Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (26 page)

Lilac
struggled to come up with some way to hold onto life. It dawned on her that
Dark Lily had not intended to reappear, which meant that the wizardess was
off-balance. If I can only get the blade away from her, there may yet be hope,
she thought.

“It’s
a vorpal sword,” Lilac said in a shaky voice.

“Ah,
I should have guessed,” the wizardess said. “The legendary vorpal swords were
crafted by the ancient sorcerers. No wonder this weapon has a different feel
than relics blessed by the Goddesses of Magic. This weapon might predate the
goddesses themselves!”

“I’m
glad you like it,” Lilac muttered, looking around desperately for anything that
might serve as a weapon.

“Don’t
be bitter,” Dark Lily said. “Being killed by your own sword is poetic. Anyway,
there are far more painful ways to die.”

When
Dark Lily was standing less than three feet away from her, Lilac rose to her
feet. “Please just make it quick.”

“As
you wish.”

Dark
Lily swung the vorpal sword. Its razor-sharp edge whistled as it cleaved the
air—and only air.

Lilac
ducked beneath the deadly arc of steel, praying her timing was right. Once she
felt that terrible wind blow over her, Lilac surged forward with the force of
an uncoiling spring. Her fists connected with Dark Lily’s midsection, and both
women hit the ground with an audible thud.

Having
landed atop the assassin, Lilac was the first to catch her breath. There was
something poking into her thigh, and after pushing herself up with her arms,
she saw a glint of sunlight reflecting off of metal. Lilac reached for what she
hoped was a knife and slammed the object into the assassin’s chest.

Dark
Lily cried out in agony as she bucked, dislodging Lilac. The wizardess
scrambled to her feet but remained hunched forward. Both women’s eyes locked
onto the bottom half of the silver wand protruding from Dark Lily’s breast.

Lilac
expected the wounded woman to fall back down to the ground. Instead, Dark Lily
reached into the folds of her robe and removed a small leather pouch and
chanted the words of a spell.

Acting
completely on instinct, Lilac sprang forward once more, only this time, her
balled fists went for Dark Lily’s face. The blow broke the assassin’s jaw—and
possibly Lilac’s hand. Again, the wizardess fell to the dusty road. Spitting
out a stream of thick, dark blood instead of the words of a spell, the assassin
could only stare up in unadulterated malice at Lilac.

Lilac
scooped up the vorpal and pressed the flat of the blade against Dark Lily’s
neck. She had never killed anything larger than a boar until the battle with
the goblins, and she had never killed another human being before. Now that the
battle was over, it seemed a horrible thing for her to plunge the vorpal sword
through the woman’s neck.

But
the anger churning deep within her stomach, the bubbling hatred that had fueled
her fight against the wizardess, spoke louder than her conscience.

Dark
Lily tried to squirm away from Lilac, clutching at the thin wand impaling her.
Lilac raised the vorpal sword up slowly. But the motion ceased abruptly when
Lilac noticed that Dark Lily’s body was suddenly surrounded by a blackish-blue
glow. Hissing smoke wafting up from the wand.

The
loathing in Dark Lily’s eyes told Lilac everything she needed to know. She
backpedaled frantically as Dark Lily half-yelled and half-screamed. Lilac let
out a startled cry of her own as the woman’s body exploded in a flash of black
light.

The
force of the blast knocked Lilac to the ground, and the heat singed her face
and hands. Had she been standing closer to the wizardess, she would have taken
more damage—which surely had been Dark Lily’s intention.

Wrinkling
her nose at the acrid odor of burnt flesh, Lilac hurried over to Horcalus.

He
was still breathing.

And
she was still alive.

She
laughed in spite of herself, and when a sudden dizziness came upon her, she
eagerly embraced unconsciousness. But even as she slumped down next to
Horcalus, she knew she’d never forget the terrible things that had happened
that day.

Passage XI

As
the riders closed in, Klye decided that if there were any deities floating
around up there, they hated him.

After
everything he had gone through since rescuing Ragellan and Horcalus from the
Citadel Dungeon, he was going to be stopped here, without ever setting eyes on
Fort Faith. It was hopeless. The only thing he could do now was minimalize
casualties.

“Stop!”
he cried, coming to such a sudden halt that Scout ran into him. He threw his
hands in the air and waved them at the oncoming riders. “We surrender!”

“What?”
Pistol demanded.

“Serious?”
Crooker asked. “Or is this a ruse?”

“Everyone,
drop your weapons,” Klye said. “If we run, they’ll cut us down. Let me see if I
can talk our way out of this.”

The
mounted Knights quickly surrounded the Renegades. Their weapons were drawn, but
the warriors did not dismount. The Knights seemed content to wait for their
captives to relieve themselves of their arms, which they did, some less readily
than others.

Pistol
was the last to throw down his sword, his blade landing dangerously near to one
of the horse’s hoofs. The rider cursed the pirate, but before Pistol could
counterattack—either verbally or physically—several Knights pushed through the
circle of horseflesh.

“Which
one of you is the Renegade Leader?” asked the man leading the armored
procession.

“I
am,” said Klye. “You must be Selwyn McRae.”

The
Knight looked him up and down and punctuated his appraisal with an unimpressed
snort. McRae was an inch or two taller than Klye and appeared to be older by at
least a decade. While Klye had defended himself in combat countless times,
Selwyn McRae had surely been competing with the sword since he was a boy.

“Which
of you are the rogue knights?” McRae asked, glaring at Scout and Othello.

“I’m
afraid they’re not with us,” Klye replied.

Selwyn
McRae rolled his eyes and ordered two of his Knights to help their comrades in
searching the temple. “I have no doubt that you will find Ragellan and Horcalus
if you look hard enough,” he added flatly.

“I
don’t think they’re in the temple anymore, but you’re welcome to look,” Klye
told the subcommander. “The truth is I don’t know where they are.”

He
was thankful that his men did not interrupt. The beginnings of a plan were
coming together in his mind, and he thought there might yet be a way to get out
of this alive—unless the gods had anything to say about it, of course.

“You
shouldn’t be so quick to tell lies, Renegade.” McRae took a slow step in Klye’s
direction, taking a few practice strokes in the air with his polished sword.
“Things will go much easier for you if you speak the truth. I will return to
Fort Miloásterôn with a Renegade Leader as a prisoner, or I will return with
his corpse. Either way, I will rid the island of one of its greatest threats.”

Klye
swallowed a glib retort—greatest threat, indeed!—and took a step back,
affecting a worried expression. “All right, all right. There’s no need to do
anything hasty. You caught me. I’m man enough to admit when I’m beaten.”

“Where
are the rogue knights hiding?” McRae persisted. “Which room?”

“I
wasn’t lying, at least not when I said you wouldn’t find the knights in the temple.
But if you let the rest of my men go, I swear I’ll take you to Ragellan and
Horcalus. It’s the only way you’ll return to your fort with me
and
the
rogue knights.”

McRae
glowered at him. “You have a clever tongue, Renegade, but I have ways of loosening
it. Why would I allow these six rebels to escape when I am more than capable of
bringing in your entire band?”

The
subcommander came forward suddenly and brought the edge of his broadsword to
the base of Klye’s neck. “I won’t play games with the likes of you. You are a
worthless piece of refuse, a shiftless malcontent who delights in stirring up
trouble.”

With
the tip of the sword pressing painfully into his flesh, Klye discarded his
original plan and embraced the next scheme that occurred to him. “Fine. Then I
challenge you to a duel. You Knights claim to be so damned honorable. Why not
let the gods decide which of us is right?”

The
broadsword remained leveled at Klye’s throat while McRae considered the
proposal. Finally, he said, “The Knights of Superius no longer engage in armed
combat to determine matters of justice. However, I will make an exception in
your case. Never let it be said that Sir Selwyn McRae backed down from a
challenger. What are your terms, knave?”

“If
I win, I will spare your life. The rogue knights and I will willingly accompany
you back to your fort, but you must let the others go.”

“And
If I win?” McRae prompted.

“I
swear on my father’s soul that I will take you to the knights, and then you can
kill me if you wish.”

Klye
had no problem with making false promises, risking the well-being of a man he
had never met. He had no idea what he would do if McRae bested him, but he’d
sooner die than betray Ragellan.

“I
agree to your terms because you shall not win.” The subcommander lowered his
sword. “Retrieve your weapon, Renegade. You men, gather the other blades into a
pile. Each Renegade is to have two armed escorts at all times, just in case the
bastards decide to run.”

Klye
assumed that McRae intended to use the ever-widening circle of horses, Knights,
and their captives as the boundary of their battlefield. As McRae watched the
Knights carry out his orders, Klye took the opportunity to glance over at his
friends, who watched him in return.

Arthur
looked whiter than usual, and even Plake and Scout looked uneasy. Othello’s
concern was betrayed by an almost imperceptible furrowing of his brow.

Pistol
and Crooker regarded him grimly. The former pirate king raised an eyebrow as if
to say, “How’re you gonna to get out of this one?”

Then
Selwyn McRae came forward with a cry, and the duel began.

Klye
deflected the blow that was aimed squarely at his chest. The subcommander was
testing him, Klye knew, and he too was gauging the Knight’s strength and speed.

In
the past, the Renegade Leader had depended on his superior agility to defeat
stronger and more experienced foes. But Klye quickly found that McRae could
dodge his rapier with ease. His odds of winning this duel looked increasingly
bleak.

McRae
probably trained every day, participating in practice scrimmages against his
fellow Knights at their fort. Klye fought only when he had to. At the moment,
McRae was focusing entirely on defense, making only the most conservative
thrusts with his broadsword.

Klye
knew his first mistake would likely be his last. Even if he parried every
swing, he would be exhausted long before the Knight even broke a sweat.

Klye
spat a curse and decided to end the duel quickly, one way or another. He came
at McRae from the right, and the subcommander brought his shield up to deflect
the blow. Klye didn’t bother to watch where his sword landed. Having fully
expected McRae to block with the oval-shaped escutcheon, Klye let the rapier
bounce harmlessly off the shield and let his momentum take him where he wanted
to be.

As
he rammed into the Knight, he grabbed McRae’s sword arm with his free hand. The
Knight pulled away, trying to break free of his hold, but Klye held on and
jerked his knee up into the man’s groin.

Klye
almost collapsed when his knee struck solid steel, certain he had shattered the
bone into splinters. McRae took advantage of the opening and swung his shield
at Klye’s face. Unable to avoid the attack, Klye could only bring his arms up
to lessen the blow. The large shield battered him to the ground.

McRae
stomped on Klye’s fingers, and he dropped the rapier, which the subcommander
swiftly kicked off to the side.

“What,
a ruffian like yourself has never heard of a codpiece?” McRae taunted, brushing
imaginary dust from the front of his trousers. “Now tell me where the rogue
knights are hiding.”

When
Klye did not immediately answer, McRae raised his sword directly above Klye’s
throbbing skull. The Renegades erupted in protest. One of Scout’s colorful
curses reached him above the ringing in his ears, and Klye he heard Pistol
challenge McRae to one-on-one combat. But then another voice, a new voice,
drowned out everything else.

“If
you kill this man, Subcommander, I will make sure you join him in death
thereafter.”

The
newcomer’s words carried a power all their own. Everyone and everything was
silent. Klye had to lift his head to see the man who had, if nothing else,
added a few precious minutes onto his life.

For
some reason, he expected to find Chester Ragellan there, bedecked in the full
suit of armor he had worn as the Commander of Fort Splendor. But the man who
had spoken resembled the rogue knight only in gender and the color of his hair,
which was black.

His
savior wore a hooded, scarlet cloak that veiled his body from head to ankles.
Klye’s curiosity was further piqued at the sight of the man’s open-toed
sandals.

“Sheath
your weapon, Subcommander,” the black-bearded man insisted, and Klye thought he
recognized his accent.

But
what one of the desert nomads was doing in Capricon, Klye couldn’t guess.

*
         
*
         
*

When
Fredmont Calhoun entered the room, the wizard didn’t look up from his book,
which didn’t surprise the commander. As far as Calhoun knew, he was the only
one who ever visited Shek Irenistan.

While
the magus finished the page he was reading, Calhoun looked around, marveling at
all of the magical paraphernalia strewn about the modest-sized chamber.

Calhoun
had always thought a wizard’s room would be full of steaming potions, black
cauldrons, and the skulls of bizarre creatures. Consequently, he had been somewhat
disappointed the first time he had seen Shek’s quarters.

There
was not a single potion to be found, though Shek had brought a small library of
books and scrolls with him to Fort Milo. The tomes were stacked in piles on the
floor and on any other available surface, along with mysterious items Calhoun
could not identify. Shek had told him that most of them were not magical in the
least and that none of them were dangerous.

At
the moment, Shek was seated at an old oaken table he had found discarded in the
fortress’s storage vaults. After setting aside the leather-bound tome he had
been holding, Shek rose and bowed politely. Calhoun approached the table
cautiously, careful not to trip over what looked like a clock with two faces.

“What
is this now?” Calhoun asked, noticing something he had never seen before. He
leaned over the table and peered into a glass sphere that was roughly the size
of two punch bowls joined at the brims. “It appears to be filled with sand.
What does it do?”

Before
Shek could answer, Calhoun gasped and took a step back.

“This
is not a talisman, Commander,” Shek replied, a slight smile playing at the edge
of his lips. “It is a rare breed of scorpion from Ahuli-Okx. His name is
Ranfir. He is my pet.”

Calhoun
brought his face up to the glass and watched the scorpion dig the rest of the
way out of the sand, using its segmented legs and massive pincers to push away
the white sand. The creature was about the size of Calhoun’s hand and boasted
two tails.

“You
keep a scorpion as a pet?”

“It
reminds me of home,” Shek explained, tapping a finger against the glass ball.
“Besides, Ranfir is a unique specimen. This type of scorpion is the most
poisonous of the desert’s predators, and because Ranfir has two stingers, he is
twice as deadly.

“The
reason you have not seen him before is because the
yivahla
prefers
darkness. I usually keep his cage under my bed. The only reason he has
uncovered himself now is because he is hungry. But you have not come here to
discuss the habits of desert arachnids, I’d wager. To what do I owe this
pleasure?”

Calhoun
straightened up. He had indeed come to the wizard’s room for a reason, a very
important reason. “I am in need of your help.”

Shek
raised his bushy eyebrows.

The
commander cleared his throat. “Sir Duerot has just returned from the Temple of
Mystel. According to his report, the Renegade band Lily spoke of has taken
refuge there. Sir McRae has requested new orders, but I fear that the
subcommander may do something rash before Sir Duerot returns with my command to
stand down. The Knights cannot risk a clash with the healers.”

“My
services are always at your command,” Shek replied. “But surely you do not
intend to use
magic
to rectify this potentially volatile situation.”