Ay’sek resisted the urge to launch a spell at Drekk’t as they walked back to camp. Even with the vuudu-enhanced sword, the general was no match for him. A single spell would spill Drekk’t’s guts upon the ground.
If the humans not been there when Drekk’t had threatened him, Ay’sek might have killed him then and there. But Ay’sek would not risk inciting a battle that pitted him against Drekk’t and the two remaining Knights.
By the time the humans left, Ay’sek had regained his composure. Drekk’t would survive the day, but Ay’sek swore by the Goblinfather that in two days, the general would die. Ay’sek could remove the enchantment as easily as he had created it. Nullifying the spell during the upcoming fight with Colt would rob Drekk’t of his revenge as well as his life.
Ay’sek wondered if Saerylton Crystalus would show up for the duel. Maybe the Knights would send another substitute. Or maybe they wouldn’t come out at all. In that case, Drekk’t would attack the fortress again.
That possibility was problematic for Ay’sek. While he could kill Drekk’t in the confusion of battle, there was always the chance his treason would be discovered. Therefore, it was in Ay’sek’s best interest for the duel to occur. The number of witnesses would be minimal…
Even as he plotted Drekk’t’s murder, Ay’sek suspected Drekk’t was doing the same for him.
Once they reached camp, they parted ways without comment. Despite his serious injury, Drekk’t’s did not ask for any magical treatment. It was just as well. Ay’sek needed all of his strength for what lay ahead.
Let Drekk’t die from an infection, Ay’sek thought. It’s better than he deserves!
The shaman made haste for his private tent, ignoring the curious expressions he met along the way. None of the warriors would learn what had happened on the battlefield that day, but each and every soldier already must realize their general’s behavior was atypical.
How long before the warriors see Drekk’t for the imbecile he is? Ay’sek wondered. How long before one of them assassinates him for the good of all?
Not soon enough.
Once inside his tent, Ay’sek wasted no time in channeling the power of Upsinous into various wards of protection imbued upon his tent and his body. He didn’t think it likely Drekk’t would try to kill him—Drekk’t couldn’t talk to the humans without him—but neither would he take chances.
Even the meekest prey became a predator when backed into a corner.
Ay’sek took a seat behind the crate containing the various ingredients he would need for the spell. He recalled then what the far-sight ritual had revealed. Both good and bad would result from Drekk’t’s plan. Perhaps the Goblinfather had meant that things would end well for Ay’sek but bad for Drekk’t.
He shrugged. Prophecy was simply a guide. He would devise his own destiny.
Pushing augury from his mind, Ay’sek opened his soul to Upsinous, eager to enter the trance that would give him with the words to the spell he needed.
* * *
The small room that had served as Petton’s office seemed far too empty to Stannel as he informed Ezekiel Silvercrown and Ruford Berwyn of that morning’s tragedy.
Both men had surely suspected bad news was to come; Petton and Dylan had been taken to the infirmary straightaway. But it was up to Stannel to tell Zeke and Ruford that the commander was dead.
When Stannel finished his account of the duel, Zeke Silvercrown said, “He died bravely, fighting for what he thought was right. A Knight could wish for no better fate.”
Stannel did not necessarily agree, but he held his tongue. He wondered how close Petton and Zeke had been. Moreover, Stannel wondered whether Zeke Silvercrown shared Petton’s low estimation of the vuudu staff’s worth. Perhaps the new commander would trade the staff for the goblins’ empty promise to leave the island in peace.
Stannel reminded himself that the matter was beyond his immediate control. He had willingly stepped down as the Commander of new Fort Valor. Guilt, doubt, and fear had prompted the self-demotion. He could see that now. He hadn’t wanted to hold so many lives in his hands, not after the Knights of old Fort Valor had slipped through his fingers, one and all.
If he hadn’t relinquished his command, Gaelor Petton might still be alive. But then again, maybe not. Since Stannel would never have agreed to a duel with Drekk’t, the general would have probably ordered a full assault on the castle already.
If nothing else, Petton had bought them some time. It was up to Ezekiel Silvercrown, the next in line for command, to decide what to do with it.
“General Drekk’t still believes Saerylton Crystalus leads us,” Stannel said to Zeke. “I can only pray that Commander Silvercrown will not ride out to face the goblin general, as Commander Petton did before him.”
Zeke Silvercrown opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Stannel pitied the man. While being promoted to such a high rank should have been the honor of a lifetime, Ezekiel Silvercrown could take little joy in his advancement, which had resulted from not one, but two untimely deaths.
Would Zeke’s uncertainty cause him to overcompensate, making bold decisions like Petton had? Would he too ride out to find death rather than live with the seemingly hopeless situation he was presented with?
It had never sat well with Stannel that a single man should determine the fate of so many. From commanders to kings, they were all just men—susceptible to fear and capable of error.
Zeke Silvercrown took a deep breath. “I concede to your wisdom and experience, Sir Bismarc. Please lead us as the Commander of Fort Valor once more.”
Whatever he expected Zeke to say, that was not it.
In his mind, Stannel saw the ruins of the first Fort Valor, imagined the horrible manner in which his men had died. He had failed that fortress. Now he was being asked to carry the burden of command again. How easy it would be to say no, to let the responsibility fall on someone else’s shoulders.
For a split second, he hated Zeke Silvercrown for putting him in that position, but he hated himself more for his cowardice. Someone had to take control of the fort, and he was the most qualified.
Was Pintor giving him a chance to redeem himself or simply testing his faith?
“Very well,” Stannel said in a near-whisper. “I accept.”
Zeke did not mask his relief.
Ruford grunted. “A fort with an identity crisis, an army of thousands demanding what can’t be delivered, and our lives hinged on a staff that I, for one, can’t wait to be rid of…so what’s our next move, Commander?”
Stannel noted the helplessness and frustration in Ruford’s words. Though a leader in his own right, Ruford would abide by whatever the Knights of Superius decided.
“I do not know,” Stannel admitted, “but neither do I intend to determine that on my own. I will host a council this evening, inviting key members of our united army to speak their minds.
“If we are to find hope in our darkest hour, we must find it together.”
Passage IX
Jer’malz’s eyes widened at the sight of the general’s injury. As Drekk’t snarled at the whelp of a soldier trying to bandage his arm, Jer’malz glanced at Ay’goar. The other lieutenant’s expression was as guarded as his own.
Neither of them had had any say in Drekk’t’s decision to engage the fort’s commander in one-on-one combat. When they had first been told of the duel, Jer’malz had thought Drekk’t was joking—not that the general was known for his sense of humor.
Jer’malz lowered his gaze when Drekk’t turned his full attention back to Ay’goar and him. Judging by the general’s temperament, the duel had not gone well. Jer’malz did not expect to get a full account of the battle, though they deserved an explanation.
Yet none was forthcoming. Instead, Drekk’t started giving orders.
Jer’malz analyzed the commands, trying to piece together what might have happened between Drekk’t and the human commander. Drekk’t didn’t have the staff, and since the general was
not rallying the army for an attack, he was still planning to recover the talisman on his own.
The fact that Ay’sek wasn’t tending to Drekk’t’s wound meant the two of them still weren’t working in concert. Drekk’t and Ay’sek’s mutual hatred did not concern Jer’malz, but the consequences of it did.
Whatever the general and the shaman were planning—separately or together—it meant the rest of the army was going to have to wait two more days before the chance to fight presented itself. And even then there was no guarantee.
Two days were not so long when compared to how much time they had already invested in the campaign. But two days felt an eternity when you were living in hell.
Winter’s chill had wrapped itself around Jer’malz bones like a constrictor snake. According to the legends, goblinkind had once dwelled in deep caverns far beneath ancient mountains in the West. Goblins could survive in even the coldest weather, though it slowed their blood and made them sluggish.
Some of the warriors had fallen ill. Thankfully, the ailment was not contagious. The fever of dissent, however, had spread through the ranks like wildfire. In circumstances such as these, mutiny was not unheard of.
At least we have food, Jer’malz thought. The most recent battle had provided fresh meat, but already they were operating on reduced rations. When the food ran out, the soldiers would almost certainly turn on each other; the army would literally cannibalize itself.
As a veteran officer, Drekk’t had to know all of this. So why did it seem as though he no longer cared about the war?
When Drekk’t finished listing what needed to be done to prepare for the second duel, Ay’goar bowed and said, “Yes, n’patrek.”
Jer’malz echoed the automatic response, but when Drekk’t turned his back to him—a clear indication the meeting was over—Jer’malz could no longer hold his tongue.
“N’patrek, while we wait for the moment to strike, the army is exposed to an enemy more formidable than the humans. The brunt of winter assails us—”
“What is your point?” Drekk’t snapped.
“Some of the soldiers are ill. If we relocated a fraction of our forces to the nearby woodlands, we could rotate the troops and lessen the casualties.”
Drekk’t took a step closer to Jer’malz. “You would have fall back? Now?”
“No…no, n’patrek,” he stammered. “I’m saying we should designate a place to keep the sick. The sickness does not seem to be catching, but why take chances?”
The general only glared at him, prompting Jer’malz to add, “If nothing else, it would give the soldiers something to do.”
Drekk’t let out a terrible laugh that made Jer’malz flinch. “You are bored, are you, Jer’malz?”
“N’patrek, no—!”
“I know of just the errand for you. There is an abandoned village to the southwest. It used to be a mining town. You will take fifty goblins to appraise the location for possible habitation.”
“Me, n’patrek?”
Drekk’t grinned evilly. “It was your idea, Jer’malz. Maybe you will come to appreciate periods of calm after you have walked there and back without rest.”
Jer’malz opened his mouth to say something in his defense, but the dark glare Drekk’t fixed on him stole the air from his lungs. He could only bow, whispering a deferential “Yes, n’patrek” before hurrying out of the tent.
He stormed away from the tent, pointedly avoiding Ay’goar. The other lieutenant had said nothing to support Jer’malz’s perfectly reasonable suggestion. Of course, Jer’malz probably would have handled the situation the same way if Ay’goar had overstepped his bounds.
Jer’malz decided he would have to be wary upon his return to the camp. If something happened to Drekk’t while he was gone—the general was injured, after all—Ay’goar would probably welcome Jer’malz home with a dagger in the dark.
As he gathered his squadron, Jer’malz cursed himself for a fool. Even though Drekk’t was making one poor decision after another, it was not his place to question his superior—at least not publicly. In fact, he might have gotten worse for his meddling than the command of a pointless mission.
All fifty of the soldiers Jer’malz handpicked readied themselves for the journey without complaint. Not a one of them questioned the reason for the errand. They had been taught from birth to do as they were told. Jer’malz thought he could learn a lot from the least of them.
The farther they walked from the camp, the heavier the snowfall became. Jer’malz’s anger toward Drekk’t only increased when they met their first real obstacle. A wide river, covered in translucent ice, separated them from the foothills—and the mining town—beyond.
The goblins followed the eastern bank of the frozen river for a time, heading due south. After an hour, Jer’malz felt the jaws of indecision gnawing at his mind. If they kept going south, they might miss the village entirely. Yet backtracking would only add more time to the pointless mission.
As it was, they might not make it back to the army before the next battle—a thought that soured the lieutenant’s mood a little more each time it occurred to him.
Jer’malz stared at the dark, still waters for a moment longer before announcing that they would walk across it.
The first goblin, a low-ranking soldier on his first campaign, inched his way across the delicate covering. One false move would plunge him into the deadly cold waters. No one would save him in that event, and even if he managed to drag himself out of the water, he would inevitably die from hypothermia.
The remaining goblins were assailed by mixed emotions when the young soldier made it to the other side. If that first goblin had fallen in, none of them would have been expected to risk a similar fate. The ice had proven strong enough to support one of them…but would it hold out for the others?
Jer’malz sent two more soldiers across, making sure they remained a safe distance apart. Both warriors—who were considerably larger than the first—made it across without incident. Thinking every footfall weakened the fragile walkway, Jer’malz went next. He heaved a visible sigh when his feet landed once more on solid ground.
Crossing the river proved to be a time-consuming endeavor. By the time there were but five goblins remaining on the opposite shore, Jer’malz had run out of patience. He ordered the lot of them to come over at once. The soldiers hesitated only a second before complying.
They were midway across when a crunching sound made them pause. After a moment’s hesitation, three of the soldiers tried to make a run for it. Two of those warriors lost their footing and came crashing down to the ice. The third managed to stay on his feet, but he didn’t get far before the long, snaking fissures caught up with him.
Within a minute, all five of the goblins were bobbing in the water, flailing and screaming.
Jer’malz cursed his ill luck. Drekk’t would not be pleased when he returned to camp with five fewer soldiers. Without a glance back at the doomed goblins, Jer’malz resumed the march.
By the time they found the abandoned town, the sun had vanished behind the wall of rock that formed the western horizon. Jer’malz supposed he should have been thankful for finding the place at all, but he was tired from so much walking as well as the chill that had invaded his body like an unseen enemy.
Jer’malz was dividing his contingent into groups of five when one of the soldiers shouted. He searched the crowd for whoever dared to interrupt him. He never discovered the guilty party. Realizing that all of the warriors were looking, as one, at something behind him, Jer’malz spun around and drew his machete.
He had expected to find a pack of wolves or maybe a cavalcade of Knights. What he had not expected to see was a young human female.
“What have we here?” Jer’malz mumbled to himself.
The girl was alone, and since the village appeared to be otherwise unoccupied, Jer’malz was left to conclude the whelp had wandered away from home—wherever that was—and gotten lost.
There wasn’t enough meat
on her bones to make a decent snack, but Jer’malz could think of other uses for her. Despite the inherent repulsiveness of human females, their anatomy was comparable to their goblin counterparts.
In spite of the freezing wind, Jer’malz’s blood began to burn.
Certain that the little girl would run the instant he came nearer, Jer’malz signaled for his men to fan out. Jer’malz took no more than three steps toward her before stopping again. The girl made no move to flee, and Jer’malz was fairly certain the sound coming from her mouth was laughter, not crying.
It wasn’t the girl’s strange behavior that had caused the lieutenant to stop, however. It was the way her eyes seemed to flash white in the darkness. The eyes of animals did that sometimes, but Jer’malz had never seen a human’s do it.
The girl’s laughter ceased suddenly and was replaced by a disembodied voice that spoke in a language Jer’malz couldn’t understand. It might have been the human tongue, but somehow he knew he was hearing the words to a magical rite.
Jer’malz watched, transfixed, as the girl walked up to him. Her hair was as black as the night. Her eyes no longer shone white, but even in the waning light, Jer’malz saw that one eye was blue and other brown.
He decided to deal with the uncanny human in the way goblins traditionally handled potentially dangerous surprises. Tightening his grip on the machete, he took a swing at her.
Or, rather, that’s what he had intended to do. A searing pain erupted from somewhere inside his skull. He heard himself scream, heard the cries of his men. It felt as though someone was snuffing out a torch with his brain.
The pain consumed his mind, and his last conscious thought was a prayer to Upsinous, begging for death to come quickly. But his prayer went unanswered.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 114