He was dimly aware that he was in danger, from faint memories of men lying on past battlefields suffering from wounds like this one. He remembered what happened to those men, remembered the delirious eyes, the grasping hands, the nonsensical babble, the blood so bright and red all over the ground. He had the strength to move now, the strength to think, but that would not last. He had to fight this; had to find the strength to move, or he was finished.
But where was the strength to move? It was leaving his body, flowing unchecked like the blood running from the side of his head. Somehow, that gash in his scalp needed to be closed. Yenia would know what to do. She would be able to inspect the damaged area, determine its severity, and do what healing was necessary. But Yenia wasn’t here. Theel was alone, so it was up to him to solve the problem. He could not heal himself using his own tenuous command of the Method. That skill was beyond his understanding, as his constant failures proved.
That left only one option. The Life Sign, the tattoo woven into his skin that gave him the ability to tap his own juy for the purposes of healing. It was painful, and exhausting. But it would work.
No, he realized, there was another option. He could do nothing. He could lay on his back and wait. He was so tired. Perhaps he didn’t have the strength to heal. Perhaps he was dead already. And who would care if he was? He’d come all this way to die, after all. And now he was finally here. It seemed as good a place as any for the end to finally come.
He decided to lay still, calm himself, and focus on something, like the sunlight streaming down from above. But this was difficult with his blurry vision and fluttering left eye. That was when he realized he wasn’t breathing, and hadn’t drawn any breath since falling off the ladder. Where was the ladder?
He sucked in a huge breath, gulping air greedily, then choked and spit a stream of bubbles. It wasn’t air he’d sucked into his lungs, it was liquid. The light above rippled, so far away, above the surface. He was underwater! He kicked and screamed, but couldn’t do anything, entangled in the bodies that covered the surface of the lake. The lake?
Then he realized. He was back in the Sea of God’s Eyes. Among the thousands of those murdered by the Iatan. It was almost as if these past days had never happened, as if they were the fevered dreams of a dying man.
Horror filled his belly. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t make his way to the surface. He was trapped beneath a mountain of dead flesh, hundreds of decaying bodies pressing down upon him. He pushed against Pitch, trying to free himself so that he could swim back to the surface, but only succeeded in flipping the songman over so the two were face-to-face.
Just like the others, Pitch was dead and rotting, and decayed nearly beyond recognition. His face was nothing but empty eye sockets, grinning teeth, and a hole where his nose should have been. Then Theel noticed the wisps of curly red hair, the diamonds and oak leaves on the chest. This wasn’t Pitch. It was the Overlie boy who died in Calfborn.
The boy he killed.
And even though he had no eyes, Theel knew the boy was looking at him.
The pale lips moved. “Stand up.”
Again, Theel screamed and fought, trying to free himself. But no matter how he struggled and pushed and kicked, he couldn’t push the body away, couldn’t avoid his eyeless gaze. So he pinched his eyes shut, anything to not look at that dead, accusing face.
He heard the boy’s voice gurgle. “Stand up,” it said.
“I can’t stand,” Theel choked.
“Yes you can,” the boy said. “Stand up.”
“I can’t,” Theel said, shaking his head. “I don’t…have the strength.”
“You have the strength,” the boy insisted. “You refuse to admit it. You are afraid of the responsibility.”
“I’m so sorry,” Theel whimpered.
“You are healthy, you are alive, because of me,” the boy said. “You healed yourself by taking my life.”
“I didn’t intend to,” Theel said.
“Yet you live because of me. You owe me your life. Now repay me. Honor my family.”
“How?” Theel asked.
“Help my brother and sister,” the boy explained. “I saved you. Now you must save them.”
“I will,” Theel promised. “I will fight for the Overlie children, your brother and sister. I will not fail as I did in Calfborn.”
“You did not fail,” the voice said. “I died for you willingly. And I would do it again a thousand times.”
The voice had changed. It was no longer the boy talking.
“I don’t understand,” Theel replied. “Who are you?”
“Honor me.”
“Father?”
“Do not give up. You must not die here,” Theel’s masterknight said. “Disregard the pain. Ignore the fear and doubt. A warrior of the King’s Cross has no time for these things. You are the best squire ever to swear the oath. You will make the greatest knight ever to live.”
Theel tried to speak but choked on his words, unable to contain his emotion.
“You will not stay here and die. You will stand up and fight for those children.”
“Yes, Father. I will.”
“Now say the words,” the knight’s voice commanded. “Give this child strength.”
Give this child strength.
“That he might raise your banner.”
That he might raise your banner…
“Cleanse this child’s wounds.”
Cleanse this child’s wounds.
“That he might carry your shield.
That he might carry your shield.
Then Theel spoke aloud.
“I, as a son of the Silvermarsh Clans, do commit myself, body, soul, and spirit, to the earthly warriors of the King’s Cross, to the Seven Kingdoms they protect, and to the one true Lord of all Creation, that I might do his will, to love God’s children, to lead God’s children, to protect God’s children, and that by these deeds, the Lord’s blessings be given.”
Theel groaned as he felt the Life Sign ignite, burning with heat inside him. Then he felt a line of searing pain above his left ear.
“I will care for God’s children, by showing his love.
“I will guide God’s children, by speaking his word.
“I will protect God’s children, by wielding his judgment.”
The gash in his head was closing, the flesh stretching and pulling itself back together. He was doing weeks of healing in only seconds, but he also felt the pain of it all at once. It was agonizing. But he didn’t stop speaking the words.
“With his mercy, I will care.
“With his compassion, I will give.
“With his wisdom, I will speak.
“With his word, I will guide.
“With his shield, I will protect.
“With his sword, I will defend.”
The Life Sign stole his strength, would leave him exhausted, but it would save his life. It might not be enough to close such a terrible wound completely, but at least it would slow the flow of blood. It would keep him conscious, and aware, and capable of continuing.
“I will serve the Lord with my heart, my mind, and my voice, by learning and understanding his holy word, gratefully receiving his holy gift of faith, and always proclaiming his holy name. These things I hold dear. Amen.”
“Stand now, and fight,” the masterknight’s voice commanded. “It is your time of proving. Warrior Baptism awaits.”
“I will stand and fight, Father,” Theel promised.
Theel felt renewed strength flow into his extremities. He began to kick and thrash against the bodies holding him down. Nothing was more important than that rippling spot of sunlight above him. It was the surface of the lake. It was fresh air. It was his salvation. He focused on that bright light. It was all that mattered. He would do anything to get there.
“Honor me, son.”
“I will honor you! I swear it!”
That light filled his vision. Its light seared his eyes, burned his face,
and filled his ears with sounds. The pounding of drums.
Boom…Ba-boom. Boom…Ba-boom.
The drums thundered in his ears. Or perhaps it was the pounding in his chest? The sound grew louder and louder until it became unbearable, as if someone was hitting Theel in the ears with a hammer.
Boom…Ba-boom. Boom…Ba-boom.
This pounding wasn’t his heartbeat, he realized. He’d heard those drums once before. They were drumbeats from his past, the pounding of memory, one memory in particular; his worst. He’d heard those drumbeats the last time he was there, in that place. And now he’d come back. He was no longer in the lake of death. Now he was in the Narrows, about to walk the Dead Man’s Bridge. The Sea of God’s Eyes was a dream. This was a nightmare.
The Dead Man’s Bridge.
Boom…Ba-boom. Boom…Ba-boom.
He heard someone scream, a terrified, anguished cry. It was a small voice, that of a little girl. She was far away, but her voice was carried to his ears on the wings of Craft. She was on the bridge. She was alive. There was still hope.
“The Dead Man’s Bridge,” Theel whispered.
His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword lying next to him, and fresh strength filled his limbs.
“The Dead Man’s Bridge!” he roared.
He threw the bodies off and sprang to his feet, climbing up the ladder as fast as he could. As he neared the top, a new sound joined the drums. It was a sound that had no place in the underground realm of the Narrows.
The cawing of crows.
to be continued in
Warrior Baptism
Chapter 5
Theel challenges the Crowlord on the Dead Man’s Bridge and quickly learns he cannot win alone. As Warrior Baptism reaches its conclusion, he discovers the goal of his quest is not to live or die, but to follow his destiny.
A preview of Chapter 5…
The Dead Man’s Bridge
The first thing Theel noticed as he climbed out of the hole was the sensation of heat on his face. The eastern tunnel of the Narrows was noticeably warmer and more humid than its twin to the west. The road stretched away to the north, quickly disappearing into darkness. Pale sunlight glared at Theel from the south, and a soft breeze carried warmth and moisture. It was almost inviting—and would have been, if not for the distant cacophony of crow calls.
Then he felt the warmth on his neck and the dribbling of hot liquid on his left shoulder. Thinking he’d wipe some sweat away, his smeared it, then drew back a gloved hand covered in blood. That was when he knew he wasn’t recovered from his wounds fully. The gash on his head was mostly closed, no longer posing a threat to his life. But his blood still flowed, as if to remind him that the Life Sign was no substitute for caution. It was meant to give him aid, not make him invincible.
He rubbed his glove against his leathers and ran toward the sound of the crows, sword in hand, down the center of the roadway of gray stone. The wreckage of battle lay all around—broken swords and spears and bits of armor. The light grew brighter and the sounds of crows grew louder, and to his right he saw a line of animals tied to rings in the wall; a few oxen, a mule or two, but mostly horses. Nearly all of them were dead, mere skeletons picked clean of their flesh. But two horses were still standing and tugging on their reins. They were saddled, bearing bags containing provisions and weapons—two swords, an axe, and a crossbow, as if their owners were taken without a fight. One of them, a large grey gelding, was caparisoned in the colors of the King’s Cross.
Theel briefly considered taking the grey, but thought better of it. Though a competent rider, he’d never come close to his sister’s skill in the saddle. And he’d never quite learned to fight on horseback, despite his father’s best attempts. To him, a horse was a means of transport, not an instrument of battle. And it was battle that awaited him.
Still, he couldn’t leave these animals to feed the zoths. Despite his urgency, he took a moment to untie their reins from the rings in the wall. The big grey immediately ran, as if it smelled the danger and wanted nothing of it. Theel didn’t wait to see what became of the smaller one, only turned and went the opposite direction, toward the smell of danger.
He ran with all the speed his legs could muster, his boots pounding on the gray stones, his footfalls echoing off the tunnel walls. It wasn’t long before the ceiling split into open air and the sun shone down, scorching Theel’s eyes. Here the road was broken up, split and eaten by erosion, allowing bare earth to show through. The road deteriorated more the farther out into the sunshine, eventually disappearing into a stretch of trampled earth flanked by wagon ruts.
To both his left and right, the white walls of the Narrows showed their age, with fewer and fewer bricks until they were replaced by exposed gray rock that crowded the sides of the roadway.
This wasn’t how Theel remembered the tunnel openings. The rock walls were once covered with thick, brown vines of multiple varieties, including one species that grew purple flowers and yellow, bumpy-skinned berries that tasted sour on the tongue. But the vines were gone, and now the rock walls were bare.
Eventually these walls flanking the road fell away, and Theel was running across a small field. This was once a lush and green place, home to a variety of plants and flowers that grew among the weeds. He remembered waist-high grass and bushes of bell crowns, arm fatch, and red dusk. But no more. Just like the vines, all of this was gone.
Now the field was covered with thorn bushes, black and twisted, and growing outward rather than upward, as if reaching out to scratch at Theel as he passed by. Just like the streets of Widow Hatch, this place felt empty and dead, the ground so cursed that nothing good would ever live or grow. The first time Theel walked this ground, the air was full of the sounds of nature, the chirping of birds and insects. Now, all he heard was crows. And drums.
Boom…Ba-boom. Boom…Ba-boom.
The ancient road and the field of thorns continued onto an outcropping of rock, jutting out into the canyon known as Krillian’s Cut like a giant, stone tongue. As Theel approached the cliff edge, he could see the great canyon stretching away to the east and west, impossible to cross, endlessly wide in most places, endlessly deep everywhere. It was quite a sight to behold, the giant rock walls changing colors—stripes of light gray near the top of the canyon, which became yellow then orange in hue, then red, and deeper to crimson, and finally a deep brown the farthest down anyone could see, where it disappeared into a haze of grayness and fog. But beneath that fog, the canyon went deeper into the world, into places where the sun could not reach—some said all the way to the bottom of Thershon.
It also went straight up, so high it hurt the neck to look up so far, reaching toward the sun, toward the blue skies and fluffy clouds. Eventually it became the snow-covered peaks of the Dividers Mountains, the mighty range that was sliced in half by Krillian’s Cut.
Theel slowed to a walk as he reached the edge of the rock outcropping. A hot wind hit him there, pushing and tugging on his hair and clothing. He could feel the heat and moisture from below, from the guts of the island, bringing with it the odd scent of bad eggs.
At the edge of the cliff stood a gatehouse befitting a large castle. It was two stories tall, and built of dark stone with twin archways granting access to the bridge. The gates were open and the portcullises raised, beckoning to him to enter. The Crowlord awaited.
Theel calmly walked through the gatehouse, seeing the customary arrow slits and murder holes. He noticed black scorch marks on the floor and lengths of chain hanging from the ceiling. The entire place smelled of blood. None of this was present on his last visit, but he chose to ignore it. He knew he was about to see things that were far worse. When he exited the other side, he stepped upon the stone structure called the Dead Man’s Bridge.
There was another gatehouse on the other side, and a hole in the canyon wall where the Narrows continued south toward Wrendale. Connecting the two sides was an enormous bridge of gray stone with a castle in the center. Just like th
e Narrows, the Dead Man’s Bridge was ancient, built by a civilization long forgotten, using techniques unknown to the builders of the Seven Kingdoms. It was older than the oldest clans and showed every bit of its age. The bridge deck was heavily damaged, with holes showing all over its surface.
The Dead Man’s Bridge should have collapsed long ago yet still remained in place, defying gravity. Perhaps this was because the stones used in the construction appeared to be weightless. Pieces of the bridge that had broken off refused to fall, floating in the air beneath it. The area under the bridge deck was filled with these pieces, like a frozen hurricane of weightless, gray stones held in place by some unknown power, many close enough that a person could jump between them. They resembled the islands that floated across the skies of Thershon, but rather than above Theel, they were beneath him.
The castle at the center of the bridge was built of this same stone and masonry that appeared immune to gravity. The road passed through the gates of the castle, its courtyard serving as a large section of the bridge. But the damage here was severe, with a huge hole in the roadway where the entire northern half of the courtyard had crumbled away. There were many breaks in the structure’s gray skin, huge sections of the curtain walls that had broken off but not fallen, simply hanging off the castle at odd angles. Much of this damage exposed the structure’s innards, leaving entire rooms, staircases, floors, and hallways open to outside view.
It was just a shell of a castle, with its guts ripped out and left hanging in the air all around it. The section of courtyard that fell away from the castle floated about fifty feet below and slightly to the east, as if it had glided peacefully away before freezing in place. The crimson-colored central tower hung above the castle, shining red in the sunlight like a bloody spear tip. It was unique in that it was the tallest of the towers and built entirely of red stone. It was also completely disconnected from the main keep. It had no bottom, hovering in the air above everything, supported by nothing.
Warrior Baptism Chapter 4 Page 10