Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Things change.

Nothing is free of this fact. Mountains grow and fall. Glaciers melt and cause seas to rise. Forests expand and rot. Kingdoms are forged only to see their laws, leaders, their very identities change across generations.

People change. We experience triumph and loss. We lose loved ones and make enemies. Every day we are changing. The you of yesterday is not the you of today. Who you hate, who you long for, whose lessons you remember and whose insults itch at the back of your thoughts…

Even in sleep, in dreams, our identities are liquid.

It's terrifying, isn't it? To not be able to trust your own thoughts. To not know yourself.

Everything changes, and sometimes you don't even notice. You wake up one day and think, what happened? Who am I?

How did I get to this place?

Several weeks after the incident at Baille Os, I approached a familiar bridge. It was near noon, and gray clouds veiled the sky while white snow crunched under my chimera's claws. The woods were locked in a pensive quiet. Not even a breeze disturbed the leafless branches that leaned in from both sides of the narrow path.

We stopped fifteen paces from the bridge. It was carved of gray-green stone and ancient, with three high arches that crawled with spiraling designs. It was conspicuously clear of snow compared to the rest of the woods.

Morgause shuffled and tossed her head. I patted her on the side of the neck, where her course black fur gave way to leathery hide. The scadumare settled, though I could tell she didn't like something. She was never placid, but usually unfazed.

Scanning the scene in front of us, I spoke into the silence. "Hezrebog? Are you there?"

No response. I started rifling through one of my packs. "I'd like to cross over. I have a new scent for you, if you'll just—"

Before I could finish speaking, a horrible, inhuman howl shattered the quiet. It seemed to originate from nowhere and everywhere, rising into a hurricane pitch in moments. It wasn't unlike the shriek of a furious animal, only it had something of an unsettled wind in it too, not a wholly natural sound.

It tugged out a primal fear in me, made my heart start pounding and every hair on my body stand at attention.

Morgause started to turn under me, backing away from the bridge and stamping in panic. I had to grab her reins and jerk them hard to stop her from bolting, which I managed only with effort. I cursed savagely as I wrestled with the powerful creature.

The furious howl cut off suddenly, and I glanced back at the bridge to see a shape perched atop the nearest arch. It was a stunted form, like a small old man with too-long limbs and too many knobs and warts. His crooked nose and chin almost touched one another, beak-like. He was all head and limbs, his torso shrunken, his eyes green dots in a lumpy skull.

"Hez." I felt my momentary alarm melt quickly into anger. "What's wrong with you? Don't you recognize me?"

Instead of answering, the troll's small chest expanded like a balloon as he drew in a mighty breath for another scream.

He only did this when a threat was near, when he wanted to warn the Fane and scare something off. I thought at first something might be following me, but when I turned to stare back down the woodland path there was nothing.

Hezrebog was staring at me. Roaring at me. It'd only been a little over a year since I'd left Oria's Fane. The ancient sentinel couldn't have forgotten me, could he?

"Damn it!" I forced my chimera around to face the troll and spoke with every ounce of command I could muster. "Listen to me, sentinel! I am Alken Hewer, Headsman of Seydis and Doomsman of the Choir of Heavensreach! You will let me pass."

My words echoed through the woods. The troll's chest deflated, but his expression wasn't one of submission. He glared at me with his lopsided eyes and bared sharp teeth.

Rather than getting a response from Hezrebog, someone detached themselves from the shadows at the base of the nearest arch and stepped into my path. She was tall, even more so than my near six and a half feet. She only had to lift her head to meet my gaze because I was mounted on a heavy war chimera. She wore a warrior's robe under heavy furs and carried an iron spear scarred by hard use. Her hair, red as dried blood, formed a wild mane around her shoulders to frame an angular face. Her irises were the pale brown of a wolf's.

I knew her, and didn't need the telltale tips of pointed ears protruding from her hair to know she was an elf.

Morgause shuffled nervously again. I could hear movement in the trees, and when I glanced to one side there were shapes in them. Many-legged, spindly, with round abdomens and too many eyes.

Cant Spiders. The guardians of Oria's Fane.

"What is this, Oraeka?" I directed my attention back to the elf. "Hell of a welcome home."

Oraeka tossed her head and bared her teeth. Those were also very wolfish. "This is not your home, human. This refuge is a privilege granted to us. The Vaanis Faen'a is a sanctum that grants us rest and frees us of the noise of our work."

Vaanis Faen'a. It took me a moment to muster enough of my spotty elfcant to recognize the phrase. Circle of Doom, or more literally Ring of Doombearers.

I lowered my head and tried not to sound combative. "I don't need the history lesson. As a Doomsman, I seek use of this sanctum. Now, I've had a long road and I'm not sure why I'm being given a shake down."

"He carries evil with him," Hezrebog said, speaking for the first time.

"Yes," I snapped. My patience was fast dissipating. "That's part of the job, Hezrebog. We're executioners. We kill wicked people and evil things and some of that mud sticks. It's this place's whole purpose."

The small creature atop the arch crouched low, his demeanor sullen and untrusting. He could sense my deflection, I knew. The old bridge troll had always been a grouch, but I'd never experienced this level of hostility from him.

Could he smell what I kept in my saddlebags? I tried not to let my hand drift to the bundle just behind the saddle, innocuously wrapped in thick blankets.

Oraeka did not move, and kept the butt of her spear planted. Like me, she was a Doomsman and servant of the Choir. We'd never been friends, but we'd at least been more or less courteous with each other before this.

A thought came to me and I felt my breath catch. "Maxim. Is he—"

Oraeka's suddenly troubled demeanor all but confirmed my hunch. "He lives, but he is not well."

That was alarming, but it didn't explain this hostile welcome back to the shrine.

Oraeka's demeanor seemed to soften when I asked after the old knight. "When the spiders told us someone approached," she explained, "they described it as a darkness. Hezrebog did not recognize you."

"I do," the troll admitted. "Barely. Something is different. Wrong. We should not allow him to enter."

"It's been a long year," I said. "I'm tired and I need to see Caim. And Maxim."

Oraeka searched me with her eyes, and I knew what she looked for. I did not wear my axe anywhere on my person, not even in some obvious concealment.

But still she wouldn't move. My hands tightened on Morgause's reins.

"It's me, Oraeka. Please."

The elf relented, to my relief. "Fine. Allow him to pass, Hezrebog. We will speak inside, Hewer."

She started to turn as the troll voiced his disagreement. "But—"

"I cannot force you. It is your threshold, after all." She looked up at the diminutive creature. "But I am asking."

Hezrebog let out a furious growl. His shoulders hunched, and he spat out his next words. "Fine. But whatever he carries in with him is your problem."

"And his." She looked at me again and I understood the threat. "I will take you to Ser Maxim."

I nodded and followed her across the bridge. Hezrebog's unsettling eyes watched me the entire way, as did the constellation of gleaming orbs where the Cant Spiders waited in the trees. I could hear them whispering amongst themselves.

The Fane no longer felt like a safe place. Even as I stepped over the boundary, I knew this wasn't a home to me any longer.

No place had felt like one in a very long time

We passed through the woods and into the main shrine. Oria's Fane consisted of a single tholos erected above several ponds, with mossy walkways interwoven between them. We ignored the stairs leading into the temple and ascended a steep hill behind it, where a quiet cottage stood watch over the surrounding wilderness.

"He's gotten worse?" I asked Oraeka. She hadn't said a word since ordering Hezrebog to allow me inside.

The elf paused, and a moment passed before she gave me an answer. "He's gotten old."

I frowned. "But… He's a Knight of the Alder Table. We don't age like normal mortals."

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Oraeka paused and glanced back. I'd left Morgause at the bottom of the hill, and between the slope and her natural height she looked down at me. Her expression was dark. Almost angry.

"What?" I asked.

"You are not Sidhe," the elf said. "Mortals fade. That was the reason for keeping him here, wasn't it? To give him peace?"

That was true, but still… "The power doesn't just go away. It was fused to our souls."

"It doesn't make you immortal."

She turned and started marching again. I wasn't used to having trouble keeping up with anyone, but had to put effort into not being left behind on the steep slope.

She was angry.

It was true that Alder Knights are not immortal. Our powers gave us lasting youth and other blessings, but we still had mortal bodies. Elves don't need their bodies the same way humans do. For them, it's more like clothing that can be shucked off and replaced over the eons.

And Maxim was old for a mortal. Some of the knights lived centuries — I'd known some like that — and he wasn't ancient in that way. But he'd lived a hard life, suffered many wounds, and then we'd placed him here to keep him safe from his own madness and the angry spirits that haunted us both.

Was this my fault, for leaving him here? Had being trapped in this place with the quiet and with nothing to do caused him to fade faster? If his time here caused the Alder's fire to cool, then it might have accelerated his own aging.

Oraeka paused next to the door. "He's probably sleeping. Try not to disturb him too much. He needs the rest."

I nodded and started to turn the latch, but paused and glanced at her when I noticed she hung back. "You're not coming in?"

I could tell she wasn't at ease. Oraeka had always seemed to care for Maxim, though I'd never really understood their connection. She didn't seem to want to even look at the cottage.

"No, I… Just get it done, and then we'll speak."

I nodded and went inside.

It was a humble home. One room, with a single window facing the east and a fireplace. The hearth was lit, and wisps — fey spirits who hadn't taken any solid form — danced around in it like tiny fireflies. Their frivolity seemed more muted than usual, almost forced.

Some things had changed. A full suit of armor, carefully polished so its brassy plates practically shone, was arrayed on a stand by one wall. That polish only served to make the signs of countless battles stand out more on the gold-hued steel, a lattice of shallow grooves, telltale dents, and the fading that came with time. A sheathed sword of painfully beautiful make lay next to it, propped against the wall and set near the armor's right gauntlet, as though waiting to be grasped. The armor's design included decorative scales at the shoulders and chest.

I passed by a work table covered in carved wooden figurines. They were knights and monsters, kings and elves. I recognized many. I saw one I was certain represented myself among them, carrying an axe with a gnarled handle and draped in a scrap of red cloth.

Behind my likeness stood a tall figure with the head of a cackling lion. Behind the lion-headed man lurked a woman with fiendish wings and a cloven hoof in place of her left foot.

I paused here, feeling a chill. Only with effort did I tear my eyes from the figurines to look at the bed.

On that bed lay a legend.

One year. I'd only left one year before, and I barely recognized the man who lay on that cot. Maxim had always been gray-bearded and wizened, scarred and weathered by a brutal life. He hadn't been inordinately tall or enjoyed a heroic build, but he'd been a solid presence in the world.

I recalled when I found him after Seydis was set ablaze. He'd been wandering the countryside, caught in the throws of madness as his own magic scoured him.

He nearly killed me. He'd been so strong.

Now, his arms were so thin I felt they might break if I tried to lift them. His beard was long and white as snow, grown down to his waist. He'd lost height as well as weight, the simple cot and furs seeming to swallow him.

His breaths were shallow. I could hear an ill rattle in them.

Disturbed, it took me a long minute to find words. He seemed asleep, so I spoke in a whisper.

"Bleeding Gates, Maxim, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you…"

Didn't have much time left. I couldn't even bring myself to say the words. He didn't stir from his troubled sleep.

"I wanted to talk to you," I continued. "I've done things this last year, Ser, things I'm not sure I should have done."

No response. I almost stopped there, but something compelled me to keep going.

"I've been pulled in a lot of different directions, and it feels like everything's coming apart. Every time I put out one fire, five more flare up and it's like… It's like none of it matters. And you were always stronger than me, wiser than me. You slew dragons, Maxim. You're a real knight."

He continued to breathe. Each one sounded like it pained him so much, cost him effort even asleep. The furs rose and fell over his chest. They seemed a great weight on him.

I realized only then that I'd hoped he would give me advice. Tell me what I should do, help me see the path, tell me what was honorable.

I wanted the old paladin to tell me how to repent for my sins.

"I fucked up. Badly. Back in Baille Os, I allowed something to happen that I should have seen coming a mile away, and now I don't know what to do. The Choir has Lias. Emma is on her own and I never should have left her. All the evil I've tried to smite these years as Headsman, it feels like I just poured a bucket of water over a forest fire."

I spoke in little more than a murmur, but my thoughts were so damn loud. And Maxim just kept breathing, kept sweating through some fever that his maimed and faded magic couldn't fight. Or was it that magic?

Still punishing him, even though none of it was his fault.

I lifted my hand and stared at my fingers. They crawled with patterns of discoloration, burn scars caused by the power that lived in me and Maxim both, and in turn healed by that magic.

"I took it," I told the sleeping knight. "I was at the Table not long ago, Maxim, in spirit at least. I did something, something I'm not sure I should have, but it felt necessary at the time. It gave me power."

Could I share that power with Maxim? I hadn't tried to heal anything since then, an ability I'd lost long ago. I knew what I'd done hadn't restored my powers as they were, only replaced them with something altogether more dubious. A mixing of light and dark, life and death.

Hezrebog sensed that change. He sensed I'd brought evil with me, within me.

I reached a hand out towards the dying paladin. Flickers of gilt fire played along my fingertips. The man stirred fitfully in his sleep.

Could I kindle his soul, as I'd done mine? What would it do to him?

Perhaps buy him more time?

I clenched my fingers into a fist and jerked my hand back at the last moment. What was I doing? This very thing was what drove Maxim half mad and caused him to suffer all these years. His bond to the Table was stronger than mine, always had been, and its corruption broke him.

How could I even think to pass more of that poison into him?

I needed to let him rest. And I needed to get out of that room.

Back outside, I took a full lungful of clean winter air. My left hand remained clenched. Oraeka didn't stand outside the cottage anymore. I looked around, and when I didn't find her I walked to the edge of the hill. Nothing down by the stream, but when my gaze wandered back to the temple I caught sight of the elf's tall figure standing amid the ponds and stone paths there.

I descended the hill, and felt like the Fane watched me. Before, the fae creatures who dwelt in this place mostly ignored me. They were courteous, if bemused at the presence of two mortals in their ancient refuge.

Now I felt like an unwelcome guest. Allowed passage, but watched and not trusted. Something was different, and it wasn't just that Hezrebog sensed a shadow on me.

I came to the edge of the clearing that lay at the bottom of the temple's steps. The stone paths were mostly clear of snow, the pools unfrozen despite many weeks of unbroken cold. A section of that gray-blue stone formed a perfect circle roughly fifteen feet in diameter in the center of the paths.

Morgause waited for me there. She must have sensed my mood, because she stepped close and nudged me. The scadumare wasn't prone to displays of comfort or affection, so I must not have been as calm as I pretended. I patted her on the side of her neck and took a moment to steady myself.

Oraeka stood on the steps beneath the tholos. I walked into the center of the circle, leaving Morgause at the edge of the woods, and stopped there. Something about Oraeka's demeanor seemed oddly formal. Grim.

"He doesn't have much time left," the elf said softly. She wasn't looking at me. Her gaze remained fixed on the hill.

"There's nothing the Sidhe can do for him?" I asked. "What if we took him somewhere else? Maybe—"

"If we take him from this place, the dead will swarm him and devour every scrap of Tuvon's power that they can. He cannot defend himself."

I could protect him. The dead obey me, if I make them. I didn't say the words aloud. I wasn't sure how she'd react, and didn't want to tell her what I'd done.

I wasn't even certain I had that much control. I'd nearly been devoured myself at Baille Os, in a moment where my will weakened.

"You have much to answer for," Oraeka said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

The elven huntress turned to regard me. She still held her spear, and still dressed in that mixture of martial and ceremonial clothes. Her bestial visage, not quite human, seemed hardened by some restrained emotion.

"News does reach us here, and I have heard things while traveling abroad. I have heard tell that you revealed yourself to the mortal kingdoms, that you swore yourself to the service of their High King and that you kill for him now."

"So that's what this is all about." A weary smile tugged at the corner of my lip. "You don't need to worry, Lady Huntress. I still serve them. But my oaths were to my own kind first. All I did in Garihelm was reconfirm who this is all for."

Oraeka's eyes narrowed. "Who it's all for? So you admit it?"

"Admit to what?" I asked in exasperation. "That I revealed my identity to the Accorded Realms? That I offered my services to them? Yes, Oraeka, it's true. I serve this land and all its peoples. Mortals, elves, Onsolain. You and Rysanthe don't hide yourselves from your own kind. Why should mortals be kept out of the loop?"

"Why?" Oraeka's demeanor darkened further. "Your warlords have burned this land, this sacred refuge we allowed you to share with us, nearly to cinders! And you ask why they are barred from our confidence!? Have you forgotten what you owe us? What you promised us?"

I took a step forward and place a hand to my chest. "I've sworn many oaths, and I haven't forgotten a single one of them. I was mostly killing my fellow mortals, Oraeka, so I believed that—"

"Fellow mortals?"

This came from a new voice, one I did not recognize. I felt a chill, like a midwinter wind suddenly blew past and found every gap in my cloak and the layers of clothing beneath before rolling on. The air filled with the stench of old death, of slow decay and of unkind seasons.

Something walked right by me. I felt it brush against my shoulder, where a moment before I knew I'd been alone on the circle.

Many supernatural beings can take various forms and travel in ways strange and abstract to mortal senses. They can make themselves wind, or slip into dreams. Elves can pass over the land like rays of light and demons can invade a man's thoughts as a paranoid notion.

This entity didn't sneak up on me, not just a mere evasion of my senses — it slipped from being an idea to a tangible reality as easily as I might take a step through a door.

I went perfectly still, every muscle in my body tensing up. The newcomer walked several paces ahead until they stood just in front of the stairs and to the right of Oraeka. They wore monkish robes in colors of pale ash and faded tans, with a ragged cloak draped over their shoulders like a funeral shawl. Their features were concealed beneath a cowl, and they carried a shepherd's crook in a bandaged hand.

They were not human. Their gait was strange, and sure enough, beneath the trailing hem of robe and cloak, their legs ended in heavy hooves. They stood perhaps six feet tall, and would have been taller if not for a dramatic hunch.

They wore silver. A lot of it. Silver bangles dangled from their wrists, and their hooves were capped in it, as was the crook they struck against the moonstone circle as they came to a stop.

When the cloaked figure turned, I glimpsed their face beneath the cowl. It was an animal face, heavy and bovine. There were patches of white fur, but the flesh had shrunken against the bone, revealing rotted teeth and a single milky blind eye. The other eye was gone, leaving an empty pit exposing the interior of the skull.

He was an elf. A very old elf. Faeries do not become undead in the same way as humans, but I knew death had touched this being and left a graven mark.

Before I could ask, Oraeka spoke. Her voice held a strange sense of reluctance. She was cautious of this being. "Alken, it is my honor to introduce Urawn Aarlu, Soul Shepherd, Steward of the Hadean Reliquary, advisor to the Silver Council and Doomsman of Draubard."

I stared at her, feeling a creeping sense of cold as I registered the last of those names. "But… Rysanthe is Doomsman for Draubard."

"Not anymore," Urawn Aarlu said. His voice was rough, no music in it like with many of the Sidhe. It reminded me of old oaks creaking in the wind, of depthless chasms and of the slow pressure of sinking stone.

When I stared at him and waited for an explanation, the chthonian elf inclined his hooded head. "Rysanthe Miresgal has gone missing and is presumed slain. But that is not the only matter for which I have traveled to the surface world, Alken Hewer."

His dead gaze fixed on me and he continued before I even had time to process that statement. "Your actions have been called into question, and your status as one of the Faen has been challenged. I have journeyed to this shrine on behalf of all the Doombearers of Urn to ask my questions, and to deliver my judgement."