Renegade Heart (9 page)

S
ickness was rife in the dank dungeon beneath the castle. During the night, another two men had died bringing the total to a round dozen since the renegades had been imprisoned. Spirits were low. With every passing day, rescue seemed less likely until even Saker and Wolf struggled to believe there was any way out for them other than the hangman’s noose.

Trobard and his followers tended to keep their distance from the rest of the prisoners, but Wolf often looked up to find them watching him as he made yet another journey to fetch water from the trough to moisten the parched lips of the sick and dying.

Certain that another three men at least would not survive the next few hours, Wolf rubbed a rough hand over weary eyes and sighed heavily. What he would give to go back to the halcyon days of the orphanage when he slept soundly on the floor beneath Enola’s bed and the worst that happened was a half-hearted beating from Mistress Valistra.

“You need to rest,” Trobard said appearing behind him. “Look at yourself, boy, you are exhausted and feverish. What good will you be to your men if you fall sick?”

“I told you before,” Wolf snapped. “They are not
my
men. I’m no different to the rest of them.”

“Not true,” Trobard insisted. “I’ve been watching you, young Wolf, and I truly believe you are special.”

“How so?” Wolf straightened his aching back and looked at the old man in exasperation. “I breathe the same fetid air, eat the same slop, drink the same stinking water and, in the end, I’ll swing from the same gallows. That’s if I don’t die from the
same
accursed disease before they get round to hanging me.”

“I do not believe that to be your destiny. Come with me.”

Trobard turned and walked away, a man accustomed to people obeying his orders even though in the intemperate, miserable dungeon he was as powerless as the rest of them.

Despite his reservations, Wolf followed the older man into the darkest depths of the chamber and stopped short, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw the circle of straw mattresses on the floor. He glanced back over his shoulder to where the renegades lay on the cold, damp stone before turning his envious gaze back to the mattresses. How did these men come to have bedding when no other man did? Who were they to merit such privileges?

“Lie down. Sleep.” Trobard saw the troubled look on Wolf’s face and shook his head sadly. “You think I would not give them all mattresses to sleep on if I could? I am unable to help everybody, boy, but I believe you can. So, please, preserve what is left of your strength and rest.”

Hesitantly, Wolf lowered his bone tired body onto one of the mattresses, his guilt evident in his fierce expression. He had no wish to lie in comfort while his friends lay on the hard ground, could not bring himself to believe he was any more deserving of it than any other man there. But the soft mattress felt so good beneath him as it moulded around his leaden limbs. Unable to keep his eyes open for even a moment longer, he was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Trobard stood, surrounded by his followers, and stared down at the sleeping young man, the first glimmer of hope to present itself in nigh on thirty turns. There had been others of course, a great many strong and courageous men who had passed through the dungeon. All of them had met the same end, their potential unfilled. He was unsure just why Wolf seemed so different, but he sensed something extraordinary in the boy.

Beside him Graydor, friend and loyal servant of over forty turns, spoke quietly. “Are you going to tell him who you are?”

“Not yet.”

“You do not trust him?”

“Of course I trust him, Graydor. He will be the one to get us out of here, I am sure of it. But he has to do it because it is the right course for him. Not because some old man he has undoubtedly never heard of asks it of him.”

“You are the rightful king of Barrowhearth,” Graydor protested, although he lowered his voice, afraid the boy would hear him even in his deep sleep.

Trobard shook his head. “I am nothing more than ancient legend, my friend. The boy is already a hero among his people. I would say that makes him even more important in the here and now than even me.”

When Enola emerged from her shelter the camp was a hive of activity. The sun was high in the sky and it embarrassed her to think she had slept so late. Automatically her eyes scanned the camp, seeking out her young son. She smiled as she saw him on the other side of the clearing, darting in and out of the trees and brandishing a wooden sword one of the renegades had made for him.

In the middle of the camp Magnosa sat by the campfire with Fairac, so deep in conversation their bowed heads were almost touching. Oblivious to the intensity of their discussion, Krisha stood close by stirring a steaming pot of vegetables over the fire. Elsewhere, Taola and the other girls flitted in and out of the makeshift shelters as they nursed the injured men.

Movement caught her eye in the trees and her treacherous heart skipped a beat as Lark stepped into view, his arms filled with wood for the fire. Enola watched him move across the camp and wondered at the feelings he stirred within her. She could not deny she found him attractive and that alone was enough to confuse her. There had never been anyone for her but Wolf. She had left her home in search of him, dragged her son into the forest to find the father he had never met. She had never imagined she would meet someone who could make her question her love for Wolf.

Suddenly Hawk charged through the camp and with a wild cry he stabbed his wooden sword into Lark’s thigh. As Lark yelled in pain and surprise and dropped the wood to the ground to clutch at his leg, the renegades mocking laughter rang out across the clearing. The men cheered and clapped as Hawk ran back to them, beaming proudly.

Furious, Enola strode over to her son and snatched the sword from his hand. Ignoring his outraged wails of protest, she dragged him back to their shelter where she sat him on his blanket and forbade him to move so much as a muscle until her return. Leaving him there she turned to look for Lark, unsurprised to find he had disappeared back into the forest.

Aware of the eyes of the renegades burning into her as she crossed the camp she followed Lark into the trees. Let them think as they pleased. How dare they use Lark in that way? What nature of man employed a small child to do his bullying for him?

A soft sound to her left and she changed direction, emerging into a small clearing. Lark sat on a fallen tree trunk with his back to her, his face buried in his hands. Enola stopped, suddenly uncertain. Lark had been humiliated enough for one day without having her witness his tears. Before she could slip away unseen Lark either heard or sensed her there. He spun around to face her, angrily brushing the heels of his hands across his wet cheeks.

“Even Wolf’s son hates me,” he said bitterly.

“Hawk is my son too!” Enola replied stepping over the fallen trunk to perch beside him. “And he doesn’t hate you. Hawk is a child. He was only doing what a bunch of cruel and stupid men told him to.”

Lark buried his face in his hands again with a heartfelt groan. “I will never be allowed to forget this,” he whispered dolefully. “Made to cry by an infant! What kind of man does that make me?”

“A sensitive one. I see no shame in that.”

“I’m a renegade! Renegades are
not
sensitive. Is it not enough that I can’t ride or fight like a renegade? Wait until Wolf hears about this. Wait until…”

Impulsively, Enola clasped his face between her hands and silenced him with a kiss. It surprised her as much Lark. It was not as though she was experienced in such matters. Before Lark she had only ever kissed Wolf and even then it had only been that once in the forest. At that thought, she almost pulled back, remembering how that encounter had resulted in a baby.

After the briefest of hesitations, Lark snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her in closer. The kiss was awkward and clumsy, teeth and noses clashing uncomfortably. Enola broke away embarrassed, realising it was his first kiss.

“Sorry,” Lark mumbled, a pink flush flooding his handsome face.

“What cause do you have to apologise?” Enola laughed. “I kissed you.”

“I’m a dead man. The renegades will string me up for this.”

“Then don’t tell them.” Enola smiled. “And, you should be happy in any event, Lark. I think we may have found something at which you are better than Wolf.”

Despite his misgivings, Lark grinned, his eyes shining with a rare merriment. It was not true of course. Wolf was better at him than everything and he had no doubt that included kissing. But it was nice to pretend if only for a little while.

Several more of the renegades had succumbed to Death’s cold embrace as well as a number of the other prisoners. Finally, the sickness had abated and, although many of the men remained greatly weakened, it had been three days since the last fatality.

Throughout, Trobard observed the young renegade Wolf tending the men, bringing water to those too weak to walk and making sure what little food their gaolers provided was shared equally among them. Exhausted as he must be, the boy seldom rested himself and once his main companion, the older man named Saker, fell victim to the illness, Wolf endeavoured to work even harder.

Trobard had also watched as the boy meticulously searched every last inch of the dark dungeon, seeking any weakness or possible means of escape. There were none to be found of course. His own men had searched again and again during the first turns of incarceration. But it showed the boy was resilient and a born leader whether he saw it in himself or not.

Wolf glanced up at Trobard’s approach, his face etched with fatigue. Since allowing himself those few guilt laden hours of sleep on Trobard’s mattress, he had made sure to maintain a reserved distance from the old man and his entourage, choosing instead to devote his energy to the care of his men.

“I have news,” Trobard said.

“And where would you hear news,” Wolf responded suspiciously, “in this long forgotten corner of existence?”

“I have my sources,” Trobard told him. “But they matter not. My concern is with the news they bring.”

“Tell me.” Wolf straightened his back as though readying himself to take one more heavy load on his shoulders.

“The King’s birthday celebrations are to take place two weeks hence.”

“And he plans to hang the renegades?”

“He plans to hang every last man down here,” Trobard said. “Myself included.”

The people would not notice, Trobard realised, if there were a few extra bodies swinging from the gallows. Who among them would guess the rightful heir to the throne had been executed among the renegades? The King had never dared to do it before, afraid Trobard might be recognised and a rescue attempt made by those who had remained loyal. Finally Ombar had found a way to be rid of him, hiding him and his followers in the midst of the hundred or so renegades.

Trobard could see the young man was thinking hard, turning the information over in his mind. Blue eyes swept around the dungeon and over the dishevelled Renegades before coming to rest on the ailing Saker. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

“Seems to me there is little I could do even if I wanted to. I have no weapons and even if I did, I have too few men remaining with the strength to lift one. The renegades have no fight left in them, old man.”

“So you give up? Surrender to the gallows?”

“You talk to me of giving up?” Wolf hissed angrily. “You, who have been content to hide away down here for thirty turns!”

“Waiting for someone like you!” Trobard insisted. “A hero among heroes.”

“There’s nothing I can do! Even if I started training the men, even if they could work to rebuild their strength, even if we could take the guards by surprise – we could not hope to win! We would die as surely as hanging from the gallows.”

“Some would die, yes,” Trobard conceded. “But not all. Some would escape. Best of all, none would hang and just imagine how that will upset the King’s birthday.”

“I guess it would.” Wolf studied his men again, a slow smile spreading across his handsome face. “Therefore, I suppose we must consider it our duty as renegades to go down fighting.”

He stepped forward, an imposing figure in the shadowy dungeon. He clapped his hands together, demanding the attention of his men and the sound echoed around the chamber.

“Renegades, those among you who are able to stand, get to your feet.”

Trobard held his breath as he watched the renegades closely. The boy was young with less life experience than any of the men there. If he had judged Wolf incorrectly it was possible they would laugh in his face at his order or simply turn their backs and ignore him.

The renegades did neither. Instead, the men slowly and painfully stumbled to their feet, some of them leaning on their neighbour for support. Only the weakest of the renegades stayed on the ground, but even they raised trembling hands in the air as proof of their commitment to the cause.

Wolf nodded, satisfied. “We have rested long enough. Now the time has come to regain our strength and return to what we know best. Only this time, we are taking the fight to the King himself.”