They hadn’t been on the road back to Volkihar Castle very long when the first attack came.
It was a beautiful day in the Reach, crisp and blindingly bright, the kind of day that had every branch and blade of grass standing in sharp relief; but Andante’s gut was in knots. To begin with, he was angry that he’d performed so poorly in hunting Vyrthur. Perhaps it was simply that he was used to working alone, and he’d been altogether too aware of Brynjolf’s eyes on him. But there was also the other thing that had been gnawing at him since they’d left the Vale.
Yes, he thought. We have the Bow. In theory I could ask Serana to coat these arrows and we might see whether the prophecy is real or not with respect to the sun. But…
He looked at her running along with Brynjolf on the far side, and shook his head. She would never agree to it. Not yet. He knew that to be the case. And that was the problem.
She expects to confront her father. I need her father gone, too. That castle needs to be mine. The only way to get her blood right now would be to do exactly what her father intended to do – kill her. And I don’t want to do that.
The prospect of the battle with Harkon had him more anxious than he would have liked. Harkon had eons of experience, and strength, and presumably had acquired his vampire status directly from Molag Bal himself. It didn’t matter that he’d given his blood to Andante, and Andante knew that; he was still more powerful and more dangerous than anyone he’d ever faced before. For this task he needed not only all of his own strength and wiles, but those of Brynjolf and Serana as well. The blood-coated arrows would have to wait; in the meantime, they had sun-hallowed arrows that might, if they were fortunate, take down their foe.
As they passed the Orc stronghold of Mor Khazgur and dropped down into the valley just beyond it, he reached for his new sword and pulled it around before him, taking a few practice swings out of nervous energy. No, I can’t use this one. I’ll need the Razor and…
“Who’s there?” Brynjolf shouted behind him.
There were three of them, up the hill behind them and to the right, and Andante’s blade flashing in the sun had shown them their prey. For a moment his heart froze, and his body refused to move. They’ve found me. Haran and his hunters; they’re coming to take me back to the Thalmor.
A crossbow bolt clattered onto the stone beside him, and even as he ducked away from it he felt the relief wash over him. Not bounty hunters hired by the Thalmor. Dawnguard vampire hunters; bad enough, but not Thalmor hires. Andante forced his body into action, sprinted for the fight; but by the time he reached it Brynjolf and Serana had all but taken care of the three Dawnguard. One of them was down on one knee, crying out that he yielded. But that never happened. He’d long since learned not to be duped by a plea for mercy; the adversary would simply catch his breath, stand, and attack again. Andante gritted his teeth and brought his greatsword down, hard.
He shook his head, once they were certain that everyone was safe. “I’m sorry, you two,” he muttered. “I just thought… Never mind. My mind was elsewhere. I froze, and you had to do all the work.”
“It happens,” Serana told him. “Don’t worry about it.”
Brynjolf said nothing; but Andante could see his mind working, analyzing what he’d seen and had been seeing. Brynjolf knows. He just doesn’t know exactly what it is that he knows. He’s seen me freeze around the Thalmor. He just doesn’t know that this was related to them as well.
“Yes. Well that may be true, but if I don’t pay attention I’m going to get us all killed before we get back to Volkihar. Don’t let me do that again.”
“There’s no reason to expect more fights like that, lad. We’ll be back to the castle in no time.”
But Brynjolf was wrong.
They were just about to emerge from the Reach and scoot over the western end of Haafingar’s ridge, north toward the sea, when a figure bearing the long, nubbled sword of the Forsworn ran toward him. This time Andante was ready. His skill with the greatsword was still minimal, but his anger was not. He blocked the man a couple of times, and took a wide swing that missed.
“Enough!” the Forsworn cried. “This ends now!” He swiped, backhanded, with the sword and Andante danced out of the way.
“Yes, it does,” he replied, raising his weapon and noticing, as he brought it down hard in a diagonal slash through the man’s body, that Brynjolf and Serana were already running past him, shouting at another enemy just beyond. He put one foot on the dead man’s body and pulled his sword clear, then ran to join them.
“This is the part where you fall down and bleed to death!” the opponent screeched.
“Yes. It is,” Brynjolf answered him. He took one step forward and calmly delivered a massive backhanded blow that sent the man’s head, still firmly nestled in its horned helmet, tumbling drunkenly onto the ground and then rolling back down the slope to come to rest next to – but not quite attached to – the body that had once been its home.
Andante stood for a moment, looking back and forth between Brynjolf and the body.
“Well then. Remind me never to get in the way of that sword of yours, my dear.”
Brynjolf simply smirked.
They’d barely been on the road again for more than half an hour or so when the third attack came. There were two more Forsworn, this time, determined not to let them pass. Andante took down the first of them as Brynjolf sprinted for the second. He had just enough time to bash the man to his knees before Serana’s ice spike finished him off.
They gathered and turned north, heading into the snow.
“By all the gods. I just want to get back to that castle,” Andante complained.
“And out of this sun! It’s so bright out here,” Serana said.
Andante said nothing, but smiled to himself. Just wait.
It was much more comfortable once they reached Northwatch Keep, heavily overcast and snowing lightly. Andante crept around the keep’s perimeter, watching and listening for any sign of Thalmor; but it was clear that they had not yet had a chance to garrison the place. They made their way to the jetty beyond it, and rowed in silence across the gap to Volkihar Castle.
At the foot of the long ramp up to the castle entrance, Andante and Brynjolf stopped to look at each other. He could feel Brynjolf’s desire to ask, radiating from him, and yet knew he couldn’t answer the unspoken question.
Yes, I’m different. Yes, I’ve remembered things. No, I can’t tell you because if I do, all the other things will come along with it, the questions about Bravil, and the Thalmor, and all of it; and you’ll become even more a target than you already are just by virtue of being with me. I can’t risk you right now. I can’t lose you.
“Let’s go get a castle,” he said instead.
“I’m right behind you,” Brynjolf answered. “We’ll do it together.”
He swapped glances with Serana when they entered. She looked as grim and determined as he’d ever seen her. Rather than speaking, they simply nodded. Andante walked quietly down into the main hall and stopped to survey the area for a moment, trying to decide how to proceed.
Orthjolf stood at the right side of the room, sipping from a cup, and Andante approached him. Orthjolf looked him over.
“Don’t keep our master waiting. Take him the Bow immediately.”
Andante said nothing, merely nodded and continued past him. One of the lower-ranking members of Harkon’s court, Namasur, was feeding from a vampire cattle strapped to the table. He seemed not to notice the Bow, but greeted Andante warmly.
“Sit down, and enjoy yourself.”
Andante smiled. “Another time, perhaps. Thank you.”
They continued down the dining hall, stopping when one of the castle’s tame Death hounds, CuSith, stepped in front of him. The hound stared up at him, almost adoringly it seemed to him. Andante grinned.
“Who’s a good dog?” he said, and CuSith wagged his tail. He was like any other dog in the world aside from having glowing, blood-red eyes, completely exposed teeth, and slightly decomposed black skin. Having apparently come to some kind of understanding, CuSith turned away.
They crossed the room and went up the stairs toward Harkon’s room. Garan Marethi stood, looking thoughtful, near a corridor blocked by rubble. He glanced at Andante as they approached, and made an expression that Andante took for a smile.
“Find Lord Harkon,” he said, his golden eyes glimmering. “Let him know the time of the prophecy is at hand.”
“Indeed,” Andante said, bowing slightly. “Do you know where he is?”
“I believe he is in the cathedral,” he said, pointing across the hall and up a short flight of steps Andante had not climbed before. “Just across the way.”
They passed the stairs to Harkon’s chambers, continuing straight across the castle, and climbed the first half-flight of steps. He paused, and turned to Brynjolf once more.
“It’s time, Bryn. We’re going to take this castle.”
“Aye.”
“Are you ready for this?”
“Of course I am. I wouldn’t be here with you otherwise.”
“All right then. Let’s go.”
Andante pushed open the door and stepped into the cathedral.
He was surprised. He hadn’t remembered that this place was in such a decrepit condition. It must once have been a sumptuous space, with gargoyles perched along the balconies, the tatters of once-lovely runners along the floor, and very high windows letting in a few shafts of filtered light. But gorgeous as it might once have been, the cathedral was now in disarray, full of rubble. Dust motes danced in the rays of light, and cobwebs festooned every corner.
The apse held its raised sanctuary, as expected. The altar there, however, was something the likes of which Andante had seen only once before: an altar to Molag Bal. The slanting rays of light fell on the altar, illuminating the flowing blood that filled it and giving that end of the Cathedral an ominous ruddy glow.
And before them, hovering just off the floor, was Harkon, in his Vampire Lord form.
Vitus swallowed. He knew that he was, himself, strong and that this being had given him that strength; but even so Harkon was intimidating. Serana stepped forward and approached Harkon; he spoke, and his voice filled the space.
“So you have returned. Is your… pet… keeping you entertained?”
Vitus ground his teeth. Pet? I’m nobody’s pet, Harkon.
Serana put both hands on her hips and looked at him with an expression more of exasperation than of any other emotion.
“You know why we’re here.”
“Of course I do,” Harkon replied. “You disappoint me, Serana. You’ve taken everything I provided for you and thrown it all away for this… pathetic half-breed vampire.”
Pathetic? Half-breed? You self-important bastard.
He swapped a glance with Serana, seeing that she was just as disgusted as he was. Behind him he heard Brynjolf make an impatient sound and knew that his anger was rising as well.
“Provided for me? Are you insane? You’ve destroyed our family, you’ve killed other vampires, all over some prophecy that we barely even understand!” Her voice dropped, and she pulled out her dagger. “No more. I’m done with you. You will not touch him!”
Harkon shook his head. “So, I see that this dragon has fangs. Your voice drips with the venom of your mother’s influence. How alike you’ve become.”
Vitus smirked. Ha. Is that what you think, Harkon? Valerica merely reinforced the influence I was already attempting to exert on Serana. She’s very… malleable.
“No,” Serana said. “Because unlike her, I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”
She sounds as she did facing Vyrthur, Vitus thought. Formidable. I don’t doubt that she doesn’t fear Harkon, and I don’t doubt that she will be a force to reckon with in taking him on. Harkon is in trouble, and he doesn’t even realize it.
“And you,” Harkon said, turning to face Vitus. “I have you to thank for turning my daughter against me. I knew it was only a matter of time before your ambition outgrew your loyalty.”
He couldn’t help himself; he laughed aloud.
“Loyalty? Truly? Did you really imagine that I was ever loyal to you? Surely you’re not that much of a fool, Harkon. Even your two closest advisors are not loyal to you; what would make you think I would be? You never even intended to let me live. That much was obvious from the beginning, when you sent me to Redwater Den.”
Harkon shrugged. “A small price to pay for the betterment of our kind.”
He thought of Babette, turned away from the doors of Volkihar Castle for being a half-breed, and his temper began to rise.
“You are deluding yourself. Furthermore, you are an insult to our kind. I know vampires who are twice the measure of you in spite of being a third your size.”
“Oh come now,” Harkon spat, sounding exasperated. “Spare me your notions of kinship. You’ve simply used Serana in an attempt to take away what should rightfully be mine.”
Ah, there it is. Vitus smiled, his fangs protruding. Got me there, don’t you, old man. Well, I didn’t really think I was fooling you. We have always understood each other very well, haven’t we?
He chuckled. “The Bow belongs to me, now.”
There was a moment of silence; and when Harkon spoke again he sounded truly surprised.
“Finally! A trace of honesty in our little conversation. How does it feel to hold the fate of the vampire in your grasp? Exhilarating, isn’t it?”
“You know it is.”
There was a momentary silence, while Vitus and Harkon stood staring at each other. Vitus thought that perhaps, just for a second or two, he saw a grudging admiration in Harkon’s eyes; but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“Yes, quite. I’m growing weary of speaking with you and my traitorous daughter. I’ll give you a single chance to turn over the bow to me. There will not be a second.”
“Ha!” came a single laugh from Brynjolf, standing in the shadows behind Vitus. Vitus turned to grin at him, then looked back at Harkon.
“As he said. It’s a highly amusing notion, Harkon, but a notion is all it is. Of course I won’t give you the bow.”
“Good! Let’s end this!” he shouted.
Harkon slipped backward toward the altar, waving his hand and conjuring a gargoyle between himself and Serana.
“I’ll rend the flesh from your bones!” he shouted, turning to fire a life-draining spell at Vitus.
The blast of power struck him head-on and had him gasping, rolling for the nearest cover he could find behind one of the cathedral’s intact columns. He healed himself as fast as he could.
Damn it. I wasn’t expecting to be hurt before I even got started.
He heard Brynjolf grunt in pain and whipped his head around to look. Brynjolf and Serana were both in a struggle with the gargoyle, and Harkon was approaching them from behind, raising his right hand to ready another draining blast.
“No you don’t!” Vitus cried, sprinting into the battle. He made for the struggle against the gargoyle but purposefully swerved at the last moment, attacking Harkon with everything he had.
As he howled his rage, striking as hard as he could, a part of him argued, silently, that he should transform. That all three of them should transform. Then it would be over in mere moments. But the larger part of him said no, we need to take him down as we are, show him that we are better than he is. Brynjolf and I may be half-breed vampires but together we are stronger than even the Lord of Volkihar Castle; and with Harkon’s daughter we are unstoppable.
The strikes he made with his axe and Mehrune’s Razor were deadly. Vitus jumped back in shock as Harkon suddenly disintegrated into a collection of bats that flew to the apse and collected at the altar. A bubble of energy, glowing red, surrounded Harkon as he reconstituted himself and regained health.
“The Bow!” he cried, even knowing that Brynjolf and Serana couldn’t hear him. He fitted a sun-hallowed arrow to Auriel’s Bow, took aim at the bubble and released even as Serana approached her father. As Gelebor had told them, the effect was painful, brilliant; an explosion of light as bright as the sun. Harkon’s healing bubble disintegrated; he disappeared into the shadows of the cathedral and summoned four skeletons.
The skeletons themselves weren’t much of a problem, even in numbers. They had fought similar numbers in the Soul Cairn. But Vitus had no idea where Harkon had gone. He ran forward toward the altar to help Brynjolf with one of the skeletons, his anger mounting.
“Where are you, Harkon? It’s time to die!”
“I’ll drain the life from you!” he heard, behind and above him.
Vitus started laughing and ran in the direction of Harkon’s voice.
You think too highly of yourself, don’t you? Couldn’t keep quiet, could you? You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that!
“There you are, Father!” Serana shouted, firing lightning bolts at Harkon. “Time for you to suffer!”
“I’ll make you pay for this, daughter!” Harkon screamed, drawing his arm back to release a drain spell; but Serana had revived one of Harkon’s own defeated skeletons and she, the skeleton, and Vitus all reached Harkon at the same moment. Brynjolf dashed toward them from the other end of the room, screaming “I will kill you!”
Vitus took the full brunt of the life-draining blast just as he struck Harkon with the Razor, doing immense damage. He doubled over in agony, gasping for air, and began tossing healing spells on himself as quickly as he could; but he had done his job. Harkon turned himself to bats once again and flew to the altar, trying to regenerate.
“Don’t get comfortable, Harkon!” he shouted, lining up another sun-hallowed arrow and letting it fly. Again it exploded, disrupting Harkon’s attempt to heal himself; and Vitus shot another at him for good measure, hoping to strike him outside the bubble but missing. Harkon had flown, again, to a darkened corner of one of the upper balconies.
Vitus snarled, wanting to attack once more; but his health was dwindling and he was in dire need of healing. He ran to a balcony, grimacing as he heard the distinctive sounds of gargoyles behind him, and of Brynjolf’s taunts and bashing, and of Serana’s ice spikes. He didn’t have time to regain his full health. Instead, he leapt down from the balcony and hurtled into the battle, just beneath the altar to Molag Bal. One gargoyle fell; he whirled at the sound of Brynjolf’s grunts to slice at the second, and it also fell. He turned toward the third and began slashing, but then realized it was no gargoyle; it was Harkon, and he was bleeding from a dozen wounds as both Vitus and Brynjolf attacked.
Harkon cried out in pain, and once more flew as a cloud of bats to just above the altar. Once more, Vitus breached Harkon’s protective bubble with Auriel’s Bow, hoping beyond hope that this would be the end; but Harkon escaped to the far end of the room once again.
There were gargoyles and skeletons both, this time. As Vitus whirled from one to the next he heard Serana crying out. He turned and saw Brynjolf gasping for air as one of the skeletons, a heavily armored beast, raised its arm to attack; and without knowing how or from whence he summoned the energy he put his entire being into the axe at the end of his arm.
“You shan’t have him!”
The skeleton collapsed in a heap.
“Soon Auriel’s Bow will be mine!” Harkon crowed from the safety of a dark corner. Vitus ran in the direction of the voice, casting a healing spell on himself, confused because he couldn’t find his foe.
It might well be, if we can’t corner him soon. We’re all running dry.
And then, by some macabre and unexpected accident, that very thing happened. Serana had revived one of the downed gargoyles. She, it, and Brynjolf somehow caught Harkon between a wall and one of the great columns that lined the cathedral, and all of them were unleashing everything they had left at him.
“You dare defy your father?” he cried, just as Vitus waded into the battle.
Vitus only had a moment to land blows, and they were heavy ones. Harkon flew as bats to the altar once more, and once more Vitus pulled Auriel’s Bow to the front and fired just as Serana landed a solid strike with an ice spike. Harkon cried out.
This time, he struck Harkon before he was able to enclose himself in a protective bubble. This time, he sent a second arrow home, and it too exploded in brilliant light.
Harkon began to burn.
“Die, Harkon! Burn!” Vitus screamed, running toward the quickly-disintegrating form enveloped in ruby-red magical flames.
“Your own father,” Harkon cried out. Then he collapsed onto the floor before the altar, only a few pieces of the skin of his wings protruding from a pile of shimmering, red ash. Vitus stood over it and watched as the flames died and even those pieces of what had been the ancient vampire disintegrated and fell into the pile.
There was a long moment of silence.
“Well,” Serana said quietly, coming forward to stand at the foot of the apse, “now that’s done.”
Vitus raised his eyes from the ash pile and looked at her, then past her, behind her, where Brynjolf stood quietly watching. He smiled, a widening smile, and had to fight to keep from shouting We did it, Brynjolf. We did it. It’s ours.
He looked around the cathedral in awe. The scorched remnants of defeated gargoyles and skeletons mixed with debris and rubble; there were trails of frost from Serana’s deadly spells draped across most of the stairways and some of the columns. Near the doors, he saw Garan Marethi enter quietly and kneel to examine one of the ash piles. He took a deep breath and approached Serana.
“Yes. It’s done. At long last. Now what will you do?”
She shrugged.
A part of him – a part that hadn’t always existed – looked at her face and recognized the pain of loss. She must be hurting. He was despicable but this was her father.
Even as he thought that, though, the larger part of him wanted to rejoice, wanted to celebrate, wanted to make certain that everyone else in the castle understood that he, Vitus Perdeti, was now the Lord of Volkihar Castle. And he wanted to make certain of one thing more.
“I’m not sure,” Serana said quietly. “I’ll probably stay here, for as long as they’ll let me. I think we can rebuild here; make my family’s legacy something more respectable.” She met his gaze for the first time since her father had fallen, and a small, almost shy smile took her mouth. “Of course, if you’ve got any more adventures planned…”
Oh I do, Serana. I most definitely have adventures planned. With Brynjolf.
“I don’t think they’ll involve you,” he said flatly, watching the sharp sting of rejection take her eyes.
“Suit yourself,” she said, frowning.
“Lad. Show a little respect,” Brynjolf muttered. “The lass just lost her father.”
Vitus glanced at Brynjolf and nodded, then turned back to Serana. I can’t help it, Brynjolf. I’ve wanted to be rid of her ever since we met her.
“I can guarantee you that you may stay here as long as you wish, Serana. This castle belongs to me now, and I grant you the right to live here as long as you wish to. On one condition.”
Serana looked confused for a moment. Then her eyes widened.
“You don’t mean…”
Vitus approached her, smiling, and pulled a cluster of elven arrows from his pack.
“Yes I do. That’s exactly what I mean.” She started backing away from him, stopping when she bumped into Brynjolf. Brynjolf grabbed her arms to steady her, then looked back up at Vitus in confusion.
And there she was, trapped, between the two of them.
“I have never believed that either you or your mother needed to die, Serana. The amount of your blood that it would take to coat these arrows would be miniscule. Do this for me, and we will see whether your father’s prophecy was correct or not. Do this for me, and I will go to the Soul Cairn and bring your mother home to Volkihar. We will rebuild the castle. It will be beautiful. It will be our home, all of us.”
He took another step toward her, and smiled, baring his fangs.
“But if you do not do this for me willingly I will be more than happy to take your blood in whatever way is required.”
He looked past her shoulder and saw Brynjolf staring at him, in shock, or perhaps horror.
Whatever Brynjolf or Serana might have been intending to say went by the wayside as Garan Marethi approached.
“My congratulations on defeating Harkon,” he said in his dry tones. “Clearly, you are the superior vampire. “
Vitus nodded. And had we transformed he would never have had a chance.
“Lord Harkon defeated. I never imagined I’d see the day.” He turned to Serana. “My lady, you have my deepest sympathies. I’m sure this was not easy for you.”
Serana was glaring daggers at Vitus even as she answered Marethi. “He was out of control, Garan. It had to be done.” Her voice was flat, sour. “I’m not happy about this. He … he was still my father. But I suppose my father really died a long time ago. This was just the end of something else.”
“Of course, my dear,” Marethi said. “All will be well now.”
Serana didn’t look as though she believed that, or appreciated being patronized. She held out her hand for the arrows, frowning.
“Might as well get this over with.”
Vitus approached Brynjolf and stood gazing at him while Serana was occupied. Brynjolf’s expression was unreadable. He held his mouth in a tight, closed line, and his eyes scanned Vitus’ face as though he didn’t know who he was looking at. He said nothing.
“Here,” he heard behind him. Serana handed the arrows back to him.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said absently.
“Don’t ‘my dear’ me, Andante. You sound like my father.” She turned and walked back toward the doors to the cathedral.
Vitus smirked at her retreating form, and walked toward Garan Marethi, who was beckoning to him. “Don’t I?” he murmured to nobody in particular. “We are so very alike, after all.”
He smiled at Marethi. “Is there something on your mind?”
“Now that the castle is yours,” Garan said carefully, “I was wondering. Would you be interested in having the passage to the courtyard restored? Harkon clearly never cared much for it.”
Vitus smiled. “Yes. See to it at once. In fact, Garan, we are going to restore this entire castle.” He looked around, pointing at the rubble. “All of this is going away. As are the cobwebs. There’s no need for this magnificent court of mine to be in such wretched condition.” He laughed. “Don’t worry, we will all contribute to the job. I enjoy beating on obstacles as much as the next person. Thank you, Garan. Now I believe that it’s time for you to introduce the court to its new Lord, don’t you?”
Garan Marethi inclined his head in an echo of the gesture Andante had used during his entire existence.
“It would be my pleasure.”
They left the cathedral and walked back to the great dining hall. Vitus Perdeti walked slowly to the place of honor at the head of the room and took his place in the throne that had once belonged to Lord Harkon.
