Renegade Heart by Kay Ellis

had dragged Hawk, Magnosa and the girls away from their home and into danger for a man she was no longer sure she would even like.

.12.
     
    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