Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1)

by David Michael Williams

  Behind him, the door flew open. Klye jumped to his feet and reached for the dagger he had tucked inside of his boot. But his eyes did not meet those of a city guardsman.

  A lean fellow in a short-sleeved shirt and baggy trousers walked right up to the vacant chair next to Klye and plopped himself down. The man had a knife at his belt and wore a black hood that completely covered his hair but left his face revealed.

  Not sparing Klye a glance, he said, “Hi, Les. Did ya miss me?”

  * * *

  “Come on, Ragellan,” Plake pleaded. “You said Klye told us to stay here. I’m sure he meant the inn in general. If we’re leaving Port Town tonight, what difference does it make if we all have a few drinks in the common room before hitting the road?”

  Horcalus gritted his teeth. Plake had been pestering Ragellan for the past ten minutes. The rancher, having slept well past noon, had missed the frugal breakfast his four companions had consumed and was now ready to start his day with mug of ale.

  Before Ragellan could repeat any of the numerous points he had already made, the door to the small room opened. Using his foot to shut the door behind him, Othello said nothing by way of a greeting as he deposited two large sacks on the bed next to where Ragellan was sitting.

  How different Othello looked without his leathers and his bow, Horcalus thought. Despite his great height, the forester was not a bit lanky. A lifetime in the woods had hardened all muscles in view, including the ones in his face. Horcalus mused that it was this stiffness that prevented Othello from adopting any expression.

  With the addition of another person in the room, Horcalus felt a bit suffocated, but he ignored the discomfort, eager to see what the archer had bought. How he wished he could have picked out his own sword, but Klye and Ragellan had agreed that, although word of their escape from the Citadel Dungeon apparently hadn’t reached Port Town yet, it was better to on the safe side.

  As tired as Horcalus was of staring at the room’s four peeling walls, he preferred doing that to getting arrested.

  Plake, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, hurried to his feet and over to the burlap sacks. Disgusted with the rancher’s audacity, Horcalus frowned and looked to Ragellan, who, as second-in-command of the band, should have been the one to inspect the contents of the sacks first.

  But Ragellan said nothing as the rancher began rummaging through one of the bags. As Othello tossed a small pouch containing what was left of their coins to Ragellan, Plake began pulling out sheathed blades of varying length as well as a plain, wooden bow.

  The cache of arms must have cost a small fortune, and not for the first time, Horcalus wondered where Klye had appropriated the funds for his mission. But he decided, as he always did, that he would rather not know.

  When Plake removed a long scabbard from the sack, Horcalus rose to his feet and took a tentative step forward. Seeing Ragellan reach for a shorter, thicker sword, Horcalus stepped over to the bed and picked up the one that matched the length he had described to Othello.

  “Which one is for me?” Plake asked. After he and Ragellan had chosen their blades—a longsword for Horcalus and a broadsword for Ragellan—there were only two left. One was long and thin with a cupped hilt. Klye’s rapier, he concluded.

  The remaining weapon was at least half the length of any of the other swords. Horcalus couldn’t quite repress a smile when Ragellan picked up the short sword and handed it to the rancher.

  “This one? I get the smallest one?” Plake demanded, his face reddening.

  Ragellan turned his attention back to his own blade—probably so he wouldn’t laugh, Horcalus thought—and said, “Had you been awake when we described our respective weapon of choice to Othello, you might have gotten something else.”

  Horcalus doubted that Plake had ever used a weapon other than his fists. He thought Othello was wise to have gotten the rancher a blade both short and light so Plake would not accidentally cut off his own foot when trying to wield it.

  Ignoring the rancher’s cursing, Horcalus slid his new sword out of its sheath. It had thin, straight quillons and a perfectly round pommel. Its hilt was wrapped in tanned leather. Horcalus regretted that he had been forced to leave his own sword, the one his father had had forged especially for him, back in Superius. But the new weapon was well balanced and it’s blade, keen. It would do nicely.

  He only hoped that he would not have to use it.

  Horcalus watched as Ragellan, having inspected his broadsword and apparently finding it suitable, pushed the blade back into its scabbard and placed it back inside the sack. Horcalus followed suit, sheathing his longsword and returning it to the bag.

  Realizing that no one was listening to his complaints, Plake ceased his grumbling and began swinging the short sword at imaginary foes. He reminded Horcalus of a squire upon first finding himself alone with his master’s gear. The rancher tapped his thumb on the tip of his sword, quickly sticking it into his mouth when the blade drew blood.

  “Hey,” Plake said suddenly. “Now that Othello has brought back the money, we can go down to the tavern and eat a decent meal. What do you say, Othello? Did you work up an appetite hauling these heavy sacks back to the inn?”

  But Othello was already seated on the floor, his back against the door. His long legs were stretched out before him, practically touching the closest bed, and his eyes were closed.

  Ragellan sat back down on the bed and sighed. Horcalus wondered how much farther Plake would have to push Ragellan before his old friend lost his temper. He had seen Commander Ragellan reprimand foolhardy Knights at Fort Splendor and eagerly waited to hear the speech that would put the rancher in his place.

  Instead, Ragellan simply said, “We are not going anywhere until Klye returns.”

  “Until Klye returns,” Plake repeated with a snort. “Why should we be cooped up in this gods-forsaken inn while High and Mighty Klye Tristan comes and goes as he pleases? Who made him our leader anyway? You used to be in charge of a fort, Ragellan. Why are you taking orders from a self-made Renegade Leader?”

  Horcalus glared at Plake, but in truth, he wanted to hear Ragellan’s answer more than Plake did.

  “It is true that I am older and perhaps more qualified to lead a group of men than Klye, but that is beside the point,” said Ragellan. “Klye has more experience than any of us in living at odds with the law. Thus far, he has proven to be a competent and capable leader. He rescued Horcalus and me from the Citadel Dungeon, and I will not dishonor him by second-guessing his perfectly reasonable orders just so that you can go and get drunk, Plake.”

  “This is just great,” Plake groaned. “Here I am, finally away from my uncle’s boring ranch, finally out of Param, and I can’t even enjoy it.”

  “Why don’t you shove that short sword into your chest if you are so miserable?”

  Horcalus seemed as surprised as everyone else to hear the words explode from his mouth, but that didn’t stop him continuing. “We are all stuck here for the time being, Plake. You should be grateful that you were able to see some of the city last night. Clearly, your bellyaching isn’t making you feel any better, so why don’t you do everyone a favor and still your belligerent tongue?”

  The room was silent for a moment while Plake returned his glare.

  “When I want your thoughts on a subject, I’ll ask for it, knight!” Plake flung himself at Horcalus, short sword still in hand.

  Although shocked by Plake’s sudden advance, Horcalus was ready for him. He did not know if Plake was planning on using the weapon he happened to be carrying, but he was not going to take a chance. First, Horcalus struck out at Plake’s sword arm, his hand connecting with his opponent’s wrist and sending it, and the short sword, out wide. The sword flew from Plake’s grasp.

  Next, Horcalus ducked the wild swing Plake aimed at his head and quickly sprang forward, striking the rancher in the chest with an open palm. Off-balance, Plake could only howl in frustration as he fell backward, landing unceremonious
ly on his back.

  Not sure whether or not the rancher was going to try his luck again, Horcalus remained in a fighting stance, his eyes locked on Plake’s. But the rancher just lay there, looking as though the wind had been knocked out of him.

  After a moment, Plake got to his feet, and, with a final glare at Horcalus, stomped past Ragellan and Othello—who had gotten up to retrieve Plake’s short sword—and wrenched open the door. Plake slammed it behind him without saying a word.

  Passage VII

  His face warm with embarrassment, Klye sank back down into his chair. Instead of looking at Leslie, who, he was certain, would be smiling at his expense, he kept his eyes on the newcomer. The intruder posed no threat to him and “Les,” yet there was something about the man’s casual air that irked him nonetheless.

  “I would have been here yesterday,” the man was saying, “except the guards in the Port of Balancia are at heightened alert. Apparently, they spotted a couple of pirate ships near the coast a few days ago. So now they’re being very cautious, which makes sneaking in and out of the gates all the more challenging.”

  The man’s smile widened as he said the last part, as though the additional challenge wasn’t a bad thing at all. Leslie’s face, on the other hand, had lost some of its color, and Klye wondered if it was out of fear for the man’s safety. Klye rolled his eyes. In the past few months, he and his band had faced far more danger than a few wary guardsmen.

  “We’ll have to talk more about that later, Scout,” Leslie said after a moment of silence. “I want to introduce you to Klye Tristan. He’s a Renegade Leader from the continent. He and his men need a guide, and while I realize that you’ve only just returned from a mission, I could think of no one better to take them to Fort Faith.”

  “That’s because there isn’t anyone better,” the man said to Klye. “Nice to meet you.”

  Klye accepted his hand in greeting, an awkward gesture given that they were sitting side by side. “What did you say your name was? Scott?”

  The man laughed. “No, no, no. Scott? That’s a good one. If I ever need an alias in the future, I’ll have to remember that one. What a silly-sounding name, Scott.”

  Not appreciating the man’s laughter one bit, Klye clenched his teeth in order to stop himself from saying something he’d regret. Speaking of silly, he thought, what about that hood you’re wearing?

  “His real name is Solomon Aegis,” Leslie told him, “but everyone calls him Scout. He’s been with Port Town’s Renegades from the start.”

  “So, when do you plan on leaving for Fort Faith, Klye?” asked Scout. “If I’m not needed for anything else in Port Town, I’ll go with you…haven’t been past the mountains in ages…but I would like some time catching up with Les here before hitting the road again.”

  “Actually,” said Klye with a genuine smile, “I had hoped to leave tonight.”

  “Oh,” said Scout, crestfallen.

  “You couldn’t hold off just one more day?” Leslie asked. “I need to ask Scout a few things about the Port of Balancia, but I also have to finish this letter to Domacles before sundown, before Port Town’s gates are closed for the night.”

  Klye thought he should have been happier at having the advantage, at being the one in control, and was surprised to find that he wanted to help Leslie out. But he couldn’t.

  “I’m sorry, Leslie, but every day brings the Knights that much closer to Fort Faith. If we want to get there first, we can’t spare even a single day.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, sounding more resigned than disappointed. “You don’t mind if Scout and I have a little chat before the two or you are off to make your plans, do you?”

  “It’s still early afternoon. I have time. Did you want me to give you two some privacy?” Klye asked, letting Leslie infer what she would from the word “privacy.”

  “I’m not sure how long this is going to take, so maybe you ought to stay,” she said. “As long as you swear to all the gods that you won’t repeat what you hear, I don’t have a problem with you being here.”

  Klye held up his right hand. “I don’t know how useful such an oath would be since I don’t believe in the gods. But you have my word I won’t betray you or your Renegades.”

  Apparently, that was good enough for Leslie, for she nodded and proceeded to ignore him completely.

  “First of all,” she said to Scout, “I want you to tell me everything you’ve heard about the pirates.”

  * * *

  When he didn’t find Plake in the other room they were renting, Ragellan was faced with three possibilities.

  The first was that Plake might still be somewhere in the inn, having a drink in spite of Ragellan’s express orders. Or the rancher may have left the inn altogether. If that were so, Plake might be out of their lives forever, for which Klye would probably thank him.

  The third scenario, however, concerned Ragellan the most: Plake, suffering from injured pride, might already be on his way to tell the city guard about two rogue knights hiding out at Oars and Omens.

  “We have to go after him,” Ragellan decided aloud. “If he wants to quit the band, that is all well and good, but we must make sure that he will not compromise our secrecy in any way. Horcalus, you and I will check downstairs first.

  “If he has left the inn,” he told Othello, “I’ll need you to track him down.”

  “What about weapons?” Horcalus asked as he followed Ragellan to the door.

  “No weapons. We do not want to draw any more attention to ourselves than necessary.”

  The two of them, looking like simple townsfolk thanks to the clothes that Klye had stolen for them in Superius, hurried down the hall and to the stairway. From the vantage of the second step, Ragellan scanned the inn’s spacious common room.

  Considering it was but mid-afternoon, Ragellan was surprised to find the place as busy as when they had arrived the night before. Klye had mentioned a citywide curfew that began at sundown, so the knight supposed it was reasonable for patrons to drink and dine at a relatively earlier time.

  With the place so crowded, it made it nearly impossible to see anything through the wall of bodies.

  “Come, we’ll check closer to the bar.” Ragellan nearly had to shout to be heard over the din of the common room.

  Leading with a shoulder, the older knight cut a path through the throng of customers. He wondered if all of the pubs were so lively or if Oars and Omens was just a popular place to drink. Ragellan could see that very few of these men and women had ordered anything from the kitchen. Instead, they contented themselves with tall flagons of ale and full bottles of spirits.

  He and Horcalus received more than a few stern looks from those people they jostled. It looked to be a pretty rough crowd. Mostly sailors, Ragellan figured, for they wore the garb mariners preferred—loose-fitting shirts and pants, kerchiefs to cover unkempt hair and protect a shaved head from the sun’s merciless rays. Some of the men and women sported gruesome tattoos and colorful scars. Most, Ragellan noted with surprise, were armed with weapons that ranged from wooden clubs and belaying pins to fancy cutlasses and curved knives.

  Ragellan wondered what honest sailors would need with all those weapons. He was not too concerned, however, for Stalwart Mariner’s mates had sometimes carried curved swords and daggers. Maybe these men and women were pirate-hunters, warriors who made their money by dispatching the various clans of pirates that roamed the Aden Ocean.

  Or perhaps he and Horcalus were now surrounded by one of those very clans.

  The two knights were about twenty paces from the bar when Ragellan caught sight of Plake. In his left hand, he held a tall stein that overflowed with white foam. He appeared to be talking with one of the mariners, laughing and throwing dice, as though he had been the black-haired, stubble-chinned sailor’s friend for years.

  Ragellan breathed a sigh that simultaneously expressed his relief and frustration. With renewed vigor, he began pushing his way up to the bar. Ho
rcalus was right behind him. They were but ten paces from Plake when the inn’s main entrance was kicked open and the common room was thrown into chaos.

  * * *

  Arthur was more than a little surprised when he saw the three battleships sail past the harbor, hugging the coastline as they continued southward. He was even more surprised when the harbormaster announced that all the dockhands were freed from their duties for the remainder of the day.

  He looked around in confusion. The sun had only just begun its decent from the center of the sky. As much as he hated his work, Arthur was, after two months on the job, accustomed to the routine. Something was surely amiss.

  “What’s going on?” he asked Two-Hands Henry, who always seemed to know what was happening in the city.

  A small crowd of dockhands began to gather around Two-Hands, though Arthur recognized only a few of them.

  “Those coastal guard ships we saw go by are newly returned from Fort Honor. They’re goin’ after some pirate ships that were spotted t’ the south of the city last night. The guards prob’ly sailed all night t’ get here and chase ’em away.”

  One of the other dockhands snorted. “I heard that the two pirate ships’ve already gone, takin’ their chances with the B’lancia guards further south. DeGrange is wastin’ his time. They’re long gone,” Clyde Dovely assured them.

  “Naw,” argued Two-Hands. “Word is, some of the pirates’re already in the city. The ships wouldn’t’ve left without ’em. Honor among thieves, an’ all that. The guards’re clearin’ the docks because they expect there’s gonna be a scuffle.”

  While the other dockhands grew excited at the predication, with some of them placing bets, Two-Hands’ expression remained matter-of-fact. Arthur felt his heartbeat quicken.

  Pulling out a flash from somewhere, a giant of a man—dubbed Ogre by his friends—said, “Can’t say I care who wins. I only hope Lieutenant Brass gets what’s comin’ to ’im. I sure do hate that guy.”