Words failed us both as we moved into the room, and I found myself rubbing dust and the grime of the centuries away from the bas-relief in the walls. Even after rubbing away some of the dust I could tell that every centimetre of surface had been utilised, showing enormous flowing scenes carved with such intricate skill that I would have been able to identify the subjects had they still been of flesh and blood. Men fought like heroes against towering daedra and the slave-master Ayleids and stylised depictions of the greatest warriors and leaders of the age could be found amongst them. Queen Alessia, Morihaus the god-bull of Cyrodiil could be found in amongst those they led, gazing forward into the brighter future they had brought forth. The Eight Divines were there too, each gazing down on man as they lent their might to their faithful and granted Pelinal his relics so that he could take bloody vengeance upon their ancient foes.

  The magnificent carvings wove a story of the rebellion but otherwise the room was empty except for the stone dais and marble pedestal at the far end. It in itself stood out far more than the carvings as it had been simply made and was left undecorated after being sanded to a perfect smoothness. In amongst such priceless artworks the simplicity drew the eye and our attention and without a word spoken between us we moved towards it.

  Built in honour of a man long since dead, the room was but a small part of the shrine and had been made specifically to contain and protect a relic of the Gods. Neither of us had truly expected to find anything on this journey, even despite the subconscious yearnings that drove us on. We had been doubtful of our chances of success but those doubts were washed away with the simple act of laying eyes on something we had considered impossible to find.

  The Helm of the Crusader glimmered in the faint light of the shrine and reflected our makeshift torch's light back a dozen fold. Despite thousands of years in the shrine where the years had taken their toll on the marble and the very pedestal it rested upon, I would have sworn that the Helm had only just been recently polished. Not a single mote of dust rested upon its perfectly forged surface and the faint light sparkled off its silvery finish despite not feeling the touch of mortal hands in over thirty centuries.

  In the shape of a full helm it was rounded off like a bucket and covered in tiny rivets and studs where the separate layers were kept secured. The workmanship was incredible to behold, every seam, rivet and the eye slits were perfectly made with no deformities or imperfections. Scripture had also been inlaid into the very metal itself and while it was impossible to read from more than twenty centimetres away it had the curious effect of allowing the helm to glitter and gleam even in the faintest of light.

  "I never actually believed that we would find anything." Viconia said softly, unable to take her eyes off the shimmering helmet. "I didn't even think that any of the relics existed and were just stupid surfacer legends. But if this one exists then so can the others."

  Studying the helmet but not being able to bring myself to touch it, I nodded in agreement. "It's been too many years since I learned about the relics, but I think that the Helm was one of the few that have never been discovered."

  "Not taken you mean." The torch in her hands moved with her as she made her way around the dais. "It's had company over the years."

  I raised my head slightly and looked past the helm to where she was pointing. Hidden in the darkness and facing the dais was a sad looking collection of bones that had rested for far too long without a proper burial.

  "Looks like we weren't the only ones to have made it past the traps." I said as I moved over to her side and looked at the skeleton. "And he made it all this way only to die with his eyes on the Relic."

  "He's no tomb robber, that's for certain." Viconia added. "That's Mithril."

  I knelt down over the body and knew that Viconia spoke the truth. The flesh had long since rotted away, but there was surprisingly little damage done as there had been no trace of vermin at all within the room. The skeleton was still dressed in a thick suit of mithril chainmail, pulled tight around the stomach with a leather belt that looked as dry as the masonry at the corpse's back. Remnants of a surcoat, one that would have easily reached the knees had faded but I somehow knew that other than the heraldry it would have been completely white. A skullcap helm, complete with nose guard, coif and chainmail aventail covered the fleshless skull and I couldn't help but feel uneasy at the way the body was sitting against the wall. The head was tilted back, feet outstretched with a rusted longsword in the lap. If it wasn't for the fact that the body had been laying there for a long time it would have appeared as though the individual had simply stopped to rest for a few minutes to catch their breath.

  "That would have been a bastard swimming in." I commented offhandedly, looking closer at the make of the armour and the handful of other items scattered nearby. A small travelling bag laid against the wall by the skeleton's side and I found myself staring at the book that was still being held tight to its owner's chest with a mailed, skeletal hand.

  The realisation sunk in abruptly and I looked at the hollowed skull with an uneasy feeling creeping into me. "He didn't intend on leaving. He came here to die."

  "Why would anyone do that?" Viconia asked as I chewed my lip as I began to carefully pry the book from the skeleton's grasp.

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  "Faith can drive you to extremes." The mailed hand slipped into the body's lap on top of the longsword as I lifted the book free. "Look at us; we've travelled for several days, risked drowning and followed the advice of a hallucination for gods we don't really believe in."

  She chuckled dryly at that as I carefully cracked the book open. It was old, but the strange material of the pages left me confused until I realised that rather than using paper or vellum it had been made of papyrus instead. Paper might have been the most popular material for books, but papyrus was still popular for those regions close to Elsweyr. The book was exceedingly old, but despite its age and submersion so long ago the writing was clear and easy enough to read.

  "This journal is a record of failure. My failure..." I said, turning and holding the pages up so Viconia and I could read the words in the light of the torch.

  In the immediate sense, this is no doubt obvious. If you are reading this, you are probably standing over my body, slain in the depths of the Shrine of the Crusader. Perhaps the gods granted me the gift of at least glimpsing the holy Helm before I died, undeserving though I am. I must believe that you are indeed a holy knight, following in my footsteps in quest of the Crusader's Relics. It is to you, Sir Knight of my hopes, that I direct these words. May the account of my failures help you avoid my fate. Know that my failures encompass far more than my own death (which is of little account, at the end of a long life). The high ideals of the Knights of the Nine, of service to the gods rather than men, of dedication to a higher purpose - these are my failures, as I shall record here.

  As I write this, the scratching of my pen the only sound in the empty Priory, I am preparing to embark on my last quest for the Helm of the Crusader. I know that my chance of success is small. I am too old for such a task. This quest should have been taken up by the next generation of Knights of the Nine, while Sir Caius and Sir Berich and the rest of us stayed behind and spun tales of our days of glory. Alas, there is no next generation. Sir Berich is my embittered enemy, the rest of my old companions are all dead. There is only me, the last stubborn Knight of a failed Order.

  For many years I blamed Sir Berich for the dissolution of the Order, but in my old age I have finally come to recognize my own part in those tragic events. I now believe that the seeds of our destruction were sown early, although the fruit did not ripen until late. Even in the first heady days, questing for the Cuirass with Sir Caius and Sir Torolf, I set the pattern of personal glory. The Cuirass was mine, and although it resided in the Priory, I wore it into battle and accepted the acclaim of my fellows and the people for its recovery. And so it went. The Sword and Greaves, recovered by Sir Berich, became his personal arms, and the Gauntlets to Sir Casimir. Why not? Should the holy weapons lie idle while there was evil to be vanquished? And who more fitting to carry them than the knight who had proved himself worthy by their recovery? So we told ourselves -- so I told myself -- but all that followed flowed from this.

  When Sir Berich wanted to take his Relics with him to the war, who was I to forbid him? I, who had jealously considered the Cuirass my own and none other's? Sir Berich was wrong, but I was wrong first, and the blame for the dispute over the Relics falls first on me, the leader and founder of the Knights, who should have set a higher example, but was instead first to claim a Relic for my own.

  Sir Berich's later actions I will leave for others to judge. But let it be known that I do not blame him for the dissolution of the Knights. If he would speak to me, I would tell him so myself. He and I are now all that are left of the original Knights. The others are all dead, and I have dedicated myself to recovering their bodies and interring them in the Priory Undercroft, as is fitting for such holy warriors. Alas that they did not have the leader that they deserved.

  Now it is time for me to depart on my quest for the Helm. If you would follow in my footsteps, Sir Knight, know that the Priory basement, at least, will remain inviolate. I have sealed the stairs and only my ring will now open it. My brother knights will sleep in peace, in company with the Cuirass, the only Relic that remains in the Order's keeping. I say that, although the Order is officially dissolved, hoping and believing that the Knights of the Nine will one day be reborn. Perhaps you are the one to restore the Order. If so, go to the Priory in the West Weald. Use my ring to enter the vaults beneath the Priory House. There you will find the Cuirass, and claim it for your own if you are a true knight.

  May the Nine guard and guide you.

  Farewell.

  Sir Amiel

  Year 153 of the Septim Era.

  A deep silence fell in the room as I slowly gazed over the remains of the last Knight of the Nine. I couldn't help but feel humbled at the strength of will and conviction needed for an individual to travel all this way to simply die within sight of the Helm.

  "So..." Viconia said at last, looking at me questioningly as she held the dying remains of the torch. "What do we do now?"

  "We finish the quest that Sir Amiel began so long ago." I replied, carefully closing the journal and slipping it into my traveling pack. "We take the helm, find the Priory of the Nine and see if we can find the other relics."

  "I was thinking we needed to put our other affairs in order before we attempt anything like that."

  "Such as?"

  "We have to return to Cloud Ruler. Jauffre and Martin both need to know that we will be unable to support them for some time." She paused, clicking her tongue in thought. "If we return at all."

  "Agreed." Carefully I lifted the decayed remains of Sir Amiel's hand that was still gripping his sword tight after so many years. With great respect and care I pried his fingers away from the hilt, allowing me to slip a large signet ring bearing nothing more than a stylised red diamond set in a silver shield into the palm of my hand. It was heavy and potentially worth a fortune, but I didn't even give it a second thought as I tucked it securely into the deep recesses of a pocket.

  With my hands clad in their gloves I reached out for the Helm, hesitant of even touching or disturbing the relic. For several moments I stood there, my fingertips quivering just short of picking the helm up from its resting place until I mustered the courage to lay my hands on it.

  "Ready for another swim?" There was a triumphant grin on my face as I carefully placed the helm into my travelling bag alongside Sir Amiel's journal.

  "As ready as I'll ever be." Viconia muttered darkly at the prospect of navigating the traps and the swim ahead of us but we moved out of the room together, the weighty relic secured and ready to be brought back into daylight once again.