Templar - Chapter 3 (Patreon)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A young knight dropped to his knees, clutching his fingers and hissing in pain. A training sword, its edge dulled but otherwise no different from a regular weapon, clattered to his side.

His opponent, an old man with a head of iron-grey hair, walked forward and gripped the youth’s wrist, pulling him to his feet. One of the fingers on his hand stood at an awkward angle, clearly injured.

“Dislocated.” He sounded disappointed, like he’d expected his student’s digits to be more sturdy. “Calem, pop it back in and have it binded.”

A thirty-something man with a scarred face, standing to the side of the ring, nodded in response.

Knight-Commander Greagoir turned his gaze towards the other recruits, standing around the edge of the training room. They instinctively lowered their heads, looking like tortoises trying to withdraw into their shells.

The Commander wriggled his fingers while tilting his training blade downwards, looking pointedly at his cowardly students. “Keep your swords down, for heaven’s sake. If you present your fingers to an opponent, they will take advantage of the opportunity!”

They all nodded their heads in a hurry, like chickens pecking at rice.

“Who’s next?” The old man asked impatiently as he scanned the crowd.

Unsurprisingly, nobody volunteered.

Greagoir’s moustache twitched in displeasure. Maker protect them if a crisis ever broke out in the Tower while he was away - this lily-livered lot certainly wasn’t reliable.

“You, step forward!” He commanded, pointing at a freckled boy with brown hair, about nineteen years of age.

The kid looked over at his friend standing next to him, whispering a curse under his breath. “Damn my rotten luck.”

His buddy, smirking, patted him on the shoulder and whispered something back. “Better you than me, Lance.”

His words were scarcely cold when he heard a stern voice addressing him from a few yards away.

“You’ll be going next, Morris.”

One of the two's expression turned bitter, while the other broke out into a grin. Misery loved company, after all.

Mustering up as much bravery as he could, he stepped forward, his metal boots clanking against the stone floor. He made sure to keep the rounded tip of his sword pointing forwards as he approached.

They always trained in full gear – Commander’s orders. However, that fact brought none of them any relief, because it meant the old bastard didn’t have to hold back as much.

Once the young templar had taken his position, the Knight-Commander brought his weapon down in a powerful strike. The sword, closer to an iron rod than an actual blade, whistled through the air.

Hearing the noise, the spectators unanimously sucked in a breath through their teeth.

To everyone’s surprise, their comrade managed to deflect the blow. The collision of their weapons produced a loud clang, the force and friction causing a burst of sparks.

The smell of iron filled the air as Lance was forced to take a step backward, his arms tingling from the blow. In contrast, the Knight-Commander looked almost bored. He wound up another strike immediately afterwards, the move clearly telegraphed for the young templar to see.

For a few minutes, this process continued – Greagoir launching attack after attack that only continued to increase in speed. The young knight tried to counter attack, but after getting clipped on the shoulder, something that would surely leave a nasty bruise, he was forced to focus purely on defending.

He’d almost gotten into a solid rhythm when the Commander suddenly advanced, covering the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Everyone watched in sympathy as Lance was sent flying, his head and feet swapping places before he finally came crashing down like a toppled stack of cookware.

Sights like these were all too common, whenever the Commander personally ‘supervised’ their training. Nobody even questioned how a fifty-something year old man was able to toss someone fully-grown, clad in hundreds of pounds of steel, like an emptied trash can.

“Morris, help your friend off the mats – he’s in no condition to stand on his own.”

After he’d dragged Lance off to the side, the poor fellow likely concussed, it was Morris' turn.

He pulled his visor down to cover his face, more to hide his expression from the commander than for protection. The templar drillmaster was liable to dispense a more thorough beating if you showed even a hint of fright or hesitation, and well... controlling yourself proved difficult when you had to confront a proverbial iron bear.

Unsurprisingly, after a few minutes in the ring, his battered body soon joined that of his friend.

The stinging pain on the front of his face made his eyes water. He struggled to get his helmet off, wanting to have someone take a look at his nose – it felt broken.

“How is it, Cullen?” He asked, tapping the leg of the guy standing next to him.

After giving him a sympathetic glance, the other templar shook his head. “Bruised and bleeding, but otherwise fine.”

Morris exhaled through his mouth in relief. He was not looking forward to having it reset. “What’s his problem today?” He whispered irritably, not really expecting a response. It was more a vent than anything else.

However, Cullen still answered. “I wonder...” He held his chin, looking thoughtful. “There’s usually some method to the Knight-Commander’s madness.”

To Morris, that sounded like a cope. “...or he’s just a sadist.”

Cullen snorted softly, his eyes never leaving the ring where another bout was taking place. A few moments later something sparked in his eyes, seemingly having thought of something.

Eventually, Greagoir lowered his sword, relaxing his stance. The look on his face was as if he were seeing not a squad of knights-in-training, but instead a group of dressed-up monkeys.

“I must say, every time I lay eyes on the lot of you, you seem to grow more dim-witted.” His voice was steady and measured; not out of breath in the slightest. The only indication that he’d exercised was a thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead.

He raised his hands outwards, palms facing up, his posture questioning. After a few moments of that - when it became clear that he wouldn’t be receiving any answers from his students - a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, left his throat.

“What's the standard protocol for engaging a high-threat target in the field?” He scanned the crowd of exhausted young men with slitted eyes. His expression promised some serious repercussions, were he to find their answers lacking.

After a moment’s contemplation, Cullen stepped forward and spoke. “As a squad, to encircle and suppress them, commander.”

Hearing his reply, Greagoir tossed his arms into the air in exasperation. “Why didn’t you do that, then?”

Seeing how Cullen stuttered, struggling to give a satisfactory reason, he held up his hand. For once, the mocking look dropped from his face, finally confronting his students with seriousness.

“You’ve disappointed me today. I expect a better showing during the next session.”

Grabbing a wet cloth from where it lay, soaking in a bucket of water, Greagoir walked out of the room while wiping the sweat from his face.

The knights watched him go, looking both wronged and chastised at the same time. After he’d left, they just sat there, silent for a few moments.

Someone stood up first, speaking angrily under their breath. “What did he expect? He called us forward one at a time!”

Others were quick to follow, their sentiments sounding similar to that of the first speaker. Men consisting of about half the total group made their way out of the training room, limping, hobbling and cursing.

After they’d left, Morris looked over at Cullen. “I guess you were right.”

Cullen shrugged sheepishly. “He was probably trying to make it clear we couldn’t beat him one-on-one, and that we should try something else.”

Morris looked thoughtful. Their training sessions had always been structured to appropriate real combat – having to wear all their gear was an example of that. However, he’d never actually treated it that way. Maybe if he started doing so, he’d see some actual success for once.

He suddenly thought of a good idea. “If the commander wants us to think outside the box, then we should do just that...” He glanced at his two companions, a wolfish grin on his face.

Lance opened one eye where he lay, one hand gingerly rubbing his forehead.

“What do you suggest we do?” Cullen asked, looking interested.

Morris made a beckoning gesture with one finger. “Listen up. Next time the commander calls on one of us to spar, we’re going to do this...”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Valiën stumbled into his room, his face pale and sweaty. Shoving the door closed, his hands grasped at the key, locking it behind him. Once he’d heard that signature click, he grabbed the hem of his shirt, tearing it off his body with a rip.

Underneath it, something grotesque was revealed – every muscle and sinew on the elf’s torso was crawling and wriggling like a bag of worms. It was almost like a slither of leeches had hatched underneath his skin, now moments away from bursting out of their fleshy nest.

He collapsed to the floor, only a few feet away from reaching his bed. His head struck the stone with force, but he hardly seemed to notice it. Managing to shove the shirt into his mouth in the nick of time, another seizure, this one even more powerful than the last, wracked his body.

His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, the pain so extreme that it shocked him into complete silence. As he lay on the floor, looking like an insect undergoing some kind of metamorphisis, he didn't let our so much as a peep.

The seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness as the full-body spasm refused to retreat. Drool seeped from the corner of his mouth as he bit down on the piece of clothing with desperation.

After what felt like hours, the torturous contractions finally released him from their grasp. However, if one were to look closely at the surface of his skin, a persistent vibration could still be seen.

Shivering and coughing into his gag, he managed to pull himself up into a sitting position, resting his back against the stone walls.

‘It’s went better than last time, at least.’

Ever since he’d messed around with his attribute points, he’d been plagued by these awful fits. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to when they’d beset him.

He’d almost thought it hadn’t worked, on that day. After allocating the levels and mentally tapping the confirmation button, nothing had happened. There was no increase – his stats had remained the same as before. He’d almost started cursing, thinking that the years spent trying to get his hands on those books had been in vain.

It was subtle, at first – the strange feverish feeling that emerged from within his chest. It was almost like something was dripped into his veins, a liquid that felt both hot and cold. Initially, he’d simply thought that the room’s chill was getting to him. Yet, the sensation continued to grow in intensity until he was shivering and sweating like a patient with the rattles.

Then it happened. His status flickered and glitched for a moment before the numbers gradually started changing. When it got stuck, he could feel it.  It piled up inside of him, the pressure increasing by the moment.

He'd dabbed his index finger under his nose, feeling a warm wetness there. Then, holding it up to his face, he saw that it was covered in strangely coloured blood – the red glinting with different hues in the lamplight.

‘What… is happening?’

The thought had scarcely formed in his mind before the feeling inside him intensified. He was brought to his knees, blood now pouring from his nose and his head throbbing like it might explode at any moment.

He either didn't or was unable to notice the rapidly-rising numbers in the corner of his vision.

‘It’s getting worse!’

His vision started growing dim as the pressure increased once more. The pain was getting so bad that he almost didn’t notice himself vomiting onto the floor. The liquid was clear and seemed to have the same oily quality as his blood.

For a moment, he hovered on the brink, teetering on the edge while he waited helplessly for whatever would come next.

When the next wave struck him, many times more powerful than the last, everything was washed away, even his sense of self. His mind shut down, retreating into unconsciousness to save itself from the all-consuming, white-hot agony.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Valiën sat on his bed, clad in a loose robe. A quick shower was just what he’d needed, the hot water serving to calm him after his trying ordeal. He was fortunate enough to have a bathroom all to himself – one of the perks of having a private room.

While absentmindedly towling his still-dripping hair, he opened his character sheet, represented by a small golden head in the corner of his vision. It quickly expanded, giving him a detailed overview of his person. His eyes immediately went to his attribute scores.

‘That should be the last of it.’

And indeed, it seemed that his stats had finally been completely updated to reflect the points he’d invested. It had been a torturous process, but in return his power had increased by leaps and bounds.

The only score he’d skipped was magic. He was certain that a sudden spike in energy within the tower would be noticed immediately, so he didn’t want to risk it. Although, if he made sure to keep the increase gradual, he was sure it wouldn’t be a problem in the future.

‘…if I’d done that from the beginning, I'm sure I wouldn’t have suffered like that.’

Removing his robe, he went to stand in front of his mirror, fully naked. He couldn’t help but admire his enhanced physique. Saying he looked like a marble sculpture was an understatement. There was a world of a difference between stone and real flesh, one that couldn’t be properly appreciated unless you saw it for yourself.

The fact that he hadn’t truly earned it didn’t bother him one bit.

‘I wonder if there’s a word for being attracted to yourself…?’ He thought, rubbing his chin with one hand.

His admiring was cut short by a loud growl, emanating from his abdominal region. He was suddenly extremely hungry.

‘The old man should be done for the day, right?’

Dressing in a simple wool shirt and a pair of brown trousers, he exited the room, his steps carrying him in the direction of the templars’ offices.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dipping his bread into a bowl of steaming vegetable soup, Greagoir looked at his boy, sitting on the other side of the table. His hair was tied into a loose ponytail, revealing his sharp ears and pale neck. He wore a plain iron choker around it, and the top of his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing some of his chest.

“You look like a male prostitute.” Greagoir grumbled, displeased at Valiën’s ‘liberal’ state of dress.

The elf ate a piece of boiled sausage off his fork, not seeming the least bit bothered.

“Such hurtful words.”

This was a familiar argument for the both of them - one they'd been having for years. At this point, Greagoir raised the issue more out of habit than out of any hope that the boy'd actually listen to him.

“Well, what do you want?” The old soldier probed, his tone gruff.

The elf smiled. “You’re hardly ever here, so I’m left to eat by myself. Some company for a change, is all.”

Greagoir didn't look like he believed him. “Yet, you lock yourself in your room all day long.”

Thinking of something else, he pointed his spoon at Valiën, splattering some soup on the table. “Where were you this afternoon? You’ve barely attended any sessions the past month.”

The lad smiled awkwardly. “There isn’t much of a point, is there? Sparring against your grunts hardly even qualifies to be called training.”

He was startled when his father suddenly grabbed one of his fingers, bending it in the wrong direction and eliciting a pained yelp from him.

Grunting, Valiën looked up to see Greagoir staring at him with a displeased expression.

“You’re only flesh and blood. One moment of carelessness is all it takes to get a piece of iron shoved through your lung. Don’t get cocky.”

Once the elf had nodded, he released the finger, satisfied.

“And I expect to see you there next week.” He said, glaring warningly at his son. He picked up his spoon and continued eating. “I’ll be checking on you personally.”

Valiën returned Greagoir’s glare with one of his own. “I am eager to show you just how much I’ve improved.”

Greagoir seemed to think of something, causing him to look down at Valiën’s torso. What he saw caused his moustache to twitch.

“You’ve put that manual to good use, I see.” His face looked a little conflicted for a moment. Then, he snorted. “I’d better not have trekked across Ferelden for something useless.”

“For that, I thank you again. And I guarantee that you didn’t.” The elf said, smiling gratefully.

Suddenly, a voice interrupted their conversation from somewhere to the left.

“Ah, hello!”

The two of them turned their heads to see a girl standing a few feet away, dressed in plain garb. She looked a little nervous, judging by how she was fiddling with her hair, twirling it around one finger.

“I was wondering if I could get you anything else…?”

She sent a perfunctory glance Greagoir's way before glueing her eyes to Valiën’s face.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

Hearing his refusal, she looked disappointed but bobbed her head up and down in acceptance. After giving them both a curtsey, she retreated back to the kitchens.

“I wasn’t aware there were waitresses among the staff.” The elven youth said, looking questioningly at his guardian.

“There aren’t.” Greagoir replied, giving him a pointed look.

“Ah.” He replied, chuckling a little at the realization.

The templar shook his head at him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you weren’t interested in women.” Then, his thoughts turned to a different direction, causing him to frown. “Unlike those damn recruits, always running off to the closest whorehouse – shameful behaviour for aspiring knights.”

Valiën spoke, smirking. “I suppose you were different as a young man – instead of chasing skirts, you studied the blade.”

Greagoir narrowed his eyes, detecting the mockery in the mage’s tone. “It is as you say. I was preoccupied with my training, and had little time to spare for frivolous activities.”

Valiën opened his mouth to probe him further, but Greagoir raised his hand to stop him. “Enough with this gay banter. We both know you didn’t really come here for that, despite your earlier words.”

The elf chuckled. “Ah, you caught me. Indeed, I do have an ulterior motive.”

“As I thought. And, I suspect I know exactly what that motive is.” Greagoir said, staring silently at him over the round wooden table. Placing his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his folded hands, he continued. “You want to get some fresh air.”

The young lad shrugged, making a ‘what-can-you-do’ gesture with his hands. “It’s been years since I’ve seen the outside, except through a window.”

Greagoir looked contemplative as he stared at his adopted son, stroking his beard with one hand. “You’ve not caused any incidents since your arrival. Arranging a mission for you isn't... impossible.”

Despite himself, Valiën couldn’t help but show a wide grin. Of course, he knew he wouldn’t be stuck here for the rest of his life. Some incident or another would deliver him his freedom…

However, he had been cooped up for the past six years, spending his days doing little else other than pouring over one magical tome after the other. He was eager to use his newfound power, but simply seeing the world was an appealing enough idea in and of itself.

Greagoir couldn’t help but chuckle as he looked at the white-haired boy. It was rare to see him with such an exited face. It’d been two or three years now since he’d looked this happy – back when he’d received his coming-of-age present.

Snapping his fingers, Greagoir spoke. “Ah, that reminds me. You should take your sword with you when you go. Collect it from my quarters in a month’s time – that’s when you’ll depart.”

Valiën raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you’d already arranged all of this some time ago.”

Greagoir smiled. “I know you too well, I suppose.” Then, turning serious, he fixed the elf with a steady glare. “Since we’re at it, I may as well give you a short briefing as to what the mission will entail…”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I hear you’re heading out soon, Sadatt.”

A dark-skinned man with a head of white, braided hair, looked up from his preparations to see a mage standing a few feet away. The fellow had a scraggly look – thin, as many mages were, and with an ungroomed beard. “Abernath. As I’ve told you many times before, I no longer answer to that name.”

Ignoring his objection, the Abernath continued. “Another apostate hunt, apparently. I wonder, how many mages have died to your blade?”

Sadatt’s brow creased slightly. “It brings me no pleasure. I am simply doing my d-…”

“Yes, your Duty. I know.” Abernath said, interrupting him testily.

The mage waited for the other man to speak, but when he remained silent, Abernath continued. “One of our own will be accompanying you – or so I hear.” He smiled in satisfaction when he saw the look of irritation on Sadatt’s, nay – Duty’s, face. “Do try to show some restraint, for once in your life.”

Giving Duty a scathing look, the mage left, but not without forgetting to slam the door behind him on the way out.

The templar stood in place, staring at nothing in particular as he thought of the orders he’d received from the Knight-Commander. ‘So I am to observe the mage’s behaviour…’ He thought, narrowing his eyes.

Naturally, as a veteran member of the order, he’d performed this sort of task before – having to evaluate one from the Tower while co-operating on a mission.

It was important to know if a wizard was trustworthy.

Would he try to escape, given the slightest opportunity?

How would he react to the apostate, once they’d been tracked down?

Usually, the ones that got the opportunity to venture outside were seen favourably. However, you wouldn't know for sure how they'd react to freedom's temptation.

Removing his armour from the rack, he started the process of cleaning and re-oiling it.

‘The commander wouldn’t send six veterans to hunt a single apostate – that would be a waste of manpower.’

He alone was more than sufficient to hunt a young girl – that was the apostate’s description, according to their report. Which could only mean…

‘The rest are there to deal with the mage, if he decides to go rogue.’

Duty started whistling a low tune through his teeth as he wiped his arsenal down tenderly. Finally, he came to his sword. He dealt with it even more carefully that his armor and, after finishing, he held it up to his face. He gazed at his own sharp features, reflected in the shining metal. On the left side, a faded burn-mark could be seen – an old wound from long ago.

'I will succeed - such is my duty. It has always been so.'

Suddenly, a tinkling noise startled him from his thoughts. He looked over to a spot on the floor where a silver necklace had fallen. Walking over to it, he bent down and picked it up.

Running his thumb over the links, he stared at it with an incomprehensible expression.

'Why... do I continue to carry this with me? Is it to remind me of my duty?"

He wished it were so. However, the truth was not so honorable.

It was because of weakness.

He could not forget what had happened in the past, and his doubts remained.

'Did I do the right thing...'

He asked himself the same question over and over, every time he held this piece of jewelry in his hands. He couldn't help it.

His eyes were somber as he stared out the window, looking at the sunset over lake Calenhad.

'...Veness?'

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------