Lost Covenant: A Widdershins Adventure

by Ari Marmell

  “People are going to get hurt, Cyrille. Killed.”

  “I'm aware,” he said again. “I'm going to help make sure it's the right people.”

  Widdershins's fists clenched around an imaginary neck, but no amount of wishing seemed to incline the boy to suddenly appear in them. “I could just knock you out,” she said, pointing her chin toward the surviving Crow.

  “Then come do it. It's the only way I'm staying behind.”

  Gaaaaah! “You'd also be completely helpless if—when—they found you,” she pointed out.

  “Yes. I would.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she hissed at Olgun. “I know I'm beaten, don't rub it in!” Then, so Cyrille could hear, “Fine! Whatever. But if you get spotted or heard, or slow me down, you're on your own!”

  “Of course.” She couldn't tell if he believed her threat, or cared even if he did. “So what's first?”

  “First, I finish this.” She quickly tied the slumbering Crow, using the remaining sword belt and the man's own trousers.

  “Then,” she said, dusting her hands off, “we see if we can tell what the happy hopping horses Maline's up to, so we know what exactly we're trying to ruin.”

  After dropping to their stomachs and sidling up to the edge of the balcony once more, however, it became very clear that whatever Maline was “up to” had already begun. One of the huddled groups of hostages—guards and servants, if Shins recalled correctly—was now absent from the banquet hall. So were a handful of the Thousand Crows and Ivon Maline himself.

  “Still way too many of them down there,” Shins muttered.

  “So what do we do? Trying to find the missing would be…There's about five hundred possible exits from that room!”

  “Eleven,” the thief replied with a faint grin. Olgun cackled.

  In fact, it was closer to half a dozen, not counting the main door, but even that was a lot of random searching to do. Except…

  “Olgun?”

  It took a few moments of pacing the hall, trying to make the echoes of the old gaping passageways work for her, her ears tingling until they itched. Eventually, however, her god-enhanced hearing picked up the staccato percussion of shoes on stone. Several walls stood between her and the source—but of far greater importance was that the sound came from progressively higher as she listened.

  “They're climbing,” she whispered. “The ramparts, or maybe one of the towers.”

  “What are they doing up there?”

  “I have an idea,” Widdershins told him, casting about for the nearest stairs. “Let's go find out before they manage to actually do it!”

  No snow had fallen in almost a week, but winter hadn't remotely relinquished its grip on Galice, or the Outer Hespelene in particular. The winds flowed over the parapet and through the merlons, so that anyone standing atop the wall felt a constant barrage of biting cold.

  Standing or, as Widdershins and Cyrille had uncomfortably discovered, even crouching.

  Finding their way up to the ramparts had been simple enough, as Castle Pauvril had multiple sets of stairs leading to almost every level. Once there, although they'd stepped out into the open via an exit far from where Maline and his people would have appeared, they heard enough of a commotion to know that their quarry was indeed on the wall, as opposed to climbing one of the towers.

  Since striding openly into sight of the Thousand Crows would have been so foolish that even Cyrille knew better, the only remaining option had been for the two sneaks to press themselves against the inside wall and work their way forward at a slow crouch. Bits of old leaves and feathers jutted from between the bricks and from various widening cracks. Guano, old enough to crunch underfoot but not so old it had lost its oh-so-pleasant aroma, speckled the walkway. To Widdershins, who had spent whole nights traversing the roofs of Davillon, it felt like home.

  Or it did until the sounds ahead grew clearer, and she was forced to remember who and what she was dealing with. As one of the Finders, as an enemy of religious fanatics, she'd encountered men and women of extreme violence, harsh brutality. But she had never seen anyone kill so callously as she'd seen Maline do below—or no one human, anyway.

  She heard other sounds as well, beneath the shuffling and muttering and occasional frightened sob, beyond the low wail of the wind. It took her a moment to place it as the amalgamated symphony of speech and movement from scores, if not hundreds, of people on the ground below.

  Of course. The armsmen and constables—probably more now even than there had been. At least the Crows had no easy means of escaping the keep.

  Then again, that might just make them more desperate. And how the happy horses had they gotten into the stupid keep, anyway?

  A few more feet, a few more degrees of the ramparts’ curve, and Shins could just see the group ahead: Ivon and a gaggle of his thugs, along with over a dozen servants and household soldiers. The former carried firearms—at least two per person—and Shins saw a few of them wearing bandoliers that held several more. The latter had hands bound behind their backs and were lined up at the parapet, ensuring that any incoming fire would strike them first. Most of the armsmen stood rigid, defiant; most of the servants shuffled or sobbed. Maline seemed equally contemptuous of both.

  “I'm waiting!” he shouted, voice booming over the wall, making Widdershins jump. “I don't enjoy waiting! Don't make me show you how much!”

  Clearly, at least some amount of discussion had already occurred before the two young eavesdroppers arrived.

  “All right, all right!” This second voice came from below; distant, tinny, muddled by the breeze. Still, Shins was fairly certain she recognized the authoritative tones of Reeve Rosselin Veroche. “I'm here, now, Maline! Anything you want to say or negotiate, you say it to me!”

  The master of the Thousand Crows snorted. “You're in charge? The Houses actually deigned to let you lead something more important than a barn raising? They must be desperate!”

  “Just say your piece!”

  “Right.” He stopped a moment, took a wineskin from one of the Crows, and drank.

  All the yelling must be hard on his throat, yes?

  “It's simple enough! All the Thousand Crows and all the members of House Carnot currently in custody are to be brought here immediately. Once they've arrived, and I've determined they're all present and largely intact, you will permit us to leave with some of the hostages, who will be released when we're on the road!”

  “Isn't it kind of stupid,” Cyrille whispered in Widdershins's ear, “to bring them all here? Wouldn't gathering someplace easier to get away from make more sense?”

  Shins waved him off, but in truth, she'd been wondering the same.

  “…could take some time,” Veroche was calling back. “You'll need to be patient!”

  This time, when Maline snorted, it wasn't with humor. “Let me explain my idea of patience!”

  A flintlock spoke, heard clearly across the castle and the surrounding fields. One of the servants dropped. At a gesture from their leader, two of the Crows lifted the body and dumped it over the parapet. Widdershins couldn't hear the reaction of the soldiers below over the cries of the remaining servants—or Cyrille's choked gasp.

  “Until my people are here, I am going to keep killing hostages on a steady basis! I'll start with guards and servants, but I have no compunctions about moving on to the nobles if you test me!”

  One of the Crows, glancing over the wall, aimed his own weapon downward and fired.

  “Don't even think of approaching the castle!” Maline continued. “That includes any effort to reach the bodies! You can collect them after we're done, not until then!”

  “How long are you giving us?” Even from this distance, the frustration and burning anger in the reeve's words rang clear.

  Maline's answering smile made Widdershins shiver. “Until I feel I need to reiterate my point.”

  Every one of the gathered Crows opened fire. And every one of the hostages atop the wall died screamin
g.

  Widdershins wept openly as she and Cyrille staggered back to the stairwell from which they'd emerged, each of them unsteady, each leaning heavily on the other. Her shoulders shook, she struggled to breathe, and the whole world had gone blurry behind her tears.

  Cyrille, it appeared, couldn't manage even that, through his shock. His eyes—wide, glazed, and bloodshot—focused on nothing in particular, and were redder, in fact, than his face, so paper-pale had he become. He took each step by rote, keeping up with his companion but always turning where she led, moving at her chosen pace.

  When the door finally closed behind them, it mercifully silenced the last of the lingering sounds: the occasional shot, if one of the Crows decided someone wasn't dead enough; the coarse jests and occasional laughter of the heartless bastards; the grunts of exertion as body after body was hefted over the parapet to tumble down to the growing heap of torn flesh and splintered bone below.

  It also finally cut the bite of the wind, but Shins hardly noticed. She wasn't certain she'd ever feel warm again. Even Olgun couldn't comfort her, as she sank down to sprawl on the steps beside her companion; he seemed far too horrified, and far too enraged, himself.

  “Widdershins…” Cyrille could have been some unreal spirit, for all he seemed to be fully present. “They just…He…”

  “I know.” She sniffled, dragged the back of her hand across her cheek.

  “I've never…” He cleared his throat. “Never seen anything that…that…”

  Shins clasped her hand over his, thinking back to the veritable sea of gore on the day Olgun's other worshippers had been slaughtered. “I'm sorry you had to.”

  “We need to kill him.”

  Shins scowled, though in all honesty, she could probably have driven her blade into Maline's gut or throat in that moment without any of the remorse she'd felt earlier. “That's part of what we're trying to figure—”

  “No, I mean now.” When all she did was stare, puzzled, he continued, “They weren't rushing to be done with…with everything. We could go down a floor or two, cut across, ambush them on the other stairway.”

  “Cyrille—”

  “They'd never see it coming. And I know you've taken on more people than that at once! We—”

  “No!”

  The young Delacroix recoiled as if slapped.

  “Yes,” she said more softly, “I've fought that many people before. But only when I've had to. It's always a risk, especially in such tight quarters. Odds are pretty good we'd end up dead.

  “And even if not, what sort of orders do his people have? What happens to everyone downstairs if Maline dies?”

  “I don't know,” he grudgingly admitted.

  “Right. We don't know enough yet, Cyrille. When we do, then we do something about it, yes?”

  “All right,” he grumbled. He began dragging himself to his feet, one hand on the banister, and then paused, his expression quizzical.

  “Hmm?” Shins inquired, standing smoothly.

  “Just…Isn't it weird? For a man that bloody heartless?”

  “What's weird?”

  “That he wants his people brought to him. That even a right bastard like Maline won't run off and leave his friends behind.”

  Widdershins's whole world compressed itself into a razor-edged dagger, thrust up through her stomach and into her heart. She felt every pulse of blood through her body, felt it pounding in her head. She couldn't breathe; would have literally doubled over, perhaps collapsed entirely, had not Olgun stepped in, catching her, holding her muscles upright with a sharp surge of power.

  She wanted to scream. Cry. Curse, as she hadn't even in her youth, let alone recently. Lash out, break her fist against a wall—or break Cyrille's jaw against a fist. She wanted every last one of the Thousand Crows before her, a blade in her hand, and damn the consequences.

  None of it, however, could mask the overwhelming shame blossoming like an unwanted weed in the depths of her soul.

  Even a right bastard like Maline won't run off and leave his friends behind.

  But I did.

  “Olgun?” She said nothing more, but he had to know what she was thinking. She felt his touch, his genuine efforts to soothe; to reassure that it wasn't the same thing at all. She felt, but she couldn't absorb, like listening to mumbled words through a heavy curtain. She couldn't understand most of his reassurance, let alone believe, and most of what she did comprehend she felt certain had to be a lie.

  “Shins? What's wrong?”

  How long had she been standing there, marinating in horror and self-loathing? She had no idea, couldn't even begin to guess. All she could do was raise her head to meet Cyrille's worried gaze, and shrug.

  “Fine. Sorry. Let's move.”

  She turned and bounded down the first flight of steps before he could even begin to ask a question.

  Thankfully, Olgun remained sufficiently together to warn her before she bounded right into the midst of a milling handful of Crows.

  “So now what?” Cyrille whispered. The two of them were huddled on the steps, roughly halfway between the second floor and the next-highest landing. The balcony and connected halls, empty when they'd made their way to the ramparts, were now quite thoroughly occupied. Shins didn't know if the Crows had yet found their two missing companions, stashed away in one of the rooms, but clearly they'd at least noticed the pair's absence.

  “I'm not sure,” she confessed, sucking at her lip between her teeth. “We can't do anything if we can't see what's going on downstairs, but the balcony looks kind of crowded just now. They're scrambling around like ants out there. Really big, person-shaped ants.

  “With guns.”

  “I seem to remember…Hmm.” Cyrille traced a finger through the air, seemingly drawing random patterns.

  “What the figs are you doing?”

  “Trying to re-create the layout of the castle in my head,” he answered. “So we would be over…right.” He dropped his hand and smiled. “There's a small gallery that overlooks the banquet hall from the end opposite the main doors. Several of the banners are hung really close to it, so we should be able to peek through without anyone seeing us from below.

  “We could get hemmed in by the Crows searching this floor,” he acknowledged. “There's no door to close off the gallery. But it's accessed through a fairly obscure hall, and it's got two separate, open arches leading into it; they'd have to come at us through both to pen us in.”

  “How in pastries’ name do you know this?”

  “Grew up a noble in Aubier. I told you, we've held occasional functions here before. I was so curious, before I was old enough to attend, I listened to and read everything I could on Castle Pauvril.”

  “Fantastic!” Shins clapped him on the back, hard enough to make him wince. “So how do we get there?”

  “Uh…” Was he blushing? It was hard to tell, but she was pretty sure he was blushing. “About a third of the way around the hall. To the left.”

  “Past the room we left the first two Crows.”

  “Right,” he said through a sickly grin.

  “And the bulk of the other Crows currently on the second floor. Whom, I would like to point out, are currently failing spectacularly at being either unconscious or dead.”

  “Right.”

  Widdershins sighed, crept back down the stairs to the second-story landing, and dropped once more to her stomach. From there, she wormed forward and took two quick looks through the doorway, one in each direction.

  “That one guy to the right,” she breathed. “The one in that monstrous green tunic that looks as though it's made of lime pelts.”

  A brief tingle of acknowledgment; Olgun knew who she meant.

  Again a quick look, then another, as the Crows checked various doorways. Until, “Now!”

  They were all armed, the thugs and brigands scouring the second floor. Two of their own had vanished; of course they were prepared for trouble. They also, however, were men who—though accustomed to
violence—had never been formally trained.

  Thus, while many of them were disciplined enough to keep the flintlocks in their hands aimed upward when not actually preparing to shoot someone, not all of them did.

  The man in the aforementioned tunic—which really did make him appear to have some personal grudge against citrus—stepped back, allowing one of his companions to pass down the hall.

  Olgun reached out, and the man-in-green's pistol fired.

  He'd held it casually, only half-extended, so it wasn't a particularly good shot. The ball punched a hole through the other Crow's arm, but it wasn't a lethal or, depending on how well it was treated, even necessarily crippling wound.

  It was, however, sufficient.

  Drawn by the screams and the thunder of the shot, the Crows on the second floor—and, indeed, a few from the first—converged on their brethren, one huddled against the wall, bleeding and wailing, the other staring at him with shocked incomprehension. Whether they would believe his tale of a misfire or assume he'd turned on one of their own and treat him accordingly, Widdershins neither knew nor cared.

  She knew only that for a few precious moments, the path between them and the gallery was clear.

  She could make it fine. At this distance, in this light, she could make herself all but invisible. Cyrille, however…

  Cyrille could only run and pray that their distraction was distracting enough.

  “Run,” she hissed at him. “And pray.”

  He ran. She sneaked, watching over her shoulder until her neck ached. Olgun waited, poised, ready to attempt another trick if someone did glance their way before Cyrille had made the bend in the corridor.

  None of them did, and Widdershins breathed a sigh of relief so intense she nearly deflated as she followed him around the corner.

  Where she almost ran into him, standing with his arms crossed in the center of the hall. “What are you—?”

  “How did you do that?” he demanded.

  “Do what?”

  “That thing with the pistol. I've seen you do some amazing things, but that was unnatural!”