Warrior Baptism Chapter 4

by Jonathan Techlin

  His touch was tender and reassuring, and the little girl felt the tiniest spark of trust.

  “I promise.”

  Then he drew his hand away from her cheek and held her earring between his fingers, white diamonds and garnets cut like oak leaves. She gasped and felt at her earlobe. There was nothing there. He’d taken it. And now she’d lost both earrings. More tears filled her eyes as he waved the diamonds and garnets at her.

  “Enter the Narrows. Find the key,” he said coldly. “Or I keep your little bauble.”

  Theel was jolted back to reality by a rush of emotions so intense his hands shook. He was filled with rage at what he’d just witnessed, and not just his own. His fingertips tingled as if he could still feel the blood of the Overlie boy there. And the blood seemed to be crying out in anguish.

  Theel didn’t bother to look for the key. He walked around the cage to where the door was closed and locked, drew his father’s knife, and jammed it into the keyhole.

  “Oh, thank you, my liege, thank you,” the man breathed.

  Then Theel slammed his sword against the lock with a loud clang.

  “Brother?” Yenia asked. “What are you doing?”

  Theel didn’t answer, only slammed the lock again. Sparks flew.

  “At last, God above has answered my prayers,” the man said, his eyes watering with tears of gratitude. “I will show you to the children. I won’t disappoint you. I will show you.”

  Theel smashed the lock a third time and that was enough. The door fell open, and the man smiled at him for the last time.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “I freed you,” Theel said. “Now show me.”

  “Certainly, I will show you,” the man said. “Another day.”

  He pulled Theel’s knife out of the keyhole and lunged at him with it. It was a clumsy, unpracticed stab, but it was enough to put Theel off balance. As he stumbled backward the man crashed into him, and they both fell to the ground. Those could have been Theel’s final moments, flat on his back, vulnerable as the man knelt over him with his father’s knife. But the prisoner had no taste for battle, only his newfound freedom. He dropped the knife, jumped to his feet, and ran.

  “Stop!” Theel roared. He grabbed at the man’s ankle, but ended up with only his shoe. The man was tall and skinny, and fleet of foot. Despite limping on one shoe, he was already across the road before Theel gathered his bearings.

  “He’s fast,” Yenia said.

  “Not fast enough,” Theel said, jumping to his feet. He shrugged off his backpack and gave chase.

  On the west side of the road, the man vaulted the waist-high stone wall of the burned-out guards’ barracks, then climbed onto the lowest level of scaffolding.

  “Mercy! Mercy!” he screamed. “God help me!”

  “I’ll kill you!” Theel shouted, right behind.

  “Mercy!”

  The man climbed to the second level, then the third. He was quite nimble for a man who’d spent many days starving and roasting in a crow cage, but he could not climb faster than Theel.

  “Leave me be!” he shouted. “I’ve done nothing to you!”

  He reached the top and Theel caught him from behind, tackling him onto the hard boards where they fought, muscle against muscle. The next few seconds saw a flurry of elbows and knuckles, kicking and grunting and bones thudding against wood. The man may have been a scrawny thing, but he was no weakling. Unfortunately, his attacker was a squire and son of a knight, trained for his entire life to stand among the elite warriors of the realm. Theel was on the verge of becoming a Knight of the King’s Cross. Therefore, this poor fool was on the verge of having his bones tied in knots.

  Theel wrestled the man onto his stomach, forcing his arms back by his wrists. He then pressed a knee between his shoulder blades, tying his arms behind his back in a vise-like grip. He pushed the man’s face down hard, scraping his cheek across the dirty wooden platform.

  “You stole from her,” Theel growled. “You stole from a tiny girl.”

  “Help! Mercy!”

  “Diamonds and garnets,” Theel said. “They were all she had and you took them.”

  “Oh, God, help me!”

  “Where is it?” Theel asked. “Where is the girl’s earring?”

  “I don’t know,” the man moaned.

  “Give it to me,” Theel said.

  “I can’t,” the man said. “I lost it. It was stolen.”

  “Was it lost or was it stolen?” Theel asked. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” the man said. “I woke up and it was gone, I swear!”

  “What is your name, liar?” Theel asked.

  “Pitch…ford,” the man grunted. “Wick—”

  “Lies,” Theel spit. “Tell me true or I’ll stuff you back in your cage.”

  “Pitch,” the man grunted. “I swear it. By the…by the soil under which…my dear mother—”

  “Worthless words, Pitch the Liar,” Theel said. “Tell me where the children went. Did they go into the Narrows?”

  “I don’t…” the man cried weakly. “I can’t…”

  Theel leaned heavily into his hold and the man screamed in agony. He face was purple, his eyes bulging.

  “Your shoulders are about to pop, Pitch the Liar,” Theel said. “You will never use your arms again.”

  “Narrows!” the man screamed. “The Narrows!”

  Theel relaxed his hold, but just slightly. “How long ago?” he asked.

  “A day,” he moaned. “Just yesterday.”

  “Yesterday.” Theel released the man’s arms and stood over him. “Yesterday you stole from a girl only six seasons old?” He kicked the man hard in the ribs, prompting another scream of pain. “You stole this girl’s last possession then sent her to her death, into the lair of the Crowlord? Is that what you did yesterday, Pitch the Liar?”

  “I was…locked…in a…”

  “I don’t care!” Theel screamed.

  “Theel?” Yenia called from below.

  “I don’t care, Pitch the Liar. I don’t care, Pitchford Wicker. Pitchford Alister!” Theel roared. “Whatever your true name is!”

  “We might consider hurrying,” Yenia said, “if we mean to help those children.”

  “I mean to help those children,” Theel said. “We’re not staying the night in Widow Hatch. We will enter the Narrows tonight. And you, you son of a bitch!” He bent down and grabbed the man by the throat with both hands. “You will lead the way!”

  The Narrows

  Theel had traveled the Narrows before. It was only months since he’d come through with his father and masterknight, so he was already familiar with the many amazing and perplexing features that made the tunnels so unique. He’d already walked on the smooth, gray river of stones on the floor of the tunnels, each one perfectly cut and placed without masonry between. He’d already stood beneath the arched ceilings of white rocks, also fit together with no gaps and no bonding materials. Legend said some of these rocks were once imbued with Craft so the Narrows were illuminated with colorful light whether it was day or night. If this was true, the magic died long ago.

  No one knew what ancient civilization had built the Narrows, nor what need was fulfilled by having two tunnels running perfectly parallel for miles beneath the earth. What was known was the Narrows provided a more direct route to the lands of southern Embriss than any other for hundreds of miles in any direction. They did this by cutting deep into the belly of Thershon, under the western branch of the Great Dividers Mountains and over the canyon known as Krillian’s Cut by way of a span travelers had dubbed the Dead Man’s Bridge. Since before the birth of the old clans, the Narrows had always been the smoothest, safest, and most direct path through the mountains.

  As a result, it also became the costliest. The potential for profit offered by the Narrows was seized upon by the local lords who controlled the entrances. The Embriss-sworn House of Overlie ruled the town of Widow Hatch at the north end, while the Yarik-loyal
Ducharmes controlled Wrendale at the south end. Those who were not allied with the appropriate house might be forced to pay exorbitant tolls or take an alternate route through the mountains, adding danger and extra days to their trip. That was when the popularity of the Narrows was at an all-time high, when the route under the Dividers and across the Dead Man’s Bridge was the preferred method of north–south travel. It was a time when the Narrows were so safe that wealthy clansmen and nobles from the north came to Widow Hatch just to see this ancient wonder. But that time was long dead.

  There were always those would not travel the Narrows for reasons other than the steep tolls; those whose superstitions kept them away. There had always been hushed whispers of the dangers lurking in the tunnels, stories of curses and hauntings and monsters, such as the spitting lizard children and the cave kraken. But the most popular of these were vanishings, stories of travelers who entered the tunnels, never to emerge on the other side. These souls became trapped in the tunnels, it was said, condemned to roam the Narrows as wights or wraiths or any number of terrible things.

  The most well-known was the legend of an elderly fortune teller whose phantom haunted the area north of the Dead Man’s Bridge. In her mortal life, she walked almost the full length of the Narrows before sitting to rest. She fell asleep, and when she awoke, she forgot which direction she was traveling and went back the way she came. With no sun to gauge which way she should go, she repeated her mistake, traveling back and forth, until the endless darkness drove her insane. Supposedly, her ghost still roamed the tunnels, haunting the dreams of those foolish enough to fall asleep before their journey was through.

  Though he enjoyed these stories, Theel always knew them to be just silly legends told to amuse children. Now, he knew, there was no need for campfire tales, for real horrors had replaced the imagined ones.

  The first bodies were found a few months before Theel and his father had passed through. There were six of them, men sworn to Lord Overlie, who were butchered and boiled, their bones piled on the floor of the tunnel. Nothing remained of their possessions save the bloody Overlie war emblems torn from their chests and arranged among the bones as if they were meant to be found.

  All the telltale signs were there. Any man who’d served on the frontier recognized these killings for what they were—not the work of men or beasts, but something much worse. And yet, the nobles refused to accept the truth, insisting this was an isolated attack, the work of road bandits. Once these bandits were captured and brought to justice, they said, the Narrows would be safe again. But the attack wasn’t isolated. The bandits weren’t captured. And the Narrows were never safe again.

  Not only did the murders not stop, they increased, until victims were being found almost every day, killed in gruesome ways, hacked to pieces, their blood painting the white stone walls on each side of the road. Lord Overlie sent some of his best men into the tunnels to deal with the threat. None of them returned. Two knights of House Ducharme led a dozen men into the entrance at Wrendale. Only one of the knights returned, his headless body still clinging to the neck of his horse.

  Shortly after, some travelers spotted a deathmark hanging on the Dead Man’s Bridge, a bloody necklace of fingers and eyes. The nobles of northern Embriss may have never seen anything like this macabre symbol. But to any soldier who ever battled the monsters on the frontier, the significance of the deathmark was clear. It served as a warning that the ground beneath it was claimed by a zoth tribe. The eyes served as sentries through which the zoth shamans could watch the borders of the tribal territory. It was said that if you could see a deathmark, the deathmark could also see you.

  The appearance of the deathmark ended all question as to who was responsible for the killings. A zoth tribe had claimed the Narrows as their own. And they would have no fear or concern for the evil that lurked in the Narrows, for they were the evil that lurked in the Narrows.

  It became impossible to deny the danger of traveling the tunnels the first time the Crowlord emerged from the southern end, followed by a score of his warriors. They attacked Wrendale, murdered dozens of citizens, and burned much of the town, ceasing the battle only when each zoth had claimed a trophy from a fallen human.

  It was a terrible time for this to occur, with most of the Overlie swords facing the Iatan in the valley. The people of Widow Hatch knew they could not be protected. No one dared enter the Narrows any longer, so there was no reason to stay and wait to be slaughtered by the zoths. The town died. And the Narrows were abandoned to the lord of crows.

  Only someone who wished to die would enter the tunnels now. Or someone hoping to stop two children from unknowingly walking to their deaths. Theel was one of these two. The problem was, he didn’t know which.

  He ran with his old, worn sword in his hand. His father’s weapon, the golden sword called Battle Hymn, remained in its sheath, slapping at his hip with each step. Yenia was behind him carrying a makeshift torch she’d created from a table leg taken from the Cask and Loaves. The man who called himself Pitch Wicker led the way, just as Theel insisted, running against his will, the tip of Theel’s sword blade in his back as the primary encouragement to keep a good pace forward.

  Theel ran himself to the point of exhaustion. His hair was wet and stuck to his forehead and could absorb no more, leaving little rivers of perspiration to run down his face, down into his eyes, stinging his vision. Every inch of his skin was slippery with sweat. Every part of his body ached. He panted and coughed and stumbled, but forced himself to keep moving.

  Yenia ran behind him and had no trouble keeping pace. She ran heavy in breath and sweat, but with the usual strong legs and strong lungs that so often frustrated her older brother. It was one of many attributes Yenia had inherited from their father that Theel had not. Theel knew Yenia could run forever, a distance horse who was always in the first mile of a hundred-mile race. It was annoying, but Theel was often thankful for it. His sister had never, would never, slow him down. Now was such a time. Yenia stayed with him and didn’t utter a word of complaint, just kept pace and watched Theel’s back, as always.

  Pitch was the complete opposite. He had no lungs, no wind, and no legs. He stumbled along, a hopeless, weeping wretch, with the exhausted and awkward gait of a man past his limits. He gasped and wheezed and cried out, holding his head, holding his belly, tripping and falling and crying out for mercy to anyone who would listen.

  Perhaps the God of the Prophecy was listening, but Theel wasn’t. When Pitch slowed, he got the sword in his back. When he stopped, he was pushed and kicked and cursed. When he fell, he was dragged to his feet and shoved forward with every threat and oath imaginable.

  The white stone walls and gray road stretched away into darkness, both before and behind them, returning the echoes of their footsteps and heavy breathing. Yenia’s torch burned large and hot, trailing black smoke, providing just enough light to splay their shadows about them in a mad dance against the pale stones. It was just enough to show them some of the signs that this dark and quiet place, once so busy with life, was now perverted with death.

  First, there was the occasional spatter of blood on the walls, or a broken sword or spear lying in the road. Then piles of animal waste, human waste, and discarded trash, rotting melon rinds, a rabbit skin, a few animal bones, a shoe full of holes, a cracked iron pot. Then they passed the corpse of a horse, rotting and buzzing with flies, stripped of most of its flesh. Then Theel saw a hand. A human hand, gray and bloated and discarded at the side of the road like a piece of trash.

  Theel wondered about the Overlie children, what they thought of seeing these things. He could no longer sense them, where they walked or what they were thinking. Yet he still felt the strange urgent tugging of the Overlie blood on his fingers. He was certain they’d been in this tunnel. But the visions that once bombarded his mind now refused to come back.

  He wanted to bring them back by tapping his juy to employ his Sight. He wanted to look into the past to feel the children, to feel
their thoughts, or see what they said and did when walking this ground. But he dared not. The visions that once came unbidden were now elusive. He knew he lacked the discipline to control his juy, knew his “gift” of Sight would only show him things he had no desire to see, or things he wished to forget. If he sought information about the fate of the Overlie children, his mind would be flooded with unwanted memories of the last time he was here, when he watched his father take the final steps to his death.

  The pain of that memory was real. He lived with it every day. He didn’t need his juy to help him remember.

  He tried to focus his mind on the task at hand, trying to think of nothing but those children. Nothing but the sight of the endless tunnel before and the endless tunnel behind; the heavy breath of three runners, and the shambling steps of the exhausted man named Pitch. No one said a word for miles.

  Not until they came upon a wagon laying on its side, two wheels smashed, the other two missing. Wooden boxes lay about, scattered and smashed open, their contents spilled across the road amid heaps of packing straw. It appeared to be a trader of some kind, hauling textiles, spices, perfumes and liquors and ceramic kitchenware, plates, bowls, cups, and pitchers, some of the finest of the north. They were all cracked and broken, discarded by creatures who had no use for finery.

  The trader himself, or what was left of him, was tied to the top of the wagon, arms held wide in a scene so gruesome Pitch fell to the ground in tears. The wounds were days-old, with blood darkened and dried, hundreds of cuts applied delicately and precisely in a process meant to extract maximum agony. But beyond the horror of what had been done to the man, was what had been done to his eyes—cut out, or torn out, and…replaced.

  Yenia walked forward slowly, holding her torch high. The firelight flashed in the man’s eyes, reflecting like a cat’s. Or a zoth’s.

  “Oh, God no!” Pitch wailed pitifully. “We’re dead.”

  A pair of black zoth eyes now resided in the man’s skull, moving as if alive, glaring at the three travelers hatefully. From somewhere, a zoth shaman was watching them.