It was a bellow that fell like a hammer, and it was a Command echoed by all the mighty that Queen Asabel surrounded herself with. Lord Blackthorn and Lancelot gave their chorus in growls to accident it, and there was no resisting to be had.
The less wilful men scrambled. Those that were soldiers stood up briskly, to the fullest of attention. The peasantry, tainted by fear, saw themselves organized as best they could, operating on the same instincts that had saved them whenever a noble carriage had come riding through the town. The only ones slower to react were the nobility themselves, and the high ranking Serving Class officers, who were unaccustomed to being told to move. But even they, slowly though they might have done it, saw themselves organized.
With a few harsh words, order returned to the crowd, and they stood like an instrument, even more unified than before. Of course, it was difficult to ignore the mud and blood that stained their clothes, from where they had wrestled.
