CHAPTER SIX

~...AND SET DUSK UPON YOUR FOE~

The Vigilant's name was Tolan, according to Celann, after they sat him down at the dining table in front of the fire. The Dawnguard stood around, watching the Vigilant gulp down turnip stew as if he hadn't eaten in a week (perhaps he hadn't) until Isran stalked in and cleared out the more diffident ones with a patented scowl. The dining hall swiftly emptied until only Celann, Durak, Irileth, Solen and Rayya remained to hear the audience.

There was no love lost between Isran and Tolan. The former spoke as coldly as a midwinter frost. "Why are you here?" Isran growled, as the room settled down. "The Vigilants and I were finished long ago."

"You know why I'm here." Tolan spoke between mouthfuls of stew. "The Vigilants are under attack everywhere. The vampires are much more dangerous than we believed."

"And now you want to come running to safety with the Dawnguard, is that it?" Isran's scowl twisted in to a sneer. "I remember Keeper Carcette telling me repeatedly that Dawnguard is a crumbling ruin, not worth the expense and manpower to repair. And now that you've stirred up the vampires against you, you come begging for my protection?"

"Isran..." The bowl slid through Tolan's nerveless fingers to clatter on the floor. "Carcette is dead. The Hall of Vigilants... everyone... they're all dead." Tolan turned on the Redguard. "You were right, we were wrong! Isn't that enough for you?"

In one swift move Solen had his cloak off and around the shaking Nord's shoulders. The act finally seemed to stir a spark of compassion in his old colleagues. Celann refilled Tolan's bowl, and Isran completely lost his bite. "Yes, well... I never wanted any of this to happen. I tried to warn all of you... I am sorry, you know."

They waited until Tolan settled himself down and started eating again. Then Solen squatted down in front of him. "You were at the Hall when they attacked?"

"No. No, I was on patrol. We were returning, and... I saw the smoke."

"They burned it?" Rayya frowned. "Sounds like more than a handful of vampires were involved."

"There must've been a whole coven." Tolan's pale eyes fogged with memory. "So many bodies... so much blood. They'd drained Carcette of every last drop she had. I don't know why they..." He went quiet suddenly. "No... surely...?"

"What?" Durak prompted.

Tolan glanced more alertly among them all. "Recently the Vigilants were investigating this cave, up the mountain – Dimhollow Crypt. Brother Adavald was sure it held some sort of long-lost vampire artifact. It took a while for him to persuade the Vigilants to investigate, we didn't listen to him any more than we did Isran... but not long after they'd unsealed the place..."

"Vampires have artifacts?" Solen muttered aloud.

"They're Daedra-spawn," said Irileth. "Daedra always have artifacts."

Solen briefly recalled that talking beacon he'd spontaneously found in a chest one adventuring day and nodded. "Yeah, good point."

"Artifact or no artifact, whatever the vampires want out of Dimhollow is what we want first." Isran folded his arms and considered the Dawnguard grouped across from him. "Durak, Celann, pick some bodies and get them organized for heading out at dawn tomorrow. I'm assuming they'll want to sleep."

"Uh, yeah, sleep before a two-week jaunt across Skyrim would be pretty great," said Solen. Isran glowered at him, and Solen shrugged. "What? I know the mountain Tolan mentioned. I've been up it before." And to this day, Solen still questioned how Silus Vesuius, a man wearing the robes of the most notorious Daedric Cult in Tamriel, ran right past the Hall of the Vigilants' front door unnoticed.

"Good," Isran growled. "Then you'll lead the way there."

"Not without me." Tolan set his empty bowl aside and shakily got to his feet. "I'm coming too. It's the least I can do to avenge my fallen comrades."

"Tolan, I don't think that's a good idea," said Isran. "You Vigilants were never trained for –"

"I know what you think of us," Tolan spat. "You think we're soft, that we're cowards. You think our deaths proved our weakness." He waited; Isran said nothing. "Stendarr grant that you do not have to face the same test and be found wanting. I'm going to Dimhollow Crypt." He faced Celann. "Perhaps I can be of some small assistance to you."

Tolan shrugged off Solen's cloak and stalked off, or rather tottered determinedly, towards the sleeping quarters. The warriors behind him stared after him in pity. "There's no way he'll last another journey across Skyrim," Irileth said flatly, speaking all their thoughts aloud.

Solen collected his cloak. "Your charisma really knows no bounds, Isran."

"Hrrrm." Isran distracted himself with turning to Irileth. "I expect you'll want to go too?"

"Try and stop me," Irileth replied.

"No, thanks." Isran turned and marched back to the forge.

"Two weeks, you said?" Celann asked Solen.

"On horse," Solen confirmed. "Saw you had a few where we stalled ours."

Durak brushed aside a few plates and mugs and unrolled a map of Skyrim across the table. "So which road is fastest to the Hall?"

"This one." Solen outlined the road through Shor's Stone, then the westward route around the Eastmarch volcanic flats, and finally north through the Dunstad pass. "Mostly open road and all Imperial-patrolled, so we won't have much distraction in the form of suicidal highwaymen. If the Legion's feeling kind, we can even provision ourselves along the way."

"They'd do that?" Celann asked.

Solen winked his green eye at him. "Travelling with Rayya and I comes with a few perks."

Fort Dawnguard was a poor sleeper. Solen woke up an hour before sunrise feeling wholly unrested, disturbed from a night's worth of ever-rotating watchers coming and going from their cots. Rayya, somehow, was still dead to the world in the cot across from him. Deciding to be useful, Solen got up, dressed, kissed her forehead and left a small leaf on his pillow, a hitchhiker he'd brushed off his cloak last night. He and Rayya had their own language they'd perfected after their years travelling together; she'd wake, find him gone, then spot the leaf where his head should've been, and know he'd gone outdoors.

Outdoors was rejuvenating. Solen had amassed no particular strong feelings for the old stone Fort yet, but Dayspring Canyon he'd fallen in love with immediately. It was a beautiful little valley, rich in golden grass and maple trees budding with new tawny leaves, and the whole lot were sparkling in a clear blanket of morning frost. Snow made a white latticework far down the mountainsides, and the glaciers squeezing through the tall black peaks towards the golden earth spilled plumes of snowmelt waterfalls into the valley lake, dark blue and brilliant as a sapphire. Solen could hear their distant thunder from the Fort-end of the valley. It was still within Skyrim's boundaries, but Solen reckoned there was a bit of Heartland warmth here as well, close as they were on the border to Cyrodiil. He wished he'd had at least a little time to wander the forest, see what was growing and what was nibbling on the growth.

The Dawnguard had a rough little sheep farm and something that passed as a stable established around the corner below one of the jutting towers. Durak was already up, getting the horses ready for the Dimhollow campaign. "Didn't expect you up so early," the Orc remarked. "Thought Elves liked getting their beauty rest."

"Oh, I'm well past any hope of salvage," said Solen, tugging Ember from his stall. "You know, I blinded a Justiciar once."

"A what?"

"Thalmor Justiciar. I took off my helmet, he saw my face, screamed and died on the spot."

"Died? You said blinded."

"Oh – I meant died."

Durak turned and stared. "He died because he saw your face."

"Right. I took off my helmet, he took one look at me, screamed, 'Die, race traitor!', and then he fell over with his head detached from his shoulders. It happens a lot with the Thalmor I meet. Something about my face just makes them drop dead. Must be a curse. Anyway, that's why I don't get much beauty rest."

Durak snorted. "Enlightening."

Solen soon had both Ember and Starfire saddled, tacked and loaded up with his tools and provisions, and slipped both of them a turnip for good measure. "You need a hand with Tulip?" Solen asked, seeing one of the Dawnguard's mares giving the Orc trouble.

"'Tulip'?"

"Yeah, that's what I named her. I heard you hadn't named your horses, and she's very much a Tulip."

"You named all our horses?" Durak concluded incredulously. "Yet you can't remember the names of any one of the Dawnguard recruits we're bringing with us?"

"Hey, animals are much more interesting than people," said Solen, pulling the mare's bridle over her ears. "Tulip's got a whole life story in her eyes. She's led an adventurous life, the rogue. She's told me she's swum every great river in Skyrim. And Thornsen over there, he clearly fought off a sabre cat in his unbroken years. That's why he holds his head higher than the others, he knows he's got something to brag about."

"You're pulling my tusk, Dragonborn."

"They're not correcting me, are they? Now, Poppy, she keeps the others in –" Solen looked around. "Huh. Where is Poppy? She's not here. You don't have mounted patrols through the Canyon, do you?"

Durak looked around. "No. They should all be here." He stepped back and counted heads. "You're right," he growled, "there's one missing."

A short investigation concluded the horse hadn't been snatched or dragged off against her will, as the tack shed was additionally absent of one saddle, bridle and blanket. "Someone rode off in the night," Durak frowned. "Get the rest ready. I'm going to find out who."

"I don't think it was me," Solen called after him, "so that's one less to worry about."

Durak returned ten minutes later, shaking his head. "That damned fool. The Vigilant, Tolan – he's not in his cot. Vori said she saw a rider slip out, all quiet-like, about four hours ago, wearing a Dawnguard cloak. Mistook him for one of ours, silly girl. Good eyes but bad judgement."

"The fool," Solen agreed. "Well, there's no catching up with him. He'll be at the Crypt ahead of us whether he's a good rider or not. One traveller moves a damn sight faster than a small warband."

"Can't say I blame him," Durak grunted. "The alternative was staying here with Isran."

"Sep's scales, no wonder he got out of here so quick."

The journey to Dimhollow started without further incident. Before the sun had crested the Velothi Mountains, the ten horsed Dawnguard chosen for the journey had left Dayspring Canyon far behind. Solen admittedly did not know most of their names, but Irileth seemed to have already memorized each and every one of their life stories. Durak and Celann were her technical superiors, but neither of them disputed her when she cracked out orders to stop, go, pack, unpack. The whole group trundled across Skyrim with alarming efficiency, and in a mere three days they passed through Shor's Stone and left the temperate valleys of the Rift behind them.

Three days, Solen remembered Rayya asking him to give the Dawnguard. After those three days had passed, he concluded they made for good company after all. There was no repeat of the zealotic discussion in the dining hall. They conducted themselves sensibly and dutifully, both in the actual journeying and when they made night camps. If they were new to travelling, they learned quick – especially in the company of veterans well accustomed to negotiating Skyrim's rigid, frigid wild laws.

They passed through the mining hamlet of Darkwater Crossing, then Fort Amol a few days later. As Solen had hoped, the Legion garrisoned there welcomed him and his companions. Having an old comrade-in-arms established as the Fort Captain there certainly didn't hurt.

"Solen-bloody-arren," Farrus Scipius boomed, as the Dawnguard company rode through Amol's gates. "D'you see that, men? The Dragonborn comes! Good to see you still kicking around making trouble, longshanks!"

"Couldn't leave you with all the fun, now could I, Farrus?" Solen grinned back, and laughing they wrapped each other in a soldier's embrace. Solen had made many an acquaintance, friend and battle-mate during his Legion years whom he remembered fondly, but Farrus was a league of his own. He was a fine specimen of an Imperial, stocky and brown-haired, with bright blue eyes. The campaign on Fort Dunstad in the Pale had left a scar on Farrus' face that permanently pulled up the corner of his right eye into an almost elven slant. He would now be into his seventh year in the Legion. He'd started out as one of Solen's sergeants but quickly become one of his sturdiest brothers-in-arms. Many a campaign they'd fought together, many a Stormcloak ambush they'd survived together.

"And Rayya," Farrus continued warmly, descending on Rayya next. "My fierce sand-viper, unchanged a day and sharp as ever!"

"Can't say the same for you, Farrus," Rayya replied, flashing her pearly white teeth. "You midland men only get hairier as you age." Farrus had grown a trimmed beard, contoured around his jaw, since last they'd met.

"Hairier and handsomer," Farrus winked. "Solie should consider it if he could ever squeeze a hair out on that great big chin of his, hahahar! Gods, you two look well." Farrus turned his attention to the Dawnguard behind them. "And what have you brought on my doorstep, eh?"

"The trouble I've gotten myself into," Solen explained. "They're the Dawnguard – vampire hunters. We're on our way up north. Think you can help with some beds and new shoes for the horses?'

"Horseshoes? Horseshoes? You ride out all this way to visit your dear old Captain for nothing more than horseshoes, you pompous scale-whacker? I ought to give you fifty laps round the Fort for such impertinence!"

"Ah, if only you still could, Captain," Solen replied, and held up his hands. "Discharged with honours, if I rightly recall."

"As if we could forget – the disappointment! Bah. Don't you fret, Solie, we'll get your mates fed and shoed."

Farrus was a popular commander with the men, mainly because he knew when to bend the Imperial Legion's iron discipline for something worth celebrating. They broached the wine caskets and slaughtered several goats to roast whole over giant cooking ovens in honour of the Dawnguard's stay that night. Some of the fresher Dawnguard recruits were happy to enjoy the unexpected merriment with the Legionnaires, comparing weapons, demonstrating technique, and swapping stories. The more seasoned hands took dinner to the walls in a mixture of curiosity to explore the repurposed keep and to maintain vigilance against their nightbound foe.

Farrus walked with them, deeply concerned to hear about the growing menace across Skyrim. "Wondered if you'd be making this your business after what happened in Whiterun," he frowned. "Jarl Brunwulf's doing fine, before you ask. I sent two of my best lads to help bolster the palace guard when I heard. Anyway, Solie, it's all a damned shame and a rotten mess to clean. You always talked warmly about that Balgruuf."

"I was proud to serve him," said Solen quietly. "And his city. Whiterun became a second home."

"Aye, so you showed. Never saw anyone fight like you did that day defending his city from the Cloaks – gods, but you were a spectacle. We almost didn't need that Dragon!"

"Dragon?" echoed Celann. "What Dragon?"

"Hah!" Farrus boomed. "I forget, our dear old Scourge is a bit of a myth to those who haven't served. You see that?" He pointed – atop the ramparts of the highest tower in Fort Amol, an enormous brass horn pointed its funnel to the sky. "You'll find one of those beauties in every major Imperial Fort in Skyrim. That's to summon him. Great big red monster, teeth long as your arm, not that he needs to get that close to kill you, hahahar!"

"You're saying," said Celann slowly, "that you blow that thing and summon an actual live Dragon."

"His name's Odahviing," Solen explained to the dumbfounded Dawnguard. "Better known as the Red Scourge, as the Cloaks named him and the Legion calls him. We go way back. I summoned him quite a bit during the War to demoralize the Stormcloaks, and he ended up taking a fancy to it. We negotiated an agreement between himself and the good General to keep him engaged with the Legion, and here we are."

"Seems a tusking lot like playing with fire," Durak growled.

"Oh, no, the rules are simple," Farrus went on. "You blow the tooter if you need a Dragon to resolve the problem. If that horn sings for anything less, well, we're dealing with a literal flying firestorm; use your imagination. Then, with problem resolved, you offer up some compensation, a few goats, cows, maybe a horse; and the Dragon either hangs around or flies off to the next Fort over. Fort Amol hasn't had to toot yet, and if the gods are good, we won't have to. Closest we've ever come was when a wildling poked his snout over the walls, but my boys are good with their bows and we sent him off sore and prickled to remember us by. Imperial archers – sharpest eyes in Tamriel, and don't you forget it!"

"D'you know where Odahviing's stationed now?" Rayya asked.

"Eh... in the Reach somewhere, I think. There's been rumblings of those rock-licking barbarians fraying the treaty already. What d'you reckon, Solie? You were the one Tully sent to deal with mad old Madanach."

Solen fidgeted with a knotted scar on his belt buckle. "He did warn it was a temporary truce. Legion's still on rightful Reachfolk land..."

Rayya sent Farrus a pointed look, and tactfully the Captain cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Anyway – politics – bah, who cares for 'em? We're soldiers. Warriors. We just want to know where the next fight is. And where is the next fight with these vampires?"

"We've one lead," said Durak, "and we're chasing it. Otherwise, you keep those torches blazing on the walls all night. Don't let anyone in or out after sunset or before sunrise."

"Unfortunately, bottling up behind stone walls isn't an option outside of a siege," said Farrus. "We've night patrols on the roads. You know all manner of scummy things like to creep around in the dark. But they're all ahorse, packed tight and torchlit, and I've a mind to double 'em for a time until this blows over, or something blows up."

Precisely at that moment below them, something blew up – a massive fireball belched its way above a cooking fire while a gathering of Legionnaires hooted with laughter. Farrus stuck his head over the walls. "Oi!" he bellowed down. "That better not have been the good Surilie vintage, Nodring! You and Petro get that firepit cleaned up before I lay my eye on you decrepit miscreants again, or you're both hauling double doody duties at the stables for a fortnight! Am I understood?"

A pair of ragged "Yes, sir!"s was quickly fired up, and Farrus leaned back with a fond grin. "Ahh, they're good lads, just prone to a good time. I'd better make sure the rest of 'em don't go crossing any lines. Anyway, gentlemen – rest assured and rest easy. We'll send you all on your way come morning."

"Double doody duties," Rayya softly repeated as the Captain jogged down the wall stairs to attend his jovial troops. "Where does he come up with that nonsense?"

"He grew up in Chorrol," Solen reminded her. "Every weirdo in Cyrodiil comes out of Chorrol."

"And why's that?" Durak asked.

Solen tilted his head. "Huh. I never thought to ask."

"This is the horse thing again, isn't it?"

"I will neither confirm nor deny."

It was decidedly less warm travelling – both in landscape and in reception – as they continued towards Dimhollow Crypt. They rode north and then westward, following the Yorgrim, the body of water that flowed from the easternmost corner of the Pale to Windhelm and the Sea of Ghosts. The spring that had been so prevalent in the southern Holds was entirely absent here. In the Pale it snowed year round, and was second only to Winterhold in its bleakness and chill. Solen had never done especially well in the cold, which had a way of gnawing one's vigour away, and huddled deep in his fur-lined armour and under his helmet as day after day of frozen pine forest and scouring wind passed by.

But some excitement awaited the Dawnguard as they entered the Dunstad pass. The Imperial Fort drew their eye from afar in the cool blue dusk, a dark distant bulwark against the frigid storms the night would bring – as did the sight of a large party of Nords in full retreat, heading straight their way. "Solen," Rayya warned, as their rough fur uniforms and tattered blue cloaks became apparent to all.

"Bandits?" Celann muttered.

"As good as." Solen shook Eldródr free of its scabbard. "Leave this to us."

Ember snorted and pulled furiously on his reins. Solen lashed the reins loosely around the saddlehorn and gave him his head; the warhorse was well-trained and knew precisely what to do. Even as the Snowborn swore in dismay and split into two groups, fleeing for the forests, Ember strafed, his long, powerful limbs and natural snowshoes carrying him effortlessly across the drifts. Rayya shouted, and Starfire sprang forward in pursuit of the other group. Solen leaned sideways over the saddle, the dragon-ivory battle-blade bared sidelong. Veiled in the black ebony channel, the carved runes of its twin enchantments blazed to life, scorching inferno and midwinter frost.

The Snowborn quickly realized there was no outrunning a Skyrim horse in the snow, and turned to make their stand. The first two raised battleaxes, and Solen's greatsword replied – left, right – and both weapons and wielders plunged to the snow, gargling and jerking; one's fur-trimmed armour aflame, the other's face scorched silver with frost. Ember skittered deftly out of the way of a flashing war-axe, and Solen striped the Nord from hip to shoulder as she stumbled in the backswing. Flames licked to life along the wound, and she went up like a torch. Then destrier and rider were through, and swinging around on the rabbled renegades a second time. Solen snatched a glance at Rayya, giving her half of the fleeing Snowborn a similar treatment. Her scimitars whirled like a Dragon's wings as she scythed them down, lashing the snow with scarlet lifeblood.

Then Solen returned his attention to his own attackers. One of the foes seized Ember's bridle; the warhorse crushed his hand in his teeth in one decisive bite, and pulled him down under his mashing hooves. Solen caught the thrust of an incoming greatsword and trapped the edge against the steel plate that layered his thigh; a sharp word, and Ember spun in a tight half-circle, dragging the weapon from the Snowborn's grasp. The disarmed warrior was pulled face-down into the snow. A flash of blue caught Solen's eye at the back, and he whistled sharply; Ember rocked to his forelimbs and dealt a rib-crushing kick that hit the Snowborn as hard as any Shout.

For the most part, it was no real battle. The Snowborn were confused, divided, already battle-fatigued, and further bewildered by the unexpected appearance of the Dragonborn and the Redguard swordmaster. Only one of them gave Solen any real challenge, a real hulk of a Nord who wielded a warhammer. Solen hated warhammers. There was nothing you could do against a hammer except avoid getting hit – and it only took one for a hammer to win the argument. Solen kept Ember evading, prancing around every reckless, bone-crushing swing while he sought an opportunity to exploit his dangerous opponent. Clearly this fellow had given up attempting to escape and had made his peace with Sovngarde. "What's the matter, elf?" the leviathan snarled, once again dragging his warhammer out of the pelted snow. "Lost your Voice?"

"Of course not," Solen replied, "my horse has got delicate ears."

"Delicate!" roared the hulk. "I'll show you delicate when I break your bones like glass and pick my teeth with 'em, milk-drinker!"

"Now, now, didn't your mother tell you cannibalism was bad for your digestion?"

The Snowborn bellowed like a bull, charged, and the hammer swung in an enormous tree-toppling arc. Ember hardly evaded the monumental strike in time – and instantly it became the moment Solen had awaited. The Nord had winded himself and overbalanced. A light touch of his rider's heels sent Ember exploding forward with a whinny straight out of Oblivion. Eldródr swung once, swung mightily. The Snowborn's charred head spiralled in the last of the evening light.

"Right," Solen declared, as Ember slowed to his rough trot, puffing stormclouds of vapour from his nostrils. "Anyone else? Anyone?"

"I doubt it," said Rayya, pointing with her reddened blade – the pursuing defenders of Dunstad had arrived. They couldn't have been more than two minutes behind their routed foe. Amazing how quickly a battle really passed, Solen mused.

Fort Dunstad was a poplar target for outlaws – had been since before Solen had first arrived in Skyrim. It was a sprawling Fort that sat right over the major Pale road, easily stolen up on through the heavily wooded pines and snowy drifts, with multiple points of puncture. But, as Solen and his companions were soon regaled, this was one of the largest Stormcloak/Snowborn assaults the Legion garrisoned there had had to repel since the War ended. "It was almost manic," the Imperial Fort Captain, a Nord named Osalva, explained as her soldiers escorted the Dawnguard behind Dunstad's walls. "A real victory-or-Sovngarde assault. Seemed a little out of place, even for those crazy sons of horkers."

"Maybe they're getting desperate," Celann remarked. "They camp out in the wilds, don't they? Isolated and alone." Easy targets for vampires, hovered the unsaid.

"If we can get one of them alive, I'll be bound to ask," Osalva answered. "Now, what do you want, Dragonborn?"

She was a decidedly cooler host than her Amol counterpart, but the Dawnguard nonetheless received provisions and a corner of the barracks to camp down in for the night. Most went straight indoors to thaw out and wash, as the inhospitable snowfall and wind stormed in. Durak and Solen stayed out longer to groom down the horses in the Fort stables. "Hurt?" Durak asked, noticing the way Solen took particular care with brushing down his stallion's flanks and legs.

"Nothing serious." Ember had only a small scratch above his knee, glanced off from some sharp corner of armour or a weapon knocked askew, and Starfire was unscathed. Rayya had always been the better rider, and Ember the more reckless of the pair. Solen daubed a light salve on it as the big horse whickered and nibbled at Solen's crest of hair, once more as gentle and playful as a pup.

"You fight well," Durak continued, as the Orc hauled their saddles onto an airing post. "I can see why they made you a Companion."

"On the contrary," Solen replied, "I fight well because of the Companions." He switched brush for comb and set about untangling Ember's cream-coloured mane.

"That blade of yours – never seen anything like it. Didn't realize it set things on fire."

"Aye, it does." Solen unsheathed it and propped it upright against a saddle for Durak's admiration. "Eldródr means 'Flamesinger' in old Atmoran. And the frost burns just as deep."

Any sensible warrior did well to recognize fine smithcraft when they saw it, and Durak did doubly so as a stronghold Orc. "Isran mentioned you were a smith. Did you forge it?"

"If I only had such skill. This is Eorlund Gray-Mane's work. My old Skyforge steel broke on Alduin's head, so I asked Eorlund to make something stronger before I faced the Dragon again. Takes a stubborn hand to work dragonbone, tougher than ebony, but the Skyforge's flames don't burn like other forges."

"Dragonbone?"

"Well, steel clearly wasn't going to work, and I had a ton of the things lying around gathering dust."

"Right. Because of course you did."

"Hey, hunters don't let any part of their kill go to waste. Besides, I was curious to see if it could be smelted. There's something potent about using a creature's own substance on itself, and I expected no less with Dragons; there's magic imbued in every inch of 'em. I had one of Alduin's scales from our battle, so we threw it in the forge, and it did something to the dragonbone. Whiterun's court wizard coaxed it out and bound it in a grand enchantment while the blade was still warm from the embers, and here we are."

Durak gave a gruff laugh. "I figured out when you're telling truth from tall tale, Dragonborn. Truth's got a lot more to say."

"No idea what you mean."

"Mhm. Impressive story. It must've worked on that Dragon, 'cos you carved those brigands up like a pig at a banquet. Mind who you tell that story to, Solen; daresay it's the most desirable weapon in Skyrim."

"If it didn't run out of its charge so damn fast," Solen said ruefully. "Soul gems are expensive."

Durak chuckled. "Well, a blade that burns at both edges shouldn't have any problem with vampires. They're immune to frost but suffer from flame. Hope they're still hanging around at Dimhollow."

"We're four days off. Guess we'll be finding out."

All too soon it was back to trudging through the Pale. The passing weeks were shifting First Seed steadily into Rain's Hand, the second month of spring, but the snowdrifts still banked as high as they did during the midwinter month of Morning Star. The Legion had done a decent job keeping the road cleared, at least; and where the road had been buried, the horses and their thickly-fetlocked hooves had little issue ploughing through.

Three days after they left the Fort, they found the Hall of the Vigilants – or what was left of it. The vampires had done a thorough job. Nothing remained of it but foundation and a few sad remnants of walls. Tolan had laid his dead Order to rest, but either for lack of wood or time the slain vampiric forces had been left to rot. They were all eerily preserved. No scavenger had touched them, and either their unnatural state of being or the northern ice had stopped decay. Celann decided to amend this oversight, citing the Dawnguard wisdom that an undead wasn't dead until it burned, and had them all haul the undead bodies into a heap to be cremated.

"Azura preserve us," Irileth cursed, as they uncovered the remains of something that was not a vampire and clearly not any natural beast – all black withered skin and fangs with skull sockets for eyes. "What evil is this?"

"Death hound," said Durak, scowling. "One of my wives was ripped apart by one. Evil beasts. I don't know what the vampires make them out of, but they keep them like dogs."

They threw it on the pile with the rest. "Much too small for my liking," Celann muttered. "Hopefully we'll be making bigger ones later on. Someone get a fire going."

"Solen, dear," Rayya prompted, as the Dawnguard fumbled with their flints.

Solen faced the corpse heap and had an unholy bonfire going with a Word. He declined invitations to light the Dawnguard's campfires in this manner going forward. No sooner had the general excitement of witnessing the Thu'um calmed down, and the Dawnguard had pitched their tents in the snowed remains of the Hall, when a stilted whinny resonated through the pine-thick wilderness, and a trembling barded horse came galloping gladly into the warmth and the company of its fellows. "Poppy!" Solen exclaimed, springing up.

"Poppy?" Irileth echoed.

"The horse Tolan took." Durak caught the mare's reins and calmed her. "Shh. Easy." He cast a cursory eye over the tack, shook his head, passed the horse off to the young Dawnguard on stable duties, and rejoined the seasoned warriors by the campfire. "No blood, no damage on the harness. No struggle. She's got saddle-sores, but she's not dead or frozen. Tolan's just ahead of us."

"He did say he'd meet us at the Crypt," said Rayya, staring up the immense mountain they now stood beneath.

"Are we meeting him now?" Irileth asked. "Navigating a mountain in the dark is just asking for trouble."

"'Course not now," said Celann, "that's madness. We'll meet him at dawn."

"When we do," said Solen, "no one say we forgot to ask after him at Fort Dunstad." Everyone glanced at one another and nodded guiltily.

All too soon Solen felt himself being nudged awake by a boot, and then they were climbing the narrow mountain trail with their horses in nosebags left below. Solen had been up it once before and did not remember the climb fondly, largely because it had little to no steps and snowdrifts that sometimes went up to the hip. "Can't you Shout this nonsense off, Solen?" Irileth grunted, shovelling her way out of a drift with her elbows.

Solen pointed at the thick snowbanks clinging to the rocks above. "Loud noises and avalanche-prone mountains don't exactly mix, Housecarl."

After a few hours of this sort of thing, they stopped at a halfway point up the mountain, which was flattish and the snow only ankle-deep, and marked by a cairnstone wayshrine. It was a rare island of reprieve against the unforgiving slopes, and why soon became apparent. "I think we're at Dimhollow Crypt," Irileth declared. She led them a short way up the sloping trail and with her torch she outlined a few old stone steps, half-buried in the snow, leading up to a short footbridge and an even shorter platform outside a fissure in the rocks, chipped out by pickaxes.

Solen gave the old stone steps a kick. "That's crypt architecture, all right. The Draugr's favourite style for the four thousandth year running."

"We're not the only ones here," Irileth said, ignoring Solen.

"How can you tell?" asked Celann.

Irileth presented a second, unlit torch. "Found this outside it."

"Tolan's?" Durak guessed.

"Most likely." Irileth turned back to the unwelcoming hole. "It's still warm."