CHAPTER NINE

~PERFECTION IN THE EIGHT BASIC CUTS IS CRITICAL... ~

"Tolan dead, Celann and Durak dead, and no artifact." Isran glowered like a Second Seed thunderhead. "Forgive me if I don't welcome you back to Fort Dawnguard with open arms, Dragonborn."

Isran was taking it better than Solen had anticipated. He'd rehearsed his report every night on the two-week ride back from the Pale to Fort Dawnguard, and so far the post-mission briefing was going better than expected. "And that's understandable," Solen allowed, "but we're not totally at ends here."

"No, we have that... rogue, thief, scoundrel, assassin." Isran dryly listed off the multiple names Solen had described the surprise assailant with. "The mystery man or woman who cut down two of the finest warriors I've ever known as if they were goats for slaughter, yet spared you. Why do you think that is, Dragonborn?"

"I don't know." Solen had brooded on that too. Discussed with Rayya over every possible enemy he'd ever made and got away, but the answer always boiled back down to unfamiliarity. "I just know that they took great pains to make sure their boot landed in just the right way across my face."

They strode out onto the airy Dawnguard battlements, aglow beneath a golden Rain's Hand sun. "Whoever this rogue is," Isran growled, "they're sympathetic to the vampires. They're our enemy and must be put down. I'm surprised a hunter like yourself didn't get after them."

"He tried," said Rayya coolly, "but tracks and common sense have a habit of disappearing in snowfall."

"Anyway, I do have someone tailing them, I'll have you know," Solen added pointedly, folding his arms. "The Dawnguard's latest, uh... asset."

"'Asset'?" Isran echoed. "Only I decide if something is an asset to the Dawnguard, elf."

"It's a Dragon," said Rayya.

"What?" Isran stopped and spun around.

"Not just any Dragon," Solen added quickly. "He can turn invisible."

The long silence that followed was anything but encouraging. Aware how he probably sounded, Solen cleared his throat and met Isran's stare. "If you're worried, don't be. Dragons have eyes that can see a mouse moving a mile below, and this one was a Blood Dragon – ears and noses better than any wolf's. They can practically see in the dark. And, you know, he flies. So, he's a good tracker, is what I'm, is what I'm saying."

Isran growled through his teeth. "The only useful thing you have done for me, Dragonborn, is bring back information about the enemy. By the sounds of it, Celann and Durak would have easily done the same."

"If they hadn't been cut down, aye," said Rayya tersely. "Better than no one returning with not even that, isn't it?"

"I've already told you, I don't know why I wasn't killed," Solen added irritably. "I'm so sorry I'm not a lying stiff in Dimhollow."

"I don't want apologies, I want results."

"Then send me out again. I've got contacts all over Skyrim, I'll pull them into looking into this Harkon coven."

"Contacts? Like the invisible Dragon?"

"Oh, yes," said Fiirnaraan's disembodied voice.

Isran had his warhammer drawn in one lithe motion before Solen had even processed who'd spoken. The Redguard's dark, wild eyes raked the sunny, bright-lit battlements around them, poised to attack. "Who's there?" he snarled. "Show yourself!"

Solen looked carefully – there it was, that subtle visual imperfection where the light bent a little strangely around the seams of Fiirnaraan's scales. "Stop that," he berated the vampire hunter. "He's shy enough without you threatening to clobber his face in. Glad you could make it back."

And glad I wasn't wrong about you, Solen added to himself, as the Blood Dragon gracefully manifested atop the circular ramparts of the wall-end tower. The wound on Fiirnaraan's nose had healed into a neat grey scar. Looking the Dragon over in proper daylight, Solen realized it was his only. No wonder he was surprised when I got him. He's never been got.

He turned to the alarmed Isran and the wary Rayya and stepped easily between them to make the introductions, since neither of them seemed much inclined to initiate a conversation with a Dragon. "Everyone, this is Fiirnaraan. Fiirnaraan, the smoky mortal, Isran, and the vigour and will of my life, Rayya."

It was somewhat satisfying to see Isran out of his depth. He reacted just like General Tullius had when Solen had personally introduced Odahviing to him. Fiirnaraan was a good deal politer than his battle-driven counterpart, and merely blinked and watched as Isran cautiously stepped nearer, anticipating death by fiery maelstrom at any moment. Solen considered mentioning that Fiirnaraan knew no such thing, but decided it was more fun to watch the gruff man squirm. "So why is it here?" Isran growled finally. "What does it want?"

"My sheep," said Fiirnaraan. "The Dovahkiin promised."

Isran's glower returned to Solen. "You promised what?"

"Food in exchange for information." Solen turned to Fiirnaraan. "I don't suppose you found anything?"

"Oh, yes." Fiirnaraan's back-frills flexed as straight and taut as a mast at full sail. "I found the sosvulonah, and his companion."

"Companion?"

"Oh, yes. They travelled a great distance north together. One man. One woman."

"But the rogue fought us alone," said Rayya. "Where'd this other person come from?"

Solen paced. "An accomplice? Maybe they weren't working alone... no, hang on, my Aura Whisper didn't advertise any other life-auras in the chamber. In that cave they were definitely alone."

"On the outside, then?"

"Possibly." Solen glanced back at Fiirnaraan. "Forgive the interruptions. Did you see where they went?"

"Yes, Dovahkiin. They travelled to the far north shore. There was a..." Fiirnaraan's tail curled up tightly in thought. "Hmm. I do not know the word. Like a short path of wood, sticking out from land into water. There was a small wooden craft, like a folded leaf, tied to the post. The sosvulonahhe climbed into it and paddled into the sea."

"A jetty," Rayya realized. "They got into a boat and sailed into the Sea of Ghosts?"

"And sailed where?" Isran demanded.

"North," Fiirnaraan continued, "to a great stone mortal-den on an island. Like this..." His wings unfurled to indicate the Fort. "...but taller, with many sharp points."

"Sounds like a keep, or a castle," Rayya murmured, who seemed to have taken to a Dragon's riddled way of speaking like a duneripper to the sand. "First I've ever heard of an island-bound castle lurking in the mists of the Sea of Ghosts. You, dear?"

"Likewise. My uncle's ship never sailed so far north." Solen paced thoughtfully. "But if there's a whole bloody castle within dinghy-distance of the shore, why haven't we ever seen it? I've flown above Haafingar before..."

"It is well-hidden, Dovahkiin, within sea-ice and fog." Fiirnaraan shivered and wrapped his wings snugly around him, as if in memory of the cold. "I flew blind for much of the way, following only their aura through the mist."

"What's it mean, life-auras?" growled Isran.

"Aura Whisper," Solen explained, "it's part of the Thu'um. Lets us see the life forces of those around us. Even undead life forces, conveniently."

"Then what happened?" Isran demanded. "What did they do when they reached the island?"

Fiirnaraan blinked at him. "They went inside and did not come out."

"You didn't wait?"

"I did. Many hours. But I grew hungry and cold. So I returned. Now where is my sheep?"

"The artifact," Isran pushed. "Did you see the artifact?"

"Oh, yes. Did I not mention? It was a Kel. The woman carried it on her back."

"A 'kell'?" Isran echoed. "What in Stendarr's name is a kell?"

There were some Draconic words that Solen had learned and knew by heart. "An Elder Scroll," he murmured in disbelief. "You're saying that the vampire artifact in Dimhollow Crypt was a gods-damned Elder Scroll?!"

"Vahzah," said Fiirnaraan, and peered curiously among their ashen faces. "This is not welcome news, is it?"

"Not even remotely." All of Isran's scowling disdain of the Dragon had evaporated. He stood his hammer head-down beside him and stared at a distant point in the walltop battlements. "To make matters even worse," he said, "I think I know who they brought it to. What we're up against."

"The vampires, yes?" Fiirnaraan guessed brightly.

"Not just any vampires. The Volkihar – Skyrim's foremost vampire clan. My predecessors' archives told how they believed the Volkihar's lair lay somewhere off-shore in the northernmost regions of Skyrim, extracted from vampire prisoners. They turned Skyrim over looking for it, found nothing but Volkihar offshoots on the mainland. Never the lair, and never the sire." Isran's intense stare rounded back on the Dragon. "But you saw it? You found it?"

"Oh, yes. It was very big, very impressive. Any dovah would have made it a prize, I'm sure, if only the island were not so small and barren, and the sea so cold and black." Fiirnaraan blinked hopefully at Isran. "May I have my sheep now?"

Isran stood still and silent, his face so stern and still it was as if it was carved from granite. Solen got the sense that he was doing some very serious, rapid thinking, and he and Rayya remained expectant on his either side. Sounds of Dawnguard life reached them from the vale below – a mingle of voices, hacking of axes, a horse whinnying from the stables, a sheep bleating somewhere. Fiirnaraan's frills puffed out on his head at the desirable sound, though his large green eyes did not stray from the subject of his attention.

Finally Isran turned to Solen and said, "Tell me exactly what kind of 'arrangement' you made with this Dragon."

Solen folded his arms. "It's very simple. Fiirnaraan plays spy, we pay him livestock. Didn't I tell you that you'd get more out of cooperating with a Dragon than trying to mount his head on the wall?"

"No. You told me to coexist with it. To my general amazement, I'm going to agree with you." Isran turned back to Fiirnaraan. "Provided you are the Dragon that's been lairing here."

"That is correct."

"Good. That means you know the area. Here's the deal, Dragon. I want you patrolling the Rift at night. Report back to me every morning, right here. You'll have a sheep waiting when you do."

Fiirnaraan's horizontal pupils expanded eagerly. "Every morning?"

"Every morning. And I'd better not hear about any more stealing." Isran turned to Solen. "As for you, Dragonborn –"

Solen held up a hand. "Say no more. Rayya and I will be knocking at the vampire's castle with a warband in a month, tops."

"No."

"What? Isran, they have an Elder Scroll! That should take precedence over anything else, I should think! I'll talk with Tullius, rally the Companions, we'll be at the castle doors in three weeks!"

"And you'll be dead – or turned. We have no idea of numbers. We know nothing of their skill. The Dawnguard is far from ready to launch an assault on their keep. As for your Legion," Isran interrupted, as Solen started to argue, "they're good in the field. But going up against the most powerful vampire lord in Skyrim? You tell me how willing they'd be to walk into a monster's lair knowing that something with the power of the collected count of their great-grandfathers' years is waiting for them."

"We'd have a Dragon. One that breathes fire. No offense, Fiirnaraan," Solen added quickly, who blinked graciously in return.

"You can't throw Dragons at every problem to solve them," growled Isran.

"And why not? They're great problem-solvers."

"Because I just tried that, and it made the problem worse."

Solen snapped his mouth shut and turned away, stung. Rayya set a hand on his elbow and shot Isran a filthy look.

Isran heaved a tense sigh. "Not that you intended to," he admitted, after a moment, "but it doesn't change the fact that the vampires have an Elder Scroll. Divines know whatever they've got planned for Skyrim is about to get worse. The vampires' agent that took the Scroll will have told them that you're involved in our fight. They know you're onto them, and they're going to expect you."

"If an Elder Scroll is really going to be the deciding factor in this," said Solen tiredly, "then the Dawnguard can get their own, no problem. But I really don't think it is. The deciding factor is Harkon, their patriarch. So long as he's alive –" Hang on. Undead. "So long as he's breathing –" Damn it, same problem. "So long as he's... around, none of us are sleeping easy at night."

"I don't sleep."

"Oh, for the love of – you know what I mean!"

"Hmm. I do, Dragonborn. That's why you're going to help rebuild the Dawnguard. We had twenty new prospective hunters join the Order while you were away. But it's far from enough."

Solen folded his arms. "So what, you want me to stay here and train them?"

"No, Irileth has already volunteered to do so." Which was definitely the better option, Solen thought, since he'd never really trained anyone in anything before, while Irileth had had a very firm hand in keeping the Whiterun Guard in fighting shape for decades. "You have a more important job," Isran continued, "more suited to your skills."

Which, by Isran's standards, was probably going to involve latrines and scrubbing. "What?"

"Sorine Jurard. Breton girl, whip-smart and good with tinkering. Fascination with the Dwemer. Weapons in particular. Might need a little convincing, but she should want to help."

"Wait – seriously? Recruitment?"

"You'll also want to find Gunmar," Isran continued, ignoring the interruption. "Big brute of a Nord, hates vampires almost as much as I do. Got it into his head years back that his experience with animals would help. Trolls in particular, from what I hear." His dark eyes bored into Solen's mismatched ones. "Is that going to be a problem, Dragonborn?"

Of course it is, Solen thought, we know exactly where the vampires are laired, and instead of marching in and ending this, I'm being sent to round up two needles in a haystack in anticipation of the long game. Of course, being the good helpful adventurer that he was, he kept all this to himself and answered amiably, "Of course not."

"Good." Isran glanced at Rayya. "You'll be going with him, I assume."

Rayya nodded. "Where do we start?"

"Hmm. Last I knew, Sorine was out in the Reach, convinced she was about to find the biggest Dwarven ruins yet. As for Gunmar, he was out scouring the province for more beasts to tame. The deadlier the better."

Fiirnaraan rumbled softly, reattracting their attention. Isran huffed through his beard. "And give this Dragon its sheep."

Solen grinned and set his hands on his hips. "That's your job, Isran. Fiirnaraan delivered. You'd better do the same."

"Hrrrrm. Fine. Suppose I'd better warn the Dawnguard not to shoot you."

"That would be most agreeable." Fiirnaraan reared on the battlements and rippled neatly back into invisibility. "I shall be waiting by the pen."

Isran hooked his warhammer over his shoulder and strode off, leaving Rayya and Solen alone of the battlements. Solen ran both hands through his mohawk and leaned his head back, facing the sky with an agitated sigh. "Made the problem worse, did I..."

"You know that's the most eloquent Isran's ever getting," Rayya remarked. "I don't like the man, but he's got a point. Launching an assault on this Volkihar castle when we know almost nothing about the enemy is suicide. And the Legion really isn't equipped to fight vampires. You've seen how much skin their uniforms show. They'd get torn to shreds."

Solen paced a tight circle. "All this power, Rayya," he growled, "wasted. Impotent. It's maddening."

"I know you're frustrated."

"Frustrated? I'm beyond frustrated. I got kicked around like a Companion whelp in there! And the cost of losing to that spellsword cutthroat was an Elder Scroll!"

"Death's a part of life, Solen, the same with defeat and victory. We win, we lose, we grow." Rayya took his hands and stared at him sternly. "So how are you going to grow from this, Harbinger?"

Solen exhaled and nodded. She was right, of course. Here he was still brindling over his enemy's taunt, when he should be contemplating the battlefield like a Harbinger ought. The sword was the self, the edge the mind – rusting over defeat was only going to dull him instead of prepare him. "Try Isran's way," Solen concluded. "At the end of the day, the man's a vampire hunter."

"He's old, not stupid," Rayya agreed. "He knows what he's doing. You'll have the chance to prove yourself again. Sooner or later, we'll cross paths with that agent – then you and I can compete to be the first to cut off their head."

Solen smiled. "You're cute when you're bloodthirsty, you know that?"

Rayya elbowed him, which only made him laugh. "Come on, ice-brain. If you're that perky, you and I can go spar before the trip."

They strode back along the battlements together. "Still," Solen admitted, "can't help but feel I've been demoted."

"This isn't the army, dear."

"Right, right..."

Many hundreds of miles across Skyrim, within the high towering peaks of the Haafingar mountains, a Khajiit strode through the frost-swathed remains of a castle, thousands of years old, thousands of years forgotten.

It must have been a magnificent place once. The castle grounds were the size of a small city, a forest of angular buttresses and towering spires. Abandonment tarnished the castle's magnificence; only untold scores of crows and ravens called the citadel home. The ornate stained windows were dull and shattered, the mountain winds had scoured the edge from the towers' conical points, the graves lay overgrown in snarling pines and creeping undergrowth.

The cold, austere beauty of the place would never completely veil the lingering taint of the deep, unspeakable evil that had once occurred within its walls.

The traveller was the nimble sort, as much at ease striding along the narrow battlements and climbing the ever-mounting walls as they were strolling along the flat paved courtyards and snow-dusted paths. She was swift and silent, disturbing not one of the nesting corvids into screaming flight as she continued her slow, steady ascent.

As the twin moons began to rise in all their splendour, the Khajiit reached the uppermost ramparts of the castle; she faced the ruins of a great cathedral, upraised to overlook the entire mountain valley where the forgotten citadel stood. She ran her claws lightly against the crumbling gargoyles that guarded the door as she stepped into the shadowy room within.

Most of the windows had fallen in. The rotten, frost-scorched tatters of upholstery wavered in the frigid air, stirred by a wintry breeze. A fine layer of sparkling frost blanketed the room. It was easy to see the line of footprints – freshly frosted but not quite invisible – imprinted in the floor. She bent down to examine them, tracing the shape of the print under ponderous pale fingers. Yes, they were the same she'd seen leading into the castle grounds. It was a soft tread, a light tread, but the tread of someone who wandered without expecting to be followed all the same.

She followed them across the ice-blistered antechamber, into the stairwell, to the great doors to the cathedral hall. She rested one bangled ear against the door. Not a sound. She drew a slow, pensive breath under shivering whiskers. The scent was very stale. Nonetheless, she gripped the hilt of her dirk as she eased the decrepit doors open.

One glance through the gargoyle-filled chamber assured her that she was alone. Which was not reassuring at all, because the stink of evil in the air was very strong, like something burnt. She stepped noiselessly into the great square room, watched snowflakes spiral lazily from the fallen-in ceiling. A place of great beauty tarnished by the ancient creature that had once called it home.

The traveller found her remains, sprawled across the chamber floor where she had fallen, many thousands of years ago, slain by some enterprising group of adventurers. The Khajiit's sister had told her Lady Ingerien had been quite the spectacle to behold, even among vampire lords. Fifteen feet high, bronze-skinned, claws like knives, a fearful bat-like face, single-fingered wings sprawled like scythes from her shoulders.

Or such as it should have been. Time should have left her body pristine. Vampires didn't rot. But the remains were drained, blackened and burned, shrivelled and shrunken almost completely beyond recognition. A foul miasma hung over the withered bones, a loathsome cloud that even the traveller was fearful to approach. Meanwhile, the one who had preceded her to the cathedral chamber was nowhere to be seen. The frosted footprints had led here, but they didn't lead out.

The Khajiit turned her gleaming eyes to the opened ceiling, where Masser's broad red face peered through, and bared her long fangs in the crimson moonlight.

"Ziss'vo. Not good."