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

It was a difficult thing, Maerys mused, to be at war. He had watched as men had suffered and died for it, primarily by his own hand, but he knew that it would only get worse. Men, women, and children would be slaughtered in this rebellion. It would take years for Tarin to secure his throne, if he did beat them in Skyrim, and it would be blood and blood and more blood.

Aaron and Pyron and Vedin had flown off to Morrowind, leading an army to retake Blacklight, and Bryn had gone off to who knows where, so that had left Maerys to be in charge of leading an army into Skyrim.

It was strange, that he had been so entrusted with this, but he did have the aid of Corvus Lux, the Commander of the Dragonguard, and he was a talented warrior. Not much of a tactician, unfortunately, so that had been left to Maerys.

The melting snows and thunderstorms as they passed from Bruma to Skyrim had bogged down their travel, and it had taken them nearly a month to reach Falkreath, where they had stalled for another three weeks. A royal decree had been sent to him by his father, informing the Prince that dragons were no longer to be turned on cities full of innocents, so he hadn’t been able to attack Falkreath with Makar. Plus, the forest made it difficult, as one spark could set the place alight and endanger his own men.

Not that Falkreath had even declared for the White yet, but Maerys had heard that they were on the verge of doing so. And that his uncle, Aberon Darksteel, was currently leading mercenaries south, towards the city.

So, Maerys was waiting. Preparing. Digging trenches and such to stop cavalry, not that the horses would be of much use in the thick wooded area of Falkreath. He was really just keeping the men busy as they waited.

The Prince walked around his pavilion, finding himself restless. He had Falkreath surrounded, but the gates remained barred to him. He couldn’t risk his father’s wrath once more by burning the city, but he was getting close to doing so.

“Your Highness!” A courier gasped, forcing his way into the tent, leaving the cloth flapping in the wind. A storm was picking up.

Normally, Maerys would be irritated by how the man had entered, unannounced, but he decided to let it slide, based on how this was the most interesting thing to happen in weeks. The man stood at attention as Maerys spoke. “Speak, soldier.”

The courier nodded, hesitating as he caught his breath. “Scouts have spotted the Darksteel Mercenaries riding through the woods, toward us! We have to move to a more defensible location!”

“Do not presume to tell me what we should or shouldn’t do.” Maerys said, quietly, his mind racing with all the possibilities on how he could turn this situation to his advantage. “Have my horse saddled and send Lord Lux into the tent. Race to the Captains of each Cohort and have their men ready.”

The courier nodded, his face flushing with embarrassment as he rushed to fill the young Prince’s orders. Within a half hour, the Lord Commander of the Dragonguard stood before him, waiting for his orders.

The man was tall and broad, with silvered hair and dull gray eyes, a warrior through and through. Corvus’ face was a map of all the battles he had been in, due to the enormous amounts of scars that weaved their way across his face. Unfortunately, the man was getting old, and his skills as a swordsman were getting to be rusty.

“I want pikemen lined up behind our trenches. If they seek to surprise us with their cavalry, they will be sorely disappointed.” Maerys ordered. “I want the lined up at attention, with the pikemen in the front. You will take our mounted horse around and attack them from the rear.”

“My lord, where will you be?” Corvus Lux asked, his gauntleted hands clasped behind his back.

“I will lead our vanguard myself.” Maerys said, simply, as a page helped him into his dragonrider’s army. “I will not unleash Makar just yet.”

The wind had picked up, rattling the trees and almost covering the thundering sound of the horses that were coming to ride his force down. If Maerys hadn’t received warning of their arrival, he would have been completely surprised.

He sat on a chestnut steed near the front of the line, behind the pikemen. He was not surprised to see the horses thundering towards him, through the trees, but he had had weeks to prepare. His army sat right before the walls of the city of Falkreath, in a large clearing before the gates. He knew that he was trapped between stone and horse, and had no chance of escape.

But he was ready. His body nearly hummed with anticipation.

At the front of the approaching cavalry rode a massive man, wearing a white cloak. His face was covered by his gray helmet, which bore an effigy of a troll’s face, to terrify his enemies. But Maerys knew who it was.

Aberon Darksteel, his father’s half-brother, and the one who had allegedly convinced Tarin to begin this useless war.

Maerys was excited to crush him.

In anticipation of a cavalry attack, which was a common tactic his uncle used, Maerys had formed trenches a few hundred yards in front of his camp into a natural choke point, so that riders would have to come through only a few at a time. He had his men lined up a few yards behind the choke point, ready to gore the horses.

The horses of the enemy thundered towards him, already forming into a wedge to break their lines. From his own steed, Maerys could see that his own men were beginning to waver in the face of the charge.

Maerys would burn them alive if they fled. They knew that. They were fighting for their lives, and they had a better chance against steel and horse than against dragonfire.

As the front of the wedge, led by his Uncle Aberon, was near enough to him, Maerys yelled, “Collapse!” As the order was carried down the line, the men on the wings began to rush forward, splitting the army into three brimming walls of steel on either side of the approaching cavalry wedge, leaving the Darksteel Company unable to flee.

Maerys had sacrificed a few men in the front, letting them be gored and trampled by the oncoming horde, but the moment the horses went through them, they found themselves caught on three sides by Maerys’ Legionnaires

Though the front rider, his uncle Aberon, was able to rear his horse as he found himself surrounded on three sides, the rest of the cavalry were not so quick to learn of the danger and led themselves into this trap.

“Drop!” Maerys called, letting his pikemen fall to their knees, targeting the nearest horses’ legs as archers rose to their feet behind them. “Fire!” He ordered, and the call rippled down the line as his Legion’s archers began to shoot arrows and bolts into the mass of men and their mounts.

Maerys’ Legionnaires gored the confused horses on either side for some time, while he watched in satisfaction. He had just outmaneuvered one of the greatest captains on the face of Tamriel. The cavalry nearest to the back were beginning to escape on Aberon’s orders, fleeing for their lives. He continued to gloat for a few more moments as he watched from his horse, until he had a thought.

Sure, the Cavalry had consisted of probably around one thousand horses, but Aberon had around twelve thousand men in his army, almost matching Maerys’ fifteen. Where was the rest of his army?

He turned to look towards the forest, his eyes scanning the trees for a moment. It took less than a minute after his realization for the rest of the Darksteel company to come flooding out of the woods on foot, their strange bonemold-and-steel breastplates bearing the greataxe symbol of the Darksteel Company.

Maerys’ mind raced as he tried to salvage the situation. He knew that Aberon had expected to break his lines and then have his infantry advance, so they were just as unawares as he was. The screams of dying horses and men were ringing in his ears, distracting him. What should he do, what should he do-

He had trapped himself; his army was split into thirds around Aberon’s cavalry. Maerys had five thousand men on the left with him, but if he turned them to face the oncoming flood of Darksteel men, he would put the remaining cavalry to his back. If they regrouped, he would be caught between a hammer and an anvil.

The Prince spurred his horse, running down the back of the lines. “Form up!” He called. “Let the survivors flee! We need to match them!” Though his own men were slow to react to his orders at first, they began to get the message as they turned to face the oncoming flood. The survivors of the cavalry massacre fled out through the chokepoint to meet the tide of their fellows, and Maerys was almost disappointed to see that his uncle had survived.

Maerys had lost nearly two hundred men, he judged, but his uncle had lost around eight hundred in men and horse. He had been crippled for fights to come, since he relied on his horsemen for much of his tactical moves.

The Prince turned to look back at his camp, his frown deepening. If he could get back to Makar in time, before the oncoming Darksteel men were too close, he could burn them all and end the battle there.

No, he didn’t have time. He’d have to win it without a dragon.

“Archers!” Maerys roared, across the sea of strangely quiet men as they lined up into their Legion lines. “Volley!”

The Legionary archers pulled back their strings and fired into the Darksteel Horde. The front line fell, but then their own archers began to return in kind, stringing their bows and sending arrows into his lines, leaving men to fall on all sides of Maerys.

“Legion, lockstep!” The Prince ordered, and the men in the front lines locked their shields and began to move forward, pressing to the edges of the trenches. The trenches would slow the Darksteel Company, but that meant they would focus on the chokepoint. Maerys needed to get there if he wanted to-

His head whipped around as he heard a horn blow, and behind their trenches the gates behind Falkreath began to opening, revealing the grinning faces of hundreds, if not thousands, of Nord warriors, with the White dragon hastily and crudely painted on their shields beside their own stag emblem.

Maerys had trapped himself between two armies.

Vedin Darkholme, Ser Pyron Morgan, and Aaron Morgan had no mind for strategy, but, thankfully, neither did the Redoran elves of Blacklight.

The instant the Morgan forces had been spotted on the horizon, heralded by Erys, Aaron’s pale dragon which he now rode, the Redoran forces had poured out of the city to meet them on the open field. It was an honorable thing to do, to take their forces out of the city to spare their civilians and buildings from dragonfire, but it was not necessarily smart.

Aaron wouldn’t have set the dragon loose against the city anyways, and the Dunmer were surprisingly resilient when it came to the flames; it usually took them longer to succumb to them than any other person, leaving them continually able to fight until they did succumb to the heat.

Vedin and Pyron had led the vanguard against the Dunmer forces, smashing into them like twin battering rams. It had been almost as if some god had been looking out for them, as they had been nigh untouchable as they carved their way to the gates.

Onlookers would recall, years later, that Vedin and Pyron seemed to be locked in a deadly dance. They were watching each other’s backs, but the way they carved through the army together was almost beautiful, spinning around each other to strike at enemies. It really showed that they had been fighting together for years. Even Aaron would drunkenly confide to Vedin that the pair were probably the greatest swordsmen in Tamriel that he had heard of, save for Tarin Blackfyre.

For a major city like Blacklight, the city had fallen quite handily, before the day was over. The Redoran King of the City had fallen upon his sword as Vedin and Pyron charged through the streets, relatively unharried as the majority of the Dunmer were still locked in combat with the Morgan forces outside the gates. Pyron allowed his men little license when it came to plundering the city, but he did allow them to carry off riches.

Vedin, himself, went through the city freeing any slaves he could find, as he detested the practice, having grown up a whipping boy.

They had surveyed the burying of the dead, and returning the bodies of the Dunmer to their families, for the next week or so.

Now, the pair lay in their tent, side by side. It had been Vedin’s first real battle, but Pyron had grown used to it, during his service under King Majid al Mutairi of Sentinel.

Vedin unwrapped the bandage that was currently around Pyron’s upper thigh, from where he had been struck with an arrow. “Best not let that get infected.” He mused, rewrapping it. “You can go see the physician in the morning to place more salve on it.”

“It doesn’t even hurt anymore.” Pyron grinned up at him. The pair were as naked as the day they were born, in the comfort of their own tent.

Vedin looked down at him, giving him a light smile. He leaned casually against a duvet, one arm supporting his head. Due to Pyron’s stature as both a Prince and the Commander of this army, as well as Aristos Imperion, he was due some comfort.

“We need to talk about something, Py.” He said, suddenly, after a moment of comfortable silence.

Pyron sat up, frowning at him. “That… doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it’s-“ Vedin sighed, shifting so he was fully sitting up. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this whole Aristos Imperion thing. The Oracle said that you’re going to kill Tarin, but-“

“But my heart is going to be ripped from my chest, yes.” Pyron nodded, sounding completely untroubled by that auspicious statement.

“Doesn’t that worry you, Py? Your heart is going to be ripped out when you kill the Pretender.” Vedin asked, leaning forward. It was clear that the statement worried him. “This war is going to end in your death, and I don’t-“

“Prophecies are all vague and can mean anything.” Pyron stated, giving his lover a slight smile. “Rallan once said that he foresaw a great warrior on a golden dragon, and everyone thought it meant that I would become a dragonrider. What I mean is, no one knows what is going to happen.”

“Still, I don’t want to risk it.” Vedin whispered, intensely, resting his hand on his stomach. “Do you think that… you could just avoid killing Tarin? Give us more time, just in case?” He knew what he was asking. By not killing Tarin Blackfyre, Pyron would condemn Tamriel to a more lengthy war, and more would die.

Pyron’s eyes flashed as he considered the question, before his hand reached up, taking Vedin’s. “Tarin Blackfyre has done nothing to me, I suppose.” He whispered, lightly, before taking Vedin’s face in his other hand and kissing it.

Vedin succumbed to the kiss, letting it deepen. These past few weeks, he had felt as if they were two gods at the dawning of the world, creating and loving and learning. It had been sheer bliss.

“Oh.” Came a voice, and Vedin and Pyron separated instantly, looking to the flaps that were the doorway to the tent.

They had been opened, and Pyron’s brother Aaron stood there, his purple eyes averted. His silver hair stood out prominently, due to how red his cheeks had become. “Um… I got a letter from the High Chancellor. We’re to move on the Rift as soon as possible.” He said, nervously, before fleeing the tent.

Vedin looked to Pyron, his eyes wide with fright. They had been found out.

“Turn! Turn, raise a shield wall!” Maerys roared, his voice raising an octave as he turned his horse to meet this next threat. Having been at the back of the army for some time, he hadn’t taken part in much of the fighting. Now, though, that wasn’t an option.

He was just a boy, why had he thought that he could lead an army and defeat an experienced commander?

The Boy Prince grit his teeth and shut his eyes for a minute, pushing the thoughts from his head as he steeled himself.

After a moment of drowning out the screams of dying men and the war cries of the Nords of Falkreath, he reopened them, his jade-green eyes staring blankly across the field of battle. With one hand, Maerys drew his sword, a black-steel blade with the pommel representing a gold dragon. He swung down from his horse, knowing that, as the only man on horseback in his army, it would make him a bigger target.

He was a Morgan, a dragonrider. If he was going to die, he was going to die like one.

“Charge!” Maerys Morgan called, putting his shield in front of him as he began to sprint towards the oncoming Nords, knowing the half of the men behind him would follow. Everything seemed to still for a moment, and all that he could hear was his heartbeat.

And then thousands of men crashed into one another.

Whatever Maerys had thought a battle was, that was not it. Battle was not some glorious thing, where you could fight one man and then move onto the next, winning honors as you went. Battle was a bloody, gory mess of packed bodies and hacking swords and axes. There was nowhere you could be safe in this, and there was no real enemy to face, just a mass of sweaty, hulking bodies.

Maerys ducked under the swing of an axe, and lunged out blindly with his blade, finding the throat of a nearby Nord. He could hold his own, sure, but he was no fantastic warrior like Pyron. He had no place here.

Maerys forced the panic back down his throat, striking out once more and felling a Nord who had raised his sword to strike him down. He might not be an amazing duelist, but he had to fight or he would die.

That was the way these things worked, he supposed.

He deflected a spear with his shield, knocking it to the side before stepping in and driving his blade through the man’s gut. This battle had been the first time he had actually killed someone without dragonfire, and he was almost surprised. Men fell easily, but their bodies could be tough if you hit the wrong point.

There was barely room to breathe in here. Sweat stung his eyes beneath his helm, and his arms and legs ached from the strain of shoving bodies away from him. Who had ever thought fighting in the vanguard was a good idea? Oh. Right.

He glanced behind him, only briefly, to see how his men were holding up. The Legionnaires had trained for many years for these sort of massed battles, and they were managing to hold their own. They were more disciplined, and were working together far better than the Nords, who were more berserkers than they were soldiers. It was a marked difference.

Of course, the Legionnaires still fell in droves, but they brought down three Nords for every two of them to fall.

Maerys grinned, turning his eyes forward again, before something struck his head and everything went black.

When he came to, the boy found himself laying in his pavilion. He sat up and winced, putting his hand to his head. No blood came away with it, which was a good sign, but he could feel the bandage that was wrapped around his curly black hair.

“Your Highness?” Came a voice, and Maerys turned to look at the source. It was Corvus Lux, the Commander of the Dragonguard. He still stood in full battle armor, but he must have had time to clean the blood from it. Judging by the bloodstains in his cape, it had not been much time.

Maerys glanced around the room, noting the shadows and the heavy huffing that came from around the tent. Makar was curled around the tent, he guessed, with his head near the tent entrance. He was a loyal beast, and Maerys felt a surge of gratitude and love for the dragon.

“What… What happened?” Maerys asked, weakly, looking back to the tall Imperial before him. “Did we… win?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Corvus said, a wry smile springing up on his face. “Our cavalry took the Darksteel Company from behind, as you predicted. The survivors fled, some six thousand. The Nords ran back to their gates, so we’ve settled in for a siege. In time, too, as you took a spearbutt to the back of the helm and everyone was fighting over your body. Luckily only our men realized you survived, or else the Nords would have finished you off.”

Maerys paused, struggling to process this new information. He must have had a concussion, or something. “So… my plan worked?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Corvus said, dutifully. “You, a boy of sixteen, managed to outmaneuver one of the most renowned commanders in Tamriel. Quite astonishing, really, the Divines must have been watching out for you.

Maerys felt a flush of pleasure. He hadn’t even used a dragon.