Warrior Baptism Chapter 3

by Jonathan Techlin

  The Crowlord took trophies of all kinds, mostly teeth, which he wore embedded in the flesh of his chest. But from Theel’s father, he took the knight’s most prized possession, the symbol of his honor. It was the hand-sized silver shield every knight wore on his chest, a badge marking him as a holy warrior of the King’s Cross. The Crowlord mocked his fallen foe by wearing the shield on his chest, in the same place Theel’s father once did.

  It was barely recognizable, its surface filthy and scratched and without the shine Theel remembered. But he still recognized this shield as the one his masterknight wore. It was the only one with a hole in its center, from when its owner was stabbed through the heart and lived.

  That shield was the goal of Theel’s quest, his first step toward Warrior Baptism. The Keeper of the Craft declared Theel must take it back from the Crowlord. It was the only way he could redeem himself. It was the only way he could restore his father’s honor.

  But it couldn’t be done. There was no adversary in all the Western Kingdoms as formidable as the Crowlord.

  Terror stabbed Theel’s heart when his Sight showed him the monstrous chieftain fighting in the streets of Calfborn. Muscles rippled beneath gray skin crisscrossed by hundreds of scars. There were so many scars on the Crowlord’s face that his features were deformed into an emotionless mask from which black, pupiless eyes stared. These eyes were cold, empty, and passionless as the chieftain waded through the battle, fighting his way toward Jarcett the Sentinel. Nothing mattered more to him than destroying the best fighter of the humans.

  But the knight would not fall easily. The zoths learned how dangerous Jarcett could be while fighting from the saddle. He killed a dozen of them before his lance was broken and his mount slain. He continued to fight them on his feet, using his battle hammer to kill another dozen of them before the Crowlord intervened.

  Jarcett was able to match the chieftain’s physical advantages with sheer cunning, but only for a time. Theel could see how the battle raged in the square, how sweat and blood and spit flew between them, sparks spraying as their weapons clashed. But Jarcett was fatigued by the chieftain’s relentless strikes. He couldn’t dodge and block forever. The Crowlord ground his enemy down with constant punishment until Jarcett was so exhausted he could no longer defend himself. Then the zoth’s attacks began to find their mark and the knight finally fell, his body riddled with puncture wounds.

  It was a story Theel had seen play out before. The Crowlord possessed strength and speed and stamina that no human could ever match. And there wasn’t a weapon yet created that could breach the chieftain’s defenses. He was encased in invisible armor composed of Wind Magic and Earth Sorcery. It was a gift from the Blood Goddess, woven together by the tribe’s shaman and stitched into his skin. The invisible armor was impenetrable as long as the shaman lived to keep the spell active. Jarcett the Sentinel succeeded in landing numerous blows to the chieftain, even some that might have been mortal. But his battle hammer bounced off the Crowlord’s flesh as if it was striking solid stone.

  Jarcett was defeated, but the Crowlord didn’t kill him immediately. Instead, his arms were lashed to a hitching post and he was forced to watch as the soldiers who fought under him were brought to the town square and executed, one by one. Then they heated Jarcett’s battle hammer in a fire until it glowed orange, searing each of his knight’s tattoos from his body. It was a process he didn’t survive. Then Jarcett was beheaded and hung from the inn. And Theel was witness to it all. In just a few frightened breaths, he saw the entire story unfold as though he was there among the zoths as it happened.

  Theel tried to look at Jarcett’s body, but he couldn’t. He was so stricken with emotion, he gasped for air. Was this what the Crowlord had done to his father’s corpse? Was this what the Crowlord was going to do to him?

  “This one was a knight,” Hoster said, looking at the desecrated body of Jarcett the Sentinel. “Either of you know who this was?”

  “No,” Theel lied, refusing to look up at the body. “I didn’t know him.”

  His eyes were on the piles of severed human feet scattered around the square, heaped mostly next to the well. Dirty feet, clean feet, hairy feet, big and small feet, cut off at the ankles and left to rot in the sun or feed the dogs.

  “All the town’s feet, sorry bastards, God help them,” Hoster said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “God help them all.”

  Theel didn’t believe it even as he saw it. Once again he looked to the southern horizon, to the gray mountains where he knew the zoths had taken the women and children, squeezing the grip of his sword as though he meant to break it off.

  “We can’t stay in this town,” Theel said. “I can’t sleep in this town tonight.”

  “We won’t stay.” Hoster patted Theel’s shoulder with a rough hand. “We’ll camp beyond, on the road to the Sister Cities. Or wherever you choose.”

  Theel nodded, staring at the ground, trying to spare himself any more of what had happened in Calfborn. But his juy was boiling over with the horror of it all. He could still hear the screams of the men and boys who fought beside the Sentinel as their feet were cut, then their throats sliced open and their kicking, thrashing bodies dragged to the well and…

  “We can’t drink this water,” Rasm said, looking down the well. “There’s people down there.”

  Theel went to the side of the well and leaned over to see the faint shapes of arms and legs and heads heaped upon each other in the dim light. He immediately looked away but could not escape the smell, and saw only more death, severed feet, and headless corpses. He felt it in his stomach. His mind had seen enough and now his body was reacting. He was about to collapse, about to vomit, about to lose all control. The sound of Hoster’s voice brought him back from the edge.

  “By God, one is moving,” he said. “One of those poor souls still breathes!”

  Theel was able to fight off the urge to wretch and forced himself to go back to the well, to look in again. Among the mass of piled limbs, he saw an arm move.

  “You see that?” Hoster said. “Rasm, get some rope from the cart.”

  “Yeah, rope.” Rasm turned and ran to the mule cart.

  Theel, still looking down the well, watched as the arm moved weakly, is if trying to wave, to capture their attention. Then he heard a soft moan.

  “He’s alive,” Theel said. “We can save him!”

  “We can try,” Hoster agreed.

  Yenia appeared at her brother’s side. “I will climb down to get him.”

  “Are you sure?” Theel asked.

  “One of us must do it,” Yenia insisted. “And I am a better climber than you.”

  “But are you well enough?” Theel countered. “You are only days removed from a terrible fever. You almost died.”

  “I am no worse than you,” Yenia said. “You almost died yourself.”

  “You don’t really care what I think, do you?” Theel asked.

  “No, I don’t,” Yenia replied, smiling.

  “We’re coming to help you!” Hoster yelled down the well.

  Rasm appeared with a coil of thin rope. “Here’s the…I got the…uh.”

  Hoster took the rope, tied one end into a loop, then handed it to Yenia.

  “We’ll let you down,” the old spirit trader promised. “Nice and easy.”

  “I don’t like this,” Theel said to Yenia. “I don’t want you climbing down there.”

  “I’m the smallest and the lightest,” Yenia insisted. “I’m going.”

  “Be careful,” Theel said. “Don’t fall.”

  “I will be fine,” Yenia said, climbing over the edge. “I won’t fall.”

  “As long as we don’t drop you,” Hoster said. “Hold tight.”

  Hoster and Theel took up the rope, waited until they felt Yenia’s weight on the other end, then slowly allowed her to drop.

  “Rasm!” Hoster barked. “Dig in the cart and bring me those last few drops of Red Leak. Also whatever clean bandages we have.
”

  “Okay, yeah,” Rasm stammered. “I…uh…sure.”

  Yenia’s voice echoed in the shaft. “I have him!”

  “Will he live?” Theel shouted back. “Can we save him?”

  “We can save him,” Yenia answered. “Get ready to pull us up.”

  “We’re going to save him,” Hoster said with a smile. “Get ready to pull.”

  “Slowly!” Yenia called from the well.

  Theel and Hoster began to pull. Both men grunted loudly, the labor much heavier than before. They pulled, hand over hand, inches first, then feet upon feet of rope emerging from the lip of the well.

  “We’re going to save this poor fool,” Hoster grunted as he worked. “We’re going to save him. Someone in this town is going to live, by God.”

  And Theel knew exactly how the old trader felt. Something changed from the moment they entered the streets of Calfborn. It was as if the air of the place was full of despair rather than oxygen, and there was no way to avoid breathing it in. The futility Theel felt, the inability to help or to change what happened, gnawed at him. The entire town was dead and his hands were empty, powerless to do anything about it.

  But now his hands were no longer empty. Now they held a rope, and they worked to pull a man back to life, the last survivor of Calfborn. Pulling on a rope was easy. Pulling on a rope was something Theel could do. Just as Hoster said, someone in this town is going to live, by God.

  Yenia’s blonde head appeared above the edge of the well. “One more good pull.”

  Theel leaned back, pulling until he could see the hairs of the wounded man. Hoster wrapped the rope around his own waist, bracing to hold the weight. Yenia jumped over the wall, then she and Theel took the man under his arms, pulling him over the side as gently as could be managed.

  It was then that Theel saw this wasn’t a soldier, or even a man. He was no more than thirteen or fourteen seasons from his nameday at most. He was richly dressed in a green tunic embroidered with silver diamonds and golden oak leaves.

  “He’s just a boy,” Rasm said.

  “And nobility,” Hoster added. “He’s born of Norrester. Look at his clothing.”

  Theel looked at the boy as he lay on the ground, weakly grasping at the scraps of his life. He was white as a ghost and shriveled like a corpse, missing an eye, an ear, and both feet. He was dripping wet, soaked in the ghastly soup of the tainted water and a dozen other men, a splintered shaft sticking from his chest where a zoth spear tip was broken off inside him.

  Theel couldn’t bear to look at that boy. His vision blurred and his knees became weak. He feared he would pass out. He wanted to run away and find relief from all this, but he knew his legs didn’t have the strength. Besides, he was too afraid. He didn’t have the courage to run. He didn’t have the courage to stay.

  “Yenia, grab his ankle,” he heard Hoster saying. “Tightly, like this. Rasm, get over here. Squeeze tight, boy, and don’t let go. Just like Yenia. It’s amazing this poor bastard still breathes. It’s a blessing from God, for certain.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Yenia asked.

  “I got noose tourniquets,” Hoster said. “And a few drops of Red Leak. Rasm, where the hell are the tourniquets?”

  “What’s a tourniquet?” Rasm asked.

  Theel could hear the scraping and banging of boxes and casks being moved in the wooden cart. He felt he should do something, should help out in some way. But he was frozen, unable to move, unable to see anything but the horrors that occurred around this well only hours ago.

  “Here they are,” Hoster said.

  Then Theel heard Yenia’s voice. “Theel? Are you well?”

  “Yes,” he managed to mumble. “No,” he quickly added. “I don’t know.”

  “I need you to stay with us, boy,” Hoster begged. “Don’t go off into your own mind. We need you to help us if this boy is going to live.”

  “I know,” Theel said. “I know.”

  “Here, put this on his ankle,” Hoster was saying. “Like this. Pull it as tight as you can, like a slipknot.”

  “Can we save him?” Yenia asked.

  “It’ll take a miracle,” Hoster answered. “Rasm, get him drinking the Red Leak. Pour it in his mouth. Every drop will help.”

  “Drink this, uh…red freak…” Rasm was saying. “Or whatever…um…drink this shit.”

  “How are you alive, you poor boy?” Hoster asked. “You must have lost enough blood to fill two men.”

  “I did?” Rasm asked. “When?”

  “Not you, lumberhead,” Hoster said. “Theel? Is your brain sober? Can you make a fire? We need to sear these wounds.”

  “It won’t help,” Theel heard himself say. “The boy is beyond your common methods. Only God can help him now.”

  Theel couldn’t believe he was saying it, but he also couldn’t deny it was true. This boy was beyond the help of mortal men. Only faith had kept him alive to this point, and only faith would preserve him further. The Method was needed to keep the Overlie boy’s heart beating. Unfortunately, Theel was the only one in Calfborn with any training in the Method. And he had no faith.

  “You are right, Theel,” Yenia agreed. “There is no hope for this boy. Unless you use your power to heal.”

  “His power to what?” Hoster exclaimed. “Now isn’t the time for mirth. We need a fire and we need it hot. We have to dig the iron out of this boy and sear the wounds.”

  “We don’t have time for that,” Yenia said. “He’ll die first.”

  “He should be dead already,” Hoster said.

  “We don’t have time to make a fire,” Yenia insisted.

  “What else can we do?” Hoster said. “All we have are prayers now.”

  “We have more than prayers,” Yenia replied.

  “And what is that?” Hoster asked. “What do we have?”

  “Theel can heal him using the Method.”

  “He can…what can he do?” Hoster looked at Yenia, incredulous. “You mean Theel’s a juy priest?”

  “What?” Rasm asked. “Theel’s a…a what?”

  Theel shook his head again. “I am not a priest. I am not even a child of God. I am forsaken, a lost, foolish wretch.”

  “You are speaking nonsense,” Yenia replied.

  Theel had no response. His head was swimming, his stomach churning. He pinched his eyes shut, not wanting to see anything, but it didn’t help. He could still see the death of Calfborn in his mind. Just like the death of his father. He feared he would never stop seeing death.

  “Theel, we need you,” Yenia said. “This boy needs you. You are the only one who can help him.”

  Theel shook his head. He’d couldn’t help anyone. He couldn’t even help himself.

  “Help this boy,” Yenia pressed. “I know you can.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “I haven’t mastered healing. I may kill him.”

  “He is dead already,” Yenia said. “You can do no harm. You can only do good.”

  Theel’s jaw quivered. “You don’t understand.”

  “Yes I do,” Yenia retorted. “He was my father, too.”

  “No,” Theel whined. “No.”

  “I’ve forgiven you,” Yenia said. “You must learn to forgive yourself.”

  “What are you weed heads yammering about?” Hoster asked.

  “I killed him,” Theel mumbled. “I can’t face it…what I’ve done.”

  “But you must,” Yenia stated. “You must face it.”

  Theel was afraid to look at the boy, afraid of the visions it might bring. He didn’t want to learn any more about the suffering and death of Calfborn. He feared he’d seen all he could handle, that allowing any more of the horror inside him would break his heart. He feared he would run away like a coward, just like he did on the Dead Man’s Bridge. He couldn’t face another failure as terrible as that one.

  But he also knew his inaction was no help. He was the only one who had any chance of saving this boy. And he accomplished nothi
ng by refusing to look. Theel must see the boy’s story. He must allow his juy to show him what the zoths had done. He must. He knew this. So with great effort, he turned and forced himself to gaze upon the Overlie boy.

  The poor child lay on the ground where Theel last saw him, a shriveled corpse that somehow still drew breath. But now tourniquets on his ankles stopped the flow of blood there. And his head was rested on Rasm’s lap, where the young man held a bottle of Red Leak to his lips.

  The last survivor of Calfborn looked sightlessly at the sky, lips barely moving, delirious, oblivious. The boy was lost in waking dreams, didn’t know where he was, who he was, or what happened to him or his family.

  But Theel knew it all. Just as he feared, merely looking at the boy caused his juy to flare to life, flooding his brain with every detail of the last few hours. Theel saw how the Overlie boy refused to be sent away, wanting to fight beside the men of the town, insisting he was old enough. He wanted to make his father proud. He wanted to show the smallfolk of Calfborn that he was an Overlie, and an Overlie did not flee from battle. An Overlie protected his smallfolk and defended his family’s lands.

  The boy emulated Jarcett the Sentinel, following the knight into battle. He saw his friends die and continued to fight bravely. He suffered a wound to his arm and witnessed his uncle’s death, and still fought on. He wanted to make his father proud.

  But then he saw the Sentinel fall. And the moment the knight was overwhelmed and defeated, the boy’s spirit was overwhelmed and defeated as well. That was when he ran, as fast as he could, eyes blinded by his tears. But he could not outrun the truth of what was happening. He couldn’t outrun the defeat and the death that surrounded him. And he could not outrun the zoth spears that pierced his flesh.

  He was dragged back to the town square where he was tortured, beaten, stabbed, and left for dead. Theel felt every bit of the boy’s suffering and despair, every bit of his pain at losing so many of his friends and family, seeing the town destroyed, losing his eye, his ear, his feet, spending hours in the well, gasping, suffocating. Theel felt all of the boy’s emotions as though they were his own. He felt so much more than he ever thought he could bear. He’d seen enough of the horrors of Calfborn, while being powerless to change any of it.