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

by David Michael Williams

  Drekk’t wanted Petton to tire himself out.

  Petton seethed. He was no weakling, but goblins were innately stronger than men. On top of that, Drekk’t was proving to be far more cunning than Petton had expected. The goblins Petton had fought prior had thrown themselves at him with abandon, hoping to overwhelm him with brawn alone. Drekk’t, however, had been gifted with an attribute few of his kind displayed—patience.

  Knowing he could not afford to be patient lest he wear himself out, Petton pulled back. As he took a few steps away from his opponent, he swung his shield in front of him to defend against Drekk’t’s counterattack. Petton braced himself against the stroke that battered his shield like a hammer upon an anvil.

  He gritted his teeth and shifted his weight forward. As his shield deflected Drekk’t’s sword, he made swung his broadsword again. To Petton’s surprise, Drekk’t accepted the blow. In fact, he stepped into it, thrusting forth his breastplate as though it were a shield.

  The impact hardly slowed the goblin. Before Petton could react, Drekk’t’s left hand struck out, going for Petton’s exposed right flank.

  He had not seen Drekk’t draw the knife. He spotting the glint of sunlight on metal at the last second and swept his sword arm out, trusting his gauntlet to deflect the blade. At the same time, he pushed his shield outward in hopes of forcing Drekk’t back.

  The two adversaries connected on both fronts simultaneously. The knife grazed Petton’s arm, his armor protecting him from the jagged blade. Petton had put all of his weight behind his shield. Had he been facing a human foe, the maneuver would have landed the man on his ass. As it was, Drekk’t merely grunted and recoiled back a step.

  The maneuver had bought Petton a little time but naught else.

  He took a swing at Drekk’t’s head. This time, the goblin did not rely on his armor. Drekk’t ducked, returning to his low crouch. Petton’s blade sailed over the goblin’s head. He had not expected to connect. With Drekk’t on the defensive, Petton took the opportunity to put more space between them.

  The first exchange was over, and while no damage had been scored, Petton felt beads of sweat trickling his skin under his armor. The hair beneath his helmet was matted to his scalp. He was breathing hard, and the muscles in his sword arm had already begun to burn.

  It was in that brief moment of respite that Petton realized he had underestimated Drekk’t.

  The knowledge that the goblin general would almost certainly kill him filled Petton with shame. And yet he had never questioned at least one aspect of his life: Sir Gaelor Petton, Knight of Superius, would one day die in battle.

  Along with the certainty of his imminent death came a feeling of acceptance. If he were destined to fall to Drekk’t’s sword, then so be it. He would fight honorably and die honorably. What more could be asked of a Knight?

  No one would ever sing songs of his courageous sacrifice, and there would never be a Fort Petton, but by all the gods of good, he would fight as hard in this, his final battle, as he had in every battle leading up to it.

  Petton charged forward, initiating the second encounter. He came at the goblin with a series of heavy strokes, giving Drekk’t no time to do anything but dodge and parry. Abandoning strategy, he surrendered to his most basic instincts.

  As they traded blows, Petton found that his mind was far removed from the fight. His body acted and reacted, but his thoughts roamed free. He wondered if, when he saw his father in Paradise, the old man would be proud of him. He thought about his mother back in Superius and about the children he would never have.

  He barely noticed when his shield flew from his grasp. Without questioning the course of events that had led up to it, Petton unconsciously brought his hands together. With both hands gripping the hilt, he swung his broadsword like a woodsman’s axe. Drekk’t cried out as the blade produced a sizable dent in his pauldron and the top of his breastplate, but even the goblin’s vile curses weren’t enough to bring Petton’s mind back to the present.

  His thoughts turned next to the two Knights who had accompanied him onto the field. A pang of guilt struck him when he realized he had likely doomed Stannel and Dylan to share his fate. Yet they were Knights too, and as such, dying was part of their duty.

  Ezekiel Silvercrown would be the new Commander of Fort Faith—the fourth commander of the castle in so short a time. Zeke would likely be the last Commander of Fort Faith; when the goblins got their staff back, nothing would stop them from laying waste to the fort and its defenders.

  That bitter realization was a poison to Petton. Giving his life to a cause was one thing, but he had pitted more than his personal welfare in this contest. He knew then that Stannel had been right. Leaving his men to die at the hands of the goblins was tragic, but allowing the enemy to walk away with the vuudu staff…

  That was unforgivable.

  Now that he had gotten it into his head that he was to die honorably in battle, Petton was reluctant to shrug off that strange comfort. However, when he looked at Drekk’t’s face, he no longer saw the goblin’s sneering visage, but rather than hollow-eyed skull from the vuudu staff.

  If the goblins reclaimed the staff, his death would be the first of many. What would he tell Colt when he saw him in the afterlife? How could he admit he had given up what the young commander had fought so desperately to keep?

  He had to end this.

  Although it went against every instinct, Petton broke away from Drekk’t, brought his sword down to his side, and yelled, “Hold!”

  Drekk’t didn’t hesitate in the slightest.

  The general leaped forward, and it was all Petton could do to bring his sword up in time. It was an ugly block, but somehow he managed to stop with Drekk’t’s blade. The two weapons met with a crash. Then, inexplicably, Petton was overbalanced.

  Petton’s confusion lasted only as long as it took for Drekk’t to plunge the bastard sword into his breast. The Knight looked down at the goblin’s sword, which was planted hilt-deep in his chest. He then looked at his own sword. The blade had been severed just above the crosspiece.

  Thick, warm liquid welled up in Petton’s throat. He coughed, sending a spray of blood into Drekk’t’s face. The goblin pulled back abruptly, ripping his sword from Petton’s body. The move hurt Petton far more than the initial stab had. The pain was so overwhelming he didn’t feel himself fall.

  The goblin loomed over him. Petton braced himself for another blow. He must have closed his eyes, though, because complete darkness replaced the monster. The anticipated agony from a final stab never came.

  Then pain itself became a fast-fading memory.

  Passage VIII

  Stannel felt a sharp pain in his chest as he watched the goblin general impale Gaelor Petton. Stunned by how quickly and brutally the duel had ended, he could only hold his breath as the Knight slumped to the ground and died.

  Beside him, Dylan leaped from his horse and drew his sword in one swift motion.

  Before Stannel could react, Dylan rushed Drekk’t. Stannel cried out to his companion, but Dylan paid him no mind.

  Stannel expected to find the shaman already casting a spell. But the dark-robed goblin merely watched him, possibly waiting for him to make a move. The third goblin, however, reached for his axe and ran to his general’s side.

  Drekk’t met Dylan’s onslaught with measured strokes, deflecting the Knight’s sword again and again. If Drekk’t had tired at all during his match with Petton, he showed no signs of it. Dylan’s assault was relentless, and even when the axe-wielding goblin came at him from the side, Dylan turned his attention away from Drekk’t only long enough to force the other goblin back with a wild swing.

  The situation was rapidly deteriorating, but Stannel dared not interfere. The shaman was still staring at him, as though daring to break the unspoken stalemate. Provoking the shaman into launching his spells could easily doom both Knights.

  Dylan shouted at Drekk’t, emphasizing his words with every swing of his sword. “You
bastard! He said, ‘Hold’! He wanted to talk!”

  Stannel silently petitioned the Great Protector for a way out. Was there any scenario where he and Dylan left the battlefield unharmed and with the vuudu staff?

  Dylan pressed forward, keeping Drekk’t occupied with a series of swift strokes. It was all Drekk’t could do to block them. The other goblin came at Dylan again, this time from behind. The goblin swung his axe in a horizontal arc aimed at the Knight’s lower back.

  Stannel’s breath caught in his throat, certain Dylan would soon join Petton in death.

  But Dylan must have heard the goblin coming. Pivoting with his right leg, the Knight spun around. His sword connected with the head of the axe.

  Stannel winced, expecting the goblin’s mighty swing to knock the sword aside and keep on going.

  The axe struck Dylan’s sword, and a part of it did keep going—the broken portion. Somehow, Dylan’s sword had cleaved through the flat, broad blade of the axe, sending the majority of it flying off to the side.

  At the sudden shift in weight, the goblin’s momentum sent him pitching forward. Dylan followed through with a second stroke that bit deep into the goblin’s back. The creature fell face-first to the ground, where he lay screaming in pain.

  Stannel’s gaze shot back to the shaman, certain the axe-wielder’s death would spur him into action. But the shaman simply watched the two remaining combatants. Stannel thought the goblin looked perplexed.

  In that moment of distraction, Stannel saw his chance to run. His first priority was to keep the staff away from the goblins. The shaman would certainly notice if he turned his horse around and retreated at a full gallop. Yet he had to try, even though it might cost Dylan his life.

  Stannel hesitated.

  Something was amiss. Why wasn’t the shaman helping his general? And how had Dylan managed to decapitate that battle-axe? As Stannel tried to unravel those mysteries, his hand sought the comfort of his mace.

  Nearby, Dylan threw himself at Drekk’t with abandon. When presented with an obvious opening in Drekk’t’s defenses, the Knight took it. Stannel saw the ruse for what it was, and he mentally urged Dylan to pull back.

  Dylan’s sword connected with Drekk’t’s left pauldron. Stannel expected the goblin to accept the blow—as he had done during his duel with Petton—and to then counter with the same deadly lunge that had killed the commander.

  As the sword smacked into Drekk’t’s protected shoulder, the general made no attempt to block it. At the same time, Drekk’t thrust his sword at Dylan’s midsection. If the manner in which Petton had been dispatched was any indication of Drekk’t’s strength, Dylan was about to find himself skewered like a boar on a spit.

  Stannel prayed.

  Drekk’t’s sword homed in on Dylan’s belly. But Stannel could see the attack had been compromised. Both warriors let out a cry and fell back. Dylan’s free hand went to where Drekk’t sword had grazed his side, penetrating his mail and the flesh beneath. Drekk’t inspected his shoulder, which was covered in black blood.

  It was unlikely the younger Knight would have time to get back to his horse before Drekk’t came at him again. It was even less likely the two of them would be able to escape the shaman’s magic. Yet they had to try.

  “Dylan!” Stannel shouted.

  The younger Knight made no reply. For the moment, everything was unnaturally quiet. Neither Drekk’t nor Dylan showed any signs of renewing their attacks. After measuring the severity of their wounds, both warriors looked down at their swords.

  Wounds that should have been prevented by armor, and swords with the power to cut through metal, Stannel thought.

  For the first time, Stannel noticed that Dylan’s weapon was smaller and lighter than the one he usually carried. It wasn’t Chrysaal-rûn, but the crystal sword wasn’t the only enchanted blade at Fort Faith. The female Renegade who had accompanied Colt to Rydah also owned a sword of remarkable properties…

  All at once, Stannel realized what had happened.

  “Foul play!”

  Stannel dismounted and hurried over to where Petton lay. He passed by the commander’s broken sword, noting the impossibly straight edge of the break. Then he crouched beside Petton. The only damage that had been done to Petton’s breastplate was the single puncture in its center, the fatal blow.

  Drekk’t sword had not found the space between plates, as Stannel had initially thought. The general had penetrated a quarter-inch of solid steel.

  Stannel had seen holes in armor like this before. However, those had been dealt by nine-foot lances with the force of a charging steed behind them. The goblins were a strong people, but they were not that strong.

  By this time, Dylan had joined him, alternating his gaze between the dead Knight, Drekk’t, and the shaman. Stannel rose and took appraisal of Dylan’s wound, which bled freely though the man’s fingers and down his side. By all appearances, the goblin’s sword had missed any vital organs, but Stannel worried the younger Knight would bleed out if the wound were not treated soon.

  The hole in his cuirass was similar in size and shape to that in Petton’s armor.

  Fully aware that he had his back to the shaman—and keeping his hand near his mace—Stannel took a step closer to Drekk’t.

  Pointing an accusing finger at the general, he said, “There was to be no magic in the duel, but clearly your sword has magical properties. Therefore, the match is forfeit!”

  Stannel tensed as the words left his mouth. When Drekk’t made no move against him, he glanced back at the shaman. The robed goblin said nothing, for which Stannel was thankful. The third goblin lay unmoving where he had fallen, the yellow grass stained by his dark blood.

  He looked back at Drekk’t in time to see the general plant his blade deep into the frozen ground with ease.

  “It is true!” Drekk’t snarled.

  The startled confession took Stannel by surprise. When Drekk’t withdrew his sword from its earthen scabbard and stormed over to him, Stannel loosed his mace and prepared for the attack.

  But rather than confront him, Drekk’t strode past him and demanded of the shaman, “What have you done, Ay’sek?”

  Thanks to the vuudu enchantment, Stannel understood the goblins’ words. During the course of the argument that followed, it quickly became clear that the shaman, Ay’sek, had acted without Drekk’t’s consent—the general was not at all happy about it.

  Ay’sek must have cast his spell during the duel, when no one was paying him any attention. Probably, he had had the incantation prepared from the start; the spell would have been invaluable if Drekk’t had been pitted against Colt and his crystal sword.

  “Why are you shouting at me?” Ay’sek snapped. “We have but to dispatch these two humans, and the prize is ours!”

  Stannel tightened his grip on his mace, as Drekk’t’s bestial eyes fixed on Dylan and him. He resisted the urge to glance back at where the vuudu staff was secured to his horse’s saddle.

  Drekk’t’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer. What the general said next surprised everyone, especially the shaman.

  “We have violated the terms of the duel. We will not compound our treachery by killing those who accepted our oath in good faith.”

  Stannel was speechless, as was Dylan. The two Knights exchanged a puzzled look, though neither put his weapon away.

  “What foolish babble is this?” the shaman demanded. “We have a mission to—”

  The shaman’s words were cut off when Drekk’t turned on him and positioned his blade mere inches from the other goblin’s neck.

  “I am your leader,” he said calmly. “You will obey me, or this sword you enchanted will be the instrument of your death.”

  Ay’sek’s eyes widened. Stannel saw in his expression first surprise, then indignation, followed almost immediately by visceral malice.

  “To make amends for my unintentional breech in combat, I will ensure your safe return to the fortress,” Drekk’t told the Knights.


  “With the staff?” Stannel asked.

  Drekk’t nodded. “You may keep it for now. If my initial demands are not met, then my army will bring your castle to the ground, and I will pry the staff from your stiff, dead grip.”

  “Initial terms?” Dylan asked.

  “I will have my duel with Saerylton Crystalus…his magical sword against mine. If your commander does not appear on this spot at dawn two days hence, the blood of everyone in that castle will be on his hands.”

  “I will relay your order to our commander,” Stannel said.

  As much as he despised being deceptive—even to a goblin—he had no intension of informing Drekk’t that Colt was dead. He wondered why Drekk’t had given them two full days to prepare, but the dark blood covering the general’s shoulder seemed to explain Drekk’t’s supposed charity.

  There were no more words exchanged between the two parties. Dylan and Stannel dragged Petton’s body over to his horse and draped the dead Knight over the horse that had brought him out onto the field. It would be slow riding back to the fort for Stannel, who held the reins of Petton’s horse.

  Dylan would not be convinced to ride off ahead, despite his injury.

  “I trust the goblins as far as I can smell them,” he said to Stannel. “If they make a play for the staff, I’ll not leave you to fight them alone.”

  Stannel nodded. Wary though he was of further betrayal from the goblins, he fell into introspective silence. There were many matters weighing heavily on his mind, not the least of which was the senseless death of Gaelor Petton.

  So distracted was Stannel by the predictably dire future for the defenders of the fort, he didn’t even notice when large, heavy snowflakes began falling from the sky.

  * * *

  General and shaman departed the battlefield, a heavy silence between them. Neither gave their dead comrade a second glance. The wretched goblin would rot where he lay, as was dictated by the Code of the Crusade.

  Unlike the sentimental humans, a goblin would never take a carcass he didn’t intend to eat. The dead never inconvenienced the living, and often a goblin served a purpose even in death. A pile of slain warriors at the base of a wall provided a ramp for the rest of the army—even as fallen officers served as figurative stepping-stones for those of lower ranking.