Klye nodded. “If it’ll keep my head on my shoulders, I’ll tell you everything I know about anything.”
Now Colt did chuckle. “Then rest up, my friend. I fear the war is just beginning.”
* * *
His first thought was that he was alive, and that was enough to make him smile. Though he had failed to kill the hated Dominic Horcalus and though his true identity was no longer a secret, he was alive.
And as long as he had life, he had hope.
Darkness surrounded him. The air was cool but stuffy. Instinctively, he knew he was below ground. The sound of dripping water echoed nearby, and the air was so musty it made his nose itch. The ground on which he lay was hard and covered with something slimy.
He was weak, terribly weak. The powers he had displayed during his battle with the humans had drained him beyond belief. But he would regain his stamina in time. He needed only to rest, and then he could finish what he had started.
“You would have been wiser to kill me while you could,” he whispered to his unseen captors.
“You would have been wiser to let them kill you before I interfered!”
The words were impossibly loud, resounding from all around him, but the volume wasn’t what made his heart pound painfully in his chest. The disembodied voice had used the goblin tongue.
His eyes were adjusting to the oppressive darkness, and he could make out walls of stone. But there were no iron bars, no human guards. He was in a cave. No, a tunnel. A rocky trail stretched out before him. He must have been rescued by a fellow shaman.
As much as it hurt him to do so, T’slect propped himself up on an elbow. It wouldn’t do to have one of his subjects see him in so pitiful a position. He peered into the shadows but saw no sign of his savior.
“Show yourself so that I might know whom to reward,” he called out in his native language.
A figure materialized in front of him. T’slect’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t the sudden arrival that so stunned him—the goblin prince knew more tricks than most shamans would ever learn—but the palpable terror the figure exuded.
A familiar fear gripped T’slect’s soul.
Although he had only been in the presence of T’Ruel’s emperor only once—had seen the face of his father when he was little more than a whelp—T’slect recognized the terrible majesty his sovereign lord wore like a gown.
“Father—“
“Silence!” roared the Emperor of T’Ruel. “Your mouth has already gotten you into enough trouble this day. Do not make matters worse.”
T’slect obeyed. He was powerless to do anything more than stare in stark horror at the one who had given him life—and, in all likelihood, the one who would take it away.
Despite his keen vision, the goblin prince could not penetrate the impossibly dark shadow that surrounded his father. Two pale red eyes shone in the blackness, fixed on T’slect, who was too afraid to even grovel.
“You are not the only prince of T’Ruel,” his father said. “I have sired more sons than I know what to do with. But I chose you over all of your brothers. You had proven yourself in battle, shown that the power of Upsinous was strong in you.
“Yet you jeopardized everything today like a common fool. You revealed yourself to the humans, and for what? Vengeance? Vainglory? You allowed your spite for the humans…for a handful of men…to blind you.
“And you came to this island without my blessing.”
“Spare me, Father, and I shall make it up to you,” T’slect promised. “Give me another chance, and I will make sure none of Fort Faith’s inhabitants live to see tomorrow. Together, you and I could—”
The red dots flared brighter, and T’slect squirmed under the wrathful gaze of his father. “It is too late for that. Even if I were here in my physical form to assist you, how would Prince Eliot explain the destruction of the fortress? No, son, you have failed, and so will you be punished.”
T’slect wanted to argue that they could blame it all on the midge. By Upsinous’s strong black heart, there was still hope! There was still a chance for the Renegade War to continue unhindered. But he dared not further anger his father.
“You shall not die this day,” the Emperor said. “I have devised a fate worse than death. No more will you wield Upsinous’s gift.”
T’slect let out a wail of anguish. Already, he could feel something changing inside of him. The sense of loss greater than any pain he had ever known.
“I am not finished. This past year you have paraded around in the guise of a human. This was a necessary part of the plan, but I fear you have come to think and act too much like a human for your own good. We goblins do not confront our enemies head on, not when we can slash at them from the shadows. You have become impetuous and selfish, sacrificing the greater good for your own petty revenge.
“For this, I condemn you to live out the rest of your days as one of them. Today, I lose a son, and the world gains another miserable human.”
“Father!” T’slect shouted, or at least he started to, but then his body began to spasm.
His insides twisted, and he felt the repulsive, pink skin melt over the handsome gray flesh of his heritage. He screamed and screamed, but at the same time he welcomed the pain for in it he was able to lose himself.
Writhing there in the subterranean tunnel, suddenly very alone, T’slect hoped that the pain would never end. He wished that there would never be even one second where he could think and know that every time he looked at his reflection in a mirror, he would see a hideous, human face looking back.
The former Prince of T’Ruel prayed to Upsinous for death, but T’slect knew his god well enough to know that there would be no easy way out of his punishment.
No, he would live, and as long as he had life—even a human’s life—he had hope.
THE RENEGADE CHRONICLES
Rebels and Fools
Heroes and Liars
Martyrs and Monsters
Heroes and Liars
David Michael Williams
An excerpt from Volume 2
of The Renegade Chronicles
Available now from
ONE MILLION WORDS
Mitto gazed contentedly into the fire, watching the flames flicker and undulate in an almost hypnotic manner. Suddenly, he was aware of someone standing behind him.
Perhaps it had been all of that thinking about thieves and rebels because he was on his feet in an instant to confront who-ever it was. He didn’t recognize the man who had stolen up on him as silently as a ghost. For that matter, the stranger resembled a wraith, draped, as he was, in a tattered cloak and cowl that cast most of his face in shadow. Dark, sunken eyes peered out at him from between a sharp nose.
Mitto took a step back.
The intruder pulled back his hood, revealing the wrinkled visage of a very old man. “I did not mean to startle you, boy. I only want to talk. Please sit.”
His voice reminded Mitto of a creaky-hinged door in want of oiling. Because he had no reason to deny the old man’s request—because there was no reason to be afraid of the ancient stranger—Mitto sat down and offered him the vacant seat.
The old man set himself down with a not-quite-stifled grunt. That was when Mitto saw the geezer wasn’t alone. A second shorter form followed him to a spot on the other side of the chair. Mitto tried to discern what he could about the addition to his unexpected company, but the shorter stranger wore a long hooded coat to match the old man’s.
A dwarf, maybe…or perhaps a midge? Mitto thought sourly.
He couldn’t consider the bundled mystery further because the old man spoke again, drawing Mitto’s gaze and full attention.
“Was that your covered wagon I saw out front?” he asked.
Mitto did not answer right away. He was lost in the intense gleam of the old man’s dark eyes.
“Might be it is, might be it’s not,” Mitto said at last.
He had never been one to jump at bumps in the night, but there wa
s something suspicious about the old man—something menacing.
Swallowing despite his suddenly dry throat, Mitto asked, “Who are you, and what do you want from me?”
“My name is Toemis Blisnes. I need a ride to Fort Faith…whatever is left of it.”
Mitto sat back in his chair, letting the old man’s croak-like voice echo in his mind. The stranger’s name meant nothing to him, but the mention of Fort Faith left him bewildered.
Fort Faith was a smallish fortification out past Fort Valor, nestled up against the Rocky Crags. The place had been
abandoned since the Ogre War. Nobody lived there now, except maybe the ghosts of the Knights butchered by the brutes. What could Toemis Blisnes want with a deserted fort? The man was far too old to be gallivanting halfway across Capricon…
“Will you take us there? I can pay.”
Toemis withdrew a fat purse from inside his coat. The mention of “us” reminded Mitto that he and Toemis were not alone. Mitto’s gaze wandered back over to the cloaked figure, but as the small stranger had taken a seat on the floor on the other side of Toemis’s chair, he saw only the top of a brown hood.
“Look, Mister Blisnes—”
“Toemis.”
“As you like, Toemis,” Mitto said, inspecting a seam staring of the three-cornered hat on his lap. “I can’t guess what interest you have in that old heap of stone, and I don’t care. Fact of the matter is, I don’t venture that far west…not on that road, any-way. I’ve been known to make deliveries to Fort Valor, but there’s nothing worth my while beyond.”
He glanced up at Toemis. The old man returned his stare without expression.
“My route takes me to Hylan, Steppt, and Kraken regularly. Sometimes, I’ll go up to the Port of Gust if the money is right, but I’ve never even seen Fort Faith,” Mitto said, filling the silence with facts. “There’s nobody at Fort Faith to trade with.”
But then Mitto remembered a rumor he had heard during his stop in Steppt while sharing a drink with Miles Tentrunks. Ten-trunks, a fellow traveling merchant and notorious gossip, had heard on “good authority” that the Knights of Superius were planning to reoccupy Fort Faith due to increased Renegade activity in the region.
At the time, Mitto hadn’t put much stock in his rival’s words, but now…
“I can pay,” Toemis repeated, holding a coin purse out to Mitto.
He resisted the urge to take the purse and look inside. The profit from his trip to Kraken and back was considerable. That sum, added to what he would make from his last run to Hylan before the first snowfall, would see him comfortably through the winter.
It’s probably full of rocks…like the old man’s head, he mused. And it would take a small fortune to tear me away from Someplace Else. I’ve earned this little bit of respite!
The veiny, wrinkled hand remained outstretched, the coin purse just inches away.
“I can’t,” Mitto protested, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with Toemis. His refusal didn’t seem to dishearten Toemis Blisnes in the least. If anything, the old man looked more insistent, more determined than before.
Without a word, Toemis loosened the purse’s drawstrings. The firelight made the shiny gold coins inside within sparkle and shimmer.
Mitto’s eyes widened. The old man was, in fact, offering him a small fortune.
A certain fable his mother had told when he was small came unbidden to mind, and Mitto had the ridiculous notion he was face to face with the dastardly Goblin. In the stories, Goblin would give gold in exchange for a favor. But in the end, the man or woman in the tale always regretted helping Goblin with his seemingly simple request.
Beneath his supposed generosity, Goblin was as sneaky as they came.
Mitto had never considered himself to be a greedy man—at least no greedier than any businessman. And yet he couldn’t take his eyes off of the gold. With those coins, he wouldn’t have to worry about hauling scratchy hay or heavy barrels of Hylan lager for miles, praying to the gods to keep the snow at bay.
Hells, with that much money, he’d not have to leave Rydah for a year!
Suddenly suspicious, he looked up at Toemis. Where had the old man gotten so much gold? Whose purse had been pilfered?
Whose throat had he slit to gain this treasure?
As though reading his thoughts, Toemis crossed his arms and said, “It’s what’s left of a lifetime of saving…and it can be yours for nothing more than a ride to Fort Faith.”
The old man could be lying. Looking down at the gold once more, Mitto was fully aware that Toemis, in spite of his age, could be a thief—could be the fabled Guildmaster, for all Mitto knew. And then there was Toemis’s diminutive accomplice. Where did he fit into everything?
Mitto didn’t trust the old man, and yet whatever deception Toemis and his companion might be weaving, the gold looked real enough. Of course, in the stories, the gold was always real.
“Are you two with the Guild?”
Toemis’s brow furrowed in momentary confusion before he answered, “No.”
“Are you Renegades?”
“No.”
Even as Mitto recalled the terrible endings of those childhood tales—orchestrated, always, by Goblin—he knew he would accept the impossibly simple job. He silently cursed Toemis for the tempting offer and then cursed himself for accepting the shiny bait.
“Fine, I’ll do it,” he said, sounding as defeated as he felt. At least the would-be hero in the story was allowed a moment of joy before his downfall. Mitto, on the other hand, felt nothing but worry. “What do you say, half now and half when we arrive at the fort?”
Toemis closed the purse and thrust it back into his coat. “Nothing until we get there.”
Mitto opened his mouth to argue but then shrugged his shoulders in surrender. He couldn’t blame Toemis for being cautious. Besides, with Goblin it was always all or nothing.
“When do you want to leave?” Mitto asked.
“Now.”
Mitto had that nothing Toemis could say would surprise him. He was mistaken.
“Now?” he demanded. “It’s raining like mad. The city’s half-flooded for gods’ sakes.”
Toemis’s piercing black eyes didn’t blink. All or nothing, Mitto reminded himself. Well, I may be a fool for gold, but I’m not completely crazy.
“Look, Toemis, even if the gatekeepers would allow us to leave Rydah at such a suspiciously late hour and even if the Renegade War weren’t lending courage to every rogue and brigand this side of the Strait, I’d still have to insist that we wait until morning on account of my horses. They need rest. It won’t get you to Fort Faith any quicker if they collapse a mile outside the city.”
That last bit was pure hyperbole, though the horses deserved to rest—as did he. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted a slight movement, a bobbing, as it were, of the brown hood beside Toemis’s chair. The old man dropped a bony hand down atop the other’s head, though Mitto couldn’t decide if the gesture was intended to calm or control.
“Very well,” Toemis said, rising from his chair. “We’ll meet here at sunup.”
Mitto nodded, and when the old man stuck out his claw-like hand, he quickly got to his feet and extended his own hand to seal their deal. Toemis’s skin was warm but not as sweaty as Mitto’s was. And the old man was possessed of a strength that caught Mitto off guard.
Without another word, Toemis Blisnes made his way over to the bar, where Else was trying hard to look like she hadn’t been watching them the whole time. The small, silent other followed Toemis without hesitation. But the shrouded stranger did pause long enough to take a quick glance at the merchant, providing Mitto with an unobstructed, albeit brief, peek at the enigmatic creature.
Which only left him with more questions.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To properly recognize every person who supported The Renegade Chronicles since I first put fingertips to keyboard in 1997 would fill another entire book. To spare the lives of a few trees, I�
�ll attempt to keep my kudos concise and thank everyone who encouraged my creativity throughout the years, including:
Family members who nurtured my imagination by making sure I always had paper and pencils to map out new worlds and by exploring those places with me.
Dear friends who called me “weird but in a good way,” indulged me when I spoke of made-up people and strange plots, and provided feedback along the way.
Educators who taught me the craft as well as bolstered my confidence—even though I was only interested in writing stories with swords and magic.
Comrades-in-arms whose critiques made me the writer I am today, especially the Allied Authors of Wisconsin.
To recognize a few of those individuals by name:
Robyn Williams, who motivated her little brother to try his hand at the written word and who inadvertently helped invent two main characters in this series.
Stephanie Williams, my incredible wife, whose interest in Altaerra and its populace in 1994 prompted me to record those stories in copious notebooks and who has supported me in so many ways over the past two decades.
Judith Barisonzi, who taught me the fundamentals of story-telling, how to write on deadline, and the truth that great writing transcends genre.
Alan Hathaway, who inspired me to pursue my dream and also made accommodations so I could make it a reality.
Jake Weiss, a good friend and brilliant designer who exceed-ed all expectations for the cover art.
Fern Ramirez, who always sees the best in a story even while seeking out its flaws.
And last but not least, Tom Ramirez, who has played a variety of parts since we met at that auspicious rummage sale in 2005—from surrogate grandfather and role model to tireless cheerleader and invaluable friend.
It’s been a long, strange journey, and I consider myself very blessed indeed.
Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) Page 48