Page 151 of Paladin's Faith

“Or they may catch a stray arrow!”

Burnet shrugged. “They’re adults,” he said. “Madam, may I assume that you know that you may well die if you insist on accompanying us?”

“You assume correctly.”

“Again,” Davith began, “this woman does not—”

“Our job is to exorcise demons,” Burnet said, “not to stop people from doing foolish things. Madam Florian appears neither hysterical nor deluded, and there is a chance her presence will help.” He inclined his head.

Jorge’s expression indicated that he hated every bit of this, but he nodded grudgingly. “As you say, then. Marguerite, Davith, you may accompany us, but stay back. And don’t get in anyone’s way.” He stalked away, stomping hard enough to make his armor jingle.

“Don’t mind him,” said Burnet. “His sense of chivalry is overdeveloped when it comes to beautiful women.” He winked at Marguerite. “He doesn’t much like priests being in the first wave either, but fortunately these days I outrank him. I, too, will be in the back. I suggest you stay close to me.”

“But…” Davith said.

“And now,” said Burnet, “I suggest you get a meal and as much sleep as you can, because night attacks are the worst.”

FIFTY-ONE

Burnet was right. Night attacks were the worst. It was too dark for the horses to see, so they walked, except for one draft horse decked out in plate mail and carrying an oddly shaped burden across its back. One of the paladins in the lead had a long pole that he swept back and forth, checking for ground-wights.

Marguerite only hoped that it was also too dark to be shot.

As it turned out, she was mostly right, because they had started up the incline toward the keep itself before the first arrow came zipping out of the dark and embedded itself in the ground.

“Shields up!” called Sir, and the paladins lifted large shields over their heads and continued forward. Wren and Judith had been issued similar shields of their own, though Wren’s was nearly as tall as she was. The armored horse seemed unconcerned by any of it.

Burnet had a smaller shield, which he held up like an umbrella, and Marguerite and Davith tried to fit under it. “I hate shields,” the priest said cheerfully. “But it’s so hard to knife an arrow.”

More arrows landed around them. Some hit the shields. One lucky shot got through and took a crossbowman in the shoulder. He swore. So did Sir.

“I love this shield,” said Davith. “Deeply. Fervently.”

Marguerite hated all of it. This was the sort of thing she feared the most—death landing at random, impossible to talk to or negotiate with. She wanted to stand up and shout, “Everyone stop! Let’s discuss this!” but she didn’t because that seemed like an excellent way to be the target of every archer atop the keep.

They reached the front door without losing anyone else, though one of the paladins was clutching an ear that bled from an arrow graze. Under a roof of shields, the horse was relieved of its burden, while everyone else pressed against the walls to present the worst possible angle for anyone shooting down. Wren came over to offer what little cover she could with her shield, which helped, but Marguerite still felt as if her knees and elbows were not only exposed but glowing. Possibly with writing that said, “Shoot here.”

An arrow thunked into Burnet’s shield and he winced. “Would one of you like to hold this for a bit?” he asked. “My arms are incredibly tired.” Davith took it. Marguerite settled practically into his lap to take advantage of the cover, and her only consolation was that Davith probably wasn’t enjoying it either.

The horse had been carrying a small battering ram. Four paladins grabbed it, and the fifth, still bleeding from his ear, shuffled the horse out of the way. Marguerite hoped that even in the gritty gray light of pre-dawn, the archers on the roof wouldn’t target the animal.

Thunk. The ram hit the doors, which shuddered. Thunk.

Why am I even here? What am I hoping to do?

Stupid question. She was hoping to find a way to negotiate. To leap in at the last minute between Shane and the crossbow bolts and demand that they talk to each other. Which, realistically, she had very little hope of doing. But if I was sitting back at the river, I’d have no hope at all. And Shane won’t hurt me. And even these people won’t shoot through me to get at him. I think.

Thunk.

An archer leaned out too far and one of the crossbowmen shot them. There was a shriek of pain, but no falling body.

“If you throw down your arms and surrender the demon, you will be treated fairly!” roared Sir.

The voice that came back over the wall was thin and wavering, clearly an old woman’s voice, but her words came through clearly. “Go piss up a rope, you armor-plated son of a bitch!”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“On the bright side,” said Burnet, “they don’t seem to have had time to boil any oil.”