Sword of the Crown

by Paul J Bennett

  All around her axes and spears were striking at her. She parried and thrust, blocking weapons and hitting flesh, but knew that she could not keep this up forever. She urged her mount forward and swivelled her horse to body block an opponent, tumbling them to the ground, taking two others with him. Again and again, she struck, raining blows down on any Orc within striking distance. She felt the prick of a spear as it penetrated her left leg, and looked down to see a spear stuck in her shin guard. The armour had saved her leg, only to have the tip jammed between her limb and the guard, but now the weight of the spear threatened to unbalance her. She struck down with her sword in an attempt to knock it loose but only drew splinters of wood from its handle. An Orc gripped the shaft and yanked, and she felt herself being pulled off her mount. She kicked herself from the saddle with her free leg and yelled at Lightning to run.

  Beverly hit the ground, the force of the impact taking her breath away. The spear shaft snapped as the Orc pulled it again and she rolled to the side to avoid the inevitable volley of spear thrusts. She staggered to her feet, realizing she was bleeding from a head wound. She must have hit her head in the fall, and now blood was running through her hair, threatening to obliterate her vision. Wrenching her helmet from her head, she tossed it aside and gripped her weapons, preparing for her final stand.

  The Orcs now formed a ring around her, their spear tips pointed inward, preventing any possibility of escape. She took a moment to rip the spearhead from her armour, the enemy watching her closely. None of them advanced, and she wondered if they were going to try to capture her. She swore under her breath, vowing to fight to the end.

  The fighting surrounded her, but the sounds were growing further away as the battle progressed. Did the line hold? Was the princess still alive? What of her father? All these thoughts came screaming into her mind, and she shook her head, loosening her hair from its customary braid.

  She snarled and stepped forward, striking the spear tips with her sword, then stepped back and lunged to the side, using her hammer to knock another spear aside and stepped into its place, stabbing with a vicious cut to the Orc behind it. There were growls from the Orcs and then spears parted to reveal a hulking Orc holding a great maul.

  The warrior stepped forward, and she knew, in this moment, her fate was sealed.

  Baron Fitzwilliam needed to keep the momentum of the attack going, building on the annihilation of the enemy’s knights. The successful surprise attack had boosted his brigade’s morale, and he knew his men were no longer thinking about being outnumbered. The baron used this newfound bravado to order his men to leapfrog their attacks, beginning with moving the footmen first, then having the Elves step forward with a withering volley, forcing the rebel line to fall back, desperately attempting to get out of range of the lethal bows. With the retreat of the enemy, he employed the footman to advance his line, until they could safely go no further, and then he once again moved the Elves into position. He continued this forward motion, only modifying it slightly to have the footmen stand beside the Elves, in the slight chance that the earl decided to retaliate. The baron’s function in this battle was to defeat the earl as quickly as possible, then move to support Gerald against the Orcs. From the Earl of Eastwood’s point of view, everything was going according to plan; he need only wait for the Orcs to break through the rear of the king’s lines for his plan to succeed. Both leaders were playing a deadly game, where only one would be successful at the end of the day.

  Fitz had used the back and forth of the struggle to lull the traitor’s army into a sense of complacency in the proceedings. Now was the time for him to strike, to pull the enemy’s attention away from the west. The Elves stepped forward a fourth time to send their rain of death down on the enemy, who, predictably, began to fall back. This time, the Elves suddenly parted and instead of the footman stepping in to fill the void, the cavalry, all of it, came thundering through. He had combined both his mounted troops, knights and light horsemen alike, to create a massive offensive that would invoke fear in the enemy long before they realized how many were not fully armoured. It was a huge gamble, for the light cavalry was not designed to fight in battle, but he knew it had paid off when pandemonium erupted as the footmen of Eastwood turned in panic, trying to stave off this new threat.

  The light horse had quickly outpaced the heavy mounts of the knights, charging straight through the opposition, breaking apart their formation, preparing the mass of soldiers perfectly for the onslaught of the Bodden Knights. The earl’s troops tried to form a defence, but the Mercian Chargers cut a swath through them with a fury like Saxnor himself. Fitz had remained with the bulk of his brigade, waiting for the perfect moment to strike the final blow. The earl himself was attempting to browbeat his men into at a last-ditch defence, and the baron knew this was the time to strike, to use the enemy’s fear as an ally. He dispatched half his footman towards the titanic struggle taking place before him, reserving the other half to reinforce the west if his tactic worked. They didn’t even get a chance to engage, for when they came within the last ten yards, what was left of the enemy line broke like a flimsy fence against a storm.

  Gerald blocked a strike with his shield, swung his sword and cut deep into an arm. A blow to his back hurled him to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. He rolled over, shield in one hand, desperately swinging his sword around to block the next blow, when he felt an axe sink into the shield. While the attacker tugged his weapon in an attempt to free it, Gerald struck with a short, efficient stab that sank into the Orc’s belly, and the creature tottered back. Gerald staggered to his feet, but the blow had stunned him. He couldn’t tell where his front line was, all he saw was the enemy surrounding him.

  An Orc lunged forward with a spear, and Gerald deftly sidestepped and then drove his blade into its forearm. His opponent ran from the fight, the spear dropped to the ground. Years of training and fighting took over; his muscles fought for him. Strike, parry, stab, over and over again came the enemy until a mound of attackers began to get underfoot. He heard a cry and saw an arrow pierce one Orc’s eye. Another, beside the first suddenly yawned and collapsed to the ground. He heard yelling and turned to see a line of footmen coming toward him, Arnim in the lead.

  “This way!” the guard captain shouted, and Gerald sprinted with what little reserves he had left. The men opened their ranks, and he lurched in, collapsing as they formed back up. He lay on the ground, Arnim standing over him.

  “Over here!” someone yelled, and he looked up to see Revi Bloom, waving his hands about in those strange, but now familiar archaic patterns. Gerald felt his senses returning while his head cleared.

  “A horse,” he yelled, trying to be heard over the din of battle, “I need to see what’s happening.”

  The Orc warrior moved about warily, trying to gauge her abilities. Those on the perimeter were content to watch the fight, and so she paced around, like her opponent, waiting for any signs of movement. The moment he tensed, she was ready. He struck with lightning speed, but she was there, meeting his blow with her sword, deflecting his attack to the side; even so, she felt a numbness as his mighty weapon hit hers. He backed up slightly, nodded his head in approval and then came at her again. This time, she saw him tense and struck out before he did, slashing wildly with her sword, making him step back, and then she swung the hammer, hitting the Orc’s knee. It gave out a tremendous howl and collapsed to the ground, grasping his wound.

  She waited, fearful that the horde would unleash their collective fury on her, but then spears parted once more, and this time the Orc that stepped forward carried a staff and wore an animal skull on his head. She watched him warily as he approached her fallen opponent.

  He touched the tip of his staff to the wounded Orc’s knee and incanted in the same language as she had heard Revi speak. This must be a healer, she thought. I’ve no hope now, they’ll just keep healing him.

  The Shaman pointed to the ring of Orcs, and the warrior made his way to the edge. The
caster looked at Beverly, then turned to examine the remaining Orcs forming the circle.

  Beverly’s eyes remained locked on him, until he pointed his staff at the ring of Orcs. As her eyes followed in the direction he indicated, they beheld an immense Orc, covered in battle scars. The warrior stepped forward, this one using a wicked weapon that looked more like a giant cleaver than an axe. He swung it with ease and then pulled a second from his back. So, she thought, two weapons, just like me.

  They stared at each other for only a few moments, and then both charged forward. Furious blows struck back and forth, each blocking the others attack, and in turn, trying to hit their opponent. Like some strange dance they traded strikes, but neither could land a hit. Beverly was tired, her head pounding from her earlier wound. She felt blood dripping down her face and shook her head to clear it.

  The scarred Orc leapt forward, and she suddenly went down, kicking out with her feet. The Orc was caught off guard as her feet struck his ankle, and the great warrior came crashing down, straight onto her sword. The weight drove the sword down, her wrist spasming in pain. She pulled herself out from under the Orc and swayed to her feet, ready for the next opponent.

  This time the ring parted and an Orc, unlike any she had seen before, stepped forward. He was wearing a helmet, chainmail shirt, and a torc emblazoned with an arrow hung about his neck. He carried a sword that he held in front of him; point downward, the blade glowing with the faint colour of magic.

  Beverly turned to face this new threat and wondered what kind of magic the blade possessed. She had already resigned herself to death and now stood ready, more filled with curiosity than anything else. Nothing could have prepared her for what happened next.

  The Orc stepped forward, standing no more than ten feet from her. “You fight well,” he said in a heavily accented Mercerian, “we honour your valour.”

  She blinked, not quite believing her ears.

  “What?” she said in disbelief.

  “We will give your life and that of your companions, in recognition of your bravery today.”

  “You’re surrendering?” she asked.

  “We will withdraw from battle; you have my word as leader of the Black Arrow clan.”

  She struggled to understand, to mentally grasp the consequences, “You mean you’ll leave the battle?”

  The Orc ignored her question, “What is your name, Human?”

  The Orc sheathed his sword, and Beverly lowered hers, “I am Dame Beverly Fitzwilliam of Bodden, Knight of the Hound, and protector of Princess Anna of Merceria.”

  “To us, you shall be known as Redblade,” he returned, “for your prowess in combat is impressive. Tell your princess that we shall trouble her no more, we wish only to live in harmony.”

  “I don’t understand,” persisted Beverly, “why did you come here today?”

  “The Earl of Eastwood promised us land, but he is a man without honour. My predecessor was foolish, and now many of my people have died. Even our healers cannot bring back the dead.”

  “I think I can guarantee that the princess will agree to leave your people alone, once I explain what has happened.”

  The Orc bowed, “Perhaps one day we shall meet again, Redblade; it would be an honour to fight beside you.”

  The Orc leader turned to leave, the signal for his warriors to retreat. Horns began to sound nearby.

  “Wait, what is your name?” she cried out.

  He turned to face her again, “I am Chief Urgon of the Black Arrows,” he said.

  “Then I am pleased to meet you, Chief Urgon, may you go in peace.”

  Thirty-Nine

  The Invitation

  Spring 960 MC

  The throne room was brimming with nobility as Beverly made her way into it. She looked about, and spying Princess Anna and her retinue, she diplomatically made her way toward them. The mood of the room was sombre, for this very morning the Earl of Eastwood had been hanged, drawn and quartered, the most gruesome punishment Beverly had ever witnessed. Anna was in the middle of a quiet conversation with Gerald as she approached, but upon seeing Beverly, she looked up and smiled.

  “Your Highness,” said Beverly, casting her eyes about, “where’s Tempus? It’s so strange to see you without him.”

  “I thought it best to leave him in my room; I don’t want him taking a bite out of the Earl of Shrewesdale.”

  “I see,” continued Beverly, “that you’ve assembled your retinue. Is the king expected to make an announcement?”

  “Undoubtedly.” she answered. “He loves the attention, and all hang on his every word. I suspect he’ll draw it out as long as possible.”

  “Where’s Revi?” interjected Hayley.

  It was Arnim who answered, “He left early this morning with Lily. Said he was going to Uxley, something about the Temple we found there. He had some theories, but didn’t go into any details.”

  “I suppose that’s typical for a mage,” said Gerald, “being all mysterious.” He was about to say more when a hush fell over the crowd. They all turned toward the throne to listen to the king.

  The king rose, with Lady Penelope moving to stand just behind him.

  “The events of the past couple of months have been most distressing, but we gather here today to celebrate our victory, and to bestow rewards upon those deemed worthy.” He paused as the crowd applauded, waiting for the noise to subside before continuing.

  “It is with great pleasure that I call forward Princess Anna,” he announced in a booming voice.

  The crowd parted, and Anna stepped forward, everyone silently awaiting the king's next words.

  “Princess Anna,” the king continued, “you have proved to be a most loyal daughter, and in recognition of your service to the crown, I bestow full title to the Uxley estate upon you. In addition, henceforth you shall be the Viscountess of Haverston, with all the lands and duties that the title grants.

  “I am honoured, Your Majesty,” she said in reply, curtsying.

  “I would be remiss if I did not also thank others who distinguished themselves in the service of the crown,” the king continued, “and so I call forward Baron Fitzwilliam of Bodden.”

  The baron strode forward, bowing as he approached the throne.

  “You have served us well, Baron, and so I grant you an annual stipend to favour you as you have favoured us with your service.”

  “Your Majesty is too kind,” said Fitz, bowing again.

  “And the contributions of the Duke of Colbridge and the Earl of Shrewesdale also bear mentioning in the highest possible terms.”

  The crowd applauded politely. Beverly supposed it was the political thing to do, after all, the king needed the support of his nobles, despite the fact that their contributions were minor.

  “I would, of course, like to mention the outstanding leadership provided by Prince Henry. He is an example to us all of the nobility of the crown.”

  Henry bowed deeply, blushing with his newfound notoriety.

  “The title of Earl of Eastwood shall now be retired. In its place, I award the title of Duke of Eastwood to Marshal-General Valmar, whose accounts of the battle led to today’s rewards. Our beloved servant has been sent to Burrstoke to recover from his unfortunate illness.”

  Arnim snorted, and Anna strained to suppress the laughter which threatened to burst forth.

  “And now,” the king continued, “Dame Beverly Fitzwilliam, show yourself.”

  Beverly was caught by surprise but quickly recovered. She stepped forward and bowed deeply as she had seen her father do.

  The king stared at her for a moment, as if sizing her up. “Dame Beverly,” he said, “although you fought in the battle, you failed to bring the Orcs to their knees, allowing them to retreat into the Artisan Hills. This lack of success will, no doubt, come back to haunt us in the future. You are a disgrace to the Knights of the Sword, and are hereby expelled from their order.”

  Beverly was too shocked to answer and so stared mutely at the
king, whose face had reddened as he spoke. Behind him, she saw Lady Penelope smirking at her misfortune.

  “I must object, Your Majesty,” said Anna, “Dame Beverly was-”

  “I will brook no argument,” interrupted the king, “my mind is made up.”

  The crowd looked on in silence, for the king had quickly changed from a magnanimous king to tyrant in the blink of an eye.

  As if realizing the spell he held over them, the king scanned the audience. “But we have said enough,” he continued, “I now invite you to the celebration in the great hall.”

  He turned to Lady Penelope and held out his arm. She lightly grasped it, and they walked across the room toward the hall, the crowd following after them.

  Anna’s group began to follow, but Anna placed her hand on Beverly’s shoulder, “One moment, Beverly, I would speak with you.”

  The others left them alone, and soon the room emptied but for the two of them.

  “The king was wrong,” Anna started. “We all know how crucial your contribution was, and we shan’t forget it. Despite the rewards heaped upon the others, the kingdom knows that you are the true sword of the crown.”

  Beverly looked upon the young princess, “I was surprised by the king’s venom,” she said, “but I can live with it. I know I’m unpopular with the nobility, and I can accept that, but Gerald was as instrumental as the others, and he didn’t get any recognition at all.”

  “It’s true,” agreed Anna, “but the king will not recognize a commoner when the glory can be attributed to a noble. I’m afraid Gerald's background is working against him. In time, he will be rewarded, I will see to it personally. Meanwhile, let me say that you and Gerald both performed magnificently. We didn’t do it for the glory, or the rewards; we did it because it needed to be done, and the people of Merceria needed to be spared the horrors of a long, drawn-out war. That's the true reward.”