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 It was no warm metallic tang of deer blood, or even the alluring, imaginary taste of Viconia’s supple flesh but of brute and overwhelming power unlike anything that walked the mortal world. Even as my body rebelled against the corruption contained within the unholy liquid the vampire revelled in the sensation, drinking greedily and spilling it over my face as I coughed, gagged and forced more and more of it into my stomach with every swallow. Enormous, unbelievable strength pushed through my limbs and suddenly everything was sent spiralling out of control. I could feel Viconia’s heartbeat, taste the sweat upon her body and see the tiniest of muscle movements as time itself seemed to slow as though encased in treacle. The surviving Dremora were shocked almost into submission at my actions, and I could feel myself become bloated with the Markynaz’s gore even as it spilled down the front of my armour and chin in splatters. It was pure power in liquid form and even as I began to vomit up the wads of blood that my body no longer had room for I could feel it surging through every vein like fire.

 I pulled my broken hand from the creatures grip as though it no longer had the strength to resist me. Bones knit in seconds, fingers straightening and knuckles hardening, twisting back into shape without any of the pain that should be associated with such a healing change. My jaw twisted out of shape, the bones of my skull suddenly snapping with loud cracks as my whole face seemed to elongate and become more animalistic in appearance. Fingernails erupted into black claws of ivory, the very bones of my fingertips shifting and melding with the nails before pushing through the skin to match the hands of the Dremora themselves. Veins pulsed under my skin, sending the black ink-like corruption pumping through my body even as every muscle seemed to tighten and flex and grow with the overwhelming power. Even the teeth in my skull warped and mutated, twisting and melding into new forms as each tapered to a point until my entire maw was filled with elongated incisors that only a slaughterfish could hope to match.

 The Dremora lord suddenly seemed pitifully weak and I hammered my fist into the top of its skull, crushing it and sending bone shards through what passed for its brain. I had utterly lost control now, the overwhelming blood-stink permeating through my very soul as the horrific daedric corruption mixed with the vampiric curse in a new and sickening form. Only two other daedra remaining standing, facing off against Viconia even as they forced her to back up against the wall with wild swings of their swords.

 Before the corpse of the Markynaz tumbled to the floor I had already leapt, covering the distance between myself and the remaining Dremora before they could even react to movement. The first fell quickly, screaming in surprise and shock as I battered through its defences and pulped its head and chest with blows from my fists that made a mockery of its daedric plate. Its kin, reacting quickly to the greater threat turned from attacking Viconia but didn’t survive much longer than its dead brother. I blocked its wild strikes, stepping in close and kicking a leg out with such force that its entire knee gave way and the greaves of its armour caved in from the blow. It fell even as I simply slapped away its futile attempts to hold me, grasping it around the wrist with enough force that the serrated gauntlet crumpled under my fingers. Keening loudly and trying to pry my hands off it, there was a considerable struggle as I secured my grasp, pressed my boot into its chest before heaving and tearing its entire arm from of its shoulder with a wash of blood.

 The room fell silent as the creature died from a combination of blood loss and my boot slamming into its throat with the crackle of a broken windpipe. The room was in compete disarray, steaming corpses and chunks of daedric flesh scattered everywhere with only the hiss and gurgling of bodily fluids to break the growing silence. The level of fatigue that suddenly crashed down hard on my mind was complete and smothering in its grasp as all the adrenaline and the vampiric thirst vanished like dried leaves in the wind. My back was to Viconia and I couldn’t bear to turn around and see whatever expression or reaction she may have to what she had witnessed. The pain and shame was overwhelming almost as terribly as the realisation of what I had become exploded into my mind.

 Between the fatigue and the self-loathing, I could no longer bring myself to care about my fate or Viconia’s reaction. I half expected to feel the piecing or slicing kiss of a blade on my flesh as I dropped to my knees as the last vestiges of the Vampire slid back into my subconscious and my skin and bones returned to their previous human forms. I was sated, blood-drunk on the power and corrupt substance that I had forcefully, willingly consumed from the polluted veins of the Dremora Lord. At that point, with the tiniest shred of sanity and humanity left in my mind I knelt there, wishing for Viconia to end my life and free me from the curse.

 Instead the indefinable material of the floor rushed up to my face and I blacked out as the fatigue finally gained a proper hold on my shattered mind.

 My eyes opened to the sights of billowing clouds of ash and fire, the unnatural twilight of their presence still shrouding the land around the shattered and tumbled walls of the City. It seemed strangely peaceful in comparison to the tumultuous realm of magma and death that Viconia and I had plunged headlong into despite the floating ash that was covering the land as surely as Red Mountain did to the lands at its base. However as I tried to prop myself up on my elbows and look around where I was laying there was a noticeable sense of calm and achievement in the area.

 "Woah, take it easy." A voice exclaimed and a hand pressed gently on my shoulder. "unless you want a splitting headache I suggest you take it nice and slow."

 A young Breton crouched next to me, her face seemingly genuinely concerned as she gazed into my eyes. "Both eyes are looking in the same direction so I guess that’s a good thing at least. You haven’t seemed to have suffered a head injury."

 "How’d I get back out here?" I asked, seeing the piles of crates and barrels and the overturned wagons resting on their sides only a few metres in front.

 "Your friend carried you after the portal collapsed. I don’t know how you two did it but it’s gone and we are safe for the moment."

 Pushing my palm into the side of my head I felt strangely fine. Bone wearily exhausted, tense muscles and a sore back from carrying a pack for days but otherwise I hadn’t felt this well in months, if not years. Memories of what had happened in the portal resurfaced in my mind as though I had been merely a witness to the actions and my stomach threatened to rebel against me.

 The Breton held me as I dry heaved, mistaking my nausea and sudden bout of illness to some form of injury that had rendered me unconscious in Oblivion. "Did she say what happened in there?" the hesitation in my voice was obvious, but there was no fear from her face or any of the others close enough for my blurry vision to identify.

 "You apparently beat all shades of shit into a group of daedra before passing out from the exertion." A familiar voice added and I looked up into the beaming face of the Guard commander. Savlian Matius seemed fresher, more rested despite the state of his equipment and armour and the fact he desperately needed a bath. His white eyes were still framed in a face coated in sweat, daedric gore and soot but there was an unidentifiable energy about him that had not been there before.

 "If the portal is gone then why are we waiting around here?" Carefully I pushed myself up and onto my feet, trembling slightly as I looked about the rat-tag group of survivors.

 Savlian grinned, teeth white and fierce in the dark haze of the battlefield as he chucked a thumb over his shoulder at a small group standing a distance away. "The Legion is here."

 The group of riders, magnificent in their gleaming plate and astride Cyrodiilic warhorses of prime breeding stock stood facing the burning city. There was only six of them, dressed in their full form fitting plate, horsehair crests fluttering in the mild breeze as they discussed and motioned to the area before them. The gatehouse was a yawning hole, the gates smashed aside off their hinges by incalculable force and the steel portcullis was melted into slag from incredible heat. These men had no qualms staring at the destruction and death, were simply and professionally creating their assault plan while waiting for the rest of their forces to arrive.

 Groaning I lightly touched my face, rubbing at the sore cheekbones and remembering how my entire face had elongated like a Khajiit’s after draining the daedra of blood. A terrifying thought entered my mind and I glanced around for Viconia, seeing her standing off to the side and staring at me as though she was contemplating the best way to stab me in the heart.

 "Did Viconia say anything else about what had happened?"

 "Other than complaining about how heavy you were as she carried you to the top of the tower in there? No, not really." Savlian grinned even more. "I have no idea where the two of you came from or why you are here but you have done the impossible here today. By the Nine you even managed to rescue a handful of survivors in the upper levels!"

 There was a chuckle as he looked back at Viconia who had turned her attention to the mounted Legionaries. "But when say you, but I mean her. You were quite out of it for a while there."

 "I’m better now at least." My reply was surprisingly honest. I still felt as though I could sleep for a month without waking but there were still things to do.

 Excusing myself and brushing off the concern of the Breton who had been caring for the handful of wounded I walked towards the mounted Legionaries. Every step I took allowed me to feel the layer of gore and ichor sticking and cracking on my flesh and armour with every movement. I was coated almost head to toe in the congealed liquids and I knew that my appearance alone would be enough to terrify most people who laid eyes on me.

 One of the mounted soldiers turned and looked at me, his horsehair plume on his helm noticeably longer and reaching the nape of his neck. He was dressed in finer made armour than the others around him, breastplate forged specifically for his build and a sword of polished ebony comfortably resting in its silver imprinted scabbard. All of the riders held themselves high in the saddles, backs perfectly straight and not a single buckle or crease of their riding leathers marked or imperfect in anyway. These men were Extraordinarii; the mounted Elite of the Legion whose sole duty was the protect the Legate from all harm, with their lives if necessary.

 My fist double-tapped my chest above my heart as the Legion commander alighted from his saddle and pulled off his helm. He was in his middling years, hair with whispers of grey beginning to show and skin tanned from years spent in the saddle and marching alongside his legionaries. Like most Colovian-born Legates he had made his way through the ranks the hard way, marching and fighting and bleeding his way from Legionary all the way to commanding the might of an entire Legion. There were less than two dozen other such men scattered throughout the Empire and despite facing down daedric foes and my corrupted nature I fell a very real fear at the might that this one man commanded.

 "I understand that you and your companion are the ones responsible for breaking the deadlock and buying us enough time to arrive." It was not a question but a simple statement encased in a level of professionalism that seemed to be a trademark of sorts for most Colovians.

 "Yes sir." My nervousness was obvious to him, as was my bearing as my back straightened and instinctively standing to attention in his presence.

 He didn’t fail to notice the way I held myself or the particular way I had framed my response. "You’re a legionary?"

 "Yes Sir. Archer-Praefect Kaius Treblanus Desin. 8th Casta, 14th Legion."

 He returned my salute before placing his arms by his side and helmet tucked into the crook of an elbow. The piercing gaze that he gave me however felt as sharp as spear points. "Legate Mettius Asinius, 2nd Legion. You’re a long way from home though Praefect. One might think you to be a deserter if you hadn’t just willingly thrown yourself into Oblivion."

 "Both Viconia and I serve the Blades." I stated, trying and failing somewhat to hide my trepidation while saying the first half-truth that came to mind. "We were sent to retrieve an individual from the city and arrived to find this."

 My gesture took in the expanse of devastation and the burning city before us and his expression was grim. "Well that certainly explains how you managed to survive, and I believe that a lot of people owe you both their thanks as well as their lives. I won’t pry into any business of the Blades but this is not the time for whatever mission or contract you may have."

 The sound of tramping feet gradually grew, and with it the sudden cheers and cries of relief from the survivors of the barricade. An enormous column of armoured men made its way up the slope of the western road to Anvil, battle standards waving in the breeze as the legionaries marched with heads held high and eyes narrowing at the sight of such destruction and death that awaited them. I counted five standards held aloft amongst the burnished black plate of the Cyrodiilic Legions, signifying the total strength of an entire Casta marching in perfect unison. Each Casta consisted of five full Cohorts of 100 Legionaries and manned each major fort within the bounds of the Empire. Only under the direst of circumstances would a full legion’s might come together but when they did, ten full Castas of an Imperial Legion was enough to crush entire provinces and annihilate any foe foolish enough to engage it in battle. A single glance at Legate Asinius’ face and the destruction of an entire city around us however made me believe that these 500 men might not be enough for the task at hand.

 As the individual cohorts marched past the barricade the Extraordinarii broke from their huddle and began relaying orders to the Centurions in command of each. Soon the great host of men split and broke apart as they passed their commander, breaking from the five-man wide column into five, five-man wide blocks that covered the ground as smoothly as it was a parade ground.

 "Are you fit to fight?" Legate Asinius’ face was part concern, part excitement at the battle to come, and all challenge to me.

 "Good. An extra bow in the assault Testudo will be beneficial, especially one who has faced these foes already." He turned and called out to one of the Extraordinarii hovering near his commander. "Urik, take this man to the 17th and tell Mede that he can make the breach as soon as he is in position."

 The horseman gestured to me to follow as the Legate exploded into activity. Orders were sent, the marching blocks of armoured men moved about the area as though pieces on a chessboard and he even went about ordering the barricades defenders to prepare to assist the Legionaries. Viconia moved subtly into the mass of guards and civilians, purposely not following me and I felt strangely alone with the sudden loss of her presence. I was thankful for the distraction however; shadowing the Extraordinarii officer and preparing for an assault on what was for all intents and purposes a hostile fortress ensured I didn’t have time to think about how I had succumbed to my curse.

 We moved to the central formation of legionaries, staring up at the walls and the raging inferno that was contained behind the thick stone constructions that had been specifically designed to stop this very situation. The gates were clear however, and as we got closer an extremely young looking officer stepped out of the ranks and saluted.

 "Centurion Mede." He introduced himself, grinning under the heavy Barbute helm and the bleached crest of horsehair. "Looks like we have the honour of forcing the breach."

 "I’m with you Sir. Just show me where to go."

 "That’s the spirit!" his excitement was infectious and I wondered just how many battles this young commander had been in. As I looked closer however this fresh faced young man was clearly no amateur. A battered shield hung from his arm, pointed spear locked firmly in the curve between the arm straps and the layers of steel and lacquer. Even his armour despite being the type specifically made for Centurions and polished to a mirror’s sheen was no ceremonial piece. His armour was sturdy and as tested as the man’s mettle had been who wore it.

 The rest of his soldiers were the same. Grim faced, tough and unyielding like the stone under their feet, they readied themselves while double and triple checking their equipment as though it was likely to sprout legs and flee in the seconds since they had checked last.

 "A forester eh?" he said, after the mounted legionary had passed his orders. "Excellent. My men are good in a fight but several of my archers recently came down with the pox. I hope you can shoot."

 I decided that I liked this officer, his gregariousness reminded me of Burd, or even more especially Ozzarious but there was no doubting his ability and professionalism. Turning on his heel he ordered one of his men who hung back from the main party to hand over his bow and his quiver. I couldn’t help but notice the sickly white skin of the man who had marched in full plate and chainmail from their fort to the northwest despite the illness. The march had allowed him to put aside all thoughts of comfort for the fight but was now very obviously glad not to have found himself in the fighting line.

 "Right lads, we’re going to take this city and kill anything that was not born of Mundus!" The Centurion carried himself like a four-decade veteran, his authority unchallenged and every word heeded by those who followed. "We force the breach, make space for the other cohorts but don’t concern yourselves with leaving them any glory if there isn’t enough to go around."

 There was a ripple of amusement through the ranks as they began to roll shoulders and necks, twisting and jumping lightly on the balls of their feet in a clatter of metal as they loosened up march-weary muscles for the fight ahead. Helmets were wriggled down tighter on the underlying layers of cloth and leather, swords drawn and edges checked for keenness. Shields were shaken to see how secure their bindings were to their arms and prayers offered to the Gods in muted whispers.

 "Our mission is to liberate and protect. If it’s hostile, we kill it! Any civilians we get out of there and send them back. Hold the line, keep in formation and protect your brothers!"

 He turned, motioning to the largest of the legionaries in their heavier plate to take the first ranks, while I moved forward to my position in the fourth with the rest of the plate-clad Foresters of the cohort. Around us the ranks of legionaries formed a wall of steel and shields that protected the handful of archers in their midst that would allow us to close with the walls, march through the ruined gatehouse and enter the city. The front rank consisted almost purely of Orcs and Nords, the tusked Greenskins and towering Northmen usually the only beings strong enough to wear the heaviest of siege plate and tower shields. However, in this cohort I saw a single snarling face of a heavily muscled Khajiit behind its custom-forged helmet; it’s deep throated growl at the fighting to come suspiciously sounding like a purr.

 For such assaults on cities and fortifications as this they would find themselves weighed down by fifty to sixty kilograms of ebony plate, chainmail leather and cloth; heavy protection for only those strong enough and brave enough to be the first to march down the enemy’s throat. They grunted gouts of steaming breath in the midday air from the exertion of simply moving but despite this and the hours of marching they had already done that day they were ready for several more hours of killing.

 The Centurion took his place in the centre of the archers, where he could exercise control over the formation of men. A brass whistle hung from a leather cord around his neck for when the sounds of battle would drown out even the loudest of shouted orders and he seemed pleased to be leading his men in such an attack.

 Turning to the hulking form of his standard bearer by his side, he nodded once before drawing his sword with a rasp of metal. "Raise the standard Kurm. Let’s show these bastards who’s coming for them.

 The hulking brute of an Orc carrying the cohort’s standard raised the four metre pole and banner into the air where the silken cloth caught the breeze. Resplendent on the maroon silk the Imperial Dragon gleamed, the numbers of the cohort, casta and Legion picked out in golden thread under the point of its tail.

 "Dovah Invicta!" The orc bellowed, spittle ejecting from between its scarred tusks and broken teeth from a lifetime of fighting. With a solid thump he slammed the reinforced base of the banner into the ground with an audible crack.

 "DOVAH INVICTA!" The Legion’s battle cry tore itself from the throat of every legionary of every cohort including my own with a deafening wave of sound that was felt more than heard. Swords were thrust into the sky as the roar shook loose streams of ash from the walls as the men and mer of the 2nd Legion went to war.

 The cohort marched forward into Kvatch’s surviving gate and past the scorched cobblestones had been turned to glass by the energies of the Oblivion portal. The legionaries advanced in disciplined silence, only the sound of steel clad boots crushing broken stone underfoot and roars of burning buildings echoing around us in the darkness of the tunnel. The murder holes lurking above us were empty, clear of threats and we pushed on past them, only providing them with the briefest of glances. The files on the sides compressed inwards to form a U shaped barricade of shields and armour to protect the archers, commander and standard in the core of the formation and within metres of exiting the gatehouse my view was suddenly blocked by the second rank raising its shields above chest height.

 Advancing into a city or through a breach was the most hazardous of duties, and those in front were always guaranteed to be the first to face the enemies’ wrath. As such only the strongest, bravest and most heavily armoured made up the first rank to absorb the first blows and allow the rest entry of the legion’s forces to follow. The strength of the Legion however was in its formations, and as we exited the gatehouse the files that had compressed into the sides moved forward smoothly. Suddenly the ten-man wide formation had doubled in length and the shieldwall strengthened perceptibly as we stepped into a vison matching that found in Oblivion.

 The front rank hunched low behind their shields, allowing the thick towers of wood and metal that usually covered everyone from ankle to throat to cover their entire body’s and overlap with that of the legionary’s beside them. The second rank stepped in close, raising their own shields over the front ranks heads and resting the bottom of their shields against the those of their brother’s in front. Held on a 45 degree angle it suddenly created a wall of metal two metres in height, covering all in the formation from most conventional attacks while the legionaries in the first rank gazed between the gap formed by the curved tower shields for enemies. This allowed the formation to advance relatively quickly under heavy fire while protecting all within long enough to get close and do some real damage.

 Solid impacts echoed out from the shields causing the soldiers to hold them to grunt with effort at holding them aloft and steady against the sudden onslaught. The wash of heat that emanated from the gaps between the shields was enough to cause most of those in the front rank to duck their heads away to protect their eyes and from years of training I instinctively knew what was about to occur.

 "Archers! Ready!" Centurion Mede roared over the slapping sounds against the shield wall. An arrow was already nocked and held in my fingertips but at his word of command I raised my arms, drawing back on the bow with surprising ease and holding it level to the ground. In the current formation the wickedly sharp point of the bodkin was held only a handful of centimetres from the back of the head of the legionary in front of me.

 A single whistle blast echoed, sharp and succinct and immediately the front ranks dropped down low; the front rank placing their shields directly on the ground while the second rank hunched down and angled their shields down as low as they could manage. Suddenly the shield wall had turned into a shield fence, no taller than sternum height and clearing the view for the handful of archers in the centre of the formation.

 Dozens of scamps, and a handful of Dremora had surrounded the formation as we entered into the courtyard beyond the gatehouse. The impish creatures had been scampering about throwing fireballs that did little but peel paint from the fronts of the thickened tower shields of the front rank, and most of the Dremora seemed to be holding back at the sight of the dozens of heavily armoured warriors that had marched into their midst.

 Timed to the second from years of practice on the parade ground and against flesh-and-blood foes the archers and myself instinctively flexed, made minute changes to our aim and fired a volley of arrows that plucked the daedra from their feet. In less than a second after our bows twanged the front ranks had stood up again, lifting the shields back into place before any retaliation could be made.

 We advanced in step, stopping every few paces to the sounds of specific whistle blasts and repeating the same tactics that annihilated our foes with barely even a graze to show for it. The thick shields and full plate armour proving to be more than a match for the oblivion-spawn that cavorted about us.

 Even the Dremora present in the courtyard fell easily. Some dropping with their chests protruding several feathers shafts as though they had spontaneously grown. Others, mostly those in some form of armour that was similar in make but not in quality to those Viconia and I had faced within the portal rushed the shield wall en-masse. While heavily outnumbered they showed no fear at the encroaching formation, instead charging with blood curdling cries that hurt the ears.

 Slamming bodily into the shields of the front ranks the dozen Dremora hacked and slashed at whoever they could reach. There was a rippling of motion in the seconds before they struck the line, as the second rank dropped back and lowered their shields, allowing the soldiers in the front to brace their own shields into the oncoming charge. To the daedra it must’ve felt as though they had run into a wall, both figuratively and literally as the legionaries merely grunted, took whatever blows on their shields before stabbing back with short, sharp and concise killing blows.

 Eyes, mouth, throat, groin; these were the places that every legionary was taught to strike through hundreds of hours of gruelling practice that left arms leaden and limp. But now, against a flesh and blood foe, albeit a demonic one the mind simply shut down and allowed the body to take over the motions long since engrained into them.

 Several of the Dremora dropped, blood spraying from horrific wounds as the points of the legionary swords cut smiles in their black flesh. Eyes were speared, throats gouged and each blow was terribly effective even against such enemies. Only a few managed to strike back against the legionaries but most of their blows were simply sent ringing off helmets and the thick padding underneath. One legionary involuntarily screamed as a black spear of obsidian slammed into his shield, the strange material allowing the daedric weapon to punch clean through it, his armoured forearm and pin the limb to his chest. His two comrades, hearing the cry of pain from their shield brother retaliated instantly, both simultaneously stabbing forward with their blades and almost shearing its head and jaw clean off with the power behind their thrusts. A quick cut and a large portion of the spear fell away, leaving only a few centimetres jutting from the embossed front of the shield and the rest still trapped within metal and meat.

 A pair of whistle blasts this time, and the entire formation suddenly shuddered before the daedra could reform and take advantage of the minor chink in its defences. Without conscious thought, those in the front rank suddenly took a half pace to the right turning in the same direction as they did so that their shields still faced the front. As they moved the second rank took two sharp paces forward and slammed their shields together. Barely two seconds had passed and now the second rank was in the front, those who had led the way into the city now shuffling slightly between the closely packed ranks and allowing the handful of wounded to move behind myself and the other archers. Faced with another unbroken wall of steel and embossed dragon emblems the remaining daedra hesitated, suddenly unsure for the first time in their existence. They never got the chance to react however as another sharp whistle blast echoed and my bow and the handful of others lifted arrows to experienced eyes. The front ranks knelt, a twang of released tension echoed and another blistering volley snapped out into chests and bellies.

 The battle for the gate was over in almost less time it took to casually walk through the gatehouse and the courtyard beyond. Other than a handful of injuries, including the orc who would need a spear tip removed from his forearm and chest before some bones could be set there were no casualties. Several dozen minor daedra were scattered dead and dying around us, littering the courtyard with their bodies. For several moments it appeared though there might be a resurgence of activity as a minor horde of the creatures began to gather and bay at our incursion but behind us the heavy armoured footfalls of the following cohorts dissuaded the beasts of that idea.

 Fanning out the five cohorts of the 8th Casta took up their positions and began the advance through the burning and corpse strewn streets of Kvatch. Barely a single building was left unmarked, most having lost their roofs to the inferno that had started during the opening phase of the city’s destruction. Others were broken, their windows shattered and left like the broken teeth of a beggar, doors hanging on hinges secured with stubbornness more than anything else. Everywhere there were bodies, young, old, wives, fathers, grandparents, nobles and commoners. It was indiscriminate carnage and even for some of the veteran soldiers of the 2nd Legion it was enough for stomachs to rebel and bowels to turn to water. Corpses hung from windows, were impaled on street signs and lampposts and all in various stages of dismemberment or wearing expressions of excruciating pain. Some building had collapsed in on themselves as their flame weakened bricks cracked and mortar crumbed into dust. The sickening smell of burning flesh as we passed one such building was enough for a handful of the legionaries in the rank to lose control of their stomachs and vomit down their breastplates. None however I saw stopped or paused or to wipe away the bile that dripped down the front of their black breastplates and over their chins, their discipline ensuring that the formation would not weaken even for a second

 Here and there however survivors were found, appearing from the ruins like frightened rabbits being coaxed out of their burrows. Pockets of individuals and families, groups of strangers huddling in the dark and destruction for mutual protection and sole survivors came out as the tramping of feet revealed the presence of the legion. As it took back the city one street at a time, every corner or darkened window seemed to hide some daedric threat, and the handful of archers soon earned their salary. Plucking at bowstrings and sending shafts into anything that revealed itself, the hordes were thinned and several times the formation simply marched over the recently dead foes, booted feet stamping down on any trace of life. Several times larger groups of daedra would rush forward but the shield wall that would simply stiffen with resistance and punish anything that came within the range of a sword arm.

 Deeper we made our way into the city and following along parallel streets and paths legionaries would make their way with a growing collection of gore coating their bodies. Buildings would be cleared by squads of five, paths and back alleys by detachments of 25 and main arterial routes through the heart of the city were filled with the black armoured forms of full strength cohorts. Fighting around the central marketplace and plaza at the cathedral of Akatosh soon resulted in the sizeable daedric horde besieging the barred doors of the temple being assaulted themselves on two sides by two entire cohorts. The ground was left drenched in demonic gore, bodies layered two or three deep in places. With every double blast of a whistle handfuls of legionaries would shuffle through the closed ranks, retire to the rear for quick bursts of restoration magicka before returning to the line unless their injuries were more significant.

 It was late afternoon by the time the 17th cohort came to a halt in the shadow of the broken belltower of the cathedral. Two of the other cohorts were continuing their advance through the city and the sounds of fighting and dying still echoed from the direction of the castle. The city had been mostly liberated after several hours of solid fighting and while fatigued I was concerned how my muscles weren’t burning from the effort of drawing and firing my bow dozens of times throughout the day. The throbbing potency of the curse within my veins was making itself felt in the gathering twilight as I looked over the remaining legionaries I had fought alongside and noted how they all seemed so much more exhausted that me.

 Sweat dripped down over faces, clearing tiny trails in the layers of ash and gore that clung to the metal plates encasing their bodies. Heads were bowed, lungs dragging in deep breaths as they slowly began to regain their strength and not a single one of them was not coated to the elbows in daedric blood. Shields were battered, swords nicked and needing hours of repairs and resharpening and many had pieces of their armour that would need to be melted down and reforged before they would be of any use again. Chainmail hung limply in places, mortal blood seeping through where those who had suffered the injuries hadn’t realised it while they had fought. At the order to do so the cohort broke ranks in the middle of the courtyard, many choosing to collapse where they stood, others moving any in groups as they began to gulp mouthfuls of tepid water from water skins or sharing rations. The cloth-wrapped supplies of hard tack, dried meat and fruit was eagerly pulled from the pouches and bags that had spent the battle attached to their belts on their lower backs. Some of the more experienced pulled their rations of salted and dried meat from the space between their arm bindings and the inside of their shields. Here the tough leathery chunks of meat had been tenderised and softened by the repeated impacts they had sustained during the fighting and took a lot less effort to chew.

 The fighting continued sporadically throughout the night, although the lack of visible sun and the twilight of smoke, ash and burning buildings ensured that it seemed to drag on for an eternity. Under the commanding gaze and watchful eye of the Legate, the Cohorts rotated in and out of the battle, reinforcing and replacing each other as they ground the daedric foes into the dirt and crushed the resistance street by street. Everywhere the city was broken and destroyed, buildings in most places little more than tumbled ruins and smouldering piles of wood and rock and flesh butstill the Legion ground on. Even as the daedra were cornered in the far reaches of the city the Legion killed. As the castle gatehouse was sundered by the legion’s trio of Battlemages and allowing the might of two cohorts to force the entrance, the Legion killed. Only when the body of the Count was discovered; a flayed and mutilated remnant of what was once one of the most powerful men in the Empire did the legion finally cease its grinding advance and take stock of their actions. Corpses lay strewn throughout the streets, crushed and broken underfoot where the legionaries cut, stabbed and hacked the daedric foes down, but for every dozen or more daedra killed there had been casualties.

 Even the tactics and armoured might of the legion had not been enough to ensure that every man would make it alive or whole. There were injuries ranging from the mild and inconsequential to the crippling and fatal almost in spite of the most experienced of Legion healers. Several dozen corpses of legionaries soon found their way to the central plaza in front of the cathedral of Akatosh, arrayed in neat rows still dressed in their armour and their weapons placed reverently by their sides. The cost had been light in comparison to the difficulties of the reclamation and the sheer weight of daedra that had been crushed but each man was a friend and comrade whose presence would be missed in the shield wall.

 By what I had supposed was midnight the cohort I was attached to had been finally stood down for good. The battle for the castle still raged on the far side of the city as the full might of two cohorts rooted out the last of the daedra who had dared to claim it but for myself and the others our part was over. Most of the Legionaries simply found a spot and collapsed in a heap of gore and metal, allowing their fatigue and exhaustion to snatch them away for a handful of hours’ rest. Others found one of the few handful of fountains that still remained useful, sometimes tipping themselves right into the flowing waters that turned a crimson-black with the gore and ash that coated them. Like most major cities within the Empire the fountains were the lifeblood of the populations, using a combination of aqueducts, wells, pumps, windmills and enchantments to ensure that even under siege they would be able to supply fresh water and sluice away the inevitable nightsoil and muck of several thousands.

 I simply found myself a bucket, upending it over my head several times from a nearby well and drinking the mixture of blood, ash, dirt and sweat as it ran down my face. Too exhausted to care, my fatigue was total but unfortunately it still wasn’t enough to remove the sick pleasure of the taste of blood that mingled with the brackish, soiled water as it washed it off my flesh. I knew that I should be surrendering myself to the authorities to be put down like the daedra-spawn that I was but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The tormenting pull between the man seeking atonement and destruction and the creature with its desire to survive wracked me painfully as I found a mostly quiet spot near the steps of the cathedral and laid my head on my pack.

 The dreams that assailed my tortured mind were even worse than those the weeks previous. Now that my blood ran with the corrupted substance from a creature of Oblivion my thoughts seemed to be never ending images of death and destruction. In my mind I slew countless blood-robed assassins and drank of their flesh, twisting necks and snapping at bones to greedily suckle at the marrow. Fingers tore, teeth shredded and blows shattered, each image and thought more depraved and cruel than the last.

 Even as I awoke, feeling no less rested mentally despite the overwhelming might that seemed to infuse my limbs the images continued. What was a result of the tortured depravations of my mind succumbed to bloodlust and vampirism and what was the result of witnessing the death of a city at the hands of daedra was strangely difficult to ascertain. With the ceasing of the fighting the legion had turned to humanitarian endeavours, moving through the city and rescuing people from the ruins of their homes and businesses, feeding and performing aid where they could or taking them to help if they could not. Stories of exceptional bravery or luck seemed to travel faster than what word of mouth should’ve allowed, as did those of cowardice and dishonour. The baker who had stood fast in the door of his mill and fended off a score of daedra with nothing more than a rolling pin to protect his family and neighbours inside. The merchant who had chosen instead to take tally of the contents of his strongbox and safe instead of allowing anyone inside of his fortified business. The Fighter’s Guild members who had chosen to make a stand outside the city orphanage and alms-house to give a chance to those inside. The results of their actions in particular were extremely evident by the mounds of corpses that the 18th Cohort had to clamber over to reach the buildings and free the survivors. In places the daedra were piled higher than the orcish legionaries but unfortunately none of the Guild members had lived; their bodies had to be dug out from under the piles of daedric flesh.

 As what we assumed was mid-morning came, fires still raged fiercely and those who had survived either roamed in catatonic states or began the lengthy process of clearing the dead and saving those still alive. Corpses of the daedra were gathered and disposed of using the simple expediency of tossing them into still-burning ruins, legionaries were arrayed in silent rows along the edge of the great plaza and civilians were laid out in the vain attempt to identify those that had died. It was far too easy to see that the city had been slaughtered, utterly annihilated with only one in ten managing to live through the previous 48 hours. The entire population of 90,000 souls were left a handful of shocked survivors in the midst of a cinder.

 I awoke and rose in the middle of the hunched and prone forms of the legionaries of the 17th cohort, many still unconscious from their efforts over the previous day. Some had managed to scavenge enough cooking utensils and chunks of ruins to create makeshift campfires and everywhere I looked I could see survivors of the city mingling with the tough and rugged legionaries. What meagre rations they had were shared amongst everyone present; the morsels of salted beef and pork, hard tack and dried fruits, peas and jerky washed down with brackish water and the inevitable contraband supplies of alcohol that found its way into all legion formations. There was no joyish celebrations or obvious sense of victory that usually came after battles, the survivors having suffered far too much and the legionaries fighting to exhaustion and dying to liberate the city having sapped all sense of accomplishment from the triumph.

 Those who had defended the barricade were present in the plaza which had seemed to be the point where all of the survivors were gravitating towards now that the fighting was over. The tiny handful who had so heroically held the daedra from overrunning the countryside could be seen in their own tiny huddle, their shared experiences setting them apart from the rest who had been trapped in the city. Savlian Mattius and I found ourselves sharing a piece of beef that had been beaten into a stringy mush between someone’s arm and shield, quietly talking to one another about anything random in an attempt not to allow our minds to dwell on what had happened. He was taking the death of the Count particularly hard, as well as the news that all other guard commanders and the Guard Captain were deceased. None of the city’s officials or rulers had survived the siege, and as the Count had no surviving heirs and the only leaders of any note were a handful of guildsmen, priests and burghers the entire responsibility of the city had fallen on him like the weight of the collapsed belltower of the cathedral.

 Centurion Mede had delivered the news and the late Count’s signet ring personally to Savlian, expressing his condolences with honesty.

 "The Legate will eventually come looking for you once things begin to stabilise." The weariness and sorrow was evident in both of their faces. "In the meantime rest up while you can and you can be assured that the legion is here to stay for the immediate future."

 The young Centurion was exhausted but refused his body the luxury of giving into the fatigue. Eyes were sunken into their sockets, rimmed by soot, bruised and red from the irritants in the air. His hair plastered to his skull from sweat and the weight of his helmet and padding and I realised uncomfortably how young he really was. Barely even old enough to shave properly, his skin was smooth and only the rough beginnings of a red-brown stubble had begun to spread across his jaw. There was no mistaking though that his talent and determination had pushed him through every obstacle to his current rank and position.

 Savlian Matius was in a similar state as he stared absently at the ring in the palm of his hand. Such a simple bauble represented the full power of a Count and ensured a position on the Elder Council itself. For however long it took for Kvatch to start down either the long road to recovery or to permanent ruin it now rested squarely on the shoulders of a rough-talking guard commander. As someone whose previous responsibilities was to stop smugglers and vagabonds from entering through a minor gate he obviously didn’t seem to relish the prospect.

 The Centurion glanced in my direction and nodded. "As for you Kaius, the Legate has realised you from our service along with your companion. The two of you are free to go wherever and whenever you please."

 The grin seemed to erupt from his face however as a moment of mirth broke through his grim disposition. "However if you are ever looking for honest work after the Blades has finished with you, there will always be a space in the 2nd for an archer of your skills."

 "Thank you Sir." I replied honestly, feeling strange at the idea of serving in a different legion almost on the other side of the Tamriel to the 14th. The idea did have a tiniest amount of attraction.

 "Call me Titus." He replied, extending a hand and helping me to my feet. "Although I doubt that you two will be able to travel far without having every man, mer and beastfolk lining up to buy you drinks. Take care not to get that drunk in every tavern from here to Akavir that you can’t accept the Empire’s Septim again."

 I laughed briefly, shaking his hand firmly and bidding my goodbyes to them both, the conflicted emotions raging inside of my mind as I began the long and arduous task of not only finding Viconia but discovering if our priest still yet lived. There were so many dead, wounded and survivors that finding a single man amongst the chaos seemed almost impossible. Finding Viconia was by far easier however, with the sudden lack of things to kill she had slunk away into a darkened corner from the prying eyes of those wishing to meet and thank the "Heroine of Kvatch". I too had to pry myself away from those who had heard how the two of us had braved the Oblivion Gate and made it possible for the Legion to come and save them. The praise and attention seemed to be alien to me, as I was never used to being noticed by anyone more than my comrades-at-arms and Viconia especially tried to actively flee from it.

 She was inside one of the buildings along the edge of the plaza, what had once been a tavern of considerable quality and class was now nothing more than the broken ruins where nothing above the ground floor had remained habitable. The second and third floors had broken and fallen in on themselves, leaving a pile of broken bricks, stones, roof tiles and wooden beams to block the staircases and partially hold up what little remained. Inside the ground floor though the stone ceiling/floor of the first level was robust and heavily reinforced, bearing the subsided levels with little strain and leaving the interior surprisingly intact. While not broken by fire or damage, there were obvious traces of the slaughter that had occurred when daedra had beaten down the doors to get at those huddling inside. While none of the bodies remained, the stench of death, blood and voided bowels had ensured that Viconia was the sole inhabitant until I walked inside.

 Carefully picking my way through the remains of the broken door and the shattered remains of the barricade of tables and chairs I walked over to her, keeping my hands visible at all times. Her glance in my direction and sudden and obvious trepidation rain through her like she had been hit with a bolt of conjured lightning and with cold yellow eyes she watched my every move.

 "What do you want Jaluk?" she spat as she leant against the least damaged portion of the bar, a gleaming dagger resting on the scratched surface. She had been carefully pulling her pack and outer layers of around apart and cleaning and repairing them as best she could, using the dagger’s edge to scrape away at the layers of blood.

 "I wanted to talk to you."

 Her hair floated in the air slightly as she turned, resting a hand on her shapely hips and sneering while the other drummed her fingers against the daggers hilt. "I doubt it. What is there to talk about?"

 "Why didn’t you leave me in the portal?"

 A moment of indecision gripped her and she froze, staring at me as I moved inside while ensuring a sizable distance remained between us. "The thought had definitely occurred to me."