Samson was about to say that he could move the tent farther away, when he heard a shout and screams from outside. In a flash, he shoved the tent flap aside and raced down to the camp.
Wild-eyed, his blanket smoldering where it had been flung in the fire, the young templar Wystan was staggering in a loose circle of his fellows, lunging briefly at each one. A dripping sword was in his hand, and the hollow sound coming from his throat was inhuman. A cook crouched by the fire, nursing his torn and bloody side.
The hair on Samson’s nape pricked him like needles. He had seen this madness come upon his templars before. But never so quickly.
Wystan snarled and slashed his blade at the others. From either side, three of the templars piled on him, dragging at his arms to bring him down—Wystan threw off two, and the third, the camp quartermaster, stumbled away clutching a terrible gouge in her face.
“Leave him to me!”
Samson shoved carelessly through the crowd and faced Wystan. The red gleam in the lad’s eyes was incandescent. “Stand off, Wystan,” he ordered.
Wystan grinned unevenly. The reddish tinge had spread to his teeth, to the nails of the hand that gripped his sword. And then Samson realized he’d sprinted out of Maddox’s tent with no weapon and no helmet.
“Stronger already,” whispered Wystan. “I can… We tasted the red, and soon they’ll be dead!”
His free hand clutched at his head as if in pain, before he leapt. Samson sidestepped, but the young recruit was well-trained. Wystan swung about and would have hacked down into the back of Samson’s neck if he hadn’t rolled away right at once. Samson scrambled to his feet, remembering brawls in Kirkwall’s streets after dark… and stranger things than thieves that prowled the shadows of Lowtown, there and gone like nightmares.
But this was no dream. This boy was his templar, under his command, his to protect.
“We tasted the red,” Wystan said again, weaving like a snake. “You gave it to us. We’re becoming… more. To fight for a new world. This is what you wanted.”
“But you’re letting it control you,” Samson said. The two of them were circling each other, eyes locked. “A man uses his strength. It doesn’t use him. That was the Chantry’s way. That’s what we took the lyrium into our own hands for. Remember?”
Wystan shrieked; the sound sawed at Samson’s ears like a demon’s challenge. Through it, from the crowd of soldiers shifting around them, a calmer voice said: “Excuse me, Samson.” The broken blade of Samson’s sword, the shattered end wrapped with leather, landed at the general’s feet. He flicked it up with the toe of his foot and wrapped one end of the leather tightly around his knuckles. Samson glimpsed Maddox’s emotionless face in the firelight before Wystan rushed at him, crazed, his own sword flashing.
Samson parried the stroke. Wystan pressed him and they clashed. Without a hilt, Samson’s grip was awkward, but he was able to dart and weave like a bee trying to land a sting. As Wystan swung at his head, Samson drew upon the lyrium he’d drunk earlier, drew back his empty hand, and punched Wystan in the stomach with unnatural strength. A red shimmer rippled out from the blow. The lad choked but didn’t drop his sword; instead he lunged for the kill. Samson brought up the broken blade and knocked Wystan’s sword up and off. The cut that should have taken out Samson’s eye passed over his shoulder in a blur.
Seizing his chance, Samson slammed his forehead into Wystan’s face. He saw stars, and something crunched, but it was Wystan who reeled away. The boy tripped. Droplets of blood flew as he sprawled on the grass.
Samson planted a knee on his chest and put his blade against Wystan’s throat. “Feel this? Feel the steel around your neck? That’s what the Chantry did. Poisoned us for its own power, then collared us like a rabid mabari.”
He pressed harder for a second, knowing that he could kill this boy. He could end what was to come before it even started.
Then he lowered the blade. “And this is what we do. Because we chose to take control. Because we’ll burn it all down before we let the Chantry claim one more templar.”
Wystan went limp. The red gleam to his eye was softer now. He let out a strangled sob. “Ser. Ser, I—“
Samson moved his knee, grasped Wystan’s forearm and pulled him up. “It takes you like that sometimes,” he said. “The trick is to not be ruled by it.”
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