Plake struggled to draw in air, but none would come. Shadows closed in around the visage of the grinning goblin general, who had landed on his chest.
* * *
Drekk’t released his hold on his weapon. As the goblin had predicted, Colt did the same, surrendering his own sword instead of losing a hand. For some unknown reason, Colt just stood there.
It was as though the man had been caught by surprise by the outcome, as though, for once, Colt had lost control of the situation.
Drekk’t charged into his unprepared foe. The layers of armor worked against the human. Off-balanced, Colt toppled like an ancient wall under the assault of a battering ram. Drekk’t let gravity carry him down on top of the Knight, sending the full brunt of his weight into Colt.
He heard the man expel his breath and then gasp for air.
Drekk’t rained a few blows against the side of the man’s head. He knew that, thanks to the helm, he was scoring no real damage, but he was adding to Colt’s disorientation.
Frantically, Drekk’t searched for a weakness in the armor, for a way to quickly end the contest. He brought his hands down to the man’s neck, hoping to throttle him, but his fingers found only the solid steel of the Knight’s gorget. Colt was covered almost head to toe in armor. Drekk’t would break his hand before he even bruised Colt.
Drekk’t found the end to their stalemate in Colt’s visor. It was as though the Goblinfather had put the idea in his head. He would yank open the visor, gouge out Colt’s eyes. Then, while the human screamed and screamed, he would regain his sword and beheaded the helpless human.
A triumphant cry burst from his mouth as he wrenched open Colt’s visor. Drekk’t would have taken nothing but purest of delight from the fear emanating from the man’s eyes.
Except they were not Colt’s eyes.
His brain could not fathom how it had been accomplished, but Drekk’t realized two things at once. In his lust for vengeance, he had allowed himself to be duped. And he would never face the real Saerylton Crystalus again.
* * *
Plake squinted against the light that pierced his eyes. Now that the visor was up, he had an unobstructed view of the goblin. He saw the hand hovering above him, fingers drawn together like the blade of a knife. Wide-eyed, Plake looked into the face of his murderer—
—and saw an expression so full of confusion that, under other circumstances, he might have laughed.
Not questioning his good fortune, Plake pushed himself into a half-sitting position and did what came naturally.
His gauntleted fist struck the goblin’s nose with a sickening crack. The force of the blow knocked Drekk’t off of him. Struggling beneath the weight of his armor, Plake managed to get to his feet. He ran over to the crystal sword and, holding the weapon in two hands, came to stand over Drekk’t, who cradled his bloody face his hands and moaned.
Plake felt a moment of revulsion for what he had to do, but before he could think twice, the crystal sword acted on its own.
Chrysaal-rûn ripped clean through Drekk’t’s torso, cutting the goblin in half.
Passage XV
Hardly breathing as she watched the battle unfold, Opal could almost believe the man inside the armor was Saerylton Crystalus. She had orchestrated this, the illusion of Colt’s retribution, and for the time being, it was enough to bring solace to her soul.
When Plake lost his hold on the crystal sword, she feared she would have to watch her beloved friend die in effigy, but then, miraculously, the man regained the upper hand. She held her breath as he dealt the deathblow. Drekk’t’s body hit the ground in two beats, darkening the already muddy snow to coal black.
Just like that, it was over.
Colt was avenged, but he was still dead.
She felt no better than before.
There was no time to ponder the emptiness that lingered inside her. The unnatural stillness of the scene was instantly banished by a single word from the shaman.
“Attack!”
The Renegades reacted immediately. Leaping from off their mounts, Klye and his band drew their weapons and engaged the nearby goblins warriors, who were already scrambling forward. Still standing over Drekk’t, the glassy blade of Chrysaal-rûn dripping black slop, Plake lowered his visor and waited for the monsters to come.
Beneath her, Nisson pounded her hooves nervously against the ground. They were in great danger, and Opal was half tempted to turn the horse around and race back to the fortress, but at that moment she made eye contact with the shaman. She couldn’t be certain, but it looked as though he was talking to himself.
“Oh shit!” She quickly brought the butt of her crossbow up to her shoulder.
There was no doubt in her mind the shaman would aim his spell at her. She carried the vuudu staff, after all. Her only hope was to take him out before he completed his spell. She hurriedly pulled the trigger, wincing against the recoil. The bolt flew true, homing in on the middle of the shaman’s chest.
Mere inches from its target, however, the arrow bounced off of an unseen barrier and went ricocheting impotently off to the side.
Opal swore again.
* * *
Stannel watched the duel through a spyglass from the ramparts of Fort Valor.
In the days of yore, the legendary Knights Exemplar had developed trial by combat as a means to determine justice between two warriors. The Knights of Eaglehand and the Knights of Superius had carried the tradition into the modern age, though duels were now a rarity in both orders.
The premise behind the duel was simple: the Gods of Good would intercede on behalf of the innocent party, giving him the strength to defeat his opponent.
Stannel had read enough histories and journals, however, to know that many innocent men had lost their lives dueling not because they were in the wrong, but because they were inferior swordsmen. Following the Wars of Sundering, unscrupulous Knights had challenged weaker rivals to duels in order to dispose of contenders for land.
On some level, Stannel respected the idealism that the duel represented. The combatant was forced to depend fully upon his god, trusting that truth and justice would win out in the end. There were stories of mere stable boys trouncing dishonest Knights in armed trials.
Watching the duel between the false Knight of Superius and the goblin general, Stannel wondered what had gone wrong in those other cases. How had the gods allowed deceitful men to vanquish the honest and upright?
He supposed it had something to do with faith—or the lack thereof. It was one thing to appeal to the gods’ mercy, directing an aimless plea at the heavens, but it was quite another to believe that you would win because your god was truly on your side.
“Faith without works is not faith at all.”
That maxim that had been one of his first lessons as a monk-in-training. In spite of their innocence, those blameless contestants of yesteryear probably had gotten their affairs in order prior to the duel. They had made preparations in the event that they failed, which—according to the proverb—meant that they had lost before they even began.
Faith was believing you would win no matter what the odds were and acting accordingly.
While he trusted the Great Protector with his immortal soul, Stannel realized he had not demonstrated much faith lately. He had all but given up on his own life, not to mention the lives of his men. Doubt was a greater foe to him than the goblins ever were.
“Faith without works is not faith at all,” he muttered aloud.
“Pardon?”
Stannel lowered the spyglass and looked at Sir Dylan Torc, who had remained by his side all morning.
“Has something happened?” the anxious Knight asked, squinting futilely out at the small gathering on the plain.
“Perhaps Fortunatus Miloásterôn’s only fault was that he did not believe he would win.”
“Commander?” Dylan prompted, his brow furrowed with confusion.
Stannel felt something warm growing inside of him. The uncertainty an
d fear that had plagued him for the past few days vanished at once. His hope restored, Stannel couldn’t help but smile.
Before Dylan could again question his cryptic words again, Stannel signaled for the other Knights on the battlement to follow him down into the fort. Dylan kept close to the commander, looking more perplexed than ever.
* * *
Klye fell back a few steps, sparing a quick glance at the wound that dribbled hot red blood down his arm. Unlike the Knights of Superius—and unlike Plake, for that matter—Klye wore minimal armor. The Renegade Leader depended on his speed and dexterity to defeat his foes.
He also depended on his wits.
Pretending not to notice as a goblin reared back with two curved swords, Klye cradled his injured arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blur of the blades. Both swings were high. Klye crouched low.
He nearly lost his footing. The ground was slick with melting snow. He heard the hum of the swords as they tore through the air mere inches above his head. In the same motion that nearly had him doing the splits, Klye lashed out with his rapier, cutting the goblin across the thigh of one leg and the knee of the other. When the goblin pitched forward, Klye followed through with a thrust that pierced the creature’s throat.
Klye paused for a moment to regain his balance and his breath. Nearby, Scout lured another goblin between him and Lilac, and the swordswoman promptly chopped off the monster’s arm. Horcalus and Arthur fought side by side, the former Knight’s technique more than making up for the younger man’s inexperience.
As Klye dived out of the way of a falling battle-axe, he caught a glimpse of Plake running headlong at the shaman.
* * *
Ay’sek watched as the sphere of violet light hit the female full in the chest, launching her clear off of her horse. While it could not compete with the sight of Drekk’t being skewered as the highlight of his morning, seeing the woman fly from the saddle and hearing her cry of pain was still satisfying.
He heard more than saw her hit the ground, though, for the stupid horse was standing between them. The shaman walked over to where the female human had landed, his pace unhurried. Either the horse was paralyzed in fear or it was suicidal for it did not run away.
Ay’sek came to stand over the woman, who writhed in pain, her shirt singed by the spell. Before he could finish her off, however, Ay’sek saw a solitary Knight rushing straight at him, crystal sword held high above his head.
Ay’sek spoke the words that would launch a second missile at the imposter. He released the spell at the same time the crystal blade collided with his magical shield.
A blinding light burst from the crystal sword, and Ay’sek shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw the Knight had fallen on his back. The man’s armor was blackened as though touched by fire. Ay’sek did not bother to check if the man was alive. It no longer mattered because he was no longer a threat.
The crystal sword was gone, apparently destroyed by Ay’sek’s vuudu enchantment.
* * *
The explosion of light caused all of the combatants to pause momentarily, but Klye stared at Plake and shaman for a bit longer than his opponent—a delay that nearly cost him his life. As he made a desperate swing at the axe-wielding goblin, Klye tried to make sense of what he had just seen.
He was certain that if he were to close his eyes, he would see, emblazoned across the backdrop of his eyelids, the thousand sparkling shards of the crystal sword. Could Chrysaal-rûn really be destroyed so easily? he wondered.
Leave it to Plake to find out…
As though Klye didn’t have enough to contend with just then—with Plake possibly dead and with him barely avoiding the heavy fall of his enemy’s battle-axe—Klye heard a sound like the rumbling of a timpani beneath the discordant melody of the melee.
He didn’t have to glance up at the bleak, gray sky to know that the thunder had come from below. The ground shook beneath his feet, and all around him, the wall of dark shapes was growing larger little by little.
The entire goblin army was advancing.
* * *
Stannel reined in his mount, taking in the scene with one quick glance. The Renegades were busy fighting Drekk’t’s entourage, which was already being augmented by more troops. The bulk of the goblin host would be on them in seconds, but Stannel did not let that distract him.
First things first, he thought, as he urged his horse over to where the shaman stood.
One of the Knights in the vanguard must have had the same thought for the man steered his horse in the direction of the dark-robed goblin, his sword held high and ready to strike. When that Knight was almost upon the vuudu priest, the goblin faced him at last.
Dark flames billowed up from the frozen ground, engulfing horse and rider alike. The suffering animal reared and raced off, carrying the screaming warrior away.
Stannel pushed the lamentable image of the living torch from his mind and dismounted. Before the shaman could turn his attention back to Opal and the vuudu staff, Stannel charged in, the blessed mace of Pintor glowing wildly in his hands.
* * *
Ay’sek was astounded that the Knights had actually come out of their fortress—astounded and annoyed.
He was wondering how many flies he would have to swat in order to reclaim Peerma’rek when he spied Stannel Bismarc. Though Ay’sek would enjoy killing the troublesome cleric, he would have gladly postponed the encounter until after he retrieved the staff.
Vuudu flowed through his body like a million wriggling worms. The release of the spell was a mixture of relief and distress. He watched eagerly as the purple glob of light soared unerringly toward its target. So large was this magical missile that Stannel could not hope to avoid it.
The Knight did not attempt to dodge the spell. Gripping a small mace with both hands, Stannel brought the weapon down in an arc that left a visible trail of golden light. When the mace connected with the magical blast, the sphere hissed and fizzled away as though it had never been.
Stannel paused only long enough to deflect the supernatural attack. Then he was once more running full speed at Ay’sek, who quickly cast another spell.
* * *
Stannel swung his mace at the shaman, but the weapon collided with an unseen barrier. Not knowing whether or not his efforts would weaken the invisible shield—but hoping and praying he was doing some good—Stannel kept on swinging. Meanwhile, the shaman spoke a stream of words that, apparently, had no translation.
He nearly lost his balance when the mace finally did penetrate the vuudu barrier. He brought the mace up defensively as the shaman pounced on him. During the struggle, the goblin managed to get both his hands around Stannel’s wrists. The commander assumed that the maneuver was meant to prevent him from swinging his mace.
Stannel did not understand his true peril until it was too late.
On separate occasions, Colt and Klye had told Stannel of their battle with the goblin prince. T’slect also had been a shaman, and he had nearly killed the Renegade Leader with a spell that drained Klye of his strength.
Now Stannel gritted his teeth as a hungry fire flooded into him, pouring in through his wrists and spreading slowly—ever so slowly!—throughout his body. The pain was too much for him to think of anything else.
Soon the sneering countenance of the shaman was replaced by a pulsating white light that reflected the agony threatening to destroy Stannel’s sanity. But beneath the pain, an inkling of a thought was being nourished into certainty: if he surrendered, the pain would end.
* * *
Nisson lowered her neck, providing Opal with the support she needed to pull herself up from the ground. The woman winced and sucked in a loud breath through her teeth as pain shot through her hip. She had broken something, but now was not the time to worry about it.
She nearly fell over when Nisson jerked away. The mare’s hind legs launched a goblin ten feet away. Opal thanked Nisson, who had chosen to fight beside her rather than flee. Now there
was nowhere to run. The goblins were all around them.
Well, she thought, if I’m going to die today, I’m taking that son-of-a-bitch shaman with me.
It took all of Opal’s concentration to reload the crossbow. She pulled back on the drawstring, demanding her mind to stay focused despite the pain that was scorching her upper leg like lava. Thankfully, the area where the goblin’s spell had struck her had already gone numb.
She spread her legs far apart in a stance that, while not beneficial to balance, kept the weight off of her wounded hip. She brought the crossbow up to aim at the shaman, whose long, bony fingers grasped Stannel’s wrists like manacles.
Gods above, she prayed, guide my arrow.
The kick from the discharge sent Opal staggering backward, and she fell to her knees with a cry. Paying no heed to Nisson, the Renegades, or the hundreds of goblins around her, she stared at the shaman, who remained exactly where he had been standing.
At first, Opal assumed she missed. Then she spotted the bolt protruding from the shaman’s neck.
The shaman glared at her, but somehow he stayed on his feet. Dropping Stannel to the ground, not bothering to remove the arrow, the goblin staggered over to her. She saw his lips were moving and knew she had but seconds left to live.
Colt, Othello, I hoped you saved a spot for me in Paradise.
A spasm rippled through the shaman, and he crumpled to the ground. Stannel stood with his mace positioned at the precise place where it had connected with the shaman’s back. Even from a distance, she could see how shaky Stannel’s legs were.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 120