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Chapter 2

Saraven hiked into Kvatch on foot, weary in the brightening morning. He went to check at the livery stable if she had boarded Ves there. The black gelding trotted over to greet him at the edge of the corral, snuffling his hand.

"Sal antha, Ves," he said, and patted the horse's neck. He went to ask the ostler about the saddlebags. Yes, a Khajiiti lady had left some here. Yes, they might be for him, if he was expecting it; did he mind describing them and their contents? Saraven went down the list patiently and with complete accuracy, and ended up walking into Kvatch with his own sparse purse, eating his last apple. It was odd that she hadn't even bothered taking his things. Perhaps it was intended as a gesture of scorn.

There were people about, opening up their little shops or pumping water for cooking and washing. Kvatch was about half Imperial and about half everyone else, mer and betmer mixed in with the humans with no particular tension. His armor and gorget drew curious glances, but with both a Guild and an Arena in town a Dunmer in mithral chain was not so shocking to see.

He debated pursuing her to the Arena or going to the Guild first to rest. It had been a long ride from Anvil even before he'd gotten into a fight with a Cathay-raht vampire. She would restore her strength with the Altmer's blood. He would be too late to save the mer from that either way, and it ground at him like a whetstone against a notched sword. The question was, would she take another innocent life before he could find her again if he stopped to acknowledge mortal weakness? Whatever had happened to him out there on the road, was it more or less likely to happen again if he was rested?

Fighting in the Arena as a vampire was probably cheating in some way as well, but he cared considerably less about that. Blood sport was at best morally irritating to him, and everyone there knew they were going to die on the sand if they didn't win. It wasn't the same as murdering a family in their beds.

He was too tired to think straight, and walking straight was increasingly a challenge as well. At last his shoulders slumped, defeated, and he turned toward the Guild across the street from the great Chapel of Akatosh. One of these fights would be his last. He acknowledged the fact without sadness, without even fear at this point. Velaru and Dorova were in Aetherius, and he was going to the Colored Rooms. He did not regret that, either. They had died young, and he had ceased to be young on the day they died. They would not know him now, or he them.

The Kvatch Fighters Guild was not busy. The local head, a burly Nord called Svarni, was presiding over breakfast in the dining room downstairs. Saraven walked past the doorway completely unnoticed and past the lower training room and up the stairs to the sleeping areas. He did not recognize the porter who helped him get his mail off, but the balding Imperial's teeth weren't sharp and his eyes were blue. He held a hand up when the man reached for the lacing of his gorget.

"Leave it. And the bracers."

"You can't possibly sleep with those on," the man said, staring at him in puzzlement.

"Sure I can. Here, thanks for your trouble." He gave the man a couple of septims when the armor was packed into the chest at the end of the bed, folded himself up onto the hard mattress, and slept.

---

Zudarra lead Vandalion down the arena bloodworks. It was much busier that usual, a slew of strangers she had never seen before and many familiar faces warming up on the training dummies or stretching on the mats inside. A few fighters she didn't know stopped to stare at her and a few offered curt greetings which she begrudgingly returned. Gladiators were usually not very friendly with one another. Liking your opponent made them harder to kill.

Not all arena games involved killing, though. The world would quickly run out of fighters if that were the case. Most of the time Zudarra was forced to participate in their watered down parody of true combat, with a healer at the sidelines ready to save the lives of the grievously injured. The arena was there to make money, and the people wanted blood, yes - but they also wanted heroes they could root for. The dead could gain no following and the names of strangers did not draw a crowd.

But today was different, and the main reason Zudarra had come all the way from the Imperial City to participate. A battle royal, five combatants in the ring at a time in a fight to the death, with the winners of each round to ultimately face each other in the final battle. Zudarra hoped to eliminate many of her long-standing rivals today.

She lead Vandalion to a private room, separated from the main area with only a thin blue curtain. It was little bigger than a closet with a dirty bedroll thrown on the ground, stained with the blood of old injuries and stinking of sweat. She yanked the bag of provisions from the Altmer's hands and pointed towards the bed. He knew what was expected of him and shucked off his pants, laying back on the bed with his usual heavy-lidded smile. Zudarra rifled through the bag and pulled out some carrots, soggy and covered in gray spots and dropped them on his chest. She normally took very good care of him - after all, her health depended on his - but it had been several days since she'd had time to visit the market. Well, a few moldy carrots wouldn't kill him.

The thick scent of blood that seemed to have soaked into every crevice of the bloodworks drove her mad with thirst. The training area was kept quite clean, but the resting rooms and the hallway leading up to the arena was not. She would never be able to get some rest with that tantalizing scent in the air unless she fed.

Zudarra kneeled before her thrall, turning his thigh for better access. Often her feeding got him hard, which she found at once pathetic and amusing. With so little blood it was better left to his other organs, but she was sure it was a response he couldn't control even if she ordered him to.

Vandalion was a weak-willed idiot, an adoring fan of hers who was constantly leaving roses for her in the Imperial City bloodworks and at her rented room in Elven Gardens. She finally started inviting him home- half the time they couldn't even remember being fed upon, especially if they'd had a drink first, and over time she had learned enough about him to know that he would not be missed if he disappeared. No family, a dead end job mucking out horse shit at the stables; a complete loser with no skills or future. At least he had a use now. Zudarra had given his life purpose, and he was happy enough. The day his usefulness ceased would be the day she drank him dry and left the corpse to be someone else's problem.

Her wickedly long fangs sunk into the soft flesh of his thigh. Vandalion moaned in ecstasy as she pierced his femoral artery, then raised her fangs from the punctures to suck. As she drank, new fur sprouted where her burns had been, erasing all trace of injury. The taste of blood was a rapture greater than any joy a mortal could know. It was better than sex, better than the last gulp of water in the center of the Alik'r. She never tired of it no matter how often she drank.

As she fed a deep calm passed through Vandalion, even more than what he usually felt. His body was buoyant, floating in a sea of light, far away from the dirty bed encrusted with the fluids of strangers. Zudarra felt his pleasure and contentment as her mind reached out to touch his. She could sense his every thought, although vaguely, a shadow behind a veil.

You are mine. You have always been mine. You will serve me forever.

She felt his dreamy joy at receiving her commands. Zudarra was a god to him. Her own commands echoed back at her, the thoughts colored with complete subservience and love.

She pulled away reluctantly, gulping the last mouthful of blood and gasping as a thrill of power spread throughout her body. Vandalion's head sagged to the side, his entire body limp on the floor, cheeks completely white. She had drank a little too much. A touch of his neck showed a faint pulse; he would probably live. Although he never seemed to bleed much - something in her saliva, she supposed- she released a tiny bit of magicka to heal the punctures on his thigh.

"Eat those carrots," she said.

"Yes... Miss..," he answered weakly, eyelids fluttering as he tried to look up at her. His hands moved slowly to the vegetables on his chest. She pulled a bottle from the bag, uncorked it, and set it by his head. He would need to replenish his fluids.

"Don't forget to drink all of that, too," she continued. "I'll be next door. Just rest for the remainder of the day. I'll come for you later." She flipped aside the curtain and closed it behind her, and went to get some shut-eye in another room. She would sleep sitting in her armor, just in case the vampire hunter showed up. Not comfortable in the slightest, but a necessary precaution. Her blood boiled when she thought of Saraven. She almost wished he'd show up so they could finish what they started.

It was no good, getting all agitated now. She settled down on the bedroll of the neighboring room, warhammer laid across her lap as she leaned against the wall. Her belly was warm with fresh blood, and for once she felt completely satiated. The feeling would not last long, but long enough for her to doze peacefully.

A few hours later, after Magnus had climbed to the summit of his path across the sky, Zudarra and four others were waiting at the gates to the arena battlefield. The first round had already played out. She had waited in the bloodworks with all the others, listening to the clangs and the shouts from above as their fellow fighters fought tooth and nail for the lives. She could smell it every time one of them died. Even if she'd not been able to hear the anguished cries and the jubilant cheering from the crowd, she would know exactly when that moment came for each of them.

The announcer wrapped up his agonizingly long spiel and the gates were lowered. Usually the fight was on from that moment, but the rules today were a little different. The five of them made their way into the ring, each to a square pillar of stones that marked their starting place. The battle would begin on the announcer's mark.

Most of the combatants, like her, were heavily armored. There was a mage in the mix today, a scrawny Breton in flowing robes meant to impress. Fire was the only thing Zudarra feared, but the Breton probably wasn't going to last long anyway. She had her eye on Bashag gro-Gat, a mountain of an Orc clad in the traditional armor of his people and brandishing a halberd that had an even greater reach than her weapon. He was the only one she was truly concerned about today. With any luck the others would tire him out by the time they were ready to face off.

As they walked to their places in the ring, Zudarra noted that the sky had darkened while she slept. Thick black clouds rolled ominously above, a blood red sky peeking through when the clouds did part. It was the strangest thing Zudarra had ever seen. Despite the blockage of the sun, it wasn't dark. Zudarra would say the light on the ground resembled the fabled blood moon of Hircine's prophecy, except that it was day and nothing in the sky was even visible.

The announcer was listing off their names when a sudden boom rocked the air. The ground beneath their feet trembled, a dull roar from far away sending vibrations that rippled through the hard packed dirt. It nearly knocked Zudarra off her feet. Murmurs of fear and astonishment rose from the crowd.

"It seems that the gods themselves have decided to welcome our combatants in the arena today!" the announcer joked, an Imperial with a bullhorn officiating from far above them on a balcony. Red lightning crackled in the sky above them. "Now, hailing from Thorstad, in Hammerfell, we have Taran Ozalan! Will his deadly mace be the end of these brave warriors today?" The announcer waited for the cheering to cease before moving on. "And finally, a familiar face to many of you, hailing from the Imperial City, Zudarra the Bloody! This one's got a real temper, folks!"

Zudarra thrust her warhammer towards the sky with both hands, grinning at the cheers and boos alike that rose from the masses. Every muscle of her body tingled with energy from her recent feeding and anticipation for the fight. Streaks of fresh blood still splattered the ground where their predecessors had fallen, the scent of death stirring her blood lust even more.

"And... let the battle begin!!"

Bashag tried to make a beeline for Zudarra but was held up by Taran and the mage, leaving Zudarra with a steel-armored Nord calling himself Snorre Thundertusk. She would have that longsword out his hands in short order.

The cheering of the crowd was an inconsequential buzz in the background as they exchanged blows, until the happy shouts turned to screams of terror. At first Zudarra presumed someone had died but a quick glance around told her that no one was even close to going down.

Then booms arose from behind and the Nord stopped his assault. He was staring up at the benches in shock. She darted away from him and risked a glance behind to see a wave of bodies flowing across the grandstand, all of them attempting to flee from something. Then she saw them, a horde of scamps racing along the lowest level, cackling and chittering as fireballs bloomed and exploded into the crowd. People hurled themselves into the pit to escape the daedra, screaming when they hit the ground with broken bones. Those were the lucky ones. The wall of the arena was lined with pikes.

Zudarra's mouth gaped at the inexplicable sight. The first thought in her mind was that scamps in the animal pens had somehow escaped - sometimes exotic creatures were brought for the fights, but none were scheduled today.

But the sheer number of them. There was no way that many scamps were being kept down below.

All of the combatants had stopped fighting, but Zudarra kept her distance; she did not trust any of them to adhere to the unspoken truce. They watched in shock and amaze as the swarm of scamps overwhelmed the crowd, burning people alive and eviscerating others with their claws. A few fireballs were launched into the arena, but the fighters dodged them easily from that distance.

The Redguard, Taran, ran to the gate, which had closed when the match began to prevent escape, and rattled the bars.

"Let us out so we can fight!" he shouted, but nothing happened. Whoever manned the controls was obviously long gone, more concerned with their own preservation than making sure those trapped in the pit had an escape. Ironically, this field of death was now possibly the safest place to be.

"No one leaves until one stands alone," Bashag grunted.

"I think it's safe to say the fight is canceled," Taran said sourly.

The grandstand was clearing out now. Those who had been able to reach the doors had fled and those who remained were either dead or screaming on the pikes or the ground. It was a massacre the likes of which Zudarra had never seen in her entire life. She found it fascinating, until the scamps started launching themselves over the pit wall. They were agile little creatures, able to easily clear the pikes and land without hurting themselves. Suddenly, she did not fear her fellow gladiators quite so much.

She swept the first scamps away with her warhammer, smashing two at once who ran side by side, and dodged a volley of fireballs launched by the ones that followed. The other fighters grunted with the effort of fending of their own attacks, scamps screeching as they died.

More and more of the pale, goblinesque creatures flew over the wall. There was no way the five of them could fend off all of the daedra at once. Zudarra turned, frantically searching for any means of escape. Her eyes landed on the support pillars that lined the inner walls. There were no pikes there. The pillars only rose as high as the wall, which was about twice as tall as herself, and were connected to stone walls that intersected the outer ring of the arena where the seats were arranged. She swung the warhammer into its harness and dashed to the nearest pillar, easily outpacing the swarm of scamps, and launched herself to the top.

It was a difficult jump even for a vampire. Her chest collided with the pillar, her body slamming forward against her own armor, but her claws found purchase in the stone. The screams of her fellow warriors tapered away as the horde overwhelmed them, and Zudarra grunted with the effort of lifting her body up onto the wall. She looked back in time to see a ball of fire flying towards her, and threw herself into the grandstand just as it whooshed overhead.

She was scrabbling up in the next instant, a bit slowly in her armor, then a blur as she flew down the steps to the exit. The scamps that were left in the grandstand hooted and howled as they followed. There was no way to avoid stepping on the charred husks that piled the floor. Funny- just minutes ago these people were cheering for the deaths of others, but they had been the ones to die.

Zudarra had no moral issue with the arena fans, obviously. They were all impuissant worms who wanted a taste of the thrill of battle without getting their hands dirty themselves. Most of them, like her Vandalion, didn't even know how to hold a sword. She was contemptuous of their weakness, that was all.

The city outside was in worse disarray than the arena had been. Tall, dark skinned, man-like creatures in daedric armor marched through the streets, running through anyone stupid enough to cross their path. Most people didn't have a choice, having been chased from their homes by scamps or clannfear. Zudarra recognized all of these daedra, had fought them in the arena at some point; but to see them walking freely through the city was unthinkable. No single conjurer could not have summoned all that she saw. If the entire Mages Guild banded together for a hostile takeover, they could not do this.

But the scamps were behind her and Zudarra had no time to wonder about what she saw. She darted for the nearest alley, hoping to lose them as she raced through yards and leapt over fences. Finally she saw her chance: a pine tree growing behind a house. She leapt for it, long black claws digging into the scaly bark as she propelled herself up the tree with hands and feet, snapping off smaller branches foolish enough to be growing in her way. From the top it was an easy jump onto the slate-shingled roof of the neighboring house. She slid down the sharp slope, toes spreading across the shingles to hook her claws into the crevices and stop her fall. Zudarra looked down over her shoulder in time to see scamps, and a few clannfear she had picked up along the way, racing off in the direction she'd been traveling. Finally her panicked mind could calm and formulate some sort of plan.

There was only one gate leading out of town, the first place people would flee to and therefore the perfect place for daedra to congregate. Zudarra wouldn't last a minute under their barrage of fireballs.

The moat. The castle moat was the only place safe to her in this Divines-forsaken hellscape. But a huge, open plaza lay in front of it that she would have to cross, and even if she survived that it was surrounded by a wall and the gate would be locked.

Grunting with effort, she pushed herself to the top of the roof. A shingle came loose under her paw and she heard it shatter on the cobblestone walkway below. She almost lost her footing then, but with teeth bared and ears flat against her head and every muscle of her body straining she pulled herself up.

Zudarra nearly lost her grip when her head cleared the top of the roof and she saw the unthinkable. From here she could see most of the city, particularly the castle and the huge plaza before it. A giant portal had risen from the ground, piles of rubble at the base of it where it had pushed its way up through the cobblestone. The frame was made of black rock, like hardened lava, wicked curled spikes rising from the top of it, and the inside was a shimmering orange inferno. Sharp black spikes twice as tall as herself had risen from the ground all around it, weeping red blood from the tips. The fiery portal was translucent, allowing her to see the castle beyond.

But the thing emerging from the portal was not on the other side of it. A huge machine like a battering ram mounted on rows of iron caterpillar feet crawled forward from the portal slowly, the cobble smashing under its weight every time a long leg came forward and dug itself into the ground. It stood higher than the house she clung to. How long it was Zudarra could not say, as it had not finished its journey from the portal. What had come forth already had to have been longer than the arena battlefield.

The head of the battering ram was an eye of fire wreathed in black spikes. Zudarra's locked eyes with it, stared into the fiery red pupil and the swirling inferno that surrounded it, and a deep dread she had never known shuddered through her. Zudarra knew that she would die this day. The horror of this knowledge pushed down on her from all sides, grabbed her by the heart and squeezed.

A sudden blast of heat against her back yanked Zudarra back to reality. The armor saved her back but her tail was on fire! She screamed and released the shingles, hands automatically going behind her to try to put out the flames, but her shifting weight caused her to tumble over backwards with no hope of ever latching onto the roof again. The world spun around her, a brief flash of green and red and the grinning black faces of dremora before the hard stone walkway came rushing up at her and everything was black.