“As you wish.”
Dark Lily swung the vorpal sword. Its razor-sharp edge whistled as it cleaved the air—and only air.
Lilac ducked beneath the deadly arc of steel, praying her timing was right. Once she felt that terrible wind blow over her, Lilac surged forward with the force of an uncoiling spring. Her fists connected with Dark Lily’s midsection, and both women hit the ground with an audible thud.
Having landed atop the assassin, Lilac was the first to catch her breath. There was something poking into her thigh, and after pushing herself up with her arms, she saw a glint of sunlight reflecting off of metal. Lilac reached for what she hoped was a knife and slammed the object into the assassin’s chest.
Dark Lily cried out in agony as she bucked, dislodging Lilac. The wizardess scrambled to her feet but remained hunched forward. Both women’s eyes locked onto the bottom half of the silver wand protruding from Dark Lily’s breast.
Lilac expected the wounded woman to fall back down to the ground. Instead, Dark Lily reached into the folds of her robe and removed a small leather pouch and chanted the words of a spell.
Acting completely on instinct, Lilac sprang forward once more, only this time, her balled fists went for Dark Lily’s face. The blow broke the assassin’s jaw—and possibly Lilac’s hand. Again, the wizardess fell to the dusty road. Spitting out a stream of thick, dark blood instead of the words of a spell, the assassin could only stare up in unadulterated malice at Lilac.
Lilac scooped up the vorpal and pressed the flat of the blade against Dark Lily’s neck. She had never killed anything larger than a boar until the battle with the goblins, and she had never killed another human being before. Now that the battle was over, it seemed a horrible thing for her to plunge the vorpal sword through the woman’s neck.
But the anger churning deep within her stomach, the bubbling hatred that had fueled her fight against the wizardess, spoke louder than her conscience.
Dark Lily tried to squirm away from Lilac, clutching at the thin wand impaling her. Lilac raised the vorpal sword up slowly. But the motion ceased abruptly when Lilac noticed that Dark Lily’s body was suddenly surrounded by a blackish-blue glow. Hissing smoke wafting up from the wand.
The loathing in Dark Lily’s eyes told Lilac everything she needed to know. She backpedaled frantically as Dark Lily half-yelled and half-screamed. Lilac let out a startled cry of her own as the woman’s body exploded in a flash of black light.
The force of the blast knocked Lilac to the ground, and the heat singed her face and hands. Had she been standing closer to the wizardess, she would have taken more damage—which surely had been Dark Lily’s intention.
Wrinkling her nose at the acrid odor of burnt flesh, Lilac hurried over to Horcalus.
He was still breathing.
And she was still alive.
She laughed in spite of herself, and when a sudden dizziness came upon her, she eagerly embraced unconsciousness. But even as she slumped down next to Horcalus, she knew she’d never forget the terrible things that had happened that day.
Passage XI
As the riders closed in, Klye decided that if there were any deities floating around up there, they hated him.
After everything he had gone through since rescuing Ragellan and Horcalus from the Citadel Dungeon, he was going to be stopped here, without ever setting eyes on Fort Faith. It was hopeless. The only thing he could do now was minimalize casualties.
“Stop!” he cried, coming to such a sudden halt that Scout ran into him. He threw his hands in the air and waved them at the oncoming riders. “We surrender!”
“What?” Pistol demanded.
“Serious?” Crooker asked. “Or is this a ruse?”
“Everyone, drop your weapons,” Klye said. “If we run, they’ll cut us down. Let me see if I can talk our way out of this.”
The mounted Knights quickly surrounded the Renegades. Their weapons were drawn, but the warriors did not dismount. The Knights seemed content to wait for their captives to relieve themselves of their arms, which they did, some less readily than others.
Pistol was the last to throw down his sword, his blade landing dangerously near to one of the horse’s hoofs. The rider cursed the pirate, but before Pistol could counterattack—either verbally or physically—several Knights pushed through the circle of horseflesh.
“Which one of you is the Renegade Leader?” asked the man leading the armored procession.
“I am,” said Klye. “You must be Selwyn McRae.”
The Knight looked him up and down and punctuated his appraisal with an unimpressed snort. McRae was an inch or two taller than Klye and appeared to be older by at least a decade. While Klye had defended himself in combat countless times, Selwyn McRae had surely been competing with the sword since he was a boy.
“Which of you are the rogue knights?” McRae asked, glaring at Scout and Othello.
“I’m afraid they’re not with us,” Klye replied.
Selwyn McRae rolled his eyes and ordered two of his Knights to help their comrades in searching the temple. “I have no doubt that you will find Ragellan and Horcalus if you look hard enough,” he added flatly.
“I don’t think they’re in the temple anymore, but you’re welcome to look,” Klye told the subcommander. “The truth is I don’t know where they are.”
He was thankful that his men did not interrupt. The beginnings of a plan were coming together in his mind, and he thought there might yet be a way to get out of this alive—unless the gods had anything to say about it, of course.
“You shouldn’t be so quick to tell lies, Renegade.” McRae took a slow step in Klye’s direction, taking a few practice strokes in the air with his polished sword. “Things will go much easier for you if you speak the truth. I will return to Fort Miloásterôn with a Renegade Leader as a prisoner, or I will return with his corpse. Either way, I will rid the island of one of its greatest threats.”
Klye swallowed a glib retort—greatest threat, indeed!—and took a step back, affecting a worried expression. “All right, all right. There’s no need to do anything hasty. You caught me. I’m man enough to admit when I’m beaten.”
“Where are the rogue knights hiding?” McRae persisted. “Which room?”
“I wasn’t lying, at least not when I said you wouldn’t find the knights in the temple. But if you let the rest of my men go, I swear I’ll take you to Ragellan and Horcalus. It’s the only way you’ll return to your fort with me and the rogue knights.”
McRae glowered at him. “You have a clever tongue, Renegade, but I have ways of loosening it. Why would I allow these six rebels to escape when I am more than capable of bringing in your entire band?”
The subcommander came forward suddenly and brought the edge of his broadsword to the base of Klye’s neck. “I won’t play games with the likes of you. You are a worthless piece of refuse, a shiftless malcontent who delights in stirring up trouble.”
With the tip of the sword pressing painfully into his flesh, Klye discarded his original plan and embraced the next scheme that occurred to him. “Fine. Then I challenge you to a duel. You Knights claim to be so damned honorable. Why not let the gods decide which of us is right?”
The broadsword remained leveled at Klye’s throat while McRae considered the proposal. Finally, he said, “The Knights of Superius no longer engage in armed combat to determine matters of justice. However, I will make an exception in your case. Never let it be said that Sir Selwyn McRae backed down from a challenger. What are your terms, knave?”
“If I win, I will spare your life. The rogue knights and I will willingly accompany you back to your fort, but you must let the others go.”
“And If I win?” McRae prompted.
“I swear on my father’s soul that I will take you to the knights, and then you can kill me if you wish.”
Klye had no problem with making false promises, risking the well-being of a man he had never met. He had no idea what he would do if McRae
bested him, but he’d sooner die than betray Ragellan.
“I agree to your terms because you shall not win.” The subcommander lowered his sword. “Retrieve your weapon, Renegade. You men, gather the other blades into a pile. Each Renegade is to have two armed escorts at all times, just in case the bastards decide to run.”
Klye assumed that McRae intended to use the ever-widening circle of horses, Knights, and their captives as the boundary of their battlefield. As McRae watched the Knights carry out his orders, Klye took the opportunity to glance over at his friends, who watched him in return.
Arthur looked whiter than usual, and even Plake and Scout looked uneasy. Othello’s concern was betrayed by an almost imperceptible furrowing of his brow.
Pistol and Crooker regarded him grimly. The former pirate king raised an eyebrow as if to say, “How’re you gonna to get out of this one?”
Then Selwyn McRae came forward with a cry, and the duel began.
Klye deflected the blow that was aimed squarely at his chest. The subcommander was testing him, Klye knew, and he too was gauging the Knight’s strength and speed.
In the past, the Renegade Leader had depended on his superior agility to defeat stronger and more experienced foes. But Klye quickly found that McRae could dodge his rapier with ease. His odds of winning this duel looked increasingly bleak.
McRae probably trained every day, participating in practice scrimmages against his fellow Knights at their fort. Klye fought only when he had to. At the moment, McRae was focusing entirely on defense, making only the most conservative thrusts with his broadsword.
Klye knew his first mistake would likely be his last. Even if he parried every swing, he would be exhausted long before the Knight even broke a sweat.
Klye spat a curse and decided to end the duel quickly, one way or another. He came at McRae from the right, and the subcommander brought his shield up to deflect the blow. Klye didn’t bother to watch where his sword landed. Having fully expected McRae to block with the oval-shaped escutcheon, Klye let the rapier bounce harmlessly off the shield and let his momentum take him where he wanted to be.
As he rammed into the Knight, he grabbed McRae’s sword arm with his free hand. The Knight pulled away, trying to break free of his hold, but Klye held on and jerked his knee up into the man’s groin.
Klye almost collapsed when his knee struck solid steel, certain he had shattered the bone into splinters. McRae took advantage of the opening and swung his shield at Klye’s face. Unable to avoid the attack, Klye could only bring his arms up to lessen the blow. The large shield battered him to the ground.
McRae stomped on Klye’s fingers, and he dropped the rapier, which the subcommander swiftly kicked off to the side.
“What, a ruffian like yourself has never heard of a codpiece?” McRae taunted, brushing imaginary dust from the front of his trousers. “Now tell me where the rogue knights are hiding.”
When Klye did not immediately answer, McRae raised his sword directly above Klye’s throbbing skull. The Renegades erupted in protest. One of Scout’s colorful curses reached him above the ringing in his ears, and Klye he heard Pistol challenge McRae to one-on-one combat. But then another voice, a new voice, drowned out everything else.
“If you kill this man, Subcommander, I will make sure you join him in death thereafter.”
The newcomer’s words carried a power all their own. Everyone and everything was silent. Klye had to lift his head to see the man who had, if nothing else, added a few precious minutes onto his life.
For some reason, he expected to find Chester Ragellan there, bedecked in the full suit of armor he had worn as the Commander of Fort Splendor. But the man who had spoken resembled the rogue knight only in gender and the color of his hair, which was black.
His savior wore a hooded, scarlet cloak that veiled his body from head to ankles. Klye’s curiosity was further piqued at the sight of the man’s open-toed sandals.
“Sheath your weapon, Subcommander,” the black-bearded man insisted, and Klye thought he recognized his accent.
But what one of the desert nomads was doing in Capricon, Klye couldn’t guess.
* * *
When Fredmont Calhoun entered the room, the wizard didn’t look up from his book, which didn’t surprise the commander. As far as Calhoun knew, he was the only one who ever visited Shek Irenistan.
While the magus finished the page he was reading, Calhoun looked around, marveling at all of the magical paraphernalia strewn about the modest-sized chamber.
Calhoun had always thought a wizard’s room would be full of steaming potions, black cauldrons, and the skulls of bizarre creatures. Consequently, he had been somewhat disappointed the first time he had seen Shek’s quarters.
There was not a single potion to be found, though Shek had brought a small library of books and scrolls with him to Fort Milo. The tomes were stacked in piles on the floor and on any other available surface, along with mysterious items Calhoun could not identify. Shek had told him that most of them were not magical in the least and that none of them were dangerous.
At the moment, Shek was seated at an old oaken table he had found discarded in the fortress’s storage vaults. After setting aside the leather-bound tome he had been holding, Shek rose and bowed politely. Calhoun approached the table cautiously, careful not to trip over what looked like a clock with two faces.
“What is this now?” Calhoun asked, noticing something he had never seen before. He leaned over the table and peered into a glass sphere that was roughly the size of two punch bowls joined at the brims. “It appears to be filled with sand. What does it do?”
Before Shek could answer, Calhoun gasped and took a step back.
“This is not a talisman, Commander,” Shek replied, a slight smile playing at the edge of his lips. “It is a rare breed of scorpion from Ahuli-Okx. His name is Ranfir. He is my pet.”
Calhoun brought his face up to the glass and watched the scorpion dig the rest of the way out of the sand, using its segmented legs and massive pincers to push away the white sand. The creature was about the size of Calhoun’s hand and boasted two tails.
“You keep a scorpion as a pet?”
“It reminds me of home,” Shek explained, tapping a finger against the glass ball. “Besides, Ranfir is a unique specimen. This type of scorpion is the most poisonous of the desert’s predators, and because Ranfir has two stingers, he is twice as deadly.
“The reason you have not seen him before is because the yivahla prefers darkness. I usually keep his cage under my bed. The only reason he has uncovered himself now is because he is hungry. But you have not come here to discuss the habits of desert arachnids, I’d wager. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Calhoun straightened up. He had indeed come to the wizard’s room for a reason, a very important reason. “I am in need of your help.”
Shek raised his bushy eyebrows.
The commander cleared his throat. “Sir Duerot has just returned from the Temple of Mystel. According to his report, the Renegade band Lily spoke of has taken refuge there. Sir McRae has requested new orders, but I fear that the subcommander may do something rash before Sir Duerot returns with my command to stand down. The Knights cannot risk a clash with the healers.”
“My services are always at your command,” Shek replied. “But surely you do not intend to use magic to rectify this potentially volatile situation.”
Calhoun winced at the wizard’s sarcasm. “I suppose I deserved that. King Borrom sent you here for us to explore how spell-casters might work in harmony with the Knighthood, and I have yet to utilize your talents…save your wisdom, of course.”
Shek bowed slightly. “I accept the compliment graciously. Please excuse my smugness. I meant nothing by it. I am eager to show you what I can do. What is it you need, Commander?”
“Is there a way for you to see what is happening at the temple at this very moment, like with a crystal ball or something?”
The wizard gave a quick
laugh that sounded like a bark. “I know a few incantations that will allow us to watch McRae from a distance, though none of them include a crystal ball.”
Setting his book and Ranfir’s globe off the side, Shek gestured for the commander to sit in the chair opposite him. Calhoun obeyed. He could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest, and butterflies fluttered in his stomach.
Gods, he hadn’t been this nervous since his first battle.
“Close your eyes and relax,” the wizard bade. “I am about to perform a relatively simple incantation that will allow both of us to glimpse what McRae is doing. It is a safe and painless rite. After a few minutes, you may start to see things, perhaps a short scene or a series of motionless images. It will last but a few seconds. Anything more requires a stronger spell, and that would take some time for me to prepare.”
“Whenever you are ready,” Calhoun replied, trying to keep his tone light. He closed his eyes and prayed to the Warriorlord he wouldn’t get burned for playing with magic.
When Shek placed his two fingers on either side of the commander’s head, Calhoun opened his eyes in alarm. Feeling his face flush, he sighed and relaxed once more. Shek began speaking softly, his smooth, slippery words all streaming together, flowing over one another in such a way that Calhoun thought he heard more than one voice at times.
Suddenly, Calhoun felt as though he were on the brink of sleep, but then fuzzy shapes took form and flitted past his mind’s eye. As the images sharpened, Calhoun saw the Temple of Mystel from an aerial view. Several Knights stood outside of it, and he immediately recognized McRae among them. As the vision honed in on the subcommander’s face, Calhoun saw McRae was arguing with someone at the temple’s door. He wished he could hear what was being said, but the scene was enveloped by a womb of silence.
The scene shifted, and Calhoun was now watching McRae and his men break down the door. The subcommander was the first to charge into the temple, followed by other Knights, their swords drawn.
Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) Page 26
