Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (40 page)

“Expect
me at your camp before noon tomorrow,” Eliot added before breaking off the
magical connection.

Drekk’t’s
uneasy expression faded instantly, and the prince was staring once more into
his own blue eyes. He quickly put the accursed mirror back into his pack and
then took a good look at his room. His eyes lingered on the oversized bed in
the corner.

He
had had no restful sleep in many, many days, for he had spent most of the
voyage from Continae in a state of meditation, maintaining the strong buffets
of wind that filled the ship’s sails and pushed the vessel across the Strait of
Liliae at an unprecedented pace.

The
crew had thought their speedy trip the result of some miracle, a gift from the
gods. But Eliot knew well that there was always a price for divine favors. Days
and nights had passed in an indistinguishable blur. He wasn’t fully awake but
not truly sleeping either. Now he was exhausted, and his body ached.

Yes,
the powers of the gods certainly took a toll.

Eliot
went to the bed and lay down, resisting the urge to grant his body the sleep it
begged for. The prince had learned long ago how to deny the weaknesses of the
flesh in order to strengthen the spirit. He fixed his thoughts on the image of
a crow, picturing the bird’s oily black feathers, sharp beak, and fierce eyes.

It
was at times like these when the prince envied common spell-casters. Wizards
were truly independent souls, tapping into the Magic Goddesses’ power without answering
to the deities themselves. It was due to this detached relationship between the
goddesses and their servants that enabled the prince to trigger the enchantment
locked in the mirror while earnestly serving another god. A greater god.

Magic
was impersonal, tricks learned without the benefit of guidance. As far as Eliot
could see, the wizard sacrificed nothing for his magic.

Feeling
his thoughts drifting, Eliot renewed his efforts in concentrating on the symbol
of his faith, that same image he envisioned every time he sought a connection
with Upsinous. Eliot’s mouth began to move of its own accord, speaking a mantra
his mind could not comprehend, using words sounded remotely like the goblin
tongue but contained more power than any mortal language.

The
image of the crow expanded in his mind until it filled his consciousness
entirely. He could see red fires of righteousness burning in the bird’s
otherwise expressionless eyes and dark blood dripping from the crow’s sharp
talons.

A
great chill ran over Eliot’s entire body, causing his skin to prickle and
twitch. Beneath the cold, however, the prince felt his insides boiling,
churning as though magma coursed through his veins. He could hardly focus on
these contradictory sensations, however, for his brain felt as though it were
being filled far beyond its natural capacity by a raging force that threatened
to shatter his skull. It was an exquisite pain, the paradoxical ecstasy of
being dominated and empowered at the same time.

The
prince looked forward to this intimate connection with his god—a communion that
no wizard would ever know—only slightly more than he dreaded it.

An
hour later, when Eliot’s consciousness returned to him and he realized he was
staring up at the ceiling, the prince sorted through Upsinous’s unspoken
message. In the rolling thunder that still echoed in his ears, Eliot understood
his master was pleased with all he was doing. Upsinous would continue to lend
him his power.

But
along with that covenant, Eliot detected another promise: should he fail, Eliot
would be made to suffer beyond all mortal understanding.

Covered
in cold sweat, the prince pulled a blanket over him. Communicating with his
god, begging for the divine might that he needed and craved, took so much out
of him. But it was a small enough price to pay for the power to perform
miracles far beyond the ken of most mortals. His secret talent, the gift of
vuudu
,
was typically granted the members of the goblin race, not humans.

Who
would ever suspect that the Crown Prince of Superius was one of the greatest
shamans in Altaerra?

Nausea
assaulted the prince as he turned on his side. Every bone throbbed with a dull
pain. Every muscle felt on the verge of cramping. And yet Eliot Borrom, a
stranger to the men and women who called him prince, had never felt better.

With
the confidence of an oracle, Eliot knew everything was coming together, could
feel the moment of his destiny drawing nearer. The strife in Port Town was
coming to a fevered pitch, open war already raged in North Port, and the
Renegades in Rydah were well on the path to taking up arms against the
Celestial Palace.

And
Capricon was only the beginning. All throughout Superius and the other kingdoms
of Continae, the rebellion was growing more audacious. Civil war was imminent.

There
was but one loose thread that Eliot could not resist pulling at, one variable
that had escaped his control—if not his attention—for too long. The prince
still did not know what, if anything, the rogue knights of Fort Splendor knew
about his plans. With Upsinous’s dire threats still ringing in his ears, Eliot
knew he couldn’t afford to leave anything to chance.

He
had underestimated those particular Renegades before but vowed not to do so
again.

They
all had to die, and the prince swore in the name of Upsinous, Father of Guile
and Glory, that he would crush the life from each and every one of them
personally
if need be.

Passage XI

Colt
tried to look unhurried as he saluted the sentries and exited Fort Faith. He faced
straight ahead as he walked away, but all the while, his eyes were busy
scanning his limited field of vision, searching for his quarry. Maintaining a
casual pace, he left the Knights at the front entrance far behind.

He
felt the perfect fool, wasting the entire morning hunting down Noel. Somewhere
in the back of his mind there lingered a proverb about the correlation between
avoiding midge and a long, happy life. And here he was, diligently seeking one
out!

After
learning Noel had a connection to Klye Tristan, Colt had felt a little better
about letting Noel stay at Fort Faith. It had taken some arguing to convince
Petton that Noel might prove instrumental in bringing the Renegades to justice.
After all, Noel had been a big help in rescuing Opal.

Yet
more than a week had passed since the scuffle with the rebels, and Colt had
learned virtually nothing about his adversary. Noel, who was ever underfoot
when Colt had something important to attend to, suspiciously vanished whenever
Colt set his mind to interrogating him about Klye.

He
had to admit, however, Noel hadn’t caused any trouble since the rescue mission.
Still, he was tired of being played for the fool. It was time for Noel to tell
all he knew of the Renegade Leader.

Colt
rounded a corner, where only a passing guard up on the rampart might see him,
and took a long look at the tall grass beyond the fortress. Then he realized
Noel wouldn’t have any need for cover. The midge’s magic would be a far better
means for hiding.

The
twang of bowstring caused Colt to stiffen. His hand on the hilt of
Chrysaal-rûn
,
he spun around to find the archer—and let out a relieved sigh when he saw that
it was Opal. However, his heart continued its rapid cadence.

She
had her back to him and was already loading another bolt into her crossbow.
Colt could make out the hard yet feminine shape of the muscles in her back and
sun-bronzed arms as she pulled back on the string. Beyond her, Colt saw the
makeshift target she had constructed from a circular piece of wood mounted on a
bale of hay. A single arrow protruded from the target no more than two inches
from the berry-stained bull’s-eye.

Colt
relaxed his hold on the crystal sword and watched her take another shot. An
assortment of emotions washed over him. The two of them had gotten along well
since that first day in Port Errnot. She was one of his dearest friends, and
sharing in her company made being so far from home much easier.

But
in some ways, Opal was as much as a mystery as Noel. Colt knew better than to
think there was more to her flirting than harmless fun; Opal flirted with just
about everybody. It was part of her personality, her charm. Yet he couldn’t
help but wonder if she drifted off to sleep with thoughts of him on her mind.

She
had called him her hero twice now, once in reference to his saving her from the
Renegades and again after his men had retrieved her quiver from the Port
Stone’s rundown inn, the Renegades’ former hideout. Both times, Colt had felt a
surge in his chest.

Oblivious
of his presence, she took careful aim at the target. Colt, having little skill
with bows of any type, knew he would have been lucky to plant an arrow in the
bale of hay, let alone the target mounted thereupon. Opal’s aptitude for
archery was just one of the many things that made her special—and so different
from the ladies that Knights typically chose for wives.

A
wife? he thought. Gods above, I
am
smitten!

Opal
pressed the trigger, and a second later, the arrow struck the circular target
with a crack. He approached her then, examining the result of her latest shot
with her. She had missed the bull’s-eye again, but this time by less than an
inch.

“Damn
wind,” Opal muttered.

If
Colt’s arrival had surprised her at all, she covered it well. She flashed a
charming smile, wisps of her rich red hair dancing to the silent notes of the
breeze.

“It’s
a good thing we’re not at Port Gust,” Colt said.

Opal
chuckled. “Maybe it’s time I hung up my crossbow for good. It’s not like I’ll
have much use for it with a fort full of Knights protecting me. Yes, I shall
retire from adventuring and become the Hag of Fort Faith.”

Colt
couldn’t imagine Opal aging into anything remotely hag-like, but he shrugged
his shoulders indifferently. He wanted to say something humorous to keep the
conversation going, but nothing came to mind. He had learned early on in his
friendship with Opal that she was not easily bested in the matters of sarcasm.

Then
she was walking away to collect her arrows. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from
her beautiful hair flowing in the wind…the sway of her hips…

“Commander
Crystalus!”

Colt
jumped guiltily and turned around. Petton was on him in a few great strides, an
urgent expression on his face. While the lieutenant never seemed to smile,
Gaelor Petton looked downright flummoxed. Colt groaned, wondering what Noel had
done this time.

“Good
afternoon,” said Colt tentatively.

“I
beg to differ,” Petton sighed. “A message from Fort Valor arrived this morning,
and since no one could find you, one of the men brought it to me. It is a
letter from Prince Eliot.”

Colt
might have laughed if he had thought Petton capable of making a joke. He took
the letter from his lieutenant, wondering what the Crown Prince of Superius
could possibly have to say to him. Perhaps Prince Eliot had learned of his
appointment to Fort Faith and wanted to wish him well in his endeavors.

The
grave expression on Petton’s face told a different story.

Colt
unfolded the piece of parchment. When he reached the end, he reread the short
missive. Surely he had misunderstood its meaning. So engrossed was he in the
prince’s letter, he didn’t hear Opal’s return.

“What’s
going on?” she asked.

Colt
opened his mouth to explain but couldn’t find his voice at first. He turned to
Petton. “Prince Eliot is coming
here
?”

The
lieutenant nodded curtly.

“What’s
going on?” Opal looked as though she might to tear the letter from Colt’s
hands.

“Apparently,”
Colt began, “the prince feels I am unfit to command. He learned of our clash
with the Renegades and is coming to learn, in person, how I allowed a handful
of poorly armed rebels to escape justice.”

“Why
should the Prince of Superius give two wits about ‘a handful of poorly armed
rebels’?” Opal asked. “Doesn’t he have better things to do with his time, like
polish his crown or something?”

Lieutenant
Petton’s deepening frown warned the woman she was crossing a line, but neither
he nor Colt corrected her.

“So
you’re just going to let this prince take over Fort Faith?” Opal demanded,
arching an incredulous eyebrow. “Is this guy even a Knight?”

Petton
let out a deep breath. “Miss Opal, you have to understand. While Eliot Borrom
has never been knighted officially, he is, next to his father, the
highest-ranking individual in the Knighthood’s hierarchy. The prince can do as
he sees fit.”

“That
sounds like a stupid rule,” Opal said.

Petton
bristled, glowering at the woman. Colt understood Opal’s perspective. She was
not Superian and had spent most of her life in the wild country of Ristidae,
which had no monarchy. To Opal, Prince Eliot was just another man—a glorified
governor—but to the Knights of Superius, the king and his family had always
ruled Superius and its armies with divine authority.

In
the eyes of the Knights, the royal lineage was practically akin to the gods
themselves.

“The
law is the law, Opal,” Colt said.

“And
you’ll meekly step aside and take orders from this upstart novice in a crown?”

Colt
could not meet her eyes. “The only order I’ll likely be given is to return to
Superius in shame.”

He
felt Petton’s arm on his shoulder. “I am sure it will not come to that,
Commander. We will explain everything that has happened to the prince. If
Prince Eliot is anything like his father, he will react reasonably and justly.”
Petton cleared his throat. “But might I suggest sending the midge on his way
before the prince arrives?”

Colt
only sighed.

“How
much time do we have before His Worship gets here?” Opal asked.

“The
day after tomorrow,” Petton answered.

The
frantic urge to capture Klye Tristan and his band before that deadline assailed
Colt, but he shook off the idea. He didn’t even know where the rebels had fled.
For all he knew, the Renegades were already on the other side of the Rocky
Crags.

Shaking
his head in resignation, Colt sighed again and said, “We have two days.”

*
         
*
         
*

Lying
flat on his stomach, hugging the hard earth for all he was worth, Scout
strained to hear the conversation between Red and the two Knights. Due to the
distance and the wind rustling through the tall grass, he caught only one word
in every five. After a point, however, he was having trouble concentrating at
all for he had caught at least one important bit of news.

Prince
Eliot Borrom was coming to Fort Faith in two days!

Scout
could hardly believe it. Having lived his entire life in Capricon, Scout knew
visits from the royal family were a rarity. Certainly, none of the Borroms had
ever deigned to visit Port Town. He wondered which city the prince was setting
out from, what road he would take to reach Fort Faith, and most of all, why in
the hells the prince was stopping at some beat-up fort.

Perhaps
Red and the Knights were discussing that very topic, but they were heading back
toward the front of the fort now, making further eavesdropping impossible.
Scout lay perfectly still, staring through the thick grass at their receding
forms and willing them to go faster.

It
had been a big gamble getting this close to the fortress and had taken him more
than an hour to inch his way through the brush—all the while praying the
Knights atop the battlements wouldn’t spot him.

Now
all he wanted to do was jump up and sprint back to camp.

Of
course, Scout didn’t give in to the temptation. Even if he managed to avoid
Red’s arrows, the Knights would likely give chase. And they had horses. Scout
had made sport of evading capture ever since his youth, but he knew better than
to provoke the Knights of Superius.

No,
he would wait until the commander and his friends were long gone before he
began the hour-long process of crawling away from the fort. It would be well
past dark by the time he returned to camp, which would still give them plenty
of time to make a plan of action. Because Klye wouldn’t let an opportunity like
this pass without doing
something
.

Since
he had nothing but time on his hands, Scout let his mind wander. He wondered if
Klye would try to assassinate the prince. From what he knew of Domacles
Herronin, that Renegade Leader would have no qualms against murdering the
prince if he could gain from it. Klye, on the other hand, seemed less concerned
with overthrowing the Superian monarchy. In fact, Klye’s only goal seemed to be
outfoxing the Knights of Fort Faith, though Scout still didn’t really
understand the importance of—

Something
struck him in the side. Before he could react, something solid and heavy landed
on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs. Instinctively, he rolled out
from under whatever it was, drew his knife, and crouched in a ready position.

Across
from him, the midge scrambled to his feet, mirroring Scout’s look of surprise
and alarm. For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other, Scout
clutching his knife and the midge holding his staff protectively across his
body. The little wizard had literally stumbled upon him.

Scout
figured he had mere seconds before the midge tossed a fireball at him or ensnared
him with the same sticky webbing that had felled Pistol and Crooker during the
battle in the hills. He was about to lunge at the midge when he heard scuffling
to his left. Red and her friends were probably on their way.

Cursing
his ill luck—and the entire midge race—Scout took a swipe at the blue-robed
spell-caster. The midge backpedaled, and Scout missed him entirely. His second
slash met some resistance, but the lack of blood on his knife proved he had cut
nothing more than fabric.

The
hairs on the back of his neck rose when he heard the little wizard’s chanting.
The midge made a throwing gesture in his direction. Scout dove to the ground,
expecting to hear the whoosh of flames as a fireball soared over him. Instead,
a handful of sand rained down on him.

One
of the Knights off to his left was shouting something, but Scout was already
running in the opposite direction. His chance to dispatch the midge had come
and gone. If he stuck around any longer, he himself would be dispatched by a
spell, an arrow, or a sword.