Warrior Baptism Chapter 4

by Jonathan Techlin

  Hoster raised an eyebrow. “How long have you known this?”

  “The ability manifested itself when I was very young,” Theel explained. “They called it my Sight. I had dreams and visions of the past and the future. I knew things that no one else knew. The Keeper believed I was special. He thought one day I would make a great knight, just like my father. But all those expectations have amounted to nothing.”

  “Why?” Hoster asked. “What happened?”

  “A precious gift was squandered on one who was not worthy or able,” Theel said. “That’s what happened.”

  “But that is no reason to give up,” Hoster suggested. “That’s reason to keep learning, striving to fulfill your promise. You are a young man, with years ahead of you. Dying on the Dead Man’s Bridge would waste all that.”

  “And yet I’ve been ordered to die,” Theel said. “This means the Keeper has given up on me.”

  “What of all this potential you are throwing away?” Hoster asked. “The Keeper doesn’t care about that?”

  “The Keeper has learned he is wrong about my potential, and so have the leaders of the knighthood,” Theel explained. “They are sending me to the Dead Man’s Bridge to die because they know my death is not a great loss to them.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Hoster said. “I know these Knights of the King’s Cross. They don’t abandon faith freely, and neither does the Keeper. If they believed in you once, they believe in you still. They are not sending you to that bridge to lose, but to win.”

  “Then they are as drunk on their faith as you are, spirit trader,” Theel said.

  “Lack of faith is your problem, certainly,” Hoster stated. “You’ve lost faith in God, the prophecy, the Blessed Soul. But worst of all, you have no faith in yourself. Your past failings have stolen your confidence.”

  “That is a true statement, spirit trader,” Theel said. “Your blurry eyes see better than most people.”

  “You are sent to the Dead Man’s Bridge to redeem yourself, yes, but not in the eyes of the Keeper or the knighthood,” Hoster said. “You are sent to redeem yourself in your own eyes. They expect you to defeat your father’s killer and win back his honor. They expect you to regain your confidence and learn you are worthy of all their expectations. Don’t you see? This is not a death sentence. It is a coronation.”

  “A coronation?” Theel laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, how the liquor sweetens your words, spirit trader.”

  “You see? I know a great many things.” Hoster smiled. “This old drunk can listen and reason nearly as well as he can cook booze.”

  “You are a remarkable man indeed,” Theel said. “Yet there is still knowledge beyond your understanding. My confession is not complete.”

  “Oh?”

  “This is not my first quest for Warrior Baptism,” Theel said. “It is my second.”

  “It is?” Hoster frowned. “How is that?”

  “I know why you are confused,” Theel said. “It is because you know that a knight’s quest is a task that must be completed on pain of death. The knight or squire succeeds in his quest, or he doesn’t return home. There are no second chances.”

  “But you returned home.”

  “My failure on the Dead Man’s Bridge killed not just my father. It also killed my first attempt to achieve Warrior Baptism,” Theel explained. “I returned home with my quest incomplete. This is a crime punishable by death. The law states I should have been executed. Yet the Keeper ordered me spared.”

  “He spared you because he knows you have the backbone of a great knight,” Hoster insisted. “Even if you don’t realize it yourself.”

  “I was spared because my execution would have only tarnished my father’s legacy further,” Theel corrected. “I am still sentenced to death. But I will die in a way that preserves the honor of my masterknight. It is the Crowlord who will be my executioner, not the royal headsman. Now do you understand?”

  “I understand what you are suggesting,” Hoster said. “I simply don’t believe it.”

  “And by sending me on a mission of suicide, the Keeper reveals that he, like me, has lost faith in the Blessed Soul.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The Keeper believed I was the key to the fulfillment of the prophecy,” Theel said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I can see things,” Theel stated. “I can see the past. I can see the future. The Keeper expected me to use this ability to fulfill the prophecy. He wanted me to discover where and when the Blessed Soul will come into the world.”

  Now it was Hoster who had a faraway stare. He looked into the fire, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “A few nights ago, you told me you learned there was a squire who possessed the gift of clairvoyance,” Theel went on. “This squire was sent on a knight’s quest to seek out the truth of the prophecy. You were correct in everything you said, spirit trader. That squire is me. My first quest for Warrior Baptism—the one that I failed; the one that killed my father—was to search for the Blessed Soul of Man.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve finally admitted it.” Hoster put the steaming soup ladle to his lips, sipping. “Of all the folks I’ve tried to pry words from, you and your sister are the most secretive.”

  “You already know?” Theel asked, incredulous.

  The spirit looked at him sideways. “Of course I know. I make my supper listening to men talk, hearing the things they say, but also the things they don’t say. I knew you had terrible secrets the moment I met you. Getting to the truth of them was harder; took a few days, a new morsel of truth each day.”

  “On which day did you learn this particular morsel?” Theel asked.

  “The night I got drunk and you carried me to bed.”

  “Which night was that?” Theel asked, grinning. “There were so many.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Guarn retorted. “You know which night I mean. I asked you if you were the squire sent to look for the Blessed Soul, the one with the special abilities. You refused to say it with your lips, but you said it with your face. You would make a wretched gambler, my friend.”

  “But how? You were so drunk you could barely speak,” Theel accused. “You were spitting on yourself.”

  Hoster looked offended. “I am a seasoned spirit trader. It takes more than a few sips of pig swill to put bees in my ears. I told you straight. I am a true champion of the taverns, capable of staggering feats of drunkenness.”

  “I am amazed,” Theel admitted.

  “That is because I am amazing,” Hoster said pridefully.

  “You amuse me.” Theel smiled. “I think I enjoy your company.”

  “You should,” Hoster said. “I told you before, I’ve seen many things walking these roads. Now I’ve seen what’s inside you. Most men would laugh at the prospect of my idiot son being trained by the Keeper of the Craft. You didn’t. You believed me. Is that because you already knew? Is it because you see with more than your eyes?”

  Theel nodded. “Perhaps I do.”

  “Some folks might call that particular ability the Sight,” the spirit trader said. “Perhaps this fat, drunken old spirit trader has a touch of the Sight himself.”

  “Perhaps you do,” Theel agreed. “In your own way.”

  “I also saw what you did in Calfborn,” Hoster said. “It’s something I’ll never forget.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw you heal that boy,” Hoster explained. “It didn’t end how you wished, but at first, it was working. I saw his wounds closing. His breathing grew stronger. The color returned to his flesh. But you were suffering as you did it. I saw cuts opening on your skin. I saw your bones break and your blood flow. It was just as you said. You were giving the boy your life. You were healing him at the expense of your own health. You have the ability to control your surroundings with your mind. I’ve seen it. You can use the Method.”

  “I cannot control it,” Theel grumbled. “I do more harm than good.”


  “The truth is not changed,” Hoster said. “You can do it. And you will.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The failures in your past do not change the future,” Hoster said. “It is still there waiting for you, a young man with a great gift and plenty of time left in this world to realize it. You see the things of the past as reasons you can’t succeed. I see these things as the reason you will succeed. You failed on the bridge once. You will learn from that failure. And you won’t let it happen again. It is the Crowlord who should be afraid, not you.”

  “The Crowlord is the most fearsome enemy any knight has ever faced,” Theel stated. “It will take a miracle from heaven for me to defeat him.”

  “Then perhaps you will find a miracle on the Dead Man’s Bridge,” Hoster said.

  Theel shook his head. “So much wisdom from a wandering drunkard.”

  “Listen to good wisdom, whatever the source. Even if it’s a fat, old, drunken lying pig of a spirit trader,” Hoster said, his face serious. “You are not wanting for ability. I’ve seen that. The Keeper is right about you. You have everything required of greatness. All you need is confidence. All you need is faith.”

  “It seems I’ve acquired a second father,” Theel said, smiling.

  “I’ll do my best in his stead,” Hoster replied. “If your masterknight was here, he would put his boot up your ass and curse your moping and self-pitying.”

  Theel nodded. “You’re right. He would.”

  “I could do that for you,” Hoster offered. “I could put my boot up your ass. If you think it would help.”

  “I’m not certain that is necessary,” Theel said. “But one thing is true. I have much to learn from you, spirit trader.”

  “At the very least, I could teach you how to hide your secrets better.” Hoster smiled. “Or how to tell a good lie once in a while—which of course, I would never do. This fat, old spirit trader tips an honest pour every time.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll talk about it in the Sister Cities,” Hoster added.

  “You won’t see me in the Sister Cities, spirit trader,” Theel said.

  Hoster feigned surprise. “I won’t? Why not?”

  Theel sighed. “Because I won’t make it that far. I will die on the Dead Man’s Bridge.”

  “Here is your first lesson in the art of deceit,” Hoster said. “You don’t have to die on the Dead Man’s Bridge.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “You and your sister should follow me and Rasm to the Sister Cities,” Hoster explained. “I can help you disappear. That is just as good as dying. No one will know where you went. They will assume the Crowlord killed you.”

  “But I will know,” Theel countered. “And my shame will follow me wherever I go.”

  “What’s a little shame once in a while?” Hoster smiled. “I do shameful things all the time.”

  “You don’t understand,” Theel said. “I can carry this weight no longer. My dreams and visions have become nightmares. My father’s ghost haunts me. Every day I see the spirits of those who are dead because of me.”

  “There is more to this than I thought,” Hoster guessed.

  “Yes, there is,” Theel answered. “I can’t run from this anymore. I fled from the Crowlord the first time. I won’t do it again. You can’t dissuade me.”

  “Very well, then. But you can’t dissuade me either,” Hoster said. “I will still see you in the Sister Cities. After you kill the Crowlord.”

  “I wish I had your confidence,” Theel said.

  “You will, soon,” Hoster said. “You will win your confidence back. Trust me, I know.”

  “I appreciate your words, spirit trader.” Theel smiled. “But I’ll never trust you.”

  “Good to hear.” Hoster smiled. “You are finally learning.”

  He looked around the campsite, then nodded his head in approval. He slapped his thighs and stood up, folding his camp chair.

  “We’ll be off then,” he announced. “Me and Rasm have to pound those stones. There’s the king’s work to be earned.”

  “You won’t stay and eat?” Theel asked.

  “No, I can eat my soup walking,” Hoster answered.

  “It’s noondark,” Theel pressed. “You can’t see a thing on those roads.”

  “Through darkness and light, I earn my supper by stepping, not by sitting,” Hoster explained. “But more importantly, I don’t have the same thirst for death as you. I saw what the Crowlord did to Calfborn, and I’m not going to sit around and wait to see if he comes back.”

  “I understand,” Theel said. “I wish you well, spirit trader. You saved our lives more than once. And you made a long and dreary journey brighter with your company. I’ll always remember what you did for us.”

  “You act as if I didn’t enjoy myself, too.” Hoster grinned. “I did. Farewell.”

  “Before you go,” Theel said. “We need to settle our debts. I never paid you.”

  Hoster shook his head. “Keep your work.”

  “Surely, I’ve not met the only walking trader in the entire world who refuses good coin?”

  “Keep your work, for now.” Hoster winked. “I’ll expect payment when we meet again…”

  He turned and walked toward his cart.

  “…in the Sister Cities.”

  Widow Hatch

  The streets of Widow Hatch were cold and empty the day Theel and Yenia walked through. The clouds were heavy and hanging low, sucking the sunlight out of the air, sucking the color out of everything. The buildings appeared as decaying bodies, gray and forlorn and some collapsing, with black, unshuttered windows that resembled the eyes of skulls. Even the trees seemed dead, black silhouettes against the gray air, reaching for the sky with gnarled, leafless limbs. The only visible life in the town were the hundreds of crows perched in the trees and atop the buildings, little black heads bobbing and cawing and wings fluttering about. Their constant, throaty calls filled the air and frayed the nerves. They ruled this town and they knew it.

  Widow Hatch was the last human settlement above ground before the road descended into the darkness of the Narrows. Theel had walked these same streets only months before, just prior to the death of his father. The masterknight and his squire had merely passed through, heading southward on their fateful trip to the Dead Man’s Bridge.

  In those days the town was still alive, had reason to go on living. Smallfolk populated the town, still lived and worked there, able to walk the streets without fear of attack. Men-at-arms bearing the diamonds and oak leaves of House Overlie were ever present in the streets and taverns, and manning the gatehouses at the entrance to the Narrows. That was before the Iatan brought war to the Western Kingdoms, before the Overlies marched their swords north to Korsiren to defend the Toden Valley.

  It was also before the Crowlord came and zoths infested the Narrows like an army of rats. Back then, the town still lived. But now it was dead. Killed. The place was something out of a nightmare. It wasn’t as if the people had merely departed, leaving the town to rot. It was as if the presence of the zoths had somehow poisoned the ground.

  The air was cool and the wind was harsh, pelting the siblings as they tramped along the road once so well-traveled but now marred by patches of weeds. Theel hugged himself, shivering. He was surprised to find himself craving the warmth and shelter of the Narrows.

  “It would be nice to feel welcome somewhere in our own homeland,” Theel said, his teeth chattering. “I hope Dockhaven, Calfborn, and Widow Hatch aren’t the best Embriss has to offer by way of hospitality.”

  “War does things to a town,” Yenia replied.

  “War,” Theel agreed, “and the Crowlord.”

  The siblings had spent the morning and much of the afternoondark walking from the road to the upper passes where Hoster made camp the night before. They picked their way down a steep, rocky slope, using an animal trail to head southwest through the forest until they came to the road, there head
ing south toward Widow Hatch. By late afternoondark, they were nearing their destination. They were almost to the Narrows.

  For the first time in many days, Theel could no longer rely on Hoster’s mules to haul his possessions for him. Once again he wore a backpack full of provisions—a tinderbox, a blanket and some food, supplies of pipe leaf and a wineskin, all gifts from the spirit trader to replace possessions lost in the Trader’s Cave. A water canteen swung from the straps of his backpack, and both his swords hung from his hips.

  It was also the first morning in many days that Theel had strapped on his armor. It was made of rare and expensive leather, cut from the hide of the legendary, now extinct, white-horned bullosk. It was as supple as a wool shirt, yet somehow provided protection as impenetrable as iron plate. It had remained in Hoster’s cart for most of the journey southward, but as the siblings and the spirit trader went their separate ways, Theel knew it was time to don his armor once again.

  Just a few more steps and they’d be at the entrance to the Narrows. Not far was an inn called the Cask and Loaves, a place many travelers stayed the night before entering the tunnels. Theel had spent an evening there with his father when they’d passed through, and he’d found it comfortable enough. Even if it was abandoned like the rest of the town, Theel thought the Cask and Loaves would be a fine place to bed for the night—if the zoths hadn’t destroyed it.

  “Uncle Guarn might have had a friend in this town,” Yenia said. “One of his contacts who could help us.”

  “Let me know if you see him,” Theel muttered.

  In that moment, Theel placed his foot on a specific spot of earth and a burst of freezing wind passed through him. He gasped at the sensation, clutching at his chest. It felt like a giant fist had squeezed the breath from his body.

  Yenia stopped walking and turned. “Theel? What is it?”

  Theel didn’t respond. He just stood still in the middle of the road, panting. He placed his foot back on the same spot, pushing the sole of his boot into the dirt and into the Craft weaves that swirled there. The Craft spoke to him, spoke of someone who’d recently set foot on that very spot.