LITMIR.BIZ

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time they ran afoul of a company of Keshians.

      ‘The way he told it made me think it was the toughest fight of his life, and he’d seen a few. What he said was “they just keep coming”. They have no respect for life, not yours, not their own.

      ‘Kesh is a funny place, from what I’ve been told. Trueblood women running around nearly naked and no one minds, the rest being not much better than cattle to them Truebloods. But they’re hunters, you see, and don’t think much of warriors.’

      ‘I don’t follow,’ admitted Martin.

      ‘See, the thing is, you can only rise so high not being a Trueblood, and as they don’t give much glory to fighting men anyway, it makes for a vicious army. They don’t do it for glory, you see. They’re called Dog Soldiers for two reasons, according to Sergeant Mason: first is they’re kept penned up like mad dogs and only unleashed on Kesh’s enemies. Otherwise they don’t mix with other people: they’ve got their own fortresses, their own families, grow their own crops and make their own weapons. They’re loyal to their masters, like dogs. The other is that they bring dogs along on long marches so they can eat them. Though I have my doubts about that bit.’

      Martin said nothing, then repeated, ‘They just keep coming.’

      ‘That’s what Mason said. They won’t give quarter and they don’t ask for any. They just keep coming until you kill enough of them they get tired and run off. Or die to the last, I guess.’ He paused. ‘It’s about honour, not glory. They’re a brotherhood, a clan, something like that, and they die for one another.’

      Martin felt the pit of his stomach grow cold and found his knuckles turning white as he heard the gates to the castle slam shut. He willed himself to relax, then saw something that made him smile.

      Despite promising to stay with their mothers, Lady Bethany was down in the courtyard, organizing the townspeople and assigning areas of the large bailey to families, sending all livestock around to the rear of the castle.

      ‘She’s something, that one,’ Ruther said with a smile.

      Martin returned the smile. ‘That she is.’

      ‘Well, sir, if you’re not needing me there are things to do.’

      ‘You are dismissed, Sergeant,’ said Martin.

      Alone on the top of the castle’s outer gatehouse, looking down at organization slowly emerging from chaos, Martin took a deep breath. He reminded himself that he was a year older than Prince Arutha had been at the start of his legendary career. Then he muttered, ‘Of course he had Swordmaster Fannon and great-grandfather with him, and my Swordmaster is in Rillanon with my brother, and my younger brother is riding with Father.’

      He felt terribly alone, yet despite wishing Bethany away and safe, he was thankful to his bones that she was here.

      And he would do whatever was needed to keep her safe.

      The night dragged on. By midnight those remaining outside the central keep huddled under makeshift shelters of wood and blankets, gathered around campfires, or under the few military tents Sergeant Ruther found abandoned in one corner of the castle’s armoury.

      Many of the townspeople had been crowded into the keep itself: storage had been shifted around and the extra space thus made was filled to overflowing. Families with small children had been given priority and had the safest rooms deep within the keep; women with older daughters had been packed into the outer rooms and towers.

      Every man capable of bearing arms between the age of fourteen and seventy, was issued a weapon. Sergeant Ruther took it upon himself, in the Swordmaster’s absence, to determine which detail each man was given, which was fine with Martin.

      The young commander of the garrison had spent most of the night watching for signs of the Keshians coming ashore. It was now clear that they were not attempting a night landing, and would wait for dawn.

      ‘You should get some sleep.’ The voice was his mother’s.

      Martin turned and said, ‘What about you, Mother?’

      She smiled. ‘There’s still much to do. Usually we prepare food for the town only twice a year, at Banapis and Midwinter. Now we must cook what we can every day.’

      ‘We’ll manage. Father will return soon.’

      ‘Not soon enough.’ She sighed. ‘What are your plans?’

      ‘Simple enough. We see what they bring in the morning and then we determine the best way to hold them until Father returns with the garrison.’

      ‘What about …?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I … I’ve never been through a war.’

      ‘None of us have,’ said Martin, patting her hand. ‘It’s going to be fine, Mother. We have provisions, and enough trained soldiers alongside the townsmen that we can repulse up to ten times the number of defenders. If they have less than two thousand soldiers and heavy siege machines, we will hold.’

      ‘I just …’ she sighed again. ‘I just wish your Father was here, and your brothers.’

      ‘As do I,’ said Martin, feeling the burden settle fully on his shoulders. ‘Now, why don’t you get some sleep and I’ll try to do the same.’

      She smiled at her son, turned and started down the stairs with him behind.

      If the Keshians came before dawn, someone would rouse him. He felt out on his feet and that was before even one arrow had been unleashed, or one sword drawn in anger.

      Martin was awakened by a loud knock on the door. He had fallen asleep in his clothing, only removing his boots. He got up fast. ‘What?’

      ‘Sergeant Ruther said to wake you, sir,’ came the answer from the other side of the door.

      ‘On my way!’ shouted Martin, slipping into his boots.

      The morning was foggy, as was typical for this time of the year. The sun hadn’t yet risen from behind the distant Grey Tower Mountains to burn off the marine moisture in the air. An hour after the sun cleared the peaks behind, the town below would be in bright sunlight, but for now it was shrouded in dense mist.

      Martin was no longer content to watch from his high perch over the castle’s main entrance, above the keep’s portcullis which marked the last defence, but was now on the wall above the main gate, as close to the town as he could get.

      The original keep built by the first Duke of Crydee had been a stand-alone building, without an outer wall. It had been surrounded by a moat, which was long since filled in, and the barbican with its double iron portcullis and killing ground between them had been attached to the main entrance to the keep. The out-buildings and outer wall had been added years later, the latter having no barbican, just a simple wooden gate. As stout as it was, and for all the punishment the defenders might inflict on those below, Martin knew that eventually it would fall and everyone within the bailey between the wall and keep would be in peril.

      Sergeant Ruther said without preamble, ‘They’re down there in the town; moving cautiously from the sound of things, perhaps expecting traps.’

      ‘Pity we didn’t have time to leave some,’ said Martin.

      ‘There’s only so much you can do on short notice, sir. If we’d had some means of knowing they were coming before they hit Carse, we might have convinced some of that lot—’ he used his chin to indicate the hundreds now camped in the bailey below, ‘to come in a few days early and let us rig a welcome for the Keshians. But you do what you can, as they say.’

      Martin could only nod.

      Slowly the sounds of men, wagons and horses moving through the town grew louder. ‘Siege engines?’ asked Martin, feeling a sudden tightness in his chest and stomach.

      ‘Take a lot to knock these walls down, sir.’ Ruther pointed down to the main gate

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