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

by David Michael Williams

  Drawing the sword he had taken from one of Port Town’s prison guards, a curve-bladed weapon not so unlike the old cutlass he had lost at Oars and Omens, Pistol sprang to his feet and kicked Crooker none too gently with his boot.

  Crooker didn’t move.

  “We’re under attack!” Pistol shouted.

  Klye dragged Scout away from the flames and removed a tiny dart from the unconscious man’s neck.

  “Now what?” Klye demanded, turning around in a circle and glaring at the trees surrounding them. “What do you want from us?”

  His answer came in the form of another dart, which narrowly missed his face as it flew past. By this time Ragellan, Othello, and Arthur, were on their feet with weapons drawn, facing the direction from which the last tiny missile had emerged.

  “Gods damn you,” Klye spat and charged into the woods.

  Pistol was right behind him, eager to cut down this new enemy—whoever it happened to be. For all he knew, Crooker was dead.

  Crooker, the only one of his men who had stayed behind in Port Town in the hopes of rescuing him.

  Crooker, a brother-in-arms since his early days of pirating and the only man Pistol had ever implicitly trusted with his life.

  Crooker, his only friend in all of Altaerra.

  Expecting to find the campsite surrounded by an army, Pistol was surprised to see a single person darting through the trees, away from the edge of the camp. Klye stopped and looked around, no doubt searching for other foes, but Pistol kept on running toward the retreating figure.

  “Pistol, stop,” Klye called. “He’s alone!”

  But Pistol didn’t stop. He wanted to paint the forest red with the blood of the man who had dispatched Crooker in such a cowardly manner.

  “Come back!” Klye yelled. “He’s trying to separate the group!”

  Pistol ignored him, and if Klye made any further attempts to call him back, he didn’t hear them. A glance over his shoulder revealed that the Renegade Leader was not following, and he figured Klye had headed back to camp. Pistol didn’t care. He would take down the bastard by himself.

  “Yer a quick one. I’ll grant you that,” he muttered. It was all he could do to keep up with his prey, who moved through the darkened forest as though it were day. Soon Pistol lost sight of him and stopped, breathing heavily and looking around for clues.

  He heard an unusual sound, something cutting through the air at a great speed, and was nearly knocked to the ground when something struck him in his shoulder. Pistol fell to one knee, sparing a quick glance down at his shoulder. A star-shaped blade protruded from his flesh. He pulled out the strange weapon, cutting his thumb in the process. Every point of the star was razor sharp.

  Several more of the stars whizzed through the air, but only one came close to where Pistol crouched.

  “Come on out an’ fight me, you gutless bilge rat!”

  To Pistol’s surprise, the attacker did just that. A living shadow, the man burst out of a bunch of trees, unexpectedly coming from Pistol’s left side—his blind side. But the one-eyed pirate heard the man coming and pulling up his sword in time to parry the steel that came at him in a downward slash.

  Unfortunately, the man fought with two swords, and as Pistol blocked one of them, the other came from one side, nearly slicing the pirate in half. He jumped back just in time, and only the tip of the weapon caught his midsection. A red stain bloomed across his belly, and though the wound was not very deep, Pistol felt tears welling up in his good eye.

  He blinked them and the pain away.

  The masked assailant moved quicker than any foe Pistol had ever fought, and it took all his skill to deflect and dodge the man’s long, thin blades. He quickly tired, his aches from travel and the prior battle wearing him down as effectively as the masked man’s well-placed strokes.

  It was all he could do to keep those two swords from ripping him apart. He swung his weapon viciously in an attempt to gain momentum, and when he finally found an opening in his opponent’s defenses, he swung his sword in a downward arc to carve his enemy open from neck to groin.

  The warrior brought both of his blades together, forming a large X across his chest. The three weapons came together in a loud clang.

  Pistol pushed forward, hoping to skewer his opponent by sliding his blade through the space above the crossed swords, but the other man proved quicker. Keeping his blades braced against Pistol’s, the masked man shifted his weight slightly to left, leaned back, and shot his right foot out in a kick that connected with the pirate’s already wounded belly. The force of the blow sent Pistol hard into the base of a knotty pine.

  He hit the ground hard, breathless and swooning from the pain. The last thing he saw was the man in black standing over him. His second kick knocked Pistol out cold.

  * * *

  Ragellan crouched beside Crooker and Scout. They were both breathing, and their heartbeats were strong, but neither man could be roused.

  They were in a precarious situation. Four of them were unconscious, Pistol and Klye were missing, Lilac was still away, and the woman still had Othello’s bow. That left only he, Arthur, and Othello to fight, and none of them were fit to wage another battle.

  Ragellan was relieved when Klye came hurrying back into camp, though he was far from pleased to learn Pistol had run off.

  Othello clutched his hunting knife; Arthur, the rusty hatchet. His borrowed sword at the ready, Chester Ragellan stood over Horcalus, whose moaning was the only sound that rent the quiet night. Arthur gaped fearfully at the shadows that conspired at the edge of the firelight.

  “Should we douse the fire?” Klye asked, looking to Ragellan for the answer.

  “Unless we abandon our friends, we must fight,” he replied. “And if we must fight, we may as well have light. Our opponents already know where we are.”

  “I think there’s only one of them,” Klye said. “We’ll have to wait for him to come to us, but that doesn’t mean we all have to stay and guard the injured. Othello, take Arthur and hide as far away as you can go without losing sight of the firelight. Stay hidden until one of us calls for you. If we lose…well, flee and do whatever you must to survive.”

  Othello gave the Renegade Leader a questioning glance but hesitated only a second before grabbing Arthur by the arm, half-leading, half-dragging the boy into the woods. They headed in the opposite direction Pistol had chased the enemy.

  There was wisdom in Klye’s decision. Without his longbow, Othello wasn’t as much of an asset, and Arthur was more of a liability than anything in a melee.

  He and Klye waited in silence, hoping Pistol had dispatched the latest threat and was already on his way back to the campsite. They realized the truth, however, when Klye swore and swatted at an insect that wasn’t an insect. Klye plucked the dart from his neck, gave Ragellan a helpless look, and promptly collapsed to the ground.

  Ragellan was left with two choices. He could either wait for another dart to lay him low, or he could confront the mysterious attacker head on.

  He charged in the direction he supposed his foe was hidden. As he reached edge of the clearing, a figure clad in a dark costume leaped out of the trees and came at him with one sword raised and the other swishing through the air before him.

  Ragellan had no time to wonder at the identity of the masked warrior. He gripped his sword with two hands and did his best to blaze a path through the whirling silver blades without getting chopped apart in the process.

  The mysterious attacker was nimble and fleet, but his smaller frame was no match for Ragellan’s strength. Only minutes before, the knight had been on the verge of collapse, but now, engaged in a battle that would decide not only his fate, but also his companions’, the knight fought with renewed vigor.

  His opponent’s blades left minor cuts on his arms and sides, but Ragellan allowed no fatal blow to penetrate his defenses. At the cost of receiving another injury, the knight concentrated all of his force on one of the masked man’s swords, the one
that was retreating from Ragellan’s latest parry. The maneuver freed the slight sword from his opponent’s grasp. However, the dark man was able to follow through with his own attack.

  When Ragellan felt the enemy’s sword ripping through his upper arm, he went with the momentum of the attack. If he hadn’t done so, he would have lost his right arm. But he lost his balance as he avoided dismemberment and came crashing down hard on his side.

  Before he could regain his footing, he was kicked hard in the same arm that had just been cut. He fell on his back, fighting off the impulse to pass out.

  Now his nemesis stood over him, his remaining sword outstretched and aimed at Ragellan’s neck. Judging from speed he had exhibited in battle, the masked warrior could surely plunge the blade into his neck before Ragellan could stop him.

  “I have come for you, rogue knight.”

  The words were somewhat muffled by the warrior’s mask, but Ragellan had no trouble understanding them.

  “My life is forfeit,” Ragellan said. “My last request is that you tell me why.”

  The assassin never had a chance to answer. From Ragellan’s prospective, it looked as though the masked man threw himself to the side in a most unnatural way. Hardly believing his luck, Ragellan scrambled to his feet, but the mysterious opponent was not to challenge him again. He lay sprawled near the edge of the clearing, blood gushing from a massive wound in his side.

  Lilac walked over and wiped her sword on the dead man’s shirt. “Well,” she said, “at least I didn’t miss all of the fun.”

  Passage VII

  After calling Othello and Arthur back to camp, Ragellan did what he could to make the unconscious Renegades comfortable. As he and Lilac moved Crooker and Klye near the fire, Plake groaned and opened his eyes. Other than a splitting headache, Plake complained only of being hungry enough to eat an entire deer. As Ragellan poured more of Othello’s tea down Horcalus’s throat, he told Plake of all he had missed since the goblin attack.

  Pistol staggered into the camp a little while later. Othello had heard him coming and kept an arrow pointed at the man’s chest until he recognized him. The former pirate king looked like a walking corpse, his tattered clothes stained with dirt and sweat and blood.

  Pistol didn’t complain, however, and refused Ragellan’s offer to take a look at his wounds. He knelt beside Crooker and tried waking his companion by slapping the man’s face. Other than starting to snore, Crooker didn’t respond.

  Ragellan had left the body of the black-clad warrior where he had fallen. Now that some semblance of order had been returned to the camp, he walked over to the dead man and removed his mask. He didn’t recognize him, which wasn’t surprising. Ragellan had never encountered an adversary with that fighting style.

  Yet there was something familiar about him. The dead man had short-cropped black hair, and his eyes were narrower than most men’s—almost elflike—an indication of his Huiyan heritage.

  “Sai-morí,” Ragellan said as the word popped into his mind.

  “What?” Pistol asked, joining him by the body.

  “A Huiyan assassin,” Ragellan explained.

  “I have heard of them before,” Lilac said, coming up beside them, “but I have never seen one until today, thank the gods.”

  “He’s awfully far from home,” Pistol muttered. “What the hell did he want with us?”

  Ragellan stared into the sai-morí’s unseeing eyes, asking himself the same question.

  But he knew the answer. As loath as he was to admit it, he knew.

  “I spent much of my life in central Superius and then at Fort Splendor, which is as far away as you can get from Huiyah without leaving the country,” Ragellan said. “I learned a little about the sai-morí during my training as a squire, though not much is known about them…I suppose the same could be said for Huiyah itself…but from what I recall, the sai-morí are a sect of elite assassins.”

  “An assassin?” Pistol gave Ragellan a skeptical look. “Why would an assassin attack us? Would the Mayor of Port Town have wasted so much coin on the likes of you and me?”

  Ragellan sighed. “The sai-morí defeated you in combat. You were at his mercy. So why didn’t he kill you? And what of Crooker and the others? If he were intent on killing us all, why didn’t he coat his darts with a lethal poison?

  “From what I have heard of the sai-morí, they are not wanton murderers. They are disciplined and kill only those whom they are ordered to kill. This sai-morí was not after you, Pistol. He was after me.”

  “What makes you say that?” Pistol asked.

  Before Ragellan could reply, Plake came upon them. “Hey, what’s going on over here? Searching the body? Did you find any more of those strange metal stars?”

  Ragellan felt someone pulling at his arm and turned to find Lilac regarding him with an unhappy expression. “I need to talk to you.”

  He was about to ask her why when Arthur called out for him. Giving Lilac a questioning look, Ragellan walked back over to the fire, where Scout was rubbing his eyes. He gave a great, open-mouthed yawn and looked about in confusion.

  “Is it morning already?”

  “You were put to sleep by a dart laced with a drug,” Ragellan told him. “We were attacked by a sai-morí.”

  “Did we win?”

  Looking from Pistol’s battered body to the unconscious forms of Crooker and Klye, Ragellan replied, “More or less.”

  “Well, one thing is for certain,” Scout said, stretching his arms above his head. “We’re going to have to stop at the Temple of Mystel whether Klye likes it or not.”

  His gaze lingering on Horcalus, Ragellan couldn’t refute Scout’s words.

  * * *

  Dark Lily listened as the Renegades debated their next course of action.

  It was impossible for them to leave, even though some, like the fellow with the eyepatch, worried there might be more sai-morí in the area. Chester Ragellan, who had taken command of the band, decided they would get as much rest as they could until the other two Renegades awoke. Then they would proceed to the Temple of Mystel under the cover of darkness.

  The wizardess’s time was running short. If the Renegades made it to sanctuary, she would have even more obstacles to contend with. The priests and priestesses of Mystel were renowned pacifists, but she supposed even the most peace-loving people could be forced into action.

  Another option was to wait until they regained their health and left the temple of their own volition, which could take days.

  She wracked her brain for a solution. She was still too weary to risk a battle against the surprisingly stalwart band, and the sai-morí had disappointed her by not killing a single Renegade. She needed someone to do her dirty work for her, but who?

  Then she remembered the man in the black hood—Scout, they called him—had said something about a nearby fort. Quietly but quickly, Dark Lily withdrew from the group and imbibed the last of her hastening potion.

  * * *

  “This had better be good,” Commander Fredmont Calhoun grumbled, sleepily making his way through the halls of Fort Miloásterôn and buttoning his tunic as he went.

  Beside the large Knight walked one of the fort’s sentries. Usually, Calhoun left the treatment of unexpected visitors to whichever subcommander was on duty. However, with the Renegades growing bolder with each passing day, he had ordered his men to awaken him if anyone was spotted near the fort.

  Calhoun followed the sentry to one of the fortress’s many drawing rooms. Entering the cozy room, his eyes were drawn to Subcommander Selwyn McRae, pacing back and forth before a blond-haired woman wrapped in a dark cloak. Seated near the fire, the woman looked up and smiled prettily at him

  “Thank the gods you are here,” McRae said with a hasty salute. “This woman is impossible. We caught her sneaking around the far shore of the lake, but she refuses to speak to anyone but you.”

  The lady rose to her feet and preformed a curtsey. “I am sorry to have disturbed you tonigh
t,” she said in a mild voice. “I was not sneaking around, as this one claims, but rather trying to find a way to cross the water and reach the island upon which your great fortress stands.”

  Calhoun bade her to sit down and joined her at the edge of the fireplace. Though winter had not yet begun its invasion, Fort Miloásterôn’s stone walls already emitted a coldness of their own. On an autumn night like tonight, only a well-tended fire kept the chill from seeping into his bones.

  Selwyn McRae remained standing where he was, hands on his hips.

  “Pray forgive the subcommander’s frustration, Miss—?”

  “Please, call me Lily.”

  “Very well. Forgive Sir McRae his brusque demeanor, Lily. We Knights of Superius are a bit jumpy with so many rebels roaming the countryside. I, Commander Fredmont Calhoun, invite you to stay the night at our fortress, and in the morning, you shall have my full attention on any matter that concerns you and the Knighthood.”

  Lily averted her eyes demurely, and a faint blush painted her cheeks pink. “I am sorry, Commander, but I have come bearing the most urgent of news, and I think you would do well to hear what I have to say before the Renegades escape your grasp.”

  McRae regarded the woman with a shrewd stare. “What do you know about Renegades?”

  Calhoun let McRae’s accusation linger in the air, though he cast a warning glance in the subcommander’s direction. Selwyn McRae was a most valiant warrior, as brave as any Knight Calhoun had ever fought beside. The man never backed down from a challenge. But his behavior off the battlefield left much to be desired.

  “I am a member of Pillars’ militia,” Lily told them. “This evening a band of Renegades were spotted moving through the woods north of our village. Soldiers from Port Town were also in the vicinity, looking for two rogue knights who recently escaped that city. The messengers recognized the rogue knights among the Renegades, and so we attacked.