Fully expecting to feel an arrowhead pierce her flesh at any moment, Opal pushed Scout out of her way and sprinted for the trees. She was using Nisson as a living shield and hated herself for it. She would never forgive herself if the mare were harmed because of her actions.
She ran as fast as she could, faster than she had ever run before. Behind her, she could hear the Renegades shouting among themselves, probably debating whether or not to kill her and be done with it. Why else wouldn’t the archer have fired by now?
The trees were tauntingly close. They seemed to hold their green-speckled branches out to her in welcome. By the Benevolent Seven, she was going to make it!
Pain exploded in her mind with the power of a battering ram. As she pitched forward, tumbling headfirst to the ground, she had the outrageous notion that some wild beast had bitten clean through her leg. She brought her hands out to help break her fall, sparing her a concussion but landing hard nevertheless.
When the world stopped spinning, looked down to find a green-fletched arrow protruding from her calf.
“Lystra the whore!” She tried to pull herself into a crawling position, but the pain was too intense. Ignoring the dizziness, Opal dragged herself behind the base of the nearest tree. She wouldn’t let that archer get another clean shot at her.
Growling against the pain as well as her anger, Opal peeked around the trunk and watched impotently as the female Renegade and the archer ran toward her. Beyond them, the Renegade Leader and his hooded accomplice were trying to grab hold of Nisson, but the horse was having none of it.
Klye Tristan was forced to relinquish his hold on her mane when Nisson tried to seize his arm with her teeth. Uttering a wild whiney, Nisson thundered away, charging back toward Fort Faith.
Opal leaned against the brittle skin of the ancient elm for support, wishing she had maintained her hold on the knife during her fall. Listening for the sound of approaching footsteps, she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out as she pulled the arrow from her leg. A shiny, red river flowed down to her boots.
If they intended to kill her, the pain would end soon enough. If they needed her alive…well…they would find she was no helpless maiden. Gripping the shaft of the arrow tightly, Opal waited for the Renegades to come.
Passage V
Arthur yawned, trying to fight the lethargy that stiffened his muscles and weighed down his eyelids.
With Klye, Scout, Lilac, and Othello gone, Pistol had taken charge of the remaining members of the band. Although it was clear that he and Crooker were none too eager to spend another day fishing, they nevertheless headed for the pier once Klye and the others were out of sight.
Since neither Plake nor Arthur had much experience with fishing, it was left to them to keep a lookout for unwanted visitors. Arthur didn’t like the idea of taking orders from Pistol for the very reason Pistol was the most qualified to give orders: he had been a pirate king. Thinking of him as their leader—even a temporary one—made Arthur feel even more like a criminal.
He had no qualms against Pistol on a personal level. For being veteran buccaneers, both Pistol and Crooker were rather civilized. Yet there was something in Pistol’s demeanor—his deep, gruff voice and grim, thin-lipped mouth—that kept Arthur on edge. On the rare occasions when he found himself looking into the pirate’s one good eye, he knew without a doubt Pistol could kill—had killed—without remorse.
That’s what makes me different from the pirates, Arthur told himself. I may have killed a man, but at least I’m sorry for it.
Arthur yawned again. He and Plake were alternating posts. The rancher was walking Port Stone’s perimeter while Arthur manned the stationary post at the single road that ran through town and into the plains beyond. Hatchet at the ready, Arthur leaned against a dilapidated structure that might have been a shop once.
Though his legs were sore, he dared not sit down, lest he doze off. He hadn’t slept well last night, and few things were as boring as staring out at the flat, barren earth stretching to the north and east for as far as the eye could see.
The first time he had kept watch, Arthur had been anxious throughout the entire shift, expecting an army of Superian Knights to appear on the horizon. Surprisingly, Arthur found it difficult to be concerned with such threats just then. He was too preoccupied to let his mind conjure up nonexistent threats to his safety.
He had had the nightmare again last night, only this time Plake Nelway had stood in the place of his hometown bully, and it had been Lilac who stared at him accusingly as Plake’s lifeblood flowed into the stream. Then, as Arthur fled the scene, he found himself being chased by several of his young cousins, wielding broom-staffs and adorned with quilted capes that billowed out behind them as they frantically toddled toward him.
But it wasn’t the memory of the dream, disturbing as it was, that distracted him now.
He and Horcalus had shared a room ever since the Renegades had claimed the old inn as their own. They had spent a lot of time together because Horcalus had taken it upon himself to teach Arthur how to defend himself. He had spoken at length about the moral code of the Knighthood, as though Arthur were a squire-in-training.
Now Horcalus was gone, and he feared that it was because of him.
Klye had been vague about the events leading up to Horcalus’s sudden departure. What if Arthur had talked in his sleep and unwittingly confessed to killing Llede Hendorm? He could understand why the knight wouldn’t wish to surround himself with criminals, and now that he knew Arthur was a murderer too, Horcalus might have decided to desert the band altogether.
It was the only explanation Arthur could imagine. Why else wouldn’t Horcalus have taken him along?
Or at least said goodbye…
Something was moving far in the distance, out where the road was indistinguishable from the grass around it. Arthur blinked several times, trying to banish the illusion from his overactive mind. It was still there.
“It’s your turn to take the walk,” Plake said, coming up from behind Arthur and scaring him half to death. “What’s got you so jumpy? Think I was the midge?”
Feeling his face flush, Arthur swallowed hard and pointed out toward the road. “Do you see that?”
“See what?” Plake demanded, shielding his eyes and peering out at the open plain. “I’m beginning to think you might be more than a little looney, Arthur. “I don’t see…hey, wait a minute. What is that?”
They stood side by side, not saying anything as they stared at the speck, which was steadily growing into a dot.
“I’d better get Pistol,” Plake said. “You stay here and keep an eye on…it.”
Before Arthur could object, Plake sprinted away. Arthur’s lethargy had left him in an instant, making room for a gnawing fear. As the dot came nearer—apparently following the road toward Port Stone—Arthur imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios. It had to be the midge. Or maybe it was one of the Knights’ scouts, leading a party of mounted warriors that would come into view at any moment.
The possibility it was Horcalus was the only thing that kept him rooted to his post.
When Plake returned with Pistol and Crooker, the dot had grown larger than a spot, evolving into what was clearly a humanoid shape.
“See?” Plake said to Pistol. “Does that look like a deer to you?”
Pistol scratched his stubble-riddled chin. “Don’t see anybody else out there. Could be a lost traveler or someone come to pick through this old town, lookin’ for loot.”
“It could be a Renegade from a different band,” Crooker suggested.
“Or Horcalus,” Arthur added hopefully.
To be on the safe side, Pistol ordered them to hide. From behind a large shed near the entrance to town, they watched the wanderer draw nearer. Arthur was disappointed it was not Dominic Horcalus, but an old man in a long, gray coat. He didn’t appear to be paying much attention to his surroundings. Maintaining a remarkably quick pace, the old man never looked up from his feet and kept his
hands folded behind his back.
To Arthur’s surprise, Pistol urged him to go out and find out what the old man was up to.
“We can’t let him stumble upon our hideout,” Pistol whispered. “He might tell the Knights. You look the least suspicious of all of us. Ask him what he’s up to…and get him to leave.”
Arthur wanted to point out that Plake looked just as ordinary, but he wasn’t about to argue with a former pirate king. His heart beating so fast he feared it would explode, Arthur emerged from his hiding place and tried to look natural as he waited for the old man to reach him. He altered his pose several times before deciding to cross his arms, intentionally keeping his hands away from the hatchet that hung from his belt.
No reason to alarm the fellow, after all.
But the old man—and he appeared to be very, very old—hadn’t even seen Arthur yet. His head bent down, the traveler mumbled to himself. He’s probably senile, Arthur thought with a frown.
The old man might have walked by without ever noticing Arthur, but just as he was about to pass, Arthur cleared his throat and called out, “Good morning, grandfather. What brings you to Port Stone?”
Arthur had expected the man’s wizened face to show a measure of confusion—not a glare so baleful it made Arthur’s spine stiffen and his breath catching in his throat.
The strange wayfarer looked Arthur up and down like a mountain lion about to pounce. “I am not your grandfather.”
His voice was neither hoarse nor shaky. In spite of his gaunt frame and the hundred wrinkles that crisscrossed his face, the old man was not at all hunched, and there was nothing feeble about how the ancient man bore himself.
“And what business is it of yours why I am here?” he demanded.
Without giving Arthur the chance to answer, the old man renewed his pace, walking past Arthur and into the deserted town.
“Wait!” Arthur ran over to the man, blocking his path. “You can’t go in there.”
The old man narrowed his eyes. “Why in the hells not?”
“There’s a plague!” Arthur said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “Everyone is dying. If you go in there, you’ll surely catch it.”
The man in gray began to laugh. It was a terrible sound. “A plague, you say? Well, you are in luck for I am Albert Simplington, the well-traveled surgeon. I was under the impression the Port of Stone was destroyed during the Great Ogre War. Apparently, I was misinformed.”
Albert’s deep, dark eyes swept the area around them, his gaze taking in the unkempt, rundown town before returning to Arthur once more. “Or mayhap you are lying to me.”
Pistol stepped out from behind the shed as Arthur stammered an incoherent reply. Plake and Crooker circled around from the other side, coming up from behind the doctor. All three had their weapons drawn.
“Look, old man,” Pistol said, his cutlass sparkling in the sunlight. “You really ought to leave before things get rough. Wouldn’t want to hurt a geezer like yerself, but we’ll do it if we must.”
Albert began to mumble. Arthur couldn’t understand what the lunatic was saying, but he didn’t have a chance to wonder about it for long.
Albert Simplington’s gray coat began to move, undulating unnaturally as its shape and color changed. The brass buttons vanished, and a thin belt snaked around Albert’s waist to cinch together the long, flowing robes. An unseen shadow stained his gray garment a darker hue.
The Renegades all took a step back when the skin covering Albert’s face and hands pulled taught, erasing all but a few wrinkles. The doctor grew younger before their eyes, his long, white beard climbing upward into his sharp, angular chin. In seconds, Albert’s grin was framed by a neatly-trimmed goatee as black as his robes. The thin wisps of snowy hair darkened and thickened to cover his scalp completely.
“An enchanter!” Plake looked like he was about to drop his sword and bolt.
Were he not paralyzed from fear, Arthur might have run himself.
“You mentioned something about hurting me?” he sneered.
Pistol lowered his sword. “We had no idea…I mean…we intended no harm…”
“I don’t care if you intended to wash my feet while reciting poetry of great bards. I am finished with playing games with the mundane. I shall hide no longer!”
The wizard spun around, leveling his hands at Crooker and Plake. The latter let out a cry and turned to flee, but he was too slow. Twin beams of crimson light burst from the wizard’s palms. One of the beams connected squarely with Crooker’s chest, launching the pirate several feet back. He hit the ground with a thud. The other beam clipped Plake’s left arm, sending the rancher spinning like a top before he too fell.
Pistol’s roared and lunged forward, his curved sword aimed at Albert’s back. But the cutlass plunged through nothing but air. Albert deftly sidestepped the attack, and Pistol skittered right past him. Before the one-eyed pirate could attempt a second attack, the wizard made a curious sign with his hand, and Pistol rose off the ground.
Arthur knew that he should do something besides standing there and watching as the wizard attacked his friends, but he was truly entranced. He had heard tales of spells that made the impossible possible, but even after Lilac had told them about the magic Dark Lily had wielded, Arthur was having trouble believing what he was seeing. It was as though he were dreaming.
Pistol struggled against the invisible ropes that suspended him five feet off the ground, looking like a marionette. The wizard made another gesture with his right hand, and the pirate went sailing through the air as though launched from a catapult. Arthur watched helplessly as Pistol went crashing through the windowpane of the empty shop.
Beyond Albert, he could see Crooker, curled up into a ball, clutching his chest. Plake lay where he had fallen, not moving, but whether the rancher was truly unconscious or playing possum, Arthur couldn’t be sure.
The wizard was staring at him now, perhaps expecting him to make a move against him. Arthur felt like a field mouse staring into the eyes of a serpent. In the stories, witches and warlocks were content with turning people into toads or making them sleep for a hundred years, but Albert Simplington had already proven he was capable of far more than that.
Closing his eyes, Arthur braced for the hungry flames of a fireball to engulf him.
“Well, I feel better at any rate.”
Arthur dared to open his eyes.
Albert, arms crossed, continued to speak to him. “You have no idea how difficult it was to avoid casting spells these past few months. I have used magic for nearly seven hundred years. Can you fathom what it is like to have to hold back?”
Arthur could only gape at the wizard.
“But that is all over now. Thanks to that midge…and now you people…my cover has been compromised. There is no help for it now…though I suppose I could eliminate all witnesses, swatting you all like the pesky flies you are. However, over the centuries, I have learned that that tends to draw more attention in the end.
“No, you and I must come to an understanding. What is your name, young man?”
Arthur made a couple of futile attempts to speak before stammering out his name.
“I am not the villain they make me out to be, Arthur,” Albert said, proffering a smile that made Arthur shiver. “I do not know who you and your friends are. Neither do I care. The everyday affairs of the mundane do not concern me…and yet perhaps you can be of assistance. It is obvious you want to be left alone. I too value privacy, and I intend to make this mountain my home.”
Albert pointed to the tall peak that towered over Port Stone—Wizard’s Mountain, Scout had called it.
“If anyone…and I do mean anyone…trespasses on my mountain, not only will I kill them, but I will find you, Arthur, and before freeing you from this mortal coil, you will beg for death.”
Arthur flinched as the wizard patted his head. “You will do well to remember our covenant. What I have done today is a mere trifle compared to all that I am ca
pable of.”
A flash of white light engulfed the wizard. Arthur shielded his eyes, afraid that the spell-caster had decided to melt the flesh from his body after all. But the unnatural radiance vanished as quickly as it had come, taking Albert Simplington with it.
Arthur might have stared dumbly at that patch of earth for the rest of the day had a sound off to his right not diverted his attention. The door of the one of the houses flew off its wasted hinges, and Pistol extricated himself from the dilapidated structure.
Brushing off shards of glass and splinters, Pistol cursed and said, “Gods, I hate magic.”
Arthur took a step toward the pirate and then fainted.
* * *
It took a lot to persuade Lieutenant Petton that allowing Colt—and Colt alone—to handle the midge was in everybody’s best interest. Colt was on the verge of issuing Petton a direct order when the older Knight finally conceded. He stormed away to attend to other duties, but not before aiming one last frown at Noel.
Colt could understand why the lieutenant was concerned. Noel had already managed to chase away one of the fort’s residents during his short visit. But Colt knew he would have a much easier time dealing with Noel alone, which meant that the dwarf had to go too.
The problem was Colt had no true authority over Cholk—other than that of a landlord, he supposed. Colt argued and then pleaded until Cholk finally agreed to let Colt do things his way. There was one condition, however. Colt must send for him immediately should the little storyteller cause any more trouble.
As the dark-skinned dwarf stomped down the hallway, leaving Colt alone with Noel at last, he muttered something about how tomorrow he would surely wake and find a family of minotaurs at the fort.
Sir Petton had been on his way to give Colt a letter from Fort Miloásterôn before getting interrupted by Noel and Albert’s spat. Colt now held that missive in his hands. He was eager to break the wax seal and read it. Aside from the short letter of welcome he had received from the Celestial Palace in Rydah, the Knights at Fort Faith had heard nothing at all from the island’s other forts.
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