Mitto seized the wayward boot, which had somehow managed to wander all the way under the bed, and sat down on the old mattress. “Well, it sounds like you’ve gotten cozy here rather quickly.”
He didn’t know what he had meant by that or why he felt annoyed with the woman for accepting the Renegades so easily. All he knew was he didn’t intend to stick around and make friends with anyone, let alone rebels. When he glanced up from tying his bootlace, he found Sister Aric regarding him carefully.
“You forget, Master O’erlander. I have spent the past few years of my life working for the Knights at a fortress similar to this one.”
He was half-tempted to ask her why she had chosen to waste the best years of her life at a fort but decided not to press the point. It wasn’t any of his business. He stood up and walked over to her.
“Speaking of Fort Valor,” he began, “do you know where I might find its commander? I thought maybe we could travel back east together whenever he plans on returning home.”
Aric’s face told an unhappy story.
“What?” he asked.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but Stannel has already gone.”
“What!”
“He departed early this morning. Alone.”
Mitto bit his tongue to stay the slew of curses that threatened to spill out of his mouth. Breathing heavily, he pushed past the healer and stormed out of the guestroom. He didn’t know where he was going, and he didn’t care.
How could Stannel have left without telling me? he fumed. Granted, we’ve only known each other for a couple of days, but after working together for our very survival…well…doesn’t that mean something?
“Where are you going?” Aric called from the doorway of his room.
Mitto stopped suddenly. He had all but forgotten about the woman. “Where will I find Commander Colt? He didn’t fly the coop, did he?”
“Of course not,” the healer replied. “I’ve only just arrived here myself, Mitto. I don’t know east from west at the moment, but I’m sure if you just took a deep breath and looked for someone who lives here…”
Mitto was already moving. The walls of Fort Faith were pressing in on him. He had to leave, had to get back to Rydah. “Forget Colt,” he said, “I just want to find the way out. If Stannel can make it to Fort Valor alone, then so can I!”
The bravado of his words sounded hollow even to him, but he didn’t care. What choice did he have? Sit and rot in this old castle like everyone else at Fort Faith? Hide away from the goblins and hope they disappear on their own? No, he couldn’t wait around and hope for the best. He had to go.
“You’re rather impulsive, you know that?” Aric said from several paces behind him. “I came to your room for a reason…to give you this.”
As a businessman, Mitto was about as far from impulsive as a person could get—or at least he had been until he met Toemis Blisnes. Ever since that fateful moment, it had been one desperate decision after another.
But wasn’t that always the way in the stories? The bag of gold—which Aric was now presenting him—always brings nothing but trouble for the doomed fellow.
Well, unlike the character in the fables, Mitto wasn’t going to play by Goblin’s rules any more.
“You can keep the gold,” he told her.
Maybe he was being impulsive, but at that moment, he cared only about getting back to Else.
Passage V
The first rays of morning light bathed the eastern horizon in a golden hue as Stannel, hunkered low on the back of his mount, raced with all speed away from Fort Faith. As far as he knew, there were but two viable routes to Fort Valor, and while the lesser-used path had seen them all safely to Fort Faith, Stannel kept to the main road.
It was the quickest route, and he figured the goblins had learned of the other path by now.
From what Mitto had told him about his encounters with the goblins and from what Stannel himself had observed of them, he would not have been surprised to encounter a barricade blocking his way. Despite the fact that most stories painted goblins as brutish, bestial killers, Stannel suspected they were far cleverer than most predators.
The goblins were not only intelligent, but also organized.
The notion of coming head to head with a brigade of goblins was not a pleasant one, but neither was Stannel overly concerned with the prospect of such an encounter.
Though the morning was but freshly begun, Stannel had been up for several hours. He had refused Colt’s offers to join him for some wine the night before and had instead retreated to the privacy of his room.
Stannel Bismarc valued solitude above a good many things. It wasn’t that he shunned the company of others Rather, he appreciated the opportunity to deliberate and meditate. Had anyone walked in on him last night, he would have found Stannel sitting with eyes closed and legs folded beneath him. Not many Knights meditated, as far as he knew, but he had come to terms with the fact that he was unlike most Knights in quite a few ways.
He had tried to tell some of his comrades at Fort Valor about the benefits of meditation, but no one had been interested in the idea of sitting idle for an hour or more. Then again, some Knights would not trade even an hour of sleep for all the gold in Superius.
Stannel never pressured his men. If they were to embrace a new path of living, they would have to make the decision on their own. Sometimes, however, it was difficult not to preach, particularly when he could see the weight of so many worries burdening a Knight. Perhaps at one time, he too had thought of meditation as a chore, something he had to do, but now he regarded the practice as a privilege and a pleasure.
He might have taken advantage of the ride to Fort Valor to engage in more meditation, but he knew better than to trade common sense for potential enlightenment. The goblins were a very real problem. He would keep all of his focus on watching for foes.
As he and the palfrey sped ever eastward into the warm light of the dawn, Stannel reflected back on his meeting with the young commander of Fort Faith. He saw a lot of potential in Saerylton Crystalus, but he also saw a fair measure of self-doubt and shortsightedness. Still, Colt had come off as a well-meaning and caring individual. In many ways, Stannel respected good intentions more than strict adherence to rules.
But that was always a source of tension within Stannel’s own soul: the knightly way wasn’t always the best way in his mind.
With a slight smile, Stannel recalled the look of shocked alarm on Colt’s face when he had told him that he intended to travel to Fort Valor alone. Of course, Stannel had never used the word “alone.” And at that moment, he did not feel alone. Ever since he had finished meditating that morning, he had been in near-constant commune with the Great Protector. The god’s presence was as invigorating as the sunshine, and his company was as welcome as—no, more welcome than—a squadron of Knights riding at his side.
Stannel saw no sign of the goblins throughout the morn. At noontime, he was forced to rein the horse in for a rest a few yards off to one side of the road. The palfrey breathed hard, and her coat was slick with sweat, but the horse was otherwise comfortable as she chewed on the tall, withered stalks of vegetation. Stannel stretched his legs and munched distractedly on some hardtack, though he was not especially hungry.
He was alerted to the presence of goblins a split second before the palfrey flicked her ears and uttered an uneasy whinny. Between one bite of biscuit and the next, an eerie sensation had washed over him, filling him with feeling that something was wrong.
Dropping the half-eaten chunk of hardtack, Stannel reached not for the claymore strapped across his back, but for the mace that hung from his belt. He briefly considered a quick return to the saddle and an even quicker retreat from the vicinity, but somehow he knew it was too late to run. As he turned around in a circle in search of enemies, he studied the layout of his surroundings. With trees all around him, it would prove to be a confined battlefield, but then again, he was just one man. The obstacles were to his ad
vantage.
Next, he ordered the horse to run away, punctuating his command with a swift slap to the palfrey’s hindquarters. The horse obeyed, all too eager to flee. Almost immediately, he heard the snapping of twigs and the sound of mail scraping against the trunks of trees all around him. The enemy had wisely chosen to surround him in order to cut off his retreat.
As he lowered the visor of his helm, Stannel forced the stiffness from his frame, willed his heartbeat to slow to a normal pace, and cleared his mind of all distractions.
The feeling of wrongness intensified as, one by one, the goblins tore through the forest to form a circle around him. The soldiers glared and shouted foreign words at him. They waved their myriad weapons out before them and seemed to be waiting. Maybe, he thought, they expect me to drop my weapon and cower.
If that had been the goblins’ expectations, they were to be sorely disappointed. Stannel placed his mace out before him, reached out to the Great Protector, and swung the blunt weapon in a three hundred and sixty-degree arc. The rounded head of the mace emitted a bronze light.
The goblins had only enough time to avert their eyes or scream out an obscenity before the ever-widening ring engulfed them. The circle of light struck with the force of a tempest, flinging the long-limbed creatures into trees, into one another, and to the ground. Some of the trees nearby were toppled as well.
When Stannel opened his eyes and took in the scene of devastation he had wrought, he was filled with mixed emotions. He murmured his thanks to Pintor for granting him such power. At the same time, however, he mourned for the fallen trees. He even felt remorse for the goblins strewn across the forest floor.
He despised killing, and goblins, in spite of their repulsive appearance and wicked intentions, were still living beings. But all too frequently, a Knight had no choice but to kill in order to protect the innocent.
Judging by how few of the goblins were attempting to rise, he had killed all but five of the thirty-some creatures. Those who had hung back a bit had been spared the brunt of the bright barrage. Two of the five took to the forest without looking back. However, the remaining three flung themselves at him, probably hoping to bury their blades into him before he had the chance to release a second squall from the mace.
But Stannel didn’t need the mace to dispatch three opponents in hand-to-hand combat.
Tossing the mace from his right hand to the left, he drew the claymore from its scabbard. In a flurry of movement, he relieved the first goblin of his spear weapon and then his head. All the while, a second goblin tried to press in on the Knight’s flank, but Stannel used the mace to block the initial blow and forced the creature back with a swing of his own.
As the first goblin fell, the third one jumped over the still-warm body of his comrade and came at the Knight with a pair of mismatched swords.
The goblin to his left wielded a small axe and a dagger. Rather than attempt to parry the newcomer’s swords, Stannel shifted to the right suddenly. As he did so, he swung his claymore, catching the third goblin in the arm and nearly tearing that limb from its socket. Meanwhile, the second goblin lunged forward and mistakenly impaled his ally with the dagger.
Out of an instinctual reaction—or perhaps the move was deliberate—the stabbed goblin howled and swung a rusty, curved blade at the one who had accidentally wounded him. Caught by surprise, the other goblin was in no position to do anything but scream as the saber ripped through his unprotected face.
The goblin dropped axe and dagger and fell to the ground, grasping at his ruined visage.
But Stannel had not been idle. When the goblin with the pair of swords turned on his fellow goblin, the commander quickly regained his balance and jabbed his claymore forward. His attention split between ally and enemy, the goblin could only make a desperate, futile attempt to knock the claymore aside with his remaining blade.
The move did nothing to impede Stannel’s attack, and the claymore pierced the goblin’s ragtag coat of chain mail and his chest. Goblin number three quickly followed goblin number two to the ground. Stannel cut the throat of the warrior clutching his mutilated face.
Other goblins were suffering a slow route to death, but Stannel left them where they lay-- not out of cruelty, but because he had no idea whether there were more enemies in the area. He hastily wiped the black blood from his blade and returned the claymore to its scabbard.
The mace remained in his hand, however, as he hunted for his missing steed.
The palfrey had escaped the notice of the goblins as well as the power of his mace. Stannel found the beast a few yards from the battlefield, grazing contentedly, as though it had never caught scent of the goblins. After sending silent thanks up to Pintor, Stannel mounted the horse and urged it back toward the road.
Fallen timber and goblin carcasses littered a forest floor stained with the goblins’ dark blood. The sight made Stannel sick. Pintor’s power was a multifaceted gift, but he never took pleasure in the destructive aspects of it. But Knight knew war was sometimes an unfortunate step in maintaining peace.
Saying another prayer of thanks to the Great Protector, he urged the horse to a full gallop. Without any further interruptions, he would reach Fort Valor, his home, before sunset.
* * *
Mitto never did find the Commander of Fort Faith that morning, and when he eventually ended up back at the entry hall, there was no sign of anyone. Aric had returned to the infirmary but not before reminding him how impetuous he was behaving.
Alone in the hall, Mitto stared at the thick doors standing between him and the freedom of the road—a road milling with goblins.
A part of him was tempted to throw open the doors, retrieve his stallion from the stable, and take off after Stannel. But even if he was competent with a quarterstaff, he was a merchant, not a soldier. He likely wouldn’t make it a mile before a black-headed arrow found its way to his throat. It was a disheartening thought, and his powerlessness only made him angrier.
Someone behind him cleared his throat.
Mitto, who had thought himself alone in the cavernous hall, started and spun around. He didn’t recognize the man standing there. The fellow looked to be at least two decades younger than Mitto, probably in his mid-twenties. He was about the same height but he lacked the merchant’s solid build.
Donned in a striped shirt and dull brown trousers, the man might have looked like nothing out of the ordinary except for the black hood that covered his entire head but left his face visible. He was smiling, but between the hood and the man’s somewhat impish features, Mitto didn’t know what to make of the gesture.
“Hi,” the hooded fellow said, coming forward and holding out his hand. “I’m Scout. You’re new here, right?”
Mitto shook his hand. “You could say that, but I’m not planning on staying long.”
Scout laughed. “I wish I could say the same. I was following you for a while back there, and you didn’t seem to know your way around. That’s how I knew you were new…well, that and the fact that I had never seen you before. What do you say I give you a tour?”
Mitto regarded the man warily. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with his misery. “Thanks anyway.”
“Come on. It’s not like there’s anything else to do, and the Knight’s aren’t going to let you wander outside.”
“I’m not a prisoner here,” Mitto snapped, and as he said it, it occurred to him that Scout could be.
“True enough,” Scout said, “but with goblins prowling the countryside, the Knights’ll make you stay for your own safety. At least, that’s my guess. You know, you look kind of familiar. What’s your name?”
“What?”
“You never told me your name.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’m Mitto.” As he spoke, he looked past Scout, searching for a tactful way out of the conversation.
Scout scratched his head, and as he did so, the hood pulled back far enough to reveal a few strands of brownish blond hair. “Mitto…Mitto…hmmm… Well, it doe
sn’t sound familiar. Maybe I’ve seen you during my travels. I get around…or at least I used to. Where are you from, Mitto?”
“Rydah,” Mitto replied. “I’m a traveling merchant. I’ve been just about everywhere this side of the Crags.”
“Really?” Scout asked. “I’ve been to Rydah a couple of times, mostly to deliver messages for Leslie. She’s the Renegade Leader in Port Town. Did I mention I’m a Renegade?”
“No,” Mitto said flatly.
“It was my job to deliver Leslie’s messages to the other Renegade Leaders across the island,” the rebel said, seemingly oblivious to Mitto’s discomfort. “I never met the Renegade Leader in Rydah, though. I always had to talk with one of his lackeys. But I did meet Domacles Herronin. Have you ever heard of him?”
The name sounded familiar, but Mitto responded with a firm, “No. If you’ll excuse me…”
He maneuvered around the Renegade and started walking back into the far reaches of the fortress. Undaunted, Scout followed right beside him.
“Well, like I said, I mainly worked with Leslie Beryl. In Port Town. But then Klye came through, and he needed someone to show him how to get to Fort Faith, so I volunteered. I guess technically I’m a member of his band now.”
“Uh-huh.”
“This hall will take you to the dining room,” Scout told him as they proceeded down the path Mitto had randomly chosen. “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
Scout smirked. “You sound like Othello. He’s another Renegade in Klye’s band. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s a good guy. Do you want to know why Klye and the rest of us came here in the first place?”
Mitto said nothing and kept on walking.
“Well, back in Continae…Superius, if I’m not mistaken…Klye learned from someone that the Knights were going to reoccupy Fort Faith, so he and his friends…back then it was just him, Horcalus, Othello, and Plake…oh, and Ragellan. But Ragellan was killed be an assassin along the way.” Scout confided that last part in a low tone.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 64