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

by David Michael Williams

  Drekk’t tried not to think about how much easier it would have been if that damned human hadn’t robbed them of their explosives. With winter already taking ahold of Capricon, the goblin army could not afford a lengthy siege.

  Truth be told, Drekk’t was more concerned with the Emperor’s temper than harsh weather.

  He was also wary of discord within his army. Some soldiers hadn’t seen battle since the attack on the capital weeks ago. Those who had been sent to old Fort Valor had done little more than detonate bombs. There had been few enough human survivors to provide sport, according to reports.

  His troops hungered for battle and thirsted for bloodshed. Scuffles broke out nearly every day, as the soldiers took out their aggression on one another. If he, as their general, didn’t find a productive way to channel their aggression, the army would eventually collapse in on itself.

  Drekk’t continued to gaze out at the silent fortress as he awaited his lieutenants’ arrival.

  Most enemies of the T’Ruellian Empire mistakenly concluded, after witnessing the goblins’ frenzied style of fighting, that the goblins employed no true tactics to speak of. What none of them realized was that, as a people bred for war, the goblins were incredibly organized. The average goblin male saw combat at age fifteen. As a result, every one of T’Ruel’s armies was comprised largely of veterans.

  The hierarchy for any goblin brigade was intentionally complex. In fact, “officer” was so vague a term that it proved useless in most instances. Everyone in the army took orders from someone, with the smallest company comprised of a mere handful of soldiers. Generally speaking, every goblin—except the youngest—had someone to boss around and, inversely, someone to be bossed around by.

  And the goblin military was an incredibly competitive organization. In order to move up the ranks, an individual had to prove himself worthier than whoever currently occupied the post. Promotions tended to occur only after a commanding officer perished, which happened both on and off the battlefield.

  It was to prevent assassinations that the Emperor had perfected the system. By placing no fewer than two soldiers at every level of leadership beneath the topmost officer, any goblin hoping to advance through murderous deeds would have to kill not only the officer above him, but also someone at the same level.

  Even the slyest, most opportunistic goblin would have a hard time accomplishing that with any discretion. And since the punishment for killing—or attempting to kill—a fellow soldier was death, assassinations were far from common. They were not, however, unheard of.

  Drekk’t tore his gaze from the fort and glanced at his army, which encircled the castle in a big, dark ring. The war camp was being constructed with methodical precision. Each soldier knew his place in the greater scheme. Drekk’t knew that his lieutenants would seek him out only after they were certain their officers knew their orders.

  He smirked. Drekk’t had little fear that either of his lieutenants would make an attempt on his life. He had served with both of them for many years and was reasonably sure they were content to wait until he died naturally, in battle, to take his place as general. If one of them did end his life prematurely, the murderer would have to face the other in combat to prove himself the better leader.

  Since Jer’malz and Ay’goar were equally matched as warriors, Drekk’t was safe…at least until one of them became handicapped in some fashion.

  By the time the lieutenants arrived at Drekk’t’s pavilion, the sun was hovering just over the jagged peaks of the neighboring mountains. As was customary, Jer’malz and Ay’goar stood at attention, silently waiting for their general to speak.

  While some goblins in superior positions took pleasure in making their underlings suffer—the Emperor, Prince T’slect, and Ay’sek all came to mind—Drekk’t treated his soldiers with respect. It wasn’t because he feared what they might do to him, but rather what they wouldn’t do, such as watch his back in the midst of a melee.

  And unlike many commanding officers, Drekk’t even allowed those directly beneath him to speak their minds.

  “It’s the midge I’m worried about,” Ay’goar said once Drekk’t had finished telling them his plans. “Without n’feranost Ay’sek here, we have no one to counter his magic.”

  Drekk’t said nothing, silently agreeing with the lieutenant. Between Colt’s confessions and what T’slect had told him, Drekk’t knew a lot about the fort’s residents. T’slect had been obsessed with the Renegades who had come to reside at the fortress, but Drekk’t cared nothing about a handful of humans who may or may not have learned about the goblins invasion early on.

  The midge, on the other hand, posed a serious problem.

  While the diminutive vagrants were notoriously capricious, the midge also happened to be the most powerful wizards in all of Altaerra. That one had allied himself with the Knights of Superius was bizarre to say the least.

  “Let’s put a bounty on his empty little head,” Jer’malz suggested. “The runt can’t cast a spell if there are a hundred goblins piled on top of him, trying to grab hold of any part big enough to prove they had a hand in the kill.”

  Drekk’t considered the proposal and found it sensible. The promise of loot was a tried and true goblin method for overcoming reluctance to take on an enemy. In fact, Drekk’t was a little surprised he hadn’t thought of it first.

  Perhaps Jer’malz did warrant watching…

  “So be it,” Drekk’t acquiesced. “Do either of you have suggestions on how to get the Knights to come out of their castle?”

  The two lieutenants exchanged blank glances.

  Practically all of their technology had been stolen from conquered nations. They knew how to construct catapults and trebuchets, ballistae and battering rams, but the T’Ruellians typically relied on speed and maneuverability. Siege engines slowed an army down, whereas barrels of dwarven blasting powder were far easier to transport. And what the goblins lacked in technology, they made up for in vuudu, which was inherently destructive.

  Drekk’t had neither explosives nor a shaman at his disposal.

  “We’ll have to flush them out,” Drekk’t said with a shrug. “We’ll throw a quarter of our number at them at sunset to see how they react.”

  Ay’goar snorted. “If nothing else, it will give the soldiers something to do.”

  “Those remaining in camp should stay on guard in case the humans ride out,” Drekk’t added. “Which of you would like to lead the attack?”

  The question took both lieutenants by surprise. Drekk’t smiled inwardly. Let skeptics call him unorthodox, Drekk’t preferred innovation to conformity. Perhaps that was why he had lived forty-seven years, when the average goblin died before thirty.

  “Jer’malz, you will head the strike,” Drekk’t said, answering his own question. “Be sure to take plenty of archers with you in case the midge shows himself.”

  “Yes, n’patrek,” Jer’malz said.

  Ay’goar said nothing, though he looked disappointed. Drekk’t couldn’t blame him. He too yearned for combat. Unless the humans were stupid enough to give up their only advantage and come out—which they might do, in the name of honor or some such nonsense—it would be some time before the general’s blade tasted red blood.

  “You are dismissed,” Drekk’t said suddenly, and both goblins turned to leave without another word.

  He followed them to the egress. Once outside, his gaze came to rest on the tall, dark mass jutting up from the flat land around it. The fort was as quiet and still as a mountain.

  The general chuckled to himself. Although few knew it, the goblin race had at one time lived deep within the earth, delving out subterranean kingdoms in the hollows of ancient mountains. Scurrying over rocks, climbing sheer cliff sides—these things came naturally to any goblin.

  Soon the defenders of Fort Valor would learn why goblins don’t bother bringing ladders into battle.

  * * *

  The Knights called it the Renegade Room because that was w
here Klye and the others spent most of their time. Klye had no idea what the chamber had been used for prior to their arrival, but the space suited them.

  And now that the pirates were there too, Klye no longer felt guilty about the accommodations.

  That Pistol and Crooker had been released from the dungeon was no small victory. He had done his best, as Renegade Leader, to improve the pirates’ welfare ever since Colt—and Petton—had put them in a cell.

  Finally, Stannel had reversed Colt’s dictum. With Horcalus, Scout, Arthur, Plake, Pistol, Crooker, and him all together again, Klye might have taken the opportunity to feel pretty good about himself—were it not for the thousands of goblins outside.

  Klye had expected the pirates to be relieved and grateful for their freedom, but even Crooker, the more jovial of the two, wore a somber expression on his bearded face. Klye supposed the two of them were still in shock from their unexpected discharge.

  Or perhaps they understood the portent of the rapier hanging at Klye’s hip.

  Thanks to Scout’s frequent trips to the dungeon, Pistol and Crooker knew how Lilac and Othello had accompanied Colt and the others to Rydah. However, no one had had the chance to tell them about the army camped outside the fort.

  Klye handed the pirates their curved swords and explained the reason—the only reason—why the Renegades were being allowed to carry weapons. Frowning, Pistol walked over to the room’s only window. Crooker followed.

  “Maybe we ought to think about switchin’ sides,” Pistol quipped, scratching the scar that disappeared beneath his eyepatch.

  “I don’t think that’s an option,” Klye replied dryly.

  The former pirate king shrugged. “Ah well. It beats dying of old age in a cell. When does the fun begin?”

  As though in answer to Pistol’s question, a great racket erupted from somewhere outside the fort. His hackles rising, Klye stepped up to the window and felt something drop into the pit of his stomach. A multitude of dark shapes danced against the backdrop of dying sunlight.

  The goblins were advancing.

  Klye spun around, and his expression must have communicated the truth of the situation. Arthur’s face drained of color. Plake swore. Horcalus stared at Klye, expectantly.

  He knew no one expected much from the Renegades. They could, perhaps, wait out the attack in Renegade Room and let the Knights repel what would prove to be—according to Horcalus’s predictions—the first of many assaults. Who would fault them for sitting this one out?

  But Klye’s newly discovered conscience would eat him alive if he let the Knights perish in his place. How many speeches had he made—first to Colt and then to Stannel—about how the Knights and Renegades were on the same side? He hadn’t pressed Stannel about getting back their weapons so they could sit on their asses…

  They were awaiting his instruction. It had been nearly a month since the last time he had issued any orders—aside from “Shut up, Plake”—and while he hadn’t felt like much of a leader lately, obviously everyone else did. Well, Klye thought, we survived Port Town, the Knights from Fort Miloásterôn, and T’slect. Let’s see how far we can push our luck.

  “Horcalus, where will we do the most good?” Klye asked.

  The former Knight of Superius thought a moment before saying, “The goblins will likely focus on two points of penetration…the front gate and the roof. The entry hall will likely be packed with Knights awaiting a breach. Meanwhile, the force on the battlements will be comprised mostly of archers, I would guess, though there will be men ready for hand-to-hand combat up there too.”

  Klye didn’t like the thought of shouldering his way through a pack of Knights, some of whom would just as soon take a swipe at him as at a goblin. He had never been to the battlements, but he imagined they had to be roomier than the front hall.

  “The roof it is,” he declared.

  “I know the fastest way up there,” Scout insisted, already moving toward the door.

  The keen of goblin voices, shouting and shrieking, filled the room, causing everyone to pause. Klye slammed the shutters closed and started for the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “Arthur, Plake, you wait here. We’ll rendezvous back here when it’s over…or in the event of a breach—”

  “No.”

  Klye spun around, ready to confront the pugnacious Plake Nelway, but found Arthur instead.

  “I’m coming too,” Arthur added, his voice quieter but no less firm.

  Hands folded before him, a borrowed sword at his hip, Arthur looked not a bit like the frightened runaway who had gotten swept up with rebels and pirates in Port Town. He seemed older to Klye, and he wondered how much Horcalus’s mentorship had to do with the change.

  Klye had wanted to keep Arthur and Plake out of harm’s way, since neither of them had much experience in battle. But if Arthur felt ready to display some of the tricks Horcalus had taught him, so be it. It probably made more sense for them to stay together anyway.

  “Lead the way, Scout.”

  * * *

  The twilight charge had not taken the Knights by surprise. Neither was the enemy’s decision to scale the fort’s outer wall unforeseen. However, Stannel had not expected the goblins to be so adept at climbing.

  The mob of long-limbed creatures resembled nothing so much as an infestation of overgrown spiders ascending a great web in search of helpless prey.

  The first volley of arrows had sent scores of the creatures tumbling back down to the earth. Freefalling bodies collided with those beneath them, causing a living avalanche in some places. But the gaps were quickly filled by eager comrades so that in a matter of seconds, the wall was once more covered with dark, writhing shapes.

  After that initial shower of arrows, Stannel ordered the archers to fire at will.

  The Commander of Fort Valor waited until the first of the goblins was almost to the top before signaling the Knights with the oversized cauldrons. Using fallen beams as levers—and, in one desperate case, a man’s own back—to tip the great vessels, the Knights dumped a deluge of boiling water down upon the goblins.

  The enemies’ screams were deafening, but the cacophony ended as soon as the bodies struck the ground. The Knights wasted no time in hauling the vats back and out of the way. There wouldn’t be time to refill them during this scrimmage, but they would likely need them again in the near future.

  Even as the archers fired their bolts down at the grapplers, other Knights were heaving stones that ranged from fist-sized rocks to massive boulders—debris that had been scavenged from the remains of the western wing. The Knights tirelessly tossed the rubble down upon the besiegers, too preoccupied with their work to cheer when they hit the mark or to curse when they missed.

  It was then that Stannel first found himself missing Noel. A single fireball from the midge’s staff would have dispatched a dozen of the fiends. He pushed the thought away, reminding himself that getting word to King Edward was of greater importance than the defense of one small fortress.

  Despite the Knights’ valiant efforts, it wasn’t long before the first of the attackers reached the crenellated ledge. The rocky missiles were forgotten, as the men began using swords, spears, and shields to shove the goblins from their perches. Stannel winced when he saw one frantic goblin clamp onto a Knight’s arm, pulling the unbalanced man to his doom.

  Stannel, who had been calling out orders all this time, quickly found himself in the thick of things, swinging his claymore in wide arcs, denting armor and cutting flesh.

  He had fractured his shoulder while fighting the rock creature atop Wizard’s Mountain, and despite Sister Aric’s faithful ministrations, his arm was still stiff. But Stannel ignored the discomfort as he hacked at the murderous throng around him. At one point, he caught sight of Dominic Horcalus and Arthur Bismarc swinging their swords side-by-side. Another glimpse into the fray revealed the pirates, who were fighting with an intensity that rivaled the goblins’.

  In the process of executing yet another fatal swin
g, Stannel noted that the human defenders along one side of the rampart had been forced back by the swelling number of goblins there. Wielding his claymore with both hands, Stannel cut a swath to that area.

  He thought he heard someone—Chadwich Vesparis? Klye Tristan?—shout his name, but he ignored the warning. An instant later, he was surrounded by goblins.

  A hook-headed spear homed in on his flank. Stannel released his hold on the claymore with his left hand and swung with his right to repel the weapon. At the same time, two more goblins, both carrying curved swords, came at him from the other side. He could only guess how many more blades were aimed at his back.

  With his free hand, Stannel yanked his mace from its place at his belt. He felt a tingle pass through his fingers as they clasped the smooth leather grip.

  His connection with Pintor, the Great Protector, was instantaneous. The sea of monsters around him seemed to slow dramatically. He even closed his eyes for a second, reveling in the golden warmth that surged throughout his body. He dropped his claymore to the ground.

  Taking the blessed mace in both hands, Stannel Bismarc moved his lips in a litany of prayer that his mind could not comprehend but that his heart understood.

  Then he was turning so fast that the goblins around him looked like nothing more than a black blur. The living darkness was immediately swallowed up by a blazing bronze light that always reminded Stannel of a sunrise. The heat building inside his body suddenly began to flow toward his arms, through his hands, and into the mace.

  When next he was able to see again, Stannel was alone. Those goblins that hadn’t fallen over the edge now littered the ground in a ring five feet away. Most of them were dead or dying, judging by their feeble attempts to rise.

  The goblins that lay nearest him were barely recognizable as goblins. Their faces—and all other exposed flesh—had fused fast to the bone beneath.

  The other goblins paused for no more than a moment before scrambling over their fallen comrades and charging at him. Feeling more than a little fatigued, Stannel backpedaled, careful not to trip over the bodies scattered behind him. It would be some time before he could discharge the mace’s power again, but he wasn’t worried.