Warrior Baptism Chapter 1

by Jonathan Techlin

“Yes,” Theel said, unable to keep tears from watering his eyes.

  Guarn took another drag on his cigar, saying nothing.

  “Do you understand, Uncle?” Theel whined. “It is my fault my father is dead!”

  “Theel,” Guarn said. “He is not dead because of you.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Yes, I do,” Guarn replied. “Did you shed his blood? Did you stick your sword in him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then he is not dead because of you,” Guarn insisted. “A zoth killed him, not you. And we won’t talk of this any more. Whatever happened is done. I forgive you. The Knighthood has forgiven you.”

  “No, they haven’t.”

  “They haven’t?”

  “They blame me,” Theel said. “And they are right to do so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…” Theel stammered. “They…”

  “Theel has been ordered to undertake a quest to win back Father’s honor,” Yenia interjected. “He will pursue Warrior Baptism.”

  “Warrior Baptism,” Guarn stated. “The squire’s rite of passage?”

  “That’s right,” Yenia said.

  “Warrior Baptism is the path to knighthood, yes?” Guarn said. “The squire faces a series of trials, conquers them, and wins his silver shield?”

  “Yes,” Theel muttered, still staring at his shoes. “That is what I face.”

  Guarn leaned forward, touching Theel’s hand.

  “Why are you saddened?” he asked softly. “You’ve spent most of your life working toward the goal of Warrior Baptism. This was your father’s dream.”

  Theel breathed deeply, his jaw quivering.

  “I’m saddened that Father’s dream has died by my hand,” he explained. “I will never be a knight because I will not survive this quest. The knighthood has ordered me to go back to the place where Father fell and avenge him by killing the zoth who defeated him. They know I cannot do this. They know they are sending me to my death.”

  “Then why would they send you?” Guarn questioned.

  “They know what I did, Uncle,” Theel said. “They know my guilt. But despite this, they are giving me a chance to mend things.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is an opportunity for which I am grateful,” Theel explained. “I have brought disgrace upon myself and my masterknight. The knighthood has given me a chance to right those wrongs by dying as I should have the first time.”

  “How can the knighthood want your death?” Guarn asked. “How can you be grateful for that?”

  “Squires who fail as I have are not given a second chance,” Theel explained. “They are released from their oaths, never to march under the King’s Cross again. An exception has been made for me, only because of Father’s status among the knighthood. They can’t allow his name to be disgraced by me. My actions have put a black mark on my masterknight’s legacy, and only an honorable death will erase it.”

  “That is not true, Theel,” Yenia interjected. “The Keeper of the Craft gave you this quest, not because he expected you would fail, but because he believed you would succeed.”

  Theel smiled at Guarn. “Do you hear my sweet sister’s words? She has always been honey-tongued, trying to convince me there are no clouds overhead.”

  “Your sister is right,” Guarn said. “You should listen to her.”

  Theel shook his head. “Neither of you understand,” he said. “This is an honor, not a punishment. I can restore my masterknight’s honor by dying. If I do this, Father’s name will once again be remembered with reverence. The stories will tell of his triumphs, not the cowardice of his squire.”

  Guarn shook his head, taking another drink from his mug.

  “I often thought the knights drove themselves to madness with their zeal,” he grumbled. “Your father was infected with their mind sickness. Now it is clear to me you are as well.”

  “This is the right thing,” Theel insisted. “I do this happily.”

  “Your brain has leaked out of your ears,” Guarn snorted. “If you wish to be killed, you don’t need to leave the city. There are plenty of the Witchfinder’s swords walking these streets who will oblige you.”

  “I know that, Uncle,” Theel said.

  “I’ll wager the only way you managed to evade them is they are looking for someone else,” Guarn said.

  “Who is that?” Yenia asked.

  “Two men, a squire and his brother,” Guarn said. “They were spotted leaving the Hall of Seven Swords this morning. It has the whole city whispering, nosing around in every shadow, looking to collect a pair of heads. The city guard is out looking. So are Kile’s men, and the soldiers of the Witchfinder. Boots have been stomping up and down these streets all day. I’d hate to be either of those men, two mice in a city of cats.”

  Theel and Yenia exchanged meaningful looks. Then Guarn’s good eye widened in fear.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle,” Theel said softly.

  “No, Theel,” Guarn said, shaking his head. “Please tell me you are not the squire they are looking for.”

  Theel didn’t say anything, only nodded his head.

  Guarn looked at Theel, then at Yenia, confusion on his face. “But they are looking for a squire and his brother. Two men.”

  Yenia looked irritated. “I cannot help the poor vision of the Witchfinder’s soldiers.”

  “Pardons, my niece,” Guarn said. “But each bit of tidings you speak is more dire than the last.”

  “It matters not whether Yenia is recognized,” Theel said. “She is not the one they want.”

  “Why have you brought this to my doorstep?” Guarn asked. “Why didn’t you just go off on your quest to die and leave me out of this?”

  “We need your help, Uncle,” Yenia said.

  “We need to leave this city,” Theel added.

  “I know that,” Guarn said. “So why haven’t you?”

  “The Witchfinder has ordered the western gates locked up,” Yenia explained. “He has a heavy guard on each of them, checking the people coming and going.”

  “They are looking for followers of the King’s Cross,” Theel added. “We have no hope of sneaking through.”

  “So the Witchfinder has blocked the way to the west,” Guarn said. “And the Iatan Army is blocking the way to the east.”

  “Yes,” Yenia stated. “We’re trapped.”

  Guarn thumped the bar top with his fist. “Damned fools! Now is not the time to be barring the gates. There is already a food shortage, and the Iatan are bringing a siege. They’ll have us trapped within our own walls, starving like beggars!”

  “Not us. We won’t be trapped,” Theel said. “Because you are going to show us the way out.”

  Guarn scowled. “How do you mean?” he asked, as if he already knew the answer and didn’t like it.

  “We can’t go east and we can’t go west,” Theel said. “So we will go south.”

  Guarn’s scowl deepened. “There is only one way south.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Theel said. “We must leave by way of the Trader’s Cave.”

  Guarn thought for a moment, taking a large drag of his gnarled cigar. “That’s the way of smugglers and thieves.”

  “Then the way of smugglers and thieves is the way we must go,” Theel said. “I beg you to show us the way.”

  “It is true I know the way.” Guarn scratched his chin. “I know the route to the underground rivers of the Trader’s Cave, and I know people who live and work there who can give aid. But you must know what awaits you. The Trader’s Cave is a dangerous place.”

  “I understand, Uncle,” Theel said. “But we can’t stay here. We are mice in a city of cats. You said so yourself.”

  “Yes, you are right,” Guarn agreed. “I am eager to help you be away from all this madness. But I ask something in return. You do for me as I do for you. You will soon learn that is the law of the Trader’s Cave.”

  “Anything f
or you, Uncle,” Theel said. “Just ask.”

  “Promise me you will survive your quest for Warrior Baptism,” Guarn said.

  Once again, Theel dropped his eyes to the floor. “I can’t promise that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I must die to restore Father’s honor. It is the only way.”

  “Is that so?” Guarn asked. “What if you survive?”

  “I won’t,” Theel stated.

  “But what if you do?” Guarn pressed. “Won’t your masterknight’s honor be restored and his dream fulfilled, with his son wearing the silver shield of a knight?”

  “That won’t happen,” Theel retorted. “This quest is beyond me.”

  “Wipe that shit off your lip,” Guarn growled. “Lift up your face and look at me. This is your uncle talking.”

  Theel met his uncle’s gaze, but only grudgingly.

  “Stop whining like a whipped pup,” Guarn said. “Your father wouldn’t tolerate it if he was here, and neither will I. I think your sister is right. The Keeper would not assign you a quest expecting it to kill you. He is sending you to avenge your father because he believes you will do it. Now you need to believe it, too, or I won’t help you.”

  “You don’t understa—”

  “Yes I do!” Guarn barked. “I understand well. You blame yourself for your father’s death. I know that is difficult to overcome, but this quest is how you will overcome it. I will not spend my work smuggling you out of this city so you can lay down at the feet of some zoth chieftain. If you want to die by steel, you can do it here in Fal Daran without the bother of a knight’s quest. Just give yourself to the Witchfinder and leave me out of it.”

  Theel sighed. “Anything else to say?”

  “Yes,” Guarn said. “I know what it takes to make a squire. It is not for weaklings. Knight’s quests are given only to the best. You can do this. You will do it. You will face that zoth, ready to give him your best fight. Do you hear me? Promise.”

  “I promise, Uncle,” Theel said. “I will do it for you.”

  “Not for me,” Guarn said. “Do it for yourself. Do it for your masterknight. Your father gave his entire life for his children. Every action he took was with you in mind. He wanted you to be the best. Honor him!”

  “I will, Uncle,” Theel said. “I will honor him.”

  “He gave you his best,” Guarn pressed. “Now give him yours. Make him proud.”

  “I will do my best, Uncle.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” Theel said again.

  “That is what I wished to hear,” Guarn said, satisfied. “I will show you the way out of the city. If you promise me to do all you can to fulfill your quest, I promise to do all I can to aid you.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Theel said.

  “We won’t forget this,” Yenia added.

  “You mustn’t tarry,” Guarn said. “We must do this quickly.”

  He spent a few moments rummaging around behind his bar, cursing under his breath. Eventually, he found what he was looking for and plopped a burlap sack on the bar top. He began stuffing things into it.

  “Water and cider,” he said as he worked. “Bread and cheese. Some cooked eggs. Just enough to get you through the night.”

  Then he held up a piece of wrinkled parchment.

  “A map,” he said. “Follow the instructions carefully. If the Witchfinder’s soldiers are looking for you, they may be watching the known entrances to the Trader’s Cave. This map shows a route that is…lesser known.”

  “Thank you,” Theel said again.

  Guarn produced an inkwell from behind the bar. He dabbed a feather pen into it and scratched a large X on the map.

  “I have a boat stashed to the north of Barter Town,” Guarn said. “My boys use it for smuggling. Take it and paddle your way south. No one should question you as long as you appear to belong. So remove the expensive armor, cover up your tattoos, and don’t show anyone that damned glove.”

  Theel nodded. “I understand.”

  Guarn continued writing in the lower corner of the map. His script was crude, and difficult to read upside down, but Theel tried to make it out anyway. Guarn wrote several names. Theel recognized three of them.

  Damasaar the Saint of the Temple of Evosk.

  Kildsa the Craftworker of Dwelthia.

  Barzil the Blood Axe of Ebon South.

  “Trust these names,” Guarn said. “These are good and trustworthy people who can lend their aid. They are loyal to the King’s Cross, respected your father, or are friends of mine. And they will not betray you to the agents of the Witchfinder. Do not hesitate to find them if trouble is chasing you.”

  “We will seek out these allies once we are free of Fal Daran,” Theel promised.

  “One more thing,” Guarn said. “You will be walking some very dangerous roads. You might never return to Fal Daran. And even if you do, the Iatan could storm this city any day, destroying this place as they did the Eastern Kingdoms, leaving nothing here for you to return to.”

  “What are you saying, Uncle?” Theel asked.

  “I fear we may never meet again.”

  Guarn sat back, staring into the darkness, his face very sad and very tired. “Anything might happen after today. The three of us know as well as anyone that death is never far. There is something I promised your father I would do, and this may be my last chance to do it.”

  “What is it?” Theel asked.

  Guarn didn’t answer with words. He dropped his still smoking cigar into an ashtray, then pushed himself to his feet, his knees creaking louder than the floorboards. Then he shuffled away with stiff legs and a bent back, disappearing into the darkness behind the bar. He was gone for many minutes, but when he returned, he carried something long and thin, wrapped in a dark-colored blanket. He set it on the bar top in front of Theel, then retook his seat.

  “I must give you this,” Guarn answered. “It is something I’ve had for safekeeping for many years.”

  He reached out and unfolded the blanket, revealing a sheathed sword. The lantern light danced and flashed across the weapon’s hilt as he pushed it across the bar top toward his nephew.

  “You know this weapon,” Guarn said.

  Theel’s eyes were wide and staring as he nodded in acknowledgment. It was the most magnificent sword he’d ever beheld, with a golden hilt fashioned to resemble an angel with her wings as the crosspiece. The angel’s golden skin captured the light of the lantern and multiplied its effects until her face sparkled like sunlight on the water. And as he sat, transfixed by her beauty, Theel remembered the name that was given her:

  Battle Hymn.

  As magnificent as her hilt was, it was the blade that made Battle Hymn so extraordinary. Forged from the rarest, unbreakable steel, it was lighter than wood, but harder than diamonds. Shadowsteel, it was called, named so for the tricks it played on the eyes as the ripples of folded metal constantly shifted in color with every movement of the blade. The process by which shadowsteel was created had been lost since before the Sundering of the World. There were but a few dozen examples of shadowsteel in all the Seven Kingdoms, but precious few as splendid as Battle Hymn.

  Theel sometimes found himself wondering what fate had befallen the sword. He hadn’t seen it in years. It was worth several lifetimes of the king’s work, and could have been traded for enough coin to buy his uncle the finest inn of the city forty times over. Yet it seemed his uncle had chosen to keep one of the finest weapons in all of Embriss hidden away in his filthy little tavern with the leaky roof.

  And now the sword was here again, gleaming, just as she had in Theel’s childhood memories. She hung on the wall of his uncle’s home throughout his childhood, always a few inches above his straining boy’s fingers. Now it was within his grasp. He need only reach out and take it.

  “The sword of your father,” Guarn said. “I know how you admired it all those years, but were never allowed to touch it. I knew one day you would come to
me as you have today. I knew on that day, I would give you this sword.”

  Theel didn’t take his eyes from his father’s weapon. “Thank you, Uncle,” he said softly, his voice full of reverence and sadness.

  “It is time you carried Battle Hymn at your side,” Guarn said. “She is your birthright.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. I will care for her.”

  Guarn nodded his head, pleased. “Then she will care for you,” he said. “Take her with you on your quest. Look at her every day, and remember who you are, where you came from.”

  “I will, Uncle,” Theel whispered, struggling to push the words past his lips as he blinked away tears.

  Guarn smiled. “And when you find the zoth that slew my brother, I want you to stick this sword right in his chest!”

  “I will, Uncle,” Theel laughed, trying to wipe away his tears. “I promise!”

  Then Guarn raised his mug. “To our futures.”

  “To our futures,” Theel echoed. “To yours and mine.”

  “Right now we drink together as a family,” Guarn said. “We must use these last few moments we have to make merry and be grateful for one another, for the Trader’s Cave awaits, and with it, an uncertain future.”

  “To the quest,” Yenia said. “To Warrior Baptism.”

  “To Warrior Baptism,” Guarn agreed.

  Theel smiled and raised his drink.

  The three mugs clinked together and everyone drank. When Theel pulled his mug away from his face, his eyes were drawn to his father’s sword, particularly the golden hilt and the angelic face there. It was said Battle Hymn could see into your soul and reflect it back to you through her eyes.

  Theel wondered what she saw in him, and felt some shame knowing that whatever she saw, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to honor his father. It wasn’t enough to be a knight. He’d come so far, but had so much farther to go. And there wasn’t time to complete the journey.

  Theel looked into his mug, seeing his own reflection rippling. Who was he?

  Who are you?

  He would know the answer to that question soon enough. He would find it through Warrior Baptism. And Warrior Baptism awaited him at the place of his father’s death.

  Theel looked back to Battle Hymn. It felt as if, through her eyes, his father was still watching. Could his masterknight see him? Did he understand the feelings that tormented his son’s heart?