Kingdom's Forge: Book 01 - Paladin's Redemption

by Kade Derricks

  Uncertain of how best to aid the effort, he cast spells of blessing on as many men as he could. The spells would strengthen them. He made sure to bless the two wood elf sisters along with Baylest and Razel.

  Their improvised army’s progress started to slow as the miners continued the steep push uphill. Facing enemies on both sides now, the Golden fought with increased determination. One of their mages hurled a vicious fireblast at Myria, which the agile elf narrowly dodged. A dozen miners clustered beside her were not so fortunate.

  Verdant made his way to them, to see if he could save any, but none were alive. He felt useless. The speed of their deaths stunned him. Everything happened so fast. One instant the men were there and the next gone.

  Breen appeared at his side. She was smiling. Blood trickled from a dozen small wounds and flowed freely from three more, yet she still threw sizzling blue lightning up the hillside. Verdant cast several healing spells on the wood elf to stop the more serious bleeding. She nodded in thanks while continuing to cast. Fresh miners streamed past the pair to join the battle ahead. It seemed that for every slain miner three more rose up and took his place. Breen followed them.

  The blood and carnage continued to shock Verdant. Everywhere he looked, men and elves lay dying. Determined warriors stepped over the bodies of friend and foe alike to hack at one another. Never had he believed such destruction and madness could exist. Only his resolve to avenge Maib, for the sake of Neive and their children, kept him from fleeing.

  Across the battlefield, he saw Drogan and Razel, aided by a group of mine guards and dwarves, rush uphill and into the enemy. Closer by, Myria sent a bolt of lightning ahead of the group, scattering a dozen golden elves that had lined up to oppose them. After the spell flashed, she cried out, an arrow caught her in the side. She slumped down.

  Verdant was hurrying closer to the wood elf when a hand reached up and clamped over his ankle. He stifled a scream and looked down into an ashen face.

  “Help me?” the hand’s owner begged. He had been gutted by a spear and was holding his intestines inside using a blood-soaked hand.

  Verdant readied a powerful spell to restore him but, before he could cast, the grip on his calf lessened and the hand fell away. He reached down, checking the man’s pulse, and found that he had already passed on. He spoke a quick prayer over the dead man, and then closed his eyes.

  He stepped forward to search for Myria. She had been fighting near the gray boulder just ahead. Failing to spot her, he found Breen casting from atop a huge fallen log. Fresh wounds were now intermixed with those he had healed earlier. Blood poured from a deep gash on her forehead down into her eyes. The wood elf wiped at them between spells to little effect.

  Verdant started to heal the gash when, from the corner of his eye, he spotted movement on the slope above. A fireblast streaked in their direction. Without stopping to think, he shoved Breen down behind the log, but wasn’t so fortunate himself. The pyre swallowed him. He felt himself fall downhill and into the forest.

  His head rang with the sound of the explosion as he tried to rise. His protective spellshields had absorbed most of the blast, the heat of it mainly, but he’d landed poorly and his left leg was broken, pinned uselessly beneath him. Self-healing, difficult under the best of circumstances, wouldn’t work in its current position. Spikes of pain paralyzed him when he tried to move. He was still struggling when Breen found him. Her forehead remained cut and the wound bled into her eyes. Black smudges of ash clung to her cheeks. She leaned over him and her mouth moved, but his ears rang too loudly to make out her words.

  The wood elf tenderly rolled him on his side then moved his broken leg back into position. He screamed in deafened agony when it slipped back into place.

  Verdant fell into unconsciousness to the feeling of Breen pouring her healing powers into his mangled leg.

  Not for the first time, Blythe wondered why he was here. He wasn’t a military commander. He was a High Mage. Warfare was beneath him. He had spent his whole life devoted to the knowledge of magics, and through them, power. No golden elf could surpass his craft, and certainly he was more powerful than any wood elf or human. And yet for all his power and knowledge, he was no tactician, no soldier, but here he found himself, near the peak of a great hill, leading an army of golden elves in pursuit of the wood elf savages.

  Blythe saw little use in war. In war, generals wanted only fire and lightning and shields. Spells to inflict as much damage on the enemy as possible or to defend against them. He wasn’t interested in those. He had already mastered them. Let the lesser mages cast them. Blythe longed for his study and the pursuit of more complex castings. He was close to discovering how to speak over long distances through a scrying pool or how to raise the dead. That spell had been on his mind much lately. He had once found part of a scroll that claimed the ancients could raise the dead. If he could learn that and manage to summon an ancient mage he could learn much. The ancients had abilities beyond imagining.

  But he wouldn’t learn to summon the dead chasing wood elves. Silently, he cursed Elam. What had that fool been thinking?

  Officially, the king had appointed a general to lead, but he made it abundantly clear that the responsibility for success or failure rested squarely with Blythe.

  The general, a younger elf named Miran, had died early yesterday chasing after some wood elf ambushers. Damn the fool too for his arrogance.

  Acting on his own, the high mage had elevated Miran’s junior officer, an even younger elf, to take command. Perhaps this one would have less ambition and more sense after seeing his superior’s fate, he reasoned. Their arrangement had worked quite well so far, with himself issuing orders and the young elf carrying them out. The enterprising officer even took care of all the little details he couldn’t be bothered with.

  But still, all the responsibility fell to Blythe. Elam would punish him, if the army failed.

  Some army, he thought, looking at the soldiers around at them. The men were starving and haggard. We’re down to boiling the spare leather from our gear into soup. Where has all the food gone?

  The human in command of the wood elves had damaged the army. He and his wood elves harassed them day and night with arrows and lightning and skulking assassin’s blades. Individually, these attacks didn’t amount to much—a dozen dead here or there—but it frustrated everyone and wore on their minds. The human didn’t just order his troops to attack, either. He took part in most of the raids. This morning Blythe had seen him deflect a fireblast and then spring a trap that killed two of his finest mages.

  The soldiers were starting to say that he couldn’t be killed, that he was a spirit of the forest sent to murder them all. They had taken to calling him Kukehri, the bringer of death.

  Superstitious nonsense, Blythe knew. Truthfully, he felt a measure of relief that they hadn’t killed the human. He didn’t want to face the consequences if that happened. Koren had fought her father over the order to keep her behind, yelling and screaming like a spoiled child, and then she had waved those vicious daggers of hers at Blythe. She blamed him for the king’s decision. As if there weren’t a thousand places he’d rather be.

  Elam had, however, forced him to promise that the human would be captured, not killed. The high mage wasn’t certain if the king wanted him to honor that promise or not; often what Elam said and wanted were substantially different. But if the king wanted the human dead, he underestimated Blythe’s fear of Koren. He had no desire to face her wrath or worry about her blades in every shadow for the rest of his life. In an even contest, he had little doubt his abilities would prevail, but Koren had a reputation. She would never fight fair.

  Ahead, near the hill’s crest, spells and arrows flew freely. The wood elves were desperate. Every inch of ground was contested now.

  I shouldn’t be here, he thought as he trudged on. I should be back in Mirr studying my craft. I am not meant for battle. I am not meant to be here in the wilderness among these uneducated fodder, facing s
avages who want to kill me.

  This morning the young officer told him that the wood elves had nowhere else to go. Until now, they had maneuvered to keep themselves one step ahead of the army. But now, for some unknown reason, they had mistakenly retreated up the hillside and trapped themselves against the river. A patrol of golden elves scouted the hill’s base, finding that although this side sloped gently, the Wessen had eaten into the back and made it much steeper. The river churned and frothed over boulders and rapids below. Escape was impossible. If the wood elves tried to flee that way, they would certainly fall and drown.

  The climb hadn’t been easy. The wood elves had used their meager abilities to construct earthworks and then to shield them from his own mages. Three times the army was forced to fight through choke points. The losses had been great, but the fourth and final barrier lay ahead.

  A thunderous blast shook the hillside. The golden elves cheered. The final defenses must have broken. The young officer—it still hadn’t occurred to Blythe to ask for his name—signaled the charge and the remnants of the golden elf army pushed up toward the summit.

  Blythe followed. Perhaps he could finally end this and return to Mirr.

  The hilltop flattened out into a broad, treeless plateau. Golden soldiers filled one side, trapping the enemy with the steep embankment and raging river to their backs. A pitiful few wood elves remained. Wielding a short axe and sword, the defiant human held their center, beating back Blythe’s soldiers like a war god. Unlike most of his people, the high mage didn’t believe in the gods or any other form of divine power or beings. To his reasoning, there were only ascended beings who posed as gods, and he hoped, through study and perseverance to join them.

  I should be studying now instead of fighting in some filthy forest.

  Golden elves continued to press forward. Blythe’s few remaining mages lay slumped against nearby trees, lives spent after cracking through the final defenses. No matter, he would end this himself. Heaving a sigh, he lent his own spells to the attack, sending bolts of jagged, green lightning at the few remaining wood elves.

  So intent was his focus that he did not notice the screams behind him.

  Dain held the center with Larcet at his side. Both were battered and bruised. The few remaining wood elves, bloodied and weary, fought on all around them. Dain was proud of them. If this was where he died, and he fully expected to, he would do so in good company.

  At this point he knew they had been beaten. They had exacted a huge toll on the Golden these last days, killing many times their own number, but here, on this green hilltop, they would all perish. Still every enemy killed there was one fewer to hunt Sera and Jin. That thought alone drove him on.

  Through the stinging sweat and blood dripping down into his eyes, Dain spotted a single mage, fresher and more powerful than the others, casting at his dwindling forces. There was little to be done about him. Only a pair of his own mages still lived. After the last line of defense had shattered, they had exhausted their abilities and now fought with blade and staff. If the new threat was to be stopped, he had to do it. He pulled on the Light once more, empowering his spellshields and hoping he had enough strength to deflect the next cast.

  Crackling green lightning lanced out and tore at his protections. The spell’s pressure drove him to his knees and bowed his head. He dropped his tomahawk and threw one fist forward into the grass for support. The other gripped his sword hilt. Dain focused his mind, using the last trace of his strength to stop the mage’s spell. His vision clouded. His head pounded. He was vaguely aware of the remaining wood elf archers, almost out of arrows, turning their aim on the lone caster and letting fly while Larcet and the other wood elves battled on, hacking and slicing at any golden elves who ventured too close.

  Finally, the pressure lessened and then fell away completely. Either the arrows had found their mark, or more likely, the caster had turned his attention to them.

  Remaining on his knees and struggling to draw breath, Dain raised his eyes.

  Humans and dwarves swarmed over the hillside like hungry ants. Sunlight flashed off their mining picks as they surged into the golden elves. The heavy weapons punctured plate and mail alike, gouging out deep wounds as they overwhelmed the Golden.

  Beside him, Larcet called the charge, and like a coiled spring the wood elves sprang on offense. How could they have the strength? Dain didn’t. He couldn’t even get to his feet. In all the confusion, he found himself left behind. Where had these men come from?

  “No…it shouldn’t be this way,” said a nearby voice.

  Having wandered closer, the golden elf mage stood nearby, fully focused on the scene before him. Unaware of Dain, he began throwing the green lightning at groups of miners. The bolts arced to the first man and skipped to others nearby, dropping up to a dozen with each strike. Most didn’t have time to scream. Their cooked bodies fell to the grass and smoldered.

  With great effort, Dain rose. Under his full weight, his knees almost buckled. The mage stood, back to him, less than twenty feet away. He stalked closer. If he could draw close enough he could end the deadly spells with a swordstroke. He had no reservations about stabbing the dangerous caster in the back. The mage was dangerous.

  Dain had cut the distance in half when a loose stone betrayed him. It rolled beneath his foot and sent him sprawling. The clatter of his chainmail drew his target’s attention. The mage turned and spoke.

  “Stalking me, were you?”

  From the corner of his eye, Dain saw wood elves and humans running toward them. He needed to hold the mage’s attention.

  “Well, it might have worked,” he said.

  “Might have? That won’t comfort you much in the grave I’m afraid. Koren won’t be happy, but I think I’ll kill you now, human. First these, though.”

  The mage pivoted on one foot and threw a great wave of blue flame out from both hands in a wide fan. Dozens of rushing humans, dwarves, and wood elves were caught in it, collapsing and perishing as one.

  Dain drew in the Light, a trickle was all he could manage. He drove himself to his feet. His blood raced hot and, ignoring his weakness, he ran forward and dove for the mage. He hadn’t bothered to pick up a weapon and instead ran his shoulder straight for the elf’s spine.

  The mage, smiling after the slaughter of his enemies, turned and saw the danger, but too late. The smile fell. His eyes grew large. He tried to dodge, but Dain’s shoulder doubled him over before he could escape. Both rolled into a heap.

  Dain found himself sitting on top with the dazed mage trapped beneath him. Through a haze of blood, pain, and blackness he leaned down and placed his hands at the sides of the elf’s head.

  “No!” the spellcaster screamed.

  Dain twisted and felt a satisfying crack.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  King Elam tasted sweet victory.

  The work of half his lifetime lay within easy reach. His enemies had struck with everything they had and yet his army persevered, standing now upon their very doorstep.

  Using a third of the soldiers, Gallad besieged their city and, with a bit of luck, would breach their defenses before nightfall. Elam himself guarded his son’s flank. He would keep the wood elves at bay during the city’s destruction. Blythe had taken almost two thousand soldiers along with the few remaining cavalry in pursuit of the raiders who’d continued to strike from the west. The human, his son’s murderer, commanded them. The High Mage would destroy them and him, ending that problem once and for all.

  Koren had to be physically restrained from joining the mage. Elam wanted to give her a chance at vengeance, but couldn’t trust her to lead an expedition. His daughter’s tenuous grip on sanity had been lost. She would merrily invite disaster on them all for the merest chance at the human. She had cursed him, Blythe, and the entirety of their people after being denied. Elam hoped her sanity, or at the very least some sense of stability, would return and grant her a measure of peace after the human’s death.

 
; Elam stood under his tent’s bright yellow canopy, surveying the remainder of his forces. General Canby, who so many years ago had helped him lead their people from their ancestral homeland, aided him once again. Both wore their finest silver and gold armor, polished to a bright sheen.

  They had been so very young then. Too young for such a desperate mission to save their people, but who else had there been?

  It felt appropriate that Canby stood with him today. Today, they would finally secure the homeland they deserved. His regretted only that it had taken Haldrin’s death to bring it all about—his youngest son, slain by a filthy human, should be here to see his great victory over the vermin. The wood elves were simply not fit to survive. And their downfall would consolidate his lands and bring his family honor and glory for generations to come.

  But work still remains, he cautioned himself. Teldrain and his forces are out there plotting. Desperate people commit desperate deeds.

  “Shall we ride up toward the front, my king?” Canby asked.

  “Yes, old friend. I want to see this wall they have built to shield themselves,” Elam said. “Pilar, bring the general and myself our mounts. We are going to inspect the men. Is my horse ready?”

  “Of course, my lord,” the guardsman responded.

  In a moment, a second guardsman appeared. He led Elam’s white stallion and Canby’s own black. Both animals wore armor, matching that of their riders. Long, flowing plumes of red decorated their headpieces.

  Flanked by a half-dozen guardsmen, they rode to the front, passing between row after row of orderly golden elf soldiers. Canby appraised the soldiers as they went, handing out compliments and scorn where appropriate. Elam spoke to none of them. It was, he reflected, the general’s job to keep them in shape, not his. He was interested in little more than their obedience and fighting capability.