I was looking through old folders and stumbled on this. Let me know if I should continue it.

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Oath of Blood Chapter One
“Sing your praises to Jathoth, Lord of Knowledge, patron of scholars and minstrels, shaper of words, opener of locks, guardian of answers. He is the light that drives back the shadow of ignorance, and He reveals all in His own time.”
-- The Abas Codex, The Book of Water 6:1-2

Antonor the Honest strummed his déonwood lute lightly, hoping the gentle ballad was enough to ease the mounting tension in the inn’s common room, that he needn’t resort to sorcery. This evening’s patrons were farmers and craftsmen, seeking relief from the labors of the late harvest. They huddled in small groups, drinking quietly, warily as four knights, their tabbards emblazoned with a single coat of arms, debated heatedly near the central open firepit. Squires attended to the knights dutifully, purposefully ignoring the effect their masters’ words had on those around them. Seated in a shadows under the second story galley, two cloaked men paid close attention to everything the knights said.

Antonor watched Toridan dart among his customers, wringing his hands as he took orders, chirping commands to the serving girls. Antonor smiled. If his music could soothe the crowd, it could mean more than just room and board -- Toridan might even favor him a few extra coins. Though he’d made it as far as Arthanos, Antonor was still a long way from Palkaromae. With his funds and supplies all but gone, most of the remaining journey in wilderness, and winter a scant few months away, Antonor needed to either outfit himself properly or find room and board until the passes cleared. Either option required money.

He began a ribald tune that was a favorite in taverns throughout this border kingdom, challenging his rich tenor voice to shape the words in the bombastic Arthanon tongue. A farmer seemed to recognize the tune, humming along with the chorus, but otherwise there was no reaction from the crowd. Antonor fought back a frown -- clearly these knights spoke of highly controversial matters. Antonor had little use for knights; when they weren’t acting as roadside bandits they were rarely more than strongarms for the local landholders -- little more than would-be Paldeoneth with all the arrogance and none of the ability.

“My friends, we must stop the Outlander and his marauders before they conquer the entire kingdom,” said a fair, young knight, raising his voice over Antonor's song. “His raids have nearly laid waste to the Duchy of Isaenos, and if he isn’t stopped, Varran will be next.”

The young sorceror sighed -- his limited repertoire contained no upbeat songs concerning foiled bandit raids. Frustrated, Antonor attempted to gather ambient esotice and sprinkle it into his performance as he played.
Just as he had felt countless nights before on this journey, Anotonor felt somewhat guilty for using sorcery to enhance his ability -- or his audiences’ perception of his ability, anyway. Adopting the guise of a member of the Greynth College of Minstrels was hardly in keeping with being called “the Honest”; his Designator had not been awarded ironically as Greign the Chaste’s had been. But the consequences of traveling openly as a sorceror were far too dire, so Antonor resigned himself to the deception.

“And what would you have Baron Daevarra do, lad?” asked one of the older knights, a bear of a man. “Petition the King to divert our armies from the war, then? We lose the north just to stop one petty bandit warlord from raiding a few villages to the west? Sir Emerick, be reasonable.”

Antonor’s hands danced across the strings, but all he produced was music. Something seemed to block the flow of esotice into his déonwood lute -- the magical energy in the room was being drained elsewhere, or just wasn’t there to begin with -- which was more than disconcerting. Arthanos was almost the doorstep of Palkaromae Valley. The notion chafed Antonor worse than the sandburs he’d picked out of his boots this morning.

“A few villages, Sir Vaedren? Wait 'til spring, then? We’ve lost almost the entire northeast of the kingdom to this ‘petty’ warlord,” said Sir Emerick, slamming his tankard to the table and breaking Antonor’s concentration. “I tell you the Outlander is a danger to us all.” The farmers and craftsmen continued to glance at each other, shifting nervously in their seats, and Toridan’s thin, shaking hands nearly dropped a pitcher of ale as he handed it to one of his barmaids.

Antonor was neither conversant nor interested in the local politics. Bandit raids, however, could pose a serious obstacle to his journey, and that was something he could not accept -- he would reach the Valley. He had to -- for his family honor, for his pride, and, if the instructors at the University were at all correct, his soul. The young sorcerer climbed off his stool -- hitting a sour note which he hoped no-one noticed as he did so -- and began walking between the tables, extending his Sight as best he could to find what was absorbing the intrinsic esotice.

“That’s just pure fancy, Sir Emerick,” chimed in a third knight, “The Outlander will never dare encroach this far into the kingdom, Neiloth burn him. He may have frightened the western reaches, but he just doesn’t have the manpower. The King’s own men patrol this region. Vaedren’s right. You’re being unreasonable.”

“What’s unreasonable, Sir Trandel,” Sir Emerick replied, “is how His Majesty could allow the loss of the entire Duchy of Arken, and the deaths of the Duke and his vassals, to go unpunished for over five years just to perpetuate a senseless war. And now the same for Isaenos.”

As he circled the firepit, Antonor found himself growing more perturbed at the lack of ambient esotice. Master Soror had clearly said that as he approached Palkaromae, he would find esotice saturating the area in abundance. But if it was being drained from the inn, shouldn’t it be focused somewhere? Where was it going? Why couldn’t he sense it?

Sir Vaedren rose, his broad girth towering over the young knight. “You nearly speak treason against the Crown, lad.”

Sir Trandel stroked his black beard and shook his head solemnly at Sir Vaedren’s claim. “Sit down, Vaedren. ’Tis not treason if you’ve the interests of the kingdom at heart as the lad does. Besides,” he said, his expression becoming mischievous, “Emerick’s just got his heart set on winning the hand of Baron Daevarra’s daughter. Fighting the Outlander’s dogs is the lad’s only chance for glory, then.”

Sir Vaedren’s round, red face broadened into a toothy grin. “Aye, Trandel, you’ve reckoned the real spark under the lad’s argument -- ’tis always the way of the younger knights, guided by their passions than reason.” He turned his head to the heavens, his hands out imploringly. “Sweet Lady Lessetha, spare this poor knight from your assaults before his brains are rendered completely useless.”

“’Tis the passion of loyalty to my lord that guides me,” said Sir Emerick, flushing. The other three knights laughed throughout this exchange. To exploit and heighten their humor, Antonor played even more spiritedly. The fourth knight clasped Sir Emerick’s shoulder.

“Romantic notions of young knights aside, my friends, Sir Emerick does speak with a degree of wisdom. ’Tis my thought that if the King refuses to send aid to Baron Daevarra against the Outlander, perhaps our lord Baron could petition the Paldeoneth to help, then. They’d not interfere with the war effort, but they‘d surely be merciful enough to help protect these poorly-garrisoned villages while the local knights are off fighting the Iquenyans.”

The two figures in the shadows grew clearly agitated. Antonor tightened at the knight’s mention of the Paldeoneth himself, but it was prudent not to speak his mind. No one knew them as Antonor did, nor would the locals believe his tales. He continued his song, breaking into the chorus and urging the other patrons to join in. No one did.

It occurred to Antonor that another sorcerer or even a wizard could be gathering the esotice and using it for some tremendous weaving -- someone who’d established a hidden chantry this close to Palkaromae perhaps. He shook his head. That was ludicrous; only a sorcerous duel could drain an area so thoroughly, and there was no duel occuring in the tavern. Antonor would have known.

“Aye, Sir Garrendath has it a’right,” said Sir Emerick. “The warriors of the Paldeoneth Order would make short work of the Outlander. Would that my father had been one of them,” he muttered.

A movement caught Antonor’s eye. Still stroking the lute strings, still singing, he watched surreptitiously as one of the dark men sighed, his body relaxing, and nodded to his companion. The men in the shadows reached into their cloaks under the table and slowly drew their swords. Sir Emerick’s squire saw this as well, for he whispered in Sir Emerick’s ear and gestured in their direction. For a moment, Antonor felt a ripple of esotice stream through him from the doorway; following the intangible movement with his Sight, Antonor traced the flow directly to the two cloaked men.

Suddenly, Antonor felt a wave of esotice flood the room, as though a dam were broken. He almost swooned, attracting the other hooded man’s attention. Their gazes locked, and in that moment Antonor knew without doubt that not only was the man a practitioner of the esoteric arts in some manner, but the man knew he was, too.

The door to the inn burst opened, allowing a cool rush of autumn leaves and a tattered, cloaked man to enter. Staggering on legs weakened with age and stress, the ragged man almost fell into the room, steadying himself against one of the oak beams supporting the second story galley. Leaning against the beam, the fellow pushed grey hairs from his grizzled face. From the surge of esotice that followed him and clung to his cloak, it was apparent that the old fellow was a sorcerer. A sorcerer -- not a wizard. “No, no more,” the old man said, his voice dry and raspy as the leaves, his hands beating feebly at the air between him and the hooded men. Fighting against some unseen force, the old sorcerer staggered to the table of knights. “Good sir knights, I beg sanctuary,” he scarcely managed, clinging to his cloak, hiding what Antonor knew had to be there, what he hid under his own tunic -- the medalion that denoted his affiliation with the Guild. Antonor started -- a sorcerous duel had taken place. The pair in the corner brought this man here against his will. They’d worked in concert, and Antonor had been unable to Sense it. Why?

The two men in the corner rose swiftly, their swords gleaming golden in the light of the inn’s oil lamps and the central fire. “We expected you much sooner, Pellek,” said the one whose eyes had met Antonor’s, and as he stepped into the light, the man was revealed to be a tall, yellow-haired man with a drooping mustache in the style of the Erloschan plainsmen. That much of foreign cultural differences Antonor remembered from Master Soror’s lessons. “Your cowardice makes you far stronger than anticipated,” the Erloschan warrior continued. “You are to be commended.”

His companion, darker but with a similar mustache and of similar height and build, laughed cruelly. “In the time you have left, of course.” His accent was strange and fluid; his voice was like spiders skittering in the dark.

“Please,” Toridan said from the door of the kitchen, his voice barely a squeak, “please, good sirs, no hostilities in my humble establishment.”

The Erloschan snapped his attention on the diminutive innkeeper. “Keep silent and you may live this night unscathed.” Toridan squeaked again, dashing back into the safety of the other room.

Pellek jerked upright, perspiration drenching his brow, his cloak billowing of its own accord. Antonor felt a great current of magical energy flow from the old man to consume his opponents. Antonor tried, through the déonwood lute he carried, to siphon but a portion of the tide of esotice to himself, but it was futile -- it was too strong, and the pair were more than prepared for the onslaught. They welcomed the esotice, drew it to wash over them, to bathe them, to drench them.

With his Sight, Antonor sensed the pair directing the energy into their swords, and he felt those swords drink from it lustily. This comforted him somewhat; it meant that these men, like he, were limited to channeling esotice through their foci. If those swords could be separated from their wielders, Pellek might actually have a chance to survive the encounter.

Unaware of the arcane torrent that coursed through the room, Sir Emerick and the other local knights rose, drawing their own blades, but Antonor knew they acted in vain. These hooded men must be Paldeoneth, concealing their identities. The use of swords as foci was the proof. Which meant that, for his own sense of honor, Antonor must protect the old man. But how?

“This man has asked us for sanctuary,” said Sir Vaedren. “In the name of Baron Daevarra, and as his sworn vassal knight, so do I bestow it upon him. If you have a quarrel with this man, good sir, then you have a quarrel with me and my men.”

“Then you’ll all die,” said the dark-haired man, and Antonor silently agreed. “It means nothing to us.” As the bystanders scattered for the door, Antonor felt another wave of esotice pour from the old man, crashing against the swords of the warriors, and he shivered as he sensed the blades absorbing the attack, almost welcoming it. He braced himself and drew what backwash from the effect that he could, storing it in his déonwood lute, knowing it would never be enough to combat Paldeoneth Warriors. At least, praise Almiroth, they were not Paldeoneth Warlocks.

Pellek collapsed on the table, exhausted. The attack, unseen by mundane eyes, had no apparent affect on the two disguised Paldeoneth; this did not surprise Antonor in the slightest. What did surprise him was the lack of physical affect. The impact of the onslaught should have forced them to steady themselves at the very least, but they remained steadfast. “A fair attempt, Pellek,” boasted the Erloschan. “But you must have realized by now that our Oath blocks any of your pitiful assaults.”

The Oath? Antonor steadied himself against a nearby table. Could they honestly mean the Oath of Blood? Had the Paldeoneth become so corrupt this far north, in the lands of its origin? It was one thing for them to persecute a sorceror, but not even Antonor's father had practiced blood magic. No, these men couldn’t be Paldeoneth -- no Paldeoneth would be so perverse as to use blood magic. Who were these men? What were they? Antonor eased himself into the shadows.

The local knights exchanged confused glances at each other, clearly not understanding the implication. By now the tavern was empty save for the two warriors, the local knights and their squires, and Pellek. The brash young Sir Emerick stepped forward, hefting his broadsword. “You speak nonsense, good sir. You’ve heard our declaration of sanctuary. If you mean to back your threats with action, then do so or leave. Enough of this craven posturing.”

The dark-haired man laughed again, and the sound of it caused the hair on the back of Antonor’s neck to rise. “Craven? Lad, go back to guarding your cattle and waging your petty wars with your neighbors. Or die.  It’s your choice. But Pellek is ours, one way or another.”

“I think not,” said Sir Vaedren, attempting to intimidate the men with just the very presence of his monolithic girth. He brandished an imposing greatsword almost too large to swing in the confines of the common room. Antonor watched as Sir Emerick leaned to his squire, heard as he whispered, “Lofrick, fetch the Reeve.”

As the dutiful squire ran for the door, the villainous warriors traded fiendish grins, and Antonor felt the esotice in the swords ebb and surge. With amazing facility, they rushed upon the knights, their swords flashing. Sir Vaedren had no time to raise the greatsword in defense; his killers were upon his companions with cold lightning efficiency before his gutted carcass collapsed to the floor.

Sir Trandel and Sir Garrendath fared little better than their giant friend. Within seconds they lay bleeding from mortal wounds themselves, their wet, labored breathing mingling with the crackling fire as the only sounds in the room. Their squires were dead or dying. Antonor swallowed his fear as he huddled behind a table. These villains moved like Paldeoneth.

Shaking, Sir Emerick brandished his sword in the center of the room, his back to the inn’s firepit, while his two opponents circled him like birds of prey. To Antonor, using his Sight, they positively dripped of esotice, drenched in their malevolence.

“Still think we speak nonsense, young knight?” said the dark man. “I would venture that your companions no longer have any doubt.”

Antonor felt esotice trickle toward the old man, and saw that, though Pellek was clearly exhausted, he still gathered power. This shamed Antonor -- though he soaked esotice into his lute, he had done nothing with it to come to the aid of those poor local knights, or to come to Sir Emerick’s aid.

But what could he do against these men? Their swordplay was phenomenal, and the Oath of Blood acted as a powerful barrier against magics cast from those outside the circle of their Oath. The pitiful amount of esotice he pooled would be completely ineffective to assault them. Antonor was certain they were aware of him, so he could not surprise them.

Sir Emerick shook, sweat soaking his tabbard through his chainmail. The men circling him chuckled as they toyed with him, slashing out with their swords occasionally, just slow enough for the young knight to parry yet powerful enough to leave small cuts and slices. “I say, Rhondar,” said the dark man, his wicked voice adopting a flippant, foppish air, “I do believe the boy’s come to realize he’s in mortal peril. Why, his posturing is postively craven. What ever should we do?”

Glancing at the galley that circled three of the common room walls, then back at the two predatory warriors as they worried at Sir Emerick like a pack of wolves cornering a wounded elk, Antonor had a flash of inspiration. He needed the right opportunity, however, which did not seem to be forthcoming.

“Kill him quick,” said Rhondar, his attentions shifting to the rest of the common room as they circled. “The old man’s trying to gather esotice to escape, and we still have to deal with silencing that minstrel. Jaerek, I swear there’s something familiar about hi--”

At that, Antonor felt a tidal wave of esotice burst from the old man, and a dull fmph sounded through the room. The acrid tang of burned meat filled the air, while a billowing cloud of smoke took the place of Pellek on the table. “He’s translocated again,” cried Jaerek in urgent fury, and Antonor gasped. Translocation! Was there no end to the surprises this night? “We’ve got to find him. Now.”

“He can’t have gone far,” replied Rhondar. “And the effort probably left him unconscious. We can find him after we deal with--argh!” In his distraction, the blond man had relaxed his guard just enough to allow Sir Emerick to strike.
A trickle of blood ran down Rhondar’s cheek as he clamped his hand over his eye, and the blond warrior howled from either the pain or the outrage. “This pup wounded me! You’ll die painfully for th--”

This was Antonor’s opportunity. Vowing to repay Toridan somehow for the destruction he was about to cause, he dashed for the doorway and faced the rest of the room, his hands outstretched. Pouring the esotice he’d stored in his lute into the support beams of the galley, Antonor drenched the wood with the magical energy, soaking it. Then, straining until he felt his heart about to burst, Antonor tightened his control, pushing and pulling at that esotice to weaken those beams, using the weight of the galleys to assist. In an instant they buckled. In a heartbeat they broke. The galleys collapsed, an avalanche of wood and plaster crashing upon the warriors and their prey. Sir Emerick, still at the edge of the firepit, caught the least of it. Rhondar and Jaerek were buried in the rubble. Antonor used what little esotice he had left to direct some of the fire into the debris. As it ignited, the young sorcerer collapsed, the effort draining all the strength from his body, his heart pounding, the noise of his rushing blood drowning all sound. As he fell, his eyes met those of Sir Emerick, and they shared a look of fear, relief, and exhaustion.

“Y-you and the old man...you’re sorcerers, then,” said Sir Emerick, managing to stay standing. Blood trickled down the side of the knight’s face from where a shard of debris had cut across his temple. Antonor thought he heard confusion and fear fighting against admiration and gratitude in that statement.

“Your companions,” said Antonor, struggling not to faint, willing his body to remain conscious. “If they live, they'll need the services of a healer. Is there an abbey of Vanthan nuns nearby?”

Before Sir Emerick could answer, Antonor felt esotice surge from beneath the burning wreckage of the galley. Before he could shout a warning, the pile of debris exploded, buffeting Sir Emerick against the far wall. Antonor heard the cracking of bones as the knight hit. Splinters of wood, plaster and mortar rained down on them, and a wood beam cracked and landed upon Antonor’s left foot, crushing it.

With an anguished scream, Antonor nearly passed out. Fighting to remain awake, he watched in horror as Rhondar and Jaerek rose from the debris. Both men were battered, bruised, and cut, and Jaerek’s left arm hung at his side at an unnatural angle. Rhondar’s eye was bleeding profusely now, a shard of wood imbedded in the socket. Both staggered from the burning rubble as though they were walking dead animated by a necromancer. Rhondar slowly rose his sword at Antonor. “For this,” he grimaced, gesturing at his eye, “you will die slowly.”

“I...can accept that,” Antonor managed, and he winced as fire seemed to course through his leg as it did throughout the room. “But my death won’t restore your eye,” he said through clenched teeth, forcing himself to ignore the pain. “I have that to tell the Dark Queen, at least.” With that, he spat at the swordsman, noting with alarm that his spittle was red.

Rhondar raised his sword, but Jaerek stayed his hand, his eyes wide as he looked at the young sorcerer carefully. “Rhondar, look at his eyes, his face, the red hair -- this is Paltor’s son, the one who ran away from the League Stronghold in Paltovey years ago. Remember?”

Antonor gasped, but was too weak to even raise his head. How could Jaerek have known? Was he one of the men who’d killed his father?

“Of course,” said Rhondar, wincing. “I knew I recognized him. The same wicked look in his eyes. The Outlander will want this one, Jaerek.” As Rhondar raised his sword again, Antonor’s last thought was regret in being unable to repay Toridan after all. The Erloschan brought the flat of the blade down swiftly, Antonor’s senses reeled in agony, and he knew darkness.

Seriously.

Seriously.

INELIGIBLE.

tl;dnr. you should make a cliff's notes version so I can decide if it's worth my time to read this. Seriously.

IMMACULATE!

INEDIBLE.

I like it, me.

I want to know more about what's going on, which is a good sign. I like the rhythm of the invented words, although I do think there are a few too many of them for an extract of this length.

In terms of the style, I think fantasy generally could do with less adjectives and adverbs - less of a sense that the author has designs upon me as a reader, if that makes sense, and this piece suffers a little from that (although far less than many, many works that I have read in print) but there is gnarliness and energy here that I find appealing. A bit of judicious editing is all it needs imo. Keep it up, mate.