CHAPTER THREE

~THE SWORD IS THE SELF. ITS EDGE THE MIND~

Durak wanted to return to Ivarstead to continue the conversation, but Solen wouldn't hear of it after the Snowborn attack, so they compromised with a shared camp in the wilderness, which Solen was very practiced at choosing and Rayya assembling while the former slipped off to hunt. Within an hour they were roasting a brace of rabbit over a large cooking fire in a sheltered hollow beneath the cliffs. And Durak explained himself.

"I don't know what changed this winter, but vampire attacks have spiked all across the province. Now they're everywhere. A growing menace. That's why our leader Isran is re-establishing the Dawnguard."

"No," said Solen, immediately. "Not this time."

Durak scowled. "Maybe you don't understand the situation, Solen. You familiar with the Hall of the Vigilants?"

"I'm familiar with the Vigilants," said Solen carefully. The pocked scar left by a silver arrowhead in his rump was forever testament to one such unfortunate encounter, during one of his and Aela's hunts.

"It was destroyed," said Durak bluntly. "They didn't stand a chance against those bloodsucking scum. We warned them, when the attacks started. They never took it seriously, and now they've paid the price."

"If I recall correctly, they were hunters of Daedra worship," said Rayya. "What's that got to do with vampires?"

"Maybe you're not familiar. The bloodcurse of vampirism comes from Molag Bal, the Daedra lord of domination. Likely why the vampires targeted them. That, or an isolated hall of mortal meat in the Pale was too great a temptation for a bloodstarved mob to resist." Durak growled to himself. "Maybe both. Mauloch knows what goes through a monster's mind."

Solen flicked another branch into the campfire. "It sounds like it's already in hand," he said. "If this menace is really as bad as you say, and you are really what you say you are, you're not going to have a shortage of volunteers."

"Of war veterans. Farmboys. Mercenaries wet behind the ears. None of them probably having ever laid eye on a vampire before, let alone killed one. I'm good, and Isran's the best, but there's more vampires than hunters to go around. We need warriors we know can lead the way."

"And you'll find them," Solen said earnestly, "in the new generations of warriors you'll find and train among the ranks. Besides, vampires are your specialty. Mine are Dragons and xenophobic twats."

Durak rumbled an agitated sigh, licked a rabbit bone clean, and flicked it into the darkness. "Maybe we will," he said, "but the vampires aren't going to wait around for them to show up. That one that nearly killed your wife? That was a fledgling – a year old, I'd say, hunting to build up his power. It's how they grow stronger. And I know that you've seen what a master vampire can do. I passed through Morthal on my way down south."

"Durak, I'm grateful and indebted to you for saving Rayya's life, and I'll spread the word and recommend the Dawnguard to anyone I meet in my travels, but the answer is still no." Solen scrubbed his face tiredly and took Rayya's hand in his. "The last thing Skyrim needs right now is me getting into notoriety again. We're barely five months out from the Legion, I've seriously neglected my Companion duties as it is, and Rayya and I are two years overdue to a return to our homeland. We're not getting sucked into another war."

He's serious, Rayya thought. I guess the Greybeards got him straightened out after all. Not a trace of Solen's usual easygoing humour was present in the Altmer's unwavering expression. During Durak's explanation she'd anticipated, resignedly, that he'd be tempted to stay and fight after all. There was nothing political about fighting vampires, which were morally wrong, objectionable, and universally revulsed the world over. But Solen had never been a blind thrill-seeker like his fellow warriors in Jorrvaskr – and glory was never his only motivation in taking up Eldródr in battle.

"Damn," said Durak at last, with finality. "Really thought we'd have an ally in you."

"I'm not going to spare any vampires I come across, if you're worried," said Solen, "but I'm not going to fly your flag to hunt them. I'm sorry."

Durak glanced at Rayya. "I suppose it'd be futile to ask if you'd be interested."

"It would," said Rayya, feeling Solen's searching eyes on her. She knew he'd reconsider if she said so. But she similarly felt little desire to sign on with another army, no matter how morally justified said army's mission was. "Where Solen goes, I go, and that's the end of it."

"And there's no chance of you even seeing Fort Dawnguard? Speaking with Isran?"

"None."

"Damn." Durak heaved a brisk sigh and clapped a hand on his knee. "Well, that's that, then."

They sat in a sort of awkward silence around the campfire for a few moments, training their ears to the night sounds. Then Solen yawned and stretched loudly. "Well, it's getting late." His go-to for such moments, no matter what situation called for it.

"My day's just starting," said Durak, and heaved himself upright. "You needn't fear for that little town. I'll be watching over it tonight. Make sure none of that vampire's friends are skulking about."

"I'm sure we'll sleep much sounder for it," Solen smiled.

"What about you two?"

"Backs to the wall and one eye open," said Rayya. "Vampires won't shake our usual routine."

Durak nodded and surveyed the pair again. "You have a lot of friends, Dragonborn," he said. "None of them are safe. I lost two wives to vampires. Now I will hunt all their kind to their graves, down to the last fanged wretch."

Then he shouldered his crossbow, and was soon lost to the night.

Solen disassembled the empty roasting spit. "It was the right thing to do, wasn't it, Rayya?"

"Damn right," said Rayya. "If Skyrim's gotten soft thrusting all its problems at you to sort out, that's its fault, not yours. You've done more than enough to warrant a bloody holiday."

Solen flashed a quick smile. "Maybe. Still, there's no one else like me. Well, not any more, after Solstheim. When I talked with the Greybeards – the big guy – he said that my power..."

"You had one destiny, Solen, and that's been done. The rest of your life is yours to live, with or without a Voice."

"He said the same thing, but also that I'll have to fight for peace."

"That doesn't mean you run around cleaning Skyrim's messes all the time. This Dawnguard, if it's really what it says it is, will put a lid on this new vampire nonsense. And if they struggle, they can bloody well ask the Jarls or the Legion or even the next foolhardy adventurer that wanders down the road." Rayya unrolled their bedrolls, end-of-discussion style. "You've given your answer. If they don't honour it, then you can get nasty."

"Me? Nasty?" Solen's eyes rounded like an eager child's. "You really think I can manage it?"

"No," Rayya snorted, swatting his arm. "You're too damn nice for your own good. Don't think I didn't notice you during the last road ambush, returning that bandit's weapon so he could try stab you again."

"Well, it wasn't fair to use Vilkas' favourite disarming move on him. No one expects Vilkas' favourite disarming move!"

"Yes, yes, poor outmatched outlaw. Definitely it wasn't because he was facing a seven-foot High Elf with a sword as big as he was, now, was it?"

"Seven and a half. And of course not. It's never stopped you, has it?"

"Oh, if only it were that big, Solen."

They surveyed their camp. The fire burned low, the horses grazed hungrily at the fresh grass growth, their lean-tos creaked in a gentle gust. Solen lay his head in Rayya's lap, his bicoloured eyes steadily fogging with sleep as his exhaustion caught up to him. Rayya made herself comfy for the first watch of the night.

"Rayya?"

"Hm?"

"You enjoy this life, don't you?"

Tall Papa, he was pensive tonight. "Of course," Rayya assured him. "Wouldn't change a thing about it. Except you actually coming down the mountain when you say you will."

Solen grinned sheepishly. "I'll work on it."

He drifted off to sleep not long after that. Rayya stroked the soft shaved fuzz on his temple and returned her attention to the nightbound forest, wondering not for the first time what life she would have led had that High Elf never become her Thane.

It was a steady four day's ride from Ivarstead to Whiterun, if one took the southwest road below the mountain. It was still one of Solen's favourite roads to take through Skyrim, despite the memories attached to Helgen, the ruins of which lay on the way.

During the reunification and refortification period, the Legion had discussed whether it was worth the time and resources to rebuild the Helgen garrison. Once upon a time it had monitored the largest road between the Cyrodiil Heartland and Skyrim, which ran through the Jerall Mountains. Eventually it had been decided to leave the rubble as rubble, in testament to the beginning of the Dragon Crisis, and as a reminder to all of the destruction a Dragon could wreak on a town. Twice a year they sent a Legion patrol to flush the place of vermin. Every return set Solen adrift in memory, reminding him of the day when everything had changed in his life. It'd been the day he'd finally been caught poaching the Jarl's elk in the Rift; the day he'd met the two heads of the Civil War he'd been hearing so much about in his illegal forays into Skyrim; the day he'd come as close to death as someone with his neck stretched on a chopping block ever could; the day he'd first locked eyes with his immortal, eternal, predestined foe.

Well, technically that had all been over two days, since he was captured the morning before his attempted execution, but he was unconscious for most of the cart ride. Imperial fists hit hard. Perhaps he shouldn't have made that cheeky remark about that Imperial Captain's sister, but his brother Nostibar would've been proud of it.

They drew up outside the rotting gates, with Solen still quite lost in thought, when Rayya's warning brought him sharply back. Solen snatched Ember's reins and pulled up just in time. An arrow whizzed out of nowhere and thudded the cobbles at their feet.

"Turn round, outsiders!" boomed the sneering voice of warning. "Your kind ain't welcome!"

Solen turned to Rayya. "What month is it?"

"First Seed."

"First Seed? The Imperials should've been through here already."

"Not until the end of the month, dear."

"Oi!" The voice of warning sounded rankled. "Didn't you hear me?"

"Maybe we should leave this to them," said Solen. "Wouldn't want them thinking they showed up for nothing."

"You haven't swung Eldródr in three weeks. We can't have you falling out of practice, either."

"I'll take a job before we leave, then."

"Or you can just clear out this trash in here now."

"Hey! Big ears!" The voice of warning was definitely annoyed now. "You hearing me? This is our turf! Turn around, milk drinkers, or my clan and I will rip you to shreds and leave you for the wolves!"

"My ears aren't that big, are they?" said Solen, in injured tones.

"Not big enough to excuse you from this." Rayya unhitched Solen's helmet from his saddle and tossed it into his arms. "Now hurry up or we won't reach Riverwood before dark."

"Fine." Solen slammed his helmet on his head. "You coming?"

"How many are there?"

Solen closed his eyes. "LAAS YAH NIR."

A myriad of pulsing scarlet life-auras swam into being in his vision. Solen skimmed the width of the ruins. "Hmm. Seven or so. Pretty sad excuse of a clan, if you ask me."

"No one asked!" yelled the voice of warning.

"Hey! Stow it," Rayya yelled back, "we weren't talking to you." To Solen she said, "I'll take the horses round front."

"Bless you." Solen swung off Ember's back. "All right, I'm coming in!" he called. "Just give me a second to stretch out the saddle cramp, will you?"

"Who in the Nine d'you think you are?!" exclaimed the voice of warning, in at least ten shades of incredulity. "Step in here and we'll stick your head on a pike!"

"The last time someone tried that, a Dragon did a fly-by and burned the place to the ground." Solen drew Eldródr and sauntered through the gates, checking around for the archer who fired the warning shot. He could still see a little life-aura as the Thu'um's magic ran its course, and swiftly picked out where each bandit thought themselves cunningly disguised amidst the rubble. "This place, to be exact," Solen continued, "did you know that? Figures you brutes should know a bit of history if you're going to hang around here. Which I strongly advise against."

He glanced around. "Well? Where's the pikes? I was promised pikes!"

"Who is this guy?" someone clearly muttered.

"Oh! My apologies," said Solen, "I didn't introduce myself."

"Shoot the mouthy goldenrod, would you, Uthar?"

Solen faced the ruined townhouse where the archer was hidden. He watched the brigand archer pop up from supposed hiding, stretch the twine to his cheek, and release. Solen didn't even need to Shout, just moved the flat of the broad battle-blade between the arrow and his neck. The arrow splintered on the ebony fuller and fell fragmented at his feet.

"My turn," Solen said. "VEN!"

He didn't need the full Shout for this. The small tornado that whisked across the ruined Helgen road and through the townhouse was plenty enough to spiral Uthar ten feet in the air and deposit him in a winded heap on the ground.

Solen turned around. "Anyone miss that? Do I need to repeat myself?"

The stunned silence was answer enough. Even scavenging, frost-blistered brigands recognized the Thu'um. Someone finally murmured, "Just our luck it's the thrice-damned Dragonborn."

Solen rested his greatsword point-down on the ground and wrapped both hands around the hilt. "Right. I think we're finally on the same page. I'll speak slowly so you don't miss a word. Get out of Helgen, or you're all going to see a lot worse than a stiff breeze."

"You're not... gonna kill us?" asked the deflated voice of warning.

"Well, I really ought to," Solen admitted, "my wife thinks my sword arm's getting flabby. What do you guys think? Flabby?" He held up an arm and flexed for inspection. The chorus was immediate.

"No, Dragonborn, looks good to me!"

"Very un-flabby!"

"The very opposite!"

"All right," said Solen, lowering his arm. "You're all very kind. So, let's make this our little secret. You cut it out with the robbing and the pillaging and the false promises of pikes, and I won't cut you up like the Companion fodder you are. Sound good to you?"

"Yup, sounds grand!"

"Can't ask for fairer than that!"

"Sovngarde can wait, right? It's not going anywhere."

"All right. Perfect. So, since I'm feeling generous today, I've decided you have ten seconds to get out of Helgen and high-tail it into the Jeralls." Solen indicated the mouldering gate behind him. "Road's yours, ladies and gentlemen."

Out they popped from their hiding spots like rats, scrambling for the mountain road, a pitiful collection of scrawny Nords, one Khajiit and a Dark Elf. One thing these gangs always have going for them, Solen thought, they don't discriminate. "Oh, one more thing," Solen called, as the last one scuttled past him, "just in case you get any ideas of coming back –"

His Shout all but punched their ears. "FAAS RU MAAR!"

Maybe three words was overkill. This weak-willed rabble of cowards could've been sent scrambling in all-consuming mortal terror of their lives with just one Word, maybe two for emphasis. At least none of them simply keeled over and died on the spot from fear-frozen hearts, like that roadside thief last autumn. Two of them definitely voided their bowels, though. Solen wrinkled his nose. "Definitely overkill," he muttered, watching the seven brigands rapidly shrink out of sight, screaming to the high heavens. He always wondered what the victims of his Dismay Shout felt or saw to inspire such terror in their souls.

He joined Rayya on the north road out of Helgen and swung himself into Ember's saddle. "All done."

"Your blade's unbloodied," Rayya frowned. "Solen, did you toy with them again?"

"Whaaat? Noo..."

"Really, husband, can't you just do them a mercy and cut them in half? They'll probably have nightmares for the rest of their lives."

"I'll bear it in mind next time, love."

"Next time, I'm coming in with you to make sure you actually get some exercise in."

They reached Riverwood without further incident, and in the warm amber glow of evening they stopped by the lumber mill to say hello to Faendal, one of Solen's old companions. Many a day the pair had spent roaming Skyrim together during the Dragon Crisis. In the wake of such adventures, Faendal had become something of a local celebrity in Riverwood. It wasn't everyday one travelled with the Dragonborn, or killed a Dragon, or cleared a tomb of Draugr, or multiple tombs of Draugr, or attended the armistice talks up in High Hrothgar. Much to the continued annoyance of Sven, the local bard and Faendal's eternal rival.

"Don't you ever miss it?" Rayya asked, over dinner in the Sleeping Giant inn. "Getting out there and seeing the world?"

"Sometimes," Faendal admitted. "Then I hold Camilla in my arms, and I know I made the right choice picking up the hatchet again."

"Have you tied the knot yet?" Solen asked. "You did promise you'd send us an invitation when you did, right?"

"I haven't forgotten, brother Elf," Faendal laughed, "but we're courting the Imperial way, slow and steady."

"Solen and I got married within the year," said Rayya. "He got thrown in jail and realized he couldn't spend life without me."

Faendal threw up a hand. "Of course he did."

"What d'you mean, of course I did? I'm the very model of a respectful, law-abiding –"

"You're too curious for your own good. That had something to do with it, didn't it?"

"No! It was... well... okay, maybe..."

Rayya laughed. "Oh yeah, you definitely travelled with him."

"He's your problem now, Rayya," Faendal grinned, and they tapped mugs under Solen's mildly disgruntled expression.

"Speaking of problems," Solen said, and briefly he recounted the Rift incident, particularly the part about the vampire and the vampire hunter. "Have you heard anything about that? Or had any attacks?"

"Nothing here in Riverwood," said Faendal, "but I did hear a farmhand got ambushed by some sort of night monster at Chillfurrow Farm two weeks ago. He's alive, don't worry – made it to a Legion patrol on the road and it disappeared. D'you reckon that was a vampire?"

"Maybe. That place is a bit too far south for Falmer," Rayya mused.

Solen shuddered and quickly asked, "Did any Dawnguard pass through here to hunt it?"

"Like that Orc with the crossbow? Not that I saw. Heard a couple of Companions went looking for it, but they didn't turn up anything."

"Something to ask the Circle about when we arrive tomorrow," Rayya said, and then more pointedly told Solen, "Either way, sounds like it's under control, doesn't it, dear?"

"If the Companions are involved, of course it is," said Faendal, a little ruefully. Solen knew what Faendal hinted at. Solen's initiation into the Circle – by becoming a lycanthrope – was what had driven the pair apart. Hailing from Valenwood, where changing into beasts was abhorred and damned, Faendal had rather strong feelings about his travelling partner morphing into a hulking monster of fur and primitive fury and chewing arms and heads off.

Solen quickly glanced around to reassure them that their discussion was indeed private, and murmured, "The Circle doesn't do that anymore. We cleansed it out of us. Aela's the only one left of the pack."

"I remember," said Faendal, and shook his head. "Sorry. That was unnecessary. But aren't werewolves meant to be, you know, opposites of vampires? You don't suppose the Dawnguard are going to be some sort of freakish pack?"

"I think the opposite of a vampire is anyone who still draws breath," Rayya grumbled, fingering the folds of her spare headwrap. "As for the Dawnguard, since their leader is apparently an ex-Vigilant of Stendarr, I doubt it."

By morning Solen and Rayya were in the saddle and out of town again, following the glittering White River to the golden meadows of Whiterun. There was still some snow pocketed here and there on the fir branches, but the cool air trilled with birdsong and hummed with an insect chorus. Solen drew a deep breath and smiled. "Hear that? Rock thrush. Pine warbler. Bullfinches. They're telling us it's going to be a good year here, Rayya, I can feel it."

Rayya scoffed. "Sure they are, big ears. They saying anything about the weather in Dragonstar? Hallin's Stand? Satakalaam?"

"Just a moment." Solen cocked his head one way, then another. "Aha. Grouse."

"Grouse?"

"Aye, grouse. It's grousing. Just like you."

Rayya snatched a handful of pine needles off a drooping branch and flung them at him. Solen flinched so hard that he overbalanced and slid right out of sight with a yelp and a clatter. Ember stopped and peered down at his sprawled rider with a perplexed snort. "Sep's skin, you'd better not do that outside Whiterun," Rayya laughed as Solen hauled himself back up. "They'll think you're drunk."

"Drunk!" Solen brushed a pine needle out of his mohawk. "Well, maybe I am drunk – drunk on life!"

"Pretty sure that'd still warrant a dunking in the sobering barrel." Rayya tapped her heels to Starfire's flanks. "I'll ride ahead and warn them."

"Rayya!" Solen exclaimed, laughing. "That barrel would be freezing this time of year!"

Jesting and bantering, they galloped the rest of the way through the pines and the twisting cobbled road, past the churning spray of the White River rapids, and into the vast open stretches of Whiterun Hold, thawing quickly in the spring. The first golden shoots of the year were poking their heads up through the last sloppy layers of winter snow. The city itself, reposed on the hill like a Jarl on his throne, lay magnificent as ever, the jewel of the province, surveying its domain on the nearing horizon. The multitude of farms that surrounded the city were already bustling with activity, farmhands hard at work in the snowmelt-softened soil with the spring sow. Patrols of the Whiterun Guard strolled along the roads, flaxen cloaks snapping in the breeze. Ember and Starfire tossed their heads and put on a fresh burst of speed at the long, straight road ahead of them, anxious for a good gallop. Rayya and Solen grinned to one another and leaned low in the saddles, enjoying the ride.

They all but flew to the city stables with their comfortably tired warhorses puffing a gale. They'd sleep well tonight. With their depleted foodsacks unhitched from the saddles and slung over their shoulders, Rayya and Solen strolled side by side up to the city gates. The walls of Whiterun still showed some scars of the Stormcloak siege, but mostly they towered, strengthened and fortified by the efforts of the Legion. Solen remembered when they'd been old crumbling things, worn down by time, barely holding back the sea of blue pounding at the stone. If there was one thing the Legion did well, it was building things to last. On banners of golden and black, the white horse of Whiterun and the red diamond dragon of the Empire snapped together, side by side.

"Hail!" came a welcome shout down from the battlements. "The Dragonborn's returned!"

"Guess we're expected," Solen remarked, as echoing cries of "Thane Solen's returned!" and "The Dragonborn's back!" bounced about the ramparts. Then he noticed, "Is it just me, or are there more of them about?"

"Not just you," Rayya said, scanning the battlements as they made steady progress to the city gates. "Must be at least triple the usual watch. You don't think the Snowborn did something stupid while we were gone?"

"With the Companions wintering within the city walls? They'd have been safer jumping into a troll den."

Still, the heraldry was more urgent than Solen recalled it. His mood was not improved to find the big oak gates shut tight with double the guard outside it. He heard the heavy locks shifting as the guards made ready to open it. "It's not been like this since Ulfric was at the gates," he murmured. "What in Zeht's name did we miss?"

One of the guardsmen came dashing over, cloak aswirl. "Thane Solen! Thank Talos you've returned!"

"Seems we're about to find out," said Rayya, taken aback.

"Easy," said Solen. "What's happened? Why's the city in lockdown?"

"Thane Solen, Housecarl Rayya, you both need to head up to Dragonsreach immediately!"

"Oh, for Morwha's sake!" Rayya exclaimed. "Whatever's come up now, Jarl Balgruuf can get another champion to deal with –"

"Jarl Balgruuf is dead, Housecarl." The guardsman bowed his head. "He was murdered, two nights before."