Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (13 page)

“To
Abaddon with you and your melodrama,” Pistol returned and spat again.

Crofton’s
lips curled into a sneer. “At least you haven’t lost your spunk. But tell me
your real name. I want those who gather to watch you die to know that you’re
just an ordinary man.”

To
the mayor’s surprise, Pistol answered. “Charles Atlins. You’d do well to
remember it so you can tell a priest when I come back to curse you.”

“Now
who is being melodramatic?” asked Crofton dryly. “I don’t suppose you will tell
me what you were doing in my city…”

Silence.

“I
know
you were working with the Renegades. The presence of this rogue
knight in your company proves that. You’ve probably even met my daughter.”

Silence.

“Very
well, Your Majesty, keep your secrets. It doesn’t matter. Your execution will
be the first of many. Neither pirate nor Renegade will call Port Town home once
I’m done purifying the city.”

Pistol
gave him a bored look. Crofton turned to the other prisoner. The knight had not
said a thing, though he had been watching intently.

“If
the King of Superius weren’t so determined to bring you back home, I would take
pleasure in ending your life myself,” he told the man. “You are worse than most
Renegades,
Sir
Ragellan, because your fall from grace was so much
farther. You have betrayed the people you swore to protect.”

His
heart beat rapidly in his chest. The rogue knight was not so far from the bars,
and Crofton knew he could reach him with his sword. One stroke, and there would
be one less traitor in the world.

A
sharp pain pierced his brain, and he thought he heard someone whispering. His
hand gripped the hilt of his sword, but he couldn’t concentrate on what he was
doing.

Distractedly,
he said, “Guard, lead me back to my carriage. The sight of these curs is making
me ill.”

He
quickly fled the prison. Yes, he thought, it’s a shame I can’t just kill them
all. They deserved no better. Knights of Superius turning against the Crown and
a High Priest consorting with criminals—what was next?

It
was at times like these Crofton Beryl feared he was the only truly loyal person
in all of Port Town.  

*
         
*
         
*

Horcalus
heard rustling in the woods. He carefully set down the only fish that had
gotten ensnared in the nets and stood, drawing his longsword from its sheath.
Short sword in hand, Plake walked beside him as they made their way up the
beach.

“There
something out there,” Plake whispered.

Horcalus
did not reply. If a contingent of soldiers were at that moment surrounding the
glen, there was little he could do about it. He was confident in his own skills
as a swordsman, but after seeing Plake’s brash, unrefined techniques in Oars
and Omens, he doubted the rancher would be able to defend himself in an
outdoors melee. And there was nothing but the ocean behind them.

Surrender
was the only practical option.

Horcalus
tightened his grip on the hilt…and almost laughed when Klye stepped out of the
shadow-filled tree trunks. Offering a prayer of thanks up to Pintor for such
good fortune, he couldn’t help but feel his relief at being reunited with the
Renegade Leader was a bit ironic.

Returning
his longsword to its place at his hip, Horcalus hurried over to where Klye and
a man whom he didn’t know had emerged from the brush.

“Wow.
I didn’t even know this place was here. You say it’s too shallow for ships?”
said the newcomer, who looked like a mariner—or a pirate.

Arthur
came next, nodding. “The guards have no idea it’s here.”

“This
would be a perfect place for a Renegade rally,” the man replied. “Don’t you
think so, Les? How did you ever find this clearing, Arthur?”

Othello
and a woman were the last to enter the glen. Arthur looked as though he was
going to shake off the question, but everyone’s attention was on him.

His
face a deep red, the boy said, “Some of the dockhands come out here to drink
after work.”

“That
would explain the empty barrels and broken bottles I found,” Plake remarked,
nudging the boy in the side.

Horcalus’s
gaze lingered on the trees. “What about Ragellan? Does anyone know what
happened to him?”

“Ragellan
has been captured,” Klye said. “He’s in Port Town’s prison. But don’t worry.
We’ll get him out. Leslie and her Renegades are going to help us.” He nodded
over at the woman. “I suppose, though, we should begin by making
introductions.”

After
Horcalus told them what happened at Oars and Omens, Klye introduced Leslie and
Scout, their guide to Fort Faith.

Plake
scoffed. “If we ever get out of Port Town…”

For
once Horcalus did not feel inclined to reprimand the rancher for his sarcasm.
Klye had led them here and, therefore, was responsible for Ragellan’s
imprisonment. They had been lucky to escape Continae without any casualties,
but now Ragellan was paying for Klye’s poor planning.

If
only Ragellan had listened to him and left Klye when they had had the chance…

“What
is the plan?” Horcalus asked.

It
was Leslie Beryl who answered. “Right now, Ragellan and Pistol…the pirate
king…are being held in a cell somewhere beneath the prison, and the prison is
being guarded by a small army of city guards. Tomorrow, when Pistol is being
led to the City Square, will be the best time for you, Klye, Plake, and Scout
to rescue Ragellan.”

“Meanwhile,”
Klye said, “Leslie and her Renegades will start a riot in the Square, freeing
Pistol and providing the perfect diversion for our rescue.”

Leslie
rolled her eyes. “I’m not doing you that big of a favor. Your jailbreak will
increase the confusion in the city, drawing soldiers away from the Square.
Besides, you still have to get in and out of the prison without getting cut
down, and I can’t spare any of my men to help you.”

“We
won’t need any help with that,” Klye promised, but I will need to know the
layout of the prison before we attempt our rescue.”

“That
won’t be a problem,” Scout promised. “I’ve been in there before. You’ll just
have to trust me.”

Klye
didn’t look too comfortable at that prospect.

“The
execution is tomorrow,” Leslie said, “And we all have a lot of work to do
beforehand. I need to get back to Maeve and the others.”

“What
about Othello?” Plake asked. “And Arthur? You didn’t mention them in your
plan.”

“If
the archer is half as good as you claim, I’ll need him in the Square,” Leslie
told Klye, her tone leaving little room for debate. “A fair exchange for Scout,
I’d say.”

Klye
was already nodding. “Othello will rendezvous with us afterward. What about
you, Arthur? I’ll need someone to keep an eye on our supplies. We’ll be heading
for Fort Faith immediately after we save Ragellan. You don’t have to stay with
us, but we could use the help.”

“I
know just the place,” Scout said, before Arthur could reply. “There’s an old
farmhouse about a mile to the southeast of the city. I can take you to the
house and back before the sun sets tonight so we can all meet there after we
break into the prison.”

“Too
bad we’re out of weapons, kid,” Plake said with a smug smile. “That sword left
in the boat is for Klye. The only thing left is a rusty hatchet I found on the
shore.”

“It’ll
have to do,” Klye said hurriedly. “But for now, we leave the weapons here.”

Leslie
crossed her arms and looked impatiently in the direction of the city. “Othello
and I will go with you to the farmhouse. Then we’ll have to be on our way.”

“I
was about to suggest the same thing,” Klye said.

The
way Klye and Leslie Beryl jerked the conversation back and forth between
themselves was beginning to make Horcalus’s head spin. As Scout led Klye,
Leslie, and Arthur into the trees, Horcalus asked, “What about Plake and me?”

“Yeah,
Klye, we’re hungry!” Plake added.

“We’ll
be back shortly. Why not catch us some fish for supper?”

With
that, the Renegade Leaders and the others were gone. Horcalus tried to take
comfort in Klye’s confidence, but his thoughts returned again and again to Ragellan,
cooped up in a prison cell with a pirate king.

“Klye
better know what he is doing,” Horcalus mumbled, returning his attention back
to the boat where the lone fish had already suffocated.

Passage XIII

Engulfed
in perpetual night, Pistol wondered how much time had passed since his arrest.
How long ago had the mayor been there? He had no way of knowing whether the sun
or the moon currently held sway in the heavens and could only guess how much
longer it would be before he was taken to his execution.

He
wasn’t afraid; he felt only a burning rage in his heart. He hated the mayor,
hated Port Town, and hated himself for answering Leslie Beryl’s summons.

Even
if
Rendwater
or
Seahunter
had escaped the coastal guards, the
Pirates of the Fractured Skull wouldn’t return for him. Likely, one of his men
had appointed himself as the new king. The survivors would already be speaking
of Pistol in the past tense.

He
couldn’t fault his former crewmen for deserting him. He had beat back two
mutinies during his five-year reign and knew full well that a pirate—any
pirate—must look out for himself, couldn’t count on anyone or anything but his
own wiles.

Pistol
knew all too well the delicate balance of power in any pirate gang. He had
helped to overthrow a pirate king and a pirate queen before ascending to the
proverbial throne.

As
the empty hours passed, alone except for the rogue Knight of Superius whose
slow, even breathing indicated he was fast asleep, Pistol’s anger faded into
numbness. Death can’t be any worse than life, he thought.

He
believed in neither Paradise for the good nor Hell for the bad. Dead was dead.
At that moment, life seemed like such a useless ordeal. What had been the
point? If nothing else, Pistol conceded that he had had one hell of a run before
getting caught. And it wasn’t over yet…

Pistol
vowed that he would not be led docilely to the noose. It was only fitting for a
violent life to have a violent end.

*
         
*
         
*

It
was like a holiday. The people of Port Town closed their businesses and pulled
in their fishing nets early in order to witness the execution of a pirate king.

Families
milled on either side of the wide road that led from the prison to the Square,
which, Klye imagined, was already filled with eager spectators. The crowds were
a blessing to the Renegades. Klye, Horcalus, Scout, and Plake—once more wearing
the brown robes that marked them as clerics of some sort—met no trouble as they
positioned themselves near the prison.

“Now
what?” Plake asked, his tone excited.

Klye
had debated long and hard over whether or not to bring the rancher along. Plake
could have remained at the rundown farmhouse, guarding their supplies along
with the boy. But after learning what Plake had done at Oars and Omens—first
going down to the common room by himself and then fighting alongside the
pirates—Klye thought that keeping Plake within sight was the smartest tactic.

“We
wait,” Klye answered.

Horcalus
nodded grimly, but Plake sighed and began to fiddle with the long sleeves of
his robe. “These things are really itchy.”

Klye
ignored him and glanced at the people all around them. Nothing was amiss.
Several guards, wearing the red-and-white uniform of city soldiers, chatted
with each other outside the prison’s only entrance. If they were expecting any
trouble, they certainly didn’t show it.

“Why
don’t we rush them now?” Plake whispered. “That way we can rescue Ragellan and
the pirate king all at the same time.”

Scout
laughed. “After you, Plake! Right now, there are enough guardsmen in the prison
to start their own village. We’d all be dead before we could set foot inside
the place.”

Finally,
with the sun blazing brightly in the center of the sky, the prison doors
opened, and soldiers began marching forth in well-formed rows. So dense was the
phalanx of guards that Klye was unable to get a look at the prisoner as he was
marched past them.

The
guardsmen formed a living wall around the pirate king, and Klye wondered how
Leslie and her men were going to contend with the sheer number of soldiers.

Only
two guards remained in view, standing on either side of the prison’s entryway.
Klye had no way of knowing how many more were inside. By Scout’s reasoning, the
mayor would be more concerned with the pirate king’s execution running smoothly
than the prisoners left behind.

Klye
hoped the man was right.

“We’ll
wait until the procession is a bit farther away,” Klye told the others, doing
his best to maneuver his body so that the two remaining sentries would not see
the sword-shaped bulge at his hip.

The
crowd began to disperse as most of the onlookers followed the precession of
soldiers to the City Square. Soon, the street would be empty, and four monks
lingering near the prison would look unforgivably suspicious.

“All
right,” Klye said, “follow my lead.”

With
his three companions in tow, Klye took a direct path to where the two soldiers
stood at ease, looking more at each other as they talked than out at the road.
The sentries did not expect someone to walk right up to the prison’s front
doors with trouble in mind, not without an army at least. Klye was counting on
the fact that the soldiers inside the prison would suffer from the same
overconfidence. The element of surprise was the only thing they had going for
them.

“Excuse
me, good sirs,” Klye said to the guards. “Might you be able to answer a
question of ours?”

One
of the sentries opened his mouth to reply and was rewarded with a punch to the
face. Klye’s attack knocked the soldier out cold. Scout and Plake took care of
the other guard, the rancher clamping a hand over the shocked soldier’s mouth
until Scout’s chokehold rendered the man unconscious.

“Should
we drag them inside, so nobody finds them?” Scout asked.

“No
time,” Klye said.

Pulling
off his robe, the Renegade Leader drew the long, thin-bladed sword Othello had
purchased for him. The others revealed their weapons as well, glancing around
nervously, though most everyone had moved on to the Square.

Klye
kicked open the double doors and said, “Lead the way, Scout.”

*
         
*
         
*

The
Square began filling with people long before the sun had reached its zenith.
Now rows and rows of guardsmen marched toward the scaffold where the mayor, the
new Captain of the Three Guards, and Father Elezar awaited the condemned man.
Around them, the spectators pushed and shoved, trying to get a peek at the
pirate king.

From
Othello’s position on the roof of a mill overlooking the Square, the throng of
people looked like one massive creature, its body undulating grotesquely; its
cries, discordant and terrible.

Beside
him, four other marksmen—all Renegades under Leslie’s command—crouched behind a
railing, bows in hand and awaiting their leader’s signal.

Othello
saw Leslie in the front row below. She was standing so near the scaffold that if
Crofton Beryl were to turn around and inspect the crowd closely, he might well
identify his daughter beneath the all the mud and grime covering her face.
Other Renegades from that morning’s meeting, including Maeve Semper, surrounded
Leslie.

From
his vantage, Othello had no difficulty seeing the pirate king. Pistol walked
with his head held high, not struggling in the least. As the prisoner was
marched past the mill, Othello’s breath caught in his throat.

Below
in the Square, walking purposefully toward the scaffold, was Chester Ragellan.

*
         
*
         
*

 
“Which one of you is Pistol?”

The
pirate king rubbed his eyes, surprised he had fallen asleep. Half a dozen other
men accompanied the guard who had spoken, and none of them were smiling. Pistol
was thinking of a glib reply when the rogue knight spoke up.

“I
am.”

“What?”
Pistol exclaimed. The soldiers’ torches revealed a very serious expression on
Ragellan’s face. “What’re you doing, knight?”

“I
am Pistol,” Ragellan continued, “King of the Pirates of the Fractured Skull.
Come in and get me, you scallywags. You won’t take me without a fight.”

The
guard with the key to the cell rolled his eyes and said, “You heard him, boys.
Just don’t rough him up too bad. He still has to make the walk to the Square.”

Pistol
glared at Ragellan. “Don’t be a hero on my account. You’ll die soon enough as
it is. Leave me to my fate.” To the guard, he said, “I am Pistol.”

Now
the officer with the key paused, frowning deeply and glaring at both of them.

“Don’t
listen to him,” Ragellan said. “He’s trying to be a martyr. You know those
knightly types. He says he lost his eye while saving a princess. Ain’t that a
riot? Look, I’m not in any hurry to die, so if you want to take him instead, go
ahead. But I wouldn’t want to be in your boots when the mayor sees you’ve
brought the wrong man.”

Pistol
stared at Ragellan but didn’t argue. What the hell was he doing?

Why
do I even care? Pistol wondered. The knight had a point about not being in a
hurry to die. And although Pistol would not be there to witness the mayor’s
reaction at discovering the switch, he saw it as a kind of vengeance against
Crofton Beryl nonetheless.

Pistol
shrugged and told the guards, “It was worth a try.” He turned over and
pretended to go back to sleep.

True
to his word, Ragellan put up a fight when the guards entered the cell, spouting
off comments about landlubbers and some nonsense about keelhauling. The
knight’s impression of a pirate was enough to bring a smile to Pistol’s face—a
rare thing to be sure.

Pistol
watched the guards drag Ragellan out of the cell. A stream of blood flowed from
the man’s nose, but the rogue knight was smiling too. Their eyes met for just
an instant before Ragellan was forcefully led down the corridor.

*
         
*
         
*

The
majority of the prison’s guards had been needed to fill the ranks of the
processional guard. With the Pirates of the Fractured Skull defeated and the
pirate king well on his way to certain death, the soldiers left at the prison
were celebrating the victory at Oars and Omens with mugs of port wine.

They
were in mid-toast when Klye and his men barged into the bastion.

“There,”
Scout said, pointing past the guards. “Through that hall are the stairs that
will lead down to the lower level. And the gate is up too.”

Klye
immediately saw what Scout was referring to. Beyond the soldiers was a hall
that led into darkness. For some reason, the miniature portcullis was raised,
which meant they wouldn’t have to waste time using the crank on the wall to
heft it up out of their way.

But
they still had a score of city guardsmen between them and the hallway in
question.

“Follow
me!” Klye shouted.

As
Klye, Scout, Horcalus, and Plake ran toward the gate, the soldiers regained
their senses and drew their blades.

“Don’t
kill anyone unless you have to,” Horcalus added as the guards closed in on
them.

Klye
was already swinging his rapier in wide arcs, trying to keep their opponents at
bay. He had worried over Scout’s meager equipment and had even offered him
Plake’s short sword—much to Plake’s ire—but Scout had refused. Now Klye could
see that Scout needed no sword; he was doing quite well with the simple knife
he carried.

Plake
taunted and swore at the soldiers, meeting them sword to sword only when they
pressed him, while Horcalus, his face stern and emotionless, routinely unarmed
the guards and sent them flying with well-placed kicks and shoves. All the
while, the Renegades were moving closer and closer to the hall that would take
them to Chester Ragellan.

It
only took them a few seconds to drive a hole through the guardsmen’s hastily
composed defense, but to Klye—dodging, parrying, and thrusting all the while—it
seemed much longer than that. When they finally reached the hall, fighting with
their backs to the chilly passageway, Klye ordered his men to turn and run.

Klye
swung his sword with all his might, missing the nearest guardsman by a good ten
inches. The guard chuckled as he easily avoided the rapier and prepared to
counterattack by plunging his sword into the Renegade Leader’s midsection.

But
Klye had not been aiming for the soldier. His sword clanged against the wall,
slicing completely through the rope that had been keeping the portcullis
suspended above the doorframe. Nimbly, Klye jumped backward, narrowly missing
the falling gate. The soldier who had been on the verge of stabbing him could
not stop his swing in time and ended up breaking his sword against the steel
bars.