The Chaoswar Saga: A Kingdom Besieged, A Crown Imperilled, Magician’s End. Raymond E. Feist
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wooden construction that would be used to smash in the portcullises. The defenders would make the attackers pay a heavy toll to breach the keep, but with enough men and material, eventually the Keshians would break through. Martin’s sole hope was to hold them at bay until his father and the rest of Crydee’s muster returned.
The instructions had been simple. If Lord Henry appeared, the garrison would sally forth in support of his attack on the Keshians besieging the keep. With a strong enough attack, they could roll them up and push them through the town until they found themselves fighting with the bay at their back. Unless they could swim to their ships wearing armour, they would be forced to surrender or be killed to the last man on the docks. Martin chose to worry about the Keshian townspeople after the battle was won. Right now he was focusing on defending this keep.
He looked around and realized that his ancestors had either been geniuses or very lucky. When the original keep had been established by the first Duke of Crydee, this had been a small Keshian garrison, used primarily to keep goblins and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path out of northern Bosania, as this province had been called. The current Free Cities had been their main concern, and the Far Coast had been occupied only as a way to protect their ‘back doors’, as there were two major passes over the mountains. The road east past the Jonril garrison split north-east and south-east, and led to the passes, one of which skirted the southern boundary of the Elven Forest, and eventually would clear the Grey Towers at the Northern Pass before descending towards Yabon.
The southern route passed close to the boundaries of the dwarves and the Star Elves, eventually descending towards the Free City of Natal and the Kingdom Port of Ylith. It was infrequently travelled, and only utilized if heavy snow blocked off the Northern Pass.
Yet while the Crydee garrison had never been more than a Keshian watch-post, it had this bloody marvellous keep: one storey, square and ugly, with a small barbican over the entrance. Martin’s ancestor, the first Duke of Crydee, had build a second storey above it, extended it on three sides and erected towers at the front two corners, then built a huge wall around it, creating a massive bailey in the front and a less spacious marshalling yard behind. On the north side the stables had been tucked against the wall, while barracks were constructed against the south wall.
The outer wall had two entrances: the main gates and a postern gate in the rear. That was heavily guarded, but the terrain behind the keep made attack from that direction difficult: thick woodlands made marshalling horse and infantry impossible unless they came into the clearing behind and attacked uphill while in range of the bowmen and two ancient ballistas mounted on the towers at the corners. The ancient Keshians knew one thing that every Duke of Crydee had also known: the only way to take the keep was a steep climb uphill and a full-frontal assault.
More boulders came hurtling through the air and more masonry exploded. Shards of stone and choking dust filled the air.
Silently, Martin prayed his father wasn’t too long in coming to his aid.
Lord Henry chafed at every moment he was forced to tarry. He paced without let every time they had to stop to rest the horses. Two hundred cavalry had to tend to their mounts while the infantrymen struggled to keep up, lagging perhaps a half-day’s march behind.
Brendan watched his father and was hard pressed to know what to say. He was just as desperate to return as the Duke, but he knew that it was futile to push out too far ahead of the heavy foot. Two hundred mounted soldiers might break a siege, but they would need the support of the twelve hundred men behind them. At last he said, ‘Father, you taught Martin well. Of the three of us he was always your best student.’
Lord Henry turned. He looked as if he was about to lose his temper at his son’s words, but just managed to pull himself back from an outburst. After a moment he said, ‘You’re right. I have always known that you and your brothers might be tested in battle some day. I just thought you’d be older and I’d be there with you.’ Then his voice lowered. ‘And your mother is there.’
Brendan moved to his father’s side. Putting a hand on his shoulder he repeated, ‘Martin was your best student. And he has Ruther with him. He may be a boastful drunk on Banapis, but the rest of the year he’s a seasoned soldier.’
‘Against bands of goblins and roving outlaws, yes,’ said Duke Henry, his dark eyes narrow and his face pinched with worry. ‘But against Keshian Dog Soldiers?’
‘Crydee Keep is battle-tested, Father. If the Tsurani couldn’t bring it down after months of siege, I doubt Kesh can in a matter of days.’
‘The Tsurani didn’t have Keshian engineers,’ said Duke Henry. ‘Even if we arrive the day before the infantry we may be able to raid from behind and burn their engines, cause confusion and maybe even scatter them.’
Brendan didn’t answer, but he knew that was unlikely. They would be coming down from the foothills on the only major road west from Yabon to Crydee. They had been half-way to the Jonril garrison when the fast riders overtook them, warning of the Keshian invasion.
Henry’s orders had been to take this command to Yabon, to bolster that garrison should the Keshians sail north or to stand in its stead if the Duke of Yabon was ordered to sail south from Ylith to Krondor. Until the riders came with word of the attack on Crydee, Henry assumed that the likelihood of an attack there was low. He had sent two fresh riders on to Jonril and then to Yabon, ordering the Jonril garrison stripped and force-marched to Crydee. He judged they’d arrive no more than three days later than Crydee’s own infantry. Yabon would be left to decide what aid they could bring if any. If the Keshians were not moving in the Bitter Sea, Henry was certain Duke Francis would send two or three companies of his own garrisons from LaMut, Zun and Yabon City to support Crydee. They should arrive within three weeks if Duke Francis moved swiftly.
The Duke gestured his groomsman to saddle the horses but Brendan said, ‘Father, the horses do us no good if we ride them dead before we get there. Ten more minutes?’
The Duke froze in place. He was wearing his armour and the ancient and honoured tabard of his ancestors, with a deep brown field upon which flew the golden seagull of Crydee. His helm rested on the ground near his feet and he glanced down at it. Then he said softly, ‘I wish Hal was there with Martin.’
Brendan could only nod. Martin may have been their father’s best student when it came to strategy and theories of war, but Hal just knew how to do things right and men would follow him anywhere. All he could say was, ‘Martin will be fine, Father.’
Martin walked through the great hall where casualties lay groaning. It had become a makeshift infirmary since the relentless bombardment on the gates had injured more than two dozen men. Most had been workers, attempting to shore up the gate with timbers and stone, delaying the inevitable, when the gate would come crashing down.
He had ordered all the men off the wall two days earlier, having them retreat to the sides of the keep or into the main entrance, ready to man the walls should the need arise, but knowing full well the Keshians would not come within arrow range until the gate was down. He could not help but grudgingly admire the Keshian commander. What his approach lacked in creativity it made up for in effectiveness. His soldiers might be falling asleep in the town out of boredom, but no one inside Crydee had enjoyed a good night’s sleep in a week. The best anyone could manage would be to doze off for a few minutes, before being startled awake by the thundering crash of another stone against the wall around the gate.
Martin saw Sergeant Ruther on the other side of the room and signalled for him to join him. The old fighter moved to a corner of the hall where they wouldn’t be overheard.
‘How are we doing, Sergeant?’
Ruther stroked his chin. ‘Considering the pounding the gate’s taking, better than I expected. No one’s dead, just broken bones and cuts from flying stones.’
‘How long?’
Ruther didn’t need to ask what he meant. ‘Three days at best, two more likely; if they get busy, less than that.’ He paused then added, ‘We need to think about getting the women and children out.’
Martin