BuccaneerBass

Author’s Note: I wrote this story originally in 2001, as a bit of inspiration while detailing the various religions of the Iron Kingdoms setting and fleshing out the ascendants of Morrow. This story is one writer's fictional interpretation of an Iron Kingdoms historical event. Privateer Press reserves the right to contradict or alter any of the events described herein. In the case of any contradiction, defer to Privateer Press publications. Solovin, Morrow, Menoth, Katrena, Ellena, Doleth, Remel, Thamar, Iron Kingdoms, and any other proper names are intellectual property of Privateer Press and are used with permission. The author takes no responsibility for spontaneous ascension which may or may not result from reading this fiction.

A Story of the Iron Kingdoms by Douglas Seacat

North of the Cardare Mountains, 1253 BR (1,850 years ago)

Solovin stepped down off his horse with a creak of leather and the distinctive jingle of the heavy links of chained mail. His boots were muddy, his cloak soiled, and his rugged face and hands covered with the dust of the road. He had ridden long and hard, and he swayed slightly as he stepped to the ground, before recovering his balance. He knew there would be no rest. He clenched his jaw against various little aches and pains while peering around the courtyard, hand resting comfortably on the pommel of the sword at his waist.

The stable boy ran up and took the reins, eyeing the tall man with his head cocked at an angle, "Are you a lord?"

Solovin chuckled and shook his head with a wry smile. It was a question he had been asked before. "No, I'm a chaplain. A priest."

The boy squinted at him skeptically, as if this statement was highly unlikely. "Priests are old and pudgy. You look like a soldier."

This prompted another smile from Solovin. "Maybe I'm a little of both."

A thin older man rushed from the keep and took Solovin's hand enthusiastically, "Battle-chaplain Solovin? Thank the Prophet you've come! This is an honor. Please, follow me. You've had a hard road I can see. I am Vincent, Lord Eldrin's steward. Let us get you inside; we'll have a bath drawn, and a meal prepared. You must forgive the condition of the keep-"

Solovin placed a hand on the steward's shoulder, slowing him and interrupting his torrent of nervous words. "Please, take me to see the patient right away. Just bring me a basin with water to wash my hands."

The steward was both surprised and impressed by this, guiding the road-weary chaplain to the keep, passing many curious servants, soldiers and workers. They observed the sunburst of Morrow on his begrimed tabard, the six-arrowed symbol of the Enkheiridion on his shoulder, and whispered among themselves. Solovin heard his name murmured several times in awed tones, prompting a grimace. He found it hard to believe he could have a reputation this far from home. He warned himself to beware pride; he was a simple battle-chaplain, not a vicar or even a prelate.

As they ascended the steps Solovin listened to steward Vincent's breathless account of Lord Eldrin's sudden illness, and how it had perplexed and defeated all those who had been brought to help. It was clear the steward was at his wit's end. His loyalty to his Lord and anguish over his condition touched Solovin. "What of your family priest? I was told this keep has been in the care of Father Tildin for many years. May I hear his opinion of the problem?"

"You weren't informed? Father Tildin, may Morrow guide him, passed away just weeks before the illness of our Lord. I have no doubt he'd have been a great help in this black hour. Alas, such was not to be. We await his replacement, but I fear time runs short on us. I cannot express properly how grateful we are that you-"

Solovin held a hand up again, "Do not thank me yet, until I have been of help. But this troubles me. I had hoped to find Lord Eldrin already under care. Were you able to get anywhere with the local Menite visgoth or his subordinates?" He knew the answer by the twitching of the steward's lip.

"No, I daresay not." His tone was heavy with disgust. "They did not even lower themselves to answer my missive. They know this household reveres the Prophet, and will not condescend to help us in our hour of need. I phrased my letter as humbly and respectfully as possible."

Solovin sighed and nodded, standing just outside the door of the patient's room. "Charity is not a virtue in that faith. They prefer not to trouble themselves with the likes of us." It was a familiar frustration he had encountered in village after village. Tensions between the two faiths had been on the rise in the last few years, particularly as the Morrowan faith spread quickly across the townships. A tense peace had been maintained, but the truce was uneasy, and could break any day now. It was rare to find any Menite priest willing to lift a finger to help a member of the other religion. Even within their own faith, Menites were notoriously slow to offer healing or assistance without substantial financial reimbursement; a practice which had only hastened the spread of Morrowan sympathy.

The steward had a thought. "We have had one man try to help, a student of herbs and dabbler in the mysteries of alchemy, going by the name of Paul. He could assist you."

"Bring him to me, please. I must attend to your Lord." His tone was polite but commanding, and Vincent rushed off to do his bidding, bowing low as if to a man of noble birth.

Solovin peered into the darkened chamber, with its drawn curtains, smelling of death. The wide-shouldered battle-chaplain entered, disliking the closeness of the air, and drew the curtains wide. He let the sun and fresh air enter the room, swirling away the choking scent of decay and sickness. There was a moan as of pain or dismay from the bed. He glanced briefly in that direction, seeing a man huddled among the blankets, his face showing the pain of the disease ravaging his body. Solovin knew Lord Eldrin only by reputation, but had heard he was a virile and dignified noble, not yet touched by age. Yet the man in the bed seemed ancient, his skin thin and translucent, and folded by wrinkles beyond counting.

Solovin had seen many terrible things on the field of battle. Gaping wounds, dismemberment, men forced to march in snow without boots, their feet eaten by frostbite. On his travels he had also observed his share of famine, strange parasites, and gut-wracking illnesses. But there was something here that gave him pause. He had never seen a man look like this, his eyes blank and dark.

Solovin took a moment to remove his armor and sword belt, and then unfolded clean priestly vestments from his bags. The basin arrived and he laved to the elbows, scrubbing off the grime of the road, rinsing his face as well. He focused on clearing his mind, attaining a proper meditative state. Steward Vincent returned with a lean young man who smelled of hyssop and sage. "Here, father, this is Paul."

The two spoke briefly but in detail about the herbs Paul had attempted to use to ease the suffering of the Lord: poultices, unguents, salves, leeching, smokes, and purgatives. Yet despite the best efforts, nothing had worked, and indeed Lord Eldrin didn't respond to any of the mixtures in a customary fashion. Even the simple draught guaranteed to reduce fever and provide restful sleep had done nothing. Paul was baffled.

This was the first indication Solovin had that this would not be a routine visit. Generally the healing woes of the common folk could be quickly alleviated once a true priest was brought to them. Morrow's clergy had spread the lore of healing, considering it a crucial aspect of their faith. The problem was scarcity of priests in a given community, and the difficulty of determining how to prioritize ones limited time. There were always more ills and ailments than even the most tireless healer could address. This was equally true in times of war or peace. In many cases a skilled herbalist could suffice to alleviate the suffering from most common ailments. That Eldrin had shown no reaction whatsoever to these attempts was very peculiar.

Solovin was favorably impressed with the young man's lore. "Have you ever considered joining the priesthood?" To this the young man stammered, apparently finding this quite a compliment, and admitted the thought had crossed his mind. "I'll send a recommendation for you, we need more good healers."

Turning back to the patient, Solovin placed a hand on the fevered brow of Lord Eldrin, closed his eyes, and chanted a prayer to the god Morrow, performing the ritual that should cleanse this man's body of any disease. He felt the wholesome power wash through him, down into his hand, and then fall into the black void of the Lord's body like a candle into a lake. The lord twitched and moaned, but that was all.

Solovin frowned, disturbed, and took a closer look at the patient. He could count the times that spell had failed him on a single hand. Most of those had been curses that manifested symptoms like diseases. Could Lord Eldrin be cursed?

As he thought this question he caught Lord Eldrin's eye, and saw a flicker of recognition and alertness there. The man's lips twitched in a peculiar little smile, as if mocking Solovin. The cleric was overcome by a powerful sense of evil and malevolence like he had never felt before. It gave him a chill, and he did not consider himself easily spooked. A moment later the look was gone, replaced only by pain and confusion.

The chaplain took a more thorough survey of the patient, feeling his forehead, checking his mouth, removing the covers and taking stock in the withered state of his body. There were no sores, just some incidental bruising, no signs outwardly of any easily identified ailment; only the sense of a person being eaten alive from within. Solovin performed a quick blessing on the patient, more as habit than anything, for the ritual cleared his mind. He asked for Morrow to look over him and protect him, and sprinkled holy water on Lord Eldrin's brow.

A voice spoke in his mind, so clearly, so intimately, it felt a man stood at his shoulder and said the calm words directly into his ear. "That name does not frighten me. I serve one as powerful as he."

Solovin fought against the irrational terror he suddenly felt. It was just words, he reassured himself. He resisted a compulsion, as if from outside himself, to back away and flee the room. He had a patient to attend, one in very serious trouble, and Solovin would not abandon him. What he needed now was information. Those words had not been imagined, nor had Lord Eldrin opened his mouth to speak. He was not diseased, nor was he cursed. Lord Eldrin was possessed.

This was not something a battle-chaplain had to deal with under ordinary circumstances. Possession was a very rare affliction. Indeed, Solovin had previously had doubts if it happened at all, or was only a convenient excuse to explain evil deeds. A device of skalds and tale-spinners used to reconcile the horrible acts of mankind. Yet it was said the Chosen of Thamar could perform such deeds.

"Father, are you all right?" It was the voice of Paul, nervously, behind him. Solovin had forgotten he wasn't alone. He turned to see both Vincent and Paul looking at him with an odd mix of hope and fear.

"This will be more difficult than I expected." Solovin smiled reassuringly. "If you two could please leave me alone for now, it would help my concentration."

Vincent seemed somewhat hurt at this request but nodded, bowing stiffly, "Of course, chaplain. I will leave a servant nearby, please call if you have need of anything at all."

"Thank you." He watched Paul leave, but as Vincent turned more slowly to go, he had a thought. "Steward Vincent, there is a way you can help." As expected this brightened the mood of the older man. "Please conduct a quiet but thorough search of the keep. No stone must be left unturned, and I presume you know this place better than anyone. What I am seeking will most likely be found in a black box or chest, probably very sturdy and locked. It will likely be hidden. Do not open it, but bring it to me. If you find instead something else unusual, come to me and I will instruct you further."

Intrigued, the steward nodded, and rushed away. Solovin made sure the door was secure behind him and turned back to the patient, his expression thoughtful and grim. One thing he knew with certainty-it was impossible to possess a man who did not, on some level, invite it. None who were entirely pure of heart and faith could be invaded in this way. But Thamar's Chosen could be crafty and seductive, adept at finding even the slightest doubt or negative impulse.

Ignorant of what he was dealing with, Solovin invoked another prayer, inscribing a circle with powdered silver upon the floor of the room, warding himself. Then, so protected, he completed another ritual, opening his eyes to see evil more tangibly with his naked eyes.

This seemingly minor ritual was more dangerous than he had anticipated. When his gaze fell upon the helpless form of Lord Eldrin lying in bed, it was like looking into a sucking void of pure black. A writhing wriggling mass, like a nest of maggots, filled the withered body, seeming to suck all light and life from the room. Solovin felt himself taking a step forward, against his will, as if drawn by the force of that darkness. He could see the blackness was aware of him, watching him closely, a sense of twisted amusement and enjoyment. The strength of the vision was so overpowering he had to end the spell, closing his eyes and shaking his head to break the trance.

Opening his eyes again, it was just the old broken man, lying amid his covers as if drowning in them, his eyes vacant and filled with despair. Lord Eldrin's hand waved slightly at him, urging him closer. Solovin stepped forward warily, and leaned down, hearing the whispered words, "Please help me. Please, I did not mean this. It was a mistake. Forgive me." Lord Eldrin groped for his hand, and dropped a thick key.

Solovin thought of the mass of darkness he had seen, an evil more powerful than anything he had ever witnessed, and shook his head in wonder. There could only be one explanation. The battle-chaplain felt out of his depth, naked and alone before the storm. "What have you done, Lord Eldrin? What doom have you brought upon your household?"

The weariness of the road had been forgotten in the face of the enormity of the task. Solovin wanted badly to leave the room. To leave the keep entirely, hop atop his horse and ride until the animal collapsed beneath him. It was the greatest temptation of his career. Yet he could not. He refused to turn away from the patient. He sat on his heels, head bowed, eyes closed, praying and preparing. He allowed his mind to clear and his body to relax in this state, akin to sleep yet far more aware. He beseeched his god to give him the tools he would need for the task ahead, rituals he had learned but thought he would never have need to use.

Some hours later, there was a timid knock on the door, breaking his reverie. Solovin found Vincent waiting outside, with several armed guards behind him, all of them showing unease. The steward spoke, "I think I found what you were looking for, father." He stepped into the room, waving the guards to follow. Held between two of them was an ornate oaken chest, its surface charred black, strapped with iron bands and latched with a heavy lock. They placed this on the floor where Solovin indicated, well within the circle of his protective prayers.

Solovin was not at all surprised that the key Lord Eldrin had given him fit the lock perfectly. Its mechanism operated without a sound. The lid itself had well greased hinges, despite its weight, and opened just as easily. Solovin had only seen two of these shrines before, yet inside it was exactly as he expected.

The top of the chest opened all the way and was backed by a dark tinted mirror. Once the lid was removed, the front folded down by undoing some simple latches, and its surface was covered in peculiar glyphs that seemed somehow obscene to the eye, as well as wax-covered sockets and scorched depressions for incense. Near the center of the chest were several smaller boxes, filled with black candles and drugged incense. But the center drew every eye-a statue, in iron, of a woman. It was crude, yet had a sense of age, and its abstract form hinted at sensuality and pleasure. Next to it was a smaller figurine, even more shapeless, of a man with a dagger held over his faceless head, with painted red lines all across his body, like self-inflicted wounds.

"What is this?" Vincent asked, staring with increasing dread at the dark confines of the box.

"This is a shrine to Thamar, the dark goddess." He said the words calmly, and all the guards and Vincent flinched, several making hasty signs to ward against evil. In the same calm voice, Solovin spoke instructions, "Take this box and destroy its contents utterly. Melt these figurines until they are nothing but pooled metal. Burn everything, and mark the spot where you have done so, that I or another priest can sanctify that ground." While they seemed loath to touch the box now, the guards hastened to obey, closing the box and carrying it away. A voice whispered in Solovin's mind, almost sweetly, "You cannot hurt me thus." But Solovin ignored it, as he had been ignoring other words from that source for hours.

Vincent did not leave with them but closed the door after the guards passed out of hearing. "What are you saying?" He demanded, although it was clear from the fear in his eyes he had begun to suspect. The surprise seemed genuine, which was a relief to Solovin, for he had hoped the old steward was honestly devout.

"You must not hide this from the people of this household. The truth must be known, so that everyone can be on their guard, and turn to Morrow as they should. We do not want panic, but I do want alarm. Lord Eldrin has turned to the Dark Goddess, and given himself to her. I know not the nature of what he sought, but it was undoubtedly power. Perhaps some edge over his enemies, some blessing to bring greatness."

"This is terrible, I cannot believe it."

"He prayed to a scion, I am not yet sure which, although I suspect I know. And whatever he said, whatever he asked, the scion decided to play with him, to ignore his bargains and destroy him. Perhaps it sensed your lord gave himself only reluctantly to the Dark Goddess. That the heart of a good man still beats in his breast. For whatever reason, there is now a scion dwelling in the body of your lord, eating him alive, feasting on his pain, destroying his flesh in an effort to drive him mad and consume his soul."

Solovin had felt it would be wrong to soften the message, and he saw the horror in the steward's eyes as the man stepped backward toward the door, away from his lord he had served and loved. "No. He is a good man."

The battle-chaplain nodded. "I do believe you. But he was tempted, and turned to the easy solution. I do not believe he came to this alone. Someone in this household serves Thamar, perhaps as a priest. They must be found, and stopped, before their poisonous words reach another good heart with temptation. In a way we are fortunate."

"Fortunate?" The steward's voice cracked.

"Yes. Were it not for this greedy and selfish Scion, we might not have learned of this. Lord Eldrin may have been corrupted invisibly, using the power of this house and these lands to conduct great evil in Thamar's name. It has happened before, and likely will again. But not here, today, if I have anything to say about it. We are warned, and there may be a way to undo this evil."

The steward recollected Solovin's earlier words. "You think there is someone else involved? In this house?" The steward's face hardened-it was clear he would not deny it again. "I will find the one responsible." His voice was angry and resolute.

"I know not where that box was hidden, but find any who could have access to it. Move quietly; he may already be trying to cover his tracks. But I suspect the guilty one will not be too hard to find." Solovin turned his face back toward the bed, "I will deal with this, meanwhile. I promise you I will do everything in my power. Your lord has repented. I think he can be saved."

The arrogance of what he said was not lost on him, and Solovin felt his heart throbbing painfully as Vincent rushed from the room, relieved to be away. He, a mortal, would save this man from a scion? One of Thamar's disciples, ascended to serve the goddess, powerful beyond reckoning. It reminded Solovin of the mantra he had heard in his head while meditating, an attempt to break his trance. A voice in his mind, saying over and over, "Immortal. Inevitable. Ageless. Tireless. Bodiless. Invulnerable. Run away, little priest. Go while you can. I am not done here."

A part of him wanted to obey. But he could not leave his patient. He had always been stubborn. He remembered his time among the Thurian rebels fighting against Tordor. In particular a certain burned soldier, given up for lost, his skin boiled from him by a cauldron of oil poured down during a siege. Solovin had saved him, when none thought he could.

He also remembered one of the acts that had ensured his fame, when he was young and foolish. He had set up a hospital tent between the warring sides in a large dispute near the rising city-state of Merywyn. Flying only the colors of Morrow, he took wounded from both sides, healing everyone equally. He was harassed and had to fight off several drunkard soldiers from the city who tried to get to his patients, but he had refused to turn anyone away. After lying in bed next to their enemies, dying or recovering side by side, few of the formerly wounded had the urge to fight their new friends. By the end of things Solovin believed he had done his share to shorten the length of that war.

He had taken to making a regular practice of this type of pilgrimage. Whenever war erupted, as it always did, he would mount his horse and go to tend to the wounded, ignoring the politics or greed which had inspired the bloodshed. Over the years he no longer had to explain his presence, and eventually he was welcomed openly.

Sometimes stubborn was good.

During the night's vigil he communed with the dark power, the scion, trying to understand its purpose. He was wary in this probing dialogue. The scion was eager to trick him, to find some means of tempting him away from his purpose. Talking to such a creature, particularly mind-to-mind, was like fencing with poisoned swords, and Solovin had no illusions about his own mastery in this arena.

But he had to know, to gain a better understanding of the scion's purpose. "This seems a petty game." He thought at one point, resting in meditative trance within his protective circle. "Why is one of Thamar's elite wasting time toying with a single mortal?"

The scion laughed, a dreadful mental sound, even to one protected as Solovin, "You know nothing." But Solovin knew enough to follow the trace of that thought, the lingering images which followed on the mental words like a cloud of dust after a galloping horse. The scion did not like impertinence, did not like being mocked. On some level it wanted Solovin to understand its purpose, and so the images were easy to follow.

Solovin saw that the scion enjoyed tormenting Lord Eldrin for its own amusement. It gave the foul creature pleasure to possess those foolish enough to bargain with it. Destroying their bodies from the inside, feasting on their pain and suffering. However that was not all.

Solovin saw a scene of the possible future, once the scion had tired of its sport. There was Lord Eldrin, lying atop the bed, writhing in agony, as blackened sores erupted across his body. In this vision of what-could-be Solovin saw the people trying to help their lord being sprayed with diseased pustules from the black sores, succumbing in turn to the horrendous disease. The scion was working on some terrible plague, one it had been honing and perfecting over the centuries, as a sculptor might shape a masterpiece. It would be a disease immune to clerical healing, which would spread across the region, leaving bloated corpses in its wake. It was a horrifying vision, even in the brief fading glimpse Solovin saw before he pulled his mind away, shuddering.

As Solovin attempted to rest, the scion continued to whisper to him throughout the night, making concentration difficult. Solovin refused to focus on its words, or the terrible images lurking behind them.

"I name you, creature of darkness, Scion Remel, second of Thamar's ascended! In your naming I have power over you, and I demand you depart this mortal shell in the name of Morrow the Prophet. I invoke the names of Ascendant Katrena, Ascendant Ellena, and Ascendant Doleth. I call upon the Host of Archons, and I cast you out! Go back to your master and trouble us no more!"

The battle-chaplain's body was limned in white light. He focused all his faith and the will of Morrow to send evil from this place. His glowing white hand reached forward as of its own volition and touched the forehead of Lord Eldrin. There was a clap of power, a surge of energy, and the glowing around the cleric faded. Solovin felt so attuned to the presence of the scion now that he could feel it writhe and twitch in pain, feel its grip slip and falter. Yet it wasn't enough. Solovin had thrown everything he had at the evil power, every holy prayer he was capable of invoking which had dominion over such things, and still the scion held fast. Solovin fell to his knees in defeat and heard a mocking laughter in his mind. "Is that all? Please, tell me there is more."

In that moment of defeat, spent of the prayers he had so carefully prepared, Solovin almost despaired. There was nothing else he could do, no power he could harness which could undo the doom he had foreseen. Plague would spring from this household and consume the region, bringing death and suffering to thousands.

Just as things seemed bleakest, he knew what he had to do. His mind was flooded by a serene calm and certainty of purpose. He spoke back to that voice aloud for the first time, "Come to me! I invite you, take me instead!" So saying, he stepped outside the protective circle.

Already off balance from the powerful spells, the scion screamed in triumph and leapt from the body of Lord Eldrin. On some level, it sensed a trap, but the temptation was too great. To be invited by a cleric of Morrow! How glorious to cause him pain and suffering, to see his faith rot and peel away. There could be no sweeter offer.

The body of Lord Eldrin arched its back and then fell back to the bed, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. He blinked in the bed, awake but confused, uncertain what had happened. Solovin stood uneasily to his feet and approached the bed. Already he could feel the scion raging in his body, tearing his tissues asunder with gleeful abandon. Only his experience allowed the cleric to ignore the pain. The scion was trying to gain mastery of his mind as well, but Solovin exerted all his will to keep his limbs under his own control.

Touching Lord Eldrin's brow, Solovin cast the same spell he had the day before, and this time the Lord's disease faded at his touch. The wrinkles and unnatural signs of age left Lord Eldrin, his strength of limb returned, and his grey cheeks flushed with life. Then, before the pain in his own body overwhelmed him, Solovin performed the ritual of atonement, forgiving Lord Eldrin for his sins, bringing him back to the path of Morrow. The lord wept openly, filled with shame and humility.

"NO!" Scion Remel screamed in the cleric's mind, a howl of profound rage. It realized what it had done in abandoning its previous body, its carefully crafted project. In one quick moment, without the scion to block it, Solovin had reversed the half-finished disease in Lord Eldrin, aborting the plague-birth before it was ready. The violence of the scion's tantrum was horrible, and it raged and lashed within Solovin's body as if he had swallowed a wolverine. For a healer, this was particularly terrible, for he could sense exactly what the scion was doing to his body, rupturing tissues, flaying nerves raw, shredding muscle, spawning a dozen diseases through his organs and blood vessels.

The once hardy and strong-bodied battle-chaplain fell to the ground, curled into a fetal ball. His strength was gone, and already he seemed a shadow of his former self, his body shrinking as his muscles atrophied and his skin wrinkled. "Welcome to your prison," the priest whispered to the evil power inhabiting his body. If only he could hold on, ignore the terrible pain screaming at him from every cell of his body, he had the scion trapped. If his will was strong, he could prevent its escape even in his death. He held to this beacon of hope while torment consumed him.

Lord Eldrin, still in a daze, rose from the bed and looked down with horror on the withered form of the priest, then rushed from his chamber, screaming for help.

For the moment, the scion relented, suddenly claustrophobic and desperate as it had never been in any of the countless times it had brought men to ruin. It realized, perhaps too late, that it stood a better chance of exploiting cracks in its prison if it had time. With time, it could start its plague anew, this time with the body of a priest, an even sweeter victory. It could continue to wear away at the priest's mind and will, and corrupt his faith. But the scion knew it might be too late; it had done great harm, from which Solovin's body might never recover. Scion Remel had the power to destroy, but not to heal.

People rushed into the room and found Battle-chaplain Solovin on the floor, clearly dying. In his atrophied state, he was difficult to recognize, but his vestments confirmed his identity. They carried him from that room and made him comfortable elsewhere, sparing no expense in effort to ease his pain. Lord Eldrin, fully recovered of his wits and faith, was the most vigilant in sitting by his side, wracked with guilt over having brought this to pass. When he could speak, Solovin spoke reassuring words to him, told him to do good works to surpass the memory of his transgression. The herbalist Paul also attended on him frequently, and his concern and faith was a comfort to the dying priest.

Solovin was dying, but escape from his suffering did not come quickly. Although Solovin was torn inside, and attacked by numerous diseases, the scion bent its corrupt power to preventing his expiration. This was the true trial of the cleric's faith and determination, a battle of minds fought in the shell of a body already doomed and destroyed.

The scion lashed against Solovin's mind with black tendrils, furious, desperate, and fiendishly clever from centuries of experience. Remel was the scion of pain, suffering, and disease, and it committed fully to its assault. "Release me, and this pain can end. There is no shame in defeat. Admit you need me, and ask for my help, and I can grant you a quick death. Perhaps Thamar will consent to heal your body. She can do this, and more." It filled his mind with the images of a painless state, of drifting numbly into the void, before opening his awareness fully once more to the horrible agony of his body. He had dreams of Thamar naked against his flesh, her kisses healing all hurt and bringing him pleasure, if only he would ask.

In his bed Solovin twisted, shaking his head and moaning. At his side Lord Eldrin took his hand, but his words of comfort were unheard. Nothing could reach the battle-cleric, caught in struggle with a power of pure evil.

The temptation to surrender was great, for there was no escaping the torment. Solovin could not even retreat within the shelter of his mind, for the scion waited for him, knowing all the ways to strip his defenses bare. Yet Solovin had his own weapons in this arena, calling upon bright memories from his life, times when his faith had sustained him on the battlefield.

One of his most powerful memories involved saving a village from the burning wrath of the Menites. This was the one time Solovin had fought openly against that faith, drawing his sword to fend away the scrutators and temple warriors who had condemned an entire village of poor people for the crime of withholding sufficient tithes. On that day, Solovin had been joined in battle by unexpected aid-a paladin of the Order of the Wall, who turned against his own priests after witnessing Solovin's example. The two of them had been able to turn the tide, convincing the torch-bearing Menites that it was not worth the trouble to continue the fight.

The paladin had been mortally wounded in the battle, and died despite Solovin's efforts to save him. Yet his expression had been serene and calm, assured of the righteousness of his deeds. It had been a rare and humbling moment when Solovin had felt great admiration for this champion of another faith. It was a reassurance that the qualities of virtue and sacrifice could sometimes be found in unexpected places. Before this defiance sparked further retaliations, Solovin had gathered funds on his own accord to pay the Menite Temple in the name of the village. He had also humbled himself in an audience with the nearest visgoth, giving witness to the noble deeds of this Menite knight. He had believed it would be a futile effort, that his testimony as a Morrowan would be ignored, but in the end his words had persuaded, and the visgoth ultimately agreed to bury the dead paladin with full honors.

Even this memory the scion learned to undo, clawing away at Solovin's mental resolve. In the most terrible moment of torment, Remel changed his memories of the past, turning all his accomplishments to ash. He was forced to remember walking countless battlefields, powerless and useless, a simple soldier and brutal surgeon, capable only of hacking off limbs to save them from disease, crudely sewing gaping wounds with animal ligaments. He saw images of himself killing the innocent and committing countless atrocities. He knew in his heart this was not the way it had been, these were not his memories, but the real ones were locked away from him.

Would it be so wrong to beg for help? To admit defeat? Hadn't he resisted enough?

Solovin's eyes shot open with the gleam of consciousness and a deep ragged breath as he shook off that momentary weakness. No. He would not. Pain would not sway him, nor despair. His mind struggled to regain a sense of center. He knew he had the upper hand; else why would the scion torment him so? "You need something from me." He thought at the entity burrowing in his mind. "I have you trapped. Righteousness is on my side. You may kill my body, you can erase my memories, but you have no power over my soul."

He felt its thoughts and goals as a pestilent intruder in his mind. He knew it desired to find another victim, to escape into the world to begin its games again. It still dreamed of the plague to end all plagues, and would not rest until it found another body upon which to work. Solovin knew with a fevered clarity that his own body would not suffice. He was too close to death. There was no time to twist his tissues and make him the plague-bearer. This realization gave Solovin new hope, new power over his will.

The foul scion lost all bravado, openly pleading and begging, between rants of temper and fury. It offered him endless power, an army at his command, enemies to crush beneath his feet, legions of mindless thralls who would revere him as a god. It offered him wealth, pleasure, power. Anything and everything would be his, if he simply surrendered, let loose this strange grip which held it pinned. It offered to leap to any other body, leave him in peace-other priests stronger than he could still save his life.

"I have only one desire, and it will be achieved when you die with me." He whispered through cracked and parched lips, before his body was wracked with coughs, and blood sprayed from his mouth.

Despite his disease and suffering, a light seemed to shine from Solovin on the last days of his life. He demanded the curtains and shutters be left open, so the sun could always find him in his bed. He was comforted by the news brought to him that the Thamarite priest hiding in the household had been apprehended and executed. He also had occasion to meet the newly arrived priest of Morrow come to watch over the household. This priest offered to lend his powers to heal Solovin, but he was gently rebuked. Solovin's battle with the scion was his alone, and fixing his body would only serve the darkness. Instead he asked the priest to take in the herbalist Paul as an initiate, and teach him the ways of the priesthood.

His dying took two weeks in all, two short weeks it seemed to those around him, but within his mind Solovin felt it as an eternity. He drew his last breath with supporters surrounding him and praying for him. This was, however, no quiet passage.

At his death, in horrible counterpart to the calm of Solovin's withered face, a great disembodied howl arose in the room, and a malignant shadow tried to rise from the body, yet failed and fell again, then vanished forever.

The windows blew open with a blast of wind that swirled into the room, tossing aside the covers wrapping Solovin. A blinding light surrounded his body-it was almost painful to behold, yet none who were present could look away. Solovin's body lifted into the air, suspended in its brilliant cocoon.

Lord Eldrin held up his hand to shield his eyes, peering into that radiance, and saw a hooded man standing beside Solovin, holding his hand. Awe overwhelmed the old lord, and he prostrated himself, for this was the form of the god, the Prophet Morrow, made manifest. Lord Eldrin trembled and wept, certain he would be struck down for his responsibility in this, the death of Morrow's servant. Yet the god paid him no mind, His attention focused entirely on the body floating above the bed. The god's voice was gentle yet filled with power, "Will you join me in eternal service? I have need of a healer, Solovin."

There was no answer, at least that mortals could hear, but the hooded man nodded, and reached out his hand, clasping Solovin's in his own. The light took the form of a shimmering man, the stout and powerful frame of Solovin, wearing ghostly reflections of his armor and sword. The god Morrow and his newest ascended faded from sight.

Lord Eldrin watched the body fall to the bed, and saw by some miracle it was intact and restored, showing no signs of the ravaged disease that had caused his death. The battle-chaplain's eyes were closed as if sleeping. The once wayward lord reached out and touched those cold hands, and swore an oath that he would strive until the end of his days to be worthy of the sacrifice that had redeemed him.

It was an oath that was never broken. Solovin's miraculously restored body was bathed and wrapped in silks, then delivered to the Order of Keeping. Lord Eldrin personally attended its journey to its ultimate resting place. His oath of service was passed down to his descendants, a number of which became monks pledging themselves to Solovin's Keepers. Those of Eldrin's blood still watch over the interred remains of Solovin to this day, their faith and resolution having grown with each generation. Paul would later write the story of Solovin's ascension, and become a great priest in his own right, eventually joining the Exordeum. Other priests following in Solovin's footsteps have walked the battlefields of every war in human memory, easing suffering, trying to save the young from the greedy jaws of death-and when their powers are insufficient, ensuring that no soldier dies alone.