Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

I'd pulled my damn stitches again.

I took the time to fix them as I considered what to do next. I leaned against one of the knave's columns, staring at the corpse lying in the middle of the floor as brooding clouds moved overhead and my time ran short.

I'd learned this a long time ago. Everyone's got a story. There are no faceless minions, no bit players whose only purpose is to be a foe to slay. There are those who deserve death, but no one's life is simple. For every villain like Vaughn or those Culler brothers, there is someone like William.

That empty shell on the floor had possessed a story, ambitions, hopes, hatreds, just as I did. Now he cooled in a pool of his own blood, killed by a man he'd known less than a day.

Perhaps I would end up the same.

When I'd killed William, his awakened aura —his soul — had detached from the corpse. I could still barely make it out, shivering and writhing, resembling nothing human. The boy had been using it hard in the moment I'd killed him. The shade he'd left would be dangerous, likely feral.

I considered banishing it. I could, with my powers. I am no cleric, and I couldn't do it gently.

I didn't need more problems. I stepped forward, focused on the congealing presence in the air as I spoke the ritual words of a banishing rite. I lifted my axe slowly — the ritual motions mattered in this, gave direction and purpose to what would otherwise just be raw power. I wanted to hurl this fresh ghost away from this place, not maim it further.

I swung, amber fire flickering along the path of the cut. The shade writhed, twisted in on itself as it was illuminated for an instant by the golden embers, then vanished as some fissure in the fabric of the world took it.

Would William's remnants end up in the Realm of the Dead? Or lost in the Wend? I couldn't say. I only knew he wouldn't trouble this place anymore.

The gnawing pain in my shoulder reminded me I was still alive, and still wasn't out of danger yet. My playacting as a minion of darkness had run its course. I wouldn't be able to explain William Garou's death to the Mistwalkers, not in any way that'd satisfy them. Vaughn would see the way he'd died, and recognize it as my axe's work.

Had my free trip to the castle been for nothing? Should I have tried for the baron's head there, my own life be damned?

A more pressing mystery drew my attention. How had Olliard gotten himself and the other two out without Vaughn's killers knowing about it? Especially with that big beast of his. He would have had to leave just after I'd departed the previous night, before Orson became aware of the first failed attempt.

Get yourself out alive before worrying about how they did it. I took a deep breath, snipped the last bit of string off with my knife, and readjusted my clothes as I sheathed the blade. All my recent wounds pained me, but the discomfort helped me focus. No more time to get lost in thought.

Sound drew my attention. I had my axe in hand in an instant, grabbing it from where I'd leaned it against the column.

It had come from deeper in the church, not the front door. Soft footsteps. I narrowed my eyes and went to the back door.

"Olliard?" I called out. "Edgar? It's me, Alken. If you're there, come out. You're all in danger, and…"

I stepped into the back hall. It split two ways, one going to the living quarters and the other descending down into the catacombs.

My eyes went down those stairs to the left. Was it just my imagination, or did I feel a cold draft coming from below?

I started down the stairs. Every click of my leather boots on the stone echoed down into the dark. It grew colder, making me shiver even in the embrace of my woolen cloak.

Every church in all of Urn has a catacomb. The dead dwell beneath the land, and the surface is full of predators. Ghouls like the Mistwalkers, who feed on the dead, and necromancers who use them for even darker purposes. The remains of the deceased are guarded in sanctums of earth and stone, warded by the blessings of clerics and kept at rest with prayer and offerings.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I felt the cold sharpen into something more than cold. The stair formed a long, wide spiral which I suspected conformed to the shape of the circular prayer hall above.

As I'd suspected before, this house of God had been here a long time. The stairs went a long ways, and split into many dark passages. The rotations became shorter as I descended, as though I sank into a whirlpool of dug earth and chiseled rock.

It leveled after a time into a long, narrow hallway. The floor here was rough dirt, hard packed and dry despite the surrounding climate. Probably why this place had been raised on one of the few patches of high ground to be found. The corridor split into side passages.

Every wall had been perforated with rectangular hollows, where caskets of sanctified wood had been nested. Some of the smaller chambers had sarcophagi of stone, probably holding the remains of other preosts or even Orson Falconer's noble ancestors.

All of them held bones. The smell of death hung heavy in the air.

Such places were very dangerous to those who weren't meant to be in them. Dangerous especially to me, because what I carried called to the dead.

I lit no torch. No need to disturb those who dwelt down here more than I needed to. I let the aura in my eyes light my way, making it to the end of the hall before I felt a prickling cold run up my spine. Something had taken note of me.

"Who are you?" I asked the darkness.

A voice, faint but very real, answered me. It was male, aged, and full of a sad weariness.

"A stubborn old fool. And a friend, if you would hear me out."

I took a deep breath of the crisp, stale air. "Preoster Micah. I'd heard you hadn't been allowed to depart."

I turned and saw him there. An old man, thin and below average height, with iron gray hair and a thin face. I could make out his bones through transparent skin, though even the skeleton wasn't truly real. Just phantasm, the echo the man's soul had burned into reality.

"You killed that angry young man," he said, frowning.

I nodded. "He would have killed me. And your junior."

When the priest moved, he left afterimages of himself behind for brief moments. He shuffled to one side, his frown deepening. "Yes. Yes, he would have."

"Where did they go?" I asked. "Brother Edgar, and the doctor?"

The preoster let out a sigh. "Ah, yes. Olliard, my dear old friend. He got my message after all. I had thought us lost."

His form was fading. Even here, in a sanctum of the dead, this soul had been abused. I could see it, where his misting form had sharp protrusions like thorns and fragments of bone twisted into abstract shape.

Catrin had said Orson and Lillian hadn't allowed him to depart. She hadn't mentioned they'd also tortured the spirit. My fist clenched at the sight.

"Where are they?" I repeated. I didn't want to use my magic to compel him, and risk hurting him more. I would if I had to.

"You will save them?" The preoster's face came apart as he spoke, becoming a smoky skull. It reformed in time for me to make out his next words. "You will stop him?"

I nodded. "That's why I'm here."

"Golden eyes…" Micah's own eyes became hollow pits. "A red cloak. I saw you in my dreams."

"The Choir sent me."

"The Headsman," the ghost whispered.

I inclined my head. The spirit's eyes went to the axe.

"The dead whisper about you." I could barely make out the cleric's form in the darkness then. "They are so angry."

"I have failed them terribly," I admitted. No point lying to the dead. Then, as firmly as I could I asked, "Where did Olliard go?"

"These catacombs lead out near the woods," the ghost whispered, almost too faint to hear. "Olliard sent his beast away to mislead the Baron's hunters, and used the old tunnel. You will find it behind the sarcophagus at the end of this hall."

I turned, seeing an open section near the end of the passage.

"They've gone into the Irkwood," Micah continued. "The Sidhe are angry. They are not safe."

My jaw clenched. "I cannot protect them and wage war on our enemy at the same time."

"You are one of the True Knights." The ghost drifted forward, a skeletal hand reaching out as though toward a campfire. "That light… ah, I understand now, why they say the dead are drawn to the east! You are like a torch flame in the dark."

I stepped out of his reach. His fingers became wispy claws of shadow, which quickly faded.

"I'm not a knight anymore," I said, my voice bitter even though I'd meant to speak without heat. "What you feel are just embers."

The walls were shifting. More shadowy forms congealing like a miasma. The dead were being drawn out by my presence. No more time.

The ghost wasn't done. "With no one tending this place, its protections will fail. You should go."

I understood. Once the Mistwalkers realized the church was empty, they would gain the courage to approach. Once the sun set and the mists came in, gravid with Orson and Lillian's power, they would be able to enter. An abandoned house has no threshold, and the same is true of most sanctuaries.

As for the dead… that was a bigger problem. Left undisturbed down here, they were harmless. If Orson decided to make use of them…

I wouldn't let him get that far.

"Thank you," I said to the dead priest. Then, studying his desiccated form I asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Save them. Stop him."

The phantom's strength failed. He faded out of reality, sinking into the surrounding earth. Stronger, older spirits bubbled up to replace him.

"I will stop him," I said. Then I turned and made my way for the hidden passage.