He stepped ashore in Dawnstar and cast a rueful glance north, toward the Sanctuary. For once he intended to avoid the spot; and yet there was always the chance that Babette might be walking down the shore toward him at that very moment. All he saw were the distant ice floes, and the cold beach, and the rock outcropping that protected the Sanctuary’s door from being seen from the town. He shrugged, paid the ferryman and thanked him, and made his way to the inn. That’s where she would have left word about where Serana would be.
It was mid-afternoon, still early enough in the day that it was quiet in the inn; so his entry was noticed immediately. Thoring, the innkeeper, looked up as he approached and raised his eyebrows as Brynjolf pulled a fat coin purse out of a pouch, plopped the purse onto the bar, and pushed it toward him.
“I’m looking for a message that was supposed to be waiting for me. Name’s Brunulvr.”
Thoring looked him over carefully. Then he looked down at the coin purse.
That’ll buy the message whether it’s for me or not, won’t it, lad?
“Yes. Right. Little girl came in a couple of days ago and left it. Um…” Thoring rifled around under the countertop and pulled out a sealed note, sliding it across to Brynjolf. “Still sealed up good and solid.”
“That’s good,” Brynjolf said quietly. “Not that I would expect anything less. It would be a shame if something bad were to happen to this fine establishment of yours.” He grinned as Thoring gulped visibly, and walked back into the inn’s great room to find a darker corner.
He broke the seal and smiled at Babette’s familiar, child-like scrawl. “Where once the Redguard listened.”
He chuckled. That’s obscure enough, isn’t it? Clever lass. Alright, time to go meet an old friend.
It didn’t take him too long to make his way out of town and up the road to the south. He’d only been to the farmhouse once before, but everything about it was seared into his memory. He’d stayed there the first night he’d spent knowing he was a father; the first night he’d known that Dagnell was no longer Dagnell, but Sayma Sendu, the Listener; the first night he’d been human once more and the first night without Andante by his side. In spite of how happy he and Sayma had been since reconciling, the memories had him knocking on the door in a somber mood.
Serana opened the door and waved him inside.
“I’m glad you made it. You’re alone, yes?”
“Of course. I was careful.” He closed the door behind him and sniffed. While the scent of a brisk wood fire was recent, everything else about the place smelled unused, maybe even a bit musty. “It’s good to see you, lass. How are things?”
Serana smirked. “If things were good, Brynjolf, I’d never have written you that letter. I assume you read it?”
“Aye. You say Vingalmo is gone? That’s hard to believe.”
“I watched it happen, Brynjolf. It was brutal, and sudden. And undeserved.”
“It would almost have to have been sudden, to get the drop on him. And who was the killer, Serana, that you needed to call on me of all people?”
She frowned. “Andante’s successor.”
Brynjolf grimaced. “I was afraid you were going to tell me that. Damn.”
Serana looked surprised. “You know him?”
“Yes. He bought Proudspire right out from under me. Let me in to take some of Andante’s things and later found he was missing a great deal of valuable armor and so forth.”
“Brynjolf,” she smirked.
“Yes?” He grinned at her. “Just business, lass. We fought hard for those things and he didn’t spend enough on the mansion to account for all of it. At any rate. He’s never come right out and said that he’s the new Lord of Volkihar but he has spent a great deal of energy trying to get me to tell him why I’m not a vampire any longer and how Andante managed to kill Harkon. And of course he wants to know where the Bow is.”
Serana nodded. “Yes. Edwyn was my father’s protégé, even before I was locked away by my mother. We were…”
Brynjolf studied Serana’s face. It had been some time since he’d seen her, but he remembered her as a person whose feathers were not easily ruffled. At this moment, though, the look she carried was a mix of sorrow and anger.
“You were close?”
She nodded. “My father, in his infinite wisdom, intended for the two of us to wed. At least that’s what he told us back when we were both much younger.”
“Seriously? And you were willing to go along with that?”
Serana gave him a lopsided smirk. “Well, yes. Eddie and I were pretty compatible. Right up until he told me that he’d married Elisif of Solitude. And until he held Vingalmo up in the air with one hand and tore his throat out with the other.”
Brynjolf felt his hackles rise as the hideous vision played out in his mind. “What?”
One-handed? And him a small Breton against that great, tall Altmer?
The implications of that killing had a shudder running down his spine. He would not have wagered that Edwyn was quite that strong, not from the interactions they’d had. Strong, yes. Of course. That strong, though?
“I see that I may have underestimated the man.”
She sighed heavily. “Let’s sit down, Brynjolf. This is going to be a long story.”
“Alright.” He sat opposite her and listened as she began to weave her tale.
Brynjolf had only known her for the short period of time when he and Andante had traveled with her through the Forgotten Vale and the Soul Cairn, and he knew her to be resourceful, hardy, and tough-minded. But aside from the basics of her relationship with her father and his obsession with Auriel’s Bow, he knew very little about her. She told him about her history with Edwyn Wickham, how Edwyn had been sent to Cyrodiil and why. She gave him her assessment of his skills as a vampire.
“He was always naturally talented with magic, Brynjolf. Never used a physical weapon, as long as I knew him; he always uses conjuration magic and he’s very good at it. At least he was, before – you know.”
“I would assume he’s good with all kinds of magic now.”
She nodded. “I don’t know for certain, but I do know that he was specifically sent to infiltrate the magical guilds and organizations in Cyrodiil. They wouldn’t let him near if he had no talent. But here’s the thing…”
Her story continued. The more Brynjolf heard about Edwyn’s stated plans, the more concerned he became. He knew that Harkon had been after the Bow. He hadn’t known about his plans to take over Tamriel. He drew his hands down over his face and blew out a breath. It was worse than he’d thought.
“I don’t know for certain,” Serana said, “but I wonder whether he was behind killing the Emperor.”
Brynjolf shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
He stopped himself. Even though I trust the lass I shouldn’t give that bit of information away.
“Not unless it was a very round-about path he took,” he continued, hoping that would cover his first statement well enough. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if he decided to take advantage of the situation when it arose.”
“He didn’t know I was back, Brynjolf. Not at first. He tried to pick up where we left off, and I was more than willing, like a complete fool. And all the time he was wooing Elisif.”
“So he is just as much a gentleman as I suspected. The man puts up a good front, but I’ve managed to get under his skin several times now and I’ve seen some pretty rough edges. He can’t figure out what happened with Andante and Harkon – and me – and I won’t tell him.” He looked up to see that Serana had as sad an expression on her face as he’d seen from her. “I’m sorry, Serana.”
“And then he killed Vingalmo. He fed on him. And then he insulted the poor corpse by burning it to ash.”
He shuddered involuntarily.
“Well none of this is very reassuring. And what’s more, lass, is that Ulfric is agitating for the Moot to finally happen.”
She snarled. Brynjolf tried to suppress an involuntary shudder. He’d nearly forgotten how intimidating Serana could be.
“He got married to have a claim to Elisif’s throne. I know that’s why he did it. He wants to be the Jarl of Haafingar and High King of Skyrim. We can’t let him do that. And there’s something else, as well. He’s spent hours and hours with his two subordinates researching. Something. I haven’t gotten close enough to find out what. I can’t stand to be near him now that I know what he’s capable of. And I can’t talk to any of the others. You know how it is there. I don’t know whether to trust them or bare my fangs.”
He looked at her, studying her face, trying to decide whether it was simple jealousy making her say that. It didn’t seem to be.
“Alright. It’s certainly bad. I’m not sure what to do about it, though.”
“He needs to die.”
Brynjolf shuddered again, remembering the moment that Karliah had asked him to utter those same words against Mercer Frey. He closed his eyes and nodded. Finally he opened them and looked at her once more, weighing what they might be able to do.
He nodded. “Alright. Let’s talk about it.”
___
It was dark by the time Brynjolf stood outside the house that had once been Sayma’s, watching Serana walk away to begin the trip back to Castle Volkihar. He looked around himself and sighed before making his way toward the Jarl’s longhouse.
This should be a real adventure. I wasn’t planning on being a king’s messenger, or I’d have dressed the part when I left Riften.
When he pushed the door open and entered the longhouse he could sense immediately that something had happened here, not very long past. He’d never had direct dealings with Jarl Skald before, in spite of Dawnstar’s status as one of the finest ports in Skyrim; but he recognized the circlet and the clothing as being a Jarl’s. What he hadn’t expected was to see the man walking circles around his firepit in spite of his housecarl’s attempts to get him to retake his throne.
“Stop nagging me, Jod! I’m the Jarl. If I want to pace, I’m going to pace! By the Nine I need to think and you’re not helping the effort.”
“Yes, sir.”
Brynjolf closed the door behind him, as quietly as he could, and stood just inside it. The more information he could glean before he announced himself, the better.
“Damn it, what are we going to do, Jod? I’m sure Ulfric is expecting my support. And he really ought to have it. He does have it, damn it all, but…”
Uh oh. This doesn’t sound good.
“They did just remove a rather major problem for us, sir,” Jod said quietly.
Brynjolf moved down the hall, as quietly as he could, and finally cleared his throat when he was just short of the Jarl. Skald whirled to face him and Jod – who, Brynjolf noted, had been highly unobservant for someone charged with protecting his lord from people just wandering in – pulled his weapon.
“And just who in Oblivion are you?” Skald said, frowning at Brynjolf.
“My name is Brunulvr, Jarl Skald. I’m here with a message from Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. I’ve just come through Windhelm on my way to take care of some business, and he asked me to check in on you.”
“Did he now.” The old Jarl narrowed his eyes and put his hands on his hips. “And what exactly would this be about?”
Brynjolf weighed his options. Just blurting out the whole truth usually worked against him, and he had a feeling this would be the case here.
“I see you’re a cautious man, and that’s only to be expected. I’m a friend of – it’s a bit convoluted, but a member of his new extended family by marriage. That’s why you’ve likely never heard of me before.”
“You’re right. Never heard of you. But what’s Ulfric’s message?”
“It seems that there’s been another rash of pirate raids along the coast. Jarl Ulfric wants to beef up the guard at all the port cities but of course he can’t do that without your permission.”
“Hmph.” Skald peered at him, taking his measure.
He hasn’t been Jarl for all these years by being a fool.
“Well, he’s right of course,” the old man continued. “Smart of him to recognize that. Tell him he has my permission to send more men. Odd things have been happening of late.”
And now is my opportunity.
“Oh? What sort of odd things?” He put every bit of power he could muster into that question, hoping that a little of his Nightingale persuasion might bleed into it.
Skald sneered at him, took a couple of steps in the opposite direction and then turned back to face him again.
“I don’t know you. But if you’re heading back to Windhelm…”
Brynjolf nodded. “I am. I promised the Jarl to return with a report. So if there’s any other information you’d like him to have, I’ll be happy to take it along.”
“It’s magic. Those damn mages at the College of Winterhold.”
The hair on Brynjolf’s neck rose. This doesn’t bode well.
“Sir?”
“Something they did there unleashed a lot of magic… what did he call them, Jod?”
“Anomalies. My lord.” Jod stared at Brynjolf.
That man is smarter than he looks. He knows I gave a false name, I can tell.
“That’s right. Anomalies. Well, two of them just left here after taking care of a problem for us. Damn anomalies were threatening the entire hold! But they weren’t the only issue, you see…”
Skald rubbed his chin as if on the brink of making a decision. Brynjolf extended his mind, just the tiniest bit, thinking “tell me” over and over, hoping that he wouldn’t nudge too hard and create a problem. Finally Skald nodded.
“That damn Archmage badgered me. About the Moot. It’s no great secret that I support Ulfric. Always have. He needs to be on that throne. But the two of them suggested that it would be a shame if more anomalies threatened our hold. He implied that he could call the damn things back! He’s married to the Jarl of Solitude, did you know that?”
Brynjolf nodded, holding his breath so as not to interrupt the flow of information from Skald.
“Practically held the magic over my head as a threat if I didn’t throw my support in with Elisif. Well, I won’t do it,” he harrumphed. “I’m Ulfric’s man to the end. Tell him he has my full permission to put more men here. As many as he likes. And tell him it’s about time we got the damn Moot under way. Tell him that.”
Skald swiveled without waiting for a response and stomped loudly toward his throne. Brynjolf swapped glances with Jod, who seemed relieved that his Jarl was finally going to stop pacing.
“I’ll give him the message, sir,” he murmured, not knowing and not really caring whether Skald heard him. It was definitely time to get going before anything changed. “Thank you for your time.”
Brynjolf left to the sounds of the Jarl and his housecarl arguing loudly, and shook his head. This was not a good situation. None of it made him happy at all. But if Edwyn and his right-hand man had just left Dawnstar there was a chance he’d be able to catch up with them, as they were undoubtedly headed for Winterhold.
At least I might, as long as they aren’t running. No way I’d ever catch a pair of running vampires. I’m quick but I’m human. Still… maybe someone saw them leave. I don’t want to head inland if they’re on the coast.
He started trotting down the road to the east and stopped the first guard he met.
“Did a pair of men pass here not long ago? One of them would have been wearing some pretty fancy dark robes.”
The guard’s eyes said yes, but he hesitated. “Um…”
“Would this help jog your memory?” He pulled a generous handful of coins out of a pouch and held them out. The guard grinned and scooped the coins into his own cupped hand.
“Yeah. Awhile ago, maybe an hour? They were headed this way,” he said, pointing down the higher, inland route.
“Thank you. You’ve been a real help,” Brynjolf said, clapping the man on the back and taking off down the road in a sprint. I can catch them. I have to see what he’s up to. I can’t very well take him out, especially if he’s with another vampire, but I can at least see what he’s doing and let Ulfric know about it.
He ran as hard as he could in the dark, amused at the irony of having once been able to run as fast as Edwyn could and not being able to do so now. He was amused, as well, at the thought that his life could ever have reached a point at which he was fully involved in making certain that Ulfric Stormcloak, of all people, would be safe. Every so often he stopped to catch his breath and sip water; but he made good time.
He saw footprints, every so often – two sets of them, closely placed, heading the same way he was. Apparently they were having a leisurely trip back to the College. As he reached the place where he would have expected them to turn north toward Winterhold, though, the prints turned south instead. Brynjolf stopped, panting, and stared. It was definitely their trail, heading south; two sets of prints, side by side.
What are they doing?
It was then that he heard it, off in the distance. At first the sound was so faint that he wasn’t convinced he wasn’t imagining it; but as he broke into a trot again it became clearer. Brynjolf shuddered as he ran inland, up the slope toward the mountains; for he remembered all too clearly the night when two fire dragons had burst upward from beneath the ice, threatening to take his life, and Andante’s, and Serana’s. The sound was unmistakable. Somewhere not too far away to the south, Edwyn Wickham and his companion were fighting a dragon.
Brynjolf followed the sound until he reached a spot, tucked into the mountainside and next to what he recognized as a dragon word wall, where he could hunker down and watch what was happening. Circling around the two figures on the ground was a magnificent red, black and white beast with an attack that seemed a cross between a blast of sand and a burst of fire and yet which emitted a strange light. He shuddered watching it, and watching the two men battle it.
It was easy to see the truth of what Serana had told him about Edwyn Wickham’s facility with magic. Edwyn conjured a wraith to assist and then immediately conjured a bow. He was more than adequate with it, picking his opportunities to fire when the dragon was stationary or nearly so. He would then switch to some other kind of magical attack, followed immediately by another bow. It was seemingly effortless for him. Brynjolf didn’t even recognize some of the man’s attacks, and that was worrisome. Meanwhile his companion shrieked and growled and fired ice spikes and the familiar vampiric drain spell at the creature, accompanied by the wraith and her energy attacks.
Brynjolf was mesmerized. He kept staring at Edwyn Wickham.
The man is fast. He’s dodging attacks with no trouble at all. But the magic! The amount of it! He could see that Wickham was not only using one spell after another but was also maintaining armor skin spells and something else that Brynjolf didn’t recognize, something that had him shimmering purple. He was quiet. And he was deadly. That much was plain to see.
The dragon had been circling in a small area, occasionally landing on an outcropping on the other side of the valley from where Brynjolf hid. It was obvious that they were wearing it down. The beast fought its way back into the air, circled over Brynjolf’s head and back toward a small natural bridge to attack the dark figure just at the edge of the bridge’s cover, strafing it with its breath attack as it swooped past.
That was the only time Brynjolf heard a sound from Wickham. The man howled, a sound of pain tinged with shock and terror, and began casting dual-wielded healing spells as fast as he could. One, two, three, four times he saw the man cast; and yet as the fourth spell still shimmered over him he conjured both the wraith and his bow. He stepped out of cover and fired downhill into the dragon as it thundered to the ground, where it was pelted by the other vampire’s attacks. A few moments later, it was dead.
Brynjolf crept down the slope, hugging the shadows, and watched and listened as they approached the carcass.
“Nicely done, Agryn.”
“You did well yourself, Edwyn.”
“Well I must admit it was a bit close to the edge for a moment or two. I’m grateful you distracted it while I healed. The beast nearly had me.”
Brynjolf heard a heavy sigh. “Now, you see, were I Dragonborn I would be able to consume this beast. Sadly, we will need to leave its corpse to rot. It is a splendid thing, though, isn’t it?”
“It is. And while I’m proud that we got it, I’ll be much happier once we’re back in your nice warm quarters at the College.”
“Yes, yes. You knew I couldn’t let it be once I heard it, though. It’s good to keep in practice. Let’s be off.”
Brynjolf waited until they were well underway to take up the pursuit again. He found himself shaken. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t also killed a dragon before. He knew what formidable foes they were. No, what bothered him was the fact that Edwyn Wickham hadn’t once, in the entire fight, used a single one of the spells or powers available to him as a vampire. It had been a battle between beast and mage. Just that, simply magic.
I don’t know how we’re going to beat him, lass. He’s so much stronger a mage than I could have imagined.
Serana was strong; and her vampiric magic was strong. But Wickham was stronger, or so she’d said; and that battle he’d just watched suggested that the man had a huge pool of magicka to draw upon.
Brynjolf frowned. He had no magic of his own aside from the minor glimmers of healing magic he’d retained after Andante had healed him.
Roggi’s no mage at all, and I know nothing about Frina other than she is a warrior – a pregnant one, to boot. Sayma has a few spells, but nothing offensive to speak of. Ulfric has the Voice, and can fight with the best, but he’s no mage. And then there’s Dardeh.
Something about that thought had him frowning. Why had Edwyn made a point of grumbling about not being Dragonborn? He puzzled over it even as he followed the two figures up the slope past the ruins of Saarthal and down into the village of Winterhold. They stopped, at one point, the man Edwyn had called Agryn gesturing and pointing. Brynjolf crept up the street until the voices became clearer, and crouched behind a pillar holding the porch roof on one of the town’s remaining buildings.
“But isn’t it too soon? Don’t we need to – I don’t know, visit some of the others, or wait for them to call it? What about Falkreath, for example? The old man is stubborn as Oblivion but with some careful handling…”
“That may well be, my friend,” Edwyn said, “but I am tired of the waiting. I have been waiting for hundreds of years. I want to know what is going on. Come. Let us rest through the heat of this day and then venture to Windhelm. I believe that I would like to formally introduce myself to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and make myself known to him.”
“I… know better than to argue with you, Edwyn, but I hope you’ll reconsider,” Agryn said as they made their way toward the precarious bridge leading to the College.
Brynjolf waited until they were well on their way before rising to his feet. He was tired, and hungry, and a few sips of water didn’t do much to slake his thirst; but he headed out of town to the east.
Damn. This is bad. I need to get to the others. I don’t trust that mage. If he was unbalanced enough to kill Vingalmo who knows what might set him off, especially if he’s in the same room with the man who owns an ego as big as the Throat of the World.
He blinked into the rising sun and sighed, wiping his hand across his brow before breaking into a run yet again. He needed to get to Windhelm well before Edwyn Wickham did.
___
“You look exhausted, Brynjolf,” Frina said, frowning.
“Thanks for your concern,” he said with a grin. “I haven’t run quite so much in some time, and I haven’t had a lot of sleep. I’m going to take the carriage back to Riften, and I’m hoping that the two of you will come with me.”
At that, Ulfric turned and stared at him. “And leave Windhelm at such a delicate moment?”
“Just for a day or two. It’s for your own safety. Both of you.” He shook his head, and pointed at Frina. “All of you. I think you’ll agree once I tell you what I observed and learned. A day or two will be all the time you need, I think.”
“Tell me,” Ulfric said, waving Brynjolf and Frina into the two chairs nearby while he paced around the map table.
Brynjolf told them.
He told them about his conversation with Jarl Skald; how Skald was still a staunch ally in spite of having been threatened by the Archmage of the College of Winterhold. He described, in as much detail as he could manage, the dragon fight he’d witnessed and the amount of magical energies he’d seen under Edwyn Wickham’s control. The deeper into the tale he got, the deeper Ulfric’s frown became and the quicker the pace of his circuits around the room.
Finally Brynjolf drew a deep breath and expelled it. “And they’re heading here. I followed them to Winterhold and overheard them. They were going to sleep and then head here. I’ve beaten them here by several hours but … Come with me to Riften. Our home is very secluded. You’ll be safer there than here for the short term. Dardeh and Roggi were headed there as well. We can all trade ideas and decide what to do.”
Ulfric frowned, and turned to Frina with a questioning look. “What would you advise, my Stormblade?”
“I think we should go, Ulfric. Just make sure that Jorlief isn’t going to tell anyone where we’ve gone. And I’ll feel better getting the others’ input on what we should do, now that we know more,” she said. “I’ll wager you will, too. And we could stop in to reinforce Jarl Laila’s support if we’re discreet about it.”
Ulfric nodded, and turned to Brynjolf. “Give us a few moments. I’ll need to make arrangements. It’s tiresome, but the days when I could just come and go as I pleased have long since passed. I probably,” he added, looking down at himself, “should wear some less identifiable armor.”
And so it was that Brynjolf found himself in the most unlikely circumstance of escorting Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, dressed in full Orcish armor, and his wife Frina in her nearly too-tight horned scale mail, south from Windhelm to Riften. He nursed a bottle of ale through the carriage ride. He was very tired, and not happy about his current circumstances. And he thought the situation boded poorly for his future.