For My Brother, For Glory, For Tamriel (Vol. 1), The Daedric Invasion through the Champion's eyes. Options

[Captain Hammer]

Author’s Note: What follows is the story based on my TES IV: Oblivion character. I decided to write this when, after reading Infernal City, I realized that my first fanfic had just been torpedoed. Additionally, I felt that yet another Morrowind fanfic would pale in the presence of some of the other, very well-written pieces on this site (Black Hand, Treydog, I’m looking at you). Any and all differences not found accessible in the vanilla game are based on too great a number of mods for me to effectively list here. Enjoy.

Prologue:
For Myself.

I was dreaming again. But this was different. A man stood alone in the dark, the sole source of light coming from the massive ruby on his chest. I had been through the legions, I knew both by sight, if not by heart. The Emperor and the Amulet. He turned, as if to face me, and words I barely heard and registered filled my head. Something about dreams and rule, reigning and sleeping and dying. The vision shifted, to what I knew to be a view of the planes of Oblivion. Daedra, angry and armed, marched towards a glowing portal, a massive machine moving behind them on insect like legs. As they approached the gate, I felt the malicious presence that guided them. Even as they began to enter the portal, the view collapsed into a storm and fog. It faded to white, and when the misty haze cleared I was looking down at the Imperial City as though I were some spirit, the massive tower of the Imperial Palace before me. I seemed to float—no, fly—in and circled around the different districts of the city. As I flew, the emperor’s voice came in again, this time clearer. He said the date, and then something I will never forget. He told me that the Third Era was ending, and that it would be the last day of his life. Almost immediately, I could hear the Imperial Fanfare swell up, the noise odd, but strangely comforting. As I flew around the city, I left on a tangent, arcing out to head in a straight line towards the window of a small cell on the island that held the Imperial Prison. My cell…

I sat up, breathing hard. For a while I had forgotten where I was, but looking around I recalled vividly the events that had brought me here, the odd images of the dream temporarily set aside. I was Awtwyr Draghoyn, Breton, Champion (ret.) of the Eighth Imperial Legion, Hammerfell and Morrowind Tours. My life story prior to this was as dull as one could imagine. I had been born in my people’s home of High Rock, to a farming family, first of four children. After me came a sister, then a brother, and then another sister. Gwen, the elder, had married off at eighteen, my younger brother Roland had chosen to continue with the family’s farm, and my youngest sister Bethany was probably just now being courted by the eligible young men from the local villages. My father had always remarked that being the eldest made me grow up the fastest, and like his elder brother, who was my favorite uncle, I decided to make something of myself in the Legions.

I spent two tours of duty in service, found out that I made a decent navigator when sailing, and managed to acquire the basic skills in both heavy and light armor, swordsmanship, blocking, blacksmithing, marksmanship, and athletic conditioning to make me generally fit for service. Those eight years had been spent hunting bandits, hunting deer for the officers’ table, and “expanding the protection of the Empire” whenever a minor noble started making enough trouble for his liege-lord to call us in. The first re-up for duty meant a nice pay increase and better choice of tasks. A second one was out of the question. I wasn’t what they called “partial to the necessities of knighthood,” which meant that even though I had fighting skills, I had little skills in the politics of the service, and they knew that too much of my leave time had been spent studying magic, a field that was always in my focus. Bretons and High Elves will always argue about who makes a better mage. But I was determined to prove, at least to myself, that a properly trained Breton would be able to not only make the best Altmer go the distance, but that in the end the Breton would win.

Once I got out, I visited home, and realizing that there was little for me by way of employment or marriage prospects (I was just shy of my twenty-fourth name-day, and all eligible women in that small town were either young or ugly), I headed off to that great bastion of all that I had fought for: the capital. When I got there, I rented a room at the King and Queen Inn, and spent a week touring the city, eyeing the baubles in the market, wagering away almost a fifth of my accumulated pay at the arena, and seeing if I could reignite some form of piety when visiting the temple district.

But all good things, it seemed, must come to an end. After a week, I had grown less satisfied with the city, and in a great way, with myself. I had been drinking progressively more and more each night, and on that fateful night, I heard somebody make a remark about my kind that I didn’t take too kindly. I wasn’t much of a brawler, but I went at him anyways, aiming my right hand straight across his jaw. He staggered back, was caught by one of his friends, and before I knew it I was facing a couple of pissed off Dunmer, with a big Nord standing next to me angry about something that one of the aforementioned Dark Elves had thrown. Based on the flecks of clay in his hair, I assumed that a mug aimed at me had gone stray from the alcohol-induced aim. I nodded to my sudden ally, and went low, he high. My target saw it coming, and rushed to meet me. But I was a trained Legion soldier, and had made friends easy enough in the unofficial boxing matches that the officers didn’t look for too carefully. As he dove at me, I smashed my knee into the ashborn’s face, hooked my right arm around him, and leveraged my body and left arm to flip him up, over, and straight into the stone floor.

I turned to try and help my ally, only to feel five strong arms pull me back and shove me to the ground. I recognized the technique, I could do it myself, and the steel behind the wrestling movement confirmed what I was dealing with. The Imperial City Guard. Despite the alcohol, I knew trouble when it hit me. I looked up to see about six men break up the remaining combatants and sit everybody down. Then a man in the silver and white finery of a captain came in, looking at us all with the strong jawline of a poster boy for the law. “I am Captain Hieronymous Lex,” he said with that voice of enforced authority. “I want to know what happened here.”

After several people came forward to identify that I had started the brawl, Lex turned to question me. I identified myself, and claimed that I was merely defending my honor. “In the Legion, somebody insulted your blood, the captain would let the men settle it themselves. I’m not a man for letting things slide.”

“Well, citizen, you’re not a soldier now, this isn’t the legion depot, and these others aren’t trained fighters. You can’t hold your drink, you should maybe look for another place to stay. Meanwhile, you’ve cost me and my men valuable time. I had information that the Grey Fox was in the city tonight, and now I’m spending my time dealing with you. Do You Have Any Idea WHAT YOU’VE COST ME?!?!?” Lex was getting himself red in the face.

I couldn’t but help the reply. “You know most people accept the fact that the Grey Fox is just a myth, right? That’s what common sense says, anyway.” That was a mistake on my part.

“I will not tolerate this type of insurrection! You show disgrace to your comrades and your colors! I’m placing you under arrest for disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly conduct, and inciting violent mayhem. You want to come easy, or do we drag you out by your heels?" Lex looked ready, as though I had personally killed his mother. But then I realized that killing his mother might not have been as harmful to him as taking away his chance at fame.

“I’ll go quiet,” I said.

They half-escorted me, half-carried me through the city towards the prison. It wasn’t my fault, I had taken a few nasty blows, and that combined with the alcohol promised to make my steps falter. When they got me to the cells, they had trouble with the locks on a few, finally deciding to throw me into the one that seemed least used, and never once cleaned. They handed me a foul concoction, one that restored my health but left me drained of strength, shackled my arms, and left, talking about moving me out first thing in the morning to go before the Imperial Justice. Across from me was a Dark Elf, who looked to have made this his long term residence. I ignored him, climbed into my bunk, and went to sleep.

When my dream had woken me, I stood, feeling slightly better. The sun had risen and was already at midday, which meant that the guards had not taken me before the magistrate that morning. I stretched, and the Dark Elf gestured to me, asking me to move closer. I shuffled up to the bars, and he promptly launched into a stream of invectives at getting a better look at me. Something about being his sworn enemy and me staying while he would get out to enjoy the world again. I suppose now would be as good a time to describe myself as any. I was taller than many a Breton, and between that and the brownish-red hair that graced my head I knew myself to have some amount of Nord blood in me. My eyes were the bright grey-green of my father, my hair and expression that of his father, and my mother had often said that when I scowled, my entire jaw could have matched her father. Thus, I was pretty much guaranteed that my father was indeed my father, with the same holding true for my grandfathers, a true-born peasant of true-born peasants.

As the Dark Elf continued his rant, the doors at the end of the hall opened, and an Imperial male and Breton female in ornate, steel battle armor with an Akivir Katana came to my cell. Apparently, neither I, nor anybody else, was supposed to be in that cell, but there I was. I was ordered back underneath the window, and knowing a superior swordsman when I saw the Imperial's grip on his own blade, I backed off. He could have killed me if he wished it. Once I was safely back, he opened the cell door, and steeped forward to prevent me from moving. Behind him came the other armored figure, escorting an aged man in purple robes…Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh, Ruler of all Tamriel.


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Author's Post Script: Any and all comments or recommendations are welcome. Criticisms, especially stuff missed by a spell-checker, are appreciated.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: Aug 10 2010, 07:17 PM

[Captain Hammer]

All: Eight months. Too long. Time to fix that.

Malx: Bit of the reverse. I started this same time as the mod was underway, and knew IXth Crusade personally. B read my first draft, and asked to use Awtwyr in the Mod. I said yes. Never realized how important it'd be.

Acadian: Well, I've said what I can say after a long absence from your work, so that's for that. But yeah, the juxtaposition of the idea of the Republic with an Emperor's Heir-Apparent has a Zen quality you can't pass up. If you can't bring up 'Republic' with a future emperor, then how can you believe it's worth your life?

Grits: From somebody whose trip to Weynon was one of the best I've ever seen (Standing Stones, lice control, lessons on the proper consistency of Jerric's Juice), that means a lot to me. Thanks.

McBadgere: Breathe in, breathe out. Glad to see you're still hard at work, even if I have more catching up to do for you than you do for me. Story of my life.

All: We find ourselves, after unreasonable delays, returning to the off-road 'Road to Weynon Priory.' I can't emphasize how much it means to be able to pick this up again, to write again. As always, nit-finding for my picking is appreciated, and errant nits will be dealt with using the most extreme prejudice.

**************************************

For a Return to Weynon Priory

“It’s actually not all that problematic. The ceremonial duties of an emperor include being the chief priest of Akatosh. All we do is make that the primary role of the emperor, and given my own past and the current situation, there shouldn’t be too many complaints if I spend more time focusing on the maintenance of the Dragonfires than my…predecessor.”

I finished chewing on a piece of venison, courtesy of a young buck and some combination of animal misfortune and benevolent interdiction by Kynareth. I finished chewing and swallowed, before turning to look at Martin over ‘Slevin,’ as Martin had decided to call the horse. “Look, I get the whole ‘chief-priest of Akatosh’ thing, but what we’re doing runs against the principals of creating a republic. The system relies on the fact that there is no single point of weakness to bring it down. And yet, now, I am trying to save the one man absolutely necessary to save the empire. And all of Tamriel while we’re at it.”

“The necessity of the Dragonfires remains. It’s a matter of political power. The one who lights the Dragonfires doesn’t have to be the one to lead the army, appoint rulers, set taxes, all the rest. But there’s still the matter of determining those things. Who sets the taxes? Who appoints the counts? Who do the generals and admirals acknowledge as their superior? Even appointment to the Elder Council still requires the emperor’s consent. Do we allow them to choose their own number? Tyranny by committee is tyranny without productivity.” He spoke of the emperor in the third person. Referred to previous emperors and empresses as predecessors. The unspoken agreement that had developed between us had grown. All this was hypothetical, to him.

“Members of the Elder Council are appointed to represent the provinces, aye? A portion is chosen for their expertise, but the majority is sent from across the empire, ‘to give voice to all the provinces,’ or so we’re told. We simply make that true.” I smiled at him, inviting.

“That’s still the kings, dukes, counts and whatever lords have enough sway to determine who gets sent to the Imperial City. Oligarchy, and enough unofficial power in the right councilor, or wrong councilor, and the problem returns. Jagar Tharn returned, and the heroic use of the Staff of Chaos doesn’t stop him.” Martin’s eyebrows were raised, his face partially turned towards me as he spoke, glancing out of the corner of his eyes.

“It goes from the bottom, upwards.” It had taken a few days to get back to this topic. A few for him to bring it up, a few more for me to accept talking about it. Or rather, it had taken those few days for me to accept that I wouldn’t necessarily be executed the minute Martin was on the throne just for talking about this with him. I hoped. He seemed to take it in good stride, but such flippant radicalism could get a man noticed. Speaking out in a tavern, drunk, was one thing. Not bothering itself with it was part of how the empire solved it. An authority that could not allow for such freedoms of speaking would explode from the built up pressure. But this was different.

I kicked a rock out of my path before I continued. “The emperor, in his vast wisdom, decrees that any village or town over a certain size elect an official council. Most already have a body, one that settles petty disputes between bad neighbors. If they don’t already have it, these councils become responsible for managing common resources. The amount of cattle that public pastures can support. Damming rivers for mills. Choosing land plots for tanners’ shops. They continue, and are expected to exist with more uniformity.”

“Fine, but that still leaves the matter of the counties and the provinces.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said quickly. “It extends upwards. In my home, the village council is elected every year, but the mayor is elected every other year. The mayors from mine and the four closest villages, along with the first chair of each council, meet to handle matters that extend beyond one village. How a larger river is to be dammed, and what the flow has to be. Limits on hunting out the deer in the common forests. Bridge and road maintenance. But they also nominate the magistrates. King Malcolm of House Lariat appoints our magistrates, but all that means is he chooses the preferred names from the list he gets, and then makes sure taxes get paid, thieves get punished, and murderers go to the headsman.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” said Martin. “What you’re talking about is a tiered system of representative democracy. I don’t know how you could expand that, though, beyond the village councils and mayors’ council you describe. And it wouldn’t receive wide acceptance amongst the nobility. It won’t work, Awtwyr.”

“It can work, if the emperor decides he wants more accountability from top to bottom, and demands councils be made that one day gain the full formal power that some of them already exercise. Village councilors serve one year terms. Larger assemblies can serve two or three year terms. In Morrowind they have a Grand Council, a smaller version of the Elder Council that oversees the whole province. Mandate one for each province, but require that each seat be filled by direct election.” I stepped over another rock sticking up, and then continued. “The kings and queens won’t like it. The dukes won’t like it. Neither will the counts, or the lords and ladies. It won’t matter. Eventually, they will be replaced, their offices exercised by elected individuals. Members of the Elder Council are elected indirectly, by provincial assemblies before being sent to the Imperial City. Provincial governors can be nominated, to exercise executive authority. But in this way, every citizen of the empire becomes responsible for their government. And no idiot with a violent mind becomes ruler of a land simply because their parents ruled the land.”

“And how long do you think this would take?” asked Martin. “These are not reforms that could happen overnight. And if the process is too rapid, strongmen and warlords are more likely to come of it than any other outcome.”

“Which is why it will take years. Maybe two decades. Think in terms of the entirety of the reign of a young emperor, one who comes to the throne shy of his fortieth year. It may have to be left to that man’s child, but the inertia of such a movement would be unstoppable.”

“I see,” said Martin. “Tell me, what will you do?”

“What I was going to do. I’ve completed two tours as a legionary. I didn’t have what it took for knighthood. But I do have what I need to become a combat duty battlemage.” I surprised myself, saying that. But I had been whispering to myself about this more and more the closer we got to Weynon Priory. Inside another week, and Martin would be Emperor of Tamriel. And hopefully, I could abandon Kvatch and the Imperial Sewers to be washed in the tides of time.

“If that is what you wish. For what you have done, fame could be yours in great amounts, Awtwyr.”

“No. I couldn’t get the politics of the legion when I was a soldier. I wouldn’t last a month maneuvering in Court. I go where I can do the most, where I have the best chance at paying off the blood in my book. I’m able to live with what I’ve done. Doesn’t mean I have to skip out on the penance I still owe.”

“Then serve in your own fashion. But I do not think the empire is done with you, Awtwyr mac’Thairrom mac’Ragnall O’Cinnidh Draghoyn. Nor are you done with it.”

“Only a few hours to Weynon,” I paused, “Sir.”

It was silence for much of the rest of the way. The last of the venison was consumed, a water bag emptied, Slevin allowed to graze a bit. I was determined not to get myself into anything deeper. Take Martin to Jauffre. Allow the old spymaster to convince the priest to become emperor. The trip back to the Imperial City, depending if Jauffre wanted me along. The re-lighting of the Dragonfires, and once it was all finished, I would be done as well. Battlemage training beckoned, and with it, a new start.

***************************************

Night was falling, and in the distance, I could make out the top of the belfry of the chapel house. We had gotten on the road, turned around a bend, continued until I spotted the grey stone, and then I saw the Dunmer shepherd, what was his name…Erthor, come running towards us. “Help! You must help! They're killing everyone at Weynon Priory!”

“Erthor, slow down, what’s going on?!”

“I don't know! I think they're right behind me! Prior Maborel is dead!”

Oh, I thought. Oh no. “They!” I barked. “Who’s ‘they’?!”

“I was in the sheepfold when they attacked. I heard the Prior talking to someone. Looked around the corner to see who it was. They looked like travelers, ordinary. Suddenly weapons appeared in their hands and they cut the Prior down before he could move! They saw me watching and I ran.”

Oh hells! “Jauffre?!” I asked. I was already moving. The reins of the horse were in Martin’s hands, and I moved around to force him to the horse. Why? Why now?!

“I don't know. In the Chapel praying, I think. You must help us!” cried the short Dark Elf.

“Martin, on the horse. If you see them, or I shout ‘Doom,’ you flee. Back the way we came, go past the bend in the road, then turn off, use the contours of the hills for concealment, and ride this horse to death.” Mara grant us Mercy, for this is truly going nits up!

“But I,” began Martin.

“NO! Take the horse, and ready to run! Say it!” I was barely cognizant of it, but I could not let Martin think this an argument.

“Take the horse, ready to run,” said Martin. He put his foot in Slevin’s stirrup and hoisted himself up as I turned and ran towards the priory. My shield came down from my shoulder, my left arm through the enarmes to grip the handle, fingers briefly outstretched to allow me to tighten the cords that wrapped through the handle’s loop, then around the palm before being gripped to prevent loss of control.

The doorway was open, an armored figure with a mace in its hand turning from something inside to face me. My longsword was out, my shield forward as I advanced. The first swing went wild. Amateur, but motivated. Likely to take risks. I deflected two blows off my shield, stepping and pivoting to let the motion glance off at angles, then probed once, and touched him with my blade, the magicka of the shock spell doing more than a light tap of metal on metal.

He reacted well. My next two strikes missed entirely as he danced backwards, but on the third, he pivoted forcefully, bringing the mace around heavily, striking the blade before I could pull it back. The sword went tumbling from my outstretched hand, the mace came back for a return strike, and my shield came in as the blow hit hard. It hurt, and I could tell the shield had probably been compromised. Still useable, but another blow like that would crack it too heavily for use.

My right hand came to my hip as I stepped back, dodged once, blocked lightly again, and came up with the mace I had pulled from a dead Dremora in the Oblivion Gate. I stepped forward and stabbed with the head of the mace, knocking my enemy in the chin, and he went backwards a pace, surprised. I took another step forward, caught his mace with my own, locked our arms up, and brought my knee up into the fork between his legs. The armor on my legs met no resistance, and he crumpled. No codpiece. Good for me. As he tried to stand, my mace came across his temples. He collapsed, tried to rise again, and once again my mace came down on his helmet, hard. Metal crunched. The man collapsed. There was a swirl of magic. The armor and mace on him vanished. I could see where I had crushed the skull.

I stepped into the doorway of the chapel, and paused, forgetting myself. Jauffre was battling two of them. Handling, in a better sense. A long, two handed blade, slightly larger than the one I had seen on the Blades with the emperor, seemed to dance in his hands. The support pillars jutting from the wall made an alcove that limited paths of attack. One came in, only to be turned into the path of the other. The other swung, and received a cut that put more scarlet on Jauffre’s sword. He saw me, flicked his eyes to the closer of the two, and squinted at me again.

I moved. When the one had indicated attacked again, it was blocked, driven down, and then the sword twisted through the legs, causing the attacker to stumble. The other seized the opportunity, but Jauffre was already coming up inside the second one’s reach. Jauffre caught the assailant’s upper arm against his chest, wrapped it with left, swept his right foot around the enemy, grabbed across the torso, and threw him down across a bench. Or at least, that’s what I thought he did. The old monk clearly knew how to fight without weapons. He wasn’t a brawler, or an artist. Just quick, simple efficiency, as though it were nothing more than cutting meat for the cook fire. The first assailant, my target, was stepping up when I slammed into him, the shield forward and bodily shoving him against a wall.

His arm came up, to meet the simple expedient of my mace colliding with his elbow. The other hand, a frost spell discharging, came forward. I smacked with my shield edge, and it grazed my side. Needles of pain and cold discomfort caught me, surprising me, stealing my momentum. The left hand, another spell of frost ready, came forward again. Only a bare hand in a brown sleeve caught it. Jauffre stood, gripping the arm, and then tensed his body. I heard the sharp clap of the spell, and my enemy fell, twitching as the armor evaporated in a puff of reddish mist, leaving behind a middle-aged brown haired man, Colovian by the look. Behind Jauffre, the third attacker was still, a woman similarly absent of armor, a tall, dark skinned Redguard.

“You're back. Thank Talos! They attacked without warning. I was praying in the Chapel when I heard Prior Maborel shout. I had just time to arm myself.”

“I saw Erthor. The others?” I asked, catching my breath. Jauffre was retrieving his sword.

“Just Piner. Come!” he said, starting for the entry way. I followed, out past the man I killed and towards the priory house. I heard more ringing of steel. When Jauffre and I rounded past a large oak tree, we saw two more of the armored figures facing a tonsured man in a brown robe, a slightly curved sword sweeping aside attacks in his right hand. And to the left, a rider on a paint horse in traveling garments, approaching the fight and then turning the horse. Martin. Bloody ashes curse that man’s obstinacy. Martin stopped the horse, raised his left arm, and a swirl of magicka flowed down his arm, the air in front of his hand fogging and surging towards the combatants.

It impacted on the ground, enveloping the two in armor and just touching Piner. A look of concentration on his face, he continued without pause, stabbing at the one on his right while stepping sideways to minimize the target available to two assailants. He needn’t have worried. Jauffre had charged forward, letting out a sharp yell that caused the second to turn away from Piner…and Martin. This one had a short blade, and swung at Jauffre’s head. The frost covering the armor slowed the strike, but Jauffre simply blocked with his fore-arms…which glowed suddenly and sharply as the assailant’s sword was pushed back. Shield effect. Dragonskin. Only very highly developed. Have to look into that.

The enemy was more surprised, failing to move as Jauffre’s blade cut and sliced, first the hamstring, then the left elbow, then the right, and then the neck. Piner’s opponent dropped to meet him, the younger monk planting a foot to draw his blade out of the man’s armpit. Red mist and dissolving armor accompanied both deaths.

I looked at Jauffre, but before I could ask, his eyebrows shot up as he turned to stare at the priory house entrance. “The Amulet of Kings! I fear that was the target of this attack. I kept it in a secret room in Weynon House. We need to go see if it is safe.”

“I can go,” I began, but was cut off.

“We'll go together. But I fear the worst.” I followed him in, hearing a man getting off a horse as I overtook Jauffre on the stairs. I went to his office, and there one of the bookshelves had swung forward, revealing a bare, concealed room behind. Inside was a chest, much like the one’s publicly visible, but open, and empty. Jauffre joined me, looked into the chest, and dropped his head in despair. “They've taken it! The Amulet of Kings is gone! The enemy has defeated us at every turn!”

“Not every turn,” I said. Martin appeared in the doorway to the office. “Grandmaster, may I present Martin Septim.”

“So it has not all gone against us. Thank Talos for that! We gained Uriel's heir, and lost the Amulet of Kings. My lord, forgive me for my failure.”

“I…I cannot say if there is anything for me to forgive. Though this defeat cannot bode well,” said Martin.

“Nonetheless, we cannot stay here. We have driven them off, but they will be back once they learn of Martin’s survival. Which they will.”

“You know of somewhere secure?” I asked.

“Nowhere is truly safe against the power arrayed against us. But we must play for time, at least... Cloud Ruler Temple, I think. The hidden fortress of the Blades, in the mountains near Bruma. A few men can hold it against an army. We should leave at once.”

“The bodies?” I asked. “What about the bodies?”

“Brother Piner is a priest, though it seems his path to Weynon was necessary after all. He can take care of those matters.” He paused, sniffing at the two of us. “On second thought, a brief stop is not completely out of the question. You both must wash. Sickness can kill an emperor as easily as a blade.”

“I don’t think we have time for a bath,” I said. I had smelled worse. Though I hadn’t felt my best from it.

“How good is your skill at Restoration?” he asked.

“Expert,” said Martin. “Mages guild training when I was younger.”

“Yes, I know,” said Jauffre. “And you, Awtwyr? I understand you have some skill?”

How did he…? No, he’s a spymaster. Don’t worry about that right now. “Journeyman,” I responded. Jauffre raised a single eyebrow. “Patch yourself up enough times and you start to understand a lot about your own body.”

Jauffre nodded. “Follow,” he said, leading us both to the far side of the office, where more books were stacked on shelves. He snatched one out, opened it in the middle, flipped three pages back, and set it on the desk. “Memorize this. Go out, pour buckets of water on yourselves, and cast it. It will clean you.”

I looked over it. Simple enough, it touched slightly on Alteration and Mysticism, with a slight construct that seemed to speed drying by way of Destruction’s Weakness to Fire effect. “What is it?” I asked. Simple, but useful for one that could cast it.

“Hygiene spell. Simplified version of a beauty spell called ‘Bloom’ that noble ladies, dandies, and courtesans use. This is slightly more efficient. Unless you want to smell like Lavender,” he trailed off.

“This will be fine,” said Martin. “Awtwyr and I shall wash. Do we have mounts?”

“I’ll see to that,” said Jauffre. “Go, clean yourselves, eat, and pack for a cold journey. And don’t shave.” That last was said with a stern, demanding look. My now respectable beard would grow more respectable.

I followed Martin out back, where a flume for irrigating the garden and several buckets worth of water succeeded in drenching us both. The spell in Jauffre’s tome dried us once cast and, I was pleasantly surprised to note, left us smelling like civilized men. It wasn’t a steam bath and a dunk, but it was effective. My armor was clean as well, a very pleasant surprise that would save time each night.

We went back inside to pack, grabbing gloves, woolens and cloaks for snow. We met Jauffre out front, where Slevin was waiting with a dark mare, while Jauffre was saddling a reddish stallion. “Awtwyr, take Prior Maborel’s horse. Martin, take the mare.

Piner came out to us as we were finishing. “Brother Jauffre, friends, the Prior is prepared. Will you join me?” Jauffre looked to us, then nodded briefly. “This way, please,” said Piner, gesturing to the rear of the chapel.

I expected a graveyard. Instead, it was an open space, and then a stone pyre, Maborel upon it, the scent of oils and spirits about him. Piner went to Maborel’s head, Jauffre his feet, and Martin to the right side. They waited, and glanced at the vacant left side, not saying anything until I realized I was supposed to occupy the remaining space.

“Can you sustain fire?” asked Piner.

“Aye,” I said. Cremation was the standard practice for dead bodies in High Rock. After so much time in the Legion, I had simply not expected to see it as the standard method of funeral rights, but the lack of headstones here spoke otherwise.

“Arkay, Guide of the Dead, Maborel of Weynon Priory passes into your care.” Piner intoned with solemn resolve, though I could see tears in his eyes. “We commend his spirit to you, and ask that you look with favor upon him, for he was a true servant of the Nine, an honorable and good man, devoted to the Order of Talos, for whom he has given his life. In the name of Talos, and of Akatosh, we seek and invoke your blessing upon his soul, to be freed from this body and to pass safely under your mantle. By the flame, and the power, and the knowledge you have given to Men, Arkay, we invoke your Law upon the body of Prior Maborel, conferred by the Path of Fire, Forever Free from the reach of the Dark Arts. In your name, and in the names of the Nine, and present to all powers that observe, we invoke you Arkay, and pass our brother into your care.” Piner paused, and breathed heavily. “Make ready your flames,” he said to us. I concentrated on the sigil of flare, and opened my hand as fire sprouted from my fingers. Jauffre, Martin and Piner matched me with their flames. “Immolate him.” Fire leapt out from us, in towards Prior Maborel, caught, and spread, consuming his body in seconds. We stepped back to watch the flames rise, then fall back, turning the once living flesh to ash.

Jauffre motioned, and we left, each of us shaking Piner’s hand as we departed, he standing vigil as the pyre continued to burn. We got to the horses, and mounted. “We ride on the Black Road,” said Jauffre, and set off. “To Cloud Ruler Temple.”