Rynsik smiled faintly. “We’ll see,” he said before taking Serra by the arm and heading down the stairs.
The crowd separated easily at Threlling’s command. For the moment, the rest of the group was left unmolested. Rynsik and Serra made their way easily to them. Serra spoke to Rynsik as she was dragged along. “I hope you know what you are doing.”
“I do,” he replied gravely.
“This is so not good,” said Esmie as Rynsik and Serra approached.
“We’re screwed, aren’t we?” That was Willem.
“Relax. Everything is going to be fine,” said Rynsik.
“And how can you be sure?” asked Serra.
“Because everything is going to plan,”
“And what plan is that?” Voltaire was unconvinced.
“You’ll see,” said Rynsik. “There will be grandstanding for the moment, and then Threlling will choose one of us. And then we’ll have them. Threlling is proud, but he knows challenging a warrior of Axiter is foolhardy for him at best. He never would have gone along with this unless he felt that he held the cards or felt the odds were greatly stacked in his favor.”
“And they are,” said Kylynne.
“Not really,” countered Rynsik. “But he is convinced that they are and that is what we need.”
Beyond them, in the center of the circle, Threlling practically glowed in his jubilance as he worked the crowd with ecstatic satisfaction. “Today is our day! At last we will show the world our best! Now who shall stand with me?” The crowd erupted as Avon searched about. “Peter! Step forth! Dyn, come stand with us! Bale and Anders, join us! And Sallor, you as well! Let us stand true! For Menkor!”
“For Menkor!” screamed the town in near unison.
Finally, the people’s screams died down enough for Avon to speak again. He now looked pensive as he surveyed Rynsik and his fellow warriors. “And who shall we select as our opponent, for we have been given the honor of the choice.” His eyes darted about, but it was clear he had already made his decision. “It is settled then! The people of Menkor choose...The coward warrior Voltaire!” The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter.
Rynsik stared at the six in the middle before glancing at Voltaire. His large companion tensed now that he realized the fate of his friends and the lives of the prisoners now rested within his hands. Rynsik looked again at Avon Threlling. Threlling smiled at Rynsik in triumph. Wordlessly, Rynsik turned back toward the others. On his face was the faintest trace of a smirk.
“And what about your plan now?” Esmie wore the gravest of expressions.
“This is it,” said Rynsik simply.
“Huh?” said Willem.
“I’m not following here, Rynsik.” Jozlyn was doubtful as well.
“And neither are they,” said Rynsik.
“Damns to you and your secrets! What the hell have you done?” Vonack was beside himself.
Rynsik looked at him. “Exactly what needed to be done. Now shut up.”
Voltaire stood motionless. The crowd began jeering him, still laughing as he began chewing on the inside of his cheek. In the circle, Avon and his men worked the crowd, already partaking in a victory celebration. Voltaire knew they were ready and waiting to tear him apart. With a heavy burden now gripping upon his shoulders, he slowly turned to Rynsik. “Uh, boss, I really think we need to talk if you don’t mind.”
Rynsik stepped away from the others, placing a hand under Voltaire’s elbow, leading him further into the circle. He spoke so only he and Voltaire to hear. “There is nothing to talk about. You know what you have to do.”
Voltaire shook his head. “This is not a good idea.”
“Yes, it is. Do what must be done,” stated Rynsik.
“But, boss, I can’t!”
“There is no time for a debate, Voltaire. There’s no way out of this.”
Voltaire was nearly pleading now. “There has to be. You can’t let me screw this up for everyone.”
Rynsik squeezed his elbow firmly. “And you won’t.”
“But I am going to lose!”
Rynsik was unmoved. “Not if you do what needs to be done.”
For a moment, the large Ro’Nihn’s eyes filled with clear dread. His voice was but a whisper. “I can’t do that, Rynsik.”
Rynsik took a second to look calmly into the eyes of his extremely large traveling companion. “Then we will lose. And those men hung up over there will die. And our fate will be up in the air as well. You can do this, or you not do this. Stand true for us or let us down. I know for sure this choice is up to you.” Rynsik looked at him for another moment before he turned and rejoined the others. Voltaire was left alone in the crowd with six stout, strong men ready to rip his head off.
Instantly, Voltaire felt queasy and overwhelmed. The crowd blurred around him. He looked sadly into the eyes of the six before him. They were taunting, jeering him and laughing at him. Voltaire was afraid and completely so. For a moment he looked at his friends and then Weiss and knew what he must do. For five years ago, he had made a promise that he would never again let his friends down because of his own personal fears.
So, Voltaire turned from his opponents, dropped to one knee and prayed.
This sent Avon and the others into an uproar. “Look at him! Scared to death. He’s praying for his life!” Avon was practically in tears laughing so hard. “That’s right pray, boy! It won’t do any good but pray anyway!”
Serra and the others watched on horrified, knowing full well that Voltaire would lose. Only Rynsik stood calmly in his boots. For a moment, Serra again wondered why Rynsik was so cruel. She questioned how he could put Voltaire through such an ordeal. Serra wanted to ask him why before she stopped again. Rynsik again knew something that she and the others did not, and for once Serra would wait and see what it was.
Voltaire trembled with clasped hands, his back still to those who laughed at him incessantly. He could hear them and the maddening crowd closing in upon him. He prayed, but it was not for what Avon Threlling believed him praying for. Voltaire prayed for forgiveness in that moment; forgiveness for what he must do and how he must do it. And most of all, he prayed for the lives of the six men that he was about to face. Whispering a sincere, yet resigned amen, the large Ro’Nihn readied himself for the very worst.
Reaching to his head, Voltaire placed his hand upon the mask that rested there. Pressing a small button, the mask unlocked from its position and made a small scraping sound as he pulled it down with slow, careful handling. The mask, a haunting visage of a skull, covered his face from the forehead to just above his lips. Hitting its destination, it once again locked into place. Closing his eyes, the world bled and swirled in one as Voltaire’s body shook.
“And so, it begins,” said Rynsik.
Soon a wave of convulsions wracked Voltaire’s body as he fell to both knees, hands hitting the ground before him. He uttered strange sounds that dragged out of his vocal chords. Soon those sounds increased before escalating into a raw, blood curdling scream that silenced the crowd. Tearing both hands into the ground, Voltaire smashed his head upon the floor, creating s sizeable mark. As he raised his head, a gentle stream of blood driveled between his already blood colored eyes. Resting on his face now was a sick and twisted smile.
In that moment Voltaire the Coward was gone, faded within nothingness. Standing in his place, swimming within a personal sea of insanity and loving it, was Voltaire, but not quite the same. This was Voltaire the Butcher, heard of and seen only by a select few. He turned slowly, blood now touching his lips and teeth. His breathing was labored and somehow this newer version of Voltaire was relishing in the moment. His eyes no longer bore fear. Now his red pupils emanated nothing but pure madness. The six before him, a moment ago looked upon with fear, were now regarded with dark enthusiasm. At last his red lava eyes met those of Avon Threlling’s. And in that instance came a revelation for Threlling.
He knew then and there that he and his pals were done for.
Voltaire took two steps soundly forward, laughing with unrestrained glee. And when he spoke, his voice contained a monstrous, icy edge that sent a shiver down the spine of those that could hear it. “Threlling! You and your men can keep your pride and your bitchy little town. But on this day, on this hour, and in these seconds, your asses belong to me!” And in that, Voltaire made his move.
With just two more steps forward, Voltaire was quickly airborne. He leaped headfirst toward Threlling and his men, making the distance as if it were nothing. Forearms before him, he smashed both of his arm guards into Threlling’s face, breaking his nose and knocking teeth loose. Threlling smashed onto the floor clutching his face as Voltaire landed on his feet, pivoting on one heel to turn his attention to his right. His hungry eyes locked on the two men standing next to where Threlling once stood. Behind Voltaire now were three more. The madman knew his next move.
As he finished his spin, Voltaire focused on the man closest to him. It was Dyn (not that Voltaire gave a rat’s ass about names in those moments) that was next on his list. Voltaire’s left hand clasped the back the surprised man. As he grabbed, Voltaire drove his right elbow into Dyn’s face, dropping him too. As Dyn fell, Voltaire reached over to Anders in his last few seconds of surprise. Grabbing Anders by his shirt, he whirled and threw Anders into the remaining three still standing. They at last had recovered and were closing in on Voltaire. Instead they were met with their friend Anders, hurled at them with great velocity. All four crashed to the ground as the crowd responded with shock.
Now fully unhinged, Voltaire struck his own face and chest as he screamed at his opponents. “Get up, you spineless wretches! I’m far from through with you!”
It was Sallor who was to his feet first. Seeing Avon and his friends assaulted in such a way placed him within fury’s grip. He charged Voltaire now, meaning to punch him into oblivion. Sallor threw a haymaker of a right hook as he closed the gap, wanting his momentum and strength to knock the Ro’Nihn on his backside. If he could do that, he knew he could keep the large warrior down long enough for his friends to recover and they would swarm Voltaire and have him.
Voltaire raised his left arm and blocked the blow. To Sallor, it was like running into a tree. His momentum stopped completely, and he found himself in a bad spot. Voltaire swung his arm over and underneath Sallor’s, wrenching it up. As he did so Sallor’s arm broke as it was torn upward violently. Having him in a lock as he did, Voltaire then smashed his own forehead into Sallor’s three times. Scooping his free hand between Sallor’s legs, Voltaire raised his barely conscious target into the air. Pivoting again, Sallor sailed over Voltaire’s head and shoulders before being slammed with the weight of Voltaire upon him to the ground. Sallor remained in a crumbled heap, lucky to be alive and firmly unconscious.
As Sallor was being manhandled, Peter was able to free himself from Anders, who was still shaken up badly. In a heartbeat, Peter remembered that Dyn had a hunting knife tied to his ankle and underneath his right pant leg. As Voltaire was slamming Sallor into the dusty street, Peter sprinted toward the still dreamy Dyn in hopes to acquire that blade. He caught on quick that the only chance they had to stop the monster they faced was to kill him.
Peter was near to full stride as he approached near Voltaire and Sallor. His goal was to breeze past Voltaire, slide to the ground, grab Dyn’s leg and have that blade out by the time Voltaire was upon him. The plan never made it that far to fruition, for as he ran close by, Voltaire was upon him. Throwing himself upward, Voltaire shot toward Peter, right arm raised. The bulk of his arm connected with the chest and throat of Peter, redirecting his motion from Dyn and to the ground instead. Peter was out of the fight before he hit the ground. Voltaire came to a rest upon his quarry, clasping Peter’s shirt with both hands.
His blood and his mask touched Peter’s face. “Going somewhere, snookums? Lie there and think it over awhile.” Voltaire’s laugh was a calm, sinister rumble as he patted Peter on the head before rising again. He hopped up as he rose, landing both feet on the stomach and chest of Peter before directing his attention to Bale and Anders. He was sincerely loving every second of the ensuing mayhem.
Bale and Anders both fought hard to regain themselves and their composure in those quick seconds. Making one fast exchanged glance, the two of them charged Voltaire in unison. They crashed into the waiting Voltaire with near unity and both found the impact comparable to solid rock. Voltaire dug in his heels and took their momentum easily. As Bale and Anders connected, Voltaire raised both arms up and smashed his massive arms into their backs, robbing them of their breath and resolve. As they fought for air, Voltaire made his next move.
While Anders and Bale were still hunched over, Voltaire grabbed the head of Anders. Pulling back his right leg, Voltaire shot his knee up and into the face of Anders, knocking him off his feet and away from consciousness. As Anders fell, Voltaire wrapped his massive arms around the still recovering Bale. Smiling at the crowd, blood still pouring from his self-inflicted head wound, Voltaire hoisted up the frantic Bale. Bale was tossed over Voltaire’s head, flying feet first before completing a full rotation and landing face first on the ground. Bale too chose not to rise after that.
But Voltaire wasn’t through yet.
Refocusing his attention upon Anders, Voltaire’s right hand reached down for the dazed man’s leg. Anders’ eyes widened as he met those ominous eyes of Voltaire. Holding onto Anders’ leg with both hands, Voltaire turned, swinging Anders over his head as one would bring down an axe. Anders crashed front first on the ground with a resounding thud and became motionless. Still gripping with one hand Voltaire swung Anders twice before letting go of his leg. Anders flew limply through the air, crashing into several members of the crowd.
Voltaire roared then, arms outstretched, circling to the crowd. A sickened, maniacal grin never left his face, for he was still hungry, ready for even more. Yet everyone that he faced him was laid out on the ground. Voltaire was no longer asking for more, he was in fact begging for it. But his madness left him blind to Avon Threlling, perched on the ground and waiting for his moment. As Voltaire completed another rotation, it brought him facing the direction of Threlling, who at last saw his opportunity.
Lunging like a tiger crouched for the kill, Avon Threlling made his move.
Just before Voltaire turned to face Threlling, Avon ran forward, right hand cocked. He struck Voltaire’s jaw for all he was worth. It was a shot that was heard by everyone present. It would be remembered by every man, woman, and child that bore witness on that day for it had been a resounding and crushing punch. And its impact would ever be remembered, for it made absolutely no difference in the fight whatsoever.
Voltaire’s head rocked to the right. His eyes closed for a second. When they opened again his smile returned. His head slowly turned so that he was looking at Avon. Very soon, a light, ominous laughter crept from his chest. He looked as if he enjoyed every moment of the strike. His voice a satisfied whisper. “Come on, Threlling, you better have more than that.”
Avon struck him again and met the same result. This time Voltaire’s smile diminished slightly. “I’m getting closer to disappointed.” Avon struck him a third time. “And now I’m there,” finished Voltaire with a voice filling once more with rage.
In a desperation move, Avon spun on his feet to deliver a roundhouse of a punch. But in the end his force was met with that of Voltaire’s. As Avon’s fourth blow commenced, Voltaire simply closed the distance between him and Threlling so much that the strike did very little in terms of damage. As he did so, Voltaire got both hands around Threlling’s neck with a firm, icy grip. He drove a strong knee into Avon’s midsection and then he followed suit with the other one. Threlling was literally knocked off the ground with each shot. What kept him from sailing backwards was Voltaire’s solid, unforgiving grip.
The crowd responded sympathetically with each strike to Threlling. But that mattered little to Voltaire of the Achylles. Soon his head crashed into Th
relling’s, and then again. Voltaire then slammed his left foot down on Threlling’s left foot before driving his right knee into Threlling’s left knee. A crunching sound ensued as Threlling howled in pain. Voltaire slammed into Avon’s chest with both of his forearms. Avon was thrown backwards toward the ground. As he crashed against it, his fate was made worse by the fact that Voltaire was still standing on his left foot. The tendons and the bones snapped easily under the pressure.
The final blow came when Avon, desperately writhing in pain, reached for the big boot that remained standing on his left foot. As he reached, Voltaire slammed his right foot into the side of Threlling’s head, knocking him down again and into a more tranquil state of unconsciousness. Threlling was spared his pain until the time he awoke again some several hours later.
Voltaire paced about, his wide, hungry eyes burning into the crowd surrounding him. His voice was a thunder of laughter, rage, and an insatiable lust for more. “Is that your best? Is that all you could muster for me? Is that all you self-righteous ninnies could send? Come on! I’m just getting started, you bastards! You sallow monkeys! You....you...” it was then that Voltaire fell again to his knees. Straining, he moved a trembling hand to his mask again. Depressing the button once more, the mask once again moved, positioning itself back to its former spot on his head as Voltaire took long gasping breaths. It was clear that a wave of exhaustion was covering him as the man his friends knew returned. And once again, Voltaire the Butcher, the madman, the marauder of legend was no more, drawn again within a slumber upon a heavy and knowing conscience.
Rynsik made his way again to the platform with Kylynne and Willem in tow. Yet this time the diminished crowd made a path for him. There was no more raging bloodlust, for it had made way for startled silence. The most audible sounds were the moving of feet, Voltaire’s gasps for air, and the moans of some of his victims who were finding their way back to consciousness.
Echoes of Ashener Page 26