Sample Battle Chapter: The Brave Prince

Hello! I'm back publishing some work on here. I felt a little uninspired, being bogged down with Chapter Twenty, so I decided to liven myself up with a good old battle scene. This is actual chapter-length, so it is neither a quick, nor long and unwieldy read. This is set sixty years before the main story and provides exposition, being the defining moment of recent history in my fantasy world, establishing the current geopolitical landscape. It's pretty action-packed for the last two thirds, so should be an entertaining read. I've had glowing reviews so far and felt the need to put this out publicly so I can share it with friends more easily.

Don't worry about exposition, I wrote this with the history pre-established and determined, and a reader who is half-way through the book will know what's going on, but you won't. Ignore the name-dump, since it's supposed to give more background to houses familiar to the reader, which you won't know. Enough rambling, tl;dr: don't worry about names and have fun with it.

65,000 + Words :) I might even finish the first draft by the end of this year since I'm about half-way through. We'll see.

Hope you enjoy!

P.S. Forgot to mention that I posted this in a different format (using Times New Roman) through downloading my google docs as a .docx which I'll stick to from now on. Means I don't have to go through and manually italicise everything again after copying and pasting.

The Brave Prince

Defeat, after defeat, after defeat. An endless humiliation, and for what? They arrived at Seaguard, launching boulders from their enormous triremes and battering down the proud walls of that eastern fortress. Alystair was standing at the foot of his father's throne, hammer in hand, protecting his King, when they received the news. A man with both arms missing, carrying a bag with his teeth, stumbled into the Buckkeep. The fear in his eyes... no man should be capable of such intense emotion. He collapsed on the foot of his father's throne, and out rolled the head of his uncle. Haethtor had been sent there in order to give him a safe seat of power far away from the capital, where Lord Tirn of the Mansa and Guimo of Savournia constantly leapt at any chance to diminish the power of the crown. Bastards, both of them. When I become King I'll crush them both and raise others to their unearned seats. But regardless, Haethtor was there to find safety, and he found the point of Arenykos' blade.

His eyes, the change, Stair would never forget. Sunken caves. Hollow shells devoid of humanity. His uncle's eyes were gone, pecked out by an eagle. As it slipped out of the bag it spread its wings and darted for his father. Alystair leapt into action and swung his hammer, crushing the beast all at once. He'd forgotten what it looked like, what colour it was, but he'd never forget uncle Haethtor's eyes. He remembered too the deathly silence that hung over the throne room, every man unable to take their eyes off of the skull. The eagle had a declaration attached to its talons, but every man knew it was war before his father unrolled it. War with the Anomedians, over what? We traded with them, even helped them in their last war of conquest when they secured the west, and now they invade us? It wasn't stated in the declaration, that was some drivel about trade disputes, but they all knew what this was truly about. The world isn't large enough for two empires, not of equal strength - they come to tear us down.

The following year had brought chaos. The treachery of Tirn and Guimo was obvious when they quietly left the capital days later, and sent no response to royal demands to raise their fyrds. Following that, the Anomedians landed somewhere south of Haemkeep, and began their trail of conquest. Lord Morcaer Heller led a combined force with the five-year-old Little Lord Omric Hantersing, Lord Tarkric Eratark, and Lord Yoran Lansar to face them on the banks of the river Shorn, only to have this grand army shattered, corpses littering the fields and damming the river. Bodies of Mournish men appeared at the river's mouth for months afterwards. Bodies of seventy-thousand men, all slaughtered. Thirty-thousand returned with their tails between their legs, alleging that the Anomedian army numbered nearly two-hundred thousand men. They had taken about twenty-thousand casualties themselves, but had pressed on, and put the Tail and the Great Bay to the sword, razing villages and bashing down the gates of Bluetower and Tarkkeep - seats of great lords - and levelling them into mere heaps of rubble.

Two months ago Alystair had rode east to stop them himself, with a hundred-thousand men at his back. He found only humiliation, and fled behind the walls of Eurann while the eastern men laid siege to Hanthall and Hellerhome. Sixty-thousand dead. Men under my command, and yet I let the Eagles hit them in the rear and drive them back. He had caused significant casualties, whittling down Arenykos' army to likely just over a hundred-thousand men, but it was all for nothing. A month ago those Manser and Savournian bastards arrived in the east with another fifty-thousand men, and so again the men of iron were outnumbered. Hopelessness abounded, and it struck like the plague.

This time they wouldn't hold back, his father assured him. They picked the site of battle, at a narrow bridge crossing the Jear, just east of Onnasgrove, which had sacred forests encircling it. The gods would be right behind them, they were sure. The Bull will give strength to our hammers, he has to. One-hundred-and-twenty thousand men followed them to the river in their final gambit to stop the rolling wave of fire. They had set up camp, sent a messenger to inform Arenykos of the site of battle, and waited, and waited. Alystair was sure that the Anomedians were heading downstream and crossing the river to hit them from both sides, and Lord Rhickall Danisch agreed, but there was little they could do to convince the ever-so-wise King Rennlas that he was taking them into another slaughter.

He and his father now arrived at the crest of the tall bank of the Jear, and, perched upon their horses, they saw it. Alystair didn't know what to think. How many? A thousand at least, surely. I- The fields across the Jear had been cleared for all their worth, and scarecrows were replaced with the corpses of villagers, their eyes pecked out and their limbs nailed to crucifixes, as if the dead men, women, and children were hanging out to dry. The ground itself looked a shade of reddish-brown. Our people... I- Death was laughing, he knew it. The darkness was the king of the day, ruling with a bloody fist. As he looked closer, Alystair could tell many were still alive, caked in blood with no tear ducts to show their pain and sorrow. Their screams had clearly long since been beaten out of them. The sadism; are they even human? His father took one last look at them, clenched his fist, sharply reared his horse, and sped back toward the camp. "To arms!" he cried. "To arms!"

The men hastily grabbed their spears and shields, forming a shieldwall at the bridge while the knights mounted up and raced to the flanks, ready to execute their plan. As each man at the head of their huge host reached the crest of the bank, silence struck them. Some spewed out their breakfast, while most simply wept. It was clear that some among them recognised some of those blood-crusted corpses. Alystair and his father shared a brief look, and with a nod from his King, Stair spurred his horse onward, positioned himself at the head of the bridge, and turned to face his men.

"Look in front of you men! You all see it. Those are men, women, and children of Mournish stock; your brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters are nailed to wood in that field of blood. Will you stand there idly and watch them die, will you flee and give up all hope, or will you honour them and fight? I see before me thousands upon thousands of the finest men to ever live, the men who can truly be called the men of iron! Will you honour this name? Will you honour Rhickall's legacy? That man raised his hammer high for all that he believed in, and carved out a realm for us all to fight for, to die for! Will you honour him? Will you raise your spears and your hammers and crush the Eagles who seek to bring down all he built for us? Will you bring them iron and blood?" Alystair raised his hammer towards the sky and slammed it against his steel shield, sending a harsh clatter throughout the air. "Will you?"

"Aye!" came a thunderous shout from the horde of men who stood before him, who slammed their spears against their shields and raised their hammers toward the domain of the gods.

Hearing the noise, the Anomedians came out from hiding and suddenly charged across the field of blood, clearly seeking to break through before Stair could organise his troops as they bashed down the crucifixes that littered the field.

"You see them, men? They come to do this again. Stop them. Fight!" Alystair ordered, riding away from the bridge as his men flooded onto it and formed a shieldwall, while he prepared the cavalry for assault. What the Eagles didn't know was that the river was shallow enough to be forded by horseback, and they would take advantage of this by waiting for the enemy to be locked in battle, and then crossing the river and slamming into their ranks. The mostly sword-wielding Anomedians would be made carrion by sunfall. It's almost beautiful, captivating, how close we are to victory - and the battle hasn't even begun.

The legionaries of the mighty eastern empire, with their cone-shaped, red-plumed, and winged helms and segmented steel armour, soon flooded onto the bridge and leapt upon the shieldwall, bashing their swords against it and throwing themselves upon the spears of the defending men. It took merely a minute for bodies to begin piling up upon the bridge, men fearlessly clambering over the bodies of their comrades just to have a spear poke out from the wall and slip through the cracks of their steel armour. It was almost too easy, and the men cheered, breaking out into song.

A hammer, a hammer, bring me a hammer!

The men of iron, we fight!

A hammer, a hammer, give me my hammer!

Unmatched by any, our might!

His hammer, his hammer, he fought by his hammer!

Rhickall our glorious King!

His hammer, his hammer, lend us his hammer!

Us the sons of Rhickall, his kin!

They sang and sang as the men continued to hold fast, standing their ground as the pile of bodies continued to grow. His father brought out the next stage of their plan, sending forwards the longbowmen of the Westmark, nearly seven-thousand in number, who brought with them pack mules carrying thousands of arrows. They took their position upon the crest, nocked, drew, and loosed a furious hail upon the idle men. Their men raised their shields and formed a tight formation, like a turtle, blocking off arrows from all directions, but two hails hit them before they could form, puncturing even their steel armour due to the short distance and causing thousands of men to drop to the ground, crying out in pain. The barrage continued for a while, picking off the odd man before they stopped, their mission of disrupting reinforcements and pinning them down a success.

Suddenly, the enemy pulled back, rejoining the arrow-proof formation. Victory? The shields seemed to shuffle in the centre as a wave of this movement slowly approached the bridge. Without warning a great battle horn blew, and huge beasts of men emerged from under the shields, darting toward the bridge, screaming in some incomprehensible, devilish tongue. These men wore nothing but bear furs draped around their shoulders and loincloths, and their skin was painted in shades of vibrant blues and greens. They wielded huge two-handed axes that were almost as intimidating as a hammer and their fury seemed unmatched as they clambered up the pile of bodies and leapt over the shieldwall, crashing into Alystair's lines. Shit, shit, shit! Gods preserve us!

Stair spurred his horse toward the bridge. "Hold fast!" he bellowed. "Hold fast, for the King, for Mourne, for the Gods... hold fast for your lives!"

The men let out a furious battle cry and pushed back against the berserkers, while the men holding the front of the shieldwall found themselves stuck underneath the enemy, being mercilessly slaughtered to a man. The others did their best to aid them, but they only exacerbated the crushing effect and condemned them to death. No man of iron should have to die in such a manner. Alystair looked back to see his father ordering the longbowmen to fire at the bridge. What is he doing? Our men, friendly fire... our own troops! Before he could say a word though, the men loosed and sent a hail of arrows shrieking through the sky. It reminded him of water in a kettle coming to a boil, the ear-piercing noise that often brought good news now twisted by the dark forces of the world, descending upon the slew of bloody battle. Men from both sides, though thankfully more of the berserkers, collapsed to the ground, a thud, thud, thud, of arrows sounding almost as painful as the splintering of his men's shields.

In response, a huge man with long, wavy orange-red hair clad in bronze lamellar armour imbued with crimson red crystals and with a crown of thorns perched atop his head was lifted above the shieldwall. He bellowed out commands in the Anomedian tongue, and the front of his formation broke off and engaged, charging back onto the bridge. That must be Arenykos. He has some giant blood in him. The sheer force of the charge pressed the berserkers into the Mournish lines and caused them to buckle, giving more and more ground in the absence of a shieldwall. They're engaged, they're engaged!

"Father!" Alystair called out. "Do we start the attack?"

Rennlas, perched upon his proud mailed stallion, lifted the visor of his steel bascinet crowned with a ring of emeralds and locked eyes with him before giving a stern nod.

"Men of iron!" Stair cried. "Cross the river! For the King! Bring them iron and blood!" He spurred his horse onward and raised his hammer to the sky. "Charge!"

Twenty-thousand Mournish men all darted forward together, sending their horses striding across the shallow ford of the Jear. It was almost beautiful. The narrowest, shallowest point of the Jear has a narrow bridge atop it and a sacred grove nearby. There could be no greater site of battle on the whole continent. It took ten seconds to cross the river, by which point the Anomedians were rushing to the bank. However, again, the site was perfect, as the vertical slope to ascend was almost non-existent, and Alystair personally led the first waves into full gallop as they quickly closed the thirty feet between them and the foe. It was beautiful. He saw the fear in the eyes of the legionaries, and even saw a few of Tirn and Guimo's toward the rear break off and flee, only to be cut down by their supposed Anomedian comrades. I suppose it works to ward off desertion, however inhumane it may be.

Alystair locked eyes with his target, a legionary a few inches to the right of him, with dull, orange eyes and flowing red hair. He took a breath, and focused. My hammer, and his skull. The whole world is my hammer, and his skull. Ah, what does it matter? The bull has given strength to my arm, let me use it. Closing in, Stair broke his focus and bursted out into a rage-fueled laughter. Ha ha ha! You kill these innocents, I crush your bones! He screamed, approached the red-haired legionary, and swung his hammer. The force of all the ancients and the gods crashed down upon that man as he tried to raise his shield in vain. His skull caved in instantly as blood and bone splattered across the battlefield. Ha ha ha! Who's next? He caught sight of a short man backing away from him, holding his shield aloft, and galloped toward him. Alystair feigned with an attack overhead, causing the man to raise his shield further, and twisted his hammer downward, using his momentum to slam it into the man's ribs, sending him flying backward, crashing into three of his comrades. He then advanced on these men who were trying to push the dead man off them, and swung at all of the heads, crushing each of their skulls in turn. Ha ha ha! Feel the wrath of the gods, heathens!

The knights continued to push through the Anomedian lines and the tide of battle turned dramatically. Legionaries dropped dead left and right, unable to do much at all other than swamp a stray knight and drag him off his horse. It had been mere minutes, and they already had planted a crop of thousands of dead Eagles. It was easy, almost too easy. Alystair looked back to see that the Anomedians were still focusing on the bridge, and still gaining ground. Something isn't right, the air tastes bitter. They pressed, and pressed, and yet those men on the bridge kept pushing, despite almost being cut off from the rest of the army. Is this stupidity, bravery, or something else? Alystair noticed that Arenykos was still watching over his men, catching arrows with his shield, and seemed to be looking at the bridge with a smug smirk.

Suddenly he was passed a huge silver horn, possibly ten feet in length, which one would be able to hear for at least a mile. The Emperor sucked in as much air as he could, and blew vigorously, the sound rippling across the battlefield - a triumphant varum, varuuum! Alystair knew what was happening: he looked behind him to see figures emerging from the sacred groves. No, it can't be! The gods betray us, for heathens! I-

Stair turned and galloped toward the bridge. "Father!" he cried. "Father, behind you! They attack from behind!"

The King could tell he was trying to say something, but couldn't hear it over the clash of blades; he simply cocked his head and stared.

"Father! Behind you!" he screamed with all his might, blowing the air from out his lungs.

His father looked behind him and jumped back, falling off of his horse. Father! By the gods, we are surely doomed.

Alystair took it upon himself to bellow commands across. "Lord Rhickall! Rhickall Danisch! Order the men to form a shieldwall at the rear!"

His father's stout commander gave a firm nod and spurred his horse toward their rear. It would be possible to hold these two fronts at once, as long as the bridge didn't fall. Alystair looked over to see the last of the brave men holding those berserkers back stepping back off the bridge as they reeled, slowly dropping back up the bank. They're taunting me. The Owl could not forgive our sins anymore, and now we pay. Give me a noble death, oh great one. Arenykos bellowed out another order, and his men spilled onto the bank, pressing further and further while he picked up his zweihander and advanced. Thank you, oh wise one - he's mine. The Legionaries boldly pressed forward now, throwing their bodies against Alystair's knights, bringing many to the ground and driving them back.

"Dismount!" he screamed. "Dismount! We fight and die here to-day, and to-night we dine with the gods!"

The men cheered a last cry of rage and dismounted, swinging their hammers in wild fury as Stair did the same. He fought his way to the bridge. One after another. He swung his hammer and smashed in the ribs of a legionary charging at him. Next! He advanced slowly, widening his stance to give him greater control as he put one foot after the other forward, bashing and crashing down all those who stood before him. A towering berserker leapt toward him, raising his axe above his head, and Alystair simply ducked and swung wide at the man's feet, breaking his ankles and sending him crashing onto the earth, before raising his mighty hammer above his head and finishing the job, crushing the poor man's skull with bits of brain sticking to the weapon. He spotted Arenykos approaching the bridge, some twenty feet away. The source of all our troubles, ready to feel my hammer. If Alystair could kill their Emperor, the Anomedian army would surely collapse. Victory is in sight, in the face of defeat.

Letting out a war cry, Alystair sprinted toward the bridge, swinging his hammer wildly as he batted down several legionaries that stood in his way. He reached Arenykos and lunged forward, swinging down at his skull with all his might. However, the Emperor saw him coming and leapt back, yelling at his men to back away, and soon a circle was created around them. Alystair looked back to see his father back ahorse, screaming at him to retreat, tears flowing down his cheeks as the men had been pushed back to the crest of the bank. I will do no such thing. I will die, with iron in my hands and bold blood coursing through my veins. History must know me as the Brave Prince, as a martyr, or all is lost.

Arenykos spat and threw down his silken red cape. "Mournish teat-sucker, now you die." he said, throwing down his shield, and standing ready to fight. Well, it was polite of him to speak in my tongue, but his language leaves a lot to be desired.

"How eloquent." Stair remarked. "We shall see."

Alystair exchanged a few glancing blows with his opponent, probing for weaknesses. A quick thrust here, and quick flick of the wrist there, and he soon angered the man. His blood boils, I can use that. He gave a mocking laugh which sent the Emperor lunging at him, swinging wide to his right. Stair swung his hammer and batted the blade away before advancing, pressing his hammer into Arenykos' chest. With the Emperor unbalanced, Alystair threw all his strength into an overhead swing. The force and momentum was immense as his arms fell downwards, but they suddenly froze. Gods, it can't be! Victory - it was right there! He looked forward to see Arenykos holding back his hammer with all his might, screaming in pain from his likely broken wrists. Alystair felt his grip on the hammer slip away as the Emperor rose, pushing aside his hammer and punching him upwards in the helmet, knocking it clean off and slamming his gauntleted fist into Stair's skull. He felt like he was flying as he stumbled backward, light headed and dazed. As the Eagle swung his blade towards his neck, Alystair clumsily raised his hammer in defence, closing his eyes.

The last thing he felt was a sharp, searing pain in the side of his neck.