The third volley took the leading edge off the pillar at shoulder height and James felt the grit hit the side of his face.
He got a look at one of them in flight as it went past — not a bolt, not a projectile in any sense he understood. A short pale streak, no thicker than a finger, moving so fast that what he actually saw was the line it had already travelled. It went into the pillar on his left, made no sound going in, and came out the far side.
Where one had gone through Ronan's shield rim, the metal had a hole in it with a white rime round the edge, and the rime was still there thirty seconds later.
He put his head round the pillar for half a second and got the shape of the hall.
Ninety metres up: the platform, the chair, the Steward, not moving.
Sixty metres up and coming: eleven Husk Soldiers, walking shoulder to shoulder across most of the width of the floor, in no hurry at all.
Behind those, five Bone Chanters, hands up, drifting forward in a loose line.
