Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Arc 1: Chapter 15: Shadow Council

I’ve been in danger many times in my life. I have escaped death by the narrowest of margins, danced with it, even gone beyond its threshold.

Few times have I been as near to it as in that room.

All eyes, human and eld alike, fixed on me. Sweat beaded on the back of my neck. In my mind, I moved through the series of actions I would take next — draw my dagger, move under the ogre’s legs and hamstring it. If Green Cloak comes at me, I use the ogre as a shield and get my axe out. Make for the window on the far side of the room, cut down anyone who gets in my way. Use Art if I have to.

The ogre bared its yellowed fangs and flexed fingers near as thick as my wrists. I tensed.

“Hold, Karog.” The Baron’s melodic voice filled the room. “He is here under my invitation, and bound by the protections I offer all guests in my house until he proves himself unworthy of them through action. Stay your hand.”

“You said yourself you did not know him,” the old woman said to the lord.

Orson Falconer nodded. “Indeed. But, as you recall, my invitation to this gathering was not specific. He is late and unknown, true, but that does not change the fact that this is my house. It is my judgment that will pass here. Karog?”

The ogre hadn’t taken his burning yellow eyes off of me. To be fair, I hadn’t taken mine off of him. He growled again, the sound low and threatening. His reek hammered my senses — I had no idea how I hadn’t noticed it when I’d first entered the room. Like a furnace beating with the stench of copper, sweat, and rotting meat.

A significant part of me wanted to tremble, to run, to attack. It took every ounce of my will and training to remain still, calm, and composed. I’d faced ogres before — the Briar often allied with them. They were the enforcers, bodyguards, and even the assassins of many of the most ancient and deadly of the Eld, the favored warriors of fey lords and darker powers in the continent.

The Baron’s voiced hardened. “Karog. I will not ask again.”

I noticed something else then. The shadows around me and the ogre had deepened, the already wan flames of the chandelier seeming to retreat from us. There was a heaviness to the air, and the very faint sound of many tiny, scuttling legs.

The same thing I had felt in the lower levels of the castle.

Karog seemed to sense it too. He went very still, his eyes flickering to the baron, and then he clenched his enormous hands into fists.

“You are bound by the word and trust of your employers,” the Baron said in a reasonable tone. “And by the guest rights I have extended to you on their behalf. Shall I inform them that you will not obey my wishes while within my own hall?”

Karog’s stillness took on a different aspect then. He didn’t reply with disgust, or anger, or even shame. His savage features relaxed, as did the tension in his scarred muscles. He grew calm and stepped back. “Then on your head be it.”

The Baron inclined his head, his eyes heavily lidded in an expression of almost sleepy calm. “Thank you.” He turned that distant gaze on me, not quite meeting my eyes. “If you would join us, Alken, we were just beginning this council.”

“Point of order.” Lady Vulture, as I’d dubbed her in my mind, held up a crooked finger. “Murdering those here under guest right is perhaps brash, but I will not overlook this. The mercenary sensed elven magic on this man. Will you not address this, Orson?”

All eyes turned to the Baron, with the exception of Karog. The ogre had receded back into the pillars along the wall, leaning against the stonework between them. His eyes remained on me, dimly glowing within the heavy shadows at the hall’s edge.

Orson Falconer nodded slowly. “Such magic suffuses the lands far and wide. It is not that uncommon, Lillian, nor does it mean he is a danger to us. But I should allow our new guest to speak for himself.” He beckoned to me. “Tell us, Alken of Losdale, why you have answered my summons.”

I stepped toward the table but did not sit. Hostility beat off of it like summer heat off a cobblestone street, and I didn’t want to get burned. “I’m here to fight the seraphs and their pawns,” I said. “I heard you were gathering allies to bloody the Church’s nose.”

“Heard from who?” Lady Vulture, or Lillian, asked. Her voice snapped off the walls, harsh and grating and impossible to ignore.

I’d never been much of an actor. I wanted to take a long breath, get some air, anything to steady my nerves. I couldn’t. My life rode on what I said next, and I’d committed to this charade. Shouldn’t have come here, I thought. This was stupid.

Too late for regrets.

“As the kin fomori said,” I nodded to Karog, whose yellow eyes widened in surprise. “I have a touch of high sidhe magic on me. I’m what the Church would dub a warlock.” I smiled shallowly, hoping it looked bitter. It wasn’t technically a lie — many powerful sects of the Faith had not gotten on with my order. “I made bargains I didn’t fully understand, some of which I’m still paying dues on.”

The goblin lord nodded thoughtfully. His collar crackled, as though it were stiff as dry parchment. “A bargain made must be honored. That is true for my people as much as for the Favored.”

I inclined my head to the goblin, swallowing my discomfort. I’d never heard a goblin speak the common tongue before. It felt profane, somehow. Its voices was a warbling sound, full of strange pauses and rises punctuated by subtle croaks. Like a toad trying to mimic human speech. I continued. “I heard of this council through rumor and heresay, from those wiser than myself. I can say no more. As you said yourself, my lord…” I nodded to the baron. “Your invitation was unspecific. Word travels. I am a traveler. You could say I am here by chance.”

Lillian scowled. “This is not enough. What if he is a spy for our adversary?”

“I agree.” This came from one who had not yet spoken. One of the two black-robed and hooded figures, the ones whose garments made them seem twins, stood. They poised hands wrapped in dark cloth on the table. “Heavensreach has eyes and ears across all of Urn. Their puppet priests, yes, but others too. Spirits disguised as trees, birds, dreams… even men.” The hooded gaze turned to me, the voice within falling silent.

He is no spirit.

I went dead still. The voice had not come from anyone sitting at the table, or standing in the shadowy alcoves as Karog was. It came from all around, a shivering, manifold thing as though many quiet, ghostly voices spoke at once, their collective presence becoming something more substantial. It slithered from every shadow. With every syllable it changed, sometimes deep and masculine and sometimes airy and effeminate, a profane chorus forming one voice.

He smells of fire and blood.

And pain.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Regret.

He is mortal, touched by an immortal flame.

He is marked.

Claimed.

The sound of many insectile feet scuttling across the walls intensified, as though excited.

Claimed by mine own kin.

The scars over my left eye began to itch. I made an effort of will not to lift my hand and feel the old wounds.

I was not the only one disturbed by this intrusion. Around the table, all had gone very still, some even bearing expressions of clear discomfort. The goblin swallowed, its entire neck bulging. Lillian seemed to sink into her chair.

“My lord,” Lillian said to the Baron. Her face, already pale, had turned ashen. “You assured me that creature would not be present during these discussions.”

The Baron placed the fingertips of one hand to his temple, massaging them. He looked pained.

Before he had a chance to speak, an armored fist slammed down on the table with thunderous force. All eyes, including my own, turned to the man sitting at the opposite end of the table from the lord. It was the heavily bearded, wild-haired man in the battered armor. He had finally lifted his head from his meal, and had fixed each person in the room with a hollow-eyed glare. There were deep shadows around his pale eyes, and beneath the mane of gray-streaked hair he was painfully gaunt. I noticed he’d eaten the entire leg of meat he’d been working on. Even the bone.

“I’ve had enough of this,” the armored man growled. His voice was dry and rasping, as though he badly needed water and had for a very long time. “I came here to discuss war. I don’t care about the rest.” He took a scrap of his ruined gray cloak and wiped it across his mouth, doing little to clean his matted beard and further soiling the garment. “If we’re not here for business, then I’ll take my Mistwalkers and go.”

The Baron inclined his head to the ghoul. “I do not want that, my friend. And I concur. Let us return to business.” He gestured toward me again. “Will you sit?”

I was still shaken by the thing in the shadows — or was it the shadows? But I nodded jerkily and moved to a chair. I found one as far from any of the others as I could, which wasn’t an easy feat as unevenly spaced as the others were. I moved around the table and settled for one near the man dressed as a hunter. He hadn’t threatened or questioned me so far, and I didn’t want to have my back to the ogre.

“Excellent.” The Baron curled his fingers against his chest, ran his eyes across the gathering one more time, and then took his own seat. He adjusted his sleeves, then his finely embroidered robes, and then relaxed back into the high-backed chair. “Then let us begin.”

“Why don’t we start with why you’ve called us,” the same black-robed figure who’d already spoken once said, sitting. Their companion remained silent and still, a vaguely humanoid shadow slumped in their fine chair. “I have my suspicions, but I am curious as to the true purpose of this… council.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the others. I folded my arms, idly running my eyes over the table itself. It was lavishly furnished with a variety of foods, from ripe fruits — many of which were out of season — to roasted meats and pastries. An entire kynedeer, a type of wild chimera, was centerpiece in the display. The Captain of the Mistwalkers had already eaten much of it. He started in on another leg with noisy, vaguely sickening sounds.

Orson Falconer nodded and steepled his fingers. “I have called you all here to discuss, as Captain Issachar so succinctly put it, war.”

The hush in the room deepened, an air of eager anticipation falling over the guests. I admit, I fixed my attention on the Baron more firmly as well. The mercenary leader even stopped his ravenous eating to hear the lord better.

“Ten years.” The Baron paused, letting those words sink in. “Ten years since the forests of Seydis burned, since the towers of Elfhome fell and the High King was slain. Many in this new alliance which professes to govern the land, this Accord…” His voice turned bitter. “Believe that was the beginning of the land’s woes. But that is not true, is it? For long centuries have the denizens of Heavensreach let their idle whims and favoritism chart the course for the rest of us. For long centuries have they professed to rule on behalf of their Golden Queen, while Her voice remains silent.”

The sanguine calm in the Baron’s eyes faded as he spoke. His voice never changed, never rose, but an edge of cutting anger was there — in the way his left hand clenched and relaxed in tandem with his jaw, in the deadly quiet of his every word. A quiet which filled the hall. Drowned it.

“We all know the elves were their puppets,” the Baron said, and the goblin let out a low, throaty growl of agreement. “We all know the Church is their tool, for all its infighting and factionalism. Even the Accord and its representatives bend to the whim of the gods.”

At my side, the blond man in the tricorn shifted. It was a subtle motion, his slouching posture still relaxed, but I sensed he was more alert than he let on.

“I have had enough.” Orson Falconer drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “Enough of my people worrying over whether their crops will die because they did not direct their prayers to the east with enough fervor. Enough of bending to the fey whims of lesser immortals whose petty, childish antics are enabled by the world’s insistence on wallowing in nostalgia. Enough of fearing for the souls of mine own blood, whose very peace in death isn’t even a guarantee.”

Layers of cloth rustled as the two black-robed figures stirred in their seats.

Lillian leaned forward, her feverish eyes intense with interest. “Is this why you had the bridge troll butchered?”

Issachar let out a hollow, rasping laugh. “Fucking thing kept trying to get my men to pay his toll. Never heard that old saying, you and what army, I suppose.”

The huntsman at my side tensed and adjusted his cap.

“That was a stupid thing to do.”

It wasn’t until all eyes present turned to me that I realized I had been the one to say the words.

The commander of the ghoul mercenaries fixed his hungry eyes on me. “Come again?”

Inwardly, I winced. I’d meant to draw as little attention to myself as possible. The troll’s death flashed through my mind. The brutal way it had been dismembered, the callous cruelty of the display made from that violence. I recalled its terror and confusion as it had been killed, that echo passed into my aura now, part of it — possibly forever.

“It was a stupid thing to do,” I said again, letting my own voice drop into an angry growl. “Settled trolls are arbiters for their domains, centers of balance. Magically, and socially. I crossed that bridge on my way here. Saw what your men did.” I met the ghoul’s eyes and held them. “You didn’t just kill it. You desecrated it. That bridge will become a locus of hostile od, probably for centuries, and that’s not even mentioning the attention it drew. I heard your Mistwalkers talking before I arrived at the castle. Something about irks raiding from the forests? Why do you think that’s started up all the sudden, corpse-eater?”

The ghoul’s chair screeched as he stood and he slammed his palms down on either side of his mostly empty plate. He glared at me, too-big teeth bared, his face a rictus mask of maddened anger.

A chuckle coiled mockingly through the room. It had come from Lillian. “Ah, so our vagabond friend here is not just a thug who caught the Backroad wench’s eye. I misjudged you, Master Alken.” She dipped her head in my direction, the elaborate coils of her silver hair remaining fixed in place as firmly as if they were made of ceramic. Then she turned to the Baron. “The newcomer is right. Killing the troll was preemptive and poorly done. It exposed us before we were ready.”

“I agree,” said the young hunter at my side. His voice surprised me. It was very young, quiet, and had a distinct note of uncertainty woven through it. Not at all like the confidant woodsman he presented as.

“It was the most dangerous threat in this region,” Issachar said, almost sullenly. He hadn’t sat down. “And it had wendgates all over the damn wilderness. I need my troops to be able to move freely, and not have to worry about paying every time.”

“What was its toll?” I asked.

Issachar glared at me, his lips forming a thin line. I met his stare and asked again. “What was its toll? No troll’s passage price is ever the same. What did it ask for the use of its bridges?”

I could nearly hear the ghoul’s teeth grinding.

“Don’t know, do you?” I asked, flashing my own teeth at him. “Didn’t even bother finding out. He might have just wanted a riddle, or a cup of spring water. They don’t always ask for coin.”

“Fingernails.”

I glanced at the Baron, who’d been the one to speak. The aging nobleman met my gaze and shrugged. “Fingernails. That was his price. He preferred those from the left forefinger.” He held up his left hand to demonstrate.

Lillian laughed. It was a severely unpleasant sound, a screeching cackle that echoed off the ancient castle walls, a show of mirth to put even the most fell witch to shame. “What, you death eaters prize your pretty nails that much? Oh, that’s rich!”

Issachar’s face turned read. “He was an Onsolain bondsman. He would have challenged us in time.”

“Fingernails!” Lillian chortled, still caught up in her amusement. Issachar growled and reached for the sword at his hip.

Another, much deeper growl filled the chamber. It came from the ogre still lurking in the shadows. The ghoul froze.

“Peace!” Orson held up his hand. He sighed. “I think, perhaps, we should retire this discussion for now. The matter of the bridge troll is not an insignificant one. I must consider. I will speak to you of it later, Captain.”

Issachar looked to the baron and nodded sharply. He looked half caught between rabbit terror and canine rage, and unable to decide which beast to be.

“I will speak to you now, Alken.” The Baron looked to me. “In private.”