Paladin's Fall: Kingdom's Forge Book 2

by Kade Derricks

  He spotted Jin across the camp speaking with a group of young officers and holding a map. She saw him at the same time and scowled in his direction. Creator above, thought Dain, his heart twinging slightly in his chest, she looks just like Sera when she does that. Luren stood at her sister’s hip, wrapped in robes.

  “Let me down here,” Dain said as he eased himself down to sit on a small oak barrel, Telar aiding him.

  “I really should be off,” Telar started.

  “No, stay,” Dain said, hand shooting out and clamping onto his son’s wrist. “We need to have a family chat.” Telar could easily escape his weakened grip, but he only sighed instead.

  Jin approached. Like a shadow, Luren clung to her, speaking rapidly, but Jin only nodded distractedly in return. They snaked their way through the wounded men, Jin with crossed arms—again the mirror image of what her mother would have done.

  “I can’t believe you brought these two out with you,” she said.

  “I didn’t. They came of their own accord. In fact, I expressly commanded them to stay with their mother.”

  “Oh she came out, too,” Telar said, nodding his dark, shaggy head.

  “What? You didn’t tell me that,” Jin said.

  “After we got you to Jin’s men, I went back to search for more survivors. Mother and Razel and some others dropped from the castle and they were checking the bodies. They retrieved them, and then the demons and Risen attacked. The Paladins fought them off and then Mother escaped back into the castle.”

  “Did you tell her we are alright?” Dain asked urgently. “She’s probably worried sick about all of us.”

  “I doubt she even realized we were gone yet,” Luren interrupted. “I left very convincing illusions in our place.”

  “Besides, she’d be mad and make me go back inside if she knew,” Telar added, like this excused everything.

  “Illusions?” Dain said.

  “I sent a message this morning with Cleeger,” Jin cut in. “Explaining that all of you are out here and mostly well.”

  Telar and Luren groaned in unison. Twins, Dain thought, feeling his head start to throb in time with the pulsing pain in his back.

  “What did you expect?” Dain said. “No illusion is going to hold your mother for more than an hour or two.”

  Dain looked out over the camp again. The wounded far outnumbered the uninjured. Jin saw him looking.

  “We’ve lost almost a third, and of every four remaining, three more are wounded,” she said softly.

  “There’s nothing more you can do here, then,” Dain said. Jin had less than a hundred warriors in fighting shape, and the fit would be needed to get the wounded to safety. “Have them break camp and head for the border. Tarol should still hold the eastern border fort.”

  Jin shook her head. “Uncle Tarol is as trapped as we are here; he’s surrounded by orcs.”

  “Orcs, demons, these Risen, and the golden elves. Koren—or her master—planned this well,” Dain said. And every hour she drew closer to the Well and to victory through chaos and bloodshed. “At least have those who aren’t injured move closer to Tarol, then. Put some distance between them and the bulk of Koren’s army. If they get a chance maybe they can break the siege there and then Tarol can ride to help here.”

  “Why are you here, Father?” Jin asked. “Any of this could have been communicated from the castle.”

  “Koren has to be stopped. I’ll need some of your men to help: a tracker, a mage—anyone you can spare, really—supplies, and mounts.”

  Jin didn’t argue, just stared at him in assessing silence for a few moments. “Except for a few rangers, I don’t have anyone fit to travel, the other two Paladins who survived are in even worse shape than you. But I’m going with you. I can track and fight and wield the Light as well as you, Father. Don’t try to deny it,” Jin said, addressing the shake of his head.

  “We are coming, too,” Telar said. Luren nodded behind him. “You already said you needed a shifter and a mage.”

  “No. I need a tracker most, and you two are heading back to the castle to join your mother.”

  “There are no other mages besides Luren,” Jin said, an unreadable expression on her face as she looked at her little sister.

  “I can do my part, Father, and Telar can track well enough,” Luren agreed.

  “No,” Dain said again. “There has to be another way. I will not risk your lives like this. There has to be someone else.”

  “Look around,” Jin said, gesturing to the camp. “Most of these men aren’t fit to ride. No one is wholly uninjured. I don’t have—”

  “And if we are captured sneaking back in? Then what?” Telar interrupted. His face was flushed, angry. “I’m sick of doing nothing while everyone else fights. I want to help.”

  “Telar, this is serious. It isn’t your time yet. I can’t protect all of you…” Dain started, then trailed off as he looked at his three oldest children.

  Were they still children? Jin had grown to adulthood long ago, making her own decisions and choosing her own battles. Telar and Luren were more difficult to think of as grown. They still had the glow of childhood about them, still seemed like the giggling, carefree little ones that had hid behind his legs and fell asleep in his arms not so long ago.

  “I know it’s serious; that’s why we are going,” said Telar. “You need us. You and Mother want to protect us, but you can’t. Not this time. Not from everything. What if you had died last night? What if we hadn’t been there? We don’t want you to ride off and die down there alone. Jin fought for herself when she was younger than us. She saved you from the croc—we’ve heard the story a hundred times—then she saved Mother from the golden elf.” Telar was on the verge of tears now, eyes damp. “If you order us to go back, we won’t do it. We’ll follow you until you need us.”

  Dain said nothing. Part of him knew Telar was right, that his children deserved a chance to fight for their survival as Jin once had. Another part continued to scream at him that the twins were still too young. He remembered holding them, one in the crook of each arm, and smiling down at them the day they were born. They’d been so small. He studied them now, Luren and Telar. They studied him back through the twin pairs of green eyes he knew so well.

  They were still so small.

  “And you, Luren? What do you want?” he said.

  “I am with my family,” Luren said. “And I will stay with them.”

  Dain let out a long sigh. Sera was going to kill him for sure.

  Verdant felt…fractured. His memories were jagged, confusing. He remembered being raised by Koren’s call, remembered killing the elves who had attacked him, and then raising his fallen brothers around him. He remembered cold, distant images of his parents, a life given in service, glimmers of friends and a family, and then, more clearly, the solemn slumber of the grave.

  At first, acting on Koren’s will, he hadn’t felt anything. Not anger or hate or sadness. Nothing.

  Now he felt what he could only describe as regret; a sense of sadness and loss, but he didn’t know what was missing. What had gone wrong? He did not enjoy this new sensation, especially the doubts it raised.

  He wandered alone among the pines and budding maples, waiting for the next order from Slerian, his master, and trying to rid himself of these strange sensations. He hadn’t spoken of it with his brothers, the other Risen; he felt that doing so might mark him as different or somehow flawed. He did not want them to think of him so. Despite this, he couldn’t escape the feeling that he truly was different.

  Tonight, they would attack the castle. Brisson had ordered it. The enemy had tried to escape—some already had—and now they needed to be taught a lesson.

  The little warrior he’d killed had caused these stirring feelings inside of him, he suspected. T
he dwarf, he’d heard it called, had spoken to him. It had recognized him and spoken his name. That had brought pain to Verdant; another sensation he hadn’t truly felt since his awakening. The dwarf’s glowing axe had hurt him—not so much physically, as this body was impossibly strong, but it had felt like the pieces of his mind had been smashed and split like a broken mirror, cracking with every blow.

  Memories floated through the spaces between those fragments. Images and sensations of a brilliant vibrancy pained him.

  He remembered a young girl with braided hair playing with him in a field of yellow clover. She wore a blue dress that matched the ribbon their mother had woven among her braids.

  “Let’s go see the pond!” she said.

  “Mother will be angry. She told us to stay away from there,” he replied. His voice was young, tender. It held an awkward squeakiness. He glanced at his flesh-covered hands and held them open. They felt warm, whole. The bright sun smiled on his bare arms and the wind carried the clover’s sweet scent.

  “Come on, Verd. I want to see if there are any turtles there. Remember that big one uncle Darri brought by?”

  “I remember he snapped that stick in half with his sharp beak.” The turtle had been bigger around than a dinner plate. It had hissed and glared at them from inside its shell with cruel, red eyes. “Darri said if a turtle bites you, it won’t let go until he hears thunder.”

  “Well I want to catch one,” the girl said. Neive…that was her name. His sister Neive. “Don’t worry little brother, I’ll take care of you.”

  And because she was his big sister whom he loved, he’d followed her to the pond and they had found turtles and frogs and yellow-spotted salamanders, and Mother had switched them both for getting their best clothes muddy.

  Like a receding tide, the memory drew back, leaving Verdant with an ache deep in his chest. He eased himself down onto a rotted stump. The loss of those vibrant sensations pained him anew.

  Suddenly he was more aware of the forest around him and of the life it contained. Colors and sounds seemed clear and bright, like a smoky haze had been swept away. A tiny fern grew from inside the stump. He ran a skeletal hand over its flat green leaves. It felt…alive.

  How could something feel alive? Hot or cold, rough or smooth, these were sensations he knew, but alive?

  His head began to pound. He lowered it into his hands and fought back the pain. White light filled his mind. It crowded out his thoughts; it even crowded out the strange new feelings.

  He was kneeling. Planks of ancient oak were smooth and hard beneath him. Light surrounded him; not the hard whiteness in his mind, but softer colors of gold and blue and green. A man robed in white stood before him, sprinkling water first on his shoulders and then the crown of his head.

  “Are you ready to speak your oath to the Creator and his holy Light?” the man said.

  “I am,” Verdant said. His voice was older now—the squeak gone.

  “Under the Light and in the Creator’s holy name, I anoint you, Brother Verdant. Speak the oath as is our custom.”

  “I, Verdant, son of Arlow, pledge myself, body, soul, and spirit to the Creator’s service. May the works of my hands, mind, and heart ever belong to him and his perfect glory. May they light the way for others as he has given us his holy Light. May I show others the way of the Creator’s grace and forgiveness as he has shown us. May I live ever for him, to be united beyond death in his perfect love.”

  “Arise, Priest Verdant, my brother in the Light.”

  Verdant stood. He saw clear the older priest’s face. Mulaney. Priest Mulaney, the man who’d brought him to the Light as a child and taught him its tenets. Verdant reached for the older man’s hand and Mulaney caught him up in an embrace instead.

  “We are brothers now, my friend. Not teacher and pupil,” he said.

  Verdant felt himself smiling. He was happy. Wholly happy.

  The pain in Verdant’s mind subsided, and the memory faded—not forgotten, but dimmed. He lowered his hands to his sides. What was happening, and why? Were these memories true or something the miserable dwarf had somehow done to him?

  He’d come out here to be alone, to deal with the strange new sensations he was feeling, and then to return. But they seemed to be growing worse. He remembered the joy of the two memories, and now, without them filling his mind, withering despair was taking their place.

  He needed to tell Slerian. He should have gone to him as soon as this had begun. Perhaps his master would know what to do. He rose and managed two steps before more pain drove him to his knees.

  “Uncle Verdant, will you teach me to pray?” the boy asked. His hair was dark and straight like his father’s, but he had Neive’s eyes.

  “Of course,” Verdant said. “I would be honored.”

  “Can I hear one of yours? Then I’ll know what to do.”

  “Each prayer is personal, nephew. It’s a conversation between you and the Creator. Think of it as talking to your mother or father.”

  The boy screwed up his features in a child’s expression of deep thought. “Will you show me?”

  On his knees, Verdant bowed his head and brought his palms together.

  “Merciful Creator, I ask forgiveness for my transgressions. I have sinned against your holy word and now beg for your grace. I ask that you heal those close to me and meet their needs. I ask you to show me your plan for my life. Thank you for the return of my brother, Maib, from his duties. Continue to keep him safe and whole. His family needs him. Please keep my sister Neive and her children—especially Regan, this little one here—strong. Let them grow up to know your word and mercy and love. Amen.”

  Regan repeated the prayer almost word for word, with a short addition asking for the Creator’s blessing on his dog, Apolo, who had a broken leg, at the end. When he was done, a tear rolled down the boy’s cheek. He wiped it away and climbed into bed.

  “That was good, Regan. Thank you for praying with me,” Verdant said.

  “Goodnight, uncle. Tomorrow will you take me to the pond? I heard there are turtles as big as dinner plates down there.”

  Neive laughed when he told her their plans for tomorrow. She scrubbed pots in the kitchen while Maib cradled their youngest son on his arm.

  “If he comes back muddy, I’ll switch you both,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  A knock rang out on the door and Maib rose to answer it.

  “Would you mind holding the baby?” he said to Verdant.

  Verdant raised his hands for the child and then nestled his nephew into his chest. With a finger he tugged the tiny yellow blanket down to get a better view of his face. “And you, little one? Would you like to see the pond as well?”

  “He’s leaving again,” Neive said, her voice gone serious.

  “What?”

  “Maib. Once the spring thaw comes, the king is going to attack Ghent again.”

  Verdant nodded. The war between Ghent and Arctanon never really ended. Most years they simply raided a fort or two on the border, exchanging a few miserable acres of land, but in the bloodier times one side or the other tried seizing a city. Five years had passed since the last major battle. They were due.

  Neive dropped a cup and it shattered on the tile floor. “I’m so sick of it, Verdant.” She let out a disgusted sigh and started to gather up the jagged pieces. “It’s stupid. No one even remembers why we fight. How much better off we’d all be if we simply stopped and worked on our own lands, our own people’s futures.”

  She was right, of course. She usually was. There were great swaths of Arctanon and Ghent that had never been settled. With all the young men and women who’d fallen, neither country’s population had grown in years.

  “I don’t know,” Verdant said. He stroked his nephew’s soft cheek and the baby’s tiny mout
h opened into a deep yawn. “Bishop Clease sent me a letter today. They need a priest in Galena; someone who can run the hospital there.”

  “Out in the wilderness with the miners? Those people are savages,” Neive said.

  “Savages need the faith as much as we do. Maybe more.”

  Neive swore then. A jagged piece of the cup had opened an inch-long cut in her thumb. She stuck it in her mouth.

  “Come here,” Verdant said.

  “I’m fine. It’s just a small cut. I was in a rush and wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Come here, sister. What good is having a priest around if you don’t let him heal?”

  Reluctantly, Neive crossed to him. She held out her thumb and peered down at her sleeping child in the crook of one of Verdant’s arms.

  Verdant drew on the Light. He felt its gentle warmth coursing through him. He healed the small cut with but a fraction of it.

  Pain wracked the undead beast that called itself Verdant, jostling him back to the forest and the present. He fell, twisting in agony. Desperate for relief, he reached for the earth’s power, the deep magic that seemed to revive him.

  It answered his call, and though it strengthened his body, his mind still felt fractured, full of splintered, white-hot memories floating in a void. To heal his mind, he needed another kind of strength.

  The Light. He remembered the warm feel of it. The way it had healed his sister’s wounds.

  He reached for that warmth now. The knowledge of how was still there inside his tortured memory. He felt it, felt the power; it was tantalizingly close, just a finger’s stretch out of reach. He strained harder.

  It answers faith, he remembered.

  Desperately, he strained for it. If he were capable of tears, he would have shed them. How had he done it in the past? He used to draw on it easily to heal or to bless. Merciful Creator, he needed the Light now.