“Right then.” My sword returned to its sheath and I picked up my bow from where I had dropped it. Martin stood a few paces away from the slaughter, hand still clutching his dagger in a hand visibly shaking and noticeably pale as he looked over the carnage that Viconia and I had left strewn across the road.

  “Are you okay?” I asked unnecessarily in time to see him stumble over to the edge of the road and vomit noisily into the gutter.

  “Gods’ blood.” He stammered, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve and making an effort not to look at the bodies. “Now I know how you two braved Oblivion and lived.”

  I chuckled darkly, glancing about for the stable hand and seeing little more than a rapidly fading blur down the road. He had taken the opportunity to make a dash further from the death and carnage of the priory while we fought and there was no time to chase after him even if we had the inclination.

  “There are still more.” Viconia called out, weapon still gripped tightly in her hand, and Martin and I shared a glance.

  “Are you going to stay out of the way?” he nodded at my question while still looking very pale at the sight of so much death.

  Moving quickly the three of us jogged to the fence surrounding the priory, seeing the well-maintained gardens crushed underfoot and the body of Prior Maborel laying on his back in the tiny pathway. A look of complete astonishment was frozen on his blood splattered features, a staining cloud leaking through his robes where his assassins had stabbed him right in the heart and killing him before he realised what had happened.

  Several more daedric forms moved quickly about the priory, kicking in doors and searching for the others. The sounds of metal on metal echoed from the interior of the tiny chapel and another pair of assassins rushed out from the stables at the sounds of our approach, hurling incoherent warcries as soon as they caught sight of us.

  One immediately folded over before he could make it more than a handful of paces, the wicked point of the bodkin arrow punching through his breastplate with enough force to break ribs by the impact alone. The other seemed to hesitate in mid stride, glancing at their fallen companion for a second too long as Viconia rushed forward spitting curses in her native tongue. Too late did they realise the threat that they faced, twisting and trying to back away from the onrushing elf and unsuccessfully warding off her flurry of attacks. Faster than the eye could see Viconia had slashed away at the plated assassin, cutting the muscles in a leg, hacking a hand off at the wrist before punching her sword through the assassin’s heart that left two foot of blade erupting from between the shoulder blades.

  “Vith’os!” She snarled, hurling the body aside and finishing the other off with an economical stab where the breastplate met the neck.

  The door of the chapel burst open in a flurry of brown, the aging form of Jauffre appearing in the threshold and still riding the combat high of adrenaline. His katana held in a double grip and plastered with blood there was no identifying the aged monk that we had met so many days ago. Instead there remained the hardened leader of the Emperor’s elite, a persona that I suspect he had never wished to return to but was no less deadly as a result.

  “You’re back!” he exclaimed as he almost skidded to a halt in recognition. “Thank Talos!”

  “Jauffre! What in the name of the Nine is going on here?” I slung my bow over my shoulders and drew my sword again in a white knuckled hand.

  “They attacked without warning. I was praying in the Chapel when I heard Prior Maborel shout. Who are these people?”

  “They are the same ones who killed the Emperor.” Jauffre’s face darkened in anger at my words and I suddenly felt very small in sight of his building rage. “Why the hell would they attack here?”

  Viconia, Jaufree and myself suddenly twitched as the electric current of realisation ran through all of us simultaneously. “The Amulet!” Jauffre was suddenly moving like a Khajitt dosed up on skooma but many times deadlier. “I kept it in a secret room in Weynon House!”

  We moved as one, bursting into sprints that carried us to the smashed down door of the main Priory building. I caught a glance at the chapel as Jauffre ran from the door and the scene of utter carnage within. A handful of assassins had been found wanting at the attempt to take the life of the Grandmaster of the Blades and were left in piles of gore and limbs as a result. He was over twice my age but what the years had managed take away from him in strength of body they had added to the sheer level of experience and confidence that no one could match.

  The interior of the priory was a shambles, book cases rent and torn, beds overturned and mattress stuffing thrown about in an orgy of destruction. There was not a single cupboard that wasn’t smashed into kindling and every chest, crate, book, container and barrel had been ripped open and upended in the minutes since the attack. On the second floor however in Jauffre’s study the wall itself had been torn down to reveal a tiny room barely large enough for someone to stand, and the iron-banded chest within had been blasted open with an explosive force of magicka that left the teeth tingling from the residue.

  At the sight of the destroyed chest and its obviously empty interior Jauffre roared, punching into the wall with enough force that plaster cracked and shattered. “They’ve taken it!” the sheer amount of rage and frustration sending a tremble through his body. “The Amulet of Kings is gone! These bastards have defeated us at every turn!”

  He suddenly looked his age as he glanced at each of us in turn, seeing the blood and gore and days’ worth of travel etched into our flesh and clothes. As his eyes alighted on Martin, standing in the doorway and looking completely bewildered at the devastation and events that he was struggled to cope with, Jauffre’s face lit up from the expression of anger that had consumed it.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “So it has not all gone against us at least, thank Talos for that!”

  Martin looked even more out of his depth as the aged Blade strode over to him and shook his hand in a grip that left the priest rubbing his knuckles. “We gained Uriel’s heir, but have lost the Amulet of Kings.”

  “Martin, this is Jauffre.” I said, introducing them properly despite the ruin that surrounded us. Martin needed something to focus on other than the death he had just witnessed. “He is the Grandmaster of the Blades and the one who sent us to find you.”

  “And it is a good thing too that I sent you both!” Jauffre moved with a purpose now, stalking about and pulling out a handful of unbroken items from within his study. “But he cannot stay here. We may have driven them off but they will be back once they realise who he is and that he survives thus far. If they knew of the Amulet’s presence here, then they certainly will return to finish the job.”

  “Where can we go?” Viconia was rifling her way through some of the detritus on the floor and pocketing anything that caught her eye. Jauffre didn’t seem to mind or notice in the slightest.

  “Nowhere is truly safe against whatever power is arrayed against us I fear.” Jauffre had shed his robes and replaced it with a well-worn set of travelling clothes and boiled leather armour with metal strips banding it together. A set of saddlebags were thrown over his shoulder as well, his katana finding its way into the scabbard at his hip. “But we must play for time at least…”

  A lengthy breath sighed out of him and he rubbed at the congealing blood that had sprayed his face. “Cloud Ruler Temple, the hidden fortress of the Blades is our best option I think. It’s in the mountains north of Bruma and a few men can and have held it against armies before.”

  “That’s at least a three-day march to get there, maybe less if we travel cross-country.”

  “There’s no time to make the journey on foot I fear.” Jauffre quickly rummaged through a small collection of pouches where they had fallen to the floor. The jingle of coins was audible as he scooped them up and tossed a couple to each of us. “We have minutes to leave before the guard arrive and hold us up with unnecessary questions and possibly even lock us away while they attempt to understand all this. We can’t afford to be held up and we certainty can’t take our time making it between here and Cloud Ruler. I won’t rest easy until Martin is safe.”

  His look of utter seriousness was almost a physical force as he looked over the three of us. “I hope you all can ride.”

  My sudden and vulgar epithet made him smile. “Spoken like a true legionary,” his grin was almost infectious despite my dislike of travelling on horseback. “But there’s no quicker way to reach the fortress. We’ll take the Priory’s horses to the eastern post and not stop until we reach the Fortress.”

  Together the four of us left the priory in a hurry, past the several dead bodies littering the grounds and quickly saddled the horses in the stables. Thankfully the half dozen mares were not overly spooked from the fighting and the smell of blood that hung heavy in the air but they were overly skittish all the same. Although I had some experience in riding, as a legionary and especially a forester it was never formalised training, it barely even qualified as a hobby. Viconia seemed to be the same as myself, needing Martin and Jauffre to help the two of us throw saddles over the beasts and secure them tightly to their backs.

  We left in time to see the first handful of guards marching from the city to investigate the disturbance and the growing collection of curious travellers who had reported the sights and sounds of fighting at the priory. They could only watch as the four of us spurred our rides and broke into a light gallop down the road to the east, leaving behind the steaming corpses of the dead for them to deal with. Nothing was left to chance however, Viconia and I quickly rummaging through the broken and rent bodies and ensuring that none of them happened to have the Amulet on their persons before we left the scene of devastation. I noted uneasily that all of those who had attacked were dressed in normal travellers clothing, dressed as though they were nothing more than a simple trading caravan. From the slightly overweight form of an Imperial man in a fine doublet that would be unremarkable on any merchant or trader, to the handful of leather-and padded cloth clad caravan hands there was nothing to identify these men and women as a band of bloodthirsty assassins. Especially not a group that had cut down a defenceless Prior without hesitation and attempted to slaughter a group of monks.

  Covering the ground at a rapid pace we bounced and jostled along the road to the nearest watch post and its collection of horses. Within minutes I already had enough of being in the saddle, my back and hips already beginning to ache slightly from the motions and steeling myself for a long journey in distance rather than time. Jauffre set the pace on the back of his paint mare, riding her hard until the towering stone watch house rose above the vegetation. There we stopped briefly, exchanging our steeds for fresher, hardier looking horses well used to the rigours of the Imperial Messenger Service with barely even a sideways glance from the watch commander. The broken-toothed guard with a pox-scarred face had briefly spoken to Jauffre but with a few quiet words, and a handful of coins greasing a palm we were off again, riding even harder down the road in an effort to leave the county and the devastated priory behind.

  For hours we rode, travelling no slower than a canter and breaking into a gallop at every opportunity despite the protests of our tortured bodies. Jauffre alone seemed to be the only one of our group unaffected by the punishing speed we pushed the horses to, and although the kilometres faded into the distance every bump and jolt would send fresh spurts of agony through our bodies. Completely unused to riding, especially any significant distances let alone at speed my entire world seemed to shrink into a closely packed ball of agony. My hips and legs spread apart and aching with every motion, my thighs heavily chafed and soon I found my neck muscles locked with a splitting headache building behind the eyes. Even the growing thirst, normally impossible to ignore had vanished under the rolling waves of agony that buffered me with every hoof strike.

  The journey however, despite seemingly lasting forever and into the deepening darkness of night went without incident and we made an incredible distance in a seemingly impossible time. The journey that Viconia and I had undertaken from Bruma that had taken three days’ cross country on foot, took the four of us on horseback less than a total night of travel at what I considered break-neck speeds.

  The forests of Chorrol were replaced with the rolling hills and towering summits of stone of the Jerral Mountains and yet we still rode. Past the dozens of tiny campsites of travellers and caravans who had stopped for a night’s rest we continued on, only stopping the ever constant travel at each Watch post to swap our panting steeds with fresh rides and grease the palms of the sergeants and ex-legionaries manning the towers and stables. Jauffre left nothing to chance and relentlessly drove us on with all the skill and unflinching toughness of the most seasoned centurion, refusing to rest or even stop for anything. Several times the dust of the road was sluiced off our horse’s flanks as we emptied our bladders in the saddle, not once stopping and even eating as best we could in the bouncing, jerking motion of half a tonne of horseflesh pounding hooves into the road.