Page 97 of Paladin's Faith

Marguerite rubbed her temples. “Can I interest you in a token payment?” she asked. “Perhaps enough to…ah…offer a dozen prayers on our behalf?”

“Two dozen prayers, and I still want the boots.”

“Two dozen, and nobody takes off their boots.”

The bandit sighed. “Madam, I assure you that I am not stealing your boots merely for the fun of it. Footwear is the first thing to go in this accursed land. Between the rocks and the mud and the ground-wights…” In the tones of a man making a great concession, he added, “You may all keep your socks. We have plenty of socks. There is no shortage of wool locally.”

Shane leaned toward her and murmured, “Give the word and I will end this.”

“I am not letting you catch an arrow over boots!”

“You should listen to her,” said the bandit.

“There’s no glory in dying for footwear, paladin,” said Davith, already starting to unlace his boots.

The bandit froze. Dust motes danced in the air over the roadway. One of the archers slowly eased the tension on her bowstring, but the tension in the air drew agonizingly taut.

“Beg pardon,” the bandit said, sounding just slightly strained, “but did you say ‘paladin?’”

Marguerite winced internally. Of all the bandits in all the highlands, did we get one with a grudge against paladins? “No, of course not,” she said.

“Do you know, I’m fairly certain that he did?”

Marguerite speared Davith with a look. He coughed. “No, no. I said—err—pal. Of mine. We’re pals.” He inched across the road, laces trailing, and slung an arm around Shane. “Great pals.”

“…Pals. Yes.” Shane’s smile was mostly gritted teeth.

The bandit pinched the bridge of his nose. “I definitely heard paladin.”

“I heard it too, boss,” volunteered one of the archers.

“Thank you, Thea. My hearing is not going, even if my mind apparently is.” He looked Shane over again, eyes lingering on the sword hilt. “Ah, hell,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Marguerite prepared to dive out of the way of arrows.

“Good-looking if you like that sort of thing,” the bandit said with a sigh, “sword that was probably gigantic before you broke it, no apparent understanding of irony. Are you by chance one of the Dreaming God’s people?”

“No,” said Marguerite.

“No?” said Wren.

“This guy? Ha!” Davith thumped Shane on the chest. Shane glowered.

“The one in back’s got an axe, boss,” said an archer.

“Yes. I see that. And chainmail under her cloak.” The bandit studied Wren with narrowed eyes.

Please, Rat, if you have any love for your servants and the people trying to keep your servants alive…

“Paladin. Possibly two.” The bandit nodded slowly to himself and took a step back. “You know what?” he said, to no one in particular. “I am capable of learning.” He chopped his hand down. Marguerite flinched. Shane jerked forward, dragging Davith with him. The hilt of Wren’s axe slapped into her hand.

The archers lowered their bows and stepped back behind the boulders. The bandit gazed at the four of them, shook his head, and reached into his belt pouch.

A coin landed at Marguerite’s feet. She looked up into resigned beer-colored eyes.

“Offer a prayer for me,” the bandit said, “the next time you’re in church.” And he too melted away into the hills, and left the four of them standing alone in the roadway.

“Pal. Of. Mine?” asked Shane, peeling Davith’s arm off his shoulders.

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