Oathbreaker, Book 2: The Magus's Tale

by Colin McComb

  What would impel one of the Empire’s great minds to betray it? What made Underhill remove the beacons from Sir Pelagir, allowing him to escape without fear of being followed? Because that was what he had done. He had allowed a kidnapper, a would-be regicide, to escape justice at the hands of his fellows. If it hadn’t been for him, King Fannon might still be alive, having recovered from his illness through the joy of having his daughter returned. The fire might never have taken the royal apartments if the girls had had their sister to play with. Underhill had always told me that small events contribute to the whole, and seemingly inconsequential errors can result in catastrophe.

  Indeed, I thought. Indeed.

  I cannot say how I came to my resolution, but I had made it without remorse by the time I reached the workshop. I believe in justice. I believe we must pay for our sins. I thought this made me blameless. I did not, at the time, think this would ever apply to me. Such is the righteousness of youth.

  When Lawson came to me, I had already decided that I would attempt to contact Caltash. The knowledge that Caltash would send an emissary told me that the price for Underhill’s sins was death.

  And I was glad.

  Interlude: Meanwhile

  The fruitless search for Sir Pelagir and Princess Caitrona had swept close by the prey, but the net had not closed tightly enough. Magus Alastair Underhill had been thorough in his work, removing all trace of the scent by which Terona’s bloodhounds might follow the errant knight. The fugitives had entered Lower Pippen under cover of night and left it the same way, drawing no attention to themselves, but even then the sharp eyes and sharper minds of the investigating knights came across signs and portents that might have pointed them in the proper direction.

  Had Pelagir and Caitrona not been traveling with General Glasyin, Terona would likely have seen its knights home safely and quickly. Instead, they were three travelers like many others in this uncertain time seeking a new life someplace else. Rather than exciting interest, they became an ordinary story. When they left the road at last in the town of Kingsecret in the northern hills, in the duchy of Garand, they bought a farm outside of town, using some of the coin Pelagir had brought with him on his mad flight. He called himself Arul here, telling the curious that he had served in the army and that most of his family had died during an uprising in their home village of Half-Crest. He claimed the general was his grandfather, Toren, and Princess Caitrona became Catya, his surviving daughter. With their town destroyed, they had to start anew someplace else, and they had heard Kingsecret was safe enough.

  It was a sad story, but again entirely ordinary—and that was exactly what they intended. Kingsecret’s population was about three thousand souls, large enough for strangers to settle with a minimum of fuss.

  Pelagir—or rather, Arul—took work as an apprentice blacksmith. He was fearsomely strong, the legacy of the enhancements laid upon him during his excruciation and induction into the Knights Elite, and he had to pantomime working harder than he did so as not to draw attention. Still, his focus was keen and he comprehended instructions the first time (a legacy from his overbearing father), so he took to the smith-work quickly. He helped with the farm when he could, and on still more days he worked to improve the old farmstead they had bought.

  The farmhouse, built into the hill on the ruins of an old mansion, became his primary project. With his prodigious energy, he began fortifying the old cellars, creating an underground bunker into which they could escape at signs of trouble. He built a maze of rooms, and in some of them he continued to train, keeping his skills strong and his mind sharp. On occasion, he brought Catya down so that she could begin to learn arms as well.

  Taking trips into the small city of Avollan, he procured supplies that would have raised eyebrows in Kingsecret. Arul paid careful attention to the words of those who passed by or through the smithy, and one night in CY 588, he heard the rumors of Caltash’s band of knights coming inexorably toward his adopted town, and he made sure to be gone on his errands when they were due to arrive.

  He took the back roads and traveled by night to avoid seeing familiar faces on the way to and from. Still, he could not avoid all notice of his goings, and so it was that, not far from home, under the light of the full moon, five hooded figures stood across the rutted path with crossbows cradled in their arms and hunting knives at their hips.

  Arul pulled back on the reins, and his dray ambled to a halt. He stepped down from the cart, pushed back his straw hat, and tied the reins to the post, doing all this with a remarkable poise.

  “Aren’t you going to ask us what we want?” asked the brigands' leader, clearly nonplussed.

  Arul stepped to the side of his horse, rolling his shoulders a little. “I know what you want.” His voice was quiet and deep.

  “Then you know to toss your purse over here and step away from the cart. We’ve seen you coming and going, and you always come back loaded down. We figure you must be rich, so give it here. We’re taking your purse and your cart, and you’re lucky if we don’t take your life.” His voice betrayed his nerves. His name was Lindor. He and his friends had done this four times before, using the skills and weapons they’d picked up from their service in the military. They could all use the money—Terona had taken their pensions, the nobles had increased their taxes, the prices of goods were going up—and to be more brutally honest, Lindor’s friends had started to develop a taste for bloodshed, preying on those who couldn’t defend themselves.

  They knew they were taking a chance on the new smith. He had powerful arms and his scars declared that he was familiar with pain, but they were five and he merely one. His daughter and grandfather might miss him, but they had few connections in the town, and no one would look too hard for his killers.

  Arul said, “Do you fear a simple smith that much that you must kill him from afar?”

  Lindor said, “We said nothing of killing you.”

  “Come now. I am not a fool. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your voice, Lindor? Or your friends? Byrney, was the work I did for you so inadequate? Dispense with the play. If you’re going to do bloody work, be men about it.”

  Byrney raised his crossbow and stepped forward, and Arul said, “So the brave soldier fears to kill with a blade? It takes five men from afar to bring down one? No wonder you cowards hunt in the dark.”

  Byrney laughed. “Do you think to trick us into fighting you barehanded? Please, Arul—we know that you were a soldier.”

  One of the others said, “Why are we wasting time talking? Shoot him!”

  Byrney squeezed the trigger, and three others did as well. In that same moment, Arul dove into a graceful forward roll, and his momentum carried him to Byrney’s feet. In a fluid motion, he rose and snatched Byrney by the crotch and shoulder, hurling him to the left and into one of the other brigands, and the two collapsed in a flurry of tangled limbs. Arul did not pause to see if he had hit his target, but continued the turn he had begun with the throw. He struck the next bandit in the chest with the heel of his palm, and the sharp crack of bone echoed above the grunts and cries of his attackers.

  He snatched the bandit’s crossbow even as the man crumpled, and he drove the butt into the next brigand’s jaw hard enough to snap the man’s neck, the body spinning lifelessly before crumpling to the ground. As Lindor readied the shot he had held, Arul threw the captured crossbow, striking the brigand in the forehead, sending the man’s shot wild as Lindor fell backward, his forehead bleeding.

  Arul turned and ran to the two men climbing to their feet. He snatched Byrney by the throat with his left hand, crushing it even as he lifted Byrney into the air. He drove his rigid right hand into the second brigand’s abdomen just below the solar plexus. He dropped the choking man to die next to his shocked and bleeding friend.

  Arul crossed the killing field again, this time slowly, as Lindor fumbled for another bolt for the crossbow. Brigand blood dripped from Arul’s right hand, and he had a bolt feathering his left thigh. T
he smith did not seem to feel pain from the wound, but murder was in his eyes. Lindor scuffled backward, trying to draw his blade. Arul kicked it from his hands as it cleared the sheath.

  “Please, Arul. Don’t kill me! I never wanted to do this!”

  “You made your choice.” Arul pulled the bolt through the back of his leg with a slight grunt and knelt down next to the brigand, grasping Lindor’s shoulder with a grip like unforgiving steel. His voice went cold and flat. “The only choice left to you is whether you die with your eyes open or closed. Choose now.”

  Lindor squeezed his eyes tight, and Arul drove the bolt into the soft space under his chin and up into his brain.

  When Arul returned home, he drove the wagon to the attached barn. He unloaded his supplies into a cleverly disguised dumbwaiter and lowered them into the workspace, and then, favoring his wounded leg, which had begun to ache, he limped into the farmhouse.

  Catya and Toren sat at the table in the kitchen, studying. She was nearly three years old now, alert and precocious. The two of them were studying numbers, and the old general was explaining addition using biscuits. He called them troops, and she moved them around the table to array her forces. As Arul entered, she snatched a biscuit and took a bite of it, and Toren said, “Wildfire just destroyed your lancers!” and threw his hands into the air in mock despair. As she laughed around a mouthful of crumbs, the old man said, “Oh, disaster! Now the dirigibles have come and swept the rest off the map! When will our leaders ever learn to watch all their foes’ forces?” So saying, he replaced them into their waxed paper container and closed it, his smile for Arul disappearing when he saw the bloodstains on the younger man’s shirt and pants.

  “What happened?” His voice was sharp, a whipcrack of command.

  “Papa, are you all right?” Catya ran to Arul, her eyes wide, and he bent swiftly to catch her under her arms. She threw her arms around his neck and looked closely to discover his wounds.

  “There was an accident and some people were hurt. I am fine, little cat.”

  Toren cleared his throat, and Arul set the girl down. He said, “Go to your room, kitten. Da and I must speak.” She did this, quietly and without fuss, and Arul told Toren what had befallen him on the moonlit trail.

  “Was it necessary to kill them?” Toren’s voice was flat and impassive.

  “It was. The contents of the cart were secondary. It was my humiliation and then my life that they wanted.”

  “And they were local boys?”

  “They were. Byrney and Lindor I recognized. The other three I have seen in town.”

  “How did they know your schedule?”

  “I have used that trail before. It crosses by Lindor’s land. He may have seen me one night, or seen evidence that the trail was being used. Then they watched and waited. I did not see them. I let my guard down.”

  “By the hairy balls of all the gods, Arul! How can you let your guard down when you know what is at stake?”

  “Sir, I…sir, I have no response.”

  “Damn right you don’t! Now we’ve got another mess to clean up, and I…” He paused and took a deep breath. “Forgive me. This is not your fault. I lost my temper because I am angry with myself. We needed those supplies, and there is no way you could have known that they’d be watching us at a distance. The best we can hope is that they acted alone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And knock that off. You always get formal when I lose my temper, but dammit, I’m an old man and I’m entitled to a good shout now and again. Now let’s plan what we need to do. What did you do with the bodies?”

  “There was a small ravine nearby. I dropped the bodies there and rolled some rocks atop them. Because it was dark, I could not cover the bloodstains, and the cairns will attract scavengers before long.”

  Toren thought for a minute. “All right. We need to get a herd of animals over there to ruin the traces of blood and buy you time to dispose of the bodies. How busy is this trail?”

  “Busy enough that someone will notice the vultures.”

  “Then you had best pray for rain, my boy. We can drive the sheep to Avollan for Marketday, but that’s two days from now. You’d better get back there by morning to dig some holes. I’ll arrange for Timmin to watch the sheep we hold back, and Catya and I will be along in the afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You did the best you could, boy. All of this is much harder when it’s just one man, an old shepherd, and a young girl. Now go to bed. You’re going to need to be up early.” He paused. “I am glad that you still live. Well done.” He turned before the younger man could see the emotion in his face.

  Arul sketched a half salute, stripped his clothes to soak in the washtub, and scrubbed the dried blood from his hands. He retired to bed and slept with his usual complement of nightmares, the residue of battles and murders beyond counting, where the faces of those he had killed accused him of ending their lives too early. He held these nightmares at bay with a gleaming, dripping blade, but in his dreams his arms began to grow weak and his muscles quivered with the strain. His new victims stood at the front, and a bloody Lindor, a bolt clutched in his hand, said, “We only wanted your money, Pelagir. Lower your steel and let us forgive you.”

  Arul awoke sweating, as he always did after killing. One night, he feared, he might not be strong enough to stand against his ghosts, and he was not eager to discover what would happen afterward. He rose and splashed water on his face, running his fingers through his dark hair. He donned a long-sleeved, light cotton shirt and heavier dark trousers and walked quietly to the kitchen. He took his bow from the hook by the door, determined to have protection from a distance. He filled a sack with bread, cheese, dried venison, two apples, and a skin of water, and stepped into the barn. He selected a shovel and a rod of strong steel so that he could roll larger boulders with it. He saddled the roan, and she nickered in complaint at the early hour but offered no other resistance.

  He walked her out to the trail at the edge of the farm, closed the gate behind them, and rode at a slow canter along the way he had come. When he arrived an hour or so later, he tied the horse a short distance off the trail so it would not betray itself to anyone who happened along. What he would do if he were interrupted he had not quite determined, so he intended to finish his work quickly.

  The sun’s light began to paint the morning sky in rose and gold, and Arul used that light to study the ambush site. It was well chosen, he had to grant. He reconstructed the battle from the footprints and the bloodstains, and he paused to consider his course of action. Moments later, he leaned his bow against a nearby tree and began to dig around the incriminating blood, turning over the dirt and breaking up the clods that had formed around the quantities of spilled blood. Flies had begun to buzz around some of the larger patches, and he made sure to dig deeper for these so that the telltale traces of battle would be dispersed.

  This took him perhaps five minutes. With none nearby to witness him, he was free to exercise the enhancements the Archmagus had worked upon him, and he moved with a speed that would have dazzled the human eye. He paused and drank deeply from the water, then devoured an apple in five swift bites. He placed the core carefully back in his sack, tamped down the earth, and, satisfied that he had erased the evidence of the battle here—at least to a casual inspection—he gathered his bow and his tools and leapt ten feet down the ravine slope.

  His work down here would be significantly harder. The stream was at a trickle now, but the cut in the ravine showed that water could tear through here with raging power. He didn’t dare pull the bodies back to the upper slopes—that would be time-consuming and tedious, and it would make him more visible. Besides, any heavy rains might open the graves. He sighed once, set his bow aside, and began to dig at the base of the ravine walls, outside the stream’s channel, occasionally using the steel rod as a lever for the larger stones.

  The stream watered no nearby wells, he knew, so he was not concerned about disea
se spreading. The bodies were currently mostly concealed from sight above by boulders and fallen trees, so he was not worried about a casual passer-by looking down. As he dug, the sound of the shovel sinking into wet sand was occasionally interspersed by the sharper echo of the blade striking pebbles and rocks, and he settled on his plan should he be interrupted.

  He had made a sizeable trench about six feet across and two feet deep when he heard the sound of hooves thudding on the trail. A single rider, by the sound of it, but the hooves were all wrong—too heavy, too metallic. He realized his peril as the trot slowed to a walk and then stopped. He cursed to himself quietly and leaned on his shovel as if he were exhausted and merely taking a break, rather than trying not to be found. Toren was too far away. It was still only midmorning, and it would be hours before the sheep could obliterate the traces of the battle the night before.

  Arul wiped his sleeve on his forehead, drew his straw hat farther down, and waited. Moments later, a voice called from the top of the ravine.

  “You! Down there!”

  He looked up under the brim of his hat, keeping his face shadowed, and saw a knight in travel armor standing at the top of the slope. The insignia showed that the knight was one of the Elite, and Arul realized that his work of the last several years was in mortal peril. He did not recognize the knight, which meant that this was one of the newest recruits to the brotherhood, so perhaps he might buy some time.

  He dropped to one knee at the edge of the trench and said, “Sir?” He made his voice quiver as he said it, taking on a thicker accent.

  “What are you doing, peasant?”

  “Sir Knight, I am digging for ore.”

  “Digging?” The knight could not keep the contempt out of his voice.

  “Yes, sir. At the Third Arm tavern in Avollan, y’see, I heard a man talking about how he found gold ore. I didn’t hear clearly, sure, but I thought if there’s gold out here, I ought to go dig it up.”