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Chapter Text

-ACT I-

Spring was returning to Skyrim, but the high windy slopes of the Throat of the World remained gripped in the icy jaws of winter. Kicked and tossed by the wind, snow flurried in punishing rhythms, clawing at the rime-slick rocks and skimming over the sides in silvery falls. It was a stubborn thing, almost alive, and battered the little figure struggling up the mountainside unrepentantly.

But the traveller was stubborn too. In fact, he made a point of it. He hunched his tall, broad body against the wind, tugged his green, frosted cloak tighter around his shoulders, and doggedly ploughed on, one crunching step after another. The wind contested him for every stride, but this was a battle the traveller was accustomed to. He swayed where he needed to sway, bending like a reed in a gale, unable to be uprooted. With every step he drew closer to his goal.

Finally the wind let down as the massive bulwark of High Hrothgar, ancient monastery of the Greybeards, arose through the snowy mist. Stiffly the traveller quickened his pace. The crunching snow packed into firm stone underfoot as he hurried up the steps and clumsily heaved the doors open.

The thick metal scraped loudly as he wrestled it across the floor, enough to squeeze his bulk through, then thudded and boomed as he slammed the wintry storm out behind him. The traveller had long suspected that the Greybeards kept it ill-maintained on purpose, to alert them when guests arrived. Not that these remote Voice Masters had many.

It was astonishingly quiet in here, with hardly a murmur of the outside world soaking through the thick stone walls. The traveller’s shivering steps rang loudly through the spartan halls as he dived for the nearest brazier. The fire’s warm glow was the most welcome thing he’d seen all day, and he gladly puffed and stamped and shook the snow off him.

“I don’t know how you stand living up here all the time,” he groused quietly through chattering teeth. “Snow’s nice enough, but year-round? Don’t you miss green?”

“We are men of peace,” came Master Arngeir’s resonant answer, “and take peace in knowing all is renewed in Kynareth’s domain. Welcome, Solenarren. It has been a long time.”

Solen tossed back his hood. Colour was flushing back into his pale golden face, and feeling returning to his pointed ears. A mismatched pair of almond eyes, burnished gold and forest-green, picked out the robed grey man appearing noiselessly from the shadows. He genuflected respectfully and smiled, pulling taut a scattering of old scars across his nose and cheeks. “Master. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“High Hrothgar is open to you, Dragonborn. It is our honour to receive you.”

Did he know, Solen wondered? Arngeir’s eyes were always shrewd and hinting at venerable truths. A soft, wet thud turned his head. He’d picked up a lot of snow in his climb up the mountain, and now that snow was fast becoming Skyrim’s newest lake behind him. “Er, don’t suppose you have a towel? I think I brought half the storm in with me.”

Arngeir looked somewhere between fondly exasperated and resigned. “I will put a kettle on the boil.”

The monastery was very large and draughty. It took some time before Solen felt he was as properly dried off as he was going to get. Arngeir showed him to the monastery’s modest sitting room, little more than a pair of stone stools and a small table in front of a roaring hearth. Solen strung his travel-tattered cloak up beside it to dry, propped his ivory greatsword Eldródr under it, and set his soggy socks and boots by the crackling flames, all with the veteran efficiency of someone well accustomed to campaigning through Skyrim. His Harbinger’s armour, wolf-fashioned steel plate thickly lined and padded with fur, was no worse than damp. Arngeir withdrew the hissing kettle, and Solen made his offering of snowberry leaves, freshly-plucked from the verdant foothills far below. Soon Solen was feeling much revived from the blistering climb, with hot snowberry tea in his stomach and his feet quite snug in a fresh pair of woollen socks.

“So, Solen,” said Arngeir, once they’d drained their cups in reflective silence, “the saviour of Skyrim does not simply visit a group of old hermits for the pleasure of their company.”

“Aw, can’t he?” Solen said, smiling.

Arngeir did not return it. One day, Solen vowed, one day I’ll crack him. “All right,” he said, sobering, and refreshed their servings. “Where to start... do you know what’s happened since I last left the monastery?”

“You have followed the path of your own choosing,” said Arngeir. “I trust you remember what I told you, in our last meeting?”

“Every word. Am I a hero or a curse on future generations? Or just forgettable?”

“That was the essence of it, I suppose. Did you allow the Way of the Voice to guide you?”

 “I tried, really. Just settle down and get back to adventuring, but... well, a lot can happen in five years. A lot did happen since the Dragon Crisis ended in ‘202.” Solen sifted through his memories, rewinding time in his mind. Then he smiled, a little foolishly. “I got married.”

Arngeir snorted. “I fail to see what that has to do with the Way.”

“I know, but –”

“Well, I hope you did not climb Kynareth’s sacred mountain to receive my congratulations, Dragonborn. Although you do have them.”

Aha, so he does have a sense of humour. “My thanks, Master,” Solen grinned. “Rayya, she’s... well, at risk of sound like the typical lovestruck man in over his head, she’s...” And for ten straight minutes Arngeir was treated to exactly how incredible Rayya at-Mafurah was; her incorrigible will, deft swordsmanship, fearless battle-hardened spirit, their shared fondness for her homeland of Hammerfell, and the many adventures they’d shared across the province of their adopted home together, from chasing down the forbidden Gauldur legend across the crypts of Skyrim to run-of-the-mill Companions contracts. To Arngeir’s eternal credit, he endured the gushing tirade with a perfectly straight face.

“I see,” said Arngeir, when Solen paused to drink some tea. “What else?”

Solen caught himself. “Ah, yes. What else... well, in ‘204, I think, we went to Solstheim together. Have you heard of it? Little slice of land floating in the Sea of Ghosts to the north and east. Well, it turned out there was another Dragonborn there...” Arngeir’s attention visibly sharpened. “The First of them all, actually. He was lost to time in the realms of Hermaeus Mora, the Daedra Prince of fate.”

“Was he one to learn from?”

“I guess? He was enslaving everyone and stealing Dragon souls from under my nose, so he was a lesson against turning evil, I suppose.” Solen frowned. “Rayya and I planned on leaving Skyrim after we got back, go visit Hammerfell again, but... well, there was the Civil War, and it was only getting worse.”

“Ah,” said Arngeir, and now he frowned.

Solen had anticipated his disapproval, right from the moment he’d signed his name to the Legion charter. “Will you let me explain?”

“You have nothing to explain,” said Arngeir. “You are Dragonborn. It is the Greybeards’ privilege to train you and your right to be trained. Your Voice is a gift from the gods, not an offering to them.”

“It still sounds like you want an explanation.”

Arngeir sighed through his knotted beard. “I suppose I would not mind one.”

So Solen explained – how the skirmishes between the Imperial Legion and the Stormcloak rebels had only gotten bigger, bloodier and fiercer since the war’s beginning in ‘201. Villages and hamlets caught in the crossfire, the rift between the two sides ever deepening. Finally there’d come a day when Whiterun had been assaulted. Solen and Rayya had hardly returned to the city to settle their affairs when the ultimatum was delivered to Jarl Balgruuf’s doorstep. After that there was no leaving. Solen was Thane of Whiterun before he’d even been named a full Companion, and it was a responsibility he’d always taken as seriously as being Kodlak’s successor.

After the Stormcloaks had been repelled from the city, Solen had been approached by General Tullius and Legate Rikke for ‘negotiations’, which were really an ill-disguised recruitment request. Solen had dithered for as long as he could. He had a whole plethora of reasons why he didn’t want to sign on with the Imperial Legion, but it was Rayya who finally talked him into it. Who knows what would’ve happened to Whiterun if he hadn’t been there? The city that had prided itself on its neutrality was no longer neutral. Solen supposed that was sign enough. Rayya had enlisted with him, with one of their terms to Tullius being that they were not sent on separate missions. Rayya had been his Housecarl before his wife, and she also took her duty very seriously.

So had followed eight months of gruesome back-and-forth conflict. Solen was a fierce heavy-blade fighter, his skill honed to a razor point under the instruction of the Companions, but in the end, every deciding factor of every Stormcloak clash was his Thu’um. His Voice had only grown in its power over the years. Between the fulfilment of destiny against the World-Eater, his cairn-diving adventuring, and the clash with his own kind in Solstheim, Solen could bend the world in two dozen different ways – humans were almost nothing to it now. His Unrelenting Force, which once upon a time had barely staggered his opponents, now disintegrated them.

Then there’d been Ulfric Stormcloak himself – leader of the rebellion, a fellow Voice Master, and once upon a time, Arngeir’s student.

“I killed him,” said Solen, when his recollections had taken them at last to the Windhelm assault of ‘205. “He asked me to. Said it’d make for a better song. For honour’s sake I obliged him, not spite. Even though he did make some disparaging remarks about my ears.”

Arngeir sighed long and slow. “Did that save Skyrim, as you hoped?”

“I don’t know.” Solen rubbed his brow. “It’s brought some stability to the country and the Empire, but the rebel dream of a Skyrim free of tyranny lives on in the Snowborn extremists – the Stormcloaks who wouldn’t surrender, and fled to keep fighting in the hills. Because that’s exactly how they spin this whole thing. The Empire was never restoring order to a populace descending into anarchy, but giving Skyrim to the elves on a silver platter. And this –” He pointed at his face. “– doesn’t help. In fact, it made things worse. I made Ulfric a martyr. Noble Nord freedom-fighter killed by a High Elf. Nevermind that I’ve never had anything to do with the Dominion. I was raised on a ship, for Morwha’s sake!”

“Solen,” said Arngeir quietly. Solen realized he was raising his voice – and his Voice. The mugs rattled on the table between them.

Solen drew a slow breath. “Sorry, Master,” he murmured, and the mugs fell quiet. “I tried, I really did, to speak only in true need. But the Stormcloaks knew their soil far better than the Imperials did. We were almost always outnumbered, outmanoeuvred, and the Cloaks numbered in the thousands. Thousands of young men and women fuelled by their parents’ spite.”

“War corrupts everything it touches. There is no right side and no wrong side, only suffering.”

“I only joined the war to stop that suffering, as quickly as I could. Still took the better part of a year, and then longer to clean it up. Going back and forth as the Empire’s poster child to promote peace and conflict’s end... it felt more like I was a blade being held at their throats, knowing what I can do to an army. I couldn’t finish the two years’ required service fast enough.”

“What has been the outcome of those efforts?”

“Well... the war did end, so at least I got that going for me. The Moot happened, and Skyrim’s got a monarch again, a High Queen. I know Skyrim still has her wounds, but now they finally have a chance to heal after gods know how long. Most of last year was spent helping reunify Skyrim. Guarding shipments being sent to villages, repurposing a bunch of old keeps around the province as Legion garrisons, negotiating treaties with the Forsworn – things like that. There’s still some resentment for the Empire since the Talos law formally remains, but they shut down the Embassy, which was a big point in their favour.”

“Embassy?”

“Thalmor Embassy. You know, the Talos-hunters. The ones who spearhead the reason why Nords hate High Elves with a passion.”

“Ah. I remember, now. One of them attended our peace talks during the Dragon Crisis.”

“You can say she was a nasty piece of work, Master.”

“Well, I would not have felt comfortable drinking snowberry tea with her. I recall that General Tullius invited her as part of the Imperial delegation. What changed between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, to warrant Thalmor expulsion from Skyrim?”

“You remember that dossier I waved around during the discussions that was definitive written evidence that the Thalmor, despite prior claim, were interfering with and prolonging the Civil War? Yeah, it might had something to do with that.”

Arngeir was trying not to sigh again, Solen could sense it. “So,” the Greybeard said instead, “the season unending has finally ended. Skyrim has a new High Queen, and with her crowning comes a chance for peace. As do you, Dragonborn.”

Solen leaned back in his seat. “There is, isn’t there?”

Arngeir folded his hands over one another, noting the distant expression that had settled in the Altmer’s scarred face. “The thought has crossed your mind, I see. So, this is what has driven you up the face of Monahven this day, to seek my counsel on such things.”

“I wanted to make lives better. When I picked up this... warrior-hero thing, it was all I wanted to do. But this war, everything around this war has just drained me. Every action I make I intend well, but no matter what I do there’s those who think I’m the wrong one to wear the title of Ysmir, those who think I’m betraying them and Him, who think I have no right at all to have such sway over lives, and that I’m no better than my kinsmen of the south.” Solen ran his fingers through the tawny ridge of hair on his head. “It’s a battle I’m never going to have to stop fighting, wherever I go.”

Arngeir’s gaze shifted to the dragonbone battle-blade that Solen was seldom seen without. He spoke gently. “I thought you enjoyed fighting, young Dragonborn.”

“Well... I guess I’ve learned to enjoy it, because the Companions knocked it into me, but...” Solen paused as he tried to figure out exactly what he wanted to say. “I guess I’m just... tired. Maybe I am ready to give peace a try.”

“But not up here.”

“Gods no, I want to put war behind me, not adventure.” Solen fiddled with his Amulet of Talos, clinking the tiny hammer pendant softly upon his gorget. “Although that doesn’t mean to say I don’t want to visit from time to time. Freeze on the emblems, meditate on this hard stone floor...”

“You have nothing but time, Dragonborn,” said Arngeir, with the barest hint of a smile. “No matter the storms that rage below, High Hrothgar remains above the clouds.”

“Speaking of that,” Solen said, checking the dryness of his boots, “I think I might nip upstairs and say hello before I throw myself down the Seven Thousand Steps again.”

“Be careful when you do, please, Dragonborn. Those steps were laid by our founder, and I would hate to see them damaged.”

~

The afternoon sun was just visible through the swirls of cloud and frost as Solen waded his way through the drifts up to Paarthurnax’s peak. Perhaps a night’s stay in High Hrothgar was in order. Solen had little fancy for sleeping in a cold stone cave, but it was better than digging a snow den and sleeping by the path.

The timeless Grandmaster of the Greybeards, the Dragon Paarthurnax, was reposed in meditative trance upon the ruined Word Wall, but his misty blue eyes opened as Solen drew near. The old Dragon (well, technically they didn’t age, but Paarthurnax screamed ‘old’ in every sense of the word) seemed almost to smile. “Dovahkiin,” he rumbled, and bared his jaws. “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

To those unfamiliar with the ways of Dragons, the cone of flame racing to envelop them would very likely be interpreted as a Dragon attempting to quick-roast them for dinner. Fortunately, as a well-fledged Dragonborn coming into his seventh year of such things, Solen knew the difference between attempted combustion and a warm welcome. The flames rolled around him, a blast of exceptionally desirable heat in this dizzyingly high, frigid point of the known world.

“Paarthurnax,” he greeted in turn, and returned the elder’s greeting. “YOL TOOR SHUL!” His flame washed over Paarthurnax in a scintillating cloak. “Drem yol lok. It’s been a long time, Master,” said Solen, genuflecting again.

“Drem yol lok. To your kind, perhaps,” the Dragon rumbled. “But Time flows different for the Dov. It seems only a heartbeat ago when you stood victorious in the wake of Alduin’s ruin, hailed as Thuri, the Voice without match.”

“Well, for all I know it might’ve been,” said Solen. “I’ve told you before that your heartbeats are notoriously difficult to hear.”

Paarthurnax was not Arngeir; he rumbled with laughter regularly and freely. “Oriin ful, quite so, Dovahkiin.”

Solen was glad Paarthurnax still took pity enough on him to translate, because he could still hardly string a sentence in Dovahzul together, despite years of his life spent yelling things in Dragon-speech. “You aren’t too lonely up here, are you?” Solen asked, looking around at the otherwise-barren peak. “I still feel bad luring Odahviing down from the mountain.”

“I have waited here, alone, for thousands of years, long before the first stone to the monastery below was laid,” rumbled Paarthurnax. “In any case, Odahviing was not a dovah inclined to the Way.”

“So in other words, he made a poor pupil.” Solen tucked himself beneath Paarthurnax’s overhanging bulk, in the shelter of the Word Wall, out of the wind. “He makes a good Legionnaire, though. Who would’ve thought?”

“Hmmmm.” Paarthurnax peered down to affix Solen under one blue eye. “I hope you are not here to extend a similar invitation, Dovahkiin.”

Solen laughed briefly and shook his head. “Actually, I wanted your opinion on something.”

“I would be willing to lend my onikaan, wisdom, to you.”

As succinctly as he could – which still took twenty minutes – Solen repeated his exploits across Skyrim and his intentions to change in the wake of it. “The short of it is that I think I’m done,” said Solen, “done fighting other people’s battles, and definitely done fighting other people’s wars. You think you’re doing something worthwhile at first, but in the end it always comes back to bite you in the, er, tail, and you realize in fixing something you broke something else. So Rayya and I are going to make good on our trip leaving Skyrim, get a bit of Alik’r sun on our bones again, then stick to the adventurer’s life when we get back. We are coming back. I’m Harbinger of the Companions, after all. That’s not a responsibility I can just resign from, like Thanehood or the Legion. But at least we’ll just have the freedom to be ourselves again. Hunting elk in the plains, annoying some crusty old Deathlord in his tomb, slipping rabbit eyeballs in Vilkas’s mead. No running around after Dragons or men.”

Throughout it all, Paarthurnax sat still and attentive. When Solen at last fell silent, the Dragon blinked once. “Hmm. Kruziik suleyk ruahst hin sos. Ancient power runs through your blood, Dovahkiin.”

Paarthurnax often liked to speak in riddles. Solen had never had much of a head for them. “Thank you?”

“Suleyk los vodahaan wah suleyk. Power is drawn to power.”

“I guess? Paarthurnax...”

The Dragon rumbled and shook a mound of settled snow off his head. “Krosis. I mean to say... Dovahkiin, the world will not... vodahmaan, forget you quietly. Not so long as you draw su’um, breath. Take the world within, shape the world without.”

“But I’ve done my destiny,” Solen protested, “years ago. After that, I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty as far as Skyrim’s concerned.”

“You are still challenged by the dov, are you not?”

“Very rarely.”

“But it still happens. A challenge to power. Whose thu’um is the greatest. Whose suleyk is the greater. You desire drem, Dovahkiin, peace. You may find it. Or you may not. Because you are the strongest mortal alive in Keizaal, perhaps even all Taazokaan – and there will be challenge again.”

Finally Solen began to understand. The Silver Hand. Alduin. Miraak. Ulfric. Politics. “Suleyk los vodahaan wah suleyk,” he repeated, slowly and carefully. “Peace isn’t possible for me, is it?”

“No, Dovahkiin, I warn you. If it is drem you desire, you must be ready to fight for it.”

Chapter Text

It was the third evening since their arrival in Ivarstead, and Rayya was back to pacing. Not because she harboured any particular disdain in staying at the little mountain village – as far as Skyrim’s settlements went, Ivarstead was quite well-off – but because she disliked being separated from Solen too long.

Call it protectiveness, call it duty, call it paranoia, Rayya didn’t care. She was not a woman given to hesitation or indecision. She made her intentions very clear, including her anticipation of Solen’s enemies, of which he had no shortage. Going up the Throat of the World alone was probably the only part of Skyrim she was certain he’d find no threat – none that his Thu’um couldn’t handle – but it still made Rayya anxious when he was gone from her sight longer than a day.

He did warn me he might stay the night, Rayya reminded herself, as she retraced her pacing route across the road outside the Vilemyr Inn. He also said one night.

She’d never climbed the sacred mountain, mainly because the Greybeards were very selective about their visitors, and also because Rayya had no love of waiting around in the cold for any length of time. But she knew it was at least a solid half-day’s hike up the Seven Thousand Steps, if one left before the sun rose, and Solen had clearly a great deal on his mind he’d wanted the Greybeards’ counsel for.

Additionally, Rayya was simply a poor idler. Like Solen, she didn’t like sitting still. She always had to be doing something. Patrolling. Sparring. Maintaining her gear. Grooming horses. Anything. It was partly why she’d made such an excellent Housecarl. Nothing dissuaded her from a task she was given. It was also why she and the new Falkreath Thane she’d been assigned to had clicked so well. Four years on, Solen’s vigour was as boundless as ever. Their idea of a quiet moment was one travelling Skyrim together, or hunting, or exploring some newly-found crypt, or making their bed regret the day it’d been built.

Such energy was rarely found in Skyrim outside battle. This cold, drowsy, eternal land had taken some adjusting to, when Rayya first had travelled across the border some ten or fifteen years before. Nords liked to take things slow and take their time. Until came battle, then they were among the most violent creatures alive. That was what had caught her eye and enticed her to stay in this wild, rugged land, and how she’d fallen into Falkreath’s courts. Well, that and her ability with her blades. Like most traditional Redguards, Rayya had been raised to the ways of the sword from birth. Her childhood was full of stories about Frandar Hunding and the Sword-Saints. She could recite the Book of Maxims by heart.

So could Solen. That was how he’d caught her eye. Besides being, well, Solen – an Altmer who fought for the Nords, who in a few short years had amassed more esteem than most trueborn sons and daughters of Skyrim ever amounted to in their lives. Rayya hadn’t expected to find so much in common with him, besides a shared skill with a form of blade. Then she’d learned Solen had spent a decade in Hammerfell and his childhood sailing the Abecean Sea. He too had been raised in the Redguard tradition of swordplay, heeded to the ancient Yokudan wisdoms. He aspired to visit Leki’s Blade, the legendary school of swordmasters one day. He might have a Dragon’s soul, but he and she were kindred spirits. And quite suddenly the frigid land of Skyrim had grown warmer with him in it.

“Still not back?” asked a friendly voice. Wilhelm, the innkeeper, leaned on the railing of his veranda and peered down Ivarstead’s only road towards the mountain. “Bah, I wouldn’t worry, milady. Whenever he goes up, he always comes back down. The gods have always had their eye on that elf.”

“Which is precisely why I worry,” Rayya muttered, glancing again at the setting sun. “No good ever comes of gaining the gods’ attention.”

“Will you be takin’ another room tonight?”

“I suppose so. Then if he’s still not back, I go up.” Something occurred to Rayya. Solen had travelled up to High Hrothgar five times – six, if one counted his descent from the peak after his return from the Nordic land of the dead. Everyone who ever went up the Throat of the World first supplied themselves from Wilhelm’s inn. Wilhelm must know her husband better than most civilians. “You knew Solen from his first journey up the Steps, don’t you?”

“That I do, milady. I remember when he first walked into town – walked, can you believe, all the way from Whiterun! Nervous fellow he was back then, but always quick with a smile and a helping hand.”

“That sounds like him. Except the nervous part.” Rayya hadn’t met Solen until early ‘203, after the Dragon Crisis was over. “He must’ve outgrown it after all the Dragonslaying.”

“Well, back then he was answering the Greybeards’ summons. Wasn’t surprised he kept it to himself as long as he could. I got a hunch though, after he kept coming back that year an’ the next. Too often for just any old pilgrimage.”

Rayya frowned at him. “Were you surprised when you learned? Or shocked?”

Wilhelm shrugged. “Well, surprised a little. But the gods work in strange ways, milady, and there I was thinkin’ to myself when the word got out, well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer man. Always polite and gentlemanly, he was. Nothing at all like those Thalmor snobs. Glad the Empire got ‘em out of Skyrim. Feels like a Nord can breathe again, y’know?”

“We all can,” said Rayya, puffing out a sigh. “They’ve tried to get him more than once.”

Wilhelm chuckled. “Going against our Ysmir come again? Those rotten elves and their southern magic don’t shed a shadow against the Thu’um.”

Rayya fervently agreed. There were memories in the Civil War she and Solen were both determined to forget. “So, I hear you ain’t runnin’ with the Legion anymore, that right?” Wilhelm persisted. “What’s next for the pair of ye? Back to Whiterun?”

“For a time,” said Rayya. Wilhelm seemed safe enough to talk with. “Then we’re travelling again.” She frowned again at the setting sun. “Do you think he’s coming down tonight?”

“Hmm. Hard to say. In the dark, most likely, if you ain’t seeing him on the path.” Wilhelm pointed upward, towards where the Seven Thousand Steps snaked away over the snow-capped mounts and out of foothill-bound sight. “My eyes ain’t so good. Can you see anyone movin’ up there?”

Rayya squinted. “No.”

“Most likely after sundown then, or tomorrow.”

Rayya sighed. “I suppose I’d better unpack the horses, then. It’ll be too late to travel.”

“Need a hand with that?”

“Could do.”

Their two horses, Ember and Starfire, were picketed around the back of the inn just off the road. They were huge Skyrim breeds, thick with muscle and immensely strong. Not the fastest creatures, but enduring, dependable, and surprisingly gentle to handle, with hooves that could crush a troll’s bones like a sponge. Ember, Solen’s palomino, nudged his muzzle into Rayya’s hands and whickered, beating his hoof in the ground. “Sorry, old boy,” Rayya murmured, unbuckling his reins. “No travelling today.”

They’d barely started when Wilhelm suddenly straightened and remarked, “Head inside if ye need some food an’ mead, boys. You’ll be tended.”

Rayya spared a cursory glance over her shoulder, and froze. The trio of Nords that stood facing them all quickly scowled and shuffled off, but a single glance was enough.

“You all right, milady?” Wilhelm stepped around, Starfire’s saddle in his arms.

“Put that back on,” said Rayya tersely.

Wilhelm glanced after the three rough-clad men. “Trouble?”

“There will be.” Rayya busied herself with affixing the reins back to Ember’s head. Snowborn. Rayya had killed enough Stormcloaks to know those Skyrim-for-the-Nords extremists by sight. Cold eyes, ugly faces hard with disgust and righteous rage, wild hair unkempt from a life in the wilds.

Wilhelm lowered his voice. “I can alert the guards.”

Rayya considered it. If it was only those three... Her gaze wandered quickly through the town. A small place, prosperous enough, full of civilians and returned veterans seeking a quiet life, just like every other hamlet. The road was bustling as workers from the lumber mill and farm made their way home. It was busy, but not so busy that Rayya couldn’t pick out locals from newcomers. She’d spent evenings enough pacing through the town, taking note of its handful of occupants, to recognize who belonged here and who didn’t. There was more than three.

“They’re here for Solen,” said Rayya quietly. “One of their scummy street spies must’ve seen him heading up the mountain.”

Wilhelm scoffed. “A Dragonborn would make short work of those outlaws.”

“He won’t if he’s tired and half-frozen from that bloody hike up and down the mountain. Besides, he won’t risk the civilians. The Snowborn will.”

Wilhelm sobered immediately. “What will you do? That lot have been coming in and out of Ivarstead all day. Thought they were labourers here for the spring sow.”

“Get out.” Rayya tightened the last bridle strap on Ember’s head and swung around to help a dithering Wilhelm return the saddle onto her black mare’s back. “With any luck they’ll follow. They know we’re a pair.”

“I’ll send the guards after you.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll make sure they get any of the frostbit mudcrabs that hang around.” Rayya patted her twin swords. “I’ll make sure the civilians don’t have to see the mess I’m about to make.”

Even Wilhelm sensed when a discussion with Rayya was over. “May Talos guide you then,” he said. Rayya spared him a nod, swung herself onto Starfire’s back, lashed Ember’s reins around her saddlehorn, and rode straight out of town.

Night was falling quickly. Rayya wrapped herself tightly in her cloak and kept her ears open. No part of Skyrim was ever really safe at night; in the Rift, the main cause of concern was bears. Bears in every damn bush. Fortunately, at this time of year, most would be sluggish and thin after their hibernation and probably wouldn’t take interest in two fully-fit warhorses and one agitated Redguard. But better not to take chances. Or risk losing her pursuers. Rayya kept to the road.

The village road sloped down to the crossroads, with Ivarstead’s cottage smoke still barely visible over the hill against the indigo sky. Rayya forced herself to loosely hitch the horses to the signpost, then settle down and wait. Looking relaxed when she was anything but took practice, but at least the encroaching darkness hid the way her dark eyes darted restlessly. She adjusted the wrap around her head and listened. Solen had taught her how to interpret the wild language, how to detect disturbance in the nightly chorus. Every corner of Skyrim had its own. In the Rift, it was the soft hooting of owls, the warbling of nightjars, the low twittering hum of bush crickets, the ethereal bugle of a bull elk calling to his herd. All through the autumnal forest, branches budding in the wake of the winter snow, torchbugs crawled from their daytime beds in stumps and tree eye-knots and took to the sky, thoraxes aglow like fallen stars as they twinkled for their mates.

Rayya crouched on the balls of her feet, drew one of her dragonbone scimitars onto her lap, and waited. How Solen had found a way for dragonbone to bend in the curved grace of the Redguard blade she’d never know. Surely Eorlund Gray-Mane, the smith at the Skyforge, had little left to teach his eager pupil...

A dark figure crested the road above. Rayya could tell by his silhouette that it was one of her pursuers, ready to spring the trap. She’d play their game. Miming poor sight, she squinted into the darkness. “Solen? Is that you?”

The idyllic melody of the forest around her ceased. The crickets stopped humming. The torchbugs vanished on the spot. In the silence, it was easy to hear the soft rustle of booted feet stalking the undergrowth behind her. The horses threw up their heads, nostrils flaring in alarm, tugging at their reins.

“Kept me waiting long enough,” said Rayya, languidly straightening up as the enemy strolled down the path towards her. “So, we getting on our way to Riften or what?” Might as well throw down a false trail for any survivors to follow.

“You’re goin’ nowhere,” came the rusty leer from the darkness.

“Damn right,” Rayya growled, and whirling she turned and cut the throat from the Snowborn that rushed her from the darkness. Down he went, gurgling and writhing. Rayya stepped over his body and swept her second dragonbone scimitar into hand. “Come on then, milk-drinkers,” she leered. “You wanted a warrior. Here I am!”

“Kill her!” someone else barked, and then the forest came alive.

In a split second before steel clashed ivory, Rayya realized she’d miscalculated. The woods were thick with renegades. The ones sent to town had gone to flush out their enemy into this woodland trap. At least it’s sprung early, out of harm’s way, Rayya decided, and then threw herself into the unmatched thrill of mortal combat.

The Nord way of fighting was to intimidate and overwhelm. They favoured huge cleaving strikes that could take down half a dozen foes with a single swing, or shatter shields and slighter blades. Quite effective against the slow, the inexperienced, and the reckless. Rayya was none of these things, and made a point of not fighting like a Nord. She stood a head shorter than most Nords. She was well-muscled but still slighter than a soft Nord maiden. And she was quick. Oh yes, she was very quick. And very hard to pin. A Nord brawled, but a Redguard danced.

Her two curved blades cut the air like a fish fin through water, hissed like an Alik’r cobra, and just like a serpent Rayya slithered beneath, between, around her opponent’s strikes. Their drumming feet made an easy rhythm to follow in the dark night, their hot growling breath all the warning she needed of their impeding blows and swings. Her weapons were not of the thrusting sort, but the Nords often favoured showing the flesh of their faces and arms, to showcase their fearlessness of death or some such nonsense. To her it just meant her dragonbone scimitars, rimmed with Skyforge steel, always found somewhere to bite. They slit wrists, throats, faces, fingers, armpits, painting the night with blood. In half a minute, six more Snowborn had joined their fallen fellows, piling the crossroads as their lifeblood bled out from their opened veins.

“Well?” she dared the others, now holding back, uncertain how to match her sword-dance. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“You’re outnumbered,” growled another one from the darkness, somewhere behind. “Lay down your arms, sand-witch.”

“You first,” sneered Rayya.

“Never.” A flash of teeth, clenched in rage. “Empire dog!”

“Come on, then.” Rayya would not disdain herself with jeers or laughter. A true sword-dancer of Bergama conducted herself with poise and grace. She raised her blades invitingly in the scorpion stance, one blade curled above her head, the other across her centreline. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Now!” came a rallying shout. “Skyrim is for the –”

Abruptly the shout became a wet, sickening gurgle.

Rayya was rapidly losing visibility in the ever-darkening forest, but she had sight enough to discern an unfamiliar shape, robed and leathered, withdrawing a small straight blade from the unfortunate Snowborn. Not one to miss an opportunity given, Rayya glided to the nearest foe and striped her throat in scarlet. Then the battle was back on, although perhaps a confusing ruckus was a more apt description of the turn the ambush had taken. The Snowborn split, some going for Rayya, others for the hooded stranger. Rayya could hold her own well enough, so long as she kept strafing out of the reach of their axes. As for the hooded stranger, well – this was clearly not his first encounter with brigands. He moved like a blur, the blade of his knife barely seen as it flashed in and out of flesh. When the Snowborn began screaming and trying to flee, the stranger wouldn’t let them. He seemed everywhere at once, one moment at Rayya’s shoulder helping her carve a hulking hammer-bearing Nord into a lump of sliced meat, the next thirty yards away, extricating the knife he’d driven into a fleeing Snowborn’s spine.

All too abruptly it was over, the field filled with dead and dying Nords. “Thanks,” said Rayya, honestly impressed, as the traveller came to join her. “It was starting to get a bit hairy.”

“My pleasure,” said the hooded stranger, and smiled. Rayya gasped. His fangs glistened scarlet.

She struck, but the creature was faster – and not just that, impossibly, unfairly strong. Rayya felt herself go flying into the signpost and slid down, dazed, one sword knocked from her hands and clattering out of reach. The other she didn’t get up in time before the creature was upon her, clawing the sword from her remaining hand while ripping at her headwrap in a frenzy.

“Don’t fight it, mortal,” the vampire hissed. Its eyes glowed a horrific red in the darkness, two coals in the blackest stove. “Your blood will be divine...”

“Get off!” Rayya gasped, for all the good that would do. She finally surrendered the sword and wrapped both hands around its throat, hoping to choke the wretched creature. Only then did she remember she was fighting an undead, who were past the whole breathing thing. She did manage to hold its head back for a bit, but the creature was heavier than it had a damned right to be. Her arms buckled as it threw its weight forward, pointed canines inching steadily for her throat...

Then without warning it arched backwards with an inhuman squeal of agony, in tandem with a sickening crack! Rayya kicked it off her and it writhed on the ground, limbs jerking madly. It flipped over, showcasing a short, thick arrow wedged deep in its spine.

Then another crack split the night, and a second arrow grew from its skull. It stopped moving at once.

“Did it bite you?” growled another stranger’s voice in the stilled darkness.

Rayya seized her scimitars and shot to her feet, in no mood for any more surprises. Her heart raced. The lambent eyes were burned into her mind. “Show yourself!”

The cobbles clacked with the slow, deliberate tread of footsteps. In a patch of starlight through the trees, an Orc stepped into view, grey-haired, adorned in a thick padded lamellar, and a crossbow – no garish Dwemer thing, but a rustic construct of wood and steel – gripped tight in his gloved hands. He was completely indifferent to the Nord bloodbath all around him; his attention was wholly pinned on Rayya. “I said,” he rasped, in the gravelly growl of his kind, “did it bite you?”

“No,” said Rayya. “Came close, though.”

The Orc lowered his crossbow to the vampire, and he didn’t put it away until he turned its body over and weighed up its shrivelled, emaciated countenance and its eyes, now devoid of that boiling red light. “That your first vampire?” he asked.

“No,” said Rayya, “but first I’ve seen outside its lair.”

The Orc wrenched the crossbow bolts from the creature’s corpse and flicked off the blood and brain. “I’d head back to Ivarstead if I were you,” he growled. “The towns are still safe – for now.”

Rayya snorted. “You’d think. What are you doing lurking around the wilds, then?”

“I’m recruiting. Scouring Skyrim for any vampire hunters in the making.” The Orc considered her. “You look like you handle yourself just fine in a fight. A little more silver on your blade and a little less surprise, and that fledgling wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“You’d better save the recruitment spiel for when my husband gets here.”

“Husband?”

“Rayya!”

Ember and Starfire pricked their ears. The Orc spun around, his crossbow upraised. Rayya slammed her hand on the stock, shoving it down. “Stop that. You’ll make him Shout.” Hiding the surging relief she felt to hear him again – and her annoyance that he’d descended so late – she raised her voice. “Solen! We’re down here!”

“Rayya!” Solen’s silhouette appeared at the top of the road. He must’ve panicked when he found the horses missing, knowing Rayya wouldn’t leave town without reason, as running down a hill was no longer quick enough to reunite him with his wife. He Shouted a word and went from the top to the bottom of the road in a rush of wind, stumbling over the mass of dead.

“You’re late,” said Rayya, all snark to mask her concern. At least Solen looked no worse than windblown and hungry. “Missed all the fun. What in Zeht’s name were you doing up there for two days, knitting?”

“Time got away from me. Are these Snowborn? Are you hurt?”

“Who do you take me for, a Companion whelp? Enough about me. We have company.”

Solen finally seemed to notice the Orc in their midst, and took him in at a glance, as only seasoned warriors could. “Who are you?”

The Orc smiled in a grim sort of way and settled his crossbow on his back. “So. You’re the Dragonborn. Taller than I expected.”

“I get that a lot,” said Solen, frowning. “You weren’t looking for me, were you?”

“No, but I’m glad we met. I’m Durak. I’m with the Dawnguard, and I think you’re both exactly what we need.”

Chapter Text

Durak wanted to return to Ivarstead to continue the conversation, but Solen wouldn’t hear of it after the Snowborn attack, so they compromised with a shared camp in the wilderness, which Solen was very practiced at choosing and Rayya assembling while the former slipped off to hunt. Within an hour they were roasting a brace of rabbit over a large cooking fire in a sheltered hollow beneath the cliffs. And Durak explained himself.

“I don’t know what changed this winter, but vampire attacks have spiked all across the province. Now they’re everywhere. A growing menace. That’s why our leader Isran is re-establishing the Dawnguard.”

“No,” said Solen, immediately. “Not this time.”

Durak scowled. “Maybe you don’t understand the situation, Solen. You familiar with the Hall of the Vigilants?”

“I’m familiar with the Vigilants,” said Solen carefully. The pocked scar left by a silver arrowhead in his rump was forever testament to one such unfortunate encounter, during one of his and Aela’s hunts.

“It was destroyed,” said Durak bluntly. “They didn’t stand a chance against those bloodsucking scum. We warned them, when the attacks started. They never took it seriously, and now they’ve paid the price.”

“If I recall correctly, they were hunters of Daedra worship,” said Rayya. “What’s that got to do with vampires?”

“Maybe you’re not familiar. The bloodcurse of vampirism comes from Molag Bal, the Daedra lord of domination. Likely why the vampires targeted them. That, or an isolated hall of mortal meat in the Pale was too great a temptation for a bloodstarved mob to resist.” Durak growled to himself. “Maybe both. Mauloch knows what goes through a monster’s mind.”

Solen flicked another branch into the campfire. “It sounds like it’s already in hand,” he said. “If this menace is really as bad as you say, and you are really what you say you are, you’re not going to have a shortage of volunteers.”

“Of war veterans. Farmboys. Mercenaries wet behind the ears. None of them probably having ever laid eye on a vampire before, let alone killed one. I’m good, and Isran’s the best, but there’s more vampires than hunters to go around. We need warriors we know can lead the way.”

“And you’ll find them,” Solen said earnestly, “in the new generations of warriors you’ll find and train among the ranks. Besides, vampires are your specialty. Mine are Dragons and xenophobic twats.”

Durak rumbled an agitated sigh, licked a rabbit bone clean, and flicked it into the darkness. “Maybe we will,” he said, “but the vampires aren’t going to wait around for them to show up. That one that nearly killed your wife? That was a fledgling – a year old, I’d say, hunting to build up his power. It’s how they grow stronger. And I know that you’ve seen what a master vampire can do. I passed through Morthal on my way down south.”

“Durak, I’m grateful and indebted to you for saving Rayya’s life, and I’ll spread the word and recommend the Dawnguard to anyone I meet in my travels, but the answer is still no.” Solen scrubbed his face tiredly and took Rayya’s hand in his. “The last thing Skyrim needs right now is me getting into notoriety again. We’re barely five months out from the Legion, I’ve seriously neglected my Companion duties as it is, and Rayya and I are two years overdue to a return to our homeland. We’re not getting sucked into another war.”

He's serious, Rayya thought. I guess the Greybeards got him straightened out after all. Not a trace of Solen’s usual easygoing humour was present in the Altmer’s unwavering expression. During Durak’s explanation she’d anticipated, resignedly, that he’d be tempted to stay and fight after all. There was nothing political about fighting vampires, which were morally wrong, objectionable, and universally revulsed the world over. But Solen had never been a blind thrill-seeker like his fellow warriors in Jorrvaskr – and glory was never his only motivation in taking up Eldródr in battle.

“Damn,” said Durak at last, with finality. “Really thought we’d have an ally in you.”

“I’m not going to spare any vampires I come across, if you’re worried,” said Solen, “but I’m not going to fly your flag to hunt them. I’m sorry.”

Durak glanced at Rayya. “I suppose it’d be futile to ask if you’d be interested.”

“It would,” said Rayya, feeling Solen’s searching eyes on her. She knew he’d reconsider if she said so. But she similarly felt little desire to sign on with another army, no matter how morally justified said army’s mission was. “Where Solen goes, I go, and that’s the end of it.”

“And there’s no chance of you even seeing Fort Dawnguard? Speaking with Isran?”

“None.”

“Damn.” Durak heaved a brisk sigh and clapped a hand on his knee. “Well, that’s that, then.”

They sat in a sort of awkward silence around the campfire for a few moments, training their ears to the night sounds. Then Solen yawned and stretched loudly. “Well, it’s getting late.” His go-to for such moments, no matter what situation called for it.

“My day’s just starting,” said Durak, and heaved himself upright. “You needn’t fear for that little town. I’ll be watching over it tonight. Make sure none of that vampire’s friends are skulking about.”

“I’m sure we’ll sleep much sounder for it,” Solen smiled.

“What about you two?”

“Backs to the wall and one eye open,” said Rayya. “Vampires won’t shake our usual routine.”

Durak nodded and surveyed the pair again. “You have a lot of friends, Dragonborn,” he said. “None of them are safe. I lost two wives to vampires. Now I will hunt all their kind to their graves, down to the last fanged wretch.”

Then he shouldered his crossbow, and was soon lost to the night.

Solen disassembled the empty roasting spit. “It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it, Rayya?”

“Damn right,” said Rayya. “If Skyrim’s gotten soft thrusting all its problems at you to sort out, that’s its fault, not yours. You’ve done more than enough to warrant a bloody holiday.”

Solen flashed a quick smile. “Maybe. Still, there’s no one else like me. Well, not any more, after Solstheim. When I talked with the Greybeards – the big guy – he said that my power...”

“You had one destiny, Solen, and that’s been done. The rest of your life is yours to live, with or without a Voice.”

“He said the same thing, but also that I’ll have to fight for peace.”

“That doesn’t mean you run around cleaning Skyrim’s messes all the time. This Dawnguard, if it’s really what it says it is, will put a lid on this new vampire nonsense. And if they struggle, they can bloody well ask the Jarls or the Legion or even the next foolhardy adventurer that wanders down the road.” Rayya unrolled their bedrolls, end-of-discussion style. “You’ve given your answer. If they don’t honour it, then you can get nasty.”

“Me? Nasty?” Solen’s eyes rounded like an eager child’s. “You really think I can manage it?”

“No,” Rayya snorted, swatting his arm. “You’re too damn nice for your own good. Don’t think I didn’t notice you during the last road ambush, returning that bandit’s weapon so he could try stab you again.”

“Well, it wasn’t fair to use Vilkas’s favourite disarming move on him. No one expects Vilkas’s favourite disarming move!”

“Yes, yes, poor outmatched outlaw. Definitely it wasn’t because he was facing a seven-foot High Elf with a sword as big as he was, now, was it?”

“Seven and a half. And of course not. It’s never stopped you, has it?”

“Oh, if only it were that big, Solen.”

They surveyed their camp. The fire burned low, the horses grazed hungrily at the fresh grass growth, their lean-tos creaked in a gentle gust. Solen lay his head in Rayya’s lap, his bicoloured eyes steadily fogging with sleep as his exhaustion caught up to him. Rayya made herself comfy for the first watch of the night.

“Rayya?”

“Hm?”

“You enjoy this life, don’t you?”

Tall Papa, he was pensive tonight. “Of course,” Rayya assured him. “Wouldn’t change a thing about it. Except you actually coming down the mountain when you say you will.”

Solen grinned sheepishly. “I’ll work on it.”

He drifted off to sleep not long after that. Rayya stroked the soft shaved fuzz on his temple and returned her attention to the nightbound forest, wondering not for the first time what life she would have led had that High Elf never become her Thane.

~

It was a steady four day’s ride from Ivarstead to Whiterun, if one took the southwest road below the mountain. It was still one of Solen’s favourite roads to take through Skyrim, despite the memories attached to Helgen, the ruins of which lay on the way.

During the reunification and refortification period, the Legion had discussed whether it was worth the time and resources to rebuild the Helgen garrison. Once upon a time it had monitored the largest road between the Cyrodiil Heartland and Skyrim, which ran through the Jerall Mountains. Eventually it had been decided to leave the rubble as rubble, in testament to the beginning of the Dragon Crisis, and as a reminder to all of the destruction a Dragon could wreak on a town. Twice a year they sent a Legion patrol to flush the place of vermin. Every return set Solen adrift in memory, reminding him of the day when everything had changed in his life. It’d been the day he’d finally been caught poaching the Jarl’s elk in the Rift; the day he’d met the two heads of the Civil War he’d been hearing so much about in his illegal forays into Skyrim; the day he’d come as close to death as someone with his neck stretched on a chopping block ever could; the day he’d first locked eyes with his immortal, eternal, predestined foe.

Well, technically that had all been over two days, since he was captured the morning before his attempted execution, but he was unconscious for most of the cart ride. Imperial fists hit hard. Perhaps he shouldn’t have made that cheeky remark about that Imperial Captain’s sister, but his brother Nostibar would’ve been proud of it.

They drew up outside the rotting gates, with Solen still quite lost in thought, when Rayya’s warning brought him sharply back. Solen snatched Ember’s reins and pulled up just in time. An arrow whizzed out of nowhere and thudded the cobbles at their feet.

“Turn round, outsiders!” boomed the sneering voice of warning. “Your kind ain’t welcome!”

Solen turned to Rayya. “What month is it?”

“First Seed.”

“First Seed? The Imperials should’ve been through here already.”

“Not until the end of the month, dear.”

“Oi!” The voice of warning sounded rankled. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Maybe we should leave this to them,” said Solen. “Wouldn’t want them thinking they showed up for nothing.”

“You haven’t swung Eldródr in three weeks. We can’t have you falling out of practice, either.”

“I’ll take a job before we leave, then.”

“Or you can just clear out this trash in here now.”

“Hey! Big ears!” The voice of warning was definitely annoyed now. “You hearing me? This is our turf! Turn around, milk drinkers, or my clan and I will rip you to shreds and leave you for the wolves!”

“My ears aren’t that big, are they?” said Solen, in injured tones.

“Not big enough to excuse you from this.” Rayya unhitched Solen’s helmet from his saddle and tossed it into his arms. “Now hurry up or we won’t reach Riverwood before dark.”

“Fine.” Solen slammed his helmet on his head. “You coming?”

“How many are there?”

Solen closed his eyes. “LAAS YAH NIR.”

A myriad of pulsing scarlet life-auras swam into being in his vision. Solen skimmed the width of the ruins. “Hmm. Seven or so. Pretty sad excuse of a clan, if you ask me.”

“No one asked!” yelled the voice of warning.

“Hey! Stow it,” Rayya yelled back, “we weren’t talking to you.” To Solen she said, “I’ll take the horses round front.”

“Bless you.” Solen swung off Ember’s back. “All right, I’m coming in!” he called. “Just give me a second to stretch out the saddle cramp, will you?”

“Who in the Nine d’you think you are?!” exclaimed the voice of warning, in at least ten shades of incredulity. “Step in here and we’ll stick your head on a pike!”

“The last time someone tried that, a Dragon did a fly-by and burned the place to the ground.” Solen drew Eldródr and sauntered through the gates, checking around for the archer who fired the warning shot. He could still see a little life-aura as the Thu’um’s magic ran its course, and swiftly picked out where each bandit thought themselves cunningly disguised amidst the rubble. “This place, to be exact,” Solen continued, “did you know that? Figures you brutes should know a bit of history if you’re going to hang around here. Which I strongly advise against.”

He glanced around. “Well? Where’s the pikes? I was promised pikes!”

“Who is this guy?” someone clearly muttered.

“Oh! My apologies,” said Solen, “I didn’t introduce myself.”

“Shoot the mouthy goldenrod, would you, Uthar?”

Solen faced the ruined townhouse where the archer was hidden. He watched the brigand archer pop up from supposed hiding, stretch the twine to his cheek, and release. Solen didn’t even need to Shout, just moved the flat of the broad battle-blade between the arrow and his neck. The arrow splintered on the ebony fuller and fell fragmented at his feet.

“My turn,” Solen said. “VEN!”

He didn’t need the full Shout for this. The small tornado that whisked across the ruined Helgen road and through the townhouse was plenty enough to spiral Uthar ten feet in the air and deposit him in a winded heap on the ground.

Solen turned around. “Anyone miss that? Do I need to repeat myself?”

The stunned silence was answer enough. Even scavenging, frost-blistered brigands recognized the Thu’um. Someone finally murmured, “Just our luck it’s the thrice-damned Dragonborn.”

Solen rested his greatsword point-down on the ground and wrapped both hands around the hilt. “Right. I think we’re finally on the same page. I’ll speak slowly so you don’t miss a word. Get out of Helgen, or you’re all going to see a lot worse than a stiff breeze.”

“You’re not... gonna kill us?” asked the deflated voice of warning.

“Well, I really ought to,” Solen admitted, “my wife thinks my sword arm’s getting flabby. What do you guys think? Flabby?” He held up an arm and flexed for inspection. The chorus was immediate.

“No, Dragonborn, looks good to me!”

“Very un-flabby!”

“The very opposite!”

“All right,” said Solen, lowering his arm. “You’re all very kind. So, let’s make this our little secret. You cut it out with the robbing and the pillaging and the false promises of pikes, and I won’t cut you up like the Companion fodder you are. Sound good to you?”

“Yup, sounds grand!”

“Can’t ask for fairer than that!”

“Sovngarde can wait, right? It’s not going anywhere.”

“All right. Perfect. So, since I’m feeling generous today, I’ve decided you have ten seconds to get out of Helgen and high-tail it into the Jeralls.” Solen indicated the mouldering gate behind him. “Road’s yours, ladies and gentlemen.”

Out they popped from their hiding spots like rats, scrambling for the mountain road, a pitiful collection of scrawny Nords, one Khajiit and a Dark Elf. One thing these gangs always have going for them, Solen thought, they don’t discriminate. “Oh, one more thing,” Solen called, as the last one scuttled past him, “just in case you get any ideas of coming back –”

His Shout all but punched their ears. “FAAS RU MAAR!”

Maybe three words was overkill. This weak-willed rabble of cowards could’ve been sent scrambling in all-consuming mortal terror of their lives with just one Word, maybe two for emphasis. At least none of them simply keeled over and died on the spot from fear-frozen hearts, like that roadside thief last autumn. Two of them definitely voided their bowels, though. Solen wrinkled his nose. “Definitely overkill,” he muttered, watching the seven brigands rapidly shrink out of sight, screaming to the high heavens. He always wondered what the victims of his Dismay Shout felt or saw to inspire such terror in their souls.

He joined Rayya on the north road out of Helgen and swung himself into Ember’s saddle. “All done.”

“Your blade’s unbloodied,” Rayya frowned. “Solen, did you toy with them again?”

“Whaaat? Noo...”

“Really, husband, can’t you just do them a mercy and cut them in half? They’ll probably have nightmares for the rest of their lives.”

“I’ll bear it in mind next time, love.”

“Next time, I’m coming in with you to make sure you actually get some exercise in.”

They reached Riverwood without further incident, and in the warm amber glow of evening they stopped by the lumber mill to say hello to Faendal, one of Solen’s old companions. Many a day the pair had spent roaming Skyrim together during the Dragon Crisis. In the wake of such adventures, Faendal had become something of a local celebrity in Riverwood. It wasn’t everyday one travelled with the Dragonborn, or killed a Dragon, or cleared a tomb of Draugr, or multiple tombs of Draugr, or attended the armistice talks up in High Hrothgar. Much to the continued annoyance of Sven, the local bard and Faendal’s eternal rival.

“Don’t you ever miss it?” Rayya asked, over dinner in the Sleeping Giant inn. “Getting out there and seeing the world?”

“Sometimes,” Faendal admitted. “Then I hold Camilla in my arms, and I know I made the right choice picking up the hatchet again.”

“Have you tied the knot yet?” Solen asked. “You did promise you’d send us an invitation when you did, right?”

“I haven’t forgotten, brother Elf,” Faendal laughed, “but we’re courting the Imperial way, slow and steady.”

“Solen and I got married within the year,” said Rayya. “He got thrown in jail and realized he couldn’t spend life without me.”

Faendal threw up a hand. “Of course he did.”

“What d’you mean, of course I did? I’m the very model of a respectful, law-abiding –”

“You’re too curious for your own good. That had something to do with it, didn’t it?”

“No! It was... well... okay, maybe...”

Rayya laughed. “Oh yeah, you definitely travelled with him.”

“He’s your problem now, Rayya,” Faendal grinned, and they tapped mugs under Solen’s mildly disgruntled expression.

“Speaking of problems,” Solen said, and briefly he recounted the Rift incident, particularly the part about the vampire and the vampire hunter. “Have you heard anything about that? Or had any attacks?”

“Nothing here in Riverwood,” said Faendal, “but I did hear a farmhand got ambushed by some sort of night monster at Chillfurrow Farm two weeks ago. He’s alive, don’t worry – made it to a Legion patrol on the road and it disappeared. D’you reckon that was a vampire?”

“Maybe. That place is a bit too far south for Falmer,” Rayya mused.

Solen shuddered and quickly asked, “Did any Dawnguard pass through here to hunt it?”

“Like that Orc with the crossbow? Not that I saw. Heard a couple of Companions went looking for it, but they didn’t turn up anything.”

“Something to ask the Circle about when we arrive tomorrow,” Rayya said, and then more pointedly told Solen, “Either way, sounds like it’s under control, doesn’t it, dear?”

“If the Companions are involved, of course it is,” said Faendal, a little ruefully. Solen knew what Faendal hinted at. Solen’s initiation into the Circle – by becoming a lycanthrope – was what had driven the pair apart. Hailing from Valenwood, where changing into beasts was abhorred and damned, Faendal had rather strong feelings about his travelling partner morphing into a hulking monster of fur and primitive fury and chewing arms and heads off.

Solen quickly glanced around to reassure them that their discussion was indeed private, and murmured, “The Circle doesn’t do that anymore. We cleansed it out of us. Aela’s the only one left of the pack.”

“I remember,” said Faendal, and shook his head. “Sorry. That was unnecessary. But aren’t werewolves meant to be, you know, opposites of vampires? You don’t suppose the Dawnguard are going to be some sort of freakish pack?”

“I think the opposite of a vampire is anyone who still draws breath,” Rayya grumbled, fingering the folds of her spare headwrap. “As for the Dawnguard, since their leader is apparently an ex-Vigilant of Stendarr, I doubt it.”

By morning Solen and Rayya were in the saddle and out of town again, following the glittering White River to the golden meadows of Whiterun. There was still some snow pocketed here and there on the fir branches, but the cool air trilled with birdsong and hummed with an insect chorus. Solen drew a deep breath and smiled. “Hear that? Rock thrush. Pine warbler. Bullfinches. They’re telling us it’s going to be a good year here, Rayya, I can feel it.”

Rayya scoffed. “Sure they are, big ears. They saying anything about the weather in Dragonstar? Hallin’s Stand? Satakalaam?”

“Just a moment.” Solen cocked his head one way, then another. “Aha. Grouse.”

“Grouse?”

“Aye, grouse. It’s grousing. Just like you.”

Rayya snatched a handful of pine needles off a drooping branch and flung them at him. Solen flinched so hard that he overbalanced and slid right out of sight with a yelp and a clatter. Ember stopped and peered down at his sprawled rider with a perplexed snort. “Sep’s skin, you’d better not do that outside Whiterun,” Rayya laughed as Solen hauled himself back up. “They’ll think you’re drunk.”

“Drunk!” Solen brushed a pine needle out of his mohawk. “Well, maybe I am drunk – drunk on life!”

“Pretty sure that’d still warrant a dunking in the sobering barrel.” Rayya tapped her heels to Starfire’s flanks. “I’ll ride ahead and warn them.”

“Rayya!” Solen exclaimed, laughing. “That barrel would be freezing this time of year!”

Jesting and bantering, they galloped the rest of the way through the pines and the twisting cobbled road, past the churning spray of the White River rapids, and into the vast open stretches of Whiterun Hold, thawing quickly in the spring. The first golden shoots of the year were poking their heads up through the last sloppy layers of winter snow. The city itself, reposed on the hill like a Jarl on his throne, lay magnificent as ever, the jewel of the province, surveying its domain on the nearing horizon. The multitude of farms that surrounded the city were already bustling with activity, farmhands hard at work in the snowmelt-softened soil with the spring sow. Patrols of the Whiterun Guard strolled along the roads, flaxen cloaks snapping in the breeze. Ember and Starfire tossed their heads and put on a fresh burst of speed at the long, straight road ahead of them, anxious for a good gallop. Rayya and Solen grinned to one another and leaned low in the saddles, enjoying the ride.

They all but flew to the city stables with their comfortably tired warhorses puffing a gale. They’d sleep well tonight. With their depleted foodsacks unhitched from the saddles and slung over their shoulders, Rayya and Solen strolled side by side up to the city gates. The walls of Whiterun still showed some scars of the Stormcloak siege, but mostly they towered, strengthened and fortified by the efforts of the Legion. Solen remembered when they’d been old crumbling things, worn down by time, barely holding back the sea of blue pounding at the stone. If there was one thing the Legion did well, it was building things to last. On banners of golden and black, the white horse of Whiterun and the red diamond dragon of the Empire snapped together, side by side.

“Hail!” came a welcome shout down from the battlements. “The Dragonborn’s returned!”

“Guess we’re expected,” Solen remarked, as echoing cries of “Thane Solen’s returned!” and “The Dragonborn’s back!” bounced about the ramparts. Then he noticed, “Is it just me, or are there more of them about?”

“Not just you,” Rayya said, scanning the battlements as they made steady progress to the city gates. “Must be at least triple the usual watch. You don’t think the Snowborn did something stupid while we were gone?”

“With the Companions wintering within the city walls? They’d have been safer jumping into a troll den.”

Still, the heraldry was more urgent than Solen recalled it. His mood was not improved to find the big oak gates shut tight with double the guard outside it. He heard the heavy locks shifting as the guards made ready to open it. “It’s not been like this since Ulfric was at the gates,” he murmured. “What in Zeht’s name did we miss?”

One of the guardsmen came dashing over, cloak aswirl. “Thane Solen! Thank Talos you’ve returned!”

“Seems we’re about to find out,” said Rayya, taken aback.

“Easy,” said Solen. “What’s happened? Why’s the city in lockdown?”

“Thane Solen, Housecarl Rayya, you both need to head up to Dragonsreach immediately!”

“Oh, for Morwha’s sake!” Rayya exclaimed. “Whatever’s come up now, Jarl Balgruuf can get another champion to deal with –”

“Jarl Balgruuf is dead, Housecarl.” The guardsman bowed his head. “He was murdered, two nights before.”

Chapter Text

This isn’t real. The thought gripped Solen’s disbelieving mind like a mantra, but no matter how often it repeated itself, it didn’t change the reality that lay in front of him; Balgruuf in pale, still repose on a plinth in the Hall of the Dead.

He looked tired in the crypt candlelight, as if he were merely sleeping, whiter than snow and stiller than a sea becalmed. He lay dressed in his ceremonial finery, two hands wrapped around a knotwork blade upon his chest, but his crown of office absent. His forehead seemed empty without it. Andurs, the priest of Arkay who tended the city’s Hall of the Dead, had done his best to restore the Jarl’s body to the state it’d been in life, but the wounds to Balgruuf’s throat were impossible to completely conceal. Solen’s attention drifted from the Nord’s closed eyes to the terrible tears beneath the jaw, the puncture marks embedded in the side of his neck.

This isn’t real.

Rayya’s hand settled on his shoulder, rousing Solen gently from his reverie. Abruptly his throat tightened. Words were suddenly the most difficult they’d been since Kodlak’s death.

“This shouldn’t have happened.”

“No one could’ve expected it,” Rayya said quietly. She’d never known the Jarl personally – she’d served the court of Siddgeir in Falkreath – but she’d attended the Whiterun court in Solen’s company enough times to recognize Balgruuf as a man of esteem. “No one could’ve known.”

“He was guarded day and night. His court was loyal to him, he... he was the one who gave me the opportunity.” Solen gripped the edge of the plinth. “Welcomed me to his city, treated me on my deeds, not my skin. He made me his Thane. Listened when I spoke. Risked everything to help me. I wouldn’t have become the man I am today if not for the chances he gave me.”

“And Sovngarde will welcome him for it.”

“He was a good man. And I wasn’t here when...”

“Solen.”

Solen heaved a trembling breath. “I should’ve been here.”

“It might be you lying here instead if you had been,” Rayya said. “Then where would we be?” She rested her head against the tawny fur mantle that covered his shoulders. “He ruled well, with wisdom and care for his people. He did more than most Jarls. His spirit ascends with honour.”

This is real. The numbing disbelief was suddenly replaced with anger. “He should’ve died fighting. Not like this. Like a wolf at a deer.”

Rayya heard the change. “Solen –”

Solen pulled away and stormed from the crypt. “Rally the Companions,” he growled. “I want them waiting when I’m done.”

“Done with what?”

“Answers.”

~

Bang! The doors to Dragonsreach boomed on their hinges. Solen all but ran up the steps and into the great firelit hall of the palace. “How did this happen?!” he bellowed at the court of Whiterun.

They were all assembled around the empty throne. Farengar, the court wizard; Hrongar, Balgruuf’s brother; Proventus Avenicci, the steward; Quentin Cipius, Imperial Legate of Whiterun’s Legion division; Commander Caius, captain of the Whiterun Guard; Irileth, Balgruuf’s Housecarl. They all looked shocked as he approached. They’d never seen him lose his temper like this before.

“Harbinger,” Hrongar greeted cautiously. “If we had better news to bear.”

“How?!” Solen thundered. “How was Balgruuf killed by a vampire?!”

“We didn’t welcome it with open arms,” said Irileth acidly, then glared at Proventus. “Oh. Wait. We did.”

“You were fooled just the same as the rest of us, elf,” Proventus snapped. “As I recall, it was you who should have been protecting him!”

Irileth leapt to her feet, stung beyond fury. She had a volcanic temper, even among Dark Elves, and she near cut her scabbard in two as she pulled her sword free. Half a sword – it was snapped at the middle into a jagged tear. “Say that again, steward, I dare you!”

“Irileth!” Hrongar warned. “Stay your blade. This isn’t helping.”

Irileth angrily sheathed her broken weapon and sank back down on the dais steps below the throne. She looked more lost than Solen had ever seen her.

“He came as an advisor toward the end of winter,” Quentin Cipius explained to Solen, “just after you and Rayya left Whiterun. He seemed harmless enough. A Nord, he was, well-spoken and courteous. He earned all our trust. Had some sensible things to say about financial matters and trade between the Holds.”

Solen scuffed the ground with his boot. He glared at Farengar. “All your magic and you couldn’t tell?”

“My field of study is Dragons, Dragonborn,” said Farengar peevishly. “Orthjolf did not resonate with any particularly noticeable magical field, and he told us he only had a small arsenal of magic.”

“Clearly that wasn’t so, since he charmed half the Guard to get to Balgruuf’s bedroom,” said Caius coldly. “Then scattered the rest of the Guard like leaves in a gale when he made his escape. The boys who fought him all say the same thing: impossibly fast, unbelievably strong. He snapped Irileth’s sword like a toothpick.”

Solen shook his head. The new mantra circled his thoughts repeatedly. How. How? “His eyes,” he muttered. “He was a vampire – did no one look at his eyes?”

“I never liked them,” Proventus piped up, as if determined to have a point in his favour. “Always a bad hunger to them.”

“He kept them hidden – wore a hood,” Hrongar said. “Talos, half of us were wearing hats ourselves. The Palace gets draughty during winter. And Farengar squirrels away under a hood all the time – we never questioned it.”

“It’s the uniform of a mage,” Farengar muttered to himself.

“But I’m sure if you had been here, Dragonborn, you’d have put us all to shame,” said Quentin Cipius coolly. “We all know your experience with such monstrosities. The Ballad of the Bat and the Dragon is sung from Solitude to Falkreath.”

The Ballad of the Great Big Farce, more like, Solen thought. Ataf, the bard who’d written the ballad, had done a splendid job embellishing the liberation of Morthal from the preying coven of a master vampire. However, said master vampire, Movarth, had been less Shouted apart by a noble Dragonborn and more ripped limb from limb by a werewolf.

“But I wasn’t here,” said Solen bluntly, and sank down into the nearest seat. “None of you knew what to expect, and now our Jarl is dead.” Anger was gone, and grief raced to fill the void inside. “What happens to the city now?” he asked, much more quietly.

“Well,” said Hrongar, resting a hand on the throne, “we decided I should be the one to take up the Jarldom.”

That made sense, from a logical perspective; Jarldoms were passed down family lines, and Balgruuf’s oldest was still several winters shy of his age of inheritance. But somehow Solen couldn’t see Hrongar, who wore his scaled armour like comfort clothes and was as boisterous and quick-tempered as warriors came, sitting a throne and governing a city in a Jarl’s finery. But Hrongar had clearly changed from his brother’s death. Maybe something had cooled his spirit and awoken to the call of duty.

Congratulations seemed called for, but Solen thought it’d just come across as callous, so he just managed a stiff nod and an unflattering, “All right.”

“I also want this court to stay just like my brother had it.” Hrongar spared Proventus a narrow look. “Even the ones I never liked. But Balgruuf seemed fond of having a voice of opposition in his court, and I’ll respect that... for as long as I can stand it. That includes you as well, Solen. I want you to stay as our city’s Thane, if you desire.”

“I do.”

Hrongar looked relieved. “All right. Good. Irileth, you served Balgruuf and Whiterun faithfully for many years. As Jarl, I ask if you will serve as –”

“No.”

Irileth’s answer was just as immediate as Solen’s. Her scorching red eyes swept from the floor to Hrongar’s face in one swift movement.

“I will not,” she continued. “The Housecarl has one duty and one duty alone; to protect the one to whom we gave our oath of honour. I failed in that. I failed to foresee the danger, and I failed my lord. Now one duty remains to me, and that is to avenge him.”

“Irileth,” said Caius, dismayed. “Vengeance will not bring Jarl Balgruuf back. Honour his memory by protecting his people.”

“That I can’t do, Caius. Not while his killer walks free.” Irileth stood in one lithe movement. “On my oath as his Housecarl and as a daughter of Morrowind, Balgruuf will be avenged.”

Solen’s uncle, Torendil, a worldly and well-travelled mer, had once said that of all the races, he’d found the Dark Elves the most dangerous, demented and determined when matters of vengeance arose. They were a strange people, a race of survivors. They worshipped the Daedra as their god-ancestors and had once called the largest active volcano in Tamriel their home. The Dunmer knew what it was to lose, and their history was full of loss – their homeland, their political games, their Living Gods, their Chimer identity in the aftermath of their transformation into the dark-skinned, red-eyed ‘cursed-elves’. But because of this, they’d become a people who knew how to make others lose, who could endure on nothing more than pure spite. All that and more was reminded within Solen that day, and unspoken he and his fellow witnesses of Irileth’s oath knew there would be no dissuading her from it.

Hrongar sighed deeply in defeat. “Then go with our blessings, Irileth. May the Nine guard you.”

“Irileth,” said Solen, as she turned to leave. “Wait until after the funeral, at least.”

Irileth considered this, then nodded. “All right.”

“The funeral,” Proventus repeated. “There hasn’t been a Jarl’s funeral since High King Torygg.” Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was politely neglected, as his body had been unceremoniously burnt and his tarred head was presently admiring the view from the walls of the Imperial City.

“He should be entombed in the Hall of the Dead, as was his wish,” said Hrongar, then sucked his teeth. “But Shor’s bones... he was killed by a vampire. Perhaps it’d be safer to burn him.”

“Burn him!” exclaimed Proventus. “To burn a Jarl of Skyrim – the very idea!”

“The Priest of Arkay did the rites,” said Caius. “There’s no chance of him turning, or being raised, gods forbid.”

“He should burn,” said Solen, turning every head his way. “Balgruuf always had great admiration for the Companions. Let us – let me – honour him one more time by commending him to the Skyforge. His spirit will temper the metal of all the great warriors to come.”

This was considered. “I thought that was an honour reserved only for Companions, Harbinger,” said Hrongar.

“Normally it is,” Solen admitted, “but Balgruuf was a good man and a good Jarl. I don’t think the Circle would oppose a bend in tradition.”

Hrongar smiled. “Then I can think of no finer way to lay my brother to rest.”

~

It took place at dusk the following night. It was a clear night for it – Solen had made sure of that – with a sky cast in blue and purple, and the twin moons showing slivers of their red and silver faces over the mountains. Whiterun’s people gathered in the city’s Wind District to pay their final respects, leaving the roadway clear between the Hall of the Dead and the steps to Jorrvaskr.

From the Skyforge, which overlooked the Companions mead hall, Solen watched the procession approach. The body of Balgruuf the Greater was solemnly borne on a pall draped in the golden braided designs of Whiterun, preceded by Andurs and followed by his family; Hrongar, then Balgruuf’s adolescent children Frothar and Dagny. The third, Nelkir, was absent; he’d run away two years ago and none had ever found him. Knowing his connection to Mephala and the dark streak that had no business being in any child, Solen doubted anyone ever would. Irileth walked a pace behind, silent and grim, then the Whiterun court, the elders of Whiterun’s clans, and then a stream of mourners. As they passed beneath the Gildergreen sapling, which was blossoming fast into a fine young tree, the wind shook the boughs, showering them all with the fresh blossoms of spring. Solen hoped it was a good sign from the goddess said to speak through its branches.

Solen stepped back to his own place by the sculpted forge as the procession climbed the mead hall steps. The forge looked different tidied up and swept. Its embers were cooled to a soft pink glow, flickering but not ablaze, and the structure was ringed with candles and shrouds. The Companions had given Balgruuf the honour of anointing the stone hearthwalls with their scarlet heraldry as well as Whiterun’s. The Companions themselves were arrayed one and all on the wide stone platform, torch-bearing and solemn-faced, armour and weapons scrubbed spotlessly clean. The Circle at the front – Aela, Vilkas, and Njada Stonearm, with the Companions’ honorary members beside them, Eorlund Gray-Mane the smith, and Rayya. Behind them stood the seniors, with years of Companionship to their name; Athis, Ria, Torngeir Ironhand, and Ghelb, their first Orc. Then the juniors, those in their first or second years, or yet to have their Trials; a scattering of familiar faces, war veterans not quite ready to put down their blades, and brand new hopefuls hungry to carve a name for themselves into Skyrim’s legacy.

For some of them, this would be their first Skyforge funeral. But it was an important experience for them to share. Death was the end everyone faced, and warriors sooner than most. For Solen, it only reminded him of his own mortality, which descended on him heavy as the ceremonial cloak on his back. As an elf, he would stay young and virile for a very, very long time. There was every possibility he would live to see whole generations of Companions cycle through the timeless hall. As their Harbinger, he’d commend every single one to the Skyforge until his own time came. He’d say the words, light the pyre. Every single one...

Solen pulled himself back. Now was no time to drift. The body of his Jarl was borne up the stairs and to the forge, and gently set upon the pyre. The great stone hawk whose wings formed the Skyforge peak loomed over Balgruuf, as if preparing to take him in its talons and bear him aloft to Sovngarde. Then the procession stepped back to take their places on the platform. The Jarl’s court. The Arkay priest. The Kynareth priestess, Danica Pure-Spring. She caught Solen’s eye, raised a blossom flower from the Gildergreen, and gave him a smile. A good omen after all.

This wasn’t a Companion’s funeral, so there were some others who spoke first. Hrongar, a final word of departure, a pledge to care for the city his brother had loved so well. Andurs, a prayer to the Nine (an almost deliberate choice, Balgruuf had hated the Thalmor just like the rest of them) and a blessing to keep the Jarl’s spirit safe in Shor’s shadow and Arkay’s divinity. Commander Caius, a short commendation of how proud he’d been to serve Balgruuf as his captain of the Guard, a vow that Whiterun would not be cowed from the cowardly attack. Legate Quentin Cipius, commending Balgruuf’s valour in leading his city through such times of untold strife with a steady, wise, compassionate hand – he who was unafraid to take up arms and armour and fight alongside his people. Many a murmur and a nodded head at that, and Solen felt an unexpected rush of gratitude to the Legate. He’d been anticipating another Imperial speech about loyalty to Emperor and Empire. This felt better, like the Legate had actually known the Jarl after all.

Solen’s turn, now. He took up his torch and stepped before the gathering. More eyes than he was used to, more ears as well. This was not Torvar’s sendoff, or Farkas’s, a private affair of Companions. All of Whiterun was in attendance, amassed in the Plains district to mourn together. The ceremony at the Skyforge echoed unchallenged through the silent city.

Five years ago he’d stood mute at Kodlak’s funeral, unknowing of the words. Now he was all too familiar of them. Thankfully the rites were a warrior’s rites; short, simple, strong. “Before the ancient flame...”

“We grieve,” came the collective answer.

“At this loss...”

“We weep.”

“For the fallen...”

“We shout.”

Solen’s jaw tightened. Shout we will. “And for ourselves...”

“We take our leave.”

Solen turned to the firepit. It was never easy to look upon the face of loss, and the last time was always the hardest. His next words were whispered for Balgruuf alone. “May Tu’whacca’s lantern guard your path to Sovngarde, my friend. May we meet again, there or beyond the Far Shores.” Then he set the torch to the pyre and the coals. The flames rose at once, engulfing the pyre and the Jarl stretched in final repose upon it. They blazed a beacon in the young night.

“His spirit is departed,” said Solen, stepping back. Already the grief was easing; for friends and foe, death was a part of life, and life moved on. Solen recalled the glories of Sovngarde and took reassurance in that there was indeed a place awaiting the valiant warrior spirit; that Balgruuf would be there, beyond all return and harm forever.

They stood and watched the pyre burn to ashes awhile, then one by one the mourners took their leave to grieve their last wherever they wished. For Solen, it was down to Jorrvaskr’s undercroft, heavy with quiet and calm. In the Harbinger’s quarters – it’d taken him a while to stop calling it Kodlak’s room – he cast off the ceremonial Companion cloak, unslung Eldródr from his back, and heaved himself into his seat to think. Rayya found him shortly after.

“Here.” She set a plate of dinner on the table beside him. Solen nodded a silent thanks. The bread was crusty and warm, the cheese fresh and soft. Of all the foods and feasts he’d tasted, this was still his favourite thing to eat, and he set himself to it with a will.

Rayya sat down in the seat across from him. She was as familiar with this place as he was. They usually spent as many nights here as in their cottage Breezehome in the Plains District below. “You spoke well,” she said. “You did well.”

Solen nodded. “The least I could do.” He offered a bit of bread and cheese. Rayya took it.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” she asked him, quietly.

Solen listened carefully for anger, or annoyance, anything. There was none. Just like when they’d talked about the Civil War two years before, when they made the choice together. Or rather, he’d confirmed what his heart had already decided.

A soft rap at the door turned their heads. “Come in,” Rayya said.

Aela, Vilkas, Njada. The Circle gathered with their Harbinger in the room of counsel, just like old times, but there was little cheer or reminiscing. Solen had already recounted to them what had happened below the Throat of the World earlier that morning. They’d had time enough to make their own conclusions.

“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” Aela asked.

Solen nodded. “There’s no question of staying.”

“You’re not still going west, are you?” Vilkas asked. “After this?”

Solen glanced at Rayya, then back to his old rival. “No. Course not.”

“You’re going to throw yourself in with those vampire hunters, then,” said Njada, leaning against the wall. “You really think that will change things, do you?”

“That’s the intention,” said Solen, with a tired shrug. “A war that lasted four years I put down in one. If I’m quick, maybe this... vampire menace will be over with before it turns into the same.”

“If we’re quick,” Rayya amended in her Solen-you-are-not-running-off-to-do-this-alone voice.

Solen smiled in sheepish agreement. “If we’re quick, aye.”

“Well,” Njada grunted, “you two are that if nothing else.”

“You ought to stay here first awhile,” Vilkas reasoned. “Give Whiterun some stability. Jarl Hrongar’s not a man of the people. You are. They could do with a little leadership.”

“I’m not a leader.” Solen pointed at his face. “Companions don’t do the formal leadership thing. Besides, wrong breed for it, remember? I’m an advisor and someone who gets a job done, at best.”

“Stay and advise, then. Solen, we’ve got half a dozen hopeful faces sticking their heads in the door every month. We can’t beat all of them up ourselves, it’ll get boring.”

“I don’t stay. I don’t sit out of fights, I get out there and I end them.” Solen fiddled with a crusty flake on his bread. “That’s what you’d expect of a Dragonborn, wouldn’t you? Sworn to keep evil forever at bay? Literally in the job description. Tell me what’s more evil than a coven of vampires overreaching their bounds? And don’t say Thalmor,” he added, as the three of them immediately opened their mouths. “They go without saying. But these vampires are attacking and killing, everywhere, every night, all over Skyrim, right now. They won’t stop. We lost our Jarl. I almost lost Rayya. Hammerfell can wait... this can’t.”

“Such is the way of it, isn’t it?” Aela remarked, folding herself down cross-legged on the embroidered rug. “The gods either love you or hate you, Solen, but they seem determined to keep you right where you are.”

“Don’t they just.” Rayya irritably cut herself another wedge of cheese.

“Back to regency for the rest of us, then?” frowned Vilkas. “Keep Jorrvaskr afloat and the new arms sharp while you gallivant about the province again hunting all the monsters?”

“Thanks for offering, Vilkas.” Solen clapped his arm. “Knew I could count on you.”

Vilkas pulled a face, as their friendship demanded, but Solen knew he didn’t mind the appointment. He still hadn’t completely gotten over his brother’s death, and wrangling a score of new bloods and whelps kept him busy.

“Aela, I need you to keep your ears open,” Solen continued. “I want you to attend the Whiterun court in my place and investigate any reports or leads on vampire activity, especially in the cities. Make sure they get a warning passed to all the Jarls to close their courts to new advisors. I don’t care who they claim to be or who sent them. Say the Harbinger warns that Balgruuf’s fate could be theirs. Skyrim’s not fat or lazy enough to endure another political storm – which, given the nature of Balgruuf’s murder, might be what this coven is trying to achieve, for reasons yet unknown.”

Aela nodded. “It’ll be done, Harbinger.”

“Njada, double the training, for whelps and shield-siblings all. And under no circumstance send anyone out on contract alone.”

“What d’you think I’ve been doing, goldenrod?” Njada snorted and folded her wiry arms. “Sending a Companion out alone, Shor have mercy... I’ll make sure even the whelps can break your fancy Dragonborn ankles by the time I’m done with ‘em.”

Solen nodded proudly to them, his mentors, his shield-siblings, his friends. “See? The Companions are in good hands. I don’t know why you need me.”

“You know? He’s got a good point,” Njada remarked. “He’s an awful leader.”

“Not a bad advisor, though,” Vilkas supposed.

“And me?” How long Irileth had been waiting in the doorway to the Harbinger’s council chamber, arms folded, eyes fierce, was anyone’s guess, but clearly “long enough” was going to be the best answer.

“You tell us, Irileth,” said Rayya evenly. “What will you be doing?”

Irileth stepped light-footed into the room. Her badge of office was gone. She wore dusty brown travelling leathers and a plain grey cloak devoid of any sigil of allegiance, fresh war-paint marked into her skin. “Leaving Whiterun, with you. You’re heading south to this Dayspring Canyon, aren’t you? To join with this Dawnguard?”

“We’re heading south, to the Canyon,” Solen agreed carefully.

“Good.” Irileth gripped the hilt of her broken sword. “When are we leaving?”

Solen had initially planned two days, get some leather lining in his armour replaced, check in with Eorlund, sneak in a quick plains-hunt, freshen up his sword-arm a bit in the Companions ring – but something in Irileth’s eyes warned him that to answer anything less than “Tomorrow at dawn” would have had some extreme and immediate consequences.

Irileth nodded and spun on heel. “See you at the stables.” She stalked out of the Jorrvaskr undercroft without another word.

“There’s nothing in this world I fear,” said Vilkas wryly, “but Shor knows that Dark Elf, out for revenge, she’s one to beware.”

“A damned shame, more like,” Aela huffed. “With that mettle, she’d have made a fine Companion.”

“Housecarls don’t have such freedom,” said Rayya. “Ours aren’t oaths of glory. To fail to protect the one to whom your very honour is bound... I can’t even imagine what she’s going through. It’s something I don’t ever intend to experience.” Her hand settled in Solen’s, and he squeezed it tight.

“Considering you’re sworn to the tallest, loudest man in Skyrim, I don’t see that happening,” Njada snorted. “No vampire’s going to even reach his neck before he pops their eardrums like ripe snowberries.”

“Please, Njada,” Solen grimaced, as Rayya laughed.

Chapter Text

Isran wore a thick padded lamellar with a belt of silver chain, a warhammer that actually resembled a hammer, and a scowl that could curdle milk from great distances. He also had a thick black beard and the most gravelly, colourless growl Solen had ever heard. He could tell immediately that Isran was a hmm-er, and wasn’t proved wrong.

“Hmm.” Isran’s dark eyes looked Solen up and down, taking note of every scar engraved in Solen’s Harbinger steel. The wolf visage that snarled across the cuirass, the continued wolf motif across the black-furred gauntlets and sabatons, the Atmoran knotwork that complimented Solen’s teardrop helmet. “Well, you look like a Companion,” Isran concluded, “and you look like someone who can prove he’s a Companion.”

“Surprising, I know,” said Solen. “Wait ‘till you hear about how I advise the Companions. I’ve been told I’m a great advisor.”

“Did you ever advise them how to get them to still that tongue?”

“Not really. I’m honestly encouraged to talk more, not less. Or Shout more. Or... use my Words? The jargon gets blurred sometimes.”

Rayya and Irileth were both well-accustomed to Solen’s somewhat unconventional sense of humour. Isran was not. His scowl did the impossible, and deepened further.

“Hrrm. Dragonborn.” He said the title almost reluctantly. “So, we meet. Thought you’d be taller.”

“No, you really didn’t,” said Solen, who towered two heads above the stocky Redguard across from him. “You’d be Isran, leader of the Dawnguard. And this... is a nice place you got. Big place. Bit, uh... bit rustic, though.” He gazed around the gigantic circular chamber that formed the entry hall of Fort Dawnguard – ringed with a balcony high above, with a natural oculus letting in a flood of spring sunlight. But the air stank of dust and must, supply boxes ringed the room in disorderly fashion, and the impressive stonework was draped in enormous cobwebs. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a decorator on the way?”

“It suffices,” said Isran, folding his arms. “We’ll see if you and your companions can do the same for the Dawnguard.”

“About that,” said Solen, much more seriously. “Rayya and I, we’re not here to join. Not officially. No charters. No pledges, no oaths, no whatever. We’re here to collaborate and work with the Dawnguard as freelancers, but we’re not your soldiers.”

Isran quirked a brow. “Do I look like a sergeant to you, elf?”

“Uh... honestly? Yeah. Rayya and I are ex-Legion. We’ve served a lot of sergeants.”

“Well, you can jump for joy knowing you won’t be calling me ‘sir’. This isn’t the army. I’m not your general. There’s no charter to sign. No pledge or oath to make. Except one.” Isran stalked forward until he stood below Solen, his head tilted back to glare uncompromisingly into the Altmer’s mismatched eyes. “You fight vampires, you kill vampires, you rid the world of vampires. A count of dead giants, trolls or Dragons does nothing to endear you to me; anything less than destroying those bloodsuckers either makes you a waste of my time or my enemy. Is there anything unclear about that, Dragonborn?”

Solen was past the point of wilting from intimidation tactics, but he definitely found himself leaning backwards from the vampire hunter’s intensity. “Clear as a Midyear sun.”

“Good,” said Isran. “Then welcome to the Dawnguard. I trust you won’t disappoint.” He turned to Rayya and gave her the same look-over. “Hmm. Rayya, was it? You travel with the elf?”

“I do,” said Rayya. “Keeping his neck intact is my job.”

“You ever kill a neck-biter?”

“A few. Wouldn’t mind making a trade of it for a while.”

Isran gave a low laugh. “That’s what I like to hear. Those swords of yours, how long have you swung them?”

“At foes or not? You’ll get different answers.”

“Hah. You’re a sands girl, I can tell. Sentinel?”

“Bergama.”

“Ahh. Crown town. Doesn’t surprise me you were raised on the sword. You know how to take tough and fight quick.”

“So does the lunk I married, believe it or not.” Rayya chucked her chin at Solen.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Isran growled. “A vampire’s fast as a zephyr and stronger than an avalanche. They’ll dance circles round that heavy battle-blade.”

“Says the man with a warhammer,” Solen retorted.

“I have Stendarr’s Aura,” said Isran. “You don’t. Now what about you?”

Irileth stepped forward. “Irileth. I’m no freelancer. I’m here to join.”

“You are, are you? Hmm. You’re different. You’ve got fire in your belly.”

“A vampire had me fooled. Killed my Jarl.” Irileth’s eyes blazed. “That isn’t going to happen a second time.”

“No,” Isran murmured, “no, I doubt that. I heard what happened in Whiterun. Disgusting thing. We’ll make sure you get outfitted with all you need to avenge your dead Jarl a thousand times over.”

“I want Orthjolf. That’s the creature’s name. And I’ll gladly take down anyone standing between him and me.”

“Him and the Dawnguard, Irileth. Your fight is ours.” Isran frowned past Irileth’s shoulder. “That kid with you?”

They turned around to where Agmaer, a recently-acquainted farmer’s son, hovered nervously in their shadows, quite out of place with the three battle-hardened veterans. “We picked him up on the Canyon road,” said Irileth.

“But he’s got the same idea,” said Solen. “Vampires bad, Dawnguard good.”

“Well, stop skulking in the shadows and step up here,” Isran growled. “What’s your name?”

“I’m, uh... my name is Agmaer. Sir!”

“Didn’t I just say this isn’t the army?”

“Reminds me of when that new blood first met you in Jorrvaskr,” Rayya whispered to Solen, as Isran continued grilling the farm boy. “What was his name – Harald? Hangvar?”

“Haeling. And the interview did not play out like this. I couldn’t do an Isran-growl if I tried.”

“No, but the kid still almost fainted when you drew Eldródr.”

“I wasn’t going to hit him! I just wanted to test his arm!”

“He didn’t know that. He just thought he was about to fight the Dragonborn.”

“And you wonder why I let Vilkas handle the whelps...”

“Right,” growled Isran, pacing in front of them, “I think the lot of you are Dawnguard material. Celann!” A lanky Breton Dawnguard stepped out from one of the side passages. “Take the lad and get him set up with a crossbow. See how he handles it.” After Agmaer had disappeared with his escort, Isran beckoned. “The rest of you, follow me. I’ll show you round.”

~

The Fort had been impressively large on the outside, and it didn’t disappoint inside, either. The huge, airy corridors were carved straight into the mountains. Isran mentioned there were even more ancient catacombs, left behind by their predecessors, but so far he hadn’t had time or care to properly investigate. “Predecessors?” Irileth echoed. “The Dawnguard isn’t a new order?”

“Stendarr, no,” Isran growled back. “The Order was founded in the Second Era, after the Riften Jarl’s son contracted vampirism. He couldn’t kill his whelp, so he had this place built and the Dawnguard established to keep him contained. They took their oath seriously, served honourably, even when they were forced to put the Jarl’s son down. The Jarl banished them from the hold, but they stuck to their cause. Fought vampires wherever they found them. I aim to continue that mission.”

He hadn’t had long to get the Fort back up in working order, but so far the essentials were there – tables, food baskets, roaring hearths. The Fort had once been provisioned like a palace, but centuries of neglect had left it in a derelict state. “I’ve got shipments on the way from Riften,” said Isran, “but not much. A lot of red tape. Mostly we fend for ourselves from the Dayspring Canyon. Food’s fine, armoury’s stocked, but right now we don’t have much support but ourselves.”

“That’ll change,” said Rayya. “It’s been two weeks since Balgruuf’s death. The Jarls will’ve heard what happened by now. They’ll throw coin at a vampire order.”

Isran snorted. “Or they’ll throw coin at a more familiar solution. Mercenaries. Companions. Maybe once we make a bit more of a name for ourselves, we’ll start having the resources to properly getting the Fort fixed up. At least word’s finally starting to get around that the Dawnguard is back. But that means it won’t be long before the vampires take notice as well.”

They visited the dining area, which presently was just a longtable and a handful of stools, then the ground-floor sleeping quarters, one immense room stuffed with cots and rudimentary storage chests in front of a blazing hearth. Down the east end, the well-groomed fort walls opened into one of the Fort’s natural cavern systems, where Isran declared his intention to get a breeder hired and some proper war-hounds trained – “The right dog can sniff out a vampire in a trick. Nothing surprises them.” – and showed them one of the training areas, where they found Celann overseeing the newly-crossbow’d Agmaer and his shaky but steady assault on an archery butt. In the natural caverns of the west end lay a blacksmith’s forge, and beside that, the Dawnguard armoury.

Presently it was little more than a heap of crates tucked in a corner with a bunch of armour and weapons neatly arrayed atop it; but everything was excellently crafted and clearly fresh-forged, with the Dawnguard’s symbol, the blazing shield, etched skilfully into the metal. For a moment Solen’s professional interest overtook him. He picked up one of the Dawnguard one-handed axes and gave it a few swings. “Good balance on this,” he remarked, eyeing down the haft. “Don’t recognize the smith-sign though, who made this?”

“You’re looking at him,” said Isran, then, “You look surprised.”

“Yeah, that’s generally what surprised people look like. What’s this made of? Silver-steel compound?”

“Adamantine-iron. There’s a few adamantium veins in the deeper caverns.”

“Ruptga, that’s rare stuff. That’s really hard to balance, adamantine is beastly heavy. That’s why you threw the iron in, yeah? To make it lighter? Takes a steady hand not to spoil the bonding between such different-density alloys, though.”

It was Isran’s turn for surprise. “You smith?”

“Learning.” Solen scrutinized the axe’s gleaming silver edge. “Call it a hobby.”

“He trains with Eorlund Gray-Mane in his spare time,” Irileth put in, as she sized up a Dawnguard bastard sword. “He’s in a blacksmith’s apron when he isn’t in that wolf-armour. Hasn’t he made drinking buddies of all the cities’ principal blacksmiths, Rayya?”

“Something like that,” Rayya agreed, hefting a Dawnguard shield. “Hard to pull him away sometimes. Kid in a candy shop. The way he jaws with the smiths, you’d think they were speaking in ritual.”

“Hm,” said Isran, contemplatively. “So, you’re not just a sword-swinging braggart after all.”

“Overjoyed to hear it.” Solen put the axe down. “I’ll stick with slow old Eldródr, I think. I’d break the old blade’s heart if I went off vampire-slaying without it.”

“Suit yourself,” said Isran, back to eye-rolling. “Take a crossbow, at least. You ever shoot?”

“A bow, plenty.” Solen picked up one of the crossbows; heavier than it looked, but sturdy. He figured out the cranking mechanism easily enough, although the wide square sight and the horizontal positioning would take some getting used to. “You do realize a bow is five times faster than this?”

“Flimsier, too. A vampire doesn’t bleed or bruise like us mortals do.” Isran patted the hefty crossbow. “But they break. They’re going nowhere with a broken spine or a shattered skull. Best thing to put down the bloodsuckers.”

“They do work,” Rayya murmured to Solen, as she picked up one herself. “You saw what was left of that vampire outside Ivarstead.”

It took a few shots for Solen to accustom to it. It had a hard kicking recoil and a four-second reload time, but a devastating punch. Additionally, it launched so fast, with such power, that there was no need to calibrate distance or wind or any of the subtleties that an archer had to face, on the go, all the time. Solen could see how it would be useful against such a fleet opponent as a vampire. “Only thing with it is that you’d better not miss,” Solen remarked, locking the crossbow’s trigger to prevent it dryfiring. “Or you’d better have a melee weapon handy.”

“We’re Dawnguard,” growled Isran. “We don’t miss.”

While Rayya and Irileth dismantled a barrel from long-range with their crossbows, Isran took Solen aside. “Since you’re here, I’m reminded that there is a matter in your field you can address, Dragonborn.”

“Oh?” Solen arched a brow. “I thought I was here to fight vampires and only vampires? Anything less meant I was a distraction?”

“You’re already a distraction. But I have a bigger one. There’s a Dragon lairing somewhere in the Canyon.”

Solen frowned. “Has it attacked anyone?”

“No. But it’s stolen food. Sheep. Robbed snares, made off with one of Durak’s deer. It’s a pest.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“Once. Celann saw it winging over the glaciers dragging off one of the rams. How long will it take you to get rid of it?”

Solen set his hands on his hips. “I’m not going after it.”

“What?” Isran ground his teeth. “Are you Dragonborn or aren’t you?”

“Beyond a doubt I am,” said Solen, “and that’s why I’m not going after it. Dragons suffer a fate worse than death when they cross me. I used to do a lot of the whole slaying thing, sure. Thrill, glory, necessity, whatever. That was when we were actually at war, during the Dragon Crisis, when Dragons went out of their way to find and attack me – before I became Thuri.”

“Became what?”

“You know – the alpha Dragon. The strongest Voice.”

“Alpha Dragon,” Isran repeated slowly, as if it were the punchline of a bad joke. He scoffed. “I can’t believe this. A Dragonborn that doesn’t kill Dragons.”

“Believe it,” said Solen, much more coldly. “Dragons aren’t just stupid beasts, they’re sentient creatures who’ve spent most if not all of their lives living in tyranny of one supreme, all-commanding master. Coexistence is possible with them and I want to give them that chance. So unless this Dragon of yours has actually displayed harmful and malevolent intention directly on property or person, I’m not going to execute it for existing.”

“Stealing food is pretty damn malevolent.”

“More than likely, you’re stealing its food. Dragons have been around in Skyrim far longer than the Dawnguard revival has. Dayspring Canyon’s as ideal a habitat as anything. Water, prey-filled forest, mountains – I’ll bet my bottom septim that it was here first.”

“Well, Dragonborn, we’re not relocating to suit a Dragon’s fancies. And we’re not going to tolerate any more theft of resources.”

“Then make peace with it. Coexist. Keep your stock well-guarded, but make an offering to it now and then, willingly. The Dragon will stop stealing from you if it isn’t hungry. If the Legion can do it, pretty sure you can.” Solen folded his arms, the picture of professional stubbornness. “As you said – I’m here to hunt vampires, kill vampires, and kill more vampires. I’m here to avenge my Jarl and nip this menace in the bud before Skyrim suffers another disaster.”

Isran huffed an angry sigh, but to his credit he didn’t push the point, unlike some of the Jarls and Guard captains Solen had made the same argument to over the years. “You don’t want anything else out of here?”

“What, weapons-wise? Armour?” Solen shook his head. “Skyrim’s freezing, and those uniforms have a suspicious lack of fur on them. Rayya? Irileth?”

Rayya had chosen to favour her plate-and-chainlink armour and her twin scimitars, but Irileth stepped out of the armoury transformed. Gone were her old leathers. She wore the lamellar raiment as if it’d been tailored to her. A new Dawnguard longsword bounced at her left hip, but she still had her broken sword, now sheathed on the right hip. She withdrew it and presented it to Isran. “Whatever metal you use to edge your weapons, I want it on this. I don’t want it fixed. I want it potent.”

Isran turned the ruined steel blade over in his grasp, tested his finger on the jagged edge, and nodded once. “I’ll work something out.”

~

The Dawnguard was piteously small – just over half a score. With Solen and Rayya working alongside them, and Irileth and Agmaer as their newest recruits, they now totalled some sixteen all, which was still a wretchedly small number to cover all of Skyrim against the growing vampire menace. Add the fact that half that number had never handled a proper weapon, and the Dawnguard was indeed in as early a situation as a militant Order could be.

Fortunately there were some seasoned warriors leading the way forward, and Solen and Rayya met them all over dinner that night in the dining hall. There was Durak, the former Orc chieftain whom they’d already met, nothing but pleased that Solen and Rayya were here, nothing but angry as what circumstance had forced them to be. Mogrul was Durak’s son, and had joined the Dawnguard alongside his father; like most stronghold Orcs, he’d been taught to swing weapons the instant he could hold them. Celann, the Breton, was one of Isran’s oldest comrades-in-arms, and one of the first to be invited to join the reformed Dawnguard. Vori, a Nord, they’d met in the Canyon on their way up to the Fort. She’d left a rough life in the wilds before Isran’s opportunity, and had already somehow mastered the art of never sleeping. “Sleep is for the weak,” she said. “That’s what Isran always says. Be like Isran. I’ve never seen that man close his eyes.”

“Never?” said Solen. “Not even to blink?”

Vori stared. “Just ignore him,” Rayya advised. “He’s chronically smartassed.”

“And that’s why you love me.”

But talk did turn to Isran. It seemed he’d anticipated this vampire menace years ahead of the event. “We served together as Vigilants of Stendarr, years ago,” Celann explained, as he helped himself to a second serving of turnip stew. “He was just as Isran back then as he’s Isran now. Only he ended up being right, and the rest of them wrong.”

“Right?” Irileth echoed. “About what?”

“About the vampires. He saw the signs everywhere. More dens, more covens, more dead villagers, more missing priests. He tried to warn the Vigilants to wake up and do something. They never listened. Too focused ratting out the next loudmouthed Daedric worshipper. Oh, their hearts were in the right place, of course, but Isran and I, we were never comfortable. Eventually we left together, but our partnership didn’t last. You’ve already seen what he’s like to talk with, let alone work with.”

“So what got you working with him again?” asked Rayya.

“Two months ago, he contacted me out of the blue, asking for my help.” Celann jerked his head towards the forge, where they heard the hammer ringing off metal in steady tempo. “That man does not ask for help. Ever. So I knew it must’ve been pretty bad.”

They sat in subdued silence for a moment, eating their stew. Solen mentally turned over every military report he ever remembered reading during his Legion service. Surely the Legion would’ve noticed, during the reunification and rebuilding and re-establishing and re-other-things period if there was a rise in vampire activity? Surely he’d have noticed? There’d been some missing persons reported, sure, but there were a thousand and a half different ways for someone to disappear in Skyrim. Trolls, sabre cats, Dragons, wolves, brigands, Draugr... and yes, vampires, but surely they couldn’t have all been vampiric abductions. Could they?

“Now I think the whole world’s about to find out exactly how right Isran ever was,” said Celann. “A murdered Jarl in the heart of one of Skyrim’s biggest cities... if that isn’t proof enough that no person is safe from these monsters, then I don’t know what is.”

Abruptly Irileth stood. “I’m going to patrol.” She stalked off before anyone could say a word.

Celann arched his eyebrows, and Rayya immediately snapped, “Don’t you dare say another word about it. Don’t speculate. That goes for all of you. You all know what happened. End of story.”

“But it’s not,” Durak rumbled. “We don’t know why.”

“Is there a why?” Solen asked.

“Yes.” Durak leaned forward. “Vampires are not your typical beasts. They’re smart. They plan. They think. The old ones, anyway, and I don’t see anything less than an old one getting as far as he did. If he wanted a drink, he had thousands of necks to choose from, but he planned to get the hardest neck in the whole damn city. Why? ‘Just because he could’ seems a pretty flimsy reason, doesn’t it?”

Solen stabbed his spoon into a stewed turnip with zeal. “Well, what bright theories do you have?”

“I think,” said Durak, “this is bigger – far bigger than we’re anticipating. I think with the War over, we’ve become harder prey to hunt. Safer roads, fortified towns, less skirmishes in the wild. The vampires got fat off the War, grew their covens. Now they’re getting hungry and desperate. They want us confused, divided up and scattered again, like we were in the War. Weakened, easy prey.”

It was the soundest theory Solen had yet heard about Balgruuf’s murder, but it still didn’t add up. “You’d think if they really were so desperate or grand-plan-scheming, they’d get a whole gang of vampire-assassins organized and go after all the Jarls at once,” said Solen, “or even the High Queen – really pitch Skyrim into chaos. Instead, all they’ve done is put all the cities on high alert, blown every single visiting-advisor alias out of the water, and attracted the Dawnguard’s attention. The Legion’s as well.” And mine.

“Maybe we can capture one,” Mogrul suggested. “Get ‘em squealing on the rack. Did Isran show you the torture room yet?”

“You have a torture room?” Rayya’s face was the picture of revulsion.

“If we’re going to survive this,” said Mogrul seriously, “we’re going to have to be as ruthless as our enemies.”

“Have you ever seen,” said Solen quietly, “what torture can do to a man?”

“They’re not men. Or women.” Mogrul bared his tusks. “They’re nothing mortal. They’re abominations beyond any hope of redemption or pity.”

“You haven’t, then.” Solen put his spoon in his bowl and pushed the lot away, his appetite quite gone. “If you had, you’d realize that’s not a suffering you’d wish on your worst enemy.”

Mogrul shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Rayya saw the colour rising in Solen’s cheeks. “Husband, don’t.”

“No, tell me,” said Solen, in clipped tones, “tell me exactly why I wouldn’t understand. Please. Enlighten me.”

Durak sensed danger quicker than Mogrul, and grunted loudly when the younger Orc opened his mouth. Mogrul was smart enough to catch the hint and look away.

 Solen stood up. “Take care when fighting monsters,” he said to the silent gathering, “that you don’t become them yourself.” Then he turned and swept out – although the effect was spoiled somewhat when his cloak caught on the bench corner, turning his righteous stalk into a graceless stumble.

Once Rayya joined him in the massive circular entrance hall, Solen said, “I think this was a mistake. They’re just gooks. Don’t tell me they don’t remind you of anyone.”

“They’re unseasoned and they’re scared,” Rayya reasoned. “Just let Irileth get at them. Three days. She’ll straighten them out.”

“The old Irileth, sure. This Irileth I’m pretty sure would be the most imaginative torturer at the rack. And Isran! The absolutes with him! He’ll destroy every vampire in Skyrim given the chance, I don’t doubt that, but what else will he destroy to get at them? Who else? The next thing we’ll know it’s ‘Skyrim for the mortals!’ and talks of purges and collaborators and traitors –”

“Solen, calm down. This isn’t war.”

“It will be. You heard them. It’s what they expect, it’s what they want. Rayya, I said no more wars, I said... Rayya, I can’t do another war....”

In one swift, practiced movement, Rayya pulled his head down to hers. “Breathe with me. Just breathe.”

Half a minute of slow, circular breathing together brought him back. Solen uncoiled to his full height and gripped her hand tightly. “Three days,” said Rayya decisively. “Give them the chance. Then, if they’re really still rabid, we go our own way. All right?”

“All right.” Solen nodded. “Three days.”

The creaking of the heavy Fort Dawnguard door squealed through the quiet Fort. It was enormously heavy and didn’t open very well, and the hinges squeaked and complained every inch of the way. Getting past it seemed like a trial into the Dawnguard all of itself, and Solen and Rayya stood watching with interest until, heralded with a chorus of Dunmeri curses, Irileth got them open and in she came again. “That was a short patrol,” Solen started, and then saw that Irileth had company.

“Go get Isran,” Irileth told them, tugging the filthy, haggard, stumbling, barely-recognizable Vigilant of Stendarr along behind her. “He’ll want to hear this.”

Chapter Text

The Vigilant’s name was Tolan, according to Celann, after they sat him down at the dining table in front of the fire. The Dawnguard stood around, watching the Vigilant gulp down turnip stew as if he hadn’t eaten in a week (perhaps he hadn’t) until Isran stalked in and cleared out the more diffident ones with a patented scowl. The dining hall swiftly emptied until only Celann, Durak, Irileth, Solen and Rayya remained to hear the audience.

There was no love lost between Isran and Tolan. The former spoke as coldly as a midwinter frost. “Why are you here?” Isran growled, as the room settled down. “The Vigilants and I were finished long ago.”

“You know why I’m here.” Tolan spoke between mouthfuls of stew. “The Vigilants are under attack everywhere. The vampires are much more dangerous than we believed.”

“And now you want to come running to safety with the Dawnguard, is that it?” Isran’s scowl twisted in to a sneer. “I remember Keeper Carcette telling me repeatedly that Dawnguard is a crumbling ruin, not worth the expense and manpower to repair. And now that you’ve stirred up the vampires against you, you come begging for my protection?”

“Isran...” The bowl slid through Tolan’s nerveless fingers to clatter on the floor. “Carcette is dead. The Hall of Vigilants... everyone... they’re all dead.” Tolan turned on the Redguard. “You were right, we were wrong! Isn’t that enough for you?”

In one swift move Solen had his cloak off and around the shaking Nord’s shoulders. The act finally seemed to stir a spark of compassion in his old colleagues. Celann refilled Tolan’s bowl, and Isran completely lost his bite. “Yes, well... I never wanted any of this to happen. I tried to warn all of you... I am sorry, you know.”

They waited until Tolan settled himself down and started eating again. Then Solen squatted down in front of him. “You were at the Hall when they attacked?”

“No. No, I was on patrol. We were returning, and... I saw the smoke.”

“They burned it?” Rayya frowned. “Sounds like more than a handful of vampires were involved.”

“There must’ve been a whole coven.” Tolan’s pale eyes fogged with memory. “So many bodies... so much blood. They’d drained Carcette of every last drop she had. I don’t know why they...” He went quiet suddenly. “No... surely...?”

“What?” Durak prompted.

Tolan glanced more alertly among them all. “Recently the Vigilants were investigating this cave, up the mountain – Dimhollow Crypt. Brother Adavald was sure it held some sort of long-lost vampire artifact. It took a while for him to persuade the Vigilants to investigate, we didn’t listen to him any more than we did Isran... but not long after they’d unsealed the place...”

“Vampires have artifacts?” Solen muttered aloud.

“They’re Daedra-spawn,” said Irileth. “Daedra always have artifacts.”

Solen briefly recalled that talking beacon he’d spontaneously found in a chest one adventuring day and nodded. “Yeah, good point.”

“Artifact or no artifact, whatever the vampires want out of Dimhollow is what we want first.” Isran folded his arms and considered the Dawnguard grouped across from him. “Durak, Celann, pick some bodies and get them organized for heading out at dawn tomorrow. I’m assuming they’ll want to sleep.”

“Uh, yeah, sleep before a two-week jaunt across Skyrim would be pretty great,” said Solen. Isran glowered at him, and Solen shrugged. “What? I know the mountain Tolan mentioned. I’ve been up it before.” And to this day, Solen still questioned how Silus Vesuius, a man wearing the robes of the most notorious Daedric Cult in Tamriel, ran right past the Hall of the Vigilants’ front door unnoticed.

“Good,” Isran growled. “Then you’ll lead the way there.”

“Not without me.” Tolan set his empty bowl aside and shakily got to his feet. “I’m coming too. It’s the least I can do to avenge my fallen comrades.”

“Tolan, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Isran. “You Vigilants were never trained for –”

“I know what you think of us,” Tolan spat. “You think we’re soft, that we’re cowards. You think our deaths proved our weakness.” He waited; Isran said nothing. “Stendarr grant that you do not have to face the same test and be found wanting. I’m going to Dimhollow Crypt.” He faced Celann. “Perhaps I can be of some small assistance to you.”

Tolan shrugged off Solen’s cloak and stalked off, or rather tottered determinedly, towards the sleeping quarters. The warriors behind him stared after him in pity. “There’s no way he’ll last another journey across Skyrim,” Irileth said flatly, speaking all their thoughts aloud.

Solen collected his cloak. “Your charisma really knows no bounds, Isran.”

“Hrrrm.” Isran distracted himself with turning to Irileth. “I expect you’ll want to go too?”

“Try and stop me,” Irileth replied.

“No, thanks.” Isran turned and marched back to the forge.

“Two weeks, you said?” Celann asked Solen.

“On horse,” Solen confirmed. “Saw you had a few where we stalled ours.”

Durak brushed aside a few plates and mugs and unrolled a map of Skyrim across the table. “So which road is fastest to the Hall?”

“This one.” Solen outlined the road through Shor’s Stone, then the westward route around the Eastmarch volcanic flats, and finally north through the Dunstad pass. “Mostly open road and all Imperial-patrolled, so we won’t have much distraction in the form of suicidal highwaymen. If the Legion’s feeling kind, we can even provision ourselves along the way.”

“They’d do that?” Celann asked.

Solen winked his green eye at him. “Travelling with Rayya and I comes with a few perks.”

~

Fort Dawnguard was a poor sleeper. Solen woke up an hour before sunrise feeling wholly unrested, disturbed from a night’s worth of ever-rotating watchers coming and going from their cots. Rayya, somehow, was still dead to the world in the cot across from him. Deciding to be useful, Solen got up, dressed, kissed her forehead and left a small leaf on his pillow, a hitchhiker he’d brushed off his cloak last night. He and Rayya had their own language they’d perfected after their years travelling together; she’d wake, find him gone, then spot the leaf where his head should’ve been, and know he’d gone outdoors.

Outdoors was rejuvenating. Solen had amassed no particular strong feelings for the old stone Fort yet, but Dayspring Canyon he’d fallen in love with immediately. It was a beautiful little valley, rich in golden grass and maple trees budding with new tawny leaves, and the whole lot were sparkling in a clear blanket of morning frost. Snow made a white latticework far down the mountainsides, and the glaciers squeezing through the tall black peaks towards the golden earth spilled plumes of snowmelt waterfalls into the valley lake, dark blue and brilliant as a sapphire. Solen could hear their distant thunder from the Fort-end of the valley. It was still within Skyrim’s boundaries, but Solen reckoned there was a bit of Heartland warmth here as well, close as they were on the border to Cyrodiil. He wished he’d had at least a little time to wander the forest, see what was growing and what was nibbling on the growth.

The Dawnguard had a rough little sheep farm and something that passed as a stable established around the corner below one of the jutting towers. Durak was already up, getting the horses ready for the Dimhollow campaign. “Didn’t expect you up so early,” the Orc remarked. “Thought Elves liked getting their beauty rest.”

“Oh, I’m well past any hope of salvage,” said Solen, tugging Ember from his stall. “You know, I blinded a Justiciar once.”

“A what?”

“Thalmor Justiciar. I took off my helmet, he saw my face, screamed and died on the spot.”

“Died? You said blinded.”

“Oh – I meant died.”

Durak turned and stared. “He died because he saw your face.”

“Right. I took off my helmet, he took one look at me, screamed, ‘Die, race traitor!’, and then he fell over with his head detached from his shoulders. It happens a lot with the Thalmor I meet. Something about my face just makes them drop dead. Must be a curse. Anyway, that’s why I don’t get much beauty rest.”

Durak snorted. “Enlightening.”

Solen soon had both Ember and Starfire saddled, tacked and loaded up with his tools and provisions, and slipped both of them a turnip for good measure. “You need a hand with Tulip?” Solen asked, seeing one of the Dawnguard’s mares giving the Orc trouble.

“‘Tulip’?”

“Yeah, that’s what I named her. I heard you hadn’t named your horses, and she’s very much a Tulip.”

“You named all our horses?” Durak concluded incredulously. “Yet you can’t remember the names of any one of the Dawnguard recruits we’re bringing with us?”

“Hey, animals are much more interesting than people,” said Solen, pulling the mare’s bridle over her ears. “Tulip’s got a whole life story in her eyes. She’s led an adventurous life, the rogue. She’s told me she’s swum every great river in Skyrim. And Thornsen over there, he clearly fought off a sabre cat in his unbroken years. That’s why he holds his head higher than the others, he knows he’s got something to brag about.”

“You’re pulling my tusk, Dragonborn.”

“They’re not correcting me, are they? Now, Poppy, she keeps the others in –” Solen looked around. “Huh. Where is Poppy? She’s not here. You don’t have mounted patrols through the Canyon, do you?”

Durak looked around. “No. They should all be here.” He stepped back and counted heads. “You’re right,” he growled, “there’s one missing.”

A short investigation concluded the horse hadn’t been snatched or dragged off against her will, as the tack shed was additionally absent of one saddle, bridle and blanket. “Someone rode off in the night,” Durak frowned. “Get the rest ready. I’m going to find out who.”

“I don’t think it was me,” Solen called after him, “so that’s one less to worry about.”

Durak returned ten minutes later, shaking his head. “That damned fool. The Vigilant, Tolan – he’s not in his cot. Vori said she saw a rider slip out, all quiet-like, about four hours ago, wearing a Dawnguard cloak. Mistook him for one of ours, silly girl. Good eyes but bad judgement.”

“The fool,” Solen agreed. “Well, there’s no catching up with him. He’ll be at the Crypt ahead of us whether he’s a good rider or not. One traveller moves a damn sight faster than a small warband.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Durak grunted. “The alternative was staying here with Isran.”

“Sep’s scales, no wonder he got out of here so quick.”

The journey to Dimhollow started without further incident. Before the sun had crested the Velothi Mountains, the ten horsed Dawnguard chosen for the journey had left Dayspring Canyon far behind. Solen admittedly did not know most of their names, but Irileth seemed to have already memorized each and every one of their life stories. Durak and Celann were her technical superiors, but neither of them disputed her when she cracked out orders to stop, go, pack, unpack. The whole group trundled across Skyrim with alarming efficiency, and in a mere three days they passed through Shor’s Stone and left the temperate valleys of the Rift behind them.

Three days, Solen remembered Rayya asking him to give the Dawnguard. After those three days had passed, he concluded they made for good company after all. There was no repeat of the zealotic discussion in the dining hall. They conducted themselves sensibly and dutifully, both in the actual journeying and when they made night camps. If they were new to travelling, they learned quick – especially in the company of veterans well accustomed to negotiating Skyrim’s rigid, frigid wild laws.

 They passed through the mining hamlet of Darkwater Crossing, then Fort Amol a few days later. As Solen had hoped, the Legion garrisoned there welcomed him and his companions. Having an old comrade-in-arms established as the Fort Captain there certainly didn’t hurt.

“Solen-bloody-arren,” Farrus Scipius boomed, as the Dawnguard company rode through Amol’s gates. “D’you see that, men? The Dragonborn comes! Good to see you still kicking around making trouble, longshanks!”

“Couldn’t leave you with all the fun, now could I, Farrus?” Solen grinned back, and laughing they wrapped each other in a soldier’s embrace. Solen had made many an acquaintance, friend and battle-mate during his Legion years whom he remembered fondly, but Farrus was a league of his own. He was a fine specimen of an Imperial, stocky and brown-haired, with bright blue eyes. The campaign on Fort Dunstad in the Pale had left a scar on Farrus’ face that permanently pulled up the corner of his right eye into an almost elven slant. He would now be into his seventh year in the Legion. He’d started out as one of Solen’s sergeants but quickly become one of his sturdiest brothers-in-arms. Many a campaign they’d fought together, many a Stormcloak ambush they’d survived together.

“And Rayya,” Farrus continued warmly, descending on Rayya next. “My fierce sand-viper, unchanged a day and sharp as ever!”

“Can’t say the same for you, Farrus,” Rayya replied, flashing her pearly white teeth. “You midland men only get hairier as you age.” Farrus had grown a trimmed beard, contoured around his jaw, since last they’d met.

“Hairier and handsomer,” Farrus winked. “Solie should consider it if he could ever squeeze a hair out on that great big chin of his, hahahar! Gods, you two look well.” Farrus turned his attention to the Dawnguard behind them. “And what have you brought on my doorstep, eh?”

“The trouble I’ve gotten myself into,” Solen explained. “They’re the Dawnguard – vampire hunters. We’re on our way up north. Think you can help with some beds and new shoes for the horses?’

“Horseshoes? Horseshoes? You ride out all this way to visit your dear old Captain for nothing more than horseshoes, you pompous scale-whacker? I ought to give you fifty laps round the Fort for such impertinence!”

“Ah, if only you still could, Captain,” Solen replied, and held up his hands. “Discharged with honours, if I rightly recall.”

“As if we could forget – the disappointment! Bah. Don’t you fret, Solie, we’ll get your mates fed and shoed.”

Farrus was a popular commander with the men, mainly because he knew when to bend the Imperial Legion’s iron discipline for something worth celebrating. They broached the wine caskets and slaughtered several goats to roast whole over giant cooking ovens in honour of the Dawnguard’s stay that night. Some of the fresher Dawnguard recruits were happy to enjoy the unexpected merriment with the Legionnaires, comparing weapons, demonstrating technique, and swapping stories. The more seasoned hands took dinner to the walls in a mixture of curiosity to explore the repurposed keep and to maintain vigilance against their nightbound foe.

Farrus walked with them, deeply concerned to hear about the growing menace across Skyrim. “Wondered if you’d be making this your business after what happened in Whiterun,” he frowned. “Jarl Brunwulf’s doing fine, before you ask. I sent two of my best lads to help bolster the palace guard when I heard. Anyway, Solie, it’s all a damned shame and a rotten mess to clean. You always talked warmly about that Balgruuf.”

“I was proud to serve him,” said Solen quietly. “And his city. Whiterun became a second home.”

“Aye, so you showed. Never saw anyone fight like you did that day defending his city from the Cloaks – gods, but you were a spectacle. We almost didn’t need that Dragon!”

“Dragon?” echoed Celann. “What Dragon?”

“Hah!” Farrus boomed. “I forget, our dear old Scourge is a bit of a myth to those who haven’t served. You see that?” He pointed – atop the ramparts of the highest tower in Fort Amol, an enormous brass horn pointed its funnel to the sky. “You’ll find one of those beauties in every major Imperial Fort in Skyrim. That’s to summon him. Great big red monster, teeth long as your arm, not that he needs to get that close to kill you, hahahar!”

“You’re saying,” said Celann slowly, “that you blow that thing and summon an actual live Dragon.”

“His name’s Odahviing,” Solen explained to the dumbfounded Dawnguard. “Better known as the Red Scourge, as the Cloaks named him and the Legion calls him. We go way back. I summoned him quite a bit during the War to demoralize the Stormcloaks, and he ended up taking a fancy to it. We negotiated an agreement between himself and the good General to keep him engaged with the Legion, and here we are.”

“Seems a tusking lot like playing with fire,” Durak growled.

“Oh, no, the rules are simple,” Farrus went on. “You blow the tooter if you need a Dragon to resolve the problem. If that horn sings for anything less, well, we’re dealing with a literal flying firestorm; use your imagination. Then, with problem resolved, you offer up some compensation, a few goats, cows, maybe a horse; and the Dragon either hangs around or flies off to the next Fort over. Fort Amol hasn’t had to toot yet, and if the gods are good, we won’t have to. Closest we’ve ever come was when a wildling poked his snout over the walls, but my boys are good with their bows and we sent him off sore and prickled to remember us by. Imperial archers – sharpest eyes in Tamriel, and don’t you forget it!”

“D’you know where Odahviing’s stationed now?” Rayya asked.

“Eh... in the Reach somewhere, I think. There’s been rumblings of those rock-licking barbarians fraying the treaty already. What d’you reckon, Solie? You were the one Tully sent to deal with mad old Madanach.”

Solen fidgeted with a knotted scar on his belt buckle. “He did warn it was a temporary truce. Legion’s still on rightful Reachfolk land...”

Rayya sent Farrus a pointed look, and tactfully the Captain cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Anyway – politics – bah, who cares for ‘em? We’re soldiers. Warriors. We just want to know where the next fight is. And where is the next fight with these vampires?”

“We’ve one lead,” said Durak, “and we’re chasing it. Otherwise, you keep those torches blazing on the walls all night. Don’t let anyone in or out after sunset or before sunrise.”

“Unfortunately, bottling up behind stone walls isn’t an option outside of a siege,” said Farrus. “We’ve night patrols on the roads. You know all manner of scummy things like to creep around in the dark. But they’re all ahorse, packed tight and torchlit, and I’ve a mind to double ‘em for a time until this blows over, or something blows up.”

Precisely at that moment below them, something blew up – a massive fireball belched its way above a cooking fire while a gathering of Legionnaires hooted with laughter. Farrus stuck his head over the walls. “Oi!” he bellowed down. “That better not have been the good Surilie vintage, Nodring! You and Petro get that firepit cleaned up before I lay my eye on you decrepit miscreants again, or you’re both hauling double doody duties at the stables for a fortnight! Am I understood?”

A pair of ragged “Yes, sir!”s was quickly fired up, and Farrus leaned back with a fond grin. “Ahh, they’re good lads, just prone to a good time. I’d better make sure the rest of ‘em don’t go crossing any lines. Anyway, gentlemen – rest assured and rest easy. We’ll send you all on your way come morning.”

“Double doody duties,” Rayya softly repeated as the Captain jogged down the wall stairs to attend his jovial troops. “Where does he come up with that nonsense?”

“He grew up in Chorrol,” Solen reminded her. “Every weirdo in Cyrodiil comes out of Chorrol.”

“And why’s that?” Durak asked.

Solen tilted his head. “Huh. I never thought to ask.”

“This is the horse thing again, isn’t it?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny.”

~

It was decidedly less warm travelling – both in landscape and in reception – as they continued towards Dimhollow Crypt. They rode north and then westward, following the Yorgrim, the body of water that flowed from the easternmost corner of the Pale to Windhelm and the Sea of Ghosts. The spring that had been so prevalent in the southern Holds was entirely absent here. In the Pale it snowed year round, and was second only to Winterhold in its bleakness and chill. Solen had never done especially well in the cold, which had a way of gnawing one’s vigour away, and huddled deep in his fur-lined armour and under his helmet as day after day of frozen pine forest and scouring wind passed by.

But some excitement awaited the Dawnguard as they entered the Dunstad pass. The Imperial Fort drew their eye from afar in the cool blue dusk, a dark distant bulwark against the frigid storms the night would bring – as did the sight of a large party of Nords in full retreat, heading straight their way. “Solen,” Rayya warned, as their rough fur uniforms and tattered blue cloaks became apparent to all.

“Bandits?” Celann muttered.

“As good as.” Solen shook Eldródr free of its scabbard. “Leave this to us.”

Ember snorted and pulled furiously on his reins. Solen lashed the reins loosely around the saddlehorn and gave him his head; the warhorse was well-trained and knew precisely what to do. Even as the Snowborn swore in dismay and split into two groups, fleeing for the forests, Ember strafed, his long, powerful limbs and natural snowshoes carrying him effortlessly across the drifts. Rayya shouted, and Starfire sprang forward in pursuit of the other group. Solen leaned sideways over the saddle, the dragon-ivory battle-blade bared sidelong. Veiled in the black ebony channel, the carved runes of its twin enchantments blazed to life, scorching inferno and midwinter frost.

The Snowborn quickly realized there was no outrunning a Skyrim horse in the snow, and turned to make their stand. The first two raised battleaxes, and Solen’s greatsword replied – left, right – and both weapons and wielders plunged to the snow, gargling and jerking; one’s fur-trimmed armour aflame, the other’s face scorched silver with frost. Ember skittered deftly out of the way of a flashing war-axe, and Solen striped the Nord from hip to shoulder as she stumbled in the backswing. Flames licked to life along the wound, and she went up like a torch. Then destrier and rider were through, and swinging around on the rabbled renegades a second time. Solen snatched a glance at Rayya, giving her half of the fleeing Snowborn a similar treatment. Her scimitars whirled like a Dragon’s wings as she scythed them down, lashing the snow with scarlet lifeblood.

Then Solen returned his attention to his own attackers. One of the foes seized Ember’s bridle; the warhorse crushed his hand in his teeth in one decisive bite, and pulled him down under his mashing hooves. Solen caught the thrust of an incoming greatsword and trapped the edge against the steel plate that layered his thigh; a sharp word, and Ember spun in a tight half-circle, dragging the weapon from the Snowborn’s grasp. The disarmed warrior was pulled face-down into the snow. A flash of blue caught Solen’s eye at the back, and he whistled sharply; Ember rocked to his forelimbs and dealt a rib-crushing kick that hit the Snowborn as hard as any Shout.

For the most part, it was no real battle. The Snowborn were confused, divided, already battle-fatigued, and further bewildered by the unexpected appearance of the Dragonborn and the Redguard swordmaster. Only one of them gave Solen any real challenge, a real hulk of a Nord who wielded a warhammer. Solen hated warhammers. There was nothing you could do against a hammer except avoid getting hit – and it only took one for a hammer to win the argument. Solen kept Ember evading, prancing around every reckless, bone-crushing swing while he sought an opportunity to exploit his dangerous opponent. Clearly this fellow had given up attempting to escape and had made his peace with Sovngarde. “What’s the matter, elf?” the leviathan snarled, once again dragging his warhammer out of the pelted snow. “Lost your Voice?”

“Of course not,” Solen replied, “my horse has got delicate ears.”

“Delicate!” roared the hulk. “I’ll show you delicate when I break your bones like glass and pick my teeth with ‘em, milk-drinker!”

“Now, now, didn’t your mother tell you cannibalism was bad for your digestion?”

The Snowborn bellowed like a bull, charged, and the hammer swung in an enormous tree-toppling arc. Ember hardly evaded the monumental strike in time – and instantly it became the moment Solen had awaited. The Nord had winded himself and overbalanced. A light touch of his rider’s heels sent Ember exploding forward with a whinny straight out of Oblivion. Eldródr swung once, swung mightily. The Snowborn’s charred head spiralled in the last of the evening light.

“Right,” Solen declared, as Ember slowed to his rough trot, puffing stormclouds of vapour from his nostrils. “Anyone else? Anyone?”

“I doubt it,” said Rayya, pointing with her reddened blade – the pursuing defenders of Dunstad had arrived. They couldn’t have been more than two minutes behind their routed foe. Amazing how quickly a battle really passed, Solen mused.

Fort Dunstad was a poplar target for outlaws – had been since before Solen had first arrived in Skyrim. It was a sprawling Fort that sat right over the major Pale road, easily stolen up on through the heavily wooded pines and snowy drifts, with multiple points of puncture. But, as Solen and his companions were soon regaled, this was one of the largest Stormcloak/Snowborn assaults the Legion garrisoned there had had to repel since the War ended. “It was almost manic,” the Imperial Fort Captain, a Nord named Osalva, explained as her soldiers escorted the Dawnguard behind Dunstad’s walls. “A real victory-or-Sovngarde assault. Seemed a little out of place, even for those crazy sons of horkers.”

“Maybe they’re getting desperate,” Celann remarked. “They camp out in the wilds, don’t they? Isolated and alone.” Easy targets for vampires, hovered the unsaid.

“If we can get one of them alive, I’ll be bound to ask,” Osalva answered. “Now, what do you want, Dragonborn?”

She was a decidedly cooler host than her Amol counterpart, but the Dawnguard nonetheless received provisions and a corner of the barracks to camp down in for the night. Most went straight indoors to thaw out and wash, as the inhospitable snowfall and wind stormed in. Durak and Solen stayed out longer to groom down the horses in the Fort stables. “Hurt?” Durak asked, noticing the way Solen took particular care with brushing down his stallion’s flanks and legs.

“Nothing serious.” Ember had only a small scratch above his knee, glanced off from some sharp corner of armour or a weapon knocked askew, and Starfire was unscathed. Rayya had always been the better rider, and Ember the more reckless of the pair. Solen daubed a light salve on it as the big horse whickered and nibbled at Solen’s crest of hair, once more as gentle and playful as a pup.

“You fight well,” Durak continued, as the Orc hauled their saddles onto an airing post. “I can see why they made you a Companion.”

“On the contrary,” Solen replied, “I fight well because of the Companions.” He switched brush for comb and set about untangling Ember’s cream-coloured mane.

“That blade of yours – never seen anything like it. Didn’t realize it set things on fire.”

“Aye, it does.” Solen unsheathed it and propped it upright against a saddle for Durak’s admiration. “Eldródr means ‘Flamesinger’ in old Atmoran. And the frost burns just as deep.”

Any sensible warrior did well to recognize fine smithcraft when they saw it, and Durak did doubly so as a stronghold Orc. “Isran mentioned you were a smith. Did you forge it?”

“If I only had such skill. This is Eorlund Gray-Mane’s work. My old Skyforge steel broke on Alduin’s head, so I asked Eorlund to make something stronger before I faced the Dragon again. Takes a stubborn hand to work dragonbone, tougher than ebony, but the Skyforge’s flames don’t burn like other forges.”

“Dragonbone?”

“Well, steel clearly wasn’t going to work, and I had a ton of the things lying around gathering dust.”

“Right. Because of course you did.”

“Hey, hunters don’t let any part of their kill go to waste. Besides, I was curious to see if it could be smelted. There’s something potent about using a creature’s own substance on itself, and I expected no less with Dragons; there’s magic imbued in every inch of ‘em. I had one of Alduin’s scales from our battle, so we threw it in the forge, and it did something to the dragonbone. Whiterun’s court wizard coaxed it out and bound it in a grand enchantment while the blade was still warm from the embers, and here we are.”

Durak gave a gruff laugh. “I figured out when you’re telling truth from tall tale, Dragonborn. Truth’s got a lot more to say.”

“No idea what you mean.”

“Mhm. Impressive story. It must’ve worked on that Dragon, ‘cos you carved those brigands up like a pig at a banquet. Mind who you tell that story to, Solen; daresay it’s the most desirable weapon in Skyrim.”

“If it didn’t run out of its charge so damn fast,” Solen said ruefully. “Soul gems are expensive.”

Durak chuckled. “Well, a blade that burns at both edges shouldn’t have any problem with vampires. They’re immune to frost but suffer from flame. Hope they’re still hanging around at Dimhollow.”

“We’re four days off. Guess we’ll be finding out.”

All too soon it was back to trudging through the Pale. The passing weeks were shifting First Seed steadily into Rain’s Hand, the second month of spring, but the snowdrifts still banked as high as they did during the midwinter month of Morning Star. The Legion had done a decent job keeping the road cleared, at least; and where the road had been buried, the horses and their thickly-fetlocked hooves had little issue ploughing through.

Three days after they left the Fort, they found the Hall of the Vigilants – or what was left of it. The vampires had done a thorough job. Nothing remained of it but foundation and a few sad remnants of walls. Tolan had laid his dead Order to rest, but either for lack of wood or time the slain vampiric forces had been left to rot. They were all eerily preserved. No scavenger had touched them, and either their unnatural state of being or the northern ice had stopped decay. Celann decided to amend this oversight, citing the Dawnguard wisdom that an undead wasn’t dead until it burned, and had them all haul the undead bodies into a heap to be cremated.

“Azura preserve us,” Irileth cursed, as they uncovered the remains of something that was not a vampire and clearly not any natural beast – all black withered skin and fangs with skull sockets for eyes. “What evil is this?”

“Death hound,” said Durak, scowling. “One of my wives was ripped apart by one. Evil beasts. I don’t know what the vampires make them out of, but they keep them like dogs.”

They threw it on the pile with the rest. “Much too small for my liking,” Celann muttered. “Hopefully we’ll be making bigger ones later on. Someone get a fire going.”

“Solen, dear,” Rayya prompted, as the Dawnguard fumbled with their flints.

Solen faced the corpse heap and had an unholy bonfire going with a Word. He declined invitations to light the Dawnguard’s campfires in this manner going forward. No sooner had the general excitement of witnessing the Thu’um calmed down, and the Dawnguard had pitched their tents in the snowed remains of the Hall, when a stilted whinny resonated through the pine-thick wilderness, and a trembling barded horse came galloping gladly into the warmth and the company of its fellows. “Poppy!” Solen exclaimed, springing up.

“Poppy?” Irileth echoed.

“The horse Tolan took.” Durak caught the mare’s reins and calmed her. “Shh. Easy.” He cast a cursory eye over the tack, shook his head, passed the horse off to the young Dawnguard on stable duties, and rejoined the seasoned warriors by the campfire. “No blood, no damage on the harness. No struggle. She’s got saddle-sores, but she’s not dead or frozen. Tolan’s just ahead of us.”

“He did say he’d meet us at the Crypt,” said Rayya, staring up the immense mountain they now stood beneath.

“Are we meeting him now?” Irileth asked. “Navigating a mountain in the dark is just asking for trouble.”

“’Course not now,” said Celann, “that’s madness. We’ll meet him at dawn.”

“When we do,” said Solen, “no one say we forgot to ask after him at Fort Dunstad.” Everyone glanced at one another and nodded guiltily.

All too soon Solen felt himself being nudged awake by a boot, and then they were climbing the narrow mountain trail with their horses in nosebags left below. Solen had been up it once before and did not remember the climb fondly, largely because it had little to no steps and snowdrifts that sometimes went up to the hip. “Can’t you Shout this nonsense off, Solen?” Irileth grunted, shovelling her way out of a drift with her elbows.

Solen pointed at the thick snowbanks clinging to the rocks above. “Loud noises and avalanche-prone mountains don’t exactly mix, Housecarl.”

After a few hours of this sort of thing, they stopped at a halfway point up the mountain, which was flattish and the snow only ankle-deep, and marked by a cairnstone wayshrine. It was a rare island of reprieve against the unforgiving slopes, and why soon became apparent. “I think we’re at Dimhollow Crypt,” Irileth declared. She led them a short way up the sloping trail and with her torch she outlined a few old stone steps, half-buried in the snow, leading up to a short footbridge and an even shorter platform outside a fissure in the rocks, chipped out by pickaxes.

Solen gave the old stone steps a kick. “That’s crypt architecture, all right. The Draugr’s favourite style for the four thousandth year running.”

“We’re not the only ones here,” Irileth said, ignoring Solen.

“How can you tell?” asked Celann.

Irileth presented a second, unlit torch. “Found this outside it.”

“Tolan’s?” Durak guessed.

“Most likely.” Irileth turned back to the unwelcoming hole. “It’s still warm.”

Chapter Text

“Die, you filth!” Lokil screamed – and proceeded to do so when a crossbow bolt blossomed between his eyes.

Solen reached him just as the vampire flopped to the ground, and glanced back in annoyance. “He was mine, Celann!”

“Wrong.” Celann strode after him, reloading his crossbow. “You killed plenty back in the upper caverns. That one was mine. For Adavald.”

Solen glanced back to the tiered platforms across the chamber, where the body of the slain Vigilant lay, throat fresh-opened in a pool of his own blood. They’d arrived only in time to hear his vampiric captors execute him. “All right,” Solen supposed, putting up his blade. “Can’t argue with that.”

Celann walked up to Lokil and put a second bolt into the vampire’s face. “You certainly can’t.”

With Durak and Rayya having dispatched of the vampire Lokil’s other two cronies, and Irileth and the other Dawnguard busy securing the upper Dimhollow caverns against any more vampires and Draugr, they now had the subterranean cavern – and the peculiar dais it contained – to themselves. It was easily the most fascinating and unique thing about the whole crypt. “Strange-looking thing this is, ain’t it?” Durak grunted, as the four of them spread out to examine the strange, immaculate circular platform of peaked arches they found themselves standing within. “What d’you reckon this is?”

“It’s old stone, isn’t it?” said Celann, kicking up dust under his boots as he studied the markings on the floor.

“It’s more than that.” Solen ran his hands thoughtfully along one of the arches. “This is ancient. Not Nedic, not Nordic. I almost want to say it’s some form of elven... you see decorative arches like this all the time around the Summerset Isles.”

“Thought you said you came from Hammerfell?” asked Celann.

“He was born in Alinor,” Rayya explained. “Left it pretty young with his uncle, but they still made port around the Isles now and then.”

“Somehow I doubt the High Elves wandered all this way north to build this under a mountain,” Durak growled. “And somehow I really don’t think that matters. It contains the vampire artifact. That bloodsucker and his coven wouldn’t have bothered with Adavald or killed Tolan if it didn’t.”

“Stupid man,” Rayya muttered, recalling how they’d found Tolan’s mangled body within the first chamber of the Crypt, “but at least he died brave. Solen, any thoughts on all of this?”

“Lokil gave me plenty.” Solen counted them off on his fingers. “Orthjolf, our wanted murderer, isn’t a coven leader and isn’t acting alone. He answers to some even more powerful master vampire named Harkon. I think this Harkon is the one orchestrating all these attacks across Skyrim, and Orthjolf and that Vingalmo who got mentioned are his lieutenants of some sort. Lokil thought by finding this artifact he'd elevate himself to the same or higher influence before Celann put a bolt in his face. Clearly that implies this artifact is more than important, it’s a game-changer. I guess vampires enjoy their politics as much as the rest of the mortal world.”

“That’s all well and good, piecing that together from what we overheard before you sneezed,” said Rayya, “but I meant this room.”

“Oh.” Solen rapped his knuckles against one of the many empty braziers that lined the circular dais and resumed his slow lap. “It’s clearly some kind of puzzle. First of its kind to me, though. I didn’t really go crypt-diving in Auridon. But; if this is an elven ruin, I’ll bet my horse there’s magic involved in unsealing it.”

Durak bounced his crossbow thoughtfully on his thigh. “Vampires use magic, and sounded like they got no further for all the extra time they were here and whatever they dragged out of Adavald.”

“You’re an elf,” said Celann, in a bright moment of revelation. “You said these are elven ruins. You do some magic.”

“I said they might be.” Solen arched his brow. “And you told me you didn’t care who built this because it didn’t matter. And are you assuming I can do magic just because I’m an elf?”

“That was Durak, and because you’re a High Elf,” said Celann, “and you set things on gods-damned fire by yelling at them.”

“Shouting,” Solen corrected, “and the Thu’um’s all I got. I’ve been to the College of Winterhold, trust me, I’m a stump. You, on the other hand, are a Breton.”

“And?”

“You’re half-elf. Technically. You make some magic.”

“I’m not a mage!”

“See how it sounds?”

“Boys!” said Rayya, exasperated. “How about you make yourselves useful and figure this out?” She stood in the centre of the room beside a short pentagonal pillar about the width of an outstretched hand. “Whoever built this didn’t leave this here by accident.”

They crowded round it. It was unremarkable aside from the black iron dome affixed in the top. There was a dark cavity within the tooth-like prongs. “So,” Celann said, “who wants to volunteer?”

“Volunteer what?” Rayya frowned.

“Pushing it. Putting something in it. I dunno. Maybe something goes in it? Did we miss any old relics?”

“Not that I saw,” said Solen, “and I have a knack for finding things to put in slots in crypts.”

“He really does,” Rayya remarked, “it’s quite convenient.”

“Convenient, of course,” Celann sighed, “gods forbid if we run into any inconveniences –”

Durak’s gurgle snapped their heads around. Blood gushed from his throat, ripped open from ear to ear. The Orc’s eyes rolled into his head as he collapsed boneless to the floor. His killer, dressed black as a shadow, flicked scarlet drops from the shimmering edge of a silver sword.

“Durak!” Celann bellowed. He jerked up his crossbow and fired. The ambusher pirouetted neatly – the bolt hissed an inch past their cowled head – and two throwing knives were sent hurtling into Celann’s padded chest as the attacker finished their turn, cloak aswirl. The Breton staggered, dropping his crossbow.

 Solen and Rayya drew their blades and rushed the attacker, only for them to vanish on the spot. “LAAS,” Solen barked, and his searching eyes frantically skimmed the room for a life-aura out of place. He wasn’t fast enough – the warning hadn’t even formed on his tongue before the attacker popped back into view and drew a red smile on Celann’s throat.

“Bastard!” Rayya surged forward, but the black-clad rogue skipped backwards, calmly avoiding the twin lashes of her blade. They were smaller than her, small enough to roll under the blades and smash their heels into her hip and knee, buckling her. Their elbow cracked into Rayya’s temple as her head came down, and she hit the stone floor hard. She didn’t get up.

Solen hardly processed the black-armoured rogue bearing down on him, silvery sword in one hand, dagger in the other, with an entirely silent and ruthless stride. At the last second his wits returned, his body moved faster than his mind, and Eldródr whirled in a deadly sweeping scythe, arresting his attacker’s momentum. Yet it hardly daunted them; they slipped into his backswing, and Solen heard the dagger scrape a scar into the metal plate over his kidney. Fast, he thought, be fast, and fell automatically into the sword-dancer’s step – drawing circles with his feet, his blade never really still as he kept his fleet opponent in his view.

But that was a hard thing to do when they kept disappearing on the spot. They vanished like smoke around Solen’s next lunge, then felt the knife scrape again at his armour, probing for weakness. Enough of this. Solen drew breath for a Shout, and instantly the black rogue rematerialized in front of him. Solen didn’t see the green knot of magic clenched tight in their hand until it was launched at him.

Surprise and instinct made Solen put Eldródr up in an attempt to deflect the spell’s brunt, when in hindsight he should have used the Thu’um to make himself immune or get out of its way. The instant it touched the blade, a locking sensation raced down his arms and spread swiftly through every fibre in his body. Solen couldn’t unclench his hands if his life depended on it, and within two seconds he couldn’t move anything; he overbalanced and collapsed to the floor, completely paralyzed. He could breathe a little and move his eyes, but that was all. He couldn’t even make a sound.

The surprise attacker appeared in the corner of Solen’s view, still on silent feet. Solen felt his helmet tugged off his head. He strained, but his body refused to answer, his Voice frozen in his throat like a choking lump of ice. Solen had never felt so horribly, utterly helpless, and when the attacker leaned over him and brandished the dagger blade between his eyes, Solen realized this was it. He was dead. He was going to be.

But one second after another trickled by. The attacker tilted their head, as if deciding where to begin. Impossible to see who was under the cowl, to even find the eyes of his would-be slayer and glare defiance down. Solen racked his mind with the time left to him, but no memory within or out of Skyrim placed an acrobatic knife-throwing spell-slinging black-leather assailant in his life, or anyone like them. Yet more seconds trickled by, still no mortal agony or crushing blackness, and Solen’s dread morphed swiftly to anger. Who was this person taunting him by dangling his life in front of him on a dagger’s edge? Who sent them? Thalmor? Snowborn? Some back-alley mobster from Sentinel calling in some forgotten debt? A relation of someone he’d killed, out for vengeance? Why are you waiting? Show your face, dammit! Who are you?!

The blade disappeared, but not into him. The attacker unhurriedly grabbed his head and turned it carefully so it lay on one side. Anger became confusion. What are you doing...? They were backing up a pace. Solen had a good view of their boots. They were nice looking things, he thought idly, looked well-made, right before one of them swung at his face with severe velocity.

The stars came out.

~

It took Solen quite a while to piece himself back together after he woke up; the first piece being that he was awake and very much not dead; he was lying on his face, which hurt abysmally; his legs were somehow higher than his head; oh, he was lying down a stairwell; wait a moment, what stairwell?

Solen jerked his head up. This had been one flat floor when he’d lost consciousness, yet here he was lying in a crumpled, drooling heap at the bottom of a stair-ringed pit, with the floor cracks aglow in eerie purple light. This was definitely the same arched dais in Dimhollow, wasn’t it? Those arches were familiar, so why were the braziers burning, and where had the stairs come from, and that monolith underneath that pentagonal column with the hand stuck in it?

Oh, Solen thought blankly. We’ve sunk.

He also belatedly realized he could move again. Solen dragged himself upright, clutching his face to make sure it stayed on. His nose was broken and one eye was almost swollen shut. He looked around with the remainder, piecing things together. The circular platform seemed to have sunk eight feet downward, judging by the height the centre column was now. The monolithic sarcophagus was what it had revealed, but whatever treasure lay inside was long gone. Celann lay beside the monolith with empty gaping eyes. His severed right hand was impaled in a gruesome spike that jutted out of the pentagonal column, from between the teeth of that iron dome. Durak was sprawled on the topmost step above, and Rayya was –

“Rayya,” Solen moaned, and staggered to his wife’s side. He feared the worst, she lay so still, yet when he gently turned her head to his he felt her breath across his cheek. Thank Tu’whacca. He almost sobbed in relief. He patted her cheek gently to rouse her, but she was still adrift somewhere in the constellations, by the cloud persisting in her flickering eyes. The back of her headwrap was bloody where her head had hit the stone.

The rogue. The final piece locked into place with all the force of that boot in his face. Solen gritted his jaw and glared at the monolithic tomb again. Empty. Artifact gone. Stolen under their noses – under his broken, kicked-in, deliberately-not-dead nose. Solen had never been so stung with indignity and rage. Celann and Durak dead, murdered in cowardly combat, Rayya nearly among them, and he should have been lying in a pool of his own blood but – you left me alive on purpose!

That was going to be the thief’s biggest mistake of their life.

“Solen!” Irileth’s commanding cry rang through the quiet cavern. “Solen, report! What happened here?”

A chorus of feet drummed across the footbridge. She’d brought the rest of the Dawnguard with her. “Irileb,” Solen called back, in what was the most piteous yet ridiculous rasp he’d ever heard himself utter. He pulled himself together, as much as one with a stuffed nose could. “Irileb!” he shouted, as she and the other Dawnguard appeared under the arches. “Look abber Rayya. I’m goin’ abber dem.”

If they hadn’t been surrounded by their dead comrades, they probably would’ve laughed. Except Irileth, who never laughed on principle. “What happened here?!” she snarled.

Solen snatched up his helmet and where Eldródr had fallen. “I’ll ebblain later.”

“You’ll explain now! Solen! Solen!”

Irileth was fast, but Solen was faster. He leapt up the broad tiered steps and faced a second, larger footbridge leading to the yet-unexplored side of the chamber, where it seemed the crypt continued – knowing crypts, leading to a back door. Solen heard Irileth dashing for him and shot himself out of the Dunmer’s reach for good measure. “WULD NAH KEST!” The Whirlwind Sprint carried him right across the bridge and almost into the high wall on the far side. Solen slammed on his helmet and took off up the stairs.

Solen heard Irileth shouting still, but put it out of his pounding mind. The thief’s trail was plain as day. They’d had to fight their way out of the ruins with the artifact, and clearly they were capable, to have put down gargoyles. Gargoyles. Solen almost stopped and stared, caught off-guard by such unexpected familiarity. He didn’t think there were any outside of Hammerfell, although these things were much smaller and stouter than the ancient stone sentinels guarding Anka-Ra ruins. Briefly he wondered which kind had come first.

Into the next chamber. Draugr. All dead. Well, one of them was twitching slightly, but the rest had been hacked into limbless torsos or impaled with ice spikes, melting slowly in the musty air. The rusted gates were opened, the hidden doors unsealed.

Into the next chamber – all right, this one was worthy of the title amphitheatre. Stone steps everywhere, dead Draugr and dismembered skeletons littered all over them. In the centre of the room was an upraised platform, full of empty thrones. Solen ran the length of the room around a step and almost stepped in the ashy puddle of something that might have been a Dragon Priest. As if the artifact and his dignity had not been enough, the thief had robbed him of all the fun at the end of the dungeon crawl –

– and then he heard the oh-so-familiar whispering chant.  “Gob bam it,” Solen muttered, as he caught sight of the Word Wall in the shadows of the top-right corner. Really, of course there was a Word Wall here, where wasn’t a Word Wall when Draugr crypts were involved?

Well, it was on the way out, and he wasn’t about to leave ancient wisdom behind to moulder for his non-existent successor. Solen sprang up the steps, nearly knocked his teeth out when he misjudged the height of the last ledge, picked himself up and staggered against the Word Wall’s scintillating blue rune. Normally he did these things with a little more anticipation and ceremony, but today he slammed his palm into the luminescent stone and unceremoniously quaffed the power into his soul like mead at a drinking contest.

Gaan. The Word didn’t so much Shout within him as warble. Solen had no idea what it meant, but since he almost fainted on the spot, he supposed it had something to do with draining energy. Learning a Word’s meaning usually meant feeling some clue to its effect, which meditation or a helpful Dragon translator revealed. Good, splendid. Solen peeled himself away. On with the chase. He’d meditate on it later.

Into the next chamber – no, not a chamber. Corridor. Stairs and gates. All of them open. They led uphill and into a snow-blown tunnel. Outside.

Straight into a blizzard, or snowfall that seemed intent on turning into one. Solen was almost swept off his feet. He caught himself on the rime-slick cave mouth and stepped out into the snow. He didn’t recognize this part of the world – had the Crypt run straight through and popped him out the other side? Snowy pines dotted the slopes; stubborn, frosty bushes clung around the roots. There was no chance of seeing the horizon in the worsening weather, with night falling fast on the mountain – Solen couldn’t tell if they’d been in the Crypt for half a day or a day and a half. For all he knew they could’ve been, depending how long he’d been kicked out of action. Long enough for any tracks the thief might’ve left in the snow to be swept out of –

No. Not quite – in the last of the light he saw a string of footprints outlined in the snow, being filled in fast, wending their way down the pine-wooded slopes. There’s still a chance. Solen threw his head back. “LOK BAH KOOR!”

The winds died and the snowfall stopped – or at least these things should have happened, if Solen could pronounce the second Word of the Shout properly as Lok Vah Koor. “Bah,” he growled, pinching his nose, “Bah!” He only aggravated his injury further. “Bam thing,” Solen growled, and Shouted again. “LOK BAH KOOR!”

He thought the wind died for a moment. Maybe that was wishful thinking. Solen’s fury returned full-force. “When I finb you,” he vowed in tones of dire vengeance, “I’m b’eaking your nobe firb. Then I’m S’oubing you ob a clib.” Thus, in the failing daylight, in unfamiliar terrain, unable to subdue the weather, and on his own, Solen charged off in pursuit.

Ten minutes later he decided that was the poorest decision he’d made in his life. With one eye almost completely out of commission and not a torch to his name, he kept losing the tracks, and the snow only kept falling. Ten minutes after that, he lost them for good. No amount of pacing, retracing or cursing revealed them again. Three repetitions of the Aura Whisper Shout (with the most strangled annunciation of Laas in the history of the Voice) revealed a mountainside barren of any life force but his own. To top it all off, the snowfall was thickening, and he still couldn’t pronounce that stupid Word.

Solen had to admit defeat. It was something he hadn’t had to do often or in a long time. He hated doing so. He was the Dragonborn, wasn’t he? He was the one who defeated, not got defeated. That was how having an obscenely powerful Thu’um worked. Not that it’d done him much good against that wretched black-clad rogue with the paralyzing touch. One spell had left him on the ground like a severed marionette...

“Bam it,” Solen muttered again, and plonked himself petulantly into the snow. His face still throbbed, especially his nose, all of it somehow hurting worse in the cold. He mulched some clean snow in his hand and pressed it against his nose and swollen eye. The blistering cold shocked some common sense back into him and brought him out of stinging anger into frigid reality – he was exposed on a mountainside in the Pale, at night, alone, well on course to freezing to death before the sun rose. And that was nothing compared to what Rayya was going to do to him when she heard about this reckless escapade.

“Okay,” Solen said aloud. “I’m goin’ back.” He scraped the snow off his face, got up, and then realized in his mad haste to follow the fading tracks of his tormentor, he’d completely neglected his pathfinding habits. He’d left no marks on the tree trunks, taken no note of visual landmarks. In short: he was exposed, alone at night, on course to freezing to death, and lost.

“Brillianb,” Solen muttered, around chattering teeth. “Jus’ brillianb, Solen. Seben years of Skyrim trabel really showin’. Fan-blooby-tastib.”

Well, heading uphill was probably as sensible a place to start as any. He’d run downhill most of the way. Solen set off at a waddling trudge, sinking up to his knees with every step. He resigned himself to a long nocturnal march calling for help. He wrapped his cloak tightly around his shoulders and looked up to attempt the Clear Skies Shout again.

Which was how he saw the pair of giant descending talons half a second before he was hoisted into the sky.

Chapter Text

Solen had taken to the skies of Tamriel a few times across his life, but this was the first occasion where he’d been under the Dragon. There was nothing more disorienting than the sensation of falling the wrong way. He watched the ground under his feet shrink out of sight, obscured in the soggy, frigid clouds as his snatcher bore him higher and higher on churning wings, rumbling and humming for what passed as laughter.

Solen had been involved in enough Dragon attacks on mortals to know he had seconds to free himself or be dropped to his death. The talons pinned his arms tight against him, and no amount of wriggling would get him free of the grasping footclaws, but his head was mobile, and he had a great deal of fury to channel into the Thu’um. He glared above him to the Dragon’s softer underside. “YOL!”

This was no greeting – this was a scorching hot blast of flame against the Dragon’s underscales that got its attention with a shrieking yelp. The talons slackened just enough for Solen to wrench an arm from their grasp. The Dragon’s upward ascent faltered as it struggled to reclaim its grip. “BUS!” Solen barked, then swore. Why did so many Words of Power rely on F? “YOL!” A second blast of flame stunned the Dragon again. Solen finally pulled himself loose of the faltering talons and fell to earth.

Then he realized he’d better relearn how to say F very fast or he was very much dead all the same. He had no idea how high he’d been scooped, so thick was the obscuring cloud and whirling snow, but the answer was high enough when he failed to hit a snowbank within three seconds of the fall. “Beim – Beim – Fffbeim – Fbeim! BEIM! FEIM!”

Just in time. No sooner did the Shout’s magic grip him, rendering him spiritlike and invulnerable to all harm, when the unyielding ground manifested under him. He bounced off the flat, hard sheet of snow, and kept bouncing – off trees, boulders, head over heels down the mountain slope, in a dizzying spiral of chaos. He glimpsed a large pine trunk rising up in his path to arrest his momentum, and two seconds before he hit it the Shout wore off. He collided with enough force to shake every branch in the tree. It was like being hit by a mammoth. He slumped dazed and completely winded, head ringing like a bell, trying to remember how to breathe.

His neck ached. Consciousness was resigning in protest. Solen’s eyes slid shut as he drifted. This is not my day...

“You’re not dead, Dovahkiin.”

The Dragon’s words, ironically, pulled Solen from the haze of tempting, fatal sleep. All his bodily aches and pains came rushing in to remind themselves, but Solen’s warrior blood was back up, and every hurt only told him that he was still alive.

“You don’t sound disappointed,” he fired back, jerking fully awake. Finally, a bit of luck; the collision with the tree had jolted his broken nose back in the right direction. At the expense of disjointing what felt like everything else. Solen winced, pulled faces, spat blood, and peeled himself off the tree trunk. He’d left a sizeable dent, but at least his brains were still inside his skull. Solen groped for his helmet and pulled it off his pounding head. Breath by breath, the world realigned into focus, and he negotiated his way back to standing.

Wiping the fresh blood pouring from his nose, Solen staggered out from under the pines and into the open. There was still a Dragon lurking somewhere about, after all. He drew Eldródr and tensed, expecting the brute to come pouncing over the pines. “Well?” he shouted into the night. “You got my attention.”

The Dragon didn’t reappear in the open. Solen heard it moving around him, creaking the pines. Branches crackled. Big ones, by the splintering. Its soft laughter was almost missed beneath the wind. “Shall we play, Dovahkiin?”

“Play? Oof!” Solen was knocked flat from behind. He glimpsed the wide, leaf-shaped fan on the end of its tail pass over his head as it vanished into the darkness. Blood Dragon. One of the weaker subtypes, and by his estimation one of the most cunning. “All right,” Solen grunted, picking himself up. “Let’s have some fun.”

If he could keep it talking, hear where it was coming from – but what was the wind heaving the trees, and what was the Dragon’s bulk prowling through them?

Stop the wind then, dummy, said the internal voice of common sense. “Vah,” Solen tested, relieved that he finally could pronounce the damn Word, then bellowed to the sky, “LOK VAH KOOR!”

At last, the colourless ever-expanding funnel of power erupted into the sky, blasting back the storm, killing the wind and the falling snow. Stars glowed down from a velvet sky, and the hillside grew misty-blue in Secunda’s moonlight.

“Very clever, Dovahkiin.” The Dragon’s voice was a low, melodic hum in the becalmed night. “But not enough to find me.”

Solen whipped around as the bristling tip of a pine was snapped off its stalk and came crashing to the ground. Where was the blasted creature?

Use the seeking Shout, then, dummy.

Give me a break, I’ve had two concussions. “LAAS YAH NIR.”

A flicker of red among the trees – a big flicker. Solen pretended not to notice it, but kept his good eye trained on it. He watched it circle around slowly, prowling out from the cluster of pines to crawl up a snowbound rock face – except where was it? He saw the life-aura but where was its body? Surely it couldn’t be completely –

Solen went sprawling again as the Dragon’s cone of force knocked him flat. It laughed as it went slithering back into the cover of the trees. Solen lay on the ground staring at the sky, wondering how his night was going to get worse, now that his disoriented self was fighting an invisible Dragon.

And then he realized something else. I didn’t hear the Dragon Shout. Tall Papa, I’m hallucinating.

You don’t hallucinate an Unrelenting Force Shout, dummy.

“Come on, Dovahkiin,” chirred the creature. “I heard you were great fun.”

“Great fun?” Solen gasped, picking himself off the ground again. “If you like – nng – your soul being ripped – ngh! – from the currents of Time, then yeah – I’ve been told I’m a hoot.” He trained his hearing on the forest. Dragons were gabby creatures by nature, he’d track it down with his ears if not his eyes. “You got a name, Dragon?”

“Of course,” it said, “but you aren’t worthy of it yet.” The voice came from the pines in front of him, and Solen drew breath to show it what Unrelenting Force really looked like, when suddenly it said from behind him, “We haven’t even started.” Then, from his left elbow. “Show me what you can do. I want to see.” Solen spun and swiped respectively, but Eldródr hit nothing.

An invisible Dragon that also knew how to throw its Voice. This was shaping up into a very bizarre and frustrating encounter. Solen stood in the open, cudgelling his brain for a solution, as Eldródr swung an unanswered challenge into the night. A Dragon that refused to fight in the open, that was a first. He’d put himself in an ideal situation to be attacked, ready and willing to test his Thu’um against the beast’s, as the Dragons that attacked him always wanted; but still it was hiding, toying with him like some overgrown cat – and by the sounds of it, wholly for its own amusement.

Well, Solen had had enough of being ambushed and tossed about. Standing around drawing circles in his makeshift clearing was clearly not getting him anywhere with the cunning brute. If the Dragon wasn’t going to fight like a warrior, then he wouldn’t fight like a warrior, either. “All right,” Solen said. “I’ll show you.”

“Find me, Dovahkiin.” Crackling, crashing branches. A massive one the girth of a Nord’s torso came flying over the treetops and landed a few yards from where Solen stood. “You can’t, can you? All you know is open slaughter.”

Solen walked slowly beneath the trees. “I’ll admit you’re a different creature, Dragon,” he mused aloud. “Not like the others I’ve slain. Charging in. Thundering Thu’um. Throwing their weight around.”

Another soft, musical laugh. “That’s why they are dead, Dovahkiin.”

“I can promise you won’t be much better off if you keep this up.” The Dragon’s prancing through the canopies had carpeted the snowy soil with pine needles and branches. Solen sifted his boots gently and soundlessly through the rustling detritus and put his back beneath a slender pine trunk. “Here you are, tempting Oblivion. If you want me dead, you’d best get on with it. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Are you finally playing, Dovahkiin?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.” Solen crouched on the balls of his feet, greatsword poised loosely on his back. “Find me, surprise me, and you win the game.”

“What do I win, Dovahkiin?”

“You get to take me flying again. And I won’t say a Word.”

Another laugh. “Oh, yes. A dovah without wings is no dovah.”

This time, Solen held his tongue. He waited, and he listened. Eyes were easily fooled, but a pair of well-trained ears asked more questions. The pines creaked as the Dragon’s bulk slithered through them. The soft pad of snow. No hard definitive crunch of an unpractised step; this was an experienced stealth predator. Wise enough to know that Solen had chosen his hiding place deliberately. No amount of Voice-throwing or invisibility would conceal pine needles shifting against stark white snow. As for the pine tree Solen had chosen, it was not intended as protection. If the Dragon touched it, he’d feel every tremor whipping under the bark.

Solen plucked a pine needle and let the breeze tug it from his fingers, watched the way it spiralled gently to earth. The wind still blew from behind. Good. Because the air was growing increasingly frigid. Soft white mist puffed from Solen’s mouth with every slow, measured breath. The pines had stopped creaking. His foe was on the ground, stalking...

He felt the softest tremor – something had ever so gently nudged the tree. Solen’s grip slowly tightened around Eldródr’s hilt. Then the first noiseless puff of vapour slithered around the trunk.

Solen sprang around and out of hiding. Eldródr sang into the icy air in a great thrusting sweep. The tip came away red.

A drop of blood slithered out of thin air and plopped on the snow. Solen smirked. “Surprise.”

The Dragon melted into visibility in front of him. It was the most remarkable thing Solen had ever witnessed. It was as if every one of the Dragon’s scales had flipped itself inside out in a satisfying water-like ripple, starting from the tip of its slashed snout to the end of its leaf-bladed tail. It was smaller than Solen had expected, smaller even than its Blood cousins, with long quivering frills along its head, tail and spine, and enormous green eyes with the horizontal pupils turned round and black in the night.

“I never said what I won if I surprised you,” Solen said.

“My soul, I expect,” the Dragon replied, in a very small voice.

“I’d prefer your name,” said Solen.

It hesitated. Solen knew why. Mortals introduced themselves as a sign of courtesy; Dragons revealed their names only to those whom they thought deserved it. A Dragon’s name was a Shout of its own and a bond on its soul. It defined them within and without. It could be given as an oath of allegiance to an equal, or yielded as a prize by the vanquished to the victor, or (in the case of the most confident Dragons) flaunted as a boast of power. All in all, it was something precious, and for the vast majority of Dragons, something not given lightly.

But Solen had won the game, and thus he was rewarded. “Fiir Nar Aan.”

“Fiirnaraan,” Solen repeated. As far as Dragon names went, that one was rather elegant. He adjusted his grip on Eldródr’s hilt. “Now, Fiirnaraan, I expect you’re wondering how this night is going to end.”

“I sense you do not want to play anymore,” the Dragon said.

“You’d be correct.”

A stiff, awkward sort of silence settled between them. “Aren’t you going to kill me?”

“Aren’t you going to fight back?”

Fiirnaraan blinked his viridescent eyes. “You don’t wish my soul?”

“I wish for a lot of things,” said Solen, “self-recharging weapon enchantments and waterproof armour chief among them. At this point in time, Dragon souls are rather low on the list. I’ve got plenty. Don’t mistake that for complacency. I don’t like eating greens with my steak, but I still eat them if I think they’re going to snatch me off a mountainside and play Bounce the Dragonborn off the bloody rock face.”

Fiirnaraan released a quick exhale. “No more trouble,” he promised.

Solen slowly lowered Eldródr. Moving just as slowly, and a little wonderingly, Fiirnaraan withdrew his head and licked at his laid-open nose. “You’re a different cut of cloth, aren’t you?” Solen asked eventually.

Fiirnaraan’s head-frills quivered like a bird’s wings. “Oh, yes. I like to think so. So are you, Dovahkiin. You are not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting? You mind if I sit down? Kind of freezing to death here. Thanks.” Solen eased himself onto the pine’s bulging tree roots and wrapped himself in his snow-damp cloak. Which would probably only make him colder, but at least it kept the wind out.

“I anticipated the bane of Alduin to be... eager to prove his Thu’um.” Fiirnaraan settled himself across from Solen on a half-felled pine and wrapped his green-black body around the snowy trunk like a giant serpent, vapour puffing from his nostrils. “Now I admit curiosity. Does the Dovahkiin not take satisfaction in killing the dov?”

“There is satisfaction, don’t get me wrong. There’s no sensation in Tamriel that compares to absorbing a Dragon’s soul, except maybe when my wife gets creative in bed. But do I see a Dragon and immediately want to destroy it? Not unless they deserve it. And I don’t think you do. A Dragon of your talents has had plenty of opportunity to make off with a Dawnguard or two in the night, but you’ve only been sticking to their sheep. You are the Dragon from the Canyon, aren’t you? The one giving Isran a headache?”

Solen had never had a chance to speak face to face with a Blood Dragon before, anything that went beyond combat Thu’um at least, and he was enjoying the myriad of ways the fleshy frills on the Dragon’s head flared and quivered with his expressions. “Vahzah,” Fiirnaraan replied, and he seemed proud to be recognized. “I was not taking the sheep to frighten your Dawnguard. I was hungry. And I like my Canyon. No one else had claimed it before the smoky mortal entered my valley and denned in the old stone towers.”

“Yet here you are, sitting with a beat-up Dragonborn in a pine forest on a mountainside halfway across Skyrim.” Solen packed some snow and pine needles into a rudimentary compress and pressed it against his puffy eye.

“I was curious,” said Fiirnaraan, tilting his head. “I had not seen you before.”

“That makes two of us.” Solen furrowed his brow. “That thing you can do – go invisible – how? I know Blood Dragons are good at the whole camouflaging thing, but that was something else.”

“Simple, Dovahkiin. I ask and I answer.”

Solen stared. “You’re not telling me that’s Thu’um.”

“Oh, yes. What else?” Fiirnaraan’s scales rippled like water, and he vanished on the spot. Looking carefully, Solen realized it wasn’t total invisibility, the light bent a little strangely around the concealed body; but such detail was easily missed in the chaos of battle, or by someone not looking especially hard.

“But you didn’t say a thing,” Solen protested, a little indignantly. “You have to Shout to use the Voice...”

“Ahh, Dovahkiin.” Fiirnaraan rippled back into view, all his frills flared wide. “You are Thuri, first Voice – surely you know that one does not need to Shout to hear the Word within.”

“Well, yeah, that’s how you learn them, but using them –” Solen stopped. Repeated his encounter in his mind. The silent Force. He faced Fiirnaraan anew. “You’re telling me that you can Shout without actually Shouting?”

“Precisely, Dovahkiin.” Smug again. There was no mistaking when Fiirnaraan was smug. “There are no limits to the potential of Thu’um. The Word is within already. You Shout from Bormahu, the great Dragon-Father, as we do. The Word comes from Him. The Power, from Him. It exists already. To Shout gives the Power a shape for the mind to cling to. But when you do not need to persuade a mind to recognize the Power, then the Word no longer needs a shape. Gein tiinvak voth nahlot. One speaks with silence.”

Fiirnaraan rocked back on his talons, his pine perch creaking ominously beneath his weight. “It is a concept my brothers do not understand. To them, victory is found by the biggest and loudest. But I was never going to match them in battle. Bormahu shaped me small and cunning, to whisper in shadows and exist unseen. Eyes to see in the blackest night, ears to hear the softest breath. I shaped my Thu’um to match.”

He peered intently at Solen. “What do you think of that, Dovahkiin? You are quiet, now.”

Because Solen felt the chill of the night sinking its teeth deeper into him every second. He was impressed, of course, very much so, even slightly jealous, but being cold had a way of numbing you to even the most extraordinary things. “It’s exceptional,” Solen said, trying not to let his teeth chatter, “and I see why you’d take pride in it, but I don’t suppose you might like to consider a fire?”

Fiirnaraan graciously obliged, and set about dragging some pine detritus into a heap. Solen was little help. His wet cloak and armour had frozen stiffly against him during their conversation, and his limbs were numb and clumsy. He did ignite the heap of branches, as it seemed Fiirnaraan could not – “My fire burns only within, Dovahkiin, not without.” – and soon the pair of them were crouched in front of a roaring bonfire, which staved the frigid lung-scorching chill and soon had Solen thawing out. “Does your flame not burn within also?” inquired Fiirnaraan, watching the Altmer stamping life back into his feet.

“Not very well.” Solen smiled brightly up at him. “Mortal limitations, not Thu’um.”

“Mortals fascinate me, to some end,” said Fiirnaraan contemplatively. “So little they have in common with the dov.”

“You’re not so different from this mortal.” Solen rubbed his hands together and bared them in front of the golden glow. “You’re a hunter. You take pleasure in a quiet, clean kill, a warm burrow, and a full-fed stomach. In that regard, we’re not unalike. And just like me, Isran also finds you a pain in the arse.”

Isran. Solen felt a candle ignite in his brain. “Isran still wants you dead, you know. He hates you stealing his sheep.”

“The smoky mortal dislikes that he cannot see me.”

“Well, what if we changed that? The Dawnguard’s not leaving the Canyon and you aren’t relocating. What if we came to an agreement?”

“Agreement?” Fiirnaraan tilted his head horizontal. “What would that entail?”

“Your skillset and your... y’know, wings, they put you in a very ideal position for us to use.”

“Use?” Fiirnaraan bared his fangs. “I do not intend to be used.”

“Sorry, wrong word – uhh, think of it like a transaction.”

Solen had made a negotiation with a Dragon only once in his life, and the key was to figure out and use the Dragon’s language. Odahviing had been motivated by battle. Any talk that drifted away from prospective bloodshed, maiming and general destruction lost his attention. Solen needed to figure out what could drive Fiirnaraan to become the Dawnguard’s prospective new ally. “If you can be our eyes and ears across Skyrim, the Dawnguard can reward you. Keep you fed.”

“I can feed myself, Dovahkiin. I am quite good at it.”

“I know, I know –”

“The smoky bearded mortal intruded upon my territory.”

“That I also know –”

“It is not difficult for me to steal a sheep.”

“So you’ve demonstrated,” Solen said quickly, “but this way you’d never have to steal another one.”

Fiirnaraan’s frills drooped. “But where is the fun? I do not like the sound of arrangements.”

Come on, Solen, find his language. “You want amusement? Trust me, we’ll give you plenty of fun in exchange.”

At last, Solen had Fiirnaraan’s attention. The Blood Dragon un-tilted his head and affixed one great green eye on Solen. “Fun?”

“Yeah. Fun. Just the kind of fun you’re good at.” Finally, he’d landed on the right words. He latched onto the vernacular and ran with it. “Look, clearly you followed us all the way from the Canyon, and I know Blood Dragons have the most absurdly honed senses of all your brethren –” A bit of flattery never hurt. “– did you overhear much about our mission against vampires?”

“Somewhat.” The Dragon flicked his tail. “They sound like more boring mortals.”

“Oh, they’re the most un-boring mortals you’ll ever find.” Solen strode around the bonfire, adopting a conspiratorial air. “They’re immortal, actually. Blood-drinkers. Surprise attackers. They prey on us like you prey on the Dawnguard’s sheep.” Solen paused and looked around, as if wary of being overheard, then leaned close and whispered, “They can go invisible too.”

Fiirnaraan’s tail stopped swishing, so rigid had his attention become. “They sound dangerous. Clever.”

“Cunning,” Solen agreed. “But I doubt they’re as cunning as you. They think Dragons are big stupid brutes. Why, I bet you could get right up behind them and they wouldn’t even notice. Not that you’d need to get so close to play the game.”

“They sound like fun to play with,” Fiirnaraan said, his frills aquiver with excitement.

“You want to hear the best part?” said Solen. “They only come out at night.”

Fiirnaraan bristled his wings in anticipation of the challenge. “Oh, yes. I like the sound of this game.”

“Game – yes – exactly. The best game you’ll ever play. Vampires are always playing games too, always scheming and plotting. The Dawnguard want to play them too, but the vampires...” Solen looked around furtively again. “Well, the vampires cheat.”

“No!” Fiirnaraan brindled.

“Oh yes,” Solen nodded gravely. “They don’t want the Dawnguard to know about the games, because then they think they won’t win. Selfish gits, if you ask me. If you can change that, we’ll always have food waiting for you in Fort Dawnguard.”

Fiirnaraan licked his teeth. “Sheep?” he persisted. “I have become partial to the taste of sheep.”

“Absolutely. We’ll even roast it for you if you want. So, is it a deal?”

“The Canyon remains mine?”

“Of course.”

“Geh, Dovahkiin. We have an arrangement.”

“Brilliant. Simply brilliant.” Solen stepped backwards, hard-pressed to contain his laugh. Isran is going to love this. “Okay. So. I expect you want to hear about your first target.”

“Oh, yes.” Fiirnaraan arched up on his hind legs, wings flared. His pine tree perch groaned piteously. “Where is the sosvulonah? Where do I begin my search?” Suddenly he went erect – his frills arched forward, and half his body rippled into its perfect camouflage, like a predator poised to hide from approaching prey. “Is it with the mortals coming this way?”

“Mortals?”

“Six of them.” The Dragon’s green eyes had turned a soft pinky-red. Was he using a silently-spoken Aura Whisper? Solen felt a peculiar mixture of awe and jealousy. “They are making a great deal of noise,” he observed.

Solen felt a surge of hope. “Are they looking for something? Someone?”

Fiirnaraan listened again. “One of them sounds very angry.”

Solen laughed. “That’s gotta be Rayya. My allies, Fiirnaraan – our allies. You should meet them.”

“I don’t want to meet them.” Fiirnaraan grew sulky. “I want to play the game.”

“Okay – okay – game first. Plenty of time to meet in Dayspring Canyon. One of our enemies got away from us. Slipped out from that same back entrance I did, and probably started putting as much distance between themselves and the Crypt as possible. They have a powerful artifact of some kind with them. Can you find and follow them? See where they go?”

Fiirnaraan needed no further prompting. His wings unfurled with a tremendous whoosh, and off he soared into the night. Solen stood by the burned-out remains of the bonfire, leeching the last warmth he could from the smouldering embers, until the Dawnguard’s shouts finally reached his ears.

They appeared over a snowbank a few minutes later, and the sight of their torches had never been so welcome. “Rayya,” Solen exclaimed in relief, jogging forward to meet them; Rayya headed the crew, looking alert as ever. “Rayya, thank the gods you’re –” Then he caught her furious expression and raised his hands defensively. “Rayya, I can explain.”

“Oh, you’d better! You ran off – alone – after that rogue that bested you? Do you have a death wish, man?!”

“No, of course not – ouch! Rayya, my ear!”

“Look at your face! You couldn’t fight a skeever off, let alone a shadow-jumping cutthroat!”

“I’m not helpless ow ow ow!”

“Don’t interrupt, Solenarren! This is how I find you, two miles down the mountainside in the dead of night, half-frozen with an eye swelled shut! Did you get the guy? Of course not! You got lost!”

Rayya continued in this vein for several minutes while Irileth and the Dawnguard took extreme interest in their surroundings and Solen intermittently defended himself and begged her to stop twisting his ear. Finally Rayya let go and pulled him into a tight embrace, and Solen felt the guilt flood in. She only grew this fierce when she’d been so worried sick. “I’m fine,” he assured her, much more quietly, and squeezed her with all his strength to prove it. “Really, Rayya, I’m all right.”

“You promise me here and now,” Rayya growled against his chest, “you never run off like that again.”

“I promise, Rayya.”

“I don’t care if you’re the gods-damned saviour of the world, you still need someone at your back.”

“I know, love.”

Irileth cleared her throat, sensing the hostilities had ended. “Too late to climb back up,” she said. “We’ll camp down here tonight. Start making our way back to Dayspring Canyon in the morning. Solen, sit down and I’ll straighten that nose out.”

Thoughts returned gloomily to their failed mission, and their losses, as the Dawnguard recruits set about rebuilding a fire and constructing lean-tos against the pines. Only it wasn’t completely failed, Solen thought, and he realized that the last hope they had of following up the vampire artifact rested with a Dragon he had only met that night.

And that was, upon reflection, probably the most foolish thing he’d done so far. Paarthurnax, an actual Dragon, had warned Solen once in one of their audiences that it was wise not to trust his kind. It clashed with Solen’s better nature, which was to try and see the good in everyone, Dragons included.

But there were exceptions to every rule. And besides, Solen was the foremost expert on Dragon souls. He knew a good one when he saw one.

He hoped.

Chapter Text

“Tolan dead, Celann and Durak dead, and no artifact.” Isran glowered like a Second Seed thunderhead. “Forgive me if I don’t welcome you back to Fort Dawnguard with open arms, Dragonborn.”

Isran was taking it better than Solen had anticipated. He’d rehearsed his report every night on the two-week ride back from the Pale to Fort Dawnguard, and so far the post-mission briefing was going better than expected. “And that’s understandable,” Solen allowed, “but we’re not totally at ends here.”

“No, we have that... rogue, thief, scoundrel, assassin.” Isran dryly listed off the multiple names Solen had described the surprise assailant with. “The mystery man or woman who cut down two of the finest warriors I’ve ever known as if they were goats for slaughter, yet spared you. Why do you think that is, Dragonborn?”

“I don’t know.” Solen had brooded on that too. Discussed with Rayya over every possible enemy he’d ever made and got away, but the answer always boiled back down to unfamiliarity. “I just know that they took great pains to make sure their boot landed in just the right way across my face.”

They strode out onto the airy Dawnguard battlements, aglow beneath a golden Rain’s Hand sun. “Whoever this rogue is,” Isran growled, “they’re sympathetic to the vampires. They’re our enemy and must be put down. I’m surprised a hunter like yourself didn’t get after them.”

“He tried,” said Rayya coolly, “but tracks and common sense have a habit of disappearing in snowfall.”

“Anyway, I do have someone tailing them, I’ll have you know,” Solen added pointedly, folding his arms. “The Dawnguard’s latest, uh... asset.”

“‘Asset’?” Isran echoed. “Only I decide if something is an asset to the Dawnguard, elf.”

“It’s a Dragon,” said Rayya.

“What?” Isran stopped and spun around.

“Not just any Dragon,” Solen added quickly. “He can turn invisible.”

The long silence that followed was anything but encouraging. Aware how he probably sounded, Solen cleared his throat and met Isran’s stare. “If you’re worried, don’t be. Dragons have eyes that can see a mouse moving a mile below, and this one was a Blood Dragon – ears and noses better than any wolf’s. They can practically see in the dark. And, you know, he flies. So, he’s a good tracker, is what I’m, is what I’m saying.”

Isran growled through his teeth. “The only useful thing you have done for me, Dragonborn, is bring back information about the enemy. By the sounds of it, Celann and Durak would have easily done the same.”

“If they hadn’t been cut down, aye,” said Rayya tersely. “Better than no one returning with not even that, isn’t it?”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t know why I wasn’t killed,” Solen added irritably. “I’m so sorry I’m not a lying stiff in Dimhollow.”

“I don’t want apologies, I want results.”

“Then send me out again. I’ve got contacts all over Skyrim, I’ll pull them into looking into this Harkon coven.”

“Contacts? Like the invisible Dragon?”

“Oh, yes,” said Fiirnaraan’s disembodied voice.

Isran had his warhammer drawn in one lithe motion before Solen had even processed who’d spoken. The Redguard’s dark, wild eyes raked the sunny, bright-lit battlements around them, poised to attack. “Who’s there?” he snarled. “Show yourself!”

Solen looked carefully – there it was, that subtle visual imperfection where the light bent a little strangely around the seams of Fiirnaraan’s scales. “Stop that,” he berated the vampire hunter. “He’s shy enough without you threatening to clobber his face in. Glad you could make it back.”

And glad I wasn’t wrong about you, Solen added to himself, as the Blood Dragon gracefully manifested atop the circular ramparts of the wall-end tower. The wound on Fiirnaraan’s nose had healed into a neat grey scar. Looking the Dragon over in proper daylight, Solen realized it was his only. No wonder he was surprised when I got him. He’s never been got.

He turned to the alarmed Isran and the wary Rayya and stepped easily between them to make the introductions, since neither of them seemed much inclined to initiate a conversation with a Dragon. “Everyone, this is Fiirnaraan. Fiirnaraan, the smoky mortal, Isran, and the vigour and will of my life, Rayya.”

It was somewhat satisfying to see Isran out of his depth. He reacted just like General Tullius had when Solen had personally introduced Odahviing to him. Fiirnaraan was a good deal politer than his battle-driven counterpart, and merely blinked and watched as Isran cautiously stepped nearer, anticipating death by fiery maelstrom at any moment. Solen considered mentioning that Fiirnaraan knew no such thing, but decided it was more fun to watch the gruff man squirm. “So why is it here?” Isran growled finally. “What does it want?”

“My sheep,” said Fiirnaraan. “The Dovahkiin promised.”

Isran’s glower returned to Solen. “You promised what?”

“Food in exchange for information.” Solen turned to Fiirnaraan. “I don’t suppose you found anything?”

“Oh, yes.” Fiirnaraan’s back-frills flexed as straight and taut as a mast at full sail. “I found the sosvulonah, and his companion.”

“Companion?”

“Oh, yes. They travelled a great distance north together. One man. One woman.”

“But the rogue fought us alone,” said Rayya. “Where’d this other person come from?”

Solen paced. “An accomplice? Maybe they weren’t working alone... no, hang on, my Aura Whisper didn’t advertise any other life-auras in the chamber. In that cave they were definitely alone.”

“On the outside, then?”

“Possibly.” Solen glanced back at Fiirnaraan. “Forgive the interruptions. Did you see where they went?”

“Yes, Dovahkiin. They travelled to the far north shore. There was a...” Fiirnaraan’s tail curled up tightly in thought. “Hmm. I do not know the word. Like a short path of wood, sticking out from land into water. There was a small wooden craft, like a folded leaf, tied to the post. The sosvulonahhe climbed into it and paddled into the sea.”

“A jetty,” Rayya realized. “They got into a boat and sailed into the Sea of Ghosts?”

“And sailed where?” Isran demanded.

“North,” Fiirnaraan continued, “to a great stone mortal-den on an island. Like this...” His wings unfurled to indicate the Fort. “...but taller, with many sharp points.”

“Sounds like a keep, or a castle,” Rayya murmured, who seemed to have taken to a Dragon’s riddled way of speaking like a duneripper to the sand. “First I’ve ever heard of an island-bound castle lurking in the mists of the Sea of Ghosts. You, dear?”

“Likewise. My uncle’s ship never sailed so far north.” Solen paced thoughtfully. “But if there’s a whole bloody castle within dinghy-distance of the shore, why haven’t we ever seen it? I’ve flown above Haafingar before...”

“It is well-hidden, Dovahkiin, within sea-ice and fog.” Fiirnaraan shivered and wrapped his wings snugly around him, as if in memory of the cold. “I flew blind for much of the way, following only their aura through the mist.”

“What’s it mean, life-auras?” growled Isran.

“Aura Whisper,” Solen explained, “it’s part of the Thu’um. Lets us see the life forces of those around us. Even undead life forces, conveniently.”

“Then what happened?” Isran demanded. “What did they do when they reached the island?”

Fiirnaraan blinked at him. “They went inside and did not come out.”

“You didn’t wait?”

“I did. Many hours. But I grew hungry and cold. So I returned. Now where is my sheep?”

“The artifact,” Isran pushed. “Did you see the artifact?”

“Oh, yes. Did I not mention? It was a Kel. The woman carried it on her back.”

“A ‘kell’?” Isran echoed. “What in Stendarr’s name is a kell?”

There were some Draconic words that Solen had learned and knew by heart. “An Elder Scroll,” he murmured in disbelief. “You’re saying that the vampire artifact in Dimhollow Crypt was a gods-damned Elder Scroll?!”

“Vahzah,” said Fiirnaraan, and peered curiously among their ashen faces. “This is not welcome news, is it?”

“Not even remotely.” All of Isran’s scowling disdain of the Dragon had evaporated. He stood his hammer head-down beside him and stared at a distant point in the walltop battlements. “To make matters even worse,” he said, “I think I know who they brought it to. What we’re up against.”

“The vampires, yes?” Fiirnaraan guessed brightly.

“Not just any vampires. The Volkihar – Skyrim’s foremost vampire clan. My predecessors’ archives told how they believed the Volkihar’s lair lay somewhere off-shore in the northernmost regions of Skyrim, extracted from vampire prisoners. They turned Skyrim over looking for it, found nothing but Volkihar offshoots on the mainland. Never the lair, and never the sire.” Isran’s intense stare rounded back on the Dragon. “But you saw it? You found it?”

“Oh, yes. It was very big, very impressive. Any dovah would have made it a prize, I’m sure, if only the island were not so small and barren, and the sea so cold and black.” Fiirnaraan blinked hopefully at Isran. “May I have my sheep now?”

Isran stood still and silent, his face so stern and still it was as if it was carved from granite. Solen got the sense that he was doing some very serious, rapid thinking, and he and Rayya remained expectant on his either side. Sounds of Dawnguard life reached them from the vale below – a mingle of voices, hacking of axes, a horse whinnying from the stables, a sheep bleating somewhere. Fiirnaraan’s frills puffed out on his head at the desirable sound, though his large green eyes did not stray from the subject of his attention.

Finally Isran turned to Solen and said, “Tell me exactly what kind of ‘arrangement’ you made with this Dragon.”

Solen folded his arms. “It’s very simple. Fiirnaraan plays spy, we pay him livestock. Didn’t I tell you that you’d get more out of cooperating with a Dragon than trying to mount his head on the wall?”

“No. You told me to coexist with it. To my general amazement, I’m going to agree with you.” Isran turned back to Fiirnaraan. “Provided you are the Dragon that’s been lairing here.”

“That is correct.”

“Good. That means you know the area. Here’s the deal, Dragon. I want you patrolling the Rift at night. Report back to me every morning, right here. You’ll have a sheep waiting when you do.”

Fiirnaraan’s horizontal pupils expanded eagerly. “Every morning?”

“Every morning. And I’d better not hear about any more stealing.” Isran turned to Solen. “As for you, Dragonborn –”

Solen held up a hand. “Say no more. Rayya and I will be knocking at the vampire’s castle with a warband in a month, tops.”

“No.”

“What? Isran, they have an Elder Scroll! That should take precedence over anything else, I should think! I’ll talk with Tullius, rally the Companions, we’ll be at the castle doors in three weeks!”

“And you’ll be dead – or turned. We have no idea of numbers. We know nothing of their skill. The Dawnguard is far from ready to launch an assault on their keep. As for your Legion,” Isran interrupted, as Solen started to argue, “they’re good in the field. But going up against the most powerful vampire lord in Skyrim? You tell me how willing they’d be to walk into a monster’s lair knowing that something with the power of the collected count of their great-grandfathers’ years is waiting for them.”

“We’d have a Dragon. One that breathes fire. No offense, Fiirnaraan,” Solen added quickly, who blinked graciously in return.

“You can’t throw Dragons at every problem to solve them,” growled Isran.

“And why not? They’re great problem-solvers.”

“Because I just tried that, and it made the problem worse.”

Solen snapped his mouth shut and turned away, stung. Rayya set a hand on his elbow and shot Isran a filthy look.

Isran heaved a tense sigh. “Not that you intended to,” he admitted, after a moment, “but it doesn’t change the fact that the vampires have an Elder Scroll. Divines know whatever they’ve got planned for Skyrim is about to get worse. The vampires’ agent that took the Scroll will have told them that you’re involved in our fight. They know you’re onto them, and they’re going to expect you.”

“If an Elder Scroll is really going to be the deciding factor in this,” said Solen tiredly, “then the Dawnguard can get their own, no problem. But I really don’t think it is. The deciding factor is Harkon, their patriarch. So long as he’s alive –” Hang on. Undead. “So long as he’s breathing –” Damn it, same problem. “So long as he’s... around, none of us are sleeping easy at night.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Oh, for the love of – you know what I mean!”

“Hmm. I do, Dragonborn. That’s why you’re going to help rebuild the Dawnguard. We had twenty new prospective hunters join the Order while you were away. But it’s far from enough.”

Solen folded his arms. “So what, you want me to stay here and train them?”

“No, Irileth has already volunteered to do so.” Which was definitely the better option, Solen thought, since he’d never really trained anyone in anything before, while Irileth had had a very firm hand in keeping the Whiterun Guard in fighting shape for decades. “You have a more important job,” Isran continued, “more suited to your skills.”

Which, by Isran’s standards, was probably going to involve latrines and scrubbing. “What?”

“Sorine Jurard. Breton girl, whip-smart and good with tinkering. Fascination with the Dwemer. Weapons in particular. Might need a little convincing, but she should want to help.”

“Wait – seriously? Recruitment?”

“You’ll also want to find Gunmar,” Isran continued, ignoring the interruption. “Big brute of a Nord, hates vampires almost as much as I do. Got it into his head years back that his experience with animals would help. Trolls in particular, from what I hear.” His dark eyes bored into Solen’s mismatched ones. “Is that going to be a problem, Dragonborn?”

Of course it is, Solen thought, we know exactly where the vampires are laired, and instead of marching in and ending this, I’m being sent to round up two needles in a haystack in anticipation of the long game. Of course, being the good helpful adventurer that he was, he kept all this to himself and answered amiably, “Of course not.”

“Good.” Isran glanced at Rayya. “You’ll be going with him, I assume.”

Rayya nodded. “Where do we start?”

“Hmm. Last I knew, Sorine was out in the Reach, convinced she was about to find the biggest Dwarven ruins yet. As for Gunmar, he was out scouring the province for more beasts to tame. The deadlier the better.”

Fiirnaraan rumbled softly, reattracting their attention. Isran huffed through his beard. “And give this Dragon its sheep.”

Solen grinned and set his hands on his hips. “That’s your job, Isran. Fiirnaraan delivered. You’d better do the same.”

“Hrrrrm. Fine. Suppose I’d better warn the Dawnguard not to shoot you.”

“That would be most agreeable.” Fiirnaraan reared on the battlements and rippled neatly back into invisibility. “I shall be waiting by the pen.”

Isran hooked his warhammer over his shoulder and strode off, leaving Rayya and Solen alone of the battlements. Solen ran both hands through his mohawk and leaned his head back, facing the sky with an agitated sigh. “Made the problem worse, did I...”

“You know that’s the most eloquent Isran’s ever getting,” Rayya remarked. “I don’t like the man, but he’s got a point. Launching an assault on this Volkihar castle when we know almost nothing about the enemy is suicide. And the Legion really isn’t equipped to fight vampires. You’ve seen how much skin their uniforms show. They’d get torn to shreds.”

Solen paced a tight circle. “All this power, Rayya,” he growled, “wasted. Impotent. It’s maddening.”

“I know you’re frustrated.”

“Frustrated? I’m beyond frustrated. I got kicked around like a Companion whelp in there! And the cost of losing to that spellsword cutthroat was an Elder Scroll!”

“Death’s a part of life, Solen, the same with defeat and victory. We win, we lose, we grow.” Rayya took his hands and stared at him sternly. “So how are you going to grow from this, Harbinger?”

Solen exhaled and nodded. She was right, of course. Here he was still brindling over his enemy’s taunt, when he should be contemplating the battlefield like a Harbinger ought. The sword was the self, the edge the mind – rusting over defeat was only going to dull him instead of prepare him. “Try Isran’s way,” Solen concluded. “At the end of the day, the man’s a vampire hunter.”

“He’s old, not stupid,” Rayya agreed. “He knows what he’s doing. You’ll have the chance to prove yourself again. Sooner or later, we’ll cross paths with that agent – then you and I can compete to be the first to cut off their head.”

Solen smiled. “You’re cute when you’re bloodthirsty, you know that?”

Rayya elbowed him, which only made him laugh. “Come on, ice-brain. If you’re that perky, you and I can go spar before the trip.”

They strode back along the battlements together. “Still,” Solen admitted, “can’t help but feel I’ve been demoted.”

“This isn’t the army, dear.”

“Right, right...”

~

Many hundreds of miles across Skyrim, within the high towering peaks of the Haafingar mountains, a Khajiit strode through the frost-swathed remains of a castle, thousands of years old, thousands of years forgotten.

It must have been a magnificent place once. The castle grounds were the size of a small city, a forest of angular buttresses and towering spires. Abandonment tarnished the castle’s magnificence; only untold scores of crows and ravens called the citadel home. The ornate stained windows were dull and shattered, the mountain winds had scoured the edge from the towers’ conical points, the graves lay overgrown in snarling pines and creeping undergrowth.

The cold, austere beauty of the place would never completely veil the lingering taint of the deep, unspeakable evil that had once occurred within its walls.

The traveller was the nimble sort, as much at ease striding along the narrow battlements and climbing the ever-mounting walls as they were strolling along the flat paved courtyards and snow-dusted paths. She was swift and silent, disturbing not one of the nesting corvids into screaming flight as she continued her slow, steady ascent.

As the twin moons began to rise in all their splendour, the Khajiit reached the uppermost ramparts of the castle; she faced the ruins of a great cathedral, upraised to overlook the entire mountain valley where the forgotten citadel stood. She ran her claws lightly against the crumbling gargoyles that guarded the door as she stepped into the shadowy room within.

Most of the windows had fallen in. The rotten, frost-scorched tatters of upholstery wavered in the frigid air, stirred by a wintry breeze. A fine layer of sparkling frost blanketed the room. It was easy to see the line of footprints – freshly frosted but not quite invisible – imprinted in the floor. She bent down to examine them, tracing the shape of the print under ponderous pale fingers. Yes, they were the same she’d seen leading into the castle grounds. It was a soft tread, a light tread, but the tread of someone who wandered without expecting to be followed all the same.

She followed them across the ice-blistered antechamber, into the stairwell, to the great doors to the cathedral hall. She rested one bangled ear against the door. Not a sound. She drew a slow, pensive breath under shivering whiskers. The scent was very stale. Nonetheless, she gripped the hilt of her dirk as she eased the decrepit doors open.

One glance through the gargoyle-filled chamber assured her that she was alone. Which was not reassuring at all, because the stink of evil in the air was very strong, like something burnt. She stepped noiselessly into the great square room, watched snowflakes spiral lazily from the fallen-in ceiling. A place of great beauty tarnished by the ancient creature that had once called it home.

The traveller found her remains, sprawled across the chamber floor where she had fallen, many thousands of years ago, slain by some enterprising group of adventurers. The Khajiit’s sister had told her Lady Ingerien had been quite the spectacle to behold, even among vampire lords. Fifteen feet high, bronze-skinned, claws like knives, a fearful bat-like face, single-fingered wings sprawled like scythes from her shoulders.

Or such as it should have been. Time should have left her body pristine. Vampires didn’t rot. But the remains were drained, blackened and burned, shrivelled and shrunken almost completely beyond recognition. A foul miasma hung over the withered bones, a loathsome cloud that even the traveller was fearful to approach. Meanwhile, the one who had preceded her to the cathedral chamber was nowhere to be seen. The frosted footprints had led here, but they didn’t lead out.

The Khajiit turned her gleaming eyes to the opened ceiling, where Masser’s broad red face peered through, and bared her long fangs in the crimson moonlight.

“Ziss’vo. Not good.”

Chapter Text

“You know,” Solen grunted, as he painfully hauled himself over yet another rocky outcrop, “the way Isran said ‘she’s in the Reach’, you’d think he’d assume we’d just be drawn to her in the wilds like a beast to water. Without any solid point of reference. As if the Reach isn’t, y’know, the Reach.”

And that, of course, meant hundreds of square miles of sheer cliffs, rocky highland, and eternal precipitation. There were few roads and a million secret trails, carved between the stones by rabbits and goats. It was a poor territory for horses, but Ember and Starfire dogged dutifully on, helped up the winding cliffs and around moss-swathed rocks by their equally determined riders.

“Yes, Solen, so you’ve said,” Rayya grunted somewhere below, coaxing her mare along a cliff’s edge. “Many times over this last month.”

“Sorry, love.” Solen reached the top of the plateau and straightened his aching back with a hiss. “Come on, buddy, almost there. Grass is always greener at the top, eh?”

Puffing and snorting, Ember half-wriggled half-sprang up the last bit of bank and finally stood on flattish ground, tossing his head and pawing the thick grass gratefully. Solen patted his lathered neck. “There you go, big guy. Don’t worry, it’ll be nosebag time soon.”

A wolf howled somewhere in the mists. Great sheets of the silver stuff rolled gently by, leeching the world of colour until everything was dimly green or dimly grey. Even Solen’s natural palette of brown and gold had washed out to something more greyish. Such was the Reach’s effect, a realm of eternal valleys and canyons, shaped by ancient glaciers that had subsided from this part of the world long ago. He stood admiring what view the fog permitted him as Rayya and Starfire struggled up the last bit of the goat trail to join him on the ridge.

“Phew.” The Redguard adjusted her headwrap. “There you go, old girl. Solen, check for stones, please?”

Solen peeled away from the view to procure the hoofpick from the saddlebags and start picking out the gravelly stones the climb had driven into the horses’ hooves. Rayya unfolded their map against a mossy mound and retraced their route on paper.

“At this rate, we’ll be at Bthardamz in two days,” she said.

Solen dug the hoofpick into a gravelly stone lodged near the frog of Starfire’s hoof and plucked it free. “You don’t suppose Sorine already did her thing there and left? That’d be unfortunate, wouldn’t it?”

“And if she did, you’d sniff out her trail, just like that rabbit we had for dinner last night. We’ve already searched the Dwarf-tower at Reachwind Eyrie and revisited Arkngthamz. Sorine doesn’t have many places left to be, if she’s really still scrapping around with bronze like Isran says.”

“Imagine if she isn’t. She found what she needed and got out before the Reachfolk got her.” Soren slowed. “Or what if she’s already been got? We’re not in the neutral territories anymore.”

“Were they ever truly neutral?” Rayya folded up the map. “We’re two weeks overdue a Forsworn ambush. They can’t not know we’re wandering around the clan turfs, especially if Farrus thinks the treaty’s over already.”

“Farrus is Farrus. He’s never liked the Reachfolk. No one’s ever liked the Reachfolk.”

“They don’t exactly make a sympathetic case of themselves raiding and pillaging.”

“Nor do the Nords for stealing their land and keeping them in poverty. All right, they’re done.” Solen straightened up and patted Ember’s flank. “Let’s find water and stop for lunch.”

One point the Reach had in its favour was that it was always easy to find water. Solen merely had to press his ear against a stonebank to hear the susurration of water humming through rock, a trick he’d learned from the natives. A short ten-minute ride brought them to a shallow snowmelt stream rich and blue, carving its way between the hills and down a cluster of cliffs on its journey to the great Karth River below. Ember and Starfire gorged themselves happily on the lush grass while Rayya and Solen contented themselves with apples, salted meat, and jam biscuit.

A rock thrush fluttered onto a scraggly juniper bush beside them and fossicked among the stems for some of the tart purple berries. Eventually it paused and studied the travellers with beady black eyes. Solen smiled and whistled its two-note chirrup, attracting its attention. He whistled again, and it returned the call. Solen broke off a crumb of biscuit and flicked it its way.

“It’s strange, though,” Rayya said, watching the thrush snatch the offering and zoom off into the mist. “Normally you don’t go three days in the Reach without finding some sign of Forsworn. Even after the Imperial treaty. We’ve been roaming the Reach for almost a fortnight.”

“Well, maybe they just decided to take a year off from reaving and robbing.”

“Solen, you know better. Between the two of us you’re the only one who’s lived among them.”

Solen snorted. “If you’d call three weeks in that rotten Cidhna Mine ‘living’.” He certainly didn’t. The mine shafts tight-packed with stinking bodies toiling in labour, the air hot and stagnant, no food for six straight days at a time, nothing but the oily glow of torches to serve as light. For someone who lived for the sun and the wind, it had been the most torturous experience of his life. Those had still been during his lycanthropy days, and Solen still looked back on those harrowing weeks toiling in the dirt and wondered how he hadn’t lost his head and gone feral; the wolf within had hated the cage as dearly as he had. He hadn’t gone underground for at least two straight months after he’d escaped, and to this day he still avoided Markarth whenever he could. Bad luck always seemed to find him there.

Rayya sensed his thoughts wandering and drew him back with a touch. “You did what you had to do to survive,” she reminded him. “Nothing in there sheds a shadow on the man you are.”

“I know.” Solen scooped up her hand and kissed her fingers. “It wasn’t all bad, you know. Otherwise I might’ve delayed even longer asking you for this.”

 “As if I’d have let you stay in there longer than a month. The Circle were ready to carve you right out of there. They weren’t about to let their Harbinger stay rotting underground mining silver for those ghastly Silver-Bloods. Jarl Balgruuf was about to sanction trade with the Reach if his Thane wasn’t promptly released.”

“Nice to find out I was so appreciated, if anything.” Solen’s good mood wilted slightly. “Has it really been two months, Rayya?”

“Time moves fast on campaign.” Rayya carved an apple with the point of her dagger and passed him a slice. “I know we’ve gotten ourselves involved with something much bigger than we originally thought, but I won’t say this isn’t nice.”

“Nice?”

“We’re out travelling again, just us and the beasts. Camping in the wilds, fighting off the odd bear and wolf pack. We’d be doing no differently in Hammerfell if we’d gone as intended.”

“I suppose. Only they’d be welwa and harpies.”

“Sep’s scales, I do not miss those shrieking windbags.”

“Nostibar and I got ambushed by some once during the caravan years. One of them shrieked in his ear. Burst an eardrum. We spent three months in Belkarth until he got his hearing back, and even then, he complained it was never the same. Maybe it was an excuse not to ‘hear’ me when it was his turn on dinner duty.”

“Sounds like just another excuse for you to wear your helmet more often.”

“Well, my poor old ears are attuned to the Thu’um now.” Solen patted his helmet, which was presently planted at his feet. “If they can withstand the Greybeards greeting me in old dragon-verse, they can handle some mangy old bird-woman serenading my face.”

 Rayya chuckled and shook her head. “You ever wonder how he’s doing? Nostibar?”

“All the time. Probably still tucked down in Satakalaam with his wife. Bet he has a whole score of little ones running around his ankles by now...”

“Please, Solen. We Redguards don’t breed that voraciously.”

“You want to know who does? Bosmer. Get this, the average Wood Elf family has ten children.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Not this time. One of my uncle’s shipmates, Jegothar, he was from Valenwood. He had nine brothers and four sisters. They’re certainly not lacking in size when it comes to family clans. What are the rations looking like?”

“Sad.” Rayya patted their much-deflated haversacks. “We’ll need to start foraging soon.”

“I’ll make a start. Where there’s water, there’s life.” Solen had kept his ears trained on the rustling and the cries of the beasts throughout their rest. The Reach teemed with life. He pecked Rayya on the cheek and hopped up, unlooping Eldródr from around his shoulders. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Solen crossed to where Ember stood gnawing at a thick tussock, and turned the big horse around to get at the saddlebags. He exchanged his sabatons and battle-blade for his hunting boots and the long war-bow and quiver belted to the saddle. The bow was pure dragonbone, and the finest Solen had ever made. It shot a little excessively at ninety pounds (one only needed thirty for hunting and seventy for chainmail) but it could send an arrow through a Dragon’s belly-scales without trouble. The arrows were made of a similar material; anything less usually warped or shattered under the strain. With quiver on his hip and bow in hand he set off at a noiseless clip into the misty highland, following the stream northwest.

Solen kept to the strong-smelling heather as he foraged for tracks. All animals were drawn to water, and had to visit a source eventually. After a few minutes he picked up the fresh scat and tracks of rabbit and goat. The rabbit would serve as dinner, but the goat would be many days’ worth of meat. They came small and hardy in the Reach, easily slung behind a saddle and quickly dressed down beside a fire. Solen set off after it, noting down landmarks to find his way back to the makeshift camp. Somewhere far off, a sabre cat yowled its eerie territorial cry.

After half an hour, by Solen’s reckoning, he found his quarry. Three goats had hopped down into a dry sandy ravine, licking at the rocky slopes for salt. Solen knelt down and slowly, almost lazily, set an arrow to the bowstring, sighted an ideal target point behind the goat’s skull, and drew. His sensitive eartips stung with the cold, alerting him to the subtle tug and pull of the breeze. Not that it mattered overmuch with such a short shot and such a strong bow, but Solen liked to do the thing properly.

The heather behind him shook, too violent of a rustle to have come from a spooked hare. Solen whipped around as the Forsworn burst out of hiding, a screaming mass of furs and muscle, his bare skin painted in stripes of red and white, and his face veiled in a headdress of gnarled antlers. Solen fired wildly – the arrow hissed under the warrior’s arm – and then they collided. Meeting him head-on was like being hit with a boulder. Limbs locked, grappling and snarling, they went over the cliff together, tearing through heather and bouncing off juniper and shrubbery-coated slopes until they crashed in a jangling heap in the sandy ravine. The goats took off with panicked bleating.

Solen recovered first. He kicked his assailant off and found his feet, bow gripped tight and his hand on the quiver. The Forsworn sprang upright across from him, brandishing two primitive war-axes whetted from bone, flint, and plundered silver. He leered at his opponent’s weapons. Not ideal, I know, Solen thought, forcing himself to relax on his feet, but far from useless. Aela had shown him a thing or two about fighting ranged in close quarters. Time to find out what he remembered.

The Reachfolk were hard, vicious fighters who worked themselves into savage frenzies if given an inch of advantage. The Forsworn sprinted in, axes hissing in a deadly spin. Solen dodged the first strike and leaned past the second, bow swinging. The strike bounced off the supple ivory, leaving no worse than a small scratch. Solen thrust into the backswing, punching his fist straight into the Forsworn’s diaphragm. He was forced back a pace, but only a pace – solid brute, this one. Solen hooked the man’s wrist in the bow’s upper limb, where bowstring and ivory met, and twisted hard, wrenching him further off-balance as Solen’s free hand tugged the war-axe from his grip.

The Forsworn snarled and dug in his heels. His trapped hand twisted, seized the bowstring, and dragged Solen back as the latter tried to disengage. His antlered skull bounced off Solen’s unhelmed, knocking the Altmer backwards on his heels, blinking stars. The Reachman reclaimed his fallen axe and scrambled up the rocky ravine slopes, sure-footed as a goat, bearing down on Solen from above with a thudding laugh.

Solen gripped the bow by the point of its limb and hooked the Forsworn’s ankles as he leapt. The taut bowstring strained, then held. He upended the Forsworn in his overhead leap and sent him sprawling to the ground. In the same swift motion Solen disentangled, stepped back, and reached for an arrow. The stunned Reachman didn’t evade fast enough – the arrow ripped a bloody wound through his thigh, eliciting a pained grunt. The second arrow was cut clean out of the air – which was a recklessly impressive feat for anyone to do point-blank – and then the Forsworn was upright, and it was back to dodging one hacking swing after another.

Solen leaned hard as one strike skimmed his head, narrowly missing his ear. He took the bow in two hands and cracked it like a staff between the Forsworn’s eyes. It was enough to interrupt momentum and give pause; Solen followed up with a hefty punch under the chin and released the Thu’um coiled tight in his throat. “FUS!” One Word sent the Reachman staggering. Solen shoulder-rammed him, the fighter’s injured leg buckled, and he went down on his back in a cloud of dust. Solen had an arrow to the string and pulled taut against his cheek before the dust had settled, aimed straight for the Reachman’s heaving chest. There was no way in all the realms of Aetherius that he would miss this shot, and both he and his opponent knew it.

That was when Solen noticed the hillsides moving. Hooting, cackling, leering. Appearing like magic from heather and stone, at least a score of Forsworn warriors climbed steadily down the slopes of the ravine. Well, we were overdue an ambush, weren’t we?

They crowded on rocks and boulders and clung against short tough trees like spectators to a pit-sport, war-painted and hide-clad, ornamented in grinning skulls and claws and horns. The downed Reach warrior across from Solen sat upright, cackling right alongside them. Solen had no choice but to let him up. If he shot, the Forsworn would attack, and no archer in Nirn was fast enough to put arrows in all their eyeballs before they reached him. Even Shouts of Slow Time and Elemental Fury had their limits.

Solen lowered his bow and slackened the string, and the Reachmen hooted and jeered, shaking their weapons. His dual-axed opponent barked a quick, rough laugh – until he heard the elf draw a swift, sharp breath. “RAAN MIR TAH!”

Collectively the Forsworn flinched as the world briefly wavered in a pulse of watery gold. When seconds passed and nothing happened, they resumed their leering. Put arrows to their bows, licked the edges of their axes and blades, prepared to leap down into the ravine. Right until the first wolf lunged out of the mist and mashed its jaws at the nearest heads and hands, sending the Forsworn scrambling back, yelping in surprise and terror.

More arrived, growling in challenge, prowling through the highland mist. Direwolves that stood as high as a man at the shoulder. Sabre cats rumbling like avalanches, lips peeled back to reveal the full length of their fangs. Cave bears scarred and grizzled, scratching furrows with their long black claws. Even mountain goats and one great brown elk bull appeared to stand shoulder to shoulder with their natural predators, tossing their horns and antlers. They filled Solen’s side of the ravine.

The Reach was full of life. Solen had listened to their calls all day. Now he’d called them to him. He raised his bow again, the arrow pulled taut. The Reachmen brandished their weapons, their leering jeers replaced with snarling whoops as they worked themselves to frenzy. The panting, puffing beasts tensed, attuned to Solen’s every move. One arrow was all it’d take.

“All right, that’ll do.” A single Forsworn slid halfway down the slope and crouched on a spur of rock above Solen’s head. “We’ve seen enough.”

“Pity,” the axe-wielding warrior growled. “I wanted to see what happened next.”

Solen didn’t lower the bow until he peered beneath the red and black warpaint of the first speaker to find a familiar face. “Uraccen?”

“That’s right. Surprised you didn’t recognize Borkul right away.” The Reachman nodded to Solen’s opponent, who removed his headdress to reveal he was no Reachman at all, but another old acquaintance, the meaty Orc bouncer of Madanach’s cell in Cidhna Mine.

“Borkul,” Solen said, slumping where he stood. Now he saw the green tint to his adversary’s skin beneath the bold white and red strokes of his body paint. “Couldn’t you have just come and said hello like a normal person?” As if Borkul the Beast, a confessed murderer and bandit-turned-Forsworn, was anything normal.

“No.” Borkul grinned and rested one axe over his shoulder. “Couldn’t pass up the chance at real battle with you, toothpick. Had to see if you were really a killer.”

“Let me go get my greatsword and I’ll give you a real battle.”

“Bah. Sword-swingers bore me. You know what I wanted to see.”

“I don’t shift anymore. Got rid of it.”

“Damn. Giving up raw power like that? Bloody waste.”

Solen jerked his chin at the snarling menagerie behind him. “I’m not exactly without. Where’s Rayya?”

“Your girl’s all right,” said Uraccen coolly. “It’s your arm we wanted to test. Had to make sure you hadn’t gotten soft living the Imperial life before Madanach lays eye on you again.”

“Yeah, of course you did.” Solen relaxed his bow and dispelled the Shout’s influence over the animals behind him. They sprang away into the wilderness in the blink of an eye. “So what are we now, your prisoners?”

“Prisoners? Hah.” Borkul’s skull-painted face stretched in a grin. “Maybe another time, toothpick. Tonight, you’re our guests. King’s orders.”

~

Madanach had once been called the King in Rags. Now there was not a rag to be seen. He wore the war-dress of a chieftain among chieftains, ivory and sabre-cat hide and scavenged metal scrap, ornamented with raven skulls and feathers, and crowned with the antlers of a boreal deer. Four years living off the lands of his ancestors, reunifying the scattered Reach clans, had renewed and transformed him from a ragged, wild-eyed prisoner of the Nords to a fully-fleshed warrior restored to his prime. But he had lost none of his savage humour, manic energy, or bristling moustache, and greeted Solen and Rayya with such.

His stronghold was Druadach Redoubt, a hidden subterranean cavern among the northern mountains of the Reach kept wonderfully temperate by natural hot springs. There his clan had grown, from his fellow escapees from Cidhna Mine to a thriving horde. Tents were pitched on every terrace, milk-goats bleated in their pens, and the industrious Reachfolk kept themselves busy tanning hides, sorting stolen loot, and testing each other in various forms of combat. The cavern hummed with the voices of men and women and the shrieking of children at play. Madanach overlooked them all from the highest point of the cavern where he and his closest advisors had pitched their tents and kept a bonfire blazing day and night. Solen had a good view of the thriving Reachfolk settlement as he sat weaving a fresh bowstring. He hoped the horses weren’t too unsettled by the Reachfolk’s favoured décor of spiked heads, of beasts and men alike.

“Like it?” Madanach’s wolflike growl reattracted Solen’s attention. “Count yourselves lucky. You two are the only outsiders we’ll ever let lay eye on this place. And you two are the first we’ll kill if anyone else ever finds out about it.”

Rayya wore a rather fixed smile as she picked cautiously at her haunch of roasted goat. “We’ll be certain to keep that in mind, King Madanach.”

Madanach chuckled and leaned close, his pale eyes intense and unblinking. “I’d reckon you’d take half my clan with me if I set them on you. Those are some mighty fine bone-lickers you have.”

Solen looked up, but he needn’t have worried. Rayya remembered. She straightened up in one smooth movement, flourished the scimitar around her wrist, and brought the Skyforge-edged blade up against Madanach’s neck. “Care for a demonstration?”

Pulling a weapon on an authoritative figure at the drop of a hat was seen as a threat and an insult, for most. Among the Reachfolk, it displayed a willingness and readiness to fight, anyone and anything, and garnered only respect. Madanach’s laughter cracked the air like a whip. “You’ve taught your woman well, Solen.”

“A conversation with Forsworn isn’t one without involving a death threat.” Solen neatly looped and knotted the end of the woven bowstring. “It’s been a while, Madanach.”

“A year, if I’m not mistaken. Uraccen hardly recognized you without those Imperial thinbloods cringing in your shadow. In fact, he told me you no longer bear the Hunt-Lord’s blessing.” At Solen’s nod, Madanach’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. “Why? Any one of my warriors would slaughter a village for Old Elk-Eye’s favour.”

“Making me an honorary Reachman doesn’t mean I worship the Daedra. I saw where I wanted my spirit to end. Hircine’s side isn’t it.”

“In Sovngarde? Drinking mead with Nords? Bah.” Madanach spat. “I ought to send you there right now. A man of your power, spurning the spirits’ blessings.”

Solen rested his hand on Eldródr’s channel. “I make my own blessings. And I’ll carve them into the backside of any Reachman that says otherwise.”

Madanach chuckled with rusty laughter. “Now that, I can respect.”

Solen smiled cautiously. Always best to stay cautious around the volatile Forsworn. “How are they all? The old gang.”

“Uraccen and Borkul still breathe, as you know. Duach died well, two winters back. Braig’s my eyes and ears in the Black-Moon clan, further west. Odvan’s gone north with the Cinder-Hearts. Picked out a woman, earned some whelps.”

“Not unlike yourself,” Solen noted, as a small horde of children scampered through their sitting place.

Madanach plucked one of the boys from the others and set him giggling on his knee. “Life is good beneath the old ways,” he said, ruffling the lad’s hair with affection. He couldn’t be older than three or four. “You ought to consider it, my beast. You and your woman are strong. Your whelps would be, too.”

Both Solen and Rayya shared a stunned glance and turned away, flustered. “It’s – it’s not something that’s ever – come up,” Rayya managed.

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Madanach slyly.

Which was correct – it’d definitely come up, once or twice, because Skyrim was a dangerous land in multiple extremes, and everyone knew if you were going to have a family you’d better hurry up and get on with it. And because people had asked. Rayya didn’t care for it because she had no intention to watch her belly grow fat and her sword-arm soft. Solen didn’t care for it because the whole concept just depressed him. He was forty-six, to begin with, and most young Elves didn’t care for family burdens until the vigour of youth had faded – and that could take centuries. There was that matter, too. If he wasn’t killed, he’d live for hundreds of years. His family definitely wouldn’t. Rayya was human; their children would be too. Watching his children, then their children, grow old and die, over and over, while he remained... He’d accept that with the Companions, but not his own flesh and blood.

“We don’t plan to,” Solen said finally.

“We don’t plan for a lot of things,” said Madanach, “but Lorkh knows they happen all the same.” For the first time, a shadow clung to his words. “Best you be ready for them when they do.”

Solen recalled Farrus’s unhappy rumblings from Fort Amol, and prodded carefully, “Has something happened with the treaty? Rayya and I have never found the hills so quiet. When we do find you, you’re axes out and battle-ready. Well, more than usual.”

“You think that’s to do with that Imperial nonsense?” Madanach snapped his fingers at Kaie, the Reachwoman who attended him, and she slipped away on some unspoken errand. “Think again. But you first, my wild beast. What’s brought the two of you disturbing my stones and soil?”

As succinctly as he could, Solen outlined the Dawnguard and their struggle against the Volkihar clan. He omitted the Elder Scroll – the less that was talked about, the better for everyone. Madanach’s scowl etched deeper in his weathered face, and eventually he shifted his little son off his knee and watched the lad scamper off into the lower caverns. “You’ve had the same problem,” Solen guessed, spotting the perilous glint in Madanach’s eyes. “Vampire attacks.”

“Near every night since autumn.” Madanach brandished a necklace of lean, pointed fangs. “Always stringing a few more on. They go after our elders and mothers and little ones. Cravens.”

“But you worship Daedra, don’t you?” Rayya asked. “And vampires are –”

“The old ones are teachers. Cruel teachers, but good ones. Doesn’t mean we like their lessons.” Madanach whipped out a broad flint knife and stabbed it ferociously into the ground. “We’ve never cared for their kind. We care even less with our people’s blood in their guts. Their mistake. Nothing brings the free clans of the Reach together faster than a common enemy. That’s how we became the Forsworn at all.”

“Wasn’t that you?” Rayya asked. “You started the rebellion. You’re their King.”

Madanach barked with wild laughter. “You call me King,” he grinned, “and the Imperials call me King. But the blood of the Reach knows better, harrier. We do as we please, and they follow me as long as they care to.” His wild, pale eyes fixed on Solen. “You still haven’t said why you’re here in my land, my beast.”

“We’re looking for someone. A Breton woman, Sorine Jurard. She should be somewhere in the Reach, puzzling with the Dwarves.” Solen heaved a sigh and faced Madanach. “Knowing your regard to outsiders, I really hope I’m not about to hear we’re here in vain.”

Madanach chuckled briefly, but shook his head. “You aren’t. I know the woman. My scouts report her puttering round the old dead stone, no harm to us. Old Elk-Eye knows she’ll be prey soon enough. We all will.”

Solen straightened in his seat. “Odd thing for a Reachman to say.”

“Oh, you want to hear odd?” Madanach arched his bristling brows. “You asked why our hills are quiet, why my people didn’t welcome you sooner. I’ll tell you why, harriers. The Day of Black Sun.”

“The what?”

Madanach shifted forward, his eyes unusually severe and still. “The clan witches have had the same portents, all of ‘em, at once, night after night, since early Rain’s Hand. Now – I’m no witch, or witchman. I won’t even pretend to understand their bond with the spirits. But even a thinblood outsider could see it ain’t normal for every witch in the Reach to receive the same vision, every single night. And we’d all be fools to ignore such clear sign from the Spirit Queen.”

“Who?” Rayya asked.

“Namira,” Solen translated, and then to Madanach, “Early Rain’s Hand, you said?” It can’t be coincidence.

“I did. What do you know about this, my beast?”

Madanach was a sharp one. Solen shared a glance with Rayya, then carefully explained about the Dawnguard’s mission in the Pale – how the vampires had stolen a powerful artifact from them from around that moment in the calendar. “Tell me more about your vision,” Solen said, “this Day of Black Sun.”

“No,” said Madanach, turned, and nodded. “I’ll let Elaidh tell you herself.”

Kaie returned, leading a Reachwoman clad as imposingly – arguably, even more imposingly – as Madanach himself. When the ferocious leader of the Forsworn rebellion deferred at once to her presence, Solen knew she must be a Reach witch, soothsayer and voice of the Reachfolk’s old gods, deeply revered and respected by the clans. She wore an imposing headdress of antlers, bird skulls and feathers, which almost completely obscured her face, leaving only her mouth visible.

“Your eyes,” said Rayya cautiously, noticing the arrangement. “Are you blind?”

“My eyes belong to the Spirit Queen alone,” the witch answered.

 Rayya decided not to press further. Eyes were favoured in Reach rituals for reasons better left unpursued. “So, what’s this Day of Black Sun? What’s driving your people out of the Reach?”

“Not out,” Madanach growled, “only away, to secret corners of our land where what’s coming won’t find us. You and your mate won’t be privy to them, harrier. These are secrets for servants of the old gods alone.”

“The Black Sun, then,” Solen prompted. “We don’t plan on running.”

“It is a day that dawns in darkness.” Elaidh’s voice had grown eerie, tranquil; it sent shivers down Solen’s spine. “When Dark and Light become one, and the world-music ends. Flame goes cold. Birds weave lies. Dragons fall silenced from the sky. There will be no stars, no moons, only the hunt of the bloodcursed blessed. I have heard their screams as they die alone.”

“The bloodcursed?” Solen asked hopefully.

“Mortals.” Elaidh turned to face him. The curtain of black feathers across her face looked almost like tears against her bone-white cheeks. “Such is the vision the old ones bring, with the rise of every dawn. They have never spoken so loud.”

“But this is all just... theory, isn’t it? It’s an oracle, a warning – to change the fate of it –”

“Open your ears, hunter. The world is full of whispers, for those with the patience to hear. Even you cannot deny the signs, Dragonborn. The Day of Black Sun is the day the reign of mortalkind ends.”

It was exactly the sort of prophetic doom Solen and Rayya had hoped not to hear – in Solen’s case, ever again. They shared a sharp look. “When will the Day happen?” Solen demanded. “How do we stop it?”

Elaidh turned away. “That is all the Spirit Queen has shared with her daughters.”

“That’s all the clans need to unite,” said Madanach, his voice low and strange.

“Against the Nords?” Rayya’s hand settled on her weapon. “Against Skyrim?”

“Against nothing.” Madanach bared his teeth. “We talked of war, and every witch spoke against it. Every single one. Even those from the clans that would slay each other than share the same meat.”

Solen spoke frankly. “The Imperials think you’re massing to break the treaty. Resume the war on Markarth and the Nords.”

“Thinblood lies.” Madanach spat. “The Black Sun will target the cities of stone, feast on the fat of the Nords. We will endure and scavenge the remains, as the old gods demand, as we’ve always done. We’re not going to war. We’re going to survive.”

Solen stared at the ground. It took a lot to spook Reachfolk. A damned lot.

“Until then,” Madanach continued, “you tell your Imperial masters they don’t need to fear for their precious scratchings. The old ones have named us all hares in the great hunt to come.”

“I’ll do that,” Solen muttered. If there was any truth to these visions, the last thing Skyrim needed was misdirection against the wrong enemy. “I’ll pass this... Black Sun warning along. The Dawnguard are vampire hunters, so stopping anything that gives the bloodsuckers an edge on mortals will be right up their alley. Speaking of, that woman I mentioned? We need to find her. Quick.”

“You’ll find her,” Madanach promised, “and you’ll get her out of the Reach. Black Sun and bloodsuckers be damned, these are still our lands, and we’ll put pay to anyone who says otherwise, as we did those silver-licking dogs in Markarth.”

~

The following morning, with depleted haversacks refreshed, Solen and Rayya were escorted northwest of the Redoubt by a small party of Forsworn, Uraccen and Borkul among them. The Reachfolk rode mountain ponies, short shaggy creatures that were almost as sure-footed as goats, and covered the rocky terrain with ease. Ember and Starfire, as big as Skyrim-bred destriers ever got, were hard-pressed to keep up with their nimble counterparts.

Solen rode side by side with Uraccen and Borkul, and as the misty highland crept by, talk turned to the only topic worth discussing. “Course I don’t believe in this Black Sun nonsense, toothpick,” said Borkul. “I don’t care for magic. Care even less for prophecies. But I’ve seen what those women can do with their magic, so when the Forsworn sit up and pay attention, you do the same.”

“The clans have their differences,” said Uraccen, “but it’s got the witches distressed. Every clan knows you don’t distress your witches. Might as well be cutting your ears from the old ones, and then where are we? The shallow rock-grubbing outlaws the Nords see us as.”

“Just makes ‘em soft. Easy meat for carving.” Borkul grinned. “This’ll blow over in a season. Sun or no sun, there’s killing to be done.”

It was remarkable how much of a difference their guides made; after weeks of wandering in circles, they all but flew to their destination. Around midmorning they landed upon another Reach valley, quite flat and sprawling as Reach valleys went. Through the mists, the tottering remnants of some old unnamed Dwarven structure was visible, distinctive from the grey rock by their tarnished markings of bronze. Raeling, the party’s scout and pathfinder, ghosted out of the rocks as they arrived. “Your woman’s there,” she told Solen and Rayya. “Fussing around after some sort of satchel.” To Uraccen she said, “Saw smoke as well, just up the hill. Should have a sniff around.”

“Probably the Ramskulls,” Uraccen sighed. “The Wolf-Charmer knows they’re overdue by two days. All right. We part ways here, Solen.” His cool eyes narrowed. “I’d say the old gods keep you, but...”

“...I never did,” Solen finished. “Call it a bad bargain. Good hunting.”

He and Rayya trotted upstream while the Reachfolk followed Raeling up the rocky hillside and out of sight. They found a red-haired Breton woman hunched over a Dwarven canister beneath a monolithic Dwemer ruin. Once they reassured her that they weren’t here to rob her or disrupt her research, introductions were made. To neither traveller’s great surprise, Sorine was surprised and reluctant to hear why they were here. “Isran?” she repeated, bouncing a spanner in her hand. “You’re friends with Isran?”

“Of course not,” said Solen, “have you met the man? But he needs your help.”

“Hah!” said Sorine. “That can’t be right. See, the last time we spoke, he made it exceedingly clear –” She broke off in alarm and pointed over Rayya’s shoulder. “Forsworn! Watch out!”

Uraccen and Borkul were bouncing their mountain mares over the rocks back towards them. “They forget something?” Rayya asked.

“A farewell with attempted murder, probably,” Solen shrugged. Sorine stared incredulously between them, and hid behind their horses as the two Forsworn pulled up short.

“There’s a camp up there,” Uraccen said, “full of outsiders.”

“Imperial?” Solen guessed.

“Better. Nords.” Borkul’s dark eyes glittered with bloodlust. “Wiped out the Ramskulls during the night.”

“How many?”

“More than us,” said Uraccen, “and there’s plenty to go round.” Meaning: the Reachfolk were outnumbered, and they knew full well that Solen could even the odds.

“Then head back to the Redoubt,” said Solen. “Gather your warriors for a little hunting.”

Thhwip! An arrow whistled into Borkul’s shoulder with a meaty thud. “Why wait?” said the Orc.

Solen sighed and reached for his helmet. “Not having much luck with archers lately, are you?”

“Solen,” Rayya started, as the hillsides exploded with warhorns and spinechilling war-cries. Then she caught sight of the tattered blue cloaks appearing over the mountain slope. “Those idiots really pick their moments, don’t they?” she snapped, reaching for her scimitars.

Solen stopped her. “No, Rayya. Get Sorine out of here. This won’t be long.”

Rayya huffed and extinguished the battlefire aglow in her eyes. “As you say, my Thane.” Which these days she only said when he said something sensible that she didn’t like. Solen winked his gold eye at her and turned Ember up the slope.

“Follow the river,” Uraccen advised, swinging his horse’s head around. “They all lead to the Karth.” Then the three riders were galloping off up the hill towards the distant swarm.

“Forsworn,” Sorine repeated faintly. “Those were Forsworn – and you – you are?”

“We’re acquaintances,” Rayya told her. “We’re leaving. Get your things and get on the horse.”

“But I can’t just abandon what I’ve got going on here!” Sorine exclaimed, more indignant than frightened, in the usual fashion of scholars disturbed from their pursuits. “I’m at a critical point in my research! I need at least one Dwarven gyro, and some blasted mudcrab’s made off with my –”

“Really?” Rayya said, exasperated. “You really want to do this now?”

An arrow whistled above Sorine’s head and shattered on the monument behind her. “On second thought,” Sorine said, “I think I can make do with what I have.”

“Good answer.”

Within ten seconds of scrambling throughout her workstation, scraping everything that came to hand into her backpack, Sorine was packed and being hauled onto Starfire’s back. “Hup, hup!” Rayya barked, touching her heels to Starfire’s flanks, and the black mare set off at a swift clip along the river’s edge. Sorine peered back anxiously as the Dwemer ruins were swallowed in the fog. “What about that High Elf?”

“He’ll handle himself,” said Rayya, then half to herself added, “He’d better.”

The Reach valleys behind them echoed with the thunderclap-like crash of the Thu’um. Sorine jumped in the saddle. Rayya didn’t have to wonder what Shout Solen had used for long; the cacophony of battle behind them suddenly doubled with a chorus of sabre cat screams and wolf howls. He did always say the Reach was full of life. “So,” Rayya began, trying to divert her passenger’s attention from the probable bloodbath behind them, “how much do you know about the vampire menace?”

“Vampires? Really?” Sorine sounded more annoyed than concerned. “I suppose now he remembers that I proposed no less than three different scenarios that involved vampires overrunning the population. I wonder if he also remembers the very hurtful things he said to me before I left. Or how exceedingly clear he was the last time we spoke that he had no interest in my help.”

“Hold on, you expected this?” Rayya said, twisting around in the saddle. “The Day of Black Sun?”

“The day of what? Well, I didn’t exactly name my predictions –”

“The vampires’ leader got his hands on an Elder Scroll. For all we know, it’s real and it’s coming.”

“They have an Elder Scroll?! Well, I – that’s something I never – I guess that’s why Isran changed his mind. By Stendarr, this really has potential to turn into an apocalypse! A once-in-an-Era event!”

Rayya sighed and set her jaw. “If only such things were.”

Chapter Text

Summer had returned to Skyrim, and the warmth from the Midyear sun lingered in the golden sunset over Dayspring Canyon, setting the auburn leaves of the autumnal maples aflame. Irileth was blind to the radiant beauty of the sunset. She’d seen plenty of them by now, and the Dawnguard were braced for a busy night.

“All right,” she told the operatives who shared the palisade walls, “oil those crossbows, light the torches, and get ready. Those bloodsucking scum may be in the Canyon right now.”

The Dawnguard scrambled to obey. As the resplendent sunset faded swiftly into darkness, Fort Dawnguard came alive with torchlight and activity muffled with anticipation. They expected nocturnal visitors, and considering how the last two attacks had gone, this would be the most savage one yet.

For Irileth, it was no different than watching the Whiterun walls with reports of Dragon sightings and farm attacks echoing through the palace. She was familiar with the anticipation of monster attacks, and patrolled the walls to ensure the nerves of her fellow comrades-in-arms didn’t overcome them. “Partner off,” Irileth thundered, striding the length of the outer palisade. “Sun’s gone down. Partner off! Arbalests, to your marks. Fighters below and standing by. Vori,” she shouted up to the Dawnguard sentry, “any sign of them?”

“Not yet,” the Nord woman called down from her tower. Her crossbow was gripped tight in hand as her green eyes skimmed the peaceful treeline. “It can’t be long. The valley’s getting cold.”

“Mogrul,” Irileth greeted the Orc grinding a fresh edge on his axeblade. “Everything in order?”

“Can’t be too careful, Irileth.” Mogrul cast his whetstone aside and stood, resting his battleaxe over one shoulder.

“No, you can’t,” Irileth agreed, and moved on. “Saliah – the refugees inside the Fort?”

“Aye, Irileth! Esfridd’s keeping an eye on ‘em.”

“Good woman.” The two farming clans, who’d fled their ravaged homesteads in the northern Rift, had arrived in the Canyon a fortnight before seeking asylum from their monstrous predators. Irileth anticipated many more to come. It’s just like the refugees of the Dragon Crisis all over again. “Agmaer, remember what I told you. It doesn’t matter they’re faster or stronger, they’re flesh and blood, the same as us.”

“I’ll remember, Irileth,” Agmaer promised. This would be his third Fort defence, and he looked ahead to the inevitable conflict with a heart and hands steadied by experience. “They won’t get the better of me this time.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Illia said, as she passed by lighting the braziers with a firebolt. “Make sure I don’t lose my record.”

“See that you do,” Irileth nodded. Illia was a recent addition, and a welcome one. The Dawnguard was painfully short on mages, and Illia was a deadly hand with elemental magic; her specialty was cryomancy (sadly wasted on vampires), but it hadn’t taken her long to readjust to the arts of incineration. Within a month of her joining, when the vampire assaults on the Fort had started, Illia had racked up an enviable kill count. She and Agmaer had supposedly become good friends, but Irileth had never paid much attention to such things.

Irileth resumed her pre-battle patrol, satisfied with what she saw. Since she’d first arrived in Dayspring Canyon three months ago, the Dawnguard had grown from a ragged handful of volunteers to twoscore trained operatives, and more arrived by the week. The vast majority now had at least one confirmed vampire kill to their names. It had become something of an informal initiation – made them worthy of their adamantine weapons and to defend the palisades. The unblooded – the novices – Irileth kept on the Fort towers, high above any risk of close-combat with vampires, crossbows in hand, the safest any vampire hunter would ever get in this crusade.

Isran strode down the packed dirt path from the Fort to the palisades. “They ready?”

“Chafing,” Irileth replied. “How many did the Dragon say was coming this time?” Their Dragon spy had taken some adjustment, but Fiirnaraan’s reports, always precise, had consistently proven invaluable against the Volkihar assaults.

“Hrrm. Forty-three, he said. With death hounds. There was twenty-six of them last time.”

“And twelve before that.”

“This should be a good training exercise, then.”

“This lot don’t need much more training.” They joined the arbalests amassed on the palisade ramparts. “You think they ever wonder how we know to expect them?”

“Clearly not,” Isran growled, “or they wouldn’t keep giving us target practice.”

“I don’t suppose the Dragon’s going to join us this time?”

“Hah.”

“Eyes, I got eyes!” Vori shouted.

“Get ready!” Irileth barked, shouldering her crossbow. “Make every shot count!”

The vampires didn’t keep them waiting long. Night had settled firm and fast over Skyrim, brightening the ravenous rusty-red glow of their enemies’ eyes. Like eldritch horrors of the night they swarmed towards the brightly-lit palisades, hands wreathed in ruddy red blood-magic, withered bloodless faces peeled into hideous snarls that bared their fangs. “Fire!” Irileth barked, as they broke through the treeline. Ten crossbows split the night. Seven vampires went down. The rest dissolved into mist or had the good fortune to evade the projectiles.

“Line one, reload!” Irileth shouted. “Line two!”

The first row of arbalests stepped back to reload; the second row took their place, and ten more crossbows cracked a salute to the night. Eight down. The first vampires reached the palisade and were instantly incinerated by Illia’s fire-rune trap. “Fire at will!” Irileth ordered. She wasn’t without her own magic, and sent a lightning-bolt arcing over the palisade in between reloading her crossbow.

The air became thick with spellfire and crossbow bolts, and the palisades shook under the vampires’ assault. The vampires were disinclined to fire magic – which was a good thing, as their vanguard defences were made out of timber – but wood could only stand so much. Warped by intense barrages of ice storms and spears, the palisade doors were starting to buckle on their hinges. “Fighters, ready!” Isran bellowed, exchanging his crossbow for his warhammer. He leapt down from the palisade as the Dawnguard’s melee warriors, armed with axes, blades and shields, drew ranks beside him.

Irileth ducked behind the palisade to rearm her crossbow. Further along the walls, another Dawnguard did not; a four-foot ice spear shot through his shoulder and spun him off the walls. “Cover to reload, cover!” Irileth yelled in frustration. She rammed the slider home, straightened, aimed, and put a bolt through the neck of the vampiric cryomancer. Then she spotted the canine shapes bounding between the maples to swarm and savage the last life out of the damaged gates. “Mutts incoming!” Irileth warned the fighters below, as she ducked to reload. “Brace for the breach!”

A few seconds later, the frost-bloated timbers exploded inward, and a veritable pack of death hounds preceded the vampiric horde spilling into the palisade encampment. Their charge was almost immediately broken. The Dawnguard fighters engaged with a will, their battlecries carrying over the death hounds’ grisly snarls. Isran stormed the breach, his hammer buckling vampires like paper, encased in an orb of brilliant golden light that scorched his undead foes to the touch.

There were some vampires, faster than the rest, who sprang upon the ramparts or resolved from swirls of inky mist. But the walltop fighters were ready to receive them; each partner was already waiting with weapons drawn, to defend the arbalests should their point-blanks fail. Irileth sped to partner the woman whose own had been speared off, just as a vampire swung itself onto the platform behind her. Irileth improvised and smashed her crossbow against its head, making it stumble for that one crucial second; the woman, Juri, a hard-nosed Legion veteran turned Dawnguard, immediately followed up with a crossbow bolt that took the vampire square between the eyes. “That’s two!” she declared, booting the slain undead off the walkway.

“Watch it,” Irileth warned, as their second adversary manifested from a swirl of black mist. With no time to reload, Juri cast her crossbow aside and reached for her axe. Irileth fired; she’d fired too early. The half-formed vampire simply slipped back into its misty shell before becoming fully corporeal and bearing down on the two fighters with a ravenous grin. Irileth sprang back as Juri intercepted, and her blade cut a bone-deep wound in the vampire’s outreached hand. Instantly it rounded on her; the other hand, wreathed in the scarlet glow of a life-drain spell, thrust at Juri’s heart. The fresh wound began to close as Juri’s life energy was leeched into her assailant.

Irileth stunned it with a shockbolt. The vampire hissed and threw Juri aside like a ragdoll. Irileth’s adamantine blade whipped from the scabbard, slashing an arc across its leathered chest. She stepped in as it recoiled, summoning a second shockbolt in her left hand as she drove the swordpoint home with her right. Then the vampire struck back, with the speed that had taken her by surprise once before.

But never again.

As soon as it seized her blade she let go – stunned the creature again with lightning – then swept the broken sword from the scabbard against her hip and thrust the jagged tip straight through its jaw and into its brain. Its adamantine edge bit deep.

“Juri?” Irileth prompted, as she ripped the broken sword free.

“I’m all right,” Juri grunted, getting off the ground. “Shor’s eyes, that was unpleasant. Like being squeezed through a tube.” She unclasped a sealed pocket beneath the folds of her lamellar and withdrew a small red potion bottle, which every operative and novice was required to always have on them.

“Make sure you get that in you,” Irileth ordered, and turned her attention beyond the palisade – the Dawnguard fighters had pushed out in pursuit of the last remaining, routed vampires. A final volley of crossbow bolts brought the outrunners down.

“All right,” Irileth bellowed, as the Dawnguard cheered their victory. “All right – our job’s not done yet, you lot. I want to see bodies burning before the moons finish rising.”

The palisades now swarmed with clean-up. The newest volunteers adopted the sentry work while the frontline fighters ate, took stock of their injuries, took down the broken gate and dragged the slain undead into a heap to be burned. Irileth made her rounds among the arbalests, then found Isran cleaning brains off his hammer. “Have you noticed,” the Redguard growled, “that they’re getting sloppier?”

“The assaults?”

“No. The assaulters.” Isran turned over a vampire’s mutilated head with the toe of his boot. “Fledglings. Newborns. Vampire juveniles. This one looks like she was mortal a week ago.”

“Maybe they’re trying to copy your idea,” Irileth remarked.

“Well, it’s not going to work. A newborn vampire might terrorize a village of farmers, but us? Dawnguard fodder.” Isran rested his cleaned warhammer over his shoulder. “Any casualties?”

“Two. Fjoknir took an ice spear, Trennette’s arm broken. Missed a parry. Juri was life-drained, but she’s wholly cognitive and took her disease curative immediately. No injury. What about yours?”

“One. Dead.”

“Who? How?”

“Orlund.” Isran’s eyes darkened. “Friendly fire.”

The solitary fatality lay on a stretcher, arms folded, as two Dawnguard built his funerary pyre outside the palisade. Every body burned, friend and foe. Orlund’s body had been respectfully stripped and draped beneath a sheet; the Dawnguard’s dwindling armoury couldn’t yet spare one of their own being burned with his armour and weapons. But the ugly red stain on his breast soaked through the cloth. “Vori reckons it was one of the new bloods,” said Isran. “Accident with the crossbow sight.”

“I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” Irileth scowled, folding her arms. “The damn things are antiquated. They jam too easy, the sights are bad.”

“Hrrm. The Dragonborn ought to have found Sorine by now. Provided she’s still alive. She’d fix ‘em up into proper weapons.”

They stood and watched as the heap of vampiric corpses was set aflame, illuminating the night with the pleasing sight of burning undead. Isran watched his Dawnguard at work, running the clean-up motions like a well-oiled machine. “You’ve trained them thorough, Irileth,” he observed. “I see why a Dark Elf was chosen to serve as Housecarl to a Jarl.”

“I wasn’t chosen,” said Irileth, “I demanded it. Balgruuf was my brother-in-arms since before the Great War. A throne wasn’t going to separate us.” Her grip tightened on the hilt of her broken sword. “This was Balgruuf’s gift to me, when I took the office,” Irileth continued, figuring Isran deserved an explanation for why she’d had him tip a ruined blade. “On it, I swore to protect his life. I will not lay it down until it destroys the one that slew him.”

The name and the face resonated in her mind again. An eternal, deadly prayer. Orthjolf. Vampire of the Volkihar clan, a right hand of the one that called itself master of them all.

Isran nodded. “I understand. Gods willing, you’ll have your chance. Until then, there’s another matter I wanted to discuss.”

“Go on.”

“The Dawnguard’s grown, and keeps growing. At this rate we’ll be assigning operatives to every city in Skyrim before the year’s done. But we’re not there yet.” Isran faced her. “I’ve been watching you. I want you as my second.”

Irileth considered the proposal. “Why?”

“Because Durak and Celann are dead.”

“And because you don’t trust anyone else.”

“I trust you.” Isran’s brow furrowed. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Somewhere in the maples a nightjar warbled above the roar of the burning flames.

“I’m done staying behind stone walls,” Irileth warned. “I trained your agents to get us all in the field faster.”

“Good. Because I need someone like you to take the fight to the bloodsuckers.”

“And you don’t trust Solen.” Irileth spoke bluntly.

Even Isran’s beard seemed to growl with his sigh. He jerked his head, and side by side they stepped back through the palisade and trod the winding path to the doors of the Fort. “As you said, I don’t trust. I don’t make friends. I want a job done and a job done right. I’ve seen that in you a damned deal more than him.”

“He’s brought us Fiirnaraan,” said Irileth, “and he’s brought us notoriety. A third of the Dawnguard are ex-Legion, a third more have heard the Dragonborn’s thrown in his lot with you. As for getting a job done – don’t let his easy demeanour fool you. When he first came to Whiterun, I had my doubts, we all did. One more witless adventurer. As if a million others like him haven’t passed through Dragonsreach. But he knows exactly where his heart lies. And believe me, whatever odds we’re against, they even out when he’s around.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Isran, as Fort Dawnguard wound into sight. “I’m thinking of sending that Dragon out to look for him. Stendarr only knows where in Skyrim he is now.”

“I’ll come with you. Wouldn’t mind a refresher on that activity near Faldar’s Tooth, if he’s still there.”

Fiirnaraan had originally laired in a cave among the glaciers at the south end of the canyon. Since his arrangement with the Dawnguard, Isran had permitted him one of the towers to use as a roost. Fiirnaraan slept the days away curled within the battlements of the roomy circular platform at the tower’s end, and awoke to his nocturnal duties as the sun went down. It was well after moonrise when they reached Fiirnaraan’s tower, so neither were overly surprised to find it empty. They were surprised, however, to find the sheep that had been left for him that morning still quite alive, nibbling the decrepit rugs and old Dawnguard banners that served as padding to Fiirnaraan’s bed.

“He hasn’t been here all day,” Irileth realized.

“Hrrrm.” Isran tapped his boot. “Whose turn was it to receive the Dragon’s report today?”

“Lynoit. He didn’t report in?”

“No.”

“I’ll have a word.” Lynoit was a novice, twelve days in service. Most likely – and mistakenly – he thought that an absent Dragon exempted reporting in.

“Put someone who knows how to follow orders here,” Isran growled, “and have them find me the instant the Dragon returns.”

~

Fiirnaraan didn’t return until sunrise the following morning. Irileth was seated in the dining hall, enjoying breakfast off the new longtable that had recently arrived from Riften, when Ollrod hastened to her side. “Irileth – Isran sent for you – up in the Dragon-tower.”

“Finish this,” said Irileth, pushing her half-eaten porridge into Ollrod’s hands, and headed for the nearest staircase. A few minutes later she was striding across the Fort ramparts towards the circular tower-end, where Fiirnaraan’s green-and-black bulk was visible curled in his nest. The Dragon had just finished his meal, and was occupied with picking wool from his teeth. Isran stood across from him, arms folded. “He hasn’t said anything yet,” he said, as Irileth jogged to his side. “Just demanded another sheep. Well, Dragon? Care to explain why you’re late?”

Fiirnaraan’s frills and bloody jaws extended in an enormous yawn, but he blinked alertness back into his large green eyes as he faced Isran and Irileth. “Our arrangement did not insist upon punctuality.”

“Well, the Dawnguard doesn’t appreciate tardiness.”

Fiirnaraan flattened his frills, narrowed his eyes, and promptly tucked his head under his wing.

“Isran,” Irileth warned. It was easy to forget that Dragons were naturally prideful creatures, even ones like Fiirnaraan.

Isran blew a momentous sigh. “All right,” he said, taking a fraction of edge out of his voice. “You’ll have another sheep, Dragon. Just explain what kept you away so long.”

Fiirnaraan’s head reappeared. “I found the first one. The one who took the Kel.”

“The vampires’ agent? The Elder Scroll thief?” Isran’s voice sharpened. “Where?”

“He visited the mortal city. His trail led from there.”

“He’s in Riften?”

“No.” Fiirnaraan’s frills quivered with annoyance. “Isran, I do not like the game of guesses.”

Isran growled to himself and planted his fists on his hips. “Hurry up.”

Uninterrupted, Fiirnaraan continued his tale. “I had just begun my nightly game when I saw him, the one you call the kel-tafiir, walking along the shore of the great lake. The wind carried his scent across the water, all the way from the mortal city. He travelled west, and then north. As the sun rose, he stepped into a mortal den. Very smelly. Full of cloying sweet and coughing. But the aura did not linger in the den. It went below – beneath the earth.”

“A hidden lair?” Irileth mused, as the Dragon paused for breath. “Fiirnaraan, how far from Riften do you think this ‘mortal den’ is?”

“Four days,” Fiirnaraan answered peevishly. “And I was not finished.”

Irileth’s turn to bite her tongue and puff an impatient sigh. She waved a hand, indicating the Dragon to speak on. I don’t know how Solen manages with these creatures...

“I did not return the previous sunrise,” Fiirnaraan continued, “because I decided to wait for the kel-tafiir to emerge, and that was not until sunset. With him he had a strange vessel, brimming with a cold power. He journeyed north for the rest of the night.”

“To bring it back to his masters in Castle Volkihar,” Irileth scowled. “Do you suppose it was another vampire artifact?”

“Undoubtedly,” Isran growled, “just as this little escapade of our meddling agent affirms what we’ve already suspected. This Scroll thief is a vampire and a catspaw of the Volkihar. As for this... mortal den... it’s now the Dawnguard’s latest point of interest. What else can you tell about it, Dragon?”

“It is disguised,” said Fiirnaraan. “It looks rotten and dead on the surface. But beneath is an ever-shifting tide of life aura. Mortal and sosvulonah.”

“‘Ever-shifting’? What does that mean?”

“It means many go in and do not come out.”

“It must be a stronghold,” said Irileth, “either Volkihar or some lesser vampire clan sympathetic.” Recalling the week-old fledgling vampire she added sharply, “Maybe even a turning ground.”

“Or rivals,” Isran pondered. “The Volkihar catspaw may have been sent to claim some sort of trophy or weapon.”

“We ought to send some operatives after it. Keep Fiir on the trail –”

“You know my name, mortal,” said Fiirnaraan with patient annoyance. “You would be wise not to abuse such privilege.”

Irileth bit back an irritated retort. “Keep Fiirnaraan on the trail,” she amended. “Claim this artifact, stop it reaching Harkon.”

Isran tugged his beard. “Hmmm. Catching up would be difficult. He’s almost a week ahead.”

“He’s also on foot. Castle Volkihar is on the other side of the province. We can catch up to him.”

“Oh, I do not think that,” said Fiirnaraan, “not unless you too can grow wings and fly.”

“We’re not Dragons,” Irileth started in annoyance, then realized, “Wait. What d’you mean, ‘you too’?”

“Outside the den, the kel-tafiir grew wings. They were very ugly wings. I would not have called them wings. But he stretched them and flew away.” Fiirnaraan tilted his head. “The Dovahkiin neglected to mention that the sosvulonah fly. Oh, what a game this is! I enjoy it very much.”

Irileth turned to Isran. “Azura’s eyes. So not only does it sound like the Volkihar have gained another artifact from under our noses, this artifact thief doesn’t even have the decency to be a normal monstrosity. Since when can vampires fly?”

“They don’t.” Isran looked as worried as a man like Isran could ever get. “Only a very rare strain of vampirism allows for what the Dragon just described. Our catspaw isn’t an ordinary vampire, Irileth – it’s a vampire lord.”

“A vampire lord?” Irileth repeated. “Nerevar take me, now they’re bureaucratic. So what’s the difference from the ‘lesser’ ones, they fly?”

“Only part of it. Very little is known, because so few of them have ever been faced or slain. All our predecessors’ archives say on them is they’re some sort of pedigree or royalty – everything we know a vampire is, and far, far more. Arkay only knows the extent.”

“Isran,” Fiirnaraan interjected, “is this flying kel-tafiir powerful?”

Isran folded his arms. “The most powerful of all its bloodsucking kind.”

The Dragon looked thoughtful. “The Dovahkiin is the most powerful of our kind,” he said, “although admittedly, he cannot fly – I have tested this.”

“And yet,” Irileth murmured, casting her mind back to Dimhollow Crypt, “he made a point of sparing Solen, even Rayya. Despite knowing they were both working for the Dawnguard, his sworn enemy – despite killing Celann and Durak.”

Isran scowled. “Where are you going with this?”

“Something as powerful as you claim has no business leaving anyone alive in that cave.” Unless. Irileth stopped. “Unless it’s to make a point.”

“A point?” Isran echoed.

“A challenge. Throwing down the gauntlet. Killing someone is the end of it. But leaving them alive – and making a point of you could have but didn’t – is power play. It’s the sort of fetched-up thing you’d expect from the political Houses in Morrowind. Shadow games – saw it all the time when I was young. Someone gets too big for their boots or makes the wrong enemies, you either off them, the quick play; or you cripple them, through fear, through lost influence, and through a lot of subordinate murder. Power play. Bait, humiliate, and break down. Mephala smiles on such intrigue.”

“You seem to know a great deal about how to play,” Fiirnaraan observed.

Irileth flicked her eyes away. “Let’s just say my fights weren’t always done in the open and leave it at that, Dragon.”

Isran folded his arms. “So you’re suggesting that this catspaw vampire isn’t just working against us, he’s toying with us, and making a point of it.”

“I’m saying we’re not up against some obscenely powerful dimwit. He knew this early, a dead Dragonborn would’ve made a martyr and a live one look weak. Meanwhile Durak and Celann had their throats slit with an assassin’s professionalism. This catspaw, Scroll-thief, vampire lord – he knows exactly what he’s doing and who he’s dealing with. Make no mistake about that.”

Isran and Fiirnaraan shared a glance. “Well,” Isran said eventually, “I want to know exactly what he’s doing and what we’re dealing with. If we can’t reclaim this artifact, then I want to know everything about where he got it and why. Choose some Dawnguard and get out to that den. Be thorough.”

Irileth’s hand tightened on her swordhilt. “Aye.”

“As for you,” Isran growled, turning to Fiirnaraan, “get out and find the Dragonborn. Make sure he’s still on task – and ensure he knows whatever game these vampires are playing, he’s a part of it.”

Fiirnaraan blinked graciously. “Oh, yes. This I shall do. The Dovahkiin loves games.”

“Oh, he’d better,” Irileth scowled, striding from the tower. Because if I’m right, Balgruuf’s death was the invitation to play.

Chapter Text

“Spiders, Gunmar?” Sorine Jurard repeated indignantly. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Gunmar, who in his scaled armour, bristling beard and long russet hair looked as Nordic as a Nord ever came, leaned forward with a gap-toothed grin. “Just consider it! They’re silent, they’re patient. Have them spin some webs in strategic points of a vampire cave –”

“‘Silent’?” Solen repeated indignantly, flinching as Rayya daubed some stinging poultice to the claw wound on his arm. “Those things click and squeal like a pig in dancing shoes!”

“Besides, Fort Dawnguard has enough cobwebs,” Rayya added, reaching for the sewing needle. “When Isran told us you were going to be the Fort’s resident beast expert, I don’t think he had spiders in mind.”

“No, he’s probably thinking of the trolls,” Gunmar allowed. “Well, those won’t be hard to find in the Rift. Those aren’t hard to find anywhere! But they’re hard for vampires to kill. They share a vampire’s susceptibility to fire, but they’re far thicker-skinned than any shambling corpse.”

Solen mused aloud as he stirred the skillet presently frying the party’s dinner. “They smell awful, though. Taste even worse.”

“Taste!” Gunmar exclaimed, laughing. “Don’t tell me you ever tried cooking one of those salty horkers!”

“It wasn’t exactly cooked,” said Solen delicately. “Anyway, I think the bacon’s done. Food’s ready, everyone.”

They’d made camp at the edge of the White River in Eastmarch; the horses grazing further downstream on a patch of tussock, the humans and elf on a pebbly bank upwind of the region’s famous noxious sulphur pools. It’d taken weeks of travel, with helpful pointers from Sorine and many strings pulled with some of Solen’s old hunting contacts around Falkreath and Whiterun, before they’d tracked Gunmar down to the den, where for half a month he’d been trailing a man-eating bear. With said bear now assuredly dead, and Gunmar briefed to the mission of the Dawnguard, thoughts turned at last to returning to the Canyon.

But presently they were on dinner. Sliced bread warmed on the fire-heated rocks, sizzling bacon, and fried eggs, courtesy of a cluster of pine thrush nests Solen had happened on during a hunting expedition. They weren’t his usual prize, but the game had been thinning of late. Then again, Eastmarch had never been a plentiful hunting ground.

“You know,” said Sorine, as she served their helpings, “I’m really curious to see what Isran’s done with the place. It was his pet project for years – never let anyone near it.”

“That old place by Stendarr’s Beacon, was it?” Gunmar chuckled. “Never let anyone in. His own little fortress. But that’s changed, if anyone’s now walking through those doors. Leader of the Dawnguard – would never have pictured him at the helm.”

“I know that feeling,” Solen said, and tried not to wince as Rayya pulled the last stitch tightly shut. “All right, that’ll do, love. Damned bear.” Its claws had been both longer and sharper than expected. Solen showed Gunmar the ripped leather sleeve beneath the layered metal plates. “Don’t suppose this could be your first job when we get back?”

“Fix it yourself. You said you’re training under Gray-Mane, weren’t you? I want to see your handiwork.”

“Hmph! You and I are going to get along already, I can tell...” Solen received his plate eagerly, stomach rumbling with appetite. “Mmm. Nothing like a bit of bacon and egg... Rayya, you can pass yours over – Rayya?”

Rayya, who detested egg in any form and only ate it under the direst circumstances, was busily shovelling it into her mouth as if were baked potato. Solen stared in astonishment.

“Wha’?” Rayya cut up a forkful of bacon and stared back. “It’s not that bad.”

“Rayya,” said Solen carefully, “in the early weeks of us travelling together, when I first learned of your distaste for it, I slipped a boiled egg into your sandwich to see what happened if you noticed.”

“And what happened, Solen?”

“You pulled a knife on my nethers.” Sorine and Gunmar choked noisily on their bacon. “It has been six years since that day, love of my life,” Solen continued, “and I have not dared to repeat the experiment. Because I learned my lesson. You hate eggs.”

“I know. I mean, I did.” Rayya leaned over and filched Solen’s fried egg off his plate. “But... I don’t know. Lately I’ve just been...” She chewed and shrugged. “It’s not amazing, but I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“I do not either, but eggs are very delicious,” said Fiirnaraan, and manifested with his snout right over Rayya’s shoulder.

Rayya shrieked and punched Fiirnaraan hard in the nose. The startled Dragon recoiled with a yelp, straight into the river. Solen roared with laughter. “Easy, easy,” he gasped, as Sorine and Gunmar bellowed in alarm and scrambled for their weapons. “He’s with us.”

“Bloody Dragon!” Rayya cursed. “Don’t do that!”

Fiirnaraan rubbed his snout-tip reproachfully with a wing thumb. “Oh, all right. Only because you are no fun.”

Rayya rubbed her knuckles and haughtily resumed her seat, muttering about what it was about Dragons that so inclined them to mischief. Solen, still grinning, refreshed her upset plate, including the rest of the fried eggs. “There you are, love. Eat up – eggs and all. Fiirnaraan, if you’re hoping for dinner, you’d have better luck at Fort Dawnguard.”

Fiirnaraan’s enormous eyes pondered the shocked Nord and Breton across from him. “Are these the ones Isran asked you to find, Dovahkiin?”

“Yup. Sorine, Gunmar, meet the Dawnguard’s secret weapon.”

“A Dragon,” Sorine repeated weakly. “Isran recruited an actual, live Dragon.”

“What does he need me for, then?” Gunmar grinned.

Fiirnaraan puffed out his frills and drew himself up primly. “We have an arrangement.”

“And how’s that working out, friend? Good?”

“Oh, yes, Dovahkiin. Sometimes they even give me two sheep.”

“Well, how about that. Isran likes you.”

“He has asked me to escort you back to the Fort.”

“Escort!” Solen echoed, grinning at Rayya. “I knew the old guy would miss me.”

“He did not talk about missing,” said Fiirnaraan, flicking riverwater off the fin of his tail. “But Isran did seem distressed about the Volkihar and the kel-tafiir, who is not an ordinary sosvulonah but a very rare kind of flying nobleman.”

“He’s a what now?”

~

Six days later, beneath a glowing midmorning sun, they entered Dayspring Canyon and stood on the trail facing Fort Dawnguard. “Wow,” said Sorine, squinting up at the gargantuan stone keep. “Whatever I expected from Isran’s project, it wasn’t this.”

Nor had Solen. The passing months had transformed the largely empty fort into a thriving garrison, and more. The Canyon ached with life. Dawnguard hailed them at their approach, patrolled the palisades and the beaten dirt road, and watched down from on high. Paddocks bustling with livestock – sheep, goats, chickens and even milk cows – had been erected on the grassy hillsides. Fiirnaraan, who’d flown ahead once they reached the Dayspring Pass, was visible sprawled on one of the higher towers, tail dangling, wings fanned as he basked contentedly in the noon sun.

There were more concerning changes, too. Signs of battle, old and fresh, lay in every scarred tree and disturbed patch of earth where the dead had been burned and their scorched bones buried. Camps of hide and canvas tents full of commoners pocketed the hilly crevasses alongside the path, leading up to the glowering Fort doors. “This is new,” Rayya murmured, her eyes lingering on the families of displaced farmers and labourers.

“Refugees,” Solen murmured. He’d seen those frightened eyes before.

They passed Ember and Starfire off at the stables and headed indoors. “Isran’s done a lot,” Gunmar noted, “I’ll give him that. Built himself a whole little army to fight the menace with.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Solen advised, ramming himself against the door – still as stiff and stubborn as ever. “He made it very clear – this isn’t – the army.”

“So we don’t have to call him ‘sir’?” Sorine sighed in relief. “Thank Mara for that.”

They spilled inside the immense Fort antechamber and found it completely empty. “Huh,” said Sorine, as the heavy doors banged shut behind them, “so much for a warm welcome. Isran? You there?”

“Sorine. Gunmar.” Isran’s growl floated down from the floor above. “Glad you two could make it.”

“Gee, Isran, we missed you too,” said Solen. They stepped into the middle of the circular chamber, brightly lit from the oculus above, to peer up at Isran on the balcony. “What’s with the whole staring-down-imposingly thing?”

Bang! Bang! Bang! Heavy iron portcullises suddenly rammed down over every exit, even over the spirited Fort double-doors. Solen instinctively reached for Eldródr. “Isran!” Rayya shouted warningly. “What’s the big idea?”

“Hold it right there.” Isran raised his clenched fist.

“Paranoid old croaker,” Gunmar muttered. He cupped his hands and bellowed, “We’re standing in sunlight, you bald nit!”

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t vampires. You know the Volkihar can move under sunlight.”

“They can?” Solen murmured at Rayya, puzzled. “Then what gives with the whole –?”

“Just makes them weak, I think,” Rayya murmured back. “We could swim in the Sea of Ghosts, but we wouldn’t feel great doing it.”

The chamber suddenly turned gold, completely gold – a mysterious warm, almost pleasant sensation suffused the four standing within the sealed-off entry hall as they became encased in a pillar of light. It was like sinking into a hot bath, setting their blood tingling through their veins. Beneath them the floor, which Solen had mistaken for dull old cobblestone, had transformed into an enormous white rune, decorated with all sorts of illegible arcane symbology. The event ended after a few seconds, and seemed to satisfy Isran. “Can’t be too careful,” he said gruffly.

“I’d be more annoyed if I wasn’t so impressed,” Sorine said, brushing off her arms. “What was that, Stendarr’s Aura?”

“Sunpurge Seal. One of Fort Dawnguard’s old tricks. Recently I found out how to reactivate it for moments like these.”

Solen knocked his heel against the floor, which had resumed its unassuming grey pavestone appearance. “What happens if a vampire steps in this?”

“They explode. Violently.”

“Neat.”

The portcullises were hauled up, unsealing the rest of the Fort, and Isran soon joined them in the antechamber. “Welcome to Fort Dawnguard,” Isran said gruffly to Sorine and Gunmar. “I’m sure you’ve heard from Solen and Rayya about what we’re up against.”

“What haven’t we heard?” said Sorine, throwing up her hands. “The Volkihar clan with an Elder Scroll, and a prophecy claiming the world’s about to end.”

“Prophecy?” echoed Isran. “What prophecy?”

“The Day of Black Sun,” Solen answered. “That’s what the Reachfolk call it. A day when the sun goes... black, or out, or something, and it throws the world into darkness. Good news for vampires and bad for us.”

“Reachfolk?”

“Forsworn, sorry. I forget no one names them properly.”

Isran arched his brow. “Never thought you could still surprise me, Dragonborn, yet here you are, associating with murderous, Daedra-worshipping barbarians.”

“And here you are, associating with an associate of murderous, Daedra-worshipping barbarians.” Solen folded his arms. “I don’t make it a regular thing, Isran, but they don’t call the vampires their friends either. They’re certain there’s a doomsday coming, and I’m certain the vampires are up to their elbows in making it happen. Who else benefits from a darkened sun? Why else do they want an Elder Scroll? They’re the damn instruments of prophecy!”

“What are you, a Moth Priest?” Isran snorted. “Exactly what experience do you have with Elder Scrolls?”

“I found one! I lugged it up a mountain, read it in a Time-Wound, whacked it in Alduin’s face. You know, the usual experience of someone who’s actually fulfilled a prophecy.”

Solen looked among their startled faces, noticing a distinct lack of response, and he turned to Rayya, puzzled. “I mentioned all that before, didn’t I?”

“I don’t think it ever came up,” Rayya shrugged.

“Oh.” Solen turned back to Isran. “So, uh, yeah. All that. Except whacking it in Alduin’s face. But I was tempted.”

“Alduin?” Sorine echoed. “Like that Dragon from the songs?”

“That’s the one,” Gunmar nodded.

Isran massaged his forehead and sighed, which Solen guessed was about as close as the Redguard would ever come to an apology. “All right,” he conceded, “so you have experience with Elder Scrolls. Valuable experience.”

“That and prophecy.” Solen set his hands on his hips. “Believe me, I’d love it to just be puffed-up nonsense, and I’d love to be proven wrong, but I really don’t think a threat against the actual honest-to-gods sun should be ignored. If a Dragon once menaced eating the world as we know it, a clan of crazy-powerful flying vampires going to kill the sun isn’t so far-fetched.”

“Hrrrm,” said Isran. “When you put it like that, I guess not.” He huffed a sigh and clapped his hands together. “So. The vampires have an Elder Scroll and we have some idea of what they plan with it. The question is how long we have left to stop them.”

“Honestly?” said Solen. “Unless they’ve got some way to read it, they’re holding a bow without arrows; a tool they’ve got no way of using.”

“You read one,” Gunmar pointed out, “so why can’t they?”

“Good question. One, I didn’t really read the Scroll, I just used it to go back in time about five Eras to learn a Shout. Long story. Two, I read – sorry, opened it – in this incredibly specific place, the sort of place I really doubt the vampires have in their castle, or know about, or would even work for their purposes.” Solen upturned his palms. “So, again; bow without arrows.”

They paused to think. “Your Scroll,” Sorine said suddenly, “the one you found – where is it now?”

“In safekeeping at the College of Winterhold. Why?”

Sorine tapped her chin. “I remembered reading somewhere that the Elder Scrolls are fluid – they simultaneously hold knowledge of the past and the future. If they really are instruments of prophecy, as you say, do you think your Scroll might be able to tell us about the Day of Black Sun?”

Solen shrugged. “Honestly, the whole mythos around the Elder Scrolls goes right over my head. I’m still trying to figure out the whole ‘don’t exist but have always existed’ concept.”

“It’s worth a try, at least,” said Rayya. “Use a Scroll against a Scroll.”

“Not sure if it works like that, but... I guess Urag could be persuaded to loan it out for a while.” Solen recalled the taciturn Orc librarian of the mages’ College and smiled. “But then we’d just be in the same boat as the vampires, wouldn’t we? We’d just be flaunting Scrolls at each other.”

“Not necessarily,” said Isran. “We’d just need a Moth Priest to read it.”

“Moth Priest? What’s that? Beside some kind of insult at my intellect.”

“They’re monks who devote their lives to... whatever the Elder Scrolls are. I heard they used to keep a library of Scrolls, do readings for the Cyrodiil Emperors.”

“So they serve the Empire?” said Solen, and inspiration struck, as bright and warm as that sunpurge spell had been. “Zeht’s tears, I’ve never been so happy to have served with the Imperial Legion. Give me enough time with General Tullius, and I can probably get a Moth Priest to come to Skyrim.”

Isran’s dark eyes brightened. “You can?”

“Course I can, Tullius loves me. Meanwhile Rayya, you get a headstart on fetching the Scroll from the College of Winterhold. Swing by Jorrvaskr and grab Aela. The librarian will know her, she was with me during the whole Elder Scroll search. Added bonus that she’s a great vampire deterrent in case that relic-pinching paralyzer catches wind.”

“And leave you to ride across Skyrim by yourself?” Rayya frowned and folded her arms. “I don’t think so, husband.”

“I won’t be riding, dear wife,” said Solen. “Well, not a horse, if all goes well.” He glanced at Isran. “That sound suitable to you, big man?”

Isran harrumphed, but nodded. “Sounds sensible.” He turned to Sorine and Gunmar. “As for you two, Fort’s all yours. Get used to the space. Sorine, you’ll find room to start your tinkering. First task is getting our crossbows up to date. Gunmar, you’re on the forge. Weapons and armour. You’ll have all the supplies and designs you’ll need. You’ve also got a cave to put your trolls. Get them armoured up and ready for use.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Gunmar grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Just like old days, eh, Sori?”

“So long as they don’t end like the old days,” Sorine remarked, with a pointed nod at Isran.

“Hmmm.” Isran flicked his dark eyes over the both of them – was Solen mistaken, or was there a trace of warmth in them? “We’ll see.”

~

A cool indigo dusk was coaxing the constellations into being as Solen arrived at the stables to pet Ember goodbye. “Not this time, bud,” Solen smiled, stroking down the warhorse’s white-blazed nose. “If all goes well, anyway. I’m sure it’ll go well. You be good to the other poor beasts down here, all right? Tell ‘em some good stories. Make ‘em jealous. We’ll be back on track before you know it.”

Ember bobbed his head, almost clocking Solen in the chin. He chuckled and scratched behind his ears. “All right. I’ll be careful. You look after my big old bow for me, all right? Only so much I can carry on dragonback.” He patted the crossbow hitched under Eldródr’s sheath. “I’ll be careful, don’t worry.”

“I think he’s placated enough,” said Rayya, sauntering out beside him. She wasn’t travelling until morning, given how dangerous the nights had become, but of course she was going to see Solen off. Side by side they put the stables behind them and strode back through the Canyon. “Feels like a real garrison now,” Rayya observed, as the Dawnguard operatives went about their work. “Irileth really got them into shape, didn’t she?”

“I’d shake her hand, if I trusted her not to chop it off.”

“Or if she was here. Isran said she was out on a mission, investigating some vampire den.”

“Huh. Of course she gets all the fun.”

At the valley’s end, they drew their cloaks tight about them and stepped through the chilly tunnelled passage of Dayspring Pass, which connected the concealed Canyon to the autumnal forests of the Rift. The south Rift road was only a stone’s throw from the Pass entrance, marked only with a brazier and a cairnstone wayshrine. Solen stood for a moment just breathing in the sweetly scented night air and listened to the wind soughing through the trees.

The pleasantly tranquil night was briefly disrupted by the Thu’um. “OD AH VIING!”

It bent the trees against the wind and shook a storm of leaves to the peppered forest floor, but soon they settled to their usual breezy rhythm. Solen made himself comfy on the cairnstone pile, anticipating a long wait. “I’ll bet he’s on the other side of the province. It’ll probably take him all night to get here.”

“Who, Odahviing? The Red Scourge of Skyrim? Fastest pair of wings on a Dragon?” Rayya stood beside him and rested her arm around his shoulders. “A few hours, at most. You haven’t called him in almost a year. He’ll probably be very curious as to what the Dovahkiin could possibly want with him.”

“The last time my Thu’um made him curious, he got his head stuck in a giant yoke and a court wizard tried to stab him with a fork. No, curious is not a word I’d attribute to Odahviing.”

Rayya laughed. “Onsi’s blade, I wish I’d been there for that. That was Faendal again, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, so it was. He dragged himself all the way up the Seven Thousand Steps for me for those peace talks, I felt I owed him a show.” Solen tucked Rayya’s hand under his own. “I hope Odahviing agrees to take me up again. Honestly I don’t know if he will. He’s a proud old dovah. Twice might be all he’s got in him.”

“You could use Fiirnaraan instead.”

“Use? Rayya, you don’t use Dragons. You ask and hope they agree. Besides, I think I might break Fiirnaraan’s neck if I tried to climb on it.”

“I suppose you would, you great lump. He is rather small for a Dragon, isn’t he?”

“Doesn’t stop him. He does things with his Thu’um like no one I’ve ever seen. Shouting with silence...” Solen looked thoughtfully at the darkening sky. “I ought to take him aside one day, see if he’ll teach me the knack. I could be quite good at it, you never know.”

Rayya laughed. “My dear, you’d talk an opponent to death, Voice or no Voice.”

“Doubt it’ll work with vampires, though.” Solen narrowed his eyes. “Or with that... catspaw. Hmm. He needs a better name than that, my mysterious tormentor. I think I’ll call him... Malooc.”

“Solen, you can’t just go naming your enemies.”

“Why not? It might even be his name. Malooc, king of the goblins. It’s a perfect nickname. If he doesn’t like it, tough. He hurt you. He killed my shield-brothers. And he kicked me in the nose. All unforgiveable.”

Rayya snorted and tilted his head down to kiss the aggrieved nose, which had healed slightly crooked. “Aela and I will get the Scroll,” she said, “and you get Tullius to ship a Moth Priest up the south Rift road, and the Dawnguard will keep the Volkihar busy. That’s all I want you to concern yourself with. Let’s get this mission right, and we’ll be back on course to putting down this undead uprising.”

Solen sighed and rested his forehead against hers. “Of course.”

An hour passed. Then a second, and a third. They took turns napping; Rayya wouldn’t hear of going back into the Canyon until she knew Solen was safely away. Midnight came and went. “Maybe he didn’t hear you,” Rayya yawned, knuckling at her reddening eyes.

“He heard,” Solen mumbled, straining to keep his own open. “There’s no way in Nirn he wouldn’t have heard his own Shout. Whether he’ll come, though... He can fly across the whole province in a day if he puts his mind to it.”

“Farrus thought he was last posted somewhere round the west end of Skyrim.”

“Mmhm. Maybe he’s already off doing some bloodletting. I bet the Imperial garrisons are tempting targets for the vampires.”

“Probably not ones with a bloody fat Dragon sitting on them.”

Solen snorted. “Probably not. And for Ruptga’s sake, don’t call him fat.”

“He’s not here, is he? I’ll call him whatever I want. Big old scaly Stormcloak-muncher.”

“Rayya, that was once, and he agreed he’d never do it again.”

“Left a lasting impression, though.”

“Yeah... poor guy.”

“The definition of brave and stupid. Tu’whacca rest his soul.”

The night spiralled on, and on. In fact, the first glow of dawn was on the horizon when Solen’s drowsing ears picked up the long-awaited concussive blasts of beating wings. He jerked fully awake and nudged Rayya, just as the treetops began to thrash.

The tremendous scarlet-and-silver form of Odahviing roared over the autumnal forest, sending a shower of golden leaves in all directions. Solen and Rayya rose to meet him as the great red Dragon descended in swooping bobs upon the broad cobbled roadside, flattening several young saplings as he negotiated his bulk out of the sky and to the ground.

“Dovahkiin,” Odahviing greeted, and drew a deep breath. “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

Just in time, Rayya remembered to dive out of the way. She still wasn’t quite used to watching Solen walk willingly into a cone of fire, no matter how benevolently casted it was. Solen had never been gladder of it, however; his night-long vigil had left him very cold and stiff. He returned the greeting, striping a fine plume of shimmering flame up Odahviing’s snout and horns.

“Your Thu’um is strong as ever,” Odahviing said, rocking back onto his talons. Frost from his long flight still clung to his scales, adding a glittering lustre to his body. He was the definition of a Dragon at his prime power, thrice as big as Fiirnaraan, his scarlet hide rippled proudly with scars of conquest, his glittering eyes as sharp and bold as jade, permanently radiant with a warrior’s battlefire.

“As is yours, my friend,” Solen returned. “I’m sorry to call you away to such a repulsively peaceful corner of the world, but I need your swift wings again.”

Odahviing’s huge scaled face matted in a scowl. “Thuri, I have warned you, zu’u kendov – I am a warrior, not a...” He considered an appropriate comparison. “...carriage.”

“Believe me, you’re the last thing in Nirn I’d ever call a carriage,” Solen assured him, “but I wouldn’t be asking this great favour of you if it wasn’t of the most vital importance. I need to speak with Tullius, yesterday.”

“Hmph! I cannot fly back through time, Dovahkiin.”

“You’re the closest thing there is.”

Odahviing narrowed his eyes. “If I refuse?”

It was a test. Odahviing knew that Solen had learned even more forbidden, corrupting Thu’um than Dragonrend – his adventures in Solstheim against Miraak had granted him the horrific knowledge of bending a Dragon’s will to his own. In truth, there was nothing stopping Solen from using the wings of any Dragon in the world. Nothing but a sense of honour.

“My vow still stands,” Solen assured him. “I will not force you, or any Dragon who does not challenge me first. Refuse if the request is too much. I’ll find another way to Tullius.” A month away on horseback, in Solitude. Gods know what state Skyrim will be in by then.

Odahviing considered him. “You have always been fair with the Thu’um,” he allowed. “Fairer than Alduin, and many joorre who have a shadow of your suleyk – your power,” he added, recalling Solen’s infantile grasp of Dovahzul. “Very well, Dovahkiin. We will fly together once more.”

Solen deflated in relief. “You’re an absolute champion, Odahviing.” He turned and smiled at Rayya. “Well, there we are. We’re off.”

Rayya strode forward, took Solen by the ears, pulled him down and kissed him firmly. “Travel safe,” she murmured. “Don’t make me come after you.”

Solen winked. “Race you to the College.”

“Dovahkiin,” Odahviing prompted.

Solen turned away and hauled himself carefully behind the red dragon’s crest of horns. “Just like old times, eh?” he murmured, gripping the horns tightly, as Odahviing leaned hard on his rear talons and shook out his great spread of white and violet wings –

Then paused, his breath held, his jaws agape, poised to spring and frozen in the stance. “Uh, Odahviing?” Solen prompted. He clung against the steeply sloped neck, trying not to take too much notice of the very long, sharp black spines that arched along the Dragon’s back below.

Odahviing rumbled like a drum. “They have sounded the horn.”

“What – the Imperials?” Stupid question. As if any other kind of horn would get Odahviing’s attention. They’d been designed much like the Thu’um, to summon the Dragon from anywhere in Skyrim. “Fishbait,” Solen cursed. “Well – we can’t ignore that.”

“We?”

“I’m sure as Oblivion not waiting here until you’re done with it.” Solen patted his swordhilt. “I’m a kendov too.”

Odahviing rumbled with a low, malicious laugh. “Pruzah, Dovahkiin. Then it will indeed be like old times.”

The immense red Dragon leapt from the road, trees thrashing under the hurricane force of his wings, with Solen clinging hard against his neck. The ascent was always the worst part, and he tried not to watch Rayya and the rest of Skyrim shrinking dizzyingly out of sight below. Then Odahviing was above the trees, and his wings boomed loud and deep. He swung his nose to the northwest and buckled his body into the sinuous motions of flight, an eerie dirge-like cry rumbling up from the pit of his chest. Solen glanced back, but Dayspring Canyon was already lost to sight.

He looked forward between the great curved horns and distracted himself with the general wonder of flight. He might be physically terrified, but his Dragon soul certainly wasn’t. Thrill licked through his bones like a kindling inferno. Solen grinned and hunched low against Odahviing’s neck, out of the worst of the wind. Old times indeed. The Imperials are going to be surprised.

Chapter Text

The vampires were retreating – or trying to, anyway. Irileth would give them no quarter. Her crossbow cracked, near tugging itself from her grasp, as she launched another bolt into a fledgling’s spine. “Perish like the vermin you are!” she spat, reloading her weapon in one swift movement. “Scatter, roaches! Give me a challenge worth sending your rotten souls to Azura!”

Redwater Den was what the shambled cottage was called; some kind of tainted skooma front, full of desperate, pleasure-seeking scum. Beneath the veil lay a crumbled Nordic ruin stuffed to the seams with young vampires and their thralls, mortals whose wills had been stolen by their vampiric masters. They thought that the six Dawnguard that packed the narrow corridors and stormed the musty caverns would be overwhelmed. They were wrong. Irileth had chosen only the best the Dawnguard had, and it showed.

The last wave of vampires in Redwater Den recoiled from the Dawnguard advance; they spilled into another large chamber, roomy, full of stone columns, echoing dimly with the sound of gurgling water. They turned back with overbright eyes and fangs bared, rallying to attack again.

“Light them up,” Irileth ordered, as she and the rest set their crossbows to their shoulders. Illia’s hands blazed as she conjured a fireball, and launched it straight at the feet of the nearest. It went off in a conflagration of magefire and screams as the vampires’ clothes and paper-dry skin ignited.

Irileth, Agmaer and Vori fired their crossbows together in a pitiless volley. Three vampires went down. A thrall, incensed to madness, rushed them with greatsword upraised. Mogrul swiftly intercepted, near cutting the man in half on the edge of his battleaxe. One of the vampires turned to flee – Kjennar’s hands were faster. Two knives flashed through the air, and the vampire collapsed, flesh crumbling to ash where the silver blades had sunk between its ribs.

“Two getting away,” Agmaer warned, as he reloaded.

Vori was a deadly quick shot. Her crossbow was up against her shoulder before Irileth had finished winding back the stock. A moment’s pause, a sharp crack, and one of the distant shapes went down. “Kjennar, Mogrul, after the last one,” Irileth ordered, and the two were away across the chamber. “Illia, Agmaer, take the left side. Vori, with me on the right.”

They spread out to scope the latest cavern, but any lingering fear of ambush was gradually dispelled. Though dim, the cavern had little shadow, and beyond the pillars supporting the sagging ceiling, little cover. The sound of rushing water gradually grew louder as they approached the middle of the cavern, which glowed with a sickly golden, flickering glow.

“By the Nine,” Vori gasped, as they drew upon the sound’s source.

An immense pool of greasy bloodred liquid filled the centre of the cavern, the heart of which gurgled with a foamy crimson geyser. It was ringed with paved stone and a pair of footbridges, and the whole thing sharply illuminated by a pair of fiery braziers suspended from the ceiling above. Corpses reduced to shrivelled, bloody skeletons littered the gurgling currents. The smell was incredible – it cloyed in their noses and gagged in their throats with a hideous metallic aftertaste. “Gods,” Illia whispered, “I think I might be sick.”

“That’s not...?” Agmaer went white. “Blood. A fountain of blood.”

“Not a fountain,” Irileth murmured, “a spring.” The name of Redwater Den suddenly made sense. “Mephala’s eyes, no wonder the curs are drawn here.”

From within the ruins across the evil pool, they heard a vampire’s shrill death-shriek. “Sounds like they got ‘im,” said Vori. “Those were the last ones, aye?”

“For now. Don’t lower your guard. More may be on their way.”

Irileth had taken every precaution against such an eventuality though. Be thorough. Well, being thorough was her nature. Every alcove searched, every body burned, every corridor accounted for, no one spared. The caves and ruins of Redwater Den were a charred slaughterhouse.

Now, what to do with this gurgling pit. Irileth’s stomach was rarely turned, but it was definitely churning as she stared at this throbbing red fountain. How did something like this even come about? How was it made? How many had died to make it?

And why had Harkon’s catspaw come here specifically? Irileth knelt by the bloodwater, drew her broken blade, dabbed the tip of it in the ghoulish slime. It was blood in texture, smell and hue – she’d bypass the taste test – but beyond its presentation, nothing else remarkable about it. “Agmaer,” she called, “your vial – your empty one.”

Agmaer withdrew his emptied vial of cure-disease and tossed it Irileth’s way. She caught it and filled it with a sample of the sickly stuff. There were no alchemists in the Dawnguard yet – Illia’s skill at herblore was barely rudimentary – but perhaps Isran or another former Vigilant – there were a handful of those in the ranks, now – might be able to divine something from it.

“Irileth!” Vori called. “Over here!”

In one swift move Irileth pocketed the bloodwater sample and stepped around the spring towards the Nordic ruins on the other side. Vori stood over a pair of vampire corpses.

“Found them like this,” Vori explained, as Irileth examined them. It was difficult to tell with vampires whether they were freshly dead or not, since they didn’t rot; but it was easy to see from the nature of their wounds that no Dawnguard had killed them, and that they weren’t of the same lesser and fledgling stock they’d dispatched of throughout the den. These ones wore finely tailored leather with decorative gilded steel, curved and flared at every cut of cloth to emulate the wings of bats, complete with their own half-capes pinned to the raiment with a sharp-edged brooch engraved with a skull.

No – that was no ordinary skull. Two ribbed horns curved sharply round a lipless mouth of pointed fangs. Spikes pulled the dome of the skull into a bestial crown. Irileth twisted the brooch off the slain vampire and scowled down at it. Molag Bal. Lord of Domination, father of vampires. “The symbol of the Volkihar court?” Vori guessed.

“As good as.” Irileth slapped it into her palm. “I’d wager these two were part of Harkon’s court.”

“How can you tell, Housecarl?”

“Feel that steel. Immaculate. That isn’t some clan symbol chiselled onto a hunk of metal folded on a campfire. Besides – not many dare to openly wear the mark of a Daedric Prince. Especially not that one.”

Vori pocketed the brooch. “Your people venerate the Princes, don’t they?”

Irileth curled her lip. “Not that one. Never that one.” Molag Bal belonged to the House of Troubles, alongside Mehrunes Dagon, Malacath and the Madgod. The Bad Daedra, better left alone.

“Who d’you think killed these two, Irileth?”

The dead vampires were a man and a woman, and by the look of them, once Nords. The bladestrokes on their bodies were clean, precise. Deftly placed. The quantity of wounds lashed through the vampires’ garments indicated no surprise attack, but a brutal show of skill, force, and savagery.

“The same fetcher who killed our own in Dimhollow.” Irileth straightened up and scowled down at the bodies. “No mistaking that bladework.”

“Isn’t he a vampire? One of them?” Vori scratched her head. “Why’d he kill his own?”

“Half a dozen reasons,” Irileth answered. “Jealousy. Greed. Spite. Fear. A rung in the ladder. Who knows the whims of a vampire’s court. We’re not dealing with some cringing coven, Vori. Vampire lords are a breed apart. Whatever their reasons, these two went against one and failed. And these two were no lesser creatures.”

She nudged the corpses. “No more questions, Vori. Get these two burned.”

“Aye, Housecarl.”

Housecarl. What the Dawnguard called her, when not by name. They spoke it deferentially, with respect. To swear the Housecarl’s oath was recognized across Skyrim as the most noble of oaths to swear. The Housecarl pledged themselves to a lifetime of servitude. Their lives were lived and laid down for another. Few took mates, fewer had families. Vigilance and loyalty were their watchwords. Rarely were they released from their oaths. The only glory they ever earned was defending the honour, the treasures, and the life of their liege.

To Irileth, every time she heard it was a reminder of the oath she had failed. It returned her to that night when the guardsman’s shout had awoken her. When she’d seized her blade and run to Balgruuf’s chamber, and found the vampire in the doorway, smiling a bloody grin. When she’d struck, and he’d seized her sword mid-swing, and splintered it like ice in his clawed hand. When she and the guards around her had been thrown into walls and windows like straw dollies, bones breaking, cries knocked from lungs. When Orthjolf hurled himself from the western balcony and vanished into the night in a swarm of bats.

When she’d found Balgruuf cold in his bed, his throat ripped open like a parcel at New Life.

Housecarl. Irileth’s identity and her shame. That she should breathe when her liege lord did not. When her friend did not. The title was a brand on her skin.

But Dunmer did not burn easily.

Thudding footsteps roused her to the present. Irileth counted three sets. She reached for her crossbow as Mogrul and Kjennar returned, with a stranger in tow. “What delayed you two?” she demanded. “Who is this?”

“The reason we delayed.” Mogrul jerked a thumb at the follower. “Says he’s a priest.”

Another one? Irileth cast a metered eye over the Imperial man in the plain brown robe of priesthood, steel plated gauntlets and boots just visible under the tattered hem and baggy sleeves. Certainly didn’t look like a Vigilant, who favoured robes of tan and blue, their Stendarr pendants loud and proud. This one wore Arkay’s sun around his neck. At least, Irileth thought it was a sun. She didn’t pay overmuch attention to the symbology of the Divines. Still, he looked harmless enough. She lowered her crossbow marginally. “State your business here, priest.”

The priest’s eyes flicked over Irileth’s shoulder to the gurgling blood-spring. “Ahh. I think I found it. Although I do wish Arkay had given me more warning. This is unspeakably and offensively evil.” Without further ado he brushed past Irileth and proceeded to the pool’s edge.

“He’s been jabberin’ like that since we met him,” Kjennar shrugged. “Arkay this, Arkay that.”

“Did you get his name, at least?” Irileth asked.

“Florentius Baenius,” said the priest, considering the pool. “Arkay also wants to extend His thanks for doing such fine work clearing out this evil pit. Now we can get to work.”

“Work?” Irileth repeated.

“This gruesome insult to Arkay must be destroyed, of course. It’s what led me here, just like you.”

“We’re the Dawnguard,” Irileth said. “Vampires led us here.”

“Well, vampires are just as repugnant to Arkay as any undead.” Florentius seemed to detach from present company for a moment to hold a conversation with himself. “Really? You can’t be... You’re quite sure? Oh, no I never... Of course.” He refocused on Irileth. “Arkay says you can help with the cleansing ritual. He says you Dawnguard type are very thorough.”

The Dawnguard listened to the speech with varying degrees of astonishment.  Kjennar sniggered. “Those vampires didn’t hit you too hard, did they?”

Florentius’s tone turned waspish. “I’m perfectly fine. Arkay protects me. Now are you going to help or not?”

Irileth shook her head. Touched by the Madgod, that one, no matter how many times he invokes that Divine. “All right,” she said, “how are you going to destroy this thing?”

“Hm. Arkay, how do they help? ...Ah! Of course. You burned the vampires’ bodies, didn’t you? Arkay appreciates the offering, by the way. Take a fistful of vampire ashes and stand equilateral around the pool. Be ready to throw it in at Arkay’s signal.”

It was getting to a point where the Dawnguard sniggered every time Arkay was mentioned. Irileth silenced the snickers with a frosty glare and jerked her chin at them. “Agmaer, Kjennar, keep watch. The rest of you, do as the priest says. Go on.”

Within a few minutes they stood as directed around the evil, seething pool, ashy vampire remains clutched tight in their fists. Florentius raised his steel-clad hands and closed his eyes, invoking some sort of prayer.

“Arkay, Lord of the Wheel of Life, God of Life and Death, fill your vessel. I am your hands, I am your tongue. In this stagnant hole of corruption, reach through me and speak your Cycle into the world anew...”

Irileth lost attention after a while. Listening to Divine sermons had never been a comfortable experience, especially when the Imperials didn’t even seem to know how many of their precious Divines there were. The whole Talos debacle had been something Balgruuf felt passionate about, and she could respect that. Talos had actually left a tangible legacy across Tamriel, whether He became a god or not. The other Eight Divines? Not so much. Perhaps because the Aedra were not recognized as Dunmeri god-ancestors, and there’d always be a part of her that reviewed them with detachment and scorn. Perhaps because unlike the Daedra, who had innumerable instances of direct contact with mortals, the Aedra had almost none. Except maybe with this lunatic.

She emerged from her thoughts as Florentius’s hands ignited in halos of silver light. “Now, faithful! Cast the dust into the pool! Arkay will take care of the rest!”

Faithful my arse. But Irileth did as she was bidden. To her great surprise, the vampire dust ignited into silver flame the instant it touched the bloody waters. In a flash the blood-pool was one seething bowl of grey fire, which didn’t so much roar like a normal inferno as gush like a torrent of stormwater. Some of the Dawnguard flinched back in fright.

“Brace yourselves!” called Florentius. “This could get lou –”

The light abruptly swelled into a bright pulse, which flooded in an ever-expanding ring outward, gushing through the ruins in a silvery tide. Irileth felt a cold rush flow over her like an icy breeze. Then it was gone. The chamber assumed a still silence. The gurgling blood pool was gone, transformed to cold stone.

“There,” said Florentius, sounding quite winded. “Phew. That took more out of me than I thought. But Arkay never asks any more than He knows I can take. He’s quite pleased with all of you, by the way. Did I mention?”

“Er, thanks?” said Agmaer awkwardly.

“You’re not... really talking to a god, are you?” Illia asked warily.

Florentius stared at her, incredulous and annoyed. “You don’t believe me? Even after witnessing His power at work? I might rescind Arkay’s compliments. Well, I can’t really rescind His, but I can rescind mine!”

“Calm down,” said Irileth shortly, stamping around the petrified pool. “Look, whoever you are, you’re clearly no friend of the vampires.”

“I should think not! Arkay despises –”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. Come back with us to Fort Dawnguard. You’ll be safe there, priest, and Isran can find a –”

“Isran?” exclaimed Florentius, and his hands clenched into angry fists. “Isran? Is this some kind of a joke? Did Arkay put you up to this?”

“Oh, brother,” Mogrul muttered, burying his face in his hand.

“Isran’s done nothing but mock me! He’s never given me the respect I deserve! I bet he knew I was coming here and he sent you all to make a fool of me!”

“No,” said Irileth, through gritted teeth, “he sent us here to clean out the den and investigate why the Volkihar clan showed interest. Trust me, we had no fetching idea you’d be here.” But she had to admit to herself it was a good thing he was – she wasn’t sure how they would’ve otherwise cleansed the den of the vile spring. “But whatever salted scrib you have with Isran, put it aside. We all have bigger problems.”

Florentius folded his arms. “Arkay and I find it very hard to believe that Isran wants anything to do with anyone besides himself.”

“I know Isran’s a bit of a hardhead,” said Illia placatingly, “but he did pull the Dawnguard together. He gave all of us outsiders a chance and a purpose.” She indicated her fellow Dawnguard; Agmaer, a humble farmer’s son, anxious to defend his homeland; Mogrul, son of chieftains, determined to avenge his slain family; Vori, a brigand from the wilds who’d found her new clan; Kjennar, a Haafingar convict who’d turned from failed thief to deadly scout. To say nothing of Illia herself, a witch who’d turned on her own coven, sisters and mother dead by her hand.

“Don’t tell me you’re even afraid to visit,” Mogrul grunted.

“Afraid?” Florentius scoffed. “Of Isran? Don’t be abs – what? What’s that? No, that’s not what I... yes, but...” He frowned. “Are you sure? Really? Bah, fine.” He faced Irileth with a resigned expression. “Arkay says it’s a good idea for me to go. I don’t agree, but He’s not the sort of fellow you can just ignore.”

It took every ounce of willpower Irileth had not to roll her eyes. “Right. Since you didn’t come in the front door like the rest of us, I’ll assume you found a back exit. Show us out. We’ll comb the ruins for any last bloodsuckers along the way.”

~

It was a short stone passage that brought them from the blood-spring cavern to the cellars of the skooma front. Florentius had found a direct way in behind the counter. Irileth had Illia and Agmaer linger to torch the stinking skooma vats in the cavernous chamber beneath the drug den, then the rest of them climbed up into daylight. A decent day’s work; they’d gone in at the break of dawn, and now a soft pink dusk settled over a sky still lazy with summer heat. “Make camp here,” Irileth ordered, nodding at the cottage ruins. “Get food and rest. We’ll be riding at midnight. Damned good work today, all of you.”

Amid a scattering of “As you say”s and “Aye, Housecarl”s the Dawnguard cleared out the bodies of the watch-thralls and commandeered the remains of their topside camp. Agmaer and Illia joined them a few minutes after Kjennar had revived the fire, and they rammed and locked the trapdoor that led down into the repulsive pit. A good-natured easy cheer descended over the camp as the Dawnguard reminisced on their day’s victories. Irileth stood apart on guard, watching them. They’d all made a decent account of themselves that day. No casualties, no injuries. The Dawnguard’s first real victory. It tasted sweet.

Florentius sidled up to her and Irileth felt her brief good mood setting with the sun. “What is it, priest?”

“We’re not heading straight back to Fort Dawnguard, are we?”

“Of course.”

“Ah. Then Arkay and I can’t come with you, not yet. You see, we have some business to attend to in Riften first.”

Well, it was on the way enough not to warrant a massive detour. Irileth faced the priest. “All right. What kind of business?”

Florentius paused with that ridiculous unfocused expression that Irileth had come to associate with his ‘communions’. “Oh, yes,” he murmured, “yes, I see... Really? Tsk. All right. I’ll tell her. Irileth, Arkay thinks you should come with me.”

Irileth disagreed. Riften was a scumhole, detestable and crawling with vermin. She didn’t deny there was corruption, but it was the sort that turned priests away, not drew them to it. A city ruled by greed. “And why would Arkay think that?”

“Well, you see, Arkay insists that there is trouble in Riften –”

“When isn’t there trouble with Riften? The Black-Briar clan? The Thieves Guild? You’ll have a knife in your ribs and your purse missing as soon as you step through those gates.”

“Yes, well, that’s also why Arkay thinks you should come with me, but also because of the vampire.”

“Vampire?”

“Yes, Arkay insists. A malicious one, who intends some kind of harm for the city Jarl.”

Considering the city’s Jarl was Maven Black-Briar, a vile woman with well-publicized ties to the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood (when it had still existed), Irileth almost found herself rooting for the vampire. She didn’t, of course, because while she didn’t care for Black-Briar, a vampire in control of a city – even a scumhole city – was an even worse idea.

Besides – here was another opportunity to find Orthjolf. Provided Florentius’ lead was anything accurate. Which Irileth doubted, but her hand was tight around the hilt of her broken sword. She wanted it to be real. Very much.

“Fine,” Irileth said. “We’ll go to Riften.”

Florentius smiled in relief. “Arkay assures me you won’t regret it, Housecarl.”

Chapter Text

“Dovahkiin.” Odahviing’s deep rumble roused Solen back into wakefulness. “Fort Sungard draws near.”

Solen’s cheek ached where it’d chafed against the Dragon’s steel-hard scales. Gingerly he eased himself back into a sitting position, grimacing and yawning. Ugh. Worse than napping in a folded mainsail. At least in those, one was cocooned like in a hammock, with little to no fear of falling three hundred feet to the ground if you rolled a little too far to the left. Not so on a Dragon’s back, where he’d been wholly at the mercy of Odahviing flying level, and where there was very little to grip beyond his swirling crest of horns.

“I don’t know how you lot nap on the wing,” Solen groused, painstakingly settling himself back into a sitting position on the Dragon’s long neck.

“We do not, Dovahkiin. One who flies with eyes shut invites ambush from other dov.”

“Where’d you say we were getting near?”

“Fort Sungard.”

“Gods. Back to the Reach, I guess.” To the outskirts of it, anyway. Fort Sungard watched the major road that led from Whiterun Hold to Markarth, perched upon its own rocky shelf. Knuckling his eyes, Solen peered between Odahviing’s horns to the distant speck that was probably the Fort on the horizon. “Wish I had a Dragon’s eyes sometimes. Sep’s skin, how can you even tell that’s a Fort?”

Odahviing rumbled with his low, sinister laugh. “They would be wasted on your wingless form, Dovahkiin.”

“What, Forts?”

The Dragon flexed his neck, and Solen slid a little. Adrenalin shot through him, and he threw himself against the horns as his stomach swooped. “Gah! Don’t do that!”

“Are you fully awake, Dovahkiin?”

“I am now!” Solen grumbled to himself and checked Eldródr was still snug in its scabbard. “Fourth time ever in the air, pitiless Cloak-munching allies...”

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

They flew closer. It was a very pleasant summer’s day, with only a few drifts of cloud tugging at Odahviing’s marbled wings. The warm, clear sun felt good on both their backs. Solen gripped the Dragon’s horns tightly and chanced a glance below; the dark, verdant stretches of Falkreath Hold yawned beneath them, wreathed as ever in a fine, cool mist, and carved through with ridges of dry stone. To the north, over Odahviing’s right wing, lay the golden plains of Whiterun Hold, though the great hill of Whiterun had long been left behind on the horizon. Solen felt a pang of longing, but turned his eyes away to the west, where warm golden grass met the grey-brown stretches of the mountainous Reach. Fort Sungard was becoming distinctive now, perched proudly on its shelf.

As were the blasts of fire licking the walls, and the dark shape circling above.

Odahviing hissed with anticipation. “Pahlok zeymah. Hi fen krosis daar sul.”

“Whatever that meant, me too.” Solen reached automatically for his greatsword, then realized, “Odahviing, we’ve never fought a Dragon together before, have we?”

“Nid, Dovahkiin. No, we have not, and certainly not like this.”

Solen checked again how high up they were. Quite high. “You want to give it a go?”

Odahviing rumbled. “Can you hold on?”

“Can’t be much different than fighting on horseback, can it? Just twist and turn at the right moment. It’ll be like a dance.” Solen made sure every inch of his gear was firmly strapped onto his body. “Also, to tell you the truth, old friend; I’ve always wanted to try this.”

Odahviing laughed. Anything related to battle put him in high good humour. “Then, Dovahkiin, mu bo olgein! We fly together!” His huge wings boomed and he put on a terrific burst of speed. “Hold fast, mal kendov. WULD NAH KEST!”

Swift as an arrow in flight, the Dragon shot forward in a terrific surge of speed. Solen had to throw himself flat against his neck to avoid being torn clean off, but with the battlefire burning bright in him he only laughed in exhilaration. Fort Sungard had leapt considerably closer, enough to see the flames licking up the solitary tower and the Imperial gonfalons sprawled against the stone walls. Solen could even hear the great brass horn summoning Odahviing to them. Odahviing answered with a roar that hummed in every scale on his body – a salute to the Legion he flew for, and a challenge to the marauder attacking.

It was another enormous specimen, an Elder Dragon, distinctive for their gold and bronze scales, their creamy-white wings, and their formidable natures. The sunlight dazzled its aureate hide as it flew effortless laps around Sungard’s walls and towers, baiting the defending Imperials into one failed volley after another. The Elder turned at Odahviing’s challenge, however, and snarling it abandoned the torment of its human prey to engage him instead. The two Dragons, Red and Elder, thundered towards one another.

The Elder’s sharp yellow eyes could hardly fail to miss the figure perched on Odahviing’s neck, nor fail to recognize him. The Elder hissed with shock and indignation. “Dovahkiin!”

“Morning!” Solen bellowed back.

Odahviing struck first – his Thu’um of flame whistled from his jaws in a fireball the size of a Jarl’s longhouse. The Elder pulled in his wings and dived neatly aside. Odahviing pivoted hard on his wing, and Solen gripped his horns tightly as the Dragon slid vertically in a tight spiral, pursuing the Elder downward.

Then the Elder fanned his wings and levelled out. Odahviing did the same, so quickly and deftly that both remained at eye-level with one another. Solen had watched two skyborne Dragons battle before, and he knew that whoever had the upper wing had the greater advantage. On the wing, Dragons could not Shout upward. For a moment they hovered across from one another, wings creaking as they pumped fiercely to keep themselves aloft.

Solen dared to stand upright on Odahviing’s neck. “You sure this is what you want?” he shouted at the Elder. “It’s not too late for you to retreat.”

The Elder bared its fangs. “I do not want your mercy, Dovahkiin. I tire of minding my teeth on mortal necks. You have denied the dov their rightful dominion too long, insipid joor!”

Mortal. Solen knew that word by heart, too. “That’s it, then?” he said, throwing up his hands. “Your odds don’t look good. You’re two against one, the lieutenant of Alduin and the one who killed him.”

“Alduin’s right wing has grown soft,” the Elder sneered.

Odahviing trembled with wrath. “I will shred your wings for that insult, mey nikriin!”

“As for you, Dovahkiin – your Thu’um may be potent, but your body is joor, and you will die like the ones below!” The Elder drew the deep, telltale, preparatory breath that forewarned a Shout. “FO KRAH DIIN!”

Odahviing’s first instinct was to turn his tough back-scales against the frigid gale, to spare his softer wings and belly from the lethal chill. Unfortunately, being on his backside, Solen was also turned into it, and in his surprise hardly got his Become Ethereal Shout off in time. But he managed most of it. “FEIM ZII!”

The concentrated blizzard rushed over his numbed, wraithlike form without pain or chill. “Apologies, Dovahkiin,” Odahviing rumbled, as the ice storm passed. “I will not forget again.”

“See that you don’t,” Solen muttered, as he popped back into physicality, and set a hand on his crossbow. Eldródr wouldn’t be much use up here. “All right, show him what you got, Odahviing!”

“YOL TOOR SHUL!” No fireball, but a great river of fire poured from Odahviing’s maw, chasing the Elder as it backwinged and dived again to escape the scorching blast. Odahviing hissed and dived in pursuit.

Dancing – there really was no other way to describe a fight between two Dragons. The Elder gave a remarkable account of itself, twisting and contorting in the most remarkable manoeuvres with a surreal elegance that belied its massive bulk. However, Odahviing was the finest flier among his kind, renowned for both his speed and his endurance on the wing, and it was a reputation he jealously defended. For a long time Solen had no opportunity at all to fight; he simply held on and prayed he wouldn’t get shaken off as Odahviing matched his opponent move for move, flipping, spinning, spiralling, diving, climbing, alternating between pursued and pursuer, Thu’um striping the sky in flame and frost and force.

But with all dances, there was a rhythm, and as a few minutes of this sort of thing passed him by, Solen found the pulse of it. Even better, it flung him back into the warm sunny memories of youth. This massive Dragon on whose neck he clung wasn’t so different from the Wandertern carving her way through a sea squall, and he’d sailed and fought his way through a fair few of those as an elfling. No, so long as he kept one hand on Odahviing’s horns, falling off was no concern. More importantly, he could start to enjoy himself – and choose his moments to fight. This was no horse, who risked bolting or injury if Solen Shouted from its back; this was a dovah, for whom the Voice was a way of life.

“FUS RO DAH!” Solen’s Unrelenting Force Shout roared over Odahviing’s head and clipped the Elder’s tail, and it stumbled in its dance. “Gods, exhilarating, isn’t it?” Solen grinned, as he mustered his energy to use the Thu’um again.

Odahviing took battles very seriously – all his attention was honed on his foe, especially with repaying the insult that had been given. A Whirlwind Sprint swept him almost against the Elder’s back; the golden Dragon barrel-rolled, clipping Odahviing’s jaw with his wing. They disengaged and circled to come at one another again. The Elder was dead in their sights – they were going to collide head-on.

“Odahviing,” Solen yelled in what he assumed was somewhere close to the Dragon’s ear (honestly, he still wasn’t sure if they had ears). “Shout together!” A low growl answering was all the assent he needed. As one, they drew their heaving breaths.

“FUS RO DAH!”

Two cones of force melded into one – the Elder flew straight into it, and it was knocked spinning, wings buckling under the strain. More importantly, it was winded. Odahviing lunged, screeching like a harpy, wings flared and talons bared. The Elder hissed and rolled to meet the outstretched claws with its own. Talons locked with talons, and the two Dragons swung like bola balls, grappling with raw muscle and fangs, each trying to spin the other out of the rhythm of flight. Around and around they went, powerful jaws gnashing at each other’s wings.

Solen yelled and swore as his legs came free from Odahviing’s neck, the Red Dragon almost inverted – he clung to the long curved horns with both hands as the world swung in disorienting ways beneath him. “Odahviing, I’m not a bloody limpet! Right yourself!”

Odahviing growled with effort and pulled himself into the higher position. Solen slammed back gratefully against his neck scales. But the Elder drew on some hidden reserve and suddenly surged upward – its jaws clamped down on Odahviing’s, forcing his head up and his mouth shut. Odahviing screeched in wrath and tossed fiercely, trying to free himself as his pounding wings strained to bear the both of them aloft.

“Hold on!” Solen yelled, and seized his crossbow. There was never a more perfect opportunity to try it out. Wobbling dangerously as Odahviing’s thrashes strengthened in manic frustration, Solen slammed off the safety lock, rammed a bolt into the stock, primed it, then stood upright on the Dragon’s neck and aimed. He had no clear shot at the Elder’s head, but a fine one of the heaving creamy belly-scales. The crossbow cracked, the bolt sank deep, and the Elder abruptly released Odahviing with a screech of pain. The Red Dragon wasted no time in shaking off his deadweight foe, and blasted it with a Fire Shout for good measure.

The Elder spun groundward for several dozen meters before catching itself. Odahviing hissed and dived in pursuit. Solen barely had time to ram another bolt into the crossbow stock before the world flipped vertical.

Odahviing had underestimated his enemy’s exhaustion; the Elder Whirlwind Sprinted out of the Red Dragon’s charge, and suddenly Odahviing was below and the Elder above, diving for his unprotected back. Well, almost unprotected. Solen twisted around and his Thu’um roared free. “VEN GAAR NOS!”

The full Cyclone Shout manifested into being – a vortex of torrential wind that raced skyward, whipping a suffocating whirlwind of cloud from nowhere. The Elder roared in surprise and then fright as the tornado twisted it in a hairpin, sucking the wind from its wings and leaving it scrambling for balance. Odahviing laughed, low and savage, and flipped himself around, the Elder square in his sights. “IIZ SLEN NUS!”

His Thu’um shot forth like a mage’s spell, freezing one of the Elder’s wings solid. The Elder bellowed with pain and wildly, desperately, accurately retaliated. “FO KRAH DIIN!”

Odahviing jerked upward, but not quickly enough – both he and Solen were clipped by the Frost Shout, and both flinched at the gnawing cold that leeched like poison into scale and metal. Solen’s armour protected him from the worst of the blistering frost, but the chill still gnawed his arm and neck down to the bone and suffused him with fingers of suffocating lethargy. Gods, almost forgotten what it feels like to be on the receiving end of these things.

Ice cracked and splintered as the Elder freed its wing of its entrapping prison, and swiftly if lopsidedly evened its plummeting descent; the stricken white wing had turned an ugly blue-purple hue, and no longer flexed as fluidly as its counterpart. It and Odahviing circled one another, catching their breaths as they prepared for their next violent engagement. Both Dragons had lost a lot of height during the struggle; they were now almost level with the topmost ramparts of Fort Sungard.

“Hope the fellow’s not done with us already,” Solen muttered, all bravado as he tried to flex the ugly stiffness out of his arm. “I’m just getting into this.”

The Elder looked battered but far from defeated; even from afar Solen saw the wrathful malice aglow in its hard yellow eyes. Odahviing’s battlefire burned fierce as ever, but Solen sensed he too was tiring. The next clash would decide which Dragon would be thrown to earth with a ruined wing.

Solen racked his mind for a Thu’um that would help his ally prevail. Marked for Death, potentially – if he could get a good clear shot at the Elder. His Cyclone Shout made him consider the Storm Call, which Solen scrapped immediately; Storm Call was by far his most powerful and destructive Shout, but its lightning didn’t differentiate ally from enemy, and a whole Fort of Imperials practically tickled their bellies. Perhaps he and Odahviing could lock their Thu’um and blast the other wing with an Ice Form Shout. There was Dragonrend, of course – the Shout that tormented a Dragon with the oppressive, doom-driven, impossible concept of mortality and stripped from them all power of flight – but considering Solen had crises of similar nature fairly often as an elf among humans, he tried to leave that one as a last resort.

Abruptly Solen remembered the Word of Power he’d so unceremoniously drawn from Dimhollow Crypt. Gaan. He’d almost completely forgotten about it. He still hadn’t figured out what it meant, months after he’d found it. “Odahviing,” Solen said, “language lesson, real fast. Gaan. What does it mean?”

“Now, Dovahkiin?” Odahviing growled impatiently. His and the Elder’s circle was tightening; the clash was coming. “Gaan – it is energy. Vigour of flesh and bone.”

“Stamina. I’ll go with stamina.” It felt right. Solen closed his eyes and tried to recall the sensation he’d felt when drawing the Word of Power into himself. Much of that night in Dimhollow had settled into a vague mist, but that moment remained brilliantly clear in his mind. Gaan. Stamina. Drain... drain?

Solen’s eyes popped open. “Odahviing, I’m going to try a Shout that’s yet to see the light of day. Keep the golden boy steady in sight for a moment. I don’t know the range on this thing.”

Odahviing snorted. “Your timing is truly impeccable, Dovahkiin. So be it.”

“Hey, I had plenty of reasons to procrastinate learning this earlier. We’ve drawn enough circles.”

The Elder clearly thought the same – suddenly it broke step and whistled upward, trying to attain height, but hindered by it frost-scorched wing. Odahviing snarled and gained the sky above the Elder’s head in three decisive wingstrokes, forcing the golden Dragon into a dive.

Solen leaned over Odahviing’s shoulder, the new Thu’um tight and itching in his throat; but the Elder was out of range, drawing a spiral under the Red Dragon’s tail. Odahviing twisted lithely around, barking another Ice Form Shout that barely tickled the tip of the Elder’s bladed tail. Even lamed, their opponent was still quick on the wing, evading if not outflying.

“Come on, come on...! Morwha –!” Solen threw himself flat and Odahviing into a barrel-roll as the Elder charged at them with a Whirlwind Sprint, attempting to ram the breath from them with a headbutt. Odahviing rattled with a hiss and arched his back; Solen saw his chance and straightened his spine, and his Thu’um barked free in the Elder’s wake. “GAAN!”

The air flashed with a violet pulse, and a watery knot of energy writhed through the sky and caught the Elder’s flank. The Dragon shrieked with surprise and violently convulsed, as if trying to dislodge some unpleasant sensation on its scales. It had to be unpleasant, because now that watery energy was rebounding straight into Solen, like a tether – the numb ache from the Frost Shout fled his body. In seconds he felt utterly rejuvenated, and it didn’t stop coming. The Dragon’s vitality poured into him, and with it came the most remarkable sensation of second wind. “By Satakal, this is something,” Solen laughed, and both Dragons heard the renewed vigour in his voice.

“Bormahu miinne!” the Elder growled, trying ineffectually to shake the repulsive violet blanket from its scales. “What treachery is this, Dovahkiin?!”

“Your Thu’um grows ever mightier, thuri,” Odahviing said with respect.

The Elder roared with rage, and its Thu’um lashed like a whip. “FUS RO DAH!”

Odahviing dipped one wing and rolled swiftly from the cone of force. Solen rolled with him. It really was quite exhilarating, now that he knew when to expect them. They Shouted together. “YOL TOOR SHUL!” “FO KRAH DIIN!”

Their Thu’um locked, fire and ice, into a most remarkable conflagration of the juxtaposing elements; the Elder shrieked as they slammed against its maw and underside, sizzling heat and blasting chill scorching through its scales to the thick flesh beneath. It lost height, and kept losing it even when it caught itself. “He hasn’t got much left in him now!” Solen shouted, and Odahviing roared gleeful agreement and plunged like a hawk to finish it off.

Even drained of vigour, wounded and fatigued, the Elder remained a formidable foe. It hovered, eyes up, watching Odahviing and Solen descend, and drew the preparatory breath. The Words went unheard beneath the roar of Odahviing’s Unrelenting Force, but the Shout was impossible to miss. Instead of slamming a force-stunned Dragon into the rocky slopes of the Reach, Odahviing plunged through the Elder’s ghostly form, and had to sharply pull up to avoid crashing himself. Solen, unprepared, found himself folded over Odahviing’s crest gasping for breath at the sudden direction change.

Then the Elder descended on them, turning corporeal as two sets of huge black talons stretched for Odahviing’s flustered wings. Solen pivoted, and his crossbow punched a bolt into the Dragon’s neck. It jerked its head back with a screech, which was enough to take some of the brunt out of the pounce. But the long talons still raked deep gouges through Odahviing’s wing, and the Red Dragon roared with pain.

No, you don’t. Solen threw his crossbow aside and sprang upright on Odahviing’s neck. “FUS RO DAH!” The Elder’s lamed wing crumpled backwards beneath the cone of force. Solen swung Eldródr into hand and dashed along the Red Dragon’s heaving shoulders. “WULD NAH KEST!” Sped by the Sprint, he flashed from one Dragon to the next. Eldródr thrust deep through the Elder’s scales, where neck met torso.

The Elder howled with agony and fell away from Odahviing’s back. Solen clung on. He had nothing else to grip but the greatsword’s hilt. The faltering Elder’s head appeared balefully above him, jaws poised to snap at the mer dangling in its range.

Then Odahviing rammed into his enemy. The Elder screeched and shot its head at its foe’s neck. Its fangs scraped harmlessly off the thick plate scales on Odahviing’s shoulder. Odahviing’s did not; they found the elbow of the Elder’s good wing, sank deep, and twisted with sickening power. There was a hideous crunch as the limb was torn in two, leaving the wing forearm swinging by its membrane.

Odahviing finished his enemy off with a final Unrelenting Force Shout, which sent the Elder spinning to earth at a dizzying clip.

Dammit. Solen clung to the flailing, flight-stricken Dragon with all his might as they spun in a mad, disoriented flap groundward. Fort Sungard loomed in his spinning vision. He planted his heels against the Elder’s heaving chest, wrenched Eldródr free in a grisly spray, and leapt for his life. “FEIM ZII GRON!”

Both Dragon and elf crashed into the Sungard plateau at great speed. Solen flipped and flopped like a puppet until he lost momentum and rolled to a stop, lying on his back, facing the sky and trying not to imagine what that tumble would’ve felt like if he hadn’t Shouted in time. Well, he didn’t have to imagine; the Elder Dragon crashed like a collapsing castle, bounced and crumpled across the stony ground with chaotic energy, ploughing furrows in both stone and soil, and finally slammed to a halt against an unyielding mound of rock. The once-magnificent specimen of a dovah reduced to a broken, crumpled heap.

The Ethereal Shout dispelled a few seconds later. Solen tensed, but no storm of pain greeted him. Aside from a few bruises, he felt quite fine, if a little breathless and raw in the throat. He sat up and faced his foe. Definitely dead. Already the scales were starting to smoulder.

Solen found his way upright, massaged the ache that gripped his cramped legs, and stumbled his way to the Dragon’s body. “Morwha’s tears, you were a tough mouthful. Toughest I’ve had in a while.” As he drew near, the Dragon ignited. Sheafs of golden scales slithered to the ground as soulfire licked the flesh away, exposing a frame of yellow bone and a pulsating mass of silver, blue and scarlet essence, glittering like a knot of jewels. “Your name, at least,” Solen murmured, “give me that to remember you by.” Then he planted his swordtip in the ground, emptied his lungs, and inhaled slow and long. The Dragon’s soul could not resist the pull of his own, and into him it flowed in countless incandescent currents.

Solen had been asked, dozens of times, what it felt like to devour a Dragon soul. He’d tried, but there were really no words for it. How did one describe imbibing pure energy from a being of Time? It burned like a thousand suns. It sent him beyond the constellations. It filled him with joy and rage. All within a bubble of time that did not quite seem to fit in the Mundus.

Kaalrodaan. The Dragon’s name branded itself upon the spirit, in its final act of identity; then everything that Dragon had ever been and would be was stripped away. All memory, all legacy, all that had separated it as an individual, destroyed, as the soul melded seamlessly into his own. Nothing remained of Kaalrodaan but bones, and a name that rested cold and dead on the tongue.

Solen opened his eyes and sighed. “I did warn you,” he muttered, and sheathed Eldródr on his back.

Odahviing’s shadow swept overhead, stirring the dusty smoke that hung over the Dragon’s bones. The Red Dragon circled around, injured wing beating crookedly, and draped himself exhaustedly upon one of Fort Sungard’s undamaged towers. Meanwhile a small regiment – actually, quite a large regiment of Imperial soldiers came running down the hill. Solen turned to greet them, hand upraised. “Good noon, gentlemen.”

“Dragonborn! Sir!” The Fort Captain, someone Solen didn’t recognize or remember, slammed his fist against his breastplate in swift salute. “We didn’t know to expect you –”

“That makes two of us,” Solen interrupted, wincing as he shook out his leg. Riding on a Dragon’s back for any length of time, let alone fighting on one, did no wonders for one’s health. “But I hope you don’t mind us imposing. Odahviing will need a rest, and frankly so do I.”

“Sir, are you –? Just – gods, sir, that was just incredible! In all my years, we’ve never seen –!”

“No need for all the ‘sirs’, good Captain, I never made higher than Sergeant.” Solen patted the fellow’s shoulder good-naturedly and regarded the awe-stricken faces of the crowd of Legionnaires with amusement. No need to ask if he and Odahviing had had an audience. “Now – if you’ve got questions, I’d be overjoyed to answer them but – first, please, a piping hot bath and three hours to enjoy it, I beg you.”

“Yes, sir – of course, sir! You aren’t injured, are you? Hungry?”

“Nothing worth seeing a healer over. But hungry? You saw how quick I ate that Dragon’s soul, right?” Which had nothing to do with his rumbling stomach, but it was fun to watch the Imperials scramble about in haste, as if he might consider their own a tasty snack. “And if anyone’s feeling charitable,” Solen added, as he fell in step with the Captain up to the Fort above, “I dropped my crossbow somewhere, er, over there –” He gestured vaguely beyond the cliffs. “– and I’ll kiss the man or woman that finds it.”

“That won’t be necessary, Dragonborn,” the Captain said, sounding a bit more like his authoritative self, but he issued a small compliment of scouts to search anyway.

~

The food was passable. The hot bath was paradise. Solen was hard-pressed not to fall asleep as he soaked and let the steaming water leech out the aches of his bruises and chafes. After the requested three hours there came a rap at the door, forwarding Captain Olfrald’s request of the Dragonborn’s presence in the war office at his earliest convenience. Solen dried off, re-armoured, checked his chestnut ridge of hair was still in good standing order, then trundled along after the messenger to the Captain’s office. He paid proper attention to the devastation the Elder Dragon had done upon the Fort along the way, and got a full brief of it when Olfrald offered him a seat and some strong southern wine. “And food, Dragonborn?” Olfrald prompted. “Did you eat enough?”

“Throw more my way, please,” Solen invited. “I’m a hard man to fill.”

Food in the form of bread, butter, and cold mutton promptly arrived, and Solen set himself to it all with a ravenous will. “Kyne’s breath, but you can put it away,” Captain Olfrald exclaimed with amazement.

“Shouting takes more out of you than you think,” Solen admitted, around a bulging mouthful. “I’ll restrain myself to this much, I promise. How are Fort damages, Captain? It looked pretty gnarled outside.”

“The northeast postern and the tower, smouldering rubble,” Captain Olfrald grimaced. “Fifty dead. The wretched creature attacked our barracks. Gods know how many more might’ve been lost if you and the Scourge hadn’t shown up.”

“How is our dear Scourge?”

“Bolted down two horses and five pigs in short order. Never seen meat disappear so fast down something’s gullet, not even yours.” Captain Olfrald shuddered. “And to think you were on that beast’s backside, fighting another just like it! I don’t know how you don’t fear those creatures, Dragonborn; I’ve no shame admitting their like terrify me witless.”

“They’re worthy things to fear,” Solen said, “but to them, so am I. I really do apologize for dropping in on you like this, Captain; I’d requested Odahviing’s wings already. We’re on our way to General Tullius in Solitude. He is still in Solitude, isn’t he?”

“Aye, Solen, he should still be holed in Castle Dour. I’d heard he’d visited Fort Hraggstad to assess damages, though.”

“Damages from what? Not vampires?”

“Gods, no, Dragons. You haven’t heard? There’s been seven settlement attacks alone this month! That one you killed, he’s the second this summer that’s assaulted Sungard.”

“I haven’t heard, no.” Solen stared troubled at his empty wine goblet and replayed his encounter with Kaalrodaan in his mind, trying to figure out if he’d missed something. “I’ve been keeping to the wilds these last weeks. No one’s tried to spread another false rumour I’ve died, have they?”

“Not that I’ve heard, Dragonborn. And you look large as life to me.”

“Thanks. But they wouldn’t just go nuts and start attacking villages again, not without reason. Has anything changed in the territories? No one’s aggravating Dragon lairs? No Thalmor creeping around trying to whip them into frenzy?”

Captain Olfrald, a Great War veteran, curled his lip and spat. “Eight forbid. As far as unusuality to report, well, the only thing I can think of is the plague.”

“Plague?”

“Aye, something the deer are getting. My scouts bring back reports of dead ones almost every day, from fawns to bull elk, healthy-looking things, aside bein’ dead. But healthy beasts don’t just give up the ghost with barely a scratch on ‘em. We haven’t had fresh venison in weeks. I’ve got the troops keeping a fair distance and burning the ones they can. I hope Kyne keeps clear air blowin’ our way, the last thing we need is to come down with some sort of sickness.”

Solen suddenly found himself reliving every day of the last month, conscious of every dwindling snare and failed hunt. “How long has this been going on for, Captain?”

“Well, hard to say for sure, but I’d say at least since mid-spring. We’ve hardly seen any great herds movin’ on the plains this year.” Captain Olfrald cautiously refilled Solen’s goblet, noticing the uneasy frown affixed to the long, angled face. “Something the matter, Dragonborn? Do you know what’s happening?”

Solen stared thoughtfully at the remnants of his meal. “Nothing certain. But you’re right, Captain. Healthy animals don’t just drop dead.” He spun a gnawed mutton bone between his fingers. “But hungry Dragons will attack.”

~

A small army of Legion physicians soon had Odahviing’s wing patched up and flight-worthy by the following morning. Rested and fed, he was in a much better mood, and even let Solen back upon his neck without challenge. He was pleased with the battle they’d fought together. A few hours after dawn they were off again, and left Fort Sungard well behind them; sadly, the crossbow remained unrecovered.

Six hours later, Odahviing alighted on the stony grey ramparts of Castle Dour to a cavalcade of heralding trumpets; and ten minutes after that, Solen had made his greetings to and briefed his former General.

It was just like old times. That being, arguments on the move. Tullius was not a man who stayed still for long. “In case you haven’t noticed, Solenarren,” he barked, as they strode side by side on the ramparts of Castle Dour, “I’ve got quite enough to do without troubling my superiors in the Imperial City for a favour.”

Putting down Ulfric Stormcloak’s rebellion and reunifying Skyrim with the Empire had aged Tullius more, not less. He was short and wiry, tough and creased as leather, with hard grey eyes whose glare sharpened axeblades. Most humans his age considered hanging their swords above their hearths and taking up a less life-threatening occupation. Tullius, as Solen had long learned, was not like most humans. He remained one of the most intense, keen-minded and hale warriors in Skyrim; which, being Imperial, made it all the more impressive.

He was also one of the stubbornest men Solen had ever dealt with. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, General –”

“Maybe I didn’t.” Tullius faced him. “Do you know what would be a favour, Dragonborn? If you got yourself into the north Haafingar ranges and killed the Dragon that sacked Fort Hraggstad.”

“I didn’t fly all the way across Skyrim because a Dragon showed up and knocked your walls around a bit.”

“That Dragon killed twelve Legionnaires and caused severe damage to three of the Fort’s four watchtowers.”

“... because a Dragon showed up with a death wish, but it’s still not why I’m here.”

They spun down the tight stairwell into the Dour halls, loosely decorated with Imperial pennants and guards trying not to pay too much attention to the arguing men striding past them. “Solenarren, if you are not here to do what you do best, then you are wasting my time and yours.”

“You know that’s not what I –”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten in your haste to escape the trappings of the army –”

“This isn’t coincidence, Tullius.”

“– but I have eighteen thousand troops to govern –”

“Something is killing off –”

“– and a province to reconsolidate with the rest of –”

“Spoons!”

“What?”

“Just checking if you were listening.”

Tullius pulled up short. “Damn it, Solen –!”

“Sir, this can’t be ignored. Conjecture or legitimate threat, isn’t this at least worth investigation?” Solen stepped in front of Tullius and stared him down. “Consideration, even?”

Tullius gave a long, strained sort of sigh that had been perfected in his many long years of military governorship. “Can we at least consider this in the war room, Dragonborn?”

Solen glanced around the draughty corridors of Castle Dour and nodded. “Yeah. Why not?”

The war room was small, with much of it occupied by the large table over which sprawled the biggest map of Skyrim Solen had ever seen, pinned and pierced in half a hundred places by predominantly red flags. “Consider this,” Solen said, taking his place on one side of the table, Tullius at the other. “We need this priest in Skyrim, for all our sakes. I did mention the Volkihar vampires have an Elder Scroll, didn’t I?”

“I heard you the first time,” Tullius sighed, “so bringing a Moth Priest into Skyrim and attracting attention is an even worse alternative.”

“But you do agree there’s a vampire menace,” Solen pressed. “Even though ten minutes ago you told me that was just inflated rumour, and the prospect of a second Dragon Crisis was a far bigger concern.”

“That was before you assured me with the utmost confidence that they are in possession of a very powerful Imperial artifact.” Tullius ran his hand swiftly through his thinning mop of hair. “But frankly, I do find the Dragon’s sudden aggression a far more immediate concern. Hraggstad, Sungard, Greymoor – all attacked within the last three weeks. Odahviing can’t be everywhere at once.”

“And nor can I. Sir, I’m positive they’re linked. The Volkihar know I’m working with the Dawnguard. Suddenly something is killing off the Dragons’ primary source of prey and it’s driving them to raid – almost as if someone’s trying to get me running around Skyrim hunting them again. Who else benefits but them?”

Tullius plucked the flag back from Fort Dawnguard and replaced it in the Pale. “The Aldmeri Dominion.”

“Honestly, sir? Not even them.” Solen threw up a hand. “I thought about that on the flight over, but it makes no sense. First of all, the Thalmor have no connection with the Dragons. They understand them about as well as they tolerate humans existing on the continent. Secondly, they have no sway over the Dragons. That’s my role as their thuri. They’d have to kill me to get a Dragon’s attention, and it didn’t work out so well for them the last time they tried.”

Solen knew most of it went over Tullius’s head. The general left most of his dealings with Nordic legend to his Skyrim born-and-bred Legate, Rikke. “What about these vampires? If you’re certain they’re aggravating the Dragons into frenzy, maybe they’re both in on it.”

Solen paused. The unpleasant idea of an alliance between the Dominion and the Volkihar hadn’t occurred to him. “Maybe,” he admitted eventually. “Maybe. But I still doubt it. They enjoy elf blood as much as the next bloodcursed monstrosity. And if the vamps are really making plans to extinguish the sun, the Aldmeri Dominion’s going to suffer right alongside the rest of us. They may pretend not to be, but they are still mortal.”

Tullius scowled down at the map.

“You do believe me, don’t you?” Solen leaned over the table, intensity aglow in his mismatched eyes. “About the prophecy?”

“Prophecy!” Tullius snarled in exasperation, and swung around his war table. “Always with these prophecies! Just what is it with prophecy and you Nords?”

Solen shrugged. “Really couldn’t say. And I know it’s an easy detail to forget, sir, but I’m not a Nord.”

“Tell me what isn’t Nordic about you.” Tullius repositioned himself over the map. “Right down to your reckless confidence.”

“Comes with being able to flatten hundred-year-old trees if I sneeze wrong. General, sir, the Day of Black Sun sounds like the start of a bad poem, I know – but if it’s real, and if it happens...” Solen threw up a hand and stepped back. “Not to boast, but I did save the world, and I’d like it to stay saved for a few years. At least so Rayya and I can enjoy it a little. Believe me on that.”

Tullius sighed tiredly. “Solenarren, you are many things, but I know you’re not a liar. Even if your source is dubious.”

“The Forsworn are many things, but I wouldn’t say they’re liars either, sir. They’ve kept to their treaty; the roads of the Reach have never been safer. And wouldn’t it be better to be on the safer side than not?”

Tullius toyed with a red flag pin. “Being on the ‘safe’ side potentially means a massive drain on military resources, and my men are kept busy enough with maintaining order against Dragons.”

“Then keep them busy with the Dragons,” Solen persisted, sensing the General’s defences crumbling. “It’s not like I’m the only man in Skyrim that can kill them. Send for a Moth Priest and let us retake the upper hand in this underhand game of theirs. Don’t make me bite the vampires’ bait, General.”

Tullius scowled down at the corner of the map above the Haafingar territory, where Solen had outlined the approximate location of the Volkihar stronghold; worryingly close to the province capital. “You’re absolutely certain this... Volkihar... is masterminding the Dragon regression? I still think this sort of widespread... culling is more aligned with the elves’ motives.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them, sir, but we’re talking about vampire lords. We know far more about the Dominion than we do about them. Besides, the White-Gold Concordat is holding up, isn’t it?”

Tullius scoffed. “For now. They still haven’t forgiven us for dismantling the Thalmor Embassy in Skyrim.”

“They shouldn’t have had written evidence of interfering with the Civil War just lying around for me to take, then.”

“Hmph. Right. ‘Lying around’.” Tullius’ steely eyes flicked over his map, then up to meet Solen’s green and gold. “Look, I’ll admit these vampires are getting out of hand. There’s been more disappearances reported to me this month than there’s been during the whole war with Stormcloak. And The Ballad of the Bat and Dragon is all the bards are singing.”

“Oh, have you heard it, sir?”

“Too many times,” Tullius snapped, and rammed his fist on the table. “You can promise me in confidence, Dragonborn, that a Moth Priest will further your and the Dawnguard’s fight against them?”

Solen nodded emphatically. “The vampires have an Elder Scroll. So do we. Or we will, very soon.”

“What d’you mean, very soon?”

“Well, I could hardly lug an Elder Scroll around with me after I finished using it on Alduin, could I? Rayya’s fetching it from Winterhold in the company of the Companions.”

General Tullius arched his brow, and he looked as if he was about to ask several questions; then he sighed in resignation and said, “Frankly, Dragonborn, I don’t even want to know. Fine. You’ll have your favour. I’ll write to the Imperial consul and request a Moth Priest be sent to... where was it?”

“Fort Dawnguard, sir.” Solen plucked the flag pin from Tullius’s deliberating hand and triumphantly stamped it in the Rift corner of the war map. “Right by the Morrowind road. They’ll take two steps into Skyrim and be welcomed by the Dawnguard. The Volkihar won’t even know they’re there.”

Tullius didn’t attempt to reclaim his flag pin, just frowned down thoughtfully at it. “And for what it’s worth, General,” Solen added, recalling the still-relatively-barely-furnished state of the Fort, “whatever resources you’d invest in the Order... they’d go a long way keeping this country safe at night.”

Tullius folded his arms and shot Solen a hawkish look. “That is a conversation for another day, Dragonborn. I’ll do this favour because you delivered on both the War effort and the peace effort. I should insist you get back to doing your heroic duty – you’re clearly still as capable as you were in the Dragon Crisis – but instead I’ll trust you know what you’re doing with this vampire menace. You’d better not disappoint me.”

Solen flashed his most winning smile. “Just like I told you during the War effort, General, you won’t regret it.”

Chapter Text

“And remember,” warned Aela the Huntress, as they climbed the final flight of stairs to the Arcanaeum door, “do not touch anything. The College librarian doesn’t bluff.”

Vilkas waved a careless hand. “Aye, woman, we heard you.”

“How many books can this place have, anyway?” Njada scoffed.

The answer, Rayya thought, was beyond conception. Aela led them into the famed library of the College of Winterhold, and though Rayya had braced for it, she alongside Vilkas and Njada were still overwhelmed at what they saw. It was a large circular room, well-lit and almost cosy, full of shelves that stretched to the ceiling, every available space packed with books. Books – every size, shape, colour, thickness, quality, some heaped tidily on tables, most standing erect on their shelves, protected by glass cabinets. Rayya was amazed. Solen was a big reader, and he’d amassed quite a library in Breezehome from his travels, but this was comparing a fork with a greatsword. “Ysgramor’s hairy breeches, this is a lot of books,” Njada murmured, and actually seemed intimidated.

Aela cast an amused eye over her gobsmacked comrades and nodded to the counter across the room. “Come on, slackjaws. Urag!”

An old white-haired Orc, thickly-bearded, long in the tusk, and severe in nature, appeared noiselessly from the shadows of a bookshelf. He was clad crisply in mage robes of honey-gold and maroon, and cast a jaundiced green eye over the windblown assembly trekking snow into his beloved Arcanaeum. “If I see so much as one mead-stain?”

“Relax, Orc, they’ll mind their hands,” Aela assured him, then glanced sternly over her shoulder. “They will, won’t they?”

Njada and Vilkas both stared. They’d been forewarned, of course, about the formidable librarian of the College of Winterhold, but in many ways no one was really prepared for Urag, who defied every Orc expectation that existed in the minds of Nords. Then again, everything about this place challenged preconceived notion. Rayya hid a smile. It was her first time visiting the College of Winterhold as well, and she’d been impressed and intimidated from the moment she’d lain eye on the imposing fortress; perched on a lonely cliff far, far away from the rest of the Winterhold plateau, connected by a long narrow bridge that had no business staying up. Despite being buffeted ceaselessly by the frigid gales that blew from the ice-ridden Sea of Ghosts below, it was unusually warm and comfortable inside, and not remotely draughty. Magic, Rayya guessed, though she and the Companions knew nothing of such things.

Still, Vilkas and Njada had insisted on coming north with her and Aela after she’d explained her mission. Two was hardly enough to escort an Elder Scroll across the map. Besides, they’d been genuinely curious to visit a mages’ hall, if only to scoff and be unimpressed at it. Rayya was fond of Vilkas and Njada, but she really had to roll her eyes at a warrior’s thickness sometimes. What had they expected, some stuffy little study in the corner of a tavern? This was the foremost school of mages in northern Tamriel, of course it was going to be a spectacle!

Aela was no more magically inclined than the rest of them (except in the way that she was), but she’d visited the College several times during the months of the Dragon Crisis when she and Solen had travelled together, and Urag gro-Shub remembered her. “Huntress, wasn’t it? Why are you and your companions here?”

“I think you know why.” Aela leaned on the counter. “The Elder Scroll.”

“Safe and sound.” Urag nodded to the cabinet against the wall behind him. A faint gold glow emanated through the glass. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for another one.” He peered between Rayya, Vilkas and Njada, and then realized, “The elf’s not here, is he?”

“The elf is not,” Rayya agreed. “He’s sent us in his stead. I’m his wife, Rayya at-Mafurah. You know Aela, and this is the rest of the Circle, Vilkas and Njada Stonearm.”

Vilkas studied a tome lying open on a table with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, muttering about why anyone would subject their minds to unravelling such nonsense. Njada gripped the hilt of her weapon and eyed the bookshelves as if anticipating (or hoping) the numerous tomes to leap out and attack at any moment.

Urag arched his brow. “Right.” He returned his attention to Aela and Rayya. “You’re not here looking for another one, are you?”

“No need,” said Aela. “We need to borrow the one you’ve got.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that an Elder Scroll isn’t a library book. I don’t let just anyone who walks in here look at it, let alone touch it.”

“We’re not anyone,” said Aela, narrowing her silver eyes. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that Solen donated the Scroll after he no longer had need of it. He has need of it again.”

“Then why didn’t Solen come and fetch it himself?”

“He’s occupied with matters of state.” Aela had picked up quite a few handy turns of phrase from her hours spent in Whiterun’s court. “He’s on his way over even as we speak, but time is imperative.”

Urag combed his beard thoughtfully. “Where are you taking it?”

“Fort Dawnguard,” Rayya answered, “a stronghold of vampire hunters down by the south border.”

“Baah. An Elder Scroll is not a weapon.”

“We know. We’re taking it there for a reading.”

“You have a Moth Priest in Fort Dawnguard.” Urag arched his bristling brow. “What’s stopping you bringing –” Abruptly he thrust his arm between Rayya and Aela, a nimbus of rusty-orange magic aglow in his palm. The book Vilkas had just picked up abruptly zoomed out of his grip and into the Orc’s, who cracked the tome shut and growled, “I didn’t see you wash your hands.”

 Vilkas planted them on his hips and muttered something about it being ‘just a book’. Aela quirked her brow. Urag pulled a soft rag from his sleeve and carefully wiped the tome clean of all traces of handling. “As I was saying, what’s stopping you bringing the Moth Priest here instead?”

“Time,” said Rayya flatly. “I’m sure the esteemed College will have heard of the vampire menace. Not only would it take months for a Moth Priest to reach Winterhold, he’d risk being found out and kidnapped by the Volkihar every step of the way north.”

“The Volkihar clan? They’re behind this nonsense? Just what use would they have with a Moth Priest?”

“What other reason? To read an Elder Scroll. They have one too.”

“They what?” Urag dropped the tome on the counter. “Are you serious?”

Rayya and Aela shared a glance, as if coming to appreciate how Solen turned so many heads whenever he declared that he was Dragonborn. Reveals certainly get their attention. “I don’t joke,” said Rayya, “my husband does enough of that for the both of us. Urag, we need the Scroll. There’s a prophecy we need to find out before the Volkihar does.”

Urag gusted a sigh and drummed his fingers on the countertop. Rayya opened her mouth to continue her argument, but Aela stopped her with a slight shake of her head. Rayya held her tongue and waited.

Finally, Urag lifted his head. “When you finish your reading,” he said, “the Scroll comes straight back. That’s my condition.”

Rayya smiled in relief. “Solen wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They gathered round the counter and watched in a mixture of amusement and fascination as Urag dispelled a considerable assortment of protective wards, triggers and magical traps over the Elder Scroll’s cabinet. Finally he opened the glass casing and withdrew the object. Rayya had never seen an Elder Scroll before, and frankly she didn’t immediately think much of it beyond it was going to be a pain to travel with. It was enormous, its casing somewhere between four and five feet in length, lightly gilded with a gemstone of ever-changing hue affixed in the centre like some eldritch seal. A soft golden light emanated from the object.

“So, that’s an Elder Scroll,” said Njada, tilting her head. “Most powerful object in existence or something, right? Dunno what all the fuss is about. I can see it just fine.”

“It’s shut,” Aela explained. “Open it and you’ll scramble your brains, if you’re lucky.”

Vilkas grimaced and took a cautionary pace back. “And you carried that thing across Skyrim, shield-sister?”

“Solen, mostly,” Aela shrugged. “But we took turns.”

Urag set it down on the countertop and procured a tailor-made sheath of unremarkable black fabric to wrap the object of immeasurable, unfathomable elder power in. “I’ll take it,” Rayya offered, since the others’ backsides were occupied with shields, greatswords and bows, and scooped the Elder Scroll into her arms. It was much lighter than she’d expected, and was pleasantly surprised if a little unsettled to have the Scroll strapped across her shoulders.

“Anyone asks, you don’t tell them,” Urag growled. “I’d better not hear about you losing it, understand?”

“Crystal,” said Aela. Drawing their cloaks tight around them and raising their hoods, they departed the Arcanaeum and stepped back out into the eternal winter of the north.

~

Rayya had only been up to Winterhold about three times in her life, and she could soundly put off a fourth visit for the rest of it. Besides the College, it was the coldest and most wretched corner of Skyrim. Almost no trees and growth, snow all year round, a miserable, pitiful populace and a township that barely counted for what it was. The Imperial reoccupation had seen them build some fresh cottages and invest in a rudimentary snow-ranger training outpost, which had tempted a trickle of life back into the wasteland, but the city still didn’t amount to much more than the Jarl’s longhouse, a merchant’s shop and the tavern. At least the inn was warm, the tavernkeeper pleasant and the food surprisingly good, although the rooms were small and there were only two available. Vilkas, ever the gentleman, gave Rayya the bed and slept on the floor in his bedroll, fully-armoured. Njada all but had the second room to herself. Aela was a very light sleeper, given her condition, and didn’t do much more than doze, practically on watch. At least it meant Rayya could sleep undisturbed through the night, swaddled under every fur blanket she could muster. She’d been more tired than usual these last weeks, and blamed the gloomy weather for tempting illness. The Elder Scroll stayed beside her, offering nothing in the way of warmth.

They set off after dawn the next morning, clinging to the backs of their shaggy horses. Rayya rode a different mare; she’d pushed Starfire so hard to Whiterun that the mare had split a hoof, which Rayya still felt guilty over. She’d left Starfire to rest and heal in the city stables with the promise of sugar-lumps with her every meal for the next six months. Her replacement, which the stablemaster called Ffrolde, was a much more stubborn creature, an old battle-scarred destrier who fought the bit at her every opportunity. Rayya supposed all horses did that with riders they didn’t like, and Ffrolde disliked the cold immensely. “We’re going back to warm Whiterun, you stupid nag,” Rayya groused, as she scrambled to reclaim the reins yanked from frost-numbed fingers yet again. “Just calm down and walk straight!”

Aela rode at her side on a speckled roan, and couldn’t help but grin wolfishly at Rayya’s struggling efforts. “Still squabbling?”

“When did we stop?” Rayya lashed the reins around the saddlehorn and gave Ffrolde her head to pick out her own path. “I don’t know why yours handles so well. You rarely ride.”

“Likely why I got the easiest beast.” Aela patted her gelding’s thick, shaggy neck.

Rayya glanced back at Vilkas and Njada, who brought up the rear, then remembered that the Circle’s secret was hardly a secret, and there was no one else but them upon the desolate Winterhold road. “Don’t the horses smell it?”

“Aye,” Aela nodded, “if I’m not wearing this.” She produced a small fistful of purple flowers from a pouch on her hip. Even in the icy wind, Rayya caught a whiff of their strong, pungent scent. “Monkshood,” said Aela. “It’s an old Companion trick to disguise the smell of the wolf. When Solen and I still hunted together, he always packed some under the metal on his gauntlets and boots, so he wouldn’t upset his horse.”

Rayya chuckled. “Of course he did. Solen loves that animal.”

“Is Ember the first he’s owned?”

“Third. The first was a real Alik’r windracer – Tava, I think he called it, after our goddess of the sun and storm. Rode all over Hammerfell on that one’s back. Sold it, I think, when he reached Cyrodiil, to help fund a new ship for his uncle.”

“His uncle – the sailor, right? What happened to his old ship?”

“Sunk. The fool went after the Sea Elves, which left the Wandertern at the bottom of the Topal Bay, and him destitute in the Imperial City. Solen spent years hunting the Cyrodiil wilds trying to raise money for a new ship. His uncle didn’t take to – oh, what did he call it? Landlubbing – as well as he did.”

“Did he manage it?”

“Yes, eventually. Took out a loan, got his uncle back on the water. Unfortunately not long after, the hides and meat he was bringing in lost a lot of their old value. Some sort of new tax they imposed in the City that year. Anyway, that was when he started crossing the border to poach elk. They’re worth small fortunes in Cyrodiil.”

“Aye, that I know,” Aela mused, and shook a scattering of snowflakes from her russet hair. “Done some trading with Imperial meat-merchants myself, when the jobs get light in Jorrvaskr. Still, Solen almost lost his head over it all, stupid man. Did he ever pay off that debt?”

Rayya shrugged. “I think we’ve been ambushed by a thug sent by a debt collector? The note was a bit vague, but it was only one thug, and by then Solen was a wholly-fledged Dragonborn, so you can imagine how that turned out.”

Aela flashed her teeth in a grin. “That I can, Rayya.” After a moment she realized, “Huntsman’s eyes, we got distracted. What was the second horse?”

“Can’t recall anything about it. Mustn’t have been remarkable. Anyway, he’s freely admitted that Ember’s his favourite.”

“What about you? Your horse... the black, wasn’t it?”

“Starfire’s a dependable creature, can ask for no better beast under the saddle in a fight; but my favourite I’ve ever ridden? My father’s stallion, Fmeerhad. Silver and black, a spirited beauty. Riding him at full gallop was like riding silk, and he was smarter than any horse had a right to be. We all wept like babes when we had to put him down. Harpy scratch went bad and festered.”

The day passed slowly. There was nowhere sheltered to stop and rest. They ate their rations on horseback and pushed on through the gloomy day. It was impossible to gain a sense of time in a sky permanently darkened by flurrying snow. Rayya’s cloak felt frozen against her, and the awkward bulge of the Elder Scroll strapped fast to her back. “We ought to consider some shelter soon,” Njada called, at some indiscernible point in time. “I’ve no intention of getting frostbit over this delivery mission.”

“We can find a cave or something in the foothills,” Vilkas shouted, pointing to the dark mass they kept ever-present to their right shoulders. “Worst comes the worst, we’ll dig us a den in the drifts.”

Snow caves. Rayya shuddered. Definitely her least favourite form of shelter, but a necessary one in this kind of barren landscape. But no sooner had she reached to retake command of Ffrolde’s head when the mare jerked and halted, stamping and snorting. “Oh, come on,” Rayya snapped, lunging for the reins. “We’re finding a rest point, you daft nag.”

Still Ffrolde fought, whinnying and stamping, and it was then that Rayya noticed the signs that went beyond a rebellious mare; ears pinned, eyes rolling, nostrils flared, hooves chopping anxious circles in the snow. Ffrolde was not the only horse shying at something only they could sense. “They smell something,” Aela warned, turning her own nose to the wind. Her senses were far more acute in her other form, but still considerably sharper than a human’s in her Nord skin.

Njada spotted them first, and her hand shot to her axe as the dark figures manifested from seemingly nowhere in the snow. “We got company.”

Even in the poor daylight and the thick snowy conditions, it was easy to see their sudden company wore black, and their eyes glittered with uncanny hunger. Rayya cursed softly under her breath and reached for her crossbow. Her hand bumped the Elder Scroll, and she remembered she’d strapped her crossbow to a pack in her saddle, now awkward to reach.

Talk about being caught off-guard – we should’ve expected to be attacked.  They’d been ambushed already on their journey north, two days out of Whiterun, quite by chance, by a roaming trio of young, feral vampires who’d mistaken the four travelling warriors as easy prey. Every one of them had been corrected on that error. That ambush had been a welcome reprieve from the monotony of travel. This one wasn’t. Rayya only had to meet the watching eyes of the twelve vampires encircling them to know that this was premediated.

But this soon after leaving Winterhold? How did they even know to lay their trap here? Rayya gripped the hilt of one of her scimitars as she backed Ffrolde up to brush flanks with her companions’ horses.

The vampires surrounded them, silent and watchful. But their hands stayed by their sides, their teeth stayed under their lips. Nothing like the savage trio in Whiterun Hold, who’d attacked the instant Aela had sniffed them out in the long grass. “What’re they doing?” Njada muttered, unslinging her shield. “What are they waiting for?”

“My order,” came a voice, smooth and light, almost courtly. A thirteenth vampire manifested just within the ambush circle. He wore close-fitting black leather and a cowl that completely shrouded his face. His short black cloak fluttered around his ankles. He held a gleaming silver blade in one hand, almost lazily. All the ensemble, coldly familiar.

Rayya drew her scimitar in one sweeping motion. “You.”

Aela’s bow was long drawn, an arrow’s vanes pressed to her cheek. “You know him?”

“From Dimhollow.” Rayya felt horribly conscious of the precious burden that rested on her back. “The Scroll thief.”

The black-clad vampire laughed. “Is that what you’ve been calling me? How quaint. But I’m afraid that won’t do at all.”

“What do we call you, then?”

Rayya hadn’t expected a response, let alone a name, and yet an identity was what the vampire gave her, as if he couldn’t care less about it. He pulled off his hood and tugged down his mask, revealing a Bosmer’s visage, coldly handsome, silver hair pulled in a tight knot at the back of his neck in a short rogue’s tail. His face wasn’t pinched into a predatory bat-like leer, as the lesser vampires’ faces twisted to become; indeed, it looked perfectly normal, save for a thin blood-stripe across his lips, and the molten light that flickered in his dark, deep-set eyes.

“Gendolin,” he declared, “champion of the Volkihar. An unexpected pleasure to make your acquaintance once again, Rayya of Hammerfell...”

He grinned, baring his long teeth. “But a pleasure, nonetheless.”

“That’s enough,” growled Aela, and her arrow flew forth.

Gendolin moved almost faster than the eye could follow; he twisted, raised his arm, just enough for the arrow to whistle harmlessly past and nick a hole in his cloak. He grinned up at them. “That was lucky.”

His hand moved, a deadly blur. Aela was already rolling out of the saddle, her monstrous instincts as quick as his. It was all the signal the battle needed, and in a dark rush the vampires converged.

Vilkas and Njada were off the saddles and on the ground before the first vampires reached them. Vilkas’s greatsword moved, masterful strokes of Skyforge steel, and a vampire fell away screaming, striped with a fatal wound across the chest and a severed stump for an arm. Njada caught an incoming foe on her shield, her booted feet somehow finding purchase in the soft snow; she hardly wavered from her adversary’s powerful charge, and when she pushed back, it was her foe that went sprawling. Her axe rose and fell once, mashing in the creature’s face. “Rayya!” Njada snarled, as their horses took panicked flight into the snowstorm. “You’d better have your arse in this circle!”

“Where else would it be?” Rayya snapped back, leaping off Ffrolde’s saddle. The old horse did not flee, and ignored the belt on her rump Rayya dealt with the flat of her sword. When Rayya’s first vampire engaged her, hissing like a sep adder, the destrier reared with a fearsome whinny. Rayya’s scimitars flashed, quick enough considering how cold and padded she was, and sent her opponent stumbling – right under Ffrolde’s churning hooves, which mashed the vampire’s back to paste. For just a moment, their eyes met, horse and rider; something they agreed on at last.

Then Ffrolde gargled with a tortured whinny; the next vampire manifested alongside her, and in one swift and decisive movement had disembowelled her. In the same fluid motion it rushed Rayya, deflecting the bite of her scimitars on its own light blade, and seized her wrist in a grip tight enough to buckle the metal plating of her gauntlet. Rayya yelled in pain as her arm was bent behind her, glimpsed a once-human face twisted horrifically with hunger move past her eyes, felt the claws wrench powerfully at the Scroll sheath on her back – then Aela’s arrow spitted it through the neck with the Huntress’s signature keen-eyed precision. Rayya wrestled the corpse off her and fell back tighter into the defensive knot the Companions had formed.

Then Rayya glimpsed, in the darkening mass of flurrying snow, Gendolin’s black silhouette, poised in an archer’s stance. “Aela!” she shouted, and knocked the Huntress off-balance. The arrow sang off her pauldron instead of locking in her heart. Aela swore and whirled for her attacker, just in time to watch Gendolin vanish like mist. “Coward!” Aela roared, and took her bow by the ends and smashed in the face of a vampire that had not even finished manifesting from invisibility in front of her.

“You expect these bloodsuckers to give a fair fight?” Njada snapped. She was fending off two at once, her shield badly buckled and bent, a purple bruise lashed across her face.

Vilkas snarled with pain as a distant vampire siphoned his strength with a life drain. He pushed through it with a warrior’s dogged endurance and finished off the vampire he battled in front of him. Aela’s arrow whistled for the life-drainer, who cut its channelled spell to vanish out of the arrow’s path. “How many is that now?” Vilkas growled, panting for breath.

“Five,” Aela answered. “There’s still –”

Njada yelled with pain as Gendolin’s arrow found her thigh. She lost her footing and crashed to the snow. Instantly three vampires manifested in front of her and lunged for her neck – Rayya and Vilkas leapt in their path, scimitars and broadsword flashing with strength and speed. Two retreated, wounded and hissing. One did not.

“Forget it,” Njada gasped, snapping the arrow shaft as Rayya pulled her up. “Get out of here. We all know why they’re here.”

“Get out with what?” Rayya gestured to Ffrolde’s cooling corpse. “We split and we’re all dead.”

“Not necessarily.” Gendolin reappeared, poised upon the horse’s body. “If you know why we’re here, and how this will end, why draw it out? Surrender the Elder Scroll and we’ll leave you with your lives.”

“And some life that’d be,” Rayya snarled, “as cattle for you vermin!” She bared her ivory scimitars in the dune-lion stance. “We are warriors of Skyrim, Gendolin of the Volkihar, and we will not surrender to malice and fear!”

Gendolin grinned. “Dear, dear. Won’t your husband be disappointed.”

He seemed to disappear, but into himself; the very light seemed sucked into his blackening body, which warped and twisted into something that wasn’t remotely mer. Then Gendolin was gone – replaced by something else. Something tall, iron-grey, stretched, packed with steel muscle, the face warped completely into a bat-like visage – long ears pulled back to sharp points, the silver-white hair twisted in a braid of bronze ornament. Long claws stretched from long-fingered hands. It stood poised on the balls of its talon-like feet. Upon the taut grey skin of its chest rested a golden pendant that pulsed gently with the burnt amber light of its dark, pitted eyes.

But no... it wasn’t an it. It wore Gendolin’s smile, and when two lean, hooked limbs arched over its shoulders and snapped open into two-fingered wings, and lifted it hovering into the air, the vampire lord spoke with Gendolin’s voice. “Kill them.”

Aela shot. Her arrow splintered harmlessly over his heart. Gendolin’s grin widened and he raised his left hand, wreathed in necrotic blue light. The fallen vampires stirred, cobwebbed in the same azure radiance. “Oh, Ruptga,” Rayya swore weakly, as the slain vampires silently resumed their feet.

“Now or never, Aela,” Vilkas murmured. Aela growled assent, and the whites of her eyes went black. Njada wore a crooked grin, and Rayya raised her blades. The enemy converged, and the Companions shouted their battlecries to Ysgramor –

Then Rayya choked as the air was crushed from her lungs, clenched by an invisible hand. In Gendolin’s right palm glowed a rusty-orange light. Head spinning, Rayya hardly felt the ground vanish beneath her feet; Gendolin dragged her to him, as swiftly as that book had been pulled across the Arcanaeum; she could do nothing but struggle, weakly. Her neck settled into a very real hand, which crushed so tightly she felt her windpipe scrape against her spine. It was all she could do to keep her faltering eyes open as the Elder Scroll was torn from her back.

Not that that was going to last much longer. Gendolin’s eyes, fathomless pits of terrible hunger, ate up her dwindling sight. He wanted to watch her die, the life crushed from her flesh and blood, inch by agonizing inch. The unbearable pain reached her bones as a drowning flood of silence engulfed her ears. Like the waves of the Far Shores... Rayya’s eyes slid shut.

Suddenly freezing snow was pressing into her face, and she could breathe again, in fitful, ravenous starts. Dimly Rayya was aware of some unearthly creature screeching above her head, mingling with the throaty roars of some other demonic denizen... Breath by wheezing breath she filled her starved lungs, and the blackness lost its grip over her eyes, which she forced groggily open. Two immense shapes grappled and wrestled with terrifying speed and savagery over her body.

Gradually they resolved, and Rayya’s stifled battlefire reignited. Her scimitars had fallen beside her; jerkily she grabbed them, dragged herself up against Ffrolde’s cold, stiff haunch, draped over the horse’s body when her shaky legs would not hold her. Gendolin and Aela locked claws and fangs and fought like the beasts they’d become, the vampire lord and the werewolf whirling in hurricanes of feral primality. Rayya had only seen Aela transformed once before, but never beheld her like this, in her element; this seething russet-furred mass of indestructible, howling wrath. She matched the vampiric abomination blow for blow, and it was her brute force that sent him staggering. Her maw was red, her fangs stained; Gendolin’s arm was savaged, oozing blood. He fought one-handed, the other tightly grasping the Elder Scroll in the torn remains of its obscuring sheath.

Get it back, Rayya thought, staggering upright, though her head pounded and her lungs still burned. Must get it back... Solen...

A mighty blow sent Aela tumbling across the snow, but like a kickball against a stone wall she rebounded, and her talons lashed across Gendolin’s bare torso, splitting the grey skin like parcel paper. He shrieked and sprang backwards and upwards; his wings beat once, carrying him into the air where he hung suspended by his own fell magic. Floating above the battlefield, his eyes burned into Rayya, who convulsed in horror at the remembered pain. His empty hand moved, began to glow...

Aela leapt between them, and suddenly Rayya felt herself upended onto the werewolf’s back, face-down on a broad pelt of thick red hair. She yelped and clung to the seething, buckling bulk, terrified of falling off. Beneath her Aela was in full sprint. The ground lurched in sickening swoops beneath her powerful loping strides.

“Aela!” Rayya’s voice rasped from her in a strangled whisper. Every word was a fresh agony. “Aela... stop!” Where was she going? She was leaving the battle behind! Gendolin had the Elder Scroll! Rayya looked back, saw the vampire lord poised in the air, unfollowing, withdrawing the Scroll from its tattered black case. Beneath him, Vilkas and Njada went down in a black tide of claws and red light. “Aela! They need us! Aela!”

“It’s too late.” Aela’s voice was a whisper of what it was, darkened and distorted in the baritone of a beastly growl. “We lost.”

The battlefield vanished in a swirl of white mist. Rayya tugged weakly at Aela’s shoulder-fur. “Turn around! Dammit! We can’t let him win, not again! Solen will –”

“He will never forgive me if I let you and the baby get torn apart,” Aela snarled.

It took a moment for Rayya to realize what had just been said. “What?”

“You didn’t know?” Aela didn’t dare slow down or look back at her passenger, but her gravelly growl softened. “You have too many heartbeats, sister. I heard it the second I turned.”

Rayya felt as if she was being choked all over again. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

Chapter Text

Riften was a well-defined smudge on the horizon when Kjennar pulled Irileth away from the others, making camp among the maples. The roguish Nord was unusually serious. “Are you and the monk really detouring there?”

“Priest,” Irileth corrected – not because Florentius had at all grown on her in the time they’d travelled together, but because she liked to be precise about what something and someone was. “And yes, we are. I trust you and the rest can find your own way back to Fort Dawnguard?”

“You kidding?” Kjennar said, tossing his mop of dark hair out of his eyes. “A child could find their way down the south road. It’s not ourselves I’m worried about.”

Irileth arched her brow. “You. Worried.”

“I know. But you’ve grown on me, Housecarl. That’s why I want to pass on the warning.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I wasn’t... entirely truthful about my history.”

“Of course not. You had something to do with the Thieves Guild, didn’t you?” Sensing Kjennar’s surprise, Irileth elaborated. “Operative, I was the Housecarl of one of the most powerful men in Skyrim. My job depended on being one step ahead of his enemies. Don’t think I wasn’t aware of, and didn’t monitor, the Thieves Guild’s resurgence across Skyrim. So, are you about to tell me that you’ve been spying for them?”

“What? No, nothing of the sort,” Kjennar laughed. “No, I’m here to tell you that I used to run with them. Every cutpurse and footpad in the province has dealt with them at some point. The Guild’s grown exponentially these last two years, but I, I failed their little initiations and they threw me to the dogs, as it were. Still, for a little while I called Riften home.”

“My condolences. What are you getting at, Kjennar?”

“You’re heading into Riften, just the two of you, to look for this supposed vampire assassin?” At Irileth’s nod, Kjennar pulled out one of his silver knives and played with it. “Smart. Two Dawnguard – or rather, you and that priest – makes for good gossip. A whole party attracts attention. Any vampire behind the walls would be tipped off before you hit the gates.”

“We don’t know for certain if it’s there. Just that priest’s word for it.” Irileth rolled her eyes. “In any case, subterfuge is best fought with subterfuge, especially while we’re treading water.”

“I’ve no doubt you know how to handle yourself, Housecarl. Still, Riften is a world apart from the sunny skies of Whiterun. You don’t do anything in the city without someone noting it down. I’ll say this. If you need information, look for a red-haired man, and have your coinpurse ready. You’ll know who he is when you see him – or when he sees you.”

Irileth took Kjennar’s silver knife, weighed it in her fingers, then hurled it with deadly precision into a slender maple trunk twenty yards away. “I think we should be able to uncover some evidence without having to resort to a thief. But, Kjennar, I’ll keep it in mind.”

So Irileth did as she and Florentius peeled away from the rest of the Dawnguard patrol and rode towards the lakeside city. She knew that asking around was as dangerous as it was necessary. In a city like Riften, those who asked questions attracted attention, and those who attracted the wrong sort, or asked the wrong questions, befell accidents before they had a chance to act on their discoveries. She didn’t doubt Kjennar’s information for a second. “You know full well that we’re riding into a nest of vipers, priest,” Irileth said, as Riften’s walls loomed through the autumnal trees. “Keep your mouth shut unless your life depends on you opening it.”

“Oh, Arkay knows exactly what kind of place Riften is,” the Imperial man muttered with great disdain. “Filth, bilge, scum! Sycophants and profiteers, beggars and thieves! Profane in the eyes of the gods. You’d think none of them had ever heard of the Ten Commandments.”

Irileth faced him. “The what?”

Florentius looked as if he’d been slapped. “Arkay preserve us! You mean to say –?”

“Spare me the disbelief, priest. Not everyone drools over your gods. They’re some kind of divine law, correct? Well, no divine law I’ve ever seen puts food on the table or warms you from the cold when it’s all you have left.”

“It shapes the spirit,” said Florentius primly, “which is far more sacred than any physical shell of man and mer –”

“Tell that to a man or mer who hasn’t eaten in three days. Just shut up and keep your ears open.”

They left their horses at the roomy stables and faced the heavy city gates. Irileth grimaced and checked her hood was well over her head. She’d never cared to visit this city. “You’re still certain there’s a vampire here?”

“Completely,” Florentius murmured. “Well, as completely as one can be when Arkay says –”

“All right, that’s enough,” Irileth interrupted, and through the gates they stepped.

It certainly was no Whiterun. Riften was Skyrim’s southernmost city, where the warm winds threading the Velothi Mountains from the east kept the valleys of the Rift more temperate than others, even in the eye of midwinter. The streets were numerous and narrow. Countless alleyways peeled off between the lumber houses. A canal carved its way through the centre of the city, gurgling a literal undercurrent to the daily city life. Riften’s proximity to Morrowind and the salmon-rich Lake Honrich had resulted in a plentiful population of Dunmer and Argonians, unseen anywhere else in Skyrim, and they numbered almost as much as the Nords. Riften was by no means poor; its fishing and mead exports were bountiful year-round. But it was kept poor. The city looked and felt shabby to the eye, and beneath the damp smell of timber and moss lay the sweeter, sicker one of rot. Full of vampires long before the bloodsucking ones arrived.

And if that was not enough, the narrow streets were even more crowded than they ought to have been. Rough hide tents pitched under every charitable awning, the wet air scorched with the pungent stink of campfire smoke. Narrow, frightened faces peered out at Irileth and Florentius as they passed them by. Florentius shook his head in dismay at the sight. “Arkay protect these poor souls, who without home or family have been driven here...”

“They shouldn’t be here,” Irileth agreed, and flicked her eyes aside as a Riften guardsman passed her, staring curiously at her armour. “Farmers. Millworkers. Landowners. Driven behind the walls. This is the vampires’ doing. Civilians know they’re targets in their isolated pockets.”

“But isn’t the Dawnguard protecting them?”

“There’s only so many of us, Florentius.” Irileth gripped the hilt of the broken blade. “But be assured, we’ll spread across the province, too.”

“Oh, Arkay assures me –”

“Just stop with that,” Irileth hissed.

Florentius sulked. “And why should I, Irileth? If there is anywhere in Skyrim in dire need of a Divine’s presence –”

“This place isn’t it. Every pebble is watched by the Thieves Guild. Bend a blade of grass and they’ll know about it.”

“The Thieves Guild! Hah! Arkay assures me they’re just dishonest rabble, honourless men and women who’ll kill each other over a gold coin, like all thieves.”

“Your god hasn’t been paying attention. The Thieves Guild’s back in full power across not just Riften but all of Skyrim, and this is their stronghold.”

“Well, excuse me! If this is such common knowledge, then why doesn’t the Jarl do anything about them, then?”

“Because she’s got her hand deep in their pockets. Maven Black-Briar, Jarl of this despisable city... I don’t know what that military governor was thinking. Seems gold greases all palms, in the right amount.”

They reached the canal and a busier thoroughfare of labourers about their daily tasks. Irileth cast her eyes about, mapping the city landmarks. There lay the city tavern, across the footbridge, and the marketplace beyond that. The spires of a temple jutted over the security of high walls; so, there was a holy place in this destitute town. A much larger building towered above the rest, surmounted on a hill and preceded with a flagstone staircase. “That must be the Jarl’s palace,” Irileth muttered, and couldn’t help but be underwhelmed by it. The whole thing would’ve fit in Dragonsreach’s main hall.

They continued towards it, their conversation disguised beneath the everyday city clamour. “Seems this Jarl is a woman far fallen from the grace of the Divines,” Florentius observed.

“To fall from somewhere, you’d need to have some sort of standing with them first. The whole family’s rotten to the gills. Plenty of rumours pinned Black-Briar doing dirty – regular – business with the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Arkay’s ward,” Florentius swore, and made an embarrassingly obvious religious symbol over his chest. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

“Absolutely. A woman of her power? Of course she’d turn to hired knives to ensure her spiderweb of influence stayed immaculate, and deadly. Well, at least she’d used to.”

“‘Used to’?”

“Dark Brotherhood’s been gutted. They’re wiped off the face of Nirn.”

“Gutted! As in destroyed? Could it be? What gods-anointed champion could have prevailed against such godless, immoral evil?”

“A local one, pissed off at the Thalmor’s dishonourable attempt on his life.” Irileth weighed up the disbelief in Florentius’ eyes and rolled her own. “Come on, priest. Everyone knows the Thalmor performed a Black Sacrament on the Dragonborn. They denied it, but they had no one fooled. He tracked down the assassins’ Sanctuary, somewhere deep in Falkreath forest, and it was the work of a night. We saw the smoke from Whiterun.”

“Arkay preserve us,” murmured Florentius in awe. “When was this?”

“Late ‘204, I think. When the Civil War was definitely leaning in the Legion’s favour. There were rumours the Thalmor meddled there, too – prolonged it or some such. They just proved those rumours right when they tried to off the one who turned the tide.” Irileth couldn’t resist a contemptuous cackle. “Stupid fetchers.”

They reached the steps leading to Mistveil Keep, the Jarl’s palace. “You’ve quite the ear for rumour, don’t you, Housecarl?”

“You hear a great deal in the hub of a province.” Irileth frowned as the door-guards descended to meet them halfway up the staircase, clearly on the path to intercept. “Let us through,” she barked. “We need to speak with the Jarl.”

“The Jarl ain’t receiving.”

Irileth’s eyes glowed like red coals. “What is this nonsense? A Jarl’s court is an open forum for all citizens of Skyrim.”

“Jarl’s orders. Court is closed.”

Irileth indicated the burning shield medallion she wore at her throat, as part of her uniform. “I’m an operative of the Dawnguard. If this lockdown is due to the vampire threat, it’s all the more imperative that Jarl Maven Black-Briar needs to hear what I –” Right, the priest. “What we have to say.”

“You deaf, greyskin?” The guard stepped forward, his full-face helm aggressively thrust into Irileth’s face. “Get. Lost.”

It didn’t take much to flip the stone, did it? Weak minds, greased palms. Irileth found it repulsive; not the guard’s words, but the ease of exposure, soft and fetid like festering flesh. She let the large guardsman menace her, quite indifferent to their looming size difference, and pondered how to respond. Presently they were poised on tenterhooks. She could challenge them and force her way in, in a breach of decorum – no, it wasn’t that urgent. Any further resistance would shred their frayed patience and result in an arrest. Definitely not the attention she wanted to attract on herself or the Dawnguard. Irileth’s insides boiled as the only way forward became clear – and it was to retreat. There was nothing more to be done here, yet.

She still held the guardsman’s gaze for an insolently long period before she at last turned away. “Come on, priest.”

The guards’ eyes followed them, like knives pressed to their necks, as they descended back down the palace stairs and back into the streets. Irileth bit a quiet, savage curse in her mother tongue and planted her hands on her hips. “Stupid old witch.”

Florentius also seemed agitated. “Housecarl, that can’t be all we do. Arkay –”

“Button it, Florentius.”

“Housecarl, Arkay says –”

“I said button it.” Irileth seized his arm, her voice low and furious. “Of course it’s not all we’re doing. But we are not discussing it in the open street. Get it? Use your wits, if you have any to your name.”

With greatly injured dignity, Florentius wrenched his arm out of Irileth’s grip. But, mercifully, he remained silent. Irileth nodded and jerked her chin across the marketplace. Only one place in a city like this where I know we won’t be overheard. “Come on, Florentius,” she growled. “I could go for a drink.”

~

The Bee and Barb was a surprisingly spacious and well-kept tavern. Irileth had expected something seedier, but the atmosphere inside was as warm and rustic as the Bannered Mare. The midmorning was seeing the lunch rush start and the roomy space rapidly occupy with hungry dockworkers, fisherfolk and meadery workers. The two Argonian tavernkeepers were kept rushed off their feet serving their patrons. Irileth and Florentius slipped inside almost unnoticed and quickly scooped up one of the last tables, out of the way against the wall. Irileth was conscious how horribly exposed her back was – the chairs flanked the wall, rather than faced it – but at least she had an easy view of the rest of the tavern. Florentius, who likely had no experience with assassins of any kind, slumped in his seat and promptly devoted all attention to the matter that had brought them to Riften at all.

Briefly Irileth’s attention flicked back to Redwater Den, when the mission had been simple, the investigation straightforward. She withdrew the small red phial from the padded pouch against her thigh and held it up in the candlelight. The viscous liquid slithered like a living thing within the sturdy glass. “From the Den,” Irileth said shortly, as Florentius looked. “All that’s left from that spring you purified.”

Something more focused and professional replaced Florentius’s usually dreamy expression. “May I see it?”

Irileth passed it over. “I plan to get this alchemically appraised. The Volkihar empowered some sort of relic with it, and the Redwater skooma was tainted with the same stuff.”

“Well, I suppose Isran’s rallied a whole crew of herb-pushers by now.”

“He hasn’t, actually. Something we’re short on. Are you volunteering?”

“I suppose,” Florentius shrugged. “Alchemy and enchantment were my professions in the unhappy days I shared in Isran’s company. Besides, Arkay says it will fulfil a much-needed service for the Dawnguard.”

Irileth scoffed as she beckoned for Florentius to return the vial to her safekeeping. “Right. I’m just relieved you actually do more than prattle religious spiel.”

“Scorn me all you like, Housecarl, but I felt the danger as sure as a dry man in thirst when we stepped in the gates. Danger grips the shadows like a hand at the throat. Arkay insists that there is some terrible spell about to be placed on this city.”

“‘About to be’? Florentius, you assured me outside Redwater Den that there was a vampire threatening the Riften Jarl!”

“Yes, well... certainly the Jarl would be involved, but directly, who can say?”

Irileth massaged her temple and growled in high frustration. “One straight answer, Florentius. Would it kill you to give me one straight answer?”

Florentius combed his beard. “I can only give you Arkay’s assurances –”

“Oh! Brilliant!” Irileth tangled her arms and leaned back in her seat. “As if the guesswork and faith wasn’t enough! Nerevar, I’m such a fool...”

Florentius offered a smile. “Have faith, Irileth. Arkay will guide us.”

Spoken with all the fatherly assurance of one whose soothing words would mend all agitation. Irileth pinched the bridge of her nose. “Florentius,” she growled, “how many times do I have to tell you, I don’t believe in –”

Wham! Three foaming tankards slammed down on the scrubbed table between them, making Irileth and Florentius jump. “Pardon the interruption,” said the Nord that had delivered them. He wore merchant’s robes and a flawless smile. “But I couldn’t help but note Keerava hadn’t served you yet. So, hope you don’t mind me takin’ a little liberty.”

Irileth scowled up at the intruder with her dismissal poised like one of Kjennar’s silver knives, and noticed the Nord had red hair. Violently red hair.

“Pardon me,” said Florentius politely, “but I don’t drink.”

“All the more for me, then, lad.” The Nord scooped a chair from seemingly thin air and planted himself at their table. “What about you, lass?”

Irileth took the measure of him at once, and suddenly knew exactly what kind of honey-tongue she was dealing with. “I’m no lass of yours. What do you want.”

“Now, lass, that’s not how it works here. You’re the visitor, I’m the friendly local. What do you want? No one visits Riften unless they want something from it. And you strike me as the sort who doesn’t do things by halves, Housecarl.” The red-haired Nord winked. He’d played the first card of his extensive hand.

Irileth was no stranger to the game, though it’d been a long time since she’d played. “And you strike me as someone who has his fingers in the right kind of pies, Brynjolf.” Surprise cracked the Nord’s friendly veneer, and Irileth took up her pint, satisfied she had his attention. “That’s right. I’m not the only one who knows things. Now what do you want with us?”

Not to be deterred, the Nord sipped at one of the foaming mead mugs. “You catch on fast. They said you were sharp. Just not sharp enough, eh?” Irileth didn’t grace that with an answer, and resisted the temptation to even touch the hilt of the broken sword. Brynjolf lowered his tankard. “All right. I’ll admit that was one below the belt.”

“Do honourless opportunists ever strike anywhere else?”

“Irileth,” exclaimed Florentius, and he looked quite abashed. “This is a guest at our table!”

He’s really got no idea. Irileth arched her brow. Piteous scrib.

“It’s quite all right,” Brynjolf smiled, all charm. “I’d imagine these last few months chasing shadows in the dark doesn’t leave the lass with much energy for trust.”

“There’s never an excuse for bad manners,” said Florentius haughtily.

Irileth suddenly smiled. “Of course, Florentius, you’re quite right. Brynjolf, would you accept my apology?” She offered a hand, as innocent as Brynjolf’s smile.

Brynjolf took it with a chuckle. “Of course –” His smile became fixed as his hand locked around Irileth’s, paralyzed in place by currents of shock running electric fingers along every delicate nerve in his hand.

Irileth, still smiling, leaned close. “Call me lass again, and I’ll leave it dead for a week. Now, are we going to keep playing this game, or are we going to get down to business?”

Brynjolf’s smile fell clean off his face. “To business, then,” he said, “as soon as you let go of my hand.”

Irileth released him and took renewed measure of the man across from her. It was always satisfying to prove who and what she really was to someone unused to underestimating their target. “Better. I’ve been informed that you’re a Nord with his finger on the pulse of Riften.”

“You’d be correct.” Brynjolf reached for the second untouched mug of mead. “No one comes and goes from the city without my knowledge. No one visits the Jarl, or attempts to, without my knowledge.” He nodded to Irileth’s medallion. “I’ve seen that before, too. A Redguard wore that, when he came visiting to organize supplies down to a certain Dayspring Canyon.”

“Fort Dawnguard’s location is no secret, not even to our prey. If you think you can hold that over our head, you’re mistaken.”

“Not at all, la – Housecarl. Merely making an observation. Now, don’t get me wrong; the Dawnguard pursue a noble cause, and one even my organization can get behind. It’s hard doing business with the dead. I’d be happy to organize an audience with Maven.” His pine-green eyes grew steely. “For a price, of course. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how busy a Jarl’s schedule can be.”

Well, Kjennar had warned her. Irileth slowly withdrew her coinpurse and planted it on the table. It was a rather sad little thing. Two seconds of silence assured Irileth it was far from enough. She nodded to Florentius. “Yours, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Florentius protested. “The Jarl’s life could be in danger – all of Riften! Yet if this man works for her, we have to pay his salary?”

Well, he’d have to lose his innocence to this sort of thing sometime. “It’s called a bribe. Pay up.”

“Bribery!” Florentius, as expected, took issue at once. “To sink to the level of wicked men, who avert their heads from the wisdom of Zenithar –”

Irileth and Brynjolf sat silent through the tirade. It was difficult to tell whose expression was the more exasperated. “Priest?” Brynjolf guessed.

“Yup.” Irileth reached again for her mug. “Florentius, we’ve wasted enough time. Cough up and let’s get on with this.”

Florentius looked with considerably more dislike upon Brynjolf, starting to cotton on at last to his true character. “You would really turn a profit over the life of your Jarl?”

“Over Maven?” Brynjolf arched his brow. “Absolutely.”

Florentius’s coinpurse plonked on the table. “The Divines will judge you.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Brynjolf weighed up the two purses and tutted. “Hmm. This won’t even get you close, Housecarl.”

“Confirm, then,” Irileth said, overtalking Florentius as the priest puffed up with indignant fury. “Maven’s court – anyone new arrive to it, any strangers to Riften. Likely hooded.”

“Hooded?” Brynjolf seemed to chuckle at some hidden joke. “Aye, Housecarl, that I’ll give you. There was a guy, walked through Riften like he owned it. Very distinctive tread. And aye, he wore a hood, through a fine and balmy day. He went straight to the Keep. Not long after that, the doors shut, and stayed shut. Now Maven hardly takes guests.”

“I told you,” said Florentius, immediately triumphant. “I told you – or rather, Arkay told you – but did I not say?”

Irileth gripped her swordhilt. “You guessed, priest, and you guessed right.” Somehow.

“But what now? We’re as stuck as we ever were.” Florentius shot Brynjolf a cold look. “No thanks to this fox-haired hustler.”

“Now, now,” Brynjolf chuckled, “what happened to our manners, priest?”

Irileth spoke caustically. “Thank you for your information.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, Housecarl. But I think we can still come to an arrangement. In fact, I believe it necessary. You still need access to Mistveil Keep, after all.”

“The Dawnguard isn’t helpless. We’ll find another way to reach the vampire.”

“Vampire?” Brynjolf’s eyebrows knotted in a frown. “No, Housecarl, you’re mistaken.”

Irileth turned her scorching glare on Brynjolf. “Excuse me?”

Florentius sensed a fresh wave of tension brewing at their little table, but he couldn’t interpret why. For Irileth, it rang in her ears clear as day. Brynjolf knew exactly who she was, from her Housecarl past to her Dawnguard present. He would’ve pieced it all together as they talked and got the measure of one another’s wits and strengths. Brynjolf knew she was a seasoned warrior and familiar with the ways of Skyrim’s courts, and likely guessed at her darker history. To still be told she was the one mistaken, so confidently, so assuredly, was to be equally informed that Brynjolf knew something about this vampire that she didn’t.

And that opened a whole new jar of flin.

“I imagine you are aware,” said Irileth coldly, “just why your city is now housing a considerable settlement of refugees across your Hold?”

“Of course,” said Brynjolf. “These vampires are a threat to everyone.”

“Oh, everyone?” Irileth said. “Really?”

“Not everyone, gods be good.” Keerava, the Argonian innkeeper, brushed by with a tray of empty dishes. She’d caught the tailwind of their conversation, and her husky rasp briefly joined them. “You’re talking about the vampires, yes? Those lost souls stream through the gates because the walls protect them.”

Irileth scoffed quietly. Whiterun’s walls made Riften’s look like a sheepfold. “Walls don’t stop them.”

“Well, ours do. There’s been plenty of vampire attacks in all the other cities across Skyrim, but Riften? Haven’t had a single sighting. Frightened off by those Dawnguard types, I imagine.” Keerava shook her head and sauntered off. “First decent thing to happen in this Hist-cursed Hold...”

Irileth turned sharply on Brynjolf, fired by this new, unusual information. “And why, exactly, would that be?”

Brynjolf shrugged easily. “How would I know the minds of vampires, Housecarl? I believe it’s the Dawnguard’s mission to protect civilians from these creatures – aren’t you pleased to hear they can find refuge here in the city?”

“Irileth?” Florentius frowned, still puzzled. “Just what are you getting at?”

“Vampires throw themselves at the Dawnguard, trained soldiers, and think they can kill us. Meanwhile they leave a city ripening with displaced refugees and beggars? You’ve seen this place, Florentius. It’s ruled by the shadows. Vampires could gorge themselves and no one would ever notice.” Irileth turned to Brynjolf. “No one but those who share those same shadows. What aren’t you telling us?”

“Now, Housecarl,” said Brynjolf, smiling, “be careful before you accuse something you can’t justify.”

“Justification, is it? Hordes of hungry vampires pound at Dawnguard’s walls, Skyrim’s cities scramble to keep their own civilians safe in the darkness, yet Riften, city of shadows, remains untouched. Why is that, Brynjolf?”

“Riften’s still in danger,” Florentius protested. “Arkay insists on it.”

“And Florentius, I finally believe you,” said Irileth, folding her arms, “because Riften’s been sold out. This city isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a herd being raised for slaughter.”

Brynjolf’s chair scraped backward as he stood in one swift motion. Irileth calmly met his angry green eyes and knew she’d finally flipped his stone – or budged it just enough to glimpse the darkness of the true self beneath it. “Let me make something very clear to you, Housecarl,” he warned, quietly and dangerously. “If you know what we are and what we do, you’ll know also that this is our city. Nothing happens in it or to it without our say-so.”

“And yet, you don’t deny it,” Irileth said.

“You couldn’t afford the truth.”

“You’ll find a way to accommodate us, before word gets out that the Thieves Guild is aligned with the Volkihar Clan.” Irileth stood and faced him, her face thrust close to his. “It’s hard, but not impossible, doing business with the undead, isn’t it, Brynjolf?”

“Thieves Guild?” Florentius repeated, and he scrambled out of his seat as if stung by a wasp. “You!”

Brynjolf set his jaw, his face an inscrutable, well-trained mask. Even Irileth couldn’t guess at the thoughts that circled unseen beneath it. “Rumour away, Housecarl,” he only said. “You can’t prove a word of it.”

Irileth gripped her swordhilt. “Yet.”

Chapter Text

It could have been hours. It could have been days. Rayya lost all sense of time as she clung fitful and numb against Aela’s shoulders. Through the raging blizzard, the exposed glacial plains of ice had shifted slowly into a mountainous canyon, dotted with the odd pine. It was here that Aela’s mighty endurance began to sharply wane.

She’d run at a full gallop nonstop since the battle, long-lost in the misty storm behind them. Fast as any horse, if not faster. Her graceful lupine lope became a rough canter, then a staggering dogtrot. Her breath scraped between her teeth like cloth on a washboard. Her bright eyes dimmed, and she lurched with every panting step. Suddenly Rayya sensed that she would collapse.

“Aela,” she whispered. Her throat had swollen painfully. Some words wouldn’t form at all. “We need... stop... rest.”

Aela growled weakly in answer. She briefly put on a fresh burst of speed, but it lasted only moments before she was back to her lurching, staggered gait. Saliva swung in curtains from her jaws. She grunted, pushing her exhausted self ever onward. Fearful of pursuit.

Then, without warning, her limbs folded, and she sank face-first into the drift.

“Aela!” Rayya slid off her shoulders. Aela growled again, struggling to rise. She managed only one more step before collapsing again. She whined shrilly, a strange keening howl against the wind, and shifted back. It was a remarkable thing to witness, even half-frozen in a Winterhold blizzard; scarlet fur retreated into skin, claws shortened into fingers, the beastly blood-splattered muzzle shrank into a human face. Whatever blood-magic had written the curse into Aela’s form had kept her armour on beneath it, perhaps drawn into the mysteries of Oblivion with her human shape; a good thing, because when Aela the Huntress resumed her Nord form, she was as exhausted as ever, and the armour she’d worn up north to the College was thickly furred and scale-plated, her old adventuring gear she’d worn in her travelling days with Solen.

Solen. Rayya’s eyes swept with unshed tears. No, she couldn’t think about him now. Not now. Not with the fatal chill creeping in. She hauled Aela’s arm over her shoulders and helped the Companion upright. “Come on. Keep moving.”

Aela was so fatigued she couldn’t talk. There was no chance of either of them continuing to travel. Rayya looked frantically around for some form of shelter – any kind of shelter. A tiny cluster of pines loomed out of the deep blue darkness of the blizzard. It would have to do. “C’mon,” Rayya gasped again, and half-hauling, half-dragging Aela, she made her way towards the pines.

It was the longest, most painful walk she’d ever made in her life. Rayya’s hands and feet were agonizingly numb. Her elbows and knees almost refused to bend. Her lips were chapped so dry that they cracked and bled in the icy air. She wore a woollen cap beneath her headwrap, but her ears still felt as if they’d turned to ice. She shivered so hard that it was all she could do to keep one wobbly foot placed in front of the other. But, inch by inch, the pines crawled closer, until at last they were beneath the trunks and snow-laden boughs.

They folded in a graceless heap below a pine trunk. It offered only scant protection against the driving wind. “Aela,” Rayya rasped again. Aela groaned faintly in answer. Rayya tried feebly to dig a snow den, but her arms were like planks of wood. She managed to get a shallow scrape in the snow, and herself and Aela dragged into it. That was all the energy she had left to her.

“Aela,” Rayya repeated, because they couldn’t go to sleep. No matter how tempting it was, the promise of oblivion to slip away from this torturous cold. But Aela was already drifting, and leaned into Rayya like a deadweight. Rayya leaned back, holding her close, trying to conserve their body heat. It was their last defence against the unrelenting chill.

Here, at last, Rayya could start to think. About their enemy, their failed mission, the baby. Pregnant. The fingers of ice that ran down Rayya’s spine were much colder than the chill of the storm. When? How? Well, she knew how that would’ve happened, but when? Fitfully Rayya cast her mind back, one month after the next. Dimly she realized she hadn’t bled for two months. So focused had she been with keeping herself and her husband alive in their Skyrim journeying that she’d completely forgotten to keep track of her cycle. And there’d been a night, there’d been several, when they’d taken out the day’s frustrations in each other’s arms...

Gods.

And the vampires – the Elder Scroll – Rayya had no doubt the Volkihar champion, Gendolin, was winging his way back to Castle Volkihar with his prize. But his vampiric thralls – they wouldn’t be affected by this snowstorm. Aela had run far and fast, but a vampire didn’t need to stop and shelter. Rayya’s ears burned with the vampire lord’s command. Kill them all. Her eyes stung with tears for Vilkas and Njada. Her last shaky glimpse of them etched in her mind...

Rayya breathed lightly. Sleep was becoming irresistible. Luring her down, to a warm pocket deep beneath her skin, as she and Aela became blanketed in frost and snow. She could only fight it so much longer. Solen... I’m sorry.

“Hello.”

Rayya forced her eyes open again. I’m dreaming. But the warm breath that struck her backside was quite real. Groggily she turned her head. A pair of lambent green eyes blinked cheerfully at her out of the snowbound darkness.

“I followed you,” said Fiirnaraan, bobbing his frills. “I wanted to see a kel up close.”

“Fiir...”

“My full name,” the Dragon frowned. Rayya’s swollen throat couldn’t finish his title. He seemed about to protest the point, and then he realized, “Oh. You are cold. And there is no kel. And you smell of blood.”

“Fiir,” Rayya rasped, “tell... Solen...”

“And you cannot speak,” Fiirnaraan assessed. His long sinuous body circled out from beneath the pines. His frilled tail scraped alongside a pine trunk, shivering the snow from the branches; his wing puffed out automatically to stop the snow from falling on Rayya’s and Aela’s heads. “You do not look well. Did the sosvulonah beat you in the game?”

“Solen,” Rayya repeated thickly. She’d grown very dizzy. She closed her eyes.

She heard, as if from a thousand miles away, the Dragon’s breath hissing gently through his teeth, like a kettle at comfortable boil. Then his body carving through the snowy drifts. Something warm and immense pushed up behind her spine, and suddenly the wind’s bite was gone, and the air quickly growing still and warm. Rayya drowsily opened her eyes to discover the sky had turned to leathery green skin. For a moment she wondered if Fiirnaraan had eaten them, and then her mind caught up and properly assessed that she and Aela were outside his body, pressed against the wonderfully warm, soft scales of his pale underside, tucked there by his wing. “Fiir?” Rayya whispered, bewildered.

The Dragon’s head was pressed on the other side of his folded wing, but his voice seemed to emanate from within his chest, beneath Rayya’s ear. “It is a poor night for flying.”

The snow beneath them was still cold, but Fiirnaraan’s body was warm, and in the little pocket beneath his wing Rayya felt life slowly creeping into her numbed flesh. How strange it was to lie against a Dragon’s chest, gently rising and falling with his slow peaceful breaths, and not be remotely afraid. Solen might be on to something after all with these beasts, she thought, resting her cheek against a warm knot of leathery scales. She closed her eyes and at last allowed her exhaustion to run away with her for a while.

~

Rayya awoke to her name rumbling soft warning in the Dragon’s throat. She stirred groggily awake, every inch of her complaining as she dragged herself from the warm embrace of peaceful slumber. She couldn’t speak, but she rapped a finger against Fiirnaraan’s scales to alert him she was awake. The rumbling stopped. Fiirnaraan went completely, remarkably silent and still, like a snowshoe hare that had scented a fox. Rayya couldn’t even hear him draw breath.

Then he went invisible. It was incredibly disorienting – one moment he was there, the next vanished as if into thin air. Rayya still felt his warm, solid body beneath her head, yet his shielding wings had become translucent as a window pane, if a little wavery. She felt horribly exposed – were they exposed? – but the falling snow above her head never touched her. She was still cocooned inside the shelter he'd made of his body, similarly veiled to the outside eye.

It was difficult to fathom how much time had passed, only that the blizzard had calmed into a breezy snowfall. But Rayya felt much better. Still frigid, but she could bend her limbs a little, and in the warm space under Fiirnaraan’s wing her breaths didn’t scorch her lungs. She glanced sidelong at Aela – dead to the world, but only for how heavily she slept. Rayya let her rest and returned her attention to the sparsely wooded vale beyond.

She couldn’t see anything at once, but Rayya’s opinion of Fiirnaraan had increased considerably within these last hours and she decided to trust in the Dragon’s judgement. She couldn’t think of any other reason for him to waken her unless friends – or enemies – were close.

The rage of the storm had died away; the wind hardly moaned. Thus Rayya heard the spine-chilling snarl ring very clearly through the cold air.

They manifested into sight a moment later – four dark shapes. Three of them humanoid, the fourth hideously canine. Rayya saw the glitter of their burnt amber eyes, like fell stars in a frozen sky. She held her breath. Again reminded herself that she was completely hidden. From sight, at least – but my breath? My scent? These things made an unpleasant reminder. Or was her scent similarly veiled, contained beneath the dry green-black folds of the Dragon’s wing?

The vampires and the death hound drew closer. The hound’s ghastly, fleshless face skimmed the snow, fangs agape, drawing gulping breaths into its nightmarish maw.

Tracking us. Rayya’s hand fumbled for her scimitar. She knew as soon as she felt it that she wouldn’t be able to draw it. Her fingers wouldn’t bend, her hand couldn’t grasp. Fear froze the breath in her lungs. All she could do was lie still, and watch, and wait...

The anticipation was gruelling. Rayya fought to keep herself calm, her heartbeat slow and her blood cool in her veins. Aela remained unconscious, slumped in a hollow with her pale war-painted cheek pressed against the Dragon’s motionless chest. Rayya concentrated all her senses on the incoming enemy. Their dark, slightly-warped forms drawing ever-closer towards the Dragon’s membranous wing. Their footfalls were quiet but audible. Of course they felt no need for stealth. They were the hunters, seeking to flush their prey into the open. She heard the hideous rasp of the death hound’s breath, nosing out impossible scents beneath the frozen layers. The crunch of its bloodless paws in the snow. Closer. Closer... A stone’s throw from where Fiirnaraan lay still as marble, veiled only by his supernatural camouflage and a thin blanket of snow...

Then they stopped. The death hound shifted its head. One red eye glittered like a live coal. A slightly different noise, almost imperceptible, gurgled from its throat. “Useless thing,” growled one of the vampires, with a deep, bristly male’s rasp. Vaguely Nordic, mostly ominous.

“It wouldn’t have run far, he said,” spat a second – nasally, female, with a trace of the Heartlands accent still audible in the snarl. “They only hold shape so long, he said.”

“I’m surprised none of us smelled it sooner,” said another female – eloquent, haughty, almost definitely Altmer. “It seems Harkon’s new favourite isn’t quite as omniscient as he’d want us to believe.”

“He was right about the Scroll,” said the Nord.

“Yes, I suppose,” said the High Elf. “And yet he sends us after the werewolf.”

“It’s not the werewolf he wants,” said the Imperial. “That beast we do with as we see fit. It’s the Redguard woman – alive and unspoiled.”

Rayya again strained to wrap her hand around her scimitar’s hilt. Not happening, bloodsucker. The death hound paced a slow, noiseless circle around the three vampires as they bickered.

“Hmph! I wouldn’t care if he asked us to find a fresh corpse. Gendolin’s getting far too big for his boots, if you ask me,” sneered the Imperial. “He’s hardly been in our court three months, yet he’s ordering us around like we’re the new blood.”

“He’s supped from the Bloodstone Chalice. He killed Stalf and Salonia. And he found Serana.” The Nord’s voice softened with caution. “Mind what you say around that one. He may be young, but he’s dangerous. Very dangerous.”

“And insane,” the High Elf added. “Making an enemy of the Dragonborn.”

“Oh, there was bad blood between him and the Dragonborn long before Dimhollow Crypt,” said the Nord.

“So cut his throat and be done with it,” huffed the Imperial. “He travels all the time. It’d be simple to –”

 “Slaying the most famous hero in Skyrim?” the Nord chuckled. “You seem to forget that was already attempted. Fate doesn’t favour ignominious conclusions. How do you slay Dragons, Castia? With spectacle. Young lord Gendolin intends one that Skyrim will remember.”

“And to do that he needs hostages, does he?” groused the High Elf.

“Of course. We’ve a long night ahead of us before our day finally dawns.”

“The dog still hasn’t picked up the scent.”

“She and that hound of Hircine won’t be far. Spread out. Look for snow dens.”

The three vampires peeled apart. Two wandered elsewhere – the third, the Nord, approached the pines with the death hound. Rayya held her breath, though she knew even with Fiirnaraan’s camouflage it was surely only a matter of time before they heard their tired heartbeats. Then what? She couldn’t fight, Aela was as good as dead, and Fiirnaraan – would he fight, or would he vanish? Solen said he wasn’t a fighter, but surely he wouldn’t just abandon her and Aela to their fate. Yet Solen had warned her that it was unwise to trust a Dragon...

Rayya at last tightened her fingers around her swordhilt. All I know is I won’t go quietly. The vampires called softly to one another. The Nord vampire was so close that Rayya saw his pinched, pale features. His boots crunched in the snow as he drew slowly, slowly closer towards Fiirnaraan’s wing...

Then the wind died. The snow stopped falling. All with entirely too much suddenness to be natural. Even the vampires paused. “What’s that?”

A Shout. Rayya knew it immediately. She’d seen Solen use it too many times to count, though for a dizzying moment she scarcely believed it. Nor did she want to. Her Housecarl sense of duty overwhelmed all other thoughts. Turn around! I’m not worth dying over – these vampires, Gendolin, they want you dead! She pictured him riding alone through the treacherous valley road, unknowing of the danger that lurked ahead. Thu’um and all, if the vampires took him by surprise –

Fiirnaraan stirred; a soft, quick breath, a slight shift of his head, by the sound of the snow. One of the female vampires hissed, “Torches!” And they disappeared as if into thin air, all of them. Even the monstrous hound. The oppressive sense of being hunted lifted with the rapidly clearing skies.

Fiirnaraan’s deep breaths hummed through his being. For a moment he rolled back into visibility. He dislodged a mound of snow on his head and raised it proudly. His head-frills splayed to their widest fan, then flexed sharply backward, as if to some immense pulse. He giggled, his sidelong pupils dilating to great black circles. “Oh, he has heard me, he has heard, and the vampires did not. What a game this has been!”

Rayya didn’t understand a jot of how Dragon magic worked, and she didn’t care to. All that mattered to her was the joyous, renewing sight of a line of torches funnelling into the snowy vale, chasing away all the fears that lurked in the wintry darkness. Hope was a powerful thing. It settled as potent as any hot drink in her stomach – especially as she heard her husband’s voice shouting on the wind. Calling names. Hers. Aela’s. Rayya only wished she could have called back to him, or at least had the strength to mount her feet and run to meet him. He headed the mounted Imperial patrol, a frantic expression on his golden face, eyes raking the treelines even as he beelined for her location. Fiirnaraan had gone invisible again, perhaps out of nervousness of the numerous Imperial scouts that accompanied Solen.

But there was no hiding from the Thu’um. Rayya saw her husband’s mouth move, and his mismatched eyes briefly attained a matching vermillion hue – his Aura Whisper – as they focused on Fiirnaraan’s immense mound of life-aura. “Fiirnaraan!” he shouted. “That you, buddy?”

Rayya knew Fiirnaraan was right beside her, but she still twisted around in surprise when she heard his voice answer plainly right in the middle of the Imperial patrol, causing many a turned head and a startled horse. “Say they will not hurt us, Dovahkiin.”

“Right, right – stand down, all of you. What you see next, weapons down. Rayya!” Solen swung himself out of the saddle. “Rayya! Are you there?”

“She is fine, Dovahkiin,” said Fiirnaraan, and resumed visibility in a graceful flourish. The Imperial soldiers swore and cursed and generally made a great fuss; Rayya only had eyes for Solen as Fiirnaraan lifted his wing. There was briefly a gust of icy air, so numbing it snatched her breath away, and then she knew only the warmth of his blessedly solid embrace. Rayya twisted her head into the fur line of his collar to hide her tears as he held her tight.

Solen drew back and ran anxious hands and eyes around Rayya’s frostbitten face. “Rayya, are you hurt? What’s happened? Gods, your throat –” His trembling fingers gingerly outlined the bruises under her jaw. Rayya pushed his hand aside – right now that wasn’t important, and even he knew it. I’m alive. That’s more than any of us bargained for. The mission, Solen!

“Aela!” Solen shook Aela vigorously until her eyelids flickered. “Speak to me – what’s happened? Were you attacked?”

Aela, thankfully, roused. She gathered her wits quickly, in the way only a warrior her seasons could. “We were ambushed. We lost the Scroll.” Aela wiped her mouth and spat a glob of foul blood into the snow. “But I left the bastard something to remember me by.”

“What bastard?” Solen demanded. “Who?”

“Gendolin. That’s his name.” Aela’s grey eyes flashed like Skyforge steel. “The Bosmer prick that I’m told broke your nose.”

~

Rayya’s exhaustion saw her recall little of what else transpired in the pine grove alongside the Winterhold valley road. She remembered herself and Aela being wrapped in thick woollen cloaks, as many as the Imperial troops could spare, and being hauled over a warm saddle, which Rayya could hardly sit. She remembered Solen saying something to Fiirnaraan, who then spoke with the Imperials, who gradually lifted their anxious hands from swords and bows, and there was some sort of talk about rewarding him with a whole horse. She remembered Solen climbing up behind her, and she remembered falling asleep against him as they rode steadily back to Fort Kastav, Winterhold’s Imperial garrison.

Kastav was a sorry little fortress, as far as fortresses went, hardly bigger than a riverside hamlet; but its short, thick walls had been repaired, and its subterranean labyrinth of corridors and rooms were warm and well-lit. Rayya glimpsed Fiirnaraan making himself comfortable in the spacious courtyard, licking his jowls in hungry anticipation of an old, plump carthorse being coaxed from the stables, watched on by twoscore morbidly fascinated Imperial soldiers, before the Fort doors shut out the icy dawn and she was hurried off to the healers’ wards.

Rayya slept for a day under a healer’s care, drifting in and out of golden dreams while a healer’s hands soothed the deep bruising to her neck and windpipe. Aela needed little more than a mountain of food and a long unbroken sleep curled on a bedroll in front of a roaring hearth.

The day passed, and Rayya soon felt considerably recovered. Her neck was still beastly sore, but the healer’s work had been thorough. She could take food and drink, and speak again, if in a bit of a rougher rasp than her usual. Solen remained beside her throughout. Despite having had her neck crushed in a vampire lord’s grip, Rayya found the whole affair almost embarrassing; she hated being fussed over, no matter how severe the injury. And Solen could get as fretful as a mother hen, fussing with her blankets, clasping her hand, calling for a healer’s help at the slightest discomfort.

“Solen, enough,” Rayya rasped, as she sensed Solen about to shout for a third helping of garrison stew. She was still hungry, but she forced the bowl aside. There was too much to be said that could no longer wait. “Be quiet and listen.”

“I’m sorry, I’m... you just... you know I worry.” Solen gently caressed her neck, where the swelling had gone down but the bruises still remained visible. “Gods, if I’d had any idea, I’d have –”

“You’d have gotten yourself killed,” Rayya rasped, brushing his fingers aside – gentle as they were, her neck was still frightfully sore. Her hands as well, badly frostbitten, but she’d be fit for travelling in a day or two when she could grip anything with strength. She shuddered to remember that dark, icy night, what would’ve become of her if not for Fiirnaraan. “How’d you even find us, Solen?”

“Fiirnaraan.” Solen shook his head in wonder. “That Dragon’s curiosity and his good sense saved your and Aela’s lives. I’d hardly crossed the Hold border from Pale to Winter when I heard him Shouting for me.”

Rayya blinked in surprise. “I didn’t hear a thing.” Granted, I was asleep for most of it, but I’ve heard you summon Odahviing enough times.

“Well, that’s his little trick, isn’t it?” Solen laughed quietly. “Gods, but I’m glad he found me that night in the Pale. What was that gremlin doing up in Winterhold at all? Did Isran send him? I entirely forgot to ask...”

“No, something about being curious to see an Elder –” The mission slammed itself back into the forefront of Rayya’s mind. “Solen, this isn’t just about some prophecy anymore. They’re after you.”

Solen waved a hand. “Of course they are. We were killing vampires long before the Dawnguard –”

“You don’t get it,” Rayya snapped. “He’s after you. Gendolin. He wants you dead.”

Solen could be damnably blasé about threats to his life. “So does half of Skyrim.”

“Aye, fools and bootwipes and idiots, but this is different. They said... I overheard them talking in the snow, the vampires, looking for us – looking for me.” Rayya seized his hand. “You want to know why that Volkihar champion didn’t cut your throat in Dimhollow? He wants to make a spectacle of your death – whatever that means.”

Solen seemed more puzzled than intimidated. He shrugged his mantled shoulders. “Well, that’s different. A picky killer. I’m the Dragonborn – how much bigger of a spectacle does the git want?”

“I don’t know. But I seemed to have a role to play in it. Those vampires were tracking Aela and I. They wanted to kill her, like Vilkas and Njada, but I was –”

“What?” Solen’s face grew ashen. “Vilkas and Njada are dead?”

Right – he couldn’t have known. Rayya closed her eyes. “They came north with us. To protect the Scroll...” How hollow it sounded. It had all been for nothing. She forced down a scream of frustration and settled for twisting her fist into the wool blankets of her cot.

Solen stared into the flames of the hearth beside them. “Did they... die well?”

Rayya recalled her last glimpse of them – overwhelmed by number. She nodded. “As bravely as any Nord could.”

Solen brushed tears from his eyes. “I’ll... I’ll ask Captain Tovendas to send some troops out, get their bodies... d’you know where they fell?”

“A day out from Winterhold...” Rayya hissed through her teeth. “Gendolin and his little crew were waiting for us. Like they were expecting us.”

“Morwha...” Solen put his head in his hands. “I should’ve come with you.”

Which begged the question. “Solitude – how did it go?”

“Well, Tullius was Tullius, but he’s sent a fast courier down to Cyrodiil to fetch the Moth Priest.” Solen laughed bitterly. “For all the good it’ll do us now. We’ve got no damn Scroll for them to read, and no clue where to find another one. Gods, but I hope we’re right about the Volkihar, having no means to access those Scrolls... if we aren’t...”

Rayya mused on her own words. Expecting us. The ambush could not have played out more perfectly... except for Aela. Aela – the beast blood was the only thing that had turned the tide, however wretchedly briefly. Then Rayya’s blood chilled again, as she remembered the revelation. The room spun a little. Involuntarily her hand went to her stomach.

“Rayya?” Solen was all concern again, his warm golden hands over her mahogany brown. “Does it hurt? Should I send for –”

“Send for the healer one more time and it’s you who’ll be needing her.”

It prompted a flicker of his old grin out of him. Rayya forced one that was hopefully real enough to reassure him. “I’m fine, Solen, but...” But. She drew a deep breath. Morwha’s eyes, something she never thought she’d ever have to say... “Solen, there’s something else.”

Two words. How were two words so hard to say? What was she meant to feel? Joy? Sadness? Fear? Disgust? What? The life kindling in her womb, enough of it for Aela to hear... she couldn’t feel anything. What if she was wrong? What if Aela was wrong?

“Rayya?” Solen’s hand on her face. Grounding her to the present, just as her touch brought him back when he drifted in memory. Rayya clasped it and pressed her cheek into his palm, anxious for his touch.

It occurred to her, suddenly, almost darkly... He doesn’t have to know. She’d stop in Whiterun, quietly acquire some tansy tea, or pay a visit to Danica Pure-Spring if she was really that far along...

But Rayya knew it would shadow her forever – a secret of that magnitude would poise a what if over their heads for the rest of their lives. Though Solen loved her beyond the twin moons, he’d certainly never forgive her if she didn’t even tell him about the situation at all. Or he might never forgive himself, for putting her in the situation to begin with. Either way, she couldn’t do that to him. Better he know.

There was nothing for it. Two words. “Solen, I’m...”

Suddenly she was angry. Gods above! This was the worst time! Of all times! It wasn’t fair! Why was it so hard! It was with almost bitter defiance that she finally got the last word unstuck from her aching throat. “I’m pregnant.”

Then it was done – it was said. Rayya visibly felt the silence smother them. Anxiously she searched her husband’s green-gold eyes for his reaction. It was immediate. He recoiled in one swift motion, as if she’d turned to glass he was fearful to touch; his hand clapped over his mouth, and for a moment his shoulders trembled. Rayya watched him and waited. She could practically see this revelation consuming all others he’d heard, until it was the only thing that remained in his dazed mind.

“She said... she said...” Solen shook his head, stunned. “Danica said it – it wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen.”

“I know what she said. We’d be more fertile with our own than with each other. Unlikely, Solen, but not impossible.” Gods, what was going through his head? What was going through hers? Rayya hardly knew herself. “Well, unlikely happened.”

“But how – how d’you –?”

“I’m late. Besides, Aela said she heard it.”

“It’s that far along? But you’re not –” Solen awkwardly mimed a rotund belly.

Rayya couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Did men ever get taught the basics of womanly functions? “Solen, that’s months into it. I’m only two. I think.”

Solen jumped off the bed as if stung. “When did we –? Gods, when? Was it that night in Old Hroldan?”

“Maybe, or in the Redoubt after we – look, Solen, what’s done is done, I don’t care when it happened – it’s happened!” Rayya snapped. Her temper suddenly felt very short, far too short to deal with Solen’s panicked dithering. She was the one with child, not him! “Stop making a fuss out of this. We’ve got enough to worry over without some ill-timed conception! I’ll resolve it. Visit Whiterun, speak with Danica about –”

“You’re not –” Solen’s mismatched eyes pinned on her. “Rayya?”

Rayya felt something in her crumble. There was an anxious expression in his face that she wasn’t so sure she liked, mainly because there was a part of her that matched it entirely. “Solen? What?”

Solen paced, back and forth, back and forth. “Rayya, if it’s... unlikely, then... then it might be the only chance we ever have.”

“Chance? Solen, we already decided we’d never –”

“I know, but...” Solen clasped his hands behind his neck, the picture of agitation.

“You’ve said your reasons,” Rayya continued, “you’ve made your point clear on this, over and over. And I agree with them. Neither of us would make very good parents. Well, you might, I suppose, but I – I wouldn’t.”

Solen stared at her. “Why not?”

Tall Papa’s mercy – he’s changing his mind, isn’t he? Right in front of her eyes, no less. Rayya wrapped both arms around her sternum. “You know why not,” she snapped. “We’re adventurers! We hardly sleep in the same bed twice! And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. The Thalmor are hardly going to forget about you, you know full well there’s a second Great War looming in the distant future between the Empire and the Dominion, the Dragons could decide any day to go rampaging again, and right now we are losing this fight with the Volkihar! This is a responsibility neither of us are ready to shoulder, Solen!”

Solen sat down heavily on the end of the cot. “I know all that, and I accept that, but – I want to know why you don’t think you’d be able to do it. If all of that...” He waved a hand. “...didn’t exist.”

It felt different discussing motherhood when one suddenly faced the prospect of it. Rayya scootched along the cot until she could sit alongside Solen, seeking the security of his solid embrace. Their arms settled around each other as they faced the crackling hearthfire, dwelling.

“If all of that didn’t exist,” Rayya murmured, “then maybe.” She’d had a good upbringing in a family as fair as any other – a mother who loved her, a father who taught her, even an older brother who helped her find her sharpest edge. For a moment she dwelled on the idea of it, motherhood – writing home to her kin of the news, watching her belly swell. Now that Rayya thought about it, she hadn’t written home to her family in a long time. They didn’t even know she’d married, let alone to a High Elf. She wasn’t sure if they’d be shocked or glad or even believe it.

Altmer had always been particular about their genealogy, and family trees were a subject his people took to with great passion, Solen said – something about maintaining the ‘purity’ of their Aldmer ancestors. Interracial unions between Altmer and others had always been rare as a result, even outside the Summerset Isles. Then the Aldmeri Dominion had reformed, and exacerbated the whole dark idea of purity. According to Solen, they’d made a point of making interracial couples and mixed-blood children disappear. Anything that tarnished the pure ideal was purged – deformities included. Solen had been cast out from his own kin as a hulkynd – ‘broken child’ – when a childhood accident had permanently discoloured one of his eyes. It was reminded in him all again, the way he touched his hand gently to his temple, above his green eye. Abandoned in the wilderness and left to die, until his uncle had found and taken him, a child of four, to sea...

Solen had only very hazy memories of his homeland as a child, and all others went no further than the docks of Alinor or Sunhold in Summerset, and Vulkel Guard or Skywatch in the Auridon isle. But he remembered the beggars and the hulkynd he’d seen in the alley shadows, abandoned by a society turned heartless and cruel by Dominion supremacy. Those memories haunted and troubled him – miserable reminders of how far his people had fallen in the eyes of the world. Not that Skyrim’s a gleaming jewel, Rayya thought grimly. Such matters had improved with the Civil War ended and the Thalmor expelled from Skyrim, but anti-outsider sentiments still hummed under the scarred surface. Surely Solen feared any children he sired faced similar revulsion and a lifetime of torment as half-bloods. Or, as children of the Dragonborn, with targets painted on their backs.

Solen rested his long chin on his clasped hands. “Say we kept it,” he said suddenly. “For argument’s sake. What happens then?”

Something that Rayya had never once imagined. But she answered anyway. For argument’s sake. “Then we’d retire. Whiterun, I suppose. Settle down in Breezehome. Take up some boring, safe job. Chopping wood for the Bannered Mare. I would, anyway. You’d be stuck in Jorrvaskr all day watching the whelps train.”

“Or helping Eorlund at the forge.”

“Or that. But we’d hang up the swords, put the armour away, live off our fortunes. Raise the kid.” It was an uncomfortable, disorienting thought. Rayya loved the thrill of adventure and travel as much as Solen did. And yet she thought again of writing home, watching her belly swell. Life – real life – growing inside her, one day to take breath and open its eyes...

“And if we didn’t keep it?” Solen murmured.

“You mean – give it away?”

“Gods, no.” The answer was immediate, and Rayya felt foolish for asking it. Of course Solen wouldn’t do such a thing. The idea repulsed her, as well. Any child of hers was hers, damn it. “I meant... if you went to see Danica, when we return to Whiterun.”

Rayya’s turn to rest her chin on her folded hands. “I imagine she’d put me to sleep. I’d wake up sore, and... empty. A few days bedrest, then it’d be like nothing had ever happened.”

But it had happened – and Rayya knew it would weigh on them for the rest of their lives. She was human, and he was an elf, and Dragonborn no less – gods knew the odds were against them from the start; if they changed their minds, would it even happen again? Rayya suddenly understood why Solen’s former certainty had dissolved into such hesitation. So many reasons, but it’s still a chance we might never see again...

Again, she rested her hand over her belly. Gods, she’d never been so uncertain about anything before! What frustrating agony! There was no telling how this would even end – she needed to see Danica either way, get a priestess’s appraisal of the child’s health – she’d heard enough horror stories about miscarriages and the increased chance of it between humans and mer, adding to her disdain of pregnancy.

Yet speaking it all aloud, now that it had happened, had made her realize she was not as opposed to keeping it as she’d expected. Intended, even. They say parenthood changes you forever, but – gods, this much?

Solen’s head was suddenly against hers. “I’m so sorry I put you in this position, Rayya.”

There he went, blaming himself – Rayya turned and faced him, impatient. “No apologies. It’s not like it was unpleasant.” He’d definitely come a long way since their first night in bed, she had to admit. “We just – we need to decide what happens next. And fast.” The mission sprang sharply to the forefront of her mind. “The Volkihar have a second Scroll. We need to warn the Dawnguard. That takes priority.”

“Right. The prophecy...” Solen hissed through his teeth. “Damn their eyes! All right. Rayya – you’re going to Whiterun.”

“We are. It’s on the way, Solen, and when they find –” Rayya grimaced. “When they find out about Vilkas and Njada, the Companions will need their Harbinger. The Circle’s down to two, including you.”

“That’s what I need you to do for me.” Solen took her hands. “I need to meet this Moth Priest as soon as I can, and figure out some way forward for the Dawnguard. But you know the Companions as well as I do – and they know you. I’ll name you regent in my stead.”

That was a rich idea – Rayya wasn’t even a formal Companion. “Solen – you can’t withdraw me from the fight! I don’t know if I want to keep the baby – and I’m sworn to protect you!”

“Whether you’re keeping it or not, you’ll still be in Whiterun longer than I can afford to be.” Solen took her head in his hand again, fingers brushing the soft shaved fuzz on her scalp. “And I swore to protect you too, Rayya.”

Rayya pressed her forehead against his. “Solen – this can’t be about me. Gendolin wants you dead. He’s a monster, Solen – Isran didn’t understate the danger of the vampire lord. Now, more than ever, you need me by your side. I won’t let you face that thing alone.”

“He won’t.” Aela stepped into their ward, bearing aloft a fresh tray of food, steaming-hot from the Kastav kitchens. Rayya almost didn’t recognize her out of armour, wrapped in several layers of wool clothing, her face scrubbed of its war-paint – but her silver eyes glittered with their usual steel as she placed the warm tray across their laps.

“Dare I ask how much you overheard, Aela?” Solen asked, with a tired smile.

“Some of it,” she admitted. “Sound carries easy in these halls. And you know how sharp one’s senses stay, so soon after a transformation.” Aela squatted down across from them, poised on the balls of her feet like a crouched wolf. “I agree with Solen, Rayya – you need to be the one to head back to Whiterun and keep the rabble in line.”

Rayya narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t completely ignore her hunger, and attacked the food as she spoke. “What do you plan on doing, then?”

“Joining Solen.” Aela cracked her neck. “I have shield-siblings to avenge and a hunt to finish. Besides, no Companion goes into a fight without a shield-sister at their back.”

Rayya turned to Solen. “In short, I’m getting replaced. Because either way, I’ll be unfit for duty.” The blunt truth of it stung, acid on her tongue; a Housecarl unable to protect her Thane. A wife unable to protect her husband. It was a bitter potion to swallow, and Rayya had issue choking it down. “Whiterun isn’t safe, you know. Gendolin’s after me, too. Those vampires wanted to bring me back to him alive. Something about a hostage.”

Solen’s eyes darkened. “You didn’t mention that.”

“Likely as a way of messing with our dear Harbinger’s head,” said Aela, pragmatic. “Better than that bat-faced craven have tried to play off Solen’s heart. None of them have bested a Dragonborn. None of them will. Not even Gendolin, champion of the Volkihar.”

Solen squeezed Rayya’s hands in his. “Go to Whiterun. Stay with the Companions. Get them – and all of Whiterun – aware of the threat that’s coming. If Isran hasn’t already, I’ll get him to send some Dawnguard operatives up to help. And don’t talk to anyone unless you can see their eyes. That’s as safe as any of us are ever getting, wherever we are.”

It was good to see him focused again. Rayya kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry about me.” About us. “That’s an order.”

Solen’s smile was warm with his old humour. “Aye, Housecarl.” Then, more tenderly, he kissed her. “And whatever you choose... whatever comes, whatever happens, whatever... I’ll be with you. Okay?”

Rayya hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear that said aloud until she heard it. She blinked aside a quick tear and nodded. There was still so much to fear... at least it wasn’t this. “I know you will, dear.”

Aela sensed Rayya’s lingering unease and rested her warm, strong hand, calloused from the bow, on Rayya’s wrist. “Irileth’s fate won’t be yours, Housecarl Rayya. This I pledge to you. For all your sakes, you know it’s the right thing that must be done.”

It was. Of course it was. In Whiterun, Rayya would be as safe as anyone could be in these times; Solen would be free to focus on the task at hand, and not risk distraction worrying for her health. Meanwhile she’d have time to think on her outcome. Again her hand settled on her belly. She couldn’t feel the life within, not tangibly – perhaps it just wasn’t big enough, as she admittedly had little knowledge on how these things worked – yet she knew now that it was there, with a feeling that ran far deeper than anything she’d ever felt before. Maybe that’s what Dragon magic – what any magic – feels like; some instinct you can’t describe, but you know runs alive in your veins.

Rayya’s hand settled at last on Aela’s, and gripped tight. “Protect him,” she ordered. “At all costs.”

Aela flashed her a wolfish grin. “As our Harbinger has ordered, sister, no Companion goes into a fight alone.”

Chapter Text

A roasted rabbit leg, smelling faintly of thyme and rosemary, spiralled gracefully across the camp and hit Solen square in the face.

“Again, man?” Aela sighed, and brandished her ladle. “How many times do we need to have this conversation, Harbinger?”

Solen wiped grease off his forehead and plucked the roasted morsel out of his lap. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just can’t help it, Aela.”

“The last thing Rayya wants you doing is fretting over her health when there’s a job to do,” the Huntress said sternly, returning her attentions to the stewed rabbit bubbling over their cooking fire. “She’s one of the hardiest warriors in Skyrim. You told me she cut down a Dragon mid-air.”

“Well, she climbed on its head, and it took off, and she sheathed her scimitars in both its eye sockets, if that’s the same thing.”

“Anyone capable of doing that will be fine with child.”

Aela was no mother, but she hailed from a long unbroken line of Companion dynasty, and did her best to reassure Solen whenever his mind sailed on such unchartered waters. She often spoke of Rayya as if she were keeping the baby, almost seemed to make a point of it, to ground Solen to the quite-possible reality of fatherhood. Meanwhile Solen still reeled at the mere thought of it. Mostly with fear. Mostly with memory. He swung spontaneously from sheer joy to mortal terror at the prospect, with little in-between. Eleven days since he’d left Fort Kastav behind, and most of the nights had been spent sleepless, brooding numbly on the situation, and his own callous irresponsibility at it all.

“Aela, I don’t know what to do,” he said, once he licked the rabbit bone clean and tossed it aside. “What kind of man am I, inflicting this on my own wife?”

“Either very unlucky or very good in bed,” Aela answered.

“Unlucky it is. Aela, what if she keeps the babe? What then? What if I fail it? Would I even love it?”

“Harbinger, you once made a Dragon costume out of the skins we finished tanning, and spent the afternoon chasing Whiterun’s children from one end of the Wind District to the other. That won’t be a problem.”

“No, no, it might be. You don’t understand, my parents were awful. Really awful. I was four when they wrote me off and threw me to the wolves. But their blood’s still running strong and pure in my veins. There might be some dormant familial instinct that’ll flare up, and suddenly I’ll turn into my father, obsessed with bloodlines –”

“Solen, that’s nonsense and you know it. The only thing that’s changing when that kid’s born is how you’re spending your days, not who you are as a man. Now stop prophesying your degeneration and get those carrots peeled.”

Thoroughly chastened, Solen meekly dug into their dwindling supplies for the last of their vegetables. “Aela, what if it’s deformed? I know Racial Phylogeny had plenty of documented cases of healthy Elven-human, um, coupling, but –”

Aela spun a skinning knife warningly between her fingers. “One more worry, Harbinger, and I’m stewing your ears.”

Solen quickly ducked his head and set to carrot-peeling with a will. Aela chuckled and put her implement down. “Eyes on the prey, Solen, not the horizon. You can do that much.”

A common Companion saying, and by far one of the most sensible. Like most Elves, Solen was easily inclined to drift, either in memories or anticipations of the future, but that old hunter’s proverb grounded him back to the present as surely as a touch or a tweak of the ear. He felt a little sheepish – this was far from the first time he’d regaled his worries to Aela across their journey together, and he admired the immense patience with which she’d administrated his rambling anxieties, a privilege the solitary Huntress did not extend to new bloods. Then again, Aela was one of his closest friends and confidants, someone with whom he’d shared experiences that no other, not even Rayya, could understand.

It was Aela who’d first set him on the path of the warrior at all, that fateful day outside Whiterun Hold, although first impressions had not gone very well. Solen had been a scrawny escapee fresh out of Helgen, in battered, smoke-ruined Imperial armour, who’d sprinted out of the wilds stringing a cracked longbow. Aela, in vast comparison, wore her pristine Ancient Nord armour and was busy emptying her quiver into the backside of a giant turning the crops of Pelagia Farm into puree. Solen had been on his way to help, thank you very much – it was hardly his fault that Aela, together with Farkas and Ria, had cut it down before he’d let a single arrow fly – but Aela had confronted and challenged his mettle then and there. She’d referred him to Jorrvaskr if he really thought he had what it took to fight.

Solen, a washed-up hunter, poacher, and survivor of a Dragon attack, grateful to still have his neck intact and his skin no worse than blistered from dragonfire, had been astonished. Not because of her audacity, but of her frankness. There was no hesitation, no mention of or a hint at his skin or race. All that mattered to this fiery-haired Huntress was the steel in his heart. What a conversation that had been! A rare thing in Skyrim, where local suspicion of outsiders doubled with High Elves. Well, Solen had spent years working as a caravan guard across western Hammerfell, and he’d joined the crew fighting off pirates and Maormer a few times on the Wandertern, so he wasn’t completely short on combat experience. There wasn’t much question of him trying to slip back over the border, if the Imperials had chalked him up as a criminal, and he might do worse than a mercenary band. Besides, he’d been invited to visit their mead hall; what did he have to lose speaking with the Harbinger?

Those had been the reasonings of a serious newcomer to Skyrim’s culture, of course. The Companions were far from mere mercenaries, as he discovered. They were warriors, and they were a family. Such rapport and sense of brotherhood Solen hadn’t known since he’d left the crew of his uncle’s ship. He devoted himself to learning the ways of warriorhood, and the rest was history.

As for Aela, she found an eager apprentice, a humble shield-brother, and an unexpected friend more alike to her than she could’ve anticipated. Solen was a wild spirit, a chronic wayfarer, with an affection for and familiarity with the wild and the open world. They pooled and exchanged their decades of knowledge with herblore and game, and made hunting partners of one another. Aela refined his skills until he could pull a bow in open combat as well as from the trees and long grasses, and how to blend his light step with a warrior’s footwork. When he became moonborn, she mentored him in the ways of the wolf; many a night they spent in the golden plains together with blood on their tongues. After his ascendancy to Harbinger, she remained one of his most steadfast voices of counsel.

The short of it was that Solen was glad to travel with her again. He was no longer a werewolf, but it didn’t change that they were as two halves of the same whole; hunter-warriors whose fingers found the pulse of the wilderness’s hidden heartbeat, who unearthed the hidden beast trails that shaved hours and days off a journey on the roads. Aela had missed travelling too; far from the clutters of civilization was where she and her overkeen senses found their most peaceful rest. She hadn’t travelled with him like this in years, but it was as if their old rhythm had never left. They covered ground swiftly between them, resting often and lightly, travelling night and day. From Fort Kastav they’d made the south Riften road in under a fortnight.

A hard ride that had pushed the limits of the Imperial chargers they’d been lent, but the journey would end that evening. Fort Dawnguard was only a few hours off. Aela was quite looking forward to seeing it, although they’d stopped at noon to address their gnawing hunger. Aela’s arrow found the fortune of an unwatchful rabbit, and they made a noontide camp to stew it, a short step from the south road, while their weary horses replenished themselves on the lush forest grass. The stew was surprisingly delicious – Aela had spared no expense with salt and garlic, and they rapidly depleted their bowls with only the appetites a lycanthrope and a Dragon-souled mortal could muster.

With Fort Dawnguard so close, Solen found himself returning to the only matter that could actually dislodge his brooding over Rayya. Gendolin – champion and vampire lord of the Volkihar, his apparent nemesis. Solen spun one of Aela’s arrows between his fingers, trying and failing to piece together the bigger picture. “Aela,” he said, “tell me about Gendolin again.”

“You know all I do at this point, Harbinger,” Aela answered, and her eyes glittered with an unworldly light, as they always did when the conversation turned to the creature she’d fought. “You’ve grilled me on this, every day we’ve journeyed south. There’s nothing else I can say that’d surprise you.”

Solen had memorized every detail of the Winterhold ambush until the memory was almost his own. He could picture Gendolin plainly in his mind, even envision the vampire lord, but there was still an infuriating amount he didn’t know about his enemy. “He can’t have just sprung up out of nowhere,” Solen argued, for the hundredth time. “Clearly I’ve done something to aggravate the man.”

“You aggravate your allies all the time.”

“But I remember who I annoy, Aela, and there’s nothing about Gendolin that’s remotely familiar. Yet he seems to know me well enough how to get my attention.”

“Through Rayya? Solen, anyone taken hostage by some evil fiend would get the attention of the next adventuring hero walking up the street.”

“But Rayya makes it personal. Killing Vilkas and Njada made it personal.” Solen rammed the arrow into the soil. “And yet, he’s got something bigger in mind for me.”

Aela furrowed her brow. “Jarl Balgruuf’s death shook the province – who knows what the Last Dragonborn’s would affect. Considering their history with Dragonborn, it’d certainly affect the Empire.”

Which brought Solen back to General Tullius’s uncomfortably logical suggestion of an alliance between Dominion and Volkihar. It wouldn’t be improbable for Gendolin to be some sort of Thalmor agent. He was a Bosmer, Valenwood was an ally of Alinor, and the Dominion employed plenty of non-Altmer agents. It’d explain why Gendolin had marked him, but not why he was taking such a roundabout way to get the job done. As far as the Thalmor were concerned, the sooner he was a rotting stiff, the better. With Stormcloak dead, the Empire faced no greater enemy, so who else would benefit but the Aldmeri Dominion anxious to stomp their human foe into the mud for good?

With the singular, somewhat flimsy exception. Elves could pretend all they wanted, but they were just as mortal as the next human, Orc, Argonian and Khajiit. And the notoriously self-serving Reachfolk had been adamant that the Day of Black Sun affected every mortal in Tamriel.

The Day of Black Sun – ugh! So much more needed to be learned of it, and thanks to Gendolin, they were no closer to answers as they were a month ago. Solen settled for raking his fingers over the fuzz on his scalp. He needed to shave.

“Or maybe this has nothing to do with the Dominion,” said Aela, sensing where Solen’s inner dialogue had taken him. “Daedric champions aren’t models of logic or reason. He might be a wild card. A dark horse. Someone who wants to kill you because you’re you. Alpha of Skyrim.”

Solen snorted. “You were always the alpha.”

“In the pack, aye.” Aela narrowed her eyes. “But you’re still the most openly powerful warrior walking around the province right now – and Gendolin’s Daedric master is the Prince of Domination.”

“Power is drawn to power, you mean.”

“Exactly. One of Kodlak’s pearls of wisdom?”

“Another elder’s.”

Aela was reaching to ladle the last of the rabbit stew into her bowl when she turned her head and her nose into the gentle summer breeze, sniffing intently. Solen roused himself from his thoughts and set a hand on Eldródr, which lay beside him. The Huntress shook her head after a moment. “Irileth,” she said. “Almost couldn’t place the scent. By the sound and smell of it, she’s at the fore of a small patrol.”

Solen perked up at the ideal opportunity. News of the Dawnguard before they returned to Dawnguard. “On their way over?”

“They’ll be a few minutes.”

Within one Solen could hear the distant jangling of horse harness and the crunch of dry branches under heavy hooves. Irileth, the Orc Mogrul, and a third Dawnguard Solen didn’t recognize soon appeared between the maple trunks. Solen still had a hard time recognizing Irileth in battle-scarred Dawnguard lamellar, but her vicious red eyes had lost none of their familiar flame. “How’s the fang-hunt going, Housecarl?”

Irileth curled her lip and dismounted. “Anything left in that pot?”

What was left of the stew was doled out in small portions to the three hungry Dawnguard, and they supplemented the rest of their bowls with bread and dried fruit. Solen eyed them carefully, gathering their states and stories by the manner of their bearing. The dark rings around their eyes indicated many nocturnal postings. There wasn’t any doubt that Mogrul had fledged into a full-blown vampire hunter. The fresh claw-scars etched into his pauldron and his necklace of vampire teeth told plainly of his engagements. The third, an Imperial, clad in a padded brown gambeson, seemed... twitchy, Solen decided. His dark eyes had an odd dreamy look to them, the sort Solen had only ever seen in happy drunkards. He visibly startled when the Imperial’s eyes refocused with disconcerting intensity. “You,” he declared. “I know you. Or at least, I know of you.”

“Yeah, I’ve done a few noteworthy deeds,” Solen agreed.

The Imperial’s expression went completely vacant for a moment. Then he frowned. “Arkay tells me He knows what you’ve done.”

“Er – sorry?”

“Florentius, not now,” Irileth snapped. She turned to Solen with the kind of glare she normally reserved for Proventus Avenicci. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was Isran’s idea of a joke. I’ve been saddled with this... devout since we first met him. Seems to think we’re a good pair.”

“We can still hear you,” came Florentius’s haughty observation.

Solen looked between them and did his absolute hardest to sound sympathetic. “My condolences.”

“Oh, nevermind.” Irileth threw her empty spoon into her bowl, licked clean. “Anyway, you’re early. We weren’t expecting you two for another week.”

“Glad you got Fiirnaraan’s message.” Solen had sent the Dragon back to Fort Dawnguard ahead of them. “Aela and I took shortcuts.”

Irileth’s red eyes flicked over Aela. “Are the Companions finally getting involved?”

“I am,” said Aela. “Gendolin killed my shield-siblings.”

“Gendolin?”

“The bastard’s name,” said Solen.

Irileth was a sharp one; she knew immediately of whom they spoke. “So, that’s it, then. Careful how much you say out here. The woods have ears. We’ll call council with Isran when we return to Fort Dawnguard and pool what we know of him.”

Aela leaned forward. “You have information?”

“Nothing solid. Not as much as we’d like.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Florentius inputted. “Riften’s danger persists, no matter how much that ungodly, meddlesome Thieves Guild –”

“I said stow it, priest!” Irileth snapped, much more sharply. “Not here!”

“Now listen, Housecarl, Arkay assures –”

“Seems every night yields a fresh vampire den,” Mogrul interrupted, changing the subject with straightforward tact. “We’ve had our hands full keeping the Rift’s wilds secure. But they’re persistent, like weeds. Flush out one, we find two more. At least it gets the novices blooded and the hunters experienced.”

“But we’ll continue this discussion in Fort Dawnguard,” said Irileth, fixing Mogrul with an icy glare. “Let’s break camp and move out. Isran wants your full report, Dragonborn, and you’d better pray to your western gods that you have a damned good alternative for our losses.”

“Of course I do,” said Solen, as he stamped out the cooking fire. “What kind of man would I be without a plan?”

~

“I thought I already made my position quite clear on how I felt throwing Dragons at my problems,” growled Isran.

“Frankly, Isran, I don’t think we have much of a choice.” Solen stared beseechingly around the circle of faces that formed the Dawnguard council of war. “Surely you all agree with me? Sorine? Gunmar? Irileth? Dexion, we hardly know each other, but you strike me as a rational fellow. Surely you agree that the time has come for rash action.”

Dexion Evicus, the Moth Priest from Cyrodiil, had arrived at Fort Dawnguard the previous evening safe and sound, much to the relief of every vampire hunter. He was a polite fellow, quite well-read and well-spoken, thoroughly excited to be presented with an Elder Scroll, thoroughly disappointed when Solen had given him the bad news. For the sake of his experience with the very subject the council had been called over, he’d been invited to attend. Until that moment, he hadn’t said a word. Now he twirled the tip of his beard around a finger and said, “I can’t speak for matters of warfare, Dragonborn, but I think it would take a very foolhardy warrior to walk into the lair of a master vampire and challenge him on his throne.”

“Well, you’re in luck, foolhardy’s what I do best.” Solen faced Isran imperiously. “You hear that? Agreement.”

“He did nothing of the sort and you know it,” said Irileth tartly. “We’re not that desperate.”

“Aren’t we?” Solen threw up his hands. “Look me in the eye – gold or green, take your pick – and tell me Skyrim’s not devolving into another crisis. We’ve got Dragons attacking cities again, what with the Volkihar doing something corruptive to the wilds. We’ve got people fleeing behind city walls, abandoning their farms, mills and homesteads right before the autumn harvest. You’ve got a whole bloody village living in Dayspring Canyon now!”

Such had been the sight Solen had been greeted with upon his return to the Fort – dozens of tents and livestock pens clustered behind the battle-scarred palisades. Irileth had explained that the refugees had been permitted to stay, so long as they volunteered their services to the cause – cleaning, cooking, cutting firewood, offering livestock up for slaughter. At least it freed the Dawnguard from menial day-to-day tasks and allowed them to wholly concentrate on their occupation, which in turn gave the frightened civilians a sense of security, but it didn’t change the aura of displacement that hung over the Fort road like a pall. Solen could still feel that atmosphere all the way up on the Fort battlements, where for Fiirnaraan’s sake they held their council in the last of the day’s red sun.

“And don’t even get me started on the Imperial Legion,” Solen went on. “Aela and I passed through Fort Greenwall two days ago – the garrison between Riften and Shor’s Stone? They lost almost a quarter of their troops repelling a vampire attack before your roaming Dawnguard operatives arrived. And by ‘lost’, I don’t just mean dead; half the bodies were never found.”

Several heads turned to Aela for clarification. Her reputation had preceded her to Fort Dawnguard; all recognized her as a Companion of the highest calibre. Her head jerked with a quick nod. “That’s what was said, aye.”

“To top it all off,” Solen continued, “you’ve got a serious plague of vampires across the Rift. What Dawnguard you’ve still got stationed around the Fort here are up to their ears in it.”

“Fledglings, mistwalkers, newly turned, thralls,” Irileth rattled off. “They’re no worse than plague rats, but I’ll be the first to admit they’re becoming a problem.”

“I don’t just mean their nests,” Solen frowned. “Riften, specifically. You’re certain there’s a vampire in Maven’s court?”

“As certain as any of us can be without solid proof,” Irileth scowled. “The Thieves Guild are involved in this one way or another, mark my words. Nothing happens in that accursed city without their pilfering fingers all over the mark.”

Riften was a curveball that Solen hadn’t anticipated. He’d vaguely heard about the rise of the Thieves Guild, mostly in complaining townsfolk, rumours, and the odd military report discussing disrupted trading caravans and misplaced or sabotaged ledgers. He’d had precious little personal experience with the Guild. He’d spoken a handful of times with Brynjolf, the ‘well-connected’ redhead, and visited the Ragged Flagon, the seedy bar below the streets, on rare and necessary occasion. That was the limit of his interaction with Skyrim’s underworld.

Irileth, meanwhile, had been unable to return to the city since she and Florentius had thrown down their ultimatum, forcing them to speculate about the Thieves Guild’s supposed involvement with the Volkihar outside the city walls. As if to add insult to injury, Riften had entered such a total state of lockdown that the Dawnguard had been unable to provision supplies from the city since. That, Irileth had darkly declared, was no coincidence either.

“So the short of it is that things went from bad to worse a while ago.” Solen paced in front of the sizeable number of Dawnguard and allies across from him; Isran, his second Irileth, Florentius, Sorine, Gunmar, Dexion, Aela, and Fiirnaraan, paying close attention to every word. “The time for drastic action is now. Gendolin’s only getting stronger, and he’s made it clear he wants to challenge me. Let me answer the challenge. Nothing stops the Voice. I speak the right Words, at the right time, and the battle’s over.”

“That is true,” Fiirnaraan agreed, curling his tail. “The Dovahkiin defeated Alduin. Twice.”

“Vampires are not Alduin,” said Aela. “Solen, I agree with Isran. It’d be a glorious battle, but still certain death.”

Irileth’s arms tightened over her chest. “All it takes is one arrow, one spell, one set of unseen claws.”

“I have a helmet,” said Solen. “And Dragons. And, Tu’whacca preserve me, the means. There’s Shouts I haven’t touched since I fought my Dragonborn forebear, and he touched on some seriously twisted magic. Short of blasting down Riften’s doors and finding out what in Morwha’s name is going on in that city, we’re out of options. The Dawnguard’s plenty strong. I’ll rally some warriors. We’ll sail to Castle Volkihar and take the fight to them. We know where the Scrolls are – we have to make a push to get them back before we find out exactly how imminent this Black Sun prophecy is.”

By the dour look on Isran’s face, it seemed he was actually, finally considering it. That alone told Solen just how serious the situation across Skyrim had become. “Gunmar,” Isran said eventually, “your trolls – how many are ready?”

“Four,” the big Nord answered, idly massaging a fresh bruise on his cheekbone. “I reckon the dogs are ready as well. Jus’ need to refit their armour.”

“The latest crossbow designs are performing better than expected,” Sorine added, even as Isran turned to her. “Halved reload time and doubled impact durability. Give Gunmar and I three days and we’ll have the rest of the Dawnguard fitted out with them.”

Florentius had stood silent and wordless throughout the meeting so far, which he’d been encouraged to do (and after an afternoon riding in his company, Solen could understand why) – but now the priest lifted his head, his eyes quite urgent. “Ark – I mean, I think – an assault on the Volkihar lair is not the right time. Our endeavours would be catastrophic in such a reckless pursuit.”

Solen had not been surprised to learn the Arkay priest was a former Vigilant and another of Isran’s acquaintances. Sorine and Gunmar had found common ground again with their old comrade, but the old wounds still lay open between Isran and Florentius. “And what would you have us do?” Isran barked. “Sit around here and pray?”

“Well, the gods know the world could do with a little more faith,” said Florentius haughtily, “but He – I – insist that Riften is a far higher priority. There’s a darkness there that must be unearthed before we can hope to gain any kind of ground against the Volkihar.”

“So you’ve said,” Isran growled. “But unless we can find some way back into the city, Riften is a waste of time and energy.”

Aela frowned at Solen. “You were Thane down there, weren’t you?”

“Aye, I was Thane in a lot of corners of Skyrim, and I resigned them all but one.” Solen shrugged helplessly. “Maybe there’s still some strings I can pull, some friends I can call on, but Maven Black-Briar’s no Balgruuf the Greater.”

“Mephala forbid,” Irileth muttered under her breath.

“Right now, the only thing that really concerns me is Gendolin. He champions the Volkihar. Clearly he’s the brains behind these little schemes, and I want to see those brains carved out of his skull, the sooner the better.” Solen rammed his fist into his open palm. “We need some way to anticipate his next move. Everyone think.”

Everyone thought. The ramparts went deathly quiet until only the gentle creaking of Fiirnaraan’s flexing head-frills were to be heard between them.

“We could put the Dragon on watch,” Sorine suggested, shooting the Blood Dragon a nervous look. Only Isran, Irileth and Solen were really comfortable in Fiirnaraan’s presence. “You said he was a good tracker, right?”

“Ask him yourself,” said Solen, “he’s right here. No? Fiirnaraan, you’re a good tracker, right?”

“Oh, yes, Dovahkiin. I am very good.”

“Can we trust you to pick up Gendolin’s trail?”

Fiirnaraan visibly shivered and huddled down into his wings. “It is very cold in the far north, very dark, and scent is easily lost in the sea and the sky. A flying nobleman is very hard to follow.”

“Vampire lord,” Irileth corrected. “There’s nothing noble about that murderous villain. No, we need Fiirnaraan in the Rift. He knows the Hold inside out now. He sniffs out the vampires as quick as we snuff ‘em out.”

“And the Dawnguard’s annoyed the Thieves Guild, so odds of bribing them to ply their undoubtedly enormous network of contacts across the province is low,” Solen added, scowling.

Florentius gave a great sniff. “As if we’d turn to thieves to do Arkay’s work.”

“Florentius,” Isran started warningly.

“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers, Isran,” said Sorine, grinning. “Florentius’s mad visions were right about Redwater Den and Riften, weren’t they? Maybe Arkay could give us a little... head’s up?”

“It does not work like that,” Florentius scowled, as Gunmar quietly sniggered. “Arkay is not to be used like a... like...!”

“Enough, Sorine,” Isran growled. “We need something serious.”

Aela’s lupine-tinted senses left her quite perceptive to physical responses, particularly the subtle ones. She glanced sidelong at Dexion, conscious of his fidgeting and the nervous irregularity of his heartbeat. “Is there something on your mind, Moth Priest?”

“Well... I suppose so,” said Dexion, and all heads turned to him. He tried not to look too hard at the Dragon’s bulbous green eyes, and focused on Isran instead. “It may not be possible to follow the trail of this vampire you seek, but... there may be a way to lure him. The question is, how much are you all willing to risk?”

Isran blew a hefty sigh through his nose and folded his arms. “Frankly we’ve little left to lose. What’s your plan, Evicus?”

“Scattered across Tamriel are secluded locations known only as Ancestor Glades. I know of one in Skyrim’s side of the Jeralls, overlooking the great pine forest. In that Glade, one can perform the Ritual of the Ancestor Moth. It would be the vampires’ best chance at reading the Scrolls without a Moth Priest.”

“There’s a way to read the Scrolls without a Priest?” Sorine exclaimed.

“Oh, even I cannot be certain it would work,” Dexion told her quickly. “Every Moth Priest is taught this ritual, but few ever get the chance to perform it. I have never even visited one of these Ancestor Glades. But if the Volkihar were to learn of this place, and the ritual involved in deciphering the Scrolls, they would almost certainly be drawn there, if reading the Scrolls is truly their intention.”

“It’s got to be,” Solen muttered, “there’s no other reason for lugging those great big backweights around.” Catching sight of Dexion’s somewhat scandalized expression, he amended hastily, “But it was a very nice backweight.”

Irileth furrowed her brow. “What do you think? Giving the vampires any sort of edge sounds like a very bad idea to me.”

“Agreed,” Isran rumbled, “but we’ve got no good ideas to act on. The Dragonborn’s proof enough that the Scrolls can be used in certain places of power. Evicus, how does this Ritual work?”

“Well, in keeping with tradition, you must use a specific tool in the Ancestor Glade, an implement known as a Draw Knife. You carefully remove the bark from a Canticle Tree, which will in turn draw the Ancestor Moths to you.”

“The Priests?” said Gunmar, perplexed.

“The moths,” said Dexion patiently, “from which my Order takes its name. The voice of the Ancestor Moth has always been an integral part to reading the Scrolls.”

“But moths are small,” said Fiirnaraan in his soft, musical voice, “and they are fluttery, and they make only the very softest sounds, and do not speak at all.”

Dexion managed a nervous chuckle. “The moths don’t do the actual reading of the Scrolls, of course, but they maintain a connection to the ancient magic that we do not. They do not speak, but they do sing – a soft, harmonious trilling. Beautiful to hear. It’s through this ancestral chorus that the moths become conduits to a form of primal augur. We Moth Priests can utilize this conduit and share the moths’ augury. Only the most resilient of Priests can do it this way, however... it takes years of practice to interpret the harmony.”

Fiirnaraan’s head-frills opened wide. “Oh, I would very much like to listen to the moth-songs, I very much would!”

Dexion did not seem very pleased at the idea of a Dragon intruding upon such a sacred Moth Priest place, but Solen tapped his elbow. “Dragons are drawn to things of beauty as much as sources of power. Take it as a compliment.”

Aela drummed her knuckles on her armour-plated hip. “It sounds like it’s still up to a Moth Priest to be able to utilize the Glade. Think the vampires would take the bait?”

Dexion snorted to himself. “If my Moth kindred could hear me now, proposing to use the Elder Scrolls in such a callous way... but yes, I believe a reading is meant to be. Believe it or not, the Scrolls themselves have minds of their own. If they didn’t want to be found, they wouldn’t allow it. I believe the Scrolls desire to be read – and anyone who hears the ancestral chorus will have this rare opportunity.” His pale eyes wandered the Dawnguard council with urgency. “But ultimately it would be a chance – perhaps our only – to recover both the stolen Elder Scrolls from the Volkihar. Depending on the strength of your champions.”

The contemplative silence was brief. “I’m all for it,” said Solen. “You can bet your bottom septim that Gendolin would head such an important expedition.”

Fiirnaraan’s wings rustled as he fluttered them over his head. “I want to join this game. I very much want to.”

“Calm down,” Irileth chastened them, “we’re not playing any games yet. We don’t even know where this Ancestor Glade is.”

Solen indicated himself and the eager Blood Dragon. “Finding some long-lost cave in the mountains would hardly be an issue between us. I hunted those very mountains and forests for years before the Imperials caught me at it. And you endorsed Fiirnaraan’s ability to sniff out secret lairs.”

“I know those woods as well,” Aela added ambiguously. “I can cover a lot of ground.”

Isran frowned at the other Dawnguard. “What do you all think?”

Gunmar nodded ponderously. “Worth a shot. We ain’t got much left to lose, as you said, aye?”

Sorine swept a mop of hair from her face. “I’m a Dwemer scholar, not a Scroll expert. If Solen’s confident in the plan, so am I.”

Florentius gnawed his lip. “I still maintain that Riften is –”

“We’ll deal with Riften,” Isran growled. “I’m not letting those bloodsuckers make a stronghold out of a city. But right now we can turn their influence there to our advantage.”

“How?” Florentius demanded. “Those good men and women, innocent to this shadow war –”

“Don’t name it,” Solen frowned. “Seriously. But Riften’s always been a hot mess of rumour. It’s a perfect place to plant the Grotto lead. By the time it reaches the higher-ups’ ears, we’ll have found the Grotto and be waiting for them.” And instead of finding his answers, Gendolin will find me. Caught in the energy of the moment, Solen felt hard-pressed not to draw his battle-blade and declare the bravado aloud.

“That’s settled, then.” Isran clasped his hands together. “Anyone got anything else they want to say?”

The door to the battlements banged open with supremely good timing, expelling a Dawnguard operative in full sprint. “That one seems like he does,” Aela remarked candidly.

Fiirnaraan nibbled delicately at the claw on his wing thumb. “It will probably be something awfully boring. I think I shall go and find a sheep.”

“You eat after you work, Dragon,” Isran growled, and rounded on the vampire hunter as he staggered to a breathless halt between them. “Well? Spit it out, Lynoit. What’s so damned urgent it couldn’t wait until after council?”

“Easy, Isran,” said Solen lightly. “There’s a lot of stairs between the ground floor and the ramparts.”

Gunmar grunted ruefully. “You can say that again.”

Lynoit straightened up and gasped out, “Vampire – at the – Fort, sir!”

There was a chorus of weapons leaping from their scabbards, and Fiirnaraan promptly went invisible. “Where? How many?” Irileth demanded.

“One – just – one,” Lynoit panted. “She says – she – message – she has a message.”

Several weapons returned puzzled to their sheaths, and Fiirnaraan’s head (and only his head) cautiously manifested back into visibility, but Isran kept his warhammer slung warningly across one shoulder. “What message could those vermin possibly have for us?”

“She’s – it’s – it’s for the Dragonborn, sir.”

Solen wished he hadn’t sheathed Eldródr quite so quickly. He had a nasty suspicion of who the message was from – and, given the Volkihar’s previous resourcefulness, what it might concern. “Moving up in the world, am I? What an honour. What’s the message?”

Lynoit clutched a stitch in his side. “She wouldn’t say, just told us to tell you it was from someone named – Gemmerlin? Gedrin? I don’t – quite recall, sir, something Elvish. Said it’d get your attention fine enough, to send you down to the palisade to hear it from her yourself.”

“Oh dear,” muttered Florentius, and clasped his amulet in prayer.

“It’s a trap,” said Sorine immediately. “And it’s ridiculous. What does Gendolin possibly have to say to any of us?”

Solen’s mismatched eyes settled grimly on Dexion Evicus. “I’ve got a hunch.”

Chapter Text

Both Fiirnaraan’s and Solen’s Thu’um assured the Dawnguard that the vampiric messenger was indeed alone. She stood on the Fort Road among the trees beyond the outermost palisade, watched by a dozen loaded crossbows, and quite unbothered by this. Her rusty amber eyes, flickering like bright lanterns, were only for Solen when, accompanied by Isran and Irileth, he climbed up among the watchful Dawnguard; Eldródr in hand, helmet on head, steel in his voice. “Here I am, Volkihar. Now say your bit.”

The vampire bared her teeth. “Dragonborn.” She made a sarcastic courtly bow. “What an honour.”

“What indeed,” Solen agreed. “You’re not out of range of my Fire Breath, and it’s a cold night, so make it quick.” She was, actually, but she didn’t need to know that.

The vampire grinned, untroubled by the threat. “You have something we want, Dragonborn – that our dread lord desires. We have something you also want, champion of the Dawnguard. Gendolin proposes an exchange.”

“If it’s anything less than Gendolin’s severed head on a pike, I don’t want it.”

“Lives, Dragonborn. Lives. Soft, fresh, innocent lives.” The vampire felt confident enough to swagger out of the tree-line to pace just beyond the firelight of the well-lit walls. She ran a tongue delicately around her teeth. “He knows your heart, Dragonborn. You wouldn’t condemn your worst enemy to such a fate as our teeth – much less your own dear friends.”

Well, if she was going to be that confident, he’d match it. Solen vaulted himself over the palisade and to the ground below, ignoring Irileth’s and Isran’s exclamations. He rested his battle-blade across his shoulders and approached the vampire, step by measured step. “Right. Which friends are these?” His voice was deceptively light, but his mind was racing – he’d made quite a few mates across Skyrim during his adventuring years, and not all of them were warriors quite capable of defending themselves. Or were they from Riften specifically, if the vampires had infiltrated it? What friends did he have in Riften? Balimund, the blacksmith? Hofgrir Horse-Crusher, the stablemaster? Legate Fasendil, the only other Altmer to serve the Legion in Skyrim?

In answer, the vampire withdrew a sack concealed beneath her cloak and withdrew two battle-warped Wolf Armour helmets, still crusted with blood. She tossed them at Solen’s feet. He’d have recognized them a mile away. He didn’t know whether he was overjoyed or terrified. Maybe both.

“They still breathe,” the vampire smiled, flashing her pointed canines. “But not for much longer, if you deny lord Gendolin the pleasure of your company.”

Solen tightened his grip on the battle-blade. Clear head. Keep a clear head. “What does ‘lord’ Gendolin want in exchange?”

“You know what we want, Dragonborn.” The vampire settled a hand warily on her hip, where a long, slender blade rested. “The Moth Priest. Our eyes are everywhere.”

“Ours too,” said Solen. Fiirnaraan’s was somewhere above his head, his body veiled in the shadows of the Canyon mountainsides. “Enough to know that you’re making awfully big demands by your little old self in a valley of the enemy.”

“Please, Dragonborn. You’re a man of honour. Even you wouldn’t dare turn your blade on a mere messenger.”

“I’m tempted to, for daring to insinuate that I’ll barter with lives to the enemy.”

The vampire chuckled. “You won’t refuse my lord, Dragonborn. His terms are simple. He will be awaiting your company at Riften’s gates tomorrow night, until dawn. Bring the Moth Priest. There will be no meeting without his company, either.” The vampire made as if to turn around, then glance back, as if remembering something. “As added incentive, Dragonborn – forfeit our gracious invitation, and it won’t only be Companion blood we’ll taste.”

“Riften.”

“Like a pig to slaughter.”

The vampire vanished on the spot. Solen tensed for an ambush, but it never came. One belated utterance of Aura Whisper confirmed the vampire’s fleeting aura disappearing swiftly back through the forest.

He put up his blade and gathered up Vilkas’ and Njada’s mangled helmets. Somewhere in the darkness, of the palisades or the forest itself, Aela was watching and hadn’t missed a word. Solen’s attention shifted to the line of Dawnguard on the palisade. “Did you all get that?”

Irileth’s red eyes smouldered like the embers of Red Mountain. “Every word.”

~

It was going to be a cold, clear night. Riften’s walls weren’t yet in sight when the last of the sun slipped beyond the western peaks. Solen doubted he’d have noticed if he was riding through a midwinter blizzard. He hardly noticed the warm familiarity of Ember, trustiest of warhorses, beneath his saddle, or the bizarrely comforting shadow of Fiirnaraan coasting noiselessly over his head. His mind’s eye was far away in the north, remembering Rayya’s warning by the Kastav hearth. He wondered what she’d say to him riding willingly to the parlay with the monster that had so nearly taken her away from him.

He rode at the fore of a band of Dawnguard, twenty strong, Dexion Evicus in the middle of their tight, protective knot. One anxious argument after another had decided they’d all play along with the vampires’ demands for now – the Dawnguard surely thought he had some great crackpot plan stewing in his skull, some way to outwit the villain, as heroes were supposed to do.

Solen really hoped some plan would miraculously come to him when they reached Riften’s gates. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen otherwise.

He’d dealt with hostage situations before. Civilian rescues were a frequent Companions contract, and during the Civil War he’d broken captured troops out from the bowels of Forts, and even led a couple of daring raids on caravans transporting prisoners of war. As for negotiations, well, he had plenty of experience with that, too. Season Unending had started his career in diplomacy, and after the War he’d entered plenty of discussions for plenty of banalities, both from horseback on the open road and in tight stuffy rooms in city keeps and palaces. Tullius had kept him busy in those pursuits. Solen was Dragonborn, after all. He had a certain way with words.

Yet this one felt different. It wasn’t just Gendolin he was going to finally meet and clash wits with. Gendolin and the creatures he commanded had no inkling of remorse or compassion. Genuine monsters. At least the Stormcloaks had been fighting for an understandable, even righteous cause, even if they’d taken the wrong approach.

Solen blew out a faint sigh. Aela, on foot beside him, glanced upward. “Everything well, Harbinger?”

Solen managed a smile. “I’m not nervous, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m too experienced to be nervous.”

“Oh, of course,” said Aela. “There was another reason you decided to forego sleep last night. My mistake.”

Solen laughed weakly and knotted his fingers into Ember’s mane. The warhorse whickered and bobbed his head. “Oh, hush, the both of you. I had perfectly valid reasons. Was getting rusty with Eldródr, you know. And I hadn’t meditated on the Thu’um in weeks. The usual chores of a saviour of Skyrim.”

“The usual,” Aela agreed. She rarely beat around the bush for long. “You know what’s at stake, Solen. If it comes down to it...”

“Don’t.” Saying things aloud had a horrible way of attracting the gods’ attention to them. “I have to see them before I decide anything. Maybe they’re not turned yet, but if they’re thralled...”

“My arrows will find their necks faster than yours, Solen.” Aela caressed her bowstring. “You have my word on that.”

A clatter of hooves brought Irileth sharply to their side. “No Florentius?” Solen asked, glancing around. “Almost didn’t recognize you without him.”

Irileth levelled him a remarkably frosty glare. “He’s back in Dawnguard, as you should know, Dragonborn – he’s working on that blood sample I took from Redwater Den.”

“Give me a break, I don’t remember half my own Companions in Jorrvaskr sometimes. And didn’t you get that sample months ago?”

“Do I look like an alchemist? Florentius keeps waffling about making new discoveries about its potency and lack of. Anyway, he thinks it’s linked to a vampire’s power and thus useful to properly understand, and Isran managed to agree with him.”

“Well, that ends the argument, doesn’t it? Isran agreeing.”

Irileth, as usual, found no humour in the joke. Her dark eyes flicked between him and Aela, and Solen sensed the Housecarl’s suspicion raking their skin like knives. Did she think they were conspiring to sell the Moth Priest to save their Shield-Siblings? That they were considering it at all? “Easy,” Solen growled, before Irileth could say a word. “Dexion’s only here to ensure the vampires have no cause to slaughter a city of hostages.”

“It’s a good night for it,” Aela added, turning her nose skyward. “There’s no wind. They won’t so much as catch his scent.”

Irileth snorted. “You both seem to have forgotten I’ve known Solen just as long as you, Huntress. I know he is one to trust. I’m wary that they know that, too. If they know we won’t turn the Moth Priest over for two Companions, then what other atrocity do they have planned to force our hand?”

“Well, they mentioned killing off Riften,” said Solen, shrugging. “But I don’t see how that’d be tolerated. The Thieves Guild and even Maven bloody Black-Briar would agree that’s bad for business. And Fasendil would never...” He tailed off. Legate Fasendil was a prime model of a Legionnaire, notably incorruptible – a dangerous challenge to lay down in a city that thrived on greasing palms. For the vampires to have gotten this far, what had happened to him, and the Legion installed in the city? Was he already dead? Were the soldiers already disposed of, or thralled?

It did not raise his spirits to see Riften’s watchtower unmanned and the city walls absent of torchlight. “No blood,” Aela reported lowly, “no sign of struggle.”

The maples creaked gently, as if in the wind – but, of course, there was no wind. “They are on the walls, Dovahkiin,” Fiirnaraan’s disembodied voice whispered in their ears. “There are many. A great many. Many of them joor.”

“What?” Irileth muttered.

“Mortal,” Solen murmured back. “Many are mortal.” That surely didn’t bode well, either. “The Companions, Fiirnaraan – the ones I described – did you see them?”

“Oh, no, Dovahkiin. It is growing dark. I do not know their scents.”

“Gendolin?”

“The sosvolunnah is there. Crouched upon the gatehouse. His scent I know.”

“All right. Thank you. Quiet, now. Make sure the woods stay clear and they don’t see you.”

The Dragon gave a fluty giggle. “Of course, Dovahkiin.” Solen strained his ears, but not even Aela heard his noiseless departure. He’s definitely gotten better at this. “Fall in among the Dawnguard,” Solen ordered Irileth and Aela. “Keep Dexion calm and your guard up. I’ll handle this.”

I hope, he added to himself, as the road curved under their feet to the open stretch before the Riften gate. The warriors slipped away to their places, and Solen straightened in the saddle and set his helmet on his head. Ember snorted his own challenge as he paced forward, harnesses jangling and shoes ringing like iron bells in the breathlessly quiet night.

Because the silence struck Solen immediately. That, and the profound sense he was being scrutinized by many eyes in the darkness.

Well, he was quite used to being stared at. “I’m here,” Solen thundered at the walls. “Are we getting on with it?”

Solen was staring quite hard at the walls, told himself he was prepared for some sort of theatrical entrance, and yet it still took him by surprise when the walltops came alive with bodies – some with the shivery puff of blue magic that accompanied spells of invisibility, some simply out of the dusky darkness as if they’d worn the shadows like a cloak. There were dozens of them, the vampires distinguishable by their rusty amber eyes and their signature scarlet life-drain magic wreathing their fingertips, and the others – for there were others, a curious number of others – in brown padded leathers and smoke-blackened buckles. These ones bore bows, or daggers, and in one case their hands crackled with latent destruction magic, and all their faces were cowled.

Directly above the gatehouse stood three that, despite Solen’s most careful attention, were almost completely invisible. Their armour fit like liquid night, the sleekest and most obviously enchanted raiment that Solen in his many years of adventuring had ever lain eyes on. They were clearly figures of authority, the commanding way they bore themselves. One had a dark arrow set to a gilded bow, the second – the largest of the three – armed with long dirks. The third and most central appeared unarmed – until they drew down the mask and lowered the cowl concealing their face, revealing a coldly handsome Bosmeri visage, silver hair, and glittering eyes as bright as two newly-minted coins.

It was uncanny how eerily, how naturally, Gendolin fit Aela’s description – even down to his voice, all genial, courteous arrogance. “Dragonborn Solenarren. The privilege of the hour is all mine.”

Solen swung himself down from the saddle and patted Ember’s rump, sending the warhorse trotting back behind the Dawnguard lines. “Not like you gave me much of a choice, vampire Gendolin.”

“Vampire lord,” the Bosmer corrected. “Or master, if you prefer.”

“If we’re playing the titles game, I’m fairly certain I have you outmatched.” It was difficult maintaining his signature easygoing veneer with a wall of silent witnesses in front of him and a line of agitated Dawnguard behind him. Solen gave up after a second more of reflection. “I’ll assume we’re both hunters. Let’s cut to the chase. Vilkas and Njada – where are they?”

Gendolin raised his arms. An orange glow permeated his fingers, and two bound, writhing figures were dragged up from the battlements behind him. Solen gritted his jaw. Even in the low light, he could tell Vilkas and Njada were in a terrible way. Their armour hung in shreds, and almost every inch of their flesh was blackened with bruises. The ambush had happened a fortnight ago – they must’ve been fighting captivity every day.

That means they aren’t thralled, Solen realized, with a startling rush of hope. It was only further proved when Vilkas shouted, “You’d better not be taking this seriously, Harbinger, or I’ll kick your arse back to Hammerfell myself!”

“I’ll consider your counsel and get back to you.” Solen’s eyes flashed back to Gendolin. “Put them down. Gently. Or so help me I will Shout you back to Y’ffre.”

Gendolin laughed. “I haven’t served Y’ffre in a long time, Solenarren.” But he released Vilkas and Njada. He nodded to his two shadow-cloaked seconds. “Hold them up. Let’s ensure the bargaining chips remain on the table.”

“Harbinger! For once, don’t be a hero,” Njada growled, as she and Vilkas were thrust between the battlements, suspended by the strong arms of their captors. “We’re not going to be responsible for any of their scummy victories!”

“Gag them, please,” Gendolin added mildly. “Their betters are talking.”

“Go to Oblivion you son of a –!”

“Gendolin!” Solen said sharply, trying not to focus too hard on his two dear friends being gagged so unceremoniously. “Neither of us have all night.” He certainly didn’t; the Thu’um pulsed louder in his ears every moment, reminding him that all it would take to end it all was a word or three – maybe.

Gendolin leaned over the battlements. “I agree. You wish to hear my terms in person?”

“This is between you and me. Right from when you stole that Elder Scroll from under my nose.”

“Ah, yes. My boot remembers your nose well.” Gendolin smiled, showing his long, clean fangs. “So let’s make this simple, brother Elf. You have an asset. We have assets. Neither are of any use without the other. You have no desire to watch me turn your siblings-in-arms into flaccid heaps.” The vampire’s eyes flicked past Solen, and even from afar they singled out the quiet robed Imperial amidst his protective knot of Dawnguard. “Turn over the Moth Priest, and I will return your two dear Companions to you.”

Solen drew Eldródr – just to get Gendolin’s attention back on him. “And Riften?”

“My clan will withdraw. The citizenry will not be harmed.”

Solen shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“My dear Dragonborn – I think you misinterpret the situation.” Gendolin jumped up onto the battlements, catlike, as if unconcerned with the long drop to the cobbled road below. “You are in no position to change the bargain.”

“Nor are you,” Solen shot back. “You could have a thousand Elder Scrolls at your beck and call, but without someone who can read them without their brains melting out their ears –” He shrugged, pointedly, gloatingly. “Well, they’re really not much use to you, are they? Just how desperately do you want to find out about the Day of Black Sun?”

Gendolin didn’t answer. In his pointed silence, Solen arched his brow. “Oh – you don’t think we don’t know why you want the Scrolls? Gendolin, perhaps in your pursuit of power and your many attempts at getting my attention, you’ve forgotten that I am Dragonborn – and that means I’m nothing if not resourceful.”

“So it seems,” Gendolin said, and graciously bowed. “I’ll be first to admit my surprise, Dragonborn. I thought escaping the province was the only course of action you cared about, for many a year.”

Solen rammed Eldródr’s point between a pair of cobblestones. “Escape? After the six years of effort I put into rescuing Skyrim from the brink of disaster? I’m not a wasteful man, Gendolin, and I sense neither are you.”

Gendolin nodded. “Unread Elder Scrolls are very wasteful. There’s a prophecy yearning to be spun, mortal, and a promise waiting to be heard.”

“Well, if it matters so much to you, bring the Scrolls to Fort Dawnguard. We’ll let you know what they say.”

The Bosmer laughed. “I may have all eternity, Dragonborn, but even my patience has its limits.” The silver shortsword appeared from under the folds of his cloak and pressed against Vilkas’s throat. “You have two choices, Solenarren. Turn the Moth Priest over without bloodshed. Or watch us take him from you, with bloodshed. The choice is yours.”

It was at this point in time, with no banter left to barter and the cards all down, that Solen expected some bright brainwave, some formerly unseen avenue of wit to unveil in his mind and present the unexpected way out. With the eyes of the doomed city and the restive Dawnguard all upon him, they clearly expected it too. The heroic exploit that would see him triumph and the enemy fail. Judging by the way Vilkas and Njada were glaring at him, they had expected such a turn five minutes ago.

But nothing came, nothing at all. For the first time, he had no plan, no counterplan, no wild card to pull. He could not agree. He could not refuse. It horrified Solen, this helplessness that gripped him with total absolution, as if he faced the Helgen chopping block all over again. Perhaps Gendolin sensed it, as he smiled his cruel and elegant smile as the seconds of silence stretched on and on.

The soft pad of sandalled footsteps and the sharpening of vampiric attention jerked Solen’s head around. “No, Dexion, I won’t –”

“May I have a word, Dragonborn?” The Moth Priest’s eyes were steady.

Solen seized upon the opportunity of delay, any delay, and looked back at Gendolin. “Well? May we have a word?”

Gendolin gave a little dismissive flick of his hand. Perhaps the vampire already sensed an inevitable victory, to seem so charitable. Quite unwillingly, Solen put his back to the wall and followed Dexion into the knot of Dawnguard that closed around them. “Please, keep your voices down,” Dexion said, barely above a murmur, as the ring of heads came together. “I fear to be only further undone should we be overheard.”

Irileth glowered at Solen. “You can’t be considering this. Not you.”

Her disapproval stung worse than usual. Solen swallowed. “You’ve killed a great deal more vampires than me by now. You tell me if they’re bluffers.”

“Listen, please,” Dexion insisted, before arguments could begin. “Even if we refuse, condemn those poor people to an evil fate for my sake, all we would achieve in their sacrifice is a purchase of time. I am not the only Moth Priest in Tamriel – others would be found, endangered, if not myself.”

“So you’ll give in? Give up?” hissed Aela.

“I will do neither.” Dexion slipped his fingers into the belt of his robes and withdrew a tiny, hidden vial of a clear liquid. His expression was tense. “But I fear it is the only avenue left to us that will avoid bloodshed.”

Irileth frowned at the vial. “Poison?”

“Of a sense. It will destroy my sight in a matter of days. I will become useless to them before I will be useful.”

“Then they’ll kill you.”

“I imagine they would.” Dexion looked grim. “But it will rob them of the chance, and give the Dawnguard one. Remember what I have told you all. I will send them your way, whether through my will or his.”

Of course he would be thralled, if not killed, or turned – consigned to damnation and torment and the ultimate price. Solen caught his hand as Dexion unstoppered the little vial. “No. This can’t be it. We’ll find another –”

Dexion held his gaze calmly. “My eyes were always on borrowed time, Dragonborn. Play his game for now – then win. Reclaim the stolen Scrolls and ensure whatever prophecy they intend over this land never comes to pass. Promise me that evil will not prevail, and my heart will be at ease.”

Solen tightened his jaw. Everything about this vile situation scraped him like a rusty shaving knife. He was the one whom evil was meant to fear – which he defeated, always. For a moment he desperately wished Rayya was here, to reassure him – and then, just as suddenly, he was glad she wasn’t. He forced his voice to stay even and flat as he pledged, “I promise. It’s who I am.”

Dexion nodded, then quickly and discreetly downed the contents of the vial. “Very well, then. Let us make the exchange.”

~

It didn’t matter how necessary it was. It still sickened Solen to his stomach, to bring the Moth Priest forward with him out of the Dawnguard lines, to see Gendolin’s smile widen, to hear the mocking jeers of laughter that flickered among the wallbound foe. “Come forward, then,” Solen barked; his voice, pulsing with an anger barely restrained, slapped their ears like a thunderclap, silencing their sniggers at once. “With Vilkas and Njada, and alone.”

Vilkas and Njada made noises of indignation through their gags. Cursing him and his mother, probably, Solen thought wearily. Gendolin stepped onto the edge of the battlements, the two bound Companions hovering like strung puppets on his either side. Then he stepped off the wall, and the three of them plunged to the ground.

Several screams of fright went up, and Solen began to curse – but Gendolin didn’t fall, he glided, him and his prisoners both – without any kind of visible magic, as if he too were suspended by strings. Elegantly he touched the cobbled road, his black cloak billowing like bird wings, and towing his prisoners strode across the barren road towards where Solen waited.

It would be the closest they’d been since Dimhollow. Solen gritted his teeth, and his throat tautened with severe longing. One Word would bring him in front of Gendolin, one chance was all Eldródr needed to bite – yet he was paralyzed, again. One wrong action would see throats open like faucets. All Gendolin’s volatile followers needed was an excuse to execute.

Then they were across from each other, in a conversational speaking distance. Solen could count the wrinkles around Gendolin’s eyes. Not that the Bosmer had many; he’d been young before he’d been imbued with the bloodcurse. The lull between them was unexpectedly brief; without prompt, Gendolin’s hands moved, fingers twirling – Vilkas and Njada suddenly floated forward and were deposited in groaning heaps on Solen’s either side.

“That was awfully trusting of you,” Solen said warily. He’d expected the usual squabbles of how to exchange a demand between two enemy parties.

“You don’t trust the bond of my word, Dragonborn.” Gendolin’s unnatural eyes glowed from his pale face. “But I trust the bond of yours. You are much too honourable to cheat, even your enemies.”

Was that a sneer? The flash of anger was replaced almost at once by the salty grit of shame. It was less a taunt than the truth, and for a moment Solen was made ashamed by it – resented his willingness to find the light in every man or woman’s dark – but only for a moment. He forced an easygoing smile as he met Gendolin’s eyes with a cheer he did not feel. “Better than becoming a twisted scheming bastard like you. I like having friends, you know.”

“Oh, I had friends once.” Gendolin’s poised demeanour suddenly dimmed with a soft and potent malice. “I know what I’m surrounded by, Solenarren. I haven’t forgotten the family I’ve lost. Or who took them from me.”

The bitter hint held all the discretion of an avalanche. Solen again scoured his brain for some forgotten past familiarity, and again turned up nothing. “Who are you? Really? If we’re going to be nemeses, I might at least know a little about your background, so I can insult you better.”

“You knowing nothing of me is all the insult I need. But I’m certain a resourceful creature like you will figure it all out before the end.” Gendolin twitched one finger. “Give me the Priest, and we will go our separate ways.” For now, hung the resounding unsaid.

Under those scorching, hungry eyes, Solen didn’t dare reveal his turmoil. He patted Dexion’s shoulder. “Play nice with the vampires now, Evicus. We’ll see you soon.”

With great regality, Dexion slipped his hands into the long sleeves of his robes and walked from Solen’s side to Gendolin’s. And it was done.

The Dawnguard stirred, and Solen felt more than heard their disbelief. They could not believe their eyes, that the Dragonborn had ceded to their sworn enemies. Solen could barely believe it himself. He might as well have murdered the old man with his own hands. He felt Aela and Irileth move on his either side, bending down to cut Vilkas and Njada free.

“The Oblivion are you thinking, you egg-skinned idiot?” Njada spat, the second the gag was ripped from her mouth. “Did you give that vampire your spine as well?”

Solen could muster no retort.

Gendolin had retreated to the city wall at an unhurried pace, gripping the Moth Priest tightly by the arm. At the gates he stopped and as if to flaunt, bowed and made an elegant leg to the motionless Dawnguard. “Here is a prophecy I give freely.” His chilling smile and chiselled visage vanished beneath a sleek black cowl. “The time for battle will come again between us, Dragonborn Solenarren – and you will lose.”

The shadows of the gatehouse swallowed him and Dexion whole, and seconds later, the Riften walltops emptied at once and completely of observers, mortal and vampiric alike.

Chapter Text

The sack of straw and wood chipping that served as the dummy’s head went flying in an extraordinary spiral, arcing high above the wide-eyed audience of Companion whelps.

Rayya deftly caught it on the tip of a scimitar and faced her audience. “That,” she said, “is how you decapitate with two blades.” It’d put stars in the youngsters’ eyes, but the satisfaction of the trick had long worn off for her. It wasn’t an execution she often performed; Nord necks tended to be thicker than others. She flicked the dummy head off her bladetip. “Equal momentum across both arms. Equal deliverance from either side. And the commitment must be absolute. You have no opportunity to parry until you can guard your centreline again.”

“So why bother at all?” asked one of the whelps – Mari, if Rayya recalled rightly. The Nord folded his arms and persisted, “You can do the same thing and better with a broadsword.”

“Because not everyone has the upper strength to swing one,” Rayya said curtly, “and I’ve found bare necks make bigger targets than armpits or armour joins. Anything else?” Her eyes raked the cluster of Companions, and received no further protest. She gestured at the remaining dummies. “Get to work, then.”

They went to it, a handful with interest, most others with apparent disgruntlement. Rayya sheathed her swords and stepped out of the bright midday sun into the welcome shadow of the Jorrvaskr overhang as the training yard filled with the timber thunks of wooden weapons at use.

The door to the mead hall opened and shut. “Still training?”

“What else can I do with them?” Rayya answered, a little sharper than she intended.

But Lydia, Housecarl to the Thane of Whiterun, was no cowering whelp. The big Nord nudged Rayya’s elbow. “You’re right. Better than their sword arms getting idle. Even yours.”

Rayya scoffed. “Not here to try to talk me out of it again?”

“Talos, no. I learned my lesson.” Lydia tucked an errant black braid behind her ear. “But you should still go easy.”

Rayya looked away impatiently. Ever since her return to Whiterun...! “I don’t need your concern.”

“You’ll have it all the same, my Housecarl. I’m a woman of duty, just like you. Here.” Lydia proffered a bottle. “Guessing you haven’t had a drink in a while.”

“Not for a month,” Rayya muttered; the contents were water, always water, but she brought it to her lips with grudging appreciation. She was thirstier than she cared to admit.

“This, as well.” Lydia placed a small parcel of food on the table nearby. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

It was due lunchtime anyway. “I can get it myself, you know,” Rayya said, as she sat down and unwrapped the rations. She scowled at the quantity of bread and salted meat that greeted her. “This can’t be right. The rations are getting smaller, not bigger.” Seized with a sudden suspicion, Rayya asked, “These are yours, aren’t they?”

“I can go without.” Lydia sat down opposite from her, serious. “You can’t.”

Rayya searched for the hidden resentment in the other’s reply, and found none. It assuaged nothing, only rankled her. What’s your play, Housecarl? What do you really want with me? She ate with annoyance and an almost embarrassing enthusiasm, pondering the warrior across from her, this woman who shared service to the same Thane.

Lydia had been assigned to Solen when he’d become Thane of Whiterun, two years before he’d been titled in Falkreath, before he and Rayya had met. It was unusual for a Thane to be named in multiple Holds, and to have multiple Housecarls – and Rayya had heard plenty of stories of rivalry between them. To share in a Thane’s glory with their service was all the recognition Housecarls could ever aspire to, they who lived their lives for others – of course competition was common between them. Rayya had wholly anticipated such a rivalry, especially as Solen considered Whiterun far more of a home than Falkreath.

And yet he’d never travelled with Lydia, nor planned to; she’d been assigned the guardianship of his Breezehome hearth and his people, when he was away, and she maintained that duty without a trace of complaint or resentment. Solen had jested it was because he had companions in the plenty back then, he’d been travelling steadily with Faendal and Aela in those days. With Rayya, well, the why was history. Yet though her place as a Housecarl was assured at Solen’s side, Rayya had never been sure how to receive Lydia. Were they rivals? Were they meant to be rivals? She was more than a Housecarl to Solen now, but did that elevate or lessen her in Lydia’s eyes?

So much uncertainty – Rayya continued to abhor the topic, as she abhorred hesitation. She and Lydia had always treated each other with formal courtesy, and upon her return to Whiterun Rayya hadn’t expected that to change. They’d share a roof and a purpose, and no further exchanges beyond it. Whatever jealousies a cheated Housecarl privately nurtured would be kept well apart.

But then Lydia had learned what had returned Rayya to Whiterun, alone. Rayya expected ridicule or scorn from the Nord – a warrior-wife, and a Housecarl no less, getting pregnant by her husband and Thane while on campaign! – but instead it’d been the opposite. Attention, company. All the more so since Rayya had decided to keep the baby.

That decision still suspended her in a miasma of disbelief. Every rational thought had screamed otherwise, all the way down from Fort Kastav – yet when Rayya had visited the Temple of Kynareth, and Danica confirmed the life she bore within her, and asked her the question that had tormented her since that terrible night in the snow... Rayya brought her hand over her gut, straining slightly under its armour in a way it hadn’t before. Was it a sort of morbid curiosity? Was it really that instinct all women supposedly had locked away, awakening in the presence of motherhood? Or was it that morning before she’d returned to Whiterun, when she’d felt the glimmer under the skin, the very first?

All she knew was that the thought of tansy tea suddenly revulsed her, and Danica had smiled a knowing smile.

For all the good this unexpected sentiment had brought her. Rayya had never been so plagued with uncertainty. She hated it. Indecision was as good to her as poison, a dulling of wits, a clouding of the mind, an aggravation she could hardly stand. It was what had drawn her to the role of Housecarl at all in this frigid land; a purpose clear and defined, rigid as a sword’s spine. She protected her charge from threat. Even being a wife was no different, other than her fear and joy in the endeavour was increased tenfold. But to be a mother...

Rayya hissed through her teeth, and Lydia looked at once to her with concern. “Is it hurting?”

“No. Hasn’t moved in days.” Rayya’s hand lingered over her belly. “I’m not about to recite my troubles to you, not when there’s bigger ones.”

Lydia’s dark eyes roamed over the training yard. “Are they still talking?”

“Not while they’re training.”

Lydia wasn’t a Companion, and until recently had never visited Jorrvaskr – but she was a quiet woman, more ears than mouth, more thought than action. A rare quality in a Nordic shield-maiden. “I can understand the young ones jumping to conclusions – what about the older ones, who’ve known Solen longer?”

Rayya scowled. “They keep their doubts quieter.” And that wouldn’t last, either. She’d already caught Athis and Torngeir Ironhand muttering in the undercroft. Ria had become uncharacteristically uneasy. Even Ghelb, who maintained a steady confidence in his Harbinger, had grown increasingly worried as days turned to weeks and still the rumours remained unchanged. And they’re the ones really keeping the younglings in line. If their faith in Solen goes...

She tensed and pressed her hand to her stomach again. Gods, Solen, why?

They’d dismissed them at first, she and Lydia both, the rumours that had flickered through Whiterun – the Dragonborn had bargained with the vampire menace, given a Moth Priest over to them without a fight. The city had swollen with refugees from all corners of the Hold across autumn – how many Snowborn dissidents had slipped in among the civilian populace, disguised among the ragged fearful farmers? It would be easy for them to spread spiteful stories.

Then the Dawnguard patrol had passed through five days ago, and confirmed it, blackly. Solenarren – the Dragonborn – had yielded to the enemy’s demands. The city had buzzed with the revelation ever since. The people’s staunch advocacy in their faultless Thane was vanishing fast, as resentful hearts and minds became embittered with anger and betrayal of the man they were meant to call hero, the warrior who’d set out to avenge their murdered Jarl. Even the Companions were shaken, even resentful; paid work had dried up since Jarl Hrongar had locked down the city, and none of the Circle had yet returned to them – supposedly the bargain had been made at all to save Vilkas and Njada, who against all belief had survived the Winterhold ambush.

It had eased Rayya’s heart to hear it – but Solen knew better than anyone what was at stake went beyond the lives of two warriors, even two warriors dear to him. A prophecy, two Elder Scrolls, and a man who could interpret them.

And to think – Gendolin wanted me as well – to flaunt, to exchange... Rayya’s hand trembled as she rested it over her girdle. If it’d been me held up like that... what would he have done?

It was a question she still struggled to answer. Vilkas and Njada were Companions, warriors who’d made their peace with death. They would have sacrificed themselves gladly, herself included had it come to it, and Solen should have known that – so why, in Tu’whacca’s name, had he surrendered the Moth Priest to the enemy? What other reason could have been so great as to potentially compromise the very world itself?

No, it couldn’t have just been for them. There’s another reason. Besides, the bargain had happened weeks ago, and the sun shone as bright as it still could in autumn. There must be another reason.

“You’re thinking about it again,” said Lydia, intruding upon her thoughts.

Rayya stirred. “I know my husband,” she said, almost defiantly, and chucked her chin at the whelps. “They do too, when they pull the scorpions out of their ears.”

“They’re just frustrated,” said Lydia wisely. “There’s only so many times a dummy of straw or a shield-sibling makes for a satisfying opponent. They’re not used to being caged up behind walls for so long.”

“Neither am I,” grumbled Rayya, but at least she’d chosen this fate, somewhat. The jobless Companions and the masses of refugees now choking the city streets had not. “I don’t know what to do with these glory-chasers, Lydia. They didn’t join the Companions to rest their laurels, or follow the command of a pregnant woman.”

“But they still respect you,” said Lydia, watching Mari attempt the dual-sword execution with honest zeal. “To keep them together is all Solen asked of you.”

“And I can’t do even that,” Rayya growled, infuriated. “Not when there’s half a dozen situations to think about, and half of those are about my husband and what in Sep’s name I’m doing swelling up at a time like this.” She finished her last mouthful and glowered at the crumbs. Double rations, at the expense of another! She wished she’d forced Lydia to take her share back, and yet her shameless stomach still yearned for more. Pregnant! More like a curse!

Lydia considered her for a moment, so still and quiet that Rayya felt tempted to bark at her, to try and elicit some flaw out of this wretchedly composed and faultless woman. Then she said, “If you’d permit me, Housecarl, I’d like to help you.”

Rayya squinted at once. “Help me?”

The Nord smiled. “It’s uncomfortable watching you dither like an anxious High Elf. Your lack of distraction is what I admire most about you.” Puzzled by the unexpected compliment, Rayya raised her head. Lydia leaned back and folded her arms. “I know you think ours is an awkward situation. Two Housecarls, one Thane. But we’ve both only ever served our duty.”

“So why, then?” Rayya asked, because it felt like some curtain was finally being pulled back. “Why didn’t you chase the glory? You were his Housecarl first.”

Lydia’s eyes misted with memory. “Solen had company already, and he wanted someone he could trust to watch his hearth and his people. But really, I don’t think he wanted a servant following him. He was too humble a man for that. And we were strangers to each other back then.”

“And now?”

“Now? Now our Thane has you. And I have a life as normal as a Housecarl like me could hope for.” Lydia grinned. “It’s not so bad, you know. Living quietly. The same warm bed each night.”

Rayya turned away. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

Lydia laughed. “You’ll be glad of it once you get fatter, my Housecarl.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“But I fear I must.” The Nord grew serious again. “You have enough on your mind without that as well. Let me burden some of it. You are precious to Solen – Shor knows there’s no greater responsibility I face as his Housecarl while you’re here in Whiterun.”

Rayya stared, her head shaking automatically. “But I’m –”

“Protecting you is protecting him,” said Lydia simply, “and I think you’d agree with me, Rayya. Let me be your shield, so you can be his sword.”

For a Housecarl to be protected like a Thane... it was a most irregular concept, and it rankled Rayya, that again she had to be the exception to this damnably dutiful woman who, it seemed, understood her role as the Housecarl far better than Rayya herself. Forcibly she pounced upon those mutinous thoughts and shunted them aside. I as good as chose this when I refused the tea. “And what would your... protection entail, exactly?”

“I’ll chase you down to eat and drink and rest, and tell you to put your sword down. In short, I’ll worry about keeping the mother and babe safe, even if from herself. Meanwhile, you attend to the duty you know better. Guiding warriors. Protecting Whiterun.”

A divide of burdens, Lydia meant – and oh, there were many, between the vampire menace and Whiterun locked down and the evil rumours circulating about her husband and the absence of communication since their parting... Rayya rested a hand over her womb and closed her eyes. I can’t do my job – any job – with my mind pulled in a dozen directions.

“And I won’t lie,” Lydia confessed, “it would be good to feel needed again. Not that I ever wasn’t – but the direction is clearer when it’s one over many. For better or worse, it keeps a mind tempered.”

Not glory – reliability, kindness – those were this Housecarl’s motivations. Rayya looked again at the woman who had every right to be her rival, yet wasn’t, and wished she’d summoned the nerve to have sparked this conversation years earlier. Perhaps friendship might have kindled sooner between them. “Have you ever looked after a pregnant warrior before, Lydia?”

“My sister,” Lydia offered, and grinned. “She might as well have been. She got fierce as she got bigger.”

Rayya managed to smile. “All right. I’ll try it, Lydia – so long as you won’t see it as an excuse to put me in a seat at every moment.”

“Only until you can’t fit your armour. Until then –” Lydia smirked and reached for her longsword. “Fancy a spar, at-Mafurah?”

To shift the lurking worries of motherhood to another’s shoulders, and then to brawl out the last of that restive energy with live steel, was as revitalizing as a scorching-hot bubble bath. Rayya put her arm into it, joyously, feeling much like her old self, and not only because Lydia knew how to take a hit. Perhaps having a confidant in the Whiterun Housecarl wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

They’d caught their breath and were about to start on their fourth bout when a scattering of screams rose up from the Wind District below. What Companions still lingered in the training yard swiftly hurried around the mead hall to the front steps. Rayya and Lydia, about to follow suit, didn’t have to wait long. The sunlit training yard was suddenly engulfed in a deep shadow that passed as quickly as it came, coupled with the bone-rattling clamour of giant wings. “Oh, surely not,” Lydia exclaimed indignantly, as several mournful horns trilled up from the walls.

But Rayya recognized the Dragon as it dipped below the blinding glare of the sun, trumpeting an answer; bold red scales, wings marbled in violet and silver, and a brazen confidence that came of rightly won recognition. “It’s no attack,” she said, grinning, and hurried up to the Skyforge.

The view it offered was near enough to the Cloud District – Rayya and Lydia climbed up in time to watch Odahviing circle around again from the south. Even Eorlund Gray-Mane, who couldn’t be prised from his beloved forge with a crowbar on the best of days, had put down his hammer to watch. The city’s screams had subsided with the initial shock of a Dragon’s appearance – now they became cheers. Whiterun remembered the Red Scourge of the Stormcloaks, and the great red beast was clearly parading, winging great figures of eight above the city and the sprawling golden fields of Whiterun.

Only they weren’t golden – along the distant stripe of the western road crawled a bold mass of silver and red, rippling in the unison of a march, and even from so afar Rayya spotted the twinkling of sunstruck metal and the fluttering of pennants clawed to life in the autumn wind. The mass of them stretched all the way to the horizon and out of sight – a thousand soldiers, thousands of soldiers. “Isn’t that the Legion?” said Lydia in astonishment, as a fresh round of salutary warhorns rang from the walls, announcing the troops’ arrival. “By the Nine, they haven’t come along in such a fashion since –”

“Since Ulfric Stormcloak marched on the city,” Eorlund finished. His two sons had worn blue cloaks, and both had been lost to the war. Rayya glanced his way as the smith rumbled grimly, “I doubt they’re here for a reason any less pleasant.”

~

Rayya hadn’t expected to be summoned to Dragonsreach to join Jarl Hrongar’s council, but it seemed in both Solen’s and Aela’s absence that she was the next best thing to the city’s Thane or Companion advisor. The moment she entered the war room, up the stairs behind the Jarl’s throne with Lydia at her shoulder, she felt to be thrust back in time. It was Stormcloak’s looming siege all over again. The Whiterun Jarl and his court gathered on one side of the great war table, General Tullius and his commanders on the other.

Her entrance turned several heads, including his own. Rayya didn’t salute, as she was no longer a soldier, but she bowed her head. Her surprise must’ve shown, as Tullius said, “Quite frankly I’m just as surprised to see you here, at-Mafurah, without Solenarren with you. Did something happen?”

Rayya deliberated on her answer. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but nor had she advertised why she was presently out of commission. She cast her gaze around the war room, counting the known and familiar faces – Tullius, his scribe, Commander Caius, Legate Quintus Cipius, Jarl Hrongar, his new Housecarl, the steward, the court wizard – and decided it was safe enough. “I’m indisposed, sir.” She indicated her lower torso.

General Tullius looked blank. “New armour?”

Lydia coughed slightly. “She’s uh, pregnant, sir.”

A stir of enlightenment rippled among the gathered menfolk, and suddenly Rayya was hard-pressed not to roll her eyes. Really. “Well, seems congratulations are in order, then,” said Caius pleasantly.

“I’d prefer if we didn’t let it distract us from what’s brought five thousand surplus soldiers and Odahviing to Whiterun, Commander.”

“Ten thousand,” Jarl Hrongar corrected grimly, and to Tullius, “We can’t feed or house that many, general, let alone a Dragon. The city’s already on rations.”

“My troops will feed themselves, and eight thousand will be moving out momentarily. Odahviing will be stationed at Fort Greymoor, when he won’t be keeping the skies clear.” Tullius frowned, recalling his march up from the Plains District to the palace. “What supplies can be spared will be given out among the civilians. Soldiers will be stationed across the Hold so your farmers can finish the autumn harvest.”

“Finish! Scavenge, more like. Between the vampires and the Dragons, no one’s leaving the walls, let alone to labour.” Hrongar looked vastly different in his embroidered robes and decorative furs, Balgruuf’s crown upon his brow, yet Rayya thought he’d eased into the role of Jarl surprisingly well. He leaned over the map and indicated with one broad hand. “Only farms still tended are the ones right in my city’s shadow. Rorikstead was abandoned weeks ago.”

“We saw,” said Tullius grimly, “we rode through it.”

Rayya had questions, but stood back and listened, as any sensible Housecarl would. Answers would come if she paid attention, and come they did, as the council clamoured and pored, sending for maps and documents and reports, covering the table in sheafs of parchment and grim truth. The problem of starving Dragons attacking travellers, then farmsteads, then small townships had become such an issue that Tullius could no longer mobilize his troops fast enough from Solitude – so he’d temporarily moved his centre of operations to Whiterun, the hub of Skyrim, leaving his trusted Legate Rikke behind to maintain order in Castle Dour.

“You can’t force a Nord to do what he doesn’t want to do,” growled Jarl Hrongar. “My folk are scared and rightly so. Not even soldiers will send farmers further than a day beyond the walls, by day or night.”

“They can work or they can starve,” said Tullius, with his usual callousness. “Every Hold has struggled with their year’s harvest. Whiterun always grows the excess grain to sell to shore up the other cities’ stores.”

“Our coffers have run dangerously low, my Jarl,” Proventus warned, brandishing a ledger of accounts. “Traders have quit the roads, even the Khajiit caravans, from all these attacks. Normally autumn should be our most profitable time of year.”

“Damn it, man! Do you think I give a damn about gold?”

“I only mean, Jarl, if you wished to purchase supplement grain from neighbouring Holds...” Proventus tailed off pointedly, and shook his head. “And no other Hold will have anything to spare.”

Jarl Hrongar glowered down at the flag-studded map again, dour. A city facing starvation was one thing; a whole province was entirely another. “Can’t your Empire provide?” he finally asked, turning to Tullius. “Haven’t we bled enough for you?”

“The Jerall pass will seal off soon with snow,” said Tullius, moving an assortment of pins across the map. “We’ve sent ships, but they’re racing sea ice. Only the south Morrowind road and the Markarth pass will stay open through winter. Supplies will be long in coming, especially to the northern cities.”

“There’s no way around it,” Quintus Cipius frowned. “Whiterun’s harvest must be salvaged.”

They stared down at the province of ink and parchment, Rayya with an uneasy feeling in her stomach. With the Forsworn withdrawn, the Markarth road would offer only the perils of the highland road – it was narrow and difficult. Even solitary riders on horseback struggled with haste – getting supply wagons through would be a nightmare. That left only the south Morrowind road, by far the most reliable thoroughfare even through summer – but that road led straight to Riften. Riften, where Gendolin and his vampires had made such a presentation of themselves upon the very ramparts...

Surely Tullius knows about that. Rayya looked up sharply and straight into the general’s waiting eyes. “I’ve heard rumours,” he said, “and unpleasant ones regarding the Dragonborn, at-Mafurah. I hope you’re about to tell me they’re wrong.”

Rayya tensed. It had been Tullius who’d acted on Solen’s behalf to get the Priest into Skyrim at all. “I’ve been in Whiterun this last month, sir. I wasn’t there.”

Tullius’s expression sharpened. “What about the Scroll you were delivering?”

The Whiterun court exchanged mystified looks, but Rayya tensed further. If Solen had told Tullius about her quest, then Solen would have told him everything – about the other Elder Scroll, about the Day of Black Sun. Of course he would have – what else would we have needed a Moth Priest for? It took an effort not to look away. She still burned with the shame at the loss and shivered at the memory. “It was intercepted, sir.”

“Intercepted?!” The general’s eyes popped. “By who?”

“A vampire lord. Gendolin.” She still felt his fingers around her throat, six weeks later. “The Volkihar’s champion. The same one who concerted that... exchange outside Riften. The one whom my husband is hunting.” The one who wants my husband dead.

Wheels were turning in Tullius’s head, silently putting fragmented pieces of the grim puzzle together. The scribe at his elbow had stopped, quill poised curiously. “Do you mean to tell me, at-Mafurah,” said Tullius eventually, “that not only has Solenarren lost the Moth Priest I sent for, but the same vampires whom he insists orchestrate this crisis across Skyrim now have a second Elder Scroll?”

“Pardon me,” said Proventus weakly, “an Elder Scroll?”

“A second?” Farengar exclaimed.

“In a moment!” Tullius snapped, turning back. “Well, Rayya?”

Rayya couldn’t bring herself to answer. Tullius swore and rammed his fist on the table, making the mead mugs jump.

“A Dawnguard patrol visited the city recently,” said Jarl Hrongar cautiously, once the jolted map pins had stopped rattling their reproach. “Seems half the vampire hunters witnessed some sort of exchange at Riften, between the Dragonborn and a vampire lord. A priest for hostages. Sounded like the whole city would’ve been slaughtered otherwise.”

“Impossible,” Tullius growled, jerking his head up. “Legate Fasendil reports the city is stable.”

Rayya’s backbone stiffened in alarm. “But sir – it can’t be.”

Tullius glowered at her. “You believe Fasendil’s reports are untruthful?”

“No, sir.” Rayya recalled the Altmer Legate – knew Solen admired him greatly – knew him well enough that to deceive or whitewash would be entirely out of his incorrigible character, and not even a viper’s nest like Riften could corrupt it. And no way in Tall Papa’s name would he have ever let a swarm of vampires parade themselves on the walls like that. But parade they had, and that left three deeply unpleasant options to consider. “What happened at Riften’s gates happened, but such a blatant show of power doesn’t happen overnight. Fasendil’s reports have been forcibly made untruthful, against his will – either through enthralment, or... replacement.” Or worse.

Tullius straightened up alertly. “They can do that?”

“Oh, aye, general,” glowered Jarl Hrongar, and suddenly the Whiterun court were thunderous. “They’ve glamorous ways of leaving wise men for fools.” All were silent for a moment, recalling Balgruuf and his fate.

“Gods’ blood,” Caius suddenly cursed. “Then the south Morrowind road – if Riften’s been compromised –”

“Don’t get excited, Commander,” Tullius snapped, but clearly the revelation was not only Caius’s. “The Dawnguard are stationed along that same road, aren’t they?”

“Right at Skyrim’s border, sir,” Rayya nodded.

Tullius sighed through his teeth. “Sennius,” he said, and the scribe beside him jumped to attention, “draft a letter. I want words with the Dawnguard’s leader – what was the name, at-Mafurah?”

Oh, that’ll be fun. “Isran, sir.”

“Draft one to Captain Agnata as well. I want Greenwall’s reinforcements moved to the city –”

“Vampires aren’t Dragons, sir,” Rayya interrupted – she wasn’t a soldier anymore, there weren’t worse repercussions interrupting a general mid-stride than a sour look. “They don’t throw themselves on shows of power. Send in a storm of swords like that –”

“The Empire will not be intimidated, at-Mafurah, nor will it tolerate insubordination or threat.”

“Yes, I get that, but these aren’t Cloaks or dissidents, they aren’t even mortal. Bloodshed will only empower them. And there’s still the civilians. Solen never would’ve surrendered to their demands if their lives hadn’t been on the line.”

As she said it aloud, she knew it to be true, as surely as if she’d been there after all. Tullius remained silent, and Rayya pushed the point. “You can’t fight these enemies like Stormcloaks or Dragons, sir. Not in the open.”

“So what do you propose we do?”

What could they do? What the Legion did best. “Keep Skyrim going,” Rayya urged. “Salvage the harvest, garrison the keeps, protect our people. Keep torches burning every night, and give Solen and the Dawnguard a chance to turn this around.”

“I already did,” Tullius said darkly, “and it only became worse. The mutterings of my soldiers suggest I’m not the only one thinking that. Wars aren’t won on promises, and the last ones the Dragonborn made to me – vehemently, I might add – he failed to deliver upon.”

“Mind yourself, General,” Jarl Hrongar warned. “He’s been our Thane far longer than your soldier. We won’t hear insults to his honour.”

“I’m not saying a damn word about his honour, I’m questioning his results. I have a country being torn apart by Dragons by day and vampires by night, a failed autumn harvest and the prospect of the whole kingdom starving through winter. The situation is not improving and the Legion is stretched to its limits. If Skyrim’s celebrated hero and the Dawnguard he spearheads can’t get this under control –”

“He will,” said Rayya fiercely. In a moment she could bear it no more – the undercurrents of doubt, the scathing whispers, the fears of defeat and the first strains of hopelessness, the sentiments that had plagued both the city and her own uneasy heart. “Never forget,” she said, glowering among the council, “that Skyrim is his home. Our home. If Solen can bring down the Twilight God and avert the End Times, he can stop the Day of Black Sun, and gods help you all if you doubt that he will.”

“Well said,” boomed Jarl Hrongar. “He does take by surprise, our Solen. Sometimes in bad ways. Mostly in good.” And even Proventus was inclined to nod.

Perhaps Legate Cipius recalled the siege of Whiterun, where all had witnessed the prowess of a Dragonborn unleashed upon the field. “I wouldn’t write him off yet, sir,” he said, “not until he’s dead.”

General Tullius exhaled languorously through his nose. The cluster of red map pins he’d been moving towards Riften he slowly pushed back upon Fort Greenwall. “He has,” said Tullius slowly, “until my soldiers have been stationed and I hear back from this Isran. And if the Dragonborn hasn’t delivered results by then, or I’ve not seen some shift in this war for myself, then the Legion will address this Volkihar situation as I see fit.”

Rayya knew exactly what that would entail. Volunteers and hirelings and every city-fevered Nord with an axe pulled into the Legion’s employ – perhaps even ex-Legion, if it grew bad enough. Bounties issued on vampires and Dragons both. Open fighting from inexperienced hunters and soldiers unprepared to face monsters like Gendolin. A handful of competent fighters harrowed from untold scores of warriors proven wanting. Bloodshed and death, suffering and loss. All on hungry bellies with winter’s teeth bared to bite down on Skyrim’s soil.

If the vampires didn’t achieve their prophecy first.

“Perhaps now you might explain about Elder Scrolls and Moth Priests and what in Kyne’s name they’ve got to do with this mess,” Jarl Hrongar prompted gruffly, as though he’d read Rayya’s mind. “And what does a ‘Day of Black Sun’ have to do with it?”

Rayya caught Tullius’s eye and knew the burden of this revelation fell squarely on her shoulders. “Everything,” she said, and to the waiting court explained the dark aspiration that had, despite their every effort, tumbled an exhausted Skyrim back into war.

Chapter Text

“Did I ever tell you,” said Solen breathlessly, “that Hearthfire is my least favourite month for hunting?”

Irileth threw herself against the pine trunk alongside him and pulled hair from her eyes. “And why, pray tell, is that?”

The pine forest around them erupted in a surge of roiling dragonfire and a symphony of exploding sap. “No reason,” said Solen, as the shadow came and went above their heads.

The Dragon gave a baleful roar, resounding above the scorching pit it had made of the pine grove. The sturdy old pine that had sheltered them groaned dangerously, embers sizzling in its peeling bark. Solen and Irileth darted for the sturdier cover of an old heap of boulders. “He’s been tight on our arses half an hour, Solen,” the Dunmer snapped as she primed her crossbow. “He’s not going away.”

Solen glimpsed a flash of patterned black-and-white wings through what remained of the forest canopy. “Just stay in cover,” he said, stringing his bow in one swift motion. “Ancients are too big to land in such dense forest. So long as we stay under the branches and keep moving out of the clearings he’s making –”

“I heard you the first time!” The Dragon’s bellow almost drowned Irileth’s retort. Wings stormed over their heads again. Following their ears, the two elves straightened, launching arrow and bolt together. The two projectiles vanished into the smoke, and the ear-grating bellows shrilled with a squeak of pain. “One of them hit, at least,” Irileth panted, as they ducked down again.

“Hooray,” Solen grunted, as they dashed again for greener forest. Nevermind that Ancient Dragon scales were notoriously hard on their topsides, and their sheer size made even arrows peppering their softer underbellies feel no worse than flea bites. They raced down the forest slope, trying not to bounce too hard off tree trunks.

“And how long,” growled Irileth, “are we meant to keep running away like milk-drinking n’wahs?”

“Not sure,” said Solen, as they flung themselves into a mossy ditch. “Ten minutes ago he should’ve gotten bored of us and gone after easier prey. His tantrums should’ve spooked a whole herd out of hiding by now.”

The thick fern undergrowth suddenly thrashed above the ditch – Solen reached for his sword, then relaxed as Aela slid neatly down beside them. “That’s not going to happen,” she said, as the concussive pounding of wings swelled in their ears. “The undergrowth’s too thick.”

A firestorm erupted over their heads, showering them with smouldering pine needles and a spray of charred bark. “Well, it was too thick,” Aela amended, brushing embers off her mantle.

“And that means?” Irileth grunted.

“There’s no Dragon-prey left in this forest. At all.” Aela looked hard at Solen. “It’s not just hungry, Solen – it’s starving.”

Solen’s spirits sank even as he stood to climb out of the ditch. “Then you’re right, Irileth,” he said. “He’s not going away.”

He’d hoped it wouldn’t have come to this, but come to this it had. Solen picked out three arrows and tucked them under a finger against his bow, ready for quick-firing. “Where’s the nearest clearing, Aela?”

“The biggest one’s about a league northwest down the mountainside. Old lumber ground.”

“Isn’t Pinewatch in that direction?”

“Still twenty miles off. Should be fine.”

“Let’s head there, then. Irileth, fall back and see if you can find where the horses have gotten to.”

“Don’t you mean Agmaer and Illia?”

“Them too.” The sky pounded with a scorching roar. Solen drew a deep breath. “I’ll get his eye.”

He set off at a run, the overgrowth of brackens and fern snatching at his cloak. Really, he ought to have recognized the signs far sooner! Hadn’t he warned Tullius that the Dragons were being driven to hunger? Shouldn’t he have realized all this fresh untrampled undergrowth flagged a lack of elk and anything else big enough to fill a Dragon’s stomach? Oughtn’t he have remembered that mountain forest was a Dragon’s most ideal territory? Well, no use crying over spilled mead – an Ancient Dragon was no beast to ignore. And if it really was starving, then it was beyond all reason.

Wings roared above Solen’s head; he raised his bow, but already the Ancient had flown on. Had it seen him? Of course not – the moment he actually tried to start hunting a Dragon on the wing, it got distracted by other prey. Seeing it veer worryingly in Aela’s direction, Solen sucked in a lungful of air. “FUS!”

One Word of Power was enough – the trees lashed as if stung by a whip, sending a pulse of shattered branches into the sky – but it was the crack of the Thu’um that snatched the Ancient’s attention. One wing folded against itself as it pivoted in a hairpin. Its shadow swept over Solen again.

“Come on, then!” Solen bellowed, as its shadow crossed rapidly towards him. “I’m right here! All by my lonesome, all garnished for tea!”

The Ancient’s telltale inhalation was all the signal Solen needed. He turned and bolted. The world went up in a scorching strike behind him, but Solen ran on, chartering his course by the direction the moss on the trees were growing on. The Dragon bellowed frustration, wings creaking as it lunged in maddened pursuit.

Starving as it was, it was still remarkably quick – Solen could barely outrun the strings of fire that snarled in mad zigzags in his wake. The thick forest growth helped not at all when one wasn’t trying to hide in it, either – he practically had to kick and punch a path for himself, as if elbowing for barspace at the Bannered Mare at happy hour.

Again his cloak snagged on a bramble patch and lurched him off his feet; Solen was seriously considering getting rid of it, even though he was rather fond of it, when the Dragon’s shadow engulfed him. He swung his bow skyward as the Ancient’s silhouette lunged towards a gap in the trees – wait a moment, was that pine tree bent backwards? Without warning, as the Ancient’s jaws ripped open to Shout, the pine tree straightened up and whipped it square in the face. The Dragon roared in bewildered frustration and swept on, its Thu’um unsung. Solen swore he heard Fiirnaraan’s fluty laugh in the shadows.

I’ll have to remember that, Solen thought, bundling his cloak around his elbow and hurrying on.

All too soon the Ancient’s wingbeats stung his ears. Damn, was it seriously still so fast on the wing, or was he really just that slow? Solen considered throwing caution to the winds and calling on a Whirlwind Sprint, despite his last attempt Sprinting in such an obstacle-ridden space nearly pulping him with terminal velocity against a tree trunk, when the Dragon soared right over his head, passing him – and dived.

What is it doing?! They weren’t anywhere near that clearing yet, where the Ancient could be invited to land and battle on an open field – it had literally thrown itself into a dense cluster of living pines. Timber snapped and shattered in a deafening cacophony as it half-fell half-clawed its way to the ground. Solen hurriedly arrested himself as the copper-and-white leviathan crashed down on the forest floor just ahead of him and swung its eyes his way, the Shout already poised on its tongue.

Solen had anticipated a fire breath, not a cone of force – either way, he had the correct response. “FEIM!” he bellowed, barely becoming ethereal before the conifer between them shattered like glass, splintering the world around it with lethal jags of timber. As the last shards punched harmlessly through his ghostly form, Solen raised his bow. Corporeality returned in a rush as he pulled the arrows down on the humming bowstring, one after another in quick succession. Two shattered against the Ancient’s broad muzzle as it jerked its head back to protect its eyes – the third found one of the grazes its forced descent through the pines had opened on its softer neck.

Such a shot shouldn’t have winded an Ancient, yet it recoiled with a gasp. And suddenly Solen realized he wasn’t dealing with an Ancient at all, but a shadow of something that had once been Ancient – its scales hung off it like curtains, dragging across a frame of wasted muscle hardened into ropy sinew. Its bones bulged under its skin, a skeleton already. Its eyes were… devoid. No intelligence, no cunning malice, no savage joy in the struggle. They were crazed. Desperate.

Solen had never seen a starving Dragon like this before. Sure, they’d always boasted about eating him after they killed him, but that was meant as an insult, not because they needed to. And this one seemed of no mind to bandy words and exchange Thu’um, either – it crawled straight for him, uncaring how its wings snagged on broken pines or how its softer belly dragged on the shard-ridden ground. Saliva swung from its jaws in rivers.

No pride. No poise. This was no Dragon, just an animal crazed with hunger. Solen wasn’t even sure if it recognized him as Dragonborn.

He stopped reaching for his quiver. He didn’t need it, or even Eldródr to finish this.

“FAAS RU MAAR!”

The world flashed red, and the Ancient flinched back with such a tortured squeal that for a moment Solen wondered if he’d accidentally stricken it with Dragonrend instead. It thrashed backwards, waving its head, beating its wings until they cracked painfully against what pines still stood around it. The snapped branches tore ribbons into the fleshy membrane as the Dragon flailed clumsily onto its rear legs, clawing open its wings, scrambling for flight. Solen dived flat as its wide blade-ended tail whipped blindly over where he stood. With great destruction, as much to itself as to the forest around it, the Ancient took wing and fled into the sky without looking back.

Solen stood up slowly, staring after it long after it had vanished from view. When the first cautious trill of birdsong broke through the resounding silence, Solen brushed off what needles and bark shavings clung to his cloak, recalled his bearings, and set off into the forest.

Fiirnaraan melted neatly out of hiding as Solen passed his perch. “Oh, but that was a peculiar way to end the game, Dovahkiin. Did you win?”

Solen stopped and met the Dragon’s gaze. “You tell me.”

The Blood Dragon looked back in the direction of the fractured clearing, then down to Solen. He had, of course, heard or witnessed the entire thing, as only the stealthy creature could. “He was not well, that brother,” Fiirnaraan said after a moment of contemplation. “That one who dresses in such powerful scales should not have been so simply Dismayed, not even from you, Thuri.”

“No,” Solen agreed, “he shouldn’t have been.”

Fiirnaraan’s frills flattened against his neck. “So, it was not really a battle, then.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

~

Aela at least understood Solen’s disquiet. The Dawnguard operatives were simply glad to see the last of the Dragon, and mildly indignant that he hadn’t left its bones steaming on the mountainside. “It wouldn’t have shown us the same mercy,” said Illia, frowning, as the five of them unburdened their agitated horses. “And supposes it comes back again? What will you do?”

“Whatever needs to be done,” said Solen, with such a lack of lightheartedness that even Irileth frowned.

“Well, what’s done is done,” the Housecarl said decisively. “The Dragon’s gone and we can get back to searching. The wretched thing drove us back by a day, I’m certain we camped under these trees last night. But, nothing for it. We’re not risking the horses in the dark.”

“The way forward didn’t seem too promising anyway,” Agmaer reasoned, squinting at the distant southwestern faces of the Jerall Mountains. “It could be good to retrace our steps. Maybe there’s something we missed.”

“That’s the spirit,” Illia smiled, and grunting she hauled her hefty saddlebags down from her mare. “I’ll get the fire going.”

So they camped down, as if it had merely been another day combing the southern fringes of Falkreath Hold for any sign of the secret Ancestor Glade, and not one where they’d spent half of it avoiding the jaws of a ravenous Dragon. Fiirnaraan had already disappeared to hunt – with the forests devoid of opportunity, and Dayspring Canyon now too great a distance to return to daily, he’d taken to scratching a meal off mountain goats high among the Jerall’s frosty peaks. The shaken forest was much too skittery for Aela or Solen to unearth a rabbit or two, so tonight they made do with their dwindling cold rations of rubbery jerky and stale biscuit, then pored over the map together.

After consulting her compass, Irileth shook her head and sectioned off another corner of the map with crossmarks. “It’s not a nixad tale,” she said, sensing Agmaer’s and Illia’s deflation. “Clever men don’t die for such things.”

Solen’s mind wandered briefly to the northernmost corner of the province. “Mages do it all the time.”

“I said clever men, Solen.” Irileth tapped the stretch of mountain range directly southwest of Falkreath. “We’ll search this area next.”

“There’s not much Jerall left to search,” Aela noted, and again they eyed the string of crossmarks that stretched from the mountains above Helgen all the way to below Falkreath’s city mark.

“Then we’re getting close,” said Irileth flatly, folding her arms. “Between a Dragon, two hunters and six sets of eyes we’ve turned over every stone and peered into every bear den and foxhole. We can’t have missed it.”

They paused briefly as a soft gust of wind sighed among the lush pines, bringing with it the scent of frost. It promised to be another frigid night.

Solen hunched himself as close to the fire as one could without catching aflame. “Wonder how the rest of them are doing.”

Irileth flicked him one of her looks, which didn’t bode well. Solen supposed he was being a little more pensive tonight. He’d driven his little group off to search for the Ancestor Glade with an almost manic energy – because there was no way in all the planes of Oblivion that Solen was going to let Gendolin snatch victory from under the Dawnguard’s nose – under his nose again. Nor, Solen had vowed, was he going to let Gendolin get away from him unscathed again.

They’d planted the rumours of the Glade, and Gendolin would confirm them one way or another – through his subordinates’ ears if not the poor Priest himself, if Dexion managed to stay alive so long – and Solen had plunged into Falkreath deeply aware that their time was borrowed. That somewhere in the woods the Volkihar were already crawling among the pines, seeking the mythical cavern of singing moths where the untrained might safely glimpse into the Elder Scrolls’ mind-melting secrets.

But it’d been nearly three weeks and not a murmur of detection from the enemy – even Aela, who spent her sleepless nights ranging the forest in one form or another, hadn’t picked up any sign of their vampiric foe. And though the Falkreath forest dimmed the light beneath their clustered branches, they were still vampires, who’d revile toiling in the sun. Besides, the tree growth grew only sparser the higher they climbed into the foothills. So for now, they could all tentatively say they were ahead of the vampires, couldn’t they?

Still, Solen was quiet.

Aela lightly touched his arm. “Fancy coming with me tonight? I could use another pair of eyes.”

As if she needed his – it was her invitation for them to talk alone. Solen shook his head. “I’ll be all right. I could use the sleep. Dragon chased me halfway to Hammerfell and back.”

Aela frowned, and Solen frowned back, pointedly – no, thank you – before she leaned back and said, “Well, you needed the exercise anyway.” She stood and brushed off the pine needles clinging to her guards. “I’ll be back an hour before dawn.”

“Does she ever sleep?” Agmaer murmured nervously, as the Huntress vanished noiselessly into the undergrowth. “I don’t think I’ve seen her close her eyes once since we set out.”

“Does it scare you?” Illia teased, punching his shoulder. “Come on, we’ve all been around Isran long enough.”

“And Isran scares me! But at least he’s not – you know –”

“He’s already a bristly force of nature,” said Solen, straightening out his bedroll. “Doesn’t need the Huntsman’s help with that. Dibs not taking first watch.”

But Solen took it anyway, because after ten minutes of tossing and turning he decided he might as well be useful with his restiveness and let the youngsters kip. He sat listening to the horses crunching in their nosebags and the Dawnguard’s slumbering breaths, Eldródr across his lap, an oilcloth forgotten in his hand.

His thoughts went through the usual motions. First they went to Rayya, though Solen did his best to follow Aela’s instruction in not worrying over her. Of course she’d be safe in Whiterun, with Companions and familiar neighbours and Lydia for company, though he wondered what her choice had been, and felt the usual squirm in the pit of his stomach. The suspense of it really was torturous. Then he remembered how he’d learned the news at all, in Fort Kastav after she’d been pulled half-alive from the snow, and his mind settled firmly on the riddle of Gendolin again – and more damnably, who in Zeht’s tears he was. Solen had concocted half a hundred mead-washed theories as to how he might have earned Gendolin’s ire, everything from a shamed bandit he’d spared to a Thalmor lackey whose mother he'd insulted, and none of them seemed satisfying enough to explain what could have driven a Wood Elf to seeking the patronage of a Daedra lord or recruiting the thrice-damned Thieves Guild to his cause.

 But Solen didn’t end up dwelling too long on Gendolin. The sight of that Dragon crawling its way towards him like some flesh-starved zombie… that was what itched his skin that night. He frowned, recalled the oilcloth in his hand, and ran it thoughtfully down Eldródr’s fuller.

“Back to sleep,” he said automatically, when Irileth’s blankets stirred. “I know it’s not your time yet.”

“Who said I was sleeping?” The Dunmer sat up and swept her russet hair back into a knot behind her head. “Besides, you’re grinding your teeth too loudly.”

“Am I?” Solen lightly touched his jaw. “Goodness. You’ve got a hellishly good pair of ears, Housecarl.”

“Don’t I just.” Irileth beckoned for the oilcloth. Solen balled it up and tossed it neatly into her palm.

“You still have it,” Solen observed, as Irileth withdrew the broken sword from her scabbard.

“Of course.” Carefully Irileth traced the oilcloth along its ragged, adamantine-tipped edges. “I made an oath on this steel. Neither of us rests until it’s fulfilled.” She raised her red eyes, scintillating in the firelight. “That is the weight of vengeance sworn, Solen. This jagged blade is who I am, and no more than. No matter where it takes me, or where it leads me, no matter what is left behind, I will follow it.”

“And I’ve no doubt you will,” said Solen, leaning back slightly from the formidable mer.

Irileth narrowed her eyes. “But can you do the same?”

Seconds of silence dripped between them.

“You may think you want this,” said Irileth eventually, “but you still have plenty to lose. A path of vengeance is an inferno. It’ll devour everything, even you.”

“I didn’t take you to be so sagacious, Housecarl.”

“I’ve seen the way you turn when Gendolin enters your mind. Your blood boils. Your spirit darkens. Your hands long to take up your blade. You want to pursue him to the ends of Nirn itself. Or you think you do.”

“Think?” Solen exploded at last, and shifted Eldródr off his lap. “You’ve seen what he’s done – what he’ll do, every second he walks free and victorious! Of course I want him dead!”

“Just dead? Or by your hand?”

“I’m not that presumptuous.” Yet Solen looked down at the ivory blade, humming gently with latent flame and frost, and wondered.

Irileth sheathed the broken blade and tossed Solen’s oilcloth back. “There’s no time-bound prophecy marking him as your enemy this time. You’ve marked him yourself.”

The maddened Dragon seared Solen’s mind again, and his face went flat as iron. “So what if I have?” He scabbarded the broad battle-blade with firm finality. “Gendolin’s already marked me as such, and given me more than enough cause, so I’m sure he’ll take it as a compliment. Call it what you like, Housecarl. I won’t let him win again. You take the rest of the watch, since you’re so awake. I’m going to sleep.”

He promptly rolled himself up in the blankets and lay with his back to Irileth and the campfire, annoyed that she’d managed to dredge a talk out of him, of all people – and worried that she might be right.

~

Come morning, neither Solen nor Irileth made any indication of their fireside discussion. Like the others they brushed the carpet of frost off their possessions without ceremony, destroyed all trace of their campfire, and set off in their usual order to resume the search.

Aela had brought a horse with them into Falkreath Forest, but had hardly saddled it since arriving. She went everywhere on foot, leading them on the hopeful trails she’d eked out for them during the night. As usual, they went nowhere. Caverns and hopeful-looking indentations in mountainsides ended up just being caverns and indentations. Old ruined structures were abandoned watchtowers from some bygone Era, or the lairs of irate primitive necromancers, or the dwelling-holes of exceptionally bad-tempered spriggans.

At least the day was fine. Morning drifted into noon, then afternoon. They stopped to water themselves and their horses by a mountain stream. Thoughts began to turn towards where would serve as their next campsite, where else they could search while they still had daylight left to them, if they ought to chance visiting Falkreath to refresh their supplies since the city was barely a day’s ride from them. Solen felt a faint bite of restlessness as he watched heavy clouds drape over the Jerall peaks. Much longer searching like this and they’d be looking for the Glade in prewinter snowfall. The short days of autumn were only getting shorter.

The uneventful afternoon became slightly more interesting when Fiirnaraan majestically reappeared above the watering hole, making the young Dawnguard operatives yelp and the horses throw up their heads with fright. “Hello,” said the Dragon, without the least sympathy. “I have made a discovery.”

Illia’s annoyed expression veered sharply into hope. “You found it?”

“Perhaps,” said Fiirnaraan, coyly, and all indignance within the party vanished on the spot. He nibbled delicately on the claw of his wing thumb. “I grew hungry, and went looking for goats. The wind blew me off-course, and I missed my lunge.”

“Nevermind that,” said Irileth impatiently. “The Glade, Dragon, where is it?”

“Irileth,” Solen warned.

The Dunmer gusted a sigh and crossed her arms. Right, right – you couldn’t hasten answers from these creatures. “Sorry. Go on.”

Fiirnaraan’s flattened frills popped back open. “I chased the goat. I was still very hungry, and did not want to find another. It led me high into the mountains, and into a cave. It did not seem like a cave from the outside, but when I looked inside, there was a tunnel, and the goat did not come out.”

“It wasn’t just another troll den, was it?” Agmaer asked tentatively. “I’d rather not endure that surprise again.”

“No, little joor, I do not think it was a troll den. The smell inside was sweet, scented of summer flowers, and its air was warm.”

“Where can we find the cave?” asked Aela, already poised on the balls of her feet.

Fiirnaraan arched his neck and nodded at the mountain slopes straight to the south. “The goats have made a trail up the mountain slope. I followed it down. The trail begins half a mile back where you have already walked.”

Irileth yanked out her map. “But we checked there already… Dragon, are you certain it is the Glade?”

“Oh, yes,” said Fiirnaraan, against even the Housecarl’s expectation. “It is most certainly the Glade.”

“Just from the scents?” said Solen incredulously.

“Oh, no, Dovahkiin. From the hole in the top.” Fiirnaraan stretched out one green-patterned wing. “In the mountaintop was a hole big enough for me to put my head through. It was like an egg inside, warm and full of life. A little forest, fluttering with moths.”

~

Aela still insisted on travelling ahead to the hopeful cavern, to spare them the arduous climb up a frigid mountainside with night descending just in case if Fiirnaraan might be mistaken. The others were left waiting and madly anxious in the greener hills below, daring to wonder if their search had finally ended. As the sun set, they almost started to hope that the cave was not the hidden glade; already they shivered and stamped in their boots to stay warm, and thoughts turned longingly towards blankets and a fire.

Just before moonrise, Aela’s wolflike howl climbed down the Jeralls into their ears, and that was that. They didn’t dare risk any delay now.

In single file they gingerly led their burly horses up the narrow, snow-sown trails eked out by the mountain denizens, heads buried in scarves, squinting through frosted eyelashes against the pitiless wind. Halfway up, the brooding snowstorm Solen had spotted earlier broke over them in earnest, lashing them with snow. Solen, leading the way, could soon hardly pick out the trailmarks Aela had left for them. But he didn’t dare risk a Shout – the vampires might be searching for the cavern too, but no need to flag them along.

They passed below a rocky overhang, and the path blessedly widened out a bit, and the snow plunged by them in less severe curtains. Aela waited for them outside, her eyes aglow with wonder. “This is the place,” she said, before the four snow-coated mountaineers had even had a chance to pull the scarves off their faces. “I looked inside. It’s… it’s brilliant. Solen, it’s like the cave of the Eldergleam all over again.”

“What?” Agmaer spluttered. “That place is real?”

“The Gildergreen cutting had to come from somewhere, didn’t it?” Solen shook the snow from his hair and stepped in front of the cave mouth. It was a remarkably unremarkable entrance, barely large enough to even permit him. “You sure, Aela? I’ve seen Draugr holes with more grandeur.”

“Surely even you can smell it,” said the Huntress indignantly, “or hear it.” At Solen’s shrug, she looked beseechingly among the others. “Seriously? None of you?”

“I hear it,” sniffed Fiirnaraan. The Blood Dragon was settled among the cluster of rocks above them, his sinuous body pressed tightly into what shelter they offered from the wind. “Perhaps they simply are not trying hard enough.”

“All right, we don’t all have your ears, you showoffs. Anyone have a torch?”

The frigid mountainside vanished behind them as they filed into the tight tunnel. Height didn’t often have disadvantages, Solen thought, as his head bounced off the sloping roof yet again, but this was assuredly one of those times. Then the tunnel widened, and their flickering torches outlined a dry cavern full of growth. Bracken, tussock grass, small trees.

“All right,” said Solen, unamazed, as the others filled out around him. “Not exactly what I’d call an Ancestor Glade… But sure, it’s warmer in here.”

“This isn’t the Glade, icebrain.” Aela slipped past him and showed them to another tunnel, a shorter one, at the far end of the cave. An odd glow emanated from it, much too soft and steady to be firelight. “Go on,” she prompted, so Solen stepped through first…

…and nearly dropped his torch as he entered the far larger chamber on the other side. “Oh. Oh. I get it now, Aela. This is definitely like the Eldergleam cave.”

The Glade wasn’t as big as that hidden slice of paradise deep below Eastmarch’s steaming tundra, but it was no less beautiful. Eked into the stony flesh of the mountain was a tiny, vibrant forest valley of brooding conifers, yet scattered among the cliffs were trees of an almost deciduous appearance, with pale incandescent leaves that shimmered pink and gold and silver as if enchanted with some ageless magic, each one giving off a soft glow. The marvellous forest sloped steadily downhill into gently gurgling hot pools. A decidedly unnatural formation of dolmen stones stood timeless attendance, and old stone steps led down to the pools, the only traces of mortal precedence to be found within this chamber frozen in time. Centering the warm pools was an island of pale flattened stones and a single enchanted tree, a natural dais illuminated by a column of light, descending from the oculus Fiirnaraan had earlier peered through from above. The whole grand chamber shimmered with moths.

“Well,” said Irileth, as she and the similarly gobsmacked Dawnguard entered the cavern, “this is a sight, all right.”

Aela extended her hand as a curious moth, as broad as her palm with wings patterned in hues of humble brown, delicately fluttered around her finger. “It’s beautiful in here,” she said, motionless as the moth’s feathery body fumbled for a foothold. “It’s like the world is young again.”

Solen briefly wondered how in all his years clambering around the Jeralls he’d never found this place before. He turned to remark as much to Rayya, then remembered her absence, and why, and how he’d learned why – and suddenly the urgency of the mission reminded itself. “LAAS,” he whispered, and almost regretted it as his vision filled with a million red stars. Insect auras were tiny – just how many moths were there?! At least there were none bigger than them, aside from his and his companions’; reassured that they had indeed found the Ancestor Glade before Gendolin and his vampires, Solen prompted, “So, what did Dexion say we needed to do here? Had we come along with the Scrolls.”

Illia and Agmaer volunteered to charter the cavern while Irileth, Aela and Solen pieced together the Moth Priest’s instructions between themselves. “So, assuming those are the Canticle Trees and not very convincing red herrings,” Solen concluded, pointing out the obviously magical trees, “and that all the bugs flying around are the sacred Ancestor Moths, the last ingredient we need is a Draw Knife. It ought to be hiding in a chest or something, special old artifacts always are. They’re usually guarded, so be careful, I’m sure there’s some primitive guardian we have to overcome tucked away somewhere –”

“There’s some sort of tool floating in the donut rock down on the dais –it looks like a draw knife?” Illia reported, returning with Agmaer, and completely taking the wind out of Solen’s sails.

“So much for a treasure hunt,” said Aela, after they gathered around the solitary holed-out dolmen on the light-lit dais, where indeed the Draw Knife hung floating in its own little halo of aureate importance. “Sorry, Solen, I know that’s your favourite part. Now what?”

“Hide it,” said Agmaer immediately. “If the vampires find it –”

“We want them to find it,” said Irileth sharply.

“Er, do we?” said Solen, of a mind with the young Nord.

Irileth sighed at them both. “We plan to ambush Gendolin and the Elder Scrolls here, don’t we? He’ll only be tipped off to a trap if he arrives in a supposedly undiscovered chamber and finds the Draw Knife gone.”

“But does he even know of the ritual, ma’am?” asked Illia.

“Oh, he’ll know,” Irileth scowled. “That vampire is anything but an idiot; he won’t throw away a Moth Priest in a hurry.”

“Then it’s all the more reason to hide the knife,” Solen said, with unexpected temper. “We can’t afford him the slightest chance to use them.”

Irileth looked at him evenly, and the previous night seemed to flash in their eyes. “You’re a hunter,” she said. “Tell me, when you’re tracking a deer, when’s the best time to make your shot?”

Aela answered when Solen did not. “When it lowers its guard.”

“And when will his guard be lowest?”

Solen, unhappily, cottoned on to Irileth’s suggestion. “When he’s performing the Ritual.”

“Right.” The Housecarl set her hand on her swordhilt. “I know it’s risky, but the last thing Gendolin will expect is someone to attack him when he thinks he’s triumphed. There’s no telling what the Ritual will even do to him, if Moth Priests supposedly struggle with it. It could weaken him, blind him if we’re lucky – but it’ll certainly distract him. Whatever he learns from the Scrolls is going to do fetch-all for him if he’s dead.”

Solen eyed the floating Draw Knife uneasily. The last thing he wanted was to let another ancient artifact fall into that wretched villain’s hands – but yes, he could argue Irileth’s plan had some sense to it, if it only didn’t bring them upon such a wretched knife-edge of victory or defeat.

But it could work. It had to work. He’d been so disoriented after reading one Elder Scroll in the Time-Wound that he’d barely realized Alduin had been hovering over his head when he’d popped back into his appropriate Era. Reading two of them, Ritual or not, surely had to knock even a vampire lord flat on his back.

“All right,” Solen said, and put his reluctance aside. “Scroll-baiting it is.”

Aela flicked Irileth a respectful nod. “You’re a natural at the hunt. Being a Housecarl was wasted on you.”

Irileth rested her hand on the broken sword. “In another life, Huntress, in another land. Let’s reconvene with the Dragon. We need to figure out how to get Gendolin up the mountain without giving ourselves away before our food runs out.”

Chapter Text

After a short discussion in the biting cold, it was decided that Solen, Irileth and Illia would remain within the Glade to await Gendolin’s arrival. Agmaer would be sent down the mountain with the horses to hide them and keep watch for the awaited foe, while Fiirnaraan and Aela worked on luring them into the trap.

Their remaining rations would last a week, sparingly. Solen hoped it wouldn’t be that long. He wasn’t sure how long he could stand the waiting.

The Ancestor Glade was comfortable, and beautiful, and when dawn arrived the whole chamber filled with radiance as the light from the oculus shifted from blue to silver to gold – but an ageless cavern could only amuse anyone for so long. Having combed its every corner – and confirming beyond any doubt that there was no treasure chest or primeval guardian – Solen permanently subsided to the ledge from which he and Irileth planned to ambush. Overgrown in swathes of bracken and flowers whose scents disguised their own, it offered a perfect vantage of the dais below, where one presumably conducted the Ritual within the rather obnoxious pillar of light.

“It’s almost a shame, isn’t it?” Solen asked, as they watched the last of the evening light diminish from the tranquil chamber. “This corner of Skyrim has probably never known a fight.”

“All things are born in blood and fire, Solen.” Irileth watched an Ancestor Moth settle on the tip of her crossbow. “But I know what you mean.”

Solen thought for a moment. “Socks.”

“…What?”

“Socks aren’t born in blood and fire. Nor are cloaks. Or good boots.”

“It’s… I… Damn it, Solen, I meant this cavern, before the trees and the moths! I meant us! Animals! People!”

“I know, but still. Not all things, right?”

“Just shut up.”

“Aye, Housecarl.”

The second night passed, the second morning dawned. Solen whiled away the hours largely in thought. He wondered if Rayya would have liked this place. She enjoyed a nice forest well enough, but she didn’t really find the same joy in it that he did, in trees and ferns and growing things. No, she loved the lure of the open road, the expanse of plain and the vastness of the sky. She loved mountains and deserts, the vast things that daunted most others. She loved the sun on her back and the feel of a perfectly balanced blade.

And me, Solen supposed, which seemed an acceptable assumption to make as her lawfully wedded husband. It was still sometimes a bit of a dream to him, that such a woman as she had chosen to give her heart to him.

His smile wandered away. And I’ve gone and stuck her in Whiterun. Where she’d be safe, sure, but apart from him with a maybe-baby in her belly. Guiltily Solen realized that he hadn’t written to Rayya or even thought about sending word to her. He ought to have after that council in Fort Dawnguard – start up a line of communication, send them with the travelling Dawnguard operatives for safety – and then the messenger had come from Gendolin, and everything had changed. How long had it been since that night in Fort Kastav? One month? Two? Had she kept it? Had she already returned to the field? Was she looking for him?

He ran his hands across his face and heaved a sigh through his fingers. I wonder if my own parents ever worried like this when they had me and Cennion. He scoffed at such a notion almost immediately. Yeah, right. My existence was probably never even anticipated. I doubt any parent expects twins.

Oh, Morwha. What if Rayya has twins?

“Solen, are you all right? Do you have a cold?”

“Hm? Oh, no, I’m fine.” Solen glanced over at Illia, who’d wandered over from her own ambush point, stretching her limbs. “Just disobeying Aela a little bit.”

Irileth sighed sharply and rolled over. “Haven’t you been over this half a hundred times already?”

“It’s not exactly the sort of thing you just set aside – maybe being a father.”

Irileth considered him. “No, I suppose not. Not a mer your age, anyway.”

“Er,” said Illia, looking as cautious as all humans did when approaching the topic of elves and aging, “When do your kind… usually, erm, consider?”

“Well, with Altmer, usually no earlier than a hundred or so –” Illia made an odd noise. “– and I’m still well under that mark.” Here it came again, the crises of mortality. Solen grimaced and ran his fingers through his ridge of hair. “But I never intended to. Neither of us did, and then the unthinkable happened and we both hesitated to say no… Frankly I wasn’t even sure I could. Being the ‘Last’ Dragonborn and all sort of suggested…”

“Oh, since when have you ever been what anyone expected?” said Irileth impatiently. “It’s pointless distracting yourself with what you don’t know, man.”

“Easy for you to say. You can’t just wake up one day realizing you put a bun in someone else’s oven.”

“I’m not exactly in a position to do that, no.”

“But if she’s kept it – if I will be a father –”

“Then you’ll be a father, and a good one,” said Illia earnestly. “Seriously, you knew what my mother was like, and you can’t turn out worse than her.”

“Can’t I? She raised you, and you turned out decent.”

“Take it as a compliment, then. If a homicidal old hag can raise a kid then I’m certain the bane of the World-Eater can manage it.”

Well, put that way… Solen dropped his arms back down beside him. “That’s oddly encouraging. Thanks, Illia.”

Irileth looked curiously between them, and Illia shrugged sheepishly. “It’s, er, a bit of a long story. Then again, I guess we have time for it… Or maybe not,” she finished, as the rattle of brushed bracken and running feet suddenly reached their ears. Solen and Irileth sat up sharply, all their idle cares forgotten. Aela had returned.

The Huntress was breathless – she must’ve sprinted up the mountain, snow still clung to her armour and hair as she staggered to a halt below the ledge. “They’re on their way,” she gasped, when she’d snared a few gulps of air. “Four of them. Gendolin too. And don’t ask me where he found the third one, I don’t know.”

“The third one?” Solen echoed, as Illia hurried back to her position. “The third what?”

“Scroll, Solen.” Aela held his dumbfounded gaze. “He’s bringing three of them.”

~

For an hour the Companions and Dawnguard lying in ambush strained their eyes and ears upon the singular entrance into the Ancestor Glade. Despite their anticipation, the vampires arrived so quietly that the sudden pulses of their voices was almost a shock.

Solen tensed as Gendolin’s voice, crisp and slimily courteous as ever, resonated gently from the entrance into the Glade. “Watch the exit. I don’t want any interruptions.”

An assent was murmured, and the bright-eyed shadows in the doorway shifted. Into the Glade, hued serenely in the blues of night, stepped Gendolin, almost indistinguishable from the shadows until he lowered his cowl. His pale face and silver hair glowed like the moth wings, strangely beautiful, his lambent eyes ablaze. Two Elder Scrolls hung under his cloak, and Solen silently tightened his grip on his bow. It would be so easy to draw the arrow to his cheek, to loose it, to end it all right now…

Yet Gendolin wasn’t alone. Suddenly a woman manifested beside him, black-haired and pale as ice, swathed in red and black raiment, and the third Elder Scroll across her back.

Solen’s eyes widened in a peculiar mingling of astonishment and recognition. The woman. In all the excitement and dread of learning the vampires had attained an Elder Scroll from under their noses, he’d quite forgotten who had been the one to ferry it to their lair at all. Two had left Dimhollow Crypt, Fiirnaraan had reported all those months ago…

“Look at this place.” Her amazement was unhidden as she led the way along the path. “No one’s been here in centuries. I doubt there’s any other place like it in Skyrim, Gendolin. It’s… beautiful.”

“In Skyrim, perhaps so.” Gendolin extended a hand as a moth fluttered to rest in his palm. “But this is a cold and stale land. Valenwood, now… every grove teems with life, and the trees tower as tall as these lifeless mountains.”

The woman gave a short laugh. “I suppose you’re right. There’s probably groves like this all over Tamriel. Most people just don’t even know what to look for.” She looked back – the Elder Scroll across her shoulders glinted as it caught a gleam of moonlight. “I never asked… do you miss it, Valenwood?”

“Sometimes.” Gendolin watched the moth flutter on. “Life was simpler there, before the call.” He held her gaze and smiled. “But destiny has a way of uplifting you beyond simplicity, lady Serana.”

“Don’t remind me,” she snorted, and looked down to the dais below. “Well, seems like everything in this chamber leads down to… whatever that is. I’m guessing that’s where we actually do the Ritual.”

With a silent tread they descended to the steaming pools and the skylit dais, oblivious to their watchers crouched among the cliffs. Aela growled softly beside him, the way she did when there was a complication. “There’s only two,” Solen murmured, barely above a breath. “Honestly it’s better than we could’ve hoped for.”

“Is it?” Her silver eyes flashed. “She’s no fledgling. She smells like him. Down to the bone.”

A vampire lord, she meant, and Solen grimly returned his gaze to the two vampires below. So, their ambush had become that much more dangerous.

“You can smell it?” Irileth whispered in disbelief.

Aela ran her tongue over her itching teeth. “I never forget a scent, or a taste.” She shifted imperceptibly, raising her flattened bow by a hair. “When it’s time, I’ll take the doe, Solen. You, the stag.”

“More like a yearling buck,” Solen grumbled, but returned his gaze to the dais below, his every nerve aflame with the intensity of the hunt. This was something he’d known far longer than the battlefire of the warrior, and his eyes drank in his prey’s every motion as they waded through the steaming pools and closed around the donut rock. Gendolin withdrew the Drawing Knife, turned it over in his gloved fingers, ponderously approached the Canticle Tree growing alongside the dais. Gendolin scraped a cutting of bark from the trunk, and Serana exclaimed with surprise and delight as the nearest moths sped to him, fluttering madly in a glimmering cloud. Gendolin raised his arms and seemed amused – he seemed to be glowing a little more brightly than before, as if the moths had shared some of their shimmering radiance. As more moths descended to lend to their wings to the aura, the odd glow around him brightened.

“I’m glad it’s him and not me,” Solen muttered, as Gendolin became quite lost beneath a swirling cloak of frenzied moths. “I’d have sneezed long before now.”

“Hush.” Irileth was taut as a bowstring as the glimmering crowd moved into the beam of light.

Gendolin took down the two Scrolls on his back and looked down at them, as if apprehensive. As you should be, Solen scowled resentfully. I hope your brain goes to pudding. “I think,” the vampire finally said, “it must be all three at once.”

“At once? But you have no idea what they’ll do.”

“I don’t.” Gendolin motioned for the woman to remove the Scroll on her back. “But I fancy my chances.”

Serana sounded dubious as Gendolin passed her one of the Scrolls and took up position in the beam of light. “Luck doesn’t last forever, you know. Just… be careful.”

“Ahh, my dear, whenever haven’t I been? Fear not. We will learn how to stop your lord father.”

Lord father? Solen’s brow furrowed. Stop?

There was no time left for thought – Gendolin unrolled the Elder Scroll, and the chamber suddenly flashed with light.

Solen instinctively thrust his face against the grassy soil, but it wasn’t a scorching light, nor a blinding one – just a bright and ethereal glow, as if a moon had pressed its eye into the cavern. Gendolin was barely discernible in the light; he stood immobile as a statue. Even from afar, Solen saw his eyes pulled wide, his mouth slackjawed, frozen as if spelled. Ruptga, I hope I didn’t look like that when I read it.

Gendolin’s hands fell away, and the Elder Scroll slipped from his numbed fingers, but the light remained, wavering as if underwater. Groping, he reached out for the second Scroll – Serana, grimacing, passed it into his hands. Swiftly he opened it and the light intensified, swallowing up his body entirely. The very air around him seemed to warp, as if sliding through ice, fragmenting. Like a Time-Wound. Solen shielded his eyes, every bone in his body quivering. Watching it was almost as bad as doing it.

Gendolin moved like he was half awake for the third Scroll, and he opened it as if it took every ounce of strength he had left in him. As the light swelled to finally become blinding, and Solen and the others sheltered their faces in the soothing dark of their elbows, he heard it for the first time. The music of the Ancestor Moths, fragile and beautiful as insect wings, humming into a wondrous chorus that wandered beyond the course of the sun and stars…

Gingerly Solen raised his eyes as the song went silent. The cavern’s gentle illumination had returned, and the moths had dissipated; not a single one was seen fluttering anywhere in the cavern. Gendolin stood wavering as if not all there, the Elder Scrolls closed and glinting forgotten by his feet. Serana darted forward and took his elbow. “Gendolin – can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Gendolin dazedly looked her way, blinked, and opened his mouth to answer.

A noise like stricken timber cracked through the chamber as the heavy dragonbone bow let forth. Solen’s arrow crashed into Gendolin like a thunderbolt and set him spinning to the ground.

Aela’s and Irileth’s projectiles were a second behind – by then Serana had thrown up a ward, blue magic unfolding from her fingers. Aela’s arrow went wide, but Irileth’s punched through, biting her shoulder. Then the chamber was roaring; leapt to standing, Illia’s fireball hurtled from her outstretched palms. The dais vanished in a storm of scorching light; the glittering Elder Scrolls were knocked rolling by the force.

By then Solen had thrown himself out of cover, ripping another arrow from his quiver. His roar of rage might as well have been a Shout. “GENDOLIN!” The next one definitely was. “WULD NAH KEST!”

The sloping path to the dais abruptly shortened; the stone island appeared under Solen’s boots, blasted with soot. The Canticle Tree was smouldering, its trunk blasted raw by the magefire. Serana swung around the trunk, snarling, the bolt already pulled from her shoulder, her hands aglow with ice that launched at him in a frozen spear. Solen dodged the first cast, slipped on the wet rocks and staggered – before Serana could cast her second spear, Aela’s arrow whistled through her arm, and the vampire leapt back defensively, barely avoiding Irileth’s second bolt.

The ice swirling in Serana’s hand switched to lightning – Solen flung himself behind the Canticle Tree, and the bolt shore off a chunk of the trunk. But she wasn’t his target. Gendolin sprawled below the dais half-out of a steaming pool, clutching the arrow that had landed a finger-width below his heart. I was that close? Lucky bastard.

“Looks like your prophecy came early.” Solen threw the bow aside. “Only I don’t intend to lose.”

Gendolin hissed as he ripped the barbed arrow from his body. “That’s the spirit, Dragonborn. Show me your power.”

“Seriously?” Eldródr leapt from the scabbard. “That’s why you’re doing this? Power?”

The vampire lord was on his feet before the greatsword had finished its first lunging swing. The silver blade flashed from his hip into his right hand, the dagger whirling into his left. “Come now, Solenarren. You and I know that’s such a banal reason to do anything.”

The shallow water thrashed around their boots. The first clash was a telling one – Solen’s strength was the greater, his blade the broader, and by far he was the taller, but Gendolin was like smoke and water, curling and flowing around him just as he had before. “Why, then?” Solen snarled between every sweeping strike. “Jealousy? Vengeance? Drunken dare? Bragging rights over my head? Why in the name of the Tricky God are you doing all this?”

Gendolin laughed. “You’re getting closer, Dragonborn.” Without warning he leaned into the offensive, the silvery sword neatly deflecting the bite of the dragonbone blade.

But Solen had brooded long over their first encounter; as the silver blade turned his sweep aside, and the dagger lunged into the opening to probe the joins of his armour, Solen twisted his grip, reversing the slice – Eldródr came down suddenly, averting the dagger’s path so forcefully that it spiralled from Gendolin’s grasp and clattered against one of the standing stones nearby.

The vampire disengaged and smiled. “Not bad, Solenarren.” His empty hand reached out beckoning, a rusty glow in his fingers – the disarmed dagger was pulled back into his waiting grasp. “You’re learning.”

Solen’s grin widened beneath his helmet. “Always.”

“This still will end poorly for you.”

“You sure about that?”

“Gendolin!” Serana warned, spinning a ward to catch Illia’s firebolt – Irileth and Aela were pelting down the hill.

“Don’t let him turn!” the Huntress bellowed, pulling the arrow to her cheek mid-stride. Gendolin sprang back from the shot, then again from Irileth’s bolt, leaping back onto the dais out of the water.

“Ah, so this is the reason for an unheroic ambush?” Gendolin leered. “You fear me. You fear my power. Or do you hunger for it?”

“No. We’re just not stupid.” Solen stepped up onto the island and moved Eldródr to cleaving readiness. “Unlike you, we don’t like to take chances.”

“Is that so? You let me read the Scrolls, and now you have accomplished nothing sending me a poisoned Moth Priest – I have all the knowledge I need to assure my victory.” Gendolin’s lips quirked mockingly. “Are you already so tired of playing the heroic role?”

“I’m whatever Skyrim needs me to be,” Solen growled, his promise to Dexion humming in his ears, “and right now Skyrim needs you dead. YOL TOOR SHUL!”

The plume of roiling dragonfire barrelled forward in an ever-expanding wave – Gendolin seized Serana’s arm, and both vampires plunged into mist before the inferno claimed them. They reformed a short distance from the dais, the steaming water ankle-high around them. The Canticle Tree could perform no such evasion, and the tree went up in a brilliant and tragic conflagration, and an eerie light shimmered over the hot pools.

“Well, dead-er,” Solen amended, as he, Aela and the Dawnguard operatives closed in on them from all corners of the compass.

Gendolin’s eyes wandered almost languidly between them all. “It seems we must discuss my learnings here later, my dear,” he said, as Aela and Irileth set fresh projectiles to their bows. “Depart this place, Serana. I won’t see your blood spilled to these fools.”

Serana looked at him sharply. “What about the Scrolls?”

“Leave them. I have what we need from them.”

“Don’t go getting the lady’s hopes up, now.” Solen shifted his grip on the swordhilt, the Shout poised in his throat. “There’s nowhere left to run this time, Gendolin.” Not from them. Not from me.

Gendolin bared his fangs in a ravenous smile. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere yet.”

Irileth raised her crossbow, then staggered with a curse of pain as a bolt of lightning lanced down on her back from the other end of the cavern. The two vampiric sentries in the antechamber had been drawn into the fight and were gaining ground with unnatural rapidity upon the two marksmen. Aela, sighting down Serana’s neck, switched targets as the Dunmer staggered. Her arrow sent one of the vampires tumbling, though not dead. The other vanished into mist and reformed lunging like a beast over her head, fangs and talons bared – only to be blasted out of the sky and into a tree by Illia’s well-placed lightning bolt.

Gendolin had already lunged forward as the Ancestor Glade exploded into an all-out brawl. Solen leapt back, Eldródr moving in a defensive arc as shortsword and dagger dived boldly for his neck. The vampire lord’s attacks had switched from probing strokes into a dazzling, unceasing flurry, swirling from every angle, refusing to give Solen a chance to draw breath.

But he couldn’t sustain such an assault, not like a Companion could – Solen stepped into the opening and dealt Gendolin such a hefty blow with the flat of his blade that it threw the Bosmer across the room. He landed lightly, cat-like, on the tips of his feet – the dagger suddenly vanished from his hand as Solen lunged after him.

Oh, no you don’t. “FEIM!” he barked, and the knot of emerald-green magic that had once been his undoing passed harmlessly through his chest. Solen roared as he closed the distance in three long strides, becoming corporeal as Eldródr sung over his head in an executioner’s arc –

– and into empty air. Gendolin had vanished. “Mages,” Solen snorted, then, “LAAS!” Gendolin’s red aura leapt out at him immediately – he’d sprung back onto the island, arm pulled back to cast. “WULD!” Solen shot out of the spell’s path, throwing up a plume of water under his feet as he slashed aside, heard it crash and sizzle well in his wake. “TIID!”

At once the world pulsed slightly bluish and slowed to a snail’s crawl. Solen rarely used the Slow Time Shout – mainly because it wasn’t exactly fair – but it was certainly useful for regaining his bearings in battle. Still, it was like wading through treacle as he ran doggedly forward for Gendolin, whose fingers were slowly splaying as they generated another spell – by the violent red colour amid the black swirls, the signature Drain Life cantrip of all Volkihar. Solen glanced around him as he ran – Irileth was on her feet, her face distorted with a terrifying snarl, her crossbow thrown aside, both her untarnished longsword and the broken blade brought to bear against her vampiric opponent. Across from her Illia was holding her own against the other of Gendolin’s lackeys, who judging by his frizzled state wouldn’t be much longer for the world. Serana had vanished, Aela too – in pursuit?

The roar in his ears forewarned his Shout’s collapse – time sped up, and Gendolin had the decency to look astonished as Solen’s greatsword hewed across his nightblack armour. The blow connected mightily, and he actually cried out with pain as he was sent skidding into the shattered remnant of the donut rock.

The ivory edge of Eldródr’s blade hissed with a shimmer of fire and a glitter of blood. Gendolin pressed a hand against the great rent across his chest. “Look at that,” he said. “All that for a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t open you up rib to shoulder, you twerp,” said Solen impatiently. “That’s a slice. Now shut up and look afraid.”

“Afraid?” Gendolin, panting, staggered up against the dolmen stone. “Now why should I be afraid?”

“Because you’ve made me angry, Gendolin, in ways that few ever manage to make me.” Aela and Rayya, bloody and exhausted under Fiirnaraan’s wing – Vilkas and Njada, dangling like corpses – the starving Dragon with gaunt and senseless eyes – all of it played in his mind as Solen stalked forward. “So I wouldn’t smile if I were you.”

Yet Gendolin continued to do so. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m honoured.” His smile didn’t waver a jot as Illia blasted off one vampire’s head with a hideous squeal, and Irileth disembowelled the other with a sickening squelch and a suspicious level of professionalism.

“You really don’t get it, do you? You had a good run, but now you’re out of luck.”

Gendolin’s eyes flashed. “Not if you make your own.”

The gash across Gendolin’s chest darkened like ink and seemed to flip him inside out – an unexpectedly potent sense of revulsion forced Solen back, even as urgency propelled him forward – then Gendolin was gone, and something else stood, no, hovered in his place, towering and clawed and ghastly, the true monstrous form of the vampire lord revealed. It fit Aela’s description word for word.

But it wasn’t an it – it had Gendolin’s eyes, and Gendolin’s smile, and Gendolin’s voice as the chickenbone-wings stretched over his back suddenly snapped open into three-fingered fans that pulled the bloodless membrane taut. “Now, what was it that you said, Dragonborn? To be silent, and be afraid?”

“Afraid? Of that?” Solen echoed, all incredulity. “You really got the short end of the stick with that Daedric bargain, huh? Swapping that pretty countenance for a face only a mother could love.”

Gendolin’s violently red eyes suddenly darkened. “So. You wish to speak of mothers, do you?”

It happened in an instant. Irileth’s crossbow barked, Illia’s firebolt roared; neither attack made any mark upon his skin. Gendolin’s clawed hands splayed, then curled, pulsing with burnt orange light – the two Dawnguard were wrenched writhing into Gendolin’s hands, as if attached to his fingers by string, then sent hurtling through the cavern with a pulsing blast, flung with brutal disdain from Gendolin’s grasp. Solen swung in dismay as the thuds of their bodies striking the ground hit his ears, and felt as if a noose had tightened round his neck. The first rule the Companions had ever clobbered into him – never look away from the enemy – exploded too late behind his eyes. The ground vanished under his feet as he was dragged towards the vampire lord by his neck.

He had a brief glimpse of a huge clawed hand curled back to strike, and then the world whitened with a pulse of pain. A dim sensation of soaring, and then the wind was unceremoniously exiled from his lungs as he struck ground then water in a graceless tumble. His cracked helmet shot off his head and splashed off somewhere in the shallow hot springs.

“Congratulations. You touched a nerve.” Gendolin landed noiselessly on the dais, every fang bared in his ghoulish head. “Know only that you took her from me, Solen. Perhaps I will return the favour.”

“Y’know what? Go right ahead.” Solen wiped the blood from his nose and groped for Eldródr’s hilt in the warm water. “Maybe she’ll like your eyes better than mine.”

“Perhaps your woman, then.” Gendolin’s grin returned at the stiffening of Solen’s shoulders. “Rayya. It’s why she isn’t here, isn’t it?”

Something exceptionally draconian twisted abruptly up Solen’s spine, levering him back to his feet. What pain had been inflicted was at once forgotten. “I’ll say this once, and once only. Keep her name out of your filthy mouth.”

“You can’t protect her name,” Gendolin leered. “Or her flesh.”

Solen’s eyes flashed with fire. “Watch me. MUL QAH DIIV!”

This Shout always felt like the return of an old friend as it became manifest, his very immortal soul called into the mortal world for all to see. It gilded him in a scintillating conflagration of gold and red, silver and blue, wrapping his body in a coat of ethereal scales and horns, swirling him in tendrils of brilliant light. The thunder of the Thu’um ached celebrant in his every bone, and coursing through his flesh was all the joy of wind and sunlight. It was, Solen knew, the closest he might ever become to really being a Dragon, and he couldn’t help but smile at the exhilaration – a grin that only widened as the vampire lord recoiled, his fanged visage aglow with wonder of the Dragon Aspect. You’re not the only one who gets to transform, Gendolin.

“I told you,” Solen boomed, and swung Eldródr behind him, “I don’t intend to lose. FUS RO DAH!”

Empowered by the Aspect, the wholly unbridled might of the full Unrelenting Force Shout slammed into Gendolin like a sledgehammer, and it was with no small degree of delight that Solen watched the monstrosity go flying across the cavern. Although he wondered how the vampire lord hadn’t disintegrated, to have received the Thu’um in full at such close proximity –

Without warning the batlike wings flared open and the vampire lord righted himself mid-descent. Gendolin whirled back towards the dais, very much conscious and un-concussed. “Oh, come on!” Solen exclaimed, as much indignant as alarmed. “Not even a bloody nose?”

All too suddenly Gendolin loomed over him, claws splayed. Solen lunged to meet him, his greatsword swinging – and missing. The vampire lord was blurringly fast, and Solen stumbled as those hefty claws once lunging for his face now raked hard across his back. But the Aspect held, tough as an Ancient Dragon’s hide; Solen snared his momentum and turned his stagger into a backswing. Eldródr’s tip barely missed Gendolin’s hip as the vampire lord retreated out of range.

Yet no sooner had Solen drawn breath to Shout when Gendolin abruptly flashed forward, and this time the outcome of a melee favoured Gendolin; longer-limbed, towering over Solen’s head, he showered the Altmer in a tireless and brutal flurry, talons slashing down, over and over, so fast and brutal that Solen could barely find an opening to breathe, let alone Shout or get out of his reach. He fell on the defensive, trying to snatch a window, any window to counter or disengage before the monster’s buffeting blows wore him down –

A bestial roar split the Glade in two, and Aela hurled herself into the fight with claws and fangs of her own. Gendolin leapt back into flight like a singed cat, and Aela reared onto her hind limbs and roared again in challenge. “And where in Morwha’s baskets have you been?” Solen panted behind her, gratefully seizing the reprieve to catch his breath.

“Went after the other one.” But her fangs and claws were clean, and Aela was in a roaring temper. She’d lost the prey.

Recovered, Solen moved to her burly shoulder. “I won’t tell Rayya if you won’t. We’re meant to be shield-siblings, you know.”

“Oh, are we?” Her hoarse growl was full of reproach. “Was that why you went thundering in without me earlier?”

“Er…”

Gendolin’s elegant laugh was entirely out of place in his monstrous shell. “No interruptions, Solenarren. This is between us, not your dog.” His fingers curled and splayed, aglow with burnt orange light. Aela yelped and dug in her claws as his grip closed over her fur –

But at last, Solen’s Thu’um was faster. “VEN GAAR NOS!”

There was a good reason why the Cyclone Shout was one of Solen’s all-time favourites. Not only was a towering tornado shredding leaves and branches an impressive spectacle to summon whether he was underground or over, but the absolute chaos it wreaked on the unsuspecting foe was sheerly delightful. The Thu’um launched the twister like an arrow loosed, and not even Gendolin could refuse its suction; his wings buckled like wet paper as he was sucked into the vortex, and Solen grinned. Gets ‘em every time.

Gendolin was spat out a moment later as the cyclone roared on and dissipated against the far wall; robbed of his wind, he landed gracelessly on one of his wings. Aela’s ears pricked at the snapping of bone, and she threw herself upon the downed vampire lord.

Her howl of savage glee shrilled to a whimper as Gendolin lashed out and sliced her muzzle open. Twisted red magic pulsated like a living thing around his fingers, tethering to Aela’s gashes and devouring the life it found within. Even as the broken finger of Gendolin’s wing straightened, glutted upon the stolen life force, Solen’s Thu’um carried him forward. The greatsword came down with every ounce of strength in Solen’s arms – such a strike could shear off heads and splinter bone – and yet it didn’t bite deeper than half a finger-length into Gendolin’s flesh. Was the enchantment running out?

Still, it was enough to shift Gendolin’s attention back to him, and Solen swung under another crashing blow across his Aspect-enhanced armour. Gods, he was quick! He staggered back and Gendolin stretched to his full height, arm drawn back, the repulsive knot of draining magic in his hand condensed and brightening. But the Shout was already on Solen’s tongue. “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

Somewhere in the firestorm roared a fell beast in pain. Aela shook the blood from her muzzle and snarled gladly as Gendolin fell to a knee, his skin charred, his wings stiff and smouldering over his shoulders. She refrained the temptation of approach – the wounded beast was far more dangerous than the whole, and life still flourished in the vampire’s eyes.

“It might’ve slipped your mind, in whatever schemes you’ve been brewing,” said Solen, shifting the greatsword, “that fighting winged monsters is my specialty, Gendolin. I can do this all night.”

“Of course you can.” The vampire’s voice betrayed no sense of pain. His arm moved suddenly. Solen and Aela leapt back reflexively from a spell anticipated, but the bruised purple light in his palm only slashed a rent in the air. The conjuration plunged free of the veil – a gargoyle, identical to the bat-faced counterparts Solen had seen in Dimhollow Crypt, except that this one was thoroughly alive. Its high-pitched squeal raked at their ears as it barrelled forward – not at Solen, but Aela, grappling the werewolf under its boulder-like weight. Roaring and writhing, the werewolf fought to free herself of its iron-tight grip, her fangs and claws raking deep gouges in its stony skin.

Solen swung to help her, and Gendolin flickered at the corner of his eye. He whirled around, Eldródr diving to catch the vampire’s claws; Gendolin seized the blade in one broad hand, utterly arresting its movement, even as the enchanted edges bit fierily into his own flesh. The other curled into a fist and slammed into Solen’s chest, throwing him across the dais.

The Aspect erupted, Shouting in a defence of its own – the air quaked with the echoes of Thu’um, and Gendolin exclaimed in surprise. Solen slid back on one knee and forced himself upright at once. Those iridescent spectres of horns and dragonskin had only a shadow of his Voice. They’d give him time to mount his feet and no more than.

“You have a bright soul, Dragonborn.” Gendolin’s snarling claws shattered the shades like coloured glass. “Bright as the sun. It repulses me.”

“Because you’re a neck-sucking mistwalker, I know, I know.” Solen swung Eldródr over his shoulder in preparation to strike – only, quite abruptly, he found he couldn’t. The weighty battle-blade relaxed unresponsive, along with his arms and every other muscle in his body. What’s going on?! He couldn’t move his head, and the battlefire roaring within him extinguished into unnatural tranquility. Oh, no, no, no – move, damn you, move!

Gendolin’s eyes glowed like the furnace of the Skyforge, impossibly bright and deep. His whisper was almost gentle, serene, matter-of-fact. “Darkness was my domain long before I ever turned.”

Solen couldn’t tear his eyes away, not even close them. Every rightfully urgent instinct was teased apart like pulled thread. No fear or fury spurred him into action as Gendolin seized his arms and the batlike wings closed over his back, cocooning him in darkness – and in that darkness, fangs drove into his flesh.

The world went white, then black and scarlet. His voice turned to ice in his throat, strangling his cry, and then the ice was spreading all around like the foulest poison, deadening his limbs, raking searing lines through his mind. Solen tore away from the terrible embrace, racked with an extraordinary agony; Eldródr slid from shaking hands, and he flung them to his savaged neck, oozing with the blistering heat of life, his life.

Gendolin’s charred skin sealed over until no trace of injury remained. The battle might have only been a dream. He ran his tongue over reddened teeth and smiled into Solen’s slackened face. “You will die to me, Dragonborn – but not before I drag you from the light.”

A crossbow cracked – a flash of flame followed – Gendolin vanished into mist and reformed high above all their heads, healed wings carrying him to the oculus greyed with dawn’s first light. By the time Irileth and Illia had splashed through the pools, and Aela shook herself free of the gargoyle’s disintegrating claws, Gendolin was gone and Solen was on the ground, convulsing, blood pounding from his neck.