Oath Breaker Part 1



  HALFLORD

  -

  OATH BREAKER

  PART 1

  by

  Kris Kramer

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

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  Halflord

  Oath Breaker Part 1

  Copyright © 2013 by Kris Kramer

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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  Chapter 1

  I must admit, I don't fully understand honorable men. Honorable men always expect the best from people, even though they're continuously let down. Most of us learn early in our lives that there are a lot of self-serving bastards in this world who would just as soon gut their allies as they would their enemies if it ensured their own survival or self-interest. But inexplicably, a few courageous men still hold on to their notions of honor in spite of the evidence around them. Their honor demands that they pursue justice instead of vengeance, pragmatism over emotion, balance over chaos, and they wear this honor as a badge of pride, while acting in a way that defies common sense. And the worst part is that they continue to hope they can change people by their own example, no matter how many knives they have to pull out of their backs. One of them once told me that honor feeds your soul. He didn’t seem to understand that most would rather it feed their bellies, which has never happened by my recollection.

  A cunning man, on the other hand, will always expect the worst from people, and they're rarely let down in those assumptions. A cunning man will play to the weaknesses of those around them, drawing their attention in one direction, while taking whatever they want in the other. It doesn't even have to be money or treasure, although that's what most are after. No, just like honorable men, there are cunning men who crave that which feeds their soul, like love, or reputation, or even admiration. The difference is they take what they want rather than waiting for it to be given as a reward for good behavior. And that is why the cunning man loves to deal with the honorable man. It's far easier to take advantage of someone when they simply step aside and let you, hoping that one day you might feel guilty about it.

  “I, Basileus Ondradon, do solemnly swear my service, my life and my honor to you, Lord Brecon, until such time as you deem me free from your fealty.”

  If it isn't clear yet, I am a cunning man. I learned as a child that the reward for honor didn’t help me get anywhere in life, not in these chaotic times. So I took what I needed. I'm not a thief, or a brigand. I won't sneak into someone's home in the middle of the night to rob them blind. I have rules. Some might even claim that I have some semblance of honor in my actions. But when I want something from someone, I take it right from their hands. They may not know I took it, and that's where the cunning part comes in. But I'm not a thief. I'm an opportunist.

  Of course, that kind of thinking can get you in a lot of trouble in lands where they take their laws seriously. And unless you can pacify everyone you've ever deceived, duped, or betrayed, you end up making a lot of enemies. A few can be killed, but that quickly becomes impractical, and staying in one place is a luxury few of us can afford. So I left the lands I knew and let fate guide my way around the world, and that, in a roundabout way, is how I ended up in a strange new kingdom, swearing my service in a war to an honorable man I'd only just met.

  “I accept your oath, Basilius Ondraedon,” Lord Brecon said, “and I look forward to a glorious victory with you as my faithful servant.”

  I was still fairly young when I went to Aberweyn and met Lord Brecon, and I imagine some small part of me still thought I might actually honor that oath. That I would be his man in this upcoming war he wished to wage, that we would be victorious, and that I would leave with my promised reward once the spoils were claimed, counted and delivered. But looking back on it, I'm fairly certain that even then I was a heartless bastard, and I'd only given the oath to set everyone at ease until I determined what I really wanted out of the Lord of Aberweyn.

  I waited before him, kneeling, my sword held before me hilt up. Lord Brecon stood facing me with his hand resting on the pommel. He was a short man, stout and pudgy, with long, straight, gray hair that I remember being impeccably combed. He wore expensive blue robes with a silver brooch fashioned to look like a fox, part of the Aberweyn standard. The entire ceremony offered a necessary show, for him and for his councilors, mostly priests and the like for he was a religious man as most honorable men seem to be, but I do remember the ire I felt at having to bend to my knees that day. I had to be not-so-subtly reminded by those councilors that I stood before a soon-to-be King, and men like that were to be bowed before by their servants. Being called a servant really raised my hackles, however, for even though I'd come to offer my services, I did it for money and reputation, not because I hoped to see this man King. I was young, arrogant, and particularly prideful back then, because in my later years I had no qualms with showing the respect some men expected or demanded. It was all part of the game. But I had yet to learn that lesson during my time in Aberweyn.

  “You may stand.” Lord Brecon waved me up, and I stood, annoyed again that he'd thought to tell me when I could stand. Brecon motioned one of his councilors over to me, a young man named Rufus, who up until then I'd never really thought to be important. “Find these men some lodgings, and see that they're brought to the feast tonight.”

  “Of course, my lord.” He bowed, then beckoned me and my companion-in-arms, Saras, to follow him out of the great hall. He brought us to two small rooms in the castle that had been made available for us while the rest of our men stayed in town.

  How I'd ended up in Aberweyn was another story in itself, one I shall tell in due time, but suffice it to say, Saras and I found ourselves on a boat one day bound for the port city of Thorn with a dozen other men we barely knew who were now looking to us to provide them with their fortune. The Kingdom of Aberweyn lay in the distant south, far away from my homelands and any place where people would know of my notoriety, such as it was then. I'd convinced myself that I needed a break from the constant running, hiding and fighting my life had turned into. But even though I felt relaxed enough here to let my guard down, without worrying if any bounty hunters might come after me in the night, I was a bit nettled that no one here knew my name.

  And that, friend, is my true curse.

  I could live my life on the run from those who sought to keep me dead, and I would complain about it endlessly, but in truth I thrived on it. To this day that's how my reputation has been made, always one step ahead of my enemies, always escaping, always alive while their bodies littered the tales of my life. But find me a small corner of the world where no one knew who I was, where I could actually spend a night in a room without locked doors and windows, and I became restless, bored, and annoyed that people weren't silently, or loudly, cursi
ng me as I strode down a crowded street. I've been called self-destructive before, and I can understand how people might think that, but that's not what I really am. In truth, I just can't stand to live my life in the background, and the easiest way to keep that from happening is to start a commotion.

  So with a small troop of men who'd offered me their service, and a brand new reputation to make, I did what any other sellsword would do. I boasted. I went to the four taverns that lined the docks of Thorn – these were a people who enjoyed their ale – and told everyone about the parts of my adventures I thought presented me in the best light, hoping someone would need my services in this forsaken part of the world. And, as they always do, someone found me looking to hire my blades.

  If there's a second lesson to take from this story, other than honor not feeding anything except delusion, it’s that everyone in this world needs someone else dead. Whether it's a farmer who suffers under his lord, a woman taken as a slave by raiders, or a would-be King who finds himself at odds with another would-be King, we all exist in a world where some of us can just take what we want. We pretend that the laws of the land will protect us, and keep the peace, but the truth is that the word of law in this world is tenuous at best. It can be shaped and molded by wolves who know how to get what they want, which makes everyone else sheep ready for slaughter. I've never thought of myself as a shepherd, but I like knowing I can recognize those wolves, and I take a perverse pleasure in crossing them when they make the mistake of thinking I'm one of the sheep.

  Which brings me to a man named Hafnard. This seemingly innocuous little man, with a long face, a long nose and fascinatingly crooked teeth worked as Brecon's chief clerk. He was roughly the same age as Brecon, somewhere around forty, although his hair was still dark brown, and much rattier looking. He wore simple robes, which I suspect he did so as not to attract too much attention while wandering the docks alone. He found us at the fourth tavern we'd visited, and we were by then drunk and belligerent, but still he braved the raucous crowd and told me that the exalted Lord of the Aberweyn would deign to meet with me the next day if my claims were true.

  “Of course they are!” I shouted, not realizing I was shouting. “I've killed a hundred men at least.”

  “It's not often that men so accomplished as you show up in Thorn,” he said casually. “I've not heard your name before.”

  I leaned in close to his face, too close for he backed away and scrunched his nose at the smell of ale on my breath. “It's hard for word to spread of your deeds when you leave no survivors.” There's nothing like youth to make you proud of your arrogance.

  “You are a half-elf?” he asked, noticing the faint elven features on my rugged face.

  “I’m half-human,” I replied indignantly. “The rest of me is still trying to catch up.”

  “You hate the elves?”

  “I hate dwarves, too. Does that matter for this little discussion we’re having?”

  He frowned, obviously tired of me already. “Are these men willing to swear to your deeds?”

  “No. These men are not. They are all new to me, but they are valiant warriors and they will follow if there's money to be made.” I realized then in my drunken haze that he didn't quite believe my tales, and he needed some proof before we were to be given any money. So I beckoned Saras over, who was only half as drunk as the rest of us. “This man can tell you all about it.”

  And so it was that Saras confirmed the stories - most of which were true - and luckily for me, negotiated the price for the fourteen of us to help Lord Brecon become a King, for I was unable to count beyond four that night. It wasn't until the next morning that I learned just how Brecon would become a King.

  “We're fighting a war?” I asked Saras, wiping the cold water from my face. When deciding on how to wake me after a late night, Saras is, if anything, unimaginative. We shared a room at the tavern, and although it had two beds, I'd fallen asleep on the floor for some odd reason.

  “A small one,” he replied. “With the Lord of Cinnich, which is up the river a bit.”

  “When?”

  “He wouldn't say. But I got the impression it's happening very soon. Maybe a week or so.”

  “How much?”

  “Each man will be given five silver beforehand, provided you swear our service to Lord Brecon. After the battle, we'll be given another ten each, plus a share of whatever we take from Cinnich.”

  “That's all you could get?” I asked, a little upset that we'd been so obviously swindled. “We're going to need more up front.”

  “I don't think there's as much money to be made out here as you think. This place isn't exactly a trade destination.” Saras had already changed into clean clothes. He stood next to his bed, carefully folding his clothes from yesterday. He was the youngest son of a Lord, and that made him meticulous about a number of things, including his style of dress. The man changed clothes every day. “And besides, if you're not happy with what we got, then next time don't pass out on the floor right after begging for extra money to buy the barmaid. That tends to hurt our bargaining position.”

  “She had incredible breasts.” I smiled. I remembered that much at least. “This will be tough. I didn't expect to get us involved in something so big.”

  “We go where the money takes us, right?”

  I'd told him that the day before, though I'd been drinking when I said it. “That we do. So do I even care what we're fighting about?”

  “He didn't tell me much. Hafnard thinks that Lord Kurich, from Cinnich, is secretly rounding up men to attack Thorn. There's no real king out here because of the invasions, so everyone's a little skittish right now. Brecon knows there's a fight coming and he wants to make his move first.”

  “Smart guy.”

  “He's already got around a hundred men from his household guard and the sentries and guards around Thorn, plus another hundred he can conscript. He's looking for mercenaries to fill out that number.”

  I rubbed my eyes lazily, trying to decide if this was worth the money.

  “So do we do it?” Saras asked. I knew he disapproved of this whole matter because we were getting involved in politics and dealing with important people, and that's always complicated. It's easy to just be a bodyguard, or fight on the frontiers, or raid a city. But swearing an oath to a lord required us to actually be responsible to someone. Saras could do that, but we both knew I couldn't, not even on my best day, and he would one day tire of cleaning up my messes.

  “Yes, let's do it.” But I liked a challenge, and it was hard to pass up pillaging a fiefdom. “But tell the others we only got 3 silver up front. No, 2 silver.”

  We rounded up the other men, and their leader, a man called Urik, seemed quite happy with the terms, especially since they'd all been slaves up until a few weeks ago, and only two of them had any extensive experience in combat. But even though they all wore the weapons and armor of their former master's men, Saras and I both knew that they'd be discovered by a real warrior if we weren't careful, and that could cause problems when Brecon learned he'd paid for men more accustomed to carrying armor than actually wearing it. That was part of the challenge, selling ourselves as a small army, when most of them probably couldn't even swing a weapon without it slipping from their hands and maiming the man next to them. They'd no doubt expect us to drill with their other men, so we could learn the orders of whoever would command this expedition. We'd have to know the horn sounds, or whistle calls, or flag movements, or whatever Brecon decided his army would use to communicate. But I figured with a few days of practice beforehand, out of sight, I could at least get the other men trained enough to not look completely incompetent.

  Hafnard came to us the next morning, and told us that Lord Brecon would meet with us if we were prepared to accept his terms. I tried to bargain with him, to get more of the money up front in case we were discovered as frauds, but I had little luck. Hafnard wasn't stupid, nor was he amused by my attempt to change the terms agreed to the night befor
e. And I knew I had no bargaining power with him. He had the money, he had the war, he had the power, and I wanted a taste of all three. So we accepted his offer, and thus we were led to Brecon's great hall, in his modest palace on the hill overlooking the port, where I met an honorable man who would no doubt remember for the rest of his life his time with Basileus Ondraedon.