The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“‘But how long will it take?’ objected the wise owl. ‘Surely the child will die before a creature as small and weak as you can dig a tunnel large enough for her to creep through!’

“The lion roared, and the bull bellowed, and the great eagle screamed, but all their powerful voices joined together could not feed the child trapped beneath the rock.

“The small brown field mouse called her sisters and brothers, her cousins, and all her kin. They slipped between cracks in the rock and carried in bits of bread and acorn cups of water to the trapped child, and in this way kept her alive for seven days while the patient mole dug a hole deep through the earth broad enough for the child to escape.

“And the lion and the bull and the great eagle remained silent, when they saw that it was the work of their humble brethren that saved the child.”

Hanna rested her head on clasped hands. Strange that he should seem to be speaking intimately a message meant for her ears. Looking up, she noticed the three young clerics seated on the foremost bench. As though her gaze were a greeting, the tall one glanced back. Hadn’t this young woman called one of her companions “Sister Heriburg,” the same name mentioned in passing by the servant woman, Aurea?

“They know her,” she murmured.

“I beg pardon?” whispered Rufus.

“Nay, nothing,” she demurred, but in her gut she knew. They wanted her to see them and to hear this lesson about the work of the humble and the small. The knowledge coursed up through the soles of her feet, making her unsteady. It almost seemed the lamp beside her was swaying.

Ivar’s sister Rosvita was alive, buried in the dungeon because she had witnessed what the powerful wanted kept secret. Hathui had told the truth.

A rumble hummed up from the ground, a grinding roar like a distant avalanche. The lamp swung on its chains as the feet of the tripod skipped along stone. A woman sobbed out loud. Under Hanna’s rump, the bench rocked as though shoved.

Rufus swore. “Damn! Not another one!”

Voices rose in agitation and fear. People bolted for the door, and by the time Hanna realized that the rumbling and rocking had stopped, the church had half cleared out. Yet from outside, through the open doors, she still heard a hue and cry. By the Hearth, the cleric who had been preaching stepped aside to talk to the three young clerics; they looked drawn and anxious as they listened to the growing clamor: A distant horn sounded the call to arms.

A woman hurried back in through the doors, followed by a dozen companions.

“Shut the doors!” she cried in Wendish. “There’s a riot! They say they’re going to kill every Wendishman they can find!” Folk rushed to the doors, shutting them and stacking benches as a barrier. “Ai, Lady! It was the breadline! All those folk went wild.”

The door shuddered as a weight hit it from the outside, causing the left door to creak, shift, and crack open.

“Help us!” shrieked one of the men up front. With several companions he slammed the opening door shut.

Hanna ran forward with Rufus and set her shoulder to the doors. Blows vibrated through her body as she leaned hard against the wood. Through the wood she heard the screaming of men and women, their words incomprehensible because of rage and the heady wildness of a mob inflamed by hunger and fear. Incomprehensible because it was a foreign tongue, not her own. An ax blow shook the door, followed by a second.

“We’ll never hold out! They’ll kill us all!”

A babble of voices rose within the heart of the church as the assembled worshipers wept, moaned, and wailed.

“I pray you!” cried the cleric who had spoken the lesson. “Do not despair. Do not panic. God will protect us.”

“They only have one ax,” shouted Hanna between blows, “or else they’d be chopping more quickly. Is there another way out of the church? Or another way in that we should be guarding?”

“Oh, God,” wailed an unseen soul in the sobbing crowd. “The deacon’s sanctuary has a door to the alley!”

Too late. An unholy shriek cut through the wailing. The deacon who had led the service staggered out from the low archway that led back to the sanctuary. When she fell forward onto her knees, they all saw the knife stuck in her back.

“Use the benches!” shouted Hanna as the door shook. The mob had evidently given up pushing from outside and was now waiting for the ax wielder to destroy the door. “Pick them up and use them as shields. Throw them. Two can lift one.”

Her muscles throbbed already, bruised under the assault. The door shuddered again. Splinters, like dust, spit from the wood. How soon would the ax cut through? It was only a matter of time. Yet if they left the door to face the new assault, they would be hit from two sides.

No one moved. Two ragged men burst from the archway. The leader stumbled over the deacon and went down hard, cursing as his companion tripped over him.

“Rufus!” Hanna leaped away from the door with Rufus right behind her and ran toward the altar. “Grab a bench!” she shouted to the paralyzed clerics, who stared as the two toughs got up and hoisted broken chair legs like clubs. She grabbed an end of a bench as Rufus hoisted the other end.

“Out of the way.” The male cleric shoved the three young women aside.

“Heave!”

Hanna and Rufus launched the bench as the two toughs ran forward. It slammed into them, knocking them backward to the floor. She heard a bone snap. One screamed. The other, falling hard, cracked the back of his head on the stone and went limp.