Fiona smiled and twirled her sword, ready to drive in for the kill.
Chapter 13
Abraham rolled away, hearing Fiona’s sword hit the tiled floor where he’d lain a moment earlier.
“Father, no!” Aron cried.
Abraham spared a glance toward the dais as he found his feet. Aron had left the crown on the throne and drawn his sword, attempting to break through his guardsmen.
“Your majesty, you mustn't!” Cried one of the guards, but they could not restrain him and watch over Fiona’s team at the same time. Aron broke free, and his guards raced after him as he attacked Fiona.
The battle was joined by both sides; the finest guardsmen against the best warriors in the East. Steel rang on steel in a deadly song that brought many a fine fighter to their knees. Through the middle of it all, Aron fenced with Fiona, giving the Fowler woman as much as she could handle.
Abraham smiled through a grimace as he collapsed to one knee. He had lost too much blood to join in the fight… too much to live, he feared. He sank down with his back against the wall, proudly watching his son give the most dangerous swordswoman in the world the duel of her life. Abraham found the strength to fill his lungs with air and called out, hoping to distract the Lady of the East long enough for his son to gain an advantage.
“Fiona! You must have had excellent intelligence to execute your attack at such a crucial time. How did you receive word of the coronation?”
“Nothing flies so fast or true as my eagles,” she cackled as she parried Aron’s attack and nearly skewered him on her blade. “You will have to rule the skies if you wish to rule over me, Bradbury!”
Abraham grunted. He tore the lower leg off his pants and stuffed the fabric against the worst of the wounds to his abdomen. It slowed the flow of blood to a trickle… or perhaps he was just running out of blood. He did feel somewhat light headed.
The guardsmen were getting the better of Fiona’s fighters, by sheer force of numbers they had an advantage. The Fowler woman did what she could to help them, fighting two and even three people simultaneously while continuing to ward of Aron’s blade. Finally she seemed to realize that she could not overcome the forces of the throne room. An angry glint shone in her crystal blue eyes as she smashed Aron away and turned toward Abraham.
“Perhaps I cannot seize the crown this night,” she called, “but I can still remove my main opposition.” She advanced toward Abraham, raising her sword as if to cut off his head.
“Father! Nooo!” Aron cried, rushing after her.
“Aron, be careful, it’s a tra-”
Fiona spun as swiftly as a snake strikes and thrust her blade straight through Aron’s heart. The young king died before his body hit the floor, eyes lost in a faraway expression, hands nerveless as they lost his sword.
Abraham was paralyzed. He could not move, or speak. He could not accept what had happened. All he could do was stare at his beautiful son, as the blood pool around him grew.
“I won’t kill you today, Abraham.” Fiona said. “That would make things too easy. But I will tell you this.” She leaned close to the broad shouldered man, smiling while her men fought and died behind her. “It was I who had Annabelle assassinated. And I will kill anyone else you put between me and the crown. Come!” She called to her remaining men, and they broke off the fighting and disappeared out the doors.
“My lord!” Bloodied men, breathing hard from the battle, arrived at Bradbury’s side. They applied pressure to his wounds, looking to him for instruction, but Abraham had nothing to say. His son was gone, and that was all that mattered. He had lived for Aron, lived through him… and now all of that was lost because of a lone woman’s ambition.
“My lord, what should we do?” Asked one of the guardsmen. There were only eight of them left. Twelve brave men had died defending his Aron. It had not been enough. Abraham drowned in regret. He should have kept more men behind to defend his son. But in his pride, he had thought he’d be enough.
“Go and help defend the city,” he said bitterly. “Leave me here. If I die, I die. Look to Archibald Cleaver for your commands from now on.”
“You can’t give up your duty so very easily,” came a familiar voice. Abraham looked up to see Archibald Cleaver himself striding powerfully through the room. “The Fowlers have betrayed us. They planned a coordinated assault, from within and without.”
“I know,” Abraham said through clenched teeth. The pain from his wounds could not match the pain in his heart. “Fiona told me herself, before she slew my son.” A sob strangled the last word. He shoved away the guardsmen attempting to tend his wounds. “Go and see to it that the Fowlers are flushed out of the this city,” he said, “leave me be.”
“Yes, go.” Archibald said as the warriors looked to him. “I will see to your lord.” Those not too wounded gathered up and raced off to join the fighting. Archibald crouched at Abraham’s side and finished bandaging the man’s cuts with strips torn from his own cloak.
“Why don’t you let me die?” Bradbury whispered. “You could seize control of the crown, and I could be with my son again.”
“As I said,” Cleaver replied grimly, “you cannot give up your duty so easily. The realm still needs you, if it is ever to be whole again.”
Abraham slumped back as consciousness fled his body. There was some small comfort in Cleaver’s words, but for his very life, the bull could not see how it might be so. Even if he could not see his son wear the gilded crown… perhaps there could be purpose in his life, once he had had his time to mourn.
Chapter 14
Fiona Fowler raced through the night, surrounded by her warriors and the sounds and smells of battle. Men roared with rage and screamed in pain. Blood spattered the earth and stained the cobblestones. They were outnumbered, and now that the element of surprise was lost, outmatched. As if chased by demons Fiona and her men raced from the city, fighting all the way.
As they rounded the corner of a long low log building, a thin line of guardsmen attempted to bar their path.
“For the East!” Fiona roared, propelling herself to the front of her pack and punching through the enemies with the point of her sword. She skewered one man and kicked another in the groin, headbutting him as he fell forward. Her scalp split and blood flowed down to muddy her vision.
Many more soldiers fell to her sword, and not a blade nor cudgel touched her, but still her blood flowed from the split in her scalp. For all her skill the bitter taste of defeat clung at the back of her throat. She had been so close, with the crown within her very grasp. She licked at the blood as it trailed over her lips, anything to replace the tang of disappointment. She wielded her sword as though conducting a symphony of death, and her joined forces followed her back to the gate they still held, back across the field, back into the forests.
They’d faced the combined forces of the city guard, the Bradburies, and the Cleavers… and nearly won. She could still see the gilded crown in her mind’s eye, sitting on the throne for anyone to take. If only she’d had a few more men… if only the Cleavers had not allied themselves with the Bradburies. If only, if only… the words haunted her as she raced through the darkness. She realized for the first time that she was still holding her sword in a death grip, its blade stained deep crimson. She slammed it into its scabbard and tore a strip of cloth from her sleeve, using it to bandage her forehead. With the flow of blood stemmed she looked to helping the wounded, throwing a semi-conscious young man’s arm around her shoulders and assisting him along. From the looks of his helm, he’d absorbed a good thrashing from a cudgel or three.
They moved slowly, for there were many wounded, and the numbing force of adrenaline had faded. Fortunately they were not pursued. They had struck a blow to the capital significant enough that the city would be reeling for days to come. It would be vulnerable to the placement of another spy… perhaps even another assassin. Like a chess master, Fiona had swallowed her defeat and begun thinking four and five steps ahead. Bradbur
y, she hoped, would not be so clever. With any luck the man would be overcome by grief…
But that still left Cleaver; one of the cleverest men in the realm by far. Perhaps he would need to be her next target. A man who worked so often with poisons might be prone to make a mistake… to prick his finger on a lethal needle, or accidentally ingest some deadly herbs. The thought brought a smile to Fiona’s tired face. She may have lost the battle, but the war was far from over.
The sun had risen by the time they made it back to the East, bloody and bedraggled but intact as a fighting force. They had lost many warriors, but it had only been a small army… Fiona had left many more fighters in reserve in her stronghold, as she always did. She had learned long ago to only ever strike from a position of strength. The wounded were tended to and the rest of her warriors went off to rest, but Fiona did not feel tired. Instead she took a goblet of spiced wine and sat on her intricately carved chair in the great hall, alone but for the flickering shadows cast by the hearth fire.
“You should be resting,” scolded Mildred as she entered the stone hewn chamber. “After someone looks at that head wound, and you’ve had something to eat. That wine will not build back your strength.”
“This is nothing,” Fiona said, adjusting the makeshift bandage on her brow despite the pounding headache the wound had brought along. “And I am not hungry or tired. I have strength enough in me to press on… if only my men could say the same.”
“You bear the bounty of a noble bloodline,” Mildred reminded her, “it grants you many gifts… but immortality is not one of them. You must rest before you think too much on your next move. Your mind is weary, whether you admit it or not.”
Fiona took a long pull of wine and set the goblet down. She made a wry face despite the pleasant taste of the drink. She knew Mildred was right, but the wound to her pride made her want to stay awake until she figured out an appropriate next step.
“Very well,” she said at last after a long sigh. “Send a surgeon to me, but only after the rest of the wounded are tended to. And have one of the servants bring me something to eat… just some bread and cheese. I could not stomach anything heavy. The taste of defeat still hangs in my throat.”
“As you say, my lady.” Mildred curtsied formally, the way she always did when she got her way, and stepped out of the hall. Alone again, Fiona settled back into her chair and picked up her wine. The strong brew was enough to dull her mind, dull the pain of the failed attack. And it occupied her time and attention until the food arrived. She snacked on bread and cheese until the surgeon arrived to clean her wound and smear a sticky salve over it to accelerate the healing process. Fiona thanked the healer and then sent the woman away. Between the food and the wine, and yes, perhaps even the battle and the long run home, she was finally feeling exhausted.
Her lantern flickered and her footsteps whispered as she climbed the great staircase to her bedchamber. There she extinguished the lantern and took off her bloody clothes and washed at the basin, looking out over her sunlit realm. Once she felt clean she drew the curtains and collapsed into bed. The feather-stuffed mattress seemed to mould to her body, and she was asleep before she knew it.
Chapter 15
Abraham Bradbury knelt next to the long stone table his son’s body lay upon. The mortuary smelled appropriately off death, and his knees ached from pressing against the hard floor, but he could not bring himself to move from Aron’s side. The surgeons insisted that he should be in bed resting, but he needed to be with his son. He needed to memorize every detail of the boy’s face before they buried him beneath the earth. He felt fortunate he’d had a portrait painted of Aron the day before the young man’s wedding. He would have a statue sculpted in its likeness, and have it erected at the site of his son’s burial in the catacombs deep beneath the city.
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his reverie. Bradbury wiped his eyes and stood, knees popping painfully. He turned toward the door as Oswald entered. The young armsman bowed his head in silent sympathy. The bandage around his brow cast odd shadows across his face in the flickering torchlight. Oswald had fought well defending the capital, wounded but still gathering men to his side and beating the enemy back.
“My lord,” he said, shadowy face tight with concern, “you must rest. You wear a half dozen wounds, and the people will require your strength in days to come.”
“Can I not have a moment to mourn on my own, before considering the needs of the people?” Bradbury said bitterly, looking back at his son’s still form.
“A moment, yes.” Oswald said. He stepped forward and placed a palm on his lord’s shoulder. “A moment, and no more. Your duty is as great as a mountain, I know, but you alone have the strength to bear it. We need you well, my lord. Please return to bed and allow the healers to minister to your needs.”
“I will,” Abraham said with a long sigh, “after I have had an important meeting. Send word to Algernon Clemington and Archibald Cleaver. Invite them to meet me in my chambers in an hour’s time.” He groaned as he touched the deep wound in his side. “It may take me as long to climb the stairs.”
Oswald hesitated, clearly wanting to protest more, but then nodded and turned sharply to carry out his lord’s commands.
Grimacing, Abraham followed slowly in his armsman’s wake. His skin felt tight, itchy and uncomfortable where his cuts had been stitched shut by the surgeons. His clothes felt grimy and heavy, his hair greasy and lifeless. The surgeons had bathed away the blood when they cleaned him, but Abraham had not properly washed himself since the battle. The memory of watching his son die on Fiona Fowler’s blade played over and over in his mind.
Some level of order had been restored in the castle and the surrounding city. The gates had been barred with the most loyal long-standing guardsmen watching them, and Abraham’s own warriors were seeing to the questioning of potential spies left behind by that eastern witch. Abraham would not be caught lying idle twice by the foul woman’s scheming. They had been at peace, but she had behaved as though it was a time of war… well, the Bradburies were proficient when it came to war, if that was what she wanted.
Leaning on the wall at times, Abraham made his way along the castle corridors that had been filled with blood and screaming so recently. The memories of the battle chased him like specters. If only he had made different decisions on any of a number of occasions, the result might of been different. Aron might still be alive. But his son was gone… and Abraham knew Oswald was right. He must look to the needs of the living, and focus on the future.
It took perhaps half of an hour at his slow rate of movement, but Abraham arrived in his chambers and sank gratefully into a comfortable chair, one of several surrounding a low table. Tea, still steaming, and biscuits sat waiting for him and his guests. He decided against taking a cup, fearing that his hands would shake so badly as to rattle the saucer. Between the pain of his wounds and the agony of his loss, Abraham’s normal calm composure had left him.
Algernon Clemington arrived first, poking his wizened head in with a polite rap on the open door. They made pleasantries as he took a seat and poured himself some tea, and then sat in silence until Archibald Cleaver strode through the door. The silver haired man sat immediately and met Abraham’s gaze.
“It is good to see you out of the mortuary, but you really should be resting. I saw the severity of your wounds, and even a bull is only so strong.”
“My thanks for your concern,” Abraham said, “and again, for saving my life last night. But I would shift your attention to another matter. Is your daughter well?”
“She was unharmed,” Cleaver said with a thankful nod, “I had her hide away in her room as soon as the fighting started.”
“I’m afraid I did the same,” said the frail Algernon Clemington, “I never was much of a fighter, and even less so in my old age.”
“That is of little matter,” Abraham assured him, “you have other things to offer the realm in such dire times of need. I’m su
re you are both curious why I asked you here today.”
“Is it not to discuss improvements upon the city’s defenses?” Cleaver said with a raised eyebrow. “Under the circumstances, I had assumed-”
“I have good men seeing to our fortifications.” Abraham assured him. “We will not get caught lying down like that again. Fiona played a clever hand, but now it is played. By attacking a peacefully united capital, she has declared war on all of us. We must respond in kind.”
“War?” Algernon echoed. Cleaver merely looked on with his bushy grey brow raised.
“Yes,” Abraham said, “I suggest we gather what troops we can and route Fiona from her stronghold in the East. Both because she should be executed for her actions, and to prevent any further hostilities. Even now, she is no doubt plotting her next assault.”
“No one has ever taken the stronghold of the East by force,” Cleaver pointed out, although he was not objecting. If anything he merely seemed to mull the words within his mind.
“That is quite true,” Algernon said, clearing his throat. “However, many great captains in our history theorized ways of invading it, and the Fowler forces would be considerably weakened after this failed attack.” The other two men looked at him, and he blushed slightly. “Just because I am not one for fighting, does not mean I shy away from our realm’s military history.”
“That is good,” Abraham said. “I asked you here not just because of your influence, but because of your wisdom and great knowledge. Same to you, Cleaver… this is an undertaking I could never manage on my own. With help from both of you, though, I believe it will be possible.”
“Allow me to return to my rooms,” Algernon said, depositing his teacup and saucer on the table and standing, “I have several tomes there that tell details of the eastern stronghold. I may be able to find something of importance.”
The Burning Age (Fight For The Crown Book 1) Page 7
