by J. C. Fiske
“Heal him, quickly,” Foxblade ordered. Nina ran to Gisbo as he dropped to the ground. Nina laid her hands on the side of Gisbo’s kidney, closed her eyes, and focused. Before Gisbo realized what was going on, he felt a rush of warmth flood through the wound in his side. His whole body tingled as the warm rush suddenly turned cold. It felt as if he leapt from a dock into a cold spring lake on a summer day. Then, it was done. Gisbo looked down at his side to see a neat scar in place of the gushing wound. Nina smiled.
“How the hell did you do that?” Gisbo asked.
“It is inate to me, healing abilities of a Sybil. Rolce does not have them. I do. And believe it or not, you healed yourself. All I did was surround the wound in a field of accelerated time, and your body patched itself up. If this was real time, however, your body would have bled to death before any repairs could have happened,” Nina said. “Pretty neat, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, I . . .” Gisbo then got up and turned to Foxblade. “What the hell was that?! No warning at all! I thought you killed me!”
“Get used to it. It is kill or be killed in a battle. If you want to fight me evenly, you must have intent to kill me. Come,” Foxblade said, readying himself in a defensive stance. Gisbo growled to himself and launched forward. Everything happened too fast. He felt three quick stabbing motions across his midsection and he dropped to the ground again in a splash of his own blood. Nina quickly healed him and he was on his feet again.
“I don’t stand a chance; I’m going to be a pincushion by the time we are done here,” Gisbo said, fingering his three new scars.
“Better than being dead in the coming battle. Again,” Foxblade said, “if you don’t have the intent to kill, you won’t scratch me. Unless, of course, you enjoy the feeling of being on the verge of death. Remember the rabbit, remember what you felt then. I represent your weakness, as well. Fight me, kill me, and you will become stronger.” Gisbo gritted his teeth.
That’s just it. I don’t think he understands my thought process. I know I could kill him, and that’s what scares me, Gisbo thought. Even so, he made his way toward Foxblade again, slowly this time, with both weapons raised.
“Stop right there,” Foxblade said. Gisbo did.
“What’s wrong?” Gisbo asked.
“You are using those Tantos as weapons. Forget them as weapons. Imagine them as extensions of your fists. Move, strike, and block as if this were a street fight, Gisbo. Relax and fight me as if it were hand-to-hand. Now come,” Foxblade said.
I never thought of it like that. What could it hurt? Gisbo thought. He suddenly curved his weapons and adjusted his stance completely, as if he were ready for a knuckleduster. Foxblade smiled and attacked. Gisbo deflected it with ease and blocked the second strike with his forearm, splashing blood, but it was in no way a mortal wound. Even so, he now had a moment’s chance to strike at Foxblade’s open chest. He raised his weapon to strike, but held back, enough for Foxblade to recover and strike Gisbo with both daggers in the chest. Foxblade left them impaled within and kicked him off his feet. Nina quickly removed the daggers and healed him.
“You two, leave Gisbo and me alone for a while. I need to speak with him quietly about something. Go rest up, both of you, but before you go, return my daggers,” Foxblade said. Nina and Rolce looked at one another, and Nina returned Foxblade’s daggers.
“Come on, Rolce, take my hand,” Nina said. He did, and together they flew off through the mouth of the cave, leaving Gisbo and Foxblade alone. Foxblade sat down beside Gisbo.
“I believe I know why you didn’t strike me,” Foxblade said. Gisbo looked at him. “It’s not that you lack skill. You had an opening and you didn’t take it. An opening I left to you on purpose, mind you.”
“So, what are you trying to say?” Gisbo asked.
“What I’m saying is, have you ever heard the phrase, a killer sees other killers?” Foxblade asked, without looking at him. Gisbo thought of his conversation with Rake.
“No, I haven’t,” Gisbo said.
“Well, I see you, Gisbo,” Foxblade said eerily.
Gisbo opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came.
“You aren’t afraid to kill others. That’s not it. You’re afraid of yourself and your own thinking,” Foxblade said. “Say that I’m right.”
“Maybe,” Gisbo said.
“Deny it all you want. I know it to be true. I can see the broken place in you because the same broken place is within me,” Foxblade said. Gisbo looked up at him and, again, Foxblade did not return his gaze.
“Darkness is inside all of us, but so is light. Most can separate the two and keep one or the other at bay. But then there are the special few who cannot do such. Darkness and light are intwined into a form of twilight of the soul. There is no distinction because everything feels the same because it looks the same. Scattered sparkles of light intertwined in a pool of darkness, like looking up at the sun from beneath a pond’s surface. For some, doing good things comes easy for them. Like your friend, Rolce. He is as virtuous and pure as they come. It is his nature. For him to do something that goes against his nature is like fighting the tide. Then, of course, there are people like you and me. We are born with a nature that craves destruction, death, blood, rage. It’s so easy for us to just lose ourselves and strike out at any and all comers. For us to do what’s right is a constant battle. But what we must realize, Gisbo, is that it is not our fault,” Foxbalde said. He paused for a moment before continuing again.
“What I don’t understand are people’s thought processes. Most would say they believe in a diety of goodness, but refuse to believe in a darker opposite to him. There is an evil in this universe, and its hunger never ceases. It is a creature of the night that wants to tear, shred, and infect all it touches for no other reason than to fulfill the craving and the thrill. We feel it every day, where others haven’t a clue. We feel this evil because, before our minds could understand the difference between the two, it entered us when we were young, before understanding. And it came to us through something terrible. You and I, we are very similar, Gisbo,” Foxblade said.
“Then you know about what happened to me?” Gisbo said.
“Yes,” Foxblade said.
“Tell me, Foxblade. I need to know what happened, please!” Gisbo said. Foxblade shook his head.
“Should that memory be retrieved, Gisbo, it will forever change who you are. You think it hard to control yourself now? To control your fury? Hmph, you don’t know pain yet,” Foxblade said. “That door of yours is better off remaining forever closed. Be thankful you have one . . .”
“What do you mean?” Gisbo said.
“Just what I said. You and your dad, Gisbo, are so much alike in every way. Your mannerisms, your sad attempts at humor. Your likes, your dislikes. You are two peas in a pod, as the saying goes. My son is exactly like me in every way, as well, even down to the looks. But there is something in them both that you and I do not share. We were born from tradgedy, baptized in blood, and lots of it,” Foxblade said. Gisbo felt his heart thump upon hearing those words and, again, he felt an image of a door, slamming at the hinges, waiting to be freed.
“What happened to you?” Gisbo asked.
“Do you really wish to know?” Foxblade asked.
“I’m not sure I do. But my whole life I’ve been so angry and have never understood why. Lately, though, it seems to be getting worse, like my control is slowly slipping. I feel things, hear things, and have urges I shouldn’t,” Gisbo said as he stood up with his hands on his hips. Tears came to his eyes. “I . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me, or why I’m like this at all! Day by day, I’m becoming more scared of myself. Do you have any idea what I’m saying?” Foxblade didn’t say anything. “I just want to know what’s wrong with me. I shouldn’t feel or think this way.”
“I have hope for you. Do you know why?” Foxblade asked.
Gisbo shook his head.
“Because of those tears. As for me, I’ve never cried. And bec
ause you don’t want to feel or think the way you do, as long as you still have that fight in you, you will never become what you are afraid of,” Foxblade said.
“It’s not just that; it’s something that Nina told me. Something that has really frightened me to no end,” Gisbo said. Foxblade’s eyebrow perked up.
“What did she tell you?” Foxblade asked.
“She told me she has seen what I can become. One of the things is good and the other, not so good. What if this great power in me, somehow, causes the deaths of people I care about?” Gisbo asked.
“Visions are a funny thing, Gisbo. I don’t put much faith in them. Instead, put faith in yourself, the present, and your own actions. Only you decide your fate,” Foxblade said.
“Yeah, I . . . so, what happened to you?” Gisbo asked.
“I would really rather not talk about it,” Foxblade said.
“Maybe, if I hear your story and your past, it would make me feel better, though. I mean, you are one of the greatest warriors I’ve ever met, Foxblade. You are what I could only dream of becoming. You and my Dad. And if you struggle with the same thing I struggle with, inside, and you are still fine, then maybe I will be, too. I just want some hope, that’s all,” Gisbo said.
“If you’re looking for hope, you are talking to the wrong person,” Foxblade said.
Gisbo said nothing.
“But, I suppose, you are one of the few I could tell my story to and not have you look at me as if I’m some kind of monster. I will tell you,” Foxblade said. He took a big breath and paused for a long moment without saying anything.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Gisbo said.
“I hate talking, let alone sharing this story. It’s been quite a long time,” Foxblade said. “Your father was the last to hear it. But I feel you deserve to know, of all people.”
“Why me of all people?” Gisbo asked.
“Because I feel you deserve to know where I’ve come from and why I put you through what I put you through,” Foxblade said.
“I understand. Well, take your time,” Gisbo said.
“I’d rather not, but . . .” Foxblade said. He paused again, this time for a long while. Gisbo wasn’t about to pressure him. Just before he thought he wouldn’t speak at all, he started.
“Have you ever heard of the Brotherhood of Blades, Gisbo?” Foxblade asked.
“Can’t say I have,” Gisbo said.
“For good reason. Everything they did was in the shadows. Their actions were well known throughout history, but not they, themselves. Assassinations, double deals, theft, murder, this was their life. It was a small organization of no more than twenty or so Shadow Warriors, as they called themselves, but they were just the arms and legs of the group. The heart, as well as the brains, was the Fox of Blades, also known as Foxblade, leader and dictator of the Blades,” Foxblade said.
“Foxblade? Your name . . . any relation to you?” Gisbo asked.
“Yes, he was my father,” Foxblade said.
“I see,” Gisbo said.
“And his father before him was known as the Foxblade, and his before that. Whoever held the title of the Fox of Blades ran everything. They made the deals with corrupt politicians, they handled the money, and most of all . . . they handled the women,” Foxblade said dryly.
“The women?” Gisbo asked. Foxblade nodded.
“Yes, it was a sick tradition that went on for generations. Only IAM knows how long, for only the Fox of Blades was allowed the right of pologomy and reproduction,” Foxblade said.
“What’s that mean? Please, remember who you’re talking to here,” Gisbo said.
“The right to as many wives as you please,” Foxblade said.
“That’s sick,” Gisbo said.
“That it was. If the Fox of Blades did not enjoy one of his wives any longer, only then would they be handed off to one of his men, and only to the men he deemed most loyal to him. If they happened to reproduce, the child would be deemed impure and slain. Wealth, rank, everything, depended on a competitive rate, everyone vying for the Fox’s favor,” Foxblade said.
“This doesn’t make sense; how could one guy have so much power by himself? If these guys were so crafty and deadly, why didn’t they just kill the Fox and claim themselves?” Gisbo asked.
“Only the Fox of Blades had the connections and the networking, and the Fox of Blades would only pass that information down to the next one. Multiply this by hundreds of years and they would become irreplaceable. Remember, the Fox was both the brains and the heart. Without either, the body dies,” Foxblade said.
“Jeesh,” Gisbo said. “So, where do you come into all of this? Obviously you are the new Fox of Blades with your name. How did you get it? What happened to everyone?”
“The Fox of Blades title is not achieved lightly,” Foxblade said, a cold, distant tone to his voice.
“What did you have to do?” Gisbo asked.
“Kill all of my brothers,” Foxblade said. Gisbo’s stomach twitched.
“What did you say?” Gisbo asked.
“The Fox of Blades, my father, had many wives, twenty in total, which all had children. All the females, my sisters, were disposed of violently upon birth. If any of the boys had any malformations, they were also disposed of,” Foxblade said.
“That’s terrible,” Gisbo said.
“Once the Fox of Blades was nearing the end of his life, he would arrange all of his children to fight one another, to the death, in a battle royal. Only the one left standing was the winner,” Foxblade said.
“So, you mean, to the death?” Gisbo asked.
“We were given a dagger and forced into battle with nothing more, no clothes, nothing, and by IAM, did we do battle. I saw over forty of my brothers, of different mothers, two of them from my own, drop dead that day. I still remember the flash of steel in the moonlight followed by crimson splashes of blood. The scraping of steel across bone as it plunged into life-sustaining parts. The smell of sweat and the relieving of bowels upon their death. The metallic taste of blood in your mouth, besides your own, and the way it stung when it touched your eye. When I slumber, I go to sleep reliving such scenes and wake up to it,” Foxblade said.
Gisbo sat in silence.
“I don’t expect you to say anything,” Foxblade said.
“How many did you kill?” Gisbo asked.
“I’d rather not say,” Foxblade said.
“Was it a lot?” Gisbo asked.
“Yes,” Foxblade said.
“So, then you, you were the last one standing, the only one left alive. What happened?” Gisbo asked.
“I killed my father, the old bastard that he was, with a knife between the eyes, after he passed on his memories to me, his little black book as he called it. I then fled, and never looked back. The information that kept us alive was gone with me and the Brotherhood of Blades was no more,” Foxblade said.
“But . . .” Gisbo stammered.
“There is no debating what I’ve done. It was wrong. The thing is, that is what’s funny about right and wrong. Some people say society dictates what’s right and wrong. Some say the leaders, and some say we are born with a conscience, that our creator gives us our own guilt to follow,” Foxblade said.
“What do you believe?” Gisbo asked.
“I don’t know what I believe. All I know is, at that moment, I had no guidance. I had no influences from society. All I had was a leader and what I felt in my heart, as cold and shriveled as it was at that point; all I had was guilt, and, eventually, the more I killed, even that went away, too.
“Now, I feel nothing. I am neither happy, nor depressed. All I know is what I felt for a moment as a child of right and wrong and what is preached today. No matter how I feel, the problem is there is no way to prove what is right and wrong because people’s hearts are so astray. They’ve lost touch with themselves. Others have traveled too deeply within and relate pleasure with what’s right and pain with what’s wrong. Litt
le do they understand that doing the right thing rarely feels good at all. It is a confusing process, nothing I have the answer to.
“In the end, you can debate all you want, but people know, way deep down, what is right or wrong. What people say and how they truly feel are two different things, and what people portray themselves as are rarely what they are truly like, especially the politicians, the leaders. They have a job to keep. They will say anything and everything you want to hear, or what they’re being paid to say. Unfortunately, they are the ones who get to tell others what’s right and wrong. You could put five men in a room and they could all vote on whether it is right to beat your wife or not. Four of them could say it is wrong and one could say there is nothing wrong with it,” Foxblade said.
“Jeesh,” Gisbo said.
“What I’m trying to say, Gisbo, is that both of us were put into positions in our youth we were not ready to take in. Darkness penetrated us without a choice and broke us. In these past few days, you have become like a son to me. No matter what happens, I will . . . always be there for you,” Foxblade said with a weak voice.
“Didn’t realize this was all an attempt to hit on me,” Gisbo said. Foxblade actually chuckled.
“You are the spitting incarnation of your father. Only he could make me laugh too. Let’s do some sparring while we wait for our healer to get back. Up and at ‘em,” Foxblade said.
For the next few days, Gisbo and Foxblade went at it with all-out weapons. So much so they had to break because Nina had exhausted her Sybil power supply. Gisbo passed this time by getting some much needed rest and food and counting his scars. He was now reaching nearly thirty across his body. Still, it didn’t compare to the decorations upon Foxblade.
With each new fight, Gisbo found he was lasting a little longer before he felt the plunge of the knife into his flesh. Foxblade informed him that, at his current level, he was lucky to maybe grace him with one of his Tantos, but as long as he could stand toe to toe with him and deflect his attacks long enough for the span of a full minute or longer, Foxblade knew it would be more than enough to face his enemies in the coming battle. That day finally came and Rolce proudly gave out the good news to a very exhausted Gisbo, who collapsed on the ground for the first time without a knife in him.