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

by David Michael Williams

  “Anyway, what happens at night, when the Knight is no longer a Knight? I’d bet my inn that the gauntlets…er…gloves come off then, and underneath it all, there’s nothing courtly about any one of them. Present company excluded, of course.”

  But Baxter hadn’t argued at all. Sir Lawler was, perhaps, a good deal better than his comrades in that he didn’t put on airs. True, Baxter was more or less infamous for his gambling, drinking, and wenching, but while the Knighthood frowned upon such behavior, Else was grateful to find abundant weaknesses in a Knight of Superius. Even with his armor on, Baxter was just a man—no more, no less.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure, Sir Knight?” Else asked once the unfamiliar Knight was seated beside her by the fire.

  His eyebrows arched in surprise. “Why do you suppose I am a Knight?”

  “Well, if you’re not a Knight, then I must ask you to leave your sword at the bar.”

  That brought a full-fledged smile to the man’s handsome face. And it was handsome, Else had to admit. The Knight looked to be in his early fifties—maybe over a decade older than she—judging by the silvery hair at his temples and the age-worn grooves by his mouth and eyes.

  Maybe I ought to consider changing my policy on courting Knights, she thought, returning his smile.

  Immediately, she felt guilty. Hadn’t she been hunched miserably over the bar a moment ago, practically sick with worry for her dear friend Mitto? Yes, friend, an inner voice argued, and nothing more than that. There was no reason she couldn’t be charmed by a new face. That imperceptive merchant had no claims on her, and she had no claims on him.

  “I confess I am indeed a Knight…Sir Bryant Walden, High Commander.”

  He paused, clearly waiting for Else to give her name in fair exchange, but suddenly her tongue lost the ability to move. Here she was, face to face with the highest-ranking Knight in Rydah—nay, in all of Capricon!—and she had spent the last few minutes ogling him as though he were the prize bull at a beef auction.

  “My name is Else Fontane,” she managed at last. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Sir Walden said, but then his features straightened to a grim expression, and he sat a bit taller in his chair. “I have come to discuss an important matter with you, Madam Fontane.”

  “What is it?”

  “I understand that a man by the name of Toemis Blisnes stayed at your inn last night.”

  An icy fist clutched her heart, and she found herself worrying about Mitto all over again.

  * * *

  At the onset of the showers, the night had grown terribly cold, so cold that Mitto had finally started a fire despite the smoke that would escape through the lodge’s chimney. But it was necessary, if not for his sake, then for Zusha’s—not that Toemis had seemed concerned for his shivering granddaughter.

  The old man hadn’t said a word since entering the lodge, and he now sat, unmoving, on the floor with his back up against the wall. He gazed sightlessly at the worn planks at his feet. Zusha sat beside him, more like an obedient pet than a cherished loved-one.

  Like Toemis, Zusha sat on the floor, hardly moving, except for turning her head every now and again, careful to keep her hood in place.

  Mitto, resting his feet up on the edge of the hearth, sneaked another glance over at the two of them. Zusha herself was stealing longing looks over at the fire. Not for the first time, Mitto thought Toemis was a wholly unsuitable guardian for the girl. Finally, after adding another couple of logs to the blaze, the merchant could stand it no longer.

  “Maybe you ought to move closer to the fireplace,” he suggested, shattering the oppressive silence between them. “You don’t want your granddaughter to get sick, do you?”

  Toemis’s reaction was immediate. Jerking his head up as fast as a striking serpent, the old man glared at Mitto.

  “It is none of your concern,” he spat.

  “Well, at least take some of this food,” he offered, gesturing toward the box of dried fruit and salted meat he had lugged in from the wagon. “I don’t care if you starve, old man, but at least take some for the girl.”

  Toemis winced, and Mitto braced himself, half-expecting the old man to rush at him with that knife of his. But Toemis didn’t move. “It is none of your concern,” he repeated more slowly.

  Wary though he was of Toemis’s knife, Mitto had heard enough. “Look, you might not care about her welfare—”

  Then both men were on their feet, with Mitto following Toemis’s lead. He reached for his quarterstaff, but the old man showed no sign of coming any closer to him.

  “You ought not talk about things you know nothing about!” Mitto could see the fire’s reflection in Toemis’s coal-black eyes. The intensity in those dark spheres flared to new dimensions as he continued his rant. “No one cares for Zusha more than I do. No one! You know nothing about her…about us. If you did, you would not concern yourself with her comfort. Oh, you would drag her over to the fire, perhaps, but…”

  Toemis let his words trail off. He was trembling, his scrawny shoulders rising and falling with each hurried breath. He let one of his hands fall down to pat the girl’s covered head. Keeping his eyes fixed on Mitto, he slowly sat back down and said, “We have our own provisions.”

  Shaking his head in surrender, Mitto slumped back down in the chair he had dragged over by the fireplace. He was trying to puzzle out everything the old man had said—and had left unsaid—when he heard a sound down at his feet.

  Lying on the floor a few paces away from the fire was Zeetan. Mitto had been loath to haul the wizard into the lodge, but he didn’t have the heart to let him freeze to death out in the wagon—even if he was a crook and a spell-caster to boot. The makeshift bonds Toemis had wrapped around Zeetan’s wrists and ankles remained firmly in place.

  And the gag was still crammed in the man’s mouth, which was why Zeetan’s words were coming out all muffled and garbled.

  “What’s the matter…cat got your tongue?” Mitto snapped.

  Zeetan shook his head from left to right to left urgently.

  “I’m not taking the gag off,” Mitto told him.

  Zeetan’s head slumped back down to the floor, though he continued to repeat the same three sounds over and over again.

  “‘I earn nothing’?” Mitto translated.

  Zeetan rolled his eyes and uttered a piteous moan.

  “Fine.” Mitto knelt beside Zeetan. “I’ll take off the gag, but if I hear one unfamiliar sound…just one strange syllable…I’ll crush your windpipe. Got it?”

  The wizard nodded, looking wide-eyed at the quarterstaff.

  “Now,” Mitto began, keeping the staff pressed up against the wizard’s throat as he pulled the soggy ball of cloth out of his mouth, “what do you want?”

  “I heard something,” Zeetan whispered.

  “What—”

  But Mitto was unable to say more because, just then the front door swung wide open.

  Passage VII

  Sweat dripped down Ruben Zeetan’s face. His body was stiff and cramped from lying in the same position for the past few hours, and, thanks to the bonds that bound his wrists to his ankles, he hadn’t been at all comfortable since the old man had taken him prisoner. On top of all that, he was pretty sure he was bleeding to death.

  Because he had been busy grappling with the old man—trying to prevent him from scoring a second hit with the knife—Ruben had missed the arrival of the gray-skinned fiends. He had no idea where they had come from or when they had interrupted the robbery. Furthermore, he knew nothing of his fellow thieves’ fates, though he suspected Falchion and the others had turned tail and run at the first sign of danger.

  If he had doubted his eyes when one of the creatures pushed its head over the guardrail—had wanted to dismiss the grim sight as a hallucination—he had had plenty of time to convince himself of the truth while sharing the wagon with the damn thing’s body.

  He had no idea w
hat the old man and the merchant planned to do with him, but he instantly forgot about these problems when his suspicions were confirmed and the lodge’s only door opened.

  “Oh, gods,” he squeaked, trying to bring his immobilized hands up to cover his face.

  The old man and the merchant jumped to their feet at the same time, but since Ruben closed his eyes, he didn’t see what happened next. If he hadn’t been so terrified of the extermination that was sure to come, he might have thought back to the single decision that had brought his life to this path—or, rather, its inglorious dead end.

  Eyes clamped shut, Ruben Zeetan heard these words:

  “I am Commander Stannel Bismarc of Fort Valor. I had hoped my men and I might share this lodge with you for the night, but first, I must insist that you explain what exactly is going on here.”

  The words did not belong in the mouth of a fiend. Bewildered, Ruben opened one eye ever so slightly. Sure enough, the lodge was not crawling with a horde of screaming demons. In place of the monsters stood six humans.

  Ruben wanted to cry out in joy, but not wanting to risk a return of the gag, he kept quiet. He did his best to ignore the fact that Knights of Superius were probably the last people in the world who would want help him. For the moment, it was enough to be alive.

  So as not to draw undue attention to himself, Ruben remained absolutely silent as the merchant told his story to the commander. From Mitto’s hurried account of recent events, he learned that the merchant and his two passengers had been headed for Fort Faith when the highwaymen appeared.

  When the story referenced him personally—as “Zeetan” or “the wizard”—Ruben fixed his gaze on the floor and tried to look invisible. Yes, it’s all over now, he thought. The Knights will imprison me for sure. Or worse.

  As for the Knights, they said not a word as Mitto O’erlander told his tale. And since the old man, Toemis, seemed content to let the merchant do all the talking, it was Mitto alone who spoke. When the topic turned to monsters, Ruben dared another peek at their interrogator.

  The commander— his name already forgotten—stood at the front of the group while the other Knights held back. He carried a helm in the crook of his arm, and the firelight revealed a face with well-defined and somewhat angular bone structure. His beard and mustache were impeccably neat, and the short-cropped hair atop his head shared the same hue as the fire that illuminated it—aside from the patches of white frost among the red.

  When Mitto was finished, the lodge was consumed by silence for several long seconds.

  “Had your elucidation been any less farfetched, I might have doubted you,” the commander in a soft and steady voice. “But no one would compose a lie of such fantastic magnitude when a simpler one would suffice.”

  “The proof is in my wagon,” Mitto said. “I’ll show you the monster’s carcass right now if you want.”

  The commander paused as though considering the merchant’s offer, but before he could reply one way or another, someone pushed past the Knights and came to stand beside the commander.

  “What’s going on in here?” asked a woman clad from head to toe in a long, white robe.

  Even before she tossed back her hood to reveal a face that was fair in both senses of the word, Ruben’s eyes had been drawn to the places where the gown hugged undeniably feminine curves.

  After she revealed her comely countenance, however, Ruben could not wrench his gaze away from her perfect face, which was framed by long, beautiful locks, the color of ripe strawberries. When she made eye contact with him, he nearly swallowed his tongue.

  “Why is that man tied up like a beast bound for slaughter?” Her tone carried with it a sense of astonishment and indignation.

  She looked to the commander for an answer, but it was Mitto who replied, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but he’s a wizard. There’s no telling what spells he would throw at us if he could.”

  She glared back at the merchant, and at that moment, Ruben fell in love.

  “I myself have skills that one might define as magical,” she retorted coolly. “Do you plan to treat me likewise?”

  Although Ruben couldn’t see Mitto’s face, he was sure the man was blushing. What mortal man could look into the eyes of such a beauty and not feel ashamed for provoking her anger?

  As it was, Mitto sputtered an unintelligible rebuttal, looking from Toemis to the commander for some help. It was the Knight who came to Mitto’s aid.

  The commander set a hand on the woman’s shoulder, not to restrain her, Ruben realized, but to pacify her. Giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, he said, “Please excuse Sister Aric’s zeal. She simply cannot abide the sight of a man suffering, no matter his crimes.”

  Upon hearing that final clause, the woman’s shoulders slumped slightly, and a hint of a flush blossomed across her cheeks. If the woman—Aric—had looked lovely while upset, she appeared ten times prettier in her embarrassment. Ruben wanted to thank her for her concern and added a lengthy, heartfelt confession of all his sins as well, except he still couldn’t find his voice.

  “Yes, please excuse me,” Sister Aric said, though in Ruben’s mind she was Lady Aric. Princess Aric. The Goddess Aric. Her name sounded too base to belong to such an enchantress, but, at the same time, she was all the more attractive for her modest appellation.

  Mitto mumbled something that resembled an acquittal.

  “Sister Aric is a priestess of Mystel, and Fort Valor is honored to have her as its chief healer.” With a wry grin, the commander added, “I trust you will not find it necessary to hog-tie the poor girl.”

  Aric playfully smacked the Knight on the shoulder. The two of them reminded Ruben of siblings, and the fact that both of them had red hair seemed to confirm it. He could only pray to whichever god pitied unlucky wretches like himself that the two of them weren’t lovers.

  “Enough, Stannel,” Aric said. Then turning to Mitto, she added, “Might I inquire what this wizard has done to warrant such treatment?”

  The commander held up a hand to stay the merchant’s reply. “That will have to wait for now. There is a certain matter concerning monsters that must be straightened out first.”

  “Monsters?” Aric asked.

  As if on cue, there came a series of sounds from outside the lodge. First, a familiar cry filled the otherwise silent night, followed by the clang of steel against steel.

  Ruben’s skin prickled with gooseflesh. It has to be the monsters. Who else could it be? Surely not Falchion and the others, who’d sooner wrestle a family of wolverines than face Knights in battle.

  Despite his decision to face death with dignity in the presence of Lady Aric, Ruben couldn’t quite stifle the terrified squeal that welled up from deep inside him as the fiends flooded into the lodge.

  * * *

  Else couldn’t tell High Commander Walden much about Toemis Blisnes. She had never seen the old man before last night, and he had stayed only one night, visiting the common room a quarter-hour at most. But she related everything Mitto had told her, including the abundant supply of gold in the old man’s possession.

  The Knight digested the information impassively, as though none of it were news to him.

  “He spoke with no one other than your friend, the merchant?” Sir Walden asked.

  Else shrugged. “Not that I saw, unless he knew one of the other guests already in a room upstairs.”

  She fetched the ledger from behind the bar and showed him the names of the few patrons from last night. Bryant Walden’s steely eyes scanned the page.

  “Are any of them staying here again tonight?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the ledger.

  She shook her head. “Most of Someplace Else’s guests are traders. They stay in Rydah a night or two before returning to the road.”

  “What about those who do not stay the night?” Sir Walden handed the ledger back to her, as his eyes scanned the common room.

  “Sad to say,” she began, but then cut herself short, deciding she wou
ld reveal no more of her financial woes to the Knight. “Someplace Else hasn’t many regulars these days.”

  She turned in her chair to get a look at the inn’s drinking society. She didn’t recognize any of the four men who sat at a nearby table. The rest of the furniture was unoccupied. None of the customers were paying her and the Knight the least bit of attention. They said little to one another as they nursed a bottle of Bylentine rum.

  Glancing over at the bar, she added, “Only Loony Gomez comes here…”

  Else trailed off when her eyes met the empty seat. “Well, where in the hells did he get off to?” she wondered aloud, half-expecting to see him pop up from behind the counter with a fresh mug of ale. “Gomez never leaves this early.”

  Bryant Walden was silent for a moment, digesting all of the information he had been given. “Maybe he’s had some trouble with the law and got spooked by my presence,” he offered.

  “I can’t believe Loony Gomez is capable of serious wrongdoing…unless he had an accident while drunk,” she told the Knight.

  Sir Walden grunted noncommittally. “Nevertheless, I would appreciate it if you kept an eye on this ‘Loony Gomez’ fellow. Probably, he has no connection to Toemis Blisnes, but he might represent a different kind of trouble.”

  Else gave a slight nod, took a deep breath, and made up her mind to ask a question of her own. “As I’ve told you, Mitto is dear friend of mine. With someone as important as yourself inquiring about a man in his company, I fear his life is in jeopardy. Can you tell me why the Knighthood is so concerned with Toemis Blisnes?”

  When Bryant Walden frowned, she feared she had overstepped her bounds. Who was she to question the High Commander of Capricon?

  But then the Knight leaned forward and looked her in the eye. As he spoke, he kept his voice soft but firm. “I probably should not tell you any more than you already know, Madam Fontane, but I can see you genuinely care for the merchant. I will tell you what I know. You have no doubt heard the rumor that the Crown Prince of Superius was recently in Rydah?”