IV. Sleepless Nights
AN: Two chapters in a week! Hopefully this will reassure you that the momentum on this project is high, and we have a goer on our hands. Please consider leaving a review / sending a message / following / favouriting. I would honestly love to hear your thoughts and engage with the people reading. It blows my mind a little that we have readers from all over the world! Enjoy! D x
"What the fuck just happened? Rikke, how has this... thing waltzed into the heart of our camp? Gods, if I had been asleep..." Tullius paced outside his campaign tent, the ash of the vampire assassin on the ground in front of him.
Rikke was already barking orders. Torches were lit and Legionnaires were scouring every inch for the camp for signs of any other intruders. Two men flanked Tullius, hands on their sword-hilts. Rikke dropped to one knee in front of the general.
"Sir, I have failed you. The patrols are my responsibility, and I accept any punishment..."
Tullius waved his hand. "Get up, Rikke. We have more pressing issues than handing out lashes. Make sure the men search every corner, every shadow of this camp. He turned to the soldier beside him. "Fetch Captain Bestos." The man ran off in search of the general's spymaster, and Tullius withdrew to his tent to change.
The ash told him one thing: the would-be assassin was a vampire. Though he had never before encountered one of the creatures himself, he had heard tales of their strength, speed, and guile. Surely, if they were true and one wanted him dead then he wouldn't be standing here now? His mind cast back to the assassin tripping over his body – that and its decision to monologue in front of him before striking – and wondered if the thing was drunk. Can vampires even get drunk? He had seen a drink called a Bloody Mary at the Golden Crucible in the Imperial City once...
"General?"
The voice of Captain Bestos outside his tent snapped Tullius back to focus. "Enter, Bestos. At ease."
The general's spymaster was a tall man, for an Imperial. His black hair, now speckled with grey, hung to his shoulders, and despite the hour his thin lips were framed by an impeccably-shaven face. Tullius had worked with Bestos for twenty years, and he knew he could count on his total loyalty – and discretion.
"You will have no doubt heard by now there has been an attempt on my life. The ash outside is what remains of the assassin. A vampire."
To anyone else, Bestos would have looked entirely impassive; far too impassive for one just told of an attempt on his general's life. Tullius, though, saw the man's eyes narrow for half a second, and knew he was concerned.
"What do we know of their activities in Skyrim?"
Bestos sighed. "Little, I'm afraid General. There have been scattered reports of vampire activity around Stonehills, a village in Hjaalmarch, but it's impossible to tell truth from peasants' superstition. I will assign more men to the region. Should I consult with the Battlemages?"
"No – I don't want this to spread any further than our circle. Discretion is the byword, Bestos."
"Aye, General."
Tullius turned to his desk. He needed to go over the week's scouting reports once more to ensure he hadn't missed anything. And he expected Rikke to return shortly with a report from the camp.
"General, there is one other matter. I intended to speak with you tomorrow, but since I am here..."
Tullius, hunched over his papers, peered upward. "Aye? Out with it, then."
"An Orc prisoner was due for execution in Helgen on the day of the attack. He had come north, likely from Bruma, and was caught near the Stormcloak camps. I lack an exact likeness as yet, but..."
"It must be him." Tullius sat down and rubbed the stubble on his cheek. He had known Reuven Sixtus since they attended the Imperial Academy together, and his recent execution gave the general mixed emotions. Reuven's adopted son, the Orc, was high and rising on the Empire's most-wanted list.
"I take it he escaped?"
"I have no confirmation, sir, but his name was un-checked on the headsman's list."
"Send men to the area. If he was approaching those camps, he may have been looking to join Ulfric. His knowledge of the Legion could make him a big thorn in our side. Focus on the eastern routes out of Helgen; I doubt he would dare to approach Falkreath with the size of our garrison there. He could try his luck with Balgruuf, but Whiterun would be unwise to harbour him for long. And Balgruuf knows that. Keep me up to date on this, Bestos."
"Aye, sir."
"Dismissed."
The dawn light crept through the entrance to Tullius's tent. All around he could hear the heavy steps of leather boots in the dirt and the shouts and clatter of men disassembling their camp. They were only a week away from Helgen, but he expected the fallout from that day to continue for a long time.
The Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood was lively tonight. Shouts and cheers erupted frequently along the benches and tables that ran the length of the main room. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the scent of sweet honey. Cups of mead, ale, and wine seemed to spill to the saw-dusted floor as often as they found their owners' lips. Two or three young women moved around the room with trays of fresh flagons and jugs, dodging spilled drink and wandering hands alike. The loudest patrons were the young men sat close to the fire in the centre of the room, but there were townspeople of all ages here, eating, drinking, laughing.
Arkath could not remember the last time he had had a decent meal, and the ale and stew in front of him did not last long. The Nord girl who had rescued him after his fight with Hadvar, Freja, was nervous at first. After eating, however, she was awash with questions. What was he doing in Skyrim? Were there many Orcs in the province? Wasn't it true that Orcs usually ate the raw meat of horses, and not cooked meat and vegetables as the Nords did?
He did his best to be vague. He had journeyed north from Cyrodiil and was on the way to see family in Solitude. His uncle, in fact, a merchant there. No, Orcs did not eat raw horsemeat. Although, he did not truly know many Orcs.
He asked little of Freja. His mind was swimming. He was once again on the run. And though he understood Riverwood and the rest of Whiterun Hold to be neutral in the War, an Orc in Imperial armour would not be inconspicuous. He needed a destination. His goal, on fleeing the Imperial City, had been to reach Bruma and find Elambriel, a Mage of the Synod and friend of his father's. Now, he was rudderless and alone in the eye of a storm.
"Arkath?"
The Nord girl was looking at him, awaiting a reply.
"What happened to you when we found you in the woods?"
He had been dreading this. Falling from a cliff covered in sword-wounds was a difficult thing to be vague about.
"I, uh..." His mouth was dry. "I was travelling north with two companions when we were... attacked. I was held at knifepoint, but one of them saved my life. He was from Riverwood, actually. Ralof was his name."
"Ralof?"
A woman at the next table turned in her chair to face him. "My brother – what do you know of him?"
Arkath shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Riverwood was not the Imperial City, where you could walk into a tavern two streets away from your usual watering-hole and not know a soul. He'd never had a head for intrigue and politics, but he was going to have to be more careful with his tongue if he wanted to avoid attention here.
"Your brother... he saved my life. And I tried to save his, but..."
"What are you saying? Ralof is dead? When? How? And who are you to know such a thing?"
Arkath explained that he and Ralof met on the road from Helgen, where the Stormcloak had escaped Imperial capture. They journeyed a way together, before they were attacked. After meeting Ralof's sister, Arkath was certain Hadvar's extended family would be sat at the next table – in this new telling, the Legionnaire's role was given to a common bandit. Arkath told the woman of his fall from the cliff and his second rescue at the hand of Freja. He did not tell her of the dragon, though he knew he owed it to Ralof – and the people of Skyrim – to relay the news to someone.
"You said Ralof was captured by Imperials? You're wearing soldier's armour." She stood briskly, sending her chair clattering to the floor. The tavern fell silent. "Why should I believe you? You tell me this tale, but I'm not an idiot – a Stormcloak and an Imperial meet on the road and one of them ends up dead?"
"No, listen..." Arkath stood too, trying to calm the woman.
"Gerdur, what are you doing?" The man sat with her shouted. She pushed Arkath hard in the chest with both hands, tears in her eyes.
"You Imperial pig! By Talos, I'll kill you!"
Gerdur's husband, Hod, a broad-shouldered man, held his wife. "Shor's bones, woman! Calm yourself! You're jumping to conclusions." Gerdur breathed deeply and her attack on Arkath relented. She fell still and sobbed. "Though," her husband looked up at Arkath, "I do think our Orc friend has some explaining to do."
"In Helgen... the city was attacked. A dragon, a monster. It burned everything and we had to escape. I needed protection, and I found this in the keep." He paused before he could bring himself to continue. "I'm... I'm no soldier."
The tavern erupted in whispers. Arkath noted more than a few of the patrons chuckling as they looked his way.
"I told you! You thought me mad, but I told you!"
An old woman stood from a seat near the door. "I saw the beast, each black wing the size of a house! It came from the south not one week ago!"
"Sit down, mother." Hod shouted across the tavern. The woman did not sit, but hurried among the other patrons, telling her tale, and waving her arms in imitation of the dragon's wings. Hod sat next to his wife. "I was expecting a wagon from Helgen three days ago, to pick up lumber from the mill, but they never arrived."
Someone piped up from another table, "Aye, Lucan said he's waiting on a shipment from Helgen. Should've come days ago, he's furious." Truth was, no-one in Riverwood knew of anyone arriving from Helgen in the last week.
Hod spoke again. "If what you say is true, Orc... we should send word to the Jarl. Riverwood has little enough protection as it is. And the few guardsmen we have are too scared even to see to the bandits in the old mine. Gods help us if they had to face down a dragon. Thanks to Mara that you kept him alive to bring the message, lass. Must be quite the healer."
Freja blushed. "Thank you." she said. Slowly, the hubbub of the tavern returned as people discussed the drama that had unfolded. Ralof's death, the burning of Helgen, and this mysterious Orc who seemed to be at the centre of it all.
There was more to the evening, however. The door flung open, and two men hobbled in from the night. A guard, in the yellow hauberk of Whiterun Hold, with one arm flung over the shoulder of his companion and the other clutching an arrow-shaft protruting from his breast.
"Bandits, damned bandits on the road!"
Estafael crouched behind the outcrop, slit pupils wide with the night. She saw the glow of the Vigilants' steel plate in the light of their torches. She licked her lips and felt a burning in her fingertips. She had been on their trail for days, and all those days she had gone without feeding. Aye, she had drained a young calf two nights past, but her tongue had not tasted the blood of man or mer in almost a week. Her lord had given her this task though, and she would fight her desires to see it to completion.
"What is this place, Heran?"
"To be honest, brother, I don't know. There is a darkness here, though. The people nearby tell tales of foul creatures here and shepherds and their flocks going missing, or being found, mutilated."
The Vigilants entered the cave, Estafael thought, with admirable confidence. She could feel the aura of this place strongly. She followed them silently, nostrils flaring as she trailed their scent. How she wished for an end to the tyranny of the sun.
AN: Thank you for reading! Again, please consider following / favouriting / leaving a review / sending a message – I would love to hear your thoughts on the story. Not as action-packed today, but we are starting to weave some threads for the tapestry to come.