Paladin's Fall: Kingdom's Forge Book 2

by Kade Derricks

  “Call me a liar and an oathbreaker will you, young whelp? You know nothing of honor. I ask you one final time, son. Give up your part of our bargain and obey your father’s wishes. This abomination that the Order has become is no fit place for you.”

  Dain’s resolve swelled. He’d come too far to yield now, and surely the Order would not be forced to fight the elves if Thave’s people truly had done nothing wrong.

  “No. I do not release you from our bargain. I will serve the Order as my proud ancestors did. I will serve where you failed to.”

  Harren’s eyes blazed brighter for a moment, and then finally the fire in them seemed to die out. But Dain knew his father. He knew well the man’s cold rages.

  “Take your bargain and be damned, son. In one week I will send you off, and I hope you find all the glory and gore and death you seek with that coward Chalmer.” Harren drained his tumbler and it followed Thave’s into the fire, exploding in a glittering mess of glass and liquid. “Get out of my sight.”

  Dain thought to speak. He thought to apologize to his father and heed the advice of his teachers. Tresten would have. He felt his resolve weaken a fraction, and at that moment wanted nothing more than to run to his father’s arms and seek forgiveness. Instead, he steeled himself. If he apologized he would look more the foolish boy they already thought he was. Without another word, he turned and left the library.

  Once he proved himself, once he was a Paladin, all would be forgiven.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  One week after their confrontation in the library, Dain’s fifteenth nameday arrived with muted celebration. His father commanded the servants to bring Dain his only gift: a young buckskin horse named Boon. The horse was tall—taller than all but his father’s stallion—and thick with muscle. Bred from a wild mare off the mountain and a quick plains stallion, Boon could run at speed for miles.

  “This is not a toy,” Master Kilian said. “He is a warhorse, or rather he will be, trained to fight and kill and die to protect his master.”

  Dain loved the tall warhorse fiercely and immediately, and persuaded his mother to allow him to sleep in the stables near his new friend. His father, who hadn’t said a thing to him since their argument, merely waved a dismissive hand.

  The following morning, goodbyes with his family were brief; Dain embraced his siblings and kissed his mother’s cheek. He tried to give off an air of bravery and sureness in his choice as he mounted Boon.

  His father did not come down to the courtyard. Dain thought he might have seen him in one of the tower windows, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He and Kilian set out for Karelton, the capital, and for three weeks they traveled. Every evening his uncle instructed him on riding, sword-work, and fighting from horseback.

  “What will it be like?” Dain asked Kilian. Normally, Thave or his father would have been there to escort him to the capital, but he hadn’t spoken to Thave either after what had happened in the study.

  “It will be difficult, make no mistake,” Kilian said. He held his own horse’s reins loose and guided the animal with his knees as he’d told Dain to. “You’ve a leg up with all the training Thave and I have given you, but the sergeants will push you all the more for it. Don’t view this attention as punishment. It is done for your own good.”

  “Master Thave said that to forge the purest metal, it must go through the hottest fire.”

  Kilian nodded. “Exactly.”

  A half an hour later the road topped a little grass-covered rise and the capital broke into view on the far horizon. Dain’s breath caught in his throat. He’d never seen a true city before, only the small towns and villages around the Highlands, and Karelton was the grandest in all the Empire.

  The white stone fortress at the city’s heart was the first thing he noticed. It stood tall and proud and daunting, as if daring any army to even attempt to besiege it. Dominating the city skyline, the fortress was a central symbol of the Emperor’s power. By decree, no other structure could exceed fifty feet in height, but the Emperor’s fortress was three times that.

  History told that the first Emperor himself had chosen the site of his capital almost three hundred years ago, and then designed and constructed the castle at its center. Now, the fortress was like the pit in the middle of a sweet peach, with every street growing outward from it. Even the broad Sienta River wound toward it, coursing through the hills and then frothing like a great blue vein into the city’s heart.

  Behind the fortress the long wooden docks stretched out into the Great Sea. Along with a few small fishing boats, a pair of three-masted ships anchored there, sails lowered. Dain didn’t know their type. He had never seen a ship before, but his mother had a few paintings of them and she’d told him wonderful stories of pirates and captains and exotic ports.

  In stark contrast to the citadel was the dull grey wall that ringed the city. The fortress might have been the Karelian Empire’s heart, but the wall was its shield. Built by the first Emperor as well, the wall predated the fortress by at least ten years. With enemies all around, the wall had sheltered the burgeoning Empire like a seed’s hard casing. During the first Emperor’s reign the wall had repelled first barbarian hordes, then seafaring Wrents from the jungle islands to the south, and even the Moghdens, who had once ruled much of what had now become the Empire.

  “Why do they do that?” Dain asked his uncle. He pointed to the buildings that covered the base of the wall like barnacles on a ship. “Why do they allow people to build homes and shops against the wall?”

  “The wall was designed for a smaller city. The land inside is expensive, and near the docks it’s swampy and unfit for use. Not everyone can afford to live inside.”

  “The wall won’t defend anything now, not with so much built into it.”

  “The capital isn’t defended by a wall; not anymore. It’s defended by men,” Kilian said. “We’ll enter by the cemetery gate. It’s closest to the Paladin compound.”

  He turned his horse south off the path and sped up to a gallop.

  They rode among small homesteads and a few hobby farms for the nobles. Dain knew them for the family crests painted atop broad arches of wood or stone or bronze outside their gates.

  Kilian saw Dain eyeing these.

  “Some of the nobles like to play farmer. Some do come from farming families, make no mistake, but most wouldn’t know plow from seed at this point.”

  “Why do they keep them then? The little farms?” Dain asked.

  “Habit. Habit and false modesty,” Kilian snorted. “You notice the barns?”

  He tilted his head at a giant structure with smooth river-stone walls and great wooden beams for a roof.

  “That’s redwood, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. No farmer ever built a barn so fine, but Count DeMillen,” he pointed to the brass coat of arms that crowned the gate; a great roaring lion over a field of painted blue, “Count DeMillen needed a place to hold his harvest ball. A roaring lion indeed. No DeMillen has seen battle in ten generations. They hire professional knights to fight in their stead.”

  “The Emperor allows that? Allows them to hire others to fight for them?”

  “He encourages it. The army gets professional soldiers and the nobles stay close to Karelton where he can keep an eye on them. Only a handful of nobles, like your father, fight with their men.”

  Dain heard the pride in Kilian’s voice.

  “The Emperor doesn’t like that father fights, then?”

  “Your father is…an exception. He’s a master tactician, and he’s led the Empire to victory many times. But the Emperor fears him, too.” Kilian turned a bit to face Dain directly. “The Empire has never been quite comfortable with our family. Ours is the only land they didn’t conquer by force, and they resent that a bit. The other nobles resent it as well. If the Gladstone
s all fell in battle and our line ended, many in the Empire would quietly rejoice.”

  “There would be no one to defend the West then. The trolls would overrun our lands and spread into the Empire’s interior.”

  Kilian smiled. “You’ll find most here don’t believe in trolls. They consider them faerie stories and make-believe monsters. We have been too successful in stopping them.”

  Kilian spurred his mount up into a fast trot.

  Faerie stories? Dain shook his head. Every child in his land saw their first troll before age five. Indeed, when the springtime raids began his father’s soldiers would drag the troll corpses to the nearest village and mound them up into a great heap as a warning before they were burned. He couldn’t imagine a people who didn’t believe in them.

  “The Emperor believes, doesn’t he? Surely he does.”

  Kilian ignored the question and rode on.

  As they approached the coast the land grew swampy and the trees taller and more ancient. Day yielded the sky to the twilight, and the sun hung just above the horizon in a half-circle. The air smelled of sickly sweet rot.

  This land isn’t fit for farming, Dain thought. Not this close to the salty ocean.

  The horses’ hooves clopped on the cobblestones. Neither rider spoke. Compared to the open air of the fields, the swamp felt oppressive. The moss-covered trees seemed like bearded old men casting hateful stares at them.

  And why not? We are the intruders here.

  After an hour’s more riding, Dain began to see mausoleums on either side; intricate little houses of stone and iron with gargoyles on their roofs. Flickering orange flames lit some of them, and a few were carved with rune wards.

  Kilian nodded at them. “Enchanted. They believe the flames lock evil spirits away from the dead. The runes are to keep thieves away. People put odd things into tombs.”

  “Why don’t they bury their dead in the mother soil?” Dain asked.

  “The land’s right at sea level here, and when the monsoon comes, buried things have a way of resurfacing,” Kilian answered. Dain shivered at the thought.

  The gate finally loomed in the thin mist before them. A pair of torch-bearing guards waited there.

  Kilian saluted them. “Good evening,” he called.

  “Evening,” the taller of the two said. “We don’t get many riding into the city through the Gate of the Dead anymore. Not unless there’s a funeral.”

  “They used to call it the Gate of the Victorious Dead,” Kilian answered. “The city’s heroes, the captain commanders, even a few generals—they are all buried here.”

  The second guard smiled. He was older than the first, the stubble on his cheeks grey. “Not many remember that name anymore.”

  “It’s been a long time since I left,” Kilian said as he reined his horse up. “Does the Red Roan still serve the best meal in town?”

  The old guard’s smile widened and touched his eyes. “Indeed. The rooms have seen better days, but old Jes still knows how to treat people right.”

  “Thanks,” Kilian said. “When your watch is over, stop by and I’ll buy you and your friend an ale.”

  The younger man lifted a thick iron ring, pulled the heavy door open, and from inside more torchlight poured out.

  “Still got an hour to go,” he grinned, “but we’ll take you up on that.”

  The streets inside were not as Dain had imagined them. He’d expected a thriving, shining city; the stories all made it sound so, but most of the lamplights were out in this part of town. Those few that remained only made the shadows all the deeper. The buildings too were dark, though light escaped between wooden planks nailed over the broken windows of a few. The stench of rotten sewage hung in the air, and a pack of mutts fought over a yellow bone in a pile of trash.

  A handful of people milled the streets, either alone or in twos or threes. Most wore colorless rags for clothing. Drawing their possessions close, they eyed the newcomers nervously, and Dain clutched at his sword hilt.

  “The Red Roan is a block away,” Kilian said. He turned his horse and led the way.

  Upon seeing their destination, Dain felt a little better. Unlike the other buildings, the Red Roan was at least well lit and the windows weren’t boarded over. Three horses were tied at the rail out front. Uncle Kilian led him around the building to a small stable and they dismounted their horses there. The stableman, a bald and wrinkled fellow with white bushy eyebrows, rushed out to greet them.

  “I’ll take good care of them, my lord,” the man said with a bow.

  “Gawler, is that you?” Kilian said, squinting.

  The stableman eyed him suspiciously. “Do I know you, sir?”

  “It’s me. It’s Kilian Gladstone.”

  Gawler’s face broke out into a bright smile.

  “Master Kilian, by the Light! It’s been years.”

  “Twelve, twelve years since I’ve been in the city. Is old Jes inside?”

  Gawler nodded. “He can’t stay up all night like he used to, but he still takes every meal in the common room. His daughter and granddaughter, Nell and Aleesa, operate the place now.”

  “Take care of these two, will you Gawler?” Kilian flicked him a fat golden coin from his pocket, which Gawler snatched out of the air with a grin.

  Kilian brought Dain to the Roan’s back door. Despite the three horses out front, the common room’s tables were empty—with a single exception. A gnarled man with a black cane sat alone at a table near the hearth. The man’s eyes, dark as coal, were studying the fire. Kilian made straight for him.

  “How are you, Jes?”

  The old man leaned forward and gave him a long look before speaking.

  “Well, you’ve added a few scars, Kilian. Are the West and those wild Highlands everything you remembered them to be?”

  “It agrees with me,” Kilian replied, sitting down at the table and motioning Dain to follow. “Besides, after Mirren died there was no reason to stay here.”

  “Sweet girl, Mirren. And so young. It broke my heart when the fever took her.” The old man’s eyes took on a distant look.

  “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her,” Kilian said.

  Jes motioned for the serving girl to join them. The girl was young, Dain’s own age or less, and though her clothes were of good quality he saw that a few patches had been sewn to the skirt. A thick braid of golden hair draped over her shoulder and ended in a sky-blue ribbon that matched her eyes.

  “Aleesa, bring my friends a couple of plates.”

  “Of course, Grandfather,” she said with a bright smile. She shot Dain the flash of a wink, and he wasn’t sure if the smile was more for her grandfather or for him. His cheeks flushed.

  “How are things, Jes?” Kilian said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Aleesa and her mother are all I have left now. You remember Nell? Two sons are buried among the victorious dead. They served the Empire proudly,” Jes said. He turned to Kilian again. “Does your brother keep you busy? I hear he’s a real fire-breather. Even though your family serves the Empire you damned Gladstones are too independent.”

  “He does.” Kilian paused, then clamped a hand on Dain’s shoulder and nudged him forward. “This is his heir, Dain Gladstone, Rivane’s son.”

  “Rivane’s son. Yes, I see your father’s face, but your mother’s eyes in you,” Jes said.

  Rivane’s son. Dain turned the words over in his mind. He’d never been called that before, and Jes did not, Dain noticed, apologize for his earlier remarks.

  The old man stared at him, his eyes black as onyx.

  “Artur, your grandfather, had those same eyes. All-knowing eyes, we used to call them,” Jes continued. “A finer fighter and general I’ve never served under. I once saw him dress down a cocky young officer
with nothing more than a look. He conquered a dozen nations for the Emperor and doubled his lands. He was born to a fishing family, but Emperor Krane raised him to the ranks of the nobles and gave him an estate out in Murgandy.”

  “I’m afraid I know little of my mother’s kin,” Dain said. “She didn’t often speak on it.”

  And why was that, he suddenly wondered. The thought had never crossed his mind before. His father was a lord and his mother was…his mother. He couldn’t remember her speaking of her parents more than a half-dozen times. He thought she’d mentioned a brother once.

  Jes shot a look at Kilian and the weaponsmaster shrugged.

  “A tragic tale, your mother’s family,” Jes said. “An old wound that shouldn’t be reopened.”

  The man took his cane and jabbed it into the fire. One of the logs rolled and popped.

  “We’ll be wanting rooms for the night. Dain is going to start training for the Brigades tomorrow,” Kilian said.

  “Not much competition for my rooms these days,” Jes said, swinging the cane in a circle over his head. “I’m afraid the Roan’s best days are behind it, like my own. I don’t get nearly the custom I used to.”

  “What’s happened? It seems like the whole district’s died. I only spotted a pair of schooners in port?” Kilian asked.

  “Trade’s collapsed. Mierten has a lot of allies, and though they aren’t offering military support, at least that we know of, they are refusing to trade with us. It’s no secret that the Emperor wants to conquer the whole of the continent as well, with Bymreh next on his plate, and the peninsula nations have stopped all trading with us as a result. They’re perfectly happy to sit back and let the Empire and Mierten slug it out.”

  “Pelion is a fool to let such talk out,” Kilian grumbled, lowering his voice to a whisper despite the Roan’s empty tables. “His father never would have made that mistake. Krane let his armies do the talking.”