He lost all track of time as he performed his dance of death. Possessed by an all-consuming hatred for the goblins, Colt spared no time pondering how he was accomplishing the complex maneuvers. Every Knight was required to achieve a high level of skill in swordsmanship, but some of the moves he executed would have put a sai-morí to shame.
Colt dispatched every goblin within sword’s reach, oblivious to where his momentum was taking him. He might have followed the deadly rhythm that had taken ahold of him forever, except he caught sight of something that made him pause.
During his time as prisoner, Colt had scarcely been able to tell one goblin from another. They all looked the same—like evil incarnate. Every crescent-shaped pupil, dark as the Pit, had glared at him with a palpable hatred. Each mouth, lined top and bottom with pointed teeth, had grinned with the promise of horrors to come.
But there was one goblin Colt had gotten to know better than the rest, one who had wanted to keep him alive. Paralyzed by the magic of the vuudu staff, Colt had lain lifeless in a tent on the outskirts of the camp with nothing to do but stare upward. The only reprieve from the tedium had been visits from his merciless captor.
Drekk’t.
Everything seemed to slow around him as his eyes met those of the general. Drekk’t must have seen him too because he suddenly advanced in Colt’s direction.
Colt forgot about the surging throng of enemies around him, and the other goblin warriors seemed content to ignore him and his enchanted sword. They gave him a wide berth as they hurried past.
The crystal sword held out before him, its blade slick with dark blood, he regarded Drekk’t with a calm that belied the raw emotion gnashing at his soul. This is for Cholk, he thought, as the general drew nearer.
Passage VIII
Stannel could hear nothing above the din of thundering hooves. Gripping the reigns tightly with one hand and holding his claymore in the other, the Commander of Fort Valor urged his mount ever faster.
Up ahead, the unidentified humans and the goblins battled, but in the minute it took Stannel to reach the enemy, he was able to conclude a few things about the fray before him and his men.
To begin with, the goblins forming a ring around the fortress were holding their position. Probably, this was to prevent the Knights in the fort—or the newcomers, for that matter—from escaping. Once the two human forces united within the circle, the goblins would almost certainly close in.
The second thing he noticed was how patiently the goblins ahead waited, even now, as Fort Valor’s cavalry galloped toward them. He marveled at the T’Ruellians’ discipline, though he suspected their actions—or, more precisely, their inaction—portended something sinister he could not yet perceive.
Prayers to the Great Protector drifted in and out of his thoughts as he and his riders struck the goblin line. The collision sent goblins scattering every which direction. Their momentum spent, Stannel and the other horsemen struck their adversaries with swords, lances, and spears.
Then Stannel was holding onto his horse’s mane as the beast reared up on its hind legs. On either side, his companions’ steeds bucked or fell to the earth. It was only when he saw the arrow protruding from his mare’s flank that he realized the T’Ruellians had unleashed a volley of arrows at them.
A company of archers hidden behind a decoy infantry, Stannel deduced.
Clever.
Stannel understood all at once why the archers hadn’t loosed their arrows prior to cavalry’s collision, as was the traditional method. Those goblins who had hitherto retreated from flailing hooves and sharp blades alike now surged forward to pounce on the unhorsed Knights.
He lashed out at a goblin who came at him with two straight-edged swords. His claymore nearly beheaded the creature. Roughly half of his men had lost their mounts, though Stannel had managed to hang on.
He dared not signal the remaining cavalrymen to fall back and regroup, lest he condemn the others to death. With a roar of defiance, he redoubled his efforts, pushing his way to the archers.
As he swept sword-first through the enemy, he noticed a hole in their ranks farther down the line, where a single human faced off against a lone goblin. From a distance, Stannel couldn’t make out much about the man, other than the fact that he wore almost no armor and wielded an unusual sword.
It was the transparent blade that made Stannel pause—a near fatal mistake. A barbed spear homed in on the space between his fauld and tasset. He would have been skewered had his horse not kicked out with its forelegs at that precise moment, caving in the goblin’s skull.
Stannel reined the mare back out of harm’s way, drawing Pintor’s mace as he did so. He held the weapon aloft, and the effect was instantaneous: a golden light burst forth, streaming up into the heavens where it illuminated the darkening sky like a falling star in reverse.
Not even someone as cynical as Petton could ignore that sign, he thought wryly.
Mace in one hand and the claymore in the other, he charged back into the melee. He could only pray Petton and the infantry would reach the battle in time to save Saerylton Crystalus and the ragtag army he was leading.
* * *
The sounds of death and dying drifted on the breeze. As dusk gave way to night, it became all but impossible for Opal to make out the details of the battle, though a bronze-hued explosion had lit up the sky a moment ago, providing her with a glimpse at the chaos.
Now she depended solely upon the torches on Fort Valor’s rampart, which cast the fortress in a fiery glow Armies of shadow danced before the stone backdrop. And though she could make neither heads nor tail of what she was seeing, Opal couldn’t turn away.
Colt was out there somewhere, undoubtedly in the thick of things. She didn’t want to think of how slim his chances of surviving were. She hated him for making her feel this way, hated him for asking her stay behind.
I should be out there with you, she thought. You had no right to—
A rustling behind her brought Opal’s mind back to the present. She spun around and leveled her crossbow at whoever was sneaking up on her.
“Easy there, lady,” Tryst said. “It’s just us, your faithful bodyguards.”
Opal lowered her weapon, and let out a deep breath.
Tryst kept an eye on her crossbow as he stepped nearer. “You know, that thing is very valuable.”
It took Opal a moment to comprehend what the thief was saying. She hadn’t given the vuudu staff a second thought after Colt had led the charge into battle. She glanced down at the talisman and then back at Tryst, who wore an oily smile.
“I can see you’re skeptical,” Tryst said, taking another step closer. “Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it. I’ve been a thief all my life, you know. Some of my friends might’ve gotten caught up in Colt’s crazy crusade, but there’s only one thing I care about in this world. Money.”
Though Tryst halted his advance, Opal stiffened. A prickle crawled over her skin. Her crossbow felt heavy and ungainly in her hand. She recalled Tryst’s weapon of choice and wondered if she would have time to fire a bolt before he let fly his knives.
Lucky remained standing a few paces behind Tryst, where he had been all along. Of Othello, there was no sign.
“There’s quite a market for magical items,” Tryst continued, his tone conversational, nonchalant. “If that staff can do half of what Colt claims it can…well, let’s just say none of us will have to work for a very long time. And it just so happens I know a guy who might be interested in buyin’ it.”
“It’s not ours to sell,” Opal told him, putting more bravado in her voice than she felt.
Tryst scoffed. “What, you think Colt’s gonna want it back? Well, let me tell you something, darlin’. Your boyfriend’s dead. And if he ain’t dead already, he will be real soon.”
The thief’s words were almost enough to provoke Opal to shoot him right then and there. She started to tremble but willed herself to be calm. He’s trying to upset you, she thought. He wan
ts you to goad you into making the first move.
“The staff belongs to the Knights,” Opal argued.
Tryst’s second laugh was louder and dripping with scorn. “And what are the Knights gonna do with it? Lock it in a chest in the far corner of their cellar? Destroy it? What a waste!”
“It’s a dangerous weapon,” Opal said. “I don’t even want to think of what kind of lowlife you’d give it to.”
“Not give…sell,” the thief corrected.
“You’re not getting this staff!”
Tryst crossed his arms and frowned. “I feared you might be one of those poor people burdened with a conscience. If you aren’t sensible enough to accept a cut in the profit, then we’ll take a different route. You can either hand over the staff, or I’ll kill you and take it off your carcass. Simple as that.”
Opal’s heart pounded painfully in her breast. There was no going back now, she realized. She had killed goblins, yes, but never a human…
Tryst uncrossed his arms quickly, and she saw the glint of moonlight on metal. She wrenched her arms up and hastily fired an arrow at Tryst.
Even as she released the bolt, she saw the knife sailing end-over-end in her direction. Tryst jerked awkwardly to the side, but her mind couldn’t make sense of what had sent the thief falling; the bolt from her crossbow hadn’t reached him yet.
She could do nothing but flinch as Tryst’s knife came at her. But the thief’s aim proved off, and the blade missed her entirely. Meanwhile, her arrow sped harmlessly through the space Tryst had previously occupied.
Opal stared in confusion at Tryst, who lay on the ground groaning. Her eyes went to Lucky, thinking he had somehow thrown his companion to the ground. That didn’t make any sense though. From all appearances, the other thief hadn’t moved.
Then Opal saw the green-fletched arrow sticking out of Tryst’s leg.
Othello hurried over to her. “Are you all right?”
Opal nodded. A few yards away, Tryst cursed violently.
“He was after the staff,” she told Othello.
The forester said nothing. Even in the stingy light of the moon, Opal could make out the deep, verdant green of the forester’s eyes as he looked her up and down. She felt their closeness acutely and was thankful for the darkness, certain that her cheeks were ablaze.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, looking away from him and over at Tryst. “He just caught me by surprise.”
“You bitch,” Tryst muttered. “You stupid bitch.”
Opal glared at the fallen thief, but Tryst was occupied with the shaft protruding from his thigh. He gave the arrow a slight tug and let out another stream of curses.
“What about the other one?” Othello asked, taking another arrow from his quiver.
Lucky remained rooted in the same spot as before. He took in the suffering of his friend with a detachment that puzzled Opal. She wondered if, perhaps, Tryst had coerced the other thief into helping him steal the staff. From all appearances, Lucky couldn’t care less about Tryst’s condition.
“Maybe the two of you ought to leave,” Opal said. She would have reloaded her crossbow to emphasize her point, but because of the damn vuudu staff, she had no free hand.
Lucky mumbled something in reply.
“What?” Opal demanded, thinking Lucky had joined Tryst in insulting her.
Othello gave her a sudden shove, and she hit the ground hard, landing on her crossbow. She rolled over just in time to see the forester pull back on his bowstring.
Lucky shouted something that Opal didn’t understand. A flurry of small, dark shapes flew from the thief’s palms. Her eyes followed the strange missiles’ trail all the way to Othello’s chest.
The forester was struck with enough force to knock him off his feet. His arrow disappeared into the night’s sky and landed somewhere far away.
Panic rendered Opal’s limbs useless. Her mind struggled to make sense of what was happening, but there was only one answer: Lucky knew magic.
And he intended to finish what Tryst had started.
Opal pushed off the ground and dove for the vuudu staff, which she had dropped during her fall. She was no match for a spell-caster, especially with an empty crossbow. Her only option was to run.
She had promised Colt to keep it safe, and by the Benevolent Seven, she was going to keep her word, though it killed her to leave Othello behind…again.
Too scared to swear, Opal fled.
“Lucky…what in the…?”
It was Tryst’s voice. She knew she should ignore him and keep on running, but she glanced back in spite of herself.
Lucky walked past Tryst, not paying the other thief any attention. Then Lucky was gone, replaced by a goblin wearing the quiet thief’s clothing.
Opal’s breath caught in her throat. She took a step backward and tripped over an exposed root. This time, she managed to keep her fingers clamped tightly around the staff as she came crashing to the ground.
Before she could right herself, she heard the goblin shout, “I have a bargain for you, human…the staff for your friend’s life.”
* * *
Since joining up with Klye’s Renegades, Lilac had found herself in one sticky situation after another. But never before had she experienced anything like the bedlam around her now.
Everywhere she looked, she saw the hate-filled eyes of her enemy, which seemed to reflect the moonlight with a red-gold glow. There were times when she found herself fighting alongside strangers—the militiamen of Hylan, Knights from Rydah, thieves from the Guild—and there were moments when she saw nothing but foes at every turn.
She clutched the vorpal sword with both hands, swinging the weapon with all of her strength. Pieces of armor, weaponry, and flesh littered the ground wherever she fought. Were it not for the vorpal sword’s unnatural keenness, her prowess alone would not have kept her alive.
Even so, Lilac had her share of close calls. There were simply too many goblins.
She had entered the battle beside Hunter, Pillip, and Bly but had lost track of them long ago. Her impetus, fueled by the lethal sting of the vorpal sword, had led her deep into the goblin ranks. She was on the verge of falling back to give her allies time to catch up when she caught sight of Dylan a little farther ahead.
The Knight moved with surprising speed and dexterity considering how many pounds of armor he wore and the hefty broadsword he wielded. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Dylan Torc dispatch foe after foe with precision, putting into practice the many exercises he surely learned as a squire.
Lilac’s own style was similar to Dylan’s. She had learned to duel from the same instructor who had mentored her brother Gabriel before he left home to become a squire. But unlike Dylan, who had years of training and experience under his belt, Lilac’s training had ended when most Knights’ lessons began in earnest.
So while Dylan and the other Knights in Colt’s battalion were among Altaerra’s finest swordsmen, Lilac could only pray her limited repertoire of techniques would see her through the battle alive.
Suddenly, a goblin came out of nowhere. Having no chance to turn the curved sword, Lilac threw her hips to the side. She winced as the blade grazed her upper leg. Before the goblin could strike again, she hacked the creature’s arm off and followed through with a thrust that sent the vorpal sword plunging through the goblin’s innards like a warm knife through butter.
The goblin tried to scream but could only gargle as thick black blood spurted from its mouth.
She didn’t wait around while the monster wheezed its final breaths. Eager to find a friend, she fought her way over to Dylan, who was contending with five goblins. Between parrying and blocking, the Knight had no opportunity to launch any sort of an offense against his adversaries.
Lilac dropped two of the fiends with a horizontal slash that ripped apart their lower backs. The pair pitched forward, writhing and shouting words she was happy not to understand.
Dylan pitched to the side, evading the downward
arc of a pole-axe that was nearly as tall as its wielder. The Knight then pivoted and came back with a thrust that planted his broadsword between the plates of the goblin’s armor.
Seconds later, the remaining goblins joined their comrades in dying on the blood-slicked earth. Lilac braced herself for her next encounter, but no one was there. She and Dylan were in the eye of the storm, their nearest combatants several yards away in every direction.
She looked to Dylan for an explanation, but the Knight was already running headlong deeper into the fray. Grateful for the moment of rest—and astonished at Dylan’s audacity—Lilac didn’t immediately follow. She took the opportunity to look around.
Where she stood now had not always been a place of calm. Dozens of goblin corpses lay strewn across the ground. Lilac squinted into the darkness up ahead, trying to find the source of the slaughter.
Letting out a growl that was two parts frustration and one part determination, she followed Dylan Torc deeper into the goblins’ ranks. Once she caught up to him, she found the answer to the mystery.
Before them, Colt faced off with a single opponent. No other goblin ventured into the skirmish, and Lilac and Dylan likewise remained where they stood.
Colt confronted his enemy with a deadly grace that stole Lilac’s breath. It seemed to her that the goblin opponent must know of Chrysaal-rûn’s powers. The creature put most of its energy into avoiding the crystalline blade, not daring to use its own sword to block the series of precisely placed strokes.
The goblin contorted its body, evading Colt’s expert attacks. When the goblin lurched forward, aiming his sword at the Knight’s chest, Lilac gasped, certain Colt would not react in time. But then Colt did the impossible.
Releasing his hold on the crystal sword—which was already above his head after completing an upward slash—Colt bent his knees and pushed up and back. Pulling his body into a tight ball, Colt flipped backward.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 102