Ten minutes later, a fleet of small sentry boats with large laser cannon lifted off the roof of the palace, streaking away to all points of the compass.
The King did not hear. The King did nothing. The small silvery boats sped out across the countryside, so high up that the first few rays of dawn turned their hulls to rose.
As they sailed, tiny black specks appeared above them, swelling suddenly into squat black ship’s gigs bristling with turrets. They fell like stones flung by giants. Too late, the silvery boats detected them and swung about, to bring their single lasers to bear. Rays of fire spat, and the silvery boats fell out of the sky, burning in glory.
Occasionally the black boat would fall, and the silver would speed on alone; another black speck would appear, high above it.
On the estate of Milord Megrin, the churls from all the villages converged on the castle, scythes and flails in hand. Atop the wall, sentries saw them and cried out in alarm. A corporal came running to each of them—and sapped them neatly behind the ear.
As the churls marched up to the great gate, it swung open, and they strode on in, to be met by servants, and not a few guardsmen. Silently, the Butler led them into the great hall, where they formed a semicircle, facing the great central archway. There they waited.
Suddenly Lord Megrin, with his wife and three children, came stumbling through the archway in their nightclothes. Behind them came a score of grim-faced Soldiers, their pikes at the ready. The Lord and his family stumbled to a stop, staring about them in the torchlight, dazed. Then the Lord cried out in indignation, “What means this! Why have you gathered here without my leave!” But there was an echo of dread in his voice.
The Butler stepped forward, his face politely grave. “DeCade has risen, Lord; his Bell is rungen. Throughout the land, churls are rising to strike down their Lords.”
The Lord blanched, and his wife gasped, burying her face in her hands. Then she fell to one knee and clutched her children to her.
“Have I been so evil to you, then,” he said quietly, “that you must serve me in like fashion?”
“You have not, milord, and well you know it. You have ruled well and wisely over us; we have been fortunate indeed. Your punishments have always been just, and never harsh; you have never been cruel, nor taken advantage of our bodies. You have always seen that no man starved or froze, even if your family and yourself had to eat Lenten rations in the Christmastide to do it. Your wife has nursed us in our illness; you have cared for us and protected us. And, as you have served us, so shall we serve you now.”
The Lord heaved a huge sigh of relief and relaxed; his wife looked up, unbelieving. Then tears of joy filled her eyes.
“But you must understand,” the Butler said more gravely, “that what has happened now, must happen; too many of our brethren have dwelt in torture and abasement. The wheel has turned; the churls must rule. You may no longer be Lord of this manor.”
The Lord stood stiffly, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he bowed his head.
“Yet credit us with sense,” the Butler said more gently. “We doubt that any one among us could administer this manor half so well as your good self; we own it now, in common, but we wish you still to oversee the running of it, to instruct us and direct us.”
The Lord stared, unbelieving. Then he cocked his head to the side, frowning. “Let me be sure I understand you. You tell me that I am your servant now, but that the service you require of me is your governing.”
The Butler nodded, relief evident in his face before he brought it under control again. “Save only this: you are no more a servant than any other here. All here are now members of the community, and servants of it.”
The Lord pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That is more than justice. If the churls have risen, as you say, you do me and mine much mercy.”
“Only yours returned, milord. As you have cared for us, so we shall care for you.”
“But will they let you?” the Lord demanded. “Will not DeCade, or whoever rises to rule the churls, demand our blood?”
His wife looked up, alarmed.
“They may,” the Butler said grimly, “but only if they kill each one of us to reach you. You are our Lord, and not a man shall touch a hair of your head!”
A rumble of agreement passed through the crowd.
The Lord stood a moment, trembling; then his eyes filled with tears.
DeCade led his army out of the forest into a meadow. Dirk’s head suddenly snapped up; he listened for a moment, then put out a hand to DeCade. “Tell them to wait.”
DeCade frowned, but raised a hand, signaling for a halt. The outlaws and other churls stopped, watching him, frowning.
Then they heard the low thrumming filling the air.
All eyes snapped up as the big black ship’s gig floated down out of darkness. It touched earth; hatches opened, and a gang of black-clothed figures started hauling out crates.
“Your weapons, DeCade,” Dirk said, pokerfaced. “Handle with care.”
DeCade’s eyes flamed. He swung his arm over his head, and the churls charged up to the ship with a ragged cheer. As the sky-men handed out pistols, grinning, five more ship’s gigs came to land.
The army paused for instruction and target practice, on the each-one-teach-one system. Then they moved on toward Albemarle, singing softly, like a wind of destruction.
Moonlight painted swaths across the floor of the barracks room in the Lord de Breton’s castle. The Soldiers snored on their pallets, a double row of gray-blanketed mounds.
A stocky figure in footman’s livery appeared in the doorway.
Silently, it padded down the alleyway between the pallets and stopped next to a sergeant. He placed a hand on the Soldier’s shoulder and squeezed; the sergeant sat bolt upright, instantly awake. The liveried figure whispered in his ear, then stood back; quickly and silently, the sergeant came to his feet. He took down his harness from a peg on the wall and strapped on his weapons. Then he padded down the alleyway, stopping here and there beside a sleeping Soldier. Wherever he stopped, he lifted a small bludgeon, and, remembering the Lord’s rape of his sister on her wedding night, struck the sleeping man behind the ear. The Soldier grunted and went limp. The sergeant bound each one with his own harness, gagged him, and moved on to the next who might possibly be loyal to the Lord. When he had finished with the last suspect comrade, he straightened, surveyed the room for a moment, then prowled down along the alley again, shaking the remaining soldiers awake, whispering in their ears. They came to their feet, one by one, and dressed for war—chain mail and steel helmets—and picked up swords and crossbows. The sergeant stood surveying them as they drew up in formation; then he nodded, and turned to lead the way out the door.
As they marched, he beckoned to one Soldier and murmured in his ear; the man turned away, to slip across the courtyard to the gate tower.
The gatekeeper sat his post, drowsing off to sleep. The Soldier’s blade chopped down, and the gatekeeper slept very well indeed. The Soldier took the windlass, cranking it carefully. Slowly, the great drawbridge came down, thumped home. A horde of churls materialized from the shadows and swept in through the gate in almost military order, with scythe-blades fixed to knife-handles, and here and there the gleam of an old, but very-well-cared-for sword.
They moved in silently, divided into Tradesmen and Farmers, each village following its elder.
At the doors to the keep, the servants waited. As the churls came up, the servants turned away and strode into the castle. The army broke up into squadrons, each following a servant.
The castle woke to torchlight, shrieks, and cries. Half the Lord’s Gentlemen ran from their bedrooms, buckling on swords. The other half would never wake again; the sergeant and his Soldiers had seen to that.