Widdershins couldn't repress a surge of white-hot jealousy at the idea, and she was ashamed. Was it fair even to ask that of him? Could she—?
“Shins?” Julien called. “Are you, uh, coming down any time soon?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Widdershins relaxed her legs and let herself slide from the branch. She slapped a quick hand against the trunk to slow her fall, as well as to twist her around feetfirst, and landed in a crouch among the bulges of the tree's roots.
“Thank you,” the major said. “My neck was starting to hurt.”
“You didn't have to keep staring at me up there, you know.”
“Actually, I—”
“I remain less than thrilled,” Igraine interjected, her voice marinating in impatience, “that we're supposed to just wait, now.”
The others nodded, though several scowls suggested that the priestess was not the only one unhappy with this stage of the plan.
“Didn't you just have this conversation?” Julien demanded. “If you've got any idea of how to find Iruoch when he could be anywhere in Davillon, I'd be delighted to hear it. Otherwise—”
“No, I don't have any such idea!” Igraine snapped. “But we're risking an awful lot on the idea that the creature not only senses Widdershins and Brother Ferrand, but that he doesn't suspect it's some sort of trap to begin with!”
“It doesn't matter what he suspects,” the Guardsman said. “You heard Widdershins. She's the only real threat Iruoch's faced since he arrived! If he thinks he feels two people with her power, he has to investigate!”
“I heard what Widdershins said, yes. I'm just not convinced that—”
The sudden flutter of songbirds taking flight was lost in the sudden, “Get down!”
It was Julien who shouted, as a shadow blotted the sun from the sky, a grotesque missile plunged into their midst, but there was little else he could do. By the time he'd even begun to move, Renard Lambert had dived forward, spurred on by expertly trained reflexes borrowed from Evrard. He slammed into Widdershins, knocking her from the path of the falling object—for indeed, it had been she, of everyone in the group, at whom the attack had been aimed.
(That she could probably have gotten herself clear—with Olgun's speed if not her own—was not the point. Julien, though clearly relieved that she was unhurt, was just as clearly horrified that, as he'd anticipated, he'd proved all but helpless in the face of their impossible enemy.)
The rest of the band leapt aside as best they could, seeking cover, shielding their faces and heads against the worst of the shrapnel. The body of the poor horse to which Iruoch had been tied—now limbless and headless—crashed to the earth, where it had been hurled with inhuman strength. On impact, a row of twine stitches poorly sewn into its belly burst open, splaying a handful of viscera-soaked rocks and bricks in all directions. Several voices cried out—Widdershins couldn't tell precisely whose—as some of those revolting projectiles drew blood or bruised flesh. The acrid stench struck nearly as hard, making her lungs burn and her chest ache.
Or maybe some of that ache was Renard laying limp across her ribs.
Widdershins squeezed out from beneath him and rolled to her feet, drawing her blade and searching intently for the source of the attack.
It didn't take her long.
He should have been a little less disturbing, a little less fearsome, viewed in the bright sunlight of midday. Instead, if anything, he was worse. He moved across the cemetery with that hideous, spastic, sideways gait, each stride seeming to take him in a different direction yet always ending up one step nearer his destination. But his shadow…Iruoch's shadow, regardless of which direction he moved, regardless of what position the sun might hold at his back or side, always pointed directly behind him, as though he were literally dragging it along by its heels.
And on occasion, it would reach a single trembling hand across the earth toward any who stared at it for too long, as though pleading with them for help….
As he drew nearer, Widdershins and the others began to hear the ubiquitous phantom chorus that surrounded the creature. They were cooing over the tombstones, making ghostly “oooooh…” noises at each other, punctuated with the occasional shrill giggle.
Renard, Julien, Igraine, and Evrard drew their pistols and fired. The thunderous crack was deafening, the wall of smoke opaque, but it was little more than a gesture of defiance, and well they knew it. Iruoch twitched—an inch this way, an inch that—and if any of the balls struck their target at all, they did so without notable effect.
“Oh, but that was a nifty trick with the horse!” his twin voices called out. “Bravo, bravo! Actually, it was kind of fun! Down the street, past hooves and feet…” His grin grew wide, his cheeks bulging. “But of course, horsey couldn't run forever. And so many nice people gathered around me when he stopped, to see if I was hurt. They were all really…sweet.”
Widdershins felt nauseated.
Another step, and another; with each, Iruoch allowed the tips of his fingers to dangle across the top of this tombstone or that, as though casually drawing a line of profanity across the sacred ground. At the fourth, however, he jerked away with a faint hiss, glaring at the offending marker—but Widdershins could not see any reason why, and the creature's course otherwise remained unchanged. He was now less than ten yards distant, and still none of the group had moved to engage.
“But what is it you've done, silly little girl, with your silly little god? What song are you singing, that came to me across the streets and rooftops and…Oh.” For just a moment he halted his forward pace, head tilted, staring first at Widdershins, then Brother Ferrand, then at Evrard and Renard, and finally at the bishop.
“Really?” The creature sounded genuinely disappointed. “That's all, then? Tricks and strands of simple, mortal magic? Mortal magics I've already seen?” He raised a hand, pointed with one long digit as though he were poking each of them in the chest with every word. “That. Is not. Exciting. To me.”
With that devastating pronouncement, Iruoch actually turned his back on them all and began to walk away. And damn it all if, for the briefest instant, they weren't inclined to let him go.
But only briefly.
It was Evrard, of all of them, to free himself of that peculiar lassitude. “Very well, then,” he announced, freeing his rapier with a dramatic flourish. “Then let us endeavor to make things more interesting.” He broke into a charge, feet crushing the emerald grasses, and Iruoch turned once more to meet him.
The aristocrat held the blade lowered like a lance, his attack surprisingly clumsy and straightforward for one of his supposed skill, and the fae creature easily sidestepped, lashing out with two fingers for the back of Evrard's exposed neck…
But Evrard was no longer there. Even as his awkward charge had carried him adjacent to his opponent, he dived, turning his momentum into a sideways roll across the lawn. His shins caught Iruoch at the ankles and yanked his feet out from under him, sending the gaunt figure sprawling.
Or so it should have done—to anyone human. Iruoch landed not on his back, but on his fingertips. For a single blink they held him upright, stiff as a plank, staring up at the sky. Then they flexed, all eight of those spidery digits, launching him upright once again. Evrard, wary and more than a little stunned, had rolled back to his feet and carefully circled, blade at the ready, just beyond reach.
If the creature's impossible recovery had shocked the duelist, however, it had also spurred his allies into action. Crying out with a single voice, Widdershins and the others who were linked by the spell converged on their enemy, with Sicard, Igraine, and Julien trailing behind, hoping to make themselves somehow useful. The Guardsman brandished his blade, the two priests their amulets sculpted into various holy symbols of the Hallowed Pact.
“Olgun? Let's do this.” The tickle across her skin, the blown kisses of distant candles, wasn't quite the same as she was accustomed to. It felt as though it had picked up an odd current, as though portions of Olgun's power we
re flowing through her on their way to somewhere else. Again she saw Ferrand's eyes go wide, and she actually shared briefly in his confusion, but for all that, the young monk kept up. His wrists twisted, spinning the bishop's rod of office like a quarterstaff before him.
Iruoch clearly heard them coming; with a creaking of old wood, he rotated his head completely around to see them. And he laughed.
Evrard lunged, but even his vaunted prowess was too slow. Iruoch lifted his knees straight up, yanking his feet off the earth so he abruptly dropped. He landed once again on his fingers, spread wide beneath him. The blade passed harmlessly over his head, and the creature thrust his legs back down, standing straight once more.
But his hands were no longer bare. Long strips of grass and clods of earth clung to his spindly fingers, seemingly stuck fast.
A flick of the wrist, and those globules of soil hurtled toward Evrard's face. The aristocrat craned his neck, flinching away from the missiles, and in that split second it was Iruoch's chance to lunge.
Had he succeeded in wrapping Evrard entirely within his grip, the man would already have been dead, ripped apart in ribbons of flesh and blood. But the duelist was almost quick enough to avoid the attack, despite his momentary blindness. He retreated swiftly, practically leaping, and Iruoch caught only the end of his left arm. Still he screamed, despite himself, and Widdershins winced in sympathy. She'd felt the touch of the murderous fae before, felt her skin rip beneath it. She knew that, lacking Olgun's aid in healing, Evrard would be feeling the pain of that clutch for a long time to come.
Iruoch bent backward at the waist, hurling Evrard over him by that captive arm. Ferrand ducked beneath the living projectile, but as Iruoch had thrown him directly at Widdershins—who had, herself, been rushing forward in a dead sprint—she wasn't quite so lucky. She twisted, so that what might have been a bone-shattering impact was instead only bruising, sending them both tumbling over each other across the grass.
But it wasn't the pain of the attack, or even the undignified sprawl in which she and Evrard found themselves, with his head flopping dazedly across her chest, that disturbed her. No, it was the sudden consternation she sensed from her partner in the bishop's spell. Shoving the aristocrat aside, she looked up just in time to see Brother Ferrand's headlong pace slow so abruptly that he stumbled over his own feet. Iruoch casually backhanded him aside, and it was neither magic nor the monk's skill, but blind luck, that allowed the staff to take the bulk of the blow. Ferrand staggered and fell, but he was merely winded, rather than crippled or dead.
Even before Widdershins could ask herself, or Olgun, why Ferrand had stumbled, why he'd slowed, she understood the answer.
The spell linked him to her, not to Olgun. He shared in her strength, not the god's. And that meant that only when Olgun was actively exercising his divine influence, however limited, on Widdershins's behalf…only then, and at no other instant, could Ferrand himself draw upon the power of the god.
How long could Olgun maintain a constant flow of power, without needing time to rest and recover? A few minutes, at best? Not long enough; not since the hallowed earth of the cemetery didn't seem to be any more than a mild inconvenience to their enemy, not if he had the wherewithal to actually use the terrain against them as he had done. Every advantage they possessed was suddenly taunting, slipping away, promising far more than it could deliver.
Renard had moved past her as she struggled to stand, engaging Iruoch with a display of swordsmanship the likes of which he'd never before exhibited. Blades flashed and Iruoch swayed, sidling from the weapon's path here, parrying with a finger against the flat of the blade there, but Renard continued to press. It wasn't enough to have one chance in a million of beating the creature—odds were it wasn't even enough to survive him for long—but it allowed the others to recover their bearings.
Muttering a brief summary of what she'd just figured out—not because anyone could hear her, but so that Ferrand would remember hearing it, thanks to their peculiar link—Widdershins once again darted forward under Olgun's power. Her own sword glinted in the sun as it darted and struck, but she took only a few small shreds of Iruoch's cloak for her trouble. Ferrand, for his own part, succeeded in landing a brutal knock against the creature's knee, but the resulting limp lasted for only for a fusillade of heartbeats before it vanished.
Time and again the four of them sought to converge on Iruoch, pinning him between them in the hopes of dishing out enough injury to slow him down, if not destroy him. And time and again, he evaded their every effort, either sidling out from between two of them faster than they could react, or even leaping overhead to land some yards distant. Never could they manage to attack him in more than pairs—or, if they were truly lucky, a trio—before he found a way to disengage. Thanks to their inhuman speed, Widdershins and Ferrand had both landed the occasional blow, and even Evrard had gotten in a good thrust while the creature was distracted, but none of the wounds had lingered. Iruoch appeared as healthy, and as fresh, as the moment he arrived, whereas the humans—even drawing on each other's strengths, to say nothing of Olgun's—were growing tired.
The grass around them was trampled flat, the dust kicked up in hovering puffs. Anyone who observed the ground afterward would have believed a pitched battle with dozens of soldiers must have taken place here. But for all they darted to and fro, parried back and forth, ran and twisted and slashed and lunged, it remained meaningless.
Iruoch and the chorus of ghostly children never ceased their cackling and giggling.
Evrard slashed, the creature sidestepped, and Widdershins abruptly dived. Rolling beneath the aristocrat's arcing sword, she came to her feet only inches from Iruoch, thrusting her own blade clear through his belly. For the first time in what seemed forever, the laughter ceased. A twitch of pain racked his face, but Widdershins had no time to savor her victory, however minor. While she easily ducked below the swipe of fingers that she knew was coming, neither she nor Olgun were fast enough to avoid the knee that followed. Her head ringing, blood coursing from a split lip and one nostril, Widdershins tumbled back to fetch up against the side of a tombstone. Iruoch moved as though to follow, but Evrard and Renard closed in, weaving a wall of steel, buying her a moment to catch her breath.
She glanced up, puzzled, as Ferrand reached out a hand to help her rise. “I'm not much good while you're out of it,” he reminded her, smiling through a purple-mottled jaw.
Blinking to clear the spot and splotches from her vision, Widdershins took in the scene before her. The two swordsmen were falling back, step by rapid step, scarcely able to slow Iruoch. Julien and Igraine had reloaded their pistols, searching in vain frustration for a clear shot and all too aware that it wouldn't help even if they found one. Sicard held his silver Eternal Eye amulet before his face in a trembling fist, breathing heartfelt and ever more desperate prayers across its surface.
Widdershins watched the bishop's mouth moving just beyond the icon, as though entranced. Then, as if abruptly unaware of the urgency of what was happening around her, she turned toward the tombstone against which she'd been hurled. It was very similar to all the others in the cemetery—very similar to the one Iruoch had, abruptly, pulled away from as he approached.
Much was embossed in the hard granite: names and dates, of course, ivy and leaves and growing things…And the symbols of the various gods to whom the fallen had been most closely devoted.
Whether it was the mystical link between them or a more mundane understanding, Ferrand nodded sharply. “Will it be enough?”
“Bet it'll slow him down, at least,” she said.
“Will we be enough?”
“The three of us will. Olgun?”
She swore she could sense the god taking a deep breath, bracing himself against—against whatever spiritual surface he might have had to brace himself. “On three,” she told Ferrand.
“One.”
The two of them laid their hands upon the headstone, one on each side, gripping as tight a
s the broad and relatively smooth surface would permit.
“Two!”
They burned with the surge of Olgun's power, infusing flesh, muscle, bone. Between the two of them, the heavy granite rocked easily within its shallow foundation of soil.
“Three!”
The tombstone wrenched free of the earth, dripping dirt and beetles and strands of root. Again, Olgun's power flared within them and they were running, faster even than they had before, when unencumbered by hundreds of pounds of stone.
Widdershins felt Ferrand's exhaustion as a lapping tide against her calves even as she struggled to repress her own. A quick glance his way, and she nearly dropped her side of the stone; his cheeks were pale and hollow, his brow glistening, as though he'd gone for nights with neither sleep nor food over the span of the last minute. She wondered if she looked half that badly off, if she'd even feel it if she were.
Iruoch saw them coming, of course. But just as he began to step back, Evrard and Renard redoubled their attack, pinning him into place for an extra few seconds…
With a twin scream not entirely dissimilar from the creature's own voice, Widdershins and the monk slammed the makeshift battering ram into the creature, leading with the holy symbol of Geurron along the topmost edge.
Bone and granite cracked in an ear-rending duet. The phantom children gasped and fell silent, even as Iruoch screamed. Widdershins pushed forward, onward, until her enemy collapsed, pinned to the earth beneath the weight and sanctity of the carven stone.
“Now! While he's down!” She struck as she cried out, thrusting with the tip of her blade, aiming for the face, the neck. Around her, the others did the same with sword and staff, struggling, hoping, praying that they could actually kill the damned thing before it had the opportunity to recover.