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

by David Michael Williams

  “Little monster,” the gloved Knight spat as he gave Noel a sharp slap across the face.

  By this time, Noel was beginning to think talking his way out of the situation was an impossibility. His head was spinning from getting struck, and it was only a matter of time before the leathery hand covered his mouth again.

  The words to a spell flashed in his mind, and before he knew what he was doing, he was pronouncing each and every syllable.

  Noel was dropped to the ground. The Knight who had been holding him cried, “Bloody hell, we’re done for!”

  Meanwhile, the Knight with the smelly gloves lunged forward, wrapped his arms together under Noel’s armpits and wrenched him off the ground.

  “Lemme go! I didn’t do—oof!”

  The Knight was squeezing so hard Noel feared he’d soon hear his ribs cracking one by one. All he could do was gasp for air that wasn’t there. His cheek was once more pressed against the cold metal of the first Knight’s armor. In spite of the tall torches lining the stairway ahead, everything started getting very dark.

  The next thing Noel knew, he was lying on the ground, his chest heaving up and down. It took him a second to understand what had happened, but a cursory glance at the Knights on either side of him provided the answer. Both men were lying flat on their backs, their eyes closed.

  Noel’s sleep spell had taken effect in the nick of time.

  He tried to sit up, but the motion sent another wave of dizziness through his mind. He had pushed himself too hard. Sheer will alone was keeping him from passing out.

  Don’t do it, Noel. You can’t sleep yet. You still have important work to do. He knew, now, he would not get to King Edward so easily, but after some rest, he’d have a lot of different incantations to choose from.

  All he had to do is find a place to hide, a safe hiding spot where he could rest…

  The midge crawled toward his discarded staff. Behind him, he heard the voices of men and a crescendo of footsteps. His scuffle with the two sentries had alerted more Knights. In a matter of seconds, they would be on him, and neither his magic nor his own two legs could save him.

  He was too tired even to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I tried…I didn’t do anything wrong…Stannel…”

  Passage IV

  The closer they drew to the goblin camp, the more difficult it was for Colt to combat the second guessing that had become second nature for him ever since he had first learned of his promotion to Commander of Fort Faith last summer.

  Throughout the nearly two and a half-day trek, a voice had whispered in his ear, growing louder with each passing hour, that it wasn’t too late to turn back. A second voice, that of his father, the heroic Laenghot Crystalus, reminded him that fear was a natural response to an impending battle.

  “Great men are defined by great deeds,” Lord Crystalus was wont to proclaim, and Colt found himself summoning the maxim again and again to fight back against his mounting doubts.

  He tried to keep his mind busy with thoughts of strategy, but though he pushed his men to the brink of exhaustion each day, he could not wear out his brain. With so much time to walk in silence, Colt couldn’t help but evaluate his actions—and inactions—as the Commander of Fort Faith.

  Saerylton Crystalus had taken on the mantle of leadership with the grace of a toddler tying his shoelaces for the first time. He had made many mistakes, but nothing hurt worse than remembering those who had lost their lives under his command.

  Sir Gregory Wessner and Sir Phance Swordsail had been crushed when T’slect’s vuudu dropped the ceiling on them. Colt hadn’t known either man well—just well enough to remember their names when ordering them to remain and guard the false prince. He knew that he would never forget them for as long as he lived—however long that would prove to be.

  He thought a lot about Cholk too. How he wished he had pried for more information from the dwarf. How had he come to join the Renegades? What had prompted him to leave his homeland, Thanatan, for Continae? He would never know any more than he already did about the friend who had sacrificed everything for him.

  No matter which course his overactive mind chose, the path always wound back to the same sorry fact: he was leading nearly one hundred men and women into a hopeless battle.

  When they were but a few miles from the goblin camp, Colt found that he could not look at his companions’ faces. There were times during the past couple of days when he had prayed death would be the worse fate any of them found. The goblins were not wont to take prisoners, but rumor had it that the foreign army had a taste for human flesh.

  Colt briefly considered sending out scouts to gather information about the enemy encampment but decided against it. His entire strategy depended on the element of surprise, and besides, he had seen the goblin army with his own two eyes. How much could have changed in nine days?

  Taking those final steps toward the clearing that housed a thousand or more tents—with no sign yet of enemy sentries or patrols—Colt could scarcely breathe. His heart was beating so powerfully in his chest that it physically pained him.

  It occurred to Colt, then, that the only difference between a great deed and an incredibly foolish one was the outcome, which no mere mortal could ever know. Maybe even brave and brilliant Aldrake Superior, the first warrior-king of Superius, had struggled against such a storm of uncertainty…

  With Opal on one side and Dylan on the other, Colt tightened his grip on Chrysaal-rûn and used its crystalline blade to sweep aside the gnarled branches blocking his view of the camp. He steeled himself, but nothing could have prepared him for what met his eyes.

  According to Dylan, the area had once been home to a company of woodsmen who sent their lumber to Rydah’s ports. The goblins had supplanted the woodcutters, claiming the secluded area as their own and filling the man-made clearing with their own tents.

  But now the only evidence that either encampment had ever existed was the acre of well-trodden earth, blackened fire pits, and the occasional bone. A surreal dizziness overcame Colt, and if the air hadn’t been perfectly still, he surely would have fallen over.

  Beside him, Dylan muttered, “Gods above, could we have passed them without realizing it?”

  A picture of Hylan’s villagers falling beneath the horde of savages flashed in Colt’s mind. He swallowed the gorge in his throat with a grimace.

  “There’s no way,” Opal said. “A group of that size couldn’t have come anywhere near us without our hearing them. And we took a mostly direct path from Hylan to here, so we certainly would have run into them if they had been anywhere along the way.”

  “So where in the hells did they go?” Dylan demanded.

  By that time, whispering and mumbling could be heard behind them, as the civilians and militiamen of Hylan tried to figure out what was going on. The Knights who had chosen Colt over Dale Mullahstyn exchanged puzzled looks while awaiting their orders. As the seconds passed by, the soldiers’ voices grew louder.

  Then the unmistakable thundering of hooves interrupted them.

  The bastards are behind us! Colt thought. He couldn’t explain it, but somehow the goblins had orchestrated an ambush, doubling back in a most unlikely—and arguably impossible—manner. It was only when the first of the riders came into view, with Dylan attempting to wrangle the troupe into formation, that Colt remembered the goblins didn’t have a cavalry.

  The sight of Captain Ruford Berwyn, sitting astride a dappled charger and leading a company of red and white-clad guardsmen, might have won an award for the day’s most unlikely vision, were it not for the disappearing goblin army.

  “We had hoped to catch you before you met the enemy,” Ruford said, his horse wading through a sea of people.

  “You need not have worried,” Dylan replied. “The goblins are gone.”

  “Gone!” Ruford repeated. “Gone where?”

  Colt glanced back at the empty field that had formerly contained the greatest threat to Capricon. The gobli
ns had left few signs of their occupancy, but apparently not even vuudu could hide the path they had taken. There was a noticeable gap in the trees on one side of the clearing, and from his vantage, Colt could see the hole spread farther into the woods.

  Following the army wasn’t going to be a problem. Answering Ruford’s question was as easy as identifying the direction that the goblins had chosen.

  “South and west,” Colt whispered. “To my fort.”

  * * *

  It was all so puzzling.

  Stannel had faced the goblins in combat on three occasions. His last confrontation had taken place two weeks ago while on his way to Fort Valor—the original Fort Valor. He had overcome the ambushers, only to find his fortress in ruins.

  In his mind’s eye, he could still see the smoldering remnants of that once-noble castle, the remains of its loyal defenders. All signs had indicated the struggle had been quick, devastating, and recent.

  So why weren’t the goblins employing the same winning tactic against new Fort Valor?

  The lookouts had first spotted the enemy army earlier that afternoon. The goblins had not bothered to mask their movements; they had swarmed out of the eastern woods and brazenly encircled the fortress. Rough estimates numbered the goblins at five thousand. But rather than attempt to overwhelm the fort—or reduce it to rubble with their explosives—they had set up camp.

  It was all so very puzzling.

  After more than an hour of waiting for the invaders to make a move, Stannel had finally called for a conference, reluctantly pulling his officers from their posts. Since the war room was still in shambles and since Stannel’s office would have made for cramped quarters, he called them to the dining hall.

  Gaelor Petton was the first to arrive. The lieutenant was clad head to foot in armor and wore his customary frown. Petton’s entrance was followed almost immediately by the arrival of Ezekiel Silvercrown and Chadwich Vesparis. The rest of the lower-ranking officers would remain on the ramparts, ready to issue orders if the goblins attacked.

  When Klye Tristan and Dominic Horcalus walked in the room, Petton lifted an eyebrow in surprise, but to Stannel’s relief, the lieutenant did not utter any of the criticisms that were surely on the tip of his tongue. The two Renegades—former Renegades, Stannel corrected—took their place, sitting opposite the three Knights, while Stannel remained standing at the head of the long table.

  He didn’t have to tell them, Knight or Renegade, the reason for the meeting. Anyone who happened to glance out a window knew Fort Valor’s peril.

  “To begin with,” Stannel said, “can anyone proffer a guess as to why the goblins have not yet volleyed their explosives at our walls?”

  None of the Knights said anything, though Zeke and Chadwich exchanged a look.

  “Maybe they used up all of their ammunition on the first Fort Valor,” Klye offered. “Or maybe they’re just prolonging the fun.”

  “This is hardly a joking matter,” Petton grumbled, not deigning to look in the Renegade Leader’s direction. “As for the original Fort Valor, we still do not know what razed it. It might have been a new type of siege engine or magic—”

  “Vuudu,” Klye corrected.

  Petton waved a hand dismissively. “We should assume that the goblins have not yet bombarded the fort because they are unable to do so.”

  “But why delay?” Horcalus asked. “They have nothing to gain, whereas we now have time to prepare.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to hold your winning card if you know you can take all the tricks,” Klye added. “Either their machines broke down somewhere along the way, or the shamans are off on holiday.”

  “We cannot assume anything,” Petton insisted. “They might be trying to lull us into a false sense of security.”

  “Security? Did you see how many of them are out there?” Zeke Silvercrown posed the rhetorical question at Petton, who stared hard back at him.

  “Anyway you look at it, we’re in trouble,” Klye said. “With or without a secret weapon, we’re vastly outnumbered. Why would they bother dropping the roof down on us when they can starve us out? Don’t the besiegers always have the advantage over the besieged?”

  Though every Knight in the room knew the answer, Dominic Horcalus was the first to speak. “Not necessarily, Klye. By cutting off our food supply, the goblins could force us out, but depending on our supplies, that could take months.

  “Long sieges can be detrimental to both sides. The invaders have little protection from the elements, such as the heavy snowstorms that are bound to roll down from the Rocky Crags.”

  Petton looked like he wanted to argue, but instead he looked away from Horcalus and said, “Perhaps they are simply waiting for nightfall. Didn’t that dwarf say they could see better in the dark?”

  There were mutters from the other two Knights, confirming that they too had heard such a thing. That the goblins had eyes like cats was just one of many rumors circulating the fort. There were men who swore the goblins were demons incarnate, and others were convinced garlic would keep the fiends at bay.

  “We shall remain at full alert,” Stannel stated at last. “Our watchmen have spotted no evidence of siege engines, but we ought to be prepared for collapsing masonry and fires nevertheless.

  “It stands to reason that they are waiting because they hope we will ride out against them…though surely they have overestimated our size if they believe we would do that.”

  Stannel took a deep breath. “One thing I do know for certain is that if we leave the fortress, we will surely die.”

  The word “die” echoed through the mostly empty hall.

  “So we stay cooped up in here and wait for frostbite to win the war for us,” Klye said, a half-smile curling his lip. “I can live with that.”

  “They will attack long before then,” Petton predicted. “Mark my words.”

  Klye moved in before the lieutenant had even finished his sentence. “Then you can certainly see the need for us Renegades to be armed.”

  “I don’t see that at all,” Petton replied. “In fact, I would say it is high time you rebels were put somewhere out of the way. The dungeon, for example…”

  “But that would be tantamount to murder,” Klye argued. He alternated his gaze between Stannel and Petton as he spoke. “If the goblins do get inside the fort, we’ll need to defend ourselves. If you don’t give us our weapons back, then you might as well kill now yourselves.”

  Petton’s expression did not change, though Stannel thought he detected a bemused glimmer in the lieutenant’s eyes.

  Klye continued, nonplussed, “No Knights are going to want to babysit us, Commander, and there’s no reason they should have to. We’ve proven ourselves as capable warriors, and it’s damn obvious you need every man you can get.”

  “We have enough to worry about without having to watch for knives in the back,” Petton said.

  “Enough!” Stannel shouted, cutting off Klye’s retort and evoking a start from everyone present. To Petton he said, “Klye is correct in his reasoning, and I, for one, would not give the goblins an easier time in their killing. Mark my words, Lieutenant, there will be enough killing before this is finished.

  “Klye and his men have promised to do us no harm, and I respect that oath. Trust is a two-way street, after all.”

  “So Pistol and Crooker will be let out of the dungeon?” Klye pressed.

  Horcalus winced at the Renegade Leader’s audacity while Gaelor Petton openly glowered at Klye.

  Stannel hesitated only a moment before saying, “The pirates also have the right to defend themselves. They will be released and allowed to carry their weapons, provided you will vouch for them, Klye Tristan.”

  “I’ve been vouching for them all along,” Klye said, but there was no venom in his words.

  Stannel glanced over at the Knights, measuring their reactions. Both Ezekiel Silvercrown and Chadwich Vesparis wore neutral expressions. Gaelor Petton, however, had gone pale and veritably tremb
led.

  “This is ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “Protocol—”

  “Protocol demands that a subordinate follows the orders of his commanding officer,” Stannel interrupted. “Now, if we are finished fighting with one another, I suggest we move on to discussing our tactics.”

  Petton sat back and folded his arms, the scowl not quite fading from his face.

  Throughout the rest of the conference, Stannel did most of the talking. He outlined the key elements of fortress’s defenses, pausing only briefly to ask for verifications on his facts. He had not been the Commander of new Fort Valor for long, but he had lived as a Knight of Superius for more years than some in attendance had lived at all.

  And while Stannel had never personally been involved in a siege, he knew his military history well—of both Superius and Glenning—and was confident he was making logical choices, given the circumstances.

  The only problem, he knew, was that making the right decisions could very well prove inadequate.

  Passage V

  In contrast to the Celestial Palace in Rydah and the original Fort Valor, this castle was an underwhelming sight.

  Drekk’t knew there were only eighty or so Knights inside. The defenders had limited munitions, including a few hundred arrows. Their cavalry also was modest in size. Colt had told him as much.

  From his tent, the goblin could make out the shapes of men standing along the ramparts, staring out at the massive army that had surrounded them. His army.

  Despite the Knights’ limited resources, Drekk’t was faced with no small dilemma when it came to conquering the fort. The humans had the advantage of thick, stone walls, which protected them from the cold and invaders alike.

  On an open battlefield, the humans wouldn’t last an hour, but inside their fort, the Knights could hold out for weeks, maybe even months. The trick was to get them to come out of their fort, though with each passing minute, that seemed less likely to happen.