left shoulder, and then the right. The clanging seemed to fill the entire Plaza as his armor quivered under the onslaught.
'Arise, Sir Fost, O well-beloved subject and servant of the Sapphire Throne.'
None too thrilled at having attained the exalted rank of servant, Fost pushed himself upright. His left knee emitted a splitting crack. He wobbled to be caught and kissed full on the mouth by the Emperor. Released, Fost staggered backwards to Moriana's side. The Emperor's aphrodisiac perfume made him unsteady and decidedly aroused, even though this was hardly the time or the place for such things. Backing up a half pace, he stumbled again. Moriana's strong arm circled his waist and held him upright until he cleared the cloying perfumed vapors from his head and regained his balance. 'Well done, Your Grace,' Erimenes told him sarcastically.
'Moriana Etuul,' the herald roared, pointedly ignoring the extra voice chirping in from time to time, 'Princess and Pretender to the Beryl Throne, Mistress of the Clouds, beloved cousin of our Emperor Teom the Magnificent, arise and approach the Presence.'
Moriana did as she was bid, but before she could step forward, a loud rumble like an avalanche in progress rolled from left to right across the Plaza. 'Thunder?' asked Fost. 'We should be so lucky,' shot back Erimenes. 'Look to your left.' His heart nearly jumped free of his chest.
'Death!' shouted the mob as it crashed like surf against a line of blue-plated Watchmen, who stood their ground with halberds levelled. 'Death to the foreign sorceress!'
A sergeant rapped an order. The gleaming blue line of the Watchmen took a step back and prepared for the crowd.
Across the cordon of armored Watchmen a figure arthritically mounted the steps of the Ministry of Sanitation. A tall figure, thin almost to the point of emaciation, clad in torn and faded tunic and trousers that had once been as red as freshly shed blood threw up his frail matchstick arms and emitted a wordless screech of pure hatred. The crowd surged, rallying to him.
'Seize the witch, the traitress!' shrieked Sir Tharvus of Black March, flinging out an accusing arm and pointing straight at Moriana. 'Slay her, slay the betrayers of humankind who shelter her in their bosoms! They are traitors and deserve to die with her!' Roaring like a rabid animal, the crowd surged forward.
CHAPTER FIVE
The halberds flailed, blades rising to flash white-hot in the sunlight, rising again to the company of screams to gleam the dull red of blood. The mob faltered. It momentarily lacked a leader, someone to urge them forward into the face of death. The faint-hearted in the crowd began to edge away from the soldiers. But the crowd didn't disperse. In the back rallied tight knots of angry citizens. Parties of stout men in dusty aprons finally pushed forward, hauling great chunks of pale-veined white stone. The others in the mob heartened and began to chant cadence as their newfound heroes cast the hundredweight blocks. Unwieldy in their carapaces, a half-dozen Watchmen went down beneath the crushing chunks of marble.
It was enough. The crowd rushed forward again while Sir Tharvus's voice whipped it, crying out for blood. The remaining Watchmen fought, then vanished from sight as if they were sailors drowning in the vast Joreal Ocean. Teom stared, his eyes wide with terror at what befell his troops. Fost gripped the hilt of ceremonial sword and swore. Moriana had her own straight blade, but Fost's broadsword had been judged too unorthordox for the investiture. That left him armed with a weapon hardly fit for swatting flies.
The soldiers assembled down the avenue held ranks, though whether by design or confusion of their officers there was no knowing. Across the hundred yards of cleared space in the Plaza raced the crowd, waving sticks and bats and other makeshift weapons. Above their shrill cries came the shriller chants of Sir Tharvus. Madness had seized him and lent his frail frame power beyond reckoning. And that power transmitted to the crowd and fed their pent-up hostilities. There was carnage.
'You hoped things would get better,' Fost told Erimenes, pulling the satchel flap back from over the jug inside. If he and Moriana were about to be murdered by the mob, Erimenes might as well get an unobstructed view.
'Stop!' The voice rolled like a great bell, drowning even the strident cries of Sir Tharvus.
Quiet descended over the crowd scattered across the marble flagstones of the Plaza. Down from the bleachers strode Foedan, tall and unafraid, holding his arms wide as if smoothing the jagged emotions of the crowd. The crowd faltered, lost impetus. He walked toward the bloodstained leaders. Fost and Moriana clearly heard the padding of his soft suede boots on the marble.
'Cease this display,' he said. The mob stared at him, weapons hanging limp in a hundred hands. 'This woman has saved you from destruction. You should fall on your knees with gratitude, not attack her like so many jackals.'
'But… but she's a witch!' a voice faltered from the middle ranks of the crowd.
'She is a sorceress. Were she not, the Fallen Ones would have arrived in these streets by now, bringing with them flame and thirsty blades. You and all your families would be dead, the death meted out by the damned reptiles!'
'Don't listen to him!' Tharvus shrieked. 'Slay her! She sold out humanity to regain her throne. Slay her!' Stil! the mob remained poised on the knife edge of indecision. 'No,' Foedan said, not loudly but distinctly. 'He'll never hold them,' said Ziore. 'Moriana, do something.' Fost's stomach twisted to a sudden premonition. 'No!' he shouted. But it was too late.
Moriana raised a hand, swept fingers in an intricate gesture. A globe of pure white light appeared over Foedan's head, competing with the sun in intensity. A moan of fear and awe swept through the crowd. The knight gazed at the mob, not seeming to notice the luminous display above his head.
'See? He's sold out, too!' Tharvus cried. His eyes blazed with a mad light as bright as the mystic sphere hanging over Foedan. 'Behold, the witch has set her mark upon him!'
The crowd gave throat to an animal cry of rage. They fell upon the lone, unarmed knight with club and cleaver and bare fists. He stood unmoving until the seething bodies hid him from view.
Teom yelped like a scalded cat and raced to the steps of the Temple crying, 'Sanctuary! Give me sanctuary!'
The platoon of Life Guards that had attended him on the bleachers went clattering by the kiosk and up the wide steps after their master. They ran as much to protect him as to save their own hides. No amount of training prepared their officers to face sure suicide by standing and fighting off this mob. 'What ho!' Erimenes sang out. 'A battle!'
'I'm glad the prospect pleases you.' Fost drew his blade and held it in front of him without conviction.
One of the members of the masons guild who had helped strike down the Watchmen raced at Moriana, swinging a long pry-bar he had used to lever up chunks of the paving marble. She snapped out of her fog of horror at what her attempt at help had won Sir Foedan and backed with a ringing clang of steel on iron. She fought to retain her grip on the sword as the stonemason attacked again and again. A laborer swung a hammer at Fost, and he had no time to worry about Moriana.
Fost's blade crossed the haft of the hammer with an odd sound. The workman reeled back, mewling like a lost soul. 'Shrewdly struck,' congratulated Erimenes.
Fost stared. The man's right hand hung from a rag of skin, yet Fost's parry hadn't come anywhere near it. Then Fost saw that his sword had bent itself into an L shape around the hardwood shaft nearly severing his assailant's hand at the wrist.
'Come on!' he shouted to Moriana. She thrust into the twisted face of an attacker and spun, following him back to the bleachers with the mob hot after them. The flimsy wooden structure thundered and vibrated beneath frantic feet as the assembled notables fled the wrath of the populace. The mob was pouring into the Plaza from both directions now. As hazardous as the bleachers were, they offered the only ground on which to make a stand. As Fost and Moriana went booming up the stands, a hairy-armed man made a grab at Erimenes's wavering form. 'Unhand me, you rogue!' shrilled the genie.
'Oh, my darling, are you hurt?' cried Ziore. Fost moaned. The man snatched again and seized one of the straps flapping wildly on Fost's kilt. His sword useless, Fost swung Erimenes's satchel and caught the man squarely