Oathbreaker

by Cara Witter

  Kenton lifted his head. A small circle of men holding spears surrounded them, spear-tips inches away from Kenton’s chest. He startled, shifting instinctively in front of Perchaya, who was still doubled over and wheezing. Kenton was immediately grateful he and Perchaya had shed the Sevairnese uniforms already.

  The townspeople blinked at them, no doubt surprised it hadn’t been soldiers who were flushed out. Cautiously, they lowered their spears. One of them opened their mouth to speak, but a voice from behind boomed, “Perchaya! Thanks be to Mirilina!” A large, heavily-muscled man stepped out, his leather jerkin and one side of his face crusty with blood that didn’t appear to be his own. In each hand he held a heavily bloodied smith’s hammer.

  “Delyn!” Perchaya cried, her voice raspy. “What’s going on? The town’s on fire . . . what’s happened?”

  He made a face. “The filthy pigs torched the houses along the ambush site. Now they’re killing as they will. But I think we’re giving as good as we’re getting.” He looked from Perchaya to Kenton. “Where’s Nikaenor? Were you able to free him?”

  Perchaya nodded, then glanced at Kenton before continuing. “He’s gone to get Mirilina. She’s . . . out in the sea.”

  Delyn grinned widely. “The goddess herself, off our shore? The Four be praised.”

  Perchaya grimaced and looked at Kenton again. “I’m sorry for telling so much,” she said. “I had to get them to agree to help, and—”

  Kenton smiled at her. “You started a revolt. I’d say whatever means you used were quick and effective. Nice work.”

  Perchaya looked stunned for a moment, and then she, too, smiled.

  Too much chatter. All around them, people were dying, and not all of them belonged to Diamis. “Do we have any organization?” Kenton asked. He hadn’t been able to see a whole lot of the fighting, but none of it that he had seen looked as if it was following any kind of plan.

  Delyn narrowed his eyes. “We’re fighting in our own streets. We’re hiding in our own backways. We’re all over the town, jumping out at them at every—”

  The attention of all the men was diverted as they heard more coughing coming from down the alley. Two soldiers emerged, bent double, the glow of the fire that had spread across the street at their backs. Without hesitation, the spearmen struck, getting one soldier before he even saw what was coming. The other fell to a great whack over the head from Delyn’s hammer, which caved in his skull with a mighty squelch.

  Perchaya winced and turned away, but Kenton couldn’t help but appreciate Delyn’s technique.

  “Let’s move,” Delyn said as the rooftops of the houses they were standing against went up in a blaze.

  Together with Delyn’s small group of spearmen, they dashed farther down the street and back through another alley, which Kenton noted had two men with bows hiding at an upper level window ready to strike. Thankfully, the men didn’t mistake them for soldiers.

  They moved into an open market square, and Perchaya gasped, her blue eyes wide. A larger group of about ten soldiers ran toward them, having come from a cross street. Delyn and his three remaining men ran to head them off as arrows traced through the air from above, only two of them hitting their target. Kenton readied himself, when suddenly a new noise sounded in the air.

  It was the clear, pure notes of a trumpet. Three short blasts followed by one long, a succession which was repeated several times. The soldiers stopped their advance, pulled back and started running in the direction they had come from, narrowly avoiding the arrows as they fled.

  There was a moment of shock from the townspeople. Kenton could see that farther down the street, more soldiers were leaving, running from battles that had been about to begin or in the process. One of the townspeople shouted, “They’re retreating!” The men with him picked up the ecstatic refrain. Kenton hung his head down, his breath heaving in and out.

  Perchaya gripped his arm tightly. “They’re leaving! We . . .” She stopped as he looked over at her. Her stunned smile faded, the momentary light of joy gone from her eyes as she saw his face. “They’re not retreating, are they?” she asked quietly, almost despondently.

  Kenton shook his head. His entire body felt too heavy, as if weighted down with rocks, and everyone in Ithale was drowning with him. “No.” “They’re not retreating. They’re regrouping. Erich knows they can’t win this kind of battle, not with the number of men they have, not spread out to be picked off by arrows and trapped in alleys. Now they’re going to fight a battle they will win.”

  Kenton saw tears prick at the corners of Perchaya’s eyes.

  Delyn narrowed his eyes at the soldiers. He knew it, too, and he mustered his three remaining spearmen and a few other townsmen that had started to drift over this way. They all took off running through the streets of town, gathering men as they went. Many women, having heard the exultant cheers, were standing outside of their homes now, children huddled up against their skirts. Kenton wanted to shout at them to go back inside, but he feared it wouldn’t matter. If Erich marched his total force against the town, burning as he went, there wouldn’t be any homes left in a few hours. The swath of fire blazing unchecked down one street was just the beginning.

  He realized as they ran after Delyn that Perchaya was falling farther behind with every step, clearly exhausted. He dropped back and grabbed her hand, pulling her along as he ran, willing the remainder of his strength into her. They were going to need it if they were to escape.

  When they reached the street at the border of town, Kenton’s own resolve faltered. The army of Sevairn—this contingent minuscule in size relative to Sevairn’s total forces, but more than enough to decimate this small fishing village—stood in ranks, in all their uniformed glory. Erich himself rode back and forth along the front line of soldiers, his breastplate gleaming in the light of the steadily rising sun.

  The townspeople were starting to gather with Delyn’s small group, coming out from houses and hiding places to form a crowd at the edge of town. The cheers were dying down; it was quite obvious now that the Sevairnese army was not running in fear. Kenton looked around and saw Nikaenor’s father joining Delyn, asking worried questions and shaking his bandaged head in dismay.

  Kenton grabbed Delyn by the arm. He was clearly respected and had a voice loud enough to give orders that might be heard and obeyed. “Tell them to run,” Kenton said. “If they gather here, they’re lining up for the slaughter.”

  Delyn’s jaw set as he considered the opposing force, then looked once over his shoulder at the low roofs of the buildings leaping with flames.

  “Where would we go?” Delyn asked. “Into the swamp? Do you think they won’t follow us there?”

  Kenton considered. He and Perchaya might escape, but not the entire town, and not with so many who would be unaccustomed to making the trek toward Haidshir. Even if Kenton could convince them they weren’t going to fall prey to Nichtees.

  Delyn took Kenton’s silence for an answer. “Let us make a stand here together, then. And pray that Mirilina receives us into the heights for doing what we could for her bearer.”

  Beside Delyn, Feldan nodded, though his eyes were downcast. Kenton remembered Nikaenor saying that his father had fought against the armies of Diamis in the war against Foroclae. He and Kenton had been on opposite sides, but their knowledge was the same.

  This was a fight that could not be won. Kenton turned to Feldan. “If you lay down arms, they might spare some of you. The women and children, at least.”

  Feldan hesitated, and Kenton hoped that he saw what had to be done. Kenton had no way of knowing how far Nikaenor would have to swim, how deep, how hidden the stone might be. Even if he succeeded, it might be hours yet.

  But these people didn’t have long left to live.

  Still Feldan hesitated. There was no time for this. “Get on your knees!” Kenton shouted. “Drop your weapons!” Erich might
still march his armies through the town, but plenty of the Sevairnese soldiers would have enough sense of honor not to cut down unarmed people kneeling for mercy. Kenton wouldn’t have done it. Erich wouldn’t have either, once.

  Some would die, but some would survive. It was the best they could possibly hope for. But the people were squinting at Kenton, as if trying to discern who he was.

  He was an outsider. They wouldn’t obey his orders, even if it meant they went to their deaths.

  Perchaya grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Here they come,” she said.

  Erich rode toward the townspeople, flanked by two of his soldiers. He pulled to a stop at a reasonably safe distance from the crowd. It might have been possible to shoot him from where Kenton stood, but very unlikely. Erich was obviously daring them to try something more, perhaps to convince his soldiers to follow through with what he was about to order them to do.

  He had to give the townspeople credit for their bravery—they didn’t back down. Kenton glanced around to see if anyone nearby had a bow—he was willing to try his luck—but he couldn’t spot one that wasn’t pointed out a window above them.

  The crowd began to quiet as Erich approached, so that Kenton could once again hear the sound of the flames cracking several streets behind them. The importance of burned-out houses and lost livelihoods were nothing compared to the fear of what Diamis’ army would do next.

  But it wasn’t enough to make them beg for mercy, and that Kenton had to admire. Even if they were all of them fools.

  Erich’s voice rang out, faint but clear. “You have made a terrible mistake in crossing Lord Diamis. Already your homes burn! By noon, your town will be nothing but charred fields and burnt corpses!”

  At that, several people did fall to their knees, but the majority remained standing. Kenton saw women and children among those who still stood, gripping what weapons they had.

  Nikaenor’s father stared at Erich, stone faced, while Delyn trembled with rage and snarled in Erich’s direction. Kenton waited for Erich to deliver an ultimatum: Stand down or we will slaughter you all.

  When Erich didn’t continue, Kenton’s blood turned to ice.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t matter if they surrendered or fled or retreated into the town. He took Perchaya by the arm and fell farther back into the crowd. Erich was incensed—he was past purpose, no longer looking for them as his first priority. Kenton squeezed Perchaya’s hand; it felt limp, drained of any strength, any resolve. She blamed herself for what was about to happen, when the deaths of these people would be squarely on Diamis’ head. And on Erich’s.

  A few people turned to face the ocean, not quite leaving their backs toward Erich, kneeling on the ground and chanting something in Foroclaean. More and more people joined them, the chants growing louder, drowning out the sounds of homes being devastated by the fires. Erich turned and rode back to his army to begin the attack.

  Kenton remained standing, watching the army with a cold fury as the people around him prayed. The army settled into formation. Time was running out, and swiftly.

  Gods’ speed, Nikaenor, Kenton thought.

  “You need to get out of here now,” he said to Perchaya. “Take a boat, a horse, anything, but you need to leave. This town will be destroyed.”

  Perchaya looked at him with terror, and a hint of indignation. “I’m not leaving. I did this and—”

  “I won’t leave Nikaenor. I’ll get him out of here. We’ll meet in Haidshir. It’s just across the border.”

  Perchaya’s eyes narrowed. “I’m staying right here. I’ll leave when you and Nikaenor do.”

  Kenton could see immediately that there was nothing he could say to convince her otherwise, and he didn’t have time to try the impossible.

  The army began to march forward.

  Delyn’s nostrils flared and he took a deep breath. He shouted loudly over the chanting, “Defend Ithale! To the last! To the last!”

  Nikaenor’s father turned toward the crowd, taking a sword from a man who carried two and clapping him on the back. The chanting continued as more than half of the crowd remained turned toward the ocean, their hands clasped together over their heads as their faces pressed against the dirt. Beseeching their goddess. The torches held by the soldiers not too far distant bobbed along the front lines, creating dozens of new orbs of fire as they went. They had lit the arrows.

  No miracle came. Kenton grabbed Perchaya’s arm and started to pull her through the kneeling crowd, back toward the docks.

  The Drim, at least, had to get out of this alive.

  The first volley of arrows sailed into the crowd just as Kenton and Perchaya were reaching the back of it. Kenton couldn’t see the people at the front, but he did hear several cries of pain, echoed by screams of fear from men, women, and children alike.

  As they moved to the opening of a side street, Kenton stepped up on a crate, offering one last vain hope that the people in front had decided to drop their weapons, to kneel, to do all they could to deter the soldiers from murdering the lot of them.

  Instead, he saw Delyn and Nikaenor’s father shouldering their way forward, joining other men who gathered at the front, weapons at the ready.

  The cavalry charged.

  Another volley of arrows preceded them, this time peppering the crowd. Perchaya stepped up beside him to look, her body shaking. Kenton grabbed her hand as a child screamed and a mother batted the girl’s sleeve to put out the fire, clinging helplessly, her face wrenching in horror at the shaft that protruded from the girl’s shoulder.

  The front line of men ran forward—Delyn and Nikaenor’s father among them—weapons raised at the ready, meeting the first charge in an attempt to keep them from the crowd of townspeople. Delyn felled a man off his horse with a swing of his hammer and caught a second rider on the backswing.

  But Nikaenor’s father . . . Kenton watched in horror as a rider barreled down on him several yards in front of the crowd.

  And ran him straight through with his sword.

  Several other men fell, their bodies tangling the feet of the advancing townspeople behind them. The army crashed forward, bows down, swords raised over their heads.

  Kenton turned away. He couldn’t watch the slaughter. He had to focus on getting his people out, or the rest of the world would meet the same fate.

  Seventeen

  Nikaenor dropped his coral and shot backward in the water as fast as his webbed hands would carry him. The inside of the cave, as it turned out, was much larger than it had originally appeared. Nikaenor could tell because nearly every available surface was now moving, all sliding in tandem like giant puzzle box. The shard of coral rested on the bottom of the cave where it had fallen, lighting the creature from underneath as its massive head moved toward him, craggy and lined with what Nikaenor now realized were not spiked rocks but sharp teeth. Its body snaked behind it, casting a dark shadow on the top of the cave above.

  Mirilina’s own. It was a chalaar eel.

  Nikaenor had seen the corpse of one once, dragged in by fishermen. The thing had been dead when the man caught it—it must have been floating in the water and gotten snagged in his net. The fisherman had expected to haul up a net full of fish and had instead brought up the decaying body of a greater chalaar, mighty eel of the deep, flesh hanging from the skeleton that stretched nearly the full length of the wharf.

  Nikaenor let out another muffled yelp and swam back to the mouth of the cave.

  Gods. Couldn’t Mirilina have warned him?

  Here, the stone called. And while Nikaenor had always thought that the other chosen were disrespectful in the way they talked about their gods, he couldn’t help but feel exasperated with her.

  Couldn’t she see he was trying?

  Nikaenor shot backward in the water again, pushing off the walls to flee from the cave. The eel’s head emerged after
him, and Nikaenor could only imagine how fast it would move once it had disentangled itself from the area around the deadly stone.

  Focus, Nikaenor told himself. Kenton wasn’t here to bail him out, nor was Saara, or Sayvil, or the others. Mirilina had hidden her stone down here in the deep on purpose, where only her bearer could find it. And Nikaenor had found it, which meant he was the real thing. His goddess thought he could do this.

  Nikaenor reached for another stalk of glowing coral, snapping it off in his hand. He could take this chalaar. If he got to the stone, he could use that to touch the beast. No one could touch the stone but the bearer—it ought to burn the creature alive, or drown it, or whatever Mirilina’s equivalent of declaring a bearer unworthy might be.

  He only had to tempt the eel out, then sneak in behind it. He turned and swam along the rock wall as fast as he could, putting a large craggy coral growth between himself and the creature. He wove between boulders and coral beds, moving so quickly that the creatures with glowing bulbs scattered to avoid him. The stone still called to him with a persistent, melancholy pulse, as if he’d broken Mirilina’s heart by coming so close and then leaving her there.

  I’m coming back, Nikaenor thought. Just as soon as I lose this thing.

  Nikaenor swam around a particularly large chunk of jagged rock and hid behind it. He became aware of how many noises he could hear—a gurgle from below him, a ticking, tapping noise from just above. Nikaenor didn’t know what those noises were, and unless they were the chalaar’s cousins come to dinner, he didn’t care. Nikaenor breathed deeply through his gills, tasting the salt of the ocean. He could tell that it was cold—bitterly so—but his body felt natural down here, as if he had been made to live in the trench. He waited until his heartbeat slowed, until the gentle sway of the ocean current calmed his nerves. Then Nikaenor swam up toward the surface for a count of ten, and over the top of the cave from high above, hoping the beast was still searching for him in the rocks below.