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

both sides sheered to rubble. Men could not stand and fight within half a dozen yards of the gate on either side, for there was no sheltered footing left. Should the Keshians bring a fire ram against the wooden gates, the defenders would be exposed if they tried to douse it and the Keshian archers would have easy targets.

      He said to Means, ‘My mother and the other ladies mean to take the sick from the keep through the escape tunnels. I need Ruther here with me, but I also need an experienced soldier to look after them. I’m putting you in charge of that detail.’ He glanced around. ‘We don’t have much left for a stand-up fight, do we?’

      ‘Oh, they’re a good lot. Your father left a few grizzled veterans mixed in with the boys. And a few of the townsmen are fairly scrappy brawlers – I know that from my drinking days.’

      ‘Don’t drink any more?’

      ‘Not to speak of,’ said Means. ‘My father couldn’t abide a man who couldn’t hold his drink. For years I took that to mean I needed to go drink to drink with all the lads and somehow not turn into the horse’s ass I usually became. Would have had these stripes years ago if I hadn’t been that man. So I learned that to hold their drink, some men just need not to drink that first ale. Haven’t had a drink in five years.’ Then he grinned. ‘Still doesn’t mean I haven’t busted a few heads down at the dock taverns in my day.’ He shook his head. ‘No, these lads will give the Keshians as good as they get, maybe a bit more. This is their home, sir. This keep will be here when your father reaches us, Commander. I’m certain of that.’

      ‘I hope you’re right, Sergeant.’

      Martin went back into the keep and began his routine for the day. He would conduct a personal inventory of stores, ensuring there was ample food for everyone, then he’d walk each post to see how the men were, then take his place on the top of the keep to watch to see if the Keshians were doing anything different. Then he would wait.

      ‘Fire wagon!’ came the shout from the top of the keep and it was relayed down the stairs into the great hall. Martin had just bid his mother and the other ladies farewell before they began their journey to Elvandar. Those too sick to walk were being carried in litters and by best guess it would take a week for the party to reach the River Boundary and the elves. Martin was loath to see them leave in this condition, but he knew a garrison in the grip of even a relatively minor illness would give the Keshians one more advantage he didn’t wish to give them.

      Sergeant Ruther hurried in. ‘The Keshians have launched a fire wagon at the gate, sir. They mean to be inside sooner rather than later, it seems.’

      Martin nodded, and turned to Sergeant Means. ‘Get them out safely,’ he said. The escape tunnel led out of the lower basement beneath the kitchen pantry. Those leaving had queued up before dawn and now they were almost through.

      Martin ran outside and up to a position on the wall where he could best see through the smoke at the gate. The Keshian fire wagon had been made by filling a wagon with oil-soaked wood and on top of that tightly-bundled straw. Half a dozen men ran behind it, steering as best they could with a reversed wagon-tongue. It was like steering a boat, pulling the tiller in the opposite direction to the one you wished to go in, and the Keshians made a botch of it.

      The wagon had crashed into the right side of the gate, opposite where Martin stood. The fire was burning hotly, but mostly against stone. The wood of the gate on that side was smouldering and smoking, but had not yet burst into flames. Crydee soldiers quickly set about throwing buckets of water on the inside of the gate opposite the fire, to help dissipate the heat and keep the wood from burning through. Ruther came to stand beside Martin.

      ‘What do you think?’

      ‘It’ll weaken it a bit, but unless they’re mad enough to start sending men with oilskins to try and spread the flames to the gate, it’ll hold for a while longer.’

      ‘Do you think they’ll bring a ram after it’s weakened?’

      ‘No. They’ll not risk it getting tangled up in all that mess, especially with flame and embers all around. I’d have the lads dumping oil on them in a moment if they were foolish enough to try that, and they know it.

      ‘No, they’ll wait until the flames are out and toss a few more stones to see how much damage they’ve caused, then they might send another fire wagon, and I’ll bet the second time they’ll get it right, spot on in the middle.’

      Martin could only nod in agreement. He let out an exhausted sigh and wondered where his father was at that moment.

      Henry, Duke of Crydee, slashed down at the goblin trying to unhorse him. The creature’s green-blue face was contorted in a snarl, long fangs bared as it struck upwards at the Duke. Brendan came from behind the goblin and struck it across the base of the neck, below the chain where its skin was exposed and it collapsed.

      As bad fortune would have it, they had ridden straight into a goblin raiding party moving through the Green Heart in strength. It was Henry’s two hundred riders against thirty goblins on foot.

      They made short work of the goblins, most of whom had turned and fled into the deep woods as soon as they realized they hadn’t encountered a small garrison patrol out of Jonril. Goblin raiding parties could be very dangerous for caravans and small patrols, but a full company of heavy cavalry was more than they had bargained for.

      Henry turned his mount in a half-circle. ‘Report!’ he commanded his First Sergeant, Magwin.

      ‘One dead, two wounded, my lord.’

      ‘Damn,’ said the Duke. He was nearly frantic with worry for his wife and son. ‘I should have had riders on point.’

      He looked down and saw a spreading red stain on his tabard.

      ‘Father!’ cried Brendan. He looked down at the fallen goblin and saw that the creature was holding a blood-covered dirk. He had got close enough to the Duke to wound him.

      ‘It’s nothing,’ said Henry, holding his side. ‘I’ll bind it and we’ll be on …’ His eyes rolled up and he slipped out of the saddle, hitting the ground hard before anyone could catch him.

      The Duke struck the ground with the side of his head and shoulder, making an ominous cracking sound.

      Brendan was at his father’s side in seconds. First Sergeant Magwin knelt there and examined the Duke, but Brendan realized his father was dead before the man spoke. ‘Broke his neck, sir.’ As if it would be some consolation he said, ‘He can’t have felt a thing.’

      Brendan’s face flushed as tears welled up. ‘Father?’ he said quietly as if expecting an answer.

      After a moment, the other soldiers gathered around. The boy wept openly and at last First Sergeant Magwin put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Sir, you’re in command. We must move on.’

      Brendan blinked away his tears and took a deep breath. ‘You’re right,’ he said, his voice nearly breaking.

      ‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked the sergeant.

      Brendan stood and turned his back on his father for a long moment, remembering every lesson of warcraft taught by the man lying behind him. Softly he said, ‘Bury the dead, detail two men to accompany the wounded as they follow, and we ride on.’ His voice rose as he turned. ‘Mark this spot well, for we will return one day and retrieve our dead and bury them with honour.’ He looked at the soldiers watching him expectantly. With a deep breath he pushed aside his pain and said calmly. ‘We will relieve my brother at Crydee.’

      His father was now being gently lifted by two soldiers. ‘Farewell, Father,’ he said softly, then mounted up again thinking, Hal is Duke now, and he doesn’t even know it. He gestured to his troops. ‘To Crydee!’

• CHAPTER FIFTEEN •

       Mystery