Page 88 of Paladin's Faith

“Right,” said Marguerite. “You heard the lady. Let’s go.”

Shane set out with Marguerite behind him. She glanced back to see Davith and Wren waging a small psychological battle over who would bring up the rear. Wren won, probably because she had an axe and Davith didn’t.

It was cold. It was wet. The trail didn’t melt away underneath them, which was about the best that you could give it. Marguerite kept her eyes on Shane’s back and realized that she was definitely, truly miserable because she wasn’t even ogling his backside.

Our greatest weapon is useless. We’re doomed. She didn’t have the energy to laugh, but she snorted at herself, though no one could hear it over the wind.

She couldn’t even tell if it was getting darker because of the hour or because of the clouds. Have we been walking long enough for it to get dark? I don’t even know. It felt as if she had been walking for at least a century, but Marguerite knew just how easily time could stretch in such situations. I think it’s probably been an hour. That doesn’t put us anywhere toward nightfall, does it? Certainly not in the middle of summer.

She had absolutely no desire to be walking along this trail in the dark. It was bad enough in daylight. And it’ll get cold. Colder. And if we’re not somewhere that we can stop, we’ll be in serious trouble.

They had passed several forks in the trail already, and each time had taken the branch that seemed as if mules could traverse it. Marguerite hoped that was the right choice. Wren seemed to think it was, but as the hours passed, Marguerite became less and less certain. I honestly thought we’d be there by now. It’s not like the lake itself is miles across.

Life as a spy was frequently uncertain, and she’d had to hide out in the country before. It was just that the country was usually a lot flatter and had barns and churches and things. She’d managed to avoid crossing mountains before.

That was very smart of me. I wish I’d figured out a way to do it this time.

When the ground gave way under her, it did so quite slowly, which meant that at first she wasn’t sure what was happening. Shane was suddenly about a foot higher up the hill than he had been, and she had the vague notion that he’d taken a step up. Then she was listing sideways unexpectedly and there was nothing under her right foot and she realized that the section of trail she was standing on was sliding down the mountain and taking her with it.

She let out an undignified squawk and grabbed for solid ground—and got two handfuls of mud instead.

She slid sideways down the hill, mostly on her side. Everything felt strangely slow, as if she was moving through mud. Which I am. I just expected mud to be faster.

She came to a squelching stop. Marguerite looked around, confused, and realized that she had actually slid down the hill to the next switchback, about ten feet down. Both her legs were encased in mud up to the knee.

Is it over?

She tried to pull herself out of the mud, onto the trail ahead. It did not go well. Mud oozed over the tops of her boots and she stopped, realizing that she was going to lose both boots. Still, if I stay put, maybe one of the others can get to me and we can dig down—

The second patch of trail gave way.

Either this section wasn’t as solid or the weight of the mud was starting to add up, because it went a lot faster. Marguerite flopped forward on her belly, grabbing for anything solid that might slow her descent.

A small clump of sedge was the only handhold and she sank her fingers into it while the trail continued to pour out from under her, gaining strength and speed as it went. Mud pulled at her legs. One boot gave way.

“Shit,” she said aloud. “Shit, shit, shit.” Her voice sounded very calm as she said it. It would have been rather nice if someone had been impressed by that, but Shane probably couldn’t hear her and Davith and Wren were presumably too busy trying not to slide down the mountain themselves.

Her focus narrowed down to her right hand and the sedge, which was now at the edge of the washed-out area. Possibly its roots were what was holding the remaining section of trail together. What was the weight-bearing capacity of a grassy tuft less than six inches wide?

“Good plant,” she gasped. “Sturdy plant.” Could she pull herself up? No, she could not. Was there another handhold? She groped for one along the exposed edge of the trail, and clumps of earth calved away under her fingers. Shit.

And then an arm seemed to materialize next to her face, and Shane got a grip on her coat and pulled her up. Marguerite got a face full of mud and the fabric cut into her armpits in a way that would probably leave bruises later, but she didn’t care. Her arm went around his neck and she buried her face in his shoulder. Good paladin. Sturdy paladin. Even better than the plant.

He was saying something to her, in that marvelously soothing voice. She wanted to collapse into it and rest. Surely you would not be allowed to fall off a cliff while someone was talking to you like that.

…What was he saying, exactly?

“You have to let go,” he repeated.

Let go? She couldn’t let go. If she let go, she was going to fall. Still, he seemed insistent. Marguerite reluctantly tried to loosen her grip around his neck.

“No,” Shane said, very patiently, “not me. Let go of the plant.”

Marguerite looked down the length of her right arm. It seemed very long. She couldn’t quite feel her fingers, but yes, there they were, dug into the sedge that was now very much worse for wear.

“Ah,” she said, and told her fingers sternly to relax. Thank you, good plant. I will make an offering to the Lady of Grass in your honor.

Shane, on his knees, began to shuffle backward along the trail, still holding Marguerite, until they reached a spot that seemed to be more stone than mud. He got to his feet and set her down. “Are you injured?”

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