Just your vanity, she grinned. Ill start making the wounded ready.
Good. If I cant be back before the sergeant orders you out of the keep, stay well. I will find you when we are on the trail.
She nodded and went back to the boiling bandages. Using a large wooden spoon she began picking up the dripping linen and hanging it in front of the fire to dry.
Martin did a quick inspection of the wounded himself, then hurried down to the basement and inspected the tunnel entrance. Two guards had been stationed in the sub-basement against the possibility of the Keshians finding the exit in the forest beyond and coming up through the tunnel. It was a faint chance if the entrance had been covered properly when the first group had left days earlier, but it was still a possibility.
To one of the guards he said, Go to the old tack room. Youll find a dozen bales of straw. Get some men to carry them down here. And then find a pot in the kitchen. So big. He made a circle with his hands showing something that would hold five or six quarts. Fill it with lamp oil and bring it here.
Sir, said the guard and hurried off.
Martin looked to the other guard and said, How long have you been at this post?
Cant rightly say, sir. The guard was barely a boy, younger than Brendan from his appearance, and his uniform was ill-fitting.
Martin smiled. I know every man in the garrison by sight. Youre not from the garrison.
No, sir. Names Wilk. Im the cobblers son. The sergeant said it would look better should the Keshians come if those of us bearing arms had uniforms on. Something about rules of war and the like.
Martin nodded. It was a nice-sounding story, but not true. Civilian or soldier alike, he had no doubt what end would greet anyone found bearing arms when the Keshians finally broke into the castle. Though, given the reputation of Keshs Dog Soldiers, he doubted that bearing arms would make much difference. Those found within would either be put to the sword or sold into slavery.
Martin said, Ill see if I can get someone down to release you, Wilk. You should get a little rest. Its going to be a long night.
He hurried back to the topmost vantage point and found the Keshians had established two firing positions opposite the barbican and were trying to drive defenders off the roof. Sergeant Ruther was crouched down behind a merlon and Martin waved for him to approach. The sergeant ran in a crouch and when he was safely inside Martin said, We cant wait. Start the wounded on their way and then organize the men. When the time comes I want everyone but your ten best archers to leave on my command and run to the tunnel.
When will that be, sir?
When the Keshians get a ram through the outer portcullis, or I give the order, whichever is first.
Sir.
One more thing, said Martin.
Sir?
If I dont make it out, make sure you keep everyone together. Head east, and with fortune, youll encounter Father somewhere along the way. Report what was done here. If you dont encounter him, send the wounded to the Free Cities with Lady Bethany, and take the garrison to Yabon.
Well find your father, sir. Youll tell him yourself.
If, Sergeant.
Yes, sir.
Now, form a flying company to gather in the great hall, twenty of your best men with short swords and knives, for close-in fighting.
Yes, sir, said Ruther. Ill get twenty of my best brawlers and have them here straight away.
Martin glanced around as if looking for something to do and realized that for the moment his only choice was to get back on the roof of the barbican and possibly take an arrow for no good reason, or sit and wait until he got word that the Keshian ram was in place at the outer portcullis.
He found an empty bench in a hall between the great hall and some guest quarters and sat down. He leaned against the wall and felt fatigue in his bones and wondered how he could be so wrung out when hed barely lifted his sword save to command bow fire down on the Keshians. He supposed he could have taken a bow and stood in the crenels shooting down, exposing himself to enemy arrows, but given how bad he was as an archer, it would probably have been a waste of arrows. That they could not afford.
He wished desperately his father or Hal or both were here. Even the sight of Brendan would have cheered him. He was not the man to be in command. He barely considered himself a man, despite having passed six summers since his manhood day on his fourteenth Banapis Festival. Yes, he had drawn enemy blood before, but those were rabble: goblins and outlaws. This? This was war, and opposing him was a seasoned Keshian commander with battle-hardened soldiers at his disposal.
When he thought of war he thought of the great battles told of in the archives. When Borric I had charged across the plains north-west of Salador, outnumbered by half again as many soldiers under Jon the Pretender. He had wondered more than once if he had been a member of the Congress of Lords which side he would have chosen. Borric had the claim, as eldest son of the Kings younger brother, but Jon had been Borrics bastard cousin, and was immensely popular. History was written by the victors, his old teachers had told Martin, so the chronicles were canted in Borrics favour, but there was enough to tell a careful reader that Jons claim was no less a claim.
When he thought of warfare Martin remembered reading the various accounts of the siege of Crydee, during what was commonly known as the Riftwar, the Tsurani invasion. It was all the more vivid because he could walk the walls and visit each location recounted in the narrations. As a youngster he used to take the text and stand where Arutha was when Fannon was felled by an arrow and walk to where the Prince had stood rallying his soldiers to repulse wave after wave of attackers.
Martin had always been Arutha in his imagination, despite his own many great-grandfather and namesake, later Duke Martin, being a significant figure of the battle.
He couldnt imagine how Arutha would have dealt with this situation, being forced to withdraw in the face of overwhelming odds. He closed his eyes for a moment.
In what seemed to be a second later Bethany was shaking him awake. Its sundown and the Keshians havent come yet, she said, softly. The wounded are ready to leave.
He blinked and shook his head, not entirely awake.
She repeated herself and he stood. Sorry, I fell asleep.
Obviously. She slipped her arm through his. You drive yourself too hard.
I was wondering what Prince Arutha would have done in my place, just before I fell asleep.
Exactly what youre doing: trying to make the best of a terrible situation.
He smiled tiredly. Lets get started. He disentangled his arm from hers and led her down to the sub-basement, where six litters were being carried by a dozen men.
Sergeant Ruther said, Ready, sir.
Begin, said Martin.
The tunnel was low, so the litter-bearers had to bend forward a little, but they managed to get the six men too wounded to walk, through. Then those who could walk began to enter the dark maw of the tunnel.
After the last of them had gone through, Martin turned to Bethany. Now, I want you to round up the few remaining women and I want you out that tunnel within the half-hour. When she seemed ready to object he said, It appears the Keshians may wait until first light to begin the assault on the keep itself, so we shall all be far from here when they do.
Youre coming after us?
He nodded. I will be the last to leave, but I will leave, that is a promise.
She didnt appear convinced, but nodded. Just dont do anything heroic and foolish so that someone writes some damned chronicle about you one day.
Thats unlikely, said Martin with a fatigued smile. Now, go.
She ran up the stairs, and the sergeant said, Sir, if I may?
Sergeant?
Let me be the last to leave, sir.
Why?
Three reasons, sir, if you dont mind the truth.
Ill probably mind, but say on anyway, Ruther.
Thank you, sir. First of all, youre tired beyond thinking, and men that tired do not have the wits the gods gave a turnip. You might make mistakes that will get men killed.
Second, youre young and just might do what Lady Bethany said, try something heroic and get yourself killed, and I do not want to explain to your father how I managed to let that happen.
Third, if youre going to marry that girl you should make sure you both stay alive.
Marry?
Do you think no one else noticed how you are when shes around all these years, Martin? Ruther gripped the young mans shoulder. Maybe your father was too busy being Duke to pay attention to his sons as close as he could heavens know I think of him as a good man and wise ruler, but fathers sometimes miss things about their sons. But no one whos seen you around Bethany since you were fifteen could mistake how you felt about her, and it seems she feels the same way about you.
Well, her father and mine may have different plans, said Martin.
That may well be, but you will have no chance to discuss the matter with your father if youre lying face down on the stones of this keep in a pool of your own blood, now will you?
Martin couldnt think. Very well, how will you proceed if I allow you to be last out?
That flying squad you asked for, of brawlers and hooligans. Brilliant. We will hit hard any company that comes through this side of the barbicans rear door: well barricade the other side door so they will choose this one. Well fight as we retreat, and well dump a few traps along the way so we can get to the basement. Well fire the hay along the way, and if were lucky the tunnel will collapse on a host of them when were out the other end.
Sounds like a wonderful plan, Sergeant, said Martin. Thats exactly what I plan on doing. Now go get those twenty brawlers to rest a bit, organize some traps for me, and when you have finished, I want you personally to see that Bethany, the other women, and half the garrison leave. Its your charge to see them safely to my father or Yabon. Understood?
Youre not going to let me talk you out of this are you?
Understood? repeated Martin, his eyes narrowing.
Understood, sir.
The sergeant led the way out of the sub-basement and Martin asked as they climbed the stairs, How do you do it, Ruther?
Do what, sir?
Stay awake for four days.
I dont. You learn to grab sleep when you can, a few minutes here, a half-hour there, sitting in the corner, lying under a table, whenever you can.
I have yet to learn the knack.
Go to your room, said Ruther softly. Take at least an hour. Ill bid the Lady Bethany farewell for you; shell know better than anyone you need sleep more than a bittersweet goodbye. Ill wake you before dawn. If youre going to survive your delay, young prince, youll need your wits about you.
Martin said nothing, then nodded once and turned towards his room when they reached the top of the stairs. He half-staggered to his quarters, pushed open the door, and fell face first across the bed.
He was deep in sleep when Bethany came in, saw him there, removed his boots for him without waking him, and covered him with a blanket. She bestowed a light kiss on his face, whispered goodbye, then closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Retreat
THE PORTCULLIS CRASHED LOUDLY TO THE STONE FLOOR
Martin was ready, his men arrayed outside the unblocked side door. He signalled for them to wait.
The Keshians had brought up the first of two rams at dawn, and it had been a very well-built one. An enormous log suspended from heavy ropes and chains, and a massive iron boot covered the front end of the log. A wooden tent roof protected the men pushing it, a dozen crouched over long wooden poles that ran though the frame of the massive war engine.
Horses had been used to pull it up the hill from the town below, but when they came into the courtyard they released the ropes used to pull the device and their riders had peeled off to the right and left, leaving it for the two dozen men under the protective roof to keep it moving forward until it slammed into the outer iron portcullis.
Then the pounding began.
A portculliss first grace is that it is heavy. The thick iron bars require a hoist and winch inside the barbican, tantalizingly close but just out of reach. So the portcullis must be knocked down, literally pounded until it folds in on itself and shatters, releasing the attackers into the murder room.
Then the second portcullis must be destroyed, while the defenders above are free to fire arrows or pour boiling oil on the attackers.
The first ram had burned, and it had taken most of a day for the Keshians to clear it away and bring up their second. But the first had done enough damage to the inner portcullis that Martin knew it would not endure until night.
Some time late in the day, Keshs Dog Soldiers would be within Crydee Keep.
Martin had expended most of his arrows and a lot of energy convincing the Keshians that the defenders were still inside in numbers. Men had run from position to position firing off the roofs of the keep and barbican at enemy archers on the wall, shouting from various locations, trying to give the impression of being in two places at once. At one point Martin had shouted orders for a sally and a squad of Keshians had actually retreated behind their barricade and waited for nearly half an hour for a counter-attack that never came.
Once the outer portcullis had come down, he had ordered the men off the roof. Two had occasionally shot arrows down into the murder room, and then the fiery oil had been poured down on the first ram. Once that was ablaze, he had ordered them to stand down and rest. The first portcullis had endured until mid-day, but he knew the Keshians would breach the second before mid-afternoon.
Inside the keep Martin shouted random, meaningless orders while his men rested. Occasionally one of the men would shout a faux reply, trying to make it seem as if men inside the keep were waiting.
Martin made ready, knowing that the second iron portcullis was about to fail. Once it was down, the Keshians would tie ropes to it and drag away the impediment to their attack. Then they would be faced with a massive stone wall with two entrances into the building. The one on their right had been blocked with every piece of furniture, fallen stones, debris that had come to hand to stop that door from opening.
The left door, the one behind which Martin and his twenty men waited, had been blocked just enough for Martin to make it appear the garrison was putting up a last, desperate fight.