Exhaustion was taking its toll, yet whenever the young commander walked by people nodded in greeting and the soldiers saluted. Martin was uncertain what it was he had done to earn their regard, then as he was leaving the family’s wing of the keep and entering the main hall, he realized what it was; they wanted him to succeed. Because if he did so, they would survive. If he failed, they all failed.
Moving through the crowded main hall, with women and children occupying every available space on the floor, took him a few minutes, with several of the town’s women smiling or addressing him directly, ‘Sir’, ‘Lord Martin’; one even called him ‘Highness’!
This caused him a momentary pause. He had presumed to name himself prince in the face of Kesh’s commander in the field, a self-aggrandizement avoided for generations by his family. His great-great-grandfather for whom he had been named was brother to the King, and he and his son Marcus were both princes of the Kingdom in rank by birth, but Marcus had never chosen to employ the title, nor had his son the first Duke Henry, or Martin’s father, the second Duke Henry. Hal would be the third Duke Henry but the present king was a very distant cousin at best and the only thing that distinguished Martin, his brothers, and their father from a score of other distant cousins to the King was that they were conDoins. The first Martin had been born a bastard, but recognized and named by his father before his death, therefore he was of royal blood.
Martin shook his head. He must be suffering from fatigue to let his mind wander so.
The day dragged on and the pounding of the gate continued through the night. As the false dawn approached in the east, Martin hurried out and got as close to the gate as was safe to see how the Keshians were doing. As he stood at the entrance to the keep a soldier came to stand beside him: a thin, rangy fellow named Means, recently promoted to sergeant from corporal.
‘Where’s Ruther?’ asked Martin.
‘Oh, finally got him to get some sleep, sir. I can fetch him if you need.’
‘No, let him sleep.’ Another stone crashed into the gate with a resounding thud, and Martin heard a splintering sound and saw the timbers reinforcing the gate shudder. ‘What do you think?’
‘Not my job, sir,’ said Means.
‘A born sergeant,’ Martin laughed.
‘If you mean when do I think the gate will give out, then two days, maybe less. We’d better be ready to fight any time after sun-up tomorrow.’
Martin nodded. Half the stone surrounding the gates was shattered and cracked, the tops of the walls on both sides sheered to rubble. Men could not stand and fight within half a dozen yards of the gate on either side, for there was no sheltered footing left. Should the Keshians bring a fire ram against the wooden gates, the defenders would be exposed if they tried to douse it and the Keshian archers would have easy targets.
He said to Means, ‘My mother and the other ladies mean to take the sick from the keep through the escape tunnels. I need Ruther here with me, but I also need an experienced soldier to look after them. I’m putting you in charge of that detail.’ He glanced around. ‘We don’t have much left for a stand-up fight, do we?’
‘Oh, they’re a good lot. Your father left a few grizzled veterans mixed in with the boys. And a few of the townsmen are fairly scrappy brawlers – I know that from my drinking days.’
‘Don’t drink any more?’
‘Not to speak of,’ said Means. ‘My father couldn’t abide a man who couldn’t hold his drink. For years I took that to mean I needed to go drink to drink with all the lads and somehow not turn into the horse’s ass I usually became. Would have had these stripes years ago if I hadn’t been that man. So I learned that to hold their drink, some men just need not to drink that first ale. Haven’t had a drink in five years.’ Then he grinned. ‘Still doesn’t mean I haven’t busted a few heads down at the dock taverns in my day.’ He shook his head. ‘No, these lads will give the Keshians as good as they get, maybe a bit more. This is their home, sir. This keep will be here when your father reaches us, Commander. I’m certain of that.’
‘I hope you’re right, Sergeant.’
Martin went back into the keep and began his routine for the day. He would conduct a personal inventory of stores, ensuring there was ample food for everyone, then he’d walk each post to see how the men were, then take his place on the top of the keep to watch to see if the Keshians were doing anything different. Then he would wait.
‘Fire wagon!’ came the shout from the top of the keep and it was relayed down the stairs into the great hall. Martin had just bid his mother and the other ladies farewell before they began their journey to Elvandar. Those too sick to walk were being carried in litters and by best guess it would take a week for the party to reach the River Boundary and the elves. Martin was loath to see them leave in this condition, but he knew a garrison in the grip of even a relatively minor illness would give the Keshians one more advantage he didn’t wish to give them.
Sergeant Ruther hurried in. ‘The Keshians have launched a fire wagon at the gate, sir. They mean to be inside sooner rather than later, it seems.’
Martin nodded, and turned to Sergeant Means. ‘Get them out safely,’ he said. The escape tunnel led out of the lower basement beneath the kitchen pantry. Those leaving had queued up before dawn and now they were almost through.
Martin ran outside and up to a position on the wall where he could best see through the smoke at the gate. The Keshian fire wagon had been made by filling a wagon with oil-soaked wood and on top of that tightly-bundled straw. Half a dozen men ran behind it, steering as best they could with a reversed wagon-tongue. It was like steering a boat, pulling the tiller in the opposite direction to the one you wished to go in, and the Keshians made a botch of it.
The wagon had crashed into the right side of the gate, opposite where Martin stood. The fire was burning hotly, but mostly against stone. The wood of the gate on that side was smouldering and smoking, but had not yet burst into flames. Crydee soldiers quickly set about throwing buckets of water on the inside of the gate opposite the fire, to help dissipate the heat and keep the wood from burning through. Ruther came to stand beside Martin.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’ll weaken it a bit, but unless they’re mad enough to start sending men with oilskins to try and spread the flames to the gate, it’ll hold for a while longer.’
‘Do you think they’ll bring a ram after it’s weakened?’
‘No. They’ll not risk it getting tangled up in all that mess, especially with flame and embers all around. I’d have the lads dumping oil on them in a moment if they were foolish enough to try that, and they know it.
‘No, they’ll wait until the flames are out and toss a few more stones to see how much damage they’ve caused, then they might send another fire wagon, and I’ll bet the second time they’ll get it right, spot on in the middle.’
Martin could only nod in agreement. He let out an exhausted sigh and wondered where his father was at that moment.
Henry, Duke of Crydee, slashed down at the goblin trying to unhorse him. The creature’s green-blue face was contorted in a snarl, long fangs bared as it struck upwards at the Duke. Brendan came from behind the goblin and struck it across the base of the neck, below the chain where its skin was exposed and it collapsed.
As bad fortune would have it, they had ridden straight into a goblin raiding party moving through the Green Heart in strength. It was Henry’s two hundred riders against thirty goblins on foot.
They made short work of the goblins, most of whom had turned and fled into the deep woods as soon as they realized they hadn’t encountered a small garrison patrol out of Jonril. Goblin raiding parties could be very dangerous for caravans and small patrols, but a full company of heavy cavalry was more than they had bargained for.
Henry turned his mount in a half-circle. ‘Report!’ he commanded his First Sergeant, Magwin.
‘One dead, two wounded, my lord.’
‘Damn,’ said the Duke. He was
nearly frantic with worry for his wife and son. ‘I should have had riders on point.’
He looked down and saw a spreading red stain on his tabard.
‘Father!’ cried Brendan. He looked down at the fallen goblin and saw that the creature was holding a blood-covered dirk. He had got close enough to the Duke to wound him.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Henry, holding his side. ‘I’ll bind it and we’ll be on . . .’ His eyes rolled up and he slipped out of the saddle, hitting the ground hard before anyone could catch him.
The Duke struck the ground with the side of his head and shoulder, making an ominous cracking sound.
Brendan was at his father’s side in seconds. First Sergeant Magwin knelt there and examined the Duke, but Brendan realized his father was dead before the man spoke. ‘Broke his neck, sir.’ As if it would be some consolation he said, ‘He can’t have felt a thing.’
Brendan’s face flushed as tears welled up. ‘Father?’ he said quietly as if expecting an answer.
After a moment, the other soldiers gathered around. The boy wept openly and at last First Sergeant Magwin put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Sir, you’re in command. We must move on.’
Brendan blinked away his tears and took a deep breath. ‘You’re right,’ he said, his voice nearly breaking.
‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked the sergeant.
Brendan stood and turned his back on his father for a long moment, remembering every lesson of warcraft taught by the man lying behind him. Softly he said, ‘Bury the dead, detail two men to accompany the wounded as they follow, and we ride on.’ His voice rose as he turned. ‘Mark this spot well, for we will return one day and retrieve our dead and bury them with honour.’ He looked at the soldiers watching him expectantly. With a deep breath he pushed aside his pain and said calmly. ‘We will relieve my brother at Crydee.’
His father was now being gently lifted by two soldiers. ‘Farewell, Father,’ he said softly, then mounted up again thinking, Hal is Duke now, and he doesn’t even know it. He gestured to his troops. ‘To Crydee!’
Chapter Fifteen Mystery
HAL THREW A KNIFE ACROSS THE ROOM.
Ty watched with amusement as the blade struck the wall and fell to the floor. ‘If you want it to stick, use a meat knife. The bread knives have dull tips.’
Hal pushed himself away from the midday meal he had been served. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he crossed the private dining room upstairs at the River House in Roldem. He picked up the knife and carried it to the table then wiped it with a serving cloth. ‘I’m grateful for your father’s hospitality and your company. The food is wonderful.’ He sighed as he sat down. ‘I can barely fasten my trousers from eating. And the wine! I’ve never had its like in Crydee. But I’m growing mad with boredom.’
The university had all but closed down as students from Kesh, the Kingdom of the Isles and the Eastern Kingdoms had all hurried home on the first available ships when word of Kesh’s fleet sailing north had arrived. Following Swordmaster Phillip’s and Lord James’s advice, Hal had entrusted himself to the care of Ty Hawkins and his father Talwin.
Hal pointed his knife at Ty. ‘You know, I wager I’ve read more books here than I would have had I remained at the university. And it’s a bit of a relief not to have to listen to every droning lecture, though a few of them were interesting. But I need to get outside. I need to hunt, ride a horse, chase down a stag or bear. Go fishing! Take a walk! Anything!’
‘We could practise if you’d like,’ offered Ty.
Half-laughing, Hal shouted, ‘No! I’m tired of almost beating you.’
‘You are getting better,’ grinned Ty. ‘By the next Masters’ Court you will probably be able to beat me. You are a bit faster.’
‘No,’ said Hal, falling back into his chair chuckling. ‘I’m sorry, Ty. I’m just going mad here.’
‘Until we receive word from Lord James or your ambassador that it’s safe for you to travel . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Like it or not you are related to the King of the Isles. That makes you important.’
‘Barely related,’ said Hal, sipping at a light white wine that had been served with the mid-day meal: a lightly-basted roast chicken with steamed vegetables. Before coming to live for the last month at the River House, Hal could not believe such simple fare could be made so delicious by the mere addition of a little savoury oil and some herbs. Letting out another aggravated sound, Hal said, ‘If I ever find a way to steal your cook from you, I will.’
‘You’d get fat,’ said Ty with a laugh. He put his feet up on the table and drank his wine. ‘Francisco is Lucien’s best student – Lucien’s father’s chef in Olasko. I don’t think he’d leave Roldem for a rustic destination like Crydee—’ he held up his hand as Hal began to protest, ‘—as charming as it may be in its own way. Francisco enjoys the abundance of high living in Roldem, which I believe you will concede is the most civilized city in the world.’
Hal nodded. He was not a world traveller by any measure, having never been east of Yabon until his father decided to place him at the university here. He had stopped for a polite visit with Prince Edward in Krondor where they had spent a tedious dinner during which when one spoke the other nodded, because they had nothing in common. The Prince of Krondor had been eager to spread gossip about matters at court in the East, about people of whom Hal had never even heard, and Hal’s topics of hunting, warcraft against goblins and trolls and managing estates all seemed lost on the Prince.
After that it had been an overnight stay in Malac’s Cross, then on to Salador where he had endured two nights of being hosted by a very distant cousin, Duke Louis, then a mandatory visit to the King to pay his fealty in Rillanon.
He had been impressed with both Rillanon and the King’s court. King Gregory had been welcoming and seemed a bright enough man. It was hard to tell, given the amount of deference shown the man at every turn. Even the Prince of Krondor’s court was less formal and Hal’s father’s court was casual by comparison. Everyone bowed when the King entered or left the room. One could not sit in his presence unless he sat first, and one could not speak to His Majesty unless spoken to. The sense of impending doom over a social miscue reduced Hal to reticence bordering on constant silence while he was there.
By the time he reached Roldem he had no idea what to expect, but he quickly embraced the rough and tumble of student life. The one reception with the King and two of his sons, Constantine and Albér, had proven surprisingly relaxed. The King was a happy, welcoming man, and it was obvious he had been blessed with a family he adored, a family who adored him in return.
Then Hal had been thrown in with the other students, from Roldem, the Isles, Kesh, and a few from the Eastern Kingdoms, to study language, arts, music, history, sciences, and a little about magic. Mainly they learned how to be enlightened rulers, or at least that was the opinion of three of his teachers.
The brothers who ran the university were pious men of the Order of La-Timsa the White, the Pursuer of the One Path. Knowledge was power and with power came duty, they taught.
Hal also discovered that as an abstemious and celibate Order they didn’t have patience for what passed as fun with the majority of the students. Discipline was harsh and swift, even for minor infractions of the rules, and the favourite instrument of that discipline was the caning wand. Hal had suffered less than most, for he tended to be less fractious than the other boys: a rugged frontier life had made him grow up a little faster than the other lads his age.
He enjoyed the nights out with the other students, but while most were getting drunk and regaling one another with improbable stories designed to impress the jaded tavern girls, he would sit quietly making one ale last half the night. He had never been punished for not returning on time or for being ill from over-indulging in drink or drugs the night before.
He rarely gambled and then cautiously, so he never won or lost significant amounts, and he always gave the common girls a wide path. A particularly difficult experience wi
th a town girl one Midsummer’s festival taught him to be cautious, though the other boys seemed to lose all sense when a pretty girl happened by.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Ty. ‘You’ve been lost in thought for the last minute.’
‘Just thinking about the first time I came here.’ Hal sighed and stood up. ‘I must get out of here. Even if just for an hour’s walk.’
Ty was on his feet. With a smile he put his hand on Hal’s chest and said, ‘Wait a minute, my friend—’
Hal grinned, took a step and then spun around and was past him. With a laughing whoop he half-jumped, half-ran down the stairs, barely making the complete turn at the landing half-way between floors as he scampered to stay one step ahead of Ty.
It was just after the midday meal but there had been few patrons, so no one was in the dining room on the main floor to notice when the dark-haired young man raced down the stairs and out of the door with the sandy-haired youth only seconds behind him.
Since Swordmaster Phillip’s and Lord James’s departure the day after the King’s reception, rumours of war had erupted into news one day that Kesh had moved against the Isles and as a result the streets were unusually quiet for this time of day.
Ty caught up with Hal at last. ‘Wait! If you insist on ignoring your swordmaster and my father and Lord James, at least show the good sense to go armed.’ He tossed a sword he had grabbed up on the way and the young Lord of Crydee grabbed it.
‘Thank you.’ Hal belted on the weapon and took a deep breath. ‘Sea air! It’s different here in Roldem from Crydee. More . . . spices or flowers or . . . something, but it’s good. I’ve lived near the ocean since I was born and can’t imagine what it must be like to live in the mountains or the desert.’
Ty fell into step beside him. ‘I’ve lived in the mountains a while, but like you lived in a harbour city most of my life.’
‘Crydee is hardly a city. A large town at best. But it’s the capital of the duchy. I suspect every duke before my father considered moving the capital down to Carse – that’s the trading centre – but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll probably think about it, too.’ Then he grinned. ‘For a few minutes, anyway.’ He glanced around, drinking in the sounds and noises after being locked away in a bedroom above a restaurant for almost a month.
A Kingdom Besieged Page 22