Yet Ay’sek didn’t intend to squander the time between now and noon tomorrow.
He had agreed to go along with Drekk’t’s self-serving plot, but that didn’t mean he was without a plan of his own. If there were an easier way to take back Peerma’rek, he would find it. Then he alone would get credit for retrieving the relic.
* * *
Commander Petton, Dylan Torc, Ezekiel Silvercrown, and Ruford Berwyn listened, engrossed, as Stannel reported his meeting with General Drekk’t. There wasn’t room for everyone to sit, but the office wasn’t as crowded as earlier. Stannel noted that Petton had not invited Klye or Horcalus to attend.
Perhaps the Renegades had a right to know what was going on. Perhaps not. Either way, it was no longer Stannel’s decision to make. Petton finally had the authority to toss the rebels into holding cells beneath the fort. Yet for some reason, he did not.
That fact gave Stannel hope that Commander Petton would make the right decision regarding Drekk’t’s offer.
“A duel?” Ruford asked, his voice brimming with incredulity. “What, are we living in the days of Aldrake Superior?”
No one replied. Everyone, including Stannel, looked to Petton, waiting for the commander to state his views on the matter.
“We are not honor-bound to accept this challenge,” Petton said after a moment. “For that matter, we couldn’t agree to their terms even if we wanted to. Saerylton Crystalus is dead.”
“Gods rest his soul,” Ruford muttered.
“I will take his place,” Dylan volunteered. “It would be an honor to fight in Colt’s stead. There is no doubt in my mind that the goblin Colt fought out on the battlefield was General Drekk’t. Colt would have slain him, if not for the swarm of goblins that suddenly rose up to protect their leader.”
Petton raised a hand to forestall further comments from the younger Knight. “If Drekk’t was there when Commander Crystalus fell, he knows we cannot comply with his demands.”
“Then why the farce?” Zeke Silvercrown wondered. “To confuse us?”
Dylan shook his head. “After Colt wounded Drekk’t, the general retreated. I don’t think he saw what happened next.”
“That doesn’t change the fact we can’t give him what he wants,” Ruford said.
“Can’t we?”
Everyone turned back to Gaelor Petton. The commander reached for something that lay behind his desk. The Knight held the vuudu staff out before him, examining the macabre object with a grimace. Petton set it on his desk, and he looked relieved to put it down.
“The goblins claim they will leave if we give it back to them,” Petton said. “Obviously, they value the staff, but we would be fools to take them at their word.”
“We’d be giving them another weapon to use against us,” Ruford said.
“It has to be a trap,” Dylan added. “Why would the goblins want to arrange a duel…to fight one on one? It’s not consistent with the tactics we’ve seen thus far.”
“Unless Drekk’t just wants a rematch.”
Now Stannel was the center of attention.
“The general made no mention of Saerylton in the early part of our conversation,” Stannel explained. “But when he finally did bring up the duel, it seemed to me that he had had it in mind all along. When he spoke of facing Colt in battle, there was a hunger in his eyes.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint the general, but it’s a bit too late for that,” was Ruford’s bitter reply. “What a waste of time!”
Stannel did not agree with the captain’s assessment. If nothing else, they had learned a lot about the enemy that afternoon. Ruford probably realized that too. He was just frustrated. They all were. Colt had made an impression on everyone, and they were all feeling the loss and coping in different ways.
Dylan stepped forward. “I don’t care if it is a trap. Commander, I ask for your permission to fight in Colt’s place.”
Petton stared into the younger Knight’s eyes as though measuring the man’s mettle. At last, he said, “No.”
Dylan frowned. He looked ready to argue, but either he remembered his place in the chain of command, or he realized Petton’s mind would not be changed. Deflated, Dylan fell back in line with Ruford and Zeke Silvercrown.
“It’s a testament to your valor that you would fight a battle for the sake of honor,” Stannel told Dylan. “It is also a testament to your devotion to the memory of Saerylton Crystalus. But there has been enough death here, and we have nothing to gain by agreeing to Drekk’t’s terms.”
“That is not quite true,” Petton said. His face had softened, and when he spoke, it sounded to Stannel as though he were thinking aloud. “The goblins killed our leader. Now we have a chance to kill theirs. I doubt slaying Drekk’t will send their army into a state of chaos, but it would be no small victory for us.”
“So you will let me duel the general?” Dylan asked eagerly.
Stannel held his breath.
“No,” Petton said. “It is not your place to serve as Colt’s substitute. It is mine.”
* * *
Ay’sek heard himself speaking the words, though he no longer had no control over his mouth. A rush of energy burst into his mind, a sensation he always likened to getting struck by lightning. It wasn’t all pain—but it wasn’t all pleasure either.
In these moments when he made contact with the Goblinfather, Ay’sek felt like he could do anything. There was always the temptation to take more than was being offered, just as there was always stark despair when the connection was inevitably broken.
His lips ceased moving, and the tent was quiet once more. Ay’sek let out a sorrowful sigh, but the breath did not come. He couldn’t breathe at all. The leather walls of the tent blurred as he turned his head and looked directly into his own eyes.
The shaman’s body sat behind his makeshift altar, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His eyes stared straight ahead, blinking occasionally, but there was nothing behind them.
It was a most disconcerting sight.
The intangible essence of Ay’sek backed away from his body and floated through the secured entryway of his tent. Although the flaps appeared to be held together merely by straps of boiled hide, the sharpest of knives would not have been able to cut them. Likewise, the canopy itself was protected from intruders by a powerful vuudu enchantment.
Such precautions were necessary when one’s left one’s body helplessly behind.
Ay’sek felt only the smallest insecurity at leaving his corporeal form behind. He trusted his magic. Had there been another Chosen of the Chosen in the camp, he might not have been so bold, but none of the warriors in Drekk’t’s army had the ability to get to him, including Drekk’t himself. So he drifted away from his tent, leaving the camp behind.
In one of his early campaigns, Ay’sek had had to plunge into a frigid river to escape his foes. Goblins weren’t graceful swimmers, but he had managed to hold his breath long enough to propel himself away from danger.
Now, navigating without a body, he was reminded of swimming in that nearly frozen water. He wasn’t cold now, exactly, because he had no sense of hot and cold. But as he drifted nearer and nearer to the fort, Ay’sek had to will his thoughts to stay focused, just as he had struggled to stay awake while swimming in that ice-cold stream.
When roaming about ethereally, there was always the danger of losing control, and Ay’sek had no intention of being drawn away from the world or dissipating into nothingness or whatever it was that happened to hapless souls.
No longer limited by gravity or fatigue, the shaman quickly found his way to Fort Faith. He passed through walls, furniture, and even people. It took a lot of concentration to see anything because in reality he was sensing, not seeing. He had no eyes.
To stay rooted in the here and now, Ay’sek used a sense beyond those the body employed. It was like squinting into a fog, trying to make sense of the shapes and colors therein. That he could hear nothing was also d
isorienting.
Depending fully on his mind’s eye, Ay’sek flitted through the halls of the fortress. He didn’t pay any attention to the people whom he passed. Most humans looked alike to him, and thankfully, he wasn’t looking for one in particular.
His search was neither orderly nor thorough. The longer he remained outside of his body, the more difficult it would be to return. Already, he felt the strains of maintaining constant concentration. He might have described the sensation as lightheadedness, except he didn’t have a head.
Then there was a familiar hum in the air, buzzing around him like static electricity.
Ay’sek followed the invisible thread through wall after wall, ignoring the hazy figures of the living, which flitted around him. The tug grew stronger, and he did not hesitate. Like the smell of meat to an empty stomach, Peerma’rek’s presence was palpable.
He passed through yet another wall and ceased his flight all at once. Five blurry figures stood inside the room, but Ay’sek paid them no heed. There, in plain view, was Peerma’rek.
Ay’sek could barely make out the vague outline of the skull and the long shaft protruding from it because the relic was shrouded in violet smoke that roiled around it like a storm cloud. Upsinous had invested much of his power into the staff; that dark haze surrounding it was like the fingerprint of a god.
He wanted desperately to go to the staff, to bask in the terrible glory of the Goblinfather. But a silent warning prevented him from drawing too near. If his essence touched that of the staff, he knew he would be destroyed.
Ay’sek couldn’t touch the blessed item in his current form, and since he had no tongue, he could not call upon the power of Upsinous to aid him otherwise. This stalemate was not unforeseen, however. He was already considering which human would make the best temporary host when he noticed that something was amiss.
One of the five humans was looking in his direction, and unlike the others, whose translucent bodies encased a swirling white light, the mortal shell of this particular human contained a yellow globe that shone like an earthbound star. The brilliance of that light caused Ay’sek to draw back.
The shaman would have held his breath if he had any. As it was, he held himself as still as he could, focusing his mind’s eye on the strange being that stood before him. The physical features of the man solidified slightly as he concentrated.
Stannel Bismarc took another step toward him, his hand reaching for something at his side. Ay’sek tried to make out what the object was, but the thing was surrounded by such radiance he had to look away.
The disembodied shaman considered charging into the body of one of the other Knights. Catching the man off-guard, Ay’sek would certainly be able to wrest away control of the body, if only temporarily.
He needed only enough time to grab Peerma’rek…
But such an endeavor was risky. Taking possession of a foreign body required an incredible amount of power, and Ay’sek had already been away from his body a long time. If he proved the weaker and failed to usurp the Knight’s body, he might not have enough energy to return to his own.
Stannel drew nearer, positioning himself between Peerma’rek and Ay’sek. The man’s brightness blinded him, and Ay’sek felt his strength ebb still more. Spewing a stream of silent curses, Ay’sek dropped through the floor, abandoned the fort, and raced back toward the goblin camp. He sailed through the air with the speed of an arrow in flight.
He was reunited with his body with a force that sent him falling backwards, hitting the ground hard. He gasped for breath, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He lay there for several minutes, watching the canopy spin around him. Even when the dizziness subsided, Ay’sek couldn’t bring himself to get up.
With a trembling hand, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow. It occurred to him that he was on the verge of swooning, but there was nothing he could do about it. As the darkness closed in on him, Ay’sek’s dark lips drew into a knowing smile.
Passage V
“Your point is moot because the goblins will regain the staff in any event,” Petton argued. “Anyway, I am taken with the idea of letting the gods decide our fate.”
Petton waited for Stannel’s rebuttal, but the other Knight was no longer even looking at him. Stannel took a step toward the middle of the room. Petton followed Stannel’s stare but saw nothing but empty space.
“Sir Bismarc?” Petton prompted.
Stannel’s hand dropped to the mace hanging from his hip and took a few steps closer to where the vuudu staff lay. For a second, Petton worried Stannel would make an attempt for the much-disputed staff, but he just stood there, staring.
Petton glanced at the others, who had said nothing since he announced he would personally accept Drekk’t’s challenge. Ruford, Dylan, and Ezekiel Silvercrown didn’t seem to know what to make of Stannel’s odd behavior either.
“What it is?” Petton demanded, his patience dwindling.
Stannel turned and met his eyes. The older Knight had gone very pale, which gave Petton gooseflesh. “I…I am not sure. I felt…a presence.”
Petton saw Stannel release his hold on the mace. The former Commander of Fort Valor—both Fort Valors—then let out an audible breath.
“Are you saying someone was here?” Ruford asked cautiously, eyeing one of the empty walls.
“A presence?” Dylan asked. “Like a spirit?”
“Or a shaman,” Stannel ventured.
Petton pressed his lips together in a line. Stannel had spoken of a black-clad goblin whose magic enabled Drekk’t and Stannel to communicate. It was conceivable Drekk’t had sent his wizard to spy on them. It was also possible Stannel was creating a ruse of some sort. Stannel was awfully anxious about the vuudu staff.
What Stannel said next only deepened Petton’s suspicions.
“The shaman was drawn to the staff. We need to hide it or, better yet, be rid of it. We could send someone through the secret passage…”
“You are no longer the commander of this fortress,” Petton said. “This staff”—he gestured toward the leering skull—“is the only thing keeping us alive at the moment. And you know as well as I that the general will not go through with the duel unless the staff is present.”
“We do not know whether Drekk’t will accept you in Colt’s stead,” Stannel replied, calm and collect as ever.
Petton’s face flushed. “He will fight me.”
“What makes you so certain?” Stannel asked.
Petton looked over at the others, who also waited for his answer. Looking each in the eye, one after another, he said, “The goblins are devious. We all know they would lure us into a trap if they could. This is why we cannot abide by their terms.
“Tomorrow morning, at first light, I will ride out to the place where Drekk’t and his shaman had come to parley today. Stannel, Dylan…I would like you to accompany me. We will bring the vuudu staff with us. If the army comes out against us, a hard ride will see us safely back inside the fort. If the shaman comes alone to steal the staff, we will do battle.
“But since the goblins are so desperate to get the staff back, I predict they will not react so hastily. Though we arrive well before the appointed time, I am confident that General Drekk’t and his shaman will meet us. Then I shall dictate my terms.
“If they do not comply, if a battle for the staff ensues among us, we will fight them, and we will win. If Drekk’t agrees to duel, then he and I will let our sword arms decide who is worthier.”
“And if the general loses?” Ruford asked. “The shaman will make a play for the staff, or I’m a drunken midge.”
“Of course he will,” Petton said. “At which point Sir Bismarc, Sir Torc, and I will kill the shaman.”
“And what if you lose, Commander?”
Petton’s gaze darted back to Stannel. “If I lose, then you will be free to make whatever decisions you like.”
The four men took a moment to digest the intricacies of his plan. Petton crossed his arms, waiting for so
meone—anyone—to speak out against him. Ultimately, they would have to do as he said. He was the Commander of Fort Faith, after all.
And yet Petton didn’t want to bully them into this course of action. He hoped they would realize his plan had merit. Couldn’t they see this was the only way to strike out against the invaders?
Dylan cleared his throat. “It is a desperate plan, but I, for one, am for it.”
Ruford grunted what might have been grudging approval.
Petton turned to Stannel, whose sober expression did not waver. It occurred to him the unusual Knight could refuse him. Petton had no true authority over the Commander of Fort Valor, even if Fort Valor was just a mountain of rubble.
Stannel and his enchanted mace were integral to Petton’s plan. He needed them as a foil against the shaman’s magic. Petton’s pulse quickened as he waited for Stannel’s reply.
“This is a great gamble,” Stannel said at last. “We risk much by bringing the staff to the goblins.”
“The staff is in peril as long as the goblins remain camped on our doorstep,” Petton stated, doing his best to keep his exasperation in check. “The Warriorlord has given us this one chance. We cannot squander it!”
Stannel sighed, and Petton thought the Knight looked older all of the sudden. “I can see that you are resolved to this course, and so I shall do my part to help.”
Petton could not keep a smile from his face. “Then it is agreed. We ride tomorrow at dawn!”
* * *
Stannel left Petton’s office with a heavy heart. He was confused, uncertain whether he had made the right choice in complying with Petton’s plot. As he walked, Stannel weighed the pros and cons until it was clear the latter would always outnumber the former.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 110