Chapter 12: Churbud, the Cursed One
As Churbud Fallowthorne, the noble, dignified, and wonderful Paladin of Ostros, giddily ordered his horse into a gallop, he released a mighty laugh as the three boys in his charge began pestering him to slow down. All three were young Apprentices barely older than fifteen, and all three sought to become Templars and, someday, Paladins, just like Churbud—and who could blame them?
Yes, using magic was splendid indeed! But those gifted souls who opted for the alternate path, such as himself, could use magic and make use of a giant, face-crushing mace. Clearly, that was way better, and anyone who disagreed was just jealous of how great, noble, and gallant Paladins were.
"Follow me, Apprentices!" he yelled with glee, his horse increasing in speed.
"W-w-we can't keep up, Master Fallowthorne!" they cried, as all three young ones were proceeding on foot. But they needed this exercise if they wanted to promote into Templars. Unlike those wishing to become Mystics, who had the luxury of sitting around in the sky-tower's library reading books, promoting to Templar required diligence and effort. It was by far the harder path.
But perhaps I can be just a little softer on them, he thought, pulling on the reins and bringing his chestnut mare to a stop. Dismounting, Churbud gave the horse an affectionate pat on her back and then turned around to regard the panting, gasping boys who were struggling to keep up.
"I could easily make this run," he said to them. "And I'm sixty years old and wearing all this shiny, silver armor. There's no excuse for you three!"
"I'm s-sorry, Master Fallowthorne," Billee said. His shirt and head were soaked with sweat. He was the shortest of the three boys—and also the youngest, too, having just turned 15. Churbud had taken an interest in him, especially after discovering that, unsurprisingly, all the other masters had passed on accepting him. And it wasn't hard to see why, either.
Billee was a tiny thing with red hair and a face full of freckles. He wasn't particularly strong, and he certainly didn't look like he belonged anywhere near a mace and shield. But for some reason, the boy wanted nothing more than to be a Paladin, and he had begged Churbud with tears in his eyes to accept him. Having already been turned down by all the other masters of Ostros, Churbud knew that, if he declined, the boy would be forced to become a Mystic and, eventually, a Sorcerer one day if he could manage it.
But Churbud hadn't declined him. No, he hadn't. Because he could see something in the boy's spirit: something that reminded him of his own days as an inspired youth. Billee, he knew, could learn to become strong. All of them could. But first, they'd need to eat!
"Come, let's sit and have lunch," he said, gesturing to a patch of grass that ended in a cliff overlooking the Adsen River. It was a nice, scenic place to share a meal.
Moving back to his horse, he took out a sack filled with roast pork sandwiches from within a much larger pack, and with that, he began handing them out, one per Apprentice. "Don't eat until you're sitting down!" he shouted at them as they began devouring the food immediately. "Be civilized!"
"Sorry, Master Fallowthorne," Jona said. He was the tallest and strongest of the bunch, but also the most unruly and headstrong. Like Billee, he too had been passed over by all the other masters. In fact, all three of them had. Each of them was, in some ways, a "reject," so to speak. But Churbud believed in each one of them—even young Raval, the quiet, shy boy with raven-black hair who seemed to be lacking in spirit and vigor.
But no matter how they looked now, Churbud knew that all three would succeed. All three would be whipped into shape. Churbud would swear an oath upon it!
"Everyone, please, sit down," he said, gesturing to the grass. He retrieved a cloth from the back of his horse and laid it down. He also fetched plates and small cups to fill with his waterskin. It was important that the boys learned etiquette. The path of a Paladin was one of both strength and decency. A Paladin without manners was no Paladin at all.
"There," he said as he filled their cups. "Now, I want each of you to eat slowly. Stop and actually taste your food for once. The cooks worked very hard to prepare these"—and then it happened again—"SHIT BITCH MOTHER FUCKER ASS BALLS COCK SHITTY DONKEY GOAT TESTICLES!" he shouted out as the boys giggled. He frowned at them. They knew not to laugh at his affliction.
All my life, I've been cursed, he thought. Will I never be free of this plague?
Since he'd been old enough to speak, something had always been wrong with Churbud: something that had almost prevented him from rising up the ranks to become one of the greatest Paladins in the history of Ostros. You see, much like these three boys, he, too, had been a reject, and he, too, would have been forced to become a Sorcerer if not for finding the one master who would take him in despite his flaws.
But even now, decades later, he still struggled with these flaws every day.
Churbud did his utmost to uphold the traditions and values of a noble Paladin. Every waking moment, he did all he could to comport himself with honor, decency, and gallantry. He showed kindness to his allies and mercy to his enemies. In nearly all ways, he lived up to the expectations his deceased master had set for him.
Well, all ways except one. For he was cursed, and this curse brought out a vileness that he was unable to control and that not even the High-Priests knew how to heal.
So, he learned to adapt.
Shrugging off the incident, Churbud gave the boys some time to relax and eat lunch. When they'd finished, Billee asked, "Why did we have to get stuck going to Bradford, anyway? I thought we were gonna do real training today."
"Yeah," Jona said. "You promised you'd teach us how to fight with the mace."
"And I shall!" Churbud insisted. "But first, we must complete an important mission from the king himself."
"Bleh," Jona said, making a sour face. "This isn't a real mission."
"But of course it is, Jona."
"Nope. We're just being sent to bring Prince Alain home. We're basically just couriers delivering a message."
Churbud raised his hand and wiggled his armor-covered hand. "No-no-no. That's where you're wrong. Anything asked of us by the king is a mission. And you must remember this always. A Paladin does not 'complain' for lack of excitement. We uphold our king's orders, and we protect the realm."
"From what?" Jona asked, showing a little bit too much defiance. Churbud glared at him, however, and the boy quieted.
"If you want to go on 'real' missions, as you call them, you must earn the right to be trusted. And to do that, you'd better learn to follow orders. As you three are right now, I wouldn't dare expose you to danger. You're barely strong enough to—AHH FUCK MY BALLS! FUCK BOTH MY BALLS!" He panted, having screamed at the top of his lungs. "Do not laugh, children! Do not dare!"
"Sorry," they all said as they snickered at him.
"GOAT TITTIES! GOAT TITTY MILK! BALL FUCKERS! Stop laughing at me!"
"Sorry, Master Fallowthorne!"
His feelings slightly hurt, Churbud nobly and gallantly remounted his steed and had a mostly noble and quiet ride the rest of the way to Bradford. Upon arriving, however, he noticed that there appeared to be some kind of a commotion taking place.
"That's odd," he remarked, though he spoke mostly to himself. "Didn't there used to be a watchtower here? And where are all the guards?"
The front gate was wide open, and no one was stationed on duty. That was…very, very odd. But even more odd—and alarming—were the sounds of distant screams, followed by a massive boom as though something had exploded. Now, he saw smoke rising from the middle of Bradford. Once again dismounting, he drew his mace from the sheath at his side and shot a look of warning to the three boys.
"You three! Stay right here. Do not move."
"But Master Fallowthorne, we want to—"
"Do. Not. Move!" he yelled at them, and he gave them each a look to know that he was serious. Meekly, they obeyed, and so with his shield raised and his massive, head-crushing mace at the ready, he made his way into the town.
He was not prepared for what he saw upon entering.