Lilac had seen acrobats perform similar feats at fairs, but what Colt did next put those professional tumblers to shame. No sooner had his feet touched the ground than Colt leaped forward, performed a perfect handspring, and vaulted over the goblin. Catching Chrysaal-rûn in midair, he landed behind his opponent and swung the crystal sword in a whirring arc.
To the goblin’s credit, it spun around in time to block the Knight’s attack. However, Chrysaal-rûn separated all but an inch of the blade from the hilt. The goblin scrambled backward, holding the useless weapon out in front of it.
Colt came in for the kill.
But as he readied to unleash an attack that would tear his opponent in half, a wall of goblins surged forward, engulfing him from behind. The space that had opened for the duelists filled with the monsters, and Lilac had to wrench her attention back to her own precarious situation lest she get impaled.
Even as she and Dylan renewed their assault on the goblin army, she searched for Colt in the crowd. She determinedly pushed her way toward where she had last seen the commander, encountering a goblin at every step. She also did her best to prevent Dylan from falling prey to the numerous weapons homing in on him.
She had no idea how much time passed before they finally reached Colt, but when they finally did, he looked not at all like the champion from earlier.
Colt clutched his side, which was soaked with blood, and with his other hand made desperate swipes at the goblins pressing in on him from all sides. His movements were inelegant and weak, but the goblins watched him warily, careful to avoid Chrysaal-rûn.
Judging by the man’s pallor and the large red stain on his breastplate, Colt’s grip on consciousness—and life itself—was tenuous.
Lilac redoubled her efforts, throwing herself at any goblin that ventured too near the failing commander. Eventually, she and Dylan came to fight back-to-back. Colt ceased his struggles, and she feared he was already dead. There was no opportunity to ascertain the truth, however, and so she and Dylan fought on.
In the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder how long before she and Dylan joined Colt on the cold, hard ground.
Passage IX
Pistol felt the difference in his very first swing. Life on a ship kept a person in top physical condition. Even after he and Crooker had thrown in with the Renegades, they had pushed their bodies to the limit, walking for days and battling all manner of foes on the way to Fort Faith.
But sitting in a cell for weeks was not conducive to a healthy physique, and it wasn’t long before myriad aches and pains accompanied his every thrust and parry. It was all he could do to keep the goblins at bay. Yet letting up even a little was tantamount to suicide.
Then again, the whole situation seemed suicidal to Pistol. As King of the Pirates of the Fractured Skull, he had orchestrated more than a few battles at sea. Sometimes he had commanded a single ship; at other times, two. In either case, he had always made sure his crew had the upper hand and, more importantly, that the payout was worth the effort.
This battle, however, was a purely defensive one for the residents of new Fort Valor, and he knew how the mariners of those ships he had boarded over the years must have felt. The Pirates of the Fractured Skull hadn’t shied away from killing, though it wasn’t their primary objective.
The goblins, on the other hand, seemed to have but one thought in their bald, misshapen heads—kill every single human.
Had anyone told him he would one day find himself fighting beside the Knights of Superius to repel an army of monsters, he would have dismissed the speaker as a madman or drunkard. And yet, here he was, flanked by his former enemies and crossing swords with a race of creatures most men dismissed as myth.
As the goblin forces engulfed them completely, the Renegades did their damnedest to stay together. Klye Tristan took to the fore, with Horcalus and Arthur on either side. Scout and to a lesser extent Plake stayed close behind them, dispatching the goblins that survived their confrontation with the Knights’ frontline.
Fighting against impossible odds alongside the Renegades, Pistol couldn’t help but smile and reflect that this was just like old times.
Which made what he had to do all the more difficult.
“Pistol, your left!”
Crooker’s warning came almost too late. Because he had lost the use of his left eye in a mechanical mishap some years back, Pistol had learned to compensate with his other senses over the years. The sudden whir of air alerted him to both the direction and angle of the attack.
He dropped to one knee and twisted his body to the left, stabbing out with his cutlass. The goblin’s sword sliced through nothing but air while Pistol’s blade plunged into the monster’s midsection.
Not sparing the screeching creature a second thought, Pistol quickly righted himself and brought up his sword to deflect an oncoming spearhead. Meanwhile, Crooker swung his own sword in desperate strokes, backpedaling away from a pair of axe-wielding goblins. Pistol kicked his latest opponent in the shin and turned to help Crooker, who was facing four goblins now.
Pistol threw himself at the first fiend, burying his cutlass into the goblin’s spine. The creature howled and swung its pole-axe wildly in an attempt to drive Pistol back. He accepted the impact of the hardwood handle against his side and followed through with a left hook to the creature’s face.
Crooker let out an agonized cry, and Pistol’s heart jumped up into his throat.
Although he would never admit it to anyone, he cared a great deal for Crooker. Pirate vessels were rife with deceit, greed, and violence. He had had to slay a few of his mates to secure his position as pirate king. Crooker had been a friend and ally through it all, helping him dispose of rivals, one after another.
Throughout their years together, Pistol had come to realize Crooker was possessed of qualities not often found in a buccaneer—loyalty being one of them. Crooker had been the only member of his crew to stay behind in Port Town and to save him from the noose.
The thought of losing Crooker nearly blinded him with rage.
Pistol’s next stroke severed one goblin’s arm at the elbow. He followed immediately with a lunge that sent his cutlass clear through the goblin’s leather shirt and into its gut. A second later, he was batting aside the broad head of a battle-axe and ramming his shoulder in the chest of its owner. Both went down, though Pistol landed on top of the goblin.
Since his cutlass was at an awkward angle, Pistol drew his knife and planted it in the creature’s throat. Pushing off from the goblin’s chest with his hands—a move that caused black spray to geyser up from the hole in the monster’s neck—Pistol searched for his companion.
Crooker lay on his back, his blade locked with that of a goblin. Crooker was pushing with all his might against his adversary, but the goblin’s considerable strength and gravity made it a losing battle for the pirate. Inch by inch, the blade crept closer to Crooker’s face.
Pistol sprang at the goblin, more concerned with getting the monster off of Crooker than scoring any serious damage. The two of them—goblin and human—hit the ground hard. Pistol heard the snap of breaking bones. Since he felt nothing aside from the panic of having his breath blasted out of him, he figured the goblin must have taken the injury.
For a moment, Pistol could only gasp for breath. The goblin recovered quicker. Its blade whirred down at him. Pistol cringed, waiting for the deathblow to land. But it never came.
He opened his eye in time to see the tip of Crooker’s blade burst from the monster’s chest.
Crooker helped him to his feet. Pistol didn’t bother thanking the man, and neither did Crooker express any gratitude for what Pistol had done to help him. They had saved the each other’s life countless times before; it came with the territory.
Pistol frowned when he saw a sopping red spot running the length of Crooker’s side.
“You all right?” he asked.
Crooker glanced down at the blood as though noticing it for the first time. “I
think so.”
“We have to get out of here, Crook’.”
Crooker glanced at the Knights and Renegades who were slowly pushing back the goblins. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve got to make a run for it.”
“But it looks like we’re winning,” Crooker said, his face riddled with confusion.
Pistol had seen that expression many times before. While Crooker was as loyal as a watchdog, he lacked a certain pragmatism Pistol had always prided himself for possessing. Crooker wasn’t an idiot. He just wasn’t good at thinking on his toes.
“Even if the Knights win this battle, we won’t,” Pistol said. “Once the goblins are gone, they’ll throw us back in the dungeon.”
“Maybe they won’t. Klye and the others get to move around as they like.”
“But we’re pirates,” said Pistol, keeping a wary eye on the battle, which was raging a few yards away. “It’s only a matter of time before they get around to executing us.”
Crooker’s face fell. “But what about Klye? He vouched for us. If we run, he’s gonna get in trouble.”
“They won’t do anything to Klye,” he argued. “The new commander seems to like him well enough. Besides, we don’t belong with the Renegades, Crook’. Don’t you want to get back to the sea?”
Crooker let out a big sigh, and it occurred to Pistol that perhaps Crooker had never considered leaving the fort—and the Renegades—behind.
“Fine.” Pistol tucked the black-stained knife between his belt and pants. “You can stay if you want, but I’ll not give them another chance to throw me in a cell.”
That said, he turned and started to run. He almost felt bad for playing his trump card, as it were, except it was for Crooker’s own good—even if the big lout couldn’t see it yet.
Two seconds later, he heard Crooker call out, “Hey, wait for me!”
Pistol stopped, allowing the other pirate to catch up. He scanned the distance behind them, making sure that no one—man or goblin—was following them.
“Where…where…are we…going?” Crooker expelled his words between breaths.
Pistol had had plenty of time to think about where he would go if the chance to escape presented itself. “We’ll follow the Divine Divider down to Kraken.”
He said no more for the time being and was grateful Crooker didn’t press him. For one thing, he was already exhausted. For another, he didn’t know how much coaxing it would take to get Crooker to go along with his plan.
Pistol had no idea how long it would take to reach the port city of Kraken. His knowledge of Capricon’s geography was rudimentary at best. For all he knew, Kraken wasn’t even the nearest port to the fortress, but he had other reasons for wanting to go there.
There weren’t many places where a buccaneer could spend the spoils of his trade, but from all accounts, Kraken was one of them. Some even claimed that Kraken’s mayor had practiced piracy in his younger days.
It was as good a time as any to find out how much of the rumor was true.
What Pistol didn’t tell Crooker was that he hoped to find the surviving members of the Pirates of the Fractured Skull there. Their ships hadn’t had enough supplies to sail back across the Strait. Likely, the traitors had made for Kraken after leaving him for dead in Port Town.
Pistol would reclaim what was rightfully his—no matter how many throats he had to slit along the way.
* * *
Though every muscle in his body ached, Klye willed himself to maintain the intensity that had seen him safely through the battle so far. Petton had been reluctant to let the Renegades accompany the fort’s infantry onto the battlefield. Now Klye found himself wondering what had possessed him to argue with the lieutenant.
He had no idea how many goblins he had faced already. He hadn’t killed every one of them, but he was no worse off for the encounters. He was still alive, anyway. Each time his eyes met those of Horcalus or caught a glimpse of Scout running past, Klye thanked the gods his friends were still alive too.
After a while, he even forgot to scold himself for praying to gods he didn’t believe in.
Eventually, Klye began to notice a gradual dearth in enemies. He looked to either side and saw the goblins falling back.
“We did it,” he said breathlessly. “We cut a path through their ranks.”
“Now they will close in around us, cutting off our retreat.”
Klye turned to find a Knight bedecked in full-plate armor sitting atop a white horse. The rider carried a great sword and a fancy club that looked familiar. The man raised his visor, revealing the countenance of Stannel Bismarc.
Klye wasn’t sure if Stannel was answering his comment or if the commander was merely pointing out the obvious.
“Maybe it’s time we headed back for the fort,” Klye said.
“Indeed…” Whatever Stannel was going to say next was interrupted by the arrival of three people Klye had never seen before.
“Are you from the fort?” asked a woman whose clothes were stained black with goblin blood. She planted the butt of a spear in the earth and looked up at Stannel expectantly.
“I am,” replied the commander.
“Can we borrow your horse?”
It was an unusual favor to ask of a stranger, particularly in the middle of a battle. Klye waited for Stannel to shoo the woman away. Instead he asked, “For what purpose?”
“Our leader got hurt bad. If we don’t get him to the fort, he’s gonna to die.”
“Your leader? Do you mean Saerylton Crystalus?”
The woman shook her head. “No, Commander Colt.”
Klye might have laughed under other circumstances, knowing full well that the two men were one in the same.
Stannel frowned. “I shall need my horse to rally both your army and mine back to the fort.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said the stout man beside the woman. “Ruford is taking care of that. He said something about crab pinchers.”
“A pincer attack,” Stannel corrected.
“Yeah…that sounds right.”
Stannel sat back a little in his saddle, his face expressionless.
“Who in the hell is Ruford?” Klye asked. “For that matter, who are you guys, and how did you end up with Colt?”
Stannel forestalled any reply with an upraised hand. “This is not the time for tales.” To the three strangers, he said, “Please, take me to Colt.”
“He’s over there.” The woman pointed back the way she had come. “Keep going straight. You can’t miss him.”
Stannel kicked his mount’s flank, spurring the beast into action. The three strangers exchanged a look before following Stannel to where they had left Colt. Klye shot a backward glance at the fort, cursed, and ran to catch up with them.
* * *
The goblins were finally falling back, giving her and Dylan a bit of respite. When Lilac was certain it was safe, she planted the vorpal sword deep in the ground and knelt beside Colt, who lay still. Her eyes met Dylan’s as she searched for a pulse.
“Is he…?” the Knight asked.
Lilac let out a sigh of relief when she found the steady, though weak, rhythm. “No, but he will be if he doesn’t get some help soon.”
“We have to get him to the fort,” Dylan said. “Should we carry him?”
“I don’t think we have a choice.”
“He’ll leave a trail of blood as wide as a king’s red carpet if you drag him there,” a familiar voice said.
Hunter, Bly, and Pillip looked grimly down at their commander.
“We gotta get a horse,” Hunter added. “He’ll still bleed, but at least he’ll get to the healer quicker. Am I right?” Before anyone could say anything, Hunter declared, “Come on, guys. Let’s find Colt a horse.”
After the Hylaners left, Lilac looked to Dylan helplessly.
“We’ll give them a few minutes,” he said. “If they don’t return, we take him to the fort ourselves.”
Since she couldn’t think o
f a better plan, she returned her attention to Colt, whose wheezing sent up small puffs of steam into the cold air. She brushed his hair out of his eyes and ran her hand down the side of his stubble-ridden cheek. Hang on, Colt, she begged. Help is on the way.
Despite her silent promise, Lilac was considerably surprised when a Knight on a white steed came trotting up to them. The horseman dismounted and approached them.
“Commander Bismarc!” she blurted, unable to contain her astonishment and joy.
Stannel gave her a look that bespoke a distinct lack of recognition. “Come, help me lift him onto my horse.”
Dylan hooked his hands under Colt’s armpits and gently lifted his head and torso off the ground. The movement caused Colt’s eyes to flutter open.
Now another familiar voice spoke to her. “Lilac?”
She looked up in time to see Klye push his way past Hunter and Bly.
“Klye!” she shouted, nearly laughing.
When she had left the fort, Klye had been bedridden. She had not expected to find the Renegade Leader back on his feet, let alone on a battlefield.
Beside her, Colt groaned.
“You are hurt badly,” Stannel told the young commander. “We are going to place you on my horse and take you to the fort. Brace yourself, lad. This will hurt—”
“No,” Colt interrupted, punctuating his refusal with a harsh cough that made Lilac wince. “You must get Opal.” Another cough. “I left her with the vuudu staff…back in the forest…”
Colt expelled a series of coughs that shook his whole body. When he was finished, Lilac saw that blood speckled his lips.
“Vuudu staff?” Klye asked.
“It’s a powerful talisman,” Lilac explained. “Colt stole it from the goblin general. Opal and Othello and a few others stayed behind to make sure the goblins didn’t get it back. They’re in those trees way back there.”
“Please…” Colt pleaded, his voice failing him.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 103