User blog:Apollo42/A Throne of Ash: Part VI

Dyanna ducked as rubble from a nearby tower crashed down. It was more of an instinctive thing, really, seeing as she was some distance from it, but it was always better safe than sorry.

She watched from the wall, gazing down at the bridge to the mainland. It was currently occupied by thousands, if not tens of thousands, of soldiers from Cheydinhal, and, now, Leyawiin. The swamp-city had blockaded New Imperia’s harbor and had foot soldiers intermingling with the Dunmer and Imperials of Cheydinhal.

And they had brought catapults and trebuchets.

Dyanna shoved down her anxiety, glancing to one of her phar’makai. “Dyomedon.” She said, looking to the burly Underelf beside her. The man raised an eyebrow at her, and she blushed. “Stormhand, sorry. Go send a message to Cheydinhal.”

Dyomedon nodded, and the winds began to blow at an almost unbearable degree, whipping her hair about her and almost causing her to stumble. Dyanna turned away from him, looking at her other two Augments, Hekura and Telemad.

Dyomedon’s powers lay in the ability to create storms, but the larger he went with it, the more rest he would need. Doing something like Dyanna wanted would probably cause him to pass out, so she now had to rely on the other two.

Telemad, or Blackbird, possessed nigh-unlimited amounts of stamina, and had been training since he was a small child to be a literal weapon at her disposal. The oldest, Hekura, had come into her powers relatively late in life, and now, as an old woman, she was almost volatile due to her power and how difficult it was to control. Dyanna didn’t like relying on either of them, as Telemad was essentially a sociopath.

“You’re both going to accompany me to the Imperial Palace.” Dyanna said, feeling the anxiety creeping up into her chest again. What she was going to do was basically treason, but she had little choice.

“You don’t have to do this, Princess.” Hekura whispered, her gravelly voice somehow managing to fill the air despite the vicious wind. There was a cracking sound, and Dyanna glanced to the bridge to see one of the Trebuchets collapse, but it was one of a dozen, and Dyomedon was probably on the edge of his limits already.

Dyanna turned to the old witch, frowning. “My only other option is to let them take the city and everyone here dies, including the Emperor.”

“That’s not your only option, Your Highness.” Hekura responded, and she and Telemad shared a glance. Telemad extended a hand and opened his palm, and in the blink of an eye a beaten copper box appeared.

Dyanna hissed, shoving the man away. Telemad, due to his strength, didn’t budge, but he did let the box disappear. “You never should’ve been made the Keeper!” She growled, angrily. “I will not unleash that… that… beast into the world!”

Telemad frowned, opening his mouth to speak, but Hekura interrupted. “Your Grace, we are simply suggesting that you take the power for yourself. You can control it.”

Dyanna felt herself drift into a haze under Hekura’s words, and she extended a hand. Telemad did the same, once more opening his hand to summon the box. Dyanna knew it was wrong, but she reached for it.

She was under Hekura’s spell, and she wanted nothing more than to stop herself from what she was doing. The Princess of Cespar carefully opened the box, letting the red light spill into the air. She gazed down at the box’s contents, and felt a mix of revulsion and fear.

Inside was a red stone, about the size of two of her fingers held together. There was nothing natural about it, however. It was wrapped in and intermingled with black bands, almost like obsidian veins, and the thing thrummed with red light. It seemed to suck all the light from the air around them, draining the color so that everything seemed extremely pale and wan compared to it.

Ya’ardon, the Mind-Ripper. One of the Reaper’s Children. If Dyanna took that stone, she would be blessed with unstoppable power. She would be able to save the city and probably end the entire war all on her own.

Her fingers hovered above it, less than a centimeter away. She could feel the heat coming off of it, as if it was a living body. If she just moved her hand closer, she’d…

Be under its sway. She hastily drew her hand back, spinning on Hekura and Telemad. “Put that away.” She hissed, her hand going to the blade at her side, an Underelf royal scimitar. “Never offer it to me again, lest I name you Darkfriends and let Dyomedon deal with you.”

Hekura raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Telemad sent the box away, back to its vault in Cespar. As the Keeper, he could summon it whenever he needed. Or wanted.

“Gather the men.” Dyanna growled, turning and stomping away from the pair and stomping towards the stairs down from the walls to the city streets. “Meet me at the Imperial Palace.”

Vedin flopped onto the shore of the lake, gasping for air. He had dragged his lover, the Heir to the Empire behind him, but Vedin was at the edge of his limits. Diving to almost the bottom of the lake and then dragging an armored man behind was exhausting.

Vedin was a strong swimmer, he had grown up swimming in Lake Rumare, but that was still one of the hardest things he had done. It was almost impossible.

He gasped for breath, and then shakily pushed himself onto his hands and knees, looking to Pyron to see if he was alright. And then… he wasn’t moving.

“Dammit, Py!” Vedin cursed, crawling over to the Prince as fast as his weakened limbs could carry him. He began to press on the man’s chest: One, Two, Three. He tried to force air into the man’s lungs, pressing his lips to the Prince’s. Another three pressings. Another mouth-to-mouth attempt. The cycle repeated for what felt like forever.

Vedin sat back on his legs, finding tears begin to well in his eyes. It was hopeless, Pyron was gone. He couldn’t do anything.

The whipping boy turned warrior closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer to the Underelf gods. The Two-Faced God, the saints. Anyone who would listen.

Pyron’s eyes flew open, and he expelled all the water from his lungs, forcing it all out in one disgusting spectacle. Vedin would normally be grossed out, but the sheer joy of seeing the love of his life alive propelled him forwards, wrapping his arms around the man and sobbing.

“Ved… I’m… I’m okay…” Pyron choked out, coughing weakly. Vedin ignored him, slamming his lips into the man’s. Then, obviously, he realized he was keeping much-needed air out of Pyron’s lungs, and forced himself away.

Pyron smiled at him, weakly, before his eyes flickered to the space behind Vedin. Vedin whipped around, expecting to see Arik and Cyrus, but instead saw that they were surrounded by their own army, who were watching with wide eyes.

A man stepped through, an extremely pale man garbed in dark robes. A hood shadowed his face, but Vedin knew instantly who it was. Bryn Hassildor, High Chancellor of the Empire, the Sorcerer-Lord.

He made a gesture, and three of his guards darted forward. Two of them picked Pyron up, gently, while the other forced Vedin to his feet, practically dragging him towards the High Chancellor.

Bryn gave him a smile, but Vedin knew that that meant nothing. Bryn didn’t express happiness through conventional means like smiling. The Sorcerer clasped Vedin on the shoulder, looking around to the army. “To Vedin Darkholme, for saving the life of Aristos Imperion, the Prince of the Topal!”

Vedin felt as bewildered as the Legionnaires looked, but they slowly began to clap. No one cheered, and the claps seemed to die rather fast. It was hard to tell if they were scared of Bryn, or if they were shocked that their Aristos Imperion was…

“You’ll accompany me to my Pavilion.” Bryn said, turning his gaze upon Vedin. A chill ran through his spine. It wasn’t a question, it was an order.

“Of course, Lord Chancellor.” Vedin choked out. The guard didn’t release him, clearly under the pretense of keeping him from falling, due to his weakness, but Vedin was smarter than that. He had spent his early years on the streets, surrounding by thugs like this, and he knew that appearances meant nothing. They were keeping him from running.

The trio strode into the Chancellor’s pavilion after a bit of walking, a black-silk thing. Bryn took a seat, and his guard strode outside, watching the door. There was nowhere for Vedin to sit, so he stood, doing his best not to collapse.

“You’ve humiliated the Prince.” Bryn said, coldly, gazing up at the Imperial man. Under his eyes, Vedin felt less like a man and more like a boy, to be honest.

“I… I saved his life, Lord Chancellor.” Vedin replied, finding it difficult to keep his voice from failing him. He knew that the whole army had watched him kiss the Prince, and word would spread, surely.

“And then made him into a laughingstock.” Bryn spat at the floor, furiously. “He is the Heir to the Ruby Throne, the Prince of the Topal. He will rule Tamriel one day, and he cannot be thought of as being engaged in buggery.”

Vedin felt his face turn red, though he couldn’t tell if it was from shame or anger. Bryn continued, “But more than that, he is Aristos Imperion. He must lead this army and save Tamriel, and how is he going to lead these men if they all think him weak, effeminate, a sword-swallower?”

Vedin’s eyes widened for a moment, in shock at the insult, but it quickly turned to anger. “How dare you-“

Bryn held up a hand, and Vedin’s words died in his throat. Literally, he couldn’t speak. Whatever Bryn’s abilities were, he was an immensely powerful sorcerer. “I’m sending you away. You are a skilled warrior, proven by your duel with Arik Blackfyre. You are an asset, and you will help Prince Maerys face down the Darksteel Company. You will help him win, and you will never return, do you understand? You will never see the Crown Prince again, for the sake of the Empire and his family.”

The spell ended, and Vedin found himself able to speak again, but he was at a loss for words. Being sent away from Pyron? They had been inseparable since they were ten, he didn’t even know who he was without him. “You can’t… I… I love him… He loves me…”

It almost looked like Bryn flinched at his words, but that was unlikely. The High Chancellor’s voice was as cold as ever as he spoke. “I am doing you a favor. You both can do great things without this… taint on you.”

“But… he needs me!” Vedin said, desperately, throwing himself to his knees before the High Chancellor. He moved with wicked speed, adopting the pose of supplication, an ancient tradition among Imperials. With one hand he clasped Bryn’s chin, and with the other he held his knee. With this pose, he was to be granted mercy under the ancient laws, to be treated with respect.

Bryn Hassildor, dragonrider, looked down on Vedin Darkholme with a mixture of pity and disgust. “Pyron is a weapon, a killer. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but you cannot change its nature. You weaken him, and you will leave.” Bryn daintily plucked Vedin’s hands from his body and waved his hand.

Vedin felt his body turn on itself, and he found himself walking outside. Four guards, big men, were waiting outside, probably having telepathically heard from Bryn of his decree. They led him to his and Pyron’s tent, giving him less than five minutes to pack before they dragged him to the stables.

Vedin wore one of Pyron’s cloaks, a rich piece of clothing made of purple cloth and ermine. It would keep him warm on his journey.

He now rode on horseback through the camp, trailed on either side by four of the High Chancellor’s personal guards. Given his rich attire and his escort, it could have been said that he was receiving an important mission and a place of honor, but Vedin knew differently. And so did the Legionnaires, it seemed.

They had gathered on either side of the road he was taking, watching him go. Most of them stared at him with disgust in their eyes, or folded arms, or whispered to each other in hushed tones. The air was completely still, and no one spoke loud enough for him to hear.

“Pillow-biter!” The hideous name burst through the air, turning Vedin’s blood to ice. He swallowed, but kept his eyes on the path as his horse walked. He wished he could gallop out of there, but one of his ‘escort’ held the reins for now.

“Sword-swallower!” “Whore!” “Bastard!” The vile names began to flow, and they began to get viler with every moment. The Legionnaires were whipped into a frenzy, now, shaming him and harassing him and doing everything they could to get to him.

The first projectile hit his face. Luckily, it was an overripe pear, and it burst against his cheekbone and did little. It didn’t knock him off his horse, at least. He straightened his back and stared straight ahead. He would not let these bigots drive him to tears.

“Pervert!” A rock struck his upper thigh.

“Bugger!” A glob of spit hit his forehead, and dripped past his eyes.

“Cockbiter!” Another fruit burst against his shoulder.

Something splashed over him, vile-smelling and horrid. He didn’t want to know what it was, but he tightened his jaw anyways. He continued to stare straight forward, not letting them see him fall apart, no matter how much he wanted to.

He finally made it through the crowd, and the guardsmen continued to follow him for the next few hours, until they were safely away from the city of Riften and the Morgan Camp. He paused on the crest of the hill, looking down into the autumn woods of the Rift. He felt a single tear drip down his dirty cheek, and then he heard it.

“Vedin!”

He whipped around, recognizing the voice. Pyron, Prince of Tamriel, burst through the trees, on his own horse. Vedin scrambled down from his own horse and his beloved did the same, and they flung themselves into each other’s arms.

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” Pyron whispered, over and over, and Vedin felt his skin grow damp with Pyron’s tears. Vedin realized he had to be the strong one in this. If the gods decreed it, they would be reunited later.

“Pyron…” Vedin kissed him, gently. “I have to go… You can’t lead this army with me here… You can’t… You can’t be Aristos Imperion.”

Pyron gazed at him, his dark eyes clouded over with pain. “I won’t fight… I won’t fight for my Uncle because he did this. I swear, Tamriel can go to hell for all I care. You are my life, you are-“

“Pyron.” Vedin interrupted, his voice steely, despite how he was feeling inside. “You have to do this. I will do it from the other side of Skyrim. We will be together, but now is not the right time.”

Pyron frowned, slamming his lips to his beloved’s. “I… I have a gift for you.” He whispered, turning to his horse and dragging a sack down. He opened it, and Vedin gazed in wonder at the golden shine that was coming off of his armor.

“Pyron, you can’t give me your armor… It’s the armor of the Best of Men. It’s made for you!” Vedin protested, but Pyron took his hand.

“To me, my heart, you are the Best of Men.” He whispered, quietly, pressing his lips gently to Vedin’s cheek. Vedin kissed him one last time, before he swung up onto his horse, placing the sack of armor behind him.

He didn’t spare Pyron a second glance as he spurred his horse, setting it into a gallop towards Falkreath. If he looked back, he knew he would be lost.

Tears blurred his eyes as the horse ran, and he whispered into the night sky, “I will know you in death, at the end of the world.”

The stars almost seemed to glow bright at his comment, and one streaked across the sky. It must have been Vedin’s imagination, but he thought he saw a man in the forest through his tears.

When he wiped them away and looked again, there was no one there.

The echo of her boots against the marble floor of the Imperial Palace almost stopped her. It was unnerving, but she knew that she had to be strong.

Directly behind her were Hekura and Telemad, and thirty of her best men. They were counting on her. The rest of her men were moving through the city streets, warning the peasants, and everyone was counting on her to get this done.

She flung open the grand doors to the throne room and strode in, the footsteps of herself and her men echoing behind her.

The room was well lit, luckily, and she could see all the way to the Ruby Throne. The Emperor sat there, with his half-sister, Serra, beside him. They both looked up when she entered, appearing confused, but the Imperial Battlemage grasped it long before the Emperor did, clutching at her staff.

“What is this?” Daenar demanded, but Dyanna didn’t answer immediately. The Crownsguard stepped in front of the Throne, the three that were currently not at war, to block her if she tried to harm the Emperor of Tamriel, but that wasn’t her intent.

She stopped a few yards before the Crownsguard, and Hekura and Telemad stepped up beside her. Her Underelf soldiers fanned out behind her, as backup. “This is a coup.” The Princess of Cespar said, simply.

“How dare you?” Daenar demanded, standing up from his throne in his anger. “You do not get to come in here and try to take my throne when I offered you to my son-“

Dyanna held up a hand, and he went quiet. Not because she forced him, but because she had all the power in this situation. She was a fair swordswoman, having grown up in the matriarchy of Cespar, and she had two augments and thirty highly-trained soldiers. It was unlikely that Daenar’s three warriors and witch, no matter how highly-trained they were, could stop her.

“I’m not here for your throne.” Dyanna replied, quietly, but the room was so still that her words echoed through the hall. “I’m here to save your life, and those of your people.”

“What do you mean?” Serra asked, her grip relaxing slightly on her staff.

“This city is going to fall if the Emperor does not take his dragon and destroy the armies at our doorstep.” Dyanna stated, matter-of-fact. “We have no chance at holding off thousands. And we cannot let the Ruler of Tamriel fall into enemy hands, nor will I allow the men and women of this city undergo a sacking.”

Daenar frowned, furiously, but Serra placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back to a sitting position on his throne. “I will not abandon my people. You cannot force me to go.”

Dyanna clicked her tongue, giving him a slight smile. “No, I can. Already, my men are spreading the word that there is to be an evacuation, tonight. My Underelves will protect and guard the smallfolk as they go through the sewers towards the west. You, however, are a problem. I know that you would never give the order to flee, or use your dragon, so I’m giving you no choice.”

She looked to Serra, and she felt Serra briefly probing her mind, to see if her intentions were pure. Once she saw they were, the Imperial Battlemage gave her a slight nod.

“You’re going to get on your dragon and fly to Stirk, where my mother’s fleets can protect you.” Dyanna smiled, trying to ease the tension. “You have no choice, if you want to save the lives of your Guards and your Sister.”

Serra raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Daenar turned bright red. “You… You can’t!”

Dyanna turned to Telemad. “Disarm them.”

Telemad drew two shortswords, giving her a wicked smile, but after she glared, he dropped them. Then, he leapt forward with blinding speed, disarming members of the esteemed Crownsguard with little effort. One fell after having his own sword’s hilt knocked against his head, another went down with a kick to the chest, and the third was thrust backwards against the steps to the throne.

Telemad casually broke the man’s spear across his knee, and Dyanna gave Daenar a pointed look. “Do you see what I can do now, Your Grace? If you don’t leave, it will become known that not only were you too weak to defend your own city, but a little girl took you down.”

She laughed, brightly, relishing in her power at the moment. “If you do go… You’ll be known as the man who played three armies and saved hundreds of thousands of lives.”

Daenar frowned, almost looking like he was going to choke on his words. “And… what about you?”

Dyanna paused, considering the question. She hadn’t predicted that he would care about her wellbeing. “Myself, and my phar’makai, will remain in the city, to distract the armies for as long as we can before they go after you.”

Before he could retort, the Princess snapped her fingers. “Blackbird, escort the Emperor and his sister to his dragon.” She turned to Hekura, next. “Go make sure Dyomedon can lay cloud cover thick enough for Cheydinhal and Leyawiin to not notice an escaping dragon.”

The pair rushed to fulfill their duties, and a few of her soldiers took the initiative to help the Dragonguard out of the building, to go with the rest of the civilians. The others went with them, to keep spreading the word.

When the room was empty, save for her, Dyanna turned to look at the ruby throne. She daintily, ever-so-slowly, stepped up the stairs. She paused, for a moment, sucking in her breath and holding it.

Dyanna Harin sat down on the Ruby Throne, gazing out at the empty throne room. It felt almost right, even though she was marrying a fourth-born son, far from the line of succession. Still, something in her told her this was what she was meant for.

Maerys sat astride his dragon, Makar, as he watched his men bring out each of the surviving enemy combatants in chains through the city gates to meet him outside. The last in line was the Jarl himself, who glared at him with rage-filled eyes.

“You brought this on yourselves.” Maerys called, his voice echoing through the air. “Witness the might of the Morgan Dynasty, and see what happens to traitors.”

He spurred Makar on, and the dragon clambered forward until he was almost nose-to-nose with the Jarl. He looked around at the Nord warriors, seeing the horror in their faces as it dawned on them that the dragon would devour him, and then possibly burn all of them.

“But you may also see the mercy of my family.” He called, changing his mind rapidly as he processed what this meant. He had already burnt one city, destroying an entire generation of men in another would only inspire even more hatred towards his family.

Maerys, Prince of Tamriel, snapped his fingers at Corvus Lux, his Dragonguard. “Take his hands.” He ordered, gesturing to the Jarl, whose eyes widened. Corvus hesitated for a brief moment, before rushing to fulfill his orders.

One of the Legionnaires dragged the Jarl, kicking and screaming, to a nearby tree stump, and held his hands down as Corvus went to work. The Jarl’s screams died in his throat for the briefest of moments as he heard the whoosh of the sword through the air, before the pain hit and they started up again.

Maerys nodded in satisfaction, before looking to the rest of the Nords. Their eyes were wide, as if they were still afraid of what Maerys would do to them.

“I considered burning you all alive.” He said, simply. “But, I don’t want any more unnecessary blood on my hands.”

There was a collective sigh of relief from the enemy soldiers, and Maerys felt a smile draw across his face. “So, instead, the blood will be on yours.” He snapped his fingers once more. “Gather them into tens.”

His Legionnaires rushed to his command, gathering the men into squads as he had ordered. He paused, sitting atop his dragon. He had so much power, didn’t he?

“Did you know that the word ‘decimate’ actually means ‘to kill one in every ten?’” Maerys mused, aloud, asking the question rhetorically. “So you will all vote on one person, in your squad, to be killed. And then, you will take up stones and carry it out. Failure to do so will result in the deaths of all of you.”

It was a calculated move. By sparing most of them and forcing them to kill their own friends and comrades, the men would have no one to blame but themselves. Maerys had pushed the decision, but it was their hands that had murdered their own. “Get to it.”