The Initiation

The gangly knight threw himself on top of Gilvantes, slamming the boy onto the deck of their rickety wagon. Three crossbow bolts punctured his back. He gasped but instead of words, blood escaped his lips. Within moments, he was motionless, just like the four vanguard footmen.

A whistle pierced the silence, followed by the squelching of boots drumming the muddy roads.

“Press!”

“Find the prince!”

“He’s mine!”

What few defining moments in his brief decade and five years flashed past him. The passing of his mother, the holy blade of Skyrend favouring him with its divine radiance, his father naming him the successor of the Holy Empire, and now, one quarrel away from joining the dead knight on his way to the Goddess, Urzu.

Gilvantes had barely known him beyond the official accounts. Wodan Borwengail, a Mengot man, Knight of Twin Thunder, hero of the northern campaign, the oldest Walthurian Knight in service—until now.

Throughout their journey to investigate disturbances on the northern borders, Wodan had prattled about everything as if Gilvantes was his grandson. When not singing a sea shanty from his inexhaustible repertoire, he would dive into the minutiae of catching, seasoning, and cooking purple tuna. Whenever the prince asked about battles, however, he defaulted to an evasive “I don’t remember that well”.

But for now, Gilvantes had a more immediate concern owing to Wodan’s death. For a boy who grew up flipping pages of dusty tomes and strumming the lute, the corpse proved impossibly heavy. After much writhing, he freed one arm and reached for Skyrend, a blade he could barely lift, let alone draw. For the first time in his life, Gilvantes found himself wishing he had callused hands like his two brothers.

Wrapping his fingers around the lacquered pommel, Gilvantes dragged the heavy sword towards him. The scraping of metal on wood triggered a chorus of barking. Hounds. Within moments, a piercing pain shot up his leg. Panicking, he kicked at whatever was gnawing on his shin. That was when Skyrend glowed. Then came a familiar voice with an unfamiliar urgency.

“Get up, my prince!”

And up he got. Brushing aside Wodan’s corpse, Gilvantes flipped to his feet and drew Skyrend in one motion. It was as natural as tying his boots or buttoning his shirt. Surprised, he looked down at the short sword, as blue and bright as a sunny sky.

“Down!”

A salvo of bolts sped past his ears. Gilvantes did not give the bandits a chance to reload. Bursting out of the wagon, he skewered the first man he could reach. A gush of crimson heat splattered onto his face. Before the corpse could even touch the ground, he kicked a hound half his size, catapulting the beast into a tree.

The remaining bandits dropped their crossbows for blades. Their fingers had barely tickled the hilts when Gilvantes was upon them. An azure flash accompanied the sweeping slash. Eyes frozen in permanent shock, the pair fell with two wet thuds.

Incredulous, Gilvantes looked to Skyrend. The blade remained a pristine blue. It felt like he had slashed air. Furthermore, were people always so sluggish?

“Stay sharp, my prince. We must get off the main road.”

Gilvantes spun around. “Who's there?”

“Why, it’s me, Wodan, my good prince. Have you forgotten me?”

“Wodan?” asked the prince, still turning his head in search of the voice. “But you’re dead!”

“I’m as surprised as you are, my prince,” the old knight chuckled. “But here we are.”

Gilvantes returned to the wagon and collected the scabbard. The moment he sheathed Skyrend, heat coursed through his body, drenching him in sweat. His heart pounded like the drummers on galleys inspiring the crew into a ramming manoeuvre. Slowly, he turned his head towards the slain bandits.

He puked.

Trembling, he leaned upon the side of the wagon, held Skyrend as a girl would her favourite doll, and wept.

He shut his eyes, seeking the sanctuary of happier memories. Plucking random harp chords from his mother’s lap. Flipping through the Walthurian Demonicon while evading exasperated wetnurses trying to enforce his bedtime. Painting the rainbow parrots perched outside his window—a raindrop struck his forehead, yanking him back to reality.

Sniffing, he set aside Skyrend and climbed to his feet. As he smoothed his fur coat, he found the entire left half covered in blood and for a moment, his hands froze. Some of that was Wodan.

“Don’t forget the sword, my prince. I live here now.”

Gilvantes jumped. The sword was glowing again. “Wodan?”

“What I’d give to be young again,” bellowed Wodan, cackling. “Haven’t fought like that in five decades.”

“You’re… taking this rather well.”

“Well, I am dead.”

Gilvantes laughed despite himself and scooped up the divine sword. After much awkward coat smoothing and shoulder shrugging, he finally fastened Skyrend onto his back. It was heavy. But now, that weight meant safety.

“Let’s go,” announced Gilvantes. “Where to, Wodan?”

“My prince—”

“I’ve been meaning to say,” interrupted the prince. “Can you... drop the title?”

“I could try.”

“I can hardly behead you for disrespect, now, can I?”

Wodan roared with laughter.

“Gil,” said Gilvantes. “It’s what... family and friends would call me. And you are a friend.”

“Understood my—” Wodan caught himself. “Gil.”

The first day was miserable. The blood on his coat had aged into a coppery brown, leaving umber crusts on his fur collar and cuffs, trading the stinging scent for caked wool that chafed his wrist and chin.

Wodan’s guidance only worsened his mood. Traversing the northern wilderness, he spent every step of the journey hacking away at the nettlesome thickets. He soon learned that the brambles were every bit as sharp as the hound fangs that bit his leg. Come nightfall, he snared a snowhare. The pale rabbit, dangling from a branch, squealed and thrashed.

Drawing a knife, he attempted a half-hearted stab at the critter, which only caused it to flail even more violently. Gritting his teeth, Gilvantes seized the snowhare by both its ears, turned away, and slit its throat. He squirmed as he skinned and gutted the animal, leaving his hands sticky with slime and blood.

His mood improved dramatically after birthing a bonfire. Very soon, the aroma of bubbling fat had his stomach grumbling. Like a feral beast, he sank his teeth into the gamy meat. Wiping the hot juices dribbling down his chin, Gilvantes licked his hands. Crying, he took another bite.

Fed and well rested, Gilvantes pressed eastward at a brisk pace. He began developing a keen sense for the snowhares. Three days into his journey, Gilvantes was trapping them unassisted. Feeling rather jubilant, he found himself joining Wodan in discordant duets.

“Hear the waves, Gil?” asked Wodan, glowing. “Once you follow the goat trail up this hill, you’ll see the ocean.”

Gilvantes perked up. “Is it anything like the Walthuria Canal?”

“You’ll just have to wait,” replied the knight, chuckling. “My village is further right of the hill. Our folks should keep you safe.”

The mention of safety turned Gilvantes’s attention towards something he had avoided for the last few days.

“Wodan, who were those assassins?”

“Don’t know.”

“Not even an educated guess?”

“Dangerous to assume.”

Gilvantes abandoned this topic, choosing instead to focus on finding purchase on the hill that turned out to be more of a cliff. After several half slips and heart-stopping jumps, he finally conquered the goat trail, giving him with a view he’d never forget.

The boundless blue shimmered, stinging his onyx eyes. A briny zephyr he could almost taste tossed about his black locks. The white waves lapped at the creamy beach, rumbling with the rhythm of a lullaby.

“Wow,” marvelled Gilvantes. “I doubt anybody would notice if I emptied the entire canal into that.” Lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he searched the shoreline. “And is that your—Wodan, what’s that smoke?”

Wodan flashed in alarm. “Trail to your left. Move with caution.”

Descending back into the woods, Gilvantes made for the billowing smoke. The smell of burning timber grew thicker as he drew near. Fire had reduced several houses into smouldering heaps. In the distance, the ceiling of a sizeable hall—presumably the town centre—had completely caved in.

Following Wodan’s advice, he crawled closer and peered through the thicket. A horde of hooded men marched brazenly in the open, lighting hovels on fire as they passed.

“Could he be here?”

“Where else could he be?”

“If we don’t find him—”

“Less churning, more burning.”

A lone defender, with a pair of great axes crossed before his bared chest, kept his distance. Slow and deliberate, he retreated, ignoring the jeering and taunting of the invaders.

Gilvantes reached for Skyrend. “Wodan, ready?”

“Wait, Gil,” replied Wodan. “Let us defend our own home.”

Gilvantes frowned. “But he’s out—”

The defender smashed his axes together. Axemen sprang out of nearby houses with bloodthirsty cries, hacking down several of the raiders before they could react. Instead of breaking, however, the bandits regrouped, collapsing onto an isolated local.

Gilvantes watched the ensuing melee with clenched fists. A villager fell to a chest thrust while another lost his arm. Yet, for every fallen defender, there were two to take his place, swinging their axes with double the savagery. The bandits, huddling back-to-back, continued their stubborn but increasingly feeble resistance as they dwindled. Eventually, after much fighting, cursing, screaming, and bleeding, all the raiders lay dead. The village had won an ugly victory.

“Why, Wodan?” demanded Gilvantes, furious.

“Because help will not always be around. It’s how it was, and how it always will be.”

“They didn’t need to die.”

“You’re right. Had they a tighter formation and pincer, they would’ve taken no casualties. Now stay alert, those bandits couldn’t possibly have collapsed our town centre.”

Gilvantes roared. “Wodan, you—”

“Who’s there?”

With raised arms, Gilvantes emerged from the thicket, coming face-to-face with the local militia. Though they differed in age, build, and attire, they all had the hallmark blue eyes of the Mengot, and axes dripping red.

Their leader did not put away his axes. Instead, his eyes scoured every detail of Gilvantes until the prince felt naked.

“Mattis, my boy!” boomed Wodan. “Mattis—oh, he can’t hear me. Well, that’s Mattis, the brat that stole my darling girl.”

“Who are you?” demanded Mattis in a deep baritone, resting a hand on his axe.

“I’m Gilvantes Godblade, third prince of—”

The militia exploded with chortling.

“Good one,” said Mattis. “Lie again, and I’ll have your head.”

“Mattis,” ventured Gilvantes. “Wodan tells me you’re his in-law.”

This response generated a completely different kind of euphoria. The villagers overwhelmed him not with axes, but questions. Did he know Sir Borwengail? How did he come to know Sir Borwengail? Where is Sir Borwengail? This continued until Mattis shouted them down.

Mattis lowered his axe. “How do you know my name?”

“Wodan told me the militia captain’s name,” lied Gilvantes. “I assume that is you.”

Mattis narrowed his blue eyes. “Then you are a friend of Sir Borwengail?”

Gilvantes nodded.

“Then you are a friend of Northshore,” concluded Mattis. “Enter, Gilvantes Godblade.”

Bowing his head in thanks, Gilvantes followed Mattis through when a long, unearthly howl assaulted their ears. The local militia froze, turning to their destroyed town centre.

“Gil,” Wodan came in. “Draw Skyrend, now.”

The prince was glad he did not argue. As soon as he freed the azure blade from its sheath, a black hound the size of a house reared its head, shrugging off the masonry. Gilvantes recognised it immediately. It was the creature on the first page of his favourite book: Blightfang.