Chapter 1 - Down and Out in Windhelm
Why am I here?
A score of scowling faces greeted the conclusion of Kjartan's performance. He was quite accustomed to receiving such looks, and his first instinct was that he ought to vacate Candlehearth hall as fast as possible. But the entrance was on the lower level, and that meant he would have to make his way past a gauntlet of ornery Nords who were no doubt conspiring to do considerable violence to his person.
He thought about casting a spell of invisibility, but being invisible was not the same thing as being intangible. In Morrowind there had been spells that could teleport someone to safety, but he knew of no one in Skyrim who could work such magic, let alone teach it to him.
A large, heavy hand came down on his right shoulder. Slowly, and with great trepidation, Kjartan turned around.
The man was less of a Nord and more of a mountain of meat – a veritable colossus of flesh and sinew. His face, criss-crossed by countless scars, was locked into a permanent snarl of hatred, and his eyes seethed with an ice-cold fury. His armour bore the marks of countless battles, and a brief glance at the two-handed axe on his back revealed that its edge was flecked with dried blood. Many Nords were more boast than brawn, but there could be no doubt that this was a man who killed, and who killed well.
"Let me tell you something of myself," he said, his voice a raspy growl that made Kjartan's bones shudder. "My name is Kveldulf the Unweeping. Perhaps you have heard of me. I have walked from one end of Tamriel to the other, strode through ruins ancient beyond reckoning, and beheld treasures so vast they could pay a king's ransom a hundred times over. I have fought foes that would make the hardiest Nord quake in fear and led my armies to victory against forces that outnumbered us ten to one. I have held court with Daedric princes, and once stood before Sheogorath himself and departed with my sanity intact. I have courted queens and princesses, composed songs and verses that left even the cruellest blackguard weeping, and even Dibella herself declared me her champion, so great a lover I was. To fully recount my deeds would take the better part of a fortnight, I can say with complete conviction that there is not one place in this world where my name is not spoken of without reverence or fear.
"And in all this time, I have never heard a performance as utterly wretched as the one you have just given here tonight. In your own small way, you have hastened the decline of our civilisation. There is nothing you can do, no act of sacrifice or heroism, no demonstration of penance or atonement, that can ever redeem you for what you have done. I am sure, even now, that those few who remain in the Dark Brotherhood are fighting bitterly amongst themselves for the privilege of ending your miserable existence. May the Nine have mercy on your soul, for you shall find none in this world. Give me your lute."
His tone made it clear that this was not a request, and Kjartan meekly handed over his instrument. The hulking warrior snapped the neck in two with a contemptuous grunt, and then handed the pieces back before quietly departing. The rest of the patrons, seeing that Kjartan had been thoroughly chastened, returned to their drinks and conversation.
He stared down at the remains of his lute, let out a despairing sigh, and then tossed the pieces into the nearby hearth. His career as a bard had ended almost as quickly as it had begun.
Something told Kjartan that he had best leave town, tonight if possible. Windhelm was not the friendliest of cities, though in truth there was nowhere in Skyrim that he might call "friendly." It seemed there was no place he could go where he would not be treated with scorn and contempt, and despite his efforts he had never been able to figure out why. Perhaps it was his manner of speaking – having grown up in Morrowind, he had never been able to shed the accent of his homeland. Nords distrusted foreigners on principle, but a Nord born in a foreign land and ignorant of their ways was even more dubious.
He hurried back to his room and began gathering up his meagre possessions. And there, lying atop the bed, was the Elder Scroll.
Two days this time, he thought. Last time it was three.
When dealing with the fragments of creation, it was only natural to expect unexpected behaviour. What was even more puzzling, however, was predictable behaviour. Ever since finding the wretched thing in that Dwemer ruin it had steadfastly refused to leave him. He had tried taking it the College of Winterhold once he had no more use for it, as that had seemed like the sensible thing to do, but the very next day he had woken up clutching it in his arms.
Since then Kjartan had tried every conceivable method of ridding himself of the damned thing. He had hurled it off a mountain, thrown it down a mile-deep chasm, tied to a rock and let it sink into the ocean, and burned it to ashes more times than he could remember. And yet, as surely as the sun rising, it would be back in his possession in a matter of days. Like a spurned lover that just couldn't let go, the Elder Scroll was determined to stay with him, whether he wanted it to or not.
Whether the scrolls had a will of their own was a question better left for aged sages, but there were times when Kjartan would swear that it was whispering insanities into his ears as he slept. Ever since he had first gazed upon the scroll atop the Throat of the World there had been a constant, gnawing fear that something had gazed back at him. This scroll was meant for him somehow, but why? Had it not served its purpose? Perhaps the Greybeards would know, but Kjartan felt no desire to make yet another hike up that damnable mountain.
He slung the scroll case over his shoulder and stared out the frost-covered window. Does it even matter where I go next? Riften was out of the question. That city was an awful place, and the priests of Mara would still be out for his blood. He could head north to Winterhold, but it was far too cold and desolate for his liking. Whiterun was not much further, but going there ran the risk of being recognised, and the last thing Kjartan wanted was for someone to recognise him as the Dragonborn.
The truth, which Kjartan had dared not face for so long, was that he was nothing of what people claimed he was. In their minds the Dragonborn was a giant of a man, slaying his enemies with the power of Voice and bolts of lightning from his arse. That was whom they loved, not the mortal man with more faults and flaws then could be reckoned. Yes, he had defeated the World Eater, but did they know that warriors a hundred times more valiant had stood at his side? Yes, he had recovered an Elder Scroll the depths of a Dwemer ruin, but did they know the way he had cowered in the shadows the whole time? Yes, he could speak the Voice, but what pride could there be in something obtained without effort?
He was nothing but a fraud, a phony, and a coward. Kjartan knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his grossly exaggerated reputation would be the death of him one day. The only hope lay in obscurity, and he was particularly blessed in that regard. No one who looked at him would ever think that he was the Dragonborn, and no one would believe him if he told them. He was completely forgettable and beneath notice, and there was something comforting about this shield of invisibility. It protected him like a magic spell, keeping him safe from a cold and hostile world. How ironic that the Dark Brotherhood should wanted him dead, when he would have made the perfect assassin!
After gathering the last of his possessions Kjartan headed outside, where he was immediately greeted by a blast of cold air. The streets of Windhelm were dark and unwelcoming, and a more prudent individual would have waited for sunrise before travelling. But all Kjartan wanted was to be out of this dreary, unhappy city. What had he even come here in the first place? This was Stormcloak territory, and he wanted nothing to do with their little rebellion.
Oh tell me, Ulfric, about your great struggle! Tell me again about how Skyrim belongs to the Nords! Do you not know of the Snow Elves, or the Reachmen? There were others here before you, and others who will be here long after you are dust.
The cold wind stung his face, and he pulled his hood tighter over his head. As he stood there, snow blowing around him, Kjartan felt a sudden pang of loneliness. Yes, there was comfort in being unnoticed and forgotten, but there were times when dearly missed having a travelling companion.
Oh Lydia, he thought. You didn't deserve what happened to you. A woman who believed in the goodness of all, she had died at the hands of the draugr while asking for directions. Since then, he had always travelled alone, not willing to risk the lives of others on some mad quest.
He turned a corner, and suddenly realised that he had somehow gotten lost amid the identical-looking streets. It was ironic that the locals called the place where the Dunmer lived the "Grey Quarter," as the entire city was perpetually grey and miserable. At least the Dunmer had tried to liven up their part of town with a bit of colour here and there.
After rounding another corner, Kjartan saw that he had arrived at a dead end. He let out a curse beneath his breath, and then turned around.
A pair of dark, hooded figures were walking towards him. He could not make out their features in the gloom, but for a brief instant he thought he saw a flash of red beneath their hoods.
The voice was so soft it could scarcely be heard over the wind. "Dragonborn…"
Kjartan's palms began to itch, a sign that his subconscious had identified a threat that his mind had not yet perceived. That they recognised him as the Dragonborn portended nothing good, that much was certain.
"What do you want?"
"My friend and I just wanted to compliment you on your…ah…performance," one of them said, his voice thin and gasping.
"Really? People seemed to think it was rather dreadful."
The light of Secunda briefly pierced the clouds, and Kjartan could see that the man's face had a dreadful pallor. "Oh, you must forgive these Nords for their…artlessness. They have only ever heard Ragnar the Red as an…asinine…tavern song. Few remember the song as it was in centuries past."
"Well, that's very kind of you," he said, trying desperately to keep the fear out of his voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"
The dark figures leapt forward with terrible speed, and they were upon him before he could draw his blade. One of his assailants slammed into him, knocking him back onto the snow. His sight filled with stars as his head landed on the hard stone, and all he could see was a pair of eyes blazing like coals and fangs glistening in the moonlight.
Vampires, he thought, and that moment Kjartan knew he was doomed. Since coming to Skyrim he had evaded death countless times, more often by luck than skill, and now his luck had finally run out. What would people think when dawn came and they discovered his pale, bloodless corpse lying in the snow? "Isn't that the bard who was at the tavern last night?" they would surely say. "I've never heard such a shameful performance in all my life! Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say!"
For one infinitesimal sliver of time, he wondered if the gods would consider this a death in battle when deciding which afterlife to send him to. The prospect of such a fate was distinctly unappealing. He had already been to Sovngarde once before and had found the place unspeakably tacky.
Before his attacker could tear his throat out, there was the sharp twang of a bowstring. The vampire's head jerked upright, an arrow lodged in its throat. Mustering what remained of his feeble strength Kjartan shoved his attacker aside and sprang to his feet, just in time to see the other vampire's head separated from its body with a flash of steel. Its body stumbled backwards, spraying Kjartan in the face with hot blood before collapsing in a heap.
"Oh gods!" he exclaimed, wiping the blood from his brow. He then turned to look at his mysterious saviour.
"Pretty stupid of you to be out wandering alone, Dragonborn," the Orc growled. "You have a death wish, or are you just looking to get criticised?"
Whoever this Orc was, his armour was so dark that Kjartan could barely make out anything besides his face. "'Dragonborn'? I think you've mistaken me for someone else, friend." His protective shield of obscurity had been penetrated, and he needed to re-establish it as quickly as possible.
The Orc laughed. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?" He then began hacking apart the corpses of the vampires apart with his axe, gleefully dismembering their bodies with his blood-stained axe.
"Excuse me, but…what are you doing?" Kjartan said, cringing at the sound of flesh and bone being torn apart.
"Can't be too careful with these bloodsuckers," the Orc muttered. "Just 'cause their heads are off doesn't mean they're dead."
"And, um, who are you, exactly?"
"Name's Durak, and I've been watching you, Dragonborn," he said, chopping the legs off one of the dead vampires. "Have to say it's pretty pathetic the way you've been living."
Kjartan opened to his mouth to protest, but to his shame there was nothing he could say to refute the Orc's words. "And just how were you expecting me to live?
Having dismembered one of the vampires to his satisfaction, Durak began hacking apart the other. "You're the Dragonborn. Dovahkiin. Alduin's Bane. You should be living in a palace with beautiful women piled up at your feet. Instead, you spend your days tunelessly howling in taverns and inns until they finally get tired of you and throw your sorry arse out on the street. You know what that makes you?"
"What?"
"A bum!"
"I'm not a—"
"A bum! But maybe you're tired of living like this. You see, I'm part of the Dawnguard, an order of vampire hunters. We hunt down those bloodsucking scum wherever we find them, and we could use someone like you, Dragonborn."
Inwardly, Kjartan cursed. Once again his fraudulent reputation had brought him unwanted attention. "Look, I don't know what you've heard about me, but I'm not the warrior you think I am."
But it was clear his words were spoken in vain. "A humble hero, isn't that cute? As far as I see it, you've got two choices, Dragonborn. First choice is to help us fight the growing vampire menace. Second choice is to carry on with this whole 'bard' business of yours, since you've clearly been so successful at it. How many taverns have you been run out of? Fourteen? Fifteen? I'm sure your career is going to take off any day now."
"Vampires have always been a menace," he said, eager to move on to a different subject. "And last I heard, the Dawnguard was disbanded years ago."
Durak scowled. "Maybe you haven't been paying attention, then. The Vigilants of Stendarr didn't think there was a threat, and you can ask them how well that worked out. But you can't, because they're dead. Most of them, anyway. So if you want to make Skyrim a safer place, then go Fort Dawnguard, just southeast of Riften. Otherwise, you might want to start shopping around for a new lute. Who knows, maybe you'll go three or four days this time before someone smashes it."
The Orc disappeared into the darkness and blowing snow without another word, leaving Kjartan standing along amidst the bloody remains of his attackers. Vampire Hunters! What the devil do I have to do with vampire hunters? As far as he reckoned, there were only two possible outcomes to joining this "Dawnguard." The first was a gruesome death. The second was succumbing to the vampiric disease and rising as a vampire himself.
The latter possibility was so absurd it almost made him laugh. He would, without a doubt, be the most pathetic vampire ever to stride upon the surface of Tamriel. Too timid and cowardly to feed upon his fellow man, he would subsist instead on the blood of rats and other vermin, which would earn him scorn from polite vampire society (who probably looked down on that sort of thing). Eventually his condition would drive him to madness, leaving him as a broken shell of a man who assaulted people with severed limbs and got into arguments with road signs. And when someone finally put him out of his misery, they would know him only as the tone-deaf bard who had tormented tavern-goers throughout Skyrim. "Sold his soul to Molag Bal in exchange for musical talent," they'd say as his corpse crumbled to ashes. "But the joke was on him, for no one is less talented in the musical arts than Molag Bal!"
Kjartan sighed. He really needed to spend less time living inside his own head. Brushing the snow off his robes, he slowly worked his way the city gates. Assuming he intended to join up with this Dawnguard, that would mean passing through Riften, home to the Temple of Mara, the one place in Skyrim where he dared not show his face ever again. Still, so long as he kept a low profile and avoided the eastern part of town, his shield of obscurity ought to protect him. They said that Mara was the goddess of love and compassion, but that surely did not extend to one who bungled his divine errand so badly that it reduced the entire village of Ivarstead to ashes. At least no one had perished in the debacle, though that was small comfort.
He pondered waiting until daybreak to begin his journey, like any sensible person would, but travelling at night seldom bothered him. Kjartan liked the darkness, and he had always found something comforting about it. Maybe it was the way it kept him hidden from others, or perhaps he simply preferred the grandeur of the night sky. If he kept a good pace he could reach Riften in a few days, and if he were lucky his arrival would go unnoticed by the priests of Mara. The last thing he needed was to be dragged into a temple and be made to answer for his crimes against love.
"Well? Why isn't he dead? Out with it!"
Astrid glared at the Khajiit. The cat had enthusiasm, that much was clear, yet it was his abilities as an assassin that were in question. There had never been a shortage of recruits for the Dark Brotherhood, especially with the war, but locating proper assassins had proven to be exceptionally difficult. Any fool could shove a blade between someone's ribs, but for a Dark Brother or Dark Sister, murder wasn't merely the act of ending someone's life. It was poetry, it was song, and there was no art more beautiful and diverse than the art of death. A pity, then, that so few people in Skyrim appreciated this fact.
"Bardago shall slay this 'Dragonborn' with his mighty blade, yes he shall! This one will bring you his heart, clawed from his chest and served upon a plate. That is what the Nord wants, yes?"
"You didn't answer my question," she said through gritted teeth. "Why is he not dead?"
"He…he got away," the Khajiit answered meekly, "when Khajiit stopped for delectable sweet rolls."
It was only through a surge of willpower that Astrid could keep herself from killing this Khajiit where he stood. Had the Dark Brotherhood fallen so far that this was the kind of "talent" they had to settle for?
"Are you saying you let the target get away because you were hungry?"
"Khajiit cannot kill on empty stomach."
"You're lucky I don't rip your spine out and beat you to death with it. Now, let us consider the situation. Thanks to a combination of bad luck and incompetence on the part of my subordinates, the Dragonborn knows we seek his death. Therefore, a different approach is needed."
Fortunately, the sanctuary had a costume wardrobe that would permit members of the Dark Brotherhood to be different characters every time they set out on a mission. After rummaging around in a large wooden chest, Astrid found a costume that would fit Bardago perfectly.
"Put this on," she said, laying it out on the table. "From now on, you're a skeever. Find the Dragonborn and kill him. Take a scroll of Recall so I don't have to wait for you to drag your sorry tail back here. And you stay in costume until the job is done, understand?"