III.
AN: I've returned to this story after losing momentum for a while – fuelled by a fresh playthrough of Skyrim – and as such it's a little shorter than previous chapters. I work in healthcare and the pandemic has been a busy time, as it has for many. I'm taking a year out to study, so I hope to be able to post more regularly. If you enjoy the story, I would appreciate so much if you could let me know in the reviews / engagement or via message – I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts. Another quick note at the bottom, but let's get to it.
Tullius woke in a cold sweat in the silence of his tent. The dreams had been haunting him since Helgen: a great beast crouched atop the keep, blocking the sun with its shadow and wreaking death and fire on helpless civilians. He and his men – some of the finest in the Legion – were powerless against it. Arrows and bolts ricocheted off its scales as if it were a cliff-face; spells of flame and frost and thunder left not so much as a blemish on its breast or hide. With so many dead and a whole town burned, the shadow of his failure loomed as large as the dragon's.
At the end of the dream he was always running: from ruined house to ruined house, sword drawn and jumping at every shadow. Sometimes, if he slept through the terror for long enough, the black sky cleared and a new figure appeared from the north. This one shone bright gold, brighter than the sun, and he could not help but stare. It was a dragon, too, he was sure of it. But before he could see clearly his dream-self became blinded by its brilliance and he woke, sweating.
Tullius pulled on his shirt and stepped outside. As he often did after his dreams, he watched the sky above Solitude with unease.
"General, sir – I didn't expect to see you out here so late."
Rikke stood to attention in full plate, torch in hand and crimson cape blowing in the wind. The torchlight danced across her pale skin, forming delicate shadows about her cheekbones.
"Nor I you, Legate. I thought you might be happy to leave night patrol behind you following your promotion."
"Well, I... The men have been nervous walking the camp at night since Helgen. You always taught me to lead from the front, Sir." Tullius had never had as brilliant a right hand as Rikke. She was strong, brave, fast, and fearless. She was strict, yes, but any one of the men she led would have leapt in front of an arrow for her.
Tullius allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction. But the wind blew cold, and his brow furrowed. Rikke noticed too, and her hand shot reflexively to her sword-hilt. There was not even a shimmer in the air as some force hit Rikke in the chest and she flew to the ground. Tullius rounded and his hand darted to his hip, but it grasped only at the linen of his nightshirt.
"General."
The voice was malevolent, playful. The mouth from which it came was thin-lipped and framed by fangs. The creature was once a Nord, but eyes that used to be blue now glowed orange. "My lord and master thanks you, for you have served your purpose well. But events now run apace – and they will run that much faster without you."
The vampire lunged at Tullius, knife poised and fangs bared. All Tullius could do was to drop to the ground and watch the creature stumble over him. Rikke was already on her feet, charging: not a half-second after the vampire touched the ground had her sword pierced its back and it screamed a howl of pain. Rikke withdrew in half an instant and swung her blade clean through the vampire's neck, its body turning to ash as she did so.
Tullius stared into the night, wide-eyed and crouched outside his tent, as leather-clad legionnaires rushed towards them and black blood dripped from Rikke's blade.
Whether Arkath dreamed or was dead he did not know. But dragons filled his head: he flew with them in the clouds and fought them with fang and claw, which he seemed to own as well as they. Just now, his mind's eye shifted northward over the mountains to a large army camp. He saw shadows in the torchlight, and felt a strange hunger and a rich taste in his mouth.
"...he is strong, child. I have not sensed this power in blood for..."
Arkath felt breath in his lungs and pain in his ribs... and everywhere else. He gasped, and bright red flashed before his eyes.
"...no, no! He has fever... Fire salts, dragon's tongue... Quickly, quickly! He is coming..."
His body felt a flood of heat, and his eyes shot open. A hut, wooden ceiling and walls and floors. The two women from before were hunched over him. The older was rubbing ash into his chest and chanting; the younger was rushing from drawer to drawer, grasping at leaves and powders.
"Easy, master Orc. You have suffered much, and your wounds are not one week healed. Do not stretch yourself."
Arkath sat up and brushed her aside. His head swam. He looked the old woman in the eyes; they had a strange orange glow. The younger woman's eyes were bright blue, and between them they held a gaze for a moment.
"Yes, yes! Hold still... your strength is yet returned, master Orc. Let me see you closer..."
He felt her hand in the crook of his neck and her cold, cold breath at his throat.
"Auntie!"
She hissed and Arkath struck out with his right arm, hitting the old woman square in the face. She howled and bared her fangs, her orange eyes on fire. Arkath pushed forward and landed a blow to her forehead with the heel of his hand and heard her neck give way. The younger woman screamed as the vampire cackled and righted herself, fixing her crooked spine into place. She lunged again, catching Arkath in the cheek with her harsh claws and drawing blood. He rolled forward, scooping his scabbard from the floor under his cot as he did so. He unsheathed it as the older woman screamed.
"Your blood is mine! Give it to me, beast!"
Arkath brought his sword down in a great backhand arc, hoping to catch the creature by surprise. She leaned out of the sword's reach with ease and cackled.
"How glad I am I brought you back from the threshold! I had hoped only for another piece of cattle, how pleased my sisters will be with my prize!"
She swiped again with her claws – she was the fastest thing Arkath had ever seen. He parried her blows rapidly, but she scratched at his arms and drove him backwards towards the wall of the cabin. Her eyes grew wide and she bore her fangs as the Orc's blood dripped to the floor.
Suddenly, though, she howled in pain. She turned, and Arkath saw the knife erupting from her back. The younger girl backed away in fear.
"Insolent girl! I raised you! I made you!" The vampiress advanced on her, panting. The young Nord screamed.
Arkath saw his chance. With all his might, he forced his sword into the creature's neck. The blade jammed, and her body rippled in spasm. She laughed as blood and clots gurgled in her throat. Slowly, and with light fading from her amber eyes, she turned to him.
"My bloodlust is my undoing... Perhaps I am the first to smell your blood, child, but I will not be the last. We of Skyrim are old, and our senses are keener than our younger brethren across Tamriel."
She breathed deep – out of habit or dramatics, as she had no need for human air – and looked into Arkath's eyes.
"Your blood is old, too. I have lived in these woods for nigh six hundred years and tasted it nary once or twice. But there is something else to it... a power..." She coughed and her eyes glowed one last time. "What I would not give for just a taste..."
He drove his blade through the last muscle and sinew of her neck, and ash fell to the floor of the cabin.
"Listen to me. We need to move, now. How far is Riverwood?"
"A half-day's walk eastward... a... a vampire..." The young woman stood in shock, while Arkath was hurriedly pulling on his boots.
"Have you any supplies? I have only what came over the cliffside with me." He pulled his cuirass over his torso, but the young woman had still not moved.
"Auntie's sisters... They will come... I... "
Arkath held her shoulders. "If you want to live, we need to leave. Now."
She nodded and gathered her possessions. Arkath searched the satchels on the shelves and found a small purse of coins among the mushrooms and potion-bottles. He slipped a handful into a pocket of his armour before handing the rest to the girl. He found oils and mixed them with straw form the chicken hutch outside. With flint and steel he lit them, and the small hut went up in flames.
He took the lead as they made their way through the woods, mountains to their left and the White River to their right. Hours went by, but eventually a sawmill appeared on the horizon.
"Riverwood. We're here."
AN: This chapter doesn't show the true power of vampires in our universe, but I wanted to portray them as fallible beings, too. Do you think Arkath had it too easy? And what machinery do you think might be moving in the background? As I said, your engagement is so encouraging, and I would be so grateful if you let me know you're enjoying the story.
D x