“Now what?” Plake asked, his tone excited.
Klye had debated long and hard over whether or not to bring the rancher along. Plake could have remained at the rundown farmhouse, guarding their supplies along with the boy. But after learning what Plake had done at Oars and Omens—first going down to the common room by himself and then fighting alongside the pirates—Klye thought that keeping Plake within sight was the smartest tactic.
“We wait,” Klye answered.
Horcalus nodded grimly, but Plake sighed and began to fiddle with the long sleeves of his robe. “These things are really itchy.”
Klye ignored him and glanced at the people all around them. Nothing was amiss. Several guards, wearing the red-and-white uniform of city soldiers, chatted with each other outside the prison’s only entrance. If they were expecting any trouble, they certainly didn’t show it.
“Why don’t we rush them now?” Plake whispered. “That way we can rescue Ragellan and the pirate king all at the same time.”
Scout laughed. “After you, Plake! Right now, there are enough guardsmen in the prison to start their own village. We’d all be dead before we could set foot inside the place.”
Finally, with the sun blazing brightly in the center of the sky, the prison doors opened, and soldiers began marching forth in well-formed rows. So dense was the phalanx of guards that Klye was unable to get a look at the prisoner as he was marched past them.
The guardsmen formed a living wall around the pirate king, and Klye wondered how Leslie and her men were going to contend with the sheer number of soldiers.
Only two guards remained in view, standing on either side of the prison’s entryway. Klye had no way of knowing how many more were inside. By Scout’s reasoning, the mayor would be more concerned with the pirate king’s execution running smoothly than the prisoners left behind.
Klye hoped the man was right.
“We’ll wait until the procession is a bit farther away,” Klye told the others, doing his best to maneuver his body so that the two remaining sentries would not see the sword-shaped bulge at his hip.
The crowd began to disperse as most of the onlookers followed the precession of soldiers to the City Square. Soon, the street would be empty, and four monks lingering near the prison would look unforgivably suspicious.
“All right,” Klye said, “follow my lead.”
With his three companions in tow, Klye took a direct path to where the two soldiers stood at ease, looking more at each other as they talked than out at the road. The sentries did not expect someone to walk right up to the prison’s front doors with trouble in mind, not without an army at least. Klye was counting on the fact that the soldiers inside the prison would suffer from the same overconfidence. The element of surprise was the only thing they had going for them.
“Excuse me, good sirs,” Klye said to the guards. “Might you be able to answer a question of ours?”
One of the sentries opened his mouth to reply and was rewarded with a punch to the face. Klye’s attack knocked the soldier out cold. Scout and Plake took care of the other guard, the rancher clamping a hand over the shocked soldier’s mouth until Scout’s chokehold rendered the man unconscious.
“Should we drag them inside, so nobody finds them?” Scout asked.
“No time,” Klye said.
Pulling off his robe, the Renegade Leader drew the long, thin-bladed sword Othello had purchased for him. The others revealed their weapons as well, glancing around nervously, though most everyone had moved on to the Square.
Klye kicked open the double doors and said, “Lead the way, Scout.”
* * *
The Square began filling with people long before the sun had reached its zenith. Now rows and rows of guardsmen marched toward the scaffold where the mayor, the new Captain of the Three Guards, and Father Elezar awaited the condemned man. Around them, the spectators pushed and shoved, trying to get a peek at the pirate king.
From Othello’s position on the roof of a mill overlooking the Square, the throng of people looked like one massive creature, its body undulating grotesquely; its cries, discordant and terrible.
Beside him, four other marksmen—all Renegades under Leslie’s command—crouched behind a railing, bows in hand and awaiting their leader’s signal.
Othello saw Leslie in the front row below. She was standing so near the scaffold that if Crofton Beryl were to turn around and inspect the crowd closely, he might well identify his daughter beneath the all the mud and grime covering her face. Other Renegades from that morning’s meeting, including Maeve Semper, surrounded Leslie.
From his vantage, Othello had no difficulty seeing the pirate king. Pistol walked with his head held high, not struggling in the least. As the prisoner was marched past the mill, Othello’s breath caught in his throat.
Below in the Square, walking purposefully toward the scaffold, was Chester Ragellan.
* * *
“Which one of you is Pistol?”
The pirate king rubbed his eyes, surprised he had fallen asleep. Half a dozen other men accompanied the guard who had spoken, and none of them were smiling. Pistol was thinking of a glib reply when the rogue knight spoke up.
“I am.”
“What?” Pistol exclaimed. The soldiers’ torches revealed a very serious expression on Ragellan’s face. “What’re you doing, knight?”
“I am Pistol,” Ragellan continued, “King of the Pirates of the Fractured Skull. Come in and get me, you scallywags. You won’t take me without a fight.”
The guard with the key to the cell rolled his eyes and said, “You heard him, boys. Just don’t rough him up too bad. He still has to make the walk to the Square.”
Pistol glared at Ragellan. “Don’t be a hero on my account. You’ll die soon enough as it is. Leave me to my fate.” To the guard, he said, “I am Pistol.”
Now the officer with the key paused, frowning deeply and glaring at both of them.
“Don’t listen to him,” Ragellan said. “He’s trying to be a martyr. You know those knightly types. He says he lost his eye while saving a princess. Ain’t that a riot? Look, I’m not in any hurry to die, so if you want to take him instead, go ahead. But I wouldn’t want to be in your boots when the mayor sees you’ve brought the wrong man.”
Pistol stared at Ragellan but didn’t argue. What the hell was he doing?
Why do I even care? Pistol wondered. The knight had a point about not being in a hurry to die. And although Pistol would not be there to witness the mayor’s reaction at discovering the switch, he saw it as a kind of vengeance against Crofton Beryl nonetheless.
Pistol shrugged and told the guards, “It was worth a try.” He turned over and pretended to go back to sleep.
True to his word, Ragellan put up a fight when the guards entered the cell, spouting off comments about landlubbers and some nonsense about keelhauling. The knight’s impression of a pirate was enough to bring a smile to Pistol’s face—a rare thing to be sure.
Pistol watched the guards drag Ragellan out of the cell. A stream of blood flowed from the man’s nose, but the rogue knight was smiling too. Their eyes met for just an instant before Ragellan was forcefully led down the corridor.
* * *
The majority of the prison’s guards had been needed to fill the ranks of the processional guard. With the Pirates of the Fractured Skull defeated and the pirate king well on his way to certain death, the soldiers left at the prison were celebrating the victory at Oars and Omens with mugs of port wine.
They were in mid-toast when Klye and his men barged into the bastion.
“There,” Scout said, pointing past the guards. “Through that hall are the stairs that will lead down to the lower level. And the gate is up too.”
Klye immediately saw what Scout was referring to. Beyond the soldiers was a hall that led into darkness. For some reason, the miniature portcullis was raised, which meant they wouldn’t have to waste time using the crank on the wall to heft it up out of th
eir way.
But they still had a score of city guardsmen between them and the hallway in question.
“Follow me!” Klye shouted.
As Klye, Scout, Horcalus, and Plake ran toward the gate, the soldiers regained their senses and drew their blades.
“Don’t kill anyone unless you have to,” Horcalus added as the guards closed in on them.
Klye was already swinging his rapier in wide arcs, trying to keep their opponents at bay. He had worried over Scout’s meager equipment and had even offered him Plake’s short sword—much to Plake’s ire—but Scout had refused. Now Klye could see that Scout needed no sword; he was doing quite well with the simple knife he carried.
Plake taunted and swore at the soldiers, meeting them sword to sword only when they pressed him, while Horcalus, his face stern and emotionless, routinely unarmed the guards and sent them flying with well-placed kicks and shoves. All the while, the Renegades were moving closer and closer to the hall that would take them to Chester Ragellan.
It only took them a few seconds to drive a hole through the guardsmen’s hastily composed defense, but to Klye—dodging, parrying, and thrusting all the while—it seemed much longer than that. When they finally reached the hall, fighting with their backs to the chilly passageway, Klye ordered his men to turn and run.
Klye swung his sword with all his might, missing the nearest guardsman by a good ten inches. The guard chuckled as he easily avoided the rapier and prepared to counterattack by plunging his sword into the Renegade Leader’s midsection.
But Klye had not been aiming for the soldier. His sword clanged against the wall, slicing completely through the rope that had been keeping the portcullis suspended above the doorframe. Nimbly, Klye jumped backward, narrowly missing the falling gate. The soldier who had been on the verge of stabbing him could not stop his swing in time and ended up breaking his sword against the steel bars.
Klye couldn’t suppress a victorious laugh as he ran down the hall. Horcalus, Scout, and Plake were waiting by a stairway that led down into the depths of the prison. The fallen portcullis wouldn’t hold off the guards off for long…
As he followed Scout down into the darkness, Klye tried not to think of what would happen if the soldiers cornered them in the prison’s lower levels and concentrated instead on finding their friend.
* * *
When Crofton Beryl recognized Ragellan, he began to tremble in anger.
Grabbing Harrod Brass by the shoulder, he shouted, “What is going on here? That’s not Pistol. It’s the rogue knight from Superius!”
Captain Brass could only sputter stupidly as his men proudly marched the wrong prisoner closer and closer.
“You’ll pay for this,” the mayor swore, which made the new Captain of the Guards flinch. But the mayor saw only Chester Ragellan, the man who was making a mockery of him.
It would serve him right if we did hang him as a pirate king, Crofton thought.
How he wanted to be the one to tighten the noose around the traitor’s neck, to watch his face turn red, purple, and blue, to hear the snapping of his spine. But there was a voice that he could just barely hear above the pounding of his own heartbeat, a voice that reminded him the rogue knight must be delivered alive to Superius. He must not kill Ragellan.
Growling in frustration, the mayor leaped down from the scaffold and ran toward the procession. “Stop, you fools! You’ve brought the wrong man!”
Crofton Beryl pushed away Captain Brass, who had followed him and was trying to convince him to return to the safety of the scaffold. The shove nearly sent the captain to the ground.
“It’s the Renegades,” he muttered, eyeing the throng with narrowed eyes. “They’re behind this. Where are you hiding, you faceless cowards?”
He was answered by a sudden surge of people swarming into the Square. All around him, individuals were breaking away from the crowd, many of them shouting about tyranny and injustice as they tried to unite the citizens of Port Town against him. Many of them were armed with swords, knives, and clubs.
Everyone else panicked, running every which way in an attempt to escape but succeeding only in getting in the way. The soldiers began to form a circle around the prisoner.
It had finally come, Crofton realized. The rebellion in Port Town had finally evolved into all-out war, just as she had predicted. But it was the Renegades who had struck first, not him.
“Kill them!” he shouted, drawing his sword. “Kill them all!”
Before he could join the guards who were defending the prisoner, something at the back of his mind made him pause. He glanced at the scaffold and saw that some Renegades were tearing it apart, destroying the pole and crossbeam from which the noose hung. Elezar was nowhere to be found, but at that moment, the mayor cared nothing for the High Priest. His attention was suddenly fixed on one Renegade whose presence eclipsed the chaos that had erupted in the Square.
There was no doubt in the mayor’s mind that the beggar woman giving orders from atop the scaffold was his daughter.
“I’ll kill the bitch myself,” he swore, reversing direction and running past Harrod Brass, who was barking orders to his men.
Crofton Beryl forgot about Chester Ragellan and the pirate king, ignored the havoc all around him. He saw only Leslie, the leader of the rebellion that had plagued Port Town for too long—and therefore didn’t see the man whose path intersected with his own at precisely the wrong moment.
The two of them collided, and the impact sent them both men to the ground.
“Pardon me,” the man mumbled, not even bothering to look at whom he had knocked over.
Crofton glared at him. The man’s clothes were torn and covered with stains, and he looked as though he hadn’t shaved in days. The mayor had no idea who he was, nor did he care. As the man ran off, curiously heading toward the battle rather than away, Crofton Beryl regained his sword and his footing.
He looked back at the scaffold to find it ablaze. Leslie was nowhere to be seen.
Meanwhile, the Square was packed with frightened people trapped between the soldiers and the Renegades as well as a fire. Leslie could be anywhere in the confusion, though the mayor wagered that she would be in the thick of the action, no doubt trying to free the Renegade knight. He scanned the crowd and quickly located his daughter.
A jolt of pain lanced up his leg. He looked down to find a green-feathered arrow protruded from his calf. Crofton fell to the street once more. Snarling, he tore the shaft from his flesh, ignoring the agony and the cascade of blood that followed. Another arrow planted itself into the road beside him.
He was vulnerable, but he didn’t care. Before he could plunge into the battle, however, a voice told him to flee.
“But I’m so close!” the mayor pleaded. He could still see Leslie dueling with one of the soldiers.
“No good will come from her death if you die alongside her,” the voice argued.
Casting one final look at Leslie, the mayor swore he would have his vengeance. Then he fought his way through the crowd of frightened citizens, heading in the direction of his mansion.
Passage XIV
Had Ragellan known that the Renegades of Port Town were planning to interfere with Pistol’s execution, he would have thought twice about switching places with the man.
Thinking the pirate king doomed, he had done what little he could to save him, buying the man more time, if nothing else. Ragellan had hoped to make an escape during the confusion that followed. As it was, the Renegades’ assault in the Square gave Ragellan the perfect opportunity to flee.
His hands were tied securely behind his back, and his head throbbed from the beating the guards had given him, but he had managed to stay alert, watching for his chance to slip out of the circle of guards surrounding him. The soldiers were preoccupied with the Renegades charging toward them, completely ignoring their prisoner…
Ragellan knocked one of the guards to the ground by kicking him in the back. As the guardsman pitched forward, s
everal others realized the folly of their actions and turned to face him. A desperate lunge saved Ragellan from being impaled on one curved sword but left him off-balance. He drove his shoulder into the side of one unsuspecting guard, using his momentum to push through the line of soldiers.
He pushed past other combatants, Renegades and soldiers alike, until an unsteady step robbed him of his balance, and he came crashing down hard to the street. Shaking away his dizziness, Ragellan rolled onto his back and found a single soldier looming over him.
The lone guard sneered and said, “I’m gonna execute you myself.”
Fighting the urge to close his eyes, Ragellan tensed and prepared for the thrust that would pierce his heart. Above the clamor, the knight heard someone shout, “No!” Then a curved blade erupted from the chest of his would-be executor, spraying the street with blood.
Ragellan rolled to the side to avoid the falling body and then looked up at his savior. He knew the man, but it took another second or two for him to place him as the dark-haired pirate who had been sitting beside Plake in Oars and Omens when the city guardsmen had arrived.
“Crooker?” Ragellan asked, remembering the name Pistol had used.
“You’re not Pistol!”
“Pistol is still safe at the prison,” Ragellan explained. “Could you cut these ropes?”
Crooker did as he was asked, cursing all the while. “This means I’m gonna have to try to save him all over again.”
Ragellan picked up the sword the dead soldier had dropped and deflected a stroke meant for Crooker. The pirate turned and stabbed the city guardsman in the neck.
“Perhaps we ought to free Pistol while these guards are busying themselves with Renegades,” Ragellan suggested. “I know the way to the prison.”
Crooker’s expression brightened. “Lead the way, friend!”
* * *
Leslie lashed out with her cutlass, cutting through the sleeve of one of the soldiers and leaving a trail of red behind. The man gasped and instinctively reached for his injured arm. Keeping her sword up in case the soldier should counterattack, Leslie used her free hand to break his nose with her fist.
Williams, D M - Renegade Chronicles [Collection 1-3] Page 14
