Warrior Baptism Chapter 4

by Jonathan Techlin

  “Yes, to the north.” The woman raised her cane, using it to point southward, straight at the pile of rubble. “I must find someone to help. Someone who can climb down. I’m far too old to climb down. Far too old to fight zoths. Can you believe I’m almost seventy—”

  “Yes,” Theel said, climbing to his feet. “I will help them. Show me the way.”

  “This way.” The old woman started forward, clicking her cane on the ground, walking as fast as her old legs would carry her straight toward the rocks, toward the jagged edges of the broken stones.

  “Mind your steps, my dear,” Theel warned. “Beware those sharp rocks.”

  “Quickly now. We must help them,” she said, and walked right into the wall of rocks. But she wasn’t hurt, since the barrier didn’t slow her down one bit. She walked right into the pile of debris and disappeared, her body vanishing into a cloud of mist.

  Her voice echoed in the tunnel, fading away.

  “My goodness…”

  Down a Hole

  “Yenia?” Theel whispered, crawling around in the darkness on his hands and knees, searching.

  “Here, brother,” he heard Yenia say. “What is it?”

  “The children are still alive,” Theel said, still searching. “They did not travel beyond this spot. They are in this tunnel.”

  His hand closed over his tinderbox and the unlit torch beside it. A few strikes of the flint and the cloth burned, then the torch burned, illuminating his sister’s questioning face.

  “We passed them?” Yenia asked, climbing to her feet. “How? We’d have seen them.”

  “They’re beneath the road,” Theel explained. “Down a hole.”

  Yenia was shouldering her backpack. “Down a hole? Where?”

  “That way,” Theel said, pointing north. “South.”

  Yenia frowned. “That way is north.”

  “I know,” Theel said, shaking his head. “Never mind. Pitch, wake up.”

  The songman went on snoring, so Theel walked over and shoved him with his foot, eliciting a startled yelp.

  “How did you see where they are?” Yenia asked. “Did you use your Sight? Did you employ the Method?”

  “Yes,” Theel said. “Somewhat.”

  “Somewhat?” Yenia asked.

  “I’ll explain it another day,” Theel said. “Pitch, get up. We must go. There isn’t time to wait for you.”

  The man was struggling weakly to his feet, shaking the sleep away. He bent and picked up his spear, rubbing his eyes. “Is it time for battle?” he asked.

  “Yes, time for battle,” Theel answered. “Quickly. We must go.”

  “Where is my shirt?” Pitch asked.

  “On the ground,” Yenia answered. “You used it for a pillow.”

  “Oh, yes,” Pitch said. “I can be so absent of mind.”

  “Dress quickly,” Theel said. “We must go.”

  “Where are we going, my liege?”

  “The children are beneath the ground,” Theel said. “We must search every bit of this road for a crack or an opening of some kind.”

  “We’ll need more light for that,” Yenia warned. “I made more torches. Perhaps we should light them all.”

  She held two pieces of broken wood—an axe handle and a spear shaft—with strips of green Overlie surcoat wrapped around the ends. It was clear Yenia had been busy making more than just a spear with a moonblade.

  While Yenia was lighting the torches, Theel watched Pitch struggle to don his tunic. The songman moved laboriously, grimacing in pain as he tried to lift his arms above his head. Standing half-naked in the flickering torchlight, it was obvious just how unkind the songman’s recent days had been to him. His flesh was filthy, streaked by dirt and sweat, covered with sores, cuts, and bruises. He was emaciated, a sack of skin with bones and ribs poking out all over. Theel felt a moment of shame as he looked upon the man, seeing the fresh bruises and welts that covered his body, marks made by punches and kicks and whacks from a sword. He didn’t realize how badly he’d beaten the man.

  He couldn’t watch Pitch struggle any longer. He stepped forward and helped him pull the tunic over his head, making sure to get the correct limbs through the correct sleeves.

  “Many thanks, my liege,” Pitch said, smiling as his head emerged.

  Theel cleared his throat. “I can’t have you freezing to death.”

  “You are a truly good and decent liege lord,” the songman added.

  “No I am not. I am no better than you,” Theel replied. “We both owe a penance, and it is time to start paying.”

  “Pitch, take a torch,” Yenia said.

  Pitch accepted the torch with a tentative hand.

  “My liege,” the songman said weakly, “I must confess to you; I am no hero. My deeds often do not match my boasts.”

  “I know that,” Theel said. “You aren’t alone in that.”

  “I am frightened,” the songman said.

  “That’s natural,” Theel said. “This is a frightening thing. Now go. You will lead us.”

  “Excuse my weak hearing, my liege?” Pitch said. “Did you say I will lead—”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I have no doubt you are far more capable in battle,” Pitch said. “Why must I lead?”

  “Because I don’t trust you,” Theel stated. “I fear my back may present an irresistible target for your new spear.”

  “I would never harm you intentionally, my liege,” Pitch said.

  “Perhaps. But I will intentionally harm you if you don’t start stepping,” Theel promised. “Now go.”

  “Very well, then,” the songman replied. “At your pleasure, my liege. To battle it is, then. For the children.” He turned around and began to march north, leading with his spear. “You are gifted at threatening me physically in a most persuasive way, my liege. Well done.”

  “Stay close,” Theel said, holding the torch high. He watched the floor as they walked, examining every inch of ground the torch illuminated. He knew Yenia was doing the same on the other side of the tunnel. If there was a hole in the ground that led under the road, they would find it.

  “See anything?” Theel called out.

  “I see a rat, my liege,” Pitch answered. “Nothing more.”

  “I see nothing,” Yenia added.

  On they walked, slowly plodding forward at a snail’s pace. Theel wanted to move faster, but also wanted the search to be as thorough as possible.

  “Another rat, my liege,” Pitch announced. “A bigger one this time. I’ll handle it.”

  “Keep looking,” Theel said.

  Then, from up ahead, they heard the sound of scraping metal echoing loudly in the silent tunnel. Everyone froze, listening. The scraping continued, metal grating against stone.

  “Is it the enemy?” Pitch whispered.

  Theel didn’t answer, he just began to run toward the sound, holding his torch high. The scraping sound stopped but he continued running, charging into the darkness. Ahead, on the right side of the road, something turned and looked at him, and he saw the eyes reflect the torchlight, glowing in the darkness like an animal. It was something Theel had seen before many times. He wasn’t surprised at all when, as he approached, his light fell across a gnarled, gray face covered with scars and a pair of beady, black eyes with no pupils.

  “Zoths!” he shouted.

  The creature screamed and launched itself at Theel, swiping at his face with a clawed hand, then stabbing with a short spear. Theel dodged and knocked the spear high with his sword, then smashed the creature in the face with his torch. He tried to hit the zoth again, but this time it seized his torch in its clawed hands. For a moment, they wrestled over it. The zoth tried another spear thrust, but Theel knocked the weapon from its hand. Now he had his opening and was about to slice the zoth’s stomach open when suddenly, Pitch’s spear appeared there.

  Just as he’d been told, the songman pointed his spear and ran, burying his moonblade into the zoth’s guts, pushing the cre
ature to the ground. The zoth screamed and so did Pitch, or perhaps he was laughing as he thrust his spear into its chest repeatedly.

  “For House Wicker!” he shrieked.

  Another zoth appeared at Theel’s right hand, apparently climbing right out of the floor. This one was unarmed but didn’t seem to care. It jumped on Theel, scratching and biting, gouging at his eyes. He fell back onto his rear, dropping his torch. He saw nothing but dancing shadows and firelight and lots of teeth. There was hissing, and swiping arms and claws. He pushed against his attacker with his empty hand, trying to use his sword, but it was too large, and the zoth was too close. Another moment of struggling and he felt its breath on his neck, its teeth on his ear, about to bite down and tear it off. But in that same moment, he was able to seize a fistful of hair and jerk the zoth’s head away from his.

  The zoth shrieked at him, gape-mouthed, spraying spittle in his face, but he held it in place long enough to bash it in the side of the head with the hilt of his sword. He hammered away, stripping skin, crushing bone, tenderizing the zoth’s head until the creature’s cries died in its throat, its muscles relaxed, and Yenia dragged it off by the neck.

  Silence fell. It was all over.

  The Mechanism

  “That was close,” Yenia said, smiling. “That one almost had you.”

  “I don’t deny it,” Theel said, wiping blood and saliva from his face with his sleeve.

  “Victory!” Pitch yelled, raising his spear above his head. “We have smitten them, my warrior brethren, for the honor of House Wicker! Your advice was sound, my liege. I pointed my spear and ran, and in doing so, have made the zoth tribes of the Narrows pay for their foul bearing! Victory! Our victory is won! Though I must say, it was quite disgusting.”

  “We may have found your hole in the ground,” Yenia said to Theel, pointing.

  Theel looked, and could see a rectangular hole in the surface of the road. Beside it lay a large rusty grate, the same size and shape as the hole.

  “They were working to move this grate,” Yenia said. “Might this be where the Overlie children went?”

  “It might be,” Theel replied. “There is one sure way to learn.”

  Pitch knelt down, looking into the blackness below.

  “There is a ladder of sorts leading down,” he reported. “Metal rings in the wall.”

  “Climb down them,” Theel said. “I will be right behind you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “There may be more zoths down there.”

  “There may be.”

  “They might try to kill me!” Pitch protested.

  “They might,” Theel agreed.

  “Very well, then,” Pitch grumbled. “I don’t know why I must lead. I am not a soldier. I am but a humble songman, often incompetent, mostly insane.”

  “At least you admit it,” Theel agreed. “Now go.”

  “Certainly, my liege,” Pitch replied. He put his fist to his forehead in a sloppy salute. “This one understands and obeys.”

  He set his spear beside the hole and climbed down into the darkness.

  “What do you see?” Theel asked.

  “Nothing to see, my liege,” Pitch answered, his voice echoing. “But plenty to smell. And more rats. The climb isn’t a long one, however.”

  Theel handed Pitch’s spear down, then climbed in after, followed by Yenia. As Pitch said, the climb wasn’t a long one, only a dozen feet or so, down a series of metal rings embedded in the wall. The rings were rusty and old, possibly a part of the original construction of the Narrows. The climb down took them into a wide corridor that led eastward, eventually disappearing into a darkened archway. The corridor was warm and musty-smelling, with a wet floor and more metal grates leading down.

  “We’re in a sewer,” Pitch commented.

  “A drainage sewer,” Yenia guessed. “The water flows eastward, keeping the western tunnel of the Narrows from flooding.”

  Theel looked into the darkness. He couldn’t gauge the length of the corridor by the torchlight or make out anything but slippery stones and metal grates, and lots of dripping water.

  “Do you suppose this leads to the other tunnel?” Theel asked. “To the eastern half of the Narrows?”

  “I’d wager it does,” Yenia said. “There is likely another ladder just like this one on the other side.”

  “Then the children may be in the eastern tunnel,” Theel said.

  “Hello?” Pitch called out and was met with silence, only the sound of his own echoing voice.

  “We may find them on the other side,” Theel said. “In the other tunnel. Forward, Pitch.”

  “Certainly, my liege.”

  Pitch saluted and proceeded down the corridor, holding his torch high.

  Beyond the archway was another empty corridor leading eastward, but now they could clearly hear the sounds of flowing water. Further on, they came to another archway. This one led into a square room with what looked like a small donkey wheel, the kind Theel had seen a miller use. But this wheel must be turned by the sweat of men. The room was too small for a donkey and the wheel had holes, suggesting poles must be inserted so that workmen could turn it.

  “What is this?” Pitch asked, walking around the wheel, his torch held high.

  “It’s not for grinding grain,” Theel said.

  “It looks new,” Pitch pointed out.

  “He’s right,” Yenia said, inspecting their surroundings.

  The donkey wheel was made of oak hammered together no more than a few years before, and recently sealed with a fresh coat of pitch. The iron grates and torch sconces in the room showed nary a hint of rust, unlike all the others they’d seen to this point. The walls of the other tunnels were composed of stacked bricks of a uniform size and shape, ancient stonework, cut and placed by the hands of men who had been dead for centuries. But this room appeared to be carved with hammer and chisel, designed by a mind with an entirely different idea of aesthetics than the other tunnels they’d seen. The room was a recent addition to the Narrows.

  “Sons of Embriss built this room,” Yenia said. “And this wheel.”

  “What does it do?” Pitch asked.

  “Turn it,” Theel answered, walking across the room, “and you will learn what it does.”

  On the other side of the wheel, Theel found another archway, this one filled with the sounds of running water. He walked through and found a stair leading down. After descending the several dozen steps, he came to a wide doorway blocked by an iron portcullis. The floor was covered with water, inky-black and rippling. When he stepped in, it came up just over his knees. He splashed his way to the portcullis and peered through the bars. He saw a large passageway running north to south, an underground canal of foul water built with the purpose of keeping the Narrows dry. Just like the square room and the donkey wheel, the iron portcullis that blocked his path was much newer than the rest of the tunnel, showing little signs of rust.

  In the opposite wall, beyond the flowing water, Theel could see his torch light flickering upon metal bars. It was another portcullis, a twin to the one which now blocked his path. This confirmed his suspicions. If he could open this portcullis, and the other one across the canal, it would probably lead him to another square room with a donkey wheel, and eventually to the eastern tunnel. He was certain of it. He need only open this portcullis.

  “Turn the wheel!” he yelled up the passageway behind him. “Raise the portcullis. Turn the wheel!”

  “Just a moment,” Yenia’s voice echoed back.

  Theel put his torch in a wall sconce and reached out to grasp the bars. And in that moment, as his fingers made contact, his juy came to life. A blast of cold wind pummeled his brain so suddenly that he shuddered and almost fell. Only his grip on the bars kept him erect. He saw his hands before him, gripping the bars; no longer gloved hands, tattooed or bearing the War Emblem of the King’s Cross, but now the hands of a child. A child of the Overlie family.

  Te
rror struck his heart as the screams of the zoths filled the tunnels. They were up above, on the road, searching for him and his baby sister. It would not be long before they found the hole, the metal rings leading down into this sewer, followed them, found them, and hurt them. Brother and sister huddled together, waist-deep in the cold water, shivering, sobbing. He wasn’t strong enough to console her. He wasn’t strong enough to turn the donkey wheel. He wasn’t strong enough to lift the bars.

  Now the zoths had found the hole. They were coming up the tunnel, shrieking, banging their spears together. Not strong enough to fight them. Now his sister was screaming.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God, please help us, please save us! Send us help! Show us the way!”

  Theel knew the children didn’t die here. They’d passed beyond this portcullis, and so must he. He tried to rattle the iron bars to test their strength, but they didn’t budge. He tried to lift them, but he might as well try to lift a mountain. It was hopeless. How did the children pass through here? He ran his fingers up and down the bars, searching for an answer, and then he knew.

  He felt the stiff iron bars sliding from the left side of his body to his right, crushing him as if he was going through a ringer sideways. He felt the little girl’s pain as she got stuck with the bars on her little belly, but the older boy helped by pulling her through.

  “Of course,” Theel said to himself.

  They were little children. They didn’t need to lift the bars. They simply turned sideways and squeezed through. They crossed the canal, squeezed through the bars on the other side, and fled to the eastern tunnel. The zoths could not follow, not without turning the donkey wheel. And neither could Theel.

  “Turn the wheel!” he shouted again frantically.

  His cries were answered by the screeching of metal on metal, then the clanking of a great chain. The wheel was turning, he knew. He could feel the walls rumbling, counterweights pulling chains over gears, turning screws. And raising the portcullis, or so he thought. But nothing happened.

  He waited, listening to the clanking and rattling and groaning of the mechanism. Something was happening. But what? The portcullis did not move.