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The Gamer Chapter 1594 – Chivalrous 3 – To be made a Squire
🕑 Added 2024-01-05 23:10:18 +0000 UTCJohn and Ehtra were greeted on the other side by a burly, old man. He was the image of a seasoned, German knight, nearly two metres tall, muscular, and covered in scars. A particularly pronounced one surrounded his eye in a star shape, rising from his tanned skin in a lighter shade. He had deep wrinkles, thick eyebrows, and a silver beard that matched his wild mane.
By description, John knew this to be High Marshall Rekt, founder and first High Marshall of the Alpine Knights. Observe confirmed this, marking him at level 157. Respectable, very respectable even.
“I see you’ve made it through the Cave of Mustering,” he said in a gruff voice. “I hope the Ghost of the Alps had some words of advice for you.”
“I’ll be honest, I encountered no ghost.” John awkwardly scratched the back of his head and turned back to the staircase they had just climbed. It ended in an arc in the side of a protrusion from the mountainside.
“You... encountered no ghost?” Rekt asked slowly.
“They may have been intimidated,” the Gamer theorized. It did fairly little to him, since he was on the same level and had high Mental Stats, but Ehtra’s outburst had come with her aura of contempt manifesting in intense ways. Assuming that this Ghost of the Alps was appropriately levelled to be a central part of the traditions of a knightly order more known for its honour than its strength… ‘Hell, even if it was unusually powerful, Ehtra likely would have shocked them into fainting.’ “I can leave her here and go back through, if that’s what is proper.”
The old knight circled his jaw, clearly contemplating the offer. His green eyes were focused on nothing but stared at John, in a way that would have made the average aspirant quiver at the knees. The plate armour the man wore was impressive, covered in heraldry and magical script, all etched into the stone that had been carved into the individual segments. The Alpine Knights wore the very rock of the mountains as their protection.
John knew for a fact he could take the thickest part of the armour and snap it like a thick plank of drywood. There would be resistance, just not enough of it to stop him.
“The spirit must have deemed you worthy without trial.” That was certainly a way to square that circle. His gaze flickered over to the grey angel a pace behind and offset from John’s position. “It bears repeating that squires are not allowed the company of the opposite sex in our halls.”
“I will similarly repeat that I understand and that that is not why she is here.” John gestured towards the First of Hatred. “I ask that you let her observe from a distance and answer her questions should she have any. She still has a lot to understand about the modern world. Our accommodations should be separate.”
The High Marshall nodded a few times. “Truthfully speaking, I remain annoyed with the briefness of your stay. That the king of our realm should have a knightly title is only proper and you do not require the same training as others, that much I grant… but two and a half days is little.”
“Then don’t waste it by having him stand there,” Ehtra scolded.
Rekt was either not used to or particularly struck by the admonishment. After clearing his throat, he continued on, “To make certain, you have read the book on proper behaviour, yes?”
“All 123 pages,” John confirmed. The Alpine Knights were respected and allowing him to speedrun knighthood was, in large part, hitched to him actually performing the many duties of a squire. Since there was no point in pretending that he had things to learn regarding combat and military tactics from this order, much emphasis was instead going to be placed on testing his humility.
That was what John assumed anyway. What was important here was that they could say they had actually deemed him worthy by the standards of the order. In return, they would gain publicity from him having done so. Both him gaining a respectable knighthood and them remaining in high standing depended on everyone sensing that this was done properly.
Rekt nodded one more time. “If all is understood, hail to you, betrothed of our queen. Take the honour of that title and all others you bear and forget it as you follow me. The moment the door closes behind you in your quarters, your training as a squire will begin.”
“I shall do so, High Marshall,” John stated and beat his chest. It was the proper salute between equals in the order.
They were guided into the tower. It was a tall structure, created by stacking and half-melting blocks of the Alps’ stone. The result was interesting, as few of the blocks were carved smoothly. A mixture of natural and artificial, the tower extended several stories high. Around it were several dozen huts of lesser make.
Rekt took them to a luxurious room on the second floor. It had a large, soft-looking bed. The stone floor was covered in a wine red, gold-trimmed carpet. A leather-clad armchair was tucked into a large office desk. With it came a large bookshelf, half-stocked with old tomes on chivalry and the tales of the noteworthy knights of the order. A window in the back gave a fantastic view over the surrounding mountains.
“Ehtra will stay here,” the High Marshall announced.
The grey angel stepped into the door and scanned the environment critically. She dropped to the ground, lifted the carpet, and dragged her finger over the stone under and next to it. When she inspected her fingertip, she clicked her tongue. “Arrange for cleaning utensils.”
The old knight was surprised, but stated, “I’ll call one of the servants post haste and have it-“
“I asked for cleaning utensils, not servants,” Ehtra admonished, her wings spreading in agitation. They folded back as she got up. “I’m a guest here. My standards will not be met by them nor should they. This room is acceptable, but I have time.”
If Rekt was confused before, he was bamboozled now. John couldn’t blame him. Ehtra’s tone did not match the more agreeable of her statements. Her body language did not help the matter, one of her hands landing on the swing of her hips.
“It will be done,” the High Marshall finally conceded. “John, if you would follow.”
“Of course. Ehtra, I’ll see you around.”
“…Fine.” the First of Hatred seemed annoyed about something. Before John could even start to work out what that was, she closed the door between them.
It wasn’t often that John found himself confused by a woman’s behaviour anymore. Today was one of those rare occasions. A short-lived attempt by the grey angel to touch his thoughts did not help the matter. She slinked away as soon as he started to move towards her. ‘Girls,’ he thought and wordlessly walked after the old knight. ‘I just hope she’ll use the time to get a clearer head.’
The Gamer was guided back out of the tower and to one of the stone huts around the tower. Not just any of the stone huts, but the smallest, furthest away that there was. Stepping aside, the High Marshall gestured for John to open the door.
John looked at it first. It was a sturdy, wooden barrier, set into equally sturdy walls. Of the two tropes for terrible housing of the initiates, it seemed the Alpine Knights had gone for prison cell over miraculously upright shack. Opening the door further confirmed that sense.
The room inside was tiny. It contained only two things: a chest to stow away valuables and a depression in the floor that was filled with something that could charitably be described as a mattress and a pillow. The blanket that was part of the set was surprisingly adequate looking. Considering the bed was part of the ground, they probably had to compromise a tad on the torture initiates were supposed to go through to keep them from getting sick over the winter.
Not that it would be a problem for John.
The Gamer stepped inside and looked around. The barren stone walls portrayed marks of past owners. Someone had begun scratching a count into one of the walls. Whether they had been stopped quickly, they had graduated soon thereafter, or just lost motivation, John could only guess. There were some remains of glue and paper where posters had been stuck to the wall. The corners had accrued dust and dirt. All of this could have been fixed quite easily, especially with magic, but John would have expected to find out they were deliberately keeping some of these places extra dingy just to test the resolve of certain squires.
“Your assigned knight will get you when they deem it appropriate. Do not leave the room until then,” the High Marshall spoke in a harsh tone. “Your uniform is in the chest.” With that, he slammed the door closed.
The room was immediately much darker. The only window was a tiny rectangle near the top of the wall. John did some quick calculations and snorted with amusement when he realized that the window was perfectly placed to allow the sun to shine on the head end of the bed during the early-rising season.
‘I’ll have that to look forward to in the morning,’ John thought and put his backpack down next to the chest. He took off his shoes, then the rest of his clothes, save for his boxers, and checked the uniform.
It was a pressed set of quilted shirt and wool pants, both of solid quality. John ran his hands over the fabric. It felt quite nice, inside and outside. Even when he put it on, he didn’t notice anything wrong with it. At least when it came to his clothes, he wouldn’t be tortured.
‘Although I don’t think light blue and white are my colours,’ John thought, looking at the chequered pattern. It had that medieval feel to it. It was, somehow, among the weirdest things he had worn so far. ‘Then again, I think I have only ever worn t-shirts and suits since entering the Abyss,’ he realized. ‘Huh. Of all the weird things that could happen to me.’
Carefully, John stowed away the rest of his clothes, then laid down on the bed. Every motion was calculated so that he didn’t add any unnecessary wrinkles to the provided clothing. After all of that, he stared at the ceiling.
John folded his hands on his stomach and just existed. There were parts of his life where he would have been driven mental by this state of entertainment deprivation. After having been through so much, or just by growing older, that was no longer an issue. He let his thoughts circle around all of the games he could be playing. Idle fantasies that he did not attach himself to.
The manual provided had outlined that the squires were expected to contemplate a just life during their downtime. Another point that John was long past. He had realized, understood, reconsidered, lived, failed at, and succeeded in the idea of a just life already. He would keep failing and succeeding at it. That was just the nature of life.
So, he just kept on existing, for about two hours.
His ears picked up the noise of approaching footsteps long before the door opened. The stone plates clacked and clattered with an interesting middle between metallic and grinding sounds. ‘I wonder what kind of knight I’ll be assigned,’ John considered, as he got up from the bed. ‘Considering that they want to keep a reputation… it’s either going to be the most honourable man they have or the biggest slavedriver.’
John positioned himself behind the door and knelt down in the traditional way of the order. The knuckles of one hand rested on the stone floor, the palm of the other was on the one raised knee. The other leg was tucked underneath, the knee hovering shortly above the ground, not allowing any dust to get on the squire’s uniform. His head was, of course, lowered.
The position was uncomfortable to hold. Most of his weight rested on his knuckles and a foot too far back to balance with. Its purpose was looks, not comfort, however, and it probably helped build core strength and willpower in aspirants.
More than the physical position, John was annoyed with his own reaction to it. He could feel the beast of pride within him growling with every passing second. Stirwin wasn’t there to growl back either.
This was the ugly part of him. The part that he had to be most careful of when he fed it his successes and certainties of his power. He had control over it, but there was no denying that he was being unreasonably irritated by the situation. ‘I’m not flawless, I just can’t let these flaws define me,’ he thought.
The door swung open to the outside. Between the gripping of the handle and the pull, there was enough time for an otherwise unprepared squire to get into the position John was already in. That counted towards the knight assigned being of the more traditionally virtuous persuasion.
John kept his eyes focused on a random spot on the ground. It occurred to him that someone that had occupied the room before had drilled a little groove into the stone, likely for exactly this purpose. The little ingenuity almost made him laugh.
“Raise your head, aspirant,” a female voice greeted him.
Smoothly, John did, looking up at an attractive, middle-aged woman. She had aged like fine wine, the crow’s feet on her face only emphasizing her mature features and the sharpness of her blue eyes. Her nose was a little harder than John preferred, adding something vaguely avian to her. The eagle feathers woven into her blonde hair only furthered the impression.
A thin scar split her bound-back hairline on the left side of her forehead. It travelled all the way down to her chin, similarly splitting her dark eyebrow on the way, narrowly missing her lips. It was perfectly straight, as if drawn along a ruler. John wondered if it continued further, but the grey stone plate covered everything from the turtle neck down.
Not that John allowed his eyes to roam anyhow.
“I am Marcelia, Lady of the Echo and wielder of the Sword of Snowfall,” she introduced herself. She drew the weapon from its sheath. It was a one-handed sword. As the name would imply, it radiated cold. The metal of the blade was a white too pure to be Mithril. Streams of fog drifted down from it, as she placed the weapon against the side of John’s face.
Chill spread over his cheek. He remained motionless.
“Rise,” she ordered, and John slowly stood. He was taller than her, by almost a full head. A fact that he was distracted by when she moved the sword in a quick flick and smacked the broad of it against the side of his head.
Particle Skin sparked, neutralizing a blow that was already shallow to begin with. Marcelia drew back the weapon and sheathed it with an audible clack. “Let that be the last blow that strikes you unprepared, squire,” she declared in a ceremonial tone. “Walk with me.”
John nodded and followed.
