Orphan Knight

By T. B. Phillips

Shadow Consumes Light...

A young man, branded a liar for what he saw, witnessed evil so powerful he lost his title, his lands, and his family. Only his reputation remains, of unintended arrogance and pride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andalon Press
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781961674028

Book preview

OrphanKnight_FrontFinal_SD_Hi-8.jpg

T. B. Phillips

Orphan Knight

A Corrupted Realms Novel

Published by Andalon Press

Copyright © 2023 by T.B. Phillips

Cover design by Lynnette Bonner of Indie Cover Design, images ©

   depositphotos.com, File: # 67916149 – throne

   depositphotos.com, File: # 198009538 – crown

   depositphotos.com, File: # 213412892 – fire

   depositphotos.com, File: # 22823894 – black background

   depositphotos.com, File: # 475234022 – smoke

Map artwork by Cary Beshel and Mike Murdock

Book interior design by Stewart Design, https://StewartDesign.studio

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 978-1-961674-02-8

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Books by T.B. Phillips

Andalon Saga

Andalon Origins

Andalon Project (April 2022)

Andalon Paradox (April 2023)

Andalon Prophecies (Expected Winter 2023)

Dreamers of Andalon

Andalon Awakens (June 2019)

Andalon Arises (July 2020)

Andalon Attacks (December 2020)

Children of Andalon

Andalon Legacy (September 2022)

Corrupted Realms

Orphan Knight (July 2023)

Wailing Tempest (May 2021)

Howling Shadow (September 2021)

Chilling Tales

Ferryman (October 2022)

Chapter One

The northern mountains welcomed spring. Bright sun warmed rocky faces and cast longer silhouettes than previous months, teasing an icy landscape with budding color. Despite snowcaps which would never completely melt, runoff swelled rivers and fed green valleys below. This was a forbidden land—home to a selfish bunch who resented intrusion. They lived far beneath the ground so neither man nor woman witnessed the unspoiled beauty of fading winter.

At least, not up close.

A bit further to the south a grand city rested between forking rivers, with one branch feeding the western sea and the other rushing to nourish rich farmlands to the south. The people of this southern valley, with their eyes greedily awaiting the nourishment a mountain spring would bring, called the city Norgaard—an ancient seat to an empire long forgotten. This city, built upon ruins of a people long forgotten, knew only simplicity.

The people who called this place home knew only toil and sacrifice but did so willingly beneath their vassal. Home to fisherman, Norgaard’s many boats ventured often to glean the sea of cold bounty in the form of cod, sturgeon, and whale. Farmers inhabited the valley between this city and the capital to the south, dealing their grain to Midlandis, the home of their sovereign king. Together, the people and places of this island nation were called Enatherr.

No matter where they lived, be it in city or countryside, both noble- and simple-born shared a single commonality; they never ventured out at night. Not for hundreds of years had this custom been broken, not since the betrayal by those who dwelled beneath the mountains. Thieves had stolen their ease, their ability to walk in the veil of darkness.

Beneath that veil lurked Shadow.

No, not that kind of shadow—those spots cast by the warmth of welcomed light. Those are called shadows. This darkness plagued the land and cast deep scars. Each evening, only after the sun had finished its daily journey, evil pried open the places between two realms and ripped apart the veil. Shadow ventured forth and Shadow was the home to dark things—those wishing to feed upon the bounty which depended upon the light.

Each morning the rising of the sun would heal the wounds, but terrifying stories lingered. Most unforgettable, serving as the nightly reminder to all who slept that evil was no superstition, were the piercing howls and mournful cries from creatures unimaginable. Though of rare occurrence, loved ones also went missing in the night. By daybreak families mourned doors unlocked, windows pried open, and other preventable mishaps.

To look upon Shadow and live would earn a liar’s reputation, for the living was never spared. This was the way of Shadow. It fed upon fear, was drawn to its sweet aroma and roamed the human realm feeding upon all who thought themselves brave.

Until one boy, nearly but not yet a man, witnessed Shadow during daylight and denied a god its meal. He looked upon darkness, stared it down, and lived. For this he was damned, condemned and stripped of all he should have been. Named forever as vain for spreading tales of his bravery, a fashioner of lies for telling truths the world refused to believe, he lost himself and those he loved, earning forever the title of orphan. His is remembered simply as the vile.

This is his story, the once noble orphan cursed by survival and how living instead of dying forever changed his heart.

Radviken! a deep voice bellowed across the training yard. "Why are you here instead of packing your things?"

The boy, called Rad by his friends, set his feet and refused to look away from his challenger. Despite the anger in that voice, he ignored it, knowing this adversary would take advantage of the briefest of opportunities. That blow came fast and hard and Rad met it with a parry, feeling the force of it ripple through his arms as if they would break beneath its strength. He may have been out-muscled, but his lighter form favored speed.

The boy spun into, not away from, his attacker, landing a scoring blow to an iron gorget protecting the larger man’s neck. His blow sent the challenger to his knees, a cheap shot taken that would not soon be forgotten.

Win goes to Master Radviken! the training master announced. This earned groans from the older men, knights and skilled warriors who had once again lost money betting against the boy.

He cheated! the fallen knight protested, waving over a squire to help him to his feet. He could have taken my head off!

There’s no cheating on the battlefield, Rad reminded the man with a grin. Don’t blame me if your limitations are to sparring. What good are you to the king or my father if you only know how to fight with wooden swords like a child?

This earned more grumbles from those paying their antes and, with Rad’s back turned to them and the loser, an obscene gesture or two as well.

Radviken! That voice had nearly reached him, seething with anger at chasing down a child. I know you can hear me!

The boy showed no urgency to answer. He unbuckled his armor and dropped it on the field. The loser’s squire would collect it and stow it away, despite the winner was not yet a knight himself. Rad tossed his gauntlet at a page, laughing as it struck his backside. Such a lowly existence this son of a nobleman was spared, and he detested the errand runners nearly as much as he reveled in showing up their knights.

Radviken! the voice huffed breathlessly by now, its gusto nearly gone. "Report to the keep at once!"

Rad, still ignoring its source, looked up at the spires of that keep, a simple castle sitting high upon a raised hill overlooking where the river forked both west and south. This stronghold offered more in the way of protection than comfort, the first line defending Enatherr from the subterranean Luchorpán Kingdom of the north.

From one of those windows a woman waved then shook a fist, pointing to the iron gates of the bailey. A carriage was already waiting, frantically being loaded by squires and errand runners. The boy lifted his hand casually and gave his mother a dutiful wave that ignored her urgency.

I’ll be there soon, Mother, he thought, then walked the opposite way. He and his family were going away for many months, and he had one more thing to do before leaving. He would miss bathing in the river, both for its invigorating cold and for its uninterrupted view of the snowy wasteland to the north.

He strolled casually out that river gate, the northern opening in the reinforced wall encircling the city, with the angry voice berating his every step.

Master Radviken! You had better not make your father wait! It’s a half day’s ride to Midlandis, and it’s nearly noon as it is!

Relax, Oliver, the boy finally replied, stripping off his shirt and dropping it on the ground. His long hair, damp from exercise, clung to his muscled shoulders. To an onlooker it was easy to forget this youth wasn’t quite yet a man. Icy blue eyes ignored his father’s servant. I sent a page to gather my things. I won’t slow our departure.

The house butler was an older man, too thin for the oversized robes of his station. Despite he appeared able to snap in a stiff wind, he moved nimbly. Scooping up the garment without hesitation he warned, "You had better not! Your father will blame me if you make him late! As if I have any control over you! Under his breath Oliver added, As if anyone can!"

Rad stripped his britches, dropping these also on the ground, and walked brazenly toward the river.

Oliver blushed at the brashness of his nudity, appalled that a boy of noble birth would be acting in such a common manner. But, after seventeen years, he was used to his young master’s manners—or lack thereof. Pausing only to reach down and remove his boots, Rad tossed these over his shoulder at the butler’s head.

I need a bath, was the only excuse Radviken gave.

Oliver picked up the boots, his arms now full of sweaty garments, glancing furtively between the frigid waters and the keep high above.

As Rad waded in, shivering and feeling his heart skip a beat, he offered a solution. "I would make us later if I had to climb up all those stairs to my room. Why don’t you retrieve some travel clothes for me to put on after my bath?"

The butler must have decided that arguing against that logic would cause the boy to win a second duel that morning, so he huffed his disapproval and hurried up the hill to do as his young master suggested.

Pack and fetch my luggage while you’re at it! the boy commanded. Finally alone, Rad dunked his head beneath the waters.

This was his favorite place in his father’s lands. The water rushed over him, cleansing the staleness that came from living within a castle. He yearned to live like this, free among nature and hunting in the mountains in the north. To tread where no man was allowed. The coldness of the melting snow brought him closer to that wilderness.

He eyed the opposite shore, weighing the consequences should he swim across and step onto it. Only respect for his father, and the treaty the king signed with Luchorpán, kept him from crossing. Radviken was, after all, a dutiful son despite the hard-headed streak of defiance he showed to others. He had to obey his father and lord, or obedience would be beaten into him. He shuddered thinking of the last time his father’s fists had beaten his ribs, and he splashed cold water against the faded bruises.

It wasn’t long before a huffing and puffing Oliver returned with a bundle of clothing, a towel, a travel pack, and a waterskin for the journey.

Where’s my sword? the boy remarked disapprovingly.

Your father forbade it. He said you are not yet a knight and would not travel to see the king as one.

This infuriated the boy. The only thing standing between me and knighthood is my father’s blessing, he muttered. He was a better fighter than most men, much less the king’s own knights. Stepping from the water he snatched away the bundle, dried off, and dressed.

"Perhaps if you offered him humility," the butler suggested.

Radviken responded by slapping the wet towel across the insolent man’s mouth, smiling at the trail of blood it left on the man’s beard. "I’ll offer him humility when I bow down to crap on his grave, the young man snapped. Remember your place, Oliver, because I’ll be Lord of Norgaard someday!"

Unfazed and quite used to the abuse from both father and son, Oliver resisted the urge to wipe his split lip. Well today you are still your father’s son and are holding up the caravan! At this rate it may be dark by the time your family arrives in Midlandis!

Superstition meant nothing to Radviken. Though he had lived his entire life hearing the howls and growls of Shadow, the high walls had kept him safer than most people in Enatherr. Such a threat meant nothing, not when it was the trip itself he feared.

It was his father’s final insult upon his son, to condemn his final year before knighthood as a squire to the king’s son. A year was a long time to live at court and an even longer time wasted reading books and catering to a prince who only ever wanted to study. Prince Rashmere was a disgrace to his own suit of armor, completely lacking athletic ability, showing no interest at all in girls, and, worst of all, lacking anything resembling a sense of humor. The boy was a bore and to serve him would be a worse fate than falling victim to Shadow.

Let’s go, he finally said to Oliver, leading the way through the river gate. A guard slammed it shut behind them, locking it so no one else would follow. I wish the Luchorpán would dare try, Rad thought, eager for another fight.

The butler had been right. He was not only late—he had held up the entire procession.

His father, dressed in his finest traveling clothes instead of his armor, looked more like a merchant than the vassal of Norgaard. He tugged the edges of his dark beard, angrily watching his son approach. Fuming from atop his mount, his angry eyes pointed at the open carriage door. Ride in there with your mother, he commanded, like the child you are!

Rad knew better than to quip and stepped wordlessly into the car.

Alana tore her eyes from Oliver’s lip and drilled them at once into her son. If they had not been so heavy with worry and red from tears, she would appear ten years younger than her true age. That wasn’t nice, she pointed out as soon as Radviken had settled, what you did to poor Oliver.

He deserved it, the young son of a nobleman retorted, "not like the beating Father gave you last night!"

I’m not talking about the split lip you gave him! she hissed. You shouldn’t worry him sick over his job. It’s bad enough you struck him, but to humiliate the house butler by making him run all the way up to your room and back down again like a page or squire just for your amusement?

Rad couldn’t help but smile. "It wasn’t only for my amusement. I needed my clothes."

"It’s no wonder