Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

I followed the Baron, accompanied by his green-cloaked servant, deeper into Castle Cael. Braziers clutched in iron hands along the walls burst alive as the lord passed them, the castle responding to his presence.

Not a bad trick.

He brought me to a small, comfortably furnished room with the air of a study. The door shut behind us and Orson Falconer turned to face me.

“You upstaged me,” he said. The words held no heat, no petulance. The lord seemed, if anything, curious.

I tilted my head to one side. “When I interrupted your speech to talk about the troll, you mean.”

The Baron shrugged. “That, and your entrance. I dare say you were the focal point of that entire discussion. I do not criticize you…” He pursed his lips. “Are you a knight? Shall I call you Sir Alken?”

I hesitated, then shook my head. “No, lord. Just Alken will do.”

The Baron’s expression hardened. “You will tell me why you are here, and whether it is on another’s behalf. You will speak truth.”

The fingers of my right hand flexed. The motion was hidden by my cloak, and I clenched that hand into a fist before I gave away my tension.

The Baron wasn’t aware that outright lies weren’t something I could easily conjure, not without cost. It wasn’t like I could tell him that, however, so I had to try and convince him. I took a moment to gather my thoughts before speaking.

“I spent much of my life fighting for the realms of Urn,” I said. “For lords, for the priests. I was loyal.” I folded my arms, as though it could quell my steadily rising heartbeat. “I fought and fought, and it didn’t earn me gratitude, or peace.”

The bitterness in my voice wasn’t entirely feigned. It put bile into my throat to admit these things to this man, even in order to mislead him. “I risked my life countless times, and they called me to account for sin.” I showed the lord my teeth. It wasn’t a smile. “Eventually I decided that, if I couldn’t live without sin, couldn’t make the world better without it, why bother avoiding it? The realms wanted me to be a fighter, a killer… let them reap what they’ve sown.”

“Revenge, is it?” The Baron nodded, taking this in stride. “Yes, I can understand that. I can ally myself with that. You do understand — should you decide to join this affair — it will be under my leadership. I have enough conflicting motives out there.” He waved in the direction of the dinner hall. “If you are truly independent, truly in this for your own ends, I will have your agreement to obey me. I don’t expect loyalty — that, I know, I must earn. But I will have obedience so long as you are a guest in my hall.”

I inclined my head. “So long as I am a guest in your hall.” Inwardly, I was amazed at how easily he’d accepted my shallow justifications for rebellion. Were all Recusants so vapid in their motives, in their petty vengeances? I’d thought my hodge podge argument flimsy at best, had expected him to challenge it.

Perhaps I needed to lower my expectations.

“This gathering is a delicate affair,” the Baron said, smoothly moving on from the topic of my own motives. He paced to the far side of the room to stand in front of the hearth, which had also lit of its own volition upon our entry. My back tingled, thanks to the presence of Priska — as Orson had called his hooded servant — who had not left the room. She remained by the door. Silent. Watchful.

“Not much of an army,” I said. “I admit, I was expecting more.”

The Baron let out a snort. “Some war council of Recusants, you mean, like back during the Fall? No. Those armies are scattered, their captains dead or diminished. This is something more…” he waved a hand, and Priska glided forward to place a wine cup in it. He nodded his thanks to her. I noted a ring set on the thumb of his right hand. A signet, I thought, stamped with the image of a diving falcon.

He didn’t finish his thought. He sipped from the goblet, thought a moment longer, and then turned to me. “I have no allusions that I may sweep aside the Accord and the Church in some glorious crusade. No. I am the backwater ruler of a small fiefdom.” His eyes narrowed with some subtle emotion. They were violet, I noticed. Many Houseborn have vibrant eye and hair colors, the product of old alchemy in their blood. The nearly red shade of Orson Falconer’s eyes stood out from his darker skin. “I am ill prepared for open war,” he said, “and it is hardly something I want in any case. It is them against whom I rebel, not my fellow men.”

He waved a hand vaguely skyward and eastward and sipped wine before continuing. “I am connected. With elements of the highborn, yes, but also with factions within the occult world, and among the Eld. I believe, with enough time and coordination, a sort of… resistance, I suppose you could call it, can be formed.”

“A resistance against the gods?” I asked, not bothering to hide my skepticism. Priska approached me with a wine cup that was the twin to her lord’s. Its scent was heady, alluring. My throat suddenly felt very dry. I waved it away.

Again, the Baron scoffed. “The Onsolain are not gods. Demigods, perhaps. They are powerful and ageless, yes, but not immortal, not eternal. Not truly. That was proved during the Fall.”

I was glad I didn’t have the wine cup in my hand. I might have broken it then. I hid my clenched fist under my cloak. What he said was blasphemous, heretical…

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And true.

The Baron continued in a musing tone, unaware of my internal turmoil. “Even the Church only acknowledges one true god, and where is She?” A pale smile traced his lips before he returned his focus to me. “The Onsolain act through proxies and intermediaries, rarely displaying their power in truth. I imagine it will take much to draw them out as happened during the last war. I intend something more…” He held up the fingers of his left hand and pinched them together. “Subtle. A network of allies, working in tandem to discredit the Church, diminish the magics and pacts with which the gods…” He let irony slip into that last word. “Have riddled the land. I’ve even invited members of the Wild Eld to the table.”

I recalled the goblin and kept my peace.

“I intended to explain all of this to the rest of my guests,” the Baron said. “I will, in time. They will have concerns. Questions. Demands.” He chuckled darkly. “I’m not so deluded as to think they’re doing this for the same reasons as I, or want what I want.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

The Baron glanced at me, and then toward the fire. I almost didn’t hear his reply, so quiet was it. “A choice.”

I didn’t understand. In truth, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Orson Falconer was — in every way I could think of — the kind of madman my position had been created for. He was consorting with Dark Sidhe and Recusants. He had allowed his allies to butcher and desecrate. I suspected he was responsible for the untimely death of Caelfall Village’s former preoster, and he had openly admitted to planning rebellion against the Divine and all their works.

I wasn’t here to understand him. Just to kill him. I could do it here, I thought. In this room. He’s unarmed and we’re alone, beside’s Priska. It might be the best chance I get.

I exhaled, long and slow, easing tension from my limbs. In my thoughts I concentrated on the words of an Oath, and felt the first thrum of power course through me.

I almost did it. I almost drew my axe and had this entire farce done right there. It would hurt me to do it, perhaps permanently — false pretenses or no, I was a guest in the lord’s house, protected by the rights attached to that status and bound by his authority as the master of that hall.

I’d been given great power by the Alder Table. It came with costs and restrictions. Among those were this — the ancient laws that tied the powers of the land together, its traditions not least among them, were bound into my bones and blood. Shirking those laws came with great risk. I accepted that risk. My role was to protect the sanctity of the land and its peoples, not my own. I wasn’t convinced what was left of mine was even worth protecting.

In the moment before I convinced myself to go through with it, as my senses sharpened in anticipation of battle, I heard something which gave me pause. The sound of many tiny, scuttling insects in the deeper shadows along the room’s edges.

I wasn’t alone with just the Baron and his retainer. That thing from the dinner hall was there with us. Watching. Ready.

A bodyguard.

Damn it.

“You have proved yourself wise in the ways of the Eld,” the Baron said, drawing me from my thoughts. The moment passed and the power I’d barely started to gather faded away. The lord paced as he talked, violet eyes unfocused. “Further, you have shown restraint. With Karog, and in your council regarding the troll. I need that kind of thought in all of this. I already have muscle. The Mistwalkers are capable in the ways of violence, and Karog…” He shook his head. “Well, suffice to say I have all the potential for bloodshed I need, at least on the scale I’m currently operating.”

He whirled on me. “Are you a ranger?”

I was taken aback a moment. “I’ve learned from them, but no.”

The Baron nodded. “That explains some of your knowledge, and the High Sidhe magic Karog sensed on you. I won’t pry into your personal affairs, Alken, but I won’t deny that I’m suspicious of you. You arrived out of nowhere, without announcing yourself, and have skills and motives that are of great value to me…” His lips curled up at the corners. “But I am not in much of a position to look a gift chimera in the mouth.”

Realization struck me. “You don’t trust the others.”

The Baron’s smile became more genuine and he inclined his head in a brief nod. “They are either working toward their own ends or representing other factions with goals only tangentially aligned with my own. Many of them see me as a safe bet… a petty mortal lord with some knowledge of the occult, who can act as a neutral intermediary. They have nothing to lose by indulging me, and much to gain by using me. My connections among the Houses are of special interest to many of them. My family is very old, very tied to the land.”

“So where does that place me?” I asked. Idly, I observed that Orson Falconer had barely for a moment stopped pacing, while I’d remained planted and still throughout this interview.

“You have not proclaimed yourself representative of any other interest,” the Baron said. “You claim to seek retribution against the Faith. And the powers behind it?”

I didn’t reply. The Baron seemed to take that for confirmation and smiled. “That is what is arrayed against us, Alken. This is not just a petty rebellion against a mortal theocracy. The clericons and preosters of the Church are but one arm of the denizens of Heavensreach.” His smile fled, and his nearly red gaze became intent. “So I must ask — are you and I kindred spirits?”

A coldness crept into me. Don’t deny it, I thought. This is what you need.

I wanted to deny it. Very badly. To growl that he was nothing like me.

“I’d like to call you mad,” I said. I very much wanted to. “But I don’t imagine I’d have taken an interest in anything less. You have my attention, lord baron.”

Orson Falconer looked pleased. “The first step is securing my own land from their influence. I’ve committed to this, now that the Mistwalkers have forced it…” he sighed and rubbed at his temple. “I intended something slower, more subtle, but I have waited long enough. You want to strike against our mutual enemy? I intend to send you at them, and sooner rather than later.”

I schooled my features, not wanting to let him or his servant see the frustration I felt then. I wasn’t there to fight against the Baron’s enemies — the further I was from him, the fewer chances I would gain to complete my true objective.

On the other hand, gaining his trust could get me more information, more opportunity.

Politics. I suppressed the scowl the thought nearly brought to my lips. I’d believed I was done with all of that.

Aloud I said, “what would you have of me, lord?”

The Baron studied me a moment, thinking. “I will consider. For now, however, I believe you’ve had a long journey and could use rest. Priska will see you to a room where you will be able to refresh yourself.”

He didn’t quite wrinkle his nose, but I got the message. I inclined my head. “I wouldn’t mind a bath,” I said.

“A bath, fresh clothes, and a clean bed.” Orson Falconer quirked a smile. “The hospitality of my house is not what it once was, but I will not be called a poor host. You are my guest. You will be taken care of.”

I tried not to read too deeply into that statement as I was led from the study.

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