Chapter 21: The Widening Gyre

After so many contracts with Garnag as my partner, it felt strange to be on the road alone again. It was just me and Spot, my dappled mare, traveling south as the weather turned from the warmth of summer to the cool of autumn. Of course, most of the trees in Skyrim were pines and the like, so we didn't get the changing colors of Cyrodiil like Garnag had told me about, but there was a different feeling in the air as Hearthfire approached. It felt like things were winding down, like the beginning of the end.

Or maybe it was just me.

While I loved working with Garnag, and even occasionally tolerated working with other members of my extended family, I couldn't deny that some time alone was really what I needed to get my thoughts in order. I would be leaving Sanctuary soon, only a few more weeks probably, and I felt like getting used to being alone would be useful. Maybe if I could remember what loneliness felt like, it wouldn't be so bad when I had to live through it again. It struck me as horribly appropriate that the city I was being sent to was called "Solitude."

I caught myself brooding again instead of just enjoying the scenery and tried to shake it loose. I looked out at the landscape of beautiful Skyrim to raise my spirits, but found my mood sinking again the closer I got to my destination. I could make out the scars of war all around me, marking the passing of the summer war efforts. Trees had been torn down and burned off to make way for armies at march, and I occasionally saw burnt out or abandoned farms as I made my way down the roads of Falkreath Hold.

Still, I considered myself lucky to have not been hassled by Stormcloak patrols so far. I supposed that they had better things to do than harass random lone travelers. Maybe there were innocent elves or beast-kin to harass instead. That seemed more up their alley to me. Thinking about the Stormcloaks only made the beautiful late summer day seem even sourer to me. Like ants at a picnic, they ruined everything they came in contact with. I didn't know what to expect from Falkreath—Nazir and Hecate didn't like to talk about the place very much—but I couldn't imagine that it would be much better off than Whiterun had become under Stormcloak occupation.

I rubbed my forehead as my mind drifted to unpleasant things. I just wanted to enjoy the road and clear my mind, but it seemed like no matter how far into myself I retreated, all of my worries just followed me down deeper. Only a few weeks before, feeling frustrated about Eiruki's interest in me and Hecate's lack of it had seemed like the biggest problems in the world. Now, I was going on what might be my last contract for years. After working so hard to achieve my goal of being an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood, it felt like ashes in my mouth to be sent away—to a school, of all places.

Once again, I was being treated like a child by the person I most wanted to see me as an adult.

A chilly breeze pulled me out of my dark thoughts. As I bundled my cloak around my shoulders for warmth the road bent ahead to reveal the walls of Falkreath. They weren't as mighty as the walls surrounding Whiterun or Windhelm, barely defensible at all, but they were tall enough to prevent massed charges from all directions. The hills along the southeastern side of the city had been cleared of trees and scrub to make way for a Stormcloak encampment. It was smaller than I would have thought, considering that the city had only been taken earlier this year, but the Stormcloaks' reach had always exceeded their grasp.

A few dozen Stormcloaks milled about the smallish camp, helmets off but weapons near at hand. They ranged in age from clean-faced teenage recruits to weathered old grandfathers. Their armor was scuffed, dented, dirty, and battle-tested. They all had the weary, distant look of men and women who had been fighting for their lives for months with no end in sight, only to find themselves suddenly and shockingly without anyone left to fight. The sight of them reminded me of my other obligation in Falkreath.

When Nazir had offered me the pick of the contracts for my "farewell mission," I had immediately picked the one in Falkreath Hold. He had looked me right in the eyes and shaken his head, but he hadn't said anything. We both knew why I had chosen the city. Since I didn't know when I would get a chance to leave Solitude, or how long the war would drag on, I had wanted to come down this way and look up my old friend Vigurl Deep-Water, who had joined the Stormcloak army sometime last year. I had run into his brother Lasskar in Whiterun a few months back, and I had said that I would try to find Vigurl and see if he was still alive.

Nazir told me once that my greatest character flaw was a misplaced sense of honor. I made promises and then tried to keep them, even when I shouldn't. Assassins had to be pragmatic, he had said; honor has no place in a killer's life. While I acknowledge that he had the best of intentions for me, I had never thought of myself as "honorable." At the age of fourteen, I had killed helpless foes and killed from ambush and killed in open battle. I found that even though I was a decent fighter, I much preferred killing people who couldn't try to kill me back; it was easier, and their helplessness appeased my sense of devotion to the Night Mother.

Still, every now and then, I would get these strange little twinges where I felt that keeping my word was the most important thing in the world. However impractical, however stupid—I wouldn't feel right again until I had tried my best to do as I had promised.

I dismounted from my horse and approached the city's entrance on foot. In my experience, guards reacted better if you weren't looking down on them. Half of them asked you to dismount anyway, so it was really all gain for barely any additional effort.

"What's your business in Falkreath, traveler?" the guard asked from behind a concealing Stormcloak helm.

"I'm a merchant's apprentice on a buying expedition," I said, giving him my usual cover story. "It's my first time in Falkreath, so I was wondering if you could recommend an inn?" In my experience, the less time you gave someone to think about your identity before asking them questions, the more likely they were to answer your question without asking you any in return.

"Only inn around here is the Dead Man's Drink," the Stormcloak responded, true to form. "Place is run by an Imperial woman named Valga Vinicia, so you should feel right at home." I sighed inwardly; Stormcloaks could be so stereotypical. "Don't go causing any trouble while you're in town now. Wouldn't want someone to think you're a spy." He said it in a tone that sounded joking, but it was still a little threatening.

"Actually," I said, moving to the riskier part of my ploy, "I'm from Windhelm. I have a friend who joined the army last year and I heard he was stationed around here. Vigurl Deep-Water? Do you know him?"

"Afraid not," the soldier responded, his tone a little friendlier. "Most of the army's moved on to the front, along with most of my unit. He wasn't with us, though. Could be part of one of the units that got left behind to protect the city, or he could be out at the front with the main forces. You'd have to ask Jarl Dengeir or his brother Thadgeir; they're in charge of the Stormcloak garrison."

"Thanks for your information," I said cheerfully. Before I could separate myself from the soldier and enter town, he held up a hand.

"Hold on a minute," he said. I paused, worried that he had somehow seen through my story. Cold sweat ran down the back of my neck until he continued, "Have you seen a dog on the road into town?"

"A dog?" I repeated, not sure where this was going. "Um… no?"

"Town blacksmith saw a stray while he was out a while back," the guard explained. "Said he had an eye on it for a pet. He'll pay decent coin to anyone who finds it. If you keep an eye out, I'll introduce you—for a share, of course."

"I'll let you know if I see anything," I smiled. At least that was one promise I didn't have to worry about keeping. Who would offer a reward for a stray mutt? I shook the idea away and walked my horse into the town.

Falkreath was a small city with a depressing air about it. Unlike Whiterun, which had a beautiful design underneath all the damage done to it by the Stormcloaks, Falkreath seemed like it had always been an oppressive mudhole. The main street was cracked and swampy from the tromp of iron-shod boots, but only a few buildings showed any battle scars. It looked like Falkreath had either fallen very quickly, or that little resistance had been put up. Given that the wall didn't seem to completely encircle the city, I could only imagine that the "battle" for Falkreath hadn't been much of one.

A vast cemetery spread out from one side of town, which surprised me. Most Nords entombed their dead, while my Imperial ancestors had preferred cremation. I wondered if all of the markers represented small tombs, or if there were just people buried in the ground. The idea was strange to me, but then again I had never understood the Nord obsession with holding onto the corpses of loved ones. Bodies were just bodies—empty shells with nothing in them.

Except for the Night Mother, of course.

As I made my way to the inn, I thought about a course of action for my target. I knew that he lived near the city, that his name was Abbard, and that he was a local furrier. The little information Nazir had been able to find out about the man suggested that he was a Nord—which made sense, given his name—and that he was a seasoned hunter that had been operating in the Falkreath region for a decade or more. He didn't seem like the sort to draw the cries of the vengeful, but everyone had secrets.

"Welcome to Dead Man's Drink," the Imperial woman behind the counter said as I came in. I nodded to her and smiled pleasantly as I approached. Faking pleasantries had become easy since I joined the Dark Brotherhood.

"I need a room for two or three nights," I said. "If you could point me in the direction of the stables so I can put up my horse as well, I would appreciate it." She looked me up and down, a critical assessment that I hadn't seen from very many people in Skyrim.

"Since you don't know if it's two or three," she said sourly, "you're paying for three up front."

"So much for hospitality between Imperials," I muttered as I fished out the septims.

"We might be the same race, sonny," she said more cheerfully as she scooped the coins up, "but I can tell you're a Skyrim native. Might as well be a Nord for all I care."

"I wish the Nords outside thought that way," I said with a more sincere bitterness. "It would certainly make my life easier."

"Ha!" she laughed. "Just for putting up with an old woman's sour talk, dinner is on the house."

"Old woman?" I asked, pretending to look around in confusion. "There's an old woman around here?" I raised an eyebrow at the innkeeper, and she tittered like a schoolgirl. Gods, why couldn't I be this charming with women I actually cared about?

"Valga Vinicia," she said, holding out a hand.

"Aventus Aretino," I said, kissing the back of it, "originally of Windhelm."

"I imagine that you must have had a tough time of it, being from Ulfric Stormcloak's home city," she commiserated as she poured me a drink. I hadn't asked for one, but I certainly wasn't going to refuse.

"It could be difficult at times," I said. What an understatement. "I'm more interested in you, though. You're not originally from around here?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I was born in Cyrodiil, but my family came north during the Great War to escape the fighting." She laughed bitterly and poured a drink for herself. "Looks like it tracked me down, eh?"

"Well, a different war, perhaps…" I started.

"Don't know much of the history of your own jarl, do you?" she interrupted. I shook my head. Ulfric Stormcloak was like the Dark Brotherhood to me—enough of an actual factor in my life that I wasn't that interested in hearing about its history. "The Stormcloak Rebellion is just a continuation of the Forsworn Rebellion and the Markarth Incident—and that's just the tail end of the Great War, come to Skyrim."

"You seem like you know a lot about the region," I said.

"In Falkreath, if I don't know it, it's not worth knowing," she responded with a knife-edge smile.

"Then maybe you could help me," I replied. "I'm looking for a couple of people—a friend of mine who's with the army, and an old friend of my father…"

The Stormcloak camp outside of town butted up against the graveyard on one side and a makeshift war barricade on the other. It had clearly been laid out for more men than currently occupied it—perhaps five or ten times as many—and the tents had a ramshackle look about them that spoke of poor discipline. The ground was muddy with the late summer rains, and I could make out rotten stumps here and there where the Stormcloaks had torn down the trees to clear the ground for their camp.

Most of the army was either reinforcing at Fort Neugrad or out at the front in the Reach. Given the shoddy condition of the camp I was looking at—and the scruffy men and women in it—I could only guess that garrisoning a captured town was considered a punishment duty for Stormcloak soldiers. Still, it didn't seem that surprising to me; my impression of the Stormcloaks had always been that they were more interested in battle and conquest than actually protecting the people they gained control over.

I had left most of my weapons back at Dead Man's Drink, so I was armed with only a belt knife in case things went sour. Of course, if things went so badly wrong that I needed weapons in the middle of a Stormcloak camp, weapons wouldn't help me anyway. I suppose it worked out.

"Excuse me," I said to a bare-headed Nord carrying an armload of firewood toward the camp. He looked at me with a nasty expression, as though he had stepped in something foul, and spat to the side. "I'm trying to find a friend of mine who's in the army. His name's Vigurl Deep-Water."

"You know Vigurl?" he asked, his expression becoming wary. It seemed strange but I pushed on.

"We're friends from back in Windhelm," I repeated. "You know him then?"

"Oh, yeah," the man said, tossing down the pile of firewood onto the muddy earth. "Little bastard cheated me out of fifty septims last week." I sighed inwardly; that sounded like Vigurl, all right.

"That's a shame," I said, trying to keep my demeanor pleasant. "I'll be sure to tell him to stop doing that sort of thing if you can point the way to him."

"Are you mocking me, boy?" the soldier asked, pushing me back a step. I was shocked that he had laid hands on me, but the whiff I caught of his breath told me that mead might be involved. I started to shake my head "no," but he pushed me again, hard enough that I slipped in the mud and almost fell. "You Imperial piece of trash! What do you think you're doing, coming around true sons of Skyrim? You little smart ass!"

"Better a smart ass than a dumb ass," I snarled, finally giving into my temper. I took a step away from him and made my stance firmer in case he tried to push me again.

The soldier roared and took a swing at me. I ducked under his roundhouse, lifted my shoulder into his torso, and turned on my heel. The resulting force took him off his feet, flipped him ass over teakettle, and sent him sprawling into the mud at my feet. I backed away from him and got ready to take off running.

Instead, from behind me, I could hear the sounds of braying laughter. I turned to look, catching sight of half a dozen soldiers in battered armor watching from a stone's throw away. They must have come to watch when their fellow started getting up in my face. Now, all of them were slapping their knees and tilting their heads back to scream laughter at the blue summer sky.

"He sure showed you, Jolgar," came the jocular voice of Vigurl Deep-Water as he walked up from the group toward me. He was a little taller, a little broader, and he had a scar on his cheek that hadn't been there before, but otherwise he was still the red-haired, freckle-faced boy I knew from home. He walked past me and leaned down to help the older man up. To my surprise, Jolgar was laughing too as he stood up.

"Good man," he said once he was upright, clapping me on the shoulder. "Don't take shit from anyone." Then he wandered off again, whistling a tune I immediately recognized as "The Age of Oppression." The small crowd began to disburse as well, leaving me alone with Vigurl.

"Sorry about that," Vigurl said when he turned back to me. "Soldiers have a weird sense of humor."

"So you didn't actually cheat him out of fifty septims?" I asked warily.

"Actually, it was a hundred," Vigurl said with a devilish grin. "He only knows about fifty of it, though." I burst out laughing and reached out toward him so we could clasp forearms. Instead, he pulled me into a crushing embrace; it reminded me that Nords tended to hug, while Imperials just shook hands. "What brings you to Skyrim's asshole?" he finally asked me, turning to walk toward the nearby tents.

"I was in Whiterun a little while back and ran into Lasskar," I said, following along behind him. The devilish grin was replaced with a wide, genuine smile, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. I felt really good about things for the first time in days. "He asked me to look in on you if I was out this way. As fortune would have it…" I gestured broadly, taking in the whole of his muddy kingdom with my hands.

"By Talos, Aventus," he said, shaking his head and sitting down on a tree stump covered in tarp. "After all we did to you…" He hung his head and the smile ran from his face. "It shames me to think you would go so far to help someone who did you wrong."

"It's okay," I said, waving my hands nervously. "We were all kids back in Windhelm. I didn't get hurt, so I don't hold any hard feelings." Strangely enough, when I said it this time, it felt true.

"When we didn't hear from you for a while, I confronted Haakig about it," he continued as if he hadn't heard me. "It got pretty ugly. I threatened to turn him over to the city guards, but he swore on his mother's life he didn't know what happened to you." I must have looked as shocked as I felt because he laughed again after seeing my face. "It's true! Lasskar and me stopped hanging around him. Not long after, the whole gang fell apart. Last I heard, it was just Haakig and Saeda chumming together, pushing around the little kids and getting into trouble."

"Well, clearly he didn't kill me," I said, which drew a chuckle from Vigurl. "Actually, I managed to catch the eye of a traveling merchant while I was working down at the docks. He took me on as an apprentice, and I've been traveling all around Skyrim since then. In a couple more years, I'll be a journeyman. After that, who knows? I might even be able to start up my own business."

"That's great!" Vigurl said with what seemed like real enthusiasm. "Maybe after the war is over, you can give me a job."

"Not planning on being a career soldier?" I asked.

"By Talos, no!" Vigurl exclaimed. "Lasskar and me joined up as soon as the Stormcloaks would take us so we could send our mom two paychecks. Soldiers get decent pay, especially if you don't spend it all on mead and whores." He took a long pull off a waterskin and passed it to me. I shook my head and he took another. "The truth is, I've had my fill of blood and glory. I figure I've already done enough to get into Sovngarde someday—but I'm not looking to get there soon, if you understand me."

"I think I do," I said with a small smile. I too had the certainty of my soul's disposition. Someday, I would serve Sithis in the Void—but I looked forward to bearing a blade in the Night Mother's name for many years to come.

"Good!" he smiled, a shark's grin. "Since you're doing so well for yourself—and you see what deprivation in which I live—you can buy me dinner." I laughed and nodded my consent. It was a small price to pay for the good cheer seeing Vigurl again had brought me.

"Can you leave the camp?" I asked. "Lasskar was guarding the walls at Whiterun, and they had him on double shifts."

"We don't much care for that sort of thing around here," he admitted. "Thadgeir—that's the jarl's brother—doesn't much care what we do around here. He figures that the war's almost over, and that any place behind the front lines is pretty much safe."

"The Stormcloaks are doing that well?" I asked. Vigurl raised an eyebrow at me. "We don't get a lot of solid information back east," I continued. "We hear that 'the war's going well,' but Divines only know what that actually means."

"I'm not surprised," he said. "Jarl Ulfric's a canny one. He holds his cards close until it's time to play them, and he always comes out ahead. Did you hear he got the Dragonborn on his side?" His eyes lit up at the name of the mighty Ulfric Stormcloak and he seemed to sit up a little straighter, like he expected the Bear of Eastmarch to appear at having his name spoken.

I gritted my teeth and nodded. I'd heard the rumor. I also knew the truth of the matter. I managed to hold my tongue, though. No Stormcloak—no matter how friendly he seemed—would react well to the knowledge that his jarl was lying, and that the woman he publicly claimed to be the Dragonborn was an imposter.

"Well, he's got some sort of plan to finish up the job in the next year is what I heard," Vigurl said with a look of almost desperate sincerity. I pitied my old friend for a moment; his eyes were weary and his spirit seemed more damaged than his armor. He turned away from me, and he composed himself. "I just want to go home, Aventus."

"I understand," I said quietly. Nothing was worse than being away from home, with no idea when you would see it again.

Dinner with Vigurl had been more pleasant than I expected. We caught up on things, though most of my personal stories were fabrications. It gave me a good chance to flesh out my cover story, at least. I kept to a broad view of the truth where I could. Nazir had always said that no one had a good enough memory to make a perfect liar, so it was better to just embellish the truth whenever possible.

While Vigurl didn't like to spend his own coin on mead, he was happy enough to pack it away on someone else's tab. After we finished our meal, I nearly offered to help the staggering soldier back to his tent, but I had business of my own to attend to.

Once the inn had quieted down and the last of the lights I could see in town went out, I got ready for my excursion. I switched from my traveling clothes to my Dark Brotherhood leathers. They afforded a measure of protection as well as concealing my identity—plus, I didn't get to wear them as much as I wanted, so it was a good opportunity. They were a little tight, indicating I had gained another inch since the last time I wore them, but still good enough for a simple mission like this one. I strapped on my favored weapon—a solid steel mace with a flanged head—and belted on a couple of extra daggers for good measure.

After I finished gearing up, I put out my candle and gave my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dark. Fortunately, it was a full moon out on a clear summer night, so there would be plenty of light for me to make my way. I propped open the window to my room by a few inches so that I could go in and out without going through the common areas. I was on the first floor and facing away from the road, perfect for my needs.

As I quietly exited the inn, I made my way toward the graveyard that stretched away from town like a vast field growing tombstones. The information I got from Valda indicated that my target lived in a hunting cabin not far into the woods on that side of town. He was basically just far enough out that you couldn't see his house from any public place—another lucky break, since it meant anything I did would be concealed from random passersby. It wasn't likely that there would be any in the middle of the night, but it was always better to play it safe.

I could see a bobbing torch on the edge of the cemetery near the Stormcloak camp, as well as a small fire. It looked like they weren't as completely undisciplined as I had thought, if they were at least keeping a watch with a banked fire and doing patrols. Fortunately, I didn't need to go within a hundred feet of them—and moving slowly and quietly, I probably could have walked within ten feet without being noticed.

It took less than half an hour for me to cross the vast graveyard and make my way into the thin forest nearby. The land around Falkreath was mostly rolling plains and some hills, so the ground was even and firm where it hadn't been churned up by the Stormcloaks. I relaxed a little once I was in the woods and picked up my pace.

Only a few more minutes passed before I caught sight of a small cabin. It had a front porch with a chair, a chopping block next to a cord of firewood, and a few strung up lines of fish for smoking. A narrow stream ran across the property, with a small bridge built over it for what looked like aesthetic purposes more than practical ones since I could have stepped across pretty easily. All the amenities of home.

I caught myself up short when I noticed that the main trail leading to the house was crossed by twine and rope at about shin-level. Following it back into the brush, I found that the strands were connected to several bundles of antlers that had been rigged as noisemakers. Our "seasoned hunter" seemed a little paranoid to be just a simple woodsman. That was good, in my book—fear indicated that he had something to be afraid of.

The house was dark as I approached it. There was only one door, and all of the windows were shuttered, so my only choice was to let myself in and try to be silent enough to avoid waking my target. I crept across the porch's old wooden slats without a creak or a whisper. I tested the doorknob; when I found it unlocked, I smiled under my cowl. Sometimes, it was just too easy.

I opened the door a narrow crack to look inside. The cabin was two rooms and an upstairs loft for storage. No one seemed to be in the main room, so I risked opening the door the rest of the way, letting myself in, and closing it behind me. The main room held a fireplace, a chair, a bookshelf covered in oddments, and a table that held maybe a dozen animal skins. Skinned rabbits and other small creatures dangled from a ceiling rafter, hung by their feet with twine. A few flies buzzed lazily around the room, which stank of blood and aged meat.

The smell of blood was nothing new to me, so I pressed on to the bedroom. I was surprised to find it empty, the unmade bed and soiled clothes littering the ground a further testimony to the slovenly habits of the owner. I wondered where said owner might be at this time of night. Out hunting maybe? It was a warm, clear night; it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that he just couldn't sleep and had gone out to catch a deer or something. I resolved to just hunker down and wait for him to get back. I wasn't in a hurry.

I climbed up the lone dresser and lifted myself to the bare rafters above the bed. Once I was settled in, I put my back against a beam and drew my mace. When he came in I would drop down, smash him once over the head, and that would be that.

By the time two hours had passed, I was looking forward to killing my target just a little more than usual. Finally, I heard the thump of the front door opening. I was surprised that no light came spilling in from the other room; I could only suppose that the hunter hadn't wanted to spoil his night vision with artificial light, and I mentally congratulated myself for being clever enough to pick a good hiding place ahead of time even as I tried to quietly stretch the kinks out of my muscles.

The door slammed closed behind him, and I could hear his blunt footsteps crossing the main room. He paused long enough to toss something heavy down before continuing on. He walked into the bedroom below me, and I paused at the sight of him. Abbard the furrier was a Nord, easily six and a half feet tall, wild-haired and built like a tree trunk. None of that was surprising.

No, the surprising part was that he was completely naked and covered in blood from head to toe.

He picked up some cloths from the floor and started cleaning himself off with them, wiping the blood away in tacky smears. He snorted and spat occasionally as he did so, to my great disgust. Once, something clattered on the ground when he spat; at first, I thought it was a tooth, but when he bent to pick it up I could see that it was actually a bone. He sniffed at it once and tossed it down on his nightstand, like he meant it to be a snack for later.

By then, I'd had enough.

I shifted my weight, preparing for my leap. The creak of the rafters was so soft that I could barely make it out myself. Abbard seemed to hear it, though. His head cocked at the sound, and he looked warily around as though aware that he was not alone. He tilted his face back slightly and breathed in, like he smelled something. At the moment he looked up into the rafters, I jumped out of them, bringing my mace down along the arc of my jump.

Abbard rolled to one side, alerted to my presence by his preternatural senses. My mace shattered his nightstand into flinders, and I hit the ground hard enough to jolt my knees and knock the wind out of me. In the moment it took me to recover my stance Abbard was on me, reaching for my face and snarling like an animal. I managed to bring my booted foot up into his crotch. When he gasped in pain and jerked away from me, I brought my mace up in a vicious swing aimed for his temple.

He caught it.

The hunter's grip was like an iron vise as he seized my mace. I pulled at it to loosen his grip or drag him off-balance, but it was like trying to move a tree. I looked up at him, trying to decide whether I should pull a knife or go hand-to-hand, when he started to change. Abbard's face ran like warm taffy, the broad brow and shaggy hair sloping back even as his teeth and lips jutted forward. His hand grew around the mace's head, the knuckles popping and cracking as the digits distorted from fingers into claws. Hair sprouted all over his body and he grew another six or eight inches.

The whole process only took a few seconds, even though it seemed to last forever. I felt my stomach drop. I had read enough books at this point to know what Abbard really was. I cursed Nazir's informants for not knowing this crucial fact about a man we were supposed to kill. At the same time, how could they have possibly known that he was a werewolf? I dropped the mace and decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

In short, I started running.

Abbard was blocking the only doorway out, but I figured that I could make it past him while he was still transforming if I was quick. As it turned out, I was wrong. The werewolf's backhand stroke took me in the chest and sent me flying through the window on the other side of the room. The good news was that I had managed to make it outside; the bad news was that it felt like he had broken one of my ribs and I had left my best weapon behind. My cowl had been ripped off, and I was missing a glove somehow.

The blood-chilling howl that ripped through the night got me on my feet and running for my life.

I didn't bother looking back as I raced for the graveyard. I doubted that Abbard could fit through the window in his current state, but I also didn't think that it would stop him from trying. Given his size and strength, a wall would just be a temporary inconvenience for him. The crashing noises behind me let me know that I was right—to my sorrow—and I picked up my speed.

My head was ringing and my chest burned from the blow Abbard had given me, and my legs still hurt from missing that first jump. The knowledge that Abbard would probably tear me limb from limb if he caught me made all the aches and pains seem a little less important.

I had made it maybe a hundred yards before I heard Abbard's baying and snarling behind me again. I veered off slightly to the right for one of the few aboveground tombs in the graveyard. Acting on instinct more than thought, I reached out to grab the side of an obelisk and used it to make a sharp right. Abbard sailed past me, jaws clashing, his weight and bulk too great to make such a hard turn. He still caught me what felt like a glancing blow; when I looked down, I saw great rents torn in my armor and blood running down my side. His claws had been so razor-sharp that I hadn't even felt them break the skin.

I could feel myself slowing from blood loss and fatigue as I pushed for the nearest tomb. Abbard had pulled himself up from where he had slipped and came howling after me again. I managed to reach the nearest tomb and push in through the unlocked doors. If the tomb had been sealed, it would have been over for me then and there. As it was, I barely had time to slam the doors shut and throw the bar across them before Abbard slammed into them. The heavy doors creaked and groaned as the werewolf bashed them. I knew it was only a matter of time before he came tearing into my hideout and ripped me to pieces, but I was nearly paralyzed with fear and pain.

As I watched the doors shudder and crack, a thought suddenly rushed into my fevered brain. Why was there a bar on the inside of a tomb?

Looking around, I could see that all of the niches on the walls were empty. The tomb hadn't yet been filled. Whoever owned the mausoleum would fill it up with their dead relatives before sealing it. That was all well and good, but how would someone get out once the tomb was barred? As I frantically searched for some sort of concealed exit, I could make out a few slivers of moonlight entering the tomb from low to the ground. I dropped to my hands and knees, and I saw a hole at the rear of the tomb, large enough for a man to crawl through. Outside was a stone block on rollers, ready to be fit into place and mortared once the last niche was filled and the doors barred from within.

I managed to scramble through on my hands and knees, knowing that I had only bought myself some time. Just as I was through, Abbard burst through the doors and leapt for me, missing by scant inches. I lunged away from the tomb, my brace of daggers catching on the edge of the hole and spinning away from me. Once I was through the hole, I tried to get back on my feet, but my legs refused to obey.

Abbard reached for me through the hole in the wall, but even with his limbs distorted to inhuman proportions, he couldn't quite reach. As I watched, his fur melted away and he became a man once more, now small enough to crawl through the hole after me. He smiled a ruthless, mad smile and began to snake through on his belly. He got stuck partway, still bigger than me in every dimension, but the blood and mud coating him made him slippery enough to start wiggling through.

I looked around for something to use as a weapon, since my daggers were what felt like a mile away. My eyes fell on the stone block on its greased risers. It was held in place by a wedge, and the risers held off the ground by wooden blocks. In desperation, I kicked one of the blocks away, hoping to use the stone as a barrier between Abbard and myself. The stone didn't budge even with one of its risers now at an angle, so I leaned forward and pulled the wedge away. The block started sliding down its risers, gaining speed quickly along the greased rails. When it hit the tilted one, a corner of the block dipped low enough to hit the ground. It tumbled once, then came to rest right on top of Abbard's hands, which were on the ground as he tried to pull himself free. He screamed as his hands were crushed under the block.

I took the opportunity to stand up, regaining some strength from his plight. I staggered over to where he was trying to writhe free and shot a vicious kick into his elbow, breaking the arm at the joint. He screeched a high note and I could see his flesh ripple as the change began, then failed as he had no room to grow into his alternate shape. Rather than give him the chance to break free and try again, I leaned down and hefted the stone block off the ground. I felt something in me tear with the strain as I lifted the block over my head. Abbard looked up at me in pain, but there was no fear on his face—only horrible, vicious anger.

Then I dropped the block on his head.

Once he stopped twitching, I slumped against the stone wall of the tomb. I put a hand to my wounds, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The cuts seemed long put not particularly deep, though the tearing I had felt when I lifted the block worried me. I tentatively tried to stand; something in my back and gut hurt. At least my target was dead. Now, I could go back to the inn, clean myself up, and drink a healing potion. That would suppress the hurt long enough to get back to Sanctuary and seek real medical attention.

I had barely managed to stagger to a steady position and recover my knives when three Stormcloak soldiers came running around the tomb. Two of them held torches and swords, while the third had a shield instead of a torch. Inwardly, I groaned; I was in no position to outrun three soldiers, and barely in any position to fight them. I wondered if they would bother arresting me.

"By Talos!" one of them shouted from behind his concealing helm. He caught a look at me and actually staggered back a step. "Dark Brotherhood!" he exclaimed.

"Filthy assassin's killed someone!" another shouted. He threw his torch on the ground and charged me, sword over his head like it was an axe.

I quick-drew one of my backup knives, stepped inside his reach, and stabbed him in the heart. The chisel-tipped blade punctured through his armor like it was paper. He gurgled his last breath and I pushed him away, grabbing his sword from his limp hand as he collapsed. The second one was already coming for me as well, so I clumsily sidestepped his equally clumsy thrust and used a two-handed grip on the blade to run him through. He went down screaming.

The last soldier threw down his sword and held his hands up as if to surrender. I drew my last knife and threw it into his unguarded neck. He dropped without a sound. I took the opportunity to pull the sword out of the still-living Stormcloak's stomach and plunge it into his chest. His screams finally stopped.

Once all three were dead, I took stock of my situation. Glancing around, I decided that I would just let whoever came upon all of this mess in the morning decide what had happened. If I was lucky, it would be days before anyone connected the headless naked corpse in the tomb with Abbard the hunter. Furriers went out alone for weeks at a time anyway, especially in summer and fall, so it was unlikely that anyone would miss him right away.

I staggered to each of the downed soldiers, recovering my knives, when I noticed something. In the light of the full moon, I could see a few wisps of red hair poking out of the helmet of the guard who had tried to surrender. I dropped to my knees, feeling numb and boneless. My nerveless fingers reached out to touch the helmet. I hesitated, not wanting to know the truth—but at the same time, needing to know.

The helmet came away, revealing the dead, sightless eyes of Vigurl Deep-Water. A few trickles of blood marred his chin but his face was unmarked. My knife had found a home directly in his throat, its tip piercing all the way through his spine. He had died instantly. I wrapped my hand around the hilt, thinking to pull it out, but the way his head jerked when I touched the knife made me recoil in horror.

Had he recognized me? Was he trying to surrender because he hadn't seen the face of an assassin—but the face of a friend?

I would never be able to ask him.

I looked down at my hands, covered in blood and gore. They felt filthy, so dirty that I would never get them clean. Something hollow and terrible and dark rose up in me, and I barely managed to turn my head before I vomited. I threw up until my stomach was empty, and then I dry heaved for long minutes afterward. I wanted to scream and weep, but I feared that if I started, I would never stop.

Something pragmatic and ugly in me took over then. I realized that people would eventually realize that Abbard was missing and connect him to the dead man in the tomb. If Vigurl turned up dead too, someone might eventually connect them together to the pleasant merchant's apprentice who was asking after both of them. Hurt as I was, I still needed to cover my tracks.

I pulled Abbard's heavy corpse free of the tomb, feeling the torn thing inside of me rip further as I did. I dragged him to a nearby open grave and rolled him in, then scooped earth onto his body with my bare hands until he was completely covered. Now there was no corpse to connect to Abbard at all; when someone finally went to check on him, they would find his house torn up—as though a wild animal had burst in and dragged him off.

I went back to the dead Stormcloaks and checked the dagger stuck in Vigurl's neck. Sure enough, it was a steel dagger close to the style used by Imperial soldiers. In the morning, when they were found, everyone would just assume that an Imperial ambush had caught them, or that they had stumbled onto an Imperial sabotage mission and been killed to keep them quiet. No one would connect it back to me.

Looking down at the corpse of my friend, I started to open my mouth to apologize, but then I remembered that Vigurl was dead. He wasn't in there anymore. I had killed him.

I managed to stagger back to the inn in a total haze, gulping down a healing potion and changing out of my bloody rags before collapsing onto the bed in exhaustion. In my dreams, Rolff Stone-Fist was strangling me, laughing as his hands wrung the life out of my body. I woke the next afternoon to find that my wounds were swollen and that I felt feverish. Thankfully, it seemed that my rib was only cracked, not broken, but it was still difficult to act normal as I checked out. I explained to Valda that I just wasn't feeling well and wanted to get back on the road before it got any worse.

"Probably a good thing," she said, nodding. "Did you hear about what happened last night?" I shook my head in the negative. "A whole squad of Stormcloaks got ambushed out in the graveyard. No one knows who did it—if it was Imperial soldiers or draugr or what. It's likely not safe for strangers in town just now. Stormcloaks will take any chance to lay the blame on folk they don't know, especially us Imperials."

I thanked her for the warning and left a few extra coins for all her help. I managed to get to my horse and ride out of town at a normal posture before the pain of my injuries overwhelmed me. I gulped down another precious healing potion and slumped over in the saddle to take some of the pressure off my back and aching guts.

The trip back was a blur, days passing without a thought in my head. My nights were worse. Rolff Stone-Fist lived in the night, and now he had company. The faces of the men and women I had killed danced behind him, mocking me. Only Vigurl didn't laugh; he just looked at me sadly, a knife still stuck in his neck. I would always wake up sweating and cold, then mount up on Spot as fast as I could and press on northward.

It was only as I laid eyes on Sanctuary again that I finally started to weep. I barely managed to get off my horse without falling. Spot meandered toward the stable, docile and well-trained. I curled up within sight of the Black Door, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them as I sobbed.

I had killed people before—a score of them. I had killed people who weren't my contracts before too. I had never killed anyone I thought was innocent before. Vigurl had been my friend. If he had attacked me, I might have killed him anyway with less regret, but he had tried to surrender. I had just taken it for the gesture of a desperate coward, but it was him reaching out to me as his friend. Had he called my name and I missed it in the heat of battle? Had I killed him before he could even speak? Had my name, frantic and pleading, been the last thing on his lips?

It was too much to bear.

I don't know how long I cried, but it was dark when I finally stopped. I could feel more tears deep inside me, welling up, when a soft hand touched the top of my head. I looked up, ashamed that someone had found me in such a state. Babette stood over me, her face soft and composed. She didn't say a word, just crouched down and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, which started me crying again.

We stayed that way for a long time. Finally, when the last of my weeping had passed, she stood up and held a hand out to me. I took it and shakily climbed to my feet. My sister led me along as though I were the small one, back toward our home. I was reminded of another summer night like this one. Had it only been a year ago? I felt so much older now.

Maybe I had grown up too fast.

…to be continued…