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  Fury Of The Crown

  Heir to the Crown: Book Eight

  Paul J Bennett

  Contents

  Map of Merceria

  Map of Norland

  1. Battle

  2. Dinner

  3. The Mages

  4. The Rangers

  5. Wickfield

  6. Trouble in the Wood

  7. Weldwyn

  8. The Hollis Estate

  9. The Capital

  10. Captive

  11. Plans

  12. Training

  13. Hawksburg

  14. The Netherwood

  15. The Circle

  16. Bronwyn

  17. Autumn's Twilight

  18. The Capital

  19. Leofric

  20. Across the Border

  21. The East

  22. Hammersfield

  23. Fitz

  24. Reinforcements

  25. Beaconsgate

  26. Albreda

  27. The Hammer

  28. The Deepwood

  29. Ravensguard

  30. Riverhurst

  31. Gar-Rugal

  32. Lord Hollis

  33. Siege

  34. Battle

  35. The Gate

  Epilogue

  Share your thoughts!

  Ashes - Chapter One

  Also by Paul J Bennett

  About the Author

  One

  Battle

  Spring 965 MC* (*Mercerian Calendar)

  Jack Marlowe sat on his horse, surveying the distant enemy lines. "I don't mean to alarm you, Your Highness, but we appear to be significantly outnumbered."

  Prince Alric smiled. "Don't worry. Fitz has it all in hand."

  The cavalier turned to look at his master. "We are outnumbered two to one. Granted, the fellow has some experience, but I think this time he might have bitten off more than he can chew."

  "The baron knows what he's doing."

  "Then why is he being advised by a smith?"

  Alric chuckled. "You mean Aldwin? He's a lord now, remember?"

  "Yes, but hardly a military adviser."

  "I doubt the baron's seeking advice. More likely he's taking the opportunity to teach his new son-in-law a thing or two about battle." The prince shifted his gaze to the cavalier. "Why so glum, Jack? I thought you lived for combat?"

  "I do, but I'd feel much better knowing we had our own cavalry here instead of these…"

  "Mercerians?"

  "I have nothing against them as a people, but I can't accept that a bunch of commoners could make effective horsemen. And even then, we have very few of them. Why couldn't we have the Queen's Guard?"

  "You mean the Guard Cavalry?" corrected the prince. "That's simple; they were needed elsewhere. They still have a frontier to guard and can't send everything they have here to Eastwood."

  "But the Norlanders have had all winter to rest, and we've had to march through rain and mud."

  Alric chuckled. "We'll win. Just you wait and see."

  "I admire your faith," said Jack, "but I'd prefer to trust in the power of a good blade."

  * * *

  Lord Richard Fitzwilliam, Baron of Bodden, turned in the saddle. "Well? What do you make of them?"

  "Their footmen look solid enough," answered Aldwin, "but the real threat is their horse. Is that horse bowmen I see? I thought we'd destroyed most of it at Uxley last fall?"

  "Yes, so did I, but we must remember, this is a completely different army. Now, how do you think they'll attack?"

  "Their horsemen are massed to our left. They'll try to outflank us."

  "Yes, convenient, isn't it?"

  "Convenient?"

  "Of course. Had they been on our right, it would have ruined our plans."

  "Saxnor must favour us."

  Fitz laughed. "It was a lot of hard work, not Saxnor that arranged such a thing."

  Aldwin looked at his father-in-law in surprise. "Hard work?"

  "Yes, the queen sent in agents to spread rumours. They're of the belief our left is our weakest flank, manned only by inexperienced troops who have been rushed into battle."

  "But all that is true, surely?"

  "It is," the baron agreed. "We had few enough troops left after the Battle of Uxley. Even now, we have to rely on the Dwarves to hold the centre."

  "Some Elves wouldn't have gone amiss."

  "Yes, but with the death of Telethial, their future employment is in doubt. Still, we have plenty of stalwart fellows here. They'll hold. You can count on that."

  "How can you be so sure?" Aldwin asked.

  "It's simple, really. Our men know what's at stake. They also know they can count on their fellow countrymen to do their part, just as we must. In the end, it will be their discipline that wins the day, not numbers."

  "And the Norlanders? Are they not disciplined?"

  "Certainly, to a point, but they do not have the warrior culture that we do."

  Aldwin frowned. "But aren't they descendants of Mercerians?"

  A look of surprise appeared on the baron's face. "I suppose they are. I'd completely forgotten about that."

  "Does that change your assessment?"

  "Not in the least. Now, where is Sir Preston?"

  "Over there," said Aldwin, "in the rear with our heavy cavalry."

  "And why are they there?"

  "To act as a reserve so we can deploy them as needed to trouble spots."

  "Excellent, Aldwin. You're learning.

  The enemy troops slowly began their advance, moving across the field like a large, undulating snake. The sun, finally breaking through the clouds, reflected off the enemy's weapons.

  "There," said Aldwin, pointing. "More troops, on the right, coming from around those trees. It looks like horsemen."

  "Saxnor's beard," swore Fitz. "It appears our plans weren't as successful as we thought. You've got sharp eyes. Can you see what type they are?"

  Aldwin stared, using his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. "They're wearing heavier armour by the look of it."

  "Any sign of horse archers?"

  "No, not that I can see."

  "Thank the Gods for small miracles," said Fitz.

  "Do they pose a problem?"

  "Naturally, but it's nothing we can't handle. Still, we better let Sir Preston know. He'll need to bring in the right flank a little sooner than expected."

  "I'll go and tell him, shall I?" r />
  "I'd be obliged," said Fitz.

  * * *

  The Norland line marched inexorably closer, maintaining their solid line of steel. On either flank, the cavalry kept a similar pace, conserving their strength for the final charge. On the northern end of the line, their light cavalry would race down along the Deerwood's edge, forcing the Mercerians into a defensive position and shrinking their frontage. On the southern end, the heavier cavalry kept their distance from the queen's archers, manoeuvring to get in behind the defenders. It would be numbers that would tell this day, overwhelming the defenders and forcing them to break.

  The Norland light cavalry broke into a gallop as they drew nearer the woods. Their horse archers began loosing off arrows, more to intimidate than to do any actual damage. It had the desired effect. Faced with the threat of horsemen, the northern end of the Mercerian line began to fall back. The Norland commander smiled. The plan was working splendidly. The enemy would soon be completely surrounded, their utter destruction only a matter of time.

  Sir Preston swore, a most uncharacteristic expression for the newest Knight of the Hound.

  "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news," said Aldwin.

  "Not your fault, my lord," replied the knight, "but it does accelerate my plans. Please excuse me while I see to my men."

  "Of course," the smith replied, riding back towards Baron Fitzwilliam.

  Sir Preston's attention returned once more to his own command. "Send word to the footmen to begin their manoeuvres," he said to his aide.

  The man repeated the orders, then rode off as fast as his horse could carry him.

  The knight turned his attention to the heavy cavalry.

  He recognized their look of apprehension. Most of them were recently recruited from the countryside and equipped at the crown's expense. They were a new type of warrior, dedicated professionals in the mould of the Guard Cavalry, but they had yet to be tested in battle.

  "Keep your eyes on the enemy," he ordered. "They'll try to surround us. Your job is to make sure our infantry can complete the defensive formation."

  "And how do we do that?" asked Sergeant Hampton.

  "By executing a series of sudden strikes on the enemy horsemen."

  The sergeant stared back with a look of shock. "Those are armoured riders," the man said, "and they significantly outnumber."

  "All true," said Sir Preston, "and yet we have the discipline and skill to best them. Remember your training, and for Saxnor's sake, keep an ear out for the horns. If you don't withdraw when called, you'll be massacred. The whole point is to hit them and then withdraw before they can react, understood? Do that enough times, and they'll think twice about getting closer to our footmen."

  "Aye, sir," said Hampton.

  The knight returned his attention to the footmen of Merceria. They were beginning to fall backwards on the flank, taking up their positions to the south as the entire army began forming into a sizeable defensive circle.

  The first sign of trouble was when arrows flew from the Deerwood. They did little damage to the Norland cavalry, but the mere presence of the archers took them entirely by surprise.

  The Norland commander tried to ignore them. After all, what could a smattering of bowmen do against the hundreds of horsemen under his command?

  His confidence soon shattered as more archers stepped out from the woods. These were no skirmishers but massed bowmen of the Mercerian army. Where were they coming from?

  He watched in fascination as a woman appeared. She began waving her hands about, and then a small dot of light flew from her fingers to land in amongst the horsemen. Obviously, she was a spell caster, but he thought she had failed when he saw the spark sink into the ground.

  His belief was soon shattered as the ground began to tremble, and then small rocks broke the surface, sending the Norland advance into disarray. Horses fell, their riders thrown while others swerved to avoid the panic. All sense of order was abandoned in an instant.

  The Norland horse archers, more disciplined, wheeled their mounts, heading straight for the Mercerian archers. Closer they drew, and then more enemy soldiers exited the woods. This was no militia. Rather, it was trained Orcs in tight formations, long spears reaching out like the spines of a porcupine.

  The commander swore, pulling up his men to loose off a volley of arrows. Just as he did, what he saw made him turn pale. Massive creatures, close to eight feet tall, stepped from the woods, their grey skin making them look like they were carved from rock. Each carried a large stone, and even as he watched, they were tossed through the air to crash into the massed cavalry. The first struck a horse archer, ripping off his torso at the waist and carrying onto the man beside him. His horse ran off in fright, still bearing the man's lower abdomen and legs.

  Another stone sailed past, narrowly missing his own head. The commander was about to call back his men, but then an arrow took him in the eye, toppling him from the saddle to leave his men leaderless.

  "Good shot," said Gorath, as he placed another arrow into his warbow.

  "What can I say?" said Hayley. "I wasn't given the position of High Ranger for my looks." She glanced around. Her rangers were picking their targets, working in pairs, and calling out as they shot. The men and women of the Queen's Rangers were said to be the best shots in the Three Kingdoms, something she had worked hard to train into them. The addition of Orcs to their ranks had been a difficult choice, for not every Human was comfortable in their company. In the end, it turned out they had worried for naught, for a large portion of the rangers had been recruited in Hawksburg, a city the green folk had helped rebuild. Their familiarity with the Orcs had soon settled any objections.

  "This is like target practice," Gorath complained. "They're packed so close I can't miss."

  "Even so, keep your wits about you. They can close in an instant."

  As she spoke, a dozen Norland horsemen broke off from the main group, heading directly towards the rangers. Gorath switched targets, letting loose another arrow, taking a horse in the chest. The beast went down, then tumbled, crushing its rider.

  As more arrows flew forth, wolves appeared from nowhere, their howls echoing across the fields. Hayley had a brief glimpse of Albreda, urging on her pack, and then the enemy horses began to panic. The riders broke off their attack, fleeing to the safety of the central formation once more.

  Gerald Matheson, Duke of Wincaster and Marshal of the Army of Merceria, looked at his queen. "I still think you should have stayed in the capital."

  Anna removed her helmet, wiping the sweat from her brow, and then tried to tuck an errant blonde strand back in place. "Nonsense. I need to be here with my people. Besides, you know the army is more successful when we're together."

  He smiled. "So we are. Would you care to give the signal for the attack?"

  "And steal the glory? No, that honour should fall to you. You're the one in command here."

  "You're the queen."

  She replaced her helmet. "Yes, and wise enough to let the professional lead the army. Now, I shouldn't wait too long if I were you. Timing is everything."

  Gerald rose in his stirrups, raising his sword high in the air and then sweeping it downward. The men around him gave a cheer as they began their advance, their boots crunching on the dead leaves and branches of the forest floor. It had taken the Orcs of the Black Axe to guide them here. The marshal had worried they might be too late, but Chief Urgon had, true to his word, known the Deerwood like the back of his hand and delivered them at precisely the right moment.

  He gazed off at the chief's banner. Unlike the Mercerians, who employed flags, the Orcs preferred banners hung from a horizontal pole affixed to a spear. The banner that signified the Blake Axe tribe was a simple black cloth that stood in sharp contrast to the red and green flags of the Mercerian troops.

  The Orcs were heavy into the enemy horsemen now, their spears wreaking frightful damage. Off in the distance, Gerald could see Sir Heward and his heavy cavalry hitting the front
of the Norland cavalry column. Past them, Beverly should have been commanding the Guard Cavalry, but he could only assume she had become aware of a greater threat, for nothing else could explain her absence.

  Gerald's footmen, now formed up in a solid line, began their advance, keeping their ranks closed as protection against the enemy horsemen. He had insisted on arming those in the second rank with spears, and should the enemy threaten, their job would be to lower them, presenting a solid wall of iron-tipped death.

  Dame Beverly Fitzwilliam, Knight of the Hound, guided the Guard Cavalry out of the woods. From her vantage point atop her massive Mercerian Charger, Lightning, she spotted the beleaguered forces of her father, Baron Fitzwilliam, raising a blue flag, signalling they were in distress. Beneath it was a small red flag, indicating the threat lay to the south. She thanked Saxnor the marshal had come up with the idea of a General Staff. These people were trained to send commands across the battlefield. At first, they had thought to use horns, but those were difficult to hear at long range, so a system of flags was introduced. Beverly had adjusted to them quite quickly, but the older warriors had found the concept difficult to grasp. A winter's worth of practice with the technique had led to its adoption army-wide, leading to their present circumstances.