Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3]

by David Michael Williams

  * * *

  Horcalus was the first to squeeze through the hole Noel had blasted through the stone barricade. It was a tight fit, with hot, jagged rock poking into his flesh, but he was too preoccupied with worry for his friends to pay any heed to his own discomfort.

  When he finally extricated himself from the tight tunnel, a scene of devastation met his eyes. He could only gape at the ruined war room, his mind scrambling to come up with an explanation. By the time Noel and then Opal wormed their way into the room, Horcalus was already running over to Othello.

  The archer’s leg was buried beneath a pile of stone, but, to Horcalus’s astonishment, Othello was in the process of fitting an arrow in the string of his longbow. When the archer saw Horcalus approaching, he waved the knight away.

  “Go to Klye,” Othello said.

  Horcalus gave Othello a grave nod and started over to where Klye lay sprawled on the floor. Beyond the Renegade Leader stood a regal-looking man who could be none other than Prince Eliot Borrom.

  “Stay back!” the prince hissed, waving a saber out before him.

  Eliot was leaning against a desk. One of Othello’s arrows protruded from his upper thigh. Horcalus ignored the prince. He had no quarrel with Eliot Borrom. He had to get to Klye. Ignoring the prince’s order, Horcalus came forward, stopping only when he reached the fallen Renegade Leader.

  “Lieutenant,” Horcalus heard Eliot call. “Thank the gods you are here. These Renegades nearly proved the end of me. Kill them at once!”

  In spite of himself, Horcalus glanced back at the hole Noel had made. Only half of Petton had breached the war room. Although the lieutenant had been forced to remove the majority of his armor, he was still having a devil of a time pulling himself through the magically made passage.

  “Don’t listen to him, Petton,” Noel pleaded. The midge and Opal were standing over one of the fallen Knights, but upon hearing the prince’s order, the midge started marching toward Eliot Borrom. “I know you’re evil! You talk to monsters in mirrors, and if you’ve killed Klye or Colt, I’m going to kill you myself.”

  The Crown Prince of Superius glowered down at the midge, but beneath his indignation, Horcalus saw genuine worry.

  At the mention of his wounded comrade, Horcalus returned to the task at hand. He brought his fingers up to Klye’s throat, and when he found a pulse—weak but steady—he nearly let out a cry of joy. With a prayer of thanks to the Warriorlord, he gently laid Klye’s head back down on the floor and rose to his feet.

  “Calm down, Noel,” he said. “Klye is alive. Do not act hastily.”

  “But the prince is evil!” the midge protested.

  “The midge is right.”

  Horcalus met Othello’s eyes, hardly believing he had heard the man correctly. But the look in Othello’s expression told Horcalus he was being as serious as ever. Before Horcalus could react one way or another, the archer launched another arrow at the prince.

  Eliot Borrom ducked just in time.

  “Don’t you fire another shot!” Petton roared. The lieutenant had finally managed to pull himself into the room. He was hurrying over to Othello, but Petton’s effort was for naught. Othello had passed out.

  “It’s all a plot to assassinate me,” Prince Eliot insisted. “The midge is on it. You must stop him, lieutenant!”

  “What in hells happened here?” Opal asked the prince.

  At the same time, Noel began chanting a spell.

  Lieutenant Petton gave a startled gasp and sprinted toward the midge.

  Horcalus felt something wet touch his hand. A river of dark blood was trickling down the slope of the uneven floor. He followed the thick rivulet to its source, all the while wondering what manner of man bled black.

  His answer came in the form of a goblin corpse.

  “Goblins.” Horcalus mouthed the word, unable to find his voice. It could not be a coincidence, but what did the presence of the monsters portend? “Monsters in the mirror…”

  The truth came to him all at once.

  “Gods above, the midge is right!”

  Horcalus didn’t know if had uttered his deduction aloud or not. He had little time to figure out much of anything. Lieutenant Petton was closing in on Noel. Without thought to the consequences, Horcalus flung himself at the oncoming Knight, blindsiding him with a flying tackle. The two men hit the ground with a powerful crash.

  As he attempted to free himself from Horcalus’s hold, Petton swore, “I’ll gut you for this, traitor! I’ll—“

  Out of the corner of his eye, Horcalus glimpsed a flash of purple light. He heard Noel scream, and then the midge came skidding past them, dropping to the ground like a limp rag doll.

  A second burst bathed Horcalus’s vision in violet, but he was already running over to Noel. The blast struck the lieutenant instead, thrusting him back no less than two yards where he hit the floor and lay motionless.

  “That one was meant for you, rogue knight.”

  Frozen where he stood, halfway between where the bodies of Noel and Petton lay, Horcalus felt the prince’s words wash over him like the frigid waters of a mountain stream.

  “Yes, I recognize you, Dominic Horcalus,” the prince continued. “Upsinous has truly favored me this day.”

  “Who are you?” For the first time since entering the fort, Horcalus drew his longsword.

  “I am your prince!”

  With that, the imposter sent another blast of purple light Horcalus’s way, which he narrowly avoided. The spell had passed so near, Horcalus felt the prickle of gooseflesh all along his flank. Knowing his only chance in defeating the prince was to run him through before he fired another magical shot Horcalus charged forward.

  He saw the imposter’s mouth moving and knew he would be too late, but he kept running anyway. When the man flung out his hands, his outstretched fingers pointed at him, Horcalus flinched but did not slow. He waited for death to fly at him on violet wings.

  It never came, and the stranger looked as surprised as Horcalus felt.

  Horcalus came on with a booming war cry, channeling all of his anger and frustration into his attack. The imposter had just enough time to retrieve a long, curved sword from atop the desk and make a desperate swing before Horcalus was on him.

  Horcalus batted the saber aside and countered with a thrust of his own. His longsword grazed the imposter’s midsection and pierced the wooden desk. To Horcalus’s immense chagrin, the sword stuck fast in the piece of furniture, and he was forced to relinquish his hold on it and fall back as the saber ripped through the air where his head had been seconds before.

  Unarmed, Horcalus considered a temporary retreat, but he did not want to give the imposter the chance to cast another spell. The man’s well of magic might have dried up, but Horcalus couldn’t be sure. He had no idea how such things worked and he didn’t want to learn the hard way.

  The imposter came on again, swinging the saber at his chest. Horcalus was not quick enough to dodge, and the blade bit into chest. He went with the momentum of the strike, knowing that the saber might well pierce through his ribcage and into the vital organs beneath if he resisted.

  Unbalanced and weaponless, Horcalus managed to stay on his feet, but he had no recourse. He knew with all certainty that the next slash of the saber would mean his death, but the deathblow never came. The imposter gave a horrible cry and staggered back, turning his body away from Horcalus and toward the front of the war room…

  …where the red-haired archer was frantically reloading her crossbow.

  The next thing Horcalus knew he was diving at the supposed Prince of Superius, slamming him bodily into the desk. He pounded his fists into the demon’s stomach until he heard the saber clatter to the floor. Then his hands were around the imposter’s neck, and he was squeezing.

  Somehow Horcalus knew this man was responsible for the false charges brought against Ragellan and him and that even though Dark Lily had done the dark deed, this stranger had handed her the executioner’s
axe. And he knew Noel was right: the man was evil.

  He reveled in the imposter’s choked breaths. Justice would be served. The man’s hands dropped down at his sides, and he ceased struggling. Still Horcalus squeezed.

  Only when the man’s eyes rolled back in his head did he stop. The bluish flesh of his face was sleek with sweat. If the imposter was not already dead, he was lingering on the verge.

  “Is he dead?”

  Opal was standing at his side, though he had not heard her approach. With trembling fingers, Horcalus checked signs of life, the pulse that would vindicate him. I am no murderer, he thought. I would never kill an opponent out of anger. I am a Knight of Superius! The tears of shame that were trickling down his cheeks instantly changed to tears of relief when he found the heartbeat. The imposter’s chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths.

  “Thank the gods,” Horcalus murmured.

  “He’s just lucky Colt is still alive,” Opal said. “If he wasn’t, no witchcraft in the world could have saved him from my fury.”

  “It is better that he is alive,” Horcalus stated, hoisting the imposter’s body up from the desk. “There are plenty of questions that need—”

  The next moment, Horcalus was holding nothing but air. The false Prince of Superius was gone, leaving Horcalus and Opal to exchange startled looks.

  Opal kicked the old desk. “We should’ve killed him when we had the chance!”

  Passage XVIII

  When Klye opened his eyes and saw the unremarkable wooden ceiling above, he couldn’t decide where he was. Though it seemed like he had slept for a long stretch of time, he still felt incredibly lethargic. His mind was sluggish, and the mere thought of turning his head to better survey his surroundings drained him.

  He was comfortable, presumably in a bed of some kind. Probably, he was suffering from a hangover, though he didn’t often drink in excess. Neither was he one to celebrate without cause, so he must have stolen something of great value. And it must have been quite a treasure for him to have wasted so much coin on strong drink and an inn with soft beds.

  Yes, he would just lie there until his head no longer buzzed.

  “Hey, his eyes are open!”

  The voice was familiar but Klye couldn’t identify it. He slowly turned his head to the left, an action that took an incredible amount of effort to execute. There, beside the bed, stood a short fellow in a silly-looking hat, who was smiling at him. It was Noel. Noel was a pest, but he was also a spell-caster—a useful ally in battle.

  And there had been many battles. He, Noel, and two other warriors were on a crusade of some kind, trying to rid the world of vile monsters. It was all starting to come back to him. He wasn’t a thief anymore; he was a hero.

  I must’ve taken a blow to the head during that fight with the eyeball creature, he thought.

  “How are you feeling?” Noel asked. “Your face isn’t as white as it was before, so you must be feeling a little better, huh?”

  Klye tried to answer, but all his dry throat could manage was a croak.

  “What did you say? You sound like a frog!” Noel laughed.

  He wished he had the strength to smack the grin off of the little wizard’s face.

  “Get him some water,” someone else said, and while this voice too was familiar, it seemed out of place.

  The new speaker came to stand beside Noel. He was a tall man, and his juxtaposition to the midge made him look even taller. He had startlingly green eyes, and although his hands held a poultice of some kind, Klye thought the man would be more at home in the forest with a longbow than in an infirmary, which is where they surely were.

  I know you, Klye wanted to say, but even if had been able to find his voice, the words wouldn’t have come out. The memory of Othello was instantly followed by the recollection of how he had led the Renegades into Fort Faith—and the battle against T’slect.

  Horcalus appeared then and handed Othello a tin cup. As the archer slowly trickled the water into his mouth, Klye thanked the gods—real or not—that at least two of his men had survived the fray.

  He wanted desperately to learn what had happened to the others, to ask about the fate of Commander Crystalus, and whether or not T’slect still lived. Horcalus silenced him with a look.

  “You mustn’t talk, Klye. You came very near to dying and are still quite weak.”

  “The others?” Klye whispered.

  “Are all alive,” Horcalus replied. “Do not worry about us. You need to rest and regain your strength.”

  Klye could not recall ever being so relieved in his life. He wanted to learn what had happened after he lost consciousness, but for the moment, he was content to bask in the knowledge that his men had survived.

  He wanted to thank Horcalus and Othello and even Noel for helping him, but he hadn’t the energy. But he closed his eyes instead, and he didn’t fight the lethargy that washed over him.

  His slumber was long and restful, and though he didn’t dream, Klye would later awaken with an image burned onto the lens of his mind’s eye—that of a glowing figure standing protectively beside his bed.

  * * *

  As he made all haste to the fort’s infirmary, Colt wondered if his headache would ever vanish altogether. The herbs Othello had given him had done much to ease the pain, but even after two days, he could still feel a dull throbbing whenever he exerted himself.

  But Colt dared not complain.

  It was a miracle he had lived through the battle at all. Not everyone had been so lucky. Sir Gregory Wessner and Sir Phance Swordsail had perished in the avalanche caused by T’slect’s vuudu. The third Knight, one Matthew Fisk, had survived, but just barely. Even now, the man, who had been critically wounded by the woman’s enchanted sword, was fighting for his life in one of the infirmary’s beds.

  Colt felt an acute responsibility for the Knight’s injuries and not just because he was their commanding officer. He had specifically singled out those three men to remain with him and Cholk in the war room. And the only reason he had chosen them was because theirs were the names that came to mind.

  Sir Wessner, the fort’s stableman, had risked life and limb to rescue Opal from the Renegades, but of Sir Swordsail and Sir Fisk, he knew even less.

  At times, mostly at night when he was alone in bed, Colt feared he would never be free of the guilt. He had to continually remind himself that it was impossible for him to go back and undo the all the wrongs the goblin prince had done. Besides, all three men had known from their first day as a squire that death was a daily risk when one was a Knight. They had died honorably and were free from all pain.

  For that, Colt almost envied them.

  He suppressed a sigh and blinked back tears. As Commander of Fort Faith, he did not have the luxury of sinking into despair. There was still much that needed his attention.

  Anyway, he ought to focus on the positive. Zeke Silvercrown, Lieutenant Petton, Cholk, and Noel were all alive. He didn’t even want to think what state he would be in now if he had lost Opal.

  Colt glanced over at the woman, who was walking by his side. She had been waiting by his bedside when he awoke an hour after the battle. She had brushed back his bangs, showed him his dented helmet, and joked about his thick skull. But Colt had seen the worry in her eyes.

  It was all Colt could do to resist taking the woman’s hand in his own.

  Petton was waiting for the two of them by the door to the infirmary. The lieutenant had not walked away from the battle unscathed, but like Cholk and Noel and everyone else who had been struck by T’slect’s purple light, Petton had regained full use of his limbs a few hours after impact. Even two days later, the lieutenant complained of stiffness and bruises, but other than that, he was fine.

  Gaelor Petton said not a word as he ushered Colt and Opal into the room. Fort Faith’s infirmary was one of the largest rooms in the fort. Rows of beds lined the room, but only three of them were occupied. Two sentries stood guard on either side of the door, keeping an
eye on the rebels inside.

  As the fort was without a proper surgeon, Colt had had little choice but to ask the Renegade archer to use what skills he had to treat the wounded. Petton had argued against it, but in the end, they had compromised—hence, the two guards.

  Upon noting their arrival, Othello stepped back into a corner, allowing Colt and his entourage to approach his patients. Colt cast one sorrowful look over at Sir Fisk, who had yet to regain consciousness, before approaching Klye’s bed.

  “You look like hell,” the Renegade Leader told him.

  “You’re one to talk,” Colt replied.

  He didn’t know what to make of Klye. According to Othello, Klye was still very weak, and he certainly looked wretched. Even so, Colt felt a bit apprehensive at being in the Renegade Leader’s presence. After all he had learned about Klye while interviewing the other rebels, he feared that the wily man might yet have something up his sleeve.

  “They tell me I’ve been asleep for days,” Klye said.

  Colt nodded. No one had expected Klye to recover. Whatever fell incantation T’slect had cast on the man had leeched the life right out of him. But Othello had managed to bring him back to the realm of the living. It was yet another testament to Klye Tristan’s strength and determination.

  “They also tell me that T’slect got away,” Klye added.

  “Your friend, Dominic Horcalus, had him in his grasp when the foul creature vanished into thin air. There’s been no sign of him since.”

  “Where are my men?” Klye spoke confidently, as though he were the commander and not a prisoner in a sickbed.

  “As you have surely noticed, Othello is filling in as the fort’s healer, and another of your band is in the bed beside you…I can’t recall his name.”

  “Plake.”

  “Yes, Plake.”