Oaths a progression fant.., p.1
Oaths: A Progression Fantasy Epic, page 1
OATHS
©2025 J.M. CLARKE
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Also by J.M. Clarke
Oaths, Blood, and Coin
Oaths
Blood
Coin
Mark of the Fool
Book One
Book Two
Book Three
Book Four
Book Five
Book Six
Book Seven
Book Eight
Book Nine
Book Ten
Rune Seeker
Rune Seeker 1
Rune Seeker 2
Rune Seeker 3
Rune Seeker 4
Rune Seeker 5
Rune Seeker 6
Rune Seeker 7
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Contents
I. The Dreaming Sceptre
1. The Pikes of Cas
2. Pacts Broken and New
3. The Rogues in the Garden
4. Bronze and Flame
5. The Dreaming Sceptre
6. An Oath’s Renewal
7. Cornered Kindred
II. The Ogre’s Pendant
8. The Wizard-King’s Legacy
9. The Night of Sacrifice
10. Thieves, Rope, and Liquor
11. Assault in the Dark
12. The Hunt in the Mist
13. Shattered Bones and Ogres
14. The Saint’s Plight
15. The Battle of the Ruined Tower
16. The Tears of Amitiyah
17. The Three that Dwell in Ash
18. The Massacre
19. The Wizard-King’s Truth
20. The Ogre’s Pendant
21. The River to Freedom and the White Crow
III. The Rat in the Pit
22. From the Chronicle of the Solidblade Knight
23. The Poet’s Resolve
24. A Snow of Silver
25. The Rat and the Hawk
26. The Wolves of Lycundar
27. Trouble in Paradise
28. Paradise in Trouble
29. Hellfire and Silver
30. The Pit of Despair
31. Manticore
32. A Pact in a Poison Garden
33. The Hand
34. Beasts
35. We Are Who We Are
36. Swords
37. Lycundar’s Bane
38. A Grim Parting
39. The Battle of Lycundar’s Arena
40. The Rat in the Pit
41. The Third Oath
42. The Afterthought
Thank you for reading Oaths
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Part One
The Dreaming Sceptre
Chapter 1
The Pikes of Cas
The city of Zabyalla slept fitfully.
By day, silver, electrum, and gold flowed between jewelled fingers. Aromas from a hundred realms suffused the arid air. Haggling in a host of tongues rose with the dust of horses, camels, and thousands of sandalled feet, while false smiles and clasped hands sealed endless bargains.
Upon the steaming River of Scales, sailors toiled at their oars, pulling barges laden with gold and slaves up the waterway. Beneath the water’s surface, crocodiles lurked, the beasts having long grown fat on the bodies of those who succumbed to the journey and were dumped unceremoniously overboard.
From the western harbour, the ships’ cargoes were carried to merchant houses and bazaars, or to the northern harbour facing the Sea of Gods: the great waterway connecting the lengths of two continents and the shores of a dozen empires.
Yet, once the reddened sun sank beneath the mountain peaks to the west, the life of each day drowned under a nameless terror. Cedar wood fires were used to ward away the desert nights’ chill, but lately, none burned. Wine and ale houses lay empty and dark.
Dancers, carousers, and musicians huddled in their homes like hares when the jackal stalks. All fought to deny sleep, for it was better to face a tired morning than the horror ruling the dreaming world within Zabyalla’s walls. When fatigue could no longer be borne, the exhausted dropped into unwelcome sleep, writhing and screaming as though scorpions feasted upon them. Even the youngest babes suffered so.
Though none shrieked louder than the merchant princes and princesses of the city. For decades, they had ruled empires of spice and precious metal. Their gleaming palaces of white stone rose like diamonds on a golden crown above walls as thick and high as a fortress. Yet their fortunes could not save them from the terrors unleashed within their dreams.
Private legions patrolled their domains. Veterans whose bronze lamellar, shields, and spears shone in both sun and moonlight, but whose courage withered until they too huddled in the dark, jumping at shadows that danced beyond the flickering light of their torches. They cringed as their masters and mistresses shrieked in bedchambers above their heads, stricken voices carrying far from their sanctums and towers.
The fortunate would awaken more exhausted than the evening before, while the ill-fortuned would be found cold and twisted beneath silken sheets, with countenances contorted in horror so profound, death had come in welcome fellowship.
Yet, a single palace in Zabyalla stood free from this nocturnal plague.
The House of Cas.
One of the youngest of the great merchants—Merchant Prince Cas—had forged in six years what his rivals had built over decades. Control of most of the mercantile council was soon taken, and whispers told he would be called Merchant King Cas, standing above all others in wealth and power.
No cries of terror echoed from behind his walls, and his private soldiers patrolled confidently with eyes vigilant and mouths chattering to each other.
His enemies, in contrast, suffered worst of all. The Merchant Prince Vishtaspa once secured a promise of a thousand casks from the legendary vineyards of Olubria, which Cas coveted. The next morning, venerable Vishtaspa’s estate was found silent. Every soul that slept within its walls had perished in the night.
Cas got his wine.
Evil rumours spread as to what or who was the source of the nightly horror. For most, deterred by one unspoken conclusion, fear ensured that they would never dare oppose Cas. To others, the future merchant king’s growing wealth proved too sweet a song to resist.
A forest of pikes rose beside Cas’ gates, upon which his guards had impaled the desiccating heads of each thief, cutthroat, and barbarian that sought to steal their master’s treasures. The bold, the desperate, the masterful. It mattered not. Compatriots would toast their fallen brethren with cheap wine in darkened huts while staving off the horrors of sleep.
As drunkenness spread, brash talk grew and tales were spun of what kingly prizes awaited. Dreams of boundless wealth thrived with every telling. Soon, the foolhardy felt tempted enough to pit their wit and luck against the walls of the merchant prince’s domain.
There was no shortage of brave fools.
There was no shortage of heads for Cas’ pikes.
This night was no different.
A bronze dagger sliced a guardsman’s throat.
A calloused hand clasped his mouth.
The man stiffened, his blood drenching his armour, spurting through the moonlight with each heartbeat. With a shudder and muffled whimper, he went limp.
Kashta of Mabatia caught the spear slipping from the corpse’s nerveless fingers. With falcon-like grace, he lowered his victim to the floor and turned to find the other guard already snoring against a silk tapestry. His partner, Prince Aparis of the fallen kingdom of Illia, was carefully t ying closed a pouch of white powder.
“That works well,” Kashta noted.
“It had better.” Aparis bent over the sleeping guard, watching his face carefully. “That dead ball-sack who thought himself my master—may his soul, if he had one, never know peace—paid a child’s weight in silver for a handful.” His lips curled up in satisfaction. “Look how peacefully he sleeps. Better than most in this accursed city.”
Kashta wiped the red from his dagger, then stooped to pat the belt of the slain man. “It’s as I’ve told you; all in Zabyalla know Cas’ household lays immune to the night terrors. They say he is the source.”
“We only had rumours before. Now we have witnessed it with our own eyes.” Prince Aparis of Illia shifted to examine the sleeping guard’s belt. “I have no doubt now: Cas is the source of these death dreams. Remember his procession passing through the grand market yesterday?”
“How could I forget? Even the priests of Stheno had to make way.”
“And did you see how he clutched that sceptre to his breast like his firstborn?”
Kashta spilled a handful of coins from the guard’s belt, slipping them into his pouch. “What caught my eye were the jewels pressed into his palanquin. They were the size of dove’s eggs.”
Aparis scoffed. “You paid mind to the wrong treasure, my friend.”
“Shhh! Keep your voice low!” Kashta of Mabatia hissed.
Aparis’ voice fell. His expression grew dark as he rummaged through the sleeping man’s belt pouches. “I’d wager you a hundred gold coins that sceptre is the fool’s object of power. But soon, it’ll be my object of—demon’s bile!” he swore quietly. “No key on this one. What about yours?”
“None here either.” Kashta threw a nervous glance down the hallway.
Two ebony doors stood at the end, twice the height of a tall man, faced in gold and bearing the images of twin goddesses. They clasped hands in greeting, and where their gilded palms met, lay an adamant lock crafted by the trove guardians of Laexondael. Kashta shuddered at the fortune it must have cost. If they could have stolen those doors, they could live like kings for decades.
“Your little partner’s source said the hallway guard carried a key. Where is this key?” Aparis demanded.
“Calm yourself.” Kashta glanced down the stairs, nervously moving his long plaits behind his shoulder. In the low light, the steps sank into a well of darkness. “Cas’ guard captain, Azar, likely carries a key with her, but she won’t be alone.”
“Does it matter if we find her alone or not?” Aparis’ gaze fell to the bronze shamshir resting in a loop on Kashta’s belt. The long, curved blade glinted fiercely in the low light, like a beast’s fang. “Kashta the Talon, they call you. They say one could walk twenty days hence and never find a sword arm so quick as yours. They say you are the match of ten.”
Kashta snorted. “Whoever these babbling they are, they’ve never had a fight in their lives. Azar’s called ‘The Sting’ for a reason. Nearly as good as I. One against one, I’d wager on myself, but with three or four bronze coats beside her, it wouldn’t matter if I was Kashta the Talon, Kyembe the Spirit Killer, or a grand master of the Cult of Steel. I’d die. What about your magic? Can’t that stop them?”
Aparis shook his head. “I can subdue one. Perhaps two. Had I spells to go against a whole household of soldiers—” he gave a vicious look “—I’d already be in Heba returning the favour for their sacking of fair Illia.”
“Then we are ruined. This is why I said we needed Wurhi with us. I should’ve never listened to your traitorous hissing. She can undo these metal fiends like cracking a dry tamarind.” Kashta pointed at the lock.
The former prince waved a pale, delicate hand. “Then we would’ve had to make a two-way split into three for nothing. I said I couldn’t subdue a horde, not that I couldn’t deal with a lock.” He dug into one of the many small pouches on his belt and drew a tiny bottle of glass that glinted in the cold light; one could see every subtle swish of the liquid within.
“Djinn’s tears.” A smile curved across the former prince’s fine features. “Extracted by the binders of the City of Glass, bottled by their sandwrights, and foolishly bought by a dead wizard who thought to enslave me: a former prince of thousands. The trouble will come if Cas is any mage worth his weight. At this distance, he will feel magic and be alerted to our presence.”
“After all this chatter, I’d be surprised if he doesn’t already know we’re here,” Kashta grunted, his dark eyes fixed on the bottle like it were a live cobra. Only the stupid or dead did not fear magic. Often the former quickly became the latter.
His hand unconsciously drifted to his sword. “Hurry then, cast your spell. As soon as the lock opens, we’ll surprise this Cas, strike off his head before he senses your wizardry, snatch our spoils, and begone.”
“Just remember, above all else, that sceptre comes to me.”
Kashta only grunted in acknowledgement.
The pair of thieves crept to the doors, their sandals nearly soundless against the stone. Aparis crouched before the lock, uncorking his bottle and clasping it in both hands. Kashta watched the hall, ear cocked for any approach of jingling bronze or sandals on stairs. Strange words poured from the young wizard’s mouth. An aquamarine glow seeped between slender fingers. Something hissed through the air, and—
There came a metallic click.
—the doors swung wide.
Their groaning shudder masked Kashta’s shamshir sliding from his belt. “Quickly!”
The two burst into a massive bedchamber, poised for violence.
Scant light greeted them. A pair of oil lamps dangled on bronze ceiling chains, and a thin line of moonlight slipped between heavy curtains framing a balcony. The sliver of pale light marked the foot of a stone bed.
Kashta took a step toward it, his sword already rising for a deadly stroke.
“Wait!” Aparis whispered harshly. “Something’s not right!”
The silence was broken by slow applause echoing in the dark.
“Congratulations, little thieves,” an urbane baritone mocked. “Welcome, you have found the sanctum of Cas, future Merchant King of Zabyalla.”
With a hiss, flame came to life on the far side of the room.
Kashta gasped.
Merchant Prince Cas sat cross-legged upon a marble throne so massive, the tall man’s form seemed childlike in it, nearly disappearing among a sea of cushions, all silken and flourished with silver brocade.
Midnight curls spilled around broad shoulders ringing a handsome, tawny face. An over-robe—a deep, blue-black with points of white like stars in a night sky—lay open, revealing heavy pectorals and defined abdominals sculpted from hours in his house of strength. Jewelry dripped from his body, while a mass of coins, gems, gilded weapons, pearls, silk, and more lay scattered beneath the dais at his feet.
“There it is…” Aparis murmured, ignoring the kingly fortune for one particular treasure.
A sceptre of shining platinum rested across the merchant prince’s knees. Ancient cuneiform crawled up and down its handle, the characters so sharp they stung the eye. Violet sapphires encrusted the head, and within each swam an undulating shadow, tinging their surreal beauty with the essence of a nightmare. Even looking at the thing frayed the nerve.
Kashta forced his pounding heart to calm and took a step forward. He levelled his shamshir at Cas. “We’re taking your fortune, merchant,” he spat. “Scream and I’ll flay you before your guards even reach the hall.” He would be flaying the man anyway, but there was no need to mention that. “Follow our words and you may live to see the sun rise.”
