Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (9 page)

He
almost plowed right into Scout, who had come to a sudden stop.

“What
is it?” Leslie asked breathlessly.

“A
dead end.”

Klye’s
heart sank, but then Scout said, “Oh, wait. There are some rungs in the side of
the wall. They must lead up to the surface.”

“Get
going,” Klye ordered.

The
hooded Renegade ran over to the rungs and began to climb them with the grace of
a spider monkey. Leslie followed, though she stopped halfway up because Scout
was in her way.

“Damn,”
Scout said. “The grate is stuck.”

Klye
was going to suggest that he use his knife as he had done before at the
Cathedral, but suddenly he and Leslie had a problem of their own. Four
silhouettes rounded the corner in the distance, and once again he heard the
queer language they spoke. He could only hope it was the group that had been
following them on their side of the canal and that they weren’t equipped with
bows and arrows like their allies.

“Hurry
up, Scout. They’re coming,” Leslie said.

Klye
had no idea who the foes could be, but as they came closer, he was certain of
one thing: they weren’t human.

The
creatures moved with an animal-like gait and with a hunched manner that
reminded him of a slinking raccoon. The fog was too thick to make out any
details aside from the fact that while they had a slimmer build than men, they
matched him in height.

Just
what in the hells had made its home in Port Town’s sewers? he wondered.

“Got
it,” Scout said, and Klye heard the scraping of the grate being pushed aside.

“Go!”
Klye said to Leslie, who was staring, wide-eyed, at the oncoming creatures. He gave
her rump a not-so-gentle shove. “Move! I’ll be right behind you.”

“You
don’t even have a sword,” she argued. “You go first. I’ll—Klye!”

Klye
gasped as a sharp, burning pain exploded in his upper arm. Apparently, there
was at least one archer in the group.

“I’m
all right,” he lied. This wasn’t the first time he’d taken an arrow, but this
hurt worse than any of the others had. The initial burning sensation
immediately gave way to a chill that was now surging through his arm and
shoulder, numbing the pain but making him dizzy in the process.

Another
arrow sailed between them, lodging itself between two stones in the wall.

Leslie
jumped down from the rungs and pushed Klye toward them. “You are in my
jurisdiction, Klye. Get moving!”

Klye
didn’t argue. If he stayed down there much longer, he wasn’t sure he would be
able to pull himself up the rungs. The freezing sensation was spreading to his
chest, and his forehead was damp with cold, slick sweat.

It
took him longer to climb up than it should have, and he hoped his sluggishness
wouldn’t cost Leslie Beryl her life.

Arms—Scout’s
arms—pulled him out of the hole once he reached the top.

“Hurry,
Les,” Scout cried while Klye struggled to his feet.

Klye
looked around. They were in a room, a cellar by the looks of it. He leaned up
against a web-covered wall and examined the shaft that protruded from his arm.
It was a short bolt, most likely fired from a small variety of bow, maybe even
a crossbow. Gingerly, he pulled at the shaft, but it was in deep, and even the
minor tug sent waves of nausea through his body.

Klye
opened his eyes with a jerk, realizing that he must have closed them after
pulling on the arrow. A fog thicker than that in the sewers had filled his
brain, but he forced it away when he heard Leslie’s voice coming up through the
grate.

“Let
go, you bastard!”

Certain
that she wasn’t addressing Scout, Klye flung himself back down beside the hole.

“I
can almost reach her, but one of those things has her leg,” Scout told him.

An
arrow pinged off the wall near Leslie’s head. In spite of the creature clinging
onto her, Leslie managed to climb up another step.

“You’re
almost there,” coached Scout. “I can almost reach your hand. Just one more
step.”

“Ow!
This thing has claws!” Leslie’s voice sounded like it was floating through
water.

Klye
watched as Leslie, still clinging to the rungs with her left hand, drew her
sword with her right and swung down at the creature. It shrieked and
immediately released her leg.

“Take
my sword,” she said and raised it up at the hole.

Without
thinking—there didn’t seem time for that—Klye grabbed the weapon, cutting
himself on the edge of the blade. He ignored the pain and cast the sword aside.
Scout was already helping Leslie up through the hole. The two of them seemed to
be moving unnaturally fast.

“They’re
right behind me,” Leslie said, retrieving her sword. “We might be able to cut
them down one by one as they come up, but there might be more on the way.
We…Klye, are you all right?”

Judging
by Leslie’s worried expression, Klye knew he didn’t
look
all right.

“I’ll
be fine,” he assured her, but it took all of his concentration not to collapse.
He felt like he had downed an entire bottle of hard spirits, and Klye had never
cared for the disorienting effects of drinking.

He
could only watch as Scout put the grate back in place. The last thing he saw
was Scout and Leslie struggling to push a large chest over to the hole. Then he
could fight the dizziness no longer and slumped to the floor.

Passage IX

DeGrange
knew he ought to concentrate all his mental capacity on dispatching the
buccaneers in the inn—that one thoughtless maneuver could well be his last—but
he found his thoughts drifting from the bedlam raging around him to his morning
meeting with Crofton Beryl.

Whereas
the night before, the mayor had been reluctant to deal with the pirates, today
he wanted the Three Guards to confront them on both fronts. The coastal guard
was to attack the two pirate ships, while DeGrange led a unit of city guards
and pier guards into the inn where the other pirates were hiding. He had no
idea what had changed the mayor’s mind, but there was a light in the mayor’s
eyes that troubled him.

Looking
like he hadn’t slept all night, Crofton Beryl had ordered an all-out attack on
the pirates, dismissing DeGrange’s strategies as unnecessary.

“Surround
the inn and order them to surrender. If they do not, then kill them,” the mayor
had said. “What is so difficult about that?”

DeGrange
had grudgingly agreed to the mayor’s simple tactic. If the mayor wanted to make
a statement to the other criminals in Port Town, the showy siege of Oars and
Omens would do the trick.

But
they had underestimated the number of pirates holed up in the place. Now
DeGrange and his men were overwhelmed by the enemy, without any proper route
for reinforcements to join the battle.

The
Captain of the Three Guards found himself up against the man who had ordered
the pirates to attack, presumably their leader. Realizing this one-eyed
buccaneer had probably fought his way to the top, DeGrange tried, again, to
shut out everything else and concentrate on cutting him down.

However,
something else the mayor had said troubled DeGrange even more than his change
of heart toward the pirate problem. Somehow, Mayor Beryl had gotten the idea in
his head that Father Elezar, the High Priest of Aladon’s Cathedral, was a
Renegade sympathizer. Elezar and the mayor had once been good friends. How
could he believe something so preposterous?

DeGrange
had stationed a few of his men outside of the church—he couldn’t defy the
mayor’s orders, after all—but he knew it was a waste of time and manpower. The
High Priest was no Renegade, just as the pirates were not in league with the
Renegades, as the mayor had also predicted.

Had
Crofton Beryl gone completely mad, seeing Renegades at every turn?

After
the pirates were dealt with, DeGrange swore he would do something about Crofton
Beryl. The man was no longer fit to govern the city. His wife’s death had
surely affected him more than anyone had guessed. As he parried the swing of
the one-eyed pirate’s cutlass, he wondered if the mayor would accuse
him
of being a Renegade next.

A
mob of pirates and pier guards surged between DeGrange and his foe, and the
pirate king was lost among the crowd. DeGrange sought to pursue him, but his
eyes caught movement by the stairs. Fearing that even more pirates were
arriving to join the fray, he let the pirate king go and prepared to warn his
men to watch their flank.

He
was relieved when it turned out to be but one man descending from the inn’s
second story. The fellow didn’t even look like a pirate. DeGrange was about to
rejoin the fray when light caught the fellow’s eyes. He paused, certain that he
knew this tall man with startlingly green eyes—but from where?

Something
was different about him…he had been wearing something else…

That’s
it! DeGrange thought, practically shouting the words out loud. Green Eyes had
worn a long, brown robe when he was in the company of two other monks at the
Cathedral. Then he recalled the cloaked figure he had seen aboard
Stalwart
Mariner
.

Green
Eyes wasn’t wearing the robes anymore; he wore a quiver full of arrows on his
back and a bow slung over his shoulder. He carried two sheathed swords in his
hands.

A
pirate with black hair and the beginnings of a bluish beard came forward, and
DeGrange met him sword to sword. He countered stroke after stroke, but his head
was spinning as he remembered another bit of news the mayor had told him this
morning.

Word
had come from Continae that two rogue Knights of Superius had escaped the
Citadel Dungeon. Might the Renegade knights and their accomplices have stowed
away on
Stalwart Mariner
?

He
spared a quick glance at Green Eyes and saw the man hand the swords over to two
men. DeGrange almost dropped his sword when he was finally able to get a good
look at them. By the gods above and below, Green Eyes’ friends perfectly
matched the description of the rogue knights!

“Take
those two men alive!” DeGrange shouted to the guards that were in earshot, gesturing
at the rogue knights with free hand. “The King of Superius himself has issued a
reward for their capture. Take them alive!”

He
cared nothing for the bounty, but if he captured the rogue knights, he would at
least have the answers to some of his questions. Green Eyes and his friends had
been trying to get into the Cathedral when he found them the night before.
Could Crofton Beryl have been right about Father Elezar after all?

DeGrange
failed to see his opponent’s ruse for what it was. He swung his sword to the
right, attempting to parry the strike that never came. Instead, the pirate
feinted and came in from the left, scoring a direct hit to DeGrange’s middle.

He
knew it was a fatal blow before he even hit the floor. As his lifeblood flowed
onto the worn wooden planks, he cursed himself for getting so distracted in the
midst of a melee.

As
he began to cough, DeGrange realized he wasn’t truly angry with the pirate who
had stabbed and who had moved on to the next opponent. DeGrange had faced death
time and time again as a protector of the city. It had only been a matter of
time before he ended up at the end of some ne’er-do-well’s sword.

What
irked him more than anything was that he would never solve the mystery of the
rogue knights and the High Priest. The pain in his gut was a mere annoyance in
comparison. He watched three city guardsmen push their way over to where the
rogue knights were standing, though Green Eyes was nowhere in sight.

Let
the living deal with treacherous knights, murderous pirates, and mad mayors.
His last thought was a prayer to the gods, beseeching them to watch over his
wife and daughter.

Then
he closed his eyes and died.

*
         
*
         
*

Though
his broadsword was heavier than the guardsman’s weapon—a smaller, curved
sword—Ragellan proved quicker than his opponent, who belatedly attempted to
parry the stroke. The flat of Ragellan’s blade connected with the side of the
soldier’s unprotected head. Stunned, the soldier fell to the floor.

But
there were two more to take his place.

“Surrender,
and you will not be harmed,” urged one of the guards.

Ragellan
paused only an instant before launching himself into an offensive routine. The
poor guards didn’t stand a chance. He and Horcalus had been trained by the best
swordsmen in Superius. While Ragellan’s new adversary was quicker than the
last, the knight used his strength to compensate.

He
struck harder with every stroke, the broadsword sounding like an old cowbell as
it clanged against the other blade. To the soldier’s credit, he didn’t let go
of his weapon, though his wrist was surely suffering from the repeated impacts.

The
guardsman stubbornly maintained his grip on the sword, unable to do much else
but defend against the knight’s barrage of steel. He parried again and again,
until a fine crack formed near the middle of his cutlass. The next time he
intercepted the broadsword, his cutlass shattered into several pieces.

“You
would be wise to retreat,” Ragellan suggested.

Staring
in shock at his broken sword, the man regarded him for a moment and then took
his advice and ran. Ragellan turned to see if Horcalus needed a hand, but his
friend’s opponent was already laying on the floor, unconscious, a trail of
blood streaming from his nose.

“I
hated to do it, but he would not relent,” Horcalus said. “He was only doing his
job.”

“And
if he had succeeded in doing his job, we would at this moment be on our way
back to prison,” Ragellan reminded him. “Do you see Plake anywhere?”

Oars
and Omens looked more like a slaughterhouse than an inn. The floors were sodden
with spilled blood. Here and there lay an unmoving soldier or pirate. Above the
din of the warriors’ shouts, Ragellan heard the sound of glass shattering, and
he followed the source to a broken mirror on the wall.

He
didn’t know what had smashed the mirror, but below it, some of the pirates,
having been pushed back by the seemingly endless stream of soldiers, were now
using the bar as a fortification against crossbow bolts. The pirates returned
fire, launching bottles, barrels, and anything else they could find back at the
guards. Ragellan thought he saw the pirate Othello had pointed out behind the
bar and guessed that Plake, too, had taken refuge there.

The
battle had enveloped the entire common room. He and Horcalus would have to
fight their way to the bar.

“Othello
has the bags,” Horcalus said, pointing back at the stairs, where the archer,
sacks in hand, patiently waited for them.

“He’ll
need cover,” Ragellan replied. He distinctly heard the words
rogue knight
from somewhere in the melee and knew they were in for more trouble. “Go to
Othello. Use that window over there if you have to, but get the supplies to the
docks and wait.”

“What
about you?”

“I’ll
get Plake and meet you there.”

Horcalus
gave him a sour look but didn’t argue.

Ragellan
gave Horcalus a final salute before pushing his way through several brawls. He
was close enough to touch the bar when two more guards—these two wore blue and
white—assailed him. As he dodged their swords and swung his own blade in wide
arcs to keep them at bay, he saw that the pirates had begun to light their
projectiles on fire, shoving rags into the liquor bottles before igniting them.

Small
fires sprang up throughout the common room. One of Ragellan’s opponents caught
a flaming cocktail in the back, and the fire immediately engulfed his entire
body. Screaming in panic and pain, he fell writhing to the floor.

Ragellan’s
other adversary had maneuvered himself between Ragellan and the bar, so the
knight did not see what happened next. Parrying blow after blow—this soldier’s
swordplay was far more polished than any of the others he had
encountered—Ragellan heard a clamor of voices erupt from behind the bar.

This
was followed by a mass of pirates vaulting themselves over the bulwark of the
bar and an explosion that sent pirates, guards, and one former Knight of
Superius flying.

Ragellan
smelled smoke and saw the reflection of flames dancing on the wooden planks of
the floor. Shaking his head to regain his senses, he started to stand, but
before he could rise, a boot connected with the side of his head and he
succumbed to darkness.

*
         
*
         
*

Horcalus
ran as fast as he could, but already the burlap sack was weighing him down. He
ignored the burning in his arms and legs. It was nothing compared to the pain
he felt in his chest at the thought of abandoning Ragellan.

When
a loud boom shook the ground, he glanced over his shoulder and saw smoke
billowing from the inn’s windows. It was all he could do to keep from running
back to Oars and Omens. Good gods above, watch over him, he silently begged.

Beside
him, Othello carried the other sack. The forester was having no trouble keeping
up, and Horcalus had the distinct feeling that he was holding Othello back. In
spite of Othello’s dubious character, Horcalus respected the man to some
degree. He was in excellent physical condition and a superb marksman. And he
never questioned orders.

Unlike
the imbecile, Plake…

Horcalus
took some comfort in Othello’s austere demeanor, which seemed to Horcalus, at
that moment, to be borne of optimistic confidence. But he was still wary of the
man, remembering that when they had first met the archer, he had been in the
process of killing five men.

A
thick fog had rolled in from the sea, and while it had served to cover their
retreat from Oars and Omens, it also made it nearly impossible to see anything
save what was three feet in front of them. Where were Ragellan and Plake? Where
was Klye, for that matter? The fact that he and Othello were the only two still
together out of the original five greatly disturbed Horcalus.

Othello
stopped.

“What
is it?” Horcalus asked, gasping for breath.