Skyrim: A Sorcerer's Tale-Chapter 489 - CVI: Miraak’s Gambit

(Reyvin's POV)

My perception slowed to a crawl as I wasted no time in levitating upwards and summoning Scorch, the three dragons immediately shifting their flight paths as they noticed me and moving to keep their distance while still remaining in range to shout at my forces.

A damaging tactic to be certain, but not a winning one, no matter how much hit and run the scaly fuckers committed themselves to...

Which meant this was a distraction.

The eastern flank of the expeditionary force was currently clearing out Thirsk Mead Hall, the center flank was right under me, and the western flank was currently trudging through reikling caves, clearing out Karstaag's castle, and thus protected from potential dragon ambush.

'Did it need to be a dragon ambush specifically though?' I frowned minutely 'No, any lesser forces would not be guaranteed to succeed against the veterans serving me... And the western flank was led by Ulthis, Faren, and Alor, two of whom pretty much grew up with tunnel-fighting as their very lifestyle.'

"East it is then" I muttered, not even bothering to consider Minthara a potential target.

She was not in danger, she was the danger.

All in all I now knew the true target of this distraction... a distraction I couldn't ignore because they would kill hundreds of my subjects...

"Well then" I rubbed my hands as Scorch began exponentially increasing in size below me "At least you are finally playing the game, eh Miraak?"

Mora's interference meant I couldn't really feel his potential reaction but I was willing to bet a good third of my brandy the fucker heard me.

Too bad I wasn't about to let myself be outmaneuvered.

But how did one deal with a well thought out trap?

Simple really, they walked straight through it.

"Krein." I spoke softly to the air, the word/command echoing with all the weight of its recipient "Your wayward brothers are looking to have a talk."

-

(General POV)

Within the winding and mind-numbingly complex halls of Apocrypha, the domain of Hermaeus Mora, all was silent.

Or at least it appeared thus to the man currently pacing in front of a large mirror, taller than his own tall form, and immaculately built and enchanted to show what his own eyes could not see.

So long had he listened to the bubbling of the many pools of ink and the shuffling of parchment to even register it anymore.

Before him, two battles unfolded. One to his domain's north, where he sent three of his kin to serve as a distraction, lead by Kruziikrel, a rare example of competence in their collective family.

The First Dragonborn, or at least the first known to man, as he had ensured, watched as his youngest sibling's pet elf appear in his centermost formation, rushing to aid his own troops before any others, as Miraak had predicted.

What Miraak did not in fact predict was said elf floating into the air, summoning a fiery bird that rapidly grew to the size of a small dragon, and then summoning a dragon that looked too similar to his attire not to be bound to him in some way...

And of course, the elf guessed he was watching him within mere seconds.

"It would seem I underestimated you" Miraak admitted bitterly, words he would never speak were he not alone "No matter, this just means Sahrotaar will need to do his work faster." He turned to the other end of the mirror, displaying a shoreside campsite currently stuck in heated battle.

The mostly Nordic force was holding its ground well, but even the pathetic beasts he enthralled for the task managed to kill a few before being slaughtered like the vermin that they were.

His gaze moved to the west of the encampment, up the cliffside, and towards his sole remaining locus upon Solstheim.

Sacrificing the Water Stone to distract his sibling by launching raids and assassination attempts from its position was a bitter meal to swallow, but Miraak was rapidly losing his window of opportunity and Mora would inevitably take notice soon enough.

If he had not already.

Throwing the accursed thought to the darkest recess of his mind, the ancient man's gaze reached his target, his sole remaining stone, the Beast Stone, hidden under mounds of earth in an attempt to keep it obscured unlike the rest, and housing the last remnants of his true cultists.

For they were not thralls, but true followers, and ones who would use the potent souls of the small army as sacrifice to rip open a way for him to escape.

Not the wisest way to escape, for it would carry consequences to his very being, but the only one remaining to him now.

He sent forth a burst of power that was lessened to but one hundredth of its truth before reaching his followers, and they all rose and began moving as one.

With the wave of a hand, Miraak's gaze returned to his dragon who rushed to freeze the warrior's whose souls would fuel his emancipation, only to himself freeze as he saw a large ship that was moments ago hidden by the cliffside.

Miraak snarled, his ire rising "I do not need complications now" He hissed "Sahrotaar" His voice ignored such petty things as space and barriers as he commanded his servant "I want those sacrifices ready, no matter the cost."

He would have his freedom this day, no matter what he had to give up to get it!

-

Skirnir's shield cracked the goblinoid warchief's skull with a wet thud, sending the little bastard sprawling into the snowy dirt before decapitating the furious vaguely female creature trying, and failing, to stab through his sabaton.

He turned to observe the battlefield but instinct told him to look up just in time to see a vile looking snake-dragon rushing down towards him... No, it was rushing to the greatest number of his men.

"Scatter!" He roared, even as he kept slaying.

But his words were far too little, far too late, as the dragon was already far too close, and the battle lines far too dense for any true reaction to what was about to happen.

Skirnir prepared to watch hundreds die, only to hear the dragon roar "IIZ SLEN NUS!" And freeze both reikling and person, leaving behind but a limited few of those lucky enough to be missed stranded and alone.

Thankfully, the sudden assault was all it took to finally break the reklings and the few who still stood turned tail ran.

The last Stormcloak grunted at the cowards but also thanked them, as he could now focus fully on the beast. A quick search revealed its position, as it swept low to grab one of the Sadras marksmen that managed to strike its wing.

After it had already seen to the trio of Nords who tried taunting it into attacking them.

The elf managed to roll away from the maws but as the dragon landed the mere shudder of the ground sent the marksman sprawling and left him easy prey for the dragon's claws.

Skirnir tried summoning a burst of unrelenting force once more but all he felt in response was his throat burning in agony.

All he could do as the elf was devoured was roar like a madman as he thrust forth with his sword, stabbing the dragon in its already disfigured jaw and forcing it to spit out the bifurcated hero.

He was batted away like a fly but a moment later, the dragon roaring at him with fury "Your soul..." It growled "My master will want it."

"Your master, eh?" Skrinir forced himself to stand even as his legs trembled, the corner of his eye tracking an approaching silhouette "You can tell your fucking master" The Nord spat on the ground "That he can come and take it himself."

The dragon's eyes narrowed into pinpricks and it rushed to rend him apart, his master's orders be damned.

Just in time for the Jagged Crown to calm itself off the coast and release a salvo of its ship-mounted artillery.

Sahrotaar roared in pain in confusion as he felt his right be pierced with spear sized arrows, sending him veering off from his target and crashing into the mound of ice of his own making, no doubt slaying dozens of the intended sacrifices with his sheer weight.

He rounded on the ship, his fury so blinding he ignored all pain and focused the whole of his Ziil into his words "FUUUS RO DAH!" He roared, and the Jagged Crown was sent skidding across the seas, its sails utterly ruined while its hull barely held itself together by its many protective enchantments.

Such furious focus would cost the dragon however, as felt the ever-familiar sting of a blade in the bottom of his jaw, the sensation reaching him just in time to rear back before his brain could be pierced by the enchanted weapon, even if his neck was well and truly bursting with blood, covering his assailant utterly.

But such a wound would not slay a Dovah, and even if he could not shout himself whole, he would still heal in time.

Unlike the little mortal.

A loud snap echoed across the now silent battlefield, and Skirnir Stormcloak fell bonelessly to the ground after being launched straight into the cliffside with force enough to bend steel.

Sahrotaar stalked the corpseground, finishing off any potential assassin with extreme prejudice as he awaited, his master's soothing words echoing in his mind as he fought against the roaring pain in his throat, taking away the thing a dragon treasured most.

The shuffling of feet drew Sahrotaar's attention and he rounded on the approaching figures, a two dozen or so magi and accompanying warriors dressed in his master's cult's attire.

"Great Sahrotaar" The lead shell-faced man bowed "I see your glorious conquest has brought you pain. Please, allow us to aid you."

The dragon half growled, half gurgled as one of the cultists approached him, the telltale glow of healing magicks appearing between his hands.

The cultists were elated to be able to aid one of their great teacher's servants.

So elated in fact, that they failed to notice movement near the cliffsides.

Without any true warning, the battlefield was overtaken with blinding and deafening blue lightning as it forked to strike both the healer and Sahrotaar, utterly disintegrating the former while striking the latter in the head, snapping it backwards and making the dragon suspiciously still.

The remaining cultists blinked the light from their eyes and rounded on their assailant, weapons ready for battle... only to stop dead in their tracks.

Why was an elf wearing the mask of Dragon Priest? And why was he steaming as if he had just melted his way out of an ice block?

The more perceptive of their number noticed a slowly disintegrating scroll flying off to his side. They would have noticed more, but unlike in the case of a certain demigod, thinking was not a free action.

That single moment of hesitation cost them, as the elf rose a lute of all things, and began strumming it, the ensuing melody scratching against their minds even as more lightning descended upon them, battering against ward or body, and reaping even more lives as Miraak's students threw themselves into battle in a blinding rage.

For all his power, the elf would fall to their numbers, of that there was no doubt.

-

Marco felt his heartbeat drumming in his ears as he blocked spell after spell and somehow managed to stumble his idiot head out of the way of a crossbow bolt, only having it scrape against Zahkriisos' mask as he stabbed the closest cultist through the throat, his lute swiftly discarded in favor of another scroll that served to rise a cloak of lightning around him.

The mask's power continued to surprise him as he fought, as even without his focus he could still fry the weaker cultists alive in seconds, making what should be an instant and overwhelming bout of elf stabbing an actual fight as he kept giving ground and healing his wounds with every successful strike of his sword.

But even then, the odds were still well and truly stacked against him.

A misaligned slash here had him losing more ground than he could give.

An overeager stab had him surrounded and wounded before he could defend himself.

And a desperate lunge and tumble left him out in the open, exactly in the path of a staff-wielding mage whose glare he could feel through the mask he bore, his focus nearly bursting with the lance of fire he was preparing.

For the first time since coming to the quaint place that was Solstheim, Marco of Solitude felt like he was in actual danger, and he knew it to be his final realization before he was blasted apart.

Such thoughts disappeared as he saw a burly old Nord rush from the nearby shrubbery and promptly bury his axe into the mage's spine, a younger woman that looked vaguely like him doing the same to another cultist next to the other.

Marco couldn't help but laugh as he turned on his pursuers and without a care in the world called out "Your father smells of elderberries!"

The shield-bearing cultist in the lead shuddered as blood began leaking through his ears.

That distraction was all it took for Marco to bury the Gauldur Blackblade into his neck, and gorge himself on the abundant lifeforce.

The rest fell in short order, leaving behind a silent battlefield, one Altmer, and two Skaal.

(Reyvin's POV)

The cowardly little shits had already kited me all the way to Fort Frostmoth by the time I felt a shift in the air around them, the two heavily bloodied dragons fleeing through a rip in reality that was nearly identical to Mora's own brand of interdimensional bullshit except with a draconic twist to it.

Scorch squawked with indignation and Kreinaarvokun merely landed onto the beach, realizing that the battle had been won.

It was only the three of us now, Serana having taken quite the blast of fire when she finished off the first little shit an thus remaining behind to heal, and no doubt gorge herself since the dragon fell into a hidden crevice.

I was even nice enough to instruct Akulakhan to ward it for her, so Miraak couldn't get his snack back.

Frowning at the cowardly little shits that escaped me, I couldn't help but respect the sheer spite it would take to force dragons to abuse whirlwind sprints to stay just beyond my own shouting range for what felt like fucking hours (it was fifteen minutes which may as well be an eternity)

It was irritating, but I'd probably do the same.

"I can mope later." I end the train of thought and turn to Krein "We will catch up later, I need to see if there is anything left of the other army. Can't have the fucking mollusk worshiper getting one over me."

The black and golden dragon hummed as he leaned his head onto his crossed arms, lowering himself onto the beachside to no doubt enjoy the ambience "Thuri." Is all he said.

Nodding I snapped my fingers and yanked onto the mark I placed on Marco.

-----

(General POV)

Miraak's very soul shook with fury as he observed his final attempt fall apart in front of him, utterly powerless to salvage anything but two of his most worthless servants. The air around him shuddered, the shelves shaking and priceless tomes ripping and turning to dust as he simply glared at his mirror for five entire minutes.

Finally able to calm himself, his gaze moved to Sahrotaar, his most loyal and powerful dragon, and he permitted himself a sigh as he spoke "Sahrotaar. Ziil Los Dii-"

Before he could finish the shout and death sentence, he felt the connection disappear, his mirror showing the elf glaring at the dragon now bound in spiked chains, just barely among the living.

He would rage further if he could, but a presence appeared behind him, one he would never grant the satisfaction of seeing him break.

"Miraak." His patron's disgusting slurping voice came from behind him "It would... seem. That your pathetic... flailing... has invited... trouble. Upon my domain."

The ancient Dragonborn stopped his hand from shaking and turned to face the amorphous pile of eyes and tentacles "Indeed." He answered simply.

Thousands of eyes narrowed at him, some flashing with calculation, others with fury.

And yet Mora remained outwardly calm "An... unfortunate outcome. Of your foolish... rebellion."

Miraak knew the implication behind those words, and yet he did not give his mas- patron the satisfaction of reacting to it. He sought to betray the parasite, and the parasite sought to scheme his demise while replacing him.

That he was the sole Dragonborn reachable in many long years was the sole reason his soul remained his own. A reason that had recently been threatened... A reason that disappeared just as quickly as his sister brandished their Father's amulet.

And Mora knew this, and knew it well.

'Back to the eternal game it is' Miraak concluded and met the infinite eyes "Betrayal or not, you still need me."

"Arrogance" Mora snarled, the fury washing over the man once more without reaction "But... even arrogant... you remain... a useful... tool." The tentacles wriggled discomfortingly "And I am... loath. To waste... a good... tool."

"Wise of you" Miraak glared from under his mask "Master."

The eyes blinked, narrowed/widened, and glared "See to it... that you do not... forget. Your place... again." A tome flopped onto the floor below the blob, its thick covers black and green "A small... gift." The Daedra spoke "Take heed... of its contents. And ready yourself... for the inevitable... attack."

Miraak nearly gasped at this, barely managing to hide his reaction as he stared at the tome, the colors of which appeared to be dancing against each other. He had not been given a thing from his 'patron' in centuries, and the creature certainly did not grow generous in that time...

'Which meant he was actually worried.' Miraak's eyes narrowed "Thank you" He bowed "Master."

The eyes stared at him for an eternity and but an instant, and slowly began to dissolve.

As his master left him to his thoughts, Miraak came to a conclusion. His enemy, infuriating as he was, was right about one thing 'Fucking mollusk.'

-------

Could we mine mollsucoids for stone I wonder?

Find out swiftly!

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