”HEAR ME!” Margo shouted. “I CALL UPON THE POWERS OF HELL!”
Malcolm staggered to his feet, holding up his crucifix. The soldier who spoke a little English began to shout that she was calling upon the Evil One himself.
Kit ran toward the pyre, snatching a torch from a dumbfounded farmer. “Minion of hell!” he cried. “Cease thy conjuring! I command thee in the name of Christ!”
Margo shouted at him to stuff it. Then she started ranting. “You will all die hideous deaths if you lay that torch to this pyre! I call on Beelzebub! I call on Satan, Lucifer, St. Nick.”
St. Nick?
From Malcolm’s vantage point, Kit nearly lost it. With masterful skill, he converted sudden laughter into a cough and a cry of pain. He sank to his knees, gasping and clutching his chest as though her curses were having real effect. Semi-hysterical images flitted briefly through Malcolm’s head, threatening to loose his own laughter
But Margo was still shouting.
And the soldiers nearest her were swearing in terror, pointing their crossbows right at her. Oh shit …
Malcolm flung himself between the crossbows and the still-unlit pyre. “No! Do not interfere in God’s work!”
”But Father-”one of them cried, ashen and sweating in the descending gloom.
The vibration of the gate had grown so painful several farmers and sailors had dropped their weapons. They clutched their ears, staring wildly around for the appearance of the most profoundly expected demons. Malcolm lifted his own crucifix and advanced toward the piled wood. Kit outdid himself. He twisted on the ground, then crawled to his knees, coughing and holding up his own crucifix.