Late Merethic Era.
More than 4500 years before the birth of the Last Dragonborn.
Falmeret/Skyrim.
A moment later.
Feator Kaslana.
The battlefield slowed and seemed to turn into sluggish games of letting the opponent win.
Though my opponent had no intention of playing at that.
Filled with the rage and power of his Daedric deity from head to toe, the descendant of altered elves managed to give me serious competition.
Hmm…
And it was at a moment like this that I found parallels with the Lord of the Rings.
There, too, the Dark Lord supposedly created those Uruks, Uruk-hai, from elves.
A common motif, though.
Fortunately, the weight of the axes wasn’t as great as Ysgramor’s battle-axe, plus they weren’t artifacts overall, just good items filled with Daedric power.
Wuuthrad — I think that’s what it was called — seemed to possess its own hatred for elves.
“Ugh…” I sharply exhaled when his axe nearly split my nose in half.
The green bastard had suddenly accelerated, and I almost missed it, comparing him to Ysgramor.
Yeah, I needed to get distracted less, but…
I was a long-liver now.
And I whiled away the time with numerous thoughts that stretched for lo-o-ong hours and days.
Anyway, back to the ongoing exchange of parries and dodges.
My opponent didn’t feel hatred for me like Ysgramor had, and he wasn’t about to underestimate me, not exposing his bare torso to the incredibly sharp blade unnecessarily.
Ah, if only he were wearing armor!
I would have surprised him so much!
But for now, I could only leave small nicks in the ebony, which was still slightly inferior to dragon bone, especially one that had been additionally processed.
Hmm-m-m…
I’d have to touch an ebony katana later, and generally visit Akavir, if Aldwin’s people didn’t send me into the future.
Parallel to my thoughts, magical fire with periodic golden tongues of flame flared in my hand, which streamed straight toward the Orsimer’s bestial face.
If it were ordinary flame, it would have done almost no harm to an orc saturated with Daedric power to the brim, but my fire also contained traces of Aedric Energy, which Auri-El transmitted to me through the relay that was Flammentein.
Auri-El, by the way, had a sense of irony.
Because he supplied me with his energy only for fire magic, ignoring all other types…
And this despite the fact that I was precisely a Snow Elf, not some non-existent Dunmer with a penchant for fire.
“Rrrrrr!” the orc roared, no worse than any dragon, when he was forced to put his axes in the path of the fire, while I made a thrust at his torso.
He managed to turn the last one, but a wound similar to Ysgramor’s had never added pep to anyone.
Especially when I managed to slide the wavy blade deep enough, and with a reverse motion, my sword worked like a saw.
Without serious intervention, such a wound wouldn’t heal.
Even on an orc, because despite his regeneration and Daedric support, the blow was dealt by an opponent and weapon of the same league.
After another clang of our weapons, this Ghazghkull tried to catch my blade with the curved part of his axe after another thrust, and maybe he would have even succeeded due to the flamberge’s blade shape, but…
One axe couldn’t fully block even a fireball that was slow by our speeds.
So he immediately tried to pull his weapon out of contact, but I didn’t let him, hooking my blade onto the curved inner part of the axe’s edge.
“Witchcraft!” the orc roared with pure rage, in the barely recognizable orcish language at that tone.
Yes, I knew that one too.
There had been time to learn, and the Sacred Valley was located near the main orc settlement areas, even if getting into it was extremely difficult.
There were incredibly few passages, and they were either blocked by my kinsmen or completely camouflaged.
“You’ll be Ghazghkull Burnt-Face!” I chuckled, jumping back and starting to circle the orc again, keeping sideways for a smaller target area.
The green-skinned one didn’t do the same, standing at full shoulder width, thus being an ideal target for swift, springy thrusts, like a rapier.
Look how Vaysi was carving up his kin!
A precise strike, one-two, and another orc didn’t manage to return his two-handed weapon to a defensive position, falling to the damp ground with a pierced neck.
The other elves didn’t falter either, carving up the rage-filled orcs like big green piglets.
Orsimer were very good against ordinary warriors, compensating for the difference in experience and skill with physical capabilities and traits.
But against mages…
They got lost.
It was hard to hit an enemy with mighty blows when your face and eyes were burning, flashing with lightning, or completely frozen.
The average battle plan for everyone gathered here was quite simple — the orc recklessly charged at a retreating elf, asserted his superiority…
And after getting magic in the face, was cut down like a blind kitten.
My subordinates hadn’t wiped them out only because of numbers.
After all, they outnumbered us three to one, and we had to watch out for two other opponents at once.
“You will die under my axes, Snow Elf!
Waaagh!” the brute shouted a battle cry, immediately running his axes across his own chest, inflicting two very serious wounds.
But instead of weakening from such a performance, this fanged bastard only got stronger!
Which forced me to leap around like a mountain goat, dodging every swing of the orc.
From the outside, it might have looked like I was completely dominating, since I didn’t have a single wound, but…
I understood perfectly well that even one hit from such an axe, and I’d lose at least a limb.
If I wasn’t cut in half outright.
Fine…
Since he’d played his trump card, it was time for me to play mine.
Because Flammentein served not only as a relay for Aedric power.
No-o-o, like the Bow and the Shield, it had its own special feature.
And unfortunately for my opponent, the Sun of Magnus was shining in the sky right now, not the remains of Lorkhan’s body — Masser and Secunda.
Making what was probably the hundredth thrust at the orc’s neck, combined with sending a stream of flame at him, the chieftain was forced to take it on the shoulder, considering a glancing wound there insignificant.
But the follower of Malacath didn’t realize that this attack was far, far more dangerous, heh-heh.
And at every point of contact, the blade left a small temporal anomaly.
And practically before his eyes, the areas of skin and flesh around the wound began to age and darken.
“What is this…” the fanged one frowned, even dropping out of the battle frenzy for a moment.
I didn’t bother explaining the effect of my weapon to him, like some movie villain, simply taking full advantage of the gained edge in the form of my opponent’s poor right arm mobility.
And since at our level of skill, any vulnerability practically led to death, it was hardly surprising that when I went on the attack, sparing absolutely none of my stamina, I finally managed to breach the axe-wielder’s defensive position, and with a practically filigree swing…
Slice off half his brain diagonally.
“Phew…” I exhaled with immense relief, staggering back and swaying on my feet from exhaustion.
Satisfied as I looked at the body of the former elf descendant crashing backward, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye and began to fall backward myself.
Only to be immediately caught by the elf who had rushed over.
“Vaysi, as always, right on time…” I muttered tiredly, not even pretending much — the final breakthrough of the orc’s defense had taken too much of my strength, yes.
“Are you alright, Feator?” she said more for form’s sake than out of real concern.
She was already confident in my abilities, so she no longer wasted time on pointless worrying.
Yes, I liked that kind of character much more than if she fretted over every scratch.
Speaking of scratches…
“Are you alright yourself?” I drew attention to the blood trickling down the left side of the girl’s forehead and face.
It was pretty obvious the wound had been inflicted by a vertical strike.
“One orc caught me with the tip of some strange spear.” She twitched the injured side of her face in displeasure, dipping her fingers into the blood.
“The eye wasn’t damaged, but it’s still not pleasant.” She concluded in an extremely displeased tone, finally wiping away most of the crimson liquid with the back of her hand.
“Then let’s get out of here.
I think I’ve had enough epic battles for the next decade or so…
I’d rather fight with parchments and the reports of lazy bastards who didn’t have the brains to read a report template…” I said wearily, already starting to recall what I should do first upon my return as I walked.
Sometimes fighting medieval bureaucracy is harder than fighting the leaders of men.
But if I don’t want to become dependent on ordinary battles, like the orc I killed, it’s worth alternating between the two.
And rest, too, though there’s almost no time for it now.
As some narrow-eyed earthly relatives of the Akaviri say — xo!
A long elven life, full of laziness and enjoying nature…
Yeah, right!
* * * Several dozen minutes later.
As soon as the elves had taken their wounded and fallen, heading back to their secret sanctuaries in the long mountains of the Reach lands, small green humanoids began to appear on the battlefield — goblins.
They had lived here for a long time, and no one, no one knew when or how these creatures had appeared.
Some of the Mer suggested they were descendants of the children of Trinimac’s followers, when he was transformed into Malacath.
Others said they were a very successful — or unsuccessful, depending on how you looked at it — result of a mad Altmer mage’s experiment.
Either way, none of the sages would find the reason, lost in the millennia of the Merethic Era.
But either way, these creatures were disliked by all Mer far more than orcs, and therefore, unlike them, were forced to hide, so as not to fall into slavery to the southern elves, and not to be exterminated by the northern ones.
The latter considered their existence unnecessary, or dishonoring Auri-El, speaking of the Dwemer or Falmer respectively.
However, he, Grotsnik, saw potential in them.
Potential, if two outcast peoples united.
Quick and cunning goblins could become the perfect complement to the mighty and strong orcs.
While some would fight and rule, the others would be servants and scouts — which, compared to slavery under the elves, was simply the height of opportunity for any little greenskin.
“Get a move on!” he barked, urging them on with his shaman’s staff.
Grotsnik himself was also an outcast exile.
Even among his own race, which was why he had received an even greater blessing from Malacath.
Ever since he had hit his head on the altar of the Father of Orcs as a child, strange ideas had started popping into his head, and the shaman-healer soon earned the nickname Painboss, a mockery of a warboss.
They called him a mad tinkerer who, with the help of magic, could usually create something other than what the wounded warriors needed.
For example, swapping their arms with each other…
For greater efficiency, of course!
But those fools didn’t appreciate his self-sacrificing efforts!
To not lose his skill, he simply sawed off a few of his own limbs, attaching warriors’ limbs in their place.
That way he would heal everyone more efficiently!
Better!
Strong, mighty warriors would come out from under his new hands!
But no…
They exiled him!
They rejected him!
Then he found goblins, who submitted to the mighty green orc, and became his servants in the cause of elevating the orc race.
And now, a vision had come to him.
This great warrior, to whom the Great Chieftain himself had given orders, giving him his strength, would be the perfect proof and confirmation of the correctness of the Painboss Grotsnik’s ideas!
“You will become a great warrior, a great chieftain.
The Father of Curses himself thinks so!” he exclaimed, raising the orc warrior’s disfigured hand to the sky, half of whose fingers belonged to goblins.
“And all, all these fools will see that my path is the most powerful!
Kha-ha-ha…” coughing and involuntarily distorting the last word, the orc punched himself in the chest with his fist and blinked.
Did it bother him that he was speaking to what was essentially a corpse, missing half its head and brain, lying nearby?
Not really.
After all, Malacath himself was with him and his ideas, which meant…
Ghazghkull would live!
In a way he had never lived before!
Meanwhile, the goblins began to lift the chieftain’s body onto makeshift stretchers, literally made of sticks and crude rope-like things.
It didn’t matter if it took centuries, but the Outcast of Outcasts would see his work through to the end.
Nirn would yet learn how terrible creatures obsessed with their beloved work could be.
It would definitely learn!