David Eddings: Domes of Fire

‘What’s this?’ Sarabian asked.

‘We don’t want them underfoot when the fighting starts, Sarabian,’ the queen smiled. ‘The wine should keep them from noticing that they’re locked in the dining room.’

‘You Elenes are the most cold-blooded people in the world,’ Sarabian accused as Sparhawk moved off down the parapet toward the turret where Khalad was waiting with the suit of black armour.

When he returned about ten minutes later, he was dressed in steel. He found Ehlana talking earnestly with Sarabian. ‘Can’t you talk with her?’ she was saying. ‘The poor young man’s on the verge of hysteria.’

‘Why doesn’t he just do what she wants him to? Once they’ve entertained each other, she’ll lose interest.’

‘Sir Berit’s a very young knight, Sarabian. His ideals haven’t been tarnished yet. Why doesn’t she chase after Sir Kalten or Sir Ulath? They’d be happy to oblige her.’

‘Sir Berit’s a challenge to Elysoun, Ehlana. Nobody’s ever turned her down before.’

‘Doesn’t her rampant infidelity bother you?’

‘Not in the slightest. It doesn’t really mean anything in her culture, you see. Her people look upon it as a pleasant but unimportant pastime. I sometimes think you Elenes place far too much significance on it.’

‘Can’t you make her put some clothes on?’

‘Why? She’s not ashamed of her body, and she enjoys sharing it with people. Be honest, Ehlana, don’t you find her quite attractive?’

‘I think you’d have to ask my husband about that.’

‘You don’t really expect me to answer that kind of question, do you?’ Sparhawk said. He looked out over the battlements. ‘Our friends out there seem to have found their way to the palace compound,’ he noted as the torch-bearing rioters began to stream through the gate onto the grounds.

‘The guards are supposed to stop them,’ Sarabian said angrily.

‘The guards are taking their orders from Minister Kolata, I expect,’ Ehlana shrugged.

‘Where’s the Atan garrison then?’

‘We’ve moved them inside the castle here, your Majesty,’ Sparhawk advised him. ‘I think you keep overlooking the fact that we want those people in the grounds. It wouldn’t make much sense to impede their progress.’

‘Isn’t it about time to raise the drawbridge?’ Sarabian seemed nervous about that.

‘Not yet, your Majesty,’ Sparhawk replied coolly. ‘We want them all to be inside the compound first. At that point, Kring will close the gates. Then we’ll raise the drawbridge. Let them take the bait before we spring the trap on them.’

‘You sound awfully sure of yourself, Sparhawk.’

‘We have all the advantages, your Majesty.’

‘Does that mean that nothing can possibly go wrong?’

‘No, something can always go wrong, but the probabilities are remote.’

‘You don’t mind if I worry a little bit anyway, do you?’

‘Go right ahead, your Majesty.’

The mob from the streets of Matherion continued to stream unimpeded through the main gate of the Imperial grounds and fanned out rapidly, shouting excitedly as they crashed their way into the various palaces and administration buildings. As Kring had anticipated, many emerged from the gleaming buildings burdened down with assorted valuables they had looted from the interiors.

There was a brief flurry of activity in front of the castle when one group of looters reached the drawbridge and encountered a score of mounted knights under the command of Sir Ulath. The knights were there to provide cover for the Peloi who had been hidden in the holds of the barges during the earlier festivities and who had fallen to work on the naphtha casks with their axes as soon as the revellers had retired to the castle yard. A certain amount of glistening seepage from the sides of the barges indicated that the axemen crossing the decks of the festive vessels in the roost toward the drawbridge had done their work well. When the mob reached the outer end of the drawbridge, Ulath made it abundantly clear to them that he was in no mood to receive callers. The survivors decided to find other places to loot.

The courtyard had been cleared, and Bevier and his men were moving their catapults into place on the parapet. Engessa’s Atans had moved up onto the parapets with the Cyrinics and were crouched down out of sight behind the battlements.

Sparhawk looked around. Everything seemed in readiness. Then he looked at the gates of the compound. The only revolutionaries coming in now were the lame and the halt. They crutched their way along vigorously, but they had lagged far behind their companions. Sparhawk leaned out over the battlements. ‘We might as well get started, Ulath,’ he called down to his friend. ‘Why don’t you ask Kring to close the gates? Then you should probably come inside.’

‘Right!’ Ulath’s face was split with a broad grin. He lifted his curled Ogre-horn to his lips and blew a hollow-sounding blast. Then he turned and led his knights across the drawbridge back into the castle. The huge gate at the entrance to the palace grounds moved ponderously, slowly, swinging shut with a dreadful kind of inexorability. Sparhawk noted that several of those still outside stumped along desperately on their crutches, trying for all they were worth to get inside before the gate closed.

‘Kalten,’ he yelled down into the courtyard.

‘What?’ Kalten’s tone was irritable.

‘Would you like to let those people out there know that we’re not receiving any more visitors tonight?’

‘Oh, all right. I suppose so.’ Then the blond Pandion grinned up at his fellow-knight and he and his men began turning the capstan that raised the drawbridge.

‘Clown,’ Sparhawk muttered.

The significance of the simultaneous closing of the gate and raising of the drawbridge did not filter through the collective mind of the mob for quite some time. Then sounds of shouted commands and even occasional clashes of weapons from nearby buildings announced that at least some of the rebels were beginning, however faintly, to see the light. Tentatively, warily, the torch-bearing mob began to converge on the pristinely white Elene castle, where the gaily-coloured silk buntings shivered tremulously in the night breeze and the lantern and candle-lit barges bobbed sedately in the moat.

‘Hello, the castle!’ a bull-voiced fellow in the front rank roared in execrable Elenic. ‘Lower your drawbridge, or we’ll storm your walls!’

‘Would you please reply to that, Bevier?’ Sparhawk called to his Cyrinic friend.

Bevier grinned and carefully shifted one of his catapults. He sighted carefully, elevated his line of sight so that the catapult was pointed almost straight up, and then he applied the torch to the mixture of pitch and naphtha in the spoon-like receptacle at the end of the catapult-arm. The mixture took fire immediately.

‘I command you to lower your drawbridge!’ the unshaven knave out beyond the moat bellowed arrogantly.

Bevier cut the retaining rope on the catapult-arm. The blob of dripping fire sizzled as it shot almost straight up into the air, then it slowed and seemed to hang motionless for a moment. Then it fell. The ruffian who had been demanding admittance gaped at Bevier’s reply as it majestically rose into the night sky and then fell directly upon him like a comet. He vanished as he was engulfed in fire.

‘Good shot!’ Sparhawk called his compliment.

‘Not bad,’ Bevier replied modestly. ‘It was sort of tricky, because he was so close.’

‘I noticed that.’ Emperor Sarabian had gone very pale, and he was visibly shaken. ‘Did you have to do that, Sparhawk?’ He demanded in a choked voice as the now-frightened mob fled back across the lawns to positions that may or may not have been out of Sir Bevier’s range.