Warrior Baptism Chapter 3

by Jonathan Techlin

  “Not again!” Theel wept. “God help me!”

  The rush of juy entering Theel’s body was so extreme it seared his brain like fire. The pain was excruciating, but it was the pain of healing. His body began to put itself back together, completing months of healing in only seconds. His stomach healed so quickly and forcefully that he gasped at the sensation. He felt the jagged slice across his scalp pull itself together and close in one quick line of fire from his temple to the back of his neck.

  “A body damaged by violence may attempt to take life rather than give it,” the Keeper said. “A healer who is unable to maintain control might inadvertently drain his patient of juy, killing him in the process.”

  “No!” Theel wept. “No!”

  But there was no denying it. He knew exactly what he’d done, because he did it every night in his dreams. Just like he did it that day on the bridge. In attempting to give his life force, he accidentally stole it, draining his father, killing him.

  “No, Father. Don’t leave me!” Theel wept. “I need you!”

  But it was already done. There was nothing he could do. And again, in this dream, like he did that day, Theel knelt over his father’s body and wept bitterly. It was all his fault. And it would never change. He would relive this nightmare for the rest of his life. Only death would set him free.

  The masterknight should have survived. The squire should have perished. The wrong man lived. And the wrong man died. But Theel would soon make it right. He would go back to the Dead Man’s Bridge and give himself up to the Crowlord.

  It was the death he deserved.

  to be continued in

  Warrior Baptism

  Chapter 4

  Theel struggles with his failure at Calfborn, but remains determined to face the Crowlord. Despite his stated desire to face his fate alone, Yenia doggedly follows, determined to help her brother.

  A preview of Chapter 4…

  The Wrong Man Lived

  Theel reached out to fight something, to punch something. He clawed desperately at the air, searching for something he could feel in his hand, something he could hurt, or strangle. He needed a tangible object to visit his anger and frustration upon. He only accomplished getting tangled in his blankets and feeling the sensation of falling. He tried to catch himself, but only came up with handfuls of dirt.

  Theel sat up, bleary-eyed, trying to shake the fog from his brain. He immediately grasped at his chest, at the pain he felt from the stab wound suffered in the Trader’s Cave. He cried out from the pain of his broken ankle suffered as a child, the shattered collar bone and slice to his wrist earned at his Squire’s Proving.

  The ripped flesh on the side of his scalp burned with fire from the spear tip that struck him there, then the spear that still sat in his stomach. The pain signals were striking his brain as if he was suffering all of these wounds again, all at once. But when he touched his own skin, there were no cuts, or gashes, or ripped flesh. He looked down at himself, confused. These wounds had not reopened. He was unharmed. The scars still marred his skin, but he was as healthy as the day he left Fal Daran.

  Then he understood. All of these wounds had reopened when he gave too much of his juy away in an attempt to heal the Overlie boy. But they healed again when the flow of life force was reversed. He unintentionally took life rather than gave it, healed himself, and killed the boy he was trying to save.

  Theel felt the darkness and despair creeping in again. That boy might be alive if not for him. Yet another death was added to the tally of his failures. It was too much to stomach. He began to weep, for himself, for the boy, for his father, for everyone who was harmed by his inadequacy. He felt shame in showing such weakness, but also enjoyed the relief it brought. His father told him there was a time to swallow tears and act to help others, but there was also a time to mourn those who couldn’t be saved.

  Now was such a time.

  “Yenia’s not here,” Theel heard a familiar voice say. “She’s busy with the shovel.”

  Theel looked around, confused, wiping his eyes.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “You were calling for your sister in your sleep. Are you well?”

  It was Hoster, sitting nearby, his big rump planted atop his rickety camp chair. The old spirit trader sat near a freshly built fire, burning kindling that was snapping with sparks and smoke. A large iron pot sat upon the ground between Hoster’s legs, catching the chunks of a carrot he was dicing.

  “Yes, I am well,” Theel said, trying to keep the tremors out of his voice. He wasn’t well at all.

  “That is good,” Hoster replied. “I don’t need any sick heads near my supper. Bad for my fragile health.” The spirit trader smiled. “And my fragile temperament.”

  “Then I’ll do my best to respect your numerous fragilities,” Theel said. “Where is my sister?”

  “She is tending to the body of the horse master,” Hoster answered quietly. “She is burying Jarcett the Sentinel.”

  “We should help her,” Theel offered.

  Hoster shook his head. “She won’t accept your help. She wanted to clean the body alone, to say her farewells alone, with respect, from a student to master.”

  “I understand that,” Theel muttered.

  “Your sister loved Jarcett the Sentinel,” Hoster said. “That much is clear. Like a second father, she said.”

  “That is true,” Theel agreed. “Jarcett schooled Yenia in the ways of the horse masters. They had a bond.”

  “Your sister has a loyal heart,” Hoster said.

  “Yes, she does,” Theel agreed, looking around. “Where is Rasm?”

  “Somewhere else,” Hoster answered. “Searching for the Blessed Soul. He does that.”

  “Oh.”

  Hoster sniffed, finished his carrot, and picked up another while Theel took in his surroundings. He wasn’t surprised to see Chigger and Ragweed lounging nearby, unhitched and lying near the cart, calmly chewing on some dried alfalfa, looking about as content as two mules could look. The camp appeared to be on the crown of a wooded hill with aspens all around, their branches dancing in the cool breeze. Theel himself lay on a bed of moss near a rotting log, a cool but soft and comfortable resting place, no doubt chosen for him by his sister.

  The sky was hazy and gray to the east; bright and shiny to the west. This wasn’t because of cloud cover, but because noondark was rapidly approaching. As Theel watched, the treetops darkened, then a shadow slowly fell across him and his surroundings from east to west, like a blanket. The Island of Behe Kang was at its highest point in the sky and it blotted out the light of the sun like an eyelid closing.

  “The fiery chariot of Aeo is extinguished,” Hoster said sarcastically.

  In only a few seconds, the sky became black as nighttime, and Theel welcomed it. It suited his mood. He could hide within the shadows. The campsite was draped in darkness as if it was midnight, but the campfire still cast its light. The spirit trader’s face glowed orange as he continued his work.

  “Where are we?” Theel asked.

  “Just a mile or so south of Calfborn.” Hoster sniffed. “We didn’t make it far. After your…after it happened.”

  Theel made no reply, looking away into the darkness. Then his nose caught a smell that was out of place in these woods. It instantly brought thoughts of the feast hall in the belly of the Hall of Seven Swords in Fal Daran. He could almost hear the clamor of the soldiers as they lined the benches, spooning hot, greasy broth to their lips.

  But this smelled like something so much better; like the food served at the high table when the king dined with his knights. This was a feast he smelled, cooking and bubbling and hot with spices, whose scent hit his nose first and then his stomach. Theel suddenly realized he’d never been so hungry in his life.

  “What is that I smell?” he asked.

  “That, my boy, is our darkmeal, yours and mine,” Hoster said, now dicing a celery stalk into the pot. “This noondark, we will feast in way
s the road life rarely allows. You’ll find this old spirit trader can cook more than just booze. I can boil some damned tasty stew, if you’ll allow me. And that’s what you’re smelling right now.”

  “Where did you find vegetables?” Theel asked.

  Hoster’s face darkened, but only slightly. “Today we dine courtesy of the good folks of Calfborn, God rest their souls. And may he bless those who still live, if any do, the poor bastards, wherever they are.”

  Theel looked at the ground, his face darkening as well. “God gave no blessings to that town,” he muttered. “Or its people.”

  “It may seem that way, if that’s how you choose to see it,” Hoster said. “Many awful things to see in that town; things that bad dreams are made of.”

  Theel coughed. “Yeah. Bad dreams.”

  He dug in his pack, finding a pipe and a pouch wrapped in a large, green leaf. He opened the pouch and turned its contents into the pipe.

  “Did you know the zoths were this far north?” Hoster asked.

  Theel shook his head, packing the bowl, sticking the pipe stem between his teeth. “Fire?”

  “Rasm’s not here.” Hoster smiled. “But don’t fret. I got more traditional methods of setting things aflame.”

  The old spirit trader pulled a stick from the campfire, one with a flame dancing on its end, holding it out for Theel to use with his pipe.

  “I almost didn’t believe when I heard zoths had taken root in Krilian’s Cut, how they blocked the Dead Man’s Bridge,” Hoster said.

  “Believe it,” Theel muttered around his pipe stem. “There is no denying it.”

  “Those foul creatures aren’t staying on the frontiers where they belong,” Hoster said. “Now they are invading the civilized lands. Why is this happening?”

  “It is because the Knights of the King’s Cross are dying,” Theel explained. “Since the first days, when the Seven Kingdoms were seven clans, the knights fought to keep the zoths at bay. But there are so few remaining in Embriss. And most have been imprisoned or killed by the Witchfinder. There are no knights left to fight the zoths. That’s what my father would tell you.”

  “What would you tell me?”

  “Thershon is a dark place where random evil and cruelty afflict the most innocent among us,” Theel said. “There is no meaning behind it, no puzzle to solve. It is simply the truth.”

  “That is not what the knights believe,” Hoster said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Theel agreed. “I don’t share my father’s faith.”

  “Imagine my surprise to hear such dour words from a Squire of the King’s Cross on his quest for Warrior Baptism.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, spirit trader,” Theel said. “I know you have a hunger for the gifts promised by our unseen Lord, but you must look around you. What have the knights gained from their devotion to the prophecy? They are hunted, imprisoned, tortured, and killed.”

  “Many have evaded the followers of Aeo,” Hoster offered.

  “Yes, men such as Jarcett the Sentinel,” Theel countered. “But he avoided the sun worshippers only to fall into the hands of the blood worshippers. Where was the God of the Prophecy when the zoths were taking Jarcett’s head?”

  “There are others who still live,” Hoster said.

  “You are right,” Theel agreed. “A small number of knights remain in the east, fighting the Iatan invaders, bleeding for a kingdom that no longer loves them.”

  “I believe in the prophecy,” Hoster stated. “The Blessed Soul will come.”

  “There will be no knights or squires left alive when he does,” Theel replied.

  “Then I will greet him,” Hoster promised, waving his arms. “I will welcome the Blessed Soul to the Seven Kingdoms with warmth and hospitality!”

  “No you won’t,” Theel said. “You will attempt sell him an overpriced bottle of swill.”

  Hoster smiled. “You know me too well.”

  “And that lumberhead son of mine!” Theel waved his arms, mocking the spirit trader’s mannerisms as well as his tone. “Rasm’s fat tongue will have the boy of the prophecy shitting pigeons!”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Horrible is what it is!”

  Hoster laughed hard, accidentally dropping his knife.

  “It is good to see you haven’t lost your humor,” the spirit trader said.

  “Whatever keeps me moving toward my goal, be it Red Leak, golden fetch, or a moment of mirth,” Theel said, putting his pipe between his teeth. “We must laugh after the horrors we’ve faced, or we will go mad. Besides, why must you share in my doom?”

  “Your doom?” Hoster looked confused. “What do you mean by that? Surely you’re not still planning to go to the Dead Man’s Bridge!”

  “Of course I am,” Theel said.

  “Were you paying attention to what we found in Calfborn?” Hoster asked. “Did you see what the zoths did to those people? Did you see what the Crowlord did to Jarcett the Sentinel?”

  “I saw more of it than you did.”

  “Then you must desire to have your head cut off and your body strung up like a trophy,” Hoster suggested. “Because that is what will happen if you go to that bridge.”

  “A hundred pardons, but this doesn’t concern you,” Theel said. “I wish you nothing but happiness, spirit trader. Walk south without me. Spend the rest of your days pounding the stones, talking men out of their coin, and stewing your brain with pig swill.”

  “A fine plan, I say,” Hoster said. “One I will follow with expedience.”

  “It’s settled then,” Theel said. “No one must bear the weight of my sins but me. Not you or your son. And, least of all, my sister. I must face it alone. I know I have only days left to live.”

  Hoster’s sighed. “Must it be that way?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Theel said. “It must.”

  “If you dismiss the religion of the knighthood, why do you follow a command that will result in certain death?” Hoster asked.

  “I don’t believe in gods,” Theel said. “But my father did. This is about respecting his memory, restoring his reputation. He is not dead from his own shortcomings. He is dead because of mine. Now it is up to me to mend the damage I created with my failure and cowardice.”

  “What did you do on the Dead Man’s Bridge?” Hoster asked. “What sin have you done to deserve so terrible a penalty?”

  Theel looked away, unable to face the spirit trader’s questioning eyes. “I have been reluctant to discuss it.”

  “Don’t speak of it if you don’t wish to,” Hoster said softly. “You owe me nothing.”

  “I will tell you.”

  Theel’s voice shook with emotion. Once again, he stared into the darkness of the forest, seeing only terrible memories in the shadows. He sighed.

  “I will tell you,” he repeated. “To help you understand. And because I will be dead soon and it won’t matter.”

  Hoster stopped cutting, sheathed his knife, and looked on intently. “I’m listening.”

  “It was a few months ago when my father and I encountered a zoth war party on the Dead Man’s Bridge,” Theel explained, his voice shaking. “My masterknight was mortally wounded. I had a chance to save him, but failed. Instead, I fled and abandoned his body to the enemy. That’s what I told the Keeper.”

  “But that’s not the entire truth?” Hoster guessed.

  “No, not really,” Theel answered. “There is more to the story.”

  “What really happened?”

  “The Crowlord didn’t kill my father,” Theel said softly. “I did.”

  Hoster’s surprise was evident. “You killed your father?”

  “Yes,” Theel whispered.

  Hoster shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. I speak the truth,” Theel whispered. “I’ve lied to everyone. The Keeper of the Craft, the knighthood, the king, even my uncle Guarn. They all think I saw my father die, then fled to save myself, abandoning his body to the
enemy. The truth is I killed him myself, then ran away because I couldn’t face what I had done.”

  Hoster was silent, only stared, his features soft with sympathy.

  “I’ve lied to hide my shame, and only made things worse,” Theel said. “Yenia knows. And now you are the second to learn. I am a squire who slew his masterknight, my own father. If this was widely known, I would have been hung from the tallest wall in the Hall of Seven Swords.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hoster said. “How could you kill your own father?”

  “You saw how,” Theel said, wiping his eyes. “The same way I killed that boy in Calfborn.”

  “By attempting to save him?”

  “By failing to save him,” Theel corrected. “I tried to give him my life, but accidently stole his. The wrong man lived. And the wrong man died.”

  “You tried to save his life,” Hoster said. “There is no shame in that.”

  “Incompetence and cowardice in the face of the enemy is not acceptable,” Theel said, his voice tight. “There can be no excuses when lives are at stake. My father needed me, and I failed him.”

  “It’s still not worth offering yourself to be cut apart by the Crowlord.”

  “But that is only where my crimes begin,” Theel continued, his voice growing louder. “After killing my father and lying about it, I murdered Raveling Kile and his servant Bestol. My father was an accident. Raveling and Bestol were not. Then my uncle was arrested and his tavern burned to the ground as a result. He is probably imprisoned right now, being punished for my crimes. As if I haven’t left enough strife in my wake, I’ve now killed the son of Lord Overlie as well.”

  “You speak as if you are the only man who has made mistakes,” Hoster said.

  “No one has erred as much as I have,” Theel said. “No one’s failings have created such dire consequences as mine have.”

  “I don’t believe that is possible.”

  “That is because your faith will not allow you,” Theel said. “And if I continue my confession, you may just learn how empty that faith is.”