(Smashing Pumpkins, Tonight, Tonight)

The Arc of Heaven is but a cage,

The Curve of Earth below but a bit of soil,

The sun trapped between them the spark from a smith’s fire.

That is part of a poem I wrote once, though never completed.  I suppose that is best, as I am a horrible poet.  Eloquence has never been my strong point, though I suppose that is to be expected, considering my turbulent upbringing.

            I am called by a number of names, but the one which I prefer is Thomas.  I give no surname, because my family possessed none.  I was simply Thomas Vincent’s Son to the people around me.

            My early years are dim memories, though I remember that I was a weak, cowardly child, who avoided fights as best as I could, and often ran off into the woods near my parent’s cottage—my parents allowed me to keep a cat, which I thought to be one of the most wondrous creatures I had ever seen, though that is an insignificant detail.

            The story I wish to tell is one that began shortly before my tenth naming-day, in early autumn.

            It all began one night, when I was coming home from the forest, and on my way, I met the lord’s knight, and became an orphan.  Afterwards, I needed to ask myself, who I was…but I already knew the answer, for

Prologue: My name is Thomas

 

 

 

 

            Thomas looked upwards, as the veil began to pass in front of the sun, causing it to darken.  He quickened the pace his short legs were carrying him, but knew that he wouldn’t reach the cottage before the sun disappeared completely.

            He was a small boy, and thin.  He was a peasant, from his appearance, though possessing eyes of a striking color—they were so dark as to appear black, but were not dull, instead, they were an odd, fuliginous color.  His dark hair hung nearly to his chin, forming a veil in front of his eyes and covering his ears.

            As he approached the house, he saw a horse tied to a fencepost, a large brown gelding, that stamped its foot when he approached, and turned one disinterested eye his direction before bending over to take a bite of the grass by the fence.

            A man he did not know exited the doorway to the house, cleaning the blade of the bastard sword he carried of some red color.  On his breast he bore a golden insignia, like an inverted ankh made of bones.

            He had lank hair cut in a tonsure about his head, and a mean face.  He was tall enough that he had to bow his head to step through the door, which was built a good six feet off the ground.

            “You are Thomas?” the man asked, as he saw the boy.

            “Y…yes, milord,” he stammered, “I…I was just coming home.”

            The man sneered.

            “D…d…do you always st…stu…stutter like that?  It’s irritating.”

            “No, milord,” he said, with an eagerness to please.  This man was an intimidating individual, and his small, piggish eyes suggested a sort of animal cunning coupled with an innate viciousness.

            “Good.  I’m taking you with me, orders of Lord Vermis.  You are to be my new apprentice, and the future Lord’s Knight.”

            The young boy was unable to say anything—to say that the life of a fighting man and aristocrat wasn’t exiting would be a blatant lie, but who was this man, and why was he here.

            “Yes, milord, allow me to get my things and say goodbye to my parents, and I will come along with you.”

            Thomas began to step forward, towards the cottage, when the knight blocked his way with the red blade.

            “No, my boy, you are never to return here again.  You are to not even think of the prospect.  From this moment forth, you are mine.”

            Thomas nodded, but said nothing, as he looked down at the red sword blade.

 

 

            Three years later, Thomas was a tall young man, with wiry strength in his thin limbs.  His eyes were cold, but not hard, and blacker than the deepest night.  He dressed in black, and bore a silver ankh-of-bones insignia on the left side of his breast, right over his heart.

            Master Loric, the Lord’s Knight watched his apprentice go through the sword forms in the yard behind his small home.  He did not allow Thomas to sleep in the home, instead requiring the young man to sleep in a hovel built in a stand of trees nearby, saying that the boy had to earn the right to be treated like a man.

            “You are striking too high,” Master Loric said, “how do you expect to disable someone if you’re aiming for the gut, and not the groin?  The gut is a killing blow, but to truly put a man out of the fight, you must strike the groin or separate his head from his shoulders.”

            Thomas licked his lips, and turned his head towards his master.

            “It…I don’t know…feels wrong, to be striking an opponent like that, Master.  Shouldn’t a duel be an open, honest affair?”

            Master Loric began to shake his head when he heard the word ‘wrong.’  He had been trying to teach Thomas for three years, and the boy was proving more difficult a pupil than he had anticipated.  His parents had instilled a strong sense of right and wrong into him, which Loric was doing his hardest to undo.

            “If you’re fighting someone…you’ve already done something wrong, Thomas.  There is nothing noble or honorable in the world—there is only victory and oblivion.  If you aren’t victorious, you might as well be dead.  Concepts such as ‘honor’ and ‘openness’ are merely tools used to ruin society…do you understand?  You must shed concepts such as honor to survive.  You aren’t the strongest fighter, and you aren’t the quickest.  However…even one such as you can become the dirtiest fighter.”

            Thomas lowered his sword point, then rested it on the ground, putting one hand on its hilt, while scratching his nose.

            “But, Master, if I fight dirty, will people not despise me and hate me?”

            Loric crossed his arms, and tilted his head.

            “It is better to be feared and despised than loved and adored, Thomas.  Love fails, after a time, but hatred, fear, they last much longer.  One failure is enough to spoil love, but if you fail when you’re feared, it is easy to instill fear once more.”

            “How so?” Thomas responded.

            Master Loric did not respond, but instead pulled his sword from its sheath, and stepped forward faster than Thomas could react.  He first stomped on the boy’s instep, then struck the side of his head with the flat of his blade, and held the point in front of his apprentice’s eye, the well-oiled blade poised like a serpent preparing to strike.

            “…by a sufficient display of strength,” Master Loric responded, moving the blade.

            Thomas shook his head, and sat up, his sword held in his left hand.

            “How do you prevent someone from turning the display against you, though?”

            Master Loric arched an eyebrow.

            “How do you figure?” he asked.

            Thomas struck as fast as he could, with the flat of his blade, and struck Master Loric right in the groin, causing the older man to fall back and squeeze his eyes shut, tightly.

            “You ungrateful little bastard…I’m surprised…there’s hope for you yet,” he said the last with a dry chuckle, pulling himself into a ball around the injury.

 

 

            Another two years, and Master Loric was standing before Lord Vermis and his lady.  Both were of traditional aristocratic blood, having tall, slender builds, and physically attractive features.  The lord had dark hair and eyes, and his lady was as blonde as the barbarians that lived in the cold wastes.

            Loric bowed deeply, with one hand on the hilt of his sword, hanging from his waist, and the other over his ankh-of-bones insignia.

            “Sir Loric the Ruthless,” Lord Vermis said with a nod, “Hail and well met.”

            “Hail and well met, Milord and Master.”

            The lord stood, his sable mantle falling like shadows around his shoulders.  He stepped off of the dais to speak to his knight.

            “About the boy…” Lord Vermis said.

            “What about him?” Loric asked, his eyes narrow.

            “We cannot keep him on as a retainer after you are gone.  He is…ill-suited…to the position, and there have been certain incidents in other Lordships involving knights…”

            Loric’s mouth grew tight as he spoke through clenched teeth.

            “My boy Thom is a good boy.  He would never turn on his Master like a rabid dog.”

            Lord Vermis nodded.

            “I realize this, Loric, but there are certain…stigma…associated with your office.  Knights have been replaced, this is a new era.  You have been replaced by the Seekers, as mercenaries are cheaper to maintain than fighting men.”

            Loric moved his grip down to the sheath of his sword.

            “What do you expect me to do with the boy?  On your orders, I slaughtered his family.  I gave you my loyalty, and all I wanted was a ‘prentice, someone to follow in my footsteps.  Now your telling me that you’re going to do nothing for the boy, and turn him loose?”

            Lord Vermis said nothing for a moment, but crossed his arms.  He was a hand-span taller than the other man, being a true giant, and his stature made him much more imposing.  To look at the two of them would be like looking at a mongrel and a well-bred Greyhound facing off.

            “What do you expect me to do, Loric?  The senate has outlawed your kind—”

            “The Senate?  A moment ago it was social stigma!”

            Lord Vermis sighed, not wishing to have to explain.

            “‘Has’ is not quite the right word.  ‘Will’ is more like it.  I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

            Loric snarled and lifted his left hand, and his sword sheath, from his belt.

            “You are going to do something, damn it!”

            The Lord snapped his fingers, summoning two armed guards to the door.  They leveled halberds at the knight.

            “What if you could…send him to be a Seeker?” Loric asked, wetting his lips.

            The Lord stroked his clean-shaven chin, and looked at Loric for a moment.  A desperate man, and a complex person to boot, he was the picture of a knight before breaking.

            “Very well.  I will send him to the Guildmaster of the Seekers in Grange with a letter.  However, he must travel alone.  Do you understand?”

            Loric seemed confused and shaken, the point of his sheathed sword dropped to the floor

            “What do you mean?”

            Lord Vermis smiled, showing too many teeth for anyone to be comfortable.

            “He will walk the road from here to Grange on his own.  You may not accompany him, and I will send no guards with him.  He will have nothing but what he can carry in a pack, and no more money than a month’s wages, which will—no, must—come out of your pocket.  He is not to be known as a knight-in-training, and he is not to be known as a local of my lordship.  Do you understand?”

            Loric allowed his shoulders to slump, defeated.

            “I will do what I can for him.”

 

 

            Later that Day, Thomas began packing his things.  All he had was a bastard sword, much like Master Loric’s, a pack of clothes, some food stolen from the kitchen, and a bag of copper and silver coins.

            In contrast to the well-made livery he had worn, his clothes were rough-spun woolens, with a tunic belted at his waist by his sword-belt, and long, brown breeches.  He wore simple boots, a peasant’s footwear.  He looked like a peasant boy who was apprenticed to a soldier, or a young anchorite who had found a sword.

            “Now…if someone asks you your name, what do you say?”  Master Loric asked, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette with a striker, and tossing away the burnt stick.

            “I am Thomas Brand.”

            “If someone asks you where you are going?”

            “I am going to Grange to visit my uncle, a poor cobbler, to deliver a message of familial import.”

            Master Loric nodded, taking a long drag off of his cigarette.

            “And you are from?”

            “I am from…” Thomas began, checking the buckles on his bag, to give him more time.

            “The Duchy of Solar, not the Lordship of Vermis,” Master Loric said, pulling the cigarette from his mouth, and touching his exposed upper arm with the burning end of it, causing the young man to yelp in surprise and pain.

            “I am trying to help you, Thomas.  I’ve taken care of you for five years, and I don’t want my only apprentice—who was like a son to me—to be killed because his parents wanted him to be a knight’s apprentice.”

            Thomas, who was facing away from Loric, scowled.  He knew that was a lie, though whenever he began to ask, Loric beat him savagely.

            “I want you to be a league away and walking before the twilight.  Now get out of my sight.”

            Thomas shouldered his pack, and bowed, adjusting the sword on his back to the point where he was comfortable, and turned.

 

 

-Notes:  Just so you folks know, this piece was inspired by a bunch of things—and no, it won’t all be quite this bad (IE:  less bastard-ism.)  The main character takes a bit from several non-traditional heroes, such as Severian from the Book of the New Sun, by Gene Wolfe, and several other sources.

In many ways, he has no innocence.  In others, he is but a child.

I hope to write more of this, but I’d like to see some reviews, if you don’t mind.  So do me a favor…Fscking review, dammit.