Renegade Reborn (12 page)

“Phil, put some damned clothes on,” Morry said.

“Is he drinking . . . hand lotion?” Rolce asked, wincing.

“NO! Well, what do you know . . . YES! But, Rolce, you listen ‘ere buddy! What you be seein’ in dat dere head o’ yours, it’s da truth! I seen it too, Gisbo is comin’ back! Da Man-Phoenix is gonna lead us, and this world to the way it once was! He gonna bring back da sun, da moon, da stars! DA LIGHT! An’ don’t you forget it!” Phil said.

“Phil, I really hope you’re . . .” Rolce started, when suddenly, a heated voice in the hallway screamed out Douglas’s name. Douglas got up, worried, and thrust open the door to reveal two men supporting one man between them, who was bleeding profusely and beaten to a pulp.

“Who did this? Who did this, soldier?” Douglas asked, placing a hand on the man’s chin gently and raising his head up to speak. After a few exasperated breaths, he found his voice.

“My, my position, was compromised. I barely escaped with my life, only, I feel, because . . . because he wanted me to. As a warning, or to spread the news, I don’t know which.” The scout said.

“Speak soldier, get it out,” Douglas said.

“The Strife’s . . . Chief Lamik, he’s dead. A new leader, claiming to be his son, he, he killed him, along with what remained of his high council, but, but it wasn’t Malik . . . a phrase, a phrase is being shouted, chanted, a single phrase . . .” The scout said.

“Who? Who was this man?” Douglas asked. “Come on soldier, stay with me,”

“Ranto . . . All hail . . . Ranto,” The man said, as he passed out.

“Ranto . . . Narroway’s son?” Douglas asked.

“Da tick lump I beat dis way an dat?” Phil asked.

“Lamik’s son? But that’s not right, that’s not right at all. What, what’s going on?” Rolce asked aloud, when suddenly, another man rushed in.

“Sir! You’re needed at the gates.” The man said.

“Excuse me?” Douglas asked.

“Sir, I’d explain it, but you wouldn’t believe me,” The man said, and bowed out of the room. Morry, Phil, Rolce, and Douglas all looked at one another.

“Get this man medical attention immediately. And double his wages.” Douglas ordered. The two men nodded as the group moved on past them, out the door, and down the stairs. When they made it outside, there was a crowd gathered at the entrance and everyone with an available weapon, had it ignited, except one, which faded in and out, blinking, dripping sparks, and shorting out.

“Ow, OW! DAMN IT!” Grandfield shouted.

“Grandfield? What’s going on?” Rolce asked.

“How should I know? I see everyone else light up and I . . . OW! DAMN IT! Why’s my Stugs doing this to me?” Grandfield asked.

“You’re out of shape, remember? You took off Roarie’s ring.” Rolce said.

“Well, I . . . maybe gained a few ounces here and there, but . . . OW! GREISHLUNK!” Grandfield shouted, finishing with a Flarian curse that in common, polite tongue, meant that every race, every color, every sex, every gender, could go . . . make love with themselves. ‘Greishlunk’ was a word that cursed everyone and everything, and was a word that even Flarian’s themselves refrained from using, and if a Flarian gives you a cross look over something you’ve said, you can be sure it’s beyond offensive, and many were giving Grandfield such a look now.

“What?” Grandfield asked, shrugging his big shoulders.

“Ugh, just bear with the pain, Grandfield, and round up the rest of the Renegades. We don’t know what’s out there.” Rolce said.

“Right, right, on it . . .” Grandfield said, waddling away with a series of ow, ow, ow’s as if he were walking on hot pavement.

Rolce pushed his way through the crowd of Flarian’s and made his way to the entrance just as the double doors were being wheeled opened. Douglas, Morry and Phil joined with Rolce as the doors creaked opened. What lay outside, Rolce couldn’t have prepared for.

“What . . .what in da blue hell is dat?” Phil asked.

“I . . .” Rolce started. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Before them, lowering down from the sky was a gigantic yellow glowing platform that could easily, by its size, rival the land mass of some of the smaller Aquarian isles. As it got closer, a noise came with it, a low buzzing, as if the craft was being carried by millions of bees. Whip Miles, whose ears were far sensitive to others, recognized the sound not as bees, but more like the wings of a hummingbird in pitch. It was the sound of Soarian energy being used, in micro pulses, millions of them, all over the undercarriage of the craft for minimum output of energy. He had never sensed anything quite like it.

A few moments later, the platform landed gently, touching down in a spray of white sand. Once cleared, everyone saw exactly what was atop the platform. It was a city. A grand, crystal city, that looked to be erected completely of tall, translucent, crystal trees with hundreds of branches growing this way and that, but in reality, they were buildings, buildings designed for a race of people where the innate power of flight was not just a gift, but a way of life. Throughout the crystals, the yellow color of Sorian energy pulsated like a golden, beating heart, giving the whole city the appearance of a twinkling, yellow star.

“Matataris . . . the secret floating city of the Soarian Elite, is a secret no longer.” Jackobi spoke, appearing on Rolce’s right. Surprised, Rolce turned to face him.

“You know I hate it when you do that.” Rolce said.

“For them to come down from the skies, means one thing,” Jackobi said, his eyebrows furrowed.

“What?” Rolce asked.

“Opportunity . . .” Jackobi said.

“Look at his jaw. It’s shattered like a damned dinner plate,” Loony Lamprey said, spinning the ends of the left side of his powder white mustache counter clockwise. In his mind, he was unwinding his rage, trying to keep himself under control. He was old, and every passing day, without passing a stool, made it more obvious to him. No. He couldn’t risk getting angry. His heart, couldn’t risk it. He had to settle himself down.

“Whatever it takes for that bastard, tell ‘im, whatever he wants, I’ll pay it. I can’t, DAMN IT! I can’t take another hit like this!” Loony said. He shouted a violent curse to no one in particular, and kicked his unconscious fighter in the side. It made him feel better.

“That’s just it, Loon, we tried! He don’t fight for no one. No manager, no allegiances, an’ far as anyone can tell, he just shows up, and beats the ever livin’ piss outta’ anyone standin’ across from him.” Trevor said, scratching the top of his thinning head.

“Trevor, what’d I tell you about thinkin’ out loud?” Loony asked without looking at him. Trevor immediately turned his gaze to the floor, looking like a scolded child. Even though he outweighed his boss by nearly two hundred pounds and had a full two feet on him, it wasn’t size or strength that ruled in Blackscar. It was Tarries.

Money was power here, and Loony had just lost quite a bit of it betting on the last fight. In one fell swoop he had lost 40,000 Tarries, and a fighter, which was worth far more.

“S-Sorry, Loon,” Trevor said, shuffling his feet.

“Don’t s-sorry me! Just, just get this corpse outta here, and . . .” Loony said, and then, without warning, let loose with a rapid fire of kicks to his desecrated fighter’s right kidney, over and over again, and just when he was about to stop, he missed, and caught his fighter’s rib bone with the front of his toe. Cursing, he fell to one knee, holding it, and rocking back and forth. When the pain lessened, he stood back up, and his back cracked audibly. Trevor went to help, but Loony slapped his hand.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Loony shouted. Breathing hard, he took a couple wobbly steps, and managed to get his back straight, but not without much effort on his part, effort, which needed to be placed elsewhere.

“Everyone, everyone has a price, and if he doesn’t, we make one for him. It’s that easy. Tick Tock! ‘Mere,” Loony said, snapping his fingers over his right shoulder. Behind him, another incredibly large man joined him by his side. “You and I are gonna go for a little walk, now go get . . . DAMN IT, TREVOR! What the hell are you still standin’ there for? Get this piece ah meat outta my site before you join ‘im in the pit!”

Trevor quickly lifted the man up from his armpits, and dragged him away, leaving a smear of dark bodily fluids across the floor as he did so. Trevor cringed, realizing it only too late. Loony shot Trevor a look of pure venom, too angry and exhausted for words. Trevor opened his mouth to apologize, then decided better of it and instead picked the man up over one shoulder and shuffled clumsily out of the room in a nervous haste. From the new room he entered, there could be heard the wobble, followed by the smashing of a vase across the floor.

“Lummox, damned lummox,” Loony said, turning the end of his mustache again, this time, until it pinched his skin. There was a time he could hire competent employees, a time where he was king of Blackscar, and everyone knew his name, but a lot had changed in five years. There was a time where he could have a fool like Trevor thrown off the top of Blackscar, as an example, but men were hard to come by nowadays, and he needed men, even if they were fools, now more than ever.

The rumors were spreading, how old Loony was losing it, and soon, someone would rise to take his place.

“Now, Tick-Tock, as I was sayin’, you and I, we’re goin’ for a little walk. Go get Trig, and Dano, and meet me in here. I need a relaxer before we leave,” Loony said.

Tick-Tock clicked the top of his mouth with his tongue, and was off. Loony liked Tick-Tock, always had. If only all of his employees were mute, only to communicate through clicks of the tongue. Loony walked over to his liquor display case, opened the glass cabinet door, and reached for the top shelf, grabbing a bottle of Naforian Nape, an unfiltered spirit illegal in most parts of Thera due to the Raucous Root it was laced with, a root known for its relaxing properties, but also, its reputation to stop someone’s heart cold if used in excess.

Loony used it in excess.

He poured himself a shot of the dirty looking brew, threw it back, and winced. It tasted awful, like drinking straight soy sauce spiked with lemon juice. He fought to keep it down, then, poured himself another, swishing his drink around as if it may help the flavor before downing it again.

By the time Loony stepped over the long dark stain across his brand new marble floor, and collapsed into his leather sofa chair, he was feeling good. His old body’s aches and pains were fleeing, his head was floating, and he felt warm and tingly all over as if he had just slipped into a tub filled with fluffy, Persian kittens. He closed his eyes, but as soon as he did, his fighter’s mangled face flashed in his mind, and he snapped them open.

Loony had been in the business of underground bare-knuckle fighting for nearly all of his life and had seen all kinds of fighters walk through the Scar. Unlike most other fight promoters, Loony had an inside scoop, a sixth sense for things, and from that sense, he had risen to the top of the Blackscar ladder. How? Because in his younger days, Loony was a fighter himself.

Loony wasn’t his real name. It was an earned name, because anyone who had the hangers to stand against him, was just that, loony. Same went then, same went now, even for this fighter, this fighter who had destroyed his best man. Fighters, he believed, were either born from nature, or born from circumstance. Loony had thought he’d seen them all. He had seen the desperate, the thrill seekers, the glory hounds, the wealth hunters, and he had catered to all of them, giving them what they wanted in turn for what he wanted . . . power, but in all his years, Loony had never come across someone like
him.

Every one of
his
fights, it was as if it were personal, as if the man across the ring from him had done some sort of unspeakable evil. The worst was the smile on his face, a smile that held no laughter behind it. Even when his opponents were clearly beaten, he would keep going, hammering away at their faces until they no longer moved, and then, when it was over, and he had his fill, the strangest thing would happen.

It was as if, he would suddenly come to, awakened from a bad dream, and would look down at his opponent with surprise, as if, he didn’t know what he had done. Then, he would leave the ring without a word, only stopping to collect his winnings and to purchase three jars of the most potent moonshine Blackscar had available.

“Everyone can be bought, somehow. There has to be something he loves, something that can be threatened . . .” Loony muttered to himself, and lifted his glass to his lips, only to realize he had drunk it all. He was about to get up for another, when he heard clicking to his right and looked up to see Tick-Tock, Trig, and Dano.

“Ah, gentleman, let’s be off, shall we?” Loony asked. He lead the way out his front door, and into the heart of the Scar, looking up into the black sky that always was in Blackscar, a canyon so deep in the earth that the sun never reached its depths, so even with all the reports of the sun leaving the sky somehow, Blackscar continued on as usual.

Most of the Lords of Blackscar as they were called, chose only to operate from the surface, but never reside within the beast. Loony was different. Here, in the heart of it all, he could be close to the action, close to control. The darkness was his home, dimly lit just enough so things could be seen when wanted, and not seen when needed. Unlike the light, in all its judgmental scouring, darkness was true freedom, and Loony wouldn’t have it any other way.