Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Arc 2: Chapter 5: They Who Deal Death

I grabbed a bucket and started down the hill, moving a ways off from the path. I could see easily through the shadowed woods, even in those places where the trees grew too dense for the moons to peek through. The stream shone like molten silver to my Alder-blessed eyes, the horned hares and night crows easy to spot amid the trees. The darkness gathered deeper beyond the bounds of the shrine, thick with restless shades, but I wouldn’t need to go that far. I could see the Fane’s barrier, where the huge webs had been woven dense through the canopy.

I took my time filling the bucket. Gentle music filled the woods, deep and resonant, like a giant strumming at a lyre. I closed my eyes and drank it in, drank in the starlight too, feeling both more at ease than I had in months and aching terribly. I studied my reflection in the water, seeing my own long, morose face staring back at me. My copper hair, touched lightly with gold, had grown very long during my frequent travels. My amber eyes, bright with aura, sat in rings of shadow disturbingly alike to the old man in the cottage. My gaze lingered on the four long, fever-red scars running from my left temple to just above my mouth. I touched them lightly, and the ever-present burn itched along the marks.

Only when I realized ten minutes or more had passed, me wasting that time staring into my scarred reflection in the water, did I know consciously I stalled.

“It is always painful to see the old lose themselves,” a gentle voice said.

I glanced to the speaker. She sat against a large stone along the stream’s edge, and like Oraeke she was an elf. However, unlike the Fane’s guardian, she looked more akin to the classical idea of the Sidhe. Slender and young, standing at perhaps five and a half feet tall, her pale skin shining brightly even though she sat beneath the shadow of a tree and no moonlight touched her. She wore a short dress of pale green silk clasped at one shoulder, the style ancient, leaving her legs bare.

“Lady Rysanthe.” I stood hastily to my full height and turned to face her, dipping into a bow much more formal than I’d given the bridge troll or even the master smith. “I didn’t realize you’d returned.”

The she-elf laughed softly, the motion causing the plates of silver around her neck to jingle softly. She had similar plates belted around her slim waist, with smaller disks like large coins draped over her chest and shoulders. Sandals laced up to mid-calf wrapped her small feet, and bands weighed down her arms, each fashioned from silver or ivory. A thin silver circlet, depicting a sleepy-eyed skull, bound bluntly cut bangs, the rest of her white-blond hair secured in a tight braid bound at each link with what looked like shards of pale bone.

“Always so gallant," she teased. "Am I to proffer my hand for a kiss, like one of your noble ladies?”

When I blushed, she laughed again, though there was no mockery in it. “It heartens me that you can still be teased, dear Alken. Our work is fell, my friend, and it is good not to lose yourself to it. Still, just call me Rys. We are friends and comrades in Their service, are we not?”

I opened my mouth, words failing me. The idea of referring to the closest thing our strange order had to a leader so informally went against my low birth and all my training. “You’re my captain,” I said at last. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

Rysanthe scoffed. “We have no captains, and we are only an order in the most informal of senses. Let us not stand on ceremony, you and I.” Relenting, the elf leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “I have been back a few days. You only just arrived?”

At my nod, Rysanthe leapt gracefully from the stone and paced across the bank to stand at my side, hands clasped behind her back. She stopped at the edge of the shadowed canopy, sniffing at the pale grass touched by the rising moons. Her violet eyes drifted to the cottage at the top of the hill, then to the pale patch of skin on my right forefinger. “Ah,” she said, a sad smile of understanding forming on her lips.

I shuffled, resisting the urge to hide the hand. “He… isn’t well. I just want him to get some rest.”

“I understand, Alken, but I made that talisman to protect you. It is attuned to your soul, and will resent being shared.” She lifted a hand, displaying several rings all similar to the one I usually wore, each fashioned from bone or ivory. One had even been woven from what looked like gray wood. “I deal in curses,” she said. “They have a tendency to cling tightly to whatever they touch. Besides…” she sighed and glanced toward the cabin. “What troubles the good knight’s mind comes from within himself, and my talismans can do little to ease that burden.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But it might at least get him to try to sleep. As for the dangers… well, I don’t expect to be here long.”

Rysanthe canted her head to one side, the motion oddly birdlike. “The Choir has given you another task so soon?”

This time, I did grimace. “In a way.” Then, in brief, I told her about Nath. By the time I had finished, the pale elf’s lips had tightened into a frown. She spat a foul oath in draus

This chapter upload first at NovelUsb.Com

, nasty enough some of the leaves withered on their branches nearby. I lifted an eyebrow at the show of blasphemy from the elf.

“So,” Rysanthe said musingly, “the lords of Heavensreach seek to make peace with the Angel of the Briar. The ways of the gods are strange indeed, and in strange times withstand all scrutiny.”

It sounded like a quote, but many things elves say do. Half joking I said, “I thought you eld didn’t think of the Onsolain as gods?”

Rysanthe shrugged. “We do not. And… we do. It is complicated. They are our fathers and mothers, our aunts and uncles, our cousins. Our lords. Do you mortals not worship your elders?”

I spread out my fingers in a nonplussed gesture. “Whatever the case, it seems odd they’d have me running a diplomatic errand. I’m their executioner.”

“You are a Doomsman,” Rysanthe said, her fey manner becoming grave. “Same as I.” One of her bracelet-laden hands dropped to a tool at her hip, an ornately carved rod fashioned of black wood banded in silver. The head had been fashioned into a crown of sorts, with a hollow in its center. “Our duty is to dispense the judgement of the gods, to be their hands, and if needed, their blades. Humans have lost the meaning of this, I think. You think of the word doom, and you think of death, calamity. It also means judgment. Fate.”

I frowned, considering her words. “You think they have some judgment they want me to pass while I’m carrying out Nath’s bidding?”

Rysanthe lifted one pale shoulder, then dropped it. “Perhaps. Yours is a new role… and an old one. New, because you are the first mortal to hold it, and old, because there have been other Headsmen in ages past. Just as I am not the first to be Death To The Deathless.”

“True,” I said, curling the fingers of my left hand as though to accept those words like a tossed parcel. “But, so far as I know, it’s always been a drow elf who’s been Death.”

Rysanthe spread her hands, mimicking my earlier gesture. She stepped into the moonlight, grimacing, to stand at my side. Odd, how so small a figure could be a reaper of immortals. She breathed in the night air, discomfort and satisfaction warring on her ivory pale face. “A gorgeous night,” she said. “The false stars we light in Draubard are not half so grand as the real thing, for all the art my people put in them.”

She held out a hand as though to grasp one of those faraway lights. The arm blurred with the motion, white skin cascading from itself as though made of mist to reveal strangely colored bone beneath, glowing with silver-green light. The flesh reformed after a moment, becoming whole again.

“You were in the Underworld recently,” I said. “Last time I saw you, standing under the open sky didn’t effect you so badly.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

The chthonic elf nodded. “As above, so below. Everywhere is in turmoil, and the scars of the last war run deep. It is of no matter to you, my friend. We both have our duties, and it is best not to let ourselves be too distracted by unpleasant things. Our work is dark, but that does not mean we need wrap ourselves in darkness.”

I took the admonition for what it was. With a shallow smile I said, “is the Grim Reaper really telling me I should be more cheerful?”

Rysanthe scoffed, though her eyes twinkled. “Do you see me carrying a scythe? You mortals have such imaginations. And yes, I am. Dourness ill suits you, Alken Hewer, though the gods know you’ve earned it.”

Growing serious she said, “be cautious with Nath. Her cooperation could be a great boon to the land’s stability in coming days, but she is fickle and treacherous.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m well wary of her.”

“Has aught else besides your role troubled you of late?” Rysanthe asked, studying me with narrowed eyes as though trying to see through my skin. Perhaps she did exactly that. “Any… symptoms, like Ser Maxim?”

I shrugged. “I gather more spirits than I used to. It’s gotten worse the last few years…” I thought back, remembering. There was a time every Knight Alder attracted spirits of all sorts, from ghosts to Wil-O’ Wisps to odder things. It was part of our lot, as auratic torches tasked to guard against the shadows. Shadows have a tendency to cling.

“There’s more,” Rysanthe said, missing nothing.

I rubbed at the spot where my ring normally rested. Her ring, I supposed. As grateful as I was that the elf witch had made the talisman for me, the contents of my dreams were mine alone. Instead I held up my left hand. “My touch doesn’t heal any longer,” I said. “I still recover from injury quickly, and I’m always in good health — better than Captain Maxim, leastways, but I can’t pass that magic on to others anymore.” In the past, the healing touch of the Knights Alder had been renowned.

Rysanthe nodded, her lips thinning with thought. “A symptom of the Table’s breaking, I think. And your other powers? The Arts?”

“I can wield most of the basic ones,” I said. “I can still imbue my weapon with the Alder’s fire, still see through darkness, sense dark spirits — all of that. The Greater Arts are more difficult. I can use a few, with effort, but some…” I shook my head and smiled sheepishly. “Well, even before the Table was broken, I couldn’t use all the power.”

Rysanthe smiled. “It came with age, as I understand it, the power growing with the inner strength and understanding of the wielder. Though, now, I think that power is fading from the world. I can only hope it serves you so long as you may need it.”

That was not a comforting thought. Wanting to change the subject from my own maimed powers I asked, “and what of you? Have the Silver Lords given you a new task?”

“My brand does not seek a soul presently,” she said, placing a hand on the instrument at her belt. “I am helping guard the shepherds. Too many shades are going astray, and those that prey on them are becoming brazen.” Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment I saw the hint of a silvered skull beneath misty flesh. “How surprised the wolves will be, to find a lion.”

The death’s aspect vanished once again behind the kindly nymph, and she reached out to squeeze my arm. “Take care of yourself, my friend. There were more of us once, but now you and I are the only Dooms in Urn. I do not wish to see an ill fate befall you.”

“What of Oraeke?” I asked, thinking of the dour huntress.

“While I am grateful that she guards this place, and her spear is truly fierce, she is still young. I would not see her give the days of her youth to our work.” Rysanthe sighed. “I am certain of her eagerness to prove herself, at least. There are precious few young Sidhe who managed to escape the burning of Seydis, and she will carry that grief, that rage, into the far reaches of forever.” She shrugged. “It is a burden all the Endless bear.”

“You’ll watch Ser Maxim while I’m gone?” I asked. “You and the others?”

Rysanthe nodded. “Of course. For now, though, you should rest. Bring your ring to me before you leave, and I will cleanse it. It’s the least I can do.”

She lifted my hand then. Twice as large as hers, calloused, tanned, and scarred, it seemed a truly ugly thing grasped in her pale, shining fingers. She kissed my knuckles, inverting the human custom, then spoke with emphasis. “Rest. This shrine is made to ease our burdens, my friend, but you must let it.”

Her words moved into me like spring water. My eyes grew heavy, and I nearly crumbled to the ground right there.

I hate having my will tampered with. I broke the enchantment with a surge of concentration, turning that silver aura to useless vapor. I pulled my hand back from hers and turned, grabbing the bucket of water. “Don’t do that,” I snapped.

Rysanthe blinked, surprised. As a nymph, even one born in the gloom of the Underworld, I’m certain she’d become accustomed to mortal men gladly accepting her immortal enchantments. Realization flashed in her eyes and she winced. “I forgot. Forgive me.”

I swallowed my anger. “It’s fine. I’ll rest, Rys, but on my own terms.”

When I turned back toward the hill, I saw another ghost-lit figure standing amid the trees. Donnelly still wore his regal adventurer’s garb, patterned cape slung over one shoulder, medals dangling from his chest. He inclined his head in a gentlemanly fashion to the elf-maid, who dipped into a graceful curtsy in response.

“Lord Herald,” Rysanthe greeted the spirit.

“Lady Death,” Donnelly said, flashing a roguish smile.

I hefted the bucket of water and made to move past him. Donnelly followed me with his gray eyes and spoke before I’d reached the bottom of the hill.

“I’ve managed to get more information about your next task,” the ghost said. “We could discuss it and—”

“Why?” I asked, interrupting him without meeting his eyes or stopping. “No need to ruin the surprise.”

“Al…” Donnelly stepped out of another shadow ahead of me. Damn ghost tricks. I stopped and turned my best glower on him. As a spirit, even one touched by divinity, the touch of my aura-laced eyes made him wince as though caught by a bright light.

“Every time I’ve gone into anything the past year,” I said quietly, enunciating each word with sharp clarity, “I’ve been caught by some nasty twist. The Glorysworn in Vinhithe. A whole pack of Recusants in Caelfall. The necromancer lord in Strekke turned out to be a little boy, rather than the earl himself, and now this insanity with Nath, and thank you for not giving me any warning on that, by the way. In all these situations I nearly died because I didn’t know what I was going into.”

I let those words sink in. Donnelly shifted in discomfort. Rysanthe watched our exchange from a distance, but I didn’t care. I jabbed a finger at the ghost, feeling the anger I’d been holding for months boil up and out of my lips.

“I expect vague nonsense and pretty manipulations from them,” I said, “but I thought you and I had each other’s backs.”

“I do have your back Al,” Donnelly insisted, spreading his hands, perhaps to show he held no blades in them. “But I’m just one man — spirit, whatever. If I could have warned you about all those things, I would have. I’m their messenger, not their spymaster.”

“The old herald did plenty of spying,” I said.

“I’m not him,” Donnelly insisted, growing angry himself now.

“I’m sick of getting caught by things with my trousers down,” I snapped. I knew I was taking my frustration at the gods out on the messenger. I knew I was being unfair, that he hadn’t acted maliciously. I didn’t care just then. In my mind, all I could see was blood, blood, blood. Dead faces, dead hands, a child’s eyes cold with hatred as he pointed a finger at me and ordered his ghastly minions to kill.

I thought of Ser Maxim, tormented from within by his own altered soul. I didn’t know if the Choir could heal him, but they certainly hadn’t tried, and it was their power scorching him inside out.

“You knew about Nath,” I said, making my voice cold. “Her finding me in the woods last Spring wasn’t a coincidence, was it? She was sizing me up even then, negotiating with her siblings. You could have warned me any of the times we’ve spoken since.”

“I wasn’t allowed to,” Donnelly said, clenching his jaw.

I stared at him hard. He winced, realizing he’d just admitted I’d been right. “Alken—”

“Save it,” I said, tired of the conversation. “I need rest.”

I left him standing there in the woods. He didn’t try to follow, but Rysanthe did.

“That was unworthy,” she said.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, already feeling the beginnings of contrition despite the anger still churning in my gut. I sighed and squared my shoulders. “Maybe.”

The elf’s voice was gentle, but not a word failed to find my ears. “Friends and comrades are rare treasures for the likes of us, Alken Hewer, and easy to lose in the dark. It is best we do not toss them away.”