Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Arc 4: Chapter 3: The Aspirants

The behemoth loomed over the street. It seemed a living fragment of the storm, all smoky black and deep gray, crackling with fulgurous strength. It had a tusked maw, cavernous in size, and its perfectly round eyes didn’t seem to blink.

A storm ogre. How?

It had fallen out of the sky. It must have been the presence I’d felt in the storm, I realized. I’d faced ogres before, of varying kinds. We had them in Urn, but ours were mostly Sidhe who’d taken monstrous forms. I knew a war ogre, Karog, whose kind had been molded by continental alchemists.

This was no homonculus or chimera. This was an ancient spirit of wrath and ill omen, a dark godling of the west. I felt its power like a sudden squall, an invisible pressure against my soul.

Impossible. The Onsolain protected Urn from these sorts of incursions, guarding the seas and skies. Edaean monsters slipped through at times, but nothing this big.

I had no time to understand then. It stepped forward, a deep rumble building in its chest. The priorguard snapped out of their own stupor. The two surviving adepts stepped forward as the rest lifted their weapons defensively. One of them cried out.

“What do we do?!”

Another answered in a gravelly voice. “Secure the targets. Get them out of here. Let the city guard handle this.”

I saw several move to obey. A few hesitated, seeing the same thing I did. There had been people in the home the storm ogre had destroyed. Candles and lanterns flickered to life in windows all across the neighborhood. Someone was screaming. Doors were opening, voices calling out into the night.

Many priorguard had been recruited from common folk, taken in by promises they could protect their families where the knights and soldiers of the king were not, make a difference. They weren’t so quick to abandon people in danger.

The ogre took another impossibly long stride forward, the street shuddering with its movement.

“Now!” The lead priorguard snapped, his voice turning shrill. Those who’d been torn let conditioning and fear make their choice, moving to the coach.

I’d fought in wars. I’d faced monsters. I’d already started moving. I took advantage of the distraction to close on the two inquisition men who’d secured Laessa. I sliced the first’s throat with my blade, then kicked the second in the shin. His bone snapped and he fell with a choked cry. I punched him in the side of the head, making sure he stayed down.

I grabbed Laessa. She was still staring at the ogre, her expression blank. I shook her, and her eyes moved to me with a blink.

“Get your boyfriend, and get to cover. I’ll find you when this is done. Don’t run off, unless you want the veils to find you first. You understand?”

She nodded, a dazed expression on her face. Shock at the night’s development, or a concussion from the crash? No time to deal with it then. I let her go and turned to the rest of the priorguard. They saw me and lifted their various sharp implements.

The ogre stepped forward again, clearing the distance in that single stride. In an almost curious gesture, it reached out and plucked one of the priorguard off the street. The man let out a panicked shriek and struggled futilely. His comrades turned away from me. A few lifted their small crossbows and fired bolts.

The ogre didn’t seem even to register the shots. He lifted the struggling priorguard up high, opened his wide maw, and dropped the figure, black robes and all. The man’s screams shut off abruptly as the behemoth’s massive jaws snapped closed.

My gaze fixed on something — my axe, still miraculously embedded in a fragment of the coach’s bed. I stepped to it, planted a boot on the rich wood, ripped it free, and turned back to the threat.

One of the adepts used their Art, forming a barbed trident in the air and then breaking it, releasing a shockwave of slicing aura. It tore into the ogre’s flank, and that did hurt it. Dark blood resembling misty vapor sprayed across the stone.

It also angered it. The ogre drew in a breath, and all the air in the street moved as it did.

I cursed, already starting to move. “Run, you fools!” I shouted. Enemies or no, I suspected I knew what was coming.

I went toward the beast. I needed to give Laessa and Kieran time to escape.

There were innocent people around, and they were in danger.

This thing could cause enormous damage to the city.

I needed to protect Emma, and get her out of harm’s way. She still lay unconscious on the street. I hoped she was just unconscious.

So many conflicting motives. It all faded away, all my thoughts and worries, my chaos of obligation. I only knew one thing, one truth, and it was one I understood.

I needed to kill the thing in front of me.

The ogre shouted.

It doesn’t adequately describe what happened then, to just say it shouted. It drew itself up, its chest ballooning out almost comically, and then it lurched forward. Its jaws popped open, and a wave of sheer, almost solid sound ripped down the street.

I never actually heard the sound, other than as a strange pop. Windows shattered. The priorguard slapped their hands to their ears, collapsing with muted cries of pain. I felt a sudden dampness in my ears, and a curious high pitched whine.

My vision split, and I stumbled. Dizzy, I struggled a long moment to regain my balance. I staggered to one side, braced a knee and caught myself before I collapsed, then shook off the disorientation.

Just in time to see the ogre swipe a hand across the street. In an almost petulent backhand, it sent three of the priorguard flying. One of them went over a roof, vanishing into the night, and the other two cracked against a building and died instantly.

Its eyes fixed on me. It bared his fangs and let out a low growl which sounded exactly like a rumble of thunder.

I didn’t know if I could beat this thing.

You killed Raath El Kur, I reminded myself. The demonic champion hadn’t been quite as big, but he’d had the same godlike strength, the same terrifying presence. What I felt, the terror, was half human instinct and half the wavefront of fear the ogre projected, a more primal version of my own Table-given charisma.

But I was afraid. Of death, and of failure. I had people counting on me now. If I hacked it, others would suffer. For long years, the only one who would have faced ill consequences if I died or gave up had been myself. Not anymore.

So I swallowed the fear, channeled it, and felt my heart calm. I stopped my mad sprint, skidding to a halt in the middle of the street. The ogre rose on its boughed legs, looming like a castle tower over me, nearly blending with the night and the storm save for its werelight eyes.

I lifted Faen Orgis to my lips and murmured quiet words. The living wood of the axe’s handle, grafted through arcane smithing to the faerie bronze blade, crackled and shifted in my hand. Sharp spurs pierced my hand, and the handle grew longer. I ignored the pain, keeping my attention on the storm ogre.

At the same time, I commanded my aura to reshape itself into another Art. A soft amber light spread around me, faint, as though a ray of forest-dabbled sunlight in the coldest part of fall had found me through the storm.

The ogre lifted one impossibly long arm, clenched its clawed fingers into a fist, and slammed down. It struck the edge of the light. Gilt leaves burst into existence around the point of impact, shimmering like glass. The ogre recoiled, its furred hand smoking.

I winced, my will flickering. The thing was impossibly strong. My hand continued to bleed, and the axe’s handle grew several inches longer.

I stood my ground. If I let my feet shift so much as an inch, the Aureate Repulsion would break and I’d die.

If you bind this thing, a coldly logical part of my mind warned me, you may not get the axe back.

It’ll be worth it, if I can stop it without more people dying.

You killed more than a dozen people tonight. Are you really that concerned about a body count?

I killed enemies.

Ordinary people armed and brainwashed by a zealot. They had lives, families.

The inhabitants of Garihelm were Rosanna’s people, adopted when she’d ascended as Empress of the Accord. She’d want me to save them.

I’d sworn an oath to protect innocents the day I’d become a knight.

You’re not a knight anymore. You’re a killer. Just slay it.

If I battled this thing in the streets, many people would die.

The whining in my ears stopped, and all the sound came crashing back in. More cries of fear and panic around me. Those who hadn’t sheltered in their homes were fleeing. In the distance, someone still screamed in pain. Were they trapped? Maimed?

I shut the sound out.

The ogre clasped both of its hands together and slowly brought them high up over its head. The sky above flashed with lightning, and I couldn’t tell whether the rumbling thunder came from the clouds, the beast, or both.

The branch grew longer, nearly as tall as me now. I lifted it high, preparing to slam it down into the ground and let the roots of the Malison Oak dig deep.

Just before the ogre slammed its hands down against my barrier of aura again, a sound pierced the night. A shrill, whistling note, growing steadily louder.

A sharp crack! cut the whistling off. The ogre stumbled back, letting out an almost canine whine, and clamped a hand to its left shoulder.

Stolen novel; please report.

I blinked, nearly as surprised as the storm beast must have been. I glanced back and saw a figure standing atop a belfry at the far end of the block, opposite where the ogre had struck the city. Clad in a billowing cape, they held a war bow tall as a man and wore armor.

A knight. They drew another arrow from a quiver at their hip, fitting it to the tall bow. I felt a shudder in the air around them, even at a great distance, noted the ritual aspect to their motions. They were using Art to enhance their shots.

The ogre snarled, taking a step forward. The street shuddered. He reached out with one hand, ripped an angel’s statue off a nearby chapel, and brought his tree-sized arm back to hurl it at the archer.

I heard iron-shod claws on stone, moving at a fast gallop. Another figure burst out of the night, a rider on a leonine chimera with long tufted ears and an elaborate harness of white-and-blue cloth and steel chain.

This one was a knight too, with a breastplate of white steel filigreed with wave motifs, asymmetrical pauldrons, and flowing white clothes beneath. He held an enormous polearm in one hand, with a shortened cross-hilt handle to make room for an enlarged blade. A swordspear.

The chimera cleared a rooftop in a single bound, landed gracefully, and came up behind the storm ogre without slowing. The rider grinned beneath an open-faced helm decorated with fangs and a flowing red plume. He brandished his glaive, swung it once in an anticipatory motion, then closed on his target. He took the cumbersome weapon in both hands and swung, and I could hear the air part around the thick blade.

He clove into the ogre’s meaty calf, his mount not slowing so much as a beat as it continued on past me. The rider let out a triumphant whoop as he passed, his dark eyes meeting mine as he grinned. He was young.

Another arrow, enhanced with aura, struck the ogre like a shot from a siege scorpion. Again the beast stumbled. This time, unbalanced by the wound in its leg, it collapsed to one knee. The street shuddered again.

I heard the mounted warrior turn his beast behind me. He called out in a voice husky with youth. “Oh, was this one yours? Sorry, sorry, I got carried away!”

He laughed, and it reminded me of the Sidhe. The boy had a fey spirit.

I let the growing power in my axe fade, along with the auratic barrier. I let out a breath, which came out as amber-tinted mist.

The ogre was trying to stand. It pressed both fists to the street, attempting to push itself up. The wound in its leg, however, had gone very deep. It rose several feet, then let out a pitiful, almost dog-like whine and collapsed again.

“How disappointing!” The youth laughed, spinning his huge weapon in the air with one hand. I felt a press of fast-moving air against my skin, emanated from him. He had power, too.

“Don’t speak too soon,” I said. The boy’s laughter stopped.

The storm ogre threw its head back and roared, and yellow lightning began to crackle around it. It lifted its long arms up, and the angry clouds high above flashed with more lightning.

“Damn,” I said. “It’s using an Art.”

The young knight blinked. “It can do that?” He had to raise his voice over the snarl of thunder.

“Anything can use Art,” I growled, annoyed. I glanced to where Emma still lay on the street. She still lay unmoving, and I felt the fear again. I’d moved to stand between her and the ogre before I’d attempted a binding, but I didn’t know if I could protect her from whatever was about to happen.

“Well, let’s kill the thing then!” The young warrior bared his teeth beneath his roaring helm and spurred his leonine steed forward, swiping his swordspear to one side.

“Wait!” I said, but the boy either didn’t hear me or ignored me. He shot toward the ogre, whooping and taking his weapon in both hands.

Another aura-propelled arrow cut the night, whistling an eerie note. This time, the ogre swiped out with a speed that should have been impossible for its size, catching the arrow. It growled, crackling with more phantasmal thunder.

Idiot, I thought, watching the knight charge the ogre. You never attacked an enemy using an unfamiliar Soul Art, especially if you didn’t know what it did. There was little chance you’d be faster than phantasm.

And the ogre wasn’t only using phantasm, though I sensed it in some of the white bolts shrouding its huge form. Still propped on one knee, it lifted one hand into the air as though beseeching aid from on high.

Still, the distraction was useful. I stepped back and knelt, checking Emma’s pulse. She still lived, though she had a nasty gash on her head. One of her arms looked badly twisted, broken or dislocated. I grimaced, and reached out. I concentrated, and tried to pour aura into her the same way I did to enhance my weapon.

Nothing. The healing magic wouldn’t come. I closed my eyes, clenched my jaw against the surge of frustration, and turned my attention back to the battle.

The young warrior’s mount leapt, its steel-tipped claws stretching, and tore into the ogre’s left wrist. The ogre flinched back, then flicked its hand back out. It almost smashed both mount and rider against a nearby house, but the chimera — a manticore, I realized, seeing its scorpion tail — nimbly darted back.

The ogre’s right hand, the one it had lifted to the sky, lowered. He held a crackling sword of lightning in it, tall as a castle tower.

The young knight’s eyes widened, his bravado leaving him. He brought his huge weapon up defensively.

Movement in the corner of my vision drew my attention. A third knight appeared on a high bridge overlooking the neighborhood. This one rode a steed tall and elegant as the scadumare, though its flesh was scaled and green, its tail a whip-like cord behind it. It had slit-pupiled eyes, large and intelligent, and a fringe of silver hair from skull to tail-tip.

Riding it was a knight in a horned helm, clad in a long coat of brass-tinted chain and filigreed steel beneath a surcoat of amber and red. They held a tall winged lance, and the face beneath the helm was calm and noble.

I recognized him. He was the knight I’d watched enter the city the same day I’d arrived. I struggled to recall his name.

He lifted the spear, which emitted its own faint light, and hurled it. At the same time, the archer fired another dart. This one took the ogre in one of his pale eyes, blinding it. The beast wailed, flinching away. The blade of lightning seemed to falter, crackling with less intensity.

The spear struck its chest. In that moment, everything… Stopped. It’s the only way I can describe it. The scattered rainfall died. The thunder quieted. The fulgur energy the ogre had gathered flickered and failed, turning everything suddenly very dark.

For a long moment, the towering shadow remained upright. Then, tilting sharply, it fell like a collapsing tree. The impact shook the city, or so it seemed where we stood. Buildings trembled, dust showered off towers, and what was left of the belfry the creature had landed on crumbled down to its foundations.

The ogre’s face remained fixed toward us, hateful and defiant. It began to rise again, still alive.

I dashed forward, took my axe in both hands, and swung with a furious shout. The heavy blade of Faen Orgis cleaved through the creature’s half-real skull, right between its wide eyes. Enhanced with aureflame, the cut went far deeper than ordinary steel would have, slicing a long, burning gouge from crown to flat nose.

The white light faded from the beast’s eyes, and it went still.

I heard something heavy land on the street behind me as I ripped my axe free. I turned, and saw the horn-helmed knight approaching on his reptilian steed. It had jumped down from the high bridge, using the rooftops to descend to the lower street.

A pegadrake. That was a rare thing.

“Damn you, Jos!” The young warrior with the swordspear directed his larger chimera toward us, jabbing his weapon at the horn-helmed knight in an accusatory gesture. “I had him!”

The man who’d brought the storm ogre shrugged, his expression impassive beneath his ornate helm. “My apologies,” he murmured. He had a soft, melodic voice.

“Bleeding Gates!” The youth let out a bark of laughter. “That was epic. And who are you?”

He’d spoken to me. I met his eyes. He stared at me an unblinking intensity that reminded me very much of Emma.

“There are wounded,” I said, and knelt by my apprentice. “These buildings had people in them, including the one it wrecked when it landed.” I nodded to the destroyed house. “Someone was screaming earlier. They might be trapped.”

The youth’s nostrils flared. “And the guard will see to them! The threat is ended. I’ve asked for your name, Ser.”

Inwardly, I sighed. I’d met people like this before, especially among Urn’s martial class. He was probably highborn, and very proud. It was proper for me to name myself, and a sign of disrespect if I didn’t.

I really didn’t want to tell him my name. And, in the awful silence that hung over the city after so much violence, I felt very tired.

“I’m no one,” I said. “Your lordship.”

A part of me that still felt pride, that remembered being First Sword of Karles and a Knight of the Alder Table, protested vehemently. I swallowed my pride and let my eyes drop from the young man’s fierce gaze.

He snorted. “Ah, a mercenary then. I saw that fancy axe and thought you might be here for the tournament. My mistake.”

He turned, dismissing me. I shifted my eyes to the other man, who’d removed his helm. He looked to be in his mid twenties, with ash-brown hair grown long and wavy. He had soft features, more fair than handsome, and ordinary brown eyes framed by drowsy lids.

Jos, the brash youth had called him. His name came back to me then. Ser Jocelyn, the Ironleaf Knight. A Glorysworn in the city for King Forger’s grand tournament. I guessed the same for the other two.

They were all tourney knights.

I lowered my face to Emma’s and shook her. “Emma. Can you hear me?”

She didn’t stir. Fully unconscious, probably from the head wound she took when the coach crashed. I stood, propped my axe’s bottom end against the cobblestones, then kicked it hard. It cracked, shortening its length dramatically. I slid what was left through the iron hoop on my belt, then lifted Emma up in both arms.

Ser Jocelyn saw all of this. “You protected these people.” His eyes went to the destroyed vehicle. “The ogre attacked you?”

I shrugged. The knight was taking in the full scene, including the dead priorguard. I had to hope he didn’t take too close a look at their injuries.

I heard steps approaching from behind, and glanced back to see the archer who’d been sniping the ogre joining the group. He wore no helm, and had a blunt face, heavy chinned and brooding, with dark skin and short frost-tinted hair. His armor didn’t look nearly so shiny up close — it was covered in dents and scars, and lacked any decorative.

“A lord has asked you a question,” the youth snapped, all humor gone from his voice. “You will answer it.”

Before I could answer, a voice called out. “He is my servant!”

I closed my eyes and sighed, then turned to see Lady Laessa pattering over from a nearby alley. She’d found a cloak, possibly in the coach, and wrapped it around herself. I had to hope the knights didn’t notice she was bare-foot, or only wore a night shift underneath. It would raise some difficult questions.

Laessa caught her breath, lifted her chin, and addressed the warriors with authority belying her age and damp appearance. “This man is my guard. My coach was accosted by those thugs.” She gestured angrily toward the dead priorguard. “While I was demanding answers as to why they’d stopped us, that creature fell out of the sky! Our carriage was overturned, and my guard ordered me to take cover while he distracted it.”

She pointed at me.

The youth blinked, and in a very sudden motion he dismounted. I noted he wasn’t nearly so tall as he’d seemed on the manticore. He took off his plumed helmet, revealing long dark red hair braided into a rope down his back, and bowed his head. He had sun-bronzed skin, and looked nineteen at most.

“My apologies, lady. I did not realize.” He flashed a boyish smile. “I am Ser Siriks, of House Sontae.”

I blinked. House Sontae was a ruling power in Cymrinor, the warlike princedoms who controlled the subcontinent’s northern peninsula. The nation had a strong reputation for martial excellence, and for arrogance.

Siriks Sontae took Laessa’s hand and kissed it, as was proper for a knight with any lady. She remained aloof, an impressive feat considering she wore little more than a blanket and her black hair was still rain-soaked.

Ser Jocelyn had also dismounted, showing respect to the young lady, and muttered his own introduction. His eyes kept going to me, and to the dead priorguard.

I very much wanted to leave, but I was trapped by the strange situation. Emma stirred in my arms. I bit off a curse.

Laessa saw my unease and spoke hastily. “My driver is injured,” she said, gesturing to Emma. “She needs medical treatment, as do others I think.” She frowned and added, “Why are you armed, my lords? It’s the middle of the night.”

She was right. I hadn’t even questioned it amid everything else.

“We were at a feast hosted by one of the city’s nobles,” Ser Jocelyn said. “A report came in that there was fighting in the streets, so we armed ourselves and came to help. We did not expect to beat the guard here.”

“Where are Forger’s blasted tin men?” Ser Siriks growled, squinting into the night. Above, the storm seemed to be moving off. The thunder had grown more distant.

The priorguard must have cleared this whole area of patrols, I thought. They’d desperately wanted Laessa and Kieran.

Had Kieran made an escape, intending to dodge me and the Inquisition? I glanced at Laessa, but couldn’t ask her then. She’d at least stayed and stuck up for me. That surprised me. She’d had a very difficult night, and I’d been part of the horror.

As though reading my thoughts, Laessa shifted closer to me and hissed so the others couldn’t hear. “You will explain who you are and who sent you, when all of this is done. I will have answers for this.”

I nodded. “After she gets seen to.” I nodded to Emma, who I still held in my arms.

Laessa sighed, and all the confidance seemed to drain from her. The Cymrinorean was speaking animatedly to the other two tourney knights, talking of the battle.

“But why did it attack the city?” The boy asked aloud, jabbing at the dead behemoth with his weapon. “Dumb brute practically killed itself!”

I glanced at the carcass, and had the same question.

I intended to get an answer.