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

by David Michael Williams

  Colt listened patiently as the Commander of Fort Valor recounted the battle at the lodge and their hurried flight to Fort Faith.

  “Were it not for your friends, we would have been slaughtered,” Stannel said. “I would like to give them my thanks personally.”

  Colt found himself smiling for the first time since he sat down behind the desk. “I will be sure to introduce you to them. I think you are one of very few Knights who would thank a midge for anything.”

  Stannel shrugged. “I would thank anyone who has earned my gratitude, regardless of his race. Anyway, you are one of very few Knights brave enough to count a midge among his troops.”

  “Yes, I allow him to stay, but it’s mostly because I can’t think of a way to get him to leave,” Colt confessed.

  Now Stannel smiled. “I recognized the midge for what he on the battlefield, and the woman with the crossbow was obviously a human, but what about the warrior in the dark armor?”

  “A dwarf,” Colt said, “but he’s not from Afren-Ckile. Cholk is from the Deathlands. He saved my life before I left Continae, and we’ve been friends ever since.”

  “A midge, a woman, a dwarf, and a slew of rebels…Fort Faith truly is a unique castle.”

  “I suppose I’m not a traditional commander,” Colt replied. “If it were up to my lieutenant, there would be no one here but Knights, and the Renegades would all be locked up in the dungeon.” He paused before asking, “What do you think, Commander?”

  Stannel raised an eyebrow and then said, “I think, Commander, that it is none of my business how you run your fort.”

  Realizing that he had been holding his breath, Colt let it all out at once. A part of him had expected Stannel to start scolding him just as the false Prince of Superius had. As the youngest commander in Capricon—at twenty-four years, he was younger than most of his men—Colt found himself constantly doubting his abilities and his worthiness to command.

  It had even occurred to him that T’slect or some other imposter had sent him to Fort Faith to undermine the Knights’ leadership on the island.

  But with Stannel sitting across from him, he felt more confident than he had in a long time.

  “I would like to hear all about your adventures, Colt, but I shall not be able to impose upon your hospitality for long,” Stannel said, rising suddenly. “I must return to Fort Valor and from there send word of the goblins to Rydah.”

  Colt stood too. “If my messenger didn’t make it to Fort Valor, we must conclude that the goblins are watching the highway.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall leave for my fort at first light tomorrow. If you could provide me with a worthy steed, I would be in your debt.”

  “It would be my honor,” Colt said. “And I insist you allow some of my men to escort you—”

  Stannel held up a hand. “That will not be necessary.”

  Colt gave Stannel a quizzical look, but the only explanation he provided was, “I will travel all the faster if I have only myself to worry about. Besides, you are terribly undermanned here as it is. I will not take your men from their posts. There is, however, one more favor I must ask you.”

  “Yes, of course. Anything I have is at your disposal.”

  “Because I will travel light, I must ask that you allow Sister Aric to remain at Fort Faith.”

  “Certainly, though adding a healer to our ranks is a blessing, not a burden.” Colt paused. “What about the other people you were traveling with?”

  Now Stannel’s bright blue eyes seemed to twinkle. “I got them here safely, Colt. They’re your problem now.”

  Passage III

  Baxter was only vaguely aware of the passing of time. Inside the tent, it was most always dark, affording him only a limited view of his surroundings. And because he couldn’t turn his head in any direction, whatever light the sun provided revealed little more than the top of the canopy.

  The monster’s foul magic had robbed him of any control over his body. Aside from involuntary activities, such as breathing and passing water, his body was lifeless.

  In spite of his paralysis, Baxter was still very aware of his senses. He could see, smell, and hear. Most of all, however, he could feel. He could feel the stream of drool running down his cheek, the hunger gnawing at his belly, and the chill of late autumn biting his exposed flesh. Also, his captors had done nothing to care for his wounds, so his injuries were a source of great preoccupation.

  But after a while, even the throbbing in his head faded into the background, swallowed up by the tedium of his twilight existence.

  Lying prone and helpless for countless consecutive hours, Baxter had had a lot of time to think. At first he had dwelled upon his misery, cursing his captors, himself, the gods. When his impotent rage had fizzled away, the Knight examined his situation from a detached perspective—and tried to formulate a strategy for reversing his fate.

  The creature who had initially asked him about Mitto and the others had come to Baxter twice more since then. During these terrible conversations with the monster, he had learned a few things about his captors. First, he had learned a name for them: goblins. He wasn’t sure if that was what they called themselves, but when his inquisitor—who was always the same—referred to his soldiers, he had used that word.

  Or at least Baxter’s mind had translated “goblins” from the creature’s twisted language.

  When the goblin had pried the secrets of Rydah’s defenses from his mind, he concluded the invaders were planning an attack on the capital. Unwillingly, he dispensed all of the information he knew of the Knights’ battle tactics for defending the city—and as a lieutenant, Baxter Lawler had known quite a lot.

  On another occasion, the goblin had forced him detail all of the island’s military forces, from the Knights’ fortresses down to local militias. Surely, the goblin army intended to conquer all of Capricon.

  Baxter had also learned a little about the interrogator himself. While the goblin never referred to himself by name, he had revealed his rank. His interrogator was the general of the army. And it was by the general’s word alone that Baxter still lived. And live he would until he had no more useful information to give.

  But the goblin general had made no secret of Baxter’s eventual death. Even if he didn’t slit Baxter’s throat, the Knight would eventually starve.

  The general was straightforward with the human about most things, but Baxter had inferred a few things on his own. The general’s staff, for instance—the goblin always carried the skull-tipped rod. Baxter believed the staff was responsible for not only overcoming the language barrier, but also his paralysis.

  The staff was undeniably a potent talisman, but Baxter had noted a curious thing about the staff and its owner. Whenever the general used the staff’s magic, he grimaced. For all the staff’s power, the general seemed reluctant to use the tool. Baxter didn’t know what to make of it, but he filed the information away, hoping it might prove useful.

  Baxter couldn’t guess how much time had passed between the dreadful visits, but at some point, the goblin general returned to stand over him again. He saw the hideous visage of the monster for an instant before the leering skull replaced it as the only thing in his limited field of vision. The memory of past interrogations welled up inside of him, and the Knight surely would have broken down and sobbed were he able to.

  “Tell me everything you know about Fort Valor,” said the familiar voice in his head.

  He felt his heart pounding in his chest, felt beads of cold sweat tickling his naked body. The helplessness was maddening. At that moment, Baxter Lawler hated the goblin more than he had ever hated anyone. And he hated himself for what he knew he would do.

  Thanks to the goblin general and his staff with the scarlet-eyed skull, Sir Baxter Lawler had become the Great Betrayer of Capricon.

  * * *

  Silently, he slipped out of bed. He moved slowly, but the grace he had previously possessed was compromised by a weakness that threatened to take him to the
ground. First using the sickbed as a crutch and then leaning on the foot of an adjacent bed, he gradually made his way toward the door of the infirmary.

  It seemed to Klye that he could feel his energy draining with every step, but he kept going anyway. Night had plunged the infirmary into a heavy darkness, but his eyes had adjusted enough to see the Knights who had stood guard on either side of the doors were gone. Now, with nothing but open space between him and the door, he steadied his breathing, released his hold on the bed, and took the first step toward freedom.

  Fighting to maintain his balance with each movement he made, he eventually reached the door. When his hand found the doorknob, he grasped it tightly. For a moment, he enjoyed the luxury of leaning against the unyielding wood of the door. When his breathing had returned to normal, he cautiously turned the knob, wary of any noise the act made.

  He was not in the least surprised to fine the door locked. The Knights weren’t fools and, therefore, weren’t likely to leave the door to a room full of criminals unsecured as an invitation.

  No, he was not surprised. In fact, he was relieved. If the door had been unlocked, it would have meant there were guards on the other side. While he was in no condition to contend even a single sentry, a locked door was no obstacle whatsoever.

  Klye reached beneath the overlarge shirt the Knights had given him and down into the waistband of his trousers, where he felt cool metal pressing snugly against his hip. He carefully retrieved the scalpel and worked the thin-tipped blade into the keyhole. He chewed at his lower lip as he used the tool to explore the inner-workings of the lock.

  A few seconds later, he heard a satisfying click, and the door opened a fraction of an inch.

  Smiling, he tucked the scalpel away and opened the door with a sudden burst of movement. Normally, he would have pushed the door open little by little, but Fort Faith was an old fortress, and he had noted how the infirmary door squeaked whenever the Knights came in and out. Had he drawn out the act of opening the portal, anyone in the near vicinity would have been privy to a grating sound that resembled the cry of a dying cat.

  As it was, the door made only the briefest of noises as he thrust it open. When he was certain that the contained creak had roused no one with or without the infirmary, he slinked through the narrow passage and hastily closed the door behind him.

  He stood with his back pressed up against the door, staring down the black corridor. Then he began his slow and steady trudge away from the infirmary, using the walls for guidance and support.

  At a snail’s pace, he followed the crisscrossing corridors. His path was an aimless one because he knew almost nothing about the fort’s interior. One path was as good as another, so he wasted no time pondering his course. He concentrated solely on his movements, sluggish though they were, all the while committing every twist and turn to memory.

  When a light appeared behind him, he tensed, and his free hand—the one that wasn’t pressed against the cold wall—reached for the scalpel secreted at his side. His first thought was to press himself flat up against the wall and hope that whoever was out there didn’t bother to look his way.

  The person with the lantern was approaching from a perpendicular hallway. Perhaps he or she would keep on going straight…

  Or perhaps not.

  Klye watched as the light-barer unhesitatingly turned down his corridor. He had the sudden urge to run and nearly laughed out loud at the notion. He wouldn’t get more than three steps before he fell flat on his face, and he’d sooner die than let anyone—friend or foe—see him in just a condition.

  Conjuring an unconcerned smile, he leaned against the wall and waited.

  “What the…? Klye Tristan, is that you?”

  He recognized the voice before he could make out the commander of Fort Faith’s face.

  “At your service,” Klye replied.

  He watched as the baffled Knight tried to puzzle out the mystery of his presence in the hall. Colt eyed him warily, as though he expected him to make a desperate move. After a moment, however, the other man’s face eased into a smile of his own.

  “You must tell me how you managed it,” Colt said.

  Klye shrugged. “I wouldn’t be much of a Renegade Leader if I let something as small as a near-death experience and a rickety, old door stand between me and freedom.”

  “So you intend to escape?” Colt asked.

  “Yes,” Klye said, quickly adding, “from the infirmary, at any rate. I’m not used to staying cooped up for days at a time. I thought a walk about your fine fortress would do me some good.”

  “You look like you can barely stand,” Colt pointed out. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  His legs felt like they were made of pudding. “I’ll stand, thank you.”

  Colt let out an exasperated laugh. “At least tell me how you picked the lock.”

  Klye withdrew the scalpel from his waistband and held it up for the commander to see. He then altered his grip, pressing the blade between his thumb and index finger, and offered the handle to Colt. The Knight hesitated briefly before accepting the scalpel.

  “I procured it last night,” Klye said, “but I wanted to save my strength for tonight’s walk.”

  Colt laughed again. “You are a cunning man, Klye.”

  “Like I said, I wouldn’t be much of a Renegade Leader if I weren’t.”

  Colt’s friendly expression didn’t alter as he said, “But you aren’t a Renegade Leader anymore. The rebellion is over…at least for you and your band.”

  Klye scoffed. “True, but I still have the loyalty of warriors who everyone refers to as ‘the Renegades’…including you. It’s a matter of semantics, Colt.”

  Colt shrugged. “Very well, but what now? You know I cannot allow you to prowl the fort on your own.”

  “You let Othello ‘prowl’ alone,” Klye said.

  Colt looked taken aback by statement. “Yes, I suppose I do, but Othello has shown me he can be trusted. If it weren’t for him, Sir Fisk would have passed away days ago. He has been treating Knights and…Renegade alike since the battle against T’slect.”

  “The bottom line is that you don’t trust me,” Klye said.

  “If I didn’t trust you at all,” said the commander, “you would be in the dungeon right now, and even with all of your impressive abilities, you’d not find a way out of there.”

  “Perhaps,” Klye allowed. “But speaking of the dungeon, I must ask you again to let Crooker and Pistol out. I know they’re rough around the edges, but I give you my word they won’t cause any trouble.”

  Colt let out a long sigh. “We’ve been over this before. My men are uncomfortable enough as it is with so many former rebels roaming the fort. The pirates are…well, worse. Who can number the violent crimes they are guilty of? Pistol admits that he was the leader, the pirate king, of a particularly vicious lot of buccaneers. I simply cannot allow them walk around freely.”

  Klye did not blink. “Will I be joining them once I recover?”

  “It seems you are already well on your way to recovery,” Colt said. “When you are stronger, I promise I will take you to them so you can see for yourself that they are not being mistreated. But I won’t make you stay there, Klye. There is little enough to burgle from Fort Faith, after all.”

  Klye said nothing. Plake’s accusations rang loudly in his ears, and he felt more than a little guilty that Pistol and Crooker were being treated differently from him and the others. It was beyond his control, however, and Klye reminded himself that things might have ended a whole lot worse. In truth, Klye counted Colt as an ally, and in time, he supposed the two of them might even become friends.

  But there were those at the fort who were not as understanding as the young commander.

  When Colt had alluded to his men being uncomfortable with the rebels living among them, Klye pictured two people who would actively try to poison the commander’s mind against him. Gaelor Petton was second-in-command at Fort Faith, and Colt valued the
veteran Knight’s opinion.

  The other naysayer wasn’t a Knight, wasn’t even a man. And Klye had seen how Colt looked at Opal. He could guess how deep the commander’s feelings ran for the red-haired archer. Thus, Opal was the more formidable foe by a long shot.

  He didn’t know if Opal cared for Colt as deeply as he cared for her, but Klye did know Opal openly scorned the Renegades. Between Petton and Opal, it was a wonder Colt hadn’t tossed the lot of them in the dungeon.

  “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” Klye said after a moment. “With so many unexpected guests dropping by, the dungeon might be the only space vacant by the time I’m healed.”

  “Is that your way of asking me how many newcomers arrived today?”

  Klye scoffed again. “Sister Aric wasn’t very talkative once she found out she was surrounded by rebels…I mean former rebels.”

  “There are six of them, including the healer,” Colt said. “They’ve come from the east. The goblins made several attempts on their lives, including an attack on the highway near our fort.”

  Klye wanted more details. Who were the other newcomers? How had they managed to escape the goblins? How many monsters had there been? But now was not the time for lengthy explanations. As it was, he feared he would collapse at any moment.

  “They’re growing bolder,” Klye said.

  Colt nodded. “It seems like the goblins are ready to come out of hiding.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Klye asked. “Now that the Knights know about the goblins, they can organize a defensive strategy to force them off the island.”

  “Perhaps,” Colt said, though the trailing sigh revealed his true opinion. “The messenger I sent to Fort Valor and Rydah never made it to his destinations. The Knights’ first encounter with the goblins could well be their last, depending on how many of the damned creatures are skulking around the island.”

  Klye knew very little about Capricon’s defenses. He was new to the island and had never been farther east than Fort Faith. He had no idea how many soldiers were stationed at Fort Valor and Rydah. But if Colt was worried, then Klye feared the worst.