The Chaoswar Saga: A Kingdom Besieged, A Crown Imperilled, Magician’s End. Raymond E. Feist

deep under the keep, far below any that might be dug by incoming sappers. It ran far beyond the clearing to the east, into the heavy forest. The exit was fully disguised by carefully placed boulders surrounding a door-sized rock that had been artfully crafted to look like a solid boulder, but was hollow at the back.

      ‘I had the boys down there yesterday ensuring the timbers were still sound and the stone door that hides the entrance can be moved. It will take a couple of stout lads and a long piece of wood to move that door, but it’ll be ready when we need it.’

      ‘Good,’ said Martin. ‘I’m just not certain how we’ll get everyone out and when.’

      ‘The “how” is your burden, sir, but the “when” is soon.’ He looked at Martin, took in the dark shadow beneath his eyes. ‘You look all in, lad,’ he said, though he was in no better shape. ‘Why don’t you try to get some rest, at least an hour?’

      ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Martin. He knew the old soldier was right. He was exhausted and not thinking clearly. He half-staggered to his room and fell across his bed without taking his boots off. In a few minutes he was asleep, unmindful of the dull thud of stones striking the gate outside.

      Martin awoke to soft lips pressing against his. His eyes opened wide. ‘Huh?’

      He found Bethany leaning over him.

      ‘You are needed. I thought that was the best way to rouse you.’

      Flushing, Martin said, ‘I am roused. What is it?’

      ‘Your mother needs you.’ She turned towards the door. As she reached it, she glanced over her shoulder and added, ‘As do I,’ and left.

      Martin sat there half-asleep, slightly giddy, and confused. If he lived through the next few days he would wonder about how he had become the object of affection for the woman he adored.

      He had always felt there was something between them, but every time he had dared to imagine what it might be, he had pushed away the thoughts as the idle dreaming of a fool. Now he wondered how things could suddenly change so dramatically. Why did he feel like grinning like a loon when the world was crumbling around him?

      He straightened his tunic and hurried to his parents’ quarters which his mother was currently sharing with Bethany, her mother, and half a dozen ladies from the village and their dozen children. The room had always seemed capacious to Martin as a child, being the largest sleeping chamber in the keep with its huge bed, settee, large rugs and wall hangings, but now it seemed small and cramped.

      Duchess Caralin motioned for her son to come to her when he entered the room, and took his hands in hers. ‘How are you, Martin?’ Her face was a mask of concern. He knew that look. She worried about him more than his brothers, and had done ever since childhood. He was not as confident as Hal or as reckless as Brendan, and as the middle child had often been neglected while his father saw to the eldest and his mother cared for the youngest.

      He smiled, though he felt as if he could drop back to sleep just standing there. ‘I’m fine, Mother. What is it you need?’

      ‘We have people getting sick in the rear yard. It’s not bad now, but it will get worse.’ Collected together tightly as they were, the people of Crydee were ripe to be taken by disease, from something relatively mild like belly flux to something lethal like the red plague or spotted madness. Softly she added, ‘We must think about getting those who are the most sick away from here.’

      ‘Where would we take them, and how would they get there?’

      ‘Elvandar,’ she suggested. ‘Your father will surely be coming quickly from Jonril, and the healers will be with him, but many of these people will be dying or dead if we don’t get them help soon.’ Suddenly, she shuddered.

      Martin stared at her, alarmed. ‘Mother, what is it?’

      She lowered her voice and whispered, ‘Ague.’

      Martin closed his eyes for a second. Several different things could be ague, but those who had it would have the same symptoms: fevers with sweats, then chills, a terrible thirst and if not treated, hallucinations. If these combined with other problems, death was possible. Usually if someone was struck down they went to bed for seven to ten days and were tended by their friends or family in the town. But here ague could leave the garrison incapacitated within days.

      ‘If we’re going to get them out, we must do so before they become too weak to travel. I’ll instruct Sergeant Ruther to get things organized. We’ll have them out at sunset.’ He paused, then added, ‘I would like you, Countess Marriann and Lady Bethany to go as well.’

      ‘No,’ said his mother flatly. ‘These are my people; this is my home. If you stay, I will stay.’

      He held up his hand. ‘Mother, please. Someone needs to take care of the sick and I can not imagine anyone better suited, and it would ease my mind if you and Earl Robert’s family were out of harm’s way.’

      His mother looked at him askance. ‘Is that so?’

      ‘Yes,’ he replied, not understanding her question. ‘Moreover, if you won’t go, I must send Ruther to lead the escape, and I need him here.

      ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You’re enough like your grandfather when it comes to having your mind made up that I’ll not argue.’

      He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Father’s father or your father?’

      Frowning slightly she said, ‘Both.’

      That made him smile. He kissed her cheek again and departed.

      Exhaustion was taking its toll, yet whenever the young commander walked by people nodded in greeting and the soldiers saluted. Martin was uncertain what it was he had done to earn their regard, then as he was leaving the family’s wing of the keep and entering the main hall, he realized what it was; they wanted him to succeed. Because if he did so, they would survive. If he failed, they all failed.

      Moving through the crowded main hall, with women and children occupying every available space on the floor, took him a few minutes, with several of the town’s women smiling or addressing him directly, ‘Sir’, ‘Lord Martin’; one even called him ‘Highness’!

      This caused him a momentary pause. He had presumed to name himself prince in the face of Kesh’s commander in the field, a self-aggrandizement avoided for generations by his family. His great-great-grandfather for whom he had been named was brother to the King, and he and his son Marcus were both princes of the Kingdom in rank by birth, but Marcus had never chosen to employ the title, nor had his son the first Duke Henry, or Martin’s father, the second Duke Henry. Hal would be the third Duke Henry but the present king was a very distant cousin at best and the only thing that distinguished Martin, his brothers, and their father from a score of other distant cousins to the King was that they were conDoins. The first Martin had been born a bastard, but recognized and named by his father before his death, therefore he was of royal blood.

      Martin shook his head. He must be suffering from fatigue to let his mind wander so.

      The day dragged on and the pounding of the gate continued through the night. As the false dawn approached in the east, Martin hurried out and got as close to the gate as was safe to see how the Keshians were doing. As he stood at the entrance to the keep a soldier came to stand beside him: a thin, rangy fellow named Means, recently promoted to sergeant from corporal.

      ‘Where’s Ruther?’ asked Martin.

      ‘Oh, finally got him to get some sleep, sir. I can fetch him if you need.’

      ‘No, let him sleep.’ Another stone crashed into the gate with a resounding thud, and Martin heard a splintering sound and saw the timbers reinforcing the gate shudder. ‘What do you think?’

      ‘Not my job, sir,’ said Means.

      ‘A born sergeant,’ Martin laughed.

      ‘If you mean when do I think the gate will give out, then two days, maybe