Of all of the places in Anvil that I was expecting her to lead me, the courtyard in front of the Cathedral of Dibella was not one of them. Nor were we the only ones moving towards that portion of the city. As noon approached there was an obvious stream of people from all walks of life moving towards the towering spire of the Cathedral. Pilgrims and refugees moved alongside traders and merchants and the armoured forms of the city guard marched almost in step with the armoured and mailed forms of knights and adventurers. In streams of humanity, men and mer alike gravitated towards the courtyard and by the time we arrived a crowd was filling every free space, and some even jostled for space along nearby rooms and balconies.

  "So why are we here?" I asked Viconia and we shifted our way through the press with our armed appearances and the deference afford to us by our honorary titles.

  "With the Cathedral still closed the priests have been holding their sermons in the courtyard."

  I stopped in mid motion, ignoring the tutting annoyance from behind me as a woman and her children were forced to come to a halt lest they walked into me. "Sermons? Viconia..."

  She saw my expression and grinned. "Don't worry mrannd'ssinss, I'm not converting to your gods. I've just found that this is the best entertainment in the city."

  There was no way that my expression of confusion could go unnoticed, even in amongst the crowd that was building. "Entertainment?"

  "Oh of course. Last week I was here with the guards and I had to help stop a riot. At mid-day the clergy allows some of the travelling priests to speak or perform their own rituals. Some are the usual boring platitudes and rambling that seems to be usual for your faith. Others like the one I dealt with seem to be really good at riling everyone up."

  Moving half way through the crowds, we found a suitable location near the stone-brick walls of the townhouses, excusing our way through some of those nearby until we could lean against the wall. Nearby a towering knight and his squires bearing the heraldry of Wayrest made their own way through the crowds. There were other such knights scattered about, their colourful heraldry and armour making them easily identifiable. His eyes met with mine for a moment and while he returned my salute there was little warmth in it. He was more a nobleman in a tin suit rather than the men and women of the Order of the White Stallion but there was still a holy devotion in his appearance, as he was in the courtyard in service to his faith.

  "Sometimes religion isn't boring." I muttered softly, feeling the hard stones push the sheathed Light of Dawn into my spine as I leant against them.

  Viconia for her part chuckled darkly, in turn moving up against me and leaning back against my chest as we watched the courtyard fill. The way she pressed into me was somehow affectionate and yet wasn't. She was treating me almost as though I was a fixture of the wall itself or even a doorframe, leaning into me with a shoulder and crossing her arms. To everyone who would have looked upon us it would be as though a pair of trusted comrades taking solace in each other company and familiarity. To ourselves it was almost passionate in its simplicity, equivalent to a loving embrace in other couples.

  "Some of your priests have very interesting views. Ones I wouldn't find amiss amongst the followers of the Spider Queen. All the talk of death and suffering in the afterlife and fire and brimstone from the skies. It's all very... poetic."

  "You should listen to the Legion chaplains and priests then." I replied. "I believe they would fit well in the Underdark."

  With Viconia leaning against my chest, I thought deeply for a few moments. I had never considered myself on speaking terms with the gods, and believed that a man needed to rule his own fate. It was partially this belief that made me desert the Legion to make my own life, and it was one that I was not going to change easily. It was obvious to see that many of those making their way to the Chapel were the diehard followers who utterly believed in their faith in the Nine Divines. There were the pilgrims to the Knights, and the sheer numbers impressed me.

  The courtyard was a simple affair and just like Kvatch the very entrance to the cathedral opened up into the massive cobblestone filled expanse. It was large enough to contain a hundred legionaries standing shoulder to shoulder, and anywhere up to two hundred ranks deep.

  Filing in from all sides and from every part of the city the crowd grew until there was barely space to move. The general murmur of the crowd was growing and swelling in size as well as more and more voices added to the background noise, and soon as the numbers of people grew together so tightly packed that they resembled a school of fish in a barrel.

  Roaming the crowd with my eyes, I took in the dozens of expectant looks and eager faces, seeing many eyes almost brimming with tears. Most of those nearby seemed to be clutching at tiny symbols and talismans, made holy by their make of poor quality silver or blessed at some shrine or another. What struck me the most however was the general feeling that I sensed on the air. This was not a gathering of depressed and despondent individuals but those whose simple faith in the powers of the almighty Gods kept them going through the greatest of hardships. Many around me were poor and were barely clinging to existence from their travels and desire to be at the very location of the attack on their faith, but nobleman to beggar and knight alike, they had all been drawn by the common aspect of their faith in the Divines.

  "Just how many of these have you attended since I have been gone?" I asked, my eyes continuing to take in the sights and faces of those nearby.

  "Every day for the past three weeks." There was honesty in her tone and I felt her shrug. "The first few it was part of my duties with the guard. Such a gathering of people has been problematic even without the few doomsayers causing problems."

  A dozen metres away from us I saw another one travelling knight. Unlike some of the others who travelled with several attendants and squires at all times he was alone and his armour had long since seen better days. Dents and gouges marked every plate and while his sword was notched and chips in places it was sharpened to a silvery edge. Scars were worn like badges of honour and for a moment our eyes met and I could feel the determination that dwelled within. His eyes were as sharp and cold as the metal of his blade and despite the youthfulness of his flesh he had lived more than a dozen lifetimes in his past.

  The crowd hushed, almost like the minutes before a mighty storm would unleash its fury upon the world and I felt Viconia suddenly grow excited as we watched a single figure walk unsteadily up the short flight of steps onto the stage on the far end of the courtyard.

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  "Excellent." She said simply. "I was hoping to hear this man again."

  From where I stood there appeared nothing too out of the ordinary about the individual moving his way towards the centre of the stage. His clothing was worn like many of the pilgrims and despite his obviously advanced years there was a strange energy about him. "One of the firebrands?"

  "He is in his own way. His speeches though a much more interesting and sometimes seem more like history lessons."

  "Who is he?"

  There was another shrug. "I'm not sure if anyone knows. I've heard him simply called 'The Prophet' for some reason and the local priests seem to be content with letting him speak."

  "What does he talk about?"

  "As far as I can tell, everything and anything. Lately he seems to be concentrating on what I think is ancient history but I'm not sure. I'm still not familiar with the surface."

  "Fair enough." I replied, looking over to him as he carefully walked across the wooden platform. As close as I could estimate he was close to eighty years old, hunched over by the weight of the years pressing down on hgis shoulders. His face was partially obscured by a mane of unkempt hair and he looked almost the same as the dozens of the poor and unnourished beggars that had made the long journey to Anvil. There was something different about him, something in his movmeents that spoke of energy and conviction. It was almost like he was possessed by a boundless energy and zeal, one that made his frail and minor physical appearance pale in comparison to the strength of his will.

  With the expectant hush building in the crowd he gave a smile and cleared his throat, gesturing to the crowd and even before he spoke I could identify the signs that he was a highly skilled orator. When he did begin to speak he was somehow able to cast his voice over the crowd to allow every being present to hear his words, and yet did not seem to shout to do so.

  "Hear me, o people of Cyrodiil!" he cried, his voice being carried to everyone in the courtyard. "Look well upon the Cathedral of Dibella; Look at the faces of the dead. This is your future. Evil has returned, and the Nine need a champion! Is there no one who would stand for the Nine? Now Mara's children cry out from beyond the grave for vengeance! How many more must die at Umaril's hand?"

  From the first word the crowd was hooked, listening and watching his every motion as he gestured and raised and lowered his voice in perfect cadence to draw attention and emphasised his words. Every syllable was perfectly placed and every word was precisely enunciated. It was obvious why Viconia had chosen to attend these sermons and speeches despite her own conflicting faith.

  "Most of this I don't understand." She said as the Prophet continued with his speech. His words had hushed the crowd but neither Viconia or I were gripped by the same religious fervour that held sway over those around us. "The names he mentions seem important but I have no idea who they are."

  "I'm not surprised." Listening carefully, I nodded despite he being unable to see the motion. "He's talking about the creation of the First Empire during the Alessian Rebellion."

  "Must have happened a long time ago."

  "Three or Four thousand years." I shrugged and jostled her with the movement. "Give or take a few centuries."

  "Who are the individuals that he's talking about?"

  Blowing out a breath I puffed my cheeks in thought. "That is a history lesson that could take days to explain, but simply put mankind used to be enslaved by the Ayleids. Alessia led the rebellion to gain freedom and as the stories go the gods sent her help."

  "This Pellennial Whitestruck?"

  "Pelinal Whitestrake." I corrected. "He and the demiprince Morihaus were sent to assist her and mankind in gaining their freedom. Pelinal was a great warrior."

  "Right up until he got killed at least."

  I couldn't help but laugh at her tone. "You seem to be picking up surfacer history."

  "Such deaths interest me. He must have had a name for himself for the Ayleids to go to the effort of cutting him up into pieces and scattering him about Cyrodiil. They either hated him immensely or they didn't want to risk the chance of him coming back to life."

  "Knowing half the stories I wouldn't be surprised if the truth was a bit of both."

  "And this Umaril was the one who defeated him?"

  "Umaril the Unfeathered. He was one of the last and most powerful sorcerer kings of the Ayleids. While Pelinal succeeded in killing him the witch-king's followers ensured he didn't live to celebrate the victory."

  The two of us stood in silence for a few minutes and continued listening to his calls and proclamations that doom was approaching Tamriel. It was not the emotion driven pledges of a doommonger but rather a simple statement of danger, a warning of a threat. He wasn't inciting panic or a riot and so the guards were for the meantime content in leaving him speak, but there was a growing current of emotion building within the crowd. Especially in the collection of robes acolytes and priests representing the church of the Nine off to the side of the platform.

  "You pore over your dusty tomes of lore." He continued, looking over the crowd and somehow managing to make every single person present feel as though he was talking to them and them alone. "You study ancient genealogies and bloodlines. Look you to blood for truth? There is truth in blood, but it is not the truth that you seek!"

  With a finger that stabbed in the direction of the towering cathedral on the far side of the courtyard he almost snarled the words out, his tone hardening like steel and the eyes flashed with righteousness. "The truth is written in the blood of the innocent, there in the Chapel of Love! Can you not read the ancient runes? As oiobala Umarile, Ehlnada racuvar!"

  Viconia stiffened at the words and I heard her sudden and sharp intake of breath. Even before the Prophet could translate the words for the crowd she had choked the words out. The sheer level of disbelief in her voice enough to leave it cracking. "By the eternal power of Umaril, the mortal gods shall be cast down." She said a mere second before the Prophet did.

  "You understood that?" I said to her, resting a hand on her shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  "That was Drow." There was no mistaking her level of surprise and I could almost feel her shaking.

  "It didn't sound like Drow to me."

  "It is but it isn't. It's a very old dialect, like what ancient Cyrodiilic is to common."

  "But you can speak it?"

  She shrugged again. "Fluently. It's the language used by the priestesses when conducting rituals and by Drow officials for diplomacy and the like. I never expected to hear it spoken on the surface, much less by a surfacer."

  "Well, you're not the only one he seems to have gotten the attention of." I added quickly, looking at the way eyes and heads continued glancing back at the increasingly nervous guards standing outside the barricaded cathedral doors. His words were starting to have an effect and there was a religious fervour starting to grip tight.

  "Oh unhappy Tamriel!" He continued on his platform, raising his hands and head to the sky as though he called upon the gods themselves to appear. "Where is your Divine Crusader, in these latter days of petty strife and lesser men? Who will match the deeds of Sir Amiel and his companions when they smote the Wyrm of Elenglynn to recover the Cuirass of the Crusader? Who will walk the Pilgrim's Way, as did the questing knights of old? The blood tide rises! Will no one take up this holy crusade? Will no one walk the ancient Pilgrim's Way, and take the fight to the Unfeathered one?"

  "Oh fuck..." It was my turn for my breath to get lodged in my throat and my mouth was suddenly dry. "He's declaring a crusade..."

  "A what?"

  "A crusade, he's declaring a crusade!" My words hissed between my teeth and I saw that I wasn't the only one to have realised the same thing. Judging by the way that a pair of robed priests had scrambled onto the platform and were doing everything short of grabbing and physically hauling him off the stage it was not a sentiment shared by the official Church of the Nine.

  "A crusade for what?"

  "To recover the relics of Pelinal Whitestrake!"

  The pair of priests had managed to gather the courage to approach the Prophet but were stopped in mid motion as a pair of words were bellowed out over the growing noise of the crowd.

  "I WILL!"