Dreams Of The Templar

[Templar]

Once upon a time, there lived a little boy.

He lived as many little boys did; in the carefree eternity of youth. Days stretched onwards through a sublime eternity of summer, the passage of time marked only by the time it took to careen from a high tree into the lake below, and laughing with mirth and wringing water from sable hair; climb the tree once more, to repeat the process until his little body was just too tired to climb the tree again.

If his days were spent in carefree rapture, his nights were spent in the loving embrace of what a boy cherishes most: family. He would stare, wide-eyed as his father spun fantastic tales of old, doting lovingly on the valor and deeds of the eponymous Knight, and whispering of the demons and dragons that were to be slain. The hearth burns excitedly in time with grandiose gestures accompanying emphatic calls; of how the noble Knight has triumphed, and slain the wicked beast!

Yet, there exists an old maxim among man, and it begins thus... All good things...

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"...must come to an end," his Instructor tells him. He is a tall, physically imposing man; towering more than a head over the young Templar, with massive hands that might easily snap a man's neck. The intimidating nature afforded him by his physical stature and intensity is amplified by his disfigurement, as one of his eyes is a long-gone memory behind crudely stitched skin.

"The Order is your life," he tells the young man, "and I am its voice."

The boy stands before him, on the cusp of his manhood. He is naked save a white tabard; a red eagle with a hammer in its talons proudly borne upon the center. It is belted around the waist to afford some modesty, and it is on that belt that dangles an empty sheath.

In his hand is the naked steel of a sword.

"Again," the Instructor tells him, and the boy raises his sword and leaps forwards. Steel arcs through the air, borne swiftly at its fullers. To some, it is a perfect swing - powerful and swift, coming around his shoulder as if it is sung of by bards in their lays. He has learned well in the brief time already spent. Muscles have begun to cord his stomach and arms, and the fresh face of youth is already wearing away to the advance of hardship.

Once more, our maxim comes into play. All good things...

His sword is intercepted by that of his Instructor, the strength of a grown man easily overpowering that of a boy. Steel rings loudly upon steel, and the tired flesh gives way. The sword flies from his hand, crashing down upon the mottled stone beneath his bare feet. Gasping for breath, he lowers himself to the floor, resting on one knee.

"A moment," the Instructor concedes as he looks at the boy. Casually - there is no trace of weariness or weakness in his grip - he leans his sword against a wall. "Stop trying to imitate me," he says. "You are not tall enough. Not so big, not so strong. Maybe fast enough, maybe not."

The boy speaks; "So what? You are a legend, Sir."

The Instructor chuckles. Harshly, as he does most things. "My name is merely that of a soldier. I leave the legends to those who believe in them. What I know, boy, is this. Learn from me instead of resisting me, and you'll soon enough gain your own fame. You're very good, actually. Especially for one so young."

He takes his sword back into his hand. "And now, you've rested enough. Back at it. And remember, this time - small strokes. Stop trying to fight as if you are a Lord of Valhalla. Fight like a miser hoarding his coins."

It is difficult, but he makes progress. He finally begins to understand - really understand - what makes his Master so dangerous. No wasted effort, no flamboyance, nothing beyond the bare minimum needed. But that - done perfectly.

This goes on for years.

Every night, his muscles aching almost beyond tolerance, fighting to remain on his feet for the journey, he returns to the stoic cloister of his cell. There, he lays upon a thin pallet of straw, and closes his eyes.

He dreams.

He dreams of summer and of the sun, and of the call of birds in the trees. He dreams of the homely smell of the forest, and of the most beautiful lake he has ever known, sweeping him up in its loving embrace as he plummets from above, smiling and laughing with innocent joy.

In his dreams, The Templar smiles. Fast asleep, he is home, and all good things may never end.

[Templar]

The Goblin circles him to the right, and then cuts back to the left suddenly. Its eyes are narrow pits of yellow bile, and the scowl on its face seems to be brought about more by a repeatedly broken jaw than any measure of contempt. To its left, and to its right, more of its fellows croon from the shadows, brandishing crude cudgels with wicked, barbed heads.

Despite himself, the boy smiles.

He is not so much a boy anymore - he has become tall, strong, fast. Muscles swell the breadth of his arms and shoulders beneath the comforting swath of his tabard; and no longer is that faithful tabard the only thing he wears.

There is armor. Magnificent armor that shields and protects him, and he knows it. From behind the narrowed oculars of his great helmet, that smile persists. His sword is light in his hands, as it has always been. All around him, the sounds of the forest pierce the even silence. He can hear the wind's whisper in the trees, and the song of the nightbirds.

It feels like home.

The first Goblin lunges at him, a blow from its cudgel aimed at his face.

Stupid, he thinks.

The blow never lands, for the green hand which held the cudgel is sailing away, still clenching its weapon. The Goblin gapes down at the blood gushing from his severed wrist. The gape is suddenly joined by another, wider gape, slightly lower on the Goblin's body. The others watching are stunned again, not so much by the speed of the sword strike which almost decapitated the goblin, but by the grace and agility with which The Templar avoids the spewing blood and butchers the second Goblin.

This beast, he does decapitate, with a strike of his sword so powerful that it cuts through the arm which the Goblin flings up for protection before butchering its way through his neck.

For a moment, the survivors take heart. Such a furious sword strike must inevitably un  balance the armored warrior, and the third and fourth Goblins move now, striking with newly drawn daggers, while the fifth—

The third Goblin is driven into the fifth by a straight kick delivered with such violence that the creature is near paralyzed, its diaphragm almost ruptured. The Goblin he is driven into is itself knocked down, half stunned.

The fourth Goblin, in the meantime, has found that his dagger strike has been blocked, an inch from The Templar's side, caught by the cross-guard of the knight's cruciform. This Goblin has just enough time, in the poorly lit gloom of the forest, to examine the powerful sinews of the wrist holding that horrible blade.

And time to despair, knowing—a quick, irresistible twist of the wrist, the dagger was sent flying.

The Goblin flings up his arms, trying to block the inevitable strike. But the strike is short, sharp, sudden, and aimed for nowhere near the Goblin's head. The Templar has learned well from his instructor, the blademaster; that deadly and economical man. He drives the razor edge of his sword straight down, mangling the Goblin's knee. The Goblin cries out, staggers, then collapses completely. Its right arm is severed just below the shoulder by the follow-on strike.

The three Goblins remaining flee back into the night. The Templar makes no effort to pursue. He simply stalks over to the two Goblins he had knocked to the ground with his kick. The one beginning to rise never sees the sword blade which splits his skull like a melon. The other, paralyzed, can only watch as the shining monster drives that hideous blade through his heart.