Night fell on the fortified city of Bruma as the ancient settlement clung to the mountains that bordered Skyrim. The streets were filled with revellers still, the parties and celebrations continuing weeks after the end of the Great War. The White Gold Concordant had been signed and, for now, the Imperials and Nords who inhabited Bruma were just joyful the war was over- still not knowing at the moment what the treaty would lead to. A resounding roar of triumph and joy filled the streets as the city gates swung open and the victorious men and women of the 6th Legion marched back into the city.
At their head were the twin figures of General Jonna, the hard faced Nord woman who accepted the crowd's cheers with a curt nod and the young Count Morgan Carvain, a youth of barely twenty years clad in plate armour, raising his sword in salute to the common people gathered around.
"This victory belongs to all of us!" he bellowed. "We drove the Elven bastards back to the sea! Mark my words my friends! Next stop, Summerset Isle and the Empire reforged!"
At the Count's last dramatic words the entire crowd went ballistic, screaming and shouting for joy in the way only Nords can.
"So go my noble warriors!" the count added, turning to the column of weary but jubilant Imperial and native Bruman troops behind him. "Drink, eat and make merry! Tonight we're going to drink so much we could drown every pointy eared bastard in the Summerset Isles in ale and mead!"
The column of soldiers needed no further encouragement as they threw their weapons and shields into the nearest supply cart and ran into the streets, throwing caution to the wind as they found gold, food and alcohol being thrust upon them by the grateful citizens around them.
And yet, at the far end of the column, one Imperial officer wasn't rushing to join the party. A broad shouldered and intimidating looking Redguard, the Legate remained atop his horse, but a broad smile crossed his face regardless.
"Sir!" shouted a nearby soldier, a grinning Imperial with a cask of ale under each arm, on his way to join the party. "Are you not joining us?"
The Redguard laughed and shook his head. "Sorry Livius. I would love to join you but I have to get back over the border. It's been months since I saw my family."
"Skyrim? Come on sir!" the slightly inebriated Imperial said. "My family are all the way back in High Rock and I'm still taking a day off to party! Your family will still be there when you get back, trust me."
"I would love to have a drink but how can I possibly do the ride over the mountains when I can barely see straight?"
The Imperial grinned. "The Legion provides, remember? Legate Antonius was telling me he's organised a whole convoy to Solitude to get you Skyrim lot back home. Word is it's going to be a non-stop party- heard some of the boy's calling it the booze cruise!"
As the soldier laughed drunkenly at his own joke, the Legate furrowed his brow. His wife Ashanta wouldn't begrudge him arriving a day or two late and a bit drunk. He hadn't had a chance to unwind in so long he was scared he was starting to become a monk.
He shrugged. One last crazy party was exactly what he needed.
"I'm in." he said with a wide grin.
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The Redguard awoke in the back of a cart on a pile of animal skins and empty bottles. Blinking the sleep away from his eyes he vaguely noticed the other Imperial soldiers lying around him in various states- from passed out entirely to vomiting over the side of the cart onto the road beneath them.
"Booze cruise my arse!" shouted a soldier from the cart behind. "This has been nothing but a vomit comet since we left Falkreath!"
The Legate tried not to think about how much wine he had drank over the last few days. He vaguely remembered leaving Falkreath a few days ago after the drunken Imperial soldiers had been thrown out of the town for swapping tombstones in the graveyard and cow tipping. How he had got this far, the Reach, judging by the humid air and stench of melted silver on the air, without falling off the cart he didn't know. Judging by the state of most of the other soldiers in the carts around him, he was one of the lucky ones.
"Just coming up to Markarth!" came a shout from one of the soldiers riding alongside them, one of the only sober men in the entire convoy-if only to keep bandits and Forsworn away.
As they rounded the bend and crossed a bridge of smooth stone bricks, Markarth came into view, its mammoth wall dominating the view up ahead while the mess of stables, smelters and taverns clustering near the city gate were getting closer, and looking more inviting, by the minute.
"The heroes of the Empire!" came a shout from a gang of miners up ahead, who raised their pickaxes in greeting as the carts rumbled past., and their cheers were taken up by other miners and city guards nearby.
Raising a hand to wave at the onlookers, the Redguard felt a wave of nausea move through him then, with a lame wave at the people cheering for him, fell asleep on the cart once more.
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The next few hours for him were a mess of half remembered events and swirling colours. He vaguely remembered being carried through Markarth's maze of streets by some helpful city guard while civilians cheered and offered to buy him drinks. He also remembered his wife's relieved face when they came to his house and his children, too young to understand their father's drunkenness, were just happy to see their father again, even if he smelt funny and was barely awake.
"Sleep my hero of the Empire," His wife had said, half-jokingly but half with relief, as she helped him into bed. "When you're feeling more coherent Azzada said he's dropping round with Michel. Your brother is eager to see the war hero himself and hear your stories."
With one last smile and kiss on his forehead, his wife left him, closing the golden Dwemer made doors behind her as she left the bedroom.
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The Redguard awoke instantly when he heard his wife screaming.
The world still blurry and moving around him, he leapt out of bed, still dressed in his sweat stained Legion undershirt. Grabbing his steel officer's sword from next to his bed, he kicked open the bedroom doors, wincing slightly as his foot smacked into the Dwarven metal. Rushing through the children's bedroom he frantically searched for them but, as soon as he saw the empty beds, the sheets and animal skin covers thrown aside and furniture askew, he felt his blood begin to chill in his veins.
Gripping his sword tightly, he pushed through the next set of doors and into the main room, the large room in darkness except for a few candles. For a second he had a vision of his family, his two small daughters- both barely four years old- and Ashanta, her short black hair rumpled and her dress torn. And at the same time he saw the men in masks and robes that held them tightly and had steel daggers at their throats.
Rushing forward with a drunken roar, he saw a figure coming at him from the right and, his combat skills kicking in, jumped back, just dodging the clumsy sweep of the robed figure's Orcish mace. The figure screamed at him as he missed. "Molog Bal take you!"
Ignoring the cultist's ramblings, the Legate brought his sword up and swung, slashing the attacker's throat in one clean sweep. The man fell back with a shrill cry, dropping his mace and attempting to stop the blood spurting out from his neck but the Redguard kicked him aside, the man slamming into the stone wall with a thump.
Curling his fist into a ball, the Redguard reached into the pocket of his undershirt and, willing his drunken mind to not impact his aim, threw a trio of darts from his hand. The robed figures had no time to react before each had taken a dart to the face- the Legate's deadly aim sending each dart slamming straight through their masks eye holes despite his inebriated state.
For a second he felt a huge sense of triumph and ran over to his tearful family, ready to grab them and hold them tight, never let them out of his sight again.
Then his wife shouted over at him. "Stop! There is…"
The Redguard ran over to her, but then felt every fibre of his being seem to lock in place, his whole body as frozen as the Sea of Ghosts- his wife and daughters also stopping stock still, held by the same supernatural grip. He couldn't move a muscle, and that's when another figure appeared from the darkness.
The newcomer was tall and thin, dressed from head to toe in the same black robes as his underlings, who were all lying dead on the floor. The man threw back his hood and revealed a face the Redguard recognised instantly. He may have a much thinner face since he last saw him, and his eyes were now an unnatural gold, but the Legate felt every fibre of his being try to scream as he realised the horror of what he was seeing.
"Lord Naarfiin." He said, using the only moving part of his body- his mouth- to try and make sense of what he was seeing. "But…you're…you're dead. I dragged you up those steps myself. I knotted the rope…"
"Oh yes I am very much dead…Legate." The Altmer spat with contempt, standing behind Ashanta's unmoving form-the Redguard woman unable, or just couldn't form the words, to try and say something. "But my lord has remade me for a new purpose- one that petty squabbles over territory pale into comparison to. But first I'm going to settle a few scores. It didn't take a lot of work to track you down. The threat of having their throat cut does make mortal men tell everything they know. I must admit General Jonna was as unmoving as ever. She refused to give you up even when I ripped out her husband's heart and threw it in her face. A good thing that soldier I found outside her house was more willing to talk. What was his name…Livius maybe?"
"What do you want from me Naarfiin? If you want to kill me do it now. Just…just leave my family," He spluttered, his normally composed attitude falling away as he realised the helplessness of the situation. "I-I don't care what you do to me. Hang me from the tallest tower, tear off my limbs, drag me all the way back to the Dominion…"
"The Dominion!" Naarfiin laughed as he traced one talon-like finger across Ashanta's neck. "Those worthless wastes of souls aren't worth my time for much longer. I'll return to them yes, but my current…state of being, is going to remain our little secret."
"You're what?" The Redguard said with complete confusion and Naarfiin smiled.
"Allow me to demonstrate." The Altmer replied, seconds before he plunged his teeth into Ashanta's neck and drank deep, pulling away with a grin as blood ran down his face. "It's more of a rush every time." He added, smiling with a mouth filled with crimson.
"Stop!" The Redguard bellowed powerlessly.
"What are you going to do?" The Altmer shot back as he cradled Ashanta's rapidly paling face in one clawed hand. "Drag me up another thousand steps? What were your words, when we were up at the very top of the tower? Make it extra tight? Let him hang? Sounds about right. Well, you left a definite impression on me…" he said, pulling back the collar of his robe to reveal a jagged red scar across his pale neck. "Why don't I return the favour?"
And with that he dragged his claw tipped finger across Ashanta's throat, slicing her neck open from ear to ear, before dropping her limp body to the floor with a dull thump.
"No!" The Redguard screamed. "You…"
As the powerless Legate screamed his daughters began to cry, all their previous bottled up fear letting itself forth in bright tears that fell down their plump cheeks.
"Oh of course, "Naarfiin said softly. "I remember what else you did now. Wasn't it a certain Redguard Legate who ordered my sons to be…what were your words? Ah yes, beheaded and thrown into Lake Rumare? Well, as I said, I should return the favour…" he added menacingly, turning towards the helpless man's daughters, his blood-flecked claws still dripping wet, as the Redguard screamed and hollered.
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Isran awoke with a jolt, drawing his silver dagger reflexively and slashing at the air in front of him, a hoarse wordless shout escaping his lips. Pulling off his sweat stained undershirt and breathing heavily he threw the bearskin blanket off him and rolled out of the camp bed. As he stood up he shook himself and threw aside the dagger, letting it fall to the canvas floor of the tent.
Instantly the canvas door at the far end was thrown open and two Dawnguard soldiers in full leather and steel armour ran in, crossbows at the ready.
"Isran!" one of them shouted, his voice muffled slightly by the enclosed steel helmet he wore. "What's happened?"
The Redguard shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath as he pulled a woollen shirt over his broad back. "Get out…"
"Sir?" the other asked, stepping forward and lowering his crossbow.
"I said get out!" Isran hollered, standing up to his full height and pointing at the two men, who quickly obeyed his orders and ran out.
Alone once again, the former Imperial Legate and Vigilant of Stendaar once again pulled down the collar of his shirt, as he did every time he had that nightmare, and traced the faded scar across his neck. It may have been over thirty years since that night in Markarth, but the nightmares were always the same every time he tried to sleep. Every time he was forced to relive his helplessness, and then finally it would end the same way it had in real life- his family butchered and Naarfiin drawing a talon across his throat, not enough to kill him, but enough that, when the his brother Azzada appeared with a group of city guard with drawn swords and torches, Isran was lying in a pool of blood and the vampire was gone.
The scuff of heavy boots on the canvas floor caught his attention and Isran bowed his head. "I told you all to get out…" he murmured, less angry now and more just melancholy.
"Isran?" said a familiar voice and then his younger brother, Azzada, was there, dressed in a thick set of Dawnguard heavy armour and with a concerned look on his handsome Redguard features as he stepped into the tent. The two brothers were almost complete opposites, especially in appearance. Where Isran was tall and broad shouldered with a bald head and hooded eyes, Azzada was slim and wiry, his face genial and good looking and a full head of black hair.
"Was it the nightmares again?" he asked with concern, but Isran shrugged.
"I told you sleep wasn't a good idea. Someone might creep up on you…"
"Look brother, we need-"
Suddenly Isran noticed the bottle of mead in Azzada's left hand and stood up, a furious look on his face.
"Is that alcohol?" he said with barely contained fury, and, not waiting for an answer, grabbed the bottle and threw it aside, the glass shattering against a tent post and spilling golden mead everywhere.
"What the-?" Azzada spluttered but Isran inly shook his head slowly.
"What did I tell you brother? Alcohol makes you slow, stupid… Means you make mistakes and mess up. I thought I banned it from the campsite?"
"I just went to the tavern inside the city walls. I needed a break Isran. Sitting in a field while a war is going on just isn't right. We need to get out there and-"
"We are gathering our forces," Isran replied evenly as he began pulling on his armour. "There's a good two thousand of our order with us now and another five hundred at Fort Dawnguard. We can't afford to let the five hundred or so others wander Skyrim trying to track us down. Mogrul and his unit arrived only last night and swelled our numbers by another fifty. As I said to everyone when we arrived here, Riften is the best place to gather our forces and be ready to support the war effort."
As he said this he finished attaching the last parts of his armour then buckled on his belt, a silver sword in a sheath at his side along with a silver dagger.
"I received a messenger hawk from Vigilant Arianna in Whiterun yesterday," he added. "She's rallying the Vigilance to her banner as we speak. I had a message sent back pledging the Dawnguard to support her."
"Are you sure that's wise?" Azzada asked, "I know about your…disagreements with the Vigilance."
Isran nodded gruffly as he pulled on a bandolier filled with silver stakes and scrolls of binding.
"I trust Arianna implicitly, "He said simply, "She's always shared my views on how to tackle our foes. Her methods may be a bit…strange, but she gets results. Arianna recognises that the Dawnguard are superior to the Vigilance in fighting vampires and the Daedra."
Sensing his brother, yet again, wasn't going to back down from his current course of action, Azzada simply nodded back and turned to leave.
"I've had word from my contact in the Legion," he said, "Legate Fasendil received an urgent message last night from his scouts in Morrowind. They've been tailing the Dominion-Argonian army for a few days now. They've identified the leader as Lord Naarfiin."
Instantly Isran looked up from checking his weapons.
"Show me." He demanded.
The two men exited the tent, a large construction of brown hide and red canvas, the two guards on the door bowing respectfully as they left, and stepped out into the Dawnguard encampment beyond. On all sides rose lines of similar brown and red tents as well as flags and banners depicting the sun crest of the Dawnguard.
Azzada led the way down the central path through the camp, the morning sun falling down upon them as the rest of the camp was beginning to wake up. The Redguard smiled slightly as he looked around him. He had always liked the Rift and, he had to admit, camping out next to Lake Honrich was an improvement over the notoriously bad weather he experienced back in Dragonbridge.
"Have you heard from your family?" Isran asked gruffly as they passed by an open area being used as a training ground, where various Dawnguard members practiced crossbow skills on painted targets on the trees.
"Just yesterday," his brother replied with a smile. "Michel's taken Clinton and Julienne, and Lucky the goat of course, up to her cousin's place in Solitude. The Legion is heavily fortifying the city so they're going to be safe."
Isran nodded as they turned the corner and came to the shore of Lake Honrich. The water sparkled and sluggishly flowed in the sunlight while a few Dawnguard sat by the shoreline, a few fishing, others just taking time out of training to rest.
"Get up!" he roared as they passed by the idling soldiers, "The vampires and the Dwarves won't wait around! Why should you?"
The various Dawnguard scattered and Isran smiled grimly. As they came to the main command tent, set up so the cool air from the lake went directly through the front entrance, the four Dawnguard on the door, all veterans decked out in heavy armour with shields and axes, snapped to attention, all bowing as Isran walked past.
Inside the tent the main commanders of the Dawnguard, Florentius, Cellan , Sorine , Durak and Gunmar, were all huddled around a small map table, each of them loudly debating tactics and ideas with their comrades. As soon as Isran walked in however, they all turned as one and fell into respectful silence.
Taking a deep breath, the Redguard walked silently over to the head of the table, put both hands on it and said in a low tone.
"Where is Lord Naarfiin?"
For a second the various Dawnguard commanders looked at each other with concern in their eyes, then Cellan spoke.
"Azzada's contacts placed the Dominion army here," he said, pointing to a point on the map in the south of Morrowind, "They are at least a week's march from Mournhold at their current speed."
"Good," Isran said simply, then snapped at one of the soldiers standing by the door, "You! Fetch me my horse…now!"
As the soldier bowed and ran out the tent, the commanders all turned to Isran with confused looks.
"What are you doing, Isran?" Gunmar asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm hunting down the monster that killed my family. By the time the elves reach Mournhold I'll have rammed a stake in Naarfiin's chest and I'll bring his head back to Skyrim on a spike."
"Surely you can't be serious?" Florentius said, "Arkay has already warned me that Lord Naarfiin is an astonishingly powerful vampire- as much as Harkon was even. Added to that is the fact he is in the middle of one of the largest Dominion armies since the Great War, in the middle of a province currently being fought over by the Dunmer and the Dwarves. It's madness!"
"You have to see sense Isran!" Sorine demanded, slamming her fist on the table. The small Breton's eyes were filled with fury as she continued, "Your friend Arianna has informed me that the Dwemer army currently setting Vvardenfell ablaze contains both Cuolec the Red and the Black Prince! These warriors are the kind that even the Dragonborn or the Nerevarine would have trouble killing! If the Dwemer were to track you down you wouldn't have a chance!"
Isran shook his head slowly. "I don't expect you to like my decision, but I think it's the right one. Who knows what vile monsters Naarfiin will call on for aid if he continues to live? While he commands the Dominion's forces we have a massive problem in taking Morrowind from the Dwarves. If I take a small unit of warriors of my own choice, we can strike Naarfiin and his main commanders in the midst of some other event-most likely when the Dwemer move against him. This is not just some petty vendetta. That vampire is, as long as he lives, going to cause nothing but death and horror for Tamriel."
The other commanders were quiet for a moment, then Gunmar spoke.
"If you're really hell-bent on this mad quest, I'm going with you."
"No," Isran replied simply, "You're too important to the war effort. Your blacksmithing skills are second to none and you're the only man I know who can keep our trolls and war dogs in proper fighting shape. They'll need you and your trained animals out on the border. Same goes for you Sorine. Divines know there aren't enough Dwemer experts out there-especially not ones with knowledge of weapons and tactics, not just useless scholars and historians. Besides, from what Arianna was saying about the situation in Whiterun, their arms and armour are in desperate need of upgrading. That's why I'm sending you and Florentius to Whiterun as my last order before I head out. As for you Florentius," he added, turning to the eccentric mage, "You may be as mad as a Skooma addict but you're the best damn mage when it comes to fighting undead or Daedra. I know you have reservations about Arianna but she'll need your help for what she has planned…"
"If you're really set on this quest Isran…" Azzada began, but Isran stopped him with a raised hand.
"Again, you're just too vital Azzada. The only ones of you I'm willing to take would be Celann. I've seen you in action before and I know you won't let me go without you anyway. As for you Durak, I need someone to help Azzada keep the main force in line while the others are in Whiterun."
Celann nodded silently then said, "I'm with you Isran. How many men are we taking with us? It'll have to be small enough to move quickly and be inconspicuous, but large enough to potentially fight against Naarfiin and his inner circle."
Durak grunted in agreement, "I'm with you until the end, Isran. We'll be ready for your return."
"It's decided." Isran snapped, "Sorine, I want you to take three hundred of our best troops to Whiterun with Florentius. I expect you to defer to Arianna on matters of command. She's the only Vigilant left with half a brain, and the only member of that order who could take someone like me in a fight," he added with a humourless smile. "Gunmar and Durak, take an advance guard of seven hundred men and a contingent of armoured trolls to Fort Dawnguard. Beleval is in temporary command there and should have upgraded the defences some more in the time she's had. According to the messages from Arianna, there should already be a strong company of Imperial and Rift Hold troops defending the Morrowind border so cooperate with them as much as you can. As for us, I can have a contingent of one hundred men ready within the next two hours. See to it that your forces are ready by then!"
As he turned to leave Isran put a hand on Azzada's shoulder, "Farewell brother until I return, you're in command of the rest of our forces. Hold position unless you hear anything from myself or Arianna. If there's any reports of vampires aiding the Dwemer or the Dominion, I want you to sort it as soon as possible. I don't particularly trust those Snow Elves to keep control of Castle Volkhair for much longer with most of their warriors in Whiterun."
"I'll have a detachment sent to reinforce it within the hour."
"See that you do." Isran replied simply as he walked away.
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It was just coming onto midday when the Dawnguard forces rode out from the encampment. Sorine and Florentius were first, at the head of a column of three hundred hardened warriors, the hooves of their horses kicking up dirt and loose stone on the north road out of Riften.
Meanwhile Isran led the main company, his own handpicked group of warriors staying close to him as he galloped out of the encampment and away from Riften, scattering groups of Dunmer refugees heading the opposite way. Behind him came Gunmar and Durak's force, along with a long convoy of supply carts and a rough column of armoured trolls-their loping, ape like strides carrying them after their masters.
Isran kept his eyes ahead as they rode on, ignoring the column of Riften troops marching in the same direction or the farmers watching them from their fields. His only thoughts were of his slain family, and how he would soon have his revenge upon Lord Naarfiin.