Sword Oath

[owned_by_a_cat]

Title:           Sword Oath
Series:        Dornost Saga
Location:    Karak
Rating:        PG

Author's Note: One of the many one-shots, side-fics and backstories to my Dornost Saga.  Sword Oath shows the very beginnings of Karak. Before the war between the great houses resulted in the formation of the Empire, a caste of seers ruled Karak.  This story shows how the seers came to power.  I can never decide if Leonidas planned the takeover, or if he just miscalculated.

The battle had raged for most of the day.  Madan's body ached.  His ears rang with the echoes of screams and clashing swords.  Images of carnage, seen and inflicted, tormented his mind.  He wished for a few moments alone, but the demands on him were many.  He took the time to strip off his filthy armour and swallow a few sips of wine while he slid into a clean tunic.  More he could not spare.  The battlefield had to be cleared, the injured tended and the dead buried.  Ransoms had to be set for the prisoners and plans made for the morrow.

A pale dawn broke over the castle and the bloodied plain before Madan was finally alone.  He sat in his customary chair, booted feet stretched out to the fire, too exhausted to sleep.  Turning his head he beheld the empty armchair to his left.  The words he had meant to say died unspoken in his throat.  Madan stared at the chair.  The carefully carved mahogany wood reflected the fire's red light.  The worn leather seat gleamed a dull gold.  A leather swordbelt was slung carelessly over the back, as if its owner had meant to come back and claim it.

During the labours of the night Madan had avoided the great hall of the keep where Serrai had been laid in state and his battle weary brain had conveniently forgotten that he was now king of Karak.  It had felt like the night after any other won battle with both of them caught up in organisational duties in different parts of the camp, meeting after many hours in their quarters to rest.  It was this false image that had prompted Madan to turn his head to direct a remark to the empty chair.

As sudden as a physical blow, grief overwhelmed him, so strong that Madan doubled over and gasped.  He reached to tear open the ornate clasps at the neck of his tunic.  It helped but little.  His fists clenched over the arms of the chair as he fought for air and silent sobs racked his body.  He had no tears, just this all-consuming grief that took his breath.  After a long time, Madan finally leaned back, exhausted.  He was grateful for the silence, relieved that the empty room would not betray his weakness.  How could he live without Serrai?  There had never been a day in his life when Serrai had not been beside him, laughing with him, fighting with him, infuriating him with his impossible demands, but always spurring him on.  Now, for the first time in his life, he was alone.  The thought hurt like a freshly inflicted wound.  And the crown was insufficient balm.  

Madan pulled the dagger from its sheath and placed it on his knee.  The fire's glow played softly across the metal as Madan contemplated the gleaming blade.  Would Serrai object if he joined him, wherever he was now?  He sighed.  Amongst the Karakians, Madan was considered a hero.  Yet how many of his deeds had only been attempted because Serrai had dared him?  Madan shook his head, a sudden fierce anger boiling at the centre of his soul.  "Forgive me, Serrai," he whispered.  "I cannot be without you."

His fingers closed around the hilt when he felt, more than saw, a flicker of movement.  Madan spun out of the chair…and froze.  The dagger slipped from his grasp.  Serrai stood by the door!  Madan reached out in a greeting when his brain caught up with his eyes.  This could not be.  Serrai was dead.

But the figure by the door was undoubtedly there.  And it could have passed for Serrai's twin.  He was bareheaded but otherwise garbed for battle.  Chainmail gleamed dully under the purple cloak.  As Madan watched, the spectre raised a hand and beckoned.  The movement was imperious, demanding.  Madan could almost hear the snap of command in Serrai's voice, its echoes hovering in the corners of the silent room.

He stared at Serrai's image as a hungry man might stare at a baking loaf. "Speak!" he demanded.

The figure remained silent.  But once more it lifted its hand and beckoned demandingly.

"By the Elements, speak!" Madan said desperately. "What may I do for you?"

For a long moment the spectre stood unmoving.  Then it turned and disappeared right through the heavy oaken door.

Reluctantly, as if Serrai might re-appear if he kept looking at the door, Madan turned back to his seat.  His hands trembled as he reached for the wine cup, took it in both hands and drained it in one gulp.  What was the meaning of this?  Had he imagined it?  Was Serrai … damned?

The thought made him feel sick.  Serrai was a warrior king.   He had served his country honourably and done nothing to deserve damnation.  Had Serrai's shade come to his sword brother for help?

Madan set the cup back on the table and straightened.  If Serrai needed help, he would not deny him.  He caught up his cloak and checked his weapons before he left the room.  The guard outside saluted crisply, giving him the full salute due to his new status.  Madan grimaced, but held his peace.  The man was doing nothing wrong. "Come with me," he said instead. "I need to see Leonidas."

Madan found the seer on the battlements.  Huddled into a thick woollen cloak against the chill of the night, he stared across the now deserted battlefield. "Many a warrior's soul is on the march tonight," he said slowly, when Madan joined him. "You won a great victory."

"And lost the only thing I cared about."

Ah." The seer nodded slowly. "You do not relish being king?"

"You know very well that I don't.  These are Serrai's lands."

"You have seen Serrai?"

Something in Leonidas' voice suggested that he was not referring to the king's corpse.  "Did you send him?"

The seer chuckled. "I wish I had that power," he said. Then he shook his head. "No, my lord, I did not send him.  But his appearance does not surprise me.  Serrai was never one to be content with what the Elements offered him."

"He demanded my help.  What does he want me to do?"

"Help him return, of course."

Madan gasped. "Is this … permissible?" No need to ask if it was possible. He had just learned that it was.

"Occasionally.  But the price is high."

"I'd barter my soul for his life!"

The seer looked at him. "You will have to," he said simply. He turned back to his contemplation of the darkness. "And the outcome is not guaranteed," he warned.  

Madan's expression did not waver. "Do it!"  He ordered.

"The Elements do not demand your sacrifice," he said gently. "Serrai is not condemned. It is but his restless spirit that keeps him abroad." He considered the young king before him. "The Elements do not demand your sacrifice," he repeated.

Madan turned from the searching eyes and stared across the wall into the darkness.  What did the seer know?  The Elements might not demand his sacrifice, but Serrai's spirit did … and his own soul.  Once, as a child, he had sworn that he would die for Serrai or with him.  He had been serious then, and he was just as serious now.  Madan drew a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.  His choice had been made a long time ago.  

As he turned back to the seer a smile touched his tired face.  Serrai's spirit hovered two steps behind Leonidas' right shoulder!  Just to ensure the decision was to his liking, no doubt.

"I have made my choice," Madan said firmly. "I offer my life for his, should the Elements so demand it.  Bring him back."

Leonidas sighed, not really surprised. "So be it.  Bring the body down to the plain, an hour before sunset.  We will be ready for you."  He bowed. "May the Elements guide you, my lord."

"I challenge!" He spoke the ritual formula, agreed the ultimate price.  Madan stood on the empty vastness of the plain, the high mountains a mere memory in the dusk.  Before him a nightmare was coming alive.  The seer stood facing him, his flame-coloured robes gathering the evening twilight.  Six acolytes knelt to either side, their hooded robes like freshly spilled blood.  At the heart of the circle lay Serrai's body and Madan's sword.  Madan held on the very periphery of that circle.  He wished to step closer but dared not.  He felt merely an obstruction to the forces the seer called up around him.

The air turned bitingly cold as the sun began to set.  A gusty wind sprang up, tore inadequate habits and razed tonsured heads, but the acolytes in the circle did not move.  At a sign from Leonidas they began to chant; a low, monotonous hum that filled the air with tension and incomprehensible longing.

Madan pulled his fur-lined cloak closer around himself.  The keening of the wind raised the hair on his neck and sent shivers down his back. But he kept his eyes firmly on the blanket-wrapped bundle at the heart of the circle.  The fading light of the sunset caught in delicate gold stitching, illuminating the bundle with an eerie red and auburn shimmer.

Gradually, the last of the daylight died away leaving the plain in darkness, but for the steadily deepening red glow emanating from the bundle, and the bluish glimmer that enveloped Madan's sword.  And throughout the darkness, the chant continued.

The voice of the wind rose beyond the pitch a man could hear.  Madan felt it.  It resonated through his very bones.  He could no longer control the shaking of his body, nor the sweat running down his face despite the freezing wind.  His heart beat at a speed never intended by nature, fired by fear and desire.  And still the chant continued, monotonous and all pervasive.

When the blanket-covered bundle in the circle shone the deepest red, Leonidas the Seer raised his hands.  His invocation merged with the acolytes' chant, called the very essence of the wind.  Madan's sword blazed brilliantly white.  A river of light flowed from the blade, enveloped the red-glowing bundle, and extinguished its fire.  Serrai's body stirred.  Two hands reached through the blankets and removed its folds from a face.  Intensely dark eyes solemnly regarded the vastness, the circle of chanting acolytes, the seer, and eventually Madan.

Madan sank to his knees and raised his hands in prayer to his lips. "Thank the Elements," he breathed, gratitude and relief warring in his voice. "I could not bear to be without you!"

Serrai's black eyes became remote. "You could not bear to be without me!" his ice-edged voice said in disbelief. "You swore an oath to die with me.  And instead of following me as I asked, you condemned me to return?"

"I offered the ultimate price!" Madan stammered, wounded by the contempt in his sword brother's voice.

"Then pay it," snapped Serrai. "I won't remain."  He pulled the blankets around himself and sank back to the ground. "Cease chanting!" he commanded the acolytes.

Silence descended.  The light faded from the circle, the wind stilled and nothing remained on the plain but the seer, twelve acolytes and two corpses.