Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1)

by David Michael Williams

  Crofton Beryl’s eyes darted from one side of the page to the other, as he quickly digesting the information before him.

  The paper detailed what had happened at Oars and Omens, including a list of the casualties. Seventeen city guards and ten pier guards had been slain in the battle at the inn. Moreover, half-a-dozen coastal guardsmen had perished in the encounter with the pirate vessels.

  It was an acceptable loss.

  Including the buccaneers who had been killed during the battle at sea, the defenders of Port Town had killed nearly sixty pirates. Setting down the report, Crofton removed a blank sheet of parchment from a drawer and started drafting the document that would make Harrod Brass the new Captain of the Three Guards.

  The mayor shed no tears for the late Roland DeGrange. He had anticipated the Captain’s death—had, in effect, orchestrated it, by assigning DeGrange to the frontlines. He had played the odds and let the pirates do the rest.

  Lieutenant Brass—soon to be Captain Brass—was a far better candidate for managing the Three Guards. Brass asked fewer questions than DeGrange did. Good riddance, Crofton thought, scrawling his sweeping signature at the bottom of the page.

  Folding the page in half, Crofton pondered the irony. No one, aside from the mayor himself, had worked harder than DeGrange to keep the city safe, yet Crofton had been forced to kill him as a precautionary measure.

  Elezar, meanwhile, was working against Port Town, siding with the Renegades over the established government. He didn’t yet know how involved the High Priest was, but the mayor was confident that he would gain that information in due time. DeGrange had died, but Elezar would live. For now.

  A glance at the clock revealed that it was nearly four o’clock. He still had a lot of work to do. Keeping his city’s many threats at bay took up nearly all his time lately, but he wanted to take a look at the pirate king and the rogue knight for himself. Soon, they would both be gone from his city: Pistol to his grave and the traitor back to Superius.

  He called for his page to ready the coach. Minutes later, Crofton was riding through the streets of Port Town. Citizens hurried out of the way, some waving to him and others watching him pass with leering expressions. The mayor paid them little heed, for his eyes were scanning the shadows and examining the passersby who hid themselves in hats and hoods.

  Any one of them could be a Renegade…

  He spared the guards but a glance as he entered the prison. Although the prison was nearly full—inhabited by all matter of villain—Crofton didn’t often have cause to visit. If not for the weak-hearted sentimentalists who called Port Town home, he would have executed each and every prisoner long ago. If death were the only punishment for crime, there would be far fewer criminals, Crofton believed.

  The mayor followed a red-striped guardsman to the lowest level of the prison. Two torches ensconced near the stairway provided meager illumination for the entire floor. While Crofton preferred to protect his city from behind his desk in the comfort of his palatial home, he suffered the damp air and foul odors for the sake of the greater good. He walked on until the guide stopped, waving a hand at one of the cells.

  Crofton squinted at the men beyond the bars. How he wished he could stab them both and be done with it. One of them will die tomorrow at least, he thought with a smile, his hand resting on the pommel of the sword that identified his station. The broadsword was more than a mere decoration. Crofton had fought in more than a few battles in his forty-two years.

  “Which one of you calls yourself Pistol?” he shouted at the dark shapes. “For gods’ sakes, someone bring a torch over here so I can see.”

  “What do you want?” asked one of the prisoners.

  As Crofton took the torch from a guardsman and pointed it in the direction of the cell, he saw the man who had spoken wore ragged clothing stained with blood and dirt. His coppery brown hair was greasy, and a cloth patch covered one eye.

  The soldier at Crofton’s side took a step toward the bars. “Show the mayor some respect, you filthy son of a dog!”

  The pirate king spat at him.

  The soldier went for his sword.

  As much as the mayor wanted to watch the blood flow from the pirate’s chest, flooding the cell with a crimson deluge, he saw his hand dart out and grab the guard’s arm. “That will not be necessary.” Turning back to the pirate, he said, “So…you are the King of the Pirates of the Fractured Skull?”

  “I am,” Pistol replied, his single eye returning Crofton’s hard stare without a hint of fear.

  “No, Your Majesty!” Crofton shouted. “You are the sole survivor of a worthless gang of thugs whose existence will be forgotten before the week is through. You are nothing but a prisoner now, a common piece of rubbish.”

  “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 hur
ried 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. Noth
ing 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.