WARRIOR BAPTISM
Chapter One
by Jonathan Techlin
Copyright © 2020 Jonathan Techlin
Warrior Baptism is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover illustration by Jonathan Techlin
Based on the photography of MikeyGen73
This book is dedicated to Mom.
Table of Contents
The Death You Deserve
All the World Shall Wither
Three Mugs and a Bowl
The Royal Witchfinder
Bonus Content
Fight!
A Watery Tomb
The Death You Deserve
Theel turned the knife in his hand, aimed the point back at himself, and wondered if this was the day he would die. There would be no one to mourn him if he did it. Not his father, whose funeral gathering had just finished. Not his mother, whom he’d never known. And not his sister, who remained at his side, but only from her sense of loyalty.
Now with his father gone, Theel no longer owed anyone. His life was now his to do with as he chose. Perhaps the proper choice would be to end it. Perhaps this knife, which had never tasted blood, should finally find its purpose, its home, in his hurting heart.
Theel turned the knife over, looking at its plainness. It was a gift from his father, a member of the Knights of the King’s Cross, an elite group of religious warriors as old as the clans themselves. Theel’s father swore an oath to serve the King’s Cross when he was a young man. He wished for his son to follow in his footsteps by swearing the same oath. But now the great knight was gone. He would never see Theel speak the sacred words or wear the silver shield.
Perhaps I will never take the oath, Theel thought. Perhaps I will die first.
He looked at the knife; looked at its sharpened point. It would be so easy. If he could only find the courage.
Theel’s father gave him the knife the day he became a squire, the day he began his training for knighthood. He wore the weapon sheathed on his belt for years while he followed his father to every corner of the Western Kingdoms, learning the ways of the King’s Cross. His father not only taught him to use a sword and shield, but also to read and write, to recite the Knight’s Creed, and to read the words of the ancient prophets.
Central to the knighthood’s beliefs was the prophecy that a boy known as the Blessed Soul of Man would be sent by God to lead the children of Embriss in a great war for the survival of humankind. Theel’s masterknight had great faith in the prophecy, and wished for his son to share that faith. For years, Theel believed as he was taught, clinging to the words of the prophecy just to please his father. But as he grew older, he began to doubt the value of praying to a mystical boy who existed only in men’s dreams. And now, on the day of his father’s funeral, Theel was forced to wonder if the promises of the knighthood were false, just like the promises of its religion. Theel had long harbored grave doubts, but the last tenuous strands that bound him to his faith were severed by the blow that took his father’s life.
The great knight was slain by one of the most feared and renowned enemies of the Western Kingdoms, a zoth chieftain known as the Crowlord. The murder of Theel’s father was just another in a long line of crimes committed by the Crowlord, but it was also the worst. The knighthood was devasted by the loss, as were all those who believed in the words of the prophecy.
Theel’s masterknight was a great warrior, but the legend of his exploits far outpaced the truth. He was a man, it was said, who could beat death, and had already done so once. During a battle years before, Theel’s father was stabbed through the heart, yet he lived. He had the damaged shield and scar on his chest to prove it. He’d beaten death once, but it was a feat he could not repeat. Now, after all these years, the Crowlord was able to do what a pierced heart could not: Kill the great knight.
Now his father was gone, leaving Theel to finish his journey to knighthood alone. He wasn’t certain he could face it. Not when he no longer believed. Not with a heart so scarred by this terrible loss. And not when he knew the truth.
His father’s death was his own fault.
I failed you, Father, Theel thought bitterly. It is I who should have died, not you. I do not deserve to be called your squire.
He turned the knife, staring at its sharpened point.
I don’t even deserve to live.
It was true. Theel knew he should be dead already. He lived only because his father died in his place. And worst of all, Theel left his father’s body behind, to be desecrated by his enemies. As a squire, Theel should have fought to recover his masterknight’s shield, the symbol of his honor as a knight. Instead, Theel fled like a coward, his father died without honor, and the shield was lost forever.
How could this happen? Where was the God of the Prophecy? Why did he remain unseen when those who revered him cried out every day? Did he not care that those who believed in him were scorned and persecuted by those who did not? Why were there no answers to these questions? Why were Theel’s prayers met with silence?
There was only one conclusion. The prophecy was false.
Theel’s father believed, and what was his reward? A lifetime of bloodshed and sacrifice, followed by a meaningless death. If there was a just God, Theel would be dead and his father would be alive. The wrong man lived, and the wrong man died. It was proof that the King’s Cross was a false symbol. It was proof that the Blessed Soul would never come. It was proof that Theel’s father, despite all his assurances, was wrong about the prophecy.
But what if Theel’s father was right?
“Theel,” the Keeper of the Craft said. “You earned your apprenticeship with words. Now you must earn your knighthood with deeds. The time of Warrior Baptism must come for every squire. Now, once again, it has come for you.”
The Keeper of the Craft, court wizard of Embriss, advisor to the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, was a short, wrinkled little man with a round face and thick-rimmed spectacles. The Keeper’s face, and his expectant eyes, flickered in the light of the white flame that burned on the top of his battle staff, a flame that never died, even if thrust underwater.
“Your formal time of mourning ends today, the day of your father’s memorial,” the Keeper said to Theel.
My time of mourning will never end.
“Today you will grieve your father,” the Keeper said. “Tomorrow you will embark on a sacred quest.”
Theel didn’t respond, only stared at the knife in his hand. Today, we will mourn my father, he thought bitterly. Tomorrow, you will mourn me!
“It is the most important duty you can owe to your people,” the Keeper said. “A squire to his knight, a knight to his kingdom, the kingdom to our God.”
Theel knew this meeting with the Keeper of the Craft was highly unusual. Quests were given by the highest ranking knights or by the king himself. But all the knights were away at war. And the king was dead.
“This is the fulfillment of your oath,” the Keeper said. “The final honor you will earn for your lord and masterknight, your father.”
The Keeper had summoned Theel to inform him of his next duty. He would begin his quest for Warrior Baptism, the ancient rite of passage that lifted a squire to knighthood. It was an honor Theel had long worked for. Every drop of blood and sweat he’d spilled since the day he was born was spent in pursuit of this goal. It should have been a great day, but it left him feeling empty. His father wasn’t here to see him receive this honor. And Theel knew it was an honor he didn’t deserve.
“Tomorrow you will
begin your journey to Warrior Baptism,” the Keeper said. “You will follow in your father’s footsteps, and those of so many great men who have risen to the ranks of the Knights of the King’s Cross. God willing.”
The Keeper spoke of Warrior Baptism as though this quest would be the answer to Theel’s prayers, as though completion of this quest could take all that was wrong and somehow make it right. But nothing could make it right.
“I know you feared this time would never come, Theel,” the Keeper said. “There are some who feel your bid for knighthood should have died with your father. They feel the way you returned to us—with your quest unfinished, and your masterknight’s body abandoned to the enemy—was a great dishonor.”
Theel tried to force himself to look at the Keeper, but he couldn’t. His shame was too great. His first attempt at Warrior Baptism was a failure. He fled from his duty and returned home with his quest incomplete. It was an unforgivable offense. But worse, Theel abandoned his quest and his father all at once. He should have been executed upon his return, but the Keeper of the Craft ordered him spared.
“You will quest to restore your father’s honor,” the Keeper said. “You will journey and fight, and by God’s grace, you will redeem yourself with blood.”
Theel knew why he was given this chance at redemption. When Theel was a boy, the Keeper identified within him a unique and powerful gift, the ability to see things that weren’t truly there; things that had happened years before, and things that would happen years in the future.
Theel had the gift of Sight, so the Keeper said. It was an ability that rarely occurred naturally in humans, and was therefore considered a precious asset to the realm. The power was only in its infancy, but if nurtured properly, it would grow in strength as Theel matured to manhood, and might one day make him a candidate for schooling in the Juy Method.
But Theel’s powers didn’t mature as he’d hoped. For fifteen years, the Keeper studied Theel’s abilities, even spent many hours attempting to help the squire control them. Theel had learned a great many things over the years, but he hadn’t learned enough. His Sight didn’t help him the day his masterknight perished. His Sight couldn’t save his father from dying. That is all that mattered to Theel. He would give anything to have that day back, to relive it, to change his actions.
He would give anything to undo what he did.
I’m sorry, Father.
Theel bowed his head. “I am unworthy of this honor.”
“You will make yourself worthy,” the Keeper stated. “You will prove yourself with your quest for Warrior Baptism.”
There is no quest that can mend this. There is no quest that can bring my father back to me.
“Warrior Baptism is beyond me!” Theel blurted. “I cannot succeed.”
“You will succeed,” the Keeper insisted. “Your gift makes you special to the kingdom. You must learn this for yourself.”
“My faith is weak. My will is broken,” Theel whispered, barely able to force the words past his lips. “I can’t go on without my father.”
“You must go on,” the Keeper said. “Your oath as a squire demands that you obey. You will leave the city tomorrow to begin your journey.”
Theel couldn’t force any words out of his mouth. Tears dripped from his eyes, splattering off the knife blade.
“You will face the trials of Warrior Baptism,” the Keeper added. “You will restore your father’s honor. And you will earn the right to wear your father’s knightshield.”
The Keeper was describing the hand-sized silver shield all Knights of the King’s Cross wore over their hearts. It was a knight’s most prized possession, and was commonly handed down from father to son.
“I will never wear my father’s shield,” Theel whispered, wiping his eyes. “It was lost with my father’s body. It is gone forever. Because of me.”
“Your father’s knightshield is not lost,” the Keeper said. “It is the goal of your quest.”
In the tiniest, darkest place in Theel’s heart, a spark of hope flared to life.
“I don’t understand,” Theel said, uncertain if he’d heard the Keeper’s words correctly. “The shield is not lost?”
“It is not,” the Keeper confirmed. “It can still be recovered. This is the goal of your quest for Warrior Baptism. You will journey to the Dead Man’s Bridge, the place where your masterknight perished, and honor his memory by recovering his shield.”
Theel shook his head, wanting to believe, but fearful of nurturing hope only to have it crushed.
“But my father’s body is gone,” Theel whispered. “The zoths cast him off the bridge into the canyon. Surely his knightshield fell with him.”
“It did not,” the Keeper said. “The symbol of your father’s honor as a knight remains in the hands of the zoth chieftain who defeated him.”
Theel tore his eyes from the knife in his hands, raised his head, and looked at the Keeper.
“It is true,” the Keeper stated. “Your father’s shield can be reclaimed. It awaits you on the Dead Man’s Bridge. I have seen this in the Craft, and the Craft does not lie.”
Theel blinked, unable to contain his surprise. For the first time since his father’s death, Theel felt something more than suffocating despair. The tiny spark of hope he felt in his heart threatened to burn brighter.
“You will avenge your father,” the Keeper continued. “You will slay his killer and reclaim his knightshield as proof of the deed. This is what Warrior Baptism demands of you. Do this, and you will have taken the crucial first step toward Warrior Baptism.”
Theel’s eyes fell back to the floor. His breath came in gasps. He couldn’t mask his shock, nor could he contain his joy.
There was still a chance to fix this.
“I am humbled,” Theel whispered. “I do not deserve this opportunity.”
“You deserve to live. Or you deserve to die,” the Keeper stated. “Your fate will be decided when you face your father’s killer.”
“I understand,” Theel said. “I am blessed.”
“Your father earned the right to die with honor,” the Keeper said. “You must fight to restore that honor. Defeat the zoth chieftain known as the Crowlord or perish in the attempt. Win your masterknight’s shield back or die as you should have the first time, for that is the death you deserve.”
“I humbly and gratefully accept this quest, the first trial of my Warrior Baptism,” Theel said.
I will fight for you, Father, as I should have the first time. I will fight to recover your shield and restore your honor. That is worth living for. And so I will live, for now.
Theel turned the knife away from himself.
“Do you understand what Warrior Baptism demands of you?” the Keeper asked.
“I will avenge my masterknight’s death and win back his knightshield,” Theel answered.
I will try. I may not succeed. But if I fail, I will still die honorably, as I should have the first time. An honorable death is all I have left to give to my masterknight.
Father, I will honor your memory even if I no longer believe in the prophecy of the Blessed Soul. I do not blame you for raising me in the ways of the King’s Cross, for it was what you knew. You were mistaken, and you were misguided, but I forgive you.
I forgive you for being wrong about the Blessed Soul.
But what if Theel’s father was right?
All the World Shall Wither
The journey from the old knight’s fortress to the southern end of the city of Fal Daran took the entire morning and some of the afternoondark. It was hours of slogging under a drizzly, gray sky through ankle-deep puddles and street filth, but Theel and Yenia suffered through it and eventually reached their destination. Now they stood at the edge of Six Corners, a wide smear of mud and stink located in the center of the poorest section of Fal Daran.
Six Corners was a center of commerce for the lowest class, clogged by merchants and street venders working out of collapsible stalls with canvas tops, or t
he backs of carts, or even a few blankets spread out on the rare dry spot, to display wares of such questionable quality that they would never pass muster in any other market in the city.
Customers crowded among the stalls, people of small means with little or none of the king’s work to spend. Most had wares of their own for sale or barter, baskets of fruits or vegetables or herbs, knit blankets and homemade clothing, tools, tack, or iron in any shape, smoked meats, fish, grain or flour, a chicken still alive and clucking, or even a bottle of liquor. But mostly it was muscle and sweat that was offered, hours of the king’s work spent cleaning chamber pots, carrying water, sweeping floors, and washing laundry. Six Corners had a reputation as the place to find cheap labor, which occasionally drew some highborn lord or his work foreman from elsewhere in the city, searching for men who were willing to spend a few days working a hammer, axe, or shovel in exchange for a few bowls of soup and a dry place to sleep.
For this reason, Theel and Yenia’s trip through the market was neither easy nor quick. They were accosted by poor men and women who mistook their purpose in coming to Six Corners, who surrounded them and blocked their path, offering services of all kinds, boasting of numerous skills, as well as a willingness to work.
It was an easy misunderstanding to make, for both of the siblings were dressed as if they possessed the wealth of nobility. Finely crafted armor poked out from under Theel’s rain poncho, supple bullosk leather tanned and cut with a practiced hand, held in place with laces and straps pulled through shiny rings and buckles, and expensive boots, custom-made with brass eyelets. The sword he wore on his hip was old in its appearance, well-worn and beaten, but despite its age and use, it was also clearly forged by a master craftsman and remained under the care of a loving hand, with a shiny pommel and a freshly oiled scabbard that said the blade it contained was likely sharpened to a perfect edge.
Yenia carried none of the accouterments of battle, but like her brother, she was dressed richly, with clean leathers and well-made boots, a tight-fitting white shirt with cuffs around her wrists, and expensive leather trousers with intricate decorative braids down the legs. It was considered man’s clothing, but it was what Yenia preferred. She was the daughter of a knight who demanded no less of her than of her male sibling. Skirts made it difficult to run and climb, but most importantly, ride a horse. Her choice of clothing, along with her shortly cropped hair, often caused people to mistake her for a young boy.
Warrior Baptism Chapter 1 Page 1