Page 140 of Paladin's Faith

When they had soaked long enough that Marguerite’s fingers were starting to prune, they hauled themselves out of the water and were led to the main hall. Jorge was waiting, along with three other people, one of which was clearly a paladin and the other two of which looked like priests. They were all significantly older than he was, and had a look of seniority about them.

“If you can talk while you eat, we can make this as quick as possible,” said Jorge, giving the other three a sharp glance.

“No need to glare, Jorge,” said one of the priests, an older woman with dark skin and her hair worked into dozens of tiny braids. “We can see that they’re about done in. We won’t keep them answering questions until they drop.”

And answer questions they did. Most of the interrogation was directed at Wren, who confirmed that it was definitely a demon, that she had felt it herself, and that it was far and away the most powerful one that she had encountered.

Marguerite listened and interjected occasionally, but this seemed like a case where specialized vocabulary was called for, which Wren had and she didn’t. The food was simple—bread, cheese, and spiced meat—but the quality was very high. The Dreaming God’s people clearly favored simplicity, but not necessarily austerity.

She was almost lulled into complacency by the food and the bath and the hum of conversation when the senior paladin asked, “How difficult will it be to kill this man?”

Marguerite’s head snapped up. “Whoa! Wait a minute, now!”

“We must plan for the worst,” the senior paladin said.

“Obviously this isn’t knowledge that any of us wish to use,” said the priestess, giving her colleague a quelling glare. “But it is important to know.”

Wren looked sick. “Hard,” she said. “We’re former Saint of Steel. If he’s berserk, he, um. Would be very hard.” She pushed the rest of her food away. “He’s very strong.” She took a deep breath, and then her voice flattened out and assumed the odd, almost dreamy tone that Marguerite had heard before, when discussing assassins in the fortress. “Shane prefers a two-handed sword and will be slower as a result of it, but you must assume that any hit he lands is likely to be a lethal one. He compensates for the slowness by wearing heavy gauntlets and he will punch with them. His reach is what you would expect from a man of his height. His distance vision past about twenty feet is poor. He is right-handed. He has an old knee injury on the left side that troubles him in bad weather, and it takes him a few minutes to work the stiffness out in the morning. Once he is berserk, it is impossible to guess how he will fight. It will be brutal, efficient, and unpredictable. If he’s been unable to obtain a replacement two-handed sword, he may try to compensate with a shield.” Wren paused and swallowed and sounded a little more like herself. “He was never terribly good with a shield, though.”

Dead silence filled the hall. Davith had stopped eating and looked as ill as Marguerite felt.

“Well,” said the senior paladin finally. “That was an extraordinarily clear and concise report.”

Wren nodded, still staring at her plate.

“I think,” said the priestess gently, “that we have kept you all awake long enough. Beds have been prepared for you. In the morning, we’ll talk more.”

Wren nodded again, rose, and saluted. There was a mechanical quality to her movements, as if her body was running on old instinct and the real Wren was locked away somewhere inside. Probably not far from the case.

Marguerite took her arm as they left the hall. “It will work out,” she said, and the beauty of not being a paladin was that she could lie.

FORTY-EIGHT

The first raider that Shane saw had large, dark eyes that might have been called soulful if they had been in a less murderous face. He was watching over a group of a half-dozen children who were struggling to wash clothes in the stream, though his air was far more that of a prison warden than a nanny.

The sounds of laundry slapping against rocks covered the sound of Shane’s approach. And if they were ordinary children, they should be loud enough for an elephant to sneak up on them. That they aren’t shrieking and laughing and trying to drown each other is not a good sign.

The raider had his arms folded and his back to a tree. His chin had sagged to his chest, though he lifted it every few minutes to glare at his charges. Shane judged the distance he’d have to cover to reach the man and grimaced. The Saint of Steel had not chosen His warriors for stealth.

Even if Wisdom keeps me from accidentally hurting one of the kids, I don’t trust this fellow not to decide to use one as a shield.

It would have been an excellent situation for Erlick’s bow, but the older man was working his way down the hillside overlooking the steading, where Shane would presumably need him rather more.

Right. If I creep around through the woods, perhaps I can get behind…shit!

One of the children left the stream and went toward the bushes where Shane was lurking. Shane froze, trying not to breathe. Had he been spotted? Would the child raise the alarm?

The boy couldn’t have been much more than eight or nine, and he proved without a doubt that he was a boy by unbuttoning his trousers and pissing about eighteen inches to the left of Shane’s hiding spot. Shane stifled a sigh.

The boy turned slightly from side to side, apparently trying to hit a particular section of shrubbery. Shane closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

It didn’t come. Instead he heard a gasp and opened his eyes to see the boy staring directly at him.

It was very, very hard to use the paladin’s voice in a single whisper, but Shane did his best. “Shhhh.”

The child’s eyes were huge. Shane risked a whisper. “I’m here to help.”

“I…I…” The boy darted a glance over his shoulder at the raider. Shane winced. Might as well hold up a sign saying, “I Am Doing Something Wrong Over Here.”