I
The Oathbreaker came to the castle of Camelot to die. Tall and grim, wrapped in cloak like a great bird of woe, he perched upon a hill overlooking the storied stronghold of King Arthur. His face was hidden by a rusted helm of old make. Over a hauberk of battered mail, he wore a tattered and faded surcoat that may have once been a deep blue or green. Emblazoned upon his coat was a terrible black bird, upside-down as if diving into the earth; a token of his shame which had become a herald of terror over his two-hundred years of stagnant life.
He gripped the hilt of his sword, for he knew that he could be seen from the castle walls. He wanted to be seen. In moments, he would march upon the gates of the castle and demand an audience with the king. Refusal would not dissuade him, and if need be, he would draw his blade for the last time, cutting through anyone who stood in his way to face the king.
In violence or in mercy, only Excalibur’s gleaming edge could cease his weary years. At least, that was what a local wise woman seemed to believe. Peasants swore by the blade of Arthur.
He began his march down the hill. A mighty horn rang out through the autumnal air, and his ancient blood quickened. An arrow of doubt pierced his mind as if shot by a bowman upon the walls. Oathbreaker remained uncertain that the legendary sword of King Arthur could truly end him. He was driven by cruel and unrelenting magicks; no other blade that tasted his vile blood caused lasting harm. If there was any weapon between Heaven and Hell that had the power to slay him, Excalibur was the one.
According to whispers far and wide, the legendary blade was forged by the smiths of Avalon and blessed with divine authority by the Lady Nimue, imbuing it with spellcraft older than the trees. He pushed the thought of failure from his mind, for he could live no longer in anguish.
Some five-hundred paces from the castle, the gates of Camelot opened with a groan. A host of mounted knights in glittering mail and silver helms rode out, displaying a range of brightly colored heraldry upon their shields and coats. There looked to be a dozen of them, and at their head, a knight displaying a white shield with three diagonal red stripes rode upon a white destrier. He was taller and broader of chest than the others, and carried a long spear. Oathbreaker might have taken him for the king himself if he bore a crown.
Oathbreaker awaited their thunderous approach, still gripping the hilt of his sword at his side, sweat pooling beneath his battered armor. He hadn’t expected so immediate a greeting party, and fighting twelve mounted knights would be an arduous chore. The knights drew closer, kicking up a cloud of dust around them. Every muscle in his body tensed. At last, the host halted some twenty paces before him.
“Well met, good sir knight!” The leader cried, in a jovial tone. “If you’re answering the call to help us save the king’s nephew, you’ve arrived just in time. We set out at once!”
This unexpected welcome certainly made the circumstance awkward. Oathbreaker, who was not truly a knight, as he predated the concept, hadn’t been greeted as a friend in over a century. It staggered him. Moreover, he couldn’t fathom how the knights failed to recognize him for all his infamy.
“My lord…” he said with some effort, “I was unaware that the King’s nephew was missing. I have come on business of my own, for I seek an audience with the King.”
“That is a shame,” the knight replied, his voice suddenly grave. “King Arthur is… afflicted, since his nephew’s disappearance. You will have no luck today. You should join us! I’d wager the king will greet you with open arms when we return with his heir.”
When the Oathbreaker did not immediately reply, the knight strove his horse forward, and lowered his voice so that only Oathbreaker could hear.
“Do not think me naive, sir. I know a robber knight when I see one,” he said. “It seems that men arrive every week to challenge the king to a duel. We’ve all done it, but the routine grows tiresome and the realm grows weary. I offer you a chance to prove yourself a hero, not by the strength of your arms, but by the virtue of your deeds! If you are anything close to the fighter you look to be, your companionship would be a boon, for we ride against a foe beyond our ken. We have a horse for you, if you’ll have it.”
The knight’s eyes shone piercingly blue beneath his helm, flickering with uncanny perception, yet his countenance was earnest. Oathbreaker had been many things over the weary years of his overlong life—a robber was certainly one of them—but it had been many, many years since he had been called a hero. He met the knight’s gaze for a moment. Shameful, agonizing lifetimes brought themselves to bear, grinding against his will. His sword weighed heavily on his side. He did not know why he said it, but the labored words left his hidden lips nonetheless.
“I will ride with you.”
II
It had been four days since Oathbreaker had agreed to journey with the knights. They welcomed him heartily with joyous cheers, bestowing him a strong, black charger; a generous boon, even as a loan. When asked, he named himself Ealdhelm, the Crow Knight. It unnerved him greatly that his mark and name did not seem to be known in the lands of Arthur as they were in the north and east, though it had been some decades since his last haunting of Britain. He struggled to understand why he had been moved to join this guileless band, and lamented the delay towards his merry end. Perhaps the grateful ransom of a king would be a more certain way to attain his terminal desire.
The knight of red stripes named himself Sir Lancelot. Also in the company were knights Pellinore, Tristan, Agravaine, Bors, Kay, Bedivere, Lucan, Lamorak, Britomart, Dagonet, and Balín. Oathbreaker had heard of none save for Lancelot, who was known across the Isles as a mighty warrior, and Pellinore, who was legendary for fruitlessly hunting the Questing Beast.
By the lionhearted glint in his eye, Oathbreaker took Pellinore for a madman. The knights, in addition to their shockingly friendly disposition towards Oathbreaker, allowed him to ride in the rear of their company and included him in the watch rotation when they made camp, a sign of either impressive trust or foolish lack of fear.
King Arthur’s nephew for whom they searched was named Gawain. A young knight himself, he had gone missing six days ago. According to Lancelot, Gawain had been fishing by a pond in the kingswood, as he was wont to do. Those woods were said to be pleasant and tame, free of beasts of ill rapport. When he did not return after some hours, a knight and a woodsman went searching. They found gutters of upturned mud, tracks belonging to a host of cavalry around Gawain’s fishing spot. There seemed to be a struggle, but no blood was spilled. The tracks went east, and there were as many as twenty riders. Bandits were the principle assumption, but how such a large band of vagabonds might have gotten so close to Camelot without being seen, none could say.
The woodsman swiftly brought a message of their findings back to the castle as the knight, Sir Ywain, immediately set off in pursuit. The news of Gawain’s fate was what seemed to have brought on Arthur’s “affliction.” Merlin, the king’s advisor, roused Lancelot and the Knights of the Round Table, who raised a substantial party to join the pursuit. Lancelot hoped they might encounter Ywain on the road, as a knight alone could not hope to overcome twenty marauders.
The company rode in single file on a narrow road, surrounded on either side by ancient woods. Tristan, Lamorak, and Dagonet were singing a bawdy tune towards the front of the host to the grievance of Britomart, who shook his head. The sun hung low in the sky, and a chill began to pierce the air. Oathbreaker rode alone at the rear, wandering far in melancholic rumination, when there was a cry from the front. They had come upon the body of a man, marred by terrible wounds.
He wore a knight’s armor, and upon his mangled shield was the shattered image of a golden lion rampant within a field of blue. It was Sir Ywain. His horse was nowhere to be seen, and he was not joined on the ground by any foes. Though his sword was drawn, his blade was clean. Most strange were the ghastly mushrooms growing from the weeping lacerations across his form. The ground was trampled, and horse tracks came from the surrounding trees in all directions.
A horrible commotion of wrathful grief arose in the company. The knights dismounted and crowded around Ywain. Oathbreaker remained at the rear, watching the trees. In spite of the decay, the body was still warm; the crows hadn’t yet found it.
III
The knights buried Ywain in the woods by the road as the sun went down. His sword was placed cruciform in the ground as a headstone, his shield leaning against it. The company was grim; a heavy silence fell upon the knights. Oathbreaker helped dig the grave, though privately he lamented the waste of Ywain’s mail and longsword; invaluable treasures for one who lived in the wild as he did. All the while he scanned the darkening forest with concern, watching for signs of movement. The woods remained still, and the only sound was that of crickets.
They were forced to make camp there for the night, for in the darkness they’d have little luck following the tracks. Lamorak, youngest of the company, was assigned first watch. Oathbreaker joined him; habitually indifferent to exhaustion and equally so to grief. He and Lamorak sat by the fire in silence for some hours, until the young knight eventually spoke in a quiet voice.
“Do you ever take off that armor, Ealdhelm?”
Truly, he rarely did; his unaging face haunted him. The cold iron mask better reflected what he had become anyway. Lamorak himself sat unhelmed. He was not unhandsome, but already marked by his share of violence.
“Not often,” Oathbreaker responded grimly. “I wander the wild, where it’s best to stay protected.”
The young knight grinned.
“I don’t believe you. I’d wager you’re hiding a horrific scar beneath that visor, aren’t you?”
“Sure.”
Oathbreaker’s curtness didn’t dissuade Lamorak, who had been wanting to learn more about the mysterious Ealdhelm since he joined them. Almost immediately, the young knight continued.
“Why is your crow upside-down?”
Oathbreaker remained silent.
Before he could press further, a mass slammed into the Oathbreaker’s back, splaying him face-down in the dirt as heavy limbs pushed into his shoulders and strong jaws clamped around his neck.
He screamed as sharp teeth labored to pierce his mail-covered flesh; there were few terrors so great as the prospect of living forever in a monster’s guts.
The jaws released with a gruesome howl and the weight heaved off of his back. Oathbreaker scrambled on his back. Lamorak stood over him, sword drawn, a wild look in his eyes. Writhing wildly in the dirt beside him was a disturbingly large black-pelted creature.
As the beast regained its feet, Oathbreaker gasped; it was no creature native to the woods of Britain. Its massive body was not unlike a cat, but somewhat bear-like in stature. It had a long, snake-like tail, stocky limbs, rippling muscles and titanic paws. Its face was that of a gnarled and horrid lion, with tall ears, long fangs and round eyes that burned menacingly in the dying firelight. It was bleeding from one haunch where Lamorak had cut it. Oathbreaker heaved himself painfully to his own feet as the monster lunged at the knight.
The camp erupted into disoriented chaos as the beast tackled Lamorak. His sword snapped in twain against its broad ribs, barely piercing its pelt. He fell gasping and raking at the creature with the broken hilt. Oathbreaker rammed his shoulder into the creature’s side as he drew his own sword. Mounted atop Lamorak, the creature was unphased by the beating and turned its head to bare its gruesome fangs. Oathbreaker brought his sword down upon its head in a mighty hack. The blade glanced off of its sturdy skull, taking an ear with it. The creature roared and swung a massive paw into his chest, knocking the wind from him.
As Oathbreaker staggered backwards from the concussive blow, he saw Lamorak’s broken blade finally find its mark, slipping between the creature’s ribs. Steaming blood poured onto the young knight as the creature mewled in agony and leapt off of him. Many half-clothed knights were about now, weapons drawn. They gasped in horror as they saw the wretched thing, rearing itself to lunge again even as its blood painted the ground. The knights Bors and Lucan blocked the creature from Lamorak as he struggled unsuccessfully to rise to his feet.
The creature bounded toward Oathbreaker.
Oathbreaker ignored the piercing pain in his chest, brandishing his sword, aiming to stab the creature in its open mouth. The beast never reached him. A spear hurled into the creature’s side with inhuman strength, piercing its heart and flying out the other side. It was thrown by Lancelot, wearing nothing but trousers and a helmet, shield in hand.
The mighty knight braced his shield as the monster reared in its death throes to face him. It swung with a mighty paw, but the blow broke like water upon his shield, and Lancelot delivered a staggering punch to its hulking jaw. The knight laughed, as if madness had taken him. The thing wretched and gurgled, and then collapsed, twitching.
The camp gathered around the dying creature’s body. It was a terrible sight in the flickering firelight. Lancelot doffed his helmet, looked around, and was the first to speak.
“Well, that’s that. Does anyone know what this thing was? Some kind of lion? A werecat?”
Oathbreaker thought for a moment, gritting his teeth as he felt his broken ribs slowly shift back into place. He had seen such a creature before, but very, very far from the lands of Arthur.
“It is a panther,” he grunted. The knights reacted with confusion, but he cared not to elaborate further.
“Ealdhelm!” Lamorak exclaimed, now risen and ultimately unharmed aside from some minor scratches. “Are you alright? The beast had its jaws around your neck; I thought you were done for!”
Oathbreaker noticed that his mail was soaked with his own blood. His neck had been mangled, and he could feel his skin weaving itself back together beneath his aventail.
“I am well. My mail held, for the most part,” he lied.
The knights all marvelled at this, but he seemed to be standing strong enough, so they did not press the issue. Lamorak, a breath away from being mauled himself, resumed: “At any rate, I’m glad you’re alive. You cut that ear off at a fine moment!”
Oathbreaker nodded. “Likewise.”
The group returned their attention to the creature. None of them could reckon how a panther had ended up in the middle of Britain. Yet more strange that such a creature had hunted them so near to where Ywain met his end and was clearly not the foe which had killed him. Oathbreaker shifted, uneasy. It was as if whomever had killed Ywain had set the panther on them… but there had been no feline tracks among the rest.
The whole ordeal reeked of sorcery.
The night was restless, except for Lancelot, who was peculiarly relaxed after slaying the panther. The company rose exhausted at dawn, and made ready to depart again. Before they set out, the knights paid one last visit to the burial of Ywain. To their collective disturbance, strange mushrooms had sprouted from the dirt beneath which he lay.
IV
The fifth day’s travel was bleak and weary. Gray clouds blighted the sky, and the wind grew colder and crueler. The forest was wilder and the trees grew taller and more gnarled as they rode, their ancient limbs grasping at the clouded sky like bony fingers. The knights sang no songs this day. As midday wore on, Oathbreaker’s mind twisted against his will to piercing teeth and tearing flesh, as phantom panthers made an unending meal of him. He shuddered beneath his armor and gripped his sword as he wrenched away his thoughts.
It seemed the enemies they rode against rode without cease. The knights found no sign of camp nor respite. The tracks simply dragged on, day by day, league by league; a cadre of horse tracks in nearly single file.
After many such leagues, the trail suddenly veered right, off into the forest. The knights halted a moment, peering anxiously between the tightly packed boles. Their horses would be hobbled in the dense woodland. Undeterred for their unerring drive to recover Gawain, they dismounted and pressed onward on foot, descending into a sea of oak and alder.
The tracks continued deep into the wild forest, the wild trail more arduous to follow. Pellinore, proving to be the most experienced woodland hunter, took the lead on foot, with Oathbreaker offering his own skill close beside. Their quarries were frighteningly deft in spite of the dense undergrowth and crowded trees. The company’s pace slowed to a crawl, and the twisted branches overhead deepened the darkness of the wood. Talons of exhaustion clutched hard at the knights and the horses. Helmet and mail grew heavier by the stride.
The prints descended down a steep slope. The party was forced to dismount, with each knight carefully leading his horse down the incline. They came at last to a clearing at the bottom of the valley ringed by primordial trees. The sky was clearly visible overhead; night was falling. Pellinore, stooped to the ground, followed the tracks to the middle of the clearing, and gasped.
“The tracks vanish!”
Oathbreaker raced to confirm. Pellinore’s eyes did not deceive him, even in the failing light. The trail proceeded in its frustratingly consistent line straight into the middle of the clearing, and then ceased. The ground around them was undisturbed. It was as if the bandits had simply lifted into the air upon their horses.
The knights gathered around, confounded by this new trick. Before the long night blinded them, Pellinore and Oathbreaker scoured the whole clearing. A horrible dread crept upon the company as it became clear that they were going to have to encamp in this fell, unnaturally dark place. The clearing was about as effective an ambush site as any bandit could wish for, but the surrounding wilderness was too dense to make any tentage, and the knights could not safely navigate the wood in the dark.
It was decided then that half the band should stay awake and on guard while the other half slept, with each contingent sleeping for only four hours at a time. Oathbreaker took the first watch again, for though he was spent, he knew sleep would only beckon nightmares of being eaten alive by beasts far fouler than panthers. He scanned the trees intently the entire watch, but neither bandit nor beast leapt out of the shadows.
Eventually his watch was relieved. He lay on the grass, gazing at the stars. As he slipped into the maddening labyrinth of his dreams, he found himself strangely glad to once more lay alongside others.
When Oathbreaker woke, it was still night. The stars still glimmered overhead, and the fire still burned, but all of the knights of the first watch were rising, with a growing unease. Dawn should have come. It was only autumn; the nights had yet to grow long. The second watch was allowed to return to sleep. Oathbreaker sat on the grass, studying the sky with concern. Another hour passed, with little change of the light. He had come to know the stars well in his decades of solitude, yet here they were strange, suspended in the sky as if in stasis. These were not the stars he knew.
He stood up abruptly, a terrible realization dawning on him. He kindled a torch, to the confusion of the other watchmen. Once it was lit, he ran to the edge of the clearing, and knelt down. Mushrooms. Hundreds of ghastly mushrooms circled the clearing alongside the imposing trees. Oathbreaker cursed.
He ran back to the others, and rasped: “Wake everyone up! Now! And make torches.”
Within moments, the others were risen, and every knight carried a torch. Oathbreaker addressed them urgently.
“We made camp in a fairy ring. This is not our sky we sleep beneath.”
Horror dawned upon the knights. All whirled to face the darkness beyond the clearing. Lancelot spoke first.
“Everyone, go to the treeline. What do you see?”
The torchlight revealed that the woods had changed. Beyond the ring of ancient trees, towering mushrooms and strange fungi loomed above them. It was a forest unlike any of them had ever seen.
“Can we not return the way we came?” ventured Agravaine.
“Not so,” hissed Oathbreaker. “The Otherworld can only be entered and left by men with the setting of the sun. We will have to either wait here until the fey sun rises and sets, or pursue our prey in this land.” With that, he stooped to the ground with his torch. A new set of tracks had appeared on the ground where the old set left off.
“Won’t the bandits have to come back here if they have any hope of escaping?” asked Agravaine.
“These are no bandits we seek. We follow the Wild Hunt.”
V
The fae night lingered on as the company rode slowly through the trees. The flickering torches of the knights revealed fungal towers, eldritch trees, and massive boulders seemingly suspended in the air. A heavy fog blanketed the forest floor, and thorny vines and thickets twisted all around, offering scant level ground on which to walk. The knights would be hard pressed to do battle on such terrain.
They followed their enemies’ trail for what could have been hours or days in that unchanging night, for their torches never dwindled. The wood was utterly silent; no croaking frogs nor chirping crickets to be heard. A strange trance of drowsiness beset the Oathbreaker, for indeed it was as if they rode through a dream.
The dream was soon shattered by the thundering sound of trampling hooves. Out of the mist all around them appeared the menacing forms of many riders. They wore black mail that shimmered iridescently in the moonlight like the scales of fish. Their helms were of the same make, and their shields were vibrantly painted with the forms of insects and fantastical creatures never seen in the lands of men. Their lances were long and cruelly wrought.
The Wild Hunt was upon them.
Pandemonium erupted as the knights were beset from all sides. Oathbreaker, who had been unmounted in the front, dove into a nearby thicket, narrowly avoiding a rider’s lance. His horse whinnied and reared and fled terrified into the woods. Tangles of thorns pierced his mail as he struggled to emerge and draw his sword. Fire danced around him and kissed his cloak; his torch had set the thicket alight. Frantically, he cast off his burning cloak. All around him, the knights of the Round Table were engaged in visceral combat with knights of the Wild Hunt.
Another rider thundered straight for Oathbreaker, bringing a lance to bear at his chest.
He strafed at the last second and swung his blade at the front leg of the steed, cruelly severing it. The beast fell to the earth and the rider tumbled off, dropping lance and shield. Oathbreaker lunged, but a thorny vine caught his leg and he stumbled. As he righted himself, the fairy knight rose and drew his own sword; a wicked black blade. Oathbreaker leapt at him savagely, beating his sword aside, then aiming a blow at his neck. The strike connected, but bounced off the knight’s mail, and the foe brought his own sword down on Oathbreaker’s left shoulder, meeting similar resistance. Oathbreaker used his left arm to grapple the knight’s sword-hand, and threw his weight into him.
The two tumbled to the ground together. Oathbreaker maintained his grip on the knight’s arm, and brought his knee on top of it to pin it down. He gripped the blade of his own sword with his left hand. The knight futilely beat at him as he drove the point between helm and mail. The knight convulsed, went still, and Oathbreaker heard the hissing of burning flesh.
He withdrew his sword unbloodied.
Oathbreaker scrambled to grab the fallen knight’s lance as the thicket-fire spread and heat rose around him. To his right, Tristan and Dagonet were trading blows on horseback with two fairy riders. A third was riding towards them. Oathbreaker ran into the rider’s path and planted the back of his stolen lance against the ground with the point towards the rider’s chest, aiming to claim himself a horse. The rider dropped his own lance, its point finding its mark first, impaling itself through Oathbreaker’s torso.
As Oathbreaker fell back in unbridled agony, his own lance fatally struck the rider, throwing him from his horse. Oathbreaker’s vision turned scarlet and the sounds of battle faded to a faint ringing as his immortal veins surged with fire. Blood filled his mouth as he slowly rose to his feet. He could not breathe, for his lung was crushed. He drew his sword again with intense labor, clutched the shaft of the lance embedded in his body, and viciously hewed at it. After three breathless, excruciating strikes, the lance finally split. He dropped his sword, clutched the shaft behind his back with both hands, and heaved with all his might. He gasped in monstrous agony as the lance left him, raining his blood upon the dirt.
Many of his allies and enemies alike witnessed this gruesome feat with terror. Two unhorsed fae who had been charging him faltered. He turned to face them, and even as he swayed on his feet and his vision blurred, he managed to reclaim his sword. The thicket-fire roared behind him now, and he knew he stood a dark and ghastly figure against it. The two fairies fled.
Oathbreaker looked around at the battle. The Knights of the Round Table seized the advantage his terror had wrought, and began to rally against their foes. Lancelot, unmatched on horseback in any realm, faced three riders on his own. Tristan, Dagonet, Balin, and Bedivere now rode against a clump of riders and drove them back, while Lamorak and Kay fought back to back on foot. Fire roared all around, and putrid smoke filled the air.
Oathbreaker staggered forward a few paces, gasping for breath, before falling to his knees. The surge of vigor that had driven him forward was subsiding, and the excruciating wound in his body hammered at him with every movement. His vision faded, and he collapsed, drenched in sweat and blood as the clamour of battle raged.
VI
Oathbreaker awoke alone in a charred field, surrounded by corpses. It was still night. The fire had died down to a few smouldering embers, as if the forest itself had smothered it out. All was quiet. The wound in his torso had closed and largely healed, though sitting up lanced a series of sharp aches across his entire being.
He stood, and surveyed the carnage. The bodies of many fae riders lay scattered around him, as well as many steeds. Also lay the bodies of Pellinore, Dagonet, and Bors; their wounds sprouting the ghastly fae mushrooms. Oathbreaker felt an unexpected pang of sorrow at the sight, but pushed it from his mind.
Upon examining the ground, he spied scattered tracks leading away from the battlefield and further into the fae wilderness. He could not discern whether his companions had been captured, fled, or routed their enemies and pursued them. It was wiser, he decided, to assume capture.
He found a fairy corpse of height comparable to his own, and stripped it of its armor and garb. In the dim light of that place, the fairy looked quite like a man, though his bloodless flesh was cool in hue and his eyes were large, black as night. For the first time in a long while, Oathbreaker discarded his own devastated ware, and in the darkness of the wood, donned the fairy’s armaments. He could tell even by starlight that his own black mark appeared on the vibrant fae surcoat and shield, replacing the butterflies that had been there. Such was his curse; it would have to serve.
His disguise in place, he followed his enemy’s trail once more. His travel through the wilderness was much the same as it had been before; long and ethereal. After an unclear amount of time, he came at last to an opening in the forest.
Oathbreaker stood once more upon a hill overlooking a castle. It was a dark and ancient structure that loomed above the fae forest, elegant and macabre in equal measure. Vibrant banners much like the heraldry of the Wild Hunt flew from the black battlements, and imposing towers stretched into the starry sky. Oathbreaker sighed. He would be laying siege after all, but now he had to escape afterwards.
He began his descent down the hill, clutching at his side and feigning a limp, allowing the lingering pain of the previous battle to reduce his gait to a hapless shamble. He knew he could be seen from the ramparts, and prayed that even with his wretched mark he could pose as some knight forgotten on the battlefield. Silently he hailed a watcher on the wall, and a mournful trumpet sounded. The gate began to open.
A handful of guards stood behind the open gate to meet him. He continued to limp towards them. They began speaking to him in an unfamiliar tongue. He merely shook his head. As soon as he was inside the gate, he drew his blade, and began his wicked work.
Oathbreaker carved a burning path through the labyrinthine corridors of the ancient castle, leaving a trail of fairy bodies in his wake. Still, it was no easy feat, and by the time he reached the dungeons, his armor was battered and torn.
When at last he descended a winding staircase into the cells beneath the castle, he was confronted by two sentinels, taller and mightier than any of the others, and their shields were broad. These seasoned warriors were not fooled by his armor, and drew their blades the second they laid eyes on his bloodied sword. He backed into the narrow staircase, such that the sentinels were forced to pursue single-file. One sentinel pressed, his broad shield held aloft and offering little room to strike. Oathbreaker led him up a few steps, the other close behind. Then he leapt, planting both boots into the sentinel’s shield as he fell, throwing all of his weight into the blow. The sentinel stumbled backwards and crashed into his companion as Oathbreaker himself tumbled down to the landing, his sword-hand wrist cracking on the way down.
Oathbreaker ignored the burning pain in his wrist and scrambled after the fallen fairies, who collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the flight. He thrust down his blade upon the topmost sentinel, aiming for the gap in his mail at the base of his neck. Oathbreaker’s broken wrist went limp against the handle, and the blade glanced off its mark.
The sentinel cracked the edge of his shield into Oathbreaker’s ribs. Oathbreaker rolled to the side and lashed out his heel, once more sending the rising sentinel sprawling over his companion, who was still writhing on the floor. Casting his shield aside and switching his blade to his left hand, Oathbreaker tackled the Sentinel again, this time using his right forearm to hold the sentinel’s helmet down and his body to pin the shield. He awkwardly oriented the point of his sword and jammed it into the sentinel’s neck with all his weight behind it. The guard spasmed and went still, and the hiss of burning flesh filled the chamber.
Oathbreaker had no time to rise before a staggering blow to his back knocked him face first into the wall. The other fairy limped towards him. Oathbreaker flung a lumbering swipe at the sentinel’s knee at the moment the sentinel crashed his sword upon Oathbreaker’s helmet. The strike rang his head like a bell and he dropped his sword, but the fairy’s leg crumpled.
Both tangled on the ground, Oathbreaker drew a dagger from his belt and rolled on top of his injured adversary. He planted the point on his mailed chest and fell atop it, driving the blade into the guard’s heart. The fairy struck wildly at him for a moment before falling still.
Oathbreaker struggled to his feet with ragged breath, snapped his wrist back into place, and surveyed the chamber. Many cells enclosed by iron bars lined the walls; all empty, save for one. A lone figure sat inside. He seemed a young man, blonde of hair and strong of build. He certainly looked as though he had been dragged through the wilderness for many miles. The man watched Oathbreaker with frightened yet hopeful eyes.
“You must be Gawain,” said Oathbreaker, still catching his breath and cradling his wrist. “I am Ealdhelm, the Crow-Knight, and I have come with the Knights of the Round Table to rescue you.” It troubled Oathbreaker that the other knights did not seem to be there.
A shadow of confusion passed over Gawain’s face, but it was replaced in a moment with weary joy.
“I’ve never been gladder to see a knight, Ealdhelm,” he said softly. His voice had a regal quality, even in his weakened state. “One of those guards has a key on him.”
Oathbreaker retrieved the key and opened the cell. Gawain arose and stepped out. He was taller than Oathbreaker had expected, and even weakened from unwilling travel and lack of food, he carried himself like a born fighter. Gawain knelt and began to don the armor of one of the guards as Oathbreaker had done. Though the sentinels were massive, their gear fit him well.
“The queen of this place took my sword for herself,” Gawain said as he picked up one of the black fairy blades. “I should much like to pay her a visit on our way out.”
VII
Oathbreaker and Gawain faced significant resistance as they made their way back through the castle, for they had long since lost the element of surprise. The two made a formidable force however, fighting their way forward through many twisting passages against throngs of fearsome foes. Gawain was an impressive warrior, even malnourished as he was. At last they emerged, bloody and exhausted, into the fortress courtyard. Standing between them and the gate was a formation of two score fairy warriors. Standing at their front was, Oathbreaker assumed, their queen.
She was an imposing sight, armored in scale as the others, but with a more elegant black helm upon which sat an ornate crown of shimmering silver. Her cloak was purple, and clasped with a brooch inset with radiant gems. She carried a shield, which bore the striking image of an argent-crowned black ant against a field of vibrant purple interspersed with shining stars. She wielded a beautiful sword of silver blade and golden hilt, its gilded scabbard depending from her belt.
She spoke, in a voice as clear and cold as a winter night.
“Cursed interloper! I am The Morrígan, Queen of the Wild Hunt, and you will not leave my realm alive.” She raised the sword, and her men advanced around her.
“You would be so kind?” whispered Oathbreaker to himself, as he and Gawain raised their swords.
Just as they began to clash with their captors, multiple figures appeared atop the battlements. Lancelot and the remaining knights ran battlecrying down the steps to flank the faeries. The courtyard erupted into chaos and violence.
Oathbreaker hardly registered the arrival of the others as he crashed against a throng of foes, hacking and hewing with wild abandon. He was struck from all directions, his armor ringing thunderously, jostling his entire being. He was pierced and riddled with cuts, but he strove on with immortal vigor, and his blade sizzled.
As he threw down one foe, he scarcely perceived the fairy queen chanting and raising her sword. It glowed with a wild green light, and a stream of verdant flame rushed forth. He raised his shield just before it struck him, and was hurled backwards with an inhuman force. He fell to earth as the blazing torrent subsided, his shield aflame and his armor singed.
The fairy queen might have struck him with her magicks again, but Sir Britomart fell upon her, delivering a mighty blow with the shaft of his spear against her helmet. This would have felled any man, but the queen only stumbled a step, her crown clattering to the cobblestones. Britomart poised for another strike, but a fairy warrior intercepted him. Oathbreaker scrambled to his feet, and threw his burning shield into the face of a charging foe.
Though his flesh ached and smoked, he charged the faerie queen.
Another current of fire flew towards him, but he dove for the ground and rolled under the flames, continuing his path as the heat swelled around him. He reached the queen at last; she viciously swung her sword at him. He raised his own to parry, and the force of her blow wrenched his wrists and chipped his blade. He aimed his own strike for her leg, but she beat it aside with terrifying elegance and riposted into his right shoulder, slicing through his mail. The blade bit cruelly, and his sword arm sagged as his tendon was severed.
Before the queen could cut him down, Gawain appeared behind her. With a precise swing of his blade, its tip cut her belt in twain, and her scabbard fell to the ground. The queen whirled from Oathbreaker furiously as Gawain swiftly retrieved the scabbard with one hand and stepped back out of her reach.
Oathbreaker ruefully switched his sword to his off hand once more. As the Queen chanted to channel her witch fire to burn Gawain, Oathbreaker slung a clumsy thrust at her back, which fell low and struck her. His blade smote royal flesh and an inhuman shriek left her. She wildly spun anew, and with her still-glowing blade rent Oathbreaker’s thigh to the bone. He fell in anguish to one knee, feebly raising his sword to protect himself as she prepared for another vengeful cut.
The fairy queen brought down her blade, splitting Oathbreaker’s sword in half and cleaving into his collarbone as if it were unarmored. Blackness whirled before his eyes and burning agony seized him anew as she kicked him away to withdraw the sword.
As he lay broken and riven in a growing pool of his own hot blood, Oathbreaker saw Gawain and Lancelot reengage the queen. Gawain had looped the gilded scabbard to his own belt now, and fought as if renewed of vigor and speed. Lancelot for his part seemed to withstand the queen’s titanic strength with his own, even as his sword and shield chipped to pieces against her blade. Together, the two knights fought like none the Oathbreaker had ever seen, and drove the wicked queen back with an assault of blows.
At last, Gawain cut the sword from her hand with a cunning stroke, and the blade clattered to the stones. The queen wailed in fury and lashed out with her shield, but was halted by Lancelot’s blade obtruding from her side. She fell, screaming and writhing, before she was silenced by a terminal thrust delivered by Gawain. The long-forgotten light of dawn was now creeping above the walls, uncannily white against a deep green sky.
VIII
What followed the defeat of The Morrígan was a delirious haze to Oathbreaker. The faeries who still lived retreated inside their castle.. Presumably horses were found, for strong hands hoisted Oathbreaker’s limp body onto a steed as they hurriedly left through the now-opened front gate.
Oathbreaker’s senses gradually returned as his body mended and his blood replenished. The company rode swiftly through the strange forest, now vibrantly painted in many strange hues under the white light of day. Gawain rode at the front beside Lancelot. Sir Lucan and Sir Lamorak were not with them. As Oathbreaker realized Lamorak had fallen, he felt a feeling long estranged from him. The young knight had actually cared for him.
The knights rode for some time in silence until they arrived at the ashen clearing where they were previously beset. The sun was already high in the sky; and its hurried descent could be traced with the naked eye. The bodies of their comrades and foes alike had now been fully consumed by mushrooms and vine growth; there could be no burial, as the forest had already reclaimed the tainted earth.
They rode with haste, though a pervasive grief hung over them; seemingly Gawain most of all. Further and further they rode, following their old tracks. Still scarcely a word was said.
At last, as the sun sank to earth to once again begin the long fae night, they came to the ancient ring of trees and mushrooms that had brought them to the Otherworld. They entered, then waited in silence, watching the trees anxiously until the sun fully set. When darkness returned, Oathbreaker lolled his weary eyes to the sky.
These stars were stars he knew.
The company pressed back into the earthly forest from whence they had come, and did not stop again until they reached the road. At last, exhaustion laying heavily upon them, they allowed themselves to rest as they left the trees.
Gawain now addressed the group.
“My friends,” he said, “I am forever in your debt once more for rescuing me from that place. And Sir Ealdhelm, you have my undying gratitude.”
Then, Gawain’s face grew solemn.
“Alas, I fear that there has been some deception. I know not why my knights told you that I was my nephew, but I am not Gawain. I am Arthur.”
Oathbreaker’s blood chilled. Before he could speak, Lancelot interjected.
“My king, the fault is mine. Merlin prophesied that the Oathbreaker would appear to help us rescue you. I thought it imprudent to reveal to anyone, much less one with his reputation, that the king of the realm had been captured. I feared what chaos might ensue if word got out.”
Then, Lancelot turned to Oathbreaker.
“Ealdhelm, the deceptions I have laid against you are a stain upon my honor, and I am gravely sorry. You have proven to be a noble knight, and have done a great service to all of the people of Briton. The tales of your misdeeds are a disservice to your heroism.”
Oathbreaker stood rigid for a long moment before he spoke in a cold voice.
“I am no hero, nor knight, nor Ealdhelm. You are right, I am Oathbreaker, and I have wrought many evils by my hand.” He faced Arthur, and knelt. “Arthur-King, I have journeyed through darkness and toil for your rescue. I would ask but one prize of you. My wretched life drags on, unending, bound to this earth for the sins of my past. I ask only that you draw your sword Excalibur, and by the divine authority granted to you, slay me where I kneel. I wish to rest, at last.”
King Arthur gazed baffled down at him, and spoke:
“I knew you for the Oathbreaker from the moment I saw you. Stories of your deeds haunted me as a child. But you have saved my life, and from the words of Lancelot, proven yourself a great ally. I would never slay you, but make you a knight of my court!”
Restless fury began to well within the Oathbreaker. Oblivion beckoned, and he would tarry no longer.
“My king, I have asked but one thing of you! I am a blight upon this world. I have robbed, I have reaved, and I have slain. All those I have ever loved are gone, and yet I cannot join them. Release me!”
The knights of the Round Table watched on with discomfort. Suddenly, a new voice spoke; an old man, grim, but strong.
“You think a sword can release you from your debt? Fool! It has cut you already.”
Beneath his armor, a chill pierced the Oathbreaker’s flesh. The man stepped into view. He was ancient, but not bent. His beard was long and white, and his cruel eyes twinkled in the moonlight. He wore a robe of deep blue, and on his head was a tall, pointed hat of the same color.
“Merlin!” cried one of the knights.
“Indeed,” said the old man. “I apologize for not arriving sooner, Arthur. I cannot enter the Otherworld, and had to rely on an old contrivance of mine to save you.”
Oathbreaker knew the wizard by another, older name. It was he who had cursed him so long ago. The desperate fury building inside him roared loose, and he stood, immediately loosing his sword.
“Myrdden!” he spat, and lunged for him.
He did not reach him, for Lancelot grabbed his shoulder in an iron grip. Oathbreaker spun, and hacked at the knight’s head. The blade bounced off of his helmet, and with a mighty fist to his mask Lancelot sent Oathbreaker staggering backwards.
“Look at this undying courage!” cackled Myrdden. “If only you had boasted such valor as a mortal!”
The knights all drew their weapons. Oathbreaker began hewing and hacking at them wildly; he would stop at nothing to destroy the bastard sorcerer who had inflicted upon him unending misery. He was blind to the vales between friend and foe; deaf to Arthur’s pleading cries that he cease.
Lancelot was upon him again, effortlessly parrying Oathbreaker’s savage blows. “This is truly a shame, Oathbreaker. You seemed a good man.”
Myrdden laughed with wicked glee. The other knights backed away as Lancelot fought.
Oathbreaker strove furiously again and again at Lancelot, to no avail. The knight was a wall of stone. He screamed infernal rage, and threw his sword spinning at Myrdden. The wizard calmly stepped aside, and called over the discord:
“Waste not your time with this one, Arthur. The last people he served were abandoned to their enemies. Afraid for his life, he was. So, I saw to it that he’d never need to fear again!”
Oathbreaker froze at these words. Lancelot plunged his sword between his ribs. Familiar agony returned. Lancelot pulled the blade out, red blood spilling from the wound. Oathbreaker swayed, and fell to his knees. He felt a splitting pain in his neck, and then nothing at all as his head tumbled to the earth. He saw his own body fall forward, and behind it saw Arthur holding bloody Excalibur.
“I am sorry, Ealdhelm, I truly am,” the king said, mournfully. “If I could live as you do, I would spend unending years making this world better. You could be the greatest knight of all if you wished.”
The End.
Special thanks to my friend W.R. Hamilton for proofreading and editing this tale.
