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

by David Michael Williams

  When they finally reached the Renegade Room, Lilac nearly swooned with joy.

  “Lilac!” Scout shouted, pushing himself off of the table he had been sitting on.

  Scout wore his silly black hood, which left his beaming face uncovered. As the man bounded over to her, she saw his shirt was soaked with dark ichor. Better black than red, she thought.

  He wrapped her in a tight hug. “Thank the gods you’re back!”

  Scout took a step back, and there was Dominic Horcalus. He smiled warmly and offered her a salute that was usually reserved for those within the Knighthood. Lilac might have given the man a hug—if only to see Horcalus lose his composure—but Plake interceded.

  The rancher smelled even worse than Scout had, and his clumsy embrace pinned her arms to her sides. Lilac could only chuckle and hope that Plake wouldn’t inadvertently break her ribs.

  “You’re one hell of a woman,” Plake said, still squeezing. “It’s a damn good thing you’re on our side.”

  Lilac extricated herself from his grasp and saw Klye grinning. Don’t even say it, she silently commanded. Don’t even think it, Klye.

  Then, by chance, she caught sight of Opal passing by the Renegade Room’s open door. Without offering an explanation to her friends, she ran into the hallway.

  She called Opal’s name, but either the woman hadn’t heard her, or she was ignoring her. When Lilac caught up, she grabbed Opal by the arm, forcing her to stop and face her.

  “Where’s Othello?” Lilac asked. “What happened?”

  Had she taken a moment to study Opal’s tear-streaked face and haunted eyes, she would have known the truth without asking.

  As it was, Opal could only whisper, “I’m sorry…”

  The words hit Lilac like a punch in the gut, and Lilac fell back a step. No, her mind argued. It can’t be…not after all he had endured…

  The two women just stared at each other for a moment. When Opal broke away, hurrying off to wherever she had been going before, Lilac’s arm fell limply back to her side. She reached for the wall for support, but the stone was farther away than she had thought. She might have fallen, but someone caught her from behind.

  “What’s wrong?” Klye asked.

  She couldn’t reply. Her elation at being reunited with the Renegades had been so suddenly replaced by grief that she was barely cognizant of Klye and Horcalus leading her back into the Renegade Room.

  Seated in a hard wooden chair, Lilac tried to find the words to tell them that Othello was dead. She didn’t know how it happened, so she started by explaining to the others how Othello had remained with Opal and the vuudu staff, guarding the evil relic from the goblins.

  From there she worked her way backward, telling them how she had been separated from the forester at the goblin camp and how Othello had miraculously appeared in Hylan. She didn’t know how much of what she said was making sense, but now that she had begun talking, she couldn’t stop.

  At last, she trailed off, her words replaced by sobs.

  “He was a loyal companion and died a hero,” Horcalus said after a few minutes. “May the Benevolent Seven welcome him into Paradise.”

  “Amen,” Arthur said. It was the first time Lilac had noticed the young man.

  “First Ragellan, and now Othello,” Plake muttered. “And we weren’t a large band to begin with.”

  Beside her, Klye jerked and took a quick step forward. He looked at the others for a moment and then took two steps toward the door, stopped, and swore.

  “What is it?” Lilac asked, rising from her seat.

  “When was the last time anyone saw the pirates?” Klye asked, keeping his back to them.

  Everyone exchanged glances.

  “I don’t understand,” Lilac said. “Aren’t they in the dungeon?”

  Klye cursed again. “No, they’re not. I persuaded Stannel to let them out so they could help defend the fort.”

  “They fought in the battle?”

  Klye said nothing, but Horcalus nodded.

  “Maybe they’re dead?” Plake suggested. His comment earned him a glare from everyone, except Klye, who continued to stare at the doorway.

  Lilac knew what the man was thinking, what everyone else was thinking. The pirates must have taken advantage of the tumultuous battle and made a run for it. She wondered what the consequence for the pirates’ desertion would be, but now didn’t seem like the right time to ask Klye for his thoughts on the matter.

  “I’ll go see if anyone knows anything,” Scout volunteered, dashing from the room.

  “I should go find Stannel,” Klye said.

  Lilac thought she saw tears in the man’s eyes when he glanced back at them, but then he turned away again.

  “I will accompany you,” Horcalus said.

  Klye hardly acknowledged the other man as he followed him to the door. Lilac continued to stare at the empty doorway after the two men were gone. She had seen how Klye Tristan dealt with disappointment before, and now she found herself wondering what had upset the Renegade Leader more—Othello’s death or the pirates’ departure.

  “You look like you’ve been to the Crypt and back.”

  Lilac forced her lips into a polite smile as she faced Plake Nelway. “You don’t look much better yourself.”

  The rancher chuckled, looking down at his filthy attire. “Killing goblins ain’t glamorous, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  Lilac continued to smile, not knowing what else to say. Klye had teased her in the past, claiming Plake had a crush on her. She was beginning to fear he was right, though she had done nothing to encourage Plake.

  Probably, the most decent thing she could do was simply to tell the rancher he wasn’t her type. But Lilac had no ambition to engage the boorish man in so personal a conversation just then.

  Her mind grasping for any reason to leave, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have to—”

  She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and there was Arthur.

  “Arthur!” she shouted, “I have to talk to Arthur.”

  Lilac hurried over to where Arthur had taken a seat by the window. The young man wore an expression of absolute befuddlement as she pulled him back to his feet and hauled him out into the hallway.

  Now that it was just the two of them—with his guileless eyes staring back at her—it dawned on her that she had traded one awkward chat for another. She replayed her encounter with Glen Bismarc in her mind and remembered her promise to pass on a message to his son.

  She felt guilty for knowing Arthur’s secret and felt even worse that she would have to let him know she knew.

  “Arthur,” she said after taking a deep breath, “when I was in Hylan, I met your father.”

  Whatever Arthur had expected her to say, that obviously was not it. The youth’s eyes went wide, and his face turned a rosy hue.

  “What happened between you is none of my business.” She spoke softly. Plake was in the adjacent room and, in all likelihood, trying to listen in. “Your father wanted me to tell you that your family misses you, and he hopes you’ll come home when you are able.”

  Arthur, who had been eying the floor, now looked up at her sheepishly. “You didn’t…didn’t tell him I joined the Renegades…did you?”

  Lilac shook her head, and Arthur let out a sigh of relief. After a few seconds, he asked, “How did he look? My father, I mean.”

  “He looked well, considering the circumstances.” She paused before adding, “He wanted me to tell you something else too. He said it wasn’t your fault.”

  Arthur’s gaze returned to the ground, his lips pursed together in a grimace. Deciding it was time to take her leave, Lilac patted his shoulder and walked away.

  She didn’t know where she was going, but anywhere was better than back in the Renegade Room with Plake. If she were lucky, she might run into Dylan, who was sure to know more about what was happening than she would learn on her own. She also kept an eye out for Opal. Though it made her stomach hurt to th
ink of it, she needed to learn exactly how Othello had died.

  In the meantime, however, she was content to walk alone, sorting through the many thoughts and emotions vying for dominance.

  * * *

  Drekk’t dismissed his two lieutenants, cutting Jer’malz off mid-sentence. They hurried from the tent, not bothering to mask their eagerness to leave. Drekk’t didn’t blame them. They had had a lot of bad news to deliver, not the least of which was the goblins’ death toll.

  After Ay’goar and Jer’malz were gone, he sat at the edge of his bed. Tired though he was, he would not succumb to the lure of slumber. Neither did he start formulating a new strategy for dealing with Fort Valor, which would have been the prudent thing to do.

  Instead, Drekk’t relived the battle against Saerylton Crystalus in his mind.

  He had underestimated the human commander—that much was certain. And yet, as he watched the battle play, stroke by stroke, Drekk’t couldn’t find a single error on his part. His swordplay had been near flawless, and he had avoided the enchanted blade up until the very end.

  But Colt’s performance had been perfect.

  Impossibly perfect.

  Never had Drekk’t faced off against an opponent so nimble and so swift. He prided himself on his skill with a sword. He had never been bested in one-on-one combat, which was a key factor in his advancement to the rank of general. Yet Colt had disarmed him despite his best efforts. Had it not been for the sudden intervention of his subordinates, he would be dead.

  The human commander had made a fool of him…again.

  Drekk’t spotted movement out of the corner of his eye and jumped to his feet. Planting his hands on his hips—ignoring the flare of pain in his injured leg—he glared at the goblin in the shadows.

  “I gave the order not to be disturbed,” he snarled. When the newcomer stepped forward and narrowed his eyes threateningly, Drekk’t recognized the shaman.

  “My apologies, Master Ay’sek. Those clothes…I mistook you for a common fighter.”

  Ay’sek said nothing, which Drekk’t took for a good sign. “A silent shaman casts no spells” was an old T’Ruellian proverb.

  Drekk’t suddenly recalled the trick he had played in not telling Ay’sek the goblin army had relocated to Fort Valor. Alone with the shaman, Drekk’t felt more than a little vulnerable. The Chosen of the Chosen had a propensity for getting away with murder. While Ay’sek didn’t strike Drekk’t as a usurper, every temper had its limits.

  Then he noticed the shaman’s empty hands.

  “Where is Peerma’rek?” Flustered though he was, Drekk’t was careful not to keep his tone civil.

  In an uncharacteristically calm voice, Ay’sek told of his unsuccessful scrimmage with the humans and how he had had to abandon his mission in order to save his life. The shaman made no excuses for his failure. Neither did he sound particularly upset over what had happened.

  “Let me see if I understand you,” Drekk’t said. “Not only have the remnants of the human armies regrouped and retreated to the safety of the fort, but they took the staff with them?”

  Ay’sek shrugged. “Unless one of your thousands of soldiers managed to stop the woman and her friends, then, yes, Peerma’rek is probably within the fort.”

  “And what would you have me tell our Emperor?”

  “Tell him the truth,” Ay’sek replied mildly. “Tell him you had me wait rather than take back the staff days ago so that you could manipulate the human armies…a tactic that ultimately backfired.”

  Drekk’t was at a loss for words. Were it anyone other than a shaman standing before him, he would have killed the fool. As it was, there were two reasons why he stayed his hand: he didn’t want to give the Emperor another reason to punish him, and he still needed Ay’sek.

  “No matter.” Drekk’t unclenched his fists, revealing deep impressions his fingernails had left on his palms. “We know where the staff is, and now that you’re back, we can use vuudu to breach the fortress.”

  An attack at dawn might end the stalemate once and for all. Then again, an ill-planned operation could end up doing more harm than good. Waiting might give the enemy time to get organized, but in the end, little would change in one day’s time.

  “It is good to have you back, Master Ay’sek,” Drekk’t lied. “With Upsinous on our side…and his magic at your fingertips…we cannot lose.”

  Apparently deciding that their conversation was at an end, Ay’sek removed himself from the tent.

  The Chosen of the Chosen would always be headaches for the generals they served, Drekk’t decided. Perhaps that was the Emperor’s intention. The shamans certainly did their part to keep the high-ranking veterans from aspiring too high.

  But who, he wondered, kept the shamans in check?

  * * *

  Opal pushed her way past the solitary Knight barring her way. The man made a half-hearted attempt to grab her, but she squirmed out of his grasp and barged into the infirmary.

  Once inside, her senses were assailed by stimuli—people rushing about in a small space, the stench of blood, the hair-raising cries of the wounded. Between the injured and those caring for them, the room was crowded beyond measure.

  Her gaze took in the various people only long enough to identify them and dismiss them until she found whom she was seeking. Then she was pressing her way over to Sister Aric and Sir Dylan.

  The priestess’s eyes were closed, and she spoke so softly Opal couldn’t understand what she was saying. Across from them, on the other side of the bed, Dylan looked up briefly and greeted her with a grim smile.

  Finally, reluctantly, Opal looked down at Colt. The young Knight writhed beneath the healer’s hands. His moans could be heard even above the shrill outbursts of the other patients. Opal took his hand in hers and pressed her lips against it. When Colt’s wandering, bloodshot eyes landed on hers, there was no recognition in them.

  “You can’t die. Fight it, Colt,” she pleaded. “Please don’t leave me…”

  Colt ceased his struggling suddenly, and Opal feared the man was gone. She noted the rising and falling of his chest, however, and almost wept for joy.

  “The goddess has granted him respite,” Sister Aric said. “He has fallen into a deep slumber.”

  “Will he live?” Opal asked, grabbing the healer by her sleeve.

  Undaunted, Aric tended the gaping wound in Colt’s abdomen. “Only the gods can say.”

  “What can I do?”

  Aric paused briefly, glanced at Opal, and said, “You can pray.”

  The words echoed in Opal’s mind for several minutes as she stared down at her dying friend. She couldn’t remember the last time she had earnestly addressed the gods. She supposed that she ought to pray to Mystel, the Healing Goddess, but it felt strange to talk to a deity she knew so little about.

  Once, when Nisson had taken ill, she had beseeched Cressela, the patron goddess of birds and beasts, to cure the horse’s ailment. But that was the extent of her relationship with the gods. She spoke to them only when she needed something.

  I know that I have no right to ask anything of you, let alone a miracle, she told Mystel. Never mind that he’s the only friend I have in the world these days.

  Never mind that I nearly died rescuing him from the goblin war camp.

  Never mind that Cholk is dead.

  And never mind that I just watched Othello take his last breath.

  Don’t do it for my sake, Mystel. Do it for Colt.

  Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She squeezed Colt’s hand, wishing she could somehow infuse the Knight with her strength. She remained by his side as Aric used needle and thread to stitch his wounds shut. She stayed there even after the healer had moved on, waiting for Colt’s eyes to open or any other sign his health was improving.

  At some point, Dylan left too, but Opal didn’t budge. She had nothing more to say to Mystel—or any other god for that matter—and so remained silent. And the gods, in return, kept their silence as well.r />
  If I had the vuudu staff, I could make your own miracles, she thought.

  Passage XII

  Stannel stared into the hollow eyes of the skull, which, along with the rest of the staff, lay atop his desk.

  Sir Dylan Torc had just finished explaining the origin and the capabilities of the vuudu staff—or at least what Colt had told him of them. Now the six men inside the cramped office stood in uneasy silence, pondering the hideous rod.

  Stannel knew the staff was capable of doing all Dylan had said and probably much more. Just as the mace that hung from his belt filled Stannel with a comforting warmth, the skull-topped staff seemed to emanate a chill that made the hairs on his arms and neck tingle.

  Glancing up from the macabre weapon, he took measure of those assembled around him. Klye Tristan and Dominic Horcalus wore grim expressions. Not only had they lost a comrade tonight, but also the pirates had run off.

  Petton had said nothing in reply to Klye’s news. Stannel appreciated the lieutenant’s uncharacteristic discretion, but he assumed Petton hadn’t jumped at the chance to say, “I told you so,” only because Petton—as well as the rest of them—had far bigger concerns at the moment.

  Or perhaps the man was simply too exhausted to engage in verbal combat with Klye. Gaelor Petton had led the fort’s infantry into the thick of battle, and as second-in-command, Petton would not soon run out of things to do around the fort.

  Next to Petton stood a man of whom Stannel had heard, though the two had never met. Over the years, Ruford Berwyn, Rydah’s Captain of the Guard, had earned so much respect from the Knights of Superius that many within the Knighthood considered him an equal, which was no small thing. High Commander Walden had often praised Ruford.

  Thinking of Bryant Walden, Stannel sent up a silent prayer for the high commander, Lord Magnes Minus, and everyone else who had perished in the massacre that had wiped Capricon’s capital off the map.

  That Ruford had survived the Fall of Rydah and the trials that followed was a credit to the hulking guardsman’s prowess and wit. And the fact that he and his men had joined Colt’s campaign made them all heroes by Stannel’s estimation.