Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial-Chapter 14Arc 7: : Saint of Curses

I struggled futilely against the Saint’s grip. He barely seemed to notice. His fingers — he had seven on each hand — tightened a fraction, and the ensuing groan of stressed metal and pressure against my lungs made me go still. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited.

We did not have to wait long. It began with a bubbling sound, like a pot left on too long. It came from the altar’s basin. Chamael studied the stone bowl a moment, then approached it while still holding me. He moved by gliding, his bird-like foot hovering just off the ground and his four wings drifting behind him like streamers.

The murky water inside the altar bubbled and spat like a vat of alchemical acid. It looked on the verge of overflowing, the liquid inside risen to the brim and emitting an acrid steam that made my eyes itch as we drew closer.

“Who did you pray to?” Chamael asked me without taking his eyes off the bowl. “I know Eanor is your patron. And her traitor sister. This reeks of Nath.”

“No one… specific.” I had to gasp out my answer. “I’m not picky about that sort of thing.”

“You should be mindful of your prayers, mortal, lest they be heard by the wrong ears. Many are the pretenders who would masquerade as a divine messenger to mislead you. Did you not already learn that lesson?”

That last comment made me angry, and the anger clouded out my better judgment. “Maybe it’s Lyda?” I suggested. “This is her shrine.”

Chamael’s main face frowned, but he didn’t answer. In all honesty, I had no idea what lurked inside the bowl. It was big enough to be a large bath, and the boiling water now spilled over the edge as a green-tinged fog.

Without letting me go, Chamael leaned over the brew to study it more closely.

Which was when an enormous hand burst out from it and grabbed him by the face.

The hand had to have belonged to something huge, bigger even than the seraph. It had dark gray skin, warty and spotted, with gnarled fingers tipped in yellowed claws. Those sharp digits clamped around the angel’s head and pulled. He reacted in a flash of violence, bringing his elaborate polearm to bear, but more hands emerged. They were long as tree trunks, many-jointed, all monstrous in appearance. They grabbed Chamael’s arms, his shoulders, reached for his wings.

He let me go and I fell hard, rolling away. Green mist that smelled of mildew and bile covered the floor. Gritting my teeth, I got to my feet and backed away, drawing my dagger just to have a weapon in my hand.

But I needn’t have bothered. Chamael struggled, but there were over a dozen of the demonic hands latched onto him. They pulled him into the basin. His wings beat furiously, and I could feel so much aura blazing off of him it made me back away even further, fearing what effect it might have on me.

Finally, with a roar that sounded like nothing so much as a deep, sonorous bell, Chamael was dragged into the ritual bowl. The terrifying struggle, the mighty angel, the nightmarish limbs — they all disappeared into the water with an anticlimactic splash.

The bowl continued to bubble, though it sounded less furious. Staring at it, not understanding what had just happened, I waited a minute or two. When nothing happened, I took a thoughtless step forward. What in every hell…

“I wouldn’t get too close to that. It is always hungry.”

I froze. The voice emanated from no particular direction, echoing around the nave. It sounded ancient, rough, a sullen croak that made me think of diseased trees and desolate bogs.

I turned slowly, studying the shadows. The voice sounded familiar. It took me a moment to work up the nerve to speak. “Who are you?”

“Don’t recognize me? It’s only been a little more than a year! I suppose you must not recall. Too blinded by that strumpet Eanor, I’m sure. She puts on a pretty face, but I think you mortals would be less smitten if you knew what she really looks like.”

The voice let out a rasping laugh that made my skin crawl. I inhaled to steady my nerves before speaking again. “I do remember you, Saint Urddha. I was just taken off guard.”

A figure stepped out from behind the pulpit. They were inhumanly large. Not quite so tall as Chamael, though a dramatic stoop had something to do with that. At first it looked like a shambling mound of rags and spindly, spiny shapes, but as it stepped forward more details became apparent.

The Onsolain wore layers of frayed garments in various colors, mostly greens and browns hung with an array of fetishes and trinkets. A heavy shawl shadowed the face of an ancient crone with eyes of green glass. Those eyes gleamed with slitted pupils like slivers of burning gold.

The Saint of Curses walked forward on crane feet, which were similar to Chamael’s strange appendage while somehow looking cruder, more feral. She held my axe.

“You have a bad habit of losing this,” she told me as she shuffled forward. “Do you even know what this is? What we entrusted you with when we made you our headsman?”

I tried to swallow past a dry throat. I’d only encountered the Great Witch once, during Emma’s trial when an entire Godhand of immortals had convened to hear me speak on her behalf. She was one of the most enigmatic and foreboding members of the Choir, said to be a patron to the deranged and the dispossessed. I hadn’t expected her to be the one to appear.

“It is a very valuable tool,” I said cautiously. “I will try to be more careful with it.”

Urddha Curseweaver snorted. “Don’t go making any oaths to me, you half baked paladin. You’re barely keeping the last one.”

She strode forward several more limping steps before lifting the axe, studying it critically with her strangely artificial looking eyes. I realized the uncarved branch that made up the weapon’s handle was moving in her grip. Small burs and branches were emerging from it as the handle grew. ʀ𝘈𝐍o͍ᛒĚs

“This has fed well on blood and curses,” Urddha said in satisfaction. “You have hated while holding this, mortal. See how it fights my hand?”

Some of the twigs bursting out of the mutating axe were piercing directly through the hag’s palm. Her blood was like molten gold, sizzling on the ground and fusing to the stonework. The drops glowed where they landed, like newly minted coins, each one making the dilapidated building wealthier.

Urddha threw her head back, heedless of the grievous damage being done to her, and let out of a croaking laugh. “Good! It has accepted you as its master. Keep this thing close, boy. Let it be a vault to hold the dying curses of your foes.”

She tossed it then. I caught it, though not cleanly. The thing had grown more than half as tall as me, and all the new branches made it awkward to hold. Some had wrapped around the blade.

I studied it a moment before returning my attention to the demigoddess. “You seem to know my weapon well.”

“I should.” She sniffed contemptuously. “It was taken from a tree I grew myself. Raised it from a sapling and nurtured it with mine own blood. I carved that piece and gave it to the dwarf giant who forged it into a weapon. It is an old ritual. Your role has a long, dark history, of which you are largely ignorant.”

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“Is that why you’re here?” I asked. “To enlighten me?”

The aged face beneath the shawl twisted into a ghoulish scowl. “Don’t be flippant with me, boy. I am not Eanor, to sympathize with you, and I am not Nath to be amused by you. I have little patience for men, and less for warriors, and will bite your eyes if you offend me.”

She adjusted her cloak and moved to the altar. “I am here to tell you what we expect to be done, and to tell you what you must know to see it through. We have little time. Chamael will break free of my cauldron before long, and I would rather have all this out while he’s not eavesdropping.”

I moved close enough to be in easy speaking range while keeping a cautious distance from the still bubbling basin. “You don’t trust him? Has he really gone renegade?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it to him. Chamael is such a sensitive boy. Little Aureia’s loyal puppy dog, always sniffing around at her heels… only now she’s not here, and he’s still confused why mistress hasn’t come back home.”

She turned just enough to gesture with one clawed finger. “He thinks we don’t know what he’s been up to, but he’s not the only one who’s been courting the Zosite. He’s also not the only one who underestimates how much I know.” She sounded gleeful as she said this.

“I would have thought Chamael to be unwilling to make bargains with the Lords of Hell, if he’s so loyal to the God-Queen.”

“He is an original, a holdover from the great Choir of Onsolem. Most of the seraphs and devas who came here with Aureia still remember when they were one tribe with the acolytes of Zos. There has been division since then, wars. Indeed, wars even older than the one that ravages Creation now. There was a time before, I recall, when there was war in Heaven, when the blood of angels painted the stars and all seemed undone. Ah, the spells I wove in those nights!”

Her arms, which were very similar to the monstrous appendages that’d emerged from the altar, spread free of her cloak as she lifted them high. They had dark warts and sickly looking yellow horns growing from them, almost like antlers with multiple branching points each. She paused, then turned a golden pupil to me. “But I am not of the original Choir, and I will not heed the sweet lies of devils. Angels they might be, yet the time they have spent dwelling on the edges of the Abyss has made them cruel and unpredictable. Do not forget that.”

“I’ve seen how they conduct themselves through their crowfriars,” I said. “I do not trust them.”

Urddha smiled. “Good.” She glanced back at the bowl and in an almost idle voice said, “Every church has one of these. Do you even know its significance?”

I studied it a moment. The bowl, large enough for several people to stand in, had images carved into its outer face. Scenes of history, of winged angels giving council to kings, of knights and pilgrims traveling over tumultuous seas and mountains. “They represent the pact the Edaean lords made before they followed the God-Queen into this land. They mixed their blood with blessed water and swore to take no false deities as their masters ever again.”

Urddha shook her head. “That did occur, yes, but they only mimicked the ritual. It represents the vessel Queen Aureia poured Her blood into when She bade the spirits of the earth — the elves, the trolls, the giants, and all the other pagan gods who’d ruled before the Onsolain arrived — to drink of Her blood and become Her kin, honorary Onsolain in their own right. Now we share in Her divinity, and in that act accepted Her as the rightful Heir of Heaven’s Throne.”

She turned again to look at me. “I supped of Aureia’s blood that day. I tasted in it the birth of a new age. A Queen of Heaven in exile. A promise made, a new pantheon forged.”

I waited until the immortal’s monologue seemed over before speaking. “That’s… very interesting. But why the history lesson, Grandmother?”

“For the same reason that you should know what you hold in your hand. You may be mortal, but mortality is… fluid. You have the ear of gods, boy, and hold an imperishable flame within you. Many members of the Choir see you as a disposable tool, but some of us feel that is a misuse of your role. You are our Doomsman, and should you not be slain you will be for a long time. The blessing of lasting youth has not yet left you, so far as I can tell.”

She pointed a crooked finger at the images on the altar vessel. “This is your history, too. Remember it.”

Urddha paced around the stone cauldron a moment, muttering over it, then her harsh voice emerged again with startling suddenness. “You have seen things during your journey from the Emperor’s city.”

I nodded. “War. Fear. People talking about new enemies to topple to set the world right again.”

Urddha chuckled. “I like that skepticism in your voice! But there are weeds that need trimming. You came here with one of the crowfriars?”

“…Yes. Vicar, their leader. He’s in exile, but I’m guessing you know that too.”

“Indeed. He will be of aid to you, so long as you remember that he will betray you eventually. He is trying to find the wizard. That old comrade of yours. He has already attempted to recruit you for this endeavor?”

I nodded. “Is it safe to assume that the Choir wants me to find Lias before the Priory or the Crowfriars?”

“Yes. The devil has already told you what he took?”

“The Zoscian, yes. Some kind of fragment of Hell’s authority.” I frowned and said, “How many know about this already? I would think it a bigger secret.”

Urddha nodded. “The device used by the missionaries of Orkael is known to us, and has been since before the Riven Order was formed. That they lost it is known to us only because I have been spying on Chamael. He wanted to recover it before we discovered his negligence, but I’m afraid it is too late for that. At the very least, Umareon is too distracted to pay this any mind right now. That is for the best, I think.”

“Distracted…” I needed to know. I couldn’t get it out of my head. “When the Herald told me to come here, he also said there had been some kind of assault on Heavensreach. Is that true?”

Urddha stilled and turned her fell gaze on me. I shivered, wondering if I’d made a mistake, but she answered after a moment. “The Herald should not have divulged that.”

“Should I be concerned?” I asked, feeling like I very much should be.

The hag shook her head, though I couldn’t tell if it was in answer to my question or just a bemused gesture. “Assault is a strong word for it. There was a confrontation. It is being dealt with, and is no concern of yours. Your duty is to deliver our judgment to mortal kind. Pay no heed to what happens in the heavens, boy. It is safer that way.”

I nodded slowly, deciding it safer not to argue. While Nath had seemed to enjoy when I pressed her for information, treating it like a game, I sensed Urddha would only be annoyed by it. I did not want to annoy this being.

“Focus on finding the wizard,” Urddha said. “Do whatever you must, use any tool or ally at your disposal, and find the artifact he stole. It is too dangerous to be left in the wrong hands.”

As I’d suspected. “You already know a lot about this. Can you give me any idea where Lias might be?”

“Wizards.” Urddha spat the word like a curse. Spittle flew from her lips, and it sizzled on the tiled floor like acid. “Adept at fooling even the eyes of the ageless. He hides himself well, but you know him better than anyone else on this earth. You have the means to pick up the trail.”

I glanced at the altar, which still bubbled ominously. “What about him? It’s going to be hard to do much with Chamael and his Penitents breathing down my neck.”

Urddha smirked beneath her hood, the expression turning her lined face into a creased map of malicious humor. “I will have a chat with him once he’s out. I cannot promise he will listen to me — the Choir is meant to sing with one voice, yet often it is not so. Chamael has no master besides his queen, and She is not here to chastise him. I can give you time, at least.”

I nodded and turned to leave. “Best not waste any of it, then.”

I’d gone about ten steps before Urddha called out to stop me. “That is not all.”

I paused and turned. The immortal had paused her hitched pacing, her eyes wandering the room. She seemed to hesitate before saying more, and when she did speak it was in a much more brooding voice than before. “The Orders of the Magi swore to the Heir of Onsolem, same as we did, same as the Houses. To betray that faith is blasphemy. Apostasy. Already we have delivered punishment for this to many of the Recusant Houses through you.”

She met my eyes. When I realized what she meant, I felt an icy coldness settle into my chest. The demigoddess saw my understanding and tilted her head, no hint of sympathy in that terribly ancient face.

“What the wizard stole must be recovered. It is too dangerous to be left to fall into the wrong hands. Retrieve the infernal artifact, yes, but that is not the Doom we require of you, Alken Hewer.”

I would not say it myself. If they wanted this of me, they would have to make it an order. I remained silent.

Urddha turned fully to face me, and as she bowed her head all I could see of the crone’s face within her hood were the two burning slivers of gold in her eyes. “The Choir will not allow the reckless apostasy of this renegade magi to go unanswered any longer. He has given a pillar of the God-Queen’s church to a power in exile, betrayed his oaths, endangered this land in ways too many to number.”

She pointed to the axe in my hand. “The wizard has been given the Headsman’s Doom. You will find Lias Hexer, and you will kill him. That is the task we require of you.”