False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (39 page)

Renard and Evrard hovered around the edges, lunging when an opportunity presented itself but mostly keeping Iruoch from easily retreating out of the others' reach. Widdershins and Julien shared a grin—quite literally—at the thought that this might soon, finally, be over.

But again, Iruoch's implacability dashed those hopes even as they began to sprout. Yes, they pressed him hard, far harder than they had; yes, his injuries were many, slowing him down. Still,
still
they could not land any crippling or killing blows. Still all but the worst of his wounds knitted themselves closed in moments, the ragged edges interlacing with and grasping at each other. Widdershins tried every trick in her repertoire, from head-on dueling, to tumbles and twists that would shame an acrobat, to balancing on and bouncing off the tombstones and tree branches like a rubber ballet dancer. No technique worked better than any other.

The mortals verged on exhaustion, propped up only by the strength they borrowed from one another, or from Olgun. And the god, too, teetered on the edge of collapse, his energies coming more and more sporadically to even Widdershins's most urgent need.

And ultimately, as everyone knew they must, Widdershins and Olgun stumbled together once too often.

She'd just twirled aside from another of Iruoch's grabs, then kicked off with one foot against a drooping old tree in hopes of coming back at him before he was prepared. She twisted in the air, blade coming sharply down—and Iruoch sidestepped the blade and caught her. His injured hand wrapped her wrist, fingers and stumps digging into her flesh, holding her rapier at bay. The other closed around her neck.

“It always makes me a little sad,” he said conversationally, his shoulders leaning this way and that as he dodged her friends' attacks, “when I outgrow a playmate.”

Widdershins tried to thrash, and could not. Tried to speak, and couldn't force so much as a squeak through her throat. Blood pounded in her ears, and her chest began to burn.

“If it's any consolation to you,” Iruoch continued, “there are
plenty
more people for me to play with in your beautiful city. I know it's a consolation to
me
.”

Her skin burned where his fingers lay across it. She could feel it
tear
as he moved, feel the blood welling up. Her hand spasmed, dropping her rapier. She wondered why the others had ceased attacking, wondered where Julien was, and only realized when her sword fell away that they now hung above the ground. Using the tips of the same fingers that clutched at her throat, Iruoch had climbed over a dozen feet up the trunk of that tree. There was nothing the others could do.

She couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
Olgun, I don't want to die this way….

Through eyelids that she struggled to keep open, she looked down past Iruoch, past his feet that dangled perfectly straight, parallel to the trunk. She saw Julien running toward them, saw him leap, felt the faintest surge of Olgun's power. But she felt how weak the god had become, knew that Julien couldn't possibly reach them….

But what he swung at them was not his rapier at all, but Bishop Sicard's staff of office, which Ferrand had been using as a bludgeon.

The curved end of the crook hooked around Iruoch's arm. Widdershins had the brief satisfaction of seeing the creature's jaw go slack before the weight of Julien's body yanked them both off the tree.

They hit the ground and rolled apart, bark and skin clinging to Iruoch's fingers. Widdershins sucked in an agonizing breath, and it was only the fact that she couldn't stop her desperate gasping that kept her from screaming at the agony in her wrist and her throat. She rolled to her knees, coughing and choking. A hand closed on her shoulder, and she almost lashed out before she recognized Sicard standing over her, offering her a sip from his flask.

She reached for it, wheezing—and then saw the bishop's face go white, his lip begin to quiver. And she felt…

A sudden surge of fear, overwhelming, held at bay only by the memory of the life he had just saved….

Pain, roaring, screaming pain, the tearing of flesh, the breaking of bone, the bursting of a beating heart….

Delight that, at the last, he'd overcome his doubts, his hesitations. That she'd known, before the end.

Widdershins…Adrienne…I love you….

A final surge of magic, as Olgun gave almost everything he had left to once more sever the link before it was too late.

And Julien Bouniard was gone.

No screams. No tears. Widdershins rose, everything inside her absolutely numb. Iruoch stood some yards away, Julien's rapier jutting obscenely through his chest—he seemed scarcely even to notice it—and Julien's broken body hanging from a two-fisted grip.

Casually, dismissively, Iruoch tossed the corpse aside. It bounced once, wetly, off the tree trunk and then slammed to earth. Evrard and Renard stood close, their own blades trembling with fatigue.

“Now,” Iruoch said, gripping the hilt of the rapier between two fingers and slowly sliding it from his body, “perhaps we can—”

Widdershins reached back and shoved Sicard aside, ignoring his startled yelp. Hands held at her side, empty of any obvious weapon—though one fist was clenched around something that glinted in the sun—she strode steadily up toward the creature she hated more than anything else in the world. As she clearly was not attacking, didn't appear armed, Iruoch let her approach.

“Was there something?” he asked lightly as the sword finally sprung free from his torso with a moist
pop
.

“Yes.”
Olgun, I need you to stand for just a moment more….
“Heal
this
!”

Widdershins sprang forward, opening her fingers to reveal the silver Eternal Eye amulet she'd yanked from the bishop's neck as she'd shoved him, and jammed it hard into the slowly closing wound left by Julien's blade.

Iruoch's scream rose above the graveyard, the twin voices undulating across a dozen octaves. He collapsed to his knees and instantly began scrabbling at the flesh of his chest, hurling desiccated, lightly smoking chunks of muscle and bone aside as he worked desperately to dig the holy symbol from his body. Widdershins calmly, resolutely watched his efforts, even waving off the others as they approached with weapons raised.

Finally the silver—now tarnished and pitted—flew free, and Iruoch gasped in relief, seemingly oblivious to the gaping hole in his chest.

A hole through which Widdershins reached, her hand tingling with the last inklings of power that Olgun had to give, and grasped Iruoch's shriveled, unbeating heart.

He looked down at the arm jutting into his chest, then up into the face of the woman who'd killed him.

“Well…Darn.”

Widdershins yanked. The voices of the children wailed once in the distance, and were gone. Iruoch's body fell at her feet and exploded into a puff of dust that flew, with utter disregard for the wind, up into the open sky. In her fist, she held only an undulating mass of maggot-white sludge.

It smelled of peppermint.

“It's over, Shins,” Renard gasped from behind her. “You did it.”

“Yes.” Her voice was raw, gravelly, every word a stab at her aching throat. “It
is
over, isn't it?”

She staggered a few steps, fell to her knees beside Julien's body, and willed—even
begged
—the tears to finally come.

But she was too exhausted even to mourn.

My dearest Robin
,

I'm telling you all this in writing because, to be entirely honest, I don't think I have the strength—the
courage—
to look into your face while I say it. I know how you're going to feel, and I'm so sorry.

I'm leaving Davillon. The last thing I want is for you to feel I'm abandoning you (or Renard, or anyone else). But I have no other choice. Everyone I love is here, but this city is poison to me right now. First Genevieve and Alexandre, now Julien…I need to get away from the ghosts, Robin. I need time, and I need peace, and I cannot find either here.

You won't be left to fend for yourself, or the Flippant Witch. I've reacquired the ruby that Renard took from Evrard's rapier
,

Renard choked, his hand reaching for his belt pouch of its own accord, but he stopped his fingers from so much as untying the clasp. If she said she'd taken it, she'd taken it, no matter how impossible it seemed. He couldn't help but smile, though his lips quivered as he returned to the note.

from Evrard's rapier, and hidden it beneath the floorboards under the bed in my room upstairs. There's a sack of coin and some other valuables from prior jobs in there as well. Ask Renard to fence them for you. He'll grumble about it, but he'll get you a fair price. It should be more than enough to keep you comfortable, and the tavern running, for a year or more.

I hope, by then, that you'll be doing enough business for the Witch to support itself again. Bishop Sicard
swears
he's not returning to Davillon until he's convinced the cardinals to lift this stupid Church interdiction on the city, and Igraine says she thinks he might actually pull it off. If he manages it, things ought to return to normal (whatever normal looks like anymore). If not—if you wake up one morning and we've got some new guy as bishop—well, I guess it means things didn't go so well. But we do what we can, right?

You shouldn't need to worry about Evrard. After that day in the cemetery, he refused to call in my promise of a duel. He said it was just for the time being, that it wouldn't be honorable to take advantage, but he sounded unsure. If I had to guess, I'd say he was questioning the whole vendetta. Maybe he's actually got a soul after all? I suppose fighting side to side against a monster of nightmares might tend to bring that out of one. Even if he
does
decide to follow through, though, he should have no reason to bother you while I'm gone. (And if he does, I bet you could talk Renard into dealing with him for a reasonable fee.) Keep an eye on him if you see him, but don't lose any sleep over it.

Tell everyone there that I'll miss them. Don't forget that we still need to deal with that leaky barrel on the rear left, under the green bottles. Trust yourself; you were always better at running the place than I was.

And please don't hate me. I know you may not believe it right now, but I couldn't bear to lose what family I have left. I just need time to deal with it all.

I
will
be back someday. I promise.

My love to Renard, and all my love to you, Robin. Be strong for me, and maybe I'll remember how to be strong, too.

—Shins

The letters blurring, Renard blinked a time or three and twisted in the chair, wincing as the movement pulled at the slowly healing gashes across his left shoulder. Carefully, he handed the note back to a red-eyed, flush-cheeked girl who truly looked as though the entire world had turned against her.

“I'm sorry,” he told her. It didn't really seem the right thing to say, but it felt less wrong than anything
else
he might have said.

“How could she
do
this, Renard?” Robin's words traveled on a voice that staggered, rubbed raw by grief. “How could she do this to m—to
us
?”

The thief leaned over the table, cupping her hand in his. “I know how you look up to Widdershins,” he said. “I know how highly you think of her. She's one of the strongest, most capable people I've ever met. But Robin, she's just a girl herself, still. And she's dealt with more in the past year than anyone should ever have to. This? This isn't about abandoning you, or me, or anyone. This is about running and pulling the covers up over her head, and praying that the monsters will go away for just a few minutes.

“There's no logic to it. It just is.” Again he smiled. “Hell, she probably thinks she's
protecting
us.”

“If she goes away,” Robin said miserably, “we can't help her.”

“I know. Gods, I know.”

“Do you think she's telling the truth?” she asked him, the tears beginning to fall once more. “Do you think she's coming back?”

Renard rose and stepped around the table so he could hold the sobbing girl in a tight embrace—and so he wouldn't have to offer her an answer that he honestly didn't know if he could give.