A Crown Imperilled

CHAPTER TWELVE

Martin shouted.

‘Damn!’ He slammed his fist against the table.

Brendan shook his head at his brother’s frustration as they sat alone in the kitchen of the mayor’s house.

Martin’s vexation was self-directed, but he managed to get the attention of everyone in the room. Brendan signalled to the two cooks and their three helpers that he needed time alone with his brother. They exchanged glances; then the head cook nodded and they left through the back door.

‘What is it?’ asked Brendan.

After the water demon assault, Martin had been reorganizing the city’s meagre defences, while Miranda and Nakor had been interrogating the rogue magician, Akesh. Brendan had spent that time inventorying the city’s remaining resources and had given Martin the list to read a half-hour ago.

Martin appeared lost in though and didn’t answer his brother’s question.

In the three days since that assault, the Keshian commander had been obviously content to take his time and return to a more mundane approach to siegecraft. He was constructing massive trebuchets on the crest of the western road, and it was obvious he would soon begin pounding at the gates of the city.

Bolton had made a thorough investigation of the old keep above the city and the escape tunnel that led to a short distance behind the Keshians’ position. Martin was desperately trying to concoct a plan to send men through that tunnel and assault the trebuchets, set them ablaze and then escape, but he was convinced there was no way to do that without losing every man on the raid, as well as having no guarantee that the siege engines would be destroyed.

‘What’d I’d give for one company of heavy horse right now,’ he said. In his mind he could see them cutting through the Keshian defences, enabling the raid against the trebuchets to work. Then the absurdity of his position struck him and he said, ‘If I’m wasting wishes, I should wish for the bulk of the King’s Armies of the West to be marching up from the south.’

Brendan pushed away a now-empty lunch plate. Stores were beginning to be a problem, so Martin had ordered rationing. Bethany had successfully argued for full rations for those fighting and half-rations for the rest. When Miranda and Nakor told him about the wagon caravan parked outside the city, he had sent out a detail to bring them in only to discover they had turned back toward Zun when the last attack had begun. He now was questioning his own ability to protect this city.

He had nearly had a stroke from anger when he learned how easily the Keshian demon-summoners had infiltrated the city, and had put Bolton in charge of interrogating every traveller still incarcerated in the inn at the city gate and a nearby store converted to housing. He wasn’t certain how effective the young captain might be in ferreting out more Keshian agents, but it was better than just waiting for one to reveal himself to the detriment of the city.

Martin felt overwhelmed, and was doing his best to hide that, but both Brendan and Bethany knew he was approaching his limit. It was one thing to study tactics, strategy, siegecraft, and the other military subjects, and to command a garrison for a short time as field experience, but it was quite another to bear responsibility for a city at war. Granted, most of the inhabitants had fled, but there were still women and children within these walls and while everything he had studied said the same thing — focus on the military aspects and let the civilians fend for themselves — still he could not bring himself to pretend they were not here, not a responsibility, not his responsibility.

Brendan waited for his brother to relax slightly before he said, ‘We have what we have.’

Martin nodded, pushing aside the list. Food was not critical yet, but it would be. Water was not a problem due to the numerous wells inside the walls. Arrows were becoming important, mostly because the finely fashioned ones had all been spent and now they were relying on those fashioned by boys pressed into acting as fletchers, using whatever feathers could be found for each flight. Weapons were not yet critical, either, but uninjured men to wield them was his most pressing need.

Earlier in the day he had seen the Keshians moving at the ridge line, the first sign the Keshian commander was getting ready for a conventional attack.

At last he said, ‘An attack through the tunnel from the keep to take out those siege engines risks too much. I think we’d lose too many men and might gain nothing tangible from it. Moreover, we’d have to block the tunnel to prevent the Keshians from using it and I’d like it available to us against future need.’

Brendan couldn’t find any reason to disagree so he merely nodded.

Glancing around, Martin realized they were alone in the kitchen. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘Giving us a little privacy.’

Martin grunted. He waved his hand in the general direction of the front gate to the city. ‘The Keshians still mount a superior force, despite that fiasco with the demons. Even with their magician neutralized by Miranda and Nakor, they have the strength to beat down the door eventually and walk right in. We’re beginning to run low on supplies and in another week, we’ll be at less than half-rations.’ His voice lowered. ‘And then the real panic begins. If we’re still here defending. And to defend the city we have an untried boy with delusions of military genius.’

Brendan laughed.

‘What?’ barked Martin, looking annoyed.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Brendan, ‘really, I am, but for a moment you were again the angry brother who couldn’t quite beat Hal at a game. You used to pout like a little girl.’

Martin’s eyes widened. ‘I did not!’

‘You did so,’ said Brendan. ‘And you were doing it again. Look, be kind to yourself a moment, and stop wading in pity. If the King’s Marshall was here, with only what you have to defend with, nothing more, do you think he would have managed any better? What would he do? Gather everyone in the city square and with a rousing speech, get them all fired up so they’d charge out the gate and thrash the Keshians to the last, man and boy?’

Martin started to chuckle. ‘All right, a little pity if you must.’

‘You’re doing as well as any man, I reckon.’

Miranda and Nakor came into the kitchen. Between them was a very obviously beaten Keshian magician. Both of his eyes were swollen, the left completely shut, and he couldn’t manage to put his weight on his left foot without wincing. ‘We have wrung everything from him we could,’ Miranda said to Martin.

Nakor said, ‘It’s not his fault, really. It seems someone put some ideas in his head.’

‘Magic?’ inquired Martin.

Miranda nodded, while Nakor said, ‘It’s a very subtle trick. I think it’s been there in his head a very long time, years perhaps, so that he thinks everything he did was his own idea, but really, someone else made him do it.’

Brendan said, ‘I’m not sure I understand. You’re saying he’s some sort of dupe?’

‘Hard to say,’ replied Nakor. ‘He may have been thinking bad things before this trick, or he might have been thinking good things, and the trick turned him bad.’ He grinned apologetically.

‘Either way he’s a traitor,’ said Miranda.

‘To whom?’ said Martin. ‘He’s Keshian. How is he a traitor?’

Miranda realized that one fault with having dual memories was that she sometimes forgot the context of things, certain nuances. Martin was ignorant of the Conclave so he would have no notion of Akesh’s disloyalty to Pug. Improvising, she went on, ‘I was speaking of the Assembly of Magicians at Stardock. They are pledged to neutrality, no matter where they are born.’

Before another word was spoken, a loud crashing from the direction of the front gate was followed by alarm bells and horns. ‘Damn,’ said Martin. ‘The attack is starting.’

He stood, grabbed his sword belt from where it hung on the back of a chair, and watched in shock as Miranda reached out and seized Akesh by the throat and with a squeeze effortlessly crushed his windpipe. The magician fell to the stone floor, gasping for breath that would not come and in a moment his face turned blue and he died, eyes open.

‘Why?’ demanded Martin.

‘Because,’ said Miranda, ‘he was a traitor. And who can you spare to guard him? He may have been beaten within an inch of his life, but you have no one besides Nakor and me who could deal with his magic once he recovered.’

Nakor nodded. ‘I knew him; he was not what I would call powerful, but he had tricks that would hurt you if he used them behind your lines.’

‘What would you have us do, stand over him so that if you somehow survive this war we can take him back to Stardock so he can be tried and executed there?’ asked Miranda.

Her eyes fixed on Martin and suddenly he knew fear. There was something behind those eyes that was powerful and unnatural and he wished no part of it. ‘Fine,’ he said sharply. He could not be distracted by this now. He turned to Brendan and said, ‘Find someone on the staff to dispose of this body. I fear we’re going to have many more to add to the pile before this fight is over.’

Brendan nodded, turned and headed to the rear of the kitchen just as the alarmed-looking staff began to return. He pointed to the corpse of the traitor and said, ‘See to that, then get ready to care for the wounded!’

Then the two brothers raced toward the coming battle.

Martin ordered the men off the wall and stationed two lookouts on rooftops behind it. The Keshian trebuchets were merciless. At this distance they looked almost like child’s toys, but there was nothing remotely amusing about them. Large towers with an asymmetrical swinging arm and a basket full of heavy rocks at the short end, and a sling at the long end, they could hurl a boulder it took four men to lift as a child would throw a pebble.

There were four of them on the crest of the road, and they flung their heavy missiles in order, the farthest to the left first: one, two, three, four; then over again, the first being reloaded by the time the fourth had released a massive stone. To those in the city it felt like an endless barrage. Those stones that struck the wall bounced away, showering the ground before the city with masonry dust, dirt, and shattered builder’s blocks. Those that hit the gate caused the metal hinges to protest with a shriek while the wood groaned as ancient grain was parted and splintered.

A few stones topped the wall to bounce into buildings or careen down boulevards and an unwary defender was lucky to be spared a shattered leg or crushed skull as the boulder bounded by. A few were not so lucky and were carried to the mayor’s house or the inn across the street, where those detailed to receive the wounded waited to care for them.

Brendan and Martin stood exposed and wary in the main street, ready to duck around the corner should they have to avoid a boulder. Martin had ordered Bethany and Lily to care for the wounded and protect them should the Keshians get that far into the city. Bethany had appeared ready to be defiant, but at the last had merely nodded and left to do as asked. Martin couldn’t be sure that would last. He also knew it futile to order her out of the city. She was her father’s daughter and she would fight until the last. She also would be disinclined to let the Keshians take her alive; she knew what happened to attractive young women taken in war; if she and Lily survived the rape of the city, they would be bound for a slaver’s pen in Durbin. It would be a miracle if anyone informed the commander that she was the daughter of nobility and worth a ransom, and Bethany would certainly not say a word while others around her faced such a fate.

A stone smashed into the gate and the entire front of the wall trembled. ‘A few more of those and they’ll come charging in,’ said Brendan.

Martin shouted up to the closest lookout, high on the rooftop above, ‘Do you see horse?’

‘Just now, my lord,’ he replied. ‘They’re riding slowly around the siege engines and taking up position. They do not appear to be in any hurry.’

‘They can wait,’ said Brendan. He glanced at the sun and said, ‘Why wait until noon to begin the assault? Why not attack at dawn?’

‘Darkness means confusion and terror, and that benefits the Keshians. Had he begun at dawn, the gates would be down now and we’d have had time to organize defensives throughout the city. Now if we try that, it’s in the dark.’

‘How long can we hold?’

Martin said, ‘I don’t know. Every man and boy is willing; this is their home they’re defending and the Keshians lost many men with that demon attack. If we can wear them down between here and the city square …’ He was silent for a minute, then said, ‘Get a company. Go find anything, furniture, shelving, storage crates, whatever is at hand and build a barrier in the square.’ He knelt and drew a semi-circle in the earth. ‘Here is that weaver’s shop, the one with the green door? Start here and stretch it across to here, the butcher’s. I want it twelve feet high with whatever you can stand on behind it, so that it’s a breastwork.’

‘The miller’s!’ Brendan exclaimed suddenly. ‘There are hundreds of bags of grain spoiled for sitting there and no way to get it out of the city! That’ll make a sturdy breastwork, Martin!’

Martin smiled. ‘Good. Build steps behind so a man can fire a bow over it. When I give the order here, I want the archers to fall back and be ready there to shoot crossing the square. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Brendan.

As he was about to leave, Martin seized him by the arm. ‘That odd little ballista from LaMut, where is it?’

‘We moved it a couple of times. I’ll find Sergeant Ruther, he’ll know. Why?’

‘Take a wagon and put it in the middle and if you see any heavy horse ride into that square, use it on them. They’ll be bunched up and unable to spread out, so that might prove a nasty surprise. Go, and spread the word.’

Brendan nodded once then dashed off.

Boulders thundered into the walls and the air became thicker with stone and mortar dust. Hours dragged on and the sun crawled across the sky.

Martin waited patiently until with an ear-shattering twist of wood, the gate on the right pulled loose from its upper hinges. Martin shouted, ‘Return to the walls!’

He saw the two elves and waved them over. There was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on about the one called Arkan, but Calis had been a family friend since the time of his great-grandfather and namesake. When they reached him he said, ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’

Arkan said nothing, studying the young leader. Calis said, ‘Ask.’

‘I plan on leaving that wall quickly and retreating to a secondary position within the city square. We have many inexperienced youngsters up on the wall. If you would each take one side of the gate to ensure they do not waste arrows or freeze and do nothing, and then make sure they leave quickly when the order is given, I would be in your debt.’

Calis said, ‘Of course.’ Arkan looked at Martin and something akin to approval crossed his face briefly, and he nodded.

They hurried off to opposites sides of the main boulevard into the city, while Martin reviewed his strategy. His plan was to bleed the Keshians with two or three volleys of arrows as they charged the gate, confident he’d have enough time to retreat to the barricade Brendan was now finishing. He had dispatched runners with his final plan. He hadn’t really had a plan until a few short time before, but he told the men he didn’t want to confuse the orders until the last minute. Sergeants Magwin and Ruther were both positioned with flying companies at the first intersection of streets behind Martin’s position, to encourage the Keshians along the path of least resistance.

Then Martin heard the horns. The Keshian commander was ordering the advance.

‘Archers! To the walls!’ Martin bellowed and his own voice sounded strong and confident to his own ears, which surprised him as he felt anything but strong and confident.

He hurried forward through a cloud of dust and saw that the gate on the right was almost off its hinges and realized that the Keshian commander had made his first mistake. It was a natural choke point as no more than two or three men at a time could climb into the city through the gap between the edge of the gate and the wall. The Keshians would try to flood the breech, for to wait for horse and chain to drag away the gate risked losing it to a defenders’ rally. As Martin hurried up the steps to the wall, the nearest lookout shouted, ‘They’re bringing a ram, my lord!’

As he topped the shattered palisade, half crumbled and littered with rubble, he saw a hooded ram being propelled by a company of riders. It was tented, providing the men inside with protection from arrow fire and burning oil.

Calis said, ‘I can’t see anyone inside it.’

The elf’s eyesight was superior to Martin’s own, for at this distance he couldn’t tell. Soon, the ram picked up enough speed he knew no man could run and push that fast. Instead the riders were pulling it with ropes and were starting to pick up speed. Suddenly Martin had an idea what was happening and shouted, ‘Off the walls! Everyone off!’

They didn’t need to be told twice. Martin he ran down the stairs, crying, ‘Archers to the square! Man the barricade! Runners to me!’

Two boys, almost comical in oversized helmets and huge quilted vests appeared, stern expressions on their faces. ‘You,’ he pointed to one, ‘find Sergeant Ruther. You,’ he said to the other, ‘find Sergeant Magwin. Tell them to pull back out of sight and wait until the Keshians are into the square, then hit them from behind.’ He jabbed his two fists together for emphasis. ‘Like the horns of a bull! At their discretion they are to pull back, circle around the side streets and get behind the barricade if needs be. Do you understand?’

Both boys nodded and ran off. Men flooded past the city’s youthful commander as he watched the now-empty wall. He hated sending boys on errands of war, but he had no one else.

Nakor appeared at his side. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Looking around. Trying to think of some tricks.’

‘Did you think of any?’

‘Not yet but they’re not here yet.’

‘Where’s Miranda?’

‘She is making sure there are more no magicians with the Keshians. That would be bad.’ Nakor watched the retreating bowmen and asked, ‘And, again, what are you thinking with all this running away from the wall?’

‘I’m thinking that ram isn’t a ram, but a tented wagon with some barrels of Quegan Oil.’

With a grin Nakor said, ‘I didn’t think of that. That’s a very good trick.’ Then the grin faded, ‘But you know what I am thinking?’

‘What?’

‘If you’re right, we’re standing too close to the gate!’

Martin’s eyes widened and without another word the two of them turn and ran up the street as the sound of the rumbling wagon became audible. They were halfway down the street to the first intersection when the wagon slammed into the remains of the gate.

The explosion stuck with the force of a thousand battering rams. The gust of air knocked both Martin and Nakor flat to the ground as a wave of heat washed over them. Both had their backs to the gate so neither was blinded, but when they turned over both saw a monstrous fireball rising into the sky. Waves of heat rolled over them as the wooden gates were now ablaze and even the stones seem to burn as the flaming liquid ran down the blackening stones.

Helping Nakor to his feet Martin said, ‘How long do you think it will burn?’

Nakor said, ‘That’s a lot of oil. Hour, maybe longer. That sticky oil takes a while to consume itself.’

Martin glanced at the low sun in the east and said, ‘They’ll hit us after sundown.’

‘That gives you an hour or more to think up a new strategy.’

‘Nothing new. We stand and we fight. If Kesh takes this city, the Kingdom will never regain the Far Coast and will lose Yabon into the bargain.’

‘Well, I’ve seen a lot of fights, with worse odds than you’re facing.’

Martin’s brow furrowed. ‘Really?’

Nakor grinned. ‘Well, maybe not many. Say, just a few.’ He began walking to the barricade and said, ‘All right, not a few, but there was this one time …’

Martin said, ‘What?’

‘I’m trying to make you feel more confident.’

‘You’re not very good at this are you?’

Nakor sighed. ‘Out of practice, I think.’

Martin found and fought an urge to laugh. He had a sick feeling in his stomach that if he started laughing, he might not be able to stop.

The defenders readied themselves and after the sun set, they waited through the twilight. Again the two elven archers, the eledhel prince and the moredhel chieftain were given responsibility on either flank to keep the young archers calm.

When full darkness was on the city, the Keshian trumpets sounded. Sergeant Ruther had taken a few moments to speak with Martin after he had changed the city’s defensive plans. Now Martin told his brother, ‘They’ll hit with the heavy horse first, trying to clear out any resistance along the main street. Foot will follow in the traditional Keshian fashion. They’ll try to seize this square and establish a defensible position with pikes and shields to defend against counter-attack. Bowmen will be last. Light cavalry will be held in reserve and loosed to pick off anyone on the edge of battle or chase those who are fleeing to prevent a rally. If they leave their light horse out of the city for an hour or more, we have a chance.’

‘What do you propose? asked his brother.

‘If we can halt the heavy cavalry between the entrance to the square and this barricade, the heavy foot will pile up behind, and they will get jammed together. Pikes will be useless and shields will gain them no benefit. The archers at the rear will then pile up against the heavy foot. Ruther and Magwin will hit the archers first, and should make short work of them hand-to-hand, and then they’ll be carving up the footmen from behind. Swords and knives against pikes in close combat; jammed together, the Keshians number advantage will mean little.’

‘You sound as if you think we can survive,’ observed Brendan.

Martin said, ‘I think we can win!’

‘As long as the Keshians behave like you expect.’

‘They’ll behave like Keshians.’

‘Where are Miranda and Nakor? Some magic right now would be very useful, I think.’

‘Miranda is ensuring no Keshian magic-users are moving against us. Nakor has run off to make merry with the Keshians in his own fashion,’ said Martin. ‘I wasn’t in a position to tell them how best to use their craft.’

‘Nor were they likely to listen, anyway,’ said Brendan.

Horns sounded and there was a rumble as a company of heavy horse began their advance down the boulevard. Two single columns rode side by side, but closer than was customary for protection from possible attacks from side streets. The litter of rubble on the cobbles forced them to advance slower than they would have liked. Even so, Martin knew they could easily overrun his defences if they were not slowed.

‘Archers!’ shouted Martin. ‘Ready!’

The first horses came into view and Martin reached over the barricade and said, ‘Now!’

The two soldiers managing the old ballista from LaMut fired and the bolt flew true into the first pair of horses, cutting through them to slice into the pair behind, and the third pair, before losing energy and landing with a heavy thud on the ground before the fourth pair of riders. The vanguard was disrupted as horses shrieked and riders were tossed as the first six animals struck went down, thrashing and shrieking in pain.

As Martin had hoped, the assault faltered before it was begun and riders cursed as those still alive before them fought to free themselves from thrashing or dead mounts.

The two men in the wagon quickly reloaded the ballista and fired a second shot which took down another pair of riders. ‘I don’t think you can do more!’ shouted Martin. ‘Break that thing and get back over the wall.’ One man leaped onto the barricade and was hauled over by those waiting to help, while the other soldier took a heavy blacksmith’s mallet to the ballista, breaking the firing mechanism so that it could not be used against the defenders. He leapt and was also hauled over the barricade.

Martin shouted, ‘Archers! Volley fire! Fire!’

A flight of arrows arched up from the barricade, and descended against the horsemen. Screaming men and animals signalled its effectiveness, and the battle for Ylith was fully joined.

Martin’s plan worked for the first two hours of the night. Three flights of arrows broke the Keshian heavy cavalry before they could deploy properly and the two sergeants’ companies obliterated the Keshian archers. Calis and Arkan especially were lethal, taking two officers and four sergeants out of the fight.

The heavy foot proved to be more difficult than Martin had anticipated, for while they were in no position to inflict significant damage on the Kingdom forces, they were also heavily armoured and able to crouch behind shields, thus protecting themselves from damage.

Martin felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to find a blood-spattered boy waiting to report. ‘What?’

‘Sergeant Ruther says them Keshians has reserve companies and they’re bringing in their other horse.’ He paused for a second with a quizzical expression as if trying to remember if he had got it right. Nodding to himself, he continued, ‘He says the foot is getting itself organized, so he’s pulling back so as not to get sucked in behind them into the square here, but he can keep those horses from the side streets ’cause it’s narrow and they’ll pick them off one by one.’

At this point Martin wasn’t entirely sure which they were going to pick off, but he thought he had the gist of it. He didn’t want to interrupt the boy as he was doing the best he could.

‘So you should expect all them Keshians to be coming straight at you soon. He’ll do what he can.’ The lad paused, then said, ‘That’s all, my lord.’

‘You did well. Go to the mayor’s house and help with the wounded.’

‘Sergeant Ruther’s waiting for me to go back and fight, sir.’

‘Ruther will know what to do. Do as you’re told, boy, and help with the wounded. It’s important work.’

Not hiding his disappointment, the boy turned and scampered off.

Brendan said, ‘Ten?’

‘Nine, more likely. Got a lot of fight in him.’

Martin returned his attention to the far side of the square where footmen were dragging away dead horses, clearing the way for the remaining riders and the heavy infantry behind them.

Brendan said, ‘How do you think they’ll hit us?’

‘They’ll fan out along either side of the square, then all at once.’

‘They’ll lose some to the archers that way.’

‘They have them to lose,’ said Martin as the Keshian heavy foot started running in exactly the formation he anticipated, fanning out on either side until they had two men deep opposite the barricade.

A trumpet sounded and the footmen advanced at a run. Martin ordered the archers to fire. As he had expected, the bowmen were not as effective as Brendan had anticipated for the Keshians were heavily armoured with quilted jack vests designed to protect from arrows and large shields they could easily crouch behind. When they were halfway to the barricade they sprinted. Every other Keshian solder dropped his shield and grabbed the end of the shield held by the man on his right. The soldiers behind dropped their pikes and shields, drew their swords, leapt atop the held shields and were lifted up; and suddenly Martin and the other defenders had enemies mere inches away.

Martin swung his sword at the first face he saw in front of him and the man screamed in pain as he fell back. Others were cut down before they could gain access to the barricade, but the few who did found themselves confronted by a mix of seasoned soldiers from Crydee and many inexperienced militia from Ylith. No matter how willing the militia, they did not have the necessary skill to deal with this assault and suddenly defenders began to die.

Martin hewed at another Keshian as a second wave of attackers was lifted up and he cursed himself for not anticipating how the Keshians would get over this breastwork. He had thought the Keshian commander would simply hurl his heavy horse against this position, but instead he was trying to get a foothold on the barricade so that his infantry could knock down the defences and clear away enough bags of grain to make a path. Once the horses were through, the battle was effectively over.

Martin swung and parried until his arms felt numb. He could hear shouts behind him, so he assumed the attackers had already gained a foothold somewhere nearby, but he was too pressed to look around and apprehend exactly what was going on. On and on he fought, his mind blank.

A momentary pause allowed Martin to scan the defences. They were holding, but barely. He looked to his left and saw the odd elf, Arkan, bow cast aside, wielding a short-sword with what looked to be glee. He was actually grinning as he beheaded a Keshian mounting the barricade with a single blow.

Then a shriek of impossible volume split the air and several combatants hesitated or were distracted, and died for it. Martin killed the man trying to come over the breastwork in front of him and when another didn’t immediately appear, cast his glance towards the source of the sound.

Miranda was standing on a rooftop pointing her finger at the Keshians and suddenly a ball of fire shot forth, striking the next advancing wave of soldiers in the middle of their formation. It struck the ground and rolled like a wheel, spewing flames in all directions. Men shrieked in terror and pain as they flailed about, their skin and clothing ablaze.

The fire seemed almost a thing alive and everywhere it spread it leapt and twisted, tiny gyres of flame that moved oddly, ignoring the direction of wind. Where men slapped at them they suddenly vanished, and eventually the flames suddenly went out, all in a second.

Martin didn’t know what he had expected, but the fireball had been effective in blunting the attack, for a few minutes at least. The Keshians withdrew a short distance and the defenders gained a short respite.

Martin looked up again, but Miranda had vanished from the rooftop.

Too exhausted to consider whether this would be the only contribution the magician from Sorcerer’s Isle was making, he returned to await the next wave of attackers.

It took the Keshians nearly half an hour to regroup from Miranda’s attack, then once again they came on. In that time Martin had drunk water, poured some over his face, listened to reports he wasn’t sure he understood, and discovered that at some point he had been struck a glancing blow on the head. He was covered in blood, most of it his own. He remembered what his father had taught him; scalp wounds looked ghastly, but were rarely fatal.

Miranda had cleared the square in front of the barricade, and Arkan, reclaiming his bow, had killed enough retreating Keshians that the survivors had retreated half a block up the main boulevard. But Martin knew they would be back soon.

Horns sounded and once more the Keshians came, and Martin and the defenders braced themselves for another assault. Through the next hour Martin lost the ability to organize his thoughts. His entire being was consumed by the need to raise his sword to ward off attacks, or to kill attackers. He heard things and saw things, but mind did not retain those sounds and images, his only concern was staying on this wall.

Then somehow a Keshian atop a shield leapt at him, knocking him off the grain bags to the hard packed earth of the city square. Martin lost his grip on his sword, but had his belt knife out and rolled to his feet, only to be bowled over again by the Keshian soldier. They grappled, each man with his hand locked around the wrist of the other, each seeking to drive home the blade he held.

Martin rolled with the man atop him. He drew up his right leg, trying to get his knee under the man so he could lever him off. It proved a vain attempt, for the Keshian was relatively fresh to the fight and Martin was close to exhaustion. He could feel his left arm giving out as the Keshian tried to position his blade above him, and in a blinding moment of panic he thrashed to the right. The blade struck the ground next to Martin’s face, and the Keshian drew back. Instead of keeping his grip, Martin let go and the man pulled back with too much force. Martin struck with his now-free left hand, jamming his fingers into the man’s windpipe. The blow was not fatal, but it startled his opponent enough that he hesitated and reflexively reached for his throat, loosening his grip on Martin’s knife hand. Martin slid his hand free, along the ground and hit the man in the ribs.

It was another non-lethal blow, but it gained Martin a moment, and he reached across his own chest and struck a backhanded blow, his blade slicing through the man’s throat. Martin rolled and tried to get to his feet, but his legs wobbled.

Steadying hands gripped him from behind and Sergeant Ruther said, ‘Time to go, sir!’

Martin shook his head to clear it. ‘The light horse?’

‘We held them up as long as we could, and the Keshians are now in the square. We need to fall back to the mayor’s house-’ The sergeant’s eyes widened and he went limp. A Keshian soldier pulled out the blade he had just stuck in Ruther’s back and began to strike at Martin.

Martin leapt back, looking around for a weapon, and saw his sword a few feet away. He jumped for it as the Keshian’s blade parted the air where he had been, hit the ground and rolled. He came to his feet, barely able to stand, but in a defensive crouch. He was ready to die where he stood rather than retreat another step.

The Keshian soldier was fresh and he grinned as he approached, ready to quickly dispose of the obviously exhausted young defender. He raised his sword for a killing blow.

Martin was determined he would not merely give in. He grimaced at the Keshian, working out in his head how he would parry and riposte.

As he did so a horn sounded, a call Martin had not yet heard.

The Keshian hesitated, then when the call was repeated, he stepped back, his expression a mixture of confusion, anger, and resignation. He held his sword tightly, ready to defend himself, then raised his free hand palm outward and stepped back. He slowly moved his sword so the point was up and away, mimicking his free hand, almost a sign of submission, or at least a show he was no longer a threat. He continued to step back until he reached the grain bags, where he was forced to glance around to find a way back through the now-crumbled defence.

Martin glanced one way then the other and saw that every Keshian not locked in close combat was doing likewise. Those still fighting were trying to disengage themselves and a few managed, though a few died trying.

Martin looked to his left and saw a blood-covered Brendan standing with a confused expression to match his brother’s as the Keshians slowly backed way. The sounds of struggle fell away, to be replaced by the huffing of tired men, the moans and cries of the wounded, and the sounds of crackling flames from a fire that had broken out somewhere nearby.

The Keshians continued to back away, at a slow, steady pace, until they were back on the other side of the square. Martin staggered over to one of the breeches in the grain bags and Brendan came to his side.

‘Why?’ asked Brendan. ‘They won. Why are they withdrawing?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Martin and his voice sounded raw and hoarse in his own ears.

‘Are you injured?’ asked Brendan.

‘A small scalp cut.’

‘Looks worse than it is,’ finished Brendan, looking dazed. ‘Father was right. It looks a fright.’

A horseman rode into view from the main street bearing a white banner. He reined in.

Martin shouted, ‘Hold!’ as bowmen began to draw a bead on him. ‘Truce is called!’

The herald slowly rode forward. Behind him came the Keshian commander. They halted just the other side of the barricade. ‘We meet again, young lord!’

Martin could barely speak. He lifted his sword in an awkward salute. At last he said, ‘Did you come to surrender, my lord?’

The Keshian laughed. ‘You have fine spirit, my worthy opponent. Orders have reached me. The war is over.’

‘Over?’ said Brendan. Whispering to Martin he said, ‘It’s a trick.’

‘Why? They were minutes away from victory.’ Martin kept his eyes on the Keshian commander.

Hearing the exchange the Keshian commander said, ‘No duplicity, young sirs. Orders reached me by ship and rider no more than a half-hour ago. My only delay was in sending orders to my field commander to sound the call for disengagement. What you heard was the call for parlay. My orders are to hold what we’ve taken, but to advance no more. Armistice is granted. We will, however, respond with vigour if attacked, but we will no longer attack until this matter is resolved.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Martin.

‘It means what I said.’ He motioned with his hand. ‘The city up to that barricade is mine, the rest is yours. We will let our masters judge who is victorious this day. Your king and my emperor, blessings be upon him, shall decide how much or little was gained and lost this day.’

Martin looked at the carnage around him and said, ‘The gods robbed you of victory today, my lord.’

Nodding, the Keshian commander said, ‘Or gave you one as a gift, young lord.’ Turning his horse, he rode away and left his deputy commander shouting orders to those men still ready to fight. Slowly the Keshians withdrew, save those positioned as sentries along what might some day be a frontier, but for now was an arbitrary line cutting the city of Ylith in half.

The two brothers, numb from fatigue, terror, and bloodshed stood looking at one another, wondering what had just happened.