Page 123 of Paladin's Faith

The leader rocked on the balls of his feet, then put two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly.

Five more people stood up from the grass. They must have been lying almost prone, given how little cover there was. All five of them carried bows.

“And what about you? Do you surrender?” the man asked, looking over Wren and Shane.

Dreaming God have mercy. “Yes,” said Shane. “We do now.”

They were not treated cruelly. Their hands were bound in front of them, and their weapons were taken, but that was all. At least two archers kept arrows on strings the entire time, and Shane had no doubt that they would use them.

“This is really a misunderstanding,” said Marguerite.

“You can tell that to Wisdom,” said the leader. “There’s no point in telling it to me.”

Shane glanced back toward the road, hoping for witnesses, but the only movement was an unsettling jiggling of the corpse in the ground-wight’s maw. It had gotten most of his leg down and showed no signs of stopping. Shane repressed a shudder. Perhaps there was a reason this road was so empty.

He glanced at Marguerite, who shrugged helplessly.

Their captors took the horses belonging to the Sail’s people, and recaptured the remaining mule. The warrior that Shane had stunned was put on one of the horses, since he was still too groggy to understand what was happening. Everyone else was pulled into a line and marched across the field.

Their destination was the knot of buildings that Shane had noticed earlier. Well, I suppose technically they did help…after a fashion.

He looked back over his shoulder. Marguerite and Davith were uninjured. Wren was moving like she’d taken a blow to the ribs, but wasn’t bleeding. The enemy crossbowman met his eyes and gave him a crooked what-can-you-do smile of acknowledgment.

“Here now,” said the leader, “look where you’re going.”

“Sorry,” said Shane, but as his captor tugged him back into line, a single thought pounded in his head.

Where the hell is Ashes Magnus?

Marguerite was fairly certain that this was not going down as one of her best days. Her shoulder ached from the fall off the wagon, her head ached from how badly everything had gone, and her heart ached from the fact that she had dragged her faithful paladins into this mess.

It would have ached even more, except that Ashes had somehow gotten away. She was pretty sure the artificer wasn’t dead, but somehow, in the confusion, she just…wasn’t there. Marguerite was actually quite impressed. Seventy-plus years old, best pace a slow amble, and the woman had vanished while everyone was still flailing around wondering where the arrows were coming from.

Now, if I could just convince these people to talk to me… They couldn’t be bandits, surely? Half of the archers weren’t old enough to shave. And they had been kind to the horses and the remaining mule as well. Not that being a bandit makes you automatically cruel to animals, granted.

They were led across the green sward toward a knot of buildings on a hillside. Marguerite paid attention to placing her feet more than their destination—the ground-wight was still devouring a dead man somewhere behind them—and didn’t look up until she heard Shane grunt.

On the far side of the hill, a stone keep had been tucked into a rocky outcropping. It had the piecemeal look of a building assembled and added to over the centuries, and it had clearly suffered some neglect over the years, but it looked exceedingly defensible and showed signs of recent repairs. Not bandits. Bandits might take over a keep, but they wouldn’t patch the roof and replaster the walls.

Not looking at the ground cost her. A stone worked its way into her shoe and she stumbled. One of the archers jerked an arrow toward her, and she held up her bound hands as peacefully as possible. “I’m not trying to escape. There’s a rock in my shoe.”

“Ah.” The archer lowered her bow, and then, to Marguerite’s mild surprise, said, “Right or left?” and helped her get the offending shoe off and the offending rock out before getting her back in line. Shane cast a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that she was still there before continuing. Wren did as well, and Marguerite saw her brow furrow.

“Wait, where’s A—”

Davith contrived to trip on a blade of grass and stumbled hard into her shoulder. Wren yelped and elbowed him. “Sorry,” Davith grunted. “Clumsy of me. Marguerite is right behind us, though. Since you were worrying.”

“…ah,” said Wren. “Yes, of course. Good to know.”

Marguerite could have kissed Davith, but suspected that it would be misconstrued.

Their captors led them into the keep, through a maze of narrow corridors, and up a flight of stairs. Seeing the different textures of stone confirmed her opinion that the structure was the result of multiple architects, none of them on speaking terms. Claustrophobic staircases led to hallways where a pair of horses could have walked abreast. They had a brief glimpse of a large cobblestone courtyard, then went up a final flight of stairs into what appeared to be a great hall.

On the far end, in a chair that was rather less than a throne, was a tall, striking figure.

“Wisdom,” said the man leading them, and bowed his head.

FORTY-THREE