Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

The silence in the imperial court broke when the Lord Steward lifted his finger, his deep voice filling the chamber like the deepest note on a pipe organ.

“SIEZE HIM!” The Emperor’s chief advisor roared.

At once, a cascade of noise filled the room. Lords and ladies began to speak all at once, asking questions, shouting demands, their voices lost in the din. Steel rattled as Accord knights, some of them Markham’s own guard, but not all, rushed forward to obey the Steward’s command.

I caught Rosanna’s eye. She clutched the arms of her throne, as though to rise to her feet, words already forming on her lips.

I shook my head very slightly, and she froze. I watched her whisper something, perhaps a curse, or a prayer, and settle back. When she blinked, her face became cold and stern as her silent husband’s.

The knights disarmed me roughly, taking my cloak and belt as well. In a flash I was on my knees, the razor edges of two mirror-bright swords pressed beneath my chin, armored fingers wrenching my head back by my short hair. No less than six guards had subdued me, though I hadn’t offered them a fight.

A storm of noise filled the room. Once again, the thunderous bellow of the enormous steward drowned out all other noise, and near silence fell at the man’s command. Some conversations still rolled across the court.

My eyes rose to the Emperor. I couldn’t move my head, not with the fingers in my hair and the blades at my neck, but the knights had made sure I looked at him.

Markham Forger studied me. No longer caped and hooded, my face was on full display. I saw the furrow appear between his brow, the slight downturn of his lips. He did not have an expressive face, that high king, but even still some emotion showed on it.

I knew the moment he recognized me when his dark brows lifted. It had been most of eight years, so I didn’t take offense he hadn’t known my face at once.

“Alken Hewer…” Markham’s voice rolled like a rumble of distant thunder across the chamber. The gossiping lords fell silent, and the Emperor of the Accorded Realms leaned forward on his dour throne.

“I believe,” he said calmly, “that I banished you from court, and excommunicated you at the behest of the clergy. Now you come before this gathering of the peerage, bearing the head of an archclericon.”

He nodded to the head lying beneath his raised throne. No one had moved to pick it up.

I said nothing, waiting.

“Why should I not have my guard take your head in turn?” He asked, almost conversationally.

I opened my mouth to speak, but one of the lords stepped out from the gathering. With a sense of sharp irony, I realized it was one of the Braeve delegation, a kinsman of Ser Maxim. I did not know his name, but I saw the aged paladin in the man’s broad build and fiery eyes.

“You would let him speak?” Though he contained it, the nobleman’s voice shook with anger. “Your Grace, this man is a murderer and a renegade. I have heard of him, this Headsman. A man in a red cloak with an elven axe, who goes about the land dispensing vigilante justice…”

The Braeve lord’s eyes turned to me, and his lip curled in disgust. “I do not know what madness brought him here, but he should be given immediate sentence, not allowed to defend himself!”

“I concur,” said the Lord Judge of the Bairn Cities, Oswald Pardoner, in a calm, sepulchral voice. Tall, with short black hair and a thin face. “This is, I believe, the same man reported to be in Vinhithe the day the bishop there was murdered in his own cathedral. That city lies in my House’s dominion, Your Grace, and I am bound to seek justice.”

“He is a butcher!” Prior Diana screeched, or tried to. Her ruined cheek made screeching hard, and it came out as more of a furious burble through her bandages.

More voices were raised in agreement, a rolling din across the gathered highborn. Oraise, I noted, remained silent. So did the Farram princess, most of the tourney knights, and many of those clerics not part of the Priory group.

Roland Marcher, the King of Venturmoor, stroked his fading blond beard as he studied me, keeping his own council. Neither did the Crown Prince of Lindenroad say anything. In his mid twenties, he seemed a studious boy with ordinary brown hair and a scholar’s complexion.

I’ve been here before, I realized. Back during the end of the war, when all those who’d hewn together against the Recusant Houses had gathered for a great council in the blasted city of Kingsmeet, which had once been proud as Garihelm.

At that time, the lords had sought answers concerning the madness of the Alder Table, the actions of its surviving members, their reasons and whereabouts. I had none to give them, and they’d settled for shaming me and sending me from their sight.

History did have a way of repeating itself.

Markham held up his right hand, the one clad in a gauntlet of filigreed gold, and all voices went silent. His eyes had also roamed the court, taking in those who’d demanded my death.

“It seems this man is known to this court,” Markham said, his brow furrowed. “I have also heard this name — that of the Headsman. There has been some conjecture as to his identity, I understand. This is not the first time he has appeared before the gathered lords of our Accord in this role. Is that correct?”

He turned his head fractionally, and the Lord Steward bowed. Looming as he did with his prodigious size beside the high seat, the motion drew every eye.

“That is my understanding as well, Your Grace.” The Steward spoke calmly, though his basso voice still filled the hall. “This past winter, the one claiming this identity of Headsman delivered a sentence passed by Maerlys Tuvonsdotter onto the Recusant, Rhan Harrower. He lopped off his head. I believe some here at this council were in attendance at the time.”

“I see.” Markham returned his eyes to me. Dark and flinty, I wondered what it would take to make them catch with a more lethal emotion.

“So we are to understand he acts under the purview of the elves?” Oswald Pardoner frowned deeply. “And now he is here, taking the heads of our holy men? Markham, this cannot stand.”

“You will address the Emperor as Your Grace, Lord Oswald.” The steward’s face, so like a great cherub’s, turned to the Pardoner, whose frown deepened.

Rosanna, cold and distant on her own high throne, kept her silence. She may as well have been one of the guardian angels wrought in gold and marble high up on the pillars.

“Perhaps we might let the man explain himself?” The Lady Ark, who sought to become Queen of the Bannerlands, suggested as she faced the Emperor. She had come in armor, like the tourney knights, one pauldron decorated with a crescent of gold like a sun ray, her long cape of palest blue pinned beneath it.

The Lord Brightling, barely more than a boy, had been about to speak. He scowled at her.

“I concur,” Snoë Farram said.

Almost on cue, Hyperia Vyke’s sweet voice piped across the throne room. “My brother and I do, as well! Let the man speak. Tell us his story.”

Murmurs of discontent filled the chamber, but I got the sense this wasn’t the first time the Talsyn princess had made her voice heard. No one protested, but Snoë’s expression darkened.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the Vyke twins. Hyperia smiled her pleasant smile, not meeting my eyes, but Calerus hadn’t taken his gaze off me. Did they recognize me? Did they not fear I would speak about their own plots? They had only met me once, and briefly.

Of course they didn’t fear what I’d say. I was on trial here, not them, and no one would believe wild accusations.

“Let him speak!” A ginger haired giant bellowed. He stood near Laessa, and I recognized him, though he was much older than when we’d last met. I knew also by the nearness of Lady Esmerelda, who grimaced as her older brother made himself heard.

Harlan Grimheart turned his hazel eyes on me, his face stern and his voice strong. “I fought with this man during the war, in this very city. My brother and I watched him slay demons. Do none of you here recognize a Knight of the Alder?”

I winced. Sure enough, more discontent rose throughout the court.

“Those traitors!?” The young Lord Brightling demanded. “They started all this!”

“Oh, please.” Lady Ark scoffed. “You were still suckling at your mother’s tit during the war, what do you know?”

The youth’s face went red with fury, and he clutched at his sword. The Braeve man shouted out a defense of the boy, which only seemed to make the young lord angrier.

More voices, more argument, more conflicting demands. A bead of sweat formed on my brow, and the knights holding me down shifted with softly clinking armor. I felt very aware of the steel at my neck. It would only take one motion, one slip, and…

The Emperor glowered at his bickering court, and perhaps suppressed a sigh.

And Rosanna said nothing. Hold strong, I silently pleaded with her. I put myself here. It’s up to me to dig myself out.

She couldn’t help me, only sink with me if she tried to tie our ships together. I prayed she would make the wise choice.

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Once again, the Lord Steward called for silence. It did not come immediately this time, and still the young Brightling looked ready to draw steel on his older rival, who ignored him with imperious disdain.

The Emperor waited until the commotion had died, then looked at those monarchs who had not spoken.

Natan Dance just nodded, after listening to his aunt whisper in his ear. King Roland waved a hand and said, “May as well hear it.”

Markham nodded to me. “Speak, Alken Hewer. Why have you come before this court? What did you expect to accomplish with this display?”

All eyes once again fell on me. I felt their weight, as keenly as I felt the swords. The guards lowered their blades just enough to let me talk. I swallowed. My throat felt very, very dry, and I no longer had any elf magic to help me speak with authority.

It had to be all me, now.

“It’s true,” I croaked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “It’s true, Your Grace. All of it. I carried out the sentence on Lord Rhan. I killed Leonis Chancer, too.”

I met Oswald Pardoner’s eyes. He lifted his chin, no pity in his gaunt face.

“There are others,” I said. “Many others. For six years, I’ve wandered across these Accorded Realms and beyond them, dispensing sentences of execution with that.”

I nodded to the axe one of the knights had taken before continuing.

“Before all this, I was a knight. I served the realms, and aye, I was with the Table. I had no part in King Tuvon’s murder, but I failed to protect him all the same. I fought with the Ardent Bough, and I tried to make amends for my failures… tried at times to get myself killed for them. But I lived, and I kept fighting. All this time I’ve kept fighting, because the war is not over.”

I let my eyes flicker to the Vykes. Many in the court saw it.

Natan Dance, Grand Duke of the Gylden, spoke then. “And why did you kill Horace, Alken Hewer? If your wont is to slay Recusants, then what did the Grand Prior do to merit your wrath?”

“It was never my wrath, lord.” I inclined my head as much as I could to the graceful man, with the swords hovering beneath my neck.

“Then whose?” The Steward demanded, his pipe organ voice echoing off the walls. “Who has tasked you with these deaths? Who is to blame? Speak, man, and your death may be merciful.”

More murmurs. The Emperor did not gainsay his advisor.

There it was. The question this had all been leading to. The reason I’d come here, and thrown myself on the mercy of this court. I’d already told them, but grand titles meant less than hard truths.

“The Seydii, in part.” I confirmed their suspicions. “The High Elves of Seydis, and all the Sidhe. The wyldefae, the Briar, the trollfolk, the draus…”

Some of the raised voices then had horror in them. I heard the word they dared not speak, but all feared.

War with the Eld?

But I stopped all conjecture with what I said next.

“The dooms given to all those I have slain in this role, the ones who deliver these sentences and dispatch me to carry them out…”

Rosanna closed her eyes. I think she might have even murmured a prayer.

“The Choir of Onsolem,” I said, my voice gaining strength. “It was Lord Umareon, Saint of Crusaders and First Sword of God, who demanded Prior Horace’s death. His brethren are my taskmasters.”

I ran my eyes across the stunned court. “Our gods give me my names.”

If I thought the uproar earlier had been intense, it had nothing on the tumult that followed that pronouncement.

“MADMAN!” One, I think Lord Braeve or one near him, roared.

“Blasphemy!” A Priory clericon shouted. “He should be burned at the stake!”

“This farce has gone on long enough!” The Pardoner lord snarled. “Your Grace, this man is a lunatic and a killer. He mocks this court and demeans us by his very presence.”

I caught the eye of Siriks Sontae. He stared at me, perplexed, his youthful features caught in an expression I couldn’t fully read. He hadn’t known any of this. I’d just been some minor noblewoman’s bodyguard to him.

Jocelyn of Ekarleon looked almost saintly in his own silence. His eyes went elsewhere. I caught a flicker of movement, but couldn’t properly track it with the swords held so close.

Markham watched me carefully. I could almost imagine his thought. I had the same one.

Am I mad?

Had I gone just as insane as the other Alder Knights the day our order had been fractured, just more quietly?

It took a long time for the hall to fall quiet, with much shouting by the Steward. Finally, when all was quiet, a lord I didn’t know stepped out of the throng.

“I don’t know about this business with the gods,” the aged man, with the scars of a soldier, addressed the Emperor. “But I was there the night Rhan Harrower died, Your Grace. The Princess Maerlys did know this man. She speaks for all the elves, save for the drow and the Briar. Her father was part of God’s Choir. Is that not so, preosts?”

A very old man in an amber-brown robe, a golden circlet on his brow woven in the shape of a laurel, stepped forward. “That is so,” the priest said. He was a member of the Abbey of St. Layne, a pillar of the Aureate Church with as much power as the Priory. “The Archon was the voice of the Onsolain among mortals, their ambassador.”

“That does not make it true of his daughter!” One of the red priests who’d watched me kill the Grand Prior shouted. “I have heard tell of this elf lady. They say she is mad and fell, and hates all men. This man is very likely her assassin, a tool for vengeance!”

“The elves must face reprisal!” the young lord of High House Brightling snapped. For once, the Ark woman did not disagree or scoff.

My heart sank. No. That isn’t what I wanted. I should be the only one to face consequences.

Had I made another terrible mistake? Would my choice here start another war? I hadn’t even considered it might lead to that.

If it did, I deserved Hell in any form.

“That is quite enough, Lord Eryn.” The Steward glowered at the boy lord. “The elves have suffered much already. This man is very likely mad, and throwing about great names to save himself.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. That was better.

“I don’t see a madman.”

I blinked. Many others did too, I think.

And all eyes went to Siriks Sontae.

The brash young Cymrinorean stepped forward, heedless of all those eyes. He lifted his chin at me. “This man, whatever his allegiances, stood in front of a storm ogre to save a girl. He single-handedly dismantled the priorguard on two separate occasions that I know of. Perhaps he is mad!”

Siriks let out a bark of laughter, but had no smile as he continued. “Either way, I don’t see some patsy assassin in front of me, my lords. Maybe they were traitors and Recusants, but the Alder Knights did serve the gods. Is it so hard to believe one of them still is?”

He waved a dismissive hand before stepping back, folding his arms and bowing his head. No one could miss the message. I’ve said my piece, it’s your problem now.

God, I thought. He really is a lot like I used to be.

“May I speak?”

The Emperor turned his stony gaze on an aged preost in the white garments of the Synodites, the arbiters of the clergy. I realized I recognized him — Father Alaric, the Starcanter.

What had brought him here today? His kind rarely strayed out of their holy places, and certainly didn’t engage in politics.

I had no time to figure it out then. At Markham’s gesture, the old confessor stepped forward. He cleared his throat, his fringe of wispy white hair very bright in the clean hall, his dark skin beaded with sweat. He was nervous, and his shadowed eyes told me hadn’t slept.

“This man visited Myrr Arthor some days ago,” Alaric said to the gathered lords. “He sought to undertake a rite of communion. I—”

“And you allowed it?!” Prior Diana’s voice lisped badly with her injury, but even still she made herself heard. Her eyes, through her bandages, blazed with cold fire.

“This man is an excommunicate!” She hissed. “He is not allowed inside hallowed ground under pain of death!”

“It will be added to his list of crimes,” the Lord Steward intoned.

Again, the old man swallowed. His voice came stronger when he spoke again. “I did not know at the time. May I continue?”

With the Emperor’s gesture, he did. Alaric took a deep breath before addressing the court. “I presided over the rite. I have served God all my life. At times I have felt the presence of Her servants, the blessed spirits we call Onsolain. Yet, that day…”

He shook his head. “Something made its presence known to this man. He did indeed commune with the Choir, I am certain of it. I would stake my own life and name on it, my lords. By the blessed name of the Heir of Heaven, who is our God-Queen, I say it is true.”

At that, there was silence. Starcanters are a rare and honored breed of holy servant. It would be very much like blasphemy to gainsay one.

Even still, I knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Heretic!” Prior Diana rasped at the old synodite. Many priests winced, and murmurs rippled through the court.

“The testimony of the starcanter, Father Alaric, will be taken into account.” Markham sighed and settled back in his throne. “Even still, the fact this ritual was allowed under anathema will not be ignored.”

The Emperor’s gray eyes searched the court. They fell on Laessa Greengood.

“This man saved your life?” He asked the girl.

Laessa’s dark face went still, but I saw her force calm on it. She took a deep breath, then nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I did not know he was also this Headsman, or any of the rest, but he has treated me honorably. He saved me from torture and death at the hands of the priorguard, who invaded my home in the night.”

The court stirred at that. I imagine most of them had already heard, but it is different to hear it directly from the source.

Prior Diana bared her teeth and pointed a crooked finger at Laessa. “This woman has been accused of witchcraft and murder by the Grand Prior himself! Her testimony is suspect, and her association with this butcher a stain on her family’s name!”

Laessa, to my surprise, seemed unfazed by the crone’s venom. She kept her eyes on the throne.

“It seems to me,” the quiet, noble-featured King of Venturmoor said, “that we are in something of a conundrum.”

Markham nodded, unable to disagree with his peer. “What would you suggest, Your Grace?”

Roland Marcher studied me, running a hand through his long goatee, then shrugged. “Perhaps it is true? Perhaps an angel of God did command this man to kill the Grand Prior of the Arda, and many others? The way I hear it, the vast majority of the Headsman’s marks have been Recusants we were unable to nab after the war.”

“Not all,” Oswald Pardoner said.

“Not all,” King Roland agreed, sighing. “A conundrum. I think the first step, my lords, is to determine whether this man is a liar, a madman, or some sort of dark messenger of the divine as he claims?”

He shrugged, leaning on an ornate cane. He wasn’t an old man, but life’s burdens had faded him early. “The question is, how?”

How. How did I prove I wasn’t a liar, or insane, to this court of the mighty? And even if I did, would it save my life?

Nothing I said would sway them. I hadn’t expected it to. When I’d committed to this choice in the hour before I’d launched my raid on Rose Malin, I had known it would lead me here, into the heart of the Fulgurkeep and the attentions of the Ardent Round.

I couldn’t keep wandering Urn forever, killing in the shadows. I’d taken on more responsibilities than just that of a killer quietly sanctioned by the Choir. The way I saw it, I served the realms of men just as much, if not more so, than the immortals of Heavensreach or the Sidhe.

If I was to be an executioner, a Doomsman, I should not hide it. The Accord needed to accept my existence, or reject it. Ultimately I served them, and they should have a choice whether or not to allow me to operate, just as the elves had.

My role had never sat right with me, but the why of it had always been vague. I’d felt dishonorable, and guilty, and wicked. But there had been more than that floating in the back of my mind.

Umareon, and other members of the Choir, obviously wanted to keep their hands clean. They sent me out, without support or any surety they would have my back if I needed it. I was a convenience to them — a way to prune their garden of weeds, while they remained the wise, enigmatic elders to the elves and liege saints to man.

No more. I would be Headsman. I would do their will. I would fight, and someday I would die. Perhaps I would die today?

But I wouldn’t be a dirty secret anymore. The lords of Urn, whom the Onsolain were meant to protect and guide, deserved a say in this. And I would not lurk in darkness any longer.

Further…

My eyes went to the Vyke twins, to the prince’s sour face and his sister’s bright, false smile. I couldn’t fight enemies like that as a vagabond haunting lonely countrysides.

Did I expect mercy? Acceptance? Deliverance?

No. But this had been what felt right to me. Again, I glanced at my queen.

Ah, Rose. I’m so sorry. Please, do as you said. Disown me. It’s best for both of us.

She watched me, quiet as cold marble, and kept her lips pressed tight.

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