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.’
‘Over?’ said Brendan. Whispering to Martin he said, ‘It’s a trick.’
‘Why? They were minutes away from victory.’ Martin kept his eyes on the Keshian commander.
Hearing the exchange the Keshian commander said, ‘No duplicity, young sirs. Orders reached me by ship and rider no more than a half-hour ago. My only delay was in sending orders to my field commander to sound the call for disengagement. What you heard was the call for parlay. My orders are to hold what we’ve taken, but to advance no more. Armistice is granted. We will, however, respond with vigour if attacked, but we will no longer attack until this matter is resolved.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Martin.
‘It means what I said.’ He motioned with his hand. ‘The city up to that barricade is mine, the rest is yours. We will let our masters judge who is victorious this day. Your king and my emperor, blessings be upon him, shall decide how much or little was gained and lost this day.’
Martin looked at the carnage around him and said, ‘The gods robbed you of victory today, my lord.’
Nodding, the Keshian commander said, ‘Or gave you one as a gift, young lord.’ Turning his horse, he rode away and left his deputy commander shouting orders to those men still ready to fight. Slowly the Keshians withdrew, save those positioned as sentries along what might some day be a frontier, but for now was an arbitrary line cutting the city of Ylith in half.
The two brothers, numb from fatigue, terror, and bloodshed stood looking at one another, wondering what had just happened.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jim threw his knife.
It struck the wall next to Jacobo’s ear and the stout trader reached up and touched his left lobe. His fingertips came away smeared with blood. ‘Why are you doing this, Jim?’
‘Because trust is rare these days and while I have no proof you are disloyal, I want to make it clear just how difficult a time I’m having these days.’ Still garbed as a common sailor, Jim was visiting an old contact in Rodez. He was on his way to Ran, either by ship or fast horse depending on which was more expedient. To discover his safest course, he had decided to visit Jacobo. ‘I need information that is timely and accurate, and honest, or that will not be the last drop of your blood you see this day.’
Jim regarded the portly man. He affected simple garb, though he was one of the wealthiest traders in the region: a short-sleeved linen shirt and stout woollen trousers. His only indulgence in vanity appeared to be a single ring of silver worn in his right ear. Perspiration beaded on his brow and the top of his head, now bald and fringed with long, greying hair. Jim had always thought his eyes beady, but now they were wide, showing them to be a vivid cornflower blue.
‘I have never been anything but loyal and honest, Jim!’
Jacobo the merchant was a dealer in general stores, selling to ships outward bound, buying from merchants across the Sea of Kingdoms and, up to this late unpleasantness, one of Jim’s most valuable assets. He was neither part of Jim’s criminal organization nor his royal operatives, but was a source of intelligence with little regard for who was paying him gold. Jim had never attempted to recruit him as an asset for either of his organizations, rather letting him remain apart. Now that seemed like brilliant planning, even though at the time it had just been a whim. Jacobo’s deal with Jim was simple; Jim got anything of value first, then Jacobo was free to sell the same information to anyone who came looking so long as Jim’s advantage was not compromised. How long Jacobo remained silent was a function of how much Jim paid. The more gold, the more time. Rarely Jim had bought his complete silence. The arrangement seemed suitable for both parties.
‘I need a few facts cleared up,’ said Jim, walking over to the wall and pulling the dagger out. They were in the back room of Jacobo’s shop. Jim’s ship had sailed in on the morning tide and been escorted to a dockside berth. He had been part of the crew rowing the towing boat, and after that he had come ashore and tied off, then merely walked away. Captains were always looking out to prevent sailors from jumping ship, but never at their destination when the only task left was to pay them off.
‘Whatever you wish, Jim! Please, I’ve never broken a trust with you. Never!’
At this point Jim had no option but to hope this was true; his own network of agents was so shredded he had no way of knowing upon whom he could rely. When this bloody business was over he would have to begin to slowly rebuild, and those very few agents he still trusted would be overburdened until he could repair the damage done to an espionage network over three generations old.
‘Let’s start simply,’ said Jim, gesturing for Jacobo to sit in a chair in the back room. Jim had already drawn the curtains and placed the closed sign in the front window. They would remain undisturbed. ‘What news you consider valuable?’
Jacobo sat down. ‘Rumours and stories I hesitate to share with you, lest you count me unreliable.’
‘Just tell me what you’ve heard and I’ll decide what’s useful and what’s not,’ said Jim as he sat opposite the fat merchant. He thumbed his dagger for emphasis and glanced around the cluttered storage area of this store.
