Warrior Baptism Chapter 3

by Jonathan Techlin

  “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.

  “I will care for God’s children by showing God’s love.

  “I will guide God’s children by speaking God’s word.

  “I will protect God’s children by wielding God’s judgment.

  “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.

  “I will serve the Lord with all 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.”

  A Wizard Without Words

  By the time Theel finished, the vision of his father was gone. He was alone again, kneeling beside a dark and cold firepit, awash in memories. He looked at Battle Hymn’s hilt, at the ornamental angel with spread wings serving as the crosspiece. Her eyes were closed as if asleep, her golden face shining despite the darkness. She was his father’s sword, a birthright he did not deserve. His father had given him so many things he did not deserve. Theel resolved in that moment that he would not take Battle Hymn to the Dead Man’s Bridge. There was no reason the magnificent sword should be lost when Theel was killed by the Crowlord. He would leave it with Yenia. With Theel’s death, Battle Hymn would become his sister’s birthright. Theel rose to his feet and put the sword back in the cart next to Yenia. It was where she belonged.

  Theel could hear Hoster approaching in the darkness from behind. The old spirit trader tried to be quiet, but his heavy steps fooled no one.

  Theel turned to face him. “Fine evening, master spirit trader.”

  “Fine as they come,” Hoster answered, leaning against the cart. “Those were some fancy words you spoke. You’ve got a heavy heart, my boy?”

  Theel nodded.

  “All is well,” Hoster said. “A man needs a word with his creator now and then. It’s a righteous thing to do.” Hoster touched his chest. “For the soul.”

  Theel nodded again, not wishing to mention his vision. “Yes, it is.”

  Hoster leaned against the side of the cart, clearing his throat. “Your sister is healing nicely.”

  “Yes she is,” Theel agreed.

  “Just like old Hoster promised,” the spirit trader said. “A batch of Oaken Wart and a few days’ rest are the ingredients for a small miracle. Your sister should waken soon, as healthy as the day the Lord made her.”

  Theel smiled. “You’ve earned your coin, brewmaster.”

  “Don’t take much with skills like mine.” The spirit trader winked. “A few hours with a good kettle, a hot fire, and the proper ingredients is all it takes. That will get you a good batch of Oaken Wart for the price agreed upon, and not one coin more. Just be grateful we found some owl shit.”

  “Oh, I’m grateful,” Theel said.

  “A small wonder pushed into old Hoster’s head these past days,” the spirit trader said. “I noticed something about your sister while I was patching her up. She has a lot of ink on her skin.”

  Theel stopped smiling. “Many folks are tattooed.”

  “But fresh young maids like your sister are not,” Hoster agreed. “I’ve been all around these Seven Kingdoms, and I’ve seen a lot of body art. No one has symbols like that on their skin. Your sister wears shirtsleeves, as if she means to hide them.”

  “So?”

  “She seems older than her years.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Theel asked, his voice cold.

  “Nothing bad. Old Hoster may be a drunk, but he’s no fool.”

  “Then old Hoster must know when his mouth has put him on treacherous footing, when his prying has become unwelcome,” Theel suggested.

  “It is possible I should shut up?”

  “It is.” Theel nodded.

  Hoster’s eyes were big. “You’re not going to stab me, are you?”

  “Not yet,” Theel answered.

  “That is cause for celebration, I say,” Hoster declared. “And good reason to change the subject, as you asked. Want to get drunk?”

  “Have I dampened your spirits?” Theel asked.

  “Oh, no. This fat old spirit trader knows when to shut his gape,” Hoster answered. “I just enjoy a taste now and again, and want someone to get drunk with.”

  “Do you really require a partner to aid your effort?”

  “The sins of vice come easier with company,” Hoster said. “Especially my favorite sort.”

  “I’m here to ease your conscience, then?” Theel asked.

  “No, boy,” Hoster answered. “I’m here to ease yours.”

  Theel smiled. “You’ve done that much already.”

  “Glad to know my words bear fruit. However…” Hoster looked up at the stars. “A fine night such as this—crisp smell of God’s creation filling a man’s head, and a variety of the finest brews and potions Embriss has to offer, going to perfect waste right here at this roadside?” Hoster nudged Theel with his elbow. “I may have just the thing to put a smile on your face, my boy.”

  “My answer is the same,” Theel answered. “Drink as you wish. I’ll keep your company as you do.”

  “A fine offer, boy,” Hoster said. “One I’ll accept with thanks. Now, let’s see what we have here. What has this old spirit trader been hauling across all the Seven Kingdoms in his mule cart? We have your standard fermented grape stock, only the best, picked and crushed in the valleys of Sidon. It’ll put bees in your ears quick enough, but this brew is for taste, mostly. I prefer a potion of more…complexity.”

  “Of course,” Theel said.

  “I can see you have an eye for quality,” Hoster said. “Now, the bubblers in this box hold something I recommend highly. A seraphim tonic with ground cockbird leaf and a hint of dale berries, best served warm. Takes the scratches away, my boy. That may be your drink.”

  “With your thirst, it’s a wonder these wares ever reach market.”

  “Do you mind moving your sister’s leg?” Hoster said. “There’s a hell of a concoction under there.”

  “I’d prefer to leave my sister’s sleep undisturbed.”

  “Oh, hell,” Hoster said. “We always have the pig swill.”

  He held up a corked bottle full of dark liquid.

  “This is the foulest liquid you will ever taste,” Hoster explained. “This stuff is strictly for the drunk who’s burned the taste off his tongue years ago.”

  “Like you?”

  “Or someone like me,” Hoster said. “Yes, sir. Me and pig swill are old friends.”

  “I don’t know of a liquor called pig swill,” Theel said.

  “I don’t either,” Hoster said. “I forget every time I drink it. But I learn again. Then I forget. That’s why I drink the stuff.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Hoster twisted the cork free, sniffed the bottle, and grimaced.

  “The smell will make a God-fearing man question all things holy,” he explained. “But it sure enough knows its purpose and sets right to it. Two pulls on this and you’ll be pounding the scatter hammer.”

  “You’ll be what?”

  “You’ll be really shit-faced.”

  “Oh,” Theel said. “Sounds terrible.”

  “Horrible is what it is,” Hoster said. He took a swallow, coughed, and wiped his mouth. “Lord save me from myself. I think it’s burning a hole in my gut. My eyes are watering because I love it. I’m weeping tears of joy. Ugh! This stuff is terrible.”

  Theel smiled. “Terrible?”

  “Horrible is what it is.” Hoster took another swallow, and coughed a
gain. “Are you listening?”

  “I’m trying,” Theel said.

  “What shall we discuss this fine evening as old Hoster’s vision blurs?” The spirit trader took another drink, tapping his chin with his finger. “Since the subject of girlies with tattoos is unwelcome in certain company, would you like to hear the reasons why me and Rasm were banished?”

  “You were banished?” Theel asked.

  “Yes, but it’s a secret,” Hoster said. “I’ll never tell you why. So don’t ask me. Let’s talk about why you are traveling to the Dead Man’s Bridge. No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  “This conversation is becoming difficult,” Theel said.

  “You must be going there to finish your knight’s quest,” Hoster suggested. “Warrior Baptism, right?”

  “I never told you I was on a knight’s quest,” Theel said. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I heard Rasm say it in his sleep,” Hoster said.

  “How does Rasm know?”

  “He heard Yenia say it in her sleep,” Hoster answered. “So why are you going there? What is your knight’s quest?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “Fine,” Hoster said. “Do you want to know how me and Rasm got banished?”

  “No.”

  “One more sip and I should be drunk enough,” the spirit trader said, taking a giant gulp. “This is a sad tale, and the telling pains me. I love this stuff. It’s awful.”

  “You are drunk already,” Theel suggested.

  “I am?” Hoster looked around, confused. “Well, so be it. Lamentations such as mine are best faced while…um…”

  “Pounding the scatter hammer?” Theel guessed.

  “Exactly!” Hoster barked. “You understand. I drink to forget. My tale is sad. And my boy Rasm is the reason. He is a real lumberhead.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “You ever listen to him talk?”

  “I have.”

  “It’s a curse on me trying to listen to that nonsense every day,” Hoster said, sloshing his bottle. “It’s God’s thanks to me for being a no-good drunk, for drinking too much pig swill, to saddle me with a boy who talks a fool like that. You know why he talks like that?”

  “No, I don’t,” Theel said.

  “He got us banished. I’ll never tell you how. It’s none of your business. So listen close, because I’ll only say this once.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know how he tells everyone he is a wizack, uh—wizard?” Hoster said softly. “You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll never tell you,” Hoster said. “It’s because he really is a wizack—uh, wizard. He’s a wizard.”

  “He is?” Theel asked.

  Hoster dropped the bottle to the ground with a thud and a clink, where it fell on its side and began to spill out. “Curse the hell, these things!” he said, bending down. “Damn cheap wind-blown bottles. A swallow or two and it’s the same as squeezing a greased frog.”

  “Rasm is a wizard?” Theel asked.

  Hoster straightened, wiping the bottle with a handkerchief. “Who said that? Did I say that?”

  “You said Rasm is a wizard,” Theel said.

  “I’ll never admit to it,” Hoster said. “You’ll never hear me talk.”

  “I’ll never hear you stop talking,” Theel corrected.

  “He was a wizard. But not anymore,” Hoster explained. “He lost his wizarding. Can’t spin Craft runes if you can’t speak. He can’t get a straight word out from under that fat tongue of his. He ruined himself.”

  “How did he ruin himself?”

  “He lost control of a spell. He was trying to weave a rune that was beyond his skills,” Hoster said with a sigh. “He blew himself up.”

  “That’s terrible,” Theel said.

  “Horrible is what it is,” Hoster corrected.

  “But why were you banished?” Theel asked.

  “Rasm spent some time training with the Keeper of the Craft in the Hall of Seven Swords,” Hoster answered. “I told the Keeper my boy’s head is full of lumber. The Keeper wouldn’t listen.”

  “That is a great honor,” Theel said. “Only those who exhibit true talent are chosen to train with the Keeper of the Craft.”

  “For once in my pathetic, booze-soaked life, I was proud of my boy,” Hoster said, smiling. “He had Craft runes at his fingertips. He was writing them on the air. After only a few weeks, the Keeper had him bending light, making a spark by rubbing his fingers. Once he made pebbles roll across the floor by looking at them. He had a gift. The Keeper said he had a natural connection to one of the elements.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one where he sets fire to everything in sight, including himself,” Hoster said.

  “Flame Bringers?”

  “Or something,” Hoster said. “They told me Rasm was special, that he would serve the king one day in the royal palace, or in the army as a War Crafter. But all that’s gone now. The Keeper threw my lumberhead boy out of the tower.”

  “For losing control of a spell?” Theel asked.

  “For blowing himself up,” Hoster said. “And for being a lumberhead.”

  “Did Rasm anger the Keeper?”

  Hoster choked a bit, spit out some brown liquid and coughed hard. “Did Rasm anger the Keeper?” he said between coughs. “He had the Keeper shitting pigeons. That boy never met a man he couldn’t make a sworn enemy after an hour of conversation. Even his dear, loving father. The sun never sets on a day where I haven’t wanted to belt him across the head and leave him for dead somewhere. I did that once, but he came back and found me.”

  “I’ve never seen the Keeper of the Craft angry,” Theel said. “He’s not the sort to untemper.”

  “I saw him untemper for certain.” Hoster took another drink. “He was really damned untempered. He was shitting a flock.”

  “A flock?”

  “Of pigeons,” Hoster said.

  “Why?”

  “The spell Rasm tried to cast was forbidden,” Hoster said. “The Keeper can’t allow his students to spin whatever sorcery they wish. He forbids them certain magics until they can properly draw the runes.”

  “What spell did he cast?” Theel asked.

  “A language spell,” Hoster said. “He wanted to talk to animals. Humans weren’t enough for him. He wanted to squeak like a chipmunk, and that’s what he got.”

  “The spell is why he speaks as he does?” Theel asked.

  “Exactly. You understand,” Hoster confirmed. “The spell went wrong and ruined his words. He can’t cast spells because he can’t speak.”

  “Was the Keeper unable to fix Rasm’s words with Craft?”

  “He didn’t even try,” Hoster answered. “He just threw my boy out the window like a brown head of lettuce.”

  “Where in the tower was Rasm when he did this?” Theel asked.

  “I know why you’re asking that,” Hoster said. “You’re hoping he wasn’t in the Spire of the Oxiagot, where the Keeper keeps Hemani’s Paradox. That’s what you’re thinking about.”

  Theel rested his forehead in his palm. “He was in the Spire of the Oxiagot, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “He was near to Hemani’s Paradox, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was,” Hoster answered. “My boy doesn’t try a forbidden spell just anywhere. He tries it in the very same room as Hemani’s Paradox. He was within arm’s reach.”

  “Within arm’s reach of the most sacred magical artifact there is,” Theel groaned. “Did he damage it?”

  “At this moment, the lumberhead is not hanging upside down in some filthy dungeon somewhere, so I figure he didn’t damage it,” Hoster said. “But they told me he destroyed everything else in the room.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes,” Hoster said, taking another drink. “A bunch of old books and scrolls, and even the Keeper’s journal. All gone up in a whirlwind of fire.”
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  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes,” Hoster said. “Burned his face off. Burned his hair off. Knocked some teeth out of his head. You’ve seen him. He even put the flames to another wizard who tried to help him. The Keeper was shitting a storm of pigeons. Especially because of his journal.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Horrible is what it is,” Hoster corrected. “Now you know why we’re walking the roads again. We had a wonderful life, short though it was, living in the great city of Fal Daran. We had a pleasant little room in a pleasant little corner of the Hall of Seven Swords. But no more. Rasm tried to mix up a spell that was beyond his reach, a language spell. And now he can no longer speak the language of magic. He can’t even say the word ‘magic.’ He chokes on it every time. That’s how you lose your wizarding, my friend. That’s how you become plain.”

  “I’m sad for him.”

  “Don’t be sad,” Hoster grunted. “That lumberhead is to blame for his own suffering. He did it to himself because he’s a horse’s ass.”

  “You told me.”

  “He still says he’s a wizard, like he don’t remember what he did,” Hoster said. “But he knows he did it to himself. He knows the Keeper could have fixed his words. I think the Keeper left him this way as punishment. I think Rasm’s not hanging upside down in a dungeon somewhere because the Keeper figured squeaking like a chipmunk and losing his magic is punishment enough.”

  “It probably is.”

  A Drunken Spirit Trader

  Hoster took a pull off his bottle and looked up at the stars, licking his lips. He sighed.

  “Now you know why we are walking the roads,” Hoster said. “We didn’t have the protection of the Keeper anymore and got dumped out with the garbage. I could have earned us a living in the city, but the sun worshippers were making the streets dangerous. This fat, old spirit trader wasn’t anxious to see the inside of the Witchfinder’s dungeon. Old Hoster cherishes his freedom. And his life.”

  “Of course.”

  “So here we are, pounding the stones for a living, sweating under the sun, shivering under the stars,” Hoster explained. “The road life isn’t bad. I look for dumb saps like you who are easily parted with your coin. Rasm searches for a cure to fix his tongue and bring his magic back.”