The Broken Throne
(Schooled in Magic XVI)
Christopher G. Nuttall
Twilight Times Books
Kingsport Tennessee
The Broken Throne
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Christopher G. Nuttall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Twilight Times Books
P O Box 3340
Kingsport TN 37664
http://twilighttimesbooks.com/
First Edition, November 2018
Cover art by Brad Fraunfelter
Published in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Prologue I
Prologue II
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Interlude One
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Interlude Two
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Interlude Three
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Interlude Four
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Prologue I
THE DEAD STRETCHED AS FAR AS the eye could see.
Sir Roger stood at the edge of the field and watched as his men, the victors in the savage engagement, looted the bodies of the dead. Weapons, tunics, money... all belonged to the victors. Here and there, a wounded man was put out of his misery by a quick stroke of a sword or the slash of a knife. The medical tents were overflowing with friendly casualties. No one was going to waste time and resources saving enemy lives. It wasn’t as if common-born prisoners could be ransomed.
He heard a man shout as he hoisted up a dead body wearing silver armor and a purple cloak, both stained with blood. Sir Roger’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the dead body: Lord Redford, a man who’d once been nothing more than a penniless nobleman at King Randor’s court. He’d clutched his title, Sir Roger recalled, and sneered at inferiors because it was all he really had. There had been lesser-ranked men – and women too – who’d wielded true power. Perhaps that had been why Redford had thrown his lot in with the Noblest. It had been his only hope of regaining wealth and power that had been frittered away long ago.
And he died on the field, Sir Roger thought, as he watched the dead man’s body being stripped bare. He was too brave or stupid to run when we sprang our trap.
He couldn’t find it in him to enjoy his rival’s death, or the humiliation his body had suffered in the aftermath. It lay on the ground now, as naked as the day it was born, while the men who’d found him hurried towards the rear. The armor alone would bring a pretty penny to the men, if they sold it to the merchants who hovered around the army like flies on shit. They probably wouldn’t keep it for themselves. The Sumptuary Laws forbade common soldiers to wear silver armor. Sir Roger had his doubts about the wisdom of that. A skilled archer could put a bolt through a man from right across the battlefield... and silver armor merely told the archer who to target. The conventions of war hinted strongly that aristocrats should be left alone – they could be captured and ransomed – but cold practicalities suggested otherwise. An army might come to pieces if its commander was killed.
It was a sobering thought. He’d walked amongst the dead, after the fighting had ended, in hopes of finding familiar faces. But there had been no sign of any of the senior Noblest, not even Hedrick or Simon Harkness. The former was no surprise – Hedrick Harkness was a coward in a world that frowned on the slightest hint of cowardice – but the latter was odd. Simon Harkness was a man’s man. The thought of him running from the battlefield was... unthinkable, somehow. Sir Roger had met the younger man. Simon had always looked as if he had something to prove. The question marks over his parentage had ensured it.
They probably planned for defeat as well as victory, Sir Roger thought, ruefully. The Noblest had gambled by striking directly at Alexis, but they hadn’t risked everything on one throw of the dice. That had been smart of them, yet... they might have won if they’d thrown everything they had at him. We came closer to defeat than I want to admit.
He heard trumpets blare and turned, just in time to see a golden horse appear at the edge of the battlefield. Ice ran down his spine as he realized that King Randor himself had come to see the dead... he hastily bushed his armor down, trying to look as presentable as possible as his monarch rode towards him. His personal bodyguard followed, looking more than a little uneasy. Sir Roger didn’t blame them. The enemy army had been shattered and put to flight, and Sir Roger had deployed cavalry to chase down and slaughter the survivors before they could regroup, but a single man with a crossbow could change the situation in an instant if he took a shot at the king. Or one of the newer rifles, if one was to be found. Lady Emily had talked about snipers eventually being able to target a man from miles away.
“Your Majesty,” he said, going down on one knee. “The field is ours.”
“So I see,” the king grunted. He surveyed the battlefield for a long moment, then slowly clambered off his horse. “You may rise.”
Sir Roger did so, careful not to look up too blatantly. The king was the king, even on a battlefield. He had to be shown proper deference at all times. And yet, something was nagging at the back of Sir Roger’s head. Something wasn’t quite right. The king wasn’t an imposter, he thought, but something else was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
“The enemy army has been smashed, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said. “We captured forty-seven prisoners.”
The king smiled, cruelly. “Aristocratic prisoners, of course.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said. No one bothered to take commoners as prisoners. The mercenaries might switch sides, if given a chance, but half-trained peasants were useless. It was easier to put them to flight, or execute them, than keep them prisoner. “I believe the highest-ranking prisoner is Lord Galashiels. He was taken prisoner by...”
“Execute him,” King Randor ordered.
Sir Roger felt his mouth drop open. “Your Majesty?”
“Execute him,” King Randor repeated, steel in his voice. “Execute them all.”
“Your Majesty...”
“Do I have to repeat myself?” King Randor’s eyes flashed with rage – and, for a moment, something else. But it was gone before Sir Roger could see it cl
early. “Execute them!”
Sir Roger braced himself, wondering if the next words he said would be the ones that got him sent to the block. The king was clearly in a vile mood. Whatever had happened in Alexis – and Sir Roger had only heard whispered rumors – had been indisputably bad. Lady Emily had been meant to face the headsman for the first and last time... had she escaped? Or had something else happened? He didn’t dare ask.
But he had to argue for his men. “Your Majesty, the prisoners were captured by my subordinates,” he said. It would be more accurate to say that the prisoners were largely captured by common soldiers, who’d then been forced to surrender them to higher-ranking officers, but the king wouldn’t concern himself with such trivia. “They have a right to claim the ransom.”
“The prisoners will have nothing to pay the ransom with,” King Randor growled. His fists clenched. “Their families will be wiped from the rolls.”
Sir Roger paled. “Yes, Your Majesty. But...”
The king snorted. “Inform the captors that they will be paid a reasonable amount for their captives,” he ordered. “But execute them all, at once. Their heads are to be prominently displayed on Traitor’s Gate.”
“It will be done, Your Majesty.” Sir Roger summoned a messenger with a nod. “If that is your command, it will be done.”
He swallowed, hard, as he turned away to issue the orders. Aristocrats might die on the battlefield, but to execute them after they’d been captured for ransom... it wasn’t done! Who knew what would happen if a loyalist fell into enemy hands? Sir Roger shivered at the thought, knowing the Noblest would certainly retaliate in kind. Any loyalist who was captured would be lucky if he was only beheaded on the spot. It wouldn’t be long before both sides were locked in a competition of horror that ran all the way down to the bottom.
And how many loyalists will remain loyal, he asked himself, when the king puts us all in danger?
“A good start,” the king said, once the orders were issued. He was surveying the battlefield, pausing here and there to exchange brief words with his men. Sir Roger could see, at times, the fighting prince the king had once been behind his permanent scowl. “How badly did we hurt them?”
“We broke their advance force, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said, after a moment. He knew better than to depend upon estimates. One scout had reported an enemy army of over a million men and promptly been scourged for exaggeration. “Between here and the other two battlefields, I believe we killed around five thousand men. It is hard to be sure.”
“But we broke them,” King Randor said.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger assured him. “Their army showed us their backsides and ran. I already have horsemen hunting them down.”
“And it will take them a long time to regroup, particularly if they have no contingency plans for defeat,” King Randor mused. “Very well. I want you to deploy half your cavalry to secure the roads into the Harkness Lands. We’ll relieve Castle Blackstone, then move against Harkness itself. We will not give them any time to regroup.”
“As you command, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said. “But cavalry alone will not be...”
“Your musketmen and cannoneers will follow, once the bridges are secure,” King Randor added. “We will not give them time to regroup and obtain more weapons. I want Baroness Harkness crushed before my treacherous daughter has a chance to rally her own forces.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said. Behind him, he heard a shout of protest. “It will take her some time to muster the strength to challenge you...”
“But the Noblest” – the king spat – “and I will weaken each other, if our fight goes on for too long. She will have the time she needs, unless we end it now. Pass the word, Sir Roger; this is total war. Those who do not submit themselves will be destroyed.”
The king turned, remounted his horse and cantered away, his bodyguards following him. Sir Roger stared after his king for a long moment, then turned... just in time to see the last prisoner be beheaded. Sir Roger had seen death before – he’d seen men die jousting as well as on the battlefield – but the sight still chilled him. It represented a new kind of warfare, a warfare that was – in its own way – as merciless as the muskets and cannons Lady Emily had introduced to the battlefield. This was no mere skirmish, no test of strength between the king and his barons; this was total war. Randor would be the undisputed master of his kingdom or nothing...
... Or nothing.
Sir Roger shivered as the bodies were left to rot on the muddy ground. He couldn’t help thinking that it boded ill for the future.
Prologue II
IT WASN’T HER THRONE ROOM.
Alassa sat on the chair, which she resolutely refused to call a throne, and studied the map without really seeing it. It wasn’t her chair either. It had belonged to either Lord Hans or Lady Regina of Swanhaven, and Jade, when he’d been appointed Baron Swanhaven, had never bothered to replace it. Alassa was tempted to wonder if it had belonged to one of the earlier barons – it was uncomfortably hard, particularly for a pregnant woman – but she didn’t care enough to ask. The staff were skittish around her. Jade hadn’t made enough of an impression to banish memories of Lord Hans and Lady Regina. Merely asking might cause a panic.
She stroked her growing abdomen, wondering when she’d feel the baby kick. The healers had assured her that it was a normal pregnancy, so far, but Alassa wouldn’t feel truly secure until the baby was pushed into the world. Male or female, it would be proof that she was fertile, that she could carry on the dynasty. It was odd to realize that one of the few things she had in common with her father, the few things she’d actually acknowledge, included a determination to have an heir, but it was easier for him. Her father had taken hundreds of mistresses, desperately hoping that one of them would bear him a son. Alassa needed to bear a son of her body. It didn’t seem fair, somehow.
I could have killed Father, she thought, remembering the moment – three weeks ago – when she’d had her father in her sights. If she’d pulled the trigger, she could have put a bullet right through his head. And who knows what would have happened then?
In truth, she wasn’t sure why she hadn’t pulled the trigger. Her father and she had never been particularly close, even before he’d locked her up in the Tower of Alexis and thrown away the key. She wanted, she needed, to take the throne that had been her birthright from the moment it became clear that her father would not have a legitimate male child. And she knew her father’s reign would be bad for the kingdom. He’d already tried his hardest to execute Alassa’s closest friends.
I was weak, she told herself, although she wasn’t sure if that was actually true. Could a daughter kill her father? Could a daughter take the throne after she killed her father? She’d hardly be the first monarch to inherit after her predecessor died under dubious circumstances that no one dared look at too closely. If I’d killed him...
The thought was like a stab to the gut. She knew, deep inside, that she hadn’t wanted to kill him. A daughter should not kill her father. She’d always assumed that her father would die and she would succeed him, not that she’d kill him. She had spent too much of her life looking for his approval to want to kill him. A dead man couldn’t smile at her when she did something clever and give her his blessing. She’d always envied Imaiqah’s easy relationship with her father, even though that had nearly got Imaiqah killed. King Randor had never had time for his daughter.
She touched her abdomen again, gritting her teeth. There was no choice, not now. She had to kill her father, directly or indirectly, or he’d take her child. Alassa had no doubt, not now, that her father would have had her killed, after the baby was born. Killed... or banished to some desolate castle in the badlands where no one would think to look for her, while he raised her child in his own image. She had to kill her father for the sake of the child. She had no choice...
... But she didn’t like it.
The wards quivered, just slightly, as Jade passed throug
h the outer layers and stepped through the door. Alassa rose, then threw dignity to the winds and ran to him. Jade was hot and sweaty and smelt of mud, but she didn’t care. She pressed her lips to his and kissed him as hard as she could, enjoying the brief sensation. She’d been lucky in Jade. Other husbands would have tried to take power for themselves. That would not have been a happy marriage.
“You should be taking more care of yourself,” Jade said, touching her abdomen gently. “Really...”
“I have to be active,” Alassa reminded him. She understood his concern – and she even shared his fears for the baby – but there were other considerations. “The people have to see me on the throne.”
It was an odd thought. Her father had never worried about the good opinions of anyone who didn’t have a title. They were less than nothing to him, unless they did something that merited ennoblement. But Alassa... most of her friends were commoners. Neither Emily nor Imaiqah – nor Jade, for that matter – had been born noble. It was hard to understand, sometimes, why commoners couldn’t do as they were told, but she thought she could use it. She’d just have to remember not to repeat her father’s mistake once she was secure on her throne.
And I have to seek popularity, she thought. What choice do I have?
“I suppose,” Jade said. She knew him well enough to know that it wasn’t the end of the argument, but there were too many listening ears near the makeshift throne room. “You’ll be pleased to know that the first regiments are marching out now. If your father does decide on a lightning strike at Swanhaven, we’ll be ready for him.”
Alassa nodded. She understood little of military strategy – she’d certainly never been allowed to lead troops in combat – but Jade could fill in the gaps. Her father had only a handful of options if he wanted to crush the rebels before it was too late. A direct stab at Swanhaven was perhaps his best bet. He’d be a fool to target Cockatrice before Swanhaven was neutralized.
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