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

by David Michael Williams

  “That’s actually quite brave,” Aric said, “albeit impetuous.”

  “He was drunk,” Klye replied flatly, “infused with liquid courage.”

  Aric smiled. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Don’t even get me started talking about Plake and liquor. When we were in Port Town…”

  As Klye told the healer about their misadventures in Port Town, starting with how Plake burned an inn to the ground, he found he couldn’t stop smiling. At the time, he had been furious with Plake, whose insubordinate actions had resulted in Chester Ragellan’s incarceration. But now, recalling the first time he had met Scout—not to mention how they had gotten tangled up with the pirates—Klye couldn’t help but feel a bit nostalgic.

  It had been less than a month ago, but it seemed so much farther back than that. And even though they had been in almost constant danger, Klye felt as though those were somehow happier times—back when he had fought alongside the charming and daring Leslie Beryl, when Ragellan was still alive, and before any of them knew about the goblins’ sinister plans for the island.

  It was quite the contrast to his bleak days in the infirmary.

  Aware that he had trailed off, Klye cleared his throat and asked, “How long do you think it will be before I’m fully recovered?”

  Aric let out an exasperated sigh. “How many times do you plan on asking me that?”

  “Until I hear the answer I want. I’m beginning to feel like that old man, only he has the blessing of sleeping through his recovery time.”

  “Well,” Aric said, “if you continue getting plenty of rest, eat three meals a day, and continue with your walks every day, I think you’ll be as good as new soon enough.”

  “In other words, you have no idea,” Klye concluded.

  Aric rolled her eyes. “You’re as pessimistic as Plake. But the truth is your injury is unlike any I have ever treated before.”

  “I guess that makes me special, huh?”

  “So sarcastic,” Aric lamented. “If only I had the power to heal your attitude.”

  “That, indeed, would be a miracle.”

  “Um…excuse me…Sister Aric…”

  Klye recognized the voice as Ruben’s. He craned his neck to get a look at the wizard, but Aric was blocking his view.

  The healer rose and turned to face the far end of the room. “What is it, Ruben?”

  “I think you’d better take a look at Toemis.” The suggestion was punctuated by a groan from the old man.

  Aric hurried over to Toemis’s bedside, her long, white gown flowing in her wake. Klye sat up straighter and tried to peer over the prone form of Sir Matthew Fisk to get a look at the comatose old man—only, Toemis Blisnes did not sound so comatose anymore. He was coughing, and Klye thought he heard him ask for water.

  “All right, all right,” Aric said. “I will get you water, but you mustn’t try to sit up. You need to take it slowly.”

  “Zusha,” the old man croaked. “Where is my granddaughter? Zusha? Zusha!”

  For the next few minutes, Aric endeavored to soothe the man, telling him his granddaughter was fine and that he shouldn’t get so excited. But Toemis would not be placated until he saw the girl in the flesh. Aric looked around helplessly, first at the door where the Knights had formerly stood guard—Stannel had ordered them away days ago—and then over at Klye, who shrugged.

  “You’ve seen how fast I can move,” he reminded her. “It’ll be midnight by the time I find the girl and bring her back.”

  Then Ruben spoke again. “I can find her.”

  “Are you sure you can manage?” Aric asked. “I would go myself, but I don’t want to leave Toemis.”

  Klye saw the wizard slowly climb out of bed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it…only…um…where is the girl?”

  “Noel took her to get something to eat,” Aric replied.

  “Which means that they could be anywhere,” Klye said.

  His comment provoked a new stream of questions, demands, and curses from Toemis. Aric barely had time to cast Klye a reproachful look before returning to the arduous task of mollifying the old man. Meanwhile, Ruben made his way, stiffly but determinedly, to the infirmary door.

  * * *

  Colt’s soul felt as numb as his body.

  He couldn’t fathom how he had forgotten Cholk was dead, but he knew it was true. In spite of the exhaustion that crippled his mind as assuredly as Drekk’t’s vuudu had paralyzed his body, sleep would not come.

  Instead, he found himself reliving the terrible ordeals of the past few days…

  When he awoke the morning after fighting that hopeless battle with Cholk, he was confused but happy to be alive. However, it didn’t take long before his gratitude fizzled away, only to be replaced by a mounting despair. Surely, the goblins wanted him alive for some nefarious reason.

  Colt knew very little about his enemies, but he suspected torture was part and parcel of their wartime protocol. As a Knight of Superius, it was his duty to seek death before betraying his country. He considered attempting an escape in the hopes that the goblins would slay him, but he could not abandon hope altogether.

  Perhaps a chance for escape would yet come.

  His mood was bolstered by the fact that Cholk had survived the fray too. The goblins were wise enough to keep the two of them separated, but knowing his friend was alive lent Colt strength. He and the dwarf had already been through so much during the short time they had known each other. They would find a way out of this predicament.

  Throughout the laborious hike, Colt tried to keep his wits about him, studying the enemy in hopes of using any new knowledge against them in the future. The first thing he realized about his captors was that they were not at all hampered by the darkness. After the sun set, they made no sign of stopping or even slowing.

  The forced march continued well into nightfall, teaching Colt something else about the goblins—they had incredible stamina.

  When they finally stopped to rest, Colt collapsed to the ground, thankful for the respite. The break from walking was brief, however, and soon enough, he was none-too-gently prodded back to his feet by the tip of a spear.

  For a split second, Colt considered wrestling the weapon away from the goblin. But he couldn’t hope to escape with so many vigilant soldiers nearby. He could only bite his lip and suppress a cry when the spear pierced the bare flesh of his back.

  The goblins had removed his armor from the start, and he had caught sight of one of the fiends wearing his leather cuirass and another, his coat. But there was no sign of the crystal sword. The thought of Chrysaal-rûn in a goblin’s filthy hands was maddening, but Colt swore he’d get it back. He just had to be patient.

  The Order had rules about how a Knight must treat his prisoner, but the goblins had no such laws, apparently. An occasional stone or clod of earth struck him in the back. His body was already covered with superficial wounds from when the goblins took turns prodding him with their odd assortment of weapons.

  Colt did his best not to give the cruel creatures any satisfaction, ignoring their bullying with as much grace as he could muster. Throughout it all, his captives shouted jeers and taunts—at least Colt assumed that’s what they were.

  If the goblins’ treatment of him was harsh, they were downright brutal to Cholk. He could estimate the dwarf’s location by the guffaws and roars of the goblin soldiers that entrenched him. He could only guess what barbaric attention his friend was receiving. According to Cholk, dwarves and goblins shared a deep, undying hatred for each other. Now it sounded like Cholk was reaping the worst of that centuries-long feud.

  The goblins’ bloodlust seemed insatiable, but Colt noted that their captors were careful not to do too much damage to their prisoners.

  He had no idea how far they had traveled, but they hiked for more than half the night before stopping. Colt got the impression that this break was to be longer for some of the goblins began working on a campfire.r />
  To Colt’s surprise, he was reunited with Cholk at this time. The goblins tied them back to back, wrapping their wrists and ankles together with a long cord. When the goblins were satisfied with their work, they appointed two guards to watch over them. The rest of the monsters busied themselves with setting up camp.

  Cholk started to say something to Colt but was rewarded with the haft of a poleax to the side of his head. The dwarf groaned but did not otherwise protest. After that, the two prisoners stayed silent.

  Tired as he was, Colt resisted the urge to sleep. He didn’t want to be caught dozing if the chance to escape presented itself. Cholk’s proximity lent him a measure of comfort, even if they weren’t allowed to speak.

  Colt took the opportunity to count the goblins. There were around fifty of them, which was far fewer than the party they had encountered the previous morning. Apparently, these fifty had been charged with delivering the prisoners, while the other soldiers remained strategically positioned throughout the forest.

  Colt had to admit the foreign army was coordinated. The realization did nothing to lift his spirits. The gods only knew how many of the Crypt-spawns had already made Capricon their home.

  At some point, he must have nodded off because he was awakened by a sound slap across the face. Blinking back tears of pain, he glared up at the goblin crouched before him. The monster said something Colt couldn’t understand and started to untie his bonds. All the while, several others kept arrows trained on him.

  At first, he assumed it was time to resume the grueling hike. But then he noticed the campfires were still blazing. Confused, he glanced back at Cholk, who was also being relieved of his constraints.

  “I’m guessing they want to have a bit of fun with us,” he whispered.

  Cholk earned a punch to the gut for talking, but the dwarf took the blow with hardly a flinch. Just then, Colt admired the brave dwarf more than anyone he had ever known, including his father, whose heroics were highly praised within the Knighthood.

  There was no fear at all in Cholk’s expression as the goblins forcefully led them through the congregation of their companions and into a small clearing.

  When the circle of monsters closed in around them, Colt feared the end had finally come. But the goblins came no closer, remaining a few yards away. He looked around in absolute bewilderment. Meanwhile, all fifty-some soldiers were shouting raucously and waving their weapons in the air. Ghastly shadows from fires only added to the goblins’ demonic appearance.

  “They want us to fight each other.”

  Colt regarded Cholk with absolute amazement. “What? But how…?”

  “Though I hate to admit it, their language isn’t so different from my own,” Cholk explained.

  One of the goblins came forward into the circle and used its wickedly-curved poleax to push the two prisoners apart. Colt backpedaled, careful to avoid the weapon’s razor-sharp edge. Cholk retreated to the far end of the circle. Before returning to his comrades, the goblin shouted something in its native tongue.

  From across the circle, Cholk translated. “He said that if we don’t fight to the death, they’ll kill both of us.”

  “It’s a bluff,” Colt insisted. “They need us alive. Otherwise, they would’ve slain us long before now.”

  An arrow whizzed through the air and caught Colt in the shoulder. He fell to one knee with a cry. Breathing heavily, he barely had time to yank the shaft out of his arm before Cholk came barreling toward him. Too stunned to move, Colt caught the full brunt of the dwarf’s charge, which landed him flat on his back.

  When Cholk pounced knees-first onto his chest, all of the air rushed out of him. For a moment, he could only sputter and gasp for breath. All around them, the goblins cheered wildly.

  “Never underestimate a goblin’s love of bloodshed,” Cholk muttered.

  Colt blinked, unable to understand what was happening.

  The blow that Cholk landed across his jaw nearly sent him into oblivion. Colt’s head jerked to one side from the impact, and he spat out blood and a tooth.

  Now there was no mistaking the situation. Cholk intended to kill him so that the goblins wouldn’t kill them both. The realization hurt Colt more than any physical assault ever could. For the next second or so, he could only look up at his friend, his assailant.

  “They know we’re important,” Cholk said, “but I get the feeling that there aren’t any higher-ups in this bunch. Maybe they’ll still get a reward for delivering our carcasses.”

  The dwarf punctuated his statement with another punch to his face. The strike connected with Colt’s left eye, and he had to struggle once more to maintain consciousness. A part of him wanted to give up and die, to surrender to the pain coursing through his throbbing head. But another part of him wanted to look Cholk in the eye as the traitor landed the deathblow.

  One thing was certain, Colt would sooner die than fight back. If Cholk wanted to take the life he had saved months ago, then so be it. But Colt, for one, refused to play the goblins’ games.

  The spectators’ howls and shouts reached a pitched fervor. The cacophony only grew when Cholk placed his heavy hands around Colt’s neck.

  “I am prepared for the Last Great Deed,” he heard the dwarf say, “but I think you have a greater part to play before this war is over.”

  Somewhere in Colt’s befuddled mind, he was aware that Cholk wasn’t squeezing very hard.

  “Suicide is a great crime among my people, but to give your life so that another might live…well…I’d say that’s honorable enough.”

  Then the dwarf’s hands were no longer wrapped around his throat. With a speed that defied his form, Cholk lunged for the something beside Colt. When the dwarf righted himself once more, Colt saw he held the bloody arrow Colt had discarded.

  Then everything became terribly clear.

  “No,” Colt whispered.

  “Sorry I had to make it look so real,” the dwarf said.

  “Cholk…”

  “May the gods help you, my friend.”

  Before Colt could act, Cholk reversed his hold on the arrow, plunged it into his neck, and pulled it across his throat. A fountainhead of blood spurted from the wound, cascading down Cholk’s chest and onto Colt. Although the dwarf grimaced in anguish, Colt thought he saw satisfaction in his friend’s eyes.

  The crowd that had been so boisterous seconds before went absolutely silent. Only when Cholk toppled, lifeless, to the ground, did the goblins seem to comprehend what had happened. Screaming furiously, the throng closed in on the dwarf, and Colt could do nothing but watch as the goblins started hacking away at the one who had robbed them of their perverse sport.

  Colt shut his eyes, eagerly embracing the dizziness that plunged him into unconsciousness.

  Passage V

  The Thief Guild and the rebels of Rydah had coexisted without conflict for more than a year, until the local Renegade Leader coerced more than half of the Guild’s members into forsaking one illegal code of conduct in favor of another. The Renegades had accomplished in a day what governors, guardsmen, and Knights of Superius had failed to do in two centuries.

  The Guild collapse was as sudden as it was unexpected. Every thief who had not wanted to get caught up in violent politics had been forced to hide or flee the capital altogether.

  Ruben had been one of those refugees, though he hadn’t strayed too far from Rydah.

  He quickly learned highway robbery wasn’t his forte. He had joined Falchion’s crew out of necessity. And while he hadn’t worked with any of them before, he almost immediately wished he had never signed on with the thugs.

  They hadn’t bothered to mask their contempt for him either, making it quite clear they saw him as the most worthless member of the band. Ruben couldn’t help but blame the Renegades for landing him with Falchion and his crew, so he was far from thrilled when he awoke to find he was sharing an infirmary with several of them.

  He didn’t miss Falchion, Critter, and the rest, but at lea
st he had known what to expect with the highwaymen. Renegades were a different story entirely, and when he learned that one of them was a Renegade Leader, he wanted nothing more than to retreat back to unconsciousness.

  Ruben had spent the majority of his first day at Fort Faith in slumber. As the second day dragged on, his apprehension of Klye Tristan and his Renegades was dulled by the sheer tedium of the uneventful hours. By the time the second night rolled around, he considered escaping the sickroom, if only for a change of scenery.

  There were, however, a few key factors that prevented him from doing so.

  First of all, he had absolutely no skill for burglary. He wasn’t the least bit sneaky or stealthy. His role had always been performing diversionary tactics. While he, in the guise of a beggar, distracted the mark with a woeful tale or stirred up trouble as part of a larger cast of rabble-rousers, another thief—a far more talented thief—would traipse onto the scene and relieve the victim of his valuables.

  Also, he wouldn’t have known where to go even if he could have somehow foiled the fort’s sentries. As far as he knew, Fort Faith was in the middle of nowhere. The Port of Gust lay somewhere to the north, but his odds of stumbling upon the right path in the middle of the night were somewhere between slim and nil. And, of course, there were the goblins.

  But one reason above all prevented Ruben from escaping, something that transcended even his cowardice. Though he knew Sister Aric would never return his affection, he simply could not leave her.

  If he had loved her before arriving at Fort Faith, he adored her now. Aric spent most of her time in the infirmary, tending to her patients. Ruben, who could not stomach the sight of blood, marveled at how calm the healer remained while treating gruesome injuries.

  But it wasn’t his aversion to gore that kept him from peeking at his own wound when she routinely changed his bandages. No, he took advantage of the close proximity to lose himself in the pure, unblemished whiteness of her skin; her small, perfectly shaped mouth; and, above all, her eyes, which, like a pair of gems, sparkled a different color depending on how they caught the light.