False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure)

by Ari Marmell

  “What,” Iruoch asked, head cocked sharply to one side, “was that supposed to…”

  He blinked, peering over Widdershins's shoulder toward the horse; toward the rope harness that no longer led to the wagon, but instead stretched across the ground toward the two opponents. One of those spindly fingers rose to poke at the awkward noose of hemp that now lay around his neck.

  Widdershins stood, smiled, and raised the strip of leather reins that she'd cut free at the same moment she'd sliced through the rope.

  “Oh, phooey,” Iruoch said.

  Widdershins turned and snapped the leather, with a whipcrack, across the animal's chestnut haunches. A startled whinny and the horse was off, galloping through the abandoned streets. The rope snapped taut, and Iruoch, too, was gone, dragged across the dirt and cobblestones behind the animal's mad dash.

  Again she turned, this time into a rising tide of disbelieving stares. She shrugged and tossed the rapier in a gentle arc toward Julien. He caught it awkwardly, apparently unable to tear his gaze from Widdershins to the blade.

  “We really need to go,” she told them.

  She got nothing but a few scattered blinks for her trouble.

  “No, really,” she insisted. “That's only going to buy us a few minutes. We need to not be here when he gets back.”

  More blinking, more staring.

  Widdershins threw up her hands, grumbled something, and then proceeded down the street at a brisk pace, trusting the others to fall in behind her.

  They did, but by the time they'd reached the Flippant Witch quite a few blocks away, the others hadn't said a word.

  And they were still staring at her.

  Nor was there a great deal of discussion about what had just happened immediately after they arrived, because Widdershins and Robin had spent a good twenty minutes just holding each other and alternating between laughter and tears.

  Given that it remained early in the morning, and thus outside normal business hours for an establishment of this sort, the tavern was empty of customers. The group had pushed two of the tables together for use as a makeshift hospital bed. Igraine and Ferrand, using torn linens for bandages and various spirits—the cheaper ones, naturally—as disinfectants, had done their best to treat the various and sundry injuries. They couldn't do much about the deep bruises or other aches, but the gash on the bishop's head, the wound in Julien's side (thankfully shallower than it had first appeared), and the torn skin on Widdershins's arms had all been cleansed (with only a modicum of screaming and threats) and tightly wrapped.

  The common room now smelled fiercely of alcohol, sweat, and greasy smoke; it was lit only by a handful of lanterns, as all the shutters were tightly latched, and was already growing uncomfortably warm. Widdershins and Robin sat side by side on one of the longer benches; Julien on the “operating table”; Renard on the bar, where he'd helped himself to a jug of something or other; and the others in the tavern's various chairs. The Finders who'd accompanied Renard on his rescue mission (for which Widdershins had already tearfully thanked him about a thousand times) loitered on the streets outside, where they could shout a warning if danger approached.

  And, not coincidentally, where they couldn't overhear any of the private discussion within.

  Sicard studied one of the dancing flames and mumbled to himself, while most of the others waited with greater or lesser displays of patience for Widdershins and Robin to wrap up their reunion. Robin had, by this point, pretty much narrated the entire experience, but Widdershins—in addition to constantly apologizing for catching Robin in her mess, however unintentionally—was having real trouble grasping some of the finer details.

  “He was just letting you go?”

  Robin couldn't help but laugh. “Yes, Shins. Same as the last eighteen times you asked.”

  “But…he was just letting you go?”

  “Which,” Renard interjected from atop the bar, “doesn't in any way diminish the extent of my own accomplishment in rescuing her.”

  Both women did him the courtesy of a quick smile.

  “Seriously,” Robin continued. “I really got the impression that he was in over his head, and he knew it. I'm not defending the man,” she added quickly at Widdershins's abrupt scowl. “Just trying to understand him.”

  “Well, after I murder him horribly,” Widdershins said, “you can understand him all you want.”

  “Could you please see your way to saving the death threats for a time when Paschal and I aren't around to hear them?” Julien asked plaintively.

  “Which reminds me,” Renard said, hopping down from his perch, “I have something for you.” He reached back behind the bar and presented a gleaming blade to Widdershins with a dramatic flourish. “I believe you're short a rapier, mademoiselle. I hope you'll find this a satisfactory replacement.”

  Widdershins's eyes gleamed as she recognized the weapon as Evrard's own. “You're a treasure.”

  “So good of you to notice.”

  “I…” She took the weapon from him, then stopped. “Renard, this sword had a ruby in the pommel.”

  “Did it? Oh, my. I can't imagine what might have happened to it.”

  Widdershins gawped at him, and then laughed. “Well, I'm sure it cuts just as well without it.”

  “I was almost certain it would.”

  “If we're all through catching up,” Igraine snapped at them, “perhaps we'd be willing to spend a minute or two discussing what to do about the unkillable monster?”

  Widdershins bent over and kissed the top of Robin's head—utterly missing the incongruous flicker of sorrow that crossed the younger girl's face as she did so—and with a whispered, “I'm really glad you're safe,” rose from the bench. She carefully lay Evrard's rapier aside until she could recover her old sheath, and moved to stand in the center of the group.

  “All right,” she said aloud. “Let's discuss. I'd say, first and foremost, that His Eminence has some explaining to do, yes?”

  Sicard slowly, even sleepily, dragged his attention away from the lantern. “Yes,” he said softly. “He does.”

  “Your Eminence,” Ferrand said, “you don't have to—”

  “I think I do, Ferrand. I think explanations are the very least of the debt that I owe.” He smiled, an expression with no joy or humor in it whatsoever. “I know that it's a bit cliché to begin one's confessions with ‘I never meant for anyone to get hurt,’ but it's the gods' honest truth. I really didn't.”

  He paused, perhaps to allow for any questions or interjections of disbelief. When he got none, he went on. “You must understand, my position here was…awkward, at best. Some might even call it untenable. The first bishop assigned to Davillon in years, and how did my tenure begin? In the shadow of the murder of Archbishop William de Laurent, and the Church's retaliation against your city.

  “I don't…” He coughed once, shook his head. “I don't pretend that what the Church did was right. We're supposed to be above such pettiness, but we're human. I know that their—our—efforts at directing trade to other cities, at discouraging travel here, caused nothing but suffering to a population that largely didn't deserve it. I may have been a newcomer to Davillon, but I couldn't stand seeing what was happening.

  “Of course the people turned away from the Church and from the gods in their anger, and who could blame them? But I knew they were only harming themselves spiritually. And I knew that I could never convince my brothers in the clergy to lift the interdiction so long as Davillon's citizens were so openly hostile to the Church, no matter how justified that hostility might have been. So I…” Again he stopped, his voice choked.

  It was Julien who first put it together, or at least first enunciated his understanding. “So you decided to give the people a reason to turn back to prayer. Back to the gods.”

  Sicard nodded miserably. “It seemed so simple, really. Make the citizens think they had some sort of unholy terror stalking their city, something the Guard was helpless to confront—no offense, con
stables—and what else would they do? It would take some time, of course, and it would hardly change everyone's mind, but it would get people back into the pews. And once that was done, I had hoped I could use their return to the flock as an argument for the Church to cease interfering in Davillon's economy.”

  Widdershins knew her entire face was incredulous, and saw clearly that hers wasn't the only one. “How by all the happy hopping horses did you think you could make that work?!” she demanded.

  The bishop shrugged. “It honestly wasn't that hard. Obviously, a mortal adversary wouldn't do the trick, but it doesn't require much sorcery to make something appear far less natural than it actually is. And it was working! During the first few weeks, nobody had been seriously hurt—I know there were a few minor injuries, but that was unavoidable—and the rumors were spreading! Church attendance was higher than it had been in months! Until…”

  “Iruoch,” Robin said with a shudder.

  “Until Iruoch,” Sicard agreed. “My friends, hate me if you must—perhaps I deserve it—but I swear to you, I swear by every god of the Hallowed Pact, I did not summon him! I didn't even believe he existed! I truly don't know why—”

  “I think I do,” Widdershins said softly.

  Well, she certainly had everyone's attention now, Sicard's included. She cleared her throat. “I'm only speculating, you understand…”

  “Speculation's more than the rest of us have,” Julien encouraged. “So by all means…”

  “Uh, right. Well…” She exhaled softly. “Most of you won't know this, but the gods are shaped, in part, by our beliefs. What we think of them, how we worship them, that sort of thing.”

  A number of puzzled looks and startled breaths met that pronouncement, but none so dramatic as Sicard's violent gasp. “That…How could you know that? That's a philosophy debated at only the highest levels of the clergy!”

  “I told you,” Widdershins said, and she couldn't keep just the tiniest trace of gloating from her tone, “that William de Laurent trusted me more than you believed.”

  “So I see,” the bishop whispered.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “so our own thoughts and beliefs and feelings influence the gods, and lots of creatures in myths and fairy tales are attracted to human emotions, yes? Fear, or love, or whatever? So I think…” She looked at Sicard, and this time there was no gloating, only sympathy. “I think, indirectly, maybe you did summon Iruoch, Your Eminence. I think the fear you created, everyone's belief that there was something very much like him stalking our streets already…”

  Sicard paled. “He felt it. That fear, that belief, made us susceptible to him. Called to him. And he answered.”

  Widdershins nodded. “I think it drew him to us. I'm sorry.”

  The bishop lowered his head and began to weep. Ferrand rose and limped to his side, placing a comforting hand on his white-robed shoulder.

  Flames hissed and spat, footsteps and hoofbeats slunk through the windows from the street outside, and Renard took occasional sips from the bottle he'd commandeered. Beyond these, however, no sounds interrupted Sicard's grief. After several moments of respectful silence (or near silence), however, Julien finally said, “Your Eminence…”

  The bishop raised a flushed and tear-streaked face.

  “I'm so sorry, but I fear that time is rather a precious commodity at the moment.” When Sicard nodded, he continued, “I'm just wondering, how did you pull off your, um, false haunting? As you yourself said, a few mundane thugs in frightening dress wouldn't have been enough on their own…”

  “No, no, you're right.” Sicard cleared his throat, sucked in a last, wet sniff, and straightened in his chair. “The practice of magic isn't part of priestly training,” he said. “We gain certain advantages due to our communion with the divine—particular insight, the occasional portent, and abnormal luck in certain ventures if the gods approve of our actions—but nothing that the layman would recognize as sorcery.

  “We do, however, learn about magic. Not how to cast spells, but their history, how to recognize them. Normally, this is so we can discover the presence of hostile witchcraft or other dangers, but for those of us willing to take the time, and with sufficient discipline, it does give us a leg up on learning certain magics of our own.”

  He stopped, frowning slightly at the array of expressions before him. “Not all magic is forbidden by Church doctrine, you know. Only spells that are directly harmful, or that call on unnatural beings who are not servants of the gods themselves.”

  “We understand, Your Eminence,” Julien assured him. “Nobody was questioning you.”

  Which was patently false, of course, but they all chose to let it go.

  “Anyway,” Sicard continued after another few breaths, “one of the spells I'd come across and actually mastered involves briefly linking two individuals on a semispiritual level. It allows them to not only coordinate their efforts and their awareness, but to share a portion of their skills and physical acumen with one another. Strength, endurance, nimbleness, and so forth. I've used it mostly to aid my priests and assistants in performing particularly long or complicated religious observances.”

  “Good gods,” Renard breathed. “What a pair of thieves—or Guardsmen, or duelists, or soldiers,” he added swiftly in response to an array of glowers, “could do with that sort of spell! How have such magics not already been claimed for military use?”

  Sicard smiled shallowly. “I haven't been precisely open about the fact that I have this spell, save with my most trusted associates.” He absently patted Ferrand's hand. “I chose to use it so my ‘phantoms’ could coordinate from a distance, appear to be the same creature in two places, and so they could perform feats of climbing and agility that no normal person could accomplish unaided. I figured that, along with the proper theatrics, would be enough to create the desired illusion. But I never expected them to need it for genuine combat, and honestly, I'm uncertain of its military applicability. It takes many minutes to perform, so it can't be invoked swiftly or in emergencies, and it doesn't last long. Further, the recipients share in their discomfort as well.”

  Widdershins nodded in understanding, remembering how one man had fallen from his perch in agony when she'd stabbed the other.

  “I've never seen anyone severely injured, let alone slain, when under the spell's effects, so I can't say for certain what would happen to his partner, but I can't imagine it would be anything pleasant.”

  “Still,” Julien insisted, “it seems we ought to be able to find some use for it. It's not as though we have a lot of options, and we haven't done so well against Iruoch as is…”

  “I assure you,” Sicard said, “even two men drawing on each other's strengths wouldn't make an appreciable difference against that creature.”

  “Two normal people, no,” Igraine said thoughtfully, chewing on a thumbnail. “But what about two of her?”

  Widdershins squirmed in her chair and looked about ready to bolt. “I'm not sure what you—”

  “Widdershins,” Igraine said in what was, from her, a surprisingly gentle tone, “I think we're past that now, don't you? Everyone here has heard tales of your unusual abilities, and we saw them ourselves back at the church. I've told you long before that I can sense something off about you, and I'd be surprised if His Eminence hadn't as well.”

  Sicard nodded.

  “We need to know what our resources are,” the priestess continued, “if we're to have any chance at all.”

  Widdershins shifted and again felt herself tense, as if to run. She cast her gaze at Robin, but the girl could only stare back, as uncertain as Widdershins herself.

  “Olgun?” she whispered desperately.

  Even he didn't know. She could feel it from him immediately. He wasn't sure what she should tell them, had no idea how Sicard's magics might interact with his own.

  But she felt something from him, as well. Trust. Olgun trusted her. Whatever she decided, he'd support.

  Widdershin
s sighed, and leaned forward in her chair. “I…” She realized her voice was shaking, and held out a hand toward Renard. Without having to ask what she meant, he slapped the bottle into her waiting palm. Widdershins took a few loud swigs, ignoring the trickle of alcohol running down her chin. “I'm sorry,” she said then. “I've told almost nobody the whole story, and…” She cast about helplessly. “I'm not going to demand oaths in the gods' names or anything. I just need…I need to know that you won't tell anyone. None of you. Please.”

  Renard and Robin—though the girl knew most of what was to come already—nodded instantly. More slowly, Igraine, Sicard, Ferrand, and Julien followed. Only Paschal hesitated. “What if…?”

  The major coughed once, and the constable nodded. “Yes. All right.”

  “His name is Olgun,” Widdershins said—and with those words, it felt as though one weight had lifted from her shoulders, to be replaced by a second. “He's—well, he was—a god of the northmen. Not part of the Pact. I worship him, and he…he protects me, as best he can. He works with me. He's…” She smiled, knowing how this would sound. “He's my friend.”

  Olgun beamed at her.

  “Don't let it go to your head. You're annoying sometimes, too.” And then she couldn't help but laugh, not at Olgun's response, but at the looks she was getting. “I know I sound crazy, but…”

  “No,” Igraine said, seemingly unaware that she was shaking her head as though she would never, could never, stop. “No, I believe you. Now that I know what I'm sensing, it's so clear.”

  “To me as well,” Sicard added. “But I don't understand. No god should be granting that much power to any one person. How powerful is this Olgun?”

  “He's not, really,” Widdershins admitted. “He's just more focused. I…I'm his only worshipper.”

  The bishop, the monk, and the priestess all rocked back as though struck. “I've never even heard of such a thing!” Sicard gasped. “This is astonishing!”

  “How could it even happen?” Brother Ferrand demanded. “To any god, let alone a northern deity who should have no presence here at all?”