Chapter Thirty Nine

The sound of hundreds of boots was thunderous amid the falling rain. A sea of glinting moonstone armor rolled over the Nibenean Basin, banners flying before each company bearing the Dominion’s eagle. Every platoon had three mages, their black robes billowing beneath the rolling clouds above. At the head of the columns rode a man in elegant armor, a gilded crown upon his brow. He wore a ferocious expression. He held up his hand calling for his army’s halt. 

 The mourning call of the Aldmeri horn sang through the trees like a hawk’s cry. Ahead stood their enemy, ranks upon ranks of Nordic troops, the Imperial dragon on their standards. The woman at the front of the troops took off her helmet, her hair falling free.

“Telinmil… Of course Naarifin would send you to face me.” She stood with her feet apart, a great spear in her hand. Telinmil smirked, giving a small bow from his horse.

“Jonna of Hjaalmarch, it is a pleasure.” His voice was smooth, cool… and passively menacing. “My lord Naarifin sends word that the Imperial City is ours. Titus Meade is on his knees. Your empire has fallen.” He raised his voice for all to hear. “Any man or woman who yields to us here, will be given amnesty. Tamriel need burn no more.”

  Unseen by the enemy, elves scurried through the ranks, whispering to the mages and archers. Arrows were drawn from their quivers in silence, none raising a bow until the order was given. The magicians murmured chants to themselves. Their hands were hidden in their robes, obscuring the shine of magicka from the enemy soldiers. Elmond heard the orders given his superior, gripping the haft of his hammer with anxiety. The old sorcerer eyed him. “Easy, Lirician. Wait for the order.” Runil kept his face forward. “Remember your training, and you’ll be fine.”

“By my orders, only parts of your message are true.” Jonna sent a fiery glare. “The city is yours, yes, but the legion has not yet surrendered to you. The army you face has you outnumbered.” She pointed her spear at him. “Challenge us, at your peril.”

Telinmil was unphased. “Perhaps. It would definitely seem to be so. But as I’m sure you know,” he seemed almost amused, “things are rarely as they seem.” His signal was almost imperceivable, a slight lift of a finger. Despite the subtlety, the effects were swift.

A volley of arrows rained onto the nords from the nearby trees. Jonna ordered her soldiers to raise the shield wall, managing to vault over the first row of infantry before the missiles hit. The bosmer archers jumped through the branches, keeping the nords pinned as the mages released their spells.

The rain reflected the light from the spells as they bridged the distance between armies. Through some mysterious manipulation, they flew in complete silence. Just before hitting the nords, the magic was caught in a vast ward that rose from the Imperial legionnaires. It flared as the spells were absorbed. As the last one hit, the silence ended.

The sky burst, lightning arching above as the storm took hold of the energy the armies tossed about. The clouds rolled in an unnatural maelstrom as they ran at each other. The wood elves rained arrows in a constant volley. Horns, both Altmer and Nordic, blasted the air. Golden swords rang from their sheaths as the fronts collided. Axes and hammers, along with all manner of weapons smashed into the moonstone armor. Soon, the gold and silver armors were mixed in a chaotic field of war.

The mages gravitated to each other, their spells dancing in a dangerous beauty. Runil stood atop a great boulder, throwing waves of purple fire over the soldiers. The flames dodged the dominion soldiers, winding through the battle, clinging only to the Imperial forces. Elmond spun around, his hammer slamming into the head of one of the enemies. He grappled with a large nord, the man’s axe only stopping a few inches from his chest. He huffed. The muscles of his arms rippled. The edge drew closer to his neck until he could almost smell the blood it wore.

Elmond could never have imagined what happened next. His opponent’s expression twisted to agony, his flesh bubbling as the violet flames burst over him. The hulking warrior cried out as he dropped the weapon. He clawed viciously at his arms. The young elf was frozen as the moment lengthened. His face was full of absolute horror. The nord, still flailing, was losing handfuls of melting flesh, his hair was gone. Finally, after far too much suffering he fell to the ground. The flames leapt from him, flying toward their next victim with only smoke remaining. Elmond felt his knees wobble.

One of the Altmer mages rushed toward the scene, waving his staff over the field. Elmond had to stop himself from getting sick. The still smoldering corpses began to rise, blue energy winding into their bodies to reanimate the dead limbs. Their eyes, if they had them, glowed with the pale light of necromancy. Under their masters commands, they turned to shamble towards their kinsmen with intent to kill. 

“Lirician!” Runil made to pull him to his feet. “Elmond, get up! We can’t stay here.” The younger soldier ripped his arm away, his face down. 

“No…” He stood. “I’m done.”

“You will rejoin the ranks. We must strike now, while they are weak.”

Elmond looked up, his hand tracing a rune in the air. “No!” He raised his hammer, bringing the hilt of it down onto the earth with an almighty rumble. A half sphere of magenta burst from him, washing over the battlefield. The leaves of the trees fluttered with its influence. For that instant, the fighting stopped. A collective breath rose from the combatants as the spell pulled a sort of aura from them. The mists formed into clones of the armies, the shades attacking all indiscriminately. 

Chaos ensued, none knowing who to strike, or who was real. Runil brought his staff down onto his copy, destroying it in one hit. When he turned back to where Elmond had been, he saw nothing. He ground his teeth, returning to the battle at hand. The traitor had earned his escape.

Invisibility protected Elmond as he ran away from the battle. His boots clanked against the cobbled Red Ring Road, as his mind ran wild. 

He couldn’t fight for them anymore… He couldn’t listen to their lies. He refused the teachings they forced on him, the false superiority, the intolerance, the justification for the means. Had he fought, what would have spared him the nord’s fates? Would he have been as convenient a weapon for them? His legs begged him to stop, but he ran faster. Elmond… No, that could not be his name. Not anymore… 

He finally slowed. He could see Bruma in the distance, that fair, large city near the border. Like most civilization right now, he would need to avoid it. Where was he going, anyway? He most certainly could not return to the Summerset Islands. Curse it all…if only he could have avoided this whole war. All those years, devoting himself to the Thalmor, and for what? For everything to come crashing down around him? To see all this beloved culture washed away by the ignorant wrath of the Elves? He could never go home now, and likely never see his family again. They would be killed… 

The Altmer’s thoughts darkened as he willed himself to keep moving, despite how numb he felt. For days he kept to the shadows of the wilderness. He seemed to be moving Northward, towards Skyrim. It was closest at this point, and the last place anyone would be looking for a member of the Thalmor to willingly place themselves, alone. Well, ex-member, but it was far too late to find a single Nord who cared to make the distinction. 

The moons were bright as he climbed the foothills of the Jerals. He had since abandoned his moonstone vestments, opting for an unassuming fur outfit. The night bore a slight breeze, the pines swaying at its influence. He used his hammer as a walking stick, pulling himself onto a ledge before he knew what waited. 

Grunting rose from the stone ahead. Elmond watched as it stood, revealing itself as a mountain ogre. The tiny head sat on the shoulders, blinking sleepily as it looked for the source of the disturbance. Finding the elf, it grabbed a crude club, roaring a challenge. Elmond took a step back, deciding that now wasn’t the time to be making house calls.

He leapt down, hearing the beast following in a territorial rage. He tore through the trees, hoping to lose his pursuer amid the trunks. “Stop! Who goes there?” The voice rang through the trees, the light of three torches flickering ahead of him.

As he came into sight of them, he wished they had not been there at all. Long black robes, moonstone light gear beneath. Their tabards had the Dominion eagle, their weapons sleek, belonging to only one elite force. The Extermination Corps. They ran at him with swords and daggers ready. The leader summoned a clanfear, the creature giving a menacing squawk. Elmond knew he could not fight both these and the ogre. He skidded to a stop, throwing a hand behind him.

An orb of pale orange light flew behind him, swelling to encompass the ogre. The monster grunted in alarm, flailing as it was lifted into the air. Elmond brought both hands above his head, bringing them down toward the Thalmor party. The ogre bellowed as it flew through the snapping branches. The exterminators cried out, trying to run. Two managed to escape, but their comrade was crushed under the falling beast. It stood, swinging the club about with little care for who or what it struck. 

Elmond took advantage of the confusion, turning northward again and running like the hounds of Hircine were on his heels.