Destiny: Child Of Sky (19 page)

The snow shattered below the pounding hoofs, flying up into the sky and cloaking the advancing army in swirls of white gauze. The earth beneath the alewagon began to tremble, causing the horses to dance fearfully.

'Sweet All-God," Andrew whispered as the second line of the contingent crested the horizon. There could be no mistaking the intent of the soldiers, nor their intended destination.

They were heading, full-tilt, for the festival fields outside of Stephen's protective wall.

The full-cask of whiskey shattered against the ground, splattering the back wheel of the alewagon. In unison Andrew and Dunstin looked behind them at the distant keep, where but a handful of guards stood watch, then back to the approaching column, where a third battle line, then a fourth, was now over the hillside and descending toward the back lands. Stephen's wall would not hold them, nor would it fend off the assault from the burning vats that rested on the levers of the catapults. It would merely serve to mask the attack until the column was upon them.

Caught between the Sorbolds and the keep, Andrew and Dunstin stared off to the south simultaneously. Ahead of them a considerable distance away were the two bell towers of Haguefort, largely decorative carillons draped in fluttering banners.

The towers had been part of a larger rampart in the days of the Cymrian War. With peace came the dismantling of the outer rampart and the conversion of the towers from guard posts into slim, freestanding aesthetic spires hung with bells that rang the hours and played occasional musical pieces.

The towers stood between them and the approaching army.

The two young noblemen exchanged a glance, a nod that carried with it a grim hint of a shared smile, then split, Dunstin taking the left, Andrew the right. They dashed forward across the thoroughfare through the brown snow trodden into muck by the feet, hooves, and wagon and carriage wheels of thousands of guests, into the jaws of the conflict, Sir Andrew shouting to the alewagon's driver.

'To the gate! Warn the guards!"

They were each a thousand paces from their destinations when the Sorbolds saw them. The left flank of the column's third line peeled off, now charging the keep and its bell towers while the rest of the contingent hastened to the back lands and the festival fields.

-

Dunstin heard the tail end of the crossbow bolt's screaming whistle before it shattered his shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground. The impact knocked him backward; he struggled to his feet and staggered forward, fighting the shock of the injury and the panic that blazed through him from the shaking ground beneath his feet as the horizon darkened and swam before his eyes with galloping movement.

He clutched his shoulder as he ran, his fingers warm from the oozing blood. The tower was in his view, its ancient stones shining in the morning sun beneath the napping banners. He could feel his breath grow ragged as the pain began to radiate through his chest; his exhalations formed icy clouds that shimmered against his face as he ran through them.

The horsemen were closer now. Dunstin cut right and ran at an angle across their field of vision, his boyhood training coming back to him as death loomed. Bolts from the approaching line shrieked through the air around him. He stumbled and lurched forward, catching himself before he fell, praying that Andrew was faster, more surefooted, that his own proximity to the advancing soldiers would buy his cousin enough time. It seemed little enough to ask in return for what he knew he was about to pay.

Within the black storm that was raging at the horizon before him he could hear a thick, metallic sound as a catapult was trained and loaded. He was almost to the bell tower, but nonetheless the sound reached into his bones, paralyzing his muscles, causing him to freeze where he stood. The metallic sound clinked again, ratcheting against the groan of splintering wood.

A surge of power blasted through Dunstin. He bolted forward, running with all the speed he could muster, keeping his eyes focused on the tower that was growing larger, nearer, with each step, each difficult breath. There was a small door in the back, a caretaker's entrance, no doubt, and Dunstin fixed his eyes on it, willed himself to reach it, pushing, pushing, trying to ignore the agony in his shoulder and chest and the blood that was pulsing from them now.

His hand was on the handle, cold steel stinging his palm and fingers, when the world dissolved in fire and thudding shards of stone around him.

Dunstin's tumbling consciousness could feel the rain of stones as the tower exploded, could tell that his skin was ripping away in the oily flames that were consuming him. The dust of the broken tower walls, spilt now across the frosty field like breadcrumbs scattered for the winterbirds, filled his bleeding nostrils, and as darkness closed in at the edges of his foggy vision he remembered the blackness of his childhood nightmares, and wanted his mother to come with the candle.

The force of his fall carried Dunstin over onto his side. As death took the nobleman it granted him two last boons.

Above the crumbling of the remnants of walls, and the crackling of the flames, he could hear the wild ringing of the bells from Andrew's tower, the call to arms that would warn Stephen. Despite his agony, Dunstin's blackened lips pulled back into a smile at the sound.

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

—

Che 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 Mel-isande 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.

'Tell the Master of the Wall to prepare to maintain bow fire to cover the evacuation of the people, and then the troops once the Sorbolds are in range. And find the commanders of the third and fourth divisions inside—tell them to watch for a charge from the west, and hold the north gate."

The chamberlain nodded his understanding, then grasped the rope and was hauled over the rampart, out of the fray that was turning bloody beneath him.

Uristan was shouting orders to the commander of his personal retinue.

'Sweep as many of those people as you can around the wall to the north—there's another gate there, and it's out of sight."

A shock rang through him as he was jolted from behind, rammed into by several people fleeing the fields in panic in the face of the coming horsemen. Tristan, a strong man with a solid frame, maintained his balance and stepped out of the way of another oncoming wave of villagers, their faces set in masks of terror, eyes glazed. In the distance near the wall he could hear Madeleine's shrill voice shrieking his name.

—

'Set up two fronts,“ he shouted to his commander. He pointed to the approaching column that was marching forward at the east to flank the fes-tivalgoers. "Set up a picket of pikemen and foot soldiers, and any peasants you can find—give them anything, sticks, haybales, balehooks—and form a line in front of the crossbowmen to set against the infantry charge. Stephen's cavalry can engage the horses riding the wall until they come within bowshot of those archers on the rampart." The chaos swelled around him. He looked to find his cousin as the commander saluted and began calling orders.