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

by David Michael Williams

  “I trust you are well?” Dylan asked. It was a polite inquiry. It also served to nurture the floundering conversation.

  “A little sore, but I can’t complain,” she replied. “What about you? I suppose Petton…Commander Petton is keeping you busy.”

  “With so many civilians in the fort, it falls to us Knights to keep order.”

  “The ‘civilians’ that followed Colt from Hylan are no strangers to harsh conditions, Dylan. They came here because they wanted a chance to fight the goblins, not to be corralled like livestock.”

  Dylan scratched his head and said, “None can question the valor of the men and women of Colt’s Army, but it is a Knight’s duty to defend the realm. We will not endanger more lives than necessary.”

  “Then you are not using all of the resources allotted to you,” Lilac argued.

  Dylan laughed, probably trying to dispel the tension. She hadn’t meant to make Dylan the target of her frustration, but he was the only Knight available at the moment to listen to her complaints.

  “We’re all ready to do our part,” she continued. “But many are beginning to think they have come here only to be coddled. They watched their family get butchered in Rydah and their friends fall outside this fort. They yearn for another chance to face the enemy.”

  He nodded resignedly, as though none of it came as any surprise to him. Recalling how impatient Dylan always was during times of inaction, Lilac wondered if Dylan felt the same way. Had he had been pacing when she came upon him?

  “Defenders’ Plague,” Dylan mumbled.

  “What?”

  “No one likes having his life placed in the hands of an enemy. It’s human nature for the besieged to want to fight the besieger, even when the odds are against him. Better to die on your own terms than someone else’s. The Knights call this Defenders’ Plague, and more than one Superian commander has succumbed to its symptoms over the years.”

  Lilac considered Dylan’s words and found that she agreed. It was the waiting more than the inevitability of their deaths that rubbed everyone’s nerves raw. Still…

  “Dylan, you’ve had Defenders’ Plague ever since I met you. Why are you suddenly in favor sitting tight?”

  She might as well have said, “What are the Knights planning?” She no longer cared. If Petton wasn’t going to let Colt’s Army fight, he owed them an explanation.

  Dylan stared into her eyes for a moment. Probably, he was taking into account everything he knew about her. She was from a noble family, but she was also a Renegade, which usually trumped everything else.

  The Knight must have come to a favorable conclusion, however, because he let a long breath and then told her about the goblin general’s challenge and Petton’s pending counter-challenge. Nothing she had witnessed of the goblins suggested they would honor the rules of a duel, but Dylan seemed confident that he, Stannel, and Petton would be able to handle anything the general and his shaman threw at them.

  “It’s a desperate plan,” Lilac said at last.

  Dylan grunted. “My words exactly.”

  “But you’re going through with it?”

  Dylan’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course. It is my duty to help Commander Petton in any way I can. My only regret is that I cannot fight Drekk’t in Petton’s place. I’m sure that was the goblin we saw Colt fighting.”

  He didn’t have to say more. The events were already playing in her mind—Colt fighting with superhuman skill, accomplishing feats that Lilac would not have thought possible. She had seen Colt spar before. Hell, she had dueled him herself. But never before had the young commander displayed that level of expertise.

  If he had, Lilac wouldn’t be alive today.

  “Will Petton carry the crystal sword into battle?” she asked.

  Dylan looked puzzled by the question. “I don’t think so. For one thing, it’s not his to take, and for another, he desires a fair fight against Drekk’t. Neither vuudu nor the magic of Colt’s sword will be allowed to sully the sanctity of the duel.”

  “What about you? Stannel has his mace, which is possessed of the power of his god. Please…take this.”

  Dylan’s eyes were drawn to the blade she unsheathed and held out to him. Aside from its antiquated stylings, the vorpal sword looked common enough, but Dylan had fought beside her outside the fort. He had seen her cleave through solid steel.

  “I…I couldn’t accept,” Dylan replied, his eyes lingering on the vorpal sword.

  “I insist.” Lilac returned the blade to its sheath, removed the scabbard from her belt, and handed the weapon to Dylan. “Since I cannot lend my sword arm to this enterprise, then at least allow me to lend my sword.”

  Dylan hesitated.

  “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of its magic,” Lilac teased.

  The matter resolved, Dylan wasted no time in removing his own sword. When he handed it to her, accepting hers at the same time, he said, “Please take care of my blade in the meantime. Though it has no magic, it has seen me through many battles.”

  Lilac took Dylan’s sword and affixed it to her hip. It was much heavier than the vorpal sword, and she wondered if she’d even be able to wield the weapon if it came down to it. She also wondered what had possessed her give up the treasured vorpal sword.

  He’s not my brother, she reminded herself. Protecting him won’t bring Gabriel or Ragellan back. Or Colt.

  They stared at each another for a few seconds, not quite sure what to say next.

  “You must rise with the dawn,” Lilac said suddenly. “I shouldn’t keep you.”

  Dylan smiled. “I shouldn’t wonder if I stay up half the night. My heart quickens at the thought of seeing Drekk’t tomorrow.”

  “Be safe, Dylan.”

  “I will, and I’ll keep your sword safe as well,” Dylan promised.

  Without another word, the Knight bowed stiffly and walked away. Lilac watched him go, silently praying Dylan would not prove to be the next friend of hers to die.

  Passage VII

  Drekk’t awoke to cries of alarm. By the time an officer reached his tent, he was more than half-dressed in his battle gear. As the goblin relayed what the sentries had seen, Drekk’t fastened the buckles of his plate armor and pulled his sword partway out of its sheath to make sure the thing hadn’t frozen in place.

  “You are certain that there are only three of them?” Drekk’t asked after the officer finished his report.

  “Yes, n’patrek.”

  “And all three are Knights?”

  “As far as the lookouts could discern.”

  Drekk’t tugged at the straps of his breastplate, testing for signs of wear. Mentally, he ran through scenario after scenario in an attempt to understand the humans’ treachery. The duel was not to take place until noon, but here it was, shortly after dawn.

  Perhaps the midge had cloaked a cavalcade of Knights in a spell of invisibility, and even now they waited behind the three emissaries. But if that is the trick, why bother to send any visible troops? he wondered.

  In the end, Drekk’t deduced the Knights’ early arrival was planned, in part, to catch him off guard. All he could do was take the morning one step at a time.

  Drekk’t told the officer to keep the troops back. He was on his way over to the opening in the tent when a familiar silhouette darkened the threshold. Ay’sek didn’t wait to be invited in. The obsequious officer scrambled out of the shaman’s way, bowing repeatedly and mumbling a litany of greetings and praises.

  Drekk’t wanted nothing more than to backhand the sycophant, but he settled for a sharp glare that silenced the goblin as effectively as a blow to face.

  If Ay’sek had even noticed the officer, he made no sign. To Drekk’t he said, “They bring with them Peerma’rek.”

  “Is the midge among them?” Drekk’t asked.

  “No.”

  “What about his magic? Are they ensorcelled?”

  “No,” Ay’sek said again, but after a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Which
is not to say the Knights don’t possess magic of their own.”

  Drekk’t crossed his metal-covered arms, waiting for the shaman to explain himself.

  “Some god of good watches over Stannel Bismarc,” Ay’sek said. “I can sense it even from afar. And there is something else…”

  “What?”

  “I do not know yet,” Ay’sek snapped. “Peerma’rek has an aura of its own, one that overshadows whatever other magic the Knights have with them.”

  Drekk’t could barely keep the grin from his face. Surely it was Colt’s crystal sword.

  “But we needn’t to walk into the trap in order to spring it,” the shaman added. “Allow me to gather a small force—”

  “No.”

  Ay’sek’s gnashed his teeth.

  “If we give them cause to doubt us,” Drekk’t said, “they’ll run back to their fortress, and we might never get another chance to retrieve the staff.”

  “They’ll not flee,” Ay’sek argued. “If you give me a chance, I will prove that the Chosen of the Chosen are superior to all other spell-casters.”

  Drekk’t was already shaking his head. “I have made up my mind, Master Ay’sek.”

  To Drekk’t private relief, Ay’sek did not argue further. The shaman’s lips curled into a slight smile. He wondered what the other goblin found so amusing but had no time to ponder it.

  Regardless, nothing was going to dampen his spirits today, not when Saerylton Crystalus had accepted his challenge and at that very moment was waiting his arrival.

  * * *

  Petton absently patted the neck of his piebald charger. He knew not the name of the beast nor where it had come from. Had it sailed to Capricon with Petton and the other Knights, or had it arrived with Colt’s Army?

  He thought the unknown horse a fitting representative of the fortress, a bastion of inconsistency that was currently being called by no less than three names.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dylan looking at him. He ignored the younger Knight and continued to stare straight ahead at the camp that had sprung up around them like weeds around a lake. With each passing minute, Petton’s nerves tightened.

  He let out a breath and watched the vapor undulate before him. Until the goblins made a direct move against them, he would hold fast, though he hoped to Pintor they wouldn’t still be sitting there at noontime.

  He would sooner die than show weakness before monsters threatening Fort Colt.

  Petton scoffed at the notion. As much as he respected Saerylton Crystalus, the young commander’s death did not warrant having a fortress named after him. Not that the Knighthood would ever officially sanction something as ridiculous-sounding as “Fort Colt.”

  Fort Crystalus on the other hand…

  Petton knew the real reason the idea irked him was because he was jealous of the dead man. Saerylton’s style of leadership had been unconventional at best. And he had abandoned his post at a crucial junction before dying as a result of an ill-planned battle he himself had initiated.

  While Petton was the better commander, he knew he would never enjoy the same degree of love and respect the men bestowed upon their Commander Colt.

  Petton snapped out of his daydream when three dark shapes emerged from the goblin camp. Although they were on foot, the envoys approached with haste, covering the distance between them in a remarkably short span.

  As the goblins drew closer, Petton studied his adversary. The one in the middle, clad in suit of armor that would have made any Knight proud, was surely General Drekk’t. Like Petton, the goblin wore an open-faced helm, though he did not carry a shield. Petton could not help but notice Superius’s sun-and-sword standard emblazoned on the broadsword’s scabbard hanging—along with an assortment of smaller blades—from the general’s belt.

  It was only when Drekk’t drew near enough for Petton to look into the goblin’s eyes—eyes both bestial and intelligent—that the new Commander of Fort Faith tasted his first sip of doubt.

  Before Petton could make any introductions or utter a greeting, Drekk’t exchanged glances with the black-robed goblin on his right and shouted something Petton would have understood even without the shaman’s enchantment.

  Drekk’t’s predatory eyes shot daggers at Petton. “Where in the hells is Saerylton Crystalus?”

  * * *

  Drekk’t’s glare told Ay’sek the general suspected he had known of Colt’s absence from the start. This, of course, was true. And now that Drekk’t realized he was being robbed of his revenge, Ay’sek enjoyed another dose of spiteful delight.

  “Where in the hells is Saerylton Crystalus?”

  All three humans kept their composure, a testament to their mettle. Ay’sek, for one, fully expected Drekk’t to draw his sword and lunge at the nearest Knight.

  “He is inside the fort, of course,” the Knight in the middle said. “I am Sir Gaelor Petton. I have come to accept your challenge in the commander’s place.”

  Drekk’t fumed. Ay’sek tensed, waiting for the general to charge headlong at Gaelor Petton. Silently, he urged Drekk’t to do it. While Drekk’t—and the random soldier whom Drekk’t had dragged along with them—kept the Knights busy, Ay’sek would make a play for Peerma’rek.

  He glanced at the staff, which was tied to the saddle of Stannel Bismarc’s horse. He looked up at the man. The warrior priest stared back.

  Drekk’t let out a stream of curses. At least some of them must have been translatable, for the three Knights’ faces hardened at the foul declarations and filthy promises.

  “My terms were to fight Saerylton Crystalus, not his lackey!” Drekk’t roared.

  “Yet here I am,” the human shouted back. “If you will not face me as a substitute for Commander Crystalus, then you will have no duel, and we will take the staff back into our fort.”

  Ay’sek privately commended the Knight for his audacity. He had put Drekk’t in a delicate position. Obviously, the general had betrayed too much of his hatred for Saerylton Crystalus to Stannel. By denying Drekk’t what he desired most, the humans fueled his rage without giving him any outlet aside from themselves.

  One way or another, there was going to be a battle, though at that moment. The only question was whether Drekk’t would bother with a formal duel or simply dive right in.

  For several long minutes, the general did not speak. Ay’sek was astonished by Drekk’t’s self-control in the face of the human’s trickery. The Knights had used their leverage as cunningly as any goblin. Drekk’t could not deny Petton’s offer unless he wanted to admit to himself, Ay’sek, and the Goblinfather that he had arranged the duel for vengeance’s sake.

  “Very well,” Drekk’t growled, “You and I will fight.”

  As the two combatants negotiated the rules—a battle unto the death, no magic of any kind, victor gets the staff—Ay’sek stole another glance at Peerma’rek. The yellowed skull smiled back at him.

  There were rumors about that skull. Some said it was the skull of the greatest shaman Altaerra had ever known. Others insisted it had belonged to a demigod, the half-mortal son of Upsinous. Ay’sek could not take his eyes off of the staff. He longed to hold it, to learn its secrets, and to supplement his own vuudu with its power.

  Meanwhile, Gaelor Petton dismounted, and the duelists prepared for combat.

  * * *

  Petton expected Drekk’t to immediately take the offensive. Yet the general held back and crouched low, his knees bent and back hunched. Despite the knives and dirks at his disposal, Drekk’t unsheathed only his sword, which, upon closer inspection, was a hand-and-a-half sword.

  Hand-and-a-half swords—or bastard swords, as they were sometimes called—could be wielded with either one or both hands. For the moment, Drekk’t’s left hand remained empty, his fingers splayed, ready to grab.

  The insignia engraved on the sword’s crosspiece reminded Petton that Drekk’t had stolen the weapon from a dead Knight. Petton planned to avenge that unknown warrior, along with Saerylton Cryst
alus and the other Knights who had lost their lives to Drekk’t’s army.

  Petton held his broadsword out before him. The weapon had been a gift from his father, a present bestowed upon him the day he was knighted. Unlike many within the Order, Gaelor Petton was a first-generation Knight of Superius.

  He had known none of the benefits that came with a famous surname. Some of the squires in his class had been taught the ways of the Knighthood since birth, thanks to fathers or uncles whose only wish was for their kin was to follow in their footsteps.

  Petton had known next to nothing about the laws and customs of the Knights of Superius, but he quickly absorbed the Knights’ culture like a sponge. His favorite lessons had always been about swordplay. After many hours of physical testing, shedding sweat and blood on a daily basis, Gaelor Petton had excelled beyond most in his class.

  Twenty-three years later, he would put those lessons to the test.

  He came at the goblin with a roar, swinging his broadsword at the fiend’s flank even as he plowed his ovular shield into his opponent’s face. At the last moment, Drekk’t’s knees straightened, propelling the goblin sideways. Petton planted his left foot in the ground to slow his charge and altered the angle of his shield, holding it in front of him to block any surprise attacks.

  But Drekk’t was more interested in deflecting Petton’s sword, which he did expertly, the hand-and-a-half sword connecting with Petton’s broadsword midway between hilt and tip. Petton was about to pull back for a second swing, but he felt a sudden pressure behind Drekk’t’s sword as the goblin tried to push Petton’s sword aside.

  Instinctively, Petton pushed back. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he managed to stop the goblin’s progress. The two combatants remained locked together for several seconds. Drekk’t’s orange eyes burned with an intensity that cut through Petton’s mind like a razor. He knew, suddenly, that the goblin wasn’t using his full strength—just enough to keep Petton at bay.