And yet his contentment and confidence proved to be short-lived.
Passage XI
Mitto couldn’t remember the last time he crept through a forest in the middle of the night, but he did recall one occasion from his childhood, when he and a few of the local boys had decided to go on an adventure.
They had carried sticks, slings, and pocketknives, seeing monsters lurking in every shadow. He remembered being thrilled and afraid at the same time. The quest had come to an immediate halt, however, when a sinister rustling in the brush sent them all dashing back to their beds.
Now he felt as though he were reliving that experience. Except this time there really were monsters, and if the goblins found them, running home to hide under his blanket wasn’t an option. He tried to take comfort in the fact he was surrounded by people who knew about adventures and were no stranger to fighting their way out of a scrap.
As the hours of walking passed without incident, Mitto relaxed somewhat. By the end of the first night, he was more tired than anything else. Not even the threat of a goblin attack could keep him from falling into a deep sleep when they finally made camp.
They renewed their hike the following evening, but by this time, Mitto was more preoccupied with the stiffness in his joints and a plethora of cramps than he was worried about the goblins.
As the sun dipped beneath the horizon behind him, he concluded two things about the nature of adventures. First, being on one wasn’t nearly as exciting as the fables made them out to be. It was more walking than anything. And second, he wasn’t built for it, at least not anymore.
While his arms were strong from hefting and hauling heavy freight, he had grown soft around the middle, the result of spending so many hours sitting on his arse while the horses pulled him and the wagon along. He also blamed Dragon’s Hoard for the roundness of his midsection.
It’s no wonder why the heroes in the tales are always young and in shape, he thought. An older guy like me would only slow the story down!
Of course, he never mentioned his fatigue and aches to his companions, not even when his began to fear he would collapse. It was all he could do to keep from dropping to the ground the moment Colt called for a break. As the second night of their trek began to wane, Mitto worried he would keel over long before they reached Rydah.
If not for his determination to see Else Fontane again, he might have already quit.
Mitto was searching for a hidden reserve of strength—though he feared he had spent that on the first night—when a strange cry erupted from somewhere off in the distance.
The sound, which caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, was surely the call of some woodland animal. But what that beast might be, Mitto couldn’t hazard a guess. He had never heard the likes of that haunting, wail-like noise before in his life.
Colt called the party to a halt, whispering the command sharply. The six of them spent the next few seconds peering into the gloom around them, trying to locate the source of the sound. A light fog had blanketed the forest floor on the previous morning, and today, the mist had accumulated, bathing the vicinity in an impenetrable murky whiteness. Mitto felt something clamp around his heart and his bowels turn to ice water when a second howl, coming from the opposite direction, echoed the first.
The panic welling up inside threatened to rob him of reason. He wanted to run but instead clenched the quarterstaff so tightly that his knuckles hurt and waited for Colt’s next order. Mitto had never fought under the orders of a trained professional, and he found himself hoping that the ordeal would be less terrifying for it.
“Cholk, can you see anything?” Colt asked.
The dwarf let out a deep rumbling sound Mitto took for a no.
Colt turned next to the forester. “Othello?”
To Mitto’s surprise, the archer’s eyes were closed. “There are many, and they’re spreading out.”
“They’ll try to surround us,” Colt concluded, stared into the fog.
More ghastly cries were drifting among the trees, growing louder, closer.
Then Colt gave the only reasonable command: “Retreat!”
The small company burst into flight. Their retreat lacked grace, but at least they all went the same direction—east.
Mitto instantly forgot about his weariness and ran with renewed vigor. His body seemed to have a mind of its own as his arms and legs pumped furiously. Curiously, his own thoughts were of Goblin, that fictional antagonist whose resemblance he had seen in Toemis Blisnes.
This shouldn’t be happening to me, he reasoned. I gave up the gold. I’ve turned from the path of greed and have embarked on a selfless quest, putting myself in danger for the greater good.
Gods damn it, didn’t Goblin’s dupes ever get a happy ending?
The fog was so thick Mitto almost ran headlong into a tree. He managed to keep one of his companions in view, though even at a few paces behind, he couldn’t identify the person he was following. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes fixed on the shape before him, watching it cleave a swath through the thick, damp air.
He and his phantom-like guide ran for perhaps three full minutes before Mitto saw other shapes in the coalescing fog. He didn’t bother to glance behind him, not wishing to confirm what he feared he would find there.
In the best of circumstances, Mitto might have been able to fend off two or even three of the monsters at once. Judging from the weird calls that reverberated throughout the murky forest, however, he estimated there were more foes out there than there had been in all of his previous goblin encounters combined.
As the fiends closed in on him, he understood his luck had finally run out.
He felt somewhat detached from everything, as though he were watching someone else run for his life. His thoughts returned to the childhood stories. Like the fools from the fables, he had found himself in increasingly worse situations. The tragic character always sought a way out, but the price for Goblin’s gold was always a life.
Well, Mitto thought as he skidded to a halt and brandished his quarterstaff, I’ll not die without a fight.
He slammed the butt of his staff into the first goblin’s chest, and although the monster wore an oversized shirt of chainmail, the blow sent it staggering back. He then brought his staff up just in time deflect the downward slash of a curved blade, but this new opponent wielded two weapons, and he could only throw himself to the side as the second blade—a serrated knife—homed in on his gut.
Mitto couldn’t evade the attack completely. The blade ripped open the flesh between his belly and hip. He fell back, but as he did so, he swung the quarterstaff out hard. He heard the satisfying crack of wood against bone when it connected with the goblin’s unprotected head.
The monster collapsed lifelessly, but it was replaced by two more.
His back up against the thick trunk of a tree, Mitto made desperate swings with the quarterstaff, forcing the fiends to keep their distance. Pain lanced through his side, threatening to rob him of his senses. The two goblins separated, clearly planning to rush him from opposite sides.
Then, unexpectedly, the goblin to his right let out a strangled cry and pitched face-first to the ground. The second monster, seemingly undaunted by the loss of his companion, lunged at Mitto with a barbed spear.
Mitto knocked the weapon aside, but even as he sparred with the remaining opponent, he saw a sea of dark shapes tearing through the fog. It was only a matter of seconds before he would face a foe on every side.
He was on the verge of countering his opponent’s second swing when the monster suddenly dropped and joined its comrade in writhing on the ground. The goblin groped at its chest, and it took a moment for Mitto to realize it was reaching for an arrow protruding from its sternum. Mitto glanced up and found his savior coming toward him.
“Can you run?” Not waiting for an answer, Othello grabbed Mitto’s arm and began to sprint.
Mitto didn’t protest, though every step sent a plume of red-hot pain through his side.
He gripped the Renegade’s buckskin shirt as tightly as if he were holding onto life itself. As they ran, he saw further evidence of the archer’s handiwork. Here and there, arrow-pierced goblins lay in various states of dying.
He didn’t know where Othello was taking him, and he didn’t care. All he could think about was his own agony, but he dared not stop. Suffering was better than death.
They might have run for two days straight. He was only dimly aware of times when the archer would stop in order to dispatch a goblin on the verge of overtaking them. Perhaps it was the white haze that bathed the forest that made it all seem like a dream.
For his part, Mitto could do nothing to help their cause, and after a short time, his feet give out from underneath him. Surrendering to pain and hopelessness, Mitto closed his eyes and sank into the depths of unconsciousness.
* * *
Colt almost immediately lost his sense of direction—along with his allies.
He tried to stay beside Opal, but at one point, he had swerved right while she went left. Now he saw no sign of the woman. He thought Othello and the merchant were somewhere behind him, but he dared not stop to confirm his suspicions.
Chrysaal-rûn in hand, Colt pushed himself hard and prayed that he was still heading east. If there had been any chance of prevailing against the goblins, he would have dug in and tried to fight them off, but his gut told him victory was not possible.
The only thing that mattered now was to get to Rydah. If just one of them could make it to the capital and inform the Lord of Capricon of all that was transpiring, then the deaths of the others would not be in vain.
Meanwhile, the goblins giving chase behind him were drawing ever nearer. He head the clatter of their armor, the pounding of their boots. He thought that he could even smell them—a sickening blend of spoiled meat and metallic blood.
Then a cluster of dark shapes appeared in the mist before him. Colt offered up a prayer to Pintor the Warriorlord, asking the benevolent god to guide his sword arm.
The goblins that had been tailing him quickly joined the newcomers and surrounded him. They charged in, but Colt was ready for them. He swung Chrysaal-rûn viciously, strewing the ground with pieces of weapons and warriors. Startled by the devastation that the Knight’s blade was wreaking, members of the vanguard faltered and fell back.
Those that didn’t were summarily slain.
An occasional arrow whizzed through the thick air, but none of them struck Colt, who had cut a path through the invaders and was running once more. The goblins gave chase. In spite of the thick fog, Colt could make out signs of more enemies coming at him from what he assumed was northeast and southeast. In the haze, he might have believed there were thousands of them.
He saw only one hope of escaping the ever-tightening circle of goblins. If he kept going straight at full speed, he might be able to slip through the proverbial fingers as they tried to close in around him.
As he ran, Colt said a prayer to Feol, the god of luck.
Either the fog was fading or Colt’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom for he soon found that he was able to see further than before. The goblins up ahead appeared to be adjusting their paths to intercept him, but he knew he would easily avoid them if he maintained his course and speed. If his fortune held out, he might eventually lose his pursuers once he passed them.
He knew something was amiss, however, when the northern branch of the ambush came to a sudden halt. When the sounds of battle assailed his ears, he realized the goblins there were surely preoccupied with one or more of his companions.
Further inspection revealed the identity of the goblins’ bane—a solitary warrior of short stature, swinging a massive battle-axe.
Cholk was hopelessly outnumbered, though at the moment, he appeared to be keeping his enemies at bay. Between the dwarf’s prowess in battle and his savage hatred for all goblinkind, Cholk would probably kill a dozen of the monsters or more before all was said and done.
But in the end, even the dwarf’s ferocity could not save him from whichever spear or sword would inevitably slip through the plates of his armor. Unless Colt came to his aid, Cholk was doomed.
Colt had mere seconds to make a decision, but in that time, he came up with several reasons why he should abandon the dwarf. For one thing, their objective was far more important than any member of the company. Also, Cholk had volunteered for the mission knowing full well the danger ahead and that death was a very real possibility, if not a probability.
And Colt knew that even if he joined the dwarf in combat, there was no guarantee he could save him.
A good commander knew when to make sacrifices.
But Colt had never claimed to be a worthy leader.
Back in Continae, Cholk had betrayed a Renegade Leader—had risked his own life—to save Colt’s life. Now, as he charged into the fray in hopes of returning the favor, Colt wondered whether this would prove to be the last mistake he ever made.
“About time you got here,” Cholk shouted, his deep voice hewing through the din of the melee. “I thought you were going to miss all the fun.”
Colt came at the first row of attackers with a wordless war cry on his lips. Chrysaal-rûn whirred through the air, not at all slowed by the weapons, shields, and bodies that got in its way. Cholk wasted no time in pressing his attack, hacking at the suddenly uncertain foes and sending many of the monsters to the ground.
Shouting with every swing of the enchanted blade, Colt scattered the goblins before him. Seconds later, the enemy fell back to regroup, and Knight and dwarf were provided a moment’s reprieve.
“I thought I was done for,” the dwarf confessed. A thin trail of red mixed with the black goblin blood spattered across his breastplate, but otherwise Cholk looked none the worse for the skirmish.
“It’s not over yet,” Colt said between shallow breaths.
Indeed, the woods were full of whooping, snarling goblins. The fiends Colt had worked so hard to outpace had caught up, and they wasted no time in encircling their prey. Even if Colt had had the stamina to renew his retreat, he wouldn’t have gotten far before having to stop and defend himself again.
Escape was now impossible; it was time to make a stand.
He counted more than fifty goblins around them, and distant shouts foretold of more to come. The monsters’ advance was tentative though, and Colt could only presume word of the crystal sword’s keen blade had already circulated among them.
“Do you fear death?”
Cholk’s question took Colt by surprise, but what was more startling was the fact Colt didn’t feel afraid. He was far too preoccupied with the situation to fret about its probable outcome.
“My people don’t mourn the loss of kith and kin,” Cholk continued. “Death comes for all, and it is up to the gods to decide when each dwarf…or man…will leave this world. To die bravely in battle is the best way for a dwarf to die. We call it The Last Great Deed.”
Throughout their brief but cherished friendship, Cholk had remained tightlipped about his homeland and its customs. To this day, Colt didn’t know what had caused the dwarf to wander so far from Thanatan or how he had ended up with a band of Renegades.
To hear Cholk speak so frankly about his beliefs was as welcomed as it was unexpected.
“Each Knight is trained to accept death as a possible consequence of battle.” Despite the tightening circle of fiends surrounding them, Colt’s voice wasn’t the least bit shaky. “Knights fight so that others might live. Dying in service to others is the greatest honor we can achieve.”
Though Colt would have given almost anything for the two of them to live, he meant what he had said. His only regret was that he didn’t know whether Opal or any of the others had broken through the enemy’s line.
So long as someone makes it to Rydah, our deaths won’t be in vain, he thought.
As the goblins snarled and taunted them, Opal’s face flashed in his mind’s eye. His only regret just then was that he had never told her how he fe
lt about her—such a small feat in comparison to what he faced now. If he could find courage in death, why had it eluded him in life?
Goblins carrying shortbows and crossbows shouldered their way to the front of the ring. The monsters were obviously planning to attack from afar to avoid putting themselves at further risk of the crystal sword’s sting.
Colt had other plans.
“For Superius, Continae, and the Alliance!” he shouted, hurling himself at the line of archers.
Cholk roared something in his native tongue and followed. The two of them met the enemy with the crashing of metal against metal and blade against bone. The goblin battalion surged forward to meet them, and they were cast in a sea of sneering faces and wicked blades.
Colt lost sight of Cholk almost instantly, and soon after, everything else.
Passage XII
The first thing he was aware of was the smell of damp earth. The scent was so strong he could almost taste it.
Mitto opened his eyes, only to find himself enveloped by darkness. For one terrifying moment, he feared he had awoken in his own grave. He jerked, flinging his arms out, and was relieved to find open space around him. The jolt of pain that shot through his abdomen proved he was still alive.
But how had he escaped the monsters?
He sat up slowly, mindful of his injury, but something big and hard hovered over him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that he was under a narrow structure of some sort, possibly a bridge. He also saw he was not alone. When he recognized the tall Renegade archer, he nearly swooned with relief.
“But…how?” Mitto asked when Othello crouched down next to him.
“Hush. You are hurt, and the goblins are still out there.”
Othello, balancing on the balls of his feet, reached for the bottom of Mitto’s blood-soaked shirt. Remembering how Othello had served as the healer at Fort Faith until Sister Aric’s arrival, Mitto sighed and braced himself for the sight of what was sure to be a gruesome wound.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 70