To Kill a Nightingale

Prologue: Blood Moon

Your life had better have been worth this, Shadya of Da'kheavek!

J'darzi's talons bit into the cracks between the warm gray stones of the fort's face. He halted his effortless climbing for a second to peer down. The oblivious guards shuffled about the craggy hillside of a courtyard, their eyes firmly at ground level. Doubtless the prospect of an intruder was a distant one.

This one does not plan to linger for long, either.

He continued the climb, only to soon once more stop to gaze at the sky. The moons were quite the spectacle tonight. Crimson, both of them, even Secunda. Particularly the larger Masser, already naturally red, was something to behold, looming in the sky like some ornament of a bad dream.

These past couple of days had been uncommonly warm in the province's temperate regions, hot air blowing in from the Southwest, from the direction of Cyrodiil. The air was dry, and dust had been raised with the wind; and after a day spent inside, you could feel it in your eyes and in your throat. Not that he was complaining. Spring had been a long time coming, but now, for no longer than perhaps two weeks, after a long cold winter which had seemed to only reluctantly yield its throne, the temperature had finally settled at a tolerable level. In fact, at best it had in its way reminded him of the cooler days back home in Elsweyr.

J'darzi hated Skyrim. Had learned to hate it over the long years of soul-wrecking cold. He had been here far too long. Even if it had been for a good reason . . .

Dishonor.

It was time to bring an end to it. Exacting vengeance—justice—would see to that.

He grunted up at Masser. Blood moon. How fitting for this night.

No, this one does not rejoice over being the one to do this, yet who is else is as qualified? he reflected, reaching the parapet and climbing over it onto the roof. Forget her, this one said, pretend as if she never existed. Was that not what she did to us? But his reasonable arguments had fallen on deaf ears. One of the clan being murdered simply demanded retribution. There was no exception to be made, nor was there any way they could fool the ancestor spirits. As if their anguish could possibly match that of the living. Ashni-do, she is still most distraught. To see such sorrow on those beautiful features . . . and for what, her traitor of a sister?

He padded silently across the roof terrace to the doorway at the left. This had not been an easy place to locate, but it had been nothing compared to the difficulty of trying to find out the whereabouts of the man he was looking for. Or, initially, even who he was. But they had finally gotten a name. If you could call it that.

The Nightingale.

What kind of a name was that supposed to be?

In any case, this was the place where the man was skulking these days. In this fort in this hidden valley at the very southern end of Skyrim.

When the sun next rose, that man would be no more.

J'darzi tested the door. Locked. He fished a lockpick out of his satchel and the dagger from his belt, inserted them into the lock mechanism to feel about for the tumbler. The lock wasn't a particularly secure one, and soon clicked open. As little as they were expecting intruders, it seemed they expected them to enter through the roof even less.

He carefully closed the door behind him. He was in. Fort Dawnguard, named after the wiped-out group of vampire hunters which once occupied it, now settled by the worst of criminal scum. Being here did not make him feel happy, not at all. All the more important he did what he came here to do, and did it swiftly.

He noiselessly sneaked across the dusty, barren hallway riddled with cobwebs. It seemed as though this upper level of the fort had long been abandoned. Somewhere ahead, a rat or something similar skittled across the flagstones upon him drawing near. J'darzi felt his hunter's instinct alert at the scent of the creature's fear, and with his senses amplified by both skooma and adrenaline, he could hear the frantic beat of its little heart.

It was enticing, the call of the hunt—no matter for how meager of a prize. But the more commanding, higher layers of his psyche soon drowned out the sentiment.

He was alert. He was ready. There was no failing—

"Stay right where you are."

A flash of lightning seemed to, for a split second, illuminate the whole world, such was the intensity of J'darzi's shock. He stopped dead in his tracks. What? How is this possible?

A couple strides ahead of him, taking up the entire hallway and blotting out the moonlight, stood a giant Orc, seeming to have appeared out of nowhere. He wore light hide armor leaving visible a good portion of the bulging, knotted muscles of his torso. His posture was determined yet casual, and he didn't make a move to unsheathe either the battleax on his back or the longsword at his hip.

"Do you see now, Bashnag," came a lightly amused sounding baritone voice from behind J'darzi, "that my premonition was not in vain?"

J'darzi spun. A squat man in expensive-looking clothes stood at more or less equal distance away. The man's dark features, adorned with thinly trimmed whiskers, wore an expression matching the tone of his voice. One of studied nonchalance.

They had been waiting for him! How had he not sensed them?

Magic!

Behind him, a low grunt. "Yes, sir."

J'darzi's eyes hardened on the man. The Nightingale!

The Nightingale smiled. "Come now, friend. What might bring one such as you to my humble abode this night?"

He sensed no immediate threat from the man. No reason to expect hostility. Yet, he'd no reason to expect their presence, either.

He could hear the footsteps of the Orc unhurriedly drawing near.

He didn't reply, and simply stared at the Nightingale. The man seemed content to study his uninvited guest, that unperturbed simper sitting tight on his countenance.

This is it, my only chance. He's right there. Now or never!

He shoved away both the remnants of his earlier shock and the cautious, rational part of himself, and obeyed the screaming voice in his head which might have been his instinct. And he made to pounce on the man he had come here to kill.

But the hands that seized him from behind were most unyielding. As was the stone wall into which the Orc then slammed him.

A bright flash of light, and then the world around him became a dark place.

Brothers! Sisters! Forgive—