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

grabbed him and hugged him. ‘You did do everything any man could do.’ Then she kissed him hard on the neck, then added, ‘And I do love you so very much even if you are a humourless fool at times.’

      Despite his fatigue and black mood, he was forced to chuckle. ‘Humourless fool? Faith, lady, I am injured.’

      ‘Just your vanity,’ she grinned. ‘I’ll start making the wounded ready.’

      ‘Good. If I can’t be back before the sergeant orders you out of the keep, stay well. I will find you when we are on the trail.’

      She nodded and went back to the boiling bandages. Using a large wooden spoon she began picking up the dripping linen and hanging it in front of the fire to dry.

      Martin did a quick inspection of the wounded himself, then hurried down to the basement and inspected the tunnel entrance. Two guards had been stationed in the sub-basement against the possibility of the Keshians finding the exit in the forest beyond and coming up through the tunnel. It was a faint chance if the entrance had been covered properly when the first group had left days earlier, but it was still a possibility.

      To one of the guards he said, ‘Go to the old tack room. You’ll find a dozen bales of straw. Get some men to carry them down here. And then find a pot in the kitchen. So big.’ He made a circle with his hands showing something that would hold five or six quarts. ‘Fill it with lamp oil and bring it here.’

      ‘Sir,’ said the guard and hurried off.

      Martin looked to the other guard and said, ‘How long have you been at this post?’

      ‘Can’t rightly say, sir.’ The guard was barely a boy, younger than Brendan from his appearance, and his uniform was ill-fitting.

      Martin smiled. ‘I know every man in the garrison by sight. You’re not from the garrison.’

      ‘No, sir. Name’s Wilk. I’m the cobbler’s son. The sergeant said it would look better should the Keshians come if those of us bearing arms had uniforms on. Something about rules of war and the like.’

      Martin nodded. It was a nice-sounding story, but not true. Civilian or soldier alike, he had no doubt what end would greet anyone found bearing arms when the Keshians finally broke into the castle. Though, given the reputation of Kesh’s Dog Soldiers, he doubted that bearing arms would make much difference. Those found within would either be put to the sword or sold into slavery.

      Martin said, ‘I’ll see if I can get someone down to release you, Wilk. You should get a little rest. It’s going to be a long night.’

      He hurried back to the topmost vantage point and found the Keshians had established two firing positions opposite the barbican and were trying to drive defenders off the roof. Sergeant Ruther was crouched down behind a merlon and Martin waved for him to approach. The sergeant ran in a crouch and when he was safely inside Martin said, ‘We can’t wait. Start the wounded on their way and then organize the men. When the time comes I want everyone but your ten best archers to leave on my command and run to the tunnel.’

      ‘When will that be, sir?’

      ‘When the Keshians get a ram through the outer portcullis, or I give the order, whichever is first.’

      ‘Sir.’

      ‘One more thing,’ said Martin.

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘If I don’t make it out, make sure you keep everyone together. Head east, and with fortune, you’ll encounter Father somewhere along the way. Report what was done here. If you don’t encounter him, send the wounded to the Free Cities with Lady Bethany, and take the garrison to Yabon.’

      ‘We’ll find your father, sir. You’ll tell him yourself.’

      ‘If, Sergeant.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Now, form a flying company to gather in the great hall, twenty of your best men with short swords and knives, for close-in fighting.’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Ruther. ‘I’ll get twenty of my best brawlers and have them here straight away.’

      Martin glanced around as if looking for something to do and realized that for the moment his only choice was to get back on the roof of the barbican and possibly take an arrow for no good reason, or sit and wait until he got word that the Keshian ram was in place at the outer portcullis.

      He found an empty bench in a hall between the great hall and some guest quarters and sat down. He leaned against the wall and felt fatigue in his bones and wondered how he could be so wrung out when he’d barely lifted his sword save to command bow fire down on the Keshians. He supposed he could have taken a bow and stood in the crenels shooting down, exposing himself to enemy arrows, but given how bad he was as an archer, it would probably have been a waste of arrows. That they could not afford.

      He wished desperately his father or Hal or both were here. Even the sight of Brendan would have cheered him. He was not the man to be in command. He barely considered himself a man, despite having passed six summers since his ‘manhood’ day on his fourteenth Banapis Festival. Yes, he had drawn enemy blood before, but those were rabble: goblins and outlaws. This? This was war, and opposing him was a seasoned Keshian commander with battle-hardened soldiers at his disposal.

      When he thought of war he thought of the great battles told of in the archives. When Borric I had charged across the plains north-west of Salador, outnumbered by half again as many soldiers under Jon the Pretender. He had wondered more than once if he had been a member of the Congress of Lords which side he would have chosen. Borric had the claim, as eldest son of the King’s younger brother, but Jon had been Borric’s bastard cousin, and was immensely popular. History was written by the victors, his old teachers had told Martin, so the chronicles were canted in Borric’s favour, but there was enough to tell a careful reader that Jon’s claim was no less a claim.

      When he thought of warfare Martin remembered reading the various accounts of the siege of Crydee, during what was commonly known as the Riftwar, the Tsurani invasion. It was all the more vivid because he could walk the walls and visit each location recounted in the narrations. As a youngster he used to take the text and stand where Arutha was when Fannon was felled by an arrow and walk to where the Prince had stood rallying his soldiers to repulse wave after wave of attackers.

      Martin had always been Arutha in his imagination, despite his own many great-grandfather and namesake, later Duke Martin, being a significant figure of the battle.

      He couldn’t imagine how Arutha would have dealt with this situation, being forced to withdraw in the face of overwhelming odds. He closed his eyes for a moment.

      In what seemed to be a second later Bethany was shaking him awake. ‘It’s sundown and the Keshians haven’t come yet,’ she said, softly. ‘The wounded are ready to leave.’

      He blinked and shook his head, not entirely awake.

      She repeated herself and he stood. ‘Sorry, I fell asleep.’

      ‘Obviously.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘You drive yourself too hard.’

      ‘I was wondering what Prince Arutha would have done in my place, just before I fell asleep.’

      ‘Exactly what you’re doing: trying to make the best of a terrible situation.’

      He smiled tiredly. ‘Let’s get started.’ He disentangled his arm from hers and led her down to the sub-basement, where six litters were being carried by a dozen men.

      Sergeant Ruther said, ‘Ready, sir.’

      ‘Begin,’ said Martin.

      The tunnel was low, so the litter-bearers had to bend forward a little, but they managed to get the six men too wounded to walk, through. Then those who could walk began to enter the dark maw of the tunnel.

      After the last of them had gone through, Martin turned to Bethany. ‘Now, I want you to round up the few remaining