FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 4

Saraven's admission was sobering, and for a very brief moment, Zudarra felt... what was it? Not guilt; she was not the one to have killed all those people. Was it sorrow, pity? She'd been minding her own business and not hurting anyone when Saraven rode up beside her with a chip on his shoulder. He provoked her , so why should Zudarra feel anything for him? She'd seen plenty of death herself, but you didn't see her moping around for it!

Zudarra shoved aside the strange emotion, forcing it back down into whatever little hole it had leaked from and corking it with the self-satisfied thought that he was weak and therefore undeserving of her consideration.

His dead friends were probably asking for, anyway, Zudarra told herself.

Her thoughts were cut short by the sudden appearance of another dremora, who loosed a blast of fire at them. Zudarra easily dodged from behind the Dunmer and sprinted up the slope on Saraven's left to flank the mage. Perhaps it was stupid to get so close, but Saraven was weakened and having two targets in her face would force the mage to leave herself open to one of them.

Zudarra slammed her mace down at the dremora's arm, raised in preparation for another spell, but a shell of magicka flashed around her and the weapon lost its momentum as it passed through the purple barrier. It banged ineffectively against the dremora, only managing to knock down the arm with little more than a bruise. Flames curled in her fingers again.

The vampire passed him in a blur, and he knew exactly what had happened only when the mace stopped moving, the thin barrier of a shield spell materializing over the dremora's flesh and clothing. Well, there were ways of dealing with that. Saraven threw the axe overhand at her shin. It hit without enough impact to cut but certainly enough to knock her off-balance. The dremora fell to one knee, cursing them in her own tongue. Saraven leaned down far enough to catch the handle of the axe as it slid back toward him.

Zudarra was on the dremora's throat the moment she went down, grabbing her by the wrists to keep her from casting. The dremora's flesh resisted her fangs thanks to the spell, but it was not enough to stop a hungry vampire from pushing through. The dremora screamed as the fangs punctured her artery, fire bursting from both hands. The flames singed Zudarra's fingers but she held fast as she drank. The blood was an ecstasy equal to her earlier meal, but this time Zudarra was not so ravenous and found herself more aware of her surroundings.

Saraven threw himself flat against the wall to avoid the flames. Zudarra didn't seem to care, muzzle fastened to the daedra's throat. Well, that was no surprise. He had seen vampires that were feeding ignore the walls falling down around their ears.

---

Kynreeve Kahzarku of the Sharduloxis Clan did not care for the mortal world of Nirn. The stench of too many living things- flowers and leaves and whatnot- carried on bitterly cold winds made him sick every time he stepped foot in it. The sky and landscape were all wrong, colored in offensive greens and blues. Worst of all were the inexplicable rivers and oceans of water . Undrinkable, cold, and teeming with filthy creatures called feesh and dirtcrabs that continually excreted waste, which the mortals bathed in and drank daily.

The land crawled with worms calling themselves Chimer or Redguard or Ayleid or whatever other fancy names they invented, but all of them were exactly the same: impotent wretches who lived meaningless lives and died without honor in the blink of an eye. Their greatest cities took generations to build, none of them ever seeing the fruits of their labors before they turned to dust and were forgotten. A few of the more intelligent ones gave themselves over to Lord Dagon or another Prince, desperately grasping at immortality. Their souls would live forever in Oblivion, but in their proper station: in the Deadlands, as rewards and playthings for the Kyn of highest honor.

Kahzarku yearned for the blood springs and the obsidian fields of his homeland, Jurn, but for the last three hetta he'd been stationed here at Ganonah instead, overseeing the construction of the great Sigil Keeps.

In what mortals referred to as the First Era, Kahzarku had spent several resentful mortal years in the service of an Ayleid mage. His experience on Nirn, as well as his prestigious history as a valiant warrior, was part of the reason he had been chosen as one of the Kynreeve to oversee the invasion of Cyrodiil. He did not relish a return to that ugly world, but to quench his blade with the blood of mortals was a privilege that made all his labors at Ganonah worth the toil.

Angry crimson swirls decorated the skin of Kahzarku's face. Every line had been earned by his honorable deeds, foes dispatched in battle or services rendered in the name of Mighty Lord Dagon of Sacred Unutterable Protonymic. The rings carved into his horns represented his status as Kynreeve, as did the high upwards-arching claws of his pauldrons and the seal on his left breast, the eye of the Sharduloxis. Lesser dremora averted their eyes as he passed, as was the correct order of things.

He had recently returned to the Keep from the place called Kvatch, as first blood was his right as Kynreeve, and now Kahzarku strolled through the Sigillum Sanguis to consult with his two highest ranking mages. They had been responsible for the opening and maintaining of the great gate. The siege was nearly over, the bulk of their troops now returning with trophies of war in tow. He stopped before one of his black-robed men. Every Keep was assigned two Kynval mages; presently, the other was patrolling below.

They were on the lower floor of the Sigillum, a great dome that housed the sigil stone. A narrow ring of stone comprised the walkway on the outer edge, a fiery pillar rising from the bottom of the tower miles below them and up through the center of this dome. This energy which enabled them to pass the limin into Mundus was generated by the Prince himself, a tiny fragment of His immeasurable power. A tarp of living skin stretched over the hole that the pillar rose from to protect the well of fire below. The veiny red skin had once been the bodies of many mortals, now twisted into a more useful form to better serve their Lord. Kahzarku smiled as he passed near them, sensing the agony of their tortured souls.

"Report, worm!" Kahzarku barked to one of the mages, Kynval Morder of the Sharduloxis.

"The limin remains weak, Kynreeve," Morder replied sharply, looking Kahzarku in the eye now that he had been addressed. "There is no risk of the gate closing prematurely, although we recommend closing it to prevent access to our lands by mortals as soon as possible."

Kahzarku knew that their primary objective had not yet been achieved. The remaining troops were searching for the body of Martin Septim. Until he was found, all gates would remain open and Kvatch would be held. There was no point in explaining this to an inferior. He turned, gauntleted hands clasped behind his back and strode up the stairs, a line of black spikes growing from the walls, to examine the sigil stone himself. It was an artifact of great power and beauty, marked with a blessed rune by Lord Dagon himself. It was another privilege of Kahzarku's station that he could gaze upon its wonder.

Kahzarku jerked his head towards the sudden piercing scream. It came from below, where Hallori had just passed.

"Stay with the stone," he said to Morder, and turned down the spiraling steps, dragging the heavy battle axe from his back. As he cleared the dome, Kahzarku growled in rage at the shameful sight of his own clan member bested by mortals. He stomped towards them, daedric boots clanking heavily against the walkway, transferring the giant axe to his right hand.

"Vile scum!" he screamed in a voice like claws raking across rusty metal.

Saraven's head jerked up at the voice screaming in Cyrodilic. The slope grew much less steep up ahead, curving around into a hallway with a doorless entry that led out into a larger space that he just had time to register was full of red. A tall dremora in heavy armor loomed into view, the insignia of an eye decorating one breast of his cuirass.

"Zudarra," he hissed, and ran forward. The creature had a two-handed weapon, an axe much larger and heavier than the one Saraven carried. He swung it in both hands as Saraven moved forward, trying for an easy decapitation, but the Dunmer threw himself down and skidded under the blade. The big dremora was faster than he expected. One back-thrust boot kicked at him before he could rise, solidly impacting on his right side and hurling him into the slight incline. His head bounced against the stone floor before he could stop it, and the world erupted into white stars. His hand kept its convulsive grip on the weapon as he rolled weakly away, waiting for his vision to clear enough to see the enemy.

Zudarra was aware of the newcomer through the haze of pleasure as she fed. No matter how badly she wanted just another mouthful of blood, he had to be dealt with. The mage was sagging in her grasp now, not yet dead but severely weakened. She grabbed up the mace she had dropped and leapt back to take stock of the situation as Saraven went down, her muscles surging with the dremora's tremendous power. She grinned at the demon that stalked forward, blood dripping from her teeth. But he did not charge her as she expected.

"Pathetic!" Kahzarku growled, grabbing Hallori by her bloodied neck. She moaned as the Kynreeve raised her limp body in the air and chucked her over the rail, her cry trailing off as she fell. Zudarra raised her brows at the callous display, shock replacing the cocky grin. The body disintegrated in the pillar of fire several floors below them with a distant bang and a flash of light.

With a roar Kahzarku charged forward with axe held underhand, rage and hate embedded in every line of his tattooed face. Zudarra was a blur as she darted left and raced past him up the slope towards where Saraven had fallen. The dremora anticipated her move and whirled as he swung, slamming Zudarra in the back with the bladed edge. She pitched forward, catching herself on hands and knees, knuckles of her weapon hand slamming against the ground.

Saraven waited a blow that never came, the world silent around him. He shoved himself upright against the wall, teeth gritted against the throbbing pain in his head as his vision slowly cleared. Sound returned in a slow, increasing roar, and he was looking at Zudarra hitting her knees as the dremora stalked forward.

Kahzarku raised a leg and the axe over his head, reading to stomp down on the Khajiit to pin her in place for the blow. As the axe rose Saraven dropped his shoulder and charged for a point past the dremora's left side, prepared to slash at the right underarm where there was only padding, no armor. If he had his sword he could even get at the heart from that angle, he had done it before, but now he had only a war-axe. Needs must.

Kahzarku shifted the raised haft in his hands so that it angled straight down with his hands near the head and stabbed down at the Dunmer as he neared, letting his foot drop to the floor instead of Zudarra to brace himself. Zudarra rolled onto her side away from them and kicked out at the dremora's leg. His body barely jerked at the impact.

The haft of the greataxe slammed down into Saraven's shoulder, knocking him to one knee as pain lanced through that side of his body. The joint dislocated with a loud CRACK-POP. The fingers of his right hand lost their grip, and he caught the axe with his left even as he cried out in pain. He swung for the padding at the back of the daedra's right knee as he desperately twisted his upper body, right arm swinging useless at his side.

Kahzarku clanged heavily onto one knee as he was struck. Zudarra swung her mace at the dremora's unarmored head even as she twisted up into a sitting position. Sparks flew as the blade of his axe caught against a spike of the mace. Zudarra's left hand flew up to support her right, using the stolen strength of both arms to push back against the dremora's axe. They both snarled in bestial rage, glaring at one another as their arms fought to wrench the weapon from the other's hands.

Both were oblivious to the stampede of boots and the war cries from the walkway below. The crowd of dremora had seen the body falling.

Saraven struggled to his feet, gasping for breath. The corridor seemed to spin, pain in his head, pain in his shoulder, sound trying to fade out again, but there was one more thing, one last important thing. Zudarra was locked in a grapple with the dremora, and he still had an axe in his hand, and the creature had no helm. The Dunmer breathed deeply, trying to steady himself as he gathered the last of his strength. Then he swung the axe with all his might at the base of the daedra's skull, just above the heavy gorget.

The axe sliced through flesh and skull and brains with a hard thwack as blade scraped against bone and the dremora screamed, not in pain but in fury. He leaned forward with the last of his dying strength and yanked the mace from Zudarra's hands with so much force that his own axe went flying as well. The weapons clattered down the slope and Kahzarku toppled forward, dead. Zudarra looked up at Saraven in wide-eyed astonishment as she hauled herself to her feet, then behind him.

The army of angry dremora thundered up the walkway on the loop just below them; she could see them through the rail.

This was it. Saraven was crippled. Her weapon was gone. They were outnumbered by at least fifty monsters. There was no time to discuss it; Zudarra grabbed Saraven by the armpits and threw him over her shoulder, then turned and ran up the slope.

Saraven's world spun and dropped, and for several seconds he knew nothing at all. Jolting movement yanked him unwillingly back to painful consciousness. He was being carried, head-down over someone's shoulder. A gray tabby tail lashed in front of his eyes as he gritted his teeth and craned his neck back to look.

_Why is she carrying me? _

That was a question that would have to wait. He tried to close his right hand and could not. It hung useless from his shoulder. He used the left one instead, blue power spiraling up his body to clear his aching head. With it went the last of his power. His right arm remained out of joint. It would take an incredibly powerful healing spell to re-set it. Normally he would get it back into the socket manually and then heal the damage that remained, and there was no time for that. He could hear the distant clatter of running feet. They were pursued.

From the right, the hum that had been increasingly audible as they climbed was teeth-settingly loud. He could hear a voice raised in the dremora language from that direction.

"I can run," he shouted, raising his voice with an effort. It sounded as though it came from far away, as if the distance between mouth and ears were miles instead of inches.

They were above the veiny membrane now, inside a tall dome of ancient stone with a hole cut in the center. Red thunder and lightning crackled in the dark clouds above. The pillar of light came to an end above them, some tiny black object floating at the apex of the pillar. It was encircled by a metal ring, held from the ceiling with thick chains. Black spikes that grew from the wall formed a staircase to a second floor, a ring against the wall like this one, but with a balcony jutting out from which the top of the pillar could be accessed. A robed dremora stood there, watching them.

We have to get up there! Zudarra wasn't sure how, but maybe if they stood on that ring at the top of the pillar, they could climb those chains to the ceiling and escape through the hole. And then go where? That didn't matter now. Survival first!

Saraven was shouting. She set him down on his feet as gently as she could, although she doubted his claim. A lightning bolt from the mage blackened the floor in front of them, heated air blowing against her face.

_What a crap shot. _ She glared up at him, waiting to dodge the next cast. Voices screamed from below. Their time was running out.

Saraven grabbed her arm for a half-second without even thinking, as he would a comrade from the Guild, and turned to sprint up the ramp. The world lurched and steadied, and his progress was visibly erratic, but he was still running. The mage reflexively turned to aim at the moving target, the Dunmer sprinting toward him with one arm flopping dead at his side and face fixed in a rictus of defiant agony. Lightning crackled between them. Saraven screamed as the spell hit, but he was moving forward, and he kept moving forward, steam rising from the mail of his armor as it burned padding and flesh. His entire universe was pain, the blur of red narrowing his vision to a pinpoint full of dremora as he lurched toward the last thing between him and the pillar of fire.

The dremora and Zudarra both stared in shock as Saraven ran through a bolt of lightning. The dremora prepared to loose another bolt just as the mortal slammed into him, knocking him off the balcony and onto the sigil stone. He didn't even have time to scream before his body disintegrated in the glorious fire of Mehrunes Dagon. The sigil stone, no longer held aloft by the pillar, landed on the soft membrane below and rolled down to the walkway.

The pillar of fire burst through the upper dome and Zudarra jerked her head away from the sudden blinding light that filled the room. The entire structure began to violently shake.

"Saraven!" she screamed, but the increasing drone of the pillar and the grinding of rock as the tower trembled drowned out her voice. The chains snapped under the force of the shaking and the ring collapsed, ripping into the membrane below.

Everything was falling! Huge chunks of ceiling slammed down, chipping off parts of the upper walkway and the stairs. A piece of ceiling hit the floor nearby and Zudarra felt the ground give way. She was weightless as she fell, another heavy chunk of stone racing down at her from the ceiling. She screamed.

---

Zudarra awoke to complete silence, in her own bed in her basement apartment in the Elven Gardens district. Usually the scent of frying ham would be wafting down from upstairs. The cooking of flesh did not produce a particularly pleasant smell nor did it arouse Zudarra's hunger, it just was. Cania had stopped inviting the Khajiit up for meals months ago. In fact, her Imperial landlord stopped talking to Zudarra at all unless she had to. Zudarra was just fine with that.

Wait, why am I here? A chunk of her memory was gone. We were cornered at the top of the tower.... fire... everything collapsing all around us... So that must mean she had died.

_No! This can't be the end! _ Zudarra threw aside the coverlet and ran upstairs, door banging against wall as she burst into the upstairs room.

The house had been trashed, the tapestries that lined the walls shredded, old and gray with color drained as if exposed to sun damage for years. The kitchen table, the chairs, the benches all lay in broken rotting pieces on the floor. Plates and cups had been thrown from overturned cabinets and smashed to shards. A foggy mist from a blue twilight curled inside the room from windows lined with jagged glass, flowing and swirling almost as if it were alive. Something was horribly, terribly wrong. The room smelled of nothing. No Cania, no old trace of Vandalion or herself, no food or anything other than dust and mold. The light from outside brought her no physical discomfort.

It's a dream, then? It could be no dream. Zudarra knew a dream from reality. The stone under her pads and the light wind that tousled her fur from the smashed windows could be nothing but reality.

Zudarra threw open the front door and stepped into the street. Ruin lay all around her. Doors had rotted away, stone buildings had toppled, more broken furniture lay scattered by piles of rubble that had once been walls. Hers was one of the few homes left standing. No moon or stars shone from the sky above, nor a sun on the horizon. Nothing but a luminous blue fog lit the scene before her. The Imperial City had been utterly destroyed, and it looked to have happened a hundred years ago. Not even the White-Gold Tower, forever a constant in her life, could be seen.

And it was so silent . She strained her ears and could not make out a single bird or mortal voice. There wasn't even the sound of wind despite its evident presence against her fur. Zudarra wanted to yell, to call out for anyone who might have survived, but she feared her own voice would fall flat in this place. She had not even her own heartbeat to pound in her ears. She turned down the street, eyes darting back and forth as she frantically searched the destruction and her mind ground through the confusion, trying to find some explanation for what had happened.

A shadow fell across the street in front of her. Zudarra whirled to see a demon that towered above her, at least nine feet to her six and a quarter. It had come without warning, but now its cloven hooves clopped with a loud echo as it stepped towards her.

Molag Bal. She knew him immediately. A flat-nosed face leered down at her, mouth bulging with crooked tusk-like teeth. He was much like an Orc in some ways, green skinned and broad, but with digitigrade legs and two-fingered hands that ended in thick, curved digits that were something between hoof and claw. The bald head was too short and flat, the skull oblong. Two sets of spiral horns flanked the sides of his face, the top set curving upward and the bottom set curving down with merish ears between them. They seemed impossibly heavy, spanning further than his own shoulders, but the Prince stood tall under the weight of them. A barbed member, thick as Zudarra's arm, hung between his naked thighs.

She barely had time to take in any of these details before she locked eyes with his and found it impossible to tear her gaze away. They were nothing more than black holes, yet Zudarra felt she was looking into an ageless void. Inside those sockets lay a terrifying nothingness that threatened to swallow her up.

Zudarra backed away instinctively, trying to hide the terror on her face and failing. She was clad only in her underclothes. Her armor and weapon had not been in her room.

"Be still, my child, you have nothing to fear from me this day." Molag Bal's mouth did not open. The voice echoed from all around her, a terrible cacophony of screams and cries that wove together to form his voice, something thundering deep and resonant below the wails. Her entire body trembled, calves growing weak.

"You have killed my spy," the voice continued. A picture flashed in her mind: the daedroth from the tower, blood gushing from its belly as it fell. "But I do not seek vengeance for this. I have brought you here to offer you a deal. Do my bidding and you shall be rewarded greatly."

Zudarra finally found her voice. She swallowed first, steeling herself so that it would not shake.

"You have nothing I want!" she snarled up at him. The volume of her voice was pitifully weak after hearing his, which smothered her from every angle. The voice laughed, a horrible sound overlaid with tortured screams.

"Foolish vampire. Your soul is mine," he spoke. Sudden agony lanced through Zudarra's body, shooting out from her heart to her brain and every limb like both fire and ice in her veins. She jerked up straight, but not under her own power. An invisible force pressed on her painfully from all sides, on every inch of her body. The pain intensified as the force tightened against bone and organ, threatening to crush her completely.

"When this shell has died- and it will die, no matter how strong or cunning of a vampire you think you are- I will find you, Zudarra. I will find you in Coldharbour and there you will be tortured for all of our endless days together. The absence of this torture would be your reward if you serve me."

"You... don't... own.. me!" Zudarra ground from her clenched teeth, the only movement she could make. Or that Molag Bal allowed her to make. Again the laughter roared and she felt the pressure lessen on her throat and chest. "I was never your worshiper! Being vampire alone gives you no rights to my soul!"

"How stupid you are, Zudarra. In your fervid quest for immortality, you failed to consider the inevitable end to your path." The invisible hand that held her jerked forward, raising Zudarra to Molag Bal's face, her nose inches away from his. Hot air that smelled of decay snorted from his nostrils. She was eye to eye with him now, the black emptiness of nonexistence boring into her soul. "If torture does not sway your mind, would you prefer... nothing? It pains me to lose a soul, but one among thousands is a pittance I can allow. I can destroy you, Zudarra. I can rend you from existence as easily as you would crush a fly in your palm."

Zudarra saw herself in those eyes, she saw her soul, a pitiful bodiless light, snuffed out like the flame of a candle. There would be nothing afterward. No pain, no pleasure, no power, no thought, no self . Unspeakable horror welled inside her. Zudarra screamed, struggling in the invisible grasp, but she could move nothing other than her head. Molag Bal waited patiently while she tired herself out. Finally her head dropped, ears flat against her skull.

"I'll do it," she whispered hoarsely. Her body was lowered and dropped unceremoniously to the ground, where she fell to her hands and knees. Zudarra looked up at the Prince, sitting up on her knees with fits clenched beside her. Her voice shook with fear and anger as she fought to calm herself. "What do you want me to do?"

"Foil Mehrunes Dagon wherever you can and aid those who would do the same," he replied, staring impassively down at the broken Khajiit. "He seeks to destroy Mundus and all who reside there, but your world and its souls are mine to possess, do you understand?"

Zudarra did not understand. The confusion was plain on her face.

"I don't--"

"Our time together is over, little vampire. You will do as I ask, or you will face a fate far worse than a mortal death." The voice faded into a whispering wind and the demon before her vanished to smoke. The dead world around her crumbled into blackness.