Chapter Text
The report of a pistol cracked through the air. A puff of straw from the dummy on the other side of the training ring indicated the successful shot.
Reynauld packed the pistol, reloaded, tamped it, and then aimed again. The gunsmith had lingered to see how well her creation worked. The blacksmith hovered behind her, his wilted eyes eagerly trained on the new flintlock pistol in Reynauld’s hand.
This time, the pistol fired, and the peal of bullet pinging metal rang with the gunshot. Reynauld smiled. More than success this time: accuracy. Though dented and rusty, the dummy’s piecemeal plating over its head and chest was still intact enough to give him an idea of when he was hitting its splayed straw arms and joints, or when he had hit something vital.
The musketeer Quiet’s skill with long-range firearms was uncontested, though Dismas had mused on his curiosity to try a rifle at some point. In the meantime, Reynauld hoped he would be satisfied with the new flintlock pistol and dirk he had commissioned for Dismas’ return. If Dismas expressed a vested interest in rifles, then the gunsmith had assured Reynauld of her excitement to procure one to his liking.
He peered down the barrel for a moment longer, focusing on the pistol’s weight in his hand, and then lowered it. The dummy would receive a more rigorous battering later. For now, Reynauld buffed the barrel of any smut from the gunpowder with his sleeve, and then turned to request the pistol’s holster. The gunsmith smiled at him, sensing he was pleased. The dirk in its scabbard and the pistol’s holster were already held out to him.
Two bell tolls rang. Reynauld looked sharply down the street, grip tightening on the flintlock. Then he darted towards the gunsmith, casting her a quick thanks for her work as he took the proffered equipment, and ran towards the town square with his heart in his throat and a wary excitement nipping at his heels.
A week or so was the average duration of an expedition. It had only been three days. A sure sign of success, thought Reynauld firmly, excusing himself to the townspeople he pushed past. The heir had requested all other expeditions be postponed until the Courtyard team returned — or not — so that the best team for a retrieval could be assembled at once.
Reynauld knew Tardif had been champing at the bit to see the Courtyard for himself. Whilst some had avoided even crossing by the street of the quarantine barracks, others like Tardif had made a point to discuss the Crimson Curse with the doctors and researchers and peer through the boarded windows. Should a disaster have befallen the Courtyard team, Reynauld had no doubt Tardif would be the first to put himself forwards for a rescue team.
The market was in full swing around the town square when Reynauld put himself at the fore, holster snug around the pistol, buckled to his waist along with the dirk, to free his hands to better receive Dismas. Dismas would be glad to hear of the candle shop’s profits, although in his absence there had been no new stock to replenish the shelves.
Of course, as promising as his side enterprise was, Reynauld hoped it wouldn’t overshadow the commissioned equipment, which he worried with his thumb as he stared down the Old Road for a familiar horizon.
The minutes passed with the easing of the townspeople’s attention away from the Old Road and back towards their daily business. Reynauld frowned at them. None of his friends had emerged from their vocations, either.
But he was certain he had heard the two rings of the bell to signal a party’s return. Perhaps he had imagined it: an echo of the gunshot in the training yard, or the clamour of the construction work perpetually in motion around the Hamlet to accommodate their growing numbers and pursuits.
He started walking towards the Old Road, past the outer residencies, and away from the upbeat commotion of the town square. Once away from the houses and upon the open road, a loping figure descended the hills and met him on the cobbles.
The long, corkscrew horns on his head bobbed with his ground-eating gait. Reynauld stopped to watch the abomination bound up to him, all corded muscle the colour of rust and a snout that snarled in a fearsome visage. The clinking of chains matched his rhythm; their new mechanism meant they sat around his waist almost like a belt. Luckily, the new trousers Audrey had made for him accommodated this change.
The abomination approached Reynauld and paused to recover his breath.
“Bigby,” said Reynauld, letting his surprise keep his voice light when worry threatened to darken it. Bigby grunted. “What ails you?”
His voice was still a grinding thing, a sawtoothed thunder that scraped at his throat into words. But it was a long way from where he had begun, as a creature of snarls and howls. He had Boudicca to thank for that, Reynauld understood. Her vocalisation was second to none.
“Come from scouts,” said Bigby, chuffing breaths that singed with venom. His r’s rolled with his next words. “Warning. Party needs help. Boudicca, Baldwin, already gone.”
Reynauld launched into a run, and Bigby bounded beside him. A cold thrill of dread passed through him.
Bigby grunted, but his panting broke the words into formless puffs. Reynauld nodded anyway, and Bigby overtook him, striding into the thicket that swallowed the rest of the Old Road and leaving Reynauld to run after him and think of all the reasons why the party would need help.
He should have brought blood. Last time, Dismas had called for blood. The scouting posts had been supplied with a small batch each, but there was no saying whether Boudicca or Baldwin had remembered to take some to greet the party.
Perhaps — Reynauld gritted his teeth to bite down the thought as it rose unbidden — they would be too far gone for that anyway.
The shadows of the woods fell over him. The cobblestones had turned to mud. He saw colours of fabric through the trees where the road winded through, and picked up his pace. He didn’t know what he would find. But he prayed for Dismas, alive, at the very least alive, and sane. The Light would be merciful. It was all he asked.
He would bow to the deaths of Barristan, Quièvremont, stalwart Mortmain — but to the death of Dismas, he would break. There was no doubt in his mind of that. His chest seized terribly at the thought.
Boudicca and Baldwin were standing in the middle of the road. Reynauld drew up to them, as breathless as Bigby who was hunched just beyond them, to the people they encircled. Baldwin turned, his sword splattered with blood. Reynauld froze in fear.
“Do not come closer, for their sake and yours,” said Baldwin simply.
Reynauld drew himself to his full height and unsheathed both the new dirk and pistol. “What’s going on? Where’s Dismas?”
Baldwin watched him approach, bristling with the power behind his threat. But Reynauld would not cower. Baldwin would do the same for Sarmenti. They both knew this. He would not be daunted.
So Baldwin said, not moving but letting Reynauld find space beside him, “They are recovering from their fatigue. They were wasting away on the Old Road, limping together towards the Hamlet, and collapsed when we approached. They have since drunk their fill from our stock of blood.”
Reynauld looked down at the pile of bodies on the ground and almost couldn’t tell where one person began and the other ended, slumped together and garbed in red so glossy it was like the satin of Junia’s sleeves. But it was impossible to miss the stench of blood, nor the shallow breaths they all took.
He knew Barristan’s plate armour, however. He was the centre point of the huddle, still a bastion of strength despite the gore streaked across his armour and the slack twist of his arms. Buckled forwards, only the top of his head was visible.
Tucked into his side, facing away from him, someone heaved a wheezing laugh. Reynauld flinched. Their skin was completely crusted with blood.
“You hear that?” The voice was barely above a whisper, but in the stunned silence it carried all the same. No one else could summon such mockery under the circumstances except for Quièvremont. “The first thing he says! Where’s Dismas? Where’s Dismas?”
Dismas craned his neck up. He was on his knees, counterbalanced by Mortmain. The fine fur of his coat was a matted mess. In his lap was his haversack, cradled tightly. His stare burned scarlet, irises embered in a scintillated ruby gleam. As soon as their eyes met and Reynauld saw the colour, the smears across his face and his stained smile heavy with grief, he knew the curse had finally found him.
He took a deep breath and smiled back.
“Poor babe,” rasped Mortmain. She tried to sit upright, and trembled with the effort. In the end, Dismas was almost horizontal against her back, and she was vertical enough to laugh as well.
Reynauld baulked at the mandibles on Mortmain’s face. Barristan also lifted his head, and there was a bulbous growth underneath his chin, a swollen red pouch. Reynauld didn’t want to know what Quièvremont looked like. The film of blood coating him was gruesome enough. Pale and gaunt, eyes in vivid red, it was a small comfort Dismas wasn’t as insectile as the others.
Boudicca chuckled, shifting her weight to her other foot as she leant on her glaive. Bigby chuffed along with her. Perhaps it was less shocking for them, as their encampments on the edge of the Hamlet received all manner of abominations and outsiders.
Baldwin hummed. “I believe they’re hysterical,” he remarked.
“They’re docile enough,” said Boudicca cheerily. “C’mon, you layabouts. Back to the Hamlet with ye.”
“The scouting post would be better,” said Baldwin at the same time Reynauld said, “No, I’ll fetch Paracelsus.”
Their glares met. Boudicca ignored them as she signalled to Bigby, and the two of them edged towards the four mercenaries as though they were rescuing pit dogs too feral to know friend from foe.
“This is unwise,” said Baldwin, as the party twitched in response to Boudicca’s proximity. All of their eyes were on her with such intensity, Reynauld hesitated to sheathe his weapons.
But Boudicca gripped her glaive in one hand, and sent a flat look to Baldwin. “They en’t gonna make it to the Hamlet by themselves. Did ye want them to die out here instead?”
She swooped Quièvremont up from Barristan’s side. There was a retching noise, but Quièvremont was limp under her arm. She grinned at Reynauld.
“Ye can handle yer man, eh?”
Reynauld put away his weapons at that and went forwards. Dismas watched him with tired eyes.
“I could have the plague,” he said hoarsely.
Reynauld held out his hand. Dismas’ gaze lingered on it. His lips parted. But when was all he did, Reynauld bent down to hoist him up.
“Better than the runs,” he said.
Dismas snorted, now slumped in Reynauld’s arms. “There’s still time for me to shit on your trousers, love.”
“A fine present indeed. I would expect no less after all I’ve done for you.”
“Perhaps you’ll be more happier to see the other present in my bag.” He patted it. Reynauld noticed the clasp was broken and the bottom was soaked. “You, or Para. She’s gonna be thrilled.”
Getting a good hold on Dismas’ weight, he started off towards the Hamlet, letting Bigby take up Barristan and Baldwin carry Mortmain. Boudicca was already striding ahead, chatting to Quièvremont.
Though still pounding, Reynauld’s heart eased with the weight of Dismas in his arms. He was alive and sane, praise to the Light.
“You defeated the Baron?” asked Reynauld, hardly daring to hope. There were some shadows standing on the hills where the outsiders’ camps were, likely curious after Baldwin, Boudicca, and Bigby’s disappearance. A few people stood at the mouth to the Hamlet. The contrast of light and dark robes suggested they were Junia and Paracelsus.
Dismas followed his gaze and made an enthused noise. “We do have a reception after all. Lucky us.” He reached up with one hand, and Reynauld saw how it trembled so violently as Dismas licked his lips and rubbed his cheek. “As for the Baron, it won’t be plaguing the Courtyard any longer. Tore its tongue out and everything. It got a good bite in, so you can have your fun looking at the scars later.” He winked, and Reynauld huffed, amused despite himself.
“I will be most thorough,” he promised, and Dismas smiled, his hand finding Reynauld’s.
“Aye,” he said with a sigh, and closed his eyes, “we defeated the Baron.”
Reynauld let him doze as they neared the Hamlet, although Dismas’ shaking hands didn’t abate. When he next opened his eyes to Junia and Paracelsus, he gave them a tight nod, and Reynauld realised he must have been controlling himself the entire time.
“Gallant as always, Rey,” said Paracelsus, holding up a pair of forceps. Junia was casting blessings over Quièvremont to sustain him before he was transported to the quarantine. “You look like shit, Dismas. Did you get bitten?”
Dismas groaned. “By the Baron itself. But its mouth was useful in other ways.”
Reynauld didn’t need to see Paracelsus’ eyes to predict the excitement in them — not when she was snipping impatiently with her forceps.
“The tongue!” she said, looking him over. “You got it? Is it in here?”
Dismas relinquished his haversack with a grunt, and Paracelsus fished inside with her forceps until she pulled out a slimy, black tongue, the tip solid and hollow. Reynauld rubbed his thumb over Dismas’ hand in sympathy.
Whilst Paracelsus cooed and crooned over the tongue, Junia finished her chants and walked over to them. She took in Dismas carried in Reynauld’s arms with a pitying expression.
“Oh no,” she said softly.
Dismas snorted. “Hey Juni. Any holy words for me?”
She reached out and Dismas slipped his hand from underneath Reynauld’s to take hers. “Only a prayer of thanks that you have returned to us. I only wish you had been spared the Crimson Curse.”
Off to the side now, Paracelsus said idly, “I wouldn’t worry about it. With this sample, we should be able to cure the curse in all its stages of infection. Did you drink any human blood, Dismas? Out of professional curiosity.”
“I’ve bitten my tongue a fair few times. Does that count?” Paracelsus hummed thoughtfully, and Dismas continued, “Am I off to quarantine, then? To the house of mozzies?”
Reynauld glanced over to where Boudicca had slung Quièvremont over her shoulder due to his wriggling and was walking towards the quarantine barracks. Baldwin and Mortmain had just caught up, and Junia’s attention was seized by the full-body tremors wracking Mortmain and her rattling gasps as she was bent double. She hurried over to attend to her sister. Bigby and Barristan were still on the road, taking the path one step at a time.
Before Paracelsus could pass her judgement, Reynauld stepped towards her and said, “Dismas doesn’t need to be in quarantine, does he?”
Paracelsus turned her head towards him. “Of course he does,” she said blankly. Dismas also stared at him as though he’d just recommended they put a torch in a Shambler’s altar.
“I’m infected, love,” he said. “Can’t go around willy-nilly, can I? That’d defeat the whole object.”
“Well,” said Reynauld, “you do not need to quarantine if you are not infected, is that not so?” He was careful not to look at the others as he leant forwards. “Curing Dismas of the curse would mean avoiding quarantine.”
“Hang on now,” started Dismas angrily, “don’t you go around deciding what’s best for me. Pont’s been a mosquito for weeks now. He was the first of us to be infected! He of all people should be cured first. And then there’s Amani: the poor girl is already afraid of snakes, and now she has to live with two massive fangs in her mouth—!”
Paracelsus, the point of her beak aimed at Reynauld, finally nodded. Relief washed over him. “All right.”
“Mortmain wanted a bath, it’s all she — beg your pardon?” Dismas gripped Reynauld’s arm.
Paracelsus sealed the tongue back into his haversack and shouldered it. With her forceps, she gestured to Dismas. “You’re in the early stages of the curse. Your treatment should be purely fluid, whilst Pont, Amani, even Mortmain it seems, will have to undergo surgery to remove their malignant organs and extremities.”
“What if this tongue doesn’t create anything?” argued Dismas, looking back and forth between Paracelsus and Reynauld. “What if you give me something that makes it worse?”
“You’re already a stinking highwayman with a love for the lyrical. Anything from here will be an improvement.”
“That’s it, I’m taking myself to the quarantine.” He wrestled against Reynauld’s hold. “Let me down, you fool.”
“He has a point, Paracelsus,” said Reynauld urgently, lowering Dismas’ legs so he could find his balance on the ground. When Dismas wobbled, he placed a hand on his lower back.
Paracelsus laughed and started to walk. “He’s going to be fine and you know it. Come now, Dismas. Your friends won’t begrudge you if you’re the first to be cured.”
Dismas’ mouth opened in protest, but then he looked towards Mortmain and Barristan, who had been following the conversation with an unnerving focus. Mortmain chittered, which startled Reynauld but seemed to signal a form of acceptance, judging by Dismas’ slump of defeat. Barristan raised his fist.
“You fought honourably against the Baron, my friend,” he croaked. The pouch underneath his chin undulated with his words. “Its defeat was your work. Tactics, remember?”
“Dumb luck, it felt like,” said Dismas with a half-hearted grumble. At Reynauld’s inquisitive look, he waved a hand. “The story can wait. Apparently, I have a curing to undergo.”
“You’ll make a finer jerky than the Swine Prince,” said Paracelsus. She bounced along the path towards the sanitarium. “Get it? Curing, jerky, pork meat?”
“Light above, Para. Please leave the love of the lyrical to me and Sarmenti.” He hummed, low and pained, as he took a few steps forwards. His hand trailed away from Reynauld, and he turned back in surprise. “What’s that you have there, Rey?” A true smile, amazed and amused in equal measure, lit up his face. “I’ll be damned. You taking up firearms? ”
Reynauld flushed and went to unbuckle the dirk and the flintlock pistol. “Ah, no. Thought you would appreciate an upgrade from—” He gestured to Dismas’ belt. With his coat thrown open, he saw there was no pistol in the holster. He frowned, although Dismas caught his confusion and waved his hand again. Deciding to wait for an explanation later, he met Dismas’ eyes and smirked. “Besides, a Baron-killer deserves worthy weapons, no?”
Creased with mirth, he decided the red eyes weren’t so startling. Dismas huffed and turned away, his hand reflexively going to pull up his neckerchief.
“Sure. It’s…real sweet. Thank you, Rey. Maybe Audrey can help me pick out a new coat to complete the set.” He cleared his throat. “You coming with?”
“To the sanitarium, yes, but the heir must be notified of your success. Then I’ll put these inside the shop before I damage them.”
As they walked to the sanitarium, his attention lingered to Baldwin, Junia, and Mortmain just behind them. The three of them were in deep discussion, and as much as Reynauld wanted to drop back to join in, Mortmain seemed overwhelmed enough with Baldwin and Junia fretting over her.
If Paracelsus was right and the cure she developed couldn’t control the growths that emerged amongst the infected, then there would be weeks of surgery ahead. Pont’s insectile wings would be challenge enough, although even if his back did fully heal, he would likely set it to rights with his flagellation.
Reynauld hoped the surgery on Amani and Mortmain wouldn’t damage their palates permanently. Mortmain struggled to smell as it was. Perhaps Bigby, whose teeth were sharp and uneven and shed periodically to make way for new sets, could help teach them to eat their food.
The Hamlet would recover. Its people would recover. The Baron and the bloodsuckers could be quelled, and it was Dismas himself who had proved that. His Dismas, highwayman and Courtyard conqueror. The pistol and dirk weren’t enough to convey his pride, his gratitude.
When he met Dismas’ eyes before he was admitted into the sanitarium, Dismas’ grin suggested he knew what was on his mind.
“See you on the other side, Rey,” he said wryly. “Don’t bake too many pies for me.”
“Just a big one, then,” teased Reynauld. “Take care. I love you.”
“Love you too. Can’t wait to wash the taste of blood out of my mouth — yes, Para, I’m coming, I’m coming, Rey was distracting me…”
Dismas pointedly rolled his eyes and Reynauld laughed, before he was urged into the sanitarium and the doors were closed. He waited for a moment, in case there was trouble or Dismas was kicked out or Paracelsus changed her mind.
But perhaps it was his need to relish the moment, the buoyant relief that loosened all the stress that had been haranguing him ever since Dismas had first set foot in the Courtyard, that made him pause. He enjoyed the smile still on his lips.
Because even though Mortmain was escorted into the quarantine after Quièvremont, and Bigby followed after, there was a clarity in the air: a purpose restored, a peace renewed.
Reynauld slapped his neck. But it was only pollen, swept in from the nearby fields.
Reynauld clasped his hands behind his back. Dismas tucked his thumbs into the hems of his new coat’s pockets. The summer humidity glistened on their brows.
The heir sighed and slid a piece of parchment across her desk. The pointed crest, painted in leering crimson, caught the light from the top of the parchment. Dismas and Reynauld met each other’s eyes before they looked to the heir.
“A feast for all — the finest culinary comestibles served to the intrepid warriors who acquainted with the Baron. The Courtyard opens its gates for a carousal of revelry and indulgence to the four soldiers under the employ of Lady Darkest, who so impressed the Courtyard and its courtiers upon their last entry. The Viscount hereby presents his compliments and highest consideration to the Lady Darkest in this invitation to the Courtyard.”
The heir finished reading the parchment, upside down though it was, and Dismas leant forwards to get a better look, an almost impressed pout pulling down his mouth. Reynauld scowled.
“Who is this Viscount to send an invite like this?” he said through gritted teeth.
Dismas laughed and nudged him. “Intrepid warrior. Now that’s a title and a half. They should put that on my wanted posters in the cities.”
“A bloodsucker with some esteem amongst the others, apparently. The invite is quite explicit,” said the heir tentatively, “that the original four party members who went into the Courtyard should return.” She looked at Reynauld as she said this. After all, the three of them knew who would have the greatest grievance against this.
Dismas rested his hand on the pommel of his new dirk. “We’ve played their games once. We can do it again.”
“We played their games because we thought we’d won,” Reynauld shot back.
Dismas gazed coolly at him, scarlet though his stare was when the light slanted just so. “I think we all knew they weren’t over yet. The bloodsuckers have been spotted about. It was only a matter of time. What’s your decision?” he said to the heir.
The heir thumbed her signet ring, glaring at the crest on the parchment. “It’s a provocation we cannot ignore. Though we managed to cure everyone with the Baron’s tissue, I cannot allow the Hamlet’s people to come under such a threat again.” She rapped her fingers against the desk with a note of finality. “Let’s see how the Viscount likes his revenge, then.”
“Served cold, probably,” said Dismas, and plucked the invitation from the desk.