The girl giggled.
* * *
Ay’sek knew there were risks in casting the incantation again so soon.
A fish might survive out of the water for a time, but if it spent too much time outside of its natural habitat…well, there was a point of no return with such things.
With every separation of Ay’sek’s corporeal and ethereal halves, the invisible cord that bound them together grew weaker. Yet he couldn’t afford to wait. He had to act before the Knights did something drastic.
The fort’s defenders probably couldn’t destroy Peerma’rek—even with a midge’s help—but hiding it away somewhere would prove just as disastrous for Ay’sek, who couldn’t forget the Emperor’s threats.
His resolve bolstered, the shaman fell into a trance. The Goblinfather’s words washed over him. The sensation reminded him of being scalded by water so hot it felt cold—or vice versa. With an excruciating, exquisite cry, Ay’sek expelled his soul.
Leaving his body far behind, the shaman steered his spiritual essence across the snowy field and into the fortress, passing through hallways and solid walls alike. He could already feel the pull of Peerma’rek, as though the staff were calling out to him.
Any elation he may have felt upon fixing his mind’s eye on the staff’s thick, shadowy aura was instantly quenched by the presence of an all-too-familiar form. Stannel Bismarc, the self-appointed guardian of Peerma’rek, had the staff strapped to his back.
It took all of Ay’sek’s will to hold himself back. His spirit yearned for a shell—any physical shell. Invading Stannel’s body would bring Ay’sek that much closer to obtaining Peerma’rek.
But the golden glow that surrounded Stannel like a cocoon reminded Ay’sek how dangerous a direct attack would be. Whatever god protected the Knight would certainly lend him strength if Ay’sek engaged him in spiritual warfare.
Ay’sek needed to find someone who was not favored by any one deity or, better yet, a human who had no use for the gods at all. As Stannel walked down one of the fort’s hallways, Ay’sek followed at a distance, invisible and intangible. The shaman’s patience was rewarded when he spotted the hazy figure of another human up ahead.
Unlike Stannel, this newcomer possessed no wreath of holy radiance. An unremarkable white light swirled within the man’s chest. Ay’sek wasted no time in advancing on the unsuspecting man. Whizzing past Stannel, the shaman drew himself around the stranger.
Eager as he was to usurp a body, Ay’sek did not force himself upon the random human. Even if Stannel weren’t a cleric, he surely would have noted something amiss when the other man’s body began to twitch and shudder. Instead, Ay’sek attempted something that, as far as he knew, had never been attempted before.
Slowly, gently, he eased his spirit inside, careful not to interrupt the delicate symbiosis of soul and body. The arrangement was uncomfortable for both parties, but Ay’sek’s spirit was allowed to remain. He was aware of Stannel coming nearer, could feel the irritating warmth of Stannel’s golden aura.
All he could do was pray that the Knight would not interfere.
Shutting out everything else, Ay’sek focused all of his will into a single objective. As he concentrated, a tiny part of his essence formed itself into a needle-like tendril. Holding his breath—figuratively speaking—Ay’sek then thrust the dark thistle into the ball of white light that was the unknown man’s soul.
The man’s body jerked, as though stung by an insect, but Ay’sek detached himself before the human could repel him. So sudden was his retreat that the injected fragment of himself—the metaphysical stinger—remained where it had been injected.
Stannel gave the oblivious victim an odd look, but to Ay’sek’s relief, the Knight did not stop. Turning his attention back to the other man, Ay’sek was pleased to find a tiny, dark filament squirming worm-like within the glow of whiteness. Like Ay’sek’s own soul, that wisp of black smoke bore a distinct resemblance to the storm cloud that swirled about Peerma’rek.
Ay’sek did not know if the desired effect would come about, but one thing was for certain: he had left a lasting impression on the unwary human.
Suddenly, Ay’sek’s spirit was wracked by a series of convulsions. Struggling to keep the fibers of his being from unraveling, Ay’sek burst from the fortress and soared back to the goblin camp. He knew with certainty he would never be able to cast this particular spell again, could never roam free outside the confines of his physical being.
But that no longer mattered. All he cared about now was getting back to his body before his soul dissipated into nothingness.
As his spirit homed in on its body—both halves desperately seeking the union they needed to survive—Ay’sek could only pray that his subconscious command to the miscellaneous man would be obeyed.
Passage X
When word of Petton’s death reached the Renegade Room, Plake studied the reactions of his companions. Everyone wore solemn expressions, even Horcalus, whom Petton had regularly referred to as a traitor. Klye and Petton had had their share of arguments, but rather than gloat, the Renegade Leader looked as glum as everybody else.
Plake didn’t feel much of anything. He had come to hate the haughty Knight, and Petton’s death didn’t change that. Still, he hated the goblins more.
It was Lilac who broke the reverent silence that had settled over the room.
“Where is Dylan now, Pillip? Was he injured badly?”
The man who had delivered the news about Petton’s duel was a lanky fellow. Although he—along with some other refugees from Hylan—had been lodging in the Renegade Room for the past couple of days, Plake had never heard anyone address the man by name.
He might have been suspicious of Lilac and Pillip’s familiarity, but he knew Pillip and Hunter were a couple. Sir Dylan on the other hand…
Plake had noticed at once the strange sword hanging from Lilac’s hip when she returned from her chat with Dylan last night, and it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. Dylan and Lilac had traded weapons.
The woman obviously cared a great deal for Dylan if she had handed over her precious vorpal sword just like that.
Plake barely listened to what Pillip said in reply to Lilac’s question. He was too busy staring at Lilac, gauging her expression for clues. He did, however, catch the word “infirmary,” so when Lilac walked past him and out of the room, he knew exactly where she was headed.
His face burned. If she was so in love with Dylan, she should at least have the guts to tell him!
Klye, Horcalus, and Scout fired question after question at Pillip, though the Hylaner knew few details. Pillip repeated much of what he had already said, probably repeating the very words that had been given to him.
With the information passing through so many people, Plake thought that the story could be all wrong by now. He hoped it was Dylan who had died, not Petton.
Klye, Scout, and Horcalus began talking among themselves, speculating about what the commander’s death meant for the residents of the fort. Arthur was content to sit there and listen. Plake, however, was bored with idle chatter.
“Where are you going, Plake?”
He stopped midway between where he had been sitting and the door. He glared back at Scout, who regarded him innocently. He would have just ignored the question, but he was all too aware of Klye’s and Horcalus’s eyes on him also.
“Thought I’d stretch my legs,” he muttered.
“A walk? Mind if I join you?” Scout asked. “If I stay in this room too long, I start feeling a little crazy, if you know what I mean.”
Plake thought Scout had been “a little crazy”—or more than a little—since the day they met, but he kept his opinion to himself. He had more important things to do than argue with Scout, who never got tired of talking and who would likely change the subject halfway through the debate anyway.
And if he had to listen to one more of Scout’s history lessons, he would be the one losing his mind.
“I k
ind of just want to be alone,” he told Scout.
The answer didn’t seem to faze the other Renegade at all. “Oh, all right.”
Plake glanced at Klye, hoping he had bought the story. Klye’s expression betrayed no emotion at all. Not giving him a chance to stop him, Plake left the room.
Probably, the Renegade Leader hadn’t believed him. Klye Tristan was pretty good at figuring things out—even if he hadn’t figured out how to get them away from the damned fort yet!
He had hoped to follow Lilac to the infirmary because he wasn’t sure he could find the place on his own. But the woman had gotten a head start, and Plake soon found himself wandering aimlessly. Mumbling curse after curse, he tried to get his bearings. Maybe I should have let Scout come with me, after all, he thought.
Finally, he found himself in a familiar stretch of corridor. He crept up to the door to the infirmary, which was open. Inside, he saw a Knight standing at the bedside of a man he didn’t know—probably a wounded comrade. There was no sign of Ruben, the highwayman who had gone from being one of Sister Aric’s patients to her assistant. The healer was there though, praying over the occupant of another bed.
Plake’s gaze took them all in and dismissed them in less than a second. He fixed his attention on Lilac Zephyr, who was standing with her back to him and talking to someone in a bed. It had to be Dylan.
He craned his neck, trying to get a good look at his rival for Lilac’s affection, but the woman was standing in his way. He supposed it was for the best. If he couldn’t see the Knight, then the Knight couldn’t see him either.
With his back pressed up against the wall and his head turned at a sharp angle, Plake forgot about any physical discomfort as Lilac’s words drifted over to him.
“You’re far too reckless. If I hadn’t lent you my sword, Drekk’t would have shattered yours and scored a hit far worse than this.”
“If I hadn’t had an enchanted sword, I might not have attacked the general at all,” Dylan countered.
“Oh, I think you would have,” Lilac said. “You’re drawn to battle like loadstone to iron. It’s like I said before, you’ve had Defenders’ Plague since the day I met you.”
Plake tried to remember how Lilac and this Knight had met. She had told the Renegades about her trip to Rydah and back, but now he couldn’t recall this one detail. Had Dylan been one of the men to save her, Colt, and Opal from getting captured at the goblin camp?
Gods damn it, he was, wasn’t he? No wonder why she was so taken with him!
“Maybe you’re right,” Dylan said after a moment. “But I couldn’t sit this one out, not when Petton had clearly signaled a halt to the duel. Striking the killing blow was probably a fair move, according to the ancient rules of the contest, but it was a wretched way to win nevertheless. Anyway, Drekk’t’s sword was fortified with vuudu, so he did cheat after all.”
“But you didn’t know that at the time,” Lilac pointed out.
Plake imagined that the Knight shrugged his shoulders—his broad, muscular shoulders…
Gods damn it all!
Dylan laughed. “And here I thought you had come to wish me well. Instead, you’re scolding me like a brat who strayed too far from his mother.”
Although he could not see Lilac’s face, Plake was certain she was smiling.
What was so special about Dylan anyway? he wondered. Yes, the Knight was a brave warrior and all that, but Plake was no stranger to battle. Had Lilac already forgotten the fight against T’slect in the war room? That had been no minor tussle, and afterward he had ended up in sickbed himself.
Not that Lilac had ever come to visit him. Oh, she had come to see Klye, but he never would have gotten so much as a glimpse of her if his bed hadn’t been next to Klye’s.
“So,” Lilac said after another long pause, “how long are you going to have to stay here?”
The Knight lowered his voice, so Plake had to strain even more to hear what he said next. “Sister Aric says I must spend the night here. But I’ll not lie here for much long after that. I’ve come too far to wait the war out in a sickbed.”
“There’s that Defenders’ Plague again.”
A sound from behind him made Plake jump. He spun around, certain his face was radiating guilt. He was so alarmed by the presence of the newcomer that he didn’t recognize him at first. In fact, he was having a hard time seeing anything due to a sudden dizziness. When his body ceased its trembling, Plake dismissed the sensation as severe embarrassment.
Or maybe, he thought, this is what it feels like to be in love.
Plake planted his hands in his pocket and tried to look natural. As the man drew nearer, he was able to identify him as Stannel Bismarc. The Knight nodded politely at him as he passed by and entered the infirmary. Plake was going to nod back, but he found that he could do nothing but gape.
As Stannel made his way to Dylan’s bedside, the skull on the staff stared back at Plake. He’d seen a human skull only once before in his life, and it had given him nightmares for years. But although the vuudu staff was a ghastly sight, Plake couldn’t turn away.
It was ugly to be sure, but it was also somehow…fascinating.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Plake understood that Stannel’s entrance would likely result in Lilac’s exit. Unless he wanted her to find him there, spying, he had better hightail it back to the Renegade Room. It was the smart thing to do, yet he couldn’t quite look away from the disembodied head that grinned perversely in his direction.
The sound of Lilac’s voice—saying goodbye to Dylan—sobered Plake right up. Tearing his eyes away from the staff, he turned and ran down the hallway. As he sprinted back to the Renegade Room, his mind was aflutter with possibility.
Before, there had been no hope for winning Lilac’s love. Not with Sir Daring and Dashing Dylan in the picture. But now he saw a solution. All he had to do was find a way to show Lilac he was every bit as brave as the Knight.
Dylan had thrown himself at Drekk’t, mindless of his own fate. It shouldn’t have surprised Plake that Lilac was attracted to the selfless warrior. She herself had sailed all the way to Capricon to save Ragellan and Horcalus.
Plake knew he would find a way to impress her—and he was equally certain the vuudu staff would be part of the solution.
* * *
She couldn’t help but notice how, even in a large crowd, people formed distinct groups. There were many pockets of Knights, and the Renegades, of course, stood together. Hunter, Pillip, and Bly had positioned themselves off to one side, talking among themselves. Even Aric and Ruben had each other.
But Opal was alone.
She had kept close to the door, uncertain of whether she would stay long. At the opposite end of the room, Stannel was signaling for silence. She listened halfheartedly as the Knight—who, apparently, was the fort’s commander again—explained their current situation.
After he finished his speech, Stannel asked those gathered for their thoughts. Voices familiar and foreign to Opal chimed in at various intervals, taking the discussion in different directions, but her mind was no longer on the topic at hand.
Another important meeting had taken place in the fort’s dining hall. The gathering had been called after Stannel returned from the ruins of the first Fort Valor. And it had been at that meeting that Colt stepped down as Commander of Fort Faith in order to join the party bound for Rydah.
Opal had demanded to go with him. So had Cholk.
Now, with Colt and Cholk both dead, she felt as though she had wandered into the wrong fort by mistake. Never had she felt so alone—not even when she had first realized the extent of her amnesia. She even missed Noel.
The thought made her laugh in spite of herself, which earned her a confused look from a man standing next to her.
She realized that she must have been daydreaming for some time because Stannel Bismarc was once again addressing the group as a whole. As the commander spoke, Opal was able to put the bits and pieces of information togeth
er and figure out what course of action had been decided.
And though she could see the logic behind it, Opal hated the plan.
As she understood it, the Knights, along with Ruford and remaining guardsmen, would take up defensive positions inside the fort at dawn two days from now. As the defenders prepared to repel the assault that would come once the goblins realized the duel was not to be, everyone else—the Renegades, militiamen, thieves, the wounded—would hide in the subterranean passageway that Toemis Blisnes had revealed weeks ago.
With its great numbers, the T’Ruellian army was guaranteed to win. The Knights and guardsmen would probably all die—dutifully, of course—while the rest of the fort’s residents cowered under the ground, praying that the enemy wouldn’t realize they were missing. And there they would remain until the goblins moved on.
“Everyone who is able to fight should be allowed to,” Klye Tristan insisted. She had the feeling that this was not the first time the Renegade Leader had made the argument.
But Stannel was shaking his head before Klye even finished.
“Those who cannot fight will need the protection of those who can,” was the commander’s firm reply. “Those who wait out the battle in the tunnel will not find an easy route to safety. Between the elements and the invaders…”
Opal shuddered at the thought of emerging from the passage and finding bodies strewn all about the fort. The Knights apparently had no problem with trading their lives for the civilians’. How damned chivalrous of them, she thought bitterly.
Having heard enough, she pushed her way past a group of Knights who had been listening to the dialogue from out in the hallway. She stormed away, refusing to look them in the eyes.
How could Stannel expect her to sit this battle out? She owed those monsters for what they did to her friends. And if she had stayed by Colt’s side instead of remaining with the vuudu staff, she might have been able to save him.
Hurrying away from the dining hall—her rage increasing with every step—Opal soon found herself in the one place that still felt familiar. The air was warmer here, but not stiflingly so.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 115