The twang of bowstring caused Colt to stiffen. His hand on the hilt of Chrysaal-rûn, he spun around to find the archer—and let out a relieved sigh when he saw that it was Opal. However, his heart continued its rapid cadence.
She had her back to him and was already loading another bolt into her crossbow. Colt could make out the hard yet feminine shape of the muscles in her back and sun-bronzed arms as she pulled back on the string. Beyond her, Colt saw the makeshift target she had constructed from a circular piece of wood mounted on a bale of hay. A single arrow protruded from the target no more than two inches from the berry-stained bull’s-eye.
Colt relaxed his hold on the crystal sword and watched her take another shot. An assortment of emotions washed over him. The two of them had gotten along well since that first day in Port Errnot. She was one of his dearest friends, and sharing in her company made being so far from home much easier.
But in some ways, Opal was as much as a mystery as Noel. Colt knew better than to think there was more to her flirting than harmless fun; Opal flirted with just about everybody. It was part of her personality, her charm. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder if she drifted off to sleep with thoughts of him on her mind.
She had called him her hero twice now, once in reference to his saving her from the Renegades and again after his men had retrieved her quiver from the Port Stone’s rundown inn, the Renegades’ former hideout. Both times, Colt had felt a surge in his chest.
Oblivious of his presence, she took careful aim at the target. Colt, having little skill with bows of any type, knew he would have been lucky to plant an arrow in the bale of hay, let alone the target mounted thereupon. Opal’s aptitude for archery was just one of the many things that made her special—and so different from the ladies that Knights typically chose for wives.
A wife? he thought. Gods above, I am smitten!
Opal pressed the trigger, and a second later, the arrow struck the circular target with a crack. He approached her then, examining the result of her latest shot with her. She had missed the bull’s-eye again, but this time by less than an inch.
“Damn wind,” Opal muttered.
If Colt’s arrival had surprised her at all, she covered it well. She flashed a charming smile, wisps of her rich red hair dancing to the silent notes of the breeze.
“It’s a good thing we’re not at Port Gust,” Colt said.
Opal chuckled. “Maybe it’s time I hung up my crossbow for good. It’s not like I’ll have much use for it with a fort full of Knights protecting me. Yes, I shall retire from adventuring and become the Hag of Fort Faith.”
Colt couldn’t imagine Opal aging into anything remotely hag-like, but he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He wanted to say something humorous to keep the conversation going, but nothing came to mind. He had learned early on in his friendship with Opal that she was not easily bested in the matters of sarcasm.
Then she was walking away to collect her arrows. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her beautiful hair flowing in the wind…the sway of her hips…
“Commander Crystalus!”
Colt jumped guiltily and turned around. Petton was on him in a few great strides, an urgent expression on his face. While the lieutenant never seemed to smile, Gaelor Petton looked downright flummoxed. Colt groaned, wondering what Noel had done this time.
“Good afternoon,” said Colt tentatively.
“I beg to differ,” Petton sighed. “A message from Fort Valor arrived this morning, and since no one could find you, one of the men brought it to me. It is a letter from Prince Eliot.”
Colt might have laughed if he had thought Petton capable of making a joke. He took the letter from his lieutenant, wondering what the Crown Prince of Superius could possibly have to say to him. Perhaps Prince Eliot had learned of his appointment to Fort Faith and wanted to wish him well in his endeavors.
The grave expression on Petton’s face told a different story.
Colt unfolded the piece of parchment. When he reached the end, he reread the short missive. Surely he had misunderstood its meaning. So engrossed was he in the prince’s letter, he didn’t hear Opal’s return.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Colt opened his mouth to explain but couldn’t find his voice at first. He turned to Petton. “Prince Eliot is coming here?”
The lieutenant nodded curtly.
“What’s going on?” Opal looked as though she might to tear the letter from Colt’s hands.
“Apparently,” Colt began, “the prince feels I am unfit to command. He learned of our clash with the Renegades and is coming to learn, in person, how I allowed a handful of poorly armed rebels to escape justice.”
“Why should the Prince of Superius give two wits about ‘a handful of poorly armed rebels’?” Opal asked. “Doesn’t he have better things to do with his time, like polish his crown or something?”
Lieutenant Petton’s deepening frown warned the woman she was crossing a line, but neither he nor Colt corrected her.
“So you’re just going to let this prince take over Fort Faith?” Opal demanded, arching an incredulous eyebrow. “Is this guy even a Knight?”
Petton let out a deep breath. “Miss Opal, you have to understand. While Eliot Borrom has never been knighted officially, he is, next to his father, the highest-ranking individual in the Knighthood’s hierarchy. The prince can do as he sees fit.”
“That sounds like a stupid rule,” Opal said.
Petton bristled, glowering at the woman. Colt understood Opal’s perspective. She was not Superian and had spent most of her life in the wild country of Ristidae, which had no monarchy. To Opal, Prince Eliot was just another man—a glorified governor—but to the Knights of Superius, the king and his family had always ruled Superius and its armies with divine authority.
In the eyes of the Knights, the royal lineage was practically akin to the gods themselves.
“The law is the law, Opal,” Colt said.
“And you’ll meekly step aside and take orders from this upstart novice in a crown?”
Colt could not meet her eyes. “The only order I’ll likely be given is to return to Superius in shame.”
He felt Petton’s arm on his shoulder. “I am sure it will not come to that, Commander. We will explain everything that has happened to the prince. If Prince Eliot is anything like his father, he will react reasonably and justly.” Petton cleared his throat. “But might I suggest sending the midge on his way before the prince arrives?”
Colt only sighed.
“How much time do we have before His Worship gets here?” Opal asked.
“The day after tomorrow,” Petton answered.
The frantic urge to capture Klye Tristan and his band before that deadline assailed Colt, but he shook off the idea. He didn’t even know where the rebels had fled. For all he knew, the Renegades were already on the other side of the Rocky Crags.
Shaking his head in resignation, Colt sighed again and said, “We have two days.”
* * *
Lying flat on his stomach, hugging the hard earth for all he was worth, Scout strained to hear the conversation between Red and the two Knights. Due to the distance and the wind rustling through the tall grass, he caught only one word in every five. After a point, however, he was having trouble concentrating at all for he had caught at least one important bit of news.
Prince Eliot Borrom was coming to Fort Faith in two days!
Scout could hardly believe it. Having lived his entire life in Capricon, Scout knew visits from the royal family were a rarity. Certainly, none of the Borroms had ever deigned to visit Port Town. He wondered which city the prince was setting out from, what road he would take to reach Fort Faith, and most of all, why in the hells the prince was stopping at some beat-up fort.
Perhaps Red and the Knights were discussing that very topic, but they were heading back toward the front of the fort now, making further eavesdropping impossible. Scout lay perfectly still, staring through the thi
ck grass at their receding forms and willing them to go faster.
It had been a big gamble getting this close to the fortress and had taken him more than an hour to inch his way through the brush—all the while praying the Knights atop the battlements wouldn’t spot him.
Now all he wanted to do was jump up and sprint back to camp.
Of course, Scout didn’t give in to the temptation. Even if he managed to avoid Red’s arrows, the Knights would likely give chase. And they had horses. Scout had made sport of evading capture ever since his youth, but he knew better than to provoke the Knights of Superius.
No, he would wait until the commander and his friends were long gone before he began the hour-long process of crawling away from the fort. It would be well past dark by the time he returned to camp, which would still give them plenty of time to make a plan of action. Because Klye wouldn’t let an opportunity like this pass without doing something.
Since he had nothing but time on his hands, Scout let his mind wander. He wondered if Klye would try to assassinate the prince. From what he knew of Domacles Herronin, that Renegade Leader would have no qualms against murdering the prince if he could gain from it. Klye, on the other hand, seemed less concerned with overthrowing the Superian monarchy. In fact, Klye’s only goal seemed to be outfoxing the Knights of Fort Faith, though Scout still didn’t really understand the importance of—
Something struck him in the side. Before he could react, something solid and heavy landed on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs. Instinctively, he rolled out from under whatever it was, drew his knife, and crouched in a ready position.
Across from him, the midge scrambled to his feet, mirroring Scout’s look of surprise and alarm. For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other, Scout clutching his knife and the midge holding his staff protectively across his body. The little wizard had literally stumbled upon him.
Scout figured he had mere seconds before the midge tossed a fireball at him or ensnared him with the same sticky webbing that had felled Pistol and Crooker during the battle in the hills. He was about to lunge at the midge when he heard scuffling to his left. Red and her friends were probably on their way.
Cursing his ill luck—and the entire midge race—Scout took a swipe at the blue-robed spell-caster. The midge backpedaled, and Scout missed him entirely. His second slash met some resistance, but the lack of blood on his knife proved he had cut nothing more than fabric.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose when he heard the little wizard’s chanting. The midge made a throwing gesture in his direction. Scout dove to the ground, expecting to hear the whoosh of flames as a fireball soared over him. Instead, a handful of sand rained down on him.
One of the Knights off to his left was shouting something, but Scout was already running in the opposite direction. His chance to dispatch the midge had come and gone. If he stuck around any longer, he himself would be dispatched by a spell, an arrow, or a sword.
Scout sent up a silent prayer to Aladon and his holy buddies, asking them to see him through this alive. As he reasoned, bargained, and pleaded with the deities, he wondered how many more times the gods would honor his desperate requests and when his luck would run out for the first and last time.
As he ran, he also wondered why the midge hadn’t charbroiled him on the spot. Could the spell have somehow misfired? Not about to question his good fortune—he’d owe Aladon big for this one!—Scout pressed on, ignoring the dizziness that swirled in his brain, dismissing the disorienting sensation as a reaction to his near-death experience.
When his eyes began to droop and his legs slowed without his telling them to, Scout realized with sudden horror that the midge’s spell hadn’t failed at all. Scout crashed to the ground. He tried to get up, but his body wouldn’t respond. He couldn’t even open his eyes. A great yawn escaped his mouth.
Seconds later, he was fast asleep, sprawled out on his stomach and snoring carelessly.
* * *
They sat at the end of a long table in the dining hall—a man, woman, and dwarf. Dinnertime had come and gone hours ago, so they were alone.
Colt felt Opal’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up at her. The initial shock of Prince Eliot’s plans had worn off, leaving the young commander in a state of bleak acceptance.
He had failed his men and his country, but what weighed most heavily on his stooped shoulders was the realization he had failed himself. Despite the many discomforts of dwelling in an ancient fort in the middle of nowhere, he had been having the time of his life.
He thought of the friends he had made since leaving Superius. His men, all honorable Knights who affectionately referred to him as Commander Colt. Sir Wessner. Chadwich Vesparis. Zeke Silvercrown. Even surly Gaelor Petton. Would he ever see them again? Would any of them even want to keep company with him once he was back in Superius, demoted and dishonored?
And how would he face his family—his father, his older brothers, and Sir Rollace White—now that he had soiled the Crystalus name?
Even with Cholk and Opal there with him, Colt felt more alone than ever for he would soon have to say goodbye to them as well. Even if the two of them made the trip back to Superius with him, there was no place for them within the Knighthood. Would he ever see either of them again?
Despair filled his soul, and he silently bade the Warriorlord to give him strength. Though he was on the verge of losing his rank, he must do what he could to retain his dignity. He was a Knight of Superius, after all.
“You don’t know the prince will send you away,” Opal said, as though reading his thoughts. “Maybe His Royal Nosiness will just give you a good scolding and be on his way…not that you deserve one.”
“Don’t I?” Colt looked up. “I did allow the Renegades to escape.”
Cholk crossed his arms defensively. “That was the midge’s fault, not yours. We would’ve had the rebels if not for his silly fog spell.”
“But don’t you see?” Colt cried. “It was my fault for bringing Noel along to begin with.”
“No,” Opal said. “It was my fault for getting caught. And by that rationale, your only mistake was letting me come to the fort in the first place.”
“Of course that wasn’t a mistake,” Colt told her, softening his tone. “But I should have considered the possibility of Renegades in the vicinity. I should have sent Knights to search for Albert, not you. Anyway, Albert wouldn’t have run away if I hadn’t let Noel in the fort.”
“So it is the midge’s fault,” Cholk concluded. “The prince can’t expect you to have any control over a midge. Even if you had turned him away, there’s no guarantee he’d have left.”
Colt shrugged his shoulders. It didn’t matter how he and his friends interpreted recent events. The prince would decide his crimes and the consequences thereof. In spite of Opal and Cholk’s arguments, Colt knew he was guilty of placing his personal feelings above his duty as the Commander of Fort Faith. What if Sir Wessner or Sir Silvercrown had been killed by the rebels? What if he himself had been slain?
“The only thing I can do now is tell the prince exactly what has happened and throw myself at his mercy,” he thought aloud.
“Judging by the snippy tone in his letter, those are two qualities His Awesomeness lacks,” Opal said. “I still don’t understand how he has the power to supplant you or why he’s coming all the way to Fort Faith to do so.”
Colt sighed. “As to why he’s coming, your guess is as good as mine, but I told you before, the King of Superius and his heirs stand at the top of the hierarchy. It’s always been that way…ever since King Eldrake Superior formed the Knighthood and the nation of Superius centuries ago.”
“Even if the royals have less military experience and are less qualified?”
“Even so.”
Opal scoffed. “Then I still say it’s a stupid rule.”
“It may be outdated,” Colt allowed. “In the early days of Superius, the king was the commander-in-chie
f of the army, the true head of the Knighthood. King Edward III isn’t even a Knight himself, and neither is his son. Because the king can get so tied up with affairs of state, a leadership position was created within the Knighthood, making the king’s role as commander-in-chief obsolete. But for posterity’s sake, the royal family retains its hold over Superian armies.”
“It’s stupid,” Opal insisted.
They were silent for a few minutes longer, each lost in his or her private thoughts. Colt appreciated the attempts to cheer him up, but theirs was a hopeless quest. He had failed and had none to blame but himself.
Passage XII
The next night, the three companions assembled again in the dining hall. Whereas Colt had been depressed the evening before, he was now too physically exhausted to pay any mind to the cloud of melancholy that had settled upon him since first reading the prince’s letter.
He took another drink from his stein, grimacing as he swallowed the tart red wine that heated his insides like a forge. Colt didn’t care much for wine. He had never been able to stomach large quantities of the stuff, ever since the time he and his cousin had stolen a bottle from his father’s stock. They both had been violently ill the morning after, and the taste of any wine still brought back the unpleasant memory. But it did relax him.
He watched Opal take a sip from her mug, noting how the wine painted her lips the color of rose petals. It had been her idea to uncork a bottle, and he had not objected since this could well be the last time the three of them sat together.
One way or another, tomorrow would change everything.
“How about a toast?” he suggested on a whim, raising his cup.
Opal lifting hers. “All right…what shall we toast to?”
Colt scratched his chin, considering the question. “To good times…while they last.”
Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) Page 40
