The Burning Age (Fight For The Crown Book 1) Read online

  Fight For The Crown

  Book 1

  The Burning Age

  L.J Nicholson

  All rights reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United Kingdom copyright law.

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  This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  L.J Nicholson

  Aryla Publishing © 2019

  www.arylapublishing.com

  L.J Nicholsn is an indie author who writes Medieval Fantasy and Young Adult Books. Fight For The Crown is L.J’s debut book. Please let us know your thoughts by leaving a review here.

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  Prologue

  In that moment, the dying wails of Clementia’s Queen coupled with King Aron’s fracturing heart, perfectly foreshadowed the fate of their kingdom as the monarchy fell. So too did the fading light of her eyes mirror Aron’s darkening soul.

  Excited whispers and louder calls of congratulations filled the air, a cacophony of commotion coming from the mass of common folk that stood on the throne room’s marble tiled floor. King Aron Bradbury sighed and crossed his legs, looking away from the swarm of peasants and instead focusing on the elegantly embroidered draperies that festooned the great hall’s walls. There, stories were told of great battles lost and won, of romances requited and un, and of the four great houses who had held the kingdom up for centuries, like a foundation of solid bedrock. The Bradburies, represented by the sign of the Bull. The Cleavers, represented by the sign of the snake. The Fowlers, represented by the sign of the eagle, and of course the Clemingtons, and their fierce winged dragon. Aron was proud to call himself a Bradbury, and now a Clemington by royal marriage.

  

  His wedding to Queen Annabelle, Savior of the Damned, Ruler of all Clementia, had been the greatest social event in seventeen seasons. Lords and ladies had come out like chickens at feeding time to watch and applaud when the two young highborns were wed. On that day, many seasons ago, Annabelle had truly embodied her reputation as the most beautiful and benevolent monarch the realm had ever known. Her eyes had sparkled for him alone, and she’d spoken the sacred words that bound them for eternity, or until death stepped between them.

  

  A muted horn sounded, and Aron rose to his feet. The common folk stopped talking, and shuffled into a semblance of order. Minor lords and ladies entered the room in a single file procession, each being announced by the Queen’s Voice; a small bald man in flowing ceremonious robes who stood atop the dais. They took up their seats alongside the walls, their finely pressed tunics and dresses displaying their various house sigils. Aron made eye contact with those he knew, and then as the procession ended, nodded to the Voice.

  “And now, all rise and avert your eyes, as Queen Clemington, Savior of Clementia, shall grace us with her presence.”

  The lords and ladies all looked away, down toward the main entrance at the front of the hall. The peasants looked at their feet, fearful of accidentally casting gaze on the queen when they shouldn’t. Only Aron was permitted to watch his beautiful bride ascend the dais. She came in through a side door at the back of the room, accompanied by two female members of her Royal Guard. Though, in all that red-and-gold armor, Aron could not tell them apart from the six men who stood sentinel around the dais. He did not know any of their names either, but he trusted them with his life. They had been born and raised to protect royalty, and pledged their lives to protect his with their own.

  Queen Annabelle sat in her great throne, the gilded gold-and-ivory crown upon her head, and smiled at her husband. She reached out a hand, the sleeve of her dress shimmering in the lantern light, and caressed his stubbled cheek. They shared a long, loving look, and then she gave her Voice a short wave.

  “Today we are gathered to celebrate the promotion of two brave squires to the rank of knighthood. They both came up from nothing, starting as stable boys, progressing to pages, and eventually working their way up to squiredom. They have served our knights, the lords and ladies of the realm, and our Queen and Savior well. Tonight, we show them gratitude in the form of knighting. Henceforth they shall forever be watchers of the realm, protectors of all that is good and just, and pinnacles of chivalry among our people. Will Benjamin and Merrek, both orphans from Clementia, please step forward.”

  The crowd of common folk shifted, and two boys about age seventeen stepped forward. One was tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair and dark eyes. He could almost have been a Bradbury, and looked born for knighthood. The other was of average height and almost sickly skinny, but a flash of intelligence showed behind his green eyes. The peasants applauded and cheered as two of their own walked up the long woven rug and stood at the foot of the dais.

  “Kneel,” the Voice said, his powerful tone echoing through the columns and the rafters. The squires did as commanded. “First, in a show of appreciation, the first born royal son shall shower you with water, that you may ever embody its purity.”

  Aron watched proudly as his son Orin stood from his chair beside the dais and picked up an elegantly carved bucket. A boy of only twelve, he carried it so carefully that the water inside did not slosh as he made his way in front of the kneeling squires.

  “Thank you for your service,” he said, “and for all the services you shall render in days to come.” He dipped his fingers in the bucket and sprinkled water first on the tall boy’s pate, and then on the sickly ginger one.

  “And now,” the Voice said as Orin returned to his seat, “the first born royal daughter shall show thanks in the form of flowers, that your service to the Crown may always flourish and bloom.”

  Aron smiled from ear to ear as his young daughter, Felicity, stood up from her chair and gathered a basket of flowers. She strode swiftly to the squires and threaded a long-stemmed rose through the buttonhole on each of their leather jackets. She bent and kissed them both gently on each cheek, and then straightened and spoke.

  “I thank you for the support you have shown my family and my mother, and for the support you will continue to bring us in days to come. I wish you many sons and daughters, who will carry on your legacy after you are gone.” She curtsied, spread her layered skirts, and then scampered back to her seat.

  “Armsman,” The Voice said to the nearest member of the Royal Guard, “Draw your blade and present it to the Queen.” The guard bowed low, and then gripped the engraved hilt of his longsword. He drew it with a great twisting motion, and the sound of steel sliding on steel filled the room. He knelt, and lifted the sword across both palms, head bowed subserviently.

  The Queen stood and accepted the sword, holding it easily in one hand despite the weight. She was no Brad
bury, but Aron’s fiery Queen was always as strong as she needed to be. With slow, intentional steps she descended the dais, the train of her embroidered gown trailing behind her. She came to rest just in front of the squires.

  “Rise,” she bade them, and they did so, eyes still downcast. A serving man in full livery approached with great ceremony, carrying a tray with three crystal chalices. Each contained a deep red wine, one of the year’s finest vintages. The Queen took a glass, and motioned for the squires to do the same.

  “I share this drink with you in hopes that you will always remember me as your monarch, and as your friend.” She said. “As my knights, I entrust you both to keep peace across the lands and brings news of any wrongdoing to my doorstep. Do you so swear?”

  “We do,” the squires echoed together. It had probably taken them weeks of rehearsal.

  “Then drink,” the Queen said, and sipped from her own chalice. The squires followed suit, and then all three glasses were returned to the tray, and the liveried man whisked away. “Now kneel,” the queen said, and lifted the glittering sword.

  She tapped the bigger boy first, once on each shoulder and then on the head. She repeated the process with the ginger, who seemed so frail that he nearly collapsed forward onto her from the impact. The Royal Guards shifted, easing their weapons in case of a sudden attack, but the boy found his balance and muttered his apologies, blushing brightly in embarrassment. With the ceremony complete, the Queen re-ascended the dais and returned the sword to its owner. She sat in her throne a touch heavily, and Aron turned to her, his face full of concern.

  “And now,” the Voice said in his trumpeting tenor, “a feast shall be held, in honor of-”

  A horrible, strangled choking sound emanated from the Queen’s mouth. She grasped at her throat, tilting her head so violently the gold-and-ivory crown tumbled to the dais. A gasp went up from those assembled. The Royal Guard hesitated, searching for a threat that was not there. The Voice wavered, well trained but unsure what to say.

  “Annabelle!” Aron cried, forgetting all ceremony and rushing to her side. He grasped the collar of her dress and tore it open, giving her space to breathe. A fine lather formed on her lips as her eyes met his.

  “Aron,” she gasped as creeping black lines formed along the veins on her temples. “Little…” and then she slumped forward into his arms limply.

  “Help me!” Aron cried to the Royal Guard. Two of the knights gathered ‘round and assisted him in laying the queen down on the floor. Her breast did not rise, and her eyes glazed over. “Fetch the surgeon!” Aron bawled, the hot hands of panic squeezing his soul. Another guard ran off to do his bidding.

  “It must have been the wine,” one of the Royal Guards said - one of the women. She’d removed her helmet, displaying fine long red hair. “Someone has poisoned the Queen! You, fetch the server who brought it!” Another guard raced off amidst the hubbub. The common folk clumped together, all gossiping in panicked tones. The lords and ladies seated along the sides of the hall leaned their heads together, discussing in more hushed voices. Despite the pain in his heart and the panic in mind, Aron knew what all of them were wondering.

  Who would kill such a beloved monarch? And, with the Queen dead, how could peace prevail in the kingdom of Clementia?

  You may have too many small details here during the ceremony. A lot of people tend to dismiss prologues. If you make it boring, chances are people will jump ahead before getting to the important part, which is the queen’s death.

  Chapter 1

  The sun stared down from a misty sky, the rays no less strong for the weeping water vapour they shone through. Lord Abraham Bradbury could feel the warming light on his broad back as he removed his jacket and shirt and hung them on a nearby fencepost.

  “I do hate to trouble you with such mundane matters, my lord.” His armsman, Oswald said. Oswald was a narrow man with close cropped brown hair and a scar beneath his left eye from a battle long ago. “We simply could find no other course of action. We tried every method from-”

  “It’s no matter, Oswald.” Abraham interrupted. He stretched his long, powerful arms and flexed his boulder-like shoulders. “I fancy a spot of exercise this morning.”

  He stalked forward and locked his arms around the massive stone which was occupying a large chunk of his new potato patch. He bent his knees, took several deep breaths, and then heaved. With the might of more than a half dozen men, he lifted the great boulder. Muscle and sinew stood out against his tanned flesh like knots on a tree, and he staggered over to the fence and dumped the rock outside of the patch with a decisive whump. He wiped sweat from his brow and pushed his unruly black curls behind his shoulders. His dark eyes blazed at Oswald as he put on his shirt and jacket.

  “There,” Abraham puffed, slightly fatigued from using the massive strength hereditary to his family, “what’s next on our agenda for the day?”

  “There are several documents which require your attention,” Oswald said as the two men walked along the dusty trail back toward the keep. The Bradbury estate was carved out of a dense rainforest, vine-covered trees bordering the farmlands on all sides. At the center of the fields, surrounded by several wooden outbuildings, stood the stone walls with their great vaulted gates. Carved bulls stood atop either side of those gates, denoting the powerful family that controlled the western hemisphere of Clementia. Looking at those gates always filled Abraham with pride.

  On this occasion, however, his eyes were drawn past the gates, and down the long hardpack dirt road that wound its way through the forest toward the capital city. A plume of dust had risen above the treetops, and was advancing towards the keep. A plume of dust so large, it could mean only one thing; horses, and riders.

  “It seems we’re about to have visitors, Oswald.” Abraham said, dusting off his hands, “is anything scheduled?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, my lord.” The armsman eased the longsword on his hip. “Shall I rouse the guard?”

  “No need for that,” Abraham chuckled as a trio of riders rounded the last bend in the road, “if you and I can’t handle those three, we’ve little claim to ruling these lands.”

  The two men on foot and the three on horseback met in front of the great gates. The riders dismounted and bowed their heads in deference. They wore the Queen’s livery, as well as leather armor and swords; they were low ranking members of her Royal Guard.

  “Well met, guardsmen,” Abraham said, splaying his powerful hands. “You are made welcome by house Bradbury. Accommodations shall be arranged, and-”

  “Forgive me my lord, but there is no time.” The lead rider said. He was a small man, with slender shoulders and a fragile looking face. His expression, however, was solid and serious as stone.

  “What is it?” Abraham asked, his thoughts immediately turning to his son, Aron. “What has happened?”

  “The Queen is dead,” the messenger said, and Oswald gasped despite himself. Abraham bit his tongue. “Assassinated by way of poison. Your son entrusted us to bear you this horrific news, my lord, and also requested that you come to the capital at once. Although the right is his by marriage, he has yet to claim the crown, and wishes your support and council.”

  A shadow crossed Abraham’s face as he fell into deep thought.

  “May we offer you anything?” Oswald asked the messengers. “Food and drink? You must be parched from the dry road.”

  “We are bound by oath to return to the king’s side, now that our task is complete.” The slight man gave a respectable bow, echoed by his followers, and then the trio turned back to their horses and cantered away. Bradbury and his armsman were left standing in a choking cloud of dust. The sun still stared down at them through the breaking mists.

  “The Queen, dead.” Oswald breathed, as if he could not believe it. They had had twelve good years of peace under her reign. Any educated man knew that her death would almost certainly mean war. “Open the gates!” Oswald bawled, and the guardsmen positioned inside compl
ied. The great wooden portals swung inward, and Abraham stalked across the courtyard with Oswald in tow.

  “Gather my advisors at once,” Abraham said crisply, his experienced mind making plans as he moved. “And make arrangements for us to travel to the capital. With a full contingent of armsmen, mind you. I don’t want us showing up with nothing but our bare hands and condolences. Leave only enough men for two full watch rotations. We can cut back on guards around here if necessary, there’s been little use for them as of late.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Oswald said, running to keep up with his liege lord’s long strides, “are you certain I shouldn’t remain here, to watch over your lands in your stead?”

  “It’s a good idea, Oswald.” Abraham said, stopping long enough to clap the knight on his shoulder, “but I trust you more than any of my other retainers. I must have you with me if we are to succeed.” He resumed walking towards the keep, the great stone building which reared up from the ground like a carved mountain.

  “Of course my lord. Succeed at what?” Oswald asked, again hurrying to keep up. His sword swung on his hip with each step.

  “Why, crowning my son as king of course,” Abraham said with a faraway look in his eye. “He may not be the brightest or the bravest boy in the realm, but he has years of experience ruling now, and the right to the crown, above anyone else. But he will need our help to solidify that claim.” Abraham scraped a callused palm across the rough stubble on his cheek. “With Annabelle gone, it is high time a Bradbury wore the gilded crown.” He scratched his chin and nodded. “Aye, and Aron will make a fine monarch, in time. See to our preparations, Oswald. I should like to leave on the morrow.”

  “At once, my lord.” The armsman said as they opened the keep’s tall doors. Abraham only hoped that they were reacting fast enough… surely, another of the great families would be vying for control of the crown.