Paladin's Fall: Kingdom's Forge Book 2 Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Paladin’s Fall

  Copyright © 2016 by Kade Derricks. All rights reserved.

  First Edition: November 2016

  Visit Kade’s website to keep up on the latest news:

  www.KadeDerricks.com

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  One Eye walked among the caravan’s dead and dying. His hardened leather coverings creaked with his steps and the two copper discs around his neck swayed against his broad chest. He was pleased. The hoarse cries of his victims, the smell of their freshly drawn blood, the heavy waraxe’s solid feel in his hands—these things gladdened him.

  The raid had gone exactly as planned. His archers, concealed among the thick trees and scattered boulders, had killed the caravan’s guards in the first volley. Eager orc warriors had then fallen on the caravan from all sides, racing among the heavy wagons and slaughtering the shocked survivors. None had escaped. Men, women, and children had all been cut down like sheep in a field.

  No. That wasn’t true. Sheep would have offered more resistance. They would have at least tried to run. Most of these pitiful creatures had frozen, fearstruck, even as death was upon them.

  The grizzled orc passed near the rearmost wagons. A wounded human female lay resting with her back against a large wooden wheel. An axe had gouged a deep wound into her neck. Clinging to life, she held a crimson rag to it, trying to control the bleeding. One Eye lifted his huge, two-headed axe. Her eyes stared up at him.

  She spoke, and he neither understood nor cared what she was saying. A prayer, an insult, a threat—none of these could harm him. The blade sank deep, splitting the woman’s skull and spraying grey brain matter across the dirt.

  He leaned down and used the woman’s dirty dress to clean his blade.

  One Eye continued through the caravan, moving toward the front. Twenty-three heavily laden wagons bound for Galena made a rich haul for his people. Only this spring had raids resumed along the gold road. For sixteen winters now his tribe had kept to the jagged mountains ringing the valley, venturing out to prey on the caravans rarely and then only with the Master’s blessing.

  It had been a hard life. The specter of starvation stalked among their hovels. But what orc had ever lived an easy life? None. Such wasn’t intended for them, and now the tribe—the strongest of them—had been forged anew. So too had their numbers, finally replenished after their defeat at the hands of the hated Golden.

  One Eye himself had led that failed endeavor. His orcs had paid a steep price taking a huge shipment of gold from the human army hired to guard it, and when they’d stood on the verge of victory, the elves had arrived to wipe out both armies. He’d sacrificed many of his best warriors that day, and in the end the elves had snatched away his prize.

  After the disastrous raid and the retreat to the mountains, rivals for leadership had assaulted him from all sides. To retain his position, he’d fought off every challenger. Even some of his closest advisors had turned on him. He’d slaughtered them and taken their mates for his own. After his tribe settled, there had been work to do. Following his master’s instructions, he’d conquered the two rival orc tribes that called the mountains home.

  Customarily, a defeated tribe’s leader was publicly butchered along with his family, and the remaining orcs were adopted into the victor’s. But the Master commanded differently. On his instructions, One Eye had spared the ruling families of both tribes in exchange for sworn allegiance to himself and to Baelzeron.

  One Eye would have doubted the fallen tribal leaders’ allegiance, but after a single meeting with Baelzeron, no one dared defy him.

  He thought back to his own rise within the tribe. His ascension to warleader had come after his predecessors had challenged the Master. Each had died, consumed by fire and dark planar magic, and from their corpses Baelzeron had raised minor demons. The orcs called them trackers. They acted as their demon lord’s eyes and ears among the orcs. One Eye wasn’t one to fall prey to fear, but the trackers still made his spine run cold.

  Still lost in his thoughts, One Eye reached the caravan’s head. One of the trackers waited for him there.

  “Well done, warleader,” the tracker said. The lumpy, grey-skinned demon wore ragged black robes that billowed around him in the slight breeze. Four others watched over the caravan’s chained survivors—as much as they could watch anything. One Eye detested the eyeless bastards and ordered them to remain hooded in his presence. He had marginal control over them, but he knew they truly followed none but Baelzeron.

  “As the Master wished, a third survive,” the orc replied. In the past three years he had taken a half-dozen caravans, four of those earlier this same spring. Usually, Baelzeron ordered no unnecessary killing and for the caravan’s goods to be completely removed. Their lord wanted no trace of the attacks to remain.

  Afterward, the captives were always taken to the demon’s lair.

  One Eye didn’t know what happened to them there. He didn’t care. He cared only that this time was different. This time, their master wanted both the wreckage and the bodies to remain. This time, Baelzeron wanted to send a message.

  “Yes, all according to his will,” the demon said. “This will make your people stronger, my green friend. Today, we begin the first steps of the Master’s great design. Soon, we will take this valley and a mighty orc nation will rise. Powerful and strong. All kingdoms and peoples will lie at your feet.”

  “As I kneel at the Master’s,” One Eye responded. It was the only thing he could say.

  “As we all kneel at the Master’s.”

  With that, the demon turned and faced down the path. He sniffed loudly, testing the air, his long tongue flicking out to taste. One Eye followed
his gaze.

  The trail ahead bent around a wooded hill. A single figure, dressed in crimson, rode into view on a black horse. Blue and orange flames curled up from the animal’s eyes and nostrils. One Eye could smell sulfur and the rot of long-dead things coming off horse and rider alike as they approached, rising above the general stench of the carnage surrounding them.

  “Mistress Koren,” the tracker said. He bowed before her. “I did not expect you to honor us.”

  “Baelzeron does not convey his deepest plans to all, tracker,” the red-clad elf spat. “He sent me on a special assignment. He wishes to make sure his enemies feel his presence.”

  If One Eye disliked the trackers, he hated Koren. In his dreams he’d killed the Golden elf a thousand times with axe, club, and spear. He’d hunted her through the snow and forests until she could run no more. At times she begged for her life; often she was defiant, but in the end he always broke her. In his mind, each of the miserable little elf’s deaths was more violent and painful than the last.

  Looking at her now, he wasn’t sure how much elf remained in Koren. After he had found her on the brink of death and one of the trackers had given its own twisted life to resurrect her, she’d formed an unnatural bond with the minor demons, including the fiery steed she now rode. Her features, the sharp eyebrows and ears framing her yellow-white hair were elven enough. Her fingers, which she usually kept gloved, had grown into sharp talons, and at night her eyes glowed with a strange blue light. A patch of grey, scaly skin now covered the chest wound that had nearly claimed her life.

  How One Eye regretted finding her. How he hated her. How he feared her, and he despised that fear. For the thousandth time he wished that the wound to her chest had been a little deeper, or that they’d found her an hour later.

  The golden elf dismounted at the nearest wagon. She approached, and then slammed a small axe deep into the solid wooden wheel. One Eye recognized it. He’d seen the weapon only once before, the day he’d found her.

  Koren leaned over the body of a half-grown boy, reaching down and dabbing her gloved hand in his rapidly congealing blood. With two red-stained fingers, she wrote a single word below the wedged axe.

  “Dain,” she whispered. “It is our time again.”

  Dain Gladstone looked out over the topmost battlements, watching the waters of the mighty Wessen roll by. From high atop the castle’s newly completed west tower, his green eyes could easily track the river over its frothing course. In the clearing to the north, the gold road to Galena passed less than a hundred yards beyond the castle’s spellshielded front gate. The road’s winding trace of smooth cobblestones could also be seen for miles.

  Probably see all the way to Galena at night, he thought. The lights, at least. Maybe they should build some kind of signal on the tower. A way to call for help if needed. He’d have to talk to Sera about it.

  Dain drew his cloak tighter around his frame. Although it was well into springtime, cold gusts of wind bit at the hard, weathered features of his face and tugged at his hair, which was beginning to grey at the temples.

  “Finest project I’ve ever done,” Razel said from his side. The dwarf was a head-and-shoulders shorter than Dain’s six feet, and although Dain was still heavily muscled, Razel was far stockier. Gazing outward, the dwarf stroked his thick red beard. As usual, he wore a set of shining gold beads in it that rattled with every stroke. Dain found the familiar sound comforting.

  “It is impressive,” Dain said. Intimidating, too, he hoped.

  “Dwarven construction at its finest, Paladin.” The dwarf ran his hand almost lovingly over the rough granite crenellation.

  “I believe the elves had no small part in it. A few humans, as well.”

  “Bah, we dwarves carried the heavy load. Rest of you just slowed us down,” Razel said with a grin. “This castle would have been completed years ago if not for human and elvish meddling.”

  Dain felt the corners of his mouth turn up into an answering smile at his friend’s bravado. “And who grew the heavy ironwood you used? Who filled the moat with water? Who used their spells to draw the stone up to the surface for you lot to carve?”

  “Fine, you did help a bit,” Razel conceded. “Building it on a single massive block of granite was your idea, after all. It did, however, set construction back almost two years.”

  “Well worth it, Razel. They’ll be no tunneling or mining under this rock.” After starvation or catapult, tunneling and mining beneath the walls were the most common methods of bringing down castles. He’d studied these tactics in his youth.

  “Only a madman would attack you here,” Razel said. “Walls fifteen feet thick, seventy feet high, spell-protected to resist siege weapons, space for thousands of defenders, for civilians too in the catacombs below, food and supplies for years…this fortress will never fall.”

  “They can all fall. Most do,” Dain said. “But it would take a larger, more determined army than any in these lands to take this one. The elven people here owe you and your kinsmen a great debt.”

  The pair stood in silence for a time, enjoying the sweeping view and cool spring air on their faces before descending to the lower levels.

  “Razel, tell me,” Dain said as they walked, “how is your Paladin training coming along? I’m sure you’ve been practicing.”

  “None of your damned business, Dain,” the irritable little dwarf answered, but soon continued. “I’m preparing myself for the trials. Since you’re holding them next week, I see no point in giving you any advantages over me.”

  “No one has used the practice targets in the courtyard yet. Before I took my own combat trial I spent hours in a training area just like it,” Dain said. “In any event, I’m off for home. Sera and the kids will have supper ready, so you won’t have to worry about me spying on you, learning all your dwarven fighting secrets.” Dain enjoyed taunting Razel—sometimes he made it far too easy.

  “Well, what if Sera invited me for supper, too? I’d hate to offend the Baroness,” the dwarf said, raising an eyebrow.

  “She’s going meatless tonight. Asparagus, rice, some stewed vegetables. Just what a dwarf of your advanced years needs. Might hold off the ravages of time a bit longer,” Dain said with a chuckle, remembering the last time Razel had shown up for supper to find no meat available.

  The little dwarf hadn’t said a word; not in Sera’s presence, at least. He’d stuffed each mouthful down like a man who knew he was being fed poison. Dain, of course, hadn’t let it go at that. The next morning he’d spread word among the other dwarves that their leader had converted to a meatless diet, and for a month afterward they’d replaced his regular lunch with greens and pine needles.

  “Hasn’t kept you any younger,” Razel said, throwing an elbow to Dain’s side. “I see more than a few grey hairs on that puffed-up head of yours. And a few in that scraggly scruff on your face that you’ve taken to calling a beard.”

  “Took six weeks to grow this thing,” Dain said, running a hand protectively over the bristles on his chin. “I have to keep it trimmed or it itches like fleas. Besides, it’s not the food that’s aging me—it’s the children. Maybe you should try fatherhood, Raz. Might mellow you out a bit. What is that pretty blonde dwarf’s name again? The head stonemason’s daughter? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind settling you down.”

  Razel’s face turned the same shade as his beard. “You know, now that you mention it, maybe I should test out that practice equipment. After all, you built it. Wouldn’t do for some poor lad to hurt himself if it collapsed on him.” With that the dwarf hurried off toward the courtyard.

  Dain laughed and turned toward the stables. The attendant, an older wood elf man, greeted him.

  “All done today, my lord?”

  “I am, Broshen, thank you.”

  “I think there’s a wolf out in the cou
rtyard looking for you,” Broshen said, his eyes flicking toward the outer gate.

  Dain smiled at this. “I’ll be watching for him as well, then.” He waited as Broshen led a black gelding out. The horse had white patches up to the ankle on all four feet, and Dain’s youngest son, Rhone, affectionately called him Socks. The three-year-old loved the horse fiercely.

  Dain mounted and then rode Socks toward the outer gate. After two steps he reined the horse up.

  “Telar,” he called out. “Did your mother send you to fetch me home?”

  A young grey wolf emerged from the shadows at the stable’s edge. It loped out into the center of the road just in front of Dain. There, the beast shifted, growing taller and shedding its fur, until a boy dressed in plain brown and grey leathers stood in its place. The teenager had Dain’s green eyes and the same midnight black hair as his mother. His features, delicate and slightly pointed, could only belong to a half-elf.

  “Yes, she has dinner ready,” Telar said, ruffling a hand through his unruly mane.

  “Been practicing your wolf form, I see?”

  Telar screwed up his face into a petulant scowl fit for a boy much younger. “My teachers won’t show me how to change into a hawk until I master the wolf. According to them, my transformation still takes too long. They say I need more practice being a wolf.” He shrugged and kicked at the dirt with his booted foot. Dain smiled fondly at his son, unable to help himself. He could still recall being young and impatient at his own lessons.

  “Is your sister home as well?”

  “She was in trouble at studies today. Something about a water elemental. The spellcasters were in an uproar about it.”

  “Hmm, takes after your mother,” Dain said. He often teased Sera about Luren’s knack for trouble. Truthfully, Dain had gotten into more than his fair share of mischief during his own youth. And long afterward, he thought.