Yenia’s words put a sour flavor in Theel’s mouth. “That is not what occurred,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Yenia asked.
“It was a drunken spirit trader with a talent for brewing healing elixirs that saved your life,” Theel grumbled. “It wasn’t some nameless God of the Prophecy who answers prayers with silence, who allowed the weapons of your enemies to pierce your flesh, who forced me to watch as Father was stolen away. God killed Father and he is trying to kill us.”
Every word Theel spoke melted the joy on his sister’s face a little more. He knew his words were unwarranted, but he said them anyway. But then he saw the hurt in his sister’s eyes and immediately regretted opening his mouth. Yenia’s response to his jabs made his regret deepen.
“I took those spears and arrows for you, brother,” Yenia said. “I did it to save your life. Give thanks for that. Do not question it. I could have left you to drown in the Trader’s Cave. I could have allowed you to bleed to death in the Toden River Valley. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that because I would never abandon you. Because I have faith. You may not have faith, but it was my faith that saved you!”
“I’m sorry,” Theel said. But Yenia wasn’t done.
“Stop blaming others for your discomfort,” she said. “Stop blaming God for your failings. Was it he who abandoned you on the bridge? Or was it you who abandoned Father?”
Now it was Yenia’s turn to see how her words hurt her brother. Father’s death was Theel’s emotional weak spot, and Yenia had inserted her blade to the hilt. Theel had a nasty retort prepared, but chose not to voice it. His sister was right.
Theel lowered his head. “I cannot deny a single word you speak.”
He boiled in the silence that followed, the shame of what he had done, how he’d disgraced his father, his family, the knighthood, with his cowardice. And now he pecked at his sister as if it was somehow Yenia’s fault. It was no one’s fault but his own.
Theel took a deep breath, inhaling all of it. He had much to atone for. And arguing about it was senseless.
“Well, there is one thing we can agree on,” Theel offered. “Father would have wanted to slap us for arguing like this. We escaped the city. We stayed together, and we survived. We have much to be grateful for.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Thank you for not leaving me to drown in the Trader’s Cave,” Theel said.
Yenia smiled. “Thank you for paying a drunken spirit trader to save my life.”
Theel heard heavy footsteps behind him, so he spoke loudly. “I haven’t paid the spirit trader yet. I am considering shoving my sword in his back and stealing his booze.”
“I heard that, you dandy jackhole!”
“Where are we?” Yenia asked.
Theel looked around at the forest of blackfir pines above his head and the bed of red needles under his feet.
“I’m not sure,” Theel answered. “Somewhere on the road to Calfborn.”
“Five days south of Dockhaven,” Hoster answered, walking up to stand beside the siblings. “A noondark north of Calfborn. This old spirit trader said he’d take you as far as the Calfborn crossroads. With any luck, we’ll be there in a few hours.”
“Calfborn,” Yenia said with relief in her voice. “We’ll find haven there. Jarcett will shelter us.”
“You know Jarcett the Sentinel?” Hoster asked, his eyes wide. “The famous horse warrior?”
“A friend of our father,” Theel explained. “Yenia knows him better than I.”
“I spent some time with him learning to ride,” Yenia added.
“That is excellent news.” Hoster grinned big. “You must take me to meet him. You must vouch for me; tell him I am an excellent brewmaster who strikes an honest deal.”
“I’m not certain we can tell him that,” Theel said.
“I am going to meet Jarcett the Sentinel!” Hoster boasted. “Rasm is not going to believe this because his head is solid wood with knots all over it. Bartering with you was a good decision for me. I’ve found great friendship and profit, and now I’m going to get Jarcett drunk and he’s going to tell me about how he and his squires charged the lines at Tanner’s Crossing. What is Jarcett’s favorite poison?”
“He doesn’t drink,” Yenia said.
“He’ll start when he sniffs my brews,” Hoster promised. “I sure am tickled ripe I had the fortune to meet you saps in Dockhaven. You both looked ready to die then. I thought I might wait for you to tip over and I could take all your coin anyway. But a few swallows of the finest Oaken Wart walking these roads and now your little girly is upright and full of opinions. I told you we could save her. All we needed was to find some owl scatter.”
“Some what?” Yenia asked.
“Owl scatter,” Hoster said. “You were looking rather peaked for a stretch there. But old Hoster has a cure for nearly every ailment, especially sobriety. But not the stupids. I can’t cure the stupids. Rasm is proof of that.”
“Many thanks for your aid,” Theel said. “We are in your debt.”
“Which is why you will take me to Jarcett once we reach Calfborn and you vouch for my unquestionable good character.”
“What is owl scatter?” Yenia asked.
“Ask your brother,” Hoster answered.
“It’s owl shit,” Theel said.
“But don’t introduce Rasm, because he’ll have the Sentinel shitting pigeons in no time,” Hoster said. “Rasm ruins everything because he is an idiot. He has a log in his brain.”
“As you’ve said many times,” Theel said.
“I’ll talk to Jarcett and I’ll get him drunk and we’ll make a deal,” Hoster said. “You two should pack up. The road awaits. There are stones that need a foot pounding, and we’re the perfect feet to pound them. We should be in Calfborn shortly before noondark, but it won’t happen unless you two stop jabbering and get your boots on. You city sods really talk too much. You need to try shutting your maws once and again.”
Theel nodded. “It’s a real problem we have.”
Hoster turned his back and walked toward his cart.
“You need to temper your urges,” he called over his shoulder. “Less talking. More action. I’ll be waiting by my cart for you to get the pine needles out of your ass so we can get to stepping.”
“Our new friends are very unusual,” Yenia observed.
“Yes, they are,” Theel agreed. “Don’t forget, Hoster saved our lives.”
“I won’t forget,” Yenia said. “There is little about this spirit trader that is forgettable.”
Over by the mule cart, Hoster began waving his arms at Rasm, who sat cross-legged by the fire pit.
“Rasm, you reeking jackhole!” he roared. “Put that book down and help break camp!”
“You break the camp. I’m working on my…ack…runes…ack!”
“Stop that talk. You are not a wizard!” Hoster yelled. “You blubbering idiot.”
“I am a wiz-…ack!” Rasm countered. “You are the one who is a bubble, or whatever.”
“Is Rasm a wizard?” Yenia asked.
“No, he isn’t,” Theel answered. “He can’t speak properly to recite the spells.”
“A runecrafter without runes?” Yenia asked.
Theel nodded. “Hoster will explain if you ask him.”
“I told you to dowse the fire,” Hoster snapped. “Is pouring water on a fire beyond your meager abilities?”
“I’m busy,” Rasm said. “Leave me alone.”
“Brainless idiot!”
“Drunken slob!”
“What caused you to choose these men to travel with?” Yenia asked.
“A scarcity of options,” Theel answered. “Unfortunately.”
“Lumberhead!”
“Fat ass!”
“Should we stop them from fighting?” Yenia asked.
“Don’t interject yourself,” Theel said. “It’s better to let them finish.”
“Give me that,” Hoster growled.
“Let go, you horse’s ass,” Hoster roared.
“It’s mine!” Rasm yelled. “You ass horse!”
Hoster finally won the contest, ripping the book away, but he lost his grip and dropped it. When Hoster bent over to pick it up, Rasm took careful aim and kicked him square in the hindquarters, knocking him onto his face.
“Oh yeah!” Rasm shrieked. “I kicked you in the ass! Ack!”
“They are good people,” Theel added. “Despite appearances.”
“Okay,” Yenia said. “But I have one more question.”
“Yes?” Theel said.
Yenia wrinkled her nose.
“What’s this about owl shit?”
Calfborn Crossroads
Theel knew something was wrong even before he could see the buildings of the town of Calfborn. Strong emotions, his own and those of others, often ignited the juy within him, even when he didn’t wish it. Events of intense human passion, good and bad, fueled his Sight. Theel could not control the flood of sights and sounds his senses brought him, not by closing his eyes, not by covering his ears.
The town had been attacked. It seemed impossible, so far to the south of the Toden River Valley where the Alisters fought for their lives against the Iatan. And yet, Theel knew it to be true. But it wasn’t Iatan soldiers who brought war to Calfborn. In many ways, these attackers were worse. They were the sworn enemies of the Seven Kingdoms, creatures who’d waged a war of genocide against humankind for a thousand years.
Zoths.
Theel’s Sight showed him how the monsters appeared as they rushed toward the town, jumping through the tall grass, spears in hand. Every Squire of the King’s Cross had seen his share of zoths, and Theel was no different. They were short humanoids with dull features, splotchy, gray skin, and large, black eyes without pupils. They had flat, broad noses with slits where their nostrils should have been, but also wide mouths that almost appeared canine, with rows of pointed teeth. They wore crude armor of black iron but remained barefoot, to allow the use of their opposable toes.
The zoths lived in tribes throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but mostly on the frontiers. They were a constant threat, waging war against the people of Thershon since time began. Wherever zoths lived in proximity to any other race, there was war. But they especially loved to kill humans. They never took prisoners, preferring to torture and murder anyone they captured, often extracting as much pain as possible in order to please a deity they called their Blood Goddess.
Centuries before, the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms charged the Knights of the King’s Cross with keeping these monsters at bay. The knights had been largely successful in the heartlands of Embriss and the great northern cities. It was very unusual to see the creatures this far north. Until recently, the region of Embriss south of the western valleymouth hadn’t seen a zoth warrior in decades.
But they were here now, and as always, they chose to announce their presence with war. The creatures came out of the mountains to the south, descending upon Calfborn at dawn. The battle was brief, but decisive. Most of the town’s defenders were slain in brutal fashion. Those who survived wished they hadn’t.
The present was quiet, without a word spoken by the four somber travelers. The only sound was the clinking of mule harnesses, the sloshing of Hoster’s bottle, and the squeaking of the cart’s wheels. But the past was alive with the disharmony of what had taken place on the ground where they walked.
Theel could hear the bloodthirsty screams of the zoth warriors as they charged the defenders, the prayers uttered by the humans as they stared in shock at the attacking horde, some shouting in defiance, others weeping in terror.
Also weeping were the women who were taken as prisoners after the slaughter was complete, along with all the children that could be dragged from under their beds or pried from their father’s corpses. Theel could see these little ones as they were carried off to the mountains. He saw their tear-streaked faces and every pair of terrified eyes as they were taken from their homes to an unknown fate.
Theel was confused by what his Sight was telling him. Zoths never took prisoners; they left no one alive. But these zoths were different. They took as many of Calfborn’s women and children as they could. Why?
Theel looked to the mountains on the southern horizon where the captives had been taken. They were only as far away as eight hours on foot, at the most. Only hours away. Men of faith would know what to do; wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Theel’s father would have gathered knights and squires and ridden day and night, hunting these zoths down. He wouldn’t have tolerated monsters trying to kidnap those he was sworn to protect.
But Theel wasn’t like his father. And there was no one near who was. There were no knights to be found in this country. No knights and no soldiers. Just one terrified squire.
Theel looked again at the southern horizon, staring with sad eyes. His heart ached, speaking a silent apology to the people of Calfborn.
“Theel?” Yenia said quietly. “Are you well?”
Theel nodded to his sister and tried to smile, but couldn’t. He couldn’t wash from his mind the terror he heard in the screams of those children. Without thinking, he loosened his sword in its scabbard.
As the town drew nearer, so did the sounds of her death, the sounds of the battle raging in her streets. It had been one-sided and barbarous, with old men and boys outnumbered, ill-prepared, stabbed and hacked to death, then torn apart by their enemies. Flames roared and women screamed and it all melted together into a single mournful moan as though the town was crying.
In the present, the four travelers trudged on through the streets with quiet resolve, stepping over broken spears, avoiding puddles of blood, listening to the awful joy of the carrion-eaters.
Calfborn wasn’t large, merely a crossroads village; a cluster of buildings gathered around the tower house of the local lord. Three roads met in her center square; one leading north to Korsiren, another southeast to the Sister Cities, and the third southwest to the Narrows. It was in this center square where Theel discovered the fate of those who defended Calfborn.
A well had been dug where the three roads met; the reason for the intersection. The well was the reason why the town grew on this spot, supplying water to the people, their animals, their crops, and to countless travelers who’d passed through over the years. Just beyond the well, at the south end of the square was a large, multi-level inn called the Marigold. Several headless corpses hung by their wrists from the inn’s uppermost windows. This is what remained of the leaders of the town’s defenders.
They were barely recognizable, blackened and bloated by the sun, and picked at by carrion birds. Rasm threw a pebble, scattering a dozen crows to reveal a green surcoat on one of the bodies. It was bloody and tattered, but depicted golden diamonds and oak leaves on a field of green.
Theel recognized the sigil as belonging to the Overlie family of Norrester; lesser nobility, Embriss-born and Embriss-loyal, sworn to the Alisters of the valley. This would explain why Calfborn seemed to be largely unprotected when the zoths came down from the mountains. Most of the Overlie men-at-arms were likely manning the walls beside their liege lords at Korsiren. They must have taken most of the men of fighting age with them, because those who had remained to defend the town were mostly old men and boys. These old men and boys did their best and showed great courage, but they were no match for the bloodthirsty zoths. They were overmatched, overwhelmed, and in the end, devoured.
Theel looked at that green surcoat and felt sadness wash over him. The diamonds and oak leaves filled his vision as his juy exploded to life, bringing all the emotions attached to that sigil. That headless corpse was all that remained of an elder member of the Overlie family, brother to the Lord of Norrester. He had taken three of the youngest of the family to Calfborn to keep them safe from the fighting in the Toden River Valley. He inadvertently put them in
greater danger, trading one threat for another.
At the onset of the attack, he put the two youngest ones on a horse and sent them westward on the road to Ravenwater. Then he rushed out into the street, where he and his men were crushed by the initial charge of the zoths. It was a quick death, and it spared him the torture that was inflicted on many of the others who survived.
Such as the one whose body hung at his side, torn and butchered and barely resembling a human being. This body ignited strong juy, and Theel was unwillingly dragged into the past, where he learned every excruciating detail of the man’s final moments.
He was the only man among the citizens of Calfborn who had a fighting chance against the zoths. He was not a common man, but the rarest of breeds; stout of heart and mind as well as muscle and steel. He stood among the ranks of the mightiest warriors who bore arms in defense of the Seven Kingdoms. He was everything Theel was not. He was a Knight of the King’s Cross.
“Jarcett.”
The grief in Yenia’s voice was thick, and Theel knew why. Jarcett the Sentinel had mentored Yenia for several years during her childhood. Theel’s sister had learned spears and blades from her father, but her training in mounted combat came under the care of Jarcett, known as one of the finest horsemen of Embriss. Yenia was riding with Jarcett when Theel returned with the news of their father’s demise. Now, just months later, Jarcett was gone as well.
The deed was done by the zoth leader, a chieftain of terrifying notoriety, standing seven feet tall with black feathers decorating his head. Stories were often told of the swarms of crows that filled the skies preceding his attacks, as they did on the day Calfborn was destroyed, so thick that their black wings nearly blotted out the sun. It was the origin of the nickname given by the soldiers of Embriss to their greatest adversary, the most fearsome zoth chieftain in the Western Kingdoms. Every squire knew his name, but Theel knew him better than most.
The Crowlord.
This single zoth warrior was responsible for the deaths of countless people, soldiers by the hundreds, and even three Knights of the King’s Cross. One of those knights was Theel’s father.
Warrior Baptism Chapter 3 Page 9
