Page 2 of The Darkest Oath

Rollant’s heart stilled. His mind, once consumed with thoughts of vengeance, filled with the faces of his wife and daughter. The thought of leaving them vulnerable made his soul cry out in despair. He would do anything—anything—to stay with them.

A dark figure loomed over him with celestial hair floating like sunrays behind her head. Her eyes shimmered like distant stars. The coldness came with her presence and lay heavy on Rollant’s body. “A knight so brave and just should not endure such treachery. A blameless one the King needs. I am his sorceress, a guardian for his lineage, and I choose you.”

She presented an offer of salvation laced with cruelty: “I shall give you eternal life if you give your years in service of the French crown.”

The weight of the offer pressed down on him. Eternal life was meant for the righteous with the Lord in Heaven, not in this world.

Her wintry fingers wrapped around his heart and squeezed, cutting his debate short.

“Do you desire life?” she asked, softer but more insistent. It came from a place beyond death, beyond the light of God. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t right. Eternal life came from God, not from dark forces. Whether his acceptance of the sorceress’ offer would sever him from his creator forever stilled his soul.

But knowing Arnoul would take his precious Amée and raise Cateline sat raw in his belly. If he accepted the offer, he would live and ensure Amée and Cateline were protected and loved, but after their passing, he would never see them again. But if Arnoul, who succumbed to Lucifer’s temptations, took care of them, their souls might be lost, having been led by Arnoul’s ill-fated guidance.

Icy tendrils crept down his spine, and the light faded the more he thought. The enigma pressed against his chest, tightening it and taking away his breath. The sorceress would only present this offer once. He had one choice: natural or unnatural, right or wrong, survival or surrender. Questions plagued him: How long was eternity? How long until he went mad after Amée and Cateline were stolen by time? Would he age but never die? The consequences of eternity could not be weighed. If it could not be weighed, then his answer should be no. But yet, she dangled his family before him like a golden dream. Who would care for Amée and Cateline? Him or Arnoul?

“Make your choice or death it shall be, and with your wife, Arnoul shall replace thee,” she crooned in a sultry whisper. Her form held him, frozen, suspended between life and death.

There would be no peace, no reunion in Heaven, only endless years trapped in a body that refused to die. And yet, it was the sacrifice he was willing to make for his family.

“Yes,” he said with closed eyes without further thought of the consequences that would surely come. The moment the word slipped from his tongue, the release of death was snatched away. His chest seized, filling with a breath not his own. Its piercing freeze burned its way down his throat.

The sorceress’ celestial hair faded and transformed as the world twisted and sharpened in focus. Her presence faded into the folds of darkness with a simple whisper, “It is done, Chevalier Rollant de Montvieux.”

Time had passed. Bright stars littered the night sky. God’s creations glared at him with cruel disgust. Blood cried up from the trembling ground. Agony seared his limbs as the bones in his hand snapped back together with a sickening crunch. His body contorted and spasmed as life sprang to his limbs. Blood reversed its flow and returned to his neck in an even stream, choking him, drowning him, until he breathed with clarity and ease. Every breath, though, was frigid and foreign. Heavy and oppressive, the night pressed in on him as though the stars and the earth had recoiled from his return.

Spent, his body collapsed atop the dirt. Tears filled his eyes. At least he could still serve God by protecting the crown. The thought was hollow and did nothing to soothe his fractured soul. He did not feel complete; he did not feel whole. He had fallen from God. Maybe he did not have a soul anymore, just the spirit given not by the creator but by a sorceress. Perhaps that was why each breath was foreign and bitter.

“What have I done?” he whispered, fearing a colder, darker, and far more painful life of no escape. He had stood for honor, for loyalty to God and the king. Yet he lay there with the steel of his brother’s sword still warm with his blood. He had trusted Arnoul and believed in the righteousness of their cause. Every day, he had trained to be a warrior to protect holiness. Every night, he prayed for strength to remain blameless and to keep a repentant heart. Now, all he saw was the empty shell of that honor, that lifelong purpose, crumbling away under the weight of betrayal and immortality. Where was the justice?

Arnoul walked away free to live, free to die, free to take his land and wife. Rage burned in his chest. Arnoul had forced his hand in accepting the sorceress’ deal. If that traitor had not cut him down, he would not have had to give up death to save his wife and daughter from that miserable knightly imposter. He was condemned to wretchedness because of Arnoul’s treachery, Arnoul’s wrong. It was Arnoul’s doing. Arnoul deserved punishment. Arnoul had stolen his honor, his peace, his hope of a life with God. Arnoul deserved pain. Arnoul deserved to die.

“I shall him slay.” The words escaped through clenched teeth, his voice hoarse. His body trembled from the rising fury that spread through him like fire, hotter than the stars. The pain that had once gripped him was gone, replaced by a fierce clarity. The thought of God’s will lingered in the corners of his consciousness, but his mind was consumed by one thought—Arnoul.

Pushing himself up from the dirt, his limbs ached, but strength had not left them. The world around him seemed to narrow, the stars above shrinking into insignificance. His fingers curled into fists, the knuckles white against the night.

Rollant would serve justice. He would make Arnoul live the same agony he felt when he was struck down by a man he had once called brother.

He crossed the bloodstained expanse of the Crusaders’ encampment with swift strides. His unwavering resolve propelled him forward and muted the laments of the injured and dying. He glided like a phantom as if enveloped in darkness by the sorceress herself, causing his surroundings to fade into a black blur.

The man who betrayed him lay asleep, exposed and unsuspecting, beneath the tattered remains of a Crusader banner. His sword was still close at hand, with Rollant’s ale and salted meat bag thrown by his side. The thief!

Arnoul stirred gently, mumbling in his sleep, “Forgive me.”

The moonlight illuminated his contorted lips and furrowed brow in nightmarish slumber, as Rollant drew Arnoul’s sword into his hand.

Slay him. Cut him down as he has done to me.The thought blazed in his mind, filling him with the cold burn of hate. Arnoul deserved to die. He had taken everything—honor, trust, and life itself. Rollant had followed the code of knights, fought for God and country and king, and now it all lay in ruins at Arnoul’s feet. He was cursed to life forever and never be one with God.

“End it,” he muttered as his knuckles grew white around the hilt of Arnoul’s sword. It would be a cowardly murder. An unarmed, sleeping man would be no threat. Yet the stale, foreign air passing over his lips, not full in life but neither in death, ground to silence every code and honorable virtue to which he had pledged his life.

His hand wavered. The blade trembled. A strange chill crept into his chest and stayed. The sound of an indecipherable whisper echoed in his skull. Doubt gnawed him. He blinked. His vision blurred. He could feel her presence—the sorceress. If he were condemned to live forever, then Arnoul would be condemned to die for his betrayal. If the sorceress granted Arnoul immortality, too, then Rollant would be a thorn in Arnoul’s side for all eternity.

He raised the blade high. The steel glinted in the moonlight. His vision tunneled, focused on Arnoul, who was unaware that the Angel of Death waited for him. Oh, how it must have been when Arnoul took the blade to Rollant’s throat mere hours before. The treacherous thought sealed Arnoul’s fate.

In a swift arc, Rollant wrenched the blade back and brought it down, cutting Arnoul deep in the throat, severing the voice before a single scream could escape and wake the soldiers who slept nearby. Arnoul’s gurgling filled the space between the dying and the immortal. Arnoul’s eyes beheld Rollant and grew wide beneath the moon. The color drained from his face as if he’d seen a ghost.

“This is no dream, old friend,” Rollant whispered.

Arnoul’s hands scrabbled at his neck, and blood spurted from his lips. Rollant spat on Arnoul’s surcoat and watched as the light faded in Arnoul’s eyes.

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