like the pass, he can’t win. I... need to get up…” He was wheezing now, fighting to stay awake, fighting with every ounce he had left to push himself up. And he fell back again, gasping for breath.
Grulmar could feel the dark magic in the next room rising like a tidal wave, nearly reaching its highest point. The whispers became a cacophony of voices full of hatred and madness, echoing through the Orc’s skull with broken promises and false truths. “We’re outta time,” he muttered, trying to push those voices out of his head. “We’re outta time, Shiny.” He then shook his head, smirking at the Altmer. “Tusk this! I didn’t crawl out of my bed just to watch ya take a nap, lazy fart. We got an island to save, a Dragon Priest to tusk up - heh, maybe there’s even a damsel to rescue there.” The old Mer croaked a laugh and Grulmar found himself wiping the blood from Äelberon’s nose. He didn’t know why he did it, but he did. “Don’t laugh, I’m tuskin’ serious. If ya won’t get yer arse up I’m goin’ to shove a potion down yer throat.”
The Mer frowned, furrowing his brow, but the bloodshot eyes showed Grulmar a certain twinkle, he was funning the Orc. “Bet it’s got bits in it,” he grumbled. “Ana takes out the bits. She loves me...”
“Tuskin’ baby,” the Orc snorted, reaching for one of the vials at his belt. His hand stopped for a moment, as if the fingers themselves weren’t sure. This one? Nah, might not be enough. He needs little bit more kick. Oh boy… He shifted his hand and pulled a completely different vial, made of black glass with a bits of something floating in the liquid inside. “Yup, we’ve got bits. Bits of banana more precisely, ‘cause I’ve heard bananas have magickal properties. Ya know, makin’ ya...hard.”
“Oh, I like bananas. Used to eat ‘em as a lad.”
“Bet ya did.”
The Elf’s mock frown broadened and Grulmar rolled his eyes. Yeah, y’are crackin’ sex jokes with a sick Shiny when the world’s about to go to shit.
“Eh, not those kinds of bananas. She likes my banana though, she misses my banana…”
“Thanks for the information, Shiny. Seriously, couldn’t live without that,” Grulmar opened the vial and flinched when the smell hit him right over his nose, even the Altmer blinked, so Grulmar knew he smelled it too. “Oh boy. I’m callin’ this one ‘Nutskicker’, it has everythin’ a lazy fart like ya needs. Healin’ properties, little bit of sta-”
“Just shut the fuck up and give it to me already. Gah! Just like Ana braggin’ ‘bout her potions. Damn alchemists.”
Grulmar tilted Äelberon’s head and poured the liquid down the Altmer’s throat. The Mer grimaced, even gagged - probably on those banana bits, which ya should make smaller next time - and then loudly gulped, forcing the liquid down into his stomach. “Tastes like piss and bananas,”
Grulmar raised his eyebrows. “Ya have tasted piss before?” Don’t they say ya go nuts from drinkin’ yer own piss? Ugh...
“I survived.”
What else is there? We all do what we got to do to survive, it’s what we do. What we have to do. Is there any other option?
Äelberon firmly closed his eyes and groaned, trying to keep the liquid from coming right back.
Well, would be appropriate revenge for that stunt I pulled behind the Bannered Mare. Throwin’ up all over his new armor and all that… “It will take a moment to kick in, but I’m afraid the time’s up, Shiny.”
“No, we’ve got time, lad,” the Elf managed which made Grulmar tilt his head in confusion.
“How the tusk do we have time?”
The Mer took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and Grulmar saw something flash in them that was the faint glimmer of something much darker. He then managed to put a hand on Grulmar’s shoulder, giving it a feeble squeeze. “Ahzidal, Ahzidal…” spoken in a knowing whisper, “likes to talk before he strikes, make pretty speeches, make tinvaak. That is his weakness. And since you are one to make pretty speeches too, we will have time, this, I swear. Knight’s Honor. Trust me, Gru… trust me on this. I will not let him kill you.”
“Ah bollocks,” the Orc let out an exasperated sigh. Best way to get yerself killed, matey, and that ain't why ya come here. Why would the Dragon Priest even listen to Grulmar? Or Mogrul? Chances are the tuskin' bastard's goin' to kill ya right at the moment he sees ya.
He rubbed his eyes, watching Äelberon slowly doze off before the potion's effect would kick in. There was this memory in the back of Grulmar's mind, back from the time when he and Sapphire were just Rats crawling through Riften's Ratway. They had come up with this game, ‘Burn’ they had called it, which they played with each other and then eventually with the other Rats.
The rules were simple. Both would hold a hand above a candle, and whoever flinched first lost. But that was the easy part. The other rule of the game was that one of them had to say something and the other one had to determine whether it was truth or lie. It wasn’t exactly easy to come up with a believable lie when the heat was slowly scorching his hand, so the truth was what he often said. But Sapphire? She was much better at it, so much better. She never flinched, leaving Grulmar wondering whether or not the candle would freeze under her hand, she was that cold.
Very soon, they started playing the game with other Rats. Not for the coins or food - that was just a cover - but for information and secrets. They all flinched, they all struggled with not telling the truth. It was the perfect con.
“Bollocks,” he murmured, touching the ground for a moment, feeling the ash underneath him, magic flashing around his fingers for a second, and only after that he got back on his feet, avoiding eye contact with Äelberon. “Let’s play Burn. Just don’t leave me hangin’, Shiny.” He actually didn’t wait for a reply and walked down the narrow corridor, straight into the burial chamber just at the moment when the ritual reached its finale.
The chanting became unbearable, too fast for Grulmar to even follow the words. The cultists were standing in a circle around a pool of blood in the middle of the room, with crimson runes carved into the floor around them. The runes were glowing and radiating with so much vile magic, it made Grulmar want to throw up.
All the cultists were wearing masks very similar to the masks Miraak’s followers were wearing, except one person and it took Grulmar a moment to realize it was Mogrul. He wore something very similar to the armor Draugr wore, leaving only his arms and legs unprotected.
The chanting stopped. The whole of Grulmar’s world spun when he was struck by the sheer amount of dark magic, finding himself kneeling on the floor with blood oozing from his nose, ears and eyes in a desperate need to escape the burning agony inside his head.
The blood in the middle of the burial chamber became boiling, the stench of it now filling the air, with hot steam rising from it. It was as if someone just threw something unbelievably hot into it and it was trying to claw its way out again. Which wasn’t too far from the truth.
First came the mask, very similar to the one Grulmar was using as his pauldron, closely followed by the blood-covered body of a Dragon Priest in all its undead glory, clad in his armored robes with its draping, frayed green fabric and scale-like plating down the chest and over the shoulders and arms, ending with two pauldrons that looked like they were bone shaped to resemble a dragon’s maw. The crimson liquid was dripping off the Priest’s body and then flames burst from the mask’s eye-visors.
Grulmar gulped, rising to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose. “Ahzidal!” he shouted with a trembling voice. “I’ve come to bargain.”
Everyone’s attention immediately snapped in Grulmar’s direction, especially Mogrul’s, who Grulmar could see narrow his eyes through the visor of a horned helmet. “You,” he exclaimed. “Little piece of shit,” Mogrul growled, taking a step closer to Grulmar. The Dragon Priest was hovering in the air, the burning eyes watching, but otherwise there was no word. “The Dragonborn?” Mogrul asked.
Grulmar merely shrugged at that, trying to appear unphased.
The other Orc snorted. “Then what was that light about?”
“A small fart,” the smaller Orsimer forced a smirk on his face, slowly moving to the left, away from the entrance to the chamber. The circle around Ahzidal now slowly widened, steadily changing into a semicircle around Grulmar.
“Qiilaan lir. Qiilaan, Ogiim hiraak, fah Zu'u los ahzid al. Kruziik, zomaar, ahrk brit,” the Dragon Priest then spoke in his strange language, the words thundering in the chamber as a distant storm, pushing Grulmar to his knees without his consent.
“Speak so that I can understand ya, tusker,” he growled, struggling against the magic pressing against his mind, pushing against his body.
The cultists were now just a few steps from Grulmar, the semicircle slowly tightening. The Orc used the moment to glance to the left, to the farthest cultist, his mind taking in the details.
Dunmer. Male. Leather armor, arms and legs unprotected. Dagger in his hand.
“Now we can talk, worm,” a voice echoed inside his head, sending another wave of pain into his skull. It was like a thousand needles were impaling his skin, scratching against his skull. “You are a green pig, just like my champion. But not as strong. Have you come here to pledge yourself to me?”
The Orc managed a painful groan. “I’ve come to strike a deal.” He bared his tusks, looking directly into those burning embers that were Ahzidal’s eyes and growled: “Not to serve ya,” he put all his will into that sentence, pushing against those invisible chains holding him to his knees. He pushed and pulled and clawed and fought, tearing those chains off him.
The cultists raised their weapons but Grulmar quickly showed his empty hands, slowly getting back on his feet, taking an unnoticeable step to the left, masked by a stumble.
“You resist. Why? It is pointless,” Ahzidal spoke in his mind, a trace of amusement echoing in those words. “Ah, now I see it. You are merely a vessel.” A moment of silence followed, the Dragon Priest tilting his head. “I feel pity for you, Orc. Is that why you have come to bargain?”
Male. Human, maybe Nord. Chainmail hauberk with sleeves. Hands and legs below knees unprotected. Bow, arrow knocked. Dangerous.
“Yes,” he murmured, struggling to pay attention to Ahzidal¨s words.
“We share an enemy then. The Liar-King of Alinor. Snow Prince. And… Vonuntiv zoortah, no, they are called Thalmor now. I see, the elves invade Keizaal yet again, like the scourge that they are. The world has not changed at all in my slumber. But where is Miraak?” Something was clawing through Grulmar’s head, digging through it like a worm through a decaying corpse. “Gone? He is gone. Ah, the First has met the Last. The Whore and the Hammer. I see. And the Last has…” Ahzidal probed the Orc’s mind for any kind of image of Äelberon and the Orc grimaced, at first trying to hide it from Ahzidal, but then he just gave up and showed him what he wanted to see. Äelberon on the floor, pale and unmoving. “The Last has fallen? Was it by your hand, Orc? No, I see it was not. Exhaustion. Magicka deprivation. He pushed himself too far. Too old for the task at hand. The irony is not lost on me. Alduin will be pleased.”
Female. Nord. Steel cuirass. Gauntlets, greaves and boots. Unprotected neck and joints. Two war axes.
“I have something you want,” he said out loud, taking another step to the left, the semicircle following him. They were silent, just staring at him like puppets, even Mogrul was silent which was creeping Grulmar out more than he was willing to admit.
“And what could that possibly be, little pig?
“A Black Book. Two more precisely,” he raised his hand, showing the Dragon Priest the runes on his skin.
He could sense the surprise and curiosity of the presence in his mind. “Interesting. And in return you want me to help you with your condition.”
Male. Dunmer. Black robes. Most likely a mage.
He shook his head. “Not just that. I want power. Knowledge.” And he knew Ahzidal didn’t doubt that, the Dragon Priest could sense that Grulmar was telling the truth. A truth that scared him, that tempted him.
Female. Orc. Fur armor. Warhammer. Long reach. Devastating.
“Is not the knowledge and power of Black Book enough, Orcling? You stil crave more?”
Mogrul. Center of the semicircle. Flail. Draugr armor. Neck and limbs unprotected.
“I do.”
Female. Dunmer. Bonemold armor. Joints unprotected from behind. Spear. Long reach. Made of wood. Weak.
“Then bow. Bow to bitterness and destruction.”
Two males. Dunmer. Heavy chitin armors, weak in between the plates on sides. Unprotected thighs, knees and elbows. Swords and shields. Well protected. Mobile.
It was a lie. Ahzidal wasn’t the only one capable of probing the mind, whatever magic was he working Grulmar could follow that link back to the Dragon Priest. And it was a lie, Ahzidal couldn’t help him. But it was so tempting to take him on his offer, leaving the world to rot, to drown in blood. Let Äelberon and everyone else just die, in exchange for his own freedom.
He realized too late that he had let that thought slip. A wave of anger assaulted his mind, forcing him to flinch.
“You are stalling,” Ahzidal growled in his mind. “The Last still breathes. Not for much longer, he is sahlo, weak. And… he will die.”
The cultist furthest to the right broke off from the semicircle and walked to the door Grulmar came in through, disappearing in the narrow hallway.
“Yeah. I’m tuskin’ stallin’,” the Orc murmured, his eyes focusing on the last two cultists.
Female. Imperial. Heavy legion armor. Crossbow.
Male. Dunmer. Light chitin armor. Two-handed sword with a red blade. Slitter.
A blood-curdling scream interrupted the silence, tearing through the hallway. A scream so full of terror, it cut deep into Grulmar’s bones, shaking him to his core.
It was followed by a low rumble, sounding like the angry growl of a hungry wolf.
Or a dragon, making the hairs on the back of Grulmar’s neck stand on end.
The hallway began emanating an ominous light. Like the red-hot fire of a forge, blazing and cruel. The sound grew louder, like great bellows feeding the burning coals with air. It took them all a moment to realize it was a laughter.
“Zahnirbildaar,” uttered Ahzidal in shock, very poorly hiding the fear permeating his mind now, Grulmar could sense it. “Nii nis kos, rok lost krii.”
So that was his name. He had no idea what it meant in their language, but just speaking the name made the Dragon Priest feel fear. Must have been one tough shit in yer day, Tipsy. The Orc felt a grin clawing onto his face when he looked at the cultists around him, their master’s fear now spreading to them, their heads nervously glancing at the door, then back at Grulmar, not sure who or what they should be watching. It was as if they were even afraid to even glance at the door, trying to look everywhere but there, but something in them couldn’t help themselves but to look.
So their attention was divided.
Something in Grulmar woke up from a deep slumber as he felt Ahzidal slip away from his mind, leaving crumbs of terror behind him and the Orc more than happily followed those right to the source. “Y’are all so tusked,” he chuckled.
“I am doom,” the rumbled whisper echoed from the hallway, filled with a quiet, surging power. “Faas ru maar,” came another whisper.
Something swept through the burial chamber, an invisible will like a tangible fear, assaulting everyone but Grulmar. Their minds filled with terror, horror gripping their hearts and souls, squeezing so tightly that they froze in place, their hands holding weapons trembling as if they had will of their own.
And then… “Mul qah... diiv.”
It is death that creeps up on ya from behind, taking yer breath away before ya even notice it.
But doom? Doom comes roarin’ with fire and fury.
He came charging from the hallway, a blur of motion and with a dragon’s roar so loud dust came falling from the ceiling. The Mer’s body was covered with spiked scales made of a magical light, as if his body was being mantled by the body of a dragon. And behind him trailed a ethereal cape made of broken dragon wings and Grulmar knew then that it was Zahnirbildaar. The grey dragon from the Throat of the World, the dragon from his dream.
The Imperial woman shot from her crossbow, her hands shaking so much, the bolt completely missed Äelberon and he quickly reached Slitter. Everyone was still frozen by the fear, moving too slow, and Slitter barely managed to raise his sword when the Dragonborn brought his own blade down, slicing off the Dunmer’s arm in one powerful move. Before Slitter could even scream, the Altmer rammed him with his shoulder, the spiked scales of light piercing through the chitin armor and eventually the ribcage. Both went down to the floor, but in a move that defied his prior condition, Äelberon rolled over his shoulder to end up in a crouched stance from which then he cut low, taking away the Imperial woman’s legs above knees.
Grulmar felt his right hand burning with agony and he looked at it with confusion, noticing the runes on his hand glowing with a sickly green colour, as if they were trying to burn their way out through his skin. He screamed when the hand raised of its own volition, aiming at Ahzidal and then the runes exploded with green light.
Ahzidal was gone, sucked into Void by Mora’s grasp.
Then chaos ruled. Too many things were happening to keep track of them all. Everyone began moving again, the survival instincts kicking in. The Dunmer in leather armor charged Grulmar. The archer in the chainmail hauberk began drawing the bow. The steel-clad Nord raised her hand ready to throw her axe. The female Orc started moving in his direction.
He pushed against the Orc’s boot, sending her sprawling on the ground with loud curses, but it was the archer who was the most immediate danger. Grulmar pulled the arrow from the bowstring the moment the archer released it, the bowstring snapping only empty air, only for Grulmar to turn the arrow around and with a growl, he pushed it through the archer’s throat.
The thrown axe cut through the air and the Orc went into a roll over his shoulder, casting a short, and as powerful as he could, burst of Burden spell on the the Nord’s cuirass. Her knees broke under such unexpected weight and she went down with an agonizing scream, while Grulmar was already meeting the charging Dunmer in leather armor halfway. The Dunmer went for a direct stab, but Grulmar redirected the dagger with telekinesis, throwing the Dark Elf off balance, the blade completely missing Grulmar’s body, with the Dunmer literally running on Grulmar’s own dagger.
It went through the leather armor with very little resistance, and even more easily through the Dunmer’s insides, leaving Grulmar terrified with how easy it was to violate a mortal body with pointed metal. The Dunmer leaned against him and Grulmar twisted the Torvallian dagger in his stomach, ripping it from the wound which covered his hand and side with blood and other liquids. He pushed the Dark Elf to the side like a discarded toy. He could hear the crackling of Destruction magic and the powerful thu’um to match it, but it was as if he was underwater, distant and deaf, like if Grulmar wasn’t there at all.
Movement caught the corner of his eye and he instinctively raised his Ward, the female Orc’s warhammer landing on the shimmering wall with such strength, it brought Grulmar down to his knees. The moment she raised the hammer above her head to strike again, he dispelled the Ward. He touched her knee and released a short burst of shock magic, enough to paralyze her leg. She lost the balance and began falling, but he literally jumped up, his dagger going through her lower jaw, continuing up through the upper jaw and finally into her brain. The light in her surprised eyes diminished so quickly it scared Grulmar and he tried to free the blade, but he moved too soon, the Orc was already falling. He felt the dagger snap at the hilt, leaving the silver blade in the body.
The Orc tossed the useless hilt on the ground, taking a moment to look around. He noticed that female Dunmer lying on the floor with her own spear rammed through her throat. One of the heavy chitin Dunmers was hacked to pieces, only a torso with one hand and one leg remaining of him, with the mask-less head lying few steps away. Grulmar recognized the face of that mercenary from Raven Rock, Teldryn Sero.
What used to be that mage in black robes was scattered all over the burial chamber, pieces of flesh even dripping from the ceiling, which was only proving the point how terrible a weapon thu’um was if it was able to rip someone to pieces.
Most of them probably didn’t deserve to die, being just mere victims of Ahzidal’s magic, but this was kill or be killed. There was no room for questioning the morality of their actions. Äelberon would have possibly hesitated, Zahnirbildaar did not.
The Altmer was locked in a furious exchange with the second Dunmer wielding heavy chitin and Mogrul, both of them swinging their weapons in a desperate fury. He was fighting in a way Grulmar had never seen the Altmer fight. Pure offensive fighting. It reminded him of Decimus.
Grulmar suddenly screamed in pain when something grasped his ankle, sweeping him off his feet. He landed hard on his back, his whole world going dark for a moment. When his vision cleared, he realised he couldn’t breathe and that was because the steel-clad Nord with broken legs was lying on him, saliva and foam dripping from her mouth and through her mask, her left hand crushing his throat. Her right hand grabbed at his bandolier and pulled out one of the throwing knives, raising it to stab him.
He was disoriented, but his instincts took over, and he pushed the knife out of her hand while at the same time casting the quickest flesh spell he could muster over his body. When she lost the knife, she brought at least the fist down, hitting him right in his nose with her steel-plated gauntlet. The shield spell absorbed most of the impact, but the blow still broke his nose with a loud crunch of breaking bone, his world going dark again. He could hear the woman scream in pain, but it was as if from a distance, his mind too dazed to make any sense of it. He only knew one thing.
He wanted to live.
Grulmar heard himself growling when he unleashed all his pain and more into the woman’s mind, the sheer agony of it tearing her personality apart in a violent explosion of Illusion magic. More weight fell on him and he gasped for breath, opening his eyes only to see the woman’s mask right in front of his face, blood pouring from the eye-visors. He groaned, struggling to push the Nord, who was twice as heavy, off him. He groaned and growled and cursed, his hands shaking, until he finally managed to roll her to the side.
His vision was blurry and he choked on the blood filling his nose, getting even into his mouth and he turned to the side to spit. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the terrible taste out of his mouth.
There was a yell of pain sounding throughout the room and he squinted, looking for its source. He could see figures, blurred, which made them hard to recognize - almost as if he was watching shadows on the walls, impossible to say who they belonged to. But he was able to recognize there were now only two figures standing, dancing around each other with the ringing of metal accompanying them at every step. There was a third one, clutching its throat as something red was spraying from it.
Grulmar tried to clear his mind, get some of that stuff of creation called magicka into his body, healing at least a little bit and it seemed it worked if the disappearance of the blurry vision was any indication. He recognized Äelberon and Mogrul, with no one else left standing.
Mogrul was spinning his flail, Äelberon standing two steps away, both were breathing heavily and circling each other. The Altmer held his sword in a low guard alongside his leg, almost as if waiting for an opening, or maybe a mistake, his eyes blazing, calculating. The Orc on the other hand just kept spinning the flail’s head, a grin on his face, the whooshing sound rising and falling with not a single trace of breaking the rhythm.
How are ya still on yer feet, ya green shithead? Grulmar wondered. There was no way Mogrul could stand a chance against Shiny, let alone when Tipsy took over. There must be something goin’ on. Tusk this. If he ain’t goin’ to make a mistake I’m goin’ to make him do one.
Grulmar suddenly felt pain in his right hand, where he was marked by Mora. He could sense the fabric of reality tearing like a rotten cloth, that window into the Void itself being angrily opened and something clawed its way out of it. Ahzidal appeared with a roar of anger and fire, the flames exploding in a violent rage. Grulmar barely raised his Ward but even then the impact of the dragon priest’s magic tossed him through the air like a ragdoll.
He managed to pull his legs to his body, trying to make himself as small as possible, yet he still landed as hard as a mammoth dropping from a sky. He was trying to catch his breath, his lungs just refusing to take in the air which left him gaping like a fish stranded on the shore.
There was shouting, but it was as if it was happening on a different plane of existence because Grulmar’s whole world shrunk into gasping for breath. He could hear the ringing of metal, he could feel the hissing of unleashed magic, but it wasn’t his concern. His vision was darkening and he gasped one more time, this time finally drawing a breath. He rolled on his side and coughed, drawing in another deep breath, struggling to keep it in his lungs, savouring the sensation of being able to take a breath again.
The burial chamber around him was scorched, filled with smoke and also the smell of burned flesh as the corpses of cultists were set on fire.
Ahzidal was floating in the middle of the chamber, his hands charged with fire magic, Äelberon was standing few steps away from him, bruised and wounded, readying to move, and Mogrul was clawing back to his feet with a chuckle at the far side of the room, as if he had been thrown by one of Äelberon’s shouts. How is that arsehole still alive?! Grulmar wondered.
“This is FUN!” Mogrul roared in laughter, dusting off his armor. He then looked in Grulmar’s direction, grinning when he saw the smaller Orc on all fours. “Hey, little piece of shit! You still alive there? Please, say ‘yes’, I’m enjoying this way too much.”
“Would ya tuskin’ die already?” the Telvanni apprentice groaned, trying to shake off the dizziness. It seemed there was meant to be a pause for words now as both Äelberon and Ahzidal stared at each other as if they were locked in a battle of wills.
“It is that armor, Motagiik, its cheap magic tricks fight the battle for him,” the Altmer gritted his teeth towards Grulmar. He chuckled, but it was filled with sarcasm and the Mer shook his head. “Granting power to a worm still makes him a worm, Azhidal,” an insult was thrown at Mogrul and the dragon scoffed. “And you say you are Orc. Can’t even fight your own battles, eh, King of Shit? You need Ahzidal to wipe your arse. Vobalaan!”
The big Orc snorted at that, slowly walking to the center of the room. “If your god gave you mighty tools wouldn’t you use them, Elf?” He then paused, his grin becoming even more prominent. “Oh, wait. Your god can’t do shit.” Mogrul than glanced at Ahzidal, this strange adoration in his eyes when he murmured: “But mine can.”
Crazy talk of the year, Grulmar shook his head again as he crawled to his feet, struggling to keep balance. And I call Neloth 'Master Ego' while this Dragon Priest nutjob takes megalomania to a whole new level.
“God? Him?” Äelberon laughed a hard laugh, but then his face became a dark snarl and Grulmar could almost picture the grey Dovah, with his nose and horn rings. “He is no fucking god.” Mogrul's statement somewhat getting under his skin obviously, the anger being tangible in his voice. He turned to Ahzidal, baring his teeth. “You are no god, Azhidal. Just a child playing on one. Faith is not forced, it is given freely.”
“The Lir desire to be guided whether they admit it or not, Allegiance Guide knew that, understood that. Sometimes they need to be pushed, and when they begin to believe, it does not matter how they started. As long as they believe, we are gods.”
“Their belief is a lie then, just like you.”
”So speaks the self-righteous Zahnirbildaar, lir-lover. Yes, I know all your history, how you fell for the lightning strike, fell for her pleas like a fool-”
“That’s enough,” the Elf warned and his tone made Grulmar furrow his brow.
The Dragon Priest laughed. “You have lived among them, drank their mead, forged their weapons and yet did not dispel their notion to treat you as their god. You are no different than us, Wuth Tu. Especially now, when you walk this corpse-shell, this disgusting Fahliil shell. It sickens me that you are in that shell, but you probably do not even remember what it is to be Dov anymore.”
“Can I fucking kill him already?” Mogrul interrupted the exchange, before Äelberon could explode, spinning the head of his flail. Grulmar had no idea how the Orc survived against Äelberon - not even after the Altmer’s strange explanation - but it was clear Mogrul had no idea what was about to go down.
Ahzidal the Enchanter, one of the greatest mages in history with a bitter hatred for elves.
Äelberon of Dusk, the Elf, the Dragonborn and the dragon that was in him.
Each of them could level a city on their own, and Grulmar didn’t want to even imagine what would happen if those two destructive forces met on a field of battle. Or in a Nordic burial chamber. If Mogrul was stupid enough to be present for that he could be Grulmar’s guest for all he cared. If that tusker got burned to ash he wouldn’t shed a single tear.
Äelberon glanced in the young Orsimer’s direction, but Grulmar didn’t see Äelberon behind those eyes, no, there was that prideful and ancient creature prepared not to back down, even though the body was tired, the effects of Grulmar’s potion surely wearing off by now. “Motagiik?”
“Yeah.”
“Time to go,” a nod, “with this old Dov’s gratitude.”
“Ya don’t have to tell me twice, Tipsy,” he murmured.
“Ha! I do like that name.” He made a quick gesture to the entrance to the chamber. “Now bo, Orcling. I made a promise to you and I intend to keep it.”
Mogrul tilted his head and Grulmar could feel there had been a communication between him and Ahzidal and then the bigger Orc nodded, grinning at Grulmar as he spun the flail, walking towards him.
“Oh for tusk’s sake,” the Telvanni apprentice groaned, rolling his eyes and began walking towards Mogrul.
The big Orc increased his pace. “You’re not going anywhere, piece of shit.”
“He is nothing, Motagiik, remember that. Nothing! BO! GO!” Äelberon took a deep breath and his eyes became like fire, but he winked at Grulmar and time slowed for a spit second.
Tipsy knows. They don’t. That’s Burn.
Grulmar was now running too.
Fire began dancing around Ahzidal’s hands.
Mogrul swung the flail in a horizontal attack, aiming for Grulmar’s head.
“FO KRAH... DIIN!” The old Hammer roared in response.
The smaller Orc ducked under the swing and he hit Mogrul with his shoulder right under his waist the moment the room exploded with fire and frost. He growled when he felt pain at the exact same place he hit Mogrul as if actually someone rammed him instead - the tuskin’ armor!
Grulmar reached for his anchor, for his Mark and Recalled.
The world blinked and both Orcs dropped out of the air just outside the burial chamber, flying out of the narrow hallway down the stairs to the intersection where Äelberon had burned the Draugr with oil and fire. He hit the stairs with his face few times, groaning in pain when he hit his broken nose too, and during all that he could hear the ominous sounds of destruction coming from the burial chamber, some of that deadly magic even escaping through the narrow hallway, burning above Grulmar.
Then they hit the the floor, no more gods damned steps to hit him anymore, and Grulmar just lay there, breathing, trying to work through the pain. He could hear Mogrul breathing in completely the same way and he sure hoped that bastard broke something on their way down. It was somewhat of a miracle Grulmar didn’t break anything, but both of them completely unharmed? Now that would be something more than a miracle. An intervention.
The big Orsimer grunted and began clawing back to his feet, - clearly uninjured beside a few bruises from the armor - Grulmar forcing himself to do the same. Their gazes met and they both bared their tusks at each other, just like proper Orcs should do when their about to reach for something sharp and heavy to punctuate their particular point of view.
“Little piece of shit!” Mogrul growled.
“Eat a dick!”
“Fuck you!”
“Heapin’ bag of fuck-knuckles!
“Motherfucker!”
They were both standing now and Grulmar grinned, knowing Mogrul had just signed his own defeat in cursing. “That would make me yer daddy!” the smaller Orc smirked.
A primal growl escaped from Mogrul as he shifted forward, spinning the flail only to swing it at Grulmar’s knee. The smaller Orsimer pushed against the flail’s head, the steel-spiked skull tugging as if it just bounced off something, but Mogrul didn’t even register that because he was about to use his heavier build to an advantage, his other hand clenched in a fist, already swinging at Grulmar’s face.
Grulmar stepped to the side, the fist barely missing him and he pulled Mogrul’s back leg, sweeping him off his feet. He landed hard on the floor and Grulmar was already casting a Burden spell to keep him down when Mogrul’s gauntlets glowed for a second and a Ward formed around his body, blocking the spell. Grulmar could feel magic emanating from the armor Mogrul was wearing. The magic focused on something behind him and he glanced over his shoulder on the wall behind him.
Which had been marked with a fire rune spell.
“What the tu-” he started, already raising his own Ward when the rune went off. The explosion tossed him against the opposite wall, a scream escaping his mouth as he hit the stone with his left shoulder and something in it snapped. He fell on his knees, tears of pain in his eyes and he looked up to see Mogrul on his feet, pointing at him with his left hand. Something glowed for a second from one of his fingers and the air crackled with frost as an ice spike shot in Grulmar’s direction.
He jumped forward, rolling over his healthy shoulder while another spike flew past him and he got back on his feet, extending his right arm, instincts completely taking over. He grabbed the ice spike in the middle of the air with telekinesis and pushed it back at Mogrul, who raised his Ward, the ice shattering on it like a bottle of mead. Grulmar noticed that it was a ring glowing on Mogrul’s finger that conjured the ice spikes, now it glowed again and firebolt after firebolt flew at Grulmar.
Who ran, ran up the stairs leading to the barrow’s exit in zig-zag movements until he reached the top, hiding behind the entrance to another narrow hallway, taking a deep breath. Tuskin’ mothertusker! Why the tusk am I learnin’ magic when that dickhead just uses it without any knowledge?
“You run like a bitch, fucker!” Mogrul chuckled and Grulmar peeked from around the corner only to snap back into cover as another firebolt flew past him.
“Go shit yerself!” he yelled.
“I will shit on your corpse!”
“Well, I’ll shit down yer throat!” Grulmar growled right back when he noticed something glowing under his feet. Another fire rune. “Mothertusker!” he growled and ran. It exploded only a second later, lifting him off his feet and sending him flying through the air. He landed on his face, groaning, struggling to get back up and he turned around. Mogrul was strolling down the narrow corridor as if he owned the whole complex, as confident as someone who was just about to have a good fuck with a whore.
How in the Oblivion was Grulmar supposed to fight someone so well-equipped? He understood now what Äelberon had said now about the armor. Tusk! That’s why the Elf was wounded. Every tusking direct physical contact was reflected right back at whoever struck the blow, so Grulmar had to stay at range. But Mogrul could fight in that matter too, that ring being able to conjure firebolts and ice spikes and the smaller Orc couldn’t dodge or block those with a Ward forever. He would either run out of breath or magicka, and somehow he didn’t doubt those enchanted items would last much longer than his own reserves. He just wished he still had his elemental darts.
He began crawling away from Mogrul, relying mostly on his right arm because his left was completely useless, his shoulder most likely dislocated. His telekinesis and Burden spells were useless, Mogrul was always able to cast his Ward right in time, and the worse thing was the he didn’t seem to suffer from any of the drawbacks of regular Wards. He had an endless supply of it - or nearly endless. Hmm. Wards. Decimus always had a saying about those.
“Them fuckers always protect their pretty faces with their fancy Ward or whatnots, but they keep forgetting about their fucking feet, lad. Aim for the fucking feet!”
Sir, yes sir! Grulmar cast a Burden spell at Mogrul and just as he expected, the larger Orc raised a Ward to block it, but as soon as the smaller Orc released the spell, he pulled a throwing knife from his bandolier and shot it through the air with telekinesis. And just as Decimus said, they always forgot to protect their feet. The knife slipped just under the Ward and went through the leather boot right in between Mogrul’s toes. The armored Orsimer released a scream of surprise and pain, his Ward dropping, and Grulmar took the given advantage before it vanished.
He used the most instinctive spell in his repertoire, pushing against Mogrul’s cuirass with all his power. The big Orc was too heavy to lift or send through the air, but it still made him stumble back several steps, now standing precisely at the entrance to the narrow hallway, even knocking his breath out of his lungs. Grulmar was already on his feet, running straight at Mogrul, who managed to conjure his Ward even though he was still trying to catch his breath. Grulmar lept into air, both his legs hitting the Ward which made Mogrul stumble another few steps back.
Towards the steps.
His foot went over the edge of the first step and he completely lost his balance, falling on his back and rolling down the steps followed by the loud clanging of armor. I tuskin’ wonder if the armor’s reflectin’ that to the stone. Mogrul groaned and yelled during the whole fall, Grulmar enjoying every second of it. But he doubted he would be lucky enough for Mogrul to break his neck.
He pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the wall to his left, his shoulder reminding him something was wrong. In response, his right hand began glowing with a warm yellow light, spreading over his shoulder, numbing that pain. When the pain subsided enough, he cast a shield spell on himself and he hit the wall. Hard. Something popped and he screamed in pain. He slid to the floor, exhausted, but at least he could move his arm again. It was a small miracle he didn’t pass out though. Decimus made it look like a stroll through an orchard. Tusker never said how tuskin’ much it hurts.
Mogrul groaned somewhere down under the steps and Grulmar chuckled. “Hey, little piece of shit,” he imitated Mogrul’s voice, adding little bit of poison to it. “Ya still alive down there?”
A loud spit followed by a growl. “Go fuck yourself!”
Grulmar wearily crawled to the edge of the steps, looking down at the bigger Orc who was leaning against a wall, holding his right hand close to his body. It appeared that Grulmar really was lucky and Mogrul did break something on his way down the steps. He couldn’t see any obvious break, but the way Mogrul was holding his hand spoke volumes even without visual confirmation.
The flail was now in his left hand and he pointed with it at Grulmar. “I’m going to fucking tear you limb from limb, you little piece of shit!” A Firebolt escaped from the ring and Grulmar lazily shifted to the right, avoiding it. He tossed a throwing knife at Mogrul who raised that tusking Ward to protect himself, now slowly ascending the steps.
The tuskin’ Ward is pissin’ me off! He needed to get rid of it. So he focused directly on the Ward, on the magicka powering it and he extended his hand, focusing on burning that magicka away. Blue lightning came out of his palm, burying into the Ward like a worm and that worm slowly began eating it away, eating away the magicka of the gauntlets powering the protection spell.
Mogrul growled and kept pushing up the stairs, increasing his pace now, even though he was limping because of the hurt foot. Grulmar poured even more power into his magic draining spell, the Ward now showing cracks on its shimmering surface, the edges steadily crumbling. Just a little bit more! Mogrul was only four steps away now, the Ward nearly destroyed.
Mogrul then suddenly took the flail in his right hand - which Grulmar had thought was broken - and swung with it, taking another step. Grulmar underestimated its reach.
The spiked head hit his wrist with the force of a stone shot from a trebuchet, his shield spell preventing it from piercing his skin but the impact still shattered his wrist and he let out a shout of agony, recoiling away from Mogrul, falling on his back. The pain was unbelievable, everytime he moved, crawling away from Mogrul, as as far away as possible, a wave of agony nearly overwhelmed him.
“Just stand still, you baby,” the bigger Orsimer let out a dark chuckle, his feet shuffling behind Grulmar who whimpered, struggling against the pain.
Is this it? his mind kept repeating. Was this the moment he was supposed to die? He was afraid to, not of the dying itself when he reflected on that, but more of what would come after it. What if death wasn’t freedom from his fate, the one intended for him by the Liar-King and the other tusker? That truly terrified him, because what if he couldn’t resist anymore after his demise, his soul now naked and ripe for the taking?
Mogrul was following him slowly, savouring this moment of victory, enjoying his prey being wounded and weak. Grulmar whimpered, struggling against the desperation of his own situation, still crawling. He was about rise to his feel to run, but another jolt of agony exploded in his calf and he fell to the floor, growling with pain. He turned and he could see his own knife now buried in his leg, a clear indication that the shield spell had already vanished.
“Where’d you like to go, eh?” Mogrul snorted. “There’s no point in running, little rat. Lord Ahzidal is with me and soon he will defeat that Dragon-fucking-born. Raven Rock will fall. And we will spread from this island to every corner of the world, spreading the word of our god as we go. Shit, isn’t that just glorious?”
The smaller Orc kept crawling, now past that spot where he encountered Äelberon, with the dead Draugr lying on the floor. He crawled past it, noticing a sword next to it, but what was he supposed to do with it? He couldn’t even stand. So he continued crawling.
“This is getting boring,” Mogrul suddenly growled and grabbed him by his ankle, pulling him towards him, ripping the knife from his calf in the process. He barely noticed he screamed as darkness took him when he passed out. Hard slaps woke him up very fast though and he squinted at Mogrul’s ugly face hovering above him.
He could see metal glistening under his left eye and realized it was his own knife, pressed hard against his cheekbone. It burned and stung as the blade began cutting through the skin and flesh. He twitched, his head snapping to the side which made the knife cut even deeper, scratching against the bone, agony searing through the wound.
“Stop twitching! Want to lose an eye or something?” Mogrul growled and then tilted his head. “Well, that’s not such a bad idea actually.” The knife’s tip was now hovering above his eye, the bigger Orc grinning in satisfaction. “I would just like to say something before we start. I didn’t like you right from the start, you know? Little piece of shit, just by the first look. But I fucking underestimated you, didn’t I? Well, now I’m going to fix that. Yeah, that’s all I wanted to say. Let’s get to it then.”
Grulmar closed his eyes, his mind trying to escape from all the pain and horror. Trying to figure something out, something that would prevent all this. Something… The pain was making it all so difficult, even reaching for the magicka was impossible hard, but it was there, he knew it. It wanted to be used, that stuff of creation, that pure energy of light and life.
Light, he thought. Let there be light.
Even through his closed eyes, he could see the blinding flash of light that exploded right into Mogrul’s face. The weight suddenly lifted from Grulmar as Mogrul recoiled from him, trying to get back on his feet most likely and the smaller Orc could sense the magicka being shaped into a Ward, something being put in between him and Mogrul.
Between him and Mogrul. But not behind Mogrul.
Grulmar reached for the sword lying on the floor with telekinesis, lifting it up into the air and then pulled.
A surprised gasp sounded in the hallway, closely followed by a shocked scream of pain and then something wet and heavy fell right on Grulmar’s chest, who was just now opening his eyes. He twitched when he noticed a hand cut off above the elbow, hastily tossing it away from him.
Mogrul was standing above him, screaming and staring at the stump of his arm, blood spraying in all directions from the severed arteries, covering Grulmar as if he was standing outside during a rain. He forced himself to sit, leaning against the wall, watching Mogrul drop down to his knees.
The Orc stared at him, his eyes wide with shock, blaming Grulmar for all this.
The Telvanni apprentice reached for his belt, noticing that most of the vials with potions were shattered in this whole messy business, and he tossed the pieces to the ground. There were only two intact vials left, one was a potion for numbing pain and another one was one to regenerate magicka. He greedily drank both of them, still eying Mogrul.
The larger Orc’s green skin became a shade paler, his facial muscles sagging, his eyes seemed completely mesmerized by the shards of the broken vials on the floor. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” Mogrul murmured weakly.
Grulmar shook his head. “No,” he replied even as he began focusing on spreading the healing magic through his body. The wrist was completely beyond his skills and there was still a possibility that even if someone as skilled as Äelberon looked at it, he wouldn’t be able to use his hand ever again. Just like Erik, heh. Erik Talon-Hand. He realized Mogrul was still staring at him and chuckled. It was a dry and cold shuckle, with very little amusement actually in it. “No,” he repeated. “Y’are goin’ to bleed to death now,” he stated, reaching for the helmet on Mogrul’s head with telekinesis. He pushed against it from the side, the metal loudly ringing against the wall. Mogrul fell to the stone floor, bleeding and unmoving.
May ya burn in Oblivion for all eternity, tusker, he thought as he began crawling back to the burial chamber, slowly rising to his feet. He couldn’t put much weight on his hurt leg, so he pulled that Draugr sword into his left hand and leaned against it, using it as a clutch.
He stopped, looking at his hand covered with blood, at all the bruises and cuts, at the shattered wrist of his right hand. His eyes went towards Mogrul, his hand now trembling.
The road to freedom is paved in blood.
There was so much of it today. He killed, he took someone’s life. The lives of four people, five if he counted Mogrul after he bled to death. All that blood was on his hands, cutting off bits of his own soul, hardening it. It made him sick. He just took away the chance to make a choice from those people. He took away their choices, snuffing them out like candles.
How was he supposed to feel about that? He had no other choice but to do what he did, but that was just an excuse, wasn’t it? Dying was easy, and killing was even easier. It was living that was hard. And he came to understand that just now. Killing was easy, but living with the knowledge and memories of taking someone’s life was the most difficult part of it. At least until even the living would become so filled with death, it wouldn’t represent life anymore, where death waits at every corner and becomes a trustful companion, a companion one doesn’t have to turn away from.
The road to freedom is paved in blood.
There was no other choice but to kill. Even while it was ripping his soul apart, he knew those were the rules of survival. His eyes rested on the flail with the head in the shape of a spiked skull, frowning.
Then he picked it up with a groan, hanging the chain over his shoulder, and continued walking back to the now silent burial chamber, scared of what he would find there.
Comments
I also loved where you described Albee coming in the hall with Tipsy.
And Tipsy is just, well Tipsy.