A light breeze blew across the rolling, grassy hills to either side of a cobbled road that moved through the grasslands of the March. To the north were the foothills before the mountains and the city of The Throne. The cobblestone roads maintained by the Church of the Will spread out in all directions across the March, leading to the different towns and settlements for the men and women of all walks of life on the continent of Talnor.
At the flatter, southern end of the March, an older paladin and his young apprentice were strolling leisurely. A small settlement was beginning to drift into view on the horizon.
“That is Elmsmith, no?” the younger paladin asked, pausing a moment to shift the leather pack he had over his shoulder.
“It is,” the elder said with a nod, giving his charge a moment. “It won’t be much longer.”
“Great,” the younger paladin said with a grin. “It is pretty hard to believe I am about to finally begin my examination.”
“The Will has been on your side it seems,” the older paladin laughed.
“I’m not so sure. Sister Tabitha was quite the nightmare.”
“Samson!” he said sharply between pangs of laughter. “She has been working in the academy longer than you’ve been a dream in your mother’s heart!”
“Oh, I know,” Samson said, nodding and laughing. “She is a wonderful Sister of the Will, but I feel bad for anyone who has to call her mom.” The two laughed, but a somberness fell over them as the laughter died off.
“The exam is coming up, though, Samson,” the older paladin warned. “And while it will not be difficult, it is how we judge our trainee’s abilities and skills. It is very important.”
“I understand, Sergeant. I am ready.”
“Your confidence will take you far, my boy.”
“My mom used to say that all the time.” Samson looked down with nostalgia. “That was what she said to me just before I left.”
“Do you keep those words in your pockets, Sam? I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard them,” the Sergeant scolded playfully. “But, not every son has the wherewithal to respect the Dreamer’s Will. Many boys and girls, even some of your academy classmates, I assume, would have gladly spent life in a mansion over a suit of armor.”
“I wish it had been my faith that brought me to the Abbey, Sergeant.” Samson made his best attempt at pomp, facetiously turning his nose up. “But I had nothing at home. Nothing meaningful, at least. Honestly, the Abbey was giving me a chance to become something.”
“Respectable in its own way, Sam. As I said, comfort without responsibility is the ideal for most mortals,” the Sergeant said with a grin. “Speaks well to you that you sought your own responsibility.”
“Well, what about you Sergeant? I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this, but why did you go to the Abbey?”
“I also felt I had few places to go,” the Sergeant said. “My family was large by necessity. Farmers, you know. By the time baby Enoch had been born, the house was pretty much full.” The sergeant chuckled at the memories. “When a priestess from the Church said something to my mother about how she noticed the Will about me, my parents urged me out the door, but let it be noted,” Sergeant Boldbounty turned to look Samson in the eye. “I did not argue.”
“I never knew your family were farmers.”
“I am very proud of that. And the Abbey named me with that in mind. Enoch Boldbounty,” the sergeant said his full name and title with a glowing pride. Samson could not help but admire the man.
What a name! Samson had dreams, and frankly, nightmares about his graduation, the ceremony that would officially see his recognition as a paladin. When prospective students reach the Abbey, they arrive with nothing but the clothes they traveled in and their birth paperwork, which is promptly collected and put in the Abbey’s catacombs, sealed away until the day the student is either removed from training, or far later, when the fully recognized paladin dies.
Otherwise, the naming ceremony gives the paladin their name as recognized by the Will, with most names being given once and never again. Whole families have risen up or disappeared completely due to this tradition and Samson had a strange pride in that. Giving up one’s surname seemed like the ultimate expression of faith. The ultimate acceptance of a calling.
The two continued talking as they approached the village late in the morning. As they came upon the city’s entrance, which rather than a gatehouse or wall, was simply denoted by sudden buildings, Boldbounty paused.
“Well, Sam, we’ve arrived earlier than I had anticipated. Now, your exam will not officially begin until we cross into the city, so if you wish to, we can wait here until this afternoon.”
Samson looked into the quiet town, its citizens milling about, barely noticing the two paladins in the road. “I think I’m ready. The earlier we start, the earlier we’re done, after all.”
Boldbounty smiled and pat Sam on the shoulder. “That’s my boy!” The sergeant squared his shoulders to take on his most stately posture and recite the verbatim introduction to the duty. “Well, Brother Samson, welcome to your final examination as a Paladin of the Vanguard. Your examination will consist of completing a duty as assigned by the Office of Missions on The Throne. The duty has never been viewed before by any personnel outside of the Office of Missions. Your tools will consist of your hammer, shield, and anything improvised by yourself and those around you. All civilians and Church of the Will members will be available for consultation barring only your Examination Proctor, Sergeant Enoch Boldbounty. Brother Samson, are you ready to hear your duty?”
“Yes Sergeant!” Sam said sharply.
Boldbounty reached into the leather messenger bag he had over his shoulder to remove a thick, tightly folded parchment with a purple wax seal from the Office of Missions. Only the name of the town was written on the outside. He broke the seal and read aloud.
“For your examination as a Paladin of the Vanguard you are to report to the town of Elmsmith. The town has seen periodic unrest amongst its youth, including unsightly congregation and unsolicited loitering, but not limited to looting, burning of gardens, and vandalism of public sites. Investigate the youths and discover their motivation so the Church of the Will may produce a plan to aid the good people of Elmsmith in preserving the peace of their home.”
Boldbounty rolled the parchment into a tight cylinder and smiled. “Alright, my boy! Good luck to you! I’ll be around the town. Let me know if you need anything, but understand I can not help you complete your duty.”
“Understood, sergeant,” Samson said with a nod. He looked up into the winding cobbled streets of Elmsmith. No unsightly youths to be seen. Without another word he made his way into the town.
Elmsmith was quaint, and quite beautiful. As if the community were planned and bound by rules, the windowsills of every home, shop, church, and storehouse was accented by large, deep flower beds spilling over with bright blooms of all sizes, shapes, and colors.
The villagers were carrying on, unimpressed at the white armored young man wandering its streets. A baker propping goods onto a display table outside of her kitchen gave a bright “good morning” as Sam walked past, and the proprietor of a small shop across the street urged Sam from his doorway to come in and buy something.
Overwhelmed by the friendliness, Sam kept walking, but quickly caught himself. These people could definitely provide some insight. Meekly, he doubled back to the small shop owner and baker to get their attention.
“I knew you’d buy something!” the shop owner said with a grin.
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“Sorry, sir,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I actually just had a question or two,” Sam said, nervously looking from the man to the woman, anxious that their chores would take their attention.
“What can we do for you, dear?” the baker asked with a bright smile.
“I have been told that the village youths are causing trouble, is this true?”
“Absolutely,” the shop owner said gruffly while the baker simply nodded. “They’ve been causing some trouble for sure.”
“It started off innocent enough,” the baker added. “Boy or girl just getting mouthy. Nothing a good smack couldn’t fix-”
“But!” the man interrupted, stepping out into the street. “They started running in packs. Like dogs. Breaking windows, stealing things, just being bullies.”
“Well, where are they now?”
“Who knows,” the baker said, shaking her head. “I mean, hopefully being disciplined by their parents. But you can never expect when they’ll get worked up again!”
“So, no pattern to who they bother?”
“Not that I can think of,” the shop owner said after pausing to remember. The baker murmured her agreement.
“Well I appreciate the help,” Samson said with a slight bow. “I will see if I can assist you all with this inconvenience.”
The shop owner let out a laugh. “No worries, boy, but talk isn’t cheap! Are you just gonna leave without buying?” Sam flushed. He had no money with him.
“Thomas, leave the boy to his work. He’s on his duty,” the baker said, laughing. “Gonna be a new Paladin this time tomorrow!”
“Here’s to hoping,” Sam said with a shrug.
“Oh!” the shop owner said, genuinely impressed. “Good luck to you then. Hit the hooligans with your hammer there for me.”
“Will do, sir!” Sam said, chuckling as he made his way down the street. Despite the friendliness of the two villagers, he did not really learn anything new.
Further down was a banker whose home’s windows were recently broken by a rowdy group of his son’s friends, but his son, of course, was not involved in any way.
Around the corner was a marketer that often chased people off her property, and she was certain that her neighbor’s snotty daughter was the one getting her friends to mess up her gardening.
A town guard had no idea why the youths would gather, but was exhausted by constantly being called to disperse them.
Everyone was reacting to the strangely rowdy young men and women, but no one could tell him why the kids were acting out, nor did any parents wish to admit that their children were involved in the happenings.
While musing and walking, though, he was suddenly shocked by the sound of splintering wood and a shout. Sam immediately began jogging down a nearby alley to the sound of the noise to emerge on the next street over. A small crowd had gathered around a modest storefront. An exasperated elderly man with a thick beard, bald head, and smock stained with all sorts of strange colors was bellowing at the building. A wooden sign reading “Franklin Apothecary” was dangling over the door frame, but the door itself lay splintered in the street.
“Out! Out! Get out!” he roared from the gutter.
“Sir! Sir! What is happening!?”
“I’m being robbed!” the man cried. “I’m being robbed! Help me! The stuff in there! So dangerous, my man! Get them out!”
Sam, without pausing, ran into the apothecary, focusing his mind as he did.
He knew he needed strength and confidence if he was going to intimidate these robbers. His skin let off a soft glow and Sam felt his muscles swell under his armor. His white steel boots clattered across the wooden floor of the apothecary and the activity inside momentarily paused.
“Stop where you are!” Samson shouted, his voice unnaturally loud, accompanied by a soft concussion to the air, causing the various glass vials and bottles to rattle around the store. In front of him, three teenagers stood, looking like children caught with their hands on a dessert. Each of them was holding a crate or box of the apothecary’s goods.
The younger man in the group instantly began to panic, letting the crate he held fall to the floor. The flimsy wood cracked apart, spilling glass vials all over the floor as he ran out of the shop. One of the vials shattered, spilling its contents across the shop’s wooden floor, releasing a pungent odor. The old man on the street barked threats and curses as the boy fled past.
The girl in the group was too shocked to move any more than a slight tremble. Meanwhile, the third young man furrowed his brow and turned back to robbing the shop, stuffing bottles of brightly colored liquids into a crate padded with wool.
“Put the crate down and get out,” Sam ordered the girl. He spoke intentionally softly, the command rolling like distant thunder. Her eyes widened and she slowly put the box she held on a nearby table, but froze again. Her face twisted as the smell of the spilt chemicals continued to fill the room. Sam pulled his shield off of his back, and readied his warhammer. “Get out!” he roared and the girl shrieked before running, narrowly avoiding a widening hole in the floor where the spill was eating away the wood.
The third teenager was still busy stealing, twitching slightly at the sound of the paladin’s commands, but otherwise unaffected. Adjusting the grip on his hammer, Samson approached the teen.
“You!” he yelled, thrusting the hammer at the thief. “Put down the bottles, and look at me with your hands above your head.”
The only response was the crystalline clink of bottles tapping against one another.
“I will not say it again!”
Still no response, but the boy began to breathe heavily.
“Young man!”
“I’m sorry,” the boy said, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry.”
The softness in the thief’s voice was honestly a relief to Samson. He had chased off the other two kids without trouble, and was terrified he would have to get forceful. His muscles shrunk back down to normal and the pressure in his esophagus that strengthened his voice relieved.
“What are you doing in here?” Sam asked softly, lowering his weapons.
“We need the money,” the boy said quietly, his back to the paladin in training.
“Who?”
“I’m so sorry,” the boy repeated.
“Just turn around,” Sam urged. “Put the box down and turn around.”
There was a long silence before the boy softly muttered “No.”
Samson was taken aback by the defiance. After all, paladins were the definition of authority. Defiance was not tolerated. Though, he supposed, the kids in this village were out of control.
“Who are you, anyway?” the boy asked, his defiance gaining momentum very quickly. “The Will doesn’t even have a church here. What are you even doing here?”
“Put the box down, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid,” the boy said flatly. “You’re what? Three years older than me? What does that mean?”
Sam was starting to feel a tinge of panic. He did not want to hit the boy, but he was losing control of the situation quickly. Everything he had been taught told him to strike the teenager there and then, but he could not bring himself to do it. The boy had just been so apologetic. Where this aggression was coming from, Samson could not tell, but he knew it could not be his personality. “P-p-put down the box,” he said, put off by the sound of his own voice trembling. He feverishly worked to steady himself, deciding to deliver a final line to prove he meant what he was saying. “Or I’ll kill you.”
“Get out of here!” the boy suddenly cried out. He slammed the crate down on the table he was stealing from and pivoted, a stoppered vial filled with a bright orange liquid clasped tightly in his hand.
Samson began raising his shield, but there was not enough time. The boy reeled back and slung the vial as hard as he could. The glass exploded when it smashed into Samson’s chest. The caustic smell of whatever chemical was inside struck his nostrils instantly.
Samson’s vision tunneled. He tried to look down at where the potion struck but he could not quite see it. Suddenly, there was pain worse than any he had ever imagined. The acidic liquid had eaten through his breastplate and padded shirt, and was now burning his bare chest. He tried to scream in pain, but only got a mouthful of the acrid fumes that burned his tongue and throat.
The thieving boy looked at Samson in horror for a mere moment before grabbing the crate and running. As Sam’s field of vision shrunk even further, he heard a familiar voice shout forcefully in the street outside the shop. Just before losing consciousness, he felt a tug on his shoulders and a sudden weightlessness. Then he was gone.