The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

She grabbed the chair leg out of his hand. Rufus tugged the bloody knife out of the deacon’s back. The tall cleric had gone over to the deacon’s side and with commendable composure had got hold of her ankles to drag her aside, leaving a trail of blood.

“More will come in that way,” said Hanna. “I’m surprised they haven’t already.” She turned to the cleric who had given the lesson. “Can the sanctuary door be fixed closed?”

“Yes. I’ll show you.”

“Is there nothing you can use for a weapon?”

“I cannot fight in such a manner,” he said quietly, but he picked up the holy lamp that lit the Hearth and jerked the altar cloth off the Hearth with such a tug that the precious silver vessels fell clattering to the floor, holy wine and pure water splashing onto the stone and running along cracks to mingle with the deacon’s blood. “This will shield me somewhat. Sister Heriburg,” he added, handing the lamp to the stoutest of the young clerics, “you must see that these criminals do not escape or harm anyone else.”

“How can I?”

“You must.” To Hanna and Rufus: “This way.”

Hanna had never stood in any choir, never ventured beyond the Hearth into any sanctuary where deacons and clerics meditated in silence and communed with God. In such places deacons slept, and the church housed its store of precious vestments and vessels for the service. She caught a closer glimpse of the two faded tapestries hanging on the choir walls, then ducked under the arch with the cleric and Rufus behind her, the club upraised to ward off blows. Two steps took them down into a low, square room, drably furnished with a simple cot, a chair, a table, and a chest. Two burning lamps hung peaceably from iron tripods. The table lay upended, torn pages of a prayer book strewn along the floor in among broken fragments of a smashed chair. The chest lay open, and a young man with dirty hair and dirtier clothing pawed through it so eagerly that he did not see Hanna and the others come up behind him. It was impossible to tell from this angle if he had a knife. Alarmingly, there was no one else in sight, although the door that led outside, cut under an even lower arch, stood ajar.

All this she took in before the youth looked up. With a startled grimace, lips pulled back like a dog baring its teeth, he groped at his belt.

“The door,” cried Hanna, jumping forward. She brought the chair leg down on his head as a knife flashed in his hand. He dropped like a stone. The knife fell between a pair of holy books he’d discarded on the floor in his haste to find treasure.

Distantly, through the open door, she heard a second horn call followed by shouts of triumph and fear.

With a thud, the side door slammed into place, muffling the sounds from outside. Grunting with effort, Rufus dropped a bar into place. Through the archway that led back into the church, Hanna heard an odd scuffling sound. The steady drone of weeping and wailing drowned out the noise of the crowd pounding at the front doors.

“Why isn’t there such a bar for the church doors?” she asked as the three of them stared first at each other and then at the youth lying unconscious on the floor.

ate. 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.

She grabbed the chair leg out of his hand. Rufus tugged the bloody knife out of the deacon’s back. The tall cleric had gone over to the deacon’s side and with commendable composure had got hold of her ankles to drag her aside, leaving a trail of blood.

“More will come in that way,” said Hanna. “I’m surprised they haven’t already.” She turned to the cleric who had given the lesson. “Can the sanctuary door be fixed closed?”

“Yes. I’ll show you.”

“Is there nothing you can use for a weapon?”

“I cannot fight in such a manner,” he said quietly, but he picked up the holy lamp that lit the Hearth and jerked the altar cloth off the Hearth with such a tug that the precious silver vessels fell clattering to the floor, holy wine and pure water splashing onto the stone and running along cracks to mingle with the deacon’s blood. “This will shield me somewhat. Sister Heriburg,” he added, handing the lamp to the stoutest of the young clerics, “you must see that these criminals do not escape or harm anyone else.”

“How can I?”

“You must.” To Hanna and Rufus: “This way.”

Hanna had never stood in any choir, never ventured beyond the Hearth into any sanctuary where deacons and clerics meditated in silence and communed with God. In such places deacons slept, and the church housed its store of precious vestments and vessels for the service. She caught a closer glimpse of the two faded tapestries hanging on the choir walls, then ducked under the arch with the cleric and Rufus behind her, the club upraised to ward off blows. Two steps took them down into a low, square room, drably furnished with a simple cot, a chair, a table, and a chest. Two burning lamps hung peaceably from iron tripods. The table lay upended, torn pages of a prayer book strewn along the floor in among broken fragments of a smashed chair. The chest lay open, and a young man with dirty hair and dirtier clothing pawed through it so eagerly that he did not see Hanna and the others come up behind him. It was impossible to tell from this angle if he had a knife. Alarmingly, there was no one else in sight, although the door that led outside, cut under an even lower arch, stood ajar.

All this she took in before the youth looked up. With a startled grimace, lips pulled back like a dog baring its teeth, he groped at his belt.