Chapter III
Killing in the Name of
Both the city of Windhelm and its surroundings were grim and dark. Bricca pulled up her woollen scarf again in a vain attempt to keep the thick flakes of snow out of her nose and mouth. The icy north-eastern wind flogged her clothes and attempted to pull back the hood of her anorak. She had to hold on to its fur lined edge to keep it in place, squinting as she tried to orientate herself in the foreign, frozen landscape. The river Yorgrim was frozen solid this far into the winter. Some of the locals had been travelling on the ice itself, sliding over it with metal blades bound under their shoes, but even they had not ventured this far into the wilderness. For the last few hours, Bricca had left the civilized world behind. Not far from the fifth waterfall, some guards in Windhelm had explained, there stood a large tree that was split in two by lightning. There weren't any real roads that led to the ruin, so she had to make do with landmarks.
She plodded through the snow, sometimes knee-deep, and was reminded again of why she did not like to do a contract like this in winter. With the amount of travelling time involved, contracts usually were long and drawn out, often taking over a month to complete. Half of the year, when Skyrim was wrapped in a blanket of snow, travelling took even longer. Some passes were cut off and became impassable, adding days to what already was a long journey. She grinned at a passing fox, its pelt white to fit in with it's surroundings. Patience was a virtue you learned all by itself when doing this sort of jobs. When she came across the split tree, hours later, dusk had set in. The tree's gnarled silhouette stood black against the rapidly darkening sky. Someone had once nailed a wooden sign to it, with a large arrow pointing to the south-west. Bricca hoped this time she would not end up near yet another cave, mine or other place that was very definitely not the Dwarven ruin she was looking for. She followed the small trail that led up through the mountains, trying not to sink away in the banks of snow. Small heaps of stone with sticks in them stood at the edge of the trail, roughly indicating where she had to go next. Eventually the trail turned into a series of narrow stairs, hewn into the mountain itself.
When she found herself near the foot of the towering building of grey stone Bricca dropped into a crouch, hiding herself in the shadows of two scraggly trees. She listened intently to her surroundings, disregarding the heartbeats of the birds and critters around her. Instead she focused on the slower pounding that originated from within the chest of the lookout the bandits had posted on one of the terraces that led up to the entrance of the ruin. The man was sitting near a brazier, rubbing his hands against the cold and clearly not aware of her presence. A pity for him and good luck for her. She moved along the lower wall of the terrace, watching carefully where she put her feet. Even the thick layer of snow barely crunched under her shoes as she made her way up to the stairs. The lookout poked in the brazier, stoking up the fire a bit while he muttered angrily to himself. Wisps of greasy grey hair hung in a ratty ponytail on his back. She could smell him from a distance already: he stank of stale sweat and beer; rotten teeth and food with too much garlic added. Step by step Bricca moved closer, withdrawing a long knife and holding it ready. Then, with one fluid movement, she clasped her right hand over the mouth of the lookout and stabbed one of his kidneys before slitting his throat with her left hand, cutting the arteries and trachea. The man made odd, gargling noises as he drowned in his own blood. Bricca waited until he had fallen unconscious and then rifled through his clothes, taking his purse with her.
A wave of sweltering heat hit her face when she stepped inside the ruin. The air was humid and water was leaking from the metal pipes that ran along the wall. Moss had overtaken parts of the crumbling floor and walls, forming spots of green on the dull rusted brown of the pipes. Another bandit was sleeping in the hall, snoring loudly. Bricca quietly made her way past him, leaving him be. Raldbthar was mostly collapsed. There were but a few halls and passages still intact and the bandits had claimed them all for themselves. She passed an improvised kitchen, stocked with jugs and plates that had probably been taken from deeper inside the ruin. These bandits were almost all men, although a few of them were loudly enjoying some female company. Piles of armour and filthy clothing were spread out on the floor, empty bottles that had once contained booze lay sprawled around the bedrolls. Mildew had crept up some of the cloth and food, only adding to the pungent stench of unwashed bodies. Muiri had described her ex-boyfriend as attractive, with dark hair and a dark beard. He liked to wear well-tailored clothes and he possessed quite a unique weapon: a huge enchanted war hammer. Bricca shook her head as she wrinkled her nose at the motley crew lingering around. She doubted Alain would be sleeping along this rowdy bunch of drunks. Someone pretending to be that sophisticated would probably have a room of his own, especially if he was the leader of the group. She moved on in silence until she found herself on a broad stone ridge that overlooked a room filled with a handful of men. They sat on chairs around a fire, chatting quietly. Bricca made herself comfortable on the ridge as she listened in to their conversation.
"That stupid cow was only good for screwing anyway," she heard one person yawn. "You got some more of that sugar, Alain?"
The man addressed as Alain was slightly darker than Bricca had initially thought, with strong features and a thin, cruel mouth. He nodded as an answer and procured a pipe that he proceeded to pack with tobacco, adding small amounts of a crystalline white powder. The pipe was passed around while they started playing a card game. Bricca waited patiently, observing them from above until they left for their beds hours later, drowsy from the smoked moon sugar and copious amounts of beer.
When the air was filled with snores and grunts Bricca leapt down, landing lightly on her feet and stalked towards Alain. He was laying sprawled out on a pile of furs, fast asleep. Bricca smirked and pulled her scarf down. She knelt down and ran her fingers along Dufont's neck. His hair was just long enough to reach his shoulders. Leaning her weight on one hand, she pulled it away from his skin with the other hand and then clamped it over his mouth so he wouldn't scream. With her teeth she ripped into his throat. The man started to struggle immediately, trying to bite her hand and grabbing a knife hidden under his pillow. Bricca tightened her grip on his jaw and drew upon her blood magic, forcing him to do her bidding. Alain Dufont slumped back and she drained his precious blood and felt it running through her own veins. Bricca grinned and licked the blood from her canines, leaving him to bleed out and die.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
The murderer of Friga Shattershield had never been caught. More than half a year had passed since Friga's defiled and broken body had been found on the marketplace and the killer was still walking free. Worse, he was still making more victims every few months. Only two weeks ago the barmaid of the Candlehearth Hall had been found in the graveyard, what was left of her brutally ripped to pieces. His particular gruesome way of killing had earned this serial killer the nickname of "the Butcher".
"It's one of those greyskins," the innkeeper of Candlehearth Hall exclaimed to everyone that wanted to listen. To Bricca's surprise, she had quite the audience. "No true Nord would ever do something like this."
"That filth should get back to Morrowind where they belong!" Several heads in the taproom bobbed up and down in agreement at the drunken shouting of a man Bricca had seen outside a few hours ago. He had been harassing a Dark Elven woman, threatening to pay her a visit at night. "We should kick them out of the city like we did with those scalebacks."
It was a good thing for the Dark Elven community that people like this Rolff Stone-Fist limited themselves to empty threats, Bricca thought. At least they were all quite talkative, especially once she had thrown in a few off-handed remarks herself as well. People like this were so easy to manipulate. When the conversation flowed back to the Butcher and Friga Bricca perked up her ears. It turned out that the Shattershields were both a well-known and well-loved clan within Windhelm. Many, if not all of the local Nords heavily sympathized with the family's loss. The Shattershields belonged to the elite here. They ran a successful shipping company, employed a large amount of Argonian contractors and granted part of their income to charity and the Temple of Talos. They fulfilled, in short, an exemplary role within Windhelm and that such a fate had befallen precisely them had come as a shock to everyone. Little did they know what the future would hold for them in store, Bricca thought as she raised her glass to drink on the memory of Susanna and Friga.
The following day she went down to the docks. They lay outside of the city walls and to reach the dock gate she had to pass through a small part of the Grey Quarter. Ragged Dark Elves scowled at the endless stream of carts and goods passing in and out of the city, many of them already drowning their sorrows with a bottle of liquor. Bricca heard them shout at each other and at the city guards in their strange, guttural tongue.
"Watch where you're going, filthy N'wah," one of them spat at her when he ran into her. Only once Bricca stood at the stone quays, listening to the gulls flying over, she noticed that one of her purses had gone missing. At least that particular one hadn't contained a lot of money, just a few pieces of silver, but it stung her pride that she hadn't seen the elf cutting it loose.
The Argonian dockworkers were in an even more sorry state than the Dark Elves she'd seen earlier. They slept in a few old warehouses that were converted to communal housing space. Despite the cold most of them walked around shirtless, stowing away boxes and crates. Bricca watched them from a distance and when they paused for lunch she sought the attention of one of them; an elderly lizard with torn and damaged scales. His name was Stands-in-Shallows, and while he was distrustful of her at first that changed once Bricca handed him a silver thaler.
"There's another one in for you if you help me out with a few questions," she said.
Stands-in-Shallows blinked his reptilian eyes a few times.
"Two more," he said slowly. "That should be enough for a bottle of skooma. I feel like my scales are clawing into me. You help an old Argonian out, I help a pretty young lady like you."
For a mere addict the dockworker proved to be a valuable source of information. Torbjorn Shatter-Shield was the pater familias of the clan. It was he who had broadly expanded the shipping company, sailing not just to Dawnstar but reaching out to the coasts of High Rock and Morrowind. After the death of one of his two daughters Torbjorn had disappeared from the company and left the work to his secretaries and underlings. He was seldom seen and rumour had it he had started drinking substantially.
"They see us working," Stands-in-Shallows said. "And they think we are nothing but stupid beasts." His tongue flitted in and out between his sharp teeth in annoyance. "And so they keep talking, and we keep listening. We do not have a home any more, so we have to stay here. Sometimes we get paid. Sometimes, cargo goes missing." He peered at Bricca with half closed eyes. "And sometimes, we are the ones who talk, especially when it earns us some more coin."
Bricca spent the rest of the week shadowing the Shatter-Shields. It was easy to locate their house on the western side of the city. It was large and spacious, rising proudly above most of the other houses surrounding it. In this quarter of Windhelm the houses were detached and walled, and some of them even had small gardens. Only one house, neighbouring that of the Shatter-Shields, stuck out like a sore tooth. Abandoned, it's windows boarded up and metal gates rusted, it looked completely out of place. To Bricca's great annoyance, Torbjorn had taken precautions against the Butcher. His house was guarded by two burly Nords and every time Nilsine or her mother went anywhere in the city, armed guards went with them. Even when praying in the Temple of Talos they kept an eye out for anything unusual. Bricca had considered killing Nilsine in the Temple, dragging the girl into one of the small side-chapels to stab her to death, but that option would surely alert the guards and lead to a wild chase through Windhelm. No, it probably would be best if she came up with a way to sneak into the house of Clan Shatter-Shield at night in order to kill Nilsine in her sleep. If she maimed the body the kill would be placed on the head of the Butcher, not on hers. Usually when someone ended up being murdered, the first suspects were the strangers and travellers in town. From her observation post, hidden in a shadowed nook across the house of the Shatter-Shields, Bricca peered at the derelict house next to it. Nearly all buildings here had complicated roofs, with multiple levels and small outcroppings, balconies and decorations everywhere. Both houses also bordered the city wall, which in turn was surrounded by impassable mountains. This part of the wall had no guards patrolling it, for it was remote and impossible to reach from the outside. She moved her eyes to the burly Nords again. If they were any good, going in through the front door was not going to work. She leapt down, landing on her feet silently and crept through the shadows to the abandoned house.
The mouldy floor of the entry hall creaked under her feet. It had not been hard to enter the abandoned house, which had been marked by a withered sign that said 'Hjerim', unseen. The lock of the half rotten door had given way very quickly under her lockpicks. Bricca paused when she saw the thick layer of dust that covered most of the planks. It was disturbed in places, footprints clearly visible, and there were long tracks as if something had been dragged through. In the dusty air hung the thick, unmistakable smell of old blood. Someone else was also using this place, but she had no idea what for. Maybe it was just some homeless vagrant looking for shelter against the cold. She knelt down at one of the footprints, careful not to disturb it. Little particles of dust had settled on the floor again already, so the visitor had not been here recently. Bricca focused on her surroundings, trying to detect any living things around, but she heard nothing but rats and other vermin. She felt slightly relieved as she went upstairs, climbing towards the attic. Being caught while sneaking around like this would only cause suspicion, even if technically she hadn't done anything wrong yet. Bricca opened one of the windows, trying to keep the creaking of the rusty hinges to a minimum and clambered onto the windowsill. The snow made it tricky to scale the roof and twice she nearly fell down. When she reached the city wall at long last she crouched down on it, resting for a few precious minutes. Bricca flexed her fingers and toes, numbed by the cold. Usually she wore thick fur gloves and boots, but obviously those were not suitable for this kind of delicate work. Then she jumped onto the roof of the Shattershields' house. Everything could still go wrong: her foot had to send just one slate roof tile crashing to the ground and the guards would be alerted. Luckily, nothing like that happened and she safely made it to a small balcony. The guards in front of the house had no idea that an assassin had just broken into it.
Silent and unnoticed like a spider Bricca crept through the darkened house, checking side rooms to see where her target was. True to traditional Nordic style, the house was sparsely furnished, but the pieces that were visible looked expensive and well-made. Nilsine was in her own room, fast asleep. Bricca watched her for a while. The girl looked tired even when resting, tossing around fitfully. She didn't have the most pretty face around, with a harsh, thin mouth and a pouting expression. With a smile playing around her lips, Bricca unsheathed her dagger. Nilsine died without making so much as a sound when she slit the girls throat. One more soul sent to the Void to serve Sithis forever. Normally she would have left the body immediately, but if she wanted to blame the Butcher Bricca still had some work to do. She cleaned the dagger and meanwhile listened intently if there was anyone coming. It was, however, in the middle of the night and even the servants were sleeping. Bricca reached for a sharp, hooked embalming tool that hung from her belt. According to the priestess of Arkay, who took care of the dead and autopsied murdered bodies, the wounds on earlier victims of the Butcher had been made be the same sort of tool she held now. Countless vicious cuts and slashes on the corpse later, when Nilsine's bed and clothing were drenched in blood and nothing but a mangled heap of flesh remained, Bricca decided it had been nice enough and forced open the window, disappearing into the night.
Chaos ensued the following days in Windhelm. Four days after Nilsine was found dead, Bricca decided to leave the Candlehearth Inn with the intention of heading back to Markarth. The streets of Windhelm, however, were packed with people. She finally gave up trying to push through the crowds and decided to ask around what was going on.
"They're burying the Shattershield girl and her mother," a Dark Elf growled in a low, raspy voice. He looked young, almost like a child still, and utterly bored as he leaned against a nearby wall, a pipe loosely held between his fingers.
Bricca raised an eyebrow. "Was the mother murdered by the Butcher too? I've heard it only was the girl, or did her mother get a heart attack or something like that?"
The elf laughed harshly and brought up the pipe, inhaling deeply. Smoke rose from his mouth as he breathed out again.
"Took her own life two days ago, shortly after they found the house. Turns out the neighbouring house was abandoned and that the Butcher made his home there. I've heard they've found the countless remains of dead women in there, all cut up, can you believe it?"
Bricca nodded in response. So that was where the smell of old blood had come from. "Did they catch the Butcher then?"
Her answer was a lazy nod. "Turn out it was Ulfric's court wizard. Thrice-damned Nords obviously tried to cover it up, trying to blame it on us, but once they've found an amulet, one traditionally carried by court mages it was clear they had him. Who would've thought?"
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Nearly two months had passed since Bricca had left for Markarth together with Veryn. It was nearing the end of Evening Star when she walked through the muddy snow that covered the road from Falkreath. She was cold and wet: the water that fell from the sky held the middle ground between heavy rain and hail. Muiri had been more than happy to see her, whispering in revered awe before handing over the other half of the payment. The Dark Brotherhood always demanded half of its pay up front, in case the client refused to pay in the end. It was due to their reputation that they could do so: only in very rare cases the target escaped. There used to be rules for that, Bricca mused. She recalled various Dark Brothers and Sisters who had gone from hunted to hunter, tracking down and killing the person who had marked them for death. It was the only way to void the binding contract of the Black Sacrament once it was made, while still paying a blood price to Sithis. As the embodiment of the Void, Sithis did not care who died, as long as they were slaughtered in His name.
Bricca ventured off the road, making her way through the forest. A narrow track had been made by the regular passings of Sanctuary members, but everyone in Falkreath knew to avoid the Nordic ruin that housed the Sanctuary itself. A few hundred years ago, when the Dark Brotherhood first settled here, the tale was spread that the place was haunted by the ghosts of the graveyard. Since then, it had become a piece of folklore that had started to live its own life. Many citizens would swear that they heard strange noises coming from the ruin at night: screeches and howling laughter. Sometimes they would refer to the ghostly lights the second cousin of their best fried had come across after spending a long night in the inn. The last person who had actually entered the ruin without permission had been a stuck-up writer from High Rock, who ended up as dinner for Babette's pet spider.
The Sanctuary was quiet today. On any given moment about half of the people who lived there were actually at home, the other half away on a contract of some sorts. Bricca headed for her room to unpack her luggage and when she was done she went around, searching for Astrid. She found the matron in the dining room, talking contracts with the Redguard Nazir and furtively sending disturbed glares at the nearby Cicero. Bricca passed the mad jester when she made her way towards Astrid and glanced over his shoulder. He was writing in some sort of journal: pages scrawled full in a spiky handwriting. At the moment he was working on a drawing of an impaled woman with a grotesquely distorted face, minutely adding detail with his tongue sticking out between his lips, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Bricca lowered the pouch on the table. “Thirty-nine septims and a bunch of silver. I've traded in one of them for lodgings along the way.
Astrid smiled. “I trust the contract went well?” The matron reached for the purse and emptied it, and then she reached out and counted out three of the small golden coins which she handed back to Bricca. She gestured at one of the chairs. “Come sit with us and tell us about your contract. Who did you have to kill?”
The next two weeks would have passed without anything particularly interesting, but when Bricca returned to the Sanctuary one night after feeding in Falkreath she heard angry voices and shouting. As it turned out, Cicero had succeeded in pushing Nazir over the edge with his constant nagging. The usually so composed Redguard had traded in his sarcasm for his fists. Arnbjorn had just managed to pull the two away from each other when Bricca walked in on the scene. Nazir was breathing heavily, trying to pull himself together. Cicero had managed to stand up, shaking, his face bruised and bloodied and his jester's cap torn, but the high-pitched laugh he uttered caused a chill to run down Bricca's spine. His grin, slightly malformed thanks to a split lip, was mocking and full of triumph.
When the dust had settled slightly the next day Astrid pulled Bricca aside.
“I need your help in a quite personal matter,” the blonde Nord said, looking Bricca in the eye, before sighing and rubbing her temples.
“Cicero?” Bricca asked, leaning back in her chair. Astrid glanced around warily, as if the jester was hiding nearby, and then nodded.
“Something needs to happen. If we continue on this track, Cicero will end up tearing the Sanctuary apart. He – well, you've seen it. He attempts to ingratiate himself with half of us and quietly torments the rest. The incident with Nazir yesterday wasn't the only one in the past month.”
Bricca nodded, thinking about Astrids words. The core of the issue was the Night Mother. Under Astrid's leadership, the Dark Brotherhood did not hold true to those old beliefs and values any more. Some individual members still did, of course, but others were either dismissive or simply indifferent. Cicero seemed to take those last things as the greatest personal insult one could have given him.
“I had not expected Nazir to snap like that,” she said to Astrid. “What did Cicero do to gain such a reaction?”
Astrid grunted. “The same he does with Veezara and Veryn. He fishes for scraps of their past and then starts digging up memories. It's a cruel thing to do. You don't know it, but Nazir...” She sighed again, looking as tired and weary as she sounded. “I don't usually tell people this, but Nazir was about sixteen years old when the Great War started. He joined the guerilla in Hammerfell, waging war from the desert. I am quite certain that he has seen more people die than everyone in this Sanctuary combined. For Nazir, the war never quite ended, but instead of turning to the bottle he joined the Dark Brotherhood and kept killing.”
Bricca grimaced. She liked Nazir a lot. “I didn't know. Why does Cicero do this?”
Astrid pursed her lips. “I fear Cicero is planning a betrayal.”
Bricca jerked her head up in surprise. “What?”
“He keeps locking himself in the Night Mothers chamber. Sithis knows what he is doing there, but we hear him talking. Talking to someone he might be meeting with in secret with the intention of bringing down the Dark Brotherhood.”
Now Astrid was leaping to too many conclusions at once. Bricca frowned slightly.
“Astrid, it is Cicero we are talking about. Isn't it most probable that he just talks to himself?”
Astrid shook her head. “My gut tells me something is going on.”
Bricca did not answer immediately. She looked at Astrids slim hands that lay on the table. Her fingers were slender for a Nord. They could have been the fingers of a harpsichord player instead of an assassin. Her nails however were ugly and bitten short. Astrid must be nervous, worried or both. Bricca decided to give her the benefit of doubt.
“What would you have us do about it?”
Astrid looked uncomfortable, which was something she rarely did. “I wouldn't have asked this of you if I didn't see the utmost need, Bricca. I need someone to listen in on him.”
“I could do that.”
The other woman smiled nervously and shifted in her seat. “The thing is that there is only one spot to hide in that room, and that is inside the Night Mothers coffin.”
Bricca blinked slowly, her thoughts reeling. “That's sacrilege,” she said at last, still shocked by Astrids suggestion. At least the matron had the decency to blush.
“Bricca, please... It's the only way to know for sure that Cicero is not scheming behind our backs. You are the only one whom I trust to do this that's also able to bring this to a good end. Cicero dotes on you, so even if you get caught he won't mind. We cannot let him betray the Dark Brotherhood!”
The only time Bricca had seen Astrid this distraught had been a few years ago, when a long-time member and close friend of hers had been killed on the job.
“You care about this Sanctuary, don't you?” Astrid whispered.
“Of course I do, Astrid, but defiling the Night Mother's remains is something which goes against all my principles.”
Something hardened in Astrid's face, a flicker of distrust passing over her features. When Bricca had just rejoined the Dark Brotherhood Astrid had regarded her very coolly. The matron had been afraid that Bricca would use her former position as a member of the Black Hand to claim a form of leadership. Only once Bricca had made abundantly clear that she was not interested did Astrid come down from her initial position. Right now, Bricca feared that Astrid would fall back into that behaviour again, especially if she flat out refused. Smiling disarmingly, she tried to give her voice a reasonable tone.
“I'm only voicing some of my concerns. The Night Mother means a lot to me and I regard her body as our most sacred relic. In light of Cicero's recent behaviour I might be able to put those concerns aside though. Our family here means a great deal to me.”
Yes, the Night Mother might be an embalmed corpse, but most of all she was the Bride of Sithis: a spiritual entity. Her corpse was a mere symbol of her existence. Despite Cicero's apparent infatuation and reverence for the Night Mother she was not yet convinced where the repulsive little jester's true allegiance was lying. Was he merely playing an elaborate game with the Sanctuary at stake?
“Fine,” she said at last, looking Astrid directly in the eye. It was time to make the best of it. “I'll do it but on one condition. I want Shadowmere.”
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