Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial
Arc 7: Chapter 11: Memories of Holy Wars

Arc 7: Chapter 11: Memories of Holy Wars

Osheim, Winter of the Year of Troubles

793 A.C.

If I’d built up my destination in my mind over weeks of hard travel and anticipation, I ended up disappointed.

Under the afternoon sun, Tol didn’t look like much. A walled trade town, on the larger side but no metropolis like Garihelm. Rows of rooftops and winding streets webbed out from a strong, simple keep. There were smaller villages and hamlets scattered about the surrounding land, little satellite communities. I knew from my preparations before this journey started that Tol was run by a mayor, a civilian who took care of daily governance while a knight-commander who answered to Osheim’s king posted in the keep.

As with many settlements in the heartlands, the churches were the most impressive buildings on display. A three-hundred year old cathedral dominated the central hill of the township, with four bell towers and a central spire stabbing into the sky. It had nothing on Myrr Arthor, the mighty basilica in Garihelm’s Bell Ward, but it still dwarfed the surrounding buildings.

I had two tasks — one, to find any trace of Lias I could in the town and figure out what he might be up to, where he’d have gone. Second, I needed to make contact with the Choir and learn what my official orders actually were before I went off on some wild cockatrice chase. It seemed a safe bet that they wanted me looking for the renegade mage, but it paid to be certain.

I would play this safe, methodical, go in with an actual plan. Back during my days as Headsman, I would often scout my quarry and build at least rudimentary strategies. At Caelfall I’d improvised as I went, but usually I’d been more purposeful.

I needed a base of operations, a place to hide out while I gathered information. If I ended up being here days, it would pay to have a spot to rest my head and avoid notice. Then I needed hallowed ground to make contact with the Onsolain, which would leave me vulnerable and exposed to capture if I wasn’t cautious. Then, assuming it was what they wanted, I’d start hunting for a wizard.

Much as it irked, I’d need Vicar for that part. If he knew where Lias kept his hidden studies, had interacted with him over recent months, then his advice would be invaluable.

If this wasn’t all an elaborate lie to lead me into a trap. I hadn’t discounted that possibility.

First, a shelter. There were scattered woods around the town, some rugged hills to the north that might work for the purpose. With some woodcraft and a touch of glamour, I could be like a ghost among the locals and—

And I still thought like a rogue. I was officially sanctioned by the Emperor of Urn now. I had my own Knight’s Mark again and a signet ring on my left hand showing me as a servant of the Ardent Round. I could walk right up to the castle gates and announce myself, and the local garrison would be obligated to host me and cooperate with my demands.

I was tempted. It would be an incredible convenience to have the cooperation of local authorities. Not to mention that after a year in the capital I’d gotten used to a warm bed and good food. I wasn’t above enjoying those things.

And yet… I wasn’t here on the Emperor’s behalf. Better to not abuse Markham’s authority unless I had to.

I made a decision. “I don’t want the local authorities to know who I am or why I’m here. If the Inquisition has a presence in town, then they could be a problem. Chamael might hear about it. I’ll bet he’s still hunting you.”

Vicar let out a thoughtful rumble. “Indeed. Most of the priors will be in Baille Os, but they will have a presence here.” He thought for a moment. “There may be one who can aid us. An… ally.”

My alarm bells immediately began ringing. “Who?”

“A scholar. She is not of the Priory, if that is any balm to that suspicious look I see on your face. We brought her in as a consultant.”

“A clericon from another order?”

“No. An independent.”

There weren’t many scholars who weren’t also priests, and fewer still I’d feel comfortable associating with. “Sounds like the sort your inquisitor friends might normally take issue with.”

“As I said, the new Grand Prior is a practical man and heeded Master Hexer’s advice… before, anyway. It is possible that the wizard’s betrayal and my flight caused her some trouble. She may not be here anymore, but if she is then she may harbor us and be of great aid in gaining access to your errant friend’s lab.”

I didn’t like it. Trusting a devil was hard enough without bringing strangers into the mix. “And you trust her not to turn you in?”

“She is not at all fond of the Priory. We pay her and give her access to our resources in return for her expertise. Consider her a mercenary. I would not call her trustworthy, but I believe she will listen to me.”

It sounded too convenient, and very suspicious. Still, if he was telling the truth…

“In any case, we’re not going in with you looking like that.” I considered and suggested, “Unless you want to pretend to be my pet? I could play a ranger.”

Vicar snarled and started pacing down the slope. About halfway down, his form seemed to liquify and blur in my vision. I had to blink several times, and felt a sudden vertigo looking at it. I closed my eyes for a moment, chasing the feeling away, and when I looked again there was no longer an infernal wolf. An old pilgrim limped down the hill, a crooked walking stick and long, thready robes leaving a trail through the snow.

Nice trick, I thought. I started to follow, but paused and glanced down at my chimera. Morgause purred when I patted her neck and glanced back with one ruby eye.

“You’ve been as good a companion as any knight could ask for,” I told her in a quiet voice. “But it’ll look strange if I enter town with an old cripple and I’m the one riding, and I know you won’t suffer him on your back, so…”

I dismounted and loosened the scadumare’s reins, adjusting the tack and grabbing a pair of saddlebags, including the case holding my crossbow. “Stay in the woods near town,” I told her. “Keep close, keep watchful, and wait for me. I’ll need you soon enough, I’m sure.”

While the chimera was smart, I knew she didn’t really understand my words. I’d laced just a hint of aura into my voice, using a trick I’d learned in Seydis to convey understanding. It was ranger lore as much as any Alder Knight secret. It wasn’t perfect, but when Morgause nudged me with her snout and then stalked off I knew she’d heed me.

I caught up with Vicar near the bottom of the hill. He wasn’t making a direct line to the town’s gates, but heading towards one of the roads snaking off into the countryside. He’d taken the shape of a man in his early fifties, similar in height and features to Renuart Kross save that he walked with a notable limp, stooped slightly, and generally lacked the confident airs of the knight-exorcist I’d once believed him to be. He supported his stride with a traveler’s staff and his cloth was plain, a monkish robe in dusty brown with a rope belt and a hooded mantle.

He still had gray eyes, and like Kross sported stiff, graying hair receded into a widow’s peak.

“I am a traveler from Venturmoor,” he told me without slowing. “My name is Geoffrey. I am very likely a nobleman walking the pilgrim’s path before I become too old for the journey, but I won’t admit to it and neither will you. I intend to pray at the shrine here — the new one. Don’t mention the cathedral, it is condemned and will draw suspicion.”

I took all of this in stride. “I am a knight. I’ve heard about the gathering at Baille Os and I’m interested in plying my sword for a righteous cause.”

Close enough to the truth, and better to keep things simple.

Vicar grunted. “And your name?”

I hesitated. “Ser Alken will do. I’m sure there’s more than one Alken in the subcontinent.”

Vicar scowled. “It is a foolish risk. The Priory will know the name and be suspicious, which will make any glamour you weave weaker.”

“I can’t lie, you know that. My magic will burn my tongue raw if I do.”

Vicar threw me a withering look. “Are you afraid of a little pain, Hewer?”

I was about to throw back my own surly comment, but it struck me then who I spoke to. I recalled the horrible scars I’d seen on Vicar’s other forms. He’d suffered from the ungentle touch of fire for countless mortal lifetimes. He would not be sympathetic.

“…I am Ser Aelfric,” I decided. “No House name. I abandoned it, and only fight for God these days. I’ve been wandering the roads for years, protecting pilgrims.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

I waited for the flash of heat in my throat, but nothing happened, which I’d been more worried about than the pain. My jaw tightened. Vicar watched me sidelong, but if he noticed anything he didn’t comment.

We made our way onto the road, only visible by the tracks others had made in the snow. It wound across the land’s natural geography, but soon straightened as we reached the tilled fields around the town’s walls.

And as we moved, I wove my glamour. It didn’t happen instantly. I knew some who could conceal themselves in darkness or take a new face with a simple inhale of breath. Emma could weave a very good concealment.

But I’m a blunt instrument. It took me many minutes, and Vicar didn’t help by making impatient noises and throwing me angry looks as we drew closer and risked being spotted. Still, I couldn’t rush it if I wanted it to be worth a damn.

When done, my fine black plate turned to dun, weathered brown, the intricate designs fading, my wine red cloak taking on a dusty, faded pallor. I hadn’t shaved since leaving Garihelm, so the month old beard helped the look. My eyes, normally gleaming a metallic shade of gold, became a more common amber.

I became Ser Aelfric, humble knight sworn to God and no lord, a vagabond defender of poor travelers and the faithful.

Just the sort of man I’d have half respected, and wouldn’t mind being in another life. That sense of connection made the magic work better, though it also gave me useless, pensive thoughts.

The gates were open, which was a good sign. I’d been half expecting something similar to my arrival at Garihelm, with the city under quarantine after a string of violent incidents. We also weren’t the only fresh arrivals. Despite the cold, I noted a small throng of people.

It had been a bitter winter. “They must be heeding the call at Baille Os,” I noted to my companion. “To travel in this weather, these times.”

“Many lost their homes during the civil war,” Vicar agreed. “The chance to reclaim and resettle must be enticing.”

We drew up to the back of the line. They mostly seemed to be merchants, the types who could afford warm clothes and vehicles made to withstand the mud and snow of winter roads. I noted an assortment of styles, telling me most of these people hailed from well beyond Osheim’s borders.

There were others, however, who were clearly not dignitaries or tradesmen with official business. I noted a group of dirty, cold figures in threadbare cloaks, hoods and scarves forming a meager barrier against the wind. They had hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, but I detected an energy about them. Not refugees. Pilgrims.

One of them met my eyes. He was a boy, no older than fifteen, though his eyes had that same almost animal quality of the others. I broke the gaze first.

And some of the travelers were armed. I saw mercenaries, a few knights and their retinues, roughter sorts I’d have assumed to be bandits anywhere else. The gate guards checked everyone with a cursory professionalism, admitting most without trouble. They did check the carts and sleds the merchants brought.

“The garrison will have Priory spies,” Vicar muttered to me without taking his eyes off the gate. “Assume our entry will be noted, and do nothing to draw too much attention to yourself.”

When it came time for the people I took to be pilgrims to go through, they were let in without so much as a word. Our turn next. The gate sergeant saw Vicar, nodded, and started to usher him through before noticing me.

“Hold there,” the man said. “A knight? What’s your style, Ser?”

I couldn’t fully disguise my full plate. I’d made it look more battered, but the further one takes a glamour from what it’s masking the easier it is to see through. “I am,” I said, adopting a less surly tone than normal and giving the man a respectful nod. “Ser Aelfric, if it please you.”

I prepared for trouble, but to my surprise the man reached out a hand to shake. I took it, and we traded grips. “Good on you,” he said. “We need all the hands we can get to drive out those damn irks.”

“Irks?” I asked. I traded a look with Vicar, but he looked nonplussed.

“Ah, my apologies.” The man turned to Vicar. “You traveling companions? You don’t look like a soldier, uncle, forgive me for saying so.”

Vicar adopted a kindly smile that looked so sincere I almost believed it. “No no, just an old man contemplating what comes after old. I am walking in Her footsteps, before my damned legs give out on me. I met the good knight in an inn some days back, and we were going in the same direction.”

I could tell the soldier was warming to us. “Good, good. Though, I’m afraid it’s not possible to follow the Heir’s Steps anymore. That road ends at Elfgrave, and it’s in the hands of the Adversary.”

Vicar adopted a pained expression. “I assumed I’d go as far as possible, and then… who knows. I didn’t really plan this.”

“What was that about elves?” I asked.

“Hm? Ah, you haven’t heard?” The man shook his head, looking angry. “We only got word days ago. Some of the expeditions we sent into Kingsmeet came back raving mad from what I hear. The Fey Folk have made camp in the ruins and are driving our people out. Us! From our own city! Can you believe it!?”

I shook my head. “Does anyone know what they want?”

“Well, it’s hard to talk to them when they shoot you full of Bane arrows and melt your mind with their magics moment you get close.” The man scowled. “We were gathering arms to drive the Woed out of the city and counter any attack from the east, but then the elves showed up and now they won’t let us in. The Cardinal is holding council about it in the capital.” He lowered his voice into a hush. “Some say there might be war with the Seydii.”

A chill went through me. “That would be terrible,” I said honestly. “They’re our allies.”

“Tell them that! Damn monsters is what they are. We’ve all known forever, but before they were driven out of their home what could we do about it? If you want my opinion, this is for the best. My little brother was stolen as a babe, replaced with one of their bastards. King Stour had to give his own firstborn to the elves just to keep them appeased. That might have been twenty years ago, but we Osfolk haven't forgotten.”

His voice held a dark quality, but he brought himself out of it quickly and clapped me on the shoulder. “Maybe it’s time we stop letting the Sidhe have their way with us, eh? Keep your sword sharp and your heart true, Aureate.”

Once we’d cleared the gate and gone into the town’s main avenue, Vicar spoke in a quiet voice. “This is unexpected.”

“You didn’t know about this?” I asked.

“I’ve known there have been rising tensions between the surviving elves and humans for years,” he said. “But this…”

“Seems like strange timing,” I finished for him. He nodded grimly. We walked a ways, and I noted how many people were about. Most looked ready to depart, probably just using Tol as a layover before continuing south to Baille Os.

"How is your tongue?" Vicar asked conversationally.

I didn't rise to his mocking tone. "I could use some water."

"You lied to me. You lied to that soldier." He paused and added, "Your magic isn't punishing you for deceit."

"Mind your own business, crow."

Vicar hummed and changed the subject. “He called you Aureate."

“I heard that. As in the Aureate Church, right? It’s an old name, but it makes sense if this is a gathering of would-be crusaders.”

Vicar sneered. “I was in Edaea during the Aureate Crusades. The populations of entire countries were butchered, swathes of land as far as the eye could see lost in smoke and carrion. They were among this world’s most brutal wars, and in the end it did little more than make much of the world hate you Urnfolk.”

He quickened his step. “If I were you, I would not be so quick to evoke the memory of those days.”

I followed the false pilgrim through the town’s streets. Again I noted how many people there were, merchants and mercenaries, knights and whores, chimera of every breed, priests, scriveners, and every other manner of camp follower.

I recognized the sight, the scent, the energy in the air, that crackling sense of fear interlaced with an almost electric sense of anticipation. It reminded me of some of my best days, and my worst.

War.

Eventually, we fell under the shadow of the town’s cathedral. From below, it seemed even more imposing. The moment I stepped out of the wan winter daylight and into the shade of one of its towers, I felt a sudden shiver as though the already chill air had suddenly spiked down into an arctic frost. It made me stop, and Vicar did as well after a few paces.

The cathedral had looked impressive and proud from outside, but up close I realized it was a ruin. One of the towers looked ready to collapse, and another had at some point many years before. A rusted bell larger than me lay amid a pile of rubble.

“You said it’s condemned?” I asked. “I’ve seen smaller cathedrals in major cities.”

Vicar was staring at the abandoned church with an odd expression. His weathered face had relaxed. He almost looked sad. “This was a site of pilgrimage long ago. Every year, many hundreds traveling the Auric Road would stop here and pray at the Church of Saint Lyda.”

I started at the familiar name. “Lyda?”

Vicar nodded, a wistful smile on his face. “Yes! This was her own shrine. You know her story?”

“A bit,” I said, regarding the ominous structure with new trepidation. How did I missed this in my research? Probably because you were too focused on current events, and forgot that history is always going to rear its ugly head.

“She was a Saint Immortal and an Angel of Onsolem,” Vicar said. “A spirit of healing who loved you mortals.” His embittered voice turned contemplative. “Probably more than she should have. A heretic disguised as a supplicant infected the Saint with a dreadful malady. It did not kill her, but it sickened her and corrupted her nature, beginning the era you know as Lyda’s Plague.”

Details of that dark time were sparse, though I knew some stories. “That’s not the way I heard it. I was taught that Saint Lyda was a traitor, that she perpetrated a cult among her worshipers and tried to usurp the Choir, make herself a new God-Queen.”

There were only three of the Heir’s original followers known as Fallen, traitors who defied their celestial queen and became renegades, shadows in the world who continued to trouble the faithful throughout the centuries. There was Shabar, the first of the Fallen, who’d become an advisor to the Cambion. Nath, Lady of the Briar, who’d recently rejoined her brethren for reasons I still didn’t fully understand.

And then there was Lyda of the Maladies, the Cancer Angel.

She’d been defeated, cast down, but only after the worst outbreak of pestilence in all of Urn’s history. It took the entire might of the original Inquisition to do it, and even afterward the plague had endured for most of a generation. The world had yet to recover from that era’s festering wounds.

“If you knew Lyda, you would not think her such a villain. She was a gentle spirit. It would wound her to see the legacy she left behind.” Vicar turned his back on the church and started to walk again, leaning on his staff.

I studied the building a minute longer. The front doors looked like they were the only part of the church that’d been maintained, and possessed the quality of a barricade. There were no gargoyles, though I saw the alcoves where they would have nested once. Now, only two angelic statues guarded the main entrance. They looked melted somehow, like the stone had heated and then dried before the original figures became fully unrecognizable. It gave them a sinister look. A diseased look.

I shook my head and followed the crowfriar. “How do you even know all this? The Riven Order would’ve still been in effect then, you weren’t even here.”

“I’ve had access to clerical records for years now. I’ve studied. You would be shocked how much the official accounts of your priests differ from popular belief. So much history, all kept within stuffy vaults…”

He glanced back and glared at me from beneath the brim of his traveler’s cowl. His gray eyes held a spark of red in them. “And we waste time. Leave the ghosts of the past to rest. Saint Lyda is gone, and I would suggest we not disturb her grave.”