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

the Keshians would bring large shields and two well-trained men could crouch behind them, with their archer risking only a moment’s exposure to shoot at the defenders. The Keshians wouldn’t care how many defenders they killed, their purpose was to keep the bowmen from Crydee crouched behind their walls, heads down so the massive rams they brought were allowed to reach the outer portcullis of the barbican without those moving them taking too many casualties.

      The last remnants of the outer wall’s huge gates collapsed in a shower of char and sparks and the Keshians now flooded into the bailey. Sergeant Ruther said, ‘We’re going to run out of arrows before they run out of soldiers, sir.’

      ‘I know,’ said Martin, exhausted from a week of little sleep, scant food, and worry. He had ordered the last of those in the outer bailey into the castle an hour ago and now they were locked in.

      The keep’s entrance was essentially an open box with double portcullises. Entering that box attackers would be staring at a stone wall, and beyond the second iron portcullis were two doors, on the right and left.

      Between the two portcullises was the ‘murder room’. It was there attackers would be caught between the two heavy metal gates while bowmen from above could fire down through archer’s slits. It would be in that thirty-five feet where the Keshians would lose the most men in the shortest amount of time if they tried to cross the space exposed to the archers and hot oil from above.

      Martin knew they wouldn’t. Their rams would have broadtented roofs of wood and treated leather, slow to catch fire unless doused with the hottest flaming oil.

      Once the second portcullis was down, the Keshians would have to choose which of the two reinforced wooden doors to assault. Either or both could be blocked or defended depending on what the occupants decided was the best choice, and the attackers would be forced to pick one and hope they could get though it without massive losses in the murder room. It was the genius of the design that the defenders had half a chance to waste valuable minutes and lives assaulting the wrong door.

      Martin worried it would be long enough for his plan to work.

      Sensing the young man’s mood, the sergeant leaned forward and spoke so as not to be overheard despite the clamour all around. ‘You’ve done well, Martin. Given what you had to work with, your father couldn’t have done better. No man could.’

      Martin was silent for a moment, knowing that Ruther wasn’t just being kind. This was his first conflict against an organized force, but he had been a student of the Kingdom’s military history as well as much of Kesh’s, and he had known from the outset the best he could do was hold out for relief.

      And that relief would not arrive in time. Should his father come riding up at this moment, the best result the defenders could hope for would be a momentary withdrawal by the attackers, before a resumed offensive would once again jeopardize the keep. The simple truth was the battle was lost.

      He took another deep breath and said, ‘Sergeant, we cannot hold this position, as you well know. Father told me if victory eludes you, the next best choice is determining how you endure defeat.’

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Let’s get organized. We’re taking this garrison out from under their noses tonight.’

      The old sergeant smiled. ‘We go into the forests, hit them from there?’

      ‘No, this coast is lost,’ said Martin. ‘We have no reason to think that Robert has held Carse or Morris has held Tulan. Even if they still hold them now, they’ll be starved out within two months. They were no more prepared for this than we were.’ He let out a long breath. ‘I’m sure Prince Edward will have more to worry about than relieving the Far Coast any time soon.’

      ‘Where to then, sir?’

      He put his hand on Ruther’s shoulder. ‘I want the wounded and escorts out tonight, first, and send them east, up into the mountains, towards the south-east fork road to the Free Cities.’ The main road, a continuation of the King’s Highway, ran due east to Ylith, but there was a traders’ road that ran down to the nearest outpost of the Free Cities. ‘They’ll shelter the wounded. And the rest of us will hold for a while longer, then we’ll follow. Once away from here, we’ll take the straight road to Ylith.’

      ‘A desperate plan, sir,’ said Ruther.

      ‘Is there any other kind in these circumstances?’ asked Martin with a faint smile. Then he asked, ‘Lady Bethany?’

      ‘With the wounded, as always.’

      Martin shook his head at her stubborn defiance of his order to leave. He had only discovered she was still in the keep half a day after all the other women and children and the gravely wounded had departed.

      Down below, the battle was going exactly as he had expected with the Keshians setting up firing positions, their shields forming turtles, turned up towards the archers in the keep, preventing arrows from penetrating, though occasionally a shaft would find an exposed leg or foot and a man would go down, but for the most part the positions remained impervious to Crydee’s archers. Soon they’d have teams of two and four men working their way up the steps leading to the walls where more archers would start clearing the keep’s windows as best they could in anticipation of the assault on the entrance.

      ‘Stay here and maintain discipline,’ said Martin. ‘I know the men are tired. If they move on the portcullis, send someone to get me.’

      ‘Sir,’ said Ruther with a slight smile. The Duke’s second son had initially been overwhelmed by the responsibility of commanding the scant garrison but he had grown into the role by the day.

      He hurried downstairs and found Bethany boiling bandages in the kitchen. It was a time-honoured tradition that if bandages were boiled and left to air dry, wounds bound with them were less likely to fester and require a healing priest. The keep at Crydee had a chapel in which any member of the household could pray to any deity but there was no resident prelate. Old Father Taylor had died two years before and Martin’s father had been remiss in petitioning the Temple of Astalon in Krondor to send out another priest. There were shrines in the town, and travelling priests of several Orders visited, but healing by magic means was no closer than Carse under normal circumstances.

      Martin paused for a moment and watched Bethany. He had lost all anger at her defying his order to leave with their mothers and instead savoured both her beauty and her industry.

      Finally he took a breath and came over behind her. She sensed him and turned. ‘Could you grab that bundle of rags over there, for me, please?’

      He complied and when they were dumped into the pot he said, ‘How many of the wounded can travel without help?’

      ‘Not many. Those who can stand are still on the walls, some doing nothing more than showing the Keshians a face so they’ll think there are more defenders than there are.’

      ‘We’ll be evacuating the entire garrison after sundown. If a man is wounded but can help, I’ll send him to you.’ His voice fell. ‘How many cannot be moved?’

      Grimly she said, ‘None. Those have already died. Some will have to be carried, but all can move.’

      Martin sighed. ‘I want you to leave with the wounded. The first group.’

      ‘Where are we bound?’

      ‘The Free Cities. The rest of us will go on to Yabon.’

      ‘You sent our mothers north to the elves.’

      ‘It is a safer destination … The elves would welcome our wounded and the woman and children, but as well as we’ve got on with them over the years, I have my doubts about them welcoming an army. Besides, I’ve got what’s left of Crydee’s garrison here, and most of us can still fight.’ His voice lowered. ‘We just can’t fight here.’

      ‘You did the best you could,’ she said and put her hand on his arm. Then she kissed him lightly. ‘You really did, Martin.’

      He