by M. T. Miller
Was he doing this during his time in Babylon? A lot of those faithful to the Church had left the city along with the priest. If the cause was unnatural, this explained a lot. But the migrants were not an issue as much as the potential sleepers that may have been left behind. Was Azarian one of them? Or was he just a man with too much ambition for his own good?
The group walked around the nearest of the large tents, avoiding it in a wider arc that seemed necessary. “The women’s quarters,” said a Knight. “Avoid them as if your soul is on the line. Because it is.” The Nameless turned to get a quick glimpse as they passed; as far as he could tell, he was the only one to do so.
Several minutes later, the twelve reached their intended destination: the open field that housed the countless number of smaller tents. Bathed in the brilliant orange of the rising sun, it was already showing signs of activity. Preparing for a day of who-knows-what, the White Knights were slowly getting up and about and outfitting themselves for hand-to-hand mayhem.
“Not much longer, now.” The lead Knight stepped forward and the rest followed. The group passed by the slowly increasing number of their comrades and traversed the field of tents. It took some time, but once they’d reached the field’s center the handlers stopped.
“These four are yours to use,” the lead Knights said. “Three men per tent. You have until noon to rest. Then the sun will heat them too much, and you will have to take to the field.”
“And then?” Greg asked.
“Then the real deal begins,” said the Knight.
Whether that was a good thing, the Nameless did not know.
Chapter Fifteen
Roused by the sound of metal objects striking against one another, the Nameless rocked himself up and almost hit his shaved head on the tent’s inner slope .
Skulls. Spy. Brain mashed, he reminded himself as he looked at his pair of equally groggy tent mates. Greg was there, and another, wirier man. He was probably at the ceremony last night, but the Nameless did not remember it in full. What did that priest do to me?
The Nameless went over what he remembered of his recent past. Nothing seemed different. However, if his memory had been tampered with, how would he know? But he felt no loyalty to the Church or whoever this Holy One was, so that offered some small consolation. The old man takes our memories, then paints them in a different light. This bends lesser minds.
He nodded at his own conclusion. His movement didn’t go unnoticed.
“Dealing with last night, huh?” Greg asked, tapping the side of his head with one finger. “Yeah, been trying to wrap my head around it for most of the morning. Barely got any sleep.”
What did you conclude? the Nameless would have asked, but the third man spoke in his stead.
“Nothing to think about. It’s not about thoughts, but belief.”
“Hey, we’ve all seen what we’ve seen,” Greg said. “No denying that. Just trying to figure out what that was.”
The zealous man turned toward him with a glare like daggers. “That’s the whole problem! Don’t you understand?”
Greg shrugged his shoulders. “What don’t I understand? You’re losing me, brother.”
“That we’ve been given a second chance!” the zealot practically foamed at the mouth. “Like it or not, brother, your life was wasted. As was mine.” Using his thumb, he pointed back to the Nameless. “As was his. Despite the obvious signs, we didn’t believe, so we’ve made this world just a little bit closer to hell. Know what the punishment for that is? Do you? Do you?”
“Eternal torment?” the Nameless asked, upon seeing that Greg wasn’t going to.
“Exactly!” The zealot nodded, alternating between both tent mates. He joined his palms, as if he were holding a small animal. “Like this, the Lord held us from our birth, guiding us to greatness, and just like that, we spat in his face! We’ve pillaged, raped, murdered, and worse. It’s the pit for us; we deserve nothing better.”
Instead of speaking, the Nameless looked at Greg. The zealot’s words were clearly getting to him. This is how it works. Plant the seed, then let it spread to fertile soil.
“Except we were given this.” The zealot took the hood from the side of his bunk, held it up for the rest to see, then put it on his face. “We’ve been told there is still hope for us, despite all the horror we’ve brought to this world. If this isn’t beautiful… if this isn’t grand, then nothing is.” With the hood in place, he pointed a finger at Greg. “This is why it’s about faith. Thinking’s what got us into this mess. Belief will be what will save our souls!”
For several seconds, Greg stared beyond the side of the tent. Then, as if compelled to by an unseen force, he grabbed his own mask and placed it over his face. Not wanting to appear out of place, the Nameless did the same. The racket from outside hit their ears once more. Apparently, wake up calls were made twice.
“The exercise yard,” Greg said, and the zealot nodded.
“Lead the way,” the Nameless said. His head still hurt from last night. If he had been told where the exercise yard was, he did not remember.
The zealot led the way, opening the tent flap and letting the sunlight in. The Nameless covered his eyes in reaction.
“Follow me,” said the zealot as he stepped aside, holding the exit open for his tent mates. “I remember everything.”
Of course you do, thought the Nameless as he and Greg rose and stepped outside. Those who bend easily are apparently agonized the least.
In front of the tent were a total of three portions of food. Before picking up his own, the Nameless looked around and saw almost no one. Aside from the freshly absolved, this part of the camp was almost completely empty.
“Are you lost?” asked one of another three men, fresh out of their own tent. Their hoods only covered their foreheads, their lipless mouths busy with their food as they approached.
“We know where we’re going,” said the zealot, pointing toward the nearby gate.
“Of course,” another man said in between bites.
His own stomach roaring, the Nameless couldn’t resist the temptation. The ritual from this morning had made him sick enough to forget about his hunger at the time, but that discomfort had faded and he was positively famished. Removing his own hood, he tore the wrapping off his portion and started to devour it. Greg had no reservations about following his example, and after a couple of seconds, even the zealot did the same.
“You can move while you eat,” said a Knight who came in from the side. Holding two iron rods, it was apparent that he was the one responsible for their rude awakening.
The zealot nodded as he started walking toward the fence. “Of course we can!”
“Just get on with it,” the Knight said in an annoyed tone. “You’re about to get assessed so your training can continue.”
The Nameless wondered how many lunatics he’d seen in his time here. As time passed after the priest’s ritual, did they grow more rational or more insane?
“Yes, sir!” the zealot shouted with his mouth full, now ahead of the group.
Exchanging glances, the Nameless and the rest followed in his footsteps, still munching whatever it was they were being fed with. Unlike the food from Babylon, this glop didn’t even smell of spice. It was utterly tasteless.
***
As they neared the training yard, so did the sounds of fighting grow louder and louder. Steel clashed against steel as the roar of hundreds of men filled the air. Underneath his hood, what was left of the Nameless’ face contorted into a smile. In a strange way, he was home.
Waiting for them near the barricade fence was a row of white-clad Knights. A lone priest stood out among them, holding a piece of paper and scanning the arrivals.
“Name?” the priest asked once the zealot reached him. The rest were not far behind.
“Kenneth Grant,” the zealot said, prostrating himself before the priest and getting his robe dirty “A devout follower of the Lord and seeker of the Answer!”
“We all seek the Answer, my son,” the priest nodded as he scribbled something. “Yet so few of us find it. You may proceed. Follow the path left, and don the training clothes you will be given.” Kenneth seemed willing to keep talking, but the priest cut him off. “Next!”
“Stanley Lem,” said the Nameless, once again careful of the way he pronounced his words.
“You may proceed. Next!”
“Gregory Baker,” the Nameless heard as he went by the priest and followed the left road. He was led to a medium-sized shed, wherein he was disrobed and provided with a clean pair of underwear, as well as a clean but grayed-out tabard. His hood was taken away as well and filed away alongside his robe.
Over the course of minutes, the same was done to all six of them. Half-naked and with his mutilated face bare again, the Nameless considered what was to come next. The hoods were apparently of no use in the training yard. Are we to be made to fight each other? He looked to Kenneth, who also seemed displeased by the taking of his hood. I would not mind teaching him a thing or two.
“Listen up!” The door on the other side of the shed opened, letting in a gigantic lug of a Knight. “This is your first day here, so you’ll need to be assessed. Follow me, do exactly as I say, and I guarantee that the rest of your day won’t be too unpleasant!”
The Knight turned around, and the six initiates followed him out. As they paced around the humongous training yard, the Nameless feasted his eyes on the sights of glorious battle. Wooden blades colliding with shields. Target practice at the archery range. Men pummeling other men to unconsciousness, as they did in the good old days of Babylon. Even though he was deep in enemy territory, he somehow managed to relax.
“Are we the only Knights you initiated last night?” he asked without thinking. Just as he wondered whether or not he’d crossed a line, the Knight responded.
“Of course not. Others were rewarded for their patience. You lot we chose based on how well you brawl.”
Makes sense, the Nameless concluded, wondering how many rituals Father Light was able to perform in such a short period of time. That, he had the prudence not to ask.
Leading them to a smaller part of the yard, the Knight showed them where to stand, then opened up a large wooden box by the side.
“We’ve seen you fight unarmed,” he said, pulling out a pair of wooden swords and tossing them to the unassuming men. The Nameless grabbed one without a thought. The other weapon ended up in the hands of someone he didn’t know, a young, thin Skull whose limbs seemed unable to find rest.
“You two will go first,” the Knight said as he closed the casket. “The rest, watch and take notes. See if you can do better when your time comes.”
Apparently eager for a fight, the young Skull stood near the center of the mini-arena and pointed his wooden sword at the Nameless, who responded in kind.
It has been a while, he thought as he measured the weapon’s weight in between his steps. The sword was awkward, but he was confident in his ability to adapt. In my hands, one instrument of pain is as good as any other.
“Go!” the Knight shouted, without checking if anyone was ready. The young Skull didn’t waste any time in responding to the cue. Advancing in what was almost a straight line, he swung his weapon with all his might, aiming for the Nameless’ throat.
This is insulting, the Nameless thought as he stepped forward and effortlessly intercepted his opponent’s sword with his own. Now in close proximity, he rocked that same arm forward, slamming his elbow where the young Skull’s nose would have been if he had one. Eyes crossed, the man slumped back, wrestling with unconsciousness for almost a full second before falling over.
The Nameless’ eyes met those of the Knight, whose hood failed to conceal his surprise. In all likelihood, he had never seen anything like that before. And I have a lot more to show, the Nameless thought as he extended the sword up to the Knight, holding it by its dull blade.
“Give it to another,” the Knight said, some composure returning to him. “Alright! Someone move this one out of the circle, and let the next fight begin!”
Not exactly proud of his victory, the Nameless handed his weapon to Greg, who was all too eager to take it. The other sword having been taken by Kenneth, the two men waited for the Nameless to drag the young Skull to a safe distance before taking their fighting stances.
“Go!” the Knight shouted again. He would keep doing so for the rest of the day.
***
Standing in front of a sturdy-looking wooden table, the Nameless chewed on a fresh piece of bread. From what he’d been able to taste, pastry was the closest thing to actual food that the Holy Army had. It even smelled pleasant.
The sun was slowly setting, and faint traces of the moon were becoming visible in the darkening sky. To the Nameless’ left, the training yard was as full of activity as it had been hours ago. These men are not wasting any time. They want war, and they want it now.
To his right, Kenneth was sparring with another new Knight whose name the Nameless didn’t catch yet. The fanatic had recovered quickly after the beating Greg subjected him to, and was already up for another round. The Nameless was not all that interested in seeing him fight again, but observed regardless. It was easier than having to explain his apathy to the Knight in charge.
I did not know I was this good of an archer, he thought as he remembered the target practice they had done an hour ago. After several rounds of beating themselves up with these glorified sticks, the Knight had proclaimed it was time for something else, and whipped out some bows. To his growing confusion, every single shot the Nameless made was a bulls-eye.
“Jesus, you’re something else,” Greg said as he lumbered up to the table, grabbing a piece of something that resembled cheese.
“Do not blaspheme!” Kenneth screamed from the fighting circle, bashing the other Skull square on the head. His body limp, the man collapsed to the ground, limbs twitching.
“Just a little bit harder, and you’d have killed him,” the Knight said. “Show some restraint, or your next opponent will be me.”
Kenneth stepped back, dropping his weapon. “I…” His mutilated mug contorted into an even less human-looking shape. “I—I’ve lost myself to anger!” He fell to his knees, tears trickling down his cheeks. “I beg of you, sir! Forgive me!”
“Oh, calm down!” the Knight said, pointing to the table as he approached the knocked-out Skull. “Get yourself something to eat while I inspect this one.”
Much to the disappointment of the Nameless, Kenneth did as he was told. He joined him and Greg in their meal.
“You don’t need to measure your every word,” Greg said in between bites. “We’re living the apocalypse. I don’t think the old rules apply anymore.”
Whether or not Kenneth agreed, he didn’t say. He was busy chewing his food and not getting himself all slobbery. The Nameless had the same problem, but didn’t join the conversation for a different reason. The bigger the group, the less reasonable its members grow, he realized.
The trainer-Knight slapped the unconscious Skull a few times, causing his eyes to twitch open. With an expression of bewilderment, the man looked left and right. “Where am I?”
“Doesn’t matter,” the trainer-Knight said as he helped him up. “Can you walk?”
“I don’t know,” the Skull said, standing straight but stumbling once he tried to move. “Seems like not.”
“Kenneth,” the trainer-Knight said, almost causing the fanatic to drop his food. “You’re responsible for keeping this man upright from this moment on.”
“As you command, sir!” Kenneth shouted, practically materializing under the stunned Skull’s other arm. The trainer-Knight let go, and the burden now rested solely on Kenneth’s narrow shoulders.
“This should be enough,” said the trainer-Knight as he took the center of the arena. “You’ve all been properly tested, and in more ways than one. Tomorrow, you rise at dawn, and will be given more precise instructions about your role in th
e Holy Army. Dismissed.”
The Nameless swallowed his food, then made sure he wasn’t going to spit anything out before he spoke. “What do we do now?”
“Eat, watch, pray, rest, whatever you like,” the trainer-Knight said. “I assume you’re all tired. Recharge. Starting tomorrow, it’ll only get tougher.”
The Nameless nodded, considering what he would do next. Without any conscious input, his eyes gravitated toward the larger training yard.
Yes. Knowing the enemy was half the battle. He would watch these White Knights as they prepared. He would spar with them, speak with them, and learn everything there was to learn. With the opportunity he was presented, nothing was wasted. Except time, he reminded himself. Sadly, over that he had little influence.
As most of the others went back to the camp, the Nameless walked toward the nearest large arena. In it, nearly twenty people took part in a large melee. Wearing the same training getup as him, these experienced Knights fought as two teams. Their weaponry was still wooden, but came in many types, and some of them even bore shields.
Train as they may, this will not save them against gunfire, he told himself. But as he watched, he realized the point of this whole thing. These men already knew how to fight. A lot of them had spent years out in the inferno of the broken States. No, these games existed to instill discipline. To break in those who went wild after the band had splintered, and to instill some semblance of camaraderie. And whatever it was that Father Light had done, it helped immensely. This was no longer a gang. This was a Holy Army in more than name.
“Thinking of how you’re going to bash their heads in?” Greg asked as he came in from the right.
What does he want from me? the Nameless wondered. “I will leave that to Kenneth.”
“Naw, he can’t do shit,” Greg said, spitting out a piece of something that seemed like bone. “I’ve seen his kind. He’s your regular high school bully. Act big around those weaker than him, but just parrot whatever the bigger kid tells him.”
