Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Priska led me from the baron's study. She kept her green shroud on, giving me no indication of what lay underneath.

Was she human? Something else? I couldn't tell, got no read on her like I had with the ghouls. She neglected to provide me any clues, other than the uncanny grace with which the hem of her cloak seemed to glide across the castle floors.

"You will be provided your own room," she told me after some time. "There will be materials to wash and clothe yourself. The garments you've brought will be cleaned."

"I haven't seen any other servants," I noted. "Who maintains this place?"

Fishing for information, but I was curious. The halls of the castle, while dimly lit and largely austere, were also clean and well maintained.

"There are servants," Priska said mysteriously. "They simply avoid being underfoot."

We passed by some Mistwalkers, all in worn gray uniforms and battered steel armor. Mostly they ignored me, probably because of Priska. I saw Quinn chatting with two of his comrades as we navigated the upper balcony of a grand foyer, who gave me a nod and a friendly smile.

Strange. The mercenaries didn't seem to be keeping guard or acting as the castle's standing garrison, just milling about. I still hadn't spotted any men-at-arms bearing the Falconer sigil.

It almost seemed like the castle had been empty before all these "guests" had arrived.

Priska led me to an upper hall, stopping in front of an innocuous door. She handed me a key, one long-fingered, almost impossibly pale hand emerging from the folds of her cloak. Ignoring its color, it was human, and feminine. I accepted the key.

"It will only work on this door," she told me. "I would suggest you lock it. The Baron holds the comfort and safety of his guests in high regard, but precautions must be taken nonetheless."

I nodded, remembering the hostile eyes in that dining room. Issachar in particular hadn't seemed stable, and all the soldiers in the castle were his men.

"Leave your clothes in the hall and they will be tended to before you wake," Priska added. "Most of the other guests keep odd hours, so there is no rush to rise with the sun. You may take your meals in the dining hall, or in your chamber."

Priska left then, leaving me to my own devices. I watched her until the whispering hem of her long green cloak had turned down a further hall and vanished. That left me accompanied only by the silence.

Living on the road for months at a time, it is easy to forget how divine simple pleasures can be.

Even as I was given new clothes, allowed to bathe and shave, I did not forget that I intended to kill the man who offered these indulgences. I took no satisfaction in the thought, no irony. It only made me feel dirty, ill-at ease.

The Baron's a madman and a murderer, I reminded myself as I studied my reflection in the bedchamber's vanity. He's trying to fashion himself into a nascent Dark Lord. This isn't the time for misplaced honor.

As a distraction, I studied the mirror in my comfortable chambers. Like much in the castle, it was old, over designed, and beautiful — a piece near tall as myself, worth a small fortune all on its own, its bronze border worked into the shapes of dozens of entwining serpents.

It had been a long time since I'd taken a good look at myself. I ran a hand along the freshly smoothed edges of my jaw, trying to remember the last time I'd made use of a razor. My own skin felt cool and unfamiliar.

I looked… not old, precisely. My skin was still smooth, my red-blond hair still untouched by any traces of frost. I looked ten years or more younger than I was, and would for decades yet — another of the Table's blessings.

No, it was something else that made me see age in that tired reflection. Myriad faint scars, a permanent furrowing in the center of my brow, a weary distance in my bright golden eyes.

I ran a hand along the scars crossing my left eye. They began just above the eyebrow, running down from my temple at a sharp angle in four thin, long grooves. The marks ended below my cheekbone, a single line of scar nearly touching the corner of my lip. They were not so faded as my other scars, still dimly touched by red as though on the verge of infection.

They hadn't stopped itching since I'd entered the castle. I knew why, and what Orson's pet truly was. I needed to deal with that, before it figured out what I was.

I tore my eyes from my own tired image as a knock rapped against the door. I finished lacing the shirt I'd been provided along with the room — a dark green tunic with roomy sleeves — and cautiously approached the door.

I listened, waiting for the telltale signs of heavy breathing, the creak of a great weight, or even a betraying stench. Anything to let me know if the ogre or something similarly dangerous lurked on the other side.

Nothing of the sort. I spoke through the door. "What is it?"

The answer came without pause. "It's me. Just wanted to check in on you."

I hesitated. Then, against my better judgment, opened the door.

Catrin stood on the other side. Like me, she'd changed into a finer set of clothes. The yellow commoner's dress and bodice had been replaced by a thin gown more than a century out of fashion, pale blue in color, with winglike sleeves and silver-green trim. Her unkempt mop of chestnut hair had been combed, proving it to be longer than I'd thought. It fell around her shoulders in a mane of red-brown curls.

She studied me a moment and made an appreciative sound. "Heh. You clean up well, big man."

I didn't quite hide the glance I threw to the hall, checking to see if she'd brought anyone else. Armed guards, or the like.

She didn't miss the suspicion. "Not here to put you under arrest." She quirked a misshapen smile very at odds with the courtier's dress. "Though, I think I could make the look work. Me in a breastplate, little cape maybe? Long boots."

"What do you want?" I asked.

I didn't truly mean to be rude, but my nerves were frayed. I was exhausted, my freshly wounded shoulder burned beneath my new shirt, and I didn't have much more conversation in me.

Catrin arched an eyebrow. Without another word, she ducked under my arm to move into the room. I tensed, but the movement was so fast and smooth I barely registered it before she went past me.

"They gave you a nicer room," Catrin noted studiously. She glanced at the mirror and let out a small laugh. "Classic."

I suppressed an annoyed growl as I turned.

Catrin spoke as she began turning the mirror around to face it toward the wall. Its weight made her next words strained. "Wanted to check in on you, big man, make sure you were still… alive."

She finished turning the mirror with a grunt of effort.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Making sure we're not being spied on," Catrin said, adjusting the sleeves of her dress. "Mirrors, you know? Baron's an occultist. So's that creepy old crone, Lillian."

A spike of cold shot through me. Idiot. You should have thought of that.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

Catrin's eyes flicked to the door. "You gonna leave that open? Walls have ears."

I glared at her. After a deliberate pause, I shut the door, then folded my arms and waited.

Catrin propped a fist on her hip, exactly as she had when she'd intervened with the Mistwalkers in Cael Village. "You're not actually here to throw in with the Baron's little gambling club, are you?"

I noted the position of my axe where I'd propped it against the bed. "I don't know what you mean."

Catrin rolled her eyes. "You're a bad liar, you know? I knew you were improvising back in the village when I gave the corpse eaters that spiel about you being a guest, and you've looked ready to take that cutter to every shadow since we got on the boat."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

She nodded to the axe. "I'm not blind." Her eyes narrowed. "You're no Recusant."

I went very still. "You figured that out from how tense I am, did you?"

She shook her head, disturbing her lazily combed hair so it fell over one eye. "Nah. You practically told me, remember? When I suggested you were one back on the lake, you got real angry. You were put out when I suggested the old elf king wasn't all that, either. A Recusant would have agreed with me, with fervor."

My heart sank. Had I really been that transparent?

I considered killing her. I felt disgusted with the part of me which considered it so readily. I waited, and kept silent. If she wanted me to admit anything, I'd keep her in suspense.

Catrin saw my stonewalling and rolled her eyes. "I'm not tricking you. Not this time, and I didn't help you get here for Orson Falconer's sake."

"Then why?" I asked. "Is this is where you blackmail me?"

"Something like that," she said, surprising me with her honesty. "But it doesn't have to be that way."

I grunted, considered a moment, then decided there wasn't any reason not to hear this out. "What do you suggest?"

She studied me a moment, as though trying to reach a decision. Then in a more quiet voice she said, "I work for the Keeper of the Backroad Inn. You know who that is?"

I did not, though again the names sounded familiar. Catrin took my silence in stride and moved to the room's small window, pressing her ear against the foggy glass as she continued.

"Not everyone who lives outside the grace of the God-Queen wants to wage war on the Church. It's not like we're fond of them — they can be right cunts more than half the time. But the land's still recovering from the Fall. Who knows how many people will die if Orson plays this out? Even in a best case scenario, he brings more attention down on all of us. No one wants another inquisition."

I quietly shuddered at that name, and couldn't disagree.

Catrin turned from the window to face me, her expression losing some of its wry mask. "You work for the Church? Or, any of its factions? I know the clergy aren't really centralized, but I could figure you as some agent for the Abbey, or maybe even the Priory."

I canted my head to one side, considering. "Would you believe me if I said no?"

"Depends," Catrin said, serious. "Answer the question."

I unfolded my arms, hesitated a moment longer, and decided to play along. "No, I don't."

Catrin let out a sigh of relief. "Good. I believe you. Second question."

And here she met my eyes again, and there was something harsher in that look, something with teeth. "Did you kill the bishop in Vinhithe?"

I froze, even my breath stopping for a moment.

Catrin moved away from the window, back toward the turned mirror. She never took her eyes off me, and there was something catlike in her movements. Cautious. Taut. Ready to spring into action.

"Part of my job's to gather information," she said. "I'm good at it. Heard a rumor that a man with an axe killed the priest who instigated the Llynspring Inquisitions. A man in a red cloak."

Her eyes drifted to the faerie-forged axe propped against the bedpost, and then to the red cloak hung by the door. That, I hadn't tossed out for the servants to clean.

"So it is blackmail then," I said. "I do what you want, or you go to the baron."

Catrin snorted. "You are paranoid, aren't you? Listen, big man, I'm not here to start trouble with you." She held up a placating hand. "I'm here to help. I brought you to the castle to keep the Mistwalkers from throwing your pieces into the marsh, and I'm telling you this now so you know how deep the shit you're in is."

She said all of this without her previous air of flirty nonchalance, her demeanor very businesslike.

"I'm good at collecting secrets," she repeated. "But this news about the bishop's death?" She shrugged. "It's going to spread here before long. The Baron could learn it from his own sources, or the villagers will hear it next time the clericons come to collect their tithes. Either way, you're working on dying time, you understand?"

With a sinking feeling, I realized she was right. I'd made a spectacle of myself in Vinhithe, and — while it was no great city — it was an important enough hub in the region that word would spread of the red cloaked man who'd murdered a high clericon and cut his way out of the streets.

I'd hoped they would assume me dead after I'd fallen in the river, but I wouldn't trust to convenience there.

"Why'd you do it?" Catrin asked, more curious than accusing. "Kill the bishop, I mean. Who are you?"

It was a moment before I drew myself back to the situation at hand. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Oh, I can believe a lot." The woman — the spy, or whatever she was — flashed her crooked teeth in a sharp smile. It faded near as quick as it had appeared and she added, "Your secrets are yours, but my point is this — we can help each other."

I leaned against the wall by the door, using the motion to bring myself another foot closer to my weapon in case I needed to lunge for it. I folded my arms as I spoke. "I still don't really know who you are, or what you want. How do you know I didn't kill the priest on Lord Orson's behalf?"

Again, Catrin shrugged. "Could be you did. Would be a smart play for him, drawing attention away from his own lands to create a crisis in a larger city. But I don't think that's the case, otherwise he'd have been expecting you and I wouldn't have had to pull you out of a pit."

"Point," I said. Who exactly was this woman, who knew so much and saw to the truth of things so easily? "But that only answers one question. Who are you? Who is this… Keeper?"

I'd never heard of a place called the Backroad Inn.

"A man whose business it is to know things," Catrin said.

"An information broker," I said, realizing.

Catrin nodded. "Hit it on the head. He specializes in dangerous clintele, and dangerous secrets." She placed her left hand against one breast, a note of pride entering her voice. "I help him get those, and got more than a few of my own too."

"And you're not here to sell them to Orson Falconer?" I asked, scratching at my freshly shaved chin with a thumb.

"There are old powers in the land, boyo." Catrin's smirk had a dark edge. "Older than the Accord, older than the Church even, and certainly older than the likes of Orson Falconer. Not all of them are happy about the attention this petty aristo could bring down on them. Killing that bridge troll was a poor move. That's another thing that caught my attention."

She took a step forward, lowering her voice. "It made you angry, what they did." Her eyes lit with a flash of fierce approval. "Trolls are old magic. Sacred, and I don't mean that like a priest would, trying to sell the word holy like it's an old piece of hacksilver."

She took another step closer. Dangerously close, almost blocking me from my weapon. I tensed, but she caught my eyes in hers and suddenly I felt…

At ease.

It's difficult to explain what happened. All my tension, my fear, my uncertainty, it all faded away like morning fog. I felt relaxed. Safe.

And more than a bit enraptured. Catrin had large, expressive eyes, and I noted for the first time they were mismatched — it was subtle, but one eye was just a slightly darker brown than the other. It was distracting. Even interesting.

She had thick eyebrows for a woman, but it didn't make her look masculine. Just expressive, intense. Her furtive motions and quick, almost breathless voice kept my interest, though I hadn't wanted to admit it.

"I'm your friend," she said, lowering her voice. It wasn't quite seductive — her voice wasn't smooth or liquid enough for that, but there was a comforting quality to it. She sounded kind, quick of wit, confident.

"Leonis Chancer killed people I knew back in the west. I'm glad someone finally called him to account. Anyone who's willing to anger the preosts to make the world right again is someone I'd like to know better."

She reached out a hand. The motion was slow, hesitant. It made me want to take her hand and let her know it was alright, that I didn't mind. She brushed long fingers over the material of my shirt, so lightly I only felt it as a rustle of cloth against my skin.

It had been a long time since anyone had touched me. Wanted me. My reaction was… not controlled. I inhaled sharply, closing my eyes. Catrin noted this and let out a breathy little laugh.

Not a pretty sound, but an honest one, endearing. I found myself wanting to hear more of it.

"Why are you here?" Catrin murmured. "It's alright. You can tell me."

I opened my eyes, and once again they were caught in her gaze. Catrin had stepped closer. She was much shorter than me, and had to look up to meet my eyes.

"I'm here for the Baron," I said, my voice near as quiet as hers. "Because he killed the troll, and because…"

Here I hesitated, some remnant of caution tying my tongue. "He's dangerous. He needs to be stopped."

"You're some kind of vigilante, are you?" Catrin's asymmetrical smile returned. She still barely touched me. Teasing. "It fits. I like it."

I shook my head slowly. My thoughts were coming slower than usual, like thick molasses filled my skull. "It's a curse. I don't want to be here, don't want to…"

"Don't want to what?" She asked, eyes narrowing. Her words were so quiet I found myself leaning down to hear them better, bringing our faces closer.

"I'm not here by choice," I finished lamely. I wanted to tell her, to tell someone about my burden, my penance of blood.

And why not tell someone? There was no vow against it, no oath I'd sworn to keep the truth of my duty a secret. I'd only done so out of necessity.

Out of shame.

"Pretty eyes," Catrin almost whispered, her cool breath tickling my nose. Her subtly mismatched eyes seemed to swirl like liquid, dark and inviting, warm pools to sink into. "Such an unusual color. Almost shiny, like gold coins."

They hadn't always been that color. I wanted to tell her that, too.

"It's alright," Catrin said. "It won't leave this room, I promise. You can tell me. You can trust me, Alken."

Our lips were nearly brushing now. Again she flashed that thin smile, and my eyes were drawn to her teeth. Strangely pale, with very sharp canines.

Her words cut through the fog in my thoughts. She was not the first to say them to me.

The scars on my face were burning.

With an effort of will, I shut my eyes tightly to block out the sight of hers and focused inward. It was only then I realized how loudly my senses were warning me of danger. The core of golden power in me practically blazed in alarm.

I inhaled through my nose, breathing in Catrin's clean scent — a subtle perfume, clean linen, woodsmoke… and something else beneath it all. Something sharp, alarming, copper scented.

Blood.

I opened my eyes, and pale golden aura shone through them. The shadows in the room crumbled away, every line of furniture and wall sharpening. Catrin winced, her eyes caught by the sudden gleam that shone from my irises.

And I saw her. Not as she'd been, this attractive young woman with her crooked smile and mussed hair, but as she truly was.

She was a pallid thing, like a corpse, her skin hugging her bones. Her mismatched eyes clarified into bloody spheres. Her teeth were all pointed and dipped in red, and pointed were her ears where they protruded from hair that had gone dun, losing its warm luster. Dark veins crawled across her flesh, poisonous, webbed. Her neck was too long and her mouth too wide.

Without thought, without hesitation, words snapped from my lips. Not a prayer, but similar — an invocation of repulsion against the Adversary. The creature in front of me was not a demon — not truly — but it wasn't many steps removed.

A flash of nearly white light burst in the room, and Catrin let out a shout of surprise. She recoiled faster than I could follow, retreating to the window on the far side of the room in the time it took me to blink. Her masque was gone now in truth, not just in my auratic sight, revealing the thin, macabre thing only superficially like a woman, the folds of her blue-green dress hanging from sharp bones and thin skin.

I lunged for my axe and had it between us by the time she recovered. The creature's pointed features shot up, recovering from the backhand of power I'd hit it with. It let out a loud, serpentine hiss through wolf-sharp teeth.

"Stay out of my head," I growled, lifting my axe and letting amber flame play along its edges as I channeled aura through it. "Vampire."