Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (34 page)

“I
don’t have any money.” She kept her tone even, betraying no fear, all the while
cursing her inattentiveness.

An
infuriating smile grew on the dark-haired man’s unshaven face. “We aren’t
highwaymen. I am Klye Tristan, a Renegade Leader.”

Opal
cursed herself again. How could she have been so careless? While Colt’s men
hadn’t encountered any of the rebels that roamed the island, she should have
been on guard anyway. The Renegades were, after all, the reason the Knights of
Superius had reoccupied Fort Faith.

Robbers
would have been a blessing from above. If these people found out she was
connected with the Knights…

“Nice
to meet you, Klye,” Opal said, unabashedly staring back. “What can I do for
you?”

She
nonchalantly shifted her weight to one side and rested a hand against her
thigh, where beneath her untucked shirt, the hilt of her knife pressed against
her hip. Colt had provided her and Nisson with transportation to Capricon as
well as a place to stay once they got there. She would not repay the
commander’s kindness by allowing the Renegades to take her hostage.

If
she couldn’t talk her way out of this, she intended to fight.

The
Renegade Leader came closer, positioning himself between her and Nisson—between
her and the crossbow. Opal took a few steps back to avoid getting stepped on,
but her movements were causal, as though engaging Renegades in conversation
were a daily practice.

“It’s
nice to meet you, too, Red,” Klye said. “Scout tells me he’s seen you at the
fort. Are you’re a friend of the Knights?”

“I’ve
been to lots of forts,” Opal lied. “And I’ve gotten to know many Knights over
the years…Knights of Eaglehand in Glenning, Superian Knights, even Ristidaen
Legionnaires. I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“It’s
her, Klye,” the man in the hood—Scout—said. “I’ve seen her target practicing
with that crossbow outside Fort Faith. Ow! Stupid horse tried to bite me!”

Klye
didn’t take his eyes off of her for one second. Outnumbered and surrounded,
Opal could only hope next time Nisson would take Scout’s ear off. The woman
with the sword and the man with the longbow kept their place at her left. They
weren’t going to encircle her, but they needn’t have bothered. With only the
open plain behind her, even a mediocre marksman would have no trouble hitting
her if she decided to flee.

“We’re
not going to hurt you,” Klye Tristan said. “If you come with us willingly, I
promise no harm will come to you.”

So
much for talking, she thought grimly. Her only chance was to break past them
and make for the cover of the trees.  

The
Renegade Leader took a step toward her. Opal drew her knife and took a swipe at
him. Klye quickly backed away, stumbling into Nisson’s flank. The horse,
sensing something amiss, reared up, nearly striking the hooded Renegade with
her flailing hoofs and all but trampling Klye on her way down.

Fully
expecting to feel an arrowhead pierce her flesh at any moment, Opal pushed
Scout out of her way and sprinted for the trees. She was using Nisson as a
living shield and hated herself for it. She would never forgive herself if the
mare were harmed because of her actions.

She
ran as fast as she could, faster than she had ever run before. Behind her, she
could hear the Renegades shouting among themselves, probably debating whether
or not to kill her and be done with it. Why else wouldn’t the archer have fired
by now?

The
trees were tauntingly close. They seemed to hold their green-speckled branches
out to her in welcome. By the Benevolent Seven, she was going to make it!

Pain
exploded in her mind with the power of a battering ram. As she pitched forward,
tumbling headfirst to the ground, she had the outrageous notion that some wild
beast had bitten clean through her leg. She brought her hands out to help break
her fall, sparing her a concussion but landing hard nevertheless.

When
the world stopped spinning, looked down to find a green-fletched arrow
protruding from her calf.

“Lystra
the whore!” She tried to pull herself into a crawling position, but the pain
was too intense. Ignoring the dizziness, Opal dragged herself behind the base
of the nearest tree. She wouldn’t let that archer get another clean shot at
her.

Growling
against the pain as well as her anger, Opal peeked around the trunk and watched
impotently as the female Renegade and the archer ran toward her. Beyond them,
the Renegade Leader and his hooded accomplice were trying to grab hold of
Nisson, but the horse was having none of it.

Klye
Tristan was forced to relinquish his hold on her mane when Nisson tried to
seize his arm with her teeth. Uttering a wild whiney, Nisson thundered away,
charging back toward Fort Faith.

Opal
leaned against the brittle skin of the ancient elm for support, wishing she had
maintained her hold on the knife during her fall. Listening for the sound of
approaching footsteps, she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out as she
pulled the arrow from her leg. A shiny, red river flowed down to her boots.

If
they intended to kill her, the pain would end soon enough. If they needed her
alive…well…they would find she was no helpless maiden. Gripping the shaft of
the arrow tightly, Opal waited for the Renegades to come.

Passage V

Arthur
yawned, trying to fight the lethargy that stiffened his muscles and weighed
down his eyelids.

With
Klye, Scout, Lilac, and Othello gone, Pistol had taken charge of the remaining
members of the band. Although it was clear that he and Crooker were none too
eager to spend another day fishing, they nevertheless headed for the pier once
Klye and the others were out of sight.

Since
neither Plake nor Arthur had much experience with fishing, it was left to them
to keep a lookout for unwanted visitors. Arthur didn’t like the idea of taking
orders from Pistol for the very reason Pistol was the most qualified to give
orders: he had been a pirate king. Thinking of him as their leader—even a
temporary one—made Arthur feel even more like a criminal.

He
had no qualms against Pistol on a personal level. For being veteran buccaneers,
both Pistol and Crooker were rather civilized. Yet there was something in
Pistol’s demeanor—his deep, gruff voice and grim, thin-lipped mouth—that kept
Arthur on edge. On the rare occasions when he found himself looking into the pirate’s
one good eye, he knew without a doubt Pistol could kill—
had
killed—without remorse.

That’s
what makes me different from the pirates, Arthur told himself. I may have
killed a man, but at least I’m sorry for it.

Arthur
yawned again. He and Plake were alternating posts. The rancher was walking Port
Stone’s perimeter while Arthur manned the stationary post at the single road
that ran through town and into the plains beyond. Hatchet at the ready, Arthur
leaned against a dilapidated structure that might have been a shop once.

Though
his legs were sore, he dared not sit down, lest he doze off. He hadn’t slept
well last night, and few things were as boring as staring out at the flat,
barren earth stretching to the north and east for as far as the eye could see.

The
first time he had kept watch, Arthur had been anxious throughout the entire
shift, expecting an army of Superian Knights to appear on the horizon.
Surprisingly, Arthur found it difficult to be concerned with such threats just
then. He was too preoccupied to let his mind conjure up nonexistent threats to
his safety.

He
had had the nightmare again last night, only this time Plake Nelway had stood
in the place of his hometown bully, and it had been Lilac who stared at him
accusingly as Plake’s lifeblood flowed into the stream. Then, as Arthur fled
the scene, he found himself being chased by several of his young cousins,
wielding broom-staffs and adorned with quilted capes that billowed out behind
them as they frantically toddled toward him.

But
it wasn’t the memory of the dream, disturbing as it was, that distracted him
now.

He
and Horcalus had shared a room ever since the Renegades had claimed the old inn
as their own. They had spent a lot of time together because Horcalus had taken
it upon himself to teach Arthur how to defend himself. He had spoken at length
about the moral code of the Knighthood, as though Arthur were a
squire-in-training.

Now
Horcalus was gone, and he feared that it was because of him.

Klye
had been vague about the events leading up to Horcalus’s sudden departure. What
if Arthur had talked in his sleep and unwittingly confessed to killing Llede
Hendorm? He could understand why the knight wouldn’t wish to surround himself
with criminals, and now that he knew Arthur was a murderer too, Horcalus might
have decided to desert the band altogether.

It
was the only explanation Arthur could imagine. Why else wouldn’t Horcalus have
taken him along?

Or
at least said goodbye…

Something
was moving far in the distance, out where the road was indistinguishable from
the grass around it. Arthur blinked several times, trying to banish the
illusion from his overactive mind. It was still there.

“It’s
your turn to take the walk,” Plake said, coming up from behind Arthur and
scaring him half to death. “What’s got you so jumpy? Think I was the midge?”

Feeling
his face flush, Arthur swallowed hard and pointed out toward the road. “Do you
see that?”

“See
what?” Plake demanded, shielding his eyes and peering out at the open plain.
“I’m beginning to think you might be more than a little looney, Arthur. “I
don’t see…hey, wait a minute. What
is
that?”

They
stood side by side, not saying anything as they stared at the speck, which was
steadily growing into a dot.

“I’d
better get Pistol,” Plake said. “You stay here and keep an eye on…it.”

Before
Arthur could object, Plake sprinted away. Arthur’s lethargy had left him in an
instant, making room for a gnawing fear. As the dot came nearer—apparently
following the road toward Port Stone—Arthur imagined all sorts of horrible
scenarios. It had to be the midge. Or maybe it was one of the Knights’ scouts,
leading a party of mounted warriors that would come into view at any moment.

The
possibility it was Horcalus was the only thing that kept him rooted to his post.

When
Plake returned with Pistol and Crooker, the dot had grown larger than a spot,
evolving into what was clearly a humanoid shape.

“See?”
Plake said to Pistol. “Does that look like a deer to you?”

Pistol
scratched his stubble-riddled chin. “Don’t see anybody else out there. Could be
a lost traveler or someone come to pick through this old town, lookin’ for
loot.”

“It
could be a Renegade from a different band,” Crooker suggested.

“Or
Horcalus,” Arthur added hopefully.

To
be on the safe side, Pistol ordered them to hide. From behind a large shed near
the entrance to town, they watched the wanderer draw nearer. Arthur was
disappointed it was not Dominic Horcalus, but an old man in a long, gray coat.
He didn’t appear to be paying much attention to his surroundings. Maintaining a
remarkably quick pace, the old man never looked up from his feet and kept his
hands folded behind his back.

To
Arthur’s surprise, Pistol urged him to go out and find out what the old man was
up to.

“We
can’t let him stumble upon our hideout,” Pistol whispered. “He might tell the
Knights. You look the least suspicious of all of us. Ask him what he’s up
to…and get him to leave.”

Arthur
wanted to point out that Plake looked just as ordinary, but he wasn’t about to
argue with a former pirate king. His heart beating so fast he feared it would
explode, Arthur emerged from his hiding place and tried to look natural as he
waited for the old man to reach him. He altered his pose several times before
deciding to cross his arms, intentionally keeping his hands away from the
hatchet that hung from his belt.

No
reason to alarm the fellow, after all.

But
the old man—and he appeared to be very,
very
old—hadn’t even seen Arthur
yet. His head bent down, the traveler mumbled to himself. He’s probably senile,
Arthur thought with a frown.

The
old man might have walked by without ever noticing Arthur, but just as he was
about to pass, Arthur cleared his throat and called out, “Good morning,
grandfather. What brings you to Port Stone?”

Arthur
had expected the man’s wizened face to show a measure of confusion—not a glare
so baleful it made Arthur’s spine stiffen and his breath catching in his
throat.

The
strange wayfarer looked Arthur up and down like a mountain lion about to
pounce. “I am not your grandfather.”

His
voice was neither hoarse nor shaky. In spite of his gaunt frame and the hundred
wrinkles that crisscrossed his face, the old man was not at all hunched, and
there was nothing feeble about how the ancient man bore himself.

“And
what business is it of yours why I am here?” he demanded.

Without
giving Arthur the chance to answer, the old man renewed his pace, walking past
Arthur and into the deserted town.

“Wait!”
Arthur ran over to the man, blocking his path. “You can’t go in there.”

The
old man narrowed his eyes. “Why in the hells not?”

“There’s
a plague!” Arthur said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.
“Everyone is dying. If you go in there, you’ll surely catch it.”

The
man in gray began to laugh. It was a terrible sound. “A plague, you say? Well,
you are in luck for I am Albert Simplington, the well-traveled surgeon. I was
under the impression the Port of Stone was destroyed during the Great Ogre War.
Apparently, I was misinformed.”

Albert’s
deep, dark eyes swept the area around them, his gaze taking in the unkempt,
rundown town before returning to Arthur once more. “Or mayhap you are lying to
me.”

Pistol
stepped out from behind the shed as Arthur stammered an incoherent reply. Plake
and Crooker circled around from the other side, coming up from behind the
doctor. All three had their weapons drawn.

“Look,
old man,” Pistol said, his cutlass sparkling in the sunlight. “You really ought
to leave before things get rough. Wouldn’t want to hurt a geezer like yerself,
but we’ll do it if we must.”

Albert
began to mumble. Arthur couldn’t understand what the lunatic was saying, but he
didn’t have a chance to wonder about it for long.

Albert
Simplington’s gray coat began to move, undulating unnaturally as its shape and
color changed. The brass buttons vanished, and a thin belt snaked around
Albert’s waist to cinch together the long, flowing robes. An unseen shadow
stained his gray garment a darker hue.

The
Renegades all took a step back when the skin covering Albert’s face and hands pulled
taught, erasing all but a few wrinkles. The doctor grew younger before their
eyes, his long, white beard climbing upward into his sharp, angular chin. In
seconds, Albert’s grin was framed by a neatly-trimmed goatee as black as his
robes. The thin wisps of snowy hair darkened and thickened to cover his scalp
completely.

“An
enchanter!” Plake looked like he was about to drop his sword and bolt.

Were
he not paralyzed from fear, Arthur might have run himself.

“You
mentioned something about hurting me?” he sneered.

Pistol
lowered his sword. “We had no idea…I mean…we intended no harm…”

“I
don’t care if you intended to wash my feet while reciting poetry of great
bards. I am finished with playing games with the mundane. I shall hide no
longer!”

The
wizard spun around, leveling his hands at Crooker and Plake. The latter let out
a cry and turned to flee, but he was too slow. Twin beams of crimson light
burst from the wizard’s palms. One of the beams connected squarely with
Crooker’s chest, launching the pirate several feet back. He hit the ground with
a thud. The other beam clipped Plake’s left arm, sending the rancher spinning
like a top before he too fell.

Pistol’s
roared and lunged forward, his curved sword aimed at Albert’s back. But the
cutlass plunged through nothing but air. Albert deftly sidestepped the attack,
and Pistol skittered right past him. Before the one-eyed pirate could attempt a
second attack, the wizard made a curious sign with his hand, and Pistol rose
off the ground.

Arthur
knew that he should do something besides standing there and watching as the
wizard attacked his friends, but he was truly entranced. He had heard tales of
spells that made the impossible possible, but even after Lilac had told them
about the magic Dark Lily had wielded, Arthur was having trouble believing what
he was seeing. It was as though he were dreaming.

Pistol
struggled against the invisible ropes that suspended him five feet off the
ground, looking like a marionette. The wizard made another gesture with his
right hand, and the pirate went sailing through the air as though launched from
a catapult. Arthur watched helplessly as Pistol went crashing through the
windowpane of the empty shop.

Beyond
Albert, he could see Crooker, curled up into a ball, clutching his chest. Plake
lay where he had fallen, not moving, but whether the rancher was truly
unconscious or playing possum, Arthur couldn’t be sure.

The
wizard was staring at him now, perhaps expecting him to make a move against
him. Arthur felt like a field mouse staring into the eyes of a serpent. In the
stories, witches and warlocks were content with turning people into toads or
making them sleep for a hundred years, but Albert Simplington had already
proven he was capable of far more than that.

Closing
his eyes, Arthur braced for the hungry flames of a fireball to engulf him.

“Well,
I feel better at any rate.”

Arthur
dared to open his eyes.

Albert,
arms crossed, continued to speak to him. “You have no idea how difficult it was
to avoid casting spells these past few months. I have used magic for nearly
seven hundred years. Can you fathom what it is like to have to hold back?”

Arthur
could only gape at the wizard.