Rexrider (First World's End Book 1)

by Mark Angel

  Tyna’s broad smile and ruddy cheeks indicated that she, too, enjoyed the antics.

  “C’mon, Pako, we’ve only just started,” Tamik taunted. Being the center of attention was invigorating, and he hoped to prolong the moment. “How about two out of three?”

  Almar stepped in from the ring of observers, still suited in his protective riding leathers. “If you‘re looking for some real competition, my blade should suit?” he offered. Without waiting for a reply, he drew his long sword with a flourish. It swished as it cut through the air.

  Pako walked toward Melok, still puffing from the exertion. “Your lad’s pretty good, ya know,” he said loudly enough for the gathering to hear.

  “You willing to back up your opinion with a little wager?” Melok replied. He pulled out his purse and swung it dramatically from its tether.

  “I’ll give ya . . . double odds . . .” the veteran rexrider puffed, “ . . . that Tamik’ll best ‘im.”

  “Why so generous?” Melok handed Pako a cloth to wipe his forehead. “Do you think because he beat you so handily, he’ll take out a younger and more practiced fighter as easily?”

  Several of the other rexriders nodded, seeming to agree with Melok’s assessment.

  Pako gave Tamik’s father a resigned look and shrugged his shoulders. He jingled his purse at eye level with Melok, “I think you underestimate your son, old friend.” He handed over his purse.

  Leaning close to inspect the wager, Melok winked at Pako. “Don’t be so sure,” he whispered.

  Taking a step backward, Pako announced, “Take it or leave it.”

  Melok seemed to be considering his friend’s comment. “The bet is good,” he finally said, accepting the bond of tender.

  Soon all the rexriders were joining in the betting, mostly siding with Melok against Tamik. Even Almar tossed his own purse into the pot.

  Tamik’s eyes bore white hot in the direction of his father. “You’ll regret that!” he called.

  “Protect yourself, boy!” Almar barked.

  The young rexrider snapped back to attention.

  Taller than Tamik and half again his weight, Almar’s pockmarked face maintained a semblance of civility only because his spouse insisted he keep his beard neatly trimmed. As a youth, he had been required to train in the Fighting Form with the guardians, but like most rexriders stopped short of formally joining the Lodge, much less advancing to the rank of Senior Guardian, but he still seemed to fancy himself a swordsman.

  And none but Melok yet knew of Tamik’s advancement. That knowledge gave Tamik a flush of confidence. Allowing himself the thinnest of grins, he lowered the tip of his sword, leaving himself unguarded for attack.

  Almar took the bait. With a cry of assault—“Ha-kai!”—he lunged forward, thrusting his weapon toward the younger man’s apparently open flank. Tamik easily redirected the incoming blade with his, then jabbed back at Almar, who blocked the attack through sheer force of momentum, and then body-slammed his younger adversary knocking Tamik to the ground and prompting loud cheers from his adversary's supporters.

  Tamik popped off his back and onto his feet as if he had strings attached to his hips and shoulders, and then stepped back into the ready position. Both fighters charged each other head on. They met in a flurry of steel that rang out in the evening air, engaging the spectators who cheered them enthusiastically. The abuse to which the two men subjected their blades was rarely witnessed in a practice bout, but Almar did little just for fun and Tamik knew it.

  Almar warded off the fury of Tamik’s counterattack and stepped past his adversary, slicing toward the younger man’s body as he did. Tamik spun on his feet to mimic Almar’s movements, narrowly avoiding contact with Almar's blade with enough grace that the audience felt compelled to applaud. Though in the midst of a heated exchange, Tamik could not help but notice that the man he faced was not much more agile than a sloggerbeast. The image did more than make him smile; it energized him.

  Almar, on the other hand, grew angrier by the minute, especially because he knew Tamik’s last maneuver was a comedic dance clearly meant to mock him.

  “Someone’s cranked your tethers a little too tight, boy!” Almar roared, prompting a few guffaws from the crowd. “But out here in the wilderness, I think you’ll find experience more valuable than youthful charm.”

  “Like your mount’s experience at stealing Gar’s kill?” Tamik shot back.

  “All in the nature of the pride, boy,” Almar said evenly and forcefully, “all in the nature of the pride.”

  Tamik, sensing a deepening in Almar’s breathing, advanced on the large man, eager to capitalize on his fatigue. But Almar managed to counter the attack and return a sloppy combination of feints and jabs in quick succession, leaving Tamik with a tear in his leather sleeve. A few drops of blood decorated Almar’s blade.

  “Nice combination for a rexrider,” Tamik admitted. “I grant you first blood, even if it was by accident.”

  Almar clenched his crooked teeth and cut hard toward Tamik’s flank, but Tamik struck back just as forcefully, leaving Almar’s blade ringing, and sending the tip of Tamik’s sword flying into the air. His truncated weapon did not deter him.

  “Aye!” Almar skipped back shaking each hand one at a time, and tightened his riding gloves to hide his reaction to the pain. Then he laughed at the weapon now before him. “Now what will you do, young guardian?”

  Almar came forward again.

  “Yah!” Tamik screeched, ducking out of the way and jamming the broken end of his weapon toward Almar’s ribs. If not for the damaged tip, the match would have been his right then. But Almar was able to ignore the short poke, push Tamik away, and slash downward with a well-articulated cut.

  Tamik sidestepped the swipe and spun behind Almar’s back. He grabbed the man by the hair and pulled back, placing what was left of his own weapon against Almar’s exposed neck like a butcher’s blade. He twisted the sword flat at the last moment to avoid injuring the man.

  “Pa-tah!” Tamik exclaimed victoriously, holding Almar firmly and drawing his flattened blade slowly and harmlessly across the older man's throat. “You’re dead even without a tip.”

  “Lucky slop!” Almar roared and tried to shake loose from the young man’s leveraged hold, but to no avail.

  Some cheers erupted around the pair of combatants, but there were more jeers as Melok passed the appointed share of what was in his pouch to Pako with an exaggerated moan. Nef-rex’s rider promptly began to move about and collect all his winnings, paying out the same to those who bet with him.

  With Almar still in his grasp, Tamik took the time to survey his audience and noticed Tyna regarding him with what he thought might be particular admiration. Without taking his eyes off her, Tamik released the struggling Almar and pushed him away.

  “Another to the Young Bull!” Melok called out after more than a few cubes of Rexian tender had changed hands. “Almar, you slackjacker!” he then derided. “I had a substantial wager resting on your blade!”

  Almar spit on the ground in Melok’s direction, wiped his forehead with his wrist and slid his blade back to rest in its sheath. “He’s your son. Why’d you bet against him if you knew he was so good?”

  The corners of Melok’s mouth turned upward ever so slightly and he raised an eyebrow, turning his palms out. “Who knew?”

  Tyna lightly stepped up to Tamik, pulling a soft face cloth out of her shirt sleeve. She dabbed his brow gently. She had long since changed out of her riding clothes and was wearing a light sienna wrap around her waist and a green blouse. Her hair was pulled back in a loose knot.

  “You just made me rich, young rexrider,” she whispered in his ear. Tamik felt her warm breath and drank in her earthy essence. Buried feelings surfaced. The slightest of tremors passed through him as he watched her move back among the surrounding onlookers.

  As he wiped his face with the sweet smelling cloth, Tamik heard one or two rexriders shout suggestive jeers playfully in his dir
ection, but he did not acknowledge them. Tyna turned and smiled at him demurely as he stuffed the face cloth back into his tunic.

  “Any other challengers?” Tamik swaggered, extending his jagged sword in a threatening manner.

  “I think we’ll quit while you’re ahead,” Melok said, reaching out to take his son’s hand in a friendly grip. “Besides, you need a new sword. And after abusing yours so skillfully, I doubt anyone here will be quick to lend you theirs.”

  Tamik sheathed his stub and accepted his father’s gesture with reasonably good humor considering the man had bet against him. Melok turned the young man’s arm to inspect the wound.

  “A skin cut, nothing more,” Tamik said. “Nothing a healing glass and a smear of piss-ash won’t fix. Not even deep enough to warrant spider’s web.”

  The young rexrider glanced around again. Disappointment crept into his features as the other rexriders wandered off. Alone again, he watched the two juvenile rexes play for awhile, but soon tired of that and returned to his hutch to clean his gear. Few rexriders took such good care of their equipment as Tamik. His training with the guardians had instilled this strong compulsion in him, and perhaps even his sister’s impulse for cleanliness had rubbed off on him a little as well. His father said she had inherited it from their mother. Either way, so many sars as a guardian had polished the effect. Only now did he take a moment to regret the damage to his weapon. As he filed the chinks out of what remained of his sword, and oiled his riding leathers, he reminisced about his first visit to Guardians’ Gulch.

  Mystery:

  Spirit, Love, Charity;

  Temperance, Fortitude, Prudence, Justice, Truth.

  --Guardians’ Gate

  FLASHBACK: Guardians’ Gulch

  Stonehaven before dawn, 12/09/1634--

  A gust of wind spatters rain against Tamik’s sleeproom window as the darkness beyond the glass slowly gives way to the grey light of a stormy dawn. Tamik has just turned thirteen, the age of Naming, and is no longer required to attend sessions with his former learning group, so he wonders why his father, Melok, has come to wake him at dawn.

  “Tamik,” Melok says, gently shaking his son by the shoulder with a strong and calloused hand. “Wake up.”

  Tamik’s eyes stubbornly refuse to open.

  His father persists. “We’re going to see the guardians.”

  Tamik groans, remembering the trial of the skywatcher, an exhausting ordeal in which the guardians played a key role. The offense that instigated the trial, a wrongdoing in which he was both a witness and a victim, refuses to leave him in peace. It has already been a handful of moon passes since the final deliberations ended, and the six-toed criminal was marked on both forearms with the double black-diamond brand of an interminable exile.

  “You promised they finished with me,” Tamik growls, wringing his fists against his hazel eyes before squinting into the light of the tallow lamp in Melok’s hand.

  “This is not about the skywatcher.”

  Tamik sits up lethargically. His spirit feels broken, a result of the violent mental intrusion to which he was subjected by the rogue skywatcher. Physically, Tamik is fit for his age. But it does not matter. He feels powerless.

  Melok sighs and sits down on the edge of the boy’s bed, smooth dark eyebrows knit with concern. The upcoming High Moon festival will mark the Naming Ceremony of Tamik and other Stonehaven adolescents his age. They will all be expected to participate and have their names recorded in the Ledger of Lives. Tamik’s name will be listed under the Order of Rexriders, like his father’s. Melok wonders if his son will be up to it.

  “When I was your age I lived with the guardians. But I was determined to take the path of a rexrider. I never became a Sibling of the Sword.”

  Tamik settles his back against the large, smooth stones of the wall behind him. He has no choice but to listen.

  “I was Named a guardian, but all I wanted was to ride rexes,” Melok reveals. “I may not be able to explain how the skywatcher used the Power to control you and your sister, but I do know how the rex uses it, and you will discover that for yourself when you join me on your first hunt.”

  Tamik leans slightly forward and peeks at his father. A flicker of interest ignites within him. It is rare to have his father to himself as Melok spends so much time with Gar-rex. Nevertheless, Tamik looks forward to spending more time with his father as an Apprentice Rexrider, but he is reluctant to bare his feelings. He remains wary of the guardians, who oversaw the trial that overwhelmed him, and hateful toward all skywatchers, one of whom caused it.

  “What does that have to do with going to see the guardians?” he asks.

  Melok laughs. “Nothing.”

  Vague apprehension gnaws at Tamik. He frowns. “How come the guardians didn’t believe me until Ruko was born with six toes?”

  “They did believe you, Son. They just needed the more concrete evidence to convince the general population and condemn one as highly placed as that Venerable Master Skywatcher, and I suppose the baby’s six toes helped prove that the skywatcher was the blood father.”

  “I don’t want to see any skywatchers! Or even guardians, really. Why am I going to see them! Why are you making me!” Tamik scrunches back down under his covers, only his face now showing.

  Melok touches Tamik’s shoulder. “I wanted this to be a surprise,” he says apologetically, “but I see now that that may not be such a good idea, so hear me out.”

  Melok leans forward and fixes Tamik’s eyes with his own before speaking. “In the sars to come, I will teach you how to sling a spear and drive a lance, skills we use during the hunt. But my proficiency with the sword is rusty at best. I could teach you the basics of how to handle the weapon, but then you might end up with my bad habits.”

  To Tamik, the comment seems unrelated to what they have been discussing, but as realization sets in, his eyes widen.

  “Are you saying that I’m going to study sword with the guardians and learn about the Power from them?”

  Melok reveals the barest of grins. “I’ve looked into the possibility of getting you initiated into the Guardians’ Lodge. We have an appointment to meet the Grandmaster this dawn.”

  Tamik feels lightened. Pensively, he climbs out from under the covers. “Maybe I’m meant to be a Sibling of the Sword!”

  “You’d best get dressed then.”

  Tamik clambers past his father. He pulls off his sleep gown, saying as he puts on his underclothes, “I always thought you wanted me to be a rexrider, but now I understand that my true calling must be to the sword.”

  Melok grabs his son by both shoulders and turns him face to face. “Now hold onto your saddle horn, young man,” he says firmly. “No one said anything about you shrugging off your responsibilities to Gar. He will soon be in his prime and I am passing mine. He’ll need you as his rider far more than you need to be a guardian.” He affixes him with another strong gaze. “Your mother gave her life bearing me a son to ride Gar-rex. That loss shall not be in vain.”

  Melok brushes back a lock of Tamik’s hair and appears to be searching for something hidden in the boy's face. Then he smiles slightly. “There isn’t any harm, though, in your training with the guardians as well as with me, but only if you’re willing to work twice as hard.”

  “I can do both!”

  “Then get moving.”

  Melok hands the boy a pair of ankle-high parade boots made of polished black leather. “And before you get too excited, remember: Tsi’galivo has only agreed to meet with us. There is no guarantee he will initiate you.”

  Tamik nods. Then he notes it is still fairly dark outside. “Why do we have to go so early?”

  “Working twice as hard means you need twice as much time to work, so you’d better get used to waking early.”

  Tamik plucks one of his finer tunics from the shelf as he sets off toward the washroom. He realizes that he will have less idle time to think about . . . things. And then it strikes him: training with the g
uardians could provide the perfect path to revenge against the skywatcher.

  ***

  Father and son exit the west gate of the Citadel wearing well-oiled sloggerskin cloaks that protect them from the chilly predawn drizzle. Leaving the densely populated canyon-bound citadel behind, they walk along the edge of the inner paddock over the slippery North Cliff Roadway that runs along the base of the cliffs toward Guardians’ Gulch.

  The inner paddock is already bustling with animals pursuing their morning routines of grazing, foraging, and frolicking. These monstrous domestic livestock and giant fowl still intimidate Tamik, but now he only thinks of his destination and what it represents.

  Before he knows it, he is standing in front of the barrier wall of Guardian’s Gulch. The wall has a large, circular opening obstructed by two doors that look like dark, half-circles each twice Tamik’s present height. On the left door hangs a dull metal plaque with a relief carving of a winged flame. On the right door, at eye level, a large triangular knocker hangs from the acme of a carved pentagon. The following words are inscribed around the pieces of metal:

  Spirit Love Charity

  Temperance Fortitude Prudence Justice Truth

  “What does that mean, Father?” Tamik asks.

  “It’s the guardian’s motto. Each word represents part of the guardian’s charge.”

  Melok grips the heavy iron triangle and raps three times. A small window in the middle of the left door slides open. A young man looks through with a penetrating gaze.

  “Who comes here?”

  “Rex-Melok with a candidate for the Way.”

  “You are expected,” the gatekeeper replies. “Please step back.”

  The gate opens outward on iron hinges that squeak like a meat fowl at dawn.

  The gatekeeper steps aside nimbly as Melok walks in followed by his son. The guard is not much older than Tamik. He wears a tree-green sash with distinctive white trim, an emblem of his station. Tamik is much more interested, however, in the sheathed sword that rests under the young man’s belt. It smacks against the door jamb as he moves out of their way. An older guardian sits at a table nearby and nods approvingly to his younger charge, also acknowledging the newcomers.