No one knew why the stones of the Dead Man’s Bridge or the castle at its center didn’t fall. Some thought Craft may have been used in the construction. Others thought it was the very same magical weaves that held the islands aloft in the sky. Whatever the reason, every single piece of the bridge, whether still in place or broken away, hovered as if hanging from invisible strings.
Theel remembered all of this from his last visit to the Dead Man’s Bridge. But there were many things that had changed. Back then, the zoths had gained a foothold in the Narrows. Now, the zoths called the Narrows their home. Back then, they’d made their presence known by hanging a deathmark—a necklace of fingers and eyes—above the castle gates. Now they chose to decorate the entire bridge with the symbols of their slaughter, a hundred pieces of human beings taken as battle trophies and lashed to the floating stones.
The deathmarks took many forms—eyes, ears, arms, legs, heads, or just scalps. But there were also complete corpses. Most of these were warriors, men of Overlie or Ducharme who’d entered the Narrows on a quest to end the Crowlord’s brutal reign. Some of these were the best men of the Western Kingdoms. Theel even saw a corpse bearing the war emblem of the King’s Cross. All of them came to kill the Crowlord, and all of them failed in the effort, their quests and their lives ending on the Dead Man’s Bridge.
Boom…Ba-boom. Boom…Ba-boom.
The sound of the drums came from the far side of the canyon, beyond the castle. The wooden gates of the keep had rotted away long ago, leaving archways that resembled the maw of a giant monster made of gray stone. Theel looked into this maw and saw movement on the other side of the bridge and a plume of smoke drifting lazily westward from the gatehouse there.
Boom…Ba-boom. Boom…Ba-boom.
The drums were accompanied by hoarse shouting, the voice of a zoth holy man. Each of his words was answered by the voices of his followers, all of them engaged in a ritualistic chant. Theel recognized these as the sights and sounds of a zoth religious ceremony. He’d seen another like it just months before when he last stood on this spot, just before his father died. It could mean many things. But it could also signify something terrible—that now, just like then, the Crowlord would be supported by the magic of his shaman. His strength would be enhanced, his speed would be increased—heart and lungs and muscles bursting with Craft. His ability to fight and his ability to kill would be superhuman.
Boom…Ba-boom. Boom…Ba-boom.
But though the shouting and drums of the zoth ceremony were loud, they were not the dominant sound echoing within the walls of Krillian’s Cut. This was the screeching of the crows, thousands upon thousands of them flying into the canyon in a snaking, black line. It was as if they were guided by a single mind that commanded them to congregate in the air directly above the castle at the center of the bridge. There, they circled endlessly, a giant, black ring of fluttering feathers, their voices joined into one constant scream.
Theel, Theel, Theel, Theeeeeeeeeel!
The birds called and the drums pounded, and then Theel heard a new sound that brought him back to reality. It cut through the din, cut into his ears, and cut into his heart. He shouldn’t have been able to hear it through all the noise, but he did. Perhaps an angel cupped it in her hands and brought it to his ears.
It was the weeping of a little girl. Theel knew that sound from his dreams and visions. He knew who it was, and what it meant. The children of House Overlie were alive, and they were here. But where? Theel’s eyes followed the sound to the center of the bridge where he saw a group of cages hanging from the tower of red stone, just above the gaping hole in the floor of the courtyard. These cages were similar to the ones he’d seen in Widow Hatch where he found Pitch, hung from gibbets to display criminals and to make a spectacle of their punishments. Just like in Widow Hatch, these cages contained humans, both living and dead. And thankfully, the two Overlie children were alive.
They huddled in the bottom of their cage, swaying slowly in the canyon breeze, clinging to one another. They were so young, little more than babes. They were dirt-smudged and sunburned, their once fine clothing ripped and torn and covered with stains. But other than their terror, they appeared to be unhurt.
Their cage was suspended by a chain which hung from the top of the central tower. Theel looked there, to the highest point of the castle, and saw the zoth chieftain who was the goal of his quest. The Crowlord crouched on the cone-shaped roof of the red tower, one hundred feet above the bridge deck. He had taken his latest victim up to this perch, a soldier of Overlie, perhaps one of those who’d imprisoned Pitch in his cage. The man was clearly dead. The Crowlord was up to his elbows in the man’s blood, methodically cutting and eating.
The famous zoth chieftain looked little different from the last time Theel saw him. Theel remembered the black crow feathers that decorated the zoth’s head, the source of his name among the people of the Western Kingdoms. Theel remembered the patterns of human teeth imbedded into the skin of the zoth’s chest, forming an intricate design which could not be comprehended by any mind save those given over to the Blood Goddess. Theel remembered the Crowlord’s face and how it was frozen in a constant half-grin, the result of a battle wound that took away a portion of his jaw and most of his lower lip, permanently exposing the teeth beneath. And as the chieftain stopped what he was doing and turned to look at Theel, the squire remembered those black eyes and remembered how there was no life in them, no soul, and no mercy.
The Crowlord rose to his full height, gazing down upon Theel with blood dripping off his chin. The crows continued to circle above him, the black ring forming a crown in the sky for their lord—or perhaps a halo.
As the human and the zoth locked eyes, the Crowlord removed his weapons from his back, gripping them in his fists. Theel remembered these as well—a pair of thigh bones blackened by fire, with iron spikes where the ball joints once were. The Crowlord wielded his bone spikes like axes, with devastating effect. Theel remembered how fast the Crowlord was with his attacks, and how strong. He remembered how those spikes pierced armor, split bone, and tore flesh. And he remembered how those weapons were used to kill, how men, women, and children died screaming under the onslaught of those spikes. But mostly, Theel remembered how, as he looked on, the Crowlord slammed those spikes into his father’s body.
That was when Theel saw it, the Crowlord’s most prized battle trophy. On the zoth’s chest, directly over his heart, he wore a hand-sized silver shield in the fashion of the Knights of the King’s Cross. Its once-shiny surface was now dulled, scratched, and dented, and covered with dried blood spatters. Even from this distance, Theel could plainly see the hole in its center, punched clean through the steel by some unknown warrior of terrifying strength. Such a blow should have killed the man wearing that shield, should have pierced his heart and ended his life forever. But miraculously, it did not. Even though impaled, the heart continued beating. Theel’s father survived that battle and went on to live for many more years. Until he came to the Dead Man’s Bridge and fell at the feet of the Crowlord.
Theel remembered. He would never forget. It was branded on his brain, burned there by the white-hot agony of seeing his father die. It was the moment that shook his faith. It was the moment that broke his will. It was what afflicted him with ceaseless, soul-eating doubt. It was the memory of that moment that Theel could not shake from his mind. It was what brought him back to this place.
The Keeper of the Craft had called on Theel, but the Dead Man’s Bridge called him first. The Keeper assigned him his quest for Warrior Baptism just weeks before, but the Dead Man’s Bridge had always beckoned. Theel knew he would be back to this place eventually, even if he wasn’t ordered to come. He simply could not go on leaving the deeds of that day unfinished. As long as the son of the slain knight and the zoth chieftain both lived, this battle was not decided.
Theel had come to finish the battle.
As the Crowlord looked down from atop the blood-red tower, with his se
rvants circling above his head, Theel now saw the goal of his own personal quest, the means by which he might slay the demons who gnawed at his soul. Warrior Baptism was forgotten. This did not involve the Keeper of the Craft, the kingdom of Embriss, or the King’s Cross.
This was all about a squire and his will to right a terrible wrong, to erase the stain of his past failure. If he couldn’t do this, then his bid to become a knight meant nothing. He decided that the Overlie children would be saved, his father would be avenged, and his masterknight’s shield recovered. He decided he would earn forgiveness for his past cowardice by standing his ground on the Dead Man’s Bridge. And all these things could be accomplished through one act: Killing the Crowlord.
Theel drew his sword.
He was glad he’d come. Standing where he was in this horrible place, and facing the most daunting task of his life, Theel never felt so terrified. But he also never felt so at peace with the choice he had made.
“I’ve come for you, Crowlord,” he whispered. “And one of us is going to die.”
To Be Continued In
Warrior Baptism
Chapter 5
Warrior Baptism on Facebook
Jonathan Techlin on Amazon
Jonathan Techlin on Goodreads
●
About the Author: Jonathan Techlin lives in Kaukauna, Wisconsin with his wife and two daughters. He enjoys reading, traveling, and following the Green Bay Packers. He is currently working on future chapters in the Warrior Baptism series.
●
This book is dedicated to Mom. You always believed. I love you. I still miss you.
●
Thanks to my brother Mike for letting me write on his computer when I was young. My brother’s office is where the dream began. I always told myself if I published a book, I’d give him a special dedication. This is it. Thanks Mike.
Thanks also to Dad, Rick, and Adam for continued encouragement and support.
Very special thanks to Jennifer, my favorite lady. And also to my Anna and Lucy for bringing their unique beauty into my life.
●
Lastly, and most important, I want to give praise to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. God has blessed me with the gift of story to keep me sane. It is a privilege and an honor to share it with others. I know I did not create Theel and Yenia, and I can’t wait to find out where their next adventures will take them.
Love to all.
Warrior Baptism Chapter 4 Page 11