Mercenarys march the sch.., p.1
Mercenary’s March (The Schooled in Magic Universe, #2), page 1
Mercenary’s March
(A Schooled in Magic Universe Novel)
Christopher G. Nuttall
http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall
Cover by Alexander Chau
(www.alexanderchau.co.uk)
All Comments Welcome!
Contents
Cover Blurb
Prologue I (Fifteen Years Before the End of the Necromantic Wars)
Prologue II (One Year After the End of the Necromantic Wars)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Afterword
Appendix: The Kingdom of Kentigern
Appendix: Mercenaries
Appendix: The Bloody Hands Mercenary Band
Appendix: Orcs
How To Follow
Cover Blurb
Fifteen years ago, the Kingdom of Kentigern was destroyed by a necromancer and his army of orcs, the Royal Family and a handful of aristocrats and commoners forced to flee across the Inner Sea before it was too late. Since then, few have set foot on Kentigern and fewer still have returned, leaving the refugees trapped, unable to return home. But now the Necromantic Wars are over.
Determined to keep his vow to return, Crown Prince Hadrian of Kentigern raises an army of mercenaries, armed with the latest weapons and magitech necromancer-killing devices, and sets off to reclaim his father’s kingdom. For Sir James, Captain-General of the Bloody Hands, it is a chance to gain the titles and wealth that should be his by right; for Robin and Eliza, runaways from aristocratic justice, it is a chance to make a new life for themselves, far from their former tormentors.
But it won’t be as easy as they think, because the ruined kingdom hides a far darker secret than a necromancer, and one far more dangerous ...
Prologue I (Fifteen Years Before the End of the Necromantic Wars)
The city was burning.
King Hadrian the Elder, King of Kentigern, stood on the deck of the Royal Hadrian and watched, helplessly, as his kingdom fell to darkness. The orcs were breaking through the walls, crashing through weak spots opened by weeks of bombardment, and tearing their way through the remaining defenders, already disorientated by the rapidly-spreading flames. His lines were already weakening as more and more soldiers and militiamen joined the general exodus to the docks and discipline snapped until it became clear it was every man for himself. Thousands of civilians were already there, townspeople and refugees from the surrounding countryside trying to get out before it was too late. Some were trying to get onto the last ships, their cries and pleas blending together into an awful howl that was audible even at some distance; others were plunging into the water, as if they could swim to the packed ships offshore or somehow make it across the Inner Sea to Tidebank. There was little hope of survival, not for them. The currents between the two kingdoms were dangerous beyond belief, even to ships. It was unlikely they’d last a day in the water, let alone the several days it would take to reach safety.
His heart clenched as something exploded in the distance, an eerie red-green fireball rising into the darkening sky. The kingdom had fought raiders and would-be conquerors in the past two centuries, ever since the Empire had crumbled and his ancestors had secured their independence, and survived them all ... but this was different. They were facing a necromancer, a maddened sorcerer bent on slaughter and sacrifice rather than an invader who wanted the land and wealth of the kingdom for himself. There was no hope of reasoning with such an enemy, no way to convince him to accept anything the kingdom could offer ... even surrender. The defences had broken and now ... all he could do was get as many of his people out before it was too late, before the coastline was seized and the kingdom became a nightmare contaminated by dark and twisted magic. The end could not be long delayed.
No, he told himself. This is the end.
He clenched his fists in silent frustration. How had it gone so wrong? The mountains should have protected Kentigern from enemy attack, the fortress city of Strickland blocking the sole major pass through the southern mountains that served as the only plausible line of invasion. His father and grandfather had poured resources into the city, building up vast lines of defence and crafting wards and other protections that should have stood even against a necromancer. The kingdom should have been secure and yet ... Strickland had fallen. Incompetence? Treachery? Or simple bad luck? King Hadrian didn’t know, and in the end, it didn’t matter. The moment the fortress city had fallen, opening the gates to the northern lands, it had become clear he would be the last king of his country. His son might survive, in exile, but it would be a long time before he even saw his own again.
Magic flared, flashes of light darting through the air. King Hadrian put his charmed spyglass to his eye and watched, cursing under his breath, as the last of the royal sorcerers made their final stand. They were strong men, learned in both the magical and martial arts, and yet they couldn’t hope to stand against a necromancer. He could see them roaring and chanting as they struggled to keep their wards in place for a few moments longer, but it was clear they were losing, and losing badly. The king didn’t want to force himself to watch, yet ... he owed it to himself to witness their end. They were giving their lives in his service ...
There was another explosion, brighter this time. The flames spread rapidly, fuelled by alchemical stockpiles as they jumped from house to house. The last traces of discipline broke, infantrymen dropping their weapons and archers tossing their crossbows aside ... the king gritted his teeth as he saw a handful of noblemen, aristocrats who had pledged to give their lives to buy the townspeople more time to evacuate, throwing aside their own weapons and joining the crowd in a desperate bid to escape. A couple tried to hold the line, only to be swept aside by their own men. King Hadrian noted their names, although rewarding their families as they deserved was no longer within his power. He would soon be a king-in-exile, the leader of a dispossessed people who might soon dissolve into the surrounding community. His power would only go as far as his hosts allowed, and if he pushed too far, he would be told to leave the kingdom or face arrest and expulsion. It was shameful to be so weak and yet ... it was a reality he could not deny. His kingdom was gone.
The panic grew worse as the flames neared the docks, where shipmasters cut their chains and tried to get their vessels out of the harbour before it was too late. The king wanted to rage at them for cowardice, even though he could hardly blame them for fleeing. It was no consolation to the rest of the desperate townspeople, trying to get onto the boats ... he swallowed, hard, as he saw a young family plunging into the water. They were strangers and yet ... he tried to tell himself that they were lucky to die now, rather than be enslaved and eventually sacrificed by the necromancer, their bodies fed to the orcs. It didn’t work. They hadn’t deserved to die. The kingdom hadn’t deserved its fate ...
“Father!”
King Hadrian turned, just in time to see his young son running towards him. The king’s heart clenched again. Hadrian the Younger was ten years old, old enough to start learning the sword and the basics of statecraft, yet ... he was going to grow up in a world that had denied him his birthright, denied him even the hope of returning to his kingdom to regain his throne. A normal usurper could be challenged and defeated, the rightful king leading an army to rid his kingdom of the false king, but necromancers were simply too powerful to defeat in a straight fight. There were few who could stand against them for long, and none would do it for a king and a prince in exile. The kingdom was gone, and his son ... his son would never come into his own.
“I told you to stay below decks,” King Hadrian said, sharply. His son was as headstrong as his poor dead mother, who had died giving birth to a stillborn daughter. “This isn’t for you.”
His son looked mulish. King Hadrian sighed and held the boy as he turned to look back at the dying city. The orcs were charging the docks now, sweeping aside the paltry resistance and grabbing townspeople for the slaughter pots. A handful of archers were firing from the fleeing boats, burning up the last of their arrows in a desperate bid to make the enemy pay, but there were always more orcs to replace the ones who fell. They kept coming, sealing off the last hope of escape. He shuddered to think how many of his people were caught behind the lines, trapped and helpless. Their lives were about to become a living nightmare.
Something prickled on the air, a sense of doom that chilled him to the bone. He looked up, his eyes drawn helplessly to the docks. A lone figure walked – no, floated – into view, a hooded man shrouded in a darkness that was far from natural. It was hard to make out anything under the shadow, save for a pair of bright red eyes. The necromancer stood there ... for a moment, their eyes met. He was sure, at a very primal level, that the necromancer knew he was there ... knew and didn’t care. It was hard to look away. It took him every piece of willpower he could muster to force himself to lower the spyglass.
He shivered. Even at a distance, the necromancer’s presence was very visible. His tainted magic poisoned the air.
His son cursed, using words he’d probably learnt from the soldiers. “Father, I ...”
The necromancer raised a hand. A fireball swept from his fingers and struck the nearest ship, blasting the vessel into pieces of burning debris. The rest of the ships started to turn and flee, painfully slow compared to the necromancer’s magic. Five more vessels were destroyed in quick succession before the necromancer tired of his game, tired of proving the kingdom was now his, and his alone. King Hadrian felt old and weak as the royal flagship spread her sails, picking up a wind that would hopefully take them out of range before it was too late. The crown felt heavier than heavy before, a mocking reminder of the burden of kingship ... and his failure to keep his people safe. They had crammed thousands upon thousands of people into the ships, along with money and treasures and everything he needed to buy land and property, but it wouldn’t be enough. How could it be? He had failed, and now his people were either refugees or dead.
“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure who he was speaking to, his people or his son. “I failed you.”
He looked down at his son, feeling a wave of fatherly affection mingled with bitter grief. His son and namesake was a fine youngster, a child who would grow into a great warrior and greater king, but now ... none of their dreams would ever be realised. He’d planned to ensure his child shared the throne, learning the lessons he’d need for the day he was hailed as sole monarch ... now, there was no point. The young man would grow up in exile, just another royal who had been driven from his kingdom before he ever had a chance to come into his own. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.
“Father,” his son said. “I shall return.”
King Hadrian winced. The oath – and it was an oath, however understated – was impossible to keep. Prince Hadrian had grown up on tales of mighty warriors and brave sorcerers fighting impossible odds and somehow coming out ahead. He had yet to learn that no one, no matter how brave and strong, could stand against an army, let alone a necromancer. A body of knights who charged into the Blighted Lands would be effortlessly slaughtered, and an amphibious landing wouldn’t have time to unload the boats before they were wiped out. If his son went back to his kingdom, he would never return. And as he grew older, it would be harder and harder to keep his son from trying his luck.
“I will,” his son said, with all the earnestness of youth. “I won’t leave the kingdom to that ... thing.”
King Hadrian looked up. The coastline was falling into darkness now, only slightly alleviated by the burning city. Kentigern had never had many coastal settlements – the tides made it harder for fishing villages to establish themselves – and the few that had made it had hopefully been evacuated now. The necromancer was well out of sight, but his presence still poisoned the world around him. There was no going back now. His duty was to his remaining people, the ones who had escaped. Guilt gnawed at his soul, a bitter reminder of his failure as a monarch. He couldn’t do anything to help the ones he’d left behind.
He rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, child,” he said, quietly. “But unless something changes, we won’t see home again.”
Prologue II (One Year After the End of the Necromantic Wars)
There were times, in all honesty, when King Louis of Tidebank wanted to dig up his father’s grave and demand to know just what he’d been thinking when he’d allowed the refugees from Kentigern to settle in his kingdom.
He ground his teeth in frustration as he sat on his throne and waited, suspecting he already knew the answer. King Philip had been facing challenges from overmighty lords, who’d never dream of letting something like a necromancer on the other side of the Inner Sea keep them from trying to weaken their monarch, and the refugees had been immensely helpful in keeping the lords in their place. The Kentigerns had been mercenaries, to all intents and purposes, and they’d been strong enough to overwhelm the household troops the lords had managed to raise before the hammer came down. They’d been richly rewarded in return, their people granted settlement rights and their monarch-in-exile hailed as a king even though his kingdom was gone, and yet ... Louis couldn’t help thinking his father had gone too far. It would have been wiser, surely, to force them to integrate into the kingdom, to spread them out rather than allowing them to form a community of their own. But instead ...
It wasn’t as if they were bad – or disloyal. Their settlement was more law-abiding than most city-states. Their young men were soldiers and mercenaries, their women merchants and traders as well as craftswomen and industrialists; they wielded power, directly or indirectly, on a scale far out of proportion to their numbers. They were loyal to the crown now, true, but would they remain loyal? King Hadrian the Elder was smart enough to understand that his people had a pretty sweet deal, but his son was a very different story. Prince Hadrian the Younger wanted to go home to a kingdom he barely remembered, a flight of fancy that had been dismissed as absurd nonsense until the necromancers had been broken. What had once been a dream had become a political crisis, a situation that might explode no matter how he handled it. And that raised the spectre of disaster.
Louis hated being indecisive, but the stakes were too high to make a hasty decision. If he honoured his father’s agreement with the Kentigern refugees, an agreement no one had seriously expected they’d have to keep, the consequences would be severe. If he broke his word, the consequences would be disastrous. Louis knew the aristocrats were uneasy, old memories of his father crushing their revolt merging into a grim awareness of the tidal wave of revolutionary thought spreading across the continent, and if they thought their monarch could no longer rely on the Kentigerns for support, they might try to revolt. Or the Kentigerns themselves might try to revolt. They had a sizable body of armed troops and experienced mercenaries, and if they launched an uprising, it might very well succeed. Or plunge the kingdom into civil war.
He looked up as his chamberlain stepped into the chamber. “Your Majesty, Prince Hadrian has arrived.”
Louis kept his face from showing any trace of his real emotions. “He may enter.”
The chamberlain bowed and retreated, returning a moment later with Prince Hadrian. The prince was a young man, with tanned skin, dark hair, and darker eyes that stuck out amongst the remainder of the kingdom’s nobility. He wore a simple tunic, topped with a purple robe that was – technically – illegal for anyone who wasn’t a member of the royal family. King Philip had granted King and Prince Hadrian the right to wear regal colours, something that made Louis’s blood boil. The sword at Prince Hadrian’s belt was the final indignity. Only royals and their guards could bear arms in the presence of the king, and Prince Hadrian was neither. His kingdom was gone. The sooner he realised his dream was dead, the better.
Prince Hadrian went down on one knee. “Your Majesty.”
He hid his resentment well, but it was there. Louis had seen it before, in the eyes of young men who hated the idea of deferring to their social superiors, and they had wealth and power and bloodlines of their own. Prince Hadrian wasn’t poor, and his family had influence, thanks to the refugees, but there were strict limits to his power. Louis knew his father had been trying to find a bride for his son, yet it had proven impossible to find someone who was both royal – or at least a high-ranking aristocrat – and willing to marry him. Prince Hadrian was both a Crown Prince, heir to a kingdom, and a pauper. He clung to his pride because it was all he had left.
