Keeping both hands on the hilt of his god-blessed mace, Stannel waited for the ranks of goblins to reach him.
Amidst the feverish slashing and bashing that followed, he became aware of allies amassing on both sides of him. Most of them were Knights, but here and there he caught sight of a Renegade.
Nearby, more goblins were already pulling themselves up over the wall.
Passage VI
Drekk’t watched from a distance as the battle unfolded. The moon, half darkened and half gleaming, illuminated the goblins who were using all manner of axe and hatchet to break down the doors separating them from the fort’s delicate innards. There was also a flurry of activity up along the ramparts, near the fort’s single tower.
At first, Drekk’t had employed the use of a spyglass, a tool he had recently acquired from a human sea captain who had had the misfortune of steering his caravel in the path of Drekk’t’s warships. But staring through the device had given him a headache, so now he took only sporadic glances through it. In the meantime, he paced from one end of the pavilion to the other and back again.
If Jer’malz’s warriors could penetrate the Knights’ defenses, the fort would quickly become a slaughterhouse. Yet, as the night drew on, Drekk’t knew that would not likely happen. Jer’malz would not sacrifice too many of his warriors. This was, after all, only a preliminary strike to test of the humans’ wits and weaknesses.
Even as the Knights threw everything they had into protecting their fortress, Drekk’t was using only a fraction of his soldiers. He could send another force the following night and yet another the next. By rotating his forces, he would wear down the humans.
He might even send more troops before sunrise…
Of course, it would have been so much simpler if the Knights simply came out in the open. Drekk’t knew his army would inevitably win, but he could ill afford to waste time. He remembered all too well the Emperor’s threat of withholding reinforcements until the invasion of Capricon made headway.
Jer’malz’s order to fall back came well before midnight. Drekk’t watched the warriors scurry back to the camp, their retreat punctuated by a shower of arrows that caused a few goblins to fall.
The survivors would be weary, but not too tired to fight over the meager possessions of the dead. A handful of soldiers would surely perish throughout the night while picking through the bodies within range of the Knights’ bowmen.
Jer’malz and Ay’goar returned to Drekk’t’s tent soon after the retreat. Drekk’t listened as the battle-weary Jer’malz outlined the events of battle. When Drekk’t asked about the midge, Jer’malz said his archers had seen no sign of the wizard, except for a couple of bright flashes from the battlements. Since none of the troops who had made it to the top of the fort had returned alive, the midge’s participation in the battle could not be confirmed.
Drekk’t shrugged inwardly. He had seen those golden flares from his tent and had deduced that the midge had caused them. Who else could it have been? Colt had mentioned a second wizard arriving at the fort not long before he left, but the man had had an arrow in his gut. Drekk’t figured he was probably dead by now.
Because the Knights had not ventured from their fortress, it was impossible to know how many of them had fallen. Jer’malz estimated the goblins’ losses at somewhere near three hundred.
Drekk’t’s nodded. Losing a few hundred warriors in a battle was not a problem in of itself. Arrows had to go somewhere, and the warriors that were pelted with those bolts paved the road for others who would reach foes bearing empty quivers.
Still, Drekk’t had a finite number of soldiers until the Emperor deemed it otherwise.
His aching head full of strategies and numbers, Drekk’t sent the lieutenants away. The results of the first attack on Fort Valor had gone predictably, if not perfectly. The midge was likely still alive, and not one goblin had been able to breach the fortress. There were three hundred less warriors in his army, and it seemed as though the Knights had made up their minds to hide inside their fort for as long as possible.
Eager to get some sleep—and to get rid of his headache—the general brushed aside the flimsy curtain that divided his pavilion in two and found himself face-to-face with a human.
Drekk’t let out a cry of surprise and alarm and reached for his sword. It was only when he noted the translucent quality of the man.
Angry with himself for letting the shaman get the best of him, Drekk’t retaliated with as great an insult as he dared.
“Master Ay’sek, your portrayal of a human is most convincing.”
Chuckling depreciatively, Drekk’t sheathed his blade. The insubstantial human face tightened into a sour expression, and for a moment, Drekk’t feared that he had pushed the shaman too far. Even miles of distance could prove an ineffectual defense against a Chosen of the Chosen.
“Where are you, Drekk’t?”
It took great effort to keep the smile off of his face, but somehow Drekk’t managed. He could have told Ay’sek of his army’s march—and how Colt’s men were wasting their time in seeking them out in the north—but what fun would that have been?
By Upsinous’s black heart, what Drekk’t would have paid to see the look on the shaman’s face upon arriving at desolate spot that had once accommodated the goblin army!
Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Drekk’t said, “The army has moved on to the castle formerly known as Fort Faith.”
Ay’sek might have demanded to know why Drekk’t hadn’t told him about the army’s relocation, but dwelling on the subject would only reiterate the fact that the general had pulled one over on him. At least, that was what Drekk’t was forced to conclude because Ay’sek said no more about it.
“Then it would appear that Colt has assumed correctly,” Ay’sek said.
“What do you mean?” Drekk’t asked. When Ay’sek’s eyebrows came together, he quickly added, “N’feranost.”
“The commander and his men are following your path. At our current pace, we will reach new Fort Valor in a matter of days,” Ay’sek said. “If I reclaim Peerma’rek tonight, I could reduce this ragtag militia by a third. That might send the rest running back to Hylan.”
The human with Ay’sek’s voice stopped mid-sentence. “Are you listening to me, General?”
In truth, Drekk’t had all but tuned him out. His mind was already formulating a plan. Struggling to recall what Ay’sek had just said, Drekk’t shook his head and said, “You will not reveal yourself…not yet, Master Ay’sek.”
The shaman did not bother to mask his anger. “Why not?”
“Because I want Colt and his army to come here without delay. When the defenders of Fort Valor see us slaughtering their kinsmen, they might leave the safety of their fortress to assist them.”
“You risk much. If we miss our chance to reclaim Peerma’rek...”
Ay’sek did not need to finish the statement. Recovering the staff had been a direct order from the Emperor. Hence, it was a top priority. And yet Drekk’t believed there was a way to accomplish both of his objectives—or, rather, all three.
Not only would he take back Peerma’rek and destroy the human armies, but also he would kill Saerylton Crystalus himself.
“Remain with the humans and learn what you can,” he told the shaman. “And do whatever you must to convince the commander to attack us.”
Ay’sek scoffed, and the sardonic expression on his face strongly resembled the shaman’s true countenance. “You needn’t worry about that, General.”
“When the battle begins, it will be up to you to retrieve Peerma’rek.” Drekk’t walked directly through Ay’sek’s illusion and farther into the sleeping section of his tent. “Now, you had best be getting back to your friends. You wouldn’t want anyone to grow suspicious, not when we are so close to realizing our goals.”
Without a word, Ay’sek vanished.
Despite the throbbing in his skull, Drekk’t felt like celebrating. He immediately decided against
imbibing anything stronger than water, however. It was all coming together nicely, but there was still plenty of work to be done. He needed rest.
The general crawled into what passed for a bed and fantasized about his reunion with Colt.
* * *
Every seat in Fort Valor’s dining hall was full, and still the people—almost all of them Knights—continued to filter in. Arthur had to crane his neck to see Commander Stannel Bismarc, who stood at the far end of the room.
Stannel watched the swarm of activity impassively.
Waves of speculative whispers washed through the crowd. Most of the Knights were blood-splattered, and the stench of sweat was heavy. Arthur heard words like “miracle” and “wizard” repeated over and over.
Beside him, Scout was saying—for the twentieth time—how he had seen Stannel do something similar on Wizard’s Mountain. Arthur had dismissed Scout’s earlier recounts of that episode as exaggerations, but he now he could not deny what the man had been saying for days.
Arthur had seen the metallic light less than an hour ago, had seen the goblins thrown back like lifeless ragdolls.
He glanced at Horcalus, wondering what the man made of it. Horcalus had said nothing of the spectacle, and it didn’t look like he would. When the Renegades—along with everybody else—had been summoned to the dining hall, they had wordlessly followed Klye’s lead.
“There are times when I think I was not cut out to be a Knight at all.” Stannel had said those words to him two nights ago. Arthur had wondered what the commander meant by them. Now he was afraid to find out.
A woman clad in a white robe and a sky blue cord at the waist entered the room. Behind Sister Aric trailed a man who looked less like a Knight than even Arthur did. A former highwayman, Ruben Zeetan had a lanky frame and wore a gray cloak that had once served as a disguise. Like the Renegades who now called the fortress home, Ruben was allowed to move freely about the castle, though the man spent most of his time in the infirmary with Sister Aric.
Arthur watched Aric say something that caused Ruben to hang back. The healer then wormed her way through the host of Knights to stand beside Stannel.
Whatever the commander’s secrets were, Arthur assumed Sister Aric already knew them. The two were old friends by all accounts. According to Scout—who somehow knew something about everything—Stannel and Aric were the only survivors of old Fort Valor.
A minute later, the healer rejoined Ruben, leaving Stannel to stand alone before the crowd once more. When the commander spoke, all mutters and whispers ceased.
“I had planned to give this speech once things settled down, not wanting to introduce further instability in a time of war.”
Though Stannel spoke in the same tone he always used, his voice carried to every part of the room.
“I know now that there is never a good time for deceiving one’s friends and allies,” he said. “You have known me for only a matter of weeks, but today I must reveal to you what the Knights of old Fort Valor had had a dozen years to get accustomed to.
“With the goblins regrouping and likely preparing for a second attack, I shall endeavor to make my explanation brief.
“I became a Knight of Superius for one reason. I wanted to fight in the Wilderness Campaign, that honorable cause which claimed my father’s life. But I became a squire late in life, and before I joined the Knights of Superius, I had to resign from a different order altogether.”
Arthur glanced at Horcalus and then at Klye Tristan. Both men were frowning. Arthur thought he heard someone say “wizard” again, but he might have imagined it. His heart thudded in his chest with the force of a stampeding steed.
“When my mother made the perilous trek from war-torn Ristidae to Superius, with me growing in her belly, she made a covenant with Pintor, the Great Protector. She promised me to his service if the god saw us safely to Superius, which he did. At the age of ten, I became an initiate in the Church of Pintor.
“For nearly a decade, I trained as a monk. Meanwhile the war in Ristidae raged on, and I was torn between my love for the Church and my desire to participate in the Wilderness Crusade as a Knight of Superius. In the end, I left the monastery for the Knighthood.”
A smattering of murmurs broke out in the crowd. Arthur searched the faces of his comrades for an explanation—he didn’t even know what a monk was—but none of the Renegades would look away from Stannel. Even loud-mouthed Plake appeared spellbound by the commander’s tale.
“I have always done my best to blend both aspects of my training, incorporating what I had learned from the Church with the precepts of the Knighthood. This is one of the few things I retained from my days as a monk.”
Stannel drew his mace. The weapon was the length and girth of a man’s forearm. Blunt studs covered its round bronze head.
“It’s enchanted!” someone from the crowd shouted.
Stannel smiled wanly. “Enchanted. Blessed. Cursed. I suppose it is a matter of perspective. Though the monks preach pacifism, self-defense is a cherished skill. Long ago, before the Knights of Superius existed, it was the priests of Pintor’s duty to protect the populace.
“Do you know magic?” one Knight demanded.
After a moment, Stannel replied, “As I understand it, magic refers to the powers granted by the three Goddesses of Magic. All other gods and goddesses may lend their power to us mortals, though the result is called by different names.
“Some might not see any difference between a wizard and a cleric, but they are not the same. For example, a wizard must learn spells from a book. I do not. The energy I can channel through this mace comes directly from the Great Protector. I summon his energy through prayer and meditation.”
Stannel returned the mace to its place at his belt. “It took a while for my subordinates at Fort Valor to get used to the idea that I could wield the power of a god—even though that god was the Knighthood’s own patron deity.
“There is no law against a priest of Pintor joining the Knighthood, and I will continue leading you until Commander Crystalus returns or, if the gods see fit, I leave this world for the next. I ask only that you think a while about what I have told you.”
Arthur held his breath, waiting for the Knights to denounce Stannel and haul him off to the dungeon. But no one said a word. The Knights—and Renegades—exchanged looks, but almost no one spoke. When it was clear that no insurrection was coming, Stannel began issuing orders.
They had staved off the goblins once tonight, but it was hardly a victory worth celebrating. Arthur knew. He had seen soldiers fall and not rise again. He had received a score of scratches and bruises, but nothing that warranted a visit to Sister Aric. Likely, the healer would have her hands full this night.
As the Renegades filed out of the dining hall, Arthur found himself wondering how things would turn out in the end—for the fort as well as for Stannel.
* * *
Petton had not been privy to either of Stannel’s so-called miracles—either the one atop Wizard’s Mountain or that which had occurred on the battlements that very night. He had led the Knights tasked with repelling the goblins at the front gates.
He had learned of Stannel’s peculiar actions soon after the goblins’ retreat, and though he had not himself seen what everyone else was excitedly discussing, Petton was just as eager as anyone to learn the explanation behind Stannel’s fantastic feats.
Inside the dining hall, Lieutenant Gaelor Petton listened as Stannel Bismarc told them how he had entered the priesthood of Pintor at a young age, only to join the Knighthood years later. Petton knew that the monks were taught an ancient form of fighting, but he had had no idea that initiates were also instructed in the ways of magic.
Stannel was careful to stress the difference between wizardly magic and priestly magic, but to Petton magic was magic. And spell-casting was dishonorable at best and nefarious at worst.
According to the histories, three kingdoms had once occupied Western Arabond. Canth, Nebronem, and Vast Ye
hlorm had controlled what was present day Continae, Ristidae, and parts of Thanatan. The three kingdoms had ushered in an era of peace with the signing of a treaty, and all the human lands prospered for generations.
From what Petton could remember of his lessons as a squire, magic also had flourished during this age of peace. It was said that the Three Wise Kings could cast spells. After a territorial clash with the neighboring elves cost Canth much of its land, the three kingdoms turned on one another, ravaging the lands with powerful magic.
What followed was the Wars of Sundering, which ushered Western Arabond into an age of darkness and savagery. Many blamed magic for the revolutions, civil wars, and massacres that stretched from one end of the continent to the other. Petton didn’t think magic was solely responsible, but he believed it was a significant factor in the high death count.
A sword could kill but one man at a time; a spell, however, could raze an entire village.
Even though Stannel’s powers came from the Warriorlord, Petton thought there was no honor in such magic. And no matter how one looked at it, Stannel had kept a very big secret from them all.
Once finished with his confession, Stannel began giving orders. At last, he dismissed them all. Petton tried to gauge the men’s reactions as their comrades filtered out of the room, but most of the Knights remained silent until they were well away from the dining hall.
Petton hardly gave the Renegades a second glance as they passed. It didn’t matter what the rebels thought about Stannel. The man could have declared himself Darclon incarnate, and the rebels wouldn’t have opposed him—not so long as they retained their pampered status.
He wondered if Stannel’s overdeveloped sense of mercy was a result of his time at the monastery.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 100