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

by David Michael Williams

  “But, anyway, they came to Capricon…to Port Town…and that’s where they met me. Klye told Leslie he wanted to get here before the Knights did so the Renegades could claim the fort. Neither Les nor I could figure out just how he intended to hold out against Colt and his men…”

  After a few more minutes of storytelling, Scout took a big breath. “Well, that brings us to Fort Faith. I was captured while spying, and then the rest of the band got caught while trying to capture the Prince of Superius—”

  “Hold on!” Mitto stopped and glared at the man in the hood. “Now I know you’re lying. You expect me to believe Eliot Borrom was here?”

  “Yes…well, actually, no,” Scout said. “We all thought it was Prince Eliot, but it was really a goblin shaman in disguise. He used dark magic…or vuudu, as Noel calls it…to make himself look like the prince. But we foiled the his plan…well, not me personally. I was locked in the dungeon the whole time.”

  Mitto stared in stupefied wonder at the Renegade. He didn’t know what to make of Scout. A part of him was certain that the man was addled or at the very least, a pathological liar. And yet what he said contained enough elements of the truth to keep him guessing.

  “Come on,” Scout urged. “You might as well let me show you around. Unless I’m mistaken, you’re going to be spending some time here.”

  Surrendering to the Renegade’s discouraging logic, Mitto sighed and nodded.

  Passage VI

  When he heard the knock, Colt had half a mind to ignore it, fearing Noel had followed him to his office.

  After listening to the midge’s long list of advice on how magic could enrich the lives of the fort’s inhabitants—suggestions that ranged from the impractical to the impossible—Colt needed a break. No one would blame him for ditching Noel, not that an old wooden door was going to stop the spell-caster.

  And Noel wasn’t known for knocking before entering…

  The idea that it was someone else rapping on his door did nothing to lift Colt’s spirits. And he couldn’t quite stifle a groan at the thought of engaging in another meeting so soon. Each day seemed to bring new problems, and no one ever delivered good news. The temptation to disregard the knock was strong, but an inner voice demanded, “What kind of commander would I be if I hid from my responsibilities?”

  “Enter,” Colt called.

  The door opened to reveal a man nearly twice as tall as any midge. Although Colt had never asked the man’s age, he had always imagined his lieutenant to be in his late thirties, roughly the same age as his eldest brother. Gaelor Petton reminded Colt of his brother in other ways too. Both men were officers of high rank, and both of them had a penchant for gravity.

  In truth, Colt knew very little about his second-in-command. They had met in Port Errnot only a couple of months ago. The long voyage across the Strait of Liliae had afforded Colt the opportunity to get to know many of his Knights, and he had spent much of the time in conversation with Gaelor Petton.

  Mostly, though, they had discussed affairs of the Knighthood, including the myriad problems and concerns they would face while making Fort Faith habitable again. No “nonessential personnel” had been sent along with Colt’s garrison—which was small enough as it was—which meant the Knights alone were expected to see to every task themselves. Divvying up the civilian duties, which ranged from carpentry to cooking, had been no small chore in itself.

  But Petton had been up to the challenge. Colt’s first impression of his lieutenant was that the man was incredibly dedicated. The Knights of Superius had a reputation for being a rigid and sometimes stuffy lot.

  Gaelor Petton took that reputation to a whole new level.

  It was as though Petton’s devotion to duty had smothered all other aspects of his personality. Petton eat, drank, and breathed the Knighthood. Colt could count the number of times he had seen his lieutenant smile on one hand.

  Since Petton almost never talked about himself or his past, most of what Colt knew about him came from the men. Word had it Petton had been stationed at a number of stations throughout his career. He had spent most of his time at Fort Majesty, where he had attained the rank of lieutenant.

  But when Fort Majesty’s commander retired, a lieutenant of lesser years had been promoted in Petton’s stead. The men claimed Petton’s disinterest in the human element was why he had been passed by. In other words, Gaelor Petton was not a “people person.”

  Colt had dismissed the rumor at the time, but now he thought the scenario was credible. Other tales claimed the lieutenant’s stubbornness was the barricade that blocked his advancement. One Knight even claimed Petton had been found guilty of insubordination.

  Colt thought Petton was far too concerned with promoting the chain of command to have ever broken it himself, but he did recall a conversation where Petton had hinted that his transfer from Fort Majesty to Fort Faith was a punishment for his outspokenness.

  In many ways—in most ways, in fact—Gaelor Petton was more qualified to serve as the Commander of Fort Faith than Colt was. Thankfully, Petton had never acted resentful, and Colt valued Petton’s opinions and suggestions.

  Lately, however, the two of them seemed to be having the same disagreements over and over again.

  Today, Colt would not be adding another smile to Petton’s meager tally. Upon entering the office, the lieutenant saluted stiffly, walked over to a vacant seat, and lowered himself into it. Although Petton did not slouch in the slightest, the man looked tired.

  Every Knight at Fort Faith was accustomed to working hard, but ever since the goblin threat had been revealed, they had all been working longer hours in preparation for war. Petton had likely stayed up long after nightfall, only to wake before sunrise.

  As routine dictated, Petton started the meeting with logistical assessments. How is the castle’s larder? Stocked well enough for a typical winter but unsuitable for a drawn-out siege. How go the repairs to the western wing? The damage is isolated and not likely to escalate, but proper repairs cannot be made until true craftsmen can be brought in.

  What else can be done to prepare for a goblin assault?

  How are the men responding to the increased workload?

  How is morale?

  Colt was loath to ask that last question, even though he needed the answer. To his credit, Petton didn’t launch into his familiar speech—at least not immediately.

  “The men appear to be holding up well considering the circumstances,” Petton said. “Most of them are eager to confront the goblins, but they understand the need for caution. I suppose it is natural to feel a little on edge while treading on the brink of war. Sir Silvercrown and I are confident in the men’s preparedness for an attack.

  “Of course, we’d be able to focus all of our energy on repelling the threat from without if we didn’t have to worry about danger from within…”

  For some reason, Colt decided to take the bait. “The men have been complaining?”

  “In so many words,” Petton replied. “One gets wary of constantly looking over his shoulder.”

  Careful to keep his voice even, Colt asked, “Why haven’t any of them spoken to me about it?”

  “You are their commander. They trust your decisions even if they are not what they themselves would choose in your place.”

  “Am I the only one who sees that the Renegades are not our enemy anymore?” When Petton didn’t answer, Colt added, “Well, at least one of my men isn’t afraid of expressing his opinion to me.”

  He had tried to keep the sarcasm out of his tone, but truthfully, he was getting tired of defending the rebels—or, more accurately, his trust in Klye and his band. Couldn’t anyone else see that the Renegades were as enthusiastic about fighting the goblins as the Knights were? Couldn’t they understand that any additional warriors would be an asset to the fort’s defenses?

  If Colt’s comment had offended him, Petton hid it well. “The Renegades aren’t the men’s only worry.”

  Colt knew that Petton wa
s referring to Noel. If the lieutenant despised anyone more than Klye Tristan, it was the midge.

  “Noel has already proven his worth as far as I’m concerned,” Colt argued. “Stannel and his entourage would have perished on the road…long before you and your men reached them.”

  Petton frowned, and Colt regretted his phrasing. The lieutenant wasn’t bound to like Noel any better after being reminded of his own inadequacies. Of course, it was Noel’s extraordinary qualities—namely, his magic—that made him a source of scorn for Petton in the first place.

  Colt cleared his throat. “What I meant was—”

  “I know what you meant, Commander. The midge’s magic is an admittedly potent weapon, but may I remind you that fire burns human flesh as easily as goblins’.”

  Colt didn’t respond. No words of his would change the lieutenant’s opinion of Noel. He could only hope that Petton and the other Knights would come to see Noel’s—and the Renegades’—virtues in time.

  Since there was nothing else to say on the matter, Colt changed the subject back to the goblins. The two officers debated the idea of sending another messenger eastward, but in the end, they both agreed that waiting to hear from Stannel was the wiser move.

  Stannel Bismarc had made a valid point about conserving Fort Faith’s troops. Colt didn’t know how many troops were stationed at the neighboring fortress, but Fort Faith would need all of its defenders, especially if T’slect’s armies had already reached Capricon.

  When it was obvious neither man had anything more to say, Petton rose, saluted, and headed for the door without saying goodbye. Colt tried not to take it personally, though he couldn’t help but wonder if the lieutenant behaved so aloofly with all of his associates.

  Colt blew out a breath he had been unconsciously holding when Petton shut the door behind him. There were times when he found Petton more frustrating than Noel. At least Noel had an excuse—he was a midge. Colt was beginning to suspect Petton would never give up trying to convince him of Noel’s and the Renegades’ evils.

  And yet he couldn’t blame Petton for trying to keep Fort Faith safe. And Colt couldn’t deny his own leadership style was unconventional at best.

  But even if my impressions of Klye and his band prove tragically amiss, I can’t ignore the dictates of my conscience, Colt thought. Maybe Petton should have been named commander in my place, but since he wasn’t, he’ll just have to respect my decisions.

  His thoughts adrift in a sea of melancholy, Colt couldn’t quite stifle the yawn that overcame him. Although it wasn’t yet noon, he felt ready to call it a day. It was at times like this that Colt wondered how any foot soldier could aspire for a command of his own.

  Diplomacy was far more exhausting than swinging a sword!

  * * *

  The woman in white told her Toemis isn’t dead but that he is still very sick. Sitting quietly beside Toemis’s bed, she thinks he sure looks dead. He looks small too.

  When Toemis is up and walking around, she always feels much smaller than him. Toemis is a grownup, but lying there in the bed, he looks more like a rag-doll than a person. His chest rises and falls. He breathes, but he doesn’t wake up.

  The woman in white says he is not dead, but what’s the difference between dying and sleeping forever?

  She has seen dead people before. She was there when Julian died. She was also there when Larissa died. Both times there was a lot of blood, but Toemis is not bleeding at all. He has an ugly scab on his forehead. Maybe if Toemis bleeds, he will die. Maybe you can’t die unless you bleed, she thinks.

  When Julian died, Larissa was still around to take care of her, and when Larissa died, she still had Toemis. The woman in white is very kind to her. She has pretty red hair, and she is young. At night, she sleeps in the same room with the woman in white, even though she would rather stay with Toemis. She thinks that if Toemis wakes up in the middle of the night, he might get confused and leave without her.

  But she doesn’t fuss when the woman in white talks her into going with her. Toemis always told her not to talk to strangers, but the woman in white has done nothing but help her since Toemis got sick. And she’s helping Toemis, so she can’t be a wicked woman.

  Julian used to tell stories about witches and harpies who used spells to make themselves look young and beautiful, even though they are really old crones. Sometimes, it looks like the woman in white is making spells.

  The woman in white told her she is a healer, but if she is a healer, why can’t she make Toemis wake up? But when the woman gives her food to eat and tucks her into bed at night, she thinks the woman is nice—even if she is a witch. Maybe there are good witches.

  Julian told her many stories about monsters, witches, and men with swords. Larissa told her not to believe Julian, but since leaving home, she has seen monsters, magic, and men with swords. So Julian was right after all.

  She doesn’t know where she is, but she knows she is where Toemis wanted them to be. Toemis never told her why they were coming to this place or even what a Fort Faith is, and she never asked him. She didn’t want to make Toemis mad by bothering him with questions because Toemis doesn’t like to talk much.

  But if Toemis never wakes up, she will never know why she came to a place full of men with swords.

  She is watching Toemis now, waiting for him to wake up. She decides the first thing she must ask him is why they really are here. He told a lot of other people that he used to have a job here, but she doesn’t think that is true. Before Julian and Larissa lost their blood and died, Toemis never lied even once, but Toemis has changed a lot since then.

  Sometimes he seems like someone else.

  Julian or Larissa never talked about Toemis being a cook. And Toemis’s food always tastes like burnt.

  When the woman in white asks her about her grandfather, she doesn’t tell her anything. Sometimes she is so silent that the other people in the room forget she is there. She listens to what they say and has heard many interesting stories. They remind her of Julian’s stories.

  * * *

  As day eased into evening, the air became heavy with a damp chill. Stannel wore a thick cloak over his armor, but it did little to temper the bite of the cold autumn night. The sunless sky shone almost white, and although it had not snowed yet, he could smell hints of winter in every breeze.

  Little more than a month ago, he had sweated in the bright summer sun. But summer had ended abruptly, and now it seemed that autumn too was preparing to depart.

  Capricon’s weather was irregular at best. Having lived on the island for the past twenty-five years, Stannel was accustomed to the unpredictability of the seasons, yet it was almost as though winter were eager to conquer the land with its bitter cold and heavy snows

  Better winter than the goblins, he thought.

  Winter was the bane of war. Even light snowfall delayed troop movements, and heavy blizzards could defeat a battalion as effectively as any mortal foe. Unless the goblins knew of methods he himself was unfamiliar with, Stannel thought that the invaders would have a difficult time so late in the year. The defender almost always had the advantage during long winters, especially if the castle was well stocked. Waging a winter siege was tantamount to suicide.

  But the Commander of Fort Valor knew nothing of goblin tactics. Maybe the goblins would withdraw from the island at the first freeze. More likely, they had their own ways to counter winter’s complications. If the goblin army employed magic-users—like T’slect, the shaman Colt had told him about—then that would bring an entirely new dynamic to the Knights’ offensive and defensive strategies.

  Slowing his tired steed to a brisk walk, Stannel tried to recall everything he had ever read about the goblin war that had been fought on the island centuries ago. Like his good friend Magnes Minus, he had an interest in studying the past, but unlike the Lord of Capricon, who combed ancient texts and newer resources alike, Stannel preferred the history of Glenning and Superius exclusively.

  In fact, it
was the goblins’ invasion of Novislond that prompted the first alliance between the two kingdoms.

  Stannel prayed to Pintor to unlock his memory and reveal the details he had long ago gleaned about specific battles and skirmishes. He had tried this exercise earlier, during the trek from the lodge to Fort Faith, but the same bits of information surfaced repeatedly in his mind. The goblins had overwhelmed both knightly factions with sheer numbers. In most clashes, the disciplined human warriors had been no match for the ferocious and frenzied tactics of the goblins. He also remembered reading about barbaric traps and snares.

  The greatest advantage the goblins had held, however, was the element of surprise—an advantage they maintained three hundred years later.

  Unless the population of Capricon could be warned and prepared, Stannel thought.

  Despite the low temperature, Stannel urged his mount into a run. Truth be told, Stannel didn’t mind the cold. At first, the crisp, frigid air had sharpened his senses, and he was ever watchful for goblins. But as the hours passed, the cold seeped into his bones.

  Focusing his thoughts and directing them inward, the Knight willed the blood flowing through his veins and arteries to quicken. After that, Stannel hardly noticed the cold.

  The trek from Fort Faith to Fort Valor was not so long, considering that many of Capricon’s cities and towns were a full day’s travel apart. Normally, Stannel would have enjoyed such a jaunt. He had often traversed the highway from his fortress to Rydah while on official business for the Knighthood. He had also visited the capital for personal reasons.

  No matter his purpose, Stannel always enjoyed the sights, sounds, and smells of the forest that covered most all of the island’s northeastern region. He enjoyed the opportunity to bask in the natural beauty of Capricon, his adopted home.