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

by David Michael Williams

  Lilac, along with everyone else, looked to Stannel for an answer. Stannel took Colt’s hand in his.

  “I swear I will do all that I can to honor your request,” he said, “but you must promise me you will hold on.”

  Colt’s only reply was a drawn-out sigh. His eyes closed and did not open, but Lilac saw his chest rise and fall with each labored breath.

  Stannel pulled himself back up on his mount. There were still no goblins nearby—a blessing to be sure!—but Lilac knew it was only a matter of time before they returned. She tore her gaze away from Colt’s pallid face and greeted Klye with a sad smile.

  The Renegade Leader shook his head, his expression dubious.

  Hunter hefted her spear so that it rested against her shoulder. “Looks like we’re gonna need another horse.”

  Passage X

  They had entered a forest only moments ago, but already Pistol was disoriented. He hated trees, especially the way they seemed to reach out with their brittle branches, like the fingers of a skeleton. Give me the shaky, slippery deck of a storm-tossed ship over the woods any day, he thought.

  The pirate came to a sudden halt, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. Crooker must not have seen him stop. He came crashing through the brush—making more noise than one might have thought possible—and crashed bodily into Pistol’s back.

  “Ow!”

  “Shhh!” Pistol hissed.

  “What?”

  “I thought I heard something.”

  The two men stood motionless for several seconds. At first, Pistol heard only the sounds of the battle they had left behind. The capricious wind caused the bare branches of the trees to creak against one another. Cover or no cover, he was beginning to regret entering the forest.

  Pistol strained his ears, trying to find whatever had caught his attention in the first place. Probably just an owl, he thought. He was about to give Crooker the order to start moving again, when he heard a man say, “I have a bargain for you, human…the staff for your friend’s life.”

  “This way,” Pistol whispered, moving slowly away from where the voice had come.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Shouldn’t we check it out?”

  Pistol scowled at Crooker. “We’re tryin’ to escape, in case you forgot.”

  The next voice that wafted through the trees was a woman’s, and it was louder. “Leave him alone, or I swear I’ll destroy it!”

  “She sounds like she’s in trouble,” Crooker insisted, peering into the darkness.

  Pistol heard the sound of laughter followed by the first voice. “You couldn’t destroy it, fool…not even if you were possessed of the strength of one hundred humans!”

  Crooker frowned and shot Pistol a look that reminded him of a mutt that had whined its way into his life many years ago.

  “We don’t have time for this,” he argued. “You’re injured for one thing.”

  Crooker stared out into the night, as though his eyes might somehow pierce the darkness.

  “An’ you call yerself a pirate,” Pistol muttered.

  “Huh?” asked Crooker.

  “Never mind. If we take a quick look to satisfy your curiosity, could you be persuaded to continue running for your life before the sun comes up?”

  Crooker was already tiptoeing toward where the dialogue had originated. Cursing his companion and cursing himself for humoring the soft-hearted fool, Pistol slid his cutlass from its sheath and crept as best he could through the grabbing vines and tripping roots.

  * * *

  The goblin laughed, exposing pointy teeth that glinted in the moonlight. “You couldn’t destroy it, fool…not even if you were possessed of the strength of one hundred humans!”

  The shaman held Othello against himself like a shield, pressing a short, thick-bladed knife against his ribs. The forester looked like he was already dead. His eyes were closed; his body, limp. Opal sought desperately for signs of life, for any indication the goblin wasn’t bluffing.

  She wouldn’t trade the staff for a corpse, but what if the forester were still alive? Could she betray her oath to Colt to save Othello?

  Opal cursed the gods for putting her in such a predicament. How could she live knowing she might have been able to save Othello? Yet if she surrendered the staff, how could she ever look Colt in the eye again?

  It dawned on her, then, that if she gave up the vuudu staff, there would be nothing to stop the shaman from killing both her and Othello.

  If she could not destroy the staff, she would just have to make another attempt at running away with it. If he wanted the staff so badly, the bastard would have to catch her and pry the thing out of her cold, dead hands.

  She cast a final glance at Othello—a farewell—and resolved to flee.

  Opal cried out as two figures burst from the trees on one side of the shaman. Instead of running, she could only stare in mute wonder as the men confronted the goblin. At first, she didn’t recognize her saviors, and when she did, it was all she could do to shake off her many questions and act.

  She had no weapon except the vuudu staff…

  The two pirates hacked at the shaman, who was forced to drop Othello to evade their curved blades. The shaman made desperate swings with a knife to keep the men at bay. A trail of black ooze seeped from the places where a cutlass had cut deeply.

  The injuries seemed to make the shaman only fight harder.

  Opal winced as the goblin landed a solid left hook on the side of the patch-eyed pirate’s head. The blow sent the man spinning to the ground and gave the goblin an opportunity to get his bearings. Though wielding only a knife, the goblin turned on the remaining pirate, who, by the look of him, had not entered the battle fresh.

  With an unintelligible cry on her lips, Opal charged. The shaman had its back to her, but at the sound of her voice, it began to turn around. The vuudu staff connected with the goblin’s bulbous head with a loud thwack.

  To the monster’s credit, it did not fall. The shaman staggered back a few steps, shot her a bewildered stare, and stumbled away like a wounded animal.

  Her arm still numb from the impact, Opal watched him go. She looked to the pirate that was still standing, hoping he would finish the grisly task for her, but he was already running over to his fallen friend.

  As he helped the one-eyed pirate to his feet, Opal considered scooping up one of the blades lying around and hunting down the retreating shaman herself. T’slect had gotten away because she had hesitated. For all she knew, this shaman was the goblin prince.

  Opal took one step in the direction the shaman had fled, but that was all. She had no strength left. As all of her aches and pain seemed to catch up with her at once, it was all she could do to keep from toppling over.

  She had the vuudu staff. That would have to be good enough.

  Tryst was gone. The thief had probably hobbled away when the shaman first revealed itself. Opal didn’t care. The greedy bastard was the least of her worries.

  Holding the vuudu staff tightly, she knelt beside Othello, cradling his head in her lap. Whatever magical darts had pierced his chest had vanished, leaving behind gaping holes that continued to bleed.

  “Is he…dead?”

  Opal glanced up at the pirates. On some level, it surprised her they cared about Othello. They were all members of Klye Tristan’s band of Renegades, and yet she found it difficult to picture Othello interacting with the buccaneers.

  She put her fingers to Othello’s neck, searching for a heartbeat. She begged the gods for a sign of life and was rewarded with the faintest of beats.

  “Not yet,” she said, “but these wounds…”

  Tears blurring her eyes, she looked up at the pirates in desperation. The one with the patch looked away. The other frowned a great frown.

  “We gotta get him some help.”

  The one-eyed man turned on him instantly. “Are you crazy, Crooker? He’s done for, and so are we if we stick around.”

  “But—
”

  “But nothing. It’s a damn shame he’s gonna die, but there’s nothin’ we can do about it!”

  Crooker looked sheepishly at Opal and then back down at Othello.

  “It’s time to go, Crook’,” the one-eyed pirate said softly. “Either say goodbye to him, or you’ll have to say it to me.”

  The patch-eyed man walked away. Crooker let out a sigh that caused his large frame to slump. Then he turned his back on her, yelling, “Sorry,” over his shoulder as he hurried to catch up to his friend.

  Opal didn’t know whether Crooker’s apology was meant for her or Othello. She was too stunned by all that had happened to confront the deserters. What good the two of them might have done, she couldn’t say for certain, but they should’ve at least tried something.

  When Othello moaned, she gasped in surprise. It might have been her imagination, but his eyes looked greener than ever.

  “You’re going to be all right,” she lied, running her fingers through his hair and giving him the biggest smile she could muster.

  “No, I’m not.”

  A tear trickled down the side of her nose. “You can’t go,” she whispered. “I have so many questions…”

  “Like what?” His voice was gravelly.

  She made a noise that sounded a little like crying and a little like laughing. “I don’t know…why do you seem so familiar when we’ve never met before?”

  Othello’s face contorted in pain. “I couldn’t say, but I’m glad we met when we did.”

  Another tear fell, landing in his blond hair. Othello stared up at her for several long seconds until Opal feared he had passed away. But then he winced again and moved his arms as though trying to get up.

  “Don’t—” she started to say.

  “I want…I want you to have…” He spoke in a whisper now.

  She saw him take something from a pouch on his belt. He reached for her hand and dropped something into her palm. She accepted the gift, her eyes never leaving his.

  When Othello expelled his last breath, she wouldn’t let herself believe he was gone.

  Then, for the first time in her limited memory, Opal began to sob uncontrollably.

  * * *

  By the time Ay’sek made it to the battlefield, the two human hosts had already rallied together and were retreating toward Fort Valor.

  It was just as well. He was in no condition to confront even the weakest of opponents. In fact, it was all he could do to put one foot in the front of the other. The two men had caught him so completely unaware, stabbing him numerous times. But the sting of those lacerations was nothing compared to the headache that threatened to rob him of his consciousness with every step he took.

  He was in too much pain to dwell on his failure. Vuudu alone was keeping him alive, and unless he received some proper healing, he wouldn’t last much longer.

  Ay’sek’s keen eyes swept over those who had fallen. Here, at the southern fringe of the battlefield, the bodies of men and goblins alike were cold and stiff. The shaman forced himself to go on, ignoring the thick blood that coated his face like a mask, blinding him in one eye.

  Finally, he stumbled upon a survivor, a goblin warrior who clung to life in spite of a missing leg. The soldier let out a hopeful squeal when he saw him. It was possible the goblin recognized him as a Chosen of the Chosen, but Ay’sek thought it more likely the wretch didn’t want to die alone.

  The soldier peered at him curiously as he drew nearer. Ay’sek did not respond to the goblin’s inquiries and pleas until he knelt beside him. Looking the soldier in the eye, Ay’sek said, “Be at ease, brother. Your suffering will soon be at an end.”

  The warrior’s face lit up, and he bowed his head deferentially. Ay’sek took the soldier’s hands in his own and began to chant the words of a spell. He continued to speak the powerful mantra even as the other goblin shrieked himself hoarse.

  Ay’sek maintained his grip on the crippled warrior’s wrists, though it was all he could do to keep his balance. Slowly, however, he felt himself grow stronger—even as his victim struggled less and less. After a minute, the soldier stopped fighting altogether, surrendering to a sleep from which he would never awaken.

  When Ay’sek released the soldier, the goblin was decorated with new cuts, and his head was bruised and bloodied. Ay’sek, on the other hand, felt nearly no pain at all.

  A sudden dizziness stole upon him when he stood up—letting the corpse of the soldier fall unceremoniously to the ground—but such was the demands of channeling so much of Upsinous’s power in one day.

  The shaman continued his hike with renewed vigor, heading for the bulk of the goblin army. He was in terrible need of rest, but at least he would live to fight again.

  * * *

  When Stannel found his quarry, he was confronted with a truly perplexing sight.

  Opal sat cross-legged before the prone form of the Renegade archer. An item that could only have been the vuudu staff lay lengthwise across her thighs.

  Othello was most certainly dead. He looked as though he had been pierced by many small knives. Opal, on the other hand, sat erect, her eyes closed and her expression unreadable.

  Stannel dismounted and approached the woman warily. Something about the scene demanded caution. If Opal heard his approach, she didn’t stir. She appeared to be meditating.

  He spoke softly. “Opal?”

  Her eyes opened slowly, languidly.

  “He’s dead.” Her voice sounded hollow. It made his skin crawl.

  “What has happened here?”

  “He’s dead,” she repeated, “but I can bring him back. I know I can.”

  Stannel was about to ask her how she intended to resurrect the dead when he understood all at once what she intended. The vuudu staff. Even from a distance, he could feel the vileness of the thing. It was like a hedge of thistles grazing his skin, a foul stench in his nostrils.

  “Evil begets evil.” He moved closer, slowly, steadily. “And dark deities always demand a price for their gifts.”

  If Opal comprehended his words, she didn’t show it. She got to her feet and looked into the empty sockets of the skull perched atop the staff. Stannel had the horrible impression she was listening to the thing speak.

  Before he could fully comprehend what he was doing, he shot out his hand and tore the staff from her grasp. Opal let out a startled cry. For a moment, she merely gaped wide-eyed at him. He feared she would attack.

  But then she seemed to shrink before his eyes. When she began to sway, Stannel caught her with his free hand and helped her to stand.

  “We have to go,” he said. “Our forces are falling back to the fort. If we don’t hurry, we’ll be trapped on this side of the goblin army.”

  Opal’s eyes darted over to the Renegade archer. “But Othello…”

  “We must leave him. We have but one horse and two riders as it is.”

  Stannel studied the woman’s expression. She looked dazed, and he wondered if she fully understood what he was saying.

  The horse whickered, drawing Opal’s attention. Her eyes grew even wider than before.

  “Nisson!”

  To Stannel’s surprise, the mare whinnied a greeting back. Opal broke away from him and ran to the mare, draping her arms around the horse’s thick neck.

  Stannel cleared his throat. “We must hurry.”

  Opal wiped away tears with her sleeve and mounted. Stannel wasted no time in joining her on the horse, though it was an awkward procedure thanks to the vuudu staff. He said a silent prayer for the dead Renegade. Once they cleared the woods, he gave the mare permission to gallop for all she was worth.

  After that, all of his prayers were for his and Opal’s safe return to Fort Valor.

  Passage XI

  The atmosphere inside the fortress was nearly as chaotic as the battle outside had been. The retreating armies had flooded into the castle through the main gate. Not knowing where else to go, Colt’s men remained in the front hall. While some of the
Knights worked at getting the wounded to the infirmary, others kept a wary lookout.

  Lilac, among the last people to reach the sanctuary of the fortress, had seen the goblins fall back, thanks in part to the archers on the ramparts. But she supposed the goblins might make another go at storming the castle before dawn.

  She considered staying near the gate in case the goblins returned, but apparently Klye had other plans. He hollered something over shoulder—his words were immediately swallowed up by the din—and began fighting his way through the crowd. Not wanting to get separated from her only friend at hand, Lilac followed.

  She hadn’t seen Hunter, Bly, or Pillip since they went off looking for another horse for Colt. The three Hylaners had succeeded, she supposed, for not long after they left, a mounted Knight trotted up to where Klye, Dylan, and she were waiting. Dylan insisted in personally escorting the wounded commander to the fort.

  Not long after that, she, Klye, and the other Knight were running for their lives. The goblins were coming from the left, the right, and behind. She had thought her life forfeit, but somehow they outpaced the goblin host, cutting down any enemy that ventured too near. It was only when they reached the fort she noticed the unknown Knight was no longer with them.

  Now, as she forced her way through the throng, keeping an eye on the Renegade Leader’s back, Lilac said a prayer for the Knight who had surely died along the way. She also prayed that Dylan had gotten Colt to Sister Aric in time.

  The corridors outside the entry hall were no less crowded the hall itself, but the further they went, the easier time they had of it. Lilac recognized the route they were taking at once. Klye was taking her to the Renegade Room, the obvious rendezvous for their band.

  They passed more than a few Knights along the way, but none of them gave Klye and her a second glance. The fort’s defenders were too busy to worry about a couple of rebels. Lilac wondered how Klye had talked the Knights into letting him and the others join the battle in the first place, but she kept her questions to herself. For now she would be content with the fact that they were together again.