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

by David Michael Williams

  After a moment of silence, Aric said, “You’re wrong.”

  Ruben’s heart lurched. “What?”

  “Before…you said you were just an ordinary man, but you’re wrong,” Aric said. “I knew you were more than a thief the first time I saw you. And you proved me right when you risked your life to save Zusha from her grandfather. Not just anyone would do that.”

  “But I wasn’t able to help her. I almost got Arthur and myself killed in the process,” Ruben pointed out.

  “But you tried. Only the gods are perfect, Ruben. We mortals can only try to be the best people we can. And as for your magic, I was pretty sure it was all a ruse from the start. Stannel had his doubts too.”

  Ruben had started to smile, but at the mention of Stannel, he frowned. “You’ve known the commander for a long time, huh?”

  “Yes,” Aric said. “Stannel is a good friend, but he sacrifices so much for his duty. I hope to make some new friends during my stay at this fort.”

  “I’ll be your friend,” Ruben offered, quickly averting her eyes from hers. He wanted to say more, to declare his undying love, to pledge his life for her happiness, but he didn’t want to scare her off.

  Small steps, he thought.

  Aric smiled warmly, and Ruben felt truly blessed for being the one responsible for it.

  “I’d like that, Ruben. I really do think you are a good man.” She reached for his hand, and Ruben was happy to let her take it. “Come now, let’s get you to the infirmary.”

  Ruben grinned all the way to his sickbed. He didn’t need an examination to know he was in fine shape. In truth, he had never felt better in all of his life. And even if he were to drop dead just then, he knew he would have at least one friend to remember him.

  * * *

  Stannel sat alone in the small room that served as his office. He had only just dismissed Lieutenant Petton, who continued to plead his case against Arthur—and the rest of the Renegades—even after learning the true motive behind why Ruben and Arthur had fled the fort.

  He continued staring at the door long after Petton practically slammed it behind him. As long as the Renegades remained at the fort, there would be strife between the Knights and the rebels.

  So be it, he thought wearily.

  Arthur and Ruben had revealed the hidden passageway’s location, and he had already assigned two guards to watch the portal to prevent future breakouts. He planned on inspecting the passageway himself—who knew when such a thing might come in handy?—but first, there was something else he wanted to investigate.

  From a creaky drawer in his desk, Stannel removed a single tome. All throughout Petton’s tirade, his thoughts had been on the book, which he had taken into his personal care after assuming command. As he paged through it now, his thoughts returned to Toemis’s tale and, more specifically, to Zusha.

  Stannel felt awful for having abandoned the girl on Wizard’s Mountain. He had wanted nothing more than to scour the entire mountaintop to locate her, but after learning about the Renegades’ encounter with Albert Simplington, the mountain’s unneighborly wizard resident, Stannel had been forced to consider the matter realistically.

  Searching for Zusha would have put everyone’s life at risk, and Stannel could not in good conscience extend his absence from the fort. During the ride back, he had debated whether or not to send some of his Knights to pick up the trail, but between the goblins and Albert Simplington, he couldn’t justify endangering the lives of his men.

  As a result, Stannel felt as though he had sentenced the girl to death.

  What chance did she have on her own? he wondered. Granted, Zusha wasn’t as young as any of them had thought, but with so many dangers out there, how could a sheltered lass like Zusha hope to survive?

  Then, if Zusha truly were the one responsible for summoning the rock creature, then perhaps he was underestimating her.

  Stannel considered that Zusha might be better off alone. After learning of her fantastic abilities—her curse, as Toemis had called it—how would the Knights of Fort Valor have treated her? People tend to fear what they don’t understand, he thought, and the Knights of Superius have a long history of distrusting magic.

  As his eyes scanned the pages, Stannel said a silent prayer for the girl. He knew what it was like to be the target of suspicion and derision. He wielded the power of the Great Protector in a way that very few—if any—other Superian Knights could. He had never looked at his abilities as a curse, though he was wary about exhibiting his extraordinary abilities in public.

  Now that the trumpets of war had sounded, how long could he hope to keep his own skills a secret from his men? What would their reaction be when they inevitably found out what he was capable of?

  Stannel stopped flipping the pages when he spotted the name “Toemis Blisnes” in a flowing script, followed by the date of his arrival at Fort Faith, his rank at that time, and a brief list of his responsibilities. The page was yellowed with age and smelled of mold.

  The tome, which was a long-dead commander’s logbook, had been fortunate to survive the Ogre War, though it was common knowledge that ogres had little use for books—aside from kindling.

  Stannel had not doubted Toemis’s dying confession. Nevertheless, it was strange to see the old man’s name in the book. The physical proof of Toemis’s residency at the fort forced Stannel to consider the events that had transformed a Knight into a cold-blooded killer. Stannel supposed a man might go through many changes after branding himself a coward.

  Toemis had said the ogres had outnumbered the Knights of Fort Faith ten to one. Might there be as many goblins out there now? he wondered. Or more?

  Stannel had been preparing for war throughout most of his adult life. He did not fear any mortal enemy for he did not fear his own death. But as Commander of Fort Valor, he had to wonder if the motley residents of the fort could physically and mentally weather a siege.

  How might the Knights and Renegades react in the face of certain death?

  How many Knights would flee, like Toemis did?

  Would the Renegades fight alongside their former enemies or run?

  Looking down at the faded page, Stannel clapped the logbook shut. Though the sun had long since set, he had much to do before seeking the comfort of meditation. For one thing, he had promised Aric he would come by the infirmary so she could take a look at his shoulder.

  He would probably have to repair the considerable damage done to his helm and breastplate himself…

  Gingerly, he rose to his feet and made to leave the room. Before closing the door behind him, he glanced back at the small, old desk and recalled his first meeting with Colt. He didn’t blame the young commander for embracing a mission that took him far away from his responsibilities, but Stannel prayed Colt and his companions would return with all haste.

  Not only did Stannel desperately need word of what was happening in the East, but also he was beginning to think that in Fort Valor’s case, two commanders were better than one.

  Bring them home, Pintor, he prayed as he traced the outline of the pendant always tucked beneath his tunic.

  * * *

  “Quit squirming! Do you want this to take all day?”

  Mitto was too busy gritting his teeth against the sting of cold water on his tender flesh to reply. Else insisted on washing his wound every morning to prevent infection. Some of the cottage’s residents claimed the goblins coated their blades with a poison, though Mitto had his doubts.

  In a matter as serious as this, however, he thought it better to be safe than…well…dead. And though Else’s ministrations caused him some physical discomfort, he didn’t at all mind watching the woman dote on him.

  The ruination of Rydah, the destruction of Someplace Else, the death of Baxter Lawler—all of these things weighed heavily on his mind. Both he and Else had lost so much, but they were truly fortunate to have found each other. That the innkeeper had thrown in with a bunch of Knights and professional thieves was still someth
ing he couldn’t quite get his mind around…

  Most of Rydah’s survivors had sought refuge in Hylan, but rather than hide along with the other townsfolk, Else was doing her part to fight back, despite the fact that she had no skill as a warrior. Mitto suspected that were it not for his unexpected arrival, she would have gone with Dylan and Loony Gomez to look for the goblin camp.

  “Ah!” he gasped. “I swear, Else, it didn’t hurt this much when the wound was dealt.”

  “Quit complaining,” Else snapped. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

  Mitto eyed the woman as she gently wrapped a new bandage—crafted from an old tablecloth—around his waist. His injury still pained him every now and then, particularly when Else changed the dressing, but the discomfort was lost in the warmth he felt as she wrapped her arms around him to secure the bandage.

  He wondered why he had never noticed her loveliness before. No, he corrected, that isn’t right. I always knew she was a wonderful woman. I just never realized how precious she was to me until I almost lost her.

  As he watched her take the bloodied rags over to a water pail, he thought he was seeing her for the first time. And if he were not mistaken, he had seen something new in her eyes when their gaze happened to meet. How strange, he thought, that I should find love in the midst of war. In the days of peace, when I had had nothing but time to court her properly, I did nothing. Now, when the two of us could die at any moment, I find I want nothing more than to grow old with her.

  He hadn’t said anything more about his love for her since his surprise confession at Rydah’s ruins, but she couldn’t have forgotten what he said. He certainly couldn’t forget. In fact, he could hardly think of anything else. But he would not broach the topic for there were more important things to worry about. More importantly, Mitto didn’t think they needed to address the subject.

  He felt his love being returned in ways that mere words could not express.

  Else’s turn for guard duty would come soon. The cottage-turned-outpost was perpetually guarded by half-a-dozen watchmen at all times. Mitto had asked to help, but Else forbade him to step foot outside the cottage until he was fully recovered. Until then, Mitto was left to sit and wait, counting the minutes until Else’s safe return.

  He was in the process of watching Else tie her hair back in a thong when the sound of voices outside the cottage caught their attention. He sat up straight, ignoring the pain that lanced from his wound, and tried to identify the speakers. Humans or goblins? The sound was too muffled to be sure. Slowly, he reached for his quarterstaff. Meanwhile, Else had her hand on the short sword hanging from her belt.

  When the door swung open, Mitto tensed but then immediately relaxed again. He was filled with relief at the sight of a human and was overjoyed that that human happened to be Sir Dylan Torc. Most everyone—Mitto included—had feared they had seen the last of the bold Knight when he and his companions had set off for the goblin camp.

  To see the man alive and well brought a big smile to Mitto’s face.

  Gomez and Tryst entered the cottage after Dylan. Mitto had to look twice at the fourth member of the party, not believing his eyes. He expected to find Lucky bringing up the rear but found Colt there instead. The young commander looked far worse for their time apart, though Mitto was happy to see the man was alive at all. Despite Opal’s faith she would find their lost companions, Mitto had given Colt up for dead.

  How unfortunate that the commander had missed his friends by a span of days…

  But then Mitto watched, dumbfounded, as Opal and Lilac too crossed the threshold. He waited, expecting the tall archer and the dark-skinned dwarf to come next, but his hopes were dashed when Lucky appeared in their place, closing the door behind him. Mitto’s mind was flooded with questions, but he kept silent, knowing all would be explained in time.

  Unfortunately, he would have to wait a full day to hear their story. After the newcomers wolfed down a modest meal, they found a place on the floor to sleep. Within an hour of their unexpected return, Loony Gomez was snoring rhythmically off in one corner, and even Sir Dylan—whose abundance of energy often led to insomnia—had nodded off, his head resting in his arms.

  As Else was currently on watch—and since her replacements themselves were sleeping—Mitto might have been left with only his curiosity to keep him company. But there was one man who had resisted the lure of sleep in spite of his obvious need for it.

  Across the room, Colt sat with his back against a wall, his eyes staring out at nothing. Mitto wondered about the grotesque staff that lay across his lap, but Mitto’s eyes didn’t linger long on the skull-topped rod. Instead, he studied Colt, marveling that this could be the same man he had met at Fort Faith.

  Colt appeared to have aged ten years in that short time. The flesh on his face was waxen, and he looked as though he had lost a lot of weight. There was a haunted look in his eyes, as though he had witnessed some truly harrowing events. Using his quarterstaff for support, Mitto crossed the room, carefully stepping over the prone forms of those who sleeping.

  As much as he wanted to ask Colt what had happened, Mitto started by saying, “It’s good to see you again, Commander.”

  Colt nodded, and Mitto couldn’t decide if Colt was looking at him or through him. Mitto didn’t know what else to say. He could only assume by the dwarf’s absence that he was dead. He supposed the same was true for Othello, though he didn’t want to believe that. Othello had saved his life, after all.

  “Don’t worry,” Mitto said, uttering the first words that came to his mind. “We’ll find a way to push those monsters back into the pit they crawled out of.”

  Colt didn’t reply, and Mitto was in the process of extricating himself from the Knight’s presence, when the Knight smiled faintly. Now Mitto could see Colt was looking directly at him, his eyes blazing with an alertness that made Mitto tense up in spite of himself. The look on the commander’s face, combined with his simple, yet confident, reply, sent a shiver down Mitto’s spine.

  “We’ll find a way,” Colt agreed, “or die trying.”

  Volume 3:

  Martyrs and Monsters

  Prologue

  The stiffness creeping into his long limbs made each stride more difficult than the last. Rivulets of sweat tickled his cheeks, but the cold night air was no match for the heat that consumed his skin and burned his lungs—a fire that rivaled the inferno he had left far behind.

  He knew they were back there. Every now and then, a cry rent the stillness of the forest, a sound that resembled nothing so much as the baying of hounds. Even when they were silent, he sensed their nearness.

  Othello was no stranger to the hunt, though usually the roles were reversed.

  His empty quiver pounded against his back with every exhausting stride. He refused to cast aside his longbow, which he clutched awkwardly against his breast. The bow was one of his few possessions, and tossing it aside would only give his pursuers proof of his passing.

  The predators—foreigners to the island until recently—stuck to his trail with a persistence he begrudgingly admired. He had done his best to conceal his path in the beginning, but they had found him anyway.

  Now his flight was chaotic, desperate.

  The shouts were growing louder by the moment. He wondered if they could smell him. The creatures certainly resembled animals in their ferocity, and some said they could see in the dark. But they weren’t mere beasts. They spoke a language he didn’t understand, and they knew magic. Perhaps they were using spells to track him now.

  He ran so far he might have outpaced dawn itself. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw not the welcoming rays of morning light, but rather his first unobstructed view of the hunters. Some called them monsters. He couldn’t disagree.

  Looking ahead once more, he focused a dense copse of aspens a few yards away. The forest had thinned out without his noticing. If he could only make it to the trees, he might be able to alter his course and lose them.

  Oth
ello cried out in pain as the arrow tore through tendon and muscle. His wounded leg buckled. His momentum sending him tumbling to the ground. He came down hard, skinning his elbows and biting his tongue. His longbow clattered against the trunk of a tree.

  He rolled unto his back to assess the damage. The shaft was crude in design but effective. Blood glued his buckskin pants to his leg.

  There wasn’t even time to remove the arrow. The creatures were already closing in on him. The six of them were breathing hard as they loped toward him. Spearheads and sword tips preceded their advance. A seventh goblin hung back, fitting a second arrow into its bow. If there had been more than one archer, he would already be dead.

  Then again, he would likely die anyway.

  Swallowing the metallic tang in his mouth, Othello tucked his legs beneath him and sprang forward. The pain that coursed through his injured leg nearly sent him back down to the ground, but he pushed through it. He grabbed the shaft of the nearest spear with his left hand and drew his one remaining weapon with the right.

  The goblin would have been wise to let go of the spear. As it was, the creature ended up the victim of its own slow reaction and Othello’s momentum. The goblin could do little more than pull a surprised face as Othello’s hunting knife slid into the hollow beneath its sternum.

  He shoved the dying monster into one of its compatriots while avoiding the descending blades of the others. He then launched himself knife-first at the closest goblin. A dark, horizontal line appeared across the creature’s neck. An instant later, black blood oozed down the goblin’s chest.

  Othello didn’t even see the second corpse hit the ground. He was already turning to face the remaining foes.

  The four held their grounds, alternating their glances between him and their fallen comrades. They had underestimated him, and he wondered if their taste for self-preservation would slake the thirst for vengeance.