False Covenant

shingles. Two young men-either well-dressed servants of some noble, or rather cheaply dressed aristocrats themselves-crouched, huddled against the shop next door to Widdershins's own perch. One clutched at a red- smeared arm and stomach, and, though there didn't appear to be enough blood to suggest that either wound was especially dangerous, they were pretty clearly painful. The other fellow was holding his friend's shoulders, as though that would provide any protection against their attacker. An attacker clad all in swathes of black fabric; he looked, to Widdershins, like the Shrouded Lord's disreputable second cousin.

But from her raised vantage, Widdershins could also see something that the two victims on the ground most assuredly could not: A second dark figure, garbed identically to the first, clinging to the shadow-cloaked wall just beneath the eaves of a building some ways down the street.

“So, Olgun. These guys what you sensed?”

Apparently, the god wasn't sure-she detected more than a touch of doubt.

“Well,” she continued as the silhouette on the street produced a narrow blade, laughing as he (it?) made threatening jabs at the two sniveling travelers, “guess we should do something, yes? Care to lend a hand?”

She felt the tingling in the air once again, this time concentrated around her legs and feet. Grinning manically, Widdershins backed away from the edge of the roof, drew her rapier, and charged.

It was, every step of it, impossible-but impossible was a specialty of this particular partnership. With almost inhuman speed, Widdershins cleared the entire length of the roof and leapt, sailing majestically across the gap. She twisted as she flew, the envy of any acrobat, flipping over so that her feet landed against the wall of the opposite shop. She tucked and pushed, propelling herself once more across the street, this time angled and hurtling directly at the dark-clad figure who appeared utterly frozen in shock.

He began to move, and Widdershins had the barest instant to note that he was far faster than he should have been; not that much slower, in fact, than she herself at that moment. But it wasn't fast enough. Her rapier punched through muscle and flesh even as she collided with the target, knocking him, winded and screaming, to the earth. Had she wanted him dead, he'd have been dead. As it was, it would be some time before his perforated shoulder would work properly.

Widdershins rolled backward and came once more to her feet, rapier held before her en garde, but it wasn't necessary. Not only was her target rolling on the street, clutching his wound and screaming in a very human voice, but his presumed partner-the other mysterious silhouette-had plummeted from his perch on the wall. He, too, was doubled over and groaning in pain, though Widdershins could only guess why. Had her appearance so startled him that he lost his grip, causing him to injure himself in the fall?

Well, whatever the case, it was time to learn more about these…Guys? Bandits? Monsters? Whatever. Widdershins, taking only a moment to make vaguely reassuring “There, there, it's all right” noises to the two weeping gentlemen, reached down and yanked away the hood that covered her fallen opponent's face.

“Hey! I know you!”

And she did, at that. Not all that well; she wasn't even certain what his name was. Ricard? Rupert? Something with an R and two syllables, she thought. But that wasn't the point. The point was where she knew him from.

Monsieur R-and-Two-Syllables was a member of the Finders' Guild!

But hadn't the Shrouded Lord made it pretty clear that the Guild wasn't involved in these events? And why would anyone mistake Ricard-or-Whatever for some sort of phantom? Widdershins may not have been all that close to him, but she knew full well that the fellow wasn't a warlock of any sort!

“Olgun? What the hopping horses is going on?”

There really shouldn't have been an emotional equivalent to Olgun chewing the inside of his cheek in nervous confusion. Nevertheless, that was precisely the impression Widdershins received.

“Fat lot of good you are, then. So are these guys magic?”

Faint and confused, but the answer was a definite yes.

“And are they what you sensed before?”

No puzzlement at all, this time. Absolutely not.

“Then what-?”

“Oh, my, oh, my! Blood and pain and beautiful songs! They've gone and started the celebration without us, and we shall be greatly put out if there's no more cake to be had!”

The worst wasn't the hideous two-toned voice, that of a grown man and a child speaking in unison, though that alone was enough to make every hair on her arms and neck stand firmly at attention. Nor was it even the figure itself, which scuttled headfirst down a nearby wall using only its impossibly long fingertips, the rest of its body held straight as a board, its coat and hat refusing to fall despite gravity's insistent tug.

No, what caused the blood to drain from Widdershins's face as though it, too, were trying to escape, and made the rapier twitch and vibrate in her trembling fist, was Olgun's silent shriek of absolute terror. She'd sensed the like from him only twice before: once when he'd almost been slain by the wholesale slaughter of his cult, of which Widdershins herself was the only survivor; and once, a few years later and mingled with near-helpless frustration, when he'd done his best to help her face down the demon responsible for that slaughter.

This creature she faced now-for, no matter his mostly human shape, human he clearly was not-was no demon, or at least not the same sort of demon she'd faced before. But whatever he was, he was enough to scare a god.

A tiny, weak god with only a single worshipper, yes, but a god for all that.

Widdershins sucked in her breath to speak, and was overwhelmed by the scent of peppermint. Somewhere, as though hidden behind the buildings that surrounded them, a chorus of children giggled in the dark.

“Run,” she ordered. The two pedestrians, though scarcely able to stand on shaking knees, didn't need to be told twice. The broad-brimmed hat of the creature clinging to the wall shifted as though he watched them go, perhaps deciding whether or not to give chase.

“Don't even think it, Bug Man,” Widdershins told him with-she hoped-more bravado than she felt.

“Don't need to.” The hat tilted again; this time, the face beneath seemed to be examining Widdershins herself, as well as the men who'd fallen-one directly, one less so-to her unexpected attack. “Girls and boys!” The figure began to chant. “Girls and boys, girls and boys, some for eating, some for toys!”

Widdershins felt the rapier slip slightly in her hand, clenched her fingers in a futile attempt to wipe the sweat off on the hilt. “I, uh…I don't think I plan to be either, thanks.” And, much more softly, “Olgun, what is that?!”

But, other than the sensation that it was very, very old, she got nothing but bafflement and fear from her unseen ally.

“Oh, you're so welcome!” The creature dropped from the wall, flipping as it fell to land feetfirst on the grass beside the street. “She thinks she has a plan. That's so cute!”

The chorus of children cooed, as though having discovered a little, lost puppy.

“Where is that coming from?!” Widdershins herself wasn't certain whether the question was addressed to Olgun, the gaunt figure, or the world in general, but it was the creature who answered. And for the first time, he sounded honestly puzzled.

“You can't see them?” he asked.

It was, given the current state of Widdershins's nerves, absolutely the worst answer he could have given. She shuddered and found herself desperately glancing around, despite her best intentions, searching for an army of slack-faced, staring children creeping up behind her in the dark. There were none, of course, but in that moment of distraction, the creature lunged.

Not at her, no. Fast as he moved-and he was unbelievably fast-he might not have crossed the distance between them before she could once again bring up her guard. But Widdershins wasn't his target. Bending neatly sideways, he reached out with those impossibly long, flexible fingers, and snatched up the dark-clad figure who had fallen, a few minutes before, from the neighboring building.

With a single arm, he hefted the screaming man toward his face. Widdershins fell back with a whimper at the rough tearing sounds that followed, and felt the bile rising and stinging in the back of her throat as the body shriveled and dried, in a matter of instants, into a desiccated, leathery slab. (She didn't even notice the cries of agony emerging from the second man, whom she'd earlier stabbed.)

“Ooh, yummy, yum, yum! He tastes a bit of magic, doesn't he? Extra spice is extra nice!” The creature