Warrior Baptism Chapter 1

by Jonathan Techlin

  We all stand up

  And we all fall down

  Wither the Waking World

  The children fell to the ground, laughing hysterically and clapping their hands. Theel knew exactly how much fun that could be. He remembered when he and his sister played the game as children. Had his face ever worn a smile so large?

  When they’d sufficiently laughed themselves out, the children picked themselves up and began the game anew, reciting the rhyme loudly in unison.

  Close your eyes, God’s will be done

  The Blessed Soul will one day come

  The light will swallow up the sun

  And all the world shall wither

  “All the world shall wither,” Theel said along with them.

  Three Mugs and a Bowl

  “Brother!”

  Theel looked to see Yenia standing on the stepstones of the tavern. He turned from the scene of the children and headed back toward where his sister waited, choosing, as he often did, not to reveal anything of what his vision showed him.

  “Brother,” Yenia said. “We have haven here. Uncle Guarn is within.”

  “Does he know I am hunted?” Theel asked.

  “The voice of the Royal Witchfinder has reached even the darkest alleys of the city,” Yenia answered. “Everyone seems to know they are searching for a squire near the Six Corners.”

  Theel cursed. “Every shadow hides danger from my eyes. There is no safe place.”

  “We’ll find no trouble within,” Yenia promised. “Uncle Guarn was joyful to see me.”

  “Of course he is joyful to see you, sister.” Theel smiled wryly. “But will he be joyful to see me? Will he be grateful I bring all my troubles to his doorstep?”

  “We need him,” Yenia pressed. “We need aid that only he can give us. You said that yourself.”

  Theel sighed. “You are right, little sister,” he agreed, walking up the steps. “Very well, then. Let us call on our dear uncle.”

  Theel had visited the Three Mugs and a Bowl many times in his younger days, back when it was housed in a different building across town, then known as the Three Mugs and a Bowl Inn and Hitch. That building was much larger, and built on an actual street where it showed its face proudly rather than skulking in shame as the tavern in this alley now did. That old building said welcome. That old building said life. But that place was no more.

  When Theel opened the tavern door, he wasn’t met with light and warmth, only quiet, dimly lit sadness. The light of late afternoondark followed Theel through the doorway, causing the half-dozen or so patrons to turn their heads; some to see who this newcomer was, others to shrink away like rats fearing the light.

  Yenia shut the door, causing the room to fall back to near darkness. Little could be seen by the soft flickering of two lanterns and a wood stove. Nothing but the outlines of a few men, each sitting alone, no part of their bodies moving but the arm that raised the mug to their lips.

  The fire popped. Someone coughed. No one said a word.

  The smell of this place was nothing like the inn that once bore the same name. There was no warmth, only coldness. There was no joy, only decay. The old inn was a place to make merry and feel alive. This was a place to get numb and feel dead, a giant coffin full of people long gone, if only their bodies would realize it.

  “Don’t stand there.”

  The voice came across the room from Theel’s right. He looked to see who spoke, but his eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness. Something hit the brim of his hat with a soft pat. He looked up and a fat drop of rainwater fell into his eye.

  “Don’t look up, either. Roof leaks there.”

  Another drop hit Theel’s cheek before he could move out of the way. He started across the room, rubbing his face as he went. He could see firelight reflecting off some stools and a bar on the far side of the room, the direction from which the voice came.

  “The whole place leaks,” the voice said from behind the bar.

  It was a voice Theel knew; a little older, a little scratchier, but still recognizable. It was the voice of the man he came to see.

  “Uncle?”

  By the dim light, Theel could see a hand raise a wooden taper to the flame of a lantern on the bar top. The hand that held the taper had only two fingers and a thumb.

  “Uncle?” Theel said, moving to sit upon a stool. “It is your nephew, Theel.”

  “I know who it is,” the voice said.

  The taper burned and was raised to light a bent and twisted tobacco cigar held between the lips of a man who looked to be many years beyond his true age. His face hung off his skull in a cascade of wrinkles and creases, some ancient burn scars, and a large scowl. One eye looked from the lantern to the cigar, then to Theel, while the other eye remained still, dead, staring straight ahead. His hair was gray and messy, uncombed and uncared for, with whiskers and eyebrows that resembled patches of white brambles. Though the man appeared older, rounder, and worn like an old pair of trousers, his face was still recognizable. That face belonged to the brother of Theel’s father. It was his uncle, Guarn.

  Theel sat down on one of the many stools before the bar top.

  “How do you fare, Uncle?” Theel asked.

  “Well enough,” Guarn answered. “A little drunk. Not a lot.”

  “Does a little drunk suit your needs?” Theel asked.

  “Aye,” Guarn grunted. “For now.”

  “Would increased drunkenness do you better?”

  Guarn smiled, the light of his mirth reaching his one good eye. “It might, my boy.”

  “Let us drink, then,” Theel said, plopping a coin pouch on the bar top with a clink. “I have work to spend.”

  “I’ll accept no work from you,” Guarn grunted, pushing the pouch away.

  Theel just pushed it back. “Fix your leaky roof.”

  “Fix your deafened ears, nephew,” the old man grumbled. “I like my leaky roof. And you’ll pay for nothing while you are beneath it.”

  He threw the pouch into Theel’s lap, then plunked a mug down on the bar top.

  “This is the finest horse piss I serve,” Guarn said. “Be grateful I waste it on you.”

  “I am sweating gratitude.” Theel smiled, bringing the mug to his lips. “It runs in rivers off my brow.”

  Guarn’s wrinkled face grew more wrinkled, something resembling a scowl. “I can smell the rank of your gratitude. A foul creature, you are,” he muttered. “Have a pipe?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have golden fetch.”

  “My favorite,” Theel said, producing his pipe. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” Guarn answered as he pressed the yellow buds into the bowl of his nephew’s pipe. “It was your father’s preference. He always carried a pouch in his younger days.”

  Theel put his pipe between his teeth, holding a taper to light it. “I never knew he smoked.”

  “Oh, he smoked,” Guarn said. “Back when he was a human being. Before he became a knight and forgot how to sin.”

  Theel laughed at that. Yenia didn’t.

  “No taste for mirth?” Guarn said to Yenia.

  “Little sister never learned to sin at all,” Theel chuckled, puffing on his pipe. “She thinks she is my mother.”

  “Niece, why did you cut your hair?” Guarn asked. “You were such a pretty girl. Now you could pass for my grandson.”

  “You know why, Uncle,” Yenia answered. “I cannot battle the enemies of the King’s Cross with curls in my eyes.”

  “You’ll never find a husband looking like that,” Guarn said. “You should dress yourself nicer, let the boys see your curves.”

  “Are you finished?” Yenia said. “We did not come here looking for advice on finding a suiter.”

  “I’m sorry,” Guarn said, shaking his head. “Your father lived a life of blood, and he strived to gave that life to his children. I suppose I’m saddened to see that even my sweet little niece wasn’t spared.”

  “No one can
be spared this war,” Theel said, exhaling. “We have pressing business and little time to tarry. I am on a quest.”

  As he said those words, he placed his left hand on the bar top so the glow of the lantern fell across the glove he wore. The yellow light glinted off the hundreds of threads of intricate embroidery on the back of his hand. Guarn closed his eyes and grimaced, as if the sight of the King’s Cross made him sick.

  “Do not flash that symbol around me,” the old man warned.

  “You seem angry that I wear it,” Theel said.

  “I’m not angry,” Guarn stated. “I just wish it wasn’t so, for your sake. These days, men who display the war emblem of the King’s Cross are finding themselves killed.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  “Neither can I,” Guarn replied, still staring at the bar top. “But forgive an old man his hope. When the people started turning against the knights, I hoped. When they blamed men like your father for the death of the king, I hoped. When they started knocking over the shrines and monuments to the Blessed Soul and hunting down everyone who believed in the prophecy, I prayed you wouldn’t be one of those hunted. But now you sit before me wearing that symbol as if you are unaware it is a target for spears and arrows.”

  “I wear this war emblem to honor my father,” Theel said. “Let the arrows rain down. I will not remove this glove.”

  Guarn leaned forward, whispering as if he feared anyone might hear. “And I suppose your arms are tattooed with the symbols of the knighthood?”

  “I bear the tattoos of a squire of the King’s Cross.”

  Guarn took a deep drag on his cigar as if he needed it, then he glared at Theel, fire raging behind his one good eye.

  “Do you know the danger that follows you as you strut in your arrogance?” he asked tersely. “Showing pride in your symbols of sacrilege?”

  Theel lifted his chin. “I bear no symbols of sacrilege, Uncle. I cannot offend a god who doesn’t exist.”

  “I know that, nephew!” Guarn barked. “But the rage of these people does exist. The blame they place upon men like you does exist. The spears and swords that would cut you for bearing those symbols are quite real, even if their god is not.”

  “I cannot scrub away tattoos,” Theel stated. “Shall I peel the skin off my body?”

  “You should take better care!” Guarn hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “Have you heard what they are doing to men like you?”

  “I have heard much.”

  “The Council of Lords and the priests in their holy spires join their serpent brains in endless scheming,” Guarn said. “They want the people to think the knights killed the king and started this mess of a war. They need someone to blame. They say their god demands a sacrifice. Are you hearing my words?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “They need to give the people something to hate,” Guarn grumbled. “Because someone is going to burn, and it is not going to be them. If the wrong person sees your tattoos, or that glove on your hand, the Witchfinder will be coming for you.”

  “I know, Uncle,” Theel said. “The Lord Protector has ordered that the followers of the King’s Cross be handed over as slaves of the Iatan Empire.”

  “If they catch you, nephew, slavery is the best you can hope for,” Guarn warned. “That is your reward if you deny your faith, declare your prophecy is a lie, and betray others of your kind.”

  Theel shook his head. “I would never betray anyone.”

  “I know,” Guarn said. “You won’t cooperate with your questioners. You won’t beg forgiveness and denounce the King’s Cross. So your sentence will be days of torture followed by a public execution. They’ll have you begging for slavery.”

  “They won’t, because they won’t catch me,” Theel said.

  “Are you certain of that?” Guarn asked. “Their eyes are everywhere. And some of these men are the worst sort. This new Witchfinder has gone insane with power. He has anointed himself a crusader for the Church.”

  “I know; Raveling Kile,” Theel muttered derisively. “He is a small man, and no one to fear.”

  “It doesn’t matter how large or small a man he is,” Guarn added. “Whether we like it or not, his uncle is ruling Embriss. House Kile was wealthy before they looted the treasury. Now, as Royal Witchfinder, Raveling commands a small army ready to jump when he orders it. And he has decided he will be the great hero who cleans the city of Fal Daran of every last vestige of the knighthood and their religion. He will kill a babe in its crib if he thinks there is any chance it will grow to worship the King’s Cross. He says Aeo, the Lord of Morning, demands it.”

  Theel didn’t say anything, only shook his head.

  “You think I jest?” Guarn asked. “The Lord Protector has promised amnesty to any man who harms a follower of the King’s Cross. Naturally, this attracts the attention of evil men with a healthy appetite for blood. Such a man is Raveling Kile.”

  “He will see I do not fear the taste of blood,” Theel said. “I might enjoy trading blows with that swine.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “I have nothing to fear,” Theel said. “A highborn noble like Raveling Kile would never come to a lowly tavern such as this.”

  “He has,” Guarn said. “The Witchfinder has come here himself and stuck his pretty, powdered nose in my face. Close enough that I breathed the stink of his breath and smelled his sweet lilac perfume.”

  This grabbed Theel’s attention firmly. He sat, unmoving, looking at Guarn through the curl of smoke from his pipe. “Tell me, Uncle.”

  “It was only days ago,” Guarn explained. “He came to my doorstep demanding news of your father. Roughed the place up. Busted me and a few regulars on the head just for the pleasure. Left me with a tossed barroom full of blood and spilled cider, and a whole list of threats.”

  Theel felt himself clenching his teeth, breathing through his nose in anger. “Threats? What did he say to you?”

  “He said the knights were criminals, and your father was a fugitive,” Guarn said, rubbing his temple. “He said I must alert one of his stooges if I saw your father or any other knights or squires. I should do nothing to aid, protect, or hide anyone who worships the King’s Cross, or I would burn alongside them.”

  “Raveling said that?”

  “Aye, he said that,” Guarn answered. “And he meant it.”

  “Raveling can say whatever he wishes,” Yenia interjected. “He could never arrest father. Not even with an army behind him.”

  “Perhaps not,” Guarn said. “But it doesn’t matter. He keeps bothering me. Sends his goons to collect tithes once in a while, bust up my place, chase off my spenders. The Kile soldiers come in here with torches as if they don’t know what that means for a dried-up old shed like this. Drop a flame in the wrong place and we’re sitting in a giant tinderbox.”

  “They know what could happen,” Theel guessed. “They want you to know it too.”

  “Yes, they do,” Guarn admitted. “It’s an unspoken threat. The Three Mugs and a Bowl will burn unless I give Raveling Kile what he wants.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He wants the famous knight who beat death. He wants to put your father’s head on a spike,” Guarn answered. “But I don’t know where he is. He is far from here, and I hope he doesn’t come back.”

  Theel and Yenia looked at each other.

  “What is it?” Guarn asked.

  “No need to worry about Father,” Theel said softly. “No one can harm him now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Theel cleared his throat, knowing the next words he spoke would be difficult.

  “Father is dead,” he said softly, his voice shaking.

  Guarn didn’t move or say anything. He just blinked. Then his eyes slowly became glassy. He leaned back in his chair with a loud creak, sucked on his cigar, then sipped from his mug. When he did speak, his voice was low.

  “Not unforeseen,” he mumbled. “The man never shra
nk from danger.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Theel agreed.

  Guarn thought for a moment. “Tell me the Witchfinder didn’t get him. Tell me those filthy swine never had the pleasure of seeing him in chains. I pray for that much.”

  “No, it wasn’t Raveling Kile,” Theel said. “Father died far from here.”

  “That is good,” Guarn sniffed. “Never thought I’d outlast your father; that fool. I tried to kill myself with drink. He tried to kill himself with war. It was a race to the finish, and it seems he won. This is very sad news indeed. We weren’t close. I haven’t seen him in years. But he was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was,” Theel agreed. “A good man.”

  “Where did they bury him?”

  This was the moment Theel dreaded. He resisted the urge to turn his gaze away, forcing himself to look at his uncle’s face.

  “There was…” he stammered, “…nothing to bury.”

  Guarn’s wrinkled face showed confusion. “Did he die in battle?”

  Theel’s voice was soft. “Yes.”

  “The other knights couldn’t bring him back?” Guarn asked.

  “There were no other knights,” Theel said. “I was with him. No one else.”

  Guarn stared at his nephew as if deep in thought. He took another drag on his cigar, but said nothing.

  “I see the question on your face,” Theel said. “You are too kind to ask it, but I will not leave you wondering. I did not come here to lie to you.”

  “Then don’t lie to me, boy,” Guarn said. “What happened?”

  Theel swallowed hard.

  “Father was slain by a zoth chieftain,” he said, his voice shaking. “I watched it happen. I couldn’t save him. I tried, but I didn’t…I couldn’t…”

  “You left him there?” Guarn asked.

  Theel tried his best to look his uncle in the eye. But the shame was too overwhelming. He hung his head, staring at the floor.

  “Yes,” Theel answered. “I left him and ran like a coward. He is dead because of me.”

  Guarn thought for a moment, then spoke. “At the moment you turned and ran, was he still alive?”

  “No.”

  “Was he dead?”