False Covenant

And on occasion, it would reach a single trembling hand across the earth toward any who stared at it for too long, as though pleading with them for help….

As he drew nearer, Widdershins and the others began to hear the ubiquitous phantom chorus that surrounded the creature. They were cooing over the tombstones, making ghostly “oooooh… ” noises at each other, punctuated with the occasional shrill giggle.

Renard, Julien, Igraine, and Evrard drew their pistols and fired. The thunderous crack was deafening, the wall of smoke opaque, but it was little more than a gesture of defiance, and well they knew it. Iruoch twitched-an inch this way, an inch that-and if any of the balls struck their target at all, they did so without notable effect.

“Oh, but that was a nifty trick with the horse!” his twin voices called out. “Bravo, bravo! Actually, it was kind of fun! Down the street, past hooves and feet…” His grin grew wide, his cheeks bulging. “But of course, horsey couldn't run forever. And so many nice people gathered around me when he stopped, to see if I was hurt. They were all really…sweet.”

Widdershins felt nauseated.

Another step, and another; with each, Iruoch allowed the tips of his fingers to dangle across the top of this tombstone or that, as though casually drawing a line of profanity across the sacred ground. At the fourth, however, he jerked away with a faint hiss, glaring at the offending marker-but Widdershins could not see any reason why, and the creature's course otherwise remained unchanged. He was now less than ten yards distant, and still none of the group had moved to engage.

“But what is it you've done, silly little girl, with your silly little god? What song are you singing, that came to me across the streets and rooftops and…Oh.” For just a moment he halted his forward pace, head tilted, staring first at Widdershins, then Brother Ferrand, then at Evrard and Renard, and finally at the bishop.

“Really?” The creature sounded genuinely disappointed. “That's all, then? Tricks and strands of simple, mortal magic? Mortal magics I've already seen?” He raised a hand, pointed with one long digit as though he were poking each of them in the chest with every word. “That. Is not. Exciting. To me.”

With that devastating pronouncement, Iruoch actually turned his back on them all and began to walk away. And damn it all if, for the briefest instant, they weren't inclined to let him go.

But only briefly.

It was Evrard, of all of them, to free himself of that peculiar lassitude. “Very well, then,” he announced, freeing his rapier with a dramatic flourish. “Then let us endeavor to make things more interesting.” He broke into a charge, feet crushing the emerald grasses, and Iruoch turned once more to meet him.

The aristocrat held the blade lowered like a lance, his attack surprisingly clumsy and straightforward for one of his supposed skill, and the fae creature easily sidestepped, lashing out with two fingers for the back of Evrard's exposed neck…

But Evrard was no longer there. Even as his awkward charge had carried him adjacent to his opponent, he dived, turning his momentum into a sideways roll across the lawn. His shins caught Iruoch at the ankles and yanked his feet out from under him, sending the gaunt figure sprawling.

Or so it should have done-to anyone human. Iruoch landed not on his back, but on his fingertips. For a single blink they held him upright, stiff as a plank, staring up at the sky. Then they flexed, all eight of those spidery digits, launching him upright once again. Evrard, wary and more than a little stunned, had rolled back to his feet and carefully circled, blade at the ready, just beyond reach.

If the creature's impossible recovery had shocked the duelist, however, it had also spurred his allies into action. Crying out with a single voice, Widdershins and the others who were linked by the spell converged on their enemy, with Sicard, Igraine, and Julien trailing behind, hoping to make themselves somehow useful. The Guardsman brandished his blade, the two priests their amulets sculpted into various holy symbols of the Hallowed Pact.

“Olgun? Let's do this.” The tickle across her skin, the blown kisses of distant candles, wasn't quite the same as she was accustomed to. It felt as though it had picked up an odd current, as though portions of Olgun's power were flowing through her on their way to somewhere else. Again she saw Ferrand's eyes go wide, and she actually shared briefly in his confusion, but for all that, the young monk kept up. His wrists twisted, spinning the bishop's rod of office like a quarterstaff before him.

Iruoch clearly heard them coming; with a creaking of old wood, he rotated his head completely around to see them. And he laughed.

Evrard lunged, but even his vaunted prowess was too slow. Iruoch lifted his knees straight up, yanking his feet off the earth so he abruptly dropped. He landed once again on his fingers, spread wide beneath him. The blade passed harmlessly over his head, and the creature thrust his legs back down, standing straight once more.

But his hands were no longer bare. Long strips of grass and clods of earth clung to his spindly fingers, seemingly stuck fast.

A flick of the wrist, and those globules of soil hurtled toward Evrard's face. The aristocrat craned his neck, flinching away from the missiles, and in that split second it was Iruoch's chance to lunge.

Had he succeeded in wrapping Evrard entirely within his grip, the man would already have been dead, ripped apart in ribbons of flesh and blood. But the duelist was almost quick enough to avoid the attack, despite his momentary blindness. He retreated swiftly, practically leaping, and Iruoch caught only the end of his left arm. Still he screamed, despite himself, and Widdershins winced in sympathy. She'd felt the touch of the murderous fae before, felt her skin rip beneath it. She knew that, lacking Olgun's aid in healing, Evrard would be feeling the pain of that clutch for a long time to come.

Iruoch bent backward at the waist, hurling Evrard over him by that captive arm. Ferrand ducked beneath the living projectile, but as Iruoch had thrown him directly at Widdershins-who had, herself, been rushing forward in a dead sprint-she wasn't quite so lucky. She twisted, so that what might have been a bone-shattering impact was instead only bruising, sending them both tumbling over each other across the grass.

But it wasn't the pain of the attack, or even the undignified sprawl in which she and Evrard found themselves, with his head flopping dazedly across her chest, that disturbed her. No, it was the sudden consternation she sensed from her partner in the bishop's spell. Shoving the aristocrat aside, she looked up just in time to see Brother Ferrand's headlong pace slow so abruptly that he stumbled over his own feet. Iruoch casually backhanded him aside, and it was neither magic nor the monk's skill, but blind luck, that allowed the staff to take the bulk of the blow. Ferrand staggered and fell, but he was merely winded, rather than crippled or dead.

Even before Widdershins could ask herself, or Olgun, why Ferrand had stumbled, why he'd slowed, she understood the answer.

The spell linked him to her, not to Olgun. He shared in her strength, not the god's. And that meant that only when Olgun was actively exercising his divine influence, however limited, on Widdershins's behalf… only then, and at no other instant, could Ferrand himself draw upon the power of the god.

How long could Olgun maintain a constant flow of power, without needing time to rest and recover? A few minutes, at best? Not long enough; not since the hallowed earth of the cemetery didn't seem to be any more than a mild inconvenience to their enemy, not if he had the wherewithal to actually use the terrain against them as he had done. Every advantage they possessed was suddenly taunting, slipping away, promising far more than it could deliver.

Renard had moved past her as she struggled to stand, engaging Iruoch with a display of swordsmanship the likes of which he'd never before exhibited. Blades flashed and Iruoch swayed, sidling from the weapon's path here, parrying with a finger against the flat of the blade there, but Renard continued to press. It wasn't enough to have one chance in a million of beating the creature-odds were it wasn't even enough to survive him for long-but it allowed the others to recover their bearings.

Muttering a brief summary of what she'd just figured out-not because anyone could hear her, but so that Ferrand would remember hearing it, thanks to their peculiar link-Widdershins once again darted forward under Olgun's power. Her own sword glinted in the sun as it darted and struck, but she took only a few small shreds of Iruoch's cloak for her trouble. Ferrand, for his own part, succeeded in landing a brutal knock against the creature's knee, but the resulting limp lasted for only for a fusillade of heartbeats before it vanished.

Time and again the four of them sought to converge on Iruoch, pinning him between them in the hopes of dishing out enough injury to slow him down, if not destroy him. And time and again, he evaded their every effort,