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

by David Michael Williams

  Even as Falchion desperately swung his remaining blade at Baxter’s well-protected head, Baxter calculated the rogue’s defeat in three moves.

  He was on the verge of impaling the swordsman, already thinking of how he would run over to poor Sir Damek afterward, when came the sound of several people rushing through the very overgrowth he and Sir Damek had used for cover.

  The bastards have reinforcements! Baxter thought. Instead of dispatching Falchion, he half-turned to get a look at how many highwaymen he would have to kill before the day was done.

  But they weren’t highwaymen at all.

  * * *

  Like the thieves around him, Mitto was temporarily stunned by Toemis’s attack on the wizard. For the split second that followed, he debated whether to stand by and watch the highwaymen slaughter Toemis Blisnes or join in the hopeless fight and get dying over with more quickly.

  When two Knights appeared out of nowhere, Mitto’s mind was made up for him. With Falchion and the two crossbowmen distracted by the new threat, he turned back to the wagon.

  Toemis was still grappling with the wizard, who, in turn, was doing his best to keep the old man’s knife from stabbing him again. Somehow, the two combatants managed to remain balanced on the driver’s seat, and Mitto did his best to avoid flailing arms and legs as he withdrew the quarterstaff from its hiding place behind the seat.

  Because the old man was lying atop Zeetan, there was no opening for Mitto. He hesitated before abandoning the wagon, however, because he worried that Toemis would not be able to finish him off. If the wizard were allowed to speak even one spell, the Knights’ rescue would be in vain.

  But Mitto’s help was needed elsewhere. Already, one of the Knights was curled up on the road. The remaining Knight—whose coat of arms identified him as none other than Baxter Lawler—had cut down one of the crossbowmen and was preparing to engage Falchion. That left the other crossbowman for Mitto.

  He had taken no more than two steps toward Critter when the sound of boots against gravel alerted him to someone coming up from behind. He swung around in time to find a fifth brigand stealing up on the action. Probably the newcomer had been keeping watch near the rear of the wagon, Mitto reasoned.

  Hoping the thief was, in fact, the final member of the band—and praying he himself hadn’t gotten too rusty from lack of practice—Mitto held the quarterstaff out across his body and waited for his opponent to come. The highwayman slowed a bit when he saw the merchant standing between him and his cohorts but then rushed forward, a series of deep furrows wrinkling his protruding brow.

  The man carried only a long-handled axe, the type a woodcutter might wield against a tree. He ran with his weapon held high above his head, as though he intended to hew Mitto in half like a log of firewood. Mitto waited until the last second to bring up his staff, careful to catch the descending axe well below the sharpened head. Wood met wood with a loud crack. For a moment, the two weapons locked tight together.

  The axeman pushed with all of his might, hoping to overpower the older merchant. But having hefted heavy barrels and crates for the majority of his life, Mitto was more than the thief’s equal in strength. Slowly, the single-edged axe began to inch back toward its owner.

  With a grunt, the axeman relented and hauled back for another swing. Mitto saw that the next attack would take the form of a horizontal slice. He adjusted his hold on his staff and bent his knees to keep his center of gravity as low as possible.

  The axeman’s second assault was less powerful than the first had been, but Mitto grunted at the impact nevertheless. Once more, he positioned the quarterstaff so that it would catch the axe’s long handle, but this time, he was not grasping the staff near its middle.

  As soon as the two weapons crashed together, Mitto sent the longer end of the quarterstaff straight at the axeman’s ribs. His opponent had no chance to avoid the blow, which sent him staggering back a few steps. Mitto didn’t give the man time to recover. As soon as the axe head was a safe distance away, he slammed the blunt tip of the staff into his opponent’s stomach.

  The axeman doubled over with a groan, grasping at his midsection with his left hand.

  His right hand, however, had maintained its grip on the axe. As Mitto came forward, the thief made a clumsy swing, a hopeless attempt to keep the merchant at bay. This time, the quarterstaff caught the head of the axe and from underneath and, using the superior strength of his two arms against the axeman’s one, Mitto wrenched the weapon right out of the man’s hands.

  The axe sailed harmlessly into the woods, and before the brigand could react one way or another, Mitto swung low with the opposite end of the quarterstaff. The staff hit a little too low, missing the man’s knee by a couple of inches, but the blow had been solid enough to send the man pitching sideways, completely off-balanced.

  Mitto struck his opponent in the kidney on his way down for good measure. When the highwayman hit the road, practically face-first, he made no move to get back up. Breathing heavily, from exhilaration and exhaustion alike, Mitto left the unarmed thief and turned back to see how Baxter was faring.

  There was no Critter, there was no sign, and Falchion was down to one sword. Glancing over at the wagon, he was alarmed to find that both Toemis and Zeetan had disappeared. He might have suspected magic as the cause, except then he noticed how the wagon was rocking. Apparently, the old man and the wizard had relocated their skirmish to the inside of the wagon.

  Since there was no doubt in his mind Baxter could finish off the lone swordsman, Mitto hopped up onto the driver’s seat and lifted a corner of the covering’s flap to peer inside. There was no time, however, to make out much of anything in the dark, for suddenly five more Knights of Superius, all on foot, burst out of woods from almost exactly the same spot Baxter and his comrade had.

  Why had Baxter’s allies held back instead of overwhelming the highwaymen from the start? he wondered.

  But Mitto realized all too soon that the newcomers were not there to rescue him and that the Knights themselves were in need of rescuing.

  Passage V

  Of the five Knights, Baxter Lawler recognized only one, the tallest of the lot, upon whose surcoat was emblazoned the image of a red stallion surrounded by a yellow sunburst. It was Vearghal Ahern, a fellow lieutenant and Baxter’s archrival.

  Ahern was an impossibly rigid man who hadn’t a humorous bone in his body. But he did have a sharp wit, which he often honed—Baxter’s flaws being his favorite whetstone. Ahern’s unit, comprised of twenty Knights, had been sent out a week ago to comb the forest east of Rydah for clues concerning the disappearance of some local woodsmen.

  Ahern had thought himself above the dull mission, believing that the woodcutters had likely drunk too much, wandered off, and gotten lost. He had pointed out to the High Commander that dealing with drunkards was more up Baxter’s alley than his own.

  Upon being reunited with the pompous Vearghal Ahern, two questions came to Baxter’s mind: where were the rest of the lieutenant’s men, and what was that tar-like substance splattered all over the Knights’ tabards?

  “Did you guide your men into a bog, Sir Ahern?” Baxter asked, keeping half an eye on Falchion.

  But the tall Knight—whom Else Fontane had dubbed the Immovable Tower—did not reply. He said something to his men behind him, and, immediately, the four Knights began to run as fast as their cumbersome armor allowed them in the direction of the capital. At the same time, Ahern hurried over to Baxter, raising his visor as he neared.

  “What in the hell is going on? Aren’t you supposed to be on the other side of Rydah?” Baxter asked.

  “Silence that infernal tongue of yours, Lawler,” Vearghal Ahern growled, “and for once in your gods-forsaken life just listen. You have to get these people out of here. We are all in grave—”

  The lieutenant’s words were cut off by a most dreadful racket. Baxter had never heard anything like it before. It sounded like mourners wailing, only the cries were too brazen,
too fierce. A shiver ran down Baxter’s spine, and without thinking, he took a few steps toward the woods, trying to see past Mitto’s wagon to where the unnerving clamor originated.

  Ahern’s Knights kept on running up the road, seemingly oblivious to the horrifying din around them. Suddenly, a mass of dark shapes emerged from the woods to their left, swarming the Knights like a cloud of overgrown mosquitoes. Baxter watched helplessly as the unidentifiable fiends hacked away at the Knights, throwing themselves bodily at the men to impede their retreat—which was surely what Ahern had ordered them to do and what Ahern himself had been doing until he stumbled upon Baxter and the wagon.

  Up the road, the Knights tried to organize themselves into a defensive position, but their strange enemies would not give ground or time to get organized. The Knights were greatly outnumbered and were taking quite a beating.

  “What enemy is this?” Baxter wondered aloud. He was on the verge of dashing over to help the Knights when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  Baxter spun around, suddenly remembering the swordsman, but Falchion stood perfectly still, his gaze locked on the battle between the Knights and…whomever. It was the Immovable Tower who had grabbed him by the pauldron.

  “Listen to me, man,” Ahern said. “We don’t know what they are. I’ve never seen the like. They ambushed us in the forest and killed fifteen of my men. I don’t know how many there are, but there are too many for us to handle alone.”

  Baxter Lawler was speechless. Looking uncomprehendingly from the lieutenant to the pitched battle up the road, he finally asked, “They’re not human?”

  Ahern ignored the question. “Get on the wagon and get out here. Your only chance is to outrun them. Take word to Fort Valor—”

  The lieutenant didn’t have a chance to say more for the enemy was upon them, tearing through the undergrowth and leaping out of the forest like monstrous jack-in-the-boxes. Baxter stared wide-eyed at the creatures, which were definitely not human. They stood as tall as men, he thought, but it was hard to tell because they were somewhat hunched.

  They wore only the lightest of armor, a motley collection of mail that covered some areas while leaving other parts entirely unprotected. One wore a chain-linked coif, but the others wore nothing at all on their bald heads, leaving their hideous faces exposed.

  It was like coming face to face with a nightmare. Grayish yellow skin stretched taught over bony visages. Pointed ears and sharp noses jutted out at sharp angles. Sickly, sickle-shaped eyes regarded him hungrily. And the teeth—all incisors, knifelike, carnivorous. As if their teeth and claw-like fingers weren’t enough, each of the creatures carried one or more weapons, including spears, knives, axes, and in one instance, the pilfered broadsword of a fallen Knight.

  Anger quickly overpowered his terror, and Baxter raised his sword, eager to destroy the monsters. But then Ahern stepped between him and the fiends and gave him a push back.

  “Get out of here!” he shouted. “That’s an order!”

  Baxter wanted to argue that Ahern was in no position to be giving him orders, since they were both the same rank. But his real desire to disobey the lieutenant had more to do with not wanting to abandon him than anything else.

  You brave, stupid bastard, he silently seethed as he turned his back on Vearghal Ahern and ran over to the wagon.

  Mitto, half-kneeling and half-standing on the driver’s seat, stared in disbelief at the monsters.

  “Snap out of it,” Baxter yelled. “We have to get out of here.”

  Leaping up beside his friend, Baxter grabbed the reigns and looked further down the road in time to see Falchion vanish into the woods. Ahern was swinging his broadsword in wide arcs before him, slashing at any creature that attempted to get past him. When the first spearhead penetrated the lieutenant’s defenses, smashing into the Knight’s breastplate, Baxter looked away, unwilling to witness the toppling of the Immovable Tower.

  He gave the reins a wild shake and shouted “Yah!”

  The horses needed no further insistence. Between the monsters’ strange scent and the smell of blood, it was a miracle that the animals hadn’t bolted earlier. At the sudden lurching of the wagon, Mitto nearly lost his balance and might have tumbled over the side if Baxter hadn’t caught him by an arm.

  “Thanks,” Mitto muttered.

  “Don’t mention it,” Baxter replied, interrupting the medley of commands and curses he was directing at the two stallions.

  When a third group of the ghastly creatures began pouring out onto the road far ahead, Baxter’s swearing reached a whole new level of intensity and creativity. He pushed Mitto back into the covered section of the cart and positioned his damaged targe to cover as much of his crouching body as possible.

  He feared the horses would buck and rear—they were draft animals, after all, not chargers—but the beasts didn’t falter, and the wagon careened ever faster down the gravely highway. If we don’t break an axle or lose a wheel, we might get out of this yet, he thought.

  The foes up ahead were getting ready for the only chance they would have to prevent the wagon’s escape. A few of the creatures were hastily firing arrows from shortbows, aiming, Baxter noted in dismay, at the horses. He saw a row of the fiends with spears held aloft, ready to throw their deadly missiles at the equine flanks.

  Baxter swallowed another curse, tossed his shield aside, and threw himself bodily forward. He landed on the horse’s broad back with a bone-jarring thud that sent a wave of agony lancing through his injured arm

  Marveling that he hadn’t crippled himself or the poor beast, he wrapped his free hand around the bridle and used the hand-and-a-half sword to free the animal from the harness connecting it to the other horse and the wagon altogether. Kicking at the horse’s ribs with his heavy boot, he drove the terrified animal forward.

  Liberated from the heavy weight of the cart, Baxter’s mount quickly outpaced the other horse and the wagon. He was upon the monsters almost instantly, swinging his sword at the spear-wielders and pushing his mount into their ranks like a living battering ram.

  The creatures scattered, but Baxter’s wild charge could not hope to frighten away the entire horde. But he had known all along the limitations of a cavalry of one. His mount reared suddenly, an arrow piercing its rump. It was all Baxter could do to maintain his hold on the bridle.

  The flailing front hooves connected with one of the creatures, sending it flying into one of its allies, but Baxter took little comfort in that unexpected help. The impetus of his charge spent, he had no way of putting any distance between him and the monsters.

  Spears and axes ripped into the terrified animal, and Baxter was pulled down by claw-like hands.

  * * *

  The wagon quaking all around him, Mitto rolled heels-over-head backward before coming to a painful halt at the back of the wagon. He just sat there in the darkness for a moment, disoriented and confused.

  But not even a bump on the head could make him forget the frightening…things…that had flooded out onto the road like a tainted black river.

  His brain searched for some sort of an explanation. What could they have been? There had to be a logical explanation. They were something out of one of his mother’s fables. The hungry monster that lives under the bridge…the sinister ghoul that snatches brats who sneak out after dark…

  “What’s going on?”

  Mitto jumped at the sound of the voice. He peered into the darkness shadow, fearing that one of the monsters had followed him inside.

  Someone—something?—started moving toward the front of the cart and opened the flap to peer out at the world, which was flying past them. The daylight that poured through the narrow opening revealed the silhouette of Toemis Blisnes.

  “Get down!” the old man shouted.

  Then the wagon was bathed in blackness once more. Mitto threw himself face-first to the planks that made up the wagon bed. Pinpoints of light appeared around him as arrows cut through the flimsy material of the wagon’s
covering. A larger missile landed a hand’s breadth from Mitto’s head.

  The wagon shuddered beneath the onslaught, but no arrows or spears managed to pierce the low wooden wall behind which Mitto, Toemis, and his granddaughter had taken cover. After a few seconds, the arrows ceased. Before Mitto could expel a sigh of relief, something solid and heavy collided with the back of the wagon.

  He rolled over onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows. The unfastened flaps at the rear of the cart billowed out behind the vehicle like pennants, but he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Whatever the monsters had thrown at the retreating wagon—for, he realized with a surge of joy, they were surely past the mob of creatures by now—had not even dented the guardrail.

  His elation evaporated, however, when he saw a most terrible countenance rise up over the edge to peer at him over the wooden rail.

  As the monster pulled itself up into the back of the wagon, Mitto denied his instinct to scurry away and instead dove forward to where his quarterstaff had rolled snug up against the guardrail. The fiend let out a fearsome cry and, with only its upper-body propped up over the railing, took a swipe at the merchant with one hand.

  Sharp fingernails raked across Mitto’s upper back and neck. Stifling a cry, he scooped up the quarterstaff and drove one end of it up at the creature’s chest. He pushed with all his might in an attempt to dislodge the monster, but the lanky-armed, narrow-chested monster was stronger than its body otherwise indicated.

  With both hands shoving off against the top of the guardrail, it tried to heave itself into the wagon in spite of the quarterstaff planted in its chest.

  Mitto had little leverage in the maladroit position he had been forced to take, and he felt the strength in his arms ebbing. He dared not move his quarterstaff, though, for at the moment, it was all that was keeping the creature from entering the wagon.