Covenant's End - Ari Marmell Page 0,80

this hall had a second door….

Narrower than the exit to the hallway, it was otherwise functionally identical. The major slammed it open, charging in with rapier in hand…

A massive shape loomed from the shadows, a tall and barrel-thick figure wielding an equally massive pistol.

Idiot. Gods damned bloody idiot! “Nobody by themselves!” I'd have a constable on latrine duty for pulling something like this!

Paschal crossed the distance between them in a desperate lunge, blade outstretched—a blade the colossal thief sidestepped with ease—his other hand grabbing for the gun even as it fired…

“Ow! Gods bloody dammit!”

The pain was sharp, biting, sending tingles of aggravation throughout his entire arm. Still, it was preferable to having been shot. He and the large-framed Finder both stared for an instant at the flintlock—and the flint clasped in the hammer, which had come down not on the striker but on the web of flesh between Paschal's thumb and forefinger.

Laremy Privott, Taskmaster of the Finders’ Guild—now, up close, Paschal recognized the snake-bald head and apish body from prior encounters—grunted something vaguely disbelieving but otherwise unintelligible, then said, “You have got to be shitting me.”

“I am as shat as you are,” Paschal said, even as he grabbed desperately for a weapon with his free hand. Not his rapier; this close in, it'd be awkward to the point of useless. No, the guardsman dropped his longer blade and went for his dagger, a heavy-basketed main gauche. Went for it and got nowhere near it, as a vise pretending to be a fist clamped down hard enough to grind the bones of his wrist together. He couldn't help but gasp between his teeth in pain.

They staggered about the inner office, slamming one another into walls and furniture, locked in this peculiar duel. Paschal could not risk releasing his grip on the flintlock, agonizing as it was; Privott couldn't relax his own hold without being stabbed.

In better shape than most, Paschal still had no doubt that this was a contest in which he could only come out second best. Privott, judging by his mocking grin, knew it, too.

“Anything you want to say before I tie a pretty little bow in your spine?”

“Actually…yes,” he answered between grunts. “You're…under arrest.”

The taskmaster chortled.

“You can surrender…to me now,” Paschal croaked on, “or you can…kill me and then…be shot dead by my people…in the next room.”

Privott froze. “You're bluffing.”

“No,” d'Ilse rasped from the doorway, voice firm despite the obvious pain it carried. “He's not.”

She and the other two soldiers stood or crouched, leaning around the doorjamb to aim bash-bangs at the struggling pair.

“Were you waiting…for an invitation?” Paschal asked them, still bent halfway backward.

“Didn't seem desperate enough to try shooting through you, yet, sir.”

“The consideration is appreciated.” The major looked up into the Finder's eyes, which were now darting side to side, seeking an escape that didn't exist. “You could try taking me hostage, of course,” he said, his breath slowing. “That might get you past those three. But there are a lot more of us in the hall. Nowhere you can turn where you won't be exposing your back to someone.

“How loyal are you to Suvagne, Privott? Are you ready to martyr yourself for her?”

The hefty fellow slowly straightened, releasing his grip on both his opponent's wrist and the flintlock (the latter of which Paschal gingerly detached from his throbbing and already bruising skin). “I believe, officer” he said, “I'd like to turn myself in.

“You don't want to do that.”

Muskets and flintlocks hung on the walls and in racks throughout the chamber. Crossbows sat, unstrung but otherwise ready to go, on the shelves of massive cases. Swords and daggers, some on those selfsame shelves, some standing upright in stands, smelled heavily of oil. And from behind an iron-shod door, currently standing ajar, drifted the pungent and sulfuric scent of black powder.

Nearly a score of Finders occupied the Guild armory, gathering up weapons and equipment, and all of them stopped to stare as Igraine Vernadoe stepped calmly through the chamber's outer door.

“It's not too late,” she continued. The priestess paused, ensuring all attention was on her, before she resumed her casual stroll through the armory. “You can still return to the Shrouded God's grace.”

“Like you?” one of the men spat “By siding with the fucking Guard?! You're a traitor! You're—”

“The Shrouded God utilizes what tools he needs, Pierre. The Finders’ Guild is currently under the thumb of an apostate, who has dismantled our priesthood and banished our most senior members. Do you truly believe that our god

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