The Burning Age (Fight For The Crown Book 1)

by L. J Nicholson

  From his bent over position, the Clemington aimed his arms at the North gates and unleashed another torrent of fire. The gates caught the flame immediately, going up with a roar. They were too thick and solid to burn immediately, but they would not stand up to such heat for long.

  The shield wall had formed up again, protecting their would be-king. The main army was charging, weapons upraised, in a wedge formation aimed at the blackening gates.

  “Throw the sand and stones down at the base of the flames!” Abraham roared over the crackling and the panicked mutterings. “Archers!” Lord Bradbury leveled his dark eyes at the approaching force. “Nock your arrows and take aim.”

  The city had only just come under Abraham’s protection. There was no way he would allow it to fall in such a short time. Not with his son Aron waiting to claim the gilded crown. Not while Lord Bradbury was still drawing breath.

  Chapter 6

  “Hold!” Jasper Clemington screamed as a hail of arrows fell toward them from the walls. “Shields up!” The seventeen men remaining around him closed ranks, their heavy tower shields blocking out the sun. Arrows thudded into the shields and whizzed by on both sides and overhead. Many of them were aimed at the charging army, wreaking havoc among the running men. But by the time the second volley had landed, the full force had reached Jasper’s position.

  “Charge!” He roared, drawing his longsword and waving it in the air. “Break through the gates! They can’t have much strength left! They’ll be crumbling to ashes in no time!”

  His men let out a bone-chilling roar as they ran, spears, swords, axes and maces at the ready. They were all loyal to a fault, all true sons of the North. They would follow a Clemington into battle anywhere, and they feared and respected Jasper more than most. More arrows fell among them, causing death and destruction, but the charge did not waver. Still the men from the north thundered onward, their blood raised, their eyes wild.

  “Archers!” Jasper roared as they neared the walls. “Shields! Form up and fire at the top of the walls. Infantry, make ready to attack. Bring those gates down.” He released his longsword with one hand and sent another jet of orange flame into the already smoldering gates. They were thick and well made, but they were still made of wood. Men with longer hafted spears and axes began poking and hacking at the flaming structure, hoping to be the one to bring it crashing down.

  Whump! A heavy sandbag landed next to Jasper, flattening one of his shield men. He looked up.

  “Fall back!” He cried, laying about with the flat of his sword blade. “Away from the gates, you fools!” Stones and bags of sand showered the ground like droplets in a summer thunderstorm. Between the arrows and the avalanche of rubble, Jasper had already lost nearly half his number. It had been too long since he’d marshaled troops, especially against such a skilled general as Lord Abraham Bradbury. He hadn’t been prepared for such retaliation. Even so, need drove him onward. He needed the gilded crown. He needed to get inside the gates. He needed to be King.

  “Shields up!” Jasper roared, pointing with his sword. “Everyone, forward!” Once again the army approached the heat of the burning gates, walking over the bodies of their dead and dying comrades. The hail of stones was much less heavy this time, and the flow of arrows from the ramparts dwindled as the archers lost their vantage point.

  “Attack! Attack! Attack!” Jasper commanded. He gripped his sword in both hands and channeled all of his furious energy into it. A lance of fire shot out and struck the gates, breaching them at last. Ash exploded into the air as the blackened timber collapsed. With a roar of pure violence the men from the North converged on the opening in the wall.

  As the smoke cleared, Abraham Bradbury became visible. The barrel-chested bull of a man stood at the head of a hundred hardened western warriors, a great warhammer clasped loosely in his hands. There was no grey visible in that man’s hair. How had he kept himself so young while Jasper grew weathered with age?

  “For Clementia! For the capital! For the claim of King Aron!” Bradbury roared. He hefted his hammer and raced forward at the head of his fighting force. The great western bull was enough to strike fear in the heart of any man as he charged. His mane of curly black hair fanned behind him, and his weapon glistened in the sunlight. He met the front line of the Clemington force alone, and impacted them like a stone from a trebuchet. Men were flung in all directions by the vicious strength with which he swung his hammer. Bradbury’s men had only to shore up the sides of the gateway; the middle was held by that one behemoth of a man alone.

  “Archers, bring him down!” Jasper ordered, but no one could find space to shoot the great lord. More arrows and rubble fell on them from above as their front lines fought and died. A familiar, bitter flavor rose in the back of Jasper’s throat. Like bile, only far less pleasant. The taste of defeat.

  “Retreat!” He roared to his remaining men, sheathing his sword and turning to follow his own orders. “Fall back to the wagons! Back to the North road! Fall back, all of you with me!”

  They fled like pigeons from a hawk, and the western warriors did not pursue. Glancing over his shoulder, Jasper saw that they remained in the gateway, Abraham Bradbury still in the lead, waving that great warhammer of his.

  What remained of Jaspers forces made it back to the wagons and set about turning the train around. Jasper cursed at anyone and everyone, furious not only with the failure of the attack, but by the fact that Bradbury likely could have finished him if he’d pressed the assault. Jasper’s lieutenants gave him a rough count as they prepared to return to the North. He had lost over two hundred men… nearly half of the fighting force he’d marched South.

  Once they sorted the wagons and horses all out, Jasper resumed leading his men. He refused to feel shame at his failure, or to fear the judgment of his family upon his return. Instead his mind was obsessed with thoughts of where he could rouse more men, and how he could best go about taking the capital now that he knew Abraham Bradbury was there. The western bull and his men changed things significantly. Jasper would need to confer with his family and advisors, and come up with a solid plan. Patience might well be required… far from his finest virtue, but he could embody it if necessary. He would do whatever necessary to win the gilded crown.

  They made camp for the night in a forest clearing alongside the road. Archers were sent out to hunt and returned with some quail and a young deer, which along with the supplies they had brought, made a fine meal for the men. They needed the morale boost… they had all lost comrades, friends, and family members in the thwarted attack. Jasper knew he should speak to them with some inspiring words, but instead he sat alone on a wagon bench, sipping scotch from a flask. The fiery liquor fueled the flames in his gut, and his desire for revenge burned all the more hotly. He would find a way to seek vengeance against his sister’s killer, and against Abraham Bradbury, and against all others who dared cross him. He just needed to marshal a larger force, and figure out the best approach…

  He slept fitfully and roused his men early, pushing the march back to his keep in the North. The dense woods gave way to stunted solitary trees and hardy blackthorn bushes, and the air grew cold and crisp. The sky was crystal blue, as clear as a shallow mountain spring with nary a cloud in sight. Somehow that endless, frigid space made Jasper feel at home. Soon the walls of his keep surrounded him, and he made his way straight to the great hall and sat in his chair on the platform, sending for his head scribe and more scotch, for his flask was dry. He sank into a stupor, his thoughts locked on the recently lost battle, re-examining every decision he’d made. It had not been an unwise attack; he simply had not anticipated Abraham Bradbury’s presence, along with his men.

  The whisky arrived, and he took a few sips as he waited for the scribe. The old man arrived as slowly as ever, taking small steps across the wide stone floor until he stood at the foot of the platform.

  “You sent for me, my lord?” He asked.

  “I’m sure you have heard of my failure alre
ady,” Jasper said, surprisingly without anger in his words. His own voice sounded almost unfamiliar to him, cold and calculated rather than hot with rage. “The halls must be buzzing with gossip by now.”

  “I surmised that the attack did not go as planned, based on your hasty return and the number of men accompanying you. I have learned to close my ears to gossip over the years. It is of little help in my duties.”

  “Yes… you have always been the most focused and diligent of my advisors. Tell me, what would you advise in this situation? Where might I find the men to make my rightful claim to the crown?”

  The old man stared into the crackling hearth fire for a time, and then turned back to his lord.

  “I would advise caution, and patience my lord. The resources of the North are a far cry from those wielded by our counterparts to the South. For the time, it may be best to recover and gather your strength. Let the other great houses tilt at windmills, vying for the crown, and then pluck it from the wreckage of their wars.”

  “That is not after my fashion,” Jasper said in distaste, “but perhaps you are right… that sounds like something Annabelle might have counselled. I must think on it, and discuss it with my family. Send word to every Clemington that remains in the north, have them come here to me… we have great and terrible things to plan.”

  Chapter 7

  The eastern woods of Clementia were not so dense nor so wild as the great western rainforests, but they still contained an ample supply of game, especially smaller creatures. With her hereditary eyesight, Fiona found she made an exceptional hawker. She had set out less than an hour ago with two great eagles and some half dozen servants, and already the golden-brown birds had taken two rabbits and a young grazing doe.

  Her servants carried the meat slung across a pole, and her eagles swooped and circled high overhead as Fiona scanned the land, searching for movement. She saw it in the form of shifting shrubberies; something large was moving through the forest toward her, something the size of a man. The Lady of the East heard twigs snap and dead leaves crackle as whoever it was approached.

  “Who goes there?” She called fearlessly, laying a casual hand on the hilt of her longsword.

  “It is your faithful servant, my lady,” came the young man’s voice. A moment later the lad emerged from the bushes, plucking burrs from his cloak and releasing them to the wind that teased his medium brown locks. He gave a quick half-bow. “Forgive me for intruding upon your hunt, but Mildred sent me with a message. An eagle arrived with a message from the capital. It came from Abraham Bradbury. It seems a small army led by Jasper Clemington attacked the capital, burning its main gate. Bradbury and his men managed to repulse them with the help of the city guard, but he fears the Clemingtons are not finished. He has requested any aid you may care to send to assist in securing and holding the capital.”

  Fiona stroked her chin, and then rubbed her palms together slowly. She’d felt certain something like this would happen… the other houses had always been more hasty than hers, the Clemingtons particularly so. Now the first move on the chess board had been made, and she could re-examine and find the best possible approach.

  “We will offer our assistance, of course,” she mused, holding the young man’s gaze. “Return to the keep at once, and tell Mildred to select one of our young captains. Whoever she chooses shall lead one hundred men to the capital to shore up their defenses, including some of our finest engineers to the help fortify the gates. Tell Mildred to put everything together, but await my return and approval. I will not be much longer on the hunt.”

  The servant bowed again, and then turned and vanished into the bushes once more, heading in the direction of the keep.

  One of the eagles in the sky gave a harsh cry, and dove like a plummeting stone. The familiar scream of a dying rabbit echoed through the woods, and then there was only the buzz of insects and the rustle of leaves. Fiona and her followers threaded their way through the trees to claim the prize. A small smile flitted across the Lady of the East’s lips. Good things would come to those who waited. And Fiona had more patience in her little finger than existed in the whole rest of the realm.

  Both golden eagles flitted toward Fiona, and they landed on her leather-padded shoulders in rough unison. She smiled and lifted her hands to stroke their soft feathers. The one who had gotten the last rabbit still had blood dripping from its beak.

  “We shall return now,” Fiona said, striding off in the direction of the keep. “I should like to be there to send off the delegation going to the capital.” Her retainers followed her without comment. They traversed the loam to the stonier paths that led between mountains and through little-known chasms. Fiona had grown up playing in those rocky formations, and knew the secret pathways like the lines on her palm. She navigated them easily, and soon arrived at the front gates, which opened at her approach. Her lookouts were never asleep on the job.

  The men carrying the meat sauntered off to clean the kills, and some of the others took the eagles and headed for the aviary. Mildred swooped out of a torchlit hallway, not unlike a bird of prey herself. Despite all her pains, the elderly woman could certainly move when she needed to.

  “I have already begun preparing the delegation as you commanded,” the advisor said as she fell into step beside Fiona. “I chose a pliable young captain to lead a hundred men of his own selection. He should be compatible enough with that bull Bradbury.”

  “Good,” Fiona said, “when they are prepared to depart, I should like to speak to them. For the moment, I desire a hot bath. Have it prepared in my lower chambers, with lavender oil.” Mildred hurried off to give the orders to other servants, and for a time Fiona paced the corridors of her keep, letting her mind wander as much as her footsteps. Eventually the stony halls carried her to her living chambers on the lower levels of the mountain stronghold. She did enjoy the finer things in life, but she was not about to force her servants to carry a bath tub up to her bedchamber. The room was steamy when she entered, clouds of fog wafting off of the claw footed tub which dominated the center of the room. It was nearly full to the brim with water, leaving just enough room for Fiona to slide in.

  She disrobed, leaving her clothing hanging on a hook on the wall, and padded over the cold stone floor to dip a toe in the bath. Warmth ran up her body as she submerged one leg, then the other, and then sank down into the luxurious heat. The scent of the lavender oil filled her sinuses, promoting relaxation and deep thought.

  So. The Clemingtons had made the first attack on the capital, and failed to take the great city. That had been predictable enough. As was the Bradburys’ attempt to claim the gilded crown through peaceable means. The Cleavers, undoubtedly, would be up to something more covert and diabolical. Once her men were inside the capital, helping keep it safe, she would have an excellent source of inside information. It would be as good as being in the capital herself… better, for by remaining in the East she avoided the inherent dangers of mixing with the other great houses.

  Eventually the water began to cool, and she climbed out of the tub and towelled off, and then dressed, her short hair drying quickly. As she opened the door back out to the hall Mildred appeared, lifting a fist as if to knock.

  “Oh, my lady,” the old woman gasped, “you gave me quite a startle. The men are prepared to depart… they wait only on your word.”

  “I do have a word or three to share with them,” Fiona smiled. She felt loose and liquid from her time spent steeping in the water. She prowled through the keep’s twisting corridors and entered the great antechamber just inside the main gate. Even with a hundred armed and armored men in it, the massive chamber did not seem at all full.

  “Attention!” Commanded the young captain Mildred had selected. “The Lady of the East graces us with her presence.”

  The men formed into square ranks and presented arms. Fiona smiled as she stood before them, proud of the discipline demonstrated by her loyal warriors.

  “The capital has come under attack b
y the Clemingtons from the North,” she announced, “some of you may already know this. You may also know that Abraham Bradbury is currently holding power in the capital. I am sending you all to support him… to help in any way possible. But I am also entrusting each of you to be my eyes and ears. Be wary, and look about. See what lies beneath the surface, hear the whispers of the walls, and report all to your superiors. Your captain will be in regular correspondence with me, so consider that you speak to me when you go to him. I put my trust and my love in each of you. Do not disappoint me.”

  She nodded to the young captain, who called a stern command, and as the gates swung open he and his hundred men marched out, prepared for the long hike to the capital. Fiona knew she would be following their footsteps before long… the capital, and the crown, called to her like a siren song. And yet, it was not time. She would be as patient as the very mountains she lived in.

  Chapter 8

  The catacombs beneath the capital smelled of death, but the aroma did not trouble Archibald Cleaver. His studies often required a close examination of corpses, or the old, feeble, and diseased. The Lord of the South had a reputation as perhaps the most knowledgeable man in the realm when it came to poisons and elixirs, but also a general knowledge of the human anatomy. He had studied under the finest surgeons in the South growing up, as well as herbalists and many others. His education continued even into his old age, although he spent most of his time as an educator these days.

  His heavy footsteps echoed down the dry stone corridor, pursued by the lighter patter of his daughter following him. Archibald glanced over his shoulder at the girl. She carried a lantern in one hand, the other holding a perfumed box to her nose. The poison master smiled as they rounded a corner and entered a long low-ceilinged chamber with stone slabs arranged like beds. The room was large, and yet only one linen-covered corpse occupied a slab. Archibald pulled the sheet back, revealing the late queen Annabelle’s partially decomposed face. He smiled. She did not seem so mighty now, sequestered away beneath the city she once ruled. Behind him, Koreen retched slightly, but she kept her breakfast down and moved up bravely to stand beside her father. Archibald’s smile widened.