Magister Templi

The Magister Templi

The slow progress of a spider, the size of his outstretched palm; absorbs all of his attention; slumped now, in the only whisper of breeze available.

He sits leaning; in one corner, against the pole of the heavy tent; where the side is split. Slouched in pain, on a thin pile of cushions.
Outside it is around 110 degrees Fahrenheit.

The reek of his own sweat, mingles with the grimy fug; of hot breath, and caked on dirt. Stifling inside his stuffy, quilted coat.

And the bitter, iron tang of blood. Lots of it; the dampmost is his own, he sees, looking down. Seeping out through the layer of steel ringed mail, and overcoat of linen.

It is unbearably hot. They haven’t so much as offered him water, so far. Not that it matters much, anyway.
The whole world is about to collapse.



A ruffling disturbance brings his attention back to the present; and he glances across to where the tent opens. a flap is cast aside roughly, by one of the guards there.

A man enters; neither of large build, or height. He is slight, and moves with a liquid grace. The motion of his dark robes, fluid through the air. His  soft boots leave barely a trace, as he approaches and squats down.

Eyes dark as a river; deep, and soulful; oversee a blade of nose, steering the eye downward; toward a crooked mouth, and sharp beard.
His hand, far below that, has hold of a hilt.

“What is your name, Frank?”

“Jakelin,” he breathes. Clearing his throat, he sits up. “Jakelin de Mailly.” He says more clearly.

The other man turns to one of the guards, and says, “Limadha lm yaet ma?”
The guard shrugs.
“Mejnwn. alhusul ealayh alma!” He begins shouting at him. Sending him off at a run.

“You are a very brave man,” he turns back to him. “I watched you fight today.” His accent is not thick.
“You saved the lives of many of your brothers. I apologise for my guard’s lack of hospitality.

“I am Gökböri,” he says softly. “‘Blue Wolf’, it means,” looking down. “But you are wounded! I will call for surgeons.”

Rising abruptly, he strides to the tent’s entrance, calling out. He can be heard issuing instructions to several men.

He returns with a skin of water, passing it to him. He drinks only enough to moisten his mouth. He has a wound in his abdomen. A penetrating slash.
And he knows that he if he drinks water, he’ll only wrench it open; coughing or puking it back up.


“My official name is al-Malik al-Muazzam Muzaffar ad-Din, please try to remember it. And in return I will try my very best to see you do not die this day.”
He feels the cool of the man’s palm resting on his forehead, amid a bustling entry of other people.

The pain overwhelms him, and the gray world narrows to a point. Sound is far away; the voice that says, “I would see you live to deliver a message. A message to your Magister. A message from the Old Man himself.”