Elda Early-Dawn scowled at the procession of guardsmen streaming out of Candlehearth Hall's kitchen, their clinking pockets full of silverware.

"Stop right there." She grabbed one young guard by the ear and grabbed a bottle of mead from his belt. The line stopped behind him. "Takin' my good silver is one thing, mister. But these men won't be getting drunk in Windhelm without coin passing over my counter."

"Sorry, my lady," the guard offered weakly.

"Stupid child," Wuunferth growled. He stood in the shadows beside the bar counter, his arms crossed. "Calm yourself, Elda. I'll make sure this one is the first down into the crypts. What's your name, soldier? Don't try to lie to me. I can smell deception."

"F-Filfred, sir."

"Marvelous. Get your arse moving, Filfred. You don't have a lot of time to beg a silver dagger off one of your more competent brothers. That axe on your belt might give a dead man a nice shave, but not much else."

The trembling man hurried out of the inn, into the snowy darkness of the streets. The line continued moving, at last, but that hardly relieved Wuunferth's worries. It was ridiculous in the first place to have to rely on an innkeeper's kitchen stores in order to fight an army of the dead. If Ulfric had ever heeded his advice to keep a store of silver weapons in stock, the guards could have been clearing the crypts by now instead of rummaging through drawers. Then again, If the boy ever took my advice, we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

"I'm takin' a count, ya know," Elda declared. "Every fork and knife. You wizards aren't the only folk who know numbers."

"Duly noted," Wuunferth replied wearily. "Fear not. I'm sure the High King will make returning your silverware his highest priority, once this matter is dealt with."

"He better!"

Wuunferth had never had cause to visit Candlehearth Hall before this night, and he supposed that he never would again. That suited him just fine. The inn was not unlike the guardsman barracks, full of masculine scents and the sharp tang of sweat; the smell of many warm bodies crammed inside a warmer box. There was also the nauseating aroma of mead in the air, so sickly sweet. Once he was back in his chambers in the Palace of the Kings, Wuunferth intended to take a long and hot bath, with herbs in the water. His aching joints would surely thank him.

For now, there was another spot of business to attend to. Wuunferth left the guards under Elda's watchful eye and went up the steep steps to the inn's second level. The bards had given up trying to play a song against the cacophony of shifting silverware downstairs, so they sat glumly in the corner, fiddling with their instruments. Wuunferth was thankful. If he had been forced to listen to their minstrel drivel on top of everything else, it might have pushed him to burn Candlehearth to the ground.

The other residents of the inn, presumably tenants, kept their eyes on their meager bowls of food, and didn't dare look up at Wuunferth. No doubt they had heard wicked tales of him, if they had been in Windhelm longer than a week. Good. The more these ignorant fools fear me, the less likely they are to interfere with my work. Only one Nord looked vaguely interested in him. A towering, bulky man wearing heavy steel armor from neck to toe. He had small, cruel eyes and a gray goatee trimmed neatly.

"Stenvar," Wuunferth rumbled. "I have need of your services. The city guard are barely capable of raiding a mead pantry. Come fight with them, and High King Stormcloak will reward you greatly."

"It's still Jarl Stormcloak, ain't it?" Stenvar crossed his arms. "War is still on, last I checked. I don't accept promises as payment, old man."

Damnable mercenary. "I'll ensure that you're raised to a powerful position in the Stormcloaks. Your name will be known from here to Riften."

"Worth less than skeever shite if the Empire wins. I don't want to be known, and I don't want to fight for Ulfric. I want to be rich."

"I don't have any gold on me, blast you." Wuunferth's temper flared. "The situation is desperate. The dead are rising from their final rest. We have only minutes to spare!"

At his announcement, many around the inn gasped and stood up from their chairs, but Stenvar remained implacable. "You might have minutes. The way I see it, I won't have to fight no dead men as long as I'm faster than all you lot. I've no love for Windhelm. There's plenty of work for sellswords, all over Skyrim. Work that puts gold in my pockets. Not promises." He grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "See how that works?"

Wuunferth crossed the room in a flash, and his hand was on Stenvar's shoulder. The mercenary's eyes widened and he reached for his sword, but Wuunferth grabbed his wrist and leaned in close.

"Listen closely," he hissed. "If you fight for us, I'll make sure you have your pick of the treasures down in the Hall of the Dead. The whimpering fools in this city leave all sorts of valuables for their kin, out in the open, unguarded."

"Steal from the dead?" Stenvar relaxed a little. "Won't they get angry?"

"We're about to go put them all down, with enough silver to drown a litter of werewolf pups. They won't be powerful enough for 'angry' for at least a century."

"My pick of the crypts, huh? How long do I get?"

"I'll give you from dusk to dawn. Tomorrow evening." Wuunferth stepped back, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the man. "Decide, now. I sealed the Hall, but our hour of reprieve is nearly passed."

"Fine." Stenvar grimaced. "You have my sword, old man. I have a few silver weapons hidden away in my room."

"Take them all, and meet us at the entrance to the Hall of the Dead." Wuunferth pulled his hood up and took a deep breath. "This Butcher and his minions will be dealt with, once and for all."

Wuunferth doubted the array of men gathered in the street would have given General Tullius much pause, but they would have to do. Dozens of green boys and old men, clutching silver daggers to their chests like totems of Talos. A light snow was falling, coating the blue fur of the guards in flakes of white. Stenvar was taller than most of them, and he stood near the front, holding a mighty silver greatsword and wearing a doubtful expression on his face.

"This is all you could muster?" He chuckled. "Little wonder the Stormcloaks are losing this war."

"Our best men are in the field," Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced reported calmly. "But you would know that, of course. You aren't stupid, Stenvar. Just craven. I won't defend our cause to a Nord who sells his blade to the highest bidder."

"Good. I'm already tired of listening."

"Silence!" Wuunferth barked. "Save your bickering for later."

Yrsarald stepped forward with a frown, dropping his voice low. "Wuunferth. Do you have any idea where our High King might be?"

"I expected him here." Wuunferth pondered. "Most of the murders have been concentrated around the Hall of the Dead. It could be that Ulfric's already down in the crypts."

"Then we'd best unseal the Hall."

The three of them and the guard Filfred went to the thick iron doors. Wuunferth waited impatiently as Stenvar and Yrsarald lifted the heavy bar and let it fall into the snow. Filfred shivered, a silver dagger held in his shaking hands.

The doors opened, and an old woman came scrambling up the steps.

"Helgird?" Wuunferth raised his brow.

She slapped him across the face so hard, he swore a part of his beard fall away.

"You rotten bastard." Helgird spat at his foot. "Leave the keeper locked away to keep the dead busy, was that your plan, hmm? Buy yourself a few more minutes for your plots, while they gnawed at my bones?"

"Not at all. I'd forgotten you were down there, woman."

She slapped him again, and this time Wuunferth felt his teeth rattle.

When Helgird raised her hand again, he grabbed her arm. "Enough. Tell me. Did our High King come to the Hall of the Dead, before the dead began to rise?"

"Ulfric?" Helgird frowned. "Nope. Haven't seen him down there for a season or two."

From the open mouth of the Hall, there was groaning and shifting. The four of them exchanged worried glances.

Wuunferth had an idea. "Filfred. Take a look down the steps, see what we're up against."

The boy's eyes widened. "B-but...I've only the dagger."

"Ysmir's breath, child, I'm not asking you to storm the battlements."

Yrsarald snorted. "I'll do it. This whelp is hardly fit to empty a chamberpot."

"No!" Filfred's fingers tightened around his small weapon. "Talos watch over me. I'll do as you ask, master Wuunferth."

He took small, nervous steps towards the open doors. After what seemed like an eternity later, Filfred stood looking down into the darkness.

Stenvar asked, "Whaddya see?"

"Um." Filfred rubbed the snow from his eyes. "Just blackness, really. Don't hear nothin' anymore, either. Wait. There is something."

"What?"

Filfred cocked his head. "Huh. That's funny. Almost sounds like...a bow string?"

A rusted arrowhead sprouted from the back of his skull and passed through, leaving an opening the size of an acorn. Filfred crumpled like an autumn leaf. Bits of bone and blood showered the rest of them. A loud groan came from the dark opening, and Wuunferth heard the shuffling of many feet.

Stenvar grumbled, "You didn't mention they could use weapons."

"I didn't know," Wuunferth admitted. He wiped some Filfred from his beard. "Fascinating. The magic at work here is older than I realized."

"Write your book later, fool," Helgird snapped. "They're coming."

Yrsarald turned to the guardsman. "Men of Windhelm. A vile necromancer has turned the honored dead against the people of this city. It falls to us to return them to their proper rest." He raised his silver blade into the air. "Come with me into this Hall of the Dead, so we may send Windhelm's deceased back to the halls of Sovngarde. March!"

Yrsarald and Stenvar sprinted into the Hall with a roar, and the dozens of guards followed close behind with war cries of their own, the moonlight shining off their silver weapons. It wasn't long before the sounds of battle came echoing up the steps.

"How many dead Nords do the crypts hold, Helgird?" Wuunferth asked.

"Err. All of them?" She laughed.

"Damn it, woman. This is no time for your jokes." He shook his head. Where in Oblivion is Ulfric Stormcloak?

The planks of the hidden door split easily against Ulfric's fists. No sword, poison running through my veins. This will be simple enough.

"Keep away from there!" Calixto screamed. Ulfric heard small footsteps rushing towards him, and he fell forward just in time to avoid the Butcher's dagger. The weakened door collapsed against his weight, and he found himself in Hjerim's secret room. Two thin candles were lit upon the dark altar. Ulfric could see again.

Calixto hissed and jumped at him, but Ulfric rolled out of the way. His clouded eyes searched the room, but not for weapons. Aha. Behind the altar was a gruesome sight: a woman, if it could be called that, created out of the parts of many others. Ulfric scrambled towards her, barely dodging another swipe from Calixto's blade. He rolled on top of the not-woman. The scent of decay almost made him vomit.

"No!" Calixto breathed heavily, his eyes as wide as feasting plates. He pointed his dagger at Ulfric. "Please. This is between you and I. Leave Lucilla out of it."

Ulfric rose to his feet, holding the stitched together corpse in his arms. He shook his head hard to clear the spots from his vision.

"I beg you." Tears ran down Calixto's face. "She's all I have left."

Now Ulfric's nausea was for an entirely different reason. This is my adversary? A weeping old man?

"Have her," Ulfric snarled, and heaved the disgusting creation at Calixto. The bag of bones and rotted flesh knocked him off his feet, and the dagger went clattering away. The Butcher and his supposed sibling were still on the floorboards for a long moment, the former moaning softly in pain or rapture. Then Lucilla Corrium began to move.

"Sister?" Calixto spoke excitedly. "Is that you?"

Ulfric steadied himself on the wall. By Talos. He crouched down carefully and picked up the Butcher's silver dagger.

"Lucilla. It's me. You don't know how long I've been waiting for this moment!"

Lucilla groaned. She raised her head from Calixto's chest and opened two milky white eyes. Black ooze dripped from her ears and ran down her leathery face.

"Oh! It's a miracle!" He laughed like a child.

His laughs fell silent when Lucilla began scratching at his torso, and soon enough the Butcher was screaming. Ulfric watched for only a second before plunging the dagger into Lucilla's papery skull. She rasped her last and collapsed against her brother. Calixto wept, his tears mixing with blood. Ulfric dragged him from the secret room, leaving the dead behind.

"FUS!"

Ulfric's shout shattered Hjerim's lower windows, opening the house to the elements.

"Wait." Calixto swallowed. "Impossible. My poison should have rendered you incapable of using the Thu'um."

"Seems you got it wrong." Ulfric threw the dagger aside, and approached the wounded Imperial. Time to finish this foul business.

"Then why didn't you use your Voice earlier?" Calixto pushed away weakly, in a final pathetic attempt to flee. "You could have shouted me apart. Just as you did the High King."

"You don't understand at all, do you?" Ulfric stomped on one of Calixto's legs, breaking the bones. The Butcher howled. "What's happening between us, at this moment, is no duel. Bards will not sing of a battle fought here."

He stepped across Calixto, raised his foot, and brought it swiftly down on the Butcher's other leg. The crack and ensuing squeal was like music to his ears. "High King Torygg. General Tullius. Even the Emperor himself. These are men worthy of dying to my Voice."

"Please…" Calixto gasped, pulling himself across the floor. His legs, empty sacks full of broken parts, followed with him. "Mercy."

"This was no duel." Ulfric circled around calmly, coming to the Butcher's arms. "This is me scraping the scum off of my boots. No one will remember your name, Calixto. I'm going to tell the people of Windhelm that it was a Thalmor plot that turned their dead against them."

After Ulfric had finished with his arms, Calixto was still on the floor. He didn't have much other choice.

"Please," he whimpered. "Kill me. Have mercy."

"I will provide you more mercy than you showed to the women who died here." Ulfric emerged from the hidden room, two candles in his hands. "You, at least, will not be returning from the dead. I've not heard of a necromancer who can raise thralls from ashes." He lit up the drapes, and orange light filled Hjerim.

"No...no," Calixto cried. "Slit my throat. I beg you."

"Save your begging for the afterlife." Ulfric retrieved his sword and made for the door. "To Oblivion with you, Butcher." He'd heard it said that death by fire was slow and painful. If the gods were good, it was true. He closed Hjerim behind him, and stepped out into the snow.

"Sorry it took me so bloody long," Galmar Stone-Fist said. "The damn thing was stuck above the hearth. Took four of us to pry it off the wall." He swung the silver battle-axe, decapitating two undead that had slipped past the guards. A handful of corpses lay outside the Hall, but for the most part, Yrsarald and his men had kept the fighting contained to the crypts.

"At least you're finally here," Wuunferth replied. He knelt down with Helgird beside an injured guard. "Ulfric still hasn't shown up, and Thrice-Pierced and the sellsword haven't found him down in the Hall, either. That boy's giving me conniptions."

"Hmm. Ain't like Ulfric to miss a good fight." Galmar sniffed the air. "Hold on. Is somethin' burning?"

Helgird pointed. "Lookie there! Above Valunstrad district!"

The sky above Hjerim was alight with smoke and embers. Damn. Wuunferth cursed. "Come on, you fools. Our King is in trouble."

Galmar led them down the blanketed streets of Windhelm, his axe held at the ready. Wuunferth gathered his magicka, ready at any moment to unleash a fireball of epic proportions. Helgird brought a silver dagger. He wasn't sure what use the woman would be in a fight, but she seemed insistent on coming along. Wuunferth supposed if all he had to do all day was attend to dead Nords, he would also jump at the chance to have some excitement in his life.

Waves of heat washed over them as they approached the burning manor. Ulfric Stormcloak stood before Hjerim, covered in shallow wounds. The snow around him was melting. He stared into the flames.

"Ulfric," Wuunferth exclaimed, forgetting himself. "Your injuries, boy. Did the bastard use poison?"

"A little. Nothing that could slow me down. Don't worry, old friend. I'll be fine. What of the Hall of the Dead?"

Galmar reported, "Yrsarald and Stenvar led the city guard down into the crypts. No honor in putting down corpses, but they're making short work of the fuckers."

"Stenvar?" Ulfric raised his brow.

Wuunferth nodded. "I had to make certain promises to the sellsword."

"I'll trust you have it handled."

"Aye, my king."

The four watched Hjerim blaze. The upstairs windows shattered, and shards of glass rained on the stones below. Soon enough the manor would be a blackened shell.

"Don't let the fire spread to the surrounding houses," Ulfric ordered. "Otherwise, let it burn. This house is best left a ruin."

"As you command." Wuunferth began preparing his containment spells. "Helgird, could you go to my laboratory and collect some frost salts? I want to make a perimeter."

"Fine." She wagged a finger at him. "But you better help clean up my Hall when the time comes!"

"Yes, sure, whatever."

Ulfric finally tore his eyes from the burning structure. "Come, Galmar. This farce is done with. After Thrice-Pierced is finished at the Hall, tell him to report to the war room. My blood is running hot."

"You mean…" Galmar's face split into an eager grin. "Hah! We're finally going to shove a sword down Balgruuf's gullet?"

"Aye. Too long have the Stormcloaks watched and waited. It's time to remind the rest of Skyrim that we're at war."

Wuunferth watched as the two men walked down the street, their chins held high. He couldn't help but sigh. Young men liked to play at war, but Ulfric wasn't so young anymore. Someday soon, the wizard knew, the Stormcloaks would bite off more than they could chew. And when that day comes, I will bury Ulfric as if he is my own son. More than his own rotten father would have ever done for him. Wuunferth shook his head to clear away the dark thoughts, and turned to his work. The flames were already starting to spread down the street. Wuunferth grimaced, and raised his hands.