Warrior Baptism Chapter 3

by Jonathan Techlin

  “Could we use your blood?” Theel asked.

  “Me? I’m drunk all the time,” Hoster explained. “My blood is full of booze. That leaves you. Should be easy enough. I’ll just tap a spigot into that hole in your chest.”

  “I will get you the blood by other methods,” Theel said. “What else do you need?”

  “A week of the king’s work,” Hoster answered. “Fifty hours of coin. That’s not payment, you understand. It’s needed for the potion.”

  “What is it needed for?” Theel asked.

  “It’s to be melted down and its spark released.”

  “He doesn’t need that much,” Rasm mentioned absent-mindedly. “He only needs to melt eight hours. He’s going to keep the rest.”

  “Stop interfering, you godforsaken jackhole of a scatter stick!” Hoster roared.

  Rasm looked indignant. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes it’s true, but you don’t have to—” Hoster suddenly realized what he was saying and cut himself off. “We’ll, no it isn’t true, actually. I wouldn’t lie to you about that, friend Theel.”

  “Yes, you would,” Rasm said. “You’d say anything to make a sale.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Stop yelling.”

  “I will stop yelling one day when you make the occasion to shut your mouth, you babbling, bald-headed shit heap!”

  “I will give you eight hours of the king’s work,” Theel cut in. “Why do you need to melt it down?”

  “To release its spark,” Hoster repeated. “A little bit of the Craft to trap the healing essence.”

  “Where will you get the healing essence?”

  “From you,” Hoster explained. “We will shorten your life by a week.”

  “I will age?” Theel asked.

  “That’s one way to see it,” Hoster said. “It’s how Oaken Wart works. We will take a week of your life and pour it down your sister’s throat. That should kill the infection.”

  “How much will all this cost me?” Theel asked.

  “Not too much,” Hoster said. “One hundred hours of the king’s work and that shiny gold sword of yours. The one with the angel wings on it.”

  “I will not give up my sword.”

  “Okay, then,” Hoster said. “I can see you are a shrewd man. I’ll ask one hundred hours of the king’s work and that other sword, the regular one. That is a finely crafted item.”

  “I will not give you that either.”

  “This negotiation is becoming difficult,” Hoster said. “I sure would like to see your sister survive this infection. For that reason, I’ll amend my offer to just coin. Two hundred hours of the king’s work. That is a fair offer.”

  “Two hundred hours is too much coin to part with,” Theel opined. “That’s an entire month of labor. I could build a house with that.”

  “You’re right. That is too much,” Rasm said. “Don’t pay it.”

  “I will give you one fifty,” Theel offered. “That’s three weeks of the king’s work.”

  “Don’t pay that either,” Rasm said.

  “I am attempting to barter with this gracious and lordly jackhole, Rasm,” Hoster said. “Please read your book and shut up.”

  “Certainly, I am happy to read my book of sp-…ack!” Rasm choked. “…Ack…until the Blessed Soul comes along.”

  “Whatever your fevered brain decides!” Hoster roared. “Just seal your gape!”

  “I’ll give you one hundred,” Theel offered.

  “Still too much,” Rasm said.

  “Stop!” Hoster barked.

  “Will you accept fifty?” Theel asked.

  “I can do that.” Rasm nodded.

  “No, wait.” Hoster looked back and forth, confused. “What?”

  “It’s a bargain,” Theel stated, holding out his hand. “Fifty hours of the king’s work.”

  “Done,” Rasm said, shaking Theel’s hand.

  Hoster’s face turned red. Then he sucked in a huge breath and unleashed several vile oaths at the sky.

  “Hoster will tell you I am the one who can’t control his speech,” Rasm said. “As you can see, he has a terrible problem, himself.”

  “I think you are correct,” Theel agreed. “He said lots of words. Yet ‘scatter’ is the only one I recognized.

  Hoster sighed. “Both of you shut up and help me find some owl shit.”

  The Knight’s Creed

  Night had darkened the skies above southeastern Embriss. Travel was ceased on the road to Yarik, with most everyone camped, most everyone fed, and a few already slumbering after the exhausting day. Wagons and carts were parked in clusters on the wooded roadside as families made friends for one evening, combining resources for quicker campfires, bigger meals, and friendly conversation. The evening was almost normal enough to cause the people to forget they’d been driven from their homes by war.

  Hoster’s mule cart was one of the rare few sitting far from the others, alone in darkness with the occasional pale burn of a firefly for company. Quiet nearly reigned, all but the constant chirping of crickets, the faint chatter of the distant travelers, and the soft murmuring of a man’s prayer. Theel leaned against the cart, hovering over Yenia’s unconscious body, holding his head in his hands.

  “Dear God, if you are listening, thank you for saving Yenia,” Theel prayed. “I know what she did for me; that she nearly gave her life to protect me. I am not worthy of such a sacrifice. I could not bear to be the reason for her passing. I barely survived losing Father.”

  Theel reached out and touched his sister’s cheek. Yenia’s skin no longer burned with fever; it was almost cool to the touch by comparison. She still hadn’t awakened, but Theel knew his sister enjoyed a restful, healing slumber. It was only a matter of time before she recovered.

  “Yenia is going to defeat this sickness,” Theel whispered. “She began to improve almost immediately after we bathed her wounds and fed her the elixir. And now, after only four days of sleep, she is healed as if she spent a month in a sickbed. It was good fortune to meet the spirit trader and his son in Dockhaven. He is a talented brewmaster and his skills have saved Yenia’s life. I will never be able to repay him fully. I know I have you to thank for this, my Lord. You brought Hoster to me in my time of need. He has been a great blessing.”

  For many long moments, Theel stared at his sister’s slumbering face.

  “Dear God, please keep me from causing Yenia any more pain,” Theel prayed. “The burden she bears is far too great. I can see the strain upon her. She tries to hide it from me, but she can’t, just as Father couldn’t. Please let my death mean something positive for Yenia. Show her the way to a new life without me. Free her to find a husband, or whatever future she desires. Much like Father, she has lived her life for me, and it is unfair.”

  Praying about his own death stung Theel’s heart. But he knew what must be done. In only a few days, he would face the great zoth chieftain known as the Crowlord on the Dead Man’s Bridge. He would be beaten and crushed, torn apart, just as his father was. How many steps did Theel have left in the journey to his end? How many breaths? Each moment passing was another closer to his reckoning. Each breath he took was one more than he deserved. He felt like a condemned prisoner watching the king’s men building his gallows.

  Waiting. Waiting for death.

  “I’m so afraid, Lord,” Theel said. “I know what is coming and I am terrified. Please keep me strong in the knowledge that this is the right thing. I thank you for this opportunity. I thank you for the chance to make things right, even though so much has gone wrong. I can’t fix everything, but I can fight and die with honor, for my father. I do this for him, not for you, or for Warrior Baptism. Why do I say these things? Why am I praying at all?”

  Theel couldn’t help but laugh at himself.

  “I know the answer. I pray to you out of habit, Lord, as my father instructed me, as I’ve done since I was a child, because it gives me comfort,” he whispered. “I pray to you because
it is what I know; not because I have faith. And not because I know with certainty that you are anything more than a lot of empty words scribbled on ancient scrolls. Is that a sin? Am I wrong to wonder where you are, and why you do nothing to make your presence known?

  “If you are real, God, if you are listening and care what I say, you must understand my confusion,” Theel continued. “Why do you give us a prophecy of salvation, only to leave it unfulfilled? Why do you allow those who love you to be persecuted? If you are there, why do you do nothing as your followers are tortured, killed, even burned alive for the pleasure of evil men? Why do you look on impassively as your name is scorned, your monuments destroyed, your temples occupied by nonbelievers? The rest of the world conjures up deities by the dozen to replace you, but the Knights of the King’s Cross have always been faithful. Disgrace has been our reward. Why must we live in fear? Why do you forsake us?”

  Theel felt familiar sadness and regret welling up inside him. He worked to squash it immediately, but it wasn’t so easy.

  “Why did you abandon me on the Dead Man’s Bridge? Why did you allow Father to die?”

  The closer Theel came to the place of his father’s death, the more his memories welled up inside, tormenting him. He remembered walking this ground with his father only months ago. It hurt so much to think of that time, before everything he believed was torn apart. It was a time he would do anything to relive so he could make different decisions and seek a different outcome. But it was over and done and there was no way to change it. After only a few minutes of fighting on the Dead Man’s Bridge, Theel lost his father, his faith, and his will to live.

  Suddenly, a little boy chased his sister through the trees nearby, coaxing a smile from Theel’s reluctant lips. He knew they weren’t real as soon as he saw them. Their clothing was pale and their skin was white, even though they were running through shadows. They appeared in a cloud of mist, running and jumping and laughing, yet they made no sound. Theel heard only crickets as they silently screamed their joy. The boy and girl existed for only a few seconds before they disappeared into another cloud of mist.

  This had been happening all evening, ever since Hoster parked his cart and made camp. Theel learned long ago that his juy was fueled by strong emotions, both his and others’. The emotions within him brought a flood of visions. The ghosts were all around as he and the spirit trader gathered wood and cooked supper. The visions continued as they ate and discussed plans for the morning.

  Theel knew none of these people were real. They were merely reflections of long-deceased clansmen, walking the ground as they once did when living, most long before Theel was born. Hoster made camp near a road that was well-traveled for years, and Theel seemed to see each traveler as they trudged by, heading north or south, day or night, through every season, rain or snow or sunny summer day. They were camping and cooking, singing and dancing, praying and cursing, living and dying. There were soldiers, merchants, traders, missionaries, women and children and families. But whether they came or went, each of them left their mark on the land.

  It was this mark that Theel’s visions seemed to draw upon, the distinct, individual, and impossible to erase imprint left on the land by every living creature who ever walked there. The land remembered everyone. This was the magical Craft energy that kept the island of Thershon whole, or so the Keeper of the Craft said. It was the Craft energy that kept all the islands of the world in their orbits, floating in the air together, ever since the Sundering. The Keeper said when a footprint was left in the dirt, it was left in the magic. Though time would erase the imprint in the dirt, it could not erase the imprint in the magic, and those with the ability to see those prints—those like Theel—could see the past as it had happened, perfectly and clearly. The Craft didn’t lie. And it wasn’t lying when it showed Theel a recognizable man who’d made camp on this spot only months ago.

  He was tall and lean, and wore numerous weapons on his person with ease. He was without question a high-ranking Knight of the King’s Cross. Anyone could see this by looking at the muscles and battle scars and the tattoos that graced his arms and hands, if they somehow missed the silver knightshield he wore strapped to his chest. That particular shield was famous, for it was the only one of its kind, with a large hole in the center. He was the only man who was ever stabbed through the heart and lived. He was known as the man who beat death.

  Theel was looking at an image of his own father.

  A chill slithered up Theel’s spine. He knew the man wasn’t real, but it was still the first time he saw his masterknight since that terrible day on the bridge. The knight appeared just as Theel remembered him—the muscles, the tattoos, the swords—but also the wrinkles, the tired eyes, and the patches of graying hair above his ears. The man had aged ten years in those months just prior to his death. There seemed to be an invisible weight that was crushing the knight, some great burden his squire couldn’t understand. But now it was clear what that burden was.

  Theel was the reason his father suffered.

  The masterknight was certain his eldest son would be the one to reveal the Blessed Soul to the world. He thought that Theel’s gift of Sight was the key to fulfilling the prophecy. The gift of Sight occurred so rarely in humans, was such a precious talent, that the knight seemed to consider it a sign from God that his own son was born with it. The knighthood seemed to agree. So did the Keeper of the Craft. They were misguided by their faith, so desperate to believe in the coming of the Blessed Soul that they forced this destiny upon Theel when he was a child. They didn’t care that Theel wasn’t prepared, couldn’t handle the responsibility. He couldn’t bring the Blessed Soul to them. He couldn’t be a great knight like his father. He wasn’t even a good squire.

  The expectations they had for him were too great. They wished for him to follow in his father’s footsteps, follow his example, and be every bit as great as he was. The squire would be instructed in the Juy Method and learn not just to use his Sight to see the Craft, but to control it with this mind. They thought Theel had the potential to be one of the greatest warrior priests who ever lived.

  Theel could sense their expectations, could also sense their growing disappointment at his failure to excel. He couldn’t control his power, never knew what his Sight was telling him, and, despite years of training, had almost no grasp of the Method. Worse still, he didn’t have the same aptitude for swordplay as his father, or the same physical gifts. He wasn’t as fast or as strong or smart. He didn’t excel. He wasn’t even good. He was average.

  Theel knew this, and pushed himself harder. But no matter how much he struggled, he could do nothing to make himself what they wanted him to be. The son of the great knight had no greatness in him. Theel knew he was a disappointment to his father, to the knighthood, to the Keeper, and to the king. Theel wanted to prove them wrong. He wanted to prove he was worthy. But he failed. Instead, he proved himself a failure on the Dead Man’s Bridge when he watched his father die and ran away like a coward.

  The zoths may have inflicted the fatal wounds, but the knight died because of his son.

  Theel knew there was no going back. After what he did, his life no longer held any value, not to him or anyone else. All his potential was unfulfilled, and would remain so. His life was good for nothing more than to be sacrificed, snuffed out, so his legacy of failure could die with him, so his father’s honor could be restored.

  Theel would be forgotten. His father would be remembered. It was as it should be.

  Theel looked at the pale image of his masterknight standing by the fire. He was watching his father as he stood on this spot only days before he died. The knight’s face looked so sad, so full of regret. Theel didn’t know the reason for this, but he couldn’t bear to see it. His eyes watered, and he cursed them for betraying him. He looked away, unwilling to see his father or to face the pain and regret it conjured in him.

  There were things Theel’s father said to him in those days just before he died, things that led h
im to believe his masterknight somehow knew he was living his final days. But he forged ahead despite this, determined to take his son southward through the mountains and across the Dead Man’s Bridge. He knew he was going to die. But how? Why?

  “Why did we travel to the Dead Man’s Bridge, Father?” Theel asked the vision of his masterknight. “Why did you insist we fight the zoths? Why did you say the things you said? Why did you have to die? Why did you leave me all alone?”

  The despair threatened to crush him. He found it difficult to breathe. The tears ran down his face unchecked, and he knew he was killing himself with regret. He needed to think of something positive, something worth living for, to keep moving forward. But what?

  His father appeared similarly troubled. As Theel watched, a single tear ran down the knight’s cheek. Theel wanted so badly to comfort his father, to assure him things would right themselves. But he knew this wasn’t true. Things did not right themselves. They only got worse. And now his father was dead.

  Suddenly, the ghostly knight drew his sword and dropped to one knee, holding the grip of the weapon toward the heavens as a sign of allegiance. Theel saw his lips moving, and knew what his father was doing: He was seeking comfort in prayer, in the words of the Knight’s Creed.

  Theel reached into Hoster’s cart and took Battle Hymn from where it lay near Yenia’s slumbering form, then walked to the place where his father prayed those many months ago. Kneeling at his father’s side he raised his own sword, joining in the prayer.

  He didn’t do this out of faith in God, or the prophecy, or the Blessed Soul. He did it out of love and respect for this father, the man whose every word and action were guided by the Knight’s Creed. He took comfort in the fellowship he felt in that moment. For a few breaths, it felt as if the Dead Man’s Bridge never happened. It felt as if the squire and masterknight were together again. For those few moments, as father and son prayed together, the darkness was pushed away.