Renegade Rising

by J.C. Fiske



  Renegade Rising

  A Novel

  By J.C. Fiske

  www.JCFiske.com

  ISBN eBook: 978-0-0000000-0-0

  Cover Art: Eugenio Perez Jr.

  Cover Design: J.C. Fiske

  Head Editor: Cassie Robertson

  Co-editor: Tori Kerman Lebrun

  Copyright © 2011 by J. C. Fiske

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

 

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Prologue: The Outcast

  Warlord Karm lay restless in his castle. He had the dream again; the one where warriors clad in blue trounced his soldiers and stole away his castle. The face of a certain blue clad warrior, one that he knew personally, flashed through his mind and, like a cold, steel vice, panic squeezed around the heart of the warlord.

  The storm raging outside did nothing to help his insomnia; neither did the howling of his prized shih-tzu, Prince. Clad in his purple silken robe, Karm wiped cold sweat from his brow and held a hand to his face. It shook uncontrollably. The warlord, if one could truly call the pathetic man such, grabbed a bottle of wine from his nightstand drawer, uncorked it and raised the bottom up, chugging the liquid as if he were parched. Once satisfied, he wiped his lips clean and shuffled across the polished, stone floor and made his way to the tower balcony.

  A sudden lightning burst exploded through the night sky. The blast was so powerful it gave the illusion of daylight. Prince ran for shelter in his purple cushioned bed, knocking over his diamond encrusted water bowl along the way. Karm smiled to himself, savoring the briefness of light. For one moment, he was allowed to gaze over the town of Oak County that lay just beyond the castle walls.

  My town, the very cornerstone of my kingdom, Karm thought.

  This thought alone brought a temporary calm to his shakes. The light then dissipated and with it, his sense of peace. Karm raised his bottle for another swig when a fierce rat-a-tat came from his bedroom door. After a few quivering steps, the warlord made his way to the thick, oaken doorway. He slid aside the peephole and peered into the dark hallway to be met by a set of battle-hardened eyes. The warriors in blue, they had come! Karm leapt back in fear.

  “General Ricard to see you,” Ricard said in an orderly voice. Karm regained his composure and faced the peephole once again, breathing hard, but relieved at the sound of his general’s voice. So much so, he found his acting voice.

  “I shall see none who would show me such disrespect,” Karm sneered. He took another chug from his bottle, as if searching for courage at the bottom.

  “My apologies . . . General Ricard to see you, my Lord,” Ricard corrected, managing to keep his sarcasm at bay.

  “You may enter,” Karm said as he unbolted several locks upon locks and gave the door a mighty heave, followed by a grunt of displeasure. Still, the door wouldn’t budge.

  “My good general, I am not here to serve you. You may let yourself in,” Karm said, hoping Ricard did not hear his weak arms popping. Ricard pushed the door open with ease and stepped into the room. The warlord took another quick swig from his bottle and coughed hoarsely.

  “Now, what could be so important on such a dreadful night?” Karm asked, folding his arms. Ricard made a short bow and then rose.

  “My Lord, my men were patrolling the castle walls when they discovered something unusual,” Ricard answered.

  “Unusual? Since when do I get awakened for the unusual? Well, what it is it? Come now, get to it,” Karm said, fluttering his hand forward impatiently.

  “Bring him in,” Ricard yelled in the direction of the open door.

  A soaked soldier walked through the doorway, cradling a small, unconscious boy of no more than four. The boy shivered from head to toe and a beautiful blanket of scarlet red was wrapped about him. The patrolman’s eyes were solemn as he held the poor boy.

  “I found him wandering out by my post, my Lord. Poor little tike passed out in my arms,” the patrolman said.

  “Did he say anything?” Ricard asked.

  “I asked him if he knew where his mummy and daddy were. He seemed very confused by the question and then started to cry. I think the poor thing’s got amnesia or something, but I checked him all over. He’s got no bumps on his little head as far as I can tell. He did remember his name though,” the patrolman said.

  “And?” Ricard asked.

  “Well, that’s why we bothered you, my Lord. He said his name was . . . Gisbo,” the patrolmen said. Ricard and Karm eyed each other at the name.

  “Ain’t it the strangest thing you ever heard? Now, who in the blue hell would name their kid after the ancient Flarian term for dog? Why, the boy would be better off bein’ named Fido or Rover ‘round these parts,” the patrolman said, drying the boy’s wet face with a handkerchief.

  “Hm,” Ricard muttered.

  “ENOUGH!” Karm suddenly snapped, a dangerous edge to his voice.

  “Uh, my Lord?” the patrolman questioned, looking up with surprise.

  “HOW COULD YOU DO IT!” Karm shouted. Prince began to yap at his feet.

  “Sir, I . . .” the patrolman sputtered.

  “I AM NOT YOUR SIR! I AM YOUR LORD! You know the color red is outlawed! Banned! Forbidden! Do you not understand the meaning of such simple terms? And yet here you are, unable to simply wrap the boy in a more decent color before presenting him before me. THE NERVE! I demote you. I DEMOTE YOU! You will scrub the waste shoots of the castle for the rest of your days under my service, am I clear?” Karm bellowed. The patrolman scrambled for words, but none came. He looked to his general for support, but Ricard only stood stoically, looking the other way.

  “I asked you, AM I CLEAR?” Karm shouted again. The patrolman nodded and lowered his head like a child caught in an act of disobedience.

  “You will start immediately. Leave my presence at once!” Karm continued, pointing to the doorway. The patrolman handed the boy carefully to Ricard, then left, his head sunken.

  “Such nerve,” Karm muttered to himself. Ricard looked down at the boy with curious interest.

  “So he’s a Flarian,” Ricard said aloud. Karm’s eyes widened.

  “That . . . is not yet proven. Only one way to be sure.” Karm walked to his bookshelf and retrieved three carved figurines. They were covered in dust. The warlord quickly blew on them and held out the first figurine, made of a translucent blue stone and carved into the shape of a dolphin. Karm raised the blue sculpture and pressed it against the boy’s forehead. Nothing happened.

  “Not an Aquarian it seems. Here, you will need to try the next for I am Naforian,” Karm said. Ricard nodded as he took a translucent green figurine, carved in the shape of a bear. He pressed it to the boy’s forehead. Nothing. Both of the men locked eyes in interest.

  “One more. Better be a Soari
an or we are going to have quite a dilemma on our hands,” Karm said as he grabbed a translucent yellow figurine in the shape of a hawk and pressed it against the boy’s forehead. Again, nothing happened. Both men’s eyes widened in surprise, unable to believe the possibility of a Flarian in their midst.

  “He just might not have enough essence in his body to ignite the stones. I’ve seen it before. He’s also quite young, but, my lord, is there not a fourth piece in that set?” Ricard questioned.

  “Red is outlawed, Ricard. Why do you and your men have such trouble understanding? I had that silly bird destroyed ages ago,” Karm stated. Ricard struggled to mute his annoyance with the Warlord.

  “But, my Lord, your own father carved that phoenix! Vadid the Valiant!” Ricard started.

  “OF COURSE I KNOW THAT YOU FOOL! What? You don’t think that I know my own father carved that accursed thing? It was because of him and all the other damned Flarians that this world has pain and suffering! Don’t ever, and I repeat, EVER, mention my father’s name in my presence again,” Karm said in a fresh surge of anger. He quickly took a sip of his wine and another lightning bolt crashed through the sky. Prince squeaked in his purple bed and Ricard muttered something under his breath.

  “Did you say something?” Karm asked.

  “No, my Lord. Now, what do you suppose we do with him? He’s so very young. I believe there are several openings on the foster list. The Stanson family would certainly take him in,” Ricard said. Karm paced around the room, rubbing at his small beard.

  “No,” Karm said aloud.

  “No?” Ricard questioned.

  “Certainly not! I will not endanger the lives of my people. No, this one’s a special case,” Karm replied.

  “But, my Lord, he is just a boy. Truly he can’t be . . .” Ricard started. Karm spun on him.

  “A BOY! A BOY!? He’s an abomination! A MONSTER! For years, your own late father helped me banish the Flarians from our countryside; years! And thanks to men like him, Oak County once again has safety and security. Your father would be ashamed to know his own son wishes to undo what he finished, to shelter the very sort of creature that killed him,” Karm said, waving his finger. Prince barked in agreement. Ricard sighed.

  “But what would you have me do with him? Toss him back in the woods for the wolves? They’d rip him to shreds!” Ricard argued further. Suddenly, Karm’s eyes sparkled with an idea.

  “Is that old storage shed still stationed outside the castle walls?” Karm asked.

  “The shed still stands, but hasn’t been cleaned for years. It would be unliveable. You’re not seriously thinking about . . .” Ricard started.

  “Just remember, my novice General, it is my job to think, not yours. As a soldier, all you must do is swing your sword and simply obey! You have it quite easy, you know,” Karm said with a swig from his bottle.

  Ricard said nothing.

  “Yes, the shack will be his new home. Take him there now,” Karm ordered. Ricard looked from the boy, to Karm, and back to the boy again.

  “Any more arguing tonight, General? Or would you like to join your patrolman scrubbing the waste shoots?” Karm asked, as he picked up Prince.

  “No, my Lord. As you command,” Ricard said.

  “Immediately,” Karm ordered.

  “Immediately,” Ricard confirmed. He started walking with the boy in his arms, stopped and turned to look at Karm once more.

  “AND, we will clean the shack on the morrow, if that’s what you were wondering. It’s times like these when I miss your father,” Karm snapped. “Lock the door behind the boy when you put him in. You’re dismissed.”

  Without a word, Ricard turned and closed the door behind him.

  The rain, now mixed with a slight hail, seemed to pour harder on Ricard with every step. The boy shook in his arms, practically vibrating, but Ricard made no effort to hold him closer. He arrived at the shack ten minutes later with silent gratitude. He quickly unbolted the door, thrust it open with a swift kick and entered.

  At first, Ricard was thankful to be out of the rain until he took smell of the place and nearly lost his supper. The stink seemed to snake its way up through his nostrils and clawed at his brain like a squealing rat. He gagged violently and threw his cloak over his nose as he began to knock shovels, rakes and buckets out of his way. Each yard instrument was caked in dried manure and within the manure, maggots jiggled.

  After several long minutes, Ricard had managed to clear away a dry spot underneath the window toward the back of the shack and had arranged several old feedbags into a makeshift bed. He laid Gisbo down and wrapped him tighter in his scarlet blanket. The general then stood up and looked over the boy. A deep curiosity began to sink in as he stared at the blood red blanket, a color he had not seen in years. Where did this boy come from and if he were indeed a Flarian, then . . . Ricard’s eyes suddenly widened as a terrible revelation crossed his mind. His own late father’s domineering voice boomed through his head. The voice whispered how weak he was, how sentimental he was and how he would never surpass his lineage with such hindrances.

  Ricard winced and closed his eyes, cursing the darkness around him. He felt sick to his stomach and it was this feeling that also set in determination, determination to prove the voice wrong. He looked down at the sleeping boy again; this time, only coldness enveloped his stare. In one snatch, the general ripped the scarlet blanket off the boy and quickly rushed to the door, slamming it behind him. Ricard began to sprint home with the red obscenity tucked under his arm and fought the temptation to look back. If he did look back, it would only prove his father was correct about him. Try as he might however, the revelation he had come across would not leave him. The thought perched upon his mind like a dark bird and squawked madly.

  If the child did prove to be a Flarian, it would be his job, as Karm’s General, to kill the boy . . .

  Kill, kill, kill . . . the dark bird squawked.

  Another massive lightning strike lit the sky and woke the sleeping boy, known only as Gisbo. He sat up, rubbed at his eyes and took in his new surroundings. At least, he tried. His eyes watered from the stinging smell within the darkness. He lifted his hand to hold his nose, only to see a large, hairy spider between his knuckles. The boy let out a small squeal of displeasure and shook it off, throwing it into the darkness where now the various rakes and shovels began to morph into imaginary monsters before him, all with claws and teeth. He began to cry softly.

  “Mommy? Daddy?” Gisbo mouthed between chattering teeth and sniffles. The words were only out of instinct. No faces appeared in his mind to comfort him, only blankness. More tears poured down his face in spite of this and he found himself leaning against the back of the shed. He hugged his knees to his face to keep warm, shivering now from both cold and fear. He was about to let out a wailing cry when he suddenly heard an odd, metal grating noise, the sound of the lock being opened from the outside. A few seconds later, the shack door swung open.

  Gisbo saw nothing in the doorway. He only heard heavy boots squeak across the weak floorboards. Thunder suddenly flashed outside and the man was lit up for Gisbo to see. The man was cloaked from head to toe to shelter himself from the storm, but instead of feeling fear, Gisbo felt something else. He couldn’t quite explain it either. The cloaked man sat down beside him and retrieved a blanket from his pack. He threw it around Gisbo, wrapping him up tightly before hugging him close to his chest.

  Gisbo breathed deeply and smelled tobacco leaves. Oddly enough, this smell comforted him and activated a memory. But before it could fully form, it fizzled out, leaving only blackness. Even though Gisbo couldn’t see the memory, he still felt its effects. Like a lock giving way in a triumphant click, he finally understood the feeling that this man’s presence gave off.

  Peace.

  But not just any peace. A peace so powerful, so comforting, it set him to sleep almost immediately.

  “Sleep, young one,” the cloaked man said, rocking him gently for a moment. He then l
aid him down onto the feedbags and looked down upon him with moist eyes.

  “Until we meet again, my little warrior . . . my Gisbo . . .” the man finished. He bowed lightly and kissed the boy on the forehead. He then rose, made his way to the shack door and threw it open. Unlike Ricard, this man turned back for one last look and a single tear dripped down his face before he closed the door behind him.

  Not a soul saw the man enter or leave Oak County that stormy night, but if they had, Karm’s reasons for shaking would have been validated.

  The man was cloaked in blue.