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.”
“Was that a possibility?”
“Oh yes. If they aren’t through in a few minutes, we’ll probably at least get some tea kettles worth of boiling water dumped on us.”
Davith began to pray with more sincerity than Marguerite had ever heard him express about anything.
Crash!
The doors gave way and the paladins poured inside the keep, followed by the crossbowmen, followed, with much trepidation, by two priests, and Marguerite and Davith.
THE PALADINS SPLIT into two groups as soon as they were inside the keep, taking a priest and two crossbowmen with them. Marguerite and Davith clung to Burnet’s side, in the group that included （thankfully） Jorge and Wren and did not include （thankfully） Sir. They also had the injured bowman, who had wrapped his shoulder but was obviously not going to be shooting anyone any time soon.
Judith had gone with the other group, as Sir apparently did not wish to leave the two potentially possessed berserkers together. Marguerite’s group went up a flight of steps, reached a landing, and then someone shot across the top of the stairs, fired an arrow down, and kept going. A paladin let out a strangled sound, snapped off the shaft of the arrow that had pierced his forearm, and growled, “No,
don’t worry, I’m fine. Keep going.”
Jorge glanced back at the group and nodded once. The crossbowman said, sounding surly, “No, I didn’t have time to get a shot off, not with you lot in the way. They were firing blind and got lucky, that’s all.”
At the top of the stairs, they faced a corridor running in both directions. Whoever was in charge—
Marguerite was no longer sure—took them right. Through the press of bodies, she could see doors being opened, presumably in a fashion that minimized being unexpectedly murdered, and the rooms checked for people.
Two more arrows were fired at them, one from either direction. “Hold!” Jorge snapped, when it looked as if a paladin might run after one of the archers. “If we get separated and led into a trap, we’re done for.”
Which was good tactical advice, no doubt, but one of the arrows passed so closely by Wren’s head that Marguerite let out a startled yelp and Wren herself jerked back and nearly bashed the back of her head into the wall.
I hate this, I hate this, I hate this so much…
Stop that. Get hold of yourself. You’ve sent people into danger before, you can damn well deal with it yourself. It’s only right.
Marguerite took a deep breath and told herself that she was firmly in control of her emotions, whereupon the world slewed sideways as Wren kicked her feet out from under her, vaulted over her falling body, and buried an axe in the face of the man who had just leapt out of a side room that was supposed to be empty. He dropped his sword across Marguerite’s shins, fell heavily backward, and died.
Marguerite gave herself up to the panic for a moment. Davith and Burnet hauled her to her feet and someone was saying something that she couldn’t hear through the ringing in her ears. Were there more stairs? There must have been, because when she could focus again, they weren’t in the same hallway and there wasn’t a dead man at her feet, though Wren was still splattered liberally with someone else’s blood.
The smallest voice in the back of Marguerite’s mind said, If you can’t save Shane, you’re going to have to hire Wren as your permanent bodyguard or you’re never going to feel remotely safe ever again.
This wasn’t the most appealing prospect. Marguerite liked Wren quite a lot but there were very few people she didn’t get tired of after weeks on end. Actually, the only ones she could think of were Grace and…Shane.
Which is why you’re here. Doing a dreadfully unsafe thing. So that you can feel safe.
The absurdity of that made her snort and she shook herself off, feeling as if she was stepping out of cold water. “Thanks,” she said to Wren.
Wren grinned briefly. “It’s what you pay me for.”