In my experience, simple plans always worked the best. The less complications, and certainly the less elements left up to chance the better. As a member of the Legion, especially as a forester I was very much one for ensuring that there was very little left up to the whims of fate and luck, especially in comparison to those more used to fighting within the shieldwall. As a forester everything came into play and the daedra truly were in the details. Distance, wind, climate, movement of the target and numbers thereof, bow quality and number of arrows loosed off a particular string all affected each and every arrow that I pulled back to my ear, but even before getting to that point required planning and forethought. The placement of pouches on my person, the amount of equipment and supplies and their total weight all came into consideration and there were literally hundreds of other issues that would run through my mind before I even took a single step on patrol.
This attention to detail and experience towards planning was one of the many, many reasons why I found myself sweating nervously in the morning sun, feeling the building heat adding to the prickly sensation of moisture dripping down my spine and blooming in my armpits. Even in situations like those Viconia and I had found ourselves in over the previous months where we had practically thrown ourselves at the minotaurs of Nonungalo or the vampires of Glenvar had been somewhat planned and we had been prepared for them. At that very moment; in the heat of the morning sun and standing on the side of the priory courtyard I knew that never had I been as unprepared or gambling as I was.
The gamble was no simple game of chance or the simplistic roll of a dice with little more than septims to lose. This time the prize was even greater than the worth that I put on my own life and it was taking all that I had to remain still as I laid eyes on that which I was gambling.
An armour stand had been placed in the heart of the courtyard, standing resolute as a handful of select individuals adorned it with the Relics of the Crusader. Each of the pieces gleamed in the sunlight and despite the handful of clouds lazily making their way across the skies not once did the artefacts fall into shadow. Despite my building anxiety and the creeping sensation of pain at their purity near my corrupted presence, I couldn't help but marvel at the sight. For the first time in thousands of years the relics were united, and it was difficult not to think that the last time they were arrayed as such was when their original owner was clad in them.
Thinking of Pelinal wasn't difficult in this situation either, especially as I could see the next would-be claimant to his title standing and watching with obvious greed as the last of the relics were brought up from the under croft. I also couldn't help but feel terrified at the fact that the entire plan revolved around the simple fact that we were simply giving the relics to Duke De'Leorion.
There had been resistance of course, especially when I had first voiced the idea that would become 'the plan'. It was also the first time that Alexi and I actually came to blows over a difference of opinion. In the end it all came down to the fact that no one else could come up with anything different and so here we all found ourselves standing awkwardly at the sight of the most priceless artefacts in all of Tamriel about to be handed over to someone that very few thought worthy.
Despite all the anxiety, trepidation and outright fear this was a situation of our own making, one that had taken several days and a lot of careful planning and manoeuvring before we reached it. Deception and lies had been protected by the simple fact that the Duke and those closest to him weren't expecting such deceit, and combined with his arrogance and ego it was almost child's play to lead him on. A subtle verbal push here, the creation of a rumour or two to move through the camp before reaching his ears and a simple acknowledgement of his desire for fame and glory was all that was needed to ensure that when the key to the undercroft was 'found' that he would not waste any time claiming the relics in person, and with as many people as possible as witnesses.
And so we stood, the entirely of the Order of the Nine, the Duke and his Baron's assorted knights and camp followers and every man, woman and child within several kilometres were gathered and standing in sight of the Relics. Several hundred were pressed around the edges of the courtyard, shoulder to shoulder and packed together as a handful of the Host of the Horn and the Duke's personal Knights were standing in a rough circle to ensure that no one 'unworthy' could approach the relics. The irony was almost enough to crack my own personal tension as the Duke stepped into view.
He was resplendent in his finery but for one of the few times his armour and personal arms were nowhere to be seen. There was no doubting his wealth or status as there was more gold and silver on and within his clothes than what most jewellers had access to.
"Servants of the Nine." His words rolled over the hushed crowd and I wondered whether he realised that they were not in awe of him. "You are all witnesses to the most glorious of occasions. Not only have you been blessed with seeing with your own eyes the majesty of the gods, but you are also here to see them taken up against the agents of darkness once more."
As he lifted his arms to the heavens and turned I vaguely wondered whether he or any of the others realised that this was all too easy for them. From where I stood in the crowd I could see Baron Jaseton standing with a pair of his knights by his sides, and Sir Wirile was hovering only a few short metres to my right. Despite the fact that Wirile in particular was standing as still as a statue I could somehow sense that he was intently watching me and the others near me.
Alexi and Viconia were by my sides as they usually were and despite our initial inclinations we had ensured that the rest of the Order of the Nine were scattered rather than clumped together in a group. As steadfast as the mountains far to the north, Alexi was standing as a perfect example of martial nobility and while Viconia was as elegant and refined as usual I could feel the warmth of her hand gripping mine, the sight of which was hidden from all by the press of bodies around us.
"The Relics, long since lost to time have been recovered! From this moment, may the darkness be banished from the lands, the evils and sins stemming from the lesser races and women be purged and the glory of the Nine spread throughout the Tamriel!"
I could feel Viconia's grip tighten around me and I couldn't tell who out of the two of us were the wariest. Nothing on her face spoke of her tensions and I hoped mine was the same, seeing many within the crowd struggling with their own emotions and thoughts of the situation as the Duke turned, and moved towards the relics.
Only the greaves and the sword were not present on the armour stand and it had been the Duke's plan from the moment that I had told him that a 'spare' key had been found within Skingrad. I had subtly dropped hints in that particular meted to ensure that when the Duke did claim them that it would be a public affair. His arrogance and desire for recognition had done the rest, and as a result while the sword and greaves were nearby on a pair of satin cushions under heavy guard the chance of spreading corruption was low. For the moment at least.
His speech continued on for several minutes but I didn't hear much of it. All my attentions were on the handful of people through the crowd who were considered loyal to myself and the others within the Order of the Nine and the Relics themselves. They were resplendent, even more so than the clothing that the Duke was wearing but their holy nature was a deep ache within the core of my being from being so close to them. It was painful, but not as painful as listening to the arrogance and ego of the person seeking to claim such holy artefacts.
When he finally stopped his speech there was a swelling undercurrent of emotion from the crowd, a shifting eagerness as those standing towards the back tried to move forward slightly or stand a little taller for a better view. Even the knights of the Horn and Baron Jaseton's men who had been tasked to form the ring of armoured figures were turning in place, watching as Duke De'Leorion stepped within arm's reach of the relics.
No one breathed, and the quiet seemed so intense that even the wind stopped in place and I could feel my jaw tightening so much that my teeth threatened to crack under the strain. There were shadows across many expressions of those watching, but there was no mistaking the smile of triumph on the Duke's bearded face as he ran his fingers over the armoured breastplate, taking note of each and every shining detail across the armour before plucking one of the gauntlets from where it was resting.
The metallic crash and clatter of metal on stonework made nearly every person in the crowd jump as the gauntlet slipped from the Duke's fingers and fell. In the comparative silence within the courtyard the impact ripped through the air as though the skies had erupted with thunder and after a moment's surprise a chorus of laughter burst forth unhindered.
Armoured heads twisted this way and that, seeking out the source of the laughter and amusement at the Duke's expense as he went red, first from embarrassment, then from anger as he too looked around for anyone daring enough to show any signs of delight at his clumsy attempt to grab the gauntlet.
After several moments of looking about at the crowd pressed in around him, he turned and looked, staring down at his feet for a moment as though contemplating whether he should suffer the indignity of kneeling down to pick it back up. A tiny dent in his ego and calm had appeared but there was little that could remove his obvious sense of superiority and self-righteousness.
A larger dent definitely appeared when the same thing happened with the second gauntlet as it too slipped from his fingers despite his best efforts and slammed into the ground. The Duke's expression also changed to an even more intense red as he tried, and failed to keep his grip and appeared to get pulled downwards as though the gauntlet weighed as much as an anvil before he was forced to let go.
"Silence!" Roared Wirilie and he stomped his way back and forth between the ring of knights and his liege. Like De'Leorion, the champion of the Host of the Horn was now infuriated and a centimetre of naked blade was viable from his grip on the weapon. "You will all hold your tongues or I will personally rip them from your skulls!"
The tournament champion not the only knight moving and several of the others were now stalking back and forth, seeking anyone who was foolish enough to show their amusement at the Duke. Their threats were also not idle ones, and many of shrunk back under the intense scrutiny of the Duke's enforcers.
One of the many knights, dressed in the Duke's colours moved quickly to his lord in an attempt to assist but the Duke shoved him aside, snarling under his breath while trying and failing to retain his composure. The gauntlets had struck the cobblestones when they had fallen but there were no outward signs of damage to either of them. If not for the way that they had slipped from his grasp they appeared to have been laying there for centuries, especially when the Duke finally swallowed a portion of his pride and knelt down to retrieve them.
My face almost cracked as he grasped one of the gauntlets, wrapping his pudgy fingers around the wrist and pulling to no avail. The gauntlet entirely refused to budge, and after a second of tugging on it he resorted to grabbing it with both hands, heaving back with all of his strength which achieved nothing more than increasing his frustration and turning his face an even brighter shade of red.
The stalking knights moved closer and closer to the crowd as the murmuring of laughter grew at the Duke's failed attempts to shift the Gauntlets from where they had fallen. For hundreds of years they had remained on the floor of Chorrol's Cathedral and there had been no force of man, mer or nature that have moved them. I could feel relief flow through my body at the sight of the Duke standing up from his failed attempts, knowing that the strange nature of the relics ensured that all bar the Sword needed someone worthy to wield.
Shaking his building embarrassment off with all the skill of a noble, he gave a confident smile that only partially hid his uncertainty and attempted to regain his composure. Then, in full view of everyone he did something that almost made me break out into laughter myself. He grabbed the Mace of Zenithar.
Unlike the Gauntlets, the Mace allowed him to lift it and with a roar of triumph he lifted it high for all to see. The Mace truly was splendid beyond all comprehension, catching the beams of light from the sun and scattering them about in rays of purity, but I was watching with building expectation as the Duke laughed out loud.
At first his smile softened, his mouth dropping open in confusion as he glanced towards his hand and as he brought the mace down in front of his face I could see the way how sweat had suddenly begun to pour from his forehead. He first went red, eyes widening in confusion and then white as the Mace reacted as it did with those unworthy wielding it.
His cry of pain was louder than the sound of the Mace slamming into the ground as he dropped it, clutching his hand in agony from the way that the holy relic had burned him. In their own confusion several of his knights had rushed forth to assist their liege, one managing to carefully pull his satin glove off to reveal a mass of blisters and red welts covering his palm.
"The Relics are corrupted! Tainted and cursed!" he shouted, the pain and indignation flowing into his words until they poured from his mouth in a shrill screech. "They…"
Almost as one, the knights tending the Duke paused in mid motion, one of which pouring water over the De'Leorion's burned extremity stopping as though frozen as he saw the movement from the Relics themselves. This sudden change in his retainers made the Duke forget his pain for a moment and he too turned to look at what had caught the knights and the crowd's attention.
An all-too-familiar mist was beginning to seep from every crack and hollow of the armour as though it was covered in a morning dew evaporating in the sun. It bubbled and flowed, pouring out in waterfalls that spilled across the ground and began to rise to waist height. All those that had been close enough to see the Duke's actions and see the Relcis were suddenly, and instinctively shifting backwards away from the growing mist and even the Duke and his attendants were scrabbling away from the mass.
From within the mass grew a collection of beings that formed directly from billowing cloud, growing limbs and torsos and clad in the armour that they had worn in life. As we had planned, the ghostly Knights of the Nine appeared with all the theatrically that they had promised, forming a diamond of spectres around the relics that stood facing outwards, baring their otherworldly fury at all those who dared to stand close.
"By the strength and guidance of the Nine, who dares touch the Relics of the Divine Crusader?" Sir Amiel growled, projecting his voice that all could hear his voice. "For the vows that we failed to revere in life, we shall uphold in death. No unworthy soul shall lay hands upon these sacred artefacts without leave of the Knights of the Nine."
My face finally gave up the struggle to contain my emotions and I felt myself grin for a moment. Sir Amiel was entirely hamming up his performance but it was having the desired effect. For most beings within Tamriel, ghosts were subjects of stories used to scare children or creatures to be feared by those who travelled out of the cities. There were always stories and tales of graveyards and chapels haunted by the restless dead, but there were the rare few who had ever seen such a being with their own eyes.
The crowd shifted away like their minds were linked, pressing further and further away from the avenging spectres and it was only a rare handful of knights and soldiers who stood their ground. On the far side of the courtyard I saw how one of the few people to barely react was Carodus, who was wearing a tired expression and appeared to sigh before drawing his gladius just in case it was needed.
"K-Knights! Attend me!"
Despite the plea in his voice, the obvious fear consuming the Duke was shared by almost all and barely anyone budged in his direction. More than one of the Host of the Horn simply broke and ran, and I saw how one of them disappeared in the crowd, pushing and shoving his way out in panic.
"Hold your ground!" I roared, ensuring that my voice could be heard over the building chorus of panic and fear. "My Lord, you have to prove your worthiness to them!"
"I am worthy!" he snapped back, his upbringing and nobility finally gaining supremacy over his shock, pain and fear. "I am a Duke! I retrieved the Sword of Arkay! I am-"
"A fraud and trickster, unworthy to claim the relics of the Crusader!" Snapped Sir Amiel, and he stepped forward from the diamond of his fellows menacingly. "Bradelc Weylinille Stenanius de'Leorion. You are judged and in the eyes of the Nine you have been deemed unworthy. Only those pure of heart and with noble intentions may touch the Relics, and you Duke de'Leorion are consumed with your pride, your vanity and your greed. Repent your sins or face eternal damnation."
Stammering and scrabbling at the ground in panic, the Duke tripped and fell on his behind at the sight of the advancing ghost as Sir Amiel stared down upon him. I could feel a chill of fear up my own spine as I remembered my first encounter with the Knights and how close I came to death at their hands and at that point I had been partially used to facing the supernatural and monsters. For a brief moment I wondered whether the Duke had even faced anything like a ghost before, but as the smell of urine reached my enhanced sense of smell I guessed that he definitely hadn't.
Almost without warning, the only figure who seemed willing or brave enough to move towards the ghost suddenly broke into a dash straight at the Duke and Sir Amiel. In a single, rushing movement the armoured figure broke into a sprint, drawing his sword and attacking without hesitation.
Sir Wirile, tournament champion of High Rock and one of the most dangerous fighters in Tamriel attacked Sir Amiel from behind, his blade whispering through the air with lethal intent. He had waited for the moment to strike, when Sir Amiel had moved far enough that he wouldn't be able to see the attack, choosing to attack cowardly rather than directly intervene.
Showing his true abilities as one of the greatest swordsmen to have ever lived, Sir Amiel twitched before Sir Wirile managed to make it three paces, twisting and making his own strike so quickly that his blade appeared to be little more than a silverly streak through the air. Not only had he struck so quickly that no one really properly witnessed the blow, but his sword had seemed to disappear from its scabbard and appear in a ghostly hand with blood streaking its length.
With a look of utter confusion on his face, Sir Wirile took another faltering pace, his expression one of dawning realisation and horror as his sword clattered from his hands and he pitched forward onto the cobblestones. His throat was gashed almost entirely through, severing all but his spine and death was quick to follow.
The silence that fell upon the courtyard at the sudden and quick demise of the Duke's champion was a physical sensation and the shock overwhelmed the fear. It had been obvious to all who saw the Sir Wirile had attempted to attack the spirit of Sir Amiel from behind in an act considered extremely dishonourable within Breton society, but it was even more obvious that Sir Amiel's ability with a sword was leagues greater than his.
For what felt to be an age, no one moved. the shock of the unravelling events was too great to truly comprehend. Most were simply standing in shock, some had dropped to their knees in horror or religious awe and those of the group who were of a martial background were standing in various degrees of readiness. However, those who had grasped or drawn their weapons were just as still as the others, especially seeing how quickly Sir Wirile had been dispatched.
Of the dozens of tradesmen and artisans who had come, there were a handful who didn't deal with the mundane and physical but of matters of the faith. Several of the people who lived and worked around the priory were priests or men of the cloth, and where the dozens of knights and men at arms had stood their ground or backed away from the ghosts, one of these priests stepped forward with a prayer on his lips and rosary beads in a trembling hands.
For their part, the ghosts facing the courageous priest looked on with a degree of amusement. Sir Torolf, the bear of a Nord clad in his rune etched armour chuckled at the sight of the priest moving towards them. "Spare your words father. We are not some malign spirits in need of exorcism. Our faith in the Nine is just as strong as yours."
Comically, the priest's exorcism dribbled away at the utter lack of effect it was having on the ghosts, leaving him standing there like a beached fish. His mouth was opening and closing wordlessly as another stepped from the crowd and walked towards the ghosts.
Areldur Salingaerith, a tall, well-built Altmer with a muscular build at odds with the way he moved like a cripple stepped out from the crowd and shuffled his way forward. His appearance, especially how he like the rest of us were dressed in armour and chainmail almost entirely hid the fact that he had spent the better part of two decades as Chorrol's bishop, but there was no hiding the fact that his health was significantly degraded. He moved as though suffering an intense bout of arthritis, flushed with an intense fever and breathing as though his lungs were filling with liquid but the sheer willpower alone was enough for him to push aside his physical ailments.
As he moved past the priest, standing closest to the ghost he rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder and nodded with a smile. "It's quite alright brother."
With shaking steps that had nothing to do with fear, he approached the ghosts with a faint smile and bowed his head to them. Sir Torolf and Ralvas, standing closest to the approaching ex-bishop nodded in return, and to the utter astonishment of all those present, stepped aside and let him pass.
"Areldur Salingaerith. You have been judged and found worthy. Your selflessness is an honour to the Order of the Nine."
Bowing once again to the ghosts, I could feel the growing tension and incredulousness of the crowd as he moved forward. The curse that had been ravaging Sir Casimir's lineage for centuries had been lifted by the ex-bishop's actions and while he had taken the curse upon himself he had more than proved his worth. Slowly, and with reverent care he painfully kneeled down in front of the relics and lifted the gauntlets with no more effort than what his curse afforded him.
Shaking his head and mouthing gibberish, Duke de'Leorion's mental state seemed to be diminishing even quicker than it was once before and I watched with some considerable pleasure as he began scrabbling and kicking away from the relics and the ghosts. In full view of everyone he somehow managed to get to his feet, shaking off the hands of his attending knights and ran towards the entrance of the courtyard, shoving and pushing through the crowd every step of the way.
"Those who have repented their sins and pasts may touch the relics, but only those truly noble of heart may wield them." Declared Sir Amiel, cutting through the whispers of shock emanating from the crowd. "It is the Nine who deem who is worthy and who is not, but we; the Knights of the Nine will enforce their judgement."
It began with a handful of people within the crowd, the faithful who had journeyed far who dropped to their knees before the relics of their Gods. The hushed whispers grew in volume as more and more people realised who the ghosts were, and while there was a fearful edge to the crowd from the death of Sir Wirile, there was not many within the crowd who didn't know the original Knights of the Nine.
Taking my cue, along with Alexi and Viconia we stepped forward from the crowd and immediately felt the weight of everyone's expectations and gazes upon us. The whispers and mutterings died within an instant, and despite the inherent threat there was a sense of anticipation as we approached the ghosts.
Through Sir Amiel's transparent form I could see how Areldur returned the gauntlets to the wooden supports of the armour rack before stepping away, content that they had been reunited with the rest of the relics. I could also see the way that the small collection of courtiers who had been carrying the greaves of Mara and Sword of Arkay on the cushions had quickly vanished after their lord, leaving behind the priceless relics that no one seemed to have the courage to approach. The ghosts however turned towards us, but there was no signs of impending violence from any of us despite the fact we were nearly standing in the cooling blood of Sir Wirile.
"I serve the Nine." I said, raising my voice just enough for everyone to hear before lowering myself to a knee, my actions being quickly followed by Viconia and Alexi.
"Rise Sir Knights. You and your deeds have more than proven your worth, as have other members of the new Order. Your honourable actions and willingness to repent your sins is worthy of the Order of the Nine."
Emboldened by our seemingly successful approach, several others stepped forward, Knight and commoner alike and not all were members of the current Order of the Nine. Men and women, young and old stepped forward to present themselves, some obviously hesitant but in front of us all they knelt before the original knights, offering their services and repenting their past sins.
Not all were entirely selfless and the ghosts moved, using the same strange perception they had that allowed them to know I was a vampire within seconds of our first meeting to see who was truly repenting their sins and who was doing so out of fear or other reasons. Some quickly retreated, but there was one who didn't require any extrasensory perception gifted from the depths of Aetherius to determine.
The scrape of metal on stone was loud enough to cut through the rolling chatter like a knife through flesh, and all eyes were soon focussed on one man alone.
"Enough! You may have tricked the Duke, but this charade ends here Sir Desin." While the Blade of Arkay may have been as sharp as Sunchild, there was no doubting the edge to Baron Jaseton's voice as he stared us down with it in hand. "Your foul tricks are at an end, as is this failed coup."
Surrounded by a handful of his most loyal knights, the Baron had managed to gather enough of his supporters to regain some semblance of authority and with the Duke having vanished as fast as his legs could take him he had seen an opportunity for himself. Where the Duke's retainers and courtiers had also fled in the wake of their Lord, they had practically dropped everything and ran, leaving the peerless Greaves of Mara and the Sword of Arkay behind.
"I knew that you were not to be trusted and now I have proof." He announced, his confidence boosted by the fact that the corrupted blade was grasped tightly in a fist and a dozen of his knights were standing at his back. Even a handful of his other supporters and servants were remaining with him, including a robed figure with sigils and runes adorning his clothing. "Consorting with daedra. Practicing necromancy. Despoiling relics of the Church and usurping titles above your station. Your crimes are unforgivable and you and your so-called knights are hereby condemned to death."
"That's it." Viconia snarled, her own annoyance finally growing too much for her to bare. "He's mine."
The tingle of magicka made itself felt in my teeth as she began summoning her powers, and while appearing somewhat nervous Alexi unhesitatingly began drawing his sword from his scabbard. Many others within the courtyard were also drawing their weapons, and those who were unarmed began shying away, pressing towards any available routes to escape from the coming bloodshed.
We had debated at length the likelihood of the situation turning bloody in the days prior, and while most within the crowd were hesitant in drawing their weapons it was not going to take much at all for a battle to break out over the relics. While I was feeling all semblance of control slipping from my fingers, there were a handful who appeared nonplussed at the devolving situation. Sir Amiel was the perfect representation of calm and control, and he slowly stepped over the cobblestones in his ethereal form, shimmering and transparent as ever but with eyes only for the Baron standing before him with the Sword of Arkay.
"You may wield the Sword but you are not worthy of it, or the other relics. Also, the Title of commander of the Knights is not up to you to decide."
"No. It is not." Using the sword to point and simultaneously provide a barrier for Amiel's advance, Baron Jaseton held the weapon with both hands out in front of him as though its nature would ward off the spirits. "The title of the Order is decreed by the Elder Council, who's might and authority outweighs a group of spirits and if the Duke is unable to fulfil his duties then that authority falls to me." Slowly, he looked over the group of us, the sheer hatred in his eyes burning into mine as he made a point of staring me down. "Throw down your weapons."
Ignoring him and the sword pointed at his chest, Sir Amiel stepped even closer and the other ghost were almost moving towards the increasingly paranoid Baron. "You have no authority, and no right to command these people. Wielding a tainted relic is no sign of authority or worth and your sins are yet to be repented."
"Sins?" Baron Jaseton laughed in Sir Amiel's face, twitching the point of the Sword between each of the ghosts as they slowly advanced on him. "What sins? My heart is pure, my soul unblemished!"
"The sin of Pride," Growled Sir Ralvas. "runs deep within you, as does Greed."
"I have committed no crimes." He confidently stated, almost boasting as the ghosts formed a semi-circle around him and his increasingly nervous knights who were trying their best not to shy away from the spectres. "My hands are clean."
Sir Juncan, gazing upon the Baron with an unwavering expression despite the bloodied eye socket spoke with a voice almost as cold as his tomb. "Not as clean as you think."
"Deeds undertaken by others at one's behest does not lift the blame from them." Sir Henrick was a vision of horror with his gashed open throat as he too stared the Baron down. "It may not have been your hands, but it was your orders that resulted in so much death and pain."
"Lies! Necromantic slander!"
Ignoring the way that the sword was now wavering and trembling in their direction, and the way that Baron Jaseton was now appearing increasingly nervous, Sir Caius stepped closer until the chill of his ghostly flesh turned breath into mist. "How many have fallen to make the ladder of your success? You may not have done the deeds, but you reaped the benefits. You would even condemn a father to murder his wife and children to claim the title of Baron. There is no deed too foul for your hubris."
Out of all the people within the courtyard watching the confrontation between the Knights of the Nine and Baron Jaseton, there were a handful of reactions that stood out. Viconia, Alexi and I all seemed to have the same dawning realisation flow through us at the ghost's words. Baron Jaseton's expression suddenly went pale as all the blood drained from his face and the Sword of Arkay was now truly shuddering in his grasp despite his best efforts and a handful of his closest knights were also now extremely nervous. Even the man at his back dressed in the enchanted robes was now looking increasingly nervous with his liege, but there was one person whose reaction was entirely different from everyone's.
From his position hidden towards the back of the attending Knights and Men-at-Arms of the current Order of the Nine, Detane had somehow managed to push his way forward and the expression he wore would have been enough to stop a Dremora in its tracks. There was a rage burning within him, a fire that could not be quenched but somehow he had turned his expression into a featureless mask where that only his eyes betrayed his true feelings. There was not even the slightest of trembles in his body, or any other outward sign of what thoughts were flowing through his head but the level of hate that he was projecting towards Baron Jaseton was unmatched by anyone, even including the likes of Viconia.
Even with the ghosts between the two men, Baron Jaseton wouldn't help but notice the appearance of Detane and in that moment there was a flash of recognition, before horror, true horror consumed him and he panicked. It was in this moment that he turned and attempted to flee, the Sword of Arkay dropping low as he attempted to follow in the footsteps of his liege only to find that the crowd was blocking his escape.
"It's all lies!" he stammered, shouting at the coldly advancing Detane who was stepping ever closer and ignoring everything and everyone else to the exception of the Baron. "On my honour not a word of it is true!"
So focussed on the suddenly sweating and trembling Baron, Detane simply stepped right through the ethereal forms of the Knights of the Nine, not even shivering or showing any kind of reaction to such a sensation. He didn't stop until he was face to face with the Baron who had claimed his lands and title after his disgrace, staring daggers the whole time.
I wasn't sure on who was more surprised when Detane simply slapped Baron Jaseton hard across the face, all of us witnessing or the Baron himself. The crack of flesh striking flesh silenced all other noises and all eyes were suddenly focussed on them.
His face already blooming in red from the strike, Baron Jaseton did little more than have his mouth drop open in shock, holding the cheek that Detane stuck and staring into the expressionless visage of the other Breton standing within arm's reach. Other than the slap there was no other action or reaction by the Breton chevalier, he just stood as still as a statue almost without blinking.
"You… You struck me!" Slowly, the realisation of what had happened to him began to sink into the Baron's overwhelmed mind and at that moment a tiny portion of his control and authority began to creep back in. "You… Struck me. You just signed your own death warrant peasant! You and all the others will hang for your actions here today."
"My lord, he is not a peasant." Alexi appeared to be struggling with his own growing amusement at the sight and for the moment I didn't truly understand why he was acting in such a way in such a situation. "He is a Knight of the Nine."
For the moment I didn't truly understand the significant of Detane's act but I did understand his reaction to the announcement of the ghosts regard the Baron. They had outright stated that he was responsible for Detane murdering his wife and children and the only thing I felt surprised about was the tempered reaction to the announcement by the disgraced Breton.
Beside me, Viconia was looking overwhelmingly smug, as her own opinion that despite Detane's mannerisms and personality that he was incapable of consciously committing such an act had been publicly proven.
"Who do you think you are to challenge me?" the growing indignation was overwhelming the Baron's fear and uncertainty and his voice was threatening to crack under the strain. "You are nothing. You are disgraced and banished and without honour."
"Yet I still challenged you."
Even from where I stood I felt chills run down my spine at the tone in Detane's voice. There were many, including the knights at Jaseton's back who were now suddenly looking very unsure of what was occurring, and surreptitiously his attending knights took a handful of paces away from the two men.
"Fine." Baron Jaseton practically spat the word into Detane's uncompromising expression, not even eliciting a blink from the slightly shorter man in the worn armour. "Let all here bare witness that I, Denos Pierlon Jaseton, Baron of Norvulk answer the challenge of this disgrace of a… Knight. Et Novem vult!"
The sword of Arkay, once held by shaking hands was lifted once more, the throbbing power within the blade seemingly yearning for blood and death as it fed on the emotions of the wielder. If there was any doubt of the relics taint, it was gone at the sight of the ethereal energies building within the metal and the way that it seemed to grow stronger with the resentment and anger from the person holding it.
Detane on the other hand was a monument to calm, his face expressionless as the ghosts and those nearest to him and the Baron stepped back to provide them room. Alexi, Viconia and I soon found ourselves standing within the circle of onlookers at yet another unusual part of the day that they had found themselves in. The living and dead formed a circle around the two men, and the level of expectation was growing stronger by the second.
"You should have been executed years ago."
Detane remained still and silent, letting the Baron's anger and words wash over him as he slowly, and precisely drew his rapier out of its scabbard. While a glorious weapon in its own right I suddenly had doubts of its ability to contend with the cursed relic wielded by Baron Jaseton.
He remained standing where he was when Jaseton attacked, the Baron throwing himself into a wide swing with the powerful blade. I could immediately tell that the unusual weight and feel of the enchanted weapon was throwing off his ability, but the overwhelming power of the blade was more than enough to make up for it. The power of the weapon, combined with the hate filled swing was more than enough to cut Detane in half as easily as a blow from Falid's monster of a weapon if it had actually hit.
Casually, almost insultingly Detane stepped back enough for the glowing blade to cut through the space where he had been standing, flicking out his rapier and slapping the baron across the face with the flat edge. With considerable speed despite the fact he had overbalanced, the baron was again grasping at his face with shock, but when he realised that he wasn't in fact bleeding, his face returned to a snarling scowl and he attacked again.
The two Bretons were locked in a combat that I had never seen the like of before and like the other spectators I watched with amazement as they traded blows of naked savagery. Baron Jaseton was infused with an anger that I had only seen in the likes of in werewolves and daedra and yet Detane was fighting cold, uncharacteristically so in fact. Every movement he made was precise and perfect, showing a level of skill and ability that was extraordinary, even in the presence of master swordsmen both dead and living. The sword of Arkay was a peerless weapon and the Baron was an incredible fighter, one who I would have most likely struggled to hold my own against and yet Detane was making an utter mockery of his ability.
With precise blows he deflected and turned Arkay's sword aside without any effort at all, ensuring with an incredible skill that his rapier never caught the enchanted blade square on lest it be sliced into pieces. It was soon obvious to all with the possible exception of Baron Jaseton that Detane was playing with him, until the traces of red began appearing all across his body.
With every light cut, a tiny streak of blood appeared on Detane's rapier and some exposed flesh gained an open smile of a cut. It began with portions of the Baron's face, cutting into his cheeks in such a way that the wounds weren't noticeable to begin with. Soon the exposed portions of his arms began to stain his expensive clothes with blooming patches of crimson and with each new slash and cut, Jaseton grew more and more enraged.
"You are nothing!" he snapped as Detane made one of his attacks appear as sloppy as a child's. "Your wife and children are fodder for the daedra in Oblivion and you should have been put down like a rabid dog when we had the chance!"
There was not even the slightest change in Detane's expression but a new smile was opened in Jaeston's shoulder, a light cut slicing through the chainmail that did little more than inflict some more pain onto the Baron. By now there were patches of red all over him, and yet the only blood that stained Detane was along the length of his rapier.
Another strike was parried aside and Detane's weapon flashed through the air in a movement that was too fast for me to truly see, but the effects were also highly noticeable. The grunted exclamation of pain from the Baron was more than enough to know that the blow had hurt even before he stepped back cradling his non-master hand to his chest. it was only when he spat a stream of curses and I saw the dripping blood that I realised that Detane had somehow managed to slice off the smallest finger in one precise blow.
"You bastard!" Sloppily Jaseton flicked the heavier, bastard-sword like length of the Blade of Arkay into a thrust with resulted in little more than a faint ringing of steel as Detane parried it.
The next motion of his weapon was so quick that it made the sound of ripping cloth and for a moment there was again no sign of what he had done but the Baron certainly felt it. Drenched and dripping with blood, his injured hand was lifted up to the side of his face where a fresh wound had appeared next to the handful of smaller cuts and he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his cheek.
"You are disgraced! Exiled! You have no home to go back to you whoreson!"
Another wicked cut flickered between them and for a moment and I was left blinking at how I thought that Detane had managed to take an eye away. Instead, the Baron's scream of pain was ripped through his throat as a thumb was severed neatly. So precise was the strike that despite how the hand was pressed to the side of a face, no other flesh was cut as a result.
"Why are you doing this! You have won already!"
The tremor of fear in Baron Jaeston's voice was audible to all and while there were various hisses and wincing from the audience, not a single portion of emotion was visible on Detane face and he uttered no sound. He wasn't even breathing heavily as he stepped away from another swing of the ancient relic that was fuelled by a growing panic in his opponent, and despite the massive opening in Jaeston's defence Detane didn't take it.
"You want your title back? Is that it? I would give it back but it's not up to me! I can't change the laws!"
With blood staining his clothing from the series of shallow cuts and missing digits off a hand, Baron Jaseton continued to fight on regardless, swinging with less and less skill as his pain and fear got the better of him. With one hand mutilated it was difficult to wield the Sword of Arkay in the two handed grip it seemed designed for and instead he was stuck attempting to use the weapon in a similar manner to Detane's fencing-like style. All this seemed to result in was a handful of minor cuts being added to the number he had already received, and several painful slaps with the flat of the blade for the trouble.
"It was never my plan! It was my father's! He desired your land but you refused to sell! It was never my intent for harm to come to you and your family."
Detane's face was still a mask, giving no clue to the emotions or feelings of the man as he circled the pain wracked baron like a wolf. "You gave the order."
Looking up at the first words he had spoken, Baron Jaseton eye's met Detane's and he feverishly nodded, turning and trying to face the stalking chevalier. "I… I did. I'll admit it! I ordered Mayvraud to use magicka to discredit you!"
Off to the side of the ring, the handful of the Baron's courtiers and Knights shuffled nervously and one of their number, the man dressed in the enchanted robes began to shuffle backwards. The expression on his face mirrored that of his lord with building panic but his attempt to escape ended when it came figuratively, and quite literally to a stop when he walked into an obstacle.
This obstacle was not as simple as a wall and personally I considered a stone or brick wall would have had proven to be less of an impediment. The illusionist Mayvraud, so focussed on the duel and his attempts to remove himself from the blame of what was being confessed had failed to notice the enormous presence moving between him and his escape until he had run right into the barrel chest of Falid. Standing head and shoulders over the wizard, the giant of a Redguard had simply looked the magicka user in the eye, and slowly and carefully shook his head with all the promise of a dormant volcano.
Despite all of his injuries and pain, Baron Jaseton continued to fight the increasingly one sided fight as though he still had a chance. By now it was less of a duel than a purposeful slaughter and all of us knew it, but Imperial Duelling law stated that until one side gave in or was rendered incapable of continuing none of us could intervene.
"What do you want from me!" Warbled the Baron as Detane continued to stalk around him with the same cold, dead expression on his face. "I'll confess! I'll confess to everything!"
The silence from his opponent was deafening and I could smell the overwhelming fear from the Baron as the seconds dragged on. More and more of his blood had permanently ruined his priceless clothes and by now his armour had fully felt the touch of blood for possibly the first time since its creation. It and the panicking movements of the Baron still had no effect on Detane and he continued moving as though nothing had changed.
"I did it! It was my idea! I wanted your land! I wanted your title! I wanted everything you had and I ordered Mayvraud to use his magicka to remove you before your son was old enough to inherit! It was his magicka that had cursed you!"
The words were flowing out of his mouth now without hindrance, without slowing as he did everything he could to stave off the end that had finally sunk into his mind. Detane had always been a ruthless, cold fighter but this was something different entirely. His heart and mind we so cold, so emotionless that only creatures from oblivion could have possibly hoped to match.
"It was his magicka that night! A frenzy enchantment on a few gifts supplied to you from members of your court. Is that want you wanted to hear? It wasn't your fault! You weren't responsible for what you did to your family. I'm… I'm sorry! Do you hear me? I'm sorry!"
Still, there was no reaction from Detane, not even the slightest twitch of an eyebrow or movement from his waxed moustache. At that moment there could have been a Dwemer automaton walking around the bleeding and pleading noble in the centre of the duelling circle and it would have been showing more emotion to the torrent of words.
"Please, don't kill me! I'm sorry! I repent everything!" Twisting in place, his eyes were filled with fear and pleading as he sought out the ghostly figures standing in the circle. "That's what you all wanted to hear? You wanted me to repent? I've repented, my soul is saved! Please! Please save me! I don't want to die!"
"I'm not going to kill you."
It wasn't even directed at me and yet I felt my entire soul shudder and the hairs on the back of my neck go on end from Detane's voice. There was no way to truly describe how cold it was, and yet despite the lack of emotion there was something under it all, a rage and fury the like that even my vampirism could never hope to match. Slowly, Baron Jaseton turned to look at his opponent, the man whose life and family he had utterly destroyed standing a few short metres away staring into the depths of his soul.
"W-What?"
"I'm not going to kill you." With a flick and a single smooth action, Detane flicked the blood off his rapier and slid it into its sheath. "Killing you won't teach you anything and it certainly won't make up for everything you have done. You will live, Denos Jaseton but only because you will remember this moment for the rest of your life."
"Thank you, you are most-"
Despite his rapier being returned to its sheath, Detane struck far quicker than even the fastest of serpents. In the space of a blink of an eye he had drawn his weapon, slashed across the space separating the two of them and then slid it back into its sheath before anyone, including Baron Jaseton could realise what was happening.
The screaming started shortly after, the detached wailing ripping out of the disgraced baron's throat as he dropped to his knees clutching at the spurting stump of a hand which had once been holding the Sword of Arkay. Clattering loudly onto the bloodstained tiles, the priceless relic of Arkay lightly bounced once before laying still, the chime of its metal lingering even over the pained cries of its mutilated wielder. Still tightly gripping the hilt, his hand twitched and jumped as the nerves misfired from a body that it was no longer attached to but Detane seemed blind to all of this, sheathing his weapon once more without even a glance to his downed adversary.
Only now did the Baron's knights rush forward to assist their liege who was no screaming and crying like a babe. None of them moved near the silent and still Detane staring off at sights that only he could see and their own eyes were focussed entirely on the man who they were trying their best to staunch the bleeding from the stump. It didn't surprise me at all when I caught the familiar sight of Brellin rushing forward to assist, his own vows to assist the wounded ensuring he would help no matter the character of those he treated.
"The Order of the Nine protects and safeguards the relics," I called out over the pained cries of Jaseton in an attempt to regain control over the insanity that the situation had devolved into. "We do not claim the relics for our own. This is our duty and we will fulfil it. Dark forces are arraying against us, even now as we bicker and squabble over who has right to something that none of us have the right to claim. We will rise strong and face down the darkness united or Tamriel will fall!"
There were a collection of 'Et Novem vults!' from the crowd and several I saw raised their hands in salute or otherwise agreed with my words but I knew that many would not remain here after this day's events. The Host of the Horn especially were quietly and quickly fading away, leaving a large number of the original members of the Order of the Nine and those supporting the Order. There were ones or twos of the other knights belonging to the Duke and the other lords who were either dead or gravely wounded but otherwise it was only those who had taken their oaths with me that remained.
My eyes however were locked on one lone individual, standing in his decayed and heavily worn brigandine and his masterwork rapier attached at his hip. Detane was standing as still as a stone, ignoring everything and everyone around him as he slowly approached the Sword of Arkay laying on the bloodstained cobblestones. His expression still hadn't changed, remaining cold and almost lifeless as he slowly knelt down and for a moment I was about to cry out until I realised that he wasn't interested in the Sword at all. Without any hesitation he simply pried the fingers of the severed hand off the hilt of the weapon, leaving the relic on the ground as he went about removing a heavy signet ring off one of the fingers.
Moving over to him, I saw the way that he pulled the ring off, discarding the hand it had been attached to and dropping it into the palm of his hand. There was no doubting the expensive nature of such a ring, especially from the precious metals it was made from and the signet itself on the front. The coat of arms alone spoke of the weight of authority granted to its wielder and I knew what that ring truly represented to the chevalier. At some time in the past that ring had once been on one of Detane's fingers and I couldn't doubt what was going through his mind as he gazed upon it.
"I suppose this means that you have been redeemed." I said simply, but carefully with soft tones as I tried to get a read on his emotions. "I also guess you outrank me now too."
For the first time since it had all began I saw some emotion within his gaze, and for the very first time since meeting him there was a small smile on his face and tears beginning to well in the corners of his eyes. The smile that he gave me was faint, but it was there and it was an honest one, even if it did harden for a moment as he glanced in the direction where the screaming Jaseton was being carried off by his knights.
"I'm not a Baron. Not anymore." He said simply, looking me in the eye with building resolve. There was one last glance at the ring in his palm before he simply dropped it, where it plinked into a puddle of blood.
"I'm a Knight of the Nine."