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.
Othello did not reply. He merely stood there, peering back the way they had come. He reminded Horcalus of a hound hearing something beyond its master’s ken. Not for the first time, he considered that Othello might be more than a little mad.
Perhaps the archer’s unwavering apathy was not a result of faith at, but a grim acceptance of the hopelessness of it all.
Shrugging off the thought, Horcalus squinted into the mist. All he could hear were
the sounds of discord and confusion from the inn, voices rendered unintelligible by the distance and the fog. He could no longer even make out the shape of Oars in Omens. The inn was nothing more than a dull, flickering luminescence that reflected ghoulishly in Othello’s green eyes.
“It’s Plake.” Othello’s voice was low, barely audible.
“What? Where?”
Othello did not clarify but started moving to the other side of the wide road. Impatiently, Horcalus followed, praying that a squadron of pier guards wouldn’t come upon them before the hound found what it was looking for. But then Plake came running through the mist, calling out their names, yelling for them to wait.
“We’re here, Plake,” Horcalus called as loudly as he dared, hoping to stop Plake before he alerted half the city to their presence with his shouts. He looked past the rancher, waiting for a second form materialize out of the coalescing fog.
“I thought I saw you two making a break for it. Hell of a fight, eh?” Plake said between quick breaths. “Hey, where’s Ragellan?”
Horcalus clenched his fists so tightly they hurt. “He stayed behind to save you! If your stupidity leads to Ragellan’s…” He let his words trail off, not wanting to consider it.
“Should we go back for him?” Plake asked, and Horcalus wondered if the insubordinate rancher was actually feeling guilty. More likely, Plake simply hadn’t had his fill of brawling.
The fact that Plake wanted to go back to Oars and Omens convinced Horcalus it was a terrible idea Besides, if he, Othello, and Plake returned to the inn, they might well find that Ragellan took a different route to the docks—where his friends wouldn’t be waiting.
“No, we will stick to the plan and rendezvous at the docks,” Horcalus said. He was in charge now, responsible for keeping them all alive.
“You there, halt!” came a cry from a guardsman somewhere out in the fog.
The three of them might have been able to overpower a few soldiers, but they had no quarrel with the city’s defenders. Evasion was the more prudent option.
Heading north on the only road in Port Town that he had ever traversed, Horcalus and his companions began to run once more.
* * *
Arthur watched the fog glide over the sea and engulf the wharves. The sun itself was lost from sight, and the boy wondered how the guards would know when to begin enforcing the curfew. Strange sounds drifted through the fog, and once in a while, he saw shapes moving about, looking like wayward ghosts—spooks, he thought gloomily.
As much as Arthur wanted to run back to the barracks and be done with the day, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the ships at the docks, his deliverance from Capricon.
He hated traveling by ship, though. He had stowed away on the voyage that took him from one coast to the other, though he had been caught right away. The captain of that ship was a mean man, and Arthur was certain he was going to be thrown to the sharks and whatever other vile creatures lurked beneath the ship. Instead, the captain had made him the ship’s slave. He cleaned, mended clothes, helped the cook, and did any other odd job the crew came up with. He had been seasick the whole time.
Memories of vomiting over the railing several times a day made Arthur hesitate now. He wanted—no, needed—to get out of Port Town. He was still too close to home. If any of Hylan’s constables were looking for him, they’d find him eventually.
Going to the continent was a step in the right direction, he decided. He could start over there and would probably find better work then his backbreaking job as a dockhand.
“If not for the seasickness, I’d be safe already.”
With a sigh, Arthur decided his flight from the island would have to wait for another day. It was not as though any ships were going to disembark in this weather anyway. He felt tired, but then again, he was always tired lately. Weary to the bone, he would collapse in his bunk night after night, though he would end up staring at the ceiling for hours. When he finally fell asleep, he was haunted by nightmares that left him sobbing until morning.
Slowly, careful not to fall off the docks, Arthur started walking back to the dockhands’ quarters. He doubted he would find sleep anytime soon, but at least he could get out of his clothes, which were damp from sweat and the thick mist swirling around him. Maybe some of the other workers had already wandered back, and he could distract himself by listening to their boasting and insults.
That’s when he heard the footsteps. They were coming in quick succession and growing louder by the minute. Someone—or more than one someone, by the sound of it—was coming right for him.
Three shapes emerging in the fog. Arthur told himself it was Two-Hands, Clyde Dovely, and Ogre, but the lie didn’t stick. None of the three figures matched Ogre’s behemoth silhouette.
“Gods above, it’s the guards. They’re coming to get me.” Fear chilled his body and clouded his brain. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think.
He began backpedaling and almost ended up stepping right off the dock. He looked around frantically, but the nearest warehouse was too far away. There was no time to get there, and there was nowhere else to hide.
Then he heard their voices.
“There’s someone over there,” Arthur heard someone say.
He jumped for it.
Instead of plunging into the cold, dark waters, he landed on something hard and unyielding. A quick look around revealed a rowboat, probably one of the small vessels that fished harbor every day.
He was relieved to find the boat unoccupied, but the voices were getting closer. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he couldn’t make out what they were saying anymore.
Arthur knew nothing of piloting a boat, not even a small one. There was a big tarp lying on the bottom of the boat, so he wasted no time in covering himself with it. Clenching his eyes closed, he curled up in a corner of the boat, as far away from the docks as he could. The smell of blood made his nose twitch.
He lay there, cowering like a frightened child. He didn’t care. By now, the three men would have reached the end of the docks. At that very moment, they would be searching the water for him and find the boat, just as he had.
Would they notice the bundle of quivering tarps?
When the skiff began to rock beneath him, Arthur stifled a cry. They had seen him and were coming aboard! He was doomed!
Arthur leapt up and, unable to free himself of the thick material, threw himself awkwardly at the nearest man.
Passage X
Although she, Scout, and Klye were out of the sewers, Leslie had no time to catch her breath.
The basement sat beneath a small shop, Leslie discovered, as she quietly climbed the steps to the ground floor. Fortunately, the place was empty. The storeowner had already ascended to the second story, where he and his family were, at that moment, enjoying their dinner. Leslie’s stomach grumbled at the sumptuous aromas wafting downstairs.
Then they were outside once more, moving as stealthily as they could down the street. They would have been completely out in the open were it not for the thick fog that had invaded the entire city. By Leslie’s estimations, they were not far from the northern harbor, a short walk from Oars and Omens.
At least it would have been a handful minutes if they didn’t have an unconscious Renegade Leader on their hands.
“Set him down,” she said to Scout once they were a good distance away from the shop.
“Should we take him to Elezar? Maybe he can do something for him,” Scout said.
Leslie shook her head. “If the Cathedral is being watched by guards, our presence would only bring Elezar trouble. He’s been too good to the Renegades for us to put him at further risk. We’re not that far from Pintor’s Cup. I’ll take him to Veldross. He’s a man of many talents.”
“Don’t you mean a half-man of many talents?” Scout joked, but he became serious again when he added, “Wait…you said ‘I,’ not ‘we.’ Don’t you want me to help you get him there?”
“No, I need you to find
out what’s happening at Oars and Omens. Don’t go to the Cathedral unless absolutely necessary.”
“Understood.” Scout bounded into the mist. As he disappeared, he added, “I’ll meet you at the Cup later tonight.”
Leslie wished him luck and silently prayed no harm would befall him. She knew Scout could take care of himself, yet she had a bad feeling about today.
Had Maeve made it to the Pirates of the Fractured Skull before the attack? Leslie could only hope the pirate king, a man called Pistol, would trust her and that loss of life—on both sides—would be kept to a minimum.
Leslie said another prayer to Aladon, Pintor, and any other deities who were listening for Maeve Semper and added another for the Renegade Leader at her feet. Klye lay shivering on the damp street, his teeth chattering. She put a hand to his forehead. He was burning up.
She removed her coat and wrapped it around the man. “Come on, you,” she said, hoisting Klye to his feet. “We’ve got to take a little walk. Then you can sleep all you want.”
Draping his uninjured arm over her shoulder, she half carried, half dragged Klye along.
When somebody hurried by in the fog, she said, “You’ve really got to learn when enough is enough, my love. What will your mother say when she sees you in this condition?”
“I’ll never drink again,” Klye promised, slurring his words. She couldn’t be sure if he was playing along or delirious.
After what felt like miles, they came upon Pintor’s Cup. Small but comfortable, the entire pub was about half the size of Oars and Omen’s common room. It didn’t boast grand accommodations for weary travelers, and it was seldom busy, even at suppertime, but Pintor’s Cup was one of Leslie’s favorite places in all of Port Town.
As she lugged Klye into the tavern, she received a few stares from the patrons. She recognized a few of them and saw concern in their eyes, but none of them—Renegades and Renegade sympathizers, all—came to help her. One never knew when one the mayor’s spies might wander in.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 10