Page 153 of Paladin's Faith
Davith picked up the dead paladin’s shield, but it was a smaller and more nervous party that went forward after that. Marguerite felt horribly guilty, even though she knew that there was nothing she could have done.
The sound of clashing metal reached them, and Jorge’s head jerked up. “This way!” he said, and broke into a run. The others followed behind him, Wren in the rear, her eyes shining with that odd, flat light that presaged the battle tide.
By the time they reached the source of the sound, the fight was over. Two paladins and a crossbowman stood there, along with Judith and a very worried looking priest. One of those paladins was kneeling on the floor with a crossbow bolt in his back, holding himself in the peculiar stillness of a man who, if he doesn’t move an inch, hopes to live a few minutes longer.
“What the hell happened?” demanded Jorge.
“Your friend happened,” spat the uninjured paladin, slinging his warhammer back over his shoulder. “Trisk had him blade to blade when Wylie here took his shot, and the bastard moved like a snake and yanked Trisk in front of him, then ran off.”
“I am extremely sorry,” said the unfortunate Wylie.
“Nothing you could have done,” breathed the even more unfortunate Trisk.
“Where’s the marshal?”
“Took an arrow in the thigh.” The uninjured paladin looked even more disgusted. “Missed anything vital, but if he tried to walk out on it, it wouldn’t stay that way for long. We stashed him in a room with the other fellow with the crossbow.”
“…Right.” Jorge nodded. “Which way did Shane go?”
The paladin pointed. “We’ve taken out two archers,” he said. “You?”
“Two armed men.”
“How they can use those bows in this tight little space…”
“They know the place. We don’t.” Jorge squared his shoulders. “All right. Frederick, stay here with the wounded.” The injured bowman nodded. “Everyone else, with me. Three of us, one bowman, two priests, two berserkers. And one of him. Let’s go.”
They didn’t have to go far. Shane was waiting at the top of the next staircase. Blood had sheeted down the side of his head and though he stood stock-still, the air around him seemed to vibrate.
“Shane,” said Jorge, very calmly, “you don’t want to do this.”
“You’re right,” said Shane. “I don’t. But it doesn’t seem like we have much choice.”
At the foot of the staircase, Jorge held up his sword like a cross and said, “KNEEL.”
Shane staggered sideways and caught himself against the wall. The two remaining paladins charged up the steps, weapons at the ready, but Shane was already back on his feet. He lifted his head, his face a bloody mask, and roared, “Come and make me!”
In the silence that followed, Marguerite heard Jorge say, not very loudly, “Dammit, I really wanted that to work.”
The crossbowman next to her lifted his weapon and took aim, waiting for a clear shot. “No!” Marguerite hissed.
He jerked back, startled. “What?”
“You’ll kill him!”
“That’s the idea, yes!”
The other bowman didn’t waste time arguing. Marguerite’s heart clenched at the loud thrum of the string, and was inordinately relieved when it struck Shane’s shield instead.
She didn’t get long to be relieved. Shane threw his shield down the steps, into the face of one of his opponents, slashed at the other one, then turned and ran.
Baying like hounds, the three remaining paladins of the Dreaming God gave chase.
Come on…come on…just a little farther… Shane’s breath was coming in sharp pants, but he was almost there. If he could avoid taking a bolt long enough to reach the courtyard, he’d be in place for the final act of Wisdom’s little play.
It had been far too easy to play his part. He had dreaded crossing swords with his counterparts, until Kasha had staggered into his arms, coughing up blood even as she reported that two of her fellow archers were dead. Suddenly it had seemed a great deal easier. He only hoped that she’d made it to the roof in time.
Only one flight of steps and a corridor remained. The corridor was the worst. If Jorge had any sense, he’d order—