Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3]

by David Michael Williams

  Lieutenant Petton sat beside Saerylton, sharing in the uncomfortable silence that followed each of the commander’s attempts at civil conversation. For his part, Prince Eliot seemed immune to the effect his conversational barricades had on his host, an honorable man who had done everything in his power to make the prince’s welcome as cordial as possible.

  Saerylton half-heartedly poked at his food. Petton likewise was finding it difficult to enjoy the meal. He wanted nothing more than to hoist Eliot Borrom up by his collar and shake some decency into the young man—prince or no prince. Of course, he could do nothing of the sort. Assaulting the prince would not only end his career, but also cost him his life.

  The two guards positioned behind the prince, not eating but dutifully scrutinizing each and every Knight present, landed their gazes on him every now and then. To Petton, it seemed as though their narrowed eyes were taunting him, daring him to make even a single questionable move.

  He met their stares without flinching, taking another bite of venison and chewing the richly seasoned meat but not tasting it. With his eyes, he told them, “I won’t make the first move, but I would be all too happy to knock those self-righteous smirks from off your faces if you give me an excuse.”

  The dinner was taking far too long, Petton thought, but in truth he had lost track of time. They might have been sitting there for only a few minutes. The absence of speech, of civil debate and friendly banter alike, stretched the very seconds so that he might take three bites of bread between the ticks of a clock.

  Petton, who had never been accused of being prolix, was surprised at the mounting frustration he felt at each clank of a cup, at every clink of a fork. The noises of eating, chewing, even breathing stirred in him an acute and irrational anger. This farce must end! his mind screamed. Someone must speak, or I shall surely lose my mind.

  And then someone did speak, cutting through the noisy silence like a blade through bread.

  “Tell me, Commander,” the prince said in a sing-songy tone of false sincerity, “just how many miles do you suppose the local Renegades have covered while you and your men made minor repairs to this crumbling fort…and while your cooks squandered your rations on this pathetic meal?”

  Saerylton’s pallor lost what little color it had possessed. The commander’s mouth moved, but no words came out. Colt looked utterly defeated.

  Before he could stop himself, Petton rose to his feet. He did not know what he planned to say, but Eliot Borrom had gone too far. Damn the consequences, the spoiled son of a bitch was going to get an earful. The twin bodyguards looked stunned for a moment, but quickly positioned themselves between Petton and their charge. Prince Eliot merely looked amused.

  Then Saerylton stood up and, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, gave Petton a look that said, “It’s not worth it.”

  “Is there something on your mind, Lieutenant?” the prince asked.

  “Alarm! Alarm! Renegades in the fort!”

  The shout, which was being repeated and growing louder by the moment, interrupted the tense scene at the table, and suddenly everyone was staring in mute wonder at the entrance to the dining hall. Within seconds, Sir Silvercrown flung himself through the doorway, out of breath but still shouting anyway.

  “Renegades have been spotting inside the fort,” he cried. “To arms!”

  The Knights abandoned their meals and hurried to their positions. Each of them was already armed and knew his place in the grand strategy of the fortress’s defense. Petton had made certain of that.

  He cast a glance back at Commander Crystalus before motioning for his men to gather around him. Then he was leading his squadron out of the hall and down the corridors that would take them to the fort’s dungeon, where the Renegade known simply as Scout was imprisoned.

  Passage XIV

  Prince Eliot maintained his sharp silence during the march from the dining hall, through corridors, and up various flights of stairs. He continued to wear the mask of perpetual annoyance, but that was no easy chore because inwardly he was feeling downright giddy.

  From what little he had gleaned from the words passed between Commander Crystalus and his officers, the Renegades had penetrated the fort’s defenses and were, at that moment, somewhere inside. That information alone was enough to bring a smile to the prince’s face, though he managed to bury his emotions.

  He had come a great distance in search of this band of Renegades, had suffered through the pitiful pomp and ceremony provided by not one, not two, but three castles in the hope one of these damned Knights might know where Ragellan and Horcalus were hiding. The fools at the Celestial Palace and Fort Valor had given him little help in his quest. And while the Commander of Fort Faith had encountered the rebels only a few short days ago, he had lost them altogether.

  But now the very Renegades he had been seeking were coming to him!

  His bodyguards bristled at being hurried down the halls, glaring at the Knights who were practically pushing them to some secret destination. The prince gave his guards a look of warning, silently encouraging their cooperation. He couldn’t blame the two of them for their attitude. Surely it took all of the disguised goblins’ discipline to refrain from lashing out at the humans.

  Eliot supposed Commander Crystalus was taking him far from the action, and his momentary joy melted away. He longed to rip off the young commander’s head, but now was not the time to be hasty. He needed time to plan his next move.

  The prince was beginning to fear Crystalus had decided to give him a tour of Fort Faith after all, when they finally came to a stop.

  “We’ll be safe here,” the man said. “Even if the Renegades make it past Sir Silvercrown’s men, we have more than enough Knights here to protect you.”

  Prince Eliot did not doubt the man’s words, for the room they entered, while fairly spacious, felt crowded due to the twenty-some inhabitants. He doubted he would catch even a glimpse of the Renegades should they make it this far. With Lieutenant Petton lurking in the dungeon, Sir Silvercrown’s squadron making an orderly sweep of the fortress, and Commander Crystalus and his men posting guard in this tower, there was little chance he would see battle.

  And that was simply unacceptable.

  “Commander, don’t you think you ought to reinforce Sir Silvercrown’s unit with some of your own men?” he asked.

  Saerylton Crystalus returned his stare, looking absolutely perplexed. “Whatever for, my prince?”

  “This room is far too small to wage a battle. Better to use your familiarity of Fort Faith’s halls and passages to your advantage. Outmaneuver the Renegades and surround them.”

  “But, my prince, from all the information we have gathered, this is a small band. The narrow hallways will work to their advantage. Besides, you are the Crown Prince of Superius. Your protection is our utmost concern. Would you have us leave you here all alone?”

  Yes! Eliot wanted to shout. Instead, he said, “The truth is, Commander, you do not know how many Renegades are running amok in your castle. If the rebels defeat your pockets of soldiers one by one, we all may well find ourselves trapped in this little tower with no other choice but to surrender.”

  Crystalus—the poor, bewildered fool—stammered an unintelligible response. Perhaps he could counter Eliot’s argument with a dozen logical reasons of his own. Perhaps he suspected the Prince of Superius thirsted for battle. In the end, it didn’t matter. The commander could not deny his prince whatever he wished.

  “Send all but three of your Knights to reinforce Silvercrown’s unit,” Eliot said evenly.

  Crystalus looked like he wanted to argue. Tears of frustration glistened in the corners of his eyes. It was all the prince could do to keep from sneering triumphantly.

  “Be at ease, Commander. Should the Renegades make it this far, you will find that I am quite capable at defending myself.”

  As the commander gave the order to his Knights, Eliot took a seat behind the old desk, realizing, only then, that they had en
ded up in the commander’s office. Propping his feet up on the drab piece of furniture, Prince Eliot studied the war room.

  He almost felt sorry for the commander when the door slammed shut behind the last Knight. It was clear Saerylton Crystalus didn’t want to leave Fort Faith. But as he took in their unspectacular surroundings, Eliot Borrom couldn’t guess why.

  It took the prince a moment to realize something was amiss. Since his two bodyguards were standing on either side of him, he expected to find Commander Crystalus huddled near his remaining three Knights. And yet, with the commander standing off to the side, Eliot saw there were still four Knights in front of the door.

  Irritated, Eliot turned to the commander. “Are you hard of hearing, or do you simply lack the ability to count? I said—”

  The prince trailed off when his eyes came to rest on one of the four Knights, who was shorter than the other three, carried a large axe, and wore a suit of armor the likes of which Eliot had never seen. He leaned forward to inspect the black plate mail and horned helm.

  The warrior must have felt the prince’s eyes upon him, for he took a bold step toward him and removed his helmet.

  Eliot’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Cholk here is not one of my Knights, Your Highness,” the commander said, “which is why he is exempt from your order.”

  A growl escaped from the goblin on his right.

  “A dwarf.” Eliot spat the words out like a wad of rancid meat. “What in the hells is a dwarf doing here?”

  * * *

  As they descended into the bowels of the fortress, an icy fist clenched Horcalus’s heart. The entire weight of Fort Faith seemed to rest upon his shoulders even as the narrow walls closed in around him. At the entrance to the dungeon, Horcalus had taken note of two ensconced torches but had decided against taking one. While the flickering flames would keep them from bumping into one another, the radiance would also betray their presence to any guards.

  The oppressive darkness only added to his discomfort.

  Noel led the way, and Horcalus kept close behind the midge. He didn’t like the idea of working with a midge or the possibility of harnessing magic to achieve their objective. Horcalus was forced to admit, however, that Noel’s magic had effortlessly whisked them past Fort Faith’s outer defenses.

  They had been lucky thus far, having encountered no resistance since parting ways with Klye’s group. And yet Horcalus felt anything but lucky at that moment. Why hadn’t there been any Knights posted at the entrance to the dungeon? Did the absence of sentries indicate no prisoners were being held down there? If so, where were they keeping Scout? Was he even still alive?

  Horcalus kept a wary eye on Noel, ready for any sign of treachery. Behind him, he could hear the others’ footsteps. Arthur, Pistol, and Crooker were all keeping pace with him. There was no noise besides the sound of their breathing and the cadence of their feet against the stone floor.

  His own breaths were long and deep, as though he were trying to suck up as much air as he could with each inhalation. Ever since his time in the Citadel Dungeon, he bore no love for closed-in spaces.

  The stillness of the dungeon frayed his nerves. He expected to find a squadron of Knights lurking around every corner. But as the four Renegades followed Noel farther and farther down the insufferably tight passageway, they saw no sign of anyone else.

  Noel came to a sudden stop. Horcalus nearly tripped over the midge and had to steady himself by grabbing an iron bar to keep his balance.

  He was on the verge of reprimanding Noel when it dawned on him that where there was one bar, there was bound to be others. He pressed his face up to the space between them and peered into the cell. The inside was one great shadow.

  When a shape drew up to the bars, Horcalus took a quick step back, his heart pounding ever louder in his chest.

  “Who’s there?”

  A wave of relief washed over Horcalus. “Be at ease, my friend. We have come to rescue you.”

  “Horcalus?” Scout sounded sincerely surprised.

  “None other,” he replied, using his hands to find to the door of the cell. His fingers roamed up and down the frame until he found the handle. Of course, it was locked.

  “Who else is here? Is that you, Arthur? And…well I’ll be a minotaur’s uncle, the midge was telling the truth.”

  “Hi, Scout,” Noel said.

  Horcalus searched for a latch or bolt and realized their dilemma when his index finger found the impression of the keyhole.

  “Damnation.” He gave the door a quick jerk, testing its integrity, but for all of its years, the cell door was as sturdy as an anvil. What now? he wondered. Breaking and entering was Klye’s forte, not his. Perhaps the pirates had some experience picking locks…

  In answer to his unspoken question, Pistol came forward. The former pirate king emitted a low humming as he examined the lock, sounding more than a little like a growling wildcat. In spite of the indomitable darkness, Horcalus could almost see the deep frown on Pistol’s face.

  “Maybe if I had some tools,” Pistol sighed. “Nine times out of ten, it’s better to use force than to waste time tinkerin’ with a simple lock.”

  “So who brought the spike and mallet?” Horcalus groused, feeling despair encroach once more upon the battlefield of his soul.

  Then he felt a tugging at his sleeve. “I can open it,” Noel said.

  “Do you have the key?” Horcalus asked.

  “No, but I can melt the bars with my staff.”

  Horcalus shook his head. What difference would it make they were separated from Scout by a row of sturdy bars or messy columns of misshapen slag? Or worse, the midge might end up immolating them all with a wave of fire.

  “No magic,” Horcalus stated.

  Noel expressed his disappointment with a loud sigh. “You’re just like the Knights.”

  Horcalus smiled in spite of himself.

  After a few moments of silence, Arthur spoke for the first time that day. “If the midge can get the lock hot enough, a solid swing with my hatchet should be able to shatter it.”

  Horcalus turned around to regard the boy, though, of course, he could make out little more than the outline of his body. It wasn’t what Arthur had said that evoked the knight’s curiosity, but rather how he said it. His monotone betrayed no fear—no emotion at all.

  “Gods know I hate magic as much as the next guy,” Pistol said, “but the kid’s got a point.”

  After sending a silent prayer up to the Benevolent Seven, Horcalus turned to Noel and said, “All right, but please be careful.”

  “Well, of course I’ll be careful,” Noel replied, as the blue jewel at the end of his staff began to glow. “That’s the first rule of casting spells.”

  Noel’s words did little to reassure Horcalus. The midge touched the tip of his staff to the cell door. Within seconds the metal brightened to a reddish orange. Gods above, thought Horcalus, it’s actually working!

  But their victory was short-lived.

  “Renegades!” came a voice from behind. “We have you surrounded! Surrender your weapons immediately!”

  * * *

  Klye lunged to the side, slamming painfully against the wall. Lilac, Plake, and Othello followed his lead, and the four of them pressed themselves as close as they could to the unyielding stone. Seconds later, a patrol of Knights came running by, racing down a perpendicular corridor. The enemy was so close that the wind from their passing ruffled Klye’s hair.

  A single Knight had but to spare a glance to his right, and all would be lost.

  Klye held his breath until the last soldier was out of sight and waited another fifteen seconds before poking his head around the corner. When he was certain no more Knights were on the way from any of the three directions, he stepped out into the intersection.

  The directions Noel had given him were proving less than reliable. The great staircase that ascended from the main hall had taken them to the second level before splitting into
two smaller stairways. He knew Fort Faith featured two towers on each side but was having trouble locating the steps that would take them higher.

  “That was too close,” Plake said. “What are the odds we’re going to stumble upon the prince by pure luck?”

  Klye didn’t spare the man a glance. “You can go wherever you wish, Plake, but I’m guessing that once the alarm was raised, Prince Eliot was hurried away to a safe place as far away from the action as possible…somewhere off the beaten path.”

  Plake muttered something, but Klye was already pressing forward. He followed the narrow corridor for another few minutes, maintaining his breakneck speed until he could proceed no farther. The hall ended abruptly, branching into two equally foreign avenues. By his estimation, they were facing the northernmost wall of the fort’s interior.

  He looked down both corridors but saw nothing to distinguish one as the proper course. His options were clear—left or right—and yet nothing Noel had told him hinted that the western wing was any more promising than the eastern one. Each wing had its own tower. Prince Eliot could have sought refuge just as easily in one as the other.

  “Now what?” Plake asked. “We’re lost, and we have that stupid midge to thank for it.”

  Klye said nothing. He didn’t believe in luck, but this was a matter of sheer chance. All he had been working for these past few months boiled down to the flip of a coin. He considered splitting up but decided against it.

  He had risked everything by invading Fort Faith. Now was not the time to get timid.

  “We should go right,” Plake said.

  “Why right?” Lilac asked.

  Plake folded his arms sagaciously. “Because right’s always right.”

  Klye found no humor in the pun, but on the other hand, he had no reason to argue with Plake’s assessment. One way was as good as another. He looked to Lilac and then to Othello, welcoming a better suggestion, but the two had nothing to add.

  “Right it is, then,” Klye declared and immediately started down that path. The haphazard decision didn’t sit well in his stomach, but he supposed he would have felt the same doubt if he had chosen left.