Chapter 17: The Promise

"You knew," I say.

"I knew," she nods. "I knew the second I found it in Justine's coat. Was it worth it, brigand?"

I look at Rodin. He's fallen to his knees, and is staring vacantly at the stone. There isn't even anger in his eyes any more – just utter disbelief, and denial, and refusal. The matchman's looking at the Hellion and me with a blank expression; doubt he's even really paying attention. Neither of them'll be any good in a fight. I'm all that's left. I have a crazy urge to charge her, to draw my blade and run in screaming.

But I ain't gonna do that. I ain't come this far, fought so long, just to die.

"So," I say, through clenched teeth. "You win, woman."

"That's right," she gloats. "I win."

"What's wrong?" she goes on, as I glower at her. "No more fancy words? No more fast talk? Looks like I finally shut you up."

"You're a real fucking bitch, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm a bitch, all right," she grins. "When it comes to scum like you. And I want you to remember this. I want you to remember, always, that I'm the one who beat you. I hope it keeps you up at night."

"Yeah," I snarl at her, "you beat me. Ain't gonna save you, in the end. You'll never beat this fucking place. The Weald. The Warrens. The Cove. The Ruins and the Darkest fuckin' Dungeon itself. They'll beat you in the end. Mark my words. The things you see, they'll break you. Eat you out hollow and leave you less'n' you was. Ain't no hope in this hell."

"There's always hope," she says dismissively, "as long as there's honour."

"You and your fucking honour," I scoff. "Well, your precious honour didn't save Justine, did it? When she died choking on her own puke in the swamp. Or the knight in shining armour, when the cannon turned him into paste. Or the magician, when I cut his throat. Or that asshole with the mutt, when Guy smashed the dog to pulp and Clairwil's boys shot its master down on the road. Your honour didn't save their lives any more than it did your husband's."

It's a low blow, and it hits hard: her eyes go wide with rage.

"That's right, you cunt," I leer. "Hope that keeps you up at night. I'll tell you this, Hellion: stay out here, you'll be dead or crazy or both soon enough. Your honour won't save you, either. And when that happens, Hellion; when you feel your death closing in, when you're haunted and driven mad by everything you seen and did – you fucking remember me, woman. You forget me not."

"Oh, I'll remember you, all right," she spits, making it sound equal parts threat and promise. "I'll remember your face. And I'll swear you one more oath, on my life and on my honour – I'll kill you, motherfucker, if we ever meet again."

I smile sourly at her.

"If."

She favours me with one last scowl as she backs away to the road, then turns and starts heading north. She'll reach the town before sunset.

When she's gone, I turn back to Rodin. He's still there, on his knees, looking at the stone.

"It's all my fault," he says, his voice hollow and hopeless. He look up at me, and I realize he's crying – eyes full of tears.

I stare at him aghast. All his anger, all his arrogance is gone. I can barely even recognize him.

"It's all my fault," he repeats. "Everyone's dead. Jean. Philippe. Clairwil. I led them here for this," he says, holding up the speed stone. "I brought us here, for this. They're all dead, and the cannon's fucked, and we're alone and we got nothing. It's all my fault..."

"It's…it's not your…" stammers the matchman hesitantly.

"I killed them!" Rodin yells, his voice cracking. "I killed them all!"

Then he just starts screaming, and doesn't stop. An awful, unending howl.

"Noooooooooooooo!"

I've never liked Rodin. He's a right bastard, and no mistake. But right now, I need him to get his shit together. So I grab him by the collar and backhand him in the face.

"Listen to me, Rodin," I say. "It wasn't you."

"It's all my fault," he blubbers. "It's my fault we lost the cannonballs, my fault…" He puts his head in his hands. "Noooo…" he sobs. "No…"

"It was your man in town," I hiss, shaking him like a rag doll. "He fucked us. He told us there was something good in that treasure. It's him killed us all."

He looks dully at me.

"I…"

"You're a fucking asshole, Rodin, and I never liked you," I yell in his face. "So when I tell you did not do this, it's not because I'm trying to make you feel better. It's because it's not on you. Blame the man in town; blame Dismas, or the glaive-bitch, or anyone else. But you, Rodin, did not fucking do this. You hear me?"

"He's right, though," says the matchman. "We got nothing."

"Not the way I see it," I say with a shrug, letting Rodin slide back to the ground. "Look, there's only three of us, right? Only three slices of the pie means even a speed stone'll give a decent payday. And look," I say, pulling out the bag of emeralds I took from the voice. "I found these in the swamp. Three gems, three of us. Do the math. We just gotta get to town, is all."

"But food…" begins Rodin.

"After they took the cannon, they'd have taken all the valuables from the campsite," I say. "I was them, I'd have dropped all my food and bandages and whatnot, and stuffed my bags with as much gold as I could. Town's less than a day's march, after all. I bet that's exactly what they done. So all we have to do is make it back to the camp and pick up food and torches to last three men five days, and then we walk south along the Old Road."

"And when we hit town, what then?" asks the matchman.

"We find Rodin's 'man in town', and we cut that bastard's throat." I say grimly. "We get fucking even. Then we can figure out what next."

"We get even," Rodin repeats, looking like he's getting it together again.

"And we get out," I say, half to myself. "We get the fuck out of this place for good."