Duty-bound
1
The stench was overpowering, but Jarrow tried not to notice. He tried to pretend he was somewhere else - not moving the corpse of what had been, only moments before, a fellow templar of Circle Tower.
"Wake up, man, get his feet," muttered his Knight-Lieutenant. Jarrow winced at the thought but took hold of what he hoped was a boot. It was hard to tell after the fire.
"A pox on abominations!" cursed Teran, the templar across from him. It was obvious he was trying not to look at the corpse as he and the Lieutenant lifted the body by the shoulders. The three of them shifted the remains toward a makeshift stretcher. "Poor bastard didn't deserve this! Now look at 'em, cooked alive," said Teran.
"Here, here, I say the Maker take all them mages!" shouted another templar from across the room. Jarrow glanced over long enough to see he was occupied with a wounded companion.
"I don't see why we don't just wipe the blighters off the face of the world," continued Teran as they eased the corpse back down. "Then we wouldn't have to worry none about cagin' them up."
"Because those blighters treat your wounds," growled an Enchanter just clearing the stairwell. He looked appraisingly at the wounded of the group. Teran released the corpse roughly and made like he was going to shove the mage, but seemed to reconsider. He spit at the Enchanter's feet instead.
"No, you blighters caused these wounds! Damned blood magic will kill us all!"
The Enchanter spun on him, his open mouth undoubtedly prepared to loose a string of curses, but the Knight-Lieutenant was faster. He took hold of Teran by the aventail and pulled him in close.
"Enough! No one here was a blood mage, and Enchanter Isaac is correct – spirit healing is invaluable and sanctioned by the Chantry. And have more respect for the dead. We are all destined to join them. Sooner or later." The Lieutenant loosened his grip, leaving a streak of filth on Teran's breastplate. "Go get cleaned up."
Teran quickly left the room, shooting one final, dirty look as he did.
Meanwhile, Jarrow busied himself with covering the bodies, but spared enough time to watch Isaac work. Magic was terrible, of that he was convinced. Yet it could be wondrous and soothing. He could feel the calm, peaceful energy radiating from the blue orb that floated briefly in front of Enchanter Isaac. It was palpable even from this distance. He watched it settle over the wound and seep in through the skin. Miraculously, the flesh began to knit before his eyes.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" The voice of the Knight-Lieutenant snapped Jarrow back to his senses.
"Ser?" he asked, uncertain of what he had heard.
"I remember the first time I witnessed healings. As though the Maker herself touched my fellow men." The Lieutenant paused for a moment as Isaac moved to another templar and repeated the process, beads of sweat evidence of his concentration.
"But it isn't," continued the Lieutenant. "It's the work of man, and like man it's imperfect. Never forget this," he cautioned. "Wounds close, pain passes, but those men will never be the same; such scars run too deep."
Jarrow digested the Knight-Lieutenant's words, his eyes closed. He reopened them and resumed his duties.
2.
The barracks were sour. Aside from the stench of sweat and unwashed leathers, the mood alone was enough to turn one's stomach. Jarrow settled himself at his footlocker and stowed his belongings. He shivered when he glanced over at two adjacent, empty cots, their footlockers empty and beds stripped. Had the Knight-Captain already sent their possessions to their families? Or had others robbed them clean? No matter; he knew the owners wouldn't be returning. Not after moving their bodies to the morgue. Even if their possessions were reported stolen, the paperwork – and likely every else about them – would be forgotten. The thought upset him more.
He snapped his locker shut and grabbed a half-clean towel. A shower and some food may help, he thought. He found the showers already full. Evidently, he wasn't the only wishing to wash himself clean; that earnestly hoped the memories would leave with the stink and grime.
He waited his turn and stood motionless under the half-warm water. The boiler below him groaned as it grew colder, the coal fires unable to keep up with the sudden demand for hot water. It didn't matter. Nothing did. Jarrow scarcely registered the now-icy water.
Why hadn't I acted sooner? he wondered as the day's events marched in an endless loop in his mind. He'd seen the apprentice slump and then go rigid. He'd seen the more seasoned men gird their shields. 'This one was nothing subtle,' he'd heard the Knight-Lieutenant say when the carnage ended. He'd heard an abomination sometimes tried to pass itself off as human, recognizing its predicament, surrounded as it were by templars ready to cut it down.
That, he supposed, was the mark of the clever ones. This one wasn't. Or was it? It had acted almost instantly. It was upon one of his fellows in seconds, no ruses, no deliberation. The possessing spirit either knew it could not fool them or lacked the patience to try.
It wouldn't happen again. Jarrow settled in his cot and closed his eyes.
Next time, he would strike first.
3.
He hated patrol duty. No, hate was too strong. He certainly disliked it, but hatred was better reserved for worse things: Murderers, abominations. Blood mages. Jarrow shook his head and pushed on. His footsteps kept a lonesome beat. Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap. It was occasionally punctuated by the rattle of door-handles as he checked nearby portals to see that they were locked.
They always were.
He stopped to rest, leaning against some corner statuary.
"The eyes o' a Ferelden Hawk," muttered a voice from around the bend. Jarrow straightened himself long enough for his lantern light to pick out Teran standing in the shadows, then relaxed again.
"Need something?" Jarrow asked.
"…as a matter o' fact. You need t'relieve Hopkes on watch."
"Is that right?" Jarrow's tone sounded more incredulous than intended. Watch duty was worse than patrol. He cursed his luck as he headed down to the lower levels to relieve Hopkes of his post at the storeroom door.
By the time he arrived at the store house, Hopkes was no where in sight. He glanced around the empty chamber.
"Really..?" Jarrow looked around in disbelief. "The Knight-Captain is going to kill us! Hopkes? Hopkes!" He completed a cursory investigation of the area with no sign of his fellow templar. Best be at my post should the Captain come check on me, decided Jarrow. Maker have mercy on Hopkes when they find he deserted.
As he wound his way to the storerooms, a faint light caught his eye. "Hopkes..?" he asked quietly. No, he thought. He pressed himself against the wall and inched forward for a better view.
A faint, wispy glow had wandered into his field of vision. He watched as it slowly approached the stairs leading down to the storerooms. He could make out two figures moving in the light, staves in hand: Mages. Jarrow felt his anger swell. When the pair approached the storeroom door, Jarrow boldly sprung from his hiding place.
"You..!" Jarrow felt his voice tremble slightly as he peered down the stairs. An older mage and what looked to be a young apprentice girl. Slowly, the mage turned to look at him, but the girl froze. I must be ready for anything, thought Jarrow. Kill him before he kills me! Jarrow licked his dry lips and drew a breath. "What are you doing out of your chambers, mage?"
No response.
"Speak!"
Still no response.
"Come away from there at once!" Jarrow was certain his voice cracked at the absurdity of his command. He steeled his nerves. His sword was in his hand before he'd even registered having unsheathed it.
Jarrow stared hard at the mage, refusing to blink. The mage did the same. Then Jarrow felt a peculiar sensation coming over him, like a tingle, which raised goose bumps on his skin. Magic - he's drawing power. An attack?
Jarrow noticed the mage's eyes shift suddenly to the side. No, he's going to run for it, he ascertained. He widened his stance, ready to move should the mage try anything. He glanced briefly at the apprentice to judge how great a threat she was. She looked a mess. Shaking, cowering. The girl was no danger; just the mage, then.
There was a sudden pain in the back of his head, and Jarrow tried to fix his vision back on the mage, but couldn't.
...what spell is..?
He saw the staircase rising up to meet him as his world went dark.
4.
The throbbing pain was almost unbearable. Jarrow forces open his eyes, tried to push away the blackness. Slowly, painfully, his vision began to return. A dark shape floated in front of his eyes and he focused on it. Bloodstain. Instinctively he reached a hand to the back of his head; it was tender and swollen, but his hand came back clean. Then the blood wasn't his.
He looked left and right and found his lantern, fallen and guttering at his side, leaving a ring of soot on the stone step. He fetched it and came to his knees to examine the blood. It was congealed and drying.
Whose blood is this..?
Jarrow's heart beat faster. Though it hurt, he rose to his feet. Though he was unsteady, he forced himself to walk, following spots of blood here and there on the floor of the chamber.
"Hopkes…"
The trail, faint though it was, led him to a pile of sacks and overturned crates meant for the rubbish heap. It didn't take him long to spy a booted foot among them.
"Hopkes!" Jarrow let his lantern drop and frantically dug into the pile. What he found made him almost wretch. It was him. His throat was cut; he'd been dead for hours.
He shot a look back to the storerooms.
Those bastards! Jarrow rose and clambered back to the stairway, retrieving his sword. The door of the storeroom was ajar, and Jarrow looked to his belt. His keys were missing. He swiftly descended the stairs, his free hand against the wall for balance, desperate to fight off the vertigo swimming in his head.
The storerooms were a twisting passage of natural stone that lay beneath Circle Tower, extended and widened here and there. He hadn't been inside very often, and having left his light upstairs made him feel very foolish, indeed.
How in the world do I find two mages skulking in the dark when I cannot see my hand in front of my face? Why did I not just call for aid? The templar clenched his teeth and felt a chill run through him. His hands were beginning to shake. How long has it been since my last Lyrium ration? Am I suffering from it already? He drew a deep breath to calm himself.
"You're getting yourself too worked up," he said aloud.
Slowly, he proceeded to creep along the tunnel, peering into the gloom for any sign of his quarry. A faint sound reached his ears. He stopped and listened, eyes closed, straining to make it out. Voices.
He could barely make anything out until a man shouted, "Ugh..! …find it!" The voice echoed, making it difficult to locate. It was followed by the clatter of stone, and Jarrow tried to narrow in on the source. As he crept along it become obvious he was on the right path. The voices were more distinct, now.
"Go on if you want!" someone exclaimed. It was the same man from before, and sounded as though it were just ahead.
"…come with us. When we find the way out," said a woman.
"No such luck… your phylactery, but not mine. With mages they don't risk keeping the lock and key so close together," the man replied. So it was them – the mage and apprentice girl. They had her phylactery and knew of a way out of the Tower? This was serious! There was no time to double back for help. By then the girl could be long gone, and without her phylactery it would be very difficult for the Order to track her.
Jarrow swallowed, turned the corner and charged in. It was dim, but it looked as though the mage had his back to him. The girl saw him and froze again with a squeak.
"Stand down!" he ordered, sword ready as he closed the distance. Only the mage should be a threat, he thought. He set his sights on the man, having no intention of letting him cast any spells. Just then the apprentice raised her staff.
Damn! Her, too? Jarrow leveled his sword. The girl is closer, I still have time. Jarrow felt his hairs raise on end as the feeling of magic coalesced around him. Instinctively, he drew on his own training. He felt the power surge within him, and he directed it into his blade, seeking to cancel his enemies' spells.
"No!" shouted the mage. Jarrow glanced in mid-stride to regard him, suddenly aware an aura of electricity was gathering. Sensing the greater threat, Jarrow tucked his shoulder in and barreled past the girl, throwing her aside like a toy. He turned on the ball of his foot, shifted his weight and brought his sword to bear on the mage. With a growl, Jarrow pushed up every bit of strength he could find inside and poured it into his sword as his blade met the mage's flesh, the electricity faltered, the magic fizzled.
By the time his charge ended he had run the mage through cleanly, his weight alone holding the man against the wall of the cavern. Jarrow's breaths came in deep heaves. Why hadn't the mage moved? Why hadn't he at least tried to get away? He stared at the face of his enemy, eyes closed, color already draining from his skin.
He heard a weak gasp from the girl beside him, and the sound of rustling clothes from behind. So there was a third.
He tugged at his sword, yet the mage - dead as he was - refused to relinquish it. Possibly the only thing the poor bastard has ever done right. Jarrow let go of his weapon, trying to face his new foe, but it was too late. A hand was thrown across his face, and it took firm hold of him by the chin. Before he could even turn to look at his opponent there was a crack! and he found himself looking at the floor at an odd angle. A glimpse of grey robes. There was nothing more. No sound, no sensation.
Just a deeper, faster approaching darkness than ever before.