Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial-Chapter 7Arc 6: : Challenge

Laertes had gifted his champion ancient armor to fit his hulking frame, fashioned of bronze rather than iron. It glinted angry red and brown in the clouded daylight, a fresh polish reflecting our team back at us. Heavy spaulders lined in chimera fur hung on inhumanly broad shoulders, and a fanged helm sporting a white plume sat upon a craggy brow. Angry yellow eyes glared from within.

In his right hand he wielded a a hacking cleaver, half sword and half axe, with a decorative brass skull for a pommel. In his left he held a tall spear with a leaf-shaped blade.

I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that we’d take our true enemy out of play before being set against one another. Could I signal him somehow? Let him know it was me under this helm?

To what end, I admonished myself. Karog wouldn’t surrender or go easy even if he knew it were me. He intended to win this thing, not just for his revenge but for his ambitions as well.

Should I throw the fight? Let him move on?

I thought of how easily Siriks took down Nimryd. Karog might be potent, but I wasn’t at all certain it was wise to leave this all on his shoulders.

Besides. I still had some pride.

Our two teams took up position, both forming a loose line with a section of the field left between us. This was where things were less certain. We could all charge and fight in a mad rush, two teams skirmishing for dominance. Or we could play at formality.

Ser Jorg decided for us. Stepping forward with a rhythmic click of his ornate armor, he spun his halberd once in a dextrous motion that made wind whistle around its blade and scattered rainwater. He stopped the flourish with the three-bladed head of the weapon pointed directly at a knight from the opposite team, a tall and uncanny figure in a helm shaped almost like a stylized tree.

The tourney herald’s voice boomed over the island. “Ser Jorg, the Grotesque Knight, wishes to begin the match with single combat! Who shall meet his challenge?”

Oak Helm stepped forward. He wielded a sword and a tower shield, the latter thin and embossed with abstract geometric designs. He lifted the shield, and—

Karog shouldered him aside, almost making the man stumble. The ogre let out a snort of near visible breath, as though he blew steam from his nostrils.

The anger of the knights was obvious. Who was this foreign beastman to steal their show? I knew their thoughts, knew how their pride worked. The crowd, however, seemed to enjoy this little surprise. Noise surged along the stands.

Ser Jorg hesitated, then seemed to accept this change and gripped his weapon in both hands. He aimed the halberd’s tip forward, chopping blade down, back spike upraised. A good, professional stance, no more theatrics.

I felt a stirring of power as he shaped his aura. Rather than forming a flashy Art, he reinforced himself against his opponent’s inhuman mass. A pale sheen formed over him, making his armor gleam as though touched by a sun still hidden behind storm clouds. The stylized eyes on his helm’s brow took on a white glow.

Karog noted this too, and a sneer pulled his lips back from ivory fangs.

The fight was over in five moves. Karog picked up speed very suddenly, an odd sound halfway between a shout and a bark escaping his maw. Jorg stepped forward into a thrust, going low to stab upward just like he would to meet a cavalry charge, letting his enemy’s momentum do all the work. But Karog was no war chimera spurred into an unstoppable advance. He sidestepped, swept out with his cleaver. Jorg ducked it, barely, and fell for the feint.

The ogre kicked him, hard, driving a knee directly into the big man’s stomach. He went down, tried to roll, and found Karog’s spear digging into the join between pauldron and breastplate, pinning him against the ground.

The ogre’s angry yellow eyes glared down at him like twin baleful candles. “Yield,” he commanded in a guttural snarl.

I couldn’t see Jorg’s expression from the angle with his helmet, but he let the halberd go and showed his hands. Karog snorted contemptuously before lifting his spear back up. He swept the rest of us with his threatening gaze.

“Next.”

I could feel his derision beating off him like waves of heat. Karog hated this pomp and ceremony. He was here for a purpose, to show his strength and defeat enemies, yet he was told to avoid killing and act with courteous restraint. He did so, because it was expected of him for the prize he wanted, but he was visibly impatient with it.

It pissed the other knights off, but the commons seemed to love it. Their excitement raised an octave.

He would go through this group one by one. His own team traded glances, but no one stepped forward to protest this greediness.

Next to me, Hendry hesitated a beat before taking a step forward. I pressed my hammer to his breastplate to stop him and stepped ahead.

I helped Jorg to his feet while Karog watched from a distance. He was angry, but more embarrassed. “Beat that bastard,” he growled at me.

I pressed a hand to his shoulder and pointed at his halberd. He blinked, confused at first, then shrugged and handed it off. I traded him my hammer and shield. They would do me little good against an enemy with as much strength and speed as Karog.

I tested the weapon as I strode forward to take up position. A beautiful piece, with vine patterns in copper wrapped about the black wood and a pommel on the bottom as a counter balance. It was taller than me, and could slash as well as stab with its three blades. Those blades sported an artful inlay.

I often used Faen Orgis’s changeable haft to wield it like a halberd, so I knew some moves, and I’d probably need the extra reach.

I swept it down to point the spear tip at Karog, cocking my body at an angle and holding the weapon in one hand. The ogre narrowed his eyes at me, sniffed, then went still a moment. His eyes widened.

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“You,” he said in a low rumble.

He must have recognized my scent. I didn’t reply, keeping up my mute act. We’d danced around one another a long time, me and Karog. Part of me had known this would happen eventually.

He started to pace. I did as well, and we began to circle one another. Scattered drops of rain wet the gray sand here and there, some pinging off our armor. The waves rumbled and cracked against the island’s rocky walls.

“Laertes said you wouldn’t be able to avoid this,” Karog said quietly, so only we could hear. “That this place would call you.”

I risked breaking my silence. “You should have done this for the Drains. You’re better than that creature, Karog.”

“You’ve had your choice of masters,” Karog snapped. “I have not been so lucky.”

Perhaps that was fair. I changed my grip, adjusted my stance. Karog’s step slowed just a fraction.

He would be heavier than me, stronger than me, faster than me. In battle, weight counts for much. You can be as skilled and dexterous as you please, but the larger, stronger opponent will always have the advantage.

That is why aura is so integral to warfare. It is why a willowy girl like Emma or a kind-faced country lass like Narinae can hold their own against men twice their weight. It makes battle a contest of will as much as mass, lets one perform feats mere bone and muscle would be ill equipped for.

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Siriks had shattered a blade larger than himself with an angry swipe of his weapon, and Laertes had batted my empowered axe aside with a bare hand. They did not use some spell or phantasm for those feats.

My use of Art was hamstrung by my disguise, but flashy sorcery is not all one can do with their soul. I let mine thrum through me, sharpening it, hardening it. I let it soak into my bones, reinforce my muscles, lace my breath.

Karog’s heavy jaw loosened, flashing his wolf’s teeth and letting out a steaming breath. Leather creaked as muscles tightened.

I moved first. To an untrained eye, it would have looked like I vanished. Only, I’d just ducked and lunged at once. Karog’s spear blade severed the air where my head had been an eyeblink before, causing the blue cloth draped over my helmet to flutter like breeze-caught hair.

He stumbled back as I stabbed and pushed with the halberd, invading his space. The slick gravel beneath me ground beneath my steel boot, cracking and crumbling as I braced one and slid the other back. I’d aimed for the gap between his shoulder piece and arm pit, where the armor was thinner, but Karog turned and my weapon sliced harmlessly off the breastplate.

I slashed up, going for his chin, but he surprised me by stepping back and batting my weapon aside with his cleaver. I’d expected him to be all momentum, all anger and force, but he’d sensed something and went on the defense.

We both backpedaled, our brief exchange having lasted mere seconds. Karog appraised me.

“I thought you’d pull some trick,” he growled. “Like on the road last winter.”

“I wasn’t trying to fight you then,” I admitted.

Karog sniffed, then exploded into motion. With a shout loud as thunder he swept his leaf spear high overhead and down, using it almost as an axe. I sidestepped that deadly pendulum, letting it crack into the ground. Before I could retaliate against what seemed an overcommitment, he ripped the weapon back and held his cleaver up, a horizontal bar at sternum level.

He used the cleaver like a shield, its weighty edge ready to defend him if I got past the reach of that ridiculous spear. I dodged the spear twice, its blade slashing and stabbing, each hit threatening to put me down hard as he had the Grotesque Knight.

But my strength wasn’t wholly natural. I judged his motions, waited for him to commit to a broad sweep, then hooked his weapon into the more complex head my own polearm sported. Using his own momentum, I ripped the spear up and over my head, pulled sharply to drag him forward, then stepped forward into a tremendous sweep that carried the halberd in a near perfect arc around my body.

This would have been the moment where I’d send out a whip of aureflame to slice through him, or some other powerful battle Art. But I couldn’t use my normal techniques here without giving myself away.

Besides, I didn’t want to kill him. This was about proving oneself the better fighter, to convince your opponent to surrender and the crowd that a yield was earned.

Karog had embarrassed Ser Jorg. So I decided to embarrass him.

I paused there, almost the entire length of the beautiful halberd outstretched to my side as I lingered at the end of my motion, one leg braced back and the other bent forward at the knee. A moment later, a heavy piece of bronze clattered against the ground.

Karog didn’t catch what I’d done at first. He tilted his helm, seemed to realize it felt lighter, then glanced at the piece I’d cut off. The tall crest sporting its white plume.

I expected rage. Fury. A violent outburst of motion that would end with one of us in pieces.

I did not expect Karog to let out a low, throaty laugh. It was a raspy sound, mirthless and dry, unsettling in its own way as his threatening silences.

“Fine,” he said. “You’ve proven your point, elf friend. I’ll play the game.”

He stepped back, lifted his spear, then rammed it into the hard ground. He left the quivering polearm there a moment, then walked back to his line and took up position among the others. I let out a breath of relief.

I returned Jorg’s halberd to him, which he accepted graciously before returning my shield and hammer. My eyes went to the crowd, a stirring tapestry of moving bodies and noise.

That’s one potential disaster averted, I thought. If Karog and I had gone at one another for real, it would probably have ended up with one or both of us too wounded to continue the tournament. Much as the warrior in me did truly want to test myself against the ogre, this wasn’t really about the competition.

Besides, he did not yield. This wasn’t over.

I was about to take up my spot among my fellows and let someone else have the attention when the air shuddered. I felt a pull, a strange sensation almost like the world tilted a moment. My feet skidded to one side, along with a layer of loose rock like an unfelt wind disturbed the ground. I steadied myself, catching one of the other knights before they collided with me.

“No,” an angry voice said. “I’m sick of this.”

I turned, and there in the center of the field was Siriks Sontae.

He’d embedded his weighty blade into the ground, so the handle stuck up like a planted flag. He perched with one foot on one of the cross bars, his hand gripping the weapon, his other foot dangling loosely.

I stared at him, taken aback. Where had he come from?

The air still felt strange. Had he dropped out of the sky?

He glared at me, his eyes wide and furious beneath the sea beast visage of his visor. “You barely fought him,” he snapped.

He couldn’t see my expression, so I just shrugged at him. The crowd around us stirred with excitement, a weight of sound and movement on the walls.

“This isn’t your bout.” Ser Jorg glared at the young man. “Return to the alcoves, Lord Siriks.”

The cymrinorean ignored the man. “You’re strong,” he told me. “I watched your fight earlier. You can do better than this. You can all do better. You think this is a game?”

“It is a game,” Ser Narinae said with a frown. “It’s tourney.”

Siriks fell quite a moment. Then, half to himself he said, “He was right about all of you.”

My muscles tightened with a thrill of tension.

A voice like angry thunder quaked the air. The Emperor had stood, and spoke himself rather than delegating to his herald. “What is the meaning of this, Lord Siriks? You would show such disrespect to me?”

The young man lifted his voice for all in the Coloss to hear. “My understanding, Your Grace, was that this tournament was meant to test the mettle of your Accord and see it prepared for the trials to come. And yet, I see your city beset by enemies, your people threatened in their own streets, your knights butchered by assassins. Monsters and false prophets have their way with this realm. How can my countrymen tie themselves to this?”

He let himself fall to the ground, pulled his weapon from the sand, and pointed it at me. “As ambassador of Cymrinor, I demand the right to test this nation’s strength. Let me fight this man. No theater, no showing off. The one who can no longer stand at the end loses.”

Silence. The crowds probably felt as much shock as the knights.

I risked a glance at the Arbiter’s Spire. Markham stood at the window of his box, his hands braced against the ledge. A dour figure in dark iron and grim gold, a judge of war.

I knew his decision even as it formed on his lips.

“Very well. Ser Sain has conducted himself with honor. Perhaps he will teach you some restraint, young man. But you have interrupted this ceremony, and there must be consequence. Should you lose here, then this will be as far as you go in this festival.”

He paused, then added another addendum.

“You will fight as knights. Your chimera will be brought out.”

He sat, leaving me staring at him with wariness only masked by a layer of anonymous steel.

Of course he wouldn’t stop this. His people watched, and they were here for just this kind of drama. I’d even seen similar scenes in such gatherings before. Only, the stakes here were too high. Did Markham even know I was down here? Had his wife warned him?

It probably wouldn’t matter.

The tourney knights spread out, giving us some space while we waited for Coloss pages to fetch our mounts. Siriks started to pace, restless, his weighty blade propped on one shoulder. He had no taunts for me, no bragging or threats. To him, this was a deadly serious affair.

I’d hoped to observe more of his fights, get an idea of how his magic worked. There are few things more frustrating or dangerous than dealing with an Art one doesn’t understand. When one knows the trick to someone’s unique sorcery, it’s usually fairly simple to counter or break it.

It’s the mystery that gets you killed. And I had no doubt Siriks was willing to kill me. I felt battle rage beating off him. His soul burned.

“They’ve all forgotten,” the young warrior said. He held a frustrated look, very much the confused youth.

I decided my mute act wasn’t that important in this moment. “Forgotten what?”

“War.”

Sometimes, my powers act without me willing them to. They give me insights and flashes of times past, or show me the true nature of things. It happened then, as Siriks’s rage rose to a crest, as the excitement and anticipation of several thousand people poured down on us. The worry of the commons, looking for a distraction from their woes and assurances that the Houses could still protect them. The fears and hopes of people like Rosanna, who’d dedicated her life to building this nation. The knights, whose pasts and future revolved around this festival.

The strength of will wielded by their emperor, whose soul blazed upon his tower like a bonfire to my senses.

Their spirits poured into that ancient arena, all focused on the northerner. And in those spiritual eddies I saw—

Fire. Burning fields. Mounted soldiers butchering by the score, by the hundred, blades shining red under a smoke choked sky.

A boy, no older than fourteen, protecting even younger siblings. The cruel laughter of those men as they beat him down, taking the others under rough hands.

“The prince only needs one.”

“They say your House commands the tides. Let’s see if that’s true.”

They threw his sisters off a cliff. Made him watch.

They made him kneel before the high prince and thank him for his mercy.

The last son of House Sontae saw all of this, every day, every moment. He saw it now. I watched those visions flash across the surface of his soul.

This was no game to him.

Thunder roiled high in the clouds, and for the first time that day visible lightning flashed around the Coloss. The wind rose in strength, making Siriks’s red braid dance and the blue cloth on my helmet flutter.

Above us, the clouds had begun to form a vortex.