He summoned the captain of his guard, an aging man in polished scale mail, and told him of his worries. The captain ran a hand over his shaven head, listening patiently.
“I could order the city gates shut,” he said, “and I’ll put more men on the roads, watching for trouble. If anyone tries to ride on the city, we’ll know.”
“Do so,” the Little Emperor said, “and be quick about it. Report back to me when you’re done.”
With a curt nod, the captain turned and headed back down the stairs into the Pantheon. When he was gone, Durinen turned back to the city, shining with rivers of tiny lights beneath the darkening sky. Govinna’s walls had never been breached, even at the end of the Trosedil. Once the gates were shut, the bandits would never get in.
He shook his head, leaning against parapet’s iron rail, and wondered why that common wisdom didn’t make him feel any better.
The answer, of course, was that the bandits were already in the city and had been for days.
They had gathered in a wooded dell near Abreri, a town not much bigger than Luciel, now all but emptied by the plague. A dozen bands, each the size of Lord Tavarre’s, answered the call, and their leaders bent their knees to the local lord, a burly, grizzled man named Ossirian who had spoken to the rabble from atop a mossy boulder, explaining his plan. The Night of White Roses was near, and the faithful were flocking to Govinna to observe the rites at the Pantheon. Rather than storming the city-a fool’s errand, with only five hundred men under his command-Ossirian meant to take it by surprise.
The bandits, then, hadn’t set out in a large group, or even in their smaller bands, but rather in little gangs, none more than six men. They had made their way north to Govinna, disguised as pilgrims, their cheeks smudged with soot in remembrance of the dragonfire Huma had faced in his last battle. The first had entered the city three days before the holy night, and others followed, a few every hour. By the time the captain’s orders reached the gatekeepers that evening, it was too late. When the city’s massive gates rumbled shut, they sealed Ossirian and his men inside.
Each gang of bandits had its own orders, a task in the coming plan of attack. Some waited in key places, ready to cause distractions for the city guard. Others-Ossirian and the other leaders among them-entered the Pantheon with the pilgrims, slipping past the guards in the pressing mobs of the faithful, and took up positions within the temple, waiting for the signal. Still others lurked at crossroads and courtyards, watching for trouble.
Cathan was one of these last, and he wasn’t happy about it at all. He fidgeted as he crouched in the mouth of an alley, looking out into an empty plaza. He pulled his hood low, tugging at his sleeves. For the third time in a minute, his hand reached beneath his cloak to the hilt of his sword.
Huddled in the shadows beside him, Embric Sharpspurs snorted. “You might try being a little more obvious,” he muttered. “A guardsman still might not notice you, provided he was blind and an idiot”
“What guardsman?” Cathan snorted, gesturing at the courtyard. It was deserted and had been since well before sunset. They weren’t even on the right side of town. The plaza was on Govinna’s eastern hill, away from the temples. When the attack happened, the trouble would be on the other side of the river.
“We’ve been here how many hours, and what have we seen? One mangy cat. I bet there isn’t a single guardsman in this entire half of the town.” He shook his head angrily. “We’re going to miss it all.”
“Suits me,” Embric replied, shrugging. “If I can get through this without drawing my sword, count me glad.”
Cathan ground his teeth. He’d left his sister in Luciel, traveled all this way, spent night after night training at swordplay- for what? To stand in an alley while all the fighting happened elsewhere? It made him want to spit. I should leave, he thought. Let Embric stay here-if I hurry, maybe I can get to the Pantheon in time to join Lord Tavarre and the others…
Before he could do more than push to his feet, though, a sound cut through the night, echoing across the river from the temples: a chorus of long, low notes, blown by priests on curving dragon horns. It was the traditional call to the believers, summoning them to the liturgy in Huma’s honor-but it was something else, at the same time: the prearranged signal the bandits had been waiting for, all across the city.
Hearing the blare of the dragon horns, Cathan cursed. He was too late. The attack had begun.
As it happened, the chaos started on the east hill only a few blocks from Cathan and Embric While the horns were still sounding, a gang of bandits used axes to break down the doors of one of the city’s great wineries, then laid into the massive storage tuns with their hatchets, flooding the area with Govinnese claret. Moments later, another mob set fire to a clothworks across the river. Along the gorge’s edge, men with knives darted from one great winch to the next, cutting the ropes that held up the river-lifts. Baskets and wooden platforms fell like autumn apples, splashing into the Edessa or smashing the boats and docks below. In the north, three mountain-sized brigands laid into one of Govinna’s most beautiful monuments, the Fountain of Falling Stars, with heavy sledges, smashing it to rubble in less than a minute. Those few true pilgrims who remained in the streets panicked, fleeing through the narrow streets and crying for help.
Faced with such sudden, random destruction, the town guards reacted as Ossirian had hoped-with utter confusion and disarray. They scattered in every direction, their numbers thinning as they tried to respond to every incident at once. The bandits refused to give them a fair fight, though, running away rather than standing their ground, leading the guards into alleys where more of their number waylaid them, surrounding the watchmen with crossbows and swords. Most of the guards surrendered. Knights and even Scatas might fight on against unfavorable odds, but Govinna’s sentries valued their lives much more than their honor. Caught flat-footed, they threw down their arms.
Things happened just as quickly within the Pantheon. The moment the call to prayer sounded, Ossirian, who had been kneeling in the hall of worship with the rest of the faithful, rose and raised to his lips a horn of his own-made of a ram’s horn, not a dragon’s. At its harsh blast, more than fifty men rose, throwing off their cloaks and drawing swords. Most had positioned themselves near the guards within the temple, and overcame them easily, setting blades to throats before the watchmen could react. A few scuffles broke out, and two guards and a bandit died, but for most there was little bloodshed.
Ossirian had the advantage, but he knew it wouldn’t last The city’s defenses were in a shambles, yet it wouldn’t be long before those guards who remained regrouped and tried to counterattack. He turned to Tavarre and the other lords, barking orders.
“Seal the doors! Find Durinen! Half a thousand imperial falcons to the man who brings me the Little Emperor!”
The bandits scrambled to comply. Some rushed to the church’s apse, barricading its doors with pews, fonts, and whatever else they could find. The rest spread out through the Pantheon, surging through its halls as clerics fled, sandals flapping, or cowered, begging for mercy. They moved from vestiary to antechamber, copy room to meditation hall, breaking down doors when they found them locked. Ossirian himself led the main charge up the stairs of the Patriarch’s Tower, shoving priests aside as he sought the unmistakable, huge bearded form of Durinen.