Warrior Baptism Chapter 4

by Jonathan Techlin

  “As you wish, my liege,” Pitch said.

  “Your troupe of performers,” Yenia said. “Did they have a name?”

  “The Merry Midwives,” Pitch said. “We wore red skirts. Even the men.”

  Theel laughed. “How foolish.”

  “Yes, Liege, foolish; but that is the idea,” Pitch said. “Only hearing the name has changed your once-sour words to ones of mirth, has it not? And that, before the show has even begun?”

  “I’ve never heard of the Merry Midwives,” Yenia stated. “Where did you earn your work?”

  “Up and down the roads of the Eastern Kingdoms,” Pitch said. “We made plenty of work in Sidon in the early days, but preferred the lesser clans most recently; Sirrothar, and Magna Lil. We’d work the festivals and tent shows in the spring, the sheds and barns in the fall. Any of the inns or taverns that paid, we were there. You could even earn your work on the street corners of some of the great cities, if need be. It was a fine life.”

  “It was,” Yenia said. “But no longer.”

  “Every good thing must one day perish,” Pitch mentioned wistfully. “Wars have a way of drying up business, stealing the charity from otherwise kindly folks.”

  “Very true,” Yenia agreed. “War can steal many things from a man.”

  “Folks lose their thirst for ale when the tavern’s burned down by Iatan soldiers,” Pitch said. “Can’t sing along with pipe and lute with a spear in your guts.”

  “I suppose not,” Theel said.

  “Then the plagues came through,” Pitch went on. “The traveling folk were hit hard—the traders, caravaners, mercenaries and army men, and the performing troupes like mine. The more folk a man meets each day, the more diseases he finds simmering in the belly to be carried to the next town. It was some variety of fever that took all of my brothers and sisters. But it spared me. Now I’m the only one left.”

  “You are surely a difficult man to kill,” Theel opined.

  “You will learn that I am served by a healthy sense of self-preservation, my liege,” Pitch laughed.

  “I’ve learned that already,” Theel agreed.

  “After that, I sold everything we had for food; our horses and wagons, instruments, and props,” Pitch said. “I ate well for a month, but soon there was no food left to buy. I found myself fleeing toward the Western Kingdoms like all the other poor smallfolk, all of us herded before the Iatan armies like cattle.”

  “Did you witness any of the fighting?” Yenia asked.

  “Some of it,” Pitch said. “I was headed westward as the lords and their knights and their armies came east. I crossed paths with hundreds of soldiers on the roads, clumps of men rushing to fight the Iatan, rushing to their deaths. I thought to join them many times, but I’ve never raised arms against another in my life, and those men were committing suicide. It was a slaughter; complete butchery. Thousands of men fell dead on those plains, for nothing. It is a very sad scene over in the Eastern Kingdoms. This war has ruined everything. And it’s coming this way, faster than you know.”

  “We know,” Theel said. “We’ve seen.”

  “So much of the world we once enjoyed is now in flames,” Pitch lamented. “The skies over our land are getting darker every day, and I don’t see any way things can be mended.”

  “Things can be mended,” Yenia promised. “We must have faith.”

  “What gives you faith?” Pitch asked.

  “The Blessed Soul of Man,” Yenia answered. “He provides hope.”

  “Do you believe in the prophecy?” Pitch asked.

  “I do,” Yenia answered. “I believe the Blessed Soul will come into the world to fulfill the prophecy.”

  “I hope that is true,” Pitch said.

  “It is true,” Yenia insisted. “I do not doubt it.”

  “You certainly are devout,” Pitch said.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, then,” Pitch said. “The next time you pray to your god about the Blessed Soul, please ask him to make haste. If the Blessed Soul is coming, we need him today, not tomorrow. If he waits any longer, I fear we may destroy the world before he can save it.”

  “The Blessed Soul will come,” Yenia repeated. “Someday.”

  “Your faith is admirable,” Pitch said. “I hope it is not misplaced.”

  “It is not,” Yenia said. “He will come. And all that is wrong with the world will be made right.”

  Theel said nothing. He didn’t know if the world could be made right again. He only knew someone must die soon, either him or the Crowlord.

  He didn’t care which.

  Good Fortune

  Theel lay on his back on the stone floor of the Narrows, his neck and head cushioned by his backpack. Pitch had long since fallen asleep after draining his little bubbler, and now snored his way through a drunken slumber. Theel didn’t know if Yenia slept, but hadn’t heard a peep from her. If Yenia slept, she did so lightly, with one ear open for trouble, or if Theel needed her. Faithful as always.

  Now enveloped in darkness and quiet, Theel tried to calm himself, tried to relax enough to tap his psychic nexus. Just as the Keeper of the Craft had promised, the process became easier each time he accomplished it, but it still remained an agonizing exercise.

  You can’t listen by talking, the Keeper had told him countless times. You can’t listen by talking.

  So Theel tried to listen. Rather than try to coax his Sight to life, Theel allowed it to come on its own. Theel simply relaxed himself, opened the door, and allowed the visions to come through. He was not assaulted by wild, flashing glimpses of random nightmares like so many times before. He sought information. He asked questions. And the visions answered.

  He reached into the past, tapping into the signatures of all those who’d tread this ground, the footprints left in the Craft. If those children truly came to this spot, if the older boy climbed the rock pile to find a way through, Theel would be able to see them, see what decisions they made and where they had gone.

  Yet he could not find them. Only hours before, he couldn’t resist the pull of the Overlie blood, how strongly it called out to him. But now it was silent. He felt no connection to those children. He could not find them. He had no idea where they were.

  It was a simpler task to find the signature of someone he knew. It was easier the better he knew the object of his search. But his ignorance of these children worked against him. He knew nothing of their names or appearance. And so it was a struggle to find them. He searched for a long time. Minutes became an hour. He saw countless unknown faces, both human and zoth, the travelers of the Narrows heading south toward Wrendale and Yarik. He saw mothers, fathers, children, and army men, traders and merchants.

  Then he saw his father.

  A shiver slid up Theel’s spine when he saw his masterknight. There he was, the famous Knight of the King’s Cross, walking through the Narrows, all tattoos and muscle, swords and spears. Theel could even see the hole through his knight’s shield on his chest where it covered his heart, the hole made by an unknown weapon years before.

  Dread soaked into Theel’s heart. He couldn’t afford this now. He didn’t want to see his masterknight. Didn’t want to think about him. He needed to maintain control, to find those children. But he couldn’t control the emotions that overwhelmed him at the sight of his father. And as he tried to push the vision away, the clearer it became.

  Theel’s father walked the Narrows many times in his life as he traveled both north and south in service to his king. The image Theel saw showed his father the final time he walked through the tunnel. It was only months ago, shortly before he died. Theel remembered this day as much from memory as from what his Sight was showing him, for he had accompanied his father in the Narrows that day. It was the last day Theel would spend with his father.

  The great knight appeared older than his years, the gray hairs about his temples now growing very thick, the lines of worry carved into his skin as deeply as ever. Theel’s father carried an
incredible burden in those days before he died, and he showed every bit of the strain.

  Theel was saddened to know he was the weight that dragged his father down. The king of Embriss and each of the Seven Swords of the Kings Cross expected so much of their champion, and he’d spent his life meeting those expectations. But now, for the first time, he was given a task he could not complete. He could not make his squire worthy of knighthood.

  The son of the great knight had no greatness in him.

  “I’m so sorry, Father,” Theel whimpered. “I failed you.”

  For years, Theel was suspicious his father regretted having him as a son. It was evidenced by the treatment he suffered during his training. Growing up, he didn’t feel he had a father. Instead, he had a masterknight who tried to create the perfect squire without regard for the consequences. Theel was just a lump of metal being pounded between hammer and anvil, forced to assume a shape that would please the king. Theel’s great potential was both a blessing and a curse. He might one day make a great knight, but he was forced to sacrifice his childhood to achieve it.

  In the end, all that sacrifice amounted to nothing. When Theel was given one last chance to prove himself, he walked out onto the Dead Man’s Bridge and failed in every way imaginable.

  Theel saw himself as he appeared those months ago, following close behind his masterknight as his oath required. Theel saw his own face, saw the turmoil there, and felt every bit of the fear and uncertainty he felt that day. When Theel looked upon the image of himself, he saw a terrified squire entirely unprepared for the duty that was thrust upon him. He saw a young boy in a man’s body, desperate to redeem himself for past failures but utterly confused about where to start. That young squire prayed to God for help, for guidance. He prayed that he would do his father proud. His prayers went unanswered. It broke Theel’s heart to see himself looking so lost, so hopeless and afraid, and knowing what was about to happen.

  Failure. Death. Shame.

  He couldn’t face it. He couldn’t even look at the image of the masterknight and his squire unknowingly walking to their doom. He buried his face in his hands and wept, shoulders shaking, tears running between his fingers.

  “Please, God, if you are real, make it go away,” he whispered, sobbing, choking on his own breaths. “Just make it stop. Just take this pain away long enough for me to face my end. That is all I ask. Just get me to the bridge so I can die with honor. I just want this to be finished. I just want to be with my father again.”

  Theel wiped his eyes and looked up to see the image of father and son continuing southward down the tunnel. When the masterknight reached the place where the ceiling caved in, he walked right into the pile of rubble, followed by his squire. They both disappeared in a cloud of mist.

  Theel was immediately grateful the vision left him, and for a moment, he thought he might find some peace in the darkness. He clasped his hands together, shaking them in gratitude.

  “Thank you, God. Wherever you are, thank you.”

  Then he saw an elderly woman walking the road toward him. She was dressed modestly, in a worn brown skirt and gray shawl, clearly a person of limited means. She walked slowly, taking pained steps, leaning heavily on a wooden cane with one hand, carrying a cloth sack with the other. Theel was surprised to see her. Father never would have allowed such a person to struggle along by herself without offering aid.

  Theel watched her struggling along by herself, coming ever closer at a snail’s pace. He wondered briefly if she’d traveled the Narrows on a different day than he and his father did. He wondered if he had confused the exact time of her passing. He was wondering this when she stopped and looked at him.

  “My goodness,” she said, looking surprised. “Hello.”

  Theel was startled. He swallowed and said, “Hello?”

  “I’m so happy to see you,” the woman said, her face full of gladness. “I’ve been looking for someone.”

  “Someone?” Theel sputtered. “Who might that be?”

  The old woman frowned, thinking. “No one in particular. Just someone. Someone at all.”

  “You’ve found someone, I suppose.”

  “Yes, but it’s the strangest thing,” the woman said. “I can’t remember why. It was very important just a minute ago.” She looked around some more, confused. “Is this a good spot to rest?”

  “I suppose it is,” Theel answered. “It’s not a bad place to rest.”

  “I don’t know,” the old woman said, looking around, squinting. “Not certain there is a good spot to rest in this tunnel. Fall asleep, might never wake up. Might never find a way out. My goodness. Where are my manners?” She leaned on the cane and curtsied as low as her old legs would allow. “Greetings, milord.”

  “Milord?” Theel said, smiling. “Are you speaking to me?”

  “Of course, milord.” The woman grinned. “I see that you bear the markings of the King’s Cross. A person does not come by these blessings without someone watching over him. Clearly you are a blessed child of God. A very blessed child indeed.”

  “Is that so?” Theel asked. “How do you know this?”

  “I can see a great many things about you,” the woman explained. “I know good fortune when I see it. You are a very special person. You will do great things. You may change the world if you so choose. Very few have this power. It is an honor to meet you, milord.” She curtsied again. “A great honor.”

  “You must have me confused with another.”

  “Certainly not,” the woman said, then her smile melted. She looked around. “Is this a good place to rest?”

  “You’ve asked me already,” Theel answered. “It is a fine place.”

  The old woman shook her head and smiled. “I suppose you did. My memory is terrible. It happens with age. Can you believe I’m almost seventy seasons old?”

  “Difficult to believe,” Theel said.

  “Never thought one could grow this old,” the woman went on. “But here I am. Stubborn old girl.”

  “If I may ask,” Theel said. “Where are you traveling?”

  “Well…” The old woman turned and looked back up the tunnel. “To start off, I’m headed toward Wrendale, to the south. Is Wrendale this way?”

  She pointed north, the way she came.

  “No, it’s not,” Theel answered. “That way is north. It’s the way to Widow Hatch.”

  The old woman frowned. “Are you certain, milord? This is the way I was headed.”

  She pointed back the direction she came.

  “You were going that way,” Theel said, pointing to the south. “In the direction of Wrendale.”

  “Certain?” the woman asked.

  “Very certain.”

  “My goodness,” the old woman exclaimed. “I get so confused. My memory is terrible. Back and forth, walking and walking. This tunnel is endless. May never see the sun again.”

  “I’m going that direction, as well,” Theel said. “Perhaps I can help you. Once we find our way past this rubble.”

  The woman looked surprised. “Rubble? Where?”

  “That pile of rocks there,” Theel said, pointing. “The tunnel has caved in.”

  “Is that right?” the old woman asked, squinting at the rocks. “My goodness. It is certainly dark in here, milord. And my eyesight is terrible on a sunny day. It happens with age. Can you believe I’m almost seventy seasons old?”

  “I can’t believe it,” Theel answered.

  “I never thought a person could get so old,” the woman stated. “My mother always said I was a stubborn girl.”

  “She was correct,” Theel said.

  “Well, goodness.” The woman whistled. “I don’t know which way I’m headed. Can’t tell north from south. No sun to see. No stars to guide the way. Wonderful place to get lost, the Narrows. Very dangerous, milord. Very worrisome.”

  “Let me help you,” Theel suggested. “Rest with us, and we’ll start again in the morning.”

  “The morning?” the wo
man said. “Is it nighttime?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So hard to know in this tunnel,” the old woman said. “No sun. I haven’t seen the sun in days. Or months. I don’t know. Can’t see.”

  “Just rest a while,” Theel said. “We’ll try again in the morning.”

  “Rest. I suppose so,” the woman said. “Is this a good place to rest?”

  “Yes it is,” Theel replied. “A very good place.”

  “I rest so very much these days,” the woman said. “You rest more as you grow older, and I’m so very old. Can you believe I’m almost seventy seasons old?”

  “Is that right?” Theel said. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  The old woman smiled. “Why thank you, milord,” she said. “I can see your heart is very kind. Bless your heart. Clearly you are a blessed child of God. A very blessed child indeed.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Theel said. “A nice old woman told me, a fortune teller.”

  “My goodness, she was right about you.” The old woman smiled at him. “I can see the same things she saw. It is an honor to meet you, milord.”

  “The honor is all mine.”

  “Oh! Now I remember!” the old woman cried out, snapping her fingers. “I’m looking for someone, looking for help. Oh, those poor children. That little girl, no more than six seasons, I’d guess. They’re trapped. The zoths will hurt them if I don’t find help.”

  Theel sat up straight. “Girl of six seasons?”

  “Yes, I saw her,” the woman said. “And her older brother. Trapped.”

  “Trapped?” Theel asked. “Where?”

  “Down a hole, under the road,” the old woman explained. “It’s very bad. The zoths might find them. If you see someone, you must tell them to help. Someone must help.”

  “I will tell everyone I see,” Theel promised. “But where are they? Which direction?”

  “I just saw them. They’re in that direction, the way I came,” the woman said, pointing to the south. “To the north.”

  “That way is south,” Theel pointed out.