[A/N]: There was one silver lining to murdering poor Balgruuf - it paved the way for, in this author's humble opinion, the most badass member of the cast...

CHAPTER ELEVEN

~THE HIGH GUARD IS MOST SUITABLE FOR FEINTS AND CROSSOVERS...~

Summer had returned to Skyrim, and the warmth from the Midyear sun lingered in the golden sunset over Dayspring Canyon, setting the auburn leaves of the autumnal maples aflame. Irileth was blind to the radiant beauty of the sunset. She'd seen plenty of them by now, and the Dawnguard were braced for a busy night.

"All right," she told the operatives who shared the palisade walls, "oil those crossbows, light the torches, and get ready. Those bloodsucking scum may be in the Canyon right now."

The Dawnguard scrambled to obey. As the resplendent sunset faded swiftly into darkness, Fort Dawnguard came alive with torchlight and activity muffled with anticipation. They expected nocturnal visitors, and considering how the last two attacks had gone, this would be the most savage one yet.

For Irileth, it was no different than watching the Whiterun walls with reports of Dragon sightings and farm attacks echoing through the palace. She was familiar with the anticipation of monster attacks, and patrolled the walls to ensure the nerves of her fellow comrades-in-arms didn't overcome them. "Partner off," Irileth thundered, striding the length of the outer palisade. "Sun's gone down. Partner off! Arbalests, to your marks. Fighters below and standing by. Vori," she shouted up to the Dawnguard sentry, "any sign of them?"

"Not yet," the Nord woman called down from her tower. Her crossbow was gripped tight in hand as her green eyes skimmed the peaceful treeline. "It can't be long. The valley's getting cold."

"Mogrul," Irileth greeted the Orc grinding a fresh edge on his axeblade. "Everything in order?"

"Can't be too careful, Irileth." Mogrul cast his whetstone aside and stood, resting his battleaxe over one shoulder.

"No, you can't," Irileth agreed, and moved on. "Saliah – the refugees inside the Fort?"

"Aye, Irileth! Esfridd's keeping an eye on 'em."

"Good woman." The two farming clans, who'd fled their ravaged homesteads in the northern Rift, had arrived in the Canyon a fortnight before seeking asylum from their monstrous predators. Irileth anticipated many more to come. It's just like the refugees of the Dragon Crisis all over again. "Agmaer, remember what I told you. It doesn't matter they're faster or stronger, they're flesh and blood, the same as us."

"I'll remember, Irileth," Agmaer promised. This would be his third Fort defence, and he looked ahead to the inevitable conflict with a heart and hands steadied by experience. "They won't get the better of me this time."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Illia said, as she passed by lighting the braziers with a firebolt. "Make sure I don't lose my record."

"See that you do," Irileth nodded. Illia was a recent addition, and a welcome one. The Dawnguard was painfully short on mages, and Illia was a deadly hand with elemental magic; her specialty was cryomancy (sadly wasted on vampires), but it hadn't taken her long to readjust to the arts of incineration. Within a month of her joining, when the vampire assaults on the Fort had started, Illia had racked up an enviable kill count. She and Agmaer had supposedly become good friends, but Irileth had never paid much attention to such things.

Irileth resumed her pre-battle patrol, satisfied with what she saw. Since she'd first arrived in Dayspring Canyon three months ago, the Dawnguard had grown from a ragged handful of volunteers to twoscore trained operatives, and more arrived by the week. The vast majority now had at least one confirmed vampire kill to their names. It had become something of an informal initiation – made them worthy of their adamantine weapons and to defend the palisades. The unblooded – the novices – Irileth kept on the Fort towers, high above any risk of close-combat with vampires, crossbows in hand, the safest any vampire hunter would ever get in this crusade.

Isran strode down the packed dirt path from the Fort to the palisades. "They ready?"

"Chafing," Irileth replied. "How many did the Dragon say was coming this time?" Their Dragon spy had taken some adjustment, but Fiirnaraan's reports, always precise, had consistently proven invaluable against the Volkihar assaults.

"Hrrm. Forty-three, he said. With death hounds. There was twenty-six of them last time."

"And twelve before that."

"This should be a good training exercise, then."

"This lot don't need much more training." They joined the arbalests amassed on the palisade ramparts. "You think they ever wonder how we know to expect them?"

"Clearly not," Isran growled, "or they wouldn't keep giving us target practice."

"I don't suppose the Dragon's going to join us this time?"

"Hah."

"Eyes, I got eyes!" Vori shouted.

"Get ready!" Irileth barked, shouldering her crossbow. "Make every shot count!"

The vampires didn't keep them waiting long. Night had settled firm and fast over Skyrim, brightening the ravenous rusty-red glow of their enemies' eyes. Like eldritch horrors of the night they swarmed towards the brightly-lit palisades, hands wreathed in ruddy red blood-magic, withered bloodless faces peeled into hideous snarls that bared their fangs. "Fire!" Irileth barked, as they broke through the treeline. Ten crossbows split the night. Seven vampires went down. The rest dissolved into mist or had the good fortune to evade the projectiles.

"Line one, reload!" Irileth shouted. "Line two!"

The first row of arbalests stepped back to reload; the second row took their place, and ten more crossbows cracked a salute to the night. Eight down. The first vampires reached the palisade and were instantly incinerated by Illia's fire-rune trap. "Fire at will!" Irileth ordered. She wasn't without her own magic, and sent a lightning-bolt arcing over the palisade in between reloading her crossbow.

The air became thick with spellfire and crossbow bolts, and the palisades shook under the vampires' assault. The vampires were disinclined to fire magic – which was a good thing, as their vanguard defences were made out of timber – but wood could only stand so much. Warped by intense barrages of ice storms and spears, the palisade doors were starting to buckle on their hinges. "Fighters, ready!" Isran bellowed, exchanging his crossbow for his warhammer. He leapt down from the palisade as the Dawnguard's melee warriors, armed with axes, blades and shields, drew ranks beside him.

Irileth ducked behind the palisade to rearm her crossbow. Further along the walls, another Dawnguard did not; a four-foot ice spear shot through his shoulder and spun him off the walls. "Cover to reload, cover!" Irileth yelled in frustration. She rammed the slider home, straightened, aimed, and put a bolt through the neck of the vampiric cryomancer. Then she spotted the canine shapes bounding between the maples to swarm and savage the last life out of the damaged gates. "Mutts incoming!" Irileth warned the fighters below, as she ducked to reload. "Brace for the breach!"

A few seconds later, the frost-bloated timbers exploded inward, and a veritable pack of death hounds preceded the vampiric horde spilling into the palisade encampment. Their charge was almost immediately broken. The Dawnguard fighters engaged with a will, their battlecries carrying over the death hounds' grisly snarls. Isran stormed the breach, his hammer buckling vampires like paper, encased in an orb of brilliant golden light that scorched his undead foes to the touch.

There were some vampires, faster than the rest, who sprang upon the ramparts or resolved from swirls of inky mist. But the walltop fighters were ready to receive them; each partner was already waiting with weapons drawn, to defend the arbalests should their point-blanks fail. Irileth sped to partner the woman whose own had been speared off, just as a vampire swung itself onto the platform behind her. Irileth improvised and smashed her crossbow against its head, making it stumble for that one crucial second; the woman, Juri, a hard-nosed Legion veteran turned Dawnguard, immediately followed up with a crossbow bolt that took the vampire square between the eyes. "That's two!" she declared, booting the slain undead off the walkway.

"Watch it," Irileth warned, as their second adversary manifested from a swirl of black mist. With no time to reload, Juri cast her crossbow aside and reached for her axe. Irileth fired; she'd fired too early. The half-formed vampire simply slipped back into its misty shell before becoming fully corporeal and bearing down on the two fighters with a ravenous grin. Irileth sprang back as Juri intercepted, and her blade cut a bone-deep wound in the vampire's outreached hand. Instantly it rounded on her; the other hand, wreathed in the scarlet glow of a life-drain spell, thrust at Juri's heart. The fresh wound began to close as Juri's life energy was leeched into her assailant.

Irileth stunned it with a shockbolt. The vampire hissed and threw Juri aside like a ragdoll. Irileth's adamantine blade whipped from the scabbard, slashing an arc across its leathered chest. She stepped in as it recoiled, summoning a second shockbolt in her left hand as she drove the swordpoint home with her right. Then the vampire struck back, with the speed that had taken her by surprise once before.

But never again.

As soon as it seized her blade she let go – stunned the creature again with lightning – then swept the broken sword from the scabbard against her hip and thrust the jagged tip straight through its jaw and into its brain. Its adamantine edge bit deep.

"Juri?" Irileth prompted, as she ripped the broken sword free.

"I'm all right," Juri grunted, getting off the ground. "Shor's eyes, that was unpleasant. Like being squeezed through a tube." She unclasped a sealed pocket beneath the folds of her lamellar and withdrew a small red potion bottle, which every operative and novice was required to always have on them.

"Make sure you get that in you," Irileth ordered, and turned her attention beyond the palisade – the Dawnguard fighters had pushed out in pursuit of the last remaining, routed vampires. A final volley of crossbow bolts brought the outrunners down.

"All right," Irileth bellowed, as the Dawnguard cheered their victory. "All right – our job's not done yet, you lot. I want to see bodies burning before the moons finish rising."

The palisades now swarmed with clean-up. The newest volunteers adopted the sentry work while the frontline fighters ate, took stock of their injuries, took down the broken gate and dragged the slain undead into a heap to be burned. Irileth made her rounds among the arbalests, then found Isran cleaning brains off his hammer. "Have you noticed," the Redguard growled, "that they're getting sloppier?"

"The assaults?"

"No. The assaulters." Isran turned over a vampire's mutilated head with the toe of his boot. "Fledglings. Newborns. Vampire juveniles. This one looks like she was mortal a week ago."

"Maybe they're trying to copy your idea," Irileth remarked.

"Well, it's not going to work. A newborn vampire might terrorize a village of farmers, but us? Dawnguard fodder." Isran rested his cleaned warhammer over his shoulder. "Any casualties?"

"Two. Fjoknir took an ice spear, Trennette's arm broken. Missed a parry. Juri was life-drained, but she's wholly cognitive and took her disease curative immediately. No injury. What about yours?"

"One. Dead."

"Who? How?"

"Orlund." Isran's eyes darkened. "Friendly fire."

The solitary fatality lay on a stretcher, arms folded, as two Dawnguard built his funerary pyre outside the palisade. Every body burned, friend and foe. Orlund's body had been respectfully stripped and draped beneath a sheet; the Dawnguard's dwindling armoury couldn't yet spare one of their own being burned with his armour and weapons. But the ugly red stain on his breast soaked through the cloth. "Vori reckons it was one of the new bloods," said Isran. "Accident with the crossbow sight."

"I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner," Irileth scowled, folding her arms. "The damn things are antiquated. They jam too easy, the sights are bad."

"Hrrm. The Dragonborn ought to have found Sorine by now. Provided she's still alive. She'd fix 'em up into proper weapons."

They stood and watched as the heap of vampiric corpses was set aflame, illuminating the night with the pleasing sight of burning undead. Isran watched his Dawnguard at work, running the clean-up motions like a well-oiled machine. "You've trained them thorough, Irileth," he observed. "I see why a Dark Elf was chosen to serve as Housecarl to a Jarl."

"I wasn't chosen," said Irileth, "I demanded it. Balgruuf was my brother-in-arms since before the Great War. A throne wasn't going to separate us." Her grip tightened on the hilt of her broken sword. "This was Balgruuf's gift to me, when I took the office," Irileth continued, figuring Isran deserved an explanation for why she'd had him tip a ruined blade. "On it, I swore to protect his life. I will not lay it down until it destroys the one that slew him."

The name and the face resonated in her mind again. An eternal, deadly prayer. Orthjolf. Vampire of the Volkihar clan, a right hand of the one that called itself master of them all.

Isran nodded. "I understand. Gods willing, you'll have your chance. Until then, there's another matter I wanted to discuss."

"Go on."

"The Dawnguard's grown, and keeps growing. At this rate we'll be assigning operatives to every city in Skyrim before the year's done. But we're not there yet." Isran faced her. "I've been watching you. I want you as my second."

Irileth considered the proposal. "Why?"

"Because Durak and Celann are dead."

"And because you don't trust anyone else."

"I trust you." Isran's brow furrowed. "Don't make me regret it."

Somewhere in the maples a nightjar warbled above the roar of the burning flames.

"I'm done staying behind stone walls," Irileth warned. "I trained your agents to get us all in the field faster."

"Good. Because I need someone like you to take the fight to the bloodsuckers."

"And you don't trust Solen." Irileth spoke bluntly.

Even Isran's beard seemed to growl with his sigh. He jerked his head, and side by side they stepped back through the palisade and trod the winding path to the doors of the Fort. "As you said, I don't trust. I don't make friends. I want a job done and a job done right. I've seen that in you a damned deal more than him."

"He's brought us Fiirnaraan," said Irileth, "and he's brought us notoriety. A third of the Dawnguard are ex-Legion, a third more have heard the Dragonborn's thrown in his lot with you. As for getting a job done – don't let his easy demeanour fool you. When he first came to Whiterun, I had my doubts, we all did. One more witless adventurer. As if a million others like him haven't passed through Dragonsreach. But he knows exactly where his heart lies. And believe me, whatever odds we're against, they even out when he's around."

"I'll believe it when I see it," said Isran, as Fort Dawnguard wound into sight. "I'm thinking of sending that Dragon out to look for him. Stendarr only knows where in Skyrim he is now."

"I'll come with you. Wouldn't mind a refresher on that activity near Faldar's Tooth, if he's still there."

Fiirnaraan had originally laired in a cave among the glaciers at the south end of the canyon. Since his arrangement with the Dawnguard, Isran had permitted him one of the towers to use as a roost. Fiirnaraan slept the days away curled within the battlements of the roomy circular platform at the tower's end, and awoke to his nocturnal duties as the sun went down. It was well after moonrise when they reached Fiirnaraan's tower, so neither were overly surprised to find it empty. They were surprised, however, to find the sheep that had been left for him that morning still quite alive, nibbling the decrepit rugs and old Dawnguard banners that served as padding to Fiirnaraan's bed.

"He hasn't been here all day," Irileth realized.

"Hrrrm." Isran tapped his boot. "Whose turn was it to receive the Dragon's report today?"

"Lynoit. He didn't report in?"

"No."

"I'll have a word." Lynoit was a novice, twelve days in service. Most likely – and mistakenly – he thought that an absent Dragon exempted reporting in.

"Put someone who knows how to follow orders here," Isran growled, "and have them find me the instant the Dragon returns."

Fiirnaraan didn't return until sunrise the following morning. Irileth was seated in the dining hall, enjoying breakfast off the new longtable that had recently arrived from Riften, when Ollrod hastened to her side. "Irileth – Isran sent for you – up in the Dragon-tower."

"Finish this," said Irileth, pushing her half-eaten porridge into Ollrod's hands, and headed for the nearest staircase. A few minutes later she was striding across the Fort ramparts towards the circular tower-end, where Fiirnaraan's green-and-black bulk was visible curled in his nest. The Dragon had just finished his meal, and was occupied with picking wool from his teeth. Isran stood across from him, arms folded. "He hasn't said anything yet," he said, as Irileth jogged to his side. "Just demanded another sheep. Well, Dragon? Care to explain why you're late?"

Fiirnaraan's frills and bloody jaws extended in an enormous yawn, but he blinked alertness back into his large green eyes as he faced Isran and Irileth. "Our arrangement did not insist upon punctuality."

"Well, the Dawnguard doesn't appreciate tardiness."

Fiirnaraan flattened his frills, narrowed his eyes, and promptly tucked his head under his wing.

"Isran," Irileth warned. It was easy to forget that Dragons were naturally prideful creatures, even ones like Fiirnaraan.

Isran blew a momentous sigh. "All right," he said, taking a fraction of edge out of his voice. "You'll have another sheep, Dragon. Just explain what kept you away so long."

Fiirnaraan's head reappeared. "I found the first one. The one who took the Kel."

"The vampires' agent? The Elder Scroll thief?" Isran's voice sharpened. "Where?"

"He visited the mortal city. His trail led from there."

"He's in Riften?"

"No." Fiirnaraan's frills quivered with annoyance. "Isran, I do not like the game of guesses."

Isran growled to himself and planted his fists on his hips. "Hurry up."

Uninterrupted, Fiirnaraan continued his tale. "I had just begun my nightly game when I saw him, the one you call the kel-tafiir, walking along the shore of the great lake. The wind carried his scent across the water, all the way from the mortal city. He travelled west, and then north. As the sun rose, he stepped into a mortal den. Very smelly. Full of cloying sweet and coughing. But the aura did not linger in the den. It went below – beneath the earth."

"A hidden lair?" Irileth mused, as the Dragon paused for breath. "Fiirnaraan, how far from Riften do you think this 'mortal den' is?"

"Four days," Fiirnaraan answered peevishly. "And I was not finished."

Irileth's turn to bite her tongue and puff an impatient sigh. She waved a hand, indicating the Dragon to speak on. I don't know how Solen manages with these creatures...

"I did not return the previous sunrise," Fiirnaraan continued, "because I decided to wait for the kel-tafiir to emerge, and that was not until sunset. With him he had a strange vessel, brimming with a cold power. He journeyed north for the rest of the night."

"To bring it back to his masters in Castle Volkihar," Irileth scowled. "Do you suppose it was another vampire artifact?"

"Undoubtedly," Isran growled, "just as this little escapade of our meddling agent affirms what we've already suspected. This Scroll thief is a vampire and a catspaw of the Volkihar. As for this... mortal den... it's now the Dawnguard's latest point of interest. What else can you tell about it, Dragon?"

"It is disguised," said Fiirnaraan. "It looks rotten and dead on the surface. But beneath is an ever-shifting tide of life aura. Mortal and sosvulonah."

"'Ever-shifting'? What does that mean?"

"It means many go in and do not come out."

"It must be a stronghold," said Irileth, "either Volkihar or some lesser vampire clan sympathetic." Recalling the week-old fledgling vampire she added sharply, "Maybe even a turning ground."

"Or rivals," Isran pondered. "The Volkihar catspaw may have been sent to claim some sort of trophy or weapon."

"We ought to send some operatives after it. Keep Fiir on the trail –"

"You know my name, mortal," said Fiirnaraan with patient annoyance. "You would be wise not to abuse such privilege."

Irileth bit back an irritated retort. "Keep Fiirnaraan on the trail," she amended. "Claim this artifact, stop it reaching Harkon."

Isran tugged his beard. "Hmmm. Catching up would be difficult. He's almost a week ahead."

"He's also on foot. Castle Volkihar is on the other side of the province. We can catch up to him."

"Oh, I do not think that," said Fiirnaraan, "not unless you too can grow wings and fly."

"We're not Dragons," Irileth started in annoyance, then realized, "Wait. What d'you mean, 'you too'?"

"Outside the den, the kel-tafiir grew wings. They were very ugly wings. I would not have called them wings. But he stretched them and flew away." Fiirnaraan tilted his head. "The Dovahkiin neglected to mention that the sosvulonah fly. Oh, what a game this is! I enjoy it very much."

Irileth turned to Isran. "Azura's eyes. So not only does it sound like the Volkihar have gained another artifact from under our noses, this artifact thief doesn't even have the decency to be a normal monstrosity. Since when can vampires fly?"

"They don't." Isran looked as worried as a man like Isran could ever get. "Only a very rare strain of vampirism allows for what the Dragon just described. Our catspaw isn't an ordinary vampire, Irileth – it's a vampire lord."

"A vampire lord?" Irileth repeated. "Nerevar take me, now they're bureaucratic. So what's the difference from the 'lesser' ones, they fly?"

"Only part of it. Very little is known, because so few of them have ever been faced or slain. All our predecessors' archives say on them is they're some sort of pedigree or royalty – everything we know a vampire is, and far, far more. Arkay only knows the extent."

"Isran," Fiirnaraan interjected, "is this flying kel-tafiir powerful?"

Isran folded his arms. "The most powerful of all its bloodsucking kind."

The Dragon looked thoughtful. "The Dovahkiin is the most powerful of our kind," he said, "although admittedly, he cannot fly – I have tested this."

"And yet," Irileth murmured, casting her mind back to Dimhollow Crypt, "he made a point of sparing Solen, even Rayya. Despite knowing they were both working for the Dawnguard, his sworn enemy – despite killing Celann and Durak."

Isran scowled. "Where are you going with this?"

"Something as powerful as you claim has no business leaving anyone alive in that cave." Unless. Irileth stopped. "Unless it's to make a point."

"A point?" Isran echoed.

"A challenge. Throwing down the gauntlet. Killing someone is the end of it. But leaving them alive – and making a point of you could have but didn't – is power play. It's the sort of fetched-up thing you'd expect from the political Houses in Morrowind. Shadow games – saw it all the time when I was young. Someone gets too big for their boots or makes the wrong enemies, you either off them, the quick play; or you cripple them, through fear, through lost influence, and through a lot of subordinate murder. Power play. Bait, humiliate, and break down. Mephala smiles on such intrigue."

"You seem to know a great deal about how to play," Fiirnaraan observed.

Irileth flicked her eyes away. "Let's just say my fights weren't always done in the open and leave it at that, Dragon."

Isran folded his arms. "So you're suggesting that this catspaw vampire isn't just working against us, he's toying with us, and making a point of it."

"I'm saying we're not up against some obscenely powerful dimwit. He knew this early, a dead Dragonborn would've made a martyr and a live one look weak. Meanwhile Durak and Celann had their throats slit with an assassin's professionalism. This catspaw, Scroll-thief, vampire lord – he knows exactly what he's doing and who he's dealing with. Make no mistake about that."

Isran and Fiirnaraan shared a glance. "Well," Isran said eventually, "I want to know exactly what he's doing and what we're dealing with. If we can't reclaim this artifact, then I want to know everything about where he got it and why. Choose some Dawnguard and get out to that den. Be thorough."

Irileth's hand tightened on her swordhilt. "Aye."

"As for you," Isran growled, turning to Fiirnaraan, "get out and find the Dragonborn. Make sure he's still on task – and ensure he knows whatever game these vampires are playing, he's a part of it."

Fiirnaraan blinked graciously. "Oh, yes. This I shall do. The Dovahkiin loves games."

"Oh, he'd better," Irileth scowled, striding from the tower. Because if I'm right, Balgruuf's death was the invitation to play.