Warrior Baptism Chapter 1

by Jonathan Techlin

  I’m sorry, Father.

  Guarn plopped his mug back down, wiping his face.

  “It has been good to see you both,” he said. “But this can’t wait any longer. You must go. Take these things and your new sword and go to the Trader’s Cave.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Yenia said. “Goodbye.”

  “Theel?”

  But Theel wasn’t listening. He was still staring at Battle Hymn. His Sight suddenly came to him unwanted, without warning. It showed him something his natural eyes could not see, but he knew he was witnessing true events. He didn’t know when they would happen. But he knew what he was seeing was truth.

  He saw armored men in black surcoats bearing the white lily of House Kile gathering outside the Three Mugs and a Bowl. More soldiers waited in the alley, up to their ankles in mud. They formed a circle around a white horse, also caparisoned in the colors of House Kile.

  Theel recognized the rider. He knew the black plate mail with the silver lily on the breastplate. He knew the thick, blonde hair, the youthful features spattered with freckles, and the thin lips so red most women would be jealous. Mostly, he recognized the arrogant sneer of the man Guarn described as a self-appointed crusader of the Church, the man who swore he would wipe out the knighthood and destroy all memory of their prophecy.

  It was the Royal Witchfinder. It was Raveling Kile.

  Raveling sat on his horse, cleaning his fingernails with a knife as his men entered the building by kicking the door in. They terrorized the patrons, beat men for not swearing allegiance to Aeo, the Lord of Morning, and knocked an old man unconscious just for the fun of it. Even though he professed his faith, Guarn was beaten until he was spitting blood. His confession wasn’t genuine and his tormentors knew it.

  Raveling gave the order as calmly as if he was telling his servants how he wanted his breakfast prepared. The Three Mugs and a Bowl was torched. The old, liquor-soaked wood took to fire, and as Guarn feared, the building burned like “a giant tinderbox.” The doors were barred and the handful of men the Witchfinder deemed weak of faith were trapped inside.

  As awful as their deaths were, it was preferable to Guarn’s. The fate he so feared might befall his nephew was visited upon him: days of torture, followed by a public execution. The old man was stretched and baked in the light of Aeo, then hung from a tall ladder for all in the city to see.

  And all of this would be done under the supervision of the Royal Witchfinder.

  Theel saw it as clearly as if it had already happened. There was nothing he could do to stop it. There was no way of knowing if these events would occur in a day, a week, or a year. But it would happen.

  He looked his uncle in the face, and fresh tears began to cloud his vision.

  “What are you waiting for?” Guarn asked. “You must take your sister and go to the Trader’s Cave.”

  Just as Guarn said, it was the last time they would see each other, and Theel found it impossible to say goodbye. All he managed was…

  “I’m sorry.”

  Guarn looked sad, not understanding. Theel felt sick in his stomach. His uncle was going to suffer and die, and he couldn’t stop it. There was nothing he could do.

  Then his ears detected a new sound, and he knew it wasn’t a vision. He heard men’s voices shouting harshly outside, then the whinny of a horse. As a man who’d spent his life training to march and fight, he knew what those sounds meant. This was really happening.

  The front door of the tavern slammed open and a strip of yellow light cut across the barroom, lighting up Guarn’s face. He squinted at the irritation, raising his two-fingered hand to shield his one eye from the glaring light. Theel turned and saw soldiers walking through the front door. Each of them wore the black and white colors of House Kile. They were the troops of the Royal Witchfinder.

  Perhaps there was something Theel could do, after all.

  The Royal Witchfinder

  Theel turned back to his drink, listening as thumping boots entered the tavern and fanned out across the floor. He also heard the creaking of leather and the clinking of armor. Then he smelled smoke; not the subtle aroma of tobacco or seraphim that belonged in a tavern, but the acrid stink of pitch, which did not.

  They carried torches.

  The door slammed shut and the sunlight was gone, the walls of the barroom now flickering orange. For a moment, the room was quiet, except for the crackling of the torches. Theel only stared into his mug, listening intently.

  “Lower your gazes, swine!” a husky voice shouted. “Bow your heads in muted humility before the chosen voices of our Lord Aeo, the Messenger of Light. Pray now that your offerings are sufficient and your penance sincere, or the beatings will be severe!”

  Theel exhaled slowly, then took another drink. He glanced over his shoulder, trying to look like just another drunken, irritated bar patron. The irritated part came easy.

  Four men stood in the center of the room, three holding torches. The torchbearers were soldiers wearing surcoats over plate and chain, bearing a white lily, the sigil of House Kile. They looked like the veterans of many fights, with scarred faces and dented armor. They were armed with worn, well-used swords, but also openly carried iron cudgels.

  Swords sheathed and clubs out. Theel knew what this meant. They weren’t expecting a war with trained swordsmen. They planned to bully a rabble.

  The fourth man Theel knew as Raveling Kile’s personal dog, a man named Bestol. Theel recognized the scarred, leathery, callused face, beaten and tempered by a thousand fights, cuts, scrapes, and even some burn scars that made his hair grow uneven, so he just shaved his head. Bestol also wore armor, but it was better made, forged in black steel with the lily of House Kile gilded in silver on his breastplate. Theel had seen Bestol use the axe that hung on his belt, and he did it with no small amount of skill. If the two came to blows, Bestol would not be bested easily.

  “Listen closely, peasants!” Bestol shouted. “I come presenting a great opportunity on this day, a chance to ease your consciences, to lighten the weight of all the dark deeds you’ve committed in selfishness which were an affront to our Lord Aeo, in the sky above. May it please him!”

  “May it please him,” the torch-bearing soldiers recited on cue.

  Guarn quickly folded the dark blanket over Battle Hymn, obscuring her from view. Then he showed his teeth in a smile that contained no warmth.

  “Bestol, my good and decent friend,” he said loudly. “It’s a pleasure to see you and your men under my roof once again. Surely you’ve no business here other than the warming of your bellies with some stiff cider.”

  “Perhaps,” Bestol answered. “But only if your offering is pleasing to Lord Aeo.”

  “Begging your pardon, friend Bestol,” Guarn said. “But you and your men solicited the Three Mugs and a Bowl just days ago.”

  Bestol seemed amused. He smiled, showing a mouth containing roughly half the teeth he was born with. “Did we?”

  “Yes you did, my forgetful friend,” Guarn said. “Every man in this barroom paid his ten. The house gave forty to honor the Church of Aeo.”

  “This is so,” Bestol agreed with his raspy voice. “Every word you speak is true, friend Guarn. And the Messenger of Light is grateful for your charity. But our lord has so many children in need, and the whispers inform me your faith has grown weak. Only further offerings will restore your fortune in the eyes of Lord Aeo.”

  “I pray as I was taught,” Guarn insisted. “Lord Aeo commands the whole of my heart every morning I wake, and every eve as I bed down. But his tithings are so great, while I have so little to give.”

  Bestol wasn’t listening.

  “I am here to help you restore your favor in the eyes of your god,” he said, his voice like gravel, his smile like poison. His boots thumped loudly as he approached the bar. “Are you refusing my help?”

  He signaled his men with a wave of his hand, a silent command that was immediately understood. The Kile soldiers fanned out among the drinking t
ables. Theel expected them to demand coin, but they didn’t even bother. They set upon the bar patrons, punching them, kicking them, bashing heads with their cudgels. They overturned tables and slapped mugs out of hands. One of the soldiers shoved an elderly patron out of his chair, laughing as the old man’s brittle bones thudded against the hardwood floor. He lay where he fell, unmoving, his eyes closed.

  Bestol walked to Theel’s side, placing both hands on the bar. The squire kept his head down, tucking his glove under his other arm so the sigil of the King’s Cross couldn’t be seen. He stared into his mug, able to keep his calm despite the uniqueness of the circumstances. The soldiers of the Royal Witchfinder were searching every street and alley for Theel and Yenia, and now, a commander in Kile’s personal army stood only inches away. What would Bestol do if he knew?

  Bestol reached across the bar and took Guarn’s still-smoking cigar from the ashtray. He took a few puffs, then gave his opinion.

  “Hmm. Golden fetch.”

  “I have more,” Guarn offered.

  But Bestol ignored him.

  “Be assured, friend Guarn,” he said. “Though I find pleasure in squeezing you for coin, I am not here on that specific errand. The men may take as they please, but I have returned to this wretched rat hole of a tavern against my will. You see, friend Guarn, I have not come alone.”

  “You haven’t?”

  Bestol shook his head. “I am attending my lord and master.”

  Guarn leaned backward, his eyes widening in fear. “He is here?”

  Once again, the front door of the Three Mugs and a Bowl opened and a ribbon of yellow light sliced the barroom in half, irritating everyone’s eyes. Light footsteps trod across the hardwood, a soft contrast to the heavy boots of the Kile soldiers. And just like those men, this newcomer brought his own smell that was uncommon in a tavern. They brought the reek of burning pitch. This man brought the sweet scent of lilac.

  “Yes,” Bestol smiled. “He is here.”

  Theel knew that smell, and knew what it meant. The self-proclaimed crusader for the new god was here. The persecutor and murderer of men and boys Theel called his friends, was here. The betrayer of knights and squires who gave themselves up to avoid bloodshed, only to die screaming on the pyres of Redstone Square, was here. He was in the same room, only feet away. It was Raveling Kile.

  The Royal Witchfinder.

  Theel turned, looked over his shoulder, and saw Lord Kile standing in the center of the room. The nobleman was a stark contrast to his soldiers, clad in rich clothing, an expensive doublet with white neck ruffles, covered by a black breastplate with gold trim and a silver lily on the breast. His armor had never seen battle once, nor had the gaudy ornamental sword that hung on his hip. Everything about Raveling was pampered, powdered, and cushioned, from his velvet shoes to his eyebrow makeup.

  Theel had heard a great many stories about the Royal Witchfinder, about his arrogance, his softness, his penchant for both cowardice and cruelty. And there was nothing about the nobleman’s appearance or demeanor that countered that reputation. He was the sort of man who bathed in glory of his title while leaving the true labor of his office to those beneath him. Many died at his command, but few by his own hand, and none who could defend themselves. Raveling only stained his blade with the blood of the weak and the helpless.

  As Raveling walked across the room, Theel saw there was a method to the destruction created by the Kile soldiers. They’d knocked over tables and chairs and shoved patrons aside, all to create a clear path from the front door to the bar where Guarn sat. It was just so their master could cross the room without the bother of weaving between tables. And now, Raveling was walking that path, straight toward the bar, without a care for those who were inconvenienced by the actions of his men.

  “My Lord Raveling,” Bestol rasped. “It saddens me that you must once again breathe the dank air of this wretched shithole of a tavern, but I know your duty brings you here, and I only care to serve you.”

  “You serve me well, dog,” Raveling said, his crooked red lips twisting with each word. “And if your quality of service continues, there may be fresh meat waiting when you return to your kennel.”

  “I’ve done as you asked, milord,” Bestol said. “I have measured the mood of this rabble of underfoots, and I can assure you they are pleased your lordship has chosen to bless their pitiful lives with your nearness.”

  “Splendid.” The word slithered between Raveling’s lips like oily snakes. “Good dog.”

  Theel turned back toward his drink, fearful of what the next moments would bring, but accepting what must happen. He knew Raveling hadn’t come to the Three Mugs and a Bowl looking for him. If the Witchfinder thought he was going to face a warrior trained under the banner of the King’s Cross, he would have brought more than four bodyguards. Raveling came to the Three Mugs and a Bowl not to apprehend a fugitive, but to bully and extort those he deemed lesser.

  Raveling walked behind the bar as if he owned it and stood next to Guarn, pushing his breastplate into the old tavernkeep’s face. Another soldier holding a torch stood behind Theel’s uncle. There was no place for Guarn to go.

  “I spent nearly all I had cleaning up after last time,” Guarn pleaded. “I have no coin to give.”

  “Silence!” Raveling barked.

  Theel shifted on his stool, angrily staring straight ahead. He gripped his sword, drawing on every last scrap of willpower he had to keep the weapon sheathed. He stared at his uncle, who threw him a charged glance. The old man’s good eye was intense and his meaning was clear.

  Do not involve yourself.

  “I am not here to collect tithes, you old fool,” Raveling growled, looking down at Guarn in disgust. “I am here for a higher reason. I wish to discuss a matter that is very important to both of us.”

  “It would please me to speak on anything you choose, milord,” Guarn said, cowering.

  Raveling smiled crookedly, his thin lips resembling two wriggling red worms. “I want to share how overjoyed I am by the death of your brother, the lying, blaspheming knight. News of his demise has reached your ears, has it not?”

  “Yes, milord,” Guarn said. “I heard of his passing, but not where it occurred, or how.”

  “Are you scowling at me, old man?” Raveling huffed in Guarn’s face.

  “Forgive me, milord,” the old tavernkeep said. “I would never—”

  Raveling slapped Guarn across the face. The blow was stiff and unexpected, causing the old tavernkeep’s head to snap back violently. He almost fell off his stool, but saved himself by grabbing the edge of the bar.

  Theel’s sword would have leaped out of its scabbard and into Raveling’s face in that moment if Yenia didn’t grab him by the arm, gripping it tightly. Theel looked at his sister. Yenia shook her head. Theel knew from experience his sister was wise when he was rash. There were times when her calming influence had kept him alive. As much as he wished to strike out at Raveling, he remained still. Guarn only stared at the floor, hoping to avoid further punishment.

  Raveling smiled at this, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

  “It is fortunate for you, the details of your brother’s death are known to me,” Raveling smirked. “I would have preferred he die lashed to a stake, his screams of pain and penance silenced by choking, black smoke. But Aeo, in his infinite wisdom, chose a different fate for the vile heretic.”

  “How did my brother die?” Guarn asked, keeping his eyes low. “If I may ask…”

  “His squire returned to the city alone, bearing news of his master’s death,” Raveling explained. “It seems the two were traveling with a peasant family near to Ravenwater when a tribe of zoths attacked them. The knight and his squire stole the family’s only horse and fled, leaving the poor smallfolk to die.”

  Theel ground his teeth in anger. Every word Raveling spoke was a lie. Theel and his father were nowhere near Ravenwater when it happened. And there was no peasant family. He and his father traveled
alone.

  “I’m saddened to hear that,” Guarn said.

  “You should be saddened,” Raveling said. “It was a shameful death. A zoth spear struck him in the back as he fled from danger.”

  Another lie. Theel’s father didn’t, and never would have, suffered such a dishonorable wound. He never turned his back on his enemy, and Raveling knew it. He said it, Theel was certain, only to cut Guarn’s heart.

  “The knight’s cowardice was eclipsed only by the craven actions of his squire, who scorned his masterknight’s memory by leaving the body to be eaten by crows.”

  Theel’s anger cooled, and was quickly replaced by shame. The only thing worse than having a man like Raveling lie about you, was having him tell the truth.

  “It was Aeo’s righteous justice for both the heretics, I say,” Raveling opined, again dabbing his wormy lips with his handkerchief.

  “Perhaps it was,” Guarn agreed. “I tried to speak sense to my brother, tried to warn him Aeo would punish him.”

  “It is no surprise to me he refused to heed your counsel,” Raveling sighed. “It is the arrogance of these prophecy worshippers. They are so…sincere…in their heresies.”

  “It is their undoing,” Guarn agreed. “They are unable to hear truth, even when spoken by loved ones.”

  Raveling nodded. “A prayer to our Lord Aeo that those lost in shadow might hear his truth.”

  “May it please him,” Guarn said with a smile that reached only half his face.

  “Do not scowl at me, peasant!” Raveling hissed, then struck Guarn as if he was trying to slap his head off. Once again, the old tavernkeep nearly fell off his stool, but kept his balance by reaching out for the bar top.

  Theel’s rage burned anew. His fingers squeezed the hilt of his sword as if he was trying to break it off. Yenia still held him by the wrist, reminding him to control his urges. It was a gesture of counsel that Theel would heed, but only for so long.

  “Or were you smiling?” Raveling chuckled. “How does anyone know whether you smile or grimace? Half of your face is broken!”