Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Arc 1: Chapter 23: Clash in the Elf Lord's Hall

“Care to catch me up?” Catrin asked.

Her voice was strained, but still had some strength. I knelt at the dhampir woman’s side near one pillar of Irn Bale’s hall while a goblin tutted over her wound.

“The scarred elf wants my weapon,” I said, indicating the axe I held. “It’s a relic of their people.”

“Uh huh.” Catrin nodded, then winced as the goblin physik pulled a fragment of azsilver from her shoulder with long, scalpel-sharp claws. “That doesn’t tell me why my wound’s being treated. Why doesn’t he just take it from you?”

I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Custom. The elves — all the eld really — bind themselves to old traditions. If he takes the axe from me by force, he loses face, tells his whole court that he’s a tyrant who does as he pleases… gives them implicit permission to do the same. You can’t afford that sort of recklessness in a society with memories as long as theirs.”

“So, what, he’s trying to butter you up? Get you to give it to him?” Catrin eyed the congregation of Eld and spirits. “Funny way of going about it.”

I shook my head. “Not quite. He’s going to fight me for it, but I have to agree to do it of my own will. He can’t just attack me.”

Catrin winced again. The goblin said something in its own language, its voice a bubbling hiss. It wasn’t one of the Disfavored, like the goblin noble at the Falconer keep — the od that clung to it was cleaner, less hateful. I spoke back to it in the same tongue, and it grumbled incoherently back. Catrin eyed me and I coughed.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you? First you show up as a vagabond looking to join Falconer’s little fraternity, then you’re a spy and assassin, then some sort of noble warrior… now I find out you speak goblin.”

“Sure, sure. So why don’t you just refuse to give it to him?” Catrin asked, eyeing the axe.

I grimaced. “If I refuse, he can just keep me here long as he wants. I’ll die of old age eventually, and he isn’t going to mind waiting. I’m the only one on a time table, and he knows it. So if I want to leave, I accept his bargain.” I sighed. “We fight.”

“Any chance you just give him the axe?” Catrin asked. “I mean, it’s a fine cutter big man, but I’m not sure it’s worth our lives.”

I contemplated the weapon a moment. The faecraft bronze reflected my tired features back at me. “If I did, they’d tear me apart. They hate the axe, but it’s also precious to them. Part of their history. I treat it with disrespect, they won’t take it well.”

Catrin sighed. “Fucking elves.”

The goblin said something and let out a bubbling chuckle. Catrin glanced at me and arched an eyebrow.

“He agrees with the sentiment.”

“Thanks,” Catrin said to me. “For catching me back in the woods when I got shot, and asking them to take the Banemetal out. Thought I was done for.” She frowned. “Thought I repulsed you, though.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t trust you. Still don’t. I’m willing to believe you’re not just after my blood, though.”

Catrin nodded graciously, though the mockery was somewhat subdued by the way she stiffened with pain. “Mighty understanding of you, milord.”

I winced.

The dhampir flashed her sharp teeth. “I knew you were a noble. You had the look, even with all those scars, those dire eyes.”

I stood, adjusting my red cloak. “I’m barely a noble. I’m the only member of my House, and I’ve been living as a vagabond for most of a decade. There’s no point standing on ceremony.”

“As you say, big man.” The humor fled from Catrin’s face. “So what now?”

I turned to the elf lord’s throne. “Now I try to survive.”

I moved to stand again in front of the root throne. Irn Bale still sat, consulting with his council. The elf with the golden eye reclined at his side, toying with the strings of a lute and seeming to ignore everything. An enormous faerie spider lurked in the shadows above, an eerie whisper emerging from within its mandibles. Wraiths murmured into the elf lord’s ears. His ancestors, maybe. Parents, cousins, aunts and uncles, grandsires, all eternal advisors.

His eyes were closed, but they opened as I moved to stand before him. “Your companion has been seen to. Are you prepared?”

I just nodded.

“I’m ready.”

“So be it.”

Oradyn Irn Bale stood. As he did he drew something from within the depths of the roots. It was a short sword forged of volcanic glass, yellow-green, a dim light smoldering within. The hilt was brass and iron, the grip wrapped in white leather.

The elf brandished the sword. It emitted an audible hum, and my auratic senses quivered at the sensation that passed over me. That is a potent arm, I thought.

“You were one of the Archon’s warriors,” I said. “A Knight of the Falls.”

The elf followed my gaze to his sword. A pale smile touched his lips. “No. My sister was. I took this from her hand and used it to slay the same demon who ate her spirit.” He held up the blade, which flashed as though touched by a beam of sunlight that wasn’t there. Liquid shapes curled beneath the transparent surface of the faerie sword.

I unclasped my red cloak and let it fall to the ground. Neither I nor the elf wore armor, though his garb was much finer than my borrowed clothes. He also didn’t smell like half-day old shit, but I’d fought in discomfort before.

I put all from my mind except the next few minutes. All my weariness, my uncertainty, my worry for the future and my regrets… I pushed them all down and locked them away, at least for the moment. Energy sung through my limbs as my instincts, honed through many wars and countless fights, took hold of my more cautious mind.

It was a thrill. A familiar, welcome one at that. Fighting had always been simpler than all the complexities of the world, all its vagueness and disappointments. I didn’t have to concern myself with uncertain motives or self-doubt. There was no room for doubt and no purpose in empathy.

It was live or die. Kill or be killed. Simple. Clean.

Pure.

The elf and I had both agreed to this, both of us knew the consequences and had accepted them. We didn’t have to pity one another or worry about whether the other deserved death. There was no deceit in us, no ulterior motives or mistrust. Irn Bale had made plain what he wanted, and I had done the same.

I twirled the axe in my hands — a needless bit of theater, but that was part of these sorts of confrontations. There is a poetry in war, no matter what any cynic might tell you. It fills a dark need in the human soul. To fight. To struggle and triumph. Hate can be a balm to the spirit.

I felt hatred in the elf. It was in me too, though I felt none toward him. Mine was all a mirror.

I ended my brandish in a two handed grip, bringing the crescent-moon blade of the axe above my head. I stood my ground, waiting. Irn Bale was the instigator of this fight, and the lord of this realm of depthless shadows and primeval light. It was his right to make the first move.

The court watched from the sidelines, their inhuman visages cast in shadow as all the light in the hall seemed to gather around me and the elven warrior. Their eyes shone out of that darkness and their forms seemed distorted. Monstrous. Goblins and Sidhe, cantspiders and wraiths, giggling wisps and stranger things.

Catrin sat among them. She seemed more one of the fey than human herself, cast in shadow as she was. Worry and anticipation warred in her face. Her red eyes seemed huge in the gloom. Hungry.

I tore my eyes from her and fixed them on my opponent.

Irn Bale adjusted his grip by the smallest fraction — it was my only warning. His form shimmered, like seaborn mirage beneath bright daylight. He lunged forward, aiming his blade in a piercing thrust. He aimed for my gut. My body moved without thought, muscle memory guiding my limbs into a parry.

My axe didn’t bat the stabbing shard of elf glass aside. Instead, the bronze bit of my weapon passed through the blade, which rippled and was gone.

An illusion. The real Irn Bale was just behind the mirage, aiming his blade a hand’s width lower. It scored across my hip, carving through cloth and flesh. Pain flared and I grit my teeth. Ignoring the pain, I took a single step forward and punched the elf lord — or tried to. Again his form rippled like a reflection in a disturbed pond and faded from reality.

I stumbled, caught myself, and brought my weapon up in a guard. Looking around the center of the hall, I saw how deep in trouble I was. Six Irn Bales stood around me, a pack of direwolves all with gleaming green swords and cruel, laughing eyes.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

More illusions? The glass sword that’d cut me just a moment ago hadn’t been one. I could feel the pain throbbing in my side, the warm blood dampening my trousers. The same hip I’d taken that crossbow bolt in back in Vinhithe.

Bastard.

“Clever Art,” I said, taking a step back and falling into a stance better suited for multiple opponents.

“It has been the death of many a foe,” Irn Bale said from six mouths, his voice forming a fell chorus.

Despite my flippancy, a bead of sweat formed on my brow. I was in trouble. Soul Arts were the mainstay of combat between two sorcerously trained opponents, and there were few better at this particular magic than the Sidhe. They had immortal centuries to refine their craft. There were plenty of mortal adepts who could awaken a powerful Art, only to have it fail them in the fury of battle through lack of combat experience.

Irn Bale would have had lifetimes to refine his own tricks and incorporate them into his swordplay.

Didn’t mean I had no tricks of my own.

Six elven warriors flourished their blades, and three pressed in for the attack. The others began to rush about in converging circles, forming a confusing dance my eyes struggled to follow. Worse, the dopplegangers shimmered and rippled like liquid light, creating a disorienting effect that made the whole pack seem a kaleidoscope of color and motion.

I was pretty sure I’d had a similar experience on bad mushrooms. I didn’t bother trying to match the display of sorcery with muscle — if all six blades were capable of cutting me, then it was a fool’s game.

Instead I narrowed my eyes to thin slits, concentrating on the words of a vow etched into the fabric of my soul. My aura reshaped itself in response to my will, from a shadow of my physical body to something more complex, sharper, brighter.

My aura is more potent than an ordinary human’s — I heal faster, can see in darkness, feel magical forces if they’re not too subtle. My commands and suggestions can leave powerful impressions on a weak mind, forcing a fearful enemy to freeze or a panicked mind to calm. I can imbue my weapons with auratic fire, a potent weapon against Things of Darkness.

If this seems powerful, then you haven’t ever encountered adepts of true potency. I once witnessed the previous Archmagus conjure a thunderstorm of epic strength, and a mage-knight sever that same storm in half. I can’t wield blades of lightning or conjure elemental beasts, though I know these things can be done, have seen them done.

That is not what the Table was made for. It was made to illuminate darkness, banish the creatures of the Adversary, to protect, to ward, and to dispel illusion.

I am the lantern which reveals the path in the darkness.

I am the blade which cleaves the shadow.

The hall darkened briefly, then filled with pale golden light as I thrust out a palm in a shoving motion. An expanding ring of light burst into existence around me, rippling out like a glimmering golden-white wave. Wyldefae flinched back from the burst as one body, some crying out in alarm, others hissing in anger.

All but one of the elven warriors converging on me were drowned in the blast of light and unmade. The last winced at the light, bright as a sudden dawn, and fumbled his cut.

I took the Axe of Hithlen in both hands, judging my range on instinct, and swung. I turned the bit at the last moment, and struck Irn Bale’s wrist with the blunt back end of the weapon. His wrist broke with an audible pop and the glass sword clattered to the ground.

Irn Bale did not fall to his knees or cry out in pain. His brow furrowed, but that was his only reaction. He leapt back, quick as a fly dodging a swatting hand, out of my reach. He lifted his broken wrist and studied it with mild concern.

I stamped a boot down on his sword, wary of him grabbing it again.

“How did you know they were illusions?” He asked, curious. “I cut you with one.”

“Hunch,” I said. “That sword was reflecting light. I guessed the bodies were just mirages, but the sword was real no matter who held it.”

Irn Bale nodded. “Because of the one you destroyed after it cut you.” Then his scarred lips widened into a bright grin. “Well done. Well done indeed!”

Then that form rippled and vanished. So did the sword I’d trapped beneath my boot.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end an instant before I spun. I caught Irn Bale’s sword on my axe’s blade. Sparks danced as both our enchanted weapons slid against one another, filling the air with an almost musical sound. Our weapons slide from one another, and the shower of sparks their passing made writhed and flitted in the air like living fireflies, at war with one another.

I parried another blow, Irn Bale’s sword quick as a viper, then stamped a boot into his guard and brought the axe up in a savage rising motion. He dodged it, and I brought it down again in a chop.

The oradyn shimmered an instant before I struck him. My axe cleaved him from head to pelvis, but he only dissipated like mist, my swing meeting no resistance. The real Irn Bale was a few steps behind.

I’d been ready. I kept the swing going, the savage shout escaping my lips thrumming with aura. The Faen Orgis flickered with golden fire as it struck the moonstone floor of the elven hall.

A small but very bright detonation of light bloomed to life from the ground at my feet. It grew into a shockwave of golden flames which traveled nearly twenty feet forward in an expanding teardrop shape. Irn Bale’s scarred face loosened into an expression of surprise as the wave enveloped him. The auratic fire kept moving, causing wyldefae to recoil as it drew near the sidelines.

It nearly touched the root throne, but broke barely feet before it into wisps of amber tinted flame. The elf with the golden eye reclined, unfazed, as the magical fire drifted harmlessly past them. They even strummed their lute once, punctuating the Art’s end.

Sweat dripped from my face as I knelt there, axe in one hand and sunk several inches into the floor. I fought to catch my breath.

“That exhausted you,” Irn Bale noted from behind me.

I sucked in a breath and stood, turning. The elf stood about ten feet away, shimmering slightly with that telltale distortion of mirage. “Have I hit you even once?” I asked.

He held up his broken right wrist. I realized he was holding his sword in his left hand now. “Was that your own Art?” he asked in curiosity. “Or the axe’s?”

“One of the Table’s,” I said. “So was the one I used to dispel your illusions earlier.”

“You can still use them, even with the Table broken.” Irn Bale lifted his chin. He seemed impressed. “I wasn’t certain.”

I could, but they cost me a lot more than they once had. I managed to steady my breathing and took my axe in both hands, bringing it up so the blade was level with my head. It flickered with aureflame.

Irn Bale dipped into a fighting crouch, smooth as a reed, his blade parallel with one outstretched leg. His weapon glowed with faerie light.

Round two.

Irn Bale flickered forward. He was preternaturally fast. His speed combined with his illusory bodies made him seem to teleport with each small movement. One scarred elven warrior blurred toward me, and another went low to swipe at my legs. There was no telling which one’s blade had the cutting edge — both, perhaps.

I swung the axe without the graceful finesse the elf displayed, sweeping the mirages away in a flare of auratic flame. Less dramatic than my earlier blast wave, more concentrated, but it did the trick. The illusions vanished, and the real Irn Bale spun through the fire like a top, swiping at my eyes with a savage cut. I batted the attack away, the impact jarring my bones and making my teeth clack together.

His blade had grown. Not literally, but the light in it was brighter, encompassing the glass casing and effectively extending the weapon. When had that happened?

Heat flared across my right arm. The blade had cut me. No time to see how badly.

Some magic weapons could have Art wrought into them, to give a fighter more tricks in their arsenal. It was very rare for anyone, even an ageless elf, to develop more than one Art from the fabric of their own aura. My guess was that the trick with the mirage bodies was Irn Bale’s own magic, and the blade of light he wielded was a property of the glass sword.

Combat between two adepts was often a mix of skill and the potency of their Art — sheer power could make a difference, but the more refined magic, wielded more competently, would tend to have the advantage.

I had a whole arsenal of Soul Arts I could wield, but none of them were my own. They were all phantasms carved into the Alder Table, lent to me when I swore my oaths. Some were more difficult to access than others, and some were beyond me. I didn’t have much subtlety or skill with more than a handful of them, because I lacked the intimate understanding you’d normally gain manifesting your own inborn magic.

I’d never be able to wield anything so complex as Lisette’s trick with her golden threads, or so graceful as Irn Bale’s illusions. My powers were more about brute force. Blasts of light, bursts of golden flame, repelling auras, and smiting blows.

I had one I thought might work well against this elusive elf.

While Irn Bale was dancing away from my aura of flame — more a deterrent than a real shield — I narrowed my eyes to near slits and concentrated. I murmured more words under my breath, and once again my aura reshaped itself. Unseen forces rearranged themselves, becoming denser, blunter. To my mind it was like a tall shadow formed above me, holding aloft a warhammer.

I brought my axe down, using the dense rectangular back end of the head, and that ethereal hammer came down with it. My axe struck, and the shadow struck, and the floor cracked. Lightning bolt fractures raced across the center of the elven hall, intermingling or scattering, each filled with a fast-fading glow.

All of the Irn Bales around me continued their eerie dance, save one. One stumbled and lost his balance along with the rest of the watching fae as the entire structure trembled.

I locked eyes on that one, dashed forward, and slammed an elbow into his jaw. He went down hard, but the elf lord was tough. He twisted into an acrobatic spin, lashing out at me with a kick. I caught the blow in the shin, growled, but kept my feet. I sunk my axe into the ground by Irn Bale’s head, making him flinch, then pressed a knee to his chest.

I slammed a fist into his face. Once. twice.

Again.

On the fifth blow he let his sword drop and went still.

I paused, my bloodied knuckles still poised. “Do you yield?” My words came out as a bestial snarl. I was breathing like a beast too, nostrils flaring.

The oradyn looked more amused than anything. His nose was broken from my fist, and I’d cracked one of his immortal teeth. He held up one hand in limp surrender. “I yield, Sir Knight, I yield.”

I stood, walked several feet, then staggered drunkenly. My entire body was shaking with fatigue, as though I’d been fighting for hours without stop. Using so much Art so quickly had been a foolish idea, but I’d wanted this over.

Wanted to win.

The crowd murmured from the shadows along the hall’s sides. By their reactions, I might have just made a scandalous remark rather than won a life or death bout with their leader. There was no fanfare in the victory, no drama. It felt more like I’d completed a tiring chore.

Catrin appeared at my side as I ripped my axe from the ground. “Are you alright?” She asked.

“I’ll be fine,” I grunted.

Oradyn Irn Bale picked up his own sword and limped back to his throne. Wraiths congregated around him the whole while, their muted whisperings forming its own sort of weather around him. He sat, wiped at the mask of blood on his face, and regarded me thoughtfully.

“I did not believe you could still wield the power granted to you by the Archon,” Irn Bale said as I faced him. “The axe is in worthy hands, Knight Alder. Keep it, with my blessing.”

I nodded, too tired to speak. His sudden change in attitude didn't confuse me, or satisfy -- he was fey, and it was his nature. The wounds on my hip and arm burned with pain I was just truly starting to feel.

Irn Bale sheathed his glass sword in the roots, lifted his broken wrist and — with an audible pop — corrected it. He tested the fingers. The skin beneath the hand was purpling and swollen.

“It heartens me that the rumors surrounding the First Sword of Harodell were not exaggerated,” Irn Bale continued, rubbing at his swollen wrist. “You fight like a warrior of the Fall. You will need that ferocity, to face the evil Orson Falconer has unleashed on this land.”

“Quick to praise you now, isn’t he?” Catrin muttered sullenly. “Now you’ve whipped him in front of his court.”

I hushed her. In truth, Irn Bale looked hardly winded, and I was struggling not to sway on my feet.

“So you’ll let us leave?” I asked. My voice came out hoarse.

The elf lord nodded slowly. “Yes. First, though, I will have your wounds tended and your hunger eased.” The ghost of a smile flickered along the half of his lips not ruined by scars. “Perhaps a bath, as well.”

The whole court erupted with inhuman titters.

I’d have laughed with them, if the sound of it hadn’t been so damn unsettling.