The Cardinal's Blades

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 Sphere d’Ame. 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 Gagniere 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 Agnes 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, Agnes 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 them. 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, Agnes 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.

“Captain!” Agnes exclaimed in relief when she saw who was riding the reptile.

“Hurry!” yelled La Fargue.

He held out a gloved hand to her, but the young woman pointed instead to Laincourt.

“He’s coming too!”

“What? No! Too heavy!”

“He’s coming too!”

It was not the time or the place for an argument: around them, the hired swordsmen were beginning to rally themselves.

Agnes and Laincourt climbed onto the reptile’s rump behind La Fargue, who dug in his spurs to launch the wyvern. The beast took a few lumbering steps toward the parapet. Seeing his prey escaping, Savelda ran toward them, taking aim with his pistol while yelling at his men to move out of the way. He fired and the pistol ball passed through the wyvern’s long neck at the very instant when it was taking to the air. The reptile flinched. Its surprise, pain, and the over-heavy load on its back toppled it over the edge, and it fell. It opened its wings as the ground approached and La Fargue hauled with all his might on the reins… and the wyvern pulled out of its dive at the very last second. Its belly brushed against the cobblestones and its claws scraped over them, raising a spray of sparks. It was moving too fast across the small courtyard to have any chance of climbing again. La Fargue barely succeeded in turning its head toward the keep’s gate. The reptile swept at full speed beneath the vault. But its span was too wide and the impact broke its leathery wings. The wyvern screamed. Moving like a rock down a hillside, it crossed the lowered drawbridge, rolled over in a whirlwind of dust and blood, and threw off its passengers before finally crashing into one of the great bonfires that had been lit for the ceremony.

Ballardieu saw the wyvern burst forth from the keep and three bodies flying through the air.

“Agnes!” he screamed as the reptile with its broken wings smashed into the flaming pyre and vanished beneath it.

He vaulted over the parapet, landed six metres below, and began to run without paying any heed to the pain from a sprained ankle. Two drac swordsmen attacked him. He did not slow down or even draw his sword. Instead, taking his sack, weighed with a few remaining grenades, by its bandolier, he swung it round, crushing a temple and dislocating a scaly jaw. Still running, shoving aside everyone in the terrified crowd who stood in his way, he yelled at the top of his lungs: “Agnes…! Agnes…!”

He saw La Fargue picking himself off the ground and went to him.

“Agnes! Where is Agnes?”

The captain, in a daze, was staggering on his feet. He blinked and almost tripped over. Ballardieu had to steady him.

“Captain! Where is she? Where is Agnes?”

“I… I don’t know…”

Marciac arrived.

“What’s going on?” he asked, trying to making himself heard over the din of thunder that accompanied the magical lightning bolts.

“It’s Agnes!” explained the old soldier anxiously. “She’s here! Somewhere! Help me!”

Grimacing, with a dazed look in his eye, Laincourt struggled to drag himself from the ground, remaining for a moment on his hands and knees. He coughed and spat out a mixture of dirt and blood.

Then he stood up.

Around him the chaos of the battle drawing to a close blended with that of the incredible storm above, whose windy moans were rising to a high-pitched screech. The destructive bolts of lightning gained in intensity and the furious roaring shook the entire castle to its very depths, dislodging its stones. No one thought of fighting any longer, only of escape. The surviving followers and mercenaries of the Black Claw pressed toward the gate which Ballardieu no longer defended with his grenades.

Laincourt, too, should have been fleeing without delay.

But he had one last task to accomplish.

Still holding the unconscious vicomtesse in his arms, Gagniere arrived in the courtyard of the keep at the same time as Savelda and his men, coming down from the upper floors.

“We’re under attack!” said Gagniere sweating.

“Yes,” replied the one-eyed Spaniard. “And we’ve already lost… Give her to me.”

Without waiting for a reply, he seized hold of the vicomtesse.

The marquis let him take her, too stunned by the turn of events to even protest.

“We must flee!” he said. “By the passageway. Quickly, while there’s still time!”

“No.”

“What?”

“Not you. You stay.”

“But why?”

“To protect our retreat… against him.”

Gagniere turned around.

Saint-Lucq was entering from beneath the vault, armed with a rapier in his right hand and a dagger in his left.

“You and you, with me,” ordered Savelda. “The rest of you, with the marquis.”

And, followed by the two men he had selected, he disappeared through a door leaving the gentleman and four swordsmen in the courtyard.

Gagniere went over and tried to open the same door, only to find it had been locked from within. He then stared at the half-blood, who met his glance and smiled at him from beyond the row of freebooters, as if they were an insignificant obstacle separating the two of them. This idea wormed its way into the mind of the marquis and he became frightened.

Gathering up a sword from a dead body that had fallen from the walkway above, he cried: “Attack!”

Themselves unnerved by Saint-Lucq’s predatory calm, the hired swordsmen flinched and then rushed forward. The half-blood parried two blades with his rapier, planted and then left his dagger in the belly of his first opponent, and spun round and slit the throat of the second with a reverse thrust. In one smooth motion he ducked down in front of a drac who was preparing to strike high, slipped under his arm, and stood up, throwing the reptilian over his shoulder. The drac fell heavily on his back and Saint-Lucq lunged to pierce the chest of the remaining mercenary, whom he disarmed. Then, completing his murderous choreography, he brought the rapier he had just acquired to a vertical position, and without looking, pinned the drac to the ground with it.

Expressionless, the half-blood turned to stare once again at Gagniere.

There was still a wyvern in the enclosure, although no doubt it would have fled earlier if it had not been chained up. Saint-Georges struggled to saddle it and he already had one boot in the stirrup when, amidst the racket of the storm, he heard distinctly: “Step back.”

Bruised, wounded, and bleeding, Laincourt stood a few metres behind him, pointing a pistol. He was a sorry sight, but there was an almost fanatical light in his eyes.

“Obey,” he added. “I’m just waiting for an excuse to blow your brains out.”

Without making any sudden moves, Saint-Georges set his foot back on the ground and stretched out his arms. He did not turn around, however. Nor did he move away from the wyvern and the pistols tucked into its saddle holsters. Pistols that Laincourt, behind his back, could not see.

“We can still reach an understanding, Laincourt.”

“I doubt that.”

“I am rich. Very rich…”

“Your gold is the reward for your treachery. How many men have died because of you? The latest of your victims were no doubt the couriers from Brussels, whose itineraries you gave to the Black Claw. But before them?”

“Gold is gold. It shines everywhere with the same brightness.”

“Yours will be worthless where you’re going.”

Saint-Georges suddenly spun about, brandishing a pistol.

A shot rang out.

And Laincourt watched the traitor fall, his eye burst and the back of his skull torn out by the ball.

Then he gazed at the saddled wyvern.

The storm was now at its height. Whirlwinds of energy had formed at ground level and lightning bolts fell from the sky every second, digging craters wherever they landed. The castle looked as if it were being battered by a cannonade that was determined to destroy it.

“Over here!” La Fargue yelled suddenly.

He was crouching near Agnes whom he had just found and was raising her head. The young woman was unconscious. Her hair was sticky with blood at her temple. But she was still breathing.

“Is she…?” asked Ballardieu, who had come running, fearing the worst.

“No. She lives.”

A rider appeared from a breach in a rampart. It was Almades, who towed the Blades’ mounts behind him. They were good warhorses, fortunately, and thus did not panic in the din of battle.

“Agnes is in no fit state to ride!” declared La Fargue.

“I’ll carry her!” replied Ballardieu.

A lightning bolt struck nearby and showered them with smoking earth.

“Look!” cried the Gascon.

The vicomtesse’s black coach was coming from the keep, driven by Saint-Lucq.

“Bless you, Saint-Lucq,” murmured Ballardieu.

The half-blood pulled up the coach in front of them. He had great difficulty controlling the team of horses. They whinnied and reared at each explosion, making the vehicle lurch backward and forward. Marciac seized the animals by their bits to settle them.

La Fargue managed to open the door and saw a form inside.

“There’s someone in here!”

It was Gagniere. Fainted away, after receiving a sword wound in the right shoulder.

“A new friend!” joked Saint-Lucq. “Come on! Hurry!”

Ballardieu climbed aboard holding Agnes in his arms. La Fargue closed the door for them, then mounted the horse whose reins the Gascon, already in his saddle, held out for him.

“Come on! All hell is going to break loose!”

Saint-Lucq cracked the lunges against the rumps of the harnessed horses. The riders spurred their own mounts and opened the way for the coach and they were all soon moving at a full gallop. Miraculously spared by the explosions whose blasts lashed their faces with various bits of debris, they crossed through the gate just before a violent flash brought it tumbling down. The convoy hurtled down the winding road, pitilessly running down any escapees in their path, leaving the ruined castle behind them in the grip of the full destructive fury of ancestral energies.

There was a second of tremendous silence and then a dazzling force broke forth from the sky. It swept away the last vestiges of the castle in an apocalyptic blast whose brightness drowned out the silhouette of a lone wyvern and its rider winging their way from the scene.

At the same moment, a quarter of a league away, a gate was pushed open in a thicket of undergrowth. Savelda came through first, battling with the thorns, soon followed by the two men carrying the vicomtesse. Drained of the draconic energy which had sustained her youth, she had regained her true age, becoming a haggard and ancient-looking old woman: her face was hollow and wrinkled, her complexion had lost its freshness and beauty, her long blonde hair had shrivelled into grey locks, and her pretty lips had dried and thinned. A thick black bile ran from her mouth and nostrils, and she breathed with difficulty, moaning and hiccupping.

But she lived.