by Drew Hayes
You did fall, but such was not your purpose. You fought to live, to save, to protect. You have done well, Timuscor.
“Enough to ask for help?” Timuscor still had no idea what this voice was, or where it came from. But it was something unknown, unaccounted for by the priestess. If he could get even the smallest amount of aid, it might be enough to make a difference. With him down, his friends would be even more exposed. All the more reason why a paladin needed to live. Except, of course, that Timuscor was not a paladin.
To aid you now would be to unmake your achievements at the verge of victory. This can only be done by you. I have offered nothing, save for a few prompts to keep working, a modicum of encouragement. All that you have done, you have done on your own. You found the truth of paladins, Timuscor. Now find the truth of yourself.
With no other options, Timuscor closed his eyes—an odd sensation, since he was presumably already unconscious. He was drifting, without the fog. When he focused, he could feel his body, battered and bruised, yet still breathing. As Timuscor’s attention lingered on his breath, he felt something more than air being pulled inside his body. Mana. Even now, he was struggling to fight, to act, to do more than die on the ground. Something was different, though. The mana had changed, or rather, the type of mana he was drawing in had changed. This was new. Different. This was… divine?
As if the act of noticing had broken some barrier, the flow of direct divine mana increased dramatically, pouring through Timuscor and slowly healing his shattered body. Timuscor was not a quick thinker, nor a fast study. His talents had always been of the physical variety. He was a man more suited to a punch than a discussion. That did not mean he was incapable of learning, of understanding something previously beyond him. Although he moved at his own pace, Timuscor never wavered or halted, and at long last, his journey had reached the summit.
Timuscor finally understood.
* * *
Thistle was still reeling from the shock of seeing Timuscor casually downed when the priestess lumbered forward, her enormous chimera body taking proportionally enormous steps. His mind flew, calculating, reexamining the situation, searching for any advantage they could turn in their favor. A few long shots sprang to mind—try to use Gabrielle’s axe himself, or attempt to free Eric’s sword—but they were delays at best, and he knew it.
“Grumble, I know I am not always the most devoted or subservient of paladins, and I probably ask for more attention than is due. Even so, if it is within your power to grant a miracle, you would find me eternally grateful.” Thistle stood, drawing two of his returning daggers. They weren’t blessed, but a paladin fought to the end. Any scrape he could leave, any scratch, any chance at victory, he would take.
“No Grumble. No other gods. Only Kalzidar.” The priestess grinned, showing off her warped mouth once more.
The smile was short-lived, however. Her attention suddenly darted across the battlefield. Thistle’s was only seconds behind, as the sudden wave of divine mana was impossible to ignore. He half-expected to see Grumble himself arriving on the scene, finally doing some of his own dirty work. What met Thistle’s gaze was, somehow, even more shocking than if he’d guessed right.
Timuscor was standing again, leaning on his re-sheathed sword, divine power flowing off him in waves. With every step, his gait improved as more injuries vanished. At his side, Mr. Peppers was keeping pace, caught up in the torrent of mana bursting out of the knight. Was it a spell? Some kind of item effect they’d missed? Maybe the sword had hidden healing properties, and Gabrielle had simply killed the first owner too fast for them to kick in.
More noise caught Thistle’s ears, and he turned just in time to see the priestess taking a step back. Intentional movement or not, she was scared, and with good reason. This was an insane amount of mana to be gathering in one place, more than Thistle had seen for a very long time.
Timuscor noticed the movement, too, angling his approach so the priestess was forced away from any of the others. Moving steadily, Timuscor positioned himself directly between Thistle and Grumph, with Eric and a still-wounded Gabrielle making their way over to join them.
“Sorry it took me so long to grasp.” There was something different about Timuscor, Thistle realized. While always resolute and loyal, their knight also carried an air of uncertainty about him, an enduring symptom of his unexpectedly gained freedom. For the moment, that uncertainty had vanished. In its place, Thistle found an almost terrifying level of dedication.
“My mistake was looking in the past.” As he spoke, Timuscor adjusted his shield and armor, doing the best he could with the sections that had been dented. “It was never about who I was, or where I came from. And it wasn’t about the gods, either. They make it easier, more accessible, but the power has never been solely theirs to grant.”
Reaching down, he pet Mr. Peppers, who looked like he was glowing with power. The divine energy around Timuscor wasn’t dissipating at all—if anything, it was getting stronger. Reaching back, Timuscor once again drew the spare blade from its sheath. There was a flicker of something in its steel, a curiosity Thistle would no doubt have investigated further if not for his friend’s sudden transformation into a magical tornado.
“Timuscor, what in the heavens is happening?”
He didn’t receive a direct answer. Instead, Timuscor started forward once more, sword pointed directly at the priestess. “Yield to me, now. Renounce Kalzidar while you still draw breath. Break his grip upon your soul while it is still possible, or be cut down.”
From anyone else, the priestess might have laughed, but there was nothing funny about the amount of divine mana flowing around Timuscor. Still, she was smart, and had probably noticed the same issue as Thistle: the mana was unfocused. It made a dangerous aura around Timuscor, but fell vastly short of what such magic could accomplish when directed. This had turned into a harder fight for the priestess, not an impossible one.
There was no masking the deep, aching hatred in her eyes as she glared down at Timuscor. “You think to turn me from my course? That a weak adventurer is going to defeat Kalzidar’s chosen? No, I do not believe so. I refuse your offer, knight. Strike me down if you have the power.” The priestess was calling his bluff.
To Thistle’s surprise, Timuscor nodded. “You are right that I am weak, compared to the powerful warriors of the world. But I have the strength to stand here, to face you. That’s all the calling ever was, really. We put so much ceremony and divine law on it, yet at the end of the day, it is simply the will to stand between the innocent and the wicked. And anyone can choose to make that stand. My failing was in seeing the calling as something to die for, rather than a cause that must drive one to keep living. One cannot make an oath without both conviction and understanding.”
For the first time, Thistle suspected what was actually going on, and his eyes grew enormous. If his guess was right, if this was real, then Timuscor was about to do something supposedly impossible outside of ancient myths. At Timuscor’s words, the power increased even more, radiating off the young man who stood in the heart of the storm.
“Perhaps you will be proven right in your assessment of the fight, as well. You are certainly powerful; I can admit that my failure is possible. Just know that you are wrong on one account without question. I no longer serve any kingdom, and therefore, cannot rightly be called a knight.”
Timuscor lifted his backup blade higher, the metal flashing once more. “I pledge my sword to the innocent in need. I shall serve the kind, and the weak, and all who seek to live in peace. For so long as I live, I will strive to protect, to save, to endure.” The light was burning now, a white fire in the center of the field. Thistle could barely even stare into it anymore, yet he forced himself to continue. Given what he expected to come next, there needed to be a witness.
Deep in the light’s center, a figure remained barely visible—Timuscor standing unbothered by the ridiculous amount of magic around him. Raising his head, his eyes met the priestess’s,
absolute certainty reflected in their depths.
“My name is Timuscor, and I am a paladin.”
For the second time that day, an explosion of power tore across the enclosed battlefield.
* * *
Standing outside the dome, Simone had taken a few dozen steps back as the tremendous amount of divine magic grew steadily stronger. Despite the obfuscation meant to hide the fight from her eyes, Simone was more than experienced enough to enchant her sight and pierce the veil. At first, she’d feared it was a spell cast solely so she could witness the adventurers’ deaths, but as soon as Timuscor rose, Simone realized she was seeing far more than that.
As a woman who specialized in working with the undead, divine magic was something she knew nearly as much about as her own subject. It was a worthless mage who didn’t learn all they could about their weaknesses. She knew about gods, and priests, and paladins, but Simone had more knowledge than what they were now. Simone knew their histories, their myths, even the tales of their origins.
There had always been legends about paladins. Many faiths held that they were, and always had been, servants of the gods. But others taught truth over dogma, insisting that the first paladins were not given their power by the gods at all. Rather, they were mortals who found a way to tap into the divine aspect living within the mana that flowed through all things, who could draw on it without needing to filter the mana first, direct from the source. It seemed like such a little thing, and yet, what it represented was incredible.
Almost every person in the world could pull in mana in its raw form, then slowly draw out the aspects they needed. It was part of why paladins and priests were not able to heal indefinitely. Even if they were constantly absorbing small amounts of mana, they needed time to filter it down to the divine aspect. The power to draw a specific type directly from the mana stream would require a level of synchronicity that boggled the mind. Someone would have to be so completely, so thoroughly merged with the essence of such magic that they could pull upon it like the power was their own.
No wonder the gods had taken over passing out the role of paladin. Not only would the natural paladins be few and far between, the kind of strength they wielded was beholden to no master. Creating their own paladins, giving them the ability to slowly draw out divine magic, ensured that they would have a force of loyal holy warriors who could be replaced as troops were lost. And over time, in what had certainly been an unexpected bonus, the first path to paladinhood had been lost. The few who might have made it on their own instead pledged themselves to the gods, because that was the only route they knew.
Personally, Simone had always considered herself a skeptic. She of course believed in demonstrable things, such as gods and spells, forces that were provable. The idea that anyone could manage to forge a connection between themselves and a specific aspect of magic had always seemed ridiculously farfetched. She’d dismissed it as a favorite theory of those who simply hated paladins. However, Simone was also willing to admit when she’d been wrong. The study of magic demanded such humility, if one wanted to reach its highest levels. And given what she was watching happen now, Simone backed up a touch more as she swallowed the seemingly ridiculous truth.
When Timuscor raised his hand and began to speak, Simone wove a shield in front of herself, just to be safe. There could be no doubt about it now. She could see more than just the torrent of magic surrounding the former knight; her eyes showed her the strands of mana weaving through his body, joining to the bright nova of light that was in his soul. Even before the oath was done—simple words meant merely as a vessel to express the conviction within—she knew. When the explosion washed over the battlefield, burning away the obfuscation from the dome, Simone was prepared. She waited eagerly, unable to suppress her inherent curiosity. Regardless of the fact that it came from divine magic, this was a moment worth witnessing.
For the first time in unknown centuries, a free paladin was being born.
52.
As soon as he could see, Eric’s first concern was Gabrielle. Given a blast of divine magic like that and her already weakened state, he was afraid he’d open his eyes to find nothing but ash. To his shock, she was unharmed by the explosion; her only wounds were the slowly-healing ones she’d taken in the battle. And yet, Eric felt his own body moving more easily. Not every wound was fully healed, but he was no longer bleeding from the slashing blows the ravisher had managed to land during their fight. Nearby, he could see Thistle and Grumph both looking over, the same expression of concern on their faces.
“I’m okay,” Gabrielle announced when she caught sight of their expressions. “Somehow, it passed me over.”
“Of course, it passed you over. Undead or alive, you’re a good person. This power is meant to fight the wicked. I would never permit it to harm an innocent.” Timuscor’s voice was still strong, echoing forth as the light around him faded. When it was gone, what stood before them was a man who looked much the same as he always had—same blond hair and dented armor, same wide shoulders and tall frame, even the same stance as he gauged his enemy. What had changed was something in his face. It was as if the determination he’d risen with had crystallized in him, fundamentally replacing his previous core of uncertainty.
Thistle, on the other hand, looked like he’d just tried to swallow a ghost. “You mean to say that you purposefully excluded Gabrielle from that effect on our area? Without any spell training or preparation, that would require a level of control on a near-instinctual level, like you were commanding a muscle.”
“A fine analogy. That’s exactly how I would describe the sensation,” Timuscor agreed, his attention still locked on the priestess. She had fared much worse in the explosion and was covering her face with a pair of now singed and smoking arms, clearly on the defensive.
With the storm of divine magic finally subsided, the priestess lifted her head from her arms, reassessing the battlefield. A snort from her malformed lips sent leaves spreading everywhere as she rose to her feet once more. At a towering fifteen feet high, she was still a terrifying opponent to face down—with her ravisher-like skin and thorny wooden armor she looked more monster than person. Compared to her, Timuscor looked like little more than a child holding a needle. A needle that was softly glowing, Eric realized. When did that borrowed blade start to light up?
“All that for a minor area attack? You disappoint me, knight.” With a contemptuous wave, the priestess fired vines from both her hands. It was clear she planned on overwhelming Timuscor, so he couldn’t block.
Dodging to the side, Timuscor avoided the attack from her right arm, but allowed the left’s vines to wrap around his shield and hand. Before she could pull them tight, he swept his blade across the leafy tendrils, slicing them through like simple strands of grass. At the touch of his sword, the vines burst into flame. This was not a mere quick flash, like when the blessed weapons hit. Blue-white flames leapt along the grassy surface, climbing up the vines toward their source. Much as the adventurers would have loved to see the priestess torched, she released the vines to the ground before the flames could reach her hand. Interestingly, Eric noted that the normal grass didn’t catch fire.
“Your sword…” The priestess glared down at Timuscor, taking note of the new glow on his blade at last.
For the first time since he’d gotten up, Timuscor looked momentarily confused. “As I hoped, the rush of divine power was enough to bless my weapon, although I didn’t expect it to work quite this well.” There was more than light coming off that blade, Eric noted as he focused his vision. There were runes as well, deeply layered magic. Timuscor might have blessed the blade, but unless he’d attained the power of a god, there was no way he’d added all those enchantments that were now flickering into action.
“You have no idea what that is. You cannot wield such a weapon! Those only come to life in the hands of a… worthy… paladin.” The priestess’s eyes narrowed. “It seems you spoke true, former knight. I don’t know how you’ve done t
his, but I know my master will reward me greatly for the death of a paladin.”
She leapt forward, abandoning the use of vines and instead leaning on the enormous reach of her arms. Swinging low, her first fist barely missed Timuscor as he ducked to the side. He raced in, trying to get closer, but with a single step back, the priestess reclaimed the space she’d given up while forcing him to dive out of the way. He slashed at her arms, leaving flaming scars in the bark, but this didn’t catch fire and spread like the vines had. It was still impressive enough that even an off-handed slash easily parted the organic armor, leaving exposed sections of the priestess’s forearm in view.
Despite finally being able to hit her, Timuscor was at a disadvantage, thanks to her size and reach. If she landed one of those direct blows, he’d be hurt, and there had to be a limit on miraculous recoveries in a day. More than once felt like pushing their luck. He needed their help.
Aiding Gabrielle, Eric helped her over to where Thistle and Grumph were lying. “What can we do?”
“Enough mana for one more invigoration.” Grumph was looking rough; the wave of divine magic and Thistle’s healing spells were all that had gotten him strong enough to talk.
“I may be able to serve as a minor distraction,” Thistle added. “But it will be hard to turn her eyes to anyone but Timuscor.”
Eric was having the same thoughts. How were they going to help? She’d beaten them fairly handily already, and that was before she’d consolidated her minions into one powerful threat. Then again, that strategy had drawbacks, too. Instead of many targets, they now had only a single enemy to deal with. Separating them at the start of the fight was a smart technique; the party leaned on their teamwork and trust to overcome individual weaknesses. Now, with a potent distraction, they had a chance to make something happen.
Looking over the situation, an idea popped into Eric’s head. It was more than a little crazy, and could very well cost him his life. That normally might have given him a brief pause, but after watching Timuscor rise to fight from the brink of death, Eric felt a burning determination in his chest. Although he’d heard legends that some paladins could inspire their allies, Eric had never been able to imagine what that effect might be like. As it turned out, he rather enjoyed it. His fears weren’t gone—fears were too essential to one’s survival to lose entirely—yet they were shadows of their former selves. Eric could see clearly, his mind unclouded by worry or terror, and he knew what he had to do.
