Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3]

by David Michael Williams

  He glanced over at his men to find Plake staring wide-eyed at the church. Likely, this was the largest building the young hayseed had ever seen. Othello did not appear to be giving the church much thought, as he was watching Klye with a blank expression. Klye wondered if the archer ever got excited. Othello seemed always to be calm, unaffected by the world around him. Even when Othello had first joined Klye’s band—covered in the blood of the men he had just killed—he had walked away from his home without showing any regret.

  “You two wait here,” Klye told his companions. “I’ll take a look inside.”

  “Wait a minute.” Plake grabbed him by the elbow. “We’re supposed to just stand here and scratch our asses until you get back? No way. I want see what it looks like on the inside.”

  Klye narrowed his eyes and wrenched his arm away. Plake was precisely the reason why Klye had wanted to enter the church alone. He did not want to have to worry about Plake, who had been a simple rancher before throwing in with the band, blaspheming inside the Cathedral or saying something too revealing to the priests.

  “You can see the inside of the Cathedral after I check it out,” Klye told him, trying to keep his voice civil.

  “Don’t you think Othello and I are going to look kind of suspicious just standing out here in front of the Cathedral?” Plake argued.

  “I’ll only be a minute.” He bit back the other words that threatened to spill out.

  “And what if something happens to you? You’ll need our help.”

  “It’s a church for gods’ sakes!”

  Plake turned to Othello. “Don’t you think we ought to stay together?”

  Othello didn’t respond.

  “Plake,” Klye started to say, but the tolling of bells interrupted him.

  The brassy sound reverberated from the Cathedral’s highest tower, echoing off the surrounding homes and shops. At the top of the wide stairway that stretched up from the street to the church’s main entrance, two tall doors closed seemingly of their volition. It was only then that Klye realized the sun had completely dipped beneath the western horizon.

  He swore as ran up the steps, careful not to trip over the hem of his robe. He reached the doors in but a few strides.

  “Damn!” he said again, though he caught himself before he said worse. When he turned back around, he saw that Plake had followed him. He didn’t bother berating the rancher, however, for it no longer mattered.

  The doors were locked.

  Passage III

  Arthur groaned and slumped to the ground, leaning his back up against the side of the warehouse. He had been working since early that morning, and now the sun was almost completely set.

  Having transported all of Stalwart Mariner’s cargo to the warehouse, he almost wished that pirates had looted the ship, for it was now a full two hours past when he and the other dockworkers were supposed to be done for the day. And the crates had been incredibly heavy, as though filled with rocks.

  He wiped his brow and peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt. The ever-present sea breeze made his skin shiver, but it felt better than the heat of exhaustion. Arthur looked at his hands and sighed. They were raw, cracked, and covered with blisters. His whole body ached. He wondered how he would find the strength to get up tomorrow morning to do it all over again.

  They would all be paid extra for working past their shift’s normal quitting time, but a few extra copper coins hardly made much of a difference. His wages were small and his days, long.

  Then again, it wasn’t so different from the farm back in Hylan. He, his father, and his brothers were always up before dawn, feeding the animals and tending to the crops. His entire family worked until sundown. Then they all gathered at the supper table to enjoy the feast his mother and sisters had prepared.

  Thinking about the glazed ham, potatoes, and tall glasses of fresh milk made Arthur’s stomach growl and his heart ache. At least when he was unloading cargo, he was too busy to be homesick.

  “Hey, Spook, ya gonna join us at the bay tonight?”

  Arthur closed his eyes, wishing only to be left alone, but when he opened them again, a large man loomed over him. He was called Two-Hands Henry, though Arthur had no idea why. Arthur’s own nickname, Spook, was given to him because of his pale complexion. He hadn’t even known what a spook was until Two-Hands had explained that it was like a baby ghost.

  Was it his fault that his fair skin never tanned? He wondered what the others would call him when the summer sun turned his skin as red as his hair. Luckily, it was only autumn.

  “I don’t think so, Two-Hands.”

  “C’mon, Spook, ya know there ain’t no cure for a hard day’s work like the drink.” The big dockhand leaned in and in a quieter tone added, “’Sides, you’ll never fit in with the rest if ya don’t join in the fun.”

  Arthur saw nothing fun in sharing a barrel of hard liquor—likely stolen—with his smelly and crass workmates. If he went along, he, being the youngest, would surely find himself the butt of every joke and would probably end up being tossed into the bay for one final laugh. At least, that was what had happened last time.

  Seeing that the boy was not to be swayed, Two-Hands Henry shrugged and said, “Suit yerself, Spook. Ya know where to find us if ya change yer mind.”

  Arthur stared blankly at the moving sea, hardly noticing when Two-Hands and the other workers left. There was a kind of wisdom to Two-Hands’ thinking. Sooner or later, the dockhands would get tired of picking on him, especially if he grew a thick skin and pretended it didn’t bother him. His mother had given him similar advice about his older brothers’ jests.

  Without his fully realizing it, Arthur’s thoughts were once more in Hylan, on the opposite side of the island. He sat there for a while longer, remembering the people he had loved and those who had loved him. He thought that if he could do it all over again, he would never complain about his chores. Eventually, his mind began to play through scene after scene until he was reliving the very events that had led up to his running away.

  Shivering all over, Arthur grabbed his damp shirt and got to his feet. The last of the sun’s rays had long since been swallowed up by the night. Gods, what time is it? he wondered.

  Guiltily, he looked all around and spotted only a few pier guards, making their rounds.

  Arthur hadn’t the slightest idea what the punishment was for violating the city’s curfew, but neither did he want to find out. He had little enough money as it was. Two-Hands had said that thanks to Mayor Beryl’s newest laws, every crime—big or small—had its own outrageous fine.

  He watched the guards in the distance and took a few tentative steps in the direction of the road. Maybe he could dodge the pier guards and get back to his ramshackle lodgings before any of them spotted him.

  But any tactics Arthur might have devised were ruined when he heard someone directly behind him say, “You’re out rather late, aren’t you, boy?”

  * * *

  Klye briefly considered banging on the doors. Whoever had just shut them was surely near enough to hear it. That, of course, would attract some attention, and for all he knew, the priests were already in the middle of some holy ritual they wouldn’t want interrupted.

  His fingers reached for the doorknob, but there didn’t appear to be any keyholes—no lock to pick.

  “Why don’t you just knock?” Plake demanded. “Once they see that we, too, are priests, they’ll have to let us in.”

  Not agreeing with Plake’s reasoning or bothering to explain his own, Klye said, “We’ll look for a back door.”

  “A back door?” repeated Plake. “Won’t we look suspicious sneaking around the Cathedral in the dark like a bunch of robbers?”

  “Someone’s coming.”

  Klye flinched at Othello’s ominous proclamation. He hadn’t even seen the archer approach them on church’s steps—or the middle-aged man in the red-and-white uniform embroidered with four vertical golden stripes, who was walking toward them.

  K
lye had avoided too many constables to not recognize trouble when he saw it.

  “He’s the man who spoke with Captain Toeburry on the docks,” Othello added softly.

  Which makes him either the harbormaster or the Captain of the Guards, Klye concluded. “Let me do the talking,” he whispered, hoping against all odds that Plake would comply.

  The man in the uniform walked right up the steps of the Cathedral and raised a hand in greeting. He introduced himself as Roland DeGrange, Port Town’s Captain of the Three Guards. Klye, in turn, told him that they were Brother Klye, Brother Plake, and Brother Othello, priests of Gnuren from afar who hoped to meet the High Priest of Aladon’s Cathedral.

  There was no need to invent aliases. Unlike Ragellan and Horcalus, none of them were infamous. And Klye had always trusted in a popular proverb among thieves: “The best lies are more true than false.”

  “It looks like you arrived a little too late,” DeGrange said with a smile that might have been smug or sincere.

  “It would seem so,” Klye replied politely, stalling for time. What was this man up to? Was he here to arrest Stalwart Mariner’s stowaways, or was he unwittingly trying to help them?

  “The doors always seal themselves shut at sunset, and they won’t open until the first rays of morning light touch the Cathedral’s tallest spire. It’s a tradition,” DeGrange explained. “However, there is a garden through that opening in the wall there. I fear it’s little better than a maze in there, but you should be able to find your way to another entrance.”

  Withholding his sigh of relief, Klye thanked the man and bestowed upon him a made-up blessing. When DeGrange started walking away, Klye started for the garden.

  “Brother Klye,” came the captain’s voice once more.

  Klye stopped in his tracks, resisting the urge to draw his dagger as he turned around.

  “Yes?”

  “Port Town has a curfew. After sundown, only people on official city business are allowed to walk the streets. I tell you this only so that you can avoid the inconvenience of an interview with my guards.”

  “Thank you for telling us,” Klye called back, though DeGrange was already on his way.

  Klye noted that the Captain of the Three Guards had turned down the street that led to the marketplace and, beyond that, the northern harbor where Stalwart Mariner was moored.

  He had no way of knowing the man’s agenda, but since it didn’t seem to pertain to him or his band, Klye dismissed DeGrange from his thoughts. Plake was ready to take his place, however.

  “This maze-garden sounds like the perfect place for an ambush,” the rancher declared, peering through the entryway of the courtyard. “It looks like a small forest in there.”

  “Who would be in there to ambush us?” Klye demanded. “No one knows we’re coming!”

  But Plake would not back down. “You spoke with the Renegades in Port Alexis. They could have sent word ahead of us. For all we know, the Renegade Leader of Port Alexis and the mayor’s daughter here are only pretending to be Renegades. Then she goes and tells Daddy…”

  “You’re being paranoid, Plake.”

  “It’s not being paranoid when your leader is taking so many things for granted…taking too many chances.”

  Klye made his retort between clenched teeth. “When you get out of bed in the morning, you are taking the chance that any number of things could make this day your last. If you want to stand out here, accusing your own shadow of stalking you, be my guest.”

  He brushed past the scowling rancher and entered the courtyard. He didn’t even bother to check to see if Plake followed. If Plake was going to question his every order, the band would be better off without him.

  Let the damn fool spend the night on the streets of Port Town, he thought. Maybe while he’s fending off imagined demons, he’ll wander off a pier and drown.

  Klye didn’t know why he let Plake get under his skin. Always priding himself on his self-control and even-headedness, Klye wondered just what it was about the arrogant, know-it-all rancher that made him lose his temper time and time again.

  Squinting into the moonlit garden, Klye saw a variety of flowers, shrubs, and trees. A path of flat stones wended through the collage of greens. To his chagrin, the path split into three new avenues up ahead.

  “Perfect place for an ambush,” Plake muttered behind him.

  The three slowly made their way through the garden. Caution aside, something about the place demanded reverence. Quite the contrast to Port Town’s bustling docks and marketplace, the tranquility of the garden brought a sense of calm.

  Klye looked back at Plake, but the rancher did not appear to be enjoying himself in the least. Plake peered into the brush as though it concealed jungle predators—along with a squadron of city guards and some treacherous Renegades to boot.

  He was surprised to find the usual impassive expression on Othello’s face. The archer had spent most all his life in a forest, shunning cities and other people altogether. Klye had thought Othello would feel at home there. As it was, Othello was looking not at the trees on either side of them, but straight ahead into the distance.

  An icy sensation ran down Klye’s spine when Othello said, “Someone’s coming.”

  The three of them stopped.

  “Is that all you ever say?” Plake groaned, looking all around them. “How can you see anything but shadows and leaves in this creepy place?”

  If the rancher expected an answer, he was left disappointed.

  Klye saw nothing amiss up ahead, and aside from the wind blowing through grass and branches, he couldn’t hear anyone else moving in the garden. Regardless, Klye patted his hip to make sure his knife was still somewhere under his robe.

  “Othello, hide in that brush over there,” he said, pointing off to the left of the path. “Make sure you can see me, but I don’t want to be able to see you. Wait for my signal if there’s trouble. If Plake and I are led peacefully into the Cathedral, wait here until we get back.”

  The archer did as he was told, disappearing into a cluster of evergreen shrubs.

  “It’s probably just a squirrel,” Plake said.

  Klye scoffed. “I think I’ll take the word of a forester over the theories of a rancher who has spent more time in a tavern than the wilds.”

  Plake opened his mouth to say something in his defense but swallowed the words when they saw movement in the distance. Both men watched as something flitted between the big pockets of green obstructing their view.

  Whatever it was seemed to glow silvery white in the moonlight. Then Klye heard a soft sound, like humming.

  “It’s a bloody ghost,” Plake whispered, his face growing as pale as the specter coming toward them.

  * * *

  On any other day, DeGrange might have recalled the brown-clad figure he had seen aboard Stalwart Mariner during his encounter with the monks at Aladon’s Cathedral. But his thoughts were far from the tardy ocean voyager.

  Two things—and two things only—occupied his mind that night.

  Through a spyglass he had scrutinized the two pirate ships. He had no way of knowing what the buccaneers were planning. Did they intend to raid the town? That was far from likely, as pirates preferred easier prey, such as poorly defended cargo ships.

  In all likelihood, the buccaneers had come to the city to spend stolen coin on supplies and entertainment.

  What bothered DeGrange more than the pirates was Mayor Beryl’s reaction to learning of their presence. The Captain of the Three Guards had personally informed the mayor of the two vessels lurking just outside the city. He had expected Crofton Beryl to give the order to sink them at once. In DeGrange’s opinion, that was the most prudent course of action.

  The mayor, however, had dismissed his captain’s recommendation. To DeGrange’s surprise, the mayor hadn’t seemed at all alarmed at the prospect of enemies hiding so near the city. He had even made a lighthearted joke about unexpected visitors. When Crofton Beryl had finally given DeGrange
his orders, no amount of arguing would change the mayor’s mind.

  For the time being, DeGrange and his men were to do nothing at all.

  “We will meet tomorrow morning as we always do, Captain,” Mayor Beryl had said, “and decide at that time what shall be done about these pirates.”

  And the conversation hadn’t improved after that. When DeGrange had told the mayor about Stalwart Mariner’s arrival and the unexpected cargo, Crofton Beryl had smiled patiently and confessed, “There never were any Huiyan spices. It was a ruse of my own devising.”

  “A ruse? But why?” DeGrange had demanded. “Even if the weapons were to be kept a secret from the general populace, why keep me in the dark?”

  The mayor had paused before answering. “I tell you what I see fit to tell you. It is not that I don’t trust you, Captain, but that I hold the security of Port Town over all else, including one man’s pride.”

  Before DeGrange could think of a suitable response to the insult, the mayor had dismissed him.

  Now, as he walked from the mayor’s mansion—past Aladon’s Cathedral and the monks—he replayed the meeting with Crofton Beryl over and over in his mind. If the mayor was so concerned about the security of Port Town, then why was he so unconcerned with the pirate situation?

  If he, DeGrange, was to keep the city safe, shouldn’t he know all of its secrets? And why was this shipment of arms a secret to begin with?

  Those were the questions that kept echoing through DeGrange’s head until, at last, he found that he had walked all the way back to the ocean. He could see Stalwart Mariner, anchored in the same spot as before, but the ship no longer interested him. His every instinct told him that the pirates should be dealt with quickly and severely. Waiting until morning made no sense whatsoever.

  Saluting a pier guard, who, upon recognizing his commanding officer, stood a little straighter while stiffly returning the salute, DeGrange continued to walk toward the sea. He needed to sort it all out. A part of him wondered if the mayor wasn’t going mad. Certainly, the mayor’s way of governing the city, not to mention his very personality, had changed much in the past year, and none of the changes had been for the good.