Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1)

by David Michael Williams

  The terrain grew bumpier as the afternoon waned, and they reached the foothills of the Rocky Crags at dusk. Scout informed them Aron was but a few miles away, but Klye decided to skirt the mountain town. The Renegades made camp at the entrance to a narrow valley that crept between two titanic mountains. All that day and into the night, Scout had regaled his companions with the history of the island and its landmarks—whether they wanted to hear it or not.

  The next day, they covered as much distance as they could manage, forced to take more and more stops as the day wore on. Their pace was hindered by steep passages and outcroppings that required a fair bit of climbing. As the air grew thinner, breathing alone became a chore. It had taken them a full day to get from the temple to the Rocky Crags and then almost two full days to cross through them.

  They stopped for another break before descending the last ledge separating them from the Capricon’s eastern half. While most of the band collapsed where they had been standing, Scout, their tireless guide, walked a little further down the trail to a cliff that overlooked the great expanse below.

  Although his legs ached with fatigue, Klye joined Scout on the ledge. The Renegade Leader stared up at the sky, where a single star twinkled in the twilit sky. “How far is it from here to Forth Faith?” he asked. “Can we get there before dark?”

  Scout chewed his lower lip as he pondered the question. “We’d have to run most of the way. I know I could make it before sunset, but with a group this size, laden with weapons and supplies…it’s not likely. We might as well wait until tomorrow and get a fresh start. I know of the perfect place to make camp. It’s only a mile or two to the south…”

  Scout pointed down at the river, but Klye wasn’t paying any attention. He squinted into the distance, hoping to spot the fort somewhere among the shadowy shapes in the valley below. He thought he could feel it out there, even if he couldn’t see it. Like a loadstone to an anvil, he could feel himself being pulled toward the fortress.

  “How difficult would it be for someone unfamiliar with the area to find the campsite you were just talking about?” he asked Scout.

  “Weren’t you listening?” Scout folded his arms indignantly. “Like I said, you can’t miss it if you stick to the river. It’s as safe and comfortable a place you’ll find this far from civilization. I’ve waited out thunderstorms and blizzards there.”

  Klye merely nodded and turned back to the others, who were reclining against the rocky mountainside in varying degrees of comfort. Only Horcalus sat upright, his back erect and his eyes cast down at the ground.

  “Listen up, everyone,” Klye said. “Scout knows of a place near here where we can spend the night. Horcalus, you’ll follow Scout’s directions and take the others there. Scout and I are going to get a look at Fort Faith. We’ll rendezvous with you before dawn.”

  Horcalus looked up. “You think it wise to split up?”

  “Don’t worry,” Scout assured the man. “It’s easy to find.”

  “And we’ll be back before morning,” Klye promised. “Come on, Scout, we’d better get going.”

  The Renegades rose and renewed their hike with little enthusiasm. They were all tired from their trek through the mountains, and Klye was no exception, but he ignored the cramping in his legs, the stitch in his side. When they finally reached the valley floor, Scout informed them that it was time to split up.

  “Just keep the river at your left, and you’ll be fine,” Scout told Horcalus.

  The knight flashed an unamused look at the hooded Renegade. “I still don’t see why you can’t tell us what this place is. I’d like to know where, exactly, you are sending us.”

  “It’s big and yellow and keeps out the rain,” Scout replied cryptically. “If you can’t solve the riddle, then you’ll just have to wait until you get there. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  Klye rolled his eyes. Saying a quick goodbye to the others, Scout walked away, moving at twice the speed of his usual, grueling pace.

  “We’ll be back before morning,” Klye repeated before turning away from Horcalus and the others. He stopped when he felt an arm on his shoulder.

  “I appreciate your placing me in charge in your absence,” Horcalus said. “I will do my best, but I am not Renegade Leader material, so you had best be careful.”

  Klye thought he saw an unfamiliar warmth in Horcalus’s gray eyes, and when the Renegade Leader clutched the knight’s arm in farewell, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Ragellan.

  “I am always careful,” Klye assured him before running to catch up with Scout.

  Passage XIV

  “This place is creepy,” Crooker said.

  Before the Renegades stretched a scene of desolation and ruin. Dilapidated homes and shops alike defied gravity, somehow standing despite years of decay. The setting sun cast long shadows behind the skeletal structures and made the crumbling stone walls shine white like bone.

  Horcalus gave Crooker a dubious look, but he saw that Arthur was nodding in agreement with the pirate’s assessment.

  Plake stood beside the boy, his gaze shifting from shadow to shadow. “Doesn’t the lost traveler usually run into a troll or a witch at this point in the tale?”

  “Or a goblin,” Crooker said.

  “Or many goblins,” Pistol added.

  “We’re not lost,” Horcalus said, “and Scout wouldn’t have sent us here if it were dangerous.”

  He glanced back to make sure the others were following him into the ghost town. While Plake recalled an old bedtime story his father had told him about carnivorous wolfmen, Horcalus wondered why had Klye chosen him, out of everyone, to lead the band in his absence. Sure, he was a better candidate than Plake or Arthur, but Pistol had been a pirate king, the commander of countless cutthroats.

  He also wondered why he remained with the Renegades now that Ragellan was dead.

  Horcalus sighed, as though the long exhalation would rid him of the painful memories. He glanced back at Arthur and saw that the boy was watching him. Several times since they had left the Temple of Mystel, Arthur had attempted to start a conversation with him, but he had not been in the mood to talk.

  From somewhere in the back of his mind, Horcalus remembered the promise he had made himself during the battle with the goblins, how he had sworn he would to teach Arthur how to defend himself if they survived the attack.

  I have been too immersed with my own troubles, he thought. If I am going to remain with the Renegades, I may as well do good where I can.

  “I’ve heard about towns that were destroyed by sickness or war where the dead don’t stay dead,” Plake was saying. He winked conspiratorially at Lilac, who may or may not have noticed. “And if a person dies really violently, sometimes his body seeks out his killer.”

  Arthur peered nervously into an alleyway they passed.

  “Shut up, Plake,” Horcalus said, trying not to smile.

  Plake made an ungentlemanly gesture when he thought the knight couldn’t see him. Horcalus had seen it, but he was more concerned with Arthur, whose face was even whiter than usual and whose forehead was beaded with sweat. The boy smiled unconvincingly when he saw Horcalus watching him.

  A few minutes later, they stopped before the only two-story structure still standing. A faint smile crept to Horcalus’s lips. The paint had faded in places, but there was no mistaking that entire building had once been a vibrant shade of yellow.

  Big, yellow, and keeps out the rain, Horcalus thought, shaking his head. It had once been an inn, according a worn, wooden sign that had long ago fallen from its roost above the door. Compared to the structures around it, the inn was in relatively good shape.

  “Someone has been here recently,” Othello said.

  A great shiver crawled across his skin, and the image of bloodthirsty goblins flashed unbidden in his mind. He turned to find that the archer had walked over to the sandy shore of the river flowing from the mountain pass. Motioning for the others to remain where they were, Horcalus
ran over to look at what Othello had found.

  Hoof prints. Two sets of tracks.

  “Might they have been wild horses?” he asked, but Othello was already shaking his head.

  “Not likely. They wore shoes.”

  “How old are the tracks?”

  “A day…two at most.”

  It was too dark to search the town for other residents. The only logical option was to hole up in the inn and to keep an eye out for trouble. Horcalus approached the inn warily, keeping a hand on the hilt of his longsword as he wrenched open the door.

  The place was empty and appeared to have been empty for some time. Once they cleared the tables and chairs to one corner of the common room, they settled down and ate the rest of the trail bread and salted fish Jalil Shenn had given them. As he chewed the tough bread, Horcalus thought that the ramshackle furniture would make splendid firewood.

  But they dared not make a fire. Even if the chimney wasn’t completely clogged, the smoke would have announced their presence as assuredly as a fanfare of trumpets.

  Washing down his last bite with water from a canteen, Horcalus positioned himself at the front window. Crooker covered one of the rear windows, while the others did their best to get comfortable.

  Staring into the twilight, Horcalus thought he heard a mournful song on the wind.

  * * *

  The Stranger gazed into the magical mirror for many minutes after its spell faded away and once more reflected his handsome, human face. No good news from Port Town. Among other things, the goblin had told of a wizard found slain in one of the city’s markets.

  The Stranger had listened impassively as the goblin recited Port Town’s latest events. His mind had gone astray at the mention of the old mage. News of the wizard’s death was no surprise to him. Unbeknownst to the assassins he had sent to the island, he had used his secret skills to form a bond between himself and each of them.

  The Stranger had known about the old mage’s death as soon as it had happened.

  He had not been too concerned at the time, but then the sai-morí had died the very next day. Now, Dark Lily was lost to him too. Three assassins dead in three days, and he had no way of knowing whether any of them had succeeded in murdering the rogue knights.

  Ever since Chester Ragellan and his lackey had fled to Capricon, the Stranger was forced to consider the possibility that Ragellan not only knew his plans, but intended to expose them. What the knights knew and what they planned to do about it, the Stranger had no way of knowing. Killing them seemed the most prudent course of action.

  He had underestimated the knights’ survival skills. Might he also have underestimated their cunning?

  The Stranger thrust the enchanted looking glass into the pocket of his traveling cloak, threw open his bedroom door, and made for the palace’s stable. He silently addressed the only god he ever prayed to, asking for a swift, trouble-free flight from the castle.

  He navigated the labyrinthine halls of Castle Borrom with the confidence of someone who has lived there his entire life. Once his steed had carried him a few miles from the castle—and far enough away from the king’s pet spell-caster—the Stranger would pray to Upsinous again, tapping into his secret talents to take him to the nearest port city. From there he would sail to Capricon.

  The Stranger didn’t worry about finding a ship willing to take him to the island province.

  He was Eliot Borrom, Crown Prince of Superius, after all.

  * * *

  They had been on the move for more than an hour before Klye finally asked, “So what is big and yellow and keeps out the rain?”

  Scout smiled mischievously. “It’s not really a riddle…or, at least, it’s not something anybody would be able to guess. I was referring to the old inn at Port Stone. Some of the yellow paint has peeled away, but Horcalus and the others should still be able to tell it’s yellow.”

  “Port Stone?” asked Klye. “You sent Horcalus and the others to a city?”

  Scout chuckled. “No, no, no. It’s not a city. It was never big enough to be considered a city. The Port of Stone was once a mining town that shipped coal and other ore from the Rocky Crags down the Divine Divider River.

  “But it was abandoned during the Ogrebasher War, around the same time the Knights left Fort Faith. Now Port Stone is just a ghost town…the perfect place for a hideout.”

  Klye raised an eyebrow. “The Ogrebasher War?”

  “Yeah, you know, when the ogres tried to invade Continae. It ended sixty-some years ago, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You mean the Thanatan Conflict.”

  “Ogrebasher War…Thanatan Conflict…same thing. The ogres were ruthless warriors who used hammers and clubs to…well…bash everything. Ogrebasher War sounds like a more appropriate name if you ask me.” Scout took a deep breath before adding, “I’ve heard lots of stories about that war, but those tales aren’t nearly as old as the legend of Wizard’s Mountain.”

  Klye was trying to keep his mind on what they might face ahead but after a full minute of silence, he sighed. “What’s the legend of Wizard’s Mountain?”

  Scout cleared his throat. “According to an elf my dad knew…or maybe he was a half-elf. Anyway, a long time ago…more than a thousand years, I think…back when the dwarves had just arrived in Capricon, an evil wizard hid something of great power up on that mountain…the really tall one back there. It stands directly over Port Stone. See it?”

  Klye looked over his shoulder and nodded.

  “Well, the wizard enchanted the entire mountain,” Scout continued. “Anyone who comes looking for the treasure becomes cursed…only no one knows what the curse does anymore. I used to have nightmares about that mountain, but when I got older, I actually explored the summit of Wizard’s Mountain.”

  “You came to realize that the legend was just a fairytale,” Klye concluded.

  “Oh no, I believe the legend. Everyone knows that elves…and probably half-elves too…keep better track of history than humans do. Curse or no curse, I just had to see for myself what was up there.”

  “What was up there?”

  “Nothing. The curse must have worn off because Wizard’s Mountain wasn’t any different from the other crags. If a wizard hid something up there, he hid it very well.”

  They traveled in silence from that point on. After a while, they reached a small copse, where they took cover in the trees. When Klye caught sight of a stone structure in the distance, he nearly tripped over an exposed root.

  Even from a distance, Klye could see Fort Faith wasn’t as large as he had pictured. The fortress had a blocky design. Two great wings protruded from middle, both crowned with squat towers.

  They watched the fort for several minutes, Klye all but holding his breath.

  The fort appeared lifeless, but Klye had to be sure.

  As they crept closer, Klye noted the walls were in various states of disrepair, and ivy covered much of the monolith. Then again, thought Klye, the fact that Fort Faith was still standing after facing ogre besiegers was in itself a testament to the small castle’s strength.

  But Klye lost all interest in architecture when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He placed a hand on Scout’s arm as he came to a dead halt.

  Two men wearing full suits of armor walked the perimeter of the fort. Above them, a banner flapped in the wind, its sunburst standard proclaiming the presence of the Knights of Superius. The sentries turned sharply on their heels before disappearing into their fort.

  The Renegades were too late.

  PART 3

  Passage I

  Colt saw only a small portion of the dark sky through the window on the other side of his room. From that incomplete picture, he tried to identify the constellations.

  The red star near the bottom-left corner of the window was the tip of the Warriorlord’s spear. Or was it part of the Satyr’s panpipes? After a while, he began inventing his own stellar constructions, including Lightning Bolt and The Giant Mono
cle.

  He tried not to think of how much time was passing as the stars floated past his window, revealing new pieces of the heavenly puzzle. He tried to stop thinking, to switch off his brain like a clockwork device, but it didn’t work.

  Surrendering to the curse of sleeplessness, Colt threw back the quilt his mother had made for him when he was but an infant. After pulling a long-sleeved shirt over his head, he glanced at the sheathed blade resting against the bed frame. He had the blanket and the sword to remind him of home but little else.

  A silver moon illuminated the quiet landscape below his window. His gaze was drawn to the Rocky Crags and to one mountain in particular. It was called Wizard’s Mountain, though he had yet to learn why.

  Except for the mountains, he might have been looking out of one of Castle Crystalus’s windows. He couldn’t suppress a wistful sigh as he thought of the kith and kin he had left behind by accepting this post.

  Gods, what is the matter with me? he wondered. I’ve been away from home for longer stretches than this.

  While training to become a Knight of Superius, he had gone a full year between visits home. But it wasn’t homesickness that kept Colt from getting a good night’s sleep. For the past month, his mind was assailed by a single question: why had he been chosen for this position?

  Saerylton “Colt” Crystalus was the youngest of three brothers, all Knights of Superius. His eldest brother had only recently been promoted to the rank of captain of a fortified city near Glenning. Colt, on the other hand, was only twenty-four and already the commander of a fortress.

  Granted, Fort Faith was a relatively small fort, and Capricon was a long way from influential Superius, but there were plenty of more qualified candidates out there, men who had dutifully served the Knighthood for more years than Colt had lived.

  With all due respect to King Edward Borrom III, how could Colt not wonder how he, a fairly fresh face in the ranks, received such a promotion?