Oathbreaker: Redemption

By L.A. MacDonald

The struggle to retake his kingdom was going better than Matthan had any right to expect, but those against him were now concentrated around the capital, and the hardest part of his redemption was about to begin.
Dragons, demon worship, dark magicks... Those who had stolen Matthan’s kingdom would stop at nothing to maintain control. But Matthan’s abiding faith and loyal friends were determined to return justice and truth to the kingdom of Freeland old, no matter the personal costs.
The spellbinding sequel to Oathbreaker: Condemnation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.A. MacDonald
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736645635

L.A. MacDonald

L.A. MacDonald lives in the Northwoods of the USA with two shelties, armor, and weapons of all sorts. When not writing, MacDonald is dreaming up new stories and worlds.Classically trained, MacDonald believes that heroes should be heroes, in spite of their flaws, and villains should be villains in spite of – or even because of – any virtues. It is the choices each of us make as individuals that decides our heroic status. The pikeman that stands and saves the King’s life is the same species as the ones that run, the difference is in the choice each makes.MacDonald has a shelf full of books that have not yet seen the light of day, many set in the same world as Oathbreaker. Others set in more exotic locales. Watch for them from Hellebarde Publishing.

Book preview

Oathbreaker

Book 2: Redemption

L. A. Mac Donald

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2021, Hellebarde Publishing, LLC

All Rights Reserved

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About the Author

Contact the Author

Chapter 1

Brok, former and future King of Freeland Hold, picked up his belt and sheathed his sword in its scabbard before he made his way over to his companions. I didn’t really think this was going to take that long… he half-heartedly apologized, pulling his long dark hair into a ponytail secured with a leather thong. His ice blue eyes implored his friends to understand the reason for the delay.

A small, thin woman Ozymmi Ozzi, wrinkled her nose as she sniffed disdainfully, the corners of her mouth turning down into a slight frown. Just once, Brok, it would be nice if you’d find some ugly friends to invite. These are all, she waved a hand in the direction of the knights. Far too pretty for my tastes.

The big, quiet warrior Lostrine chuckled at Ozzi’s typical response to anything involving emotions other than anger and revenge. Brok smiled at the taciturn warrior’s predictability. For Lostrine, two words were a sentence, four a story, fourteen an entire tale.

The lanky, orange robed priest Aryonn clapped Brok on the shoulder. Well? What’s the plan?

He had been too busy to really look around the Grand Foyer at castle Sea Cliff. It really was old, older than he remembered. There were stones in the columns that Brok thought must have stood there since before The Great Cataclysm that had changed the world and forever weakened his kingdom. Now that he had wrested the keep from the hands of the rebellious White Church, he would have to take some time to look around the entirety of the castle. Brok took a deep breath. The Steehl seems like our next stop.

After a long road, the Steehl was the key to freeing his kingdom. It was there that the priests of the White Church had holed up, pulling strings to try and hold onto power.

Ozzi agreed emphatically. I’m tired of playing with the underlings. Let’s go find the head of this snake and cut it off.

Brok grinned. That’s what I like about you, Ozzi. Straight into the dragon’s den.

They were making their plans when angry voices could suddenly be heard over the general din of conversation. Shouts and cries near the door encouraged the small group to try to make their way toward the source. They hadn’t gotten far when the cry was raised, White cloaks! Coming this way, they mean to attack the keep!

Lady Adaelia, First Shield of Dirge, the battle leader of The Knights of Dirge, trailed by a man in the blue and white garb of a Dirgian priest, rushed to Brok’s side. Sire, if I may?

Brok nodded brusquely. Form them up and get to the wall. We’ll join you there. He glanced around and, sighting his pile of armor, headed straight toward it to arm himself, noting as he did that his friends did the same. He smiled grimly as he slid a coat of chain mail over his head and belted his sword around his waist, checking to make sure it hung loosely and did not catch on the mail links.

Armed and armored, he joined his companions as they hurried through the keep and made their way toward the courtyard and the sounds of a keep already under attack.

As they cleared the doors, Lostrine scanned the yard. They got to the gate before we could reinforce it. They’re already inside, he called out loudly over the din.

Brok nodded and grimaced in pain. I know, he gritted. I can tell. He felt every blow dealt to the knights as if the blow had landed upon him. Not just the knights of Dirge, My Shield. He thought, then looked helplessly up at Aryonn, his face contorting with pain yet again.

Aryonn shook his head, his expression doubtful. You can’t fight like that. How in the name of the Heroes did your father manage?

Brok frowned, his teeth clamped together. If I knew don’t you think I’d do something about it?

Ozzi, a small crossbow in hand, pointed across the yard and fired a quarrel at a man whose white cloak marked him as a target. Get him back inside until you can figure it out. Lostrine and I will hold the door, she barked, reloading her crossbow with practiced fingers, her eyes finding her next target.

Aryonn grabbed Brok’s arm and pulled him back through the doors, into the grand foyer, where the young man doubled over with a groan. The priest knelt down, peering up at his friend’s white face. There has to be something, Brok. He didn’t fight like this and neither can you. Think!

Brok found the command to think amusing, as if he wasn’t already wracking his brain between excruciating attacks. He tried to straighten, face contorted into a grimace. Dirge, please, he whispered desperately under his breath.

Remember thine oath. He heard the stern reminder even as the pain faded into the background, still there and noticeable, like the sound of a rushing river behind a strong wall, but not enough to keep him from the fight.

He gave Aryonn a crooked smile as he was finally able to stand. Dirge has not abandoned his chosen king. I can fight, he insisted as he straightened.

Good, Aryonn replied with an encouraging nod. Are you sure?

Brok nodded. Absolutely. I will not and cannot hide inside while my Shield is out there.

Aryonn drew in a breath and let it out. Alright then, let’s go. I suggest you keep that sword in your hand.

Brok held it up, showing Aryonn how tightly he gripped it. Trust me, I’m not letting go.

The two rushed back through the door and headed toward the wall. Lostrine and Ozzi took the unspoken cue and followed.

The fighting was worse by the gate. It was wide enough to allow a fist of men, but no more, through at a time, unless they forced themselves to a closer order. The white cloaks were not foolish enough to do so. The Dirgians had managed to stop those who’d gotten through, and now defended the gate. The fighting there was fierce, but contained at the moment. Brok raced up the steps carved into the wall for just such a purpose, and moved out onto the battlements. He reversed direction immediately and headed toward the gatehouse, trying to get a view of how many more white cloaks were trying to push their way in.

It was already dark, and one of the two torches that normally lit the outside of the gatehouse had been knocked from its sconce. Brok cursed the dark and without a word his sword gave off a brilliant light, illuminating the gatehouse enough that he could at least estimate the number of heads below.

Ozzi excitedly pointed further down the wall, away from the gatehouse, where several men in white cloaks appeared to be scaling the wall in what had been the darkness. She climbed into a merlin and leaned over the wall, one hand gripping a crenellation and the other pointing her crossbow toward the men on the ladder. Brok nearly lost the contents of his stomach watching her hang over what was a thirty-foot drop to the hard-packed ground.

But it was well worth the risk when she fired at the men and a moment later one of them yelped with pain and involuntarily reached up with a hand to grab the quarrel. Unfortunately for him it was the hand he’d been using to grip the ladder, and he immediately lost his balanced and tumbled wildly to the ground below.

Ozzi flashed a brilliant smile in Brok’s direction.

Impressive, he conceded. But there’s more coming. You can’t reload fast enough to stop them all. He looked over his shoulder at Lostrine, Make sure if they come up they go right back down!

Lostrine smiled broadly and headed down the battlements toward the ladder, his sword already in hand.

Brok returned his attention to the men outside the gate, gesturing with his sword toward the group milling around, waiting. They’re going to get bored waiting to get in the gate, and when they do they might decide to take it out on the townsfolk. Can you do anything about that, Aryonn?

Aryonn looked thoughtful and then nodded eagerly. I think so. Give me a moment, he said, reaching for his Heroes’ talisman and digging around in a pouch hanging from his belt. The priest stepped up the wall and began chanting words that made no sense to Brok but that he knew would call upon the power of the Heroes to do something fairly impressive. At least he hoped it was impressive. He feared for the townsfolk if the White Cloaks decided to take their frustration out on them.

Brok watched as Aryonn’s face contorted into a sneer, his voice raising to a roar with the last words of his chant. The priest threw the substance in his hand out over the wall and pointed toward one whitecloak in particular.

That man was suddenly consumed by a pillar of fire that swirled around like a dust devil in the desert, only with far worse consequences. It threw off streaks of fire as it turned, and men suddenly scattered, screaming as they batted at their flaming clothing, trying to put out the flames. The man whom Aryonn had targeted ran aimlessly screaming, unwittingly bringing the fire to his companions and causing several of them to burst into flames themselves.

Aryonn smiled and gestured toward the chaos below. How’s that?

Brok nodded enthusiastically. Nice! he exclaimed, then shouted down into the courtyard below. Ease up! Let them come through, they’re breaking out here!

One of the knights below who stood slightly off to the side, directing the other men, raised his sword in a salute to indicate he’d heard the order. He barked out commands and the men around the gate eased back forming a sort of gauntlet through which the men in the white cloaks would have to pass if they wanted to get in.

Which they did. Brok was disturbed by the way they fought, almost as if they had no concern for their own lives but were focused solely on the task at hand. Though the same had been said many times historically about knights, that was not entirely true. Certainly a knight would fight with what appeared to be complete abandon in defense of others, but they were not so mindless so as to practically commit suicide in doing so. They were aware that if they fell, there were few others to replace them and their failure meant death for those they defended.

These men, however, seemed almost crazed, like the desert devils from the Doornian wastes that had long been the enemy of Freeland Hold.

His nose wrinkled as he considered a possibility. Could they be ensorcelled, Aryonn? he shouted.

Aryonn nodded. Yes, they could, he called back. There are many ways to convince a man to fight without a care.

Brok shuddered. While he was certainly growing more comfortable with magic in general, both the divine and the arcane, he could not abide the stealing of a man’s will by any means. It made him pity the men in the white cloaks who might be fighting against their own will, and all the more determined to destroy the church that used such vile means of control.

Aryonn pointed to where Lostrine was fighting on the battlements. They’ve got that situation under control. What next?

Brok was considering the situation when he suddenly lurched forward. Gods’ blood! he swore and reached up to find the shaft of an arrow sticking through the meat of his upper arm. Aryonn turned and tried to follow the path it would have taken. He hissed, pointing off into the near darkness. There, near the north corner. They must have come in through the sealift to sneak up behind us.

Brok’s expression tightened and he clamped his lips together as he broke off the shaft and tossed it aside. Let us not disappoint them, then, he gritted before he hurried back down the stairs and ran toward the north corner of the keep.

Three men stepped out of the shadows and into the light of his sword as he neared, swords ready. Brok did not slow. He waded into them, sword flying, and cut down two of them before any of them had a chance to swing at him. The third was quickly joined by three more, and the confidence Brok had felt a moment before quickly dissipated. He gritted his teeth. Well come on then, he entreated. I can send all four of you to meet your god tonight as easily as your two friends there, he boasted with the bravado Dirgian knights were known for. He brandished his sword in front of him to emphasize his point. I hope you fight better than those two. I’ve met kobolds with greater skill than them!

His insults had the desired effect. The men growled and rushed forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Brok caught the glint of a weapon intercepting a sword and knew that Aryonn had engaged at least one of their opponents, and probably saved the bones in his arm from being shattered.

The sword in his hand was, he discovered, more than just a sword. All knew it glowed with a brilliant light in the hands of the rightful king of Freeland Hold. Brok had seen it many times in his youth. But he’d never held it nor wielded it in battle. There was something else about the sword. Something that lent him strength. His blows seemed far more deadly than they did with other swords, seeming to slice through men as if they were soft cheese. The effects were devastating. The first stroke he laid across the arm of one of the four men opposing him took the limb off above the elbow, its length and the sword that had been in the hand falling uselessly to the ground along with its owner, who fell to his knees screaming while desperately trying to stem the blood that gushed out like ale from a newly tapped keg.

He reversed the direction of that stroke, bringing the blade back up across his body to block a blow from one of the other men. He smiled grimly at the mistake and immediately brought the weapon back around in an arc, swinging down across the man’s legs and catching his unprotected knee. Brok’s sword sliced down and across, not quite severing the limb but causing enough damage that the man would find it difficult to walk, if he lived.

The sword did nothing, however, to improve Brok’s speed. Even as well-trained as he was, he could only manage to deal with two at a time. The other two had already made note of that and quickly moved to flank him. One of them managed to get underneath Brok’s arm and slice him across the side.

Brok howled with rage and whirled to face them. He brought his sword up to block a blow from one of them and then thrust forward with his shield arm at the other. He connected solidly with the man’s shoulder and knocked him off balance.

Aryonn appeared as if out of nowhere and with a loud cry slammed his mace into the man’s back, breaking his spine. The priest watched dispassionately as the man crumpled to the ground, his face contorted with agony and tears streaming down his face. Breathing hard, Aryonn turned on his heel to see Brok thrust straight out with his sword, which flared brightly as it made contact and slid easily through the last whitecloak’s throat. The man slowly toppled, a look of surprise locked on his dead face.

Brok bent over and forced himself to breathe deeply. He glanced up at Aryonn, who nodded between breaths.

You’re bleeding, Aryonn finally commented.

I can’t imagine why! Brok exclaimed between breaths, gesturing at the bodies strewn on the ground. There were only six of them.

Aryonn gave him a wry smile. Hold still, he ordered. This is going to hurt, he stated, then with a quick jerk ripped the rest of the arrow’s shaft out of Brok’s arm. He then began chanting rapidly under his breath before he reached out and laid a hand on Brok’s shoulder.

Warmth spread out across Brok’s body, and he twitched slightly against the pain as he felt the wounds close. As the warmth fell away he straightened and stretched, testing his side and then his shoulder. He nodded. Better, Aryonn. Thank you.

Aryonn sketched as formal a bow as he could. My pleasure, your majesty.

Brok rolled his eyes and slapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Let’s check on Ozzi and Lostrine and see if my Shield has managed to live up to its name.

Aryonn chuckled. I don’t think I’d let them hear you say it that way, Brok.

Brok laughed and agreed as they headed back toward the wall.

The King’s Shield had indeed lived up to its name. They’d captured two hands full of church men, and the rest, numbering many more, were already being piled up to be burned in a single funeral pyre. Lostrine and Ozzi, both completely unscathed by the evening’s adventure, clambered down the wall laughing together uproariously about something.

Brok stood waiting for them, his gaze scanning the courtyard and nodded, pleased with results. Good? Aryonn enquired.

Brok let out the breath with relief, nodding. Yes, thank Dirge. All clear. He looked around and caught sight of a young man in the blue and white surcoat of the Shield and beckoned at him. The young man ran over eagerly, bowing as he approached. Sire?

Would you run inside and find the kitchen staff and see if they can’t find us something to eat? I imagine everyone is as famished as I am after a good fight?

The boy’s head bobbed up and down enthusiastically. Yes, sire! Of course, sire! Right away, sire! He turned and nearly ran off toward the keep but then, as if remembering who he was, slowed to a rapid but more stately walk.

For some reason Ozzi found the young man’s reaction hilarious, and nearly doubled over laughing as she watched him walk away.

Chapter 2

The dining hall was large enough to fit nearly every knight. Brok marveled that at the time the keep had been built, before even the Great Cataclysm, halls like this one across the kingdom were filled every day with the faithful of Dirge. He could not imagine that many Called knights in one place. While the group here represented about half of the total number of Called knights, it was still nothing compared to the strength the Dirgians had once enjoyed.

From the kitchens came trenchers of stew and loaves of bread with so many different kinds of cheeses Brok had a hard time identifying them all. The kitchen staff had scrambled and done the best they could on short notice, and if any complained it was only to say that there was too much.

They’d nearly finished eating and the hall had descended into a dull roar of conversation when a knight hurriedly approached. He waited patiently near Brok, where the king could see him, but said nothing.

Brok looked over his shoulder and caught the man’s expectant face. He turned in his seat and looked up. Yes?

One of the prisoners, sire, the knight said with a quick bow of his head. I think you ought to hear what he has to say. He’s claiming he’s Called.

Aryonn stopped in mid-chew, swallowing whole the bread he’d been enjoying. He exchanged a knowing glance with Brok, who nodded and swung his legs over the bench and rose in one smooth motion. He scanned the hall and nodded at two figures. Adaelia, Vergin, join us, he said evenly, his expression veiled. Aryonn, Lostrine, and Ozzi immediately extricated themselves from the table and stood to join him. If any considered gainsaying their right, they held silent, Dirge’s words earlier in the day keeping their thoughts to themselves.

The knight led them out of the hall and down several flights of stairs that Brok recalled coming up earlier in the day. The knight turned abruptly away from the corridor that led to the sealift, and took them further down a set of halls and stairs that led to the keep’s extensive dungeons.

Many of the cells that had been occupied by the townsfolk that morning were now filled with men in cloaks that had been white but were now splattered with blood and grime. Brok ignored them as they passed, following the knight to a cell whose door stood open, two knights warily standing guard in front of it. They moved aside as the group neared.

Brok stopped at the open door and looked expectantly at one of the knights. His name is Djardin, sire, the man told him in a normal voice that he then dropped to a loud whisper. Claims he’s Called by Dirge, that the priest ensorcelled him.

Brok gave the knight an arched look. Not because he did not believe it, but because he was surprised he hadn’t considered the possibility before. He turned and looked at the man who was chained to the wall, his chin covered in blood that dripped from what appeared to be a freshly given wound.

Brok felt a hand on his elbow. Aryonn leaned toward him. Be careful, they could be lying to draw you in…

Brok nodded his understanding and stepped cautiously into the cell.

At his approach, the man on the floor began to shake visibly and averted his eyes, squeezing them tightly and looking away.

Brok squatted down in front of him, now more curious than concerned. He reached out, ignoring the hissed warning from Ozzi at his movement, and took the man’s face in his hands. He firmly pulled it up until it was facing him. Djardin, look at me! he commanded quietly.

The man slowly opened his eyes as if it pained him to do so. They were bloodshot, and haunted, as though they still carried the sight of terrible deeds.

Sympathy welled up within Brok for the man, along with a whispered command. "Release him."

Brok had no idea how he knew what to do but he immediately began whispering words, the meaning of which escaped him. They brought forth a surge of power within him that was abruptly loosed with the utterance of a single command.

The man’s head snapped back, and he stiffened. Brok’s hands fell away and he scrambled back, away from the man. Gurgling noises came from the man’s throat, as though he were trying to speak but was unable to form the words. Brok heard the rasp of a sword being pulled from its scabbard, and shook his head sharply.

A moment later the man’s eyes popped open, his pupils dilated so far they seemed to consume his entire eyes. He seemed frozen in place for a moment. Then his head fell limply to his chest and his body relaxed. Soft sobs of relief rocked the man’s shoulders and Brok let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The young king sympathetically moved closer and laid a hand on the knight’s shoulder. You’re free now, Djardin, he told him quietly, which only made the man sob deeper. Brok let him sob for several minutes before he patted him on the shoulder. Come now, Djardin. We need to hear what you have to say. Remember who you are, you’re a knight of Dirge… he cajoled.

The man’s sobs abruptly ended, and he sniffed a few times before nodding and taking a deep breath. He refused to meet Brok’s gaze. The priest, Forgold, he began, shuddering as the name passed his lips. He laid compulsions on us. Forced us to wear the white and support Invar, he explained brokenly. He shook his head. I am forsworn, my lord. Better to have died in the yard than live like this.

Brok reached out and grabbed shoulders, shaking him. The man looked up at him, stunned. You are not forsworn unless you choose to be forsworn, Brok said firmly, understanding that in that choice lay the difference between redemption and rejection, between salvation and damnation. Neither of them had chosen their paths. They had only decided whether they accepted it or not after the fact. Months of his own life had been spent wallowing in self-pity because he had accepted it, when he could have refused it and sought absolution. He would not allow another to suffer the same if it was in his power to help. Do you so choose? he demanded, emphasizing every word.

Djardin swallowed hard and shook his head, straightening his shoulders a bit as though remembering he was still a knight. I do not.

Brok’s expression softened. Then you are not, and you will redeem yourself. You can start by explaining what plans Forgold has laid.

Djardin nodded tentatively and then offered what he knew.

Most of the white cloaks made for the Keep, but there are a good number with Forgold at Broadwood. I think the priest means to lay a trap for the-, he caught himself.