Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Not long after my scuffle with the chimera, the greater moon showed its face again. Huge even waning, it cast the bands of languid mist coiling over the marshy fields into sharp luminescence. The skeletal corpses of drowned trees emerging from the flooded land looked flat and eerie, like wounds in the world.

The weather matched Cael Village well. Set just over a mile north of the church, it hugged the region's largest lake in a haphazard tangle of buildings enclosed in a winding barricade. Larger than I would have thought, and possibly once bigger still. I could make out ruins here and there as I approached, the remnants of older satellites to the community lost to flooding and time.

Perhaps it had once been a sizable town. Not so big as Vinhithe, but a definite hub in the region. Now, waterlogged structures of wood and mossy stone dominated, most lifted on high platforms to keep above the water.

Pale, hungry eyes watched me from the distant reeds. The local wildlife, or more of the baron's creatures?

Was there even a difference?

I'd switched out my ruined traveling garments for new cloth I'd taken from the church. Edgar had managed to find a coarse woolen robe, light brown like most monastic garb and too small to fit me properly. With some modifications, I'd made it into a knee-length tunic of sorts, tying it at the waist. I'd taken new trousers as well, kept my boots, and thrown my worn red cloak over it all.

I approached the village with my pointed cowl raised against the rain. My wounds twinged with every step. I'd sewn up my shoulder and put some of Olliard's medicine — he'd given me some to apply myself after his ministrations had run their course — to my arm.

I was in a rough way, but I wouldn't keel over. I could fight if I needed to.

The barricade, though mostly all wood, was a proper wall save in some spots where the natural terrain provided most of the settlement's defense. It had been raised up from the reeds and drowned trees irregularly, with sharp stakes places here and there to deter intruders.

The wall had sentries, especially around the main gate. They didn't look like a peasant militia. They wore light armor hammered from good steel, and carried pikes and crossbows.

The mercenaries Edgar had mentioned, I had no doubt. The make of their spears looked very familiar. They'd hung lanterns on tall posts around the village perimeter, and many carried torches.

Even still, this was no fortress. There were many gaps in the wall, some with signs of recent repair but most rotted from the constant damp. This village was old, and the environment had treated it poorly.

Further, the mist was gravid with od.

Not all sorcery is flashy. Battle Art can allow an adept to cleave a foe with a blade of fire or knock him from his steed with a lance of lightning, and these techniques were a mainstay of chivalrous combat in the subcontinent.

But for all the powers cultivated for war, not all are violent. The Sidhe, and some wild creatures who have soaked themselves in the land's enchantments, can use magic the same way they might use stripes for camouflage.

I focused on the flickering warmth of my magic. My aura. Always there, always on the verge of roiling into violent discontent. It took me more than an hour of meditation and effort, but I managed to quell that flame, constricting it into a bare ember.

When done, I breathed out a plume of frosting breath. I shivered, even in my thick robe and woolen cloak. Cold dug its claws into my bones, stark as though a bitter winter had settled into me.

Dangerous, and it left me vulnerable. The light in my eyes dimmed, so only the waning moon gave me something to see by. I wouldn't be shaping an Art as quickly as I had against the chimera now, or healing as fast.

But it also left my presence in the world all but gone, making me a shadow. It wasn't invisibility, not quite, but unless someone were deliberately searching for me, casual eyes would slide away.

The living breath of the world swirled in to fill the empty space I'd left. The mist clung to me more tightly. I let it, drawing it in with murmuring invitation, using that ember of my power I'd left to draw it like moths to a flame.

A basic glamour, all told. I'd known elves to obscure their presence in the world so well they could dance in village festivals without any of the mortals being the wiser. I would have to be cautious, and endure the unnatural chill of letting my own essence dwindle so dramatically.

So obscured, I ghosted into Cael Village. I used the marsh, enduring the cold of the shallow water as I approached the barricade wall like some bog vampire, until I found a section rotted away enough for me to get through even with my bulk.

I entered the village on the verge of hypothermia, but had a plan and only had to keep myself hidden long enough to enact it.

The village had a confusing layout. Larger than it had seemed from the outside, with structures raised wherever they could find solid ground, I could make out signs of regular flooding and methods the locals had used to deal with it. Unsurprisingly, it was a fishing community. Many homes had traps set, nets and other devices, and I could tell they farmed the waters. Wooden bridges and narrower walkways circumnavigated many homes, allowing the residents to visit their neighbors without getting their feet wet.

I kept to the shadows, knowing the moonlight might give me away even with my glamour. Otherwise, I did not walk like a furtive thief — act like you're not supposed to be somewhere, and the place itself will take note. I was there without invitation, and with hostile intent. Even if I didn't cross a home's threshold, the village itself had its own sort of life, like any long inhabited place. It would not know me, and resent my unwelcome presence.

This place was a home to these people. While it had seemed almost a slum from the outside, the raised houses were old and had some artistry, with curse traps placed over doors and dream traps over windows, even some metalwork, copper mostly, decorating frames. There were little gardens here and there, hung from roofs or kept in small beds.

This had not always been a place of fear. But I felt the fear. I felt it in the silence, in the predatory mist, in the stillness of the water below.

I stopped at the corner of one house as I heard voices. They were making little effort to be quiet, and I recognized the crude jokes of soldiers.

Peeking around the corner, I saw a group of five men — no, four men and one woman — all clad in armor. They wore deep gray uniforms, tunics and tall boots with baggy leggings, and steel breastplates. They were lit by lantern light. Alchemical lanterns, like the kind Olliard had used. It cast them in an eerie paleness somehow sharper than the moonlight.

The most heavily armored one was the woman. She wasn't tall, but wore a longer coat than the others under better armor, and the helm tucked under her arm had a plume of silver hair. She looked old, with sallow skin and bloodshot eyes so wide they seemed lidless.

Her voice, however, seemed almost grotesquely young.

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"New orders from his lordship," the lead mercenary said. "He wants third squad pulled back to the island."

One of the men cursed. "We're already stretched thin in this marsh. The damn irks have been out for blood ever since we got rid of the troll."

"It wasn't a suggestion." The leader's tone was more one of weary acceptance than reprimand. "More of the baron's guests are expected soon, and he wants to make sure there are no…" she seemed to chew on her words a moment. "Misunderstandings."

"You mean he wants to let his would-be courtiers know who's in charge," one of the others said, snickering. "Nothing better for it than a wall of steel."

"Just see it done," the leader said. "Have Berregon's men take over patrols in the eastern marshes, keep the damn spiders away from our throats. I'll talk to the captain, see if he can make the baron see reason. Terrible country to have a guerrilla war."

"Lot of trouble over a bridge brute," one of the soldiers grumbled. "I thought elves and trolls hated one another?"

"Trolls are elves," another corrected.

"I hate this land," the grumbler said. "None of it makes any sense. Back home, we kill a monster and someone pays us for it. Here, there are all these fucking rules."

"You think he'll send his pet?" One of them asked the leader.

The woman with the bloodshot eyes made a hissing sound. "Keep your mouth shut, Tarkley, or I'll have it sewn. With wire. We don't need the local stock more tense than they already are." She glared around at the shuttered windows.

"…Yes, lieutenant."

The group split then. The lieutenant took one of the sellswords and started making her way down the street, while the rest went to the gate.

I considered for a minute, then followed the lieutenant.

The rot smell of fish and stagnant water grew more noticeable as I shadowed the sellswords. I realized we were drawing closer to the lake. This suspicion was confirmed when I began to hear the creaking of wood in water, from docks and moored boats. I saw them ahead, as the street dipped down into a semi-open area where the fishing boats were moored.

I had a sudden and vibrant memory of Vinhithe. The driving rain, the roar of thunder, metal singing its lethal song as I fought with the glorysworn. I felt the dagger ram into my leg again, the bolt embed itself in my hip.

I wiped the cold sweat that'd beaded across my brow and ducked behind a lantern post. The lieutenant and her crony had stopped near one of the docks, where two more of their fellows waited. They started up a conversation I couldn't hear, and I drifted closer, taking cover again just at the edge of the village proper, lurking behind some drying fishing nets.

The four mercenaries all turned to face the water. Though the air was still, I soon began to hear a distinct sound — the burbling disturbance of water around wood.

A boat approached the shore, emerging as a vague shadow at first in the denser fog that clung to the lake. My eyes drifted upward, and far out across that veiled body I saw an almost phantasmal shape, black within the distant fog and wispy as though half formed — the baron's castle.

The boat only had two occupants. One wore a cloak similar to my own, though less worn and green rather than red, with a deep hood to obscure their features. They worked an oar through the water, approaching at an unhurried pace. The second was another of the mercenaries, this one huge and clad from head to foot in battered gray armor. He had a chiseled statue's face, pale and stubbly, with a heavy brow and harshly short black hair touched with gray.

The mercenaries shifted, visibly impatient, but kept their silence until the boat reached one of the rickety docks. Almost as soon as the green-cloaked figure stepped onto the dock — they were slim, not very tall, and moved with an eerie grace — the lieutenant stepped forward and spoke with a growl.

"About time. Dawn's only hours away, and we're still waiting on orders. They done in there, yet?"

It wasn't the cloaked one who spoke, but the big man. "Ease yourself, Darla. You can't rush the mighty, no point getting out of sorts about it."

The woman spat out a vile curse. "Easy for you to say, Vaughn. You've been kicking your feet up at the castle, while I'm left in command of this mud sty and all its peasants."

Vaughn shrugged. The one in the green cloak turned to Darla.

"Your band's job is very simple, lieutenant." The voice within the green cloak was cold, aloof, and very slightly nasal. I couldn't tell gender — the voice might have been a young man's or a woman's. "You guard my lord's property, and in return he pays and… indulges you."

Again, the lieutenant cursed. She did not argue, and Vaughn replied to Green Cloak. "Hard to protect his property when it includes a fucking marsh half as big as most kingdoms. If he wants to properly garrison his keep, we're going to lose more territory to the irks, and that's a fact."

"The Baron's fief would not be threatened by the Sidhe if not for your company's desecration of the forest," Green Hood said coldly. "You should not have killed the sentinel."

I could hear the rattle of Vaughn's armored shoulders as he shrugged. I got the sense he outranked the lieutenant, and spoke for the sellswords. "Damn troll was costing us every time we had to use that road. 'Sides, his lordship would have had us off the ugly git sooner or later, just like he got rid of that old preacher."

"Silence, fool!" The hooded figure stepped forward. The four other mercenaries stepped back, hands going for weapons. Only Vaughn remained still, unconcerned, towering over the hooded one.

Despite this, Green Cloak didn't seem intimidated. Their voice came as a raspy, angry hiss through the shadows of the hood, threatening as a serpent. "If the locals overhear you, it could lead to revolt. These people are faithful."

Vaughn snorted in derision. "Let them revolt. Twenty of my boys could secure this entire village and hold it."

Venom crept into Green Cloak's voice. "My lord cannot afford dissent, Mistwalker. Remember that. His subjects are still needed."

"Right, right." Vaughn scratched at the stubble on his cheek. "Alright Darla, what's the word?"

The lieutenant turned her bloodshot eyes on the big man. "The guests at the inn are becoming discontented. They want to know what's going on at the castle, and when they will be invited for the baron's gathering."

"They'll all get their turn," Green Hood said. "Has anyone else arrived today?"

Darla shook her head. "Just those travelers our scouts spotted on the road. They're still at the old church. Don't think they're more guests for the baron. Had the look of pilgrims."

"I doubt they will trouble us come morning," Green Hood noted. Vaughn snickered, drawing curious looks from the other soldiers.

My hunch about those chimera had been right. They were from the castle.

"Vaughn will remain here and ensure the guests at the inn don't cause trouble," Green Hood told the mercenaries. "Darla, you will keep him appraised of any activity in the marsh. My lord must not be disturbed while he plays host. These proceedings are… delicate."

The cloaked one pulled on Vaughn's arm. He leaned down, letting them whisper into his ear. He seemed to chuckle before straightening. Green Hood left then, taking up the oar and pushing the boat back out into the misty lake.

"Creepy bitch," Vaughn said to the others. They muttered agreement, and he jerked his head back toward the village. "Ivor, you go with the lieutenant. Petyr, Raki, with me."

The mercenaries parted ways then, splitting into two groups. My eyes tracked the big one, Vaughn. These "guests" at the village inn were curious. I might be able to learn more about this mysterious gathering from them.

Risky. If any adepts were in the inn, glamour might not fool them. An ordinary place, I could ghost in through the front door, pick a shadowed corner, and listen without being noticed by ordinary folk. But I didn't get the sense this village was occupied by "ordinary" folk.

Still, I followed the big sellsword, keeping a distance. The village didn't have many ordinary streets, with most of it raised above the marshland, but central parts of the settlement were on relatively high, dry ground. Here the buildings were older, larger, and I recognized one of them as an inn. Two stories, high roofed, with inviting light still spilling out of the first floor despite the late hour.

Here the three mercenaries stopped in the middle of the village's main street, two buildings down from the inn. I could see the main gate off in the distance.

Why hadn't the lieutenant gone this way, if she were returning to the gate watch? I paused at the corner of a smithy, frowning at Vaughn and his companions. They hadn't met anyone. They'd just stopped.

A terrible suspicion coiled into my gut, and my heart skipped a beat. At the end, the hooded one had said something to Vaughn.

Directly above me, the tiles of the roof creaked.

I dove into a roll just as something heavy slammed into the ground where I'd been standing. I came up, tossing my cloak back to free my axe.

One of the mercenaries, the Mistwalkers, stared at me from the alley floor, one leg bent beneath him, his head twisted to one side. He'd tried to drop on me and landed badly.

I was confused at first. Then the man grinned wide, revealing blocky yellow teeth. His eyes glinted in the moonlit gloom, eerily pale.

Not human. Not entirely. With a horribly boneless motion, the soldier got to his feet. He resembled a puppet being pulled up on tightening strings. His leg remained broken, and he lurched into the moonlight despite it.

I heard the creaking of armor as Vaughn and the other three soldiers moved to surround me, trapping me between them in the middle of the village street.

"Well well," Vaughn drawled. "When the baron's pet told me we were being watched, I thought it was one of the villagers out past their bedtime. Instead we caught a jackal."

He drew his sword, and the rest followed his cue.

Damn it all. Not again.