And since she was too anxious to sit quietly in one spot, waiting like a spider for prey to wander into its web, she had ditched the post where she and three other Knights had been positioned and left to find Colt.
A few feet from where the commander was guarding the Prince of Superius, Opal came to complete stop. She had been avoiding Eliot Borrom since his arrival. Her presence—like Cholk’s and Noel’s—would only raise more questions. More than that, she didn’t trust her tongue in the presence of the royal snob. Even now, when she wanted nothing more than to confront these rebels and win back her dignity, she had more than enough anger left over for the arrogant prince.
She decided to stand guard outside the war room. Leaning up against the cool wall, Opal checked her crossbow. She glanced down the hallway—and saw Klye crest the top of the stairs.
Opal raised her crossbow and aimed it at the man’s face.
“That’s far enough!” She watched with some satisfaction as Klye and the three Renegades behind him came skidding to a stop.
She was tempted to fire a bolt into Klye’s kneecap just for fun. So intently was she watching the Renegade Leader, she didn’t see Othello until he stepped between her and Klye.
“Don’t move!” she shouted at the man, punctuating the command by altering her aim at the archer’s heart.
Othello proceeded forward.
“Stop!” she cried again, not wanting to pull the trigger.
Though he didn’t stop, Othello did slow. Opal looked pleadingly into his eyes. Did he think she was bluffing? Clenching her teeth, Opal made up her mind to show him and the other Renegades she most certainly was not.
But then Othello stopped, standing no more than a foot away from the tip of her arrow. His large hunter’s knife remained in its sheath, and his bow hung unthreateningly over his shoulder. She looked into his eyes, trying to understand his intent, but all she saw was grim determination.
Then the man actually smiled. “Lower your weapon, Opal,” he said softly. “Even if you kill me, even if you manage to kill two of us, you cannot hope to escape the others. Save your life by saving ours.”
His words held an almost prophetic authority. She didn’t want to kill him, and she certainly didn’t want to die herself. But at the same time, she couldn’t let the assassins go about their business.
Othello placed his hand on top of her crossbow and gently eased it down until it pointed at the floor. She didn’t stop him, lost as she was in the emerald forests of his eyes.
In her peripheral vision, Opal saw Klye Tristan advance. She tried to raise her weapon, but there wasn’t enough time. With a solid left hook, the Renegade Leader sent her reeling to the floor.
“Sorry, Red. Now we’re even,” she heard him say.
The last thing she saw before the black waves of unconsciousness swept over her was Othello looking down at her sadly.
* * *
Horcalus slowly turned to regard the man who had spoken. As he did so, several torches flared to life, temporary blinding him. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out a ring of Knights surrounding them. The pounding of footsteps and the creaking of metal betrayed the presence of more Knights arriving from both directions.
Anticipating the Renegades’ intentions, the dungeon’s sentries had hidden themselves beyond Scout’s cell, patiently awaiting reinforcements from above.
Even if they were foolhardy enough to try to fight their way out despite the overwhelming numbers against them, the Knights had the superior position. Like the pincer of a crab for which the maneuver was named, the Knights would push forward and routinely crush the Renegades between their two attacking lines.
A middle-aged soldier stepped forward. The Knight was clad in plate armor, though an open-faced helm left his scowling visage visible. Horcalus’s eyes were drawn to the medallion around the Knight’s neck, which denoted the rank of lieutenant.
Horcalus held his hands up away from his weapon and called, “Hail, Lieutenant. We do not wish to engage in combat. We came only to find our ally and friend.”
He didn’t think it was likely they could talk their way out of Fort Faith, but the only other option was to fight, and the four Renegades stood nary a chance against a score of Superius’s finest.
“Your friend is a Renegade spy,” the lieutenant said. “This man, who will not even tell us his true name, is our enemy, as are all of you.”
The Knight took another step forward and looked him up and down.
“I have heard tell of two rogue Knights of Superius,” the lieutenant said, never taking his eyes off of Horcalus. “These Knights were seduced into joining a rebellion by promises of money and power.”
The words paralyzed Horcalus as effectively as an eel’s sting.
“The two traitors were discovered and imprisoned,” the lieutenant continued, “but their stay at the Citadel Dungeon was woefully brief. One of their criminal comrades freed them. Now these traitors wreak havoc in Capricon, unfettered by the bonds of morality and justice.”
The rapid beating of Horcalus’s heart had nothing to do with claustrophobia. Upon hearing the disgraceful way that this Knight referred to him—and to Chester Ragellan, the noblest man he had ever known—Horcalus wanted nothing more than to silence the lieutenant forever.
Yet he dared not move for fear that the Knight was merely trying to goad him into an impossible fight. He half feared that the pirates would do something foolish and half-hoped they would.
But the Knight continued his speech uninterrupted.
“The rogues travel with a small band of Renegades led by a brigand named Klye Tristan. The commander of this very fort has met these rebels in battle. Dominic Horcalus was at that battle.”
The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed into mere slits as he took another step closer. “Are you, Dominic Horcalus?”
“I am,” he replied without hesitation.
The lieutenant spat in his face, but still Horcalus did not move. Truth be told, he was more stunned by the action than enraged by it.
“It is with great pleasure, Mister Horcalus, that I place you and your compatriots under arrest. My only regret is that I did not have a chance to face you in open combat on the battlefield. I am honor-bound to accept your surrender, but how I long to rid the world of such a disgrace to the Knighthood!”
“In exchange for my name, may I have yours in return?”
“Very well. I am Sir Gaelor Petton of Fairmoor, Superius, Lieutenant of Fort Faith.”
Horcalus was on the verge of pleading for the freedom of Arthur and the others—since it was obvious that the Knights wanted him more than all of the others put together—when he felt something push into him from behind. Noel emerged and stood beside Horcalus.
At the sight of the midge, the lieutenant took a step back, as did all of the other Knights.
“You’re going to arrest Klye’s friends?” The midge threw his hands up in the air, a gesture that made all of the Knights take another hasty step back since Noel was still holding his staff. “Now Klye will never leave!”
“The midge is a Renegade,” one of the soldiers whispered.
“We should rush him now before he gets a spell off,” added another.
Lieutenant Petton held up a hand to silence his men. Glaring down at the midge, he said, “You will drop your weapon too. By the prince’s decree, you are to be arrested.”
“The prince is evil!” Noel retorted. “He has evil powers, and he tried to kill me with them, even though I wasn’t doing anything but checking to make sure that he was the Prince of Superius and not some other guy.”
“So you admit to spying on the prince,” Petton countered. “And now you are abetting the rebels. At least we know how the Renegades got into the fort.”
“I was only trying to help,” Noel argued. “If you hadn’t gotten in the way, we could have come and gone by now, and nobody would’ve gotten hurt.”
Petton snagged the midge’s arm, catching Noel—and Horcalus—by surprise.
“Nevertheless, by order of Prince Eliot, I am arresting you.” To the Knight behind him, Petton added, “Someone get me something I can use for a gag.”
Noel looked from the lieutenant to Horcalus, his round eyes wide with terror. “But the prince is evil!”
The midge pulled away from his captor but could not dislodge himself from Petton’s iron grip. The Knight turned to his men, waiting for a gag and some rope. “Yes, yes,” he muttered. “Everyone is a sorcerer in disguise. First, it was Albert Simplington. Now, the prince.”
Horcalus was astonished that he felt sorry for the midge. Seeing Noel struggle in vain to free himself from his considerably larger adversary and hearing the midge all but whimper in fear of being bound and gagged, Horcalus felt something inside of him give way.
For all his faults, Noel was doing what he thought was right. Klye had more or less tricked him into complicity. He did not deserve to be punished.
“Why doesn’t anyone ever believe me?” Noel asked, his lip trembling.
Horcalus grabbed the midge’s other arm. “This midge is not with us. He is no Renegade.”
“Unhand him,” Petton growled, spinning around and resting the tip of his broadsword against Horcalus’s chest.
“Opal will believe me!” Noel said suddenly.
But no one was listening to him. The eyes of Knights and Renegades alike were locked on Petton and Horcalus, who could not bring himself to release Noel’s arm. The lies Petton had spoken about Ragellan echoed in his ears. He was tired of the Knighthood’s hypocrisy, fed up with its mockery of justice.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur raise his hatchet. Likewise, the pirates braced for the inevitable clash, their curved blades out and ready.
“I said let him go, traitor!” Petton shouted, giving Noel, the unwilling rope in the impromptu game of tug-of-war, a sharp pull.
Horcalus didn’t relinquish his grip. He would not give an inch to the self-righteous lieutenant. Between the two knights, Noel, whose feet no longer touched the floor, muttered words Horcalus could not hear.
“I’ll have no more of this, Ren—”
Before he could finish, all three of them—Petton, Horcalus, and Noel—disappeared in a brilliant flash of light.
* * *
Colt had not seen the prince smile once since his arrival, but the face Eliot was making now made his previous scowls seem warm by comparison. The guards on either side of the prince also wore expressions of unadulterated malice.
“A dwarf,” Eliot repeated, glaring openly at Cholk, who glared back but said nothing.
“Prince Eliot,” Colt began, his voice almost cracking, “may I introduce you to—”
“First a midge. Now a dwarf. Are you the keeper of a zoo or the commander of a fort?”
The prince aimed his glare at Colt, who felt no taller than a gnome under the seething scrutiny of the Prince of Superius. He opened his mouth to say whatever might come out—hopefully something in his defense—but no sound flowed forth. Bereft of thought and speech, he could only return the prince’s look of pure rage with one of horrified bafflement.
“I want this creature removed from my presence,” the prince said. “Immediately!”
“But, Your Majesty,” Colt finally managed to say, though he was quickly silenced when Eliot emerged behind the desk, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Get him out of here!” the prince roared, and when Colt continued staring at him stupidly, Eliot added, “Do you dare defy me, Commander?”
“No one is defying you, Prince,” Cholk said. “I’m all too happy to leave.”
As the dwarf turned to open the door, Colt studied the cracks in the floor. He knew he was a coward for not standing up for his friend, even if it meant confronting the Prince of Superius.
He was still staring at the ground, feeling sorry for himself and hating Prince Eliot with every fiber of his being, so he didn’t immediately understand what was going on when the crash resounded through the war room. He looked to the door and found Cholk and one of the Knights on the floor. The door was unbarred and open.
The blade of a sword crossed the threshold.
That was all Colt needed to propel him into action. He ran to the door as the Renegades forced their way into the chamber. He recognized the woman with the steel-piercing sword. His gaze passed over two male Renegades but stopped at the one carrying a longbow.
Colt glanced back at the prince, worried that Eliot Borrom would be an easy target for the archer, but the prince’s two bodyguards had positioned themselves firmly in front of the prince, acting as a living barrier to any missile. They carried shields, but neither man seemed to know the proper way to hold them.
Standing midway between the prince and the rebels, Colt debated whether he ought to charge forward or fall back. The enemy numbered a measly four, and while he calculated his Knights’ worth to be at least twice that of any Renegade, he suddenly knew where he was needed most.
The blond-haired woman, her enchanted blade a whirl of metallic light, had already disarmed one of the Knights and had wounded another.
Chrysaal-rûn in hand, Colt ran forward, praying to the Warriorlord to empower his weapon. The crystal sword had stood up to the female Renegade’s blade once. It would have to do so again, or all was lost.
Focused solely on the woman, Colt saw the blur of movement coming from the side barely in time to react. His own shield having been destroyed in his previous clash with the rebels, Colt wielded an old buckler he had found in the fort’s armory. Instinctively he brought up the shield in a desperate attempt to defend himself, awkwardly twisting his body in order to bring the buckler in line with the anticipated attack.
Colt waited for the brunt of a falling sword and was considerably surprised when his attacker rammed into the shield with his shoulder, throwing all of the inertia of his charge into the collision. With no hope of maintaining his balance, which had been precarious at best, Colt went with the blow, rolling over two full times on the floor before coming to a stop.
He was climbing to his feet when he felt the tip of a sword against his neck. With none-too-gentle pressure, the blade guided Colt’s chin upward, forced him to look at his attacker. The man with the rapier at his throat had black hair and blue eyes. He wore a long, dark coat that looked as worn and weathered as its owner, whose unshaven face was slick with sweat.
Although his assailant was but a few years older than he, Colt knew he had finally come face to face with Klye Tristan.
Colt glared up at the monster who had carried Opal away. The Renegade Leader, meanwhile, searched the ground for something, and Colt’s heart sank when he realized what that something was.
The tip of the rapier pressing painfully into his skin, Colt could do nothing but watch impotently as Klye reached for Chrysaal-rûn. The Renegade Leader snatched up the treasured weapon in one swift motion.
But then the Renegade Leader dropped the crystal sword with a loud cry. Not questioning his fortune, Colt knocked the rapier’s blade aside with his gauntleted hand and scooped up Chrysaal-rûn. An instant later, the two men adopted battle-ready stances, Colt gripping the crystal sword with two hands and Klye Tristan holding the rapier in his right.
As they circled each other, Colt saw that the Renegade Leader was shaking his left hand vigorously, clenching and unclenching his fingers. A grimace betrayed his great pain.
Colt was on the verge of pressing forward when an arrow whizzed by, sailing perilously near both of their heads. A gurgling shriek made Colt flinch. In spite of himself, he looked back in the prince’s direction, where one of the bodyguards thrashed about on the ground, a shaft protruding from his throat.
Colt whirled back around in time to see Klye Tristan sneak past him on the other side. He swung Chrysaal-rûn in a wide arc, hoping to make contact with one of the Renegade Leader’s legs, but the man was too quick. The crystal sword missed its fleshy target entirely and bit instead into the stony floor. Colt made to follow
the Renegade Leader, but when he tried to run after him, he nearly wrenched his arm out of its socket.
Colt looked behind him, fully expecting to find his arm held fast by nothing less than an ogre. But no one was making a play for his sword this time—no living opponent at any rate. Somehow Colt had managed to bury the crystalline blade halfway into the floor; Chrysaal-rûn had cleaved solid stone!
He heaved with all his might and finally managed to dislodge the blade. Sparing only a quick glance back at Cholk and the three Knights to make sure they were all still alive, Colt hurried after Klye Tristan, who was already going sword to sword with the prince’s remaining guard.
Passage XVI
Klye cast one quick glance over his shoulder before he reached his newest opponent—the only remaining guard between him and Prince Eliot. He knew that the Knight with the crystal sword would be on him again in a matter of seconds, but he had to press forward. If he could only get to the prince, put his blade up to the young man’s neck, he would gain absolute control of the situation.
But first, he had to deal with the bodyguard.
With barely a glance at his fallen comrade, who was making a feeble attempt to dislodge Othello’s arrow from his windpipe, the second bodyguard charged forward with a roar. Having thrown his shield aside—a most curious move, in Klye’s opinion—the guard now held his sword in both hands, poised above his head, as though he planned to hew Klye down the middle.
Klye was tempted to try to score a hit of his own before the blade fell, but at the last second, he dug in his heels, stopped, and watched the silver blur come within inches of his face. When the guard’s sword struck the floor, Klye lashed out with his rapier. The guard was forced to leap backward in order to avoid the blade.
He pressed on, slashing out at the guard’s midsection. The guard had no choice but to give ground, but as he did, he regained his balance and his bearing. After a few steps, the guard managed a few swing with his own sword, but Klye wouldn’t allow the man to gain the advantage. He studied his opponent’s movements, concluding that while the guard and he were of similar height and build, he was the faster.
Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) Page 44
