The Cardinal's Blades

by Pierre Pevel

  But the hurdy-gurdy player had not shown up for the final meeting.

  And with good reason.…

  The vicomtesse lifted an indifferent gaze from the dead body of the swordsman and smiled at Laincourt.

  “And now?”

  Still threatened by Gagnière’s pistol, the cardinal’s spy hesitated, tightening his hold on Saint-Georges, and then motioning toward the hurdy-gurdy player with his chin.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Who betrayed him?”

  This question haunted Laincourt. Except for himself, only Richelieu and Père Joseph were supposed to know of the role played by the hurdy-gurdy player in this affair. Even the traitorous Saint-Georges had been kept in the dark.

  “No one did,” replied the young woman.

  “Then how—?”

  “I’m not as naïve as you seem to believe, monsieur. I simply had you ­followed.”

  Laincourt frowned.

  “By whom?”

  “Him.” She pointed to her dragonnet. “I saw your most recent meeting with the old man. Through his eyes. You can guess the rest.… By the way, I must thank you for persuading the comte de Pontevedra to keep the Cardinal’s Blades away from us. But I’m afraid it will be the last service you ever render us.…”

  Understanding that he could do nothing but try and save his own life, Laincourt used his heel to hook his hostage’s ankles out from under him and abruptly shoved him. Saint-Georges tripped forward and collapsed in Gagnière’s arms. But the marquis fired at the same time and hit the cardinal’s spy in the shoulder as he was rushing out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

  Gagnière took some time in untangling himself from his burden and the door resisted him when he sought to launch himself in pursuit of the fugitive. He turned around to address a helpless look at the vicomtesse.

  Very calmly, she ordered: “Let Savelda take charge of searching for monsieur de Laincourt. We three have better things to do. The ceremony cannot be delayed any longer.”

  21

  Holding a lantern in one hand and his sword in the other, Savelda kicked open the door to an empty, dusty room, dimly lit by the nocturnal glow coming from its sole embrasure. He examined the premises from the threshold, while hired swordsmen came and went behind him on the stairway.

  “No one here!” he called out. “Keep looking. Search the keep from top to bottom. Laincourt can’t be far.”

  Then he closed the door.

  Silence returned and a moment went by before Agnès let herself drop from the ceiling beams she had been clinging to. Stealthily, she went to press her ear to the door and, reassured, returned to place herself at the embrasure. She did not know who this Laincourt was and the news that Savelda was hunting for someone other than her was only a small comfort. Granted, her escape had so far gone undiscovered. But the freebooters combing through the keep were still very much a threat to her.

  Outside, in the lower part of the ruined castle, about fifty metres from the keep, the ritual was proceeding.

  It had started at moonrise, led by Gagnière, who officiated bare-headed, dressed in a ceremonial robe. He chanted in the ancient draconic tongue, a language which his audience did not understand but whose power, beyond its actual meaning, resonated in the depths of their being. Their souls aquiver, the candidates for initiation listened, taken over by a sacred fervour.

  Then the vicomtesse, still masked, solemnly entered the pool of warm light from the torches and bonfires, and took up her place behind the carved altar. There was a heavy silence while Gagnière stepped back to her side and, with lowered head and hands crossed upon his belly, adopted a meditative pose. She then began, also using the draconic tongue, the long litany of Ancestral Dragons, invoking their true names and asking for their protection. This took some time, as each Ancestral Dragon had to be addressed by its title and its closest family ties. And the names she pronounced before each panegyric were moreover repeated by Gagnière in his role as First Initiate, and then taken up in chorus by the entire audience.

  Finally, the vicomtesse opened a casket placed on the altar and took out the Sphère d’me which she brandished in her outstretched arms. Still speaking in the draconic language, she called upon Sassh’Krecht, the Ancestral Dragon whose primordial essence haunted the globe with its black turmoil. Now, she recited all of Sassh’Krecht’s parents and descendants, titles, legendary exploits, and, as she declaimed them, the atmosphere around her filled with a presence that was as exalting as it was frightening, originating from the beginning of time and soon to be resurrected in defiance of the laws of nature.

  At this point, beginning with Gagnière and with Saint-Georges just behind him, the faithful filed past the altar in good order, each knelt at the vicomtesse’s feet, placed their lips upon the Sphère d’me which she had lowered to their height, and then went to stand in a long row. By their kiss, they had signified their assent. Ready to sacrifice a part of themselves, they waited for Sassh’Krecht to manifest itself and impregnate their soul.

  In a trance, the vicomtesse de Malicorne raised the globe toward the moon. She shouted a command. Whirlwinds lifted around her. Above the castle, the clouds in the sky suddenly dispersed, as if driven away by a centrifugal force. Black and grey plumes escaped from the paling Sphère d’me. They rose in long ribbons as a dull noise filled the night and, little by little, they formed the shape of a giant spectral dragon which reared up, deployed its wings, and occupied an immense span of the sky. Sassh’Krecht had survived death for centuries now, a prisoner of the Sphère d’me where all of its power had been concentrated. It gloried in the freedom which it had now almost completely recovered, only its tail still attached to the relic the vicomtesse gripped in her hands, her body traversed by ecstatic shivers. It simply needed to take possession of the souls that its disciples were offering freely.

  No one heard the shot, but all of them saw the Sphère d’me, now milky white, burst into shatters.

  The vicomtesse screamed and collapsed. The entire gathering suffered an enormous shock that left it reeling and Sassh’Krecht emitted a cavernous howl that shook the members of the Black Claw to the core. Detached from the Sphère d’me before it had managed to become fully incarnate, the Ancestral Dragon contorted like an animal trapped in a blazing fire that was devouring it.

  Gagnière was the first to react.

  He rushed over to the unconscious vicomtesse, crouched down, lifted her up slightly, saw that she was still breathing, and, at a complete loss, looked about him in an effort to comprehend.

  Had the ritual failed?

  The skies grew dark. Still howling, the spectral dragon twisted in pain as shreds were torn from its ghostly silhouette like wisps of mist. Stormy rumblings were heard. Gold and crimson flashes ripped through the night sky as Sassh’Krecht liberated energy that had to find an outlet.

  Gagnière saw the vicomtesse’s dragonnet flapping in the air around them. It hissed at him furiously, and then flew off toward the keep. He followed it with his eyes and saw the thin stream of smoke that filtered from an embrasure.

  Pistol still smoking in her hand, Agnès dashed down the steps of the tower from where, both hidden and able to observe every detail of the ceremony, she had opened fire. Aware of what was at stake and doubting she would live to see the dawn, she had resolved that as she had nothing to lose. She would wreak as much havoc as possible and wait for the ritual to reach its critical point before she intervened.

  Now, she had to make an effort to survive and, perhaps, even to escape.

  She descended one floor, then two, and had reached the first floor when she heard hurried steps climbing toward her from the ground floor below. She cursed, tore down an old drapery from a wall, and hurled it like a fishing net over the first swordsman who presented himself, delivering a kick that broke his jaw. Her victim fell backward, toppling his comrades who became tangled up with him and the dusty piece of cloth, which they ripped at without man
aging to free themselves. Those jostling with one another behind them were forced to retreat back down the stairs and Savelda’s angry voice could be heard shouting.

  Agnès immediately reversed course and climbed the steps two by two. Her only hope was to reach the top of the tower and the walkway along the keep’s ramparts. She suddenly came face-to-face with a lone freebooter. She drew her sword to block his blade, violently drove the butt of her pistol upward into his crotch, and sent her opponent tumbling down the stairs, breaking his neck in the process.

  With Savelda’s men now at her heels, she arrived on the last floor of the tower when a hand on her shoulder drew her behind a wall hanging and through the little doorway which it hid. Agnès found herself in a narrow, shadowy corridor, pressed up against someone who murmured to her: “Silence.”

  She closed her mouth and remained still, while on the other side of the door, the Black Claw’s hired swordsmen ran over to the keep’s walkway without stopping.

  “My name is Laincourt. Don’t be afraid.”

  “And of what would I be afraid?

  At which point, Laincourt felt the nip of a dagger that had reached high up between his thighs.

  “I am in the cardinal’s service,” he whispered.

  “They are searching for you, monsieur.”

  “So we have something in common. What’s your name?”

  “Agnès. I thought I heard a shot just before the ceremony began. Was that you?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Come, it won’t take them long to figure things out.”

  They advanced silently down the dark corridor, passing before a triple-arched window.

  “You’re wounded,” said Agnès noticing the Laincourt’s bloody shoulder.

  “I didn’t fire the shot.”

  “Can you move it?”

  “Yes. It’s not broken and the pistol ball passed clean through. Nothing serious.”

  They pushed a little door open and then followed a passage lit in the distance by some square openings looking out into the courtyard. The ceiling was so low that they could only progress bent double.

  “This passage runs beneath the walkway. It will take us to the next tower. They’re probably yet not looking for us there.”

  “You seem to know the premises well.…”

  “My knowledge is newly gained.”

  At the end of the passage they came to another door.

  They listened, opened it cautiously, and emerged behind a sentry. Laincourt slit his throat and held him as he sagged. They heard a great com­motion on the lower floors, found only locked doors, and were forced to climb some very steep steps in order to raise a hatch that gave them access to the roof.

  They were fortunate it was deserted, although they could see torches and silhouettes moving about on one of the other towers, the one where Savelda and his men were finishing their search. Beyond, in the tormented sky, the spectral dragon had been replaced by a fury of uncontrolled magical energy. The red and golden flashes had redoubled in intensity. Interspersed by thunderclaps, a deep roar rumbled above them that could be felt in the gut and increasingly threatened to unleash itself upon the castle itself.

  “Quick!” yelled Laincourt.

  Seeking cover behind the crenellations, they took the walkway toward the third tower. They went as fast they could without running upright and started to believe that they might make good their escape when a strident cry rang out nearby: the vicomtesse’s dragonnet was beating its wings level with them and giving away their position. Heads turned their way. A hue and cry was raised.

  Laincourt brandished his pistol and shot the reptile down with a single ball that ripped off its head.

  “A wasted shot,” commented Agnès.

  “Not entirely,” replied the cardinal’s spy, thinking of the hurdy-gurdy player who had been captured thanks to the dragonnet.

  They were halfway between the second and the third towers, toward which Savelda’s swordsmen were already hurrying. They ran under sporadic and badly aimed fire, reached the tower before their enemies, and tried to open the hatch.

  Locked.

  “Merde!” Laincourt swore.

  Agnès took stock of the situation. Savelda and his freebooters were coming toward them from the first tower by the walkway. Others were already emerging from the second tower and blocked any possibility of retreat. The ground was fifty metres below. They did not have time to force the hatch.

  They were trapped.

  Agnès and Laincourt placed themselves en garde, back to back … and waited.

  Cautious now, the hired swordsmen slowed down and surrounded them, while Savelda, calm and smiling, walked up to them.

  A circle of blades closed in on the fugitives, who were resolved to die rather than allow themselves to be captured.

  “Usually,” Agnès muttered to herself, “they show up about now.…”

  Laincourt heard her.

  “What did you say?” he asked over his wounded shoulder.

  “Nothing. Delighted to have met you.”

  “Same here.”

  And then rescue came from the sky.

  22

  Outside the keep, the castle was plunged into a state of chaos that was dominated by the roiling storm of energies released by the destruction of the Sphère d’me. Sizzling lightning bolts fell from the ragged night sky, igniting trees and bushes, raising sprays of earth, pulverising stones, and knocking down sections of wall. One of them split the altar open and set it ablaze as Gagnière fled from it, now rid of his ceremonial robe and carrying the unconscious vicomtesse in his arms. People were screaming and panicked horses whinnied. Followers of the Black Claw and its hired swordsmen were running in every direction, not knowing where to seek refuge or even who or what, exactly, they needed defending against.

  Because the Cardinal’s Blades had gone on the offensive.

  Using Malencontre’s information, La Fargue and his men were quietly surrounding the keep when Agnès interrupted the ceremony in such dramatic fashion. As desperate as it was, her initiative proved invaluable in diverting the attention of everyone present to the torments of the great spectral dragon. La Fargue, who was moving alongside a sunken path bordered by a low wall, hastened toward the enclosure where the two wyvern riders, who had been idle since the end of the day, were guarding their beasts. With a pipe in his mouth and a heavy sack slung round his shoulders in a bandolier, Ballardieu climbed to the top of a rampart, broke the neck of a lookout, and discreetly took his place directly above the main gate and its sentries. Further off, Saint-Lucq stepped over another sentry’s dead body and approached a campfire around which five swordsmen had gathered, all of them gaping up at the extraordinary display taking place in the night skies. At the same time, Marciac was slipping toward the stable.

  In the keep, Agnès and Laincourt were moving from one tower to the next in an effort to stay ahead of Savelda’s search parties when, outside, the first lightning bolt struck the ritual site. At first paralysed in terror, the Black Claw’s followers scattered, ducking their heads as more bolts came down, while the hired swordsmen watching over the ritual finally began to react to the alarm.

  Ballardieu judged that this was the right moment to take action. Digging into his bag, he took out a grenade and lit its fuse from his clay pipe before hurling the object blindly over the parapet against which he was crouching. A second and a third immediately followed, their explosions ringing out amidst the screams and the roar of the supernatural storm. He risked a glimpse at the scene below, was satisfied to see the bodies of sentries lying there, and then spied a wyvern rising from the enclosure. Standing, he began bombarding the milling crowd with more grenades.

  The freebooters gathered around a campfire saw the grenades exploding in the distance, grabbed their weapons and—

  —froze.

  A man dressed in black, his eyes hidden by red glasses that reflected the flames, was standing before them. He waited and pointed his outstretched rapier at the
m. He seemed both relaxed and determined. Apparently he had been there for some time. They realised they would have to get past him. And in spite of all their experience of suffering, fighting, and massacres, a feeling of dread came over them.

  Their guts clenched with fear; they knew for certain that they were going to die.

  Panicked by the dazzling flashes of lightning and deafening thunder, the Black Claw’s followers and their hired swordsmen were running toward the stable when its doors opened wide to reveal the fire ravaging the interior and a stampede of horses that Marciac had freed. The terrified steeds knocked down and trampled the first arrivals, and shoved the rest aside, whinnying in fear before they dispersed.

  The silhouette of the Gascon was outlined against the blaze as he emerged in turn, gripping his rapier. He rapidly dispatched the few disoriented freebooters who remained, slitting one man’s throat, running his blade through the chest of another and splitting open the face of a third.

  Taking advantage of a moment’s respite, he lifted his gaze to the sky which seemed to have gone mad, and then noticed Saint-Lucq dashing off, barely slowing down to eliminate the men who brandished swords in his path. At the end of one assault, the half-blood turned toward Marciac and pointed to the dark mass of the castle keep, which was where he was headed. The Gascon understood and nodded, thought of following him, but was immediately distracted by defending himself against two more opponents.

  * * *

  Surrounded at the top of the tower, Agnès and Laincourt believed they were doomed when, thrown from above, grenades with blazing fuses bounced among the stupefied swordsmen who were threatening them, provoking panicked pushing and shoving before the missiles exploded one after another in clouds of fiery powder, their burning shards ripping through those who had not been able to retreat toward the keep’s walkway.

  Rearing up and flapping its wings to slow its approach, a wyvern set down on the tower.