Renegade Heart by Kay Ellis Page B

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.