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

by David Michael Williams

  “We must all be united in our purpose,” he continued, “but if you cannot rise above your petty squabbles and look at the situation objectively, then it is up to me to take the appropriate steps without your counsel.

  “Of the Renegades, Lilac and Othello will be joining the party bound for Rydah.”

  “What about Horcalus?” Lilac dared to ask.

  Colt didn’t back down. “I do not doubt your honor, Sir Horcalus,” he said, stressing the former Knight’s title. “On the contrary, I hope I can count on you to supplement the forces here at Fort Faith should the goblins turn their sights our way.”

  “I am yours to command,” the rogue knight swore, but not before a quick look to Klye.

  “Who is going to lead the party?” The query came from the merchant, Mitto. “I’ll follow regardless, but I’d like to know who’s to be in charge.”

  Colt saw Stannel shift in his seat, but before he could say a word, Colt said, “I will lead the party.”

  The shocked expressions regarding him now rivaled the earlier looks.

  Opal rose then, her hands planted on her hips. “Well, I don’t care what you say, Saerylton Crystalus. I’m coming with you, and if you try to lock me in a cell, I’ll blacken both of your eyes.”

  “And that goes double for me!” Cholk announced, pounding his fist on the table.

  Colt looked upon the unlikely pair with mixed emotions. At first he was angry they were challenging his authority, but his ire quickly faded, replaced by an intense fondness for them. Here were his two dearest friends, willing to risk their lives and fight beside him.

  Part of him did want to lock Opal away, to keep her safe from all dangers, but another part of him—a greater part—wouldn’t have traded her company for anything.

  The room had once more plunged into a sea of voices, but Colt ignored them for now, reveling in the notion he was finally going to get a chance to take action against the goblins.

  Passage IX

  Baxter yearned for death more than he had ever wanted anything in life.

  In many ways, he already felt dead. When he managed to sleep—a shallow slumber somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness—his dreams were rife with torment. During these nightmares, he feared death had overtaken him at last. And instead of releasing him from his misery, the supposed Afterlife increased it tenfold.

  But then he would wake to his suspended reality.

  The dreams were one of the few things that interrupted the limbo his life had become. In some sick way, he appreciated the nightmares, for at least in those twisted dreams, he could run or fight back against his assailants. Horrible though they were, the dreams also provided him with some diversion to break up the bleak emptiness of existence.

  When the goblin general entered the tent, a perverse joy overcame him. The general was his only companion—the only other being in the world, as far as he was concerned.

  Baxter had lost track of the rising and setting of the sun. And though it felt as though he had been imprisoned for months, he knew it couldn’t be so. The general had not seen it fit to feed him, so it couldn’t have been more than a few days.

  His desperate hunger brought a madness all its own.

  At that moment, he would have gladly traded his immortal soul for the chance—just the chance—to kill the general. He imagined roasting the creature’s sinewy limbs and drinking the thick black blood. So ludicrous was the idea that he might have laughed out loud if he could.

  The general had interrogated him about Rydah and its defenses. The next time he had come, he ordered Baxter to him to tell him everything he knew about Fort Valor. No matter how much he had tried to resist the fire-eyed skull-staff, his tongue would inevitably—nay, eagerly—reveal every modicum of information he had ever gleaned, starting with when it was constructed, the number of times he had been there, and even the names of the Knights he knew who were stationed there.

  The worse part of his unwilling treachery was that he didn’t know what the general was doing with the information. For all Baxter knew, both Rydah and Fort Valor were under siege. Worst-case scenarios played out in his mind, and in every one of his dark musings, he saw himself as the sword with which the goblins struck Capricon. Families were butchered; his comrades, slaughtered. Both Fort Valor and the Celestial Palace lay in rubble.

  There was no one left to save him because he had doomed everyone.

  The goblin general now stood directly over him. This was the only way he could see his interrogator, since Baxter could not turn his head even a fraction of an inch. He stared up at the grotesque visage that plagued his unending dreams. The goblin’s eyes were a yellowish-orange hue that reminded him of a festering wound. The creature’s thin purple lips stretched back in a rictus grin that held no mirth.

  The general spoke no word of greeting. He never gloated or taunted his captive. Baxter was merely a tool. He studied his prisoner’s face as though appraising the integrity of a blade, searching it for signs of weakness and deciding if it could stand the rigors of another battle.

  Baxter wondered if the skull-staff’s powers would continue to work on a deranged man. Could a crazed mind surrender sensible information? He wondered if wanting to embrace madness was a sign of madness or, given the circumstances, sanity.

  Apparently deciding his living weapon could endure at least one more round, the goblin general positioned the skull above Baxter’s unblinking eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered what the death’s-head might have looked like in life. Was it the head of a goblin or a human or something else entirely?

  In his nightmares the decapitated member taunted him with the general’s voice. In Baxter’s less lucid moments, the decapitated head and the goblin general’s head were one and the same.

  Predictably, the eye-sockets began to glow an unearthly red, and Baxter felt the spell reach deep into his own head, invading the private recesses of his very being. This time, he didn’t bother to struggle.

  “Tell me about Fort Faith,” the general said.

  I already told you everything I know about all of the island’s redoubts, Baxter wanted to scream, but instead, he began reciting statistics.

  “Fort Faith was recently repopulated with eighty-three Knights, led by Commander Saerylton Crystalus of Superius. The fortress itself spans—”

  “Enough,” the goblin interrupted, and instantly Baxter’s speech ceased. “I know all of that. I want to know about Fort Faith’s unofficial residents. Tell me about the spell-caster that lives there. Tell me about the midge.”

  Baxter’s mouth opened to comply, but no words came out. He couldn’t tell the goblin anything about a midge because he didn’t know anything about a midge at Fort Faith. His unexpected—and unintentional—opposition filled him with smug satisfaction, though it was a small victory.

  “Tell me about the midge!” the general repeated in a louder voice.

  The power of the spell swelled inside his mind, as though the tendrils of magic were squeezing his brain like a sponge. It was like suffering from a sudden, stabbing headache, but what was worse than the pain was the humiliation of his helplessness.

  His lips trembled as he replied. “I…can’t…tell you…what I don’t…know!”

  The ferocity of the attack subsided somewhat.

  “Tell me about the dwarf that lives at Fort Faith, and the woman with the crossbow,” the general said.

  Baxter’s mouth tried to form words, but, again, there were no words to expel. He knew very little about Fort Faith’s new occupants, and he had heard absolutely nothing about a midge, a dwarf, or a woman. As far as he knew, there were eighty-three Knights stationed at the fort, and that was all.

  While it was an unpleasant realization that the goblins already knew more about the goings-on around Capricon than the he, a Knight of Superius, did, Baxter was nevertheless filled with satisfaction by the fact he could in no way help the invaders this time.

  “Tell me about the Renegade Leader Klye Trista
n and his band.”

  “I know nothing about a Renegade Leader by that name,” Baxter replied, overjoyed by the fact that his words would have been exactly the same had he consciously chosen them.

  Now the skull-tipped staff wavered unsteadily just inches above his face, as though the goblin was contemplating striking him with it. Baxter reveled in the moment. So, he thought, the blade has dulled beyond use. Mayhap it’s time to discard the tool…

  If he had had any control over his mouth, Baxter would have uttered a few choice insults to further goad the general. But there was no way he could prod the goblin into killing him. He could only ask the Warriorlord to have mercy on him and end the cruel charade his life had become.

  But mercy would have to wait, for without another word, the general stormed out of the tent, leaving Baxter to stare up at the dreary canopy of his private tent, a thin cloth which couldn’t keep out the cold but which trapped him as veritably as a wall of steel.

  He grieved at the postponement of his final rest, but at the same time, he felt a new optimism grow inside of him. The goblins hadn’t won yet, and as long as there were those resisting the conquerors—like the defenders of Fort Faith—there was still hope for the island.

  Baxter knew almost nothing about the Commander of Fort Faith and his men, but at that moment he prayed with all of his heart to the Warriorlord to give them strength. The goblin general was obviously preoccupied with the “unofficial” residents of the fort, which meant they posed a threat.

  And if it took a midge, a dwarf, a lady with a crossbow, and a Renegade Leader to push the goblins back to wherever they came from, so be it!

  * * *

  “You can’t be serious about this.”

  No sooner had Colt closed the door to his private workroom than his lieutenant spoke the incredulous words. Gaelor Petton, his arms folded in front of him, wore a mighty frown that was made more ferocious by the Knight’s dark, bushy eyebrows, which were so narrowed as to almost be touching.

  Colt had seen such disapproving expressions on the face of his father and older brothers when scolding him for one mistake or another. Once upon a time, Colt might have shrunk under Petton’s blatant disapproval, but not today. Today, Colt felt like a new man.

  No, he felt like a man for the first time in his life.

  “I have never been more serious in my life,” he told Petton, whose face did not at all soften at the news.

  “It is highly irregular for a commander of a fort to abandon his keep in times of war. You are needed here. Sir Silvercrown or I can take charge of the band destined for Rydah.”

  Colt turned a shrewd eye on the lieutenant. “You would sooner stick your sword in any one of the Renegades than work beside them.”

  Petton jerked as though physically struck by the verbal jab. For an instant, Colt regretted his strong words, but at the same time, he wanted Petton to know he was not going to be challenged on this issue. He had made up his mind, and no one was going to dissuade him.

  Petton cleared his throat. “While it is true that I am far less…trusting when it comes to the rebels, it is unfair to assume I cannot set aside my prejudices to accomplish what needs to be done. I beg you to reconsider.”

  Colt shook his head. “Internal strife can vanquish a regiment as assuredly as an external threat. For good or for ill, I have done my best to act justly toward the Renegades. I can only pray that they will repay me with their loyalty.”

  “If not me, then send Sir Silvercrown or Sir Vesparis.”

  “No,” Colt replied, a bit too emphatically perhaps. “We already know that the goblins are capable on taking on the guise of humans, and Chrysaal-rûn might be the only thing we have to thwart their enchantments.

  “This is something I must do, Petton. You saw how the sword burned Klye when he tried to wield it. For all we know, I am the only one who can hold it without suffering ill effects. It’s a matter of practically. It doesn’t matter whether I am a commander or a novice foot soldier. I wield the crystal sword, so I am the most logical choice for leading the company to Rydah.”

  Petton opened his mouth as if to object, but then scowled fiercely at the floor.

  “And where might I fit into your plans, Commander?”

  The mild question caught Colt off-guard. He had all but forgotten Stannel had followed the two of them back to his office. Now Colt turned his attention to the other commander, who sat, unperturbed, in a chair beside him.

  “Well,” Colt began slowly.

  In truth, he hadn’t thought about Stannel one way or another. The decision to lead the mission had come to him so suddenly and so strongly he hadn’t considered how Stannel might feel about the situation.

  If anyone had more of a right to take charge of the party, it was Stannel Bismarc…

  “I cannot presume to give you orders, Stannel,” Colt continued. Then, all at once, the perfect solution came to him. “But I would be honored if you would take command of Fort Faith in my absence.”

  The room fell into a heavy silence. After a moment, Stannel replied. “While I am honored by the offer, Commander, I fear it is not as simple as that. There is a matter of protocol.”

  “What do you mean?” Colt asked. A veteran officer like Stannel—or Petton, for that matter—would be well-versed in the subtleties of knightly decorum, but Colt was still new to the job.

  “My station is Fort Valor,” Stannel explained. “I cannot transfer my service from one fort to another without approval from the Knights’ Council in Superius…just as you cannot forfeit your post without the Council’s permission.”

  Colt clenched his fists in impotent rage, but his anger quickly faded, only to be replaced by despair. He was bound by the laws of the Knighthood. How foolish he had been to think he could abandon his command.

  “Sir Bismarc would be a worthy substitute as the party commander,” Petton pointed out.

  The wind stolen from his sails, Colt nearly collapsed into one of the vacant chairs. I am doomed to serve my king and my country from behind this desk, he concluded gloomily.

  Stannel cleared his throat. “It is true I had pictured myself in that very position, but upon further reflection, I do not think I am the best candidate for the job. The goblins have wronged the Knighthood and everyone in Capricon, but I feel the effects of their despicable crimes more acutely than most. The thirst for personal vengeance may cloud my judgement. With your permission, Commander, I would like to remain at Fort Faith until I can regain my objectivity.”

  Colt nodded absently. He had expected Stannel to jump at the chance to lead the party, to fight back against the goblins in any way he could. That was what Colt had wanted to do ever since the battle against the goblin shaman.

  The goblins had killed three of his men, and he craved vengeance. Stannel, on the other hand, saw such desires as a weakness.

  “Well, someone has to do it,” Petton said. “Shall we go over the list of candidates again?”

  Then something inside Colt awoke—or perhaps it re-awoke. No, he thought, I’m not giving up so easily. His convictions were fueled by passion, but he didn’t care.

  Can’t a person do something because he wants it so badly and because it’s the right thing to do? he wondered.

  “There has to be a way,” he muttered.

  “Pardon?” Stannel asked.

  “You said you can’t take command of Fort Faith without permission from the Knights’ Council,” Colt said.

  “Correct.”

  “And even the goblins weren’t running amok on the island, it could take months before the Council’s decision would reach us.”

  “Correct.”

  “Aren’t there any exceptions to the rule?” Colt asked. “What about emergencies?”

  Stannel thought for a moment. “If you were dead or in some way unfit to lead, then your lieutenant could step up to fill your place.”

  “But if I’m unfit to serve as Commander of Fort Faith, then I’d be likewise unfit to serve as th
e leader of the party.”

  “I am afraid so,” Stannel said.

  Damn it! he fumed. There must be a way. There must…

  “Is there any law against changing a fort’s name?” Colt offered in jest.

  Stannel considered the question seriously. “Actually, I do not think I have ever heard of a rule that states that explicitly. Why do you ask?”`

  Colt did his best to contain his mounting excitement. “Well, theoretically, couldn’t I change the name of Fort Faith to Fort Valor? Wouldn’t that automatically make you the commander of this fortress?”

  “Well, I suppose—”

  “Now wait a minute,” Petton said. “If this becomes Fort Valor instead of Fort Faith, then all of the men stationed at Fort Faith will be displaced.”

  Colt looked to Stannel for help.

  “That is not necessarily true,” Stannel said. “In times of war, when there is no time to seek the Council’s approval, two commanders may exchange troops as they see fit. In theory, Colt could relinquish each and every one of his men to serve under me.”

  Petton threw up his hands. “This is crazy!”

  “But is it possible?” Colt asked.

  Stannel thought for a moment before replying, “It is an admittedly sly maneuver, but as far as I know, it is legal.”

  Petton opened and closed his mouth several times, his face turning a deep red. Colt had not wanted to offend the man, but he wasn’t about to back off simply because Petton felt slighted. Maybe it was the lieutenant’s right to lead in Colt’s absence, but since that wasn’t possible, Petton would have to find a way to deal with it.

  Besides, Colt thought, Stannel will treat the Renegades with more patience than Petton would have.

  “Will you do it?” Colt asked Stannel with more than a little trepidation. All Stannel had to do was refuse, and the scheme would be over before it began.

  “I should like to meditate on such a heady decision for at least a day,” he began, “but since time of the essence, I will give you my answer now. I agree to your terms, Colt. I failed in my duty to protect the original Fort Valor from the goblins. Perhaps the gods are giving me a second chance with new Fort Valor.”