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

by David Michael Williams

  Ruford had lost all but eleven of his soldiers on the battlefield outside the fort. Of the Knights who had followed Colt from Hylan, only fifteen remained. By Dylan’s estimation, more than half of Colt’s army was dead, including most of the civilians and militiamen of Hylan.

  Stannel had seen the Hylaners in action—those men and women who wore little or no armor and carried spears, staves, and other odd implements capable of inflicting damage. Whatever the Hylaners lacked in skill, they had made up for in sheer mettle. They had fought as devotedly as any Knight, and their deaths were all the more honorable for the freely given gifts of their lives.

  In addition to those loses, nineteen Knights from the fort were unaccounted for, and many of those who had survived long enough to make it to the infirmary weren’t likely to live much longer.

  That included Colt.

  Stannel couldn’t suppress a surge of remorse when thinking of all the deaths. Yes, he was saddened by thought that all those men and women would never laugh with their loved ones again, but more than that, he was angered by the senselessness of it all.

  They would not know how many goblins had died until sunrise, but even if every human had killed five T’Ruellians—or even ten—they would have hardly put a dent in the goblins’ numbers.

  “So what are we going to do?”

  It was Ruford who broke the silence. Thick arms crossed in front of his broad chest, the Captain of the Guard looked at each of his allies in turn.

  No one had had the luxury of cleaning up before the meeting, but Ruford was undeniably the filthiest of them all. His formerly white pantaloons were covered with stains from dirt, sweat, and gore. The rest of his outfit was equally tarnished, as were his exposed hands and face. Were it not for the billowing red-brown mustache that stretched across Ruford’s upper lip, Stannel might have mistaken the dried goblin blood on his face for a short black beard.

  “What are we going to do?” Petton echoed. “What can we do? We will hole up behind our walls and pray to the gods that the goblins aren’t in too much of a hurry to finish what they started.”

  “They have surrounded the fort again,” Klye said offhandedly. “Nothing has changed.”

  “But we have more troops,” Horcalus said.

  Petton laughed mirthlessly. “For all of the good that will do us.”

  Ruford gave Petton a fierce look. “I didn’t come all the way here to give up.”

  “Who said anything about giving up?” Petton asked. “Running is not even a possibility, and so we shall continue to defend ourselves. Our deaths will be as honorable and no less tragic than the Knights who were slain here during the Ogre War.”

  Stannel said nothing for the moment. Petton’s comment about the Ogre War had reminded him of something. More than sixty years ago, Toemis Blisnes, a former Knight of Superius had fled Fort Faith and certain death at the ogres’ hands.

  Toemis had recently returned to the fortress, bringing with him his granddaughter Zusha and the deranged notion that his cowardice those many decades ago had cursed his bloodline. The old man had returned to the fort expecting to find it empty. When that proved not to be the case, he had used a hidden passageway to flee the fortress unnoticed so that he could kill Zusha and himself on Wizard’s Mountain.

  “There is a way out,” Stannel said quietly, “if we wish to flee.”

  The others listened as he spoke of the route that led from inside the castle to a dried-up riverbed a mile or more to the west. Some—like Petton and Klye—had known of the passageway’s existence, but it was news to Dylan and Ruford.

  “But where would we go?” Petton asked, posing the question at no one in particular. “The nearest bastion is Fort Miloásterôn, and that’s on the other side of the Rocky Crags.”

  “What about Steppt?” Stannel asked.

  “We would never make it,” Ruford said. “Even if the goblins didn’t find us, the winter snows would.”

  “Well, if we are going to fight, we must find an advantage.” Klye stepped up to the desk and pointed at the vuudu staff. “Maybe we can figure out how to use this…fight fire with fire and all that.”

  No one said anything at first. They all looked upon the foul talisman once more, lost in their own thoughts.

  At last Petton said, “Be my guest, Renegade. With the midge gone, you’re the only one crazy enough to want to touch it.”

  Klye glared at the lieutenant.

  “This rod may, in fact, hold the power to decimate our foes,” Stannel told Klye, “but I warn you, the god who enchanted it will demand a price. Would you, Klye Tristan, be beholden to the deity responsible for creating the goblin race?”

  Klye regarded Stannel thoughtfully for a moment before replying. “I don’t believe in the gods.”

  “Be that as it may, please believe me when I say you could do more harm than good if you tinker with things beyond your ken. But,” he added, addressing the group now, “I am not the one who stands in the way of any who would take the staff. Saerylton Crystalus is the rightful owner. Moreover, I am no longer responsible for decisions concerning the defense of this fortress.”

  Petton’s body jerked. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I accepted command of this fortress with the understanding that I would relinquish authority back to Colt when he returned. And he has returned.”

  At first, there was only stunned silence. Klye was the first to speak up.

  “So new Fort Valor is old Fort Faith again?”

  “With all due respect, Commander Bismarc,” Horcalus said, “it seems as though Commander Crystalus is unable to reclaim his title and duties at present.”

  “Then, if I am not mistaken, his second-in-command must lead in the meantime,” Stannel replied.

  Klye and Horcalus exchanged an anxious look. Dylan and Ruford looked very confused.

  But no one was more visibly taken aback than Lieutenant Petton himself.

  * * *

  Drekk’t found no solace in sleep that night. With the battle so fresh in his mind—a battle that had created new problems instead of solving old ones—the general tossed and turned throughout the early hours of the morning. In his dreams, he encountered Saerylton Crystalus once more, and each time the human commander defeated him with minimal effort.

  He awoke with a start, his heart racing. With a curse on his lips, the general started to roll over, dismissing his premature waking as the result of yet another nightmare. But then he felt a shadow fall over him, a silhouette that was all the more sinister for the fact that the interior of his tent was pitch black.

  Drekk’t sprang out of bed and landed in a defensive crouch, a curved knife clutched in one hand. His first thought was that one or both of his lieutenants had decided to depose him. But when his keen eyes picked out the flowing black robe of the intruder, Drekk’t changed his mind.

  He was on the verge of lunging blade-first at Ay’sek when something that could only be called a presence washed over him. He knew instantly that the goblin in his tent was not Ay’sek.

  Pure, unadulterated terror gripped his insides. The sensation was far more powerful than anything he had experienced, even in his nightmares.

  A pair of glowing red eyes that smoldered like living coals levitated in the darkness. Drekk’t could feel the intelligence in those eyes, a predatory awareness that seemed to reach all the way into Drekk’t’s soul.

  The fiery stare stole Drekk’t’s momentum, stopping him in his tracks as effectively as any wall. The crescent-bladed knife fell to the ground with a dull thud. In the next instant, Drekk’t was down on his knees, bowing low to the Emperor of T’Ruel.

  “N’Kirnost,” he muttered deferentially.

  The Emperor did not deign to reply. In those long seconds of silence, one million frantic thoughts flashed in Drekk’t’s mind. How much did the Emperor know? Had he come here to dole out instruction or punishment?

  “Stand, General.”

  The Emperor’s voice had a hollow quality to i
t, which was likely an effect of the spell that allowed him to interact with the general as though they were truly in the same room. At least, Drekk’t hoped the Emperor was still in T’Ruel. It was impossible to know for sure.

  Not that it mattered whether the Emperor was truly there or not. As the most powerful of the Chosen of the Chosen, the Emperor of T’Ruel could likely kill from afar just as easily as up close.

  Drekk’t scrambled to his feet, keeping his eyes cast downward.

  “I have taken the liberty of summoning Master Ay’sek so I will not have to repeat myself.” The Emperor’s low voice reverberated throughout the tent and inside Drekk’t’s very bones. “While we wait, tell me how your campaign fares.”

  Choosing his words carefully, Drekk’t reported his army’s recent militaristic operations. He did his best to present his recent failures in a positive light and tried to sidestep the issue of Peerma’rek altogether. He doubted the Emperor would forget about it, but perhaps he could delay long enough for Ay’sek to arrive and share in the blame.

  “Where is Peerma’rek now?” the Emperor asked.

  Or perhaps not…

  “N’Kirnost,” Drekk’t began, struggling to find the best euphemism for “lost.”

  Drekk’t heard the swish of robes as Ay’sek entered the tent. The shaman took no more than three steps into the pavilion before performing the proper show of veneration, imitating the prostrate bow Drekk’t had executed earlier. As before, the Emperor told his subject to rise, which Ay’sek did with alacrity.

  Under other circumstances, Drekk’t might have enjoyed watching the shaman squirm in the presence of someone greater. But the general knew it was only a matter of time before those blazing orbs turned back to him.

  “We were just discussing the status of Peerma’rek,” the disembodied voice of the Emperor declared. “Since neither of you have it, I can only conclude you have not yet recovered it.”

  Neither goblin replied.

  “What happened?”

  Despite the lump in his throat, Drekk’t forced himself to speak. As campaign general, he was responsible for his subordinates’ actions—and he did count Ay’sek as a subordinate, even if the shaman didn’t. More than that, he didn’t want to give Ay’sek the chance to twist the story in his favor, making Drekk’t out to be a bigger fool than was necessary.

  When he finished, Drekk’t held his breath and waited for the Emperor to react. He knew he deserved death. Not only had he lost Peerma’rek in the first place, but he had let it slip through his fingers again.

  “I have come to impart important news,” the Emperor said. “This war is over.”

  Drekk’t jerked upright, staring at the shrouded form of his ruler with unbridled astonishment. “N’Kirnost, you cannot mean—!”

  “Silence!”

  The single word erupted from the shadow being with such power that Drekk’t brought his hands up to his ears, wincing in pain.

  “For a campaign general, you know very little of what has been happening while you waste your time at this little fort.

  “The Western Army has taken up residence in a place called North Port. Even as you besiege Fort Valor, your compatriots are besieged by humans from the three fortresses west of the mountains.”

  All of this came as quite a surprise to Drekk’t. The last he had heard of his brothers in the Western Army was that they were secretly entrenched in the sewers of Port Town. How—or why—they had traded Port Town for North Port was a mystery to him. And what of the ships the Emperor had promised to end to support the Western Army?

  “Give me more time, n’Kirnost!” he begged. “I have enough troops to compensate for however many warriors the Western Army has lost. We will destroy Fort Valor at once and press on to North Port, scattering the Knights that surround the conquered city. I swear by—”

  “You will swear nothing, General, because unlike me, you cannot see the bigger picture.”

  “Yes, n’Kirnost.”

  “Even if you could, in fact, conquer Capricon without reinforcements from T’Ruel, where would you go from there, General?

  “The conquest of this island was to be a prelude for the invasion of Continae. When the Knights and Renegades had weakened each other sufficiently, we would have marched in and destroyed them both. T’slect’s impudence foiled our ruse. Our plans were rushed. Rather than using the Renegade War to drive a wedge between the two human factions, the arrival of a mutual enemy has forced them back together.

  “Our first forays into Continae have proven that while the Renegade War has resulted in social upheaval, the humans are still capable of putting up a strong resistance. Instead of sacking towns crippled by civil war, our warships are welcomed by human armies that remain strong and wary.”

  Drekk’t wondered how many warships had landed on the vast coast of Continae. If the goblin navy retreated to Capricon, strengthening the two T’Ruellian armies here…

  Couldn’t the Emperor see all was not lost? How could the Emperor speak so calmly about calling off the war?

  As though answering Drekk’t’s unspoken thoughts, the Emperor said, “Do not think to question me, General. We T’Ruellians have never waged a war where victory is not assured. And yours is not the only army fighting on foreign soil. Yours is not the only war T’Ruel wages.”

  “Yes, n’Kirnost,” Drekk’t hissed. “So…we are to retreat?”

  The words tasted worse than poison. The thought of letting Colt and his fellow humans win made him dizzy.

  “No.”

  Drekk’t wasn’t sure he had heard correctly and looked to Ay’sek for an explanation. But the shaman looked as confused as Drekk’t was.

  “There is still the matter of Peerma’rek,” the Emperor added. “I would not lose so great a treasure to the humans.”

  “Yes, n’Kirnost. Of course, n’Kirnost.” A glimmer of hope blossomed in Drekk’t’s mind.

  “You and your army will retrieve the staff, and then you will return to T’Ruel for reassignment.”

  “Yes, n’Kirnost,” Drekk’t and Ay’sek replied together.

  Looking at both goblins in turn, the Emperor added. “Your next failure will cost you both your lives.”

  Drekk’t was about to utter the obligatory “Yes, n’Kirnost” when the inside of the tent brightened to a dull gray color. The Emperor was gone, and in his absence, the light of early morning penetrated the flimsy material of the tent.

  For the first time since he had awoken, Drekk’t was conscious of the gooseflesh on his bare arms and chest. When Ay’sek exited the tent—which he did silently—Drekk’t saw it was snowing outside.

  The general crawled back into his bed, even though he knew he wouldn’t fall back asleep. There was far too much to think about. He wasn’t happy about abandoning Capricon, but he was determined to make the most of the time he had left there.

  He would reclaim Peerma’rek for the Emperor, and he would leave the island, never to return.

  But not before killing Colt and as many of his friends as possible.

  PART 3

  Passage I

  Delincas encountered a number of surprised expressions as he descended into the bowels of Castle Borrom.

  Very few of the Knights recognized him, he suspected. His attire denoted him as someone of importance—if not a nobleman, then a gentleman at least. And the dungeons were no place for a gentleman.

  Those who did know him—or, rather, knew of him—were probably even more curious about his presence there. The name Delincas Theta was attached to many a rumor, but it was common knowledge that he was one of King Edward’s advisors, the only one who wasn’t of noble birth.

  Some said he wasn’t even a native to Superius, but that wasn’t true. Others claimed the king had made him an ambassador because they had been childhood friends. That was pure fallacy.

  The juiciest gossip labeled him a wizard. And this was true.

  When he reached the gaoler’s station at the base of the long, winding st
aircase, Delincas asked, “Have you a midge in your keeping?”

  The gaoler opened his mouth but said nothing at first. His expression suggested he recognized Delincas, and the words he spoke proved it.

  “Ambassador Theta!” he greeted, bobbing his head in a quick bow.

  Delincas smiled amicably and waited for the dungeon-keeper to answer his question, though the man said no more. His attention seemed fully captivated by the mere sight of his unexpected visitor.

  Delincas cleared his throat. “The midge?” he prompted.

  The gaoler jerked suddenly. “Oh. Right. Him. Yeah, the Knights brought him in ’bout a week ago.”

  “May I read the arrest report?” Delincas asked.

  The man’s face twisted in an odd manner. “Report? There was no report, Ambassador Theta. But word has it the imp was tryin’ to get into the palace to murder the king. He was babblin’ about an invasion. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was workin’ for the Renegades.”

  Delincas swallowed a sour taste in his mouth. As a spell-caster, he had much more respect for the midge as a race than most humans did. The people of Superius—and the rest of Continae, for that mattered—harbored a great deal of mistrust toward wizards, which made them predisposed to dislike the capricious midge, all of whom were spell-casters.

  Delincas could empathize with the midge for the prejudice they suffered on a daily basis. While he could discard his telltale robe and walk incognito among the general populace, a midge could never separate himself from his magic.

  “Were his captors planning on scheduling a trial for the prisoner?” Delincas asked, endeavoring to keep his voice level.

  “Uh,” the gaoler stammered. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask them, I guess.”

  “I intend to,” Delincas replied, evoking a grimace from the dungeon-keeper. “In the meantime, I should like to examine the accoutrements of our would-be assassin.”