Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Arc 6: Chapter 10: The Second Day

“You must convince him to stop this.”

I sighed without slowing my pace. “You know he won’t. Besides, why don’t you do it? You and the steward have been his councilors for years.”

The Royal Clericon, whose real name was Candice Fletcher, struggled to keep pace with me. She wasn’t a young woman, nor in the best health.

“Would you stop!?” She insisted.

Suppressing a growl, I did and wheeled on her. Pale and silver haired, the Emperor’s scribe was an almost ghostly woman in her gold-trimmed white habit and silky veil, though the glint of anger in her eyes made her seem more solid.

“You and I shouldn’t even be seen talking,” I told her sternly. Not least of all because I’m not certain you’re not a traitor, I added to myself. I was dressed as the Headsman then, on my way back from delivering a report to the royal box. The brief errand cost me time, and I needed to get my tourney armor on and get down to the field for first muster. The sun was less than hour risen, and already the stands were filling.

I was tired. My injury and half a night spent trying to calm a terrified, demon-possessed vampire had taken their toll. Catrin had slipped back into her shadows before sunrise, leaving me a scant few hours for troubled sleep. I worried for her.

“We’ve tried. But he heeds your warnings, Ser Alken. You personally knew the man responsible for planning this tournament.”

I folded my arms, uncomfortable with the mention of Lias. “What of it?”

“Fear what?” I asked, somewhat mollified by the worry in the old scribe’s eyes as she trailed off.

“Without Master Hexer, we do not understand this phenomenon well enough to act appropriately if something goes awry. There’s a bloody hurricane brewing out there, for God’s sake!”

Almost on cue, a rumble of bitter sounding thunder all but shook the corridor we stood in. I winced.

It would be all too easy if the tournament could simply be canceled, but doing so would anger the lords and make the Emperor look weak. He couldn’t afford that. Candice knew it, I knew it, and Markham knew it.

“What do you suggest?” I asked. “Besides calling the tourney off.”

She considered a moment. “First of all, we should send the commonfolk back into the city. They’re adding to it, and it might delay the effects.”

“That’s not going to go over well with the commons,” I noted dryly. “They’re as hungry for blood as anyone.”

“Better than them being swept away by the sea,” the cleric stated icily.

I nodded. “Suggest it to the Emperor, tell him I thought it prudent.” Then after more thought I added, “Tell the Empress first. She’ll help convince him.”

It clearly didn’t appease the old woman, but she bowed and departed. That left me standing alone, with one more thing to fret over. Just one more day. If everything went to plan, we wouldn’t need to worry about the third.

My eyes were drawn to a flicker of movement at the end of the hall, opposite the way the Royal Clericon went. A man stood there. I approached him. He wore the elaborate, flaring garments popular with merchants from Bantes. Only, instead of sporting garish colors as many bantesian traders preferred, his were all in shades of gray.

He regarded me with a flinty smile, the same one he’d offered during our brief encounter at the Backroad Inn, inside the Keeper’s private room. His teeth were the color of old iron.

“Ser Headsman.”

“Devil.”

The crowfriar placed a hand to his heart, playacting at hurt. “So uncouth! And I thought we’d been getting on well.”

“I will never get on well with your order.” I inhaled slowly, finding my calm. “But I’m tolerating the lesser evil. Are your people ready?”

Ostanes grimaced. “I’m afraid I’ve run into some… complications.”

“What complications?” I growled.

“To put it simply…” The elegant man showed his palms, revealing subtle burn scars on his fingers not dissimilar from my own. “My brothers and sisters do not trust you. We understand your spat with the Vicar was somewhat… personal, but even still. Many see you as brazen and uncontrollable, and fear you’re luring them into some sort of trap.”

He drew a thumb across his neck. I noted an old scar there. A rope burn.

“Your realm touts itself on the containment of demonkind,” I said darkly. “There’s one here. You would turn a blind eye? I know Vicar and Oraise were hunting it.”

To be fair, I reminded myself, that was before you drove them from the capital.

He nodded indulgently, adjusting his toadstool hat. “Yes, well, we are still on the back foot in this land. Understand, we must take each case with due caution. So, you have me. I know the rites, Headsman, don’t you fear.”

“If you cross me…” I warned.

Ostanes held up his hands again. “I would much prefer to be owed a favor than vengeance, trust me. Just call for me when I’m needed.”

With that, he tipped his hat and seemed to dissolve into the shadows. It was far creepier than what Catrin or Emma did, like he disintegrated into the darkness. All he left was the subtle reek of sulfur.

Show off. Even as I glared at the space he’d occupied, I knew my anger wasn’t all with the devil or his flippancy.

Did this cross a line? I knew it did, but…

The gloves were off, and I wouldn’t risk failure for the sake of staying untarnished.

Emma was not around to help me get my gear on, so it took time to array myself in Lady Faisa’s gifted armor and all its accoutrements. The room felt eerily silent without company, dank and uncomfortable. The distant, dull noise of the storm and the crowds felt like a constant admonition to hurry. The flocks of gargoyles outside kept most stray ghosts away, but some of the more dogged ones glared at me from the room’s darker corners.

Fully clad in blackened steel and dark blue cloth, I tested the hole Siriks had put into my breastplate. Not good, but no time to have it fixed. I pulled my surcoat over it, laced the garment, then tucked the bundle of hyacinths into my heart protector. May as well play the role completely.

Finally, I turned my eyes to the weapon racks. My attention passed over six different options before I realized I stalled.

I looked at the weighty two hander set central amid the collection. Sighing, I stepped forward and reached out with a gauntleted hand to brush the gray steel.

No fits. No visions. Not from that much, anyway. I took a moment to admire the piece. It was a claymos, the same breed of war blade I’d used during my time as Rosanna’s champion. Five feet of Urnic smith craft from the U shaped pommel to blade tip, it acted more as a cavalry weapon than an infantryman’s, designed to leverage the speed and strength of a chimera to chop riders off their beasts, or even cut down the beast itself.

Not that the impracticality stopped me back then. I’d wanted to be a champion, a hero, and I’d chosen what I’d thought of as a champion’s weapon. I’d poured all my will into mastering it, into having the strength to defend our trio and its goals.

I was stronger now, more honed than I ever was back then. And yet…

It was a gorgeous weapon. Faisa Dance didn’t keep anything that wasn’t a work of art. There were intricate engravings worked into the blade above the hilt. The crossguard sported a split design, curving back toward the blade like unfurling wings, or perhaps abstracted horns. While the blade was steel, the hilt’s metal had been heat treated to give off a brassy hue, the same technique used by the Fulgurkeep’s guard.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

It stood there on its rack, as though in expectation. Taking a deep breath, I lifted my hand, turned it, and closed my fingers around the grip.

I waited.

And—

The vision came like a storm. I wasn’t in that storage room beneath the Coloss anymore. I was—

Burning leaves and ash blowing in a furnace wind. A horizon marred by smoke, a sky the color of freshly spilled blood. Towers blazing like molten coals in the distance. Embers mix with the smoldering remnants of falling leaves in a constant rain around me.

Black blood on my hands. Not human blood. It scalds like acid. And yet, the sight of it fills me with panic.

“Ah… my heart.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—”

The fingers that brush my face sport curled claws. The hand of a monster. And yet, I grasp it as we sink to the ground. I stare at Fidei’s face, now gray and cracking like overheated clay. Foggy, empty eyes that should not be able to see fix on me.

“We could have lived in a dream.”

This is a nightmare. I want to wake up. She’s breaking apart, the false body disintegrating as the profane spirit within writhes against my sword’s inlays of sacred gold. The fresh wounds on my face burn like iron brands, yet the pain in my heart is worse. So much worse.

She is trying to speak, but more of that too-dark blood bubbles out of her lips. I shake my head, caught between horror and regret. I didn’t want this. She was the only real thing, damn it, the only one who—

But that was part of the trap, wasn’t it?

When she realizes the words won’t come out, she leans forward and presses her cracked lips to mine instead. I can’t respond, can barely think. She manages one word before she becomes dust.

“Mine.”

The memory ended, leaving me sweating and cold. I sucked in deep breaths, fighting against the burgeoning panic attack slapping at my heart. It took several minutes to get my breathing under control and ease the drumming pressure in my chest.

I looked at the sword, and…

My hand still grasped it. Clenching my jaw, I tightened my grip.

I could still feel it, still remember it as if I was there. That grove, her face, her burning fingers on my flesh and the regret in her eyes. What had she regretted? That her deception failed? That the pits of Orkael were about to drag her into an eon of torment? That she’d failed to finish devouring my soul?

Or…

No. That thing wasn’t like Catrin or Emma. It wasn’t a cursed human trying to make the best of it, but a soul devouring monster who’d been duping and destroying mortals throughout history. I’d seen enough proof of that in Lias’s research. She — it had never truly loved me, never wanted to help. I’d been a meal, and a toy. Whatever other truths were on offer, all of it was poisoned by the fact I’d have ended up a gibbering wretch who thought about nothing but how to please its mistress, all while caged in pleasurable illusions.

But they ruin what they touch, and fill all things with poison.

There is no greater sin than to heed their lies, for they know our hearts and hate us.

I needed to let go of this regret. This guilt. There were people in my life who actually deserved my attention. Perhaps I could not let go of the pain, but I’d been burning myself every time I fought for over ten years now. I could endure it.

I took the sword.

By the time I was back in character as Ser Sain and walking into my tunnel, the organizers were already lowering the bridges. I ignored their scowls and fell into line.

Pages had my steed waiting for me. I mounted Morgause, who purred at my touch. Hardly any two knights rode the same sort of beast. Preferences and breeding practices varied across the subcontinent, and even more exotic creatures from beyond our shores had recently come into style. There were cockatrices, lionhounds, unicorns, kynedeer, kelpie, golden bears. I even saw one fin-crested lancer on a salamander, with fire flickering behind its teeth.

Some of them murmured greetings to me, using my assumed name. I gave those a nod, but kept my silence.

Karog happened to be on my left. He still wore his archaic looking bronze armor, and held a new cleaver with an exotically hooked blade. He side-eyed me, but said nothing. He was the only fighter without a chimera, probably having found no beast capable of bearing his weight. He remained at a height with many of those mounted knights around him, so I suspected he could make do without.

The drums started to beat, ushering us out onto the island. I spurred my scadumare after the knight ahead of me, a short figure in rounded armor given extra height by a distinctly mushroom shaped helm. He hummed as we went, his voice given an artificial baritone by his mask.

The storm had gotten worse, just as the Royal Clericon warned me. The spitting, snarling black clouds formed a vortex directly above the Coloss, intermittently illuminated by blooms of light. The air reeked of rain and felt charged, both to my mundane and auratic senses.

Strangely, very little of the storm actually seemed to touch the island. A light rain fell on us, mostly made of whatever the wind caught. This was not true beyond the ancient arena’s walls. Across Garihelm’s lagoon and the bay beyond, a veritable howl of wind and shrouding rain swept across the capital of the Accorded Realms.

I glanced at the stands, and to my relief it seemed like Markham had taken the advice I’d filtered through Sister Candice. There were still hundreds of nobles and dignitaries filling their private boxes and alcoves, or lined up along the lower stands, but the vast majority of common folk seemed to have been ushered out and asked to return home.

I doubted that would please Garihelm’s citizens, but better disgruntled than in danger. After Siriks’s display of power the day before, I worried about collateral damage.

The herald’s bombastic voice faded into the background, same as the unsettled weather, as I took in all the knights who’d made it through the grueling gauntlet of the tourney’s first day. All remaining competitors were organized into a great ring around the island, facing toward the center. I caught sight of Jocelyn across the way, arrayed all in autumnal colors and sat proud on his pegadrake.

I searched, and found Calerus Vyke. Now I knew him, he wasn’t hard to spot. Where those lancers around him wore bright steel and dyed cloth, he remained in dingy rust brown armor covered in weathered designs, his sallow face shrouded by a battered helm. Like my scadumare and Jocelyn’s pegadrake, his mount held something of the reptile in its form, with flesh reminiscent of thick, cracking leather. However, rather than being equine it resembled a brutish, heavy jawed dog, with a steel helm sporting three heavy spikes.

Proudest of all was the lady Evangeline Ark, contender for the throne of the Bannerlands, arrayed in white steel inscribed with golden scripture and crowned in a haloed helm. Not far from her I noted the princess Snoë Farram of Graill, who hadn’t returned to her homeland in protest after all. She wore the same fur-mantled plate she had the first day I’d seen her, decorated by the snarling pelt of a wolpertinger.

No more fighting adventurers. This gathering was made of the lords of Urn, and I would be crossing lances with some of the mightiest names in all the Accorded Realms.@@novelbin@@

The Lady Ark was called out first, and she spurred her armored ram into the center of the island. A different game was played this time, and the herald called on volunteers to cross lances with the Bannerlands champion. The Farram princess went out first on her dire wolf. It was a mountain beast glutted on generations of magic pouring out of the Blessed Country, huge and intelligent, white as snow.

Their fight lasted more than ten minutes, a very long time for a duel. They jousted at first, but both grew bored after only three passes and drew their blades. They proved well matched. Though Princess Snoë was most of a decade younger, she’d clearly trained well and enjoyed a vicious sword arm. She had far more patience than the bear rider from the day before, refusing to let the older woman bait her to anger.

I felt Lady Evangeline’s Art form seconds before she revealed it. Lightning flickered around the Coloss, the energy of the storm drawn to that gathering power as though it were an alchemist’s eldritch machine. She whipped her sword about, her mount turning in a sharp circle in time with the motion, and a gleaming halo burned itself into the ground. It started out with the color and glow of hot metal, but quickly cooled to something closer to quicksilver. The circle wasn’t complete, forming a shape more like a slim crescent moon. Her nimble ram leapt out of the circle, passing through the narrow gap on one side.

Snoë’s eyes widened beneath her helm. Her dire wolf had gone in for a leap, and couldn’t alter its course. Its front paws landed inside that circle of aura. There was a flash of light, a keening note, and then—

The circle rose, expanding, shifting, until it formed a glimmering helix in the air which completely encircled the Graill princess and her chimera. The wolf snarled at the light. When it stilled, it formed a cage of shining, curved points all facing inward.

Just like an iron maiden, I thought.

“That rune is quite sharp,” Evangeline called out with a high laugh. “But your armor is very good! Would you like to test it, princess?”

Snoë glared at the auratic cage a short while, then sheathed her sword. “No. I yield, Lady Evangeline. Well played.”

The Lady Ark spurred her mount forward, studied the helix, then swiped her sword once. It shattered, quickly disintegrating into a cascade of glassy motes. Her opponent visibly flinched.

The two women retired back to the ring of knights. The herald called another forward, this one a rider I did not know by the name of Ser Konrad.

Konrad was a huge man on a huge beast. His chimera hardly looked like it needed armor, and indeed wore very little. Its leathery hide was made of overlapping plates of bone, with a small, blunt head horned like one of the unicorns. The knight himself wore angry red armor and a helm crested with mighty serrated horns. In each hand he clutched a heavy battle axe, and a thong of medals hung over his breastplate.

By the weathered look of those medals and the fact no two were quite alike, I guessed them to be trophies.

Again, the tourney herald called for a challenger to step forward and I understood the game. I glanced at Markham, and wondered if he’d suggested this ritual or if Lias had.

In old days, tribal armies would conduct combat trials amongst their champions. One would be called forward, and a challenger asked to present themselves. The loser would retire from the combat, while the winner would gain the opportunity to fight again. Simple enough, but there was more to it than that.

At my side, Karog stirred and began to step forward. I held out a hand to stop him, eliciting a growl.

“Wait,” I said. He did, tossing me a curious glance.

The knight on the salamander moved into the ring. He was a thin man in closely fitted armor, giving him an almost irkish look. His helm sported two decorative webbed fins, matching the more natural growths on his mount. The beast stared at all of us with almost tumorous eyes, huge and extending out of their sockets. The chimera’s helm included protective blinders for those bugging orbs.

But he wasn’t the only one to meet the red knight’s challenge. A rider on a barbed cockatrice across the way also stepped forward.

The herald’s voice boomed over us. “Ser Rubek and Ser Cassim have both accepted Ser Konrad’s challenge! They will now fight to determine who shall have the honor of facing him.”

My hunch had been right. A contender got called forward, then anyone who wanted to could challenge them. If more than one challenger stepped forward, they would fight instead and the first knight would face the victor. It would go on like that until only a certain number of warriors were left.

An elaborate game of chicken. If you accepted a challenge at the same time as another, then you’d have to fight multiple opponents in a row and be at a disadvantage. It tested both the courage and restraint of every participant. Be too eager, and you risked exhausting yourself. Be too timid, and you got no chances to distinguish yourself and risked earning the derision of your fellow warriors. It was a social game as much as a martial one.

“Ah,” Karog rumbled. He understood now too, and I suspected he got the same idea I did.

This was our shot at Calerus.