“They see us now. They know we’re here!” Pitch cried. “We’re dead. We’re dead. We’re dead!”
Theel jumped up onto the wagon and seized the dead trader’s head in his hands, lifting it so he could meet the gaze of the zoth eyes.
“Do you see me, Crowlord?” he whispered. “I’m coming. You can’t have those children. I’m coming to take them from you. And when I do, one of us is going to die.”
“Have you gone mad?” Pitch moaned.
“Perhaps I have.”
“Do you yearn for death?” Pitch asked.
“Perhaps,” Theel repeated. He drew his father’s knife and used the blade to cut the zoth eyes out. He cast them on the ground and crushed them with his boot heel.
“You’ve killed us,” Pitch wailed. “We’re dead!”
Nearby, Yenia was being resourceful, as usual. “Lantern oil,” she announced, digging through the trader’s possessions. “And food.”
Theel stood over Pitch, who cowered on the ground, curled in a ball.
“Get up,” Theel commanded. “We must keep moving.”
“Please, don’t make me…we must go back,” the man blubbered. “Back to Widow Hatch, please.”
Theel shoved Pitch with his foot. “Stand up,” he said. “Have you no manhood? Stand up!”
“No,” Pitch whimpered. “I can’t face it. I can’t face zoths.”
“Two little children are lost in this tunnel because of you,” Theel said. “They were forced here by your lies. Now they must face zoths, and so will you.”
Pitch covered his head, cowering. “I can’t. I can’t continue.”
“You will,” Theel promised. “You will come along and fight to save those children if I have to drag you.”
“I can’t fight. I can’t save them. Let me go!”
“Pathetic filth,” Theel spit at the man. “I should kill you now.”
“Theel,” Yenia said calmly.
“Kill me,” Pitch pleaded. “End it now, please.”
“No,” Theel said. “Not before justice is done. Get up.”
Theel whacked the man with the flat of his sword. “Foul wretch, get up!” He whacked him again. The man wailed in pain.
“Theel, stop this,” Yenia said. “It doesn’t accomplish—”
“Quiet, little sister,” Theel said. “I will not listen to you. Not now. There will be justice. It will come for this man on this day, or there is nothing true in this world.”
“Justice?” Yenia asked. “What justice?”
“Justice for the Overlies,” Theel answered. “For that little girl. She may die because of this man.”
“Beating him solves nothing,” Yenia said. “Leave him. We can save those children without him. He will only slow us down.”
“Yenia, do not question me,” Theel warned. “I am doing what is right.”
“This solves nothing,” Yenia said again.
“It solves nothing? It solves everything,” Theel said. “It is not I who will kill him. This man will die, but not by my hand. He will die fighting the Crowlord. He will die fighting for those children, that little girl that he robbed and sent to her death. He put her in danger with his lies. So it is he who will fight to save her. It’s justice, Yenia. It’s justice because I say it is.”
Yenia thought for a moment, then said, “Saving those children is good and righteous. Achieving Warrior Baptism is good and righteous. Beating and cursing this man is not. Dragging him to the Dead Man’s Bridge to die is not. It is only ugly and pointless.”
“It may be ugly, but it is not pointless,” Theel retorted. “Justice can’t always be pretty. But it must be done. And he and I will do it, together. This is a reckoning, little sister. Two men will face their just fates. For that little girl. And for Father.”
Yenia looked at Theel with concern. “What does this have to do with father?”
“You know what I am talking about,” Theel stated. “We will find justice this day, Pitch and I, on the Dead Man’s Bridge.”
“You can’t fix anything by dying, brother.”
“Yes I can.”
“You must stop tormenting this man,” Yenia argued. “And you must stop tormenting yourself.”
Theel stared at his sister for a long moment, thinking, still panting for air. When he did speak, he did so lowering his voice, and with a patient tone.
“Yenia, you are very wise. More often than not, your words are truth,” he said. “But now is not the time to offer me your counsel. This is my Warrior Baptism, and I will pursue it as I see fit. I thank you for following me as you have, for supporting me, for saving my life in the Trader’s Cave. But I didn’t wish for you to come this far.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Yenia said. “I will follow you wherever you go. I took an oath.”
“Your oath does not demand that you throw yourself on the blades of the enemy as I am ordered,” Theel said.
“You don’t have to kill yourself,” Yenia argued. “You can save those children and avenge Father. But harming this man accomplishes neither.”
“You still don’t understand, little sister,” Theel said. “I cannot avenge Father. That is because I cannot slay the Crowlord. The Keeper gave me this quest for Warrior Baptism knowing it would kill me. I accepted it knowing the same. It is time you accept it. You know in your heart that I am about to die. It is time you admitted it. And if you can’t, you should turn around and head back north alone.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Yenia stated. “I will follow you to the Dead Man’s Bridge.”
“That is your choice, not mine,” Theel said. “I don’t want you to follow me into battle against the Crowlord. I must die, and so must this blubbering fool. But not you. You’ve done nothing to deserve this. So either turn around and save yourself by going north, or follow me to my fate. But do so in silence, for there is no diverting me from this course.”
Yenia said nothing, only looked down to where Pitch cowered. The man, thinking he was unnoticed, reached out for something lying in the piles of straw spilled from the crates, a small glass bubbler filled with a brown liquid. He clutched it to his chest.
“As you wish,” Yenia said. “But I am still following you.”
“Very well. Pitch, you’ve rested enough.” Theel shoved the man with his foot. “Get up. On your feet.”
“I can’t,” the man blubbered. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Theel said, bending down. “Yenia, help me.”
The siblings grabbed the man under his arms and hauled him to his feet, where he stood uneasily, hunched over, still upset and clearly exhausted, hugging the glass bubbler to his chest.
“I didn’t know there were zoths,” he said weakly.
“Now you know,” Theel said.
“Believe me,” Pitch whined. “I didn’t know.”
“Quiet,” Theel commanded.
“Oh, God, forgive me,” Pitch moaned.
“God won’t forgive us,” Theel said. “Perhaps the Crowlord will. Now move.”
He shoved the wretched man forward and the running began anew.
Dead End
The tunnel had collapsed.
Only a few miles beyond the wreck of the trader’s wagon, they found their way blocked, with the roadway disappearing under a heap of rocks and dust. They stood together, no one saying anything, too tired to speak, just three mouths hanging open, panting from the exertion of the run. They stared at the pile of rocks with looks of confusion and worry. Pitch put his hands on his knees, gasping, his shoulders shaking.
“Oh no, oh, God,” he cried. “They’re gone, Lord save me. They’re dead.” He coughed and spit, and fell to his knees, overwhelmed. “I didn’t know…”
“Quiet, Pitch,” Theel said, forcing the words out, gasping himself.
He looked at the wall of rock and debris in the flickering yellow torchlight, the scattered white stones, and the road beneath his feet broken into large sections by some force, an earthquake p
erhaps. And that wasn’t all. Lying among the rubble was a broken spear and a dented half-helm. And dark spatters.
“Someone died here,” Yenia said, sweeping her torch across the floor.
The flickering light fell across more evidence of battle; a sword, another spear, and a green surcoat, shredded and blood-stained.
“Who died?” Pitch asked. “Was it the children?”
“No, not the children,” Theel said.
Yenia picked up the surcoat, holding it to the torchlight. “Diamonds and oak leaves. They were Overlie men.”
Theel picked up the helm, turning it over. There was a large dent in the top where a hole was punched. It was the strongest part of the iron helm, and yet it was split open like a melon. The force required to do this was more than any living man possessed. And yet, the proof was resting in Theel’s hands. This was the work of the Crowlord.
Yenia walked toward the pile of debris, holding her torch high.
“This cave-in happened recently,” she said. “I hope it didn’t separate us from the children.”
“Did it bury them?” Pitch asked.
No one answered.
Theel walked forward with Yenia, stepping between the boulders, looking at the dirt and dust. Yenia began to pick her way up the rock wall, torch in hand.
“These rocks haven’t been here long,” Yenia said as debris tumbled beneath her feet. “No more than a day.”
“Pitch, how far ahead of us were the children?” Theel asked.
Pitch didn’t say anything, only sat on his heels, staring at the ground, dry washing his hands.
“Pitch?” Theel asked. “How far ahead of us were the children? Answer me.”
“I don’t know,” Pitch said, staring at the ground.
“You don’t know?” Theel asked, turning to look at him. He couldn’t see very well, but heard the man’s voice coming from the darkness.
“I don’t know where they are,” Pitch said miserably. “Why haven’t we seen them? This is not good. No.”
Theel drew his sword and walked to Pitch’s side, holding the naked blade before the man’s eyes to emphasize his words.
“Pitch, listen to me,” he said. “You need to think. When did those children enter this tunnel?”
“Some hours.”
“Some hours?”
“Before us,” Pitch added. “Just hours. We should have found them by now, but we…now it’s too late. They’re gone. What have I done?”
“Did you see them enter the tunnel?” Theel asked.
“Yes,” Pitch said. “I think so.”
“Are we in the correct tunnel?” Theel asked. “Did they enter the east or west tunnel?”
“Which is the…?” Pitch asked.
“Which tunnel did they enter?” Theel asked. “The left tunnel or right?”
“Two tunnels?” Pitch said. “I’ve never been here before!” He dropped his head in his hands.
Theel threw his hands up and shouted, “A perfect answer from a perfect liar! Is there a single thing you’ve said that can be believed? Answer!”
Pitch didn’t answer. Theel cursed a vile oath and kicked Pitch hard, knocking him onto his back. He screamed down the tunnel, a full-chested scream of frustration that bounced and echoed far away. He paced angrily, waving his sword while Pitch cowered and whimpered.
“The zoths might hear you yelling, brother,” Yenia suggested as she climbed among the rocks, looking for a way through.
“Oh, God, help us,” Pitch groaned. “Those children are dead. We’re all dead.”
“We might as well be, for all the good we can do,” Theel grumbled. “How could this happen?”
“I’m so sorry,” Pitch whined. “I didn’t know. It’s all my fault.”
“It’s all our fault,” Theel corrected. “Some quest for Warrior Baptism this has turned out to be. I’m unable to find a pair of children trapped in a dead-end tunnel with nowhere to hide.”
Theel sighed, looking around, speaking to the air.
“We’ve been running all night. We should have reached them by now. How fast can a girl of six seasons move?” Theel laughed sadly. “We’ve been outrun by a tiny girl of six. Knights of the King’s Cross spend their days defending villages from zoth attacks. I’m unable to run faster than a little girl.”
“Those children are in this tunnel, somewhere,” Yenia said. “We will find them.”
“Look at that pile of rocks,” Theel said, pointing. “There’s no crossing that. We can’t dig through. We know the children are not on this side or we’d have found them.”
“They are still alive,” Yenia said.
“How do you know this?” Theel asked.
“Because they’ve been here,” Yenia explained. “I can see where they placed their hands and feet in the dirt; small hands, small feet, climbing the rocks. We’re not the first to search for a way past this barrier.”
Theel walked to the base of the rock pile. He couldn’t see much where he was. Yenia held the torch high above, casting sparse yellow light, creating little more than shadows down where he stood.
“A child climbed that rock pile?” Theel asked, hope filling his heart. “All the way up there?”
Pitch’s voice came from behind. “The boy was bigger, nine or ten seasons,” he said. “The boy might have climbed those rocks.”
Yenia nodded her head, appraising. “It may have been the boy.”
“Did he find a way through?” Theel asked.
“I believe not,” Yenia answered. “I don’t see a way he could have gone. The children must be on our side of this barrier.”
“Then we can still find them,” Theel said. “There is only one sure way to do it. But I must rest first. We all must rest. Yenia, climb down and get some sleep. We’ll make camp here.”
As Yenia climbed back down the rock pile, the light of her torch grew stronger, falling across Pitch, whom Theel could see still sitting on the ground. The man held a little glass bubbler, the same one he took from the wreck of the trader’s wagon. The bottle was unstopped and the brown liquid flowed into his mouth. Pitch grimaced, coughed, then smiled.
“Be thankful,” Theel said. “That may be your last comfort in this world.”
“There’s much to be thankful for,” Pitch said. Smiling, he raised the bottle in salute. “I’m still alive, am I not?”
A Humble Songman
Theel sat in the absolute darkness of the Narrows, listening to his own heartbeat, watching as the bowl of his pipe hissed orange. The hot smoke filled his mouth and nose, stinging him in a familiar, welcome way. Golden Fetch. The scent was soothing. It relaxed his mind. And relaxation was what he needed most.
He would not give up on those children. Despite the odds against it, he was certain they still lived. He knew they were somewhere in this tunnel. The Overlie blood called to him, pulling him forward. To this point, he had failed to find them, but he intended to fail no longer.
He’d tried to find the children every natural way he knew how. He’d traveled the Narrows on his legs, listening with his ears and looking with his eyes. Perhaps it was time to travel the tunnels on his juy, listening with his heart and searching with his mind.
Unease poked at his brain. His old friends, fear and doubt, encouraged him to quit, to flee, to fail again. He knew if he tried to use the Method to find the children, he would likely lose control and succeed only in conjuring up more waking nightmares. But while walking forward meant certain failure, running away promised no better. The right way was unclear. All he knew was that everything he’d tried up until now had failed. Perhaps he just wanted to relax and pray that God, if he existed, if he was listening, would show him the way.
He didn’t know what else to do.
Theel was such a sinful person that sometimes he needed to sin to do good. What a horrible thought; that a man is so covered up in his own filthy imperfection that his sin is unavoidable, and his only choice is which sin is the best. Theel’s father told him, as
a knight with a will to do good, this was a struggle he faced daily. A sword is not forged to create, but to destroy; not to give life, but to take it. The existence of a weapon meant to kill is an affront to God. But it is a necessary sin that must be committed. There are no perfect choices in an imperfect world.
Theel still remembered the day his father told him about the Knights of the King’s Cross, how these holy warriors of faith who dedicated their lives to God were actually the most sinful men of all. The very moment a knight’s heart is most full of righteousness, he said, is very often the same moment he is committing the most terrible deed. Theel wondered how men whose motives were supposedly the most pure could possibly be worse than thieves and liars.
No man is better than another, was the answer, because every man has fallen short.
“A man must not judge himself against others,” Theel’s father had said. “Only against himself, and against the standard that God has set for him. You must not concern yourself with the sins of others, only your own.”
Theel let out a big sigh, fingering his empty pipe bowl. So many riddles. Would he ever understand all the nonsense his father spoke? His father promised he would understand these things better as he grew older and wiser. The Keeper seemed to agree. But Theel’s time for seeking was at its end. He would be dead soon and nothing else mattered.
“If the collapsed tunnel separated us from the children,” he heard Pitch mumble in the darkness. “Perhaps it separated us from the zoths as well?”
“Perhaps,” Yenia said absent-mindedly.
Theel listened to their conversation, but could see neither one without the light of a fire. There hadn’t been a need to build one for warmth, since one of the many things said of the Narrows was true: The temperature inside both tunnels was warm; a warmth, it was said, that came from deep in the earth. So the three travelers had their conversation in complete darkness.
“How can you work with no light?” Pitch asked. “I can’t see my hand before my face.”
“I do not need to see my hands to know what they are doing,” Yenia answered.
Theel’s sister was busy building a workable spear from a few broken fragments she’d found discarded on the road. Theel saw his sister do this, finding pieces here and there as they ran, dropping some fragments when she found better ones. Theel even saw her sorting through the bits of junk left by the Overlie men. She settled on two sturdy-looking pieces and set to work merging them into a weapon as soon as they’d made camp. For the point, she chose a two-pronged fork called a moonblade, named so for its resemblance to a crescent moon. The shaft was made from a flexible but strong length of wood, formerly the trunk of a tree native to the delta clan of Membaro called the gingo. The combination was nothing exceptional, but formed a passable weapon if wielded by a trained spearman.
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