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 portcullis’s 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, Kesh’s 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.
The crash of the last gate was accompanied by the shout of Keshian Dog Soldiers outside. They apparently felt as if the day was already theirs, perhaps were even thinking the remaining garrison was holed up inside behind makeshift barricades, waiting for the final slaughter.
Suddenly there was pounding on the door before them and Martin turned. ‘Get ready.’
His twenty men were arrayed in two lines, with their backs to the corridor leading to the kitchen and the sub-basement below. The first ten bore shields and the second bows and arrows, despite few of them being skilled archers.
A rhythmic pounding began on the doors. It would be only a matter of minutes before the one on the attackers’ left, behind which the defenders waited, would begin to buckle.
Martin’s mad plan was about to begin and he prayed for a brief moment to Ruthia, Goddess of Luck, to take pity on him and his men.
The timbers on the heavy wooden doors shook and splintered around the hinges and the large wooden bar cracked. Mortar fragments rained down from the stonework above the supports, filling the air before the door with a fine haze of dust.
‘Easy,’ said Martin. ‘Wait.’
Another thud and the bar cracked more, torquing itself apart. ‘Wait,’ he repeated.
With a loud thud and the protest of iron fittings being ripped out of masonry, the hinges were pulled loose. For a pregnant moment the door hung slightly ajar, the splintering bar holding it against the door on one side.
‘Now!
Crydee bowmen fired into the narrow opening and the Keshian attackers screamed in pain and anger. The bowmen ran to the second position, while the ten men with shields crashed against those Keshians trying to enter the keep.
Martin was behind them, his sword held high as he struck downward over his men’s shields, his only objective, to slow the Keshians down for one more minute.
It was mad chaos at the door, with men grunting, cursing, shouting and bleeding. The brawlers selected by Ruther were skilled at close fighting, and from behind their shields they were content to wait for any sign of exposed Keshian flesh and slice at it with daggers and dirks, not trying to kill, only to make the enemy bleed, and to slow them down.
The Keshian Dog Soldiers all wore iron cuirasses, leaving their arms and shoulders exposed, while the Crydee defenders wore mail coifs over mail shirts with sleeves down to their wrists. No fatal blows resulted from the first two minutes of fighting, but a lot of Keshians would be sporting scars on their arms, shoulders and faces if they survived the day.
There was a moment when the fight seemed to take a breath, as the Keshians collectively pulled back to adjust the crowding at the doorway.
‘Back!’ shouted Martin, and the ten men and he turned, then sped down the hallway toward the kitchen. Martin waited for a moment, allowing the others to pass him. Then the door finally fell to the stones, and the Keshians came boiling through the entrance.
‘Down!’ Martin yelled, and the men before him all knelt while a flight of ten arrows sped overhead, striking the first two Dog Soldiers. The others ducked back inside the shelter of the barbican or crouched low, but it gave Martin and his men another moment. ‘Now!’
Hanging above Martin in a net were three bales of straw soaked in oil. A pair of fire arrows was shot into them, setting the bundles ablaze. The rope holding the bales was cut and the pile came down. When it struck the floor, it exploded into a massive ball of fire, forming a curtain of flames across the hall that would halt the Keshians for another two or three minutes.
Martin crawled furiously forward, having been missed by the falling bales by less than a yard. He felt the heat wash over him as he gained his feet and started to run into the kitchen. The straw would burn out quickly, and soon the Keshians would be kicking the smouldering remnants out of their way.
Martin hurled himself down the stairs to the first basement. The entire room had been filled with more oil-soaked straw with every loose piece of timber, furniture from the rooms above, and kindling they could find stacked on top. A soldier waited for him, torch in hand.
As he reached the man, he said, ‘Now!’ and the soldier threw the torch as far across the basement as he could, and then both of them dived through the portal while two others pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind them.
As they secured the door with a large brace jammed into place they heard the whooshing sound of the flames igniting. ‘We don’t have much time,’ said Martin.
They ran down the steps to the smaller sub-basement where men were already entering the escape tunnel. He motioned for the man before him to enter and waited until he vanished from sight. Shouting after him he cried, ‘Clear the tunnel as fast as you can.’
He could hear the crackle of flames above and knew that it would be close to a half hour before the Keshians could brave the fire in the basement below the kitchen. Martin wasn’t going to give them a half hour.
He waited until he was certain that his men were more than half-way through the tunnel, then went to a large chain in the corner of the room. It led up through a series of pulleys in the wall to the roof of the tower known as the ‘Magicians’ Tower’ because it was where Pug and his mentor, the magician Kulgan, had resided decades before. He hauled down hard on it and as he had suspected was met wi
th resistance as the old mechanism hadn’t been used in almost a century. His grandfather had tested it once, but since then the old valvework at the top of the tower had remained untested. Martin hoped it still worked and that the trap his ancestor had devised would still be effective.
At the very top of the Magicians’ Tower a mechanism released a canister of twenty gallons of what was called ‘Quegan Fire’: a mix of naphthaline, sulphur, limestone and fine coal dust. This would create a massive fireball when dropped into the flames in the keep entrance, two floors above Martin’s head. It had been constructed as a last resort, a means of denying the castle to an invader.
As soon as Martin felt the click of the mechanism engage, he yanked hard, then sprinted for the entrance. He was forced to make his way bent forward, for the tunnel was too low for him to run upright. He reached the first marker, and grabbed the two ropes attached to the supports for the overhead shoring. He hauled on them and felt earth fall on him and heard timbers creaking. A short moment later he felt a compression of the air as the tunnel collapsed behind him. Then there was a dull thud and he knew the Quegan Fire canister had exploded.
It would burn hotter than a blacksmith’s forge. Any man in the keep not able to reach a door would be incinerated or die as the air was sucked from their lungs by the voracious fireball. If, as Martin suspected, the Keshians had pressed hard expecting desperate resistance in the keep, the Keshian commander would just have lost at least two hundred Dog Soldiers in the conflagration.
Martin reached a second set of ropes and pulled them, even though he knew the first fall had worked. More earth fell as he hurried along.
It seemed to take forever to get out of the tunnel and then suddenly he was outside. Instantly a pair of arms wrapped around him and Bethany was hugging the breath out of him.
He hugged her back then held her at arm’s length. ‘I thought I told you to leave with the wounded, again?’
‘You did, again.’ She was dressed in the same hunting clothes she had worn when last she had come to Crydee, when her arrow had taken down the wyvern which he and Brendan had faced.
‘Why are you still here?’
‘Waiting for you,’ she said, as if that was all the explanation needed.
He glanced around and saw that Sergeant Ruther was there as well with an additional ten men along with the twenty who had preceded Martin through the tunnel. ‘Report,’ said Martin.
‘Everyone safely out, sir.’ Ruther smiled. ‘Everyone,’ he repeated.
Martin looked back, but his view of the keep was blocked by the large rise from which the tunnel exited. He climbed up on top of it, over the reinforced door. He could not quite make out the keep through the trees between himself and the castle, but he could see a massive pillar of dark smoke rising overhead.
Bethany came to stand beside him and said, ‘Now?’
‘Now we head east. The Keshian commander needs to regroup and reorganize. We may steal a day on him, no more.’
He took her by the hand and led her down from the rise.
Sergeant Ruther said, ‘That’s a nasty business old Duke Martin built into the keep, isn’t it?’
‘According to the histories, he had some experience with Quegan Fire used to destroy a position so that the enemy couldn’t occupy it,’ said Martin. ‘The retreat from Armengar; I read his notes on why he installed it, how to maintain it, and when to use it.’
With a grin the sergeant said, ‘It’s a lovely thing you’re such a fine student, sir.’
Martin shook his head in self-disgust. ‘Fine student? I lost the keep in less than a week. Even the Tsurani couldn’t take it in months.’
Sergeant Ruther’s expression turned stern. ‘You’re tired, young sir, but that’s no excuse for losing your perspective. You held out for a week with less than a hundred trained soldiers and a handful of boys and old men.
‘Prince Arutha had Swordmaster Fannon and Sergeant Gardan, Martin Longbow himself, and over three hundred trained soldiers, and another three hundred men of the town. You’re not the only one who’s read some history.’ He put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. ‘You got everyone out, sir. From the start of the siege until today you’ve lost two men, both on the wall before the retreat, and three unfortunate town lads who were by them, and suffered less than two dozen wounded. Even some I thought wouldn’t make it did, thanks in great part to Lady Bethany’s tender care.’ His voice became hoarse. ‘Think about it. Two soldiers, no more. Now, put on a stern face and lead this lot. We still have a long way to go to reach safety.’
Martin took a deep breath. ‘Who do we have?’
‘Your twenty, my ten, and the lady.’
Martin glanced at Bethany and grinned. ‘Well, at least we have one decent archer with us.’
‘That we do.’
‘East now, and let’s put as much distance between us and Crydee as possible. That Keshian commander will have to wait a fair bit before that fire cools off enough to inspect the wreckage of the keep.’
‘True enough,’ said Ruther. ‘Never seen anything burn hotter than Quegan Fire.’
‘But once he does he’s going to notice there are only Keshian bodies in the rubble and if he bothers to dig, he’ll find the sub-basement, or even if he doesn’t, he’ll assume there was such a way out and come looking for us. We’ll go east and if we don’t encounter Father and his column before we get to the Jonril cut-off, we’ll head to the garrison there and hunker down until he does show up. We’ll send a lookout up to the cut-off and when he arrives we’ll join him. If he doesn’t . . . That will mean either the fast riders didn’t overtake Father before Ylith or were killed before they reached him. If we don’t hear from Father within ten days, we move on to Ylith.’
The Sergeant nodded. ‘Wise plan.’
They moved out along a game trail that would lead them to the eastern road two miles away. Once there it would be easier to move, but they would be in the open, exposed. Much of the heavy forest to the north and south of the road had been cleared for farmsteads, cattle pasture, and sheep meadows.
As they moved along the trail, Martin asked Sergeant Ruther, ‘How are we for provisions?’
‘Well enough. Each man carries a bag of food and a skin of water, enough so that we won’t have to worry about starving until we reach safety.’
‘Any sign of Keshians while you waited?’
‘None to speak of. One bunch came looping around behind us an hour before you set the trap. Small patrol, about six men. We let them go by and they had no idea we were near. I don’t think this particular lot has any forest skills. Made enough noise that we heard them coming and were safely hidden. Don’t speak their language but they were jabbering about something like a bunch of fishwives.’ He glanced around. ‘Nothing since then.’
They continued to move, strung out in loose formation, moving purposefully and as quietly as possible. The sounds of chaos from Crydee quickly fell behind them and they reached the road without incident.
‘We’ve a full six hours of good light,’ said Martin. ‘Let’s rest for a few minutes, then get moving.’ He glanced at Ruther. ‘I want a man ahead and a man behind. Your fastest runner behind, for if we’re overtaken he’ll need to scurry along.’
‘Jackson Currie!’ shouted the sergeant.
A slender soldier ran up, ‘Sir!’
‘Run down the road, see what’s behind us, and linger a bit. Don’t catch us up until sundown, there’s a good lad.’
The soldier nodded, saluted, and ran off down the road. Sergeant Ruther detailed another soldier to go ahead and act as point, while the remainder of the company rested a little. At last Martin said, ‘Let’s go.’
They began their long march from their lost home to what they hoped would be safety.
The rear guard came racing up the road, shouting, ‘Riders!’
Martin hesitated only for a second then he motioned for everyone to sprint into the trees and brush, a dozen yards off the road down a slope. They hal
f-ran, half-tumbled into the thicket and lay motionless.
Peering through the undergrowth, Martin saw a dozen riders coming up the road from Crydee. They were loping along and glancing from side to side occasionally, but not showing any particular urgency or alertness. They were dressed in a similar fashion to the Dog Soldiers who had stormed the keep, except that instead of a steel spike atop their helms, they had a sharp blade running fore and aft. Their helmets had noseguards and their cloaks were very dark blue, almost black, thrown back to reveal the usual cuirass and flannel shirt beneath, and heavy trousers tucked into their boots.
The one unusual mark was a belt of leopardskin that was worn around the lower edge of the helmet where the neckguard chain was attached.
After they rode past, Ruther said, ‘I’ve heard of them. They’re called the Leopards.’ He rolled over onto one side and continued to whisper. ‘I didn’t see horses unloaded and the Keshians didn’t appear to have any. We certainly didn’t leave any ridable mounts behind: your father took them all.’
‘They must have offloaded them yesterday, before the final assault.’
‘But what is an outfit like that doing riding down the road out here?’
‘Looking for us,’ said Bethany from behind Martin.
‘No,’ said Sergeant Ruther. ‘I mean of all the places Kesh could have chosen to send a top-of-the-line command of cavalry like the Leopards, why the Far Coast? You’d think they’d send them to Krondor or maybe into the Vale where the fighting is bound to be heaviest.’
Martin said, ‘Unless you want them where they didn’t expect much resistance.’ He looked thoughtful. Eventually he said, ‘Sergeant, I want you to take to the forest and move parallel to the road. Those Keshians aren’t going to be patrolling for more than another hour so you should catch them coming back, then take to the road and keep going. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can.’