Darkness swept in on both sides as he entered one of the huts. Empty. He tried the next one. The center of the holding was full of bodies. Someone in the distance was still screaming. Shane should probably go see why they were screaming. That was his job, protecting people who were screaming and running away. Yes. Another hut. There was a man in this one. He had a table. He seemed to think that the table would keep Shane back. He learned his mistake too late to have much time to contemplate it.
More empty huts, and then another pile of furniture and he pulled it away and someone was there and the tide hissed and he raised his sword and Wisdom’s voice stabbed through his chest like a white-hot needle saying, No.
Shane froze.
The tide receded like water down a drain. Shane listened for a moment and heard nothing that sounded like an attacker.
He looked down at the person before him. A young woman or an old child, or both. Her hair was matted and her nose had been recently broken, but he could see the resemblance around the eyes.
It worked. It really worked. Wisdom stopped me.
He did not know if what he felt was horror or exultation or both together. His mind was full of red threads.
The girl moved and broke his thoughts. It was wrong of him to stand lost in his own head while she waited to be struck down.
Shane lowered the sword, reached out a hand to help her up, and said, in a voice that shook only a little, “Forgive me, but would you happen to be Erlick’s niece?”
MARGUERITE WOULD GIVE the Dreaming God’s people this much—they didn’t try to shut her out of the planning. Possibly it was simply expediency, since they needed Wren and anyone with eyes knew that Wren would tell Marguerite everything, but she suspected that it simply didn’t occur to them to leave her out. Paladins everywhere, it seemed, were cut from the same straightforward cloth.
Somewhere on this earth is a paladin of an order of twisty-minded little bastards, and if the gods are kind, I will meet them before I die. Just so I can say “Ha! I knew it!”
Simmering in the back of her mind was a suspicion that she much preferred her own pair of
uncomplicated paladins, but she refused to drag that out into the light of conscious thought.
The council of war was held at noon in the hall where they had dined the night before. Davith and Ashes were there as well, and the only thing Marguerite had to contribute was to help Wren draw a map of the keep, as best they could remember it.
“It looks like a maze inside,” muttered a heavily bearded priest named Burnet. Marguerite had been a bit surprised to discover that he wasn’t a paladin, given that he exuded the air of someone with multiple knives stashed on their person at all times. Then again, even their priests must frequently encounter more than just spiritual combat…
“It pretty much was,” said Wren glumly. “We saw one way in and one way out, but there could be dozens. And I suspect I’m missing a couple of cross-corridors, but we didn’t get a lot of time for sightseeing.”
“Any approaches to the keep that might be less guarded?” asked the senior paladin, whose name, judging by how others addressed him, might as well have been “Sir.”
“If so, we didn’t see them,” said Wren. “They spotted us a long way off, too. I suspect they’ve got either very good sightlines or a lot of sentries.”
“They have a lot of archers, anyway,” said Marguerite.
“They’re all carrying those little horn bows the locals use,” Wren added.
Sir and Jorge both grimaced at that. Burnet nodded. “Those have range all out of proportion to their size,” he said. “The local shepherds use them against wolverines. Even if the archers aren’t otherwise warriors, those bows could stop us before we get anywhere near the keep.”
“A night attack?” asked Jorge.
“I hate night attacks,” said Sir. “Everyone tripping over everybody else’s feet. Half the time you end up doing more damage to your side than the enemy does.”
“We may have no choice, sir.”
“Dawn by preference, then. If we can close the distance before the archers can take too many shots at us, then we’ll at least be able to see what we’re hitting before too long.”
“Well,” said Ashes, speaking up for the first time, “if you can get me a hundred gallons of horse piss—”
It was probably a good thing that the conversation was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Three newcomers entered the hall, their clothes mottled with road dust.
“Well,” said Jorge, “it seems that the gods are looking out for us in some small way, at least.” He raised a hand and one of the newcomers waved in return. She was a tall, lean woman with red-brown hair and an oddly expressionless face.
“Judith?!” cried Wren, and then, to Marguerite’s astonishment, the paladin flung herself forward, charging across the open space. Marguerite half-expected the newcomer to brace for an attack, but then Wren skidded to a halt, wrapped her arms tightly around the other woman’s torso, and burst into tears.
Davith made a small noise and made as if to rise from his seat, then stopped himself. Marguerite glanced over at him and saw an expression she could not read, quickly hidden.
“Dear heart,” said the tall woman gently, stroking Wren’s hair. “This isn’t for me, is it?”
“Yes,” sobbed Wren. “No. But yes.” She took a gasping breath and stepped back, wiping furiously at her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Judith shrugged one shoulder. “I had to get away. Everything I looked at was a reminder. I needed to see different walls. The Dreaming God’s people can always use a fighter who follows orders, particularly one who’s faced demons before. I had been working my way from temple to temple and ended up here.” One corner of her mouth twitched down in a tiny frown. “But why are you crying?
Did we lose someone?”
“It’s Shane. A demon’s got him.”
Judith’s eyes widened a fraction. “No.”
“Yes.”
“When do we ride?” Judith asked.
“That’s what we’re discussing,” said Jorge.
“We must wait,” said Sir. “I don’t wish to, believe me. But we need bowmen. At least a half dozen, more if we can get them. Reynaud is out trying to scare some up from the local lords.”
“Bowmen?” asked Marguerite. “Why bowmen, specifically?”
All of the Dreaming God’s looked people at her. Marguerite, who prided herself on always being a step ahead, felt a stab of annoyance at their obvious pity. She spread her hands. “Pitched battles aren’t my forte. But they’ve got a keep, and I’d think you’d need something other than archers to take a keep. Isn’t it hard to shoot people from the ground?”
“It’s not for the keep,” said Judith, her voice oddly gentle. “It’s for Shane. They mean to kill him at a distance.”
“What?”
“It’s the only way,” said Jorge. He had the decency to look miserable. “If we can kill him, the demon will have to jump to someone else, and then we can exorcise it.”
“Why can’t you exorcise it from him?” Marguerite felt as if she was listening to the conversation from the other side of a pane of glass, as if she were shouting and no one could hear her. “Do that—