Oathbreaker: A Tale of the Wilds

by R J Murray

  Oathbreaker

  A Tale of the Wilds.

  By Richard Murray

  Copyright 2018 Richard Murray

  All Rights Reserved

  All Characters are a work of Fiction.

  Any resemblance to real persons

  Living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Some scenes are based on real locations that

  have been altered for the purposes of the story.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  The Dancers Rest, a small and largely ignored inn that sat beside the dusty road running through the centre of an equally insignificant village, was unusually busy, even for a sixth-day evening. Or at least, it seemed to be to Mia Solis.

  Her brow glistened as she added another weathered log to the fire that burnt in the river stone hearth. The nearby patrons, sitting hunched over their tankards at their tables, talking amongst themselves, largely ignored her. Unless they wanted more to drink.

  Then they would bellow her name and raise their empty tankards high while, with a sigh she kept hidden, she would make her weary way to their table. All the while avoiding the grasping hands and lecherous grins of the menfolk and the disapproving stares of the womenfolk.

  Each night was the same and no matter how quiet the inn, her rear would be bruised by the end. Not that Galen, the innkeeper would care. So long as the ale flowed, and the coin filled his coffers, he cared little for the abuses suffered by his staff.

  Well, by Mia, at least.

  “Ale, girl!” came a cry from across the room and she brushed her hands down the thin skirts of her dress and swallowed back her dismay.

  She forced a smile to her face and darted to the bar where Galen had already poured a fresh clay pitcher of the ale favoured by the villagers. He gave her a warning glower as she lifted the heavy vessel with both hands.

  “Spill it and I’ll tan your hide, girl,” Galen said without animosity. A simple statement of fact about a task that he would do with neither joy nor disgust. It was simply a chore that was required. “And, take it from your wages.”

  Little though they were, she thought, blowing an errant strand of hair, the brown of the leaves in autumn, from her face. She squared her shoulders and braced herself as she crossed the room, pitcher held firmly in her hands and skirts swishing around her ankles.

  She sucked in a breath of air as Jonah the blacksmith's journeyman’s fingers, rough from years of working a hammer, pinched her. His raucous laughter followed her to the next table where Malcom slapped her playfully, all while his hard-faced wife sniffed and turned her eyes away.

  On it went, from table to table, each of them thinking they were in the right to do as they pleased. Her cheeks burned with shame as she reached the patron, sweat running freely down her face.

  She braced herself for yet another indignity, but the broad-shouldered man just glanced at her, eyebrows drawing down at whatever he saw in her face and pushed his empty tankard towards her.

  “My thanks.”

  His voice was deep and rough and somehow tinged with a sorrow that was reflected in the lines of his face. A stranger to her, nonetheless, he smiled kindly and placed a handful of coins on the scratched wooden surface of the table.

  “Welcome, sir.” Mia lifted the heavy pitcher, letting the golden liquid spill out into his pewter tankard, froth rising rapidly. “Sorry.”

  “Nay worries, lass. Take the time you need.”

  Her already crimson cheeks deepened their colour and she ducked her head, tilting the pitcher and pouring as slowly as she was able. Mia had never been strong or tall and would barely reach the shoulder of even the smaller men in the village, her form slight where others were curvaceous. No doubt one of the many reasons they felt they could do as they pleased with her.

  “Leave the pitcher,” he said, eyes not straying from her face. “I’ll need another and four more tankards.”

  “You’re expecting guests?” She glanced towards the shuttered window that rattled with the force of the wind as rainwater spilt in through the cracks. “Tonight?”

  “Aye, lass. Old friends of mine.”

  There was a catch in his voice as he said it and she couldn’t help but look up as she heard it. His face though was still, giving nothing away and she nodded quickly.

  “Of course. “

  He passed over a silver half-piece, stamped with the face of some long dead queen and her eyes widened.

  “For you.”

  “It’s too much.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder to see if the innkeeper had seen.

  “I think not,” he said with a dismissive look towards the other patrons. He slid a full silver piece across the table to join the other. “This should cover the food and ale, and a bottle of the best wine that this establishment might have.”

  “There’s some bottles,” Mia said, chewing her lower lip. “Not sure how old they are. Lots of dust on them. Not like it’s popular around here.”

  “No doubt. I’ll take a bottle anyway.”

  She nodded, sweeping up the coins and letting the half-silver drop into the pocket of her apron before she turned and ran the gauntlet of grasping hands, back to the bar. There, she passed over the silver piece and relayed the order to Galen whose eyes lit up with greed as he quickly made the silver disappear.

  The door opened with a crash, the wind catching it and blowing it back against the wall. All eyes turned to watch the rotund man, ample form hidden beneath a thick green cloak that dripped water to the already damp floor.

  He cursed loudly, grasping the door in both hands and forcing it shut. Piggish eyes stared out from beneath his hood, full of malice and anger at those watching him. They searched the room before resting on the stranger and then without a word, he pushed through the crowded tables towards him.

  “Take it, girl,” Galen snapped, and she turned her attention back to him and the tray he had prepared.

  With a grunt at the weight, she lifted it in both hands and squared her shoulders before making her way back across the room. The patrons, seeing the extra weight that she was struggling to carry, held back their attentions. One look at the glowering innkeeper was enough to know that if they were the cause of her dropping the tray, they would face his wrath, and none dared that.

  Mia, glad for the brief respite, wished only for it to last the night for once. Serving in the inn was the only work she could find and Galen, the only one willing to give her that. She needed the meagre wages he paid, she just wished she didn’t need to spend so much time trying to avoid the patron’s attentions.

  “Wynn,” the stranger said to the larger man as he reached the table. “Been a long time.”

  “Not long enough,” the other said, his voice tinged with anger and breath c
oming in wheezing gasps between the words.

  His accent was the same as the first mans, Mia realised, proclaiming them both to be foreigners to Narra. She placed the tray carefully on the surface of the table, placing the empty tankards around the pitcher in the centre and then the second pitcher that she had just brought, was placed beside them.

  She did it in silence, both men watching each other without speaking while she worked. When she lifted the dust-covered bottle of red wine from the tray, the fat man grabbed it from her hands and peered at the label in the dim lantern light.

  “A poor year,” he harrumphed. “This is the best you have?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have glasses in this flea-pit or goblets at least?”

  “I can bring you a goblet, sir,” Mia said weakly.

  There was something about the man that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It was a visceral feeling that she couldn’t explain. Other than his size, there was nothing immediately intimidating about him.

  Much of his face was hidden in the shadows of his hood and the clothes beneath it, while well made, were unadorned. The type of clothes anyone would wear for travelling. Warm and robust. There were several leather pouches hanging from his belt and a satchel hung at his hip. The only jewellery he wore was a slim silver chain with a dull, rather plain looking stone hanging from it.

  “Food too!” he snapped. “I have a hunger.”

  “You always do,” the first man said, lips twisting with distaste.

  “True enough.” His piggish eyes turned back to her. “Well! Be about it, girl!”

  “Yes, sir”

  She scampered away, tray in her hands and a shiver running down her spine. Even though he’d made no move to touch her, the very thought of it made her skin crawl and she wished, not for the first time, that Galen would hire someone to work with her so that she could get a break.

  Jochum watched the serving girl almost run across the room, his brows drawing down into a frown as he watched more than one of the villagers reach out to slap or pinch her rear. The pot-bellied innkeeper saw but did nothing, a fact that fanned the familiar ember of anger in Jochum's guts.

  “We are the first?” Wynn asked, breaking into his musing. “Or the only ones, hmm?”

  “They will come.” There was a distaste in his voice for the tone of the other man’s question, as though offended by the insinuation that the others of their party would forget their oath. “Give it time.”

  “As you say.”

  The fat man waved a hand dismissively and pulled the cork from the bottle he held. Wynn lifted the cork to his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

  “Perhaps not so bad after all,” he murmured. “Fragrant at least.”

  “You were always one for the finer things. I see you’ve done well for yourself at least.”

  Jochum nodded to the other man’s clothing, well aware that his own were not so well made and likely cost a great deal less. The rotund man clearly had the monies to spend on such things, which considering his other appetites, meant he had ample funds.

  “I do well enough.”

  He fell silent as the serving girl returned with another tray, this one leaden with clay bowls that steamed gently. She placed a plain clay goblet on the table near Wynn before transferring the food from the tray.

  “Anything else?” she asked, timidly.

  “Yes. Take this, I shall not be needing it.”

  Wynn gestured irritably at the tankard set beside him and she reached across for it. A strange look crossed the fat man’s face and his hand shot out, pudgy fingers wrapping around her arm, painfully.

  Mia stared at him with wide, fear-filled eyes as a small whimper of pain escaped her.

  “Let her go!” Jochum snapped, hand dropping to his belt. “Now! Gods damn you!”

  Wynn blinked rapidly and released her, shaking his head and muttering something so low under his breath that no other at the table could hear the words. Mia rubbed at her arm where he had gripped her, the imprints of his fingers still there in her skin.

  “Apologies,” Wynn said. “You… startled me.”

  He reached into a pouch on his belt and brought out a silver coin, tossing it to her without even looking. She glanced from one man to the other and then snatched up the coin and spun on her heel without a word. Jochum watched her go before turning his attention back to the other man.

  “What was that?”

  “The girl has the gift,” Wynn replied absently. “Strong too. Enough so that it startled me.”

  “A mage? Her?”

  Jochum turned to look at the serving girl, navigating the crowd as she responded to some request or another and shook his head. A tiny slip of a girl, she couldn’t be more than sixteen, if that, he thought. Hair that hung to her shoulders and attractive enough that she would have suitors aplenty, but there was nothing about her that spoke of power.

  The other man lifted the stone that hung from the silver chain around his neck, making sure not to touch the stone itself, he held it up for the other to see. There was a dim glow in the centre, icy blue, barely noticeable.

  “It reacted to her,” he said with a shrug. “The girl has a gift.”

  “No matter,” Jochum replied. “We have other things to discuss more pressing than some serving girl.”

  “Perhaps not.” Wynn’s small eyes narrowed beneath his hood as he watched the Mia go about her work. “She could be useful.”

  “How so?”

  “Have you heard the whispers yet?” Wynn asked instead of immediately answering the other man’s questions. “I have. In the darkest hours of the night, they come to me. Speaking in a language I cannot know, a language not meant to be heard by man. They whisper things and every now and then, I will know what they are saying.”

  His eyes flicked back to the other man and there was fear in them.

  “One night, I know, I will understand them fully and when I do, they will come for me!”

  Jochum shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He’d heard no such whispers in the night, but he knew enough of the other man to know he was speaking truthfully and what that meant, he very much feared to know.

  “What does that have to do with the girl?”

  “Everything or nothing,” Wynn answered. “It depends if all of our old… friends… arrive tonight.”

  “They will all come,” Jochum said confidently. “None will forget the oath we made.”

  “One has,” Wynn whispered. “At least one has. The oath has been broken!”

  Chapter 2

  Syn-Namir paused at the edge of the village, his face pensive as he sheltered for a moment's reprise beside the wall of a thatched cottage. It was the same as any number of hamlets he had visited in his time in the northern countries and yet still now, he couldn’t shake the feeling of otherness that he felt.

  He pulled his hood a little further over his head, hiding his face in the shadows as a farmer hurried past, one hand holding his woven hat to his head and pulling his thick coat close as the wind pulled at it.

  The passing farmer barely glanced at him and then away, but it was enough to set Syn’s teeth on edge. It wasn’t so bad in the cities and larger towns where he usually spent his time, but in the far-flung villages of the northern kingdoms, his dark skin was often cause enough for him to be unwelcome.

  He checked the brace of knives he wore on his belt, loosening the slim bladed dagger on his right hip and ensured the curved blade on his left was secured. That blade carried a particularly potent poison and using that would see him hunted.

  As with most of the villages, they were built around the main road that led either through or straight towards the centre of the village. There was a wide area of grass with a post sticking up at the centre.

  Usually, that would be used for festivals and feast days, for weddings and other celebrations as the village was too small to have a temple, though would most likely have a local priest for healing and ministration and the lik
e.

  Of course, there were other uses for such a post, but Syn shied away from such thoughts and concentrated instead on the three-storey dwelling of the inn that sat squarely beside the road and the village green both.

  Taller than the rest of the surrounding buildings and the only one with a tiled roof rather than the more common thatch, it had burning torches beside the door to help guide people to it and a steady stream of people heading in for the night.

  Syn shook his head at that. Most of those people would be having a tankard or two of ale before heading home to their families. Their days toil done. Others though, the younger people without families of their own, would be drinking and flirting, perhaps playing games of skill or chance and spoiling for a fight with any dark-skinned stranger who visited.

  “I don’t blame you,” a voice said behind him and he spun to face the speaker, blade halfway from its sheath before he stopped.

  “Elva,” he said with a smile.

  He let the knife drop back into its resting place on his hip and stepped forward, engulfing the woman in a tight embrace.

  “Gah! Get off me you fool!”

  Syn stepped back, hands holding on to her shoulders as he gazed into her face. She hadn’t changed much in the past decade. A little more weathering on her face from long seasons spent in the woods and forests, and a little more grey in her once raven dark hair.

  She smiled crookedly and reached out, running a hand over his shaved head. “I preferred you with hair.”

  “Brimi did not.”

  “Aye, well, I preferred you without his influence too.”

  Syn lifted his shoulders in a shrug and let his hands fall away, his smile fading a little. “Well, you have that now.”

  Elva sucked in a breath and berated herself for her thoughtless words as her old friend turned his face away. She shifted her shoulders, letting her brown cloak fall open, revealing her soft doeskin leathers and short sword that was strapped to her hip.

  “Come then,” she said. “We’ll go have some ale and catch up with our friends. Later, you can tell me of your life.”

  “You too,” Syn said with a sudden smile showing a flash of straight, white, teeth. “I heard your daughter was picked for training.”