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 said, ‘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
