Zudarra peered around a mountain of rubble that had once been the Blackwood Company Hall to watch the solitary figure in the square. She had waited in the castle, counting out the minutes, and when enough time had passed Zudarra followed his scent out through the main gate and into the empty streets of Leyawiin.
Saraven had returned to that same body - Zudarra forgot if he had mentioned a name - to offer him a funeral pyre. Her irritated frown at having to play babysitter softened when the body went up in flames. Saraven may have felt that he was a changed mer, but Zudarra knew that he was not. He would never stop being decent, just as vampirism had not stopped her being selfish and cold. She brought a hand up to rest on the burnt timber she was leaning against, tail curling around her ankle, and felt a pang of something foreign in her breast.
A woman emerged, and Zudarra tensed, waiting. She was too far away to hear their conversation. But the moment Saraven touched her, the air where Zudarra had stood shimmered and the Khajiit blinked out of existence. He would probably not notice her soft pads flying across stone in his haze of pleasure. She came to rest beside him, with no heartbeat or breath to alert either of them that she was there.
She almost thought Saraven would be different - he handled the woman so gently. Zudarra had fallen upon her first mortal prey like a ravenous wolf while Saraven held his like a lover. Then the Nord sagged against him and Zudarra grabbed his forehead with one hand and his victim's shoulder with the other to yank them apart, growling. Her spell dissipated when she touched them and the air rippled, Khajiit exploding into view, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood on the air.
Mine! a voice inside her roared, and her lips curled back over her fangs in an automatic hiss before the fog of passion cleared and Zudarra grabbed hold of herself. She wanted to stop him, not steal his prey.
Saraven heard nothing at all of her approach. He was aware only of Brithe, her heart, her blood, her softly fading voice in his head – joy, relief. The idea that he would stop had faded seconds ago and he did not even remember that he had ever had it. Then a hand clamped around his forehead and he was yanked backward, landing on his back and catching himself on his elbows as Brithe toppled bonelessly to the ground. The mist of ecstasy cleared slowly and reluctantly, and he looked up, snarling, into Zudarra's hissing muzzle.
Fangs, crimson eyes. Rippling muscle. The scent of dremora blood. Strength. He looked away immediately, automatically as he clamped his mouth shut. A second after that he realized what he had been about to do.
"Oh, gods. I would've killed her." He held out a hand toward the fallen Nord as he sat up, releasing magicka again. The punctures on her throat closed as though they had never been. He scrambled up to his knees, curling his left little finger over to dig the rough ends of the chain link into his palm. The pain centered him, clearing his head. He looked from Brithe to Zudarra and back. The woman breathed evenly as she lay on her side, strong heart soldiering on, though her skin was pale and the flutter of her pulse was weak. Her face was calm, tranquil, and he realized she was younger than he had at first thought.
Wait, where had Zudarra even come from? He was suffused with shame as he realized what the truth must be.
"You followed me," he said quietly, rising to one knee. "You knew."
"You were supposed to find a thrall, not feed on her immediately," Zudarra snapped.
To see her hostile and agitated did not frighten Saraven. She had often been thus. But she was right, and his face fell as shame twisted like a knife in his gut. He should not have fed at all, did not even need it. The pain and the shame on Saraven's face lanced her own heart and Zudarra realized she was towering over him with with her feet braced apart and arms bent stiffly at her sides, wicked black claws fully outstretched. They retracted slowly as she relaxed, the raised ruff of her neck sinking along with them.
"Of course I knew," she said, more gently this time, trying hard to mask her agitation. It wasn't even Saraven she was mad at. It was the blood in the air, it was her own momentary loss of control in the face of an instinctive drive to chase him away and drain the prey that ought to be hers. "It's not your fault. It's the blood of dremora clouding your mind. I know you can't appreciate it, having known nothing else, but their blood drives you wild."
It was an obvious half-truth. Even if he hadn't fed on the daedra, he most certainly still would have tried to kill his first mortal. They both knew it, but there was no reason to make him feel worse.
She bent to gather the unconscious woman into her arms. It wasn't that she didn't trust Saraven to carry her; trust was irrelevant among vampires. This was simply the way it had to be right now.
He stood up slowly as she picked up his – no – as she lifted Brithe. The next words out of Zudarra's mouth were lies, but that was according to pattern. She usually did lie when she was upset. The new and different thing was that she seemed to be trying to make him feel better.
I am a burden to her as she was to me. Her thirst, her need, had been the nexus of his worries whenever they were outside of a gate and sometimes inside it, the need to keep her fed so that others would be safe. Now he had to trust her to be in control for both of them, and that was a heavy load to shoulder.
But he did trust her. As he walked quietly beside her back toward the castle, looking at the ground, he was absolutely certain that she would not harm the unconscious woman.
And if she did, if she showed that weakness, he would slit her throat with his blade in an instant and then Galmir would be his as well. He could have them both in his arms at the same time, feed from one throat and then the other in turn -
NO. Good GODS, no. He was horrified at himself. It kept him silent as they went over the land bridge into the castle again.
A guard came forward to inquire if they were in need of a healer when they saw the limp Nord in Zudarra's arms. "No," she said, "we've healed her already and now she needs rest and food." They were directed to a makeshift infirmary, where those with more serious injuries were recovering. It had been one room of the guard's barracks, a row of beds in a spartan stone room with storage chests at the foot of each. It was quiet inside; the few occupants were sleeping soundly. An Imperial woman in healer's robes set to divesting the Nord of her armor after Zudarra laid her down, promising with a kind smile that their friend would be carefully watched and fed when she stirred.
Saraven touched the Nord's hand – warm, he could feel the pulse fluttering through her skin – and nodded to the Imperial. "Thank you. Her name is Brithe. Please make sure she knows Saraven will be back for her," he said. The healer nodded, obviously touched by his concern; he turned away with his brow knitted as he went to follow Zudarra out of the stone room. He hated what he had done, but it was important that she should know he had not abandoned her.
"So.. Did she agree..?" Zudarra asked under her breath.
"Yes," he whispered. As they moved out into the hallway he said, "She was with Glarius, the man whose body I burnt. She's lost everyone she knew." There was no danger in anyone overhearing that. It was a simple truth.
He stopped talking to look sideways at the Khajiit, white eyebrow raised.
"You knew that I would ask. Even now?"
Zudarra stifled an impulse to roll her eyes.
"Obviously. You're still you, Saraven, and I know you would never put your needs before another's or harm them on purpose. Being what we are..." She lowered her voice even though they were alone in the hall. "Being what we are does not make us monsters. People like me, like most of us who willingly turn, were monsters from the start." Bitterness crept into her voice then. She was telling him too much, she knew. Zudarra crossed her arms over her chest, so naked without her armor, and turned her head away from him.
It crossed her mind that any agreement made in the midst of deep grief could barely be considered binding, but she would not say that to Saraven. It was good that he found a thrall. Whether Brithe consented or not was truly irrelevant to Zudarra.
"You think better of me than I deserve." He looked at her in surprise. This must have been creeping up for a long time, because she certainly had not been of this view when they met. "I do the things I do because I have to, same as anyone."
He looked forward again as they walked.
"Gave that some thought when I was alive," he said quietly. "The ones I've hunted and killed, they're the ones that have never tried to be anything else. I think that's the difference between a hero and a monster, Zudarra. Not having a better nature than other people. Struggling against the nature that we have."
It had to be that way, or he had no way to go on; but still, it was a sincere belief.
"You've done that since I've known you, or I would not have survived that night on the road, or Anvil afterward, or inside the Skingrad gate."
Zudarra silently considered his words, taking no solace in it. Initially, she allowed Saraven to live for her own benefit. Saraven did not know of Molag Bal's threat; he did not know that for Zudarra to kill him was to condemn herself to an eternity of torture. She had to begrudgingly admit that she was glad Saraven had survived this far, despite the guilt of what she'd done. To lose him may have harmed her more, although she didn't understand why.
"You were a Daedra worshipper," she said suddenly, a seemingly inexplicable shift in topic. "Don't you have to make some sort of pact with them, offer your soul to a Prince before they can claim it? Or because we aren't mortal anymore... What I'm trying to say is, does Molag Bal own our souls?" Her brows knit in confusion as she stopped, turning to him. For a brief moment fear flashed in her eyes, a small crack in her mask of composure.
He was surprised again, white eyebrows rising. He knew so little of what generally went on in the Cathay-raht's head. Perhaps he should be trying harder.
"Hard to say anything for certain about a Daedra Prince," he said. "You choose an Aedra. A Daedra chooses you. Molag Bal's been known to torture a good person until they break and twist and fall into his service, but vampires in Cyrodiil are aligned as much or more with Clavicus Vile. It's why we can walk in sunlight. So I guess the most correct answer would be, only if he decides he wants us, specifically, and nobody else wants us more. I know that's not very comforting."
Zudarra frowned.
"No," she said slowly. "It's not. But I don't intend to die, so I suppose it doesn't matter." The fear was gone from her face in favor of her usual arrogance, her tone so self-assured that she even believed the words herself.
"Anyway," she continued before he could wonder why she had asked, "I really do have to get Galmir. He must've burned through our supplies while we were gone. He can get a good meal at the castle while we wait. You seem to be okay around these people, so I won't insist that you come with me. It's up to you."
"I'll wait here," Saraven said. It would give her a chance to feed while she was out, without having him there staring at her. Or perhaps she would rather he had to watch, because she'd had to watch him so often already. He couldn't dwell on that in detail without being buried in horror and loathing again, so he chose not to do it.
Zudarra left him with some reluctance. Would he really be okay? He had been perfectly fine around the Argonians, around the survivors in the castle. It was only when he actually began feeding on the Nord that he'd lost control. The Khajiit kept that thought in her mind as she hurried across town. The sun was edging toward a red horizon and Galmir must be wondering what was keeping them.
She stabled their horses at the castle and went with Galmir to the communal dinner table with the intent of shoveling food into her bag when no one was looking. One of the Argonians from earlier recognized her there, and it didn't take long before others made the connection that she was the hero of Anvil. They were eager for any news from other cities so she told them what she knew, and by the end of the night her bag was heavy with gifts of gold - she decided pay Frida for her work despite being offered it for free - and provisions courtesy of Count Caro himself.
Finding the others returned, Saraven went to give Ves a brushing. The horse spent a full minute snorfling his head and neck, trying to figure out why he smelled wrong, but in the end decided he was still him and accepted a carrot and a currying. Saraven was unable to convince the ostler to accept payment when he asked if they had a spare pillion.
He was finding himself also gifted with gold and provisions in a less dramatic way. Many people recognized him as the Dunmer who had been with Zudarra the Bloody. It was peculiar and uncomfortable. Some of them even knew his name. He did not at all understand her craving for this sort of recognition. But then, it had been part and parcel of her old job. His work would only have been impaired by notoriety. Most people who openly advertised themselves as vampire hunters were fakes, and in a few cases even vampires themselves (he had spent a memorable week in Bruma finding that out).
It felt very strange, having no urge to sleep. He had usually been too distracted by his own exhaustion to pay attention to that aspect of Zudarra's life. No wonder she had always been so impatient with him and with Galmir. But Galmir did need to sleep and Brithe was recovering, so their departure for Bravil would have to wait until morning.
Daydreams-Under-Shade walked North under the light of the moons, the tall grass of the silvery field that lay beside the river rustling with every step. To look at the glittering black river that snaked across the land and the blue-black hills beyond, all of it shrouded in a thin mist that seemed to glow with moonlight, stirred bittersweet longing. The illusions of this world were wondrous in their beauty, but so wicked in the depths of their deception! She would be free of it soon.
The thump-thump-sshhh of the turning water wheel brought her attention to the mill, and Daydreams altered her course down-slope toward the river. It was a dreadfully ancient building, all sun-bleached stone crawling with moss at the base and gray, mildewed planks above that. Smoke rose from a chimney protruding from the thatched roof. It did not sit on the river directly, but was nearby, a little channel having been carved into the bank to divert a small stream to the wheel.
Daydreams stopped on the broken stone of the threshold and knocked, three rapid taps and a pause before the last. She heard the clinking of a chain and the door creaked open.
A fire was roaring in the hearth of the musty room, the sudden light blinding her to the two burgundy-robed figures that stood waiting inside before her yellow eyes adjusted. A small dining table and chairs sat on the other side of the room, unused. The one that had opened the door was a Dunmer, and he pulled back his hood to reveal a smooth, heavy-jowled faced after glancing out the door behind her and shutting it.
"Well, Agent?" he asked expectantly. It was then that Daydream's eyes adjusted to an imposing figure standing in the shadows of the corner, and her heart started with fear before she remembered herself. He was a dremora, tall and lithe and clad in a robe like the others, but black and adorned with some red emblem across his breast that she did not understand. It seemed to depict some sort of bony, multi-legged insectoid with a long mammalian snout. It was no animal the Argonian had ever heard described even in myth. His little white horns and bald head shone with reflected firelight and the dremora looked contemptuously at Daydreams, lips pulled up in a grimace as if he discovered her to be dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. With effort she tore her eyes away from his to regard the mer who had spoken and dipped her head respectfully before responding.
"Master Ulven. I know the ones who closed the gate here in Leyawiin and word is they are responsible for closing several others. One is a large Khajiit called Zudarra, and the other is a Dunmer by name of Saraven Gol. They are both vampires, sir. Others overhear that they leave for Bravil in the morning."
The taller robed figure, an Altmer she was unacquainted with, whipped her head toward the dremora and screeched accusingly.
"Your people were supposed to intercept them in the Deadlands!"
"I know nothing more of what happened there than you do," the dremora answered in its grating metallic voice, dripping with a hatred it made no attempt to mask. Daydreams shuddered. "Lying in wait like a lowly spider for one's prey is not our way, and it is no wonder the tactic failed to produce honorable results."
"No matter," the Altmer said sharply, seeming to despise him just as much. She removed one of her black gloves to access a ring beneath it. "You will make up for the failure. Agent, you will follow them and kill them when you can. Velehk will accompany you, and he will make himself useful, or he will have his own superiors to answer to." The dremora growled but did not argue. "Show this signet ring to Alberic Vanne at the castle and he will supply you with anything you require. You can use the ring to call Velehk to you."
The sudden surge of adrenaline was very much like fear, but Daydreams reminded herself that she was not afraid to die as she accepted the ring. It was some black metal, a rising sun engraved on the flat top. She removed her leather glove and put it on underneath.
To die would be to reach paradise, to be free of her slavery to the Hist and the prison of the Aedra. Daydreams-Under-Shade was most certainly not afraid of that.
"Thank you," she said, bowing again before she turned to leave. "The will of Lord Dagon shall be done."
The following morning they returned to Frida's forge for Zudarra to be fitted with her new armor while Saraven replaced his ruined padding trousers and put together the rest of a suit of steel chainmail: boots, greaves, hood and gauntlets. He hooked the broken link he had salvaged into the inside of the left gauntlet between the second and third fingers, where it would grind the rough edges into the web of his hand when he made a fist.
Saraven found that he had been right. Zudarra was a sight to terrify and impress in her new adamantium. He was completely ignorable in his gray mail. The Orc had been close to Zudarra's size and the cuirass was barrel-shaped instead of form-fitting, so very little modification had to be done. The most drastic alteration had been to the greaves, as the Cathay-raht's shins were much shorter than that of a mer. Thin horns rose majestically from the sides of the helm and small claws jutted out at the sides, cradling her jaw.
Zudarra grinned proudly, freshly polished adamantium gleaming orange in the light of the forge fire as she flexed to test her mobility. Saraven watched with his hood back and arms folded, his eyes squinted slightly in amusement. This was the Zudarra that he had loved; at her best she was proud and fearless, a warrior whom anyone would be proud to fight beside.
Strength, said the new vampiric impulses unhelpfully. Now is a worse time than ever. You should have attacked her while she was unarmored.
You are not in charge here, Saraven told himself.
"We'll meet you outside," she said to Saraven when their equipment had been squared away, thinking he might wish to visit the infirmary alone. He nodded in response and turned to go.
The infirmary was again very quiet. It was early, and most of the residents were still sleeping. The healer waved to him from across the room, where she was spoon-feeding a small boy whose red-rimmed eyes said he had seen horrors. The Nord sat on the edge of her bed, buckling on her iron boots. She looked like she'd had a wash since he'd seen her last. Her hair was damp and plaited back in a braid that hung to her shoulderblades. Brithe was still pale, but she looked better, blue eyes sharper and more aware. The pain still lurked. It was there in the deep grooves from mouth to nose, in the lines forming around her eyes. She looked up as she heard him approach.
"You did come back, Saraven Gol," she said.
"Yes, Brithe Aglasdottir." He sat down beside her about two feet away, resting a hand on his own knee. He could hear her heart beating, see the movement of her breasts under her shirt as she breathed. He flexed the fingers of his left hand inside his mail gauntlet, letting the discomfort of the embedded link scraping his skin focus him back onto important things. "Have you eaten?"
"Yes. The thing you did to me," she said. "It didn't last."
"I can bring it back," he said. "Do you want me to now?"
She looked around for the infirmarian. "In front of her?"
"I don't have to feed to reach your mind," he said. "You aren't ready for that anyway, won't be for a while yet. Are you ready to come with me now? We'll be riding to Bravil, and then you will be left with our companion while Zudarra and I go into the next gate."
"I need a weapon," she said.
"What weapon do you use?"
"A warhammer."
"You won't be able to fight as well," Saraven said. "Not for a while. But we'll get you a light hammer and a buckler. At least you'll be able to defend yourself and Galmir from a thief or a bandit. We'll stop at Frida's on our way out."
She nodded. "Good. Now, please."
"All right. Look at me." She met his eyes obediently. He sought his way in, and it was easy, she offered not the slightest resistance. See only me. Feel only calm. She embraced the command hungrily, feeling grief and despair melt gently into trance, and he watched her features smooth out, the muscles around her eyes relaxing. He fed back pleasure, and had the satisfaction of watching her sigh, color mounting into her pale face.
"Are you ready to go, Brithe?" he asked her.
"Yes, Saraven," she said calmly. "I'm ready to go."
There was a brief delay at Frida's, but in a few minutes they were on their way out of the castle gate. Brithe walked along beside him in her half-armor with the one-hand hammer on her hip and her buckler on her back, looking at nothing, listening to the silence in her head.
Zudarra looked on with some jealousy as Saraven emerged with his thrall, so large, so strong compared to her little waif of an elf. She could see from Brithe's vacant expression that she'd been mesmerized, but did not smell her blood on Saraven. That was curious. He resisted the temptation to feed much better than Zudarra would have when she was new.
That fact soured her mood as they rode out. She listened irritably as Galmir introduced himself to the newcomer and attempted to chat, eventually letting off when he realized she didn't have much to say.
The rising of the sun seemed to clear away the mist and by noon the air was comfortably warm. The road to Bravil closely followed the river; with the smoldering ruins of Leyawiin out of sight behind them and a beautiful green expanse before them, it was easy to forget that Nirn was under siege. The tall grass and purple foxglove whispered softly in a light breeze and fat dragonflies darted across their path to dance above the glimmering water.
Having Brithe ride behind him, arms around his waist, head often resting on his shoulder, was consistently distracting for Saraven. They had left the fourth horse in Leyawiin for whoever should happen to need it, as he could not be sure the new beast would be able to endure the proximity of both vampires and eventually fire without bolting. He was beginning to regret that decision now. Her throat was so close to him that he could hear her blood pulsing in his ears. He had frequent recourse to the ring stuck into his gauntlet, curling and uncurling the fingers of his left hand. It made him more tense and irritable as the ride wore on, listening to Galmir's chatter and Brithe's monosyllabic responses. He gradually hunched over more in the saddle, and the cessation of chatter was finally a relief. The bases of his fangs itched.
It was about that time that they passed through a small country village of no importance, little more than a cluster of squat stone huts with thatched roofs. There were no people outside, but the thud of hooves on the single dirt road that ran through the town brought faces to the windows. A few people opened their doors to watch them pass by, and Zudarra heard awestruck murmurs of "Knights!" or "Where is the Legion?" in fearful tones. They stopped briefly to speak to a farmer who wanted news of Leyawiin and offered them a bag of pears in return.
Behind them, a dot on the horizon, Daydreams-Under-Shade rode along on a bay mare, courtesy of Count Caro even if the Count did not know it. She still wore her leather armor, but now two silver daggers were strapped across her right thigh in addition to a silver shortsword on her hip and a small wooden buckler on her arm. A baldric containing an array of potions lay across her chest, each in its own little tube sewn into the leather. She took no pains to hide her face and enjoyed the warmth of the sun against her scales, but it dwarfed in comparison to the heat of the ring beneath her glove. She imagined that she could feel Velehk's burning hatred for the people of Nirn, ready to be unleashed at her command.
She felt sorry for the vampires. Daydreams did not want anyone to suffer. But her work was necessary, and when they were free of this world they would thank her. The village of Water's Edge was still within sight behind them. As soon as it was not, she pressed her legs against the mare's side until she broke into a gallop, the thunder of hooves joining the thunder of Daydreams' heart in her ear.
As she approached, she plucked out the first potion in her belt: fortify speed. She thumbed off the cap and downed it, shucking the empty vial alongside the road. The world slowed; her mare plodded along with majestic strength, muscles rippling beneath her coat with every pound of hoof against road. Zudarra heard the approaching horse, turned to look with disinterest and back again, not recognizing the rider. As soon as she looked away again Daydreams drew her sword and angled herself for Saraven's shoulder to unhorse him.
At least his thrall was not suffering. That was something, right? Saraven was trying to lift his mood with this and other such assertions when he heard an incredibly fast thunder of hooves and he was just turning to see what it was when he was struck in the shoulder by an incredible impact. He was knocked sideways, and Brithe, too sleepy and dull to react, slid off with him into the road. He heard Ves snort, and then Shadow clomping sideways, barely avoiding stepping on either of them. Saraven snatched up the Nord and ran for the side of the road, completely ignoring her heavier weight as he tossed her into what he hoped was a thornless bush. He spun back toward the road, reaching for his sword.
The Argonian had galloped past as Saraven hit the ground and now wheeled around to face them, leaping from the back of her mount even before it fully completed its turn. Zudarra realized with a jolt who it was.
"What are you doing?" the vampire snarled, saddle creaking as she stood to dismount. Galmir, in his usual idiocy, had apparently forgotten how to stop his horse and rode on past them, looking fearfully over his shoulder whilst sputtering a series of startled exclamations such as "Dear me!" and "By Y'ffre!"
"I'm setting you free," Daydreams-Under-Shade responded, toothy mouth hanging open in a joyful smile as she raised her left fist to the air. Magicka crackled behind Zudarra as she clomped to the ground, turning to the source of the noise. A swirling vortex of white light unfurled around a black shape and a dremora mage stepped forward, glancing about himself with a grave expression. Zudarra's eyes narrowed and she reached for the hilt of her axe.
The corner of the dremora's lip shifted up and he hurled fire at the Khajiit. She darted aside and flames exploded on the ground behind the horses. Shadow squealed, eye whites flashing as he bolted off the road, kicking up dust behind him.
Ves dithered and danced sideways, springing over a ditch to trot around behind the bush where Brithe had landed. He was familiar with fireballs, but the noise had been loud and close to him, and Saraven's scent no longer reassured him as it once had. The gelding finally gave in and fled after Shadow, the other horse he had been near the most often.
Saraven was equally startled to recognize the Argonian who had aided them in Leyawiin, but Zudarra's question and her answer made it apparent what was happening even before the dremora appeared. He circled them, face intent, trying to put the dremora between himself and Zudarra so that they could not both be caught by the same spellflare, and then he clenched his left hand – the broken link in his gauntlet jabbed the web of his hand – and shoved it open toward Daydreams-Under-Shade. White fingers of lightning crackled out toward the Argonian. He hated to harm an animal, but sometimes it couldn't be helped.
Threads of white light crawled through the air. Daydreams danced nimbly aside just before it struck her mare, shutting her nostrils against the unexpected stink of burning flesh. The animal jerked noiselessly for a long second. When the lightning had ceased its flashing across her coat, the mare swayed and toppled to the side with a heavy thud, a smoking black corpse.
Zudarra sprinted for the dremora as she swung the battleaxe from its harness. He grinned at her, hopping backward as he flicked a wrist. A purple shell of magicka flashed around Velehk as Zudarra swung for his chest. The axe slowed as it passed through the barrier, as if underwater, and the dremora grabbed the haft below the head. Zudarra's weight slammed against him and they staggered back together, her eyes locking on his as she snarled in rage at having been thwarted. Fire burst from his hand again, this time traveling down the shaft in a burning spiral and Zudarra screamed, releasing her weapon and flying back on her paws as if thrown.
Daydreams dashed at Saraven with a speed he would not have seen in any mortal, silver blade aimed for his head.
Saraven was already halfway to the Argonian when the mare fell dead, but he was not expecting how fast she moved, had not connected the suddenness of her approach with that probability. He jerked his head to one side, but the blade ploughed a furrow along his temple and scalp, scattering white hair and a small spray of blood, drawing a line of sharp pain. He slashed at her neck as he spun away, a poor stroke weakened by the impact. He knew it would miss.
The Argonian darted away from his strike and whirled to follow him, circling closer with her buckler held between them, knowing she had to end this before the potion ran out. She feinted a jab at his face while attempting to bash his sword hand with her buckler instead.
This time he was ready for her to be faster than expected, but the feint was completely logical and it worked; as he ducked away she smashed at his right hand with the buckler. There was a crack as it hit his right middle knuckle first, the gauntlet only blunting the blow a little, and pain exploded through that hand. He lost his grip on the sword, but he dropped to one knee with incredible speed to catch it in his left hand, jabbing upward at her throat under the chin. It hurt his left hand as well, the embedded link stabbing him, but he accepted that as a necessary cost. It hurt less than his broken right.
Brithe was lying among leaves and twigs, supported by something scratchy and uncomfortable that jabbed into the clothing padding her back and legs. She stared up at the blue sky for a moment as she listened to the sounds of roaring flames and running horses. Something was happening, but she couldn't bring herself to care what. Saraven would probably take care of it.
Saraven. She couldn't see him, and her opening and closing hands did not touch him. That was a problem, she realized with a jolt, and she started actively fighting to clear the fog, struggling upright. Why am I in a bush? She clambered out and to her feet, brushing twigs out of her hair, and stared around at the road.
Velehk's torso twisted as he lobbed Zudarra's battleaxe behind himself and it sailed into the river with a loud plash, never taking his eyes from the Khajiit. She healed her burnt hands with a quick flick of her wrist and growled, circling the dremora, calculating her next move when his eyes flicked to something behind her and he stretched out a hand.
"Die, mortal filth," he said calmly, releasing the blast of fire. Zudarra easily dodged aside from the attack that had never been intended for her, the heat of the fireball warming her face as it hurtled toward Brithe.
Saraven was there, fighting an Argonian Brithe felt she should recognize but could not quite remember. The big Cathay-raht was there, and the horses were gone, and... Dremora. Every shred of pain and loathing she had felt in the last three days flooded back, a jolt of adrenaline up her spine cold and sharp as an icicle. Her body was weak, but the reluctance in her lax muscles was gone in an instant. She dove and rolled to the side as she roared the Woad of her ancestors, and the purple glow of the shield sprang up around her just before the fireball impacted on the bush where she had been trapped. Flames exploded around it, blasting her right side with heat, but the Woad saved her from the worst of it. She kept rolling until she hit her knees and then was on her feet, charging the daedra with bared teeth and wide, mad eyes.
One hand darted to jerk her warhammer from the thong at her hip.
The dremora strafed to the side to keep both mortals in his line of sight and hurled blast after blast at the charging Nord. The Khajiit behind her blinked from existence, the air where she had stood rippling as if from great heat.
Brithe could not have dodged, did not have the energy to move that fast. Even less did she have the will. She yanked the buckler off her back and ploughed forward with it up in front of her face, and that and the Woad kept the flames from killing her, but they scorched her clothing, the wooden front of the shield, her upraised arms. By the time she reached the dremora the warhammer's hilt was on fire, but that did not make her let go. She screamed in rage and agony as she swung the weapon.
The dremora tried to dash aside but something closed around his wrists, something hard pressed against his back and cool, furred lips were brushing against his neck, the pointy claws of her helm poking into him. The Khajiit's fangs forced their way through his flesh as the hammer collided with his skull - the force was greatly deadened by his shield, but it was enough to stun him, head throbbing painfully from crown to horns. Zudarra barely twitched at the impact that jostled her, too lost in ecstasy to care. The rush of hot blood, the furious pounding of his heart, all of it absorbed Zudarra completely as she shimmered into view, crimson eyes rolling back in their sockets.
Brithe raised the hammer again, but then the dremora shuddered in a strange way, and the air behind him trembled like a heat wave and became Zudarra the Bloody, fangs locked in the creature's neck. She lowered the weapon, backing away, and then realized she was on fire. The Nord threw herself flat and rolled about until the flames went out, breath hissing between her teeth, heart pounding in her ears. She fetched up lying on her side, warhammer still clutched in her hand. Her sleeves had completely burnt away from her forearms, and the flesh was bubbling and peeling where they had been. The front of her shirt and pants was black above her iron boots.
Daydreams-Under-Shade bashed the hilt of her sword against Saraven's skull as his blade pierced her jaw from below, slicing through tongue and the upper roof of her mouth. An automatic scream ripped from her throat, agony lancing through her face again as her head jerked back and her mouth tried to open, the serrated blade tearing at her flesh. She thrashed stupidly, desperately trying to knock the sword from Saraven's hands. Her screams turned to gurgles as blood filled her mouth.
Saraven's head was knocked back, the world spinning around him as his vision filled with sparks, but the scent of blood was maddening. He could not succumb to unconsciousness with that filling his nostrils. His head snapped forward, mouth opening in a snarl, and he lunged for the Argonian's throat as he jerked the sword free. His teeth fastened around the artery on one side of her throat as he pinned her arms to her sides, fanatically strong, and drank and drank and drank. He was aware of nothing else. The pleasure quickly blotted out the pain.
Daydreams-Under-Shade jerked against his iron grip until her strength drained away with her blood. She could process nothing but the horrible throbbing agony in her mouth and neck. Regret for her wasted life and bitter failure did not even cross the Argonian's mind as she gradually slipped away in his hands.
Saraven kept drinking until the blood stopped flowing. With a shock he realized he had not even tried to spare a mortal victim pain. Her heart had already stopped, silence in his ears, flesh cooling in his hands. He let go, watching the desiccated body drop like a puppet with cut strings. His injuries were healed. His right hand no longer hurt. Now he clenched his left fist to try and push back the tide of guilt and self-loathing, concentrating on the pain. He stood staring at the corpse with eyes wide and gray lips parted around his bloodied fangs.
Brithe was lying on the ground. So much pain. Where was Glarius? No, Glarius was dead, his ashes lying in the square in Leyawiin where he had fallen. She moved her right hand, casting her pitiful healing spell. It eased the pain a little, but the burns still hurt fiercely, new flesh red and damaged instead of bubbling and melted. She looked around for – Dunmer – steel chainmail -
"Saraven...?" she whispered.
He jerked upright at the sound of his own name, looking around. The dremora was not long for this plane with Zudarra already at his throat. Strength. Mine! He growled under his breath as he clenched his left fist again, jerking his eyes away. No, damn it, he would not make her hit him in the head again to make him behave like a rational being. There was something important, something he should be doing.
Brithe. She was lying on the ground, badly burned, her clothes scorched. He moved in a blur of speed to kneel beside her, reaching out to cup a hand under her cheek as the fingers of the other curled around to sketch the gesture of his healing spell. Blue light spiraled up around the Nord. She slumped, gasping in relief as the pain faded.
"You're all right." He reached down to help her sit up, supporting her with an arm around her shoulders. She looked past him at Zudarra, staring. "Come on. Don't watch."
"I want to see him die," she said fiercely, raising a hand to push at his shoulder as he tried to block her view. He shifted position, still supporting her as she stared unblinkingly at Zudarra feeding on the creature.
The dremora finally stopped jerking in her grasp, his low rumbling roar dying away as he did, but Zudarra never lost her grip on his wrists. Her black claws drew blood where they poked into his flesh. She continued to suck greedily until the corpse was dry and shriveled and Zudarra reluctantly let the body fall to her feet in a heap. She stood hunched over the corpse, chin stained red with dripping blood, her wild eyes flitting from Saraven to Brithe. A heart was beating, weak but alive, pounding in her ears. She snarled and bared her red fangs to him, tail thrashing, a challenge for his thrall.
Further down the road, Galmir had finally collected his wits enough to stop his mare, and had turned around to watch the battle. He came trotting up to them now, fretfully wringing the reigns in his hands, oblivious to the animalistic rage that had overtaken his mistress.
Brithe stared at her, uncomprehending, and then her view was blocked by the Dunmer as he let go and leaped to his feet, bloody sword in hand. He bared his teeth at Zudarra in return, undeterred by size, by armor, by the faintest glimmer of common sense. The paler red of his sclera showed all the way around each iris as he faced her down, teeth bared.
And then he clenched his left fist. Pain stabbed into his hand and he jerked his head to the side, forced to keep her in sight but removing that challenging glare as his lips flattened to a thin line.
Zudarra growled throatily and moved toward them, bloody froth dribbling from her mouth as her tongue worked against her teeth. She could smell weakness in both of them, she could smell the inferior blood of an Argonian still on his lips and the recent discharge of magicka. This young vampire was no match for her, and he dared to guard her prey!
"No, Zudarra," he rasped. "Get hold of yourself. You're better than this."
His words were jarring and comprehension slowly dawned in her eyes. Horror passed over the Khajiit's face as her muscles relaxed and she stood, then jerked away and stalked over to the river to retrieve her weapon.
Saraven shut his eyes for a second. Strength. Chase her now, stab her in the back! Shut up shut up shut up. He turned to offer Brithe a hand. She accepted it and let him pull her to her feet.
"What was that about?" she asked wearily.
"Daedric blood is potent," he said. "It can make us a little mad." He was aware of a thin trickle of his own blood inside his gauntlet, cool and nasty against his skin. He let the wound stay for now. He needed the pain. The corpse of the dremora had not yet faded, and the scent of its tantalizing ichor was still on the air. He wanted to turn and throw himself on Brithe, to assert his ownership by feeding again immediately. He dared not. It would probably kill her, at the very least would hurt her badly when she was still weak.
"Come on," he said gruffly. "We'll find the horses." He turned toward the direction they had bolted. There were fields for a half-mile in every direction, and a little copse of oaks in the near distance, a reasonable place for a frightened creature to seek cover. Brithe walked beside him, looking back over her shoulder at the dead daedra. Bits of her clothing crackled and fell off as she walked.
It happened again. Why is this happening to me?! Zudarra's thoughts raced as the mask came over her face again and white hot fury boiled inside. She was angry at herself for the loss of control and angry at Saraven for having witnessed it, for not having shared in her shame, for being stronger than her. She stopped at the water's edge, glaring at her proud reflection on the glassy surface. A black shape was visible beneath, entangled in water weeds.
"Galmir!" she barked without turning. "Get over here and fetch my battleaxe from the river!"
"Yes, of course!" he yelped, scrabbling down from his horse, racing to her side and slogging into the water without hesitation. The current was calm but the riverbed sloped steeply, the water several feet deep where the axe had landed.
Galmir hauled the giant axe from the riverbed, hugging the heavy thing to his chest as he struggled out of the water. Zudarra stared at him dispassionately, looking through him completely and lost in her sullen thoughts until he was in standing in front of her dripping wet, bowing backward under the weight of his burden. She yanked the axe from him one-handed and turned back up the short slope to the road, the sudden shift in balance nearly knocking him off his feet. She scowled at the receding backs of the Dunmer and Nord and went to find cloth from Galmir's saddle bag to dry her weapon. She heard retching behind her; the Bosmer must have got a good look at the desiccated corpses.
After that, she searched the bodies. The dremora had nothing. The Argonian had several healing potions that the poor fool had never been able to use. There were other potions she did not recognize by smell, but had to assume were more speed fortifiers. Zudarra sat crouched on her heels, regarding the corpse with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. What was it she had said?
I'm setting you free. Was she a vampire hunter? No, not with a bound dremora. Zudarra pulled off the leather glove, carelessly tossing it into the grass alongside the road, and plucked the black ring from a bony finger. Wherever it came from, it was forged from the same metal as their daedric weapons. She turned it in her claws, examining the thing from every angle, but the only adornment was the engraving of a half-sun on the horizon.
The Mythic Dawn. Some people had mentioned that during dinner in Castle Leyawiin. They had been responsible for the Emperor's assassination. The attack made a little more sense now... barely. Zudarra couldn't understand why anyone would willingly serve a Prince, let alone one like Mehrunes Dagon who sought to destroy the entire world.
Zudarra stood suddenly, closing the ring in her fist and gathering up the baldric full of potions in her other hand. Galmir was several feet away with his horse, his face pressed against the mare's white cheek while he stroked her muzzle. He whispered softly to her, probably unaware that Zudarra could hear it.
"Shh, Elwaen. We're safe now. Dead bodies can't hurt you. Zudarra wouldn't let anything bad happen to either of us, you know."
"You named it?" Zudarra asked, looming up behind him to deposit the ring and the potions in his bag. Galmir started and looked at her sheepishly.
"Elwaen moths are white with black speckles, like her. I don't know if you have those around here, but we have them back in... Valenwood." His voice trailed off and he seemed to be looking very far away before shifting his gaze to the horse. He continued to stroke her pink nose and Elwaen's lids drooped over her liquid brown eyes in silent appreciation.
Zudarra looked softly at the Bosmer for possibly the first time in her life. It had never crossed her mind to enthrall someone she wasn't feeding on, but Saraven had done it on his second day. She reached out and his mind fell open like a book, the images of fire and smoke and burned corpses tumbling out into hers. Zudarra pushed them all away.
Peace. Calm. Happiness. None of this matters. You belong to me. Only I matter. Only now matters. He accepted the orders without resistance and sighed, leaning against his mare, the hand on her nose slowing in its stroking. Zudarra could feel the short fur under her own fingers, so soft and silky. She could feel his unwavering trust, could feel the joy and love oozing from Galmir's mind like sweet syrup. Good, she thought, pulling away. It had badly needed doing, with his four days alone.
"Bring Elwaen. We'd better see if Saraven found the horses," Zudarra said. Galmir nodded dreamily and fell in behind her leading Elwaen by the bridle, leaving two curiously bloodless corpses and the Bosmer's breakfast on the road behind them.
Saraven approached the treeline with narrowed eyes, listening. It would be a dreadful sort of irony to survive an encounter like the last one and then be shot by bandits or set afire by necromancers because he wasn't paying attention. He heard a couple of hearts beating, but they did not waken his hunger: not man or mer.
He stopped in the shade and whistled, then called softly, "Ves. Has'anagh." Brithe leaned against a tree beside him, head drooping, uncomplaining but exhausted. After a moment a black nose appeared around a tree up ahead of them. Ves's nostrils flared as he scented them both. Then he nickered and trotted forward to nose Saraven's outstretched hand. The Dunmer patted his neck, praising him in Dunmeris as he took hold of the bridle. "Where's your big friend gone?"
He heard stamping and blowing from not that far ahead. He tried to remember what commands he had heard Zudarra use with the big black horse and finally settled on clicking his tongue loudly, a signal trained into many of the beasts before they were sold. Shadow edged up to them more reluctantly, ears forward, nostrils wide.
"It's all right, fire's all gone," Saraven told him, holding out his right hand. The horse sidled up to have a sniff, then let his bridle be seized as well, snorting and grumbling at the way he had been alarmed. Saraven made soothing noises at him. Ves turned to snuffle at Brithe's hair. She laughed weakly, raising a hand to pat his nose.
"What do you want, silly thing?"
"He likes human women," Saraven said. "I think one owned him before me." Certainly he'd been putty in Clara's hands all those years ago. "Lean on him as we walk. He won't mind." He flexed his left hand again. Shadow complained under his breath at the stink of vampire blood, but it was not completely unfamiliar to him. He let himself be led out of the trees as Brithe both led and leaned on Ves, her left arm draped around the horse's neck. She spoke to him in her own tongue, and his ears flickered at the unfamiliar words.
He could see Zudarra off in the distance, moving off the road and through the tall grass toward them. He raised a hand to attract her attention. He had wanted to check whether the Argonian's leather armor would fit Brithe, but on second thought he suspected the woman had been too small; and he did not want to touch the dremora, Zudarra's kill, until he was sure she had calmed down.
Zudarra let them come to her and took Shadow from Saraven when he approached, glancing over her fellow vampire without hesitation, as if she hadn't just tried to challenge him like a hound fighting over a pork chop.
"She was part of the Mythic Dawn cult," Zudarra said plainly.
Of course. Saraven had missed that implication completely, worried about momentary concerns. Again he felt unbalanced, seeing something happen that he would not have allowed to happen before.
The Kahjiit's nose twitched at the bitter smell of his blood - so different from the intoxicating aroma it once had been, she thought with a pang of loss - and looked over the Dunmer, puzzled, searching for his injury. Whatever it was was small enough to be of no consequence so Zudarra brushed the matter aside, pulling herself up into the saddle to ride back to the road.
"Would you burn the body?" She asked over her shoulder. "Won't do us any good if people find a bloodless corpse around. I took a signet ring from her, but that's no proof that she attacked us first."
"Sure," Saraven said. He helped Brithe mount back up – he had to support a lot of her weight, but that was not hard for him now – and got up in front of her. She leaned forward to whisper in his ear as he rode back toward the road.
"Saraven."
"Hm?" He reached out, anything to distract himself from her throat pulsing near his ears, and felt her exhaustion. Grief hovered, waiting for its opportunity to pounce, and he pushed it firmly down, sharing his approval and blanketing her roiling mind with calm. She gave in immediately, gratefully.
You are brave and strong. Feel no pain. Know that I am proud of you. Warmth. Contentment. In response she squeezed him weakly, animal comfort that she missed from someone she was not thinking of right this minute. He blocked the awareness that his body had no heat, gently wrapping her in a warm glow. She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed. When they came to the road he helped her down carefully and arranged her leaning on Ves again.
"Good horse," she told the gelding. He reached his head back to examine her hair again. Saraven left him well to one side of the bodies as he went to open his left hand toward the Argonian, letting the fire go. It WHOMPHED up around the corpse. Behind him Ves complained, snorting, but he did not run; neither horse was apt to panic when the fire was not right next to them.
"I hope you are where you wished to be," he said to the corpse.
"She might regret it when she gets there," Zudarra said with a snort, watching the body burn from atop her horse. Galmir had mounted his when Zudarra did and now he stared blankly at the blaze which attracted his scant attention, unperturbed by the sound or the smell of crackling flesh. Death and spellfire were nothing new to Elwaen, who dropped her head to leisurely graze at the side of the road with no input from her rider.
Saraven went to drag the robes off the dremora. He was wearing some sort of loincloth underneath them, and they were stained at the neck with his blood. Saraven thought for a moment about what sort of clothes a dremora magus would wear. Then he carried the robes over to the burning corpse, laid them over his sword, and dangled them in the fire. The blood crumbled up and turned to dust in the fervent heat, but the cloth seemed unaffected. Afterward he shook it vigorously to dispel any remaining scents and carried it over to Brithe.
"Take those things off and put this on. Keep your boots and belt. You can stand behind the bush there if you like."
She nodded dreamily and took her clothes off in the road. Saraven blinked at her in startlement and then looked away before he saw anything. If he had seen her dressing in the Guild he would not have thought a thing of it, but their circumstances were different now. She was so completely in his power that she could not withhold consent to anything he demanded, and in those circumstances his touch must be light. It was bad enough that he would take her blood. Let her body otherwise be her own.
Zudarra, however, allowed her eyes to roam over the Nord's body with minor interest. She could scarcely be called a person anymore, and obviously didn't care about her own modesty. Her body was young and strong, muscular; she had full breasts and very pale areolas, as very light-skinned women sometimes do. She obviously trimmed but did not shave between her legs. The hair there matched the hair on her head. The scars of long wear with an iron cuirass lay on her ribs below her breasts, parallel curving lines from left and right to center.
The Khajiit was more interested in Saraven's reaction to her. She narrowed her eyes at the back of his turned head, recalling that she'd caught him looking her way while she was bathing.
"Now you're a perfect gentleman?" she asked, a hint of an edge to her voice, although she only meant to tease him.
So she had seen. Well, there was no concealing his shame in any area. That should not surprise him.
"I shouldn't have looked at you either," he said quietly, brow knitted. "But you don't look the same to me now as you did before. I can't stop watching to see if you've gotten stronger, or weaker, or if you might take my kill, or if I can take yours. I hate it, but it's there." He went to give Brithe a boost back onto the horse – she needed the help – and then mount back up himself. She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder again, yawning.
Zudarra's dry little smile faded as she absorbed the implication of his words. So it wasn't just her dealing with the primal urges. Of course it wasn't! How stupid was she to think Saraven was spared from it? He hid it better, that was all. Her ears were plastered to her skull beneath the helm and Zudarra was thankful for that, else they would have announced her shame.
"Come, Galmir," she said tartly, surging past the others, Shadow's heavy feathered hooves kicking up dust behind her. Daydreams-Under-Shade was an unrecognizable pile of charred bone and bubbling fat, and no one would accuse them of her murder.