Arondight was as true as ever, the mail of the first monk giving no resistance to its blade. The second who tried to clamber past his fallen companion was dispatched with a flick of the wrist, the big sword as light as a wand in the hand, heavy as a hammer on the side of the head. Some idiot from the rear tried to shoot him with a crossbow and damn near succeeded, albeit that the quarrel passed through a monk before it shaved Montagu’s whiskers. The shot monk kept advancing for a few paces before a look of surprise overtook him and he collapsed. Montagu doubted he even knew he’d been hit. After that, Montagu got the door shut again. It was a disadvantage that he couldn’t see anyone coming but he could hear them and the singing of Arondight would alert him when danger was close, the saints’ songs rising to a tumult in his mind. Two more crossbow bolts came through the door, splintering the wood. People were shouting at the bottom of the tower, telling him to give himself up.
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