Part four

39: Cult of the Nerevarine

The Ashlanders all believe in the legend of Nerevar's reincarnation and return, but some believe more than others. The strongest core of belief is the Nerevarine Cult, focused here among the Urshilaku. When I made my way into the camp wearing the glowing ring Moon and Star it was immediately recognized. Here they were not just expecting the Nerevarine someday, they were waiting for me to return from the Cavern of the Incarnate. Perplexed that a Breton would even be going to the cavern, but still hoping beyond hope that Azura would send them the hero they are counting on to defeat Dagoth Ur. As the hunters returned one by one the excitement grew into a wild celebration.

Sul-Matuul and Nibani were more sober. "Azura has spoken. I am to be your guide, Nerevarine, said the wise woman of the clan. "You are the Nerevarine, but the trials are far from completed. You must be called Nerevarine not just by the hunters of our clan, but by the Ashkahns of the four clans. In this I can offer you knowledge of their camp sites and their ways. Hopefully the Moon and Star will convince them."

"I am satisfied Nibani," said Sul-Matuul. "I would declare him Nerevarine tonight. However, by your leave Nerevarine I would prefer to wait. The rumor will spread among the hunters as it is, but if I speak that will add fuel to the blaze. Being the Nerevarine of the clans will not help with the great houses. The more you are known as the Nerevarine the harder it will be to approach the trial of the Hortator. The Tribunal Temple will be against you, and those of the house people who listen most strongly to the temple will be your enemies, even those who were your friends."

The words of the ghost of Peakstar came back to me. Her spirit had stood in the cavern as the most recent failed incarnate and said that it was the ways of the great houses that had defied her understanding, and the trial of the Hortator had been her undoing. Sul-Matuul's counsel was true, and I appreciated his wisdom. "How should I approach the house people?" I asked my advisors.

"The ways of the house people are strange to me," said Nibani. "All I can offer is that I will seek Azura's guidance. Sul-Matuul's words make sense to me though."

Sul-Matuul looked pensive. "The house Dunmer are strange to us all. We must seek the guidance of Azura, but we must also help ourselves as best we can." With that he excused himself and left the tent briefly, returning with his Gulakhan Zabamund and the clan's trader Kurapli. "Of our clan Kurapli has the most experience of the house people, and Zabamund's words are always in my ear." I accepted their congratulations and their professions of loyalty, and we laid out the challenges ahead.

"There is no question that the trial of the Hortator must come first," Zabamund agreed. "Declaring you the Nerevarine would have the Ordinators on your neck immediately, and they would likely attack our camp as well. You must have the support of the house people to hold them in check. The Velothi know the legend, they know you must be both Nerevarine and Hortator. They will not be troubled that you are Hortator the way the Great Houses will reject the Nerevarine."

"So how do I approach the house Dunmer?"

"Start with the Redorans," Kurapli suggested. "They are warriors, they will be honorable in their dealings."

"They are also the greatest supporters of the temple in Vvardenfell though," Sul-Matuul added.

"Good reason to get to them first," said Zabamund. Sul-Matuul looked at his lieutenant with some surprise, but then he nodded.

I looked back and forth between them. "Okay. Explain please."

"When you start this task the temple will be try to stop you. If the Redorans have not declared you Hortator they will be added to the resistance of the Ordinators. The Hlaalu may not answer their call, and the Telvanni certainly won't," Sul-Matuul said.

"Okay. The Redorans first then. They have a council. I can't just walk into a council meeting and tell them I am the Hortator. What do I do?"

"On any council there are leaders," said Sul-Matuul. "First you must know who those leaders are."

"Much more importantly that will tell you who are not the leaders," said Kurapli. "The leaders have power. They will be the least interested in a change. Any who are not happy with the leaders will be the best to approach."

"Once you have a friend on the council you will be able to proceed," Zabamund concluded.

"So that is the plan," I said. "There's another advantage to approaching the Redorans first. I think their councilors are all in Ald-ruhn."

"That seems to be the plan Nerevarine," said Sul-Matuul, "but I suggest you wait until Nibani has consulted Azura."

"Of course," I said. "In the meantime I need to lay low. Rumors are going to spread."

"Kurapli, this is an opportunity you should not pass," Zabamund told her. "Even though he is now the Nerevarine, Arvil Bren is still our clanfriend. I know he will stand for the honor of our clan, and yours as well."

"Ah," said Sul-Matuul, "and that would get him out of the camp, which will make it easier to quiet the rumors."

"What?" I asked. "What is the problem Kurapli? I will help if I can."

Tears glistened in her eyes, something I did not expect from an Ashlander. "My husband was slain clanfriend."

"By who?"

"Renegades. Outcasts. They came to trade, and the Urshilaku gave our hospitality. In return they stole from us. My husband challenged them, and they made as if to return what they had stolen, but then Zallay Subaddamael surprised him. The thieves fled as he died in my arms. They have no honor."

"Outcasts. Where would I find them?"

"They have a camp at Aharasaplit, in Sheogorad," said Zabamund. "It is remote, and the Ordinators will not hear of you from there."

"My husband said that whoever avenges him is to get his spirit spear. It may serve well in your trials."

"I would have many nights to dream the dreams Nerevarine, " said Nibani. "Azura will reveal whatever she must reveal."

I don't know if I am motivated by the clan's honor, the convenience of a distraction, or my own outrage; but Subaddamael will have to go further than Sheogorad to escape vengeance.


40: End of the world

The End of the World tradehouse is appropriately named. Dagon Fel is as remote as I would want to get . The Nords who live here seem to barely recognize that Sheogorad is considered by the empire to be part of Morrowind. They would have it as a distant branch of their own province. I spent the evening here in the common room, surrounded by hard drinking Nords, and did not see a single Dunmer face.

Most of my time was invested in conversation with a thief called Hreirek the Lean. While I have left my own theiving days behind me, my relationship with Ahnassi has kept me on the fringes of the guild. It was not hard to get her to accept me.

My arrival as a passenger from Khuul and my obvious Breton heritage would not have gotten me much recognition. The glowing ring Moon and Star may have if I had left it on, but the Nords were not on the same side of many ancient battles with Nerevar, so if it had been recognized it would likely not have done me much good. I suppose I could have identified myself as the Archmage of Vvardenfell and gotton some begrudged cooperation, but that would not have served for keeping a low profile.

My position with the Mage's Guild, in fact, looks to lead me into yet another delay. Hreirek did recognize the name of the camp, Aharasaplit, and tells me that it lies on the southwest coast. Were I not the Archmage I would head there directly in the morning. But I am the Archmage.

I admited to Hreirek that I am not in her guild, being a member of the Mage's Guild instead. She accepted my connections in place of membership, but bristled at the mention of the Mage's Guild. I could not help but notice, and naturally had to explore the source of her disaffections. Usually the Imperial guilds hold each other in reasonable regard. The mercenaries of the Fighter's Guild are frequently hired to guard things or otherwise interfere with theives, so there is often friction there, but the Theive's Guild is often called on by mages to acquire items that may not be available through conventional means, and theives are regular customers of the enchanters and alchemists. I probed gently, trying to find what could have soured my new friend on my guild.

"The local mage, Sorkveld the Raven." My attempt at subtle questioning brought a typically direct response from the Nord. "The local Dunmer hate him. Necromancy really offends them. He even gives me the creeps."

"Necromancy is against local law, and the Mage's Guild doesn't condone it. In fact I've at times been assigned to convince necromancers to change their ways."

"Well, I don't know if Sorkveld is even a member of the Mage's Guild," she said. "If he is I doubt that he is in good standing. He isn't the type, but he claims that since the Empire doesn't outlaw necromancy the locals just have to put up with it."

"That certainly isn't the position of the guild." I considered. I don't really even know which of my guild stewards would be responsible for this remote corner of my territory. "How skilled is this Sorkveld?" I asked.

"Deadly. He and his minions have a reputation for providing their own corpses, if you know what I mean."

I sighed. Sorkveld is clearly a problem. A rogue necromancer turning people against mages in general. It could be months before anyone can be sent up here to demand dues from him and make him comply with local law. And of course there is the question of just who could accomplish the task.

I took to my room and honed the point of the spear I was given by Erur-Dan. It served me well on the trek to Khuul this morning. At one point I waded around some rocky headlands rather than levitating over them or wasting time trying to climb them, and encountered a dreugh. There is nothing better for battling the aquatic decendents of the Ruddy Man than a stout spear, and I was glad to have it. It will likely be pressed into service in my negotiations with Sorkveld and I want its edge keen.

Erur-Dan is a failed Incarnate. His motives, I think, had little to do with battling Dagoth Ur. He was more interested in the part of the prophecy that says the Nerevarine will drive the outlanders from Morrowind. His era spanned the surrender to the Empire, and his hatred of the Cyrodiils is only matched by his disgust with the Tribunal. A few centuries lingering in the Cavern has mellowed him somewhat I suppose. Either that or seeing me be accepted by Azura left him little choice. At any rate, he is clear that his own path as the Nerevarine was a course of folly that ended in his singlehanded assault on the blighted monsters of Red Mountain. He must have had great courage, and I am honored to carry this spear.


41: Sorkveld the Raven

I am somewhat of a hero here in Dagon Fel. The innkeepers and customers here at the End of the World are in universal agreement that no one will mourn the necromancer and his minions. At every opportunity I have explained that the Mage's Guild does not allow the necromancy that was Sorkveld's specialty. I think I can expect our members to be greeted with a bit more hospitality from the Nords of this remote village in the future, should any have reason to come here.

Sarnir, the clerk who runs the End of the World, has given me more information about Aharasaplit camp. He also has given me a room that I can use for the duration of my stay in Sheogorad. Sorkveld's tower was rich with artifacts. Some from its origins as a Dwemer stronghold and others no doubt accumulated during Sorkveld's unsavory activities. Another that is wrapped in a blood red cloak and hidden deep in a chest, locked with the most powerful locking spells at my command.

I arrived at the tower unannounced and uninvited, so I did not expect a joyful welcome. I was not disappointed. The round iron door was opened by a burly Nord clad in bonemold armor, including a closed face helm. In his meaty fist he held a great mace of Dwemer metal. He held it ready, not raised threateningly but still clearly letting me know that I was not welcome. I could not complain since I was using the spear of Erur-Dan as a walking staff, but I had at least pushed my helm of Dwemer metal up to reveal my face. No light banter would create any comfort between us.

"Hail bold warrior. I come from the Imperial Mage's Guild, and seek counsel with your master."

"But he seeks no counsel from you stranger. You would be best served to leave Sheogorad and crawl back to wherever you came from."

"Ah. That doesn't solve the problem though. The Empire considers Sheogorad to be part of the Vvardenfell District, and the new Archmage of Vvardenfell has taken a personal interest in Sheogorad, specifically in Sorkveld the Raven."

A Dunmer woman in glittering robes spoke from the bottom of the stair. "The Raven has no interest in your Archmage that I know of. If he does he will pay a visit I'm sure. Right now he is not to be disturbed."

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "How have you appeased your ancestors, who know you serve a necromancer?"

"I study the ways of the outlanders. My ancestors honor knowledge, knowledge that may be needed to defend our land from your Empire. I use only outlander bones and ghosts."

"Well, that seems very noble of you sister mage, but I think very few of your race would approve. Necromancy is prohibited by your people, and the guild in Vvardenfell supports them in that."

At the mention of necromancy the warrior had shifted his shield and his stance, drawing himself ready for battle. "Mage, it is time for you to leave," he said.

"Recognizing that there is no solution, friend?" I said. "Dagon Fel is too remote for a simple promise. The only way I can be sure there will be no necromancy practiced here is if your master takes ship, or dies. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't capable of matching his skills." I lowered my spear point. "You," I gestured to include the Dunmer woman, "do not have to die for him. You are free to leave with him, or without him."

"You've chosen the wrong opponent, mage," said the armored Nord, hefting his mace. Magica began to coalesce in the Dunmer woman's hands. I sighed.

With the door at my back I had no room to back away, and the mace wielding warrior would quickly be too close for the spear to be effective. I struck the woman and a cascade of venomous magic spread over her from the wound, disrupting whatever spell she was crafting. I released the spear, hoping that it would stay lodged between her ribs and disrupt her control. The Nord's mace crashed against the shadow shield, driving me back against the door.

I drew my stormsword. The razor sharp edge of volcanic glass sliced across the Nord's bonemold shield, hewing away part of the resinous material. Glass on bonemold does not draw sparks like a steel sword striking a metal shield would, but the stormsword's enchantment does not care what it strikes. Huge sparks leapt from the impact and the Nord howled in pain as he dropped back down the stairs. The stair gave me the advantage of height. I crouched, so that my shield could deflect his mace away from my legs, and rained blows of the stormsword down on him.

Things were going well until I suddenly sagged under a great weight. All of my equipment was glowing with a light purple haze of magica, and I immediately recognized that the Dunmer woman had struck me with a burdening spell. The Nord whooped a savage war cry and leapt to the attack. I fell back, sitting heavily on a higher step. Fortunately, the Dunmer had chosen to confront me using alteration magic, the school in which I am the master. The stormsword fell at my side, but with a few quick gestures I countered her spell with my own, a feathering spell that reduced the weight back to normal and beyond, and I took it back up.

The Nord took advantage of the opportunity and his heavy mace smashed into my shoulder. Typical of the Nord he was gripped with battle lust and over committed to the attack, thinking to quickly finish a fallen foe. Being sprawled on my back on the stairs was certainly not my preference, but any circumstance can be turned to advantage against a sufficiently unwary opponent, and the Nord was just such an opponent.

For a long time I have worn a special pair of pants under my armor. They are exquisitely crafted, and that workmanship allows them to hold a significant level of enchantment, powered by the spirit of a golden saint. I call them the pants of strongleg, and they have allowed me to carry the heavy loads of armor and loot that I have often gathered in my travels. All of that enchantment focused in my left leg as it folded under the weight of the Nord, my foot planted firmly against his bonemold encased torso. With all the strength and enchantment I could muster I straightened that leg and launched my adversary into an arching trajectory that cleared many of the steep steps before he landed, tumbling into a broken heap at the bottom of the flight.

"Your turn," I snarled as I sheathed the stormsword and bounded down the stairs. Alteration magic chorused around me, and a blasting purple bolt struck the Dunmer, crushing her to the floor. She began gesturing frantically, drawing together her own feather spell. "Alteration is my field, not yours, necromancer." Another blast of purple light and her hands fell at her sides, pinned by the now insurmountable weight of her sleeves. I took up the fallen spear of Erur-Dan. "I wish I could count on you fleeing this place when that spell wears off, but you are too dangerous and you made your choice." Hatred glared from her red eyes as I raised the spear.

Suddenly the cuirasse of the savior's hide that protects my body was pierced and an ebony shortsword slid between my ribs. Bloody froth spewed from my lips as I gasped in agony. I turned , swiping with the spear, and a crouching Bosmer clad in chitinous armor of insect shells leapt away. I choked out the shadow shield's word of activation and shimmered into invisibility. "Not fair!" raged the Bosmer. I hid from you fair and square, mage! No magic required. But how long can your spell last, eh?" He backed against a wall, his ebony blade still dripping with my blood weaving in front of him.

I collapsed onto the stairs, trying vainly to make as little noise as possible. "Is that the sound of a fall?" asked the Bosmer gleefully. "Will your spell wear off so I can finish you, or will it just expire with your life to reveal your lifeless husk? Don't worry, our master will have you on your feet and hulking about in no time." The problem with invisibility spells is that they are broken by almost any action. I could not just lay there on the steps with my lungs filling with blood, but gulping a healing potion would bathe me in the blue light of restorative magic. I had no choice.

"More spells?" screached the Bosmer as he leapt forward. I scuttled, crablike, up the stairs on my back, trying to give the healing magic time to bind my severe wound. His ebony blade rang against the shadow sheild. Drawing on my last reserves of magica I drew a fiery shell of elemental energy around myself, scorching my enemy and giving me precious moments to gather myself.

I had dropped the spear when the stealthy blow struck. I drew the stormsword and held off his furious assault as tissues continued to knit under my right arm. Second by second my sword got more mobile, and the Bosmer got more desperate. Eventually I was fully recovered, and the Bosmer fell with his breastplate shattered by a slashing blow from the keen glass edge. Lightning played over his corpse.

Time was of the essence. The Dunmer mage was beginning to stir as the burdening spells that held her down ran out their course. A sweep of the stormsword severed her head.

A ladder led into the upper level of Sorkveld's tower. I did not want to face the necromancer with my own reserves completely depleated, so I quickly drained a flask of magical elixer refined from the heart of a daedric monster, carried in a base of comberry juice. Brimming with magical energies I cast a chameleon spell and a levitation spell, then threw open the trapdoor. While not as effective as invisibility, the chameleon spell is not disrupted by action, and made me difficult to see as I hurtled up through the trapdoor, continuing upward until I was pressed to the ceiling of the tower room.

"You interrupt me?" roared the necromancer. He wore blood red robes and a helm of adamantium that included a strangely calming mask. "Look! Gaze upon the features of Clavicus Vile; the greatest necromancer of all. See your doom!" He brandished a steel axe that glowed with elemental energy, sparks dancing along the wicked edge.

I dropped to the floor. "Necromancer," I said. "You defy the law of the land, and the rules of the Mage's Guild. You defile the dead, and the living. The tortured spirits that you have bound and betrayed await you."

"They may be waiting for this Nordic husk, but they will wait forever for Clavicus Vile." The necromancer gestured and a partly decomposed corpse rose from its slab. I struck quickly with the venomous spear before the horrific stench of the bonewalker could sap my strength. "Nicely done. You may be more worthy of my mask than Sorkveld. Perhaps you will slay him." The axe crashed against the shadow shield and elemental lightning splashed around me. Clavicus Vile may have professed unconcern about the demise of his host, but he wasn't going to surrender.

Eventually the greater reach of my venomous spear carried the battle and the Nord fell, his sparkaxe clattering to the floor. Eerily, even after he had fallen dead he continued to speak. "Victory. Now claim your prize; the power, the glory...the mask of Clavicus Vile." The voice was strangely compelling, and I found myself on my knees next to the body. Clasping the helm in both hands I lifted it off the fallen Nord's brow. The corpse stopped speaking, but the voice droned on. "Yes. Yes. You are powerful! Only one such as you could safely wear the mask and harness its power. The mighty spirit of Clavicus Vile would be yours to command."

I turned the helm and raised it in both hands. "Yessss," hissed the voice. Magical energies swirled over the inner surfaces of the mask, and through the eyeholes I could see that the interior of the tower gleamed with exotic energies. I began to lower the helm. "Yesss"

"No!" I flung the helm aside with a shudder. "No." The spirit of Clavicus Vile, bound into the mask for eternity, shrieked in rage. I fumbled into my pocket and slipped the Moon and Star onto my finger. "You are an ancient evil Clavicus Vile, but Arvil Bren belongs to me, and I am just as ancient." I seized a skull from a skeleton lying on a shelf and shoved it into the helm.

Red light flickered in the empty eye sockets and glared through the mask. "Nerevar!" The voice was disjointed, whispering above the chatter of teeth as the bare jaws clattered together. Guided by the Moon and Star I reached out, and tore away the lower jaw. Bound forever to the silenced skull, the mask of Clavicus Vile will never threaten again.


42: Ashlander honor

Aharasaplit was not hard to find. As I had been told there were plenty of paths to choose from heading roughly towards the southwest coast. I proceeded cautiously, skirting the roving bands of Orc barbarians. The Nords of Dagon Fel cursed these marauders, but suggested that it would not be worth the effort to eliminate any that I ran across as there would just be more to take their place. The barbarians live off the land, which keeps their numbers small, but consistent. Once I reached the coastal path I climbed over a final ridge to reach the beach. At the western end the small camp stands on the sand under the looming ridge.

I approached the camp openly. Without being certain that Zallay Subaddamael would even actually be at this camp I hoped to avoid any unneccessary bloodshed. I was successful I suppose.

Three Ashlanders lived here in this camp. Their backgrounds varied, from being cast out of the major clans to being born in the wilderness to outcast parents. They all accepted their lot, though they could not have been called happy. Zallay was their leader, older, and familiar with the ways of the larger clans. In fact his knowledge was vast, from having traded and raided in all corners of Vvardenfell. His experience and wisdom has given me a great confidence in the Ashlanders, and hope for the coming dark days. It is unfortunate that the qualities that gave me that confidence are the same qualities that made his death inevitible.

Yesterday I donned the ring, the Moon and Star of Nerevar. Though it is beautifully crafted and glowing with enchantments it did not draw too much attention. Magical rings on the fingers of mages are not that unusual, though this ring certainly is. The Nords of Dagon Fel did not seem to notice, and I left this morning with the ring still on my finger. To my surprise even the outcast Ashlanders recognized the ring immediately.

"You are the Nerevarine," Zallay said as soon as he came out of his yurt. He turned to Shanat, who had gone in to get him. "You were right, that is the Moon and Star." He turned back to me. "The Nerevarine, in distant Sheogorad, looking for me. I am honored, but very much concerned."

"He is raising the army! The time has come to sweep the outlanders from our lands." Tibdan Shalarnetus is young, by Dunmer standards, and his eyes flew wide only after everyone else had looked at him. "I mean no offense," he murmured with his eyes turned down. Obviously the idea of Nerevar returning as a Breton is going to take some getting used to.

"I understand," I said. "I have seen for myself that some outlanders do not respect the ways of the Velothi or even the great houses. I also know though that Dagoth Ur respects no one, and no life; Outlander, House Dunmer, Ashlander clans, or Velothi nomads such as yourselves. Dagoth Ur and his minions are the enemy."

"But Nerevar did not come here to recruit the three of us," Zallay said. The certainty in his voice gave me pause. I wondered what insight had prompted it. He continued. "The Nerevarine would start recruiting with the four clans. If he ever got around to us in Sheogorad it would only be after nearly every Ashlander had been rallied. None of that has happened, so that is not why he is here. So again, why have you come seeking me Nerevarine?"

I hesitated. He read my hesitation, the red eyes missing nothing. "Ah," he said, "I see. The Urshilaku have obviously recognized you, so you are a friend to their clan...including Kurapli no doubt."

"Yes," I said. My hand slipped to the hilt of the stormsword.

Shanat said "He is here to kill you Zallay!"

"Yes Shanat, he is." I could not believe how calm he was. "Draw no weapons!" His eyes flicked from one of his men to the other. "You will not draw swords on the Nerevarine!" His voice cracked like a whip. They actually flinched. Truth be told I suspect that I did too. "What it took for this Breton to get that ring is beyond even your wildest imaginings of honorable combat Tibdan. Safe to guess that he would slay all three of us like scribs."

"So Nerevar has returned, and I am to die for my 'crimes'."

"You violated the hospitality of their hearth..."

"I raided the camp of a rival! That is our way. It has always been our way! The four clans grow soft, like the house people." Then he grew quiet. "My methods were perhaps not traditional, but they were not dishonorable. And it is a great honor that it is you they have sent to have vengeance." He turned again to his followers. "My friends, it is time for you to return to the clans. The Urshilaku know the coming storm, they will welcome your blades. The Nerevarine will vouch for you with them." He turned again to me. "I cannot go back, and you have no choice but to kill me, but these are strong blades that will serve your cause."

"I welcome them."

"Then I welcome my death, if you can indeed deliver it." He motioned his men back and stepped back himself. "Come Nerevar let us get this over with." He drew a huge iron claymore from the scabbard on his back. "I see that you wish this were not so, but it is as it must be. I could not serve in your army without offending every Ashkahn of the clans, and if I live it could only be to serve. They could only accept me if I came under the Moon and Star, so my hope for life is that Azura chose you only to bring the ring here to me. If that is so then you will die."

The stormsword hissed from its sheath. "You have made this easy. I thank you for that."

"It is always easy to do the honorable thing," he said.

It wasn't easy. He was a magnificent swordsman. Eventually he fell, and his spirit will no doubt be welcome among the ancestors. His men will leave in the morning to make their way to the Urshilaku camp with his ashes.


43: Barbarian shrine

In returning to Dagon Fel I tried to avoid the Orc barbarians that plague the trails of Sheogorad. I found that the ridgelines provide as good a route as the paths. I avoided many Orcs at the expense of having to battle innumerable cliff racers. Then my intention got sidetracked.

Orcish smiths are among the best in the Empire. In fact there are some people who think the Orcs have only been accepted as citizens because of the armor their smiths produce. I think they might be right. They do not have many other good qualities. Among the worst is that they refuse to give up worshipping what all the races of men and elves have come to know as the 'bad' daedra.

I hid on the ridgeline above the statue of Molag Bal that the Orcs had raised. Roving bands of barbarians I could pass by, but this was a presence that was impossible to ignore. I was also considering the need to outfit an army, and the gleam of Orcish armor triggered my deeper tones of avarice. Even though one Orc was clad in steel plate there were at least three full sets of Orcish mail in the valley below.

Four Orcs, or possibly more, would not be easily overcome if I just charged up the path into their valley. I pondered the terrain. The sides of the valley rose steeply, more like a canyon; a box canyon with their statue rising at the head. Cold rain drizzled from a low grey sky. I crept around both sides of the canyon, cautious about loose rocks which might roll down and reveal me. I took particular note of any places where the Orcs might gain access to the ridges. There weren't many.

I chose my first site carefully and drew the Bone-biter bow. I have made little use of the enchantments of this artifact of the Urshilaku, but today it was invaluable. My experience as a target of the Bone-biter, when it was in the ghostly hands of Sul-Senipul, reduced me to stumbling to my knees. Orcs have a tendency to fly into a berserk rage, which can leave them a bit clumsy to start with. The opportunity was perfect.

I drew back an enchanted arrow and aimed carefully. I expected the first shot to be the only easy one and I wanted to make it count. The arrow flew true, dissolving and lengthening in flight into a small but effective bolt of elemental lightning. The target crashed to the ground, providing some confusion about the source of the attack. The Orcs provided even more confusion. They might have thought the bolt had fallen naturally from the overcast. When the second struck they looked around dumbfounded. With the third they finally recognized they were under attack and scattered.

At first they were not sure where the shots were coming from and were not very effective about seeking cover, but fairly soon they were all sheltered by boulders in the bottom of the canyon or spires that rose from the walls. I watched for movement as I crept along the ridge. Two of them broke from cover, racing towards one of the steep scrambles that could get them to the top of the ridge. A streak of magic blasted down on them from the bow and the one in the lead tripped, sprawling full length on the muddy slope. The other I hit in stride with a spark arrow, then dropped slightly down the far side of the ridge to get fully out of sight and ran.

I came back to the ridgetop some fair distance from the slope they had rushed to climb. A second bolt drained away the coordination from the Orc who had made the most headway at a critical point in his climb and he tumbled down the slope. From the bottom of the canyon one opened fire with a crossbow. I sent her scurrying for cover with a hail of arrows.

I continued working my way around their position. Blasts of tangling magic from the bow kept them off the more climbable slopes. Lightning struck them in swarms from each new vantage until they could find new cover. Eventually they all lay dead somewhere near the feet of the statue of their blood thirsty god.

I left them on the base of the statue after I stripped off their armor. It took two trips to bring all the finely crafted weapons and armor here, to the End of the World. I crated it up to leave with the clerk until I send someone to get it. My pack is loaded with Dwemer artifacts, some beautiful limeware pieces for Ahnassi's table, and the mask of Clavicus Vile. Even neutralized as it is I cannot just leave an item of such dangerous power behind.


44: Outcast

Of course I wasn't really an outcast. I really just went to Sheogorad looking for outcasts, but there was an element of staying out of sight. It did give me a sense of what life is like for those who choose or are stuck with the nomadic lifestyle of the clanless Ashlander. When Tibdan and Shanat arrive I hope they can make the adjustment. I expect they will get here in a few days. They are traveling overland, moving their camp. I took the boat to Khuul and made the short hike to the Urshilaku camp.

I could have made the overland trek. I'm not anxious to get on with the next trials. Nibani has had time to consult with Azura in her dreams, though she has gotten no more guidance. With nothing further from the goddess we are agreed that the Redorans will be my first objective. I will travel to Ald-ruhn tomorrow and get started. I did not travel by sea for the speed, or even the convenience. The crossing of the sea of ghosts gave me an opportunity to wrap up a dangerous loose end. An opportunity that I took, but do not relish.

Ships are a mystery to me. Even though I know that the forest of winches and bollards on the deck are there for the sailors to use in raising and lowering sail, it always seems strange to walk the orderly but crowded deck when the ship is under sail, and all that equipment stands idle. It gave me a place to think. And act.

I made a few trips down into the hold. A sailing ship needs to be heavy in the depths of her keel to keep the sails from laying her over, and I took a few of the heavy stones from the ballast and brought them onto the deck. Not enough to affect the ship, but enough for my purposes. The sailors looked diligently the other way. The captain had warned them that I was the Archmage of Vvardenfell and had some unusual business to take care of so I should be left alone. The rumor circulated that I planned to throw something overboard, and that anyone who took too much note of exactly where that happened would go over with it.

I went to the port railing and untied the rope barrier that filled the gap where the gangplank would be run out. Then I balanced a chest carefully on the edge of the deck and loaded it with the stones I had gathered. No man or monster could bring up such a weight. The chest can't be recovered without opening it and unloading the stones.

I unwound Sorkveld's red cloak from around the mask and placed it on the stones. Even with only the skull's empty sockets there seemed to be eyes behind the mask; eyes that burned with hatred. "Clavicus Vile, there seems to be no way to remove your evil spirit from that mask, and no way to destroy the adamantium of which it is made."

"You are very persuasive, which is why I have stolen your voice." The broken skull inside the helm could make no reply, but the features of the mask twisted bitterly. "But even without a voice leaving you in my room at the inn was a risk. I'm sure you could dim the glow in your eyes, and some poor thief would have no idea of the danger. They would not suit you as well as Sorkveld the Raven, but it wouldn't take you long to betray your host to some necromancer and be loose again in the world. I thought about that quite a bit while I was away. I don't know if there is really anywhere completely secure from theives." The mask seemed to be smirking.

"But I can't just carry you around in my pack forever either. I am possessed by the spirit of Nerevar, and the corprus disease has extended my span. I will live a long, long time unless I meet a bad end; but I could easily meet that bad end. It may even come at the hands of Dagoth Ur. I don't know who would end up in control, but your spirit bound up with that demon is not to be allowed, or even contemplated."

"My circumstances scare me. I'm not an elf. I wasn't raised to think about life lingering on for centuries...millenia...forever. Now I confront that it might. Confronting that myself makes it hard for me to do what I must. But it was you who chose to bind yourself to that mask. You have cheated death. You chose eternity."

I closed the lid. I could not bear to see the mask as it contorted with horror. I gathered all the magica at my command and wove it into the plain, sturdy chest. The locking spell is complex, multi-layered, and permanent. The surrounding waters will be venomous. In fairly short order it will be buried in the bones of passing sea life. A metal pick in the lock will release a devastating blast of lightning. Even the insulated probe that a good thief would normally use will be useless. The salty waters of the Sea of Ghosts will carry the charge.

In a small box at the bottom of the sea eternity will be a very long time. I spent the rest of the voyage in my cabin, shaken by what I had done.

45: Missed by miles

Extensively drawing on the forces of magica leaves a swirling residue of power. This is the foundation of the guild guides teleportation system. The activities of a guild hall create a focal point that the guides can target. Temples and shrines have a comparable effect, though the residuals could be described as having a different 'flavor'.

That difference is the key to intervention spells. Almsivi intervention targets the residual signature of a Tribunal temple. Divine intervention targets the residual of an Imperial Cult shrine. Without the focusing of a guild guide it isn't safe teleporting blindly into a building, but an intervention spell is a great way to travel, depositing the caster in the courtyard of the nearest target.

Yesterday I said I was not anxious to get on with the next trial. Today my error proved it.

I had breakfast with the Urshilaku hunters, and watched restlessly as they slipped off into the wastes. In the absence of Dagoth Ur and the evils he has released upon the land they would be leading a simple life; a life I think I would gladly join them in. Of course in the absence of Dagoth Ur there would be no Nerevarine, and I would likely never have been welcomed among them.

Once they were gone I considered my options. The nearest temple would be Mar Gaan, about halfway to Ald-ruhn. Just south of Ald-ruhn stands Buckmoth Fortress, the Imperial legion's headquarters in Redoran territory. That seemed the better choice. I cast my divine intervention spell.

I appeared outside of Fort Darius in Gnissis. Gnissis, on the far west coast, is a long way from anywhere, but apparently it is closer to the Urshilaku camp than Ald-ruhn is. Since it has a temple in addition to the fort there was no way to teleport away other than using my recall spell to come home to Pelagiad. Once here it was impossible to motivate myself to leave.

I had lunch with Mebestian Ence after selling off another load of Dwemer artifacts that had accumulated in my pack. Mebestian has become a good friend as well as a business partner. I felt safe talking to him about the coming trials. Being who he is he had a different view. "You should approach the Hlaalu first," he said with simple conviction.

"Why?"

"Arvil, you are one of the richest men in Vvardenfell. The Hlaalu can be bought. They have a Cyrodiil on their clan council. How do you think he got there?"

He has a point.

It occurs to me that for the first time there is actually a choice in the path of the Nerevarine. I hope I choose wisely.


46: Decision

Although they are wise, my clanfriends and advisors among the Ashlanders admittedly don't know much about the ways of the great houses. I was haunted by the voice of Peakstar's ghost. She had, no doubt, advisors. She failed this trial. The politics of the great houses confused her, leaving her as bewildered prey for the forces of the temple. I awoke this morning with her story ringing through my mind.

My father taught me about something he called the 'circles of trust'. Like me, he had no family. He was respected in the local guild of thieves, even followed. Perhaps a guild of thieves is less reliable than a guild of mages, but perhaps not. Everyone in a guild has some agenda of their own. He always considered the guild his 'second circle'. His friends were the first. I never really understood how that strange mix came to be his trusted friends, but I am beginning to understand. My own inner circle is just as eclectic.

Nelos Onmar is a Dunmer, and a pure rogue. The beautiful Breton woman who stole his heart has settled him in many ways, but I'm sure few would consider him trustworthy in any sense of the word. I was the key instrument in bringing them together. I would trust him with my life, and perhaps more tellingly I would trust him with my fortune. Ahnassi left word at the Halfway tavern, and Maurrie and Nelos joined us for a late breakfast. In the guild halls it would have been lunch, but I get lazy at home. I fit in better that way, since Ahnassi continues to follow the ways of the Khajiit and prowls at night.

"The great houses," Nelos mused. "I don't know how I would approach them Arvil. My own clan tends more to graft than greatness so it wouldn't be any easier for me than you, even though you're an outlander. I will say though that you are a good candidate to be Hortator though."

"How? I'm no general."

"Neither is the Hortator actually," he said. "We don't really think the same as the Empire, and some things don't translate well. Look around Arvil. How many Dunmer are there, really? When we talk about an 'army' we don't mean the same thing that you do in the lands of the Imperial legions. The Hortator would probably be better described as a hero than a general. When the prophecy says the Nerevarine will lead an army against Dagoth Ur it probably means a ragtag band of adventurers, if that."

"Great. Nelos you are not making me feel better here."

"Well, I mean to," he said. "You were worried about convincing the councils that you are a general, which you aren't. It should be a lot easier to convince them you are a hero. All you need to do is get the great houses to pay a little attention to you and they will notice that you are a hero. You can't help yourself. Trouble comes to you like a magnet."

He's right, of course. The Sixth House cult sends ash minions after me constantly, and buried in the ravaged vestige of a mind of every blighted man or beast is Dagoth Ur's hatred of me, so they invariably charge me on sight. Most smugglers who aren't working with the Sixth House are working with the Cammona Tong, which also has a price on my head. Overall it is hard for me to get through a day alive without killing some adversary or another. "So how do I get their attention Nelos?"

"They adopt kinsmen Arvil, sometimes even outlanders. They'll probably send you on some minor errands to test your loyalty, but knowing you they will have you off scalping their enemies for them in no time." I sighed. If my every experience in Morrowind politics hadn't supported what he said it would probably have made me mad.

I walked to Balmora. It gave me time to think over Nelos' advice before I continued around my circle. By the time I arrived I had pretty well concluded that joining a house would be a necessary first step. Mostly I just couldn't see any way to approach a Great House Council and raise the subject of a Hortator, much less propose myself as one. I still don't, but being a member of a house seems to at least give me a chance of finding one. That settled in my mind I arrived in Balmora with two questions: which house? And: how to join them?

Ranis helped me resolve the first question. She is a native born Dunmer, from a good family. Being magically inclined her kin are mostly associated with the Telvanni. Joining the Imperial guild was an act of rebellion that they have never forgiven. I have never really gotten to the source of her hatred for the Telvanni, but I have come to think it is bottomless. She is brilliant about all things political though, and can set that emotion aside from her reasoning in a most amazing way.

"You could join any of the houses Arvil Bren, but your Ashlanders are correct, you must join the Redorans."

"Why?"

"You can be a member of only one house, but eventually you must be Hortator of all. As a Redoran Hortator you can still buy your way with the greedy Hlaalu, and the Telvanni will accept you once you kill enough of those who would reject you. They are...pragmatic. A Hlaalu or Telvanni Hortator would likely have to kill all of the Redorans. Those stiff necks take their honor far to close to their hearts."

It took the rest of the day to catch up on the business of the guild. I teleported home. In the morning I will resume my interrupted trip to Ald-ruhn. It has taken a couple of days, but at least I feel comfortable with my choice, and I have a manageable first step.


47: Refused

The Redoran Council has entrusted an outlander with their highest post. Of course, the outlander is a Redguard, a race known for their prowess in combat. The Emperor's personal guard consists of Redguard warriors. I'm sure Neminda has the skills to do the Redorans proud.

When Edwinna, my guild steward in Ald-ruhn, told me that the person to see about joining the Redoran house was an outlander I made a mistake. I thought that finally something was going to come easily; at least one small thing. How wrong I can be.

I went to the Council Chambers, in the district of Ald-ruhn known as 'under Skar'. The immense shell of the long dead emperor crab arched overhead. The Council Chambers are directly across from the main entrance, and I crossed the long bridge to the central spire, then the equally long bridge to the opposite side. The creaking catwalks of rope and wood swayed underfoot, both mine and a number of Redoran guards. No more than usual, but for some reason today they made me uncomfortable. I could not see them through their closed face helms, but I felt like they were watching me, and I reviewed my levitation spells silently in preparation for leaping over the side.

The source of my discomfort was obvious once I had spoken to Neminda.

"You want to join House Redoran?" She laughed. "You are an Imperial spy. Berel Sala, the Captain of the Watch has told me all I ever want to hear about you."

"I am, admittedly a member of the Imperial Mage's Guild, Archmage of Vvardenfell in fact," I protested. "I don't deny that, but that hardly makes me a spy. I would think your council would leap at the opportunity to have that position filled by a member of their house. Redoran skill at arms and the guild's magecraft seems a powerful alliance for these troubled times."

She paused, weighing my words. "It isn't your guild that concerns me," she said finally.

"The Blades. The Emperor sent me here to work for the Blades because my birth and parentage seemed a match for the Nerevarine prophecies. That was how I got here, but the Blades have nothing to do with why I want to join your house. I never plan to leave Vvardenfell. This is my home. But the blight of Dagoth Ur is going to have to be overcome. I am a member in good standing with the temple, and I'm organizing my guild to fight the Sixth House, with or without the backing of the Empire. But clearly the power on Vvardenfell lies with the great houses of the Dunmer. I would join the most honorable of those."

"The only honorable of those," she said. "You speak cleverly Breton, but I only care for actions." She turned away dismissivly.

"Could I appeal your decision?" I asked.

She handed me a red bound book. "That is the red book for this year. It has the names of the current councilors, among other things. If any of them tell me that you have performed some actual service for them I will overturn my own decision. The fact that you did not try to lie about your origins speaks well of you."

I returned to the guild hall to leaf through my journals. Surely there must be people in the Redoran territories who would vouch that I have done some good.


48: Character witnesses

I drafted three messages this morning and tasked Edwinna with getting them delivered. A simple duty for one of her apprentices that will have them out and about. They should have no trouble finding those who I hope will speak for me.

Hassour Zainsubani they should find at the Ald Skar Inn. The wealthy merchant is semi-retired, and maintains a permanent room there. Having rescued his son from the clutches of the Sixth House I am fairly certain that he will be willing to take the time to speak to Neminda. He may have connections on the council as well.

Their next stop is at the local temple. Young Ienas Sarandas is a novice there. He donated his family home to the temple after a fit of gambling and wild spending left him sorely in debt. I bought all the goods that he had purchased on credit from him and returned them to the merchants, leaving only the gambling syndicate to feel the loss. His parents, before their untimely death, had made the Sarandas family a pillar of Ald-ruhn society. I am sure that his good word will reach the right ears.

Once they have completed the local tasks the apprentice will need to catch a silt strider to Maar Gan. With the uncertainty of caravan service this might take them some time, but it should not be too taxing. I contributed some gold to cover expenses, but made clear that they were not to travel on foot to Maar Gan. They can walk back if they like, after my message is delivered. I don't want it lost to some blighted monster on the road. I trust Miles Gloriosus to send his response, hopefully a report direct to the council detailing the support I have contributed to the defense of Maar Gan.

My last witness I had to collect myself. Sending an apprentice to wander the myriad trails of the West Gash leaves too many opportunities for delay. Even having been there before I got lost following my own directions. Fortune seems to be smiling on me though. In getting lost I was able to help a merchant whose escort had deserted her, and was rewarded with a truly wonderous artifact.

I saw her standing by the road. She was a Redgaurd; richly dressed, and wearing boots of netch leather that glowed brilliantly with contained magica. I asked her if she needed any help, and was surprised when she offered to give me the boots in return for guiding her to Gnaar Mok. Since I was fairly well lost at the time anyway and knew it would be easier to find my way to Gnaar Mok, and from there to here, I would have taken her for free. As it turns out the boots were a tremendous help to me.

When we reached Gnaar Mok I was considering. I was not sure I could reach the farm before sunset, and fairly certain I would not find it in the dark. I was almost resigned to seeking the hospitality of the Dreugh-gigger's rest for the night. Then Pemenie gave me my reward, which she called the boots of blinding speed. I think she expected me to return them, as they are clearly cursed. 'Blinding' indeed. Fortunately my brestplate has potent resistance to such deviltry and countered that part of the boots' enchantment. I could run like the wind!

And I did. All the way here, to the house of Drulene Falen. Tomorrow I will escort her into Ald-ruhn. As it turns out she knows Neminda herself. She will tell her not only of the services I freely rendered to her the last time I passed this way, but will refer her to a couple of the local guards. The tomb of their ancestors had been desecrated by the bandits that were plaguing the area; bandits who felt the swift justice of my spear. With Drulene, this family, Telvayn by name, and my other witnesses, I am sure that Neminda will relent.


49: Hireling of the Redorans

Neminda has relented. She has accepted me into the house, but as predicted I have been given a task that clearly serves little purpose but to test my loyalties. Tomorrow I will depart for Ald Velothi to deliver a simple potion; a potion to cure a disease that I could very likely cure myself with a spell. Clearly I could task Edwinna's able apprentice with this delivery, but the opportunity is to present myself to the Redorans throughout the district as a member of the house.

Hassour and Ienas had apparently already spoken to Neminda before we arrived, but I think it was Drulene who really changed her mind. Listening to the Dunmer herder praising me for my efforts on her behalf brought back memories of the Bosmer bandits and the tomb that they had taken shelter in. When a Redoran guard came in, removed his helmet, and thanked me for dispatching the bandits and ending the desecration of his family's ancestors it brought tears to my eyes, and all I could choke out was "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."

"You should have seen him that day, Neminda," Drulene said. "You have proven yourself time and again as a kinsman to the Redorans, but that day Arvil Bren could have been a Dunmer himself. I never thought I would see anyone who did not have Velothi blood understand us so well. I would think it an honor that he wishes to join your house."

"Our house?" said the guard. Then he turned to me. "You are joining House Redoran?"

"I hope to. The circumstances of my arrival in Vvardenfell are casting some doubts."

"Neminda," said the guard, "I am the eldest of four surviving Telvayns. Our family has served honorably with House Redoran for generations, and my brothers and I are all serving with the guard now, and renowned for our skills. I have seen this man wield a spear. He would be a credit to the house." Seeing my puzzled expression he continued quietly to me "I was coming to your aid one day as a cliff racer glided silently to the attack over the temple rooftop. My assistance was clearly not required. I actually spent many days learning the spin move you used. Skill with the spear is highly valued in our house."

The Redguard sighed. "Arvil Bren, you have obviously made quite an impression. Will you take the oath as a hireling of House Redoran? Know that you will be watched, and Berel Sala in particular will be very sensitive about any contact with Imperial spies."

"I will take this oath, and henceforth I will consider the benefit of House Redoran in my every action."

"Too much talk Arvil Bren," said Neminda. "Here you shall be weighed by your actions, not your words. Welcome to House Redoran."

The guard, eldest of the Telvayn brothers, clapped me on the back, said a hasty good-by, and went back to his duties. Neminda handed me the potion and gave me my instructions. Then Drulene set out to do some shopping. I got her a room at the Ald Skar Inn. The apprentice, Orrent Geontene, will meet her there in the morning to escort her home.


50: Return to Ald Velothi

It has been months since my first visit to Ald Velothi. My new boots certainly made this trip easier. Ald Velothi is remote, best reached by foot from Gnissis. The maze of trails flashed underfoot. Even the cliff racers, always belligerent, allowed me to speed past uninterrupted; too fast to be preyed upon. I could have run all the way from Ald-ruhn I think.

I was, in fact, considering making the trek on foot, but a compelling argument landed in my hands before I got out of the guild hall. Edwinna handed me a bulky packet; reports from all five guild halls. Taking the silt strider to Gnissis gave me a start on wading through them.

Just south of Ald Velothi itself I recognized the yurt of Abassel Asserbassalit, the self styled Ashkahn of the local Ashlanders. I slowed to a walk and entered the camp.

"Arvil Bren!" Abassel boomed as I ducked through the heavy flap into the shadowy interior of the tent. "Welcome back to my hearth."

"Abassel! I trust your people have not been preying on the soft house dwellers."

"No, no," he laughed. "They are not so soft really; clever traders."

"Your people are fed though?"

"Yes, and we still have gold. We hunt, and the house people trade for hides and plumes even from blighted beasts that we could not use for meat."

"Excellent," I said. "I am glad that there is peace among the people here in this small corner of the world, and that the blight is being pushed back, but the time is at hand to take that battle to its source."

"Source? Red Mountain?"

"Yes, Red Mountain," I said.

"You should tell that to Sul-Matuul. We are Urshilaku, but we have left the clan camp. The Cult of the Nerevarine leads the clan. They wait, we take care of ourselves. Tell him that it is time to attack Red Mountain, maybe he will call you Nerevarine." He laughed.

I raised the ring, Moon and Star. "He already has, as has Azura."

His red eyes flew wide. "Nerevar?" His voice had dropped to a shocked whisper. "You are the Nerevarine?"

"Yes."

"When you said the time is at hand...you are leading an attack on Red Mountain?"

"Not yet. Perhaps not at all. I may face Dagoth Ur alone. It is time though to gather the clans. Sul-Matuul will need your swords, and what you have learned about living in peace with the house people."

"As you wish. We will rejoin our clan." His eyes never left the ring.

I was also warmly welcomed at the outpost itself. I congratulated the Redoran hetman, Theldyn Virith, for having kept the peace with the Ashlanders. I also let him know that Abassel would be leading his people back to the east. "They are rejoining their clan. You will have even more Ashlanders to trade with."

"We will be fair, and happy to trade. Keeping the peace has not been too hard...and we are grateful to you for making it in the first place."

He was also grateful for the potion I delivered, and glad that I had joined House Redoran. He is drafting a report to Miner Arobar, Lord of the North Gash, detailing the situation with the Ashlanders. I will pick it up tomorrow to take it back to Ald-ruhn.

I considered taking his offered hospitality and staying at the outpost, but there was enough daylight left to return to Gnissis. The Madach Tradehouse is far more comfortable, and gives me the privacy to continue the seemingly endless task of managing the guild.


51: Mad legionnaire

I expected to be back in Ald-ruhn tonight. The run up to Ald Velothi to pick up Theldyn Virith's report should not have taken long, and the silt strider back to Ald-ruhn should have been available. The world, of course, does not operate based on how I think it should.

As it turns out I made the run to Ald Velothi and back twice, almost. The first trip came up just short when I met Din wandering down the trail.

Din is a Redguard, and was clad in the distinctive steel breastplate of the Imperial Legion. I was surprised. The Redguard people are the most respected soldiers in the Empire, usually completely devoted to their craft. Din's breastplate hung askew, unevenly buckled, and his sword was darkened with dried blood that had not been wiped clear. I have heard of Redguards who died caring for their weapons before tending to their own wounds.

It did not take long to figure out how Din came to be so unkempt. He was raving with fever. I gathered that the source of the fever was a horribly infected gash in his leg. It was so swollen and contorted that I would not have recognized it as a bite, but in his raving Din identified the culprit as a slaughterfish. Unfortunately in his raving he also identified me as a slaughterfish. The gory sword grated out of its scabbard.

Fortunately with his leg so badly injured he was not very mobile, and his fever prevented even the slightest concentration. Once I had skipped back out of reach of his sword he lost interest in me. I slipped up behind him and rapped him on the head.

It took some time for my magic to cure him, and then more to heal him enough to travel. Then it took even more time, since he insisted on cleaning his weapons and armor. I could not leave him to fend for himself in his weakened state and escorted him back to the garrison at Fort Darius in Gnissis.

I eventually made it to Ald Velothi in time to have lunch with the hetman. Humility almost made me ask him to reconsider his report to Lord Arobar of the council. He attributed far too much of the cooperation between the settlers and the Ashlanders to me and not near enough to their own efforts. However, I need to move up quickly in the eyes of the council, and Lord Arobar may become a valuable patron.

I took the report and trotted back to Gnissis. I was gathering my own papers and preparing to check out of the tradehouse when the proprietor knocked discretely on the door of my room. "You were planning to take the silt strider to Ald-ruhn?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. Something in his expression made me add "I was."

"The caravaner has just arrived," he said. "He is a bit late. He just got out of Ald-ruhn ahead of an ash storm. A very severe storm, he says. He will not be going back today."

I thanked him. He had saved me the effort of getting all packed and then having to unpack again. I sat down glumly and went back to my own reports.


52: Patron

Today felt like it would never end. I have been to every corner of Vvardenfell, and have no actual accomplishments to show for it. I suppose that given the way my life has gone since arriving in Vvardenfell getting through an entire day without drawing a weapon is an accomplishment in itself. Unique anyway.

I visited each of the halls today, reviewing the reports with my stewards. Released from the petty assignments of my predecessor the guild is prospering. I am hoping that our growth in numbers and influence will keep the Telvanni in check until I can get myself settled as the Redoran Hortator. It will be difficult to approach them if open conflict has broken out between them and the guild. Skink in Sadrith Mora is keeping a sufficiently close watch and I believe he can give sufficient warning should things boil over with them.

I took this tour by use of the guild guides and kept Edwinna apprised of my whereabouts so that Neminda would be able to find me. When the silt strider arrived this morning I went to her first. Upon scanning the report I delivered she suggested that I be prepared to meet with Lord Arobar.

She was very pleased that I had gotten the potion into Theldyn Virith's hands so quickly. Apparently, it was for a member of the Arvel family. I gather that most of the Arvels are loyal to House Hlaalu, and the branch in Ald Velothi gives some occasional insight into what the Hlaalu might be up to. Taking care of them is important for the information they provide, and the hope that they can sow dissatisfaction among their Hlaalu kin.

Being a member of the Redoran house, though not of any great rank, I have begun to hear rumors that I'm sure would be kept much quieter otherwise. The council is clearly considering a movement in force to take Caldera. They are looking for evidence of some sort of mismanagement that they can provide to the Empire. Without that it is possible that the Imperial Legions could be involved, which would be a serious problem. Though Redoran warriors are widely respected for their individual skills, the cooperative combat style of the legions would likely overwhelm them. I should get used to saying 'overwhelm us'.

Finding such evidence would obviously be a great service to the house. It would also be a great boost if I can say that the information came courtesy of the guild. Madila Indaren in Caldera could not offer any glowing success, unfortunately. There are leads being followed though, that I hope will bear fruit soon.

As the day wore on I kept checking back with Edwinna. Late this afternoon as I stepped off the guild guide's platform in Ald-ruhn I could hear Edwinna saying "That's probably him now." The main room of the guild hall lies below ground level, and has a balcony all the way around on the ground level. I looked over the railing to see a distinguished looking Dunmer in the rich red jacket of a council page.

I followed the page into the manor district, under the great shell of the emperor crab. Lord Arobar's manor is apparently like most Redoran construction, mostly below ground. The great arched entry chamber is, I suspect, the only room that is actually 'under skar'. It is magnificent. Lord Arobar greeted me warmly. His luxurious red robes were topped with fearsomely spiked shoulder plates of bonemold armor.

The first topic of our discussion, of course, was the Ashlander situation in Ald Velothi. After balancing the realities against some of the hetman's overly optimistic reports the discussion turned naturally to Red Mountain. "Eventually the Ashlanders will want to get back to their own lands, their own lifestyles," I said.

"How? The blight gets worse every day it seems. The ashstorm while you were gone was the worst I've ever seen."

"Lord Arobar," I said, "I am proud to have been accepted in this house, and I know that I have to prove myself, but I'd like to suggest something. The temple is going to need help. We, all of us, will have to face Dagoth Ur...and defeat him."

"That is...Inevitable I suppose. Not something you should suggest too widely though Arvil Bren. To suggest that is to suggest a hero to lead us, and in suggesting it you are suggesting yourself as that hero. There are those on our council who are...possibly...open to such a thing. But others will not be...they will accept no leader but themselves."


53: Lost in the ash

The Redoran council may not be ready to name a Hortator, but they must be getting close. The blight, the ash storms, the Sixth House cult, the ominous threat of Dagoth Ur; all are taking their toll, and our territory is the most exposed. It won't be long before they see that there is no choice. I just need to make sure that when the choice is made it is me that they choose.

This morning made me think that I have made a good start. Neminda sent for me before I finished breakfast. The scarlet clad council pages are going to wear a track from Skar to the guild hall.

"Are you available, or do your guild duties prevent you leaving?" she asked as soon as I walked into her office.

"I can balance my guild duties, they will not interfere with the house."

"Relax Arvil Bren. I am a Redguard, and a Redoran. I understand duty. I would not expect you to neglect your guild. It would be appreciated though, if you have time. Dalobar is important. We need him found."

"Found? Where is he? Who is he?"

"He is a trader. One of very few left who transport goods through the ashlands. Without him I doubt that the outpost at Maar Gan can be supplied sufficiently to support the crusaders and mercenaries who keep it from being overrun."

"What happened to him?"

"He was trying to beat the ash storm into Maar Gan. The silt strider came in from there late last night. They say he never arrived."

So here I am at Aldur's Tradehouse in Maar Gan, too drunk to think. I should know better than to spend too long in a common room with warriors...many of them Orcs. It was nice to be remembered from my last stay here, but really I might have been better off forgotten I think.

The boots of speed made the long trail shorter, but searching for signs of the lost trader more than made it up. The search, unfortunately, was pointless. Any sign there might have been was buried under inches of gritty ash. The encouraging thought that came to me was that a trader and a string of pack guar would leave remains of some kind if they were dead, so I assume they are alive, somewhere.

I got to Maar Gan exhausted and covered with grime. I fit in well enough with the crowd here. Most customers sported thick coatings of gore, from slain blighted monsters and from their own wounds. They underwent a slow transformation as the evening progressed. One by one the weary warriors took their turns for hot baths and the ministrations of Sharn gra-Muzgob, taking her turn as the healer. Miles Gloriosus and the rest insisted on buying me drink after drink in appreciation of the support from the guild.

I was happy to see the Orc from Balmora. I might avail myself of her services in the morning myself. I expect I'll be too hung over to make the early start that I plan to make otherwise. Somewhere in the fog of sujamma I managed to hear a rumor that Dalobar might have been seen near a tomb right before the storm hit. He might have taken shelter there.


54:Lady of Maar Gan

Mathis Delobar was indeed in the Rothan family tomb. I found him this morning. The entry door was blocked by a drift of ash, leaving the trader trapped on the entry stairs with his train of pack guar. He was, of course, well supplied, so he was in no great distress, and if worse came to worst he would have used an intervention scroll to escape. He did not want to abandon his guar. Obviously he is a stronger man than I. The stench of guar that wafted out when I pulled open the door would have long since had me teleporting out of there. He promised to hire some locals to clean up the tomb and led his train towards Maar Gan.

I considered going on to Ald-ruhn, but opted to take the silt strider instead. Sharn's potions took care of the lingering effects of the sujamma, but I still felt a little unsettled. I ate a light meal at the tradehouse while I waited for the silt strider to arrive. As it turned out coming back here was the perfect thing to do.

When the strider arrived I headed to the port to see when the caravaner expected to leave. The schedule has become very irregular as storms and monsters have gotten more and more frequent. Maar Gan, like most Redoran settlements, lies on a flat area of ashland plains, so the strider port consists of a towering narrow ramp reaching up to the height of the great insects. As I approached I could see passengers coming down the ramp, led by a Dunmer woman. Her beauty and regal air complemented the rich red jacket she wore, and identified her as a member of the Redoran council.

Somehow I let myself be distracted, and barely ducked in time as a miner's pick whistled over my head. Reflexes honed to a keen edge by the dangers of Morrowind took over, and a sweep of the stormsword sheared the unarmored attacker in two. My first chance to meet Lady Brara Morvayn, Mistress of Maar Gan, came over the bloody corpse of one of her subjects sprawled in the dust.

She looked at one of the guards. "There is good reason he has not been disarmed?" she asked archly, motioning towards the stormsword still dripping blood as it hung loosely in my grasp.

"Arvil Bren is an Oathman of House Redoran and is well respected here my Lady," he responded.

Another added "I saw everything my Lady. Assi attacked him, unprovoked. The Oathman defended himself."

"Assi Serimilk has been a loyal follower of the house for centuries," mused the councilwoman. "Why would she be attacking you in the street?"

Unfortunately I knew the answer. "As my sword struck home my Lady she was shouting 'sleepers awaken'; a familiar curse; the Sixth House cult."

A senior member of the guard had arrived. "Sixth House cult? Assi? Hard to believe," she said.

As is often the case in a group of people a decision was reached unspoken and we all started drifting towards the north, except for a couple of guards who began making arrangements of the body. I was pulled along, though I really had no idea where we were going until we arrived at a hut close to the tradehouse. A guard rattled the door. "Locked," he said.

"This is her house?" I asked. More than one voice confirmed that it was. I cast my unlocking spell and we went inside.

The hut was small, sparsely furnished but serviceable. The guards efficiently rifled through baskets and urns laden with routine household goods. "Looks like she didn't really plan her attack," said the captain as she bent over an open chest. She lifted out a steel axe. "I've seen you fight. I'd have brought this instead of that pick. Actually I'd have brought the whole shift of the guards."

Lady Morvayn raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like we should be glad you are a member of the house Arvil Bren," she said.

"His guild also provides healers and wizards to support the defense of Maar Gan, my Lady."

"Your guild?" she asked.

"Yes, my Lady. I am also the Archmage of the Mage's Guild."

"I don't see any evidence of the cult here," the captain said.

"Surprising," I agreed. "I expected to find the place full of red candles, at least."

"Red candles?" echoed the councilwoman.

"Red candles. I've been in a few Sixth House bases. They burn red candles to Dagoth Ur."

A deep concern flared on her face, but I don't know what it was about. My own concern is that someone who showed no sign of being a member of the sixth house could suddenly turn to wild unplanned violence, as if possessed.

The rest of the day was spent discussing the defense of Maar Gan. Lady Morvayn balanced carefully between my role as an Oathman of our house and my position as Archmage. She is a skilled leader. I hope she is as impressed with me as I am with her.

55: Morag Tong

Today I learned a lot about the Morag Tong, the ancient and honored assassins guild of Morrowind. Unfortunately I might also have put myself among their targets.

I rode the silt strider back to Ald-ruhn, accompanying Mistress Morvayn. Our conversation was odd at times, but I think effective. When I am ready to present myself as Hortator I will have a good chance of receiving her support, I think. My efforts in Maar Gan have proven the value of the guild, at least to her. The difficult parts of our talk were about the Sixth House. I am not ashamed of the various battles I have had with the Dagoths and was willing to share them with this charming lady, but her interest was strangely intense. She probed constantly for details; comparing the color of the candles to every red thing we could see, having me trace the shape of symbols from the filagree on the cup with my finger. It was uncomfortable.

Lady Morvayn is the only member of the council that does not maintain her home in the manor district under the great shell of Skar. I escorted her to her door, then took my leave to report to Neminda at the council chambers.

When I passed through the portal into the great vaulted space of the manor district I was immediately taken by the absence of guards. The manors and the council chamber itself are entered through doors in the rim of the great shell, while some merchants have shops burrowed under the lower part of the shell. To reach the doors in the rim the Redorans maintain a series of catwalks constructed of rope and planks. Every time I have been in Skar these catwalks have been populated with the bonemold clad house guard; but not today.

The catwalks form a ring around a great central pillar, and radiate out to the rim from there. I had just stepped onto the long span to the council hall when Neminda burst out of the door. "Thank Almsivi! Arvil Bren! Sarethi manor, quickly! There!" She pointed to a door on the rim to my left, drew a sword and came barreling across the catwalk.

I had no idea of the problem, but drew my own sword and charged towards the indicated door. The boots of blinding speed revealed themselves, and the fleet footed Redguard warrior gaped in astonishment as I reached the door before she had taken more than a few steps. "Go in! Go, go, go!" Bursting unannounced into a council member's home is unheard of, but I obeyed.

The scene inside needed no explanation. A guard, easily identified by the distinctive bonemold armor, lay sprawled in a spreading pool of blood. A crimson robed gentleman with graying hair and distinguished features was vigorously defending himself, but was hard pressed by two lightly armored assassins who worked their daggers coolly, weaving a net of death that was drawing rapidly closed around him.

I cast a shielding spell as I crossed the room, enveloping myself in a shell of elemental energies, then fell on the assassins with heavy swipes of the stormsword. Their light armor and short bladed daggers offered the mobility and subtlety to perform their clandestine attacks, but were no match for my direct assault. They fell, dishonored by their failure to slay the councilman.

Neminda burst in after the fight was over. "Athyn! Are you all right?"

"Yes Neminda, I'm fine. I assume you sent this timely rescuer." He indicated me with a wave of his hand.

"Athyn Sarethi, Lord of the South Gash, Senior of the Council of House Redoran; Arvil Bren, Oathman of the House and Archmage of the Imperial Mage's Guild," she said.

The formal tone of the introductions faded. The odd interplay of non-elven retainers in Dunmer society quickly made itself apparent. Athyn Sarethi is a fixture in Neminda's life. He was her patron when she entered the service of House Redoran, just as he was her father's patron, and her grandfather's, and despite his graying hair he would be the patron of her children and grandchildren as well should they desire, which they no doubt will since they would be raised in the house just like she was. To her he is a fixture, but he congratulated her father on her birth and will comfort her children on her death.

"The guards were all called to a surprise inspection," she said, "and then I realized what day it was. I should have seen it sooner."

"You saw in time Neminda, don't fret so," he said. "In time since you had this fleet footed warrior available. Those are the boots of blinding speed I believe. You seem to have overcome their curse."

"Yes," I said simply. I have learned that there is no point asking how someone like Sarethi knows something. Over centuries, even millennia, there is no surprise that his path crossed that of the boots.

"Well I'm better for it. Now I have another year."

"Another year?" I asked.

"The Morag Tong will not act on a writ more than once a year. This is their third attempt on my life. The fact that they came exactly one year after the last indicates that they are under extreme pressure from whoever issued the contract."

"The Dark Brotherhood observes no such limits," I observed.

"They are an abomination! What do you know of them?" Neminda demanded. I told them the entire story, observing that I had been attacked at times on a daily basis.

"Tracked them to their source and slayed them all," mused the councilman.

"Not likely," I said ruefully. "They are a multi-headed beast, but their cell in Mournhold won't be troubling anyone for some time."

"Now you may be a target of the Morag Tong," Sarethi warned.

"For stopping them?" I asked. "That doesn't seem to fit with what I've heard of their professional honor."

"You are right, but the one who took contract on me may not be as honorable, he may want vengeance...or he may feel threatened by having you involved. You are a member of a great house, an acceptable target. The Morag Tong would take the writ, and they are a vital part of our society, you can't just track them down and eliminate them."

"At least I only have to worry about them once a year."

"Yes. And I don't have to worry about them for another year. I can continue my investigations."

"Do you know who sent them?"

"Not yet, but I believe I am getting close. It may be wise for you to leave the city for a while."

"Lord Arobar has requested that you return to Ald Velothi," Neminda suggested. "The hetman there apparently has some problems you are well suited to resolve. Nothing very serious, as I understand it."

So I am headed back to Ald Velothi, but for the rest of the day and tonight I have enjoyed my home. Seeing Neminda against the backdrop of Sarethi's vast lifespan has shown me that I need to treasure every moment with my Ahnassi.