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

Page 20

by David Michael Williams


  The Stranger had no choice but to use the talisman, for he could use his own talents only sparingly in this place he now called home. A certain wizard—King Edward’s own advisor, in fact—lodged nearby, and it wouldn’t do for the spell-caster to perceive the Stranger’s gifts. Using the mirror was a risk in itself, but being discovered using a magical devise was far preferable to the alternative.

  After making sure his door was sufficiently secured against intruders, the Stranger held the mirror up to his face and spoke the odd, nettling words that activated the mirror. The mantra leaked out of his mouth like thick oil, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. A few seconds later, his reflection wavered. The mirror’s glass became opaque, only to lighten once more.

  A face other than the Stranger’s looked back at him, an inhuman visage. The creature’s skin was grayish yellow, the color of a bruise. Its amber eyes had no whites, and the pupils were more sickle-shaped than round.

  “What news from Port Town?” the Stranger asked, keeping his voice low but loud enough for his words to reach his servant. He was not worried any eavesdropper would understand what he said, for he spoke in a language that very few humans—if any—could comprehend.

  The Stranger listened as the creature related recent events in Port Town, including the Battle of Oars and Omens, the skirmish in the Square, and the daring rescue at the prison. The Stranger felt his skin grow warm when he learned Crofton Beryl had had at least one of the rogue knights in his possession, only to let him get away.

  “And what are you doing to expedite the knights’ capture?” the Stranger asked.

  The creature flashed him a smile comprised of many pointed teeth and told him, “The mayor was told to send word to the neighboring cities but nothing more. I sent a small force to track the rogue knights and their friends. We will succeed where the humans have failed.”

  The Stranger trembled with rage, causing the mirror to shake in his hands. “How dare you execute such an order without asking my permission first!”

  “My apologies, n’Pruelta, but you were not responding to my calls through the mirror, and I dared not wait any longer, lest the knights gain too much of a lead. Be at ease, n’Pruelta. We will not be discovered.” The creature spoke the last part in the Superian tongue, as though trying to impress the Stranger.

  “See that you are not,” the Stranger hissed before ending the enchantment with a single word.

  He placed the mirror inside the chest, along with the Braiseph Harrow’s spell book, and hid the box under a loose floorboard. He slid his bureau over to cover the spot, confident that the maidservant who cleaned his room daily would not find it. Then he lay on the feathery-soft bed and stared up at the ceiling, his mind awhirl.

  Although he was angry with his agents in Port Town for acting without his explicit consent, he wasn’t too worried that they would reveal themselves to any of the island’s inhabitants. They had been living in the city’s sewers for over a year now, after all, and no one had stumbled upon their lair.

  What concerned him more was the fact that the rogue knights’ trail had led to Port Town. What business did Chester Ragellan have in Capricon? The Stranger realized that it could have been a coincidence, but then there was also the chance that Ragellan and Horcalus knew more than he had feared.

  When lethargy began to lure him to sleep, he didn’t fight it. Between his allies in Port Town and the assassins he had sent to the island, the rogue knights would soon be dead, and he would have one less thing to worry about.

  * * *

  By the time Klye, Lilac, and Othello reached the meadow, the Renegade Leader was convinced a small army was following them. How a village as small as Pillars could furnish so many militiamen, Klye couldn’t guess. What was more frustrating was that no matter how close the pursuers seemed to come, they somehow always remained just far enough away to conceal themselves and their number.

  Not even Othello’s sharp eyes could penetrate the shadows that seemed to hang over their stalkers.

  When they finally reached the meadow, Klye was pleased to find Ragellan and the others had their weapons drawn—even Arthur, who clenched his rusty hatchet so tightly his knuckles were white.

  “We’re being followed. Be ready for an attack!” he called out. To Lilac he said, “You still want to join my band?”

  The woman gave him a curious smile and unsheathed her broadsword.

  “Who’s the wench?” Plake asked.

  “Introductions will have to wait.” Klye retrieved his sword and turned to Ragellan. “I don’t know how many are out there.”

  Ragellan’s eyes swept the wall of trees. “Likely, they’ll try to surround us, if they have the numbers. We should form a defensive circle.”

  “Or run,” Plake added.

  “It’s too late for that,” Klye replied. The sound of people moving through the woods came from every side. “Don’t kill them unless you have to. They’re only trying to protect their village.”

  “Why not try to parley with them?” Ragellan suggested.

  It was worth a try.

  “We mean your village no harm,” Klye shouted. There was no reply. “We stopped in Pillars for supplies…that is all. Allow us to go on our way, and you will never see us again.”

  All was silent except for the wind. Klye and Ragellan exchanged anxious glances.

  The forest suddenly filled with howls and shrieks that made the hair on the back of Klye’s neck rise. These war cries were followed by an eruption of enemies pouring into the clearing.

  To Klye’s astonishment, the attackers were not militiamen. They weren’t men at all.

  So stunned was he by the appearance of the hideous creatures, Klye nearly dropped his sword. The beasts charged the small circle of Renegades from all sides, wielding machetes with serrated edges, barbed spears, and other dreadful-looking weapons he had never seen before.

  When a black-tipped arrow whizzed past him, Klye remembered the ambush in Port Town’s sewers.

  “Fight to kill!” he shouted.

  Pushing aside his questions and fear, Klye gave a roar of his own and came forward to meet the first of the attackers. The creature carried a tool that looked like a cross between a scythe and a spear, giving it the advantage of a farther reach. Klye did his best to dodge and parry the odd weapon, but the creature was remarkably quick.

  When the Renegade Leader brought up his rapier in to block the downward arc of the sickle, he grunted against the force. Despite its lanky frame, the beast was possessed of a great strength. It was all Klye could do to keep the scythe/spear from inching closer to his face.

  No match for the monster’s muscles, Klye deftly drew back his sword and dived to the right, narrowly missing the cross-body slash of another adversary that had been trying to cut down Plake. He had no time to worry about the rancher, for his own opponent was already pulling its weapon out from the hard earth.

  Planting a foot firmly on the ground, Klye pushed off and reversed his retreat, now coming straight at the monster with all of his might. Realizing Klye’s intent, the creature hissed and brought up an arm in a feeble attempt to ward off the attack. The rapier tore through the sallow flesh of its arm and plunged deep into its unprotected face. Black blood spattered into the air.

  When the creature slid free of Klye’s sword, two more were there to take its place.

  * * *

  When the first of the monsters came rushing into the meadow, Plake Nelway had felt a terror unlike anything he had ever known. The creatures were the stuff of nightmares, like the demons of Abaddon he and his friends had described in detail around the fireside to make nights spent sleeping under the open sky more exciting.

  Now he wished he had never jested about such things.

  “W-what are they?” Arthur asked beside him, but no one answered, for the demons’ long strides brought them to the Renegades in seconds.

  Plake did more dodging than anything else, but there was nowhere to run. If there had been a clean r
oute from the clearing to the safety of the woods, he would have fled and not looked back. There seemed no end to the number of the demon-fiends.

  It’ll be a bloody miracle if any of us survive, thought Plake, lashing out with his short sword. The nearest demon-fiend carried a long-hafted mace that sported four long spikes on its sides and one even greater point on top.

  Plake brought up his sword to block the thing’s attack, but such was the force of the demon’s swing that Plake’s weapon was wrenched out wide from his body. The muscles in his arm protested at the impact, and it was all he could do to hold onto the sword.

  His arm numb from the parry, Plake wondered if the next swing of the club would kill him instantly or if he would end up bleeding to death on the grass. To the rancher’s amazement, he found himself being propelled backward, away from the demon-fiend. The tip of the mace’s longest spike brushed past his face, leaving a small scratch across his nose.

  Tripping over his own feet, Plake nearly landed on his arse, but there was someone there to steady him—the woman Klye and Othello had picked up in Pillars. Sparing him the briefest of glances, she pushed past him and met the monster head-on.

  Gripping her broadsword with two hands, she swung the massive weapon outward at a perpendicular angel to the demon-fiend’s next strike. Her sword met the head of the wicked mace with a loud clang, and Plake expected to see the magnificent sword shatter.

  But the woman followed through on her swing, the broadsword still intact. The head of the mace, however, was cleaved cleanly in half. The demon appeared as astonished as Plake was, but the woman didn’t seem at all surprised. She reversed her swing and slashed out at her opponent, who could do nothing but scream in anger just before the broadsword separated its head from its body.

  * * *

  Horcalus tried to keep Arthur out of harm’s way, but it was no easy chore.

  Fortunately, the boy was doing an admirable job of avoiding the monsters’ strokes and stabs. Horcalus swore that if they survived the battle, he would teach Arthur how to defend himself. In the meantime, however, he could only try his best to protect the lad, who had gone as pale as a corpse at the sight of the creatures.

  Horcalus had never encountered such beings in his life, though from all the history lessons and battle strategies he had studied as a squire, he thought he knew what they were. Yet everything he had ever read about the creatures had abandoned him, and so he fought more on instinct than preconceived tactics.

  The knight was inspired and bolstered by the fearlessness Ragellan displayed as he hacked his way through any opponent that drew too near the Renegades’ circle. From behind them, Othello sent arrows into the horde, but soon the melee would reach the archer, forcing him to trade longbow for knife.

  As a green-fletched arrow hit the throat of an enemy sneaking up on his flank, Horcalus swore to hold them off for as long as possible.

  * * *

  During his years roving the Aden Ocean, Charles Atlins had come face to face with all manner of men, not to mention elves, dwarves, and ogres. But he had never seen the likes of these creatures before. After exchanging blows with one of the nasty blokes, the former pirate king hoped he’d never come across them again.

  A three-pronged spear grazed his midsection. Pistol accepted the wound with a grunt, clenching his teeth against the pain. He quickly brought his curved sword out to the side and cut through the creature’s neck. Tar-like blood spurted from the wound, but he had no time to wonder at the thing’s unusual anatomy.

  Another creature sprang forward, hefting what looked like a pickax over its head. Before Pistol could fall back, an arrow planted itself in the enemy’s chest, penetrating leather armor, flesh, and bone. Crooker finished the job by slitting the gurgling creature’s throat.

  * * *

  Throughout the battle, Klye tried pushing his way toward the enemy archers. Unfortunately, the hand-to-hand combatants had done a commendable job in defending them, and for the life of him, Klye couldn’t advance more than a step or two before being overwhelmed by another creature wielding a polearm or some unidentified bludgeoning tool.

  As he fought blade to blade with another of the beasts, he caught sight of a familiar figure in a black hood running through the trees and wondered why he hadn’t noticed Scout’s absence from the start.

  Passage V

  Scout practically bumped into the creatures before noticing them. An unnatural darkness seemed to flow around the spies, and Scout had to blink repeatedly in order to finally make out their shapes. There were four of them—whatever they were—quietly speaking in a language Scout couldn’t understand, though he thought he recognized it.

  Port Town’s subterranean denizens had followed them out of the city, Scout concluded. But why? Carefully shifting his weight from one leg to the other to aid circulation, he decided to stick around and find out.

  That’s when he heard a voice—Klye’s—addressing them as though they were simple townspeople. Scout was about to abandon his reconnaissance and return to the band, but at that moment, the strangers charged forward, crying out in a most unnerving manner. He ducked behind a tree to avoid their detection.

  Scout was right behind them, and when he caught up with one of the stragglers, he stabbed the thing in the back of the neck. It fell to the ground, writhing in agony and spitting out foamy black blood between what he assumed were curses. Soon it ceased moving altogether.

  But Scout’s attack had not gone unnoticed.

  One of the creature’s companions, an archer, yelled something as it fit an arrow to the bowstring. Adjusting his grip on his knife so that he held it by the blade, Scout took a step forward and threw it at the creature. Scout proved the quicker, and when his knife stuck squarely in the monster’s shoulder, the beast screeched in frustration. A black-tipped arrow sailed harmlessly into the treetops.

  Before his adversary could recover, Scout sprinted over it and punched its pointy-nosed face until it closed its eyes and ceased struggling. He wrenched his knife free of its shoulder and ran for the meadow, where he could see that a battle was already under way.

  He spotted the line of archers just as they launched a volley of arrows at the circle of Renegades. Two of the four missiles struck the ground near the feet of Scout’s friends. The third clipped the misshaped ear of a monster.

  The fourth arrow, however, flew true, and Scout could only watch helplessly as the shaft whizzed past Klye, barely missing Arthur, before striking Horcalus. The arrow hit the knight in the back. The momentum sent him face-first to the ground.

  A blond-haired woman he didn’t know came to Horcalus’s aid, defending him from eager predators. But Scout had no time to worry about Horcalus or the woman, for he knew it was only a matter of time before the archers fired again.

  Knife in hand, Scout charged the archers.

  * * *

  When the creatures attacked, Dark Lily had been more surprised than alarmed. She had no idea why the creatures were lurking on an island governed by the men of Superius. Neither did she care.

  She considered unleashing her most powerful spells at them but then reconsidered. Fighting the old mage in Port Town had drained her, and the hastening and invisibility enchantments had taken their toll on her strength.

  Let them slay the Renegades, she thought. As long as she didn’t lose track of Ragellan and Horcalus—specifically, their valuable heads—she had nothing to fear.

  * * *

  The span of the battle could have been measured in minutes, but to Klye, it seemed as though he had fought for hours. When the Renegades had slain all but seven of the creatures, the remaining enemies made a hasty retreat, leaving the weary humans to ponder the puzzle of the ambush and deal with the consequences of it.

  Now that the battle was over, a deep exhaustion seeped into his bones. His adrenaline spent, the Renegade Leader became aware of his various cuts and bruises. One of his ankles was swollen, sending a pulse of pain through his leg whenever he put his weight
on it.

  Just about all of his men were tired and bleeding in more than one place. Even Othello and Arthur, who had remained out of weapons-reach as best they could, had not escaped unscathed, though their injuries were mostly superficial.

  Only Lilac remained untouched. Having caught glimpses of her during the battle, Klye suspected her success had everything to do with her sword, which had cut through steel and bone as if it were soft cheese. The blade was surely enchanted.

  But Klye had more important things to worry about than a magical sword, for two of his men had fallen during the fray, and neither one was moving.

  Plake lay on his back. The first thing Klye noticed was a gash across the rancher’s forehead. The cut bled only a little. What was more alarming was the colorful contusion blossoming outward from the wound. The rancher would have one hell of a headache when he came to.

  “Try to wake him,” Klye told Pistol.

  The former pirate king didn’t argue. He sent Crooker to fetch a canteen and then began slapping the rancher’s pale cheeks. Plake didn’t respond.

  Everyone else stood around Horcalus, who lay face-down on his stomach. When Klye reached the knight, he saw an arrow protruding from the knight’s back.

  Klye marveled when Horcalus began to stir.

  “Help me put him on his side,” he said to Ragellan. “Scout, make sure there aren’t any more of those damn things out in the woods. But don’t wonder too far. Arthur, get some water and anything that might serve as a bandage from the supply bags.”

  The two men jumped to their tasks, but Othello and Lilac remained near at hand, looking at Horcalus with concern. As Klye and Ragellan eased the fallen knight onto his side, Horcalus let out a breathy groan and asked, “What happened?”

 

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