A Crown Imperilled

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘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 sa
id, ‘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.’