Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

I didn't sleep quickly. I paced a while, fretting. I dwelled on the conversation with Catrin, which left me irritated and little closer to rest.

I took half an hour to shave my axe down, though it hardly needed it. I fretted some more. The soft bed called to me, but I couldn't get myself to sit despite my weariness. I realized I still wore my red cloak, and hung it on the bed post. I stared at it a while.

An elf maid entered the room some time later, carrying water and a tray of food. I nodded my thanks to her after she'd set it down, but she didn't depart. She waited by the door, hands folded. I went to the tray, took a morsel off it, then glanced at the elf.

She wore a very thin dress of pale blue, toga style, just transparent enough for me to see the shadow of a slim figure beneath. Long limbed, smooth skinned, slender arms bare up to the shoulder. Impossible to tell her true age, but were she human I'd place her at twenty at the oldest. She had mismatched eyes, one green and one gold, foggy blue hair, and a pair of dragonfly wings longer than she was tall, folded like a patterned cape.

I realized I recognized her. The one with the lute who'd sat among the roots of Irn Bale's throne.

She caught my look and smiled invitingly. I had to bite back my frustration.

"Please tell the oradyn I appreciate it," I told her, "but I must decline."

The elf maid's smile faded. "Do I not please you, lord?"

I shook my head, choosing my words with caution. I didn't want to give offense to a faerie — I had enough problems. "I'm just not in the right mind to enjoy your company," I told her. "I promise, it has nothing to do with you."

It had been a lifetime since I'd needed courtly words. I was out of practice.

Who was I kidding. I hadn't been good at this even when I'd lived at court.

"I am not unwilling," the elf said, taking a light, graceful step forward on one dainty foot. Almost like a step in a dance, done with a controlled poise a mortal would need years to master. Her thin dress whispered around her ankles as it settled, teasing the shape of the legs within.

Again she smiled. "I like your scars, and… ah! Your eyes. I have heard the eyes of the Table's champions shine gold, but I have not seen it. Do you like mine?"

She batted her eyelashes, tilting her head so I got a better look at her golden eye.

"It is striking," I said honestly, still trying to decide how best to disentangle from this situation without causing offense.

She took another step, her dragonfly wings shivering. Perhaps a tell of excitement. I felt more certain of that when I noticed that the tips of her breasts had hardened against the almost transparent material clinging to them.

"I can help you rest," she told me. "You need rest, Ser."

She reached out toward the claw marks on my left cheek. Reflexively, I brushed her hand aside. Her face fell. It was like seeing a beautiful sculpture of ice crack.

I clenched my jaw and turned toward the bed. "I'm tired. Please, just go."

She fled from the room with tears in her eyes. I sighed after she'd gone, feeling miserable and satisfied at once. It can be cathartic to be cruel.

I did need rest.

I did sleep. I did not remove my ring.

Even still, my mind swam with surreal thoughts in the spaces between waking and deep sleep, and those I did not lose. Images curled through the darkness behind my eyes, one blending into the next with little thought or order.

My tired thoughts lingered on the events that'd led me to this place. I replayed the death of the bishop in Vinhithe, my bloody, desperate flight from the city. I recalled nearly drowning in the river, could practically still feel the relentless rushing water, the crash of the storm.

I dwelled on my conversation with Nath. Had that been a dream, like with her twin sister some nights later? It can often feel like dreaming, when one meets the Onsolain.

I did not think so.

In my thoughts, I killed William Garou many times. Each time, I felt worse about it. I could have reasoned with him, if I'd chosen my words better. Couldn't I have?

Trying to push that ugly death out of my mind proved to be of little help. The pretty elf who'd tried to seduce me had half succeeded, and I sank into sleep still mostly aroused. I imagined her with me in the soft bed, her dark hair under my lips, those thin dragonfly wings fluttering weakly against my stomach as she clutched the pillow, gasping into it while I moved atop her.

I felt ugly about that too, even as I indulged in the fantasy.

Damn it. I don't need distractions.

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The thought was lost in the mad jumble of my exhausted mind. A blacker sleep claimed me just when the wings in my imagination began to take a different shape.

I don't know how long I slept. A long time. When I woke, I felt much less stiff. My restless discontent from before had relaxed, replaced by a sense of calm purpose.

Some quality of that surreal place, or just my will focusing, I couldn't say.

I met Catrin. She nodded a greeting to me, but remained cooly aloof. Fair enough.

We were led by a guard back to the oradyn, who waited for us in a room more austere than most of the rest of the faerie manse. A space for meditation or some other quiet purpose, perhaps.

"I hear you rejected my daughter's advances," Irn Bale said without preamble. He'd been staring at an object near the far window, covered by a dark cloth so I couldn't see what lay beneath.

I grimaced. "That was your daughter? My lord, you have my apologies, I did not intend offense. I just—"

Irn Bale held up a hand, stopping me. "I do not take offense, Ser Alken. I told her you suffer from deep wounds, and would likely refuse. Still, you suited her fancy and she tried anyway."

He shrugged and added, "Personally, I think it is good for her to endure rejection. She is still young, and it will color her youth before conceit has a chance to plant roots."

I had seen the work of scorned, vengeful immortals often enough not to disagree. Even still, I had also daydreamed about fucking this elf lord's daughter. Best to keep my lips tight.

I caught Catrin studying me out of the corner of my eye, her expression thoughtful. I folded my arms and ignored her.

The Oradyn moved to the thing by the window. He ushered me forward, then nodded to it. "I will not send you against Orson Falconer ill prepared. He is our shared enemy, even if I cannot move against him openly."

"And why the hell not?" Catrin asked, ignoring the glare I shot her. She hadn't taken my words about courtesy with the Sidhe to heart, after all.

"The Heir's Laws," I explained as Irn Bale quirked an immortal eyebrow. "Back when men first started settling these shores, we warred with the elves. The God-Queen worked out an accord with their leaders, the Archon in particular. One part of that agreement is that the nations of the Sidhe cannot wage open war against us."

I glanced at her. "It's part of the same rules that govern the Dead, and restrict the actions of the Onsolain. Without them, the land's more supernatural elements would rule us as tyrants."

"Or compel your kind to hunt us," Irn bale countered.

"Oh." Catrin blinked. "So, you can't just send your fancy faerie knights to knock down Orson's door?"

"Even so," Irn Bale confirmed. "However, the God-Queen's laws do not prevent me from arming him for this task." He nodded to me. "It is the very reason why the Choir employs him as they do. He can be our instrument."

With that, he swept the cover off his gift.

I stared at it for several minutes, struggling to find words. Finally, unable to name the emotion in my gut, I shook my head.

"I can't accept this," I told the elf lord.

"You must," Irn Bale said, his voice melancholy. "You cannot afford to refuse it."

I raised a hand — one that trembled slightly — to feel the mesh of metal links that formed the armor. The coat of chainmail, a hauberk made to fall from neck to calf, was of elven make. Each ring had been riveted with an immortal master's hand, wrought of an iron alloy so dark as to be nearly black. The strange, living light of the oradyn's home made shades of green and blue undulate along its length, so the armor almost seemed to be fashioned of liquid shadow or the water at the bottom of a deep lake.

Considering I had threads of literal moonlight fastening my wounds together just then, I considered the possibility that was exactly what it was made of. Shadow, water, and aura. The elves rarely used only ordinary materials for their craft.

"My wife wore this sixteen hundred years ago," Irn Bale said. "In our war against the Cambion."

He brushed his hand along the metal, and its substance seemed to ripple at his touch. "Its magic has faded, but it will guard you well all the same. It will not weigh you down, even in water, nor will it make sound to give you away in stealth. Should you wish it to, it will sing of your approach to an enemy you wish to terrify."

Elven chainmail. Dark elf chainmail, made to wage war in old nightmare wars. A raiment of fear.

It was an invaluable gift, if a fell one. A treasure of the Sidhe.

"If it wasn't for us," I said in a bitter voice, "your wife would still be alive."

"Perhaps," Irn Bale said thoughtfully. "Perhaps not. Do not bear all the failures of the world on your back, Alken Hewer, lest it break. You are but one man, and your battles are not done."

He nodded to the armor. "Hers are."

"I am not a knight anymore," I insisted.

"But you are a warrior. We will prepare you for war."

My fingers curled into a fist. I bowed my head in assent.

Several elves fitted the armor. The sides of the hauberk's long lower half were slitted on the sides, allowing more freedom of movement for the legs — my thighs and waist were instead protected by a heavy belt strung with solid iron faulds. On its original wearer, the chainmail would have fallen to mid calf, like a robe or gown. On me, it barely passed my knees. The sleeves were short and topped by a pair of spaulders studded with round spikes, and a harness of heavy elf-iron disks was hung over my chest. The set came with greaves and vambraces of the same shadowy metal, which were adjusted for my size.

I was much bigger than Irn Bale's wife would have been, but somehow the elven armorers made the whole thing fit, and fit well. When I stood, it rattled ominously, the sound seeming to echo in the room.

The armor had seen many, many battles. I could see scars along the closely riveted links of each and every ring, and deeper grooves on the finely detailed segments made of more solid plate. Links were missing along the sleeves and skirt, giving the whole thing a somewhat frayed appearance.

"I will not give you her helm," Irn Bale said. "That, I keep for my house."

I nodded, accepting this without question. "It is a kingly gift. What was your wife's name? So I can remember."

"Irn Raya."

Finally I donned my red cloak, wrapping it around my neck twice before letting the rest fall about my new armaments. Catrin watched by the door of the fitting room. As I took my axe and approached her, I saw her eyes widen slightly.

"The baron's going to piss himself," she muttered. "You look like Death's own executioner."

"That's the idea," I agreed.

Catrin turned to one of the elves. "Where's my fancy armor? I'm going in there with the big man too."

In answer, Irn Bale handed her a dagger. The blade was banemetal, the grip trollbone.

"The arrow we struck you with was worked into that blade," the oradyn told her. "And the handle is from the bridge troll Orson Falconer's minions slew. You will deliver its justice to him, I trust."

Catrin swallowed, all the humor fled from her. "Yeah. Sure thing."

"Let's go," I told her. "If you still want to be part of this."

"Hey, I was part of this before you showed up." The dhampir sheathed the dagger at her belt, careful not to touch the cursed metal. "Believe me, I've got no qualms about sticking this thing into that bastard's heart."

More serious she said, "Alken… all this new gear is going to make it pretty obvious to the baron that you're tight with the elves. Once you make it back to the village, they're not going to just let you through the front door."

I nodded. "I know."

So armed, we went to war.