Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (47 page)

“Klye!”

He
was more than a little annoyed by the voice, which sounded like Othello’s. The
archer hardly ever spoke, so why was he shouting? Why now, when Klye was trying
to sleep? It had to be something important, though he couldn’t imagine what
could be so important that Othello felt the need to interrupt his glorious nap?

He
felt himself sinking. Inexplicably, he was a child again, and he saw with
incredible clarity the orphanage that had been his home for the first years of
his life. The scene was quickly replaced by one of himself—a little older now,
though still quite young—running the streets of some city alongside two other
thieves. When that memory ended, he was fighting a one-eyed creature with
hundreds of flailing tendrils. He hacked at the creature with a sword that
appeared to be made of pink coral. Beside him, Noel flung spell after spell at
the gruesome monster.

I
am dreaming, he thought. I am dreaming of the dream where I saved a world that
wasn’t this world. A dream within a dream…

Then
he saw himself creeping up on a cell bathed in complete darkness. He approached
the bars to find two men inside—two falsely accused Knights of Superius. The
three of them ran down the halls of the Citadel Dungeon. Then they were in a
little tavern. There was tall forester sitting by himself. There was a fight,
and Othello…

T’slect
cried out. Klye opened his eyes. He wanted to scold the shaman for waking him,
but he hadn’t the strength. He was too weak even to catch himself as he dropped
to the floor. Staring up at T’slect, he saw that the goblin wasn’t paying him
any attention. He was too busy groping at the green-feathered arrow protruding
from his hip.

Klye
closed his eyes once more, eager to return to the dream. When he heard a
resounding boom and felt the floor shake beneath him, he dismissed it as part
of the phantasmagoria that was his life’s tale—even though there had been no
explosion the first time he, Ragellan, Horcalus, and Othello stumbled upon
Plake’s uncle’s ranch.

*
         
*
         
*

Horcalus
was the first to squeeze through the hole Noel had blasted through the stone
barricade. It was a tight fit, with hot, jagged rock poking into his flesh, but
he was too preoccupied with worry for his friends to pay any heed to his own
discomfort.

When
he finally extricated himself from the tight tunnel, a scene of devastation met
his eyes. He could only gape at the ruined war room, his mind scrambling to
come up with an explanation. By the time Noel and then Opal wormed their way
into the room, Horcalus was already running over to Othello.

The
archer’s leg was buried beneath a pile of stone, but, to Horcalus’s
astonishment, Othello was in the process of fitting an arrow in the string of
his longbow. When the archer saw Horcalus approaching, he waved the knight
away.

“Go
to Klye,” Othello said.

Horcalus
gave Othello a grave nod and started over to where Klye lay sprawled on the
floor. Beyond the Renegade Leader stood a regal-looking man who could be none
other than Prince Eliot Borrom.

“Stay
back!” the prince hissed, waving a saber out before him.

Eliot
was leaning against a desk. One of Othello’s arrows protruded from his upper
thigh. Horcalus ignored the prince. He had no quarrel with Eliot Borrom. He had
to get to Klye. Ignoring the prince’s order, Horcalus came forward, stopping
only when he reached the fallen Renegade Leader.

“Lieutenant,”
Horcalus heard Eliot call. “Thank the gods you are here. These Renegades nearly
proved the end of me. Kill them at once!”

In
spite of himself, Horcalus glanced back at the hole Noel had made. Only half of
Petton had breached the war room. Although the lieutenant had been forced to
remove the majority of his armor, he was still having a devil of a time pulling
himself through the magically made passage.

“Don’t
listen to him, Petton,” Noel pleaded. The midge and Opal were standing over one
of the fallen Knights, but upon hearing the prince’s order, the midge started
marching toward Eliot Borrom. “I know you’re evil! You talk to monsters in
mirrors, and if you’ve killed Klye or Colt, I’m going to kill you myself.”

The
Crown Prince of Superius glowered down at the midge, but beneath his
indignation, Horcalus saw genuine worry.

At
the mention of his wounded comrade, Horcalus returned to the task at hand. He
brought his fingers up to Klye’s throat, and when he found a pulse—weak but
steady—he nearly let out a cry of joy. With a prayer of thanks to the
Warriorlord, he gently laid Klye’s head back down on the floor and rose to his
feet.

“Calm
down, Noel,” he said. “Klye is alive. Do not act hastily.”

“But
the prince is
evil
!” the midge protested.

“The
midge is right.”

Horcalus
met Othello’s eyes, hardly believing he had heard the man correctly. But the
look in Othello’s expression told Horcalus he was being as serious as ever.
Before Horcalus could react one way or another, the archer launched another
arrow at the prince.

Eliot
Borrom ducked just in time.

“Don’t
you fire another shot!” Petton roared. The lieutenant had finally managed to
pull himself into the room. He was hurrying over to Othello, but Petton’s
effort was for naught. Othello had passed out.

“It’s
all a plot to assassinate me,” Prince Eliot insisted. “The midge is on it. You
must stop him, lieutenant!”

“What
in hells happened here?” Opal asked the prince.

At
the same time, Noel began chanting a spell.

Lieutenant
Petton gave a startled gasp and sprinted toward the midge.

Horcalus
felt something wet touch his hand. A river of dark blood was trickling down the
slope of the uneven floor. He followed the thick rivulet to its source, all the
while wondering what manner of man bled black.

His
answer came in the form of a goblin corpse.

“Goblins.”
Horcalus mouthed the word, unable to find his voice. It could not be a
coincidence, but what did the presence of the monsters portend? “Monsters in
the mirror…”

The
truth came to him all at once.

“Gods
above, the midge is right!”

Horcalus
didn’t know if had uttered his deduction aloud or not. He had little time to
figure out much of anything. Lieutenant Petton was closing in on Noel. Without
thought to the consequences, Horcalus flung himself at the oncoming Knight,
blindsiding him with a flying tackle. The two men hit the ground with a
powerful crash.

As
he attempted to free himself from Horcalus’s hold, Petton swore, “I’ll gut you
for this, traitor! I’ll—“

Out
of the corner of his eye, Horcalus glimpsed a flash of purple light. He heard
Noel scream, and then the midge came skidding past them, dropping to the ground
like a limp rag doll.

A
second burst bathed Horcalus’s vision in violet, but he was already running
over to Noel. The blast struck the lieutenant instead, thrusting him back no
less than two yards where he hit the floor and lay motionless.

“That
one was meant for you, rogue knight.”

Frozen
where he stood, halfway between where the bodies of Noel and Petton lay,
Horcalus felt the prince’s words wash over him like the frigid waters of a
mountain stream.

“Yes,
I recognize you, Dominic Horcalus,” the prince continued. “Upsinous has truly
favored me this day.”

“Who
are you?” For the first time since entering the fort, Horcalus drew his
longsword.

“I
am your prince!”

With
that, the imposter sent another blast of purple light Horcalus’s way, which he
narrowly avoided. The spell had passed so near, Horcalus felt the prickle of
gooseflesh all along his flank. Knowing his only chance in defeating the prince
was to run him through before he fired another magical shot Horcalus charged
forward.

He
saw the imposter’s mouth moving and knew he would be too late, but he kept running
anyway. When the man flung out his hands, his outstretched fingers pointed at
him, Horcalus flinched but did not slow. He waited for death to fly at him on
violet wings.

It
never came, and the stranger looked as surprised as Horcalus felt.

Horcalus
came on with a booming war cry, channeling all of his anger and frustration
into his attack. The imposter had just enough time to retrieve a long, curved
sword from atop the desk and make a desperate swing before Horcalus was on him.

Horcalus
batted the saber aside and countered with a thrust of his own. His longsword
grazed the imposter’s midsection and pierced the wooden desk. To Horcalus’s
immense chagrin, the sword stuck fast in the piece of furniture, and he was
forced to relinquish his hold on it and fall back as the saber ripped through
the air where his head had been seconds before.

Unarmed,
Horcalus considered a temporary retreat, but he did not want to give the
imposter the chance to cast another spell. The man’s well of magic might have
dried up, but Horcalus couldn’t be sure. He had no idea how such things worked
and he didn’t want to learn the hard way.

The
imposter came on again, swinging the saber at his chest. Horcalus was not quick
enough to dodge, and the blade bit into chest. He went with the momentum of the
strike, knowing that the saber might well pierce through his ribcage and into
the vital organs beneath if he resisted.

Unbalanced
and weaponless, Horcalus managed to stay on his feet, but he had no recourse.
He knew with all certainty that the next slash of the saber would mean his
death, but the deathblow never came. The imposter gave a horrible cry and
staggered back, turning his body away from Horcalus and toward the front of the
war room…

…where
the red-haired archer was frantically reloading her crossbow.

The
next thing Horcalus knew he was diving at the supposed Prince of Superius,
slamming him bodily into the desk. He pounded his fists into the demon’s
stomach until he heard the saber clatter to the floor. Then his hands were
around the imposter’s neck, and he was squeezing.

Somehow
Horcalus knew this man was responsible for the false charges brought against
Ragellan and him and that even though Dark Lily had done the dark deed, this
stranger had handed her the executioner’s axe. And he knew Noel was right: the
man was evil.

He
reveled in the imposter’s choked breaths. Justice would be served. The man’s
hands dropped down at his sides, and he ceased struggling. Still Horcalus
squeezed.

Only
when the man’s eyes rolled back in his head did he stop. The bluish flesh of
his face was sleek with sweat. If the imposter was not already dead, he was
lingering on the verge.

“Is
he dead?”

Opal
was standing at his side, though he had not heard her approach. With trembling
fingers, Horcalus checked signs of life, the pulse that would vindicate him. I
am no murderer, he thought. I would never kill an opponent out of anger. I am a
Knight of Superius! The tears of shame that were trickling down his cheeks
instantly changed to tears of relief when he found the heartbeat. The
imposter’s chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths.

“Thank
the gods,” Horcalus murmured.

“He’s
just lucky Colt is still alive,” Opal said. “If he wasn’t, no witchcraft in the
world could have saved him from my fury.”

“It
is better that he is alive,” Horcalus stated, hoisting the imposter’s body up
from the desk. “There are plenty of questions that need—”

The
next moment, Horcalus was holding nothing but air. The false Prince of Superius
was gone, leaving Horcalus and Opal to exchange startled looks.

Opal
kicked the old desk. “We should’ve killed him when we had the chance!”

Passage XVIII

When
Klye opened his eyes and saw the unremarkable wooden ceiling above, he couldn’t
decide where he was. Though it seemed like he had slept for a long stretch of
time, he still felt incredibly lethargic. His mind was sluggish, and the mere
thought of turning his head to better survey his surroundings drained him.

He
was comfortable, presumably in a bed of some kind. Probably, he was suffering
from a hangover, though he didn’t often drink in excess. Neither was he one to
celebrate without cause, so he must have stolen something of great value. And
it must have been quite a treasure for him to have wasted so much coin on
strong drink and an inn with soft beds.

Yes,
he would just lie there until his head no longer buzzed.

“Hey,
his eyes are open!”

The
voice was familiar but Klye couldn’t identify it. He slowly turned his head to
the left, an action that took an incredible amount of effort to execute. There,
beside the bed, stood a short fellow in a silly-looking hat, who was smiling at
him. It was Noel. Noel was a pest, but he was also a spell-caster—a useful ally
in battle.

And
there had been many battles. He, Noel, and two other warriors were on a crusade
of some kind, trying to rid the world of vile monsters. It was all starting to
come back to him. He wasn’t a thief anymore; he was a hero.

I
must’ve taken a blow to the head during that fight with the eyeball creature,
he thought.

“How
are you feeling?” Noel asked. “Your face isn’t as white as it was before, so
you must be feeling a little better, huh?”

Klye
tried to answer, but all his dry throat could manage was a croak.

“What
did you say? You sound like a frog!” Noel laughed.

He
wished he had the strength to smack the grin off of the little wizard’s face.

“Get
him some water,” someone else said, and while this voice too was familiar, it
seemed out of place.

The
new speaker came to stand beside Noel. He was a tall man, and his juxtaposition
to the midge made him look even taller. He had startlingly green eyes, and
although his hands held a poultice of some kind, Klye thought the man would be
more at home in the forest with a longbow than in an infirmary, which is where
they surely were.

I
know you, Klye wanted to say, but even if had been able to find his voice, the
words wouldn’t have come out. The memory of Othello was instantly followed by
the recollection of how he had led the Renegades into Fort Faith—and the battle
against T’slect.

Horcalus
appeared then and handed Othello a tin cup. As the archer slowly trickled the
water into his mouth, Klye thanked the gods—real or not—that at least two of
his men had survived the fray.

He
wanted desperately to learn what had happened to the others, to ask about the
fate of Commander Crystalus, and whether or not T’slect still lived. Horcalus
silenced him with a look.

“You
mustn’t talk, Klye. You came very near to dying and are still quite weak.”

“The
others?” Klye whispered.

“Are
all alive,” Horcalus replied. “Do not worry about us. You need to rest and
regain your strength.”

Klye
could not recall ever being so relieved in his life. He wanted to learn what
had happened after he lost consciousness, but for the moment, he was content to
bask in the knowledge that his men had survived.

He
wanted to thank Horcalus and Othello and even Noel for helping him, but he
hadn’t the energy. But he closed his eyes instead, and he didn’t fight the
lethargy that washed over him.

His
slumber was long and restful, and though he didn’t dream, Klye would later
awaken with an image burned onto the lens of his mind’s eye—that of a glowing
figure standing protectively beside his bed.

*
         
*
         
*

As
he made all haste to the fort’s infirmary, Colt wondered if his headache would
ever vanish altogether. The herbs Othello had given him had done much to ease
the pain, but even after two days, he could still feel a dull throbbing
whenever he exerted himself.

But
Colt dared not complain.

It
was a miracle he had lived through the battle at all. Not everyone had been so
lucky. Sir Gregory Wessner and Sir Phance Swordsail had perished in the
avalanche caused by T’slect’s
vuudu
. The third Knight, one Matthew Fisk,
had survived, but just barely. Even now, the man, who had been critically
wounded by the woman’s enchanted sword, was fighting for his life in one of the
infirmary’s beds.

Colt
felt an acute responsibility for the Knight’s injuries and not just because he
was their commanding officer. He had specifically singled out those three men
to remain with him and Cholk in the war room. And the only reason he had chosen
them was because theirs were the names that came to mind.

Sir
Wessner, the fort’s stableman, had risked life and limb to rescue Opal from the
Renegades, but of Sir Swordsail and Sir Fisk, he knew even less.

At
times, mostly at night when he was alone in bed, Colt feared he would never be
free of the guilt. He had to continually remind himself that it was impossible
for him to go back and undo the all the wrongs the goblin prince had done.
Besides, all three men had known from their first day as a squire that death
was a daily risk when one was a Knight. They had died honorably and were free
from all pain.

For
that, Colt almost envied them.

He
suppressed a sigh and blinked back tears. As Commander of Fort Faith, he did
not have the luxury of sinking into despair. There was still much that needed
his attention.

Anyway,
he ought to focus on the positive. Zeke Silvercrown, Lieutenant Petton, Cholk,
and Noel were all alive. He didn’t even want to think what state he would be in
now if he had lost Opal.

Colt
glanced over at the woman, who was walking by his side. She had been waiting by
his bedside when he awoke an hour after the battle. She had brushed back his
bangs, showed him his dented helmet, and joked about his thick skull. But Colt
had seen the worry in her eyes.

It
was all Colt could do to resist taking the woman’s hand in his own.

Petton
was waiting for the two of them by the door to the infirmary. The lieutenant
had not walked away from the battle unscathed, but like Cholk and Noel and
everyone else who had been struck by T’slect’s purple light, Petton had
regained full use of his limbs a few hours after impact. Even two days later,
the lieutenant complained of stiffness and bruises, but other than that, he was
fine.

Gaelor
Petton said not a word as he ushered Colt and Opal into the room. Fort Faith’s
infirmary was one of the largest rooms in the fort. Rows of beds lined the
room, but only three of them were occupied. Two sentries stood guard on either
side of the door, keeping an eye on the rebels inside.

As
the fort was without a proper surgeon, Colt had had little choice but to ask
the Renegade archer to use what skills he had to treat the wounded. Petton had
argued against it, but in the end, they had compromised—hence, the two guards.

Upon
noting their arrival, Othello stepped back into a corner, allowing Colt and his
entourage to approach his patients. Colt cast one sorrowful look over at Sir
Fisk, who had yet to regain consciousness, before approaching Klye’s bed.

“You
look like hell,” the Renegade Leader told him.

“You’re
one to talk,” Colt replied.

He
didn’t know what to make of Klye. According to Othello, Klye was still very
weak, and he certainly looked wretched. Even so, Colt felt a bit apprehensive
at being in the Renegade Leader’s presence. After all he had learned about Klye
while interviewing the other rebels, he feared that the wily man might yet have
something up his sleeve.

“They
tell me I’ve been asleep for days,” Klye said.

Colt
nodded. No one had expected Klye to recover. Whatever fell incantation T’slect
had cast on the man had leeched the life right out of him. But Othello had
managed to bring him back to the realm of the living. It was yet another
testament to Klye Tristan’s strength and determination.

“They
also tell me that T’slect got away,” Klye added.

“Your
friend, Dominic Horcalus, had him in his grasp when the foul creature vanished
into thin air. There’s been no sign of him since.”

“Where
are my men?” Klye spoke confidently, as though he were the commander and not a
prisoner in a sickbed.

“As
you have surely noticed, Othello is filling in as the fort’s healer, and another
of your band is in the bed beside you…I can’t recall his name.”

“Plake.”

“Yes,
Plake.”

Colt
thought he saw Plake shut his eyes tighter at the mention of his name, but he
might have imagined it. Cholk swore he had done nothing more than break the
man’s nose with the flat of his battle-axe, and yet Plake had been drifting in
and out of consciousness for the past two days.

Colt
suspected that the Renegade was faking the severity of his condition in order
to stay in the infirmary, and for the time being, that was all right.

“The
others are all safe in the dungeon.” When he saw Klye scowl, Colt quickly
added, “They are not being mistreated, I assure you. I have put them there more
out of convenience than for any other reason.”

When
Klye did not interject, Colt continued, “I have spent most of yesterday
interviewing them individually, trying to get to the bottom this mess. Most
have been very cooperative. Even the pirates answered my questions, albeit
grudgingly.

“The
only one who is proving to be uncooperative is the boy—”

“Arthur?”
Klye scoffed. “He’s never done anything wrong in his life, other than to tag
along with my band.”

“Nevertheless,
he won’t talk to anyone, not even Horcalus.”

The
Renegade Leader frowned, a thoughtful look in his eyes. At last, he said,
“Horcalus is innocent, you know. T’slect said as much himself.”

Colt
gave the man a wan smile. “I do believe you are right, but he
is
a
wanted man…you all are. I couldn’t set you free if I wanted to.”

“And
do you?”

Colt
let out a sharp sigh. “I want to believe that none in your band would harm
another human now that the true enemy has been revealed, but the fact of the
matter is you all have broken the law. Two of your men are buccaneers, for
Pintor’s sake!”

“But
we are not your enemy,” Klye countered. “Just as you are no longer ours.”

After
another sigh, Colt said, “It’s complicated. When things settle down, I’ll
consider letting your men out of the dungeon.” He heard Petton draw a sharp
intake of air but proceeded without pause. “If your men agree to behave
themselves and remain under house arrest, I will do whatever I can to make your
stay comfortable until I receive orders to do otherwise. My first priority is
to get word of the goblins’ scheme to my superiors.”

“I
hope it’s as easy as all that,” Klye said with a wry grin, and although he
didn’t say it, Colt heard a silent, “but I doubt it.”

“I
believe you and your men to be honorable,” Colt said. “Were it not for you, I’d
still be taking orders from an imposter. That may go a long way in getting you
pardoned by the King.”

“Let’s
just hope he’s not a goblin in disguise too.”

Colt
wasn’t sure whether the man was joking or not, so he pressed on. “When you
recovered, I hope you will grant me your counsel. You and your men have had
experience in fighting the goblins. As far as I know, no living Knight has
crossed swords with the scoundrels.”

Klye
nodded. “If it’ll keep my head on my shoulders, I’ll tell you everything I know
about anything.”

Now
Colt did chuckle. “Then rest up, my friend. I fear the war is just beginning.”

*
         
*
         
*

His
first thought was that he was alive, and that was enough to make him smile.
Though he had failed to kill the hated Dominic Horcalus and though his true
identity was no longer a secret, he was alive.

And
as long as he had life, he had hope.

Darkness
surrounded him. The air was cool but stuffy. Instinctively, he knew he was
below ground. The sound of dripping water echoed nearby, and the air was so
musty it made his nose itch. The ground on which he lay was hard and covered
with something slimy.

He
was weak, terribly weak. The powers he had displayed during his battle with the
humans had drained him beyond belief. But he would regain his stamina in time.
He needed only to rest, and then he could finish what he had started.