It was too much for Theel’s stomach to withstand. The smell hit his nose, the rank of death and rot flowing forth from that hellhole of a well. The boy was marinated in it. Theel managed to control himself for a small time, but now that control was gone.
Theel fell to his hands and knees, trembling uncontrollably, crying, screaming in horror.
He knew the others were looking at him in confusion, unaware of what he was enduring. They didn’t understand. No one could. No other person was made to feel all the pain, suffering, and despair of hundreds of dying people as if it was his own. He felt the zoth spears slam into his chest. He felt his flesh melt as he was thrown into a fire. He saw his son screaming for help, held down by cackling zoth warriors as they sawed his feet off at the ankles. He saw his daughter’s throat slit, felt his baby ripped from his arms, saw his grandmother hacked to death.
He began to vomit. He couldn’t stop himself. It was how his body and mind attempted to cope with the horrors of Calfborn, as if he could purge his spirit of these poisonous memories as he purged his stomach. Oddly enough, it seemed to help. He vomited until he was certain everything had left him. Then he vomited bile. Then he heaved and groaned and coughed and wept.
It was shameful. This wasn’t the behavior of a Squire of the King’s Cross. His burden was so great, and yet it was his own. He was expected to bear it without complaint. His masterknight expected no less. And he must expect no less of himself.
It was time to stand up, his father would say. “The Lord does not put any greater weight upon your shoulders than he knows you can carry. So even in moments of weakness such as this, you must find your strength. You must stand up, carry the weight you’ve been given, and choose to do the right thing, with faith in your heart that this is the Lord’s will. Be strong.”
Theel spit out the last of his fear and doubt, then wiped his mouth.
“Theel?” he heard Yenia say.
“I am fine,” the squire replied, forcing the words out despite the pain in his throat.
Then he pushed himself back to his feet. His knees were shaking so much he feared he might fall down. But he’d done what was necessary. He’d faced the horror, soaked up every bit of the darkness, and though he didn’t maintain his calm, he didn’t run away, either. He stood his ground and faced it. And now it was clear what he must do.
“You can do this, brother,” Yenia encouraged. “You must try.”
“I understand more than you know,” Theel responded, still staring at the boy. “I must take this step. I must face it.”
Theel was listening to himself say these things. It was his voice, but they were the words of his masterknight. The words of the King’s Cross. The words of the Knight’s Creed.
I will care for God’s children.
I will guide God’s children.
I will protect God’s children.
Theel walked toward the boy, his father’s knife in hand.
“Someone in this town is going to live,” he proclaimed. “Someone in this town is going to live.”
Theel knelt down at the Overlie boy’s side. He took the broken spear tip in one hand while using the other to dig into the boy’s chest with his father’s knife. After a bit of wiggling, he was able to pry the bloody iron out of the wound and press two of his fingers inside. He pushed them down through the soft, slippery flesh, past the ribs, until he could feel the weakened tremors of the boy’s heart against his fingertips. Then he closed his eyes.
To heal. A skill beyond the abilities of all but the most proficient practitioners of the Juy Method. It required the highest level of awareness, the highest level of personal control. It required a juy priest to walk the realm of his own mind with the same calmness and certainty of a man who traveled the waking world. He must have no fear, but he must also have no courage. He must have no sadness, but also no joy. He must forsake all wants and needs. He could not hunger or thirst. His body must have no need of rest. He must find his pure self, the center of his being, what some called the psychic nexus. It was the well of his living force, the place from which he drew his psychic power.
It was his juy. His juy made his soul. His soul made him a living man.
The boy was dying because he was nearly drained of his own juy. His life force was bled from him when the zoths defiled his physical form. His juy flowed out from his many wounds, mixing with the well water, and now pooling on the ground beneath him. The boy’s juy was gone. It could not be recovered. And without it, he would die.
But Theel could replace the boy’s life force with his own. This was the process of healing. Theel could hear the whispering voice of the Keeper of the Craft, instructing him on the art of healing, the manipulation of the body by joining life forces. He’d heard these instructions a thousand times as he practiced, as he tried to learn.
“Healing another by giving your juy is a very dangerous process, to be undertaken by only the most gifted priests of the Juy Method,” the Keeper had said. “Unless perfect concentration is maintained, the flow of life force may become irregular. The healer might give too much juy, or too little. If the healer does not maintain perfect control over his body and mind, he could even take juy from his patient inadvertently. This could result in death—for the healer, the patient, or both.”
Theel had tried so many times, but constantly failed. He’d lost control of his juy again and again, sometimes with terrible results. The last time he tried to heal someone, he killed them. That must not happen this time.
Very slow, shallow breaths. Heart beating heavily. Theel took that first tentative step. Reaching out with his thoughts, he sought his psychic nexus, striving to hold the power, to give it to the boy in an even flow. Not too much, or too little. Without losing control.
And just like the slow turning of a spigot, he felt the juy come. A very gentle flow, growing heavier, filling his body with warm, sizzling ecstasy. He had it. Just the right flow. He smiled. And breathed. And felt the weak heart flutter beneath his fingertips. It fluttered, and stopped.
No heartbeat.
“Don’t panic,” he whispered softly, his words thundering in his own head. “Still alive. Still a chance.”
He directed the flow of his life force directly into the boy’s heart. A steady flow of drops, hot, golden life, dripping out of him into the boy. Drip. Drip. He could feel the drain, feel his own heart thudding heavily under the strain. Drip. Drip. His head began to pound, then it began to swim. A hot buzz filled his ears. Drip. Drip. He was giving too much of himself, but he wouldn’t turn it off. Not yet. The boy’s heart would beat again. Drip. One more. Drip. Theel’s vision failed. Stars exploded in his brain.
Drip. The boy’s heart wasn’t beating. Drip. The boy’s heart wasn’t beating.
Theel felt the wound in his chest slowly reopen as if the point of a knife was sliding through his flesh, just as it did back in the Trader’s Cave. He had experienced this before. He was giving away too much juy and was reinjuring himself in the process. This couldn’t continue, or both patient and healer might perish. He must regain control.
But he couldn’t. Theel felt his confidence slipping away, just like his juy. Doubt weighed him down like a heavy blanket. He was going to fail again, he knew it, and another would die by his hand. It was like he was lying in the bottom of a grave, and the consequences of his failure were hitting him in the face like shovels of dirt.
No, not again. He refused to give up.
Heal! Theel’s mind screamed. Heal! But wishing did no good. His tenuous grasp was torn loose, and he instantly knew both he and the Overlie boy were at the mercy of the magical connection between them. Sadly, he knew this feeling all too well.
The flow of juy into the boy increased dramatically. The rush of so much life force leaving all at once was too much for Theel’s body to withstand. Every wound he ever suffered in his life peeled open painfully, from the largest gash to the tiniest cut. Blood burst out of his stomach. It ran in tiny rivers down the side of his head. Br
oken bones that were healed years ago now crackled and shattered once again. Blood leaked into his eyes, turning his vision red. It filled his mouth and ran down his chin. The pain was overwhelming. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. His juy continued to flow uncontrolled, emptying his body, leaving nothingness within him. A black, skeletal hand reached in to fill the void.
This is how it felt to die.
So be it. There was a blessing hidden within this curse. Theel may lose his life, but only because his juy gave life to another. He was at peace with that. This innocent boy deserved to live. Theel was an impotent fool who deserved to die.
“Please, God,” Theel whimpered. “If you are real, please answer my prayer. Do not let me die in vain. Allow me to give my life for this child.”
Theel didn’t fight his end. He tried not to struggle, tried to relax as he felt the last few drops of juy leave him. He breathed out, allowing his lungs to empty themselves for the last time.
Suddenly, the Overlie boy’s eyes fluttered open, looking around in shock. He turned his head and looked at Theel.
“No,” the boy said. “You must let me die.”
The Wrong Man Died
Theel heard the screams of crows, thousands of them. And the shrill cries of zoths. An army of bloodthirsty monsters marched under a sky darkened by black wings. They were coming for him. And he was terrified.
“Save yourself,” the Overlie boy insisted. “Leave me.”
“I can’t,” Theel stammered. “I can’t leave you.”
“Go south,” the boy said. “No matter what happens to me, you must go south to seek the truth of the prophecy.”
Startled by these words, Theel pulled away. He looked down and saw that the tattoos of the King’s Cross striped the boy’s arms. On his chest, the boy wore a damaged knightshield with a hole in its center. Theel realized he was no longer in Calfborn. He was in a different time and place. The most terrible time. The most horrible place.
He was on the Dead Man’s Bridge, the day his father died.
The Overlie boy was gone. Theel now looked upon the face of his masterknight, who looked back with pleading eyes. The knight knew he was dying. He wanted his son to flee, to save himself. But Theel would not go.
Save yourself! The knight’s lips mouthed. Leave me!
It was a direct order from a masterknight to his squire, but Theel ignored it. He would not leave, not when there was a chance he could save his father’s life. Theel knew he was making the wrong decision. But what was the right decision?
Theel had relived this terrible day countless times. It was a vision that ruined each day, assailing him at his lowest emotional moments. It was also a nightmare that ruined each night, shocking him to wide-eyed, sweat-soaked wakefulness. He knew he was dreaming, but couldn’t keep himself from living it as if it was real. He knew what was about to happen, but couldn’t stop it. Yet he always tried, and by his actions, forced himself to relive his greatest shame.
He tried, every night, in his dreams. And he failed, every day, in his dreams.
Theel placed his hands on his father’s chest.
No! The knight’s silent eyes begged. Leave me!
Theel couldn’t bear the sight of his once powerful masterknight lying helpless. So he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. It was extremely difficult. The zoths were everywhere, screaming their joy at the sight of their helpless prey. Spears began to strike the ground all around the fallen knight and his squire. Some of the iron points came within inches of Theel’s flesh. But he must ignore it. He couldn’t move or he would fail. He couldn’t even flinch, even though he was terrified.
“Dear God, please,” his words hissed between clenched teeth. “Please don’t allow me to fail.”
He felt the connection between him and his father begin to flow. Hot, liquid juy, the essence that fueled life, rushed out of his body and into his masterknight. The squire’s prayer was answered, and he could see his masterknight’s wounds begin to close. He was succeeding!
“Thank you, Lord,” Theel gasped.
He closed his eyes again, refusing to see the horde of evil monsters that were coming toward him. They were climbing down from the top of the bridge. They would attack him one at a time, but their numbers would never stop. In only minutes, Theel and his father would be surrounded by an army. But he mustn’t care. He must maintain concentration. He must keep his hands on his father’s chest.
“Thank you, God,” he said again. “With you in my heart, Lord, I cannot fail.”
The point of a zoth spear slammed into the side of Theel’s head, knocking him over. At least, that is what he thought happened. He felt an impact as if he was struck in the head by a blacksmith’s hammer, and he felt the world spinning all around him, slamming him the face, then in the back. He came to rest on his belly, his face looking at the stone deck of the bridge and the pool of shiny, red liquid beneath him.
He pushed himself to a kneeling position, looking around, confused. What was this place? What was happening to him? A zoth screamed in his face, covering his cheek with spittle. The feeling of his sword in his hand reassured him. But he still didn’t know what was happening. He slipped in a pool of black blood and fell on his face. He realized he was lying next to a zoth he’d just killed. But there were more of the creatures, and he needed to reach his dying masterknight. More spears zipped past him. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward his father.
He stepped over a wounded zoth writhing in agony with gaping chest wounds. Did he do that? What was happening? Only one thing mattered. Theel fell to his knees at his father’s side. Once again, Theel placed his hands upon his father’s chest.
“Please, God,” he whispered. “Do not abandon me.”
Zoth spears continued to cut the air, hissing past his ears, their wooden shafts clattering on the stone bridge all around him. But they didn’t touch him. He maintained his concentration. He felt at peace.
Once again the connection was made, and Theel began to give his life to his father, a slow trickle at first, then a steady flow.
“I can succeed now where I have always failed,” he breathed. “Thank you, God!”
Another zoth spear punched him hard, this time in the stomach. That was a fatal wound and Theel knew it. The invasion of iron sitting in his guts was pure agony. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move without making the pain worse. His brain screamed to get the weapon out of him, but he fought the urge. He didn’t remove his hands from his father’s chest. He continued to give his life away even though blood poured from his body.
Then he saw his father standing before him. This wasn’t the broken, dying man lying on the ground. This was how his masterknight appeared when he was young, healthy, and vibrant.
The younger version of his father looked at him and said, “Leave me, son.”
“I can’t,” Theel tried to say, but he coughed blood instead.
“Theel, you must leave me to die.”
Theel shook his head. “I can’t,” he repeated. “I can’t leave you.”
“Go south without me. Seek the truth of the prophecy.”
“Never!” Theel spat. “I am nothing without you.”
“You must learn to live without your masterknight.”
“I can live without my masterknight,” Theel said. “I can’t live without my father!”
Another zoth spear slammed into Theel’s body, shocking him like a lightning bolt. Now he was lying on his back, unable to see anything, unable to hear anything. But he could smell the death on himself. And he could feel the hot blood covering his skin.
He took one spear in both hands and pulled it out. Then he did the same with the other. Whatever blood was still in his body was now leaving as fast as it could. Theel knew he couldn’t run away now, even if he wanted to. His body was now as damaged as his father’s. But it only made him more determined than ever. He would give everything left that he had, drain himself completely so the great knight would live and the cowar
dly squire would die.
Now the Keeper of the Craft appeared, standing beside Theel’s father, his blazing battle staff in hand. The Keeper was quiet, his face filled with sadness, and Theel understood why. The Keeper knew what was about to happen just as well as Theel did.
But even though Theel knew, he couldn’t stop himself from repeating his mistake. He crawled to his dying father’s side. He placed his hands on his chest, and he prayed.
“Please, God,” he whispered. “Do not abandon me. Save my father.”
“Our Lord always answers the prayers of his children,” the Keeper said. “But it may not always be the answer we desire.”
“I won’t leave him!”
“You are only harming yourself,” the Keeper said.
“I don’t care.”
“Theel, you can’t change what happened,” the Keeper said.
“Yes I can,” Theel said. “God, where are you? Why have you abandoned me?”
“Faced with nothing but terrible options, you chose as best you could,” the Keeper said. “You must forgive yourself.”
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“I can change it. I can fix it,” Theel insisted, tears dripping from his eyes. “God, please change it. Please fix it!”
“It can’t be fixed,” the Keeper said. “It can’t be undone. All that is left is forgiveness, and redemption.”
“No!”
Theel was desperate to give his life for his father. He threw the connection wide open, attempting to drain his body of life force, trying to force his father back to life by giving up his own. It was something the Keeper had warned him never to do, but he didn’t care. He would do anything to save his father. That was the moment Theel lost control. He felt the flow of juy reverse, felt all the life force he’d given begin to flow back into his own body.
“What is happening?” Theel cried.
“An inexperienced healer who is also wounded must never attempt to give life to another,” the Keeper said. “The body’s thirst for life is insatiable. The flesh must heal itself.”
Warrior Baptism Chapter 3 Page 11
