Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Arc 1: Chapter 3: Glorysworn

They were knights. I could tell at a glance, from the visible enchantments on their gear to the artistry apparent in the fashion of their weapons and armor. Two held swords, and one a warhammer with a cruel backspike. It was that last who stepped forward. I couldn’t see their face; The same magic illuminating their helm made the interior of the visor impenetrably dark, granting the illusion that there might have been nothing at all inside.

The armor was of a new fashion, more complex in design than anything I’d seen in the war. Possibly even made outside the subcontinent. The guilds were bringing all sorts of interesting new toys across the Riven Sea. I suspected it was alchemy, and not elf-craft, that had fashioned the arms for these.

I didn’t bother hiding. I could tell they were waiting for me, arrayed on the narrow street between the last block of homes and the river docks. I stepped forward, forcing my breath to steady from my long flight, and rested my bloodstained axe on my shoulder.

“So it’s true,” the knight with the hammer said. Their voice was androgynous, made brassy and inhuman through the slits in their visor. I couldn’t guess at gender. I could hear the voice clear through the storm, but couldn’t tell if that was their own aura or some property of the foreign armor. “The Headsman himself, come out of hiding to plague us. What have you to say for yourself, blackguard?”

I shrugged, and let a bit of aura leak into my voice so it would carry as clear as the knight’s. “I say you’re in my way, and you should move aside. We’ve no quarrel, and I’d rather not kill you.”

The other two knights shifted at that, agitated. One of them growled something I didn’t catch. The one with the hammer gave a sharp nod, causing the faint light around them to shimmer like a mirage. “But we’ve quarrel with you, O’ Headsman. Two, in fact; The Earl holds our service at present, so that one is professional. The other…” They shrugged, making their asymmetrical pauldrons rise and fall. “My brothers and I are eager to test the legend. Are you man or devil? You will let us see your blood so we may be sure.”

Mercenaries, then. Glorysworn. I knew the type, and knew there’d be no negotiating my way out of this. Glorysworn Knights, nobleborn fighters with little prospect for inheritance, drifted from liege to liege, going wherever hospitality and excitement took them. Adventurers of a fashion, though they tended to form their own fraternities and were disdainful of partying with more common fellowships. They weren’t paladins — I’d heard no hint of an Oath in that little speech. But they would be skilled, and their magical arms could be trouble. I wore no armor, so they had the advantage in war gear as well as number.

This wouldn’t be as one-sided as the guardsmen from before.

I pointed my axe at the leader, showing them the blood splattered across the bearded blade. Even in the downpour, it wasn’t washing off. The hammer-wielder knew a challenge when they saw one. They stepped forward, harness clattering, and took a stance. A metallic silver sheen encased their hammer, drowning out the paler light from before.

They might have snorted beneath the helm. “I would normally be honored, but I hear you are no longer a knight.”

I will admit, now, the retort bothered me a little. Not least of all because it was true. I took my own stance, axe held low to the ground at an angle. My gloved hand slid down the curve of the haft, until it hovered near where the blade fused with wood. The weapon began to emit a dour amber light.

There was little drama in our first meeting, me and that nameless knight. We waited ten beats of a heart, and then we were both running forward. I don’t know who moved first. My leather boots slapped the rain-slick stone, and the knight’s sabatons struck a piercing note with each step. Axe met hammer, elf-bronze and alchesteel sliding together, and then we went past one another in a brief flash of sparks quickly dead in the rain.

The other two knights watched, silent, their features unreadable beneath their helms.

I turned, and then twisted to avoid a chasing blow following within an instant of the first. The next I parried, and this time our weapons tolled like twin bells striking as they met. Silver and amber magic collided along with physical steel—

And the silver sliced through the amber, sharp as a blade through cheese. The bell-toll of our meeting weapons continued, a keening note, and I felt a rippling force pass through my weapon and into my hands, my bones—

The knight’s magic ripped through me with what felt like a hundred hammers striking every major bone and organ in my body at once. The force carried on, rippling through rain and stone, until what seemed like an invisible fist struck the street. Stone cracked. Water scattered. I leaped back on pure instinct, parting from the knight, and drew my aura back into an aegis. It is difficult to describe, the wielding of one’s soul. With thought and will and hard-earned experience I shaped mine, focusing on defense rather than attack.

But damage was done.

I stayed on my feet, barely, reeling. When bile rose in my throat and I coughed up blood, I knew I was badly hurt. What was that? I thought, on the verge of panic. Their Art? I’d never felt sorcery like it. It had cut through my own defenses with ease.

The Glorysworn didn’t give me the chance to recover. They advanced, relentless, and I dodged their hammer’s downswing rather than try to parry again, fearing a repeat of that tremorous magic. It was something of a dance, then, as the knight advanced and I fell back, narrowly avoiding an endless series of blows. The knight’s stamina seemed inexhaustible. I, on the other hand, was already shaken, wounded, and starting to labor. My bones seemed to ring continuously, adding disorientation to my woes.

I had no way of knowing for certain whether what I’d been hit with was the martial sorcery of the knight’s Soul Art, or some quirk of their weapon. I had a suspicion, though, from the unfamiliar sensation of it.

When two fighters with wakened aura clash, it’s not just their bodies at odds with one another. The wielding of Art is not the whole of sorcerous combat, only a specific application of it. Various phenomena can manifest in such duels, some of which can be unique and unpredictable. But a common one is the exchange of emotion, emanations of the mind and spirit bridging between two opponents as they become lost in the fury of combat and their essences meet. It’s not mind reading, quite. Thoughts are trickier. But rage, fear, excitement — these things you can give away to an enemy.

It’s not too different from playing cards, really. The difference is that the plays happen more instantly, and the results are more lethal. It’s common to train to quell this flow, so you don’t give away your intentions.

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The Glorysworn knight was not nearly as well trained in this aspect of combat as I. That was why when they stepped in close with hammer lifted for a killing blow, sabaton sliding across the ground so water sprayed around my ankles, I knew they were frustrated with my endless evasion.

They overcommitted, and I punished them for it. I stopped, legs braced, and spun my axe like a quarterstaff, knocking the hammer off balance without letting my own weapon touch its head. The Glorysworn stumbled and I got the hooked blade of my axe around the haft of their weapon and jerked hard, twisting. The hammer flew free of their grip and the knight stumbled past me several steps. The hammer clattered to the ground, which shuddered slightly around it.

I didn’t smile, but I knew I’d been right. There wasn’t time for gloating. I swung, merciless, and caught the knight with the shining amber bit of my axe between pauldron and neck. Steel crumpled. Bone broke. The Glorysworn went down with a sharp cry.

They wouldn’t be getting up again soon.

I faced the other two, who still stood between me and the docks. “Move,” I said, infusing the words with aura so they rang through the storm, “aside.”

This time, the cant was not so effective as it had been on the young guardsmen earlier. One of the Glorysworn jerked, nearly obeying my Command, but the other simply stepped forward with claymos raised.

Wearily, I lifted my axe to meet their challenge.

The two knights, brothers by their leader’s earlier speech, spread out to flank me. They wouldn’t be dueling me one on one like the hammer-wielder, then. Fine. I kept my eyes on both, backing away from the fallen Glorysworn in case they weren’t so incapacitated as I’d hoped.

They both held swords. The one on the left a tall claymos, and the one on the right a shorter (but hardly less heavy) broadsword. Like the first, their faces were hidden behind ornate helms of strange design, alien visages made eerie by the storm. The one with the smaller blade had a helm crafted in the likeness of a snarling gargoyle, while the larger brother resembled a deep sea fish, the crest of the helm even fashioned into a sort of antenna. The weapons of both were etched from pommel to bladetip with complex geometric patterns and emitted a faint light in the rain. Like the first, then, their weapons were ensorceled. That didn’t necessarily mean they would do exactly the same thing. I took a defensive stance, cautious of tricks.

I considered using my own Art. I thought better of it, and settled for maintaining the aegis I’d made before. My left shoulder burned, and I still felt nauseous from that magicked hammer, but I ignored the discomfort. I’d been trained to focus through pain, and had plenty experience of it.

It was the Glorysworn with the broadsword who attacked first, bringing his wide-bladed armament up to rest on a vambrace and advancing with heavy, plodding steps. When he was near he lunged, weapon driving forward in a powerful thrust. I parried, axe scraping against sword as I brought my weapon up in an rising motion across my left side. I would have riposted, but the knight ducked and his brother was there at his back, fish-helm comically quizzical, greatsword cleaving rain as it sought my head.

I’d come in stealth, not for war, and wore no helm. I reeled back, letting the tip of the claymos miss me by a hand’s width, but the Glorysworn with the gargoyle helm was chopping at my legs even as Fishhead was recovering from his mighty swing. I blocked Gargoyle’s sword, causing metal to scream tortuously as our weapons clashed. At least I wasn’t hit with that bonequaking Art again. But the two knights fought as a single body, two swords and four arms moving in concert, so I could barely avoid both and was left no time to retaliate.

They used no Art, but they were fast for their size and took no risks like the hammer-wielder. I might have taken either alone but, together, they matched me step for step. My wound screamed, restricting my full range of movement. Sweat mixed with rain as I avoided death by the space of heartbeats, struggling for every moment of life.

They were good. But, I thought, also inexperienced. And they’d followed the one with the hammer’s lead. An elder brother, I thought, and had a grim idea.

Gargoyle advanced with an artful downward stroke, almost a fencer’s technique despite his heavy weapon. I saw Fishhead through the rain, a step behind, bringing up his tall blade to follow his sibling in a two-pronged attack. They were content to keep this going, advancing and retreating in turn, Gargoyle harrying me while Fishhead focused on killing strikes. Eventually, one would land. But I was done with this game, and batted the broadsword away almost negligently as I leaped back, opening my guard. Fishhead hesitated, likely sensing a trap. But his brother was not so cautious and turned his blade into a thrust, positioning it again atop his vambrace, intending to stab forward into my exposed chest.

Which was when I used the sickle-blade of my axe to jerk the hammer-wielder in front of me from where he’d been laying stunned on the ground. The inner curve of the axe-blade was not sharp, so I didn’t cut his neck as I lifted him, hooking the blade under his chin beneath the helm.

Lucky for us both Gargoyle froze. I used the opportunity to adjust my grip, twisting the captive knight’s head sharply to one side. He let out a cry of pain that came ethereal through the helm. The threat was clear enough without words; If either of the other two came at me, I’d break their sibling’s neck.

“I’ll ask again,” I said, breathing hard. “Fucking move.”

Fishhead stood stock still, a titan in steel with a sword near as tall as he was, and was silent. Gargoyle drew up and, even through all the armor, I knew he was enraged. “Blackguard!” He snarled through his monstrous helm. “She’s already fallen. Let her go.”

A sister, then. I didn’t comply, instead meeting the shadowed gaze of the Glorysworn evenly. “She said it herself; I’m no knight. I won’t ask again.”

To make my point, I gave the axe a slight twist. Through the helm’s mask, I could hear the hammer-wielder begin to choke. I knew her brothers heard it too.

I don’t know what expression the two Glorysworn wore beneath their eerie helms, but I could guess well enough. Gargoyle gestured sharply with his sword at his brother. “Let him,” he said, voice strained.

To my relief, Fishhead complied. They both moved, clearing a path toward the edge of the river. I moved, cautious, never taking my eyes from the two knights. I kept their sibling in custody, hearing her occasionally give out a pained sound as the movement disturbed her broken collarbone. I didn’t feel much sympathy, considering she’d been trying to kill me only minutes before. Or so I convinced myself in the moment, heart pounding from the tension of battle.

I had been a knight, once. I won’t pretend like I felt good about how I’d handled this. But I also wanted to live, so I hardened my heart and kept moving until I reached the river.

The town met the river as a stone wharf, with docks extending out over the churning waters. I came to a sheer drop, seeing black waters running swiftly below. The storm had sped the current, and made it deeper too. I swallowed, but knew this was my only escape. I’d steal a boat, and trust myself to the current. At least they wouldn’t follow me in this weather.

I caught shouting from across the wharf and looked up to see guardsmen moving into position. Many had crossbows. I cursed. Unhooking my axe from around the Glorysworn’s neck, I placed a hand on her backplate to shove her toward her brothers. I didn’t think the hostage would be as effective against the Earl’s men.

Which was when she drove a dagger into my leg.

The blade went deep. A rondel with a long spike of a blade, made to punch through gaps in armor. I wasn’t wearing armor, and all it found was muscle and meat. I shouted, more in surprise than pain, and slammed the butt end of my axe into the back of the Glorysworn’s helm. She went down flat on the stone, leaving the dagger embedded in my leg.

That was when the crossbowmen fired.

A volley of bolts slapped through the rain. Most missed. Not all. I felt an impact in my hip, jerking me back. That one saved my life, for the next bolt scraped across my scalp rather than going through my skull. Red flashed through my mind. Shock. Pain.

I fell backward.

Into the raging river.