Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

He was gone from the world and on his way to the light, and thus spared the sight of Andrew falling from the tower.

The clamor of the carillon bells initially surprised only Stephen. When they first began to ring, the populace, still cheering the victors of the sledge races, assumed that the tumultuous noise was merely an additional part of the celebration.

The Duke of Navarne, however, had been involved in the planning of the carillon program, and knew that the bells were out of schedule. He looked up from the reviewing stand at the precise moment when the Sorbold column crested the last of the undulating hills that led up to the east-west thoroughfare and the keep’s entrance. He rose shakily, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.

“Sweet All-God,” he said. His lips moved. The words did not come out.

Stephen glanced quickly around the festival fields, assessing the situation between beats of his pounding heart.

His mind went first to his children; both of them were with him, along with Gerald Owen and Rosella, their governess.

The clergy, both the benisons of Sepulvarta and the Filidic Invoker and his high priests, were seated with him and the other dukes on a makeshift dais that served as a reviewing stand, composed of raised wooden pallets cordoned off with rope. The reviewing stand was just outside the eastern gate of the walled rampart and faced east onto the open land that had served as the venue for the sledge races. The dignitaries would be fairly easy to evacuate.

Stephen’s focus shifted immediately to the festival attendees, certainly more than ten thousand of them, gathered in a loose oval that extended more than a league’s distance to the east, out in the open, rolling lands of central Navarne. The minor nobility and the landed gentry were closest to the reviewing stand. With the decline of social position distance was added, leaving the poorest of the peasantry farthest away. As always, the ones most likely to die.

His stomach lurched.

In a heartbeat Stephen had leapt from his place on the reviewing stand, dragging Melisande with him.

“To the gate!” he shouted to the dignitaries. “Run!” He swiveled and caught the eye of his captain of the guard, pointing to the advancing column. “Sound the alarm!”

He estimated there were about one hundred horsemen, another seven hundred on foot, with several long catapults in tow. As they advanced they seemed to be splitting, the horsemen gravitating toward the wall behind him, the infantry veering off to the east, toward the bulk of the merrymakers.

Tristan was at his side, gripping his elbow.

“They’re riding the wall!” the Lord Regent shouted above the din of the crowd, which was still in the throes of celebration. “They’ll cut off access to the gate—”

“—and slaughter everyone,” Stephen finished. The horns blared the alert as Stephen’s guard began rallying to the captain’s call. The duke turned to the elderly chamberlain behind him.

“Owen! Get my children to safety!”

The chamberlain, pale as milk, nodded, then seized both children by the arms, eliciting a shriek of protest from each of them.

“Quentin!” Tristan Steward shouted to the Duke of Bethe Corbair. “Take Madeleine with you. Go!” He gestured wildly at the gate, then turned and seized the arm of his brother, Ian Steward, the benison of Canderre-Yarim, averting his eyes from his fiancee’s terrified face as Baldasarre dragged her over the ropes off the back of the reviewing stand and to the gate.

A thundering of hooves could be heard from the western barracks as a contingent of Stephen’s soldiers rode forth, scattering merrymakers and bales of hay that had delineated the racetrack before them. By now most of the crowd had heard the commotion and turned to see the black lines of Sorbold soldiers descending the hill, sweeping across the snow in the distance, riding and marching relentlessly forward. A great gasp rent the air, followed by a discordant chorus of screams.

A furious wave of panic swept through the crowd, followed by a human tide surging forward toward the gate in the rampart, hurrying back inside the protection of Stephen’s wall. Within seconds the access was clogged, and violence broke out, great cries of anguish and wails of terror as people were crushed into each other and up against the unforgiving stone of the wall.

“M’lord!” shouted Gerald Owen. “The children will never survive the press!”

Stephen stared in despair at the throng of people pushing in a great swell toward the only opening in the rampart. Owen was right; Gwydion and Melisande would easily be crushed to death in the throng.

Over his head he heard shouted orders and the slamming of doors in the guard towers atop the wall as the archers took up their posts. As one broad young man made ready his arrows, Stephen was struck with an idea.

“You!” he shouted to the archer up on the wall. “Stand ready!” He snatched the ropes from the reviewing stand and ripped them from their posts, hauling them over to the wall away from the gate. “Owen! Come with me!”

Stephen stood back from the wall and heaved with all his might, silently thanking the All-God that he had purchased the ropes from the king of the Firbolg some months back. The Bolg had discovered a manufacturing process that had reduced the weight of rope products while increasing their tensile strength. A normal rope would have been far too heavy to toss in this way. After two tries the archer atop the wall caught the frayed end and signaled his success. Behind him Stephen could hear his soldiers riding past on their way to interdict the mounted assault.

“Rosella, hold on to Melisande,” Stephen said to the frightened servant. “Don’t let go.” Rosella nodded mutely as Stephen wrapped the rope end twice about her waist. “All right, my girl, up you go!” He nodded to the archer, and turned Rosella toward the wall, rudely grasping her hindquarters,

—helping her ascend in a flurry of scattered stone and torn cloth. He tried to smile encouragingly at Melisande, who was wailing in terror.

“All right, son, you’re next,” he said to Gwydion. The lad nodded, and grasped the rope as it was lowered from the top of the wall above him, twice again his height.

“I can climb, Father.”

Stephen looped the boy’s waist with the rope’s end as Gwydion grasped the length. “I know you can, son—hold on, now.”

The archer pulled as Gwydion scaled the wall. Stephen sighed in relief as the lad’s long legs disappeared on the other side of the rampart. He turned to Gerald Owen.

“You’re next, Owen.”

The elderly chamberlain shook his head.

“M’lord, I should stay until you are inside as well.”

“I’m not going inside, not until it’s finished.” Stephen raised his voice to be heard over the building pandemonium. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Tristan had heard his declaration and had made note of it. “Now get my children away from the wall, and as many more as can be hauled over. You up there!” he shouted to the archer who had manned the rope.

“Yes, m’lord?”

“Maintain this post. One less archer will not be missed, and they’re not in range yet anyway. Pull as many people to safety as you can.” He reached out and grabbed the shoulder of a burly peasant man hurrying with his children to the gate. “Here, man, pass those children up, then stay and round up others—women, the old, anyone who needs help getting over the wall.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Inside, Owen. Try and quell the panic. Move those inside back from the wall—the Sorbolds have catapults.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at the resolutely approaching column, then turned back to Gerald Owen.