Squire of War

  Squire of War

  The Risen Queen - Book 1

  M H Johnson

  Copyright © 2018 by M H Johnson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Thank You

  1

  Face it, Calenbry wench. You’ll never make it as a knight!”

  The memory of Mord’s mocking laughter sickened Jess even now, three years after a far more innocent version of herself had first attended this college of war. She still remembered accepting the young man’s challenge, despite dark whispers of what a savage he could be when he fought to win. How utterly confident she had been in her own skills, more than willing to compete with the unofficial favorite for the approval of Lord Hyve, one of King Richard’s knight commanders. Renowned throughout Erovering, Lord Hyve was a celebrated warrior who was rumored never to have never lost a jousting match while in his prime. Jess and Mord had both coveted the prize of victory, which was nothing less than a chance to squire under Lord Hyve himself, one's path to knighthood all but assured.

  It had been hot as a cook's griddle that day, with the crowd of noble onlookers cheering on their favorites. The training grounds had baked to a near rock hard surface, most of the grass long since trampled under the armored feet of endless scores of college students over the years.

  Electing not to stay and witness the bouts lest he distract her, Jess's father bade her a gentle farewell the very morning of that first-year student competition, reminding her she needed to pace herself and not overly risk her person in any one competition on a mad gamble for victory.

  “Many of the lads also vying for Lord Hyve's favor come from Houses houses with reputations for ruthlessness," her father cautioned with the stern blue-eyed gaze of a onetime general, Jess stiffening to attention as crisply as any soldier.

  He relaxed his gaze then, giving a fond shake of his head. “You are as fine warrior as any commander could hope to have under his wing, my daughter. It would ill suit us both for you to allow yourself to be used and cast off cheaply. Preserve your well-being above all else, these first, most perilous days, my Jess.”

  Jess nodded in complete agreement, earning a faint smile from the man whose regard meant so very much to her. “Very good, my Jess. And fear not, Highrock is home to the finest generals in Erovering now that we live in a time of peace, however tenuous a state of affairs that it may be. Lord Hyve is not the only commander of note at this institution, for all that so many lads have their eyes on the prize of serving under him.”

  Her father adjusted his stirrups then, observing the care of her own mount with an approving nod, the pair of them having ridden out together early that morning to view the training grounds, the future field of battle, much as any good tactician would. “I have no doubt that you will make nothing less than an excellent impression upon your future martial instructors, whoever they may be. I only ask that you be prudent in choosing your battles and allow conflicts to resolve themselves, when opportunity permits.”

  Jess smiled in turn at her father, gently stroking her own destrier's mane. “You mean let the most brutal applicants batter themselves silly in the early bouts before accepting challenges to place myself, do you not, Father?”

  Her father's bright blue eyes twinkled then, his oft times grim features softening, blond locks rustling rustled in the wind. He looked for a moment the mirror image of her brother Geoffrey, a recent graduate himself of Highrock, now content to learn the intricacies of Court by his father's side. "I know I trained you well, Jessica. Just remember that no matter how convoluted your mother and sister like to make these things, politics and intrigue are but battlefields of a different sort." He chuckled wryly at that. "And for all that I have little more patience for innuendo and backbiting than you do, my daughter, the wise commander learns to recognize and counter his opponents, no matter the field of battle."

  Jess smiled. “And the wisest commander of all leads his enemies to the terrain of his choosing. And if my opponents would rather fight amongst themselves than come for me, whether it be upon the training grounds or the field of battle, so much the better. And I know my strengths, Father. A sly wit and a cutting tongue will never be my weapons of choice. For anyone who slanders me with insults, sophistry, or nasty innuendo, it's a slap to the face and a challenge for the dueling grounds. I shall let my blade prove the worth of my character, and dare anyone to disparage me upon that most sacred of arenas, where steel takes precedence over a sly tongue.”

  “Fortunate for your peers that all such contests are only to be conducted with wooden swords and wasters exclusively.” Her father chuckled, before piercing Jess with a stare that brooked no argument, one that demanded instant deference. It was a look Jess knew all too well. “A true leader, however, does not make enemies unnecessarily, my daughter. Your blade is a tool. Not a crutch. Far wiser to take the time to learn the motivations and needs of the people before you, to forge alliances and accords and assure yourself fast friends to fight by your side when needed, than to allow arrogance or aloofness to turn every man's hand against you.”

  Jess bowed her head with her father's gentle reprimand. “You are right, of course, Father. I will try to be worthy of your words.”

  The baron's gaze turned momentarily wistful even as he ruffled his mount's mane. “I am fortunate to have your mother by my side, Jess. You, I'm afraid, are going to have to figure out the intricacies of school life on your own. Just remember that you are a warrior first and foremost. So long as you take the measure of any possible opposition, weigh carefully the honor of potential allies, and proceed cautiously into any new situation you find yourself in, I have no doubt that you shall prosper, even thrive, here at Highr
ock.”

  Her father had hugged her farewell then, gently reminding her to write often, as her mother would worry.

  Even as her heart ached to see her father's retreating form, she gazed back at the grim stone edifice that was Highrock College, feeling as if the future was comprised of limitless possibility, as if she had the entire world in the palm of her hand. She donned her carefully packed and maintained gear the moment she had returned to her private quarters, her body well used to the weight and feel of padded gambeson, mail hauberk, and a custom suit of brigandine armor, constructed of small plates of steel riveted to specially treated leather jacket and leggings, personally fitted to her frame by the master armorer who had constructed it.

  Steel helm and sturdy reinforced gauntlets were donned last of all before she headed out to the training yard, feeling great pride in wearing armaments her father had gifted her with solemn ceremony, several months before. Jess had trained in them with a dedication that gave even her brother pause, till they were as comfortable upon her frame as a second skin. Armaments that would be the envy of many a knight, she knew, able to serve her well in any field of battle, so long as not upon open terrain in the height of summer.

  Of course, being a bit too excited to memorize the route the first time, she earned more than one bemused glance by veteran students as she politely asked for the way to the training grounds from her quarters. it was only the terrain outside the school that she and her father had gone over til she knew it all like the back of her hand.

  Her first glimpse of the training grounds as she exited the stone keep had set her heart to racing. A sea of people roared and cheered. Scores of students all sparring together, warming up before the formal matches were to begin. Jess calmly stretched even as she shivered with excitement, wondering in that innocent moment what it would be like if that sea of students and onlookers were all cheering for her.

  It was then that the announcements washed over them all, carried by a powerful baritone voice, resonating across the field by dint of a mage no doubt well versed in battlefield magic. There was to be a change in the program. No longer would individual challenges be offered and accepted. Rather, all students would be paired off in two rows, given wooden placards, and randomly assigned to fight the nearest aspirant of the opposing row who had a matching placard. A student could, of course, decline the bout, but it would constitute a loss and count against that aspirant's point total for the day.

  Jess gave a grudging nod even as she heard the moans of numerous others. Though she didn't like the changes, she certainly understood the logic behind them, as it minimized the risks of preplanned fights being deliberately thrown for discrete gifts. It also prevented the strongest of contestants from racking up points by continuously challenging the perceived weakest. Of course, it also prevented Jess from choosing which opponents she'd most like to test her mettle against, or make use of any long-term strategies, as she had no idea who she would be facing. She could make no study of an opponent's strengths or weaknesses until the moment she crossed blades with them in earnest, making the contest far truer to actual warfare than the game it had been before.

  And before she knew it, the students had all been paired up, formal challenges offered and accepted. For Jess, the first and only match of the day was about to begin.

  Pale of complexion, her opponent possessed saturnine features and cold dark eyes that peered at the world around him with barely concealed contempt. Jess disliked him on sight. The condescending sneer he had favored her with made it clear that the disregard was mutual.

  “These are the challenges, girl. I do not know what vapors have infected your poor little brain, but if you don’t get out of that sad excuse for a suit of armor and put on a proper dress, you are likely to get seriously hurt.”

  Armored in a full suit of plate and mail that spoke of his family’s wealth and connections as much as anything else, his cold smile made it quite clear what he thought about the idea of hurting her, and it left Jess feeling slightly sickened.

  Jess all but snarled in response. “I’ve trained with steel since I was twelve. I have as much right to be here as you!”

  He barked a derisive chuckle. "Very well, wench. But don't say I didn't warn you." He then turned to the cool-eyed overseer of their bout who had shown absolutely no reaction to their discourse, instead looking over their training blades with a careful eye and testing point and edge with forefinger before handing the blunted weapons back to the pair. "I am ready, overseer," the arrogant young man declared.

  Jess had nodded in turn.

  “Very well then,” the overseer said, coming over to both of them, inspecting their armor, assuring no straps would come loose in the heat of the bout. “You both know the rules: You shall treat the first match as if you were unarmored, second as armored. You fight in full earnest, with blade and grappling as you choose. All blows are allowed save thunderstrikes to the head, all grappling maneuvers are allowed save neck and finger manipulations. Should one of you be responsible for the death or permanent maiming of the other, your family will owe a blood price, and you shall be summarily expelled. Are we clear?”

  Both nodded solemnly, readying their blades.

  “Then announce yourselves, and begin.”

  The young man’s lip curled into a sneer before he slammed shut his visor. “My name is Mord de Plaga, wench. And before this day is over, you will know your place.”

  Jess felt her heart race with furious contempt even as she closed her own visor, doing her best to reign in her temper. “Jessica de Calenbry,” she said coolly as she faced the man she already despised in Ochs guard, point towards her opponent’s face, mirroring his own stance as they circled one another. With a final clap from the overseer, the bout began in earnest.

  The first thing Jess noted was that Mord was fast. Near as fast as she herself was. Their first cautious exchange of blows made that clear, he easily countering her quick darting slash, immediately off-setting her blade while slamming forward with a vicious thrust. She managed to counter it, barely, chilled by the savage strength propelling the blow. Raw power did not necessarily equate skill, Jess knew, but it was a decided advantage.

  They both leaped back then, he with an eerie little chuckle that grated on Jess's nerves even as they continued to circle one another. Mord quickly took the initiative, seizing the Vor. Blade raised in high guard, he charged into her, striving to knock her off balance even as he lashed into her with a series of vicious overhand strikes, powerful diagonal blows at all angles that could easily cleave through an unarmored warrior who did not counter the blows quickly enough. When perfectly placed, those strikes could crack the bones of even an armored man, crippling them, and an excellent tactic to use against any foe whose shoulders were not exceedingly well armored and padded. And despite the overseer's cautionary warning, it was increasingly clear that her shoulder blades were his target, hammering down with his blade as hard and fast as he could.

  He wasn't just seeking to gain points upon her. He was out to maim her. That much had become chillingly clear.

  Heart pounding, Jess frantically parried, knowing her foe’s considerable strength was getting the best of her, and she needed to retake the initiative if she was to have any hope of besting him.

  It was her father’s cardinal rule. She must always seek to seize the Vor. She must always strive to make her opponent dance to her tune, force him to work to counter her maneuvers. For if she failed to do so, then the tune of her opponent's blows hammering her flesh would be the last notes she ever heard.

  Thinking fast, Jess immediately strove to bind his blade with her own. She sensed more than saw his smile, having gained a glimmer of his true strength, and when he used his might to force her blade she immediately gave way, throwing him the slightest bit off balance, countering strong with weak as her father would say. And in that split second of grace she had, she snapped her blade about in a high tight arc even as she stepped back and pivoted, feeling a sudden sur
ge of exultation when her blade slammed hard against Mord's helm. A killing blow, had he been unarmored.

  It was a feeling of triumph that was short-lived.

  Mord, roaring in fury, slammed into her before the overseer could call the fight. Suddenly they were in close grappling range where swords were near useless, the force of his hate knocking her off balance every bit as much as the force of his slam, Jess stumbling back even as he viciously tore back her unsecured visor with one steel-gauntleted hand, smashing her naked face as hard as he could with the other.

  It was only then that the overseer’s whistle cut through the din sharp and loud, even as Jess fell on her rump, dazed and humiliated, her face a hot throbbing mask of agony.

  Had her spirit been any less, she would have surrendered right then; dizzy, nauseous, sobbing from the awful pain. As it was, she did her best to grit her thankfully unshattered unbroken teeth and bear it, feeling the hot tang of blood pour into her mouth, realizing that her nose had been badly broken.

  “Mord de Plaga! The bout is over! To your corner this instant!” shouted the overseer. Mord, however, had already quite calmly turned around and walked to his side of the training ring.