4E 202, Shor's Stone
Gerron Ironbreaker
The first dragons to pierce through the threshold of the wall were met with sharp dwemer steel as the Automaton Guardians surged into motion.
They leaped from the battlements, crashing down upon the dragons as they swung their halberd-like arms, cleaving through wings, biting into necks, screeching as enchanted metal met draconic hide.
The newer constructs were larger than their predecessors. Not quite the towering bulk of a Dwemer Centurion, but broader in frame, denser in construction. Each stood tall enough to meet a lesser dragon eye-to-eye, an advantage that they utilized as each Guardian met the dragons one-by-one.
Three hundred of them existed now, and Gerron had split them in half. Two hundred will man the walls in even intervals, while the other one hundred within the confines of the city.
And now, it seems his caution was rewarded, for the southeastern gate fell not a minute later. A beam had punched right through it, sundering it into a ruin.
From that wound came the undead. Purple portals churned in the fields as they vomited forth draugr by the dozens, then hundreds, then thousands, their hollow eyes burning with violet fire instead of the regular azure blues.
The Guardians within the city moved instantly, the first line of defense for the undead horde. They turned as one and marched to meet the breach, forming a line to cork it as best they could.
"Raise the standards!" Gerron roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a warhorn. "Send word to our forces within the city!"
Beside him, Grogmar did not waste a heartbeat.
"Aye!" the orc bellowed, already turning, his own voice rising above the din as he barked commands to the signalmen. "Standards up! Signal the breach, south-east quadrant! Move!"
The men scrambled as flags were raised high upon the drum tower, snapping violently in the wind—colors and symbols shifting in rapid sequence, carrying orders faster than any runner could hope to.
In the opening moments of the battle, messengers had sufficed. But now? They were simply too inefficient. By the time the orders reached their quarry, the situation would have already turned and changed.
Not a few seconds later, the bells of the Ebony Palace toiled, Their mournful chime rolled across Shor's Stone, proclaiming what all already knew.
The battle had begun.
Gerron exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Serana stood beside him with poise even amidst the chaos, her crimson gaze fixed upon the portals that now bled draugr into the city.
"That has to be Durnehviir's doing," she said, her voice calm, but edged with something darker. "Those draugr… they're too similar to the ones we saw in the Soul Cairn."
"Agreed," he said. "If those portals keep spawning them, we'll be overrun." He looked back at her. "Can you close them?"
Serana's eyes had a flash white for a second—no doubt Meridia's assurance—before a dangerous smile appeared on her face. "I got some ideas."
Their gazes locked then. Without prompting, Gerron stepped forward, cupping her cheek with a gauntleted hand, and kissed her.
"See you on the other side," he murmured.
"You too," Serana replied, her fangs descending slightly as her grin widened. "Don't die, husband."
He almost laughed.
Instead, he watched her go.
She turned sharply as she descended the stairs from the wall. Ranessa followed close, along with Mirabelle Ervine. A detachment of Shor's Guard fell in behind them.
Gerron lingered for half a breath before turning back to the war.
His eyes lifted to the skies as he braced himself by the merlon. The Mercury Hammer shifted in his grip, mechanisms whirring as it reconfigured into its crossbow form. Energy gathered at its core, a low hum building into a rising whine.
He took aim, waited, then fired.
The bolt screamed through the air before slamming into a green-scaled dragon mid-flight. The impact shattered bone, tore through wing, and sent the beast spiraling from the sky with a shriek that ended in a distant, thunderous crash somewhere outside the city.
"Knock! Loose!" Grogmar roared again.
Hundreds of arrows answered as the sky darkened beneath their flight, a storm of fletching and steel. Three dragons at the very front took the full brunt of it, more than ten arrows piercing through their eyes each before they dropped like stone.
A light cheer rose and died just as quickly as more and more arrows descended from the skies.
Gerron scanned them all, jaw tightening.
'Where are you?'
There was a reason why he left Serana to deal with the undead, for he had another, more important foe to deal with.
There was no doubt in his mind that the most dangerous threats currently on the battlefield were the Kruziik. They were simply the most powerful beings currently in existence, proven as such way back during High Hrothgar, where it took two Champions and the Archmage himself to handle just one of them.
Currently, Alduin was engaged with Kiera, way up high near the clouds. He could even see it, a constant clash between scales of bronze and black.
Durnehviir remained flying in the distance, his voice echoing across the battlefield as more portals tore open reality itself.
That left one more unchecked.
He had spotted Odahviing earlier in the dragon's initial march, but he had since disappeared, hidden behind the tens of dragons that now fly and flutter in the air.
The roars of dragons became a constant deafening chorus that made the very air tremble. Thu'um split the sky open—firestorms, lightning, frost, winds that tore men from the walls and cast them screaming into the abyss below.
And yet, Skyrim endured. And they retaliated not seconds later.
The Ebony Palace flared to life, blue light surged along its towering structure as the Magicka Turrets awakened. They fired in unison, orbs and constant lobs of raw arcane force lancing upward, striking dragons from the sky.
Hundreds of spells followed as the mages of the College unleashed everything they had. Even the Voice wielders followed, different shouts and Voices thundering through the air as the forces of men and mer fought united on this day.
It wasn't even just men and mer, for Gerron could hear the witch-like cackling of Idecta. The Hagraven hurled fireball after fireball into the heavens, each one bursting into a storm of sparks that forced dragons to veer away or be consumed. One took the full blast—its wing igniting before it plummeted, crashing into the streets below where Vilkas and his Companions fell upon it without hesitation.
Still. Still Gerron searched.
And then, he heard it. His head snapped upward as a familiar roar echoed through the air.
There, a crimson missile cutting through the skies like a blade was flying straight for him, jaws opening in a snarl that revealed rows upon rows of jagged teeth, was the unmistakable form of Odahviing.
"So you were looking for me," he growled, raising his weapon. "Just as I was looking for you?"
The wind howled around him.
"Looks like I wasn't the only one who wanted a rematch!"
Odahviing answered with a roar.
Gerron narrowed his eyes as he finally saw the scarred scales that cover Odahviing's form. There was even a wound, a deep gash along the dragon's side, festering with something foul. Not simple rot, but corruption. The same sickening taint he had once seen upon Keeper Carcette.
As the dragon drew closer, Grogmar finally bellowed. "Loose!"
Hundreds of arrows flew as Gerron fired his Ebony Hammer in tandem.
They would have struck true, if not for the shout that came from the Kruziik of the wind.
"VEN GAAR NOS!"
A titanic cyclone was released from his maw, one that casted fierce winds and scattered all the projectiles that came after him.
Gerron's eyes widened as the dragon snarled.
Odahviing inhaled once more, a deep and terrible thing, for the shout came next.
"WULD NAH KEST!"
Gerron barely had time to raise his hammer as the sound of cracking thunder was heard. A crushing force slammed into his chest, his armor and the subsequent ward the only reason his ribcage didn't break on impact.
Darkness engulfed him only for a second. When his vision returned, he was no longer on the wall. Instead, he was falling, with rows of jagged teeth closing around him.
They scraped against his armor with a shriek of metal, the stench of charred flesh and ancient blood filled his lungs as the dragon's jaws snapped shut, only to be stopped by the Mercury Hammer braced between them, its haft groaning under the immense pressure.
Gerron gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he held the maw at bay. Looking down, they were just about to hit the ground, only for Odahviing's wings to beat as he took to the skies once again.
Surrounded and trapped as he was, in the jaws of a Kruziik of all things, with the damn dragon biting down to make mince meat out of him, the only thing Gerron felt was the sheer and utter adrenaline that coursed through his veins. His blood was singing, in the way that only Nords could feel.
In the distance, he saw the battle raging across the city, and he realized, as of right now, he wouldn't be anywhere else but here.
…
4E 202, Shor's Stone
Legate Rikke
Rikke thought the world had ended after the enormous rumble that shook the world, making her nearly stumble. It was a familiar feeling, something she had grown used to hearing after this whole dragon war started. Yet the terrible sound was just as much a herald for what was to come.
"ALDIS, GET YOUR INFANTRY TO REINFORCE THE LEFT PORTION OF THE BREACH! RIKKE, SHIELD'S TO THE RIGHT BARRICADE! PUSH OUT THE UNDEAD!" General Tullius' roars echoed above the clash of steel and the sounds of men dying.
It was nigh impossible to signal orders or control the men using the standards since most burned out with the gate. Hornblowers or drums were lost in the chaos, and none knew if they were still even alive. Thus, Rikke had the pleasure of hearing the General and provincial governor of the Imperial Legion roar with all his anger and fury—something that she never thought the composed and serious General would ever do.
Then again, recent events forced everyone to change and adapt, Rikke was the same way.
Fifty legionnaires manned that gate, and they were all dead. Dozens more died in the aftermath, stone debris and the melted remains of the portcullis falling from the sky like meteors that crushed many underneath it.
Rikke grit her teeth at their deaths, for she knew many of the people that were stationed at that gate. But war waited for no one, grief came later. Now was the time to fight.
Rikke rallied her own men, two hundred legionnaires of the reserve forces and rushed to the right barricade, one that was hastily put together by pushing carts and wagons together to block the influx of undead as they charged like an endless wave through the breach.
Holding the line were the Automaton Guardians, the Dragonslayer's creations. They stood like titans amidst the chaos—massive constructs of Dwemer steel, their bodies humming with arcane power as they waded into the undead horde.
Each swing of their halberd-arms crushed bone and shattered armor. Draugr were torn apart, reduced to broken husks with brutal efficiency.
They did not falter, nor did they tire. They simply advanced.
An advantage Rikke utilized as she let out a rallying cry.
"For Skyrim! For the Empire!" Her men roared with her as they charged.
Her ebony longsword flashed as the first draugr lost its head before it could even raise its weapon. The second slammed into her shield, its strength surprising even in death—but she held firm, pivoted, and drove her sword through the gap in its armor.
Then a third came, and a fourth. An endless horde where a handful of undead were ready to take the place of their fallen brethren, uncaring and unfeeling for the ones she had already killed.
They were different from the usual undead she had seen, these ones having eyes of burning violet flame instead of the usual blue. Their movements were sharper and faster than the ones she fought back in the Haafingar mountains.
Another large roar had Kiera grimace as pain lanced in her eardrums. Hearing was already a struggle from the constant sounds of ringing steel, but the sharp draconic roars staggered some of the soldiers around Rikke, some dropping to a knee as the sheer force of it disrupted their senses.
She strained to hear more orders from General Tullius as he kept a constant gaze at the surroundings, making sure nothing was afoot. Despite only having one eye, the other lost in the Battle of Castle Volkihar, he remained the most perceptive man Rikke knew.
Her sword continued to swing, easily piercing through armor worn by the standard draugr; simple furs, rotting leathers, and the occasional brigandine shaped in ancient nordic style.
It was the more powerful variants that proved a problem; wights, scourges, and even Deathlords. These were the warriors that retained much of their skill when they were alive, and the armor they bore had kept their quality through the decades.
But the worst part was the retching stink of death choking the air, mingling with the overwhelming stench of brimstone. It would have made her eyes water had she now grown used to them.
Rikke barely had time to react as a shadow passed overhead—a yellow-scaled dragon swooped low, fire pouring from its maw in a blazing arc.
The house near her exploded, flame engulfed timber and stone alike, the heat washing over her in a suffocating wave.
She lost her footing and would have been skewered by a Draugr Wight's spear if not for the blur of metal that intercepted it.
The automaton's halberd slammed into the undead with crushing force, reducing it to shattered paste in an instant.
Rikke sucked in a breath, pushing herself back to her feet.
"...Thank you," she muttered.
The construct did not acknowledge her. It simply turned and continued killing.
"Figures." Rikke huffed once before shaking her head and followed in its wake.
Step by step, they forced the draugr back toward the broken gate, the Guardians carving a path while legionnaires filled the gaps with shield and steel.
Rikke lost count of how many she killed.
Ten. Twenty. Fifty.
Yet it did not matter, for the undead kept coming like an endless tide.
Just as they managed to reinforce the right-hand side of the breach, she heard Tullius scream again.
"FORM UP A LINE FASTER, GET SOME MARKSMEN UP THE STREET ONTO THE BUILDINGS!"
Rikke looked up.
The General stood atop a section of wall that still held, his lone eye scanning the battlefield with relentless focus.
"PIKES, FORM UP ON THE GUARDIANS AND HOLD THAT BREACH! RIKKE, RETREAT TO ZENITHAR'S SQUARE AND REINFORCE IT!"
The voice itself was muted, slightly swallowed by the ringing that was still in Rikke's ear, but she heard enough. Zenithar's Square, the triage, the wounded. If that place fell…
"Cohort, on me!" Rikke screamed. "Let's move!"
No hesitation. No complaints.
Even as exhaustion dragged at their limbs, the legionnaires responded instantly, falling into formation as they disengaged with practiced precision.
This was their purpose as the reserve force, to go where the line threatened to break. A quick and mobile infantry unit to be stationed where they were most needed.
Captain Aldis' disciplined pikemen would be more than enough to hold a small section of the breach so it doesn't spill and undo their work.
Zenithar's Square served as an important hub for the battle, for they held the largest medical camp and triage area in the city. Supposedly, the Vigilants of Stendarr were the ones responsible in defending it, which meant that the enemy must be dangerous indeed if they were getting overrun.
Pulling on her satchel of potions, Rikke didn't hesitate in knocking back the stamina-refilling draught. Despite its horrid taste, she relished in the feeling of heat that came from her core before it turned into an electrifying cold, as if a bucket of ice water was injected through her veins.
The fatigue she had felt left as quickly as it came as her breath steadied, the soreness in her muscles disappearing.
Looking around, she watched as every member of the cohort did the same. It seems she had lost less than two dozen in that initial conflict. The injured ones also drank health potions to heal themselves of their wounds to keep in the fight.
Swiftly disengaging, Rikke gave Aldis a passing nod as she and her cohort began trekking towards the square. All around them, men and women of the Fire Brigade were running around with fire resistant cloaks, making sure to stay away from the fighting as they focused their efforts on putting out any fires that happened.
What fire was too heavy or burned too hot was instead contained, fought and separated so they did not spread to the other buildings.
Rikke's mind focused as they rushed through the streets choked with smoke and chaos. It was a good thing that Rikke spent a few days walking through these streets and familiarized herself with them as they reached Zenithar's Square through the narrow alleyways, where the sounds of fighting were already spreading.
Rikke felt the heat first as they exited through the mouth of the alleyway, and what she saw shocked her.
Light clashed with flame in a violent dance at the center of the square.
Keeper Carcette stood her ground, silver blade glowing with divine radiance as it met the crushing force of a massive greataxe, burning with orange flame, wielded by a towering undead clad in ancient nordic armor. On his head was a malachite mask, two dragonbone horns jutting out of the helm.
Rikke knew what he was the moment she laid eyes on him.
'Dragon Priest!'
Carcette did not yield as she and Otar the Mad continued to trade blows. Light flared with every strike, clashing against the burning fury of Otar's axe. Each blow shook the ground, scattering embers and sending shockwaves through the already ruined square.
Rikke's stomach lurched at the sight of hundreds of dead men and draugr surrounding the two. One of them, a Vigilant of Stendarr, was moaning in agony as his face was still steaming, half-melted by the flames, revealing chunks of bone underneath.
To the side, Vigilant Tolan held the line with what remained of his forces, blocking one of the main roads into the square as waves of undead crashed against them.
Behind them was a chaos of a different kind, Healers worked frantically as Valerica stood among them, directing with cold precision as the wounded were treated or moved. Those who could walk were being escorted away toward the Ebony Palace.
It was holding together, barely.
Seeing it all, Rikke didn't hesitate and raised her sword. A war cry left her lips as her cohort joined her, surging forward into the fight.
…
AN: There we go, wooh, this chapter was a doozy.
Writing everything that I wanted to include in this chapter was a struggle, especially considering a lot of stuff is happening at relatively the same time since Shor's Stone is big enough for multiple battles to be going on in different areas. But I think I managed it well enough.
A lot of showcases here, the Automaton Guardians being the chads they are, some wartime strategies, Gerron and Serana sharing one final kiss before diving themselves into the chaos, and the fight against the Odahviing.
Then, Rikke's whole sequence, where she moved from place to place engaging as many undead as she could.
The rest of this arc will probably go along this way, with certain POV's describing what they;re doing doing, shift to what's happening to the city at a larger scale, then turning back to the POV's actions and how they react to it.
I hope you enjoy this one lads, it was a joy to write.
More chapters are available on my P-word. Chapter 130 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers lads.