Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (46 page)

Colt
recognized the latter name, having heard the name of the Goblin Empire back
when he was a novice in the Knighthood. He desperately tried to recall
everything he had ever learned about goblins, but precious little came to mind.
He was fairly certain T’Ruel spanned much of Endyre, one of the western
continents. As far as Colt knew, no goblin had been seen in Continae for
centuries.

“But
you were referring to Eliot Borrom, were you not?” the goblin prince continued.
“Rest assured, he is nowhere near this wretched island.”

“What
do the goblins want with Capricon?” Klye asked.

The
two men would be more than a match for the wounded goblin should he try to
escape, so Colt was content to let the interrogation proceed.

T’slect
sighed dramatically. “The lifespans of humans and goblins are comparable, and
yet mankind has such a short memory. Hundreds of years have passed, and yet we
goblins have never forgotten our first clash with the humans of the eastern
lands. We underestimated your resourcefulness and fortitude back then, but we
are a cunning and patient people. The time for our reprise is at hand.”

“So
this is about revenge?” Klye asked. “Revenge from before any of us were even
born?”

The
goblin prince gave a dark chuckle. “It is more than mere vengeance that guides
our actions. We fight…we
conquer
…because it is our destiny. We are the
chosen. Upsinous, greatest of the gods, has promised us domination over the
lesser races. One day, all of Altaerra will serve us and, through us, serve
Upsinous.”

“T’Ruel
is no match for Continae and the Alliance of Nations,” Colt promised.

“Ah,
but we have learned from our mistakes,” T’slect said.

If
the wounded goblin prince was at all concerned that he was exposed,
outnumbered, and without hope of escape, he showed no sign of it. All of his
attention seemed caught up in what he was saying.

“The
armies of T’Ruel do not engage in combat when we cannot utterly trounce our
foes. We favor tactics that ensure our victory, never taking on a force that
has a chance of prevailing. Humans often mistake our cunning for cowardice, but
in the end, it matters little. Silly notions like honor and decency have never
inhibited the goblin race.

“Rather
than suffer the staggering losses and casualties that would inevitably result
from a full-scale war with the Continae, T’Ruel patiently waits and grows
stronger while you humans wage your civil war. Only after Continae destroys
itself and the Alliance dies with it, will T’Ruel’s legions pour in and pick up
the pieces…and this island will be our base of operations.”

“But
in the meantime, you pull the strings of our government from the Superian
throne,” Klye added. “
You
are responsible for the Knighthood’s crimes.”

T’slect
shrugged, and even though he remained in human guise, Colt could only see him
as he the gray-skinned creature he had seen through
Chrysaal-rûn
’s
blade. It was all he could do to keep from plunging the crystal sword into
T’slect’s heart.

And
yet Colt needed answers to the myriad questions swimming in his head.

“You’ve
been playing the Knights and the Renegades against each other this whole time,”
Colt said. “If it weren’t for the goblins, there never would have been a
rebellion.”

“You
catch on quickly, my puppets, but we did not create the Renegades…not on our
own,” T’slect said. “Not everyone was as eager to join an alliance with
dwarves, midge, and ogres as the Kings of Continae were. The Alliance of
Nations was a risky tactic to be sure. Many were looking for an excuse to hate
the Alliance before the scroll was ever signed. Yes, you have been manipulated
by us goblins, but it was your own selfish, violent tendencies that sparked the
fires of rebellion.”

Colt
could still hear the sounds of battle behind him as Knights and Renegades
continued to wage their pointless battle.

“And
you Knights are no better than the Renegades,” T’slect told him. “First, you
deny the existence of a problem while the rebels gain formidable strength.
Then, rather than parleying, you sharpen your swords instead of your wits. You
cower before your beloved prince, doing his bidding at the cost of your
precious honor. In that way, humans and goblins are very alike. The first thing
a goblin soldier is taught is to never question authority.

“You
humans may hide behind an exterior of civility, but your own suspicions and prejudices
proved a far better weapon against the Alliance than any war machine we could
have fashioned.”

Colt
realized he was trembling when he saw the crystal sword shaking out before him.
He hated T’slect, but he hated the truth of his words even more. Colt narrowed
his eyes, suddenly wary. “Why are you telling us all of this? Now that we know
the truth, your plans are foiled.”

Before
Colt could react, the goblin prince threw out his free hand, and a wave of dark
smoke billowed from his fingers. Colt swung the crystal sword out before him,
but the goblin was already out of reach, lingering somewhere within the dense
cloud of smoke. Beside him, Klye Tristan lashed out with a dagger, but they
were both attacking blindly.

“This
isn’t good,” Klye muttered.

Twin
beams of violet light crackled forth from the swelling cloud and slammed into
them, sending Commander and Renegade Leader flying across the room. They hit
the ground heavily. Colt’s armor had absorbed most of the blast, but Klye
wasn’t as well protected and did not immediately rise. His eyes scanning the
black smoke for signs of T’slect, Colt hurried over to where Klye lay and
helped the man to his feet.

“Did
I neglect to mention that I am a shaman as well as a prince?” came T’slect’s
mocking voice from within the smoke.

“What
in Abaddon is going on here?”

Colt
recognized the gruff voice as Cholk’s even before he turned to find the dwarf
and the female Renegade regarding their respective leaders in bewilderment. The
two warriors were squared off and, judging by their condition, they had been
hacking at each for the past few minutes.

“Stop
fighting each other,” Colt ordered, stepping between them.

“We’ve
been duped all along. He’s the true enemy!” Klye indicated the prince, who had
just emerged from the dark haze, with the tip of his knife. “He’s been playing
us against each other. He’s a goblin in disguise.”

“And
he’s a wizard too,” Colt added.

The
woman looked like she didn’t know what to make of the news, but Cholk wasted no
time in trying to figure it out.

“A
goblin,” he spat. “Dwarves and goblins have shared a mutual hatred since the
beginning of time. He’s no wizard, Colt. He’s a
vuudu
priest. He gets
his powers from Upsinous, God of Deception and Greed.”

With
a deafening shout, Cholk charged past Colt, heading straight for the goblin
prince. Colt didn’t know whether to stop the dwarf or join him. Everything was
happening too fast. He needed time to sort it all out, time to construct a
battle plan against this new foe.

T’slect
muttered harsh-sounding words in an unfamiliar tongue and waved a hand out
before him, sweeping it across his body. The dwarf raised his shield and ran
onward. He fully expected to see a wild conflagration engulf his brave friend,
but the flames never came.

There
was a deafening crash, and the room began to shake. Small pieces of the ceiling
began to rain down, and Colt watched helplessly as Cholk was thrown off his
feet. A great fissure snaked across the floor near where the commander was
standing, so Colt took a step back, hoping the floor wouldn’t fall out from
under him.

Then
something large and solid struck the top of his helmet, and he dropped to the
floor. For an instant, he thought that Klye Tristan was responsible for the
concussive blow. But then he saw that large portions of the tower were breaking
away. The ceiling was crashing down on them.

Up
ahead, T’slect watched the chaos with smug smile. Cholk, too, was lying on the
ground, though what the goblin had done to stop the juggernaut, Colt didn’t
know. He wanted to look around to see who of them, Knights and Renegades, were
left to fight the shaman, but he couldn’t concentrate due to the pounding in
his skull. He realized too late that he was about to black out.

The
last thing he heard was T’slect saying, “My secrets will remain safe since none
of you are leaving here alive.”

Passage XVII

Gaelor
Petton, his head reeling and his stomach queasy, released the midge’s arm and
staggered away from the spell-caster. When his back made contact with a wall,
he steadied himself against it, grateful to find something solid and
stationary. Only then did the lieutenant realize his eyes were pressed tightly
closed.

He
opened one eye tentatively, squinting against the intense brightness that had
come out of nowhere to engulf him. But the white light was gone, and aside from
the miasma of colors that danced behind his eyelids, his vision was fine. In
fact, he could see the midge and rogue knight much more clearly than he had
just a few minutes ago, for the subterranean darkness of the dungeon was gone.

The
dungeon itself was gone!

Petton
felt a fluttering in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with effects
of Noel’s spell. For a moment, he feared that the midge had used his fell magic
to take them to some Renegade stronghold. But then he recognized the hallway as
Fort Faith’s.

While
he took some comfort in the fact that the midge had taken them to another part
of Fort Faith, he couldn’t suppress a shudder at the notion that he had just
traversed the corridors of magic.

Pulling
himself together, Petton took leave of the wall that had been supporting him
and moved toward Dominic Horcalus, who appeared to be shaking off the effects
of the spell as well. When the midge scampered past him, Petton paid him little
heed. He would worry about that troublemaker after dispatching the rogue
knight. Already, the Renegade was advancing Petton’s way, though, surprisingly,
his sword was still sheathed.

The
lieutenant swung his broadsword in a wide arc, more to keep Horcalus at bay
than to do any real damage. The Renegade stopped and looked at Petton, as
though noticing him for the first time.

“Raise
your sword and fight me!” Petton ordered.

Horcalus’s
arms hung slack; his sword remained in its scabbard.

“Are
you a coward as well as a traitor? Have at you!”

Petton
thrust his broadsword at the rogue knight’s chest, hoping that would prod
Horcalus into action. The man was forced to sidestep the blade, but he did not
counterattack. His attention seemed divided between Petton and something behind
him, though Petton dared not take his eyes off the traitor for the second it
would take to turn around.

Deciding
that the Renegade was trying to trick him, Petton made another half-hearted
slash with his sword.

“Fight
me!”

He
wanted to cut down the treacherous cur with every fiber of his being, but as
much as he hated Dominic Horcalus and the disgrace he had brought down upon the
Knighthood, he couldn’t sacrifice his own honor by killing a man who would not
defend himself.

Thoroughly
disgusted, Petton walked right up to the Renegade and brought his broadsword
level with Horcalus’s throat.

Finally,
Horcalus spoke.

“As
much as I yearn to teach you a lesson for uttering such slander against Chester
Ragellan, I have no real quarrel with you, and I will never do battle with
another Knight of Superius so long as I live.”

“Even
at the cost of your own life?”

“Even
so,” Horcalus said. “My only regret in death would be that the truth
surrounding Sir Ragellan and myself would die with me.”

“The
truth,” Petton sneered. “What does a villain such as yourself know of
truth
?”

Their
stalemate was interrupted by voices drifting down the hall behind Petton.
Muttering a curse—and half hoping Horcalus would try something—Petton looked
over his shoulder and saw Noel helping Opal to her feet at the other end of the
hallway.

“What
happened?” he heard the midge ask.

“It
was that damn Klye Tristan again,” Opal said. She gingerly touched her eye, which
was underscored by a colorful contusion. “We have to—”

Whatever
Opal was going to say next never made it past her lips. Her sentence ended in a
startled cry that made the hairs on Petton’s neck stand on end. The
lieutenant’s body was more than half-turned away from Dominic Horcalus, but he
hardly cared, for at that moment, he finally identified the exact place Noel
had brought them.

They
were in the hallway that led to the war room, where Commander Crystalus had
taken the prince for safekeeping.

Only
now, the corridor ended abruptly with pile of rubble.

Petton
left the rogue knight and ran over to Opal and the midge. “Miss Opal, what has
happened? Where is the commander? Where is the
prince
?”

Opal
never took her eyes off the wreckage. “I…I don’t know. The Renegades followed
me here and knocked me out. I presume they went inside the war room, but…”

The
woman trailed off, and the two of them stared at the mound of broken stone and
mortar. The roof had caved in completely, cutting them off from what lay on the
other side. There was no way of knowing how much damage the war room had
sustained or if it even existed anymore.

“Klye
went in there? He and the others came this way?” Petton heard someone ask, and
it took him a second to realize that Dominic Horcalus had followed him over to
the war room’s collapsed threshold.

“Klye
and Colt are dead?” the midge whimpered.

“What
could have caused such destruction?” Petton wondered aloud. He tried to pull
away a smaller chunk of the fallen ceiling. It took all of his strength to
dislodge the stone, and the move caused the rest of the pile to shift in a most
disconcerting manner.

The
lieutenant took a step back, abandoning the notion of removing the avalanche
piecemeal, lest he bring down the remainder of the tower in the process.
Feeling utterly helpless, Petton could not bring himself to think of Saerylton
and the other Knights, buried alive.

How
could this have happened? he wondered. As far as he knew, nothing volatile had
been stored in the war room, and nothing short of a siege engine could have
caused such damage to the fort.

“The
Renegades must have done this,” he said at length, casting an accusatory glare
at Horcalus. “Have you a catapult hidden outside the fortress? Or maybe you
have more than one spell-caster in your party?”

Horcalus
shook his head. “I know as little of what has transpired as you do.”

A
tremor shook the western wing, nearly knocking them all off their feet.

“I
told
you the prince knows magic,” Noel said as he straightened his hat.
“Only it’s not magic. I don’t know what it is, but I’m sure Prince Eliot is
responsible for this.”

Horcalus
gave the midge an exasperated look, a mirror image of Petton’s own expression.
Then the rogue knight turned to Petton and Opal and said, “Something beyond our
understanding is happening here, and if there is any chance that we might save
our friends, I suggest we get right to it.”

“Save
our friends from whom? Each other?” Petton asked.

“First
things first,” Opal said. “We have to find out if anyone is alive in there.”

“And
how, pray tell, do you suggest we dig through this pile of solid stone?” Petton
immediately felt guilty for snapping at the woman, but she didn’t seem to take
offense.

“There’s
only one way to get through it,” Opal said, crossing her arms decisively.

“How?”

The
rogue knight groaned.

“How?”
Petton repeated, looking from Opal to Horcalus.

“She
means magic,” Horcalus said. “The midge’s magic.”

“My
name is Noel, not ‘the midge’! I don’t call any of you ‘the human,’ do I?”

Now
it was Petton’s turn to groan.

“I
do not like it any more than you do,” Horcalus told him, “but it is the only
way.”

Petton
stared down at Noel, into those big, blue eyes. The midge had been a thorn in
his side ever since the night he first cursed Fort Faith with his presence.
From what Petton had witnessed, the midge’s magic did as much harm as good. And
even the gentlest spell might bring the rest of the tower down atop them.

And
yet there were precious few options at the moment.

“Very
well,” he conceded.

The
midge’s face brightened. “You’re going to let me cast a spell?”

“Just
do it before I change my mind!” Petton barked.

Noel
flashed him a smile that did nothing to quell Petton’s anxiousness. Then Noel
rolled up his voluptuous sleeves, touched the tip of his staff to the rubble,
and said, “All right, everybody, stand back!”

*
         
*
         
*

Klye
saw the purplish beams of light collide with the black-skinned dwarf. After
that, the entire room began to shake. Klye deftly avoided one chunk of
plummeting stone, only to feel another strike his shoulder. He rolled with the
force of the blow, but, thankfully, the rock had only just grazed him.

Before
he could regain his balance, however, his foot got caught in a crack in the
floor, and he fell down, hitting the ground hard.

That
fall might have saved his life for the goblin shaman had launched another
violet bolt at him. The magical missile sailed harmlessly over Klye’s head, but
the sudden cry from behind told him the spell had hit somebody else. He glanced
over his shoulder and saw Lilac crumple to the floor.

In
that same glance, he took in the rest of the scene. Not far from Lilac lay
Othello, his leg pinned beneath the caved-in wall. Of the Renegades, Othello
was the only one still moving. Lilac was either dead or out cold, as was Plake,
who had been unconscious since before the discovery of the imposter prince. The
one Knight who had been on his feet at the beginning of T’slect’s onslaught was
now completely buried beneath a small mountain of debris.

Pulling
himself to his feet, Klye looked over to where he had last seen Fort Faith’s
commander, hoping to find at least one ally in his battle against the goblin
prince. But the Knight was still, the huge dent in his helm a testament to what
had felled him. Though Sir Crystalus had been his enemy a few minutes ago, Klye
was greatly relieved to see the young commander’s chest rise and fall.

Ignoring
the pain from countless scrapes and cuts, Klye ran at the goblin prince with
all the speed he could muster. Knife in hand, he quickly cleared the distance.
His only hope was to get to T’slect before he had time to cast another spell.
Maybe the monster was out of spells…

Maybe
not.

The
moment he saw the purple swirls gather around the shaman’s hands, he dove to
the left. Had he been half a second slower, he would have caught the blast full
in the chest. As it was, the searing, violet blaze clipped his right shoulder,
sending him spinning to the floor.

The
pain was almost more than he could bear. The sensation that coursed through his
shoulder was as chill as death itself. Blinking back tears, Klye tried to stand
and, at the same time, use his blistered left hand to retrieve his knife, which
had fallen from his now-numb right hand.

T’slect
was on him before he could react, pulling him up. The goblin had discarded his
saber—probably to free both hands for spell-casting—and was now content to use
his balled fists. Klye accepted a punch to the face and the stomach. He could
no longer feel the right side of his body, and it was all he could do to retain
his hold on the knife with his left hand.

Using
his last ounce of strength, Klye plunged the knife forward, aiming for the
shaman’s neck. It never got close. T’slect’s hand caught his wrist and wrung
the weapon from Klye’s throbbing hand.

The
goblin brought his face—the borrowed visage of Eliot Borrom—close to Klye’s and
said, “I am going to enjoy killing you.”

Although
the shaman’s lips were pressed together in a tight-lipped grin, Klye heard an
almost inhuman scream pierce the air. T’slect’s touch seemed to melt Klye’s
flesh. The agony was like nothing Klye had ever experienced before, and as the
corrosive sensation spread down his arm, he heard the disembodied howl grow
louder and louder.

But
then, all of the sudden, the pain was gone. It was as though his arm had been
dipped in a cool salve. A strange tingling buzzed throughout his entire body,
but it wasn’t a pain. Part of his beleaguered brain wondered why the shaman had
let up, but mostly he was unspeakably elated to be free of the crippling pain.
Even the screaming had stopped.

“Klye!”

The
shaman’s mouth hadn’t moved, so Klye was left to wonder who had called out his
name. A thick fog saturated his mind, disconnecting his thoughts and rendering
concentration impossible. He was tired of thinking, weary of plotting and
planning. He was just plain tired, and his eyes must have closed then, for
T’slect’s false face was replaced by a black emptiness.