12 Heartfire 4E201, Near Morthal
The townfolk left Morthal in fine sprits, carrying work implements, spears, and an occasional rusty sword, shouting angry slogans as they walked. Ivar tried to caution them about the dangers ahead, but after one of them all but accused him of cowardice, he chose to march in silence. Rayya followed, bristling with outrage, but she said nothing.
The first rough cairn, topped by a small pile of human skulls, wounded the villagers' confidence. The second and third, liberally splashed with blood, killed it.
"By the Divines," someone muttered. "How long have these creatures been killing men?"
A dark cave entrance, shadowed even from the noonday sun. Out of it flowed a stench, the sweet-oily reek of rotting human flesh, overlain by the hot-iron smell of blood. One of the townsmen made a dash for a nearby clump of brush, the sound of his convulsions loud in the sudden silence.
"Well," said Ivar, drawing Dawnbreaker. "Who will come with me?"
There was much muttering and shuffling of feet.
"I thought so." The smith shook his head in weary distaste. "Go back to your homes, then, and wait. If we do not return before sunset . . . well, I suppose you had best take to barricading your doors at night, and finding a way to decide which of you will be the next meal for your new masters."
With that, he turned and marched into the darkness, Rayya at his back.
Vampires.
Ivar lurked at the entrance to the main cavern, trying not to think about the men he had already killed to get this far. He wished that his sense of smell would simply overload and be done with it.
Filthy creatures. Draugr are dry and neat, and quiet most of the time. Even necromancers don't leave their victims scattered about quite this carelessly. These things live amid bloated corpses, with blood spattered on every surface and left to rot.
He signaled to Rayya. The two of them crept slowly up a wooden ramp, searching for a vantage point from which they could see the entire cavern. Once there and undetected, Ivar readied his bow.
Twang. Then: twang . . . twang . . . twang . . . as Ivar began to load and shoot, an arrow flashing out every three or four seconds. Minions and lesser vampires began to fall.
Behind him, Rayya gave a great high-pitched battle cry, and attacked the first enemies to reach the foot of the ramp.
Then the master vampire appeared, and Ivar found himself fighting for his life.
The first sign of danger was a breath of clammy air from his left, where the ramp followed the cavern wall for a distance. The stench almost knocked him flat, like the noxious gases that sometimes emerge from the mouth of a diseased corpse. Some instinct warned him of attack from an unexpected direction. He dropped his bow and drew Dawnbreaker.
A figure leaped out of a secret passage onto the ramp, confronting Ivar, pressing its attack at once. Tall and gaunt, dressed in dark clothing, face that of a Breton male but ancient beyond reckoning. Movarth wielded only a long knife, but he was fast, and he showed little fear of the daedric blade. Ivar had to backstep frantically to keep himself alive.
Feint, thrust, snap back when the long knife licks out in a stop-thrust, circle two steps around to the right, parry with frantic haste. Watch the whole body, not the knife, and certainly not the eyes.
Ivar began to feel sweat trickling down his face.
"Mortal man," the thing whispered. "Do you think to challenge one who was a renowned warrior in life, and who has fed upon your kind for centuries since?"
"Damn right," Ivar gritted. "Someone has to."
"Courage," said Movarth. "It has a sweet taste. I shall enjoy making a meal of you."
Ivar attacked, Dawnbreaker lashing out three times, almost too fast to see.
At least one of the blows connected. The vampire-lord hissed in pain, but showed no obvious injury.
Then Ivar staggered as Movarth made a gesture, his eyes and the points of his fangs gleaming. A red haze sprang into the smith's vision, and he felt sudden weakness sinking into all his muscles. His shield fell an inch or two, and Dawnbreaker nearly slipped out of his fingers.
"My thane!" Rayya, shouting in sudden terror.
Somehow her voice recalled the smith to himself. He set his jaw, planted his feet, and launched himself into another set of attacks. Slash, parry, feint and thrust. Movarth's eyes went wide as he countered with blinding speed.
"Talos!" Ivar wheezed. "Meridia aid me!"
Just then his sword flared brightly, as if the sun itself had come down to shine in that pit.
Movarth recoiled, growling in anger like a beast, the light like spears in his eyes.
With his last burst of strength, Ivar lunged forward.
Apparently Dawnbreaker had an . . . explosive effect on the undead.
Hours later, Ivar and Rayya emerged from the cavern, laden with gold and other treasures taken from the coven. Naturally, the marshland on all sides seemed empty, no sign of the townsmen.
Ivar glanced to the west, to estimate how long they had before nightfall. Then he had to cringe, shading his eyes from the light of the sun.
"Ah, Kynareth help me," he muttered. "Haven't felt this poorly since the last time I took an ague."
Rayya stepped closely to examine him. "You look very pale, my thane."
Ivar snorted. "Next to you, every Nord looks pale."
"That's not what I mean."
"I know." The smith took a deep breath, bracing against the weight of his gear and full pack. "Rooting around in that filth, who can say what pollution I might have brushed against? A hot bath and a night's rest will do me good."
"My thane . . ." Rayya fell silent and shook her head.
It may be nothing. Facing those monsters would shake anyone. I will wait, and watch.