A Crown Imperilled. Raymond E. Feist

to appear keen and ready, but really just hiding their boredom. Martin knew the tedium of the watch only too well as he and his brothers had served more than their share; their father had ensured that his three sons understood every aspect of the soldier’s trade. There was an old soldier’s saying: War is protracted periods of boredom punctuated by short bursts of violence and terror; and so far, Martin had found that to be entirely true.

      Scanning the docks below the wall and the foulborough between the city walls and the docks, he said, ‘How would you attack this city?’

      Brendan moved to one of the crenels and leaned out slightly, his hands resting on the merlons to either side. He said, ‘I’d not wish to.’

      ‘I know, but if you did, how?’

      His younger brother was silent as he continued to survey the landscape beyond the wall. His attention lingered for a moment on the keep high above the city and then dropped to the road from the west, across the harbourage and then the road to the south. Finally he said, ‘I’d come at the city from the east. It’s the weakest part of the defence.’

      ‘But to do that means you’d have to get your forces across the water to the western coast of the Principality. No ships, remember.’

      Brendan said, ‘The Free Cities have ships.’

      ‘But to turn south and move on Port Natal leaves your rear exposed to … well, us.

      ‘And even if you get past the Rangers sniping at you from behind every tree, win past the city defenders, and get your hands on enough ships, you’ve still got to sail back north and get past Queg’s patrols.’ He stopped, thoughtful. ‘But your instincts are right, I’m certain. We just have to figure out how they intend to do it.’

      ‘Which brings us back to a raiding fleet from the south,’ said Brendan.

      Martin shook his head. ‘Let’s leave the problem of how they do it to the Keshians. We must assume they can get to the western shore of the Bitter Sea. If I were their commander, I’d make straight for Questor’s View and come ashore on that beach to the north of the town.’

      ‘Which would put you only a day’s forced march south of that old fortification there,’ said Brendan, pointing across the water.

      ‘That would be a fine staging area. Leaving out the part about swimming across, invisible ships, or other magic as beside the point of having soldiers there, let’s assume the Keshian commander is as intelligent as you are.’ Martin turned. ‘Sergeant Ruther!’ he shouted.

      ‘Sir!’ came the answering reply from below.

      The old sergeant might not always be in sight but he was always near at hand. Martin motioned for him to come up and despite his age the old soldier took the steps two at a time as he hurried to his young commander’s side. When he reached Martin, he said, ‘Sir?’

      ‘What can you tell us about that old fortification?’

      ‘Been abandoned for nearly a hundred years, I’ve been told. Built as a buttress against some nasty raids over the mountains and down along the coast. Seems things got calmer and one of the old barons decided that paying for a second garrison wasn’t necessary.’

      ‘How long would it take to ride down and have a look around?’

      ‘An hour to get there. It’s farther away than it looks from here. That’s no hill overlooking the beach and the road bends through the woodlands. Another hour to inventory, and then an hour to return. Be back by supper, sir.’

      ‘Get to it,’ said Martin.

      As Ruther headed down the steps bellowing orders to form a detail to ride with him, a sentry at the far western corner shouted, ‘Patrol coming in!’

      Martin turned to see four riders coming in at a canter; an urgent enough pace to indicate that there was news, but not fast enough to signal immediate danger. ‘Open the gates!’ he commanded.

      Four riders entered, as grimy as their horses. The sudden early summer rains had quickly dried out and mud and dust covered both mount and horseman. The leader of the patrol, a newly promoted corporal named Jackson, dismounted and said, ‘Saw ’em, sir.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘Their vanguard is about half a day’s ride the other side of the pass.’ The rangy, sandy-haired young man stopped and calculated. ‘Saw them at dawn yesterday, Commander, so they must be a day and a half, perhaps two days at the most, behind us.’

      ‘How many have they brought?’ asked Brendan.

      ‘The whole bunch, sir,’ said Jackson. He thanked the guard who handed him a water skin. He took a long pull from it, then said, ‘Seems like they don’t feel the need to leave much behind. It’s as if they don’t care about any attempt to retake Crydee from the south.’

      ‘Odd,’ said Martin. ‘So what numbers do you think we’ll see, and when?’

      ‘Five hundred horses, if I judged rightly; a bunch of those desert fellows with the leopardskin trim on their helmets, maybe three hundred; and what looks like heavy cavalry: lancers with baggage wagons. And infantry. At least a thousand Dog Soldiers, and twice that number of irregulars.’

      ‘Siege engines?’ asked Brendan.

      ‘I expect they took ’em apart after we left Crydee, and will be dragging them along, sir. Didn’t stay around to see if they were in the rear with those leopard fellows getting close. A couple of them gave chase, but they didn’t last long once we turned and ran.’

      Martin studied the distant road through the gate. He had ordered entrapments and barriers erected, knowing full well they were more of nuisance to the enemy than a real deterrent. Still, anything that kept the Keshians from swarming over that hill and coming straight at the gate was to be earnestly wished for.

      His eyes returned once again to the old keep on top of the hill overlooking the road. He had conducted a quick inspection of their defences a week earlier when he had first arrived. Now he wondered if he had been overly hasty.

      ‘Find Bolton,’ Martin said softly to his brother.

      Captain Bolton appeared at a run behind Brendan less than five minutes later. He was a slender young man, the same age as Martin. He had been left in charge of the city’s defences by the Duke of Yabon, and until now, his only practical experience had been overseeing a squad of the Earl of LaMut’s personal guards, of which his uncle was commander. To the brothers’ surprise, he had turned out to be a willing worker and a quick study; his arrogant manner as defender of the city had been a mask to hide his uncertainty. But once Martin had defined his duties, Bolton had thrown himself into whatever task had been given him. Even Brendan had come to like him despite the fact they were both smitten by the mayor’s daughter, Lily.

      Martin said to him, ‘What I need to know is if there is any sort of sally port or secret exit from that keep.’

      Bolton said, ‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out.’

      Martin nodded and Bolton ran off towards the stable nearest the gate.

      Brendan smiled at his retreating back. ‘He’s still eager.’

      ‘He’s just like a lot of men,’ said Martin. ‘A total waste until you give them something meaningful to do, then you see the man’s true measure.’

      ‘What are you thinking?’ Brendan asked with a twitch of his head in the general direction of the keep.

      ‘If that Keshian commander can get control of that ridge up there,’ he pointed to the crest of the road and the clearings on either side, ‘he can erect those trebuchets and just pound this wall until it’s rubble. Then a single charge down the hill and he has this city.’

      ‘So you want to hit him in the arse?’ said Brendan, but his expression was serious.

      ‘If I can get a big enough company behind him, yes; but he’ll have