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

by David Michael Williams

  Thanks to vuudu, Ay’sek would always have the upper hand, so long as he lived.

  “Master Ay’sek,” he called, carefully controlling the tenor and the volume of his voice.

  As he waited for a response, his breath streamed out of his mouth like smoke. He ignored the urge to shiver. Ay’sek would not find him trembling like a terrified virgin upon his doorstep!

  He was on the verge of calling out again when the flaps of the tent curled back on their own. The interior of the tent was as dark as Upsinous’s black heart. Gods-damned showoff, Drekk’t thought.

  As he crossed the threshold, Drekk’t expelled a deep breath. As much as he loathed the shaman, he knew he needed him too. If he lost his temper even once, his entire plan would be forfeit.

  A solitary candle atop a yellowed skull shed a little light inside of the tent. Drekk’t stared into the vacant eyes of the candleholder and was reminded of Peerma’rek. There were other oddities strewn about the place, including metal tools of esoteric design and a small, empty cage that hung from the ceiling.

  Ay’sek sat behind a crate that functioned as a table. Atop the crate lay a serrated knife and the entrails of an animal Drekk’t couldn’t identify. The air in the tent was rich with blood.

  “Master Ay’sek,” he said. “I pray the morning finds you well.”

  The shaman didn’t bother to look up. His eyes were fixed on the bloody organs at his fingertips. Ay’sek extracted what might have been the creature’s heart. He carved the thing in half, examining first one part and then the other, paying no mind to the red liquid dripping down his hands.

  The impudence of the shaman—ignoring him like the invalids who serve because they cannot fight—had Drekk’t reaching for his sword. But he checked himself before his hand reached the hilt.

  He needed Ay’sek alive…for now.

  The shaman discarded the heart halves, setting them aside with the rest of the gore. He fixed his attention on the red puddles that stained the top of the crate. Ay’sek then closed his eyes and dipped the index finger of his left hand into the viscera. He muttered unintelligible words that conveyed dark promises.

  A shiver passed down Drekk’t’s spine.

  As he chanted, Ay’sek ran his finger over the surface of the crate. The bloody smears became sharp angles. The angles became symbols. Drekk’t recognized only the final rune, the goblin cipher for Upsinous and the emblem of T’Ruel.

  When the shaman opened his eyes again, he glanced down at the mess he had made and nodded absently. There were myths about the earliest shamans having had the ability to divine the future. Could Ay’sek see the future? If so, what did the bloody shapes foretell?

  Drekk’t wanted to ask the shaman, but Ay’sek spoke first. “You have a plan for regaining the staff.”

  He nodded. “I have need of your help.”

  Drekk’t silently dared the shaman to insult him, but his expression remained neutral. As the general shared his strategy, Ay’sek neither interrupted nor reacted negatively. At last, when Drekk’t had finished, the shaman let out a sigh.

  “It would be easier to bring the fort down on top of the humans. But,” he quickly added, not giving Drekk’t the chance to cut him off, “we would risk losing Peerma’rek in the process.”

  Drekk’t waited.

  “Very well,” Ay’sek said at length. “I will aid you in any way I can.”

  Drekk’t checked a sigh of relief. Having said all he needed to say, he turned to leave.

  “This course will bring both good and bad to our cause,” Ay’sek said when he reached the exit.

  Drekk’t did not turn around. He recalled the blood runes on the top of the crate and considered asking the shaman to elaborate. Yet somehow he knew Ay’sek would tell him no more.

  Walked away from the shaman’s tent, Drekk’t’s thoughts even more muddled than before. He fought to keep doubt at bay. In the end, he would have to trust Ay’sek’s insight. After all, Ay’sek wouldn’t engage in a course he knew to be futile.

  Not when he had as much reason to fear the Emperor’s wrath as Drekk’t did.

  * * *

  The fortress was eerily quiet. With the arrival of Colt’s army, the fort’s population had nearly doubled, and yet the heavy silence made Klye feel like he was the only one there.

  It was closer to dawn than sunset. He had slept only a few hours before waking up for no apparent reason. There were many things he needed to sort out, however, so instead of tossing and turning for the remainder of the night, he had decided to take a stroll through the corridors of Fort Valor.

  Or was it called Fort Faith again?

  Stannel’s decision to hand his authority over to Petton had taken everyone by surprise. Klye had fully expected the lieutenant-turned-commander to banish him and the rest of the Renegades to the dungeons as his first order of business.

  But Petton had made no changes as of yet. The Renegades were still allowed to bear arms and walk about freely. Petton had a lot on his mind right now, but at any moment, the order to relocate the Renegades to the dungeon might come. And there would be nothing Klye could do about it when it did.

  Unless they used Toemis’s secret passage to escape. Arthur knew where it was…

  Klye dismissed the thought with a sigh. Running away would only prove what Petton had insisted all along. Besides, he didn’t want to run from the law anymore. And Horcalus would never desert the Knights, not even if the fort were overrun with goblins.

  He chuckled. Things had certainly gone from bad to worse. The original Fort Valor and Rydah were both destroyed. No one had any idea what was happening on the other side of the mountains, but Klye knew for a fact there had been goblins in Port Town’s sewers.

  He worried for his friends in Port Town—Father Elezar, Veldross the half-elf, and Leslie Beryl.

  Why am I worrying about her? he scoffed. She’s probably a hell of a lot better off than I am right now!

  Ever since becoming a Renegade Leader, he had had to shoulder a lot of responsibility. His band had encountered many obstacles en route to Fort Faith. When Chester Ragellan had died, Klye had been assaulted by equal parts anger and sorrow, but his resolve hadn’t wavered for long.

  It was hard for him to accept Othello was gone now too. He half expected the stealthy forester to step out of the shadows and offer a silent greeting. Losing Othello made him feel helpless and confused. Of course, there was nothing he could have done for the archer.

  Whenever Klye thought of Pistol and Crooker—imaging them someplace safe and comfortable, laughing at his expense—fire scoured his insides. He had trusted them, and they stabbed him in the back. He wanted to call them cowards, but Klye feared it was something else.

  Maybe he had failed them.

  Klye banished the idea at once. It wasn’t his fault the sons of bitches had fled. He had done all he could to argue the pirates’ case with the Knights. Probably, the two men had stuck with the Renegades as long as they had out of convenience. They were both wanted men, after all, and there was safety in numbers.

  And yet, with Ragellan and Othello dead and the pirates gone, Klye couldn’t help but feel that his ever-shrinking band was a direct reflection on his ability to lead.

  Klye scolded himself for dwelling on things he couldn’t change. The pirates were gone, and so was Othello. He should be focusing on the present. What could he do to resolve the current dilemma?

  What difference does it make what I come with? Klye groused. Petton isn’t going to listen to me. The Renegades will do exactly what they’re told, or they’ll end up in the dungeon. Hell, we’ll probably end up there anyhow.

  Klye’s feet seemed to stop of their own volition outside the bedchamber of Saerylton Crystalus.

  On the battlefield, he had seen Colt’s wounds. It was a miracle that the young commander was still alive. The last he had heard, Colt was in the infirmary, being treated by Sister Aric.

  Klye grabbed the doorknob and turned it slowly. He opened the door a
n inch and peeked in, expecting to find the room empty. It wasn’t. The modest-sized apartment had two occupants. Someone was sleeping in the bed; another slept in the chair beside it.

  Surprised to find Colt out of the infirmary already, Klye took it as a very good sign or a very bad one.

  He entered the room as silently as a cat and stole up to the bed. Although the room was dark, Klye could discern the man’s features. Colt’s face was expressionless. He might have been dead, except for the slight rise and fall of the blankets over his chest. Maybe it was the light beard that covered his cheeks, but Colt looked much older than before he had left for Rydah.

  Klye glanced over at the figure in the chair, already certain he knew who it was. His suspicions were confirmed as he took in the woman’s long red hair and generous curves.

  In sleep, Opal could have easily been mistaken for a proper lady—and not the loud-mouthed adventurer whom he and his band had taken hostage more than a month ago. Opal had yet to forgive the Renegades for how they had treated her—Klye personally had punched her in the face during a later encounter—and according to Lilac, Opal had never warmed up to her during their mission with Colt.

  Despite their differences, Klye felt sorry for Opal. As far as he knew, Colt was her only friend at the fort these days.

  A moan from Colt sent Klye back on his heels. The Knight’s head rolled from side to side. His next groan crescendoed into a cry.

  Opal jolted awake at the sound. She acknowledged Klye’s presence with a scowl but didn’t say anything. Leaning over Colt, she brought her hand up to the man’s face. She spoke soothingly to the wounded Knight, stroking his cheek with the palm of her hand.

  Klye considered leaving—probably, he should go fetch Sister Aric—but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

  Colt’s eyes popped open, which made Opal flinch. She stopped speaking for a moment, staring hopefully into the man’s eyes. A tear glistened its way down the side of her face.

  Colt was silent as he looked around. When his eyes landed on Opal, he groaned again.

  “Colt,” Opal whispered. “You’re all right now. You’re safe.”

  “Opal,” Colt said, or at least he tried to. The word had sounded like a croak, but Klye had seen the word on the Knight’s lips.

  “Shhh,” Opal pleaded. “You need your rest, Colt. You need to—”

  “No,” Colt told her. “I can’t…can’t…”

  Opal shushed him again, but Colt shook his head, either defying the woman or attempting to clear his head.

  “I won’t recover from this,” Colt said.

  Opal uttered the most pitiable sound Klye had ever heard.

  * * *

  Saerylton Crystalus had spent the night fighting the demons that preyed on his delirious mind. The demons often took the shape of goblins. He must have faced off against Drekk’t a hundred times. Arrows pierced him. Spears impaled him.

  But then, in an instant, the battle ended. A sensation that was both warm and cool enveloped him, evaporating his pain like dew in the morning sun. He found peace for a time, but after a while the demons began poking and prodding at the border of his sanctuary.

  The hoard returned with a vengeance. Colt wondered how he would ever find the strength to face them again. He considered giving up and probably would have done so if he had not spotted a familiar face in the midst of his enemies.

  Opal.

  The creature dragging her by one foot was twice her height. In place of its head was the skull of the vuudu staff.

  Colt could do nothing but watch as the abomination unsheathed a machete as long as a lance and swiftly, callously cut Opal in twain from shoulder to shank.

  He heard himself scream. The sound came from far, far away. Then the scene began to drop away. He tried to focus on the skull-headed behemoth, but the image vanished suddenly, replaced by darkness.

  He heard Opal’s voice before he saw her face. He was no longer on the battlefield, but lying in a bed. He wondered how it could be real but didn’t want to question it, lest she disappear.

  “Colt,” Opal whispered. “You’re all right now. You’re safe.”

  At the moment, his own safety was the furthest thing from his mind. Damn the goblins and their accursed staff—all that mattered was Opal was alive and well.

  He tried to say her name but couldn’t find his voice.

  She shushed him. “You need your rest, Colt. You need to—”

  “No, I can’t…can’t…”

  With a clarity that caught him unawares, Colt realized the truth of things: he was dying. He had precious minutes left. There could be no more delay. If he didn’t tell her he loved her now, he would never have another chance.

  When she tried to quiet him a second time, he said, “I won’t recover from this.”

  Opal let out a cry, and Colt saw tears glistening in her eyes.

  It was then that Colt knew she loved him too.

  It no longer mattered whether she loved him as a friend or as something more. It didn’t matter whether she had a romantic interest in someone else. He and she would never live happily ever after as man and wife.

  A deep sadness washed over him. However, it left as quickly as it came. His life was forfeit, freely given to a great cause. But Opal would live.

  “Opal,” he said, his lips stretched in a smile. “I’m so glad…”

  * * *

  Opal’s tears were falling freely now. She dropped her head onto Colt’s chest and cried, “You can’t leave me, Colt. Please don’t leave me!”

  Embarrassed for intruding upon the intimate scene, Klye wanted to walk away, but he couldn’t. Colt’s eyes had fixed upon some distant spot. The man no longer spoke, no longer made any sound.

  Beneath Opal’s sobbing form, Colt’s chest ceased its rise and fall.

  “Nooooo…” Opal moaned. “Oh gods, no…”

  Klye’s own eyes welled up with tears. He had never watched a man die before, and for several long minutes, he could only stare at the body that had one housed the soul of Saerylton Crystalus.

  Was there even such thing as a soul? he wondered. Was Colt already enjoying the bliss of some afterlife? Or was his essence just…gone?

  Opal jumped to her feet, and her gaze met his. Klye was mortified. What could he say to comfort the woman? The awkward silence didn’t last long.

  “Why were you skulking around in here? Huh?” she demanded, grabbing hold of his collar and shaking him. “What did you do to him?”

  Klye was too stunned to react. When Opal started pounding her fists against his chest, he snapped out of his stupor and seizing her wrists. All at once, Opal stopped struggling and collapsed against him, weeping.

  He wrapped his arms around her shuddering body and whispered words of comfort to her, including sentiments he couldn’t bring himself to believe. And when he told her everything was going to be all right, he knew he was trying to reassure himself as well.

  Passage III

  Word of Saerylton Crystalus’s death circulated quickly throughout the fortress. By noon, everyone had heard the sad news.

  Lieutenant Gaelor Petton had been notified immediately. Roused from an uneasy sleep, his brain still foggy, he had followed Sir Silvercrown to Saerylton’s room.

  Sister Aric and Opal were already in the room. The healer greeted them with a cheerless smile. Opal barely acknowledged them; she sat in a chair beside the bed, her puffy red eyes betraying her sorrow.

  Petton approached the bedside and gazed down at Saerylton. Like everyone at the fort, he had known the commander for only a short time. The two of them had had their differences, but Petton respected the man’s determination.

  And he had secretly envied his unabashed optimism.

  Lying in the bed, cold and still, Saerylton looked far too young to have left this life behind. While there were many youthful Knights in the Order, Saerylton Crystalus had been the youngest commander in recent history.

  The decision to promote Saerylton directly
to commander while Petton, a more experienced Knight, stayed a lieutenant had struck Petton as unjust. Being stationed to far-flung Fort Faith had felt like a punishment at the time.

  He thought back to the times he had begrudged Saerylton his rank and felt guilty. He was the Commander of Fort Faith now, and it was a hollow promotion indeed.

  With the goblin army camped outside the castle—and logistical chaos inside—he almost envied Saerylton Crystalus, who had died as every Knight hoped to die.

  Petton remained in Saerylton’s quarters only long enough to say a prayer and offer his condolences to Opal, who didn’t seem to hear his words anyway.

  Rather than attempt to gain another hour or two of sleep, he transitioned to his duties. Even something as routine as breakfast had become a complicated affair. The men and women of Colt’s Army—as it was being called—had to be integrated into the equation. Portion sizes and dining schedules needed to be adjusted.

  Petton threw himself at the problem. He could have assigned the task to one of his officers, but he welcomed the opportunity to escape his thoughts and sorrow for a short time.

  He must have dozed off eventually because the next thing he knew he was being awakened by a gentle prodding. He straightened in his chair, his neck and back stiff from lying slumped over his desk. His face flushed as he eyed the man who had entered his office—formerly Saerylton’s office—and found him asleep.

  At a loss for what to say, Petton bade the man sit, which he did without comment.

  “I trust you have heard the ill tidings?” Petton asked.

  Stannel Bismarc nodded. “It was not unforeseen, but that makes it no less tragic. Moreover, Colt’s passing is a detriment to morale. He was well-liked by all, and those who followed him from Hylan are hit all the harder by his death. Despair has settled over the fortress like a fog.”

  What do you want me to do about it? Petton snapped inwardly, but he said nothing. Why are you here? That’s what he wanted to ask—nay, demand—of the strange Knight. Even before Stannel had confessed his unusual relationship with the Warriorlord, Petton had found the man peculiar.