Lost Covenant: A Widdershins Adventure

  Her hands—the only bare skin that had come into contact with the top of the broken walls—and to a much lesser extent, her knees, were slowly beginning to sting.

  “Oh, figs.”

  Shins tried to stand, tried to retreat, but her limbs felt heavier than the lead below. Her vision blurred, the room lurched, and the young woman toppled from the wall, landing with a pained grunt.

  When she looked up again, blinking to clear her vision, she found herself surrounded.

  “There's a trick to it.”

  Cyrille froze in the midst of rattling the handle yet again, beetles of ice scurrying down his neck and back. Almost against his will, he turned from the plaster door to face the hall.

  Josce Tremont, former servant of Lazare Carnot, now apparently working for Maline directly, watched him from down the corridor, half-obscured in the darkness. Not so obscured, however, that Cyrille had any difficulty spotting the rapier in the man's fist.

  “The frame's uneven,” he continued, casually striding nearer. “You have to lift up on the whole door while you push. It's a nuisance, isn't it? I imagine you wish you'd known that a few minutes ago.”

  Swallowing hard, hoping that might drown the butterflies in his stomach, Cyrille pulled the last of the three pistols he and Shins had taken from the downed sentries, and fired.

  Josce flinched, but he needn't have worried. The ball gouged a divot in the brick over a foot to the servant's left. The only thing to strike him at all were puffs of rock dust.

  “Your aim could use some work.”

  “I haven't had a lot of occasion to practice,” Cyrille admitted. He hated the quaver in his voice, and could only hope Josce didn't notice.

  The man's grin, reflected in the lantern light, suggested otherwise.

  “I have,” he told Cyrille, hefting the rapier. “Let me show you.”

  Josce burst into a run, covering the last few yards instantly, leapt the bodies of his fallen brethren, and swung.

  It was purely the length of the corridor that saved him.

  Josce's charge took just long enough for Cyrille to draw, and then raise, his stolen rapier. Steel screeched against steel, making the nobleman's ears ache and his jaw clench. By rote, more than by intent or even instinct, he launched a quick riposte, sliding his rapier along and then past the other. Josce easily sidestepped, and for a moment, the two faced one another, swords just barely kissing between them, each duelist working to keep eyes on his opponent while not stumbling over the dead or colliding with the makeshift table.

  “Nothing personal against your House,” Josce sneered, “but I do have to admit, I've wanted to kill an aristocrat for years.”

  “I've never met you,” Cyrille replied, struggling to keep cool, “but I'm sure, for all the aristocrats you have met, it's mutual.”

  The former servant, at that, lunged in the midst of a chuckle.

  It was slow, at first, calm and collected. A few thrusts and counterthrusts, parries and ripostes, then another moment of study. Cyrille felt as though every bit of his formal training was draining from his mind in a steady trickle, but thus far, muscle memory had saved his life.

  Unfortunately, a swordsman with far less schooling than Cyrille would still have quickly seen that Josce was testing him, probing, perhaps even toying with him. The servant was fast and getting faster; not merely skilled but experienced, his strikes far smoother and less rigidly textbook than Cyrille's. With each exchange of blows, Josce's strikes came nearer to punching past the boy's ever-more-desperate parries, while Cyrille was nowhere near to landing one of his own.

  He was going to die here, now, with freedom just out of reach, and both of them knew it.

  He was going to die, and quite possibly, so would everyone trapped in Castle Pauvril.

  The ring of metal echoed through the corridor; the growing stench of the bodies infused Cyrille's lungs with every desperate gasp. He no longer had any doubt at all; the bastard was playing with him. Even Cyrille was good enough to spot a couple of openings Josce could have taken advantage of.

  Now would be a great time for Shins to pop up, to rescue him, as—much as he hated to admit—she'd so often done. Since she wasn't here, though, all he had was this:

  What would she do?

  He lacked her skill. He lacked her confidence. He lacked her guile. He lacked the magic or witchcraft or whatever it was that enabled her to do all the incredible things she did. He lacked, though again he hated to admit it, her courage.

  All he had that Widdershins didn't…was family. Several of whom would die today if he failed.

  Oh, Cevora, this is going to hurt.

  When Josce next struck, Cyrille pivoted on his back foot to take the thrust, not against his blade, but through the flesh of his left arm.

  Lightning flashed through him, singeing every nerve. Starbursts filled his vision, his whole body threatened to lock up, and he realized he'd screamed only when his cry began to echo.

  Yet he didn't freeze, not utterly. They needed him not to; and she wouldn't have.

  Josce's shock was short-lived, his blade entangled in meat and bone for only an extra second or two.

  Time enough for Cyrille, his scream twisting from pure agony to seething rage, to sweep the tip of his blade through his enemy's throat.

  Cyrille stood for a long moment, wavering on his feet. All he could think, with surprising clarity, was, Without the pain and shock, I cannot help but think that the lifeblood of the first man I've ever killed spraying over my face and chest would probably upset me on some level.

  One step back toward the door, and the rapier slipped through the fingers of his unwounded arm. He glanced at it, wondered if he should pick it up, and couldn't remember why it might be worth the effort.

  A second step and he fell hard to his knees, wounded arm clenched tight to his chest, pumping frightening quantities of blood, intermingling with Josce's own. The rest of his body seemed to grow cold, numb, as the wound throbbed and burned, growing worse with every breath.

  His fingers fumbled at his sword belt. Might serve as tourniquet, at least long enough to… The plaster door, an arm's length away, began to blur, and then went dark, along with the rest of the hall.

  Widdershins felt herself yanked upright, clutched painfully hard by multiple fists around her forearms. Her stomach took a bit longer to pick itself up off the floor. She had to swallow hard, breathe deeply, focusing desperately to keep from dry heaving. The gasps served only to fill her lungs with more of the caustic fume, making her cough instead of vomit.

  Beyond even that, though, she felt horribly sick. Her head pounded, her hands and her knees burned feverishly, and every muscle in her body felt limp as a dead snake.

  “Olgun…”

  She already felt him working, felt him soothing some of the worst of the discomfort, but it was slow. Sporadic. As had sometimes happened before, Olgun—who required his lone worshipper's deliberate intent to work most of his miniature miracles—was impeded by her own difficulty focusing.

  Still, she was with it enough to know who she would see standing before her as she struggled to raise her head. She could tell from the ratty shoes, the corpse-thin legs, and the high-pitched, greasy tittering.

  “Knew it was you, knew you'd come!” Fingerbone cackled. “Tricky, bouncing, dangerous little girl. If anyone troubled us, yes, you.” His grin was awful; his breath was worse. “Searing concoction, my own formula. Just a smear atop the walls. Oh, yes, you would come over the walls, only way to avoid my friends, watching and waiting….”

  The expressions on the various Crows suggested that they weren't entirely sanguine with being identified as the mad alchemist's “friends,” but none of them spoke up to contradict him.

  Fingerbone's own smile abruptly fell and he lashed out, roughly snagging Widdershins's chin with long, grasping fingers. “Should be dead, though. More than enough contact to kill you dead, dead, even deader than that! Why aren't you still and stinking?”

&nb
sp; Shins grinned through pale, chapped lips. “My god warned me about it and protected me from the worst of it. Hey, you asked.”

  The alchemist's eyes narrowed, and then he dropped a hand and walked back toward the cauldron. “Shoot her already.”

  The two Crows holding her released their grips and stepped away; apparently neither of them wanted to be standing beside her when someone shot at her, for some reason. She was, thankfully, strong enough now to stand on her own, possibly even to run—but sure as frying frogs not to try to fight them all.

  One of the other thugs drew his flintlock.

  “Olgun, can you…?”

  She was not entirely thrilled with an answer that amounted to maybe.

  “Well, get ready to try.”

  The Crow raised his weapon.

  “No, no, no! Stupid, stupid!” Fingerbone spun back, pointing irritably at the man. “Waste of a perfectly good corpse. Use that.” His finger shifted to indicate the new ammunition, the balls formed from what had once been gold. “All of you load with that. Then all of you shoot! Dump her with the others, that much more to retrieve later.”

  “Oh, figs…Olgun, uh, do you think we're strong enough to pull that off with more than one gun?”

  This time, she'd have been quite thrilled with a maybe. It wasn't what she got.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  For an instant, she had some hope that the Crows would be foolish enough to all unload their weapons at once, giving her a chance to bolt. Alas, they weren't so stupid; the one who'd already been prepared to shoot her kept his weapon aimed as the others began to collect new ammunition.

  But it was, at least, just the one.

  “Time for something desperate, yes?” she whispered. “Be ready.” Then, “Hey! Fingerbone!”

  The alchemist cast an irritated glance back over his shoulder. “What, what? Busy!”

  “I just…I've always been curious about alchemy. Answer me one question before I die?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Is it really, really dangerous to mix different alchemical mixtures without measuring or testing first?”

  “What kind of stupid…?! Everyone knows that, idiot girl!”

  “Even just a tiny bit?” she asked innocently, followed by a whispered, “Olgun, going to need everything you can give me, and then some.”

  “Of course even just a—” Fingerbone's eyes abruptly widened.

  “Now, Olgun!”

  Shins hurled herself aside, clearing the Crow's line of fire, just as Olgun reached out. It took a heartbeat longer than usual, required a far stronger surge of power than it should, but the flintlock fired, the ball plowing harmlessly into the wall in a rain of dust. Widdershins's hand flew to one of the many pouches at her belt…

  And came out with the wineskin, wadded into a lumpy leathery mass, that she'd brought at Reeve Veroche's request. In one smooth sweep, she popped the seal open with a thumb and, guided by her unseen companion, hurled it spinning into the open cauldron.

  Gods, please work quickly, please be enough…

  It worked quickly, and it was enough.

  Shins didn't know whether the bubbling mess in the mechanism seeped through the wineskin's open neck or simply ate through the leather, but it washed over the lingering residue of the blighting agent almost instantly. The cauldron rang like a bell as something violently expanded or coalesced within, and the steam developed a sulfurous sheen. The smell, which Shins had expected to worsen, actually began to fade.

  Fingerbone shrieked and began hopping madly about the device, twisting this knob, opening that valve, gibbering something about “pressures” and “temperatures” and “incompatible miscibilities.” Where Shins was concerned, he couldn't have chosen any better response, as all the Crows who'd been in the process of reloading paused to gape.

  The thief herself, of course, broke into a frantic sprint, feet pounding so hard on the stone that they hurt—or perhaps that was the lingering influence of Fingerbone's contact poison. Still, she might have made it out of sight before the newly inspired thugs could reload and fire, had not one of the other Crows—coming running from elsewhere in the subdivided chamber to see what the commotion was—collided with her as he came around the corner.

  Shins recovered—untangling herself before driving a jab at his throat, a knee to his groin, and then an elbow to the back of his head as he doubled over—but not swiftly enough. The first of the flintlock balls whizzed past overhead, also embedding itself in a wall.

  She dropped to her knees, using the groaning thug as partial cover, and yanked the flintlock from his belt.

  “Olgun…”

  The flicker of response was muted, exhausted—but hopeful.

  Several of the Crows completed their efforts, all aiming their newly loaded weapons at the woman who'd caused them such trouble. Shins aimed back, fired first, squeezing the trigger with fingers that all but hummed with everything Olgun had left to give.

  The ball flew true, past the Crows, over Fingerbone's shoulder, and into one of the device's many spigots.

  Which promptly burst.

  The screams of several nearby Crows as the spray spattered over them were horrific, soul shriveling. Fingerbone's shrill laughter as the flesh on portions of his body began to liquefy, slough off his bones, becoming some form of viscous, metallic sludge as it stretched and wobbled toward the floor, was far, far worse.

  Widdershins—now forgotten by the remaining Crows, who had scattered in panic to avoid sharing their comrades’ fates—allowed herself just enough time to vomit copiously before wiping her mouth clean and fleeing at a shaking, staggering run.

  “Where the hell is he?!”

  The surviving hostages, now gathered together in a single large group, cringed from Maline's outburst—though a few, including Calanthe Delacroix, rather less than the others. Some wept, some whimpered, some remained stoic and defiant, but not a one of them believed they would live to hear the clock chime again. Several whispered of a last desperate rush, an attempt to overwhelm their captors with sheer numbers and fury. So far, not enough of the nobles had agreed to try it, despite the impending—and very literal—deadline.

  Except, thus far, their time hadn't run out; Maline hadn't begun marching them upstairs as he'd done the earlier groups.

  “Rene!” He grabbed one of the Crows by the shoulder and hauled the man around to face him. “Go see what in the name of the gods’ shithouse is keeping Josce!”

  The thug nodded, took two steps across the room, then froze—as they all did—at the voice from above.

  “Josce won't be joining you, Maline. He seems to have suffered a sudden fit of not being alive anymore.”

  Widdershins leaned over the second-floor balcony, elbows on the railing, chin in her hands, smiling prettily.

  “Also,” she continued, as Maline and the others stammered, growled, and pointed a variety of weapons her way, “you won't be getting any more of your special ammunition either. Fingerbone is, uh…” Even the memory of it made her face go vaguely green. “Well, his position in your gang is kind of fluid at the moment.” Then, “Hush, Olgun. The funny is so I don't throw up again. Hey! Was too funny!”

  “And you…What?” Maline had gone a furious red, the veins standing out on his neck. “Thought you'd come taunt me before I killed you? Maybe figured you'd watch me shoot a few of them, first?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Silly goose. I'm just distracting you. See?”

  Nothing happened.

  “Oh, figs.” Shins pouted. “My count must've been off. It would've been so dramatic if—”

  A barrage of shots sounded from beyond the main door, though what they might have been firing at was anyone's guess. It certainly wasn't the castle, or else they'd all have heard the impacts as well.

  “You two!” Maline cried out, already moving, “Keep your guns on the prisoners!” Everyone else followed their leader, taking up a defensive position near the door. “What's going on out there?” Maline
shouted up the stairs.

  A distant, muffled answer drifted down from one of his sentries atop the wall. “No bloody clue! Bunch of soldiers just fired into the air!”

  Widdershins, who'd been counting softly to herself since the fusillade—and far more carefully this time—piped in with, “Oh, right. That's a distraction, too.”

  Multiple flintlocks fired inside the castle, brutally cutting down the pair of Crows whose weapons were trained on the hostages. From multiple archways in multiple directions, house guards and constables flooded the banquet hall, led by Rosselin Veroche. Jourdain, captain of the Delacroix House guard, followed close behind her.

  “Also,” Widdershins called, louder now so she could be heard over the chaos, “we found your door.”

  “Please,” Veroche said, not even bothering to aim her weapon at the master of the Thousand Crows. “By all means, resist.”

  For some reason, Ivon Maline declined.

  “Maline? Maline!”

  The banquet hall was packed, mostly with aristocrats thanking their guards, hugging and laughing with friends and family, or standing stiffly while trying to convince everyone they'd been on top of things the whole time. Still, Shins had little trouble slipping, pushing, and occasionally elbowing her way through, intercepting the constables escorting the heavily manacled gang leader from Castle Pauvril.

  “What?” He tried to step forward, jerked to a halt at the end of his chains, and settled for glaring. “The hell do you want?”

  “Just a quick question.” One she had almost, in fact, utterly forgotten about. “Why did you—or maybe it was the Carnots?—anyway, why were your spies waiting for me in Lourveaux? How did you know about my link to House Delacroix in the first place? I'd never have known about any of this if you hadn't pulled me in.”

  Maline hesitated a moment, then answered with a nasty grin. “Guess you'll never know, will you, bitch?”

  The guards hustled him out, making no effort to be gentle as he stumbled again and again over the manacles. Shins didn't even watch him go; she was too busy staring off into space and reeling.