Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Faith
Oste glided onward with the same quiet clarity that had embraced him on that snowy, winter day when he had everything in the world to lose.
He didn’t tolerate the idea of loss then. He didn’t now.
He knew the situation was dire and damned even before he ran into Jeanne, frantic and weeping, who said she’d gone to get help because Dorotèa was alone in the bathhouse with a monster. His wife had a sword, and their foe, a gun.
In a fair fight, she’d gut you, Oste thought to himself as he dashed past Jeanne and made for the back door she said she left unlocked.
His beautiful wife, his treasured one. How considerate she’d been to have left a trail of flowers and droplets of blood. Damn anyone who laid a finger on her.
Oste waited for his eyes to adjust to the thermal waterways, then drew his blade and ran in. He’d grown used to the darkness of the underground a long, long time ago.
Damn any man who made his cherished woman look so small as she cowered on the cold floor. She was so much more than that.
When Oste spied the firearm, raised and poised, his only hesitation came from his need to calculate drawing it off its mark.
He stepped up to the captain quietly, proud to have been the wolfcatcher’s son.
He’d not shy away from this hunt. He’d walked trails that commanded more silence than the cover of the thermal stream.
Oste drew up to the back right side of the captain and threw the loosened pebble he scooped up along the way at the wall. His voice carried in an echo: “Bang!”
Capitaine Tirel’s gun whipped around that way, and his gun exploded with a shot. It struck the wall and sent a shower of stone and dust down from where the ball found purchase.
Oste drove his sword towards the gap in the attachment of the captain’s chestpiece at his flank.
Tirel could not have gained his position if he’d not been capable, however, and the physician was indignant to see his foe draw his own blade in a great flourish to catch the blow in a one-handed parry.
The situation immediately shifted from an ambush to a duel.
The likes of which Oste hadn’t engaged in for some time.
“Oste!” Dorotèa cried out from the ground.
“Get out of here!” he replied when Tirel made a lunge of his own. Their swords clashed in three quick exchanges. “Go!”
He thought he might have caught a shake of her head.
There was no paying close attention; Tirel fought like a bull and gave Oste no time to breathe.
Every strike was as heavy as the man who dealt it, and though Oste sensed his muscle memory returning, he felt his rust in the soreness of every parry and the concentration he needed to simply keep his head.
The firearm in Tirel’s other hand was a confusing distraction.
Its shimmer and bulk made his instincts process both weapons as swords to block.
“I’d liked you, even as a gypsy bastard,” Tirel hissed. He performed a feint that forced Oste a few paces towards the wall.
When the next attack came, he ducked and skidded back into the open.
Oste whirled on Tirel and continued to move with his blade in a fluid arc; he succeeded in catching the uncovered portion just over his hipbone in a slash.
He’d seen the very same done with sabers in voyageur hands that looked like his, on hazy summer days that felt like dreams. “You can’t use that to insult me. ”
Not while I have my pride.
He’d been tired an hour ago, but not now.
Adrenaline bid him engage Tirel in a dance that sent them spiraling into the brutality of their back and forth.
Every blow was an impact he felt through the whole of his body, but he didn’t feel spent, not at all, until the captain’s skill created an opening that broke the spell.
They’d fought deeper into the intersection, where, surrounded by a handful of crates, Tirel stepped forward with his left foot and then dropped his weight as though lowering himself into a saddle.
Oste caught the push he made with his blade, but inhaled sharply in alarm when his foe got his leg up and under Oste’s thigh.
He inhaled the full scent of Tirel’s sweat when their bodies locked together.
There was a prod, an ache, a spin, and Oste found himself falling backwards.
He thudded against one of the crates and flipped over the top of it.
Oste slashed out wildly as he fell, and the resistance he felt in his blade just before his painful landing gave him hope that he’d scored another cut.
He could hardly rejoice, however; his breath was stolen from his lungs, not only from the crash, but the dastardly ache his bad leg now possessed from Tirel’s cruel twist and throw.
He could only assume the captain would run over the debris to try and finish him, but the sounds of footsteps rushing further away told Oste the opposite.
Maybe he’d cut the man badly. Maybe he’d been lucky.
Then he remembered the gun.
How many seconds had it taken him to fall?
How many had he laid there for? Too many, he knew, when the captain was such a rapid shot.
Oste rolled over to his side and jumped up with a slew of pained curses, which might have exposed his position when he crouched behind a crate and scanned the space for Tirel.
Someone else needed to be careful, though.
“Dorotèa, find cover!” Oste shouted.
Relief washed over him when a movement out of the corner of his eye told him she’d already been seeking it out.
She tucked herself against two tall barrels just seconds after.
When she looked across at him, Oste saw the full extent of what that brute had done to her.
The cut over her brow oozed red, and the bruising accompanying it made him tighten his grip over his saber with a primordial rage.
“Take this.” Oste drew his dagger and slid it across the ground to her.
Dorotèa scooped it up. “I’m dizzy. I’m not much use right now.”
“I’ll deal with this.”
She smiled. “I know you will.”
Bang!
Oste barked out the Lord’s name in vain when the top of the crate he hid behind exploded into splinters. Merde! He’d been shot at again. He forgot how to breathe, forgot how to think.
For a moment, the physician expected himself to be falling all over again, but the impact never came.
He felt no bullets or shrapnel embedding into him, no rapidly approaching ground.
He felt a sting in his left shoulder, but when he glanced at it he saw nothing to blame but splinters.
Further down, plumes of smoke arose from behind three crates.
Tirel.
There were fifteen, maybe twenty seconds between each shot, if he was lucky.
Tirel would have had to be well on his way to his next reload by now.
Not enough time to close the gap again, no, but one look at the splintered crate, and Oste knew he’d have to move regardless.
Dorotèa was too close, and his cover, too flimsy.
Oste jumped up to his feet and pushed forward. His leg labored when he forced his weight on it and sprang off his heel to race towards one of the stone pillars with all due haste. If Tirel wanted him down for the count, the bastard would have to try harder.
One, two, three steps. He skidded across the stone and against the stone column.
“Give it up, Tirel!” he barked out. “It’s over for you. You have to know that!”
Oste didn’t get a reply, and he didn’t get shot at either.
He frowned and counted another five seconds.
Doubtless the brute would have readied another bullet by now, and the room was spacious enough to make any blast count.
Warily, and perhaps stupidly, Oste peeked out from behind the pillar where he’d seen the plumes rise.
His heart sank; the fallen captain was no longer situated there.
Oste leaned a little farther, and when he did, he couldn’t refrain from hissing under his breath when he saw the fellow shimmying up the final rungs of one of the ladders to reach the upper scaffold.
Oh, boudiou. He’d have to become a perfect target if he wanted to finish this. There was no holding out, either. Not when Dorotèa was in a more prone hiding spot than his own.
He scanned the room for other ways up. Tirel would have his best chance if he caught Oste on the ladder.
Another two stood against the raised base around the room, and the closest looked most promising.
It leaned out from the other side of the scaffolding, tucked on the outside edge where it was partially obscured by the next stone pillar over.
Could he sneak over there…? No, no. Oste realized that would be doomed.
Making a run for it was also likely doomed, but perhaps less doomed, if he could be quick about it.
It was either running towards a loaded musket or leaving his beloved open to it, and he knew he preferred the former.
Oste crossed his heart and bolted.
Dorotèa, he thought, as he took off towards the ladder. I’d be saying this out loud if I had less sense than my already dwindling store of it, for using my voice now would merely cause my lungs to labor and our fugitive to get a better sense of my position.
His abrupt halt and skid almost made him topple over.
Alas, I choose to believe the universe would find a way for you to hear me and my words if I’m robbed of the chance to repeat myself. Admittedly, I did not think we would end up here. Not in any sense. Not fighting for our lives, let alone married.
Oste skipped two rungs when he jumped onto the ladder and began to climb.
I fear that I must repeat myself, but I’ll never regret or tire forwarding along my sentiments, for the truth warms me, and repeated observations make for convincing conclusions.
I want you to believe me, Dorotèa, because doubt is an old friend for you and I, and you deserve nothing less than unwavering faith if this must be my parting gift.