But not before the end. I swear I thought we’d end up beating each other to a pulp until both were nothing more than feasts for crows, and all we’d left behind us were some very unusual designs in the hardened clay. That would have been tricky to explain.
To whom?
Anyone, really. Take your pick.
When I’d been taught my commandments at the knee of my mother and she’d taught me that murder was a great sin, she had waxed eloquent on the family of the victim mourning his loss, on the great guilt one must bear, and the stain upon the soul. I think she felt she’d impressed the need to not be a little death windmill upon me with great effect, although she had been disappointed that I was less moved by holy fear than she would have liked. Now, I think she may have missed a great opportunity. If she’d told me that I’d have to discuss the murder with the victim afterward, she’d have had the terrified devoutness for which she’d been angling.
It is rather inconvenient, isn’t it? Can you not cast him out and leave me here alone?
Demon. That time I knew it. Sir Branson could leave any time he wanted.
Cough.
“Really?” I muttered. I would need to clean and stitch these wounds. And water and thread were both with my horse. “Are you trapped in there, Sir Branson?”
Not trapped, exactly, though it may seem somewhat undignified that I remain. It’s rather like being a paupered houseguest with nowhere to go. I must tread a little longer on the patience of my host.
He was worried about his dignity when he’d already lost his face?
An apt metaphor, to be sure. But I really don’t feel I can abandon you at this juncture. And I do think I might be able to keep the demon in check. For a time.
“Just stay,” I told Brindle miserably, making the sign with my hand. I hoped he’d listen.
I could hear my horse snuffling just past the tree line. She was a good mare, Halberd, well trained in what to do in a crisis. We saw a surprising number of crises as Vagabond Paladins. Beggar demons were really just the tip of the spear, though this time the tip had stuck deep. Halberd had followed her training and stayed close by but away from danger.
I found her cropping up small plants and trailing her loose reins not far into the forest. She rolled an eye at me and gave me a horsey snort. To my humiliation, I buried my face in her ochre mane for a moment before leading her out to the fire. Touching another living thing that was not currently possessed by a demon was more of a relief than I would have credited.
Meanwhile, cleaning and stitching your own wounds is not for the faint of heart — a lesson Sir Branson had taught me my first week with him when I’d slashed my arm with his knife, and he’d handed me a sewing kit and started to brew a cup of tea.
“It works best if you can keep from fainting,” he’d said helpfully as he’d sipped his lavender tea. “Tea helps, too.”
“To clean the wound?” I’d asked, determinedly piercing my own skin with a needle and trying not to pass out. Sir Branson had been awkward with children. He never seemed to know whether to treat them as adults or dogs.
“Oh, no, for the nerves. Your stitches are too wide just there. Closer will give you less of a scar.”
I never said Sir Branson was a Saint. He most certainly was not that, though he said his prayers very regularly, gave to the poor — ironic, since there were few poorer than those of us dragging around our vow of poverty — and kept to the precepts of the Aspect of the Rejected God. Or at least, I thought he did. Since he was the one who taught them to me, I could be all wrong and I’d never know.
That day he taught me two important lessons, though. How to stitch your own wounds, and that you can’t even rely on kind people to be there when you really needed them. They might decide to brew tea instead.
The demon took that moment to remind me of its presence.
I’d help, but I’m afraid I’m missing the thing you’d need most. Opposable thumbs.
I was nearly done stitching. One of my shoulders was quite tender. One of my legs didn’t like taking my weight but could do it. As far as the paladins of the Aspect of the Rejected God were concerned, that was fighting-fit.
We don’t take whiners or the callow. Or people who are too picky about who we do or don’t take. Or anyone overly fussy about dietary restrictions. Or anyone who doesn’t like tea.
Maybe it would be nicer if the demon spoke more.
When I leap from the dog to another human, I will flay you slowly and then roast you alive over a pit of coals, little morsel, tasty snack, tiny bite, delicious … oh yes, delicious … also, I love tea. Especially when made from eyelashes.
On second thought, Sir Branson was clearly the more cheerful of the pair. But that did leave me with a problem. If I couldn’t bring Brindle near people, then I would need to kill him after all, or vow to live far from humans for the rest of my life.
But that was a problem for tomorrow morning. Right now I needed to dig.
Right now you need to stand vigil, my girl. Night falls. Fail to stand vigil this night and all chance of being touched by the God will be lost. You will be forever supplicant and never paladin — forever unblessed. Your fate will be like this demon’s — to wander the earth with no hearth, no home, no purpose, no reward.
It seemed I would stand vigil.
