Raveling’s laughter was shrill and sickening. His men quickly joined in his mirth, each of them smiling or chuckling.
Guarn brushed his hair out of his eyes, then spit out a mouthful of blood. Once again, he gave his nephew a stern glare. His unspoken message was clear.
Do not reveal yourself.
The old tavernkeep looked down a Raveling’s shoes. “What can I do to please you, milord?”
The Witchfinder stopped laughing, but an evil smirk remained on his face.
“You can do nothing to please me,” Raveling answered. “Pleasure is not given to me. I take it from others.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, milord.”
“Bestol, are you thirsty?” Raveling asked.
“Yes, milord.” Bestol smiled, chewing on Guarn’s cigar. “Fine tobacco feeds my thirst.”
“You see, old man,” Raveling said. “Bestol is my most loyal dog. He hunts those I want hunted. He eats those I want eaten. He lays down at my feet in obedience, and leaves my sight when bade. But he does have one weakness. He becomes very unpredictable when he is thirsty.”
“Yes I do,” Bestol agreed, smiling as he puffed away. “Very unpredictable.”
“I fear if you don’t satisfy his urges, he may become violent.”
“It has happened before,” Bestol agreed. “It is an unfortunate and terrible weakness I have.”
“I would advise you to pour him a drink before something regrettable happens.”
“As you wish, milord,” Guarn said.
The Royal Witchfinder didn’t take his eyes off the old tavernkeep. Thinking Theel was just another insignificant drunk, Raveling reached out and snatched Theel’s mug from his hand. He poured the mug out on the floor, then presented it to Guarn.
“But no cider,” he ordered. “Bestol has a taste for the strong liquors. Pour him your most ruthless poison.”
“I have just the thing,” Guarn said, taking the mug. “Idle Worm. It will burn a hole in your gut.”
“Perfect,” Raveling rasped. “Bestol’s stomach will be pleased.”
Guarn retrieved a bottle from behind the bar and pulled the cork. The nobleman just continued to glare at him.
“More,” Raveling ordered after Guarn put a small splash in the mug. “More.”
Guarn continued to pour until he had the bottle upside down, shaking out the final drops.
“A man must take care with this brew, milord,” Guarn warned. “It’s like drinking fire.”
Raveling took the mug, then sniffed its contents. The Witchfinder’s thin red lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile.
“Do not concern yourself,” he said coldly. “I intend to take great care with this caustic brew. Impeccable care.”
The Royal Witchfinder held the mug out at arm’s length.
“Bestol will take care in the drinking, for he knows the liquor is dangerous,” Raveling began.
He slowly turned the mug over, pouring its contents onto the bar top.
“I will take care in the handling, for I wouldn’t dare spill a drop,” he continued.
But Raveling was spilling more than a drop. He poured Idle Worm until the entire bar top was glistening with wetness and the blanket covering Battle Hymn was soaked in alcohol.
“I’m sorry, Bestol, but your thirst must remain unquenched,” Raveling apologized facetiously. “It appears I spilled your drink.”
“There’s no predicting what I’ll do, milord,” Bestol laughed, smoke bursting from his nose. “I may even drop my cigar.”
“That would be very dangerous, Bestol,” Raveling warned, his crooked lips twitching.
“Please don’t,” Guarn begged.
“I told you I take my pleasure from others,” Raveling said. “And now I will take my pleasure from you.”
“I am loyal to House Kile,” Guarn begged. “I am a good and faithful servant of the new god. I donate wine and cider every week. I give a quarter of my honest-earned work.”
“You think your offerings to Aeo will save you?” Raveling asked. “Aeo doesn’t care about you! Would you like to know why?”
The Witchfinder’s laughter was tuneless, percussive, and ugly to the ears, like the sound of someone smashing a violin.
“Because I ordered my dog to make certain none of your offerings reached the collectors!” Raveling roared with laughter. “Bestol and his men have spent your offerings on drinking, gambling, and whoring. Each cask of wine or cider you’ve given was drank and pissed or puked into the canal. Every last drop. You see, old man? You’ve made no offerings to the Church for months! And Aeo is very displeased!”
The Kile soldiers joined with their master, hooting with laughter like hyenas gathering around a fresh carcass. Guarn, the victim at the center of all this, appeared defeated. His shoulders were slumped, like a warrior with no more fight to give. Again, he turned and looked at Theel, but this time, his expression was blank. There was nothing behind his eyes, no meaning in his gaze.
Guarn had given up. He knew what was coming, and knew there was no way to stop it.
“I take pleasure from these truths,” Raveling hissed. “You are finished, old man, as is this dusty box you live in. After today, this tavern will be no more. The building won’t be gifted to another peasant who is more deserving, for that would be an insult to a man of even the lowest birth. It won’t be auctioned, for it has no value. It will burn, and the memories of your brother, of the King’s Cross, and your empty prophecy, will burn with it.”
For the first time, Guarn looked at Raveling defiantly. “You wouldn’t dare say those words if my brother was alive to hear them.”
“I’d say anything I wish to him,” Raveling snarled. “I am not reluctant to fight the faithless, no matter their martial skill.”
“Then why didn’t you say these things when he was alive?” Guarn asked. “Why did you wait until my brother was dead to arrest me, to burn my tavern?”
Raveling opened his mouth, but Guarn cut him off before he could answer.
“Because you were afraid of him,” Guarn said. “Because you know my brother wouldn’t have tolerated you treating his family like this. He would have come for you. And when he found you, all the soldiers and servants and treasuries of all the richest houses in the realm wouldn’t have been enough to protect you.”
“Silence!”
“He would have carved you from your pretty lips to your puckered asshole!”
Raveling grabbed a handful of Guarn’s hair, jerked the old man’s head back, and screamed bile into his face.
“I’m so very glad your brother is dead!” he roared. “Not because I feared him, but because he was the only one who cared for you. Now you will die alone, faithless, friendless, hopeless!”
“Not true,” Guarn grunted, obviously in pain.
“Your family is dead,” Raveling insisted. “Your name is a disgrace!”
“Not true,” Guarn repeated.
Raveling looked confused. “What are you talking about, old man? Your nephew? The son and squire of your heretic brother? He has abandoned you. He was seen sneaking out of the Hall of Seven Swords just this morning. He is probably in the Trader’s Cave by now, fleeing like the cowardly vermin he is. But don’t you worry. We will find him, too. My dog will sniff him out.”
“That’s right,” Bestol said, puffing on Guarn’s cigar. “The order has been given. Soldiers are mustering for the pursuit as we speak. Your nephew cannot escape the reach of the Royal Witchfinder. I will see to that.”
Bestol’s words sat like ice chips in Theel’s stomach. He continued to stare at the bar top, purposely appearing disinterested. But in his mind, he was plotting. In that moment, he resolved he was going to punish Raveling Kile and his dog, Bestol. Now was not the right time. But the time would come. And when it did, he would not hesitate.
Raveling finally released Guarn’s hair, but only with a ruthless jerk of the neck.
“Do you see, old man?” the Witchfinder said with h
is most crooked, ugly smile. “Your nephew will burn, too. He will roast in the light of Lord Aeo’s fiery chariot.”
He slapped Guarn.
“Just like you, he will die in agony, begging for mercy.”
Another slap.
“But I will show him no mercy. Just like I show you none.”
Guarn’s nose was bleeding.
“Had enough, old man?”
Raveling stood over Guarn, menacing him, huffing in his rage, waiting for a response. But the old tavernkeep didn’t say anything, only looked at Theel. Now the emotion had returned and once again, there was unmistakable meaning in his features. He looked at Theel and Yenia with genuine warmth. He looked at them with all the kindness, gratitude, and love his old, scarred face could muster.
He was saying goodbye. Theel could see it in his uncle’s expression, and he knew his sister saw it too. Yenia’s grip on Theel’s wrist loosened, then finally released. She knew what was coming as well. Brother and sister were of one mind.
“It is time, Bestol,” Raveling said, waving to the soldier. “Burn it.”
“As you wish, milord,” Bestol said, taking one last pull on the cigar.
Theel knew what was about to happen because he saw it in his vision. They were going to burn the tavern down. Guarn would be dragged away, tortured, and murdered. But that didn’t mean he must sit back and watch it happen without protest.
Bestol exhaled a plume of golden fetch and tossed the cigar onto the bar top. The liquor called Idle Worm combusted with a poof, and a streak of orange-and-blue flame traveled down the length of the bar toward Theel, toward where Battle Hymn lay under the blanket. Theel briefly thought to reach out and save his father’s sword from the fire, but he didn’t. He did something else.
Raveling reared back to slap Guarn again, but Theel seized the Witchfinder by the wrist and slammed his arm down on the bar. In one instant, he drew his father’s knife. In the next, he plunged the blade into Raveling’s hand, effectively nailing the Witchfinder’s arm to the bar top.
Raveling’s eyes widened. His mouth fell open. But he didn’t scream until the moment the flames reached him. The sleeve of his doublet, pressed against the bar, was soaked in Idle Worm and it burst into flame, travelling up his arm.
That was when Raveling screamed.
He wasn’t the only one. A dozen shrieks of shock and rage filled the air as the bar top roared orange. Everyone seemed frozen with eyes and mouths agape as the air around them blurred with heat as intense as any kitchen oven. But it was the heat that brought them to their senses as it baked their skin and shocked them out of their stupor.
The soldier standing behind Guarn reacted first, by reaching across the bar. Showing tremendous fortitude, he put his arm into the fire, trying to pull the knife out of his master’s hand. But Theel’s sword was already free of its scabbard and the blade came down in an overhead chop. It hit the man in the shoulder, crunched through his armor, and nearly severed his arm. The man’s knees buckled and he fell backward, one hand smoking, the other dropping a torch from limp fingers. The torch hit the floor with a spray of sparks then rolled a few feet, still burning.
That would only make the fire worse, but Theel didn’t have time to care.
“Yenia!” he shouted through the noise. “Help Uncle!”
He couldn’t see past the blinding light of the fire; didn’t know where his sister was or what she was doing. He could see Raveling, who was thrashing wildly, squealing like a pig being slaughtered. The Witchfinder was unable to free himself, unable to stop the flames from crawling up his arm, spreading to his chest and back.
Theel grabbed the handle of the knife and twisted it free of the bar top, releasing Raveling’s hand. This required him to reach into the fire, but he had no fear. The sleeve of his leather armor and the glove on his hand were made from the hide of the bullosk. It did not burn, and it transferred no heat to his flesh.
“Yenia!” he shouted. “Take Uncle out of here!”
Theel knew what was coming. He was blinded by the fire, but something dangerous lurked in the dark. Sure enough, he heard a grunt and felt the whoosh of air as Bestol’s axe nearly took his head off. He turned right into it and almost paid dearly. With a baby’s breath to spare, he lifted his chin and arched his spine, throwing himself back on his tiptoes. It was just enough that Bestol’s axe cut the air in half and nothing more.
Theel could see the orange glow on Bestol’s snarling face as he advanced, readying another swing. Fear seized Theel’s heart at the sight of Raveling’s dog. Bestol was a dangerous man who knew how to use his weapon. Theel knew how devastating cuts from that axe could be. He’d heard tales of Bestol hacking men nearly in two. He wasn’t certain if he’d ever faced a man so frightening. If he did, it was with his father at his side, helping him, protecting him. But his father wasn’t here. The masterknight was gone forever. And it left Theel feeling naked. There was nothing between him and Bestol’s axe but his own training, instincts, and will.
Theel retreated from the threat, crashed into a table, and Bestol’s axe slammed into this thigh. It was a heavy attack, enough to cut through skin, muscle, and bone, perhaps enough to take Theel’s leg off. But instead, it thumped dully against Theel’s leg. The squire’s armor of the bullosk was as soft and flexible as wool, but it would not yield to even the sharpest edge. It didn’t cut Theel’s skin, but Bestol’s steel hit him hard, nearly knocking him off his feet. He couldn’t stifle a cry of pain. It felt like being kicked by a horse.
Theel was at a disadvantage. He was terrified, and bereft of confidence without his masterknight. His clumsiness and indecision was almost his undoing. He should have lost his leg. He should be dying already.
But he wasn’t, and the pain in his thigh ignited his adrenaline. It punched him in the face with the overpowering urge to live, to fight. He knew this feeling. He’d been thumped hundreds of times before, and he knew how to react because his father had drilled it into him. It was like he was back in the training room.
Fear evaporated. Instinct took over.
He leaped at Bestol, his sword slashing. It scratched a line across the big man’s breastplate, then across his mouth. Blood ran down his chin, and his smile became even uglier.
Bestol’s axe swiped again, chopping a wedge into the table, and Theel shoved his knife into the man’s belly, just under the breastplate. Raveling’s dog didn’t even flinch at the steel in his gut. He just answered with his axe, the heavy blade catching Theel on the wrist. Once again, the leather of the bullosk saved the squire from bloodshed, but it couldn’t spare him the impact. It felt like his bones were crushed. His sword flew across the floor and he screamed, clutching his forearm in agony.
Bestol was relentless. He rushed at Theel, spitting blood, saliva, and fury. He swung his axe repeatedly, ignoring the knife in his stomach as if it was nothing more than a scratch. Weaponless, Theel tried to retreat across the dirty floor, but stumbled on his hurting leg. He fell to his knees and Bestol jumped at him, axe swinging. The squire grabbed a wooden stool and raised it just in time for Bestol to shatter it. The big man fell off balance from the momentum of his own attack, so Theel jumped to his feet and charged. His only weapon was a round wooden seat with four splintered legs, but he used it like a shield and slammed into the big man with all his might. Bestol fell backward, dropping his axe as he tried to catch himself. He crashed to the floor with the squire on top and the broken stool between them.
Bestol was weaponless, but not powerless. He reached up and grabbed Theel by the neck. His grip was sure and his fingers strong. But Theel’s hand curled around the handle of his father’s knife, still protruding from the big man’s gut. He pulled it out and shoved it back in. Then he did it again. And again.
Bestol growled and hissed, red liquid bubbling from his mouth. His eyes bulged in madness as he squeezed Theel’s neck with crushing strength.
The knife handle was slippery with blood, and squirted out of Theel’s hand. He punch
ed the big man in the face. Then he punched him in the neck. Bestol didn’t care. The squire could feel the air being squeezed out of his body.
Theel dropped his weight against the seat of the stool, pushing one of the splintered legs toward Bestol’s neck. Then he slammed his forearm against the stool, over and over, driving the jagged wood downward as if he was pounding a nail. The sharp point pierced Bestol’s skin, split his flesh, and continued through. The big man was slowly impaled, inch by inch, staked through the throat. Theel didn’t stop pounding until Bestol’s limp fingers finally dropped from his neck.
The dog was dead, but his eyes still raged, glaring hatefully at Theel even after his life was gone.
Theel rolled off the corpse, lying on his back. He gasped for fresh air, but found nothing but suffocating smoke. He was exhausted, but he knew he couldn’t rest for one moment. He needed to rise now or not at all. He forced himself to climb to his feet, still gasping, still choking. He saw his sword on the floor, grabbed it and sheathed it, then found his father’s knife lying next to Bestol.
Theel gazed through the billowing smoke, seeing the barroom was empty. Yenia and Uncle Guarn were gone, thankfully, as were most of the bar patrons. The Kile soldiers had followed their orders to fire the building. Flames roared in every corner of the room. But now they too had fled, unwilling to witness their handiwork from the inside. Theel knew he must leave as well. The flames were spreading rapidly. It was nearly impossible to see through the blinding firelight and choking, black smoke. The building didn’t have long before it would be utterly consumed. But Theel limped his way back to the bar. As bad as conditions were becoming inside the tavern, there was something he simply couldn’t leave behind.
He looked mournfully at the bar top, now an inferno several feet tall. The flames were blinding, but he could just make out the shape of his father’s sword in the center of it all. Battle Hymn lay on the bar top where his uncle had placed her. The blanket had burned away and now he could see the hilt, with its golden angel’s wings. The fire was burning with a heat to rival a blacksmith’s forge. There was no way the sword wasn’t already badly damaged.
Warrior Baptism Chapter 1 Page 6