The man wore a knife on his hip, but didn’t bother to draw it. He walked languidly toward Theel with the confidence of a bully eyeing a helpless victim.
“You go on loving her,” he said to his companion. “I’ll play with this one.”
“Leave her alone,” Theel managed to say, trying to stand on wobbly legs.
The robber grinned. “Sure, dandy,” he said. “But not you. I won’t leave you be.”
He rushed at Theel, swinging his fist. Theel knew exactly what to do to shrug off the man’s attack and then retaliate. But though his brain understood this, his sluggish limbs couldn’t answer the call. He stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet, and the man’s fist slammed into his stomach.
Theel gagged, groaned, then fell to his knees, gasping.
“In fact, you dandy driftwood,” the man continued, “I’ll put you back where I found you.”
He grabbed Theel by the neck and dragged him across the beach like a grain sack.
“That’s a bad sting you got here,” the robber said, looking at Theel’s bloody chest. “Does it hurt?”
He punched Theel again, this time directly on the partially healed knife wound just below his neck. The pain was overwhelming. It crashed over Theel’s mind, and he was barely aware of the splashing sound as he was thrown back into the water. He couldn’t stand up. He was like a marionette with its strings cut, crumpling into the surf without a whimper.
He blacked out.
Retribution
But not for long.
The water of the Sea of God’s Eyes washed over Theel’s face, filling his nose and he sat up, choking and coughing. The pain in his chest hadn’t left him. It throbbed like the hammer blows of a blacksmith. But he couldn’t stop it, must absorb it, and accept it no matter how difficult. Pain was not an excuse his masterknight would have tolerated. Pain was not an excuse his sister could afford.
The two men still hovered over her, struggling to remove her trousers. They were confused by the complex lacing and the decorative braiding around her waist.
“Just cut it off her!”
Theel gathered his strength for what was coming. He dug his fingers into the sand, squeezing hard, feeling the coarseness irritate his skin. The final promises of the Knight’s Creed came easily to his lips, a life-long habit that wasn’t easily broken. The words always gave him comfort and strength, and they did again now.
“With his shield, I will protect,” Theel mumbled.
With considerable effort, he was able to push himself to his feet. His legs still refused to cooperate fully, but he managed to walk through force of will. The blacksmith’s hammer continued to thunder in his head and chest with each step, but each step was followed by another.
“With his sword, I will defend.”
He said the words softly, choosing not to draw the attention of these men as he did before. He approached them quietly, sneaking behind their backs. Some may have thought this was dishonorable for a Squire of the King’s Cross. Theel’s masterknight would never have done such a thing. But there were many ways in which Theel wasn’t, and never would be, his masterknight.
His father also wouldn’t have improvised the promises of the Knight’s Creed. But in times like this, Theel liked to add an additional line of his own:
“With his wrath, I will make war.”
He broke into a run. It was the uneven, shambling gait of a wounded man, but he forced himself to move as quickly as possible. After a few quick steps he fell again, but he was already within arm’s reach of the pile of plunder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the robbers’ heads turn and look at him.
“Back for more, you dandy?” one of them said with a smile. “As you wish. But there’s no living through what’s coming for you now. Not this time. Dandy fools make dandy chum.”
The robber stood and turned to face him, but it was too late. Theel’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword and he pulled the blade free of its scabbard.
“Careful with that steel,” the man smirked. “Might hurt yourself.”
Theel turned and struggled to his feet, his exhaustion and weakness showing. But he could still hold his sword. And he was still breathing, so he was still prepared to fight.
The robber’s movements were lazy, showing he still didn’t feel threatened in any way. He saw Theel’s rich clothing and guessed he was a highborn noble, raised to be lazy, soft, and slow. Theel’s wounds may have made him slow, but he was anything but lazy and soft. And there was no amount of pain or blood loss that could make a Squire of the King’s Cross forget the feel of his own steel in hand.
The robber didn’t raise his guard. He didn’t even draw his knife. He had no way to defend himself when Theel spun with a backhanded slash. The robber’s eyes showed surprised and he instinctively raised his arms to defend himself. Theel’s blade connected with his wrist and sheared half of his right hand away.
The momentum of the attack caused Theel to fall again but he stayed on his knees and held onto his weapon. The man’s face of shock became a face of pain, and he screamed. He was still screaming when the point of Theel’s sword entered his stomach. Theel threw his arms upward, shoving the steel through the man’s body until it crunched against something hard. The robber’s legs folded beneath him and he thudded onto the sand where he lay, his gaze unfocused. One eye twitched a few times, some red bubbles squirted from his nose, and he was gone.
It took all the strength Theel had left stand and face the other robber. He didn’t have a chance against this man, and he knew it. He’d completely exhausted himself, could barely pull his sword from the other robber’s corpse. A child could have knocked him over. Hopefully the robber didn’t understand what an advantage he had. Hopefully he viewed Theel as a threat that was better left alone.
It was difficult to know what the robber was thinking. He stood in ankle-deep water, staring at Theel, indecision showing on his face.
“I know you don’t wish to harm that girl,” Theel said to him, hoping his voice sounded strong and commanding. “So this is the extent of the mercy I will offer. Leave now. Take your life with you. And never let me see you again.”
The robber looked at the pile of booty that was now his to lose. He also looked at his comrade, lying dead because of greed. Lastly, he looked at the blood dripping from Theel’s sword. He looked at the blood longest. He must not have been a brave man, because he didn’t deliberate any longer. He didn’t even utter a word. He simply ran, a few steps splashing in the water, then a few more steps across the sand. He jumped a fence and disappeared behind some bushes that lined the beach.
As soon as the man was out of sight, Theel dropped his sword and collapsed into the sand. Once again, the siblings were safe for now, but this wasn’t the end of their problems. And one was more immediate than the others.
Theel pulled his shirt from the pile of things and crawled across the sand, his stomach roiling, his head dizzy. He felt the darkness rushing up to enfold him several times, but he fought it off. When he reached Yenia, he threw his shirt across her body, covering her up. Then he collapsed at her side.
He lay in the sand for several minutes, contemplating his new predicament. The siblings managed to avoid a quick death, but now faced a prolonged one. Neither he nor his sister were fit for travel. They needed healing. They needed rest. They needed to get off this beach.
Then Theel realized something else. He was famished.
He didn’t know how long he’d slumbered under Yenia’s care, but he did know the last time he’d eaten was in the Trader’s Cave. A quick search though his pile of things yielded the bread and cheese Uncle Guarn packed. And a skin of wine. Theel tore the bread apart, stuffing large chunks into his mouth.
He needed to decipher where he was. He looked up at the position of the sun and the black splotch of Behe Kang rising in the sky just beneath it. The shadow of noondark was coming across the lake, about a half-hour away from the spot where Theel stood. That meant he and Yeni
a were on the west end of the Sea of God’s Eyes.
He could see the wooden buildings of a village directly to the west, and boat ramps to the north and south. He should have been happy to see these things because he recognized them. He was in Dockhaven.
But his joy was tempered by the fact that he didn’t see anyone around him. The beach should not have been abandoned on such a clear and windless day. No workers. No nets. No boats. Looking out across the water, all he saw was sun-kissed waves. No fishermen.
But then he saw, in the distance, to the northeast, the possible reason for this. It was a large, dark cloud, the type that could only be created by the smoke of thousands of fires all mingled together. It hovered at the base of the mountain directly over the spot where the Fortress at Korsiren stood. Korsiren was the greatest of the mountain fastnesses built and defended by House Alister, Lords of the Toden River Valley. That smoke cloud suggested the Iatan had already reached Korsiren. There would be a great battle soon, if it hadn’t already started.
Once again, Theel couldn’t help but look upon his sister with admiration. Yenia had managed to travel the distance of the valley floor, somehow transporting her comatose brother with her. And she did it fast enough to beat the Iatan to the western valleymouth. She even took an arrow and a spear for her brother along the way.
Theel owed his life to so many people. But he owed Yenia the most. He looked at her slumbering face, her smooth features calm as if she was enjoying a pleasant dream, oblivious to what almost happened to her. Theel decided she would never know.
She deserved better than this. She was a better person than her brother in every way. She’d inherited more of their father’s best attributes than Theel had. She’d even inherited their father’s faith. She never had doubt. She never showed fear. She was endlessly loyal. She was everything Theel wasn’t; more like the son their father truly wanted. The masterknight wished for a son who would grow to be like him. Instead, he got a failure. Instead, he got Theel.
Theel’s father sacrificed everything for him. Now his sister had as well. Would it ever end? Would Theel ever stop harming those who loved him?
It would end soon, God willing. Only a few weeks of travel separated Theel from the Dead Man’s Bridge where his execution awaited him. That day couldn’t come soon enough. Yenia would be free of him. His father’s legacy would be restored. It would all be over.
Theel put the rest of the food away and turned to his sister. He needed to look at her back, inspect the wounds, and redress them. He placed his hands on Yenia’s shoulder to roll her over, but drew back in surprise. His sister’s skin was as warm as a stone that spent all day in the sun. He reached to touch her neck and felt the heat radiating off her even before their skin touched. The fever was already severe.
Theel lifted Yenia onto her side so he could see the puncture wound in her back. It was filthy and sand-encrusted. He pulled his waterskin from the pile of his things, unstopped it, and poured it on the wound, cleansing it enough to see. The flesh around the hole was hot, red, and throbbing with infection. It was no wonder. Yenia’s flesh was torn open and her insides exposed to the rotten, filthy water of the Toden River for hours. God only knew what kind of awful things had crawled inside and were now feasting.
Yenia was going to die from this unless something was done soon. Theel could clean the wounds and sew them up, but that wouldn’t be enough with a fever this advanced. Theel needed to get his sister to a healer, and a good one. Unfortunately, there was no chance of finding a juy priest in a tiny fishing village in the mountains. Theel wouldn’t dare attempt to heal Yenia himself. He wasn’t skilled enough. It was too dangerous.
Theel poured more water on Yenia’s back, wiped the wound clean, and made a new bandage out of what remained of his shirt. It was a pathetic job, but it was the best he could do with little time and no proper supplies.
His only hope was to find an accomplished herbalist or potion peddler. There were many road merchants to be found, traveling and trading in small villages such as this. Some of them dealt in all things liquid. If Theel was lucky, he would find one who sold healing elixirs. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had.
Theel found a burlap pouch among the pile of things and pulled out a piece of parchment, wrinkled and wet. It was a map his uncle had drawn, showing the way to the Trader’s Cave. But that wasn’t all. Guarn also wrote a list of names, friends, allies, and business acquaintances he promised would be willing to help if the siblings needed it. Theel was interested in one name in particular, a wheelmonger named Micka Dorn, who kept his shop in the fishing village of Dockhaven. At least, that’s what Theel thought it said. Uncle Guarn’s handwriting was terrible even when he was sober.
Theel needed to find Micka Dorn. Perhaps the wheelmonger could help the siblings. Perhaps he knew a healer who could treat them both. Only one thing was certain. He wouldn’t find any help on this beach. He needed to get moving. The rest and meal he’d taken did wonders for his strength. He could only hope it would be enough.
He gathered his things, put on his backpack, and lifted Yenia into his arms. The pain was excruciating. He felt his chest wound tear itself open again under the strain and fresh, hot blood trickled down his stomach and soaked into his sister’s clothing. He wouldn’t survive long like this, but neither would Yenia. There was no time to worry, only time to act.
“You carried me, little sister,” Theel grunted. “Now, I will carry you.”
The first stop was agony, and so was the second, but both were necessary. He walked on slow and shaky legs toward the buildings of Dockhaven.
It began to rain.
Dockhaven
Noondark fell as Theel plodded down the muddy streets and paths of Dockhaven. He’d started from the beach under a cloudy sky, but as soon as he entered the town, the Island of Behe Kang eclipsed the sun, draping the world in darkness. A crescent moon briefly peeked through the veil from the south, providing Theel just enough light to be certain he was thoroughly lost. But then the clouds moved in and swallowed the moon, thundering and pounding Theel with rain that soaked its cold deep into his flesh.
The town of Dockhaven would have been difficult to pass through on a sunny day, with so disorganized a layout that the buildings resembled a field of oversized tree stumps. Theel didn’t see another living person anywhere. If any of Dockhaven’s residents remained, they were driven indoors by the rain where they sat in darkness or hid behind bolted doors and closed shutters. There was no one to speak with, no one to offer guidance or help. Even worse, there was no light in any of the windows; no candles, no lanterns, no fires burning in the hearth. This was not a good sign.
Theel was left to wander the town alone, struggling to carry his sister’s limp body, occasionally collapsing, resting, and starting again. It took more than an hour of limping, stumbling, falling, bleeding, and swearing every oath he knew, but Theel was able to find what he sought. Just when he was certain the next time he stumbled would be his last, he looked up and saw a heavy swinging broad board. Lightning flashed, briefly reflecting off the image of a wagon wheel carved into its surface.
Micka’s Wagon Works.
The large, square building that wore the sign appeared like all the others in Dockhaven, with doors bolted and windows shuttered against the wind and rain. There was no light in the windows, causing Theel to fear he’d spent his time searching in vain. He pounded first on the door, then on the shutters. Hearing nothing from within, he slogged around the building where he saw some light in the back, yellow and flickering. This led him to an open-air forge with a meager roof hanging off the back of the building.
Theel walked inside, dripping and shivering, yet thankful for the respite from the rain. He found the yellow light came from a lantern hanging from a mule cart half-filled with wooden boxes and liquor casks. Theel looked around the forge and found more disappointment. There was no fire, no wood, and no tools, just walls covered with empty hooks and empty shelves.
Micka
Dorn was long gone.
Theel carefully laid his sister’s body inside the cart, beside the boxes and casks. Yenia groaned in her sleep, shaking her head and mumbling. Relieved of his burden, Theel sank to the ground, resting his back against a cart wheel.
He sat still for a long time, resting and breathing hard, feeling the crushing exhaustion as it crept in and tried so hard to take him away to slumber. The disappointment was suffocating. The siblings had travelled so far, struggled so hard, trying to keep each other alive, fighting to keep moving forward despite the obstacles. Everywhere they sought aid and safety, they found misery, hardship, and turmoil. Uncle Guarn’s tavern. The Trader’s Cave. The Toden River Valley. And now Dockhaven.
Misery, hardship, and turmoil.
For a moment, Theel had to choke back tears. He was hurting, exhausted, and unable to fight a deep despair from creeping in. His quest was a disaster. But worst of all, Yenia had sacrificed herself to save him, to keep Theel alive and moving toward his goal of Warrior Baptism. Her reward was a deadly fever and possibly death. First, Theel’s father, now, his sister. Theel could not bear to lose Yenia. And he might die of heartbreak if he was the reason she perished.
All Theel wanted was a dry bed, a hot meal, and a fresh horse. But all he found was an abandoned, rain-soaked little town. More people pushed from their homes. More lives wrecked by this war.
Misery, hardship, and turmoil.
Theel shook his head, blinking away his tears. Now was not the time for confusing emotions. Now was the time for decisions. The quest for Warrior Baptism wasn’t supposed to be easy. And Warrior Baptism would never be won by sitting on the ground crying. Theel took a deep breath, wiped his face, and climbed to his feet. He stood over the mule cart, surveying its contents.
Casks and boxes, mostly. Barrels of wine and beer and mead. Theel used his knife to pry the lid off a box, finding several bottles of a brown liquid, corked and waxed. Liquor, most likely. That would have been good yesterday, when Yenia’s wounds were fresh. Now, Theel needed something to fight her fever. Still, these discoveries weren’t all bad. This looked like the cart of a traveling spirit trader. With any luck, its owner peddled more than just libations. Hopefully, he also carried healing tonics.
Warrior Baptism Chapter 3 Page 3
